18839	----	shock or a revelation, as two gases lit will, in a sharp explosion, unite to form a liquid wholly unlike either, so after a great conquest, a battle, the sudden preaching of a creed, these primal literatures appear in an epic or a dithyrambic code of awful law. Their first effort is their mightiest. They come mature. They are allied to that element of the catastrophic which the modern world (taking its general philosophy from its social condition) denies, but which is yet at the limits of all things separate and themselves; accompanies every birth, and strikes agony into every transition of death. Those other much commoner epochs in the history of letters, which may be called derivative, have this current and obvious quality, that their beginnings merge into the soil that bred them, also (very often) their decay will lapse imperceptibly into newer things. They are quite definite, but also definitely parented. We know their special stuff and harmony, but we can point out clearly enough the elements which formed that stuff, the tones which unite in that harmony. We can show with dates and citations the parts meeting and blending; our difficulty is not to determine the influences which have mixed to make the general school, but rather to fix the beginning and the end of its effect upon men. In the first of these the leader, sometimes the unique example of the school, stands out great, but particular and clear, on a background vague or dark. He is as stupendous, yet as sharp and certain, as a mountain facing the morning, with only sky behind. In the second the originator, if there be one, is vague, tentative, perhaps unknown. More often many minor men together introduce a slow and general transition. Now the French Renaissance has this peculiar mark, that it holds quite plainly by one side of it to the first by the other to the second of these spirits. It was primal and catastrophic in that it made something completely new. A new architecture, new cities, a new poetry, almost a new language, a new kind of government--ultimately the modern world. It was derivative in that the shock, the revelation, which produced it, was the return of something allied to the French blood, something rooted in the French memory. Rome surviving or risen had made that Italy, which was now beginning to trouble the Alps, and would surely creep in by every channel of influence, and at last pervade all Europe. Rome, also, in her full vigour, had once framed and ordered Gaul. The French of the Renaissance were woken suddenly, but as they started they recognized the face and the hand of the awakener. On this account you will find one mind indeed at the very beginning of the change in letters, but not a dominating mind. There is but one man who is certainly an origin, but he is not a master. You see an unique and single personality, distinct but without force, founding no school--the grave, abiding, kind but covert face of Charles of Orleans. He, linked to the French Renaissance, is like the figure of a gentle friend playing in some garden with a child whose manners are new and pleasing to him, but of whose great destiny he makes no guess. That child was to be Du Bellay, Brantome, Montaigne a hundred-sided, huge Rabelais, Ronsard. Or perhaps this metaphor will put it better. To say that Charles of Orleans's equal and persistent music was like a string harped on distinctly in a chorus of flutes and hautboys, till one by one harps from here and there caught up the similar tang of chords and at last the whole body of sound was harping only. His life was suited to such difference and such origination. Italy, still living, filled him. An Italian secretary wrote from his mouth the most sumptuous of his manuscripts. He banded on Italy as a goal and his Italian land as a legacy to the French crown--to his own son; till (years after his death) the soldiers roared through Briançon and broke the crusted snow of Mont Genèvre. An Italian mother, the most beautiful of the Viscontis, come out of Italy, rich in her land of Asti and her half million of pure gold, had borne him in her youth to the King of France's brother: a man luxurious, over fine, exact in taste, a lover of magnificence in stories and words, decadent in a dying time, very brave. Through that father the Valois blood, unjustly hated or still more unjustly despised according to the varied ignorance of modern times, ran in him nobly. Take the Valois strain entire and you will find the pomp or rather the fantasy of their great palace of St. Paul; turrets and steep blue roofs of slate, carved woodwork, heavy curtains, and incense and shining bronze. The Valois were, indeed, the end of the middle ages. Some cruelty, a fury in battle, intelligence and madness alternately, and always a sort of keenness which becomes now revenge, now foresight, now intrigue, now strict and terrible government: at last a wild adventure out beyond the hills: Fornovo, Pavia. Their story is like the manuscripts, which beyond all other things they loved and collected, and which they were the last to possess or to have made; for while it contains in vivid pictures the noblest and the basest subjects: (Joan of Arc and also her betrayal, their country dominant and almost engulfed, Marigano, and then again Pavia) it always glitters with hard enamelled colours against skies of gold, and is drawn and sharp and clean as a thing can be. Such is the whole line, but look at this one Valois and you see all the qualities of his race toned by a permanent sadness down to a good and even temper, not hopeful but still delighting in beauty and possessed as no other Valois had been of charity. Less passionate and therefore much less eager and useful than most of his race, yet the taint of madness never showed in him, nor the corresponding evil of cruelty, nor the uncreative luxury of his immediate ancestry. All the Valois were poets in their kind; his life by its every accident caused him to write. At fifteen they wedded him to that lovely child whom Richard II had lifted in his arms at Windsor as he rode out in fatal pomp for Ireland. Three years later, when their marriage was real, she died in childbirth, and it is to her I think that he wrote in his prison the ballad which ends: Dieu sur tout souverain seigneur Ordonnez par grace et douceur De l'ame d'elle tellement Qu'elle ne soit pas longuement En peine souci et douleur. Already, in the quarrel that so nearly wrecked the crown, the anti-national factions had killed his father. He was planning vengeance, engraving little mottoes of hate upon his silver, when the wars came on them all. A boy of twenty-four, well-horsed, much more of a soldier than he later seemed, he charged, leading the centre of the three tall troops at Agincourt. In the evening of that disaster they pulled him out from under a great heap of the ten thousand dead and brought him prisoner into England, to Windsor then to Pomfret Castle. Chatterton, Cobworth, at last John Cornwall, of Fanhope, were his guardians. To some one of these--probably the last--he wrote the farewell: Mon très bon hôte et ma très douce hôtesse. For his life as a prisoner, though melancholy, was not undignified; he paid no allegiance, he met the men of his own rank, nor was he of a kind to whom poverty, the chief thorn of his misfortune, brought dishonour. Henry V had left it strictly in his will that Orleans the general and the head of the French nationals should not return. For twenty-five years, therefore--all his manhood--he lived under this sky, rhyming and rhyming: in English a little, in French continually, and during that isolation there swept past him far off in his own land the defence, the renewal, the triumph of his own blood: his town relieved, his cousin crowned at Rheims. His river of Loire, and then the Eure, and then the Seine, and even the field where he had fallen were reconquered. Willoughby had lost Paris to Richemont four years before Charles of Orleans was freed on a ransom of half his mother's fortune. It was not until the November of 1440 that he saw his country-side again. The verse formed in that long endurance (a style which he preserved to the end in the many poems after his release) may seem at a first reading merely mediæval. There is wholly lacking in it the riot of creation, nor can one see at first the Renaissance coming in with Charles of Orleans. Indeed it was laid aside as mediæval, and was wholly forgotten for three hundred years. No one had even heard of him for all those centuries till Sallier, that learned priest, pacing, full of his Hebrew and Syriac, the rooms of the royal library which Louis XV had but lately given him to govern, found the manuscript of the poems and wrote an essay on them for the Academy. The verse is full of allegory; it is repetitive; it might weary one with the savour of that unhappy fifteenth century when the human mind lay under oppression, and only the rich could speak their insignificant words; a foreigner especially might find it all dry bones, but his judgement would be wrong. Charles of Orleans has a note quite new and one that after him never failed, but grew in volume and in majesty until it filled the great chorus of the Pleiade--the Lyrical note of direct personal expression. Perhaps the wars produced it in him; the lilt of the marching songs was still spontaneous: Gentil Duc de Lorraine, vous avez grand renom, Et votre renommée passe au delà des monts Et vous et vos gens d'arme, et tous vos compagnons Au premier coup qu'ils frappent, abattent les Donjons. Tirez, tirez bombardes, serpentines, Canons! Whatever the cause, this spontaneity and freshness run through all the mass of short and similar work which he wrote down. The spring and sureness, the poise of these light nothings make them a flight of birds. See how direct is this: Dieu! qu'il la fait bon regarder! La gracieuse, bonne et belle. or this: Le lendemain du premier jour de Mai Dedans mon lit ainsi que je dormoye Au point du jour advint que je sonjeay. Everywhere his words make tunes for themselves and everywhere he himself appears in his own verses, simple, charming, slight, but with memories of government and of arms. This style well formed, half his verse written, he returned to his own place. He was in middle age--a man of fifty. He married soberly enough Mary of Cleves, ugly and young: he married her in order to cement the understanding with Burgundy. She did not love him with his shy florid face, long neck and features and mild eyes. His age for twenty-five years passed easily, he had reached his "castle of No Care." As late as 1462 his son (Louis XII) was born; his two daughters at long intervals before. His famous library moved with him as he went from town to town, and perpetually from himself and round him from his retinue ran the continual stream of verse which only ended with his death. His very doctor he compelled to rhyme. All the singers of the time visited or remained with him--wild Villon for a moment, and after Villon a crowd of minor men. It was in such a company that he recited the last ironical but tender song wherein he talks of his lost youth and vigour and ends by bidding all present a salute in the name of his old age. So he sat, half regal, holding a court of song in Blois and Tours, a forerunner in verse of what the new time was to build in stone along the Loire. And it was at Amboise that he died. THE COMPLAINT. (_The 57th Ballade of those written during his imprisonment._) There is some dispute in the matter, but I will believe, as I have said, that this dead Princess, for whose soul he prays, was certainly the wife of his boyhood, a child whom Richard II had wed just before that Lancastrian usurpation which is the irreparable disaster of English history. She was, I say, a child--a widow in name--when Charles of Orleans, himself in that small royal clique which was isolated and shrivelling, married her as a mere matter of state. It is probable that he grew to love her passionately, and perhaps still more her memory when she had died in child-bed during those first years, even before Agincourt, "en droicte fleur de jeunesse,"--for even here he is able to find an exact and sufficient line. There is surely to be noted in this delicate ballad, something more native and truthful in its pathos than in the very many complaints he left by way partly of reminiscence, partly of poetic exercise. For, though he is restrained, as was the manner of his rank when they attempted letters, yet you will not read it often without getting in you a share of its melancholy. That melancholy you can soon discover to be as permanent a quality in the verse as it was in the mind of the man who wrote it. _THE COMPLAINT._ _Las! Mort qui t'a fait si hardie, De prendre la noble Princesse Qui estoit mon confort, ma vie, Mon bien, mon plaisir, ma richesse! Puis que tu as prins ma maistresse, Prens moy aussi son serviteur, Car j'ayme mieulx prouchainement Mourir que languir en tourment En paine, soussi et doleur._ _Las! de tous biens estoit garnie Et en droite fleur de jeunesse! Je pry à Dieu qu'il te maudie, Faulse Mort, plaine de rudesse! Se prise l'eusses en vieillesse, Ce ne fust pas si grant rigueur; Mais prise l'as hastivement Et m'as laissié piteusement En paine, soussi et doleur._ _Las! je suis seul sans compaignie! Adieu ma Dame, ma liesse! Or est nostre amour departie, Non pour tant, je vous fais promesse Que de prieres, à largesse, Morte vous serviray de cueur, Sans oublier aucunement; Et vous regretteray souvent En paine, soussi et doleur._ _ENVOI._ _Dieu, sur tout souverain Seigneur, Ordonnez, par grace et doulceur, De l'ame d'elle, tellement Qu'elle ne soit pas longuement En paine, soussi et doleur._ THE TWO ROUNDELS OF SPRING. (_The 41st and 43rd of the "Rondeaux."_) These two Rondeaux, of which we may also presume, though very vaguely, that they were written in England (for they are in the manner of his earlier work), are by far the most famous of the many things he wrote; and justly, for they have all these qualities. _First_, they are exact specimens of their style. The Roundel should interweave, repeat itself, and then recover its original strain, and these two exactly give such unified diversity. _Secondly_: they were evidently written in a moment of that unknown power when words suggest something fuller than their own meaning, and in which simplicity itself broadens the mind of the reader. So that it is impossible to put one's finger upon this or that and say this adjective, that order of the words has given the touch of vividness. _Thirdly_: they have in them still a living spirit of reality; read them to-day in Winter, and you feel the Spring. It is this quality perhaps which most men have seized in them, and which have deservedly made them immortal. A further character which has added to their fame, is that, being perfect lyrics, they are also specimens of an old-fashioned manner and metre peculiar to the time. They are the resurrection not only of the Spring, but of a Spring of the fifteenth century. Nor is it too fantastic to say that one sees in them the last miniatures and the very dress of a time that was intensely beautiful, and in which Charles of Orleans alone did not feel death coming. _THE TWO ROUNDELS OF SPRING._ _Les fourriers d'Esté sont venus Pour appareillier son logis, Et ont fait tendre ses tappis, De fleurs et verdure tissus. En estandant tappis velus De verte herbe par le pais, Les fourriers d'Esté sont venus Pour appareillier son logis. Cueurs d'ennuy pieça morfondus, Dieu merci, sont sains et jolis; Alez vous en, prenez pais, Yver vous ne demourrez plus; Les fourriers d'Esté sont venus._ _Le temps a laissié son manteau De vent, de froidure et de pluye, Et s'est vestu de brouderie, De soleil luyant, cler et beau. Il n'y a beste, ne oyseau, Qu'en son jargon ne chant ou crie; Le temps a laissié son manteau De vent de froidure et de pluye. Riviere, fontaine et ruisseau Portent, en livrée jolie, Gouttes d'argent d'orfavrerie, Chascun s'abille de nouveau. Le temps a laissié son manteau._ HIS LOVE AT MORNING. (_The 6th of the "Songs"._) In this delightful little song the spontaneity and freshness which saved his work, its vigour and its clarity are best preserved. It does indeed defy death and leaps four centuries: it is young and perpetual. It thrills with something the failing middle ages had forgotten: it reaches what they never reached, a climax, for one cannot put too vividly the flash of the penultimate line, "I am granted a vision when I think of her." Yet it was written in later life, and who she was, or whether she lived at all, no one knows. _HIS LOVE AT MORNING._ _Dieu qu'il la fait bon regarder La gracieuse bonne et belle! Pour les grans biens qui sont en elle, Chascun est prest de la louer Qui se pourroit d'elle lasser! Tousjours sa beaulté renouvelle. Dieu, qu'il la fait bon regarder, La gracieuse, bonne et belle! Par deça, ne delà la mer, Ne sçay Dame ne Damoiselle Qui soit en tous biens parfais telle; C'est un songe que d'y penser. Dieu, qu'il la fait bon regarder!_ THE FAREWELL. (_The 310th Roundel._) Here is the last thing--we may presume--that Charles of Orleans ever wrote: "Salute me all the company, I pray." In that "company", not only the Court at Amboise, but the men of the early wars, his companions, were round him, and the dead friends of his gentle memory. He was broken with age; he was already feeling the weight of isolation from the Royal Family; he was beginning to suffer the insults of the king. But, beneath all this, his gaiety still ran like a river under ice, and in the ageing of a poet, humour and physical decline combined make a good, human thing. There is an excellent irony in the refrain: "Salute me, all the company," whose double interpretation must not be missed, though it may seem far-fetched. Till the last line it means, without any question, "Salute the company in my name," but I think there runs through it also, the hint of "Salute me for my years, all you present who are young," and that this certainly is the note in the last line of all. It must be remembered of the French, that they never expand or explain their ironical things, for in art it is their nature to detest excess. This last thing of his, then, I say, is the most characteristic of him and of his Valois blood, and of the national spirit in general to which he belonged: for he, and it, and they, loved and love contrast, and the extra-meaning of words. _THE FAREWELL._ _Saluez moy toute la compaignie Où à present estes à chiere lie, Et leur dictes que voulentiers seroye Avecques eulx, mais estre n'y porroye, Pour Vieillesse qui m'a en sa baillie. Au temps passé, Jeunesse si jolie Me gouvernoit; las! or n'y suis je mye, Et pour cela pour Dieu, que excusé soye; Saluez moy toute la compaignie Où à present estes à chiere lie, Et leur dictes que voulentiers seroye. Amoureux fus, or ne le suis je mye, Et en Paris menoye bonne vie; Adieu Bon temps ravoir ne vous saroye, Bien sanglé fus d'une estroite courroye. Que, par Aige, convient que la deslie. Saluez moy toute la compaignie._ VILLON. I have said that in Charles of Orleans the middle ages are at first more apparent than the advent of the Renaissance. His forms are inherited from an earlier time, his terminology is that of the long allegories which had wearied three generations, his themes recall whatever was theatrical in the empty pageantry of the great war. It is a spirit deeper and more fundamental than the mere framework of his writing which attaches him to the coming time. His clarity is new; it proceeds from natural things; it marks that return to reality which is the beginning of all beneficent revolutions. But this spirit in him needs examination and discovery, and the reader is confused between the mediaeval phrases and the something new and troubling in the voice that utters them. With Villon, the next in order, a similar confusion might arise. All about him as he wrote were the middle ages: their grotesque, their contrast, their disorder. His youth and his activity of blood forbad him any contact with other than immediate influences. He was wholly Northern; he had not so much as guessed at what Italy might be. The decrepit University had given him, as best she could, the dregs of her palsied philosophy and something of Latin. He grew learned as do those men who grasp quickly the major lines of their study, but who, in details, will only be moved by curiosity or by some special affection. There was nothing patient in him, and nothing applied, and in all this, in the matter of his scholarship as in his acquirement of it, he is of the dying middle ages entirely. His laughter also was theirs: the kind of laughter that saluted the first Dance of Death which as a boy he had seen in new frescoes round the waste graveyard of the Innocents. His friends and enemies and heroes and buffoons were the youth of the narrow tortuous streets, his visions of height were the turrets of the palaces and the precipitate roofs of the town. Distance had never inspired him, for in that age its effect was forgotten. No one straight street displayed the greatness of the city, no wide and ordered spaces enhanced it. He crossed his native river upon bridges all shut in with houses, and houses hid the banks also. The sweep of the Seine no longer existed for his generation, and largeness of all kinds was hidden under the dust and rubble of decay. The majestic, which in sharp separate lines of his verse he certainly possessed, he discovered within his own mind, for no great arch or cornice, nor no colonnade had lifted him with its splendour. That he could so discover it, that a solemnity and order should be apparent in the midst of his raillery whenever he desires to produce an effect of the grand, leads me to speak of that major quality of his by which he stands up out of his own time, and is clearly an originator of the great renewal. I mean his vigour. It is all round about him, and through him, like a storm in a wood. It creates, it perceives. It possesses the man himself, and us also as we read him. By it he launches his influence forward and outward rather than receives it from the past. To it his successors turn, as to an ancestry, when they had long despised and thrown aside everything else that savoured of the Gothic dead. By it he increased in reputation and meaning from his boyhood on for four hundred years, till now he is secure among the first lyric poets of Christendom. It led to no excess of matter, but to an exuberance of attitude and manner, to an inexhaustibility of special words, to a brilliancy of impression unique even among his own people. He was poor; he was amative; he was unsatisfied. This vigour, therefore, led in his actions to a mere wildness; clothed in this wildness the rare fragments of his life have descended to us. He professed to teach, but he haunted taverns, and loved the roaring of songs. He lived at random from his twentieth year in one den or another along the waterside. Affection brought him now to his mother, now to his old guardian priest, but not for long; he returned to adventure--such as it was. He killed a man, was arrested, condemned, pardoned, exiled; he wandered and again found Paris, and again--it seems--stumbled down his old lane of violence and dishonour. Associated also with this wildness is a curious imperfection in our knowledge of him. His very name is not his own--or any other man's. His father, if it were his father, took his name from Mont-Corbier--half noble. Villon is but a little village over beyond the upper Yonne, near the division, within a day of the water-parting where the land falls southward to Burgundy and the sun in what they call "The Slope of Gold." From this village a priest, William, had come to Paris in 1423. They gave him a canonry in that little church called "St. Bennets Askew," which stood in the midst of the University, near Sorbonne, where the Rue des Écoles crosses the Rue St. Jacques to-day. Hither, to his house in the cloister, he brought the boy, a waif whom he had found much at the time when Willoughby capitulated and the French recaptured the city. He had him taught, he designed him for the University, he sheltered him in his vagaries, he gave him asylum. The young man took his name and called him "more than father." His anxious life led on to 1468, long after the poet had disappeared. For it is in 1461, in his thirtieth year, that Villon last writes down a verse. It is in 1463 that his signature is last discovered. Then not by death or, if by death, then by some death unrecorded, he leaves history abruptly--a most astonishing exit!... You may pursue fantastic legends, you will not find the man himself again. Some say a final quarrel got him hanged at last--it is improbable: no record or even tradition of it remains. Rabelais thought him a wanderer in England. Poitou preserves a story of his later passage through her fields, of how still he drank and sang with boon companions, and of how, again, he killed a man.... Maybe, he only ceased to write; took to teaching soberly in the University, and lived in a decent inheritance to see new splendours growing upon Europe. It may very well be, for it is in such characters to desire in early manhood decency, honour, and repose. But for us the man ends with his last line. His body that was so very real, his personal voice, his jargon--tangible and audible things--spread outward suddenly a vast shadow upon nothingness. It was the end, also, of a world. The first Presses were creaking, Constantinople had fallen, Greek was in Italy, Leonardo lived, the stepping stones of the Azores were held--in that new light he disappears. * * * * * Of his greatness nothing can be said; it is like the greatness of all the chief poets, a thing too individual to seize in words. It is superior and exterior to the man. Genius of that astounding kind has all the qualities of an extraneous thing. A man is not answerable for it. It is nothing to his salvation; it is little even to his general character. It has been known to come and go, to be put off and on like a garment, to be lent by Heaven and taken away, a capricious gift. But of the manner of that genius it may be noted that, as his vigour prepared the flood of new verse, so in another matter his genius made him an origin. Through him first, the great town--and especially Paris--appeared and became permanent in letters. Her local spirit and her special quality had shone fitfully here and there for a thousand years--you may find it in Julian, in Abbo, in Joinville. But now, in the fifteenth century, it had been not only a town but a great town for more than a century--a town, that is, in which men live entirely, almost ignorant of the fields, observing only other men, and forgetting the sky. The keen edge of such a life, its bitterness, the mockery and challenge whereby its evils are borne, its extended knowledge, the intensity of its spirit--all these are reflected in Villon, and first reflected in him. Since his pen first wrote, a shining acerbity like the glint of a sword-edge has never deserted the literature of the capital. It was not only the metropolitan, it was the Parisian spirit which Villon found and fixed. That spirit which is bright over the whole city, but which is not known in the first village outside; the influence that makes Paris Athenian. The ironical Parisian soul has depths in it. It is so lucid that its luminous profundity escapes one--so with Villon. Religion hangs there. Humility--fatally divorced from simplicity--pervades it. It laughs at itself. There are ardent passions of sincerity, repressed and reacting upon themselves. The virtues, little practised, are commonly comprehended, always appreciated, for the Faith is there permanent. All this you will find in Villon, but it is too great a matter for so short an essay as this. THE DEAD LADIES. It is difficult or impossible to compare the masterpieces of the world. It is easy and natural to take the measure of a particular writer and to establish a scale of his work. Villon is certainly in the small first group of the poets. His little work, like that of Catullus, like that of Gray, is up, high, completed and permanent. And within that little work this famous Ballade is by far the greatest thing. It contains all his qualities: not in the ordinary proportion of his character, but in that better, exact proportion which existed in him when his inspiration was most ardent: for the poem has underlying it somewhere a trace of his irony, it has all his ease and rapidity--excellent in any poet--and it is carried forward by that vigour I have named, a force which drives it well upwards and forward to its foaming in the seventh line of the third verse. The sound of names was delightful to him, and he loved to use it; he had also that character of right verse, by which the poet loves to put little separate pictures like medallions into the body of his writing: this Villon loved, as I shall show in other examples, and he has it here. The end of the middle ages also is strongly in this appeal or confession of mortality; their legends, their delicacy, their perpetual contemplation of death. But of all the Poem's qualities, its run of words is far the finest. _THE DEAD LADIES._ _Dictes moy où, n'en quel pays Est Flora la belle Rommaine; Archipiada, ne Thaïs, Qui fut sa cousine germaine; Echo, parlant quand bruyt on maine Dessus riviere ou sus estan, Qui beaulté ot trop plus qu'humaine? Mais où sont les neiges d'antan?_ _Où est la très sage Hellois, Pour qui fut chastré et puis moyne Pierre Esbaillart à Saint-Denis? Pour son amour ot cest essoyne. Semblablement, où est la royne Qui commanda que Buridan Fust gecté en ung sac en Saine? Mais où sont les neiges d'antan!_ _La Royne Blanche comme un lis, Qui chantoit à voix de seraine; Berte au grant pié Bietris, Allis; Haremburgis qui tint le Maine, Et Jehanne, la bonne Lorraine, Qu'Englois brulerent à Rouan; Où sont elles, Vierge souvraine? Mais où sont les neiges d'antan!_ _ENVOI._ _Prince, n'enquerez de sepmaine Où elles sont, ne de cest an, Que ce reffrain ne vous remaine: Mais où sont les neiges d'antan!_ AN EXCERPT FROM THE GRANT TESTAMENT. (_Stanzas 75-79._) Villon's whole surviving work is in the form of two rhymed wills--one short, one long: and in the latter, Ballads and Songs are put in each in their place, as the tenour of the verse suggests them. Thus the last Ballade, that of the "Dead Ladies," comes after a couple of strong stanzas upon the necessity of death--and so forth. One might choose any passage, almost, out of the mass to illustrate the character of this "Testament" in which the separate poems are imbedded. I have picked those round about the 800th line, the verses in which he is perhaps least brilliant and most tender. _AN EXCERPT FROM THE GRANT TESTAMENT._ LXXV. _Premier je donne ma povre ame A la benoiste Trinité, Et la commande à Nostre Dame Chambre de la divinité; Priant toute la charité Des dignes neuf Ordres des cieulx, Que par eulx soit ce don porté Devant le trosne precieux._ LXXVI. _Item, mon corps je donne et laisse A notre grant mere la terre; Les vers n'y trouveront grant gresse: Trop luy a fait faim dure guerre. Or luy soit delivré grant erre: De terre vint, en terre tourne. Toute chose, se par trop n'erre, Voulentiers en son lieu retourne;_ LXXVII. _Item, et à mon plus que pere Maistre Guillaume de Villon Qui m'esté a plus doulx que mere, Enfant eslevé de maillon, Degeté m'a de maint boullon Et de cestuy pas ne s'esjoye Et luy requiers à genoullon Qu'il n'en laisse toute la joye._ LXXVIII. _Je luy donne ma Librairie Et le Romman du Pet au Deable Lequel Maistre Guy Tabarie Grossa qui est homs veritable. Por cayers est soubz une table, Combien qu'il soit rudement fait La matiere est si très notable, Q'elle amende tout le mesfait._ LXXIX. _Item donne à ma povre mere Pour saluer nostre Maistresse, Qui pour moy ot doleur amere Dieu le scet, et mainte tristesse; Autre Chastel n'ay ni fortresse Où me retraye corps et ame Quand sur moy court malle destresse Ne ma mere, la povre femme!_ THE BALLADE OF OUR LADY. (_Written by Villon for his mother._) The abrupt ending of the last extract, the 79th stanza of the "Grant Testament"--"I give..." and then no objective (apparently) added--is an excellent example of the manner in which the whole is conceived and of the way in which the separate poems are pieced into the general work. What "he gives..." to his mother is this "Ballade of our Lady," written, presumably, long before the "will" and put in here and thus after being carefully led up to. These thirty-seven lines are more famous in their own country than abroad. They pour from the well of a religion which has not failed in the place where Villon wrote, and they present that religion in a manner peculiar and national. Apart from its piety and its exquisite tenderness, two qualities of Villon are to be specially found in this poem: his vivid phrase, such as: _"Emperiere des infernaux paluz,"_ (a discovery of which he was so proud that he repeated it elsewhere) or: _"sa tres chiere jeunesse."_ And secondly the curiously processional effect of the metre and of the construction of the stanzas--the extra line and the extra foot lend themselves to a chaunt in their balanced slow rhythm, as any one can find for himself by reading the lines to some church sing-song as he goes. _THE BALLADE OF OUR LADY._ _Dame des cieulx, regente terrienne, Emperiere des infernaux paluz, Recevez moy, vostre humble chrestienne, Que comprinse soye entre vos esleuz, Ce non obstant qu'oncques rien ne valuz. Les biens de vous, ma dame et ma maistresse, Sont trop plus grans que ne suis pecheresse, Sans lesquelz biens ame ne peut merir N'avoir les cieulx, je n'en suis jungleresse. En ceste foi je veuil vivre et mourir._ _A vostre fils dicte que je suis sienne; De luy soyent mes pechiez aboluz: Pardonne moy, comme à l'Egipcienne, Ou comme il feist au clerc Théophilus, Lequel par vous fut quitte et absoluz, Combien qu'il eust au Deable fait promesse. Preservez moy, que ne face jamais ce Vierge portant, sans rompure encourir Le sacrement qu'on celebre à la messe. En ceste foy je veuil vivre et mourir._ _Femme je suis povrette et ancienne Qui riens ne scay; oncques lettre ne leuz; Au moustier voy dont suis paroissienne Paradis faint, où sont harpes et luz, Et ung enfer où dampnez sont boulluz: L'ung me fait paour, l'autre joye et liesse. La joye avoir me fay, haulte Deesse, A qui pecheurs doivent tous recourir, Comblez de Foy, sans fainte ne paresse. En ceste foy je veuil vivre et mourir._ _ENVOI_ _Vous portastes, digne vierge, princesse, Jesus regnant, qui n'a ne fin ne cesse. Le Tout Puissant, prenant notre foiblesse, Laissa les cieulx et nous vint secourir, Offrit à mort sa tres chiere jeunesse. Nostre Seigneur tel est, tel le confesse, En ceste foy je veuil vivre et mourir._ THE DEAD LORDS. As I have not wished to mix up smaller things with greater I have put this _ballade_ separate from that of "the Ladies," though it directly follows it as an after-thought in Villon's own book. For the former is one of the masterpieces of the world, and this, though very Villon, is not great. What it has got is the full latter mediaeval love of odd names and reminiscences, and also to the full, the humour of the scholarly tavern, which was the "Mermaid" of that generation: as the startling regret of: Hélas! et le bon roy d'Espaigne Duquel je ne sçay pas le nom.... and the addition, after the false exit of "je me désiste". _Encore fais une question_ He laughed well over it, and was perhaps not thirsty when it was written. _THE DEAD LORDS._ _Qui plus? Où est le Tiers Calixte Dernier decedé de ce nom, Qui quatre ans tint le papaliste? Alphonce, le roy d'Arragon, Le Gracieux Duc de Bourbon, Et Artus, le Duc de Bretaigne, Et Charles Septiesme, le Bon?.... Mais où est le preux Charlemaigne!_ _Semblablement le roy Scotiste Qui demy face ot, ce dit on, Vermeille comme une amatiste Depuis le front jusqu'au menton? Le roy de Chippre, de renom? Hélas! et le bon roy d'Espaigne Duquel je ne sçay pas le nom?... Mais où est le preux Charlemaigne!_ _D'en plus parler je me desiste Le monde n'est qu'abusion. Il n'est qui contre mort resiste Le que treuve provision. Encor fais une question: Lancelot, le roy de Behaigne, Où est il? Où est son tayon?.... Mais où est le preux Charlemaigne!_ _ENVOI._ _Où est Claguin, le bon Breton? Où le conte daulphin d'Auvergne Et le bon feu Duc d'Alençon?... Mais où est le preux Charlemaigne!_ THE DIRGE. This is the best ending for any set of verses one may choose out of Villon. It follows and completes the epitaph which in his will he orders to be written in charcoal--or scratched--above his tomb: the sad, sardonic octave of "the little scholar and poor." It is a kind of added dirge to be read by those who pass and to be hummed or chaunted over him dead. But it is a rondeau. See how sharp it is with the salt and vinegar of his pressed courageous smile--and how he cannot run away from his religion or from his power over sudden and vivid beauty. "Sire--et clarté perpétuelle"--which last are the best two words that ever stood in the vulgar for _lux perpetua_. It is no wonder that as time went on, more and more people learnt these things by heart. _RONDEAU._ _Repos éternel, donne à cil, Sire, et clarté perpétuelle, Qui vaillant plat ni escuelle N'eut oncques, n'ung brain de percil. Il fut rez, chief, barbe et sourcil, Comme un navet qu'on ret ou pelle. Repos éternel donne à cil. Rigueur le transmit en exil Et luy frappa au cul la pelle, Non obstant qu'il dit "J'en appelle!" Qui n'est pas terme trop subtil. Repos éternel donne à cil._ CLEMENT MAROT. If in Charles of Orleans the first note of the French Renaissance is heard, if in Villon you find first its energy appearing above ground, yet both are forerunners only. With Marot one is in the full tide of the movement. The discovery of America had preceded his birth by three or perhaps four years. His early manhood was filled with all that ferment, all that enormous branching out of human life, which was connected with the expansion of Spain; he was in the midst of the scarlet and the gold. A man just of age when Luther was first condemned, living his active manhood through the experience of the great battlefields in Italy, wounded (a valet rather than a soldier) at Pavia, the perpetual chorus of Francis I., privileged to witness the first stroke of the pickaxe against the mediaeval Louvre, and to see the first Italian dignity of the great stone houses on the Loire--being all this, the Renaissance was the stuff on which his life was worked. His blood and descent were typical enough of the work he had to do. His own father was one of the last set rhymers of the dying Middle Ages. All his boyhood was passed among that multitude of little dry "writers-down of verse" with which, in Paris, the Middle Ages died; they were not a swarm, for they were not living; they were a heap of dust. All his early work is touched with the learned, tedious, unbeautiful industry which was all that the elder men round Louis XII could bring to letters. By a happy accident there were mixed in him, however, two vigorous springs of inspiration, each ready to receive the new forces that were working in Europe, each destined to take the fullest advantage of the new time. These springs were first, learned Normandy, quiet, legal, well-founded, deep in grass, wealthy; and secondly, the arid brilliancy of the South: Quency and the country round Cahors. His father was a Norman pure bred, who had come down and married into that sharp land where the summer is the note of the whole year, and where the traveller chiefly remembers vineyards, lizards on the walls, short shadows, sleep at noon, and blinding roads of dust. The first years of his childhood were spent in the southern town, so that the south entered into him thoroughly. The language that he never wrote, the Languedoc, was that, perhaps, in which he thought during all his life. It was his mother's. It has been noticed by all his modern readers, it will be noticed probably with peculiar force by English readers, that the fame of Marot during his lifetime and his historical position as the leader of the Renaissance has in it something exaggerated and false. One cannot help a perpetual doubt as to whether the religious quarrel, the influence of the Court, the strong personal friendships and enmities which surrounded him had not had more to do with his reputation than his faculty, or even his genius, for rhyme. Whenever he wanted £100 he asked it of the King with the grave promise that he would bestow upon him immortality. From Ronsard, or from Du Bellay, we, here in the north, could understand that phrase; from Marot it carries a flavour of the grotesque. Ready song, indeed, and a great power over the material one uses in singing last indefinitely; they last as long as the sublime or the terrible in literature, but we forbear to associate with them--perhaps unjustly--the conception of greatness. If indeed anyone were to maintain that Marot was not an excellent and admirable poet he would prove himself ignorant of the language in which Marot wrote, but let the most sympathetic turn to what is best in his verse, let them turn for instance to that charming lyric: "A sa Dame Malade" or to "The Ballad of Old Time," or even to that really large and riotous chorus of the vine, and they will see that it is the kind of thing which is amplified by music, and which sometimes demands the aid of music to appear at all. They will see quite plainly that Marot took pleasure in playing with words and arranged them well, felt keenly and happily, played a full lyre, but they will doubt whether poetry was necessarily for him the most serious business of life. Why, then, has he taken the place claimed for him, and why is he firmly secure in the place of master of the ceremonies, as it were, to that glorious century whose dawn he enjoyed and helped to beautify? I will explain it. It is because he is national. He represents not what is most this, or most that--"highest", "noblest", "truest", "best", and all the rest of it--in his countrymen, but rather what they have most in common. Did you meet him to-day in the Strand you would know at once that you had to do with a Frenchman, and, probably, with a kind of poet. He was short, square in the shoulders, tending in middle age to fatness. A dark hair and beard; large brown eyes of the south; a great, rounded, wrinkled forehead like Verlaine's; a happy mouth, a nose very insignificant, completed him. When we meet somewhere, under cypress trees at last, these great poets of a better age, and find Ronsard a very happy man, Du Bellay, a gentleman; then Malherbe, for all that he was a northerner, we may mistake, if we find him, for a Catalonian. Villon, however Parisian, will appear the Bohemian that many cities have produced; Charles of Orleans may seem at first but one of that very high nobility remnants of which are still to be discovered in Europe. But when we see Marot, our first thought will certainly be, as I have said, that we have come across a Frenchman; and the more French for a touch of the commonplace. See how French was the whole career! Whatever is new attracts him. The reformation attracts him. It was _chic_ to have to do with these new things. He had the French ignorance of what was foreign and alien; the French curiosity to meddle with it because it had come from abroad; the French passion for opposing, for struggling;--and beneath it all the large French indifference to the problem of evil (or whatever you like to call it), the changeless French content in certitude, upon which ease, indeed, as upon a rock, the Church of Gaul has permanently stood and will continuously repose. He has been a sore puzzle to the men who have never heard of these things. Calvin (that appalling exception who had nothing in him of France except lucidity) could make neither head nor tail of him. Geneva was glad enough to chaunt through the nose his translations of the Psalms, but it was woefully puzzled at his salacity, and the town was very soon too hot to hold him in his exile. And as for the common, partial, and ignorant histories of France, written in our tongue, they generally make him a kind of backslider, who might have been a Huguenot (and--who knows?--have thrown the Sacrament to beasts with the best of them) save that, unhappily, he did not persevere. Whatever they say of him (and some have hardly heard of him) one thing is quite certain: that they do not understand him, and that if they did they would like him still less than they do. He was national in the rapidity of the gesture of his mind as in that of his body: in his being attracted here and there, watching this and that suddenly, like a bird. He was national in his power of sharp recovery from any emotion back into his normal balance. He was national in that he depended upon companions, and stood for a crowd, and deplored all isolation. He was national in that he had nothing strenuous about him, and that he was amiable, and if he had heard of "earnest" men, he would have laughed at them a little, as people who did not see the whole of life. He was especially national (and it is here that the poet returns) in that most national of all things--a complete sympathy with the atmosphere of the native tongue. Thus men debate a good deal upon the poetic value of Wordsworth, but it is certain, when one sees how bathed he is in the sense of English words, their harmony and balance, that the man is entirely English, that no other nation could have produced him, and that he will be most difficult for foreigners to understand. You will not translate into French or any other language the simplicity of: "Glimpses that should make me less forlorn." Nor can you translate, so as to give its own kind of grandeur "Et arrivoit pour bénistre la vigne." Apart from his place in letters, see how national he is in what he does! He buys two bits of land, he talks of them continually, sees to them, visits them. They are quite little bits of land. He calls one Clément, and the other Marot! Here is a whimsicality you would not find, I think, among another people. He has the hatred of "sprawling" in his particular art which is the chief aesthetic character of the French; but he has the tendency to excess in opinion or in general expression which is their chief political fault. It is thus, then, that I think he should be regarded and that I would desire to present him. It is thus, I am sure, that he should be read if one is to know why he has taken so great a place in the reverence and the history of the French people. And it is in this aspect that he may worthily introduce much greater things, the Pléiade and Ronsard. OF COURTING LONG AGO. (_The Eighth of the Roundels._) This is a fair enough specimen of Marot at his daily gait: an easy versifier "on a theme" and no more. I have said that it is unjust to judge him on that level, and I have said why; but I give this to give the man as he moved domestically to the admiration of the court and of his friends in a time which missed, for example, the epic character of the last six lines of "Le Beau Tettin," and which hardly comprehended of what value his pure lyric enthusiasms would be to a sadder and drier posterity. _OF COURTING LONG AGO._ _Au bon vieulx temps un train d'amour regnoit, Qui sans grand art et dons se démenoit, Si qu'un boucquet donné d'amour profonde S'estoit donné toute la terre ronde: Car seulement au cueur on se prenoit._ _Et si, par cas, à jouyr on venoit, Sçavez-vous bien comme on s'entretenoit? Vingt ans, trente ans; cela duroit ung monde Au bon vieulx temps._ _Or est perdu ce qu'amour ordonnoit, Rien que pleurs fainctz, rien que changes on n'oyt. Qui vouldra donc qu'à aymer je me fonde, Il fault, premier, que l'amour on refonde Et qu'on la meine ainsi qu'on la menoit Au bon vieulx temps._ NOËL. (_The Second of the Chansons._) But here, upon the contrary, is the spontaneity of his happy mind; it suggests a song; one can hardly read it without a tune in one's head, so simple is it and so purely lyrical: there is a touch of the dance in it, too. In these little things of Marot, which are neither learned (and he boasted of learning) nor set and dry (and his friends especially praised his precision), a great poet certainly appears--in short revelations, but still appears. Unfortunately there are not enough of them. That he thought "like a Southerner," as I have maintained and as I shall show by a further example, is made the more probable from the value he lends to the feminine e. The excellent rhythm of this poem you will only get by giving the feminine e the value of a drawn out syllable: "L'effect Est faict: La bel-le Pucel-le," etc. So Spaniards, Gascons, Provençaux, Italians, rhyme, and all those of the south who have retained their glorious "a's" and "o's". As for the spirit of it--God bless him!--it is a subject for perpetual merriment to think of such a man's being taken for a true Huguenot and enmeshed, even for a while, in the nasty cobweb of Geneva. But in the last thing I shall quote, when he is Bacchic for the vine, you will see it still more. _NOËL._ _Une pastourelle gentille Et ung bergier en ung verger L'autrhyer en jouant à la bille S'entredisoient, pour abréger: Roger Bergier Legière Bergière, C'est trop à la bille joué; Chantons Noé, Noé, Noé._ _Te souvient-il plus du prophète Qui nous dit cas de si hault faict, Que d'une pucelle parfaicte Naistroit ung enfant tout parfaict? L'effect Est faict: La belle Pucelle A eu ung filz du ciel voué: Chantons Noé, Noé, Noé._ TWO EPIGRAMS. (_The 41st of the First Book and the 46th of the Second._) These two epigrams are again but examples of the readiness, the wit, the hard surface of Marot, and they needed no more poetry than was in Voltaire or Swift, but they needed style. It was this absolute and standard style which his contemporaries chiefly remarked in him: the marvel was, that being mainly such an epigrammatist and scholar, and praised and supported only in that guise, he should have carried in him any, or rather so much, fire. The first was his reply to a Dixaine the king's sister had sent him. The second explains itself. _TWO EPIGRAMS._ _Mes créanciers, qui de dixains n'ont cure, Ont leu le vostre; et sur ce leur ay dict: "Sire Michel, sire Bonaventure, La soeur du Roy a pour moy faict ce dit." Lors eulx cuydans que fusse en grand crédict, M'ont appelé monsieur à cry et cor, Et m'a valu vostre escript aultant qu'or; Car promis m'ont non seulement d'attendre, Mais d'en prester, foy de marchant, encor, Et j'ay promis, foy de Clément, d'en prendre._ _Paris, tu m'as faict maints alarmes, Jusque à me poursuivre à la mort: Je n'ay que blasonné tes armes: Un ver, quand on le presse, il mord! Encor la coulpe m'en remord. Ne scay de toy comment sera; Mais de nous deux le diable emport Celuy qui recommencera._ TO HIS LADY IN SICKNESS. (_The 16th Epistle._) It is the way this is printed that makes some miss its value. It is, like all the best he wrote, a song; it needs the varying time of human expression, the effect of tone, the repose and the re-lifting of musical notes; illuminated thus it greatly charmed, and if any one would know the order of such a tune, why, it should follow the punctuation: a cessation at the third line; a rise of rapid accents to the thirteenth, and then a change; the last three lines of the whole very much fuller and strong. So I would hear it sung on a winter evening in an old house in Auvergne, and re-enter the sixteenth century as I heard. _TO HIS LADY IN SICKNESS._ _Ma mignonne, Je vous donne Le bon jour. Le séjour, C'est prison. Guérison Recouvrez, Puis ouvrez Vostre porte Et qu'on sorte Vistement; Car Clément Le vous mande. Va, friande De ta bouche, Qui se couche En danger Pour manger Confitures; Si tu dures Trop malade, Couleur fade Tu prendras Et perdras L'embonpoint. Dieu te doint, Santé bonne, Ma mignonne._ THE VINEYARD SONG. (_The 4th of the Chansons._) Here is Marot's best--even though many of his native critics will not admit it so; but to feel it in full one must be exiled from the vines. It is a tapestry of the Renaissance; the jolly gods of the Renaissance, the old gods grown Catholic moving across a happier stage. Bacchus in long robes and with solemnity blessing the vine, Silenus and the hobbling smith who smithied the Serpe, the Holy Vineyard Knife in heaven, all these by their diction and their flavour recall the Autumn in Herault and the grapes under a pure sky, pale at the horizon, and labourers and their carts in the vineyard, and these set in the frame of that great time when Saturn did return. All the poem is wine. It catches its rhymes and weaves them in and in, and moves rapid and careless in a fugue, like the march from Asia when the Panthers went before and drew the car. The internal rhythm and pulse is the clapping of hands in barns at evening and the peasants' feet dancing freely on the beaten earth. It is a very good song; it remembers the treading of the grapes and is refreshed by the mists that rise at evening when the labour is done. _THE VINEYARD SONG._ _Changeons propos, c'est trop chanté d'amours, Ce sont clamours, chantons de la Serpette, Tous vignerons ont à elle recours, C'est leur secours pour tailler la vignette. O serpilette, ô la serpilonnette, La vignolette est par toy mise sus, Dont les bons vins, tous les ans, sont yssus!_ _Le dieu Vulcain, forgeron des haults dieux, Forgea aux cieulx la serpe bien taillante, De fin acier, trempé en bon vin vieulx, Pour tailler mieulx et estre plus vaillante. Bacchus le vante et dit qu'elle est séante Et convenante à Noé le bonshom Pour en tailler la vigne en la saison._ _Bacchus alors chappeau de treille avoit, Et arrivoit pour bénistre la vigne; Avec flascons Silénus le suivoit, Lequel beuvoit aussi droict qu'une ligne; Puis il trépigne, et se faict une bigne; Comme une guigne estoit rouge son nez. Beaucoup de gens de sa race sont nez._ RONSARD. If it be true that words create for themselves a special atmosphere, and that their mere sound calls up vague outer things beyond their strict meaning, so it is true that the names of the great poets by their mere sound, by something more than the recollection of their work, produce an atmosphere corresponding to the quality of each; and the name of Ronsard throws about itself like an aureole the characters of fecundity, of leadership, and of fame. A group of men to which allusion will be made in connection with Du Bellay set out with a programme, developed a determined school, and fixed the literary renaissance of France at its highest point. They steeped themselves in antiquity, and they put to the greatest value it has ever received the name of poet; they demanded that the poet should be a kind of king, or seer. Half seriously, half as a product of mere scholarship, the pagan conception of the muse and of inspiration filled them. More than that; in their earnest, and, as it seemed at first, artificial work, they formed the French language. Some of its most famous and most familiar words proceed from them--for instance, the word _Patrie_. Some few of their exotic Greek and Latin adaptations were dropped; the greater part remained. They have excluded from French--as some think to the impoverishment of that language--most elements of the Gothic--the inversion of the adjective, the frequent suppression of the relative, the irregularity of form, which had survived from the Middle Ages, and which make the older French poetry so much more sympathetic to the Englishman than is the new--all these were destroyed by the group of men of whom I speak. They were called by their contemporaries the Pleiade, for they were seven stars. Now, of these, Ronsard was easily the master. He had that power which our anaemic age can hardly comprehend, of writing, writing, writing, without fear of exhaustion, without irritability or self-criticism, without danger of comparing the better with the worse. Five great volumes of small print, all good--men of that facility never write the really paltry things--all good, and most of it glorious; some of it on the level which only the great poets reach here and there. It is in reading this man who rhymed unceasingly for forty years, who made of poetry an occupation as well as a glory, and who let it fill the whole of his life, that one feels how much such creative power has to do with the value of verse. There is a kind of good humility about it, the humility of a man who does not look too closely at himself, and the health of a soul at full stride, going forward. You may open Ronsard at any page, and find a beauty; you may open any one of the sonnets at random, and in translating it discover that you are compelled to a fine English, because he is saying, plainly, great things. And of these sonnets, note you, he would write thirty at a stretch, and then twenty, and then a second book, with seventy more. So that as one reads one cannot help understanding that Italian who said a man was no poet unless he could rap out a century of sonnets from time to time; and one is reminded of the general vigour of the age and of the way in which art of all sorts was mingled up together, when one remembers the tags of verses, just such verses as these, which are yet to be seen in our galleries set down doubtfully on the margin of their sketches by the great artists of Italy. Ronsard, with these qualities of a leader, unconscious, as all true leaders are, of the causes of his leadership, and caring, as all true leaders do, for nothing in leadership save the glory it brings with it, had also, as have all leaders, chiefly the power of drawing in a multitude of friends. The peculiar head of his own group, he very soon became the head of all the movement of his day. He had made letters really great in the minds of his contemporaries, and having so made them, appeared before them as a master of those letters. Certainly, as I shall quote him in a moment when I come to his dying speech, he was "satiated with glory." Yet this man did not in his personality convey that largeness which was his principal mark. His face was narrow, long and aquiline; his health uneven. It was evidently his soul which made men quickly forget the ill-matched case which bore it; for almost alone of the great poets he was consistently happy, and there poured out from him not only this unceasing torrent of verse, but also advice, sustenance, and a kind of secondary inspiration for others. In yet another matter he was a leader, and a leader of the utmost weight, not the cause, perhaps, but certainly the principal example of the trend which the mind of the nation was taking as the sixteenth century drew to a close. I mean in the matter of religion, upon whose colour every society depends, which is the note even of a national language, and which seems to be the ultimate influence beyond which no historical analysis can carry a thinking man. But even those who will not admit the truth of this should watch the theory closely, for with the religious trend of France is certainly bound up, and, as I would maintain, on such an influence is dependent, that ultimate setting of the French classic, that winding up of the Renaissance, with which I shall deal in the essay upon Malherbe. The stream of Catholicism was running true. The nation was tumbling back after a high and turbulent flood into the channel it had scoured for itself by the unbroken energies of a thousand years. It is no accident that Ronsard, that Du Bellay, were churchmen. It is a type. It is a type of the truth that the cloth admitted poets; of the truth that in the great battle whose results yet trouble Europe, here, on the soil where the great questions are fought out, Puritanism was already killed. The epicurean in them both, glad and ready in Ronsard, sombre and Lucretian in Du Bellay, jarred indeed in youth against their vows; but that it should have been tolerated, that it should have led to no excess or angry revolt, was typical of their moment. It was typical, finally, of their generation that all this mixture of the Renaissance with the Church matured at last into its natural fruit, for in the case of Ronsard we have a noble expression of perfect Christianity at the end. In the November of 1585 he felt death upon him; he had himself borne to his home as soon as the Huguenot bands had left it, ravaged and devastated as it was. He found it burnt and looted, but it reminded him of childhood and of the first springs of his great river of verse. A profound sadness took him. He was but in his sixty-second year, his mind had not felt any chill of age. He could not sleep; poppies and soporifics failed him. He went now in his coach, now on a litter from place to place in that country side which he had rendered famous, and saw the Vendomois for the last time; its cornfields all stubble under a cold and dreary sky. And in each place he waited for a while. But death troubled him, and he could not remain. Within a fortnight he ordered that they should carry him southward to the Loire, to that priory of which--by a custom of privilege, nobility and royal favour--he was the nominal head, the priory which is "the eye and delight of Touraine",--the Isle of St. Cosmo. He sickened as he went. The thirty miles or so took him three painful days; twice, all his strength failed him, and he lay half fainting in his carriage; to so much energy and to so much power of creation these episodes were an awful introduction of death. It was upon the 17th of November that he reached the walls wherein he was Superior; six weeks later, on the second day after Christmas, he died. Were I to describe that scene to which he called the monks, all men of his own birth and training, were I to dwell upon the appearance and the character of the oldest and the wisest, who was also the most famous there, I should extend this essay beyond its true limit, as I should also do were I to write down, even briefly, the account of his just, resigned, and holy death. It must suffice that I transcribe the chief of his last deeds; I mean, that declaration wherein he made his last profession of faith. The old monk had said to him: "In what resolution do you die?" He answered, somewhat angrily: "In what did you think? In the religion which was my father's and his father's, and his father's and his father's before him--for I am of that kind." Then he called all the community round him, as though the monastic simplicity had returned (so vital is the Faith, so simple its primal energies), and as though he had been the true prior of some early and fervent house, he told them these things which I will faithfully translate on account of their beauty. They are printed here, I think, for the first time in English, and must stand for the end of this essay: He said: "That he had sinned like other men, and, perhaps, more than most; that his senses had led him away by their charm, and that he had not repressed or constrained them as he should; but none the less, he had always held that Faith which the men of his line had left him, he had always clasped close the Creed and the unity of the Catholic Church; that, in fine, he had laid a sure foundation, but he had built thereon with wood, with hay, with straw. As for that foundation, he was sure it would stand; as for the light and worthless things he had built upon it he had trust in the mercy of the Saviour that they would be burnt in the fire of His love. And now he begged them all to believe hard, as he had believed; but not to live as he had lived; they must understand that he had never attempted or plotted against the life or goods of another, nor ever against any man's honour, but, after all, there was nothing therein wherewith to glorify one's self before God." When he had wept a little, he continued, saying, "that the world was a ceaseless turmoil and torment, and shipwreck after shipwreck all the while, and a whirlpool of sins, and tears and pain, and that to all these misfortunes there was but one port, and this port was Death. But, as for him, he carried with him into that port no desire and no regret for life. That he had tried every one of its pretended joys, that he had left nothing undone which could give him the least shadow of pleasure or content, but that at the end he had found everywhere the oracle of Wisdom, vanity of vanities." He ended with this magnificent thing, which is, perhaps, the last his human power conceived, and I will put it down in his own words:-- "Of all those vanities, the loveliest and most praiseworthy is glory--fame. No one of my time has been so filled with it as I; I have lived in it, and loved and triumphed in it through time past, and now I leave it to my country to garner and possess it after I shall die. So do I go away from my own place as satiated with the glory of this world as I am hungry and all longing for that of God." DIALOGUE WITH THE NINE SISTERS. This is a little Amaboean thing not very well known but very Horatian and worth setting down here because it is in the manner of so much that he wrote. Its manner is admirable. Its gentleness, persistency and increase--are like those of his own small river the Loir. Its last stanza from the middle of the first line "_Ceux dont la fantaisie_" to the end, should, I think be famous; but an English reader can hardly forgive such an introduction as "_Voilà sagement dit_" to so noble a finale. _DIALOGUE WITH THE NINE SISTERS._ Ronsard. _Pour avoir trop aimé vostre bande inégale, Muses, qui defiez (ce dites vous) le temps, J'ay les yeux tout battus, la face toute pasle, Le Chef grison et chauve, et je n'ay que trente ans._ Muses. _Au nocher qui sans cesse erre sur la marine Le teint noir appartient; le soldat n'est point beau Sans estre tout poudreux; qui courbe la poitrine Sur nos livres, est laid s'il n'a pasle la peau._ Ronsard. _Mais quelle recompense aurois-je de tant suivre Vos danses nuict et jour, un laurier sur le front? Et cependant les ans aux quels je deusse vivre En plaisirs et en jeux comme poudre s'en vont._ Muses. _Vous aurez, en vivant, une fameuse gloire, Puis, quand vous serez mort, votre nom fleurira L'age, de siècle en siècle, aura de vous memoire; Vostre corps seulement au tombeau pourrira._ Ronsard. _O le gentil loyer! Que sert au viel Homère, Ores qu'il n'est plus rien, sous la tombe, là-bas, Et qu'il n'a plus ny chef, ny bras, ny jambe entiere Si son renom fleurist, ou s'il ne fleurist pas!_ Muses. _Vous estes abusé. Le corps dessous la lame Pourry ne sent plus rien, aussy ne luy en chaut. Mais un tel accident n'arrive point à l'ame, Qui sans matière vist immortelle là haut._ Ronsard. _Bien! Je vous suyvray donc d'une face plaisante, Dussé-je trespasser de l'estude vaincu, Et ne fust-ce qu'à fin que la race suyvante Ne me reproche point qu'oysif j'aye vescu._ Muses. _Vela saigement dit, Ceux dont la fantaisie Sera religieuse et devote envers Dieu Tousjours acheveront quelque grand poesie, Et dessus leur renom la Parque n'aura lieu._ THE EPITAPH ON RABELAIS. Seven years after Rabelais died, Ronsard wrote this off-hand. I give it, not for its value, but because it connects these two great names. The man who wrote it had seen that large and honorable mouth worshipping wine: he had reverenced that head of laughter which has corrected all our philosophy. It would be a shame to pass such a name as Ronsard's signed to an epitaph on such a work as that of Rabelais, poetry or no poetry. Ronsard also from a tower at Meudon used to creep out at night and drink with that fellow-priest, vicar of the Parish, Rabelais: a greater man than he. By a memory separate from the rest of his verse, Ronsard was moved to write this Rabelaisian thing. For he had seen him "full length upon the grass and singing so." There is no need of notes, for these great names of Gargantua, Panurge and Friar John are household to every honest man. _THE EPITAPH ON RABELAIS._ _Si d'un mort qui pourri repose Nature engendre quelque chose, Et si la génération Se faict de la corruption, Une vigne prendra naissance Du bon Rabelais qui boivoit Tousjours ce pendant qu'il vivoit;_ _Demi me se troussoit les bras Et se couchoit tout plat à bas Sur la jonchée entre les tasses Et parmy les escuelles grasses_ _Il chantait la grande massue Et la jument de Gargantue, Le grand Panurge et le jaïs Des papimanes ébahis, Leurs loix, leurs façons et demeures Et Frère Jean des Antonneures. Et d'Espisteme les combas. Mais la Mort qui ne boivoit pas Tira le beuveur de ce monde Et ores le fait boire de l'onde Du large fleuve d'Achéron._ "MIGNONNE ALLONS VOIR SI LA ROSE." (_The 17th Ode of the First Book._) "In these eighteen lines," says very modernly a principal critic, "lies Ronsard's fame more surely than in all the remaining mass of his works." He condemns by implication Ronsard's wide waste of power; but the few other poems that I have here had room to print, should make the reader careful of such judgements. It is true that in the great hoard which Ronsard left his people there are separate and particular jewels set in the copper and the gold, but the jewels are very numerous: indeed it was almost impossible to choose so few as I have printed here. If it be asked why this should have become the most famous, no answer can be given save the "flavour of language." It is the perfection of his tongue. Its rhythm reaches the exact limit of change which a simple metre will tolerate: where it saddens, a lengthy hesitation at the opening of the seventh line introduces a new cadence, a lengthy lingering upon the last syllables of the tenth, eleventh and twelfth closes a grave complaint. So, also by an effect of quantities, the last six lines rise out of melancholy into their proper character of appeal and vivacity: an exhortation. Certainly those who are so unfamiliar with French poetry as not to know that its whole power depends upon an extreme subtlety of rhythm, may find here the principal example of the quality they have missed. Something much less weighty than the stress of English lines, a just perceptible difference between nearly equal syllables, marks the excellent from the intolerable in French prosody: and to feel this truth in the eighteen lines that follow it is necessary to read them virtually in the modern manner--for the "s" in "vesprée" or "vostre" were pedantries in the sixteenth century--but one must give the mute "e's" throughout as full a value as they have in singing. Indeed, reading this poem, one sees how it must have been composed to some good and simple air in the man's head. If the limits of a page permitted it, I would also show how worthy the thing was of fame from its pure and careful choice of verb--"Tandis que vostre age _fleuronne_"--but space prevents me, luckily, for all this is like splitting a diamond. "_MIGNONNE ALLONS VOIR SI LA ROSE._" _Mignonne, allons voir si la rose Qui ce matin avoit desclose Sa robe de pourpre au soleil A point perdu ceste vesprée Les plis de sa robe pourprée Et son teint au vostre pareil_ _Las! Voyez comme en peu d'espace Mignonne, elle a dessus la place, Las! Las! ses beautez laissé cheoir! O vrayment marastre nature, Puis qu'une telle fleur ne dure Que du matin jusques au soir!_ _Donc si vous me croyez, Mignonne, Tandis que vostre age fleuronne En sa plus verte nouveauté, Cuillez, Cuillez vostre jeunesse: Comme à ceste fleur, la veillesse Fera ternir vostre beauté._ THE "SONNETS FOR HÉLÈNE" (_The 42nd and 43rd Sonnets of the Second Book._) Hélène was very real. A young Maid of Honour to Catherine de Medicis; Spanish by blood, Italian by breeding, called in France "de Sugères," she was the gravest and the wisest, and, for those who loved serenity, the most beautiful of that high and brilliant school. The Sonnets began as a task; a task the Queen had set Ronsard, with Hélène for theme: they ended in the last strong love of Ronsard's life. A sincere lover of many women, he had come to the turn of his age when he saw her, like a memory of his own youth. He has permitted to run through this series, therefore, something of the unique illusion which distance in time or space can lend to the aspect of beauty. An emotion so tenuous does not appear in any other part of his work: here alone you find the chastity or weakness which made something in his mind come near to the sadder Du Bellay's: his soul is regardant all the while as he writes: visions rise from her such as never rose from Cassandra; as this great picture at the opening of the 58th Sonnet of the Second Book: Seule sans compagnie en une grande salle Tu logeois l'autre jour pleine de majesté. These "Sonnets for Hélène" should be common knowledge: they are (with Du Bellay's) the evident original upon which the author of Shakespeare's Sonnets modelled his work: they are the late and careful effort of Ronsard's somewhat spendthrift genius. Here are two of them. One, the second, most famous, the other, the first, hardly known: both are admirable. It is the perfection of their sound which gives them their peculiar quality. The very first lines lead off with a completed harmony: it is as thoroughly a winter night as that in Shakespeare's song, but it is more solemn and, as it were, more "built of stone...." "La Lune Ocieuse, tourne si lentement son char tout à l'entour", is like a sleeping statue of marble. To this character, the second adds a vivid interest of emotion which has given it its special fame. Even the populace have come to hear of this sonnet, and it is sung to a lovely tune. It has also what often leads to permanent reputation in verse, a great simplicity of form. The Sextet is well divided from the Octave, the climax is clearly underlined. Ronsard was often (to his hurt) too scholarly to achieve simplicity: when, under the clear influence of some sharp passion or gaiety he did achieve it, then he wrote the lines that will always remain: A fin qu'à tout jamais de siècle en siècle vive, La Parfaicte amitié que Ronsard la portait. _THE "SONNETS FOR HÉLÈNE."_ XLII _Ces longues nuicts d'hyver, où la Lune ocieuse Tourne si lentement son char tout à l'entour, Où le Coq si tardif nous annonce le jour, Où la nuict semble un an à l'ame soucieuse: Je fusse mort d'ennuy sans ta forme douteuse Qui vient par une feinte alleger mon amour, Et faisant toute nue entre mes bras séjour Me pipe doucement d'une joye menteuse. Vraye tu es farouche, et fière en cruauté: De toy fausse on jouyst en toute privauté. Pres ton mort je m'endors, pres de luy je repose: Rien ne m'est refusé. Le bon sommeil ainsi Abuse pour le faux mon amoureux souci. S'abuser en Amour n'est pas mauvaise chose._ XLIII _Quand vous serez bien vieille, au Soir à la chandelle, Assise aupres du feu, dévidant et filant, Direz chantant mes vers, en vous esmerveillant, Ronsard me celebroit du temps que j'estois belle. Lors vous n'aurez servante oyant telle nouvelle Desia sous le labeur à demy sommeillant Qui au bruit de mon nom ne s'aille resveillant, Bénissant vostre nom de louange immortelle._ _Je seray sous la terre et fantôme sans os Par les ombres myrteux je prendray mon repos. Vous serez au foyer une veille accroupie, Regrettant mon amour et vostre fier desdain. Vivez, si m'en croyez; n'attendez à demain. Cueillez des aujourdhuy les roses de la vie._ JOACHIM DU BELLAY. In Du Bellay the literary Renaissance, French but transfigured by Italy, middle-north of the plains but looking southward to the Mediterranean, came to one soul and concentrated upon it, as the plastic expression of the same influence concentrated in Goujon. Very central in time, half soldier, half priest, all student; traveller and almost adventurer, a pilgrim throughout of the Idea, everything about him is symbolic of the generation he adorned. In its vigour, at least, the Renaissance was a glorious youth--he, Du Bellay, died at thirty-five. Its leap and soaring were taken from the firm platform of strong scholarship--he was a scholar beyond the rest. It fixed special forms--he the French sonnet. It felt the lives of all things running through it as a young man feels them in the spring woods--he gathered in the cup of his verse, and retains for us, the nerve of all that life which is still exultant in the forest beyond his river. His breeding, his high name, his leisured poverty, his passionate friendship, his looking forward always to a new thing, a creation--all this, was the Renaissance in person. Moreover, the Renaissance had in France its seat where, between rolling lands whose woods are the walls of gardens, the broad and shallow inland Loire runs from Orleans, past Blois and Tours and Saumur, and Ancenis, until near Nantes at last it feels the tide: salt and adventures and the barbaric sea. This varied sheltered land of aged vineyards and great wealth has, for the French Renaissance, the one special quality of beginnings and Edens, namely, that it preserves on to a later time the outward evidences of an original perfection. This place, the nest or seed-plot of the new civilisation, still shows its castles--Blois, Amboise, Chambord. Here Leonardo died, Rabelais, Ronsard himself was born. Here the kings of the Change built in their fantastic pride, and founded a France that still endures. It is as truly the soil of the modern thing as are the provinces north of it (the Isle de France, Normandy, Picardy and Champagne), the soil of the earlier mediaeval flower, and of the Gothic which they preserve unique to our own time. Now, of this district, Du Bellay was more than a native; he was part of it; he pined away from it; he regretted, as no other man of the time regretted, his father's land: Anjou and the fields of home. He may be said, with some exaggeration, to have died in the misfortune of his separation from the security and sober tradition of his own walls. That great early experience of his, which I have already written down--his meeting with Ronsard--had come to him not far from his own hill, south of the great river. His name, unlike Ronsard's, recalled the gentry of that countryside up to and beyond the beginning of its history; alone of the Pleiade he translated the valley of the Loire, its depth, its delicacy, its rich and subtle loneliness. Again, the Renaissance lived in France an inspired and an exalted life, so that there necessarily ran through it a fore-knowledge of sudden ending. This tragedy repeated itself in the career of Du Bellay. His name was famous. The three Du Bellays, the councillor, the soldier, the great Cardinal, were in the first rank of the early sixteenth century. Rabelais had loved them. Francis I had leaned upon and rewarded their service. His father (their first-cousin and Governor of Brest) was a poor noble, who, as is the fashion of nobles, had married a wife to consolidate a fortune. This wife, the mother of Joachim, was heiress to the house of Tourmélière in Liré, just by the Loire on the brow that looks northward over the river to the bridge and Ancenis. In this house he was born. On his parents' early death he inherited the place, not to enjoy it, but to wander. An early illness had made him forsake the career of arms for that of the Church; but Orders were hardly so much as a cloak to him; it is difficult to remember, as one reads the few evidences of his life, that he wore the cloth at all: in his verse all trace of it is entirely absent. He lived still in that lineage which the reform had not touched. The passionate defence of the Catholic Faith, the Assault converging on the church throughout Europe, the raising of the Siege, the Triumph which developed, at last, on the political side the League, and on the literary the final rigidity of Malherbe, the noise of all these had not reached his circle, kind, or family. Of that family the Cardinal seems to have regarded him as the principal survivor. He had determined to make of the young poet the heir of its glory. It came to nothing. He accompanied his relative to Rome: but the diplomacy of the mission ill-suited him. Of the Royal ladies at court who befriended him, the marriage of one, the death of another, increased his insecurity. He had inherited, to his bane, another estate--Gonor--from his elder brother. It was encumbered, the cause litigious, and he had inherited with it the tutelage of a sickly child. He never shook off the burden. A tragic error marked his end. He died, certainly broken-hearted, just when his powerful cousin, by a conversion perhaps unknown to the poet himself, had rejected calumnies, and had determined to resign to him the great Archbishopric of Bordeaux. Eustache Du Bellay, yet another cousin, was Bishop of Paris. He had made Joachim, on his return from Rome, a Canon of Notre Dame, and in that capacity the poet, dying in Paris, was buried in the cathedral. The action of the Chapter in the eighteenth century, when they replaced the old tombstones by the present pavement, has destroyed the record of his grave; I believe it to lie in the southern part of the ambulatory. In this abrupt descent, following upon so fierce an activity of thought, he prefigured, I say, the close of the Renaissance as his genius typified its living spirit; for all the while, as you read him, you see the cloud about his head, and the profound, though proud and constant, sadness of his eyes. This, also, was pure Renaissance in him, that the fields in which he wandered, and which he loved to sing--a man of elegies--were dominated by the awful ruins of Rome. These it was that lent him his gravity, and perhaps oppressed him. He sang them also with a comprehension of the superb. He was second to Ronsard. Though he was the sharp voice of the Pleiade, though it was he who published their famous manifesto, though his scholarship was harder, though his energy could run more fiercely to one point and shine there more brilliantly in one small climax; yet he was second. He himself thought it of himself, and called himself a disciple. All up and down his works you find an astonished admiration directed towards his greater friend-- ... Un amy que les Dieux Guydent si hault au sentier des plus vieux. Or again-- Divin Ronsard qui de l'arc a sept cordes Tiras premier au but de la mémoire Les traicts ailez de la Françoise gloire. Everywhere it is his friend rather than he that has touched the mark of the gods and called up from the tomb the ghost of Rome which all that company worshipped. I say he saw himself that he was second. Old Durat saw it clearly in that little college of poets where he taught the unteachable thing: De Baif, Belleau--all the comrades would have taken it for granted. Ronsard led and was chief, because he had the firm largeness, the laughter and the permanence which are the marks of those who determine the fortunes of the French in letters or in arms. Ronsard made. His verses, in their great mass and unfailing level, were but one example of the power that could produce a school, call up a general enthusiasm, and for forty years govern the taste of his country. There was in him something public, in Du Bellay something domestic and attached, as in the relations of a king and of a herald. Or again, the one was like an ordered wood with a rich open plain about it, the other was like a garden. Ronsard was the Beauce; Du Bellay was Anjou. It might be said of the first that he stood a symbol for the wheat and corn-land of the Vendômois, and of the second, that he recalled that subtle wine of the southern Loire to which Chinon gives the most famous label. Du Bellay was second: nevertheless, when he is well known in this country it will be difficult to convince Englishmen of that truth. There is in his mind a facet which exactly corresponds to a facet of our own, and that is a quality so rare in the French classics that it will necessarily attract English readers to him: for, of all people, we nowadays criticise most in letters by the standard of our immediate emotions, and least by what was once called "reason." He was capable of that which will always be called "poignancy," and what for the moment we call "depth." He was less careful than are the majority of his countrymen to make letters an art, and so to treat his own personality as a thing apart. On the contrary, he allowed that personality to pierce through continually, so that simplicity, directness, a certain individual note as of a human being complaining--a note we know very well in our own literature--is perpetually discovered. Thus, in a spirit which all Englishmen will understand, a lightness almost sardonic lay above the depths of his grief, and the tenderness which attached to his home played around the things that go with quietude--his books and animals. I shall quote hereafter the epitaphs he wrote for his dog and for his cat, this singer of sublime and ruined things. Of the dog who-- ... allait tousjours suivant Quelquefois allait devant. Faisant ne sçay quelle feste D'un gai branslement de teste. and of whom he says, in a pretty imitation of Catullus, that he-- ... maintenant pourmeine Parmy cette ombreuse plaine Dont nul ne revient vers nous. Or of the cat who was-- ... par aventure Le plus bel oeuvre que nature Fit onc en matière de chats. All that delicate side of him we understand very well. Nor is it to modern Englishmen alone that he will appeal. He powerfully affected, it may be presumed, the English Renaissance which succeeded him. Spenser--thirty years after his death--was moved to the translation of his famous lament for Rome, and no one can read the sonnets to which he gave their final form without catching the same note in the great English cycle of the generation after him--the close of the sixteenth and the opening of the seventeenth centuries. But his verse read will prove all this and suggest much more. EXTRACTS FROM THE "ANTIQUITEZ DE ROME." Of the high series which Rome called forth from Du Bellay during that bitter diplomatic exile of his, I have chosen these three sonnets, because they seem best to express the majesty and gloom which haunted him. It is difficult to choose in a chain of cadences so equal and so exalted, but perhaps the last, "Telle que dans son char la Berecynthienne" is the most marvellous. The vision alone of Rome like the mother of the Gods in her car would have made the sonnet immortal. He adds to the mere picture a noise of words that is like thunder in the hills far off on summer afternoons: the words roll and crest themselves and follow rumbling to the end: he could not have known as he wrote it how great a thing he was writing. It has all the character of verse that increases with time and seems superior to its own author's intention. _THE "ANTIQUITEZ DE ROME."_ III. _Nouveau venu qui cherches Rome en Rome, Et rien de Rome en Rome n'apperçois, Ces vieux palais, ces vieux arcz que tu vois Et ces vieux Murs, c'est ce que Rome on nomme. Voy quel orgueil, quelle ruine, et comme Celle que mist le monde sous ses loix Pour donter tout, se donta quelquefois, Et devint proye au temps, qui tout consomme._ _Rome de Rome est le seul monument, Et Rome Rome a vaincu seulement. Le Tybre seul, qui vers la mer s'enfuit, Reste de Rome. O mondaine inconstance! Ce qui est ferme, est par le temps destruit, Et se qui fuit, au temps fait résistance._ IV. _Celle qui de son chef les estoilles passoit, Et d'un pied sur Thetis, l'autre dessous l'Aurore D'une main sur le Scythe, et l'autre sur le More, De la terre, et du Ciel, la rondeur compassoit, Juppiter ayant peur, si plus elle croissoit Que l'orgueil des Geans se relevast encore, L'accabla sous ces monts, ces sept monts qui font ore Tumbeaux de la grandeur qui le ciel menassoit._ _Il luy meist sur le chef la croppe Saturnale Puis dessus l'estomac assist le quirinale Sur le ventre il planta l'antique Palatin, Mist sur la dextre main la hauteur Celienne, Sur la senestre assist l'eschine Exquilienne Viminal sur un pied: sur l'autre L'Aventin._ VI. _Telle que dans son Char la Berecynthienne Couronnée de tours, et joyeuse d'avoir Enfanté tant de Dieux, telle se faisoit voir En ses jours plus heureux ceste ville ancienne: Ceste ville qui fust plus que la Phrygienne Foisonnante en enfants et de qui le pouvoir Fust le pouvoir du Monde, et ne se peult revoir Pareille à sa grandeur, grandeur si non la sienne._ _Rome seule pouvoit à Rome ressembler, Rome seule pouvoit Rome faire trembler: Aussi n'avoit permis l'ordonnance fatale, Qu'autre pouvoir humain, tant fust audacieux, Se vantast d'égaler celle qui fust égale Sa puissance à la terre, et son courage au cieux._ THE SONNET OF EXILE. This sonnet dates from the same period at Rome, or possibly from his return. It has a different note. It is the most personal and passionate of all his writings, in which so much was inspired by personal regret. On this account it has a special literary interest as the most _modern_ thing of the Renaissance. It would be far less surprising to find this written by one of the young republicans under the Second Empire (for instance) than to find a couplet of Malherbe's straying into our time. _THE SONNET OF EXILE._ _France, Mère des arts, des armes, et des loix, Tu m'as nourry long temps du laict de ta mamelle: Ores, comme un aigneau qui sa nourisse appelle, Je remplis de ton nom les antres et les bois, Si tu m'as pour enfant advoué quelquefois Que ne me respons-tu maintenant, ô cruelle? France, France, respons à ma triste querelle: Mais nul, sinon Echo, ne respond à ma voix._ _Entre les loups cruels j'erre parmy la plaine Je sens venir l'hyver, de qui la froide haleine D'une tremblante horreur fait hérisser ma peau. Las! tes autres agneaux n'ont faute de pasture, Ils ne craignent le loup, le vent, ny la froidure; Si ne suis-je pourtant le pire du troppeau._ THE SONNET "HEUREUX QUI COMME ULYSSE." (_The 31st of the "Regrets"_). It was of a large gray house, moated, a town beside it, yet not far from woods and standing in rough fields, pure Angevin, Tourmélière, the Manor house of Liré, his home, that Du Bellay wrote this, the most dignified and perhaps the last of his sonnets. The sadness which is the permanent, though sometimes the unrecognized, moderator of his race, which had pierced through in his latter misfortunes, and which had tortured him to the cry that has been printed on the preceding page, here reached a final and a most noble form: something much higher than melancholy, and more majestic than regret. He turned to his estate, the mould of his family, a roof, the inheritance of which had formed his original burden and had at last crushed him; but he turned to it with affection. If one may use so small a word in connection with a great poet, the gentleman in him remembered an ancestral repose. There is very much in the Sonnet to mark that development of French verse in which Du Bellay played so great a part. The inversion of the sentence, a trick which gives a special character to all the later formal drama is prominent: the convention of contrast, the purely classical allusion, are mixed with a spirit that is still spontaneous and even naïf. But every word is chosen, and it is especially noteworthy to discover so early that restraint in epithet which is the charm but also the danger of what French style has since become. Of this there are two examples here: the eleventh line and the last, which rhymes with it. To contrast slate with marble would be impossible prose save for the exact adjective "_fine_," which puts you at once into Anjou. The last line, in spite of its exquisite murmur, would be grotesque if the "_air marin_" were meant for the sea-shore. Coming as it does after the suggestions of the Octave it gives you suddenly sea-faring: Ulysses, Jason, his own voyages, the long way to Rome, which he knew; and in the "_douceur Angevine_" you have for a final foil to such wanderings, not only in the meaning of the words, but in their very sound, the hearth and the return. _THE SONNET "HEUREUX QUI COMME ULYSSE"_ _Heureux qui comme Ulysse a fait un beau voyage Ou comme cestuy là qui conquit la Toison Et puis est retourné, plein d'usage et raison, Vivre entre ses parents le reste de son age! Quand revoirai-je, hélas, de mon petit village Fumer la cheminée: et en quelle saison Revoirai-je le clos de ma pauvre maison, Qui m'est une province, et beaucoup d'avantage?_ _Plus me plaist le séjour qu'ont basty mes aieux Que des palais Romains le front audacieux: Plus que le mabre dur me plaist l'ardoise fine, Plus mon Loyre gaulois que le Tybre Latin, Plus mon petit Lyré que le Mont Palatin, Et plus que l'air marin la doulceur Angevine._ THE WINNOWER'S HYMN TO THE WINDS. This delicate air of summer, this reminiscence and comfort for men who no longer see the Eure or the Bievre or any of their northern rivers, this very mirror of Du Bellay's own exiled mind--was written for an "exercise." It is a translation--a translation from the Latin of a forgotten Venetian scholar. When a man finds in reading such a startling truth, it convinces him that letters have a power of their own and are greater of themselves than the things which inspired them: for when, to show his skill in rendering Latin into French verse, Du Bellay had written this down, he created and fixed for everybody who was to read him from then onwards the permanent picture of a field by the side of a small, full river, with a band of trees far off, and, above, the poplar leaves that are never still. It runs to a kind of happy croon, and has for a few moments restored very many who have read it to their own place; and Corot should have painted it. _THE WINNOWER'S HYMN TO THE WINDS._ _A vous troppe legere Qui d'aele passagere Par le monde volez, Et d'un sifflant murmure L'ombrageuse verdure Doulcement esbranlez, J'offre ces violettes, Ces lis et ces fleurettes Et ces roses ici, Ces vermeillettes roses Tout freschement escloses, Et ces oeilletz aussi. De vostre doulce haleine Eventez ceste plaine Eventez ce séjour, Ce pendant que j'ahanne A mon blé que je vanne A la chaleur du jour._ THE FUNERAL ODES OF THE DOG AND THE CAT. Here are extracts from those two delightful and tender things to which allusion has already been made. The epitaphs upon his little dog and his little cat. It was a character in this sad man to make little, humble, grotesque, pleasing images of grief; as it were, little idols of his goddess; and he fashioned them with an exquisite humour and affection. What animal of the sixteenth century lives so clearly as these two? None, I think, except some few in the pictures of the painters of the low countries. I wish I had space to print both these threnodies in full, but they are somewhat long, and I must beg my reader to find them in the printed works of Du Bellay. It is well worth the pains of looking. _THE DOG._ _Dessous ceste motte verte De lis et roses couverte Gist le petit Peloton De qui le poil foleton Frisoit d'une toyson blanche Le doz, le ventre, et la hanche._ _Son exercice ordinaire Estoit de japper et braire, Courir en hault et en bas, Et faire cent mille esbas, Tous estranges et farouches, Et n'avoit guerre qu'aux mousches, Qui luy faisoient maint torment. Mais Peloton dextrement Leur rendoit bien la pareille: Car se couchant sur l'oreille, Finement il aguignoit Quand quelqu'une le poingnoit: Lors d'une habile soupplesse Happant la mouche traistresse, La serroit bien fort dedans, Faisant accorder ses dens_ _Peloton ne caressoit, Sinon ceulx qu'il cognoissoit, Et n'eust pas voulu repaistre D'autre main que de son maistre, Qu'il alloit tousjours suyvant: Quelquefois marchoit devant, Faisant ne scay quelle feste D'un gay branlement de teste._ _Mon Dieu, quel plaisir c'estoit, Quand Peloton se grattoit, Faisant tinter sa sonnette Avec sa teste folette! Quel plaisir, quand Peloton Cheminoit sur un baston, Ou coifé d'un petit linge, Assis comme un petit singe, Se tenoit mignardelet, D'un maintien damoiselet!_ _Las, mais ce doulx passetemps Ne nous dura pas long temps: Car la mort ayant anvie Sur l'ayse de nostre vie, Envoya devers Pluton Nostre petit Peloton, Qui maintenant se pourmeine Parmi ceste umbreuse plaine, Dont nul ne revient vers nous._ _THE CAT_ _Pourquoy je suis tant esperdu Ce n'est pas pour avoir perdu Mes anneaux, mon argent, ma bource: Et pourquoy est ce donc? pource Que j'ay perdu depuis trois jours Mon bien, mon plaisir, mes amours: Et quoy? ô Souvenance greve A peu que le cueur ne me creve Quand j'en parle ou quand j'en ecris: C'est Belaud, mon petit chat gris: Belaud qui fust, paraventure Le plus bel oeuvre que nature Feit onc en matiere de chats: C'etoit Belaud, la mort au rats Belaud dont la beauté fut telle Qu'elle est digne d'estre immortelle._ _Mon-dieu, quel passetemps c'estoit Quand ce Belaud vire-voltoit Follastre autour d'une pelote! Quel plaisir, quand sa teste sotte Suyvant sa queue en mille tours, D'un rouet imitoit le cours! Ou quand assis sur le derriere Il s'en faisoit une jartiere, Et monstrant l'estomac velu De panne blanche crespelu,_ _Sembloit, tant sa trogne estoit bonne, Quelque docteur de la Sorbonne! Ou quand alors qu'on l'animoit, A coups de patte il escrimoit, Et puis appasoit sa cholere Tout soudain qu'on luy faisoit chere._ _Belaud estoit mon cher mignon, Belaud estoit mon compagnon A la chambre, au lict, à la table, Belaud estoit plus accointable Que n'est un petit chien friand, Et de nuict n'alloit point criand Comme ces gros marcoux terribles, En longs miaudemens horribles: Aussi le petit mitouard N'entra jamais en matouard: Et en Belaud, quelle disgrâce! De Belaud s'est perdue la race. Que pleust a Dieu, petit Belon, Qui j'eusse l'esprit assez bon, De pouvoir en quelque beau style Blasonner ta grace gentile, D'un vers aussi mignard que toy: Belaud, je te promets ma foy, Que tu vivrois, tant que sur terre Les chats aux rats feront la guerre._ MALHERBE. The French Renaissance ended in the Classic. The fate of all that exuberance was to find order, and that chaos of generation settled down to the obedience of unchanging laws. This transition, which fixed, perhaps for ever, the nature of the French tongue, is bound up with the name of Malherbe. When what the French have entitled "the great time," when the generation of Louis XIV looked back to find an origin for its majestic security in letters, it was in Malherbe that such an origin was discovered; he had tamed the wildness of the Renaissance, he had bent its vigour to an arrangement and a frame; by him first were explicitly declared those rules within which all his successors were content to be narrowed. The devotion to his memory is nowhere more exalted or more typically presented than in the famous cry--_enfin Malherbe vint_. His name carried with it a note of completion and of an end. When the romantic revival of our own time sought for one mind on which to lay the burden of its anger, one hard master or pedant who could be made responsible for the drying up of the wells, Malherbe again was found. He became the butt of Hugo's splendid ridicule. He was the god of plaster that could not hear or speak or feel, but which fools had worshipped; a god easy to break to pieces. His austerity--for them without fullness--his meagre output, his solemn reiterated code of "perfect taste," moved them to a facile but intense aggression. He it was that had turned to fossil stone the living matter of the sixteenth century: He that had stifled and killed the spirit they attempted to recall. This man so praised, so blamed, for such a quality, was yet exactly, year for year, the contemporary of Shakespeare, born earlier and dying later. No better example could be discovered of the contrast between the French and English tempers. The Romantics, I say, believed that they had destroyed Malherbe and left the Classic a ruined, antiquated thing. They were in error. Victor Hugo himself, the leader, who most believed the classic to have become isolated and past, was yet, in spite of himself, constrained by it. Lamartine lived in it. After all the fantastic vagaries of mystics and realists and the rest, it is ruling to-day with increasing power, returning as indeed the permanent religion, the permanent policy, of the nation are also returning after a century of astounding adventures: for the Classic has in it something necessary to the character of the French people. Consider what the Classic is and why all mighty civilisations have demanded and obtained some such hard, permanent and, as it were, sacred vehicle for the expression of their maturity. Nations that have a long continuous memory of their own past, nations especially whose gods have suffered transformation, but never death, develop the somewhat unelastic wisdom of men in old age. They mistrust the taste of the moment. They know that things quite fresh and violent seem at first greater than they are: that such enthusiasm forms no lasting legacy for posterity. Their very ancient tradition gives them a thirst for whatever shall certainly remain. The rigid Classic satisfies that need. Again, you will discover that those whose energy is too abundant seek for themselves by an instinct the necessary confines without which such energy is wasted--and wasted the more from its excess. They canalise for their own security a torrent which, undisciplined, would serve but to destroy. Such an instinct is apparent in every department of French life. To their jurisprudence the French have ever attempted to attach a code, to their politics the stone walls of a Constitution, or, at the least, of a fundamental theory. Their theology from Athanasius through St. Germanus to the modern strict defence against all "liberals" has glorified the unchanging. Every outburst of the interior fires in the history of Gaul has been followed by a rapid, plastic action which reduced to human use what might otherwise have crystallised into an amorphous lava. So the wild freedom of the twelfth century was captured to form the Monarchy, the University, the full Gothic of the thirteenth: so the Revolution permitted Napoleon and produced, not the visionary unstable grandeur of the Gironde, but the schools and laws and roads and set government we see to-day. So the spring storms of the Renaissance settled, I say, into that steady summer of stable form which has now for three hundred years dominated the literature of the country. Caught on with this aspect of energy producing the Classic is the truth that energy alone can dare to be classical. Where the great currents of the soul run feebly a perpetual acceleration, whether by novelty or by extravagance, will be demanded; where they run full and heavy, then, under the restraint of form, they will but run more proudly and more strong. It is the flickering of life that fears hard rules in verse and may not feel the level classics of our Europe. Their rigidity is not that of marble; they are not dead. A human acquaintance with their sobriety soon fills us as we read. If we lie in the way of the giants who conceived them (let me say Corneille or the great Dryden), re-reading and further knowledge--especially a deeper experience of common life about us--reveal to us the steadfast life of these images; the eyes open, the lips might almost move; the statue descends and lives. The man who imposed design and authority and unity upon the letters of his country, and who so closed the epoch with which I have been dealing, was singularly suited to his task. Observant, something of a stoic, uninspired; courageous, witty, a soldier; lucid, critical of method only, he corresponded to the movement which, all around him, was ushering in the Bourbons: the hardening of Goujon's and de l'Orme's luxuriance into the conventions of the great colonnades and the sombre immensity of the new palaces; the return of one national faith to a people weary of so many random quarrels; the mistrust of an ill-ordered squirearchy; the firm founding of a central government. He was Norman. Right of that north whence the vigour, though not the inspiration, of the Renaissance had proceeded, and into which it returned. Caen gave him birth, and still remembers him. Normans still edit his works--and dedicate these books to the town which also bred Corneille. Norman, learned with that restrained but vigorous learning of the province, he was also of the province in his blood, for he came of one of those fixed families whose heads held great estates all round Falaise, and whose cadets branched off into chances abroad: one of the Boughtons, in Kent, is still "Boughton Malherbe[1]." [Footnote 1: Not from the Conquest. It is near Charing, originally de Braose land, but an heiress married a Malherbe in the early twelfth century.] He was poor. His father, who held one of those magistracies which the smaller nobility bought or inherited, had not known where to turn in the turmoil of the central century. In a moment of distress he called himself Huguenot when that party seemed to triumph, and Malherbe in anger against the apostasy went down south, a boy of nineteen, and fought as a soldier--but chiefly duels; for he loved that sport. He lay under a kind of protection from the great Catholic houses, though still poor, till in 1601--he was a man of forty-six--Henri IV heard of him. In all these years he had worked at the rule of poetry like an artisan, thinking of nothing else, not even of fame. Those who surrounded him took it for granted that he was a master critic--a sort of judge without appeal, but it was a very little provincial circle surrounding a very unimportant house in Provence. Thus, careless it seems of everything except that "form of language" which was with him a passion, like the academic or theological passions, he was astonished on coming to Paris in 1605 to discover how suited such a pre-occupation was to such a time, and how rapidly he became the first name in contemporary letters. Of men who poured out verse the age was satiated; of men who could seize the language at this turn in its fortune, fix it and give it rules, the age had no knowledge till he came: the age fastened upon him, and insisted upon making him a master. A full twenty years from 1607 he governed the transformation, not of thought, for that he little changed, but of method and of expression. He decided what should be called the typical metres, the alternative of feminine and masculine in verse, the order of emphasis, the proportion of inversion tolerable, the propriety, the modernity, the archaism of words. It is a function to our time meaningless and futile: to such a period as that, indispensable and even noble. He interpreted and published the national sentiment upon this major thing, the architecture of letters. The power of his mind, tortured and insufficient in actual production, was supreme in putting forth clearly and finally that criticism which ran as an unspoken and obscure current of opinion in the mind of his age. This was his glory, and it was true. His dryness was extraordinary. In a life of seventy-two years, during which he wrote and erased incessantly, he, the poet, wrote just so much verse as will fill in large type a little pocket volume of 250 pages; to be accurate, forty-three lines a year. Of this scraping and pumice stone in the mind a better example than his verse is to be found in his letters. A number remain. They might seem to be written by two different men! Half a dozen are models of that language he adored--they cost him, to our knowledge, many days--the rest are slipshod notes that any man might write, for he thought they would not survive, and, indeed, the majority of his editors have had the piety to suppress them. No one will understand Malherbe who only hears of how, like a dusty workman, he cut and polished, and so fixed the new jewel of letters. In our less happy age the academic spirit is necessarily associated with a lethargic stupidity. In his it was not so. His force, by which this work was carried through, lay in a character of penetration. His face expresses it. His very keen and ready eyes, his high lifted brow, his sharp nose, and the few active lines of his cheek and forehead, the poise of his head, the disdain of his firm mouth, all build him back alive for us. His talk, which stammered in its volubility, was incessant and varied; his temper ready; his bodily command of gesture and definition perfect in old age: he was of good metal all those years. Of his intense Toryism, his vivacity, his love of arms, his tenacity of perception, Racan gives us in his biography an admirable picture. Just before he died his son was killed in a duel--he, at seventy-two, desired passionately to kill the adversary. "Gambling," he said, "my pence of life against the gold of his twenty-five years." He had wit, and he hated well--hating men after death: Here richly with ridiculous display Killed by excess was Wormwood laid away, While all of his acquaintance sneered and slanged, I wept: for I had longed to see him hanged. His zeal for his tongue was real. As he lay upon his death-bed making his confession after so vigorous a life, he heard his nurse say something to herself which sounded ungrammatical and, turning round from the priest, he put her right in a manner most violent and sudden. His confessor, startled, said: "The time is not relevant". "All times are relevant!" he answered, sinking back. "I will defend with my last breath the purity and grandeur of the French tongue." To such a man the meaning of the solution at which his people had arrived after a century of civil war lay, above all, in their ancient religion. On that converged those deeper and more permanent things in his soul of which even his patriotism and his literary zeal were but the surface. In the expression of that final solution his verse, which was hardly that of a poet, rises high into poetry; under the heat and pressure of his faith, single lines here and there have crystallized into diamonds. By far the most vigorous of so many frigid odes is the battle cry addressed by him in old age to Louis XIII setting out against La Rochelle. He visited that siege, but had the misfortune to die a bare week before the fall of the city. The most powerful of his sonnets, or rather the only powerful one, is that in which he calls to Our Lord for vengeance against the men who killed his son. Catholicism in its every effect, political and personal, as it were literary too, possessed the man, so that in ending the types of the French Renaissance with him you see how the terms in which ultimately the French express themselves are and will remain religious. The last two lines of his most famous and most Catholic poem have about them just that sound which saves them, in spite of their too simple words, from falling into the vulgar commonplace of vague and creedless men. In writing them down one seems to be writing down the fate of the great century now tamed, alas! and ordered, as must be the violence of over-human things:-- Vouloir ce que Dieu veut est la seule Science Qui nous met en repos. EXTRACTS. (_From the "Ode to Louis XIII setting out against La Rochelle," and the "Sonnet on his son's death."_) It has been remarked that Malherbe in his most vigorous years deliberately employed the strength of his mind to the repression of emotion in his verse, and used it only to fashion, guide, control, and at last fix permanently the rules of the language. It is certainly true that as his bodily vigour declined, a certain unexpected anger and violence enters into his verse, to the great relief of us moderns: not to that of his contemporaries. Of this feature in him, the two following extracts are sufficient proof. They were written, the first at the close of his seventy-second, the other at the entry of his seventy-third year. In each, something close to his heart was at issue, and in each he gives some vent--far more than had been his wont--to passion. The first is a cry to Louis XIII to have done with the Huguenot. It was written to the camp before La Rochelle. I know of nothing in French literature which more expresses the intense current of national feeling against the nobility and rich townsmen who had attempted to warp the national tradition and who had re-introduced into French life the element which France works perpetually to throw out as un-European, ill-cultured and evil. Indeed, the reading of it is of more value to the comprehension of the national attitude than any set history you may read. The second is in its way a thing equally religious and equally catholic. This call for vengeance to God was not only an expression of anger called forth by his son's death, it was also, and very largely, the effect of a reaction against the ethics of Geneva: an attack on the idolatry at once of meekness and of fatality which was to him so intolerable a corruption of the Christian religion. There is some doubt as to whether it is his last work. I believe it to be so; but Blaise, in his excellent edition, prints the dull and unreadable ode to Lagade later, and ascribes it to the same year. _ODE TO LOUIS XIII._ _Fais choir en sacrifice au démon de la France Les fronts trop élevés de ces ames d'enfer; Et n'épargne contre eux, pour notre délivrance, Ni le feu ni le fer. Assez de leurs complots l'infidèle malice A nourri le désordre et la sédition: Quitte le nom de Juste, ou fais voir ta justice En leur punition. Le centième décembre a les plaines ternies, Et le centième avril les a peintes de fleurs, Depuis que parmi nous leurs brutales manies Ne causent que des pleurs. Dans toutes les fureurs des siècles de tes pères, Les monstres les plus noirs firent-ils jamais rien Que l'inhumanité de ces coeurs de vipères Ne renouvelle au tien? Par qui sont aujourd'hui tant de villes désertes, Tant de grands bâtiments en masures changes, Et de tant de chardons les campagnes couvertes, Que par ces enrages? Marche, va les détruire, éteins-en la semence, Et suis jusqu'à leur fin ton courroux généreux, Sans jamais écouter ni pitié ni clémence Qui te parle pour eux. Toutes les autres morts n'ont mérite ni marque; Celle-ci porte seule un éclat radieux, Qui fait revivre l'homme, et le met de la barque A la table des dieux._ _SONNET ON HIS SON'S DEATH._ _Que mon fils ait perdu sa dépouille mortelle, Ce fils qui fut si brave, et que j'aimai si fort, Je ne l'impute point à l'injure du sort, Puis que finir à l'homme est chose naturelle. Mais que de deux marauds la surprise infidèle Ait terminé ses jours d'une tragique mort, En cela ma douleur n'a point de réconfort, Et tous mes sentiments sont d'accord avec elle. O mon Dieu, mon Sauveur, puisque, par la raison, Le trouble de mon ame étant sans guérison, Le voeu de la vengeance est un voeu légitime, Fais que de ton appui je sois fortifié; Ta justice t'en prie, et les auteurs du crime Sont fils de ces bourreaux qui t'ont crucifié._ EXTRACTS FROM THE "CONSOLATION OF DU PERRIER." These stanzas, which are among the best-known as they are, in the opinion of many, the dullest, in French literature, serve well to close this book. One verse at least (the fourth) is most legitimately famous, though it is hackneyed from the constant repetition of fools. For the rest a certain simplicity, a great precision, may or may not atone for their deliberate coldness. What is certain is that, poetry or not, they admirably express the spirit of his pen and its prodigious effect. They express the classical end of the French Renaissance with as much weight and hardness as the great blank walls of stone that were beginning to show in the rebuilding of Paris. It is for this quality that I have printed them here, using them as the definite term of that long, glorious, and uncertain phase in European letters. _THE "CONSOLATION OF DU PERRIER."_ _Ta douleur, du Perrier, sera donc éternelle? Et les tristes discours Que te met en l'esprit l'amitié paternelle L'augmenteront toujours?_ _Le malheur de ta fille au tombeau descendue Par un commun trépas, Est-ce quelque dédale où ta raison perdue Ne se retrouve pas?_ _Je sais de quels appas son enfance étoit pleine, Et n'ai pas entrepris, Injurieux ami, de soulager ta peine Avecque son mépris._ _Mais elle étoit du monde, où les plus belles choses Ont le pire destin; Et rose elle a vécu ce que vivent les roses L'espace d'un matin._ _Puis quand ainsi seroit que, selon ta prière, Elle auroit obtenu D'avoir en cheveux blancs terminé sa carrière, Qu'en fût-il avenu?_ _Penses-tu que, plus vieille, en la maison céleste Elle eût eu plus d'accueil, Ou qu'elle eût moins senti la poussière funeste Et les vers du cercueil?_ _De moi, déja deux fois d'une pareille foudre Je me suis vu perclus; Et deux fois la raison m'a si bien fait résoudre, Qu'il ne m'en souvient plus._ _Non qu'il ne me soit mal que la tombe posséde Ce qui me fut si cher; Mais en un accident qui n'a point de reméde, Il n'en faut point chercher._ _La Mort a des rigueurs à nulle autre pareilles: On a beau la prier; La cruelle qu'elle est se bouche les oreilles, Et nous laisse crier._ _Le pauvre en sa cabane, où le chaume le couvre, Est sujet à ses lois; Et la garde qui veille aux barrières du Louvre N'en défend point nos rois._ _De murmurer contre elle et perdre patience, Il est mal à propos; Vouloir ce que Dieu veut est la seule science Qui nous met en repos._ "_Vouloir ce que Dieu veut est la seule science Qui nous met en repos._" NOTES. CHARLES OF ORLEANS. THE COMPLAINT. Line 5. _Prins._ An inaccurate pedantic past participle of _prendre_. Line 14. _Faulse._ There is to be noted here and elsewhere throughout these extracts, until the modern spelling at the close of the period, the redundant "l" in many words. It was an effect of pure pedantry. The latin "l" had become _u_ in northern French. _Falsa_ made, naturally, "Fausse." The partial learning of the later middle ages reintroduced an "l" which was not known to be transformed, but was thought omitted. Line 24. _Liesse._ One of the commonest words of this epoch, lost to modern French. It means joy=_laetitia_. Line 25. Note the gender of "Amour," feminine even in the singular throughout the middle ages and renaissance--right up to the seventeenth century. THE TWO ROUNDELS OF SPRING. I Line 1. _Fourriers._ The servants who go before to find lodging. The term survives in French military terminology. The _Fourriers_ are the non-commissioned officers and party who go forward and mark the Billeting of a regiment. Line 9. _Pieça=il y a pièce_; "lately". _Cf._ _naguère_="_il n'y a guère...."_ Line 11. _Prenez pais_="take the fields," begone. Line 19. Note "_Chant_," the regular form of the subjunctive=_Cantet_. The only latin vowel preserved after the tonic syllable is a=French e (mute). Thus _contat_="chante" which form has in modern French usurped the subjunctive. Line 23. _Livrée_="Liberata," _i.e._, things given out. A term originally applied not only to clothing, but to the general allowance of the king's household. Hence our word "livery." THE FAREWELL. Line 2. _Chiere lie._ "Happy countenance." _Chiere_ here is the substantive, _lie_=_laeta_, is the adjective. _Bonne chère_ means "a good time" where _chère_ is an old word for "head" (Greek: kara). Line 5. _Baillie_=Bailliwick, "For Age that has me now within her bounds." Line 7. _Mye._ "Crumb". "I am not a whit (not a crumb) with her (_Joie_) to-day." Line 15. "Well braced," literally "well girthed" (as a horse is). VILLON. THE DEAD LADIES. Stanza 1, line 1. Note the redundant negative; it is characteristic of mediaeval French, as of all primitive work, that the general suggestion of doubt is sufficient to justify a redundant negative. Line 2. _Flora_, etc. It is worth while knowing who these women were. _Flora_ is Juvenal's Flora (Sat. II. 9), a legend in the university. Of _Archipiada_ I know nothing. _Thaïs_ was certainly the Egyptian courtesan turned anchoress and canonized, famous in the middle ages and revived to-day in the repulsive masterpiece of M. Anatole France. _Elois_ is, of course, _Heloïse_, and _Esbaillart_ is Abelard. The queen, who in the legend had Buridan (and many others) drowned, was the Dowager of Burgundy that lived in the Tour de Nesle, where the Palais Mazarin is now, and had half the university for a lover: in sober history she founded that college of Burgundy from which the École de Médecine is descended; the legend about her is first heard of (save in this poem) in 1471, from the pen of a German in Leipzig. _Blanche_ may be Blanche of Castille, but more likely she was a vision of Villon's own, for what did St. Louis' mother ever sing? _Berte_ is the legendary mother of Charlemagne in the Epics; _Beatris_ is any Beatrice you choose, for they have all died. _Allis_ may just possibly be one of the Troubadour heroines, more likely she is here introduced for rhyme and metre; _Haremburgis_ is strictly historical: she was the Heiress of Maine who married Foulque of Anjou in 1110 and died in 1126: an ancestress, therefore, of the Plantagenets. _Jehanne_ is, of course, Joan of Arc. Line 8. _D'Antan_ is _not_ "Yester-year." It is "Ante annum," all time past before _this_ year. Rossetti's "Yester-year" moreover, is an absurd and affected neologism; "Antan" is an excellent and living French word. Stanza II, line 2. Note the pronunciation of "Moyne" to rhyme (more or less) with "eine": the oi, ai and ei sounds were very similar till the sixteenth century at earliest. They are interchangeable in many popular provincialisms and in some words, _e.g._, Fouet, pronounced "Foit" the same tendency survives. The transition began in the beginning of the seventeenth century as we learn from Vaugelas: and the influence towards the modern sound came from the Court. Stanza III, line 2. _Seraine_="Syren." Line 5. "_Jehanne_", "_Jehan_", in spite of the classical survival in their spelling, were monosyllables from the earliest times. Line 7. The "_elles_" here would not scan but for the elided "e" in "_souv'raine_" at the end of the line. In some editions "_ils_" is found and _souveraine_ is spelt normally. _Ils_ and _els_ for a feminine plural existed in the middle ages. _Envoi._ The envoi needs careful translation. The "que" of the third line="sans que" and the whole means, "Do not ask this week or this year where they are, _without_ letting this refrain haunt you". "Que" might possibly mean "de peur que", did not the whole sense of the poem forbid such an interpretation. AN EXCERPT FROM THE GRANT TESTAMENT. Stanza 75, line 4. A charming example of those "flashes" which reveal Villon. Stanza 76, line 2. Note the spelling of _Grant_ in the feminine without an _e_. Adjectives of the third declension whose feminine was not distinguishable in Latin took no "e" in early French. A survival of this is found in grand' rue, grand' messe, etc. Line 5. _Grant erre_, "quickly", and the whole line reads: "Let it (my body) be delivered to it (luy=la terre) quickly," the "erre" here is from the popular late Latin "_iterare_"="_iter facere_". It survives in the nautical idiom "reprendre son erre"="to get under weigh again." Line 7. "_Erre_" here comes, on the contrary, from _errare_, to make a mistake, to err. Stanza 77, line 4. _Maillon._ Swaddling clothes. Line 5. _Boullon_, scrape. The two lines are obscure but seem to read: "He has got me out of many a scrape which gave him no joy" (_esioye_ from _esjouir_=_rejouir_). Line 7 and 8. These are obscure but apparently="And beseech him on my knees not to forsake all joy on that account." Stanza 78, line 2. "_Le Romman du Pet au Deable_." The Pet au Deable was a great stone at the door of a private house in the university. The students took it away and all Paris fought over the matter. The "Roman" was a set of verses, now lost, which Villon wrote on the quarrel. Line 3. _Guy Tabarie_ who _grossa_ (wrote out), these verses was a friend of Villon's: soon hanged. Line 5. _Soubz._ The "b" is pedantic, the _ou_ indicates of itself the loss of the _b_. The "z" (and the "s" in the modern _sous_) are due to the derivation not from _sub_ but _subtus_. THE BALLAD OF OUR LADY. Stanza 2, line 3. _Egypcienne._ St. Mary of Egypt. Line 4. _Theophilus._ This was that clerk who sold his soul to the Devil and whom Our Lady redeemed. You may find the whole story sculptured on the Tympanum of the exquisite northern door of Notre Dame in Paris. Line 8. _Vierge Portant_="Virgin that bore a son". Stanza 3, line 4. _Luz_="luthus". "S" becomes "z." The Envoi. Note the Acrostic "Villon" in the first letters of the first six lines. It is a trick he played more than once. THE DEAD LORDS. Stanza 1, line 1. _Calixte._ These names are of less interest. _Calixte_ was Pope Calixtus III, Alphonso Borgia, who died in 1458--in Villon's twenty-sixth year. _Alphonse_ is Alphonso V of Arragon, who died in that same year. The _Duc de Bourbon_ is Charles the First of Bourbon, who died at the end of the year 1456, "gracieux" because his son protected Villon. _Artus_ (Arthur) of Brittany is that same Richemont who recaptured Paris from Willoughby. Charles VII is Charles VII. The _Roy Scotiste_ is James II, who died in 1460: the _Amethyst_ half of his face was a birthmark. The _King of Cyprus_ is probably John III, who died in that same fatal year, 1458. Pedants will have it that the _King of Spain_ is John II of Castille, who died in 1454--but it is a better joke if it means nobody at all. _Lancelot_ is Vladislas of Bohemia, who died in 1457. _Cloquin_ is Bertrand de Guesclin who led the reconquest. _The Count Daulphin_ of Auvergne is doubtful; _Alençon_ is presumably the Alençon of Joan of Arc's campaign, who still survived, and is called "feu" half in ridicule, because in 1458 he had lost his title and lands for treason. Stanza 2, line 3. _Amatiste_=amethyst. Stanza 3, line 7. _Tayon_=Ancestor. "_Etallum._" Latin "_Stallio_." THE DIRGE. Line 1. _Cil_=celui-ci. The Latin "_ecce illum_." Line 3. _Escuelle_=bowl. "With neither bowl nor platter." Line 4. Note again the constant redundant negative of the populace in this scholar: "Had never, no--not a sprig of parsley." Line 5. _Rez_=ras, cropped. MAROT. OF COURTING LONG AGO. Line 5. _On se prenoit_, one attacked--"it was but the heart one sought." Line 11. _Fainctz_=sham; "_changes_" is simply like the English "changes": the form survives in the idiom: "donner le change." Line 13. _Refonde_=recast. NOËL. Verse 1, line 3. _L'Autre hyer_=alterum heri, "t'other day." Line 10. _Noé._ The tendency to drop final letters, especially the _l_, is very marked in popular patois, and this is, of course, a song based on popular language. Most French peasants north of the Loire would still say "Noé" for "Noël." _Noël_ is, of course, _Natalem_ (diem). Verse 2, line 2. _Cas de si hault faict_=so great a matter. TWO EPIGRAMS. Epigram 1, line 2. _Vostre._ Marguerite of Navarre. As I have remarked, in the text, she had sent him a Dixaine (some say he wrote it himself). This one is written in answer.--_Ay._ Note, till the verb grew over simple in the classical French of the seventeenth century there was no more need for the pronoun than in Latin. Thus Montaigne will omit the pronoun, but Malherbe never. Line 5. _Cuydans_=thinking (_Cogitare_=_Cogtare_=_Coyde_=_cuider_, the _oi_ became _ui_ by a common transition; _cf._ noctem, octem, noit, nuit, huit.) The word is now archaic. Line 9. _Encor._ Without the final e. This is not archaic but poetic licence. _Encore_="hanc horam," and a post tonic "am" in Latin always means a final mute e in French. Epigram 2, line 1. _Maint_ (now archaic) is a word of Teutonic origin, our _many_. Line 6. _Coulpe_=Culpam, of course; a fault. Line 9. _Emport_. Note the old subjunctive without the final e. _Vide supra_, on "_Chant_." The modern usage is incorrect. For the first conjugation making its subjunctive in _em_, should lose the final syllable in French: a post tonic _em_ always disappears. The modern habit of putting a final e to all subjunctives is due to a false analogy with verbs from the third conjugation. These made their subjunctive in _am_, a termination which properly becomes the mute e of French. TO HIS LADY IN SICKNESS. Line 4. _Sejour_=(here) "staying at home." Line 14, 15. _Friande de la bouche_, glutton. Line 17. _Danger._ The first meaning of "Danger" is simply "to be in lordship" (Dominicarium). The modern is the English "Danger." This is between the two; "held to your hurt." Line 26. _Doint._ This subjunctive should properly be _don_ (_donem_, post tonic _em_ is lost). The "oint" is from a false analogy with the fourth conjugation, as though the Latin had been _doniam_. THE VINEYARD SONG. Verse 1, line 2. _Clamours._ See how southern this is, with its Lanquedoc forms, "clamours" for "_clameurs_." Line 5. So are these diminutions all made up at random, as southern as can be, and note the tang of the verse, fit for a snapping of the fingers to mark the rapid time. Verse 3, line 2. _Bénistre._ The older form of _bénir_ from _Benedicere_; the _c_ between vowels at the end of the tonic syllable becomes _s_: the _t_ is added for euphony, to help one to pronounce the _s_. Line 3. _Silenus_ for _Silène_. Because the name was new, the Latin form is kept. The genius of the French, unlike that of modern English, is to absorb a foreign name (as we did once). Thus once we said "Anthony" "Tully": but Montaigne wrote "Cicero"--his descendants say "Ciceron." Line 4. _Aussi droict qu'une ligne_="right out of the flask." The flask held above one and the wine poured straight into the mouth. The happy south still know the way. Line 5. _Bigne_: a lump, a knock, a bruise. Line 6. _Guigne_=cherry. RONSARD. DIALOGUE WITH THE NINE SISTERS. Stanza 1, line 3. _Chef grison_=gray head. When he says "trente ans," that is all rubbish, he was getting on for forty-three: it was written in 1567. Stanza 2, line 1. _Nocher_=pilot; rare but hardly archaic. Stanza 3, line 3. _Cependant_=meanwhile. The word is now seldom used in prose, save in the sense of "notwithstanding", "nevertheless". Stanza 5, line 1. _Loyer_=Condition of tenure. Line 2. _Ores_=Now that. Should be "_ore_" (horam). The parasitic "s" probably crept in by false analogy with the adverbs in "s." Stanza 6, line 1. _Lame_=tombstone. The word is no longer used. Line 4. See how, even in his lighter or prosaic manner, he cannot avoid great lines. Stanza 8, line 1. _Vela_=Voilà. Then follows that fine ending which I have put on the title-page of this book. "MIGNONNE ALLONS VOIR SI LA ROSE." Line 1. _Mignonne_ is, of course, his Cassandre: her personality was always known through his own verse. She was fifteen when he met her and her brown eyes: it was in 1546 at Blois, her birthplace, whither he had gone to visit the Court, during his scholar's life in Paris. He met her thus young when he himself was but in his twenty-third year, and all that early, violent, not over-tilled beginning of his poetry was illumined by her face. But as to who she was, by name I mean, remained long a matter of doubt. Binet would have it that her true name was Cassandre, and that its singularity inspired Ronsard. Brantôme called it "a false name to cover a true." Ronsard himself has written, "false or true, time conquering all things cannot efface it from the marble." There need have been no doubt. D'Aubigné's testimony is sufficient. She was a Mlle de Pie, and such was the vagary of Ronsard's life, that it was her niece, Diane Salviati de Taley whom in later life he espoused and nearly wed. Line 3. Note _Pourpre_, and in line 5 _Pourprée_ so in line 9 _Beautez_, and in the last line _Beauté_: so little did he fear repetition and so heartily could his power carry it. Line 4. _A point_: the language was still in flux. The phrase would require a negative _n'_ in modern French. Line 10, 11. _Marastre... puisqu'une..._ There is here an elliptical construction never found in later French. Harsh stepmother nature (whom I call harsh) since... etc. SONNETS FOR HÉLÈNE. Sonnet XLII, line 1. _Ocieuse_="otiosa," langorous. Line 5. _Ennuy_, in the sixteenth century meant something fuller than, and somewhat different from the word "ennui" to-day. It was a weariness which had in it some permanent chagrin. Line 8. _Pipe_, "cajoles": a word which (now that it is unusual) mars the effect of its meaning by its insignificant sound. Lines 8 and 9. Note _ioye_, _vraye_, a feminine "e" following another vowel is, since Malherbe, forbidden in the interior of a verse, unless elided. Line 11. _Ton mort_, "your ghost." Sonnet XLIII, line 6. _Desia_=dejà. Line 7. _De mon nom._ I have printed the line thus because Ronsard himself wished it so, and so corrected it with his own hand. But the original form is far finer "_Au bruit de Ronsard._" DU BELLAY. THE SONNET "HEUREUX QUI COMME ULYSSE." Line 3. _Usage._ A most powerful word in this slightly archaic sense: the experience of long travel: familiar knowledge of things seen. Line 12. _Loire._ This word has puzzled more than one editor. There are two rivers: the great river Loire, which is feminine, and the little Loir, which is masculine. Here Du Bellay spells the name of the great river, but puts it in the masculine gender. It has been imagined that he was talking of the smaller river. But he was not. The Loire alone has any connection with Liré or with his life, and as for the gender, strained as the interpretation may seem, I believe that Du Bellay deliberately used it in the parallel with the Tiber and the idea of the "Fleuve Paternel," to which he alludes so often elsewhere. Line 13. _Lyré._ The modern Liré, his birthplace, on the left bank of the Loire, just opposite Ancenis. As you go along the Poitiers road to the bridge it stands up on your right, just before the river. THE DOG. Line 1. _Motte_=a turf. Line 40. _Damoiselet._ Still used more or less in its old sense of a young man _armed_: not merely a young page or a cadet of the gentry,="like a little sentry." Line 43. _Anvie_=(of course) "envie." THE CAT. Line 22. _Rouët_=spinning-wheel. Line 26. _Panne_=the Italian _Panno_--cloth. Line 27. _Troigne_=the mouth and face of an animal, the muzzle. Line 32. _Chere_=(originally) "head" and one of the few old French words derived from Greek, but the first signification has long been lost. Here the phrase is equivalent to "faire bonne chere" which has for centuries been used proverbially for what we call "a good time." _V. supra_ in "The Farewell" of Charles of Orleans. MALHERBE. EXTRACTS FROM THE "ODE TO LOUIS XIII." Stanza 3, line 1. _Centième._ He dates the Huguenot trouble from a century. It may be said to have originated in the placards threatening the defilement of the Sacrament, placards which appeared in the streets of Paris in 1525. Stanza 2, line 3. _Le nom de Juste._ Louis XIII had no particular affectation of that title: it is rather a reminiscence of his distant collatoral and namesake who closed the fifteenth century. Last stanza, line 1. _Toutes les autres morts._ He has just been speaking of death in battle against the factions. SONNET ON HIS SON'S DEATH. Line 1. _Mon fils._ The only survivor of his many children, a young man, just called to the bar at Aix and passionately loved by his father, he bore the curious name of Marc-Anthony. A M. de Piles killed him in a duel, having for second his brother-in-law. The whole was an honourable bit of business, and the death such as men of honour must be prepared to risk: but Malherbe would see no reason and defamed the adversary. Line 9. _La Raison._ The idea runs all through Malherbe's work. It is his distinguishing note, and is the spirit which differentiates him so powerfully from the sixteenth century, that this stoical balance or regulator which he calls "La Raison," and which governed France for two hundred years, is his rule and text for verse and prose as well as for practical life. Even the grandeur to which it gave rise seemed to him accidental. He demanded "la raison" only, and felt the necessity of it in art as acutely as though its absence were something immoral. EXTRACTS FROM THE "CONSOLATION OF DU PERRIER." Stanza 1, line 1. _Duperrier._ A critic of sorts and a gentleman, living in Provence and perhaps of Provençal ancestry. The verses were written while Malherbe's fame was still local, two years before the king's visit had lifted him to Paris. Stanza 2, line 2. _Ta fille._ The child Marguerite. Her name does not appear in the poem nor in any letter; we have it from Racan. Stanza 10, line 3. _Et la garde, etc._ These two lines are quoted, sometimes, not often, by admirers who would prove that Malherbe was not incapable of colour or of warmth. 
25622	----	None 
13403	----	Proofreading Team. ENGLISH TRAVELLERS OF THE RENAISSANCE BY CLARE HOWARD BURT FRANKLIN: BIBLIOGRAPHY AND REFERENCE SERIES #179 1914 PREFACE This essay was written in 1908-1910 while I was studying at Oxford as Fellow of the Society of American Women in London. Material on the subject of travel in any century is apparently inexhaustible, and one could write many books on the subject without duplicating sources. The following aims no further than to describe one phase of Renaissance travel in clear and sharp outline, with sufficient illustration to embellish but not to clog the main ideas. In the preparation of this book I incurred many debts of gratitude. I would thank the staff of the Bodleian, especially Mr W.H.B. Somerset, for their kindness during the two years I was working in the library of Oxford University; and Dr Perlbach, Abteilungsdirektor of the Königliche Bibliothek at Berlin, who forwarded to me some helpful information concerning the early German books of instructions for travellers; and Professor Clark S. Northup, of Cornell University, for similar aid. To Mr George Whale I am indebted for the use of his transcript of Sloane MS. 1813, and to my friend Miss M.E. Marshall, of the Board of Trade, for the generous gift of her leisure hours in reading for me in the British Museum after the sea had divided me from that treasure-house of information. I would like to acknowledge with thanks the kind advice of Sir Walter Raleigh and Sir Sidney Lee, whose generosity in giving time and scholarship many students besides myself are in a position to appreciate. Mr L. Pearsall Smith, from whose work on the _Life and Letters of Sir Henry Wotton_ I have drawn copiously, gave me also courteous personal assistance. To the Faculty of the English Department at Columbia University I owe the gratitude of one who has received her earliest inclination to scholarship from their teachings. I am under heavy obligations to Professor A.H. Thorndike and Professor G.P. Krapp for their corrections and suggestions in the proof-sheets of this book, and to Professor W.P. Trent for continued help and encouragement throughout my studies at Columbia and elsewhere. Above all, I wish to emphasize the aid of Professor C.H. Firth, of Oxford University, whose sympathy and comprehension of the difficulties of a beginner in the field he so nobly commands can be understood only by those, like myself, who come to Oxford aspiring and alone. I wish this essay were a more worthy result of his influence. CLARE HOWARD BARNARD COLLEGE, NEW YORK _October_ 1913 * * * * * INTRODUCTION Among the many didactic books which flooded England in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries were certain essays on travel. Some of these have never been brought to light since their publication more than three hundred years ago, or been mentioned by the few writers who have interested themselves in the literature of this subject. In the collections of voyages and explorations, so often garnered, these have found no place. Most of them are very rare, and have never been reprinted. Yet they do not deserve to be thus overlooked, and in several ways this survey of them will, I think, be useful for students of literature. They reveal a widespread custom among Elizabethan and Jacobean gentlemen, of completing their education by travel. There are scattered allusions to this practice, in contemporary social documents: Anthony à Wood frequently explains how such an Oxonian "travelled beyond seas and returned a compleat Person,"--but nowhere is this ideal of a cosmopolitan education so explicitly set forth as it is in these essays. Addressed to the intending tourist, they are in no sense to be confused with guide-books or itineraries. They are discussions of the benefits of travel, admonitions and warnings, arranged to put the traveller in the proper attitude of mind towards his great task of self-development. Taken in chronological order they outline for us the life of the travelling student. Beginning with the end of the sixteenth century when travel became the fashion, as the only means of acquiring modern languages and modern history, as well as those physical accomplishments and social graces by which a young man won his way at Court, they trace his evolution up to the time when it had no longer any serious motive; that is, when the chairs of modern history and modern languages were founded at the English universities, and when, with the fall of the Stuarts, the Court ceased to be the arbiter of men's fortunes. In the course of this evolution they show us many phases of continental influence in England; how Italian immorality infected young imaginations, how the Jesuits won travellers to their religion, how France became the model of deportment, what were the origins of the Grand Tour, and so forth. That these directions for travel were not isolated oddities of literature, but were the expression of a widespread ideal of the English gentry, I have tried to show in the following study. The essays can hardly be appreciated without support from biography and history, and for that reason I have introduced some concrete illustrations of the sort of traveller to whom the books were addressed. If I have not always quoted the "Instructions" fully, it is because they repeat one another on some points. My plan has been to comment on whatever in each book was new, or showed the evolution of travel for study's sake. The result, I hope, will serve to show something of the cosmopolitanism of English society in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries; of the closer contact which held between England and the Continent, while England was not yet great and self-sufficient; of times when her soldiers of low and high degree went to seek their fortunes in the Low Countries, and her merchants journeyed in person to conduct business with Italy; when a steady stream of Roman Catholics and exiles for political reasons trooped to France or Flanders for years together. These discussions of the art of travel are relics of an age when Englishmen, next to the Germans, were known for the greatest travellers among all nations. In the same boat-load with merchants, spies, exiles, and diplomats from England sailed the young gentleman fresh from his university, to complete his education by a look at the most civilized countries of the world. He approached the Continent with an inquiring, open mind, eager to learn, quick to imitate the refinements and ideas of countries older than his own. For the same purpose that now takes American students to England, or Japanese students to America, the English striplings once journeyed to France, comparing governments and manners, watching everything, noting everything, and coming home to benefit their country by new ideas. I hope, also, that a review of these forgotten volumes may lend an added pleasure to the reading of books greater than themselves in Elizabethan literature. One cannot fully appreciate the satire of Amorphus's claim to be "so sublimated and refined by travel," and to have "drunk in the spirit of beauty in some eight score and eighteen princes' courts where I have resided,"[1] unless one has read of the benefits of travel as expounded by the current Instructions for Travellers; nor the dialogues between Sir Politick-Would-be and Peregrine in _Volpone, or the Fox_. Shakespeare, too, in _The Two Gentlemen of Verona_, has taken bodily the arguments of the Elizabethan orations in praise of travel: "Some to the warres, to try their fortune there; Some, to discover Islands farre away; Some, to the studious Universities; For any, or for all these exercises, He said, thou Proteus, your sonne was meet; And did request me, to importune you To let him spend his time no more at home; Which would be great impeachment to his age, In having knowne no travaile in his youth. (Antonio) Nor need'st thou much importune me to that Whereon, this month I have been hamering, I have considered well, his losse of time, And how he cannot be a perfect man, Not being tryed, and tutored in the world; Experience is by industry atchiev'd, And perfected by the swift course of time." (Act I. Sc. iii.) * * * * * CONTENTS CHAPTER I THE BEGINNINGS OF TRAVEL FOR CULTURE Pilgrimages at the close of the Middle Ages--New objects for travel in the fifteenth century--Humanism--Diplomatic ambition--Linguistic acquirement. CHAPTER II THE HIGH PURPOSE OF THE ELIZABETHAN TRAVELLER Development of the individual--Benefit to the Commonwealth--First books addressed to travellers. CHAPTER III SOME CYNICAL ASPERSIONS UPON THE BENEFITS OF TRAVEL The Italianate Englishman. CHAPTER IV PERILS FOR PROTESTANT TRAVELLERS The Inquisition--The Jesuits--Penalties of recusancy. CHAPTER V THE INFLUENCE OF THE FRENCH ACADEMIES France the arbiter of manners in the seventeenth century--Riding the great horse--Attempts to establish academies in England--Why travellers neglected Spain. CHAPTER VI THE GRAND TOUR Origin of the term--Governors for young travellers--Expenses of travel. CHAPTER VII THE DECADENCE OF THE GRAND TOUR The decline of the courtier--Foundation of chairs of Modern History and Modern Languages at Oxford and Cambridge--Englishmen become self-sufficient--Books of travel become common--Advent of the Romantic traveller who travels for scenery. BIBLIOGRAPHY INDEX FOOTNOTES * * * * * CHAPTER I THE BEGINNINGS OF TRAVEL FOR CULTURE Of the many social impulses that were influenced by the Renaissance, by that "new lernynge which runnythe all the world over now-a-days," the love of travel received a notable modification. This very old instinct to go far, far away had in the Middle Ages found sanction, dignity and justification in the performance of pilgrimages. It is open to doubt whether the number of the truly pious would ever have filled so many ships to Port Jaffa had not their ranks been swelled by the restless, the adventurous, the wanderers of all classes. Towards the sixteenth century, when curiosity about things human was an ever stronger undercurrent in England, pilgrimages were particularly popular. In 1434, Henry VI. granted licences to 2433 pilgrims to the shrine of St James of Compostella alone.[2] The numbers were so large that the control of their transportation became a coveted business enterprise. "Pilgrims at this time were really an article of exportation," says Sir Henry Ellis, in commenting on a letter of the Earl of Oxford to Henry VI., asking for a licence for a ship of which he was owner, to carry pilgrims. "Ships were every year loaded from different ports with cargoes of these deluded wanderers, who carried with them large sums of money to defray the expenses of their journey."[3] Among the earliest books printed in England was _Informacon for Pylgrymes unto the Holy Londe,_ by Wynkin de Worde, one which ran to three editions,[4] an almost exact copy of William Wey's "prevysyoun" (provision) for a journey eastwards.[5] The tone and content of this _Informacon_ differ very little from the later Directions for Travellers which are the subject of our study. The advice given shows that the ordinary pilgrim thought, not of the ascetic advantages of the voyage, or of simply arriving in safety at his holy destination, but of making the trip in the highest possible degree of personal comfort and pleasure. He is advised to take with him two barrels of wine ("For yf ye wolde geve xx dukates for a barrel ye shall none have after that ye passe moche Venyse"); to buy orange-ginger, almonds, rice, figs, cloves, maces and loaf sugar also, to eke out the fare the ship will provide. And this although he is to make the patron swear, before the pilgrim sets foot in the galley, that he will serve "hote meete twice at two meals a day." He whom we are wont to think of as a poor wanderer, with no possessions but his grey cloak and his staff, is warned not to embark for the Holy Land without carrying with him "a lytell cawdron, a fryenge panne, dysshes, platers, cuppes of glasse ... a fether bed, a matrasse, a pylawe, two payre sheets and a quylte" ... a cage for half a dozen of hens or chickens to have with you in the ship, and finally, half a bushel of "myle sede" to feed the chickens. Far from being encouraged to exercise a humble and abnegatory spirit on the voyage, he is to be at pains to secure a berth in the middle of the ship, and not to mind paying fifty ducats for to be in a good honest place, "to have your ease in the galey and also to be cherysshed." Still more unchristian are the injunctions to run ahead of one's fellows, on landing, in order to get the best quarters at the inn, and first turn at the dinner provided; and above all, at Port Jaffa, to secure the best ass, "for ye shall paye no more for the best than for the worste." But while this book was being published, new forces were at hand which were to strip the thin disguise of piety from pilgrims of this sort. The Colloquies of Erasmus appeared before the third edition of _Informacon for Pylgrymes_, and exploded the idea that it was the height of piety to have seen Jerusalem. It was nothing but the love of change, Erasmus declared, that made old bishops run over huge spaces of sea and land to reach Jerusalem. The noblemen who flocked thither had better be looking after their estates, and married men after their wives. Young men and women travelled "non sine gravi discrimine morum et integritatis." Pilgrimages were a dissipation. Some people went again and again and did nothing else all their lives long.[6] The only satisfaction they looked for or received was entertainment to themselves and their friends by their remarkable adventures, and ability to shine at dinner-tables by recounting their travels.[7] There was no harm in going sometimes, but it was not pious. And people could spend their time, money and pains on something which was truly pious.[8] It was only a few years after this that that pupil of Erasmus and his friends, King Henry the Eighth, who startled Europe by the way he not only received new ideas but acted upon them, swept away the shrines, burned our Lady of Walsingham and prosecuted "the holy blisful martyr" Thomas à Becket for fraudulent pretensions.[9] But a new object for travel was springing up and filling the leading minds of the sixteenth century--the desire of learning, at first hand, the best that was being thought and said in the world. Humanism was the new power, the new channel into which men were turning in the days when "our naturell, yong, lusty and coragious prynce and sovrayne lord King Herre the Eighth entered into the flower of pleasaunt youthe."[10] And as the scientific spirit or the socialistic spirit can give to the permanent instincts of the world a new zest, so the Renaissance passion for self-expansion and for education gave to the old road a new mirage. All through the fifteenth century the universities of Italy, pre-eminent since their foundation for secular studies, had been gaining reputation by their offer of a wider education than the threadbare discussions of the schoolmen. The discovery and revival in the fifteenth century of Greek literature, which had stirred Italian society so profoundly, gave to the universities a northward-spreading fame. Northern scholars, like Rudolf Agricola, hurried south to find congenial air at the centre of intellectual life. That professional humanists could not do without the stamp of true culture which an Italian degree gave to them, Erasmus, observer of all things, notes in the year 1500 to the Lady of Veer: "Two things, I feel, are very necessary: one that I go to Italy, to gain for my poor learning some authority from the celebrity of the place; the other, that I take the degree of Doctor; both senseless, to be sure. For people do not straightway change their minds because they cross the sea, as Horace says, nor will the shadow of an impressive name make me a whit more learned ... but we must put on the lion's skin to prove our ability to those who judge a man by his title and not by his books, which in truth they do not understand."[11] Although Erasmus despised degree-hunting, it is well known that he felt the power of Italy. He was tempted to remain in Rome for ever, by reason of the company he found there. "What a sky and fields, what libraries and pleasant walks and sweet confabulation with the learned ..."[12] he exclaims, in afterwards recalling that paradise of scholars. There was, for instance, the Cardinal Grimani, who begged Erasmus to share his life ... and books.[13] And there was Aldus Manutius. We get a glimpse of the Venetian printing-house when Aldus and Erasmus worked together: Erasmus sitting writing regardless of the noise of printers, while Aldus breathlessly reads proof, admiring every word. "We were so busy," says Erasmus, "we scarce had time to scratch our ears."[14] It was this charm of intellectual companionship which started the whole stream of travel _animi causa_. Whoever had keen wits, an agile mind, imagination, yearned for Italy. There enlightened spirits struck sparks from one another. Young and ardent minds in England and in Germany found an escape from the dull and melancholy grimness of their uneducated elders--purely practical fighting-men, whose ideals were fixed on a petrified code of life. I need not explain how Englishmen first felt this charm of urbane civilization. The travels of Tiptoft, Earl of Worcester, of Gunthorpe, Flemming, Grey and Free, have been recently described by Mr Einstein in _The Italian Renaissance in England_. As for Italian journeys of Selling, Grocyn, Latimer, Tunstall, Colet and Lily, of that extraordinary group of scholars who transformed Oxford by the introduction of Greek ideals and gave to it the peculiar distinction which is still shining, I mention them only to suggest that they are the source of the Renaissance respect for a foreign education, and the founders of the fashion which, in its popular spreadings, we will attempt to trace. They all studied in Italy, and brought home nothing but good. For to scholarship they joined a native force of character which gave a most felicitous introduction to England of the fine things of the mind which they brought home with them. By their example they gave an impetus to travel for education's sake which lesser men could never have done. Though through Grocyn, Linacre and Tunstall, Greek was better taught in England than in Italy, according to Erasmus,[15] at the time Henry VIII. came to the throne, the idea of Italy as the goal of scholars persisted. Rich churchmen, patrons of letters, launched promising students on to the Continent to give them a complete education; as Richard Fox, Founder of Corpus Christi, sent Edward Wotton to Padua, "to improve his learning and chiefly to learn Greek,"[16] or Thomas Langton, Bishop of Winchester, supported Richard Pace at the same university.[17] To Reginald Pole, the scholar's life in Italy made so strong an appeal that he could never be reclaimed by Henry VIII. Shunning all implication in the tumult of the political world, he slipped back to Padua, and there surrounded himself with friends,--"singular fellows, such as ever absented themselves from the court, desiring to live holily."[18] To his household at Padua gravitated other English students fond of "good company and the love of learned men"; Thomas Lupset,[19] the confidant of Erasmus and Richard Pace; Thomas Winter,[20] Wolsey's reputed natural son; Thomas Starkey,[21] the historian; George Lily,[22] son of the grammarian; Michael Throgmorton, and Richard Morison,[23] ambassador-to-be. There were other elements that contributed to the growth of travel besides the desire to become exquisitely learned. The ambition of Henry VIII. to be a power in European politics opened the liveliest intercourse with the Continent. It was soon found that a special combination of qualities was needed in the ambassadors to carry out his aspirations. Churchmen, like the ungrateful Pole, for whose education he had generously subscribed, were often unpliable to his views of the Pope; a good old English gentleman, though devoted, might be like Sir Robert Wingfield, simple, unsophisticated, and the laughingstock of foreigners.[24] A courtier, such as Lord Rochford, who could play tennis, make verses, and become "intime" at the court of Francis I., could not hold his own in disputes of papal authority with highly educated ecclesiastics.[25] Hence it came about that the choice of an ambassador fell more and more upon men of sound education who also knew something of foreign countries: such as Sir Thomas Wyatt, or Sir Richard Wingfield, of Cambridge and Gray's Inn, who had studied at Ferrara[26]; Sir Nicholas Wotton, who had lived in Perugia, and graduated doctor of civil and canon law[27]; or Anthony St Lieger, who, according to Lloyd, "when twelve years of age was sent for his grammar learning with his tutor into France, for his carriage into Italy, for his philosophy to Cambridge, for his law to Gray's Inn: and for that which completed all, the government of himself, to court; where his debonairness and freedom took with the king, as his solidity and wisdom with the Cardinal."[28] Sometimes Henry was even at pains to pick out and send abroad promising university students with a view to training them especially for diplomacy. On one of his visits to Oxford he was impressed with the comely presence and flowing expression of John Mason, who, though the son of a cowherd, was notable at the university for his "polite and majestick speaking." King Henry disposed of him in foreign parts, to add practical experience to his speculative studies, and paid for his education out of the king's Privy Purse, as we see by the royal expenses for September 1530. Among such items as "£8, 18s. to Hanybell Zinzano, for drinks and other medicines for the King's Horses"; and, "20s. to the fellow with the dancing dog," is the entry of "a year's exhibition to Mason, the King's scholar at Paris, £3, 6s. 8d."[29] Another educational investment of the King's was Thomas Smith, afterwards as excellent an ambassador as Mason, whom he supported at Cambridge, and according to Camden, at riper years made choice of to be sent into Italy. "For even till our days," says Camden under the year 1577, "certain young men of promising hopes, out of both Universities, have been maintained in foreign countries, at the King's charge, for the more complete polishing of their Parts and Studies."[30] The diplomatic career thus opened to young courtiers, if they proved themselves fit for service by experience in foreign countries, was therefore as strong a motive for travel as the desire to reach the source of humanism. This again merged into the pursuit of a still more informal education--the sort which comes from "seeing the world." The marriage of Mary Tudor to Louis XII., and later the subtle bond of humanism and high spirits which existed between Francis I. and his "very dear and well-beloved good brother, cousin and gossip, perpetual ally and perfect friend," Henry the Eighth, led a good many of Henry's courtiers to attend the French court at one time or another--particularly the most dashing favourites, and leaders of fashion, the "friskers," as Andrew Boorde calls them,[31] such as Charles Brandon, George Boleyn, Francis Bryan, Nicholas Carew, or Henry Fitzroy. With any ambassador went a bevy of young gentlemen, who on their return diffused a certain mysterious sophistication which was the envy of home-keeping youth. According to Hall, when they came back to England they were "all French in eating and drinking and apparel, yea, and in the French vices and brags: so that all the estates of England were by them laughed at, the ladies and gentlewomen were dispraised, and nothing by them was praised, but if it were after the French turn."[32] From this time on young courtiers pressed into the train of an ambassador in order to see the world and become like Ann Boleyn's captivating brother, or Elizabeth's favourite, the Earl of Oxford, or whatever gallant was conspicuous at court for foreign graces. There was still another contributory element to the growth of travel, one which touched diplomats, scholars, and courtiers--the necessity of learning modern languages. By the middle of the sixteenth century Latin was no longer sufficient for intercourse between educated people. In the most civilized countries the vernacular had been elevated to the dignity of the classical tongues by being made the literary vehicle of such poets as Politian and Bembo, Ronsard and Du Bellay. A vernacular literature of great beauty, too important to be overlooked, began to spring up on all sides. One could no longer keep abreast of the best thought without a knowledge of modern languages. More powerful than any academic leanings was the Renaissance curiosity about man, which could not be satisfied through the knowledge of Latin only. Hardly anyone but churchmen talked Latin in familiar conversation with one. When a man visited foreign courts and wished to enter into social intercourse with ladies and fashionables, or move freely among soldiers, or settle a bill with an innkeeper, he found that he sorely needed the language of the country. So by the time we reach the reign of Edward VI., we find Thomas Hoby, a typical young gentleman of the period, making in his diary entries such as these: "Removed to the middes of Italy, to have a better knowledge of ye tongue and to see Tuscany." "Went to Sicily both to have a sight of the country and also to absent myself for a while out of Englishmenne's companie for the tung's sake."[33] Roger Ascham a year or two later writes from Germany that one of the chief advantages of being at a foreign court was the ease with which one learned German, French, and Italian, whether he would or not. "I am almost an Italian myself and never looks on it." He went so far as to say that such advantages were worth ten fellowships at St John's.[34] We have noted how Italy came to be the lode-stone of scholars, and how courtiers sought the grace which France bestowed, but we have not yet accounted for the attraction of Germany. Germany, as a centre of travel, was especially popular in the reign of Edward the Sixth. France went temporarily out of fashion with those men of whom we have most record. For in Edward's reign the temper of the leading spirits in England was notably at variance with the court of France. It was to Germany that Edward's circle of Protestant politicians, schoolmasters, and chaplains felt most drawn--to the country where the tides of the Reformation were running high, and men were in a ferment over things of the spirit; to the country of Sturm and Bucer, and Fagius and Ursinus--the doctrinalists and educators so revered by Cambridge. Cranmer, who gathered under his roof as many German savants as could survive in the climate of England,[35] kept the current of understanding and sympathy flowing between Cambridge and Germany, and since Cambridge, not Oxford, dominated the scholarly and political world of Edward the Sixth, from that time on Germany, in the minds of the St John's men, such as Burleigh, Ascham and Hoby, was the place where one might meet the best learned of the day. We have perhaps said enough to indicate roughly the sources of the Renaissance fashion for travel which gave rise to the essays we are about to discuss. The scholar's desire to specialize at a foreign university, in Greek, in medicine, or in law; the courtier's ambition to acquire modern languages, study foreign governments, and generally fit himself for the service of the State, were dignified aims which in men of character produced very happy results. It was natural that others should follow their example. In Elizabethan times the vogue of travelling to become a "compleat person" was fully established. And though in mean and trivial men the ideal took on such odd shapes and produced such dubious results that in every generation there were critics who questioned the benefits of travel, the ideal persisted. There was always something, certainly, to be learned abroad, for men of every calibre. Those who did not profit by the study of international law learned new tricks of the rapier. And because experience of foreign countries was expensive and hard to come at, the acquirement of it gave prestige to a young man. Besides, underneath worldly ambition was the old curiosity to see the world and know all sorts of men--to be tried and tested. More powerful than any theory of education was the yearning for far-off, foreign things, and the magic of the sea. * * * * * CHAPTER II THE HIGH PURPOSE OF THE ELIZABETHAN TRAVELLER The love of travel, we all know, flourished exceedingly in the reign of Queen Elizabeth. All classes felt the desire to go beyond seas upon "Such wind as scatters young men through the world, To seeke their fortunes farther than at home, Where small experience growes."[36] The explorer and the poet, the adventurer, the prodigal and the earl's son, longed alike for foreign shores. What Ben Jonson said of Coryat might be stretched to describe the average Elizabethan: "The mere superscription of a letter from Zurich sets him up like a top: Basil or Heidelberg makes him spinne. And at seeing the word Frankford, or Venice, though but in the title of a Booke, he is readie to breake doublet, cracke elbowes, and overflowe the roome with his murmure."[37] Happy was an obscure gentleman like Fynes Moryson, who could roam for ten years through the "twelve Dominions of Germany, Bohmerland, Sweitzerand, Netherland, Denmarke, Poland, Italy, Turkey, France, England, Scotland and Ireland" and not be peremptorily called home by his sovereign. Sad it was to be a court favourite like Fulke Greville, who four times, thirsting for strange lands, was plucked back to England by Elizabeth. At about the time (1575) when some of the most prominent courtiers--Edward Dyer, Gilbert Talbot, the Earl of Hertford, and more especially Sir Christopher Hatton and Sir Philip Sidney--had just returned from abroad, book-publishers thought it worth while to print books addressed to travellers. At least, there grew up a demand for advice to young men which became a feature of Elizabethan literature, printed and unprinted. It was the convention for a young man about to travel to apply to some experienced or elderly friend, and for that friend to disburden a torrent of maxims after the manner of Polonius. John Florio, who knew the humours of his day, represents this in a dialogue in _Second Frutes_.[38] So does Robert Greene in _Greene's Mourning Garment_.[39] What were at first the personal warnings of a wise man to his young friend, such as Cecil's letter to Rutland, grew into a generalized oration for the use of any traveller. Hence arose manuals of instruction--marvellous little books, full of incitements to travel as the duty of man, summaries of the leading characteristics of foreigners, directions for the care of sore feet--and a strange medley of matters. Among the first essays of this sort are translations from Germanic writers, with whom, if Turler is right, the book of precepts for travel originated. For the Germans, with the English, were the most indefatigable travellers of all nations. Like the English, they suddenly woke up with a start to the idea that they were barbarians on the outskirts of civilization, and like Chicago of the present day, sent their young men "hustling for culture." They took up assiduously not only the Renaissance ideal of travel as a highly educating experience, by which one was made a complete man intellectually, but also the Renaissance conviction that travel was a duty to the State. Since both Germany and England were somewhat removed from the older and more civilized nations, it was necessary for them to make an effort to learn what was going on at the centre of the world. It was therefore the duty of gentlemen, especially of noblemen, to whom the State would look to be directed, to search out the marts of learning, frequent foreign courts, and by knowing men and languages be able to advise their prince at home, after the manner set forth in _Il Cortegiano_. It must be remembered that in the sixteenth century there were no schools of political economy, of modern history or modern languages at the universities. A sound knowledge of these things had to be obtained by first-hand observation. From this fact arose the importance of improving one's opportunities, and the necessity for methodical, thorough inquiry, which we shall find so insisted upon in these manuals of advice. Hieronymus Turlerus claims that his _De Peregrinatione_ (Argentorati, 1574) is the first book to be devoted to precepts of travel. It was translated into English and published in London in 1575, under the title of _The Traveiler of Jerome Turler_, and is, as far as I know, the first book of the sort in England. Not much is known of Turler, save that he was born at Leissnig, in Saxony, in 1550, studied at Padua, became a Doctor of Law, made such extensive travels that he included even England--a rare thing in those days--and after serving as Burgomaster in his native place, died in 1602. His writings, other than _De Peregrinatione_, are three translations from Machiavelli.[40] Turler addresses to two young German noblemen his book "written on behalf of such as are desirous to travell, and to see foreine cuntries, and specially of students.... Mee thinkes they do a good deede, and well deserve of al men, that give precepts for traveyl. Which thing, althoughe I perceive that some have done, yet have they done it here and there in sundrie Bookes and not in any one certeine place." A discussion of the advantages of travel had appeared in Thomas Wilson's _Arte of Rhetorique_ (1553),[41] and certain practical directions for avoiding ailments to which travellers were susceptible had been printed in Basel in 1561,[42] but Turler's would seem to be the first book devoted to the praise of peregrination. Not only does Turler say so himself, but Theodor Zwinger, who three years later wrote _Methodus Apodemica_, declares that Turler and Pyrckmair were his only predecessors in this sort of composition.[43] Pyrckmair was apparently one of those governors, or Hofmeister,[44] who accompanied young German noblemen on their tours through Europe. He drew up a few directions, he declares, as guidance for himself and the Count von Sultz, whom he expected shortly to guide into Italy. He had made a previous journey to Rome, which he enjoyed with the twofold enthusiasm of the humanist and the Roman Catholic, beholding "in a stupor of admiration" the magnificent remnants of classic civilization and the institutions of a benevolent Pope.[45] From Plantin's shop in Antwerp came in 1587 a narrative by another Hofmeister--Stephen Vinandus Pighius--concerning the life and travels of his princely charge, Charles Frederick, Duke of Cleves, who on his grand tour died in Rome. Pighius discusses at considerable length,[46] in describing the hesitancy of the Duke's guardians about sending him on a tour, the advantages and disadvantages of travel. The expense of it and the diseases you catch, were great deterrents; yet the widening of the mind which judicious travelling insures, so greatly outweighed these and other disadvantages, that it was arranged after much discussion, "not only in the Council but also in the market-place and at the dinner-table," to send young Charles for two years to Austria to the court of his uncle the Emperor Maximilian, and then to Italy, France, and Lower Germany to visit the princess, his relations, and friends, and to see life. Theodor Zwinger, who was reputed to be the first to reduce the art of travel into a form and give it the appearance of a science,[47] died a Doctor of Medicine at Basel. He had no liking for his father's trade of furrier, but apprenticed himself for three years to a printer at Lyons. Somehow he managed to learn some philosophy from Peter Ramus at Paris, and then studied medicine at Padua, where he met Jerome Turler.[48] As Doctor of Philosophy and Medicine he occupied several successive professorships at Basel. Even more distinguished in the academic world was the next to carry on the discussion of travel--Justus Lipsius. His elegant letter on the subject,[49] written a year after Zwinger's book was published, was translated into English by Sir John Stradling in 1592.[50] Stradling, however, has so enlarged the original by whatever fancies of his own occurred to him, that it is almost a new composition. Philip Jones took no such liberties with the "Method" of Albert Meier, which he translated two years after it was published in 1587.[51] In his dedication to Sir Francis Drake of "this small but sweete booke of Method for men intending their profit and honor by the experience of the world," Jones declares that he first meant it only to benefit himself, "when pleasure of God, convenient time and good company" should draw him to travel. The _Pervigilium Mercurii_ of Georgius Loysius, a friend of Scaliger, was never translated into English, but the important virtues of a traveller therein described had their influence on English readers. Loysius compiled two hundred short petty maxims, illustrated by apt classical quotations, bearing on the correct behaviour and duties of a traveller. For instance, he must avoid luxury, as says Seneca; and laziness, as say Horace and Ovid; he must be reticent about his wealth and learning and keep his counsel, like Ulysses. He must observe the morals and religion of others, but not criticise them, for different nations have different religions, and think that their fathers' gods ought to be served diligently. He that disregards these things acts with pious zeal but without consideration for other people's feelings ("nulla ratione cujusque vocationis").[52] James Howell may have read maxim 99 on how to take jokes and how to make them, "joci sine vilitate, risus sine cachinno, vox sine clamore" (let your jokes be free from vulgarity, your laugh not a guffaw, and your voice not a roar). Loysius reflects the sentiment of his country in his conviction that "Nature herself desires that women should stay at home." "It is true throughout the whole of Germany that no woman unless she is desperately poor or 'rather fast' desires to travel."[53] Adding to these earliest essays the _Oration in Praise of Travel_, by Hermann Kirchner,[54] we have a group of instructions sprung from German soil all characterized by an exalted mood and soaring style. They have in common the tendency to rationalize the activities of man, which was so marked a feature of the Renaissance. The simple errant impulse that Chaucer noted as belonging with the songs of birds and coming of spring, is dignified into a philosophy of travel. Travel, according to our authors, is one of the best ways to gain personal force, social effectiveness--in short, that mysterious "virtù" by which the Renaissance set such great store. It had the negative value of providing artificial trials for young gentlemen with patrimony and no occupation who might otherwise be living idly on their country estates, or dissolutely in London. Knight-errantry, in chivalric society, had provided the hardships and discipline agreeable to youth; travel "for vertues sake, to apply the study of good artes,"[55] was in the Renaissance an excellent way to keep a young man profitably busy. For besides the academic advantages of foreign universities, travel corrected the character. The rude and arrogant young nobleman who had never before left his own country, met salutary opposition and contempt from strangers, and thereby gained modesty. By observing the refinements of the older nations, his uncouthness was softened: the rough barbarian cub was gradually mollified into the civil courtier. And as for giving one prudence and patience, never was such a mentor as travel. The tender, the effeminate, the cowardly, were hardened by contention with unwonted cold or rain or sun, with hard seats, stony pillows, thieves, and highwaymen. Any simple, improvident, and foolish youth would be stirred up to vigilancy by a few experiences with "the subtelty of spies, the wonderful cunning of Inn-keepers and baudes and the great danger of his life."[56] In short, the perils and discomforts of travel made a mild prelude to the real life into which a young man must presently fight his way. Only experience could teach him how to be cunning, wary, and bold; how he might hold his own, at court or at sea, among Elizabeth's adventurers. However, this development of the individual was only part of the benefit of travel. Far more to be extolled was his increased usefulness to the State. That was the stoutest reason for leaving one's "owne sweete country dwellings" to endure hardships and dangers beyond seas. For a traveller may be of the greatest benefit to his own country by being able to compare its social, economic, and military arrangements with those of other commonwealths. He is wisely warned, therefore, against that fond preference for his own country which leads him to close his eyes to any improvement--"without just cause preferring his native country,"[57] but to use choice and discretion, to see, learn, and diligently mark what in every place is worthy of praise and what ought to be amended, in magistrates, regal courts, schools, churches, armies--all the ways and means pertaining to civil life and the governing of a humane society. For all improvement in society, say our authors, came by travellers bringing home fresh ideas. Examples from the ancients, to complete a Renaissance argument, are cited to prove this.[58] So the Romans sent their children to Marseilles, so Cyrus travelled, though yet but a child, so Plato "purchased the greatest part of his divine wisdome from the very innermost closets of Egypt." Therefore to learn how to serve one's Prince in peace or war, as a soldier, ambassador, or "politicke person," one must, like Ulysses, have known many men and seen many cities; know not only the objective points of foreign countries, such as the fortifications, the fordable rivers, the distances between places, but the more subjective characteristics, such as the "chief force and virtue of the Spanyardes and of the Frenchmen. What is the greatest vice in both nacions? After what manner the subjects in both countries shewe their obedience to their prince, or oppose themselves against him?"[59] Here we see coming into play the newly acquired knowledge of human nature of which the sixteenth century was so proud. An ambassador to Paris must know what was especially pleasing to a Frenchman. Even a captain in war must know the special virtues and vices of the enemy: which nation is ablest to make a sudden sally, which is stouter to entertain the shock in open field, which is subtlest of the contriving of an ambush. Evidently, since there is so varied a need for acquaintance with foreign countries, travel is a positive duty. Noah, Aristotle, Solomon, Julius Cæsar, Columbus, and many other people of authority are quoted to prove that "all that ever were of any great knowledge, learning or wisdom since the beginning of the world unto this present, have given themselves to travel: and that there never was man that performed any great thing or achieved any notable exploit, unless he had travelled."[60] This summary, of course, cannot reproduce the style of each of our authors, and only roughly indicates their method of persuasion. Especially it cannot represent the mode of Zwinger, whose contribution is a treatise of four hundred pages, arranged in outline form, by means of which any single idea is made to wend its tortuous way through folios. Every aspect of the subject is divided and subdivided with meticulous care. He cannot speak of the time for travel without discriminating between natural time, such as years and days, and artificial time, such as festivals and holidays; nor of the means of locomotion without specifying the possibility of being carried through the air by: (I) Mechanical means, such as the wings of Icarus; or (2) Angels, as the Apostle Philip was snatched from Samaria.[61] In this elaborate method he found an imitator in Sir Thomas Palmer.[62] The following, a mere truncated fragment, may serve to illustrate both books:-- "Travelling is either:-- I. Irregular. II. Regular. Of Regular Travailers some be A. Non-voluntaries, sent out by the prince, and employed in matters of 1. Peace (etc.). 2. Warre (etc.). B. Voluntaries. Voluntary Regular Travailers are considered 1. As they are moved accidentally. a. Principally, that afterwards they may leade a more quiet and contented life, to the glory of God. b. Secondarily, regarding ends, (i) Publicke. (a) What persons are inhibited travaile. (1) Infants, Decrepite persons, Fools, Women. (b) What times to travaile in are not fitte: (2) When our country is engaged in warres. (c) Fitte. (1) When one may reape most profit in shortest time, for that hee aimeth at. (2) When the country, into which we would travaile, holdeth not ours in jealousie, etc." That the idea of travel as a duty to the State had permeated the Elizabethans from the courtier to the common sailor is borne out by contemporary letters of all sorts. Even William Bourne, an innkeeper at Gravesend, who wrote a hand-book of applied mathematics, called it _The Treasure for Travellers_[63] and prefaced it with an exhortation in the style of Turler. In the correspondence of Lord Burghley, Sir Philip Sidney, Fulke Greville, the Earl of Essex, and Secretary Davison, we see how seriously the aim of travel was inculcated. Here are the same reminders to have the welfare of the commonwealth constantly in mind, to waste no time, to use order and method in observation, and to bring home, if possible, valuable information. Sidney bewails how much he has missed for "want of having directed my course to the right end, and by the right means." But he trusts his brother has imprinted on his mind "the scope and mark you mean by your pains to shoot at. Your purpose is, being a gentleman born, to furnish yourself with the knowledge of such things as may be serviceable to your country."[64] Davison urges the value of experience, scorning the man who thinks to fit himself by books: "Our sedentary traveller may pass for a wise man as long as he converseth either with dead men by reading, or by writing, with men absent. But let him once enter on the stage of public employment, and he will soon find, if he can but be sensible of contempt, that he is unfit for action. For ability to treat with men of several humours, factions and countries; duly to comply with them, or stand off, as occasion shall require, is not gotten only by reading of books, but rather by studying of men: yet this is ever held true. The best scholar is fittest for a traveller, as being able to make the most useful observations: experience added to learning makes a perfect man."[65] Both Essex and Fulke Greville are full of warnings against superficial and showy knowledge of foreign countries: "The true end of knowledge is clearness and strength of judgment, and not ostentation, or ability to discourse, which I do rather put your Lordship in mind of, because the most part of noblemen and gentlemen of our time have no other use nor end of their learning but their table-talk. But God knoweth they have gotten little that have only this discoursing gift: for, though like empty vessels they sound loud when a man knocks upon their outsides, yet if you pierce into them, you shall find that they are full of nothing but wind."[66] Lord Burghley, wasting not a breath, tersely instructs the Earl of Rutland in things worthy of observation. Among these are frontier towns, with what size garrison they are maintained, etc.; what noblemen live in each province, by what trade each city is supported. At Court, what are the natural dispositions of the king and his brothers and sisters, what is the king's diet, etc. "Particularly for yourself, being a nobleman, how noblemen do keep their wives, their children, their estates; how they provide for their younger children; how they keep the household for diet," and so on.[67] So much for the attitude of the first "Subsidium Peregrinantibus." It will be seen that it was something of a trial and an opportunity to be a traveller in Elizabethan times. But biography is not lacking in evidence that the recipients of these directions did take their travels seriously and try to make them profitable to the commonwealth. Among the Rutland papers[68] is a plan of fortifications and some notes made by the Edward Manners to whom Cecil wrote the above letter of advice. Sir Thomas Bodley tells how full he was of patriotic intent: "I waxed desirous to travel beyond the seas, for attaining to the knowledge of some special modern tongues, and for the increase of my experience in the managing of affairs, being wholly then addicted to employ myself, and all my cares, in the public service of the state."[69] Assurances of their object in travelling are written from abroad by Sir John Harington and the third Earl of Essex to their friend Prince Henry. Essex says: "Being now entered into my travels, and intending the end thereof to attain to true knowledge and to better my experience, I hope God will so bless me in my endeavours, that I shall return an acceptable servant unto your Highness."[70] And Harington in the same vein hopes that by his travels and experience in foreign countries he shall sometime or other be more fit to carry out the commands of his Highness.[71] One of the particular ways of serving one's country was the writing of "Observations on his Travels." This was the first exercise of a young man who aspired to be a "politicke person." Harington promises to send to Prince Henry whatever notes he can make of various countries. Henry Wotton offers Lord Zouche "A View of all the present Almagne princes."[72] The keeping of a journal is insisted upon in almost all the "Directions." "It is good," says Lord Burghley to Edward Manners, "that you make a booke of paper wherein you may dayly or at least weekly insert all things occurent to you,"[73] the reason being that such observations, when contemporary history was scarce, were of value. They were also a guarantee that the tourist had been virtuously employed. The Earl of Salisbury writes severely to his son abroad: "I find every week, in the Prince's hand, a letter from Sir John Harington, full of the news of the place where he is, and the countries as he passeth, and all occurents: which is an argument, that he doth read and observe such things as are remarkable." This narrative was one of the chief burdens of a traveller. Gilbert Talbot is no sooner landed in Padua than he must write to his impatient parents and excuse himself for the lack of that "Relation." "We fulfil your honour's commaundement in wrytynge the discourse of our travayle which we would have sent with thes letres but it could not be caryed so conveniently with them, as it may be with the next letres we wryte."[74] Francis Davison, the Secretary's son, could not get on, somehow, with his "Relation of Tuscany." He had been ill, he writes at first; his tutor says that the diet of Italy--"roots, salads, cheese and such like cheap dishes"--"Mr Francis can in no wise digest," and after that, he is too worried by poverty. In reply to his father's complaints of his extravagance, he declares: "My promised relation of Tuscany your last letter hath so dashed, as I am resolved not to proceed withal."[75] The journal of Richard Smith, Gentleman, who accompanied Sir Edward Unton into Italy in 1563, shows how even an ordinary man, not inclined to writing, conscientiously tried to note the fortifications and fertility of each province, whether it was "marvellous barren" or "stood chiefly upon vines"; the principal commodities, and the nature of the inhabitants: "The people (on the Rhine) are very paynefull and not so paynefull as rude and sluttyshe." "They are well faced women in most places of this land, and as ill-bodied."[76] Besides writing his observations, the traveller laboured earnestly at modern languages. Many and severe were the letters Cecil wrote to his son Thomas in Paris on the subject of settling to his French. For Thomas's tutor had difficulties in keeping his pupil from dog-fights, horses and worse amusements in company of the Earl of Hertford, who was a great hindrance to Thomas's progress in the language.[77] Francis Davison hints that his tour was by no means a pleasure trip, what with studying Italian, reading history and policy, observing and writing his "Relation." Indeed, as Lipsius pointed out, it was not easy to combine the life of a traveller with that of a scholar, "the one being of necessitie in continual motion, care and business, the other naturally affecting ease, safety and quietness,"[78] but still, by avoiding Englishmen, according to our "Directions," and by doggedly conversing with the natives, one might achieve something. To live in the household of a learned foreigner, as Robert Sidney did with Sturm, or Henry Wotton with Hugo Blotz, was of course especially desirable. For there were still, in the Elizabethans, remnants of that ardent sociability among humanists which made Englishmen traverse dire distances of sea and land to talk with some scholar on the Rhine--that fraternizing spirit which made Cranmer fill Lambeth Palace with Martin Bucers; and Bishop Gardiner, meanwhile, complain from the Tower not only of "want of books to relieve my mind, but want of good company--the only solace in this world."[79] It was still as much of a treat to see a wise man as it was when Ascham loitered in every city through which he passed, to hear lectures, or argue about the proper pronunciation of Greek; until he missed his dinner, or found that his party had ridden out of town.[80] Advice to travellers is full of this enthusiasm. Essex tells Rutland "your Lordship should rather go an hundred miles to speake with one wise man, than five miles to see a fair town." Stradling, translating Lipsius, urges the Earl of Bedford to "shame not or disdaine not to intrude yourself into their familiarity." "Talk with learned men, we unconsciously imitate them, even as they that walke in the sun only for their recreation, are colored therewith and sunburnt; or rather and better as they that staying a while in the Apothecarie shop, til their confections be made, carrie away the smell of the sweet spices even in their garments."[81] There are signs that the learned men were not always willing to shine upon admiring strangers who burst in upon them. The renowned Doctor Zacharias Ursinus at Heidelberg marked on his doorway these words: "My friend, whoever you are, if you come here, please either go away again, or give me some help in my studies."[82] Sidney foresees the difficulty his brother may have: "How shall I get excellent men to take paines to speake with me? Truly, in few words: either much expense or much humbleness."[83] If one had not the means to live with famous scholars, it was a good plan to take up lodgings with an eminent bookseller. For statesmen, advocates and other sorts of great men came to the shop, from whose talk much could be learned. By and by some occasion would arise for insinuating oneself into familarity and acquaintance with these personages, and perhaps, if some one of them, "non indoctus," intended journeying to another city, he might allow you to attach yourself to him.[84] Of course, for observation and experience, there was no place so advantageous as the household of an ambassador, if one was fortunate enough to win an entry there. The English Ambassador in France generally had a burden of young gentlemen more or less under his care. Sometimes they were lodged independently in Paris, but many belonged to his train, and had meat and drink for themselves, their servants and their horses, at the ambassador's expense. Sir Amias Paulet's _Letter-Book_ of 1577-8 testifies that an ambassador's cares were considerably augmented by writing reports to parents. Mr Speake is assured that "although I dwell far from Paris, yet I am not unacquainted with your sonne's doing in Paris, and cannot commend him enough to you as well for his diligence in study as for his honest and quiet behaviour, and I dare assure you that you may be bold to trust him as well for the order of his expenses, as for his government otherwise."[85] Mr Argall, whose brother could not be taken into Paulet's house, has to be soothed as well as may be by a letter.[86] Mr Throckmorton, after questionable behaviour, is sent home to his mother under excuse of being bearer of a letter to England. "His mother prayeth that his coming over may seeme to proceed of his owne request, because the Queen shall not be offended with it." His mother "hath promised to gett him lycence to travil into Italie." But, says Paulet, "He may not goe into Italie withoute the companie of some honest and wyse man, and so I have tould him, and in manie other things have dealt very playnely with him."[87] Among these troublesome charges of Paulet's was Francis Bacon. But to his father, the Lord Keeper, Paulet writes only that all is well, and that his son's servant is particularly honest, diligent, discreet and faithful, and that Paulet is thankful for his "good and quiet behaviour in my house"--a fact which appears exceptional. Sir Dudley Carleton, as Ambassador to Venice, was also pursued by ambitious fathers.[88] Sir Rowland Lytton Chamberlain writes to Carleton, begs only "that his son might be in your house, and that you would a little train him and fashion him to business. For I perceive he means to make him a statesman, and is very well persuaded of him, ... like a very indulgent father.... If you can do it conveniently, it will be a favour; but I know what a business it is to have the breaking of such colts, and therefore will urge no more than may be to your liking."[89] Besides gaining an apprenticeship in diplomacy, another advantage of travelling with an ambassador was the participation in ambassadorial immunities. It might have fared ill with Sir Philip Sidney, in Paris at the time of the massacre of Saint Bartholomew, if he had not belonged to the household of Sir Francis Walsingham. Many other young men not so glorious to posterity, but quite as much so to their mothers, were saved then by the same means. When news of the massacre had reached England, Sir Thomas Smith wrote to Walsingham: "I am glad yet that in these tumults and bloody proscriptions you did escape, and the young gentlemen that be there with you.... Yet we hear say that he that was sent by my Lord Chamberlain to be schoolmaster to young Wharton, being come the day before, was then slain. Alas! he was acquainted with nobody, nor could be partaker of any evil dealing. How fearful and careful the mothers and parents be here of such young gentlemen as be there, you may easily guess by my Lady Lane, who prayeth very earnestly that her son may be sent home with as much speed as may be."[90] The dangers of travel were of a nature to alarm mothers. As well as Catholics, there were shipwrecks, pirates, and highway robbers. Moors and Turks lay waiting "in a little port under the hill," to take passenger vessels that went between Rome and Naples. "If we had come by daye as we did by night, we had bin all taken slaves."[91] In dark strait ways up the sides of mountains, or on some great heath in Prussia, one was likely to meet a horseman "well furnyshed with daggs (pistols), who myght well be called a Swarte Ritter--his face was as black as a devill in a playe."[92] Inns were death-traps. A man dared not make any display of money for fear of being murdered in the night.[93] It was wiser to disguise himself as a humble country boy and gall his feet by carrying all his gold in his boots. Even if by these means he escaped common desperadoes, he might easily offend the deadly University students, as did the eldest son of Sir Julius Cæsar, slain in a brawl in Padua,[94] or like the Admirable Crichton, stabbed by his noble pupil in a dark street, bleed away his life in lonely lodgings.[95] Still more dangerous were less romantic ills, resulting from strange diet and the uncleanliness of inns. It was a rare treat to have a bed to oneself. More probably the traveller was obliged to share it with a stranger of disagreeable appearance, if not of disposition.[96] At German ordinaries "every travyler must syt at the ordinary table both master and servant," so that often they were driven to sit with such "slaves" that in the rush to get the best pieces from the common dish in the middle of the table, "a man wold abhor to se such fylthye hands in his dish."[97] Many an eager tourist lay down with small-pox before he had seen anything of the world worth mentioning, or if he gained home, brought a broken constitution with him. The third Lord North was ill for life because of the immoderate quantities of hot treacle he consumed in Italy, to avoid the plague.[98] But it was not really the low material dangers of small-pox, quartain ague, or robbers which troubled the Elizabethan. Such considerations were beneath his heroical temper. Sir Edward Winsor, warned against the piratical Gulf of Malta, writes: "And for that it should not be said an Englishman to come so far to see Malta, and to have turned backe againe, I determined rather making my sepulker of that Golfe."[99] It was the sort of danger that weakened character which made people doubt the benefits of travel. So far we have not mentioned in our description of the books addressed to travellers any of the reminders of the trials of Ulysses, and dark warnings against the "Siren-songs of Italy." Since they were written at the same time with the glowing orations in praise of travel, it might be well to consider them before we go farther. * * * * * CHAPTER III SOME CYNICAL ASPERSIONS UPON THE BENEFITS OF TRAVEL The traveller newly returned from foreign lands was a great butt for the satirists. In Elizabethan times his bows and tremendous politeness, his close-fitting black clothes from Venice, his French accent, his finicky refinements, such as perfumes and pick-tooths, were highly offensive to the plain Englishman. One was always sure of an appreciative audience if he railed at the "disguised garments and desperate hats" of the "affectate traveller" how; his attire spoke French or Italian, and his gait cried "behold me!" how he spoke his own language with shame and loathing.[100] "You shall see a dapper Jacke, that hath beene but over at Deepe,[101] wring his face round about, as a man would stir up a mustard-pot, and talke English through the teeth, like ... Monsieur Mingo de Moustrap."[102] Nash was one of the best at describing some who had lived in France for half-a-dozen years, "and when they came home, they have hyd a little wéerish leane face under a broad French hat, kept a terrible coyle with the dust in the stréete in their long cloaks of gray paper, and spoke English strangely. Naught else have they profited by their travell, save learnt to distinguish of the true Burdeaux Grape, and know a cup of neate Gascoygne wine from wine of Orleance; yea, and peradventure this also, to esteeme of the poxe as a pimple, to weare a velvet patch on their face, and walke melancholy with their armes folded."[103] The Frenchified traveller came in for a good share of satire, but darker things were said of the Italianate Englishman. He was an atheist--a creature hitherto unknown in England--who boldly laughed to scorn both Protestant and Papist. He mocked the Pope, railed on Luther, and liked none, but only himself.[104] "I care not," he said, "what you talk to me of God, so as I may have the prince and the laws of the realm on my side."[105] In politics he allied himself with the Papists, they being more of his way of living than the Puritans, but he was faithless to all parties.[106] In private life he was vicious, and practised "such villainy as is abominable to declare," for in Italy he had served Circes, who turns men into beasts.[107] "But I am afraid," says Ascham, "that over many of our travellers unto Italy do not eschew the way to Circe's Court: but go and ryde and runne and flie thether, they make great hast to cum to her; they make great sute to serve her: yea, I could point out some with my finger that never had gone out of England, but onlie to serve Circes in Italie. Vanitie and vice and any licence to ill living in England was counted stale and rude unto them."[108] It is likely that some of these accusations were true. Italy more than any other country charmed the Elizabethan Englishman, partly because the climate and the people and the look of things were so unlike his own grey home. Particularly Venice enchanted him. The sun, the sea, the comely streets, "so clean that you can walk in a Silk Stockin and Sattin Slippes,"[109] the tall palaces with marble balconies, and golden-haired women, the flagellants flogging themselves, the mountebanks, the Turks, the stately black-gowned gentlemen, were new and strange, and satisfied his sense of romance. Besides, the University of Padua was still one of the greatest universities in Europe. Students from all nations crowded to it. William Thomas describes the "infinite resorte of all nacions that continually is seen there. And I thinke verilie, that in one region of all the worlde againe, are not halfe so many straungers as in Italie; specially of gentilmen, whose resorte thither is principallie under pretence of studie ... all kyndes of vertue maie there be learned: and therfore are those places accordyngly furnisshed: not of suche students alone, as moste commonly are brought up in our universitees (meane mens children set to schole in hope to live upon hyred learnyng) but for the more parte of noble mens sonnes, and of the best gentilmen: that studie more for knowledge and pleasure than for curiositee or luker: ... This last wynter living in Padoa, with diligent serche I learned, that the noumbre of scholers there was little lesse than fiftene hundreth; whereof I dare saie, a thousande at the lest were gentilmen."[110] The life of a student at Padua was much livelier than the monastic seclusion of an English university. He need not attend many lectures, for, as Thomas Hoby explains, after a scholar has been elected by the rectors, "He is by his scholarship bound to no lectures, nor nothing elles but what he lyst himselfe to go to."[111] So being a gentleman and not a clerk, he was more likely to apply himself to fencing or riding: For at Padua "there passeth no shrof-tide without rennyng at the tilte, tourneiyng, fighting at the barriers and other like feates of armes, handled and furnisshed after the best sort: the greatest dooers wherof are scholers."[112] Then, too, the scholar diversified his labours by excursions to Venice, in one of those passenger boats which plied daily from Padua, of which was said "that the boat shall bee drowned, when it carries neither Monke, nor Student, nor Curtesan.... the passengers being for the most part of these kinds"[113] and, as Moryson points out, if he did not, by giving offence, receive a dagger in his ribs from a fellow-student, he was likely to have pleasant discourse on the way.[114] Hoby took several trips from Padua to Venice to see such things as the "lustie yong Duke of Ferrandin, well accompanied with noble menn and gentlemen ... running at the ring with faire Turks and cowrsars, being in a maskerie after the Turkishe maner, and on foote casting of eggs into the wyndowes among the ladies full of sweete waters and damaske Poulders," or like the Latin Quarter students who frequent "La Morgue," went to view the body of a gentleman slain in a feud, laid out in state in his house--"to be seen of all men."[115] In the outlandish mixture of nations swarming at Venice, a student could spend all day watching mountebanks, and bloody street fights, and processions. In the renowned freedom of that city where "no man marketh anothers dooynges, or meddleth with another mans livyng,"[116] it was no wonder if a young man fresh from an English university and away from those who knew him, was sometimes "enticed by lewd persons:" and, once having lost his innocence, outdid even the students of Padua. For, as Greene says, "as our wits be as ripe as any, so our willes are more ready than they all, to put into effect any of their licentious abuses."[117] Thus arose the famous proverb, "An Englishman Italianate is a devil incarnate." Hence the warnings against Circes by even those authors most loud in praise of travel. Lipsius bids his noble pupil beware of Italian women: " ... inter fæminas, formæ conspicuæ, sed lascivæ et procaces."[118] Turler must acknowledge "an auntient complaint made by many that our countrymen usually bring three thinges with them out of Italye: a naughty conscience, an empty purse, and a weak stomache: and many times it chaunceth so indeede." For since "youth and flourishing yeeres are most commonly employed in traveill, which of their owne course and condicion are inclined unto vice, and much more earnestly imbrace the same if it be enticed thereto," ... "many a time pleasures make a man not thinke on his returne," ... but he is caught by the songs of Mermaids, "so to returne home with shame and shame enough."[119] It was necessary also to warn the traveller against those more harmless sins which we have already mentioned: against an arrogant bearing on his return to his native land, or a vanity which prompted him at all times to show that he had been abroad, and was not like the common herd. Perhaps it was an intellectual affectation of atheism or a cultivated taste for Machiavelli with which he was inclined to startle his old-fashioned countrymen. Almost the only book Sir Edward Unton seems to have brought back with him from Venice was the _Historie of Nicolo Machiavelli_, Venice, 1537. On the title page he has written: "Macchavelli Maxima / Qui nescit dissimulare / nescit vivere / Vive et vivas / Edw. Unton. /"[120] Perhaps it was only his display of Italian clothes--"civil, because black, and comely because fitted to the body,"[121] or daintier table manners than Englishmen used which called down upon him the ridicule of his enemies. No doubt there was in the returned traveller a certain degree of condescension which made him disagreeable--especially if he happened to be a proud and insolent courtier, who attracted the Queen's notice by his sharpened wits and novelties of discourse, or if he were a vain boy of the sort that cumbered the streets of London with their rufflings and struttings. In making surmises as to whom Ascham had in his mind's eye when he said that he knew men who came back from Italy with "less learning and worse manners," I guessed that one might be Arthur Hall, the first translator of Homer into English. Hall was a promising Grecian at Cambridge, and began his translation with Ascham's encouragement.[122] Between 1563 and 1568, when Ascham was writing _The Scolemaster_, Hall, without finishing for a degree, or completing the Homer, went to Italy. It would have irritated Ascham to have a member of St John's throw over his task and his degree to go gadding. Certainly Hall's after life bore out Ascham's forebodings as to the value of foreign travel. On his return he spent a notorious existence in London until the consequences of a tavern brawl turned him out of Parliament. I might dwell for a moment on Hall's curious account of this latter affair, because it is one of the few utterances we have by an acknowledged Italianate Englishman--of a certain sort. Hall, apparently, was one of those gallants who ruffled about Elizabethan London and used "To loove to play at Dice To sware his blood and hart To face it with a Ruffins look And set his Hat athwart."[123] The humorists throw a good deal of light on such "yong Jyntelmen." So does Fleetwood, the Recorder of London, to whom they used to run when they were arrested for debt, or for killing a carman, making as their only apology, "I am a Jyntelman, and being a Jyntelman, I am not thus to be used at a slave and a colion's hands."[124] Hall, writing in the third person, in the assumed character of a friend, describes himself as "a man not wholly unlearned, with a smacke of the knowledge of diverse tongues ... furious when he is contraried ... as yourselfe is witnesse of his dealings at Rome, at Florence, in the way between that and Bollonia ... so implacable if he conceyve an injurie, as Sylla will rather be pleased with Marius, than he with his equals, in a maner for offences grown of tryffles.... Also spending more tyme in sportes, and following the same, than is any way commendable, and the lesse, bycause, I warrant you, the summes be great are dealte for." [125] This terrible person, on the 16th of December 1573, at Lothbury, in London, at a table of twelve pence a meal, supped with some merchants and a certain Melchisedech Mallerie. Dice were thrown on the board, and in the course of play Mallerie "gave the lye with harde wordes in heate to one of the players." "Hall sware (as he will not sticke to lende you an othe or two), to throw Mallerie out at the window. Here Etna smoked, daggers were a-drawing ... but the goodman lamented the case for the slaunder, that a quarrel should be in his house, ... so ... the matter was ended for this fitte." But a certain Master Richard Drake, attending on my Lord of Leicester, took pains first to warn Hall to take heed of Mallerie at play, and then to tell Mallerie that Hall said he used "lewde practices at cards." The next day at "Poules"[126] came Mallerie to Hall and "charged him very hotly, that he had reported him to be a cousiner of folkes at Mawe." Hall, far from showing that fury which he described as his characteristic, denied the charge with meekness. He said he was patient because he was bound to keep the peace for dark disturbances in the past. Mallerie said it was because he was a coward. Mallerie continued to say so for months, until before a crowd of gentlemen at the "ordinary" of one Wormes, his taunts were so unbearable that Hall crept up behind him and tried to stab him in the back. There was a general scuffle, some one held down Hall, the house grew full in a moment with Lord Zouche, gentlemen, and others, while "Mallerie with a great shreke ranne with all speede out of the doores, up a paire of stayres, and there aloft used most harde wordes againste Mr Hall." Hall, who had cut himself--and nobody else--nursed his wound indoors for some days, during which time friends brought word that Mallerie would "shewe him an Italian tricke, intending thereby to do him some secret and unlooked for mischief." Then, with "a mufle half over his face," Hall took post-horses to his home in Lincolnshire. Business called him, he tells the reader. There was no ground whatever for Mallerie to say he fled in disguise. After six months, he ventured to return to London and be gay again. He dined at "James Lumelies--the son, as it is said, of old M. Dominicke, born at Genoa, of the losse of whose nose there goes divers tales,"--and coming by a familiar gaming-house on his way back to his lodgings, he "fell to with the rest." But there is no peace for him. In comes Mallerie--and with insufferably haughty gait and countenance, brushes by. Hall tries a pleasant saunter around Poules with his friend Master Woodhouse: "comes Mallerie again, passing twice or thrice by Hall, with great lookes and extraordinary rubbing him on the elbowes, and spurning three or four times a Spaniel of Mr Woodhouses following his master and Master Hall." Hall mutters to his servants, "Jesus can you not knocke the boyes head and the wall together, sith he runnes a-bragging thus?" His three servants go out of the church by the west door: when Mallerie stalks forth they set upon him and cut him down the cheek. We will not follow the narrative through the subsequent lawsuit brought by Mallerie against Hall's servants, the trial presided over by Recorder Fleetwood, the death of Mallerie, who "departed well leanyng to the olde Father of Rome, a dad whome I have heard some say Mr Hall doth not hate" or Hall's subsequent expulsion from Parliament. This is enough to show the sort of harmless, vain braggarts some of these "Italianates" were, and how easily they acquired the reputation of being desperate fellows. Mallerie's lawyer at the trial charged Hall with "following the revenge with an Italian minde learned at Rome." Among other Italianified Cambridge men whom Ascham might well have noticed were George Acworth and William Barker. Acworth had lived abroad during Mary's reign, studying civil law in France and Italy. When Elizabeth came to the throne he was elected public orator of the University of Cambridge, but through being idle, dissolute, and a drunkard, he lost all his preferments in England.[127] Barker, or Bercher, who was educated at St John's or Christ's, was abroad at the same time as Ascham, who may have met him as Hoby did in Italy.[128] Barker seems to have been an idle person--he says that after travels "my former fancye of professenge nothinge partycularly was verye muche encreased"[129]--and a papistical one, for on the accession of Mary he came home to serve the Duke of Norfolk, whose Catholic plots he betrayed, under torture, in 1571. It was then that the Duke bitterly dubbed him an "Italianfyd Inglyschemane," equal in faithlessness to "a schamlesse Scote";[130] _i.e._ the Bishop of Ross, another witness. Edward de Vere, seventeenth Earl of Oxford, famous for his rude behaviour to Sir Philip Sidney, whom he subsequently tried to dispatch with hired assassins after the Italian manner,[131] might well have been one of the rising generation of courtiers whom Ascham so deplored. In Ascham's lifetime he was already a conspicuous gallant, and by 1571, at the age of twenty-two, he was the court favourite. The friends of the Earl of Rutland, keeping him informed of the news while he was fulfilling in Paris those heavy duties of observation which Cecil mapped out for him, announce that "There is no man of life and agility in every respect in Court, but the Earl of Oxford."[132] And a month afterwards, "Th' Erle of Oxenforde hath gotten hym a wyffe--or at the leste a wyffe hath caught hym--that is Mrs Anne Cycille, whearunto the Queen hath gyven her consent, the which hathe causyd great wypping, waling, and sorowful chere, of those that hoped to have hade that golden daye."[133] Ascham did not live to see the development of this favorite into an Italianate Englishman, but Harrison's invective against the going of noblemen's sons into Italy coincides with the return of the Earl from a foreign tour which seems to have been ill-spent. At the very time when the Queen "delighted more in his personage and his dancing and valiantness than any other,"[134] Oxford betook himself to Flanders--without licence. Though his father-in-law Burghley had him brought back to the indignant Elizabeth, the next year he set forth again and made for Italy. From Siena, on January 3rd, 1574-5, he writes to ask Burghley to sell some of his land so as to disburden him of his debts, and in reply to some warning of Burghley's that his affairs in England need attention, replies that since his troubles are so many at home, he has resolved to continue his travels.[135] Eight months afterwards, from Italy, he begs Burghley's influence to procure him a licence to continue his travels a year longer, stating as his reason an exemplary wish to see more of Germany. (In another letter also[136] he assures Cecil that he means to acquaint himself with Sturmius--that educator of youth so highly approved of by Ascham.) "As to Italy, he is glad he has seen it, but cares not ever to see it again, unless to serve his prince or country." The reason they have not heard from him this past summer is that his letters were sent back because of the plague in the passage. He did not know this till his late return to Venice. He has been grieved with a fever. The letter concludes with a mention that he has taken up of Baptista Nigrone 500 crowns, which he desires repaid from the sale of his lands, and a curt thanks for the news of his wife's delivery.[137] From Paris, after an interval of six months, he declares his pleasure at the news of his being a father, but makes no offer to return to England. Rather he intends to go back to Venice. He "may pass two or three months in seeing Constantinople and some part of Greece."[138] However, Burghley says, "I wrote to Pariss to hym to hasten hym homewards," and in April 1576, he landed at Dover in an exceedingly sulky mood. He refused to see his wife, and told Burghley he might take his daughter into his own house again, for he was resolved "to be rid of the cumber."[139] He accused his father-in-law of holding back money due to him, although Burghley states that Oxford had in one year £5700.[140] Considering that Robert Sidney, afterwards Earl of Leicester, had only £1OO a year for a tour abroad,[141] and that Sir Robert Dallington declares £200 to be quite enough for a gentleman studying in France or Italy--including pay for a servant--and that any more would be "superfluous and to his hurte,"[142] it will be seen that the Earl of Oxford had £5500 "to his hurte." Certain results of his travel were pleasing to his sovereign, however. For he was the first person to import to England "gloves, sweete bagges, a perfumed leather Jerkin, and other pleasant things."[143] The Queen was so proud of his present of a pair of perfumed gloves, trimmed with "foure Tufts or Roses of coloured Silk" that she was "pictured with those Gloves upon her hands, and for many yeeres after, it was called the Earle of Oxford's perfume."[144] His own foreign and fashionable apparel was ridiculed by Gabriel Harvey, in the much-quoted description of an Italianate Englishman, beginning: "A little apish hat couched faste to the pate, like an oyster."[145] Arthur Hall and the Earl of Oxford will perhaps serve to show that many young men pointed out as having returned the worse for their liberty to see the world, were those who would have been very poor props to society had they never left their native land. Weak and vain striplings of entirely English growth escaped the comment attracted by a sinner with strange garments and new oaths. For in those garments themselves lay an offence to the commonwealth. I need only refer to the well-known jealousy, among English haberdashers and milliners, of the superior craft of Continental workmen, behind whom English weavers lagged: Henry the Eighth used to have to wear hose cut out of pieces of cloth--on that leg of which he was so proud--unless "by great chance there came a paire of Spanish silke stockings from Spaine."[146] Knit worsted stockings were not made in England till 1554, when an apprentice "chanced to see a pair of knit worsted stockings in the lodging of an Italian merchant that came from Mantua."[147] Harrison's description of England breathes an animosity to foreign clothes, plainly founded on commercial jealousy: "Neither was it ever merrier in England than when an Englishman was known abroad by his own cloth, and contented himself at home with his fine carsey hosen, and a mean slop: his coat, gown, and cloak of brown, blue, or puke, with some pretty furniture of velvet or of fur, and a doublet of sad tawny, or black velvet, or other comely silk, without such cuts and garish colours, as are worn in these days, and never brought in but by the consent of the French, who think themselves the gayest men when they have most diversities of rags and change of colours about them."[148] Wrapped up with economic acrimony there was a good deal of the hearty old English hatred of a Frenchman, or a Spaniard, or any foreigner, which was always finding expression. Either it was the 'prentices who rioted, or some rude fellow who pulls up beside the carriage of the Spanish ambassador, snatches the ambassador's hat off his head and "rides away with it up the street as fast as he could, the people going on and laughing at it,"[149] or it was the Smithfield officers deputed to cut swords of improper length, who pounced upon the French ambassador because his sword was longer than the statutes allowed. "He was in a great fury.... Her Majestie is greatly offended with the officers, in that they wanted judgement."[150] There was also a dislike of the whole new order of things, of which the fashion for travel was only a phase: dislike of the new courtier who scorned to live in the country, surrounded by a huge band of family servants, but preferred to occupy small lodgings in London, and join in the pleasures of metropolitan life. The theatre, the gambling resorts, the fence-schools, the bowling alleys, and above all the glamor of the streets and the crowd were charms only beginning to assert themselves in Elizabethan England. But the popular voice was loud against the nobles who preferred to spend their money on such things instead of on improving their estates, and who squandered on fine clothes what used to be spent on roast beef for their retainers. Greene's _Quip for an Upstart Courtier_ parodies what the new and refined Englishman would say:-- "The worlds are chaungde, and men are growne to more wit, and their minds to aspire after more honourable thoughts: they were dunces in diebus illis, they had not the true use of gentility, and therefore they lived meanely and died obscurely: but now mennes capacities are refined. Time hath set a new edge on gentlemen's humours and they show them as they should be: not like gluttons as their fathers did, in chines of beefe and almes to the poore, but in velvets, satins, cloth of gold, pearle: yea, pearle lace, which scarce Caligula wore on his birthday."[151] On the whole, we may say that the objections to foreign travel rose from a variety of motives. Ascham doubtless knew genuine cases of young men spoiled by too much liberty, and there were surely many obnoxious boys who bragged of their "foreign vices." Insular prejudice, jealousy and conservatism, hating foreign influence, drew attention to these bad examples. Lastly, there was another element in the protest against foreign travel, which grew more and more strong towards the end of the reign of Elizabeth and the beginning of James the First's, the hatred of Italy as the stronghold of the Roman Catholic Church, and fear of the Inquisition. Warnings against the Jesuits are a striking feature of the next group of Instructions to Travellers. * * * * * CHAPTER IV PERILS FOR PROTESTANT TRAVELLERS The quickening of animosity between Protestants and Catholics in the last quarter of the sixteenth century had a good deal to do with the censure of travel which we have been describing. In their fear and hatred of the Roman Catholic countries, Englishmen viewed with alarm any attractions, intellectual or otherwise, which the Continent had for their sons. They had rather have them forego the advantages of a liberal education than run the risk of falling body and soul into the hands of the Papists. The intense, fierce patriotism which flared up to meet the Spanish Armada almost blighted the genial impulse of travel for study's sake. It divided the nations again, and took away the common admiration for Italy which had made the young men of the north all rush together there. We can no longer imagine an Englishman like Selling coming to the great Politian at Bologna and grappling him to his heart--"arctissima sibi conjunxit amicum familiaritate,"[152] as the warm humanistic phrase has it. In the seventeenth century Politian would be a "contagious Papist," using his charm to convert men to Romanism, and Selling would be a "true son of the Church of England," railing at Politian for his "debauch'd and Popish principles." The Renaissance had set men travelling to Italy as to the flower of the world. They had scarcely started before the Reformation called it a place of abomination. Lord Burghley, who in Elizabeth's early days had been so bent on a foreign education for his eldest son, had drilled him in languages and pressed him to go to Italy,[153] at the end of his long life left instructions to his children: "Suffer not thy sonnes to pass the Alps, for they shall learn nothing there but pride, blasphemy, and atheism. And if by travel they get a few broken languages, that shall profit them nothing more than to have one meat served on divers dishes."[154] The mother of Francis Bacon affords a good example of the Puritan distrust of going "beyond seas." She could by no means sympathize with her son Anthony's determination to become versed in foreign affairs, for that led him into intimacy with Roman Catholics. All through his prolonged stay abroad she chafed and fretted, while Anthony perversely remained in France, gaining that acquaintance with valuable correspondents, spies, and intelligencers which later made him one of the greatest authorities in England on continental politics. He had a confidential servant, a Catholic named Lawson, whom he sent over to deliver some important secret news to Lord Burghley. Lady Bacon, in her fear lest Lawson's company should pervert her son's religion and morals, had the man arrested and detained in England. His anxious master sent another man to plead with his mother for Lawson's release; but in vain. The letter of this messenger to Anthony will serve to show the vehemence of anti-Catholic feelings in a British matron in 1589. "Upon my arrival at Godombery my Lady used me courteously until such time I began to move her for Mr Lawson; and, to say the truth, for yourself; being so much transported with your abode there that she let not to say that you are a traitor to God and your country; you have undone her; you seek her death; and when you have that you seek for, you shall have but a hundred pounds more than you have now. "She is resolved to procure Her Majesty's letter to force you to return; and when that should be, if Her Majesty give you your right or desert, she should clap you up in prison. She cannot abide to hear of you, as she saith, nor of the other especially, and told me plainly she should be the worse this month for my coming without you, and axed me why you could not have come from thence as well as myself. "She saith you are hated of all the chiefest on that side and cursed of God in all your actions, since Mr Lawson's being with you.... "When you have received your provision, make your repair home again, lest you be a means to shorten her days, for she told me the grief of mind received daily by your stay will be her end; also saith her jewels be spent for you, and that she borrowed the last money of seven several persons. "Thus much I must confess unto you for a conclusion, that I have never seen nor never shall see a wise Lady, an honourable woman, a mother, more perplexed for her son's absence than I have seen that honourable dame for yours."[155] It was not only a general hatred of Roman Catholics which made staunch Protestants anxious to detain their sons from foreign travel towards the end of Elizabeth's reign, but a very lively and well-grounded fear of the Inquisition and the Jesuits. When England was at war with Spain, any Englishman caught on Spanish territory was a lawful prisoner for ransom; and since Spanish territory meant Sicily, Naples, and Milan, and Rome was the territory of Spain's patron, the Pope, Italy was far from safe for Englishmen and Protestants. Even when peace with Spain was declared, on the accession of James I., the spies of the Inquisition were everywhere on the alert to find some slight pretext for arresting travellers and to lure them into the dilemma of renouncing their faith, or being imprisoned and tortured. There is a letter, for instance, to Salisbury from one of his agents on the Continent, concerning overtures made to him by the Pope's nuncio, to decoy some Englishman of note--young Lord Roos or Lord Cranborne--into papal dominions, where he might be seized and detained, in hope of procuring a release for Baldwin the Jesuit.[156] William Bedell, about to go to Italy as chaplain to Sir Henry Wotton, the Ambassador to Venice, very anxiously asks a friend what route is best to Italy. "For it is told me that the Inquisition is in Millaine, and that if a man duck not low at every Cross, he may be cast in prison.... Send me, I pray you, a note of the chief towns to be passed through. I care not for seeing places, but to go thither the shortest and safest way."[157] Bedell's fears were not without reason, for the very next year occurred the arrest of the unfortunate Mr Mole, whose case was one of the sensations of the day. Fuller, in his _Church History_, under the year 1607, records how-- "About this time Mr Molle, Governour to the Lord Ross in his travails, began his unhappy journey beyond the Seas.... He was appointed by Thomas, Earl of Exeter, to be Governour in Travail to his Grandchilde, the Lord Ross, undertaking the charge with much reluctance (as a presage of ill successe) and with a profession, and a resolution not to passe the Alpes. "But a Vagari took the Lord Ross to go to Rome, though some conceive this notion had its root in more mischievous brains. In vain doth Mr Molle dissuade him, grown now so wilfull, he would in some sort govern his Governour. What should this good man doe? To leave him were to desert his trust, to goe along with him were to endanger his own life. At last his affections to his charge so prevailed against his judgment, that unwillingly willing he went with him. Now, at what rate soever they rode to Rome, the fame of their coming came thither before them; so that no sooner had they entered their Inne, but Officers asked for Mr Molle, took and carried him to the Inquisition-House, where he remained a prisoner whilest the Lord Ross was daily feasted, favoured, entertained: so that some will not stick to say, That here he changed no Religion for a bad one."[158] No threats could persuade Mr Mole to renounce his heresy, and though many attempts were made to exchange him for some Jesuits caught in England, he lay for thirty years in the prison of the Inquisition, and died there, at the age of eighty-one. It was part of the policy of the Jesuits, according to Sir Henry Wotton, to thus separate their tutors from young men, and then ply the pupils with attentions and flattery, with a view to persuading them into the Church of Rome. Not long after the capture of Mole, Wotton writes to Salisbury of another case of the same sort. "My Lord Wentworthe[159] on the 18th of May coming towards Venice ... accompanied with his brother-in-law Mr Henry Crafts, one Edward Lichefeld, their governor, and some two or three other English, through Bologna, as they were there together at supper the very night of their arrival, came up two Dominican Friars, with the sergeants of the town, and carried thence the foresaid Lichefeld, with all his papers, into the prison of the Inquisition where he yet remaineth.[160] Thus standeth this accident in the bare circumstances thereof, not different, save only in place, from that of Mr Mole at Rome. And doubtlessly (as we collect now upon the matter) if Sir John Harington[161] had either gone the Roman Journey, or taken the ordinary way in his remove thitherwards out of Tuscany, the like would have befallen his director also, a gentleman of singular sufficiency;[162] for it appeareth a new piece of council (infused into the Pope by his artisans the Jesuits) to separate by some device their guides from our young noblemen (about whom they are busiest) and afterwards to use themselves (for aught I can yet hear) with much kindness and security, but yet with restraint (when they come to Rome) of departing thence without leave; which form was held both with the Lords Rosse and St Jhons, and with this Lord Wentworthe and his brother-in-law at their being there. And we have at the present also a like example or two in Barons of the Almaign nation of our religion, whose governors are imprisoned, at Rome and Ferrara; so as the matter seemeth to pass into a rule. And albeit thitherto those before named of our own be escaped out of that Babylon (as far as I can penetrate) without any bad impressions, yet surely it appeareth very dangerous to leave our travellers in this contingency; especially being dispersed in the middle towns of Italy (whither the language doth most draw them) certain nimble pleasant wits in quality of interceptors, who deliver over to their correspondents at Rome the dispositions of gentlemen before they arrive, and so subject them both to attraction by argument, and attraction by humour."[163] Wotton did not overrate the persuasiveness of the Jesuits. Lord Roos became a papist.[164] Wotton's own nephew, Pickering, had been converted in Spain, on his death-bed, although he had been, according to the Jesuit records, "most tenacious of the corrupt religion which from his tender youth he had imbibed."[165] In his travels "through the greater part of France, Italy, Spain and Germany for the purpose of learning both the languages and the manners, an ancient custom among northern nations, ... he conferred much upon matters of faith with many persons, led either by inclination or curiosity, and being a clever man would omit no opportunity of gaining information."[166] Through this curiosity he made friends with Father Walpole of the Jesuit College at Valladolid, and falling into a mortal sickness in that city, Walpole had come to comfort him. Another conversion of the same sort had been made by Father Walpole at Valladolid, the year before. Sir Thomas Palmer came to Spain both for the purpose of learning the language and seeing the country. "Visiting the English College, he treated familiarly with the Fathers, and began to entertain thoughts in his heart of the Catholic religion." While cogitating, he was "overtaken by a sudden and mortal sickness. Therefore, perceiving himself to be in danger of death, he set to work to reconcile himself with the Catholic Church. Having received all the last Sacraments he died, and was honourably interred with Catholic rites, to the great amazement also of the English Protestants, who in great numbers were in the city, and attended the funeral."[167] There is nothing surprising in these death-bed conversions, when we think of the pressure brought to bear on a traveller in a strange land. As soon as he fell sick, the host of his inn sent for a priest, and if the invalid refused to see a ghostly comforter that fact discovered his Protestantism. Whereupon the physician and apothecary, the very kitchen servants, were forbidden by the priest to help him, unless he renounced his odious Reformed Religion and accepted Confession, the Sacrament, and Extreme Unction. If he died without these his body was not allowed in consecrated ground, but was buried in the highway like a very dog. It is no wonder if sometimes there was a conversion of an Englishman, lonely and dying, with no one to cling to.[168] We must remember, also, how many reputed Protestants had only outwardly conformed to the Church of England for worldly reasons. They could not enter any profession or hold any public office unless they did. But their hearts were still in the old faith, and they counted on returning to it at the very end.[169] Sometimes the most sincere of Protestants in sickness "relapsed into papistry." For the Protestant religion was new, but the Roman Church was the Church of their fathers. In the hour of death men turn to old affections. And so in several ways one can account for Sir Francis Cottington, Ambassador to Spain, who fell ill, confessed himself a Catholic; and when he recovered, once more became a Protestant.[170] The mere force of environment, according to Sir Charles Cornwallis, Ambassador to Spain from 1605-9, was enough to change the religion of impressionable spirits. His reports to England show a constant struggle to keep his train of young gentlemen true to their national Church.[171] The Spanish Court was then at Valladolid, in which city flourished an especially strong College of Jesuits. Thence Walpole, and other dangerous persuaders, made sallies upon Cornwallis's fold. At first the Ambassador was hopeful:-- "Much hath that Creswell and others of that Societie" (the Jesuits) "bestir'd themselves here in Conference and Persuasion with the Gentlemen that came to attend his Excellencie[172] and do secretly bragg of their much prevailinge. Two of myne own Followers I have found corrupted, the one in such sorte as he refused to come to Prayers, whom I presently discharged; the other being an honest and sober young Gentleman, and one that denieth not to be present both at Prayers and Preachinge, I continue still, having good hope that I shall in time reduce him."[173] But within a month he has to report the conversion of Sir Thomas Palmer, and within another month, the loss of even his own chaplain. "Were God pleased that onlie young and weak ones did waver, it were more tollerable," he laments, "but I am put in some doubte of my Chaplaine himself." He had given the chaplain--one Wadesworth, a good Cambridge Protestant--leave of absence to visit the University of Salamanca. In a week the chaplain wrote for a prolongation of his stay, making discourse of "a strange Tempest that came upon him in the way, of visible Fire that fell both before and behind him, of an Expectation of present Death, and of a Vowe he made in that time of Danger." This manner of writing, and reports from others that he has been a secret visitor to the College of the Jesuits, make Cornwallis fear the worst. "I should think him borne in a most unfortunate hower," he wails, "to become the occasion of such a Scandall."[174] But his fears were realized. The chaplain never came back. He had turned Romanist. The reasons for the headway of Catholicism in the reign of James I. do not concern us here. To explain the agitated mood of our Precepts for Travellers, it is necessary only to call attention to the fact that Protestantism was just then losing ground, through the devoted energy of the Jesuits. Even in England, they were able to strike admiration into the mind of youth, and to turn its ardour to their own purposes. But in Spain and in Italy, backed by their impressive environment and surrounded by the visible power of the Roman Church, they were much more potent. The English Jesuits in Rome--Oxford scholars, many of them--engaged the attentions of such of their university friends or their countrymen who came to see Italy, offering to show them the antiquities, to be guides and interpreters.[175] By some such means the traveller was lured into the company of these winning companions, till their spiritual and intellectual power made an indelible impression on him.[176] How much the English Government feared the influence of the Jesuits upon young men abroad may be seen by the increasing strictness of licences for travellers. The ordinary licence which everyone but a known merchant was obliged to obtain from a magistrate before he could leave England, in 1595 gave permission with the condition that the traveller "do not haunte or resorte unto the territories or dominions of any foreine prince or potentate not being with us in league or amitie, nor yet wittinglie kepe companie with any parson or parsons evell affected to our State."[177] But the attempt to keep Englishmen out of Italy was generally fruitless, and the proviso was too frequently disregarded. Lord Zouche grumbled exceedingly at the limitations of his licence. "I cannot tell," he writes to Burghley in 1591, "whether I shall do well or no to touch that part of the licence which prohibiteth me in general to travel in some countries, and companioning divers persons.... This restraint is truly as an imprisonment, for I know not how to carry myself; I know not whether I may pass upon the Lords of Venis, and the Duke of Florens' territories, because I know not if they have league with her Majesty or no."[178] Doubtless Bishop Hall was right when he declared that travellers commonly neglected the cautions about the king's enemies, and that a limited licence was only a verbal formality.[179] King James had occasion to remark that "many of the Gentry, and others of Our Kingdom, under pretence of travel for their experience, do pass the Alps, and not contenting themselves to remain in Lombardy or Tuscany, to gain the language there, do daily flock to Rome, out of vanity and curiosity to see the Antiquities of that City; where falling into the company of Priests and Jesuits ... return again into their countries, both averse to Religion and ill-affected to Our State and Government."[180] To come to our Instructions for Travellers, as given in the reign of James I., they abound, as we would expect, in warnings against the Inquisition and the Jesuits. Sir Robert Dallington, in his _Method for Travell_,[181] gives first place to the question of remaining steadfast in one's religion: "Concerning the Traveliers religion, I teach not what it should be, (being out of my element;) only my hopes are, he be of the religion here established: and my advice is he be therein well settled, and that howsoever his imagination shall be carried in the voluble Sphere of divers men's discourses; yet his inmost thoughts like lines in a circle shall alwaies concenter in this immoveable point, not to alter his first faith: for that I knowe, that as all innovation is dangerous in a state; so is this change in the little commonwealth of a man. And it is to be feared, that he which is of one religion in his youth, and of another in his manhood, will in his age be of neither.... "I will instance in a Gentleman I knew abroade, of an overt and free nature Zealously forward in the religion hee carried from home, while he was in France, who had not bene twentie dayes in Italy, but he was as farre gone on the contrary Byas, and since his returne is turned againe. Now what should one say of such men but as the Philosopher saith of a friend, 'Amicus omnium, Amicus nullorum,' A professor of both, a believer in neither.[182] "The next Caveat is, to beware how he heare anything repugnant to his religion: for as I have tyed his tongue; so must I stop his eares, least they be open to the smooth incantations of an insinuating seducer, or the suttle arguments of a sophisticall adversarie. To this effect I must precisely forbid him the fellowship or companie of one sort of people in generall: these are the Jesuites, underminders and inveiglers of greene wits, seducers of men in matter of faith, and subverters of men in matters of State, making of both a bad christian, and worse subject. These men I would have my Travueller never heare, except in the Pulpit; for[183] being eloquent, they speake excellent language; and being wise, and therefore best knowing how to speake to best purpose, they seldome or never handle matter of controversie." Our best authority in this period of travelling is Fynes Moryson, whose _Precepts for Travellers_[184] are particularly full. Moryson is well known as one of the most experienced travellers of the late Elizabethan era. On a travelling Fellowship from Peterhouse College, Cambridge, in 1591-1595 he made a tour of Europe, when the Continent was bristling with dangers for Englishmen. Spain and the Inquisition infected Italy and the Low Countries; France was full of desperate marauding soldiers; Germany nourished robbers and free-booters in every forest. It was the particular delight of Fynes Moryson to run into all these dangers and then devise means of escaping them. He never swerved from seeing whatever his curiosity prompted him to, no matter how forbidden and perilous was the venture. Disguised as a German he successfully viewed the inside of a Spanish fort;[185] in the character of a Frenchman he entered the jaws of the Jesuit College at Rome.[186] He made his way through German robbers by dressing as a poor Bohemian, without cloak or sword, with his hands in his hose, and his countenance servile.[187] His triumphs were due not so much to a dashing and magnificent bravery, as to a nice ingenuity. For instance, when he was plucked bare by the French soldiers of even his inner doublet, in which he had quilted his money, he was by no means left penniless, for he had concealed some gold crowns in a box of "stinking ointment" which the soldiers threw down in disgust.[188] His _Precepts for Travellers_ are characteristically canny. Never tell anyone you can swim, he advises, because in case of shipwreck "others trusting therein take hold of you, and make you perish with them."[189] Upon duels and resentment of injury in strange lands he throws cold common sense. "I advise young men to moderate their aptnesse to quarrell, lest they perish with it. We are not all like Amadis or Rinalldo, to incounter an hoste of men."[190] Very thoughtful is this paragraph on the night's lodging: "In all Innes, but especially in suspected places, let him bolt or locke the doore of his chamber: let him take heed of his chamber fellows, and always have his Sword by his side, or by his bed-side; let him lay his purse under his pillow, but always foulded with his garters, or some thing hee first useth in the morning, lest hee forget to put it up before hee goe out of his chamber. And to the end he may leave nothing behind him in his Innes, let the visiting of his chamber, and gathering his things together, be the last thing he doth, before hee put his foote into the stirrup."[191] The whole of the Precepts is marked by this extensive caution. Since, as Moryson truly remarks, travellers meet with more dangers than pleasures, it is better to travel alone than with a friend. "In places of danger, for difference of Religion or proclaimed warre, whosoever hath his Country-man or friend for his companion doth much increase his danger, as well for the confession of his companion, if they chance to be apprehended, as for other accidents, since he shall be accomptable and drawne into danger, as well as by his companion's words or deeds, as by his owne. And surely there happening many dangers and crosses by the way, many are of such intemperate affections, as they not only diminish the comfort they should have from this consort, but even as Dogs, hurt by a stone, bite him that is next, not him that cast the stone, so they may perhaps out of these crosses grow to bitterness of words betweene themselves."[192] Instead of a companion, therefore, let the traveller have a good book under his pillow, to beguile the irksome solitude of Inns--"alwaies bewaring that it treat not of the Commonwealth, the Religion thereof, or any Subject that may be dangerous to him."[193] Chance companions of the road should not be trusted. Lest the traveller should become too well known to them, let him always declare that he is going no further than the next city. Arrived there, he may give them the slip and start with fresh consorts. Moryson himself, when forced to travel in company, chose Germans, kindly honest gentlemen, of his own religion. He could speak German well enough to pass as one of them, but in fear lest even a syllable might betray his nationality to the sharp spies at the city gates, he made an agreement with his companions that when he was forced to answer questions they should interrupt him as soon as possible, and take the words out of his mouth, as though in rudeness. If he were discovered they were to say they knew him not, and flee away.[194] Moryson advised the traveller to see Rome and Naples first, because those cities were the most dangerous. Men who stay in Padua some months, and afterwards try Rome, may be sure that the Jesuits and priests there are informed, not only of their coming, but of their condition and appearance by spies in Padua. It were advisable to change one's dwelling-place often, so to avoid the inquiries of priests. At Easter, in Rome, Moryson found the fullest scope for his genius. A few days before Easter a priest came to his lodgings and took the inmates' names in writing, to the end that they might receive the Sacrament with the host's family. Moryson went from Rome on the Tuesday before Easter, came to Siena on Good Friday, and upon Easter eve "(pretending great business)" darted to Florence for the day. On Monday morning he dodged to Pisa, and on the folowing, back to Siena. "Thus by often changing places I avoyded the Priests inquiring after mee, which is most dangerous about Easter time, when all men receive the Sacrament."[195] The conception of travel one gathers from Fynes Moryson is that of a very exciting form of sport, a sort of chase across Europe, in which the tourist was the fox, doubling and turning and diving into cover, while his friends in England laid three to one on his death. So dangerous was travel at this time, that wagers on the return of venturous gentlemen became a fashionable form of gambling.[196] The custom emanated from Germany, Moryson explains, and was in England first used at Court and among "very Noble men." Moryson himself put out £100 to receive £300 on his return; but by 1595, when he contemplated a second journey, he would not repeat the wager, because ridiculous voyages were by that time undertaken for insurance money by bankrupts and by men of base conditions. Sir Henry Wotton was a celebrated product of foreign education in these perilous times. As a student of political economy in 1592 he led a precarious existence, visiting Rome with the greatest secrecy, and in elaborate disguise. For years abroad he drank in tales of subtlety and craft from old Italian courtiers, till he was well able to hold his own in intrigue. By nature imaginative and ingenious, plots and counterplots appealed to his artistic ability, and as English Ambassador to Venice, he was never tired of inventing them himself or attributing them to others. It was this characteristic of Jacobean politicians which Ben Jonson satirized in Sir Politick-Would-be, who divulged his knowledge of secret service to Peregrine in Venice. Greatly excited by the mention of a certain priest in England, Sir Politick explains: "He has received weekly intelligence Upon my knowledge, out of the Low Countries, For all parts of the world, in cabbages; And these dispensed again to ambassadors, In oranges, musk-melons, apricocks--, Lemons, pome-citrons, and such-like: sometimes In Colchester oysters, and your Selsey cockles."[197] Later on Sir Politick gives instructions for travellers: "Some few particulars I have set down, Only for this meridian, fit to be known Of your crude traveller.... First, for your garb, it must be grave and serious, Very reserv'd and lock'd; not tell a secret On any terms; not to your father: scarce A fable, but with caution: make sure choice Both of your company, and discourse; beware You never speak a truth-- PEREGRINE. How! SIR P. Not to strangers, For those be they you must converse with most; Others I would not know, sir, but at distance, So as I still might be a saver in them: You shall have tricks eke passed upon you hourly. And then, for your religion, profess none, But wonder at the diversity of all."[198] Sir Henry Wotton's letter to Milton must not be left out of account of Jacobean advice to travellers. It is brief, but very characteristic, for it breathes the atmosphere of plots and caution. Admired for his great experience and long sojourn abroad, in his old age, as Provost of Eton, Sir Henry's advice was much sought after by fathers about to send their sons on the Grand Tour. Forty-eight years after he himself set forth beyond seas, he passed on to young John Milton "in procinct of his travels," his favourite bit of wisdom, learned from a Roman courtier well versed in the ways of Italy: "I pensieri stretti e il viso sciolto."[199] Milton did not follow this Machiavellian precept to keep his "thoughts close and his countenance loose," as Wotton translates it,[200] and was soon marked by the Inquisition; but he was proud of being advised by Sir Henry Wotton, and boasted of the "elegant letter" and "exceedingly useful precepts" which the Provost bestowed on him at his departure for Italy.[201] So much for the admonitory side of instructions for travellers at the opening of the seventeenth century. Italy, we see, was still feared as a training-ground for "green wits." Bishop Hall succeeded Ascham in denouncing the travel of young men who professed "to seek the glory of a perfect breeding, and the perfection of that which we call civility." Allowed to visit the Continent at an early age, "these lapwings, that go from under the wing of their dam with the shell on their heads, run wild." They hasten southwards, where in Italy they view the "proud majesty of pompous ceremonies, wherewith the hearts of children and fools are easily taken."[202] To the persuasive power of the Jesuits Hall devotes several pages, and makes an impassioned plea to the authorities to prevent Englishmen from travelling. Parents could be easily alarmed by any possibility of their sons' conversion to Romanism. For the penalties of being a Roman Catholic in England were enough to make an ambitious father dread recusancy in his son. Though a gentleman or a nobleman ran no risk of being hanged, quartered, disembowelled and subjected to such punishments as were dealt out to active and dangerous priests, he was regarded as a traitor if he acknowledged himself to be a Romanist. At any moment of anti-Catholic excitement he might be arrested and clapped into prison. Drearier than prison must have been his social isolation. For he was cut off from his generation and had no real part in the life of England. Under the laws of James he was denied any share in the Government, could hold no public office, practise no profession. Neither law nor medicine, nor parliament nor the army, nor the university, was open to him. Banished from London and the Court, shunned by his contemporaries, he lurked in some country house, now miserably lonely, now plagued by officers in search of priests. At last, generally, he went abroad, and wandered out his life, an exile, despised by his countrymen, who met him hanging on at foreign Courts; or else he sought a monastery and was buried there. To be sure, the laws against recusants were not uniformly enforced; papistry in favourites and friends of the king was winked at, and the rich noblemen, who were able to pay fines, did not suffer much. But the fact remains that for the average gentleman to turn Romanist generally meant to drop out of the world. "Mr Lewknor," writes Father Gerard to Father Owen,[203] "growing of late to a full resolution of entering the Society (of Jesus), and being so much known in England and in the Court as he is, so that he could not be concealed in the English College at Rome; and his father, as he considered, being morally sure to lose his place,[204] which is worth unto him £1000 a year, he therefore will come privately to Liege, where I doubt not but to keep him wholly unknown." * * * * * CHAPTER V THE INFLUENCE OF THE FRENCH ACADEMIES The admonitions of their elders did not keep young men from going to Italy, but as the seventeenth century advanced the conditions they found there made that country less attractive than France. The fact that the average Englishman was a Protestant divided him from his compeers in Italy and damped social intercourse. He was received courteously and formally by the Italian princes, perhaps, for the sake of his political uncle or cousin in England, but inner distrust and suspicion blighted any real friendship. Unless the Englishman was one of those who had a secret, half-acknowledged allegiance to Romanism, there could not, in the age of the Puritans, be much comfortable affection between him and the Italians. The beautiful youth, John Milton, as the author of excellent Latin verse, was welcomed into the literary life of Florence, to be sure, and there were other unusual cases, but the typical traveller of Stuart times was the young gentleman who was sent to France to learn the graces, with a view to making his fortune at Court, even as his widowed mother sent George Villiers, afterwards Duke of Buckingham. The Englishmen who travelled for "the complete polishing of their parts" continued to visit Italy, to satisfy their curiosity, but it was rather in the mood of the sight-seer. Only malcontents, at odds with their native land, like Bothwell, or the Earl of Arundel, or Leicester's disinherited son, made prolonged residence in Italy. Aspiring youth, seeking a social education, for the most part hurried to France. For it was not only a sense of being surrounded by enemies which during the seventeenth century somewhat weakened the Englishman's allegiance to Italy, but the increasing attractiveness of another country. By 1616 it was said of France that "Unto no other countrie, so much as unto this, doth swarme and flow yearly from all Christian nations, such a multitude, and concourse of young Gentlemen, Marchants, and other sorts of men: some, drawen from their Parentes bosoms by desire of learning; some, rare Science, or new conceites; some by pleasure; and others allured by lucre and gain.... But among all other Nations, there cometh not such a great multitude to Fraunce from any Country, as doth yearely from this Isle (England), both of Gentlemen, Students, Marchants, and others."[205] Held in peace by Henry of Navarre, France began to be a happier place than Italy for the Englishman abroad. Germany was impossible, because of the Thirty Years' War; and Spain, for reasons which we shall see later on, was not inviting. Though nominally Roman Catholic, France was in fact half Protestant. Besides, the French Court was great and gay, far outshining those of the impoverished Italian princes. It suited the gallants of the Stuart period, who found the grave courtesy of the Italians rather slow. Learning, for which men once had travelled into Italy, was no longer confined there. Nor did the Cavaliers desire exact classical learning. A knowledge of mythology, culled from French translations, was sufficient. Accomplishments, such as riding, fencing, and dancing, were what chiefly helped them, it appeared, to make their way at Court or at camp. And the best instruction in these accomplishments had shifted from Italy to France. A change had come over the ideal of a gentleman--a reaction from the Tudor enthusiasm for letters. A long time had gone by since Henry VIII. tried to make his children as learned as Erasmus, and had the most erudite scholars fetched from Oxford and Cambridge to direct the royal nursery. The somewhat moderated esteem in which book-learning was held in the household of Charles I. may be seen in a letter of the Earl of Newcastle, governor to Prince Charles,[206] who writes to his pupil: "I would not have you too studious, for too much contemplation spoils action, and Virtue consists in that." The Prince's model is to be the Bishop of Chichester, his tutor, who "hath no pedantry in him: his learning he makes right use of, neither to trouble himself with it or his friends: ... reades men as well as books: ... is travell'd, which you shall perceive by his wisdome and fashion more than by his relations; and in a word strives as much discreetly to hide the scholler in him, as other men's follies studies to shew it: and is a right gentleman."[207] Of pedantry, however, there never seems to have been any danger in Court circles, either in Tudor or Stuart days. It took constant exhortations to make the majority of noblemen's sons learn anything at all out of books. For centuries the marks of a gentleman had been bravery, courtesy and a good seat in the saddle, and it was not to be supposed that a sudden fashionable enthusiasm for literature could change all that. Ascham had declared that the Elizabethan young bloods thought it shameful to be learned because the "Jentlemen of France" were not so.[208] When with the general relaxation of high effort which appeared in so many ways at the Court of James I., the mastery of Greek authors was no longer an ideal of the courtier, the Jacobean gallant was hardly more intellectual than the mediæval page. Henry Peacham, in 1623, described noblemen's flagging faith in a university education. They sent their sons to Oxford or Cambridge at an early age, and if the striplings did not immediately lay hold on philosophy, declared that they had no aptitude for learning, and removed them to a dancing school. "These young things," as he calls the Oxford students "of twelve, thirteene, or foureteene, that have no more care than to expect the next Carrier, and where to sup on Fridayes and Fasting nights" find "such a disproportion betweene Aristotles Categories, and their childish capacities, that what together with the sweetnesse of libertie, varietie of companie, and so many kinds of recreation in towne and fields abroad," they give over any attempt to understand "the crabbed grounds of Arts." Whereupon, the parents, "if they perceive any wildnesse or unstayednesse in their children, are presently in despaire, and out of all hope of them for ever prooving Schollers, or fit for anything else; neither consider the nature of youth, nor the effect of time, the Physitian of all. But to mend the matter, send them either to the Court to serve as Pages, or into France and Italy to see fashions, and mend their manners, where they become ten times worse."[209] The influence of France would not be towards books, certainly. Brave, gallant, and magnificent were the Gallic gentlemen; but not learned. Reading made them positively ill: "la tête leur tourne de lire," as Brézé confessed.[210] Scorning an indoor sedentary life, they left all civil offices to the bourgeoisie, and devoted themselves exclusively to war. As the Vicomte D'Avenel has crisply put it: "It would have seemed as strange to see a person of high rank the Treasurer of France, the Controller of Finance, or the Rector of a University, as it would be to see him a cloth-merchant or maker of crockery.... The poorest younger son of an ancient family, who would not disdain to engage himself as a page to a nobleman, or as a common soldier, would have thought himself debased by accepting the post of secretary to an ambassador."[211] Brute force was still considered the greatest power in the world, even when Sully was Conseiller d'Etat, though divining spirits like Eustache Deschamps had declared that the day would come when serving-men would rule France by their wits, all because the noblesse would not learn letters.[212] In vain the wise Bras-de-Fer warned his generation that glory and strength of limb were of short duration, while knowledge was the only immortal quality.[213] As long as parents saw that the honours at Court went to handsome horsemen, they thought it mistaken policy to waste money on book-learning for their sons. When a boy came from the university to Court, he found himself eclipsed by young pages, who scarcely knew how to read, but had killed their man in a duel, and danced to perfection.[214] A martial training, with physical accomplishments, was the most effective, apparently. The martial type which France evolved dazzled other nations, and it is not surprising that under the Stuarts, who had inherited French ways, the English Court was particularly open to French ideals. Our directions for travellers reflect the change from the typical Elizabethan courtier, "somewhat solemn, coy, big and dangerous of look," to the easy manners of the cavalier. _A Method for Travell_, written while Elizabeth was still on the throne, extols Italian conduct. "I would rather," it says of the traveller, "he should come home Italianate than Frenchified: I speake of both in the better sense: for the French is stirring, bold, respectless, inconstant, suddaine: the Italian stayed, demure, respective, grave, advised."[215] But _Instructions for Forreine Travell_ in 1642 urges one to imitate the French. "For the Gentry of France have a kind of loose, becoming boldness, and forward vivacity in their manners."[216] The first writer of advice to travellers who assumes that French accomplishments are to be a large part of the traveller's education, is Sir Robert Dallington, whom we have already quoted. His _View of France_[217] to which the _Method for Travel_ is prefixed, deserves a reprint, for both that and his _Survey of Tuscany_,[218] though built on the regular model of the Elizabethan traveller's "Relation," being a conscientious account of the chief geographical, economic, architectural, and social features of the country traversed, are more artistic than the usual formal reports. Dallington wrote these Views in 1598, a little before the generation which modelled itself on the French gallants, and his remarks on Frenchmen may well have served as a warning to courtiers not to imitate the foibles, along with the admirable qualities, of their compeers across the Channel. For instance, he is outraged by the effusiveness of the "violent, busy-headed and impatient Frenchman," who "showeth his lightness and inconstancie ... in nothing more than in his familiaritie, with whom a stranger cannot so soone be off his horse, but he will be acquainted: nor so soone in his Chamber, but the other like an Ape will bee on his shoulder: and as suddenly and without cause ye shall love him also. A childish humour, to be wonne with as little as an Apple and lost with lesse than a Nut."[219] The King of France himself is censured for his geniality. Dallington deems Henry of Navarre "more affable and familiar than fits the Majesty of a great King." He might have found in current gossip worse lapses than the two he quotes to show Henry's lack of formality, but it is part of Dallington's worth that he writes of things at first-hand, and gives us only what he himself saw; how at Orleans, when the Italian commedians were to play before him, the king himself, "came whiffling with a small wand to scowre the coast, and make place for the rascall Players,... a thing, me thought, most derogatory to the Majesty of a King of France." "And lately at Paris (as they tell us) when the Spanish Hostages were to be entertayned, he did Usher it in the great Chamber, as he had done here before; and espying the Chayre not to stand well under the State, mended it handsomely himselfe, and then set him downe to give them audience."[220] Nor can Dallington conceal his disapproval of foreign food. The sorrows of the beef-eating Englishman among the continentals were always poignant. Dallington is only one of the many travellers who, unable to grasp the fact that warmer climes called for light diet, reproached the Italians especially for their "parsimony and thin feeding." In Henry the Eighth's time there was already a saying among the Italians, "Give the Englishman his beef and mustard,"[221] while the English in turn jibed at the Italians for being "like Nebuchadnezzar,--always picking of sallets." "Herbage," says Dallington scornfully "is the most generall food of the Tuscan ... for every horse-load of flesh eaten, there is ten cart loades of hearbes and rootes, which also their open Markets and private tables doe witnesse, and whereof if one talke with them fasting, he shall have sencible feeling."[222] The whole subject of diet he dismisses in his advice to a traveller as follows: "As for his viands I feare not his surfetting; his provision is never so great, but ye may let him loose to his allowance.... I shall not need to tell him before what his dyet shall be, his appetite will make it better than it is: for he shall be still kept sharpe: only of the difference of dyets, he shall observe thus much: that of Germanie is full or rather fulsome; that of France allowable; that of Italie tolerable; with the Dutch he shall have much meat ill-dressed: with the French lesse, but well handled; with the Italian neither the one nor the other."[223] Though there is much in Dallington's description of Italy and France to repay attention, our concern is with his _Method for Travell_,[224] which, though more practical than the earlier Elizabethan essays of the same sort, opens in the usual style of exhortation: "Plato, one of the day-starres of that knowledge, which then but dawning hath since shone out in clearer brightness, thought nothing better for the bettering our understanding then _Travell_: as well by having a conference with the wiser sort in all sorts of learning, as by the [Greek: Autopsiaêi]. The eye-sight of those things, which otherwise a man cannot have but by Tradition; A Sandy foundation either in matter of Science, or Conscience. So that a purpose to Travell, if it be not ad voluptatem Solum, sed ad utilitatem, argueth an industrious and generous minde. Base and vulgar spirits hover still about home: those are more noble and divine, that imitate the Heavens, and joy in motion." After a warning against Jesuits, which we have quoted, he comes at once to definite directions for studying modern languages[225]--advice which though sound is hardly novel. Continual speaking with all sorts of people, insisting that his teacher shall not do all the talking, and avoiding his countrymen are unchangeable rules for him who shall travel for language.[226] But this is the first treatise for travellers which makes note of dancing as an important accomplishment. "There's another exercise to be learned in France, because there are better teachers, and the French fashion is in most request with us, that is, of dancing. This I meane to my Traveller that is young and meanes to follow the Court: otherwise I hold it needelesse, and in some ridiculous."[227] This art was indeed essential to courtiers, and a matter of great earnestness. Chamberlain reports that Sir Henry Bowyer died of the violent exercise he underwent while practising dancing.[228] Henri III. fell into a tearful passion and called the Grand Prieur a liar, a poltroon, and a villain, at a ball, because the Grand Prieur was heard to mutter "Unless you dance better, I would you had your money again that your dancing has cost you." [229] James I. was particularly anxious to have his "Babies" excel in complicated boundings. His copy of _Nuove Inventioni di Balli_[230] may be seen in the British Museum, with large plates illustrating how to "gettare la gamba," that is, in the words of Chaucer, "with his legges casten to and fro."[231] Prince Henry was skilful in these matters. The Spanish Ambassador reports how "The Prince of Wales was desired by his royal parents to open the ball with a Spanish gallarda: he acquitted himself with much grace and delicacy, introducing some occasional leaps."[232] Prince Charles and Buckingham, during their stay in Spain, are earnestly implored by their "deare Dad and Gossip" not to forget their dancing. "I praye you, my babie, take heade of being hurt if ye runne at tilte, ... I praye you in the meantyme keep your selfis in use of dawncing privatlie, thogh ye showlde quhissell and sing one to another like Jakke and Tom for faulte of better musike." [233] However, Dallington is very much against the saltations of elderly persons. "I remember a countriman of ours, well seene in artes and language, well stricken in yeares, a mourner for his second wife, a father of mariageable children, who with his other booke studies abroade, joyned also the exercise of dancing: it was his hap in an honourable _Bal_ (as they call it) to take a fall, which in mine opinion was not so disgracefull as the dancing it selfe, to a man of his stuffe."[234] Dallington would have criticized Frenchmen more severely than ever had he known that even Sully gave way in private to a passion for dancing. At least Tallemant des Réaux says that "every evening a valet de chambre of the King played on the lute the dances of the day, and M. de Sully danced all alone, in some sort of extraordinary hat--such as he always wore in his cabinet--while his cronies applauded him, although he was the most awkward man in the world."[235] Tennis is another courtly exercise in which Dallington urges moderation. "This is dangerous, (if used with too much violence) for the body; and (if followed with too much diligence,) for the purse. A maine point of the Travellers care." He reached France when the rage for tennis was at its height,--when there were two hundred and fifty tennis courts in Paris,[236]--and "two tennis courts for every one Church through France," according to his computation.[237] Everyone was at it;--nobles, artizans, women, and children. The monks had had to be requested not to play--especially, the edict said, "not in public in their shirts."[238] Our Englishman, of course, thought this enthusiasm was beyond bounds. "Ye have seene them play Sets at Tennise in the heat of Summer and height of the day, when others were scarcely able to stirre out of doors." Betting on the game was the ruin of the working-man, who "spendeth that on the Holyday, at Tennis, which hee got the whole weeke, for the keeping of his poore family. A thing more hurtfull then our Ale-houses in England."[239] "There remains two other exercises," says the _Method for Travell_, "of use and necessitie, to him that will returne ably quallified for his countries service in warre, and his owne defence in private quarrell. These are Riding and Fencing. His best place for the first (excepting Naples) is in Florence under il Signor Rustico, the great Dukes Cavallerizzo, and for the second (excepting Rome) is in Padua, under il Sordo."[240] Italy, it may be observed, was still the best school for these accomplishments. Pluvinel was soon to make a world-renowned riding academy in Paris, but the art of fencing was more slowly disseminated. One was still obliged, like Captain Bobadil, to make "long travel for knowledge, in that mystery only."[241] Brantome says the fencing masters of Italy kept their secrets in their own hands, giving their services only on the condition that you should never reveal what you had learnt even to your dearest friends. Some instructors would never allow a living soul in the room where they were giving lessons to a pupil. And even then they used to keek everywhere, under the beds, and examine the wall to see if it had any crack or hole through which a person could peer.[242] Dallington makes no further remark on the subject, however, than the above, and after some advice about money matters, which we will mention in another connection, and a warning to the traveller that his apparel must be in fashion--for the fashions change with trying rapidity, and the French were very scornful of anyone who appeared in a last year's suit[243]--he brings to a close one of the pithiest essays in our collection. When the influence of France over the ideals of a gentleman was well established, James Howell wrote his _Instructions for Forreine Travell_,[244] and in this book for the first time the traveller is advised to stay at one of the French academies--or riding schools, as they really were. His is the best known, probably, of all our treatises, partly because it was reprinted a little while ago by Mr Gosse, and partly because of its own merits. Howell had an easier, more indulgent outlook upon the world than Dallington, and could see all nations with equal humour--his own included. Take his comparison of the Frenchman and the Spaniard. The Frenchman "will dispatch the weightiest affairs as hee walke along in the streets, or at meales, the other upon the least occasion of businesse will retire solemnly to a room, and if a fly chance to hum about him, it will discompose his thoughts and puzzle him: It is a kind of sicknesse for a Frenchman to keep a secret long, and all the drugs of Egypt cannot get it out of a Spaniard.... The Frenchman walks fast, (as if he had a Sergeant always at his heels,) the Spaniard slowly, as if hee were newly come out of some quartan Ague; the French go up and down the streets confusedly in clusters, the Spaniards if they be above three, they go two by two, as if they were going a Procession; etc. etc."[245] With the same humorous eye he observes the Englishmen returned to London from Paris, "whom their gate and strouting, their bending in the hammes, and shoulders, and looking upon their legs, with frisking and singing do speake them Travellers.... Some make their return in huge monstrous Periwigs, which is the Golden Fleece _they_ bring over with them. Such, I say, are a shame to their Country abroad, and their kinred at home, and to their parents, Benonies, the sons of sorrow: and as Jonas in the Whales belly, travelled much, but saw little."[246] These are some of the advantages an Englishman will reap from foreign travel: "One shall learne besides there not to interrupt one in the relation of his tale, or to feed it with odde interlocutions: One shall learne also not to laugh at his own jest, as too many used to do, like a Hen, which cannot lay an egge but she must cackle. "Moreover, one shall learne not to ride so furiously as they do ordinarily in England, when there is no necessity at all for it; for the Italians have a Proverb, that a galloping horse is an open sepulcher. And the English generally are observed by all other Nations, to ride commonly with that speed as if they rid for a midwife, or a Physitian, or to get a pardon to save one's life as he goeth to execution, when there is no such thing, or any other occasion at all, which makes them call England the Hell of Horses. "In these hot Countreyes also, one shall learne to give over the habit of an odde custome, peculiar to the English alone, and whereby they are distinguished from other Nations, which is, to make still towards the chimney, though it bee in the Dog-dayes."[247] We need not comment in detail upon Howell's book since it is so accessible. The passage which chiefly marks the progress of travel for study's sake is this: "For private Gentlemen and Cadets, there be divers Academies in Paris, Colledge-like, where for 150 pistols a Yeare, which come to about £150 sterling per annum of our money, one may be very well accomodated, with lodging and diet for himself and man, and be taught to Ride, to Fence, to manage Armes, to Dance, Vault, and ply the Mathematiques."[248] These academies were one of the chief attractions which France had for the gentry of England in the seventeenth century. The first one was founded by Pluvinel, the _grand écuyer_ of Henri IV. Pluvinel, returning from a long apprenticeship to Pignatelli in Naples, made his own riding-school the best in the world, so that the French no longer had to journey to Italian masters. He obtained from the king the basement of the great gallery of the Louvre, and there taught Louis XIII. and other young nobles of the Court--amongst them the Marquis du Chillon, afterwards Cardinal Richelieu--to ride the great horse.[249] Such was the success of his manège that he annexed masters to teach his pupils dancing, vaulting, and swordsmanship, as well as drawing and mathematics, till he had rounded out what was considered a complete education for a chevalier. In imitation of his establishment, many other riding-masters, such as Benjamin, Potrincourt, and Nesmond, set up others of the same sort, which drew pupils from other nations during all the seventeenth century.[250] In the suburb of Pré-aux-clercs, says Malingre in 1640, "are several academies where the nobility learn to ride. The most frequented is that of M. de Mesmon, where there is a prince of Denmark and one of the princes palatine of the Rhine, and a quantity of other foreign gentlemen."[251] Englishmen found the academies very useful retreats where a boy could learn French accomplishments without incurring the dangers of foreign travel and make the acquaintance of young nobles of his own age. Mr Thomas Lorkin writing from Paris in 1610, outlines to the tutor of the Prince of Wales the routine of his pupil Mr Puckering[252] at such an establishment. The morning began with two hours on horseback, followed by two hours at the French tongue, and one hour in "learning to handle his weapon." Dinner was at twelve o'clock, where the company continued together till two, "either passing the time in discourse or in some honest recreation perteyning to armes." At two the bell rang for dancing, and at three another gong sent the pupil to his own room with his tutor, to study Latin and French for two hours. "After supper a brief survey of all."[253] It will be seen that there was an exact balance between physical and mental exercise--four hours of each. All in all, academies seemed to be the solution of preparing for life those who were destined to shine at Court. The problem had been felt in England, as well as in France. In 1561, Sir Nicholas Bacon had devised "Articles for the bringing up in virtue and learning of the Queens Majesties Wardes."[254] Lord Burghley is said to have propounded the creation of a school of arms and exercises.[255] In 1570, Sir Humphrey Gilbert drew up an elaborate proposal for an "Academy of philosophy and chivalry,"[256] but none of these plans was carried out. Nor was that of Prince Henry, who had also wanted to establish a Royal Academy or School of Arms, in which all the king's wards and others should be educated and exercised.[257] A certain Sir Francis Kinaston, esquire of the body to Charles I., "more addicted to the superficiall parts of learning--poetry and oratory (wherein he excell'd)--than to logic and philosophy," Wood says, did get a licence to erect an academy in his house in Covent Garden, "which should be for ever a college for the education of the young nobility and others, sons of gentlemen, and should be styled the Musæum Minervæ."[258] But whatever start was made in that direction ended with the Civil War. However, the idea of setting up in England the sort of academy which was successful in France was such an obvious one that it kept constantly recurring. In 1649 a courtly parasite, Sir Balthazar Gerbier, who used to be a miniature painter, an art-critic, and Master of Ceremonies to Charles I., being sadly thrown out of occupation by the Civil War, opened an academy at Bethnal Green. There are still in existence his elaborate advertisements of its attractions, addressed to "All Fathers of Noble Families and Lovers of Vertue," and proposing his school as "a meanes, whereby to free them of such charges as they are at, when they send their children to foreign academies, and to render them more knowing in those languages, without exposing them to the dangers incident to travellers, and to that of evill companies, or of giving to forrain parts the glory of their education."[259] But Gerbier was a flimsy character, and without a Court to support him, or money, his academy dissolved after a gaseous lecture or two. Faubert, however, another French Protestant refugee, was more successful with an academy he managed to set up in London in 1682, "to lessen the vast expense the nation is at yearly by sending children into France to be taught military exercises."[260] Evelyn, who was a patron of this enterprise, describes how he "went with Lord Cornwallis to see the young gallants do their exercise, Mr Faubert having newly railed in a manège, and fitted it for the academy. There were the Dukes of Norfolk and Northumberland, Lord Newburgh, and a nephew of (Duras) Earl of Feversham.... But the Duke of Norfolk told me he had not been at this exercise these twelve years before."[261] However, Faubert's could not have been an important institution, since in 1700, a certain Dr Maidwell tried to get the Government to convert a great house of his near Westminster into a public academy of the French sort, as a greatly needed means of rearing gentlemen.[262] But all these efforts to educate English boys on the lines of French ones came to nothing, because at the close of the seventeenth century Englishmen began to realize that it was not wise for a gentleman to confine himself to a military life. As to riding as a fine art, his practical mind felt that it was all very well to amuse oneself in Paris by learning to make a war-horse caracole, but there was no use in taking such things too seriously; that in war "a ruder way of riding was more in use, without observing the precise rules of riding the great horse."[263] He could not feel that artistic passion for form in horsemanship which breathes from the pages of Pluvinel's book _Le Maneige Royal_[264] in which magnificent engravings show Louis XIII. making courbettes, voltes, and "caprioles" around the Louvre, while a circle of grandees gravely discuss the deportment of his charger. Even Sir Philip Sidney made gentle fun of the hippocentric universe of his Italian riding master: "When the right vertuous Edward Wotton, and I, were at the Emperors Court together, wee gave ourselves to learne horsemanship of John Pietro Pugliano: one that with great commendation had the place of an esquire in his stable. And hee, according to the fertilnes of the Italian wit, did not onely afoord us the demonstration of his practise, but sought to enrich our mindes with the contemplations therein, which hee thought most precious. But with none I remember mine eares were at any time more loden, then when (ether angred with slowe paiment, or mooved with our learner-like admiration,) he exercised his speech in the prayse of his facultie. Hee sayd, Souldiers were the noblest estate of mankinde, and horsemen, the noblest of Souldiours. He sayde, they were the Maistres of warre, and ornaments of peace: speedy goers, and strong abiders, triumphers both in Camps and Courts. Nay, to so unbeleeved a poynt hee proceeded, as that no earthly thing bred such wonder to a Prince, as to be a good horseman. Skill of government, was but a Pedanteria in comparison: then woulde he adde certaine prayses, by telling what a peerlesse beast a horse was. The only serviceable Courtier without flattery, the beast of the most beutie, faithfulness, courage, and such more, that if I had not beene a peece of a Logician before I came to him, I think he would have perswaded mee to have wished my selfe a Horse."[265] That this was somewhat the spirit of the French academies there seems no doubt. Though they claimed to give an equal amount of physical and mental exercise, they tended to the muscular side of the programme. Pluvinel, says Tallemant des Réaux, "was hardly more intelligent than his horses,"[266] and the academies are supposed to have declined after his death.[267] "All that is to be learned in these Academies," says Clarendon, "is Riding, Dancing, and Fencing, besides some Wickednesses they do not profess to teach. It is true they have men there who teach Arithmetick, which they call Philosophy, and the Art of Fortification, which they call the Mathematicks; but what Learning they had there, I might easily imagine, when he assured me, that in Three years which he had spent in the Academy, he never saw a Latin book nor any Master that taught anything there, who would not have taken it very ill to be suspected to speake or understand Latin."[268] This sort of aspersion was continued by Dr Wallis, the Savilian Professor of Mathematics at Oxford in 1700, who was roused to a fine pitch of indignation by Maidwell's efforts to start an academy in London:[269] "Of teachers in the academie, scarce any of a higher character than a valet-de-chambre. And, if such an one, who (for instance) hath waited on his master in one or two campagnes, and is able perhaps to copy the draught of a fortification from another paper; this is called mathematicks; and, beyond this (if so much) you are not to expect." A certain Mr P. Chester finishes the English condemnation of a school, such as Benjamin's, by declaring that its pretensions to fit men for life was "like the shearing of Hoggs, much Noyse and little Wooll, nothing considerable taught that I know, butt only to fitt a man to be a French chevalier, that is in plain English a Trooper."[270] These comments are what one expects from Oxford, to be sure, but even M. Jusserand acknowledges that the academies were not centres of intellectual light, and quotes to prove it certain questions asked of a pupil put into the Bastille, at the demand of his father: "Was it not true that the Sieur Varin, his father, seeing that he had no inclination to study, had put him into the Académie Royale to there learn all sorts of exercises, and had there supported him with much expense? "He admitted that his father, while his mother was living, had put him into the Académie Royale and had given him for that the necessary means, and paid the ordinary pension, 1600 livres a year. "Was it not true that after having been some time at the Académie Royale, he was expelled, having disguised girls in boys' clothes to bring them there? "He denied it. He had never introduced into the school any académiste féminine: he had departed at the summons of his father, having taken proper leave of M. and Mme. de Poix."[271] However, something of an education had to be provided for Royalist boys at the time of the Civil War, when Oxford was demoralized. Parents wandering homeless on the Continent were glad enough of the academies. Even the Stuarts tried them, though the Duke of Gloucester had to be weaned from the company of some young French gallants, "who, being educated in the same academy, were more familiar with him than was thought convenient."[272] It was a choice between academies or such an education as Edmund Verney endured in a dull provincial city as the sole pupil of an exiled Regius Professor of Greek at Cambridge. But the effects of being reared in France, and too early thrown into the dissolute Courts of Europe, were evident at the Restoration, when Charles the Second and his friends returned to startle England with their "exceeding wildness." What else could be the effect of a youth spent as the Earl of Chesterfield records:[273] at thirteen years old a courtier at St Germaine: at fourteen, rid of any governor or tutor: at sixteen, at the academy of M. de Veau, he "chanced to have a quarrel with M. Morvay, since Captaine of the French King's Guards, who I hurt and disarmed in a duel." Thereupon he left the academy and took up his abode at the Court of Turin. It was from Italy, De Gramont said, that Chesterfield brought those elaborate manners, and that jealousy about women, for which he was so notorious among the rakes of the Restoration.[274] Henry Peacham's chapter "Of Travaile"[275] is for the most part built out of Dallington's advice, but it is worthy of note that in _The Compleat Gentleman_, Spain is pressed upon the traveller's attention for the first time. This is, of course, the natural reflection of an interest in Spain due to the romantic adventures of Prince Charles and Buckingham in that country. James Howell, who was of their train, gives even more space to it in his _Instructions for Forreine Travell_. Notwithstanding, and though Spain was, after 1605, fairly safe for Englishmen, as a pleasure ground it was not popular. It was a particularly uncomfortable and expensive country; hardly improved from the time--(1537)--when Clenardus, weary with traversing deserts on his way to the University of Salamanca, after a sparse meal of rabbit, sans wine, sans water, composed himself to sleep on the floor of a little hut, with nothing to pillow his head on except his three negro grooms, and exclaimed, "O misera Lusitania, beati qui non viderunt."[276] All civilization was confined to the few large cities, to reach which one was obliged to traverse tedious, hot, barren, and unprofitable wastes, in imminent danger of robbers, and in certainty of the customs officers, who taxed people for everything, even the clothes they had on. None escaped. Henry the Eighth's Ambassador complained loudly and frantically of the outrage to a person in his office.[277] So did Elizabeth's Ambassador. But the officers said grimly "that if Christ or Sanct Fraunces came with all their flock they should not escape."[278] If the preliminary discomforts from customs-officers put travellers into an ill mood at once against Spain, the inns confirmed them in it. "In some places there is but the cask of a House, with a little napery, but sometimes no beds at all for Passengers in the Ventas--or Lodgings on the King's highway, where if passengers meet, they must carry their Knapsacks well provided of what is necessary: otherwise they may go to bed supperless."[279] The Comtesse d'Aunoy grumbles that it was impossible to warm oneself at the kitchen-fire without being choked, for there was no chimney. Besides the room was full of men and women, "blacker than Devils and clad like Beggars ... always some of 'em impudently grating on a sorry Guitar."[280] Even the large cities were not diverting, for though they were handsome enough and could show "certain massie and solid Braveries," yet they had few of the attractions of urban life. The streets were so ill-paved that the horses splashed water into one's carriage at every step.[281] A friend warned Tobie Matthew that "In the Cities you shall find so little of the Italian delicacie for the manner of their buildings, the cleannesse and sweetnesse of their streets, their way of living, their entertainments for recreations by Villas, Gardens, Walks, Fountains, Academies, Arts of Painting, Architecture and the like, that you would rather suspect that they did but live together for fear of wolves."[282] How little the solemnity of the Spanish nobles pleased English courtiers used to the boisterous ways of James I. and his "Steenie," may be gathered from _The Perambulation of Spain._[283] "You must know," says the first character in that dialogue, "that there is a great deal of gravity and state in the Catholic Court, but little noise, and few people; so that it may be call'd a Monastery, rather than a Royal Court." The economy in such a place was a great source of grievance. "By this means the King of Spain spends not much," says the second character. "So little," is the reply, "that I dare wager the French King spends more in Pages and Laquays, than he of Spain among all his Court Attendants." Buckingham's train jeered at the abstemious fare they received.[284] It was in such irritating contrast to the lofty airs of those who provided it. "We are still extream poor," writes the English Ambassador about the Court of Madrid, "yet as proud as Divells, yea even as rich Divells."[285] Not only at Court, but everywhere, Spaniards were indifferent to strangers, and not at all interested in pleasing them. Lord Clarendon remarks that in Madrid travellers "will find less delight to reside than in any other Place to which we have before commended them: for that Nation having less Reverence for meer Travellers, who go Abroad, without Business, are not at all solicitous to provide for their Accomodation: and when they complain of the want of many Conveniences, as they have reason to do, they wonder men will come from Home, who will be troubled for those Incommodities."[286] It is no wonder, therefore, that Spain was considered a rather tedious country for strangers, and that Howell "met more Passengers 'twixt Paris and Orleans, than I found well neer in all the Journey through Spain."[287] Curiosity and a desire to learn the language might carry a man to Madrid for a time, but Englishmen could find little to commend there. Holland, on the other hand, provoked their admiration more and more. Travellers were never done exclaiming at its municipal governments, its reformatories and workhouses, its industry, frugality, and social economy. The neat buildings, elegant streets, and quiet inns, were the subject of many encomiums.[288] Descartes, who chose Amsterdam as the place in which to think out his philosophy, praised it as the ideal retreat for students, contending that it was far better for them than Italy, with its plagues, heat, unwholesome evenings, murder and robbery.[289] Locke, when he went into voluntary exile in 1684, enjoyed himself with the doctors and men of letters in Amsterdam, attending by special invitation of the principal physician of the city the dissection of a lioness, or discussing knotty problems of theology with the wealthy Quaker merchants.[290] Courtiers were charmed with the sea-shore at Scheveningen, where on the hard sand, admirably contrived by nature for the divertisement of persons of quality, the foreign ambassadors and their ladies, and the society of the Hague, drove in their coaches and six horses.[291] However, Sir William Temple, after some years spent as Ambassador to the Netherlands, decided that Holland was a place where a man would choose rather to travel than to live, because it was a country where there was more sense than wit, more wealth than pleasure, and where one would find more persons to esteem than to love.[292] Holland was of peculiar delight to the traveller of the seventeenth century because it contained so many curiosities and rareties. To ferret out objects of vertu the Jacobean gentleman would take any journey. People with cabinets of butterflies, miniatures, shells, ivory, or Indian beads, were pestered by tourists asking to see their treasures.[293] No garden was so entrancing to them as one that had "a rupellary nidary"[294] or an aviary with eagles, cranes, storks, bustards, ducks with four wings, or with rabbits of an almost perfect yellow colour.[295] Holland, therefore, where ships brought precious curiosities from all over the world, was a heaven for the virtuoso. Evelyn in Rotterdam hovered between his delight in the brass statue of Erasmus and a pelican, which he carefully describes. The great charm of Dutch inns for Sam Paterson was their hoards of China and Japan ware and the probability you had of meeting a purring marmot, a squeaking guinea-pig, or a tame rabbit with a collar of bells, hopping through the house.[296] But we have dwelt too long, perhaps, on those who voyaged to see knick-knacks, and to gain accomplishments at French academies. Though the academies were characteristic of the seventeenth century, there were other centres of education sought by Englishmen abroad. The study of medicine, particularly, took many students to Padua or Paris, for the Continent was far ahead of England in scientific work.[297] Sir Thomas Browne's son studied anatomy at Padua with Sir John Finch, who had settled there and was afterwards chosen syndic of the university.[298] At Paris Martin Lister, though in the train of the English Ambassador, principally enjoyed "Mr Bennis in the dissecting-room working by himself upon a dead body," and "took more pleasure to see Monsieur Breman in his white waistcoat digging in the royal physic-garden and sowing his couches, than Mounsieur de Saintot making room for an ambassador": and found himself better disposed and more apt to learn the names and physiognomy of a hundred plants, than of five or six princes.[299] It was medicine that chiefly interested Nicholas Ferrar, than whom no traveller for study's sake was ever more devoted to the task of self-improvement. At about the same time that the second Earl of Chesterfield was fighting duels at the academy of Monsieur de Veau, Nicholas Ferrar, a grave boy, came from Cambridge to Leipsic and "set himself laboriously to study the originals of the city, the nature of the government, the humors and inclinations of the people." Finding the university too distracting, he retired to a neighbouring village to read the choicest writers on German affairs. He served an apprenticeship of a fortnight at every German trade. He could maintain a dialogue with an architect in his own phrases; he could talk with mariners in their sea terms. Removing to Padua, he attained in a very short time a marvellous proficiency in physic, while his conversation and his charm ennobled the evil students of Padua.[300] * * * * * CHAPTER VI THE GRAND TOUR After the Restoration the idea of polishing one's parts by foreign travel received fresh impetus. The friends of Charles the Second, having spent so much of their time abroad, naturally brought back to England a renewed infusion of continental ideals. France was more than ever the arbiter for the "gentry and civiller sort of mankind." Travellers such as Evelyn, who deplored the English gentry's "solitary and unactive lives in the country," the "haughty and boorish Englishman," and the "constrained address of our sullen Nation,"[301] made an impression. It was generally acknowledged that comity and affability had to be fetched from beyond the Seas, for the "meer Englishman" was defective in those qualities. He was "rough in address, not easily acquainted, and blunt even when he obliged."[302] Even wise and honest Englishmen began to be ashamed of their manners and felt they must try to be not quite so English. "Put on a decent boldness," writes Sir Thomas Browne constantly to his son in France. "Shun pudor rusticus." "Practise an handsome garb and civil boldness which he that learneth not in France, travaileth in vain."[303] But there was this difference in travel to complete the gentleman during the reign of Charles the Second: that Italy and Germany were again safe and thrown open to travellers, so that Holland, Germany, Italy, and France made a magnificent round of sights; namely, the Grand Tour. It was still usual to spend some time in Paris learning exercises and accomplishments at an academy, but a large proportion of effort went to driving by post-chaise through the principal towns of Europe. Since it was a great deal easier to go sight-seeing than to study governments, write "relations," or even to manage "The Great Horse," the Grand Tour, as a form of education, gained upon society, especially at the end of the century, when even the academies were too much of an exertion for the beaux to attend. To dress well and to be witty superseded martial ambitions. Gentlemen could no longer endure the violence of the Great Horse, but were carried about in sedan chairs. To drive through Europe in a coach suited them very well. It was a form of travel which likewise suited country squires' sons; for with the spread of the fashion from Court to country not only great noblemen and "utter gallants" but plain country gentlemen aspired to send their sons on a quest for the "bel air." Their idea of how this was to be done being rather vague, the services of a governor were hired, who found that the easiest way of dealing with Tony Lumpkin was to convey him over an impressive number of miles and keep him interested with staring at buildings. The whole aim of travel was sadly degenerated from Elizabethan times. Cynical parents like Francis Osborn had not the slightest faith in its good effects, but recommended it solely because it was the fashion. "Some to starch a more serious face upon wanton, impertinent, and dear bought Vanity, cry up 'Travel' as 'the best Accomplisher of Youth and Gentry,' tho' detected by Experience in the generality, for 'the greatest Debaucher' ... yet since it advanceth Opinion in the World, without which Desert is useful to none but itself (Scholars and Travellers being cried up for the highest Graduates in the most universal Judgments) I am not much unwilling to give way to Peregrine motion for a time."[304] In short, the object of the Grand Tour was to see and be seen. The very term seems to be an extension of usage from the word employed to describe driving in one's coach about the principal streets of a town. The Duchess of Newcastle, in 1656, wrote from Antwerp: "I go sometimes abroad, seldom to visit, but only in my coach about the town, or about some of the streets, which we call here a tour, where all the chief of the town go to see and be seen, likewise all strangers of what quality soever."[305] Evelyn, in 1652, contrasted "making the Tour" with the proper sort of industrious travel; "But he that (instead of making the Tour, as they call it) or, as a late Embassador of ours facetiously, but sharply reproached, (like a Goose swimms down the River) having mastered the Tongue, frequented the Court, looked into their customes, been present at their pleadings, observed their Military Discipline, contracted acquaintance with their Learned men, studied their Arts, and is familiar with their dispositions, makes this accompt of his time."[306] And in another place he says: "It is written of Ulysses, that hee saw many Cities indeed, but withall his Remarks of mens Manners and Customs, was ever preferred to his counting Steeples, and making Tours: It is this Ethicall and Morall part of Travel, which embellisheth a Gentleman."[307] In 1670, Richard Lassels uses the term "Grand Tour" for the first time in an English book for travellers: "The Grand Tour of France and the Giro of Italy."[308] Of course this is only specialized usage of the idea "round" which had long been current, and which still survives in our phrase, "make the round trip." "The Spanish ambassadors," writes Dudley Carleton in 1610, "are at the next Spring to make a perfect round."[309] In the age of the Grand Tour the governor becomes an important figure. There had always been governors, to be sure, from the very beginnings of travel to become a complete person. Their arguments with fathers as to the expenses of the tour, and their laments at the disagreeable conduct of their charges echo from generation to generation. Now it is Mr Windebanke complaining to Cecil that his son "has utterly no mind nor disposition in him to apply any learning, according to the end you sent him for hither," being carried away by an "inordinate affection towards a young gentlewoman abiding near Paris."[310] Now it is Mr Smythe desiring to be called home unless the allowance for himself and Francis Davison can be increased. "For Mr Francis is now a man, and your son, and not so easily ruled touching expenses, about which we have had more brabblements than I will speak of."[311] Bacon's essay "Of Travel" in 1625 is the first to advise the use of a governor;[312] but governors rose to their full authority only in the middle of the century, when it was the custom to send boys abroad very young, at fourteen or fifteen, because at that age they were more malleable for instruction in foreign languages. At that age they could not generally be trusted by themselves, especially after the protests of a century against the moral and religious dangers of foreign travel. How fearful parents were of the hazards of travel, and what a responsibility it was for a governor to undertake one of these precious charges, may be gathered from this letter by Lady Lowther to Joseph Williamson, he who afterwards rose to be Secretary of State: "I doubt not but you have received my son," writes the mother, "with our letters entreating your care for improving all good in him and restraining all irregularities, as he is the hope and only stem of his father. I implore the Almighty, and labour for all means conducible thereto; I conceive your discreet government and admonition may much promote it. Tell me whether you find him tractable or disorderly: his disposition is good, and his natural parts reasonable, but his acquirements meaner than I desire: however he is young enough yet to learn, and by study may recover, if not recall, his lost time. "In the first place, endeavour to settle him in his religion, as the basis of all our other hopes, and the more to be considered in regard of the looseness of the place where you are. I doubt not but you have well considered of the resolve to travel to Italy, yet I have this to say for my fond fears (besides the imbecility of my sex) my affections are all contracted into one head: also I know the hotness of his temper, apt to feverishness. Yet I submit him to your total management, only praying the God of Heaven to direct you for the best, and to make him tractable to you, and laborious for his own advancement."[313] A governor became increasingly necessary as the arbiter of what was modish for families whose connection with the fashionable world was slight. He assumed airs of authority, and took to writing books on how the Grand Tour should be made. Such is _The Voyage of Italy_, with _Instructions concerning Travel_, by _Richard Lassels, Gent._, who "travelled through Italy Five times, as Tutor to several of the English Nobility and Gentry."[314] Lassels, in reciting the benefits of travel, plays upon that growing sensitiveness of the country gentleman about his innocent peculiarities: "The Country Lord that never saw anybody but his Father's Tenants and M. Parson, and never read anything but John Stow, and Speed; thinks the Land's-end to be the World's-end; and that all solid greatness, next unto a great Pasty, consists in a great Fire, and a great estate;" or, "My Country gentleman that never travelled, can scarce go to London without making his Will, at least without wetting his hand-kerchief."[315] The Grand Tour, of course, is the remedy for these weaknesses--especially under the direction of a wise governor. More care should go to choosing that governor than to any other retainer. For lacqueys and footmen "are like his Galoshooes, which he leaves at the doors of those he visits," but his governor is like his shirt, always next him, and should therefore be of the best material. The revelation of bad governors in Lassels' instructions are enough to make one recoil from the Grand Tour altogether. These "needy bold men" led pupils to Geneva, where the pupils lost all their true English allegiance and respect for monarchy; they kept them in dull provincial cities where the governor's wife or mistress happened to live. "Others have been observed to sell their pupils to Masters of exercises, and to have made them believe that the worst Academies were the best, because they were the best to the cunning Governour, who had ten pound a man for every one he could draw thither: Others I have known who would have married their Pupils in France without their Parents' knowledge";[316] ... and so forth, with other more lurid examples. The difficulties of procuring the right sort of governor were hardly exaggerated by Lassels. The Duke of Ormond's grandson had just such a dishonest tutor as described--one who instead of showing the Earl of Ossory the world, carried him among his own relations, and "buried" him at Orange.[317] It seems odd, at first sight, that the Earl of Salisbury's son should be entrusted to Sir John Finet, who endeared himself to James the First by his remarkable skill in composing "bawdy songs."[318] It astonishes us to read that Lord Clifford's governor, Mr Beecher, lost his temper at play, and called Sir Walter Chute into the field,[319] or that Sir Walter Raleigh's son was able to exhibit his governor, Ben Jonson, dead-drunk upon a car, "which he made to be drawn by pioneers through the streets, at every corner showing his governor stretched out, and telling them that was a more lively image of a crucifix than any they had."[320] But it took a manly man to be a governor at all. It was not safe to select a merely intelligent and virtuous tutor; witness the case of the Earl of Derby sent abroad in 1673, with Mr James Forbes, "a gentleman of parts, virtue and prudence, but of too mild a nature to manage his pupil." The adventures of these two, as narrated by Carte in his life of Ormond, are doubtless typical. "They had not been three months at Paris, before a misunderstanding happened between them that could not be made up, so that both wrote over to the duke (of Ormond) complaining of one another. His grace immediately dispatched over Mr Muleys to inquire into the ground of the quarrel, in order to reconcile them.... The earl had forgot the advice which the duke had given him, to make himself acquainted with the people of quality in France, and to keep as little correspondence with his own countrymen, whilst he was abroad, as was consistent with good manners; and had formed an intimate acquaintance with a lewd, debauched young fellow whom he found at Paris, and who was the son of Dr Merrit, a physician. The governor had cautioned his young nobleman against creating a friendship with so worthless a person, who would draw him into all manner of vice and expense, and lead him into numberless inconveniences. Merrit, being told of this, took Mr Forbes one day at an advantage in an house, and wounded him dangerously. The earl, instead of manifesting his resentment as he ought in such a case, seemed rather pleased with the affair, and still kept on his intimacy with Merrit. The duke finding that Merrit had as ill a character from all that knew him in London, as Mr Forbes had given him, easily suspected the earl was in the wrong, and charged Muleys to represent to him the ill fame of the man, and how unworthy he was of his lordship's acquaintance and conversation.... "When Muleys came to Paris, he found the matters very bad on Lord Derby's side, who had not only countenanced Merrit's assault, but, at the instigation of some young French rakes, had consented to his governor's being tossed in a blanket. The earl was wild, full of spirits, and impatient of restraint: Forbes was a grave, sober, mild man, and his sage remonstrances had no manner of effect on his pupil. The duke, seeing what the young gentleman would be at, resolved to send over one that should govern him. For this purpose he pitched upon Colonel Thomas Fairfax, a younger son of the first lord Fairfax, a gallant and brave man (as all the Fairfaxes were), and roughly honest. Lord Derby was restless at first: but the colonel told him sharply, that he was sent to govern him, and would govern him: that his lordship must submit, and should do it; so that the best method he had to take, was to do it with decorum and good humour. He soon discharged the vicious and scandalous part of the earl's acquaintance, and signified to the rest, that he had the charge of the young nobleman, who was under his government: and therefore if any of them should ever have a quarrel with his pupil, who was young and inexperienced, he himself was their man, and would give them satisfaction. His courage was too well known to tempt anybody make a trial of it; the nobleness of his family, and his own personal merit, procured him respect from all the world, as well as from his pupil. No quarrel happened: the earl was reclaimed, being always very observant of his governor. He left Paris, and passing down the Loire went to the south of France, received in all places by the governors of towns and provinces with great respect and uncommon marks of honour and distinction. From thence he went into Italy, making a handsome figure in all places, and travelling with as much dignity as any nobleman whatever at little more than one thousand two hundred pounds a year expense; so easy is it to make a figure in those countries with virtue, decorum, and good management."[321] This concluding remark of Carte's gives us the point of view of certain families; that it was more economical to live abroad. It certainly was--for courtiers who had to pay eighty pounds for a suit of clothes--without trimming[322]--and spent two thousand pounds on a supper to the king.[323] Francis Osborn considered one of the chief benefits of travel to be the training in economy which it afforded: "Frugality being of none so perfectly learned as of the Italian and the Scot; Natural to the first, and as necessary to the latter."[324] Notwithstanding, the cost of travel had in the extravagant days of the Stuarts much increased. The Grand Tour cost more than travel in Elizabethan days, when young men quietly settled down for hard study in some German or Italian town. Robert Sidney, for instance, had only £100 a year when he was living with Sturm. "Tearm yt as you wyll, it ys all I owe you," said his father. "Harry Whyte ... shall have his £20 yearly, and you your £100; and so be as mery as you may."[325] Secretary Davison expected his son, his tutor, and their servant to live on this amount at Venice. "Mr. Wo." had said this would suffice.[326] If "Mr Wo." means Mr Wotton, as it probably does, since Wotton had just returned from abroad in 1594, and Francis Davison set out in 1595, he was an authority on economical travel, for he used to live in Germany at the rate of one shilling, four pence halfpenny a day for board and lodging.[327] But he did not carry with him a governor and an English servant. Moryson, Howell, and Dallington all say that expenses for a servant amounted to £50 yearly. Therefore Davison's tutor quite rightly protested that £200 would not suffice for three people. Although they spent "not near so much as other gentlemen of their nation at Venice, and though he went to market himself and was as frugal as could be, the expenses would mount up to forty shillings a week, not counting apparel and books." "I protest I never endured so much slavery in my life to save money," he laments.[328] When learning accomplishments in France took the place of student-life in Italy, expenses naturally rose. Moryson, who travelled as a humanist, for "knowledge of State affaires, Histories, Cosmography, and the like," found that fifty or sixty pounds were enough to "beare the charge of a Traveller's diet, necessary apparrell, and two Journies yeerely, in the Spring and Autumne, and also to serve him for moderate expences of pleasure."[329] But Dallington found that an education of the French sort would come to just twice as much. "If he Travell without a servant fourscore pounds sterling is a competent proportion, except he learne to ride: if he maintaine both these charges, he can be allowed no lesse than one hundred and fiftie poundes: and to allowe above two hundred, were superfluous, and to his hurte. And thus rateably, according to the number he keepeth. "The ordinarie rate of his expence, is this: ten gold crownes a moneth his owne dyet, eight for his man, (at the most) two crownes a moneth his fencing, as much dancing, no lesse his reading, and fiftene crownes monethly his ridings: but this exercise he shall discontinue all the heate of the yeare. The remainder of his 150 pound I allow him for apparell, bookes, Travelling charges, tennis play, and other extraordinaire expences."[330] A few years later Howell fixes annual expense at £300--(£50 extra for every servant.) These three hundred pounds are to pay for riding, dancing, fencing, tennis, clothes, and coach hire--a new item of necessity. An academy would seem to have been a cheaper means of learning accomplishments. For about £110 one might have lodging and diet for himselfe and a man and be taught to ride, fence, ply mathematics, and so forth.[331] Lassels very wisely refrains from telling those not already persuaded, what the cost will be for the magnificent Grand Tour he outlines. We calculate that it would be over £500, for the Earl of Cork paid £1000 a year for his two sons, their governor, only two servants and only saddle-horses:[332] whereas Lassels hints that no one with much pretension to fashion could go through Paris without a coach followed by three lacqueys and a page.[333] Evelyn, at any rate, thought the expenses of a traveller were "vast": "And believe it Sir, if he reap some contentment extraordinary, from what he hath observed abroad, the pains, sollicitations, watchings, perills, journeys, ill entertainment, absence from friends, and innumerable like inconveniences, joyned to his vast expences, do very dearly, and by a strange kind of extortion, purchase that smal experience and reputation which he can vaunt to have acquired from abroad."[334] Perhaps some details from the education of Robert Boyle will serve to illustrate the manner of taking the Grand Tour. His father, the great Earl of Cork, was a devoted adherent to this form of education and launched his numerous sons, two by two, upon the Continent. He was, as Boyle says, the sort of person "who supplied what he wanted in scholarship himself, by being both a passionate affecter, and eminent patron of it."[335] His journal for 1638 records first the return of "My sones Lewis and Roger from their travailes into foreign kingdomes,... ffor which their safe retorn, god be ever humbly and heartely thancked and praised both by me and them."[336] In the same year he recovered the Lord Viscount of Kynalmeaky and the Lord of Broghill, with Mr Marcombes, their governor, from their foreign travels into France and Italy. Then it was the turn of Francis and Robert, just removed from Eton College. With the governor Marcombes, a French servant, and a French boy, they departed from London in October 1639, "having his Majestie's license under his hand and privy signett for to continew abrode 3 yeares: god guide them abrod and safe back."[337] Robert, according to his autobiography, was well satisfied to go, but Francis, aged fifteen, had just been married to one of the Queen's Maids of Honour, aged fourteen, and after four days of revelry was in no mood to be thrust back into the estate of childhood.[338] High words passed between him and his father on the occasion of his enforced departure for Paris. He was so agitated that he mislaid his sword and pistols--at least so we hear by the first letter Marcombes writes from Paris. "Mr Francis att his departure from London was so much troubled because of your Lordship's anger against him that he could never tell us where he put his sword and ye kaise of pistoles that your Lordship gave them, so that I have been forced to buy them here a kaise of pistolles a peece, because of the danger that is now everywhere in France, and because it is so much ye mode now for every gentleman of fashion to ride with a kase of Pistoles, that they Laugh att those that have them not. I bought also a Sword for mr francis and when Mr Robert saw it he did so earnestly desire me to buy him one, because his was out of fashion, that I could not refuse him that small request."[339] Marcombes did not expose the boys long to the excitement of Paris, but at once hurried them to Geneva, and settled them to work, where Francis showed a great deal of resignation and good-humour in accepting his fate. He was not so sulky as Lord Cranborne, who in a similar situation fell ill, could not eat, and had to be taken back to England.[340] "And as for Mr francis," writes Marcombes to Cork, "I protest unto your Lordship that I did not thinke yt he could frame himselfe to every kind of good Learning with so great a facilitie and passion as he doth, having tasted already a little drope of ye Libertinage of ye Court, but I find him soe disciplinable, and soe desirous to repare ye time Lost, yt I make no question but your Lordship shall receive a great ioye."[341] He had not had much of an education at Eton, as his governor takes pleasure in pointing out: "For Mr Francis I doe assure your Lordship he had need to aplay himselfe to other things till now, for except reeding and writting Inglish he was grounded in nothing of ye wordle (world); and beleeve me, for before God I spake true, when I say that never any gentleman hath donne lesse profit of his time then he had done when he went out of England: and besides yt if he had been Longer at Eatton he had Learned there to drinke with other deboice scholers, as I have beene in formed by Mr Robert."[342] Won over by the study of "Fortifications," a branch of mathematics very pleasing to the seventeenth century boy, the future Viscount Shannon applied himself to work with energy;[343] and for a time peace reigned over the process of education. "Every morning," writes their tutor, "I teach them ye Rhetoricke in Latin, and I expound unto them Justin from Latin into french, and presently after dinner I doe reade unto them two chapters of ye old Testament with a brief exposition of those points that I think that they doe not understand; and before supper I teach them ye history of ye Romans in french out of florus and of Titus Livius, and two sections of ye Cateshisme of Caluin with ye most orthodox exposition of the points that they doe not understand; and after supper I doe reade unto them two chapters of ye new Testament, and both morning and evening we say our prayers together, and twice a weeke we goe to Church."[344] The boys spoke French always, and had some dancing lessons, but no riding lessons, for "their lyms are not knitt and strong enough, nor their bodys hable to endure rough exercises; and besides, although wee have here as good and skillfull teachers as in many other places, yet when they shall come to paris or some other place, their teachers will make them beleeve that they have Lost their time and shall make them beginn againe: for it is their custome so to doe to all."[345] At tennis, however, Francis enjoyed himself, and grew apace. "I may assure your Lordship that both his Leggs and armes are by a third part bigger now then they were in England." Robert, even at fourteen a studious person, "doth not Love tennisse play so much, but delights himselfe more to be in private with some booke of history or other, but I perswade him often both to play att tennisse and goe about. I never saw him handsomer, for although he growes much, yet he is very fatt and his cheeks are as red as vermilian. This Leter end of ye winter is mighty cold and a great quantity of snow is fallen upon ye ground, but that brings them to such a stomacke that your Lordship should take a great pleasure to see them feed. I do not give them daintys, but I assure your Lordship that they have allwayes good bred and Good wine, good beef and mouton, thrice a week good capons and good fish, constantly two dishes of fruit and a Good piece of cheese; all kind of cleane linnen twice and thrice a week and a constant fire in their chamber wherein they have a good bed for them, and another for their men."[346] Indeed, Marcombes was a very good governor, as Robert several times assured the Earl of Cork, and allowed them to lack for nothing. In the spring he bought them saddle-horses so that after their studies they might take the air and see their friends. Since a governor had charge of all the funds, it was a great test of his honesty whether he resisted the temptation to economize on the clothes and spending-money of his pupils, and to pocket the part of their allowance so saved. This is why Marcombes often lets fall into his letters to the Earl of Cork items such as these: "I have made a compleat black satin sute for Mr Robert: ye cloake Lined with plush, and I allow them every moneth a peese ye value of very neare two pounds sterlings for their passe time."[347] The only disturbing elements in the satisfactory state of Marcombes and his pupils were the Killigrews. Thomas Killigrew, he who afterwards became one of the dramatists of the Restoration, had then only just outgrown the estate of page to Charles I., and in strolling about the Continent he paid the Boyles a visit.[348] As the brother of the wife whom Mr Francis had left at home, and on his own account as a fascinating courtier, he cast a powerful but baleful influence upon the household in Geneva. Marcombes was at first very guarded in his remarks, writing only that "Mr Kyligry is here since Saturday Last ... but I think he will not Stay long: which perhaps will be ye better for yr sons: for although his conversation is very sweet and delectable yet they have no need of interruption, specially Mr francis, which was much abused in his Learning by his former teachers: and although he hath a great desire to redime ye time, yet he cannot follow his younger brother, and therefore he must have time, and avoid ye company of those yt care not for their bookes."[349] But when it appeared that Killigrew had told the Earl of Cork that Marcombes kept the brothers shabbily dressed, the governor unfolded his opinion of the rising dramatist as "one that speakes ill of his own mother and of all his friends and that plays ye foole allwayes through ye streets like a Schoole Boy, having Allwayes his mouth full of whoores and such discourses, and braging often of his getting mony from this or ye other merchant without any good intention to pay."[350] His company fomented in Mr Francis a boastful spirit, "never speaking of any thing but what he should doe when he should once more command his state, how many dogs he shoulde keepe; how many horses; how many fine bands, sutes and rubans, and how freely he would play and keepe Company with good fellowes, etc."[351] Thomas Killigrew's sister, the wife of Mr Francis, was also a very disturbing person. She would correspond with her husband and urge him to run away from his tutor, and suggested coming to the Continent herself and meeting him.[352] These plots she made with the assistance of her brother, whom she much resembled in disposition.[353] There is no knowing what havoc she would have made with the carefully planned education of the Boyles, for Francis at the end of two years became dangerously restive, had not their tour been decisively ended by the first rumblings of the Civil War at home. After a winter in Italy, they were about to start for Paris to perfect themselves in dancing and to begin riding the great horse, when they received news that the Earl of Cork was ruined by the rebellion in Ireland. He could send them no more money, he told them, than the two hundred and fifty pounds he had just dispatched. By economizing, and dismissing their servants, they might reach Holland, and enlist under the Prince of Orange. They must now work out their fortune for themselves.[354] The two hundred and fifty pounds never came. They were embezzled by the agent; and the Boyles were left penniless in a strange country. Marcombes did not desert them, however. Robert, who was too frail for soldiering, he kept with him in Geneva for two years. Francis, free at last, took horse, was off to Ireland, and joined in the fighting beside his brothers Dungarvan, Kynalmeaky, and Broghill, who rallied around their father.[355] There are several other seventeenth-century books on the theory of travel besides Lassels', which would repay reading. But we have come to the period when essays of this sort contain so many repetitions of one another, that detailed comment would be tedious. Edward Leigh's _Three Diatribes_[356] appeared in 1671, a year after Lassels' book, and in 1678 Gailhard, another professional governor, in his "Directions for the Education of youth as to their Breeding at Home and Travelling Abroad,"[357] imitated Lassels' attention to the particular needs of the country gentleman. "The honest country gentleman" is a synonym for one apt to be fooled, one who has neither wit nor experience. He, above all others, needs to go abroad to study the tempers of men and learn their several fashions. "As to Country breeding, which is opposed to the Courts, to the Cities, or to Travelling: when it is merely such, it is a clownish one. Before a Gentleman comes to a settlement, Hawking, Coursing and Hunting, are the dainties of it; then taking Tobacco, and going to the Alehouse and Tavern, where matches are made for Races, Cock-fighting, and the like." As opposed to this life, Gailhard holds up the pattern of Sir Thomas Grosvenor, who did "strive after being bettered with an Outlandish Breeding" by means of close application to the French and Italian languages, to fencing, dancing, riding The Great Horse, drawing landscapes, and learning the guitar. "His Moneys he did not trifle away, but bestowed them upon good Books, Medals and other useful Rareties worth the Curiosity of a Compleat Gentleman."[358] On comparing these instructions with those of the sixteenth century, one is struck with the emphasis they lay upon drawing and "limning." This is what we would expect in the seventeenth century, when an interest in pictures, statues, and architecture was a distinguishing feature of a gentleman. The Marquis de Seignelay, sent on a tour in 1617 by his father Colbert, was accompanied by a painter and an architect charged to make him understand the beauties of Italian art.[359] Antoine Delahaute, making the Grand Tour with an Abbé for a governor, carried with him an artist as well, so that when he came upon a fine site, he ordered the chaise to be stopped, and the view to be drawn by the obedient draughtsman.[360] Not only did gentlemen study to appreciate pictures, but they strove themselves to draw and paint. In the travels of George Sandys[361] (edition 1615), may be seen a woodcut of travellers, in the costume of Henry of Navarre, sketching at the side of Lake Avernus. To take out one's memorandum-book and make a sketch of a charming prospect, was the usual thing before the camera was invented. "Before I went to bed I took a landscape of this pleasant terrace," says Evelyn in Roane.[362] At Tournon, where he saw a very strong castle under a high precipice, "The prospect was so tempting that I could not forbear designing it with my crayon."[363] Consequently, we find instructions for travellers reflecting the tastes of the time: Gerbier's _Subsidium Peregrinantibus_, for instance, insisting on a knowledge of "Perspective, Sculpture, Architecture and Pictures," as among the requisites of a polite education, lays great stress on the identification and survey of works of art as one of the main duties of a traveller.[364] Significant as are the instructions of Gerbier, Lassels, and others of this period, there are some directions for an education abroad which are more interesting than these products of professional tutors--instructions written by one who was himself the perfect gentleman of his day. The Earl of Chesterfield's letters to his son define the purpose of a foreign education with a freedom which is lacking in the book of a governor who writes for the public eye. Though the contents of the letters are familiar to everyone, their connection with travel for "cultum animi" has hitherto, I think, been overlooked. It will be remembered that the earl sent his son abroad at the age of fourteen to study for five years on the Continent, and to acquire a better preparation for life than Oxford or Cambridge could offer. Of these universities Chesterfield had a low opinion. He could not sufficiently scorn an education which did not prevent a man from being flurried at his Presentation to the King. He remembered that he himself, when he was first introduced into good company, with all the awkwardness and rust of Cambridge about him, was frightened out of his wits. At Cambridge he "had acquired among the pedants of an illiberal seminary a turn for satire and contempt, and a strong tendency to argumentation and contradiction," which was a hindrance to his progress in the polite world. Only after a continental education did he see the follies of Englishmen who knew nothing of modern Europe, who were always talking of the Ancients as something more than men, and of the Moderns as something less. "They are never without a classic or two in their pockets; they stick to the old good sense; they read none of modern trash; and will show you plainly that no improvement has been made, in any one art or science, these last seventeen hundred years."[365] His son, therefore, was to waste no time in the society of pedants, but accompanied by a travelling tutor, was to begin studying life first-hand at the Courts. His book-learning was to go side by side with the study of manners: "Courts and Camps are the only places to learn the world in. There alone all kinds of characters resort, and human nature is seen in all the various shapes and modes ... whereas, in all other places, one local mode generally prevails."[366] Moreover, the earl did not think that a company wholly composed of men of learning could be called good company. "They cannot have the easy manners and tournure of the world, as they do not live in it." And an engaging address, "an insinuating behaviour," was to be sought for early in life, and, at the same time, with the solid parts of learning. "The Scholar, without good breeding, is a Pedant: the Philosopher, a Cynic: the Soldier, a Brute: and every man disagreeable."[367] The five years of young Stanhope's travel were carefully distributed as follows: a year in Lausanne,[368] for the rudiments of languages; a year in Leipsic, for a thorough grounding in history and jurisprudence; a year spent in visits to such cities as Berlin, Dresden, and Vienna, for a view of the different Courts; one in Italy, to get rid of the manners of Germany; and one in Paris, to give him the final polish, the supreme touch, of gentlemanly complaisance, politeness, and ease. We may pass over the years in Germany, as the earl did, without much comment. Young Stanhope was quite satisfactory in the more solid parts of learning, and it was not until he reached Italy, there to begin his courtly training, that Chesterfield's interest was fully aroused. "The manners of Leipsig must be shook off," he says emphatically. "No scramblings at your meals as at a German ordinary: no awkward overturns of glasses, plates, and salt-cellers."[369] He is to mind the decent mirth of the courtiers--their discreet frankness, their natural, careless, but genteel air; in short, to acquire the Graces. Chesterfield sent letters of introduction to the best company in Venice, forwarded his own diamond shoe buckles for his son, and began to pour forth advice on the possible social problems confronting a young Englishman in Rome. With a contemptuous tolerance for Papists, Protestants, and all religious quarrels as obstructions to the art of pleasing, he bade Stanhope be civil to the Pope, and to kneel down while the Host was being carried through the streets. His tutor, though, had better not. With wonderful artistic insight, the earl perceives that the fitting attitude for Mr Harte is simple, ungracious honesty.[370] On the subject of the Pretender, then resident in Rome, his advice is; never meet a Stuart at all if you can help it; but if you must, feign ignorance of him and his grievances. If he begins to talk politics, disavow any knowledge of events in England, and escape as soon as you can.[371] Long before his son's year in Italy was completed, Chesterfield began preparing him for Paris. For the first six months Stanhope was to live in an academy with young Frenchmen of fashion; after that, to have lodgings of his own. The mornings were to belong to study, or serious conversation with men of learning or figure; the afternoons, to exercise; the evenings to be free for balls, the opera, or play. These are the pleasures of a gentleman, for which his father is willing to pay generously. But he will not, he points out frequently, subscribe to the extravagance of a rake. The eighteen-year-old Stanhope is to have his coach, his two valets and a footman, the very best French clothes--in fact, everything that is sensible. But he shall not be allowed money for dozens of cane-heads, or fancy snuff-boxes, or excessive gaming, or the support of opera-singers. One handsome snuff-box, one handsome sword, and gaming only when the presence of the ladies keeps down high stakes; but no tavern-suppers--no low company which costs so much more than dissipations among one's equals. There is no need for a young man of any address to make love to his laundress,[372] as long as ladies of his own class stoop to folly. Above all, Stanhope is not to associate with his own countrymen in Paris. On them Chesterfield is never tired of pouring the vials of scorn. He began while Stanhope was at Leipsic to point out the deficiences of English boys: "They are commonly twenty years old before they have spoken to anybody above their schoolmaster, and the Fellows of their college. If they happen to have learning, it is only Greek and Latin; but not one word of modern history, or modern languages. Thus prepared, they go abroad as they call it; but in truth, they stay at home all that while; for being very awkward, confoundedly ashamed, and not speaking the languages, they go into no foreign company, at least none good, but dine and sup with one another only, at the tavern.[373]... "The life of les Milords Anglais is regularly, or if you will, irregularly, this. As soon as they rise, which is very late, they breakfast together to the utter loss of two good morning hours. Then they go by coachfuls to the Palais, the Invalides, and Notre-Dame; from thence to the English coffee-house where they make up their tavern party for dinner. From dinner, where they drink quick, they adjourn in clusters to the play, where they crowd up the stage, drest up in very fine clothes, very ill made by a Scotch or Irish tailor. From the play to the tavern again, where they get very drunk, and where they either quarrel among themselves, or sally forth, commit some riot in the streets, and are taken up by the watch."[374] To avoid these monsters, and to cultivate the best French society, was what a wise young man must do in Paris. He must establish an intimacy with the best French families. If he became fashionable among the French, he would be fashionable in London. Chesterfield considered it best to show no erudition at Paris before the rather illiterate society there. As the young men were all bred for and put into the army at the age of twelve or thirteen, only the women had any knowledge of letters. Stanhope would find at the academy a number of young fellows ignorant of books, and at that age hasty and petulant, so that the avoidance of quarrels must be a young Englishman's great care. He will be as lively as these French boys, but a little wiser; he will not reproach them with their ignorance, nor allow their idlenesses to break in on the hours he has laid aside for study. Such was the plan of a Grand Tour laid down by one of the first gentlemen of Europe. It remains one of the best expressions of the social influence of France upon England, and for that reason properly belongs to the seventeenth century more than to the Georgian era in which the letters were written. Chesterfield might be called the last of the courtiers. He believed in accomplishments and personal elegance as a means of advancing oneself in the world, long after the Court had ceased to care for such qualities, or to be of much account in the destinies of leading Englishmen. Republicanism was in the air. Chesterfield was thinking of the France of his youth; but France had changed. In 1765, Horace Walpole was depressed by the solemnity and austerity of French society. Their style of conversation was serious, pedantic, and seldom animated except by a dispute on some philosophic subject.[375] In fact, Chesterfield was admiring the France of Louis the Fourteenth long after "Le Soleil" had set, and the country was sombre. It was the eve of the day when France was to imitate the democratic ideals of England. England, at last, instead of being on the outskirts of civilization, was coming to be the most powerful, respected, and enlightened country in Europe. When that day dawned, Englishmen no longer sought the Continent in the spirit of the Elizabethans--the spirit which aimed at being "A citizen of the whole world." * * * * * CHAPTER VII THE DECADENCE OF THE GRAND TOUR. During the several generations when the Stuarts communicated their love of France to the aristocracy of England, there was, as we might suppose, a steady undercurrent of protest against this Gallic influence. A returning traveller would be pursued by the rabble of London, who, sighting his French periwig and foreign gestures, would pelt his coach with gutter-dirt, squibs, roots and rams-horns, and run after it shouting "French Dogs! French Dogs! A Mounser! A Mounser!"[376] Between the courtiers and the true-born Englishman there was no great sympathy in the matter of foreign culture. The courtiers too often took towards deep-seated English customs the irreverent attitude of their master, Charles II.--known to remark that it was the roast beef and reading of the holy Scriptures that caused the noted sadness of the English.[377] The true-born Englishman retorted with many a jibe at the "gay, giddy, brisk, insipid fool," who thought of nothing but clothes and garnitures, despised roast beef, and called his old friends ruffians and rustics; or at the rake who "has not been come from France above three months and here he has debauch'd four women and fought five duels." The playwrights could always secure an audience by a skilful portrait of an "English Mounsieur" such as Sir Fopling Flutter, who "went to Paris a plain bashful English Blockhead and returned a fine undertaking French Fop."[378] There had always been a protest against foreign influence, but in the eighteenth century one cannot fail to notice a stronger and more contemptuous attitude than ever before. England was feeling her power. War with France sharpened the shafts of satire, and every victory over the French increased a strong insular patriotism in all classes. Foote declared residence in Paris a necessary part of every man of fashion's education, because it "Gives 'em a relish for their own domestic happiness and a proper veneration for their own national liberties."[379] His Epilogue to _The Englishman in Paris_ commends the prudence of British forefathers who "Scorned to truck for base unmanly arts, Their native plainness and their honest hearts."[380] It was not the populace alone, or those who appealed directly to the populace, who sneered at Popish countries, and pitied them for not being British.[381] As time went on Whigs of all classes boasted of the superiority of England, especially when they travelled in Europe. "We envy not the warmer clime that lies In ten degrees of more indulgent skies ... 'Tis Liberty that crowns Britannia's Isle And makes her barren rocks and her bleak mountains smile."[382] Addison's travels are full of reflections of this sort. The destitution of the Campagna of Rome demonstrates triumphantly what an aversion mankind has to arbitrary government, while the well-populated mountain of St Marino shows what a natural love they have for liberty. Whigs abroad were well caricatured by Smollett in _Peregrine Pickle_ in the figures of the Painter and the Doctor. They observed that even the horses and dogs in France were starved; whereupon the Governor of Peregrine, an Oxonian and a Jacobite, sneered that they talked like true Englishmen. The Doctor, affronted by the insinuation, told him with some warmth that he was wrong in his conjecture, "his affections and ideas being confined to no particular country; for he considered himself as a citizen of the world. He owned himself more attached to England than to any other kingdom, but this preference was the effect of reflection and not of prejudice." This growing conviction of England's superiority helped to bring about the decadence of travel for education. Travel continued, and the eighteenth century was as noticeable as any other for the "mal du pays" which attacked young men, but travel became the tour of curiosity and diversion with which we are familiar, and not an earnest endeavour to become "a compleat person." Many changes helped this decadence. The "policy" of Italy and France, which once attracted the embryo statesmen of Elizabeth, was now well known and needed no further study. With the passing of the Stuarts, when the king's favour ceased to be the means of making one's fortune, a courtly education was no longer profitable. High offices under the Georges were as often as not filled by unpolished Englishmen extolled for their native flavour of bluntness and bluffness. Foreign graces were a superfluous ornament, more or less ridiculous. The majority of Englishmen were wont to prize, as Sam Johnson did, "their rustic grandeur and their surly grace," and to join in his lament: "Lost in thoughtless ease and empty show, Behold the warrior dwindled to a beau; Sense, freedom, piety refined away, Of France the mimick and of Spain the prey."[383] A large section of society was inimical to the kind of education that the Earl of Chesterfield prescribed for his son. The earl was well aware of it, indeed, and marked with repugnance divers young bucks of his day with leathern breeches and unpowdered hair, who would exclaim; "Damn these finical outlandish airs, give me a manly resolute manner. They make a rout with their graces, and talk like a parcel of dancing masters, and dress like a parcel of fops; one good Englishman will beat three of them."[384] Even during the height of the Grand Tour in the latter half of the seventeenth century, thoughtful minds, observing the effects of a foreign education as seen not only in the courtiers of Charles II., but in the dozens of obscure country gentlemen who painfully sought to acquire the habit of a Parisian Marquis by education abroad, noticed the weak points of such a system. The Earl of Clarendon thought it pernicious to send boys abroad until after they had gone through Oxford or Cambridge. There was no necessity for their getting the French accent at an early age, "as if we had no mind to be suspected to be Englishmen." That took them from their own country at just the age when they ought to have severe mental discipline, for the lack of which no amount of social training would make them competent men. "They return from travel with a wonderful confidence which may very well be called impudence ... all their learning is in wearing their clothes well; they have very much without their heads, very little within; and they are very much more solicitous that their periwigs fit handsomely, than to speak discreetly; they laugh at what they do not understand, which understanding so little, makes their laughter very immoderate. When they have been at home two or three years, which they spend in the vanities which they brought over with them, fresh travellers arrive with newer fashions, and the same confidence, and are looked upon as finer gentlemen, and wear their ribbons more gracefully; at which the others are angry, quit the stage, and would fain get into wiser company, where they every day find defects in themselves, which they owe to the ill spending that time when they thought only of being fine gentlemen."[385] When these products of a French education could not remain in town, but were obliged to live on their estates amid rough country squires, it went hard with them. "They will by no means embrace our way," says The Country Gentleman in Clarendon's _Dialogue of the Want of Respect Due to Age_, "but receive us with cringes and treat us with set speeches, and complain how much it rains, that they cannot keep their hair dry, or their linnen handsome one hour. They talk how much a better country France is and how much they eat and drink better there, which our neighbors will not believe, and laugh at them for saying so. They by no means endure our exercises of hunting and hawking, nor indeed can their tender bodies endure those violent motions. They have a guitar or some other fiddle, which they play upon commonly an hour or so in their beds before they rise, and have at least one French fellow to wait upon them, to shave them, and comb their periwig; and he is sent into the kitchen to dress some little dish, or to make some sauce for dinner, whom the cook is hardly restrained from throwing into the fire. In a word, they live to and within themselves, and their nearest neighbors do not know whether they eat and drink or no."[386] Not only were the recreations of their country neighbours violent and unrefined, according to the English Messieurs, but that preoccupation with local government, which was the chief duty of the country gentleman, was beyond the capacity of those who by living abroad had learned little of the laws and customs of their own country. Clarendon draws a sad picture of the return of the native who was ashamed to be present at the public and private meetings for the administration of justice, because he had spent in dancing the time when he might have been storing knowledge, and who now passed his days a-bed, reading French romances of which he was tired. Locke also set forth the fallacies of the Grand Tour in his _Essay of Education_. He admitted that fencing and riding the Great Horse were looked upon as "so necessary parts of breeding that it would be thought a great omission to neglect them," but he questioned whether riding the Great Horse was "of moment enough to be made a business of."[387] Fencing, he pointed out, has very little to do with civil life, and is of no use in real warfare, while music "wastes so much of a young man's time, to gain but a moderate skill in it, and engages often in such odd company, that many think it much better spared."[388] But the feature of travel which was most mercilessly analysed by Locke was the Governor. He exposed the futility of sending a boy abroad to gain experience and to mingle with good society while he was so young as to need a guardian. For at the age when most boys were abroad--that is, from sixteen to twenty-two--they thought themselves too much men to be governed by others, and yet had not experience and prudence enough to govern themselves. Under the shelter of a Governor they were excused from being accountable for their own conduct and very seldom troubled themselves with inquiries or with making useful observations of their own. While the Governor robbed his pupil of life's responsibilities on one hand, he hampered him, on the other, in any efforts to get into good company: "I ask amongst our young men that go abroad under tutors what one is there of an hundred, that ever visits any person of quality? much less makes an acquaintance with such from whose conversation he may learn what is good breeding in that country and what is worth observation in it.... Nor indeed is it to be wondered. For men of worth and parts will not easily admit the familiarity of boys who yet need the care of a tutor: though a young gentleman and stranger, appearing like a man, and shewing a desire to inform himself in the customs, laws, and government of the country he is in, will find welcome, assistance and entertainment everywhere."[389] These, and many comments of the same sort from other observers, made for the disintegration of the Grand Tour, and cast discredit upon it as a mode of education. Locke was not the only person who exposed the ineffectiveness of governors. They became a favourite subject of satire in the eighteenth century. Though even the best sort of "maître d'ours" or "bear-master," as the French called him, robbed travel of its proper effect, the best were seldom available for the hosts of boyish travellers. Generally the family chaplain was chosen, because of his cheapness, and this unfortunate was expected to restrain the boisterous devilment of the Peregrine Pickle committed to his care.[390] A booklet called _The Bear-Leaders; or, Modern Travelling Stated in a Proper Light_, sums up a biting condemnation of "our rugged unsocial Telemachuses and their unpolished Mentors," describing how someone in orders, perhaps a family dependent, is chosen as the Governor of the crude unprepared mortal embarking for a tour of Europe. "The Oddities, when introduced to each other, start back with mutual Astonishment, but after some time from a frequency of seeing, grow into a Coarse Fondness one for the other, expressed by Horse Laughs, or intimated by alternate Thumps on the Back, with all such other gentle insinuations of our uncivilized Male Hoydens."[391] Small wonder, therefore, that a youth, who returned from driving by post-chaise through the principal towns of Europe in the company of a meek chaplain,[392] returned from his tour about as much refined, according to Congreve, "as a Dutch skipper from a whale-fishing."[393] The whole idea of the Grand Tour was thrown into disrepute after its adoption by crude and low-bred people, who thought it necessary to inform all their acquaintance where they had been, by a very unbecoming dress and a very awkward address: "not knowing that an Englishman's beef-and-pudding face will not agree with a hat no bigger than a trencher; and that a man who never learned to make a bow performs it worse in a head of hair dressed a L'aille Pidgeon, than in a scratch wig."[394] In many other ways, also, travel lost its dignity in the eighteenth century. It was no longer necessary to live in foreign countries to understand them. With the foundation of the chairs of modern history at Oxford and Cambridge by King George the First in 1724, one great reason for travel was lost. Information about contemporary politics on the Continent could be had through the increasing number of news-journals and gazettes. As for learning the French language, there had been no lack of competent teachers since the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes in 1685 sent French Protestant refugees swarming across the channel to find some sort of living in England. Therefore the spirit of acquisitiveness dwindled and died down, in the absence of any strong need to study abroad, and an idle, frivolous, darting, capricious spirit controlled the aristocratic tourist. Horace Walpole on his travels spent his time in a way that would have been censured by the Elizabethans. He rushed everywhere, played cards, danced through the streets of Rheims before the ladies' coaches, and hailed with delight every acquaintance from England. What would Sir Philip Sidney have thought of the mode of life Walpole draws in this letter: "About two days ago, about four o'clock in the afternoon ... as we were picking our teeth round a littered table and in a crumby room, Gray[395] in an undress, Mr Conway in a morning-grey coat and I in a trim white night-gown and slippers, very much out of order, with a very little cold, a message discomposed us all of a sudden, with a service to Mr Walpole from Mr More, and that, if he pleased, he would wait on Mr Walpole. We scuttle upstairs in great confusion, but with no other damage than the flinging down two or three glasses and the dropping a slipper by the way. Having ordered the room to be cleaned out, and sent a very civil response to Mr More, we began to consider who Mr More might be."[396] In the tour of Walpole and Gray one may see a change in the interest of travel; how the romantic spirit had already ousted the humanistic love of men and cities. As he drifted through Europe Gray took little interest in history or in the intricacies of human character. He would not be bothered by going to Courts with Walpole, or if he did he stood in the corner of the ballroom and looked on while Walpole danced. What he cared for was La Grande Chartreuse, with its cliffs and pines and torrents and hanging woods.[397] He is the forerunner of the Byronic traveller who delighted in the terrific aspects of nature and disdained mankind. Different indeed was the genial heart of Howell, who was at pains to hire lodgings in Paris with windows opening on the street, that he might study every passerby,[398] but who spoke of mountains in Spain in a casual way as "not so high and hideous as the Alps," or as "uncouth, huge, monstrous Excrescences of Nature, bearing nothing but craggy stones."[399] With the decline of enthusiasm over the serious advantages of travel, there was not much demand for those essays on the duties of the student abroad which we have tried to describe. By the eighteenth century, hand-books for travellers were much the same as those with which we are to-day familiar; that is, a guide-book describing the particular objects to be inspected, and the sensations they ought to inspire, together with exceedingly careful notes as to the price of meals and transportation. This sort of manual became necessary when travel grew to be the recreation of men of moderate education who could not read the local guide-books written in the language of the country they visited. Compilations such as the _Itinerarium Italiæ_ of Schottus, published at Antwerp in 1600, and issued in eleven editions during the seventeenth century, had been sufficient for the accomplished traveller of the Renaissance.[400] France, as the centre of travel, produced the greatest number of handy manuals,[401] and it was from these, doubtless, that Richard Lassels drew the idea of composing a similar work in the English language, which would comprise the exhortation to travel, in the manner of Turler, with a continental guide to objects of art. _The Voyage of Italy_ by Lassels, published in Paris in 1670, marks the beginning of guide-books in English. Still, in succeeding vade-mecums there are some occasional echoes of the old injunctions to improve one's time. Misson's _A New Voyage to Italy_,[402] maps out some intellectual duties. According to Misson a voyager ought to carry along with him a cane divided into several measures, or a piece of pack-thread well twined and waxed, fifty fathom long and divided into feet by knots, so as to be able to measure the height of the towers and the bigness of pillars and the dimensions of everything so far as he is able. This seems sufficiently laborious, but it makes for an easy life compared to the one prescribed by Count Leopold Berchtold in his _Essay to Direct and Extend the Inquiries of Patriotic Travellers_. He would have one observe the laws and customs of foreigners with a curiosity that would extend to every department of social and economic life, beginning with "Causes of the Decrease of Population and Remedies to prevent them"; proceeding to such matters as the state of the peasantry; to questions applicable to manuring, ploughing, and the housing of black cattle; or to an "Inquiry concerning Charitable Institutions such as one for recovering Drowned and Strangled Persons"; or to the "Extent of Liberty to Grown-up Young Ladies." In case the traveller is at a loss how to conduct his investigation, a list of particular questions on the topics for study is added by the author. A few random examples of this list are: "Which are the favourite herbs of the sheep of this country?" "Are there many instances of people having been bit by mad animals?" "Is the state of a bachelor aggravated and rendered less desirable? By what means?" "How much is paid per day for ploughing with two oxen? With two horses?" "Which food has been experienced to be most portable and most nourishing for keeping a distressed ship's crew from starving?" "What is the value of whales of different sizes?" In addition to such inquiries Berchtold[403] urges the necessity of sketching landscapes and costumes, and better yet, the scientific drawing of engines and complicated machines, and also of acquiring skill on some musical instrument, to keep one from the gaming table in one's idle hours, preferably of learning to play on a portable instrument, such as a German flute. Journals, it goes without saying, must be written every night before the traveller goes to sleep. It is not only the fact of their being addressed to persons of small intelligence which makes the guide-books of the eighteenth century seem ridiculous; another reason for their ignoble tone is the increased emphasis they lay on the material convenience of the traveller. Not the service of one's country or the perfecting of one's character is the note of Georgian injunctions, but the fear of being cheated and of being sick. Misson's instructions begin at once with praise of fixed rates in Holland, where one is spared the exhaustion of wrangling. The exact fare from Cologne to Maintz is his next subject, and how one can hire a coach and six horses for three crowns a day; how the best inns at Venice are The Louvre, The White Lion, and The French Arms; how one can stay at The Louvre for eight livres a day and pay seven or eight livres for a gondola by the day, and so forth; with similar useful but uninspired matter. Next he discusses sea-sickness, and informs us that the best remedy is to keep always, night and day, a piece of earth under the nose; for which purpose you should provide a sufficient quantity of earth and preserve it fresh in a pot of clay; and when you have used a piece so long that it begins to grow dry, put it again into the pot, and take out some fresh earth.[404] Berchtold's suggestions for comfort are even more elaborate. One should carry everywhere: "A bottle of vinegar, de quatre voleurs. Ditto best French Brandy. Ditto spirit of Salmiac, against fits. Ditto Hoffman's Drops." At inns it is advisable to air the room by throwing a little strong vinegar upon a red hot shovel, and to bring your bed-clothes with you. As a guard against robbers it is advisable to have your servant sleep in the same room with you, keep a wax candle burning all night, and look into the chests and behind the bed before retiring. Pocket door-bolts in the form of a cross are easily obtainable; if not, put the tables and chair against the door. There is something fussy about such a traveller, though robbers undoubtedly were to be feared, even in the eighteenth century,[405] and though inns were undoubtedly dirty. A repugnance to dirt and discomfort is justifiable enough, but there is something especially peevish in the tone of many Georgian travellers. Sam Sharp's _Letters from Italy_ breathe only sorrow, disillusion and indignation. Italian beds and vermin, Italian post-boys and their sorry nags are too frequently the theme of his discourse. He even assures us that the young gentlemen whom he had always pictured as highly delighted by the Grand Tour are in reality very homesick for England. They are weary of the interminable drives and interminable conversazioni of Italy and long for the fox-hunting of Great Britain.[406] Fielding's account of his voyage to Lisbon contains too much about his wife's toothache and his own dropsy.[407] Smollett, like Fielding, was a sick man at the time of his travels, and we can excuse his rage at the unswept floors, old rotten tables, crazy chairs and beds so disgusting that he generally wrapped himself in a great-coat and lay upon four chairs with a leathern portmanteau for a pillow; but we cannot admire a man who is embittered by the fact that he cannot get milk to put in his tea, and is continually thrusting his head out of the window to curse at the post-boys, or pulling out his post-book to read to an inn-yard with savage vociferation the article which orders that the traveller who comes first shall be first served.[408] This is a degeneration from the undaunted mettle of the Elizabethans, who, though acquainted with dirty inns and cheating landlords, kept their spirits soaring above the material difficulties of travel. We miss, in eighteenth century accounts, the gaiety of Roger Ascham's Report of Germany and of the fair barge with goodly glass windows in which he went up the Rhine--gaiety which does not fail even when he had to spend the night in the barge, with his tired head on his saddle for a bolster.[409] We miss the spirit of good fellowship with which John Taylor, the Water Poet, shared with six strangers in the coach from Hamburgh the ribs of roast beef brought with him from Great Britain.[410] Vastly diverting as the eighteenth-century travel-books sometimes are, there is nothing in them that warms the heart like the travels of poor Tom Coryat, that infatuated tourist, chief of the tribe of Gad, whom nothing daunted in his determination to see the world. Often he slept in wagons and in open skiffs, and though he could not afford to hire the guides with Sedan chairs who took men over the Alpine passes in those days, yet he followed them on foot, panting.[411] So, in spite of the fact that travel is never-ending, and that "peregrinatio animi causa" of the sixteenth century is not very different from the Wanderlust of the nineteenth, we feel we have come to the end of the particular phase of travel which had its beginning in the Renaissance. The passing of the courtier, the widened scope of the university, the rise of journalism, and the ascendancy of England, changed the attitude of the English traveller from eager acquisitiveness to complacent amusement. With this change of attitude came an end to the essay in praise of travel, written by scholars and gentlemen for their kind; intended for him "Who, whithersoever he directeth his journey, travelleth for the greater benefit of his wit, for the commodity of his studies, and dexterity of his life,--he who moveth more in mind than in body."[412] We hope we have done something to rescue these essays from the oblivion into which they have fallen, to show the social background from which they emerged, and to reproduce their enthusiasm for self-improvement and their high-hearted contempt for an easy, indolent life. * * * * * BIBLIOGRAPHY I CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE OF ADVICE TO TRAVELLERS, 1500-1700 1561. Gratarolus, Guilhelmus. _Authore Gratarolo Guilhelmo, philosopho et medico, De Regimine Iter Agentium, vel equitum, vel peditum, vel navi, vel curru rheda ... viatoribus et peregrinatoribus quibusque utilissimi libri duo, nunc primum editi._ Basileæ, 1561. 1570-1. Cecil, William, Lord Burghley: _Letter to Edward Manners, Earl of Rutland_, among State Papers, Elizabeth, 1547-80, vol. lxxvii. No. 6. 1574. Turlerus, Hieronymus. _De Peregrinatione et agro neapolitano, libri II. scripti ab Hieronymo Turlero. Omnibus peregrinantibus utiles ac necessarii; ac in corum gratiam nunc primum editi._ Argentorati, anno 1574. 1575 ---- _The Traveiler of Jerome Turler, divided into two bookes, the first conteining a notable discourse of the maner and order of traveiling oversea, or into strange and foreign countries, the second comprehending an excellent description of the most delicious realme of Naples in Italy; a work very pleasant for all persons to reade, and right profitable and necessarie unto all such as are minded to traveyll._ London, 1575. 1577. Pyrckmair, Hilarius. _Commentariolus de arte apodemica seu vera peregrinandi ratione. Auctore Hilario Pyrckmair Landishutano._ Ingolstadii, 1577. 1577. Zvingerus, Theodor. _Methodus apodemica in eorum gratiam qui cum fructu in quocunq; tandem vitæ genere peregrinari cupiunt, a Theod. Zvingero. Basiliense typis delineata, et cum aliis tum quatuor præsertim Athenarum vivis exemplis illustrata._ Basileæ, 1577. 1578. Bourne, William. _A booke called the Treasure for traveilers, devided into five parts, contayning very necessary matters for all sortes of travailers, eyther by sea or by lande._ London, 1578. 1578. ---- _A Regiment for the Sea, containing verie necessarie matters for all sortes of men and travailers: netyly corrected and amended by Thomas Hood_. London, 1578. 1578. Lipsius, Justus. _De ratione cum fructu peregrinandi, et præsertim in Italia_. (In Epistola ad Ph. Lanoyum.) Justi Lipsii _Epistolæ Selectæ: fol. 106. Parisiis, 1610. 1580. Sidney. Sir Philip Sidney to his brother Robert Sidney when he was on his travels; advising him what circuit to take; how to behave, what authors to read, etc. In _Letters and Memorials of State_, collected by Arthur Collins. London, 1746. 1587. Pighius (Stephanus Vinandus). _Hercules Prodicius, seu principis juventutis vita et peregrinatio_. Ex officina C. Plantini. Antverpiæ, 1587. 1587. Meierus, Albertus. _Methodus describendi regimes, urbes et arces, et quid singulis locis proecipue in peregrinationibus homines nobiles ac docti animadvertere, observare et annotare debeant_. Per M. Albertum Meierum. Helmstadii, 1587. 1589. ---- _Certaine briefe and speciall instructions for gentlemen, merchants, students, souldiers, marriners ... employed in services abroad or anie way occasioned to converse in the kingdomes and governementes of forren princes_. London, 1589. (Translation by Philip Jones.) 1592. Stradling, Sir John. _A Direction for Travailers taken out of Justus Lipsius and enlarged for the behoofe of the right honorable Lord, the young Earle of Bedford, being now ready to travell_. London, 1592. 1595. Devereux, Robert, Earl of Essex (or Bacon ?). Harl. MS. 6265, p. 428. _Profitable instructions_, for Roger Manners, Earl of Rutland. 1595 (?). Davison, William (Secretary of Queen Elizabeth.) Harl. MS. 6893. _Instructions for Travel_. 1598. Loysius, Georgius. _G. Loysii Curiovoitlandi Pervigilium Mercurii, quo agitur de præstantissimis peregrinantis virtutibus_, ... Curiæ Variscorum, 1598. 1598. Dallington, Sir Robert. _A Method for Travell, shewed by taking the view of France as it stoode in the yeare of our Lord_, 1598. N.D., London, printed by Thomas Creede. c. 1600. _A True Description and Direction of what is most worthy to be seen in all Italy_. Anon., N.D. _Harleian Miscellany_, vol. v. No. 128. 1604. Pitsius, Joannes, _Ioannis Pitsii Anglii Sacræ Theologiæ Doctoris de Peregrinatione libri septem_. Dusseldorpii, 1604. 1605 (?). Neugebauer, Salomon. _Tractatus de peregrinatione ... historcis, ethicis, politicisque exemplis illustratus ... cum indice rerum et exemplorum_. Basileæ. 1606. Palmer, Thomas. _An Essay of the Meanes how to make our Travailes into forraine Countries the more profitable and honourable._ London, 1606. 1608. Ranzovinus, Henricus Count. _Methodus apodemica seu peregrinandi perlustrandique regiones, urbes et arces ratio_ ... (With a dedication by Tob. Kirchmair.) Argentinæ, 1608. 1609. Greville, Fulke, Lord Brooke. _A Letter of Travell_, to his cousin Greville Varney. (In _Certaine Learned and Elegant Works of the Right Honorable Fulke, Lord Brooke_. London, 1633.) 1611. Kirchnerus, Hermannus. _An Oration made by Hermannus Kirchnerus ... concerning this subject; that young men ought to travell into forraine countryes, and all those that desire the praise of learning and atchieving worthy actions both at home and abroad._ (In _Coryat's Crudities_, London, 1611.) 1616. Sincerus, Iodocus. _Itinerarium Galliæ, ita accommodatum, ut eius ductu mediocri tempore tota Gallia obiri, Anglia et Belgium adiri possint; nec bis terve ad eadem loca rediri oporteat; notatis cuiusque loci, quas vocant, deliciis_. Lugduni, 1616. 1617. Moryson, Fynes. _Of Travel in General; Of Precepts for Travellers_. (In the _Itinerary_ of Fynes Moryson. Ed. Glasgow, 1907.) 1622. Peacham, Henry. _The Compleat Gentleman_. 1634 Ed., reprinted in Tudor and Stuart Library by Clarendon Press, with introduction by G.S. Gordon. Oxford, 1906. 1625. Bacon, Francis. _Of Travel._ In _Works_. Ed. James Spedding. London, 1859. 1631. Erpenius, Thomas. _De Peregrinatione Gallica utiliter instituenda Tractatus._ Lugduni Batavorum, 1631. 1633. Devereux, Robert, Earl of Essex. _Profitable Instructions: Describing what speciall Observations are to be taken by Travellers in all Nations, States and Countries; Pleasant and Profitable. By the three much admired, Robert, Late Earl of Essex, Sir Philip Sidney and Secretary Davison_. London, 1633. 1637. Wotton, Sir Henry. Letter of Instruction to John Milton, about to travel. In _Life and Letters_, ed. by Pearsall Smith. Oxford, 1907. 1639. _Le Voyage de France, Dresse pour l'instruction et commodité tant des François, que des Estrangers_. Paris, 1639. (Du Verdier.) 1642. Howell, James. _Instructions for Forreine Travell, Shewing by what cours, and in what compasse of time, one may take an exact Survey of the Kingdomes and States of Christendome, and arrive to the practicall knowledge of the Languages, to good purpose._ London, 1642. 1652. Evelyn, John. _The State of France as it stood in the IXth yeer of this present Monarch, Lewis XIIII_. Written to a Friend by J. E. London, 1652. (Discussion of travel in the preface.) 1653. Zeiler, Martin. _Fidus Achates qui itineris sui socium ... non tantum de locorum ... situ, verum etiam, quid in plerisque spectatu ... dignum occurrat ... monet ... Nunc e Germanico Latinus factus a quodam Apodemophilo_.... Ulmæ, 1653. 1656. Osborn, Francis. _Travel_, in _Advice to a Son_. Ed. E. A. Parry. London, 1896. 1662. Howell, James. _A New English Grammar, whereunto is annexed A Discours or Dialog containing a Perambulation of Spain and Portugall which may serve for a direction how to travell through both Countreys_. London, 1662. _c_. 1665. Hyde, Edward, Earl of Clarendon. _A Dialogue concerning Education_ in _A Collection of Several Tracts_. London, 1727. 1665. Gerbier, Balthazar, Knight; Master of the Ceremonies to King Charles the First. _Subsidium Peregrinantibus or An Assistance to a Traveller in his Convers ... directing him, after the latest Mode, to the greatest Honour, Pleasure, Security, and Advantage in his Travells. Written to a Princely Traveller for a Vade Mecum_. Oxford, 1665. 1670: Lassels, Richard: _The Voyage of Italy or a Compleat Journey through Italy.... With Instructions concerning Travel_; by Richard Lassels, Gent., who travelled through Italy Five times, as Tutor to several of the English Nobility and Gentry. Never before Extant. Newly printed at Paris and are to be sold in London by John Starkey. 1670. 1670. ---- _A Letter of Advice to a young Gentleman Leaving the University, concerning his behavior and conversation in the World_, by R(ichard) L(assels). Dublin, 1670. 1671. Leigh, Edward. _Three Diatribes or Discourses; First of Travel, or a Guide for Travellers into Foreign Parts; Secondly, of Money or Coyns; Thirdly, of Measuring the Distance betwixt Place and Place_. London, 1671. 1678. Gailhard, J. (Who hath been Tutor Abroad to severall of the Nobility and Gentry.) _The Compleat Gentleman: or Directions for the Education of Youth as to their Breeding at Home and Travelling Abroad_. London, 1678. 1693. Locke, John. _Some Thoughts concerning Education_. Fourth Edition. London, 1699. 1688. _A Letter of Advice to a Young Gentleman of an Honorable Family, now in his Travels beyond the Seas: for his more safe and profitable conduct in the three great Instances, of Study, Moral Deportment and Religion_. In three parts. By a True Son of the Church of England. London, 1688. 1688. Carr, Will, late Consul for the English Nation in Amsterdam. _Remarks of the Government of severall Parts of Germaniæ, Denmark ... but more particularly the United Provinces, with some few directions how to Travell in the States Dominions_. Amsterdam, 1688. 1690. ---- _The Travellers Guide and Historians Faithful Companion_. [London? 1690?] 1695. Misson, Maximilian. _A New Voyage to Italy: With a description of the Chief Towns ... Together with Useful Instructions for those who shall Travel thither. Done into English, and adorn'd with Figures_. 2 vols. London, 1695. * * * * * II TRAVELS, MEMOIRS, LETTERS AND BIOGRAPHIES, 1500-1700, USED IN THE FOREGOING CHAPTERS Ascham, Roger. _Works_. Ed. Giles. London, 1865. Aubrey, John. _Letters written by Eminent Persons in the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries_; and _Lives of Eminent Men_. London, 1813. D'Aunoy, Marie Catherine Jumelle de Berneville, Comtesse. _Relation du Voyage D'Espagne._ A La Haye, 1691. ---- _The Ingenious and Diverting Letters of the Lady ... Travels into Spain_. 2nd Ed. London, 1692. Belvoir MSS. (Hist. MSS. Comm. 12th Report; Appendix, Part IV. MSS. of the Duke of Rutland preserved at Belvoir Castle.) Bercherus, Gulielmus. _Epitaphia et Inscriptiones Lugubres_. A Gulielmo Berchero cum in Italia, animi causa, peregrinaretur, collecta. Excusum Londini, 1566. ---- _The Nobility of Women_. Ed. Warwick Bond for Roxburghe Club, 1904. (Written 1559.) Bisticci, Vespasiano da. _Vite di Uomini Illustri del secolo XV_. in _Collezione di Opere inediti o rare_. Firenze, 1859. Bodley, Sir Thomas. _Life, Written by Himself_. Privately reprinted for John Lane. London, 1894. Boorde, Andrew. _The First Boke of the Introduction of Knowledge, made by Andrew Boorde, of Physycke Doctor_; also _A Compendyous Regyment, or a Dyetary of Helth, made in Montpelier, compyled by Andrew Boorde, of Physycke Doctour_. Ed. F.J. Furnivail, for the Early English Text Society. Extra Series, IX.-X. London, 1869-70. Botero, Giovanni. _The Travellers Breviat, or an historicall description of the most famous kingdomes in the world_. Translated into English. London, 1601. ---- _A Treatise, concerning the causes of the magnificencie and greatness of cities_, ... now done into English by Robert Peterson of Lincolnes Inne, Gent. London, 1606. ---- _Relations of the Most Famous Kingdoms and Common-weales through the world_.... London, 1608. (Translated by Robert Johnson.) Bourdeille, Pierre de, Seigneur de Brantome. _Memoires, *... Contenans les Anecdotes de la Cour de France, sous les Rois Henri II., François II., Henri III. et IV._ A. Leyde, 1722. Boyle, Robert. _Works._ Vol. i. (_Life_) and v. (_Letters_). London, 1744. Breton, Nicholas. _Works._ Ed. A.B. Grosart. London, 1879. ---- _Grimello's Fortunes, with his Entertainment in his Travaile_. London, 1604. Browne, Sir Thomas. _Works._ Ed. Simon Wilkin. London, 1836. (Vol. i., containing _Life and Correspondence_.) Burnet, Gilbert. _Some Letters containing an account of what seemed most remarkable in Switzerland, Italy, etc._ (Written to the Hon. Robert Boyle.) Printed 1687. ---- _Three Letters concerning the Present State of Italy_, written in the year 1687. Printed 1688. Camden, William. _History or Annals of England._ In _A Complete History of England._ Vol. ii. 1706. Carew, George. _A Relation of the State of France, with the Character of Henry IV. and the Principal Persons of that Court._ Printed by Thomas Birch. London, 1749. Cavendish, George. _Life of Thomas Wolsey_ (written c. 1557). Printed by William Morris at the Kelmscott Press, 1893. Cavendish, Margaret, Duchess of Newcastle. _Life of ... William Cavendishe, Duke of Newcastle._ London, 1667. ---- _Life of ... the Duke of Newcastle_, to which is added "_The True Relation of my Birth, Breeding and Life_." Ed. C.H. Firth. London, 1906. Caxton, William. Dialogues in French and English. Ed. from text printed about 1483, by Henry Bradley, for the Early English Text Society. Extra Series, lxxix. London, 1900. Chapman, George. _Monsieur d'Olive_, in _The Comedies and Tragedies of George Chapman_. 3 vols. London, 1873. Clenardus, Nicolaus. _Epistolarum Libri Duo._ Antverpiæ, ex officina Christophori Plantini, 1566. _Collectanea: First Series._ Ed. C.R.L. Fletcher, for the Oxford Historical Society. Vol. v. Oxford, 1885. Contarini, Gaspar. _The Commonwealth and Government of Venice_, written by the Cardinall Gaspar Contareno, and translated out of Italian into English by Lewes Lewkenor, Esquire, London, 1599. Coryat, Thomas. _Coryat's Crudities hastily gobled up in five moneths travells in France, Savoy, Italy, Rhetia, commonly called the Grisons country, Helvetia alias Switzerland, some parts of high Germany and the Netherlands; newly digested in the hungry aire of Odcombe in the county of Somerset, and now dispersed to the nourishment of the travelling members of this kingdome._ London, 1611. Reprint by James Maclehose & Sons. Glasgow, 1905. Dallington, Robert. _A Survey of the Great Dukes State of Tuscany in the yeare of our Lord 1596._ Printed for Edward Blount at London, 1605. _Description Contenant les Antiquitez, fondations et singularitez des plus celebres Villes, Chasteaux et Places remarquables du Royaume de France, avec les choses plus memorables advenues en iciluy_ (par F. Des Rues). Constance, 1608. Dudithius, Andreas. _Vita Reginaldi Poli._ Venetiis, 1558. Erasmus, Desiderius. _Opera Omnia._ Lugduni Batavorum, 1703. (Tomus Tertius qui complectitur epistolas.) ---- _Modus Orandi Deum._ Basileæ, 1524. ---- _Familiarium Colloquiorum Des. Erasmi Roterodami Opus._ Basileæ, 1542. Evelyn, John. _Diary and Correspondence._ Ed. William Bray. London, 1906. Fénélon, De La Mothe. _Correspondance Diplomatique._ Tome Sixième. Paris et Londres, 1840. Ferrar, Nicholas. Two Lives: By his Brother John and by Doctor Jebb. Ed. J.E.B. Mayor. 1855. Florio, Giovanni. _Florio, His Firste Frutes: which yeelde familiar speech, merie Proverbes, wittie Sentences, and golden sayings. Also a perfect Induction to the Italian and English tongues as in the Table appeareth.... Imprinted by Thomas Dawson for Thomas Woodcocke_. London, 1578. ---- _Florios Second Frutes to be gathered of twelve Trees, of divers but delightsome tastes to the tongues of Italians and Englishmen._ ... London, 1591. France: _The Survey or Topographical Description of France; with a new Mappe.... Collected out of sundry approved authors; very amply, truly and historically digested for the pleasure of those who desire to be thoroughly acquainted in the state of the kingdome and dominion of France._ London, 1592. ---- _The View of France._ Printed by Symon Stafford. London, 1604. Fuller, Thomas. _The Church-History of Britain from the Birth of Jesus Christ untill the year MDCXLVIII. Endeavoured by Thomas Fuller._ London, 1655. ---- _History of the Worthies of England._ 2 vols, London, 1811. Gascoigne, George. _The Posies._ Ed. J.W. Cunliffe. Cambridge University Press, 1907. Gerbier, Balthazar. _The Interpreter of the Academie for Forrain Languages and all Noble Sciences and Exercises._ 1648. ---- _The First Lecture of an Introduction to Cosmographie: being a Description of all the World. Read Publiquely at Sir Balthazar Gerbier's Academy._ London, 1649. ---- _Sir Balthazar Gerbier's Project for an Academy Royal in England._ No. XXI. in _Collectanea Curiosa_. Oxford, 1781. Gilbert, Sir Humphrey. _Queene Elizabethes Achademy._ Ed. by F.J. Furnivall for the Early English Text Society. Extra Series VIII. London, 1869. Goodall, Baptist. _The Tryall of Travell._ London, 1630. Googe, Barnaby. _Eglogs, Epytaphes and Sonettes._ 1563. ---- _The Zodiake of Life written by ... Pallingenius ... newly translated into Englishe verse by Barnabe Googe._ London, 1565. Greene, Robert. _Greene's Mourning Garment, The Carde of Fancie_, and _Mamillia_; in _Life and Complete Works in Prose and Verse_. 12 vols. Ed. A.B. Grosart for the Huth Library, 1881-83. Greville, Fulke, Lord Brooke. _Life of the Renowned Sir Philip Sidney.... Written by ... his Companion and Friend._ London, 1652. ---- _Life of Sir Philip Sidney_. Tudor and Stuart Library. Oxford, 1907. _Guide des Chemins, pour aller et venir par tous les pays et contrées du Royaume de France, avec les noms des Fleuves et Rivieres qui courent parmy lesdicts pays_. Paris (1552). (Par C. Estienne.) Hall, Arthur. _A Letter sent by F.A. touching the proceedings in a private quarrell and unkindnesse between Arthur Hall and Melchisedich Mallerie, Gentleman, to his very friend L.B. being in Italy_. (Printed in _Antiqua Anglicana_, vol. i. London, 1815.) Hall, Edward. _Life of Henry VIII_. Reprint with an introduction by Charles Whibley. London, 1904. Hall, Joseph. _Quo Vadis? A Just Censure of Travell as it is undertaken by the Gentlemen of our Nation_. London, 1617. Reprinted in _Works_. Ed. P. Wynter, for the Clarendon Press. Oxford, 1863. Hamilton, le Comte Antoine. _Memoires du Comte de Grammont_. Nouvelle Edition Augmentée de Notes et Eclairissements necessaires par M. Horace Walpole. Imprimée a Strawberry Hill, 1772. _Harleian Miscellany_, vol. ii. _A Late Voyage to Holland, with brief Relations of the Transactions at the Hague: also Remarks on the Manners and Customs, Nature and Comical Humours of the People.... Written by an English Gentleman, attending the Court of the King of Great Britain_. 1691. ---- Vol. iii. _A Relation of such things as were observed to happen in the journey of the Rt. Hon. Chas. Earl of Nottingham, Lord High Admiral of England, his Highness's Ambassador to the King of Spain_. By Robert Treswell, Esq., Somerset-Herald. 1605. Harrison, William. _A Description of England_ in Holinshed's _Chronicles_. Ed. by L. Withington, with introduction by F.J. Furnivall. Camelot Series. (1876?) Hatfield MSS. Calendar of MSS. of the Most Hon. the Marquis of Salisbury, K.G., preserved at Hatfield House. Hentznerus, Paulus. _Itinerarium Germaniæ, Galliæ, Angliæ, Italiæ_. Norinbergæ, 1612. Herbert, Edward, Lord, of Cherbury. _Satyra Secunda, of Travellers from Paris_. To Ben Jonson. _In Occasional Verses of Edward Lord Herbert, Baron of Cherbury_. London, 1665. ---- _Autobiography_. Ed. Sidney Lee. London, 1907. Heylyn, Peter. _A Full Relation of two Journeys; the one into the Mainland of France, the other into some of the adjacent Ilands_. London, 1656. ----_France Painted to the Life by a Learned and Impartial Hand_. The Second Edition. London, 1657. Hoby, Thomas. _The Travels and Life of Sir Thomas Hoby. Written by Himself, 1547-1564_. Ed. Edgar Powell for Camden Society, Third Series, vol. iv. 1902. ---- _The Book of the Courtier_. Introduction by Walter Raleigh in Tudor Translations. Ed. W.E. Henley. Vol. xxiii. London, 1900. Howard, James. _The English Mounsieur_. London, 1674. Howell, James. _Epistolæ Ho-Elianæ. The Familiar Letters of James Horvell_. Ed. J. Jacobs. 1892 (first edition 1645). ----_A Survey of the Signorie of Venice, of her admired policy and method of government,... with a cohortation to all Christian Princes to resent her dangerous condition at present_. London, 1651. _Information for Pilgrims unto the Holy Land, c. 1496_. Ed. E. Gordon Duff. London, 1893. Jonson, Ben. _Works_. Ed. Gifford. 11 vols. 1875. La Noue, François de. _Discours politiques et militaires_. Basle, 1587. Leland, John. _Commentarii de Scriptoribus Britannicis_. Oxonii ex Theatro Sheldoniano, 1709. Lemnius, Levinus. _A Touchstone of Complexions. Englished by T. Newton_. (1576.) Lewkenor, Samuel, Gentleman. _A Discourse not altogether unprofitable nor unpleasant for such as are desirous to know the situation and customs of forraine cities without travelling to see them; containing a Discourse of all those Citties wherein doe flourish at this day priveleged Universities_. London, 1600. Lloyd, David. _State-Worthies._ London, 1766. Locke, John. _Life and Letters, with extracts from his journals and common-place books_; by Lord King. London, 1858. _Lismore Papers:_ Ed. A.B. Grosart. First Series, vol. v.; Second Series, Vols. iv. and v. 1886. Lyly, John. _Euphues and his Ephæbus_, in _Euphues; The Anatomy of Wit_, in _Works_. Ed. R. Warwick Bond. Oxford, 1902. Markham, Gervase. _A Discourse of Horsemanshippe._ London, 1593. ---- _The Gentlemans Academie; or The Booke of Saint Albans;... reduced into a better method by G.M._ London, 1595. Marston, John. _Works._ Ed. A.H. Bullen. London, 1887. ---- _Scourge of Villainie._ London, 1598. Milton, John. _Defensio secunda pro Populo Anglicano, contra Alexandrum Morum Ecclesiasten._ Amstelodami, 1798. (_Opera Omnia Latina._) Montfaucon, Bernard de. _The Travels of the Learned Father Montfaucon from Paris thro Italy (in 1698-9), Made English from the Paris Edition._ London, 1712. Munday, Anthony. _The English Romayne Life Written by A. Munday, sometime the Popes Schollar in the Seminarie among them._ London, 1590. Munster, Sebastian. _Cosmographiæ universalis Libri VI._ Basileæ, 1550. Nash, Thomas. _Works._ Ed. Grosart. 6 vols. 1883-5. ---- _The Unfortunate Traveller, or The Life of Jacke Wilton._ London, 1594. Negri, Cesare. _Nuove Inventioni di Balli: Opera vaghissima di Cesare Negri Milanese detto il Trombone, famoso e eccellente Professore di Ballare._ Milano, 1604. North, The Hon. Roger. _Lives of the Norths_, together with the Autobiography of the Author; Ed. A. Jessopp. London, 1890. _Original Letters Illustrative of English History_ ... from autographs in the British Museum. With notes by Henry Ellis, Keeper of MSS. in the British Museum. London, 1844. Overbury, Sir Thomas. _Sir Thomas Overbury, His Wife, with additions of New Newes, and divers more Characters (never before annexed) written by himself and other learned gentlemen._ The tenth impression augmented. London, 1618. ----_Sir Thomas Overbury, his Observations in his Travailes upon the State of the XVII. Provinces as they stood Anno Dom. 1609._ [London], 1626. Owen, Lewis. _The Running Register: Recording a True Relation of the State of the English Colledges, Seminaries and Cloysters in all forraine parts_. London, 1626. Pace, Richard. _Richardi Pacei invictissimi regis angliæ primarii secretarii, eiusque apud Elvetios oratoris, De Fructu qui ex Doctrina percipitur, liber_. In Inclyta Basilea (1517). Paulet, Sir Amias. Copy-Book of Sir Amias Paulet's Letters written during his Embassy to France, A.D. 1577. From MS. in the Bodleian, edited by O. Ogle for the Roxburghe Club. 1866. Penn, William. _An Account of W. Penn's Travails in Holland and Germany Anno MDCLXXVII. For the Service of the Gospel of Christ, by way of Journal. Containing also Divers Letters and Epistles unto several Great and Eminent Persons whilst there_. London, 1694. Pilgrim-Book of the Ancient English Hospice attached to the English College at Rome from 1580-1656, and Diary of the same college 1578-1773, printed by Henry Foley in _Records of the English Province of the Society of Jesus_, vol. vi. Pluvinel, Antoine. _Le Maneige Royal ou lon peut remarquer le defaut et la perfection du chevalier, en tous les exercices de cet art, digne de Princes, fait et pratiqué en l'instruction du Roy par Antoine Pluvinel son Escuyer Principal, Conseiller en son Conseil d'Estat, son Chambellan ordinaire, et Sous-Gouverneur de sa Majesté. Le tout gravè et representé en grandes figures de taille douce par Crispian de Pas, Flamand, à l'honneur du Roy, et à la memoire de Monsieur de Pluvinel_. Paris, 1624. Raymond, John. _Il Mercurio Italico, Communicating a Voyage made through Italy in the yeares 1646 and 1647 by J.R., Gent_. London, 1648. Réaux, Tallemant des. _Historiettes_. Paris, 1834. Sandys, George. _A Relation of a Journey begun An. Dom. 1610. Foure Bookes, Containing a description of the Turkish Empire of Aegypt, of the Holy Land, of the Remote Parts of Italy, and the Ilands adjoyning_. London, 1615. Schottus, Franciscus. _Itinerarii Italiæ Rerumque Romanarum libri tres a Franc. Schotto I.C. ex antiquis novisque scriptoribus, iis editi qui Romam anno Iubileii sacro visunt. Ad Robertum Bellarminum S.R.E. Card. Ampliss_. Antverpiæ, ex officina Plantiniana, apud Joannem Moretum. Anno sæculari Sacro, 1600. Shirley, James. _Dramatic Works and Poems_. Ed. A. Dyce. 6 vols. London, 1833. Sidney, Sir Philip. _Correspondence with Hubert Languet_, collected by S.A. Pears. London, 1845. Smith, Richard. Sloane MS. 1813, containing the Journal of R. Smith, Gentleman, who accompanied Sir Edward Unton on his travels into Italy in 1563. Spelman, William. _A Dialogue or Confabulation between two travellers which treateth of civile and pollitike gouvernment in dyvers kingdomes and contries_. MS. c. 1580, edited by J.E.L. Pickering. London, 1896. Stanhope, Philip, Second Earl of Chesterfield. _Letters to several celebrated Individuals of the time of Charles II., James II., William III. and Queen Anne, with some of their replies._ London, 1829. State Papers, Domestic, 1547-80. Vols. xviii.-xx. _passim_, in the Public Record Office, London. (For correspondence of Sir William Cecil with his son Thomas Cecil in Paris.) Stow, John. _A Survey of London_. Reprinted from the text of 1603 and edited by C.L. Kingsford. Oxford, 1908. Strype, John. _Life of the Learned Sir Thomas Smith, Secretary of State of King Edward the Sixth, and Queen Elizabeth_. Oxford, 1820. ----_Annals of the Reformation_. Oxford, 1824. ----_Life of Edmund Grindal_. Oxford, 1821. ----_Life of Sir John Cheke_. Oxford, 1821. Talbot MSS., in the College of Arms, London. Vol. P. fol. 571. (For correspondence of Gilbert Talbot in Italy in 1570.) Taylor, John. _All the Works of John Taylor the Water Poet. Being Sixty-Three in number, collected into one volume by the Author_. London, 1630. Temple, Sir William. _Observations upon the United Provinces and the Netherlands._ London, 1673. Thomas, William. _The Historie of Italie, a boke excedyng profitable to be redde; because it intreateth of the estate of many and divers commonweales, how they have been, and now be governed_. 1549. ----_The Pilgrim_, A Dialogue on the Life and Actions of King Henry the Eighth. Ed. J.A. Froude. London, 1861. Warner, William. _Pan his Syrinx, Compact of seven Reedes; including in one, seven Tragical and Comicall Arguments_. London (1584). Webbe, Edward. _Travailes_ (1590). Ed. E. Arber. London, 1868. Weldon, Sir Anthony. _The Court and Character of King James: Written and Taken by Sir A. W.(eldon)_. London, 1650. Wey, William. Itineraries of William Wey, Fellow of Eton College, to Jerusalem, A.D. 1458 and A.D. 1462; and to Saint James of Compostella, A.D. 1456: from the MS. in the Bodleian. Printed for the Roxburghe Club. London, 1857. Whetstone, George. _A Remembrance of the wel imployed life and goodly end of George Gaskoigne Esquire, who deceased at Stalmford in Lincolneshire the 7 of October 1577. The reporte of Geor. Whetstone Gent. an eye witness of his Godly and charitable end in this world_. Imprinted at London for Edward A(?)ggas, dwelling in Paules Churchyard and are there to be solde. [1577.] Wilson, Thomas. _The Arte of Rhetorique, for the use of all such as are studious of Eloquence, sette forth in English, by Thomas Wilson_. 1553. ----Reprint of 1560 edition, edited by G.H. Mair for the Tudor and Stuart Library. Oxford, 1909. _Winwood Memorials_. Memorials of Affairs of State in the Reigns of Queen Elizabeth and King James I., collected from the Original Papers of the Rt. Hon. Sir Ralph Winwood, Kt. 3 vols. London, 1725. Wood, Anthony à. _Athenæ Oxonienses_. Ed. Bliss. London, 1820. * * * * * III CRITICAL OR OTHER WORKS WHICH HAVE BEEN USEFUL IN THIS STUDY Addison, Joseph. _Remarks on Several Parts of Italy ... in the years 1701, 1702, 1703_. London, 1705. ----_A Letter from Italy to the Right Honourable Charles, Lord Halifax, by Mr Joseph Addison, 1701_. Printed London, 1709. Andrich, I.A. _De Natione Anglica et Scotia Iuristarum universitatis Patavinæ ab an. MCCXXII. P. Ch. N. usque ad an. MDCCXXXVIII._ præfatus est Blasius Brugi. Patavii excudebant fratres Gallina MDCCCXCII. Avenel, Le Vicomte G. D'. _La Noblesse française sous Richelieu_. Paris, 1901. Babeau, Albert. _Les Voyageurs en France Depuis la Renaissance j'usqu' a La Révolution_. Paris, 1885. Bapst, Edmund. _Deux Gentilshommes-Poetes de la Cour de Henry VIII_. Paris, 1891. Baretti, Joseph. _An Account of the Manners and Customs of Italy: with Observations on the mistakes of some travellers with regard to that country_. London, 1768. ----_An Appendix to the Account of Italy, in answer to Samuel Sharp, Esq_ London, 1769. _Bear-Leaders, The: or Modern Travelling stated in a proper Light, in a Letter to the Rt. Honorable the Earl of_ ... London, 1758. Beckmann, Johann. _Litteratur der älteren Reisebeschreibungen_. Gottingen, 1808. ----Physikalisch-ökonomische Bibliothek vorinn von den neuesten Büchern, welche die Naturgeschichte, Naturlehre und die Land- und Stadtwirthschaft betreffen, zuverlässige und volständige Nachrichten ertheilet werden, von Johann Beckmann ... ordentl. Profess. der ökonomischen Wissenschaften. 21 Band. Gottingen, 1802. Berchtold, Count Leopold. _An Essay to direct and extend the Inquirie of Patriotic Travellers; with further Observations on the Means of preserving the Life, Health, and Property of the inexperienced in their Journies by Land and Sea. Also a Series of Questions, interesting to Society and Humanity, necessary to be proposed for Solution to Men of all Ranks and Employments and of all Nations and Governments, comprising the most serious Points relative to the Objects of all Travels._ London, 1789. Birch, Thomas. _The Court and Times of James the First._ London, 1848. ---- _The Court and Times of Charles the First._ London, 1848. ---- _Memoirs of the Reign of Queen Elizabeth from 1581 till 1603, from the papers of Anthony Bacon, Esq._ London, 1754. ---- _Life of Henry, Prince of Wales._ London, 1760. Bonnaffé, Edmund. _Voyages et Voyageurs de la Renaissance._ Paris, 1895. Bourciez, Eduard. _Les Moeurs Polies et la Littérature de Cour sous Henri II._ Paris, 1886. Burgon, J.W. _Life and Times of Sir Thomas Gresham._ London, 1839. Carte, Thomas. _Life of James, Duke of Ormond._ 6 vols. Oxford, 1851. Congreve, William. _Comedies._ 2 vols. London, 1895. Coriat Junior (Sam Paterson, Bookseller). _Another Traveller: or Cursory Remarks and Critical Observations made upon a Journey through Part of the Netherlands in the latter end of the Year 1766._ 2 vols. London, 1767. Cust, Mrs Henry. _Gentlemen Errant._ London, 1909. Devereux, W.B. _Lives and Letters of the Devereux, Earls of Essex._ 2 vols. London, 1853. Dodd, Charles. _Church History of England from the Commencement of the Sixteenth Century to the Revolution in 1688._ Ed. by Rev. M.A. Tierney. 4 vols. London, 1841. Einstein, Lewis. _The Italian Renaissance in England._ Columbia University Press, New York, 1902. Feuillerat, Albert. _John Lyly._ Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 1910. Fielding, Henry. _Journal of a Voyage to Lisbon._ Ed. by Austin Dobson. Chiswick Press, 1892. Foote, Samuel. _Dramatic Works._ 4 vols. London, 1783. Gibbon, Edward. _Autobiography._ Ed. by John Murray, with an introduction by the Earl of Sheffield. London, 1896. Gray, Thomas. _Gray and His Friends; Letters and Relics in great part hitherto unpublished_. Ed. by D.C. Tovey. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 1890. ----_Letters of Thomas Gray_. Ed. by D.C. Tovey. 2 vols. London, 1900. Jöcher, Christian Gottlieb. _Gelehrten-Lexicon._ Leipsig, Delmerhorst and Bremen, 1750-87. Jusserand, J.J. _Les Sports et Jeux D'exercice dans L'ancienne France_. Paris, 1901. Knight, Samuel. _The Life of Dr John Colet_. Oxford, 1823. Lodge, Edmund. _Illustrations of British History_. 3 vols. London, 1791. Mathew, A.H. _The Life of Sir Tobie Matthew_, by his kinsman. London, 1907. Maugham, H. Neville. _The Book of Italian Travel_. London, 1903. Montagu, Lady Mary Wortley. _Letters and Works_. Ed. by her great-grandson Lord Wharncliffe, with additions by W. Moy Thomas. 2 vols. London, 1893. Nares, Edward. _Memoirs of Lord Burghley_. 3 vols. 1831. Nicolas, Sir Harris. _Memoirs of the Life and Times of Sir Christopher Hatton, K.G._ London, 1847. Nolhac, Pierre De. _Erasme en Italie_. Paris, 1898. Nugent, Thomas. _The Grand Tour_. 4 vols. London, 1778. _Physikalisch-ökonomischer Bibliothek, XXI. Vide_ Beckmann, Johann. Pinkerton, John. _Voyages and Travels_. Vol. 17. London, 1814. Poole, R., Doctor of Physick. _A Journey from London to France and Holland; or the Traveller's Useful Vade Mecum.... Wherein is also occasionally contained many Moral Reflections and Useful Observations_. London, 1746. ----_The Beneficient Bee; or Traveller's Companion, containing Each Day's Observations in a Voyage from London to Gibraltar ... interspersed with many useful Observations and occasional Remarks._ London, 1753. Rashdall, H. _The Universities of Europe in the Middle Ages_. Oxford, 1895. Rye, W.B. _England as seen by Foreigners in the Days of Elizabeth and James the First_. London, 1865. Sauval, Henri. _Histoire et Recherches des Antiquités de la Ville de Paris._ Paris, 1724. Seebohm, Frederic. _The Oxford Reformers._ London, 1887. (Seward, William.) _Anecdotes of Some Distinguished Persons, chiefly of the Present and two Preceding Centuries._ 5 vols. London, 1796. Sharp, Samuel. _Letters from Italy, describing the Customs and Manners of that Country in the years 1765-1766. To which is annexed, an Admonition to Gentlemen who pass the Alps in their Tour through Italy._ London, 1767. ---- _A View of the Customs, Manners, Drama, etc., of Italy as they are described in The Frustra Letteraria; and in the Account of Italy in English written by Mr Baretti; compared with the Letters from Italy written by Mr Sharp._ London, 1768. Smith, Edward. _Foreign Visitors in England._ London, 1889. Smollett, Tobias. _Works._ Ed. W.E. Henley. London, 1899. Stanhope, Philip Dormer, Earl of Chesterfield. _Letters to his Son._ Published by Mrs Eugenia Stanhope from the originals now in her possession. 2 vols. London, 1774. Thicknesse, Philip. _Observations on the Customs and Manners of the French Nation in a Series of Letters in which that Nation is vindicated from the Misrepresentations of some Late Writers._ London, 1766. _The Travellers. A Satire._ London, 1778. Verney, Margaret. _Memoirs of the Verney Family during the Commonwealth, 1650-1660._ Vol. iii. London, 1894. Voltaire (Francis Marie Arouet). _Lettres Philosophiques._ Ed. by Gustave Lanson. Paris, 1909. Walpole, Horace, Fourth Earl of Orford. _Letters._ Ed. by Peter Cunningham. 9 vols. London, 1891. * * * * * INDEX Academies, 121-132; in France, 121-123; proposals for academies in England, 123-126; objections to such academies, 128-132 Acworth, George, 62 Addison, Joseph, 181 Advice to Travellers, 4-5, 205; Elizabethan, 21; characteristics of Renaissance books of, 28-32; admonitory side of, 55, 88-98; for the country gentleman, 148; guide-books of the 18th century, 196, 200 Agricola, Rudolf, 7 Alps, the, 192, 200 Ambassadors, training for, 12-16, 43-47, 69; troubles of, 83-85, 133 Amorphus, in _Cynthia's Revels_, xii Amsterdam, 137 Art in Spain, 134; attention to in 17th century, 168-169 Arundel, Earl of, see Howard Ascham, Roger, 16, 18, 42, 52, 57, 65, 200 Bacon, Lady Anne, 73-75 Anthony, 73-75 Francis, 36 note, 45: _Of Travel_, 146 Sir Nicholas, 123 Barker, William, 62, 63 _Bear-Leaders,_ the, 188 Becket, Thomas à, 7 Bedell, William, 76 Bedford, Earl of, see Russell Bellay, Joachim Du, 16 Bembo, Pietro, 16 Berchtold, Leopold, Count, _Essay to Direct and Extend the Inquiries of Patriotic Travellers_, 195-198 Berneville, Marie Catherine Jumelle de, Comtesse D'Aunoy, 134 Bethune, Maximilien de, Duc de Sully, 115 Blotz, Hugo, 41 Bobadil, Captain, in _Every Man in His Humour_, 117 Bodley, Sir Thomas, 37 Boleyn, George, Viscount Rochford, 12, 15 Boorde, Andrew, 14 Borssele, Anne, Lady of Veer, 8 Bothwell, Earl of, see Hepburn Bourdeille, Pierre de, Seigneur de Brantome, 117 Bourne, William, _Treasure for Travellers_, 35 Bowyer, Sir Henry, 113 Boyle, Richard, First Earl of Cork, and his sons Robert and Francis, 158-167 Brandon, Charles, Duke of Suffolk, 15 Brantome, see Bourdeille Bras-de-Fer, see La Noue Browne, Sir Thomas, 142, 193 note; his son at Padua, 139 Bryan, Sir Francis, 15 Bucer, Martin, 17, 41 Buckingham, Duke of, see Villiers Burghley, Lord, see Cecil Camden, Thomas, _History of England_, 14 Carew, Sir Nicholas, 15 Carlton, Sir Dudley, 45 Cavendish, Margaret, Duchess of Newcastle, 144 William, Duke of Newcastle, 104 Cecil, Anne, Countess of Oxford, 64, 66 Robert, Earl of Salisbury, 39, 76, 78, 150 Thomas, Earl of Exeter, 40, 57 note, 77, 145, 193 note William, Baron of Burghley, l8, 37, 39, 40, 64-66, 73 William, Lord Cranbourne, 76, 160 William, Lord Roos, 76-78, 80 Chamberlain, John, 45, 113 Charles I., 114, 132 Charles II., 104, 131, 178 Chaucer, Geoffrey, 29 Chesterfield, Earls of, see Stanhope Chichester, Bishop of, see Montague Clarendon, Earl of, see Hyde Clenardus, Nicolaus, 132 Cleves, Charles Frederick, Duke of, 25 Clothes, 68-70; French, 15, 50, 51, 118, 179, 184, 189; Italian, 57, 67 Colbert, Jean Baptiste, Marquis de Seignelay, 168 Colet, John, 10 Compostella, St James of, 3 Cork, Earl of, see Boyle Cornwallis, Sir Charles, 83-85 Coryat, Thomas, 20, 28 note, 200 Cost, see Expense Cottington, Sir Francis, 83 Cranbourne, Lord, see Cecil Cranmer, George, 11, 17, 41 Creswell, Joseph, Jesuit, 84 Crichton, James, "The Admirable," 48 Curiosities, 138-139, 168 Customs (_droit d'aubaine_) in Spain, 133 Dallington, Sir Robert, _Method for Travell_, 88-89, 108, 111-118, 155, 156; _Survey of Tuscany_, 108, 111; _View of France,_ 108, 109 Dancing, 113-115 Dangers of Travel, 30, 47-49, 56, 94-98, 198 D'Aunoy, see Berneville Davison, Francis, 39-41, 146, 155 William, 35, 154 Delahaute, Antoine, 168 _De Peregrinatione_, 23, 29-32, 55 Derby, Earl of, see Stanley Descartes, René, 137 Deschamps, Eustache, 107 Devereux, Robert, Second Earl of Essex, 35, 36, 42 Robert, Third Earl of Essex, 38 Drake, Sir Francis, 27 Dudley, Sir Robert, 102 Dyer, Sir Edward, 21 Education, 103-108; see also Academies, Universities, Scholars, Ambassadors, Governors, Humanism Edward VI., 16, 17 Einstein, Lewis, _Italian Renaissance in England_, 9 Ellis, Sir Henry, 4 Englishmen, their special reason for travelling, 22; peculiarities, 120; Italianate, 55; prejudices against foreigners, 67-69, 178-181 Erasmus, Desiderius, 6, 8, 9 Essex, Earls of, see Devereux Evelyn, John, 138, 141, 144, 157, 169 Expenses of travel, 66, 154-157 Fairfax, Colonel Thomas, 152 Faubert, Mons., 125 Fencing, 117 Ferrar, Nicholas, 140 Fielding, Henry, 199 Finch, Sir John, 139 Fitzroy, Henry, Duke of Richmond, 15 Fleetwood, William, Recorder of London, 58, 62 Flemming, Robert, 9 Florio, John, _Second Frutes_, 21 _Flutter, Sir Fopling_, 179 Food, 48, 110-111 Foote, Samuel, _The Englishman in Paris,_ 180 Forbes, James, 151-152 Foreigners, English prejudice against, 67-71, 178-181 Fox, Richard, Bishop of Winchester, 10 France, academies in, 101, 121-132; affectations learned in, 15, 50, 51, 179, 183-186; arbiter of fashion, 118, 119, 141; gentlemen of, 105, 107, 118, 119; attraction for tourists, 102-103; loses some of its charm, 177 Francis I., 14 Free, John, 9 Gailhard J., 167 Gardiner, Stephen, Bishop of Winchester, 41 George I., 190 Gerbier, Balthazar, 124-125; _Subsidium Peregrinantibus_, 169 Germans, energetic travellers, 22; Fynes Moryson's preference for, 93; slow to learn languages, 113 note Germany, attraction of, 17; women of, 40; manners of, 48, 172; Ascham's _Report of Germany_, 200 Gilbert, Sir Humphrey, 123 Gloucester, Duke of, see Henry Governors, 24-25, 145-154, 167, 170, 186-189 Grand Tour, the, Origin of the term, 143-145 Gray, Thomas, 191-192 Greek, 7, 10, 18, 105 Greene, Robert, 55, 70; _Greene's Mourning Garment_, 21; _Quip for an Upstart Courtier_, 70 Greville, Fulke, Lord Brooke, 21, 36 Grey, William, 9 Grimani, Dominic, the Cardinal, 9 Grocyn, William, 10 Grosvenor, Sir Thomas, 168 Guide-books, see Advice to travellers Gunthorpe, John, 9 Hall, Arthur, 57-62 Edward, 15 Joseph, 87, 98 Harington, Sir John, 38, 39, 79 Harrison, William, 68 Harvey, Gabriel, 67 Hatton, Sir Christopher, 21 Henri III., 113 Henri IV., 109-110 Henry VI., 3 Henry VIII., 6, 7, 11, 13, 67, 103 Henry, Prince of Wales, son of James I., 38, 79 note, 114, 124 Henry, Duke of Gloucester, son of Charles I., 131 Hepburn, Francis Stewart, Earl of Bothwell, 102 Hertford, Earl of, see Seymour Hoby, Sir Thomas, 16, 53-55, 62 Holland, 136-139, 197 Horace, 8, 27 Howard, Thomas, Fourth Duke of Norfolk, 63 Thomas, Second Earl of Arundel, 102 Howell, James, 118-120, 136, 156, 192; _Instructions for Forreine Travell_, 108, 118-120, 132; _Perambulations of Spain_, 135 Humanists, their sociability, 41, 43 Humanism, 7 Hyde, Edward, Earl of Clarendon, 128, 135, 183-186; _Dialogue of the Want of Respect Due to Age_, 184 _Il Cortegiano_, 23 _Informacon for Pylgrymes unto the Holy Land_, 4-5 Inns, 30, 47, 48, 197-199 Inquisition, 75-79 _passim_ Instructions for travellers, see Advice Insurance, 95 Italianate Englishmen, 51-58 _passim_, 62-63, 70 Italy, attraction of, 7-9, 11, 17, 52, 54, 73; evils of, 49, 51, 55, 101-102; universities of, 7-9, 52-54 Jaffa, port, 3, 5 James I., 114, 135, 150 Jerusalem, 6 Jesuits, 75-85 _passim_ Johnson, Samuel, 182 Jones, Philip, 27 Jonson, Ben, 150; _Cynthia's Revels_, xii; Preface to _Coryat's Crudities_, 20; _Every Man out of his Humour_, 95 note; _Volpone, or the Fox_, 96-97 Journals, 38-40, 196 Jusserand, J.J., 130 Killigrew, Sir Thomas, 164-165 Kinaston, Sir Francis, 124 Kirchnerus, Hermannus, 28; _Oration in Praise of Travel_, 28, 30, 31, 201 Langton, Thomas, Bishop of Winchester, 11 Languages, 15-16, 73, 112-113, 190 La Noue, François de, 107 Lassels, Richard, 145, 157; _The Voyage of Italy_, 148-149, 194 Latimer, William, 10 Leicester's, the Earl of, son, see Dudley Leigh, Edward, 167 Lewknor, Thomas, 100 Licences for Travel, 86-87 Lichefield, Edward, 79 Lily, William, 10 George, 11 Linacre, Thomas, 10 Lipsius, Justus, 26, 41, 42, 55 Lister, Martin, 139 Locke, John, 137, 186-187 Lodgings, with an ambassador, 43-46; with a bookseller, 43; with a scholar, 41; in Spain, 133-134; see also Inns Lorkin, Thomas, 122 Louis XIII., 121, 126 Louis XIV., 177 Loysius, Georgius, _Pervigilium Mercurii_, 27-28 Lupset, Thomas, 11 Machiavelli, Niccolo, 23, 56 Maidwell, Lewis, 126 Mallerie, Melchisedech, 59-62 Manners, Edward, Third Earl of Rutland, 37, 39, 63 Manutius, Aldus, 9 Mason, Sir John, 13 Mathew, Sir Tobie, 86 note Meierus, Albertus, _Methodus describendi regiones_, 27 Milton, John, 97, 101 Misson, Maximilian, 194, 197; _A New Voyage to Italy_, 194 Mole, John, 77-79 Montagu, Richard, Bishop of Chichester, 104 Morison, Sir Richard, 11 Moryson, Fynes, 20, 90; _Precepts for Travellers_, 90-95 Murder, 48, 198 note Nash, Thomas, 50 Newcastle, Duchess and Earl of, see Cavendish Norfolk, Duke of, see Howard North, Dudley, Third Lord North, 48 _Nuove Inventioni di Balli_, 114 Osborn, Francis, 143, 154 Oxford, Earls of, see Vere Pace, Richard, 11 Padua, Pole's household at, 11; University of, 52-55, 139, 140 Palmer, Sir Thomas, "The Traveller," died 1626, 35 Sir Thomas, died in Spain 1605, 81 Paris, life of Englishmen at, 174-176; medical students at, 139; see also France Passports, see Licences Paulet, Sir Amias, 44 Peacham, Henry, 105, 132 Peregrine, in _Volpone, or the Fox_, xii Peter Martyr, see Vermigli Pighius, Stephanus Vinandus, 25 Pignatelli, 121 Pilgrimages, 3-7 Pirates, 47, 49 Plague, 24 note, 49 Plantin, Christophe, 25 Plato, 31, 112 Plegsis, Armand du, Cardinal Richelieu, 121 Pluvinel, Antoine, 121, 126, 128 Pole, Reginald, Cardinal, 11-12 Politian (Angelo Ambrogini), 15, 72 Politick-Would-Be in _Volpone, or the Fox_, xii, 96 Pretender, the, 173 Pugliano, John Pietro, 127 Pyrckmair, Hilarious, 24-25 Raleigh's, Sir Walter, son, 150 Ramus, Peter, 26 Réaux, Tallemant des, 115, 128 Religion, changes in, due to travel, 51, 56, 72-73, 75-86 _passim_, 88, 98 Renaissance, enthusiasm for travel, sources of, 18, 201; quest of virtù, 29 Richelieu, Cardinal and Duc de, see Plessis Riding, 120; the Great Horse, 121, 126-130 _passim_, 142, 186 Robbers, 30, 47, 90, 91, 133, 198 Rochford, Viscount, see Boleyn Rome, 25, 76, 86, 91, 94, 173 Ronsard, Pierre de, 16 Roos, Lord, see Cecil Russell, Edward, Third Earl of Bedford, 42 Rutland, Earl of, see Manners St John's College, Cambridge, 17, 18 St Lieger, Sir Anthony, 12 Salisbury, Earl of, see Cecil Scholars, 7-11, 17, 18, 41-43, 65 Schottus, Franciscus, _Itinerarium Italiæ_, 193 Seignelay, Marquis de, see Colbert Selling, William, 10, 72 Seymour, Edward, Earl of Hertford, 21, 41 Shakespeare, William, _Two Gentlemen of Verona_, xii; _Taming of the Shrew_, 20 Sharp, Sam, 198; _Letters from Italy,_ 198 Sickness, 24, 48, 160, 197, 199 Sidney, Sir Philip, 35, 43, 46, 127 Robert, Earl of Leicester, 41, 66, 154 "Sights," 143, 193 Smith, Richard, 40, 48 Sir Thomas, 14, 46 Smollett, Tobias, 199; _Peregrine Pickle,_ 181 Spain, gentlemen of, 119, 135; discomforts of, 132-136 Stanhope, Philip, Second Earl of Chesterfield, 131-132, 140 Philip Dormer, Third Earl of Chesterfield, 170-177, 182-183 Stanley, William, Ninth Earl of Derby, 151-153 Starkey, Thomas, 11 Stradling, Sir John, 26, 42 Students, see Universities Sturmius, Joannes, 17, 65 Sully, Duc de, see Bethune Talbot, Gilbert, Seventh Earl of Shrewsbury, 21, 39, 63 Taylor, John, The Water Poet, 200 Temple, Sir William, 137 Tennis, 115-116 Thomas, William, _The Historie of Italie_, 53; _The Pilgrim_, 110 Throgmorton, Michael, 11 Tiptoft, John, Earl of Worcester, 9 Transportation, 4-5, 54, 142, 189, 197, 200 Tunstall, Cuthbert, 10 Turlerus, Hieronymus, 23, 24, 26; _De Peregrinatione_, 23, 29-32 _passim_, 55 Tutors, see Governors Ulysses, 27, 31 Universities, of Italy, 7-9, 52-55, 139; of Spain, 84, 85; of England, 53, 105, 170, 171, 175, 183, 190 Unton, Sir Edward, 40, 56 Ursinus, Zacharias, 43 Valladolid, conversions at, 81, 84 Veer, Lady of, see Borssele Venice, charm of, 52, 54, 55; clothes from, 50: inns at, 197 Vere, Edward de, Seventeenth Earl of Oxford, 63-67 Vermigli, John de, Twelfth Earl of Oxford, 4 Peter, Martyr, 17 Verney, Edmund, 131 Villiers, George, Duke of Buckingham, 102, 114, 133 Wallis, John, 129 Walpole, Horace, Fourth Earl of Orford, 177, 191-192 Richard, Jesuit, 81, 84 Walsingham, Sir Francis, 46 Our Lady of, 7 Wentworth, Thomas, Fourth Baron Wentworth, 78-80 Williamson, Sir Joseph, 147 Wilson, Thomas, _Arte of Rhetoric_, 24 Windebanke, Sir Thomas, 145 Wingfield, Sir Richard, 12 Sir Robert, 12 Winsor, Sir Edward, 49 Winter, Thomas, 11 Women, 28, 34, 55 Wood, Anthony à, ix, 124 Worde, Wynkin de, 4 Wotton, Sir Edward, 10, 127 Sir Henry, 41, 78-80, 95-98, 155 Sir Nicholas, 12 Wyatt, Sir Thomas, 12 Zouche, Edward la, Eleventh Baron Zouche of Harringworth, 38, 60, 87 Zwingerus, Theodor, 24, 26; _Methodus Apodemica_, 24, 33 * * * * * FOOTNOTES Footnote 1: Ben Jonson, _Cynthia's Revels_, Act i. Sc. I. Footnote 2: Ellis, _Original Letters_, 2nd Series, i. 110, note. Footnote 3: Ellis, _Original Letters_, 2nd Series, i. 110, note. Footnote 4: In c. 1498, 1515, and 1524. Footnote 5: _Itineraries of William Wey._ Printed for the Roxburghe Club from the original MS. in the Bodleian Library, 1857, pp. 153-154. Footnote 6: _Familiarium Colloquiorum Opus._ Basileæ, 1542. _De utilitate colloquiorum, ad lectorem._ Footnote 7: _Ibid. De votis tentere susceptis_, fol. 15. Footnote 8: _Ibid. Ad lectorem._ Footnote 9: Lord Campbell, _Lives of the Lord Chancellors_, i. 95. Footnote 10: G. Cavendish, _Life of Wolsey_. Kelmscott Press, 1893. Footnote 11: Opera (MDCCIII.), Tom. iii., Ep. xcii. (Annæ Bersalæ, Principi Verianæ). Footnote 12: "Quid cælum, quos agros, quas bibliothecas, quas ambulationes, quam mellitas eruditorum hominum confabulationes, quot mundi lumina ... reliquerim." Ep. cxxxvi. Footnote 13: Ep. mclxxv. Footnote 14: Opera (MDCCIII.) Tom. ix. 1137. Footnote 15: Ep. ccclxiii. Footnote 16: _Letters and Papers of Henry VIII._, vol. iv., Part I., No. 4. Footnote 17: Richard Pace, _De Fructu qui ex Doctrina Percipitur_ (1517), p. 27. Footnote 18: Ellis, _Original Letters_, 2nd Series, vol. i. 65. Archbishop Cranmer to Henry VIII. Footnote 19: Becatelli, _Vita Reginaldi Poli._ Latin version of Andreas Dudithius, Venetiis, 1558. Footnote 20: MS. Cotton, Nero, B. f. 118. Footnote 21: Ellis, _Original Letters_, 2nd Series, vol. i. 54. Footnote 22: Wood's _Athenæ Oxonienses_, ed. Bliss. Footnote 23: _Letters and Papers of Henry VIII._, vol. ix., No. 101. Footnote 24: J.S. Brewer, _Reign of Henry VIII._, vol. i. 117-147. Footnote 25: Bapst, Edmond, _Deux Gentilshommes-Poetes de la cour de Henry VIII._, Paris, 1891, pp. 26, 60. Footnote 26: _Letters and Papers of Henry VIII._, vol. ii., Part I., No. 2149. Footnote 27: Ibid., vol. xi., No. 60; vol. xv., No. 581. Footnote 28: D. Lloyd, _State Worthies_, vol. i. 105. Footnote 29: _Letters and Papers of Henry VIII._, vol. v. p. 751. Footnote 30: Camden, _History of England_. Footnote 31: In the _First Boke of the Introduction of Knowledge_, 1547. Footnote 32: Hall's _Life of Henry VIII._, ed. Whibley, 1904, vol. i. 175. Footnote 33: _The Travels and Life of Sir Thomas Hoby_, ed. Powell, 1902, pp. 18, 37. Footnote 34: Ascham's _Works_, ed. Giles, vol. i., Part II., p. 265. Footnote 35: I refer to the death of Bucer and P. Fagius. Strype (_Life of Cranmer_, p. 282) says that when they arrived in England in the month of April they "very soon fell sick: which gave a very unhappy stop to their studies. Fagius on the fifth of November came to Cambridge, and ten days afterwards died." Footnote 36: _Taming of the Shrew_, Act I. Sc. ii. Footnote 37: Coryat's _Crudities_, ed. 1905, p. 17. Footnote 38: Ed. 1591, p. 91. Footnote 39: _Works_, ed. Grossart, ix. 139. In which the father of Philador, among many other admonitions, forestalls Sir Henry Wotton's famous advice to Milton on the traveller's need of holding his tongue: "Be, Philador, in secrecy like the Arabick-tree, that yields no gumme but in the darke night." Footnote 40: Jöcher, _Gelehrten-Lexicon_, 1751, and Zedler's _Universal-Lexicon_. Footnote 41: Clarendon Press ed. 1909, p. 29. Footnote 42: G. Gratarolus, _De Regimine Iter Agentium_, Some insight into the trials of travel in the sixteenth century may be gained by the sections on how to endure hunger and thirst, how to restore the appetite, make up lost sleep, ward off fever, avoid vermin, take care of sore feet, thaw frozen limbs, and so forth. Footnote 43: _Methodus Apodemica_, Basel, 1577, fol. B, verso. Footnote 44: Paul Hentzner, whose travels were reprinted by Horace Walpole, was a Hofmeister of this sort. The letter of dedication which he prefixed to his _Itinerary_ in 1612 is a section, verbatim, of Pyrckmair's _De Arte Apodemica_. Footnote 45: _De Arte Apodemica_, Ingolstadii, 1577, fols. 5-6. Footnote 46: _Hercules Prodicius, seu principis juventutis vita et peregrinatio_, pp. 131-137 Footnote 47: Jöcher, _Gelebrten-Lexicon,_ under Zwinger. Footnote 48: Zwinger, _Methodus Apodemica_, fol. B, verso. Footnote 49: Ad. Ph. Lanoyum, fol. 106, in _Justi Lipsii Epistole Selecta_, Parisiis, 1610. Footnote 50: _A Direction for Travailers_, London, 1592. Footnote 51: "Methodus describendi regiones, urbes, et arces, et quid singulis locis præcipue in peregrinationibus homines nobiles ac docti animadvertere observare et annotare debeant." Meier was a Danish geographer and historian, 1528-1603. Footnote 52: _G. Loysii Curiovoitlandi Pervigilium Mercurii_. Curiæ Variscorum, 1598. (Nos. 17, 20, 23, 27.) Footnote 53: Op. cit., No. 109. Footnote 54: Translated by Thomas Coryat in his _Crudities_, 1611. He must have picked up the oration in his tour of Germany; but nothing which appears to be the original is given among the forty-six works of Hermann Kirchner, Professor of History and Poetry at Marburg, as cited by Jöcher, though the other "Oratio de Germaniæ perlustratione omnibus aliis peregrinationibus anteferenda," also translated by Coryat, is there listed. Footnote 55: Turler, _The Traveiler_, p. 12. Footnote 56: Kirchner in Coryat's _Crudities_, vol. i. 131. Footnote 57: Turler, op. cit., p. 48. Footnote 58: Lipsius, Turler, Kirchner. Footnote 59: Turler, _The Traveiler_, p. 47. Footnote 60: Turler, op. cit., p. 107. Footnote 61: _Methodus Apodemica_, p. 26. Footnote 62: _An Essay of the Meanes how to make our Travailes in forraine Countries the more profitable and honourable_. London, 1606. Footnote 63: London, 1578. Footnote 64: Sidney, Letter to his brother, 1580. Footnote 65: _Profitable Instructions_. Written c. 1595. Printed 1633. Footnote 66: _Profitable Instructions_, 1595, Harl. MS. 6265, printed in Spedding's _Letters and Life of Bacon_, vol. ii. p. 14. Spedding believes these _Instructions_ to be by Bacon. Footnote 67: _State Papers, Domestic Elizabeth_, 1547-80, vol. lxxvii., No. 6. Footnote 68: _Hist. MSS. Comm. 12th Report_, App. IV., January 31, 1571. Footnote 69: _Life, Written by Himself_, Oxford, 1647. Footnote 70: Devereux, _Lives and Letters of the Devereux_, vol. ii. 233. Footnote 71: Birch, _Life of Prince Henry of Wales_, App. No. XII. Footnote 72: _Life and Letters_, by Pearsall Smith, vol. i. 246. Footnote 73: _Op. cit._ Footnote 74: Talbot, MSS. in the College of Arms, vol. P, fol. 571. Footnote 75: _Davison's Poetical Rhapsody_. I. Biographical Notice, p. xxiii. Footnote 76: _Sloane MS._ 1813. Footnote 77: _State Papers, Domestic_, 1547-80, vols. xviii., No. 31; xix., No. 6-52 _passim_; xx., No. 1-39 _passim_. Footnote 78: _Direction for Travailers_. Footnote 79: Stowe's _Annals_, p. 600. Footnote 80: _Works_, ed. Giles, vol. i., Pt. ii., Epis. cxvi. Footnote 81: Op. cit. Footnote 82: Fox-Bourne's _Life of Sidney_, p. 91. Footnote 83: Op. cit. Footnote 84: Thomae Erpenii, _De Peregrinatione Gallica_, 1631, pp. 6, 12. Footnote 85: _Copy-Book of Sir Amias Poulet's Letters_, Roxburghe Club, p. 89. Footnote 86: _Letter-Book_, p. 16. Footnote 87: _Letter-Book_, p. 89. Footnote 88: _Poems of Thomas Carew_, ed. W.C. Hazlitt, 1870. Pp. xxiii.-xxx. Footnote 89: T. Birch, _Court and Times of James I._, vol. i. p. 218. The embarrassments of an ambassador under these circumstances are hardly exaggerated, perhaps, in Chapman's play, _Monsieur D'Olive_, where the fictitious statesman bursts into a protest: "Heaven I beseech thee, what an abhominable sort of Followers have I put upon mee: ... I cannot looke into the Cittie, but one or other makes tender his good partes to me, either his Language, his Travaile, his Intelligence, or something: Gentlemen send me their younger Sonnes furnisht in compleat, to learn fashions, for-sooth: as if the riding of five hundred miles, and spending 1000 Crownes would make 'am wiser then God meant to make 'am.... Three hundred of these Gold-finches I have entertained for my Followers: I can go in no corner, but I meete with some of my Wifflers in there accoutrements; you may heare 'am halfe a mile ere they come at you, and smell 'am half an hour after they are past you: sixe or seaven make a perfect Morrice-daunce; they need no Bells, their Spurs serve their turne: I am ashamed to traine 'am abroade, theyle say I carrie a whole Forrest of Feathers with mee, and I should plod afore 'am in plaine stuffe, like a writing Schole-maister before his Boyes when they goe a feasting." Footnote 90: Strype, _Life of Sir Thomas Smith_, p. 119. Footnote 91: _The Travels and Life of Sir Thomas Hoby_, 1547-1564, ed. Powell, p. 27. Footnote 92: Spelman, W., _A Dialogue between Two Travellers_, c. 1580, ed. by Pickering for the Roxburghe Club, 1896, p. 42. Footnote 93: Gratarolus, _De Regimine iter agentium_, 1561, p. 19. Footnote 94: _Life and Letters of Sir Henry Wotton_, vol. i. p. 69. Footnote 95: _Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland_, 10th May 1909. Footnote 96: Florio, _Second Frutes_, p. 95. Footnote 97: _Sloane MS_., 1813, fol.7. Footnote 98: Article on the third Lord North in the _Dictionary of National Biography._ Footnote 99: T. Wright, _Queen Elizabeth_, vol. i. p. 316. Footnote 100: Sir Thomas Overbury, _An Affectate Traveller_, in _Characters_. Footnote 101: Dieppe. Footnote 102: Thomas Nash, _Pierce Pennilesse_, in _Works_, ed. Grosart, vol. ii. 27. Footnote 103: Nash, _The Unfortunate Traveller_, in _Works_, ed. Grosart, v. 145. Footnote 104: Roger Ascham, _The Scholemaster_, ed. Mayor, pp. 84-85. Footnote 105: William Harrison, _A Description of England_, ed. Withington, p. 8. Footnote 106: Ascham, _op. cit._, p. 86. Footnote 107: Robert Greene, _Repentance_, in _Works_, ed. Grosart, xii. 172; John Marston, _Certaine Satires_, 1598; Satire II., p. 47. Footnote 108: Ascham, op. cit., p. 77. Footnote 109: James Howell, _Letters_, ed. Jacobs, p. 69. Footnote 110: William Thomas, _The Historic of Italie_, 1549, p. 2. Footnote 111: _Travels and Life of Sir Thomas Hoby, Written by Himself_, ed. Powell, p. 10. Footnote 112: William Thomas, op. cit. p. 2. Footnote 113: Fynes Moryson, _An Itinerary_, etc., Glasgow ed. 1907, i. 159. Footnote 114: Ibid. Footnote 115: Thomas Hoby, op. cit. pp. 14, 15. Footnote 116: William Thomas, op. cit. p. 85. Footnote 117: Robert Greene, _All About Conny-Catching_. Works, x. Foreword. Footnote 118: _Epistola de Peregrinatione_ in _De Eruditione Comparanda_, 1699, p. 588. Footnote 119: Turler, _The Traveller_, Preface, and pp. 65-67. Footnote 120: The _Unton Inventories_, ed. by J.G. Nichols, p. xxxviii. Footnote 121: Sir Robert Dallington, _State of Tuscany_, 1605, p. 64. Footnote 122: Arthur Hall, _Ten Books of Homer's Iliades_, 1581, Epistle to Sir Thomas Cicill. Footnote 123: Nicholas Breton: _A Floorish upon Fancie_, ed. Grosart, p. 6. Footnote 124: Thomas Wright, _Queen Elizabeth_, ii. 205. Footnote 125: "A letter sent by F.A. touching the proceedings in a private quarrel and unkindnesse, between Arthur Hall and Melchisedech Mallerie, Gentleman, to his very friend L.B. being in Italy." (Only fourteen copies of this escaped destruction by order of Parliament in 1580. One was reprinted in 1815 in _Miscellanea Antiqua Anglicana_, from which my quotations are taken.) Footnote 126: St Paul's Cathedral, the fashionable promenade. Footnote 127: Cooper's _Athenae Cantabrigienses_, i. 381. Footnote 128: _Life and Travels of Thomas Hoby, Written by Himself_, p. 19, 20. Footnote 129: Bercher, Ded. to Queen Elizabeth, in _The Nobility of Women_, 1559, ed. by W. Bond for the Roxburghe Club, 1904. Footnote 130: Ibid. Introduction by Bond, p. 36. Footnote 131: _D.N.B._ Article by Sir Sidney Lee. Footnote 132: Hist. MSS. Commission, 12th Report, App. Part IV. MSS. of the Duke of Rutland, p. 94. Footnote 133: Ibid. Footnote 134: E. Lodge, _Illustrations of British History_, ii. 100. (Gilbert Talbot to his father, the Earl of Shrewsbury.) Footnote 135: Hatfield MSS. (Calendar), ii. 83. Footnote 136: Ibid., ii. 129. Footnote 137: Ibid., ii. 114. Footnote 138: Hatfield MSS. (Calendar), ii. 129. Footnote 139: Ibid., p. 131. Footnote 140: Ibid., p. 144. Footnote 141: See "Sir Henry Sidney to his son Robert," 28th Oct. 1578, in Collin's _Sidney Papers_, i. 271. Footnote 142: In _A Method for Travell_, c. 1598, Fol. C. Footnote 143: John Stowe, _Annales_, ed. 1641, p. 868. Footnote 144: Ibid. Footnote 145: Gabriel Harvey, _Letter-Book_, Camden Society, New Series, No. xxxiii. p. 97. Footnote 146: Stowe, _Annales_, ed. 1641, p. 867. Footnote 147: Ibid., p. 869. Footnote 148: Harrison's _Description of England_, ed. Withington, p. 111. Footnote 149: T. Birch, _Court and Times of James I._, i. 191. Footnote 150: E. Lodge's _Illustrations of British History_, ii. 228. Footnote 151: _Harleian Miscellany_, vol. v. pp. 400-401. Footnote 152: Leland, J., _De Scriptoribus Britannicis_, vol. i. 482. Footnote 153: _Calendar of State Papers_, Foreign, 1562, Nos. 1069 and 1230. Footnote 154: E. Nares, _Memoir of Lord Burghley_, vol. iii. p. 513. Footnote 155: Lambeth MSS., No. 647, fol. iii. Printed in Spedding's _Letters and Life of Bacon_, vol. i. p. 110. Footnote 156: _Calendar of State Papers_, Domestic, 1603-1610, p. 634. Footnote 157: Quoted in _Life and Letters of Sir Henry Wotton_, ed. by L. Pearsall Smith, vol. ii. p. 462. Footnote 158: Fuller, _The Church-History of Britain_, ed. 1655, book x. p. 48. The alleged reason for Mole's imprisonment, Fuller says, was that he had translated Du Plessis Mornay, "his book on the Visibility of the Church, out of French into English; but besides, there were other contrivances therein, not so fit for a public relation" (_supra_, p. 49). Footnote 159: Fourth Baron Wentworth of Nettlestead and first Earl of Cleveland, 1591-1667, who became a Royalist general in the Civil War. At the time of Wotton's letter (1609) he was completing his education abroad after residence at Oxford. See _Dictionary of National Biography_, which does not, however, mention his foreign tour. Footnote 160: He was at once "reconciled" to the Church of Rome, entered the Society of the Jesuits, and "died a most holy death," in 1626, while filling the office of Confessor of the English College at Rome. H. Foley, _Records of Society of Jesus_, vi. p. 257, cited in _Life and Letters of Sir Henry Wotton_, i. p. 457, note. Footnote 161: Second Lord Harington of Exton, 1592-1614; the favourite friend and companion of Henry, Prince of Wales. A rare and godly young man. For an account of him, and for his letters from abroad, in French and Latin, to Prince Henry, see T. Birch's _Life of Prince Henry_. Footnote 162: "One Tovy, an 'aged man,' late master of the free school, Guildford." _Dictionary of National Biography_, article on Sir John Harington, _supra_. Footnote 163: _Life and Letters of Sir Henry Wotton_, i. 456-7. Footnote 164: S.R. Gardiner, _History of England_, iii. 191. Footnote 165: H. Foley, _Records of the English Province of the Society of Jesus_, London, 1882, Series ii. p. 253. Footnote 166: Ibid. Footnote 167: Foley, op. cit., p. 256. The facts are confirmed by the report of the English Ambassador at Valladolid, 17th July 1605, O.S., printed in the _Winwood Memorials_, vol. ii. p. 95. Footnote 168: Fynes Moryson, _Itinerary_, ed. 1907, vol. iii. pp. 390-1. Footnote 169: Such as Dr Thomas Case of St John's in Oxford, whom Fuller reports as "always a Romanist in his heart, but never expressing the same till his mortal sickness seized upon him" (_Church History_, book ix. p. 235). Footnote 170: Gardiner, _History of England_, vol. v. pp. 102-3. The same wavering between two Churches in the time of James I. is exemplified by "Edward Buggs, Esq., living in London, aged seventy, and a professed Protestant." He "was in his sicknesse seduced to the Romish Religion." Recovering, a dispute was held at his request between two Jesuits and two Protestant Divines, on the subject of the Visibility of the Church. "This conference did so satisfie Master Buggs, that renouncing his former wavering, he was confirmed in the Protestant truth" (Fuller, _Church History_, x. 102). Footnote 171: _Winwood Memorials_, vol. ii. 109. Footnote 172: The Earl of Nottingham, Ambassador Extraordinary in 1605. Footnote 173: _Winwood Memorials_, vol. ii. 76. Footnote 174: _Winwood Memorials_, vol. ii. 109. Footnote 175: Fynes Moryson, _Itinerary_, vol. i. p. 260. Footnote 176: Such was the case of Tobie Matthew, son of the Archbishop of York, converted during his travels in Italy. This witty and frivolous courtier came home and faced the uproar of his friends, spent a whole plague-stricken summer in Fleet arguing with the Bishops sent to reclaim him, and then was banished. After ten years he reappeared at Court, as amusing as ever, the protégé of the Duke of Buckingham. But under the mask of frippery he worked unsleepingly to advance the Church of Rome, for he had secretly taken orders as a Jesuit Priest. See _Life of Sir Tobie Matthew_, by A.H. Mathew, London, 1907. Footnote 177: Davison's _Poetical Rhapsody_, ed. Nicolas, 1826, vol. i. p. vi. Footnote 178: _Life and Letters of Sir Henry Wotton_, vol. ii. 482. Footnote 179: _Quo Vadis, A Just Censure of Travel_, in _Works_, Oxford, vol. ix. p. 560. Footnote 180: _Life and Letters of Sir Henry Wotton_, vol. i. 70, note. Footnote 181: _A Method for Travell shewed by taking the view of France, As it stoode in the yeare of our Lord_, 1598. Footnote 182: Wood records such a state of mind in John Nicolls, who, in 1577 left England, made a recantation of his heresy, and was "received into the holy Catholic Church." Returning to England he recanted his Roman Catholic opinions, and even wrote "His Pilgrimage, wherein is displayed the lives of the proud Popes, ambitious Cardinals, leacherous Bishops, fat bellied Monks, and hypocritical Jesuits" (1581). Notwithstanding which, he went beyond the seas again (to turn Mohometan, his enemies said), and under threats and imprisonment at Rouen, recanted all that he had formerly uttered against the Romanists.--_Athenæ Oxonienses_, ed. Bliss, i. p. 496. Footnote 183: Understood: "for in the pulpit, being eloquent, they," etc. Footnote 184: In volume iii. of his _Itinerary_ (reprint by the University of Glasgow, 1908), preceded by an _Essay of Travel in General_, a panegyric in the style of Turler, Lipsius, etc., containing most points of previous essays in praise of travel, and some new ones. For instance, in his defence of travel, he must answer the objection that travellers run the risk of being perverted from the Church of England. Footnote 185: _Itinerary_, iii. 411. Footnote 186: _Ibid_., i. 304. Footnote 187: _Ibid_., i. 78-80. Footnote 188: _Ibid_., i. 399. Footnote 189: _Ibid_., iii. 389. Footnote 190: _Itinerary_, iii. 400. Footnote 191: Ibid., iii. 388. Footnote 192: Ibid., iii. 387. Footnote 193: Ibid., iii. 375. Footnote 194: _Itinerary_, iii. 411. Footnote 195: Ibid., iii. 413. Footnote 196: See Ben Jonson, _Every Man out of his Humour_, Act II. Sc. i.: "I do intend this year of jubilee coming on, to travel, and because I will not altogether go upon expense I am determined to put forth some five thousand pound, to be paid me five for one, upon the return of myself, my wife, and my dog from the Turk's court in Constantinople." Also the epigram of Sir John Davies in _Poems_, ed. Grosart, vol. ii. p. 40: "Lycus, which lately is to Venice gone, Shall if he doe returne, gaine three for one." Footnote 197: _Volpone: or the Fox_, Act II. Sc. i. Footnote 198: Ibid., Act III. Sc. v. Footnote 199: The whole letter is printed in Pearsall Smith's Collection, vol. ii. p. 382. Footnote 200: Pearsall Smith's Collection, vol. ii. p. 364 (in another letter of advice on foreign travel). Footnote 201: _Defensio secunda_, in _Opera Latina_, Amstelodami, 1698, p. 96. Footnote 202: _Quo Vadis?_ A Just Censure of Travel as it is undertaken by the Gentlemen of our Nation, London, 1617. Footnote 203: 19th September 1614. Quoted in C. Dodd's _Church History of England_, ed. Tierney, vol. iv. Appendix, p. ccxli. Footnote 204: Master of Ceremonies to James I. Footnote 205: _The Reformed Travailer_, by W.H., 1616, fol. A 4, verso. Footnote 206: Charles II. Footnote 207: Ellis, _Original Letters_, 1st Series, iii. 288. Footnote 208: _The Scholemaster_, ed. Mayor, p. 53. Footnote 209: _The Compleat Gentleman_, 1634 (reprint 1906), p. 33. Footnote 210: Cited in G. D'Avenel, _La Noblesse française sous Richelieu_, p. 52. Footnote 211: _Ibid_., pp. 41-2. Footnote 212: Balade, "Les chevaliers ont honte d'étudier" _(OEuvres Complètes_, tome iii. p. 187). Footnote 213: De la Nouë, _Discours Politiques et Militaires_, 1587, p. 111. Footnote 214: De la Nouë, _op. cit_., pp. 118-22. _Court and Times of Charles I_., vol. ii. pp. 89, 187. Footnote 215: _A Method for Travell. Shewed by taking the view of France. As it stood in the yeare of our Lord_, 1598. Footnote 216: By James Howell. Footnote 217: _Supra_, note (1). Footnote 218: _A Survey of the Great Dukes State of Tuscany. In the yeare of our Lord_, 1596. Footnote 219: _The View of France_, fol. X. Footnote 220: _The View of France_, fol. H 4, verso. Footnote 221: William Thomas, _The Pilgrim_, 1546. Footnote 222: _Survey of Tuscany_, p. 34. Footnote 223: _A Method for Travell_, Fol. B 4, verso. Footnote 224: The first edition of _The View of Fraunce_ was printed anonymously in 1604 by Symon Stafford: When Thomas Creede brought out another edition, apparently in 1606, Dallington inserted a preface "To All Gentlemen that have Travelled," and _A Method for Travell_, consisting of eight unpaged leaves, and a folded leaf containing a conspectus of _A Method for Travell_. Footnote 225: As the use of Latin waned, a knowledge of modern languages became increasingly important. The attitude of continental gentlemen on this point is indicated by a Spanish Ambassador in 1613, to whom the Pope's Nuncio used a German Punctilio, of speaking Latin, for more dignity, to him and Italian to the Residents of Mantua and Urbino. The Ambassador answered in Italian, "and afterwards gave this reason for it: that it were as ill a Decorum for a Cavalier to speak Latin, as for a Priest to use any other Language." (_Winwood Memorials_, vol. iii. p. 446). Footnote 226: Fynes Moryson had a great deal to say on this subject. In particular, he instances the Germans as reprehensible in living only with their own countrymen in Italy, "never attaining the perfect use of any forreigne Language, be it never so easy. So as myselfe remember one of them, who being reprehended, that having been thirty yeeres in Italy hee could not speake the Language, he did merrily answer in Dutch: Ah lieber was kan man doch in dreissig Jahr lehrnen? Alas, good Sir, what can a man learne in thirty yeeres?" (_Itinerary,_ vol. in. p. 379). Footnote 227: _A Method for Travell_, B 4, verso. Footnote 228: _Court and Times of James I_., vol. i. p. 286. Footnote 229: Amias Paulet to Elizabeth, Jan. 31, 1577. Cal. State Papers, Foreign. Footnote 230: By Cesare Nigri Milanese detto il trombone, "Famose e eccellente Professori di Ballare." Printed at Milan, 1604. Footnote 231: "In twenty manere coude he trippe and dance After the schole of Oxenforde tho, And with his legges casten to and fro." _The Milleres Tale_, 11. 142-4. Footnote 232: Ellis, _Original Letters_, 2nd Series, vol. iii. p. 214. Footnote 233: _Ibid_., 1st Series, vol. iii. pp. 138-9. Footnote 234: _A Method jor Travell_, fol. B 4, verso. Footnote 235: _Historiettes_, ed. Paris, 1834, tome 1er, p. 72. Footnote 236: So counted the Pope's Legate in 1596. Cited by Jusserand, in _Sports et Jeux D'Exercise dans L'ancienne France_, p. 252. Footnote 237: _A View of France_, fol. V, verso. Footnote 238: Jusserand, _op. cit._, p. 241. Cited from Thomassin's _Ancienne et nouvelle discipline de l'Eglise_, 1725, tome iii. col. 1355. Footnote 239: _The View of France_, T 4, verso, V, verso. Footnote 240: Fol. C. Footnote 241: _Every Man in his Humour_, Act IV. Sc. v. Footnote 242: _Touchant les Duels_, ed. 1722, p. 79. Footnote 243: "If in the Court they spie one in a sute of the last yeres making, they scoffingly say, 'Nous le cognoissons bien, il ne nous mordra pas, c'est un fruit suranne.' We know him well enough, he will not hurt us, hee's an Apple of the last yeere" (_The View of France_, fol. T 4). Footnote 244: _Instructions for Forreine Travell_, 1642. Footnote 245: _Op. cit_., pp. 65-70. Footnote 246: _Ibid_., pp. 181, 188. Footnote 247: _Op. cit.,_ pp. 193-5. Footnote 248: _Ibid_., p. 51. Footnote 249: "The Great Horse" is the term used of animals for war or tournaments, in contradistinction to Palfreys, Coursers, Nags, and other common horses. These animals of "prodigious weight" had to be taught to perform manoeuvres, and their riders, the art of managing them according to certain rules and principles. See _A New Method ... to Dress Horses_, by William Cavendish, Duke of Newcastle, London, 1667. Footnote 250: _Histoire et Recherches des Antiquités de la Ville de Paris_, par H. Sauval, Paris, 1724, tome ii. p. 498. Footnote 251: _Les Antiquitez de la Ville de Paris_. Paris 1640, Livre second, p. 403. Footnote 252: Probably the son of Sir John Puckering, Lord Keeper in 1592-1596. Footnote 253: Ellis, _Original Letters_, 2nd Series, vol. iii. pp. 220-1. Footnote 254: _Archeologia_, vol. xxxvi. pp. 343-4. Footnote 255: _Collectania, First Series_, ed. for the Oxford Historical Society (vol. v.) by C.R.L. Fletcher, p. 213. Footnote 256: See _Archeologia_, xxi. p. 506. Gilbert's and La Nouë's dreams were of academies like Vittorino da Feltre's--not Pluvinel's. Footnote 257: _Oxford Historical Society_, vol. v. p. 276. Footnote 258: _Ibid_., pp. 280-2. Footnote 259: _The Interpreter of the Academic for Forrain Languages, and all Noble Sciences, and Exercises_, London, 1648. Footnote 260: Evelyn's Diary, 9th August 1682. Footnote 261: _Ibid_., 18th December 1684. Footnote 262: _Oxford Historical Society_, vol. v. pp. 309-13. Footnote 263: _Ibid_., p. 319. Footnote 264: _Le Maneige Royal_, ou l'on peut remarquer le defaut et la perfection du chevalier, en tous les exercices de cet art, digne de Princes, fait et pratique en l'instruction du Roy par Antoine Pluvinel son Éscuyer principal, Conseiller en son Conseil d'Éstat, son Chambellan ordinaire, et Sous-Gouverneur de sa Majesté. Paris, 1624. Footnote 265: Opening words of _An Apologie for Poetrie_, ed. 1595. Footnote 266: _Historiettes_, vol. i. p. 89 of ed. 1834. Marguerite of Valois compared M. de Souvray, the governor of Louis XIII., to Chiron rearing Achilles. Contemporary satire said that M. de Souvray "n'avoit de Chiron que le train de derrière." Footnote 267: Henri Sauval, _op. cit._, p. 498. Footnote 268: _A Dialogue concerning Education_, in _Tracts_, London, 1727, p. 297. We must allow for the fact that English university men did not approve of the French ambition to elevate the vernacular, or of their translation of the classics, or of any displacement of Latin from the highest place in the ambitions of anyone with pretentions to learning. See also Evelyn, _State of France_, p. 99. Footnote 269: _Oxford Historical Society_, vol. v. p. 325. Footnote 270: Written to John Aubrey, between 1685-93. Quoted in _Oxford Historical Society_, vol. v. p. 295. Footnote 271: Ravaisson, _Archives de la Bastille_, Paris, 1866, tome i. p. 263; cited in _Sports et Jeux d'Exercice_, p. 377. Footnote 272: Thomas Carte, _Life of James, Duke of Ormond_, vol. iii. p. 635. Footnote 273: Addit. MS. 19253 (British Museum). Footnote 274: _Memoires du Comte de Grammont_, Strawberry Hill, 1772. Footnote 275: In _The Compleat Gentleman_, 1622. Footnote 276: Nicolaus Clenardus Latomo Suo S.D., _Epistole_, Antverpiæ, 1566, pp. 20-4, _passim_. See p. 234 for the historic incident of the drinking cup, broken by Vasæus, and so impossible to replace, after a search through the whole Spanish village, that the rest of the party were obliged to drink out of their hands. As to expenses, Clenardus scoffs at the poets who sing of "Auriferum Tagum." "Aurum auferendum" would better express it, he found. Footnote 277: Ellis, _Original Letters_, 2nd Series, vol. ii. p. 38. Footnote 278: _Ibid._ Footnote 279: James Howell, _A Discours or Dialog_, containing a Perambulation of Spain and Portugall which may serve for a direction how to travell through both Countreys, London, 1662. Footnote 280: _Relation du Voyage d'Espagne_, a la Haye, 1691 (translated in 1692 under the title of "The Ingenious and Diverting Letters of the Lady ---- Travels into Spain"). Footnote 281: Comtesse d'Aunoy, _op. cit._, p. 99. Footnote 282: Reprinted in _The Life of Sir Tobie Matthew_, by A.H. Mathew, p. 115. Footnote 283: By James Howell, 1662. Footnote 284: Howell's _Letters_, ed. Jacobs, p. 168. Footnote 285: _Winwood Memorials_, vol. iii. p. 264. Footnote 286: _Tracts_: (_A Dialogue concerning Education_), 1727, p. 340. Footnote 287: _The Perambulation of Spain_, p. 29. Footnote 288: See _Les Delices de la Hollande_, Amsterdam, 1700, pp. 9, 25; Sir William Brereton, Bart., _Travels in Holland, the United Provinces, England, Scotland, and Ireland_, 1634-1635, ed. Hawkins, for the Chatham Society, 1844; William Carr, Gentleman, _The Traveller's Guide and Historian's Faithful Companion_, London, 1690. Footnote 289: William Seward, _Anecdotes of Some Distinguished Persons_, London, 1796, vol. ii. p. 168. Footnote 290: Lord King, _The Life and Letters of John Locke, with Extracts from his Journals and Common-place Books_, London, 1858, vol. ii. pp. 5, 50, 71. Footnote 291: _The Harleian Miscellany_, vol. ii. p. 592. Footnote 292: _Observations upon the United Provinces of the Netherlands_, London, 1693, p. 188. Footnote 293: Coriat Junior, _Another Traveller_, London, 1767, p. 152. Footnote 294: John Evelyn, _Diary and Correspondence_, ed. Bray, London, 1906, p. 38. Footnote 295: _Ibid._, p. 29. Also John Raymond, _Il Mercurio Italico_, London, 1648, p. 95. Footnote 296: Coriat Junior, _op. cit._, p. 152. Footnote 297: R. Poole, Doctor of Physick, _A Journey from London to France and Holland; or, the Traveller's Useful Vade Mecum_, London, 1746. Footnote 298: Sir Thomas Browne, _Works_, ed. Wilkin, vol. i. p. 91. Footnote 299: _Martin Lister's Travels in France_, in John Pinkerton's Collection of Voyages and Travels, 1809, vol. iv. pp. 2, 21. Footnote 300: _Nicholas Ferrar, Two Lives_, by his brother John and by Doctor Jebb, ed. J.E.B. Mayor, London, 1855. Footnote 301: _State of France_, 1652, pp. 78, 105. _A Character of England_, 1659, pp. 45, 49. Footnote 302: _Advice to a Young Gentleman Leaving the University_, by R.(ichard) L.(assels), 1670. Footnote 303: Sir Thomas Browne, _Works_, ed. by Wilkin, vol. i. pp. 3-14, _passim_. Footnote 304: _Advice to a Son_, ed. 1896, p. 63. Footnote 305: _Life of William Cavendish, Duke of Newcastle_, ed. Firth, 1886, p. 309. Footnote 306: Prefatory Letter, _The State of France_, 1652, fol. B. Footnote 307: _Ibid._, fol. B 3. Footnote 308: _The Voyage of Italy_, Paris, 1670. _A Preface to the Reader concerning Travelling._ Footnote 309: _Winwood Memorials_, vol. iii. 312. Footnote 310: _Calendar of State Papers, Foreign_, 1561-2, pp. 632, 635. Footnote 311: _Davison's Poetical Rhapsody_, ed. Nicolas, vol. i. p. xi. Footnote 312: "That young men travel under some tutor, or grave servant, I allow well: so that he be such a one that hath some entrance into the language, and hath been in the country before; whereby he may be able to tell them what things are worthy to be seen in the country where they go: what acquaintances they are to seek; what exercises or discipline the place yieldeth. For else young men shall go hooded, and look abroad little" (_Essays: Of Travel_). Footnote 313: _Calendar of State Papers, Domestic_, 1651-2, No, 51. It will be seen from the above letter that fear of a change in their son's religion was still a very real one in the minds of parents. See also _A Letter of Advice to a Young Gentleman of an Honorable Family, Now in his Travels beyond the Seas_. By a _True Son of the Church of England, London_, 1688. The writer hopes that above all things the young man may return "A well-bred Gentleman, a good Scholar, and a sound Christian." Footnote 314: "Newly printed at Paris, and are to be sold in London, by John Starkey, 1670." Lassels, a Roman Catholic, passed most of his life abroad. He left Oxford for the College of Douay. See _D.N.B._ Footnote 315: _The Voyage of Italy, Preface to the Reader._ Footnote 316: _Op. cit., Preface to the Reader._ Footnote 317: Thomas Carte, _Life of James, Duke of Omond_, vol. iv. p. 632. "He passed several months in a very cheap country, and yet the bills of expenses sent over by the governor were higher than those which used to be drawn by Colonel Fairfax on account of the Earl of Derby, when he was travelling from place to place, and appeared in all with so much dignity." Footnote 318: Anthony Weldon, _Court and Character of King James_, London, 1650, p. 92. Footnote 319: _Winwood Memorials_, vol. iii. p. 226. Footnote 320: Ben Jonson, _Conversations with Drummond_, ed. Sidney, 1906, pp. 34-5. Footnote 321: _Life of James, Duke of Ormond_, vol. iv. pp. 487-90. Footnote 322: _Court and Times of James I._, vol. i. p, 285. Footnote 323: _Life of James, Duke of Ormond_, vol. iv. p. 667. Footnote 324: _Advice to a Son_, p. 72. Footnote 325: A. Collins, _Letters and Memorials of State_, vol. i. p. 271. (Sir Henry Sidney to his son Robert Sidney, after Earl of Leicester.) Footnote 326: _Davison's Poetical Rhapsody_, ed. Nicolas, vol. i. pp. viii.-xi. Footnote 327: _Sir Henry Wotton; Life and Letters_, ed. Pearsall Smith, vol. i. p. 233 (note 1). Footnote 328: _Davison's Poetical Rhapsody_, pp. viii., xi. Footnote 329: _Itinerary_, vol. iii. p. 374. Footnote 330: _A Method for Travell_, fol. G. Footnote 331: _Instructions for Forreine Travel_, p. 51. Footnote 332: _Lismore Papers_, 2nd Series, vol. v. p. 24. Footnote 333: _The Voyage of Italy; Preface to the Reader_, fol. B 4. Footnote 334: _The State of France_, 1652. Folio B. Footnote 335: Robert Boyle, _Works_, 1744, vol. i. p. 7. Footnote 336: _Lismore Papers_, 1st Series, vol. v. pp. 78, 80. Footnote 337: _Ibid._, 112. Footnote 338: It was a common custom at this time to marry one's sons, if a favourable match could be made, before they went abroad. Footnote 339: _Lismore Papers_, 2nd Series, vol. iv. p. 95. Footnote 340: On Nov. 23rd, 1610, Carleton, the Ambassador at Venice, wrote to Salisbury that his son was ill at Padua. "He finds relish in nothing on this side the mountains, nor much in anything on this side the sea; his affections being so strangely set on his return homeward, that any opposition is a disease." Cranborne's tutor, Dr Lister, wrote to Carleton in December: "Sir, we must for England, there is no resisting of it. If we stay the fruit will not be great, the discontent infinite. My Lord is going to dinner, this being the first meal he eateth." (State Papers, 1610. Cited in _Life and Letters of Sir Henry Wotton_, ed. Pearsall-Smith, vol. i. p. 501.) Footnote 341: _Lismore Papers_, 2nd Series, vol. iv. p. 98. Footnote 342: _Lismore Papers_, 2nd Series, vol. iv. p. 234. Footnote 343: _Ibid._, p. 171. Footnote 344: _Lismore Papers_, 2nd Series, vol. iv. p. 100. Footnote 345: Ibid., p. 103. Footnote 346: _Lismore Papers_, 2nd Series, vol. iv. p. 100. Footnote 347: _Lismore Papers_, 2nd Series, vol. iv. p. 99. Footnote 348: In March 1640. This fact, and his appearance in the _Lismore Papers_, are not mentioned in the _Dictionary of National Biography_. Footnote 349: _Lismore Papers_, 2nd Series, vol. iv. p. 113. Footnote 350: Ibid., p. 235. Footnote 351: Ibid., p. 234. Footnote 352: Ibid., pp. 232-3. Footnote 353: She became one of the mistresses of Charles II. With her daughter, Charlotte Boyle, otherwise Fitzroy, she is buried in Westminster Abbey. (_Cockayne's Peerage_, under Viscount Shannon.) Footnote 354: _Lismore Papers_, 2nd Series, vol. v. pp. 19-24. Footnote 355: _Lismore Papers_, 2nd Series, vol. v. pp. 72, 97, 121. Footnote 356: _Three Diatribes or Discourses_, London, 1671. Footnote 357: _The Compleat Gentleman_, London, 1678. Footnote 358: _The Compleat Gentleman_, p. 3. Footnote 359: Albert Babeau, _Les Voyageurs en France_, Paris, 1885, p. 175. Footnote 360: M. Adrien Delahaute, _Une Famille de Finance an XVIII. Siècle_, vol. i. p. 434. Footnote 361: George Sandys, _A Relation of a Journey begun in An. Dom. 1610_, London, 1615. Footnote 362: John Evelyn, _Diary and Correspondence_, ed. Bray, London, 1906, vol. i. p. 77. Footnote 363: _Ibid._, p. 78. Footnote 364: Balthazar Gerbier, _Subsidium Peregrinantibus_, Oxford, 1665. Footnote 365: _Letter to his Son_, Feb. 22, 1748. Footnote 366: _Ibid._, Oct. 2, O.S., 1747. Footnote 367: _Letter to his Son_, Oct. 9, O.S., 1747. Footnote 368: Lausanne was where Edward Gibbon received the education he considered far superior to what could be had from Oxford. When he returned to England, after four years, he missed the "elegant and rational society" of Lausanne, and could not love London--"the noisy and expensive scene of crowds without company, and dissipation without pleasure." Footnote 369: _Letter to his Son_, April 12, O.S., 1749. Footnote 370: _Ibid._, Sept. 22, O.S., 1749. Footnote 371: _Ibid._, Sept. 5, O.S., 1749. Footnote 372: _Letter to his Son_, Nov. 8, O.S., 1750. Footnote 373: _Letter to his Son_, May 10, O.S., 1748. Footnote 374: _Letter to his Son_, April 30, O.S., 1750. Footnote 375: _Letters from Paris_, Sept. 22, 26; Oct. 3, 6, 1765. Footnote 376: A Character of England, As it was lately presented in a Letter to a Noble Man of France, London, 1659. Footnote 377: See Voltaire, _Lettres Philosophiques_, tome ii. p. 272, ed. Gustave Lanson, Paris, 1909. Footnote 378: "The merest John Trot in a week you shall see Bien poli, bien frizé, tout à fait un Marquis." (Samuel Foote, _Dramatic Works_, vol. i. p. 47.) The Hon. James Howard, _The English Mounsieur_, London, 1674; Sir George Etherege, _Sir Fopling Flutter, Love in a Tub_, Act III. Sc. iv. The Abbe le Blanc on visiting England was very indignant at the representation of his countrymen on the London stage: he describes how, "Two actors came in, one dressed in the English manner very decently, and the other with black eye-brows, a riband an ell long under his chin, a big peruke immoderately powdered, and his nose all bedaubed with snuff. What Englishman could not know a Frenchman by this ridiculous picture?... But when it was found that the man thus equipped, being also laced down every seam of his coat, was nothing but a cook, the spectators were equally charmed and surprised. The author had taken care to make him speak all the impertinences he could devise.... There was a long criticism upon our manners, our customs and above all, our cookery. The excellence and virtues of English beef were cried up; the author maintained that it was owing to the quality of its juice that the English were so courageous, and had such a solidity of understanding which raised them above all the nations of Europe" (E. Smith, _Foreign Visitors In England_, London, 1889, pp. 193-4). Footnote 379: Samuel Foote, _Dramatic Works_, vol. i. p. 7. Footnote 380: _Ibid._ Footnote 381: "Let Paris be the theme of Gallia's Muse Where Slav'ry treads the Streets in wooden shoes." (Gay, _Trivia_.) Footnote 382: Joseph Addison, _A Letter from Italy_, London, 1709. Footnote 383: Samuel Johnson, _London_: A Poem. Footnote 384: Philip Dormer Stanhope, Earl of Chesterfield, _Letters to his Son_, London, 1774; vol. ii. p. 123; vol. iii. p. 308. Footnote 385: Edward Hyde, Earl of Clarendon, _A Dialogue concerning Education_, in _A Collection of Several Tracts_, London, 1727. Footnote 386: _Ibid._, _Dialogue of The Want of Respect Due to Age_, pp. 295-6. Footnote 387: John Locke, _Some Thoughts concerning Education_, London, 1699, pp. 356-7, 375-7. Footnote 388: John Locke, _Some Thoughts concerning Education_, London, 1699, pp. 356-7, 375-7. Footnote 389: _Ibid._ Footnote 390: As Cowper says in _The Progress of Error_: "From school to Cam or Isis, and thence home: And thence with all convenient speed to Rome. With reverend tutor clad in habit lay, To tease for cash and quarrel with all day: With memorandum-book for every town, And every post, and where the chaise broke down." Foote's play, _An Englishman in Paris_, represents in the character of the pedantic prig named Classick, the sort of university tutor who was sometimes substituted for the parson, as an appropriate guardian. Footnote 391: _The Bear-Leaders_, London, 1758. Footnote 392: Lady Mary Wortley Montagu met many of these pairs at Rome, where she writes that, by herding together and throwing away their money on worthless objects, they had acquired the title of Golden Asses, and that Goldoni adorned his dramas with "gli milordi Inglesi" in the same manner as Molière represented his Parisian marquises (_Letters_, ed. Wharncliffe, London, 1893, vol. ii. p. 327). Footnote 393: William Congreve, _The Way of the World_, Act III. Sc. xv. Footnote 394: Philip Thicknesse, _Observations on the Customs and Manners of the French Nation_, London, 1766, p. 3. Footnote 395: Thomas Gray the poet. Footnote 396: Horace Walpole, _Letters_, ed. Cunningham, London, 1891, vol. i. p. 24. Footnote 397: Thomas Gray, _Letters_, ed. Tovey, Cambridge University Press, 1890, pp. 38, 44, 68. Footnote 398: James Howell, _Instructions for Forraine Travell_, p. 25 (Arber Reprint). Footnote 399: _Ibid., Epistolæ Ho-Elianæ,_ ed. Jacobs, 1892, vol. i. p. 95. The Renaissance traveller had little commendation for a land that was not fruitful, rich with grains and orchards. A landscape that suggested food was to him the fairest landscape under heaven. Far from being an admirer of mountains, he was of the opinion of Dr Johnson that "an eye accustomed to flowery pastures and waving harvests is astonished and repelled by this wide extent of hopeless sterility" and that "this uniformity of barrenness can afford very little amusement to the traveller" (_Works_, ed. 1787, vol. x. p. 359). Footnote 400: _Itinerarii Italiæ Rerumq. Romanorum libri tres_ a Franc. Schotto I.C. ex antiquis novisque Scriptoribus iis editi qui Romam anno Iubileii sacro visunt. Ad Robertum Bellarminum S.R.E. Card. Ampliss. Antverpiæ. Ex officina Plantiniana apud Joannem Moretum. Anno sæcularii sacro, 1600. Thomas Cecil in Paris in 1562 studied the richly illustrated _Cosmographia Universalis_ of Sebastien Munster (pub. Basel 1550) which gave descriptions of "Omnium gentium mores, leges, religio, res gestæ, mutationes." Sir Thomas Browne recommends to his son in France in 1661 _Les Antiquities de Paris_ "which will direct you in many things, what to look after, that little time you stay there" (_Works_, ed. Wilkin, 1846, vol. i. p. 16). Footnote 401: Such as: (_a_) _La Guide des Chemins_: pour aller et venir par tous les pays et contrees du Royaume de France. Avec les noms des Fleuves et Rivieres qui courent parmy lesdicts pays. A. Paris (n.d.) (1552?). (_b_) _Deliciæ Galliæ_, sive Itinerarium per universam Galliam. Coloniæ, 1608. (_c_) _Iodoci Sinceri Itinerarium Galliæ_, Ita accomodatum, ut eius ductu mediocri tempore tota Gallia obiri, Anglia et Belgium adire possuit: nec bis terve ad eadum loca rediri oporteat: De Burdigala, Lugduni, 1616. (_d_) _Le Voyage de France_ Dresse pour l'instruction et commodite tant des Francais que des Estrangers. Paris, chez Olivier de Varennes, 1639. Footnote 402: Maximilian Misson, _A New Voyage to Italy_; Together with _Useful Instructions_ for those who shall Travel thither, 2 vols., London, 1695. Footnote 403: Count Leopold Berchtold, _An Essay to Direct and Extend the Inquiries of Patriotic Travellers_, London, 1789. Footnote 404: Mission, _op. cit._, vol. ii. p. 335. Footnote 405: See Hearne's Collections, vol. viii., being vol. I. of publications of _The Oxford Historical Society_, pp. 118, 133, 201, for the account of an assault by six highwaymen upon two gentlemen with their servants on the way from Calais, in September 1723. Defoe wrote a tract on the subject, and it was treated in Boyer's _Political State_, and in other periodicals of the time. Footnote 406: _Letters from Italy_, to which is annexed, _An Admonition to Gentlemen who pass the Alps_, London, 1767, pp. 44, 65, 172, 306. Footnote 407: Henry Fielding, _The Journal of a Voyage to Lisbon_. Footnote 408: Tobias Smollett, _Works_, ed. 1887, p. 709. Footnote 409: Roger Ascham, _Works_, ed. Giles, London, 1865, vol. i. part ii. p. 253. Footnote 410: _All the Works of John Taylor the Water Poet_, being sixty-three in number, collected into one volume by the Author, London, 1630. See p. 76, _Three Weekes, three Dayes, and three Houres Observations from London to Hamburgh in Germanie_ ... dedicated to Sr. Thomas Coriat, Great Brittaines Error, and the World's Mirror, Aug. 17, 1616. Footnote 411: _Coryal's Crudities_, Glasgow, 1905, vol. i. pp. 216, 226, 255; vol. ii. pp. 57, 176. Footnote 412: Hermannus Kirchnerus in _Coryat's Crudities_, vol. ii. p. 74. 
15810	----	Team at www.pgdp.net. OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS LONDON EDINBURGH GLASGOW NEW YORK TORONTO MELBOURNE BOMBAY HUMPHREY MILFORD M.A. PUBLISHER TO THE UNIVERSITY * * * * * THE AGE OF ERASMUS LECTURES DELIVERED IN THE UNIVERSITIES OF OXFORD AND LONDON BY P.S. ALLEN, M.A. FELLOW OF MERTON COLLEGE, OXFORD OXFORD AT THE CLARENDON PRESS 1914 * * * * * CONTENTS I. THE ADWERT ACADEMY II. SCHOOLS III. MONASTERIES IV. UNIVERSITIES V. ERASMUS' LIFE-WORK VI. FORCE AND FRAUD VII. PRIVATE LIFE AND MANNERS VIII. THE POINT OF VIEW IX. PILGRIMAGES X. THE TRANSALPINE RENAISSANCE XI. ERASMUS AND THE BOHEMIAN BRETHREN * * * * * I THE ADWERT ACADEMY The importance of biography for the study of history can hardly be overrated. In a sense it is true that history should be like the law and 'care not about very small things'; concerning itself not so much with individual personality as with fundamental causes affecting the rise and fall of nations or the development of mental outlook from one age to another. But even if this be conceded, we still must not forget that the course of history is worked out by individuals, who, in spite of the accidental condensation that the needs of human life thrust upon them, are isolated at the last and alone--for no man may deliver his brother. In consequence, it is only in periods when the stream of personal record flows wide and deep that history begins to live, and that we have a chance to view it through the eyes of the actors instead of projecting upon it our own fancies and conceptions. One of the features that makes the study of the Renaissance so fascinating is that in that age the stream of personal record, which had been driven underground, its course choked and hidden beneath the fallen masonry of the Roman Empire, emerges again unimpeded and flows in ever-increasing volume. For reconstruction of the past we are no longer limited to charters and institutions, or the mighty works of men's hands. In place of a mental output, rigidly confined within unbending modes of thought and expression, we have a literature that reflects the varied phases of human life, that can discard romance and look upon the commonplace; and instead of dry and meagre chronicles, rarely producing evidence at first hand, we have rich store of memoirs and private letters, by means of which we can form real pictures of individuals--approaching almost to personal acquaintance and intimacy--and regard the same events from many points of view, to perception of the circumstances that 'alter cases'. The period of the Transalpine Renaissance corresponds roughly with the life of Erasmus (1466-1536); from the days when Northern scholars began to win fame for themselves in reborn Italy, until the width of the humanistic outlook was narrowed and the progress of the reawakened studies overwhelmed by the tornado of the Reformation. The aim of these lectures is not so much to draw the outlines of the Renaissance in the North as to present sketches of the world through which Erasmus passed, and to view it as it appeared to him and to some of his contemporaries, famous or obscure. And firstly of the generation that preceded him in the wide but undefined region known then as Germany. The Cistercian Abbey of Adwert near Groningen, under the enlightened governance of Henry of Rees (1449-85), was a centre to which were attracted most of the scholars whose names are famous in the history of Northern humanism in the second half of the fifteenth century: Wessel, Agricola, Hegius, Langen, Vrye, and others. They came on return from visits to Italy or the universities; men of affairs after discharge of their missions; schoolmasters to rest on their holidays; parish priests in quest of change: all found a welcome from the hospitable Abbot, and their talk ranged far and wide, over the pursuit of learning, till Adwert merited the name of an 'Academy'. Earliest of these is John Wessel (d. 1489), and perhaps also the most notable; certainly the others looked up to him with a veneration which seems to transcend the natural pre-eminence of seniority. Unfortunately the details of his life have not been fully established. Thirty years after his death, when it was too late for him to define his own views, the Reformers claimed him for their own; and in consequence his body has been wrangled over with the heat which seeks not truth but victory. His father, Hermann Wessel, was a baker from the Westphalian village of Gansfort or Goesevort, who settled in Groningen. After some years in the town school, the boy was about to be apprenticed to a trade, as his parents were too poor to help him further; but the good Oda Jargis, hearing how well he had done at his books, sent him to the school at Zwolle, in which the Brethren of the Common Life took part. There, as at Groningen, he rose to the top, and in his last years, as a first-form boy, also did some teaching in the third form, according to the custom of the school. He came into contact with Thomas à Kempis, who was then at the monastery of Mount St. Agnes, half an hour outside Zwolle, and was profoundly influenced by him. The course at Zwolle lasted eight years, and there is reason to suppose that he completed it in full. He was lodged in the Parua Domus, a hostel for fifty boys, and we are told that he and his next neighbour made a hole through the wall which divided their rooms--probably only a wooden partition--and taught one another: Wessel imparting earthly wisdom, and receiving in exchange the fear and love of the Lord. In the autumn of 1449 he matriculated at Cologne, entering the Bursa Laurentiana; in December 1450 he was B.A., and in February 1452, M.A. By 1455 he had arrived at Paris and entered upon his studies for the theological degree. Within a year he conceived a profound distaste for the philosophy dominant in the schools; and though he persevered for some time, his frequent dissension from his teachers earned for him the title of 'Magister contradictionis'. After this his movements cannot be traced until 1470, when he was at Rome in the train of Cardinal Francesco della Rovere. In the interval he studied medicine, and, if report be true, travelled far; venturing into the East, just when the fall of Constantinople had turned the tide of Hellenism westward. In Greece he read Aristotle in the original, and learnt to prefer Plato; in Egypt he sought in vain for the books of Solomon and a mythical library of Hebrew treasures. In 1471 his Cardinal-patron was elected Pope as Sixtus IV. The magnificence which characterized the poor peasant's son in his dealings with Italy, in his embellishment of Rome and the Vatican, was not lacking in his treatment of Wessel. 'Ask what you please as a parting gift', he said to the scholar, who was preparing to set out for Friesland. 'Give me books from your library, Greek and Hebrew', was the request. 'What? No benefice, no grant of office or fees? Why not?' 'Because I don't want them', came the quiet reply. The books were forthcoming--one, a Greek Gospels, was perhaps the parent of a copy which reached Erasmus for the second edition of his New Testament. After his return to the North, Wessel was invited to Heidelberg, to aid the Elector Palatine, Philip, in restoring the University, _c._ 1477. He was without the degree in theology which would have enabled him to teach in that faculty, and was not even in orders: indeed a proposal that he should qualify by entering the lowest grade and receiving the tonsure, he contemptuously rejected. So the Theological Faculty would not hear him, but to the students in Arts he lectured on Greek and Hebrew and philosophy. For some years, too, he was physician to David of Burgundy, Bishop of Utrecht, whom he cured of gout by making him take baths of warm milk. The Bishop rewarded him by shielding him from the attacks of the Dominicans, who were incensed by his bold criticisms of Aquinas; and when age brought the desire for rest, the Bishop set him over a house of nuns at Groningen, and bought him the right to visit Mount St. Agnes whenever he liked, by paying for the board and lodging of this welcome guest. Wessel's last years were happily spent. He was the acknowledged leader of his society, and he divided his time between Mount St. Agnes and the sisters at Groningen, with occasional visits to Adwert. There he set about reviving the Abbey schools, one elementary, within its walls, the other more advanced, in a village near by; and Abbot Rees warmly supported him. Would-be pupils besought him to teach them Greek and Hebrew. Admiring friends came to hear him talk, and brought their sons to see this glory of their country--Lux mundi, as he was called. Some fragments of his conversation have been preserved, the unquestioned judgements which his hearers loyally received. Of the Schoolmen he was contemptuous, with their honorific titles: 'doctor angelic, doctor seraphic, doctor subtle, doctor irrefragable.' 'Was Thomas (Aquinas) a doctor? So am I. Thomas scarcely knew Latin, and that was his only tongue: I have a fair knowledge of the three languages. Thomas saw Aristotle only as a phantom: I have read him in Greece in his own words.' To Ostendorp, then a young man, but afterwards to become head master of Deventer school, he gave the counsel: 'Read the ancients, sacred and profane: modern doctors, with their robes and distinctions, will soon be drummed out of town.' At Mount St. Agnes once he was asked why he never used rosary nor book of hours. 'I try', he replied, 'to pray always. I say the Lord's Prayer once every day. Said once a year in the right spirit it would have more weight than all these vain repetitions.' He loved to read aloud to the brethren on Sunday evenings; his favourite passage being John xiii-xviii, the discourse at the Last Supper. As he grew older, he sometimes stumbled over his words. He was not an imposing figure, with his eyes somewhat a-squint and his slight limp; and sometimes the younger monks fell into a titter, irreverent souls, to hear him so eager in his reading and so unconscious. It was not his eyesight that was at fault: to the end he could read the smallest hand without any glasses, like his great namesake, John Wesley, whom a German traveller noticed on the packet-boat between Flushing and London reading the fine print of the Elzevir Virgil, with his eyes unaided, though at an advanced age. On his death-bed Wessel was assailed with scepticism, and began to doubt about the truth of the Christian religion. But the cloud was of short duration. That supreme moment of revelation, which comes to every man once, is no time for fear. Patient hope cast out questioning, and he passed through the deep waters with his eyes on the Cross which had been his guide through the life that was ending. Of Rudolph Agricola we know more than of the others; his striking personality, it seems, moved many of his friends to put on record their impressions of him. One of the best of these sketches is by Goswin of Halen (d. 1530), who had been Wessel's servant at Groningen, and had frequently met Agricola. Rudolph's father, Henry Huusman, was the parish priest of Baflo, a village four hours to the north of Groningen; his mother being a young woman of the place, who subsequently married a local carrier. On 17 Feb. 1444 the priest was elected to be warden of a college of nuns at Siloe, close to Groningen, and in the same hour a messenger came running to him from Baflo, claiming the reward of good news and announcing the birth of a son. 'Good,' said the new warden; 'this is an auspicious day, for it has twice made me father.' From the moment he could walk, the boy was passionately fond of music; the sound of church bells would bring him toddling out into the street, or the thrummings of the blind beggars as they went from house to house playing for alms; and he would follow strolling pipers out of the gates into the country, and only be driven back by a show of violence. When he was taken to church, all through the mass his eyes were riveted upon the organ and its bellows; and as he grew older he made himself a syrinx with eight or nine pipes out of willow-bark. He was taught to ride on horseback, and early became adept in pole-jumping whilst in the saddle, an art which the Frieslanders of that age had evolved to help their horses across the broad rhines of their country. In 1456, when he was just 12, he matriculated at Erfurt, and in May 1462 at Cologne. But the course of his education is not clear, and though it is known that he reached the M.A. at Louvain, the date of this degree is not certain. He is also said to have been at the University of Paris. Of his life at Louvain some details are given by Geldenhauer (d. 1542) in a sketch written about fifty years after Agricola's death. The University had been founded in 1426 to meet the needs of Belgian students, who for higher education had been obliged to go to Cologne or Paris, or more distant universities. Agricola entered Kettle College, which afterwards became the college of the Falcon, and soon distinguished himself among his fellow-students. They admired the ease with which he learnt French--not the rough dialect of Hainault, but the polite language of the court. With many his musical tastes were a bond of sympathy, in a way which recalls the evenings that Henry Bradshaw used to spend among the musical societies of Bruges and Lille when he was working in Belgian libraries; and on all sides men frankly acknowledged his intellectual pre-eminence as they marked his quiet readiness in debate and heard him pose the lecturers with acute questions. By nature he was silent and absorbed, and often in company he would sit deaf to all questions, his elbows on the table and biting his nails. But when roused he was at once captivating; and this unintended rudeness never lost him a friend. There was a small band of true humanists, who, as Geldenhauer puts it, 'had begun to love purity of Latin style'; to them he was insensibly attracted, and spent with them over Cicero and Quintilian hours filched from the study of Aristotle. Later in life he openly regretted having spent as much as seven years over the scholastic philosophy, which he had learnt to regard as profitless. From 1468 to 1479 he was for the most part in Italy, except for occasional visits to the North, when we see him staying with his father at Siloe, and, in 1474, teaching Greek to Hegius at Emmerich. Many positions were offered to him already; gifts such as his have not to stand waiting in the marketplace. But his wits were not homely, and the world called him. Before he could settle he must see many men and many cities, and learn what Italy had to teach him. For the first part of his time there, until 1473, he was at Pavia studying law and rhetoric; but on his return from home in 1474 he went to Ferrara in order to enjoy the better opportunities for learning Greek afforded by the court of Duke Hercules of Este and its circle of learned men. His description of the place is interesting: 'The town is beautiful, and so are the women. The University has not so many faculties as Pavia, nor are they so well attended; but _literae humaniores_ seem to be in the very air. Indeed, Ferrara is the home of the Muses--and of Venus.' One special delight to him was that the Duke had a fine organ, and he was able to indulge what he describes as his 'old weakness for the organs'. In October 1476, at the opening of the winter term of the University, the customary oration before the Duke was delivered by Rodolphus Agricola Phrysius. His eloquence surprised the Italians, coming from so outlandish a person: 'a Phrygian, I believe', said one to another, with a contemptuous shrug of the shoulders. But Agricola, with his chestnut-brown hair and blue eyes, was no Oriental; only a Frieslander from the North, whose cold climate to the superb Italians seemed as benumbing to the intellect as we consider that of the Esquimaux. During this period Agricola translated Isocrates _ad Demonicum_ and the _Axiochus de contemnenda morte_, a dialogue wrongly attributed to Plato, which was a favourite in Renaissance days. Also he completed the chief composition of his lifetime, the _De inuentione dialectica_, a considerable treatise on rhetoric. His favourite books, Geldenhauer tells us, were Pliny's Natural History, the younger Pliny's Letters, Quintilian's _Institutio Oratoria_, and selections from Cicero and Plato. These were his travelling library, carried with him wherever he went; two of them, Pliny's Letters and Quintilian, he had copied out with his own hand. Other books, as he acquired them, he planted out in friends' houses as pledges of return. In 1479 he left Italy and went home. On his way he stayed for some months with the Bishop of Augsburg at Dillingen, on the Danube, and there translated Lucian's _De non facile credendis delationibus_. A manuscript of Homer sorely tempted him to stay on through the winter. He felt that without Homer his knowledge of Greek was incomplete; and he proposed to copy it out from beginning to end, or at any rate the Iliad. But home called him, and he went on. At Spires, in quest of manuscripts, he went with a friend to the cathedral library. He describes it as not bad for Germany, though it contained nothing in Greek, and only a few Latin manuscripts of any interest--a Livy and a Pliny, very old, but much injured and the texts corrupt--and nothing at all that could be called eloquence, that is to say, pure literature. When he had been a little while in Groningen, the town council bethought them to turn his talents and learning to some account. He was a fine figure of a man, who would make a creditable show in conducting their business; and for composing the elegant Latin epistles, which every respectable corporation felt bound to rise to on occasions, no one was better equipped than he. He was retained as town secretary, and in the four years of his service went on frequent embassies. During the first year we hear of him visiting his father at Siloe, and contracting a friendship with one of the nuns[1]; to whom he afterwards sent a work of Eucherius, bishop of Lyons, which he had found in a manuscript at Roermond. Twice he visited Brussels on embassy to Maximilian; and in the next year he followed the Archduke's court for several months, visiting Antwerp, and making the acquaintance of Barbiriau, the famous musician. Maximilian offered him the post of tutor to his children and Latin secretary to himself; the town of Antwerp invited him to become head of their school. He might easily have accepted. He was not altogether happy at Groningen. His countrymen had done him honour, but they had no real appreciation for learning, and some of them were boorish and cross-grained. It was the old story of Pegasus in harness; the practical men of business and the scholar impatient of restraint. His parents, too, were now both dead--in 1480, within a few months of each other--and such homes as he had had, with his father amongst the nuns at Siloe and with his mother in the house of her husband the tranter, were therefore closed to him. And yet neither invitation attracted him. Friesland was his native land; and for all his wanderings the love of it was in his blood. Adwert, too, was near, and Wessel. He refused, and stayed on in his irksome service. [1] In view of Geldenhauer's testimony to Agricola's high character in this respect, we need not question, as does Goswin of Halen, the nature of this intimacy. But in 1482 came an offer he could not resist. An old friend of Pavia days, John of Dalberg, for whom he had written the oration customary on his installation as Rector in 1474, had just been appointed Bishop of Worms. He invited Agricola for a visit, and urged him to come and join him; living partly as a friend in the Bishop's household, partly lecturing at the neighbouring University of Heidelberg. The opening was just such as Agricola wished, and he eagerly accepted; but circumstances at Groningen prevented him from redeeming his promise until the spring of 1484. For little more than a year he rejoiced in the new position, which gave full scope for his abilities. Then he set out to Rome with Dalberg, their business being to deliver the usual oration of congratulation to Innocent VIII on his election. On the way back he fell ill of a fever at Trent, and the Bishop had to leave him behind. He recovered enough to struggle back to Heidelberg, but only to die in Dalberg's arms on 27 Oct. 1485, at the age of 41. Few men of letters have made more impression on their contemporaries; and yet his published writings are scanty. The generation that followed sought for his manuscripts as though they were of the classics; but thirty years elapsed before the _De inuentione dialectica_ was printed, and more than fifty before there was a collected edition. Besides his letters the only thing which has permanent value is a short educational treatise, _De formando studio_, which he wrote in 1484, and addressed to Barbiriau--some compensation to the men of Antwerp for his refusal to come to them. His work was to learn and to teach rather than to write. To learn Greek when few others were learning it, and when the apparatus of grammar and dictionary had to be made by the student for himself, was a task to consume even abundant energies; and still more so, if Hebrew, too, was to be acquired. But though he left little, the fire of his enthusiasm did not perish with him; passing on by tradition, it kindled in others whom he had not known, the flame of interest in the wisdom of the ancients. Another member of the Adwert gatherings was Alexander of Heck in Westphalia, hence called Hegius (1433-98). He was an older man than Agricola, but was not ashamed to learn of him when an opportunity offered to acquire Greek. His enthusiasm was for teaching; and to that he gave his life, first at Wesel, then at Emmerich, and finally for fifteen years at Deventer, where he had many eminent humanists under his care--Erasmus, William Herman, Mutianus Rufus, Hermann Busch, John Faber, John Murmell, Gerard Geldenhauer. Butzbach, who was the last pupil he admitted, and who saw him buried in St. Lebuin's church on a winter's evening at sunset, describes him at great length; and besides his learning and simplicity, praises the liberality with which he gave all that he had to help the needy: living in the house of another (probably Richard Paffraet, the printer) and sharing expenses, and leaving at his death no possessions but his books and a few clothes. And yet he was master of a school which had over 2000 boys. Rudolph Langen of Munster (1438-1519) was another who was known at Adwert. He matriculated at Erfurt in the same year as Agricola, and was M.A. there in 1460. A canonry at Munster gave him maintenance for his life, and he devoted his energies to learning. Twice he visited Italy, in 1465 and 1486; and in 1498 he succeeded in establishing a school at Munster on humanistic lines, and wished Hegius to become head master, but in vain. Nevertheless it rapidly rivalled the fame of Deventer. Finally, Antony Vrye (Liber) of Soest deserves record, since he has contributed somewhat to our knowledge of Adwert. He also was a schoolmaster, and taught at various times at Emmerich, Campen, Amsterdam, and Alcmar. In 1477 he published a volume entitled _Familiarium Epistolarum Compendium_, the composition of which illustrates the catholic tastes of the humanists; for it contains selections from the letters of Cicero, Jerome, Symmachus, and the writers of the Italian Renaissance. But he chiefly merits our gratitude for including in the book a number of letters which passed between the visitors to Adwert and their friends, together with some of his own. The pleasant relations existing in this little society may be illustrated by the fact that when Vrye's son John had reached student age, the Adwert friends subscribed to pay his expenses at a university; and thus secured him an education which enabled him to become Syndic of Campen. A few extracts from their letters will serve to show some of the characteristics of the age, its wide interest in the past, theological as well as classical; its eager search for manuscripts, and the freedom with which its libraries were opened; its concern for education, and its attitude towards the old learning; and the extent of its actual achievements. The earliest of these letters that survive are a series written by Langen from Adwert in the spring of 1469 to Vrye at Soest. Despite the grave interest in serious study that the letters show, there are human touches about them. One begins: 'You promised faithfully to return, and yet you have not come. But I cannot blame you; for the road is deep in mud, and I myself too am so feeble a walker that I can imagine the weariness of others' feet.' Another ends in haste, not with the departure of the post, but 'The servants are waiting to conduct me to bed'. Here is a longer sample: I. LANGEN TO VRYE: from Adwert, 27 Feb. <1469>. 'Why do you delay so long to gratify the wishes of our devout friend Wolter? With my own hand I have transcribed the little book of _Elegantiae_, as far as the section about the reckoning of the Kalends. I greatly desire to have this precious work complete; so do send me the portion we lack as soon as you can. The little book will be my constant companion: I know nothing that has such value in so narrow a span. How brilliant Valla is! he has raised up Latin to glory from the bondage of the barbarians. May the earth lie lightly on him and the spring shine ever round his urn! Even if the book is not by Valla himself, it must come from his school. 'I write in haste and with people talking all round me, from whom politeness will not let me sit altogether aloof. But read carefully and you will understand me. At least I hope this letter won't be quite so barbarous as the monstrosities which the usher from Osnabruck sends you every day: they sound like the spells of witches to bring up their familiar spirits, or the enchantments "Fecana kageti", &c., which open locks whoever knocks. Poor Latin! it is worse handled than was Regulus by the Carthaginians. Forgive this scrawl: I am writing by candlelight.' We shall have other occasions to notice the admiration of the Northern humanists for Lorenzo Valla (d. 1457), the master of Latin style, and the audacious Canon of the Lateran, who could apply the spirit of criticism not only to the New Testament but even to the Donation of Constantine. 2. VRYE TO ARNOLD OF HILDESHEIM (Schoolmaster at Emmerich): <? Cologne, _c._ 1477>. 'I have still a great many things to do, but I shall not begin upon them till the printed books from Cologne arrive at Deventer. My plan was to go to Heidelberg, Freiburg, Basle and some of the universities in the East and then return to Deventer through Saxony and Westphalia. But at Coblenz I met four men from Strasburg who declared that Upper Germany was almost all overrun by soldiers. This unexpected alarm has compelled me to dispose of the 1500 copies of _The Revival of Latin_ amongst the schools.[2] After visiting Deventer and Zwolle I shall go to Louvain, and then, if it is safe, to Paris. I thought you ought to know of this change in my plans; that you might not be taken by surprise at finding me gone westwards instead of into Upper Germany. 'Please take great pains over the correction of the manuscripts.' [2] particularibus studiis. 3. AGRICOLA TO HEGIUS <at Emmerich>: from Groningen, 20 Sept. 1480. 'I was very sorry to learn from your letter that you had been here just when I was away. There are so few opportunities of meeting any one who cares for learning that you would have been most welcome. My position becomes increasingly distasteful to me: since I left Italy, I forget everything--the classics, history, even how to write with any style. In prose I can get neither ideas nor language. Such as come only serve to fill the page with awkward, disjointed sentences. Verse I hardly ever attempt, and when I do, there is no flow about it; sometimes the lines almost refuse to scan. The fact is that I can find no one here who is interested in these things. If only we were together! 'My youngest brother Henry has been fired with the desire to study. I have advised him against it, but as he persists, I do not like to do more. For the last six months he has been with Frederic Mormann at Munster, and has made some progress: but now Mormann <who was one of the Brethren of the Common Life> has been sent as Rector to a house <at Marburg>, and Henry has come home. If you can have him, I should like him to come to you. He will bring with him the usual furniture,[3] money will be sent to him from time to time, and he will find himself a lodging[4] wherever you advise. I should be glad to know whether there are any teachers who give lessons out of school hours, as Mormann does; and whether any one may go to them on payment of a fee, whether candidates for orders[5] or not. I should like him to get over the elements as quickly as possible; for if boys are kept at them too long, they take a dislike to the whole thing. The Pliny that you ask for shall come to you soon. I use it a great deal; but nevertheless you shall have it.' [3] victui necessaria, vt solent nostrates. Victus is commonly used in the technical sense of 'board'; but here the meaning probably is 'the usual outfit for a schoolboy'. Gebwiler, in 1530, required a boy coming to his school at Hagenau to be provided with 'a bed, sheets, pillow, and other necessaries'. [4] diuersorium. [5] capitiati. In answer to a question from Hegius, Agricola goes on to distinguish the words mimus, histrio, persona, scurra, nebulo; with quotations from Juvenal and Gellius. 'Leccator', he says, 'is a German word; like several others that we have turned into bad Latin, reisa, burgimagister, scultetus, or like the French passagium for a military expedition, guerra for war, treuga for truce.' He then proceeds to more derivations in answer to Hegius. [Greek: Anthrôpos] he considers a fundamental word, which, like homo, defies analysis: but nevertheless he suggests [Greek: ana] and [Greek: trepô], or [Greek: terpô], or [Greek: trephô]. To explain vesper he cites Sallust, Catullus, Ovid, Pliny's Letters, Caesar's Civil War, Persius and Suetonius. (We must remember that in those days a man's quotations were culled from his memory, not from a dictionary or concordance.) He goes on: 'About forming words by analogy, I rarely allow myself to invent words which are not in the best authors, but still perhaps I might use Socratitas, Platonitas, entitas, though Valla I am sure would object. After all one must be free, when there is necessity. Cicero, without any need, used Pietas and Lentulitas; and Pollio talks of Livy's Patauinitas.' Other words explained are tignum, asser, [Greek: dioikêsis]; and then Agricola proceeds to correct a number of mistakes in Hegius' letter. Rather delicate work it might seem; but there is such good humour between them that, though the corrections extend to some length, it all ends pleasantly. 4. HEGIUS TO AGRICOLA; from Deventer, 17 Dec. <1484>. After apologies for not having written for a long while, he proceeds: 'You ask how my school is doing. Well, it is full again now; but in summer the numbers rather fell off. The plague which killed twenty of the boys, drove many others away, and doubtless kept some from coming to us at all. 'Thank you for translating Lucian's Micyllus. I am sure that all of us who read it, will be greatly pleased with it. As soon as it comes, I will have it printed. If I may, I should much like to ask you for an abridgement of your book on Dialectic: it would be very valuable to students. I understand that you have translated Isocrates' Education of Princes. If I had it here, I would expound it to my pupils. For some of them, no doubt, will be princes some day and have to govern. 'I have been reading Valla's book on the True Good, and have become quite an Epicurean, estimating all things in terms of pleasure. Also it has persuaded me that each virtue has its contrary vice, rather than two vices as its extremes. I should like to know whether the authorities at Heidelberg have abandoned their Marsilius[6] on the question of universals, or whether they still stick to him.' [6] Of Inghen, first Rector of Heidelberg University (1386), the author of the _Parua Logicalia_. 5. AGRICOLA TO HEGIUS; from Worms, Tuesday <January 1485>, in reply. After thanks and personalities he writes: 'Certainly you shall have the Lucian, and I will dedicate it to you: but not just yet, as I am too busy to revise it. My public lectures take up a good deal of my time. I have a fairly large audience; but their zeal is greater than their ability. The majority of them are M.A.'s or students in the Arts course;[7] who are obliged to spend all their time on their disputations, so they have only a meagre part of the day left for these studies. In consequence, as they can do so little, I am not very active. 'In addition to this I am trying to keep up my Latin and Greek (though they are fast slipping from me) and am beginning Hebrew, which I find very difficult: indeed to my surprise it costs me more effort than Greek did. However, I shall go on with it as I have begun: also because I like to have something new on hand, and much as I like Greek, its novelty has somewhat worn off. I have made up my mind to devote my old age, if I ever reach it, to theology. You know how I detest the barbarisms of those who fill the schools. On their side they are indignant with me for daring to question their decisions; but this will not deter me. 'My greetings to your host, Master Richard (Paffraet), and his wife. 'Worms, in great haste, on the third day of the week: as I have determined to call it, instead of our unclassical Feria secunda, tertia, &c., or the heathen names, Monday, Mars' day, Mercury's day, Jove's day.' [7] Scholastici, vt nos dicimus, artium. We may notice the anticipation of the Quakers, who in a similar way would only speak of first day and sixth month. 6. HEGIUS TO WESSEL; from Deventer <between 1483 and 1489>. 'I am sending you the Homilies of John Chrysostom, and hope you will enjoy reading them. His golden words have always been more acceptable to you than the precious metal itself from the mint. 'I have been, as you know, at Cusanus' library, and found there many Hebrew books which were quite unknown to me; also a few Greek. I remember the names of the following: Epiphanius against heresies, a very big book; Dionysius on the Hierarchy; Athanasius against Arius; Climacus. 'These I left behind there, but I brought away with me: Basil on the Hexaëmeron and some of his homilies on the Psalms; the Epistles of Paul and the Acts of the Apostles; Plutarch's Lives of Romans and Greeks, and his Symposium; some writings on grammar and mathematics; some poems on the Christian religion, written, I think, by Gregory Nazianzen; some prayers, in Latin and Greek. 'If there are any of these you lack, let me know and they shall come to you: for everything I have is at your disposal. If you could spare the Gospels in Greek, I should be grateful for the loan of it. You enquire what books we are using in the school. I have followed your advice; for literature which is dangerous to morality is most injurious.' The library mentioned above was that of Nicholas Krebs (d. 1464), the famous Cardinal who took part in the Council of Basle and was the patron of Poggio. Cues on the Moselle was his birthplace, and gave him his name Cusanus. In his later years he founded a hostel, the Bursa Cusana, at Deventer, where he had been at school, and at Cues built a hospital for aged men and women, with a grassy quadrangle and a chapel of delicate Gothic; and there in a vaulted chamber supported by a central column he deposited the manuscripts, mainly theological but with some admixture of the classics, which he had gathered in the course of his busy life. In 1496 we hear of another visit to it; when Dalberg, who was a prince of humanists, led thither Reuchlin and a party of friends on a voyage of discovery. Their course was from Worms to Oppenheim, where his mother was still living: by boat to Coblenz and up the Moselle to Cues: then over the hills to Dalburg, his ancestral home, and finally to the abbey of Sponheim, near Kreuznach, where they admired the rich collection of manuscripts in five languages formed by the learned historian Trithemius, who was then Abbot. Whether this gay party of pleasure also carried off any treasures from Cues is not recorded. But lest this view of the Adwert Academy should appear too uniformly roseate, we will turn to the tradition of Reyner Praedinius (1510-59), who was Rector of the town school at Groningen, and whose fame attracted students thither from Italy, Spain, and Poland. He had in his possession several manuscripts of Wessel's writings, some of them unpublished; and he had been intimate with men who had known both Wessel and Agricola. One of these--very likely Goswin of Halen--as a boy had often served at table, when the two scholars were dining; and had afterwards shown them the way home with a lantern. He used to say that he had frequently pulled off Agricola's boots, when he came home the worse for his potations; but that no one had ever seen Wessel under the influence of wine. Wessel, indeed, lived to a green old age, but killed himself by working too hard. II SCHOOLS Erasmus was born at Rotterdam on the vigil of SS. Simon and Jude, 27 October: probably in 1466, but his utterances on the subject are ambiguous. Around his parentage he wove a web of romance, from which only one fact emerges clearly--that his father was at some time a priest. Current gossip said that he was parish priest of Gouda; a little town near Rotterdam, with a big church, which in the sixteenth century its inhabitants were wealthy enough to adorn with some fine stained glass. There in the town school, under a master who was afterwards one of the guardians of his scanty patrimony, Erasmus' schooldays began, and he made acquaintance with the Latin grammar of Donatus. After an interval as chorister at Utrecht, he was sent by his parents to the school at Deventer, which, with that of the neighbouring and rival town of Zwolle, enjoyed pre-eminence among the schools of the Netherlands at that date. It was connected with the principal church of the town, St. Lebuin's; and doubtless among those aisles and chapels, listening perhaps to the merry bells, whose chimes still proclaim the quarters far and wide, he caught the first breath of that new hope to which he was to devote his whole life. The school was controlled by the canons of St. Lebuin, who appointed the head master; but, as at Zwolle, some of the teachers were drawn from that sober and learned order, the Brethren of the Common Life, whose parent house was at Deventer. Of Erasmus' life in the school we have little knowledge. He tells us that he was there in 1475, when preachers came from Rome announcing the jubilee which Sixtus IV had so conveniently found possible to hold after only twenty-five years. From one of his letters we can picture him wandering by the river side among the barges, and marking the slow growth of the bridge of boats which it took the town of Deventer several years to throw across the rapid Yssel. He probably entered the lowest class, the eighth, and by 1484, when at the age of eighteen he left in consequence of the outbreak of plague mentioned in Hegius' letter to Agricola, he had not made his way above the third; thus giving little indication of his future fame. An explanation may perhaps be found by supposing that his time in the choir at Utrecht was an interlude in the Deventer period; but in any case the school in his time was still 'barbarous', to use his own word, that is, it was still modelled on the requirements of the scholastic courses, the _literae inamoenae_, which from his earliest years he abhorred. Zinthius (or Synthius), who was one of the Brethren, and Hegius 'brought a breath of something better', he tells us: but both of them taught only in the higher forms, and Hegius he only heard during his last year, on the festivals when the head master lectured to the whole school together. A few years later the school numbered 2200 boys. It is difficult to us to imagine such a throng gathered round one man. There were only eight forms, which must therefore have had on an average 275 in each; and even if subdivided into parallel classes, they must still have been uncomfortably large to our modern ideas. On the title-pages of early school-books are sometimes found woodcuts which represent the children sitting, like the Indian schoolboy to-day, in crowds about their master, taking only the barest amount of space, and content with the steps of his desk or even the floor. Some idea of the character of the teaching may be derived from the experiences of Thomas Platter (1499-1582) at Breslau about thirty years later. 'In the school at St. Elizabeth', he says, 'nine B.A.'s read lectures at the same hour and in the same room. Greek had not yet penetrated into that part of the world. No one had any printed books except the praeceptor, who had a Terence.[8] What was read had first to be dictated, then pointed, then construed, and at last explained.'[9] It was a wearisome business for all concerned. The reading of a few lines of text, the punctuation, the elaborate glosses full of wellnigh incomprehensible abbreviations; all dictated slowly enough for a class of a hundred or more to take down every word. Lessons in those days were indeed readings. For a clever boy who was capable of going forward quickly, they must have been great waste of time. [8] It is worth remarking that in the fifteenth century Terence was regarded as a prose author, no attempt having been made to determine his metres. As late as 1516 an edition was printed in Paris in prose. [9] Here, and later on, I follow Mrs. Finn's translation, 1839. At Deventer Erasmus began with elementary accidence. The books which he first mentions, _Pater meus,_ a series of declensions, and _Tempora_, the tenses, that is the conjugations of the verb, were probably local productions of a simple nature which never found their way into print. From this he proceeded to the versified Latin grammars which mediaeval authorities on education had invented to supersede the prose of Priscian and Donatus; metre being more adapted to the learning by heart then so much in fashion. 'Praelegebatur Ebrardus et Joannes de Garlandia', he says: a line or two was read out by the master and then the commentary was dictated--the boys writing down as much as they could catch. Let us see the kind of thing. Here are some extracts from the _Textus Equiuocorum_ of John Garland, an Englishman who taught at Toulouse in the thirteenth century. Latrat et amittit, humilis, vilis, negat, heret: Est celeste Canis sidus, in amne natat. 'Firstly it is a thing that barks': three verses of quotation follow. 'Secondly it loses; canis being the name for the worst throw with the dice': one verse of quotation. 'Thirdly it is something humble: David to Saul, "After whom is the King of Israel come out? after a dead dog? after a flea?" Fourthly it is something contemptible: Goliath to David, "Am I a dog that thou comest to me with staves?" Fifthly it denies, like an apostate: "A dog returned to its vomit." Sixthly it adheres.' But here the interpreter goes astray under the preoccupation of the times: 'heret significat hereticum et infidelem; hence "It is not good to take the children's bread and cast it unto dogs, that is to heretics and infidels." Seventhly it is a star; hence are named the dog days, in which that star has dominion. Eighthly it swims in the sea; the dog fish.' The qualities of the dog are also expressed in this verse: 'Latrat in ede canis, nat in equore, fulget in astris. Et venit canis originaliter a cano--is.' So Garland, or his commentator, abridged. Of sal he says: Est sal prelatus, equor, sapientia, mimus, Sal pultes condit, sal est cibus et reprehendit. Here again there is a full commentary; but the only interpretation that we need notice is the first, 'Salt denotes a prelate of the Church; for it is said in the Gospels, Ye are the salt of the earth.' When he composed these lines, Garland must surely have had his eye on ecclesiastical preferment. Another line is interesting, as illustrating the confusion between c and t in mediaeval manuscripts: Est katonque malum, katademon nascitur inde. The commentary runs: 'Kathon est idem quod malum. Inde dicitur kathodemon, i.e. spiritus malignus seu dyabolus, et venit a kathon, i.e. malum, et demon, sciens, quasi mala sciens.' You will notice also the inconstancy of h, and the indifference to orthography which allows the same word to appear as katademon in the text and kathodemon in the commentary. Garland's _Textus_ is mostly Latin; but in the last composition of his life, the forty-two distiches entitled _Cornutus_, 'one on the horns of a dilemma', he is mainly occupied with Greek words adopted into Latin: using of course Latin characters. Some specimens will show the mediaeval standards of Greek: I quote from the text and commentary edited in 1481 by John Drolshagen, who was master of the sixth class at Zwolle. Kyria chere geram cuius ph[=i]lantr[)o]pos est bar, Per te doxa theos nect[=e]n [)e]t [)v]r[=a]n[)i]c[)i]s ymas. In the commentary we are told that Kyria means the Virgin: but we are to be careful not to write it with two r's, for kirrios means a pig (I suppose [Greek: choiros]), and it would never do to say Kirrieleyson. Chere is of course [Greek: chaire], salue. Geran (geram in the text) is interpreted sanctus, and seems from a lengthy discussion of it to be connected with [Greek: gerôn] and [Greek: ieros].[10] Philantropos (notice the quantities) is Christ, the Saviour. 'Bar Grece est filius Latine.' 'Necten in Greco est venire Latine: vnde dicit Pristianus in primo minoris, antropos necten, i.e. homo venit.' (For this remarkable form I can only suggest [Greek: ênthein] or [Greek: hêkein]: -en is probably the infinitive; ne might arise from en; and ct, through tt, from th.) Ymas is explained as nobis, not vobis. The construction of the distich is then given: 'Hail, sacred queen, whose son is the lover of men; through thee divine and heavenly glory comes to us.' Again: 'Clauiculis firmis theos antropos impos et ir mis Figor ob infirmi cosmos delicta, patir mi.' Impos = in pedibus. Ir = a hand (probably [Greek: cheir], transliterated into hir, and h dropped) and mis is explained as = mei, according to the form which occurs in Plautus and early Latin. The lines are an address from Christ to God, and are interpreted: 'O my father, I God and man am fastened with hard nails in my feet and hands (upon the cross) for the sins of a weak world.' Another work dictated to Erasmus at Deventer was the metrical grammar of Eberhard of Bethune in Artois, composed in the twelfth century. Its name, _Graecismus_, was based upon a chapter, the eighth, devoted to the elementary study of Greek--a feature which constituted an advance on the current grammars of the age. A few extracts will show the character of the assistance it offered to the would-be Greek scholar. [10] Cf. Gerasmus and Hierasmus as variations of the name Herasmus or Erasmus. Quod sententia sit b[)o]l[)e] comprobat amphibol[=i]a, Quodque fides br[)o]g[)e] sit comprobat Allobroga. The gloss explains the second line thus: 'Dicitur ab alleos quod est alienum, et broge quod est fides, quasi alienus a fide'; and thus we learn that the Allobroges were a Burgundian people who were always breaking faith with the Romans. Constat apud Grecos quod tertia littera cima est, Est quoque dulce c[)i]m[=e]n, inde c[)i]m[=e]t[)e]rium; Est [)v]n[)i]uersal[=e] c[)a]t[)a], fitque c[)a]tholicus inde, ... C[=a]ta breuis pariter, c[=a]talogus venit hinc. Die decas esse decem, designans inde decanum ... Delon obscurum, Delius inde venit. Ductio sit gogos, hinc isagoga venit. Estque geneth mulier, inde gen[=e]th[=e][=u]m. Here the confusion of c with t begins the misleading; which is carried further by the gloss, 'Genetheum: locus subterraneus vbi habitant mulieres ad laborandum, et dicitur a geneth quod est mulier, et thesis positio, quia ibi ponebantur mulieres ad laborandum'; or 'Genetheum: absconsio subterranea mulierum'. Estque decem gintos, dicas hinc esse viginti, Vt pentecoste, coste valebit idem. Pos quoque pes tibi sit, compos tibi comprobat illud, Atque p[)e]dos puer est, hinc pedagogus erit. Dic zoen animam, die ind[=e] z[=o][)e]c[)a]isychen. This last word appears in eleven different forms in the manuscripts. The gloss interprets it plainly as 'vita mea et anima mea'; but without this aid it must have been unintelligible to most readers, especially in such forms as zoychaysichen, zoycazyche, zoichasichen, zoyasichem. The 'breath of something better' which Hegius and Zinthius brought was seen in the substitution of the _Doctrinale_ of Alexander of Ville-Dieu, near Avranches (_fl._ 1200), as the school Latin grammar. This also is a metrical composition; and it has the merit of being both shorter and also more correct. It was first printed at Venice by Wendelin of Spires (_c._ 1470), and after a moderate success in Italy, twenty-three editions in fourteen years, it was taken up in the North and quickly attained great popularity. By 1500 more than 160 editions had been printed, of the whole or of various parts, and in the next twenty years there were nearly another hundred, before it was superseded by more modern compositions, such as Linacre's grammar, which held the field throughout Europe for a great part of the sixteenth century. The number of Deventer editions of the _Doctrinale_ is considerable, mostly containing the glosses of Hegius and Zinthius, which overwhelm the text with commentary; a single distich often receiving two pages of notes, so full of typographical abbreviations and so closely packed together as to be almost illegible. This very fullness, however, probably indicates a change in the method of teaching, which by quickening it up must indeed have put new life into it; for it would clearly have been impossible to dictate such lengthy commentaries, or the boys would have made hardly any progress. Thirty years ago in England a schoolboy of eleven found himself supplied with abridged Latin and Greek dictionaries, out of which to build up larger familiarity with these languages. Erasmus at Deventer had no such endowments. A school of those days would have been thought excellently equipped if the head master and one or two of his assistants had possessed, in manuscript or in print, one or other of the famous vocabularies in which was amassed the etymological knowledge of the Middle Ages. Great books are costly, and scholars are ever poor. The normal method of acquiring a dictionary was, no doubt, to construct it for oneself; the schoolboy laying foundations and building upon them as he rose from form to form, and the mature student constantly enlarging his plan throughout his life and adding to it the treasures gained by wider reading. A sure method, though necessarily circumscribed, at least in the beginning. We can imagine how men so rooted and grounded must have shaken their heads over 'learning made easy', when the press had begun to diffuse cheap dictionaries, which spared the younger generation such labour. Though they were scarcely 'for the use of schools', it will repay us to examine some of the mediaeval dictionaries which lasted down to the Renaissance in general use; for they formed the background of educational resources, and from them we can estimate the standards of teaching attained in the late fifteenth century. First the _Catholicon_, compiled by John Balbi, a Dominican of Genoa, and completed on 7 March 1286; a work of such importance to the age we are considering that it was printed at Mainz as early as 1460, and there were many editions later. Badius' at Paris, 1506, for instance, was reprinted in 1510, 1511, 1514. In his preface Balbi announces that his dictionary is to be on the alphabetical principle; and, what is even more surprising to us, he goes on to explain at great length what the alphabetical principle is. Thus: 'I am going to treat of amo and bibo. I shall take amo before bibo, because a is the first letter in amo and b is the first letter in bibo; and a is before b in the alphabet. Again I have to treat of abeo and adeo. I shall take abeo before adeo, because b is the second letter in abeo and d is the second letter in adeo; and b is before d in the alphabet.' And so he goes on: amatus will be treated before amor, imprudens before impudens, iusticia before iustus, polisintheton before polissenus--the two last being from the Greek. 'But note', he continues, 'that in polissenus, s is the fifth letter and also the sixth, because s is repeated there. A repetition is therefore equivalent to a double letter; and thus this arrangement will show when l, m, n, r, s or indeed any other letter is to be doubled. And in order that the reader may find quickly what he seeks, whenever the first or second letter of a word is changed, we shall mark it with azure blue.' His preface ends with an appeal. 'This arrangement I have worked out with great labour; yet not I, but the grace of God with me. I entreat you therefore, reader, do not contemn my work as something rude and barbarous.' The most striking feature of the dictionary is its etymology. Almost every word is supplied with a derivation, often very far-fetched. Thus glisco is derived from 'glykis, quod est dulcis; que enim dulcia sunt desiderare solemus': gliscere therefore is equivalent to desiderare, crescere, pinguescere and several other words. After this we are not surprised at the following account of a dormouse. 'Glis a glisco: quoddam genus murium quod multum dormit. Et dicitur sic quod sompnus facit glires pingues et crescere.' Here is another piece of natural history. 'Irundo ab aer dicitur: quia non residens sed in aere capiens cibos edat, quasi in aere edens.' There is simplicity in the following: 'Nix a nubes, quia a nube venit.' Again: 'Ouis ab offero vel obluo: quia antiquitus in inicio non tauri sed oues in sacrificio mactarentur. Priscianus vero dicit quod descendit a Greco ... oys.' Besides his philology the good Dominican was also a theologian; and when he comes to the words upon which his world was built, he cannot dismiss them as lightly as the snow. So Antichristus has two columns, that is to say a folio page: confiteor 1½, conscientia 2¼, ordo 2½, virgo two columns. Much light is thrown on Balbi's work by the dictionary of his predecessor, Huguitio of Pisa, Bishop of Ferrara (d. 1210). The title of this, _Liber deriuationum_, indicates its character. Instead of the alphabetical principle the words are arranged according to their etymology; all that are assigned to a given root being grouped together. This made it necessary, or at any rate desirable, to find a derivation for every word; and with ingenuity to aid this was done as far as possible. Besides derivatives even compounds came under the simple root; and in consequence it must have been extremely difficult to find a word unless one already knew a good deal about it. It is no wonder that the book was never printed; although it occurs frequently in the catalogues of mediaeval libraries. A few examples will suffice. Under capio are found capax, captiuus, capillus, caput with all its derivatives, anceps, praeceps, principium, caper, capus, caupo, cippus, scipio, <s>ceptrum; and even cassis and catena. Similarly under nubo come nubes, nebula, nebulo, nix, niger, nimpha, limpha, limpidus. With such a book as one's only support it was clearly of the highest importance to be good at etymology; with ouis, for instance, not to be troubled by Priscian's fanciful derivation from the Greek, but to know that it came from offero, and was therefore to be found under fero; or again to look for hirundo under aer. Nor need we be surprised at the strange derivations upon which arguments were sometimes founded: that Sprenger, the inquisitor, could explain femina 'quia minorem habet et seruat fidem'; or the preacher over whom Erasmus' Folly makes merry, find authority for burning heretics in the Apostle's command 'Haereticum deuita'. We are now in a position to understand Balbi's performance in the _Catholicon_. From the apologetic tone of his preface it is clear that he felt Huguitio's work to be the really scientific thing, the only book that a scholar would consult: but evidently experience had shown the difficulty of using it, and therefore for the weakness of lesser men like himself he reverted to the sequence of the alphabet. In cumbering himself with derivations, too, he shows that he knows his place. He may have had a glimmering that some of them were absurd; and that Priscian with his reference to the Greek was a safer guide. But to a scholar brought up on Huguitio derivations were of the first importance; and to leave them out would have been only another mark of inferiority. Beyond Huguitio we may go back to Papias, a learned Lombard (_fl._ 1051), whose Vocabulary was still in use in the fifteenth century, and was printed at Milan in 1476. The editions of it are far fewer than those of the _Catholicon_; a fact which presumably points to the superiority of the later work. Papias also used the alphabetical principle; and his lengthy explanation of it, which lacks, however, the lucidity of Balbi's, probably implies that his predecessors had adopted the etymological arrangement by derivations, or the divisions of Isidore according to subjects. In a few cases he makes concession to etymology, by giving derivatives under their root, e.g. under ago come all the words derived from it: but he has regard to the weak, and places them also in their right alphabetical position. Not many derivations are given; but one of them is well known. Lucus is defined as 'locus amenus, vbi multae arbores sunt. Lucus dictus [Greek: kata antiphrasin] quia caret luce pro nimia arborum vmbra; vel a colocando crebris luminibus (_aliter_ uiminibus), siue a luce, quod in eo lucebant funalia propter nemorum tenebras.' This in the hands of Balbi becomes 'per contrarium lucus dicitur a lucendo', or, as we say popularly, 'lucus a non lucendo.' December, again, is derived from decem and imbres 'quibus abundare solet'; and so too the other numbered months. It is noticeable that Papias has some knowledge of Greek, for derivations in Greek letters occur, e.g. 'Acrocerauni: montes propter altitudinem & fulminum iactus dicti. Graece enim fulmen [Greek: keraunos] ceraunos dicitur, et acra [Greek: akra] sumitas'; and a great many Greek and Hebrew words are given transliterated into Latin, ballein, fagein, Ennosigaeus. Like Balbi, Papias travels outside the limits of a mere dictionary, and his interests are not restricted to theology. Aetas draws him into an account of the various ages of the world, regnum into a view of its kingdoms. Carmen provokes 7 columns, 3½ folio pages, on metres; lapis 2 columns on precious stones. Italy receives 2 columns, and ¾ of a column are given to St. Paul. Contrariwise there is often great brevity in his interpretations: 'Samium locus est', 'heroici antiqui', 'mederi curare'. His treatment of miraculum is interesting; 'A miracle is to raise the dead to life; but it is a wonder (mirabile) for a fire to be kindled in the water, or for a man to move his ears.' The next heading is mirabilia, for which his examples are taken from the ends of the earth. He begins: 'Listen. Among the Garamantes is a spring so cold by day that you cannot drink it, so hot at night that you cannot put your finger into it.' A fig-tree in Egypt, apples of Sodom, the non-deciduous trees of an island in India--these are the other travellers' tales which serve him for wonders. The alphabetical method did not hold its own without struggle. It prevailed in Robert Stephanus' Latin _Thesaurus_ (1532), the most considerable work of its kind that had been compiled since the invention of printing; but Dolet's Commentaries on the Latin Tongue (1536), are practically a reversion to the arrangement by roots. Henry Stephanus' Greek _Thesaurus_ (1572) and Scapula's well-known abridgement of it (1579) are both radical; and as late as the seventeenth century this method was employed in the first Dictionary of the French Academy, which was designed in 1638 but not published till 1694. That, however, was its last appearance. The preface to the Academy's second Dictionary (1700 and 1718), after comparing the two methods, says: 'The arrangement by roots is the most scientific, and the most instructive to the student; but it is not suited to the impatience of the French people, and so the Academy has felt obliged to abandon it.'[11] The ordinary user of dictionaries to-day would be surprised at being called impatient for expecting the words to be put in alphabetical order. [11] Cf. R.C. Christie, _Étienne Dolet_, ch. xi. In mediaeval times there was one very real obstacle to the use of the alphabetical method, and that was the uncertainty of spelling. Both Papias and Balbi allude to it in their prefaces; but it did not deter them from their enterprise. Even in the days of printing language takes a long time to crystallize down into accepted forms, correct and incorrect. You may see Dutchess with a t at Blenheim, well within the eighteenth century, and forgo has only recently decided to give up its e. In the days of manuscripts men spelt pretty much as they pleased, making very free even with their own names; and uncritical copyists, caring only to reproduce the word, and not troubling about the exact orthography of their original, did nothing to check the ever-growing variety. Such licence was agreeable for the imaginative, but it made despairing work for the compilers of dictionaries. Some of their difficulties may be given as examples. In the early days of minuscule writing, when writing-material was still scarce, to save space it was common to write the letter e with a reversed cedilla beneath it to denote the diphthongs -ae and -oe. In the Middle Ages the cedilla was commonly dropped, leaving the e plain; and so mostly it remained until the sixteenth century revived the diphthong, or at least the two double letters. At all periods down to 1600, some hands are found in which it is impossible to distinguish between c and t; and hence in mediaeval times, and even later, such forms as fatio, loto, pecieris, licterae are not infrequently found for facio, loco, petieris, litterae. An extreme example of the confusion which this variability must have caused is in the case of the fourteenth-century annalist, Nicholas Trivet, whose surname sometimes appears as Cerseth or Chereth. The doubling of consonants, too, was often a matter of doubt, and the Middle Ages, possibly again for reasons of space, used many words with single consonants instead of two--difficilimus, Salustius, consumare, comodum, opidum, fuise. The letter h was the source of infinite trouble. Sometimes it was surprisingly omitted, as in actenus, irundo, Oratius, ortus--in the latter cases perhaps under Italian influence; sometimes it appears unexpectedly, as in Therentius, Theutonia, Thurcae, Hysidorus, habundare, and even haspirafio; or in abhominor, where it bolstered up the derivation from homo: or it might change its place from one consonant to another, as in calchographus, cartha. Papias found it a great trouble, and indeed was quite muddled with it, placing hyppocrita, hippomanes among the h's, but hippopedes and several others under the i's, though without depriving them of initial h. In France, h between two short i's was considered to need support, and so we find michi, nichil, occurring quite regularly. The difficulty of i and y was met by the suppression of the latter; so that though it sometimes appears unexpectedly, as in hysteria, it is only treated as i. Between f and ph there was much uncertainty; phas, phanum, prophanus are well-known forms, or conversely Christofer, flenbothomari, Flegeton. B and p were often confused, as in babtizare, plasphemus; and p made its way into such words as ampnis, dampnum, alumpnus. A triumph of absurd variation is achieved by Alexander Neckam, who begins a sentence 'Coquinarii quocunt'. With the increased learning of the Renaissance these varieties gradually disappear. The printers, too, rendered good service in promoting uniformity, each firm having its standard orthography for doubtful cases, as printers do to-day. The use of e for ae is abundant in the first books printed North of the Alps; but it steadily diminishes, and by 1500 has almost vanished. In manuscripts, where it was easy to forget to add the cedilla, the plain e lasts much longer. There was also confusion in the reverse direction. Well into the sixteenth century the cedilla is often found wrongly added to words such as puer, equus, eruditus, epistola; in 1550 the Froben firm was still regularly printing aedo, aeditio; and in the index to an edition of Aquinas, Venice, 1593, aenigma and Aegyptus, spelt in this way, are only to be found under e. Other forms of error persisted long. To the end of his life Erasmus usually wrote irito, oportunus; in 1524 he could still use Oratius. The town of Boppard on the Rhine he styles indifferently Bobardia or Popardia: just as, much later, editors described the elder Camerarius of Bamberg as Bapenbergensis in 1583, as Pabepergensis in 1595. As late as 1540 a little book was printed in Paris to demonstrate that michi and nichil were incorrect. In such a state of flux we need not wonder that the mediaeval writers of dictionaries found the alphabetical arrangement not the way of simplification they had hoped, but rather to be full of pitfalls; nor again that the men of the Renaissance thought the work of their predecessors so lamentably inadequate. We shall do better to admire in both cases the brilliance and constancy which could achieve so much with such imperfect instruments. To complete our sketch of the books on which the scholars of the fifteenth century had to rely we may consider two more. The first is the great encyclopaedia of Vincent of Beauvais, a Dominican friar (_c._ 1190-1264). It was printed in 1472-6 by Mentelin at Strasburg, in six enormous volumes; and no one can properly appreciate the magnitude of the work who has not tried to lift these volumes about. Vincent was not the first to attempt this encyclopaedic enterprise, for his work is based on that of another Frenchman, Helinand, who died in 1229. In his preface he states that his prior had urged him to reduce his _Speculum_ to a manual; being doubtless an old man, and appalled at these colossal fruits of his friar's industry. But this was too much for the proud author after all his labour. He did, however, consent to cut it up into portions. The _Speculum naturale_ gives a description of the world in all its parts, animal and vegetable and mineral; the _Speculum doctrinale_ taught how to practise the arts and sciences; the _Speculum historiale_ embraced the world's history down to 1250; and the _Speculum morale_, which is perhaps not by Vincent, found room for the philosophies. But few libraries can have possessed this work in full. Our other book was much more compassable and more widely circulated. Its author was a certain Johannes Marchesinus, of whom so little is known that his date has been put both at 1300 and at 1466. Even the title of the book was uncertain. Marchesinus names it Mammotrectus or Mammetractus, which he explains as 'led by a pedagogue'; but a current form of the name was Mammothreptus, which was interpreted as 'brought up by one's grandmother'. The book consists of a commentary on the whole Bible, chapter by chapter; and also upon the _Legenda Sanctorum_, upon various sermons and homilies, responses, antiphons, and hymns, with notes on the Hebrew months, ecclesiastical vestments, and other subjects likely to be useful to students in the Church, especial emphasis being laid on pronunciation and quantity. It was intended, Marchesinus tells us in his preface, for the use of the poor clergy, to aid them in writing sermons and in reading difficult Hebrew names; and from the sympathy with which he enters into their troubles, it seems clear that he knew them from personal experience. From its scope the book might be expected to be as large as Vincent's _Speculum_, but in fact it can be printed in a quarto volume. It was not intended to compete with the great commentaries of Peter the Lombard, or Nicholas Lyra, or Hugh of St. Victor, which fill many folios. It was to be within reach of the poor parish priest, and so must not be costly. But the surprising part of the book is its triviality. With so little space available, one would have expected to find nothing admitted that was not important: but the fact is that it has nothing which is not elementary. There is nothing historical, nothing theological, only a few simple points of grammar and quantity. For example, in the story of Deborah, Judges iv, the commentary runs as follows: 2. Sisara: middle syllable short. 4. Debbora: middle syllable short. Prophetes masc., Prophetis fem.; meaning, propheta. 10. Accersitis: last syllable but one long; meaning, vocatis. 15. Perterreo, perterres; meaning, in pauorem conuertere. Active. 17. Cinci (the Kenites): middle syllable long. 15. Desilio, desilis, desilii or desiliui: middle syllable short in trisyllables in the present; meaning, de aliquo salire siue descendere festinanter. 21. clauus, masc., claui: meaning, acutum ferrum, malleus, masc., mallei: meaning, martellus. tempus, neut.: meaning, pars capitis, for which some people say timpus. For Daniel vi, the story of Daniel in the lions' den, the commentary is even briefer: 6. surripuerunt: meaning, falso suggesserunt. Surripio, surripis, surrepsi(!): meaning, latenter rapere, subtrahere, furari. 10. comperisset; meaning, cognouisset. Comperio, comperis, comperi: fourth conjugation. 20. affatus: meaning, allocutus. From affor, affaris; and governs the accusative. We must not exalt ourselves above the author. He is very humble. 'Let any imperfections in the book', says his preface, 'be attributed to me: and if there is anything good, let it be thought to have come from God.' He gave them of his best, explaining away such as he could of the difficulties which had confronted him. But one can imagine the disgust of even a moderate scholar if, wishing to study the Bible more carefully, he could obtain access to nothing better than Mammotrectus. Though Erasmus has not much to tell us of his time at Deventer, a fuller account of the school may be found in the autobiography of John Butzbach (_c._ 1478-1526), who for the last nineteen years of his life was Prior of Laach.[12] Indeed, his narrative is so detailed and so illustrative of the age that it may well detain us here. He was the son of a weaver in the town of Miltenberg (hence Piemontanus) on the Maine, above Aschaffenburg. At the age of six he was put to school and already began to learn Latin; one of his nightly exercises that he brought home with him being to get by heart a number of Latin words for vocabulary. After a few years he came into trouble with his master for laziness and truancy, and received a severe beating; his mother intervened and got the master dismissed from his post, and Butzbach was removed from the school. [12] Butzbach's manuscripts from Laach are now in the University Library at Bonn, but have never been printed. I have used a German translation by D.J. Becker, Regensburg, 1869. An opportunity then offered for him to get a wider education. The son of a neighbour who had commenced scholar, returned home for a time, and offered to take Butzbach with him when he went off again to pursue his courses for his degree. The consent of his parents was obtained; and the scholar having received a liberal contribution towards expenses, and Butzbach being equipped with new clothes, the pair set out together. The boy was now ten, and looked forward hopefully to the future; but the scholar quickly showed himself in his true colours. He treated Butzbach as a fag, made him trudge behind carrying the larger share of their bundles, and when they came to an inn feasted royally himself off the money given to him for the boy, leaving him to the charity of the innkeepers. At the end of two months the money was spent, and they had found no place of settlement. Henceforward Butzbach was set to beg, going from house to house in the villages they passed, asking for food; and when this failed to produce enough, he was required to steal. The scholar treated him shamefully and beat him often; and as it was a well-known practice for fags, when begging, to eat up delicacies at once, instead of bringing them in, Butzbach was sometimes subjected to the regular test, being required to fill his mouth with water and then spit it out into a basin for his master to examine whether there were traces of fat. The scholar's aim was to find some school, having attached to it a Bursa or hostel, in which they could obtain quarters; apparently he was not yet qualified for a university. They made their way to Bamberg, but there was no room for them in the Bursa. So on they went into Bohemia, where at the town of Kaaden the rector of the school was able to allot them a room--just a bare, unfurnished chamber, in which they were permitted to settle. Such teaching as Butzbach received was spasmodic and ineffectual, and after two years of this bondage he ran away. For the next five years he was in Bohemia in private service, longing for home, hating his durance among the heathen, as he called the Bohemians for following John Hus, but lacking courage to make his escape from masters who could send horsemen to scour the countryside for fugitive servants and string them up to trees when caught. However, at length the opportunity came, and after varying fortunes, Butzbach made his way home to Miltenberg, to find his father dead and his mother married again. For the substantial accuracy of Butzbach's narrative his character is sufficient warranty. He was a pious, honest man, and at the time when he wrote his autobiography at the request of his half-brother Philip, he was already a monk at Laach. But the picture of a young student's sufferings under an elder's cruelty can be paralleled with surprising closeness from the autobiography of Thomas Platter, mentioned above; the wandering from one school to another, the maltreatment, the begging, the enforced stealing, all these are reproduced with just the difference of surroundings. Platter's account of his life at Breslau is worth quoting. 'I was ill three times in one winter, so that they were obliged to bring me into the hospital; for the travelling scholars had a particular hospital and physicians for themselves. Care was taken of the patients, and they had good beds, only the vermin were so abundant that, like many others, I lay much rather upon the floor than in the beds. Through the winter the fags lay upon the floor in the school, but the Bacchants in small chambers, of which at St. Elizabeth's there were several hundreds. But in summer, when it was hot, we lay in the church-yard, collected together grass such as is spread in summer on Saturdays in the gentlemen's streets before the doors, and lay in it like pigs in the straw. When it rained, we ran into the school, and when there was thunder, we sang the whole night with the Subcantor, responses and other sacred music. Now and then after supper in summer we went into the beerhouses to beg for beer. The drunken Polish peasants would give us so much that I often could not find my way to the school again, though only a stone's throw from it.' Platter wrote his autobiography at the age of 73, when his memories of his youth must have been growing dim; but though on this account we must not press him in details, his main outlines are doubtless correct. On his return, Butzbach was apprenticed to Aschaffenburg, to learn the trade of tailoring; and having mastered this, he procured for himself, in 1496, the position of a lay-brother in the Benedictine Abbey of Johannisberg in the Rheingau, opposite Bingen. His duties were manifold. Besides doing the tailoring of the community, he was expected to make himself generally useful: to carry water and fetch supplies, to look after guests, to attend the Abbot when he rode abroad (on one occasion he was thrown thus into the company of Abbot Trithemius of Sponheim, whose work on the Ecclesiastical writers of his time he afterwards attempted to carry on), to help in the hay harvest, and in gathering the grapes. Before a year was out he grew tired of these humble duties, and bethought him anew of his father's wish that he should become a professed monk. He had omens too. One morning his father appeared to him as he was dressing, and smiled upon him. Another day he was sitting at his work and talking about his wish with an old monk who was sick and under his care. On the wall in front of his table he had fastened a piece of bread, to be a reminder of the host and of Christ's sufferings. Suddenly this fell to the ground. The old man started up from his place by the stove, and steadying his tottering limbs cried out aloud that this was a sign that the wish was granted. He had the reputation among his fellows of being a prophet and had foretold the day of his own death. Butzbach accepted the omen, and obtained leave to go to school again. His choice was Deventer. One of the brethren wrote him an elegant letter to Hegius applying for admission; and though, as he says, he answered no questions in his entrance examination (which appears to have been oral), on the strength of the letter he was admitted and placed in the seventh class, a young man of twenty amongst the little boys who were making a beginning at grammar. But he had no means of support except occasional jobs of tailor's work, and hunger drove him back to Johannisberg. There he might have continued, had not a chance meeting with his mother, when he had ridden over to Frankfort with the Abbot, given him a new spur. She could not bear to think of his remaining a Lollhard, that is a lay-brother, all his days; and pressing money privily into his hands, she besought the Abbot to let him return to Deventer. In August 1498 he was there again, was examined by Hegius, and was placed this time in the lowest class, the eighth, in company with a number of stolid louts, who had fled to school to escape being forced to serve as soldiers. There was reason in their fears. The Duke of Gueldres was at war with the Bishop of Utrecht. A hundred prisoners had been executed in the three days before Butzbach's return, and as he strode into Deventer to take up his books again, he may have seen their scarce-cold bodies swinging on gibbets against the summer sunset. The schoolboy of to-day works in happier surroundings. Butzbach's career henceforward was fortunate. He was taken up by a good and pious woman, Gutta Kortenhorff, who without regular vows had devoted herself to a life of abstinence and self-sacrifice; taking special pleasure in helping young men who were preparing for the Franciscan or the reformed Benedictine Orders. For nine months Butzbach lived in her house, doubtless out of gratitude rendering such service as he could to his kind patroness. From the eighth class he passed direct into the sixth, and at Easter 1499 he was promoted into the fifth. This entitled him to admission to the Domus Pauperum maintained by the Brethren of the Common Life for boys who were intending to become monks; and so he transferred himself thither for the remainder of his course. But he suffered much from illness, and five several times made up his mind to give up and return home--once indeed this was only averted by a swelling of his feet, which for a prolonged period made it impossible for him to walk. After six months in the fifth, and a year in the fourth class, he was moved up into the third, thus traversing in little over two years what had occupied Erasmus for something like nine. Butzbach was by temperament inclined to glorify the past; in the present he himself had a share, and therefore in his humility he thought little of it. In consequence we must not take him too literally in his account of the condition of the school; but it is too interesting to pass over. 'In the old days', he says, 'Deventer was a nursery for the Reformed Orders; they drew better boys, more suited to religion, out of the fifth class, than they do now out of the second or first, although now much better authors are read there. Formerly there was nothing but the Parables of Alan <of Lille, _fl._ 1200>, the moral distichs of Cato, Aesop's Fables, and a few others, whom the moderns despise; but the boys worked hard, and made their own way over difficulties. Now when even in small schools the choicest authors are read, ancient and modern, prose and poetry, there is not the same profit; for virtue and industry are declining. With the decay of that school, religion also is decaying, especially in our Order, which drew so many good men from there. And yet it is not a hundred years since our reformation.' He does not indicate how far back he was turning his regretful gaze; whether to the early years of the fifteenth century when Nicholas of Cues was a scholar at Deventer, or to the more recent times of Erasmus, who was about three school-generations ahead of him. But of the books used there in the last quarter of the fifteenth century we can form a clear notion from the productions of the Deventer printers, Richard Paffraet and Jacobus of Breda. School-books then as now were profitable undertakings, if printed cheap enough for the needy student; and Paffraet, with Hegius living in his house, must have had plenty of opportunities for anticipating the school's requirements. Between 1477 and 1499 he printed Virgil's Eclogues, Cicero's _De Senectute_ and _De Amicitia_, Horace's _Ars Poetica_, the _Axiochus_ in Agricola's translation, Cyprian's Epistles, Prudentius' poems, Juvencus' _Historia Euangelica_, and the _Legenda Aurea_: also the grammar of Alexander with the commentary of Synthius and Hegius, Agostino Dato's _Ars scribendi epistolas_, Aesop's Fables, and the _Dialogus Creaturarum_, the latter two being moralized in a way which must surely have pleased Butzbach. Jacobus of Breda, who began printing at Deventer in 1486, produced Virgil's Eclogues, Cicero's _De Senectute_ and _De Officiis_, Boethius' _De consolatione philosophiae_ and _De disciplina scholarium_, Aesop, a poem by Baptista Mantuanus, the 'Christian Virgil', Alan of Lille's _Parabolae_, Alexander, two grammatical treatises by Synthius and the _Epistola mythologica_ of Bartholomew of Cologne. This last, as being the work of a master in the school, deserves attention; and also for its intrinsic interest. As its title implies, it is cast in the form of a letter, addressed to a friend Pancratius; and it is dated from Deventer 10 July 1489--nine years before Butzbach entered the school. It opens with the customary apologies, and after some ordinary topics the writer, Bartholomew, says that he is sending back some books borrowed from Pancratius, including a Sidonius which he has had on loan for three years. At this point there is a transformation. Sidonius is personified and becomes the centre of a series of semi-comic incidents, which afford an opportunity for introducing various words for the common objects of everyday life; and a glossary explains many of these with precision. There is a long and vivid account of the waking of Sidonius from his three years' slumber. The door has to be broken open, and Sidonius is found lying to all appearances dead. A feather burnt under his nose produces slight signs of life; and when a good beating with the bar of the door is threatened, he at length rouses himself. Servants come in, and their different duties are described. They fall to quarrelling and become uproarious; and in the scuffle Sidonius is hurt. A lotion is prepared for his bruises, and he is offered diet suitable for an invalid: boiled sturgeon, washed down with wine or beer, the latter being from Bremen or Hamburg. Afterwards the room is cleared up, and thus an opportunity is given to describe it. Then a table is spread for the rest of the party, and the various requisites are specified--tablecloth and napkins, pewter plates, earthenware mugs, a salt-cellar and two brass stands for the dishes. Bread is put round to each place, chairs are brought up with cushions; and jugs of wine and beer placed in the centre of the table. Finally a basin is brought with ewer and towel for the guests to wash their hands, and as one o'clock strikes, dinner appears, and all sit down together, including the servants. After the meal a dice-box and board are produced; but one of the guests demurs, and it is put aside. In the conversation that ensues it is arranged that Sidonius shall go back to his master next morning after breakfast. The servant who is to accompany him asks that they may go in a carriage; but this is overruled, because of a recent accident in which one had been upset, and it is determined that a Spanish palfrey of easy paces shall be provided for Sidonius. At six supper is served; and then the curtain falls, the letter relapsing into normal matters--inquiries for a Euclid, regrets at being unable to send to Pancratius Hyginus and the _Astronomica_ of Manilius. It is clear that the object of the book, which is of no great length, was to give boys correct Latin words for the material objects of their daily life: something like Bekker's _Gallus_ and _Charicles_ on a small scale. In carrying out this idea Bartholomew of Cologne has provided us with a sketch of the world that he knew. III MONASTERIES Erasmus was not fitted for the monastic life. This is not to say that he was a bad man. Few men outside the ranks of the holy have worked harder or made greater sacrifices to do God service. But his was a free spirit. His work could only be done in his own way; and to live according to another's rule fretted him beyond endurance. His experience in the matter was not fortunate. In 1483 his mother died of plague at Deventer, whither she had accompanied him. His father recalled him next year to Gouda, but died soon afterwards; and his guardians then sent him with his elder brother to a school kept by the Brethren of the Common Life at Hertogenbosch--doubtless to a Domus Pauperum for intending monks, such as Butzbach entered at Deventer; for in this connexion Erasmus describes the schools of the Brethren as seminaries for the regular orders. After two years they returned to Gouda, and Erasmus begged to be sent to a university; but no means were forthcoming, and the guardian prevailed upon the elder brother Peter to enter the monastery of Sion, near Delft. Erasmus held out for some time; but he was without resources and the influences at work upon him were strong. One day he fell in with a school-friend, Cornelius of Woerden, who had recently entered the house of Augustinian canons at Steyn, near Gouda. In his loneliness any friend was welcome. He paid visits to Steyn and saw that the life there offered leisure and even possibilities of study; Cornelius, too, seemed inclined to be a ready companion in literary pursuits. Urged by his guardian, invited by his friend, he gave way at length to the double pressure and entered Steyn. After a novitiate of a year, during which life was made easy to him, he took his canonical vows; and soon began to repent of the step he had made. For about seven years he lived in what seemed to him a prison. There were, no doubt, good men amongst his fellow-canons. In all his diatribes against monasticism he was ready to admit that the Orders contained plenty of God-fearing souls, doing their duty honestly; and the evidence shows clearly enough that this was correct. It is, however, equally true that there were mediocrities among them, and even worse; men with low standards and no ideals, who brought their fellows to shame. Vows in those days were indissoluble, except in rare cases; as a rule it was only by flight and disappearance for ever that a man could escape social disgrace and the penalties threatened by the spiritual arm to a renegade monk. To-day, when orders can be laid down at the holder's will, the Church of England contains priests of whom it cannot get rid. The good, even when they rule, do not always lead; nor are they always learned. Erasmus found the atmosphere of Steyn hopelessly distasteful. It was not that he was prevented from study. His compositions of this period show a wide acquaintance with the classics and the Fathers; and his style, though it had not yet attained to the ease and lucidity of his later years, has much of the elegance beyond which his contemporaries never advanced. The fact, too, that he left Steyn to become Latin Secretary to a powerful bishop implies that he must have had many opportunities for study and have made good use of them. But from what he says it is clear that the tone of the place was set by the mediocrities. We need not suppose that vice was rampant among them, to shock the young and enthusiastic scholar. There was quite enough to daunt him in the prospect of a life spent among the narrow-minded. Sinners who feel waves of repentance may be better house-mates than those who have worldly credit enough to make them self-satisfied. Fortunately all houses of religion were not alike, any more than colleges are alike to-day. Butzbach's lot was very different; and it is a pleasant contrast to turn to his experiences at Laach, an important Benedictine abbey some miles west of Andernach. In the autumn of 1500, when he had been two years at Deventer, there appeared one day in the school the Steward of the Abbey of Niederwerth, an island in the Rhine below Coblenz. What the business was which had brought him from his own monastery, is not stated; but he had also been asked to do some recruiting for the Benedictines at Laach. The Abbot there was nephew of the Prior at Niederwerth, and had taken this opportunity to extend his quest further afield. The Steward brought with him letters from the Abbot to the Rector of Deventer, now Ostendorp, and also to the Brethren of the Common Life, asking for some good and well-educated young men. The Rector's first appeal evoked no response; so the Steward went on about his business. After three weeks he returned, having visited other schools, but bringing no one with him. Once more Ostendorp addressed the third and fourth classes in impressive words. But all seemed in vain. The students had paid their school fees for the half-year, and were ashamed to ask for them back from the Rector and other teachers--into whose pockets they appear to have gone direct. Their money paid for board and lodging would have been sacrificed also. It happened, too, to be exceptionally cold--not the weather in which any one would lightly set out on a journey. We must remember that the calendar had not yet been rectified, and that they were about ten days nearer to midwinter than their dates show. On occasions the whole school came together to hear the Rector--it was at such times, Erasmus tells us, that he heard Hegius. At one of these gatherings during the Steward's second visit Butzbach was sitting next to two friends from his own part of the world, Peter of Spires and Paul of Kitzingen. They were above him in the school, having passed their entrance examination before the Rector with such credit that they were placed at once in the third class--a rare distinction--and Paul indeed at the end of his first half-year had come out top and passed into the second. The friends talked together of the life of the cloister, of the happiness of study amid the practice of holiness and in the presence of God. At the end Peter and Butzbach sought out the Steward and gave him their names: Paul, the brilliant leader of the trio, remained behind in the world, and became a professor at Cologne. Butzbach said farewell to the masters who had taught him, and to his various benefactors in the town, all of whom applauded his decision. On St. Barbara's Day, 4 Dec. 1500, the party set out, and were accompanied out of the town by students who swarmed about them like bees; Butzbach, when they at length took leave, urging them to follow his example. Two days later they were at Emmerich, and after crossing the Rhine on the ice, so bitter was the frost, they were overtaken by the night at a convent and sought shelter. It proved to be a house of Brigittines, with separate orders of men and women. One of the party, a priest from Deventer, had a kinswoman among the nuns, but was not allowed to see her. On 8 December the feast of the Conception of the Virgin, as they passed through a village, the two priests asked leave to say a mass for themselves in the parish church; and only with difficulty obtained it from the pfarrer in charge, so great was the jealousy between seculars and regulars. At night they found hospitality in a Benedictine house at Neuss, where Butzbach notes the peculiarity--which he discusses at length but is quite unable to explain--that no one could be accepted as a monk with the name of Peter. Next day the party was obliged to divide. Peter of Spires, who from the first had been ailing and easily tired, was suffering acute pain from a sore on his finger; so Butzbach remained behind with him in a village, while the others went on to Cologne. After twenty-four hours the sufferer was no better; and as sleep for either of them seemed impossible, they arose at midnight, hired a cart, and journeying under the stars, arrived at Cologne just as the gates were being opened. They rejoined their friends, and the whole party was entertained in the house of a rich widow, whose son, recently dead, had been a monk at Niederwerth. The Steward had business at Cologne; so for two days the young men were free to wander about the town, looking into the churches and worried by the schoolboy tricks of the university students. Three days journeying brought them late at night and dead tired to Niederwerth. The aged Prior--he had been sixty years in the monastery--on learning their destination showed them great courtesy and kindness; and when they had supped, insisted, despite all their protests, on washing their feet himself. Next day he showed them over the monastery, took them into the rooms where the brethren were at work, and explained what each of them had to do: 'just as though we were his equals,' says Butzbach, on whom his modesty and friendliness made a deep impression. Indeed, his conversation greatly strengthened them in their determination to enter the religious life; although he did not conceal from them the temptations which they might expect, from the Devil. On 17 December he gave them leave to proceed, and sent one of the monastery servants and a lay-brother to escort them. Their way lay through Coblenz; and Peter as a weaker vessel was sent on, to go slowly ahead with the lay-brother, whilst the servant and Butzbach stopped in the town to execute some commissions. But they had under-estimated Peter's weakness. After a midday meal the second pair set out briskly, in the comfortable reflection that the others were already part-way to Laach. To their disgust as they crossed the bridge over the Moselle, they found Peter and his companion lolling outside an inn, unable to talk properly or to stand upright. The Prior's warning against the Devil had been speedily justified. Peter had been tempted to spend his last day of freedom in a carouse, and every penny he possessed had gone over a fine dinner and costly wines. To Butzbach this was the more serious, because he had given his purse to Peter to carry, and all that had gone too. Johannisberg still had strong ties for him. He had found peace there and made friends, and it was near his home. Many times, at silent moments as he journeyed along from Deventer, it had come into his head to wonder whether Laach too could give him peace, whether he could settle so far off. Now, if the old ties should be too strong to resist, thanks to Peter, he would have to set out on his way penniless. Sharp words brought the offenders to some measure of their senses; but it was a dismal party that splashed along the muddy roads that December afternoon. Evening brought them to Saffig, and hospitable reception in the house of George von Leyen, brother of the Prior of Niederwerth and father of the Abbot to whom they were going; and the parents' praises of their son's goodness and kindness were comforting to hear. Ten miles next morning brought them to Laach; and when they came over the hill, and saw the great abbey with its towers and dome beside the lake, which even in winter could smile amid its woods, Butzbach felt that in all his travels he had seen no sight more lovely. Their guide led them straight into the church, and as Butzbach's eye glanced along the plain Romanesque columns, past the gorgeous tomb of the founder, to the dim splendours of the choir, the words of the familiar Psalm rose to his lips: 'Haec requies mea in saeculum saeculi; hic habitabo, quoniam elegi eam.' Peace had come to him at once, and he received it. After a generous meal in the refectory they were brought in to the tall, dignified Abbot; and while they stood before him answering his questions, they felt that he had not been praised more highly than was his due. Abbot and Prior took them round the monastery; the latter a busy little man in whom they could hardly recognize so exalted a dignitary. At the back they found the brethren busy with the week's washing. All crowded round them, full of questions and congratulations and pleasant laughter. For three days they were lodged in the guest-chambers, and then the Prior asked them whether they stood firm in their wish to enter the Order. On their assent he expounded to them the severities of the life, the self-abnegation that would be required of them, bidding them consider whether they could face it; at the same time instructing them in all the customs and practices of the house. The dress was put upon them, they were led into the convent and cells allotted to them; and told that till St. Benedict's Day (21 March) they would be on probation. Before the day came Peter's spirit faltered, and he went. But his weakness was not for long. He repented and found his peace in a Cistercian house near Worms; and Butzbach's sympathy went with him, back to the Upper Germany which both loved. The time of probation was hard to Butzbach; not because of the life, which the good Prior tempered to his tenderness, but through the temptations of the Devil, who seemed ever present with him. He was specially tormented with the thought of Johannisberg, and the feeling that he had deserted it. But the wise heads in charge of him gave comfort and stablishment; and he persevered. On the Founder's Day, 1501, he entered upon the novitiate, which was followed a year later by his profession; and in 1503 he was sent to Trèves and ordained priest. In the course of his numerous writings Butzbach gives sketches of many of the inmates of Laach. The senior brother at the time of his arrival was Jacob of Breden in Westphalia, a man of strong character and force of will. As a boy, when at school at Cleves, he was laughed at for his provincial accent; and therefore determined henceforward to speak nothing but Latin, with the result that he acquired a complete mastery of it. He had at first joined the Brethren of the Common Life at Zwolle, then became a Benedictine in St. Martin's at Cologne, and came to Laach to introduce the Bursfeld reforms. So tender-hearted was he that he would not kill even the insects which worried him, but would catch them and throw them out of window. John of Andernach is mentioned as having appeared to the brethren after his death; and he and Godfrey of Cologne are praised for their skill in astronomy. We hear of various activities among the monks. One is good at writing, another at dictating and correcting, another has taste in painting flowers and illuminating. Henry of Coblenz combined the offices of precentor, master of the robes, gardener, glazier and barber; and also unofficial counsellor to the young, who frequently turned to him for sympathy. Antony of St. Hubert, besides the care of the refectory, was bee-master and hive-maker; and a great preacher in German, though he had come to Laach knowing only his native French. At the end of the list came the lay-brothers and the pensioners (donati), one of whom was nearly 100. Shortly after his ordination Butzbach was appointed master of the novices, to superintend their education--which included learning the Psalter by heart--until the time of their profession. He protested his unfitness, but the Abbot held him to it nevertheless. The standard of his pupils was low: many of them, though they came as Bachelors and Masters of Arts from the universities, he judged not so good as boys in the sixth form at Deventer. But he found lecturing in Latin difficult; and so to make up his deficiencies he set himself to read all the Latin classics and Fathers that he could find. One day two young kinsmen of the Abbot were at dinner. They had been at Deventer and then at Paris, and were full of their studies. Butzbach as novice-master represented the humanities, and was called upon for a poem. Readiness was not his strong point; as a preacher he never could overcome his nervousness. He asked leave to retire to his cell, and there in solitude wrung out some verses of compliment; which found such favour that, to his regret, he was often called upon again. In 1507, when only thirty, he was made Prior, and thus became responsible for much of the management of the abbey. In spite of this he kept up his studies; but only at the cost of great physical efforts, robbing himself of sleep and working through long hours of the night. To this period, 1507-9, belongs his most considerable undertaking, an _Auctarium de scriptoribus ecclesiasticis_, which had its origin in his admiration for Trithemius. In his Johannisberg days, as we have seen, he had met the great historian-abbot, though in a humble capacity. His own Abbot shared with Trithemius the duty of making the triennial visitations of the Benedictine houses in that district; and Butzbach, as the Abbot's servant, often rode with them. Trithemius noticed the young lay-brother who seemed so interested in study, and occasionally gave him a word of encouragement. Indeed it was the story of Trithemius' life--repeated with wonder by many lips--which had spurred Butzbach on to go to Deventer: how as a boy he had worked with his stepfather in the mill at Trittenheim, and at twenty-one was still labouring with his hands. One day he was carting material for a new pilgrimage-church on the hill, when the call came to him. He returned home, put up his horse and wagon, and without a word to any one walked off to Niederwesel to begin learning grammar amongst the little boys; and yet in a short time he had risen to be Abbot, and had won a wide reputation. At Laach Butzbach for the first time set eyes on Trithemius' works. One of these was a _Liber de scriptoribus ecclesiasticis_, printed by John Amorbach at Basle in 1494--a sort of theological _Who's Who_, giving the names of authors ancient and modern with lists of their writings. Butzbach continued it with an _Auctarium_, into which he hooked almost every writer he could find, whether ecclesiastical or not. It is a large book, still remaining in manuscript at Bonn, as it was written out for him by two very inefficient novices. The date of its composition is abundantly indicated by the notes with which he terminates his notices of living authors: 'Viuit adhuc anno quo hec scribimus 158' or 159.[13] Such a compilation, in so far as it deals with contemporary writers, might have had considerable value; but unfortunately, like some of Trithemius' work, it is an uncritical performance and contains ridiculous blunders, which impair the credit of its statements when they cannot be checked. Industry and devotion to learning are not the sole qualifications for a scholar. [13] = 1509. By a reverse process Bruno Amorbach writes 10507 for 1507. But it was not altogether a happy time for Butzbach, even though he was honoured by correspondence with Trithemius. There were few among the monks who actually sympathized with his studies; and from a certain section they brought him actual persecution. When, as Prior, he emphasized before the brethren the section in Benedict's rule which enjoins to study, they mocked at him. 'No learning, no doubts' said one. 'Much learning doth make thee mad' said another. 'Knowledge puffeth up' said a third; and heeded not his gentle reply, 'but love edifieth'. They protested against his allowing the novices to read Latin poetry. They appealed to the Visitor and got the supplies of money for the library cut off; even what he earned himself by saying masses for the dead was no longer allowed to be appropriated to him for the purchase of books. Finally when the visitation came round in 1509, they delated him for spending too much time on writing, to the neglect of the business of the monastery. But here they overreached themselves. The Visitors called for his books, opened them and saw that they were good--possibly they found their own names among the ecclesiastical writers. The Prior was acquitted, and the mouths of his enemies were stopped. One cause of dissension in monasteries at this period was the existence of an unreformed element among the monks; though in Butzbach's time it had probably disappeared at Laach. Ever since the Oriental practice of monasticism spread into the West, Christendom has seen a continual series of endeavours towards better and purer ideals of human life. Of all the monastic orders the Benedictine (520) was the oldest and the most widely spread. But time had relaxed the strictness of its observance; and indeed some of the younger orders, such as the Cluniac (910) and the Cistercian (1098), had their origins in efforts after a more godly life than what was then offered under the Benedictine rule, the strictness of which they sought to restore. In the fifteenth century reform of the monasteries was once more in the air.[14] In 1422 a chapter of the Benedictine houses in the provinces of Trèves and Cologne met at Trèves to discuss the question, which had been raised again at the Council of Constance, and to consider various schemes. The Abbot of St. Matthias' at Trèves, John Rode, learning of the stricter code practised in St. James' at Liège since the thirteenth century, introduced it into his house; borrowing four monks from St. James' to help him in the process. A few years later John Dederoth of Minden, Abbot of Bursfeld near Göttingen, after examining the new practice at Trèves, decided to follow Rode's example, and carried off four brethren from St. Matthias' to Bursfeld. His influence led a number of neighbouring Benedictine houses to adopt the new rule; and very soon a Bursfeld Union or Congregation was formed of monasteries which had embraced what Butzbach calls 'our reformation', with annual chapters and triennial visitations. [14] At this point and again later about Chezal-Benoît I have made much use of Dom Berlière's _Mélanges d'histoire bénédictine_, 3^e série, 1901. By the end of the fifteenth century there were more than a hundred constituents of the Congregation. The usual method of introducing the new practice was, as Rode and Dederoth had done, to borrow a number of monks from a house already reformed, who either settled in the new house or returned home when their work was done. As may be supposed, the reforms were not everywhere welcomed. A zealous Abbot or Prior returning with his band of foreigners was often met by opposition and even forcible resistance. When Jacob of Breden, Butzbach's 'senior brother', came in 1471 with seven others from St. Martin's at Cologne to renew a right spirit in Laach, a number of the older monks resented it, especially when he was made Prior for the purpose. One cannot but sympathize with them. Jacob was only thirty-two, and it is a delicate matter setting one's elders in the right way. At length the seniors became exasperated and took to violence. Not content with belabouring him in his cell, they attacked him one night with swords, and he only escaped by leaping out of the dormitory window. The rest of his company were ejected, and for three years found shelter in St. Matthias' at Trèves, the parent house of the new rule; and it was not till 1474 that the Archbishop, with the Pope's permission and the co-operation of the civil official of the district, forced his way into Laach and turned out the recalcitrants. But this movement for reform was not confined to Germany nor to the Benedictines. In the beginning of the fifteenth century the house of Augustinian canons at Windesheim near Zwolle instituted for itself a new and stricter set of statutes, and soon gathered round it nearly a hundred houses of both sexes, forming the Windesheim Congregation: besides which, other monasteries bound themselves into smaller bodies to observe the new statutes. Thus, for instance, Erasmus' convent at Steyn was a member of the Chapter of Sion, with only a few others; two of which were St. Mary's at Sion, near Delft, to which his brother Peter belonged, and St. Michael's at Hem, near Schoonhoven. The fame of Windesheim spread into France. In two successive years--1496, 7--parties were invited thence to reform French Benedictine houses. The first, headed by John Mauburn of Brussels, was brought in by the Abbot of St. Severinus' at Château-Landon near Fontainebleau. It was completely successful and Château-Landon was made the head of a new Chapter: after which Mauburn proceeded to reform the Abbey of Livry, a few miles to the north-east of Paris. The second mission, though promoted by influential men in Paris, had less result. St. Victor's, the Benedictine Abbey which the Bishop of Paris wished to reform, was one of the most important in his diocese; and its inmates were averse from the proposed changes. For nine months the mission from Windesheim sat in Paris, expounding, demonstrating, hoping to persuade. One of the party, Cornelius Gerard of Gouda, an intimate friend of Erasmus' youth, enjoyed himself greatly among the manuscripts in the abbey library; but that was all. In August 1498 they went home, leaving St. Victor's as they had found it. The strenuous endeavours made at this time towards monastic reform from within may be illustrated from the lives of Guy Jouveneaux (Juuenalis) and the brothers Fernand. Jouveneaux was a scholar of eminence and professor in the University of Paris. Charles Fernand was a native of Bruges, who, in spite of defective eyesight, which made it necessary for him regularly to employ a reader, had studied in Italy, had been Rector of Paris University, 1485-6, and had attained to considerable skill in both classical learning and music. John Fernand, the younger brother, also excelled in both these branches of study. Symphorien Champier, the Lyons physician, speaks of him with Jouveneaux as his teacher in Paris. Charles VIII made him chief musician of the royal chapel. In 1479 Peter du Mas became Abbot of the Benedictine house at Chezal Benoît, which lay in the forests, ten miles to the South of Bourges. His first care was to restore the buildings, which had been partially destroyed during the English wars earlier in the century. When that was achieved, he set himself to reform the conditions of religious observance, and for that purpose invited a band of monks from Cluny. His policy was continued by his successor, Martin Fumeus, 1492-1500, and a bull was obtained from Alexander VI in 1494 permitting the foundation of a Congregatio Casalina, which was joined by a large number of Benedictine houses in the neighbourhood: St. Sulpice, St. Laurence and St. Menulphus at Bourges, St. Vincent at Le Mans, St. Martin at Séez, St. Mary's at Nevers, and even by more distant foundations, St. Peter's at Lyons and the great Abbey of St. Germain des Prés at Paris. One point of the new practice, that Abbots should be elected for only three years at a time, struck at the prevailing abuse by which members of powerful families, non-resident and often children, were intruded into rich benefices, to the great detriment of their charges.[15] Consideration was also had of the rule adopted at St. Justina's at Padua, the centre of reform in Northern Italy; and thus it was not till 1516 that the new ordinances were finally sanctioned by Leo X. [15] Thus the family of d'Illiers at this time almost monopolized the see of Chartres; members of it holding the bishopric consecutively for fifty years, the deanery for a hundred, the arch-deaconry and the rich abbey of Bona Vallis also for fifty. About 1490, Jouveneaux, fired with enthusiasm by the success of du Mas' reforms at Chezal Benoît, determined to quit his professor's chair at Paris and take upon him the vows and the life of a monk under du Mas' rule; and subsequently he was the means of bringing into the Congregation the Abbey of St. Sulpice at Bourges, being invited thither by John Labat, the Abbot, to introduce the new rule, and himself succeeding to the abbacy for a triennial period. A year or two after his retirement from the world, he was followed to Chezal Benoît by Charles Fernand, who subsequently went on to St. Vincent's at Le Mans. John Fernand also ended his days at St. Sulpice in Bourges. Charles Fernand is a personality who deserves more attention than he has received. Whilst he was in the world he enjoyed considerable esteem amongst the learned. He was a friend of Gaguin, and published a commentary on Gaguin's poem on the Immaculate Conception; he also dedicated to Gaguin a small volume of Familiar Letters. But his most important literary work was done in the retirement of his cell: a volume of Monastic Conversations, composed at sundry times, and published in 1516; a treatise on Tranquillity (1512), in which he gives an account of the motives which led him to take the monastic habit; and a Mirror of the Monastic Life (1515), dwelling at length on the ideals that should be held before the eyes of novices and animate their lives when they were professed. Unfortunately his style is so excessively elegant, with wide intervals between words closely connected in sense, that he is difficult to read; and hence, perhaps, in some measure the neglect which has been meted out to him. Of his four Monastic Conversations the first and the last are concerned with the question whether monks should be allowed to read the books of the Gentiles, that is to say, the classics. He handles his theme sensibly and liberally. Piety, of course, is to come before eloquence, and there is to be choice of books. Anything of loose tendency is to be forbidden, but he would encourage the reading of Cicero, Seneca, and Aristotle's Ethics. The last was only accessible to himself, he says regretfully, in Latin, because he knew no Greek--a loss which he greatly deplores, desiring to read the Greek Fathers. The third conversation is about the Benedictine rule, directed to the lawless monks who contended that they were only bound by the customs of the particular monastery they had entered, and not by the general ordinances of their founder. He combats at length the contention that the world has grown old, and that latter-day men cannot be expected to undergo the rigorous fasts and penances achieved by St. Antony and St. Benedict. He is quite alive to the weakness of the age, to the need for improvement in the monasteries; and the word Reformer is applied with praise to the leaders of the movement. This was before the days of Luther, though only just before. Incidentally, an argument is reported between a Christian and an agnostic. After their diverse opinions have been rehearsed, the Christian concludes with what is meant to be a crushing reply--certainly it silences his opponent: 'On your own theory you don't know what will happen after death. On mine you will prosper, if you believe; if not, you will go to hell. Therefore safety lies in believing mine.' There are one or two glimpses of the life of the monks. At the end of one conversation, the other brother hears the bell ringing for prayers and runs off to chapel; Fernand, being old and lame, will be forgiven if he is a little late, and not fined of his dinner. In other ways consideration was shown to him, and he was often sent to dine in the infirmary, not being expected with his toothless jaws to munch the dry crusts set before the rest of the house. This, it seems, was a custom which had been learnt from St. Justina's at Padua, to put out the stale crusts first, before the new bread, to break appetite upon: just as in the old Quaker schools a hundred years ago, children were set down to suet-pudding, and then broth, before the joint appeared; the order being, 'No ball, no broth; no broth, no beef'. We are in a position to view from the inside another Benedictine house at this period, that of Ottobeuren, near Memmingen, which lies about mid-way between Augsburg and the east end of the Lake of Constance. The source of our information is the correspondence of one of the brothers, Nicholas Ellenbog (or Cubitus); 890 letters copied out in his own hand, and only 80 of these printed. It is not so continuous a narrative as Butzbach's, but the picture that it gives is rather more pleasing. Nicholas' father was Ulrich Ellenbog, a physician of Memmingen, who graduated as Doctor of Medicine from Pavia in 1459, and became first Reader in Medicine at Ingolstadt. The letters introduce us to most of his children. One son, Onofrius, went for a soldier, became attached to Maximilian's train, and received a knighthood; another, Ulrich, became M.D. at Siena, but died immediately afterwards; another, John, became a parish priest. Of the daughters three remained in the world; one, Elizabeth, married; another, Cunigunde, died of plague caught in nursing some nuns. The fourth daughter, Barbara, at the age of nine entered the convent of Heppach, and lived there forty-one years, rising to be Prioress and then Abbess. We shall hear of her again. Nicholas Ellenbog, 1480 or 1481-1543, was the third son. After five years at Heidelberg, 1497-1502, in which he met Wimpfeling and was fellow-student, though a year senior, to Oecolampadius, he went off to Cracow, the Polish university, which was then so flourishing as to attract students from the west. Schurer, for example, the Strasburg printer, was M.A. of Cracow in 1494; and some idea of the condition of learning there may be gained from a book-seller's letter to Aldus from Cracow, December 1505, ordering 100 copies of Constantine Lascaris' Greek grammar. For some months Ellenbog heard lectures there on astronomy, which remained a favourite subject with him throughout his life. Then an impulse came to him to follow his father's footsteps in medicine, and at the advice of friends he went back across half Europe to Montpellier, which from its earliest days had been famous for its medical faculty. In the long vacation of 1502 he spent two months with a friend in the château of a nobleman among the Gascon hills, and on their return journey they stayed for a fortnight in a house of Dominican nuns. The sisters were strict in their observances, and gave a good pattern of the unworldly life, which attracted Ellenbog strongly. In 1503 he went home for the long vacation to Memmingen. On the way he was taken by the plague, and with difficulty dragged himself in to Ravensburg. For three months he lay ill, and death came very close. As its unearthly glow irradiated the world around him, reversing its light and shade, the visions of the nunnery recurred. He vowed that if his life were still his to give, it should be given to God's service; and on recovering he entered Ottobeuren. In his noviciate year he was under the guidance of a kind and sympathetic novice-master, who allowed him to study quietly in his cell to his heart's content; and during this period he composed what he calls an epitome or breviary of Plato. Its precise character he does not specify, but its second title suggests that it may have been a collection of extracts from Plato: not from the Greek, for he had little acquaintance with that yet, but presumably from such of Plato's works as had been translated into Latin. On Ascension Day, 1504, which appears from other indications to mean 15 August, he made his profession, and in September 1505 he went to Augsburg to be ordained as sub-deacon. Writing to a friend to give such news as he had gathered on this outing, he tells a story to convict himself of hasty judgement. During the ordination service he noticed that one of the candidates, a bold-eyed fellow who had been at several universities, and had been Rector at Siena, let his gaze wander over the ladies who had come to see the ceremony, instead of keeping it fixed on the altar. Ellenbog censured him in his mind, but later he noticed that as the man kneeled before the bishop with folded hands to receive unction, his eyes were filled with tears of repentance--others perhaps would have called it merely emotion. On his way back to Ottobeuren, Ellenbog arrived at a village, where he had counted on a night's rest, only to find it crowded with a wedding-party; the followers of the bridegroom, who were escorting him to the marriage on the morrow, a Sunday. It was with great difficulty that he found shelter, in the house of a cobbler, who let him sleep with his family in the straw; but it was so uncomfortable that before dawn he crept out and started on his way under the moon. In the half light he missed the road and found himself at the bride's castle; where he learnt that her sister was just dead and the wedding postponed. As he passed in that evening through the abbey-gate, there was thankfulness in his heart that he was back out of the world and its petty disappointments. On Low Sunday, 1506, he was ordained priest at Ottobeuren, and celebrated his first mass. Some of his letters are to friends inviting them to be present, and adjuring them to come empty-handed, without the customary gifts. In these early years there was ample leisure for study. In 1505 he began Greek, and in 1508 Hebrew. He speaks of reading Aeneas Sylvius, Pico della Mirandola, Cyprian, Diogenes Laertius, Ambrose, Chrysostom, Dionysius the Areopagite. He went on with his astronomy, and cast horoscopes for his friends. Binding books was one of his occupations; and in 1509, when a press was set up in the monastery, he lent a hand in the printing. He was very fortunate in his abbot, Leonard Widemann, who had been Steward when he entered Ottobeuren, but was elected Abbot in 1508, and outlived him by three years, dying in 1546. Widemann called upon him for service. Immediately on election he made him Prior--at 28--and only released him from this office after four years, to make him, though infinitely reluctant, serve ten years more as Steward. But if the Abbot knew how to exact compliance, he knew also how to reward. He gave Ellenbog every assistance in his studies, allowed him to write hither and thither for books, made continual efforts to procure him first a Hebrew and then a Greek Bible, wrote to Reuchlin to find him a converted Jew as Hebrew teacher, and in 1516 built him a new library; for which Ellenbog writes to a friend asking for verses to put under the paintings of the Doctors of the Church, which are to adorn the walls. As results of his studies we hear of him correcting the abbey service-books, where for _stauros_, a scribe with no Greek had written _scayros_, and explaining to the Abbot mistaken interpretations in the passages read aloud in the refectory during meals. One of these, in a book written by some one who had recently been canonized--some mediaeval doctor--illustrates the learning of the day; deriving [Greek: gastrimargia], gluttony, from _castrum_ and _mergo_, 'quod gula mergat castrum mentis,' because gluttony drowns the seat of reason. Of Ellenbog's official duties occasional mention is made in his letters. As Steward he has to visit the tenants of the monastery; in the autumn he journeys about the country buying wine. We hear of him at Westerhaim, on the river Iller, settling a dispute among the fishermen. On one of his journeys to fetch wine from Constance, at the hospice there he fell in with a man who could fire balls out of a machine by means of nitre, and who boasted that he could demolish with this weapon a certain castle in the neighbourhood. Over supper they began to argue, the artillerist maintaining that nitre was cold, and that the explosion which discharged the balls was caused by the contrariety between nitre and sulphur; Ellenbog contending that nitre was hot, and supporting this view by scraps remembered from his father's scientific conversation. The general life of the Abbey is also reflected. Ottobeuren lay on one of the routes to Italy, and so they had plenty of visitors bringing news from regions far off: a Carthusian, who had been in Ireland and seen St. Patrick's cave; a party of Hungarian acrobats with dancing bears; a young Cretan, John Bondius, who had seen the labyrinth of Minos, but all walled up to prevent men from straying into it and being lost. A great impression he made, when he dined with the Abbot; he was so learned and polished, and spoke Latin so well for a Greek. In 1514 Pellican, the Franciscan Visitor, passed on his way south, and had a talk with Ellenbog, which was all too short, about Hebrew learning. Next year came Eck, the theologian, the future champion of orthodoxy, returning from Rome. Eck's mother and sisters were living under the protection of the abbey--it is not clear whether they were merely tenants, or whether they were occupying lay quarters within its walls, as did Fernand's at St. Germain's in Paris. At any rate, Eck came and made himself agreeable. He preached twice before the brethren; and when he left, he promised to send them the latest news from America. In 1511 a copy of Vespucci's narrative of his voyage had been lent to the monastery, and had been read with great interest. A grave question arose whether the new races discovered in the West were to be accounted as saved or damned. Ellenbog quotes Faber Stapulensis' statement that nothing could be more bestial than the condition of the Indians whom da Gama had discovered in 1498 in Calicut, Cannanore, and Ceylon; it was to be feared that the Indians of the West were no better. In writing to Ellenbog six months later to say that he had no clear opinions on the question, Eck uses an interesting expression: 'To ask what I think is like looking for Arthur and his Britons.'[16] The reference is to the Arthurian legend and the long-expected, never-fulfilled, return of the great king; but the humanists usually leave the whole field of mediaeval romance severely alone. [16] Arcturum cum Britannis exspectatis. For another allusion to Arthur, see Pace, _De Fructu_, p. 83. One September morning, when the dew was still heavy, Ellenbog went out with some brethren to gather apples. At the top of the orchard[17] one of them called out that he had found 'a star'. It was a damp white deposit on the grass, clammy and quivering, cold to the touch, very sticky, with long tenacious filaments. Ellenbog had never seen anything like it, but he found out that the peasants and the shepherds believed such things to be droppings from shooting stars,[18] if not actually fallen stars, and that they were thought to be a cure for cancer. His letter describing it is to ask the opinion of a friend who was a doctor, that is to say, the scientist of the age. [17] ortus. [18] stellae emuncturam et purgamentum. The affairs of Ellenbog's family often appear. His father had been a great collector of books, which he had corrected with his own hand, and which at his death he had wished to be kept together as a common heirloom for the whole family. A great many of them were medical, and therefore it had seemed good that the enjoyment of the books should go to Ulrich, the son who was studying medicine at Siena. On his way home, after completing his course, Ulrich died; and Nicholas composed a piteous appeal on behalf of the books, bewailing their fate that after ten years of confinement their hope of being used had come to nothing. Onofrius was the only brother from whom might be hoped a younger generation of Ellenbogs, one of whom might study medicine. Elizabeth's children were Geslers, and so apparently did not count. How long the books were kept together is not known. One of them is now in the University Library at Cambridge, and has been excellently described in an essay by the late Robert Proctor. It consists of several volumes bound together: Henry of Rimini on the Cardinal Virtues, the Journey of a penitent soul through Lent, a treatise _de diuina predestinacione_, and John Peckham, Archbishop of Canterbury, _de oculo morali_--all of a definitely religious or moral character. They are freely annotated by the father's hand, with marginalia which throw light on his life and times, his dislike of the Venetians for their anti-papal policy, his experiences as physician to the Abbey of St. Ulrich in Augsburg, and the part that he played in the introduction of printing there. On Lady Day, 1481, shortly after Nicholas' birth, perhaps when he had lived just a week and seemed likely to thrive, the father composed an address to his four living sons--four being already dead--, and wrote it into this volume. He adjures them to follow learning and goodness, and finally bids them take every care of the books; and not let them be separated. This it was which inspired Nicholas' appeal thirty years later, when Ulrich, the son, was cut off, just as his eyes seemed about to follow his father's up and down the pages. Ellenbog's letters to his sister Barbara are amusing. She was four or five years older than he, but being a woman had not had his opportunities. He begins by trying to teach her Latin. But the difficulties were many, and apparently she did not progress far enough to write in the tongue. At any rate, Ellenbog copied none of her letters into his book; a fact which is to be deplored both from her point of view and from ours. One would like to know what reply she made to some of his homilies. She invited him once to come and see her at Heppach, with leave from her Abbess. He replies cautiously that, if he comes, he hopes they will be able to talk without being overheard; for Onofrius had been once, and when he made a rather coarse remark, there had been giggles outside the door. In 1512 Barbara became Prioress, and Ellenbog took the opportunity to lecture her at length upon spiritual pride and the importance of humility; sweetening his dose of virtue with a present of cinnamon, ginger, and nutmeg. Once she let fall some regrets that she had brought nothing into her convent, and was dependent on it for food and clothing; evidently she would have liked some share of the patrimony which had been divided between her married sisters and the brothers who remained in the world. Nicholas' reply was that Heppach, like other monasteries, was well endowed; she had given herself, and that was quite enough. In 1515 Barbara was elected Abbess; and received another discourse about spiritual pride. John and Elizabeth wrote to Nicholas saying that they had been invited to Heppach to salute the new Reverend Mother, and suggesting that he should come too. But his plain speaking had had its reward, no invitation had come for him. Under the circumstances, he writes, he could not think of going; besides he had been there several times before, and had found it very dull; it was clearly John's duty to go, as he had not been once in twenty years, although his parish was only three miles from Heppach. However the breach was healed, and a proper invitation came for Nicholas; but the business of his stewardship prevented him from accepting. The relations with John, the parish priest of Wurtzen, are more harmonious. There is a frequent exchange of presents, John sending tools for wood-carving, and crayfish; which seem to have been common in his neighbourhood, for Nicholas occasionally asks for them. The only lecture is one passed on from Barbara. John had been created a chaplain to Maximilian, an honorific title, with few or no duties; and Barbara had feared that he might neglect the flock in his parish. On another occasion Nicholas urges him to follow Elizabeth's advice, and get an unmarried man to be his housekeeper. He had proposed to have a man with a family; and Elizabeth was afraid for his reputation. John was a frequent guest at Ottobeuren, and one of Nicholas' invitations contains what is unusual among the humanists, an appreciation of the charms of the country: 'Come,' he says, 'and hear the songs of the birds, the shepherds' pipes and the children's horns, the choruses of reapers and ploughmen, and the voices of the girls as they work in the fields.' By his younger relatives, Ellenbog did his duty unfailingly. Elizabeth's eldest son, John Gesler, was at school at Memmingen. When a new schoolmaster was appointed, Ellenbog wrote to bespeak his interest in the boy, and to suggest the books that he should read: Donatus' Grammar and the letters of Filelfo. At 14 he persuaded the parents to send John to Heidelberg, and took a great deal of trouble in arranging that the boy should be lodged with his own teacher, Peter of Wimpina. When two years later Elizabeth grew anxious about John's health and proposed to take him with her to some of the numerous baths, which then as now abounded in Germany and Switzerland, it was again Nicholas who made the arrangements; and in 1515, when John had left Heidelberg, Nicholas proposed to exchange letters with him daily, in order that he might not forget his Latin. In January 1515 Elizabeth's eldest daughter, Barbara, was married to a certain Conrad Ankaryte. In December 1530 he writes to one of the nuns at Heppach to announce that he has persuaded two girls, the children of this marriage, to embrace the religious life. The elder, Anna, aged 13, was forward with her education, as she was well acquainted with German literature and was reading Latin with her father[19]; by the following summer she would be ready to come to Heppach. For the younger, who was not yet 7, he begged a few years' grace, though she was eager to come at once. Truly children developed earlier in those days. [19] quae legere literas vernaculae linguae satis expedite nouit, nunc per patrem imbuitur Latinis. The happiest time of Ellenbog's life began in the summer of 1522, when after ten years' service he was allowed by the Abbot to resign his Stewardship. His accounts were audited satisfactorily, and he was discharged, to what seemed to him a riotous banquet of leisure. 'In the quiet of my cell,' he wrote to his brother, 'I read, I write, I meditate, I pray, I paint, I carve'. His interest in astronomy was resumed, and he set himself to make dials for pocket use, on metal rings or on round wooden sticks. The latter he turned for himself upon a lathe; and for this work John sent him a present of boxwood, juniper, and plane. By the New Year of 1523 he had made two sundials; one which showed the time on five sides at once, he sent to John at Wurtzen, the other to Barbara at Heppach. His cell looked South, and thus he could study the movements of the moon and the planets, and note the southing of the stars. He could turn his skill to profit, too, and exchange his dials for pictures of the saints. In 1525 his peace was broken by the Peasants' Revolt, which swept like a hurricane over South Germany. Hostility to religion was not one of its moving causes, but the monks were vulnerable, and had always been considered fair game, especially by local nobles whom in the plenitude of their power they had not troubled to conciliate. The peasants of the Rhine valley had not forgotten the burning of Limburg, near Spires, by William of Hesse in 1504. The abbey church had scarcely a rival in Germany, and the flames burned for twelve days. With such an example, and with their prey unresisting, the peasants were not likely to stay their hands. At Freiburg they brought to his death Gregory Reisch, the learned Carthusian Prior of St. Johannisberg, the friend of Maximilian. Ellenbog enumerates four monasteries burned in his neighbourhood during the outbreak--three by the peasants incensed against their landlords, and one by a noble who bore it a grudge. When the first attack came in April, Ellenbog was staying at the monastery of St. George, at Isny, about twenty miles away. The peasants there destroyed everything belonging to the monks that they could find outside the walls, and threatened dire treatment when they should force their way in; but mercifully the walls were strong, and held out. Ottobeuren was less fortunate. Being in the country, it had to rely upon itself, and so fell an easy prey. The buildings were defaced, the windows broken, the stoves and ovens wrecked, and all the ironwork carried off. Scarcely a door remained on its hinges, and the furniture of the rooms disappeared. The church was violated, its pictures soiled, and its statues smashed; Christ's wounds should be wounds indeed, hard voices cried, as axe and hammer rung over their pitiless work. The library was emptied of its books. Walls and roofs and floors were all that the monks found when they ventured back. Ellenbog, however, fared better than many. A friendly brother had seized up some of his books and papers and hidden them in the clock-tower; and the abbey carpenter thinking this insecure had found them better cover, presumably in his own house. The tempest over, calm soon returned. The countryfolk, many of whom had remained friendly, began bringing back spoil which they had wrested from wrongful possessors. Some of Ellenbog's books were brought in; and as much as two years later he recovered one of his astronomical instruments. He lost, however, a number of his father's papers, which he had been on the point of editing; a Hebrew Bible given to him by Onofrius; and the first two books of his collection of his own letters. 'God knows whether they will ever come back,' he wrote at the beginning of the third book; and to him they never did. They are now safe at Stuttgart, though in permanent divorce from the other seven books, which are in Paris. Ellenbog was no coward. In the autumn the vineyards belonging to the Abbey were to be inspected, and the due tithes of wine exacted. Unless this were done the monks would suffer lack; so some one had to be sent, in spite of the last mutterings of the revolt. One vineyard lay at Immenstadt, some distance to the South, and thus Ellenbog at Isny was already part way thither. Moreover, having served as Steward, he would know what was required. The Abbot sent down a horse and bade him go: though the roads were held by armed outlaws, who were reported to be specially hostile to monks. He was afraid; but he summoned his courage and went. If the Abbey seemed a haven before, when he came back to it from the experiences of his ordination at Augsburg, this time it was a refuge and strength against the fear that lurketh in forests and the imagination of pursuing footsteps. IV UNIVERSITIES In the autumn of 1495 Erasmus was at length at liberty to go to a university. His patron, the Bishop of Cambray, gave him a small allowance, and the authorities at Steyn were prevailed upon to consent. His purpose was to obtain a Doctor's degree in Theology; and so he entered the College of Montaigu at Paris, which had been founded in 1388, but had fallen into decay and only recently been revived. In 1483 a certain John Standonck had volunteered to become Principal. By his efforts the college buildings were restored; and by taking in rich pupils he secured means to maintain the Domus Pauperum attached to the College. He was an ardent, enthusiastic person, but rather lacking in judgement; and starved his _pauperes_ in order to be able to have as many as possible on the slender resources available. Erasmus, being delicate and therewith fastidious, complained of the rough and meagre fare--rotten eggs and stinking water; and with good reason, for it made him ill, and he had to spend the summer of 1496 with his friends in Holland. Having established himself in the college he introduced himself to the literary circle in Paris, through its head, Robert Gaguin, the aged General of the Maturins, who had served on many embassies, to Spain, to Italy, to Germany, to England. Gaguin had written much himself, and had been one of the promoters of printing in Paris. To know him was to be known of many. Erasmus began by addressing to him a poem and some florid letters, and showed him some of his work. Then an opportunity came to do him a service. Gaguin had composed a history of the French, and it was just coming through the press. At the end the printer found himself with two pages of the last sheet unfilled, despite ample spacing out, and the author was too ill to lend any help. Erasmus heard of the difficulty, and came to the rescue with a long and most elegant epistle to Gaguin, comparing him to Sallust and Livy, and promising him immortality. Time has turned the tables: Gaguin's name lives, not because of his history, but because the young and unknown Augustinian canon thought fit to court his acquaintance. Once blooded with the printers, Erasmus went steadily on. In a few months he published some poems of his own, on Christ and the angels--_de casa natalitia Jesu_, a very rare volume, of which only two copies are known. It was dedicated to a college friend, Hector Boys, of Dundee, subsequently the first Principal of King's College, Aberdeen, and historian of Scotland. It may be wondered what was Erasmus' motive. A dedication of a book had a market value and usually brought a return in proportion to the compliments laid on. Correctness certainly required that the book should be sent to the Bishop of Cambray. Boys was only a fellow-student, whose acquaintance Erasmus had made at Montaigu. The explanation perhaps lies in the fact that Bishop Elphinstone was then negotiating with Boys to come to Aberdeen; in the newly-founded university Erasmus may have sighted hopes for himself. The following year saw another volume produced by him; the poems of his Gouda and Deventer friend, William Herman, with a few of his own added. This time the Bishop of Cambray did not fail of his due. When Erasmus came to Paris, he was nearly 29, older by far than the ordinary arts student, but not old for the theological course, which lasted longer than the others. To reach the first step, the Bachelor's degree, he had to attend a number of lectures; and very tedious he found them. Theologians are apt to be conservative. The method of instruction had not advanced far beyond the dictation of text and gloss and commentary, which had been current before the days of printing. Erasmus yawned and dozed, or wrote letters to his friends making fun of these 'barbarous Scotists'. 'You wouldn't know me,' he says, 'if you could see me sitting under old Dunderhead, my brows knit and looking thoroughly puzzled. They tell me that no one can understand these mysteries who has any traffic with the Muses or the Graces. So I am trying hard to forget my Latin: wit and elegance must disappear. I think I am getting on; maybe some day they will recognize me for their own.' They did, and he proceeded B.D.; when is not known, but probably by Easter 1498. At the present day in England our systems are very set. A man matriculates at a university and completes his course there: to change even from one college to another is becoming almost unknown. Abroad, however, things are more fluid, and students pass on from university to university in search of the best teacher for special parts of their course. So it was in Erasmus' time. A course of lectures attended in one university could be reckoned in another; and thus men often proceeded to their degrees within a short time of their matriculation. Having taken his Bachelor's degree at Paris, Erasmus at once proposed to convert it into a Doctor's in Italy; but one hope after another of going there was disappointed. In 1506 he wished to take it in Cambridge; but after obtaining his grace, he was offered a chance to go to Italy as tutor to the sons of Henry VII's Italian physician. He accepted with delight, and was made D.D. as he passed through Turin; the formalities apparently requiring only a few days. The art of reasoning is an excellent thing; and so long as man continues to live according to reason, some training in this art will continue to be a part of education. Indeed, an elementary knowledge of it is as necessary as an elementary acquaintance with the art of arithmetic. Both arts have this in common that though their feet walk upon the earth, their heads are lost in the clouds. A moderate attainment of them is indispensable to all; but their higher developments can only be comprehended by the acutest minds. In the Middle Ages the art of reasoning had been raised to such a pitch of perfection that it entirely dominated the schools. Its exponents were so proud of it that its bounds were continually extended; and it became impossible to obtain a university degree without a high level of proficiency in disputation. For his examination a candidate was required to dispute with all comers--in practice this came to be a small number of appointed examiners, three or four--on questions which had been announced beforehand. It was not a hasty affair--time was allowed for reflection, and the examination might easily last several hours or even all day. But clearly readiness in debate was likely to count in a man's favour, and so besides knowledge of standard authors to be adduced in support of opinions--the Bible, the Fathers, the mediaeval commentators, the Canon Law and the glosses upon it--it was important to a candidate to be able to handle a question properly, to divide it up into its different parts by means of distinctions, to shear off side issues, to examine the various facets which it presented when approached from different points of view; and all this without hesitation, and of course in Latin. In order to train candidates in this art, university and college teachers gave frequent exhibitions of disputations, which from being on any subject, de quolibet, were styled 'quodlibeticae questiones', or 'disputationes'. A high dignitary presided, with the title of 'dominus quodlibetarius', and propounded questions, usually one supported by arguments and two plain; and then the disputer, who presumably came prepared, delivered his reply, clear cut into fine distinctions and bristling with citations from recognized authorities. Such work necessarily cost trouble and forethought, and the hard-working teacher of the day, instead of printing his lectures on philosophy or history or editing and commentating texts, gave to his pupils in permanent form the quodlibetical disputations which the busy among them had struggled to copy down into note-books, and over which the inattentive, like Erasmus, had yawned. These are some of the subjects disputed at Louvain, 1488-1507, by Adrian of Utrecht; first as a young doctor, then as professor of theology, and finally for ten years as vice-chancellor, before he was carried away to become tutor to Prince Charles, and entered upon the public career which led him finally to Rome as Adrian VI. 1488. Whether to avoid offending one's neighbour it is permissible to break a vow or oath duly made. 1491. Whether one is bound to act on the command of a superior, contrary to one's own opinion, knowing that in former days the matter had been regarded as doubtful. 1492. Whether it is lawful to administer the Eucharist or to confer the benefit of absolution on one who declares that he cannot abstain from crimes. 1493. Whether of the two is more likely to be healed and offends God the less, the man who sins from ignorance or infirmity, or the man who sins of deliberate intent. 1495. Whether a priest who gives advice that tithes ought not to be paid on the fruits of one's own labours, can receive remission of his sin without undergoing severe punishment. Whether transgression of human laws constitutes mortal sin. 1499. Whether prayer on behalf of many is as beneficial to the individuals as if one prayed as long a time for each one. 1491. <? 1501> Whether it is permissible to give money to any one to procure one a benefice by praising one's dignity and merits to the provisor to the benefice. Here are some of John Briard of Ath, a notable theologian, who was subsequently Vice-chancellor of Louvain: 1508. Whether a man who has confessed all his mortal sins but has omitted his voluntary occasions of stumbling, is bound to confess over again. Whether we are bound by the law of love to deliver a neighbour, against his will, from oppression, infamy, or death, when we cannot do so without hurt or danger to ourselves. Whether beneficed students on account of their studies are excused from reading their canonical hours. We will now consider in brief Briard's handling of the following question: 'Whether a prize of money won at Bruges or elsewhere by the hazard known as the game of the pot, or what is commonly called the lottery, may be retained with a clear conscience as a righteous acquisition?' 'For the decision of this question I premise: 1. Firstly, that gain is not to be considered unlawful because it comes by good fortune, and not by one's own labour. The truth of this preamble is shown thus: If gain coming by good fortune is unlawful, it follows that all gain arising from division by lot is unlawful. But this is false: therefore, &c. The consequent is proved by the fact that all such gain rests on good fortune. The falsity is shown by the opinions of almost all the doctors who write on this subject: St. Thomas, 2.2, question 95, article 8, shows that there is nothing wrong in dividing by lot, between friends who cannot otherwise decide. In this opinion agree Alexander of Hales, part 2 of his _Summa_, question 185, membrane 2; Angelus in his _Summa_ under the word _sors_, section 2, after the gloss in _Summa 26_, question 2; Antoninus, part 2, title 12, chapter 1, section 9. 2. Secondly, that gain is not to be considered unlawful because it comes without labour. This would exclude gifts. 3. Thirdly, that gain is not to be considered unlawful because it comes from cupidity, avarice, forbidden trade, or opus peccaminosum <e.g. working on a saint's day>, unless there is fraud, deception, or the like. See Petrus de Palude, book 4, distinction 15, question 3, conclusion 4, about the gain arising from acting. Also Angelus in his _Summa_ under _restitutio_, part 1, section 6. 4. Fourthly, that a work which brings public advantage, either spiritual or temporal, is not necessarily unlawful because some people are thereby provoked to sin. Otherwise it would be unlawful to manufacture arms or to make war. On these premises I base the following propositions: 1. The lottery is not in itself unlawful. Proof. It is not prohibited by any law, divine, human, or natural: divine, because it is not forbidden in Scripture; human, because there is no law against it as there is against hazard or dicing; natural, because it is not excluded as (_a_) coming by good fortune, (_b_) provoking others to sin, (_c_) vain and useless. _a_ and _b_ are proved by premiss 1 and 4. _c_ is proved because we are supposing that the lottery is undertaken in order that the city of Bruges may make a profit with which to pay off some of its municipal debt, or be lightened of some of its common burdens, so that its citizens may be free to journey whither they please. (That this last refers among other things to pilgrimage, may be inferred from a reference to the Canon Law on the undertaking of journeys, chapter on Sacred Churches.) 2. The lottery is not prohibited by the human laws forbidding hazard and dice. Proof. The laws prohibiting these do not forbid the lottery, nor can it be included under them by parity of reasoning. For hazard is not forbidden because it depends on chance, or else all gaming would be forbidden; and it is not forbidden to play for small stakes or on the occasion of a party. But it (hazard) is forbidden because, as Petrus de Palude says in book 4, distinction 15, question 3, article 5, the person who loses is wont to blaspheme; and also because men are tempted to lose more than they can afford.' We need not follow the argument in detail, but the fourth proposition is interesting, 'That there is an injustice in the lotteries as practised by some cities, in that the creditors of the city are compelled against their will to take part in the lottery, and so probably make a loss, for fear of not recovering the money owed to them'. After six propositions come two contrary arguments, which are refuted by five and two considerations; and then there is a brief summing up. Excellent reasoning this doubtless was, and the student who could dispute over these intricacies for hours together, must have had at least a competent knowledge of Latin, understanded of the examiners; but it is not surprising that the humanists desired something better. The universities did not live upon the teaching of the colleges alone. Scholars came from abroad and competed with the home-bred talent to supply such private tuition as was required, and when their ability had been proved, received licence from the university to teach publicly. The advantage generally rested with the new-comer. _Omne ignotum pro mirifico._ When there was so much to learn, so much novelty that the stranger might bring with him, it was little wonder that a new arrival aroused excitement, especially if he came with a reputation. Teachers travelled from one university to another in search of employment, and any one with a knowledge of Greek or Hebrew was sure to find pupils and attentive audiences. So great was the enthusiasm on both sides, that lectures often lasted for hours. Aleander, when he returned from Orleans to Paris in 1511, kept quiet for a month, in order to awaken public interest. Then he announced a course of lectures on Ausonius, to begin on 30 July. His device was entirely successful. Two thousand people gathered, and he was obliged to lead them over from his own college, de la Marche, to a larger building, known as the Portico of Cambray. He had composed an elaborate oration of twenty-four pages. 'It took me two hours and a half to deliver,' he says, 'and would have taken four, if I hadn't been a quick reader; but no one showed the least sign of fatigue, in spite of the heat. My voice lasted very well. Next day I had nearly as good an audience, although it was the day for the disputation at the Sorbonne. On the day after, all seats were taken by 11, though I do not begin till 1.' His success was not mere imagination. One who was present tells us that men looked upon him as if he had come down from heaven, and shouted 'Viuat, viuat', as they were accustomed to do to Faustus Andrelinus, another witty Italian who was then lecturing in Paris. A lecturer to-day who went on into the third hour would scarcely be so popular. But Aleander was not alone in his powers of speech, and others besides Parisians could listen. Butzbach tells us, not without humour, of a certain Baldwin Bessel of Haarlem, a learned physician with a wonderful memory, who was summoned to Laach to heal their Abbot, who lay sick. On one occasion at Coblenz he harangued an audience of 300 for three hours on end on the power of eloquence, and stimulated by the sight of such a gathering, worked himself up in his peroration, until he believed himself to be a second Cicero. His hearers perhaps did not agree. Anyway, Butzbach is the only person who mentions him, and he would have preferred a little less eloquence and a little more medicine; for the Abbot, instead of recovering, died under the hands of the new Cicero in two days. Besides lecturing at the university, young men also maintained themselves by working for the printers, correcting proof-sheets and composing complimentary prefaces and verses. Another service which they could render to both printers and authors was to give public 'interpretations', as they were called, of new books on publication, for the purpose of advertisement. These interpretations probably took place at the printer's office, and were of the nature of a review, describing the book's contents; and they were doubtless repeated at frequent intervals before new groups of likely purchasers. Erasmus, however, had been sent to Paris to take a degree in Theology, and his patrons expected him to occupy himself with this. When he returned from Holland in 1496 he could not face again the rigours of Montaigu, and so he took shelter in a boarding-house kept by a termagant woman--'pessima mulier' the bursar of the German nation, her landlords, called her when she would not pay her rent--, the wife of a minor court official. So long as his supplies lasted, he kept strictly to his work; but when the Bishop failed him, he was obliged to support himself, and took to private teaching. Two of his pupils were young men from Lubeck, who were under the care of a teacher from their own part of the world, Augustine Vincent, a budding scholar, who afterwards published an edition of Virgil, but who as yet was glad to be helped by Erasmus. Another pair came from England, one a kinsman of John Fisher, and were in the charge of a morose North-countryman. In great poverty, Erasmus made his way somehow, occasionally writing little treatises for his pupils, on a method of study, on letter-writing--an important art in those days--, a paraphrase of the _Elegantiae_ of Valla; and finally, one of his best-known works, the Colloquies, had its origin in a little composition of this period, which he refers to as 'sermones quosdam quotidianos quibus in congressibus et conuiuiis vtimur'--a few formulas of address and expressions of polite sentiments, which develop into brief conversations. The poor scholar's hardships were mitigated by the generosity of a friend. Whilst with the Bishop of Cambray Erasmus had made the acquaintance of a young man from Bergen-op-Zoom, the Bishop's ancestral home; one James Batt, who after education in Paris had returned to be master of the public school in his native town. About 1498 Batt was engaged as private tutor to the son of Anne of Borsselen, widow of an Admiral of Flanders and hereditary Lady of Veere, an important sea-port town in Walcheren which then did much trade with Scotland, and whose great, dumb cathedral and ornate town-hall still tell to the handful of houses round them the story of former greatness. From the first Batt applied himself to win his patroness' favour to his clever and needy friend. Erasmus was invited to visit them, money was sent for his journey; and within a short time he was receiving pecuniary contributions from the Lady more frequently than if she had been allowing him a pension. His letters to Batt--the replies which came he never published--are remarkable reading, and do credit to both sides. Conscious of high powers and pressed by urgent need, Erasmus begins by begging without concealment, for money to keep him going and give him leisure. But as time goes on and the Lady wearies of much giving, Erasmus' tone grows sharper and more insistent; until at last he scolds and upbraids his patient correspondent for not extorting more, and even bids him put his own needs in the background until Erasmus' are satisfied. Batt's name deserves to be remembered as chief amongst faithful friends, for putting up with such scant gratitude after his inexhaustible devotion; and we must needs think more highly of Erasmus, if his friend could accept such treatment at his hand and not be wounded. To the great much littleness may be forgiven. The surprising thing is that Erasmus should have allowed such letters to be published. In the summer of 1499 Erasmus was carried off to England by another friend whom he had captivated, the young Lord Mountjoy, who had come abroad to study until the child-bride whom he had already married should be old enough to become his wife. After a summer spent among bright-eyed English ladies at a country-house in Hertfordshire, then studded with the hunting-boxes of the nobility, and a visit to London which brought him into quick friendship with More, ten or eleven years his junior, Erasmus persuaded his patron to take him for a while to Oxford. Mountjoy promised but could not perform. The Earl of Warwick was to be tried in Westminster Hall, and Mountjoy as a peer must be in his place. So Erasmus rode in to Oxford, over Shotover and across Milham ford, alone. As an Austin canon he had a claim on St. Mary's, a college which had been established in 1435 at the instance of a number of Augustinian abbots and priors, for the purpose of bringing young canons to Oxford to profit by the life and studies of the university; in much the same way that Mansfield and Manchester Colleges have joined us in recent years. For two or three months he was here, enjoying the society of the learned and attending Colet's lectures on the Epistles of St. Paul; invited to dine in college halls, as a congenial visitor is to-day, and spending the afternoons, not the evenings, in discussions arising out of the conversation over the dinner-table. His ready wit and natural vivacity, his wide reading and serious purpose, made themselves felt. Even Colet the austere was delighted with him and begged him to stay. He was lecturing himself on St. Paul; let Erasmus take some part of the Old Testament and expound it to fascinated audiences. Oxford laid her spell upon the young Dutch canon--upon whom does she not?--but he was not yet ready. To give his life to sacred studies was the purpose that was riveting itself upon him; but he could not accomplish what he wished without Greek at the least--he never made any serious attempt to learn Hebrew--and Greek was not to be had in Oxford, hardly indeed anywhere in Western Europe outside Italy and perhaps Spain. Indeed, for some years to come this university was to display her characteristic, or may be her admirable, caution towards the new light offered to her from without. We must bear in mind the well-reasoned hostility of the Church to--or at least hesitation about--the revival of learning. In the period we are considering the powers of evil were very real. Men instinctively accepted the existence of a kingdom of darkness, extending its borders over the sphere of knowledge as over the other sides of human activity. Greek was the language of some of the most licentious literature--Sappho's poems were burnt by the Church at Constantinople in 1073--and of many detestable heresies; and thus though the Council of Vienne, with missionary zeal, had recommended in 1311 that lectures in Greek--as in other languages of the heretical East--should be established in the universities of Paris, Bologna, Oxford, and Salamanca, the decree had not been carried out, and Greek was still regarded with suspicion by the orthodox. Their opposition dies with their lives, these guardians of the thing that is. Of the thing that cometh they know, that 'if it be of God, they cannot overthrow it'. The silent flooding in of the main is to them more to be desired than the swift wave which in giving may destroy. Let us not think too lightly of them because they feared shadows which the light of time has dispelled. It needs no eyes to see where they were wrong: where they were right--and they were right often enough--can only be seen by taking trouble to inquire. Of the condition of learning in England in the second half of the fifteenth century we do not yet know all that we might. Manuscripts that men bought or had written for them, books that they read, catalogues of libraries now scattered can tell us much, even though the owners are dead and speak not. Single facts, like cards for cardhouses, will not stand alone. There is still much to be done. Great libraries are only just beginning to gather up the manuscript minutiae which their books contain; to identify handwritings; to decipher monograms; to collect facts. But some day when the work has been done, we may well hope to be able to put bone to bone and breathe new life into them in a way which will make valuable contributions to our knowledge. There is sometimes an inclination now to underestimate the effect of the Renaissance. The writers of that age were unsparingly contemptuous of their predecessors, and their verdict was for long accepted almost without question. The reaction against this has led to an undue extolling of the Middle Ages. It is true enough that many of the Schoolmen, though the humanists speak of them as hopelessly barbarous, were capable of writing Latin which, if not strictly classical, had yet an excellence of its own. But in view of the extracts given above from Ebrardus and John Garland it can hardly be maintained that there was much knowledge of Greek in Western Europe before the Renaissance. England was not ahead of France and Germany in the fifteenth century; and if Deventer school in 1475 was fed upon the monstrosities we have seen, it is not likely that Winchester and Eton had any better fare. Some sporadic examples there may have been of men who added a knowledge of the Greek character to their reminiscences of the _Graecismus_; just as at the present day it is not difficult to acquire a faint acquaintance with Oriental languages, enough to recognize the formation of words and plough out the letters, without any real knowledge. Colet and Fisher only began to learn Greek in their old age. One, the son of a Lord Mayor of London, made a name for himself as a lecturer at Oxford, and was advanced to be Dean of St. Paul's; the other, as head of a house at Cambridge and Chancellor of the University, promoted the foundation of the Lady Margaret's two colleges, Christ's and St. John's, which were to bring in the spirit of the Renaissance. It is impossible to suppose that men of such position would have spent the greater part of their lives without Greek, if there had been any facilities for them to learn it when they were young. Nor again would Erasmus, when teaching Greek at Cambridge in 1511, have chosen the grammars of Gaza and Chrysoloras to lecture upon, if his audience had been capable of anything better. Eminent scholars do not teach the elements at a university if boys are already learning them at school. The condition of things may fairly be gauged by Duke Humfrey's collections for his library at Oxford. Of 130 books which he presented to the University in 1439, not one is Greek; of 135 given in 1443, only one--a vocabulary--is certainly Greek, four more are possibly, but not probably so. A little later in the century four Oxford men were pupils of Guarino in Ferrara; Grey (d. 1478) brought back manuscripts to Balliol and became Bishop of Ely; Gunthorpe (d. 1498) took his books with him to his deanery at Wells; but to only two of the four is any definite knowledge of Greek credited--Fleming (d. 1483), who compiled a Greek-Latin dictionary, and Free (d. 1465), who translated into Latin Synesius' treatise on baldness. A discovery recently made by Dr. James of Cambridge has thrown unexpected light on the history of English scholarship at this period; and as it affords an example of the fruits to be yielded by careful research and synthesis, it may be detailed here. New Testament scholars have long been interested in a manuscript of the Gospels known, from its present habitation in the Leicester town-library, as the Leicester Codex; its date being variously assigned to the fourteenth or fifteenth century. In the handwriting there are some marked characteristics which make it easy to recognize; and in course of time other Greek manuscripts were discovered written by the same hand, two Psalters in Cambridge libraries, a Plato and Aristotle in the cathedral library at Durham, a Psalter and part of the lexicon of Suidas in Corpus at Oxford. But no clue was forthcoming as to their origin, until Dr. James found at Leiden a small Greek manuscript in the same hand, containing some letters of Aeschines and Plato, and a colophon stating that it had been written by Emmanuel of Constantinople for George Neville, Archbishop of York, and completed on 30 Dec. 1468. Where the various manuscripts were written and from what originals is not plain--the Suidas perhaps from a manuscript belonging at one time to Grosseteste; but the classical manuscripts were probably done for Neville in England during the prosperous years before his deportation to Calais in 1472, the Psalters and Gospels probably after that date at Cambridge; for the Paston Letters show that some of his disbanded household made their way to Cambridge, and Dr. Rendel Harris has ingeniously demonstrated that one Psalter and the Gospels were in fact at Cambridge with the Franciscans early in the sixteenth century. The presence of a Greek scribe in England about 1470 is an important fact. Neville was released from prison through the intervention of Pope Sixtus IV, who about 1475 sent to England another Greek scribe and diplomatist, George Hermonymus of Sparta, charged with a letter to Edward IV. Besides Andronicus Contoblacas at Basle, Hermonymus was at the time the only Greek in Northern Europe who was prepared to teach his native tongue; in consequence most of the humanists of the day, Reuchlin, Erasmus, Budaeus and many others, turned to him for instruction, though he was indeed a poor teacher. He secured the Archbishop's release, and therewith a handsome reward to himself; but lingering on, he found himself compelled to spend about a year in London--in prison: some Italian merchants having trumped up against him a charge of espionage, from which he only escaped by paying the uttermost farthing. That he suffered such a disagreeable experience perhaps indicates that no one in London was much interested in him or his language. Another Greek who was copying manuscripts in England at this time was John Serbopoulos, also of Constantinople, who between 1489 and 1500 wrote a number of Greek manuscripts at Reading: two copies of Gaza's Grammar, Isocrates _ad Demonicum_ and _ad Nicoclem_, several commentators on Aristotle's Ethics, Chrysostom on St. Matthew, a Psalter and the completion of the Corpus Suidas which his fellow-countryman Emmanuel had begun. In one of his colophons (1494) he specifies Reading Abbey as his place of abode; for the others he merely says Reading. Possibly he was in the abbey the whole time; but even a temporary visit, during which he wrote Gaza and Isocrates, is an indication that one at least of the monastic houses was not hostile to the revival of learning. Not that any doubt is possible on this point, since the researches of Abbot Gasquet into the life of William Selling, who was Prior of Christchurch, Canterbury, 1472-95. After entering the monastery, about 1448, Selling was sent to finish his studies at Canterbury College, the home of the Benedictines in Oxford.[20] In 1464 he was allowed to go with a companion, William Hadley, to Italy; where they spent two or three years over taking degrees in Theology, and heard lectures at Padua, Bologna, and Rome. Twice in later years Selling went to Italy again; and he brought back with him to England manuscripts of Homer and Euripides, and Livy, and Cicero's _de Republica_. Some of these have survived and are to be found in Cambridge libraries; others perished in the fire which broke out when Henry VIII's Visitors came to Canterbury to dissolve Christchurch. But Selling's interest in learning was not confined to the collection of manuscripts. A translation of a sermon of Chrysostom made by him in 1488 is extant; and an antiquarian visitor to Canterbury copied into his note-book 'certain Greek terminations, as taught by Dr. Sellinge of Christchurch'. [20] The Canterbury gate of Christ Church, Oxford, still marks its site. A generation or so later Linacre and More were students there; both having a connexion with Canterbury. Another Churchman of this period who was interested in the revival of learning has recently been revealed to us by his books, John Shirwood, Bishop of Durham, 1483-93. He was an adherent of Neville whom we mentioned as the patron of Emmanuel of Constantinople; and having risen to prosperity as Neville rose, he did not desert his patron when Fortune's wheel went round. It does not appear that he was educated in Italy; but for a number of years he was in Rome, as a lawyer engaged in the Papal court; and to his good service there as King's proctor he probably owed his advancement to Durham. Whilst at Rome, he bought great numbers of the Latin classics, especially those which were coming fresh from the press of Sweynheym and Pannartz. Cicero seems to have held the first place in his affections, six volumes out of forty-two; the Orations, the Epistles, _de Finibus_ and _de Oratore_, the two last being duplicated. History is well represented with Livy, Suetonius, Josephus, Plutarch, Polybius, and Dionysius of Halicarnassus; the last four in translations. In poetry he had Plautus and Terence, Horace, Martial, Juvenal, Seneca, and Statius; in archaeology Vitruvius and Frontinus; of the Fathers, Jerome, Lactantius, and the Confessions of Augustine. Twice after becoming Bishop Shirwood went to Rome again, as ambassador; once in 1487 in company with Selling and Linacre: on the second occasion, in 1492-3, he died. His books, however, had already found their way home to Durham, where they were acquired by Foxe, Shirwood's successor in the see; and Foxe subsequently presented them to his newly-founded college of Corpus Christi in Oxford. It is interesting to contrast Shirwood's collection with books presented to the library of Durham monastery by John Auckland, who was Prior 1484-94. Not a single one of them is classical, not one printed; Aquinas, Bernard, Anselm, Grosseteste, Albertus Magnus, Chrysostom in Latin, Vincent de Beauvais, _Summa Bibliorum, Tractatus de scaccario moralis iuxta mores hominum, Exempla de animalibus_. The Prior's outlook was very different from the Bishop's. Leland tells us that Shirwood had also a number of Greek books, which Tunstall found at Auckland in 1530; but only one of these has been traced, a copy of Gaza's Grammar written by John Rhosus of Crete in 1479, and bought by Shirwood at Rome. Where the rest are no one knows; doubtless scattered in many libraries, among people to whom the name of Shirwood has no meaning. One wonders why Foxe did not secure them for Corpus when he took the Latin books. He wanted Greek, but perhaps he considered the set of Aldus' Greek texts which he actually gave to Corpus, more worth having than Shirwood's manuscripts (for when Shirwood was collecting in Italy, the first book printed in Greek, the Florentine Homer, 1488, had not yet appeared): possibly he never saw them. Time would fail us to tell of all the famous Englishmen who went to study in Italy in the last years of the fifteenth century, let alone those who went and did not win fame. Langton who became Bishop of Winchester, and, not content with Wykeham's foundation, started a school in his own palace at Wolvesey; Grocin, Linacre and William Latimer, who took part in Aldus' Greek Aristotle; Colet; Lily who went further afield, to Rhodes and Jerusalem; Tunstall and Stokesley and Pace--all these were Oxford men, and yet few of them returned to settle in Oxford and teach. Of their later lives much is known, though not so much as we could wish; but their connexion with this University cannot be precisely dated, because the university registers for just this period, 1471-1505, are missing. We cannot tell just when they graduated; and we miss the chance of contemporary notes added occasionally to names of distinction. We cannot even discover to what colleges they belonged. In the last half of the fifteenth century there had been a beginning of Greek in Oxford. Thomas Chandler, Warden of New College, 1454-75, had some knowledge of it; and under his auspices an Italian adventurer of no merit, Cornelio Vitelli, came and taught here for a short time. For about two years, 1491-3, Grocin returned to lecture on Greek, as the result of his Italian studies. Colet was here about 1497-1505, until he became Dean of St. Paul's; but his lectures, as we have said, were on the Vulgate, not the Greek Testament. Of the rest that shadowy and fugitive scholar, William Latimer, was the only one of this band of Oxonians who definitely came back to live and work in the University; and he perhaps did not cast in his lot here until 1513. When he did return, he was not to be torn away again from his rooms at All Souls, under the shadow of St. Mary's tower. In 1516 More and Erasmus wished him to come and teach Greek to Fisher, Bishop of Rochester; but could not prevail with him. It would seem strange to-day for an Oxford scholar to be invited to become private tutor to the Chancellor of the sister University: he would probably shrink, as Latimer did, and find refuge in excuses. For eight or nine years, Latimer said, his studies had led him elsewhere, and he had not touched Latin and Greek. For the same reason he declared himself unable to help Erasmus in preparing for the second edition of his New Testament. What these studies were is nowhere told--Latimer's only printed work is two letters, one a mere note to Aldus, the other a long letter to Erasmus--but there is some reason to suppose that they were musical. He urged, too, that it was useless to hope the Bishop could make much progress in a month or two with such a language as Greek, over which Grocin had spent two years in Italy, and Linacre, Latimer, and Erasmus himself had laboured for many years: it would be much better to send to Italy for some one who could reside for a long time in the Bishop's household. Though he remained faithful to Oxford, Latimer in his later years held two livings near Chipping Campden: in one, Weston-sub-Edge, he rebuilt his parsonage-house and left his initials W.L. in the stonework, in the other, Saintbury, there is a contemporary medallion of him in the East window, showing the tall, thin figure which George Lily describes. At the time of Erasmus' first visit to England, 1499, London was far more a centre of the new intellectual life than either Oxford or Cambridge. He rejoiced in his first meeting with Colet, and in their walks in Oxford gardens in the soft October sunshine; his Prior at St. Mary's was benign and helpful; and he found a young compatriot, John Sixtin, of Bolsward in East Friesland, studying law, and engaged with him in a contest of that arid elegance which the taste of the age still demanded. But in London he found Grocin at his City living, ready to lend him books, and perhaps already contemplating those lectures delivered two years later, on the Ecclesiastical Hierarchy of Dionysius, which brought him to such a surprising conclusion--a denial of the attribution of them to Dionysius the Areopagite, which in agreement with Colet he had set out to prove. In London was Linacre, just returned from Venice, full of Aldus' Greek Aristotle; to a supplementary volume of which he had sent a translation of Proclus' Sphere, a mathematical work then highly esteemed. He had been working on Aristotelian commentators, and was soon to lecture on the _Meteorologica_--a course which More, who was working for the Bar in London, attended. More himself not long afterwards lectured publicly in London on Augustine's _de Ciuitate Dei_, also a favourite work with the humanists. William Lily, returned from his pilgrimage, was at work perhaps already as a schoolmaster in London; and vying with More in translating the Greek Anthology into Latin elegiacs. Bernard Andreas, the blind poet of Toulouse, after trying his fortune in vain at Oxford, had insinuated himself into Henry VII's confidence, and was now attached to the court as tutor to Prince Arthur--an office from which Linacre attempted unsuccessfully to oust him--and busy with his history of the king's reign: a project which enjoyed royal favour, and was the forerunner of Polydore Vergil's creditable essay towards a critical history of England. When Erasmus was again invited to England in 1505-6, the position had not changed. He writes to a friend in Holland: 'There are in London five or six men who are thorough masters of both Latin and Greek: even in Italy I doubt that you would find their equals. Without wishing to boast, it is a great pleasure to find that they think well of me.' To Colet in the following year, when he had said farewell, he writes from Paris: 'No place in the world has given me such friends as your City of London: so true, so learned, so generous, so distinguished, so unselfish, so numerous.' With the string of epithets we are not concerned: the point to remark is that it is of London he writes, not of either of the universities. Under these circumstances, it is not surprising that Erasmus did not at once accept Colet's proposition in 1499 that he should stay and teach in Oxford. Whether provision was offered him or not, we do not know: he might perhaps have stayed on by right at St. Mary's, but he loved not the rule. We do know, however, that at Paris there certainly was no provision for him. In quest of Greek, in quest of the proper equipment for his life's work, he went back to the old precarious existence, pupils and starvation, the dependence and the flattery that he loathed. It is this last, indeed, that puts the sting into his correspondence with Batt. That loyal friend, ever coaxing money out of his complacent and generous patroness for dispatch to Paris, would now and then ask for a letter to her, to make the claims of the absent more vivid. At this Erasmus would boil over: 'Letters,' he writes, 'it's always letters. You seem to think I am made of adamant: or perhaps that I have nothing else to do.' 'There is nothing I detest more than these sycophantic epistles.' Well he might; for this is the sort of thing he wrote. You will remember that the Lady of Veere was named Anne of Borsselen. A letter of Erasmus to her begins: 'Three Annas were known to the ancients; the sister of Dido, whom the Muses of the Romans have consecrated to immortality; the wife of Elkanah, with whose praises Jewish records resound; and the mother of the Virgin, who is the object of Christian worship. Would that my poor talents might avail, that posterity may know of your piety and snow-white purity, and count you the fourth member of this glorious band! It was no mere chance that conferred upon you this name, making your likeness to them complete. Were they noble? So are you. Did they excel in piety? Yours, too, redounds to heaven. Were they steadfast in affliction? Alas that here, too, you are constrained to resemble them. Yet in my sorrow comfort comes from this thought, that God sends suffering to bring strength. Affliction it was that made the courage of Hercules, of Aeneas, of Ulysses shine forth, that proved the patience of Job.' This, of course, is only a brief epitome. After a great deal more in this strain, he concludes: 'I send you a poem to St. Anne and some prayers to address to the Virgin. She is ever ready to hear the prayers of virgins, and you I count not a widow, but a virgin. That when only a child you consented to marry, was mere deference to the bidding of your parents and the future of your race; and your wedded life was a model of patience. That now, when still no more than a girl, you repel so many suitors is further proof of your maiden heart. If, as I confidently presage, you persevere in this high course, I shall count you not amongst the virgins of Scripture innumerable, not amongst the eighty concubines of Solomon, but, with (I am sure) the approval of Jerome, among the fifty queens.' The taste of that age liked the butter spread thick, and Erasmus' was the best butter. He relieved his mind the same day in a letter to Batt--which he did not shrink from publishing in the same volume with his effusion to the Lady Anne: 'It is now a year since the money was promised, and yet all you can say is, "I don't despair," "I will do my best." I have heard that from you so often that it quite makes me sick. The minx! She neglects her property to dally and flirt with her fine gentleman' (a young man whom Erasmus feared she would marry, as in fact she did, shortly afterwards). 'She has plenty of money to give to those scoundrels in hoods, but nothing for me, who can write books which will make her famous.' _In ira veritas._ But for Erasmus--and Batt--the rather simpering statue of Anne on the front of the town-hall at Veere would have little meaning for us to-day. We must not judge Erasmus too hardly in his double tongue. Scholars of to-day, secure in their endowments, can hold their heads high; of their obligations to pious Founders no utterance is required save _coram Deo_--'vt nos his donis ad Tuam gloriam recte vtentes'. We hear much now of the artistic temperament which brooks no control, which at all costs must express its message to the world. No artist has ever burned with a fiercer fire than did Erasmus for the high tasks which his powers demanded of him; but at this period of his life there was no pious Founder to make his way plain. Later on, in all time of his wealth, he was generosity itself with his money, and inexorable in refusing honours and places that would have hindered him from his work. V ERASMUS' LIFE-WORK In August 1511 Erasmus returned to Cambridge. He was a different man from the young scholar who had determined twelve years before that it was no use for him to stay in Oxford. In the interval he had learnt what he wanted--Greek; he had had his desire and visited Italy; and now he came back to sit down to steady work, in accordance with his promise to Colet, in accordance with the purpose of his life, to advance the study of the Scriptures and the knowledge of God. It had been no light matter to learn Greek. Books were not abundant, and the only teacher to be had, Hermonymus of Sparta, was useless to him, neither could nor would impart the classical Greek that scholars wanted. So Erasmus was compelled to fall back on the best of all methods, to teach himself. He had no Liddell and Scott, no Stephanus; probably nothing better than a manuscript vocabulary copied from some earlier scholar, and amplified by himself. No wonder that he found Homer difficult and skipped over Lucian's long words. He exercised himself in translation, from Lucian, from Libanius, from Euripides. But that ready method of acquiring a new language--through the New Testament, was probably not open to him, for copies of the Gospels in Greek were rare, and not within the reach of a needy scholar's purse. However, he persevered, and at length he was satisfied. He never attained to Budaeus' mastery of Greek, but he had acquired a working knowledge which carried him as far as he wished to go. His visit to Italy need not detain us long. Twenty-five years later he wrote to an Italian nobleman with whom he was engaged in controversy, to say that Italy had taught him nothing. 'When I came to Italy, I knew more Greek and Latin than I do now.' In the excitement of contention he perhaps 'remembered with advantages', for in Italy he had one great opportunity. He had published in 1500 at Paris a chrematistic work entitled _Collectanea Adagiorum_, a collection of Latin proverbs with brief explanations designed to be useful to the numerous public who aspired to write Latin with elegance. After the book was out, as authors do, he went on collecting, and on his way to Italy in 1506, he published a slightly enlarged edition, also in Paris. In Italy he made acquaintance with Aldus, and after finishing his year of superintendence over the pupils he had brought with him, he went, about the beginning of 1508, to dwell in the Neacademia at Venice. In September 1508 there appeared from Aldus' press a Volume on the same subject, but very different in bulk; no longer _Collectanea Adagiorum_, but _Adagiorum Chiliades_. The Paris volume, a thin quarto, had contained about 800 proverbs, Aldus' had more than 3,000, and the commentary became so amplified, with occasional lengthy disquisitions on subjects moral and political, that nothing but a folio size would accommodate it. Where this work was done, Erasmus does not specifically state. One passage gives the impression that he had made his new collections in England; but as one reason for his dissatisfaction with the first edition was the absence of citations from the Greek, it seems more probable that he really wrote the new book in Aldus' house at Venice. There, surrounded by the scholars of the New Academy, Egnatius, Carteromachus, Aleander, Urban of Belluno, besides Aldus himself and his father-in-law Asulanus, having at hand all the wealth of the Aldine Greek editions and the Greek manuscripts which were sent from far and near to be printed, Erasmus was thoroughly equipped to transform his quarto into folio, his hundreds into thousands. He tells us that the compositors printed as he wrote, and that he had hard work to keep pace with them. Some of his rough manuscripts--written rapidly in his smooth hand and flowing sentences--survive still to help us picture the scene. It is remarkable how little correction there is. Here and there a whole page is drawn straight through, to be rewritten, or a passage is inserted in the neat margin; but there is little botching, little mending of words or transposing of phrases, such as make the rough work of other humanists difficult reading. As he wished the sentences to run, so they flowed on to his pages, and so they actually were printed. The importance of Erasmus' time in Italy is, then, that he completed, or at any rate published, the enlarged _Adagia_, his first considerable work, a book which carried his name far and wide throughout Europe, and won him fame amongst all who had pretensions to scholarship. No one reads it to-day. Except the composition of the schools, for which Erasmus is considered unclassical, there is little Latin writing now; but in its youth the book had a great vogue, and went through hundreds of reprints. This second visit of Erasmus to Cambridge was under pleasant conditions. Fisher was interested in his work, and having been until recently President of Queens'--the foundation of Margaret of Anjou, which Elizabeth Woodville had succoured, York coming to the rescue of Lancaster--he was able without difficulty to secure rooms in college for his protégé. High up they are, at the head of a stair-case, where undergraduates still cherish his name, and where his portrait--an heirloom from one generation to another--may be seen surrounded by prints of gentlemen in pink riding to hounds; quite a suitable collocation for this very humanly minded scholar. Besides his own work he lectured publicly for a few months. He began to teach Greek, and lectured on the grammar of Chrysoloras. Finding that this did not attract pupils, he changed to Gaza; which he evidently expected to be more popular. But he did not persevere. If his position was public (which is doubtful), there was no money to pay him for long; and it is a sign of the state of the University, that he found it no use to lecture on anything more advanced than grammar. The Schoolmen were still strongly entrenched. Besides teaching Greek he also lectured on Jerome's Letters and his Apology against Ruffinus, books which, as we shall see, he was working at privately. He is said to have held for a time the professorship of Divinity founded in Cambridge, as in Oxford, in 1497 by the Lady Margaret, but the records are inadequate; and here too it is possible that his teaching was a private venture. He had no regular income except a pension from Lord Mountjoy, to which in 1512 Warham added the living of Aldington in Kent; and these were supplemented by occasional gifts from friends, which he courted by dedicating to them translations from Plutarch and Lucian, Chrysostom and Basil. But this was not enough. He was free in his tastes, and liked to be free in his spending. He needed a horse to ride, and a boy to attend upon him. In consequence we hear a good many complaints of penury, all through his three years at Cambridge, 1511 to 1514. It is worth while to examine in detail the work that he completed during this period on the Letters of Jerome and the New Testament. One afternoon in Oxford in 1499 he had had a long discussion with Colet, and in the course of it had argued strongly against a point of view which Colet had derived from Jerome. Whether this set him on to read Jerome again--he was already quite familiar with him--is not clear; but a year later, when he was hard at work in Paris, he was already engaged upon correcting the text of Jerome, and adding a commentary, being specially interested in the Letters. So far did his admiration carry him that he writes to a friend, 'I am perhaps biased; but when I compare Cicero's style with Jerome's, I seem to feel something lacking in the prince of eloquence himself'. After he left Paris in 1501, we hear no more of Jerome till 1511. It may therefore fairly be argued that his early work was done on manuscripts found in Paris libraries, very likely those of the great abbeys of St. Victor or St. Germain-des-Prés. Subsequently, in Cambridge, he again had access to manuscripts and completed his recension of the Letters. Robert Aldridge, a young Fellow of King's, afterwards Bishop of Carlisle, speaks of working with him at Jerome in Queens', probably helping him in collation. An early catalogue of the Queens' library does not contain any mention of Jerome, so that Erasmus had probably borrowed his manuscripts from elsewhere--perhaps, like those of the New Testament, from the Chapter Library at St. Paul's; for later on, when the book was in the press, he returned from Basle to England to consult the manuscripts again, and there is no reason to suppose that during his brief stay--not a full month--he went outside London. If this surmise were correct, the destruction of St. Paul's library in the fires of 1561 and 1666 would explain why so little has been discovered about the manuscripts which Erasmus had for his Jerome. He himself, in his prefaces, gives little indication of them, beyond saying that they were very old and mutilated, and that some of them were written in Lombardic and Gothic characters. Perhaps some day a student of Jerome will arise who will be able to throw light on the matter from examination of the text at which Erasmus arrived. To the New Testament--the other work which occupied his time at Cambridge--he had also turned his attention shortly after his return to Paris in 1500, beginning a commentary on the Epistles of St. Paul. At the first start he wrote four volumes of it, but then for some reason threw it aside, and never completed it, though his mind recurred to it at intervals; and on one occasion after a fall from his horse, in which he injured his spine, he vowed to St. Paul that he would finish it, if he recovered. Probably he felt that his vow was redeemed by his Paraphrases of the New Testament, which he wrote a few years later, beginning with St. Paul, and completing the Epistles before he undertook the Gospels. His next work on the New Testament came to him at Louvain in 1504. Walking out one day to the Abbey of Parc, outside the town--a house of White Canons, Erasmus himself being a Black--he came upon a manuscript in their library, the Annotations of Valla on the New Testament. There was an affinity between his mind and that of the famous scholar-canon of St. John Lateran, who, in spite of his dependence on Papal patronage and favour, had been unable to keep his tongue from asking awkward questions, from inquiring even into the authenticity of the Donation of Constantine. Erasmus read the Annotations and liked their critical, scholarly tone, and the frequent citations of the original Greek. With the characteristic generosity of the age he was allowed to carry the manuscript away and print it in Paris, with a dedication to an Englishman, Christopher Fisher, perhaps a kinsman of the Bishop of Rochester. From Paris he wrote to Colet to report progress, saying that he had learnt Greek and was ready to turn to the Scriptures, and asking him to interest English patrons in their common work. By this time Colet himself had become a patron, having been appointed Dean of St. Paul's. It is therefore not surprising to find that within a year Erasmus was established in London, living in a bishop's house, endowed by his old pupil Lord Mountjoy, and rejoicing in the society of the learned friends gathered in the capital. Chief among these was Colet, who lent him manuscripts from the Chapter Library of St. Paul's, and provided a copyist to write out the fruits of his labours, a one-eyed Brabantine, Peter Meghen by name, who acted also as Colet's private letter-carrier. Meghen wrote a bold, well-marked hand, which is easily recognizable, and in consequence his work has been traced in many libraries. The British Museum has a treatise of Chrysostom, translated by Selling, and written by Meghen for Urswick, afterwards Dean of Windsor and Rector of Hackney, to present to Prior Goldstone of Canterbury. (Urswick was frequently sent on embassies, and had doubtless enjoyed the hospitality of Christchurch on his way between London and Dover.) At Wells there are a Psalter and a translation of Chrysostom on St. Matthew, which Urswick, as executor to Sir John Huddelston, knight, caused Meghen to write in 1514 for presentation to the Cistercians of Hailes, in Gloucestershire. The Bodleian has a treatise written by him in 1528 for Nicholas Kratzer to present to Henry VIII; and Wolsey's Lectionary at Christ Church, Oxford, is probably in Meghen's hand. But what concern us here are some manuscripts in the British Museum and the University Library at Cambridge, written by Meghen in 1506 and 1509 at Colet's order for presentation to his father, Sir Henry Colet, Lord Mayor of London, and containing in parallel columns the Vulgate and another Latin translation of the New Testament, 'per D. Erasmum Roterodamum'. Part and possibly all of this work was done by Erasmus, therefore, during this second residence in England in 1505-6. He tells us that he received two Latin manuscripts from Colet, which he found exceedingly difficult to decipher; but one cannot make a new translation from the Latin. To the Greek manuscripts used on this occasion he gives no clue. In connexion with this help and encouragement shown by Colet as Dean to a foreign scholar, it is worth while to mention the visit to London in 1509 of Cornelius Agrippa, the famous philosopher and scientist, who had been sent to England by Maximilian on a diplomatic errand, which he describes as 'a very secret business'. During his stay, which lasted into 1510, he tells us that 'I laboured much over the Epistles of St. Paul, in the company of John Colet, a man most learned in Catholic doctrine, and of the purest life; and from him I learnt many things that I did not know'. Erasmus was in England at the time of this visit of Agrippa; but unfortunately he makes no allusion to it, neither in his life of Colet, nor in his later correspondence with Agrippa, nor, so far as I know, elsewhere in his works. If he had done so, it might have solved a problem which is very curious in the case of a public man of his fame and position, and of whom so much is otherwise known. From the autumn of 1509, when he returned from Italy and wrote the Praise of Folly in More's house in Bucklersbury, until April 1511, when he went to Paris to print it, Erasmus completely disappears from view. He published nothing, no letter that he wrote survives, we have no clue to his movements. If it had been any one else, we might almost conjecture that, like Hermonymus, he was in prison. It was just during this period that Cornelius Agrippa was in London. If either had mentioned the other, we should have a spark to illumine this singular belt of darkness. When Erasmus returned to Cambridge in 1511, he was already familiar with the field in which he was going to work; but the precise order in which his scheme unfolded itself, whether the Greek text was his first aim or an afterthought, is not clear, his utterances being perhaps intentionally ambiguous. During these three years in Cambridge he refers occasionally to the 'collation' and 'castigation' of the New Testament, so that evidently he was engaged with the four Greek manuscripts, which, according to an introduction in his first edition, he had before him for his first recension. One of these has been identified, the Leicester Codex written by Emmanuel of Constantinople, which, as already mentioned, was with the Franciscans at Cambridge early in the sixteenth century. By 1514 he was ready. In the last three years he had completed Jerome and the New Testament, and had also prepared for the press some of Seneca's philosophical writings, from manuscripts at King's and Peterhouse; besides lesser pieces of work. A difficulty arose about the printing. In 1512 he had been in negotiation with Badius Ascensius of Paris to undertake Jerome and a new edition of the _Adagia_. What actually happened is not known. But in December 1513 he writes to an intimate friend that he has been badly treated about the _Adagia_ by an agent--a travelling bookseller, who acted as go-between for printers and authors and public; that instead of taking them to Badius and offering him the refusal, the knavish fellow had gone straight to Basle and sold them, with some other work of Erasmus, to a printer who had only just completed an edition of the _Adagia_. Erasmus' indignation does not ring true. It is highly probable that he was in search of a printer with greater resources than Badius, who as yet had produced nothing of any importance in Greek, and would therefore be unable to do justice to the New Testament; and that accordingly he had commissioned the agent to negotiate with a firm which by now had established a great reputation--that of Amorbach and Froben, in Basle. His attention had perhaps been aroused by a flattering mention of him in a preface written in Froben's name for the pirated edition of the _Adagia_, August 1513, to which Erasmus was referring in the letter just quoted. Rumour had spread through Europe that Erasmus was dead--it was repeated six months later in a book printed at Vienna--and the Basle circle deplored the loss that this would mean to learning. There were other reasons for this choice, apart from the excellence of the printers. Erasmus had never been happy in Paris. He had often been ill beside the sluggish Seine, and had only found his health again by leaving it. The theologians were still predominant there, and Louis XII had a way of interfering with scholars who discovered any freedom of thought. Standonck, for instance, the refounder of Montaigu, had had to disappear in 1499-1500. For Erasmus to sit in Paris for two or three years while his books were being printed, would have been at least a penance. But Basle was very different. The Rhine, dashing against the piers of the bridge which joined the Great and Little towns, brought fresh air and coolness and health. The University, founded in 1460, was active and liberally minded. The town had recently (1501) thrown in its lot with the confederacy of Swiss cantons, thereby strengthening the political immunity which it had long enjoyed. Between the citizens and the religious orders complete concord prevailed; and finally, except Paris, there was no town North of the Alps which could vie with Basle in the splendour and number of the books which it produced. This is how a contemporary scholar[21] writes of the city of his adoption. 'Basle to-day is a residence for a king. The streets are clean, the houses uniform and pleasant, some of them even magnificent, with spacious courts and gay gardens and many delightful prospects; on to the grounds and trees beside St. Peter's, over the Dominicans', or down to the Rhine. There is nothing to offend the taste even of those who have been in Italy, except perhaps the use of stoves instead of fires, and the dirt of the inns, which is universal throughout Germany. The climate is singularly mild and agreeable, and the citizens polite. A bridge joins the two towns, and the situation on the river is splendid. Truly Basle is [Greek: basileia], a queen of cities.' [21] Beatus Rhenanus, _Res Germanicae_, 1531, pp. 140, 1. In 1513 the two greatest printers of Basle were in partnership, John Amorbach and John Froben. Amorbach, a native of the town of that name in Franconia, had taken his M.A. in Paris, and then had worked for a time in Koberger's press at Nuremberg. About 1475 he began to print at Basle, and for nearly forty years devoted all his energies to producing books that would promote good learning; being, however, far too good a man of business to be indifferent to profit. His ambition was to publish worthily the four Doctors of the Church. Ambrose appeared in 1492, Augustine in 1506, and Jerome succeeded. The work was divided amongst many scholars. Reuchlin helped with the Hebrew and Greek, and spent two months in Amorbach's house in the summer of 1510 to bring matters forward. Subsequently his province fell to Pellican, the Franciscan Hebraist, and John Cono, a learned Dominican of Nuremberg, who had mastered Greek at Venice and Padua, and had recently returned from Italy with a store of Greek manuscripts copied from the library of Musurus. Others who took part in the work were Conrad Leontorius from the Engental; Sapidus, afterwards head master of the Latin school at Schlettstadt; and Gregory Reisch, the learned Prior of the Carthusians at Freiburg, who seems to have been specially occupied with Jerome's Letters. Amorbach's sons, Bruno, Basil, and Boniface, were just growing up to take their father's place, when he died on Christmas Day, 1513. The eldest, Bruno, was born in 1485, and easily paired off with Basil, who was a few years younger. They went to school together at Schlettstadt, under Crato Hofman, in 1497. In 1500 they matriculated at Basle; in 1501 they went to Paris, where in 1504-5 they became B.A., and in 1506 M.A. Bruno was enthusiastic for classical studies, and enjoyed life in Paris, where he certainly had better opportunities, especially of learning Greek, than he had at Basle; so his father allowed him to stay on. Basil was destined for the law, and was sent to work under Zasius at Freiburg. The youngest son, Boniface, 1495-1562, also went to school at Schlettstadt; but when his time came for the university, his father preferred to keep him at home under his own eye. He was rather dissatisfied with Bruno, who as a Paris graduate had begun to play the fine gentleman, and was spending his money handsomely, as other young men have been known to do. The vigorous, straightforward old printer had made the money himself by steady hard work, and he had no intention of letting his son take life too easily. So he wrote him a piece of his mind, in fine, forcible Latin. JOHN AMORBACH TO HIS ELDEST SON, BRUNO, IN PARIS: from Basle, 23 July 1507. 'I cannot imagine, Bruno, what you do, to spend so much money.[22] You took with you 7 crowns; and supposing that you spent 2, or at the outside 3, on your journey, you must have had 4 left--unless perhaps you paid for your companion, which I did not tell you to do. Very likely his father has more money than I have, but does not give it to him; no more do I give you money to pay for other people. It is quite enough for me to support you and your brothers, indeed more than enough. Then, directly you reached Paris, you received 12 crowns from John Watensne. Also you had 9 for your horse, as you say in your letter. Also 9 more from John Watensne, which I paid to Wolfgang Lachner at the Easter fair at Frankfort; also 15 at midsummer. Add these together and you will see that you have had 52 crowns in 9 months. Perhaps you imagine that money comes to me anyhow. You know that for the last two years I have not been printing. We are living upon capital, the whole lot of us.[23] I have to provide for my household.[24] I have to provide for your brother Basil, and for Boniface, whom I have sent to Schlettstadt. I ought, too, to do something for your sister: for several sober and honourable men are at me about her, and I do not like to be unfair towards her. So just remember that you are not the only one. You may take it for sure that I cannot, and will not, give you more than 22 or 23 crowns a year, or at the most 24. If you can live on that at Paris, well: I will undertake to let you have it for some years. But if it is not enough, come home and I will feed you at my table. Think it over and let me know by the next messenger: or else come yourself. I have been told on good authority that in the town (lodgings, as opposed to a college) one can live quite decently on 16 or at most 20 crowns: also that sometimes three or four students, or more, take a house or a room, and then club together and engage a cook, and that their weekly bills scarcely amount to a teston <1/5 of a crown> a head. If that is so, join a party like that and live carefully. Good-bye. Your mother sends her love. Your affectionate father, John Amorbach. [22] Bruno, satis admirari non possum quid agas vt tot pecunias consumas. [23] Consumimus omnes de capitali. [24] Habeo prouidere domui meae. No answer came back, and on 18 August John Amorbach wrote again. Think of a modern parent waiting a month for an answer to such a communication and getting none! It might quite well have come. But posts were slow and uncertain; and when he wrote again, the father's righteous indignation had somewhat abated. It was not till 16 October that Bruno replied, but with a very proper letter. He was a good fellow, and knew what he owed to his father. After expressing his regrets and determination to live within his allowance in future, he goes on: 'There is a man just come from Italy, who is lecturing publicly on Greek. <This was Francis Tissard of Amboise, who began lecturing on Lascaris' Greek Grammar.> I have so long been wishing to learn this language, and here at length is an opportunity. I have plunged headlong into it, and with such a teacher I feel sure of satisfying my desires, which are as eager as any inclinations of the senses. So please allow me to stay a few months longer, and then I shall be able to bring home some Greek with me. After that I will come whenever you bid me.' Next summer he did return and settled down to work in the press. It was well worth while, even for a scholar who was eager to go on learning, and was inclined to grudge time given to business: for with Jerome beginning and all the scholars whom we mentioned coming in and out, Amorbach's house in Klein-Basel became an 'Academy' which could bear comparison with Aldus' at Venice. It was worth Boniface's while, too, to take his course at Basle under such circumstances; especially as in 1511 John Cono began to teach Greek and Hebrew regularly to the printer's sons and to any one else who wished to come and learn. It is worth noticing that not one of these young men went to Italy for his humanistic education. Amorbach's partner, John Froben, 1460-1527, was a man after his own heart: open and easy to deal with, but of dogged determination and with great capacity for work. He was not a scholar. It is not known whether he ever went to a University, and it is doubtful whether he knew any Latin; certainly the numerous prefaces which appear in his books under his name are not his own, but came from the pens of other members of his circle. So the division came naturally, that Amorbach organized the work and prepared manuscripts for the press, while Froben had the printing under his charge. In later years, after Amorbach's death, the marked advance in the output of the firm as regards type and paper and title-pages and designs may be attributed to Froben, who was man of business enough to realize the importance of getting good men to serve him--Erasmus to edit books, Gerbell and Oecolampadius to correct the proofs, Graf and Holbein to provide the ornaments. For thirteen years he was Erasmus' printer-in-chief, and produced edition after edition of his works, both small and great; and whilst he lived, he had the call of almost everything that Erasmus wrote. It is quite exceptional to find any book of Erasmus published for the first time elsewhere during these years 1514-27. A few were given to Martens at Louvain, mostly during Erasmus' residence there, 1517-21, one or two to Schurer at Strasburg, one or two more to a Cologne printer; but for one of these there is evidence to show that Froben had declined it, because his presses were too busy. It is pleasant to find that the harmony of this long co-operation was never disturbed. Erasmus occasionally lets fall a word of disapproval; but what friends have ever seen eye to eye in all matters? When Froben died in October 1527 as the result of a fall from an upper window, Erasmus wrote with most heartfelt sorrow a eulogy of his friend. 'He was the soul of honesty himself, and slow to think evil of others; so that he was often taken in. Of envy and jealousy he knew as little as the blind do of colour. He was swift to forgive and to forget even serious injuries. To me he was most generous, ever seeking excuses to make me presents. If I ordered my servants to buy anything, such as a piece of cloth for a new coat, he would get hold of the bill and pay it off; and he would accept nothing himself, so that it was only by similar artifices that I could make him any return. He was enthusiastic for good learning, and felt his work to be his own reward. It was delightful to see him with the first pages of some new book in his hands, some author of whom he approved. His face was radiant with pleasure, and you might have supposed that he had already received a large return of profit. The excellence of his work would bear comparison with that of the best printers of Venice and Rome. Six years before his death he slipped down a flight of steps on to a brickwork floor, and injured himself so severely that he never properly recovered: but he always pretended that the effects had passed away. Last year he was seized with a serious pain in his right ankle, and the doctors could do nothing except to suggest that the foot should be taken off. Some alleviation was brought by the skill of a foreign physician, but there was still a great deal of pain in the toes. However, he was not to be deterred from making the usual journeys to Frankfort (in March and September for the book-fairs) and rode on horseback both ways. We entreated him to take more care of himself, to wear more clothes when it was cold; but he could not be induced to give in to old age, and abandon the habits of a vigorous lifetime. All lovers of good learning will unite to lament his loss.' If Erasmus was fortunate in his printer, he was still more fortunate in the friend and confidant whom he found awaiting him at Basle, Beat Bild of Rheinau, 1485-1547, known then and now as Beatus Rhenanus, one of the choicest spirits of his own or any age. His father was a butcher of Rheinau who left his home because of continued ravages by the Rhine which threatened to sweep away the town. Settling in Schlettstadt, a free city of the Empire near by, he rose to the highest civic offices, and sent his son to the Latin school under first Crato Hofman and then Gebwiler. Beatus was contemporary there with Bruno and Basil Amorbach, and staying on longer than they did, rose to be a 'praefect' in the school, which a few years later, according to Thomas Platter, had 900 boys in it. This number seems large for a town of perhaps not more than four or five thousand inhabitants; but it was equalled by the school at Alcmar in the days of Bartholomew of Cologne, and by Deventer, as we have seen, it was far surpassed. In 1503 Beatus went to Paris, and there overtook the Amorbach boys who had two years' start of him; becoming B.A. in 1504 and M.A. in 1505, a year before Bruno. After his degree he stayed on in Paris as corrector to the press of Henry Stephanus for two years; and then returning home engaged himself in a similar capacity to Schurer at Strasburg, also giving a hand with editions of new texts. In 1511, attracted by the fame of the good Dominican, John Cono, he went to Basle to work for the elder Amorbach and take lessons under Cono with the sons. When Erasmus came, Beatus at once fell under his spell, and subordinated his own projects to the requirements of his friend's more important undertakings. That indeed is Beatus' great characteristic throughout his life. He was well off, for his father 'by the blessing of God on his ingenious endeavour had arisen to an ample estate'; and thus the son was not obliged to seek reward. He gave himself, therefore, unstintingly to any work that needed doing for his friends, editing, correcting, supervising; and usually suppressing the part he had taken in it. His own achievements are nevertheless considerable. The bibliographers have discovered sixty-eight books in which he had a capital share; and though a large number of these appear to be mere reprints of books printed in France or Italy--the law of copyright in those days was, as might be expected, uncertain--, there is a residue in which he really did original work: some notes on the history and geography of Germany which he composed, and editions of Pliny's Natural History, Tacitus, Tertullian and Velleius Paterculus--the latter having an almost romantic interest from the fortunes of the manuscript on which it is based. A measure of the confidence which Erasmus subsequently reposed in both his judgement and his good faith is that in 1519 and 1521, when he had decided to publish some more of his letters, he just sent to Beatus bundles of the rough drafts he had preserved, and told him to select and edit them at his discretion. A sketch of Beatus, written at his death by John Sturm of Strasburg, the friend of Ascham, gives a picture of the life he led at Schlettstadt during his last twenty years: the plain, simple living in the great house inherited from his father, without luxury or display, attended upon by an old maidservant and a young servant-pupil, given to friends but not allowing hospitality to infringe upon his work, lapped in such quiet as to seem almost solitude; the daily round being dinner at ten, in the afternoon a walk in his gardens outside the city walls, and supper at six. Gentle and accommodating, modest and diffident in spite of his learning, reluctant to talk of himself, and slow to take offence--it is no wonder that he held the affections of his friends. Well might Erasmus liken him to the blessed man of the first Psalm, 'who shall be as a tree planted by the waterside.' We have seen Beatus' enthusiasm for queenly Basle. Of his native town he was not so proud; though it has good Romanesque work in St. Fides' church and rich Gothic in the minster, and though Wimpfeling had just built a beautiful Renaissance house with Italian designs round its bay window and medallions of Roman Emperors on the pilasters. The school, too, was famous throughout Germany; and Lazarus Schurer had started a creditable printing-press. Yet to Beatus the minster is only 'rather good, but modern', the Dominicans' house 'mediocre', the nuns' buildings 'unhealthy', the people 'simple and resourceless, as you would expect with vine-growers, and too fond of drinking'. 'There is nothing remarkable here', he says, 'but the fortifications; indeed we are a stronghold rather than a city. The walls are circular, built of elegant brick and with towers of some pretensions.' What pleased him as much as anything was that the ramparts were covered in for almost the whole of their length, and thus afforded protection to the night-guards against what he calls 'celestial injuries'. One reason that we know Beatus so well is that his library has survived almost intact, as well as a great number of letters which he received. At his death he left his books to the town of Schlettstadt; and there they still are, forming the major and by far the most important part of the town library. It is a wonderful collection of about a thousand volumes, some of them extremely rare; many bought by him in his Paris days, some presents from friends sent or brought from far with dedicatory inscriptions. Hardly a book has not his name and the date when he acquired it, or other marks of his use. But they have not yet come to their full usefulness, for there is no adequate catalogue of them. In many cases their direct value has passed away. No one wishes to read the classics or the Fathers in the texts current in the sixteenth century; yet behind printed books lie manuscripts, and from examination of manuscripts on which printed texts are based, we can gather many useful indications to throw light on the tradition of the classics, the gradual steps by which the past has come down to us. Besides such texts there are multitudes of original compositions of Beatus' own period, books of great value for the history of scholarship; many of them requiring to be dated with more precision than is attainable on the surface. It will be a signal service to learning when a trained bibliographer takes Beatus Rhenanus' books in hand and gives us a scientific catalogue. These were some of the friends who were in Basle when Erasmus first began to think of sending his work there to be printed. By the summer of 1514 the preliminary negotiations had been satisfactorily concluded and he set out. The story which he tells of his arrival is well known. Amorbach was now dead; so he marched into the printing-house and asked for Froben. 'I handed him a letter from Erasmus, saying that I was a familiar friend of his, and that he had charged me to arrange for the publication of his works; that any undertaking I made would be as valid as if made by him: finally, that I was so like Erasmus that to see me was to see him. He laughed and saw through the joke. His father-in-law, old Lachner, paid my bill at the inn, and carried me off, horse and baggage to his house.' He was not at first sure whether he would stay: he might get the work better done at Venice or at Rome. But the attractions of the printer's house and circle were not to be resisted; and gradually, one after another, the books which he had brought were undertaken by Froben, a new edition of the _Adagia_, Seneca, the New Testament, Jerome. The way in which the printing was carried out illustrates the critical standards of the age. Erasmus was absent from Basle during the greater part of the time when Seneca was coming through the press; and the proofs were corrected by Beatus Rhenanus and a young man named Nesen. Under such circumstances a modern author would feel that he had only himself to thank for any defects in the book. Not so Erasmus. He boils over with annoyance against the correctors for the blunders they let pass. The idea that so magnificent a person as an editor or author should correct proofs had not arisen. It was the business of the young men who had been hired to do this drudgery; and all blame rested with them. So far as the evidence goes, it was the same all through Erasmus' life. In the case of one of his most virulent apologies (1520) he says that he corrected all the proofs himself; but from the stress he lays on the loss of time involved, it is clear that he regarded this as something exceptional, and not to be repeated. With the _Adagia_ published by Aldus (1508) he says that he cast his eye over the final proofs, not in search of errors, but to see whether he wished to make any changes. But in the main his books, like everybody else's, were left to the care of others. The fact is that in the splendour of the new invention of printing, the possibilities of accompanying error had not been realized. In just the same spirit the idea went abroad that when a book had been printed, its manuscript original had no value. We have seen how Erasmus was allowed to carry off the manuscript of Valla from Louvain to Paris. Aldus received codices from all parts of Europe, sent by owners with the request that they should be printed; but no desire for their return. In 1531 Simon Grynaeus came from Basle to Oxford and was given precious texts from college libraries to take back with him and have published. Generosity helped to mislead. To keep a manuscript to oneself for personal enjoyment seemed churlish. If it were printed, any one who wished might enjoy it. That any degeneration might come in by the way, that the printed text might contain blunders, was not perceived. The process seemed so straightforward, so mechanical; as certain a method of reproduction as photography. But the human element in it was overlooked. _Humanum est errare_. It was the same with the New Testament as with Seneca. When the form of the work had been decided upon--a Greek text side by side with Erasmus' translation, and notes at the end--two young scholars, Gerbell and Oecolampadius, were installed in charge of the book. For the Greek Erasmus had expected, he tells us, to find at Basle some manuscript which he could give to the printers without further trouble. But he was annoyed to find that there was none available which was good enough, and he positively had to go through the one that he selected from beginning to end before he could entrust it to his correctors. In addition to this he put into their hands another manuscript, which had been borrowed from Reuchlin; presumably to help them in case they should have any difficulty in deciphering the first. However, after a time he discovered that they were taking liberties, and following the text of the second manuscript, wherever they preferred its reading: as though the editing were in their own hands. He took it from them and found another manuscript which agreed more closely with the first. For the book of Revelation only one Greek manuscript was available; and at the end five verses and a bit were lacking through the loss of a leaf. Erasmus calmly translated them back from the Latin, but had the grace to warn the reader of the fact in his notes. As to the translation, an interesting point is that it is modified considerably from the translation which he had made in 1505-6, and is brought closer to the text of the Vulgate. In the second edition of the New Testament, March 1519, he explains in a preliminary apology that he had changed back in this way in 1516 from fear lest too great divergence from the Vulgate might give offence. But the book was on the whole so well received that he soon realized that the time was ripe for more advanced scholarship. His earlier version was the best that he could do, in simplicity of style and fidelity to the original. Accordingly in 1519 he introduced it with the most minute care, even such trivial variations as _ac_ or _-que_ for _et_ being restored. The transformation was not without its effects. Numerous passages were objected to by the orthodox; as for example, when he translates [Greek: logos] in the first verse of St. John's Gospel by _sermo_, instead of _verbum_, as in the Vulgate and the edition of 1516. The New Testament appeared in March 1516, dedicated by permission to the Pope; in the following autumn came Jerome, in nine volumes, of which four were by Erasmus, dedicated to the Archbishop of Canterbury: and thus the Head of the Church and one of his most exalted suffragans lent their sanction to an advancement of learning which theological faculties in the universities viewed with the gravest suspicion. Erasmus had now reached his highest point. He had equipped himself thoroughly for the work he desired to do. He was the acknowledged leader of a large band of scholars, who looked to him for guidance and were eagerly ready to second his efforts; and with the resources of Froben's press at his disposal, nothing seemed beyond his powers and his hopes. Wherever his books spread, his name was honoured, almost reverenced. Material honours and wealth flowed in upon him; and he was continually receiving enthusiastic homage from strangers. He saw knowledge growing from more to more, and bringing with it reform of the Church and that steady betterment of the evils of the world which wise men in every age desire. In all this his part was to be that of a leader: not the only one, but in the front rank. He enjoyed his position, feeling that he was fitted for it; but he was not puffed up. In his dreams of what he would do with his life, he had ever seen himself advancing not the name of Erasmus but the glory of God. In his later years he became impatient of criticism, and resented with great bitterness even difference of opinion, unless expressed with the utmost caution; to hostile critics his language is often quite intolerable. But the spirit underlying this is not mere vanity. No doubt it wounded him to be evil spoken of, to have his pre-eminence called in question, to be shown to have made mistakes: but the real ground of his resentment was rather vexation that anything should arise to mar the unanimity of the humanist advance toward wider knowledge. Conscious of singleness of purpose, it was a profound disappointment to him to have his sincerity doubted, to be treated as an enemy by men who should have been his friends. Into the discord of the years that followed I do not propose to enter. They were years of disappointment to Erasmus; disappointment that grew ever deeper, as he saw the steady growth of reform broken by the sudden shocks of the Reformation and barred by subsequent reaction. Throughout it all he never lost his faith in the spread of knowledge, and gave his energies consistently to help this great cause. He produced more editions of the Fathers, either wholly or in part: Cyprian, Arnobius, Hilary, Jerome again, Chrysostom, Irenaeus, Athanasius, Ambrose, Augustine, Lactantius, Alger, Basil, Haymo, and Origen; the last named in the concluding months of his life. The storms that beat round him could not stir him from his principles. To neither reformer nor reactionary would he concede one jot, and in consequence from each side he was vilified. He was drawn into a series of deplorable controversies, which estranged him from many; but of his real friends he lost not one. It is pleasant to see the devotion with which Beatus Rhenanus and Boniface Amerbach comforted his last years; never wavering in the service to which they had plighted themselves in the enthusiasm of youth. The chance survival of the following note enables us to stand by Erasmus' bedside in his last hours. It was written by one of the Frobens, possibly his godson and namesake, Erasmius, to Boniface Amerbach, and it may be dated early in July 1536, perhaps on the 11th, the last sunset that Erasmus was to see. 'I have just visited the Master, but without his knowing. He seems to me to fail very much: for his tongue cleaves to his palate, so that you can scarcely understand him when he speaks. He is drawing his breath so deep and quick, that I cannot but wonder whether he will live through the night. So far he has taken nothing to-day except some chicken-broth. I have sent for Sebastian <Munster, the Hebraist>. If he comes, I will have him introduced into the room, but without the Master's knowledge, in order that he may hear what I have heard. I am sending you this word, so that you may come quickly.' Erasmus' last words were in his own Dutch speech: 'Liever Got'. No account of Erasmus must omit to tell how he laboured for peace. Well he might. In his youth he had seen his native Holland torn between the Hoeks and the Cabeljaus, the Duke of Gueldres and the Bishop of Utrecht, with occasional intervention by higher powers. Year after year the war had dragged on, with no decisive settlement, no relief to the poor. One of his friends, Cornelius Gerard, wrote a prose narrative of it; another, William Herman, composed a poem of Holland weeping for her children and would not be comforted. _Dulce bellum inexpertis._ War sometimes seems purifying and ennobling to those whose own lives have never been jeoparded, who have never seen men die: but not so to those who have known and suffered. Throughout his life Erasmus never wearied of ensuing peace; and for its sake he reproved even kings. In 1504 he was allowed to deliver a panegyric of congratulation before the Archduke Philip the Fair, who had just returned from Spain to the Netherlands; and after sketching a picture of a model prince, inculcated upon him the duty of maintaining peace. In 1514 he wrote to one of his patrons, brother of the Bishop of Cambray, a letter on the wickedness of war, obviously designed for publication and actually translated into German by an admirer a few years later, to give it wider circulation. In 1515 the enlarged _Adagia_ contained an essay on the same theme, under the title quoted above: words which, translated into English, were again and again reprinted during the nineteenth century by Peace Associations and the Society of Friends. In 1516 he was appointed Councillor to Philip's son, Charles, who at 16 had just succeeded to the crowns of Spain. His first offering to his young sovereign was counsel on the training of a Christian prince, with due emphasis on his obligations for peace. In 1517 he greeted the new Bishop of Utrecht, Philip of Burgundy, with a 'Complaint of Peace cast forth from all lands', _Querela Pacis vndique profligatae_. And besides these direct invocations, in his other writings, his pen frequently returns upon the same high argument. For a brief period in his life it seemed as though peace might come back. Maximilian's death in 1519 followed by Charles' election to the Empire placed the sovereignty of Western and Central Europe in the hands of three young men, who were chivalrous and impressionable, Henry and Francis and Charles: only the year before they had been treating for universal peace. If they would really act in concord, it seemed as though the Golden Age might return, and Christendom show a united face against the watchful and unwearying Turk. But though the sky was clear, the weather was what Oxfordshire folk call foxy. Strife of nations, strife of creeds cannot in a moment be allayed. Suddenly the little clouds upon the horizon swelled up and covered the heaven with the darkness of night; and before the dawn broke into new hope, Erasmus had laid down his pen for ever, and was at rest from his service to the Prince of Peace. VI FORCE AND FRAUD As you stand on the Piazza dei Signori at Verona, at one side rises the massive red-brick tower of the Scaliger palace, lofty, castellated at its top, with here and there a small window, deep set in the old masonry, and the light that is allowed to pass inwards, grudgingly crossed by bars of rusty iron--a place of defence and perhaps of tyranny, within which life is secure indeed, but grim and sombre. Opposite, in an angle of the square, stands a very different building, the Palazzo del Consiglio. It has only two storeys, but each of these is high and airy; above is a fine chamber, through whose ample windows streams in the sun; below is a pleasant loggia, supported by slender columns. Marble cornices and balustrades give a sense of richness, and the wall-spaces are bright with painting and ornament. The spacious galleries invite to enjoyment, to pace their length in free light-hearted talk, or to stand and watch the life moving below, with the sense of gay predominance that the advantage of height confers. The two buildings typify most aptly the ages to which they belong: the contrast between them is as the gulf between the Middle Ages and the Renaissance. Step back in thought to the twelfth century, and we find civilization struggling for its very existence. Few careers were possible. Above all was the soldier, ruthlessly spreading murder and desolation, and expecting no mercy when his own turn came; in the middle were the merchant and the craftsman, relying on strong city walls and union with their fellows, and the lawyer building up a system, and profiting when men fell out; underneath was the peasant, pitiably dependent on others. On all sides was bestial cruelty and reckless ignorance: the overmastering care of life to find shelter and protection. How strong, how luxuriously strong seemed that tower, with so few apertures to admit the enemy and the pursuer! once inside, who would wish to stir abroad? For the man who would think or study there was only one way of life, to become sacrosanct in the direct service of God. The Church, with splendid ideals before it, was exerting itself to crush barbarism, and its forts were garrisoned by men of spirit, whose courage was not that of the destroyer. In the monasteries, if anywhere, was to be found that peace which the world cannot give, the life of contemplation, in which can be felt the hunger and thirst after knowledge. By the middle of the sixteenth century the scene has changed. Much blood has flowed through the arches of time; and now the conqueror has learnt from the Church to be merciful, from nascent science to be strong. He can spread peace wherever his sword reaches; and fear that of old ruled all under the sun, now can walk only in dark places. Walls no longer bring comfort, and soon they are to be thrown down to make way for the broad streets which will carry the movement outwards; and, most significant change, the country house with 'its gardens and its gallant walks' takes the place of the grange. From the thraldom of terror what an escape, to light, air, freedom, activity! The gates of joy are opened, the private citizen learns to live, to follow choice not necessity, to give the reins to his spirit and take hold on the gifts that Nature spreads before him. In the pursuit of peace, human progress has lain in the enlargement of the units of government capable of holding together; from villages to towns, from towns to provinces, from provinces to nations. The last step had been the achievement of the Middle Ages, though even by the end of the fifteenth century it was not yet complete: the twentieth century finds us reaching forward to a new advance. We have spoken of Erasmus' efforts to bring back peace from her exile, of the experiences of his youth when Holland had wept for her children. In 1517, when he wrote his 'Complaint of Peace cast forth from all lands', he was a man and one of Charles' councillors; but Holland was still weeping and refusing comfort. She had good reason. The provinces of the Netherlands were disunited, no sway imposed upon them with strength enough first to restrain and then to knit together. On either side of the Zuider Zee lay two bitter enemies: Holland, which had accepted the Burgundian yoke, and Friesland, which after a long struggle against foreign domination, had been reduced by the rule of Saxon governors, Duke Albert and Duke George. To the south was Gueldres, which, under its Duke, Charles of Egmont, had thrown in its lot with France against Burgundy, and was continually instigating the subjugated Frieslanders to rebellion. Then was war in the gates. This was the kind of thing that happened. In 1516, after a fresh outbreak of the ceaseless struggle, Henry of Nassau, Stadhouder of Holland and Zeeland, ordered that all Gueldrians or Frieslanders who showed their faces in his dominions should be put to death; and some who were resident at the Hague were executed on the charge of sending aid to their compatriots. A raid by the Gueldrians ended in the massacre of Nieuwpoort. Nassau replied by ravaging the country up to the walls of Arnhem, the Gueldres capital. Duke Charles had terrible forces at command. A body of mercenary troops, known as the Black Band, had been used by George of Saxony for the repression of Friesland in 1514, and since then had been seeking employment wherever they could find it. At the same time, one of the conquered Frieslanders, known as Long Peter, had turned to piracy as an effective way of revenging himself on Holland. Proclaiming himself 'King of the Sea', he seized every ship that came in his way, showing no mercy to Hollanders and holding all others to ransom. In May 1517, the Duke, violating a truce not yet expired, renewed hostilities. The Black Band, some of whom had strayed as far as Rouen in quest of fighting, flocked back. At the end of June 3000 of them crossed the Zuider Zee in Long Peter's ships and disembarked suddenly at Medemblik, in North Holland. The town was quickly set on fire, and everything destroyed except the citadel; the fleet carrying back the first spoils. Then they marched southwards, burning what they list; and happy were those whose offer of ransom was accepted, to escape with plunder only. There was no fixed plan. The murderous horde wandered along, turning to right or left as fancy suggested. After burning five country towns, they appeared at Alcmar, the chief town of North Holland, into which the most precious possessions of the neighbourhood had been hurriedly conveyed. By a heavy payment, the burghers purchased immunity from the flames; but for eight days the town was given up to the lust and ferocity of an uncontrolled soldiery, from whose senseless destruction it took thirty years to recover. Egmond, with its great abbey, was pillaged; and then it was Haarlem's turn to suffer. But by this time resistance had been organized. Troops had been called back from garrison work in Friesland, and a strong line drawn in front of Haarlem. Headed off, the Black Band turned suddenly away. Passing Amsterdam and Culemborg, it penetrated down into South Holland, whence it would be easy to pass back into Gueldres. Asperen was its next prey. Three times the citizens beat off the cruel foe: a few more to man their walls, and they might have driven him right away, to overwhelm others less fortunate and less brave. But it was not to be. At the fourth attempt the marauders were successful, and massacre ensued. Death to the men, worse than death to the women: nor age nor innocence could touch those black hearts. A schoolmaster with his boys fled into a church and hid trembling in the rood-loft. Before long they were discovered. Thirsting for blood, some of the monsters rushed up the steps and tossed the shrieking victims over on to the pikes of their comrades below. When all the butchery was finished, a few helpless and infirm survivors were dragged out of hiding-places. The miserable creatures were driven out of the city and the gates barred in their faces. For a month the Black Band held Asperen as a standing camp, living upon the provisions stored up by the dead. Then Nassau came with troops and drove them forth, pursuing into Gueldres, where he burned '46 good villages' in revenge. The sight of fire blazing to heaven is appalling enough when men are ranged all on one side, and the battle is with the element alone. Our peace-lapped imaginations cannot picture the terror of flames kindled aforethought. As those poor fugitives scattered over the country, cowering into the darkness out of the fire's searching glow, they cannot but have recalled the words: 'Woe unto them that are with child and to them that give suck in those days.' At least they could give thanks that their flight was not in the winter. Meanwhile Long Peter had not been idle. On 14 August he had a great battle with the Hollanders off Hoorn. Eleven ships he took, and cast their crews into the sea: 500 men, save one, a Gueldrian, struggling in the calm summer waters and stretching out their hands to a foe who knew no pity. In September he surrounded a merchant fleet. The Easterlings escaped at heavy ransom; but the crews of three Holland vessels were flung to the waves. Then he carried the war on to the land, to glean what the Black Band had left. With 1200 men he took Hoorn by escalade; plunder-laden and sated, they returned to the sea. Nothing was too small or too helpless for his rapacity. Along the coast they picked up a barge of Enckhuizen. Its only crew, master and mate, were thrown overboard, and Peter's fleet sailed upon its way. We must remember that the provinces engaged in this internecine strife were not widely diverse in race, and that to-day they are peacefully united under one governance. The winter of 1517-18 was spent by the Black Band in Friesland. Three thousand men who are prepared to take by force what is not given to them, do not lie hungry in the cold. We may be sure that under them the land had no rest. At Easter they began to move southwards in quest of other victims and other employ. But as they halted between Venlo and Roermond, resistance confronted them. Nassau had arrayed by his side the Archbishop of Cologne and the Dukes of Juliers and Cleves: the gates of the cities were closed and the ferry-boats that would have carried them across the Maas had been kept on the other side. Caught in a trap, the freebooters promised to lay down their weapons and disperse. The disarmament proceeded quietly till one of the company-leaders refused to part with a bombard, the new invention, of which he was very proud. A trumpeter, seeing the man hesitate, sounded a warning, and the containing troops stood on the alert. Readiness led to action. Suddenly they fell on the helpless horde, for whom there was no safety but in flight. A thousand were massacred before Nassau and his confederates could check their men. Erasmus was about to set out from Louvain to Basle, to work at a new edition of the New Testament. Bands such as these were, of course, a peril to travellers. Half exultant, half disgusted, he wrote to More: 'These fellows were stripped before disbandment: so they will have all the more excuse for fresh plundering. This is consideration for the people! They were so hemmed in that not one of them could have escaped: yet the Dukes were for letting them go scot-free. It was mere chance that any of them were killed. Fortunately, a man blew his trumpet: there was at once an uproar, and more than a thousand were cut down. The Archbishop alone was sound. He said that, priest though he was, if the matter were left to him, he would see that such things should never occur again. The people understand the position, but are obliged to acquiesce.' To Colet he exclaimed more bitterly: 'It is cruel! The nobles care more for these ruffians than for their own subjects. The fact is, they count on them to keep the people down.' Let us be thankful that Europe to-day has no experience of such mercenaries. A sign of the troubles of the times was the existence of the French order of Trinitarians for the redemption of prisoners. This need had been known even when Rome's power was at its height, for Cicero[25] specifies the redemption of men captured by pirates as one of the ways in which the generously minded were wont to spend their money. The practice lasted down continuously through the Middle Ages. Gaguin, the historian of France, Erasmus' first patron in Paris, was for many years General of the Trinitarians, and made a journey to Granada to redeem prisoners who had been taken fighting against the Moors. Even in the eighteenth century, church offertories in England were asked and given to loose captives out of prison. [25] _De Officiis_, 2. 16. Where the king's peace is not kept and the king's writ does not run, men learn to rely on themselves. Those who protect themselves with strength, discover the efficacy of force, and soon are not content to apply it merely on the defensive. It is not surprising, therefore, to find in Erasmus' day many cases of resort to violence to remedy defective titles. Nowadays we never hear of a defeated candidate for a coveted post trying to obtain by force and right of possession the position which has been given to another. It is unthinkable, for instance, that a Warden of Merton duly elected should have to eject from college some disappointed rival who had possessed himself of the Warden's office and house: as actually happened in 1562. It is, perhaps, not so much that we have become more law-abiding, as that we realize that any such attempt must be fruitless when the strong arm of the State is at hand, ready to assert the rights of the lawful claimant. In Erasmus' day might was often right. Thus in 1492 the Abbot of St. Bertin's at St. Omer died, and the monks elected in his place a certain James du Val, who was duly consecrated in July 1493. The Bishop of Cambray, however, had had the abbey in his eye for his younger brother Antony, who had been ejected ten years before by the powerful family of Arenberg from the Abbey of St. Trond in Limburg, and meanwhile had been living unemployed at Louvain. The Bishop persuaded the Pope to annul du Val's election and appoint Antony in his place, probably on some technical ground. Armed with this permission he appeared at St. Omer in October 1493 and violently installed his brother; who held the abbey undisturbed till his death nearly forty years later. The Bishop's success with the Pope is the more noteworthy, as for a period of seven years he himself had refused to surrender an abbey near Mons to a papal nominee, who was not strong enough to wrest it from him. Again, during the five years of the English occupation of Tournay, 1513-18, there was a continual struggle between two rival bishops, appointed when the see fell vacant in 1513--Wolsey nominated by Henry VIII and Louis Guillard by the Pope. It goes without saying that Wolsey won; and Guillard did not get in till 1519, the year after the evacuation by the English. Fernand tells a story of violence at the monastery of Souillac, which was closely connected with his own at Chezal-Benoît. When the Abbot died, a monk of St. Martin's at Tours, who was a native of Souillac, with the aid of a brother who was a court official, got himself put in as abbot before the monks had time to elect. They appealed to the king, but quite in vain; for instead of giving ear to their complaint he sent down a troop of soldiers to support the invading Abbot. It was a grievous time for the poor monks. The garrison did whatever they pleased: imprisoned the faithful servants of the monastery, introduced hunting-dogs and birds, roared out their licentious choruses to the sound of lute and pipe, and gave up the whole day to games of every sort, in which the weaker brethren joined. Those who refused to do so or to violate their vows by eating flesh were insulted; and as they held divine service, coarse laughter and clamour interrupted them. Strict watch was kept upon them, too, lest they should speak or write to any one of their injuries. We need not deplore the passing of such 'good old days'. It is necessary to realize the certainty which in the sixteenth century men allowed themselves to feel on subjects of the highest importance; for nothing short of this intense conviction is adequate to explain the ferocity with which they treated those over whom they had triumphed in matters of religion. Burning at the stake was the common method of expiation. The fires of Smithfield consumed brave, humble victims, while Erasmus jested over the rising price of wood, In France the Inquisition entrapped many men of literary distinction, Louis de Berquin 1529, John de Caturce 1532, Stephen Dolet 1546; on the charge of heresy or atheism which could only with great difficulty be refuted. To kill a fellow-creature or to watch him put to death would be physically impossible to most of us, in our unruffled lives; where from year's-end to year's-end we hardly even hear a word spoken in anger. In consequence it is difficult for us to understand the indifference with which in the sixteenth century men of the most advanced refinement regarded the sufferings of others. Between rival combatants and claimants for thrones fierce measures are more intelligible; especially in days when stone walls did not a prison make--such a prison, at least, as the prisoner might not some day hope to break. Things had improved somewhat since the Middle Ages. We hear less of the varieties of mutilation, the blinding, loss of nose, hands, breasts, which were the portion of either sex indiscriminately, when the death-penalty had not been fully earned. But it was still fashionable to suspend your adversary in a cage and torture him, or to confine him for years in a dungeon which light and air could never reach. The executions of heretics became public shows, carefully arranged beforehand, and attended by rank and fashion; to whom to show any sign of sensibility would have been disgrace. Impossible it seems to believe. We must remember that the perpetrators of such noble acts had persuaded themselves that they were serving God. They were as confident as Joshua or as Jehu that they knew His will; and they had no hesitation in carrying it out. If you may take a man's life in God's name, there can be no objection to telling him a lie. The violation of the safe-conduct which brought Hus to Constance was a fine precedent for breaking faith with a heretic. When Luther came to Worms to answer for himself before Emperor and Diet, the Pope's representatives reminded Charles of the principle which had lighted the fires at Constance and ridded the world of a dangerous fellow. Fortunately Charles had German subjects to consider, and the Germans had a reputation for good faith of which they were proud. Let us credit him too with some generosity; he was scarcely 21, and the young find the arguments of expediency difficult. Anyway, Luther with the help of his friends got off safely. The intrigues and subterfuges of diplomatists are still very often revolting to honest men. But there is some excuse for them; they act on behalf of nations, who have to look to themselves for protection and can rarely afford to be generous and aboveboard. But so barefaced a violation of faith to an individual before the eyes of the world would no longer be tolerated, not even in the name of the Lord. The following example will illustrate the ideas of the age about the treatment of heretics; an example of faith continually broken and of incredible cruelty. In 1545 the Cardinal de Tournon and Baron d'Oppède, the first president of the Parliament of Aix, were moved to extirpate that plague-spot of Southern France, the Vaudois communities of Dauphiné, who went on still in their wickedness and heresy. The intriguers prepared a decree revoking the letters patent of 1544, which had suspended proceedings against the Vaudois; and when the keeper of the seals refused to present it to the king for signature, by unlawful means they presented it through a secretary and unlawfully procured the affixion of the seals. But this was a mere trifle: greater things were to follow. On 13 April 1545 the Baron entered the Vaudois territory at the head of a body of troops, reinforced by the papal Vice-legate and a fanatical mob of countryfolk. The inhabitants offered little resistance, and soon villages were in flames on every side. At Mérindol the soldiers found only one inhabitant, a poor idiot; all the rest had fled. The Baron ordered him to be shot. Above by the castle some women were discovered hiding in a church; after indescribable outrages they were thrown headlong from the rocks. Cabrières being fortified was prepared to stand a siege; but on a promise of their lives and property the inhabitants opened the gates. Without a moment's hesitation the Baron gave orders to put them all to death. The soldiers refused to break plighted faith; but the mob had no scruples and the ghastly work began. 'A multitude of women and children had fled to the church: the furious horde rushed headlong among them and committed all the crimes of which hell could dream. Other women had hidden themselves in a barn. The Baron caused them to be shut up there and fire set to the four corners. A soldier rushed to save them and opened the door, but the women were driven back into the fire with blows of pikes. Twenty-five women had taken shelter in a cavern at some distance from the town. The Vice-legate caused a great fire to be lighted at the entrance: five years afterwards the bones of the victims were found in the inmost recesses.'[26] La Coste had the same fate; the promise made and immediately violated, and then all the terrors of hell. In the course of a few weeks 3000 men and women were massacred, 256 executed, and six or seven hundred sent to the galleys; while children unnumbered were sold as slaves. The offence of these poor people was that they had been seeking in their own fashion to draw nearer to the God of Love. [26] R.C. Christie, _Étienne Dolet_, ch. xxiv. But public morals ever lag behind private; and in the sixteenth century private standards of truth and honour were not so high as they are now. Here again we may find one main cause in the absence of personal security. In these days of settled government, when thought and speech are free, it is scarcely possible to realize what men's outlook upon life must have been when walls had ears and a man's foes might be those of his own household. In Henry VII's reign England had not had time to forget the Wars of the Roses, and claimants to the throne were still occasionally executed in the Tower. Even under the mighty hand of Henry VIII ministers rose and fell with alarming rapidity. When princes contend, private men do well to hold their peace; lest light utterances be brought up against them so soon as Fortune's wheel has swung to the top those that were underneath. In matters of faith, too, it was supremely necessary to be careful; for unguarded words might arouse suspicions of heresy, to be followed by the frightful penalties with which heresy was extirpated. On great questions, therefore, men must have kept their tongues and thoughts in a strict reserve: candour and openness, those valuable solvents of social humours, can only have been practised by the unwise. Truth is one of those things in which to him that hath shall be given. It is a common jest in the East that professional witnesses come daily to the law-courts waiting to be hired by either side. The harder truth is to discover, with the less are men content. With many inducements to dissimulation and no great expectations of personal honesty, men are likely to traffic with expediency and to be adept in justifying themselves when they forsake the truth. Some examples of this may be found in Erasmus' letters. When he was in Italy in 1509, Henry VII died. His English patron, Lord Mountjoy, was intimate with Henry VIII. A few weeks after the accession a letter from Mountjoy reached Erasmus, inviting him to return to England and promising much in the young king's name. The letter was in fact written by Ammonius, an Italian, who afterwards became Latin secretary to the king. He was recognized as one of the best scholars of the day; and there can be no doubt that the letter was his composition. Mountjoy was a sufficiently keen scholar to sit up late at night over his books, and to be chosen as a companion to the young Prince Henry in his studies; but such autograph letters by him as survive show that he wrote with difficulty even in English, and it is impossible to suppose that he would have kept an accomplished Latinist in his employ merely to act as copyist to his effusions. Moreover, Erasmus, writing a few years later, says that he recognized the letter as Ammonius' work, not from the handwriting, which he had forgotten, but from the style. Nevertheless he allowed it to be published in 1519 as his patron's. Of his connivance in the matter there is actual proof; for in 1517 he had the letter copied by one of his servant-pupils into a letter-book, and added the heading himself. What he first wrote was: 'Andreas Ammonius Erasmo Roterodamo S.D.,' but afterwards he scratched out Ammonius' name and wrote in 'Guilhelmus Montioius'. In a sense, of course, he was correct; for the letter was written in Mountjoy's name. But he cannot have been unaware that in an age which valued elegant Latinity so highly, his patron would be gratified by the ascription. It was no great matter, and did no harm to any one. But it throws some doubt on Erasmus' statement as to the scholarship of Henry VIII. When Henry's book against Luther appeared in 1521, people said that Erasmus had lent him a hand. In denying the insinuation Erasmus avers that Henry was quite capable of doing the work himself, and adds that his own suspicions of Henry's capacity had been dispelled by Mountjoy, who when tutor to the young prince had preserved rough copies of Latin letters written by Henry's own hand; and these he produced to convince the doubter. Erasmus had a double motive in asserting Henry's authorship, to play the courtier and to avoid provoking Luther; and Mountjoy, as we have seen, is not above suspicion. But there is some further evidence in support of them all, prince and patron and scholar. Pace, Colet's successor at St. Paul's, speaks of hearing Henry talk Latin quickly and readily; and Giustinian, the Venetian ambassador, quotes a few remarks made to him by Henry in Latin by way of greeting. Till more evidence is forthcoming, Erasmus must be let off on this count with a Not proven. Another example of scant regard for truth is his disowning of the _Julius Exclusus_. This was a witty dialogue, in Erasmus' best style, on the death of Pope Julius II. The Pope is shown arriving at the gate of heaven, accompanied by his Genius, a sort of guardian angel, and amazed to find it locked, with no preparation at all for his reception. His amazement grows when St. Peter at length appears and makes it plain that the gate is not going to be opened, and that there is no room in heaven for Julius with his record of wars and other unchristian deeds; whereupon there is a fine set-to, and each party receives some hard knocks. That Erasmus was its author there can be no doubt; for there is evidence in two directions of the existence of a copy or copies of it in his handwriting, and we cannot suppose that at that period of his life, when he regularly had one or more servant-pupils in his employ, he would have troubled to copy out with his own hand a work of that length by another. There was nothing very outrageous in the dialogue, nothing much more than there was in the _Moria_; but it was not the sort of thing for a man to write who was so closely connected as Erasmus was with the Papal see, and who wished to stand well with it in the future. The _Julius_ appeared in print in 1517, of course anonymously, and Erasmus was pleased with its reception; but he soon found that people who were not in the secret were attributing it to him. That would never do; so he set to work to repudiate it. The friends that knew he exhorted to know nothing; the rest he endeavoured to persuade that he was not the author, using many forms of equivocation. He rises to his greatest heights in addressing cardinals. To Campegio, then in London, he writes on 1 May 1519: 'How malicious some people are! Any scandalous book that comes out they at once put down to me. That silly production, _Nemo_, they said was mine; and people would have believed them, only the author (Hutten) indignantly claimed it as his own. Then those absurd Letters (of the Obscure Men): of course I was thought to have had a hand in them. Finally, they began to say that I was the author of this book of Luther; a person I have hardly ever heard of, certainly I have not read his book. As all these failed, they are trying to fasten on me an anonymous dialogue which appears to make mock of Pope Julius. Five years ago I glanced through it, I can hardly say I read it. Afterwards I found a copy of it in Germany, under various names. Some said it was by a Spaniard, name unknown; others ascribed it to Faustus Andrelinus, others to Hieronymus Balbus. For myself I do not quite know what to think. I have my suspicions; but I haven't yet followed them up to my satisfaction. Certainly whoever wrote it was very foolish;'--that sentence was from his heart!--'but even more to blame is the man who published it. To my surprise some people attribute it to me, merely on the ground of style, when it is nothing like my style, if I am any judge: though it would not be very wonderful if others did write like me, seeing that my books are in all men's hands. I am told that your Reverence is inclined to doubt me: with a few minutes' conversation I am sure I could dispel your suspicions. Let me assure you that books of this kind written by others I have had suppressed: so it is hardly likely that I should have published such a thing myself, or ever wish to publish it.' Not bad that, from the author of the _Julius_. A fortnight later he wrote to Wolsey to much the same effect, instancing as books that had been attributed to him Hutten's _Nemo_ and _Febris_, Mosellanus' _Oratio de trium linguarum ratione_, Fisher's reply to Faber, and even More's _Utopia_. As to the _Julius_ he says: 'Plenty of people here will tell you how indignant I was some years ago when I found the book being privately passed about. I glanced through it (I can hardly be said to have read it); and I tried vigorously to get it suppressed. This is the work of the enemies of good learning, to try and fasten this book upon me.' Finally, to clinch his argument, he asseverates with audacious ingenuity: 'I have never written a book, and I never will, to which I will not affix my own name.' Jortin points out that the only thing which Erasmus specifically denies is the publication of the _Julius_. As we have seen, an author of consequence in those days rarely troubled to correct his own proof-sheets. Erasmus left his _Moria_ behind in Paris for Richard Croke to see through the press; More committed his _Utopia_ to Erasmus, who had it printed for him at Louvain; Linacre sent his translations of Galen to Paris by the hands of Lupset, who supervised the printing. It is therefore quite probable that Erasmus did not personally superintend the publication of the _Julius_; but until students of typography can tell us definitely which is the first printed edition, and where it was printed, we cannot be certain. But besides this point of practice born of convenience, there was another born of modesty. With compositions that were purely literary--poems and other creations of art and fancy, as opposed to more solid productions--the convention arose of pretending that the publication of them was due to the entreaties of friends, or even in some cases that it had been carried out by ardent admirers without the author's knowledge. Printing, with its ease of multiplication, had made publication a far more definite act than it was in the days of manuscripts. In the prefaces to his early compositions, Erasmus almost always assumes this guise. More actually wrote to Warham and to another friend that the _Utopia_ had been printed without his knowledge. Of course this was not true, but nobody misunderstood him. Dolet's _Orationes ad Tholosam_ appeared through the hand of a friend, but with the most transparent figments. There was, therefore, abundant precedent for denying authorship. But there is a difference between the light veil of modesty and clouds of dust raised in apprehension. The publication of the _Julius_ certainly placed Erasmus in a dilemma; he extricated himself by equivocation, which barely escapes from direct untruth. It is possible that a public man of his position at the present day might find himself driven to a similar method of escape from a similar indiscretion.[27] But experience has taught men not to write lampoons which they dare not avow, and a more effective law of copyright protects them against publication by pirate printers. [27] An example of this may be seen in the new _Life of Edward Bulwer, First Lord Lytton_, 1913, ii. 71-6. Bulwer-Lytton's letter, 15 March 1846, denying the authorship of the _New Timon_, might almost have been translated from Erasmus' to Campegio, except that it goes further in falsehood. VII PRIVATE LIFE AND MANNERS An interesting parallel is often drawn between Indian life to-day and the life with which we are familiar in the Bible. The women grinding at the mill, the men who take up their beds and walk, the groups that gather at the well, the potter and his wheel, the marriage-feasts, the waterpots standing ready to be filled, the maimed, the leper, and the blind--all these are everyday sights in the streets and households of modern India. But we may also make an instructive comparison between India and mediaeval, or even Renaissance, Europe. As soon as one gets away from the railway and the telegraph--indeed even where they have already penetrated--one still finds in India conditions prevailing which continued in Europe beyond the Middle Ages. The customary tie between master and servant, lasting from one generation to another, preserves the community of interest which prevented the feudal bond from being irksome. The modern severance of classes, the modern desire for aloofness, has not yet come. The servants are an integral part of the household, sharing in its ceremonies and festivities, crowding into their master's presence without impairing his privacy, and following him as escort whenever he stirs abroad. The child-marriage which we condemn in modern India, was frequently practised in Europe in the sixteenth century, when the uncertainty of life made men wish to secure the future of their children so far as they could. The foster-mothers with whom young Mughal princes found a home, whose sons they loved as their own brothers, had their counter-part in these islands as late as the days of the great Lord Cork. Walled cities with crowded houses looking into one another across narrow winding alleys, were an inevitable condition of life in sixteenth-century Europe before strong central government had made it safe to live outside the gates. Even the houses of the great were dark, airless, cramped, with tiny windows and dim, opaque glass; such as one may still see at Compton Castle in Devonshire or the Château des Comtes at Ghent. Communications moved slowly along unmetalled roads or up and down rivers. Carriages with two or four horses were occasionally used; but the ordinary traveller rode on horseback, and needy students coming to a university walked, clubbing together for a packhorse to carry their modest baggage. These are features which may still be matched in many parts of India. The ravages of plague, the absence of sanitation, the recurrence of famine and war, all combined in sixteenth-century Europe to produce an uncertainty in the tenure of life, which modern India knows only too well from all the causes except the last; but India does not follow Europe in the resulting practice of frequent remarriage on both sides. In Erasmus' day a marriage in which neither side had previously or did subsequently contract a similar relation must have been quite exceptional. A certain German lady, after one ordinary husband, became the wife of three leading Reformers in succession, Oecolampadius, Capito, and Bucer--almost an official position, it would seem. She survived them all, and when Bucer died at Cambridge in 1551, was able to return to Basle, to be buried beside Oecolampadius in the Cathedral. Katherine Parr married four times. To her first husband, who left her a widow at fifteen, she was a second wife; to her second, a third wife; to her third, who was Henry VIII, a sixth; and only her fourth was a bachelor. The custom of the year's 'doole' after the death of husband or wife was just at this period breaking down. In 1488 Edward IV declined a new marriage for his sister, Margaret of York, the new-made widow of Charles the Bold, on the ground that 'after the usage of our realms no estate or person honourable communeth of marriage within the year of their dool'. But Tudor practice was very different. For Mary, Queen of France, who married her Duke of Suffolk as soon as her six weeks of white mourning were out, there was some excuse of urgency; Henry, too, in his rapid marriage with Jane Seymour had special reasons. But Katherine Parr, when her turn to marry him came, was but a few months a widow; and later, in being on with her old love, Thomas Seymour, when her grim master was only just dead, she had no motive beyond the wishes of lovers long delayed. The Princess Mary, however, considered this latter action highly improper. John Oporinus (Herbst), the Basle printer (1507-68), had a varied experience; taking four widows to wife. At the age of 20 he married--almost, it seems, out of a sense of duty--the widow of his teacher, Xylotectus of Lucerne; an elderly lady who persecuted him sorely, and once in a passion threw dirty water over him. After eight years, two of which he had spent roving through Germany with Paracelsus, she died, leaving her property to relations. Oporinus' next widow had three children, girls, who grew up to share their mother's expensive tastes. For nearly thirty years their extravagance vexed him, though his wife had tact enough to keep from open quarrels. Then one day he returned from the Frankfort fair to find her dead of the plague. The same visitation, 1564, by carrying off first John Herwagen the younger and then Ulrich Iselin, Professor of Law at Basle, made two more widows, successively to bear Oporinus' name. Herwagen's widow, Elizabeth Holzach, was a sweet woman, but died in the fourth month of her new marriage, 17 July 1565. Iselin's was Faustina, daughter of Boniface Amerbach, born in 1530. To her seven children by Iselin, she added one for Oporinus, Emmanuel, born 25 Jan. 1568; but the father of 60 did not live six months to have pleasure in his firstborn. With such frequent changes the marriage-tie cannot have given the same personal attachment that is possible at the present day: indeed such unions can scarcely have seemed more lasting than the temporary associations of friends. One need only recall the bargainings that occur in the Paston Letters to realize that there was not much romance about their marriages, at any rate beforehand. Thus wrote Sir John Paston in 1473 of a suitor for his sister Anne: 'As for Yelverton, he said but late that he would have her if she had her money; and else not.' Thomas More is rightly regarded as a man in whom the spirit burned brighter and clearer than in most of his contemporaries; and yet his matrimonial relations savour more of convenience or even of business than of affection. For his first wife, we are told--and there is no reason to doubt the story--, his fancy had lighted on an Essex girl, the daughter of a country-gentleman; but on visiting her at home he found that she had an elder sister not yet married. Feeling that to have her younger sister married first would be a grief to the elder, he 'inclined his affection' towards her and made her his wife in place of his first choice. The interpretation that when he saw the elder sister, he preferred her before the other, might be probable to-day: to apply it to the story of More would be a case of that commonest of 'vulgar errors' in history,--judging the past by the ideas of the present. For five or six years More lived with his girl-bride, whose country training and unformed mind caused much trouble and difficulty to them both. The unequal relation between them appears in a story told by Erasmus; that More delighted her once by bringing home a present of sham jewels, and apparently did not think it necessary to undeceive her about them. Happiness came in time; but after bearing him four children, she died. Within a month the widower came to his father-confessor by night and obtained leave to be married next morning. His new wife was a middle-aged lady of no charms--indeed she seems to have been a regular shrew--who served him as a capable housekeeper and looked after his children while they were young. But she never engaged his affections; and it was his eldest daughter, Margaret, who became the chosen partner of his joys and sorrows in later years. The habitual remarriage of widows proceeded in part from the desire, or even need, for a husband's protection; and in consequence it was not only the young who were open to men's addresses. Beatus Rhenanus, writing to a servant-pupil who had recently left him to launch forth into the world, counsels him to marry, if possible, a rich and elderly widow; in order that in a few years by her death he may find himself equipped with an ample capital for his real start in life. Such advice from a man like Beatus can only have been in jest: but if there had not been some reality of actual practice, the jest would have fallen flat. Indeed Beatus goes on to indicate that this course had been taken by Reuchlin; whose elderly consort was, however, disobliging enough to live for many years. The ill-success attending Oporinus' essay in this direction we have already seen. But it was not so with all. Not infrequently Erasmus deplores the imprudence of the young men who had left his service, in allowing themselves to fall in love and marry without securing proper dowries with their young brides. He was indeed, considering his natural shrewdness, singularly ignorant of women; as his advice to youthful husbands sometimes shows. To one, for example, who had written to announce that before long he hoped to become a father, he replies with congratulations, and then says: 'Now that your wife no longer needs your care, you will be able to betake yourself to a university and finish your studies'--advice which we may surely suppose was not taken. During the insecurity of the Middle Ages, the seclusion of women for their own protection had been severely necessary. In the East the 'purdah-system' reached the length of excluding women of the better classes from the society of all men but those of their own family. Of such rigidity in Europe I cannot find any traces except under Oriental influence;[28] but there is no doubt that women's life at the beginning of the Renaissance in the North was circumscribed. Such higher education as they received was given at home, by father or brothers or husband, or by private tutors. But there are not a few examples of educated women. In the well-known Frisian family, the Canters of Groningen, parents and children and even the maidservant are said to have spoken regularly in Latin. Antony Vrye of Soest, one of the Adwert circle, wrote to his wife in Latin; and his daughter helped him with the teaching of Latin in the various schools over which he presided, at Campen and Amsterdam and Alcmar. Pirckheimer's sisters and daughters, Peutinger's wife, are famous for their learning. In England throughout the Renaissance period the position of women and their education steadily improved. Alice, Duchess of Suffolk, the foundress of Ewelme, had an interest in literature; and the great Lady Margaret, besides the endowments which are her memorial at the universities, constantly fostered the efforts of Wynkyn de Worde, and herself translated part of the _Imitatio_ from the French. The Princess Mary, as the result of the liberal training of Vives and other masters, could translate from Aquinas, take part in acting a play of Terence, and read the letters of Jerome; and before she was 30, made a translation of Erasmus' Paraphrase of St. John's Gospel, which formed part of the English version of those Paraphrases ordered by Injunctions of Edward VI to be placed beside the Bible in every parish church throughout the realm. [28] In 1729 the Abbé Fourmont found the seclusion of women extensively practised in Athens for fear of the Turks; see R.C. Christie, _Essays and Papers_, p. 69. More, for his dear 'school', engaged the best teachers he could find. John Clement, afterwards Wolsey's first Reader in Humanity at Oxford, and William Gonell, Erasmus' friend at Cambridge, read Sallust and Livy with them. Nicholas Kratzer, the Bavarian mathematician, also one of Wolsey's Readers at Oxford, taught them astronomy: to know the pole-star and the dog, and to contemplate the 'high wonders of that mighty and eternal workman', whom More could feel revealed himself also to some 'good old idolater watching and worshipping the man in the moon every frosty night'.[29] Richard Hyrde, the friend of Gardiner and translator of Vives' _Instruction of a Christian Woman_, continued the work after the 'school' had been moved to Chelsea;[30] and when Margaret, eldest and best-beloved scholar, was married. Not that this interfered. The love of learning once implanted brought her with her husband to keep her place among her sisters in that bright Academy. Her fame is well known, how the Bishop of Exeter sent her a gold coin of Portugal in reward for an elegant epistle; how familiarly she corresponded with Erasmus; how she emended the text of Cyprian, imitated the Declamations of Quintilian, and translated the Ecclesiastical History of Eusebius. [29] More, _English Works_, 1557, f. 154 E. [30] See F. Watson, _Vives and the Renascence Education of Women_, 1912. It is evident that in England, for women as well as men, the seed of the Renaissance had fallen on good ground. By the middle of the century the gates of the kingdom of knowledge were open, and the thoughtful were rejoicing in the infinite variety of their Paradise regained. In 1547-8, Nicholas Udall, in a preface for Mary's translation of Erasmus' Paraphrase, writes with enthusiasm: 'Neither is it now any strange thing to hear gentlewomen, instead of most vain communication about the moon shining in the water, to use grave and substantial talk in Greek or Latin with their husbands in godly matters. It is now no news in England to see young damsels in noble houses and in the courts of princes, instead of cards and other instruments of vain trifling, to have continually in their hands either Psalms, "Omelies" and other devout meditations, or else Paul's Epistles or some book of Holy Scripture matters, and as familiarly both to read and reason thereof in Greek, Latin, French or Italian as in English. It is now a common thing to see young virgins so "nouzled" and trained in the study of letters that they willingly set all other vain pastimes at nought for learning's sake.' It is melancholy to reflect how soon the gates of the kingdom were to be closed again, and its trees guarded by the flaming sword of theological certainty mistaking itself for truth. Besides marriage, almost the only vocation open to women in the fifteenth century was the monastic life. It was not uncommon for several daughters in a family to embrace religion: parents, apart from higher considerations, regarding it as a sure method of providing for girls who did not wish to marry, or for whom they could not find husbands. As heads of religious houses women held positions of great dignity and influence, and discharged their duties worthily. Within convent walls, too, it was possible for some women to become learned; though in later times the achievements of Diemudis were never rivalled. She was a nun at Wessobrunn in Bavaria at the end of the eleventh century, and during her cloistered life her active pen wrote out 47 volumes, including two complete Bibles, one of which was given in exchange for an estate. We also hear of women of means, usually widows, dispensing hospitality on a large scale to the needy and deserving. Wessel of Groningen, as we saw, was adopted by a wealthy matron, who saw him shivering in the street on a winter's day and fetched him into her house to warm. Erasmus describes to us a Gouda lady, Berta de Heyen, whose kindness he repeatedly enjoyed in his early years; and in addition to her general charities mentions that she was wont to look out for promising boys in the town school who were designing to enter the Church, receive them into her family amongst her own children, and when their courses were completed, bestir herself to procure them benefices--an indication of the possession of influence outside her own home. He goes on to say that when widowhood came to her, she refused to think of a second marriage, and almost rejoiced to be released from the bonds of matrimony, because she found herself free to practise her liberality. But we must not lay too much stress on these latter utterances. They come from a funeral oration composed after the good lady's death, and addressed to her children, some of whom were nuns: to whom therefore the conventional representation of the Church's attitude towards marriage would be acceptable. Butzbach describes the wife of a wealthy citizen of Deventer as entertaining daily six or seven of the poorer clergy at her table, besides the alms that she distributed continually before her own door. To him she frequently gave food and clothes and money, with much sympathy. It is noticeable how the charity is represented as proceeding from the wife and not from the husband. A mediaeval moralist urges wives to make good their husbands' deficiencies in this respect; and against the remark Ulrich Ellenbog, the father, notes that he had always left this burden to his wife. The inference is probable that though the sphere of women was in many ways restricted, they were within their own dominion, the household, supreme--more so perhaps than they are to-day. Yet in spite of this domestic authority, I do not see how we can escape the conclusion that the real power rested with the husband, when we read such passages as this in the _Utopia_, where, speaking of punishment, More says: 'Parents chastise their children, husbands their wives.' Indeed, it was recognized as one of the primary duties of a husband, to see that his wife behaved properly. What we have been saying may be well illustrated by the letter just alluded to from Antony Vrye 'to his dear wife, Berta of Groningen'. It was written 'from Cologne in haste'; and as it appears in Vrye's _Epistolarum Compendium_, it may be dated _c._ 1477. 'Your letter was most welcome, and relieved me of anxiety about you all. I rejoice to hear that the children are well and yourself; your mother too and the whole household. You write that you are expecting me to return by 1 March, to relieve you of all your cares. I wish indeed that I could; but besides our own private matters, there is some public business for me to discharge, and this will take time. So be diligent to look after our affairs, and pray to God to keep you in health and free from fault: my prolonged absence will make my return all the more joyful. It is great pain to me to be absent from you so long, who art all my life and happiness. But as I must, it falls to you to guard our honour and property, and to care for our family. This, Jerome says, is the part of a prudent housewife, and to cherish her own chastity. Bide then at home, most loving wife, and be not tempted by such amusements as delight the vulgar; but patiently and modestly await my return. I too will be a faithful husband to you in everything. Be a chaste and honoured mother to our boy and little girls; and cherish your mother in return for the singular kindness she has showed us.' One feature of life at this time which materially affected the lives of women, was the length of families and the accompanying infant mortality. It was common enough in all classes down to the middle of the last century; and it is still only too common among the poor. On the walls of churches, more especially in towns, one frequently sees tablets with long lists of children who seem to have been born only to die: and yet the parents went on their way unthinking, and content if from their annual harvest an occasional son or daughter grew up to bless them. Examples of this may be collected on every side. Cole (1467-1519), for instance, was the eldest of twenty-two sons and daughters; and by 1499 he was the only child left to his parents. His father, who was twice Lord Mayor of London, lived till 1510; the mother of this great brood survived them all, and, so far as Erasmus knew, was still living in 1521. Another case which may be cited is that of Anthony Koberger, the celebrated Nuremberg printer, 1440-1513: and it is the more interesting, since owing to his care for genealogy, we have accurate records of his two marriages and his twenty-five children. The first marriage produced eight, born between 1470 and 1483; of these, three daughters lived to grow up and marry, but of the remaining five--including three sons, all named Anthony, a fact which tells its own tale--none reached a greater age than twelve years. In September 1491 the first wife died; and in August 1492--without observing the full year's 'doole'--Anthony married again, the second wife being herself the sixteenth child of her parents. At first there was only disappointment; in 3½ years four children were born and died, two of these being twins. But better times followed: of the remaining thirteen only three died as infants. Anthony the fifth and John the third, and three sons named after the three kings, Caspar, Melchior and Balthasar, were more fortunate. When 21 years had brought 17 children, the sequence ended abruptly with the death of Anthony the father; leaving, out of the 25 he had received, only 13 children to speak with his enemies in the gate. A family Bible now in the Bodleian[31] enumerates 16 children born to the same parents in 24 years, 1550-74. One girl was married before she was 16; one son at 20 died of exposure on his way home from Holland; two reached 10, one 8, one 6. None of the remainder ten lived for one year. [31] Biblia Latina, 1529, c. 2. Of public morals in the special sense of the term this is not the place to speak in detail. But it may suitably be stated that sixteenth-century standards in these matters were not so high as those of the present day. 'If gold ruste, what shal iren do?' The highest ecclesiastical authorities were unable to check a nominally celibate priesthood from maintaining women-housekeepers who bore them families of children and were in many cases decent and respectable wives to them in all but name; indeed in Friesland the laity for obvious reasons insisted upon this violation of clerical vows. A letter from Zwingli, the Reformer, written in 1518 when he was parish priest of Glarus, gives an astonishing view of his own practice. Under such circumstances we need not wonder that the standards of the laity were low. The highest record that I have met with is that of a Flemish nobleman, who in addition to a large family including a Bishop of Cambray and an Abbot of St. Omer, is said to have been also the father of 36 bastards. Thomas More as a young man was not blameless. But it is surprising to find that Erasmus in writing an appreciation of More in 1519, when he was already a judge of the King's Bench, stated the fact in quite explicit, though graceful, language; and further, that More took no exception to the statement, which was repeated in edition after edition. We can hardly imagine such a passage being inserted in a modern biography of a public character, even if it were written after his death. Just about the same time More published among his epigrams some light-hearted Latin poems--doubtless written in his youth--such as no public man with any regard for his character would care to put his name to to-day. There is another matter to which some allusion must be made, the grossness of the age, though here again detail is scarcely possible. The conditions of life in the sixteenth century made it difficult to draw a veil over the less pleasant side of human existence. The houses were filthy; the streets so disgusting that on days when there was no wind to disperse the mephitic vapours, prudent people kept their windows shut. Dead bodies and lacerated limbs must have been frequent sights. Under these circumstances we need not be surprised that men spoke more plainly to one another and even to women than they do now. Sir John Paston's conversations with the Duchess of Norfolk would make less than duchesses blush now. The tales that Erasmus introduces into his writings, the jests of his Colloquies, are often quite unnecessarily coarse; but one which will illustrate our point may be repeated. One winter's morning a stately matron entered St. Gudule's at Brussels to attend mass. The heels of her shoes were caked with snow, and on the smooth pavement of the church she slipped up. As she fell, there escaped from her lips a single word, of mere obscenity. The bystanders helped her to her feet, and amid their laughter she slunk away, crimson with mortification, to hide herself in the crowd. Nowadays great ladies have not such words at command. Theological controversy has a proverbial name for ferocity; in the sixteenth century other qualities were added to this. In 1519 a young Englishman named Lee, who was afterwards Archbishop of York, ventured to criticize Erasmus' New Testament, with a vehemence which under the circumstances was perhaps unsuitable. Erasmus of course resented this; and his friends, to cool their indignation, wrote and published a series of letters addressed to the offender: 'the Letters of some erudite men, from which it is plain how great is the virulence of Lee.' Among the contributors was Sapidus, head master of the famous school at Schlettstadt, which was one of the first Latin schools of the age. His letter to Lee concludes with a disgusting piece of imagery, which would shock one if it proceeded from the most unpleasantly minded schoolboy. One cannot conceive a Head Master of Rugby appearing in print in such a way now. VIII THE POINT OF VIEW There is one thing in the world which is constantly with us, and which has probably continued unchanged throughout all ages of history: the weather. Yet Erasmus' writings contain no traces of that delight in brilliant sunshine which most Northerners feel, nor of that wonder at the beauties of the firmament which was so real to Homer. He frequently remarks that the weather was pestilent, that the winds blew and ceased not, that the sea was detestably rough and the clouds everlasting; but of the praise which accompanies enjoyment there is scarcely a word. His utmost is to say that the climate of a place is salubrious. He often describes his journeys. As he rode on horseback across the Alps or was carried down the Rhine in a boat, he must have had ample opportunity to behold the glories which Nature sometimes spreads before us in our Northern clime, and lavishes more constantly on less favoured regions. But the loveliness of blue skies and serene air, the glitter of distant snows, the soft radiance of the summer moon, and the golden architrave of the sunset he had no eyes to see. Such indifference to the beauties of Nature admits, however, of some explanation. With a scantier population than that which now covers the earth, there was less agriculture and more of waste and unkempt places not yet reduced to the service of mankind. Solitudes were vaster and more complete. In a country so well cared for as England is to-day, it is difficult to imagine how unpleasing can be the aspect of land over which Nature still has the upper hand, how desolate and dreadful the great mountain areas which men now have to seek at the ends of the earth, where the smoke rises not and even the lone goatherd has not penetrated. To-day our difficulty is to escape from the thronging pressure of millions: we rarely experience what in the sixteenth century must often have been felt--the shrinking to leave, the joy of returning to, the kindly race of men. Ascham in the _Toxophilus_ (1545), when discussing the relaxations open to the scholar who has been 'sore at his book', urges that 'walking alone into the field hath no token of courage in it'. But though this may have been true by that time in the immediate neighbourhood of English towns, it was not yet true abroad; for Thomas Starkey in his _Dialogue_ (1538), almost as valuable a source as the _Utopia_, praises foreign cities with their resident nobles by comparison with English, which are neglected and dirty 'because gentlemen fly into the country to live, and let cities, castles and towns fall into ruin and decay'. It is tantalizing, too, considering how abundant are Erasmus' literary remains, that we get so little description of places from him. He travelled far and wide, in the Low Countries, up and down the Rhine, through France, southwards to Rome and Naples. He was a year in Venice, three years at Cambridge, eight years at Basle, six at Freiburg. What precious information he might have given us about these places, which then as now were full of interesting buildings and treasures of art! what a mine of antiquarian detail, if he had expatiated occasionally! But a meagre description of Constance, a word or two about Basle in narrating an explosion there, glimpses of Walsingham and Canterbury in his colloquy on pilgrimages--that is almost all that can be culled from his works about the places he visited. When he came to Oxford, Merton tower had been gladdening men's eyes for scarcely fifty years, and the tower of Magdalen had just risen to rival its beauty; Duke Humfrey's Library and the Divinity School were still in their first glory, and the monks of St. Frideswide were contemplating transforming the choir of their church into the splendid Perpendicular such as Bray had achieved at Westminster and Windsor for Henry VII. But Erasmus tells us nothing of what he saw; only what he heard and said. This lack of enjoyment in Nature, lack of interest in topography and archaeology, was probably personal to him. It was not so with some of his friends. More and Ellenbog, as we have seen, could feel the beauty in the night 'Of cloudless climes and starry skies'. Aleander in a diary records the exceptional brilliance of the planet Jupiter at the end of September 1513. He pointed it out to his pupils in the Collège de la Marche at Paris, and together they remarked that its rays were strong enough to cast a shadow. Ellenbog enjoyed the country, and Luther also was susceptible to its charms. Budaeus had a villa to which he delighted to escape from Paris, and where he laid out a fine estate. Beatus Rhenanus after thirty years retained impressions of Louis XII's gardens at Tours and Blois and of a 'hanging garden' in Paris; and could write a detailed account of the Fugger palace at Augsburg with its art treasures. Or think of the painters. The Flemings of the fifteenth century had learnt from the Italians to fit into their pictures landscapes seen through doors or windows, gleaming in sunshine, green and bright. Van Eyck's 'Adoration of the Lamb' is set in beautiful scenery; grassy slopes and banks studded with flowers, soft swelling hills, and blue distances crowned with the towers he knew so well, Utrecht and Maestricht and Cologne and Bruges. Even in the interiors of Durer and Holbein, where no window opens to let in the view, Nature is not left wholly unrepresented; for flowers often stand upon the tables, carnations and lilies and roses, arranged with taste and elegance. On the whole the enjoyment of Nature formed but a small part in the outlook of that age as compared with the prominence it receives in modern literature and life; but we should be wrong in inferring that it was wholly absent. To the men of the fifteenth century the earth was still the centre of the universe: the sun moved round it like a more magnificent planet, and the stars had been created 'to shed down Their stellar influence on all kinds that grow'. Aristarchus had seen the truth, though he could not establish it, in the third century B.C. But Greek science had been forgotten in an age which knew no Greek; and it was not till after Erasmus' death that an obscure canon in a small Prussian town near Danzig--Nicholas Copernicus, 1473-1543--found out anew the secret of the world. This fruit of long cold watches on the tower of his church he printed with full demonstration, but he scarcely dared to publish the book: indeed a perfect copy only reached him a few days before his death. Even in the next century Galileo had to face imprisonment and threats of torture, because he would speak that which he knew. But when Erasmus was born, the earth itself was but partially revealed. Men knew not even whether it were round or flat; and the unplumbed sea could still estrange. The voyages of the Vikings had passed out of mind, and the eyes of Columbus and Vespucci had not yet seen the limits of that western ocean which so long fascinated their gaze. Polo had roamed far into the East; but as yet Diaz and da Gama had not crowned the hopes which so often drew Henry the Navigator to his Portuguese headland. In the world of thought the conception of uniformity in Nature, though formed and to some extent accepted among the advanced, was still quite outside the ordinary mind. Miracles were an indispensable adjunct to the equipment of every saint; and might even be wrought by mere men, with the aid of the black arts. The Devil was an ever-present personality, going about to entrap and destroy the unwary. Clear-minded Luther held converse with him in his cell; and lesser demons were seen or suspected on every side. Thus in 1523 the Earl of Surrey writes to Wolsey describing a night attack on Jedburgh in a Border foray. The horses took fright, and their sudden panic threw all things into confusion. 'I dare not write', he says, 'the wonders that my Lord Dacre and all his company do say they saw that night, six times, of spirits and fearful sights. And universally all their company say plainly the Devil was that night among them six times.' In that gaunt and bleak Border country the traveller overtaken by night may feel a disquieting awe even in these days when the rising moon is no longer a lamp to guide enemies to the attack. Four hundred years ago, when it lay blood-stained and scarred with a thousand fights, bearing no crops to be fired, no homesteads to be sacked, we need not wonder if teams of demons swept down in the darkness and drove through and through the trembling ranks. Again, in 1552 Melanchthon writes thus to a friend: 'In some cases no doubt the causes of madness and derangement are purely physical; but it is also quite certain that at times men's bodies are entered by devils who produce frenzies prognosticating things to come. Twelve years ago there was a woman in Saxony who had no learning of books, and yet, when she was vexed by a devil, after her paroxysms uttered Greek and Latin prophecies of the war that should be there. In Italy, too, I am told there was a woman, also quite unlearned, who during one of her devilish torments was asked what is the best line of Virgil, and replied, "Learn justice and to reverence the gods "'.[32] In this second case it would seem that the Devil scarcely knew his own business. [32] _Aen._ 6. 620. Sudden death descending upon the wicked was a judgement of heaven, letting loose the powers of hell; and if the face of the corpse chanced to turn black, there was never any doubt but that Satan had flown off with the soul. Suspicions and accusations of witchcraft were rife; and an old woman had to be careful of the reputation of her cat. Wanderers among the mountains saw dragons; in the forests elves peeped at the woodmen from behind the trees, and fairies danced beneath the moon in the open places. The world had not been sufficiently explored for the absence of contrary experience to carry much weight; and the means for the dissemination of news were quite inadequate. In consequence men had not learnt to doubt the evidence of their senses and to regard things as too strange to be true. It was felt that anything might happen; and as a result almost everything did happen. For example, in 1500 there was an outbreak of crosses in two villages not far from Sponheim; and next year the same thing happened at Liège. They appeared on any clothing that was light enough of hue; coloured crosses that no washing or treatment could remove. Men opened their coats to find crosses on their shirts: a woman would look down at her apron, and there, sure enough, was a cross. Clothes that had been folded up and put away in presses, came out with the sacred sign upon them. One day during the singing of the mass thirty men suddenly found themselves marked with crosses. They lasted for nine or ten days, and then gradually faded. It was afterwards remarked that where the crosses had been, the plague followed. Such is Trithemius' account in his chronicle: we may wonder how closely he had questioned his informants. It is difficult for us to conceive a world in which news spreads mainly by word of mouth. Morning and evening it is poured forth to us, by many different agencies, in the daily press; and though many of these succumb to the temptation to be sensational, among the better sort there is a healthy rivalry which restrains exuberance and promotes accuracy. There is safety, too, in numbers. News which appears in one paper only, is looked at doubtfully until it is confirmed by the rest; but even unanimity amongst all papers will scarcely at first win acceptance for what is at all startling and out of the common, until time and the absence of contradiction may perhaps corroborate. In practice men of credit have learnt not to see the sea-serpent. For a picture of conditions in the sixteenth century we must sweep all the newspapers away. Kings had their heralds and towns their public messengers who took and of course brought back news. Caravans of merchants travelled along the great trade-routes; and their tongues and ears were not idle. Private persons, too, sent their servants on journeys to carry letters. But even so news had to travel by word of mouth; for even when letters were sent, we may be sure that any public news of importance beneath the seals and wafers had reached the bearers also. But for what they told confirmation was not to be had for the asking. Not till chance brought further messengers was it possible to establish or contradict, and till then the first news held the field. Rumour stalked gigantic over the earth, often spreading falsehood and capturing belief, rarely, as in Indian bazars to-day, with mysterious swiftness forestalling the truth. In such a world caution seems the prime necessity; but men grow tired of caution when events are moving fast and the air is full of 'flying tales'. The general tendency was for them, if not to believe, at any rate to pass on, unverified reports, from the impossibility of reaching certainty. In such a world of bewilderment, sobriety of judgement does not thrive. Two examples may show the difficulty of learning the truth. In 1477 Charles the Bold was killed at Nancy. That great Duke of Burgundy was not a person to be hidden under a bed. Yet nearly six years later reports were current that he had escaped from the battle and was in concealment. Again, Erasmus, during his residence at Bologna in 1507, made many friends. One of these was Paul Bombasius, a native of that town, who became secretary to Cardinal Pucci, and lost his life at Rome in May 1527, when the city was sacked by Charles V's troops; another was the delightful John de Pins, afterwards diplomatist and Bishop of Rieux. To him in 1532 Erasmus wrote asking for news of Bombasius. The Bishop replied that he had heard a rumour of his death, but hoped it was not true. Not till May 1535 could Erasmus report the result of inquiries made through a friend visiting Bologna, that Bombasius had fallen a victim to the Bourbon soldiery eight years before. That the movements of the stars should affect human life is not easy to disprove even now, to any one who is determined to maintain the possibility of it; but under the training of modern science scarcely any one retains such a belief. Of the influence formerly attributed to the planets, traces survive in such epithets as mercurial, jovial, saturnine. Comets appearing in the sky caused widespread alarm, and any disasters that followed close were confidently connected with them. The most learned scientists observed the stars and cast horoscopes: Cardan, for instance, published a collection of the horoscopes of great men. The Church looked askance on astrology, suspecting it of connexion with forbidden arts; but it could not check the observance of lucky days and the warnings of the heavens. Even a Pope himself, Julius II, deferred his coronation until the stars were in a fortunate conjunction. Every university student should be familiar with the story of Anthony Dalaber, undergraduate of St. Alban's Hall in Oxford, which Froude introduced into his _History of England_ from Foxe's _Book of Martyrs_; it is the most vivid picture we have of university life in the early sixteenth century. Dalaber was one of a company of young men who were reading Lutheran books at Oxford. Wolsey, wishing to check this, had sent down orders in February 1528 to arrest a certain Master Garret, who was abetting them in the dissemination of heresy. The Vice-Chancellor, who was the Rector of Lincoln, seized Dalaber and put him in the stocks, but was too late for Garret, who had made off into Dorsetshire. He took counsel with the Warden of New College and with the Dean of Wolsey's new foundation, Cardinal College; and at length, as they could find out nothing, being 'in extreme pensiveness', they determined to consult an astrologer. They knew they were doing wrong. Such inquiries were forbidden by the law of the Church, and they were afraid; but they were more afraid of Wolsey. The man of science drew a figure upon the floor of his secret chamber, and made his calculations; at the end he reported that the fugitive was fled in a tawny coat to the South-east. The trembling officials hastily dispatched messengers to have the ports watched in Kent and Sussex, hoping that their transgression might at least be justified by success. They were successful: Master Garret _was_ caught--trying to take ship at Bristol. It would need awesome circumstances indeed to send a modern Vice-Chancellor through the night to inquire of an astrologer. In the realm of medicine, too, magic and the supernatural had great weight, and claimed a measure of success which is not unintelligible in these days, when the value of the will as an ally in healing is being understood. Erasmus, suffering from the stone, was presented by a Hungarian physician with an astrological mug, shaped like a lion, which was to cure his trouble. He used it and felt better, but was not sure how much to attribute to the lion. The famous Linacre, one of the founders of the College of Physicians, sent to Budaeus, a French court official and the first Greek scholar of the age, one gold ring and eighteen silver rings which had been blessed by Henry VIII, and had thus been made preservative against convulsions; and Budaeus presented them to his womenkind. We need not take this to imply that he thought little of them; more probably he reflected that convulsions are most frequent among the race of babies, and therefore distributed them where they would be most useful. Anyway, it was Linacre who sent them. With such notions abroad, quackery must have been rife, and serious medical practitioners had many difficulties to contend with. Some idea of these may be gained from a letter written by Wolfgang Rychard, a physician of high repute at Ulm, to a friend at Erfurt, whither he was thinking of sending his son to practise. He asks his friend to inquire of the apothecaries what was the status of doctors, whether they were allowed by the town council to hire houses for themselves and to live freely without exactions, as at Tubingen and universities in the South, or whether they were obliged to pay an annual fee to the town, before they might serve mankind with their healing art. The feeble-minded and half-witted are nowadays caught up into asylums, for better care, and to ensure that their trouble dies with them. Of old it was thought that God gave them some recompense for their affliction by putting into their mouths truths and prophecies which were hidden from the wise; and thus the village soothsayer or witch often held a strong position in local politics. But it is surprising to find the Cardinal of Sion, Schinner, a clever and experienced diplomatist, writing in 1516, with complete seriousness: 'A Swiss idiot, who prophesies many true things, has foretold that the French will surfer a heavy blow next month'; as though the intelligence would really be of value to his correspondent. But the prophet's credit varied with his circumstances. Early in the sixteenth century a Franciscan friar, naming himself Thomas of Illyria, wandered about through Southern France, calling on men to repent and rebuking the comfortable vices of the clergy. A wave of serious thought spread with him, and all the accompaniments of a religious revival, such as the twentieth century saw lately in Wales. As the 'saintly man' set foot in villages and towns, games and pleasures were suddenly abandoned, and the churches thronged to overflowing. His words were gathered up, especially those with which he wept over Guienne, that 'fair and delicious province, the Paradise of the world', and foretold the coming of foes who should burn the churches round Bordeaux while the townsmen looked on helplessly from their walls. For a time he retired to a hermitage on a headland by Arcachon, where miracles were quickly ascribed to him. An image of the Virgin was washed ashore, to be the protectress of his chapel. His prayers, and a cross drawn upon the sand, availed to rescue a ship that was in peril on the sea. When English pirates had plundered his shrine, the waves opened and swallowed them up. Later on he withdrew to Rome, where he won the confidence of Clement VII, and he died at Mentone. But his fame remained great in Guienne. Half a century onward, during the war of 1570, when from Bordeaux men saw the church of Lormont across the river burning in the name of religion, the old folks shook their heads and recalled the words of the saintly Thomas. Less fortunate was a young Franconian herdsman, John Beheim, of Niklashausen--a 'poor illiterate', Trithemius calls him. In the summer of 1476, as he watched his flocks in the fields, he had a vision of the gracious Mother of God, who bade him preach repentance to the people. His fame soon spread, and multitudes gathered from great distances to hear him. The nearest knelt to entreat his blessing, those further off pressed up to touch him, and if possible, snatched off pieces of his garments, till he was driven to speak from an upper window. But his way was not plain. Instigated seemingly by others, he began to touch things social: taxes should not be paid to princes, nor tithes to clergy; rivers and forests were God's common gifts to men, where all might fish or hunt at will. Such words were not to be borne. The Bishop of Wurzburg, his diocesan, took counsel with the Archbishop of Mainz; and the prophet was ordered to be burnt. But death only increased his fame. Still greater crowds flocked to visit the scene of his holy life, until in January 1477 the Archbishop had the church of Niklashausen razed to the ground as the only means of suppressing this popular canonization. We make a great mistake if we allow ourselves to suppose that because that age knew less than ours, because its bounds were narrower and the undispelled clouds lower down, it therefore thought itself feeble and purblind. By contrast with the strenuous hurry-push of modern life such movement as we can see, looking backwards, seems slow and uncertain of its aim; before the power of modern armaments how helpless all the might of Rome! It is easy to fall into the idea that our mediaeval forefathers moved in the awkward attitudes of pre-Raphaelite painting, that their speech sounded as quaint to them as it does to us now, and that it was hardly possible for them to take life seriously. But in fact each age is to itself modern, progressive, up-to-date; the strong and active pushing their way forward, impatient of trifling, and carrying their fellows with them. A future age that has leapt from one planet to another, or even from one system to another sun and its dependants, that has 'called forth Mazzaroth in his seasons, and loosed the bands of Orion', that has covered the earth with peace as with a garment and pierced the veil that cuts us off from the dead, will look back to us as groping blindly in darkness. But they will be wrong indeed if they think that we realize our blindness. A still greater pitfall before us is that we read history not as men, but as gods, knowing the event. The name of Marathon to us implies not struggle, not danger, but triumph; and as we think of the little band of Athenians defiling from the mountains and looking on the sea, with the utmost determination we cannot quite enter into their thoughts. Of how little avail must have seemed this handful of lives, their last and best gift to Athens, against the might and majesty of Persia afloat before them. We know of that runner and of the rejoicing that broke out upon his words; and at the very opening of the scene the darkness is pierced by a gleam they could not see, a gleam which for us will not go out. Or think of Edwardes besieging the Sikhs in Multan with his puny force, half of whom, when he began, were in sympathy with the besieged. We know that the terrier's courage kept the tiger in; and, conscious of that, we cannot really place ourselves beside the young Engineer of 29, as with only one or two volunteers of his own race round him he kept the field during those four burning months in which British troops were not allowed to move. The tiger's paw had crushed those whom he had hastened to avenge: he did not know, as we know, that it was not to fall on him too. There is the same difficulty with the course of years. With the history of four centuries before our minds, only by sustained effort of thought can we realize that the men of 1514 looked onward to 1600, as we to-day look towards 2000, as to a misty blank. We hardly trouble our heads with the future. The air is full of speculations, of attempts to forecast coming developments, the growth, the improvement that is to be. But we do not really look forward, more than a little way. The darkness is too dense: and besides, the needs of the present are very urgent. As we think of the sixteenth century, behind Henry VIII's breach with Rome, behind Edward VI's prayer-books, waits the figure of Pole, steadfast, biding his time; coming to salute Mary with the words of the angel to the Virgin; coming, as he hoped, to set things right for ever. And behind Pole are the Elizabethan settlement and the Puritans; ineradicable from our consciousness. To the Englishmen of 1514 Henry VIII was the divine young king whose prowess at Tournay, whose victory at Flodden seemed to his happy bride the reward of his piety: the name of Luther was unknown: Pole was an unconsidered child. Into their minds we cannot really enter unless we can think away everything that has happened since and call up a mist over the face of time. IX PILGRIMAGES To go on pilgrimage is an instinct which appears in most religions and at all ages. The idea underlying the practice seems to be that God is more nigh in some spots than in others, the desire to seek Him in a place where He may be found: for where God is, there men hope to win remission of sins. So widespread is this sentiment that both in Catholic Europe and in Asia it is not possible to travel far without coming upon sites invested in this way with a special holiness. The objects which draw men to peregrinate may be divided into three classes: natural features which are in themselves remarkable; places difficult of access, which can only be reached at cost of risk and effort; and sites which have been rendered holy by the visitation of God or the preservation of sacred relics. But this classification is not always clearly defined; for the same object of pilgrimage often falls into two categories at once. Of striking natural features--self-created objects of veneration, as the Hindus call them--many kinds are found. There are chasms from which issue mysterious vapours, stimulating prophecy, such as Delphi, or Jwala Mukhi, sacred to Hindus and Sikhs, or the Grotta del Cane, near Naples. Caves with their dreadful gloom inspire a sense of supernatural presence. Such are the cave of Trophonius in Boeotia, St. Patrick's cave in Ireland, the grotto of Lourdes, Mariastein near Basle, and the great fissure of Amarnath in Kashmir, with its icy stalactite which is the special object of worship. Some of these add to their sanctity by difficulty of access: St. Patrick's cave is on an island in Lough Derg; Mariastein lies over the edge of a steep cliff; Amarnath is hidden among lofty mountains at 17000 feet above the sea. Enormous stones, too, are apt to acquire holiness, arousing interest by their vast mass; as though they could hardly have been brought into independent existence, detached from the great earth, without some direct intervention of divine power. Such are the stone at Delphi, or the great rock, now enshrined in a Muhammadan mosque, which no doubt caused men to go up to Jerusalem in Jebusite days, before Israel came out of Egypt. (It is thought by pious Muhammadans to rest in the air without support; their tradition being that at the time of Muhammad's ascension into heaven this stone, which was his point of departure, sought to accompany him but was detained by an angel. To the Hebrews it was sacred as the rock on which Abraham was ready to offer Isaac; and also as a stone which kept down within the earth the receded waters of the Flood.) Meteoric stones have a sanctity as having fallen from heaven: for example, the _lingam_ of Jagannath at Puri, and the famous black stone at Mecca. Wells also, for obvious reasons, tend to attract worship. Of places inaccessible to which pilgrims toil, some are the sources of rivers, like Gangotri, whence springs the Ganges: others are islands, such as the Îles de Lérins off Cannes, Iona and Lindisfarne, or many off the West coast of Ireland: or distant headlands, like the Spanish Finisterre, or Rameshwaram, the extreme southern cape of the Indian peninsula. More numerous are those which lie high up on mountains or above precipitous rocks; such as the many peaks of Sinai, the lake on Haramuk in Kashmir, the cliffs of Rocamadour in Central France, which Piers Plowman mentions,[33] or the grey cone of Athos. In a mild form such places may frequently be seen, in the pilgrimage churches and chapels which crown modest eminences beside many villages and towns of Catholic Europe: akin no doubt to the high places and hill-altars where lingered the heathen worship that the Israelite priests and prophets were continually trying to exterminate. [33] Right so, if thou be religious, renne thou never ferthere To Rome ne to Roquemadoure: but as thy rule techeth, Holde thee to thine obedience: that heighway is to heaven. The third class of pilgrimage sites is of those which are sanctified through association with divinities or saints or relics: Gaya in Bihar, with its pilgrims' way leading pious Buddhists by long flights of steps up and down the circle of hills, like the great way at Bologna; Jerusalem, Rome, Canterbury, Trèves; and Santiago (St. James) de Compostella, rendered attractive also by remote distance. Or a settlement of hermits in a wilderness might become a place of pilgrimage, especially when death had heightened the fame enjoyed during their lives: such as Gueremeh in Cappadocia, St. Bertrand among the Pyrenees, or Einsiedeln above the Lake of Lucerne, where in 1487 died Nicholas the Hermit, reputed to have lived for twenty years without food. And we may make a special category for sacred houses; the Bait-ullah or Qaabah at Mecca, the house of the Virgin at Loretto, St. Columba's at Glencolumbkill, and the house in which St. Francis died, in dei Angeli at Assisi. In many cases there is definite evidence to show that pilgrimage sites remain sacred even when religions change. Mecca was a resort of pilgrims in the first century B.C., 700 years before Muhammad. The Central-Asian shrines visited by Buddhist pilgrims from China on their way to India, Fa-hsien in the fifth and Hsuan-tsang in the seventh century, are now appropriated to Islam. The so-called foot-mark on Adam's Peak in Ceylon has been attributed by Brahmans to Siva, by Buddhists to Sakyamuni, by Gnostics to Ieu, by Muhammadans to Adam, and by the Portuguese Christians to either St. Thomas or the eunuch of Candace, queen of Ethiopia.[34] [34] J.E. Tennent's _Ceylon_ (1860), ii. 133, quoted in Yule's _Marco Polo_, ed. H. Cordier, 1903, ii. 321. In the age we are considering, we hear of Henry VII, Henry VIII, and even Wolsey going as pilgrims to Our Lady of Walsingham in Norfolk; and Colet took Erasmus with him to Canterbury. But the most renowned places of Christian pilgrimage were Rome, Santiago, and Jerusalem. Thither journeyed pilgrims in great numbers from all parts of Europe; bishops and abbots and clergy, both regular and secular, noblemen of every degree, wealthy merchants, scholars from the universities, civil officials and courtiers, and occasionally even women. Piety or superstition were doubtless the usual motives which led men to face the very considerable perils of the journey; but besides this there was probably in some cases the desire to see new scenes, and a love of adventure for its own sake. Holiday travel was scarcely known in those days. The discomforts were great, and there were still dangers of the ordinary kind, even in the most settled parts of Europe. The beginning of a story in one of More's English works shows how such travel was regarded--as at least unwise, and perhaps extravagant: 'Now was there a young gentleman which had married a merchant's wife. And having a little wanton money which him thought burned out the bottom of his purse, in the first year of his wedding he took his wife with him and went over the sea, for none other errand but to see Flanders and France, and ride out one summer in those countries.' But in the company of pilgrims there was some security, and accordingly the adventurous availed themselves of such opportunities. Thus Peter Falk, burgomaster of Freiburg in Switzerland, went on pilgrimage to Jerusalem in 1515 and again in 1519; and had he not died on the second journey, he was projecting a visit to Portugal and Spain, perhaps to Compostella. He was a keen, interested man. A companion, who was a Cambridge scholar, describes him as taking an ape with him on board to make fun for his shipmates; wearing a gun hanging at his belt, being curious in novelties; carefully noting the names of places and the situations of towns, and using red ink to mark his guide-book. The literature of pilgrimages is abundant, and consists primarily in narratives written by pilgrims themselves. A few of these were printed by the writers in their own day; many have been published by antiquarians in isolated periodicals; and in the volumes of the Palestine Pilgrims' Text Society there is a collection of translations. Professor Röhricht of Innsbruck has made a wonderful bibliography of German pilgrims to the Holy Land, replete with information and references. The narratives necessarily traverse the same ground, and repeat one another in many points; often reproducing from an early source exactly identical information of the guide-book order as to sites, routes, preparations, precautions, and so forth. We have three English narratives of Erasmus' period: by William Wey, Fellow of Eton, who went to Jerusalem in 1458 and again in 1462; by Sir Richard Guilford, a Court official who made the journey in 1506; and by Sir Richard Torkington, a parish priest from Norfolk, who went in 1517. But besides these some Baedekers of the time survive; one entitled 'Information for Pilgrims unto the Holy Land'[35] which was printed by Wynkyn de Worde at Westminster in 1498, and again by him in London in 1515 and 1524; another written by Hermann Kunig of Vach in 1495 and several times printed before 1521, 'Die Walfart und Strass zu sant Jacob'[36] which gives the distance of each stage and notes inns and hospitals at which shelter might be found. [35] It has been reproduced with an introduction by Mr. E.G. Duff, London, 1893. [36] It has been reproduced with an introduction by Professor K. Häbler, Strasburg, 1899. The Compostella pilgrimage was popular for many reasons, and no doubt began long before St. James had ousted St. Vincent from being patron-saint of Spain. The spot was remote, literally then at the end of the earth, 'beyond which', as another pilgrim says, 'there is no land any more, only water'. There was a great stone, too, in which later piety found the boat that had borne the saint's body from Jerusalem. And there were islands to be visited, one a St. Michael's Mount, round the shores of which should be gathered the cockle shells that were the emblems of pilgrimage duly performed: though the less active bought them at stalls high-heaped outside the cathedral doors, and the rich had them copied in silver and gold. To the 'end of the earth' Northern Europe went most easily by sea, all others by land. Convoys gathered in Dartmouth in the lengthening days of spring, and crept along Slapton sands and round the unlighted Start, until there was no land any more, and summoning their courage they must steer out into the Bay of Biscay. This way went John of Gaunt to St. James in 1386, to be crowned King of Castile in the great Romanesque cathedral; and so, too, Chaucer must have pictured the Wyf of Bath visiting 'Galice'. But Kunig's route lay overland: from Einsiedeln to Romans and Valence; over the Rhone by the famed bridge of the Holy Spirit, which even kings must cross on foot, to Uzès, Nîmes and Béziers; and then westwards into the sandy scant-populated lands where the track was scarcely to be found, except for the pilgrims' graves, often nameless, sometimes perhaps marked with such simple inscriptions as may still be seen on trees and crosses among the forests of the Alps. A Pyrenean pass led him to Roncesvalles; at Logroño the ancient bridge brought him over the Ebro, and so by Burgos and Leon to his journey's end, blessing the patrons--Kings of France and England and Navarre, Dukes of Burgundy--who had raised shelters for poor pilgrims on the way, and above all the Catholic Kings whose munificence had built a huge serai to welcome them in Santiago itself. For Jerusalem the usual point of departure was Venice. Pilgrims congregated there from all parts of Western and Central Europe, and there were regular services of ships, sailing mostly in the summer months. The competition between shipmasters, or 'patrons', to secure custom was very keen. Thus Torkington records: 'On 3 May the patron of a new goodly ship with other merchants desired us pilgrims that we would come aboard and see his ship within: which ship lay afore St. Mark's Church. We all went in, and there they made us goodly cheer with diverse subtilties, as comfits and march-panes and sweet wines. Also 5 May the patron of another ship which lay in the sea five miles from Venice, desired us all pilgrims that we would come and see his ship. And the same day we all went with him; and there he provided for us a marvellous good dinner, where we had all manner of good victuals and wine.' Ultimately, Torkington sailed in a new ship of 800 tons,[37] under a patron named Thomas Dodo. Only three days later another ship set sail with a large party of German pilgrims. [37] If the figure is correct, she was a large vessel for the times; for a century later, the _Pelican_, in which Drake sailed round the world, was only 100 tons, the _Squirrel_, in which Sir Humfrey Gilbert was cast away in an Atlantic gale, only 10. In all ages a great ship is a great wonder, representing for the time the final triumph of the shipwright's art. The monster vessel that set Lucian's friend dreaming at the Piraeus had but one mast; yet the curious from Athens flocked down to see her extraordinary proportions and to admire the sailors who had beaten up in her from Egypt against the Etesian winds in only seventy days. She was the ship of the hour: anything greater scarcely conceivable. Again, Macaulay returning from India in 1837 compares his comfortable sailing-ship to a huge floating hotel. Burton on his way to Mecca in 1853, when steaming across the Bay of Biscay in a vessel of 2000 tons, prophesies that sea-sickness is at an end now that such monsters ply across the ocean and laugh at the storm. How puny do they seem beside the Olympic and Imperator, at which we in our turn gaze wonderingly and think that engineering can no further go. It is amusing to find the same proud admiration in a traveller of 1517: 'Our ship was so great that when we came to land, we could not run her upon the beach like a galley, but must remain in deep water', the passengers going ashore in boats. Quite a number of contracts between patron and pilgrim have been preserved. Some of the terms are as follows: 'that the ship shall be properly armed and manned, and carry a barber and a physician; that it shall only touch at the usual ports, and not stay more than three days at Cyprus, because of malaria there.' The Holy Land was in Turkish hands, and the Turks, though willing to receive the pilgrims, for the sake of the money they brought into the country, were not sorry to have opportunities of teaching the 'Christian dogs' their place. The authorities maintained some semblance of order and justice, but took little trouble to control their underlings; and in consequence the pilgrims suffered all kinds of minor oppressions. It is not surprising therefore to find that the contract stipulated that the patron should accompany them on all their journeyings in the Holy Land, even as far as the Jordan, and that he should pay all the tolls and tributes for them, except the small tips, just as Cook does to-day, and also make all arrangements for such pilgrims as wished to go on to Sinai. In view of this last possibility the stipulation was sometimes made that only half the passage-money should be paid at Venice; the other half at Jaffa on the return-journey. If a pilgrim died on the journey, the patron might not bury him at sea, unless there was no immediate prospect of reaching land. The voyage outwards could be done in a month, but often took longer if the weather was bad, or if long halts were made at Rhodes and Cyprus. On shore the pilgrims worked as hard as any 'conducted' party to-day, being herded about to one sacred site after another, to the Holy Sepulchre, the vale of Josaphat, the Mount of Olives, Bethlehem, the mountains of Judea, the Jordan, and receiving in each place 'clean absolution'. Twelve or thirteen days was a fair time to allow for all this, including one or two days each way between Jaffa and Jerusalem; but Guilford's party were given 22. On the other hand we hear of another company which did it in nine. The Holy Land guide-book of which we spoke is full of practical advice of all sorts: about distances, rates of exchange, terms of contract with a ship-master, tributes to be paid to the Saracens, and finally vocabularies of useful words, in Moresco, Greek, Turkish. Here are a few specimens: 'If ye shall go in a galley, make your covenant with the patron betime; and choose you a place in the said galley in the overmost stage. For in the lowest under it is right evil and smouldering hot and stinking.' The fare in this to Jaffa and back from Venice, including food, was 50 ducats, 'for to be in a good honest place, and to have your ease in the galley and also to be cherished'. In a carrick the fare was only 30 ducats: there 'choose you a chamber as nigh the middes of the ship as ye may; for there is least rolling or tumbling, to keep your brain and stomach in temper'. Amongst other arrangements to be made with the patron, 'Covenant that ye come not at Famagust in Cyprus for no thing. For many Englishmen and other also have died. For that air is so corrupt there about, and the water there also. Also see that the said patron give you every day hot meat twice at two meals, the forenoon at dinner and the afternoon at supper. And that the wine that ye shall drink be good, and the water fresh and not stinking, if ye come to have better, and also the biscuit.' The traveller is recommended to buy in Venice a padlock with which to keep his cabin locked, three barrels, two for wine and one for water, and a chest to hold his stores and things: 'For though ye shall be at table with the patron, yet notwithstanding, ye shall full ofttimes have need to your own victuals, as bread, cheese, eggs, wine and other to make your collation. For some time ye shall have feeble bread and feeble wine and stinking water, so that many times ye will be right fain to eat of your own.' Besides this he will want 'confections and confortatives, green ginger, almonds, rice, figs, raisins great and small, pepper, saffron, cloves and loaf sugar'. For equipment he should take 'a little caldron, a frying-pan, dishes, plates, saucers, cups of glass, a grater for bread and such necessaries'. 'Also ye shall buy you a bed beside St. Mark's Church in Venice, where ye shall have a featherbed, a mattress, a pillow, two pair sheets and a quilt' for three ducats. 'And when ye come again, bring the same bed again, and ye shall have a ducat and a half for it again, though it be broken and worn. And mark his house and his name that ye bought it of, against ye come to Venice.' Further needs are 'a cage for half a dozen of hens or chickens' and 'half a bushel of millet seed for them': also 'a barrel for a siege for your chamber in the ship. It is full necessary, if ye were sick, that ye come not in the air.' The malady here considered is probably not that which is usually associated with the sea; though pilgrims were not immune from this any more than from other troubles. On coming to haven towns, 'if ye shall tarry there three days, go betimes to land, for then ye may have lodging before another; for it will be taken up anon'. Similarly at Jaffa in choosing a mount for the ride up to Jerusalem 'be not too long behind your fellows; for an ye come betime, ye may choose the best mule' and 'ye shall pay no more for the best than for the worst'. 'Also take good heed to your knives and other small japes that ye bear upon you: for the Saracens will go talking by you and make good cheer; but they will steal from you if they may.' 'Also when ye shall ride to flume Jordan, take with you out of Jerusalem bread, wine, water, hard eggs and cheese and such victuals as ye may have for two days. For by all that way there is none to sell.' Let us turn now to an individual narrative,[38] that of Felix Fabri, a learned and sensible Dominican of Ulm (1442-1502). He had already made the journey once, out of piety, in 1480, with the company mentioned above, which had only nine days on shore. He was desirous to go also to St. Catherine's at Mount Sinai because she was his patroness-saint, to whom he had devoted himself on entering the Dominican order on her day (25 November) in 1452; and accordingly for the second time, in 1483, he procured from the Pope the permission, which every one needed, to visit the Holy Land: those that went without this being ipso facto excommunicate, until they did penance before the Warden of the Franciscans at Jerusalem. He gives us a picture of all that he went through, in the most minute details. During the day we see the pilgrims crowded together on deck, some drinking and singing, others playing dice or cards or that unfailing pastime for ship-life, chess. Talking, reading, telling their beads, writing diaries, sleeping, hunting in their clothes for vermin; so they spend their day. Some for exercise climb up the rigging, or jump, or brandish heavy weights: some drift about from one party to another, just watching what is going on. Our good friar complains of the habits of the noblemen, who gambled a great deal and were always making small wagers, which they paid with a cup of Malmsey wine. He also tells how the patron, to beguile the journey, produced a great piece of silk, which he offered as a prize for the pilgrims to play for. [38] It has been translated by Mr. Aubrey Stewart for the Palestine Pilgrims' Text Society, vols. 7-10, 1892-3. At meal times, to which they are summoned by trumpets, the pilgrims race on to the poop: for they cannot all find seats, and those that come late have to sit among the crew. Noblemen, who have their own servants, are too fastidious to mingle with the crowd; and pay extra to the cooks,--poor, sweating fellows, toiling crossly in a tiny galley--for food which their servants bring to them on the main-deck, or even below. After the pilgrims, the captain and his council dine in state off silver dishes; and the captain's wine is tasted before he drinks it. At night all sleep below, in a cabin the dirt of which is indescribable. They wrangle over the places where they shall spread their beds, and knives are drawn. Some obstinately keep their candles burning, even though missiles come flying. Others talk noisily; and the drunken, even when quiet, snore. No wonder the poor friar longed for the peace of his own cell at home in Ulm. Fabri has much practical advice to give. He bids his reader be careful in going up and down the companion, veritably a ladder in those times; not to sit down upon ropes, or on places covered with pitch, which often melts in the sun; not to get in the way of the crew and make them angry; not to drop things overboard or let his hat be blown off. 'Let the pilgrim beware of carrying a light upon deck at night; for the mariners dislike this strangely, and cannot endure lights when they are at work.' Small things are apt to be stolen, if left about: for on board ship men have no other way to get what they want. 'While you are writing, if you lay down your pen and turn your face away, your pen will be lost, even though you be among men whom you know: and if you lose it, you will have exceeding great trouble in getting another.' To Fabri's annoyance the ship's company included one woman, an elderly lady, who came on board at the last moment with her husband, a Fleming. 'She seemed,' he says, 'when we first saw her, to be restless and inquisitive; as indeed she was. She ran hither and thither incessantly about the ship, and was full of curiosity, wanting to hear and see everything, and made herself hated exceedingly. Her husband was a decent man, and for his sake many held their tongues; but had he not been there, it would have gone hard with her. This woman was a thorn in the eyes of us all.' His delight was great, when she was left behind at Rhodes, having strayed away to some church outside the town. 'Except her husband, no one was sorry.' But their peace was short-lived, for this active lady procured a boat and overtook them at Cyprus; and Fabri could not help pitying the straits she had been put to. We may rather admire her courage in undertaking the pilgrimage at all, and especially the resource which she displayed on this very unpleasant emergency. On the eve of St. John Baptist, after dark, the sailors made St. John's fire; stringing forty horn lanterns on a rope to the maintop, amid shouts and trumpeting and clapping of hands. Upon which Fabri makes this curious remark: 'Before this I never had beheld the practice of clapping the hands for joy, as it is said in Psalm 46. Nor could I have believed that the general clapping of many men's hands would have such great power to move the human mind to rejoicing.' With some misgiving he goes on to record that after the festivity the ship was left to drive of itself, both pilgrims and sailors betaking themselves to rest. At Cyprus they had a few days, and Fabri led some of his companions to the summit of Mount Stavrovuni, near their port Salinae (Citium by the salt lakes of Larnaka), to visit the Church of Holy Cross--the cross of Dismas, the thief on the right hand, said to have been brought by that great finder of relics, the Empress Helena. By the way he was careful to explain that they must expect no miracle: 'we shall see none in Jerusalem, so how can there be one here?' In the church he read them a mass and preached, and at departing rang the church bell, saying that they would hear no bells again till they returned to Christendom. When they set sail again, all eyes were turned Eastwards: happy would he be who should first sight the land of their desire. Fabri crept forward to the prow of the galley and sat for hours upon the horns, straining his gaze across the summer seas which whispered around the ship's stem: almost, he confesses, cursing night when it fell and cut off all hope till dawn. Before sunrise he was there again, and on 1 July the watchman in the maintop gave the glad shout. The pilgrims flocked up on deck and sang Te Deum with bounding joy. It was a tumult of harsh voices; but to Fabri in his happiness their various dissonance made sweet harmony. On reaching Jaffa they lay for some days awaiting permission to land. At length all was ready. The ship's officers collected the tips due to them, and the pilgrims were put on shore: falling to kiss the ground as they struggled out of their boats through the surf. One by one they were brought before Turkish officials, who took record of their names and their fathers' names--an occasion on which noblemen often tried to pass themselves off as of low degree, to escape the higher fees due. Fabri notes that his Christian name, Felix, gave the official recorders some trouble: that he pronounced it again and again for them, but they could get nothing at all like it. Each pilgrim, when entered, was hurried off by Saracens, like sheep into a pen, and thrust into a row of caves along the sea-shore, known as St. Peter's Cellars. If they had suffered on board ship, their sufferings were multiplied now tenfold. Strict watch was kept upon them, and no one was allowed to leave the caves. Within, the ground was covered with semi-liquid filth. From the ship, as they lay waiting to land, Fabri had noticed the Saracens running in and out of the caves; and he argued that they were intentionally defiling them, to make it more disagreeable to the Christian dogs. But this seems hardly necessary. There had doubtless been other pilgrims before them. Droves of mankind can tread ground into a foul swamp as cattle tread a farmyard. With their feet the poor pilgrims managed to collect some of the impurities together into a heap in the centre; each man clearing enough space to lie down upon. Fabri found solace to his offended senses in thinking of his dear Lord lying in a hard manger, amongst all the defilements of the oxen. After a time came traders selling rushes and branches of trees to make beds, unguents and perfumes and frankincense to burn, and attar of roses from Damascus. Others brought bread and water and lettuces and hot cakes made with eggs, which the pilgrims gladly bought; and, as the day wore on, with the much going to and fro the ground was slowly dried under their feet. At nightfall appeared a man armed, whom they took to be the owner of the caves. With menaces he extorted from each of them a penny, and in the morning again, before they could come out, another penny; to their great indignation against the captains and dragoman, who were sleeping in tents higher up the hill, and had by contract undertaken all these charges. So long as they were there, the pilgrims suffered continual annoyance from the Turks, who ran in among them pilfering, breaking any wine bottles they found, and provoking them to blows, in order to secure the fines of which the pilgrims would then be mulcted. One young man was so disgusted at it all that he went back on board and gave up his pilgrimage; living with the crew till the party came back from Jerusalem. They were indeed entirely in the hands of the Turks. It was not a case of moving when they were inclined. When the Turks wished, they were allowed to go forward: till then they were confined like prisoners. No date was fixed: the pilgrims just had to wait in patience, hoping that tomorrow or tomorrow or tomorrow would see them start. Fabri records, however, that there was some justice available. Petty wrongs must go unredressed; but a pilgrim who had been gulled into buying coloured glass as gems to the value of five ducats, recovered his money by complaining to the local governor. A subordinate came down, took the money from the fraudulent trader by force, and restored it to its owner. Again Fabri testifies to the careful way in which the escort protected the company from molestation on its way up to Jerusalem. He is also at pains to refute the idea that the Turks compelled them to ride on donkeys, lest the land should be defiled by Christian feet: rather, he says, it is for our comfort and convenience. And indeed there was sufficient refutation in the regulation which compelled them to dismount on reaching any village and proceed through its narrow streets on foot. Whilst waiting at Jaffa, Fabri to his great delight fell in with the donkey-boy who had gone up with him three years before; and was able to secure him again. The boy welcomed him, especially as Fabri had brought him a present of two iron stirrups from Ulm; and all the way served him most faithfully, picking him figs and grapes from the gardens they passed, sharing water and biscuit, and even giving him a goad for his mount--a concession which was not allowed to the ordinary pilgrim. Their first march was to Ramlah, and on arrival they were penned for the day into a great serai, built by a Duke of Burgundy. It was still early, only 9 o'clock, for they had started before sunrise. After barring the gate to keep out the Turks, they set up an altar and celebrated mass. A sermon was preached by the Franciscan Warden of Jerusalem, in the course of which he gave them advice as to their behaviour towards those to whose tolerance they owed their position there--counsels which forty years later the fiery spirit of Loyola burned to set at nought, till the Franciscans were thankful to get him safely out of Jerusalem without open flouting of the masters--: not to go about alone; not to enter mosques or step over graves; not to insult Saracens when at prayer or by touching their beards; not to return blow for blow, but to make formal complaints; not to drink wine openly; to observe decorum and not rush to be first at the sacred sites; and generally to be circumspect in presence of the infidels, lest they mark what was done amiss and say, 'O thou bad Christian', a phrase which was familiar to them in both Italian and German. He further charged them that they must on no account chip fragments off the Holy Sepulchre and other sacred buildings; nor write their names or coats of arms upon the walls; and finally, he advised them to be careful in any money-transactions with Muhammadans, and to have no dealings at all with either Eastern Christians or German Jews. After mass was over, they opened the gate and found the outer court filled with traders who brought them excellent food: fowls ready roasted, puddings of rice and milk, capital bread and eggs, and fruit of every kind, grapes, pomegranates, apples, oranges (pomerancia), lemons and water-melons; and in the afternoon they were allowed to go and have hot baths in the splendid marble hamáms. In the evening came a rumour that they were to proceed. They packed up their bundles and sat waiting for an hour or two; and then the rumour proved to be false. Meanwhile the sleeping-mats which they had hired for their stay had been rolled up by their owners and carried off; and the pilgrims had to sleep as best they might. Fabri made his way up on to the roof and passed the night there. Waking early before sunrise he was much impressed to observe the devotion of the Muhammadans at their morning prayers: the long rows of kneeling figures, swaying forward together in reverent prostration, the grave faces and solemn tones. Surely, as he looked, he must have felt that God, even his God, was the God of all the earth, and would be a Father to those that sought Him so earnestly. At any rate he turned away, with a strong sense of contrast, to his own comrades waking to the day with laughing chatter and no thought of prayer. An episode of this halt was a visit from a Saracen fruit-seller upon whom Fabri looked with curiosity. Then, taking the man's hat, he spat upon it with every expression of disgust at its Saracen badge. The man, instead of resenting it, looked cautiously round and then spat on the badge himself, at the same time making the sign of the Cross. He was a Christian who had been forced into conversion, probably in expiation of some crime; and now hated his life. It was no uncommon thing. As their procession wound through village streets, the pilgrims would often see furtive signs made to them from inner chambers: unwilling converts signalling the symbol that they loved, to eyes that were sure to be sympathetic. As Fabri made his way along, his heart was glad. His foot was on holy ground, and at every step new associations came floating into his thoughts. These were the mountains to which Moses had looked from Pisgah; here Jephthah's daughter had made plaint for her young life; hither had come Mary in the joy of the angel's message; the stones on which he stumbled might have felt the feet of Christ. At the hill called Mount Joy they should have seen Jerusalem; but the air was thick, and they could only make out the Mount of Olives. So they toiled on along their dusty way, between dry stone walls and thirsty vegetable-gardens, until, as they reached the crest of a low ridge, suddenly like a flash of light it shone before them, the City, the Holy City. At once their footsteps quickened with new life; and when at length they found themselves in the courtyard of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, their pent-up emotions burst forth, into tears and groans, sweet wailings and deep sighs. Some lay powerless on the ground, forsaken by their strength and to all appearances dead. Others drifted from one corner to another, beating their breasts, as though urged by an evil spirit. Some knelt bare-kneed; as they prayed, stretching out their arms like a rood. Others were shaken with such violent sobs that they could only sit down and hold their heads in their hands. Some lost all command of themselves, and, forgetting how to behave, sought to please God with strange and childish gestures. On the other hand, Fabri noted some who stood quite unmoved, and merely mocked at the strange display: dull, unprofitable souls he calls them, brute beasts, not having the spirit of God. Their self-contained temperament misliked him, especially as thereafter they held aloof from those who had given way to such enthusiasm or, as they felt it, weakness. We cannot company with the party to all the numerous sites that piety bade them visit. It was prodigiously fatiguing for them under the July sun, and the ranks grew thin as the weaker spirits fell out dead tired, to rest awhile in hospitable cloister or by cooling well. Fabri found it very toilsome to struggle after mental abstraction, to rise to such heights as he desired of devotion and comprehension of all the holy influences around him, to seize every opportunity of contemplation and lose nothing; being soon thoroughly exhausted with his bodily exertions. Some alleviation there was: when holy women--nuns of his own Order, who had a house in Jerusalem--washed his scapular and tunic for him, and wrought other works of charity for which he was very grateful. The pilgrims had been warned not to wander away from their party. One day as they went to the Dead Sea, they halted at a monastery; and Fabri was tempted to ramble off alone to inspect a cliff which had been hollowed out by hermits into innumerable caves. It was a precipitous place; and at one point, where the path was narrow and the cliff fell sheer below, he encountered an Eastern Christian. Seeing that Fabri was afraid, the fellow began to trifle with him and demanded money; and in the end Fabri was obliged to open his slender purse. 'Ever since then', he says, 'I have abhorred the company of Christians of that sort more than that of Saracens and Arabs, and have trusted them less. Though perhaps he would not have thrown me down the precipice, even had I given him nothing, yet it was wicked of him to play with me in a place of such danger. If an Arab had done so, I should have been pleased at his play, and should have held him to be a good pagan; but I believe no good of that Christian.' When he rejoined his party, the patron told him that the Eastern Christians were least to be trusted of any men. On arrival at Jordan there was much excitement. To bathe in that ancient river was thought to renew youth, and so all the pilgrims were eager to immerse themselves; even women of 80--a rather doubtful figure--plunging into the lukewarm stream. Some had brought bells to be blessed with Jordan water, others strips of material for clothes; and wealthier members of the party jumped in as they were, in order that the robes they had on might bring them luck in the future. Three things were forbidden to the pilgrims: (1) to swim across the stream, because in the excitement of emotion and amongst such crowds individuals had often been drowned; (2) to dive in, because the bottom was muddy; (3) to carry away phials of Jordan water. The first regulation was openly violated. On his first journey Fabri had swum across, but on the return had been seized with panic and nearly drowned. So this time he contented himself with drawing up his garments round his neck and sitting down in the shallow water among the crowd who were splashing about and jestingly baptizing one another. The prohibition of Jordan water was to appease the shipmen; for it was thought to cause storms when carried over the sea. We have not time to follow Fabri in more detail. On 24 August he left Jerusalem with a small company of pilgrims who had not been deterred from undertaking the journey to Sinai. There was much dispute about the route they should follow. Some were for going by sea to Alexandria, others wished to march down the sea coast; but finally they made up their minds to go straight South across the desert. Starting from Gaza on 9 September they reached St. Catherine's on the 22nd. Five days of very hard work sufficed for them to see all the sacred sites and ascend the many towering peaks; and here again Fabri impressed upon his companions that the days of miracles were over, and that in these evil times God would show no more. On 27 September they set forth again, and journeying through Midian reached Cairo on 8 October; having picked up on the shore of the Red Sea oyster shells which should be an abiding witness of their pilgrimage. On 5 November they set sail from Alexandria; but summer had departed from the sea, and the winds blew obstinately. Three times they beat up to Cape Malea, before they could round the point and make sail for the North; and it was not till 8 Jan. 1484 that they landed in Venice. The pilgrimage was over after seven months, and with what Guilford's chaplain calls 'large departing of our money'. X THE TRANSALPINE RENAISSANCE Hitherto we have viewed the age mainly through the personality of individuals. It remains to consider some of the features of the Renaissance when it had spread across the Alps--to France, to Spain, to Switzerland, to Germany, to England--and some of the contrasts that it presents with the earlier movement in Italy. The story of the Italian Renaissance has often been told; and we need not go back upon it here. On the side of the revival of learning it was without doubt the great age. The importance of its discoveries, the fervour of its enthusiasm have never been equalled. But though it remains pre-eminent, the period that followed it has an interest of its own which is hardly less keen and presents the real issues at stake in a clearer light. Awakened Italy felt itself the heiress of Rome, and thus patriotism coloured its enthusiasm for the past. To the rest of Western Europe this source of inspiration was not open. They were compelled to examine more closely the aims before them; and thus attained to a calmer and truer estimate of what they might hope to gain from the study of the classics. It was not the revival of lost glories, thoughts of a world held in the bonds of peace: in those dreams the Transalpines had only the part of the conquered. Rather the classics led them back to an age before Christianity; and pious souls though they were, the scholar's instinct told them that they would find there something to learn. Christianity had fixed men's eyes on the future, on their own salvation in the life to come; and had trained all knowledge, even Aristotle, to serve that end. In the great days of Greece and Rome the world was free from this absorbing preoccupation; and inquiring spirits were at liberty to find such truth as they could, not merely the truth that they wished or must. Another point of difference between Italy and the Transalpines is in the resistance offered to the Renaissance in the two regions. The scholastic philosophy and theology was a creation of the North. The greatest of the Schoolmen found their birth or training in France or Germany, at the schools of Paris and Cologne; and with the names of Duns, Hales, Holcot, Occam, Burley and Bradwardine our own islands stand well to the fore. The situation is thus described by Aldus in a letter written to the young prince of Carpi in October 1499, to rejoice over some translations from the Greek just arrived from Linacre in England: 'Of old it was barbarous learning that came to us from Britain; it conquered Italy and still holds our castles. But now they send us learned eloquence; with British aid we shall chase away barbarity and come by our own again.' The teaching of the Schoolmen made its way into Italy, but had little vogue; and with the Church, through such Popes as Nicholas V, on the side of the Renaissance, resistance almost disappeared. The humanists charging headlong dissipated their foes in a moment, but were soon carried beyond the field of battle, to fall into the hands of the forces of reaction. Across the Alps, on the other hand, the Church and the universities stood together and looked askance at the new movement, dreading what it might bring forth. In consequence the ground was only won by slow and painful efforts, but each advance, as it was made, was secured. The position may be further illustrated by comparing the first productions of the press on either side of the Alps: in the early days, before the export trade had developed, and when books were produced mainly for the home market. The Germans who brought the art down into Italy, Sweynheym and Pannartz at Rome, Wendelin and Jenson at Venice, printed scarcely anything that was not classical: Latin authors and Latin translations from the Greek. Up in the North the first printers of Germany, Fust and Schoeffer at Mainz, Mentelin at Strasburg, rarely overstepped the boundaries of the mediaeval world that was passing away or the modern that was taking its place. The appearance of the _Epistolae Obscurorum Virorum_ in 1515 exposed the scholastic teachers and their allies in the Church to such widespread ridicule that it is not easy for us now to realize the position which those dignitaries still held when Erasmus was young. The stream of contempt poured upon them by the triumphant humanists obscures the merit of their system as a gigantic and complete engine of thought. Under its great masters, Albert the Great, Thomas Aquinas, Duns Scotus, scholasticism had been rounded into an instrument capable of comprehending all knowledge and of expressing every refinement of thought; and, as has been well said, the acute minds that created it, if only they had extended their inquiries into natural science, might easily have anticipated by centuries the discoveries of modern days.[39] In expressing their distinctions the Schoolmen had thrown to the winds the restraints of classical Latin and the care of elegance; and with many of them language had degenerated into jargon. But in their own eyes their position was unassailable. Their philosophy was founded on Aristotle; and while they were proud of their master, they were prouder still of the system they had created in his name: and thus they felt no impulse to look backwards to the past. [39] Cf. F.G. Stokes, _Epistolae Obscurorum Virorum_, 1909, p. xvii. In the matter of language they had been led by a spirit of reaction. The literature of later classical times had sacrificed matter to form; and the schools had been dominated by teachers who trained boys to declaim in elegant periods on any subject whatever, regardless of its content; thus carrying to an extreme the precepts with which the great orators had enforced the importance of style. The Schoolmen swung the pendulum back, letting sound and froth go and thinking only of their subject-matter, despising the classics. In their turn they were confronted by the humanists, who reasserted the claims of form. There was sense in the humanist contention. It is very easy to say the right thing in the wrong way; in other spheres than diplomacy the choice of language is important. Words have a history of their own, and often acquire associations independent of their meaning. Rhythm, too, and clearness need attention. An unbalanced sentence goes haltingly and jars; an ambiguous pronoun causes the reader to stumble. An ill-written book, an ill-worded speech fail of their effects; it is not merely by sympathy and character that men persuade. But of course the humanists pushed the matter too far. Pendulums do not reach the repose of the mean without many tos and fros. Elegance is good, but the art of reasoning is not to be neglected. Of the length to which they went Ascham's method of instruction in the _Scholemaster_ (1570) is a good example. He wished his scholar to translate Cicero into English, and then from the English to translate back into the actual words of the Latin. The Ciceronians did not believe that the same thing could be well said in many ways; rather there was one way which transcended all others, and that Cicero had attained. Erasmus, however, was no Ciceronian; and one of the reasons why he won such a hold upon his own and subsequent generations was that, more than all his contemporaries, he succeeded in establishing a reasonable accord between the claims of form and matter in literature. In their neglect of the classics the Schoolmen had a powerful ally. For obvious reasons the early and the mediaeval Church felt that much of classical literature was injurious to the minds of the young, and in consequence discouraged the use of it in schools. The classics were allowed to perish, and their place was taken by Christian poets such as Prudentius or Juvencus, by moralizations of Aesop, patchwork compositions known as 'centos' on Scriptural themes, and the like. The scholars, therefore, who went to Italy and came home to the North carrying the new enthusiasm, had strenuous opposition to encounter. The Schoolmen considered them impertinent, the Church counted them immoral. To us who know which way the conflict ended, the savage blows delivered by the humanists seem mere brutality; they lash their fallen foes with what appears inhuman ferocity. But the truth is that the struggle was not finished until well into the sixteenth century. Biel of Tubingen, 'the last of the Schoolmen', lived till 1495. Between 1501 and 1515 a single printer, Wolff of Basle, produced five massive volumes of the _Summae_ of mediaeval Doctors. Through the greater part, therefore, of Erasmus' life the upholders of the old systems and ideals, firmly entrenched by virtue of possession, succeeded in maintaining their supremacy in the schools. Between the two periods of the revival of learning, the Italian and the Transalpine, a marked line is drawn by the invention of printing, _c._ 1455: when the one movement had run half its course, the other scarcely begun. The achievements of the press in the diffusion of knowledge are often extolled; and some of the resulting good and evil is not hard to see. But the paramount service rendered to learning by the printer's art was that it made possible a standard of critical accuracy which was so much higher than what was known before as to be almost a new creation. When books were manuscripts, laboriously written out one at a time, there could be no security of identity between original and copy; and even when a number of copies were made from the same original, there was a practical certainty that there would be no absolute uniformity among them. Mistakes were bound to occur; not always at the same point, but here in one manuscript, there in another. Or again, when two unrelated copies of the same book were brought together, there was an antecedent probability that examination would reveal differences: so that in general it was impossible to feel that a fellow-scholar working on the same author was using the same text. Even with writers of one's own day uniformity was hardly to be attained. Not uncommonly, as a mark of attention, an author revised manuscript copies of his works, which were to be presented to friends; and besides correcting the copyists' errors, might add or cut out or alter passages according to his later judgement. Subsequent copies would doubtless follow his revision, and then the process might be repeated; with the result that a reader could not tell to what stage in the evolution of a work the text before him might belong: whether it represented the earliest form of composition or the final form reached perhaps many years afterwards. To understand the conditions under which mediaeval scholars worked, it is of the utmost importance to realize this state of uncertainty and flux. Not that in manuscript days there was indifference to accuracy. Serious scholars and copyists laid great stress upon it. With insistent fervour they implored one another to be careful, and to collate what had been copied. But there are limits to human powers. Collation is a dull business; and unless done with minute attention, cannot be expected to yield perfect correctness. When a man has copied a work of any length, it is hard for him to collate it with the original slowly. Physically, of course, he easily might: but the spirit is weak, and, weary of the ground already traversed once, urges him to hurry forward, with the inevitable result. With a manuscript, too, the possible reward might well seem scarcely worth the labour; for how could any permanence be ensured for critical work? A scholar might expend his efforts over a corrupt author, might compare his own manuscript with others far and near, and at length arrive at a text really more correct. And yet what hope had he that his labour was not lost? His manuscript would pass at his death into other hands and might easily be overlooked and even perish. Like a child's castle built upon the sand, his work would be overwhelmed by the rising tide of oblivion. Such conditions are disheartening. Thus mediaeval standards of accuracy were of necessity low. In default of good instruments we content ourselves with those we have. To draw a line straight we use a ruler; but if one is not to be had, the edge of a book or a table may supply its place. In the last resort we draw roughly by hand, but with no illusions as to our success. So it was with the scholar of the Middle Ages. His instruments were imperfect; and he acquiesced in the best standards he could get: realizing no doubt their defects, but knowing no better way. But with printing the position was at once changed. When the type had been set up, it was possible to strike off a thousand copies of a book, each of which was identical with all the rest. It became worth while to spend abundant pains over seeking a good text and correcting the proofs--though this latter point was not perceived at first--when there was the assured prospect of such uniformity to follow. One edition could be distinguished from another by the dates on title-page and colophon; and work once done was done for all time, if enough copies of a book were taken off. This necessarily produced a great change in methods of study. Instead of a single manuscript, in places perhaps hopelessly entangled, and always at the mercy of another manuscript of equal or greater authority that might appear from the blue with different readings, the scholar received a text which represented a recension of, it may be, several manuscripts, and whose roughnesses had been smoothed out by the care of editors more or less competent. The precious volumes to which modern book-lovers reverently give the title of 'Editio princeps', had almost as great honour in their own day, before the credit of priority and antiquity had come to them; for in them men saw the creation of a series of 'standard texts', norms to which, until they were superseded, all future work upon the same ground could be referred. As a result, too, of the improved correctness of the texts, instead of being satisfied with the general sense of an author, men were able to base edifices of precise argument upon the verbal meaning of passages, in some confidence that their structures would not be overset. But the new invention was not universally acclaimed. Trithemius with his conservative mind quickly detected some weaknesses; and in 1492 he composed a treatise 'In praise of scribes', in vain attempt to arrest the flowing tide. 'Let no one say, "Why should I trouble to write books, when they are appearing continually in such numbers? for a moderate sum one can acquire a large library." What a difference between the results achieved! A manuscript written on parchment will last a thousand years: books printed on paper will scarcely live two hundred. Besides, there will always be something to copy: not everything can be printed. Even if it could, a true scribe ought not to give up. His pen can perpetuate good works which otherwise would soon perish. He must not be amazed by the present abundance that he sees, but should look forward to the needs of the future. Though we had thousands of volumes, we must not cease writing; for printed books are never so good. Indeed they usually pay little heed to ornament and orthography.' It is noticeable that only in this last point does Trithemius claim for manuscripts superior accuracy. In the matter of permanence we may wonder what he would have thought of modern paper. The first advance, then, rendered possible by the invention of printing was to more uniform and better texts: the next step forward was no less important. To scholars content with the general sense of a work, a translation might be as acceptable as the original. Improved standards of accuracy led men to perceive that an author must be studied in his own tongue: in order that no shade of meaning might be lost. Here again the two periods are easily distinguished. Nicholas V set his scholars, Poggio and Valla, to translate the Greeks, Herodotus and Thucydides, Aristotle and Diodorus. The feature of the later epoch is the number of Greek editions which came out to supplant the versions in common use. The credit for this advance in critical scholarship must be given to Aldus for his Greek Aristotle, which appeared in 1495-9; and he subsequently led the way with numerous texts of the Greek classics. At the same time he proposed to apply the same principle to Biblical study. As early as 1499 Grocin in a letter alludes to Aldus' scheme of printing the whole Bible in the original 'three languages', Hebrew, Greek and Latin; and a specimen was actually put forth in 1501. In this matter precedence might seem to lie with the Jewish printers, who produced the Psalms in Hebrew in 1477, and the Old Testament complete in 1488; but as the Jews never at any period ceased to read their Scriptures in Hebrew, there was no question of recovery of an original. Aldus did not live to carry his scheme out; and it was left to Ximenes and the band of scholars that he gathered at Alcala, to produce the first edition of the Bible complete in the original tongues, the Complutensian Polyglott, containing the Hebrew side by side with the Septuagint and the Vulgate, and for the Pentateuch a Syriac paraphrase. The New Testament in this great enterprise was finished in 1514, and the whole work was ready by 1517, shortly before Ximenes' death. But as publication was delayed till 1522, the actual priority rests with Erasmus, whose New Testament in Greek with a Latin translation by himself appeared, as we have seen, in 1516. Thus by an accident Germany gained the credit of being the first to assert this new principle, the importance of studying texts in the original, in the field where resistance is most resolute and victory is hardly won. And now it was about to enter upon a still greater contest. Erasmus' New Testament encountered hostile criticism in many quarters: conservative theologians made common cause with the friars in condemning it. But at the very centre of the religion they professed, the book was blessed by the chief priests. The Pope accepted the dedication, and bishops wished they could read the Greek. Far otherwise was it with the impending struggle of the Reformation: there the cleavage of sides followed very different lines. Into that wide field we cannot now expatiate; but it is important to notice an element which the German Renaissance contributed to the Reformation, and which played a considerable part in both movements--the accentuation of German national feeling. At the middle of the fifteenth century Italy enjoyed undisputed pre-eminence in the world of learning. The sudden splendour into which the Renaissance had blazed up on Italian soil drew men's eyes thither more than ever; and to its ancient universities students from the North swarmed like bees. To graduate in Italy, to hear its famous doctors, perhaps even to learn from one of the native Greeks brought over out of the East, became first the ambition, and then the indispensable requirement of every Northern scholar who could afford it; and few of Erasmus' friends and colleagues had not at some time or other made the pilgrimage to Italy. Consequence and success brought the usual Nemesis. The Italian _hubris_ expressed itself in the familiar Greek distinction between barbarian and home-born; and the many nations from beyond the Alps found themselves united in a common bond which they were not eager to share. We have seen the kind of gibe with which Agricola's eloquence was greeted at Pavia. The more such insults are deserved, the more they sting. We may be sure that in many cases they were not forgotten. Celtis returning from Italy to Ingolstadt in 1492 delivered his soul in an inaugural oration: 'The ancient hatred between us can never be dissolved. But for the Alps we should be eternally at war.' In other countries the feeling, though less acute, was much the same. Thus in 1517 spoke Stephen Poncher, bishop of Paris, after his first meeting with Erasmus: 'Italy has no one to compare with him in literary gifts. In our own day Hermolaus and Politian have rescued Latin from barbarism; and their services can never be forgotten. When I was there, too, I met a number of men of rare ability and learning. But with all respect to the Italians, I must say that Erasmus eclipses every one, Transalpine and Cisalpine alike.' Of the foreign 'nations' at the universities of Italy none was more numerous than the German, a title which embraced many nationalities of the North: not merely German-speaking races such as the Swiss and Flemish and Dutch, but all who could by any stretch of imagination be represented as descendants of the Goths; Swedes and Danes, Hungarians and Bohemians, Lithuanians and Bulgars and Poles. That they went in such numbers is not surprising. The prestige of Italian teaching was great and well-established, whereas their own universities were few and scarcely more than nascent; indeed, when the Council of Vienne had ordained the teaching of Greek and other missionary languages in 1311, its injunctions went to France and Italy and England and Spain: but Germany had no university to which a missive could be directed. From Southern Germany, too, and Switzerland and Austria, the distance was small, notwithstanding the obvious Alps and the difficulties of the passes. Even Celtis, in spite of his denunciations, sent on his best pupils to Italy. So there were many who brought home with them to the North recollections of lofty condescension and of ill-disguised contempt for the foreigner: insults that they burned to repay. Italy might vaunt the glories of ancient Rome; but Germany also had deeds to be proud of. Rome might have founded the World-empire; but Charlemagne had conquered the dominions of the Caesars and made the Empire Germanic. Classic antiquity, too, could not be denied to the land and people whom Tacitus had described; and Germans were not slow to claim the virtues found among them by the Roman historian. Arminius became the national hero. German faith and honour, German simplicity, German sincerity and candour--these are insisted upon by the Transalpine humanists with a vehemence which suggests that while priding themselves on the possession of such qualities, they marked the lack of them in others. We may recall Ascham's horror of the Englishman Italianated. Not that Germans could not make friends in Italy. Scheurl loved his time at Bologna, and was eager to fight for the Bentivogli against Julius II. Erasmus was made much of by the Aldine Academy at Venice; and ten years later Hutten was charmed with his reception there. But with many, conscious of their own defects[40] and of the reality of Italian superiority, the charge of barbarism must have rankled. To Luther in 1518 Italian is synonymous with supercilious. [40] Thus a worthy abbot in the Inn valley, writing to Erasmus in 1523, manages to achieve a Latin letter, but apologizes for only being able to write in German characters. The rising German feeling expresses itself on all sides in the letters of the humanists. A young Frieslander, studying at Oxford in 1499, writes to a fellow-countryman there: 'Your verses have shown me what I never could have believed, that German talents are no whit inferior to Italian.' Hutten in 1516 writes of Reuchlin and Erasmus as 'the two eyes of Germany, whom we must sedulously cherish; for it is through them that our nation is ceasing to be barbarous'. Beatus Rhenanus, in editing the poems of Janus Pannonius (d. 1472), says in his preface, 1518: 'Janus and Erasmus, Germans though they are and moderns, give me as much satisfaction to read as do Politian and Hermolaus, or even Virgil and Cicero.' Erasmus in 1518 writes to thank a canon of Mainz who had entertained him at supper. After compliments on his host's charming manners, his erudition free from superciliousness--if he could have known Gibbon, he surely must have used those immortal words of praise, 'a modest and learned ignorance'--and his wit and elegance of speech, he goes on: 'One might have been listening to a Roman. Now let the Italians go and taunt Germans with barbarism, if they dare!' In 1519 a canon of Brixen in Tirol writes to Beatus: 'Would to God that Germany had more men like you, to make her famous, and stand up against those Italians, who give themselves such airs about their learning; though men of credit now think that the helm has been snatched from their hands by Erasmus.' This is how Zwingli writes in 1521 of an Italian who had attacked Luther and charged him with ignorance: 'But we must make allowances for Italian conceit. In their heads is always running the refrain, "Heaven and earth can show none like to us". They cannot bear to see Germany outstripping them in learning.' Rarely a different note is heard, evoked by rivalry perhaps or the desire to encourage. Locher from Freiburg could call Leipzig barbarous. Erasmus wrote to an Erfurt schoolmaster that he was glad to see Germany softening under the influence of good learning and putting off her wild woodland ways. But these are exceptions: towards insolence from the South an unbroken front was preserved. In another direction the strong national feeling manifested itself; in the study of German antiquity and the composition of histories.[41] Maximilian, dipping his hands in literature, stimulated the archaeological researches of Peutinger, patronized Trithemius and Pirckheimer, and even instituted a royal historian, Stabius. Celtis the versatile projected an elaborate _Germania illustrata_ on the model of Flavio Biondo's work for Rome; and his description of Nuremberg was designed to be the first instalment. As he conceived it, the work was never carried out; but essays of varying importance on this theme were produced by Cochlaeus, Pirckheimer, Aventinus and Munster. The most ardent to extol Germany was Wimpfeling of Schlettstadt, a man of serious temperament, who was prone to rush into controversy in defence of the causes that he had at heart. His education had all been got in Germany, and he was proud of his country. His first effort to increase its praise was to instigate Trithemius to put together a 'Catalogue of the illustrious men who adorn Germany with their talents and writings'. The author's preface (8 Feb. 1491) reveals unmistakably the animosity towards Italy: 'Some people contemn our country as barren, and maintain that few men of genius have flourished in it; hoping by disparagement of others to swell their own praise. With all the resources of their eloquence they trick out the slender achievements of their own countrymen; but jealousy blinds them to the great virtues of the Germans, the mighty deeds and brilliant intellects, the loyalty, enthusiasm and devotion of this great nation. If they find in the classics any credit given to us for valour or learning, they quickly hide it up; and in order to trumpet their own excellences, they omit ours altogether. That is how Pliny's narrative of the German wars was lost, and how so many histories of our people have disappeared.' [41] Cf. A. Horawitz in Sybel's _Historische Zeitschrift_, xxv. (1871), 66-101; and P. Joachimsen, _Geschichtsauffassung und Geschichtschreibung in Deutschland unter dem Einfluss des Humanismus_, pt. 1, 1910. The book was sent to Wimpfeling, who collected a few more names and added a preface of his own (17 Sept. 1492) in the same strain. 'People who think that Germany is still as barbarous as it was in the days of Caesar should read what Jerome has to say about it. The abundance of old books in existence shows that Germany had many learned men in the past; who have left carefully written manuscripts on oratory, poetry, natural philosophy, theology and all kinds of erudition. All down the Rhine you will find the walls and roofs of monasteries adorned with elegant epigrams which testify to German taste of old. To-day there are Germans who can translate the Greek classics into Latin; and if their style is not pure Ciceronian, let our detractors remember that styles change with the times. Mankind is always discontented, and prefers the old to the modern. I can quite understand that our German philosophers adapted their style to their audiences and their lofty subjects. So foreign critics had better let this provocative talk alone for ever.' A few years later Wimpfeling edited a fourteenth-century treatise by Lupold of Bebenburg entitled 'The zeal and fervour of the ancient German princes towards the Christian religion and the servants of God'; the intention of which clearly fell in with his desire. In his preface, addressed to Dalberg, Agricola's patron, he tells a story which explains a peculiarity occasionally found in mediaeval manuscripts; of being written in sections by several different hands. Some years before, the Patriarch of Aquileia was passing through Spires. To divert the enforced leisure of a halt upon a journey, he prowled round the libraries of the town; and in one discovered this treatise of Lupold, which pleased him greatly. As he was to be off again next morning, there was no time to have it copied, at least by one hand: so the manuscript was cut up and distributed among a number of scribes, and in the space of a night the desired copy was ready. Subsequently Wimpfeling heard of the incident from one of the brethren in the monastery, and obtained the original manuscript to publish. When such things could happen, no wonder that some manuscripts are imperfect and others have disappeared. Wimpfeling's next endeavour to assert the glories of Germany was completed in 1502; but did not appear till 1505. It was based upon the work of a friend, Sebastian Murrho of Colmar (d. 1494). The title, _Defensio Germaniae_ or _Epithoma Germanorum_, sufficiently explains its purpose. After a brief account of Germany in Roman times--his hero being not Arminius, but 'the first German king, Arioviscus, who fought with Julius Caesar',--and fuller records of the Germanic Emperors since Charlemagne, Wimpfeling comes to the praise of his own days; the men of learning, the famous soldiers, the architects who could build the great tower of Strasburg, the painters, the inventors of printing and of that terrible engine the bombard. But nearest to his heart lay a question debated then as now: to whom should rightfully belong the western part of the Rhine valley, between the river and the Vosges? It was there that his home lay, Schlettstadt, one of the fairest cities of the plain. With all the 'zeal and fervour of the ancient German princes' he sets out to prove that it must be German: 'where are there any traces' he cries 'of the French language? There are no books in French, no monuments, no letters, no epitaphs, no deeds or documents. For seven or eight centuries there is nothing but Latin or German.' The cathedral of Spires, the fine monastery of St. Fides in his native town, supply him with a further argument: would the good Dukes of Swabia have lavished so much money, the substance of their fathers, upon Gallic soil, to pour it out among the French? With such arguments he convinced himself and others. Almost at the same time Peutinger put out a little volume of 'Conversations about the wonderful antiquities of Germany'; supporting Wimpfeling with further evidence and concluding satisfactorily that French had never ruled over Germans. A work of very different calibre which appeared about this time was the _Germaniae Exegesis_ of Francis Fritz, who Latinized his name into Irenicus. Wimpfeling was growing grey when he had made his defence of Germany: the new champion was a young man of 23, who had scarcely emerged from his degree. The book was published in 1518; printed at Hagenau by Anshelm at the cost of John Koberger, the great Nuremberg printer, and fostered by Pirckheimer. In his later years Irenicus became a Lutheran and displayed some dignity in refusing to sacrifice his convictions to worldly interests; but at this time he was enthusiastic and heady, and as a result his work is an uncritical jumble. 'Puerile and silly' Erasmus called it, when he saw some of the proof-sheets at Spires in 1518. 'A most unfortunate book', wrote Beatus Rhenanus in 1525, 'without style and without judgement.' To Aventinus in 1531 it was 'an impudent compilation from Stabius and Trithemius, by a poor creature of the most despicable intelligence'. But even a bad book can be a measure of the time, showing the ideas current and the catchwords that were thought likely to attract the reading public. It is much larger than Wimpfeling's Defence, and even more miscellaneous; ranging over many aspects of Germany ancient and modern. To us in the present inquiry its interest lies in the frequency with which the excellence of Germany is asserted against Italian sneers. The following specimen will illustrate this point, and also explain Erasmus' epithets. In the chapter on the German language (ii. 30) Irenicus is throughout engaged in refuting the charge of German barbarism. 'It may be true', he says, 'that German is not so much declined as Latin: but complexity does not necessarily bring refinement. Germany is as rich in dialects as Italy, and to speak German well merits high praise. Italian may be directly descended from Latin; but German too has a considerable element of Latin and Greek words. Guarino and Petrarch have written poetry in their vernaculars, and so the Italians boast that their language is more suited to poetry. But more than 1000 years ago Ovid wrote a book of German poetry[42]; and Trebeta, son of Semiramis, is known to have been the first person to compose in German.' [42] Ovid, _Pont._ 4. 13. 19: Getico sermone. In spite of such stuff, Pirckheimer, who saw the book in manuscript, was delighted with it. 'You have achieved what many have wished but few could have carried out. Every German must be obliged to you for the lustre you have brought to the Fatherland.' After stating that he had arranged with Koberger for the printing, he points out details which might be improved: more stress might be laid on the connexion of the Germans with the Goths, 'which the dregs of the Goths and Lombards--by which I mean the Italians--try to snatch from us'; and the universal conquests of the Goths might be more fully treated. Finally he suggests that before publication the work should be submitted to Stabius: 'the book deserves learned readers, and I should wish it to be as perfect as possible.'[43] [43] The letter is printed in Pirckheimer's _Opera_, 1610, p. 313: but is addressed wrongly, to Beatus Rhenanus. This brief survey may close with a far more considerable work, the _Res Germanicae_ of Beatus Rhenanus, published in 1531; from which we have made some extracts above. The book is sober and serious, and the subject-matter is handled scientifically; but in his preface Beatus is careful to point out that German history is as important as Roman, modern as much worth studying as ancient. Such was the soil into which fell the seed that Luther went forth to sow. When Tetzel came marching into German towns, with the Pope's Bull borne before him on a cushion, and brandishing indulgences for the living and the dead, when the coins were tinkling in the box, and the souls, released by contract, were flying off out of purgatory, the religious sense of thinking men was outraged by this travesty of the Day of Judgement; but scarcely less were they angered to see the tinkling coins, honest German money, flying off as rapidly as the souls, to build palaces for the supercilious Italians. In the great struggle of the Reformation the main issue was of course religious; but even its leader could feel added bitterness in the knowledge that this shocking traffic was ordained from Italy to benefit an Italian Pope. If the sympathies of educated Germany had not already been strongly moved in the same direction, it is conceivable that Luther's intrepid protest might have lacked the support which carried it to success. XI ERASMUS AND THE BOHEMIAN BRETHREN (A paper read before the third International Historical Congress, in London, April 1913.) Whatever may still be the troubles of the great, amongst men of learning at any rate visits of ceremony are mercifully no longer in fashion. At first sight one is inclined to find the cause of this in an improved sense of the value of time. Modern inventions have taught first the business man and then the world in general that time is money. Improved communications with time-tables that may be relied upon enable us to arrange our days in such a way as to be at least more busy, if not more useful; and we have acquired a wholesome respect for the time of others. But I do not think we should be right in accounting for the change in this way. At all ages the scholar, looking round him at tasks which exceed the capacity of a lifetime, has been avaricious of the hours--'labuntur anni', 'pereunt et imputantur' ever in his thoughts: and though the world of old moved slower, the man of business has rarely belied his name. A more plausible explanation is that the custom has died of surfeit. As increased facilities of travel made the world smaller, the circle of those that might be visited and saluted by the active grew boundless; so that on both sides limits were desired. Another consideration is that with new facilities came increased opportunities and hopes. To-day we live in the happy consciousness that friends, however distant, may be brought across the world to our doors by the urgencies of business or pleasure; and thus no one knows what the coming year may bring forth. In the sixteenth century men knew that opportunities lost might never recur, and that they must seize or make them as best they might. At that time visits of ceremony were in great vogue. Officials and scholars alike groaned under them. After a visit to the Court Erasmus writes: 'If Pollio (a disguised name, as he was writing of a man who afterwards became an intimate friend) has been with you, you will understand what I suffered at Brussels; every day hosts of Spanish visitors, besides Italians and Germans.' A little later he apologizes to a correspondent for having given him a chilly welcome: 'just then I had escaped from Brussels, quite worn out with the salutations of these persistent Spaniards.' The custom was widespread. An English graduate, studying for a time at Louvain, congratulates himself on having escaped from it at Cambridge. Clenardus found it thriving at Salamanca; Casaubon complained of it at Montpellier; in Oxford it was even obligatory for intending disputants in the schools to pay formal visits beforehand to their examiners. In 1517 Erasmus' fame was at its zenith; and in consequence visitors came to him from every side, some to seek counsel, others to adore. His correspondence gives us many instances. In the spring of 1517, when the Cardinal of Gurk attended Maximilian to the Netherlands, his two secretaries, Richard Bartholinus of Perugia and Ursinus Velius, a Silesian, prepared panegyrical verses with which to greet Erasmus if they should have the good fortune to meet him. For some reason Bartholinus alone came, and, presenting both the poems, elicited a complimentary letter in reply. A more distinguished visitor received less attention. In the summer of 1518 Erasmus was at Basle, printing the notes to his second edition of the New Testament. The Bishop of Pistoia, nephew of one of the most influential cardinals, and Papal nuncio in Switzerland, also came to Basle. Wishing to see the great scholar, he asked him to dinner. But Erasmus could not spare the time. He declined, and in his place sent his friends, Beatus Rhenanus and the young Amerbachs. Three times he made excuse; and at length the Nuncio went on foot to seek in Froben's press the scholar who would not come to him. What their conversation was we do not know; but before leaving, the Nuncio ordered a copy of the Amerbach-Froben Jerome to be sent to the binders and equipped with his arms and adornments. Later in the year the enthusiastic Eobanus of Hesse appeared in Louvain. He had come from Erfurt where he was teaching, and the main purpose of his journey was to see Erasmus. His _Hodoeporicon_, printed on his return, describes his course in detail. With a young companion, John Werter, also from Erfurt, he entered Louvain in the evening. Next morning early they sent in their 'callow' verses to the great man, and followed shortly themselves. Erasmus came down to greet them at the door with a kindly welcome, and Eobanus describes a banquet to which he invited them, entertaining them with serious talk and light-hearted jest. But it was at no light cost to Erasmus' time: for when his admirers left five days later, he had been cajoled into writing six letters of compliment, two to the travellers themselves and four more to friends at Gotha and Erfurt. But this was not the only cost. Eobanus imbued others of the Erfurt circle with his hero-worship; and next year came two more, Jonas and Schalbe, to trouble Erasmus' leisure, when he was taking a spring holiday at Antwerp, 'by the sea', and to bear off more letters to Erfurt. The spirit that animated these visitors is shown in a letter of John Turzo, bishop of Breslau, a man of Erasmus' own age. In 1518 Ursinus Velius, the disappointed secretary of the Cardinal of Gurk, had become canon of Breslau on Turzo's presentation; and had doubtless talked to his patron of Erasmus' attractive gifts. 'I am most eager to visit you' wrote the Bishop, from Breslau. 'If ever I had heard that you were anywhere within a week's journey from here, I should have rushed over at once: indeed I would have gone as far as Belgium, if only the business of my office allowed. The men of Cadiz who journeyed to Rome to see Livy were not more eager.' A picture of the interruptions to which Erasmus was exposed is given in a preface written in Froben's name for the new edition of Erasmus' _Epigrammata_ combined with More's and with the _Utopia_, March 1518. 'Most of these verses' Froben is made to say 'were written not for publication, but to give pleasure to friends; to whom he is always very obliging. When he was here bringing out his New Testament and Jerome, heavens! how he worked! toiling away untiringly day after day. Never was any one more overwhelmed in composition; and yet certain great persons thought themselves entitled to come and waste his time, coaxing out of him a few lines of verse or a little letter. So compliant was he that they made it very difficult for him. To refuse seemed uncivil when they pressed him so. But to write when his mind was intent elsewhere, and not a minute to spare from his labours----! However, he did write, on the spur of the moment, turning aside for a little to the groves of the Muses.' Some other visitors can be traced in this period. John Alexander Brassicanus, poet laureate, came from Tubingen in September 1520 and saw Erasmus at Antwerp; whence in reply to a letter of self-introduction he bore away a complimentary letter that he afterwards printed, and the sound piece of advice, that if he wished to become learned, he must never think himself so. More distinguished was Ferdinand Columbus, the explorer's natural son and heir, who in October 1520, on one of those journeys on which he gathered his famous library, received at Louvain a copy of Erasmus' _Antibarbari_, with his name inscribed in it by the author. A visitor to whom we must pay more heed was John Draco, one of the Erfurt circle, who in July 1520 came to pay homage at Louvain. In the autumn of 1518 the agent of a Leipzig bookseller trading to Prague received a letter to carry back with him and forward on to Erasmus at Louvain. The writer was a certain Jan Slechta, a Bohemian country gentleman, who was living at Kosteletz on the upper waters of the Elbe, a few miles to the North-east of Prague. He was a man of education and position. After taking his M.A. at Prague in 1484, he had served for sixteen years as a secretary to King Ladislas of Bohemia and Hungary; but about 1507, disgusted with the turmoils of court life in that very troubled time, he had retired to his home, to give his later years to the education of his son and the personal management of his estates. The world of affairs had not extinguished his love of learning. He was an intimate friend of Bohuslaus of Hassenstein, scholar and traveller, and corresponded with him in elegant Latin. Attracted by the reputation for eloquence won by the notorious Hieronymus Balbus, he had persuaded him _c._ 1499 to come and teach in Prague--a step which in view of Balbus' bad life he afterwards deeply regretted. He was also the author of a dialogue on the relations of body and soul, entitled _Microcosmus_; which with characteristic modesty he kept for more than twenty years known only to his intimate friends--indeed it was only in the last year of his life that he composed a dedication for it, and it seems never to have been printed. The tone of Slechta's thoughts in his later years was grave and serious; as well it might be. The two kingdoms, then but loosely united, were torn with internal factions and racial jealousies; while in church towers and over city gates the bells hung ready to proclaim to the countryside the advent of that ever-present menace, the Turk. In the priesthood men could mark much that was amiss; and the seamless robe of Christ was rent with schism, the candle that Hus and Jerome had lighted a century before, still burning clearly among less sober heresies, which drew down on it, as upon themselves, spasmodic outbursts of retributive violence. Uneasy sat the crown on Ladislas' head; and when Death, coming as a friend, took it from him in 1516, it was only to thrust this sad office upon a ten-year-old boy, who after ten more years of childish government was miserably to perish at Mohacz. No wonder that Slechta and his friends looked anxiously upon the future. 'The times of Hus and Wycliffe which our grandfathers detested, seem golden beside our own' wrote Bohuslaus to Geiler of Kaisersberg--a member of that grave circle of Strasburg humanists, with which, it may be noted in passing, our Bohemians had much in common. The letters of Slechta contain two disquisitions, one on the frailties of a celibate clergy, the other on the duties of a parish priest; advocating reforms by which he hoped to check the continuous growth of 'those unutterable heretics, the Pyghards': by whom he meant the Bohemian Brethren. What moved Slechta to correspond with Erasmus we do not know; possibly a slighting reference in one of the latter's printed letters to 'those schismatic Bohemians, who have infected most of Europe'. Slechta's letter is unhappily lost; but from Erasmus' reply, dated 23 April 1519 from Louvain, its general tenor may be gathered. It began, of course, with eulogies of Erasmus and his work; and then, after some account of the writer's life and fortunes, it proceeded to assure him that there were persons in Bohemia who were not merely interested in good learning but prepared to advance it. Finally it invited him to come to Prague. Erasmus' answer to his unknown correspondent was courteous, but firmly declined the invitation. 'What I can do at Prague I do not see. It is considerate of you to offer me an escort for my journey; but I confess I do not like regions where such company is necessary. In this country one can go about wherever one likes, alone. I am sure that, as you say, I should find among you plenty of learned and pious men, who are not contaminated with the errors of schism. But how is it that this division is suffered to remain? Better unity with some hardship than to hold one's own at the cost of discord. I fear it is money that stands in the way. Paul suffered the loss of all things that he might win Christ. The world is full of cardinals and princes and bishops; if only one of these would take up this matter in a truly Christian spirit! If Paul were on the Pope's throne, I am sure he would allow not only his revenues but his authority to be diminished, if his loss would purchase unity.' Erasmus concludes cordially: 'If we cannot meet, at any rate we can write. I will walk and talk with you sometimes beside your Elbe, you shall come and dwell with me in Brabant. Friendship can flourish without actual contact.' This letter was handed to Slechta on 11 September, four and a half months after it was written. Nearly a year had elapsed since his letter had been dispatched and he had given up hopes of a reply: so that these amiable and encouraging words were the more welcome, and he at once proceeded to act upon them. Within a month he had composed a letter of some elegance, in which while subscribing to Erasmus' prayers for unity, he pointed out the difficulties of the task. To the remarks about coming to Prague he rejoined regretfully: 'I can quite see that there is nothing for you to do here. There are many of us who would have been glad of your coming; but I understand that we must hope to see you at another time and elsewhere. That travellers in our country need an escort you would not wonder if you could see how the roads run, among lofty mountains shrouded in impenetrable forests. These give cover to hordes of brigands, who prey upon travellers and merchants, robbing and killing indifferently. Almost every month there are punitive raids made from the towns, and brigands are captured and put to death. But the pest seems ineradicable.' Slechta then proceeds to the religious troubles, and after expressing general agreement with Erasmus, describes the three main parties into which the life of Bohemia and Moravia was cloven. First the orthodox Romanists, loyal to the Church and in unity with Germany and the rest of Christendom; finding their adherents amongst the upper classes, together with some of the King's cities and the monasteries, many of which, though once rich, had now fallen into decay. Secondly, the Utraquists, otherwise orthodox but practising communion in both kinds, and at their services reading the Epistle and Gospel in the vernacular: with some supporters among the nobility, a good many gentry, and nearly thirty royal cities. After tracing their history from the Council of Basle and briefly stating their views, he adds that no one in the kingdom is able to propound a solution of the difficulties existing. Thirdly, the Bohemian Brethren, whom he styles Pyghards. This name, from the opprobrious sense in which it is generally used, is now thought to be derived from the Beghards, a mediaeval sect whose vagaries drew down upon it frequent persecution; but Slechta traces it to a foreign vagabond who came from Picardy in 1422 and infected with his pestilent doctrines the army of John Ziska, the Taborite, an army of those that were in distress, in debt, in discontent. This sect, Slechta tells us, lasted continuously down to the times of the late King Ladislas (d. 1516), and indeed increased considerably under him; for his thoughts were much occupied with Hungary, and he was content if Bohemia could be maintained in an outward appearance of peace. Then follows a description of their opinions. 'The Pope and all his officials they regard as Antichrist. They choose their own bishops, rude unlettered laymen, with wives and families. They salute one another as Brother and Sister; and recognize no authority but the Bible. Their priests celebrate mass without vestments, use leavened bread and only the Lord's Prayer. Transubstantiation they deny, and the worship of the host they regard as idolatry. Vows to the saints, prayers for the dead, and confession to priests they ridicule; and they keep no holy days but Sundays, Christmas, Easter and Whitsun.' 'I will not waste your time with more of these pernicious views. My feeling is that if the two first-named parties could only be reconciled, this nefarious sect might, with the aid of the King, be exterminated or at any rate reduced to a better state of faith and religion.' The roads in Bohemia might be dangerous, but the distance to Louvain was not so great as it had seemed at first; for Erasmus' reply is dated 1 Nov. 1519, only three weeks after Slechta's letter. He begins again with the roads. 'Prevention is better than punishment. It would be wiser if, instead of these avenging raids, the more frequented roads could be cleared of forest on either side, and held by block-houses and armed posts at intervals. Indeed it is somewhat discreditable that the great towns and princes of Germany cannot achieve what the Swiss do by co-operation and local action.' He then turns to the religious dissensions, and in his passion for concord exclaims that it would be better that a nation should be united in error than so numerously divided: experience shows that there is no opinion so wild but that some one will be found to embrace it. Of the orthodox party he has nothing to say beyond extolling the system by which the Pope might act as judge and father of all, and as supreme court of appeal. To the Utraquists he would counsel conformity to the practice of the majority; although unable to understand why the Church should have allowed a practice instituted by Christ to fall into disuse. Then he comes to the Brethren, and after admitting that they have strayed further than the Utraquists from the rule of Christian life, he continues: 'If they go on still in their wickedness, they must be restrained; but this is not the duty of any one who likes, nor must violence be used, lest the innocent suffer with the guilty. Their practice of electing their own priests and bishops has authority in antiquity; but it certainly is unfortunate if their choice falls on men bad as well as unlearned. With the titles of Brother and Sister I see no fault to find: it is a pity they are not more widely used among Christians. To prefer God's word in the Bible to the judgements of Doctors is sound: though to reject the latter altogether is as uniform an error as to embrace them to the exclusion of everything else. To celebrate the mass in everyday dress is not contrary to the truth; but it is a pity to abandon customs sanctioned by use and authority: though perhaps the Pope might be persuaded to concede to them the use of their own rites, as he does to the Greeks and the Milanese. The Lord's Prayer is, of course, part of our own use; and though it seems narrow to confine themselves to this, I doubt whether they do worse than those who weave in long strings of intercession from any source. Their opinions about the sacraments are certainly impious; but at any rate they are under no temptation to exploit these holy mysteries for the sake of gain or futile glory or tyrannous imposition. I do not see why they should reject vigils and fasts in moderation; but these are matters for encouragement rather than positive command. About festivals they seem to follow the usage current in the days of Jerome: better, I think, than the modern calendar, full of saints-days which end in riot and carouse, and on which the honest journeyman is forbidden to work for his children's bread.' As Slechta read these words, he must surely have felt as did Balak, the son of Zippor, when he listened to the seer from Mesopotamia taking up his parable upon Israel in the plains of Moab. The man whose eyes were open, had blessed the Brethren instead of cursing them; and literary Europe might well follow his lead. The history of the Bohemian Brethren is of exceptional interest, affording an example of a community professing a plain, simple faith and ruling their lives by modest conceptions of ordinary goodness, who, guided by leaders almost unknown to the world, through the trials of good and evil repute, through tribulation and prosperity, kept serenely upon the path they had marked out for themselves, living and growing into one of the most flourishing and devoted missionary bodies of the present day. As is natural under such conditions, their origin is not free from obscurity. Men connected them with the Waldensians of Southern France, or traced them, as we have seen, to a leader from Picardy. Through the fifteenth century they grew steadily in strength and unity, sheltered by the toleration which Rome unwillingly granted to the Utraquists as a result of the Compacts of Basle; and as compared with other dissentient bodies their name was singularly free from gross imputations. Throughout that age such imputations were freely made and believed against heretics. This was not unreasonable. In the low state of public and private morals faith was regarded as an indispensable bulwark to conduct, the faith which taught indeed that a man should love God and his neighbour, but stablished him into practising what he professed, by lurid pictures of the fate awaiting him if he did not. Without this bulwark it was not thought possible that a man could lead a godly, righteous and sober life; and so he was considered capable of every form of vice, if he ventured to doubt the truth of those opinions on which the Church had set its seal, in realms into which it now seems that human knowledge cannot penetrate. At the beginning of the sixteenth century fresh attempts were being made to win back the Brethren to orthodoxy; and in this work the ardour of the Dominicans burned bright. In 1500 one of them, Henry Institor, a Doctor of Theology, procured from Alexander VI bulls which recognized him as 'Inquisitor into heresy throughout Germany and Bohemia', and empowered him to collect heretical books and send them to the Bishop of Olmutz, the chief see of Moravia, to be burned; also to join to himself two or three other Masters of Theology and preach against the heretics. These bulls are printed at the head of a great volume written by Institor, with the title 'A shield for the faith of the Holy Roman Church against the heresy of the Waldensians or Pickards, who on all sides are infecting with virulent contagion certain races in Germany and Bohemia, to hatred of the clergy and enervation of the ecclesiastical power'. In 1501 the volume appeared at Olmutz, with an enumeration of thirty-six erroneous articles in which the Pickards denied the authority of the Church; followed of course by a vigorous refutation. At the same time one of their own countrymen, Augustine Kasenbrot of Olmutz was writing a series of open letters on the Brethren and their views. But the most succinct account of the position is contained in an attack made upon them by a learned and fair-minded Dominican, Jacobus Lilienstayn. His book, 'a Treatise against the erroneous Waldensian Brethren, commonly known as the Pickards, without rule, without law, and without obedience, of whom there are many in Moravia, more than in Bohemia', was composed in 1505 and is dedicated to the Dean of Prague. It begins by setting forth five general and twelve special errors of the Waldensians. The former are as follows: 1. They call the Gospels, the Epistles and the Acts, together with the Old Testament where it agrees with the New, 'the Law of Christ'; and they attack and deride the Doctors of the Church. 2. They say the Pope has no more power in administering the sacraments of the Church, and in other ecclesiastical matters, than a simple priest has. 3. They say that in the practice of the Church nothing is to be added to what Christ and the Apostles taught and did. 4. They hold the pure text of the Gospel without any gloss. 5. They allege that the Church is in error, and that they themselves are the brethren of Christ and the true imitators of the Apostles. Amongst the special errors are denials of the validity of indulgences and of the efficacy of masses for the dead; and the general simplicity of their conduct is shown in their practices at birth and death, baptism requiring only pure water, not holy oil and the chrism, and extreme unction banished from the death-bed. Finally the good Dominican gives a brief account of the life of these Brethren 'without obedience'. In his preface he expresses his difficulty in gathering the truth about them: 'for they are as inconstant as the moon, and the practices alleged against them in the past are denied by them to-day.' But he concludes honestly that though their faith is 'abhominable' to true Christians, their life is good enough. His good sense is further shown by his refusal to accept an absurd story about their method of choosing their leaders. 'When one of these is to be chosen', so ran the tale, 'the community meets together. And as they sit in silence, the windows being open, a great fly enters and buzzes over them, settling at length on the head of one; who is then set apart for a season. And when he is brought back, he is found to be learned in Latin and theology and whatever else is necessary, though he were rude and ignorant before.' This Lilienstayn finds clearly false: the simple life of the Brethren he illustrates by their practice. 'They have Bibles in Bohemian, which they read. Their women wear veils, and no colours, only black, white and grey. They all labour with their hands.' Thus their life to him was 'good enough'. It may remind us in many points of the Quakers. The attacks upon them led the Brethren to reply. In 1507 they composed an _Apologia_ addressed to the King, to show that they were not without rule, without law and without obedience, and to defend the manner of their life. This was printed at Nuremberg in 1507, and again in 1518; but of the original editions I have not been able to see a copy. The attacks continued. In 1512 another ponderous volume appeared, composed by Jacob Ziegler, the well-known Bavarian scientist, to demonstrate the falsity of their opinions. What finally impelled the Brethren to court countenance from Erasmus is not clear; possibly the cool reception the Utraquists had had from Luther the year before, with the rather contemptuous suggestion that their style and opinions were more like Erasmus' than his own. The episode has escaped Erasmus' biographers; and I cannot find any mention of it except an allusion in one of his letters, and a description in a treatise on the Brethren by Joachim Camerarius the elder (1500-1574). Camerarius' book was not published till 1605; but we can perhaps trace the source of his information. From 1518 onwards he spent some years at Erfurt. In January 1521 Erasmus describes the visit of the Brethren's envoys as having occurred six months before; at Antwerp, according to Camerarius, where he may be traced in June 1520. If we recall that it was in July that Draco came from Erfurt to pay his visit of homage, it seems quite likely that on his return he may have given to Camerarius the detailed record which the latter has preserved. By that time Erasmus' name was well known in Central Europe. 'Both from Hungary and Bohemia' he says in 1518 'bishops and men of position write to thank me for my New Testament.' Apart from the learned world there were others, too, who must have known him; for a Bohemian translation had just appeared of the new preface to his _Enchiridion_, a preface in which he had written with an almost Lutheran freedom about abuses in the Church, and had extolled the life of simple Christianity. This was a book to appeal at once to the Brethren. Another of his works which may have had its effect in attracting them was the _Julius Exclusus_. This exquisitely witty satire dealt freely with the Pope and his office, the Pope whom the Brethren accounted no more than a simple priest; and though its licence was too bold for Erasmus ever to admit its authorship--indeed, as we have seen, he consistently denied it--, it was attributed to him on all sides, in company with others, his secret being on the whole well kept. The _Julius_ was translated into Bohemian, somewhere about this time: but from the nature of it, a kind of book to which publishers as well as authors were loath to put their names, it cannot be definitely placed. So it was, too, with the _Moria_, which had been translated by Gregory Hruby Gelenski, father of the scholar, Sigismund Gelenius; but of which no contemporary edition survives. If the Brethren had seen Erasmus' final letter to Slechta, they might well have been encouraged to hope much from him. But of this there is no indication. Slechta was hardly likely to communicate it to them; and though such documents often leaked out against the owner's will, its first appearance in print was in 1521, in Erasmus' _Epistolae ad diuersos_. I cannot find any translation into a vernacular except a German version by John Froben of Andernach which appeared at Nuremberg in 1531. Whatever was the motive attraction, the Brethren sent as their envoys, so Camerarius tells us, Nicholas Claudianus, a learned physician, and Laurence Voticius (Woticky), a man of many accomplishments, who died at a good age in 1565--a date, which, if it be not a later interpolation, is an indication as to when Camerarius composed his narrative.[44] They brought with them a copy of their _Apologia_, printed at Nuremberg in 1511--a date which appears to be wrong--and presented it to Erasmus at Antwerp with the request that he would read it through and see if there was anything in it that he would wish to have changed. If that were so, they would readily defer to his criticisms; but if, as they hoped, he approved of what they said, it would be a help and consolation to them if he would express that opinion. [44] L. Camerarius, in his preface, 1 Jan. 1605, describes the book as composed 'more than thirty years ago'. He took the book and said he would be glad to read it; but when after a few days they came for his answer, he told them he had been too busy to do more than glance through it: so far as he had gone, he found no error and nothing that he would wish to alter. He declined, however, to bear testimony about it, as this would bring them no help, and only danger to himself. 'You must not think', he said, 'that any words of mine will bring you support; indeed, my own influence, such as it is, requires the backing of others. If it is true that my writings are of any value to divine and useful learning, it seems to me unwise to jeopardize their influence by proclaiming publicly the agreement between us: such actions might lead to their being condemned and torn from the hands of the public. Forgive me for this caution, you will perhaps call it fear: and be assured that I wish you well and will most gladly help you in other matters.' The envoys were disappointed, Camerarius records, but took his refusal in good part: for they relied not on the judgements of men to be the foundation of their heavenly edifice of truth. The good sense of his words no doubt appealed to them; for the Brethren were above all things moderate men, averse from violence, convinced perhaps by their own experience that a display of courage is unwise when it provokes opposition and raises obstacles to progress. The matter was not, however, allowed to rest. In the same year an appeal on behalf of the Brethren was made to Erasmus from another quarter. One of the features of their movement had been the number of the nobility who had become sympathizers, if not actual members of the community. One of these was Artlebus of Boskowitz, a kinsman perhaps of that 'nobilis virgo, Martha de Boskowitz' whom the Brethren in addressing the King had adduced as one of their supporters. From the castle of Znaim, his official residence as Supreme Captain of Moravia, Artlebus wrote, telling Erasmus of the steady growth of the Brethren, and of the futility of all attempts to withstand their doctrines by argument; and sending him a copy of their Rule, with the request that he would read it and frame thereupon a standard of Christian piety, which all men, including the Brethren, might follow. He turned then to praise Luther for the courageous fight he was making, and urged Erasmus to join with him in sowing the seed of the Gospel. Erasmus' reply, dated 28 Jan. 1521 from Louvain, has no address but 'N. viro praepotenti'; and in consequence its connexion with Artlebus of Boskowitz has escaped notice. As was to be expected, he declined the proposal that he should set up a standard of Christian observance. He might criticize with all freedom the practices of monks and clergy and speak straightly of Papal iniquities: but the standard of the Church was still the life of Christ, and he would not arrogate to himself the right to draw the picture of this anew. He took the opportunity to lament, as he had done to Slechta, the discord prevailing in Bohemia, and to urge that a serious attempt should be made to reconcile the Brethren to the Church. But since his correspondence with Slechta the world had gone forward. Luther had burned the Pope's bull at Wittenberg, and Aleander at Worms was pressing the Diet to annihilate him. Erasmus has less to say to Artlebus in favour of the Brethren than he had said to Slechta: indeed, after the appeal for moderation, he goes no further than to condemn the attitude of the opponents of the Papacy, doubtless intending to include among them the Brethren. About Luther he would give no decided opinion. 'It is absurd how men condemn Luther's books without reading them. Some parts of Luther's writings are good; but parts are not, and over these I skip. If Luther stands by the Catholic Church, I will gladly join him.' Artlebus' reply is not extant; but a sentence in a letter of Erasmus to Wolsey a year later shows that the 'Bohemian Captain' was greatly vexed by the failure of his overtures. This is the last trace of Erasmus' correspondence with Bohemia. But, uncompromising as he had been in his refusal to both appeals, his influence there was only just at its commencement, if we may judge by the list of his works translated into Bohemian, which the Ghent bibliography has brought to light. The translation of his preface to the _Enchiridion_ was followed by his version of the _Saturnalia_ of Lucian (first published in 1517) in 1520; the _Precatio dominica_ (1523) in 1526; his version of the New Testament in 1533; some of the Colloquies in 1534; the _De Ciuilitate_ (1530) in 1537; the Paraphrase on St. Matthew (1522) and the _De puritate Ecclesiae_ (1536) in 1542; the _De immensa Dei misericordia_ (1524) in 1558 and 1573; the _Apophthegmata Graeciae sapientum_ (1514) in 12 editions between 1558 and 1599; the _De praeparatione ad mortem_ (1534) in 1564 and 1786; and the _Vidua Christiana_ (1529) in 1595. The envoys of the Brethren were perhaps wise enough to see that they had much to learn from the man who was courageous enough to preach caution and to let himself appear afraid. * * * * * INDEX Aberdeen University, 103-4. accuracy, new standards of, 258-61. Adrian VI, 107. Agricola, R., 14-21, 25-9, 31, 32, 63. Agrippa, H.C., 143. Aldus, 126, 128, 129, 135-6, 151, 253, 262-3. Aleander, 112, 136, 209, 297. Alexander of Ville-Dieu, 41. alphabetical principle, 43, 47-9. America, 92. Amorbach: Ba., 147-9; Bo., 147-9, 151, 164, 193, 278; Br., 147-51; J., 77, 146-51. Andreas, B., 129. Andrelinus, Faustus, 113, 186. Aquinas, 12, 255. Arnold of Hildesheim, 24. Arthurian legend, 93. Artlebus of Boskowitz, 296-8. Ascham, 156, 208, 256, 266. Asperen, destruction of, 172. astrology, 216-18. Augustinian Canons, reformed, 81; house at Oxford, 117. Balbi, J., 43 seq., 49. Balbus, H., 186, 281. Bartholomew of Cologne, 63-5. Basle, 146. Batt, J., 115-16, 130. Beatus Rhenanus, 154-8, 164, 278; his _Res Germanicae_, 146, 156, 275; extracts from his letters, 195, 210, 267, 268, 273. Beheim, J., of Niklashausen, 220. Benedictines, at Neuss, 70; at Ottobeuren, 86 seq.; at Oxford, 124; reformed, 61-2, 79-85. Bergen, Ant. of, abbot of St. Omer, 165, 176, 205. Bergen, Henry of, bp. of Cambray, 68, 102, 104, 176, 204. Bessel, B., 113. Black Band, 170-5. Bohuslaus of Hassenstein, 281-2. Bondius, J., 92. books, supervision of, by others, 155, 159-61, 187. Boys, H., 103. Brassicanus, J.A., 280. Breslau, 35, 58, 279. Brethren of the Common Life, 69, 75; as teachers, 9, 25-6, 34, 61, 66. Briard, J., 108. Budaeus, 122, 135, 210, 218. Bursfeld reforms, 75, 80. Burgundy, David of, bp. of Utrecht, II; Philip of, bp. of Utrecht, 166. Butzbach, 21, 56-62, 68-79, 113, 201. Camerarius, J., 52, 293, 295. Canterbury; Christchurch, 123-4; pilgrimages to, 209, 228-9. Catholicon, 43-6. Celtis, C., 265, 266, 269. Château-Landon, 81-2. Chezal-Benoît, 83-4. child-marriage, 116. Colet, 117, 127, 128, 130, 138, 141-3, 175, 203, 229. Columbus, F., 280. Complutensian Polyglott, 263. Compostella, 231-2. Cono, J., 147, 151. Copernicus, N., 211. Cracow University, 87. Crete, labyrinth of Minos in, 92. Cues, library at, 30-1. Cusanus, N., 30. Dalaber, A., 217. Dalberg, John of, bp. of Worms, 19, 20, 31, 271. Dederoth, J., 80. Deventer school, 21, 30, 33-6, 39, 60-4, 69, 76; plague at, 27, 34; printers, 63. Dominicans, 43, 52, 88, 146, 147, 238, 249, 290, 291. 'doole', 192. Draco, J., 281, 293. Drolshagen, J., 38. Ebrardus, 36, 39-41. Eck, J., 92. Ellenbog: B., 87, 95-6, 99; J., 87, 96-7, 99; N., 87-101, 209, 210; U., 87, 92, 94-5, 201; U. jun., 87, 94. Emmanuel of Constantinople, 122. Eobanus of Hesse, 278-9. Erasmus, form of name, 39 n.; early life, 11; at school, 21, 11; at Steyn, 66-8; in Paris, 102-5, 114-15, 139-41; in England, 116-17, 130; at Oxford, 117, 128; at Cambridge, 120, 134,137-44; in Italy, 135-7; rumour of death, 145; at Basle, 158-64; death, 164; labours for peace, 164-6; indifferent to Nature, 207-9; uses astrological mug, 218; pilgrimage to Canterbury, 229; appreciations of, 265, 267-8; visitors to, 277-81; relations with the Bohemians, xi. WORKS. _Adagia_, 135-7, 144, 158, 165; _Antibarbari_, 281; compositions in Paris, 115; early poems, 103-4, 132; editions of the Fathers, 163; _Enchiridion_, 293; _Epigrammata_, 280; Jerome, 138-40, 158, 280; _Julius Exclusus_, 184-9, 294; _Moriae Encomium_, 46, 143, 187, 294; New Testament, 11, 140, 158, 160-2, 263-4, 280; Paraphrases, 197; _Querla Pacis_, 166; Seneca, 144, 158-9; translations into Bohemian from, 293-4, 298. Fabri, F., 238-51. families, length of, 202-4. Fernand, C., 82, 84-6, 92, 177; J., 82, 84. Franciscans, 92, 144, 147; at Jerusalem, 238, 245. Frankfort, book-fairs at, 149, 153. Froben, J., 151-3, 158. Gaguin, 84, 102-3, 175. Garland, J., 36-9. Gebwiler, H., 26 n. Geldenhauer, G., 15, 16, 17, 18, 21. Gerard, Cornelius, 82, 165. Germany, national feeling in, 264-75; historical studies in, 268-75. Goswin of Halen, 14, 31-2. Greek, study of, 10, 11, 12, 16, 18, 27-30, 38-41, 43-8, 85, 88, 90, 91, 117, 120, 126, 127, 134, 137, 150, 151, 262-3; manuscripts, 11, 18, 30, 31, 147, 160-1. Grocin, W., 126-9, 263. grossness, 205-6. Grynaeus, S., 160. Gueldres, 61, 165, 170-3. Hebrew, study of, 11, 12, 29, 30, 47, 54, 90, 91, 92, 100, 117, 147, 151, 263. Hegius, 16, 21, 25-30, 34-5, 41-2, 60, 61, 63, 69. Heidelberg University, 11, 20, 28, 87, 97. Helinand, 53. Henry VIII, scholarship of, 184. Herman, W., 21, 104, 165. Hermonymus of Sparta, 122, 134. Huguitio, 45. humanists, attitude towards mediaeval romance, 93; feeling towards Nature, 207-10. Hungarian acrobats, 92. Hus, 58, 179, 282. Hyrde, R., 198. India, religious condition of, 93. interpretations, 114. Irenicus, F., 272-4. Jacobus of Breda, 63. Johannisberg, Abbey of, 59, 60, 72, 74, 76. Jouveneaux, G., 82, 84. Kempis, Thomas à, 10. Koberger, A., 203-4. Kortenhorff, Gutta, 61. Kratzer, N., 142, 197. Kunig, H., 231-2. Laach, 68, 73-81. Langen, R., 21, 23. Lascaris, C., 88, 150. Latimer, W., 126-8. Lily, W., 126, 129. Limburg, burning of, 99. Linacre, 41, 126, 129, 187, 218, 253. Lollhard, 60. London, scholars in, 128, 130. Louvain University, 15, 107-8. Loyola, 245. Luther, 212, 267, 268, 275, 293; at Worms, 179; Erasmus' attitude towards, 186, 298; love of nature, 210. Mammotrectus, 53-5. manuscripts, free lending of, 30, 136, 140-2, 160; free access to, 82, 271. Marchesinus, J., 53. Mary, Princess, 193, 197, 198. Mas, P. du, 83. Mauburn, J., 81-2. medicine, practice of, 218-19. Meghen, P., 141-2. Melanchthon, 212. Merton College, Oxford, ejection of Warden, 176. Milanese rite, 288. morals, 204-5. More, T., 127, 129, 143, 197-8, 205, 229; _Utopia_, 187, 188, 201; matrimonial relations, 194-5; love of Nature, 209. Mormann, F., 25-6. news, dissemination of, 214-16. Oda Jargis, 9, 200. Oporinus, J., 193. Ostendorp, 12, 69. Ottobeuren, 86-101. Paffraet, R., 29, 63. Papias, 46-8, 49. Paris University, 10; lectures at, 104, 112; life in, 112-15, 145, 148-51; Montaigu College, 102; Collège de la Marche, 112, 210. Parr, Katherine, 192. Paston, Sir John, 194, 205. Pavia University, 16. Peasants' Revolt, 99-101. Pellican, C., 92, 147. Peter, name of, 71. Platter, T., 35, 58-9, 154. Poncher, S., 265. Praedinius, R., 31. Prague University, 281. press, early productions of, 254. prisoners, redemption of, 175. proofs, correction of, 159, 187. Quakers, 29, 86, 292. quodlibetical disputations, 105-11. Reading Abbey, 123. Rees, Henry of, 8, 12. Reisch, G., 99, 147. remarriage, 192-5. Reuchlin, 31, 91, 122, 147, 195, 267. Rode, J., 80. Roper, M., 195, 198. Rychard, W., 219. St. Patrick's cave, 92, 226. Santiago de Compostella, 229, 231-2. Sapidus, J., 147, 206. Schinner, M., 219. Schlettstadt, 147, 154, 156-8, 206, 272. schools, books used in, 62-5, 257; numbers of, 154. Selling, W., 123, 141. Serbopoulos, J., 123. Shirwood, J., 124-6. Sion, near Delft, 66, 81. Sixtus IV, 10, 11, 34, 122. Slechta, J., 281-8. Souillac, 177. spelling, uncertainty in, 49-52. Spires, libraries at, 18, 271. Sprenger, 46. Standonck, J., 102, 145. Synthius, _v._ Zinthius. Thomas of Illyria, 219-20. Tournay, dispute over bishopric, 177. Trithemius, 31, 59, 76-8, 214, 269, 273; 'In praise of scribes', 261-2. Trivet, Nic., 50. Turzo, J., 279. Urswick, C., 142. Utraquists, 285, 287, 289, 293. Valla, L., 23, 24, 27, 28, 115, 140-1, 262. Vaudois, 289; crusade against, 180-1. Veere, Lady of, 115, 131. Vienne, Council of, 118, 266. Vincent of Beauvais, 52. visits of ceremony, 276-81. Vrye, A., 22-5, 197, 201-2. Vrye, J., 22. Wesley, J., 13. Wessel, 9-13, 29-32, 200. Wimpfeling, 87, 269. Windesheim, 81. women, seclusion of, 196; education of, 196-200; position of, 200-2. Ximenes, 263. Zinthius, 34, 41-2, 63. Zwingli, 204, 268. Zwolle, 9, 10, 33, 34, 38. * * * * * Transcriber's Note: _text_ represents text that was italicised in original. [=x] represents letter 'x' with macron. [)x] represents letter 'x' with crescent. [Greek: xxx] contains transliteration of Greek in original. 
26029	----	images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) PRINTING AND THE RENAISSANCE [Illustration] PRINTING AND THE RENAISSANCE: A PAPER READ BEFORE THE FORTNIGHTLY CLUB OF ROCHESTER NEW YORK BY JOHN ROTHWELL SLATER. [Illustration] NEW YORK William Edwin Rudge 1921 PRINTING AND THE RENAISSANCE: A PAPER READ BEFORE THE FORTNIGHTLY CLUB OF ROCHESTER N. Y. PRINTING did not make the Renaissance; the Renaissance made printing. Printing did not begin the publication and dissemination of books. There were libraries of vast extent in ancient Babylon, Egypt, Greece, Rome. There were universities centuries before Gutenberg where the few instructed the many in the learning treasured up in books, and where both scholars and professional scribes multiplied copies of books both old and new. At the outset of any examination of the influence of printing on the Renaissance it is necessary to remind ourselves that the intellectual life of the ancient and the mediaeval world was built upon the written word. There is a naive view in which ancient literature is conceived as existing chiefly in the autograph manuscripts and original documents of a few great centers to which all ambitious students must have resort. A very little inquiry into the multiplication of books before printing shows us how erroneous is this view. We must pass over entirely the history of publishing and book-selling in ancient times, a subject too vast for adequate summary in a preliminary survey of this sort. With the fall of Rome and the wholesale destruction that accompanied the barbarian invasions a new chapter begins in the history of the dissemination of literature. This chapter opens with the founding of the scriptorium, or monastic copying system, by Cassiodorus and Saint Benedict early in the sixth century. To these two men, Cassiodorus, the ex-chancellor of the Gothic king Theodoric, and Benedict, the founder of the Benedictine order, is due the gratitude of the modern world. It was through their foresight in setting the monks at work copying the scriptures and the secular literature of antiquity that we owe the preservation of most of the books that have survived the ruins of the ancient world. At the monastery of Monte Cassino, founded by Saint Benedict in the year 529, and at that of Viviers, founded by Cassiodorus in 531, the Benedictine rule required of every monk that a fixed portion of each day be spent in the scriptorium. There the more skilled scribes were entrusted with the copying of precious documents rescued from the chaos of the preceding century, while monks not yet sufficiently expert for this high duty were instructed by their superiors. The example thus nobly set was imitated throughout all the centuries that followed, not only in the Benedictine monasteries of Italy, France, Germany, England, Scotland, Ireland, Iceland, but in religious houses of all orders. It is to the mediaeval Church, her conservatism in the true sense of the word, her industry, her patience, her disinterested guardianship alike of sacred and of pagan letters, that the world owes most of our knowledge of antiquity. Conceive how great would be our loss if to archaeology alone we could turn for the reconstruction of the civilization, the art, the philosophy, the public and private life of Greece and Rome. If the Church had done no more than this for civilization, it would still have earned some measure of tolerance from its most anti-clerical opponents. It is of course to the Eastern rather than to the Roman Church that we owe the preservation of classical Greek literature, copied during the dark ages in Greek monasteries and introduced into Italy after the fall of Constantinople. A second stage in the multiplication and publication of manuscript books begins with the founding of the great mediaeval universities of Bologna, Paris, Padua, Oxford, and other centers of higher education. Inasmuch as the study of those days was almost entirely book study, the maintenance of a university library with one or two copies of each book studied was inadequate. There grew up in each university city an organized system of supplying the students with textbooks. The authorized book-dealers of a mediaeval university were called =stationarii=, or stationers, a term apparently derived from the fixed post or station assigned in or near the university buildings to each scribe permitted to supply books to the students and professors. A stationer in England has always meant primarily a book-dealer or publisher, as for example in the term Stationers' Hall, the guild or corporation which until 1842 still exercised in London the functions of a copyright bureau. Incidentally a stationer also dealt in writing materials, whence our ordinary American use of the term. Another name for the university book-dealers was the classical Latin word =librarii=, which usually in mediaeval Latin meant not what we call a librarian but a vender of books, like the French =libraire=. These scribes were not allowed at first to sell their manuscripts, but rented them to the students at rates fixed by university statutes. A folded sheet of eight pages, sixteen columns of sixty-two lines each, was the unit on which the rental charges were based. Such a sheet at the beginning of the thirteenth century rented for about twenty cents a term; and since an ordinary textbook of philosophy or theology or canon law contained many sheets, these charges constituted no inconsiderable part of the cost of instruction. The books must be returned before the student left the university; sales were at first surreptitious and illegal, but became common early in the fourteenth century. Reasonable accuracy among the stationers was secured by a system of fines for errors, half of which went to the university, the other half being divided between the supervisor or head proof-reader and the informant who discovered the error. The original regulation which forbade the stationers to sell books was intended to prevent students of a profiteering turn of mind from buying books for resale to their fellow-students at a higher price, thus cornering the market and holding up the work of an entire class. In course of time, however, the book-dealers were permitted not only to sell textbooks, at prices still controlled by official action, but also to buy and sell manuscripts of other books, both those produced by local scribes and those imported from other cities and countries. This broadening of the activities of the university bookstores led naturally to the third and last stage which the publishing business underwent before the invention of printing. This stage was the establishment in Florence, Paris, and other intellectual centers, of bookshops selling manuscripts to the general public rather than to university students. These grew rapidly during the first half of the fifteenth century, receiving a marked impetus from the new interest in Greek studies. Some years before the fall of Constantinople in 1453 Italian book-sellers were accustomed to send their buyers to the centers of Byzantine learning in the near East in quest of manuscripts to be disposed of at fancy prices to the rich collectors and patrons of literature. There is evidence of similar methods in France and Germany during the earlier decades of the Renaissance. This preliminary sketch of the book-publishing business before printing is intended to correct a rather common misapprehension. Manuscript books were indeed relatively costly, but they were not scarce. Any scholar who had not been through a university not only had access to public libraries of hundreds of volumes, but might also possess, at prices not beyond the reach of a moderate purse, his own five-foot shelf of the classics. The more elegant manuscripts, written by experts and adorned with rich illuminations and sumptuous bindings, were of course not for the humble student; but working copies, multiplied on a large scale by a roomful of scribes writing simultaneously from dictation, might always be had. Chaucer, writing of the poor clerk of Oxford at the end of the fourteenth century, tells us that "Him was levere have at his beddes heed Twenty bokes, clad in blak or reed, Of Aristotle and his philosophye, Than robes riche, or fithele, or gay sautrye." We are not sure that he had the whole twenty books; that was his ambition, his academic dream of wealth; but we are assured that he spent on books all the money he could borrow from his friends, and that he showed his gratitude by busily praying for the souls of his creditors. When we consider the enormous number of manuscript books that must have existed in Europe in the middle ages, we may well wonder why they have become relatively rare in modern times. Several explanations account for this. In the first place, the practice of erasing old manuscripts and using the same vellum again for other works was extremely common. Secondly, vast numbers of manuscripts in the monasteries and other libraries of Europe were wantonly or accidentally destroyed by fire, especially in times of war and religious fanaticism. In the third place, the early binders, down through the sixteenth century and even later, used sheets of vellum from old manuscripts for the linings and the covers of printed books. Finally, after the invention of printing, as soon as a given work had been adequately and handsomely printed in a standard edition, all but the finest manuscripts of that book would naturally be looked upon as of little value, and would be subject to loss and decay if not to deliberate destruction. Owing to these and perhaps other causes it is almost entirely the religious manuscripts that have survived, except those preserved in royal libraries and museums from the finer collections of the middle ages. The invention of printing was not the work of any one man. Not only were printed pages of text with accompanying pictures produced from woodcut blocks in Holland a quarter of a century before Gutenberg began his work at Mainz, but it is pretty well established that movable types were employed by Laurence Koster, of Haarlem, as early as 1430. But Koster, who died about 1440, did not carry his invention beyond the experimental stages, and produced no really fine printing. Moreover, his work had no immediate successor in Holland. Whether it be true, as sometimes alleged, that Gutenberg first learned of the new art from one of Koster's workmen, we have no means of knowing. At any rate, Gutenberg's contemporaries as well as his successors gave to him the credit of the invention. That he was not the first to conceive the idea of multiplying impressions of type-forms by the use of a screw press is evident; but he was the first to develop the invention to a point where it became capable of indefinite extension. He seems to have worked in secret for some years on the problems involved in type-founding and printing before the year 1450, when he set up his shop in Mainz. The capital for the new business was furnished by a wealthy goldsmith named Johann Fust. Between 1450 and 1455 Gutenberg printed an edition of the Latin Bible, sometimes known as the Mazarin Bible, which is ordinarily regarded as the first printed book. It was a magnificently printed volume, exhibiting at the very foundation of the art a skill in presswork scarcely surpassed by any of Gutenberg's immediate successors. He was a great printer, but not a financially successful one. Fust sued his partner in 1455 for repayment of the loans advanced, and upon Gutenberg's failure to meet these obligations Fust foreclosed the mortgage and took over the printing plant. Although Gutenberg started another publishing house at Mainz, and continued it until his death in 1468, the main development of printing after 1455 was in the original plant as carried on by Fust and his son-in-law, Peter Schoeffer. They printed in 1457 an edition of the Psalms in which for the first time two-color printing was employed, the large initial letters being printed in red and black. This innovation, designed to imitate the rubricated initials of the manuscripts, involved great technical difficulties in the presswork, and was not generally adopted. Most of the early printed books, even down to the end of the fifteenth century, left blanks for the large capitals at the beginnings of the chapters, to be filled in by hand by professional illuminators. From the establishments of Gutenberg and of Fust and Schoeffer in Mainz knowledge of the new art spread rapidly into many German cities. In 1462 Mainz was captured and sacked by Adolph of Nassau in one of the local wars of the period, and printers from the Mainz shops made their way to other cities throughout the empire. Before 1470 there were printing establishments in almost every German city, and hundreds of works, mostly theological, had been issued from their presses. In all these early German books, printed of course in Latin, the type used was the black-letter. Gutenberg, in designing his first font, evidently tried to imitate as closely as possible the angular gothic alphabet employed by the scribes in the best manuscripts. Not only were the letters identical in form with the engrossing hand of the monks, but the innumerable abbreviated forms used in the Latin manuscripts were retained. Thus a stroke over a vowel indicated an omitted =m= or =n=, a =p= with a stroke across it indicated the Latin prefix =per=, a circle above the line stood for the termination =us=, an =r= with a cross meant--=rum=, and so forth. These abbreviations, which make printed books of the earliest period rather hard reading today, were retained not only to save space but to give the printed page as nearly as possible the appearance of a fine manuscript. It was not at first the ambition of the printers and type-founders to make their books more legible or less taxing on the eyes than manuscript; their readers were accustomed to manuscript and felt no need of such improvements. The mechanical advance in the art of writing brought about by printing was at first regarded as consisting in the greater rapidity and lower cost at which printed books could be produced. But the new invention was at first looked upon by some famous scholars and patrons of learning as a detriment rather than a help. The great Trithemius, abbot of Sponheim, wrote as late as 1494 in the following terms: "A work written on parchment could be preserved for a thousand years, while it is probable that no volume printed on paper will last for more than two centuries. Many important works have not been printed, and the copies of these must be prepared by scribes. The scribe who ceases his work because of the invention of the printing-press can be no true lover of books, in that, regarding only the present, he gives no due thought to the intellectual cultivation of his successors. The printer has no care for the beauty and the artistic form of books, while with the scribe this is a labor of love." Contrasted with this low estimate of the importance of the new art by some scholars, we note the promptness with which the great churchmen of Italy and of France took measures to import German printers and set up presses of their own. In 1464 the abbot of Subiaco, a monastery near Rome, brought to Italy two German printers, Conrad Schweinheim and Arnold Pannartz, and set them at work printing liturgical books for the use of the monks. Soon afterward, under ecclesiastical patronage, they began to issue, first at Subiaco and then at Rome, a series of Latin classics. During five years this first printing establishment in Italy published the complete works of Cicero, Apuleius, Caesar, Virgil, Livy, Strabo, Lucan, Pliny, Suetonius, Quintilian, Ovid, as well as of such fathers of the Latin Church as Augustine, Jerome and Cyprian, and a complete Latin Bible. This printing establishment came to an end in 1472 for lack of adequate capital, but was soon followed by others both in Rome and especially in Venice. Early Venetian printing forms one of the most distinguished chapters in the whole history of the subject. The most famous of the first generation was Nicolas Jenson, a Frenchman who had learned the art in Germany. Between 1470 and his death in 1480 he printed many fine books, and in most of them he employed what is now called roman type. He was not absolutely the first to use the roman alphabet, but his roman fonts were designed and cast with such artistic taste, such a fine sense of proportion and symmetry of form, that the Jenson roman became the model of later printers for many years after his death. Roman type, unlike the black-letter, had two distinct origins. The capitals were derived from the letters used by the ancient Roman architects for inscriptions on public buildings. The small letters were adapted from the rounded vertical style of writing used in many Italian texts, altogether different in form from the angular gothic alphabet used in ecclesiastical manuscripts. Jenson's roman letters were clear, sharp and easy to read, and constituted the greatest single addition to the art of printing since its beginning. Germany clung obstinately to the black-letter in its Latin books, as it has adhered down to very recent times to a similar heavy type for the printing of German text; but the rest of Europe within a few years came over to the clearer and more beautiful roman. There were many early printers at Venice between Jenson and his greater successor Aldus Manutius, who began business in 1494, but we shall pass over them all in order to devote more careful attention to the noble history of the Aldine press. I propose in the remainder of this paper to select five great printers of the Renaissance, and to examine their work both as a whole and as illustrated in typical examples. These five are: ALDUS MANUTIUS, of Venice. ROBERT ESTIENNE, of Paris, commonly known by the name of =Stephanus=. JOHANN FROBEN, of Basel. ANTON KOBERGER, of Nuremberg. WILLIAM CAXTON, of London. Each stands for a different aspect of the art of printing, both in the mechanical features of book-making and also in the selection of works to be published and the editorial methods employed in making them ready for the press. Taken together, the books issued from their presses at the end of the fifteenth and the beginning of the sixteenth century form a sort of composite picture of the Renaissance. [Illustration] First of all, in our consideration and in order of greatness, stands the name of Aldus Manutius. The books of the Aldine press, all with the well-known sign of the anchor and dolphin, are familiar to most students of the classics. Aldus was born in 1450, the very year of Gutenberg's invention. For the first forty years of his life he was a scholar, devoting himself to the Latin classics and to the mastery of the newly revived Greek language and literature. His intimate association with Pico della Mirandola and other Italian scholars, as well as with many of the learned Greeks who then frequented Italian courts and cities, led him to conceive the great plan upon which his later career was based. This was nothing less than to issue practically the whole body of classic literature, Greek as well as Latin, in editions distinguished from all that had preceded in two important respects. First, they were to be not reprints of received uncritical texts but new revisions made by competent scholars based upon a comparison of all the best available manuscripts. Secondly, they were to be printed not in ponderous and costly folios but in small octavos of convenient size, small but clear type, and low price. This was not primarily a commercial venture like the cheap texts of the classics issued in the nineteenth century by Teubner and other German publishers, but resembled rather in its broad humanistic spirit such a recent enterprise as the Loeb Classical Library. The purpose in each case was to revive and encourage the reading of the classics not alone by schoolboys but by men of all ages and all professions. But there is this important difference, that Mr. Loeb is a retired millionaire who employs scholars to do all the work and merely foots the bill, while Aldus was a poor man dependent upon such capital as he could borrow from his patrons, and had at the same time to perform for himself a large part of the editorial labors on his books. Mr. Loeb commands the latest and most complete resources of the modern art of printing; Aldus helped to make that art. Mr. Loeb's editors may employ when they choose the style of type known as italic; Aldus invented it. Mr. Loeb's publishers have at their command all the advertising and selling machinery of a great modern business concern, and yet they do not, and probably can not, make the classics pay for themselves, but must meet the deficits out of an endowment. Aldus had to organize his own selling system, his advertising had to be largely by private correspondence with scholars and book-sellers throughout Europe laboriously composed with his own hand; yet it was imperative that the business become as soon as possible self-supporting, or at least that losses in one quarter should be recouped by profits in another. It was in his edition of Virgil, 1501, that Aldus first employed the new cursive or sloping letter which later came to be known in English printing as italic type. According to tradition he copied it closely from the handwriting of the Italian poet Petrarch. The type was very compact, covering many more words on a page than the roman of that day, and was used as a body type, not as in our day for isolated words and phrases set apart for emphasis or other distinction from the rest of the text. Aldus also, though not the first to cast Greek type, gave his Greek fonts an elegance which was soon imitated, like the italic, by other printers. By the introduction of small types which were at the same time legible, and by adopting for his classical texts a small format suitable for pocket-size books, Aldus invented the modern small book. No longer was it necessary for a scholar to rest a heavy folio on a table in order to read; he might carry with him on a journey half a dozen of these beautiful little books in no more space than a single volume of the older printers. Furthermore, his prices were low. The pocket editions or small octavos sold for about two lire, or forty cents in the money of that day, the purchasing power of which in modern money is estimated at not above two dollars. This popularizing of literature and of classical learning did not meet with universal favor amongst his countrymen. We read of one Italian who warned Aldus that if he kept on spreading Italian scholarship beyond the Alps at nominal prices the outer barbarians would no longer come to Italy to study Greek, but would stay at home and read their Aldine editions without adding a penny to the income of Italian cities. Such a fear was not unfounded, for the poorer scholars of Germany and the Netherlands did actually find that they could stay at home and get for a few francs the ripest results of Italian and Greek scholarship. This gave Aldus no concern; if he could render international services to learning, if he could help to set up among the humbler scholars of other lands such a fine rivalry of competitive coöperation as already existed among such leaders as Erasmus and Sir Thomas More, he should be well content to live laborious days and to die poor. Both these he did; but he gathered around him such a company of friends and collaborators as few men have enjoyed; he must have breathed with a rare exhilaration, born of honest and richly productive toil, the very air of Athens in her glory; and he must have realized sometimes amid the dust and heat of the printing shop that it was given to him at much cost of life and grinding toil to stand upon the threshold of the golden age alike of typography and of the revival of learning. In 1514, the year before his death, Aldus wrote to a friend a letter of which I borrow a translation from George Haven Putnam's Books and Their Makers during the Middle Ages. This is the picture Aldus drew of his daily routine: "I am hampered in my work by a thousand interruptions. Nearly every hour comes a letter from some scholar, and if I undertook to reply to them all, I should be obliged to devote day and night to scribbling. Then through the day come calls from all kinds of visitors. Some desire merely to give a word of greeting, others want to know what there is new, while the greater number come to my office because they happen to have nothing else to do. 'Let us look in upon Aldus,' they say to each other. Then they loaf in and sit and chatter to no purpose. Even these people with no business are not so bad as those who have a poem to offer or something in prose (usually very prosy indeed) which they wish to see printed with the name of Aldus. These interruptions are now becoming too serious for me, and I must take steps to lessen them. Many letters I simply leave unanswered, while to others I send very brief replies; and as I do this not from pride or from discourtesy, but simply in order to be able to go on with my task of printing good books, it must not be taken hardly. As a warning to the heedless visitors who use up my office hours to no purpose, I have now put up a big notice on the door of my office to the following effect: Whoever thou art, thou art earnestly requested by Aldus to state thy business briefly and to take thy departure promptly. In this way thou mayest be of service even as was Hercules to the weary Atlas. For this is a place of work for all who enter." What a picture that letter gives us of the half humorous, half pathetic spirit in which the great publisher endured the daily grind. Twenty years of it wore him out, but his dolphin-and-anchor trade-mark still after four centuries preaches patience and hope to all who undertake great burdens for the enlightenment of mankind. The Aldine press did not confine its efforts to the ancient classics, but printed editions of Dante and Petrarch and other Italian poets, and produced the first editions of some of the most important works of Erasmus. But all of its publications belonged in general to the movement known as humanism, the field of ancient and contemporary poetry, drama, philosophy, history, and art. Aldus left to others, especially to the great ecclesiastical printers of Venice and of Rome, the printing of the scriptures, the works of the church fathers, and the innumerable volumes of theological controversy with which the age abounded. In France, on the other hand, the great publishing house of the Estiennes, or Stephani, to whom we next direct our attention, divided its efforts between the secular and sacred literature. Inasmuch as the history of the Stephanus establishment is typical of the influence of printing upon the Renaissance, and of the Renaissance upon printing, which is the subject of this paper, we may well examine some aspects of its career. Printing had been introduced into France in 1469 by the ecclesiastics of the Sorbonne. Like that abbot of Subiaco who set up the first press in Italy five years before, these professors of scholastic philosophy and theology at Paris did not realize that the new art had in it the possibilities of anti-clerical and heretical use. For the first generation the French printers enjoyed a considerable freedom from censorship and burdensome restrictions. They published, like the Venetians, both the Greek and Latin classics and the works of contemporary writers. Both Louis XII. and Francis I. gave their patronage and encouragement to various eminent scholar-printers who flourished between the establishment of the first publishing-houses in Paris and the beginning of the sixteenth century. I pass over all these to select as the typical French printers of the Renaissance the family founded by Henri Estienne the elder. His first book, a Latin translation of Aristotle's Ethica, appeared in 1504. From that date for nearly a hundred years the house of Stephanus and his descendants led the publishing business in France. Both in the artistic advancement of the art of printing and in the intellectual advancement of French thought by their selection of the works to be issued they earned a right to the enduring gratitude of mankind. Henri Estienne, the founder of the house, who died in 1520, had published during these sixteen years at least one hundred separate works. Although they were mostly Latin, many of them revealed Estienne's knowledge of and devotion to the new Greek studies, and this tendency on his part was at once suspected as heretical by the orthodox doctors of the Sorbonne. The favor of King Francis was not at all times sufficient to protect him from persecution, and an increasing severity of censorship arose, the full force of which began to be evident in the time of his son Robert. After Henri's death his business was for a time carried on by his widow's second husband, Simon Colines, a scholar and humanist of brilliant attainments. Both while at the head of the house of Stephanus and later when he had withdrawn from that in favor of Robert Estienne his stepson and set up a separate publishing business, Colines added much to the prestige of French printing. He caused Greek fonts to be cast, not inferior to those of the Venetian printers, and began to publish the Greek classics in beautiful editions. It was Colines, rather than either the elder or the younger Estienne, who elevated the artistic side of French printing by engaging the services of such famous typographical experts as Geofroy Tory, and adding to his books illustrations of the highest excellence, as well as decorative initials and borders. Indeed it may be said that after the death of Aldus supremacy in the fine art of book-making gradually passed from Venice to Paris. [Illustration] The greatest of the Estiennes was Robert, son of Henri Estienne and stepson of Colines, who was in control of the house from 1524 to his death in 1559. The very first book he published was an edition of the Latin Testament. Although following in the main the Vulgate or official Bible of the Roman Church, he introduced certain corrections based on his knowledge of the Greek text. This marked the beginning of a long controversy between Estienne and the orthodox divines of the Sorbonne, which lasted almost throughout his life. In following years he published many editions of the Latin scriptures, each time with additional corrections, and eventually with his own notes and comments, in some cases attacking the received doctrines of the Church. A Hebrew Old Testament, in 1546, was followed in 1550 by the Greek New Testament. The next year he published a new edition of the Testament in which for the first time it was divided into verses, a precedent followed in Bible printing ever since. It was not merely the fact of his printing the scriptures at all that angered the heresy-hunters, but much more Estienne's notes and comments, in which, like Luther in Germany and Tyndale in England, he sided with the views of the Reformers. What distinguishes Robert Estienne from the ordinary Protestant scholars and publishers of his time is the fact that he was not only a Reformer but a humanist of broad and tolerant culture. In all the illustrious group of that age there is scarcely another like him in this union of religious zeal and of scholarly culture. Luther and Calvin and Tyndale had the one; Erasmus is the most eminent example of the other, with such great publishers as Aldus and Froben his worthy supporters. But Robert Estienne, alongside of his controversial works and Biblical texts, labored at such great enterprises as his monumental edition of Terence, in which he corrected by the soundest methods of textual criticism no less than six thousand errors in the received text, and especially his magnificent lexicons of the Latin and Greek languages, which set the standard for all other lexicographers for generations to come. The middle of the sixteenth century in France is thus marked by a curious blend of those two distinct movements in human history which we call the Renaissance and the Reformation, and the blend is nowhere more picturesque than in the life of Robert Estienne. At one moment we find him attacking the abuses of the church, at another we find him consulting with Claude Garamond upon the design of a new Greek type, or reading the final proofs of an edition of Horace or Catullus or Juvenal, or discussing with some wealthy and noble book-collector like the famous Grolier the latest styles in elegant bindings and gold-stamped decoration. For beauty and for truth he had an equal passion. All that romance of the imagination which touches with a golden glamour the recovered treasures of pagan antiquity he loved as intensely as if it were not alien and hostile, as the many thought, to that glow of spiritual piety, that zeal of martyrdom, that white, consuming splendor which for the mystical imagination surrounds the holy cross. Humanism at its best is ordinarily thought to be embodied in the many-sided figure of Erasmus, with his sanity, his balance, his power to see both sides, that of Luther and of the Church, his delicate satire, his saving humor, his avoidance of the zealot's extremes. Perhaps a not less striking figure is that of this much less known French printer, striving in the midst of petty cares and unlovely sectarian strife to maintain the stoical serenity of a Marcus Aurelius side by side with the spiritual exaltation of a Saint Paul. There are two types of great men equally worthy of admiration: those of unmixed and lifelong devotion to a single aim springing from a single source, such as Aldus Manutius, and those in whom that balance of diverse and almost contradictory elements of character which commonly leads to weakness makes instead for strength and for richness, for duty and delight. Such was Robert Estienne. [Illustration] [Illustration: FROBEN] The third printer whom I have selected as typical of the Renaissance is Johann Froben, of Basel. His chief distinction is that he was the closest friend and associate of Erasmus, the principal publisher of Erasmus's works, and the representative in the book trade of the Erasmian attitude toward the Reformation. Although he did print the Greek Testament, years before Estienne published his edition in Paris, he accompanied it with no distinctively Protestant comments. Although at one time he issued some of the earlier works of Luther, he desisted when it became evident that Erasmus opposed any open schism in the Church. It was Froben who gave to the world those three famous works of Erasmus, the Encomium Moriae or Praise of Folly, the Adagia or Proverbs, and the Colloquia or Conversations, which did quite as much as the writings of Luther to arouse independent thinking within the Church, and to bring to an end the last vestiges of the middle ages in church and state. And in this relation of Froben to Erasmus there was not the mere commercial attitude of a shrewd publisher toward a successful author whose works became highly lucrative, but the support by one enlightened scholar who happened to be in a profitable business of another who happened to be out of it. The earlier life of Erasmus exhibits a rather depressing illustration of the humiliations to which professional scholars were exposed in trying to get a living from the pensions and benefactions of the idle rich. Literary patronage, as it existed from the days of Horace and Maecenas down to the death-blow which Dr. Johnson gave it in his famous letter to Lord Chesterfield, has never helped the independence or the self-respect of scholars and poets. It was Froben's peculiar good fortune to be able to employ, on a business basis with a regular salary, the greatest scholar of the age as one of his editors and literary advisers, and at the same time enable him to preserve his independence of thought and of action. Aldus and the French publishers had gathered about them professional scholars and experts for the execution of specific tasks at the market price, supplemented often by generous private hospitality. That was good; but far better was Froben's relation with his friend, his intellectual master, and his profitable client Erasmus. In an age when no copyright laws existed for the author's benefit the works of Erasmus were shamelessly pirated in editions, published in Germany and France, from which the author received not a penny. Yet Froben went right on paying to Erasmus not only the fixed annual salary as a member of his consulting staff but also a generous share of the profits upon his books. In a greedy, unscrupulous, and rapacious age this wise and just, not to say generous, policy stands out as prophetic of a better time. As a printer Froben was distinguished by the singular beauty of his roman type, the perfection of his presswork, and the artistic decoration of his books. In this last respect he was much indebted to the genius of Hans Holbein, whom he discovered as a young wood-engraver seeking work as Basel. With that keen eye for unrecognized genius which marked his career he employed Holbein to design borders and initials for his books. Later, with an equally sagacious and generous spirit, perceiving that the young artist was too great a man to spend his days in a printing office, he procured for him through Sir Thomas More an introduction to the court of Henry VIII, where he won fame and fortune as a portrait painter. I narrate the incident because it illustrates a very attractive and amiable aspect of some of these men of the Renaissance, an uncalculating and generous desire to help gifted men to find their true place in the world where they might do their largest work. This, in an age when competition and jealous rivalry in public and in private life was as common as it is now, may give pause to the cynic and joy to the lover of human kindness. ANTON KOBERGER (=No printer's mark known=) We are in a different world when we turn to the fourth of our five representative printers, Anton Koberger, of Nuremberg. During the forty years of his career as a publisher, between 1473 and 1513, he issued 236 separate works, most of them in several volumes, and of the whole lot none show any taint of reforming zeal. Koberger was a loyal Catholic, and his published books were largely theological and all strictly orthodox in nature. He is distinguished in two respects from the other German printers of his time, the time between the death of Gutenberg and the rise of Martin Luther. In the first place his work showed great typographical excellence, with many fonts of handsome Gothic type and a lavish use of woodcut illustrations. In the second place, his publishing business was far better organized, far more extensive in its selling and distributing machinery, than that of any other printer in Europe. We learn that he had agents not only in every German city, but in the very headquarters of his greatest competitors at Paris, Venice, and Rome, and in such more distant places as Vienna, Buda-Pesth, and Warsaw. The twenty-four presses in his own Nuremberg establishment were not sufficient for his enormous business, and he let out printing jobs on contract or commission to printers at Strasburg, Basel, and elsewhere. The true German spirit of discipline appears in a contemporary account of his printing plant at Nuremberg. He had more than a hundred workmen there, including not only compositors, pressmen, and proof-readers, but binders, engravers, and illuminators. All these were fed by their employer in a common dining-hall apart from the works, and we are told that they marched between the two buildings three times a day with military precision. Koberger employed for a time the services of Albrecht Dürer, the famous engraver, not only for the illustration of books but also for expert oversight of the typographical form. Typography in its golden age was rightly regarded not as a mere mechanical trade but as an art of design, a design in black upon white, in which the just proportion of columns and margins and titles and initials was quite as important as the illustrations. Perhaps Koberger found Dürer too independent or too expensive for his taste, for we find him in his later illustrated works employing engravers more prolific than expert. Such were Michael Wolgemut and Wilhelm Pleydenwurff, who drew and engraved the two thousand illustrations in the famous Nuremberg Chronicle published by Koberger in 1493. This remarkable work was compiled by Doctor Hartman Schedel, of Nuremberg. It is a history of the world from the creation down to 1493, with a supplement containing a full illustrated account of the end of the world, the Millennium, and the last judgment. This is by no means all. There is combined with this outline of history, not less ambitious though perhaps not more eccentric than H. G. Wells's latest book, a gazetteer of the world in general and of Europe in particular, a portrait gallery of all distinguished men from Adam and Methuselah down to the reigning emperor, kings, and pope of 1493, with many intimate studies of the devil, and a large variety of rather substantial and Teutonic angels. Every city in Europe is shown in a front elevation in which the perspective reminds one of Japanese art, and the castle-towers and bridges and river-boats all bear a strong family resemblance. The book is full of curious material, quite apart from the quaint illustrations. In the midst of grave affairs of state we run across a plague of locusts, an eclipse of the sun, or a pair of lovers who died for love. Scandalous anecdotes of kings and priests jostle the fiercest denunciations of heretics and reformers. A page is devoted to the heresies of Wyclif and Huss. Anti-Semitism runs rampant through its pages. Various detailed accounts are given of the torture and murder of Christian boys by Jews, followed by the capture and burning alive of the conspirators. Superstition and intolerance stand side by side with a naive mystical piety and engaging stories of the saints and martyrs. Of all the vast transformation in human thought that was then taking form in Italy, of all the forward-looking signs of the times, there is little trace. From 1493 to the last dim ages of the expiring world, the downfall of Antichrist and the setting up of the final kingdom of heaven upon earth, seemed but a little way to Hartman Schedel, when he wrote with much complacence the colophon to this strange volume. He left three blank leaves between 1493 and the Day of Judgment whereon the reader might record what remained of human history. It is indeed rather the last voice of the middle ages than the first voice of the Renaissance that speaks to us out of these clear, black, handsome pages that were pulled damp from the press four hundred and twenty-eight years ago on the fourth of last June. At first reading one is moved to mirth, then to wonder, then perhaps to disgust, but last of all to the haunting melancholy of Omar the tent-maker when he sings "When you and I behind the veil are past, Oh, but the long, long while the world shall last." As to worthy Hartman Schedel, God rest his soul, one wonders whether he has yet learned that Columbus discovered America. He had not yet heard of it when he finished his book, though Columbus had returned to Spain three months before. O most lame and impotent conclusion! But the fifteenth century, though it had an infinite childlike curiosity, had no nose for news. Nuremberg nodded peacefully on while a new world loomed up beyond the seas, and studied Michael Wolgemut's picture of Noah building the ark while Columbus was fitting out the Santa Maria for a second voyage. Such is mankind, blind and deaf to the greatest things. We know not the great hour when it strikes. We are indeed most enthralled by the echoing chimes of the romantic past when the future sounds its faint far-off reveille upon our unheeding ears. The multitude understands noon and night; only the wise man understands the morning. [Illustration] And now finally, what of William Caxton? The father of English printing had been for many years an English merchant residing in Bruges when his increasing attention to literature led him to acquire the new art of printing. He had already translated from the French the Histories of Troy, and was preparing to undertake other editorial labors when he became associated with Colard Mansion, a Bruges printer. From Mansion he learned the art and presumably purchased his first press and type. Six books bearing Caxton's imprint were published at Bruges between 1474 and 1476, though it is possible that the actual printing was done by Mansion rather than by Caxton himself. In 1476 Caxton set up the first printing shop in England, in a house within the precincts of Westminster Abbey. Between that date and his death in 1491 he printed ninety-three separate works, some of these in several editions. His industry and scholarly zeal as a publisher somewhat exceeded his technical skill as a printer. Caxton's books, which are now much rarer than those of many continental printers of the same period, are not so finely and beautifully done as the best of theirs. But the peculiar interest of his work lies in the striking variety of the works he chose for publication, the conscientious zeal with which he conceived and performed his task, and the quiet humor of his prefaces and notes. Let me illustrate briefly these three points. First, his variety. We have observed that Aldus and Froben published chiefly the Latin and Greek classics, Koberger the Latin scriptures and theological works, and Stephanus a combination of classics and theology. Caxton published few of the classics and very little theology. His books consist largely of the works of the early English poets, Chaucer, Gower, and others, of mediaeval romances derived from English, French, and Italian sources, and of chronicles and histories. The two most famous works that came from his press were the first printed editions of Chaucer's Canterbury Tales and Malory's Morte d'Arthur. His own English translation of the Golden Legend, a mediaeval Latin collection of lives of the saints, is scarcely less in importance. Among many other titles the following may serve to show how unusual and unconventional were his selections: The History of Reynard the Fox. The History of Godfrey of Boloyne, or the Conquest of Jerusalem. The Fables of Aesop. The Book of Good Maners. The Faytes of Armes and of Chyvalrye. The Governayle of Helthe. The Arte and Crafte to Know Well to Dye. This is indeed humanism, but humanism in a different sense from that of Aldus and Erasmus. Human life from the cradle to the grave, human life in war and peace, human life in its gayer and its graver lights and shadows, human life as embodied equally in famous writers and in anonymous popular legends, was Caxton's field. He accounted nothing human alien to his mind or to his great enterprise. Again, Caxton was conscientious. He set great store by accuracy, not only typographical accuracy in matters of detail, but also the general accuracy of the texts or sources from which his own translations and his editions of other works were made. For example, in the second edition of the Canterbury Tales he explains how the first edition was printed from the best manuscript that he could find in 1478, but how after the appearance of that there came to him a scholar who complained of many errors, and spoke of another and more authentic manuscript in his father's possession. Caxton at once agreed to get out a new edition "whereas before by ignorance I erred in hurting and defaming his book in divers places, in setting in some things that he never said nor made and leaving out many things that are made which are requisite to be set in." A great many other examples of such disinterested carefulness are to be found in the history of those busy fifteen years at Westminster. In view of the fact that he was not only editor, printer, and publisher, but also translated twenty-three books totaling more than forty-five hundred printed pages, this scholarly desire for accuracy deserves the highest praise. Unlike Aldus and Froben, who were likewise editors as well as publishers, he was not surrounded by a capable corps of expert scholars, but worked almost alone. His faithful foreman, Wynkyn de Worde, doubtless took over gradually a large share of the purely mechanical side of the business, but Caxton remained till the end of his life the active head as well as the brains of the concern. As for his humor, it comes out even in his very selections of books to be printed, but chiefly in little touches all through his prefaces. For example, in his preface to the Morte d'Arthur he answers with a certain whimsical gravity the allegations of those who maintain that there was no such person as King Arthur, and that "all such books as been made of him be but feigned and fables." He recounts with assumed sincerity the evidence of the chronicles, the existence of Arthur's seal in red wax at Westminster Abbey, of Sir Gawain's skull at Dover Castle, of the Round Table itself at Winchester, and so on. But he goes on to say, in his own quaint way, which there is not space to quote at large, that in his own opinion the stories are worth while for the intrinsic interest and the moral values in them, whether they are literally true or not. He closes thus: "Herein may be seen noble chivalry, courtesy, humanity, friendliness, hardiness, love, friendship, cowardice, murder, hate virtue and sin. Do after the good and leave the evil, and it shall bring you to good fame and renommee. And for to pass the time this book shall be pleasant to read in, but for to give faith and belief that all is true that is contained herein, ye be at your liberty." This wise, sane, gentle apostle of literature in England wrought well in his day, and is justly honored alike by scholars and by printers, who regard him, in England and America, as the father of their craft. Indeed to this day in the printing trade a shop organization is sometimes called a chapel, because according to ancient tradition Caxton's workmen held their meetings in one of the chapels adjoining the abbey of Westminster. * * * * * This survey of printing in its relations to the Renaissance is now not finished but concluded. I have shown that the invention and improvement of printing was not the cause but rather the effect of the revival of learning, while on the other hand the wide dissemination of literature made possible by typography of course accelerated enormously the process of popular enlightenment. I have selected five typical printers of that age: Aldus, with his Homer. Stephanus, with his Greek Testament. Froben, with his Plato. Koberger, with his Nuremberg Chronicle. Caxton, with his Morte d'Arthur. Here we find represented in the Aldus Homer the revival of Greek learning, in the Stephanus Testament the application of this to the free criticism of the scriptures, in the Froben Plato the substitution of Platonic idealism for the scholastic philosophy based on Aristotle, in the Nuremberg book the epitome of mediaeval superstition, credulity, and curiosity on the verge of the new era, and in Morte d'Arthur the fond return of the modern mind, facing an unknown future, upon the naive and beautiful legends of Arthurian romance. An age full of contradictions and strange delusions, but an age of great vitality, great eagerness, great industry, patience, foresight, imagination. And in such an age it was the good fortune of these wise craftsmen who handled so deftly their paper and type to be the instruments of more evangels than angels ever sang, more revolutions than gunpowder ever achieved, more victories than ever won the applause of men or the approval of heaven. In the beginning the creative word was =Fiat lux=--let there be light. In the new creation of the human mind it was =Imprimatur=--let it be printed. If printing had never been invented, it is easy to conceive that the enormous learning and intellectual power of a few men in each generation might have gone on increasing so that the world might to-day possess most of the knowledge that we now enjoy; but it is certain that the masses could never have been enlightened, and that therefore the gulf between the wise few and the ignorant many would have exceeded anything known to the ancient world, and inconceivably dangerous in its appalling social menace. Whoever first printed a page of type is responsible for many crimes committed in the name of literature during the past four centuries; but one great book in a generation or a century, like a grain of radium in a ton of pitchblende, is worth all it has cost; for like the radium it is infinitely powerful to the wise man, deadly to the fool, and its strange, invisible virtue so far as we know may last forever. [Illustration] DESIGNED BY BRUCE ROGERS AND PRINTED FROM MONOTYPE CASLON TYPE BY WILLIAM EDWIN RUDGE AT MOUNT VERNON NEW YORK IN DECEMBER 1921. OF THIS EDITION ONE HUNDRED COPIES ARE ON FRENCH HAND-MADE PAPER AND FIVE HUNDRED ON ANTIQUE WOVE PAPER. * * * * * Transcriber's Note: This text uses both today and to-day. 
4060	----	None 
2398	----	THE RENAISSANCE STUDIES IN ART AND POETRY by Walter Pater Sixth Edition Dedication To C.L.S. PREFACE Many attempts have been made by writers on art and poetry to define beauty in the abstract, to express it in the most general terms, to find a universal formula for it. The value of these attempts has most often been in the suggestive and penetrating things said by the way. Such discussions help us very little to enjoy what has been well done in art or poetry, to discriminate between what is more and what is less excellent in them, or to use words like beauty, excellence, art, poetry, with a more precise meaning than they would otherwise have. Beauty, like all other qualities presented to human experience, is relative; and the definition of it becomes unmeaning and useless in proportion to its abstractness. To define beauty, not in the most abstract, but in the most concrete terms possible, to find, not a universal formula for it, but the formula which expresses most adequately this or that special manifestation of it, is the aim of the true student of aesthetics. "To see the object as in itself it really is," has been justly said to be the aim of all true criticism whatever; and in aesthetic criticism the first step towards seeing one's object as it really is, is to know one's own impression as it really is, to discriminate it, to realise it distinctly. The objects with which aesthetic criticism deals--music, poetry, artistic and accomplished forms of human life--are indeed receptacles of so many powers or forces: they possess, like the products of nature, so many virtues or qualities. What is this song or picture, this engaging personality presented in life or in a book, to ME? What effect does it really produce on me? Does it give me pleasure? and if so, what sort or degree of pleasure? How is my nature modified by its presence, and under its influence? The answers to these questions are the original facts with which the aesthetic critic has to do; and, as in the study of light, of morals, of number, one must realise such primary data for oneself, or not at all. And he who experiences these impressions strongly, and drives directly at the discrimination and analysis of them, has no need to trouble himself with the abstract question what beauty is in itself, or what its exact relation to truth or experience--metaphysical questions, as unprofitable as metaphysical questions elsewhere. He may pass them all by as being, answerable or not, of no interest to him. The aesthetic critic, then, regards all the objects with which he has to do, all works of art, and the fairer forms of nature and human life, as powers or forces producing pleasurable sensations, each of a more or less peculiar or unique kind. This influence he feels, and wishes to explain, analysing it and reducing it to its elements. To him, the picture, the landscape, the engaging personality in life or in a book, La Gioconda, the hills of Carrara, Pico of Mirandola, are valuable for their virtues, as we say, in speaking of a herb, a wine, a gem; for the property each has of affecting one with a special, a unique, impression of pleasure. Our education becomes complete in proportion as our susceptibility to these impressions increases in depth and variety. And the function of the aesthetic critic is to distinguish, analyse, and separate from its adjuncts, the virtue by which a picture, a landscape, a fair personality in life or in a book, produces this special impression of beauty or pleasure, to indicate what the source of that impression is, and under what conditions it is experienced. His end is reached when he has disengaged that virtue, and noted it, as a chemist notes some natural element, for himself and others; and the rule for those who would reach this end is stated with great exactness in the words of a recent critic of Sainte-Beuve:--De se borner a connaitre de pres les belles choses, et a s'en nourrir en exquis amateurs, en humanistes accomplis. What is important, then, is not that the critic should possess a correct abstract definition of beauty for the intellect, but a certain kind of temperament, the power of being deeply moved by the presence of beautiful objects. He will remember always that beauty exists in many forms. To him all periods, types, schools of taste, are in themselves equal. In all ages there have been some excellent workmen, and some excellent work done. The question he asks is always:--In whom did the stir, the genius, the sentiment of the period find itself? where was the receptacle of its refinement, its elevation, its taste? "The ages are all equal," says William Blake, "but genius is always above its age." Often it will require great nicety to disengage this virtue from the commoner elements with which it may be found in combination. Few artists, not Goethe or Byron even, work quite cleanly, casting off all debris, and leaving us only what the heat of their imagination has wholly fused and transformed. Take, for instance, the writings of Wordsworth. The heat of his genius, entering into the substance of his work, has crystallised a part, but only a part, of it; and in that great mass of verse there is much which might well be forgotten. But scattered up and down it, sometimes fusing and transforming entire compositions, like the Stanzas on Resolution and Independence, and the Ode on the Recollections of Childhood, sometimes, as if at random, depositing a fine crystal here or there, in a matter it does not wholly search through and transform, we trace the action of his unique, incommunicable faculty, that strange, mystical sense of a life in natural things, and of man's life as a part of nature, drawing strength and colour and character from local influences, from the hills and streams, and from natural sights and sounds. Well! that is the virtue, the active principle in Wordsworth's poetry; and then the function of the critic of Wordsworth is to follow up that active principle, to disengage it, to mark the degree in which it penetrates his verse. The subjects of the following studies are taken from the history of the Renaissance, and touch what I think are the chief points in that complex, many-sided movement. I have explained in the first of them what I understand by the word, giving it a much wider scope than was intended by those who originally used it to denote only that revival of classical antiquity in the fifteenth century which was but one of many results of a general excitement and enlightening of the human mind, of which the great aim and achievements of what, as Christian art, is often falsely opposed to the Renaissance, were another result. This outbreak of the human spirit may be traced far into the middle age itself, with its qualities already clearly pronounced, the care for physical beauty, the worship of the body, the breaking down of those limits which the religious system of the middle age imposed on the heart and the imagination. I have taken as an example of this movement, this earlier Renaissance within the middle age itself, and as an expression of its qualities, two little compositions in early French; not because they constitute the best possible expression of them, but because they help the unity of my series, inasmuch as the Renaissance ends also in France, in French poetry, in a phase of which the writings of Joachim du Bellay are in many ways the most perfect illustration; the Renaissance thus putting forth in France an aftermath, a wonderful later growth, the products of which have to the full that subtle and delicate sweetness which belongs to a refined and comely decadence; just as its earliest phases have the freshness which belongs to all periods of growth in art, the charm of ascesis, of the austere and serious girding of the loins in youth. But it is in Italy, in the fifteenth century, that the interest of the Renaissance mainly lies,--in that solemn fifteenth century which can hardly be studied too much, not merely for its positive results in the things of the intellect and the imagination, its concrete works of art, its special and prominent personalities, with their profound aesthetic charm, but for its general spirit and character, for the ethical qualities of which it is a consummate type. The various forms of intellectual activity which together make up the culture of an age, move for the most part from different starting-points, and by unconnected roads. As products of the same generation they partake indeed of a common character, and unconsciously illustrate each other; but of the producers themselves, each group is solitary, gaining what advantage or disadvantage there may be in intellectual isolation. Art and poetry, philosophy and the religious life, and that other life of refined pleasure and action in the open places of the world, are each of them confined to its own circle of ideas, and those who prosecute either of them are generally little curious of the thoughts of others. There come, however, from time to time, eras of more favourable conditions, in which the thoughts of men draw nearer together than is their wont, and the many interests of the intellectual world combine in one complete type of general culture. The fifteenth century in Italy is one of these happier eras; and what is sometimes said of the age of Pericles is true of that of Lorenzo:--it is an age productive in personalities, many-sided, centralised, complete. Here, artists and philosophers and those whom the action of the world has elevated and made keen, do not live in isolation, but breathe a common air, and catch light and heat from each other's thoughts. There is a spirit of general elevation and enlightenment in which all alike communicate. It is the unity of this spirit which gives unity to all the various products of the Renaissance; and it is to this intimate alliance with mind, this participation in the best thoughts which that age produced, that the art of Italy in the fifteenth century owes much of its grave dignity and influence. I have added an essay on Winckelmann, as not incongruous with the studies which precede it, because Winckelmann, coming in the eighteenth century, really belongs in spirit to an earlier age. By his enthusiasm for the things of the intellect and the imagination for their own sake, by his Hellenism, his life-long struggle to attain to the Greek spirit, he is in sympathy with the humanists of an earlier century. He is the last fruit of the Renaissance, and explains in a striking way its motive and tendencies. CONTENTS TWO EARLY FRENCH STORIES PICO DELLA MIRANDOLA SANDRO BOTTICELLI LUCA DELLA ROBBIA THE POETRY OF MICHELANGELO LEONARDO DA VINCI THE SCHOOL OF GIORGIONE JOACHIM DU BELLAY WINCKELMANN CONCLUSION TWO EARLY FRENCH STORIES The history of the Renaissance ends in France, and carries us away from Italy to the beautiful cities of the country of the Loire. But it was in France also, in a very important sense, that the Renaissance had begun; and French writers, who are so fond of connecting the creations of Italian genius with a French origin, who tell us how Francis of Assisi took not his name only, but all those notions of chivalry and romantic love which so deeply penetrated his thoughts, from a French source, how Boccaccio borrowed the outlines of his stories from the old French fabliaux, and how Dante himself expressly connects the origin of the art of miniature-painting with the city of Paris, have often dwelt on this notion of a Renaissance in the end of the twelfth and the beginning of the thirteenth century, a Renaissance within the limits of the middle age itself--a brilliant, but in part abortive effort to do for human life and the human mind what was afterwards done in the fifteenth. The word Renaissance, indeed, is now generally used to denote not merely that revival of classical antiquity which took place in the fifteenth century, and to which the word was first applied, but a whole complex movement, of which that revival of classical antiquity was but one element or symptom. For us the Renaissance is the name of a many-sided but yet united movement, in which the love of the things of the intellect and the imagination for their own sake, the desire for a more liberal and comely way of conceiving life, make themselves felt, urging those who experience this desire to search out first one and then another means of intellectual or imaginative enjoyment, and directing them not merely to the discovery of old and forgotten sources of this enjoyment, but to the divination of fresh sources thereof--new experiences, new subjects of poetry, new forms of art. Of such feeling there was a great outbreak in the end of the twelfth and the beginning of the following century. Here and there, under rare and happy conditions, in Pointed architecture, in the doctrines of romantic love, in the poetry of Provence, the rude strength of the middle age turns to sweetness; and the taste for sweetness generated there becomes the seed of the classical revival in it, prompting it constantly to seek after the springs of perfect sweetness in the Hellenic world. And coming after a long period in which this instinct had been crushed, that true "dark age," in which so many sources of intellectual and imaginative enjoyment had actually disappeared, this outbreak is rightly called a Renaissance, a revival. Theories which bring into connexion with each other modes of thought and feeling, periods of taste, forms of art and poetry, which the narrowness of men's minds constantly tends to oppose to each other, have a great stimulus for the intellect, and are almost always worth understanding. It is so with this theory of a Renaissance within the middle age, which seeks to establish a continuity between the most characteristic work of the middle age, the sculpture of Chartres and the windows of Le Mans, and the work of the later Renaissance, the work of Jean Cousin and Germain Pilon, and thus heals that rupture between the middle age and the Renaissance which has so often been exaggerated. But it is not so much the ecclesiastical art of the middle age, its sculpture and painting--work certainly done in a great measure for pleasure's sake, in which even a secular, a rebellious spirit often betrays itself--but rather the profane poetry of the middle age, the poetry of Provence, and the magnificent after-growth of that poetry in Italy and France, which those French writers have in view, when they speak of this Renaissance within the middle age. In that poetry, earthly passion, with its intimacy, its freedom, its variety--the liberty of the heart--makes itself felt; and the name of Abelard, the great clerk and the great lover, connects the expression of this liberty of heart with the free play of human intelligence around all subjects presented to it, with the liberty of the intellect, as that age understood it. Every one knows the legend of Abelard, a legend hardly less passionate, certainly not less characteristic of the middle age, than the legend of Tannhaeuser; how the famous and comely clerk, in whom Wisdom herself, self-possessed, pleasant, and discreet, seemed to sit enthroned, came to live in the house of a canon of the church of Notre-Dame, where dwelt a girl Heloise, believed to be the old priest's orphan niece, his love for whom he had testified by giving her an education then unrivalled, so that rumour even asserted that, through the knowledge of languages, enabling her to penetrate into the mysteries of the older world, she had become a sorceress, like the Celtic druidesses; and how as Abelard and Heloise sat together at home there, to refine a little further on the nature of abstract ideas, "Love made himself of the party with them." You conceive the temptations of the scholar, who, in such dreamy tranquillity, amid the bright and busy spectacle of the "Island," lived in a world of something like shadows; and that for one who knew so well how to assign its exact value to every abstract idea, those restraints which lie on the consciences of other men had been relaxed. It appears that he composed many verses in the vulgar tongue: already the young men sang them on the quay below the house. Those songs, says M. de Remusat, were probably in the taste of the Trouveres, of whom he was one of the first in date, or, so to speak, the predecessor. It is the same spirit which has moulded the famous "letters," written in the quaint Latin of the middle age. At the foot of that early Gothic tower, which the next generation raised to grace the precincts of Abelard's school, on the "Mountain of Saint Genevieve," the historian Michelet sees in thought "a terrible assembly; not the hearers of Abelard alone, fifty bishops, twenty cardinals, two popes, the whole body of scholastic philosophy; not only the learned Heloise, the teaching of languages, and the Renaissance; but Arnold of Brescia--that is to say, the revolution." And so from the rooms of this shadowy house by the Seine side we see that spirit going abroad, with its qualities already well defined, its intimacy, its languid sweetness, its rebellion, its subtle skill in dividing the elements of human passion, its care for physical beauty, its worship of the body, which penetrated the early literature of Italy, and finds an echo in Dante. That Abelard is not mentioned in the Divine Comedy may appear a singular omission to the reader of Dante, who seems to have inwoven into the texture of his work whatever had impressed him as either effective in colour or spiritually significant among the recorded incidents of actual life. Nowhere in his great poem do we find the name, nor so much as an allusion to the story of one who had left so deep a mark on the philosophy of which Dante was an eager student, of whom in the Latin Quarter, and from the lips of scholar or teacher in the University of Paris, during his sojourn among them, he can hardly have failed to hear. We can only suppose that he had indeed considered the story and the man, and had abstained from passing judgment as to his place in the scheme of "eternal justice." In the famous legend of Tannhaeuser, the erring knight makes his way to Rome, to seek absolution at what was then the centre of Christian religion. "So soon," thought and said the Pope, "as the staff in his hand should bud and blossom, so soon might the soul of Tannhaeuser be saved, and no sooner; and it came to pass not long after that the dry wood of a staff which the Pope had carried in his hand was covered with leaves and flowers." So, in the cloister of Godstow a petrified tree was shown, of which the nuns told that the fair Rosamond, who had died among them, had declared that, the tree being then alive and green, it would be changed into stone at the hour of her salvation. When Abelard died, like Tannhaeuser, he was on his way to Rome: what might have happened had he reached his journey's end is uncertain; and it is in this uncertain twilight that his relation to the general beliefs of his age has always remained. In this, as in other things, he prefigures the character of the Renaissance, that movement in which, in various ways, the human mind wins for itself a new kingdom of feeling and sensation and thought, not opposed to, but only beyond and independent of the spiritual system then actually realised. The opposition into which Abelard is thrown, which gives its colour to his career, which breaks his soul to pieces, is a no less subtle opposition than that between the merely professional, official, hireling ministers of that system, with their ignorant worship of system for its own sake, and the true child of light, the humanist, with reason and heart and senses quick, while theirs were almost dead. He reaches out towards, he attains, modes of ideal living, beyond the prescribed limits of that system, though possibly contained in essential germ within it. As always happens, the adherents of the poorer and narrower culture had no sympathy with, because no understanding of, a culture richer and more ample than their own: after the discovery of wheat they would still live upon acorns--apres l'invention du ble ils voulaient encore vivre du gland; and would hear of no service to the higher needs of humanity with instruments not of their forging. But the human spirit, bold through those needs, was too strong for them. Abelard and Heloise write their letters--letters with a wonderful outpouring of soul--in medieval Latin; and Abelard, though he composes songs in the vulgar tongue, writes also in Latin those treatises in which he tries to find a ground of reality below the abstractions of philosophy, as one bent on trying all things by their congruity with human experience, who had felt the hand of Heloise, and looked into her eyes, and tested the resources of humanity in her great and energetic nature. Yet it is only a little later, early in the thirteenth century, that French prose romance begins; and in one of the pretty volumes of the Bibliotheque Elzevirienne some of the most striking fragments of it may be found, edited with much intelligence. In one of these thirteenth-century stories, Li Amitiez de Ami et Amile, that free play of human affection, of the claims of which Abelard's story is an assertion, makes itself felt in the incidents of a great friendship, a friendship pure and generous, pushed to a sort of passionate exaltation, and more than faithful unto death. Such comradeship, though instances of it are to be found everywhere, is still especially a classical motive; Chaucer expressing the sentiment of it so strongly in an antique tale, that one knows not whether the love of both Palamon and Arcite for Emelya, or of those two for each other, is the chiefer subject of the Knight's Tale-- He cast his eyen upon Emelya, And therewithal he bleynte and cried, ah! As that he stongen were unto the herte. What reader does not refer part of the bitterness of that cry to the spoiling, already foreseen, of that fair friendship, which had hitherto made the prison of the two lads sweet with its daily offices--though the friendship is saved at last? The friendship of Amis and Amile is deepened by the romantic circumstance of an entire personal resemblance between the two heroes, so that they pass for each other again and again, and thereby into many strange adventures; that curious interest of the Doppelgaenger, which begins among the stars with the Dioscuri, being entwined in and out through all the incidents of the story, like an outward token of the inward similitude of their souls. With this, again, like a second reflexion of that inward similitude, is connected the conceit of two marvellously beautiful cups, also exactly like each other--children's cups, of wood, but adorned with gold and precious stones. These two cups, which by their resemblance help to bring the friends together at critical moments, were given to them by the Pope, when he baptized them at Rome, whither the parents had taken them for that purpose, in thankfulness for their birth, and cross and recross in the narrative, serving the two heroes almost like living things, and with that well-known effect of a beautiful object kept constantly before the eye in a story or poem, of keeping sensation well awake, and giving a certain air of refinement to all the scenes into which it enters; with a heightening also of that sense of fate, which hangs so much of the shaping of human life on trivial objects, like Othello's strawberry handkerchief; and witnessing to the enjoyment of beautiful handiwork by primitive people, almost dazzled by it, so that they give it an oddly significant place among the factors of a human history. Amis and Amile, then, are true to their comradeship through all trials; and in the end it comes to pass that at a moment of great need Amis takes the place of Amile in a tournament for life or death. "After this it happened that a leprosy fell upon Amis, so that his wife would not approach him, and wrought to strangle him; and he departed from his home, and at last prayed his servants to carry him to the house of Amile"; and it is in what follows that the curious strength of the piece shows itself:-- "His servants, willing to do as he commanded, carried him to the place where Amile was: and they began to sound their rattles before the court of Amile's house, as lepers are accustomed to do. And when Amile heard the noise he commanded one of his servants to carry meat and bread to the sick man, and the cup which was given to him at Rome filled with good wine. And when the servant had done as he was commanded, he returned and said, Sir, if I had not thy cup in my hand, I should believe that the cup which the sick man has was thine, for they are alike, the one to the other, in height and fashion. And Amile said, Go quickly and bring him to me. And when Amis stood before his comrade Amile demanded of him who he was, and how he had gotten that cup. I am of Briquam le Chastel, answered Amis, and the cup was given to me by the Bishop of Rome, who baptized me. And when Amile heard that, he knew that it was his comrade Amis, who had delivered him from death, and won for him the daughter of the King of France to be his wife. And straightway he fell upon him, and began to weep greatly, and kissed him. And when his wife heard that, she ran out with her hair in disarray, weeping and distressed exceedingly, for she remembered that it was he who had slain the false Ardres. And thereupon they placed him in a fair bed, and said to him, Abide with us until God's will be accomplished in thee, for all that we have is at thy service. So he and the two servants abode with them. "And it came to pass one night, when Amis and Amile lay in one chamber without other companions, that God sent His angel Raphael to Amis, who said to him, Amis, art thou asleep? And he, supposing that Amile had called him, answered and said, I am not asleep, fair comrade! And the angel said to him, Thou hast answered well, for thou art the comrade of the heavenly citizens.--I am Raphael, the angel of our Lord, and am come to tell thee how thou mayest be healed; for thy prayers are heard. Thou shalt bid Amile, thy comrade, that he slay his two children and wash thee in their blood, and so thy body shall be made whole. And Amis said to him, Let not this thing be, that my comrade should become a murderer for my sake. But the angel said, It is convenient that he do this. And thereupon the angel departed. "And Amile also, as if in sleep, heard those words; and he awoke and said, Who is it, my comrade, that hath spoken with thee? And Amis answered, No man; only I have prayed to our Lord, as I am accustomed. And Amile said, Not so! but some one hath spoken with thee. Then he arose and went to the door of the chamber; and finding it shut he said, Tell me, my brother, who it was said those words to thee to-night. And Amis began to weep greatly, and told him that it was Raphael, the angel of the Lord, who had said to him, Amis, our Lord commands thee that thou bid Amile slay his two children, and wash thee in their blood, and thou shalt be healed of thy leprosy. And Amile was greatly disturbed at those words, and said, I would have given to thee my man-servants and my maid-servants and all my goods, and thou feignest that an angel hath spoken to thee that I should slay my two children. And immediately Amis began to weep, and said, I know that I have spoken to thee a terrible thing, but constrained thereto; I pray thee cast me not away from the shelter of thy house. And Amile answered that what he had covenanted with him, that he would perform, unto the hour of his death: But I conjure thee, said he, by the faith which there is between me and thee, and by our comradeship, and by the baptism we received together at Rome, that thou tell me whether it was man or angel said that to thee. And Amis answered, So truly as an angel hath spoken to me this night, so may God deliver me from my infirmity! "Then Amile began to weep in secret, and thought within himself: If this man was ready to die before the king for me, shall I not for him slay my children? Shall I not keep faith with him who was faithful to me even unto death? And Amile tarried no longer, but departed to the chamber of his wife, and bade her go hear the Sacred Office. And he took a sword, and went to the bed where the children were lying, and found them asleep. And he lay down over them and began to weep bitterly and said, Hath any man yet heard of a father who of his own will slew his children? Alas, my children! I am no longer your father, but your cruel murderer. "And the children awoke at the tears of their father, which fell upon them; and they looked up into his face and began to laugh. And as they were of the age of about three years, he said, Your laughing will be turned into tears, for your innocent blood must now be shed, and therewith he cut off their heads. Then he laid them back in the bed, and put the heads upon the bodies, and covered them as though they were sleeping: and with the blood which he had taken he washed his comrade, and said, Lord Jesus Christ! who hast commanded men to keep faith on earth, and didst heal the leper by Thy word! cleanse now my comrade, for whose love I have shed the blood of my children. "Then Amis was cleansed of his leprosy. And Amile clothed his companion in his best robes; and as they went to the church to give thanks, the bells, by the will of God, rang of their own accord. And when the people of the city heard that, they ran together to see the marvel. And the wife of Amile, when she saw Amis and Amile coming, began to ask which of the twain was her husband, and said, I know well the vesture of them both, but I know not which of them is Amile. And Amile said to her, I am Amile, and my companion is Amis, who is healed of his sickness. And she was full of wonder, and desired to know in what manner he was healed. Give thanks to our Lord, answered Amile, but trouble not thyself as to the manner of the healing. "Now neither the father nor the mother had yet entered where the children were; but the father sighed heavily because of their death, and the mother asked for them, that they might rejoice together; but Amile said, Dame! Let the children sleep. And it was already the hour of Tierce. And going in alone to the children to weep over them, he found them at play in the bed; only, in the place of the sword-cuts about their throats was as it were a thread of crimson. And he took them in his arms and carried them to his wife and said, Rejoice greatly, for thy children whom I had slain by the commandment of the angel are alive, and by their blood is Amis healed." There, as I said, is the strength of the old French story. For the Renaissance has not only the sweetness which it derives from the classical world, but also that curious strength of which there are great resources in the true middle age. And as I have illustrated the early strength of the Renaissance by the story of Amis and Amile, a story which comes from the North, in which even a certain racy Teutonic flavour is perceptible, so I shall illustrate that other element of its early sweetness, a languid excess of sweetness even, by another story printed in the same volume of the Bibliotheque Elzevirienne, and of about the same date, a story which comes, characteristically, from the South, and connects itself with the literature of Provence. The central love-poetry of Provence, the poetry of the Tenson and the Aubade, of Bernard de Ventadour and Pierre Vidal, is poetry for the few, for the elect and peculiar people of the kingdom of sentiment. But below this intenser poetry there was probably a wide range of literature, less serious and elevated, reaching, by lightness of form and comparative homeliness of interest, an audience which the concentrated passion of those higher lyrics left untouched. This literature has long since perished, or lives only in later French or Italian versions. One such version, the only representative of its species, M. Fauriel thought he detected in the story of Aucassin and Nicolette, written in the French of the latter half of the thirteenth century, and preserved in a unique manuscript, in the national library of Paris; and there were reasons which made him divine for it a still more ancient ancestry, traces in it of an Arabian origin, as in a leaf lost out of some early Arabian Nights.* The little book loses none of its interest through the criticism which finds in it only a traditional subject, handed on by one people to another; for after passing thus from hand to hand, its outline is still clear, its surface untarnished; and, like many other stories, books, literary and artistic conceptions of the middle age, it has come to have in this way a sort of personal history, almost as full of risk and adventure as that of its own heroes. The writer himself calls the piece a cantefable, a tale told in prose, but with its incidents and sentiment helped forward by songs, inserted at irregular intervals. In the junctions of the story itself there are signs of roughness and want of skill, which make one suspect that the prose was only put together to connect a series of songs--a series of songs so moving and attractive that people wished to heighten and dignify their effect by a regular framework or setting. Yet the songs themselves are of the simplest kind, not rhymed even, but only imperfectly assonant, stanzas of twenty or thirty lines apiece, all ending with a similar vowel sound. And here, as elsewhere in that early poetry, much of the interest lies in the spectacle of the formation of a new artistic sense. A new music is arising, the music of rhymed poetry, and in the songs of Aucassin and Nicolette, which seem always on the point of passing into true rhyme, but which halt somehow, and can never quite take flight, you see people just growing aware of the elements of a new music in their possession, and anticipating how pleasant such music might become. The piece was probably intended to be recited by a company of trained performers, many of whom, at least for the lesser parts, were probably children. The songs are introduced by the rubric, Or se cante (ici on chante); and each division of prose by the rubric, Or dient et content et fabloient (ici on conte). The musical notes of part of the songs have been preserved; and some of the details are so descriptive that they suggested to M. Fauriel the notion that the words had been accompanied throughout by dramatic action. That mixture of simplicity and refinement which he was surprised to find in a composition of the thirteenth century, is shown sometimes in the turn given to some passing expression or remark; thus, "the Count de Garins was old and frail, his time was over"--Li quens Garins de Beaucaire estoit vix et frales; si avoit son tans trespasse. And then, all is so realised! One still sees the ancient forest, with its disused roads grown deep with grass, and the place where seven roads meet--u a forkeut set cemin qui s'en vont par le pais; we hear the light-hearted country people calling each other by their rustic names, and putting forward, as their spokesman, one among them who is more eloquent and ready than the rest--li un qui plus fu enparles des autres; for the little book has its burlesque element also, so that one hears the faint, far-off laughter still. Rough as it is, the piece certainly possesses this high quality of poetry, that it aims at a purely artistic effect. Its subject is a great sorrow, yet it claims to be a thing of joy and refreshment, to be entertained not for its matter only, but chiefly for its manner; it is cortois, it tells us, et bien assis. *Recently, Aucassin and Nicolette has been edited and translated into English, with much graceful scholarship, by Mr. F. W. Bourdillon. More recently still we have had a translation--a poet's translation--from the ingenious and versatile pen of Mr. Andrew Lang. The reader should consult also the chapter on "The Out-door Poetry," in Vernon Lee's most interesting Euphorion; being Studies of the Antique and Mediaeval in the Renaissance, a work abounding in knowledge and insight on the subjects of which it treats. For the student of manners, and of the old language and literature, it has much interest of a purely antiquarian order. To say of an ancient literary composition that it has an antiquarian interest, often means that it has no distinct aesthetic interest for the reader of to-day. Antiquarianism, by a purely historical effort, by putting its object in perspective, and setting the reader in a certain point of view, from which what gave pleasure to the past is pleasurable for him also, may often add greatly to the charm we receive from ancient literature. But the first condition of such aid must be a real, direct, aesthetic charm in the thing itself; unless it has that charm, unless some purely artistic quality went to its original making, no merely antiquarian effort can ever give it an aesthetic value, or make it a proper subject of aesthetic criticism. This quality, wherever it exists, it is always pleasant to define, and discriminate from the sort of borrowed interest which an old play, or an old story, may very likely acquire through a true antiquarianism. The story of Aucassin and Nicolette has something of this quality. Aucassin, the only son of Count Garins of Beaucaire, is passionately in love with Nicolette, a beautiful girl of unknown parentage, bought of the Saracens, whom his father will not permit him to marry. The story turns on the adventures of these two lovers, until at the end of the piece their mutual fidelity is rewarded. These adventures are of the simplest sort, adventures which seem to be chosen for the happy occasion they afford of keeping the eye of the fancy, perhaps the outward eye, fixed on pleasant objects, a garden, a ruined tower, the little hut of flowers which Nicolette constructs in the forest whither she has escaped from her enemies, as a token to Aucassin that she has passed that way. All the charm of the piece is in its details, in a turn of peculiar lightness and grace given to the situations and traits of sentiment, especially in its quaint fragments of early French prose. All through it one feels the influence of that faint air of overwrought delicacy, almost of wantonness, which was so strong a characteristic of the poetry of the Troubadours. The Troubadours themselves were often men of great rank; they wrote for an exclusive audience, people of much leisure and great refinement, and they came to value a type of personal beauty which has in it but little of the influence of the open air and sunshine. There is a languid Eastern deliciousness in the very scenery of the story, the full-blown roses, the chamber painted in some mysterious manner where Nicolette is imprisoned, the cool brown marble, the almost nameless colours, the odour of plucked grass and flowers. Nicolette herself well becomes this scenery, and is the best illustration of the quality I mean--the beautiful, weird, foreign girl, whom the shepherds take for a fay, who has the knowledge of simples, the healing and beautifying qualities of leaves and flowers, whose skilful touch heals Aucassin's sprained shoulder, so that he suddenly leaps from the ground; the mere sight of whose white flesh, as she passed the place where he lay, healed a pilgrim stricken with sore disease, so that he rose up, and returned to his own country. With this girl Aucassin is so deeply in love that he forgets all his knightly duties. At last Nicolette is shut up to get her out of his way, and perhaps the prettiest passage in the whole piece is the fragment of prose which describes her escape from this place:-- "Aucassin was put in prison, as you have heard, and Nicolette remained shut up in her chamber. It was summer-time, in the month of May, when the days are warm and long and clear, and the nights coy and serene. "One night Nicolette, lying on her bed, saw the moon shine clear through the little window, and heard the nightingale sing in the garden, and then came the memory of Aucassin, whom she so much loved. She thought of the Count Garins of Beaucaire, who so mortally hated her, and, to be rid of her, might at any moment cause her to be burned or drowned. She perceived that the old woman who kept her company was asleep; she rose and put on the fairest gown she had; she took the bed-clothes and the towels, and knotted them together like a cord, as far as they would go. Then she tied the end to a pillar of the window, and let herself slip down quite softly into the garden, and passed straight across it, to reach the town. "Her hair was yellow in small curls, her smiling eyes blue-green, her face clear and feat, the little lips very red, the teeth small and white; and the daisies which she crushed in passing, holding her skirt high behind and before, looked dark against her feet; the girl was so white! "She came to the garden-gate and opened it, and walked through the streets of Beaucaire, keeping on the dark side of the way to avoid the light of the moon, which shone quietly in the sky. She walked as fast as she could, until she came to the tower where Aucassin was. The tower was set about with pillars, here and there. She pressed herself against one of the pillars, wrapped herself closely in her mantle, and putting her face to a chink of the tower, which was old and ruined, she heard Aucassin crying bitterly within, and when she had listened awhile she began to speak." But scattered up and down through this lighter matter, always tinged with humour and often passing into burlesque, which makes up the general substance of the piece, there are morsels of a different quality, touches of some intenser sentiment, coming it would seem from the profound and energetic spirit of the Provencal poetry itself, to which the inspiration of the book has been referred. Let me gather up these morsels of deeper colour, these expressions of the ideal intensity of love, the motive which really unites together the fragments of the little composition. Dante, the perfect flower of ideal love, has recorded how the tyranny of that "Lord of terrible aspect" became actually physical, blinding his senses, and suspending his bodily forces. In this Dante is but the central expression and type of experiences known well enough to the initiated, in that passionate age. Aucassin represents this ideal intensity of passion-- Aucassin, li biax, li blons, Li gentix, li amorous; the slim, tall, debonair figure, dansellon, as the singers call him, with curled yellow hair, and eyes of vair, who faints with love, as Dante fainted, who rides all day through the forest in search of Nicolette, while the thorns tear his flesh, so that one night have traced him by the blood upon the grass, and who weeps at evening because he has not found her--who has the malady of his love, so that he neglects all knightly duties. Once he is induced to put himself at the head of his people, that they, seeing him before them, might have more heart to defend themselves; then a song relates how the sweet, grave figure goes forth to battle, in dainty, tight-laced armour. It is the very image of the Provencal love-god, no longer a child, but grown to pensive youth, as Pierre Vidal met him, riding on a white horse, fair as the morning, his vestment embroidered with flowers. He rode on through the gates into the open plain beyond. But as he went, that great malady of his love came upon him, so that the bridle fell from his hands; and like one who sleeps walking, he was carried on into the midst of his enemies, and heard them talking together how they might most conveniently kill him. One of the strongest characteristics of that outbreak of the reason and the imagination, of that assertion of the liberty of the heart, in the middle age, which I have termed a medieval Renaissance, was its antinomianism, its spirit of rebellion and revolt against the moral and religious ideas of the time. In their search after the pleasures of the senses and the imagination, in their care for beauty, in their worship of the body, people were impelled beyond the bounds of the Christian ideal; and their love became sometimes a strange idolatry, a strange rival religion. It was the return of that ancient Venus, not dead, but only hidden for a time in the caves of the Venusberg, of those old pagan gods still going to and fro on the earth, under all sorts of disguises. And this element in the middle age, for the most part ignored by those writers who have treated it pre-eminently as the "Age of Faith"--this rebellious and antinomian element, the recognition of which has made the delineation of the middle age by the writers of the Romantic school in France, by Victor Hugo for instance in Notre-Dame de Paris, so suggestive and exciting, is found alike in the history of Abelard and the legend of Tannhaeuser. More and more, as we come to mark changes and distinctions of temper in what is often in one all-embracing confusion called the middle age, this rebellious element, this sinister claim for liberty of heart and thought, comes to the surface. The Albigensian movement, connected so strangely with the history of Provencal poetry, is deeply tinged with it. A touch of it makes the Franciscan order, with its poetry, its mysticism, its "illumination," from the point of view of religious authority, justly suspect. It influences the thoughts of those obscure prophetical writers, like Joachim of Flora, strange dreamers in a world of flowery rhetoric of that third and final dispensation of a "spirit of freedom," in which law shall have passed away. Of this spirit Aucassin and Nicolette contains perhaps the most famous expression: it is the answer Aucassin gives when he is threatened with the pains of hell, if he makes Nicolette his mistress. A creature wholly of affection and the senses, he sees on the way to paradise only a feeble company of aged priests, "clinging day and night to the chapel altars," barefoot or in patched sandals. With or even without Nicolette, "his sweet mistress whom he so much loves," he, for his part, is ready to start on the way to hell, along with "the good scholars," as he says, and the actors, and the fine horsemen dead in battle, and the men of fashion,* and "the fair courteous ladies who had two or three chevaliers apiece beside their own true lords," all gay with music, in their gold and silver and beautiful furs--"the vair and the grey." *Parage, peerage--which came to signify all that ambitious youth affected most on the outside of life, in that old world of the Troubadours, with whom this term is of frequent recurrence. But in the House Beautiful the saints too have their place; and the student of the Renaissance has this advantage over the student of the emancipation of the human mind in the Reformation, or the French Revolution, that in tracing the footsteps of humanity to higher levels, he is not beset at every turn by the inflexibilities and antagonisms of some well-recognised controversy, with rigidly defined opposites, exhausting the intelligence and limiting one's sympathies. The opposition of the professional defenders of a mere system to that more sincere and general play of the forces of human mind and character, which I have noted as the secret of Abelard's struggle, is indeed always powerful. But the incompatibility of souls really "fair" is not essential; and within the enchanted region of the Renaissance, one needs not be for ever on one's guard: here there are no fixed parties, no exclusions: all breathes of that unity of culture in which "whatsoever things are comely" are reconciled, for the elevation and adorning of our spirits. And just in proportion as those who took part in the Renaissance become centrally representative of it, just so much the more is this condition realised in them. The wicked popes, and the loveless tyrants, who from time to time became its patrons, or mere speculators in its fortunes, lend themselves easily to disputations, and, from this side or that, the spirit of controversy lays just hold upon them. But the painter of the Last Supper, with his kindred, live in a land where controversy has no breathing-place, and refuse to be classified. In the story of Aucassin and Nicolette, in the literature which it represents, the note of defiance, of the opposition of one system to another, is sometimes harsh: let me conclude with a morsel from Amis and Amile, in which the harmony of human interests is still entire. For the story of the great traditional friendship, in which, as I said, the liberty of the heart makes itself felt, seems, as we have it, to have been written by a monk--La vie des saints martyrs Amis et Amile. It was not till the end of the seventeenth century that their names were finally excluded from the martyrology; and their story ends with this monkish miracle of earthly comradeship, more than faithful unto death:-- "For, as God had united them in their lives in one accord, so they were not divided in their death, falling together side by side, with a host of other brave men, in battle for King Charles at Mortara, so called from that great slaughter. And the bishops gave counsel to the king and queen that they should bury the dead, and build a church in that place; and their counsel pleased the king greatly; and there were built there two churches, the one by commandment of the king in honour of Saint Oseige, and the other by commandment of the queen in honour of Saint Peter. "And the king caused the two chests of stone to be brought in the which the bodies of Amis and Amile lay; and Amile was carried to the church of Saint Peter, and Amis to the church of Saint Oseige; and the other corpses were buried, some in one place and some in the other. But lo! next morning, the body of Amile in his coffin was found lying in the church of Saint Oseige, beside the coffin of Amis his comrade. Behold then this wondrous amity, which by death could not be dissevered! "This miracle God did, who gave to His disciples power to remove mountains. And by reason of this miracle the king and queen remained in that place for a space of thirty days, and performed the offices of the dead who were slain, and honoured the said churches with great gifts: and the bishop ordained many clerks to serve in the church of Saint Oseige, and commanded them that they should guard duly, with great devotion, the bodies of the two companions, Amis and Amile." 1872. PICO DELLA MIRANDOLA No account of the Renaissance can be complete without some notice of the attempt made by certain Italian scholars of the fifteenth century to reconcile Christianity with the religion of ancient Greece. To reconcile forms of sentiment which at first sight seem incompatible, to adjust the various products of the human mind to each other in one many-sided type of intellectual culture, to give humanity, for heart and imagination to feed upon, as much as it could possibly receive, belonged to the generous instincts of that age. An earlier and simpler generation had seen in the gods of Greece so many malignant spirits, the defeated but still living centres of the religion of darkness, struggling, not always in vain, against the kingdom of light. Little by little, as the natural charm of pagan story reasserted itself over minds emerging out of barbarism, the religious significance which had once belonged to it was lost sight of, and it came to be regarded as the subject of a purely artistic or poetical treatment. But it was inevitable that from time to time minds should arise, deeply enough impressed by its beauty and power to ask themselves whether the religion of Greece was indeed a rival of the religion of Christ; for the older gods had rehabilitated themselves, and men's allegiance was divided. And the fifteenth century was an impassioned age, so ardent and serious in its pursuit of art that it consecrated everything with which art had to do as a religious object. The restored Greek literature had made it familiar, at least in Plato, with a style of expression concerning the earlier gods, which had about it much of the warmth and unction of a Christian hymn. It was too familiar with such language to regard mythology as a mere story; and it was too serious to play with a religion. "Let me briefly remind the reader"--says Heine, in the Gods in Exile, an essay full of that strange blending of sentiment which is characteristic of the traditions of the middle age concerning the pagan religions--"how the gods of the older world, at the time of the definite triumph of Christianity, that is, in the third century, fell into painful embarrassments, which greatly resembled certain tragical situations of their earlier life. They now found themselves beset by the same troublesome necessities to which they had once before been exposed during the primitive ages, in that revolutionary epoch when the Titans broke out of the custody of Orcus, and, piling Pelion on Ossa, scaled Olympus. Unfortunate Gods! They had then to take flight ignominiously, and hide themselves among us here on earth, under all sorts of disguises. The larger number betook themselves to Egypt, where for greater security they assumed the forms of animals, as is generally known. Just in the same way, they had to take flight again, and seek entertainment in remote hiding-places, when those iconoclastic zealots, the black brood of monks, broke down all the temples, and pursued the gods with fire and curses. Many of these unfortunate emigrants, now entirely deprived of shelter and ambrosia, must needs take to vulgar handicrafts, as a means of earning their bread. Under these circumstances, many whose sacred groves had been confiscated, let themselves out for hire as wood-cutters in Germany, and were forced to drink beer instead of nectar. Apollo seems to have been content to take service under graziers, and as he had once kept the cows of Admetus, so he lived now as a shepherd in Lower Austria. Here, however, having become suspected on account of his beautiful singing, he was recognised by a learned monk as one of the old pagan gods, and handed over to the spiritual tribunal. On the rack he confessed that he was the god Apollo; and before his execution he begged that he might be suffered to play once more upon the lyre, and to sing a song. And he played so touchingly, and sang with such magic, and was withal so beautiful in form and feature, that all the women wept, and many of them were so deeply impressed that they shortly afterwards fell sick. And some time afterwards the people wished to drag him from the grave again, so that a stake might be driven through his body, in the belief that he had been a vampire, and that the sick women would by this means recover. But they found the grave empty." The Renaissance of the fifteenth century was, in many things, great rather by what it designed than by what it achieved. Much which it aspired to do, and did but imperfectly or mistakenly, was accomplished in what is called the eclaircissement of the eighteenth century, or in our own generation; and what really belongs to the rival of the fifteenth century is but the leading instinct, the curiosity, the initiatory idea. It is so with this very question of the reconciliation of the religion of antiquity with the religion of Christ. A modern scholar occupied by this problem might observe that all religions may be regarded as natural products; that, at least in their origin, their growth, and decay, they have common laws, and are not to be isolated from the other movements of the human mind in the periods in which they respectively prevailed; that they arise spontaneously out of the human mind, as expressions of the varying phases of its sentiment concerning the unseen world; that every intellectual product must be judged from the point of view of the age and the people in which it was produced. He might go on to observe that each has contributed something to the development of the religious sense, and ranging them as so many stages in the gradual education of the human mind, justify the existence of each. The basis of the reconciliation of the religions of the world would thus be the inexhaustible activity and creativeness of the human mind itself, in which all religions alike have their root, and in which all alike are reconciled; just as the fancies of childhood and the thoughts of old age meet and are laid to rest, in the experience of the individual. Far different was the method followed by the scholars of the fifteenth century. They lacked the very rudiments of the historic sense, which, by an imaginative act, throws itself back into a world unlike one's own, and estimates every intellectual creation in its connexion with the age from which it proceeded; they had no idea of development, of the differences of ages, of the gradual education of the human race. In their attempts to reconcile the religions of the world, they were thus thrown back upon the quicksand of allegorical interpretation. The religions of the world were to be reconciled, not as successive stages, in a gradual development of the religious sense, but as subsisting side by side, and substantially in agreement with each other. And here the first necessity was to misrepresent the language, the conceptions, the sentiments, it was proposed to compare and reconcile. Plato and Homer must be made to speak agreeably to Moses. Set side by side, the mere surfaces could never unite in any harmony of design. Therefore one must go below the surface, and bring up the supposed secondary, or still more remote meaning, that diviner signification held in reserve, in recessu divinius aliquid, latent in some stray touch of Homer, or figure of speech in the books of Moses. And yet as a curiosity of the human mind, a "madhouse-cell," if you will, into which we peep for a moment, and see it at work weaving strange fancies, the allegorical interpretation of the fifteenth century has its interest. With its strange web of imagery, its quaint conceits, its unexpected combinations and subtle moralising, it is an element in the local colour of a great age. It illustrates also the faith of that age in all oracles, its desire to hear all voices, its generous belief that nothing which had ever interested the human mind could wholly lose its vitality. It is the counterpart, though certainly the feebler counterpart, of that practical truce and reconciliation of the gods of Greece with the Christian religion, which is seen in the art of the time; and it is for his share in this work, and because his own story is a sort of analogue or visible equivalent to the expression of this purpose in his writings, that something of a general interest still belongs to the name of Pico della Mirandola, whose life, written by his nephew Francis, seemed worthy, for some touch of sweetness in it, to be translated out of the original Latin by Sir Thomas More, that great lover of Italian culture, among whose works this life of Pico, Earl of Mirandola, and a great lord of Italy, as he calls him, may still be read, in its quaint, antiquated English. Marsilio Ficino has told us how Pico came to Florence. It was the very day--some day probably in the year 1482--on which Ficino had finished his famous translation of Plato into Latin, the work to which he had been dedicated from childhood by Cosmo de' Medici, in furtherance of his desire to resuscitate the knowledge of Plato among his fellow-citizens. Florence indeed, as M. Renan has pointed out, had always had an affinity for the mystic and dreamy philosophy of Plato, while the colder and more practical philosophy of Aristotle had flourished in Padua, and other cities of the north; and the Florentines, though they knew perhaps very little about him, had had the name of the great idealist often on their lips. To increase this knowledge, Cosmo had founded the Platonic academy, with periodical discussions at the villa of Careggi. The fall of Constantinople in 1453, and the council in 1438 for the reconciliation of the Greek and Latin Churches, had brought to Florence many a needy Greek scholar. And now the work was completed, the door of the mystical temple lay open to all who could construe Latin, and the scholar rested from his labour; when there was introduced into his study, where a lamp burned continually before the bust of Plato, as other men burned lamps before their favourite saints, a young man fresh from a journey, "of feature and shape seemly and beauteous, of stature goodly and high, of flesh tender and soft, his visage lovely and fair, his colour white, intermingled with comely reds, his eyes grey, and quick of look, his teeth white and even, his hair yellow and abundant," and trimmed with more than the usual artifice of the time. It is thus that Sir Thomas More translates the words of the biographer of Pico, who, even in outward form and appearance, seems an image of that inward harmony and completeness, of which he is so perfect an example. The word mystic has been usually derived from a Greek word which signifies to shut, as if one shut one's lips, brooding on what cannot be uttered; but the Platonists themselves derive it rather from the act of shutting the eyes, that one may see the more, inwardly. Perhaps the eyes of the mystic Ficino, now long past the midway of life, had come to be thus half-closed; but when a young man, not unlike the archangel Raphael, as the Florentines of that age depicted him in his wonderful walk with Tobit, or Mercury, as he might have appeared in a painting by Sandro Botticelli or Piero di Cosimo, entered his chamber, he seems to have thought there was something not wholly earthly about him; at least, he ever afterwards believed that it was not without the co-operation of the stars that the stranger had arrived on that day. For it happened that they fell into a conversation, deeper and more intimate than men usually fall into at first sight. During this conversation Ficino formed the design of devoting his remaining years to the translation of Plotinus, that new Plato, in whom the mystical element in the Platonic philosophy had been worked out to the utmost limit of vision and ecstasy; and it is in dedicating this translation to Lorenzo de' Medici that Ficino has recorded these incidents. It was after many wanderings, wanderings of the intellect as well as physical journeys, that Pico came to rest at Florence. He was then about twenty years old, having been born in 1463. He was called Giovanni at baptism; Pico, like all his ancestors, from Picus, nephew of the Emperor Constantine, from whom they claimed to be descended; and Mirandola, from the place of his birth, a little town afterwards part of the duchy of Modena, of which small territory his family had long been the feudal lords. Pico was the youngest of the family, and his mother, delighting in his wonderful memory, sent him at the age of fourteen to the famous school of law at Bologna. From the first, indeed, she seems to have had some presentiment of his future fame, for, with a faith in omens characteristic of her time, she believed that a strange circumstance had happened at the time of Pico's birth--the appearance of a circular flame which suddenly vanished away, on the wall of the chamber where she lay. He remained two years at Bologna; and then, with an inexhaustible, unrivalled thirst for knowledge, the strange, confused, uncritical learning of that age, passed through the principal schools of Italy and France, penetrating, as he thought, into the secrets of all ancient philosophies, and many eastern languages. And with this flood of erudition came the generous hope, so often disabused, of reconciling the philosophers with each other, and all alike with the Church. At last he came to Rome. There, like some knight-errant of philosophy, he offered to defend nine hundred bold paradoxes, drawn from the most opposite sources, against all comers. But the pontifical court was led to suspect the orthodoxy of some of these propositions, and even the reading of the book which contained them was forbidden by the Pope. It was not until 1493 that Pico was finally absolved, by a brief of Alexander the Sixth. Ten years before that date he had arrived at Florence; an early instance of those who, after following the vain hope of an impossible reconciliation from system to system, have at last fallen back unsatisfied on the simplicities of their childhood's belief. The oration which Pico composed for the opening of this philosophical tournament still remains; its subject is the dignity of human nature, the greatness of man. In common with nearly all medieval speculation, much of Pico's writing has this for its drift; and in common also with it, Pico's theory of that dignity is founded on a misconception of the place in nature both of the earth and of man. For Pico the earth is the centre of the universe: and around it, as a fixed and motionless point, the sun and moon and stars revolve, like diligent servants or ministers. And in the midst of all is placed man, nodus et vinculum mundi, the bond or copula of the world, and the "interpreter of nature": that famous expression of Bacon's really belongs to Pico. Tritum est in scholis, he says, esse hominem minorem mundum, in quo mixtum ex elementis corpus et spiritus coelestis et plantarum anima vegetalis et brutorum sensus et ratio et angelica mens et Dei similitudo conspicitur.--"It is a commonplace of the schools that man is a little world, in which we may discern a body mingled of earthy elements, and ethereal breath, and the vegetable life of plants, and the senses of the lower animals, and reason, and the intelligence of angels, and a likeness to God."--A commonplace of the schools! But perhaps it had some new significance and authority, when men heard one like Pico reiterate it; and, false as its basis was, the theory had its use. For this high dignity of man, thus bringing the dust under his feet into sensible communion with the thoughts and affections of the angels, was supposed to belong to him, not as renewed by a religious system, but by his own natural right. The proclamation of it was a counterpoise to the increasing tendency of medieval religion to depreciate man's nature, to sacrifice this or that element in it, to make it ashamed of itself, to keep the degrading or painful accidents of it always in view. It helped man onward to that reassertion of himself, that rehabilitation of human nature, the body, the senses, the heart, the intelligence, which the Renaissance fulfils. And yet to read a page of one of Pico's forgotten books is like a glance into one of those ancient sepulchres, upon which the wanderer in classical lands has sometimes stumbled, with the old disused ornaments and furniture of a world wholly unlike ours still fresh in them. That whole conception of nature is so different from our own. For Pico the world is a limited place, bounded by actual crystal walls, and a material firmament; it is like a painted toy, like that map or system of the world, held, as a great target or shield, in the hands of the grey-headed father of all things, in one of the earlier frescoes of the Campo Santo at Pisa. How different from this childish dream is our own conception of nature, with its unlimited space, its innumerable suns, and the earth but a mote in the beam; how different the strange new awe, or superstition, with which it fills our minds! "The silence of those infinite spaces," says Pascal, contemplating a starlight night, "the silence of those infinite spaces terrifies me"--Le silence eternel de ces espaces infinis m'effraie. He was already almost wearied out when he came to Florence. He had loved much and been beloved by women, "wandering over the crooked hills of delicious pleasure"; but their reign over him was over, and long before Savonarola's famous "bonfire of vanities," he had destroyed those love-songs in the vulgar tongue, which would have been such a relief to us, after the scholastic prolixity of his Latin writings. It was in another spirit that he composed a Platonic commentary, the only work of his in Italian which has come down to us, on the "Song of Divine Love"--secondo la mente ed opinione dei Platonici--"according to the mind and opinion of the Platonists," by his friend Hieronymo Beniveni, in which, with an ambitious array of every sort of learning, and a profusion of imagery borrowed indifferently from the astrologers, the Cabala, and Homer, and Scripture, and Dionysius the Areopagite, he attempts to define the stages by which the soul passes from the earthly to the unseen beauty. A change indeed had passed over him, as if the chilling touch of the abstract and disembodied beauty Platonists profess to long for was already upon him; and perhaps it was a sense of this, coupled with that over-brightness which in the popular imagination always betokens an early death, that made Camilla Rucellai, one of those prophetic women whom the preaching of Savonarola had raised up in Florence, declare, seeing him for the first time, that he would depart in the time of lilies--prematurely, that is, like the field-flowers which are withered by the scorching sun almost as soon as they are sprung up. It was now that he wrote down those thoughts on the religious life which Sir Thomas More turned into English, and which another English translator thought worthy to be added to the books of the Imitation. "It is not hard to know God, provided one will not force oneself to define Him":--has been thought a great saying of Joubert's. "Love God," Pico writes to Angelo Politian, "we rather may, than either know Him, or by speech utter Him. And yet had men liefer by knowledge never find that which they seek, than by love possess that thing, which also without love were in vain found." Yet he who had this fine touch for spiritual things did not--and in this is the enduring interest of his story--even after his conversion, forget the old gods. He is one of the last who seriously and sincerely entertained the claims on men's faith of the pagan religions; he is anxious to ascertain the true significance of the obscurest legend, the lightest tradition concerning them. With many thoughts and many influences which led him in that direction, he did not become a monk; only he became gentle and patient in disputation; retaining "somewhat of the old plenty, in dainty viand and silver vessel," he gave over the greater part of his property to his friend, the mystical poet Beniveni, to be spent by him in works of charity, chiefly in the sweet charity of providing marriage-dowries for the peasant girls of Florence. His end came in 1494, when, amid the prayers and sacraments of Savonarola, he died of fever, on the very day on which Charles the Eighth entered Florence, the seventeenth of November, yet in the time of lilies--the lilies of the shield of France, as the people now said, remembering Camilla's prophecy. He was buried in the cloister at Saint Mark's, in the hood and white frock of the Dominican order. It is because the life of Pico, thus lying down to rest in the Dominican habit, yet amid thoughts of the older gods, himself like one of those comely divinities, reconciled indeed to the new religion, but still with a tenderness for the earlier life, and desirous literally to "bind the ages each to each by natural piety"--it is because this life is so perfect a parallel to the attempt made in his writings to reconcile Christianity with the ideas of paganism, that Pico, in spite of the scholastic character of those writings, is really interesting. Thus, in the Heptaplus, or Discourse on the Seven Days of the Creation, he endeavours to reconcile the accounts which pagan philosophy had given of the origin of the world with the account given in the books of Moses--the Timaeus of Plato with the book of Genesis. The Heptaplus is dedicated to Lorenzo the Magnificent, whose interest, the preface tells us, in the secret wisdom of Moses is well known. If Moses seems in his writings simple and even popular, rather than either a philosopher or a theologian, that is because it was an institution with the ancient philosophers, either not to speak of divine things at all, or to speak of them dissemblingly: hence their doctrines were called mysteries. Taught by them, Pythagoras became so great a "master of silence," and wrote almost nothing, thus hiding the words of God in his heart, and speaking wisdom only among the perfect. In explaining the harmony between Plato and Moses, Pico lays hold on every sort of figure and analogy, on the double meanings of words, the symbols of the Jewish ritual, the secondary meanings of obscure stories in the later Greek mythologists. Everywhere there is an unbroken system of correspondences. Every object in the terrestrial world is an analogue, a symbol or counterpart, of some higher reality in the starry heavens, and this again of some law of the angelic life in the world beyond the stars. There is the element of fire in the material world; the sun is the fire of heaven; and in the super-celestial world there is the fire of the seraphic intelligence. "But behold how they differ! The elementary fire burns, the heavenly fire vivifies, the super-celestial fire loves." In this way, every natural object, every combination of natural forces, every accident in the lives of men, is filled with higher meanings. Omens, prophecies, supernatural coincidences, accompany Pico himself all through life. There are oracles in every tree and mountain-top, and a significance in every accidental combination of the events of life. This constant tendency to symbolism and imagery gives Pico's work a figured style, by which it has some real resemblance to Plato's, and he differs from other mystical writers of his time by a real desire to know his authorities at first hand. He reads Plato in Greek, Moses in Hebrew, and by this his work really belongs to the higher culture. Above all, we have a constant sense in reading him, that his thoughts, however little their positive value may be, are connected with springs beneath them of deep and passionate emotion; and when he explains the grades or steps by which the soul passes from the love of a physical object to the love of unseen beauty, and unfolds the analogies between this process and other movements upward of human thought, there is a glow and vehemence in his words which remind one of the manner in which his own brief existence flamed itself away. I said that the Renaissance of the fifteenth century was in many things great, rather by what it designed or aspired to do, than by what it actually achieved. It remained for a later age to conceive the true method of effecting a scientific reconciliation of Christian sentiment with the imagery, the legends, the theories about the world, of pagan poetry and philosophy. For that age the only possible reconciliation was an imaginative one, and resulted from the efforts of artists, trained in Christian schools, to handle pagan subjects; and of this artistic reconciliation work like Pico's was but the feebler counterpart. Whatever philosophers had to say on one side or the other, whether they were successful or not in their attempts to reconcile the old to the new, and to justify the expenditure of so much care and thought on the dreams of a dead faith, the imagery of the Greek religion, the direct charm of its story, were by artists valued and cultivated for their own sake. Hence a new sort of mythology, with a tone and qualities of its own. When the ship-load of sacred earth from the soil of Jerusalem was mingled with the common clay in the Campo Santo at Pisa, a new flower grew up from it, unlike any flower men had seen before, the anemone with its concentric rings of strangely blended colour, still to be found by those who search long enough for it, in the long grass of the Maremma. Just such a strange flower was that mythology of the Italian Renaissance, which grew up from the mixture of two traditions, two sentiments, the sacred and the profane. Classical story was regarded as so much imaginative material to be received and assimilated. It did not come into men's minds to ask curiously of science concerning its origin, its primary form and import, its meaning for those who projected it. It sank into their minds, to issue forth again with all the tangle about it of medieval sentiment and ideas. In the Doni Madonna in the Tribune of the Uffizii, Michelangelo actually brings the pagan religion, and with it the unveiled human form, the sleepy-looking fauns of a Dionysiac revel, into the presence of the Madonna, as simpler painters had introduced there other products of the earth, birds or flowers; and he has given to that Madonna herself much of the uncouth energy of the older and more primitive "Mighty Mother." It is because this picturesque union of contrasts, belonging properly to the art of the close of the fifteenth century, pervades, in Pico della Mirandola, an actual person, that the figure of Pico is so attractive. He will not let one go; he wins one on, in spite of oneself, to turn again to the pages of his forgotten books, although we know already that the actual solution proposed in them will satisfy us as little as perhaps it satisfied him. It is said that in his eagerness for mysterious learning he once paid a great sum for a collection of cabalistic manuscripts, which turned out to be forgeries; and the story might well stand as a parable of all he ever seemed to gain in the way of actual knowledge. He had sought knowledge, and passed from system to system, and hazarded much; but less for the sake of positive knowledge than because he believed there was a spirit of order and beauty in knowledge, which would come down and unite what men's ignorance had divided, and renew what time had made dim. And so, while his actual work has passed away, yet his own qualities are still active, and he himself remains, as one alive in the grave, caesiis et vigilibus oculis, as his biographer describes him, and with that sanguine, clear skin, decenti rubore interspersa, as with the light of morning upon it; and he has a true place in that group of great Italians who fill the end of the fifteenth century with their names, he is a true HUMANIST. For the essence of humanism is that belief of which he seems never to have doubted, that nothing which has ever interested living men and women can wholly lose its vitality--no language they have spoken, nor oracle beside which they have hushed their voices, no dream which has once been entertained by actual human minds, nothing about which they have ever been passionate, or expended time and zeal. 1871. SANDRO BOTTICELLI In Leonardo's treatise on painting only one contemporary is mentioned by Name--Sandro Botticelli. This pre-eminence may be due to chance only, but to some will rather appear a result of deliberate judgment; for people have begun to find out the charm of Botticelli's work, and his name, little known in the last century, is quietly becoming important. In the middle of the fifteenth century he had already anticipated much of that meditative subtlety, which is sometimes supposed peculiar to the great imaginative workmen of its close. Leaving the simple religion which had occupied the followers of Giotto for a century, and the simple naturalism which had grown out of it, a thing of birds and flowers only, he sought inspiration in what to him were works of the modern world, the writings of Dante and Boccaccio, and in new readings of his own of classical stories: or, if he painted religious incidents, painted them with an under-current of original sentiment, which touches you as the real matter of the picture through the veil of its ostensible subject. What is the peculiar sensation, what is the peculiar quality of pleasure, which his work has the property of exciting in us, and which we cannot get elsewhere? For this, especially when he has to speak of a comparatively unknown artist, is always the chief question which a critic has to answer. In an age when the lives of artists were full of adventure, his life is almost colourless. Criticism indeed has cleared away much of the gossip which Vasari accumulated, has touched the legend of Lippo and Lucrezia, and rehabilitated the character of Andrea del Castagno; but in Botticelli's case there is no legend to dissipate. He did not even go by his true name: Sandro is a nickname, and his true name is Filipepi, Botticelli being only the name of the goldsmith who first taught him art. Only two things happened to him, two things which he shared with other artists:--he was invited to Rome to paint in the Sistine Chapel, and he fell in later life under the influence of Savonarola, passing apparently almost out of men's sight in a sort of religious melancholy, which lasted till his death in 1515, according to the received date. Vasari says that he plunged into the study of Dante, and even wrote a comment on the Divine Comedy. But it seems strange that he should have lived on inactive so long; and one almost wishes that some document might come to light, which, fixing the date of his death earlier, might relieve one, in thinking of him, of his dejected old age. He is before all things a poetical painter, blending the charm of story and sentiment, the medium of the art of poetry, with the charm of line and colour, the medium of abstract painting. So he becomes the illustrator of Dante. In a few rare examples of the edition of 1481, the blank spaces, left at the beginning of every canto for the hand of the illuminator, have been filled, as far as the nineteenth canto of the Inferno, with impressions of engraved plates, seemingly by way of experiment, for in the copy in the Bodleian Library, one of the three impressions it contains has been printed upside down, and much awry, in the midst of the luxurious printed page. Giotto, and the followers of Giotto, with their almost childish religious aim, had not learned to put that weight of meaning into outward things, light, colour, everyday gesture, which the poetry of the Divine Comedy involves, and before the fifteenth century Dante could hardly have found an illustrator. Botticelli's illustrations are crowded with incident, blending, with a naive carelessness of pictorial propriety, three phases of the same scene into one plate. The grotesques, so often a stumbling-block to painters who forget that the words of a poet, which only feebly present an image to the mind, must be lowered in key when translated into form, make one regret that he has not rather chosen for illustration the more subdued imagery of the Purgatorio. Yet in the scene of those who "go down quick into hell," there is an invention about the fire taking hold on the upturned soles of the feet, which proves that the design is no mere translation of Dante's words, but a true painter's vision; while the scene of the Centaurs wins one at once, for, forgetful of the actual circumstances of their appearance, Botticelli has gone off with delight on the thought of the Centaurs themselves, bright, small creatures of the woodland, with arch baby face and mignon forms, drawing tiny bows. Botticelli lived in a generation of naturalists, and he might have been a mere naturalist among them. There are traces enough in his work of that alert sense of outward things, which, in the pictures of that period, fills the lawns with delicate living creatures, and the hillsides with pools of water, and the pools of water with flowering reeds. But this was not enough for him; he is a visionary painter, and in his visionariness he resembles Dante. Giotto, the tried companion of Dante, Masaccio, Ghirlandajo even, do but transcribe, with more or less refining, the outward image; they are dramatic, not visionary painters; they are almost impassive spectators of the action before them. But the genius of which Botticelli is the type usurps the data before it as the exponent of ideas, moods, visions of its own; in this interest it plays fast and loose with those data, rejecting some and isolating others, and always combining them anew. To him as to Dante, the scene, the colour, the outward image or gesture, comes with all its incisive and importunate reality; but awakes in him, moreover, by some subtle law of his own structure, a mood which it awakes in no one else, of which it is the double or repetition, and which it clothes, that all may share it, with sensuous circumstance. But he is far enough from accepting the conventional orthodoxy of Dante which, referring all human action to the simple formula of purgatory, heaven and hell, leaves an insoluble element of prose in the depths of Dante's poetry. One picture of his, with the portrait of the donor, Matteo Palmieri, below, had the credit or discredit of attracting some shadow of ecclesiastical censure. This Matteo Palmieri--two dim figures move under that name in contemporary history--was the reputed author of a poem, still unedited, La Citta Divina, which represented the human race as an incarnation of those angels who, in the revolt of Lucifer, were neither for Jehovah nor for His enemies, a fantasy of that earlier Alexandrian philosophy about which the Florentine intellect in that century was so curious. Botticelli's picture may have been only one of those familiar compositions in which religious reverie has recorded its impressions of the various forms of beatified existence--Glorias, as they were called, like that in which Giotto painted the portrait of Dante; but somehow it was suspected of embodying in a picture the wayward dream of Palmieri, and the chapel where it hung was closed. Artists so entire as Botticelli are usually careless about philosophical theories, even when the philosopher is a Florentine of the fifteenth century, and his work a poem in terza rima. But Botticelli, who wrote a commentary on Dante, and became the disciple of Savonarola, may well have let such theories come and go across him. True or false, the story interprets much of the peculiar sentiment with which he infuses his profane and sacred persons, comely, and in a certain sense like angels, but with a sense of displacement or loss about them--the wistfulness of exiles, conscious of a passion and energy greater than any known issue of them explains, which runs through all his varied work with a sentiment of ineffable melancholy. So just what Dante scorns as unworthy alike of heaven and hell, Botticelli accepts, that middle world in which men take no side in great conflicts, and decide no great causes, and make great refusals. He thus sets for himself the limits within which art, undisturbed by any moral ambition, does its most sincere and surest work. His interest is neither in the untempered goodness of Angelico's saints, nor the untempered evil of Orcagna's Inferno; but with men and women, in their mixed and uncertain condition, always attractive, clothed sometimes by passion with a character of loveliness and energy, but saddened perpetually by the shadow upon them of the great things from which they shrink. His morality is all sympathy; and it is this sympathy, conveying into his work somewhat more than is usual of the true complexion of humanity, which makes him, visionary as he is, so forcible a realist. It is this which gives to his Madonnas their unique expression and charm. He has worked out in them a distinct and peculiar type, definite enough in his own mind, for he has painted it over and over again, sometimes one might think almost mechanically, as a pastime during that dark period when his thoughts were so heavy upon him. Hardly any collection of note is without one of these circular pictures, into which the attendant angels depress their heads so naively. Perhaps you have sometimes wondered why those peevish-looking Madonnas, conformed to no acknowledged or obvious type of beauty, attract you more and more, and often come back to you when the Sistine Madonna and the Virgins of Fra Angelico are forgotten. At first, contrasting them with those, you may have thought that there was something in them mean or abject even, for the abstract lines of the face have little nobleness, and the colour is wan. For with Botticelli she too, though she holds in her hands the "Desire of all nations," is one of those who are neither for Jehovah nor for His enemies; and her choice is on her face. The white light on it is cast up hard and cheerless from below, as when snow lies upon the ground, and the children look up with surprise at the strange whiteness of the ceiling. Her trouble is in the very caress of the mysterious child, whose gaze is always far from her, and who has already that sweet look of devotion which men have never been able altogether to love, and which still makes the born saint an object almost of suspicion to his earthly brethren. Once, indeed, he guides her hand to transcribe in a book the words of her exaltation, the Ave, and the Magnificat, and the Gaude Maria, and the young angels, glad to rouse her for a moment from Her dejection, are eager to hold the inkhorn and to support the book; but the pen almost drops from her hand, and the high cold words have no meaning for her, and her true children are those others, among whom in her rude home, the intolerable honour came to her, with that look of wistful inquiry on their irregular faces which you see in startled animals--gipsy children, such as those who, in Apennine villages, still hold out their long brown arms to beg of you, but on Sundays become enfants du choeur, with their thick black hair nicely combed, and fair white linen on their sunburnt throats. What is strangest is that he carries this sentiment into classical subjects, its most complete expression being a picture in the Uffizii, of Venus rising from the sea, in which the grotesque emblems of the middle age, and a landscape full of its peculiar feeling, and even its strange draperies, powdered all over in the Gothic manner with a quaint conceit of daisies, frame a figure that reminds you of the faultless nude studies of Ingres. At first, perhaps, you are attracted only by a quaintness of design, which seems to recall all at once whatever you have read of Florence in the fifteenth century; afterwards you may think that this quaintness must be incongruous with the subject, and that the colour is cadaverous or at least cold. And yet, the more you come to understand what imaginative colouring really is, that all colour is no mere delightful quality of natural things, but a spirit upon them by which they become expressive to the spirit, the better you will like this peculiar quality of colour; and you will find that quaint design of Botticelli's a more direct inlet into the Greek temper than the works of the Greeks themselves even of the finest period. Of the Greeks as they really were, of their difference from ourselves, of the aspects of their outward life, we know far more than Botticelli, or his most learned contemporaries; but for us long familiarity has taken off the edge of the lesson, and we are hardly conscious of what we owe to the Hellenic spirit. But in pictures like this of Botticelli's you have a record of the first impression made by it on minds turned back towards it, in almost painful aspiration, from a world in which it had been ignored so long; and in the passion, the energy, the industry of realisation, with which Botticelli carries out his intention, is the exact measure of the legitimate influence over the human mind of the imaginative system of which this is the central myth. The light is indeed cold--mere sunless dawn; but a later painter would have cloyed you with sunshine; and you can see the better for that quietness in the morning air each long promontory, as it slopes down to the water's edge. Men go forth to their labours until the evening; but she is awake before them, and you might think that the sorrow in her face was at the thought of the whole long day of love yet to come. An emblematical figure of the wind blows hard across the grey water, moving forward the dainty-lipped shell on which she sails, the sea "showing his teeth" as it moves in thin lines of foam, and sucking in, one by one, the falling roses, each severe in outline, plucked off short at the stalk but embrowned a little, as Botticelli's flowers always are. Botticelli meant all that imagery to be altogether pleasurable; and it was partly an incompleteness of resources, inseparable from the art of that time, that subdued and chilled it; but his predilection for minor tones counts also; and what is unmistakable is the sadness with which he has conceived the goddess of pleasure, as the depositary of a great power over the lives of men. I have said that the peculiar character of Botticelli is the result of a blending in him of a sympathy for humanity in its uncertain condition, its attractiveness, its investiture at rarer moments in a character of loveliness and energy, with his consciousness of the shadow upon it of the great things from which it shrinks, and that this conveys into his work somewhat more than painting usually attains of the true complexion of humanity. He paints the story of the goddess of pleasure in other episodes besides that of her birth from the sea, but never without some shadow of death in the grey flesh and wan flowers. He paints Madonnas, but they shrink from the pressure of the divine child, and plead in unmistakable undertones for a warmer, lower humanity. The same figure--tradition connects it with Simonetta, the Mistress of Giuliano de' Medici--appears again as Judith, returning home across the hill country, when the great deed is over, and the moment of revulsion come, when the olive branch in her hand is becoming a burthen; as Justice, sitting on a throne, but with a fixed look of self-hatred which makes the sword in her hand seem that of a suicide; and again as Veritas, in the allegorical picture of Calumnia, where one may note in passing the suggestiveness of an accident which identifies the image of Truth with the person of Venus. We might trace the same sentiment through his engravings; but his share in them is doubtful, and the object of this brief study has been attained, if I have defined aright the temper in which he worked. But, after all, it may be asked, is a painter like Botticelli--a secondary painter--a proper subject for general criticism? There are a few great painters, like Michelangelo or Leonardo, whose work has become a force in general culture, partly for this very reason that they have absorbed into themselves all such workmen as Sandro Botticelli; and, over and above mere technical or antiquarian criticism, general criticism may be very well employed in that sort of interpretation which adjusts the position of these men to general culture, whereas smaller men can be the proper subjects only of technical or antiquarian treatment. But, besides those great men, there is a certain number of artists who have a distinct faculty of their own by which they convey to us a peculiar quality of pleasure which we cannot get elsewhere; and these, too, have their place in general culture, and must be interpreted to it by those who have felt their charm strongly, and are often the objects of a special diligence and a consideration wholly affectionate, just because there is not about them the stress of a great name and authority. Of this select number Botticelli is one; he has the freshness, the uncertain and diffident promise which belongs to the earlier Renaissance itself, and makes it perhaps the most interesting period in the history of the mind: in studying his work one begins to understand to how great a place in human culture the art of Italy had been called. 1870. LUCA DELLA ROBBIA The Italian sculptors of the earlier half of the fifteenth century are more than mere forerunners of the great masters of its close, and often reach perfection, within the narrow limits which they chose to impose on their work. Their sculpture shares with the paintings of Botticelli and the churches of Brunelleschi that profound expressiveness, that intimate impress of an indwelling soul, which is the peculiar fascination of the art of Italy in that century. Their works have been much neglected, and often almost hidden away amid the frippery of modern decoration, and we come with some surprise on the places where their fire still smoulders. One longs to penetrate into the lives of the men who have given expression to so much power and sweetness; but it is part of the reserve, the austere dignity and simplicity of their existence, that their histories are for the most part lost, or told but briefly. From their lives, as from their work, all tumult of sound and colour has passed away. Mino, the Raffaelle of sculpture, Maso del Rodario, whose works add a new grace to the church of Como, Donatello even--one asks in vain for more than a shadowy outline of their actual days. Something more remains of Luca della Robbia; something more of a history, of outward changes and fortunes, is expressed through his work. I suppose nothing brings the real air of a Tuscan town so vividly to mind as those pieces of pale blue and white earthenware, by which he is best known, like fragments of the milky sky itself, fallen into the cool streets, and breaking into the darkened churches. And no work is less imitable; like Tuscan wine, it loses its savour when moved from its birthplace, from the crumbling walls where it was first placed. Part of the charm of this work, its grace and purity and finish of expression, is common to all the Tuscan sculptors of the fifteenth century; for Luca was first of all a worker in marble, and his works in earthenware only transfer to a different material the principles of his sculpture. These Tuscan sculptors of the fifteenth century worked for the most part in low relief, giving even to their monumental effigies something of its depression of surface, getting into them by this means a pathetic suggestion of the wasting and etherealisation of death. They are haters of all heaviness and emphasis, of strongly-opposed light and shade, and seek their means of expression among those last refinements of shadow, which are almost invisible except in a strong light, and which the finest pencil can hardly follow. The whole essence of their work is EXPRESSION, the passing of a smile over the face of a child, the ripple of the air on a still day over the curtain of a window ajar. What is the precise value of this system of sculpture, this low relief? Luca della Robbia, and the other sculptors of the school to which he belongs, have before them the universal problem of their art; and this system of low relief is the means by which they meet and overcome the special limitation of sculpture--a limitation resulting from the material and the essential conditions of all sculptured work, and which consists in the tendency of this work to a hard realism, a one-sided presentment of mere form, that solid material frame which only motion can relieve, a thing of heavy shadows, and an individuality of expression pushed to caricature. Against this tendency to the hard presentment of mere form trying vainly to compete with the reality of nature itself, all noble sculpture constantly struggles: each great system of sculpture resisting it in its own way, etherealising, spiritualising, relieving its hardness, its heaviness and death. The use of colour in sculpture is but an unskilful contrivance to effect, by borrowing from another art, what the nobler sculpture effects by strictly appropriate means. To get not colour, but the equivalent of colour; to secure the expression and the play of life; to expand the too fixed individuality of pure, unrelieved, uncoloured form--this is the problem which the three great styles in sculpture have solved in three different ways. Allgemeinheit--breadth, generality, universality--is the word chosen by Winckelmann, and after him by Goethe and many German critics, to express that law of the most excellent Greek sculptors, of Pheidias and his pupils, which prompted them constantly to seek the type in the individual, to abstract and express only what is structural and permanent, to purge from the individual all that belongs only to him, all the accidents, the feelings, and actions of the special moment, all that (because in its own nature it endures but for a moment) is apt to look like a frozen thing if one arrests it. In this way their works came to be like some subtle extract or essence, or almost like pure thoughts or ideas: and hence the breadth of humanity in them, that detachment from the conditions of a particular place or people, which has carried their influence far beyond the age which produced them, and insured them universal acceptance. That was the Greek way of relieving the hardness and unspirituality of pure form. But it involved to a certain degree the sacrifice of what we call expression; and a system of abstraction which aimed always at the broad and general type, at the purging away from the individual of what belonged only to him, and of the mere accidents of a particular time and place, imposed upon the range of effects open to the Greek sculptor limits somewhat narrowly defined; and when Michelangelo came, with a genius spiritualised by the reverie of the middle age, penetrated by its spirit of inwardness and introspection, living not a mere outward life like the Greek, but a life full of inward experiences, sorrows, consolations, a system which sacrificed so much of what was inward and unseen could not satisfy him. To him, lover and student of Greek sculpture as he was, work which did not bring what was inward to the surface, which was not concerned with individual expression, with individual character and feeling, the special history of the special soul, was not worth doing at all. And so, in a way quite personal and peculiar to himself, which often is, and always seems, the effect of accident, he secured for his work individuality and intensity of expression, while he avoided a too hard realism, that tendency to harden into caricature which the representation of feeling in sculpture must always have. What time and accident, its centuries of darkness under the furrows of the "little Melian farm," have done with singular felicity of touch for the Venus of Melos, fraying its surface and softening its lines, so that some spirit in the thing seems always on the point of breaking out, as though in it classical sculpture had advanced already one step into the mystical Christian age, its expression being in the whole range of ancient work most like that of Michelangelo's own:--this effect Michelangelo gains by leaving nearly all his sculpture in a puzzling sort of incompleteness, which suggests rather than realises actual form. Something of the wasting of that snow-image which he moulded at the command of Piero de' Medici, when the snow lay one night in the court of the Pitti palace, almost always lurks about it, as if he had determined to make the quality of a task, exacted from him half in derision, the pride of all his work. Many have wondered at that incompleteness, suspecting, however, that Michelangelo himself loved and was loath to change it, and feeling at the same time that they too would lose something if the half-realised form ever quite emerged from the stone, so rough hewn here, so delicately finished there; and they have wished to fathom the charm of this incompleteness. Well! that incompleteness is Michelangelo's equivalent for colour in sculpture; it is his way of etherealising pure form, of relieving its hard realism, and communicating to it breath, pulsation, the effect of life. It was a characteristic too which fell in with his peculiar temper and mode of life, his disappointments and hesitations. And it was in reality perfect finish. In this way he combines the utmost amount of passion and intensity with the sense of a yielding and flexible life: he gets not vitality merely, but a wonderful force of expression. Midway between these two systems--the system of the Greek sculptors and the system of Michelangelo--comes the system of Luca della Robbia. And the other Tuscan sculptors of the fifteenth century, partaking both of the Allgemeinheit of the Greeks, their way of extracting certain select elements only of pure form and sacrificing all the rest, and the studied incompleteness of Michelangelo, relieving that expression of intensity, passion, energy, which might otherwise have hardened into caricature. Like Michelangelo, these sculptors fill their works with intense and individualised expression: their noblest works are the studied sepulchral portraits of particular persons--the monument of Conte Ugo in the Badia of Florence, of the youthful Medea Colleoni, with the wonderful, long throat, in the chapel on the cool north side of the Church of Santa Maria Maggiore at Bergamo--monuments which abound in the churches of Rome, inexhaustible in suggestions of repose, of a subdued Sabbatic joy, a kind of sacred grace and refinement:--and they unite these elements of tranquillity, of repose, to that intense and individual expression by a system of conventionalism as skilful and subtle as that of the Greeks, subduing all such curves as indicate solid form, and throwing the whole into lower relief. The life of Luca, a life of labour and frugality, with no adventure and no excitement except what belongs to the trial of new artistic processes, the struggle with new artistic difficulties, the solution of purely artistic problems, fills the first seventy years of the fifteenth century. After producing many works in marble for the Duomo and the Campanile of Florence, which place him among the foremost sculptors of that age, he became desirous to realise the spirit and manner of that sculpture, in a humbler material, to unite its science, its exquisite and expressive system of low relief, to the homely art of pottery, to introduce those high qualities into common things, to adorn and cultivate daily household life. In this he is profoundly characteristic of the Florence of that century, of that in it which lay below its superficial vanity and caprice, a certain old-world modesty and seriousness and simplicity. People had not yet begun to think that what was good art for churches was not so good, or less fitted, for their own houses. Luca's new work was in plain white earthenware at first, a mere rough imitation of the costly, laboriously wrought marble, finished in a few hours. But on this humble path he found his way to a fresh success, to another artistic grace. The fame of the oriental pottery, with its strange, bright colours--colours of art, colours not to be attained in the natural stone--mingled with the tradition of the old Roman pottery of the neighbourhood. The little red, coral-like jars of Arezzo, dug up in that district from time to time, are still famous. These colours haunted Luca's fancy. "He still continued seeking something more," his biographer says of him; "and instead of making his figures of baked earth simply white, he added the further invention of giving them colour, to the astonishment and delight of all who beheld them"--Cosa singolare, e multo utile per la state!--a curious thing, and very useful for summertime, full of coolness and repose for hand and eye. Luca loved the forms of various fruits, and wrought them into all sorts of marvellous frames and garlands, giving them their natural colours, only subdued a little, a little paler than nature. But in his nobler terra-cotta work he never introduces colour into the flesh, keeping mostly to blue and white, the colours of the Virgin Mary. I said that the work of Luca della Robbia possessed in an unusual measure that special characteristic which belongs to all the workmen of his school, a characteristic which, even in the absence of much positive information about their actual history, seems to bring those workmen themselves very near to us--the impress of a personal quality, a profound expressiveness, what the French call intimite, by which is meant some subtler sense of originality--the seal on a man's work of what is most inward and peculiar in his moods, and manner of apprehension: it is what we call expression, carried to its highest intensity of degree. That characteristic is rare in poetry, rarer still in art, rarest of all in the abstract art of sculpture; yet essentially, perhaps, it is the quality which alone makes works in the imaginative and moral order really worth having at all. It is because the works of the artists of the fifteenth century possess this quality in an unmistakable way that one is anxious to know all that can be known about them, and explain to oneself the secret of their charm. 1872. THE POETRY OF MICHELANGELO Critics of Michelangelo have sometimes spoken as if the only characteristic of his genius were a wonderful strength, verging, as in the things of the imagination great strength always does, on what is singular or strange. A certain strangeness, something of the blossoming of the aloe, is indeed an element in all true works of art; that they shall excite or surprise us is indispensable. But that they shall give pleasure and exert a charm over us is indispensable too; and this strangeness must be sweet also--a lovely strangeness. And to the true admirers of Michelangelo this is the true type of the Michelangelesque--sweetness and strength, pleasure with surprise, an energy of conception which seems at every moment about to break through all the conditions of comely form, recovering, touch by touch, a loveliness found usually only in the simplest natural things--ex forti dulcedo. In this way he sums up for them the whole character of medieval art itself in that which distinguishes it most clearly from classical work, the presence of a convulsive energy in it, becoming in lower hands merely monstrous or forbidding, but felt, even in its most graceful products, as a subdued quaintness or grotesque. Yet those who feel this grace or sweetness in Michelangelo might at the first moment be puzzled if they were asked wherein precisely the quality resided. Men of inventive temperament--Victor Hugo, for instance, in whom, as in Michelangelo, people have for the most part been attracted or repelled by the strength, while few have understood his sweetness--have sometimes relieved conceptions of merely moral or spiritual greatness, but with little aesthetic charm of their own, by lovely accidents or accessories, like the butterfly which alights on the blood-stained barricade in Les Miserables, or those sea-birds for which the monstrous Gilliatt comes to be as some wild natural thing, so that they are no longer afraid of him, in Les Travailleurs de la Mer. But the austere genius of Michelangelo will not depend for its sweetness on any mere accessories like these. The world of natural things has almost no existence for him; "When one speaks of him," says Grimm, "woods, clouds, seas, and mountains disappear, and only what is formed by the spirit of man remains behind"; and he quotes a few slight words from a letter of his to Vasari as the single expression in all he has left of a feeling for nature. He has traced no flowers, like those with which Leonardo stars over his gloomiest rocks; nothing like the fretwork of wings and flames in which Blake frames his most startling conceptions; no forest-scenery like Titian's fills his backgrounds, but only blank ranges of rock, and dim vegetable forms as blank as they, as in a world before the creation of the first five days. Of the whole story of the creation he has painted only the creation of the first man and woman, and, for him at least, feebly, the creation of light. It belongs to the quality of his genius thus to concern itself almost exclusively with the creation of man. For him it is not, as in the story itself, the last and crowning act of a series of developments, but the first and unique act, the creation of life itself in its supreme form, off-hand and immediately, in the cold and lifeless stone. With him the beginning of life has all the characteristics of resurrection; it is like the recovery of suspended health or animation, with its gratitude, its effusion, and eloquence. Fair as the young men of the Elgin marbles, the Adam of the Sistine Chapel is unlike them in a total absence of that balance and completeness which express so well the sentiment of a self-contained, independent life. In that languid figure there is something rude and satyr-like, something akin to the rugged hillside on which it lies. His whole form is gathered into an expression of mere expectation and reception; he has hardly strength enough to lift his finger to touch the finger of the creator; yet a touch of the finger-tips will suffice. This creation of life--life coming always as relief or recovery, and always in strong contrast with the rough-hewn mass in which it is kindled--is in various ways the motive of all his work, whether its immediate subject be Pagan or Christian, legend or allegory; and this, although at least one-half of his work was designed for the adornment of tombs--the tomb of Julius, the tombs of the Medici. Not the Judgment but the Resurrection is the real subject of his last work in the Sistine Chapel; and his favourite Pagan subject is the legend of Leda, the delight of the world breaking from the egg of a bird. As I have already pointed out, he secures that ideality of expression which in Greek sculpture depends on a delicate system of abstraction, and in early Italian sculpture on lowness of relief, by an incompleteness, which is surely not always undesigned, and which I suppose no one regrets, and trusts to the spectator to complete the half-emergent form. And as his persons have something of the unwrought stone about them, so, as if to realise the expression by which the old Florentine records describe a sculptor--master of live stone--with him the very rocks seem to have life; they have but to cast away the dust and scurf that they may rise and stand on their feet. He loved the very quarries of Carrara, those strange grey peaks which even at mid-day convey into any scene from which they are visible something of the solemnity and stillness of evening, sometimes wandering among them month after month, till at last their pale ashen colours seem to have passed into his painting; and on the crown of the head of the David there still remains a morsel of uncut stone, as if by one touch to maintain its connexion with the place from which it was hewn. And it is in this penetrative suggestion of life that the secret of that sweetness of his is to be found. He gives us indeed no lovely natural objects like Leonardo or Titian, but only the coldest, most elementary shadowing of rock or tree; no lovely draperies and comely gestures of life, but only the austere truths of human nature; "simple persons"--as he replied in his rough way to the querulous criticism of Julius the Second, that there was no gold on the figures of the Sistine Chapel--"simple persons, who wore no gold on their garments"; but he penetrates us with a sense of that power which we associate with all the warmth and fulness of the world, and the sense of which brings into one's thoughts a swarm of birds and flowers and insects. The brooding spirit of life itself is there; and the summer may burst out in a moment. He was born in an interval of a rapid midnight journey in March, at a place in the neighbourhood of Arezzo, the thin, clear air of which, as was then thought, being favourable to the birth of children of great parts. He came of a race of grave and dignified men, who, claiming kinship with the family of Canossa, and some colour of imperial blood in their veins, had, generation after generation, received honourable employment under the government of Florence. His mother, a girl of nineteen years, put him out to nurse at a country house among the hills of Settignano, where every other inhabitant is a worker in the marble quarries, and the child early became familiar with that strange first stage in the sculptor's art. To this succeeded the influence of the sweetest and most placid master Florence had yet seen, Domenico Ghirlandajo. At fifteen he was at work among the curiosities of the garden of the Medici, copying and restoring antiques, winning the condescending notice of the great Lorenzo. He knew too how to excite strong hatreds; and it was at this time that in a quarrel with a fellow-student he received a blow on the face which deprived him for ever of the comeliness of outward form. It was through an accident that he came to study those works of the early Italian sculptors which suggested much of his own grandest work, and impressed it with so deep a sweetness. He believed in dreams and omens. One of his friends dreamed twice that Lorenzo, then lately dead, appeared to him in grey and dusty apparel. To Michelangelo this dream seemed to portend the troubles which afterwards really came, and with the suddenness which was characteristic of all his movements, he left Florence. Having occasion to pass through Bologna, he neglected to procure the little seal of red wax which the stranger entering Bologna must carry on the thumb of his right hand. He had no money to pay the fine, and would have been thrown into prison had not one of the magistrates interposed. He remained in this man's house a whole year, rewarding his hospitality by readings from the Italian poets whom he loved. Bologna, with its endless colonnades and fantastic leaning towers, can never have been one of the lovelier cities of Italy. But about the portals of its vast unfinished churches and its dark shrines, half hidden by votive flowers and candles, lie some of the sweetest works of the early Tuscan sculptors, Giovanni da Pisa and Jacopo della Quercia, things as winsome as flowers; and the year which Michelangelo spent in copying these works was not a lost year. It was now, on returning to Florence, that he put forth that unique presentment of Bacchus, which expresses, not the mirthfulness of the god of wine, but his sleepy seriousness, his enthusiasm, his capacity for profound dreaming. No one ever expressed more truly than Michelangelo the notion of inspired sleep, of faces charged with dreams. A vast fragment of marble had long lain below the Loggia of Orcagna, and many a sculptor had had his thoughts of a design which should just fill this famous block of stone, cutting the diamond, as it were, without loss. Under Michelangelo's hand it became the David which stood till lately on the steps of the Palazzo Vecchio, when it was replaced below the Loggia. Michelangelo was now thirty years old, and his reputation was established. Three great works fill the remainder of his life--three works often interrupted, carried on through a thousand hesitations, a thousand disappointments, quarrels with his patrons, quarrels with his family, quarrels perhaps most of all with himself--the Sistine Chapel, the Mausoleum of Julius the Second, and the Sacristy of San Lorenzo. In the story of Michelangelo's life the strength, often turning to bitterness, is not far to seek; a discordant note sounds throughout it which almost spoils the music. He "treats the Pope as the King of France himself would not dare to treat him"; he goes along the streets of Rome "like an executioner," Raffaelle says of him. Once he seems to have shut himself up with the intention of starving himself to death. As we come in reading his life on its harsh, untempered incidents, the thought again and again arises that he is one of those who incur the judgment of Dante, as having "wilfully lived in sadness." Even his tenderness and pity are embittered by their strength. What passionate weeping in that mysterious figure which, in the Creation of Adam, crouches below the image of the Almighty, as he comes with the forms of things to be, woman and her progeny, in the fold of his garment! What a sense of wrong in those two captive youths, who feel the chains like scalding water on their proud and delicate flesh! The idealist who became a reformer with Savonarola, and a republican superintending the fortification of Florence--the nest where he was born, il nido ove naqqu'io, as he calls it once, in a sudden throb of affection--in its last struggle for liberty, yet believed always that he had imperial blood in his veins and was of the kindred of the great Matilda, had within the depths of his nature some secret spring of indignation or sorrow. We know little of his youth, but all tends to make one believe in the vehemence of its passions. Beneath the Platonic calm of the sonnets there is latent a deep delight in carnal form and colour. There, and still more in the madrigals, he often falls into the language of less tranquil affections; while some of them have the colour of penitence, as from a wanderer returning home. He who spoke so decisively of the supremacy in the imaginative world of the unveiled human form had not been always, we may think, a mere Platonic lover. Vague and wayward his loves may have been; but they partook of the strength of his nature, and sometimes, it may be, would by no means become music, so that the comely order of his days was quite put out: par che amaro ogni mio dolce io senta. But his genius is in harmony with itself; and just as in the products of his art we find resources of sweetness within their exceeding strength, so in his own story also, bitter as the ordinary sense of it may be, there are select pages shut in among the rest--pages one might easily turn over too lightly, but which yet sweeten the whole volume. The interest of Michelangelo's poems is that they make us spectators of this struggle; the struggle of a strong nature to adorn and attune itself; the struggle of a desolating passion, which yearns to be resigned and sweet and pensive, as Dante's was. It is a consequence of the occasional and informal character of his poetry, that it brings us nearer to himself, his own mind and temper, than any work done only to support a literary reputation could possibly do. His letters tell us little that is worth knowing about him--a few poor quarrels about money and commissions. But it is quite otherwise with these songs and sonnets, written down at odd moments, sometimes on the margins of his sketches, themselves often unfinished sketches, arresting some salient feeling or unpremeditated idea as it passed. And it happens that a true study of these has become within the last few years for the first time possible. A few of the sonnets circulated widely in manuscript, and became almost within Michelangelo's own lifetime a subject of academical discourses. But they were first collected in a volume in 1623 by the great-nephew of Michelangelo, Michelangelo Buonarroti the younger. He omitted much, re-wrote the sonnets in part, and sometimes compressed two or more compositions into one, always losing something of the force and incisiveness of the original. So the book remained, neglected even by Italians themselves in the last century, through the influence of that French taste which despised all compositions of the kind, as it despised and neglected Dante. "His reputation will ever be on the increase, because he is so little read," says Voltaire of Dante.--But in 1858 the last of the Buonarroti bequeathed to the municipality of Florence the curiosities of his family. Among them was a precious volume containing the autograph of the sonnets. A learned Italian, Signor Cesare Guasti, undertook to collate this autograph with other manuscripts at the Vatican and elsewhere, and in 1863 published a true version of Michelangelo's poems, with dissertations and a paraphrase.* *The sonnets have been translated into English, with much poetic taste and skill, by Mr. J. A. Symonds. People have often spoken of these poems as if they were a mere cry of distress, a lover's complaint over the obduracy of Vittoria Colonna. But those who speak thus forget that though it is quite possible that Michelangelo had seen Vittoria, that somewhat shadowy figure, as early as 1537, yet their closer intimacy did not begin till about the year 1542, when Michelangelo was nearly seventy years old. Vittoria herself, an ardent neo-catholic, vowed to perpetual widowhood since the news had reached her, seventeen years before, that her husband, the youthful and princely Marquess of Pescara, lay dead of the wounds he had received in the battle of Pavia, was then no longer an object of great passion. In a dialogue written by the painter, Francesco d'Ollanda, we catch a glimpse of them together in an empty church at Rome, one Sunday afternoon, discussing indeed the characteristics of various schools of art, but still more the writings of Saint Paul, already following the ways and tasting the sunless pleasures of weary people, whose hold on outward things is slackening. In a letter still extant he regrets that when he visited her after death he had kissed her hands only. He made, or set to work to make, a crucifix for her use, and two drawings, perhaps in preparation for it, are now in Oxford. From allusions in the sonnets, we may divine that when they first approached each other he had debated much with himself whether this last passion would be the most unsoftening, the most desolating of all--un dolce amaro, un si e no mi muovi; is it carnal affection, or, del suo prestino stato (Plato's ante-natal state) il raggio ardente? The older, conventional criticism, dealing with the text of 1623, had lightly assumed that all or nearly all the sonnets were actually addressed to Vittoria herself; but Signor Guasti finds only four, or at most five, which can be so attributed on genuine authority. Still, there are reasons which make him assign the majority of them to the period between 1542 and 1547, and we may regard the volume as a record of this resting-place in Michelangelo's story. We know how Goethe escaped from the stress of sentiments too strong for him by making a book about them; and for Michelangelo, to write down his passionate thoughts at all, to make sonnets about them, was already in some measure to command, and have his way with them-- La vita del mia amor non e il cor mio, Ch'amor, di quel ch'io t'amo, e senza core. It was just because Vittoria raised no great passion that the space in his life where she reigns has such peculiar suavity; and the spirit of the sonnets is lost if we once take them out of that dreamy atmosphere in which men have things as they will, because the hold of all outward things upon them is faint and thin. Their prevailing tone is a calm and meditative sweetness. The cry of distress is indeed there, but as a mere residue, a trace of bracing chalybeate salt, just discernible in the song which rises as a clear, sweet spring from a charmed space in his life. This charmed and temperate space in Michelangelo's life, without which its excessive strength would have been so imperfect, which saves him from the judgment of Dante on those who "wilfully lived in sadness," is then a well-defined period there, reaching from the year 1542 to the year 1547, the year of Vittoria's death. In it the lifelong effort to tranquillise his vehement emotions by withdrawing them into the region of ideal sentiment, becomes successful; and the significance of Vittoria there is, that she realises for him a type of affection which even in disappointment may charm and sweeten his spirit. In this effort to tranquillise and sweeten life by idealising its vehement sentiments, there were two great traditional types, either of which an Italian of the sixteenth century might have followed. There was Dante, whose little book of the Vita Nuova had early become a pattern of imaginative love, maintained somewhat feebly by the later followers of Petrarch; and since Plato had become something more than a name in Italy by the publication of the Latin translation of his works by Marsilio Ficino, there was the Platonic tradition also. Dante's belief in the resurrection of the body, through which, even in heaven, Beatrice loses for him no tinge of flesh-colour, or fold of raiment even--and the Platonic dream of the passage of the soul through one form of life after another, with its passionate haste to escape from the burden of bodily form altogether--are, for all effects of art or poetry, principles diametrically opposite; and it is the Platonic tradition rather than Dante's that has moulded Michelangelo's verse. In many ways no sentiment could have been less like Dante's love for Beatrice than Michelangelo's for Vittoria Colonna. Dante's comes in early youth: Beatrice is a child, with the wistful, ambiguous vision of a child, with a character still unaccentuated by the influence of outward circumstances, almost expressionless. Vittoria is a woman already weary, in advanced age, of grave intellectual qualities. Dante's story is a piece of figured wood, inlaid with lovely incidents. In Michelangelo's poems, frost and fire are almost the only images--the refining fire of the goldsmith; once or twice the phoenix; ice melting at the fire; fire struck from the rock which it afterwards consumes. Except one doubtful allusion to a journey, there are almost no incidents. But there is much of the bright, sharp, unerring skill, with which in boyhood he gave the look of age to the head of a faun by chipping a tooth from its jaw with a single stroke of the hammer. For Dante, the amiable and devout materialism of the middle age sanctifies all that is presented by hand and eye. Michelangelo is always pressing forward from the outward beauty--il bel del fuor che agli occhi piace--to apprehend the unseen beauty; trascenda nella forma universale--that abstract form of beauty, about which the Platonists reason. And this gives the impression in him of something flitting and unfixed, of the houseless and complaining spirit, almost clairvoyant through the frail and yielding flesh. He accounts for love at first sight by a previous state of existence--la dove io t'amai prima. And yet there are many points in which he is really like Dante, and comes very near to the original image, beyond those later and feebler followers of Petrarch. He learns from Dante rather than from Plato, that for lovers, the surfeiting of desire--ove gran desir gran copia affrena, is a state less happy than misery full of hope--una miseria di speranza piena. He recalls him in the repetition of the words gentile and cortesia, in the personification of Amor, in the tendency to dwell minutely on the physical effects of the presence of a beloved object on the pulses and the heart. Above all, he resembles Dante in the warmth and intensity of his political utterances, for the lady of one of his noblest sonnets was from the first understood to be the city of Florence; and he avers that all must be asleep in heaven, if she, who was created "of angelic form," for a thousand lovers, is appropriated by one alone, some Piero, or Alessandro de' Medici. Once and again he introduces Love and Death, who dispute concerning him; for, like Dante and all the nobler souls of Italy, he is much occupied with thoughts of the grave, and his true mistress is death; death at first as the worst of all sorrows and disgraces, with a clod of the field for its brain; afterwards, death in its high distinction, its detachment from vulgar needs, the angry stains of life and action escaping fast. Some of those whom the gods love die young. This man, because the gods loved him, lingered on to be of immense, patriarchal age, till the sweetness it had taken so long to secrete in him was found at last. Out of the strong came forth sweetness, ex forti dulcedo. The world had changed around him. The New-catholicism had taken the place of the Renaissance. The spirit of the Roman Church had changed: in the vast world's cathedral which his skill had helped to raise for it, it looked stronger than ever. Some of the first members of the Oratory were among his intimate associates. They were of a spirit as unlike as possible from that of Lorenzo, or Savonarola even. The opposition of the Reformation to art has been often enlarged upon; far greater was that of the Catholic revival. But in thus fixing itself in a frozen orthodoxy, the Roman Catholic Church has passed beyond him, and he was a stranger to it. In earlier days, when its beliefs had been in a fluid state, he too might have been drawn into the controversy; he might have been for spiritualising the papal sovereignty, like Savonarola; or for adjusting the dreams of Plato and Homer with the words of Christ, like Pico of Mirandola. But things had moved onward, and such adjustments were no longer possible. For himself, he had long since fallen back on that divine ideal, which above the wear and tear of creeds has been forming itself for ages as the possession of nobler souls. And now he began to feel the soothing influence which since that time the Roman Church has often exerted over spirits too independent to be its subjects, yet brought within the neighbourhood of its action; consoled and tranquillised, as a traveller might be, resting for one evening in a strange city, by its stately aspect, and the sentiment of its many fortunes, just because with those fortunes he has nothing to do. So he lingers on; a revenant, as the French say, a ghost out of another age, in a world too coarse to touch his faint sensibilities too closely; dreaming, in a worn-out society, theatrical in its life, theatrical in its art, theatrical even in its devotion, on the morning of the world's history, on the primitive form of man, on the images under which that primitive world had conceived of spiritual forces. I have dwelt on the thought of Michelangelo as thus lingering beyond his time in a world not his own, because, if one is to distinguish the peculiar savour of his work, he must be approached, not through his followers, but through his predecessors; not through the marbles of Saint Peter's, but through the work of the sculptors of the fifteenth century over the tombs and altars of Tuscany. He is the last of the Florentines, of those on whom the peculiar sentiment of the Florence of Dante and Giotto descended: he is the consummate representative of the form that sentiment took in the fifteenth century with men like Luca Signorelli and Mino da Fiesole. Up to him the tradition of sentiment is unbroken, the progress towards surer and more mature methods of expressing that sentiment continuous. But his professed disciples did not share this temper; they are in love with his strength only, and seem not to feel his grave and temperate sweetness. Theatricality is their chief characteristic; and that is a quality as little attributable to Michelangelo as to Mino or Luca Signorelli. With him, as with them, all Is serious, passionate, impulsive. This discipleship of Michelangelo, this dependence of his on the tradition of the Florentine schools, is nowhere seen more clearly than in his treatment of the Creation. The Creation of Man had haunted the mind of the middle age like a dream; and weaving it into a hundred carved ornaments of capital or doorway, the Italian sculptors had early impressed upon it that pregnancy of expression which seems to give it many veiled meanings. As with other artistic conceptions of the middle age, its treatment became almost conventional, handed on from artist to artist, with slight changes, till it came to have almost an independent, abstract existence of its own. It was characteristic of the medieval mind thus to give an independent traditional existence to a special pictorial conception, or to a legend, like that of Tristram or Tannhaeuser, or even to the very thoughts and substance of a book, like the Imitation, so that no single workman could claim it as his own, and the book, the image, the legend, had itself a legend, and its fortunes, and a personal history; and it is a sign of the medievalism of Michelangelo, that he thus receives from tradition his central conception, and does but add the last touches, in transferring it to the frescoes of the Sistine Chapel. But there was another tradition of those earlier more serious Florentines, of which Michelangelo is the inheritor, to which he gives the final expression, and which centres in the sacristy of San Lorenzo, as the tradition of the Creation centres in the Sistine Chapel. It has been said that all the great Florentines were preoccupied with death. Outre-tombe! Outre-tombe!--is the burden of their thoughts, from Dante to Savonarola. Even the gay and licentious Boccaccio gives a keener edge to his stories by putting them in the mouths of a party of people who had taken refuge from the danger of death by plague, in a country-house. It was to this inherited sentiment, this practical decision that to be pre-occupied with the thought of death was in itself dignifying, and a note of high quality, that the seriousness of the great Florentines of the fifteenth century was partly due; and it was reinforced in them by the actual sorrows of their times. How often, and in what various ways, had they seen life stricken down, in their streets and houses! La bella Simonetta dies in early youth, and is borne to the grave with uncovered face. The young Cardinal Jacopo di Portogallo dies on a visit to Florence--insignis forma fui et mirabili modestia--his epitaph dares to say. Antonio Rossellino carves his tomb in the church of San Miniato, with care for the shapely hands and feet, and sacred attire; Luca della Robbia puts his skyeyest works there; and the tomb of the youthful and princely prelate became the strangest and most beautiful thing in that strange and beautiful place. After the execution of the Pazzi conspirators, Botticelli is employed to paint their portraits. This preoccupation with serious thoughts and sad images might easily have resulted, as it did, for instance, in the gloomy villages of the Rhine, or in the overcrowded parts of medieval Paris, as it still does in many a village of the Alps, in something merely morbid or grotesque, in the Danse Macabre of many French and German painters, or the grim inventions of Duerer. From such a result the Florentine masters of the fifteenth century were saved by their high Italian dignity and culture, and still more by their tender pity for the thing itself. They must often have leaned over the lifeless body, when all was at length quiet and smoothed out. After death, it is said, the traces of slighter and more superficial dispositions disappear; the lines become more simple and dignified; only the abstract lines remain, in a great indifference. They came thus to see death in its distinction; and following it perhaps one stage further, dwelling for a moment on the point where all that transitory dignity must break up, and discerning with no clearness a new body, they paused just in time, and abstained, with a sentiment of profound pity. Of all this sentiment Michelangelo is the achievement; and first of all, of pity. Pieta--pity--the pity of the Virgin Mother over the dead body of Christ, expanded into the pity of all mothers over all dead sons, the entombment, with its cruel "hard stones"--that is the subject of his predilection. He has left it in many forms, sketches, half-finished designs, finished and unfinished groups of sculpture; but always as a hopeless, rayless, almost heathen sorrow--no divine sorrow, but mere pity and awe at the stiff limbs and colourless lips. There is a drawing of his at Oxford, in which the dead body has sunk to the earth between the mother's feet, with the arms extended over her knees. The tombs in the sacristy of San Lorenzo are memorials, not of any of the nobler and greater Medici, but of Giuliano, and Lorenzo the younger, noticeable chiefly for their somewhat early death. It is mere human nature therefore which has prompted the sentiment here. The titles assigned traditionally to the four symbolical figures, Night and Day, The Twilight and The Dawn, are far too definite for them; for these figures come much nearer to the mind and spirit of their author, and are a more direct expression of his thoughts, than any merely symbolical conceptions could possibly have been. They concentrate and express, less by way of definite conceptions than by the touches, the promptings of a piece of music, all those vague fancies, misgivings, presentiments, which shift and mix and define themselves and fade again, whenever the thoughts try to fix themselves with sincerity on the conditions and surroundings of the disembodied spirit. I suppose no one would come to the sacristy of San Lorenzo for consolation; for seriousness, for solemnity, for dignity of impression, perhaps, but not for consolation. It is a place neither of terrible nor consoling thoughts, but of vague and wistful speculation. Here, again, Michelangelo is the disciple not so much of Dante as of the Platonists. Dante's belief in immortality is formal, precise, and firm, as much so almost as that of a child, who thinks the dead will hear if you cry loud enough. But in Michelangelo you have maturity, the mind of the grown man, dealing cautiously and dispassionately with serious things; and what hope he has is based on the consciousness of ignorance--ignorance of man, ignorance of the nature of the mind, its origin and capacities. Michelangelo is so ignorant of the spiritual world, of the new body and its laws, that he does not surely know whether the consecrated Host may not be the body of Christ. And of all that range of sentiment he is the poet, a poet still alive, and in possession of our inmost thoughts--dumb inquiry over the relapse after death into the formlessness which preceded life, the change, the revolt from that change, then the correcting, hallowing, consoling rush of pity; at last, far off, thin and vague, yet not more vague than the most definite thoughts men have had through three centuries on a matter that has been so near their hearts, the new body--a passing light, a mere intangible, external effect, over those too rigid, or too formless faces; a dream that lingers a moment, retreating in the dawn, incomplete, aimless, helpless; a thing with faint hearing, faint memory, faint power of touch; a breath, a flame in the doorway, a feather in the wind. The qualities of the great masters in art or literature, the combination of those qualities, the laws by which they moderate, support, relieve each other, are not peculiar to them; but most often typical standards, or revealing instances, of the laws by which certain aesthetic effects are produced. The old masters indeed are simpler; their characteristics are written larger, and are easier to read, than their analogues in all the mixed, confused productions of the modern mind. But when once we have succeeded in defining for ourselves those characteristics, and the law of their combination, we have acquired a standard or measure which helps us to put in its right place many a vagrant genius, many an unclassified talent, many precious though imperfect products of art. It is so with the components of the true character of Michelangelo. That strange interfusion of sweetness and strength is not to be found in those who claimed to be his followers; but it is found in many of those who worked before him, and in many others down to our own time, in William Blake, for instance, and Victor Hugo, who, though not of his school, and unaware, are his true sons, and help us to understand him, as he in turn interprets and justifies them. Perhaps this is the chief use in studying old masters. 1871. LEONARDO DA VINCI HOMO MINISTER ET INTERPRES NATURAE In Vasari's life of Leonardo da Vinci as we now read it there are some variations from the first edition. There, the painter who has fixed the outward type of Christ for succeeding centuries was a bold speculator, holding lightly by other men's beliefs, setting philosophy above Christianity. Words of his, trenchant enough to justify this impression, are not recorded, and would have been out of keeping with a genius of which one characteristic is the tendency to lose itself in a refined and graceful mystery. The suspicion was but the time-honoured mode in which the world stamps its appreciation of one who has thoughts for himself alone, his high indifference, his intolerance of the common forms of things; and in the second edition the image was changed into something fainter and more conventional. But it is still by a certain mystery in his work, and something enigmatical beyond the usual measure of great men, that he fascinates, or perhaps half repels. His life is one of sudden revolts, with intervals in which he works not at all, or apart from the main scope of his work. By a strange fortune the works on which his more popular fame rested disappeared early from the world, as the Battle of the Standard; or are mixed obscurely with the work of meaner hands, as the Last Supper. His type of beauty is so exotic that it fascinates a larger number than it delights, and seems more than that of any other artist to reflect ideas and views and some scheme of the world within; so that he seemed to his contemporaries to be the possessor of some unsanctified and sacred wisdom; as to Michelet and others to have anticipated modern ideas. He trifles with his genius, and crowds all his chief work into a few tormented years of later life; yet he is so possessed by his genius that he passes unmoved through the most tragic events, overwhelming his country and friends, like one who comes across them by chance on some secret errand. His legend, as the French say, with the anecdotes which every one knows, is one of the most brilliant in Vasari. Later writers merely copied it, until, in 1804, Carlo Amoretti applied to it a criticism which left hardly a date fixed, and not one of those anecdotes untouched. The various questions thus raised have since that time become, one after another, subjects of special study, and mere antiquarianism has in this direction little more to do. For others remain the editing of the thirteen books of his manuscripts, and the separation by technical criticism of what in his reputed works is really his, from what is only half his, or the work of his pupils. But a lover of strange souls may still analyse for himself the impression made on him by those works, and try to reach through it a definition of the chief elements of Leonardo's genius. The legend, corrected and enlarged by its critics, may now and then intervene to support the results of this analysis. His life has three divisions--thirty years at Florence, nearly twenty years at Milan, then nineteen years of wandering, till he sinks to rest under the protection of Francis the First at the Chateau de Clou. The dishonour of illegitimacy hangs over his birth. Piero Antonio, his father, was of a noble Florentine house, of Vinci in the Val d'Arno, and Leonardo, brought up delicately among the true children of that house, was the love-child of his youth, with the keen, puissant nature such children often have. We see him in his youth fascinating all men by his beauty, improvising music and songs, buying the caged birds and setting them free, as he walked the streets of Florence, fond of odd bright dresses and spirited horses. From his earliest years he designed many objects, and constructed models in relief, of which Vasari mentions some of women smiling. His father, pondering over this promise in the child, took him to the workshop of Andrea del Verrocchio, then the most famous artist in Florence. Beautiful objects lay about there--reliquaries, pyxes, silver images for the pope's chapel at Rome, strange fancy-work of the middle age, keeping odd company with fragments of antiquity, then but lately discovered. Another student Leonardo may have seen there--a boy into whose soul the level light and aerial illusions of Italian sunsets had passed, in after days famous as Perugino. Verrocchio was an artist of the earlier Florentine type, carver, painter, and worker in metals, in one; designer, not of pictures only, but of all things for sacred or household use, drinking-vessels, ambries, instruments of music, making them all fair to look upon, filling the common ways of life with the reflexion of some far-off brightness; and years of patience had refined his hand till his work was now sought after from distant places. It happened that Verrocchio was employed by the brethren of Vallombrosa to paint the Baptism of Christ, and Leonardo was allowed to finish an angel in the left hand corner. It was one of those moments in which the progress of a great thing--here, that of the art of Italy--presses hard and sharp on the happiness of an individual, through whose discouragement and decrease, humanity, in more fortunate persons, comes a step nearer to its final success. For beneath the cheerful exterior of the mere well-paid craftsman, chasing brooches for the copes of Santa Maria Novella, or twisting metal screens for the tombs of the Medici, lay the ambitious desire of expanding the destiny of Italian art by a larger knowledge and insight into things, a purpose in art not unlike Leonardo's still unconscious purpose; and often, in the modelling of drapery, or of a lifted arm, or of hair cast back from the face, there came to him something of the freer manner and richer humanity of a later age. But in this Baptism the pupil had surpassed the master; and Verrocchio turned away as one stunned, and as if his sweet earlier work must thereafter be distasteful to him, from the bright animated angel of Leonardo's hand. The angel may still be seen in Florence, a space of sunlight in the cold, laboured old picture; but the legend is true only in sentiment, for painting had always been the art by which Verrocchio set least store. And as in a sense he anticipates Leonardo, so to the last Leonardo recalls the studio of Verrocchio, in the love of beautiful toys, such as the vessel of water for a mirror, and lovely needle-work about the implicated hands in the Modesty and Vanity, and of reliefs like those cameos which in the Virgin of the Balances hang all round the girdle of Saint Michael, and of bright variegated stones, such as the agates in the Saint Anne, and in a hieratic preciseness and grace, as of a sanctuary swept and garnished. Amid all the cunning and intricacy of his Lombard manner this never left him. Much of it there must have been in that lost picture of Paradise, which he prepared as a cartoon for tapestry, to be woven in the looms of Flanders. It was the perfection of the older Florentine style of miniature-painting, with patient putting of each leaf upon the trees and each flower in the grass, where the first man and woman were standing. And because it was the perfection of that style, it awoke in Leonardo some seed of discontent which lay in the secret places of his nature. For the way to perfection is through a series of disgusts; and this picture--all that he had done so far in his life at Florence--was after all in the old slight manner. His art, if it was to be something in the world, must be weighted with more of the meaning of nature and purpose of humanity. Nature was "the true mistress of higher intelligences." So he plunged into the study of nature. And in doing this he followed the manner of the older students; he brooded over the hidden virtues of plants and crystals, the lines traced by the stars as they moved in the sky, over the correspondences which exist between the different orders of living things, through which, to eyes opened, they interpret each other; and for years he seemed to those about him as one listening to a voice, silent for other men. He learned here the art of going deep, of tracking the sources of expression to their subtlest retreats, the power of an intimate presence in the things he handled. He did not at once or entirely desert his art; only he was no longer the cheerful, objective painter, through whose soul, as through clear glass, the bright figures of Florentine life, only made a little mellower and more pensive by the transit, passed on to the white wall. He wasted many days in curious tricks of design, seeming to lose himself in the spinning of intricate devices of lines and colours. He was smitten with a love of the impossible--the perforation of mountains, changing the course of rivers, raising great buildings, such as the church of San Giovanni, in the air; all those feats for the performance of which natural magic professed to have the key. Later writers, indeed, see in these efforts an anticipation of modern mechanics; in him they were rather dreams, thrown off by the overwrought and labouring brain. Two ideas were especially fixed in him, as reflexes of things that had touched his brain in childhood beyond the measure of other impressions--the smiling of women and the motion of great waters. And in such studies some interfusion of the extremes of beauty and terror shaped itself, as an image that might be seen and touched, in the mind of this gracious youth, so fixed that for the rest of his life it never left him; and as catching glimpses of it in the strange eyes or hair of chance people, he would follow such about the streets of Florence till the sun went down, of whom many sketches of his remain. Some of these are full of a curious beauty, that remote beauty apprehended only by those who have sought it carefully; who, starting with acknowledged types of beauty, have refined as far upon these, as these refine upon the world of common forms. But mingled inextricably with this there is an element of mockery also; so that, whether in sorrow or scorn, he caricatures Dante even. Legions of grotesques sweep under his hand; for has not nature too her grotesques--the rent rock, the distorting light of evening on lonely roads, the unveiled structure of man in the embryo, or the skeleton? All these swarming fancies unite in the Medusa of the Uffizii. Vasari's story of an earlier Medusa, painted on a wooden shield, is perhaps an invention; and yet, properly told, has more of the air of truth about it than any-thing else in the whole legend. For its real subject is not the serious work of a man, but the experiment of a child. The lizards and glow-worms and other strange small creatures which haunt an Italian vineyard bring before one the whole picture of a child's life in a Tuscan dwelling--half castle, half farm--and are as true to nature as the pretended astonishment of the father for whom the boy has prepared a surprise. It was not in play that he painted that other Medusa, the one great picture which he left behind him in Florence. The subject has been treated in various ways; Leonardo alone cuts to its centre; he alone realises it as the head of a corpse, exercising its powers through all the circumstances of death. What may be called the fascination of corruption penetrates in every touch its exquisitely finished beauty. About the dainty lines of the cheek the bat flits unheeded. The delicate snakes seem literally strangling each other in terrified struggle to escape from the Medusa brain. The hue which violent death always brings with it is in the features: features singularly massive and grand, as we catch them inverted, in a dexterous foreshortening, sloping upwards, almost sliding down upon us, crown foremost, like a great calm stone against which the wave of serpents breaks. But it is a subject that may well be left to the beautiful verses of Shelley. The science of that age was all divination, clairvoyance, unsubjected to our exact modern formulas, seeking in an instant of vision to concentrate a thousand experiences. Later writers, thinking only of the well-ordered treatise on painting which a Frenchman, Raffaelle du Fresne, a hundred years afterwards, compiled from Leonardo's bewildered manuscripts, written strangely, as his manner was, from right to left, have imagined a rigid order in his inquiries. But this rigid order was little in accordance with the restlessness of his character; and if we think of him as the mere reasoner who subjects design to anatomy, and composition to mathematical rules, we shall hardly have of him that impression which those about him received from him. Poring over his crucibles, making experiments with colour, trying, by a strange variation of the alchemist's dream, to discover the secret, not of an elixir to make man's natural life immortal, but rather of giving immortality to the subtlest and most delicate effects of painting, he seemed to them rather the sorcerer or the magician, possessed of curious secrets and a hidden knowledge, living in a world of which he alone possessed the key. What his philosophy seems to have been most like is that of Paracelsus or Cardan; and much of the spirit of the older alchemy still hangs about it, with its confidence in short cuts and odd byways to knowledge. To him philosophy was to be something giving strange swiftness and double sight, divining the sources of springs beneath the earth or of expression beneath the human countenance, clairvoyant of occult gifts in common or uncommon things, in the reed at the brook-side, or the star which draws near to us but once in a century. How, in this way, the clear purpose was overclouded, the fine chaser's hand perplexed, we but dimly see; the mystery which at no point quite lifts from Leonardo's life is deepest here. But it is certain that at one period of his life he had almost ceased to be an artist. The year 1483--the year of the birth of Raffaelle and the thirty-first of Leonardo's life--is fixed as the date of his visit to Milan by the letter in which he recommends himself to Ludovico Sforza, and offers to tell him, for a price, strange secrets in the art of war. It was that Sforza who murdered his young nephew by slow poison, yet was so susceptible of religious impressions that he blended mere earthly passions with a sort of religious sentimentalism, and who took for his device the mulberry-tree--symbol, in its long delay and sudden yielding of flowers and fruit together, of a wisdom which economises all forces for an opportunity of sudden and sure effect. The fame of Leonardo had gone before him, and he was to model a colossal statue of Francesco, the first Duke of Milan. As for Leonardo himself, he came not as an artist at all, or careful of the fame of one; but as a player on the harp, a strange harp of silver of his own construction, shaped in some curious likeness to a horse's skull. The capricious spirit of Ludovico was susceptible also of the charm of music, and Leonardo's nature had a kind of spell in it. Fascination is always the word descriptive of him. No portrait of his youth remains; but all tends to make us believe that up to this time some charm of voice and aspect, strong enough to balance the disadvantage of his birth, had played about him. His physical strength was great; it was said that he could bend a horse-shoe like a coil of lead. The Duomo, the work of artists from beyond the Alps, so fantastic to the eye of a Florentine used to the mellow, unbroken surfaces of Giotto and Arnolfo, was then in all its freshness; and below, in the streets of Milan, moved a people as fantastic, changeful and dreamlike. To Leonardo least of all men could there be anything poisonous in the exotic flowers of sentiment which grew there. It was a life of brilliant sins and exquisite amusements: Leonardo became a celebrated designer of pageants: and it suited the quality of his genius, composed in almost equal parts of curiosity and the desire of beauty, to take things as they came. Curiosity and the desire of beauty--these are the two elementary forces in Leonardo's genius; curiosity often in conflict with the desire of beauty, but generating, in union with it, a type of subtle and curious grace. The movement of the fifteenth century was twofold; partly the Renaissance, partly also the coming of what is called the "modern spirit," with its realism, its appeal to experience: it comprehended a return to antiquity, and a return to nature. Raffaelle represents the return to antiquity, and Leonardo the return to nature. In this return to nature, he was seeking to satisfy a boundless curiosity by her perpetual surprises, a microscopic sense of finish by her finesse, or delicacy of operation, that subtilitas naturae which Bacon notices. So we find him often in intimate relations with men of science,--with Fra Luca Poccioli the mathematician, and the anatomist Marc Antonio della Torre. His observations and experiments fill thirteen volumes of manuscript; and those who can judge describe him as anticipating long before, by rapid intuition, the later ideas of science. He explained the obscure light of the unilluminated part of the moon, knew that the sea had once covered the mountains which contain shells, and the gathering of the equatorial waters above the polar. He who thus penetrated into the most secret parts of nature preferred always the more to the less remote, what, seeming exceptional, was an instance of law more refined, the construction about things of a peculiar atmosphere and mixed lights. He paints flowers with such curious felicity that different writers have attributed to him a fondness for particular flowers, as Clement the cyclamen, and Rio the jasmin; while, at Venice, there is a stray leaf from his portfolio dotted all over with studies of violets and the wild rose. In him first appears the taste for what is bizarre or recherche in landscape; hollow places full of the green shadow of bituminous rocks, ridged reefs of trap-rock which cut the water into quaint sheets of light--their exact antitype is in our own western seas; all the solemn effects of moving water; you may follow it springing from its distant source among the rocks on the heath of the Madonna of the Balances, passing, as a little fall, into the treacherous calm of the Madonna of the Lake, next, as a goodly river, below the cliffs of the Madonna of the Rocks, washing the white walls of its distant villages, stealing out in a network of divided streams in La Gioconda to the seashore of the Saint Anne--that delicate place, where the wind passes like the hand of some fine etcher over the surface, and the untorn shells are lying thick upon the sand, and the tops of the rocks, to which the waves never rise, are green with grass, grown fine as hair. It is the landscape, not of dreams or of fancy, but of places far withdrawn, and hours selected from a thousand with a miracle of finesse. Through Leonardo's strange veil of sight things reach him so; in no ordinary night or day, but as in faint light of eclipse, or in some brief interval of falling rain at daybreak, or through deep water. And not into nature only; but he plunged also into human personality, and became above all a painter of portraits; faces of a modelling more skilful than has been seen before or since, embodied with a reality which almost amounts to illusion, on dark air. To take a character as it was, and delicately sound its stops, suited one so curious in observation, curious in invention. So he painted the portraits of Ludovico's mistresses, Lucretia Crivelli and Cecilia Galerani the poetess, of Ludovico himself, and the Duchess Beatrice. The portrait of Cecilia Galerani is lost; but that of Lucretia Crivelli has been identified with La Belle Feroniere of the Louvre, and Ludovico's pale, anxious face still remains in the Ambrosian library. Opposite is the portrait of Beatrice d'Este, in whom Leonardo seems to have caught some presentiment of early death, painting her precise and grave, full of the refinement of the dead, in sad earth-coloured raiment, set with pale stones. Sometimes this curiosity came in conflict with the desire of beauty; it tended to make him go too far below that outside of things in which art begins and ends. This struggle between the reason and its ideas, and the senses, the desire of beauty, is the key to Leonardo's life at Milan--his restlessness, his endless re-touchings, his odd experiments with colour. How much must he leave unfinished, how much recommence! His problem was the transmutation of ideas into images. What he had attained so far had been the mastery of that earlier Florentine style, with its naive and limited sensuousness. Now he was to entertain in this narrow medium those divinations of a humanity too wide for it, that larger vision of the opening world, which is only not too much for the great, irregular art of Shakspere; and everywhere the effort is visible in the work of his hands. This agitation, this perpetual delay, give him an air of weariness and ennui. To others he seems to be aiming at an impossible effect, to do something that art, that painting, can never do. Often the expression of physical beauty at this or that point seems strained and marred in the effort, as in those heavy German foreheads--too German and heavy for perfect beauty. For there was a touch of Germany in that genius which, as Goethe said, had "thought itself weary"--muede sich gedacht. What an anticipation of modern Germany, for instance, in that debate on the question whether sculpture or painting is the nobler art.* But there is this difference between him and the German, that, with all that curious science, the German would have thought nothing more was needed; and the name of Goethe himself reminds one how great for the artist may be the danger of overmuch science; how Goethe, who, in the Elective Affinities and the first part of Faust, does transmute ideas into images, who wrought many such transmutations, did not invariably find the spell-word, and in the second part of Faust presents us with a mass of science which has almost no artistic character at all. But Leonardo will never work till the happy moment comes--that moment of bien-etre, which to imaginative men is a moment of invention. On this moment he waits; other moments are but a preparation, or after-taste of it. Few men distinguish between them as jealously as he did. Hence so many flaws even in the choicest work. But for Leonardo the distinction is absolute, and, in the moment of bien-etre, the alchemy complete: the idea is stricken into colour and imagery: a cloudy mysticism is refined to a subdued and graceful mystery, and painting pleases the eye while it satisfies the soul. *How princely, how characteristic of Leonardo, the answer, Quanto piu, un'arte porta seco fatica di corpo, tanto piu e vile! This curious beauty is seen above all in his drawings, and in these chiefly in the abstract grace of the bounding lines. Let us take some of these drawings, and pause over them awhile; and, first, one of those at Florence--the heads of a woman and a little child, set side by side, but each in its own separate frame. First of all, there is much pathos in the reappearance in the fuller curves of the face of the child, of the sharper, more chastened lines of the worn and older face, which leaves no doubt that the heads are those of a little child and its mother. A feeling for maternity is indeed always characteristic of Leonardo; and this feeling is further indicated here by the half-humorous pathos of the diminutive, rounded shoulders of the child. You may note a like pathetic power in drawings of a young man seated in a stooping posture, his face in his hands, as in sorrow; of a slave sitting in an uneasy inclined posture, in some brief interval of rest; of a small Madonna and Child, peeping sideways in half-reassured terror, as a mighty griffin with batlike wings, one of Leonardo's finest inventions, descends suddenly from the air to snatch up a lion wandering near them. But note in these, as that which especially belongs to art, the contour of the young man's hair, the poise of the slave's arm above his head, and the curves of the head of the child, following the little skull within, thin and fine as some seashell worn by the wind. Take again another head, still more full of sentiment, but of a different kind, a little drawing in red chalk which every one remembers who has examined at all carefully the drawings by old masters at the Louvre. It is a face of doubtful sex, set in the shadow of its own hair, the cheek-line in high light against it, with something voluptuous and full in the eyelids and the lips. Another drawing might pass for the same face in childhood, with parched and feverish lips, but with much sweetness in the loose, short-waisted childish dress, with necklace and bulla, and in the daintily bound hair. We might take the thread of suggestion which these two drawings offer, when thus set side by side, and, following it through the drawings at Florence, Venice, and Milan, construct a sort of series, illustrating better than anything else Leonardo's type of womanly beauty. Daughters of Herodias, with their fantastic head-dresses knotted and folded so strangely to leave the dainty oval of the face disengaged, they are not of the Christian family, or of Raffaelle's. They are the clairvoyants, through whom, as through delicate instruments, one becomes aware of the subtler forces of nature, and the modes of their action, all that is magnetic in it, all those finer conditions wherein material things rise to that subtlety of operation which constitutes them spiritual, where only the finer nerve and the keener touch can follow: it is as if in certain revealing instances we actually saw them at their work on human flesh. Nervous, electric, faint always with some inexplicable faintness, they seem to be subject to exceptional conditions, to feel powers at work in the common air unfelt by others, to become, as it were, receptacles of them, and pass them on to us in a chain of secret influences. But among the more youthful heads there is one at Florence which Love chooses for its own--the head of a young man, which may well be the likeness of Andrea Salaino, beloved of Leonardo for his curled and waving hair--belli capelli ricci e inanellati--and afterwards his favourite pupil and servant. Of all the interests in living men and women which may have filled his life at Milan, this attachment alone is recorded; and in return Salaino identified himself so entirely with Leonardo, that the picture of Saint Anne, in the Louvre, has been attributed to him. It illustrates Leonardo's usual choice of pupils, men of some natural charm of person or intercourse like Salaino, or men of birth and princely habits of life like Francesco Melzi--men with just enough genius to be capable of initiation into his secret, for the sake of which they were ready to efface their own individuality. Among them, retiring often to the Villa of the Melzi at Canonica al Vaprio, he worked at his fugitive manuscripts and sketches, working for the present hour, and for a few only, perhaps chiefly for himself. Other artists have been as careless of present or future applause, in self-forgetfulness, or because they set moral or political ends above the ends of art; but in him this solitary culture of beauty seems to have hung upon a kind of self-love, and a carelessness in the work of art of all but art itself. Out of the secret places of a unique temperament he brought strange blossoms and fruits hitherto unknown; and for him, the novel impression conveyed, the exquisite effect woven, counted as an end in itself--a perfect end. And these pupils of his acquired his manner so thoroughly, that though the number of Leonardo's authentic works is very small indeed, there is a multitude of other men's pictures through which we undoubtedly see him, and come very near to his genius. Sometimes, as in the little picture of the Madonna of the Balances, in which, from the bosom of His mother, Christ weighs the pebbles of the brooks against the sins of men, we have a hand, rough enough by contrast, working upon some fine hint or sketch of his. Sometimes, as in the subjects of the Daughter of Herodias and the Head of John the Baptist, the lost originals have been re-echoed and varied upon again and again by Luini and others. At other times the original remains, but has been a mere theme or motive, a type of which the accessories might be modified or changed; and these variations have but brought out the more the purpose, or expression of the original. It is so with the so-called Saint John the Baptist of the Louvre--one of the few naked figures Leonardo painted--whose delicate brown flesh and woman's hair no one would go out into the wilderness to seek, and whose treacherous smile would have us understand something far beyond the outward gesture or circumstance. But the long, reedlike cross in the hand, which suggests Saint John the Baptist, becomes faint in a copy at the Ambrosian Library, and disappears altogether in another, in the Palazzo Rosso at Genoa. Returning from the last to the original, we are no longer surprised by Saint John's strange likeness to the Bacchus which hangs near it, which set Theophile Gautier thinking of Heine's notion of decayed gods, who, to maintain themselves, after the fall of paganism, took employment in the new religion. We recognise one of those symbolical inventions in which the ostensible subject is used, not as matter for definite pictorial realisation, but as the starting-point of a train of sentiment as subtle and vague as a piece of music. No one ever ruled over his subject more entirely than Leonardo, or bent it more dexterously to purely artistic ends. And so it comes to pass that though he handles sacred subjects continually, he is the most profane of painters; the given person or subject, Saint John in the Desert, or the Virgin on the knees of Saint Anne, is often merely the pretext for a kind of work which carries one quite out of the range of its conventional associations. About the Last Supper, its decay and restorations, a whole literature has risen up, Goethe's pensive sketch of its sad fortunes being far the best. The death in childbirth of the Duchess Beatrice was followed in Ludovico by one of those paroxysms of religious feeling which in him were constitutional. The low, gloomy Dominican church of Saint Mary of the Graces had been the favourite shrine of Beatrice. She had spent her last days there, full of sinister presentiments; at last it had been almost necessary to remove her from it by force; and now it was here that mass was said a hundred times a day for her repose. On the damp wall of the refectory, oozing with mineral salts, Leonardo painted the Last Supper. A hundred anecdotes were told about it, his retouchings and delays. They show him refusing to work except at the moment of invention, scornful of whoever thought that art was a work of mere industry and rule, often coming the whole length of Milan to give a single touch. He painted it, not in fresco, where all must be impromptu, but in oils, the new method which he had been one of the first to welcome, because it allowed of so many afterthoughts, so refined a working out of perfection. It turned out that on a plastered wall no process could have been less durable. Within fifty years it had fallen into decay. And now we have to turn back to Leonardo's own studies, above all to one drawing of the central head at the Brera, which, in a union of tenderness and severity in the face-lines, reminds one of the monumental work of Mino da Fiesole, to trace it as it was. It was another effort to lift a given subject out of the range of its conventional associations. Strange, after all the misrepresentations of the middle age, was the effort to see it, not as the pale Host of the altar, but as one taking leave of his friends. Five years afterwards the young Raffaelle, at Florence, painted it with sweet and solemn effect in the refectory of Saint Onofrio; but still with all the mystical unreality of the school of Perugino. Vasari pretends that the central head was never finished; but finished or unfinished, or owing part of its effect to a mellowing decay, this central head does but consummate the sentiment of the whole company--ghosts through which you see the wall, faint as the shadows of the leaves upon the wall, on autumn afternoons; this figure is but the faintest, most spectral of them all. It is the image of what the history it symbolises has more and more become for the world, paler and paler as it recedes into the distance. Criticism came with its appeal from mystical unrealities to originals, and restored no lifelike reality but these transparent shadows, spirits which have not flesh and bones. The Last Supper was finished in 1497; in 1498 the French entered Milan, and whether or not the Gascon bowmen used it as a mark for their arrows, the model of Francesco Sforza certainly did not survive. What, in that age, such work was capable of being--of what nobility, amid what racy truthfulness to fact--we may judge from the bronze statue of Bartolomeo Colleoni on horseback, modelled by Leonardo's master, Verrocchio (he died of grief, it was said, because, the mould accidentally failing, he was unable himself to complete it), still standing in the piazza of Saint John and Saint Paul at Venice. Some traces of the thing may remain in certain of Leonardo's drawings, and also, perhaps, by a singular circumstance, in a far-off town of France. For Ludovico became a prisoner, and ended his days at Loches in Touraine;--allowed at last, it is said, to breathe fresher air for awhile in one of the rooms of a high tower there, after many years of captivity in the dungeons below, where all seems sick with barbarous feudal memories, and where his prison is still shown, its walls covered with strange painted arabesques, ascribed by tradition to his hand, amused a little, in this way, through the tedious years:--vast helmets and faces and pieces of armour, among which, in great letters, the motto Infelix Sum is woven in and out, and in which, perhaps, it is not too fanciful to see the fruit of a wistful after-dreaming over all those experiments with Leonardo on the armed figure of the great duke, that had occupied the two so often during the days of his good fortune at Milan. The remaining years of Leonardo's life are more or less years of wandering. From his brilliant life at court he had saved nothing, and he returned to Florence a poor man. Perhaps necessity kept his spirit excited: the next four years are one prolonged rapture or ecstasy of invention. He painted the pictures of the Louvre, his most authentic works, which came there straight from the cabinet of Francis the First, at Fontainebleau. One picture of his, the Saint Anne--not the Saint Anne of the Louvre, but a mere cartoon, now in London--revived for a moment a sort of appreciation more common in an earlier time, when good pictures had still seemed miraculous; and for two days a crowd of people of all qualities passed in naive excitement through the chamber where it hung, and gave Leonardo a taste of Cimabue's triumph. But his work was less with the saints than with the living women of Florence; for he lived still in the polished society that he loved, and in the houses of Florence, left perhaps a little subject to light thoughts by the death of Savonarola--the latest gossip (1869) is of an undraped Monna Lisa, found in some out-of-the-way corner of the late Orleans collection--he saw Ginevra di Benci, and Lisa, the young third wife of Francesco del Giocondo. As we have seen him using incidents of sacred story, not for their own sake, or as mere subjects for pictorial realisation, but as a symbolical language for fancies all his own, so now he found a vent for his thoughts in taking one of these languid women, and raising her, as Leda or Pomona, Modesty or Vanity, to the seventh heaven of symbolical expression. La Gioconda is, in the truest sense, Leonardo's masterpiece, the revealing instance of his mode of thought and work. In suggestiveness, only the Melancholia of Duerer is comparable to it; and no crude symbolism disturbs the effect of its subdued and graceful mystery. We all know the face and hands of the figure, set in its marble chair, in that cirque of fantastic rocks, as in some faint light under sea. Perhaps of all ancient pictures time has chilled it least.* As often happens with works in which invention seems to reach its limits, there is an element in it given to, not invented by, the master. In that inestimable folio of drawings, once in the possession of Vasari, were certain designs by Verrocchio, faces of such impressive beauty that Leonardo in his boyhood copied them many times. It is hard not to connect with these designs of the elder, by-past master, as with its germinal principle, the unfathomable smile, always with a touch of something sinister in it, which plays over all Leonardo's work. Besides, the picture is a portrait. From childhood we see this image defining itself on the fabric of his dreams; and but for express historical testimony, we might fancy that this was but his ideal lady, embodied and beheld at last. What was the relationship of a living Florentine to this creature of his thought? By means of what strange affinities had the person and the dream grown up thus apart, and yet so closely together? Present from the first incorporeally in Leonardo's thought, dimly traced in the designs of Verrocchio, she is found present at last in Il Giocondo's house. That there is much of mere portraiture in the picture is attested by the legend that by artificial means, the presence of mimes and flute-players, that subtle expression was protracted on the face. Again, was it in four years and by renewed labour never really completed, or in four months and as by stroke of magic, that the image was projected? *Yet for Vasari there was some further magic of crimson in the lips and cheeks, lost for us. The presence that thus rose so strangely beside the waters, is expressive of what in the ways of a thousand years men had come to desire. Hers is the head upon which all "the ends of the world are come," and the eyelids are a little weary. It is a beauty wrought out from within upon the flesh, the deposit, little cell by cell, of strange thoughts and fantastic reveries and exquisite passions. Set it for a moment beside one of those white Greek goddesses or beautiful women of antiquity, and how would they be troubled by this beauty, into which the soul with all its maladies has passed! All the thoughts and experience of the world have etched and moulded there, in that which they have of power to refine and make expressive the outward form, the animalism of Greece, the lust of Rome, the reverie of the middle age with its spiritual ambition and imaginative loves, the return of the Pagan world, the sins of the Borgias. She is older than the rocks among which she sits; like the vampire, she has been dead many times, and learned the secrets of the grave; and has been a diver in deep seas, and keeps their fallen day about her; and trafficked for strange webs with Eastern merchants: and, as Leda, was the mother of Helen of Troy, and, as Saint Anne, the mother of Mary; and all this has been to her but as the sound of lyres and flutes, and lives only in the delicacy with which it has moulded the changing lineaments, and tinged the eyelids and the hands. The fancy of a perpetual life, sweeping together ten thousand experiences, is an old one; and modern thought has conceived the idea of humanity as wrought upon by, and summing up in itself, all modes of thought and life. Certainly Lady Lisa might stand as the embodiment of the old fancy, the symbol of the modern idea. During these years at Florence Leonardo's history is the history of his art; he himself is lost in the bright cloud of it. The outward history begins again in 1502, with a wild journey through central Italy, which he makes as the chief engineer of Caesar Borgia. The biographer, putting together the stray jottings of his manuscripts, may follow him through every day of it, up the strange tower of Siena, which looks towards Rome, elastic like a bent bow, down to the seashore at Piombino, each place appearing as fitfully as in a fever dream. One other great work was left for him to do, a work all trace of which soon vanished, The Battle of the Standard, in which he had Michelangelo for his rival. The citizens of Florence, desiring to decorate the walls of the great council-chamber, had offered the work for competition, and any subject might be chosen from the Florentine wars of the fifteenth century. Michelangelo chose for his cartoon an incident of the war with Pisa, in which the Florentine soldiers, bathing in the Arno, are surprised by the sound of trumpets, and run to arms. His design has reached us only in an old engraving, which perhaps helps us less than what we remember of the background of his Holy Family in the Uffizii to imagine in what superhuman form, such as might have beguiled the heart of an earlier world, those figures may have risen from the water. Leonardo chose an incident from the battle of Anghiari, in which two parties of soldiers fight for a standard. Like Michelangelo's, his cartoon is lost, and has come to us only in sketches, and in a fragment of Rubens. Through the accounts given we may discern some lust of terrible things in it, so that even the horses tore each other with their teeth; and yet one fragment of it, in a drawing of his at Florence, is far different--a waving field of lovely armour, the chased edgings running like lines of sunlight from side to side. Michelangelo was twenty-seven years old; Leonardo more than fifty; and Raffaelle, then nineteen years old, visiting Florence for the first time, came and watched them as they worked. We catch a glimpse of him again, at Rome in 1514, surrounded by his mirrors and vials and furnaces, making strange toys that seemed alive of wax and quicksilver. The hesitation which had haunted him all through life, and made him like one under a spell, was upon him now with double force. No one had ever carried political indifferentism farther; it had always been his philosophy to "fly before the storm"; he is for the Sforzas, or against them, as the tide of their fortune turns. Yet now in the political society of Rome, he came to be suspected of concealed French sympathies. It paralysed him to find himself among enemies; and he turned wholly to France, which had long courted him. France was about to become an Italy more Italian than Italy itself. Francis the First, like Lewis the Twelfth before him, was attracted by the finesse of Leonardo's work; La Gioconda was already in his cabinet, and he offered Leonardo the little Chateau de Clou, with its vineyards and meadows, in the pleasant valley of the Masse, just outside the walls of the town of Amboise, where, especially in the hunting season, the court then frequently resided. A Monsieur Lyonard, peinteur du Roy pour Amboyse--so the letter of Francis the First is headed. It opens a prospect, one of the most interesting in the history of art, where, under a strange mixture of lights, Italian art dies away as a French exotic. Two questions remain, after much busy antiquarianism, concerning Leonardo's death--the question of the precise form of his religion, and the question whether Francis the First was present at the time. They are of about equally little importance in the estimate of Leonardo's genius. The directions in his will about the thirty masses and the great candles for the church of Saint Florentin are things of course, their real purpose being immediate and practical; and on no theory of religion could these hurried offices be of much consequence. We forget them in speculating how one who had been always so desirous of beauty, but desired it always in such definite and precise forms, as hands or flowers or hair, looked forward now into the vague land, and experienced the last curiosity. 1869. THE SCHOOL OF GIORGIONE It is the mistake of much popular criticism to regard poetry, music, and Painting--all the various products of art--as but translations into different languages of one and the same fixed quantity of imaginative thought, supplemented by certain technical qualities of colour, in painting--of sound, in music--of rhythmical words, in poetry. In this way, the sensuous element in art, and with it almost everything in art that is essentially artistic, is made a matter of indifference; and a clear apprehension of the opposite principle--that the sensuous material of each art brings with it a special phase or quality of beauty, untranslatable into the forms of any other, an order of impressions distinct in kind--is the beginning of all true aesthetic criticism. For, as art addresses not pure sense, still less the pure intellect, but the "imaginative reason" through the senses, there are differences of kind in aesthetic beauty, corresponding to the differences in kind of the gifts of sense themselves. Each art, therefore, having its own peculiar and incommunicable sensuous charm, has its own special mode of reaching the imagination, its own special responsibilities to its material. One of the functions of aesthetic criticism is to define these limitations; to estimate the degree in which a given work of art fulfils its responsibilities to its special material; to note in a picture that true pictorial charm, which is neither a mere poetical thought nor sentiment, on the one hand, nor a mere result of communicable technical skill in colour or design, on the other; to define in a poem that true poetical quality, which is neither descriptive nor meditative merely, but comes of an inventive handling of rhythmical language--the element of song in the singing; to note in music the musical charm--that essential music, which presents no words, no matter of sentiment or thought, separable from the special form in which it is conveyed to us. To such a philosophy of the variations of the beautiful, Lessing's analysis of the spheres of sculpture and poetry, in the Laocoon, was a very important contribution. But a true appreciation of these things is possible only in the light of a whole system of such art-casuistries. And it is in the criticism of painting that this truth most needs enforcing, for it is in popular judgments on pictures that that false generalisation of all art into forms of poetry is most prevalent. To suppose that all is mere technical acquirement in delineation or touch, working through and addressing itself to the intelligence, on the one side, or a merely poetical, or what may be called literary interest, addressed also to the pure intelligence, on the other;--this is the way of most spectators, and of many critics, who have never caught sight, all the time, of that true pictorial quality which lies between (unique pledge of the possession of the pictorial gift) the inventive or creative handling of pure line and colour, which, as almost always in Dutch painting, as often also in the works of Titian or Veronese, is quite independent of anything definitely poetical in the subject it accompanies. It is the drawing--the design projected from that peculiar pictorial temperament or constitution, in which, while it may possibly be ignorant of true anatomical proportions, all things whatever, all poetry, every idea however abstract or obscure, floats up as a visible scene, or image: it is the colouring--that weaving as of just perceptible gold threads of light through the dress, the flesh, the atmosphere, in Titian's Lace-girl--the staining of the whole fabric of the thing with a new, delightful physical quality. This drawing, then--the arabesque traced in the air by Tintoret's flying figures, by Titian's forest branches; this colouring--the magic conditions of light and hue in the atmosphere of Titian's Lace-girl, or Rubens's Descent from the Cross--these essential pictorial qualities must first of all delight the sense, delight it as directly and sensuously as a fragment of Venetian glass; and through this delight only be the medium of whatever poetry or science may lie beyond them, in the intention of the composer. In its primary aspect, a great picture has no more definite message for us than an accidental play of sunlight and shadow for a moment, on the wall or floor: is itself, in truth, a space of such fallen light, caught as the colours are caught in an Eastern carpet, but refined upon, and dealt with more subtly and exquisitely than by nature itself. And this primary and essential condition fulfilled, we may trace the coming of poetry into painting, by fine gradations upwards; from Japanese fan-painting, for instance, where we get, first, only abstract colour; then, just a little interfused sense of the poetry of flowers; then, sometimes, perfect flower-painting; and so, onwards, until in Titian we have, as his poetry in the Ariadne, so actually a touch of true childlike humour in the diminutive, quaint figure with its silk gown, which ascends the temple stairs, in his picture of the Presentation of the Virgin, at Venice. But although each art has thus its own specific order of impressions, and an untranslatable charm, while a just apprehension of the ultimate differences of the arts is the beginning of aesthetic criticism; yet it is noticeable that, in its special mode of handling its given material, each art may be observed to pass into the condition of some other art, by what German critics term an Anders-streben--a partial alienation from its own limitations, by which the arts are able, not indeed to supply the place of each other, but reciprocally to lend each other new forces. Thus some of the most delightful music seems to be always approaching to figure, to pictorial definition. Architecture, again, though it has its own laws--laws esoteric enough, as the true architect knows only too well--yet sometimes aims at fulfilling the conditions of a picture, as in the Arena chapel; or of sculpture, as in the flawless unity of Giotto's tower at Florence; and often finds a true poetry, as in those strangely twisted staircases of the chateaux of the country of the Loire, as if it were intended that among their odd turnings the actors in a wild life might pass each other unseen: there being a poetry also of memory and of the mere effect of time, by which it often profits greatly. Thus, again, sculpture aspires out of the hard limitation of pure form towards colour, or its equivalent; poetry also, in many ways, finding guidance from the other arts, the analogy between a Greek tragedy and a work of Greek sculpture, between a sonnet and a relief, of French poetry generally with the art of engraving, being more than mere figures of speech; and all the arts in common aspiring towards the principle of music; music being the typical, or ideally consummate art, the object of the great Anders-streben of all art, of all that is artistic, or partakes of artistic qualities. All art constantly aspires towards the condition of music. For while in all other works of art it is possible to distinguish the matter from the form, and the understanding can always make this distinction, yet it is the constant effort of art to obliterate it. That the mere matter of a poem, for instance--its subject, its given incidents or situation; that the mere matter of a picture--the actual circumstances of an event, the actual topography of a landscape--should be nothing without the form, the spirit, of the handling; that this form, this mode of handling, should become an end in itself, should penetrate every part of the matter:--this is what all art constantly strives after, and achieves in different degrees. This abstract language becomes clear enough, if we think of actual examples. In an actual landscape we see a long white road, lost suddenly on the hill-verge. That is the matter of one of the etchings of M. Legros: only, in this etching, it is informed by an indwelling solemnity of expression, seen upon it or half-seen, within the limits of an exceptional moment, or caught from his own mood perhaps, but which he maintains as the very essence of the thing, throughout his work. Sometimes a momentary tint of stormy light may invest a homely or too familiar scene with a character which might well have been drawn from the deep places of the imagination. Then we might say that this particular effect of light, this sudden inweaving of gold thread through the texture of the haystack, and the poplars, and the grass, gives the scene artistic qualities; that it is like a picture. And such tricks of circumstance are commonest in landscape which has little salient character of its own; because, in such scenery, all the material details are so easily absorbed by that informing expression of passing light, and elevated, throughout their whole extent, to a new and delightful effect by it. And hence the superiority, for most conditions of the picturesque, of a river-side in France to a Swiss valley, because, on the French river-side, mere topography, the simple material, counts for so little, and, all being so pure, untouched, and tranquil in itself, mere light and shade have such easy work in modulating it to one dominant tone. The Venetian landscape, on the other hand, has in its material conditions much which is hard, or harshly definite; but the masters of the Venetian school have shown themselves little burdened by them. Of its Alpine background they retain certain abstracted elements only, of cool colour and tranquillising line; and they use its actual details, the brown windy turrets, the straw-coloured fields, the forest arabesques, but as the notes of a music which duly accompanies the presence of their men and women, presenting us with the spirit or essence only of a certain sort of landscape--a country of the pure reason or half-imaginative memory. Poetry, again, works with words addressed in the first instance to the mere intelligence; and it deals, most often, with a definite subject or situation. Sometimes it may find a noble and quite legitimate function in the expression of moral or political aspiration, as often in the poetry of Victor Hugo. In such instances it is easy enough for the understanding to distinguish between the matter and the form, however much the matter, the subject, the element which is addressed to the mere intelligence, has been penetrated by the informing, artistic spirit. But the ideal types of poetry are those in which this distinction is reduced to its minimum; so that lyrical poetry, precisely because in it we are least able to detach the matter from the form, without a deduction of something from that matter itself, is, at least artistically, the highest and most complete form of poetry. And the very perfection of such poetry often seems to depend, in part, on a certain suppression or vagueness of mere subject, so that the meaning reaches us through ways not distinctly traceable by the understanding, as in some of the most imaginative compositions of William Blake, and often in Shakspere's songs, as pre-eminently in that song of Mariana's page in Measure for Measure, in which the kindling force and poetry of the whole play seems to pass for a moment into an actual strain of music. And this principle holds good of all things that partake in any degree of artistic qualities, of the furniture of our houses, and of dress, for instance, of life itself, of gesture and speech, and the details of daily intercourse; these also, for the wise, being susceptible of a suavity and charm, caught from the way in which they are done, which gives them a worth in themselves; wherein, indeed, lies what is valuable and justly attractive, in what is called the fashion of a time, which elevates the trivialities of speech, and manner, and dress, into "ends in themselves," and gives them a mysterious grace and attractiveness in the doing of them. Art, then, is thus always striving to be independent of the mere intelligence, to become a matter of pure perception, to get rid of its responsibilities to its subject or material; the ideal examples of poetry and painting being those in which the constituent elements of the composition are so welded together, that the material or subject no longer strikes the intellect only; nor the form, the eye or the ear only; but form and matter, in their union or identity, present one single effect to the "imaginative reason," that complex faculty for which every thought and feeling is twin-born with its sensible analogue or symbol. It is the art of music which most completely realises this artistic ideal, this perfect identification of form and matter. In its ideal, consummate moments, the end is not distinct from the means, the form from the matter, the subject from the expression; they inhere in and completely saturate each other; and to it, therefore, to the condition of its perfect moments, all the arts may be supposed constantly to tend and aspire. Music, then, and not poetry, as is so often supposed, is the true type or measure of perfected art. Therefore, although each art has its incommunicable element, its untranslatable order of impressions, its unique mode of reaching the "imaginative reason," yet the arts may be represented as continually struggling after the law or principle of music, to a condition which music alone completely realises; and one of the chief functions of aesthetic criticism, dealing with the products of art, new or old, is to estimate the degree in which each of those products approaches, in this sense, to musical law. By no school of painters have, the necessary limitations of the art of painting been so unerringly though instinctively apprehended, and the essence of what is pictorial in a picture so justly conceived, as by the school of Venice; and the train of thought suggested in what has been now said is, perhaps, a not unfitting introduction to a few pages about Giorgione, who, though much has been taken by recent criticism from what was reputed to be his work, yet, more entirely than any other painter, sums up, in what we know of himself and his art, the spirit of the Venetian school. The beginnings of Venetian painting link themselves to the last, stiff, half-barbaric splendours of Byzantine decoration, and are but the introduction into the crust of marble and gold on the walls of the Duomo of Murano, or of Saint Mark's, of a little more of human expression. And throughout the course of its later development, always subordinate to architectural effect, the work of the Venetian school never escaped from the influence of its beginnings. Unassisted, and therefore unperplexed, by naturalism, religious mysticism, philosophical theories, it had no Giotto, no Angelico, no Botticelli. Exempt from the stress of thought and sentiment, which taxed so severely the resources of the generations of Florentine artists, those earlier Venetian painters, down to Carpaccio and the Bellini, seem never for a moment to have been tempted even to lose sight of the scope of their art in its strictness, or to forget that painting must be, before all things decorative, a thing for the eye; a space of colour on the wall, only more dexterously blent than the marking of its precious stone or the chance interchange of sun and shade upon it--this, to begin and end with--whatever higher matter of thought, or poetry, or religious reverie might play its part therein, between. At last, with final mastery of all the technical secrets of his art, and with somewhat more than "a spark of the divine fire" to his share, comes Giorgione. He is the inventor of genre, of those easily movable pictures which serve neither for uses of devotion, nor of allegorical or historic teaching--little groups of real men and women, amid congruous furniture or landscape--morsels of actual life, conversation or music or play, refined upon or idealised, till they come to seem like glimpses of life from afar. Those spaces of more cunningly blent colour, obediently filling their places, hitherto, in a mere architectural scheme, Giorgione detaches from the wall; he frames them by the hands of some skilful carver, so that people may move them readily and take with them where they go, like a poem in manuscript, or a musical instrument, to be used, at will, as a means of self-education, stimulus or solace, coming like an animated presence, into one's cabinet, to enrich the air as with some choice aroma, and, like persons, live with us, for a day or a lifetime. Of all art like this, art which has played so large a part in men's culture since that time, Giorgione is the initiator. Yet in him too that old Venetian clearness or justice, in the apprehension of the essential limitations of the pictorial art, is still undisturbed; and, while he interfuses his painted work with a high-strung sort of poetry, caught directly from a singularly rich and high-strung sort of life, yet in his selection of subject, or phase of subject, in the subordination of mere subject to pictorial design, to the main purpose of a picture, he is typical of that aspiration of all the arts towards music, which I have endeavoured to explain,--towards the perfect identification of matter and form. Born so near to Titian, though a little before him, that these two companion pupils of the aged Giovanni Bellini may almost be called contemporaries, Giorgione stands to Titian in something like the relationship of Sordello to Dante, in Mr. Browning's poem. Titian, when he leaves Bellini, becomes, in turn, the pupil of Giorgione; he lives in constant labour more than sixty years after Giorgione is in his grave; and with such fruit, that hardly one of the greater towns of Europe is without some fragment of it. But the slightly older man, with his so limited actual product (what remains to us of it seeming, when narrowly examined, to reduce itself to almost one picture, like Sordello's one fragment of lovely verse), yet expresses, in elementary motive and principle, that spirit--itself the final acquisition of all the long endeavours of Venetian art--which Titian spreads over his whole life's activity. And, as we might expect, something fabulous and illusive has always mingled itself in the brilliancy of Giorgione's fame. The exact relationship to him of many works--drawings, portraits, painted idylls--often fascinating enough, which in various collections went by his name, was from the first uncertain. Still, six or eight famous pictures at Dresden, Florence and the Louvre, were undoubtedly attributed to him, and in these, if anywhere, something of the splendour of the old Venetian humanity seemed to have been preserved. But of those six or eight famous pictures it is now known that only one is certainly from Giorgione's hand. The accomplished science of the subject has come at last, and, as in other instances, has not made the past more real for us, but assured us that we possess of it less than we seemed to possess. Much of the work on which Giorgione's immediate fame depended, work done for instantaneous effect, in all probability passed away almost within his own age, like the frescoes on the facade of the fondaco dei Tedeschi at Venice, some crimson traces of which, however, still give a strange additional touch of splendour to the scene of the Rialto. And then there is a barrier or borderland, a period about the middle of the sixteenth century, in passing through which the tradition miscarries, and the true outlines of Giorgione's work and person become obscured. It became fashionable for wealthy lovers of art, with no critical standard of authenticity, to collect so-called works of Giorgione, and a multitude of imitations came into circulation. And now, in the "new Vasari,"* the great traditional reputation, woven with so profuse demand on men's admiration, has been scrutinised thread by thread; and what remains of the most vivid and stimulating of Venetian masters, a live flame, as it seemed, in those old shadowy times, has been reduced almost to a name by his most recent critics. *Crowe and Cavalcaselle: History of Painting in North Italy. Yet enough remains to explain why the legend grew up, above the name, why the name attached itself, in many instances, to the bravest work of other men. The Concert in the Pitti Palace, in which a monk, with cowl and tonsure, touches the keys of a harpsichord, while a clerk, placed behind him, grasps the handle of the viol, and a third, with hat and plume, seems to wait upon the true interval for beginning to sing, is undoubtedly Giorgione's. The outline of the lifted finger, the trace of the plume, the very threads of the fine linen, which fasten themselves on the memory, in the moment before they are lost altogether in that calm unearthly glow, the skill which has caught the waves of wandering sound, and fixed them for ever on the lips and hands--these are indeed the master's own; and the criticism which, while dismissing so much hitherto believed to be Giorgione's, has established the claims of this one picture, has left it among the most precious things in the world of art. It is noticeable that the "distinction" of this Concert, its sustained evenness of perfection, alike in design, in execution, and in choice of personal type, becomes for the "new Vasari" the standard of Giorgione's genuine work. Finding here enough to explain his influence, and the true seal of mastery, its authors assign to Pellegrino da San Daniele the Holy Family in the Louvre, for certain points in which it comes short of that standard, but which will hardly diminish the spectator's enjoyment of a singular charm of liquid air, with which the whole picture seems instinct, filling the eyes and lips, the very garments, of its sacred personages, with some wind-searched brightness and energy; of which fine air the blue peak, clearly defined in the distance, is, as it were, the visible pledge. Similarly, another favourite picture in the Louvre, the subject of a Sonnet by a poet whose own painted work often comes to mind as one ponders over these precious things--the Fete Champetre, is assigned to an imitator of Sebastian del Piombo; and the Tempest, in the Academy at Venice (a slighter loss, perhaps, though not without its pleasant effect of clearing weather, towards the left, its one untouched morsel), to Paris Bordone, or perhaps to "some advanced craftsman of the sixteenth century." From the gallery at Dresden, the Knight embracing a Lady, where the knight's broken gauntlets seem to mark some well-known pause in a story we would willingly hear the rest of; is conceded to "a Brescian hand," and Jacob meeting Rachel to a pupil of Palma; and, whatever their charm, we are called on to give up the Ordeal and the Finding of Moses with its jewel-like pools of water, perhaps to Bellini. Nor has the criticism, which thus so freely diminishes the number of his authentic works, added anything important to the well-known outline of the life and personality of the man: only, it has fixed one or two dates, one or two circumstances, a little more exactly. Giorgione was born before the year 1477, and spent his childhood at Castelfranco, where the last crags of the Venetian Alps break down romantically, with something of parklike grace, to the plain. A natural child of the family of the Barbarelli by a peasant-girl of Vedelago, he finds his way early into the circle of notable persons--people of courtesy; and becomes initiated into those differences of personal type, manner, and even of dress, which are best understood there--that "distinction" of the Concert of the Pitti Palace. Not far from his home lives Catherine of Cornara, formerly Queen of Cyprus; and, up in the towers which still remain, Tuzio Costanzo, the famous condottiere--a picturesque remnant of medieval manners, amid a civilisation rapidly changing. Giorgione paints their portraits; and when Tuzio's son, Matteo, dies in early youth, adorns in his memory a chapel in the church of Castelfranco, painting on this occasion, perhaps, the altar-piece, foremost among his authentic works, still to be seen there, with the figure of the warrior-saint, Liberale, of which the original little study in oil, with the delicately gleaming, silver-grey armour, is one of the greater treasures of the National Gallery, and in which, as in some other knightly personages attributed to him, people have supposed the likeness of his own presumably gracious presence. Thither, at last, he is himself brought home from Venice, early dead, but celebrated. It happened, about his thirty-fourth year, that in one of those parties at which he entertained his friends with music, he met a certain lady of whom he became greatly enamoured, and "they rejoiced greatly," says Vasari, "the one and the other, in their loves." And two quite different legends concerning it agree in this, that it was through this lady he came by his death: Ridolfi relating that, being robbed of her by one of his pupils, he died of grief at the double treason;--Vasari, that she being secretly stricken of the plague, and he making his visits to her as usual, he took the sickness from her mortally, along with her kisses, and so briefly departed. But, although the number of Giorgione's extant works has been thus limited by recent criticism, all is not done when the real and the traditional elements in what concerns him have been discriminated; for, in what is connected with a great name, much that is not real is often very stimulating; and, for the aesthetic philosopher, over and above the real Giorgione and his authentic extant works, there remains the Giorgionesque also--an influence, a spirit or type in art, active in men so different as those to whom many of his supposed works are really assignable--a veritable school, which grew together out of all those fascinating works rightly or wrongly attributed to him; out of many copies from, or variations on him, by unknown or uncertain workmen, whose drawings and designs were, for various reasons, prized as his; out of the immediate impression he made upon his contemporaries, and with which he continued in men's minds; out of many traditions of subject and treatment, which really descend from him to our own time, and by retracing which we fill out the original image; Giorgione thus becoming a sort of impersonation of Venice itself, its projected reflex or ideal, all that was intense or desirable in it thus crystallising about the memory of this wonderful young man. And now, finally, let me illustrate some of the characteristics of this School of Giorgione, as we may call it, which, for most of us, notwithstanding all that negative criticism of the "new Vasari," will still identify itself with those famous pictures at Florence, Dresden and Paris; and in which a certain artistic ideal is defined for us--the conception of a peculiar aim and procedure in art, which we may understand as the Giorgionesque, wherever we find it, whether in Venetian work generally, or in work of our own time--and of which the Concert, that undoubted work of Giorgione in the Pitti Palace, is the typical instance, and a pledge authenticating the connexion of the school with the master. I have spoken of a certain interpretation of the matter or subject of a work of art with the form of it, a condition realised absolutely only in music, as the condition to which every form of art is perpetually aspiring. In the art of painting, the attainment of this ideal condition, this perfect interpretation of the subject with colour and design, depends, of course, in great measure, on dexterous choice of that subject, or phase of subject; and such choice is one of the secrets of Giorgione's school. It is the school of genre, and employs itself mainly with "painted idylls," but, in the production of this pictorial poetry, exercises a wonderful tact in the selecting of such matter as lends itself most readily and entirely to pictorial form, to complete expression by drawing and colour. For although its productions are painted poems, they belong to a sort of poetry which tells itself without an articulated story. The master is pre-eminent for the resolution, the ease and quickness, with which he reproduces instantaneous motion--the lacing-on of armour, with the head bent back so stately--the fainting lady--the embrace, rapid as the kiss caught, with death itself, from dying lips--the momentary conjunction of mirrors and polished armour and still water, by which all the sides of a solid image are presented at once, solving that casuistical question whether painting can present an object as completely as sculpture. The sudden act, the rapid transition of thought, the passing expression--this he arrests with that vivacity which Vasari has attributed to him, il fuoco Giorgionesco, as he terms it. Now it is part of the ideality of the highest sort of dramatic poetry, that it presents us with a kind of profoundly significant and animated instants, a mere gesture, a look, a smile, perhaps--some brief and wholly concrete moment--into which, however, all the motives, all the interests and effects of a long history, have condensed themselves, and which seem to absorb past and future in an intense consciousness of the present. Such ideal instants the school of Giorgione selects, with its admirable tact, from that feverish, tumultuously coloured life of the old citizens of Venice--exquisite pauses in time, in which, arrested thus, we seem to be spectators of all the fulness of existence, and which are like some consummate extract or quintessence of life. It is to the law or condition of music, as I said, that all art like this is really aspiring and, in the school of Giorgione, the perfect moments of music itself, the making or hearing of music, song or its accompaniment, are themselves prominent as subjects. On that background of the silence of Venice, which the visitor there finds so impressive, the world of Italian music was then forming. In choice of subject, as in all besides, the Concert of the Pitti Palace is typical of all that Giorgione, himself an admirable musician, touched with his influence; and in sketch or finished picture, in various collections, we may follow it through many intricate variations--men fainting at music, music heard at the pool-side while people fish, or mingled with the sound of the pitcher in the well, or heard across running water, or among the flocks; the tuning of instruments--people with intent faces, as if listening, like those described by Plato in an ingenious passage, to detect the smallest interval of musical sound, the smallest undulation in the air, or feeling for music in thought on a stringless instrument, ear and finger refining themselves infinitely, in the appetite for sweet sound--a momentary touch of an instrument in the twilight, as one passes through some unfamiliar room, in a chance company. In such favourite incidents, then, of Giorgione's school, music or music-like intervals in our existence, life itself is conceived as a sort of listening--listening to music, to the reading of Bandello's novels, to the sound of water, to time as it flies. Often such moments are really our moments of play, and we are surprised at the unexpected blessedness of what may seem our least important part of time; not merely because play is in many instances that to which people really apply their own best powers, but also because at such times, the stress of our servile, everyday attentiveness being relaxed, the happier powers in things without us are permitted free passage, and have their way with us. And so, from music, the school of Giorgione passes often to the play which is like music; to those masques in which men avowedly do but play at real life, like children "dressing up," disguised in the strange old Italian dresses, parti-coloured, or fantastic with embroidery and furs, of which the master was so curious a designer, and which, above all the spotless white linen at wrist and throat, he painted so dexterously. And when people are happy in this thirsty land water will not be far off; and in the school of Giorgione, the presence of water--the well, or marble-rimmed pool, the drawing or pouring of water, as the woman pours it from a pitcher with her jewelled hand in the Fete Champetre, listening, perhaps, to the cool sound as it falls, blent with the music of the pipes--is as characteristic, and almost as suggestive, as that of music itself. And the landscape feels, and is glad of it also--a landscape full of clearness, of the effects of water, of fresh rain newly passed through the air, and collected into the grassy channels; the air, too, in the school of Giorgione, seeming as vivid as the people who breathe it, and literally empyrean, all impurities being burnt out of it, and no taint, no floating particle of anything but its own proper elements allowed to subsist within it. Its scenery is such as in England we call "park scenery," with some elusive refinement felt about the rustic buildings, the choice grass, the grouped trees, the undulations deftly economised for graceful effect. Only, in Italy all natural things are, as it were, woven through and through with gold thread, even the cypress revealing it among the folds of its blackness. And it is with gold dust, or gold thread, that these Venetian painters seem to work, spinning its fine filaments, through the solemn human flesh, away into the white plastered walls of the thatched huts. The harsher details of the mountains recede to a harmonious distance, the one peak of rich blue above the horizon remaining but as the visible warrant of that due coolness which is all we need ask here of the Alps, with their dark rains and streams. Yet what real, airy space, as the eye passes from level to level, through the long-drawn valley in which Jacob embraces Rachel among the flocks! Nowhere is there a truer instance of that balance, that modulated unison of landscape and persons--of the human image and its accessories--already noticed as characteristic of the Venetian school, so that, in it, neither personage nor scenery is ever a mere pretext for the other. Something like this seems to me to be the vraie verite about Giorgione, if I may adopt a serviceable expression, by which the French recognise those more liberal and durable impressions which, in respect of any really considerable person or subject, anything that has at all intricately occupied men's attention, lie beyond, and must supplement, the narrower range of the strictly ascertained facts about it. In this, Giorgione is but an illustration of a valuable general caution we may abide by in all criticism. As regards Giorgione himself, we have indeed to take note of all those negations and exceptions, by which, at first sight, a "new Vasari" seems merely to have confused our apprehension of a delightful object, to have explained away out of our inheritance from past time what seemed of high value there. Yet it is not with a full understanding even of those exceptions that one can leave off just at this point. Properly qualified, such exceptions are but a salt of genuineness in our knowledge; and beyond all those strictly ascertained facts, we must take note of that indirect influence by which one like Giorgione, for instance, enlarges his permanent efficacy and really makes himself felt in our culture. In a just impression of that, is the essential truth, the vraie verite concerning him. 1877. JOACHIM DU BELLAY In the middle of the sixteenth century, when the spirit of the Renaissance was everywhere, and people had begun to look back with distaste on the works of the middle age, the old Gothic manner had still one chance more, in borrowing something from the rival which was about to supplant it. In this way there was produced, chiefly in France, a new and peculiar phase of taste with qualities and a charm of its own, blending the somewhat attenuated grace of Italian ornament with the general outlines of Northern design. It produced the Chateau de Gaillon, as you may still see it in the delicate engravings of Israel Silvestre--a Gothic donjon veiled faintly by a surface of dainty Italian traceries--Chenonceaux, Blois, Chambord, and the church of Brou. In painting, there came from Italy workmen like Maitre Roux and the masters of the school of Fontainebleau, to have their later Italian voluptuousness attempered by the naive and silvery qualities of the native style; and it was characteristic of these painters that they were most successful in painting on glass, an art so essentially medieval. Taking it up where the middle age had left it, they found their whole work among the last subtleties of colour and line; and keeping within the true limits of their material, they got quite a new order of effects from it, and felt their way to refinements on colour never dreamed of by those older workmen, the glass-painters of Chartres or Le Mans. What is called the Renaissance in France is thus not so much the introduction of a wholly new taste ready-made from Italy, but rather the finest and subtlest phase of the middle age itself, its last fleeting splendour and temperate Saint Martin's summer. In poetry, the Gothic spirit in France had produced a thousand songs; and in the Renaissance, French poetry too did but borrow something to blend with a native growth, and the poems of Ronsard, with their ingenuity, their delicately figured surfaces, their slightness, their fanciful combinations of rhyme, are but the correlative of the traceries of the house of Jacques Coeur at Bourges, or the Maison de Justice at Rouen. There was indeed something in the native French taste naturally akin to that Italian finesse. The characteristic of French work had always been a certain nicety, a remarkable daintiness of hand, une nettete remarquable d'execution. In the paintings of Francois Clouet, for example, or rather of the Clouets--for there was a whole family of them--painters remarkable for their resistance to Italian influences, there is a silveriness of colour and a clearness of expression which distinguish them very definitely from their Flemish neighbours, Hemling or the Van Eycks. And this nicety is not less characteristic of old French poetry. A light, aerial delicacy, a simple elegance--une nettete remarquable d'execution:--these are essential characteristics alike of Villon's poetry, and of the Hours of Anne of Brittany. They are characteristic too of a hundred French Gothic carvings and traceries. Alike in the old Gothic cathedrals, and in their counterpart, the old Gothic chansons de geste, the rough and ponderous mass becomes, as if by passing for a moment into happier conditions, or through a more gracious stratum of air, graceful and refined, like the carved ferneries on the granite church at Folgoat, or the lines which describe the fair priestly hands of Archbishop Turpin, in the song of Roland; although below both alike there is a fund of mere Gothic strength, or heaviness.* *The purely artistic aspects of this subject have been interpreted, in a work of great taste and learning, by Mrs. Mark Pattison:--The Renaissance of Art in France. And Villon's songs and Clouet's paintings are like these. It is the higher touch making itself felt here and there, betraying itself, like nobler blood in a lower stock, by a fine line or gesture or expression, the turn of a wrist, the tapering of a finger. In Ronsard's time that rougher element seemed likely to predominate. No one can turn over the pages of Rabelais without feeling how much need there was of softening, of castigation. To effect this softening is the object of the revolution in poetry which is connected with Ronsard's name. Casting about for the means of thus refining upon and saving the character of French literature, he accepted that influx of Renaissance taste, which, leaving the buildings, the language, the art, the poetry of France, at bottom, what they were, old French Gothic still, gilds their surfaces with a strange, delightful, foreign aspect passing over all that Northern land, in itself neither deeper nor more permanent than a chance effect of light. He reinforces, he doubles the French daintiness by Italian finesse. Thereupon, nearly all the force and all the seriousness of French work disappear; only the elegance, the aerial touch, the perfect manner remain. But this elegance, this manner, this daintiness of execution are consummate, and have an unmistakable aesthetic value. So the old French chanson, which, like the old Northern Gothic ornament, though it sometimes refined itself into a sort of weird elegance, was often, in its essence, something rude and formless, became in the hands of Ronsard a Pindaric ode. He gave it structure, a sustained system, strophe and antistrophe, and taught it a changefulness and variety of metre which keep the curiosity always excited, so that the very aspect of it, as it lies written on the page, carries the eye lightly onwards, and of which this is a good instance:-- Avril, la grace, et le ris De Cypris, Le flair et la douce haleine; Avril, le parfum des dieux, Qui, des cieux, Sentent l'odeur de la plaine; C'est toy, courteis et gentil, Qui, d'exil Retire ces passageres, Ces arondelles qui vont, Et qui sont Du printemps les messageres. That is not by Ronsard, but by Remy Belleau, for Ronsard soon came to have a school. Six other poets threw in their lot with him in his literary revolution--this Remy Belleau, Antoine de Baif, Pontus de Tyard, Etienne Jodelle, Jean Daurat, and lastly Joachim du Bellay; and with that strange love of emblems which is characteristic of the time, which covered all the works of Francis the First with the salamander, and all the works of Henry the Second with the double crescent, and all the works of Anne of Brittany with the knotted cord, they called themselves the Pleiad; seven in all, although, as happens with the celestial Pleiad, if you scrutinise this constellation of poets more carefully you may find there a great number of minor stars. The first note of this literary revolution was struck by Joachim du Bellay in a little tract written at the early age of twenty-four, which coming to us through three centuries seems of yesterday, so full is it of those delicate critical distinctions which are sometimes supposed peculiar to modern writers. The piece has for its title La Deffense et Illustration de la langue Francoyse; and its problem is how to illustrate or ennoble the French language, to give it lustre. We are accustomed to speak of the varied critical and creative movement of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries as the Renaissance, and because we have a single name for it we may sometimes fancy that there was more unity in the thing itself than there really was. Even the Reformation, that other great movement of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, had far less unity, far less of combined action, than is at first sight supposed; and the Renaissance was infinitely less united, less conscious of combined action, than the Reformation. But if anywhere the Renaissance became conscious, as a German philosopher might say, if ever it was understood as a systematic movement by those who took part in it, it is in this little book of Joachim du Bellay's, which it is impossible to read without feeling the excitement, the animation, of change, of discovery. "It is a remarkable fact," says M. Sainte-Beuve, "and an inversion of what is true of other languages, that, in French, prose has always had the precedence over poetry." Du Bellay's prose is perfectly transparent, flexible, and chaste. In many ways it is a more characteristic example of the culture of the Pleiad than any of its verse; and those who love the whole movement of which the Pleiad is a part, for a weird foreign grace in it, and may be looking about for a true specimen of it, cannot have a better than Joachim du Bellay and this little treatise of his. Du Bellay's object is to adjust the existing French culture to the rediscovered classical culture; and in discussing this problem, and developing the theories of the Pleiad, he has lighted upon many principles of permanent truth and applicability. There were some who despaired of the French language altogether, who thought it naturally incapable of the fulness and elegance of Greek and Latin--cette elegance et copie qui est en la langue Grecque et Romaine--that science could be adequately discussed, and poetry nobly written, only in the dead languages. "Those who speak thus," says Du Bellay, "make me think of those relics which one may only see through a little pane of glass, and must not touch with one's hands. That is what these people do with all branches of culture, which they keep shut up in Greek and Latin books, not permitting one to see them otherwise, or transport them out of dead words into those which are alive, and wing their way daily through the months of men." "Languages," he says again, "are not born like plants and trees, some naturally feeble and sickly, others healthy and strong and apter to bear the weight of men's conceptions, but all their virtue is generated in the world of choice and men's freewill concerning them. Therefore, I cannot blame too strongly the rashness of some of our countrymen, who being anything rather than Greeks or Latins, depreciate and reject with more than stoical disdain everything written in French; nor can I express my surprise at the odd opinion of some learned men who think that our vulgar tongue is wholly incapable of erudition and good literature." It was an age of translations. Du Bellay himself translated two books of the Aeneid, and other poetry, old and new, and there were some who thought that the translation of the classical literature was the true means of ennobling the French language:--strangers are ever favourites with us--nous favorisons toujours les etrangers. Du Bellay moderates their expectations. "I do not believe that one can learn the right use of them"--he is speaking of figures and ornament in language--"from translations, because it is impossible to reproduce them with the same grace with which the original author used them. For each language has, I know not what peculiarity of its own; and if you force yourself to express the naturalness (le naif) of this, in another language, observing the law of translation, which is, not to expatiate beyond the limits of the author himself; your words will be constrained, cold and ungraceful." Then he fixes the test of all good translation:--"To prove this, read me Demosthenes and Homer in Latin, Cicero and Virgil in French, and see whether they produce in you the same affections which you experience in reading those authors in the original." In this effort to ennoble the French language, to give it grace, number, perfection, and as painters do to their pictures, that last, so desirable, touch--cette derniere main que nous desirons--what Du Bellay is pleading for is his mother-tongue, the language, that is, in which one will have the utmost degree of what is moving and passionate. He recognised of what force the music and dignity of languages are, how they enter into the inmost part of things; and in pleading for the cultivation of the French language, he is pleading for no merely scholastic interest, but for freedom, impulse, reality, not in literature merely, but in daily communion of speech. After all, it was impossible to have this impulse in Greek and Latin, dead languages shut up in books as in reliquaries--peris et mises en reliquaires de livres. By aid of this starveling stock--pauvre plante et vergette--of the French language, he must speak delicately, movingly, if he is ever to speak so at all: that, or none, must be for him the medium of what he calls, in one of his great phrases, le discours fatal des choses mondaines--that discourse about affairs which decides men's fates. And it is his patriotism not to despair of it; he sees it already perfect in all elegance and beauty of words--parfait en toute elegance et venuste de paroles. Du Bellay was born in the disastrous year 1525, the year of the battle of Pavia, and the captivity of Francis the First. . His parents died early, and to him, as the younger son, his mother's little estate, ce petit Lire, the beloved place of his birth, descended. He was brought up by a brother only a little older than himself; and left to themselves, the two boys passed their lives in day-dreams of military glory. Their education was neglected; "The time of my youth," says Du Bellay, "was lost, like the flower which no shower waters, and no hand cultivates." He was just twenty years old when the elder brother died, leaving Joachim to be the guardian of his child. It was with regret, with a shrinking feeling of incapacity, that he took upon him the burden of this responsibility. Hitherto he had looked forward to the profession of a soldier, hereditary in his family. But at this time a sickness attacked him which brought him cruel sufferings, and seemed likely to be mortal. It was then for the first time that he read the Greek and Latin poets. These studies came too late to make him what he so much desired to be, a trifler in Greek and Latin verse, like so many others of his time now forgotten; instead, they made him a lover of his own homely native tongue, that poor starveling stock of the French language. It was through this fortunate shortcoming in his education that he became national and modern; and he learned afterwards to look back on that wild garden of his youth with only a half regret. A certain Cardinal du Bellay was the successful member of the family, a man often employed in high official affairs. It was to him that the thoughts of Joachim turned when it became necessary to choose a profession, and in 1552 he accompanied the Cardinal to Rome. He remained there nearly five years, burdened with the weight of affairs, and languishing with home-sickness. Yet it was under these circumstances that his genius yielded its best fruits. From Rome, which to most men of an imaginative temperament such as his would have yielded so many pleasurable sensations, with all the curiosities of the Renaissance still fresh there, his thoughts went back painfully, longingly, to the country of the Loire, with its wide expanses of waving corn, its homely pointed roofs of grey slate, and its far-off scent of the sea. He reached home at last, but only to die there, quite suddenly, one wintry day, at the early age of thirty-five. Much of Du Bellay's poetry illustrates rather the age and school to which he belonged than his own temper and genius. As with the writings of Ronsard and the other poets of the Pleiad, its interest depends not so much on the impress of individual genius upon it, as on the circumstance that it was once poetry a la mode, that it is part of the manner of a time--a time which made much of manner, and carried it to a high degree of perfection. It is one of the decorations of an age which threw much of its energy into the work of decoration. We feel a pensive pleasure in seeing these faded decorations, and observing how a group of actual men and women pleased themselves long ago. Ronsard's poems are a kind of epitome of his age. Of one side of that age, it is true, of the strenuous, the progressive, the serious movement, which was then going on, there is little; but of the catholic side, the losing side, the forlorn hope, hardly a figure is absent. The Queen of Scots, at whose desire Ronsard published his odes, reading him in her northern prison, felt that he was bringing back to her the true flavour of her early days in the court of Catherine at the Louvre, with its exotic Italian gaieties. Those who disliked that poetry, disliked it because they found that age itself distasteful. The poetry of Malherbe came, with its sustained style and weighty sentiment, but with nothing that set people singing; and the lovers of such poetry saw in the poetry of the Pleiad only the latest trumpery of the middle age. But the time came also when the school of Malherbe had had its day; and the Romanticists, who in their eagerness for excitement, for strange music and imagery, went back to the works of the middle age, accepted the Pleiad too with the rest; and in that new middle age which their genius has evoked, the poetry of the Pleiad has found its place. At first, with Malherbe, you may find it, like the architecture, the whole mode of life, the very dresses of that time, fantastic, faded, rococo. But if you look long enough to understand it, to conceive its sentiment, you will find that those wanton lines have a spirit guiding their caprices. For there is style there; one temper has shaped the whole; and everything that has style, that has been done as no other man or age could have done it, as it could never, for all our trying, be done again, has its true value and interest. Let us dwell upon it for a moment, and try to gather from it that special flower, ce fleur particulier, which Ronsard himself tells us every garden has. It is poetry not for the people, but for a confined circle, for courtiers, great lords and erudite persons, people who desire to be humoured, to gratify a certain refined voluptuousness they have in them. Ronsard loves, or dreams that he loves, a rare and peculiar type of beauty, la petite pucelle Angevine, with golden hair and dark eyes. But he has the ambition not only of being a courtier and a lover, but a great scholar also; he is anxious about orthography, about the letter e Grecque, the true spelling of Latin names in French writing, and the restoration of the letter i to its primitive liberty--del' i voyelle en sa premiere liberte. His poetry is full of quaint, remote learning. He is just a little pedantic, true always to his own express judgment, that to be natural is not enough for one who in poetry desires to produce work worthy of immortality. And therewithal a certain number of Greek words, which charmed Ronsard and his circle by their gaiety and daintiness, and a certain air of foreign elegance about them, crept into the French language: and there were other strange words which the poets of the Pleiad forged for themselves, and which had only an ephemeral existence. With this was mixed the desire to taste a more exquisite and various music than that of the older French verse, or of the classical poets. The music of the measured, scanned verse of Latin and Greek poetry is one thing; the music of the rhymed, unscanned verse of Villon and the old French poets, la poesie chantee, is another. To unite together these two kinds of music in a new school of French poetry, to make verse which should scan and rhyme as well, to search out and harmonise the measure of every syllable, and unite it to the swift, flitting, swallow-like motion of rhyme, to penetrate their poetry with a double music--this was the ambition of the Pleiad. They are insatiable of music, they cannot have enough of it; they desire a music of greater compass perhaps than words can possibly yield, to drain out the last drops of sweetness which a certain note or accent contains. This eagerness for music is almost the only serious thing in the poetry of the Pleiad; and it was Goudimel, the severe and protestant Goudimel, who set Ronsard's songs to music. But except in this matter these poets seem never quite in earnest. The old Greek and Roman mythology, which for the great Italians had been a motive so weighty and severe, becomes with them a mere toy. That "Lord of terrible aspect," Amor, has become Love, the boy or the babe. They are full of fine railleries; they delight in diminutives, ondelette, fontelette, doucelette, Cassandrette. Their loves are only half real, a vain effort to prolong the imaginative loves of the middle age beyond their natural lifetime. They write love-poems for hire. Like that party of people who tell the tales in Boccaccio's Decameron, they form a circle which in an age of great troubles, losses, anxieties, amuses itself with art, poetry, intrigue. But they amuse themselves with wonderful elegance; and sometimes their gaiety becomes satiric, for, as they play, real passions insinuate themselves, and at least the reality of death; their dejection at the thought of leaving this fair abode of our common daylight--le beau sejour du commun jour--is expressed by them with almost wearisome reiteration. But with this sentiment too they are able to trifle: the imagery of death serves for delicate ornament, and they weave into the airy nothingness of their verses their trite reflexions on the vanity of life; just as the grotesques of the charnel-house nest themselves, together with birds and flowers and the fancies of the pagan mythology, in the traceries of the architecture of that time, which wantons in its delicate arabesques with the images of old age and death. Ronsard became deaf at sixteen; and it was this circumstance which finally determined him to be a man of letters instead of a diplomatist, significantly, one might fancy; of a certain premature agedness, and of the tranquil, temperate sweetness appropriate to that, in the school of poetry which he founded. Its charm is that of a thing not vigorous or original, but full of the grace that comes of long study and reiterated refinements, and many steps repeated, and many angles worn down, with an exquisite faintness, une fadeur exquise, a certain tenuity and caducity, as for those who can bear nothing vehement or strong; for princes weary of love, like Francis the First, or of pleasure, like Henry the Third, or of action, like Henry the Fourth. Its merits are those of the old,--grace and finish, perfect in minute detail. For these people are a little jaded, and have a constant desire for a subdued and delicate excitement, to warm their creeping fancy a little. They love a constant change of rhyme in poetry, and in their houses that strange, fantastic interweaving of thin, reed-like lines, which are a kind of rhetoric in architecture. But the poetry of the Pleiad is true not only to the physiognomy of its age, but also to its country--ce pays du Vendomois--the names and scenery of which so often recur in it; the great Loire, with its long spaces of white sand; the little river Loir; the heathy, upland country, with its scattered pools of water and waste road-sides, and retired manors, with their crazy old feudal defences half fallen into decay; La Beauce, the granary of France, where the vast rolling fields of corn seem to anticipate the great western sea itself. It is full of the traits of that country. We see Du Bellay and Ronsard gardening, or hunting with their dogs, or watch the pastimes of a rainy day; and with this is connected a domesticity, a homeliness and simple goodness, by which this Northern country gains upon the South. They have the love of the aged for warmth, and understand the poetry of winter; for they are not far from the Atlantic, and the west wind which comes up from it, turning the poplars white, spares not this new Italy in France. So the fireside often appears, with the pleasures of winter, about the vast emblazoned chimneys of the time, and with a bonhomie as of little children, or old people. It is in Du Bellay's Olive, a collection of sonnets in praise of a half-imaginary lady, Sonnetz a la louange d'Olive, that these characteristics are most abundant. Here is a perfectly crystallised specimen:-- D'amour, de grace, et de haulte valeur Les feux divins estoient ceinctz et les cieulx S'estoient vestuz d'un manteau precieux A raiz ardens di diverse couleur: Tout estoit plein de beaute, de bonheur, La mer tranquille, et le vent gracieulx, Quand celle la nasquit en ces bas lieux Qui a pille du monde tout l'honneur. Ell' prist son teint des beux lyz blanchissans, Son chef de l'or, ses deux levres des rozes, Et du soleil ses yeux resplandissans: Le ciel usant de liberalite, Mist en l'esprit ses semences encloses, Son nom des Dieux prist l'immortalite. That he is thus a characteristic specimen of the poetical taste of that age, is indeed Du Bellay's chief interest. But if his work is to have the highest sort of interest, if it is to do something more than satisfy curiosity, if it is to have an aesthetic as distinct from an historical value, it is not enough for a poet to have been the true child of his age, to have conformed to its aesthetic conditions, and by so conforming to have charmed and stimulated that age; it is necessary that there should be perceptible in his work something individual, inventive, unique, the impress there of the writer's own temper and personality. This impress M. Sainte-Beuve thought he found in the Antiquites de Rome, and the Regrets, which he ranks as what has been called poesie intime, that intensely modern sort of poetry in which the writer has for his aim the portraiture of his own most intimate moods, and to take the reader into his confidence. That generation had other instances of this intimacy of sentiment: Montaigne's Essays are full of it, the carvings of the church of Brou are full of it. M. Sainte-Beuve has perhaps exaggerated the influence of this quality in Du Bellay's Regrets; but the very name of the book has a touch of Rousseau about it, and reminds one of a whole generation of self-pitying poets in modern times. It was in the atmosphere of Rome, to him so strange and mournful, that these pale flowers grew up; for that journey to Italy, which he deplored as the greatest misfortune of his life, put him in full possession of his talent, and brought out all its originality. And in effect you do find intimacy, intimite, here. The trouble of his life is analysed, and the sentiment of it conveyed directly to our minds; not a great sorrow or passion, but only the sense of loss in passing days, the ennui of a dreamer who has to plunge into the world's affairs, the opposition between actual life and the ideal, a longing for rest, nostalgia, home-sickness--that pre-eminently childish, but so suggestive sorrow, as significant of the final regret of all human creatures for the familiar earth and limited sky. The feeling for landscape is often described as a modern one; still more so is that for antiquity, the sentiment of ruins. Du Bellay has this sentiment. The duration of the hard, sharp outlines of things is a grief to him, and passing his wearisome days among the ruins of ancient Rome, he is consoled by the thought that all must one day end, by the sentiment of the grandeur of nothingness--la grandeur du rien. With a strange touch of far-off mysticism, he thinks that the great whole--le grand tout--into which all other things pass and lose themselves, ought itself sometimes to perish and pass away. Nothing less can relieve his weariness. From the stately aspects of Rome his thoughts went back continually to France, to the smoking chimneys of his little village, the longer twilight of the North, the soft climate of Anjou--la douceur Angevine; yet not so much to the real France, we may be sure, with its dark streets and its roofs of rough-hewn slate, as to that other country, with slenderer towers, and more winding rivers, and trees like flowers, and with softer sunshine on more gracefully-proportioned fields and ways, which the fancy of the exile, and the pilgrim, and of the schoolboy far from home, and of those kept at home unwillingly, everywhere builds up before or behind them. He came home at last, through the Grisons, by slow journeys; and there, in the cooler air of his own country, under its skies of milkier blue, the sweetest flower of his genius sprang up. There have been poets whose whole fame has rested on one poem, as Gray's on the Elegy in a Country Churchyard, or Ronsard's, as many critics have thought, on the eighteen lines of one famous ode. Du Bellay has almost been the poet of one poem; and this one poem of his is an Italian thing transplanted into that green country of Anjou; out of the Latin verses of Andrea Navagero, into French: but it is a thing in which the matter is almost nothing, and the form almost everything; and the form of the poem as it stands, written in old French, is all Du Bellay's own. It is a song which the winnowers are supposed to sing as they winnow the corn, and they invoke the winds to lie lightly on the grain. D'UN VANNEUR DE BLE AUX VENTS* A vous trouppe legere Qui d'aile passagere Par le monde volez, Et d'un sifflant murmure L'ombrageuse verdure Doulcement esbranlez. J'offre ces violettes, Ces lis & ces fleurettes, Et ces roses icy, Ces vermeillettes roses Sont freschement ecloses, Et ces oelliets aussi. De vostre doulce haleine, Eventez ceste plaine Eventez ce sejour; Ce pendant que j'ahanne A mon ble que je vanne A la chaleur du jour. *A graceful translation of this and some other poems of the Pleiad may be found in Ballads and Lyrics of old France, by Mr. Andrew Lang. That has, in the highest degree, the qualities, the value, of the whole Pleiad school of poetry, of the whole phase of taste from which that school derives--a certain silvery grace of fancy, nearly all the pleasures of which is in the surprise at the happy and dexterous way in which a thing slight in itself is handled. The sweetness of it is by no means to be got at by crushing, as you crush wild herbs to get at their perfume. One seems to hear the measured falling of the fans, with a child's pleasure on coming across the incident for the first time, in one of those great barns of Du Bellay's own country, La Beauce, the granary of France. A sudden light transfigures a trivial thing, a weather-vane, a windmill, a winnowing flail, the dust in the barn door: a moment--and the thing has vanished, because it was pure effect; but it leaves a relish behind it, a longing that the accident may happen again. 1872. WINCKELMANN ET EGO IN ARCADIA FUI Goethe's fragments of art-criticism contain a few pages of strange pregnancy on the character of Winckelmann. He speaks of the teacher who had made his career possible, but whom he had never seen, as of an abstract type of culture, consummate, tranquil, withdrawn already into the region of ideals, yet retaining colour from the incidents of a passionate intellectual life. He classes him with certain works of art, possessing an inexhaustible gift of suggestion, to which criticism may return again and again with renewed freshness. Hegel, in his lectures on the Philosophy of Art, estimating the work of his predecessors, has also passed a remarkable judgment on Winckelmann's writings:--"Winckelmann, by contemplation of the ideal works of the ancients, received a sort of inspiration, through which he opened a new sense for the study of art. He is to be regarded as one of those who, in the sphere of art, have known how to initiate a new organ for the human spirit." That it has given a new sense, that it has laid open a new organ, is the highest that can be said of any critical effort. It is interesting then to ask what kind of man it was who thus laid open a new organ. Under what conditions was that effected? Johann Joachim Winckelmann was born at Stendal, in Brandenburg, in the year 1717. The child of a poor tradesman, he passed through many struggles in early youth, the memory of which ever remained in him as a fitful cause of dejection. In 1763, in the full emancipation of his spirit, looking over the beautiful Roman prospect, he writes--"One gets spoiled here; but God owed me this; in my youth I suffered too much." Destined to assert and interpret the charm of the Hellenic spirit, he served first a painful apprenticeship in the tarnished intellectual world of Germany in the earlier half of the eighteenth century. Passing out of that into the happy light of the antique, he had a sense of exhilaration almost physical. We find him as a child in the dusky precincts of a German school, hungrily feeding on a few colourless books. The master of this school grows blind; Winckelmann becomes his famulus. The old man would have had him study theology. Winckelmann, free of the master's library, chooses rather to become familiar with the Greek classics. Herodotus and Homer win, with their "vowelled" Greek, his warmest enthusiasm; whole nights of fever are devoted to them; disturbing dreams of an Odyssey of his own come to him. "He felt in himself," says Madame de Stael, "an ardent attraction towards the South." In German imaginations even now traces are often to be found of that love of the sun, that weariness of the North (cette fatigue du nord), which carried the northern peoples away into those countries of the South. A fine sky brings to birth sentiments not unlike the love of one's Fatherland. To most of us, after all our steps towards it, the antique world, in spite of its intense outlines, its perfect self-expression, still remains faint and remote. To him, closely limited except on the one side of the ideal, building for his dark poverty "a house not made with hands," it early came to seem more real than the present. In the fantastic plans of foreign travel continually passing through his mind, to Egypt, for instance, and to France, there seems always to be rather a wistful sense of something lost to be regained, than the desire of discovering anything new. Goethe has told us how, in his eagerness actually to handle the antique, he became interested in the insignificant vestiges of it which the neighbourhood of Strasburg contained. So we hear of Winckelmann's boyish antiquarian wanderings among the ugly Brandenburg sandhills. Such a conformity between himself and Winckelmann, Goethe would have gladly noted. At twenty-one he enters the University at Halle, to study theology, as his friends desire; instead, he becomes the enthusiastic translator of Herodotus. The condition of Greek learning in German schools and universities had fallen, and there were no professors at Halle who could satisfy his sharp, intellectual craving. Of his professional education he always speaks with scorn, claiming to have been his own teacher from first to last. His appointed teachers did not perceive that a new source of culture was within their hands. Homo vagus et inconstans!--one of them pedantically reports of the future pilgrim to Rome, unaware on which side his irony was whetted. When professional education confers nothing but irritation on a Schiller, no one ought to be surprised; for Schiller, and such as he, are primarily spiritual adventurers. But that Winckelmann, the votary of the gravest of intellectual traditions, should get nothing but an attempt at suppression from the professional guardians of learning, is what may well surprise us. In 1743 he became master of a school at Seehausen. This was the most wearisome period of his life. Notwithstanding a success in dealing with children, which seems to testify to something simple and primeval in his nature, he found the work of teaching very depressing. Engaged in this work, he writes that he still has within him a longing desire to attain to the knowledge of beauty--sehnlich wuenschte zur Kenntniss des Schoenen zu gelangen. He had to shorten his nights, sleeping only four hours, to gain time for reading. And here Winckelmann made a step forward in culture. He multiplied his intellectual force by detaching from it all flaccid interests. He renounced mathematics and law, in which his reading had been considerable,--all but the literature of the arts. Nothing was to enter into his life unpenetrated by its central enthusiasm. At this time he undergoes the charm of Voltaire. Voltaire belongs to that flimsier, more artificial, classical tradition, which Winckelmann was one day to supplant, by the clear ring, the eternal outline of the genuine antique. But it proves the authority of such a gift as Voltaire's that it allures and wins even those born to supplant it. Voltaire's impression on Winckelmann was never effaced; and it gave him a consideration for French literature which contrasts with his contempt for the literary products of Germany. German literature transformed, siderealised, as we see it in Goethe, reckons Winckelmann among its initiators. But Germany at that time presented nothing in which he could have anticipated Iphigenie, and the formation of an effective classical tradition in German literature. Under this purely literary influence, Winckelmann protests against Christian Wolff and the philosophers. Goethe, in speaking of this protest, alludes to his own obligations to Emmanuel Kant. Kant's influence over the culture of Goethe, which he tells us could not have been resisted by him without loss, consisted in a severe limitation to the concrete. But he adds, that in born antiquaries, like Winckelmann, constant handling of the antique, with its eternal outline, maintains that limitation as effectually as a critical philosophy. Plato, however, saved so often for his redeeming literary manner, is excepted from Winckelmann's proscription of the philosophers. The modern student most often meets Plato on that side which seems to pass beyond Plato into a world no longer pagan, based on the conception of a spiritual life. But the element of affinity which he presents to Winckelmann is that which is wholly Greek, and alien from the Christian world, represented by that group of brilliant youths in the Lysis, still uninfected by any spiritual sickness, finding the end of all endeavour in the aspects of the human form, the continual stir and motion of a comely human life. This new-found interest in Plato's dialogues could not fail to increase his desire to visit the countries of the classical tradition. "It is my misfortune," he writes, "that I was not born to great place, wherein I might have had cultivation, and the opportunity of following my instinct and forming myself." A visit to Rome probably was already purposed, and he silently preparing for it. Count Buenau, the author of an historical work then of note, had collected at Noethenitz a valuable library, now part of the library of Dresden. In 1784 Winckelmann wrote to Buenau in halting French:--He is emboldened, he says, by Buenau's indulgence for needy men of letters. He desires only to devote himself to study, having never allowed himself to be dazzled by favourable prospects of the Church. He hints at his doubtful position "in a metaphysical age, when humane literature is trampled under foot. At present," he goes on, "little value is set on Greek literature, to which I have devoted myself so far as I could penetrate, when good books are so scarce and expensive." Finally, he desires a place in some corner of Buenau's library. "Perhaps, at some future time, I shall become more useful to the public, if, drawn from obscurity in whatever way, I can find means to maintain myself in the capital." Soon afterwards we find Winckelmann in the library at Noethenitz. Thence he made many visits to the collection of antiquities at Dresden. He became acquainted with many artists, above all with Oeser, Goethe's future friend and master, who, uniting a high culture with the practical knowledge of art, was fitted to minister to Winckelmann's culture. And now there opened for him a new way of communion with the Greek life. Hitherto he had handled the words only of Greek poetry, stirred indeed and roused by them, yet divining beyond the words an unexpressed pulsation of sensuous life. Suddenly he is in contact with that life, still fervent in the relics of plastic art. Filled as our culture is with the classical spirit, we can hardly imagine how deeply the human mind was moved, when, at the Renaissance, in the midst of a frozen world, the buried fire of ancient art rose up from under the soil. Winckelmann here reproduces for us the earlier sentiment of the Renaissance. On a sudden the imagination feels itself free. How facile and direct, it seems to say, is this life of the senses and the understanding, when once we have apprehended it! Here, surely, is the more liberal life we have been seeking so long, so near to us all the while. How mistaken and roundabout have been our efforts to reach it by mystic passion, and monastic reverie; how they have deflowered the flesh; how little they have emancipated us! Hermione melts from her stony posture, and the lost proportions of life right themselves. Here, then, we see in vivid realisation the native tendency of Winckelmann to escape from abstract theory to intuition, to the exercise of sight and touch. Lessing, in the Laocoon, has theorised finely on the relation of poetry to sculpture; and philosophy can give us theoretical reasons why not poetry but sculpture should be the most sincere and exact expression of the Greek ideal. By a happy, unperplexed dexterity, Winckelmann solves the question in the concrete. It is what Goethe calls his Gewahrwerden der griechischen Kunst, his FINDING of Greek art. Through the tumultuous richness of Goethe's culture, the influence of Winckelmann is always discernible, as the strong, regulative under-current of a clear, antique motive. "One learns nothing from him," he says to Eckermann, "but one becomes something." If we ask what the secret of this influence was, Goethe himself will tell us--elasticity, wholeness, intellectual integrity. And yet these expressions, because they fit Goethe, with his universal culture, so well, seem hardly to describe the narrow, exclusive interest of Winckelmann. Doubtless Winckelmann's perfection is a narrow perfection: his feverish nursing of the one motive of his life is a contrast to Goethe's various energy. But what affected Goethe, what instructed him and ministered to his culture, was the integrity, the truth to its type, of the given force. The development of his force was the single interest of Winckelmann, unembarrassed by anything else in him. Other interests, practical or intellectual, those slighter talents and motives not supreme, which in most men are the waste part of nature, and drain away their vitality, he plucked out and cast from him. The protracted longing of his youth is not a vague, romantic longing: he knows what he longs for, what he wills. Within its severe limits his enthusiasm burns like lava. "You know," says Lavater, speaking of Winckelmann's countenance, "that I consider ardour and indifference by no means incompatible in the same character. If ever there was a striking instance of that union, it is in the countenance before us." "A lowly childhood," says Goethe, "insufficient instruction in youth, broken, distracted studies in early manhood, the burden of school-keeping! He was thirty years old before he enjoyed a single favour of fortune: but as soon as he had attained to an adequate condition of freedom, he appears before us consummate and entire, complete in the ancient sense." But his hair is turning grey, and he has not yet reached the south. The Saxon court had become Roman Catholic, and the way to favour at Dresden was through Romish ecclesiastics. Probably the thought of a profession of the Romish religion was not new to Winckelmann. At one time he had thought of begging his way to Rome, from cloister to cloister, under the pretence of a disposition to change his faith. In 1751, the papal nuncio, Archinto, was one of the visitors at Noethenitz. He suggested Rome as the fitting stage for Winckelmann's attainments, and held out the hope of a place in the papal library. Cardinal Passionei, charmed with Winckelmann's beautiful Greek writing, was ready to play the part of Maecenas, on condition that the necessary change should be made. Winckelmann accepted the bribe, and visited the nuncio at Dresden. Unquiet still at the word "profession," not without a struggle, he joined the Romish Church, July the 11th, 1754. Goethe boldly pleads that Winckelmann was a pagan, that the landmarks of Christendom meant nothing to him. It is clear that he intended to deceive no one by his disguise; fears of the inquisition are sometimes visible during his life in Rome; he entered Rome notoriously with the works of Voltaire in his possession; the thought of what Count Buenau might be thinking of him seems to have been his greatest difficulty. On the other hand, he may have had a sense of a certain antique, and as it were pagan grandeur in the Roman Catholic religion. Turning from the crabbed Protestantism, which had been the weariness of his youth, he might reflect that while Rome had reconciled itself to the Renaissance, the Protestant principle in art had cut off Germany from the supreme tradition of beauty. And yet to that transparent nature, with its simplicity as of the earlier world, the loss of absolute sincerity must have been a real loss. Goethe understands that Winckelmann had made this sacrifice. Yet at the bar of the highest criticism, perhaps, Winckelmann may be absolved. The insincerity of his religious profession was only one incident of a culture in which the moral instinct, like the religious or political, was merged in the artistic. But then the artistic interest was that by desperate faithfulness to which Winckelmann was saved from the mediocrity, which, breaking through no bounds, moves ever in a bloodless routine, and misses its one chance in the life of the spirit and the intellect. There have been instances of culture developed by every high motive in turn, and yet intense at every point; and the aim of our culture should be to attain not only as intense but as complete a life as possible. But often the higher life is only possible at all, on condition of the selection of that in which one's motive is native and strong; and this selection involves the renunciation of a crown reserved for others. Which is better?--to lay open a new sense, to initiate a new organ for the human spirit, or to cultivate many types of perfection up to a point which leaves us still beyond the range of their transforming power? Savonarola is one type of success; Winckelmann is another; criticism can reject neither, because each is true to itself. Winckelmann himself explains the motive of his life when he says, "It will be my highest reward, if posterity acknowledges that I have written worthily." For a time he remained at Dresden. There his first book appeared, Thoughts on the Imitation of Greek Works of Art in Painting and Sculpture. Full of obscurities as it was, obscurities which baffled but did not offend Goethe when he first turned to art-criticism, its purpose was direct--an appeal from the artificial classicism of the day to the study of the antique. The book was well received, and a pension supplied through the king's confessor. In September 1755 he started for Rome, in the company of a young Jesuit. He was introduced to Raphael Mengs, a painter then of note, and found a home near him, in the artists' quarter, in a place where he could "overlook, far and wide, the eternal city." At first he was perplexed with the sense of being a stranger on what was to him, spiritually, native soil. "Unhappily," he cries in French, often selected by him as the vehicle of strong feeling, "I am one of those whom the Greeks call opsimatheis.--I have come into the world and into Italy too late." More than thirty years afterwards, Goethe also, after many aspirations and severe preparation of mind, visited Italy. In early manhood, just as he too was FINDING Greek art, the rumour of that high artist's life of Winckelmann in Italy had strongly moved him. At Rome, spending a whole year drawing from the antique, in preparation for Iphigenie, he finds the stimulus of Winckelmann's memory ever active. Winckelmann's Roman life was simple, primeval, Greek. His delicate constitution permitted him the use only of bread and wine. Condemned by many as a renegade, he had no desire for places of honour, but only to see his merits acknowledged, and existence assured to him. He was simple without being niggardly; he desired to be neither poor nor rich. Winckelmann's first years in Rome present all the elements of an intellectual situation of the highest interest. The beating of the intellect against its bars, the sombre aspect, the alien traditions, the still barbarous literature of Germany, are afar off; before him are adequate conditions of culture, the sacred soil itself, the first tokens of the advent of the new German literature, with its broad horizons, its boundless intellectual promise. Dante, passing from the darkness of the Inferno, is filled with a sharp and joyful sense of light, which makes him deal with it, in the opening of the Purgatorio, in a wonderfully touching and penetrative way. Hellenism, which is the principle pre-eminently of intellectual light (our modern culture may have more colour, the medieval spirit greater heat and profundity, but Hellenism is pre-eminent for light), has always been most effectively conceived by those who have crept into it out of an intellectual world in which the sombre elements predominate. So it had been in the ages of the Renaissance. This repression, removed at last, gave force and glow to Winckelmann's native affinity to the Hellenic spirit. "There had been known before him," says Madame de Stael, "learned men who might be consulted like books; but no one had, if I may say so, made himself a pagan for the purpose of penetrating antiquity." "One is always a poor executant of conceptions not one's own."--On execute mal ce qu'on n'a pas concu soi-meme*--words spoken on so high an occasion--are true in their measure of every genuine enthusiasm. Enthusiasm--that, in the broad Platonic sense of the Phaedrus, was the secret of his divinatory power over the Hellenic world. This enthusiasm, dependent as it is to a great degree on bodily temperament, has a power of re-enforcing the purer emotions of the intellect with an almost physical excitement. That his affinity with Hellenism was not merely intellectual, that the subtler threads of temperament were inwoven in it, is proved by his romantic, fervent friendships with young men. He has known, he says, many young men more beautiful than Guido's archangel. These friendships, bringing him in contact with the pride of human form, and staining his thoughts with its bloom, perfected his reconciliation with the spirit of Greek sculpture. A letter on taste, addressed from Rome to a young nobleman, Friedrich von Berg, is the record of such a friendship. *Words of Charlotte Corday before the Convention. "I shall excuse my delay," he begins, "in fulfilling my promise of an essay on the taste for beauty in works of art, in the words of Pindar. He says to Agesidamus, a youth of Locri--ideai te kalon, horai te kekramenon--whom he had kept waiting for an intended ode, that a debt paid with usury is the end of reproach. This may win your good-nature on behalf of my present essay, which has turned out far more detailed and circumstantial than I had at first intended. "It is from yourself that the subject is taken. Our intercourse has been short, too short both for you and me; but the first time I saw you, the affinity of our spirits was revealed to me: your culture proved that my hope was not groundless; and I found in a beautiful body a soul created for nobleness, gifted with the sense of beauty. My parting from you was therefore one of the most painful in my life; and that this feeling continues our common friend is witness, for your separation from me leaves me no hope of seeing you again. Let this essay be a memorial of our friendship, which, on my side, is free from every selfish motive, and ever remains subject and dedicate to yourself alone." The following passage is characteristic-- "As it is confessedly the beauty of man which is to be conceived under one general idea, so I have noticed that those who are observant of beauty only in women, and are moved little or not at all by the beauty of men, seldom have an impartial, vital, inborn instinct for beauty in art. To such persons the beauty of Greek art will ever seem wanting, because its supreme beauty is rather male than female. But the beauty of art demands a higher sensibility than the beauty of nature, because the beauty of art, like tears shed at a play, gives no pain, is without life, and must be awakened and repaired by culture. Now, as the spirit of culture is much more ardent in youth than in manhood, the instinct of which I am speaking must be exercised and directed to what is beautiful, before that age is reached, at which one would be afraid to confess that one had no taste for it." Certainly, of that beauty of living form which regulated Winckelmann's friendships, it could not be said that it gave no pain. One notable friendship, the fortune of which we may trace through his letters, begins with an antique, chivalrous letter in French, and ends noisily in a burst of angry fire. Far from reaching the quietism, the bland indifference of art, such attachments are nevertheless more susceptible than any others of equal strength of a purely intellectual culture. Of passion, of physical excitement, they contain only just so much as stimulates the eye to the finest delicacies of colour and form. These friendships, often the caprices of a moment, make Winckelmann's letters, with their troubled colouring, an instructive but bizarre addition to the History of Art, that shrine of grave and mellow light for the mute Olympian family. The impression which Winckelmann's literary life conveyed to those about him was that of excitement, intuition, inspiration, rather than the contemplative evolution of general principles. The quick, susceptible enthusiast, betraying his temperament even in appearance, by his olive complexion, his deep-seated, piercing eyes, his rapid movements, apprehended the subtlest principles of the Hellenic manner, not through the understanding, but by instinct or touch. A German biographer of Winckelmann has compared him to Columbus. That is not the aptest of comparisons; but it reminds one of a passage in which M. Edgar Quinet describes the great discoverer's famous voyage. His science was often at fault; but he had a way of estimating at once the slightest indication of land, in a floating weed or passing bird; he seemed actually to come nearer to nature than other men. And that world in which others had moved with so much embarrassment, seems to call out in Winckelmann new senses fitted to deal with it. He is in touch with it; it penetrates him, and becomes part of his temperament. He remodels his writings with constant renewal of insight; he catches the thread of a whole sequence of laws in some hollowing of the hand, or dividing of the hair; he seems to realise that fancy of the reminiscence of a forgotten knowledge hidden for a time in the mind itself; as if the mind of one, lover and philosopher at once in some phase of pre-existence-philosophesas pote met' erotos--fallen into a new cycle, were beginning its intellectual culture over again, yet with a certain power of anticipating its results. So comes the truth of Goethe's judgments on his works; they are a life, a living thing, designed for those who are alive--ein Lebendiges fuer die Lebendigen geschrieben, ein Leben selbst. In 1785 Cardinal Albani, who possessed in his Roman villa a precious collection of antiquities, became Winckelmann's patron. Pompeii had just opened its treasures; Winckelmann gathered its first-fruits. But his plan of a visit to Greece remained unfulfilled. From his first arrival in Rome he had kept the History of Ancient Art ever in view. All his other writings were a preparation for that. It appeared, finally, in 1764; but even after its publication Winckelmann was still employed in perfecting it. It is since his time that many of the most significant examples of Greek art have been submitted to criticism. He had seen little or nothing of what we ascribe to the age of Pheidias; and his conception of Greek art tends, therefore, to put the mere elegance of the imperial society of ancient Rome in place of the severe and chastened grace of the palaestra. For the most part he had to penetrate to Greek art through copies, imitations, and later Roman art itself; and it is not surprising that this turbid medium has left in Winckelmann's actual results much that a more privileged criticism can correct. He had been twelve years in Rome. Admiring Germany had many calls to him; at last, in 1768, he set out to revisit the country of his birth; and as he left Rome, a strange, inverted home-sickness, a strange reluctance to leave it at all, came over him. He reached Vienna: there he was loaded with honours and presents: other cities were awaiting him. Goethe, then nineteen years old, studying art at Leipsic, was expecting his coming, with that wistful eagerness which marked his youth, when the news of Winckelmann's murder arrived. All that "weariness of the North" had revived with double force. He left Vienna, intending to hasten back to Rome. At Trieste a delay of a few days occurred. With characteristic openness, Winckelmann had confided his plans to a fellow-traveller, a man named Arcangeli, and had shown him the gold medals received at Vienna. Arcangeli's avarice was aroused. One morning he entered Winckelmann's room, under pretence of taking leave; Winckelmann was then writing "memoranda for the future editor of the History of Art," still seeking the perfection of his great work. Arcangeli begged to see the medals once more. As Winckelmann stooped down to take them from the chest, a cord was thrown round his neck. Some time afterwards, a child whose friendship Winckelmann had made to beguile the delay, knocked at the door, and receiving no answer, gave an alarm. Winckelmann was found dangerously wounded, and died a few hours later, after receiving the sacraments of the Romish Church. It seemed as if the gods, in reward for his devotion to them, had given him a death which, for its swiftness and its opportunity, he might well have desired. "He has," says Goethe, "the advantage of figuring in the memory of posterity, as one eternally able and strong; for the image in which one leaves the world is that in which one moves among the shadows." Yet, perhaps, it is not fanciful to regret that the meeting with Goethe did not take place. Goethe, then in all the pregnancy of his wonderful youth, still unruffled by the press and storm of his earlier manhood, was awaiting Winckelmann with a curiosity of the worthiest kind. As it was, Winckelmann became to him something like what Virgil was to Dante. And Winckelmann, with his fiery friendships, had reached that age and that period of culture at which emotions hitherto fitful, sometimes concentrate themselves in a vital, unchangeable relationship. German literary history seems to have lost the chance of one of those famous friendships, the very tradition of which becomes a stimulus to culture, and exercises an imperishable influence. In one of the frescoes of the Vatican, Raffaelle has commemorated the tradition of the Catholic religion. Against a strip of peaceful sky, broken in upon by the beatific vision, are ranged the great personages of. Christian history, with the Sacrament in the midst. Another fresco of Raffaelle in the same apartment presents a very different company, Dante alone appearing in both. Surrounded by the muses of Greek mythology, under a thicket of myrtles, sits Apollo, with the sources of Castalia at his feet. On either side are grouped those on whom the spirit of Apollo descended, the classical and Renaissance poets, to whom the waters of Castalia come down, a river making glad this other city of God. In this fresco it is the classical tradition, the orthodoxy of taste, that Raffaelle commemorates. Winckelmann's intellectual history authenticates the claims of this tradition in human culture. In the countries where that tradition arose, where it still lurked about its own artistic relics, and changes of language had not broken its continuity, national pride might sometimes light up anew an enthusiasm for it. Aliens might imitate that enthusiasm, and classicism become from time to time an intellectual fashion. But Winckelmann was not further removed by language, than by local aspects and associations, from those vestiges of the classical spirit; and he lived at a time when, in Germany, classical studies were out of favour. Yet, remote in time and place, he feels after the Hellenic world, divines the veins of ancient art, in which its life still circulates, and, like Scyles, the half-barbarous yet Hellenising king, in the beautiful story of Herodotus, is irresistibly attracted by it. This testimony to the authority of the Hellenic tradition, its fitness to satisfy some vital requirement of the intellect, which Winckelmann contributes as a solitary man of genius, is offered also by the general history of culture. The spiritual forces of the past, which have prompted and informed the culture of a succeeding age, live, indeed, within that culture, but with an absorbed, underground life. The Hellenic element alone has not been so absorbed, or content with this underground life; from time to time it has started to the surface; culture has been drawn back to its sources to be clarified and corrected. Hellenism is not merely an absorbed element in our intellectual life; it is a conscious tradition in it. Again, individual genius works ever under conditions of time and place: its products are coloured by the varying aspects of nature, and type of human form, and outward manners of life. There is thus an element of change in art; criticism must never for a moment forget that "the artist is the child of his time." But besides these conditions of time and place, and independent of them, there is also an element of permanence, a standard of taste, which genius confesses. This standard is maintained in a purely intellectual tradition; it acts upon the artist, not as one of the influences of his own age, but by means of the artistic products of the previous generation, which in youth have excited, and at the same time directed into a particular channel, his sense of beauty. The supreme artistic products of each generation thus form a series of elevated points, taking each from each the reflexion of a strange light, the source of which is not in the atmosphere around and above them, but in a stage of society remote from ours. This standard takes its rise in Greece, at a definite historical period. A tradition for all succeeding generations, it originates in a spontaneous growth out of the influences of Greek society. What were the conditions under which this ideal, this standard of artistic orthodoxy, was generated? How was Greece enabled to force its thought upon Europe? Greek art, when we first catch sight of it, is entangled with Greek religion. We are accustomed to think of Greek religion as the religion of art and beauty, the religion of which the Olympian Zeus and the Athena Polias are the idols, the poems of Homer the sacred books. Thus Cardinal Newman speaks of "the classical polytheism which was gay and graceful, as was natural in a civilised age." Yet such a view is only a partial one; in it the eye is fixed on the sharp, bright edge of high Hellenic culture but loses sight of the sombre world across which it strikes. Greek religion, where we can observe it most distinctly, is at once a magnificent ritualistic system, and a cycle of poetical conceptions. Religions, as they grow by natural laws out of man's life, are modified by whatever modifies his life. They brighten under a bright sky, they become liberal as the social range widens, they grow intense and shrill in the clefts of human life, where the spirit is narrow and confined, and the stars are visible at noonday; and a fine analysis of these differences is one of the gravest functions of religious criticism. Still, the broad foundation, in mere human nature, of all religions as they exist for the greatest number, is a universal pagan sentiment, a paganism which existed before the Greek religion, and has lingered far onward into the Christian world, ineradicable, like some persistent vegetable growth, because its seed is an element of the very soil out of which it springs. This pagan sentiment measures the sadness with which the human mind is filled, whenever its thoughts wander far from what is here, and now. It is beset by notions of irresistible natural powers, for the most part ranged against man, but the secret also of his fortune, making the earth golden and the grape fiery for him. He makes gods in his own image, gods smiling and flower-crowned, or bleeding by some sad fatality, to console him by their wounds, never closed from generation to generation. It is with a rush of home-sickness that the thought of death presents itself. He would remain at home for ever on the earth if he could: as it loses its colour and the senses fail, he clings ever closer to it; but since the mouldering of bones and flesh must go on to the end, he is careful for charms and talismans, that may chance to have some friendly power in them, when the inevitable shipwreck comes. Such sentiment is a part of the eternal basis of all religions, modified indeed by changes of time and place, but indestructible, because its root is so deep in the earth of man's nature. The breath of religious initiators passes over them; a few "rise up with wings as eagles," but the broad level of religious life is not permanently changed. Religious progress, like all purely spiritual progress, is confined to a few. This sentiment fixes itself in the earliest times to certain usages of patriarchal life, the kindling of fire, the washing of the body, the slaughter of the flock, the gathering of harvest, holidays and dances. Here are the beginnings of a ritual, at first as occasional and unfixed as the sentiment which it expresses, but destined to become the permanent element of religious life. The usages of patriarchal life change; but this germ of ritual remains, developing, but always in a religious interest, losing its domestic character, and therefore becoming more and more inexplicable with each generation. This pagan worship, in spite of local variations, essentially one, is an element in all religions. It is the anodyne which the religious principle, like one administering opiates to the incurable, has added to the law which makes life sombre for the vast majority of mankind. More definite religious conceptions come from other sources, and fix themselves upon this ritual in various ways, changing it, and giving it new meanings. In Greece they were derived from mythology, itself not due to a religious source at all, but developing in the course of time into a body of religious conceptions, entirely human in form and character. To the unprogressive ritual element it brought these conceptions, itself--he pterou dunamis, the power of the wing--an element of refinement, of ascension, with the promise of an endless destiny. While the ritual remains fixed, the aesthetic element, only accidentally connected with it, expands with the freedom and mobility of the things of the intellect. Always, the fixed element is the religious observance; the fluid, unfixed element is the myth, the religious conception. This religion is itself pagan, and has in any broad view of it the pagan sadness. It does not at once, and for the majority, become the higher Hellenic religion. The country people, of course, cherish the unlovely idols of an earlier time, such as those which Pausanias found still devoutly preserved in Arcadia. Athenaeus tells the story of one who, coming to a temple of Latona, had expected to find some worthy presentment of the mother of Apollo, and laughed on seeing only a shapeless wooden figure. The wilder people have wilder gods, which, however, in Athens, or Corinth, or Lacedaemon, changing ever with the worshippers in whom they live and move and have their being, borrow something of the lordliness and distinction of human nature there. Greek religion too has its mendicants, its purifications, its antinomian mysticism, its garments offered to the gods, its statues worn with kissing, its exaggerated superstitions for the vulgar only, its worship of sorrow, its addolorata, its mournful mysteries. Scarcely a wild or melancholy note of the medieval church but was anticipated by Greek polytheism! What should we have thought of the vertiginous prophetess at the very centre of Greek religion? The supreme Hellenic culture is a sharp edge of light across this gloom. The fiery, stupefying wine becomes in a happier region clear and exhilarating. The Dorian worship of Apollo, rational, chastened, debonair, with his unbroken daylight, always opposed to the sad Chthonian divinities, is the aspiring element, by force and spring of which Greek religion sublimes itself. Out of Greek religion, under happy conditions, arises Greek art, to minister to human culture. It was the privilege of Greek religion to be able to transform itself into an artistic ideal. For the thoughts of the Greeks about themselves, and their relation to the world generally, were ever in the happiest readiness to be transformed into objects for the senses. In this lies the main distinction between Greek art and the mystical art of the Christian middle age, which is always struggling to express thoughts beyond itself. Take, for instance, a characteristic work of the middle age, Angelico's Coronation of the Virgin, in the cloister of Saint Mark's at Florence. In some strange halo of a moon Christ and the Virgin Mary are sitting, clad in mystical white raiment, half shroud, half priestly linen. Our Lord, with rosy nimbus and the long pale hair--tanquam lana alba et tanquam nix--of the figure in the Apocalypse, sets with slender finger-tips a crown of pearl on the head of his mother, who, corpse-like in her refinement, is bending forward to receive it, the light lying like snow upon her forehead. Certainly, it cannot be said of Angelico's fresco that it throws into a sensible form our highest thoughts about man and his relation to the world; but it did not do this adequately even for Angelico. For him, all that is outward or sensible in his work--the hair like wool, the rosy nimbus, the crown of pearl--is only the symbol or type of an inexpressible world, to which he wishes to direct the thoughts; he would have shrunk from the notion that what the eye apprehended was all. Such forms of art, then, are inadequate to the matter they clothe; they remain ever below its level. Something of this kind is true also of oriental art. As in the middle age from an exaggerated inwardness, so in the East from a vagueness, a want of definition, in thought, the matter presented to art is unmanageable: forms of sense struggle vainly with it. The many-headed gods of the East, the orientalised Diana of Ephesus, with its numerous breasts, like Angelico's fresco, are at best overcharged symbols, a means of hinting at an idea which art cannot adequately express, which still remains in the world of shadows. But take a work of Greek art,--the Venus of Melos. That is in no sense a symbol, a suggestion of anything beyond its own victorious fairness. The mind begins and ends with the finite image, yet loses no part of the spiritual motive. That motive is not lightly and loosely attached to the sensuous form, as the meaning to the allegory, but saturates and is identical with it. The Greek mind had advanced to a particular stage of self-reflexion, but was careful not to pass beyond it. In oriental thought there is a vague conception of life everywhere, but no true appreciation of itself by the mind, no knowledge of the distinction of man's nature: in its consciousness of itself, humanity is still confused with the fantastic, indeterminate life of the animal and vegetable world. In Greek thought the "lordship of the soul" is recognised; that lordship gives authority and divinity to human eyes and hands and feet; inanimate nature is thrown into the background. But there Greek thought finds its happy limit; it has not yet become too inward; the mind has not begun to boast of its independence of the flesh; the spirit has not yet absorbed everything with its emotions, nor reflected its own colour everywhere. It has indeed committed itself to a train of reflexion which must end in a defiance of form, of all that is outward, in an exaggerated idealism. But that end is still distant: it has not yet plunged into the depths of religious mysticism. This ideal art, in which the thought does not outstrip or lie beyond its sensible embodiment, could not have arisen out of a phase of life that was uncomely or poor. That delicate pause in Greek reflexion was joined, by some supreme good luck, to the perfect animal nature of the Greeks. Here are the two conditions of an artistic ideal. The influences which perfected the animal nature of the Greeks are part of the process by which the ideal was evolved. Those "Mothers" who, in the second part of Faust, mould and remould the typical forms which appear in human history, preside, at the beginning of Greek culture, over such a concourse of happy physical conditions as ever generates by natural laws some rare type of intellectual or spiritual life. That delicate air, "nimbly and sweetly recommending itself" to the senses, the finer aspects of nature, the finer lime and clay of the human form, and modelling of the dainty framework of the human countenance:--these are the good luck of the Greek when he enters upon life. Beauty becomes a distinction, like genius, or noble place. "By no people," says Winckelmann, "has beauty been so highly esteemed as by the Greeks. The priests of a youthful Jupiter at Aegae, of the Ismenian Apollo, and the priest who at Tanagra led the procession of Mercury, bearing a lamb upon his shoulders, were always youths to whom the prize of beauty had been awarded. The citizens of Egesta, in Sicily, erected a monument to a certain Philip, who was not their fellow-citizen, but of Croton, for his distinguished beauty; and the people made offerings at it. In an ancient song, ascribed to Simonides or Epicharmus, of four wishes, the first was health, the second beauty. And as beauty was so longed for and prized by the Greeks, every beautiful person sought to become known to the whole people by this distinction, and above all to approve himself to the artists, because they awarded the prize; and this was for the artists an opportunity of having supreme beauty ever before their eyes. Beauty even gave a right to fame; and we find in Greek histories the most beautiful people distinguished. Some were famous for the beauty of one single part of their form; as Demetrius Phalereus, for his beautiful eyebrows, was called Charito-blepharos. It seems even to have been thought that the procreation of beautiful children might be promoted by prizes: this is shown by the existence of contests for beauty, which in ancient times were established by Cypselus, King of Arcadia, by the river Alpheus; and, at the feast of Apollo of Philae, a prize was offered to the youths for the deftest kiss. This was decided by an umpire; as also at Megara, by the grave of Diodes. At Sparta, and at Lesbos, in the temple of Juno, and among the Parrhasii, there were contests for beauty among women. The general esteem for beauty went so far, that the Spartan women set up in their bedchambers a Nireus, a Narcissus, or a Hyacinth, that they might bear beautiful children." So, from a few stray antiquarianisms, a few faces cast up sharply from the waves, Winckelmann, as his manner is, divines the temperament of the antique world, and that in which it had delight. It has passed away with that distant age, and we may venture to dwell upon it. What sharpness and reality it has is the sharpness and reality of suddenly arrested life. The Greek system of gymnastics originated as part of a religious ritual. The worshipper was to recommend himself to the gods by becoming fleet and fair, white and red, like them. The beauty of the palaestra, and the beauty of the artist's studio, reacted on each other. The youth tried to rival his gods; and his increased beauty passed back into them.--"I take the gods to witness, I had rather have a fair body than a king's crown"--Omnumi pantas theous me helesthai an ten basileos arkhen anti tou kalos einai.--That is the form in which one age of the world chose the higher life--a perfect world, if the gods could have seemed for ever only fleet and fair, white and red. Let us not regret that this unperplexed youth of humanity, seeing itself and satisfied, passed, at the due moment, into a mournful maturity; for already the deep joy was in store for the spirit, of finding the ideal of that youth still red with life in the grave. It followed that the Greek ideal expressed itself pre-eminently in sculpture. All art has a sensuous element, colour, form, sound--in poetry a dexterous recalling of these, together with the profound, joyful sensuousness of motion: each of these may be a medium for the ideal: it is partly accident which in any individual case makes the born artist, poet, or painter rather than sculptor. But as the mind itself has had an historical development, one form of art, by the very limitations of its material, may be more adequate than another for the expression of any one phase of its experience. Different attitudes of the imagination have a native affinity with different types of sensuous form, so that they combine, with completeness and ease. The arts may thus be ranged in a series, which corresponds to a series of developments in the human mind itself. Architecture, which begins in a practical need, can only express by vague hint or symbol the spirit or mind of the artist. He closes his sadness over him, or wanders in the perplexed intricacies of things, or projects his purpose from him clean-cut and sincere, or bares himself to the sunlight. But these spiritualities, felt rather than seen, can but lurk about architectural form as volatile effects, to be gathered from it by reflexion; their expression is not really sensuous at all. As human form is not the subject with which it deals, architecture is the mode in which the artistic effort centres, when the thoughts of man concerning himself are still indistinct, when he is still little preoccupied with those harmonies, storms, victories, of the unseen and intellectual world, which, wrought out into the bodily form, give it an interest and significance communicable to it alone. The art of Egypt, with its supreme architectural effects, is, according to Hegel's beautiful comparison, a Memnon waiting for the day, the day of the Greek spirit, the humanistic spirit, with its power of speech. Again, painting, music, and poetry, with their endless power of complexity, are the special arts of the romantic and modern ages. Into these, with the utmost attenuation of detail, may be translated every delicacy of thought and feeling, incidental to a consciousness brooding with delight over itself. Through their gradations of shade, their exquisite intervals, they project in an external form that which is most inward in humour, passion, sentiment. Between architecture and the romantic arts of painting, music, and poetry, comes sculpture, which, unlike architecture, deals immediately with man, while it contrasts with the romantic arts, because it is not self-analytical. It has to do more exclusively than any other art with the human form, itself one entire medium of spiritual expression, trembling, blushing, melting into dew, with inward excitement. That spirituality which only lurks about architecture as a volatile effect, in sculpture takes up the whole given material, and penetrates it with an imaginative motive; and at first sight sculpture, with its solidity of form, seems a thing more real and full than the faint, abstract world of poetry or painting. Still the fact is the reverse. Discourse and action show man as he is, more directly than the springing of the muscles and the moulding of the flesh; and over these poetry has command. Painting, by the flushing of colour in the face and dilatation of light in the eye--music, by its subtle range of tones--can refine most delicately upon a single moment of passion, unravelling its finest threads. But why should sculpture thus limit itself to pure form? Because, by this limitation, it becomes a perfect medium of expression for one peculiar motive of the imaginative intellect. It therefore renounces all these attributes of its material which do not help forward that motive. It has had, indeed, from the beginning an unfixed claim to colour; but this element of colour in it has always been more or less conventional, with no melting or modulation of tones, never admitting more than a very limited realism. It was maintained chiefly as a religious tradition. In proportion as the art of sculpture ceased to be merely decorative, and subordinate to architecture, it threw itself upon pure form. It renounces the power of expression by sinking or heightening tones. In it, no member of the human form is more significant than the rest; the eye is wide, and without pupil; the lips and brow are hardly less significant than hands, and breasts, and feet. The limitation of its resources is part of its pride it has no backgrounds, no sky or atmosphere, to suggest and interpret a train of feeling; a little of suggested motion, and much of pure light on its gleaming surfaces, with pure form--only these. And it gains more than it loses by this limitation to its own distinguishing motives; it unveils man in the repose of his unchanging characteristics. Its white light, purged from the angry, bloodlike stains of action and passion, reveals, not what is accidental in man, but the god in him, as opposed to man's restless movement. The art of sculpture records the first naive, unperplexed recognition of man by himself; and it is a proof of the high artistic capacity of the Greeks, that they apprehended and remained true to these exquisite limitations, yet, in spite of them, gave to their creations a vital and mobile individuality. Heiterkeit--blitheness or repose, and Allgemeinheit--generality or breadth, are, then, the supreme characteristics of the Hellenic ideal. But that generality or breadth has nothing in common with the lax observation, the unlearned thought, the flaccid execution, which have sometimes claimed superiority in art, on the plea of being "broad" or "general." Hellenic breadth and generality come of a culture minute, severe, constantly renewed, rectifying and concentrating its impressions into certain pregnant types. The base of all artistic genius is the power of conceiving humanity in a new, striking, rejoicing way, of putting a happy world of its own creation in place of the meaner world of common days, of generating around itself an atmosphere with a novel power of refraction, selecting, transforming, recombining the images it transmits, according to the choice of the imaginative intellect. In exercising this power, painting and poetry have a choice of subject almost unlimited. The range of characters or persons open to them is as various as life itself; no character, however trivial, misshapen, or unlovely, can resist their magic. That is because those arts can accomplish their function in the choice and development of some special situation, which lifts or glorifies a character, in itself not poetical. To realise this situation, to define in a chill and empty atmosphere, the focus where rays, in themselves pale and impotent, unite and begin to burn, the artist has to employ the most cunning detail, to complicate and refine upon thought and passion a thousand-fold. The poems of Robert Browning supply brilliant examples of this power. His poetry is pre-eminently the poetry of situations. The characters themselves are always of secondary importance; often they are characters in themselves of little interest; they seem to come to him by strange accidents from the ends of the world. His gift is shown by the way in which he accepts such a character, and throws it into some situation, or apprehends it in some delicate pause of life, in which for a moment it becomes ideal. Take an instance from Dramatis Personae. In the poem entitled Le Byron de nos Jours, we have a single moment of passion thrown into relief in this exquisite way. Those two jaded Parisians are not intrinsically interesting; they only begin to interest us when thrown into a choice situation. But to discriminate that moment, to make it appreciable by us, that we may "find" it, what a cobweb of allusions, what double and treble reflexions of the mind upon itself, what an artificial light is constructed and broken over the chosen situation; on how fine a needle's point that little world of passion is balanced! Yet, in spite of this intricacy, the poem has the clear ring of a central motive; we receive from it the impression of one imaginative tone, of a single creative act. To produce such effects at all requires all the resources of painting, with its power of indirect expression, of subordinate but significant detail, its atmosphere, its foregrounds and backgrounds. To produce them in a pre-eminent degree requires all the resources of poetry, language in its most purged form, its remote associations and suggestions, its double and treble lights. These appliances sculpture cannot command. In it, therefore, not the special situation, but the type, the general character of the subject to be delineated, is all-important. In poetry and painting, the situation predominates over the character; in sculpture, the character over the situation. Excluded by the limitations of its material from the development of exquisite situations, it has to choose from a select number of types intrinsically interesting--interesting, that is, independently of any special situation into which they may be thrown. Sculpture finds the secret of its power in presenting these types, in their broad, central, incisive lines. This it effects not by accumulation of detail, but by abstracting from it. All that is accidental, all that distracts the simple effect upon us of the supreme types of humanity, all traces in them of the commonness of the world, it gradually purges away. Works of art produced under this law, and only these, are really characterised by Hellenic generality or breadth. In every direction it is a law of limitation; it keeps passion always below that degree of intensity at which it must necessarily be transitory, never winding up the features to one note of anger, or desire, or surprise. In some of the feebler allegorical designs of the middle age, we find isolated qualities portrayed as by so many masks; its religious art has familiarised us with faces fixed immovably into blank types of placid reverie; and men and women, in the hurry of life, often wear the sharp impress of one absorbing motive, from which it is said death sets their features free. All such instances may be ranged under the grotesque; and the Hellenic ideal has nothing in common with the grotesque. It allows passion to play lightly over the surface of the individual form, losing thereby nothing of its central impassivity, its depth and repose. To all but the highest culture, the reserved faces of the gods will ever have something of insipidity. Again, in the best Greek sculpture, the archaic immobility has been thawed, its forms are in motion; but it is a motion ever kept in reserve, which is very seldom committed to any definite action. Endless as are the attitudes of Greek sculpture, exquisite as is the invention of the Greeks in this direction, the actions or situations it permits are simple and few. There is no Greek Madonna; the goddesses are always childless. The actions selected are those which would be without significance, except in a divine person--binding on a sandal or preparing for the bath. When a more complex and significant action is permitted, it is most often represented as just finished, so that eager expectancy is excluded, as in the image of Apollo just after the slaughter of the Python, or of Venus with the apple of Paris already in her hand. The Laocoon, with all that patient science through which it has triumphed over an almost unmanageable subject, marks a period in which sculpture has begun to aim at effects legitimate, because delightful, only in painting. The hair, so rich a source of expression in painting, because, relatively to the eye or to the lip, it is mere drapery, is withdrawn from attention; its texture, as well as the colour, is lost, its arrangement faintly and severely indicated, with no enmeshed or broken light. The eyes are wide and directionless, not fixing anything with their gaze, or riveting the brain to any special external object; the brows without hair. It deals almost exclusively with youth, where the moulding of the bodily organs is still as if suspended between growth and completion, indicated but not emphasised; where the transition from curve to curve is so delicate and elusive, that Winckelmann compares it to a quiet sea, which, although we understand it to be in motion, we nevertheless regard as an image of repose; where, therefore, the exact degree of development is so hard to apprehend. If one had to choose a single product of Hellenic art, to save in the wreck of all the rest, one would choose from the "beautiful multitude" of the Panathenaic frieze, that line of youths on horseback, with their level glances, their proud, patient lips, their chastened reins, their whole bodies in exquisite service. This colourless, unclassified purity of life, with its blending and interpenetration of intellectual, spiritual, and physical elements, still folded together, pregnant with the possibilities of a whole world closed within it, is the highest expression of that indifference which lies beyond all that is relative or partial. Everywhere there is the effect of an awaking, of a child's sleep just disturbed. All these effects are united in a single instance--the adorante of the museum of Berlin, a youth who has gained the wrestler's prize, with hands lifted and open, in praise for the victory. Fresh, unperplexed, it is the image of man as he springs first from the sleep of nature; his white light taking no colour from any one-sided experience, characterless, so far as character involves subjection to the accidental influences of life. "This sense," says Hegel, "for the consummate modelling of divine and human forms was pre-eminently at home in Greece. In its poets and orators, its historians and philosophers, Greece cannot be conceived from a central point, unless one brings, as a key to the understanding of it, an insight into the ideal forms of sculpture, and regards the images of statesmen and philosophers, as well as epic and dramatic heroes, from the artistic point of view; for those who act, as well as those who create and think, have, in those beautiful days of Greece, this plastic character. They are great and free, and have grown up on the soil of their own individuality, creating themselves out of themselves, and moulding themselves to what they were, and willed to be. The age of Pericles was rich in such characters; Pericles himself, Pheidias, Plato, above all Sophocles, Thucydides also, Xenophon and Socrates, each in his own order, the perfection of one remaining undiminished by that of the others. They are ideal artists of themselves, cast each in one flawless mould, works of art, which stand before us as an immortal presentment of the gods. Of this modelling also are those bodily works of art, the victors in the Olympic games; yes, and even Phryne, who, as the most beautiful of women, ascended naked out of the water, in the presence of assembled Greece." This key to the understanding of the Greek spirit, Winckelmann possessed in his own nature, itself like a relic of classical antiquity, laid open by accident to our alien modern atmosphere. To the criticism of that consummate Greek modelling he brought not only his culture but his temperament. We have seen how definite was the leading motive of his culture; how, like some central root-fibre, it maintained the well-rounded unity of his life through a thousand distractions. Interests not his, nor meant for him, never disturbed him. In morals, as in criticism, he followed the clue of an unerring instinct. Penetrating into the antique world by his passion, his temperament, he enunciates no formal principles, always hard and one-sided. Minute and anxious as his culture was, he never became one-sidedly self-analytical. Occupied ever with himself, perfecting himself and cultivating his genius, he was not content, as so often happens with such natures, that the atmosphere between him and other minds should be thick and clouded; he was ever jealously refining his meaning into a form, express, clear, objective. This temperament he nurtured and invigorated by friendships which kept him ever in direct contact with the spirit of youth. The beauty of the Greek statues was a sexless beauty; the statues of the gods had the least traces of sex. Here there is a moral sexlessness, a kind of ineffectual wholeness of nature, yet with a true beauty and significance of its own. One result of this temperament is a serenity--Heiterkeit--which characterises Winckelmann's handling of the sensuous side of Greek art. This serenity is, perhaps, in great measure, a negative quality; it is the absence of any sense of want, or corruption, or shame. With the sensuous element in Greek art he deals in the pagan manner; and what is implied in that? It has been sometimes said that art is a means of escape from "the tyranny of the senses." It may be so for the spectator; he may find that the spectacle of supreme works of art takes from the life of the senses something of its turbid fever. But this is possible for the spectator only because the artist, in producing those works, has gradually sunk his intellectual and spiritual ideas in sensuous form. He may live, as Keats lived, a pure life; but his soul, like that of Plato's false astronomer, becomes more and more immersed in sense, until nothing which lacks an appeal to sense has interest for him. How could such an one ever again endure the greyness of the ideal or spiritual world? The spiritualist is satisfied in seeing the sensuous elements escape from his conceptions; his interest grows, as the dyed garment bleaches in the keener air. But the artist steeps his thought again and again into the fire of colour. To the Greek this immersion in the sensuous was indifferent. Greek sensuousness, therefore, does not fever the blood; it is shameless and childlike. Christian asceticism, on the other hand, discrediting the slightest touch of sense, has from time to time provoked into strong emphasis the contrast or antagonism to itself, of the artistic life, with its inevitable sensuousness.--I did but taste a little honey with the end of the rod that was in mine hand, and lo, I must die!--It has sometimes seemed hard to pursue that life without something of conscious disavowal of a spiritual world; and this imparts to genuine artistic interests a kind of intoxication. From this intoxication Winckelmann is free; he fingers those pagan marbles with unsinged hands, with no sense of shame or loss. That is to deal with the sensuous side of art in the pagan manner. The longer we contemplate that Hellenic ideal, in which man is at unity with himself, with his physical nature, with the outward world, the more we may be inclined to regret that he should ever have passed beyond it, to contend for a perfection that makes the blood turbid, and frets the flesh, and discredits the actual world about us. But if he was to be saved from the ennui which ever attaches itself to realisation, even the realisation of perfection, it was necessary that a conflict should come, and some sharper note grieve the perfect harmony, to the end that the spirit chafed by it might beat out at last a larger and profounder music. In Greek tragedy this conflict has begun; man finds himself face to face with rival claims. Greek tragedy shows how such a conflict may be treated with serenity, how the evolution of it may be a spectacle of the dignity, not of the impotence, of the human spirit. But it is not only in tragedy that the Greek spirit showed itself capable of thus winning joy out of matter in itself full of discouragements. Theocritus, too, often strikes a note of romantic sadness. But what a blithe and steady poise, above these discouragements, in a clear and sunny stratum of the air! Into this stage of Greek achievement Winckelmann did not enter. Supreme as he is where his true interest lay, his insight into the typical unity and repose of the highest sort of sculpture seems to have involved limitation in another direction. His conception of art excludes that bolder type of it which deals confidently and serenely with life, conflict, evil. Living in a world of exquisite but abstract and colourless form, he could hardly have conceived of the subtle and penetrative, but somewhat grotesque art of the modern world. What would he have thought of Gilliatt, in Victor Hugo's Travailleurs de la Mer, or of the bleeding mouth of Fantine in the first part of Les Miserables, penetrated as it is with a sense of beauty, as lively and transparent as that of a Greek? There is even a sort of preparation for the romantic temper within the limits of the Greek ideal itself, which Winckelmann failed to see. For Greek religion has not merely its mournful mysteries of Adonis, of Hyacinthus, of Demeter, but it is conscious also of the fall of earlier divine dynasties. Hyperion gives way to Apollo, Oceanus to Poseidon. Around the feet of that tranquil Olympian family still crowd the weary shadows of an earlier, more formless, divine world. Even their still minds are troubled with thoughts of a limit to duration, of inevitable decay, of dispossession. Again, the supreme and colourless abstraction of those divine forms, which is the secret of their repose, is also a premonition of the fleshless, consumptive refinements of the pale medieval artists. That high indifference to the outward, that impassivity, has already a touch of the corpse in it; we see already Angelico and the Master of the Passion in the artistic future. The crushing of the sensuous, the shutting of the door upon it, the ascetic interest, is already traceable. Those abstracted gods, "ready to melt out their essence fine into the winds," who can fold up their flesh as a garment, and still remain themselves, seem already to feel that bleak air, in which, like Helen of Troy, they wander as the spectres of the middle age. Gradually, as the world came into the church, an artistic interest, native in the human soul, reasserted its claims. But Christian art was still dependent on pagan examples, building the shafts of pagan temples into its churches, perpetuating the form of the basilica, in later times working the disused amphitheatres as quarries. The sensuous expression of conceptions which unreservedly discredit the world of sense, was the delicate problem which Christian art had before it. If we think of medieval painting, as it ranges from the early German schools, still with something of the air of the charnel-house about them, to the clear loveliness of Perugino, we shall see how that problem was solved. Even in the worship of sorrow the native blitheness of art asserted itself; the religious spirit, as Hegel says, "smiled through its tears." So perfectly did the young Raffaelle infuse that Heiterkeit, that pagan blitheness, into religious works, that his picture of Saint Agatha at Bologna became to Goethe a step in the evolution of Iphigenie.* But in proportion as this power of smiling was found again, there came also an aspiration towards that lost antique art, some relics of which Christian art had buried in itself, ready to work wonders when their day came. *Italiaenische Reise. Bologna, 19 Oct. 1776. The history of art has suffered as much as any history by trenchant and absolute divisions. Pagan and Christian art are sometimes harshly opposed, and the Renaissance is represented as a fashion which set in at a definite period. That is the superficial view: the deeper view is that which preserves the identity of European culture. The two are really continuous; and there is a sense in which it may be said that the Renaissance was an uninterrupted effort of the middle age, that it was ever taking place. When the actual relics of the antique were restored to the world, in the view of the Christian ascetic it was as if an ancient plague-pit had been opened: all the world took the contagion of the life of nature and of the senses. And now it was seen that the medieval spirit too had done something for the destiny of the antique. By hastening the decline of art, by withdrawing interest from it, and yet keeping unbroken the thread of its traditions, it had suffered the human mind to repose that it might awake when day came, with eyes refreshed, to those antique forms. The aim of a right criticism is to place Winckelmann in an intellectual perspective, of which Goethe is the foreground. For, after all, he is infinitely less than Goethe; it is chiefly because at certain points he comes in contact with Goethe, that criticism entertains consideration of him. His relation to modern culture is a peculiar one. He is not of the modern world; nor is he of the eighteenth century, although so much of his outer life is characteristic of it. But that note of revolt against the eighteenth century, which we detect in Goethe, was struck by Winckelmann. Goethe illustrates that union of the Romantic spirit, in its adventure, its variety, its profound subjectivity of soul, with Hellenism, in its transparency, its rationality, its desire of Beauty--that marriage of Faust and Helena--of which the art of the nineteenth century is the child, the beautiful lad Euphorion, as Goethe conceives him, on the crags, in the "splendour of battle and in harness as for victory," his brows bound with light.* Goethe illustrates, too, the preponderance in this marriage of the Hellenic element; and that element, in its true essence, was made known to him by Winckelmann. *Faust, Th. ii. Act. 3. Breadth, centrality, with blitheness and repose, are the marks of Hellenic culture. Is that culture a lost art? The local, accidental colouring of its own age has passed from it; the greatness that is dead looks greater when every link with what is slight and vulgar has been severed; we can only see it at all in the reflected, refined light which a high education creates for us. Can we bring down that ideal into the gaudy, perplexed light of modern life? Certainly, for us of the modern world, with its conflicting claims, its entangled interests, distracted by so many sorrows, so many preoccupations, so bewildering an experience, the problem of unity with ourselves, in blitheness and repose, is far harder than it was for the Greek within the simple terms of antique life. Yet, not less than ever, the intellect demands completeness, centrality. It is this which Winckelmann imprints on the imagination of Goethe, at the beginning of his culture, in its original and simplest form, as in a fragment of Greek art itself, stranded on that littered, indeterminate shore of Germany in the eighteenth century. In Winckelmann, this type comes to him, not as in a book or a theory, but importunately, in a passionate life or personality. For Goethe, possessing all modern interests, ready to be lost in the perplexed currents of modern thought, he defines, in clearest outline, the problem of culture--balance, unity with oneself, consummate Greek modelling. It could no longer be solved, as in Phryne ascending naked out of the water, by perfection of bodily form, or any joyful union with the world without: the shadows had grown too long, the light too solemn, for that. It could hardly be solved, as in Pericles or Pheidias, by the direct exercise of any single talent: amid the manifold claims of modern culture, that could only have ended in a thin, one-sided growth. Goethe's Hellenism was of another order, the Allgemeinheit and Heiterkeit, the completeness and serenity, of a watchful, exigent intellectualism. Im Ganzen, Guten, Wahren, resolut zu leben--is Goethe's description of his own higher life; and what is meant by life in the whole--im Ganzen? It means the life of one for whom, over and over again, what was once precious has become indifferent. Every one who aims at the life of culture is met by many forms of it, arising out of the intense, laborious, one-sided development of some special talent. They are the brightest enthusiasms the world has to show. It is not their part to weigh the claims which this or that alien form of culture makes upon them. But the pure instinct of self-culture cares not so much to reap all that these forms of culture can give, as to find in them its own strength. The demand of the intellect is to feel itself alive. It must see into the laws, the operation, the intellectual reward of every divided form of culture; but only that it may measure the relation between itself and them. It struggles with those forms till its secret is won from each, and then lets each fall back into its place; in the supreme, artistic view of life. With a kind of passionate coldness, such natures rejoice to be away from and past their former selves. Above all, they are jealous of that abandonment to one special gift which really limits their capabilities. It would have been easy for Goethe, with the gift of a sensuous nature, to let it overgrow him. It comes easily and naturally, perhaps, to certain "other-worldly" natures to be even as the Schoene Seele, that ideal of gentle pietism, in Wilhelm Meister: but to the large vision of Goethe, that seemed to be a phase of life that a man might feel all round, and leave behind him. Again, it is easy to indulge the commonplace metaphysical instinct. But a taste for metaphysics may be one of those things which we must renounce, if we mean to mould our lives to artistic perfection. Philosophy serves culture, not by the fancied gift of absolute or transcendental knowledge, but by suggesting questions which help one to detect the passion, and strangeness, and dramatic contrasts of life. But Goethe's culture did not remain "behind the veil"; it ever emerged in the practical functions of art, in actual production. For him the problem came to be:--Can the blitheness and universality of the antique ideal be communicated to artistic productions, which shall contain the fulness of the experience of the modern world? We have seen that the development of the various forms of art has corresponded to the development of the thoughts of man concerning himself, to the growing revelation of the mind to itself. Sculpture corresponds to the unperplexed, emphatic outlines of Hellenic humanism; painting to the mystic depth and intricacy of the middle age; music and poetry have their fortune in the modern world. Let us understand by poetry all literary production which attains the power of giving pleasure by its form, as distinct from its matter. Only in this varied literary form can art command that width, variety, delicacy of resources, which will enable it to deal with the conditions of modern life. What modern art has to do in the service of culture is so to rearrange the details of modern life, so to reflect it, that it may satisfy the spirit. And what does the spirit need in the face of modern life? The sense of freedom. That naive, rough sense of freedom, which supposes man's will to be limited, if at all, only by a will stronger than his, he can never have again. The attempt to represent it in art would have so little verisimilitude that it would be flat and uninteresting. The chief factor in the thoughts of the modern mind concerning itself is the intricacy, the universality of natural law, even in the moral order. For us, necessity is not, as of old, a sort of mythological personage without us, with whom we can do warfare: it is a magic web woven through and through us, like that magnetic system of which modern science speaks, penetrating us with a network, subtler than our subtlest nerves, yet bearing in it the central forces of the world. Can art represent men and women in these bewildering toils so as to give the spirit at least an equivalent for the sense of freedom? Certainly, in Goethe's romances, and even more in the romances of Victor Hugo, there are high examples of modern art dealing thus with modern life, regarding that life as the modern mind must regard it, yet reflecting upon blitheness and repose. Natural laws we shall never modify, embarrass us as they may; but there is still something in the nobler or less noble attitude with which we watch their fatal combinations. In those romances of Goethe and Victor Hugo, in some excellent work done after them, this entanglement, this network of law, becomes the tragic situation, in which certain groups of noble men and women work out for themselves a supreme Denouement. Who, if he saw through all, would fret against the chain of circumstance which endows one at the end with those great experiences? 1867. CONCLUSION* *This brief "Conclusion" was omitted in the second edition of this book, as I conceived it might possibly mislead some of those young men into whose hands it might fall. On the whole, I have thought it best to reprint it here, with some slight changes which bring it closer to my original meaning. I have dealt more fully in Marius the Epicurean with the thoughts suggested by it. Legei pou Herakleitos hoti panta khorei kai ouden menei. To regard all things and principles of things as inconstant modes or fashions has more and more become the tendency of modern thought. Let us begin with that which is without--our physical life. Fix upon it in one of its more exquisite intervals, the moment, for instance, of delicious recoil from the flood of water in summer heat. What is the whole physical life in that moment but a combination of natural elements to which science gives their names? But these elements, phosphorus and lime and delicate fibres, are present not in the human body alone: we detect them in places most remote from it. Our physical life is a perpetual motion of them--the passage of the blood, the wasting and repairing of the lenses of the eye, the modification of the tissues of the brain by every ray of light and sound--processes which science reduces to simpler and more elementary forces. Like the elements of which we are composed, the action of these forces extends beyond us; it rusts iron and ripens corn. Far out on every side of us those elements are broadcast, driven by many forces; and birth and gesture and death and the springing of violets from the grave are but a few out of ten thousand resultant combinations. That clear, perpetual outline of face and limb is but an image of ours, under which we group them--a design in a web, the actual threads of which pass out beyond it. This at least of flamelike our life has, that it is but the concurrence, renewed from moment to moment, of forces parting sooner or later on their ways. Or if we begin with the inward world of thought and feeling, the whirlpool is still more rapid, the flame more eager and devouring. There it is no longer the gradual darkening of the eye and fading of colour from the wall,--the movement of the shore-side, where the water flows down indeed, though in apparent rest,--but the race of the mid-stream, a drift of momentary acts of sight and passion and thought. At first sight experience seems to bury us under a flood of external objects, pressing upon us with a sharp and importunate reality, calling us out of ourselves in a thousand forms of action. But when reflexion begins to act upon those objects they are dissipated under its influence; the cohesive force seems suspended like a trick of magic; each object is loosed into a group of impressions--colour, odour, texture--in the mind of the observer. And if we continue to dwell in thought on this world, not of objects in the solidity with which language invests them, but of impressions unstable, flickering, inconsistent, which burn and are extinguished with our consciousness of them, it contracts still further; the whole scope of observation is dwarfed to the narrow chamber of the individual mind. Experience, already reduced to a swarm of impressions, is ringed round for each one of us by that thick wall of personality through which no real voice has ever pierced on its way to us, or from us to that which we can only conjecture to be without. Every one of those impressions is the impression of the individual in his isolation, each mind keeping as a solitary prisoner its own dream of a world. Analysis goes a step farther still, and assures us that those impressions of the individual mind to which, for each one of us, experience dwindles down, are in perpetual flight; that each of them is limited by time, and that as time is infinitely divisible, each of them is infinitely divisible also; all that is actual in it being a single moment, gone while we try to apprehend it, of which it may ever be more truly said that it has ceased to be than that it is. To such a tremulous wisp constantly re-forming itself on the stream, to a single sharp impression, with a sense in it, a relic more or less fleeting, of such moments gone by, what is real in our life fines itself down. It is with this movement, with the passage and dissolution of impressions, images, sensations, that analysis leaves off--that continual vanishing away, that strange, perpetual weaving and unweaving of ourselves. Philosophiren, says Novalis, ist dephlegmatisiren vivificiren. The service of philosophy, of speculative culture, towards the human spirit is to rouse, to startle it into sharp and eager observation. Every moment some form grows perfect in hand or face; some tone on the hills or the sea is choicer than the rest; some mood of passion or insight or intellectual excitement is irresistibly real and attractive for us,--for that moment only. Not the fruit of experience, but experience itself, is the end. A counted number of pulses only is given to us of a variegated, dramatic life. How may we see in them all that is to be seen in them by the finest senses? How shall we pass most swiftly from point to point, and be present always at the focus where the greatest number of vital forces unite in their purest energy? To burn always with this hard, gemlike flame, to maintain this ecstasy, is success in life. In a sense it might even be said that our failure is to form habits: for, after all, habit is relative to a stereotyped world, and meantime it is only the roughness of the eye that makes any two persons, things, situations, seem alike. While all melts under our feet, we may well catch at any exquisite passion, or any contribution to knowledge that seems by a lifted horizon to set the spirit free for a moment, or any stirring of the senses, strange dyes, strange colours, and curious odours, or work of the artist's hands, or the face of one's friend. Not to discriminate every moment some passionate attitude in those about us, and in the brilliancy of their gifts some tragic dividing of forces on their ways, is, on this short day of frost and sun, to sleep before evening. With this sense of the splendour of our experience and of its awful brevity, gathering all we are into one desperate effort to see and touch, we shall hardly have time to make theories about the things we see and touch. What we have to do is to be for ever curiously testing new opinions and courting new impressions, never acquiescing in a facile orthodoxy of Comte, or of Hegel, or of our own. Philosophical theories or ideas, as points of view, instruments of criticism, may help us to gather up what might otherwise pass unregarded by us. "Philosophy is the microscope of thought." The theory or idea or system which requires of us the sacrifice of any part of this experience, in consideration of some interest into which we cannot enter, or some abstract theory we have not identified with ourselves, or what is only conventional, has no real claim upon us. One of the most beautiful passages in the writings of Rousseau is that in the sixth book of the Confessions, where he describes the awakening in him of the literary sense. An undefinable taint of death had always clung about him, and now in early manhood he believed himself smitten by mortal disease. He asked himself how he might make as much as possible of the interval that remained; and he was not biassed by anything in his previous life when he decided that it must be by intellectual excitement, which he found just then in the clear, fresh writings of Voltaire. Well! we are all condamnes, as Victor Hugo says: we are all under sentence of death but with a sort of indefinite reprieve--les hommes sont tous condamnes a mort avec des sursis indefinis: we have an interval, and then our place knows us no more. Some spend this interval in listlessness, some in high passions, the wisest, at least among "the children of this world," in art and song. For our one chance lies in expanding that interval, in getting as many pulsations as possible into the given time. Great passions may give us this quickened sense of life, ecstasy and sorrow of love, the various forms of enthusiastic activity, disinterested or otherwise, which come naturally to many of us. Only be sure it is passion--that it does yield you this fruit of a quickened, multiplied consciousness. Of this wisdom, the poetic passion, the desire of beauty, the love of art for art's sake, has most; for art comes to you professing frankly to give nothing but the highest quality to your moments as they pass, and simply for those moments' sake. 
20804	----	LUCRETIA BORGIA [Illustration: LUCRETIA BORGIA. From a portrait attributed to Dosso Dossi, in the possession of Mr. Henry Doetsch, London.] FERDINAND GREGOROVIUS LUCRETIA BORGIA ACCORDING TO ORIGINAL DOCUMENTS AND CORRESPONDENCE OF HER DAY TRANSLATED FROM THE THIRD GERMAN EDITION BY JOHN LESLIE GARNER BENJAMIN BLOM New York/London TO DON MICHELANGELO GAETANI DUKE OF SERMONETA First published New York 1904 Reissued 1968 by Benjamin Blom, Inc. 10452 Library of Congress Catalog Card No. 68-20226 Manufactured in the United States of America TO DON MICHELANGELO GAETANI DUKE OF SERMONETA MY HONORED DUKE: I am induced to dedicate this work to you by the historical circumstances of which it treats and also by personal considerations. In it you will behold the founders of your ancient and illustrious family. The Borgias were mortal enemies of the Gaetani, who narrowly escaped the fate prepared for them by Alexander VI and his terrible son. Beautiful Sermoneta and all the great fiefs in the Maremma fell into the maw of the Borgias, and your ancestors either found death at their hands or were driven into exile. Donna Lucretia became mistress of Sermoneta, and eventually her son, Rodrigo of Aragon, inherited the estates of the Gaetani. Centuries have passed, and a beautiful and unfortunate woman may be forgiven for this confiscation of the appanages of your house. Moreover, it was not long before your family was reinstated in its rights by a bull of Julius II, which is now preserved--a precious jewel--in your family archives. To your house has descended the fame of its founders, but to yourself is due the position which the Gaetani now again enjoy. The survival of historical tradition in things and men exercises an indescribable charm on every student of civilization. To recognize in the ancient and still nourishing families of modern Rome the descendants of the great personalities of other times, and to enjoy daily intercourse with them, made a profound impression on me. The Colonna, the Orsini, and the Gaetani are my friends, and all afforded me the greatest assistance. These families long ago vanished from the stage of Roman history, but the day came, illustrious Duke, when you were to make a place again for your ancient race in the history of the Imperial City; the day when--the temporal power of the popes having passed away, a power which had endured a thousand years--you carried to King Victor Emmanuel in Florence the declaration of allegiance of the Roman populace. This episode, marking the beginning of a new era for the city, will live, together with your name, in the annals of the Gaetani, and will preserve it forever in the memory of the Romans. GREGOROVIUS. ROME, _March 9, 1874_. CONTENTS BOOK THE FIRST--LUCRETIA BORGIA IN ROME CHAPTER I PAGE LUCRETIA'S FATHER 3 CHAPTER II LUCRETIA'S MOTHER 10 CHAPTER III LUCRETIA'S FIRST HOME 15 CHAPTER IV LUCRETIA'S EDUCATION 20 CHAPTER V NEPOTISM--GIULIA FARNESE--LUCRETIA'S BETROTHALS 34 CHAPTER VI HER FATHER BECOMES POPE--GIOVANNI SFORZA 44 CHAPTER VII LUCRETIA'S FIRST MARRIAGE 53 CHAPTER VIII FAMILY AFFAIRS 62 CHAPTER IX LUCRETIA LEAVES ROME 71 CHAPTER X HISTORY AND DESCRIPTION OF PESARO 76 CHAPTER XI THE INVASION OF ITALY--THE PROFLIGATE WORLD 87 CHAPTER XII THE DIVORCE AND SECOND MARRIAGE 102 CHAPTER XIII A REGENT AND A MOTHER 113 CHAPTER XIV SOCIAL LIFE OF THE BORGIAS 125 CHAPTER XV MISFORTUNES OF CATARINA SFORZA 137 CHAPTER XVI MURDER OF ALFONSO OF ARAGON 145 CHAPTER XVII LUCRETIA AT NEPI 152 CHAPTER XVIII CÆSAR AT PESARO 159 CHAPTER XIX ANOTHER MARRIAGE PLANNED FOR LUCRETIA 167 CHAPTER XX NEGOTIATIONS WITH THE HOUSE OF ESTE 182 CHAPTER XXI THE EVE OF THE WEDDING 196 CHAPTER XXII ARRIVAL AND RETURN OF THE BRIDAL ESCORT 207 BOOK THE SECOND--LUCRETIA IN FERRARA CHAPTER I LUCRETIA'S JOURNEY TO FERRARA 229 CHAPTER II FORMAL ENTRY INTO FERRARA 239 CHAPTER III FÊTES GIVEN IN LUCRETIA'S HONOR 250 CHAPTER IV THE ESTE DYNASTY--DESCRIPTION OF FERRARA 266 CHAPTER V DEATH OF ALEXANDER VI 279 CHAPTER VI EVENTS FOLLOWING THE POPE'S DEATH 293 CHAPTER VII COURT POETS--GIULIA BELLA AND JULIUS II--THE ESTE DYNASTY ENDANGERED 303 CHAPTER VIII ESCAPE AND DEATH OF CÆSAR 317 CHAPTER IX MURDER OF ERCOLE STROZZI--DEATH OF GIOVANNI SFORZA AND OF LUCRETIA'S ELDEST SON 326 CHAPTER X EFFECTS OF THE WAR--THE ROMAN INFANTE 338 CHAPTER XI LAST YEARS AND DEATH OF VANNOZZA 345 CHAPTER XII DEATH OF LUCRETIA BORGIA--CONCLUSION 355 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS Lucretia Borgia, from a portrait attributed to Dosso Dossi _Frontispiece_ Trajan's Forum, Rome 16 Church of S. Maria del Popolo, Rome 20 Vittoria Colonna 30 The Farnese Palace, Rome 36 Alexander VI 44 Church of Ara Coeli, Rome 58 Tasso 82 Charles VIII 88 Savonarola 94 Macchiavelli 100 Cæsar Borgia 148 Guicciardini 176 Ercole d'Este, Duke of Ferrara 206 Castle of S. Angelo, Rome 210 Ariosto 248 Castle Vecchio, Ferrara 270 Benvenuto Garofalo 278 Facsimile of a letter from Alexander VI to Lucretia 281 Cardinal Bembo 290 Julius II 298 Facsimile of a letter from Lucretia to Marquis Gonzaga 301 Alfonso d'Este, Duke of Ferrara 304 Aldo Manuzio 328 Leo X 338 Lucretia Borgia, after a painting in the Musée de Nîmes 360 INTRODUCTION Lucretia Borgia is the most unfortunate woman in modern history. Is this because she was guilty of the most hideous crimes, or is it simply because she has been unjustly condemned by the world to bear its curse? The question has never been answered. Mankind is ever ready to discover the personification of human virtues and human vices in certain typical characters found in history and fable. The Borgias will never cease to fascinate the historian and the psychologist. An intelligent friend of mine once asked me why it was that everything about Alexander VI, Cæsar, and Lucretia Borgia, every little fact regarding their lives, every newly discovered letter of any of them, aroused our interest much more than did anything similar concerning other and vastly more important historic characters. I know of no better explanation than the following: the Borgias had for background the Christian Church; they made their first appearance issuing from it; they used it for their advancement; and the sharp contrast of their conduct with the holy state makes them appear altogether fiendish. The Borgias are a satire on a great form or phase of religion, debasing and destroying it. They stand on high pedestals, and from their presence radiates the light of the Christian ideal. In this form we behold and recognize them. We view their acts through a medium which is permeated with religious ideas. Without this, and placed on a purely secular stage, the Borgias would have fallen into a position much less conspicuous than that of many other men, and would soon have ceased to be anything more than representatives of a large species. We possess the history of Alexander VI and Cæsar, but of Lucretia Borgia we have little more than a legend, according to which she is a fury, the poison in one hand, the poignard in the other; and yet this baneful personality possessed all the charms and graces. Victor Hugo painted her as a moral monster, in which form she still treads the operatic stage, and this is the conception which mankind in general have of her. The lover of real poetry regards this romanticist's terrible drama of Lucretia Borgia as a grotesque manifestation of the art, while the historian laughs at it; the poet, however, may excuse himself on the ground of his ignorance, and of his belief in a myth which had been current since the publication of Guicciardini's history. Roscoe, doubting the truth of this legend, endeavored to disprove it, and his apology for Lucretia was highly gratifying to the patriotic Italians. To it is due the reaction which has recently set in against this conception of her. The Lucretia legend may be analyzed most satisfactorily and scientifically where documents and mementos of her are most numerous; namely, in Rome, Ferrara, and Modena, where the archives of the Este family are kept, and in Mantua, where those of the Gonzaga are preserved. Occasional publications show that the interesting question still lives and remains unanswered. The history of the Borgias was taken up again by Domenico Cerri in his work, _Borgia ossia Alessandro VI, Papa e suoi contemporanei_, Turin, 1858. The following year Bernardo Gatti, of Milan, published Lucretia's letters to Bembo. In 1866 Marquis G. Campori, of Modena, printed an essay entitled _Una vittima della storia Lucrezia Borgia_, in the _Nuova Antologia_ of August 31st of that year. A year later Monsignor Antonelli, of Ferrara, published _Lucrezia Borgia in Ferrara, Sposa a Don Alfonso d'Este, Memorie storiche_, Ferrara, 1867. Giovanni Zucchetti, of Mantua, immediately followed with a similar opuscule: _Lucrezia Borgia Duchessa di Ferrara_, Milano, 1869. All these writers endeavored, with the aid of history, to clear up the Lucretia legend, and to rehabilitate the honor of the unfortunate woman. Other writers, not Italians, among them certain French and English authors, also took part in this effort. M. Armand Baschet, to whom we are indebted for several valuable publications in the field of diplomacy, announced in his work, _Aldo Manuzio, Lettres et Documents, 1494-1515_, Venice, 1867, that he had been engaged for years on a biography of Madonna Lucretia Borgia, and had collected for the purpose a large mass of original documents. In the meantime, in 1869, there was published in London the first exhaustive work on the subject: _Lucrezia Borgia, Duchess of Ferrara, a Biography, illustrated by rare and unpublished documents_, by William Gilbert. The absence of scientific method, unfortunately, detracts from the value of this otherwise excellent production, which, as a sequel to Roscoe's works, attracted no little attention. The swarm of apologies for the Borgias called forth in France one of the most wonderful books to which history has ever given birth. Ollivier, a Dominican, published, in 1870, the first part of a work entitled _Le Pape Alexandre VI et les Borgia_. This production is the fantastic antithesis of Victor Hugo's drama. For, while the latter distorted history for the purpose of producing a moral monster for stage effect, the former did exactly the same thing, intending to create the very opposite. Monks, however, now are no longer able to compel the world to accept their fables as history, and Ollivier's absurd romance was renounced even by the strongest organs of the Church; first by Matagne, in the _Revue des questions historiques_, Paris, April, 1871, and January, 1872, and subsequently by the _Civiltà Cattolica_, the organ of the Jesuits, in an article dated March 15, 1873, whose author made no effort to defend Alexander's character, simply because, in the light of absolutely authentic historical documents, it was no longer possible to save it. This article was based upon the _Saggio di Albero Genealogico e di Memorie su la familia Borgia specialmente in relazione a Ferrara_, by L. N. Cittadella, director of the public library of that city, published in Turin in 1872. The work, although not free from errors, is a conscientious effort to clear up the family history of the Borgias. At the close of 1872 I likewise entered into the discussion by publishing a note on the history of the Borgias. This followed the appearance of the volume of the _Geschichte der Stadt Rom im Mittelalter_, which embraced the epoch of Alexander VI. My researches in the archives of Italy had placed me in possession of a large amount of original information concerning the Borgias, and as it was impossible for me to avail myself of this mass of valuable details in that work, I decided to use it for a monograph to be devoted either to Cæsar Borgia or to his sister, as protagonist. I decided on Madonna Lucretia for various reasons, among which was the following: in the spring of 1872 I found in the archives of the notary of the Capitol in Rome the protocol-book of Camillo Beneimbene, who for years was the trusted legal adviser of Alexander VI. This great manuscript proved to be an unexpected treasure; it furnished me with a long series of authentic and hitherto unknown documents. It contained all the marriage contracts of Donna Lucretia as well as numerous other legal records relating to the most intimate affairs of the Borgias. In November, 1872, I delivered a lecture on the subject before the class in history at the Royal Bavarian Academy of Sciences in Munich, which was published in the account of the proceedings. These records cast new light on the history of the Borgias, whose genealogy had only just been published by Cittadella. There were other reasons which induced me to write a book on Donna Lucretia. I had treated the political history of Alexander VI and Cæsar at length, and had elucidated some of its obscure phases, but to Lucretia Borgia I had devoted no special attention. Her personality appeared to me to be something full of mystery, made up of contradictions which remained to be deciphered, and I was fascinated by it. I began my task without any preconceived intention. I purposed to write, not an apology, but a history of Lucretia, broadly sketched, the materials for which, in so far as the most important period of her life, her residence in Rome, was concerned, were already in my possession. I desired to ascertain what manner of personality would be discovered by treating Lucretia Borgia in a way entirely different from that in which she had hitherto been examined, but at the same time scientifically, and in accordance with the original records. I completed my data; I visited the places where she had lived. I repeatedly went to Modena and Mantua, whose archives are inexhaustible sources of information regarding the Renaissance, and from them I obtained most of my material. My friends there, as usual, were of great help to me, especially Signor Zucchetti, of Mantua, late keeper of the Gonzaga archives, and Signor Stefano Davari, the secretary. The state archives of the Este family of Modena, however, yielded me the greatest store of information. The custodian was Signor Cesare Foucard. As might have been expected of Muratori's successor, this distinguished gentleman displayed the greatest willingness to assist me in my task. In every way he lightened my labors; he had one of his young assistants, Signor Ognibene, arrange a great mass of letters and despatches which promised to be of use to me, lent me the index, and supplied me with copies. Therefore, if this work has any merit, no small part of it is due to Signor Foucard's obligingness. I also met with unfailing courtesy and assistance in other places--Nepi, Pesaro, and Ferrara. To Signor Cesare Guasti, of the state archives of Florence, I am indebted for careful copies of important letters of Lorenzo Pucci, which he had made for me. The material of which I finally found myself in possession is not complete, but it is abundant and new. The original records will serve as defense against those who endeavor to discover a malicious motive in this work. No such interpretation is worthy of further notice, because the book itself will make my intention perfectly clear, which was simply that of the conscientious writer of history. I have substituted history for romance. In the work I have attached more importance to the period during which Lucretia lived in Rome than to the time she spent in Ferrara, because the latter has already been described, though not in detail, while the former has remained purely legendary. As I had to base my work entirely on original information, I endeavored to treat the subject in such a way as to present a picture truly characteristic of the age, and animated by concrete descriptions of its striking personalities. BOOK THE FIRST LUCRETIA BORGIA IN ROME CHAPTER I LUCRETIA'S FATHER The Spanish house of Borja (or Borgia as the name is generally written) was rich in extraordinary men. Nature endowed them generously; they were distinguished by sensuous beauty, physical strength, intellect, and that force of will which compels success, and which was the source of the greatness of Cortez and Pizarro, and of the other Spanish adventurers. Like the Aragonese, the Borgias also played the part of conquerors in Italy, winning for themselves honors and power, and deeply affecting the destiny of the whole peninsula, where they extended the influence of Spain and established numerous branches of their family. From the old kings of Aragon they claimed descent, but so little is known of their origin that their history begins with the real founder of the house, Alfonso Borgia, whose father's name is stated by some to have been Juan, and by others Domenico; while the family name of his mother, Francesca, is not even known. Alfonso Borgia was born in the year 1378 at Xativa, near Valencia. He served King Alfonso of Aragon as privy secretary, and was made Bishop of Valencia. He came to Naples with this genial prince when he ascended its throne, and in the year 1444 he was made a cardinal. Spain, owing to her religious wars, was advancing toward national unity, and was fast assuming a position of European importance. She now, by taking a hand in the affairs of Italy, endeavored to grasp what she had hitherto let slip by,--namely, the opportunity of becoming the head of the Latin world and, above all, the center of gravity of European politics and civilization. She soon forced herself into the Papacy and into the Empire. From Spain the Borgias first came to the Holy See, and from there later came Charles V to ascend the imperial throne. From Spain came also Ignatius Loyola, the founder of the most powerful politico-religious order history has ever known. Alfonso Borgia, one of the most active opponents of the Council of Basle and of the Reformation in Germany, was elected pope in 1455, assuming the name Calixtus III. Innumerable were his kinsmen, many of whom he had found settled in Rome when he, as cardinal, had taken up his residence there. His nearest kin were members of the three connected Valencian families of Borgia, Mila (or Mella), and Lanzol. One of the sisters of Calixtus, Catarina Borgia, was married to Juan Mila, Baron of Mazalanes, and was the mother of the youthful Juan Luis. Isabella, the wife of Jofrè Lanzol, a wealthy nobleman of Xativa, was the mother of Pedro Luis and Rodrigo, and of several daughters. The uncle adopted these two nephews and gave them his family name,--thus the Lanzols became Borgias. In 1456 Calixtus III bestowed the purple upon two members of the Mila family: the Bishop Juan of Zamora, who died in 1467, in Rome, where his tomb may still be seen in S. Maria di Monserrato, and on the youthful Juan Luis. Rodrigo Borgia also received the purple in the same year. Among other members of the house of Mila settled in Rome was Don Pedro, whose daughter, Adriana Mila, we shall later find in most intimate relations with the family of her uncle Rodrigo. Of the sisters of this same Rodrigo, Beatrice was married to Don Ximenez Perez de Arenos, Tecla to Don Vidal de Villanova, and Juana to Don Pedro Guillen Lanzol.[1] All these remained in Spain. There is a letter extant, written by Beatrice from Valencia to her brother shortly after he became pope. Rodrigo Borgia was twenty-six when the dignity of cardinal was conferred upon him, and to this honor, a year later, was added the great office of vice-chancellor of the Church of Rome. His brother, Don Pedro Luis, was only one year older; and Calixtus bestowed upon this young Valencian the highest honors which can fall to the lot of a prince's favorite. Later we behold in him a papal nepot-prince in whom the Pope endeavored to embody all mundane power and honor; he made him his condottiere, his warder, his body-guard, and, finally, his worldly heir. Calixtus allowed him to usurp every position of authority in the Church domain and, like a destroying angel, to overrun and devastate the republics and the tyrannies, for the purpose of founding a family dynasty, the Papacy being of only momentary tenure, and not transmittable to an heir. Calixtus made Pedro Luis generalissimo of the Church, prefect of the city, Duke of Spoleto, and finally, vicar of Terracina and Benevento. Thus in this first Spanish nepot was foreshadowed the career which Cæsar Borgia later followed. During the life of Calixtus the Spaniards were all-powerful in Rome. In great numbers they poured into Italy from the kingdom of Valencia to make their fortune at the papal court as monsignori and clerks, as captains and castellans, and in any other way that suggested itself. Calixtus III died on the sixth of August, 1458, and a few days later Don Pedro Luis was driven from Rome by the oppressed nobility of the country, the Colonna and the Orsini, who rose against the hated foreigner. Soon afterwards, in December the same year, death suddenly terminated the career of this young and brilliant upstart, then in Civitavecchia. It is not known whether Don Pedro Luis Borgia was married or whether he left any descendants.[2] Cardinal Rodrigo Borgia lamented the loss of his beloved and, probably, only brother, and inherited his property, while his own high position in the Curia was not affected by the change in the papacy. As vice-chancellor, he occupied a house in the Ponte quarter, which had formerly been the Mint, and which he converted into one of the most showy of the palaces of Rome. The building encloses two courts, where may still be seen the original open colonnades of the lower story; it was constructed as a stronghold, like the Palazzo di Venizia, which was almost contemporaneous with it. The Borgia palace, however, does not compare in architectural beauty or size with that built by Paul II. In the course of the years it has undergone many changes, and for a long time has belonged to the Sforza-Cesarini. Nothing is known of Rodrigo's private life during the pontificate of the four popes who followed Calixtus--Pius II, Paul II, Sixtus IV, and Innocent VIII--for the records of that period are very incomplete. Insatiable sensuality ruled this Borgia, a man of unusual beauty and strength, until his last years. Never was he able to cast out this demon. He angered Pius II by his excesses, and the first ray of light thrown upon Rodrigo's private life is an admonitory letter written by that pope, the eleventh of June, 1460, from the baths of Petriolo. Borgia was then twenty-nine years old. He was in beautiful and captivating Siena, where Piccolomini had passed his unholy youth. There he had arranged a bacchanalian orgy of which the Pope's letter gives a picture. DEAR SON: We have learned that your Worthiness, forgetful of the high office with which you are invested, was present from the seventeenth to the twenty-second hour, four days ago, in the gardens of John de Bichis, where there were several women of Siena, women wholly given over to worldly vanities. Your companion was one of your colleagues whom his years, if not the dignity of his office, ought to have reminded of his duty. We have heard that the dance was indulged in in all wantonness; none of the allurements of love were lacking, and you conducted yourself in a wholly worldly manner. Shame forbids mention of all that took place, for not only the things themselves but their very names are unworthy of your rank. In order that your lust might be all the more unrestrained, the husbands, fathers, brothers, and kinsmen of the young women and girls were not invited to be present. You and a few servants were the leaders and inspirers of this orgy. It is said that nothing is now talked of in Siena but your vanity, which is the subject of universal ridicule. Certain it is that here at the baths, where Churchmen and the laity are very numerous, your name is on every one's tongue. Our displeasure is beyond words, for your conduct has brought the holy state and office into disgrace; the people will say that they make us rich and great, not that we may live a blameless life, but that we may have means to gratify our passions. This is the reason the princes and the powers despise us and the laity mock us; this is why our own mode of living is thrown in our face when we reprove others. Contempt is the lot of Christ's vicar because he seems to tolerate these actions. You, dear son, have charge of the bishopric of Valencia, the most important in Spain; you are a chancellor of the Church, and what renders your conduct all the more reprehensible is the fact that you have a seat among the cardinals, with the Pope, as advisors of the Holy See. We leave it to you whether it is becoming to your dignity to court young women, and to send those whom you love fruits and wine, and during the whole day to give no thought to anything but sensual pleasures. People blame us on your account, and the memory of your blessed uncle, Calixtus, likewise suffers, and many say he did wrong in heaping honors upon you. If you try to excuse yourself on the ground of your youth, I say to you: you are no longer so young as not to see what duties your offices impose upon you. A cardinal should be above reproach and an example of right living before the eyes of all men, and then we should have just grounds for anger when temporal princes bestow uncomplimentary epithets upon us; when they dispute with us the possession of our property and force us to submit ourselves to their will. Of a truth we inflict these wounds upon ourselves, and we ourselves are the cause of these troubles, since we by our conduct are daily diminishing the authority of the Church. Our punishment for it in this world is dishonor, and in the world to come well deserved torment. May, therefore, your good sense place a restraint on these frivolities, and may you never lose sight of your dignity; then people will not call you a vain gallant among men. If this occurs again we shall be compelled to show that it was contrary to our exhortation, and that it caused us great pain; and our censure will not pass over you without causing you to blush. We have always loved you and thought you worthy of our protection as a man of an earnest and modest character. Therefore, conduct yourself henceforth so that we may retain this our opinion of you, and may behold in you only the example of a well ordered life. Your years, which are not such as to preclude improvement, permit us to admonish you paternally. PETRIOLO, _June 11, 1460_.[3] A few years later, when Paul II occupied the papal throne, the historian Gasparino of Verona described Cardinal Borgia as follows: "He is handsome; of a most glad countenance and joyous aspect, gifted with honeyed and choice eloquence. The beautiful women on whom his eyes are cast he lures to love him, and moves them in a wondrous way, more powerfully than the magnet influences iron." There are such organizations as Gasparino describes; they are men of the physical and moral nature of Casanova and the Regent of Orleans. Rodrigo's beauty was noted by many of his contemporaries even when he was pope. In 1493 Hieronymus Portius described him as follows: "Alexander is tall and neither light nor dark; his eyes are black and his lips somewhat full. His health is robust, and he is able to bear any pain or fatigue; he is wonderfully eloquent and a thorough man of the world."[4] The force of this happy organization lay, apparently, in the perfect balance of all its powers. From it radiated the serene brightness of his being, for nothing is more incorrect than the picture usually drawn of this Borgia, showing him as a sinister monster. The celebrated Jason Mainus, of Milan, calls attention to his "elegance of figure, his serene brow, his kingly forehead, his countenance with its expression of generosity and majesty, his genius, and the heroic beauty of his whole presence." FOOTNOTES: [1] Zurita, Anales de Aragon, v. 36. [2] Zurita (iv, 55) says he died _sin dexar ninguna sucesion_. Notwithstanding this, Cittadella, in his _Saggio di Albero Genealogico e di memorie su la Familia Borgia_ (Turin, 1872), ascribes two children to this Pedro Luis, Silvia and Cardinal Giovanni Borgia, the younger. [3] Raynaldus, 1460. No. 31. [4] Statura procerus, colore medio, nigris oculis, ore paululum pleniore. Hieron. Portius, Commentarius, a rare publication of 1493, in the Casanatense in Rome. CHAPTER II LUCRETIA'S MOTHER About 1466 or 1467 Cardinal Rodrigo's magnetism attracted a woman of Rome, Vannozza Catanei. We know that she was born in July, 1442, but of her family we are wholly ignorant. Writers of that day also call her Rosa and Catarina, although she named herself, in well authenticated documents, Vannozza Catanei. Paolo Giovio states that Vanotti was her patronymic, and although there was a clan of that name in Rome, he is wrong. Vannozza was probably the nickname for Giovanna--thus we find in the early records of that age: Vannozza di Nardis, Vannozza di Zanobeis, di Pontianis, and others. There was a Catanei family in Rome, as there was in Ferrara, Genoa, and elsewhere. The name was derived from the title, _capitaneus_. In a notarial document of 1502 the name of Alexander's mistress is given in its ancient form, Vanotia de Captaneis. Litta, to whom Italy is indebted for the great work on her illustrious families--a wonderful work in spite of its errors and omissions--ventures the opinion that Vannozza was a member of the Farnese family and a daughter of Ranuccio. There is, however, no ground for this theory. In written instruments of that time she is explicitly called Madonna Vannozza de casa Catanei. None of Vannozza's contemporaries have stated what were the characteristics which enabled her to hold the pleasure-loving cardinal so surely and to secure her recognition as the mother of several of his acknowledged children. We may imagine her to have been a strong and voluptuous woman like those still seen about the streets of Rome. They possess none of the grace of the ideal woman of the Umbrian school, but they have something of the magnificence of the Imperial City--Juno and Venus are united in them. They would resemble the ideals of Titian and Paul Veronese but for their black hair and dark complexion,--blond and red hair have always been rare among the Romans. Vannozza doubtless was of great beauty and ardent passions; for if not, how could she have inflamed a Rodrigo Borgia? Her intellect too, although uncultivated, must have been vigorous; for if not, how could she have maintained her relations with the cardinal? The date given above was the beginning of this liaison, if we may believe the Spanish historian Mariana, who says that Vannozza was the mother of Don Pedro Luis, Rodrigo's eldest son. In a notarial instrument of 1482 this son of the cardinal is called a youth (_adolescens_), which signified a person fourteen or fifteen years of age. In what circumstances Vannozza was living when Cardinal Borgia made her acquaintance we do not know. It is not likely that she was one of the innumerable courtesans who, thanks to the liberality of their retainers, led most brilliant lives in Rome at that period; for had she been, the novelists and epigrammatists of the day would have made her famous. The chronicler Infessura, who must have been acquainted with Vannozza, relates that Alexander VI, wishing to make his natural son Cæsar a cardinal, caused it to appear, by false testimony, that he was the legitimate son of a certain Domenico of Arignano, and he adds that he had even married Vannozza to this man. The testimony of a contemporary and a Roman should have weight; but no other writer, except Mariana--who evidently bases his statement on Infessura--mentions this Domenico, and we shall soon see that there could have been no legal, acknowledged marriage of Vannozza and this unknown man. She was the cardinal's mistress for a much longer time before he himself, for the purpose of cloaking his relations with her and for lightening his burden, gave her a husband. His relations with her continued for a long time after she had a recognized consort. The first acknowledged husband of Vannozza was Giorgio di Croce, a Milanese, for whom Cardinal Rodrigo had obtained from Sixtus IV a position as apostolic secretary. It is uncertain at just what time she allied herself with this man, but she was living with him as his wife in 1480 in a house on the Piazzo Pizzo di Merlo, which is now called Sforza-Cesarini, near which was Cardinal Borgia's palace. Even as early as this, Vannozza was the mother of several children acknowledged by the cardinal: Giovanni, Cæsar, and Lucretia. There is no doubt whatever about these, although the descent of the eldest of the children, Pedro Luis, from the same mother, is only highly probable. Thus far the date of the birth of this Borgia bastard has not been established, and authorities differ. In absolutely authentic records I discovered the dates of birth of Cæsar and Lucretia, which clear up forever many errors regarding the genealogy and even the history of the house. Cæsar was born in the month of April, 1476--the day is not given--and Lucretia on the eighteenth of April, 1480. Their father, when he was pope, gave their ages in accordance with these dates. In October, 1501, he mentioned the subject to the ambassador of Ferrara, and the latter, writing to the Duke Ercole, said, "The Pope gave me to understand that the Duchess (Lucretia) was in her twenty-second year, which she will complete next April, in which month also the most illustrious Duke of Romagna (Cæsar) will be twenty-six." If the correctness of the father's statement of the age of his own children is questioned, it may be confirmed by other reports and records. In despatches which a Ferrarese ambassador sent to the same duke from Rome much earlier, namely, in February and March, 1483, the age of Cæsar at that time is given as sixteen to seventeen years, which agrees with the subsequent statement of his father.[5] The son of Alexander VI was, therefore, a few years younger than has hitherto been supposed, and this fact has an important bearing upon his short and terrible life. Mariana, therefore, and other authors who follow him, err in stating that Cæsar, Rodrigo's second son, was older than his brother Giovanni. In reality, Giovanni must have been two years older than Cæsar. Venetian letters from Rome, written in October, 1496, describe him as a young man of twenty-two; he accordingly must have been born in 1474.[6] Lucretia herself came into the world April 18, 1480. This exact date is given in a Valencian document. Her father was then forty-nine and her mother thirty-eight years of age. The Roman or Spanish astrologers cast the horoscope of the child according to the constellation which was in the ascendancy, and congratulated Cardinal Rodrigo on the brilliant career foretold for his daughter by the stars. Easter had just passed; magnificent festivities had been held in honor of the Elector Ernst of Saxony, who, together with the Duke of Brunswick and Wilhelm von Henneberg had arrived in Rome March 22d. These gentlemen were accompanied by a retinue of two hundred knights, and a house in the Parione quarter had been placed at their disposal. Pope Sixtus IV loaded them with honors, and great astonishment was caused by a magnificent hunt which Girolamo Riario, the all-powerful nepot, gave for them, at Magliana on the Tiber. These princes departed from Rome on the fourteenth of April. The papacy was at that time changing to a political despotism, and nepotism was assuming the character which later was to give Cæsar Borgia all his ferocity. Sixtus IV, a mighty being and a character of a much more powerful cast than even Alexander VI, was at war with Florence, where he had countenanced the Pazzi conspiracy for the murder of the Medici. He had made Girolamo Riario a great prince in Romagna, and later Alexander VI planned a similar career for his son Cæsar. Lucretia was indeed born at a terrible period in the world's history; the papacy was stripped of all holiness, religion was altogether material, and immorality was boundless. The bitterest family feuds raged in the city, in the Ponte, Parione, and Regola quarters, where kinsmen incited by murder daily met in deadly combat. In this very year, 1480, there was a new uprising of the old factions of Guelph and Ghibbeline in Rome; there the Savelli and Colonna were against the Pope, and here the Orsini for him; while the Valle, Margana, and Santa Croce families, inflamed by a desire for revenge for blood which had been shed, allied themselves with one or the other faction. FOOTNOTES: [5] Gianandrea Boccaccio to the duke, Rome, February 25 and March 11, 1493. State archives of Modena. [6] Sanuto, Diar. v. i, 258. CHAPTER III LUCRETIA'S FIRST HOME Lucretia passed the first years of her childhood in her mother's house, which was on the Piazza Pizzo di Merlo, only a few steps from the cardinal's palace. The Ponte quarter, to which it belonged, was one of the most populous of Rome, since it led to the Bridge of S. Angelo and the Vatican. In it were to be found many merchants and the bankers from Florence, Genoa, and Siena, while numerous papal office-holders, as well as the most famous courtesans dwelt there. On the other hand, the number of old, noble families in Ponte was not large, perhaps because the Orsini faction did not permit them to thrive there. These powerful barons had resided in this quarter for a long time in their vast palace on Monte Giordano. Not far distant stood their old castle, the Torre di Nona, which had originally been part of the city walls on the Tiber. At this time it was a dungeon for prisoners of state and other unfortunates. It is not difficult to imagine what Vannozza's house was, for the Roman dwelling of the Renaissance did not greatly differ from the ordinary house of the present day, which generally is gloomy and dark. Massive steps of cement led to the dwelling proper, which consisted of a principal salon and adjoining rooms with bare flagstone floors, and ceilings of beams and painted wooden paneling. The walls of the rooms were whitewashed, and only in the wealthiest houses were they covered with tapestries, and in these only on festal occasions. In the fifteenth century the walls of few houses were adorned with pictures, and these usually consisted of only a few family portraits. If Vannozza decorated her salon with any likenesses, that of Cardinal Rodrigo certainly must have been among the number. There was likewise a shrine with relics and pictures of the saints and one of the Madonna, the lamp constantly burning before it. Heavy furniture,--great wide beds with canopies; high, brown wooden chairs, elaborately carved, upon which cushions were placed; and massive tables, with tops made of marble or bits of colored wood,--was ranged around the walls. Among the great chests there was one which stood out conspicuously in the salon, and which contained the dowry of linen. It was in such a chest--the chest of his sister--that the unfortunate Stefano Porcaro concealed himself when he endeavored to escape after his unsuccessful attempt to excite an uprising on the fifth of January, 1453. His sister and another woman sat on the chest, better to protect him, but the officers pulled him out. Although we can only state what was then the fashion, if Vannozza had any taste for antiquities her salon must have been adorned with them. At that time they were being collected with the greatest eagerness. It was the period of the first excavations; the soil of Rome was daily giving up its treasures, and from Ostia, Tivoli, and Hadrian's Villa, from Porto d'Anzio and Palestrina, quantities of antiquities were being brought to the city. If Vannozza and her husband did not share this passion with the other Romans, one would certainly not have looked in vain in her house for the cherished productions of modern art--cups and vases of marble and porphyry, and the gold ornaments of the jewelers. The most essential thing in every well ordered Roman house was above all else the _credenza_, a great chest containing gold and silver table and drinking vessels and beautiful majolica; and care was taken always to display these articles at banquets and on other ceremonious occasions. [Illustration: TRAJAN'S FORUM, ROME.] It is not likely that Rodrigo's mistress possessed a library, for private collections of books were at that time exceedingly rare in bourgeois houses. A short time after this they were first made possible in Rome by the invention of printing, which was there carried on by Germans. Vannozza's household doubtless was rich but not magnificent. She must occasionally have entertained the cardinal, as well as the friends of the family, and especially the confidants of the Borgias: the Spaniards, Juan Lopez, Caranza, and Marades; and among the Romans, the Orsini, Porcari, Cesarini, and Barberini. The cardinal himself was an exceedingly abstemious man, but magnificent in everything which concerned the pomp and ceremonial of his position. The chief requirement of a cardinal of that day was to own a princely residence and to have a numerous household. Rodrigo Borgia was one of the wealthiest princes of the Church, and he maintained the palace and pomp of a great noble. His contemporary Jacopo of Volterra, gave the following description of him about 1486: "He is a man of an intellect capable of everything and of great sense; he is a ready speaker; he is of an astute nature, and has wonderful skill in conducting affairs. He is enormously wealthy, and the favor accorded him by numerous kings and princes lends him renown. He occupies a beautiful and comfortable palace which he built between the Bridge of S. Angelo and the Campo dei Fiore. His papal offices, his numerous abbeys in Italy and Spain, and his three bishoprics of Valencia, Portus, and Carthage yield him a vast income, and it is said that the office of vice-chancellor alone brings him in eight thousand gold florins. His plate, his pearls, his stuffs embroidered with silk and gold, and his books in every department of learning are very numerous, and all are of a magnificence worthy of a king or pope. I need not mention the innumerable bed hangings, the trappings for his horses, and similar things of gold, silver, and silk, nor his magnificent wardrobe, nor the vast amount of gold coin in his possession. In fact it was believed that he possessed more gold and riches of every sort than all the cardinals together, with the exception of one, Estouteville." Cardinal Rodrigo, therefore, was able to give his children the most brilliant education, while he modestly maintained them as his nephews. Not until he himself had attained greatness could he bring them forth into the full light of day. In 1482 he did not occupy his house in the Ponte quarter, perhaps because he was having it enlarged. He spent more of his time in the palace which Stefano Nardini had finished in 1475 in the Parione quarter, which is now known as the Palazzo del Governo Vecchio. Rodrigo was living here in January, 1482, as we learn from an instrument of the notary Beneimbene,--the marriage contract of Gianandrea Cesarini and Girolama Borgia, a natural daughter of the same Cardinal Rodrigo. This marriage was performed in the presence of the bride's father, Cardinals Stefano Nardini and Gianbattista Savelli, and the Roman nobles Virginius Orsini, Giuliano Cesarini, and Antonio Porcaro. The instrument of January, 1482, is the earliest authentic document we possess regarding the family life of Cardinal Borgia. In it he acknowledges himself to be the father of the "noble demoiselle Hieronyma," and she is described as the sister of the "noble youth Petrus Lodovicus de Borgia, and of the infant Johannes de Borgia." As these two, plainly mentioned as the eldest sons, were natural children, it would have been improper to name their mother. Cæsar also was passed by, as he was a child of only six years. Girolama was still a minor, being only thirteen years of age, and her betrothed, Giovanni Andrea, had scarcely reached manhood. He was a son of Gabriello Cesarini and Godina Colonna. By this marriage the noble house of Cesarini was brought into close relations with the Borgia, and later it derived great profit from the alliance. Their mutual friendship dated from the time of Calixtus, for it was the prothonotary Giorgio Cesarini who, on the death of that pope, had helped Rodrigo's brother Don Pedro Luis when he was forced to flee from Rome. Both Girolama and her youthful spouse died in 1483. Was she also a child of the mother of Lucretia and Cæsar? We know not, but it is regarded as unlikely. Let us anticipate by saying that there is only a single authentic record which mentions Rodrigo's children and their mother together. This is the inscription on Vannozza's tomb in S. Maria del Popolo in Rome, in which she is named as the mother of Cæsar, Giovanni, Giuffrè, and Lucretia, while no mention is made of their older brother, Don Pedro Luis, nor of their sister Girolama. Rodrigo, moreover, had a third daughter, named Isabella, who could not have been a child of Vannozza. April 1, 1483, he married her to a Roman nobleman, Piergiovanni Mattuzi of the Parione quarter.[7] FOOTNOTES: [7] Abstract of the marriage contract in the archives of the Capitol. Cred. xiv, T. 72. From an instrument of the notary Agostino Martini. CHAPTER IV LUCRETIA'S EDUCATION The cardinal's relations with Vannozza continued until about 1482, for after the birth of Lucretia she presented him with another son, Giuffrè, who was born in 1481 or 1482. After that, Borgia's passion for this woman, who was now about forty, died out, but he continued to honor her as the mother of his children and as the confidant of many of his secrets. Vannozza had borne her husband, a certain Giorgio di Croce, a son, who was named Octavian--at least this child passed as his. With the cardinal's help she increased her revenues; in old official records she appears as the lessee of several taverns in Rome, and she also bought a vineyard and a country house near S. Lucia in Selci in the Subura, apparently from the Cesarini. Even to-day the picturesque building with the arched passageway over the stairs which lead up from the Subura to S. Pietro in Vincoli is pointed out to travelers as the palace of Vannozza or of Lucretia Borgia. Giorgio di Croce had become rich, and he built a chapel for himself and his family in S. Maria del Popolo. Both he and his son Octavian died in the year 1486.[8] His death caused a change in Vannozza's circumstances, the cardinal hastening to marry the mother of his children a second time, so that she might have a protector and a respectable household. The new husband was Carlo Canale, of Mantua. [Illustration: CHURCH OF S. MARIA DEL POPOLO, ROME.] Before he came to Rome he had by his attainments acquired some reputation among the humanists of Mantua. There is still extant a letter to Canale, written by the young poet Angelo Poliziano regarding his _Orfeo_; the manuscript of this, the first attempt in the field of the drama which marked the renaissance of the Italian theater, was in the hands of Canale, who, appreciating the work of the faint-hearted poet, was endeavoring to encourage him.[9] At the suggestion of Cardinal Francesco Gonzaga, a great patron of letters, Poliziano had written the poem in the short space of two days. Carlo Canale was the cardinal's chamberlain. The _Orfeo_ saw the light in 1472. When Gonzaga died, in 1483, Canale went to Rome, where he entered the service of Cardinal Sclafetano, of Parma. As a confidant and dependent of the Gonzaga he retained his connection with this princely house.[10] In his new position he assisted Ludovico Gonzaga, a brother of Francesco when he came to Rome in 1484 to receive the purple on his election as Bishop of Mantua. Borgia was acquainted with Canale while he was in the service of the Gonzaga, and later he met him in the house of Sclafetano. He selected him to be the husband of his widowed mistress, doubtless because Canale's talents and connections would be useful to him. Canale, on the other hand, could have acquiesced in the suggestion to marry Vannozza only from avarice, and his willingness proves that he had not grown rich in his former places at the courts of cardinals. The new marriage contract was drawn up June 8, 1486, by the notary of the Borgia house, Camillo Beneimbene, and was witnessed by Francesco Maffei, apostolic secretary and canon of S. Peter's; Lorenzo Barberini de Catellinis; a citizen, Giuliano Gallo, a considerable merchant of Rome; Burcardo Barberini de Carnariis, and other gentlemen. As dowry Vannozza brought her husband, among other things, one thousand gold florins and an appointment as _sollicitator bullarum_. The contract clearly referred to this as Vannozza's second marriage. Would it not have been set down as the third, or in more general terms as new, if the alleged first marriage with Domenico d'Arignano had really been acknowledged? In this instrument Vannozza's house on the Piazza de Branchis, in the Regola quarter, where the marriage took place, is described as her domicile. The piazza still bears this name, which is derived from the extinct Branca family. After the death of her former husband she must, therefore, have moved from the house on the Piazza Pizzo di Merlo and taken up her abode in the one on the Piazza Branca. This house may have belonged to her, for her second husband seems to have been a man without means, who hoped to make his fortune by his marriage and with the protection of the powerful cardinal. From a letter of Ludovico Gonzaga, dated February 19, 1488, we learn that this new marriage of Vannozza's was not childless. In this epistle, the Bishop of Mantua asks his agent in Rome to act as godfather in his stead, Carlo Canale having chosen him for this honor. The letter gives no further particulars, but it can mean nothing else.[11] We do not know at just what time Lucretia, in accordance with the cardinal's provision, left her mother's house and passed under the protection of a woman who exercised great influence upon him and upon the entire Borgia family. This woman was Adriana, of the house of Mila, a daughter of Don Pedro, who was a nephew of Calixtus III, and first cousin of Rodrigo. What position he held in Rome we do not know. He married his daughter Adriana to Ludovico, a member of the noble house of Orsini, and lord of Bassanello, near Civita Castellana. As the offspring of this union, Orsino Orsini, married in 1489, it is evident that his mother must have entered into wedlock at least sixteen years before. Ludovico Orsini died in 1489 or earlier. As his wife, and later as his widow, Adriana occupied one of the Orsini palaces in Rome, probably the one on Monte Giordano, near the Bridge of S. Angelo, this palace having subsequently been described as part of the estate which her son Orsino inherited. Cardinal Rodrigo maintained the closest relations with Adriana. She was more than his kinswoman; she was the confidant of his sins, of his intrigues and plans, and such she remained until the day of his death. To her he entrusted the education of his daughter Lucretia during her childhood, as we learn from a letter written by the Ferrarese ambassador to Rome, Gianandrea Boccaccio, Bishop of Modena, to the Duke Ercole in 1493, in which he remarks of Madonna Adriana Ursina, "that she had educated Lucretia in her own house."[12] This doubtless was the Orsini palace on Monte Giordano, which was close to Cardinal Borgia's residence. According to the Italian custom, which has survived to the present day, the education of the daughters was entrusted to women in convents, where the young girls were required to pass a few years, afterwards to come forth into the world to be married. If, however, Infessura's picture of the convents of Rome is a faithful one, the cardinal was wise in hesitating to entrust his daughter to these saints. Nevertheless there certainly were convents which were free from immorality, such, for example, as S. Silvestre in Capite, where many of the daughters of the Colonna were educated, and S. Maria Nuova and S. Sisto on the Appian Way. On one occasion during the papacy of Alexander, Lucretia chose the last named convent as an asylum, perhaps because she had there received her early spiritual education. Religious instruction was always the basis of the education of the women of Italy. It, however, consisted not in the cultivation of heart and soul, but in a strict observance of the forms of religion. Sin made no woman repulsive, and the condition of even the most degraded female did not prevent her from performing all her church duties, and appearing to be a well-trained Christian. There were no women skeptics or freethinkers; they would have been impossible in the society of that day. The godless tyrant Sigismondo Malatesta of Rimini built a magnificent church, and in it a chapel in honor of his beloved Isotta, who was a regular attendant at church. Vannozza built and embellished a chapel in S. Maria del Popolo. She had a reputation for piety, even during the life of Alexander VI. Her greatest maternal solicitude, like that of Adriana, was to inculcate a Christian deportment in her daughter, and this Lucretia possessed in such perfection that subsequently a Ferrarese ambassador lauded her for her 'saintly demeanor.' It is wrong to regard this bearing simply as a mask; for that would presuppose an independent consideration of religious questions or a moral process which was altogether foreign to the women of that age, and is still unknown among the women of Italy. There religion was, and still is, a part of education; it consisted in a high respect for form and was of small ethical worth. The daughters of the well-to-do families did not receive instruction in the humanities in the convents, but probably from the same teachers to whom the education of the sons was entrusted. It is no exaggeration to say that the women of the better classes during the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries were as well educated as are the women of to-day. Their education was not broad; it was limited to a few branches; for then they did not have the almost inexhaustible means of improvement which, thanks to the evolution of the human mind during the last three hundred years, we now enjoy. The education of the women of the Renaissance was based upon classical antiquity, in comparison with which everything which could then be termed modern was insignificant. They might, therefore, have been described as scholarly. Feminine education is now entirely different, as it is derived wholly from modern sources of culture. It is precisely its many-sidedness to which is due the superficiality of the education of contemporary woman when compared with that of her sister of the Renaissance. The education of women at the present time, generally,--even in Germany, which is famous for its schools,--is without solid foundation, and altogether superficial and of no real worth. It consists usually in acquiring a smattering of two modern tongues and learning to play the piano, to which a wholly unreasonable amount of time is devoted. During the Renaissance the piano was unknown, but every educated woman performed upon the lute, which had the advantage that, in the hands of the lady playing it, it presented an agreeable picture to the eyes, while the piano is only a machine which compels the man or the woman who is playing it to go through motions which are always unpleasant and often ridiculous. During the Renaissance the novel showed only its first beginnings; and even to-day Italy is the country which produces and reads the fewest romances. There were stories from the time of Boccaccio, but very few. Vast numbers of poems were written, but half of them in Latin. Printing and the book trade were in their infancy. The theater likewise was in its childhood, and, as a rule, dramatic performances were given only once a year, during the carnival, and then only on private stages. What we now call universal literature or culture consisted at that time in the passionate study of the classics. Latin and Greek held the place then which the study of foreign languages now occupies in the education of women. The Italians of the Renaissance did not think that an acquaintance with the classics, that scientific knowledge destroyed the charm of womanliness, nor that the education of women should be less advanced than that of men. This opinion, like so many others prevalent in society is of Teutonic origin. The loving dominion of the mother in the family circle has always seemed to the Germanic races to be the realization of the ideal of womanliness. For a long time German women avoided publicity owing to modesty or a feeling of decorum. Their talents remained hidden except in cases where peculiar circumstances--sometimes connected with affairs of court or of state--compelled them to come forth. Until recently the history of German civilization has shown a much smaller number of famous female characters than Italy, the land of strong personalities, produced during the Renaissance. The influence which gifted women in the Italian salons of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, and later in those of France, exercised upon the intellectual development of society was completely unknown in England and Germany. Later, however, there was a change in the relative degree of feminine culture in Teutonic and Latin countries. In the former it rose, while in Italy it declined. The Italian woman who, during the Renaissance, occupied a place by man's side, contended with him for intellectual prizes, and took part in every spiritual movement, fell into the background. During the last two hundred years she has taken little or no part in the higher life of the nation, for long ago she became a mere tool in the hands of the priests. The Reformation gave the German woman greater personal freedom. Especially since the beginning of the eighteenth century have Germany and England produced numbers of highly cultivated and even learned women. The superficiality of the education of woman in general in Germany is not the fault of the Church, but of the fashion, of society, and also of lack of means in our families. A learned woman, whom men are more apt to fear than respect, is called, when she writes books, a blue-stocking. During the Renaissance she was called a _virago_, a title which was perfectly complimentary. Jacopo da Bergamo constantly uses it as a term of respect in his work, _Concerning Celebrated Women_, which he wrote in 1496.[13] Rarely do we find this word used by Italians in the sense in which we now employ it,--namely, termigant or amazon. At that time a _virago_ was a woman who, by her courage, understanding, and attainments, raised herself above the masses of her sex. And she was still more admired if in addition to these qualities she possessed beauty and grace. Profound classic learning among the Italians was not opposed to feminine charm; on the contrary, it enhanced it. Jacopo da Bergamo specially praises it in this or that woman, saying that whenever she appeared in public as a poet or an orator, it was above all else her modesty and reserve which charmed her hearers. In this vein he eulogizes Cassandra Fedeli, while he lauds Ginevra Sforza for her elegance of form, her wonderful grace in every motion, her calm and queenly bearing, and her chaste beauty. He discovers the same in the wife of Alfonso of Aragon, Ippolita Sforza, who possessed the highest attainments, the most brilliant eloquence, a rare beauty, and extreme feminine modesty. What was then called modesty (_pudor_) was the natural grace of a gifted woman increased by education and association. This modesty Lucretia Borgia possessed in a high degree. In woman it corresponded with that which in man was the mark of the perfect cavalier. It may cause the reader some astonishment to learn that the contemporaries of the infamous Cæsar spoke of his 'moderation' as one of his most characteristic traits. By this term, however, we must understand the cultivation of the personality in which moderation in man and modesty in woman were part and manifestations of a liberal education. It is true that in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries emancipated women did not sit on the benches of the lecture halls of Bologna, Ferrara, and Padua, as they now do in many universities, to pursue professional studies; but the same humane sciences to which youths and men devoted themselves were a requirement in the higher education of women. Little girls in the Middle Ages were entrusted to the saints of the convents to be made nuns; during the Renaissance parents consecrated gifted children to the Muses. Jacopo da Bergamo, speaking of Trivulzia of Milan, a contemporary of Lucretia, who excited great amazement as an orator when she was only fourteen years of age, says, "When her parents noticed the child's extraordinary gifts they dedicated her to the Muses--this was in her seventh year--for her education." The course of study followed by women at that time included the classic languages and their literature, oratory, poetry, or the art of versifying, and music. Dilettanteism in the graphic and plastic arts of course followed, and the vast number of paintings and statues produced during the Renaissance inspired every cultivated woman in Italy with a desire to become a connoisseur. Even philosophy and theology were cultivated by women. Debates on questions in these fields of inquiry were the order of the day at the courts and in the halls of the universities, and women endeavored to acquire renown by taking part in them. At the end of the fifteenth century the Venetian, Cassandra Fedeli, the wonder of her age, was as well versed in philosophy and theology as a learned man. She once engaged in a public disputation before the Doge Agostino Barbarigo, and also several times in the audience hall of Padua, and always showed the utmost modesty in spite of the applause of her hearers. The beautiful wife of Alessandro Sforza of Pesaro, Costanza Varano, was a poet, an orator, and a philosopher; she wrote a number of learned dissertations. "The writings of Augustinus, Ambrosius, Jerome, and Gregory, of Seneca, Cicero, and Lactantius were always in her hands." Her daughter, Battista Sforza, the noble spouse of the cultivated Federico of Urbino, was equally learned. So, too, it was related that the celebrated Isotta Nugarola of Verona was thoroughly at home in the writings of the fathers and of the philosophers. Isabella Gonzaga and Elisabetta of Urbino were likewise acquainted with them, as were numerous other celebrated women, such as Vittoria Colonna and Veronica Gambara. These and other names show to what heights the education of woman during the Renaissance attained, and even if the accomplishments of these women were exceptional, the studies which they so earnestly pursued were part of the curriculum of all the daughters of the best families. These studies were followed only for the purpose of perfecting and beautifying the personality. Conversation in the modern salon is so excessively dull that it is necessary to fill in the emptiness with singing and piano playing. Still the symposiums of Plato were not always the order of the day in the drawing-rooms of the Renaissance, and it must be admitted that their social disputations would cause us intolerable weariness; however, tastes were different at that time. In a circle of distinguished and gifted persons, to carry on a conversation gracefully and intelligently, and to give it a classic cast by introducing quotations from the ancients, or to engage in a discussion in dialogue on a chosen theme, afforded the keenest enjoyment. It was the conversation of the Renaissance which attained later to such æsthetic perfection in France. Talleyrand called this form of human intercourse man's greatest and most beautiful blessing. The classic dialogue was revived, with only the difference that cultivated women also took part in it. As samples of the refined social intercourse of that age, we have Castiglione's _Cortegiano_ and Bembo's _Asolani_, which was dedicated to Lucretia Borgia. [Illustration: VITTORIA COLONNA. From an engraving by P. Caronni.] Alexander's daughter did not occupy a preeminent place among the Italian women renowned for classical attainments, her own acquirements not being such as to distinguish her from the majority; but, considering the times, her education was thorough. She had received instruction in the languages, in music, and in drawing, and later the people of Ferrara were amazed at the skill and taste which she displayed in embroidering in silk and gold. "She spoke Spanish, Greek, Italian, and French, and a little Latin, very correctly, and she wrote and composed poems in all these tongues," said the biographer Bayard in 1512. Lucretia must have perfected her education later, during the quiet years of her life, under the influence of Bembo and Strozzi, although she doubtless had laid its foundation in Rome. She was both a Spaniard and an Italian, and a perfect master of these two languages. Among her letters to Bembo there are two written in Spanish; the remainder, of which we possess several hundred, are composed in the Italian of that day, and are spontaneous and graceful in style. The contents of none of them are of importance; they display soul and feeling, but no depth of mind. Her handwriting is not uniform; sometimes it has strong lines which remind us of the striking, energetic writing of her father; at others it is sharp and fine like that of Vittoria Colonna. None of Lucretia's letters indicate that she fully understood Latin, and her father once stated that she had not mastered that language. She must, however, have been able to read it when written, for otherwise Alexander could not have made her his representative in the Vatican, with authority to open letters received. Nor were her Hellenic studies very profound; still she was not wholly ignorant of Greek. In her childhood, schools for the study of Hellenic literature still flourished in Rome, where they had been established by Chrysoleras and Bessarion. In the city were many Greeks, some of whom were fugitives from their country, while others had come to Italy with Queen Carlotta of Cyprus. Until her death, in 1487, this royal adventuress lived in a palace in the Borgo of the Vatican, where she held court, and where she doubtless gathered about her the cultivated people of Rome, just as the learned Queen Christina of Sweden did later. It was in her house that Cardinal Rodrigo made the acquaintance, besides that of other noble natives of Cyprus, of Ludovico Podocatharo, a highly cultivated man, afterwards his secretary. He it was, probably, who instructed Borgia's children in Greek. In the cardinal's palace there was also a humanist of German birth, Lorenz Behaim, of Nurenburg, who managed his household for twenty years. As he was a Latinist and a member of the Roman Academy of Pomponius Laetus, he must have exercised some influence on the education of his master's children. Generally there was no lack of professors of the humane sciences in Rome, where they were in a nourishing condition, and the Academy as well as the University attracted thither many talented men. In the papal city there were numerous teachers who conducted schools, and swarms of young scholars, ambitious academicians, sought their fortune at the courts of the cardinals in the capacity of companions or secretaries, or as preceptors to their illegitimate children. Lucretia, also, received instruction in classic literature from these masters. Among the poets who lived in Rome she found teachers to instruct her in Italian versification and in writing sonnets, an art which was everywhere cultivated by women as well as men. She doubtless learned to compose verses, although the writers on the history of Italian literature, Quadrio and Crescimbeni, do not place her among the poets of the peninsula. Nowhere do Bembo, Aldus, or the Strozzi speak of her as a poet, nor are there any verses by her in existence. It is not certain that even the Spanish canzoni which are found in some of her letters to Bembo were composed by her. FOOTNOTES: [8] See Adinolfi's notice quoted by the author in his Geschichte der Stadt Rom im Mittelalter. 2d Aufl. vii, 312. [9] The letter, with the inscription "A Messer Carlo Canale," is printed in the edition of Milan, 1808. Angelo Poliziano, Le Stanze e l'Orfeo ed altre poesie. [10] In the archives of Mantua there is a letter from the Marchesa Isabella to Carlo Canale, dated December 4, 1499. [11] Lodovico Gonzaga to Bartolomeo Erba, Siamo contenti contrahi in nome nro. compaternità cum M. Carolo Canale, et cussi per questa nostra ti commettiamo et constituimo nostro Procuratore. Note by Affò in his introduction to the Orfeo, p. 113. [12] Ma Adriana Ursina, la quale è socera de la dicta madona Julia (Farnese), che ha sempre governata essa sposa (Lucrezia) in casa propria per esser in loco de nepote del Pontifice, la fu figliola de messer Piedro de Mila, noto a V. Ema Sigria, cusino carnale del Papa. Despatch from the above named to Ercole, Rome, June 13, 1493, in the state archives of Modena. And again she is mentioned in a despatch of May 6, 1493, as madona Adriana Ursina soa governatrice figliola che fu del quondam messer Pietro del Mila. [13] Jacobus Burgomensis _de claris mulieribus_, Paris, 1521. CHAPTER V NEPOTISM--GIULIA FARNESE--LUCRETIA'S BETROTHALS It is not difficult to imagine what emotions were aroused in Lucretia when she first became aware of the real condition of her family. Her mother's husband was not her father; she discovered that she and her brothers were the children of a cardinal, and the awakening of her conscience was accompanied by a realization of circumstances which--frowned on by the Church--it was necessary to conceal from the world. She herself had always hitherto been treated as a niece of the cardinal, and she now beheld in her father one of the most prominent princes of the Church of Rome, whom she heard mentioned as a future pope. The knowledge of the great advantages to be derived from these circumstances certainly must have affected Lucretia's fancy much more actively than the conception of their immorality. The world in which she lived concerned itself but little with moral scruples, and rarely in the history of mankind has there been a time in which the theory that it is proper to obtain the greatest possible profit from existing conditions has been so generally accepted. She soon learned how common were these relations in Rome. She heard that most of the cardinals lived with their mistresses, and provided in a princely way for their children. They told her about those of Cardinal Giuliano della Rovere and those of Piccolomini; she saw with her own eyes the sons and daughters of Estouteville, and heard of the baronies which their wealthy father had acquired for them in the Alban mountains. She saw the children of Pope Innocent raised to the highest honors; to her were pointed out his son Franceschetto Cibò and his illustrious spouse Maddalena Medici. She knew that the Vatican was the home of other children and grandchildren of the Pope, and she frequently saw his daughter Madonna Teodorina, the consort of the Genoese Uso di Mare, going and coming. She was eight years old when his daughter Donna Peretta was married in the Vatican to the Marchese Alfonso del Carretto with such magnificent pomp that it set all Rome to talking. Lucretia first became conscious of the position to which she and her brothers might be called by their birth when she learned that her eldest brother, Don Pedro Luis, was a Spanish duke. We do not know when the young Borgia was raised to this dignity, but it was some time after 1482. The strong ties which existed between the cardinal and the Spanish court doubtless enabled him to have his son created Duke of Gandia in the kingdom of Valencia. As Mariana remarks, he bought this dukedom for his son. Don Pedro Luis, however, when still a young man, died in Spain, for a document of the year 1491 speaks of him as deceased, and mentions a legacy left by his will to his sister Lucretia. The duchy of Gandia passed to Rodrigo's second son, Don Giovanni, who hastened to Valencia to take possession of it. Meanwhile the fancy of the licentious cardinal had turned to other women. In May, 1489, when Lucretia was nine years old, appears for the first time the most celebrated of his mistresses, Giulia Farnese, a young woman of extraordinary beauty, to whose charms the cardinal and future pope, who was growing old, yielded with all the ardor of a young man. It was the adulterous love of this Giulia which first brought the Farnese house into the history of Rome, and subsequently into that of the world; for Rodrigo Borgia laid the foundation of the greatness of this family when he made Giulia's brother Alessandro a cardinal. In this manner he prepared the way to the papacy for the future Paul III, the founder of the house of Farnese of Parma, a distinguished family which died out in 1758 in the person of Queen Elisabeth, who occupied the throne of Spain. The Farnese, up to the time of the Borgias, were of no importance in Rome, where two of the most beautiful buildings of the Renaissance have since helped to make their name immortal. They did not even live in Rome, but in Roman Etruria, where they owned a few towns--Farneto, from which, doubtless, their name was derived, Ischia, Capracola, and Capodimonte. Some time later, though just when is not known, they were temporarily in possession of Isola Farnese, an ancient castle in the ruins of Veii, which from the fourteenth century had belonged to the Orsini. [Illustration: FARNESE PALACE, ROME.] The origin of the Farnese family is uncertain, but the tradition, according to which they were descended from the Lombards or the Franks, appears to be true. It is supported by the fact that the name Ranuccio, which is the Italian form of Rainer, is of frequent occurrence in the family. The Farnese became prominent in Etruria as a small dynasty of robber barons, without, however, being able to attain to the power of their neighbors, the Orsini of Anguillara and Bracciano, and the famous Counts of Vico, who were of German descent and who ruled over the Tuscan prefecture for more than a hundred years, until that country was swallowed up by Eugene IV. While these prefects were the most active Ghibellines and the bitterest enemies of the popes, the Farnese, like the Este, always stood by the Guelphs. From the eleventh century they were consuls and podestas in Orvieto, and they appeared later in various places as captains of the Church in the numerous little wars with the cities and barons in Umbria and in the domain of S. Peter. Ranuccio, Giulia's grandfather, was one of the ablest of the generals of Eugene IV, and he had been a comrade of the great tyrant-conqueror Vitelleschi, and through him his house had won great renown. His son, Pierluigi, married Donna Giovanella of the Gaetani family of Sermoneta. His children were Alessandro, Bartolomeo, Angiolo, Girolama, and Giulia. Alessandro Farnese, born February 28, 1468, was a young man of intellect and culture, but notorious for his unbridled passions. He had his own mother committed to prison in 1487 under the gravest charges, whereupon he himself was confined in the castle of S. Angelo by Innocent VIII. He escaped from prison, and the matter was allowed to drop. He was a prothonotary of the Church. His elder sister was married to Puccio Pucci, one of the most illustrious statesmen of Florence, a member of a large family which was on terms of close friendship with the Medici. On the twentieth of May, 1489, the youthful Giulia Farnese, together with the equally youthful Orsino Orsini, appeared in the "Star Chamber" of the Borgia palace to sign their marriage contract. It is worthy of note that this occurred in the house of Cardinal Rodrigo. His name appears as the first of the witnesses to this document, as if he had constituted himself the protector of the couple and had brought about their marriage. This union, however, had been arranged when the betrothed were minors, by their parents, Ludovico Orsini, lord of Bassanello, and Pierluigi Farnese, both of whom had died before 1489. In those days little children were often legally betrothed, and the marriage was consummated later, as was the custom in ancient Rome, where frequently boys and girls only thirteen years of age were affianced. Giulia was barely fifteen, May 20, 1489, and she was still under the guardianship of her brothers and her uncles of the house of Gaetani; while the young Orsini was under the control of his mother, Adriana, who was Adriana de Mila, the kinswoman of Cardinal Rodrigo, and Lucretia's governess. This, therefore, sufficiently explains the part, personal and official, which the cardinal took in the ceremony of Giulia's betrothal. The witnesses to the marriage contract, which was drawn up by the notary Beneimbene, were, in addition to the cardinal, Bishop Martini of Segovia, the Spanish Canons Garcetto and Caranza, and a Roman nobleman named Giovanni Astalli. The bride's brothers should have supported her, but only the younger, Angiolo, was present, Alessandro remaining away. His failure to attend such an important family function in the Borgia palace is strange, although it may have been occasioned by some accident. The bride's uncles, the prothonotary Giacomo, and his brother Don Nicola Gaetani were present. Giulia's dowry consisted of three thousand gold florins, a large amount for that time. The civil marriage of the young couple took place the following day, May 21st, in this same palace of the Borgias. Many great nobles were present, among whom were specially mentioned the kinsmen of the groom, Cardinal Gianbattista Orsini and Raynaldo Orsini, Archbishop of Florence. The young couple, as the season was charming, may have gone to Castle Bassanello, or, if not, may have taken up their abode in the Orsini palace on Monte Giordano. Before her marriage Cardinal Rodrigo must have known, and often seen Giulia Farnese in the palace of Madonna Adriana, the mother of the young Orsini. There, likewise, Lucretia, who was several years younger, made her acquaintance. Like Lucretia, Giulia had golden hair, and her beauty won for her the name La Bella. It was in Adriana's house that this tender, lovely child became ensnared in the coils of the libertine Rodrigo. She succumbed to his seductions either shortly before or soon after her marriage to the young Orsini. Perhaps she first aroused the passion of the cardinal, a man at that time fifty-eight years old, when she stood before him in his palace a bride in the full bloom of youth. Be that as it may, it is certain that two years after her marriage Giulia was the cardinal's acknowledged mistress. When Madonna Adriana discovered the liason she winked at it, and was an accessory to the shame of her daughter-in-law. By so doing she became the most powerful and the most influential person in the house of Borgia. Two of the three sons of the cardinal, Giovanni and Cæsar, had in the meantime reached manhood. In 1490 neither of them was in Rome; the former was in Spain, and the latter was studying at the University of Perugia, which he later left for Pisa. As early as 1488 Cæsar must have attended one of these institutions, probably the University of Perugia, for in that year Paolo Pompilio dedicated to him his _Syllabica_, a work on the art of versification. In it he lauded the budding genius of Cæsar, who was the hope and ornament of the house of Borgia, his progress in the sciences, and his maturity of intellect--astonishing in one so young--and he predicted his future fame.[14] His father had intended him for the Church, although Cæsar himself felt for it nothing but aversion. From Innocent VIII he had secured his son's appointment as prothonotary of the Church and even as Bishop of Pamplona. He appears as a prothonotary in a document of February, 1491, and at the same time the youngest of Rodrigo's sons, Giuffrè, a boy of about nine years, was made Canon and Archdeacon of Valencia. Cæsar went to Pisa, probably in 1491. Its university attracted a great many of the sons of the prominent Italian families, chiefly on account of the fame of its professor of jurisprudence, Philippo Decio of Milan. At the university the young Borgia had two Spanish companions, who were favorites of his father, Francesco Romolini of Ilerda and Juan Vera of Arcilla in the kingdom of Valencia. The latter was master of his household, as Cæsar himself states in a letter written in October, 1492, in which he also calls Romolini his "most faithful comrade."[15] Francesco Romolini was more than thirty years of age in 1491. He was a diligent student of law, and became deeply learned in it. He is the same Romolini who afterwards conducted the prosecution of Savonarola in Florence. In 1503 Alexander made him a cardinal, to which dignity Vera had been raised in 1500. His father's wealth enabled the youthful Cæsar to live in Pisa in princely style, and his connections brought him into friendly relations with the Medici. The cardinal was still making special exertions to further the fortunes of his children in Spain. Even for his daughter Lucretia he could see no future more brilliant than a Spanish marriage; and he must indeed have regarded it as a special act of condescension for the son of an old and noble house to consent to become the husband of the illegitimate daughter of a cardinal. The noble concerned was Don Cherubino Juan de Centelles, lord of Val d'Ayora in the kingdom of Valencia, and brother of the Count of Oliva. The nuptial contract was drawn up in the Valencian dialect in Rome, February 26 and June 16, 1491. The youthful groom was in Valencia, the young bride in Rome, and her father had appointed the Roman nobleman Antonio Porcaro her proxy. In the marriage contract it was specified that Lucretia's portion should be three hundred thousand timbres or sous in Valencian money, which she was to bring Don Cherubino as dowry, part in coin and part in jewels and other valuables. It was specially stated that of this sum eleven thousand timbres should consist of the amount bequeathed by the will of the deceased Don Pedro Luis de Borgia, Duke of Gandia, to his sister for her marriage portion, while eight thousand were given her by her other brothers, Cæsar and Giuffrè, for the same purpose, presumably also from the estate left by the brother. It was provided that Donna Lucretia should be taken to Valencia at the cardinal's expense within one year from the signing of the contract, and that the church ceremony should be performed within six months after her arrival in Spain.[16] Thus Lucretia, when only a child eleven years of age, found her hand and life happiness subjected to the will of another, and from that time she was no longer the shaper of her own destiny. This was the usual fate of the daughters of the great houses, and even of the lesser ones. Shortly before her father became pope it seemed as if her life was to be spent in Spain, and she would have found no place in the history of the papacy and of Italy if she and Don Cherubino had been married. However, the marriage was never performed. Obstacles of which we are ignorant, or changes in the plans of her father, caused the betrothal of Lucretia to Don Cherubino to be annulled. At the very moment this was being done for her by proxy, her father was planning another alliance for his daughter. The husband he had selected, Don Gasparo, was also a young Spaniard, son of Don Juan Francesco of Procida, Count of Aversa. This family had probably removed to Naples with the house of Aragon. Don Juan Francesco's mother was Donna Leonora de Procida y Castelleta, Countess of Aversa. Gasparo's father lived in Aversa, but in 1491 the son was in Valencia, where, probably, he was being educated under the care of some of his kinsmen, for he was still a boy of less than fifteen years. In an instrument drawn by the notary Beneimbene, dated November 9, 1492, it is explicitly stated that on the thirtieth of April of the preceding year, 1491, the marriage contract of Lucretia and Gasparo had been executed by proxy with all due form, and that in it Cardinal Rodrigo had bound himself to send his daughter to the city of Valencia at his expense, where the church ceremony was to be performed. However, since the marriage contract between Lucretia and the young Centelles had been legally executed on the twenty-sixth of February of the same year, 1491, and was recognized as late as the following June, there is room for doubt regarding the correctness of the date; but both the instrument in Beneimbene's protocol-book, and an abstract of the same in the archives of the Hospital Sancta Sanctorum in Rome, give the last of April as the date of the marriage contract of Lucretia and Don Gasparo. In these proceedings her proxies were, not Antonio Porcaro, but Don Giuffrè Borgia, Baron of Villa Longa, the Canon Jacopo Serra of Valencia, and the vicar-general of the same place, Mateo Cucia. Hence follows the curious fact that Lucretia was the betrothed at one and the same time of two young Spaniards. In spite of the rejection of her first affianced, the Centelles family appears to have remained on good terms with the Borgias, for, later, when Rodrigo became Pope, a certain Gulielmus de Centelles is to be found among his most trusted chamberlains, while Raymondo of the same house was prothonotary and treasurer of Perugia. FOOTNOTES: [14] Accedit studium illud tuum et perquam fertile bonarum litterarum in quo hac in aetate seris.... Non deerit surgenti tuæ virtuti commodus aliquando et idoneus praeco.--At tu Cæsar profecto non parum laudandus es; qui in hac aetate tam facile senem agis. Perge nostri temporis Borgiæ familiæ spes et decus. Introduction to the Syllabica. Rome, 1488. Gennarelli's Edition of Burchard's Diary. [15] Regarding Cæsar's studies at Pisa, see Angelo Fabroni, Hist. Acad. Pisan. i, 160, 201. [16] On June 16, 1491, some changes were made in this contract, which Beneimbene has noted in the same protocol-book. CHAPTER VI HER FATHER BECOMES POPE--GIOVANNI SFORZA On July 25, 1492, occurred the event to which the Borgias had long eagerly looked forward, the death of Innocent VIII. Above all the other candidates for the Papacy were four cardinals: Rafael Riario and Giuliano della Rovere--both powerful nephews of Sixtus IV--Ascanio Sforza, and Rodrigo Borgia. Before the election was decided there were days of feverish expectation for the cardinal's family. Of his children only Lucretia and Giuffrè were in Rome at the time, and both were living with Madonna Adriana. Vannozza was occupying her own house with her husband, Canale, who for some time had held the office of secretary of the penitentiary court. She was now fifty years old, and there was but one event to which she looked forward, and upon it depended the gratification of her greatest wish; namely, to see her children's father ascend the papal throne. What prayers and vows she and Madonna Adriana, Lucretia, and Giulia Farnese must have made to the saints for the fulfilment of that wish! Early on the morning of August 11th breathless messengers brought these women the news from the Vatican--Rodrigo Borgia had won the great prize. To him, the highest bidder, the papacy had been sold. In the election, Cardinal Ascanio Sforza had turned the scale, and for his reward he received the city of Nepi; the office of vice-chancellor, and the Borgia palace, which ever since has borne the name Sforza-Cesarini. [Illustration: ALEXANDER VI. From an engraving published in 1580.] On the morning of this momentous day, when Alexander VI was carried from the conclave hall to S. Peter's there to receive the first expressions of homage, his joyful glance discovered many of his kinsmen in the dense crowd, for thither they had hastened to celebrate his great triumph. It was a long time since Rome had beheld a pope of such majesty, of such beauty of person. His conduct was notorious throughout the city, and no one knew him better in that hour than that woman, Vannozza Catanei, who was kneeling in S. Peter's during the mass, her soul filled with the memories of a sinful past. Borgia's election did not cause all the Powers anxiety. In Milan, Ludovico il Moro celebrated the event with public festivals; he now hoped to become, through the influence of his brother Ascanio, a "half pope." While the Medici expected much from Alexander, the Aragonese of Naples looked for little. Bitterly did Venice express herself. Her ambassador in Milan publicly declared in August that the papacy had been sold by simony and a thousand deceptions, and that the signory of Venice was convinced that France and Spain would refuse to obey the Pope when they learned of these enormities.[17] In the meantime, Alexander VI had received the professions of loyalty of all the Italian States, together with their profuse expressions of homage. The festival of his coronation was celebrated with unparalleled pomp, August 26th. The Borgia arms, a grazing steer, was displayed so generally in the decorations, and was the subject of so many epigrams, that a satirist remarked that Rome was celebrating the discovery of the Sacred Apis. Subsequently the Borgia bull was frequently the object of the keenest satire; but at the beginning of Alexander's reign it was, naïvely enough, the pictorial embodiment of the Pope's magnificence. To-day such symbolism would excite only derision and mirth, but the plastic taste of the Italian of that day was not offended by it. When Alexander, on his triumphal journey to the Lateran, passed the palace of his fanatical adherents, the Porcari, one of the boys of the family declaimed with much pathos some stanzas which concluded with the verses: Vive diu bos, vive diu celebrande per annos, Inter Pontificum gloria prima choros.[18] The statements of Michele Ferno and of Hieronymus Porcius regarding the coronation festivities and the professions of loyalty of the ambassadors from the various Italian Powers must be read to see to what extremes flattery was carried in those days. It is difficult for us to imagine how imposing was the entrance of this brilliant pope upon the spectacular stage of Rome at the time when the papacy was at the zenith of its power--a height it had attained, not through love of the Church, nor by devotion to religion, which had long been debased, but by dazzling the luxury-loving people of the age and by modern politics; in addition to this, the Church had preserved since the Middle Ages a traditional and mystic character which held the respect of the faithful. Ferno remarks that the history of the world offered nothing to compare with the grandeur of the Pope's appearance and the charm of his person,--and this author was not a bigoted papist, but a diligent student of Pomponius Laetus. Like all the romanticists of the classic revival, however, he was highly susceptible to theatrical effects. Words failed him when he tried to describe the passage of Alexander to S. Maria del Popolo: "These holiday swarms of richly clad people, the seven hundred priests and cardinals with their retinues, these knights and grandees of Rome in dazzling cavalcades, these troops of archers and Turkish horsemen, the palace guards with long lances and glittering shields, the twelve riderless white horses with golden bridles, which were led along, and all the other pomp and parade!" Weeks would be required for arranging a pageant like this at the present time; but the Pope could improvise it in the twinkling of an eye, for the actors and their costumes were always ready. He set it in motion for the sole purpose of showing himself to the Romans, and in order that his majesty might lend additional brilliancy to a popular holiday. Ferno depicted the Pope himself as a demi-god coming forth to his people. "Upon a snow-white horse he sat, serene of countenance and of surpassing dignity; thus he showed himself to the people, and blessed them; thus he was seen of all. His glance fell upon them and filled every heart with joy. And so his appearance was of good augury for everyone. How wonderful is his tranquil bearing! And how noble his faultless face! His glance, how frank! How greatly does the honor which we feel for him increase when we behold his beauty and vigor of body!" Alexander the Great would have been described in just such terms by Ferno. This was the idolatry which was always accorded the papacy, and no one asked what was the inner and personal life of the glittering idol. On the occasion of his coronation Alexander appointed his son Cæsar, a youth of sixteen, Bishop of Valencia. This he did without being sure of the sanction of Ferdinand the Catholic, who, in fact, for a long time did endeavor to withhold it; but he finally yielded, and the Borgias consequently got the first bishopric in Spain into their hereditary possession. Cæsar was not in Rome at the time his father received the tiara. On the twenty-second of August, eleven days after Alexander's election, Manfredi, ambassador from Ferrara to Florence, wrote the Duchess Eleonora d'Este: "The Pope's son, the Bishop of Pamplona, who has been attending the University of Pisa, left there by the Pope's orders yesterday morning, and has gone to the castle of Spoleto." The fifth of October Cæsar was still there, for on that date he wrote a letter to Piero de' Medici from that place. This epistle to Lorenzo's son, the brother of Cardinal Giovanni, shows that the greatest confidence existed between him and Cæsar, who says in it that, on account of his sudden departure from Pisa, he had been unable to communicate orally with him, and that his preceptor, Juan Vera, would have to represent him. He recommended his trusted familiar, Francesco Romolini, to Piero for appointment as professor of canon law in Pisa. The letter is signed, "Your brother, Cesar de Borja, Elector of Valencia."[19] By not allowing his son to come to Rome immediately, Alexander wished to give public proof of what he had declared at the time of his election; namely, that he would hold himself above all nepotism. Perhaps there was a moment when the warning afforded by the examples of Calixtus, Sixtus, and Innocent caused him to hesitate, and to resolve to moderate his love for his offspring. However, the nomination of his son to a bishopric on the day of his coronation shows that his resolution was not very earnest. In October Cæsar appeared in the Vatican, where the Borgias now occupied the place which the pitiable Cibòs had left. On September 1st the Pope made the elder Giovanni Borgia, who was Bishop of Monreale, a cardinal; he was the son of Alexander's sister Giovanna. The Vatican was filled with Spaniards, kinsmen, or friends of the now all-powerful house, who had eagerly hurried thither in quest of fortune and honors. "Ten papacies would not be sufficient to satisfy this swarm of relatives," wrote Gianandrea Boccaccio in November, 1492, to the Duke of Ferrara. Of the close friends of Alexander, Juan Lopez was made his chancellor; Pedro Caranza and Juan Marades his privy chamberlains; Rodrigo Borgia, a nephew of the Pope, was made captain of the palace guard, which hitherto had been commanded by a Doria. Alexander immediately began to lay the plans for a more brilliant future for his daughter. He would no longer listen to her marrying a Spanish nobleman; nothing less than a prince should receive her hand. Ludovico and Ascanio suggested their kinsman, Giovanni Sforza. The Pope accepted him as son-in-law, for, although he was only Count of Cotognola and vicar of Pesaro, he was an independent sovereign, and he belonged to the illustrious house of Sforza. Alexander had entered early into such close relations with the Sforza that Cardinal Ascanio became all-powerful in Rome. Giovanni, an illegitimate son of Costanzo of Pesaro, and only by the indulgence of Sixtus IV and Innocent VIII his hereditary heir, was a man of twenty-six, well formed and carefully educated, like most of the lesser Italian despots. He had married Maddalena, the beautiful sister of Elisabetta Gonzaga, in 1489, on the very day upon which the latter was joined in wedlock to Duke Guidobaldo of Urbino. He had, however, been a widower since August 8, 1490, on which date his wife died in childbirth. Sforza hastened to accept the offered hand of the young Lucretia before any of her other numerous suitors could win it. On leaving Pesaro he first went to the castle of Nepi, which Alexander VI had given to Cardinal Ascanio. There he remained a few days and then came quietly to Rome, October 31, 1492. Here he took up his residence in the cardinal's palace of S. Clement, erected by Domenico della Rovere in the Borgo. It is still standing, and in good preservation, opposite the Palazzo Giraud. The Ferrarese ambassador announced Sforza's arrival to his master, remarking, "He will be a great man as long as this pope rules." He explained the retirement in which Sforza lived by stating that the man to whom Lucretia had been legally betrothed was also in Rome.[20] The young Count Gasparo had come to Rome with his father to make good his claim to Lucretia, through whom he hoped to obtain great favor. Here he found another suitor of whom he had hitherto heard nothing, but whose presence had become known, and he fell into a rage when the Pope demanded from him a formal renunciation. Lucretia, at that time a child of only twelve and a half years, thus became the innocent cause of a contest between two suitors, and likewise the subject of public gossip for the first time. November 5th the plenipotentiary of Ferrara wrote his master, "There is much gossip about Pesaro's marriage; the first bridegroom is still here, raising a great hue and cry, as a Catalan, saying he will protest to all the princes and potentates of Christendom; but will he, will he, he will have to submit." On the ninth of November the same ambassador wrote, "Heaven prevent this marriage of Pesaro from bringing calamities. It seems that the King (of Naples) is angry on account of it, judging by what Giacomo, Pontano's nephew told the Pope the day before yesterday. The matter is still undecided. Both the suitors are given fair words; both are here. However, it is believed that Pesaro will carry the day, especially as Cardinal Ascanio, who is powerful in deeds as well as in words, is looking after his interests." In the meantime, November 8th, the marriage contract between Don Gasparo and Lucretia was formally dissolved. The groom and his father merely expressed the hope that the new alliance would reach a favorable consummation, and Gasparo bound himself not to marry within one year. Giovanni Sforza, however, was not yet certain of his victory; December 9th the Mantuan agent Fioravante Brognolo, wrote the Marchese Gonzaga, "The affairs of the illustrious nobleman, Giovanni of Pesaro, are still undecided; it looks to me as if the Spanish nobleman to whom his Highness's niece was promised would not give her up. He has a great following in Spain, consequently the Pope is inclined to let things take their own course for a time, and not force them to a conclusion."[21] Even as late as February, 1493, there was talk of a marriage of Lucretia with the Spanish Conde de Prada, and not until this project was relinquished was she betrothed to Giovanni Sforza.[22] In the meantime Sforza had returned to Pesaro, whence he sent his proxy, Nicolo de Savano, to Rome to conclude the marriage contract. The Count of Aversa surrendered his advantage and suffered his grief to be assuaged by the payment to him of three thousand ducats. Thereupon, February 2, 1493, the betrothal of Sforza and Lucretia was formally ratified in the Vatican, in the presence of the Milanese ambassador and the intimate friends and servants of Alexander, Juan Lopez, Juan Casanova, Pedro Caranza, and Juan Marades. The Pope's daughter, who was to be taken home by her husband within one year, received a dowry of thirty-one thousand ducats. When the news of this event reached Pesaro, the fortunate Sforza gave a grand celebration in his palace. "They danced in the great hall, and the couples, hand in hand, issued from the castle, led by Monsignor Scaltes, the Pope's plenipotentiary, and the people in their joy joined in and danced away the hours in the streets of the city."[23] FOOTNOTES: [17] Cum simonia et mille ribalderie et inhonestate si è venduto il Pontificato che è cose ignominiosa et detestabile. Despatch of Giacomo Trotti, Ambassador of Ferrara in Milan, to the Duke Ercole, August 28, 1492, in the archives of Modena. [18] These stanzas were written by Hieronymus Porcius, who printed them in Hieronym. Porcius Patritius Romanus Rotæ Primarius Auditor.... Commentarius; a rare publication of Eucharius Silber, Rome, September 18, 1493. The stanzas of Michele Ferno of Milan conclude: Borgia stirps: bos: atque Ceres transcendit Olympo, Cantabunt nomen sæcula cuncta suum; which turned out to be a true prophecy. See Michæl Fernus Historia nova Alexandri VI ab Innocentii obitu VIII; an equally rare publication of the same Eucharius Silber, A. 1493. [19] Ex arce Spoletina, die v. Oct. (Di propria mano). Vr. vti fr. Cesar de Borja Elect. Valentin. Published by Reumont in Archiv. Stor. Ital. Serie 3, T. xvii, 1873. 3 Dispensa. [20] Era venuto il primo marito de la dicta nepote, qual fu rimesso a Napoli, non visto da niuno.... Despatch of Gianandrea Boccaccio, Bishop of Modena, Rome, November 2, 1492, and November 5 and 9. Archives of Modena. [21] Despatch of that date in the archives of Mantua. Lucretia was still sometimes designated as the Pope's niece. [22] Gianandrea Boccaccio to Duke Ercole, Rome, February 25, 1493. [23] Ms. Memoirs of Pesaro, by Pietro Marzetti and Ludovico Zacconi, in the Bibl. Oliveriana of Pesaro. CHAPTER VII LUCRETIA'S FIRST MARRIAGE Alexander had a residence furnished for Lucretia close to the Vatican; it was a house which Cardinal Battista Zeno had built in 1483, and was known after his church as the Palace of S. Maria in Portico. It was on the left side of the steps of S. Peter's, almost opposite the Palace of the Inquisition. The building of Bernini's Colonnade has, however, changed the appearance of the neighborhood so that it is no longer recognizable. The youthful Lucretia held court in her own palace, which was under the management of her maid of honor and governess, Adriana Orsini. Alexander had induced this kinswoman of his to leave the Orsini palace and to take up her abode with Lucretia in the palace of S. Maria in Portico, where we shall frequently see them and another woman who was only too close to the Pope. Vannozza remained in her own house in the Regola quarter. Her husband had been made commandant or captain of the Torre di Nona, of which Alexander shortly made him warden, a position of great trust, and Canale gave himself up eagerly to his important and profitable duties. From this time Vannozza and her children saw each other but little, although they were not completely separated. They continued to communicate with each other, but the mother profited only indirectly by the good fortune and greatness of her offspring. Vannozza never allowed herself, nor did Alexander permit her, to have any influence in the Vatican, and her name seldom appears in the records of the time. Donna Lucretia was now beginning to maintain the state of a great princess. She received the numerous connections of her house, as well as the friends and flatterers of the now all-powerful Borgia. Strange it is that the very man who, after the stormy period of her life, was to take her to a haven of rest should appear there about the time of her betrothal to Sforza, and while the contract was being contested by Don Gasparo. Among the Italian princes who at that period either sent ambassadors or came in person to Rome to render homage to the new Pope was the hereditary prince of Ferrara. In all Italy there was no other court so brilliant as that of Ercole d'Este and his spouse Eleonora of Aragon, a daughter of King Ferdinand of Naples. She, however, died about this time; namely, October 11, 1493. One of her children, Beatrice, had been married in December, 1490, to Ludovico il Moro, the brilliant monster who was Regent of Milan in place of his nephew Giangaleazzo; her other daughter, Isabella, one of the most beautiful and magnificent women of her day, was married in 1490, when she was only sixteen years of age, to the Marchese Francesco Gonzaga of Mantua. Alfonso was heir to the title, and on February 12, 1491, when he was only fifteen years old, he married Anna Sforza, a sister of the same Giangaleazzo. In November, 1492, his father sent him to Rome to recommend his state to the favor of the Pope, who received the youthful scion of the house of Sforza,--into which his own daughter was to marry,--with the highest honors. Don Alfonso lived in the Vatican, and during his visit, which lasted for several weeks, he not only had an opportunity, but it was his duty to call on Donna Lucretia. He was filled with amazement when he first beheld the beautiful child with her golden hair and intelligent blue eyes, and nothing was farther from his mind than the idea that the Sforza's betrothed would enter the castle of the Este family at Ferrara, as his own wife, nine years later. The letter of thanks which the prince's father wrote to the Pope shows how great were the honors with which the son had been received. The duke says: MOST HOLY FATHER AND LORD, MY HONORED MASTER: I kiss your Holiness's feet and commend myself to you in all humility. What honor and praise was due your Holiness I have long known, and now the letters of the Bishop of Modena, my ambassador, and also of others, not alone those of my dearly beloved first born, Alfonso, but of all the members of his suite, show how much I owe you. They tell me how your Highness included us all, me and mine, within the measure of your love, and overwhelmed all with presents, favors, mercy, and benevolence on my son's arrival in Rome and during his stay there. Therefore I acknowledge that I have for a long time been indebted to your Holiness, and now am still more so on account of this. My obligation is more than I can ever repay, and I promise that my gratitude shall be eternal and measureless like the world. As your most dutiful servant I shall always be ready to perform anything which may be acceptable to your Holiness, to whom I recommend myself and mine in all humility. Your Holiness's son and servant, ERCOLE, Duke of Ferrara. [FERRARA, _January 3, 1493_.] The letter shows how great was the duke's anxiety to remain on good terms with the Pope. He was a vassal in Ferrara of the Roman Church, which was endeavoring to transform itself into a monarchy. The princes, as well as the republicans of Italy,--at least those whose possessions were close to the sphere of action of the Holy See or were its vassals,--studied every new pope with suspicion and fear, and also with curiosity to see in what direction nepotism would develop under him. How easily Alexander VI might have again taken up the plans of the house of Borgia where they had been interrupted by the death of his uncle Calixtus, and have followed in the footsteps of Sixtus IV! Moreover, it was only ten years since the last named pope had, in conjunction with Venice, waged war on Ferrara. Ercole had maintained friendly relations with Alexander VI when he was only a cardinal; Rodrigo Borgia had even been godfather to his son Alfonso when he was baptized. For his other son, Ippolito, the duke, through his ambassador in Rome, Gianandrea Boccaccio, endeavored to secure a cardinal's cap. The ambassador applied to the most influential of Alexander's confidants, Ascanio Sforza, the chamberlain Marades, and Madonna Adriana. The Pope desired to make his son Cæsar a cardinal, and Boccaccio hoped that the youthful Ippolito would be his companion in good fortune. The ambassador gave Marades to understand that the two young men, one of whom was Archbishop of Valencia, the other of Gran, would make a good pair. "Their ages are about the same; I believe that Valencia is not more than sixteen years old, while our Strigonia (Gran) is near that age." Marades replied that this was not quite correct, as Ippolito was not yet fourteen, and the Archbishop of Valencia was in his eighteenth year.[24] The youthful Cæsar was stirred by other desires than those for spiritual honors. He assumed the hated garb of the priest only on his father's command. Although he was an archbishop he had only the first tonsure. His life was wholly worldly. It was even said that the King of Naples wanted him to marry one of his natural daughters and that if he did so he would relinquish the priesthood. The Ferrarese ambassador called upon him March 17, 1493, in his house in Trastevere, by which was probably meant the Borgo. The picture which Boccaccio on this occasion gave Duke Ercole of this young man of seventeen years is an important and significant portrait, and the first we have of him. "I met Cæsar yesterday in the house in Trastevere; he was just on his way to the chase, dressed in a costume altogether worldly; that is, in silk,--and armed. He had only a little tonsure like a simple priest. I conversed with him for a while as we rode along. I am on intimate terms with him. He possesses marked genius and a charming personality; he bears himself like a great prince; he is especially lively and merry, and fond of society. Being very modest, he presents a much better and more distinguished appearance than his brother, the Duke of Gandia, although the latter is also highly endowed. The archbishop never had any inclination for the priesthood. His benefices, however, bring him in more than sixteen thousand ducats annually. If the projected marriage takes place, his benefices will fall to another brother (Giuffrè), who is about thirteen years old."[25] It will be seen that the ambassador specially mentions Cæsar's buoyant nature. This was one of Alexander's most characteristic traits, and both Cæsar and Lucretia who was noted for it later, had inherited it from him. So far as his prudence was concerned, it was proclaimed six years later by a no less distinguished man than Giuliano della Rovere, who afterwards became pope under the name of Julius II. The Duke of Gandia was in Rome at this time, but it was his intention to set out for Spain to see his spouse immediately after the celebration of the marriage of Sforza and Lucretia. Lucretia's wedding was to take place on S. George's day, but was postponed, as it was found impossible for the bridegroom to arrive in time. Alexander took the greatest pleasure in making the arrangements for setting up his daughter's establishment. Her happiness--or, what to him was the same thing, her greatness--meant much to him. He loved her passionately, superlatively, as the Ferrarese ambassador wrote his master.[26] On the ambassador's suggestion the Duke of Ferrara sent as a wedding gift a pair of large silver hand basins with the accompanying vessels, all of the finest workmanship. Two residences were proposed for the young pair; the palace of S. Maria in Portico and the one near the castle of S. Angelo, which had belonged to the Cardinal Domenicus Porta of Aleria, who died February 4, 1493. The former, in which Lucretia was already living, was chosen. At last Sforza arrived. June 9th he made his entry by way of the Porta del Popolo, and was received by the whole senate, his brothers-in-law, and the ambassadors of the Powers. Lucretia, attended by several maids of honor, had taken a position in a loggia of her palace to see her bridegroom and his suite on their way to the Vatican. As he rode by, Sforza greeted her right gallantly, and his bride returned his salutation. He was most graciously received by his father-in-law. [Illustration: CHURCH OF ARA COELI, ROME.] Sforza was a man of attractive appearance, as we may readily discover from a medal which he had struck ten years later, which represents him with long, flowing locks and a full beard. The mouth is sensitive, the under lip slightly drawn; the nose is somewhat aquiline; the forehead smooth and lofty. The proportions of his features are noble, but lacking in character. Three days after his arrival, that is, June 12th, the nuptials were celebrated in the Vatican with ostentatious publicity. Alexander had invited the nobility, the officials of Rome, and the foreign ambassadors to be present. There was a banquet, followed by a licentious comedy, which is described by Infessura. To corroborate the short account given by this Roman, and at the same time to render the picture more complete, we reproduce, word for word, the description which the Ferrarese ambassador, Boccaccio, sent his master in a communication dated June 13th: Yesterday, the twelfth of the present month, the union was publicly celebrated in the palace, with the greatest pomp and extravagance. All the Roman matrons were invited, also the most influential citizens, and many cardinals, twelve in number, stood near her, the Pope occupying the throne in their midst. The palace and all the apartments were filled with people, who were overcome with amazement. The lord of Pesaro celebrated his betrothal to his wife, and the Bishop of Concordia delivered a sermon. The only ambassadors present, however, were the Venetian, the Milanese and myself, and one from the King of France. Cardinal Ascanio thought that I ought to present the gift during the ceremony, so I had some one ask the Pope, to whom I remarked that I did not think it proper, and that it seemed better to me to wait a little while. All agreed with me, whereupon the Pope called to me and said, "It seems to me to be best as you say"; consequently it was arranged that I should bring the present to the palace late in the evening. His Holiness gave a small dinner in honor of the bride and groom, and there were present the Cardinals Ascanio, S. Anastasia, and Colonna; the bride and groom, and next to him the Count of Pitigliano, captain of the Church; Giuliano Orsini; Madonna Giulia Farnese, of whom there is so much talk (de qua est tantus sermo); Madonna Teodorina and her daughter, the Marchesa of Gerazo; a daughter of the above named captain, wife of Angelo Farnese, Madonna Giulia's brother. Then came a younger brother of Cardinal Colonna and Madonna Adriana Ursina. The last is mother-in-law of the above mentioned Madonna Giulia. She had the bride educated in her own home, where she was treated as a niece of the Pope. Adriana is the daughter of the Pope's cousin, Pedro de Mila, deceased, with whom your Excellency was acquainted. When the table was cleared, which was between three and four o'clock in the morning, the bride was presented with the gift sent by the illustrious Duke of Milan; it consisted of five different pieces of gold brocade and two rings, a diamond and a ruby, the whole worth a thousand ducats. Thereupon I presented your Highness's gift with suitable words of congratulation on the marriage and good wishes for the future, together with the offer of your services. The present greatly pleased the Pope. To the thanks of the bride and groom he added his own expressions of unbounded gratitude. Then Ascanio offered his present, which consisted of a complete drinking service of silver washed with gold, worth about a thousand ducats. Cardinal Monreale gave two rings, a sapphire and a diamond--very beautiful--and worth three thousand ducats; the prothonotary Cesarini gave a bowl and cup worth eight hundred ducats; the Duke of Gandia a vessel worth seventy ducats; the prothonotary Lunate a vase of a certain composition like jasper, ornamented with silver, gilded, which was worth seventy to eighty ducats. These were all the gifts presented at this time; the other cardinals, ambassadors, etc., will bring their presents when the marriage is celebrated, and I will do whatever is necessary. It will, I think, be performed next Sunday, but this is not certain. In conclusion, the women danced, and, as an interlude, a good comedy was given, with songs and music. The Pope and all the others were present. What shall I add? There would be no end to my letter. Thus we passed the whole night, and whether it was good or bad your Highness may decide. FOOTNOTES: [24] Boccaccio's despatches, Rome, February 25, March 11, 1493. [25] Magni et excellentis ingenii et preclare indolis; præ se fert speciem fillii magni Principis, et super omnia ilaris et jocundus, e tutto festa: cum magna siquidem modestia est longe melioris et prestantioris aspectus, quam sit dux Candie germanus suus. Anchora lue è dotato di bone parte. Despatch of March 19, 1493. [26] Mai fù visto il più carnale homo; l'hama questa madona Lucrezia in superlativo gradu. Boccaccio's Despatch, Rome, April 4, 1493. The word _carnale_ is to be taken only in the sense of nepotism, as it is plainly so used elsewhere by the ambassador. CHAPTER VIII FAMILY AFFAIRS Lucretia's marriage with Giovanni Sforza confirmed the political alliance which Alexander VI had made with Ludovico il Moro. The Regent of Milan wanted to invite Charles VIII of France into Italy to make war upon King Ferdinand of Naples, so that he himself might ultimately gain possession of the duchy, for he was consumed with ambition and impatience to drive his sickly nephew, Giangaleazzo, from the throne. The latter, however, was the consort of Isabella of Aragon, a daughter of Alfonso of Calabria and the grandson of Ferdinand himself. The alliance of Venice, Ludovico, the Pope, and some of the other Italian nobles had become known in Rome as early as April 25th. This league, clearly, was opposed to Naples; and its court, therefore, was thrown into the greatest consternation. Nevertheless, King Ferdinand congratulated the Lord of Pesaro upon his marriage. He looked upon him as a kinsman, and Sforza had likewise been accepted by the house of Aragon. June 15, 1493, the king wrote to him from Capua as follows: ILLUSTRIOUS COUSIN AND OUR DEAREST FRIEND: We have received your letter of the twenty-second of last month, in which you inform us of your marriage with the illustrious Donna Lucretia, the niece of his Holiness our Master. We are much pleased, both because we always have and still do feel the greatest love for yourself and your house, and also because we believe that nothing could be of greater advantage to you than this marriage. Therefore we wish you the best of fortune, and we pray God, with you, that this alliance may increase your own power and fame and that of your State.[27] Eight days earlier the same king had sent his ambassador to Spain a letter, in which he asked the protection of Ferdinand and Isabella against the machinations of the Pope, whose ways he described as "loathsome"; in this he was referring, not to his political actions, but to his personal conduct. Giulia Farnese, whom Infessura noticed among the wedding guests and described as "the Pope's concubine," caused endless gossip about herself and his Holiness. This young woman surrendered herself to an old man of sixty-two whom she was also compelled to honor as the head of the Church. There is no doubt whatever about her years of adultery, but we can not understand the cause of her passion; for however powerful the demoniac nature of Alexander VI may have been, it must by this time have lost much of its magnetic strength. Perhaps this young and empty-headed creature, after she had once transgressed and the feeling of shame had passed, was fascinated by the spectacle of the sacred master of the world, before whom all men prostrated themselves, lying at her feet--the feet of a weak child. There is also the suspicion that the cupidity of the Farnese was the cause of the criminal relations, for Giulia's sins were rewarded by nothing less than the bestowal of the cardinal's purple on her brother Alessandro. The Pope had already designated him, among others, for the honor, but the nomination was delayed by the opposition of the Sacred College, over which Giuliano della Rovere presided. King Ferdinand also encouraged this opposition, and on the very day on which Lucretia's marriage to Pesaro was celebrated he placed his army at the disposal of the cardinals who refused to sanction the appointment. Her consort, Sforza, was now a great man in Rome, and intimate with all the Borgias. June 16th he was seen by the side of the Duke of Gandia, decked in costly robes glittering with precious stones, as if "they were two kings," riding out to meet the Spanish ambassador. Gandia was preparing for his journey to Spain. He had been betrothed to Doña Maria Enriquez, a beautiful lady of Valencia, shortly before his father ascended the papal throne; there is a brief of Alexander's dated October 6, 1492, in which he grants his son and his spouse the right to obtain absolution from any confessor whatsoever. The high birth of Doña Maria shows what brilliant connections the bastard Giovanni Borgia was able to make as a grandee of Spain, for she was the daughter of Don Enrigo Enriquez, High-Treasurer of Leon, and Doña Maria de Luna, who was closely connected with the royal house of Aragon. Don Giovanni left Rome, August 4, 1493, to board a Spanish galley in Civitavecchia. According to the report of the Ferrarese agent, he took with him an incredible number of trinkets, with whose manufacture the goldsmiths of Rome had busied themselves for months. Of Alexander's sons there now remained in Rome, Cæsar, who was to be made a cardinal, and Giuffrè, who was destined to be a prince in Naples, for the quarrel between the Pope and King Ferdinand had been settled through the intermediation of Spain. She caused Alexander to break with France, and to sever his connection with Ludovico il Moro. This surprising change was immediately confirmed by the marriage of Don Giuffrè, a boy of scarcely thirteen, and Donna Sancia, a natural daughter of Duke Alfonso of Calabria. August 16, 1493, the marriage was performed by proxy in the Vatican, and the wedding took place later in Naples. Cæsar himself became cardinal, September 20, 1493, the stain of his birth having been removed by the Cardinals Pallavicini and Orsini, who had been charged with legitimating him. February 25, 1493, Gianandrea Boccaccio wrote to Ferrara regarding the legitimating of Cæsar, ironically saying, "They wish to remove the blot of being a natural son, and very rightly; because he is legitimate, having been born in the house while the woman's husband was living. This much is certain: the husband was sometimes in the city and at others traveling about in the territory of the Church and in her interest." The ambassador, however, never mentions the name of this man, which, however, Infessura says was Domenico d'Arignano. Ippolito d'Este and Alessandro Farnese were made cardinals the same day. To his sister's adultery this young libertine owed his advancement in the Church, a fact so notorious that the wits of the Roman populace called him the "petticoat cardinal." The jubilant kinsmen of Giulia Farnese saw in her only the instrument of their advancement. Girolama Farnese, Giulia 's sister, wrote to her husband, Puccio, from Casignano, October 21, 1493, "You will have received letters from Florence before mine reaches you and have learned what benefices have fallen to Lorenzo, and all that Giulia has secured for him, and you will be greatly pleased."[28] Even the Republic of Florence sought to profit by Alexander's relations with Giulia; for Puccio, her brother-in-law, was sent to Rome as plenipotentiary. The Florentines had despatched this famous jurist to the papal city immediately after Alexander's accession to the throne, to swear allegiance, and later he was her agent for a year in Faenza, where he conducted the government for Astorre Manfredi, who was a minor. At the beginning of the year 1494 he went as ambassador to Rome, where he died in August.[29] His brother, Lorenzo Pucci, subsequently attained to eminence in the Church under Leo X, becoming a powerful cardinal. The Farnese and their numerous kin were now in high favor with the Pope and all the Borgias. In October, 1493, they invited Alexander and Cæsar to a family reunion at the castle of Capodimonte, where Madonna Giovanella, Giulia's mother, was to prepare a banquet. Whether or not this really took place we are ignorant, although we do know that Alexander was in Viterbo the last of October. In 1492 Giulia gave birth to a daughter, who was named Laura. The child officially passed as that of her husband, Orsini, although in reality the Pope was its father. The Farnese and the Pucci knew the secret and shamelessly endeavored to profit by it. Giulia cared so little for the world's opinion that she occupied the palace of S. Maria in Portico, as if she were a blood relation of Lucretia. Alexander himself had put her there as a lady of honor to his daughter. Her husband, Orsini, preferred, or was compelled, to live in his castle of Bassanello, or to stay on one of the estates which the Pope had presented to him, the husband of Madonna Giulia, "Christ's bride," as the satirists called her, instead of remaining in Rome to be a troublesome witness of his shame. A remarkable letter of Lorenzo Pucci to his brother Giannozzo, written the 23d and 24th of December, 1493, from Rome, discloses these and other family secrets. He shows us the most private scenes in Lucretia's palace. Lorenzo had been invited by Cardinal Farnese to go with him to Rome to witness the Christmas festivities. He accompanied him from Viterbo to Rignano, where the barons of the Savelli house, kinsmen of the cardinal, formally received them, after which they continued their journey on horseback to Rome. Lorenzo repeated to his brother the confidential conversation which he had enjoyed with the cardinal on the way. Even as early as this there was talk of finding a suitable husband for Giulia's little daughter. The cardinal unfolded his idea to Lorenzo. Piero de' Medici wished to give his own daughter to the youthful Astorre Manfredi of Faenza, but Farnese desired to bring about an alliance between Astorre and Giulia's daughter. He hoped to be able to convince Piero that this union would be advantageous for both himself and the Republic of Florence, and would strengthen his relations with the Holy See. The affair would be handled so that it would appear that it was entirely due to the wishes of the Pope and of Piero. In this the cardinal counted on the consent of both Alexander and Giulia, and on the influence of Madonna Adriana. Lorenzo Pucci replied to the cardinal's confidence as follows: "Monsignor, I certainly think that our Master (the Pope) will give a daughter to this gentleman (Astorre), for I believe that this child is the Pope's daughter, just as Lucretia is, and your Highness's niece."[30] In his letter Lorenzo does not say whether the cardinal made any reply to this audacious statement, which would have brought a blush to the face of any honorable man. Probably it only caused Alessandro Farnese a little smile of assent. The bold Pucci repeated his opinion in the same letter, saying, "She is the child of the Pope, the niece of the cardinal, and the putative daughter of Signor Orsini, to whom our Master intends to give three or four more castles near Bassanello. In addition, the cardinal says that in case his brother Angelo remains without heir, this child will inherit his property, as she is very dear to him, and he is already thinking of this; and by this means the illustrious Piero will obtain the support of the cardinal, who will be under everlasting obligations to him." Lorenzo did not overlook himself in these schemes; he openly expressed the wish that his brother Puccio would come to Rome--as ambassador of the Republic, which he did--and that he might secure through the influence of Madonna Adriana and Giulia a number of good places. Lorenzo continued his letter December 24th, describing a scene in Lucretia's palace, and his narrative shows her, and especially Giulia, as plainly as if they stood before us. GIANNOZZO MINE: Yesterday evening I wrote you as above. To-day, which is Easter evening, I rode with Monsignor Farnese to the papal palace to vespers, and before his Eminence entered the chapel I called at the house S. Maria in Portico to see Madonna Giulia. She had just finished washing her hair when I entered; she was sitting by the fire with Madonna Lucretia, the daughter of our Master, and Madonna Adriana, and they all received me with great cordiality. Madonna Giulia asked me to sit by her side; she thanked me for having taken Jeronima (Girolama) home, and said to me that I must, by all means, bring her there again to please her. Madonna Adriana asked, 'Is it true that she is not allowed to come here any more than she was permitted to go to Capodimonte and Marta?' I replied that I knew nothing about that, and it was enough for me if I had made Madonna Giulia happy by taking her home, for in her letters she had requested me to do so, and now they could do as they pleased. I wanted to leave it to Madonna Giulia, who was alive to all her opportunities, to meet her as she saw fit, as she wanted her to see her magnificence just as much as Jeronima (Girolama) herself wanted to see it. Thereupon Madonna Giulia thanked me warmly and said I had made her very happy. I then reminded her how greatly I was beholden to her Highness by what she had done for me, and that I could not show my gratitude better than by taking Madonna Jeronima (Girolama) home. She answered that such a trifle deserved no thanks. She hopes to be of still greater help to me, and says I shall find her so at the right time. Madonna Adriana joined in saying I might be certain that it was through neither the chancellor, Messer Antonio, nor his deputy, but owing to the favor of Madonna Giulia herself, that I had obtained the benefices. In order not to contradict, I replied that I knew that, and I again thanked her Highness. Thereupon Madonna Giulia asked with much interest after Messer Puccio and said, "We will see to it that some day he will come here as ambassador; and although, when he was here, we, in spite of all our endeavors, were unable to effect it, we could now accomplish it without any difficulty." She assured me also that the cardinal had mentioned to her the previous evening the matter we had discussed on the road, and she urged me to write; she thought if the affair were handled by yourself, the illustrious Piero would be favorably disposed toward it. Thus far has the matter progressed. Giulia also wanted me to see the child; she is now well grown, and, it seems to me, resembles the Pope, _adeo ut vere ex ejus semine orta dici possit_. Madonna Giulia has grown somewhat stouter and is a most beautiful creature. She let down her hair before me and had it dressed; it reached down to her feet; never have I seen anything like it; she has the most beautiful hair. She wore a head-dress of fine linen, and over it a sort of net, light as air, with gold threads interwoven in it. In truth it shone like the sun! I would have given a great deal if you could have been present to have informed yourself concerning that which you have often wanted to know. She wore a lined robe in the Neapolitan fashion, as did also Madonna Lucretia, who, after a little while, went out to remove it. She returned shortly in a gown almost entirely of violet velvet. When vespers were over and the cardinals were departing, I left them. The close association with Giulia, to whose adulterous relations with her father Lucretia was the daily witness, if not a school of vice for her, at least must have kept her constantly in contact with it. Could a young creature of only fourteen years remain pure in such an atmosphere? Must not the immorality in the midst of which she was forced to live have poisoned her senses, dulled her ideas of morality and virtue, and finally have penetrated her own character? FOOTNOTES: [27] Cod. Aragon, ii, 2.67, ed Trinchera. [28] Carte Strozziane, filz 343. In the archives of Florence. [29] Lelia Ursina de Farnesio congratulated him on his appointment, January 13, 1494. Ibidem. [30] In the earlier edition of this work I found some difficulty in the passage: "Chredo che questa puta sia figlia del Papa, como Madonna Luchretia è nipote di S. R. Signoria." I am now convinced that the è is an error of the writer or the copyist and should be simply the conduction e. Lorenzo Pucci's brother Giannozzo was married to Lucrezia Bini, a Florentine, who is mentioned later in this same letter. CHAPTER IX LUCRETIA LEAVES ROME By the end of the year 1493 Alexander had amply provided for all his children. Cæsar was a cardinal, Giovanni was a duke in Spain, and Giuffrè was soon to become a Neapolitan prince. The last, the Pope's youngest son, was united in marriage, May 7, 1494, in Naples, to Donna Sancia the same day on which his father-in-law, Alfonso, ascending the throne as the successor of King Ferdinand, was crowned by the papal legate, Giovanni Borgia. Don Giuffrè remained in Naples and became Prince of Squillace. Giovanni also received great fiefs in that kingdom, where he called himself Duke of Suessa and Prince of Teano. For some time longer Lucretia's spouse remained in Rome, where the Pope had taken him into his pay in accordance with an agreement with Ludovico il Moro under whom Sforza served. His position at Alexander's court, however, soon became ambiguous. His uncles had married him to Lucretia to make the Pope a confederate and accomplice in their schemes which were directed toward the overthrow of the reigning family of Naples. Alexander, however, clung closely to the Aragonese dynasty; he invested King Alfonso with the title to the kingdom of Naples, and declared himself opposed to the expedition of Charles VIII. Sforza thereby was thrown into no slight perplexity, and early in April, 1494, he informed his uncle Ludovico of his dubious position in the following letter: Yesterday his Holiness said to me in the presence of Monsignor (Cardinal Ascanio), "Well, Giovanni Sforza! What have you to say to me?" I answered, "Holy Father, every one in Rome believes that your Holiness has entered into an agreement with the King of Naples, who is an enemy of the State of Milan. If this is so, I am in an awkward position, as I am in the pay of your Holiness and also in that of the State I have named. If things continue as they are, I do not know how I can serve one party without falling out with the other, and at the same time I do not wish to offend. I ask that your Holiness may be pleased to define my position so that I may not become an enemy of my own blood, and not act contrary to the obligations into which I have entered by virtue of my agreement with your Holiness and the illustrious State of Milan." He replied, saying that I took too much interest in his affairs, and that I should choose in whose pay I would remain according to my contract. And then he commanded the above-named monsignor to write to your Excellency what you will learn from his lordship's letter. My lord, if I had foreseen in what a position I was to be placed I would sooner have eaten the straw under my body than have entered into such an agreement. I cast myself in your arms. I beg your Excellency not to desert me, but to give me help, favor, and advice how to resolve the difficulty in which I am placed, so that I may remain a good servant of your Excellency. Preserve for me the position and the little nest which, thanks to the mercy of Milan, my ancestors left me, and I and my men of war will ever remain at the service of your Excellency. GIOVANNI SFORZA. ROME, _April, 1494_. The letter plainly discloses other and deeper concerns of the writer; such, for example, as the future possession of his domain of Pesaro. The Pope's plans to destroy all the little tyrannies and fiefs in the States of the Church had already been clearly revealed.[31] Shortly after this, April 23d, Cardinal della Rovere slipped away from Ostia and into France to urge Charles VIII to invade Italy, not to attack Naples, but to bring this simoniacal pope before a council and depose him. At the beginning of July Ascanio Sforza, now openly at strife with Alexander, also left the city. He went to Genazzano and joined the Colonna, who were in the pay of France. Charles VIII was already preparing to invade Italy. The Pope and King Alfonso met at Vicovaro near Tivoli, July 14th. In the meantime important changes had taken place in Lucretia's palace. Her husband had hurriedly left Rome, as he could do as a captain of the Church, in which capacity he had to join the Neapolitan army, now being formed in Romagna under the command of the Duke Ferrante of Calabria. By his nuptial contract he was bound to take his bride with him to Pesaro. She was accompanied by her mother, Vannozza, Giulia Farnese, and Madonna Adriana. Alexander himself, through fear of the plague, which had appeared, commanded them to depart. The Mantuan ambassador in Rome reported this to the Marchese Gonzaga, May 6th, and also wrote him on the fifteenth as follows: "The illustrious Lord Giovanni will certainly set out Monday or Tuesday accompanied by all three ladies, who, by the Pope's order, will remain in Pesaro until August, when they will return."[32] Sforza's departure must have taken place early in June, for on the eleventh of that month a letter from Ascanio was sent to his brother in Milan informing him that the lord of Pesaro with his wife and Madonna Giulia, the Pope's mistress, together with the mother of the Duke of Gandia, and Giuffrè, had set out from Rome for Pesaro, and that his Holiness had begged Madonna Giulia to come back soon.[33] Alexander had returned to Rome from Vicovaro, July 18th, and on the 24th he wrote his daughter the following letter: Alexander VI, Pope; by his own hand. DONNA LUCRETIA, DEAREST DAUGHTER: For several days we have had no letter from you. Your neglect to write us often and tell us how you and Don Giovanni, our beloved son, are, causes us great surprise. In future be more heedful and more diligent. Madonna Adriana and Giulia have reached Capodimonte, where they found the latter's brother dead. His death caused the cardinal and Giulia such distress that both fell sick of the fever. We have sent Pietro Caranza to look after them, and have provided physicians and everything necessary. We pray to God and the glorious Madonna that they will soon be restored. Of a truth Don Giovanni and yourself have displayed very little thought for me in this departure of Madonna Adriana and Giulia, since you allowed them to leave without our permission; for you should have remembered--it was your duty--that such a sudden departure without our knowledge would cause us the greatest displeasure. And if you say that they did so because Cardinal Farnese commanded it, you ought to have asked yourself whether it would please the Pope. However, it is done; but another time we will be more careful, and will look about to see where our interest lies. We are, thanks to God and the glorious Virgin, very well. We have had an interview with the illustrious King Alfonso, who showed us no less love and obedience than he would have shown had he been our own son. I cannot tell you with what satisfaction and contentment we took leave of each other. You may be certain that his Majesty stands ready to place his own person and every thing he has in the world at our service. We hope that all differences and quarrels in regard to the Colonna will be completely laid aside in three or four days. At present I have nothing more to say than to warn you to be careful of your health and constantly to pray to the Madonna. Given in Rome in S. Peter's, July 24, 1494.[34] This letter is the first of the few extant written by Alexander to his daughter. His reproof was due to the sudden departure of his mistress--contrary to his original instructions--from Pesaro before August. From there Giulia went to Capodimonte to look after her sick brother Angiolo. According to a Venetian letter written by Marino Sanuto, she had left Rome chiefly for the purpose of attending the wedding of one of her kinsmen, and the writer describes her in this place as "the Pope's favorite, a young woman of great beauty and understanding, gracious and gentle." Alexander's letter shows us that his mistress remained in communication with him after her departure from Rome. FOOTNOTES: [31] This letter is printed in Atti e Memorie Modenesi, i. 433. [32] Despatch of Giorgio Brognolo to the Marchese, Rome, May 6 and 15, 1494. Archives of Mantua. [33] Despatch of Jacomo Trotti to Duke Ercole, Milan, June 11, 1494. May 1st the women were still in Rome, for on that date Madonna Adriana wrote a letter from there to the Marchesa of Mantua recommending a friend to her. The letter is in the Mantuan archives. [34] The letter is published in Ugolino's Storia dei Conti e Duchi d'Urbino, II. Document No. 13. I saw the original in the state archives of Florence; only the address is in Alexander's hand, the rest is written by the Chancellor Juan Lopez, who signs himself Jo. Datarius. CHAPTER X HISTORY AND DESCRIPTION OF PESARO The storm which suddenly broke upon Alexander did not disturb Lucretia, for on the eighth of June, 1494, she and her spouse entered Pesaro. In a pouring rain, which interrupted the reception festivities, she took possession of the palace of the Sforza, which was now to be her home. The history of Pesaro up to that time is briefly as follows: Ancient Pisaurum, which was founded by the Siculi, received its name from the river which empties into the sea not far from the city, and which is now known as the Foglia. In the year 570 of Rome the city became a Roman colony. From the time of Augustus it belonged to the fourth department of Italy, and from the time of Constantine to the province of Flaminia. After the fall of the Roman Empire it suffered the fate of all the Italian cities, especially in the great war of the Goths with the Eastern emperor. Vitiges destroyed it; Belisarius restored it. After the fall of the Gothic power, Pesaro was incorporated in the Exarchate, and together with four other cities on the Adriatic--Ancona, Fano, Sinigaglia, and Rimini--constituted the Pentapolis. When Ravenna fell into the hands of the Lombard King Aistulf, Pesaro also became Lombard; but later, by the deed of Pipin and Charles, it passed into the possession of the Pope. The subsequent history of the city is interwoven with that of the Empire, the Church and the March of Ancona. For a long time imperial counts resided there. Innocent III invested its title in Azzo d'Este, the Lord of the March. During the struggles of the Hohenstaufen with the papacy it first was in the possession of the emperor and later in that of the Pope, who held it until the end of the thirteenth century, when the Malatesta became podestas, and subsequently lords of the city. This famous Guelph family from the castle of Verrucchio, which lies between Rimini and S. Marino, fell heir to the fortress of Gradara, in the territory of Pesaro, and by degrees extended its power in the direction of Ancona. In 1285 Gianciotto Malatesta became lord of Pesaro, and on his death, in 1304, his brother Pandolfo inherited his domain. From that time the Malatesta, lords of nearby Rimini, controlled not only Pesaro, but a large part of the March which they appropriated to themselves when the papacy was removed to Avignon. They secured themselves in the possession of Rimini, Pesaro, Fano, and Fossombrone by an agreement made during the life of the famous Gil d'Albornoz, confirming them in their position there as vicars of the Church. A branch of this house resided in Pesaro until the time of Galeazzo Malatesta. Threatened by his kinsman Sigismondo, the tyrant of Rimini, and unable to hold Pesaro against his attack, he sold the city in 1445 for twenty thousand gold florins to Count Francesco Sforza, and the latter gave it as a fief to his brother Alessandro, the husband of a niece of Galeazzo. Sforza was the great condottiere who, after the departure of the Visconti, ascended the throne of Milan as the first duke of his house. While he was there establishing the ducal line of Sforza, his brother Alessandro became the founder of the ruling house of Pesaro. This brave captain took possession of Pesaro in March, 1445; two years later he received the papal investiture of the fief. He was married to Costanza Varano, one of the most beautiful and intellectual women of the Italian Renaissance. To him she bore Costanzo and also a daughter, Battista, who later, as the wife of Federico of Urbino, won universal admiration by her virtues and talents. The neighboring courts of Pesaro and Urbino were connected by marriage, and they vied with each other in fostering the arts and sciences. Another illegitimate daughter of Alessandro's was Ginevra Sforza--a woman no less admired in her day--celebrated, first as the wife of Sante and then as that of Giovanni Bentivoglio, Lord of Bologna. After the death of his wife, Alessandro Sforza married Sveva Montefeltre, a daughter of Guidantonio of Urbino. After a happy reign he died April 3, 1473, leaving his possessions to his son. A year later Costanzo Sforza married Camilla Marzana d'Aragona, a beautiful and spirituelle princess of the royal house of Naples. He himself was brilliant and liberal. He died in 1483, when only thirty-six, leaving no legitimate heirs, his sons Giovanni and Galeazzo being natural children. His widow Camilla thenceforth conducted the government of Pesaro for herself and her stepson Giovanni until November, 1489, when she compelled him to assume entire control of it. Such was the history of the Sforza family of Pesaro, into which Lucretia now entered as the wife of this same Giovanni. The domain of the Sforza at that time embraced the city of Pesaro and a number of smaller possessions, called castles or villas; for example, S. Angelo in Lizzola, Candelara, Montebaroccio, Tomba di Pesaro, Montelabbate, Gradara, Monte S. Maria, Novilara, Fiorenzuola, Castel di Mezzo, Ginestreto, Gabicce, Monteciccardo, and Monte Gaudio. In addition, Fossombrone was taken by the Sforzas from the Malatesta. The principality belonged, as we have seen, for a long time to the Church, then to the Malatesta, and later to the Sforza, who, under the title of vicars, held it as a hereditary fief, paying the Church annually seven hundred and fifty gold ducats. The daughter of a Roman pontiff must, therefore, have been the most acceptable consort the tyrant of Pesaro could have secured under the existing circumstances, especially as the popes were striving to destroy all the illegitimate powers in the States of the Church. When Lucretia saw how small and unimportant was her little kingdom, she must have felt that she did not rank with the women of Urbino, Ferrara, and Mantua, or with those of Milan and Bologna; but she, by the authority of the Pope, her own father, had become an independent princess, and, although her territory embraced only a few square miles, to Italy it was a costly bit of ground. Pesaro lies free and exposed in a wide valley. A chain of green hills sweeps half around it like the seats in a theater, and the sea forms the stage. At the ends of the semicircle are two mountains, Monte Accio and Ardizio. The Foglia River flows through the valley. On its right bank lies the hospitable little city with its towers and walls, and its fortress on the white seashore. Northward, in the direction of Rimini, the mountains approach nearer the water, while to the south the shore is broader, and there, rising out of the mists of the sea, are the towers of Fano. A little farther Cape Ancona is visible. The sunny hills and their smiling valley under the blue canopy of heaven, and near the shimmering sea, form a picture of entrancing loveliness. It is the most peaceful spot on the Adriatic. It seems as if the breezes from sea and land wafted a lyric harmony over the valley, expanding the heart and filling the soul with visions of beauty and happiness. Pesaro is the birthplace of Rosini, and also of Terenzio Mamiani, the brilliant poet and statesman who devoted his great talents to the regeneration of Italy. The passions of the tyrants of this city were less ferocious than were those of the other dynasties of that age, perhaps because their domain was too small a stage for the dark deeds inspired by inordinate ambition--although the human spirit does not always develop in harmony with the influences of nature. One of the most hideous of evil doers was Sigismondo Malatesta of mild and beautiful Rimini. The Sforzas of Pesaro, however, seem generous and humane rulers in comparison with their cousins of Milan. Their court was adorned by a number of noble women whom Lucretia may have felt it her duty to imitate. If, when Lucretia entered Pesaro, her soul--young as she was--was not already dead to all agreeable sensations, she must have enjoyed for the first time the blessed sense of freedom. To her, gloomy Rome, with the dismal Vatican and its passions and crimes, must have seemed like a prison from which she had escaped. It is true everything about her in Pesaro was small when compared with the greatness of Rome, but here she was removed from the direct influence of her father and brother, from whom she was separated by the Apennines and a distance which, in that age, was great. The city of Pesaro, which now has more than twelve thousand, and with its adjacent territory over twenty thousand inhabitants had then about half as many. It had streets and squares with substantial specimens of Gothic architecture, interspersed, however, even then, with numerous palaces in the style of the Renaissance. A number of cloisters and churches, whose ancient portals are still preserved, such as S. Domenico, S. Francesco, S. Agostino, and S. Giovanni, rendered the city imposing if not beautiful. Pesaro's most important structures were the monuments of the ruling dynasty, the stronghold on the seashore and the palace facing the public square. The last was begun by Costanzo Sforza in 1474 and was completed by his son Giovanni. Even to-day his name may be seen on the marble tablet over the entrance. The castle with its four low, round towers or bastions, all in ruin, and surrounded by a moat, stands at the end of the city wall near the sea, and whatever strength it had was due to its environment; in spite of its situation it appears so insignificant that one wonders how, even in those days when the science of gunnery was in its infancy, it could have had any value as a fortress. The Sforza palace is still standing on the little public square of which it occupies one whole side. It is an attractive, but not imposing structure with two large courts. The Della Rovere, successors of the Sforza in Pesaro, beautified it during the sixteenth century; they built the noble façade which rests upon a series of six round arches. The Sforza arms have disappeared from the palace, but in many places over the portals and on the ceilings the inscription of Guidobaldus II, duke, and the Della Rovere arms may be seen. Even in Lucretia's day the magnificent banquet hall--the most beautiful room in the palace--was in existence, and its size made it worthy of a great monarch. The lack of decorations on the walls and of marble casings to the doors, like those in the castle of Urbino, which fill the beholder with wonder, show how limited were the means of the ruling dynasty of Pesaro. The rich ceiling of the salon, made of gilded and painted woodwork, dates from the reign of Duke Guidobaldo. All mementos of the time when Lucretia occupied the palace have disappeared; it is animated by other memories--of the subsequent court life of the Della Rovere family, when Bembo, Castiglione, and Tasso frequently were guests there. Lucretia and the suite that accompanied her could not have filled the wide rooms of the palace; her mother, Madonna Adriana, and Giulia Farnese remained with her only a short time. A young Spanish woman in her retinue, Doña Lucretia Lopez, a niece of Juan Lopez, chancellor and afterward cardinal, was married in Pesaro to Gianfrancesco Ardizio, the physician and confidant of Giovanni Sforza. In the palace there were few kinsmen of her husband besides his younger brother Galeazzo, for the dynasty was not fruitful and was dying out. Even Camilla d'Aragona, Giovanni's stepmother, was not there, for she had left Pesaro for good in 1489, taking up her residence in a castle near Parma. In summer the beautiful landscape must have afforded the young princess much delight. She doubtless visited the neighboring castle of Urbino, where Guidobaldo di Montefetre and his spouse Elisabetta resided, and which the accomplished Federico had made an asylum for the cultivated. At that time Raphael, a boy of twelve, was living in Urbino, a diligent pupil in his father's school. [Illustration: TASSO. From an engraving by Raffaelle Morghen.] In summer Lucretia removed to one of the beautiful villas on a neighboring hill. Her husband's favorite abode was Gradara, a lofty castle overlooking the road to Rimini, whose red walls and towers are still standing in good preservation. The most magnificent country place, however, was the Villa Imperiale, which is a half hour's journey from Pesaro, on Monte Accio, whence it looks down far over the land and sea. It is a splendid summer palace worthy of a great lord and of people of leisure, capable of enjoying the amenities of life. It was built by Alessandro Sforza in the year 1464, its corner-stone having been laid by the Emperor Frederic III when he was returning from his coronation as Emperor of Rome; hence it received the name Villa Imperiale. It was enlarged later by Eleonora Gonzaga, the wife of Francesco Maria della Rovere, the heir of Urbino, and Giovanni Sforza's successor in the dominion of Pesaro. Famous painters decorated it with allegoric and historical pictures; Bembo and Bernardo Tasso sang of it in melodious numbers, and there, in the presence of the Della Rovere court, Torquato read his pastoral _Aminta_. This villa is now in a deplorable state of decay. Pesaro offered but little in the way of entertainment for a young woman accustomed to the society of Rome. The city had no nobility of importance. The houses of Brizi, of Ondedei, of Giontini, Magistri, Lana, and Ardizi, in their patriarchal existence, could offer Lucretia no compensation for the inspiring intercourse with the grandees of Rome. It is true the wave of culture which, thanks to the humanists, was sweeping over Italy did reach Pesaro. The manufacture of majolica, which, in its perfection, was not an unworthy successor of the pottery of Greece and Etruria, flourished there and in the neighboring cities on the Adriatic, and as far as Umbria. It had reached a considerable development in the time of the Sforza. One of the oldest pieces of majolica in the Correro Museum in Venice, Solomon worshiping the idol, bears the date 1482. As early as the fourteenth century this art was cultivated in Pesaro, and it was in a very nourishing condition during the reign of Camilla d'Aragona. There are still some remains of the productions of the old craftsmen of the city in the State-house of Pesaro. There, too, the intellectual movement manifested itself in other fields, fostered by the Sforza or their wives, in emulation of Urbino and Rimini, where Sigismondo Malatesta gathered about him poets and scholars whom he pensioned during their lives, and for whom, when dead, he built sarcophagi about the outer wall of the church. Camilla interested herself especially in the cultivation of the sciences. In 1489 she invited a noble Greek, Giorgio Diplovatazio, of Corfu, a kinsman of the Laskaris and the Vatazes, who, fleeing from the Turks, had come to Italy, and taken up his abode in Pesaro, where were living other Greek exiles of the Angeli, Komnenen, and Paleologue families. Diplovatazio had studied in Padua. Giovanni Sforza made him state's advocate of Pesaro in 1492, and he enjoyed a brilliant reputation as a jurisprudent until his death in 1541.[35] Lucretia, consequently, found this illustrious man in Pesaro and might have continued her studies under him and other natives of Greece if she was so disposed. A library, which the Sforzas had collected, provided her with the means for this end. Another scholar, however, no less famous, Pandolfo Collenuccio, a poet, orator, and philologist, best known by his history of Naples, had left Pesaro before Lucretia took up her abode there. He had served the house of Sforza as secretary and in a diplomatic capacity, and to his eloquence Lucretia's husband, Costanzo's bastard, owed his investiture of the fief of Pesaro by Sixtus IV and Innocent VIII. Collenuccio, however, fell under his displeasure and was cast into prison in 1488 and subsequently banished, when he went to Ferrara, where he devoted his services to the reigning family. He accompanied Cardinal Ippolito to Rome, and here we find him in 1494 when Lucretia was about to take up her residence in Pesaro. In Rome she may have made the acquaintance of this scholar.[36] Nor was the young poet Guido Posthumus Silvester in Pesaro during her time, for he was then a student in Padua. Lucretia must have regretted the absence from her court of this soulful and aspiring poet, and her charming personality might have served him for an inspiration for verses quite different from those which he later addressed to the Borgias. Sforza's beautiful consort was received with open arms in Pesaro, where she immediately made many friends. She was in the first charm of her youthful bloom, and fate had not yet brought the trouble into her life which subsequently made her the object either of horror or of pity. If she enjoyed any real love in her married life with Sforza she would have passed her days in Pesaro as happily as the queen of a pastoral comedy. But this was denied her. The dark shadows of the Vatican reached even to the Villa Imperiale on Monte Accio. Any day a despatch from her father might summon her back to Rome. Her stay in Pesaro may also have become too monotonous, too empty for her; perhaps, also, her husband's position as condottiere in the papal army and in that of Venice compelled him often to be away from his court. Events which in the meantime had convulsed Italy took Lucretia back to Rome, she having spent but a single year in Pesaro. FOOTNOTES: [35] Memorie di Tommaso Diplovatazio Patrizio Constantinopolitano e Pesarese, da Annibale Olivieri. Pesaro, 1771. [36] Regarding Collenuccio see the works of his compatriot Giulio Perticari, Opp. Bologna, 1837. Vol. ii, 52 sqq. CHAPTER XI THE INVASION OF ITALY--THE PROFLIGATE WORLD Early in September, 1494, Charles VIII marched into Piedmont, and the affairs of all Italy suffered an immediate change. The Pope and his allies Alfonso and Piero de' Medici found themselves almost defenseless in a short time. As early as November 17th the King entered Florence. Alexander was anxious to meet him with his own and the Neapolitan troops at Viterbo, where Cardinal Farnese was legate; but the French overran the Patrimonium without hindrance, and even the Pope's mistress, her sister Girolama, and Madonna Adriana, who were Alexander's "heart and eyes," fell into the hands of a body of French scouts. The Mantuan agent, Brognolo, informed his master of this event in a despatch dated November 29, 1494: "A calamity has happened which is also a great insult to the Pope. Day before yesterday Madonna Hadriana and Madonna Giulia and her sister set out from their castle of Capodimonte to go to their brother the cardinal, in Viterbo, and, when about a mile from that place, they met a troop of French cavalry by whom they were taken prisoners, and led to Montefiascone, together with their suite of twenty-five or thirty persons." The French captain who made this precious capture was Monseigneur d'Allegre, perhaps the same Ivo who subsequently entered the service of Cæsar. "When he learned who the beautiful women were he placed their ransom at three thousand ducats, and in a letter informed King Charles whom he had captured, but the latter refused to see them. Madonna Giulia wrote to Rome saying they were well treated, and asking that their ransom be sent."[37] The knowledge of this catastrophe caused Alexander the greatest dismay. He immediately despatched a chamberlain to Marino, where Cardinal Ascanio was to be found in the headquarters of the Colonna, and who, on his urgent request, had returned November 2d, and had had an interview with King Charles. He complained to the cardinal of the indignity which had been put upon him, and asked his cooperation to secure the release of the prisoners. He also wrote to Galeazzo of Sanseverino, who was accompanying the king to Siena, and who, wishing to please the Pope, urged Charles VIII to release the ladies. Accompanied by an escort of four hundred of the French, they were led to the gates of Rome, where they were received December 1st by Juan Marades, the Pope's chamberlain.[38] This romantic adventure caused a sensation throughout all Italy. The people, instead of sympathizing with the Pope, ridiculed him mercilessly. A letter from Trotti, the Ferrarese ambassador at the court of Milan, to Duke Ercole, quotes the words which Ludovico il Moro, the usurper of the throne of his nephew, whom he had poisoned, uttered on this occasion concerning the Pope. [Illustration: CHARLES VIII. From an engraving by Pannier.] "He (Ludovico) gravely reproved Monsignor Ascanio and Cardinal Sanseverino for surrendering Madonna Giulia, Madonna Adriana, and Hieronyma to his Holiness; for, since these ladies were the 'heart and eyes' of the Pope, they would have been the best whip for compelling him to do everything which was wanted of him, for he could not live without them. The French, who captured them, received only three thousand ducats as ransom, although the Pope would gladly have paid fifty thousand or more simply to have them back again. The same duke received news from Rome, and also from Angelo in Florence, that when the ladies entered, his Holiness went to meet them arrayed in a black doublet bordered with gold brocade, with a beautiful belt in the Spanish fashion, and with sword and dagger. He wore Spanish boots and a velvet biretta, all very gallant. The duke asked me, laughing, what I thought of it, and I told him that, were I the Duke of Milan, like him, I would endeavor, with the aid of the King of France and in every other way--and on the pretext of establishing peace--to entrap his Holiness, and with fair words, such as he himself was in the habit of using, to take him and the cardinals prisoners, which would be very easy. He who has the servant, as we say at home, has also the wagon and the oxen; and I reminded him of the verse of Catullus: 'Tu quoque fac simile: ars deluditur arte.'"[39] Ludovico, the worthy contemporary of the Borgias, once an intimate friend of Alexander VI, hated the Pope when he turned his face away from him and France, and he was especially embittered by the treacherous capture of his brother Ascanio. December 28th the same ambassador wrote to Ercole, "The Duke Ludovico told me that he was hourly expecting the arrival of Messer Bartolomeo da Calco with a courier bringing the news that the Pope was taken and beheaded."[40] I leave it to the reader to decide whether Ludovico, simply owing to his hatred of the Pope, was slandering him and indulging in extravagances concerning him when he had this conversation with Trotti, and also when he publicly stated to his senate that "the Pope had allowed three women to come to him; one of them being a nun of Valencia, the other a Castilian, the third a very beautiful girl from Venice, fifteen or sixteen years of age." "Here in Milan," continued Trotti in his despatch, "the same scandalous things are related of the Pope as are told in Ferrara of the Torta."[41] Elsewhere we may read how Charles VIII, victorious without the trouble of winning battles, penetrated as far as Rome and Naples. His march through Italy is the most humiliating of all the invasions which the peninsula suffered; but it shows that when states and peoples are ready for destruction, the strength of a weak-headed boy is sufficient to bring about their ruin. The Pope outwitted the French monarch, who, instead of having him deposed by a council, fell on his knees before him, acknowledged him to be Christ's vicar, and concluded a treaty with him. After this he set out for Naples, which shortly fell into his hands. Italy rose, a league against Charles VIII was formed, and he was compelled to return. Alexander fled before him, first in the direction of Orvieto, and then toward Perugia. While there he summoned Giovanni Sforza, who arrived with his wife, June 16, 1495, remained four days, and then went back to Pesaro.[42] The King of France succeeded in breaking his way through the League's army at the battle of the Taro, and thus honorably escaped death or capture. Having returned to Rome, Alexander established himself still more firmly in the holy chair, about which he gathered his ambitious bastards, while the Borgias pushed themselves forward all the more audaciously because the confusion occasioned in the affairs of Italy by the invasion of Charles VIII made it all the easier for them to carry out their intentions. Lucretia remained a little longer in Pesaro with her husband, whom Venice had engaged in the interests of the League. Giovanni Sforza, however, does not appear to have been present either at the battle of the Taro or at the siege of Novara. When peace was declared in October, 1495, between France and the Duke of Milan, whereby the war came to an end in Northern Italy, Sforza was able to take his wife back to Rome. Marino Sanuto speaks of her as having been in that city at the end of October, and Burchard gives us a picture of Lucretia at the Christmas festivities. While in the service of the League Sforza commanded three hundred foot soldiers and one hundred heavy horse. With these troops he set out for Naples in the spring of the following year, when the united forces lent the young King Ferrante II great assistance in the conflicts with the French troops under Montpensier. Even the Captain-general of Venice, the Marchese of Mantua, was there, and he entered Rome, March 26, 1496. Sforza with his mercenaries arrived in Rome, April 15th, only to leave the city again April 28th. His wife remained behind. May 4th he reached Fundi.[43] Alexander's two sons, Don Giovanni and Don Giuffrè, were still away from Rome. One, the Duke of Gandia, was also in the pay of Venice, and was expected from Spain to take command of four hundred men which his lieutenant, Alovisio Bacheto, had enlisted for him. The other, Don Giuffrè, had, as we have seen, gone to Naples in 1494, where he had married Donna Sancia and had been made Prince of Squillace. As a member of the house of Aragon he shared the dangers of the declining dynasty in the hope of inducing the Pope not to abandon it. He accompanied King Ferrante on his flight, and also followed his standard when, after the retreat of Charles VIII, he, with the help of Spain, Venice, and the Pope, again secured possession of his kingdom, entering Naples in the summer of 1495. Not until the following year did Don Giuffrè and his wife come to Rome. In royal state they entered the Eternal City, May 20, 1496. The ambassadors, cardinals, officers of the city, and numerous nobles went to meet them at the Lateran gate. Lucretia also was there with her suite. The young couple were escorted to the Vatican. The Pope on his throne, surrounded by eleven cardinals, received his son and daughter-in-law. On his right hand he had Lucretia and on his left Sancia, sitting on cushions. It was Whitsuntide, and the two princesses and their suites boldly occupied the priests' benches in S. Peter's, and, according to Burchard, the populace was greatly shocked. Three months later, August 10, 1496, Alexander's eldest son, Don Giovanni, Duke of Gandia, entered Rome, where he remained, his father having determined to make him a great prince.[44] It is not related whether he brought his wife, Donna Maria, with him. For the first time Alexander had all his children about him, and in the Borgo of the Vatican there were no less than three nepot-courts. Giovanni resided in the Vatican, Lucretia in the palace of S. Maria in Portico, Giuffrè in the house of the Cardinal of Aleria near the Bridge of S. Angelo, and Cæsar in the same Borgo. They all were pleasure-loving upstarts who were consumed with a desire for honors and power; all were young and beautiful; except Lucretia, all were vicious, graceful, seductive scoundrels, and, as such, among the most charming and attractive figures in the society of old Rome. For only the narrowest observer, blind to everything but their infamous deeds, can paint the Borgias simply as savage and cruel brutes, tiger-cubs by nature. They were privileged malefactors, like many other princes and potentates of that age. They mercilessly availed themselves of poison and poignard, removing every obstacle to their ambition, and smiled when the object was attained. If we could see the life which these unrestrained bastards led in the Vatican, where their father, conscious now of his security and greatness, was enthroned, we should indeed behold strange things. It was a singular drama which was being enacted in the domain of S. Peter, where two young and beautiful women held a dazzling court, which was always animated by swarms of Spanish and Italian lords and ladies and the elegant world of Rome. Nobles and monsignori crowded around to pay homage to these women, one of whom, Lucretia, was just sixteen, and the other, Sancia, a little more than seventeen years of age. We may imagine what love intrigues took place in the palace of these young women, and how jealousy and ambition there carried on their intricate game, for no one will believe that these princesses, full of the passion and exuberance of youth, led the life of nuns or saints in the shadows of S. Peter's. Their palace resounded with music and the dance, and the noise of revels and of masquerades. The populace saw these women accompanied by splendid cavalcades riding through the streets of Rome to the Vatican; they knew that the Pope was in daily intercourse with them, visiting them in person and taking part in their festivities, and also receiving them, now privately, and now with ceremonious pomp, as befitted princesses of his house. Alexander himself, much as he was addicted to the pleasures of the senses, cared nothing for elaborate banquets. Concerning the Pope, the Ferrarese ambassador wrote to his master in 1495 as follows: He partakes of but a single dish, though this must be a rich one. It is, consequently, a bore to dine with him. Ascanio and others, especially Cardinal Monreale, who formerly were his Holiness's table companions, and Valenza too, broke off this companionship because his parsimony displeased them, and avoided it whenever and however they could.[45] The doings in the Vatican furnished ground for endless gossip, which had long been current in Rome. It was related in Venice, in October, 1496, that the Duke of Gandia had brought a Spanish woman to his father, with whom he lived, and an account was given of a crime which is almost incredible, although it was related by the Venetian ambassador and other persons.[46] [Illustration: SAVONAROLA. From a painting by Fra Bartolommeo] It was not long before Donna Sancia caused herself to be freely gossiped about. She was beautiful and thoughtless; she appreciated her position as the daughter of a king. From the most vicious of courts she was transplanted into the depravity of Rome as the wife of an immature boy. It was said that her brothers-in-law Gandia and Cæsar quarreled over her and possessed her in turn, and that young nobles and cardinals like Ippolito d'Este could boast of having enjoyed her favors. Savonarola may have had these nepot-courts in mind when, from the pulpit of S. Marco in Florence, he declaimed in burning words against the Roman Sodom. Even if the voice of the great preacher, whose words were filling all Italy, did not reach Lucretia's ears, from her own experience she must have known how profligate was the world in which she lived. About her she saw vice shamelessly displayed or cloaked in sacerdotal robes; she was conscious of the ambition and avarice which hesitated at no crime; she beheld a religion more pagan than paganism itself, and a church service in which the sacred actors,--with whose conduct behind the scenes she was perfectly familiar,--were the priests, the cardinals, her brother Cæsar, and her own father. All this Lucretia beheld, but they are wrong who believe that she or others like her saw and regarded it as we do now, or as a few pure-minded persons of that age did; for familiarity always dulls the average person's perception of the truth. In that age the conceptions of religion, of decency, and of morality were entirely different from those of to-day. When the rupture between the Middle Ages and its ascetic Church and the Renaissance was complete, human passions threw off every restraint. All that had hitherto been regarded as sacred was now derided. The freethinkers of Italy created a literature never equaled for bold cynicism. From the _Hermaphroditus_ of Beccadeli to the works of Berni and Pietro Aretino, a foul stream of novelle, epigrams, and comedies, from which the serious Dante would have turned his eyes in disgust, overflowed the land. Even in the less sensual novelle, the first of which was Piccolomini's _Euryalus_, and the less obscene comedies, adultery and derision of marriage are the leading motives. The harlots were the Muses of belles-lettres during the Renaissance. They boldly took their place by the side of the saints of the Church, and contended with them for fame's laurels. There is a manuscript collection of poems of the time of Alexander VI which contains a series of epigrams beginning with a number in praise of the Holy Virgin and the Saints, and then, without word or warning, are several glorifying the famous cyprians of the day; following a stanza on S. Pauline is an epigram on Meretricis Nichine, a well-known courtesan of Siena, with several more of the same sort. The saints of heaven and the priestesses of Venus are placed side by side, without comment, as equally admirable women.[47] No self-respecting woman would now attend the performance of a comedy of the Renaissance, whose characters frequently represented the popes, the princes, and the noble women of the day; and their presentation, even before audiences composed entirely of men, would now be prohibited by the censor of the theater in every land. The naturalness with which women of the South even now discuss subjects which people in the North are careful to conceal excites astonishment; but what was tolerated by the taste or morals of the Renaissance is absolutely incredible. We must remember, however, that this obscene literature was by no means so diffused as novels are at the present time, and also that Southern familiarity with whatever is natural also served to protect women. Much was external, and was so treated that it had no effect whatever upon the imagination. In the midst of the vices of the society of the cities there were noble women who kept themselves pure. To form an idea of the morals of the great, and especially of the courts of that day, we must read the history of the Visconti, the Sforza, the Malatesta of Rimini, the Baglione of Perugia, and the Borgias of Rome. They were not more immoral than the members of the courts of Louis XIV and XV and of August of Saxony, but their murders rendered them more terrible. Human life was held to be of little value, but criminal egotism often was qualified by greatness of mind (magnanimitas), so that a bloody deed prompted by avarice and ambition was often condoned. Egotism and the selfish use of conditions and men for the profit of the individual were never so universal as in the country of Macchiavelli, where unfortunately they still are frequently in evidence. Free from the pedantic opinions of the Germans and the reverence for condition, rank, and birth which they have inherited from the Middle Ages, the Italians, on the other hand, always recognized the force of personality--no matter whether it was that of a bastard or not--but they, nevertheless, were just as likely to become the slaves of the successful. Macchiavelli maintains that the Church and the priests were responsible for the moral ruin of the peninsula--but were not the Church and these priests themselves products of Italy? He should have said that characteristics which were inherent in the Germanic races were foreign to the Italians. Luther could never have appeared among them. While our opinion of Alexander VI and Cæsar is governed by ethical considerations, this was not the case with Guicciardini, and less still with Macchiavelli. They examined not the moral but the political man, not his motives but his acts. The terrible was not terrible when it was the deed of a strong will, nor was crime disgraceful when it excited astonishment as a work of art. The terrible way in which Ferdinand of Naples handled the conspiracy of the nobles of his kingdom made him, in the eyes of Italy, not horrible but great; and Macchiavelli speaks of the trick with which Cæsar Borgia outwitted his treacherous condottieri at Sinigaglia as a "masterstroke," while the Bishop Paolo Giovio called it "the most beautiful piece of deception." In that world of egotism where there was no tribunal of public opinion, man could preserve himself only by overpowering power and by outwitting cunning with craft. While the French regarded, and still regard, "ridiculous" as the worst of epithets, the Italian dreaded none more than that of "simpleton." Macchiavelli, in a well-known passage in his _Discorsi_ (i. 27), explains his theory with terrible frankness, and his words are the exact keynote of the ethics of his age. He relates how Julius II ventured into Perugia, although Giampolo Baglione had gathered a large number of troops there, and how the latter, overawed by the Pope, surrendered the city to him. His comment is verbatim as follows: "People of judgment who were with the Pope wondered at his foolhardiness, and at Giampolo's cowardice; they could not understand why the latter did not, to his everlasting fame, crush his enemy with one blow and enrich himself with the plunder, for the Pope was accompanied by all his cardinals with their jewels. They could not believe that he refrained on account of any goodness or any conscientious scruples, for the heart of a wicked man, who committed incest with his sister, and destroyed his cousins and nephews so he might rule, could not be accessible to any feelings of respect. So they came to the conclusion that there are men who can neither be honorably bad nor yet perfectly good, who do not know how to go about committing a crime, great in itself or possessing a certain splendor. This was the case with Giampolo; he who thought nothing of incest and the murder of his kinsmen did not know how, or rather did not dare, in spite of the propitious moment, to perform a deed which would have caused every one to admire his courage, and would have won for him an immortal name. For he would first have shown the priests how small men are in reality who live and rule as they do, and he would have been the first to accomplish a deed whose greatness would have dazzled every one, and would have removed every danger which might have arisen from it." Is it any wonder that in view of such a prostitution of morals to the conception of success, fame, and magnificence, as Macchiavelli here and in _Il Principe_ advocates, men like the Borgias found the widest field for their bold crimes? They well knew that the greatness of a crime concealed the shame of it. The celebrated poet Strozzi in Ferrara placed Cæsar Borgia, after his fall, among the heroes of Olympus; and the famous Bembo, one of the first men of the age, endeavors to console Lucretia Borgia on the death of the "miserable little" Alexander VI, whom he at the same time calls her "great" father. No upright man, conscious of his own worth, would now enter the service of a prince stained by such crimes as were the Borgias, if it were possible for such a one now to exist, which is wholly unlikely. But then the best and most upright of men sought, without any scruples whatever, the presence and favors of the Borgias. Pinturicchio and Perugino painted for Alexander VI, and the most wonderful genius of the century, Leonardo da Vinci, did not hesitate to enter the service of Cæsar Borgia as his engineer, to erect fortresses for him in the same Romagna which he had appropriated by such devilish means. The men of the Renaissance were in a high degree energetic and creative; they shaped the world with a revolutionary energy and a feverish activity, in comparison with which the modern processes of civilization almost vanish. Their instincts were rougher and more powerful, and their nerves stronger than those of the present race. It will always appear strange that the tenderest blossoms of art, the most ideal creations of the painter, put forth in the midst of a society whose moral perversity and inward brutality are to us moderns altogether loathsome. If we could take a man such as our civilization now produces and transfer him into the Renaissance, the daily brutality which made no impression whatever on the men of that age would shatter his nervous system and probably upset his reason. [Illustration: NICCOLO MACHIAVELLI. From an engraving by G. Marri.] Lucretia Borgia lived in Rome surrounded by these passions, and she was neither better nor worse than the women of her time. She was thoughtless and was filled with the joy of living. We do not know that she ever went through any moral struggles or whether she ever found herself in conscious conflict with the actualities of her life and of her environment. Her father maintained an elaborate household for her, and she was in daily intercourse with her brothers' courts. She was their companion and the ornament of their banquets; she was entrusted with the secret of all the Vatican intrigues which had any connection with the future of the Borgias, and all her vital interests were soon to be concentrated there. Never, even in the later years of her life, does she appear as a woman of unusual genius; she had none of the characteristics of the _viragos_ Catarina Sforza and Ginevra Bentivoglio; nor did she possess the deceitful soul of an Isotta da Rimini, or the spirituelle genius of Isabella Gonzaga. If she had not been the daughter of Alexander VI and the sister of Cæsar Borgia, she would have been unnoticed by the historians of her age or, at most, would have been mentioned only as one of the many charming women who constituted the society of Rome. In the hands of her father and her brother, however, she became the tool and also the victim of their political machinations, against which she had not the strength to make any resistance. FOOTNOTES: [37] This information is given by Marino Sanuto, Venuta di Carlo VIII, in Italia; original in the Paris library, also a copy in the Marciana. He calls Giulia "favorita del Pontefice, di età giovane, et bellissima savia accorda et mansueta." [38] According to one of Brognolo's despatches (Mantuan archives) Giulia and Adriana returned December 1st, on which date Pandolfo Collenuccio, who was in Rome, wrote, "Una optima novella ce è per alcuno. Che Ma Julia si è recuperata, et andò Messer Joan Marrades per Lei. Et è venuta in Roma: e dicesi, che Domenica de nocte allogiò in Palazzo." Archives of Modena. [39] Despatch of Giacomo Trotti, Milan, December 21, 1494. Archives of Modena. [40] Che li pareva ogni hora vedere messer Bartolomeo da Calche venire a Sua Eccia cum una staffetta, chel papa fosse preso, e li fosse taliata la testa. [41] Trotti to the Duke of Ferrara, Milan, December 24, 1494. [42] This is the date given by Marino Sanuto in his Ms. History of the Invasion of Charles VIII, fol. 470. [43] These dates are from the Diary of Marino Sanuto, vol. i. fol. 55, 58, 85. [44] Il di de S. Laurentio il Duca de Gandia figliuolo del Papa, intrò in Roma accompagnato dal Card. de Valentia, et tutta la corte con grandissima pompa. Despatch of Ludovico Carissimi to the Duke of Ferrara, Rome, August 15, 1496. Archives of Modena. [45] Boccaccio to Ercole, March 24, 1495. [46] The report is given in Diar. Marino Sanuto, vol. i, 258, and is reprinted in part in the Civiltà Cattolica, March 15, 1873, p. 727. The entire passage is as follows: Da Roma per le lettere del orator nostro se intese et etiam de private persone cossa assai abominevole in la chiesa di Dio che al papa erra nato un fiolo di una dona romana maridata ch'el padre l'havea rufianata e di questa il marito invitò il suocero ala vigna el lo uccise tagliandoli el capo ponendo quello sopra uno legno con letere che dicera questo e il capo de mio suocero che a rufianato sua fiola al papa et che inteso questo il papa fece metter el dito in exilio di Roma con Taglia. Questa nova vene per letere particular etiam si godea con la sua spagnola menatali di spagna per suo fiol duca di Gandia novamente li venuto. [47] Epitaphia clarissimarum mulierum que virtute: arte: aut aliqua nota claruerunt. Codex Hartmann Schedel in the State Library of Munich. CHAPTER XII THE DIVORCE AND SECOND MARRIAGE After the surrender of the remnant of the French forces in the fall of 1496, Giovanni Sforza returned from Naples. There is no doubt that he went to Rome for the purpose of taking Lucretia home with him to Pesaro, where we find him about the close of the year, and where he spent the winter. The chroniclers of Pesaro, however, state that he left the city in disguise, January 15, 1497, and that Lucretia followed him a few days later for the purpose of going to Rome.[48] Both were present at the Easter festivities in the papal city. Sforza was now a worn-out plaything which Alexander was preparing to cast away, for his daughter's marriage to the tyrant of Pesaro promised him nothing more, the house of Sforza having lost all its influence; moreover, the times were propitious for establishing connections which would be of greater advantage to the Borgias. The Pope was unwilling to give his son-in-law a command in the war against the Orsini, which he had begun immediately after the return of his son Don Giovanni from Spain, for whom he wanted to confiscate the property of these mighty lords. He secured the services of Duke Guidobaldo of Urbino, who likewise had served in the allied armies of Naples, and whom the Venetians released in order that he might assume supreme command of the papal troops. This noble man was the last of the house of Montefeltre, and the Borgias already had their eyes on his possessions. His sister Giovanna was married in 1478 to the municipal prefect, Giovanni della Rovere, a brother of Cardinal Giuliano, and in 1490 she bore him a daughter, Francesca Maria, a child who was looked upon as heir of Urbino. Guidobaldo did not disdain to serve as a condottiere for pay and in the hope of winning honors; he was also a vassal of the Church. Fear of the Borgias led him to seek their friendship although he hated them. In the war against the Orsini the young Duke of Gandia was next in command under Guidobaldo, and Alexander made him the standard-bearer of the Church and Rector of Viterbo, and of the entire Patrimonium after he had removed Alessandro Farnese from that position. This appears to have been due to a dislike he felt for Giulia's brother. September 17, 1496, the Mantuan agent in Rome, John Carolus, wrote to the Marchioness Gonzaga: "Cardinal Farnese is shut up in his residence in the Patrimonium, and will lose it unless he is saved by the prompt return of Giulia." The same ambassador reported to his sovereign as follows: "Although every effort is made to conceal the fact that these sons of the Pope are consumed with envy of each other, the life of the Cardinal of S. Giorgio (Rafael Riario) is in danger; should he die, Cæsar would be given the office of chancellor and the palace of the dead Cardinal of Mantua, which is the most beautiful in Rome, and also his most lucrative benefices. Your Excellency may guess how this plot will terminate."[49] The war against the Orsini ended with the ignominious defeat of the papal forces at Soriano, January 23, 1497, whence Don Giovanni, wounded, fled to Rome, and where Guidobaldo was taken prisoner. The victors immediately forced a peace on most advantageous terms. Not until the conclusion of the war did Lucretia's husband return to Rome. We shall see him again there, for the last time, at the Easter festivities of 1497, when, as Alexander's son-in-law, he assumed his official place during the celebration in S. Peter's, and, standing near Cæsar and Gandia, received the Easter palm from the Pope's hand. His position in the Vatican had, however, become untenable; Alexander was anxious to dissolve his marriage with Lucretia. Sforza was asked to give her up of his own free will, and, when he refused, was threatened with extreme measures. Flight alone saved him from the dagger or poison of his brothers-in-law. According to statements of the chroniclers of Pesaro, it was Lucretia herself who helped her husband to flee and thus caused the suspicion that she was also a participant in the conspiracy. It is related that, one evening when Jacomino, Lord Giovanni's chamberlain, was in Madonna's room, her brother Cæsar entered, and on her command the chamberlain concealed himself behind a screen. Cæsar talked freely with his sister, and among other things said that the order had been given to kill Sforza. When he had departed, Lucretia said to Jacomino: "Did you hear what was said? Go and tell him." This the chamberlain immediately did, and Giovanni Sforza threw himself on a Turkish horse and rode in twenty-four hours to Pesaro, where the beast dropped dead.[50] According to letters of the Venetian envoy in Rome, Sforza fled in March, in Holy Week. Under some pretext he went to the Church of S. Onofrio, where he found the horse waiting for him.[51] The request for the divorce was probably not made by Lucretia, but by her father and brothers, who wished her to be free to enter into a marriage which would advance their plans. We are ignorant of what was now taking place in the Vatican, and we do not know that Lucretia made any resistance; but if she did, it certainly was not of long duration, for she does not appear to have loved her husband. Pesaro's escape did not please the Borgias. They would have preferred to have silenced this man forever; but now that he had gotten away and raised an objection, it would be necessary to dissolve the marriage by process of law, which would cause a great scandal. Shortly after Sforza's flight a terrible tragedy occurred in the house of Borgia--the mysterious murder of the Duke of Gandia. On the failure of Alexander's scheme to confiscate the estates of the Orsini and bestow them on his dearly beloved son, he thought to provide for him in another manner. He made him Duke of Benevento, thereby hoping to prepare the way for him to reach the throne of Naples. A few days later, June 14th, Vannozza invited him and Cæsar, together with a few of their kinsmen, to a supper in her vineyard near S. Pietro in Vinculo. Don Giovanni, returning from this family feast, disappeared in the night, without leaving a trace, and three days later the body of the murdered man was found in the Tiber. According to the general opinion of the day, which in all probability was correct, Cæsar was the murderer of his brother. From the moment Alexander VI knew this crime had been committed, and assumed responsibility for its motives and consequences, and pardoned the murderer, he became morally accessory after the fact, and fell himself under the power of his terrible son. From that time on, every act of his was intended to further Cæsar's fiendish ambition. None of the records of the day say that Don Giovanni's consort was in Rome when this tragedy occurred. We are therefore forced to assume that she was not there when her husband was murdered. It is much more likely that she had not left Spain, and that she was living with her two little children in Gandia or Valencia, where she received the dreadful news in a letter written by Alexander to his sister Doña Beatrice Boria y Arenos. This is rendered probable by the court records of Valencia. September 27, 1497, Doña Maria Enriquez appeared before the tribunal of the governor of the kingdom of Valencia, Don Luis de Cabaineles, and claimed the estate, including the duchy of Gandia and the Neapolitan fiefs of Suessa, Teano, Carinola, and Montefoscolo, for Don Giovanni's eldest son, a child of three years. The duke's death was proved by legal documents, among which was this letter written by Alexander, and the tribunal accordingly recognized Gandia's son as his legal heir.[52] Doña Maria also claimed her husband's personal property in his house in Rome, which was valued at thirty thousand ducats, and which on the death of Don Giovanni, had been transferred by Alexander VI, to the fratricide Cæsar to administer for his nephew, as appears from an official document of the Roman notary Beneimbene, dated December 19, 1498. At this time Lucretia was not in her palace in the Vatican. June 4th she had gone to the convent of S. Sisto on the Appian Way, thereby causing a great sensation in Rome. Her flight doubtless was in some way connected with the forced annulment of her marriage. While her father himself may not have banished her to S. Sisto, she, probably excited by Pesaro's departure, and perhaps angry with the Pope, had doubtless sought this place as an asylum. That she was angry with him is shown by a letter written by Donato Aretino from Rome, June 19th, to Cardinal Ippolito d'Este: "Madonna Lucretia has left the palace _insalutato hospite_ and gone to a convent known as that of S. Sisto; where she now is. Some say she will turn nun, while others make different statements which I can not entrust to a letter."[53] We know not what prayers and what confessions Lucretia made at the altar, but this was one of the most momentous periods of her life. While in the convent she learned of the terrible death of one of her brothers, and shuddered at the crime of the other. For she, like her father and all the Borgias, firmly believed that Cæsar was a fratricide. She clearly discerned the marks of his inordinate ambition; she knew that he was planning to lay aside the cardinal's robe and become a secular prince; she must have known too that they were scheming in the Vatican to make Don Giuffrè a cardinal in Cæsar's place and to marry the latter to the former's wife, Donna Sancia, with whom, it was generally known, he was on most intimate terms. Alexander commanded Giuffrè and his young wife to leave Rome and take up their abode in his princely seat in Squillace, and he set out on August 7th for that place. It is stated the Pope did not want his children and nepots about him any longer, and that he also wished to banish his daughter Lucretia to Valencia.[54] In the meantime, in July, Cæsar had gone to Capua as papal legate, where he crowned Don Federico, the last of the Aragonese, as King of Naples. September 4th he returned to Rome. Alexander had appointed a commission under the direction of two cardinals for the purpose of divorcing Lucretia from Giovanni Sforza. These judges showed that Sforza had never consummated the marriage, and that his spouse was still a virgin, which, according to her contemporary Matarazzo of Perugia, set all Italy to laughing. Lucretia herself stated she was willing to swear to this. During these proceedings her spouse was in Pesaro. Thence he subsequently went in disguise to Milan to ask the protection of Duke Ludovico and to get him to use his influence to have his wife, who had been taken away, restored to him. This was in June. He protested against the decision which had been pronounced in Rome, and which had been purchased, and Ludovico il Moro made the naive suggestion that he subject himself to a test of his capacity in the presence of trustworthy witnesses, and of the papal legate in Milan, which, however, Sforza declined to do.[55] Ludovico and his brother Ascanio finally induced their kinsman to yield, and Sforza, intimidated, declared in writing that he had never consummated his marriage with Lucretia.[56] The formal divorce, therefore, took place December 20, 1497, and Sforza surrendered his wife's dowry of thirty-one thousand ducats. Although we may assume that Alexander compelled his daughter to consent to this separation, it does not render our opinion of Lucretia's part in the scandalous proceedings any less severe; she shows herself to have had as little will as she had character, and she also perjured herself. Her punishment was not long delayed, for the divorce proceedings made her notorious and started terrible rumors regarding her private life. These reports began to circulate at the time of the murder of Gandia and of her divorce from Sforza; the cause of both these events was stated to have been an unmentionable crime. According to a reliable witness of the day it was the lord of Pesaro himself, injured and exasperated, who first--and to the Duke of Milan--had openly uttered the suspicion which was being whispered about Rome. By permitting himself to do this, he showed that he had never loved Lucretia.[57] Alexander had dissolved his daughter's marriage for political reasons. It was his purpose to marry Lucretia and Cæsar into the royal house of Naples. This dynasty had reestablished itself there after the expulsion of the French, but its position had been so profoundly shaken that its fall was imminent; and it was this very fact that made Alexander hope to be able to place his son Cæsar on the throne of Naples. The most terrible of the Borgias now appropriated the place left vacant by the Duke of Gandia, to which he had long aspired, and only for the sake of appearances did he postpone casting aside the cardinal's robe. The Pope, however, was already scheming for his son's marriage; for him he asked King Federico for the hand of his daughter Carlotta, who had been educated at the court of France as a princess of the house of Savoy. The king, an upright man, firmly refused, and the young princess in horror rejected the Pope's insulting offer. Federico, in his anxiety, made one sacrifice to the monster in the Vatican; he consented to the betrothal of Don Alfonso, Prince of Salerno, younger brother of Donna Sancia and natural son of Alfonso II, to Lucretia. Alexander desired this marriage for no other reason than for the purpose of finally inducing the king to agree to the marriage of his daughter and Cæsar. Even before Lucretia's new betrothal was settled upon it was rumored in Rome that her former affianced, Don Gasparo, was again pressing his suit and that there was a prospect of his being accepted. Although the young Spaniard failed to accomplish his purpose, Alexander now recognized the fact that Lucretia's betrothal to him had been dissolved illegally. In a brief dated June 10, 1498, he speaks of the way his daughter was treated--without special dispensation for breaking the engagement, in order that she might marry Giovanni of Pesaro, which was a great mistake--as illegal. He says in the same letter that Gasparo of Procida, Count of Almenara, had subsequently married and had children, but not until 1498 did Lucretia petition to have her betrothal to him formally declared null and void. The Pope, therefore, absolved her of the perjury she had committed by marrying Giovanni Sforza in spite of her engagement to Don Gasparo, and while he now, for the first time, declared her formal betrothal to the Count of Procida to have been dissolved, he gave her permission to marry any man whom she might select.[58] Thus did a pope play fast and loose with one of the holiest of the sacraments of the Church. When Lucretia had in this way been protected against the demands of all pretenders to her hand, she was free to enter into a new alliance, which she did June 20, 1498, in the Vatican. If we were not familiar with the character of the public men of that age we should be surprised to learn that King Federico's proxy on this occasion was none other than Cardinal Ascanio Sforza, who had been instrumental in bringing about the marriage of his nephew and Lucretia, and who had consented in Sforza's name to the disgraceful divorce. Thus were he and his brother Ludovico determined to retain the friendship of the Borgias at any price. Lucretia received a dowry of forty thousand ducats, and the King of Naples bound himself to make over the cities of Quadrata and Biselli to his nephew for his dukedom.[59] The young Alfonso accordingly came to Rome in July to become the husband of a woman whom he must have regarded at least as unscrupulous and utterly fickle. He doubtless looked upon himself as a sacrifice presented by his father at the altar of Rome. Quietly and sorrowfully, welcomed by no festivities, almost secretly, came this unhappy youth to the papal city. He went at once to his betrothed in the palace of S. Maria in Portico. In the Vatican, July 21st, the marriage was blessed by the Church. Among the witnesses to the transaction were the Cardinals Ascanio, Juan Lopez, and Giovanni Borgia. In obedience to an old custom a naked sword was held over the pair by a knight, a ceremony which in this instance was performed by Giovanni Cervillon, captain of the papal guard. FOOTNOTES: [48] Lod. Zacconi, Hist. di Pesaro, Ms. in the Bibl. Oliveriana; also Pietro Marzetti. [49] Letters in the Gonzaga archives in Mantua. [50] Battista Almerici I, and Pietro Marzetti, Memorie di Pesaro, Ms. in the Oliveriana. These chronicles are often confusing as to dates and full of mistakes. [51] Marino Sanuto, Diar. vol. i, 410. March, 1497. [52] This document is given in part by Amati in Strozzi's Periodico di Numismatica, Anno III, part ii, p. 73. Florence, 1870. [53] In the archives of Modena. Letters of Donato Aretino from Rome. [54] Letter of Ludovico Carissimi, Rome, August 8, 1497. Archives of Modena. [55] Et mancho se è curato de fare prova de se qua con Done per poterne chiarire el Rmo. Legato che era qua, sebbene S. Extia tastandolo sopra ciò gli ne habia facto offerta. Despatch from the Ferrarese ambassador in Milan, Antonio Costabili, to Duke Ercole, Milan, June 23, 1497. Archives of Modena. [56] Concerning this, Pandolfo Collenuccio, a member of Cardinal Ippolito's suite in Rome, wrote to the Duke of Ferrara, December 25, 1498 (1497), as follows: El S. de Pesaro ha scripto qua de sua mano: non haverla mai cognosciuta ... et esser impotente, alias la sententia non se potea dare.... El prefato S. dice però haver scripto così per obedire el Duca de Milano et Aschanio. The autographic letter is in the archives of Modena. [57] In the same despatch from Milan, June 23, 1497, the Ferrarese Ambassador Costabili stated that Sforza had said to the Duke Ludovico: Anzi haverla conosciuta infinite volte, ma chel Papa non gelha tolta per altro se non per usare con Lei. Extendendose molto a carico di S. Beatno. [58] The original of this letter is in the archives of Modena. [59] Bisceglie, formerly pronounced and written Biseglia or Biselli. Quadrata is now Corato, near Andria. CHAPTER XIII A REGENT AND A MOTHER Lucretia, now Duchess of Biselli, had been living since July, 1498, with a new husband, a youth of seventeen, she herself having just completed her eighteenth year. She and her consort did not go to Naples, but remained in Rome; for, as the Mantuan agent reported to his master, it was expressly agreed that Don Alfonso should live in Rome a year, and that Lucretia should not be required to take up her abode in the kingdom of Naples during her father's lifetime.[60] The youthful Alfonso was fair and amiable. Talini, a Roman chronicler of that day, pronounced him the handsomest young man ever seen in the Imperial City. According to a statement made by the Mantuan agent in August, Lucretia was really fond of him. A sudden change in affairs, however, deprived her of the calm joys of domestic life. The moving principle in the Vatican was the measureless ambition of Cæsar, who was consuming with impatience to become a ruling sovereign. August 13, 1498, he flung aside the cardinal's robes and prepared to set out for France; Louis XII, who in April had succeeded Charles VIII, having promised him the title of Duke of Valentinois and the hand of a French princess. Alexander provided for his son's retinue with regal extravagance. It happened one day that a train of mules laden with silks and cloth of gold on the way to Cæsar in Rome was plundered by the people of Cardinal Farnese and of his cousin Pier Paolo in the forest of Bolsena, whereupon the Pope addressed some vigorous communications to the cardinal, in whose territory, he stated, the robbery had been committed.[61] In the service of the Farnese were numerous Corsicans, some as mercenaries and bullies, some as field laborers, and these people, who were universally feared, probably were the guilty ones, for it is difficult to believe that Cardinal Alessandro would have undertaken such a venture on his own account. It seems, however, that the relations of the Borgias and the Farnese were somewhat strained during this period. The cardinal spent most of his time on his family estates, and at this juncture little was heard of his sister Giulia. It is not even known whether or not she was living in Rome and continuing her relations with the Pope, although, from subsequent revelations, it appears that she was. April 2, 1499, we find the cardinal and his sister again in Rome, where a nuptial contract was concluded in the Farnese palace between Laura Orsini, Giulia's seven-year-old daughter, and Federico Farnese, the twelve-year-old son of the deceased condottiere Raimondo Farnese, a nephew of Pier Paolo. Laura's putative father, Orsino Orsini, was present at the ceremony.[62] It was probably Adriana and Giulia who were endeavoring to bring about a reconciliation between the house of Orsini and the Borgias. In the spring of 1498 these barons, having issued victorious from their war with the Pope, began a bitter contest with their hereditary foes, the Colonna, which, however, ended in their own defeat. These houses made peace with each other in July, a fact which caused Alexander no little anxiety, for upon the hostility of these, the two mightiest families of Rome, depended the Pope's dominion over the city; his greatest danger lay in their mutual friendship. He therefore endeavored again to set them at loggerheads, and he succeeded in attaching the Orsini to himself,--which they subsequently had reason to regret. He accomplished his purpose so well that they intermarried with the Borgias; Paolo Orsini, Giambattista's brother, uniting his son Fabio with Girolama, a sister of Cardinal Giovanni Borgia the younger, September 8, 1498. The marriage contract was concluded in the presence of the Pope and a brilliant gathering in the Vatican, and one of the official witnesses was Don Alfonso of Biselli, who held the sword over the young couple.[63] Shortly afterwards, October first, Cæsar Borgia set sail for France, where he was made Duke of Valentinois, and where, in May, 1499, he married Charlotte d'Albret, sister of the King of Navarre. At this court he met two men who were destined later to exercise great influence upon his career--George of Amboise, Archbishop of Rouen, to whom he had brought the cardinal's hat, and Giuliano della Rovere. The latter, hitherto Alexander's bitterest enemy, now suffered himself, by the intermediation of the King of France, to be won over to the cause of the Borgias; he permitted himself even to become Cæsar's stepping-stone to greatness. The reconciliation was sealed by a marriage between the two families; the city prefect, Giovanni della Rovere, Giuliano's brother, betrothing his eighteen-year-old son Francesco Maria to Angela Borgia, September 2, 1500. Angela's father, Giuffrè, was a son of Giovanni, sister of Alexander VI, and of Guglielmo Lanzol. Giovanni Borgia the younger, Cardinal Ludovico, and Rodrigo, captain of the papal guard, were her brothers. Her sister Girolama, as above stated, was married to Fabio Orsini. The ceremony of Angela's betrothal took place in the Vatican in the presence of the ambassador of France. For the purpose of driving Ludovico il Moro from Milan, Louis XII had concluded an alliance with Venice, which the Pope also joined on the condition that France would help his son to acquire Romagna. Ascanio Sforza, who was unable to prevent the loss of Milan, and who knew that his own life was in danger in Rome, fled July 13, 1499, to Genazzano and subsequently to Genoa. His example was followed by Lucretia's youthful consort. We do not know what occurred in the Vatican to cause Don Alfonso quietly to leave Rome, where he had spent but a single year with Lucretia. We can only say that his decision must have been brought about by some turn which the Pope's politics had taken. The object of the expedition of Louis XII was not only the overthrow of the Sforza dynasty in Milan, but also the seizure of Naples; it was intended to be a sequel to the attempt of Charles VIII, which was defeated by the great League. The young prince was aware of the Pope's intention to destroy his uncle Federico, who had deeply offended him by refusing to grant Cæsar the hand of his daughter Carlotta. After this occurrence the relations of Lucretia's husband with the Pope had altogether changed. Ascanio was the only friend the unfortunate prince had in Rome, and it was probably he who advised him to save himself from certain death by flight, as Lucretia's other husband had done. Alfonso slipped away August 2, 1499. The Pope sent some troopers after him, but they failed to catch him. It is uncertain whether Lucretia knew of his intended flight. A letter written in Rome by a Venetian, August 4th, merely says: "The Duke of Biseglia, Madonna Lucretia's husband, has secretly fled and gone to the Colonna in Genazzano; he deserted his wife, who has been with child for six months, and she is constantly in tears."[64] She was in the power of her father, who, highly incensed by the prince's flight, banished Alfonso's sister Donna Sancia to Naples. Lucretia's position, owing to these circumstances, became exceedingly trying. Her tears show that she possessed a heart. She loved, and perhaps for the first time. Alfonso wrote her from Genazzano, urgently imploring her to follow him, and his letters fell into the hands of the Pope, who compelled her to write her husband and ask him to return. It was doubtless his daughter's complaining that induced Alexander to send her away from Rome. August 8th he made her Regent of Spoleto. Hitherto papal legates, usually cardinals, had governed this city and the surrounding territory; but now the Pope entrusted its administration to a young woman of nineteen, his own daughter, and thither she repaired. He gave her a letter to the priors of Spoleto which was as follows: DEAR SONS: Greeting and the Apostolic Blessing! We have entrusted to our beloved daughter in Christ, the noble lady, Lucretia de Borgia, Duchess of Biseglia, the office of keeper of the castle, as well as the government of our cities of Spoleto and Foligno, and of the county and district about them. Having perfect confidence in the intelligence, the fidelity, and probity of the Duchess, which We have dwelt upon in previous letters, and likewise in your unfailing obedience to Us and to the Holy See, We trust that you will receive the Duchess Lucretia, as is your duty, with all due honor as your regent, and show her submission in all things. As We wish her to be received and accepted by you with special honor and respect, so do We command you in this epistle--as you value Our favor and wish to avoid Our displeasure--to obey the Duchess Lucretia, your regent, in all things collectively and severally, in so far as law and custom dictate in the government of the city, and whatever she may think proper to exact of you, even as you would obey Ourselves, and to execute her commands with all diligence and promptness, so that your devotion may receive due approbation. Given in Rome, in St. Peter's, under the papal seal, August 8, 1499. HADRIANUS (Secretary).[65] Lucretia left Rome for her new home the same day. She set out with a large retinue, and accompanied by her brother Don Giuffrè; Fabio Orsini, now the consort of Girolama Borgia, her kinswoman; and a company of archers. She left the Vatican mounted on horseback, the governor of the city, the Neapolitan ambassador, and a number of other gentlemen forming an escort to act as a guard of honor, while her father took a position in a loggia over the portal of the palace of the Vatican to watch his departing daughter and her cavalcade. For the first time he found himself in Rome deprived of all his children. Lucretia made the journey partly on horseback and partly in a litter, and the trip from Rome to Spoleto required not less than six days. At Porcaria, in Umbria, she found a deputation of citizens of Spoleto waiting to greet her, and to accompany her to the city, which had been famous since the time of Hannibal, and which had been the seat of the mighty Lombard dukes. The castle of Spoleto is very ancient, its earliest portions dating from the Dukes Faroald and Grimoald. In the fourteenth century it was restored by the great Gil d'Albornoz, the contemporary of Cola di Rienzi, and it was completed shortly afterwards by Nicholas V. It is a magnificent piece of Renaissance architecture, overlooking the old city and the deep ravine which separates it from Monte Luco. From its high windows one may look out over the valley of the Clitunno and that of the Tiber, the fertile Umbrian plain, and, on the east, to the Apennines. August 15th Lucretia Borgia received the priors of the city, to whom she presented her papal appointment, whereupon they swore allegiance to her. Later the commune gave a banquet in her honor. Lucretia's stay in Spoleto was short. Her regency there was merely intended to signify the actual taking possession of the territory which Alexander desired to bestow upon his daughter. In the meantime her husband Alfonso had decided, unfortunately for himself, to obey Alexander's command and return to his wife--perhaps because he really loved her. The Pope ordered him to go to Spoleto by way of Foligno, and then to come with his spouse to Nepi, where he himself intended to be. The purpose of this meeting was to establish his daughter as sovereign there also. Nepi had never been a baronial fief, although the prefects of Vico and the Orsini had held the place at different times. The Church through its deputies governed the town and surrounding country. When Alexander was a cardinal his uncle Calixtus had made him governor of the city, and such he remained until he was raised to the papal throne, when he conferred Nepi upon Cardinal Ascanio Sforza. The neatly written parchment containing the municipal statute confirming Ascanio's appointment, which is dated January 1, 1495, is still preserved in the archives of the city. At the beginning of the year 1499, however, Alexander again assumed control of Nepi by compelling the castellan, who commanded the fortress for the truant Ascanio, to surrender it to him. He now invested his daughter with the castle, the city, and the domain of Nepi.[66] September 4, 1499, Francesco Borgia, the Pope's treasurer, who was also Bishop of Teano, took possession of the city in her name. September 25th Alexander himself, accompanied by four cardinals, went to Nepi. In the castle, which he had restored, he met Lucretia and her husband, and also her brother Don Giuffrè. He returned to Rome almost immediately--October 1st. On the tenth he addressed a brief from there to the city of Nepi, in which he commanded the municipality thenceforth to obey Lucretia, Duchess of Biselli, as their true sovereign. On the twelfth he sent his daughter a communication in which he empowered her to remit certain taxes to which the citizens of Nepi had hitherto been subject.[67] Lucretia, therefore, had become the mistress of two large domains--a fact which clearly shows that she stood in high favor with her father. She did not again return to Spoleto, but entrusted its government to a lieutenant. Although Alexander made Cardinal Gurk legate for Perugia and Todi early in October, he reserved Spoleto for his daughter. Later, August 10, 1500, he made Ludovico Borgia--who was Archbishop of Valencia--governor of this city, without, however, impairing his daughter's rights to the large revenue which the territory yielded. As early as October 14th Lucretia returned to Rome. November 1, 1499, she gave birth to a son, who was named, in honor of the Pope, Rodrigo. Her firstborn was baptized with great pomp November 11th in the Sistine Chapel--not the chapel now known by that name, but the one which Sixtus IV had built in S. Peter's. Giovanni Cervillon held the child in his arms, and near by were the Governor of Rome and a representative of the Emperor Maximilian. All the cardinals, the ambassadors of England, Venice, Naples, Savoy, Siena, and the Republic of Florence were present at the ceremony. The governor of the city held the child over the font. The godfathers were Podocatharo, Bishop of Caputaqua, and Ferrari, Bishop of Modena. In the meantime, October 6th, Louis XII had taken possession of Milan, Ludovico Sforza having fled, on the approach of the French forces, to the Emperor Maximilian. In accordance with his agreement with Alexander, the king now lent troops to Cæsar Borgia to enable him to seize the Romagna, where it was proclaimed that the vassals of the Church, the Malatesta of Rimini, the Sforza of Pesaro, the Riario of Imola and Forli, the Varano of Camerino, and the Manfredi of Faenza had forfeited their fiefs to the Pope. Cæsar went to Rome, November 18, 1499. He stayed in the Vatican three days and then set forth again to join his army, which was besieging Imola. It was his intention first to take this city and then attack Forli, in the castle of which the mistress of the two cities, Catarina Sforza, had established herself for the purpose of resisting him. While he was engaged in his campaigns in Romagna, his father was endeavoring to seize the hereditary possessions of the Roman barons. He first attacked the Gaetani. From the end of the thirteenth century this ancient family had held large landed estates in the Campagna and Maritima. It had divided into several branches, one of which was settled in the vicinity of Naples. There the Gaetani were Dukes of Traetto, Counts of Fundi and Caserta, and likewise vassals and favorites of the crown of Naples. Sermoneta, the center of the domain of the Gaetani family in the Roman Campagna, was an ancient city with a feudal castle, situated in the foothills of the Volscian mountains. Above it and to one side were the ruins of the great castle of Norba; below were the beautiful remains of Nymsa; while at its foot, extending to the sea, lay the Pontine marshes. The greater part of this territory, which was traversed by the Appian Way, including the Cape of Circello, was the property of the Gaetani, to whom it still belongs. At the time of which we are speaking it was ruled by the sons of Honoratus II, a powerful personality, who had raised his house from ruin. He died in the year 1490, leaving a widow, Catarina Orsini, and three sons--Nicola the prothonotary; Giacomo, and Guglielmo. His daughter Giovanella was the wife of Pierluigi Farnese and mother of Giulia. Nicola, who had married Eleonora Orsini, died in the year 1494; consequently, next to the prothonotary Giacomo, Guglielmo Gaetani was head of the house of Sermoneta. Alexander lured the prothonotary to Rome and, having confined him in the castle of S. Angelo, began a process against him. Guglielmo succeeded in escaping to Mantua, but Nicola's little son Bernardino was murdered by the Borgia hirelings. Sermoneta was besieged, and its inhabitants surrendered without resistance. As early as March 9, 1499, Alexander compelled the apostolic chamber to sell his daughter the possessions of the Gaetani for eighty thousand ducats. He stated in a document, which was signed by eighteen cardinals, that the magnitude of the expenditures which he had recently made in the interests of the Holy See compelled him to increase the Church property; and for this purpose there were Sermoneta, Bassiano, Ninfa and Norma, Tivera, Cisterna, San Felice (the Cape of Circello), and San Donato, which, owing to the rebellion of the Gaetani, might be confiscated. This transaction was concluded in February, 1500, and Lucretia, who was already mistress of Spoleto and Nepi, thus became ruler of Sermoneta.[68] In vain did the unfortunate Giacomo Gaetani protest from his prison; July 5, 1500, he was poisoned. His mother and sisters buried him in S. Bartolomeo, which stands on an island in the Tiber, where the Gaetani had owned a palace for a great many years. Giulia Farnese, therefore, was unable to save her own uncle. She was reminded that Giacomo and Nicola had stood beside her when she was married to the youthful Orsini in 1489 in the Borgia palace. We do not know whether Giulia was living in Rome at this time. We occasionally find her name in the epigrams of the day, and it appears in a satire, _Dialogue between Death and the Pope, sick of a Fever_, in which he called upon Giulia to save him, whereupon Death replied that his mistress had borne him three or four children. As the satire was written in the summer of 1500, when Alexander was suffering from the fever, it is probable that his relations with Giulia still continued. Cæsar, who had taken Imola, December 1, 1499, was far from pleased when he saw the great estates of the Gaetani, whose revenues he himself could use to good advantage, bestowed upon his sister; and, as he himself wished absolutely to control the will of his father, her growing influence in the Vatican caused him no little annoyance. He had sinister plans for whose execution the time was soon to prove propitious. FOOTNOTES: [60] Despatch of Joh. Lucidus Cataneus, Rome, August 8, 1498. Gonzaga archives. [61] The briefs are in the state archives of Venice. [62] The instrument is in Beneimbene's protocol-book. [63] The instrument is in Beneimbene's protocol-book. [64] Diary of Marino Saruto, ii, 751. [65] This brief is in the state archives of Spoleto. [66] The Bull of Investiture, written on parchment, is dated Rome, 1499, Non. (the month is not given). It is an absolute _donum_. The document is now in the archives of Modena. [67] Both briefs are preserved in the archives of the State-house of Nepi. [68] The documents concerning this sale, dated February 11 to 15, 1500, are preserved in the archives of Modena. CHAPTER XIV SOCIAL LIFE OF THE BORGIAS Lucretia certainly must have been pleased by her brother's long absence; the Vatican was less turbulent. Besides herself only Don Giuffrè and Donna Sancia, who had effected her return, maintained a court there. We might avail ourselves of this period of quiet to depict Lucretia's private life, her court, and the people about her; but it is impossible to do this, none of her contemporaries having left any description of it. Even Burchard shows us Lucretia but rarely, and when he does it is always in connection with affairs in the Vatican. Only once does he give us a fleeting view of her palace--on February 27, 1496--when Giovanni Borgia, Juan de Castro, and the recently created Cardinal Martinus of Segovia were calling upon her. None of the foreign diplomatists of that time, so far as we may learn from their despatches, made any reports regarding Lucretia's private life. We have only a few letters written by her during her residence in Rome, and there is not a single poem dedicated to her or which mentions her; therefore it is due to the malicious epigrams of Sannazzaro and Pontanus that she has been branded as the most depraved of courtesans. If there ever was a young woman, however, likely to excite the imagination of the poet, Lucretia Borgia in the bloom of her youth and beauty was that woman. Her connection with the Vatican, the mystery which surrounded her, and the fate she suffered, make her one of the most fascinating women of her age. Doubtless there are buried in various libraries numerous verses dedicated to her by the Roman poets who must have swarmed at the court of the Pope's daughter to render homage to her beauty and to seek her patronage. In Rome, Lucretia had an opportunity to enjoy, if she were so disposed, the society of many brilliant men, for even during the sovereignty of the Borgias the Muses were banished neither from the Vatican nor from Rome. It can not be denied, however, that the daughters of princely houses were allowed to devote themselves to the cultivation of the intellect more freely at the secular courts of Italy than they were at the papal court. Not until Lucretia went to Ferrara to live was she able to endeavor to emulate the example of the princesses of Mantua and Urbino. While living in Rome she was too young and her environment too narrow for her to have had any influence upon the literary and æsthetic circles of that city, although, owing to her position, she must have been acquainted with them. Her father was not incapable of intellectual pleasures; he had his court minstrels and poets. The famous Aurelio Brandolini, who died in 1497, was wont to improvise to the strains of the lute during banquets in the Vatican and in Lucretia's palace. Cæsar's favorite, Serafino of Aquila, the Petrarch of his age, who died in Rome in the year 1500, still a young man, aspired to the same honor. Cæsar himself was interested in poetry and the arts, just as were all the cultivated men and tyrants of the Renaissance. His court poet was Francesco Sperulo, who served under his standard, and who sang his campaigns in Romagna and in the neighborhood of Camerino.[69] A number of Roman poets who subsequently became famous recited their verses in the presence of Lucretia, among them Emilio Voccabella and Evangelista Fausto Maddaleni. Even at that time the three brothers Mario, Girolamo, and Celso Mellini enjoyed great renown as poets and orators, while the brothers of the house of Porcaro--Camillo, Valerio, and Antonio--were equally famous. We have already noted that Antonio was one of the witnesses at the marriage of Girolama Borgia in the year 1482, and that he subsequently was Lucretia's proxy when she was betrothed to Centelles in 1491. These facts show how closely and how long the Porcaro were allied to the Borgias. This Roman family had been made famous in the history of the city by the fate of Stefano, Cola di Rienzi's successor. The Porcaro claimed descent from the Catos, and for this reason many of them adopted the name Porcius. Enjoying friendly relations with the Borgias, they claimed them as kinsmen, stating that Isabella, the mother of Alexander VI, was descended from the Roman Porcaro, who somehow had passed to Spain. The similarity of sound in the Latin names Borgius and Porcius gave some appearance of truth to this pretension. Next to Antonio, Hieronymus Porcius was one of the most brilliant retainers of the house of Borgia. Alexander, upon his election to the papal throne, made him auditor of the Ruota (the Papal Court of Appeals). He was the author of a work printed in Rome in September, 1493, under the title _Commentarius Porcius_, which was dedicated to the King and Queen of Spain. In it he describes the election and coronation of Alexander VI, and quotes portions of the declarations of loyalty which the Italian envoys addressed to the Pope. Court flattery could not be carried further than it was in this case by Hieronymus, an affected pedant, an empty-headed braggart, a fanatical papist. Alexander made him Bishop of Andria and Governor of the Romagna. In 1497 Hieronymus, then in Cesena, composed a dialogue on Savonarola and his "heresy concerning the power of the Pope." The kernel of the whole thing was the fundamental doctrine of the infallibilists; namely, that only those who blindly obey the Pope are good Christians.[70] Porcius also essayed poetry, celebrating the magnificence of the Pope and Cardinal Cæsar, whom, in his verses on the Borgia Steer, he described as his greatest benefactor. Apparently he was also the author of the elegy on the death of the Duke of Gandia, which is still preserved. Phædra Inghirami, the famous student of Cicero, whom Erasmus admired and whom Raphael rendered immortal by his portrait, doubtless made the acquaintance of the Borgias and of Lucretia through the Porcaro. Even as early as this he was attracting the attention of Rome. Inghirami delivered an oration at the mass which the Spanish ambassador had said for the Infante Don Juan, January 16, 1498, in S. Jacopo in Navona, which was greatly admired. He also made a reputation as an actor in Cardinal Rafael Riario's theater. The drama was then putting forth its first fruits, not only at the courts of the Este and Gonzaga families, but also in Rome. Alexander himself, owing to his sensuous nature, was especially fond of it, and had comedies and ballets performed at all the family festivities in the Vatican. The actors were young students from the Academy of Pomponius Laetus, and we have every reason to believe that Inghirami, the Mellini, and the Porcaro took part in these performances whenever the opportunity was offered. Carlo Canale, Vannozza's consort, must also have lent valuable assistance, for he had been familiar with the stage in Mantua; and no less important was the aid of Pandolfo Collenuccio, who had repeatedly been Ferrara's ambassador in Rome, where he enjoyed daily intercourse with the Borgias. The celebrated Pomponius, to whom Rome was indebted for the revival of the theater, spent his last years, during the reign of Alexander, in the enjoyment of the highest popular esteem. Alexander himself may have been one of his pupils, as Cardinal Farnese certainly was. Pomponius died June 6, 1498, and the same pope who had sent Savonarola to the stake had his court attend the obsequies of the great representative of classic paganism, which were held in the Church of Aracoeli, a fact which lends additional support to the belief that he was personally known to the Borgias. Moreover, one of his most devoted pupils, Michele Ferno, had for a long time been a firm adherent of Alexander. Although the Pope in 1501 issued the first edict of censorship, he was not an enemy of the sciences. He fostered the University of Rome, several of whose chairs were at that time held by men of note; for example, Petrus Sabinus and John Argyropulos. One of the greatest geniuses--one whose light has blessed all mankind--was for a year an ornament of this university and of the reign of Alexander; Copernicus came to Rome from far away Prussia in the jubilee year 1500, and lectured on mathematics and astronomy. Among Alexander's courtiers there were many brilliant men whose society Lucretia must have had an opportunity to enjoy. Burchard, the master of ceremonies, laid down the rules for all the functions in which the Pope's daughter took part. He must have called upon her frequently, but she could scarcely have foreseen that, centuries later, this Alsatian's notes would constitute the mirror in which posterity would see the reflections of the Borgias. His diary, however, gives no details concerning Lucretia's private life--this did not come within his duties. Never did any other chronicler describe the things about him so clearly and so concisely, so dryly, and with so little feeling--things which were worthy of the pen of a Tacitus. That Burchard was not friendly to the Borgias is proved by the way his diary is written; it, however, is absolutely truthful. This man well knew how to conceal his feelings--if the dull routine of his office had left him any. He went through the daily ceremonial of the Vatican mechanically, and kept his place there under five popes. Burchard must have seemed to the Borgias a harmless pedant; for if not, would they have permitted him to behold and describe their doings and yet live? Even the little which he did write in his diary concerning events of the day would have cost him his head had it come to the knowledge of Alexander or Cæsar. It appears, however, that the diaries of the masters of ceremony were not subjected to official censorship. Cæsar would have spared him no more than he did his father's favorite, Pedro Calderon Perotto, whom he stabbed, and Cervillon, whom he had killed--both of whom frequently performed important parts in the ceremonies in the Vatican. Nor did he spare the private secretary, Francesco Troche, whom Alexander VI had often employed in diplomatic affairs. Troche, according to a Venetian report a Spaniard, was, like Canale, a cultivated humanist, and like him, he was also on friendly terms with the house of Gonzaga. There are still in existence letters of his to the Marchioness Gonzaga, in which he asks her to send him certain sonnets she had composed. She likewise writes to him regarding family matters, and also asks him to find her an antique cupid in Rome. There is no doubt but that he was one of Lucretia's most intimate acquaintances. In June, 1503, Cæsar had also this favorite of his father strangled. Besides Burchard and Lorenz Behaim, there was another German who was familiar with the family affairs of the Borgias, Goritz of Luxemburg, who subsequently, during the reigns of Julius II and Leo X, became famous as an academician. Even in Alexander's time the cultivated world of Rome was in the habit of meeting at Goritz's house in Trajan's Forum for the purpose of engaging in academic discussions. All the Germans who came to Rome sought him out, and he must have received Reuchlin, who visited that city in 1498, and subsequently Copernicus, Erasmus, and Ulrich von Hutten, who remembered him with gratitude; it is also probable that Luther visited his hospitable home. Goritz was _supplicant referent_, and as such he must have known Lucretia personally, because the influential daughter of the Pope was the constant recipient of petitions of various sorts. He had ample opportunity to observe events in the Vatican, but of his experiences he recorded nothing; or, if he did, his diary was destroyed in the sack of Rome in 1527, when he lost all his belongings. Among Lucretia's personal acquaintances was still another man, one who was in a better position than any one else to write the history of the Borgias. This was the Nestor of Roman notaries, old Camillo Beneimbene, the trusted legal adviser of Alexander and of most of the cardinals and grandees of Rome. He knew the Borgias in their private as well as in their public character; he had been acquainted with Lucretia from her childhood; he drew up all her marriage contracts. His office was on the Lombard Piazza, now known as S. Luigi dei Francesi. Here he worked, drawing up legal documents until the year 1505, as is shown by instruments in his handwriting.[71] A man who had been the official witness and legal adviser in the most important family affairs of the Borgias for so long a time, and who, therefore, was familiar with all their secrets, must have occupied, so far as their house, and especially Lucretia, were concerned, the position of a close friend. Beneimbene records none of his personal experiences, but his protocol-book is still preserved in the archives of the notary of the Capitol. Adriano Castelli of Corneto, a highly cultivated humanist, and privy-secretary to Alexander, who subsequently made him a cardinal, was very close to the Borgias. As the Pope's secretary he must have frequently come in contact with Lucretia. Among her intimate acquaintances were also the famous Latinist, Cortesi; the youthful Sardoleto, the familiar of Cardinal Cibò; young Aldo Manuzio; the intellectual brothers Rafael and Mario Maffei of Volterra; and Egidio of Viterbo, who subsequently became famous as a pulpit orator and was made a cardinal. The last maintained his connection with Lucretia while she was Duchess of Ferrara. He exercised a deep influence upon the religious turn which her nature took during this the second period of her life. The youthful Duchess of Biselli certainly enjoyed the lively society of the cultured and gallant ecclesiastics about her--Cardinals Medici, Riario, Orsini, Cesarini, and Farnese--not to mention the Borgias and the Spanish prelates. We may look for her, too, at the banquets in the palaces of Rome's great families, the Massimi and Orsini, the Santa Croce, Altieri, and Valle, and in the homes of the wealthy bankers Altoviti, Spanocchi, and Mariano Chigi, whose sons Lorenzo and Agostino--the latter eventually became famous--enjoyed the confidence of the Borgias. Lucretia was able in Rome to gratify a taste for the fine arts. Alexander found employment for the great artists of the day in the Vatican, where Perugino executed some paintings for him, and where, under the picture of the holy Virgin, Pinturicchio, who was his court artist, painted the portrait of the adulteress, Giulia Farnese. He also painted portraits of several members of the Borgia family in the castle of S. Angelo. "In the castle of S. Angelo," says Vasari, "he painted many of the rooms _a grotesche_; but in the tower below, in the garden, he depicted scenes from the life of Alexander VI. There he painted the Catholic Queen Isabella; Niccolò Orsini, Count of Pitigliano; Giangiacomo Trivulzio; and many other kinsmen and friends of the Pope, and especially Cæsar Borgia and his brother and sisters, as well as numerous great men of the age." Lorenz Behaim copied the epigrams which were placed under six of these paintings in the "castle of S. Angelo, below in the papal gardens." All represented scenes from the critical period of the invasion of Italy by Charles VIII, and they were painted in such a way as to make Alexander appear as having been victorious. One showed the king prostrating himself at the Pope's feet in this same garden of the castle of S. Angelo; another represented Charles declaring his loyalty before the consistory; another, Philip of Sens and Guillaume of S. Malo receiving the cardinal's hat; another, the mass in S. Peter's at which Charles VIII assisted; the subject of another was the passage to S. Paul's, with the king holding the Pope's stirrup; and, lastly, a scene depicting the departure of Charles for Naples, accompanied by Cæsar Borgia and the Sultan Djem.[72] These paintings are now lost, and with them the portraits of the members of the Borgia family. Pinturicchio doubtless painted several likenesses of the beautiful Lucretia. Probably many of the figures in the paintings of this master resemble the Borgias, but of this we are not certain. In the collections of antiquaries, and among the innumerable old portraits which may be seen hanging in rows on the discolored walls in the palaces of Rome and in the castles in Romagna, there doubtless are likenesses of Lucretia, of Cæsar, and of his brothers, which the beholder never suspects as such. It is well known that there was a faithful portrait of Alexander VI and his children above the altar of S. Lucia in the Church of S. Maria del Popolo, the work of Pinturicchio. Later, when Alexander restored this church, the painting was removed to the court of the cloister, and eventually it was lost.[73] Of the famous artists of the day, Lucretia must likewise have known Antonio di Sangallo, her father's architect, and also Antonio Pollajuolo, the most renowned sculptor of the Florentine school in Rome during the last decades of the fifteenth century. He died there in 1498. But the most famous of all the artists then in Rome was Michael Angelo. He appeared there first in 1498, an ambitious young man of three and twenty. At that time the city of Rome was an enchanting environment for an artistic nature. The boundless immorality of her great past, speaking so eloquently from innumerable monuments of the pagan and Christian worlds; her majesty and holy calm; the sudden breaking loose of furious passions--all this is beyond the imaginative power of modern men, just as is the wickedly secular nature of the papacy and the spirit of the Renaissance which swept over these ruins. We are unable to comprehend in their entirety the soul-activities of this great race, which was both creative and destructive. For to the same feeling which impelled men to commit great crimes do we owe the great works of art of the Renaissance. In those days evil, as well as good, was in the _grand style_. Alexander VI displayed himself to the world, for whose opinion he had supreme contempt, as shamelessly and fearlessly as did Nero. The Renaissance, owing to the violent contrasts which it presents, now naïvely and now in full consciousness of their incongruity, and also on account of the fiendish traits by which it is characterized, will always constitute one of the greatest psychologic problems in the history of civilization. All virtues, all crimes, all forces were set in motion by a feverish yearning for immaterial pleasures, beauty, power, and immortality. The Renaissance has been called an intellectual bacchanalia, and when we examine the features of the bacchantes they become distorted like those of the suitors in Homer, who anticipated their fall; for this society, this Church, these cities and states--in fine, this culture in its entirety--toppled over into the abyss which was yawning for it. The reflection that men like Copernicus, Michael Angelo, and Bramante, Alexander VI and Cæsar Borgia could live in Rome at one and the same time is well nigh overpowering. Did Lucretia ever see the youthful artist, subsequently the friend of the noble lady, Vittoria Colonna, whose portrait he painted? We know not; but there is no reason to doubt that she did. The curiosity of the artist and of the man would have induced Michael Angelo to endeavor to gain a glimpse of the most charming woman in Rome. Although only a beginner, he was already recognized as an artist of great talent. As he had just been taken up by Gallo the Roman and Cardinal La Grolaye, it is altogether probable that he would have been the subject also of Lucretia's curiosity. Affected by the recent tragedies in the house of Borgia--for example, the murder of the Duke of Gandia--Michael Angelo was engaged upon the great work which was the first to attract the attention of the city, the Pietà, which Cardinal La Grolaye had commissioned him to paint. This work he completed in 1499, about the time the great Bramante came to Rome. The group should be studied with the epoch of the Borgias for background; the Pietà rises supreme in ethical significance, and in the moral darkness about her she seems a pure sacrificial fire lighted by a great and earnest spirit in the dishonored realm of the Church. Lucretia stood before the Pietà, and the masterpiece must have affected this unhappy daughter of a sinful pope more powerfully than the words of her confessor or than the admonitions of the abbesses of S. Sisto. FOOTNOTES: [69] Manuscript in the Vatican, No. 5205. [70] Collocutores itinerantes Tuscus et Remus, Romæ in Campo Floræ, 1497. [71] See the author's essay, Das Archiv der Notare des Capitols in Rom, and the protocol-book of the Notary Camillus de Beneimbene, 1457 to 1505. Proceedings of k. bayr. Akademie der Wissenschaften zu München, 1872. Part iv. [72] In the Codex Hartmann Schedel in the state library of Munich. [73] Piazza (Gerarchia Cardinalizia) states that he saw it as late as 1712. CHAPTER XV MISFORTUNES OF CATARINA SFORZA The jubilee year 1500 was a fortunate one for Cæsar, but an unhappy one for Lucretia. She began it January 1st with a formal passage to the Lateran, whither she went to make the prescribed pilgrimage to the Roman churches. She rode upon a richly caparisoned jennet, her escort consisting of two hundred mounted nobles, men and women. On her left was her consort, Don Alfonso; on her right one of the ladies of her court; and behind them came the captain of the papal guard, Rodrigo Borgia. While she and her retinue were crossing over the Bridge of S. Angelo, her father stood in a loggia of the castle, feasting his eyes upon his beloved daughter. The new year brought Alexander only good news--if we except that of the death of the Cardinal-legate Giovanni Borgia, Bishop of Melfi and Archbishop of Capua, who was known as the "younger," to distinguish him from another cardinal of the same name. He died in Urbino, January 8, 1500, of a fever, according to a statement made by Elisabetta, consort of Guidobaldo, to her brother Gonzaga, in a letter written from Fossombrone on the same day.[74] Cæsar was in Forli when he received the news of the cardinal's death, the very morning--January 12th--on which the stronghold surrendered to him. He at once conveyed the information to the Duke of Ferrara in a letter, in which he said that Giovanni Borgia had been called to Rome by the Pope, and having set out from Forli, had died suddenly in Urbino of a flux. The fact that he had been in Cæsar's camp, and that, according to Elisabetta's letter, he had been taken sick in Urbino, lent some probability to the suspicion that he had been poisoned. It is worthy of note that Cæsar, in his letter to the duke, speaks of the deceased as his brother;[75] and Ercole, in offering him his condolences, January 18th, on the death of the cardinal, also called him Cæsar's brother. Are we thereby warranted in concluding that the younger Giovanni Borgia was a son of Alexander VI? Further, the Ferrarese chronicler Zambotto, speaking of the cardinal's death, uses the expression, "son of Pope Alexander."[76] If this was the case, the number of Alexander's children must be increased, for Ludovico Borgia was also his son. This Borgia, who succeeded to Giovanni's benefices, was Archbishop of Valencia and subsequently cardinal. He reported his promotion to the Marchioness Gonzaga in a letter in which he everywhere speaks of the deceased as "his brother," just as Cæsar had done.[77] These statements, however, do not refute the hitherto generally accepted opinion regarding the descent of Giovanni Borgia, "the younger," and Zambotta certainly was in error--the word _fratre_, which he uses in his letter means merely "dear cousin," _fratello cugino_.[78] January 14th news reached the Vatican that Cæsar had taken the castle of Forli. After a brave resistance Catarina Sforza Riario, together with her two brothers, was compelled to surrender. The grandchild of the great Francesco Sforza of Milan, the natural daughter of Galeazzo Maria and the illegitimate sister of Blanca, wife of Emperor Maximilian, was the ideal of the heroic women of Italy, who were found not only in Bojardo's and Ariosto's poems, but also in real life. Her nature exceeded the feminine and verged on caricature. To understand the evolution of such personalities, in whom beauty and culture, courage and reason, sensuality and cruelty combined to produce a strange organism, we must be familiar with the conditions from which they sprang. Catarina Sforza's experiences made her the amazon that she was. At an early age she was married to the rude nephew of Sixtus IV, Girolamo Riario, Count of Forli. Shortly afterwards her terrible father met a tyrant's death in Milan. Then her husband fell beneath the daggers of the conspirators, who flung his naked body from a window of the stronghold of Forli. Catarina, however, with determined courage, succeeded in keeping the castle for her children, and she avenged her husband's death with ferocious cruelty. Subsequently she was known--to quote Marino Sanuto's words--as "a courageous woman and cruel virago."[79] Six years later she saw her brother Giangaleazzo die of poison administered by Ludovico il Moro, while before her very eyes her second, but not openly recognized, husband, Giacomo Feo of Savona, was slain in Forli by conspirators. She immediately mounted her charger, and at the head of her guard pursued the murderers to their quarter, where she had every living being--men, women, and children--hacked to pieces. She buried a third lover, Giovanni Medici, in 1497. With cunning and force this amazon ruled her little domain until she herself finally fell into Cæsar's hands. Few lamented her fate. When the news reached Milan that she was in the duke's power, and consequently also in that of Pope Alexander, the celebrated General Giangiacomo Trivulzio made a jesting remark which clearly shows how little her fate grieved the people. According to the stories of the day, Cæsar led her to Rome in golden chains, like another Queen of Palmyra. He entered the city in triumph, February 26th, and the Pope assigned the Belvedere to the captive for her abode. The city was filled at that time with the faithful, who had come to receive absolution for their sins, this the jubilee year,--and from a Borgia. Among the number was Elisabetta Gonzaga, consort of Guidobaldo of Urbino. The pilgrimage of this famous woman was a dangerous experiment, the Pope having secretly placed Urbino on the list of proscribed cities included in the Church fiefs. Cæsar already looked upon it as his property. The thought of meeting this Borgia in Rome must have been exceedingly painful to her. How easily might he have found a pretext for keeping her prisoner! Her brother, Francesco Gonzaga, warned her against her decision, but on her way to Rome she wrote him a letter so remarkable and so amiable that we quote it at length: ILLUSTRIOUS PRINCE AND LORD, HONORED BROTHER: I have left Urbino and set out for Rome for the purpose of receiving absolution, this the jubilee year. Several days ago I informed your Excellency of my prospective journey. Only to-day, in Assisi, did I receive your letter; I understand from what you write that you wish me to abandon this journey--perhaps thinking that I have not yet set out--which grieves me greatly, and causes me unspeakable pain, because I wish in this as in all other things to do your Majesty's will, having always looked upon you as my most honored father, and never having had any thought or purpose but to follow your wishes. However, as I have said, I am now on the way and am out of the country. With the help of Fabritius (Colonna) and Madonna Agnesina, my honored sister-in-law and sister, I have made arrangements for a residence in Rome, and for whatever may be necessary for my comfort. I have also informed them that I would be in Marino four days hence, and consequently Fabritius has gone to the trouble of securing an escort for me; further, my departure and journey have been noised about; therefore, I see no way to abandon this pilgrimage without affecting my honor and that of my husband--since the thing has gone so far--the more so as the journey was undertaken with the full knowledge and consent of my lord, and all and everything carefully considered. Your Majesty must not be distressed or annoyed by this, my journey, and in order that you may know everything, I will tell you that I am first going to Marino, and thence, accompanied by Madonna Agnesina, and incognito, shall go to Rome for the purpose of receiving absolution at this the holy jubilee of the Church. I need not see any one there, for during my stay in Rome I shall live in the palace of the deceased Cardinal Savelli. The house is a good one, and is exactly what I want, and it is within reach of the Colonna. It is my intention to return soon to Marino, there to spend the greater part of the time. Your Majesty, therefore, need have no further anxiety about my journey, and must not be displeased by it. Although these reasons are sufficient to induce me not only to continue the journey, but to begin it, if I had not already set out I would relinquish it, not on account of any fear of anything unpleasant that might attend my pilgrimage, but simply to comply with the wish expressed in your Majesty's letter, as I desire to do always. But as I am now here, and as your Excellency will soon receive this letter, I am sure you will approve of my course. I earnestly beg you to do so, and to assure me by letter, addressed to Rome, that you are not displeased, so that I may receive absolution in greater peace and tranquillity. If you do not I shall suffer great anxiety and grief. I commend myself to your Excellency's merciful benevolence as your Majesty's youngest sister, ELISABETTA. ASSISI, _March 21, 1500_. Agnesina di Montefeltre mentioned in the letter, Guidobaldo's soulful sister, was married to Fabritius Colonna, who subsequently became one of Italy's greatest captains. She was then twenty-eight years of age. She and her husband lived at the castle of Marino in the Alban mountains, where, in 1490, she bore him Vittoria Colonna, the future ornament of her house. Elisabetta found this beautiful child already betrothed to Ferrante d'Avalos, son of Marquis Alfonso of Pescara; Ferdinand II of Naples having brought about the betrothal of the two children as early as 1495 for the purpose of winning over the Colonna, the retainers of the house of Aragon. The Duchess of Urbino actually went to Rome for the purpose of protecting her noble kinswoman, whom she kept incognito. She remained there until Easter. On her way to S. Peter's she directed anxious glances toward the Belvedere, where the bravest woman of Italy, a prisoner, was grieving her life away, Catarina Sforza having been confined there since Cæsar's return, February 26th, as is attested by a letter of that date written by the Venetian ambassador in Rome to his Signory. Elisabetta's feelings must have been rendered still more painful by the fact that her own husband, as well as her brother Gonzaga, both of whom were in the service of France, had given the princess up for lost. She had scarcely left Rome when Catarina received news that her uncles Ludovico and Ascanio had fallen into the hands of the King of France. Having, with the aid of Swiss troops, again secured possession of Milan in 1500, they were ignominiously betrayed by the mercenaries at Novara, April 10th. Ludovico was carried away to France, where he died in misery, having spent ten years a prisoner in the tower of Loches; the once powerful cardinal was likewise taken a captive to France. A great tragedy had occurred in the house of Sforza. What must have been Catarina's distress when she, in her prison, learned that fate had overthrown all her race! Could one transport himself to that environment he would breathe the oppressive atmosphere with which Shakespeare enveloped his characters. Catarina's jailers were the two most dreaded men of the age--the Pope and his son. The very thought of what surrounded her must have filled her with terror. In the Belvedere she was in constant dread of Cæsar's poison, and it is indeed a wonder that she did escape it. She made an unsuccessful attempt at flight, whereupon Alexander had her removed to the castle of S. Angelo. However, certain French gentlemen in the service of the one who was bent on her destruction--especially Ivo d'Allegre--interceded for her; and the Pope, after she had spent a year and a half in captivity, allowed her to choose Florence for her asylum. He himself commended her to the Signory in the following letter: UNTO MY BELOVED SONS: Greeting and the Apostolic Blessing. Our beloved daughter in Christ, the noble lady Catarina Sforza, is on her way to you. She, as you are aware, having for good reasons been held a prisoner by Us for a time, has again become the object of Our mercy. We, according to Our custom and to Our pastoral duties, have not only exercised mercy with regard to this Catarina, but also, so far as We with God's help were able, have looked with paternal solicitude after her welfare; therefore We deem it proper to write you for the purpose of commending this Catarina to your protection, so that she, having full confidence in Our good will towards you, and returning, so to speak, into her own country, may not be deluded in her expectations and by Our recommendation. We, therefore, shall be glad to learn that she has been well received and treated by you, in gratitude to her for having chosen your city for her abode, and owing to your feelings toward Us. Given at Rome, in S. Peter's, under the Apostolic seal, July 13, 1501. In the ninth year of our pontificate. HADRIANUS. Catarina Sforza died in a convent in Florence in 1509. In her fatherland she left a son of the same mettle as herself, Giovanni Medici, the last of the great condottieri of the country, who became famous as leader of the Black Bands. There is a seated figure in marble of this captain, of herculean strength, with the neck of a centaur, near the church of S. Lorenzo in Florence. FOOTNOTES: [74] In the Gonzaga archives. [75] In questa mattina ho hauto lo adviso de la morte del Rmo Card. Borgia _mio fratre_ passato de questa vita in Urbino. Forli, January 16, 1500. Archives of Modena. [76] A. 1500, Jan. 22 (this is incorrect), mori il Carle Borgia fiolo de Papa Alexo a Orbino. Silva Cronicarum Bernardini Zambotti. Ms. in the library of Ferrara. [77] La bona memoria del Cardinale Borgia mio fratre. Rome, July 30, 1500. Gonzaga archives. [78] Cittadella's opinion that Giovanni Borgia, junior, was a son of Pierluigi, Alexander's brother, is also incorrect. [79] Femina quasi virago crudelissima et di gran animo. Venuta di Carlo VIII, p. 811, Ms. Virago here means amazon. CHAPTER XVI MURDER OF ALFONSO OF ARAGON After the fall of the Riario, of Imola, and Forli, all the tyrants in the domain of the Church trembled before Cæsar; and greater princes, like those of the Gonzaga and Este families, who were either entirely independent or were semi-independent vassals of the Church, courted the friendship of the Pope and his dreaded son. Cæsar, as an ally of France, had secured for himself the services of these princes, and since 1499 they had helped him in his schemes in the Romagna. He engaged in a lively correspondence with Ercole d'Este, whom he treated as his equal, as his brother and friend, although he was a young and immature man. To him he reported his successes, and in return received congratulations, equally confidential in tone, all of which consisted of diplomatic lies inspired by fear. The correspondence between Cæsar and Ercole, which is very voluminous, is still preserved in the Este archives in Modena. It began August 30, 1498, when Cæsar was still a cardinal. In this letter, which is written in Latin, he announces to the duke that he is about to set out for France, and asks him for a saddle horse. Cæsar engaged in an equally confidential correspondence with Francesco Gonzaga, with whom he entered into intimate relations which endured until his death. In the archives of the Gonzaga family in Mantua there are preserved forty-one letters written by Cæsar to the marquis and his consort Isabella. The first is dated October 31, 1498, from Avignon; the second, January 12, 1500, from Forli; the third is as follows: ILLUSTRIOUS SIR AND HONORED BROTHER: From your Excellency's letter we have learned of the birth of your illustrious son, which has occasioned us no less joy than we would have felt on the birth of an heir to ourselves. As we, owing to our sincere and brotherly goodwill for you, wish you all increase and fortune, we willingly consent to be godfather, and will appoint for our proxy anyone whom your Excellency may choose. May he in our stead watch over the child from the moment of his baptism. We earnestly pray to God to preserve the same to you. Your Majesty will not fail to congratulate your illustrious consort in our name. She will, we hope, through this son prepare the way for a numerous posterity to perpetuate the fame of their illustrious parents. Rome, in the Apostolic Palace, May 24, 1500. CÆSAR BORGIA of France, Duke of Valentinois, Gonfallonier, and Captain-General of the Holy Roman Church. This son of the Marquis of Mantua was the hereditary Prince Federico, born May 17, 1500. Two years later, when Cæsar was at the zenith of his power, Gonzaga requested the honor of the betrothal of this son and the duke's little daughter Luisa. Cæsar remained in Rome several months to secure funds for carrying out his plans in Romagna. All his projects would have been wrecked in a moment if his father had not escaped, almost unharmed, when the walls of a room in the Vatican collapsed, June 27, 1500. He was extricated from the rubbish only slightly hurt. He would allow no one but his daughter to care for him. When the Venetian ambassador called, July 3d, he found Madonna Lucretia, Sancia, the latter's husband, Giuffrè, and one of Lucretia's ladies-in-waiting, who was the Pope's "favorite," with him. Alexander was then seventy years of age. He ascribed his escape to the Virgin Mary, just as Pius IX did his own when the house near S. Agnese tumbled down. July 5th Alexander held a service in her honor, and on his recovery he had himself borne in a procession to S. Maria del Popolo, where he offered the Virgin a goblet containing three hundred ducats. Cardinal Piccolomini ostentatiously scattered the gold pieces over the altar before all the people. The saints had saved a great sinner from the falling walls in the Vatican, but they refrained from interfering eighteen days later to prevent a hideous crime--the attempted murder of a guiltless person. In vain had the youthful Alfonso of Biselli been warned by his own premonitions and by his friends during the past year to seek safety in flight. He had followed his wife to Rome like a lamb to the slaughter, only to fall under the daggers of the assassins from whom she was powerless to save him. Cæsar hated him, as he did the entire house of Aragon, and in his opinion his sister's marriage to a Neapolitan prince had become as useless as had been her union with Sforza of Pesaro; moreover, it interfered with the plans of Cæsar, who had a matrimonial alliance in mind for his sister which would be more advantageous to himself. As her marriage with the Duke of Biselli had not been childless, and, consequently, could not be set aside, he determined upon a radical separation of the couple. July 15, 1500, about eleven o'clock at night, Alfonso was on his way from his palace to the Vatican to see his consort; near the steps leading to S. Peter's a number of masked men fell upon him with daggers. Severely wounded in the head, arm, and thigh, the prince succeeded in reaching the Pope's chamber. At the sight of her spouse covered with blood, Lucretia sank to the floor in a swoon. Alfonso was carried to another room in the Vatican, and a cardinal administered the extreme unction; his youth, however, triumphed, and he recovered. Although Lucretia, owing to her fright, fell sick of a fever, she and his sister Sancia took care of him; they cooked his food, while the Pope himself placed a guard over him. In Rome there was endless gossip about the crime and its perpetrators. July 19th the Venetian ambassador wrote to his Signory: "It is not known who wounded the duke, but it is said that it was the same person who killed the Duke of Gandia and threw him into the Tiber. Monsignor of Valentinois has issued an edict that no one shall be found with arms between the castle of S. Angelo and S. Peter's, on pain of death." Cæsar remarked to the ambassador, "I did not wound the duke, but if I had, it would have been nothing more than he deserved." His hatred of his brother-in-law must have been inspired also by personal reasons of which we are ignorant. He even ventured to call upon the wounded man, remarking on leaving, "What is not accomplished at noon may be done at night." The days passed slowly; finally the murderer lost patience. At nine o'clock in the evening of August 18th, he came again; Lucretia and Sancia drove him from the room, whereupon he called his captain, Micheletto, who strangled the duke. There was no noise, not a sound; it was like a pantomime; amid a terrible silence the dead prince was borne away to S. Peter's. The affair was no longer a secret. Cæsar openly stated that he had destroyed the duke because the latter was seeking his life, and he claimed that by Alfonso's orders some archers had shot at him when he was strolling in the Vatican gardens. [Illustration: CÆSAR BORGIA. From a painting by Giorgione.] Nothing so clearly discloses the terrible influence which Cæsar exercised over his wicked father as this deed, and the way in which the Pope regarded it. From the Venetian ambassador's report it appears that it was contrary to Alexander's wishes, and that he had even attempted to save the unfortunate prince's life. After the crime had been committed, however, the Pope dismissed it from his mind, both because he did not dare to bring Cæsar--whom he had forgiven for the murder of his brother--to a reckoning, and because the murder would result in offering him opportunities which he desired. He spared himself the trouble of directing useless reproaches to his son, for Cæsar would only have laughed at them. Was the care with which Alexander had his unfortunate son-in-law watched merely a bit of deceit? There are no grounds for believing that the Pope either planned the murder himself or that he consented to it. Never was bloody deed so soon forgotten. The murder of a prince of the royal house of Naples made no more impression than the death of a Vatican stable boy would have done. No one avoided Cæsar; none of the priests refused him admission to the Church, and all the cardinals continued to show him the deepest reverence and respect. Prelates vied with each other to receive the red hat from the hand of the all-powerful murderer, who offered the dignity to the highest bidders. He needed money for carrying out his schemes of confiscation in the Romagna. His condottieri, Paolo Orsini, Giuliano Orsini, Vitellozzo Vitelli, and Ercole Bentivoglio were with him during these autumn days. His father had equipped seven hundred heavy men at arms for him, and, August 18th, the Venetian ambassador reported to the signory that he had been requested by the Pope to ask the Doge to withdraw their protection from Rimini and Faenza. Negotiations were in progress with France to secure her active support for Cæsar. August 24th the French ambassador, Louis de Villeneuve, made his entry into Rome; near S. Spirito a masked man rode up and embraced him. The man was Cæsar. However openly he committed his crimes, he frequently went about Rome in disguise. The murder of the youthful Alfonso of Aragon was by far the most tragic deed committed by the Borgias, and his fate was more terrible than even that of Astorre Manfredi. If Lucretia really loved her husband, as there is every reason to suppose she did, his end must have caused her the greatest anguish; and, even if she had no affection for him, all her feelings must have been aroused against the murderer to whose fiendish ambition the tragedy was due. She must also have rebelled against her father, who regarded the crime with such indifference. None of the reports of the day describe the circumstances in which she found herself immediately after the murder, nor events in the Vatican just preceding it. Although Lucretia was suffering from a fever, she did not die of grief, nor did she rise to avenge her husband's murder, or to flee from the terrible Vatican. She was in a position similar to that of her sister-in-law, Doña Maria Enriquez, after Gandia's death; but while the latter and her sons had found safety in Spain, Lucretia had no retreat to which she could retire without the consent of her father and brother. It would be wrong to blame the unfortunate woman because at this fateful moment of her life she did not make herself the subject of a tragedy. Of a truth, she appears very weak and characterless. We must not look for great qualities of soul in Lucretia, for she possessed them not. We are endeavoring to represent her only as she actually was, and, if we judge rightly, she was merely a woman differentiated from the great mass of women, not by the strength, but by the graciousness, of her nature. This young woman, regarded by posterity as a Medea or as a loathsomely passionate creature, probably never experienced any real feeling. During the years she lived in Rome she was always subject to the will of others, for her destiny was controlled, first, by her father, and subsequently by her brother. We know not how much of an effort, in view of the circumstances by which she was trammeled, she could make to maintain the dignity of woman. If Lucretia, however, ever did possess the courage to assert her individuality and rights before those who injured her, she certainly would have done so when her husband was murdered. Perhaps she did assail her sinister brother with recriminations and her father with tears. She was troublesome to Cæsar, who wished her away from the Vatican, consequently Alexander banished her for a time; and apparently she herself was not unwilling to go. The Venetian ambassador Paolo Capello refers to some quarrel between Lucretia and her father. He departed from Rome, September 16, 1500, and on his return to Venice made a report to his government on the condition of affairs, in which he says: "Madonna Lucretia, who is gracious and generous, formerly was in high favor with the Pope, but she is so no longer." August 30th, Lucretia, accompanied by a retinue of six hundred riders, set out from Rome for Nepi, of which city she was mistress. There, according to Burchard, she hoped to recover from the perturbation which the death of the Duke of Biselli had caused her. CHAPTER XVII LUCRETIA AT NEPI Travelers from Rome to Nepi, then as now, followed the Via Cassia, passing Isola Farnese, Baccano, and Monterosi. The road consisted in part of the ancient highway, but it was in the worst possible condition. Near Monterosi the traveler turned into the Via Amerina, much of the pavement of which is still preserved, even up to the walls of Nepi. Like most of the cities of Etruria, Nepi (Nepe or Nepete) was situated on a high plain bordered by deep ravines, through which flowed small streams, called _rii_. The bare cliffs of tuff constituted a natural means of defense, and where they were low, walls were built. The southern side of the city of Nepi, where the Falisco River flows and empties into a deep chasm, was in ancient times fortified with high walls built of long, square blocks of tuff laid upon each other without mortar, like the walls of neighboring Falerii. Some remains of Nepi's walls may still be seen near the Porta Romana, although much of the material has been used in constructing the castle and for the high arches of the Farnese aqueduct. The castle defended the weakest side of Nepi, where, in the old days, stood the city fortress. In the eighth century it was the seat of a powerful duke, Toto, who made a name for himself also in the history of Rome. Cardinal Rodrigo Borgia gave it the form it now has, rebuilding the castle and enlarging the two great towers inside the walls, the larger of which is round and the smaller square. Later the castle was restored and furnished with bastions by Paul III and his son, Pierluigi Farnese, the first Duke of Castro and Nepi.[80] In 1500 this castle was as strong as that of Civitacastellana, which Alexander VI rebuilt. Unfortunately, it is now in ruins. The remains of the castle-palace and all the outer walls are covered with thick ivy. Time has spared nothing but the two great towers. On the side toward the city the ruined stronghold is entered through a gateway above which is inscribed in the fair characters of the Renaissance, YSV VNICVS CVSTOS. PROCVL HINC TIMORES. YSV. This leads into a rectangular court surrounded by walls now in ruins. The beholder is confronted by the façade of the castle, a two-storied structure in the style of the Renaissance, with windows whose casements are made of peperino (cement). The inscription P. LOISIVS FAR DVX PRIMVS CASTRI on the door frame shows that this was also the work of the Farnese. The interior is a mass of ruins, all the walls having fallen in. This notable monument of the past has been suffered to go to decay; it was only eighty years ago that the walls of the last remaining salon fell in. The only room left is an upper chamber, reached by climbing a ladder. The place where the hearth was is still discernible, as is also the paneled ceiling found in so many of the buildings of the early Renaissance. The ends of the rafters are supported by beautifully carved consoles. All the woodwork is stained dark brown, and here and there on the ceiling are wooden shields, on which are painted the Borgia arms in colors. In various places in the interior, and also without, on the towers of the stronghold, the same arms may be seen carved in stone. There are also two stones, with the arms very carefully chiseled, set in the walls of the entrance hall of the town house of Nepi, which were originally in the castle where they had been placed by Lucretia's orders. The Borgia arms and those of the house of Aragon, which Lucretia, as Duchess of Biselli, had adopted, are united under a ducal crown. Lonely Nepi, which now has only 2,500 inhabitants, had but few more in the year 1500. It was a little town in Campagna, whose streets were bordered by Gothic buildings, with a few old palaces and towers belonging to the nobles, among the most important of whom were the Celsi. There is a small public square, formerly the forum, on which the town hall faces, and also an old church, originally built upon the ruins of the temple of Jupiter. There were a few other ancient churches and cloisters, such as S. Vito and S. Eleuterio, and other remains of antiquity, which have now disappeared. There are only two ancient statues left--the figures of two of Nepi's citizens whose names are now unknown--they are on the façade of the palace, a beautiful building dating from the late Renaissance. Owing to the topography of the region and the general decadence peculiar to all Etruria, the country about Nepi is forbidding and melancholy. The dark and rugged chasms, with their huge blocks of stone and steep walls of black and dark red tuff, with rushing torrents in their depths, cause an impression of grandeur, but also of sadness, with which the broad and peaceful highlands and the idyllic pastures, where one constantly hears the melancholy bleating of the sheep, and the sad notes of the shepherds' flutes are in perfect accord. Here and there dark oak forests may still be seen, but four hundred years ago, in the neighborhood of Nepi, they were more numerous and denser than they are to-day; in the direction of Sutri and Civitacastellana they are well cleared up; but there are still many fine groves. From the top of the castle may be seen a magnificent panorama, which is even more extensive than that which greets the eye from the castle of Spoleto. There on the horizon are the dark volcano of Bracciano and Monte di Rocca Romana, and here the mountains of Viterbo, on whose wide slopes the town of Caprarola, which belonged to the Farnese, is visible. On the other side rises Soracte. Towards the north the plateau slopes gently down to the valley of the Tiber, across which, in the misty distance, the blue chain of the Sabine mountains stands out boldly, with numerous fortresses scattered about the declivities. August 31st Alfonso's young widow went to the castle of Nepi, taking with her part of her court and her child Rodrigo. These knights and ladies, all generally so merry, were now either oppressed by a real sorrow or were required by court etiquette to renounce all pleasures. In this lonely stronghold Lucretia could lament, undisturbed, the taking-off of the handsome youth who had been her husband for two years, and together with whom she had dwelt in this same castle scarcely a twelve-month before. There was nothing to disturb her melancholy brooding; but, instead, castle, city, and landscape all harmonized with it. Some of Lucretia's letters written during her stay at the castle of Nepi are still in existence, and they are especially valuable, being the only ones we have which date from what is known as the Roman period of the life of the famous woman. Lucretia addressed them to her trusted servant in Rome, Vincenzo Giordano; some are in her own handwriting, and others in that of her secretary, Cristoforo. She signs herself "the most unhappy Princess of Salerno," although she herself afterwards struck out the words, _principessa de Salerno_, and left only the words, _La infelicissima_. In only a single letter--and this one has no date--did she allow the whole signature to stand. The first letters, dated September 15th and October 24, 1500, "in our city of Nepi," are devoted to domestic affairs, especially clothes, of which she was in need. Two days later she states that she had written to the Cardinal of Lisbon, her godfather, in the interest of the bearer of the letter, Giovanni of Prato. October 28th she directs Vincenzo to have certain clothes made for the little Rodrigo and to send them to her immediately by a courier. She also orders him to have prayers said for her in all the convents "on account of this, my new sorrow." October 30th she wrote as follows: VINCENZO: As we have decided that the memorial service for the soul of his Lordship, the duke, my husband--may the glory of the saints be his--shall be held, you will, with this end in view, go to his Eminence the Lord Cardinal of Colenzo, whom we have charged with this office, and will do whatever his Eminence commands you, both in regard to paying for the mass and also for performing whatever his Majesty directs; and you will keep account of what you spend of the five hundred which you have, for I will see that you are reimbursed, so it will be necessary. From the castle of Nepi, next to the last day of October, 1500. THE UNHAPPY PRINCESS OF SALERNO. There is an undated letter written by Lucretia which, apparently, belongs to the same period, because it is written in a melancholy tone, and in it she asks Heaven to watch over her bed. The last dated letters, which are of October 31st and November 2d, are devoted to unimportant domestic affairs; they show that Lucretia was in Nepi as late as November. Another undated letter to the same Vincenzo Giordano refers to her return to Rome; it purposely contains obscurities which it is now impossible to decipher and fictitious names which had been agreed upon with her servant. Even the signature is a conventional sign. The epistle is word for word as follows: "I am so filled with misgivings and anxiety on account of my returning to Rome that I can scarcely write--I can only weep. And all this time when I found that Farina neither answered nor wrote to me I was able neither to eat nor sleep, and wept continually. God forgive Farina, who could have made everything turn out better and did not do so. I will see whether I can send him Roble before I set out--for I wish to send him. No more for the present. Again look well to that matter, and on no account let Rexa see this letter." Lucretia, it appears, wished to leave Nepi and return to Rome, for which her father at first might refuse his permission. Perhaps Rexa in this letter means Alexander, and the name Farina may signify Cardinal Farnese, upon whose intermediation she counted. Vincenzo finally wrote her that he had spoken to the Pope himself, and Lucretia, in an undated letter, showed her servant how pleased she was because everything had turned out better than she had expected. This is the only letter in which the signature, "The unhappy Princess of Salerno" is not stricken out. We do not know how long Lucretia remained in Nepi, where, in summer, the moisture rising from the rocky chasms caused deadly fevers, and still renders that place and Civitacastellana unhealthful. Her father recalled her to Rome before Christmas, and received her again into his favor as soon as her brother left the city. Only a few months had passed when Lucretia's soul was again filled with visions of a brilliant future, before which the vague form of the unfortunate Alfonso sank into oblivion. Her tears dried so quickly that, on the expiration of a year, no one would have recognized in this young and frivolous woman the widow of a trusted consort who had been foully murdered. From her father Lucretia had inherited, if not inexhaustible vitality, at least the lightness of mind which her contemporaries, under the name of joy of living, discovered in her and in the Pope. FOOTNOTES: [80] Over the Porta Romana and on the bastions may still be seen the colossal arms of Paul III and those of his son carved in stone. The inscription reads: P. ALOISIVS FARNESIVS DVX I. CASTRI ET NEPETE MVNIMENTVM HOC AD TVTELAM CIVITATIS EXSTRVXIT. MDXL. CHAPTER XVIII CÆSAR AT PESARO Towards the end of September, Cæsar entered Romagna with seven hundred heavy men at arms, two hundred light horsemen, and six thousand foot soldiers. First he advanced against Pesaro for the purpose of driving out his former brother-in-law. Sforza, on hearing of the terrible fate of his successor as husband of Lucretia, had good reason to congratulate himself on his escape. He was literally consuming with hate of all the Borgias, but, instead of being able to avenge himself for the injury they had done him, he found himself threatened with another, a greater and almost unavoidable one. He had been informed by his representative in Rome and by the ambassador of Spain, who was friendly to him, of the preparations his enemy was making, a fact proved by his letter to Francesco Gonzaga, the brother of his first wife, Maddalena.[81] September 1, 1500, he informed the Marquis of Cæsar's intention to attack Pesaro, and asked him to endeavor to interest the Emperor Maximilian in his behalf. On the twenty-sixth he wrote an urgent appeal for help. This the marquis did not refuse, but he sent him only a hundred men under the command of an Albanian. Thus do we see how these illegitimate dynasties of Italy were in danger of being overthrown by every breath. Faenza was the only place where the people loved their lord, the young and fair Astorre Manfredi, and remained true to him. In all the other cities of Romagna, however, the regime of the tyrants was detested. Sforza himself could be cruel and exacting, and not in vain had he been a pupil of the Borgias in Rome. Never was throne so quickly overturned as his, or, rather, so promptly abandoned before it was attacked. Cæsar was some distance from Pesaro when there was a movement in his favor among the people; a party hostile to the Sforza was formed, while the whole populace, excited by the thought of what might follow the storming of the city by the heartless enemy, was anxious to make terms with him. In vain did the poet, Guido Posthumus, who had recently returned from Padua to his fatherland, urge his fellow citizens, in ardent verses, to resist the enemy.[82] The people rose Sunday, October 11th, even before Cæsar had appeared under the city walls. What then happened is told in Sforza's letter to Gonzaga: ILLUSTRIOUS SIR AND HONORED BROTHER-IN-LAW: Your Excellency doubtless has learned ere this how the people of Pesaro, last Sunday morning, incited by four scoundrels, rose in arms, and how I, with a few who remained faithful, was forced to retire to the castle as best I could. When I saw that the enemy was approaching, and that Ercole Bentivoglio, who was near Rimini, was pressing forward, I left the castle at night to avoid being shut in--this was on the advice and with the help of the Albanian Jacomo. In spite of the bad roads and great obstacles, I escaped to this place, for which I have, first of all, to thank your Excellency--you having sent me Jacomo--and next, to thank him for bringing me through safely. What I shall now do, I know not; but if I do not succeed in getting to your Excellency within four days, I will send Jacomo, who will tell you how everything happened, and what my plans are. In the meantime I wish you to know that I am safe, and that I commend myself to you. Bologna, October 17, 1500. Your Excellency's Brother-in-Law and Servant, JOHANNES SFORZA of Aragon, Count of Cotignola and Pesaro. October 19th he again wrote from Bologna, saying he was going to Ravenna, and intended to return from there to Pesaro, where the castle was still bravely holding out; he also asked the marquis to send him three hundred men. Three days later, however, he reported from Ravenna that the castle had capitulated. Cæsar Borgia had taken the city of Pesaro, not only without resistance, but with the full consent of the people, and with public honors he entered the Sforza palace, where only four years before his sister had held her court. He took possession of the castle October 28th, summoned a painter and commanded him to draw a picture of it on paper for him to send the Pope. From the battlements of the castle of the Sforza twelve trumpeters sounded the glad tidings, and the heralds saluted Cæsar as Lord of Pesaro. October 29th he set out for the castle of Gradara.[83] Among those who witnessed his entry into Pesaro was Pandolfo Collenuccio. On receiving news of the fall of the city, Duke Ercole, owing to fear, and also on account of a certain bargain between himself and the Pope, of which we shall soon speak, sent this man, whom Sforza had banished, and who had found an asylum in Ferrara, to Cæsar to congratulate him. Collenuccio gave the duke a report of his mission, October 29th, in the following remarkable letter: MY ILLUSTRIOUS MASTER: Having left your Excellency, I reached Pesaro two and a half days ago, arriving there Thursday at the twenty-fourth hour. At exactly the same time the Duke of Valentino made his entry. The entire populace was gathered about the city gate, and he was received during a heavy fall of rain, and was presented with the keys of the city. He took up his abode in the palace, in the room formerly occupied by Signor Giovanni. His entry, according to the reports of some of my people who witnessed it, was very impressive. It was orderly, and he was accompanied by numerous horse and foot soldiers. The same evening I notified him of my arrival, and requested an audience whenever it should suit his Majesty's convenience. About two o'clock at night (eight o'clock in the evening) he sent Signor Ramiro and his majordomo to call upon me and to ask, in the most courteous manner, whether I was comfortably lodged, and whether, owing to the great number of people in the city, I lacked for anything. He had instructed them to tell me to rest myself thoroughly, and that he would receive me the following day. Early Wednesday he sent me by a courier, as a present, a sack of barley, a cask of wine, a wether, eight pairs of capons and hens, two large torches, two bundles of wax candles, and two boxes of sweetmeats. He, however, did not appoint an hour for an audience, but sent his excuses and said I must not think it strange. The reason was that he had risen at the twentieth hour (two o'clock in the afternoon) and had dined, after which he had gone to the castle, where he remained until night, and whence he returned greatly exhausted owing to a sore he had in the groin. To-day, about the twenty-second hour (four in the afternoon), after he had dined, he had Signor Ramiro fetch me to him; and with great frankness and amiability his Majesty first made his excuses for not granting me an audience the preceding day, owing to his having so much to do in the castle and also on account of the pain caused by his ulcer. Following this, and after I had stated that the sole object of my mission was to wait upon his Majesty to congratulate and thank him, and to offer your services, he answered me in carefully chosen words, covering each point and very fluently. The gist of it was, that knowing your Excellency's ability and goodness, he had always loved you and had hoped to enjoy personal relations with you. He had looked forward to this when you were in Milan, but events and circumstances then prevented it. But now that he had come to this country, he--determined to have his wish--had written the letter announcing his successes, of his own free will and as proof of his love, and feeling certain that your Majesty would be pleased by it. He says he will continue to keep you informed of his doings, as he desires to establish a firm friendship with your Majesty, and he proffers everything he owns and in his power should you ever have need. He desires to look upon you as a father. He also thanked your Majesty for the letter and for having sent it him by a messenger, although the letter was unnecessary; for even without it he would have known that your Majesty would be pleased by his success. In short, he could not have uttered better and more seemly words than those he used when he referred to you as his father and to himself as your son, which he did repeatedly. When I take both the actual facts and his words into consideration, I see why he wishes to establish some sort of friendly alliance with your Majesty. I believe in his professions, and I can see nothing but good in them. He was much pleased by your Majesty's sending a special messenger to him, and I heard that he had informed the Pope of it; to his followers here he spoke of it in a way that showed he considered it of the greatest moment. Replying in general terms, I said that I could only commend the wisdom he had shown in regard to your Excellency, owing to our position and to that of our State, which, however, could only redound to his credit; to this he emphatically assented. He gave me to understand that he recognized this perfectly, and thereupon, breaking the thread of our conversation, we came to the subject of Faenza. His Majesty said to me, "I do not know what Faenza wants to do; she can give us no more trouble than did the others; still she may delay matters. I replied that I believed she would do as the others had done; but if she did not, it could only redound to his Majesty's glory; for it would give him another opportunity to display his skill and valor by capturing the place." This seemed to please him, and he answered that he would assuredly crush it. Bologna was not mentioned. He was pleased by the messages which I brought him from your people, from Don Alfonso and the cardinal, of whom he spoke long and with every appearance of affection. Thereupon, having been together a full half hour, I took my departure, and his Majesty, mounting his horse, rode forth. This evening he is going to Gradara; to-morrow to Rimini, and then farther. He is accompanied by all his troops, including the artillery. He told me he would not move so slowly but that he did not wish to leave the cannon behind. There are more than two thousand men quartered here but they have done no appreciable damage. The surrounding country is swarming with troops; whether they have done much harm we do not know. He granted the city no privileges or exemptions. He left as his lieutenant a certain doctor of Forli. He took seventy pieces of artillery from the castle, and the guard he left there is very small. I will tell your Excellency something which a number of people mentioned to me; it was, however, related to me in detail by a Portuguese cavalier, a soldier in the army of the Duke of Valentino who is lodged here in the house of my son-in-law with fifteen troopers--an upright man who was a friend of our lord, Don Fernando, when he was with King Charles. He told me that the Pope intended to give this city to Madonna Lucretia for her portion, and that he had found a husband for her, an Italian, who would always be able to retain the friendship of Valentino. Whether this be true I know not, but it is generally believed. As to Fano, the Duke did not retain it. He was there five days. He did not want it, but the burghers presented it to him, and his it will be when he desires it. It is said the Pope commanded him not to take Fano unless the citizens themselves asked him to do so. Therefore it remained in _statu quo_. POSTSCRIPT: The Duke's daily life is as follows: he goes to bed at eight, nine, or ten o'clock at night (three to five o'clock in the morning). Consequently, the eighteenth hour is his dawn, the nineteenth his sunrise, and the twentieth his time for rising. Immediately on getting up he sits down to the table, and while there and afterwards he attends to his business affairs. He is considered brave, strong, and generous, and it is said he lays great store by straightforward men. He is terrible in revenge--so many tell me. A man of strong good sense, and thirsting for greatness and fame, he seems more eager to seize States than to keep and administer them. Your illustrious ducal Majesty's servant, PANDULPHUS. PESARO, _Thursday, October 29_, Six o'clock at night, 1500. _The Duke's Retinue_ Bartolomeo of Capranica, Field-Marshal.} Piero Santa Croce. } Giulio Alberino. } Mario Don Marian de Stephano. } All Noblemen of Rome. A brother of the last. } Menico Sanguigni. } Jo. Baptista Mancini. } Dorio Savello. } _Prominent Men in the Duke's Household._ Bishop of Elna, } Spaniards. Bishop of Sancta Sista, } Bishop of Trani, an Italian. A Neapolitan abbot. Sigr Ramiro del Orca, Governor; he is the factotum. Don Hieronymo, a Portuguese. Messer Agabito da Amelio, Secretary. Mesr Alexandro Spannocchia, Treasurer, who says that the duke since his departure from Rome up to the present time has spent daily, on the average, eighteen hundred ducats. Collenuccio in his letter omits to mention the fact that he had addressed to Cæsar, the new master of Pesaro, a complaint against its former lord, Giovanni Sforza, and that the duke had reinstated him in the possession of his confiscated property. He was destined a few years later bitterly to regret having taken this step. Guido Posthumus, on the other hand, whose property Cæsar appropriated, fled to the Rangone in Modena. Sforza, expelled, reached Venice November 2d, where he endeavored, according to Malipiero, to sell the Republic his estates of Pesaro--in which attempt he failed. Thence he went to Mantua. At that time Modena and Mantua were the asylums of numerous exiled tyrants who were hospitably received into the beautiful castle of the Gonzaga, which was protected by the swamps of the Mincio. After the fall of Pesaro, Rimini likewise expelled its hated oppressors, the brothers Pandolfo and Carlo Malatesta, whereupon Cæsar Borgia laid siege to Faenza. The youthful Astorre, its lord, finally surrendered, April 25, 1501, to the destroyer, on the duke's promise not to deprive him of his liberty. Cæsar, however, sent the unfortunate young man to Rome, where he and his brother Octavian, together with several other victims, were confined in the castle of S. Angelo. This was the same Astorre with whom Cardinal Alessandro Farnese wished to unite his sister Giulia in marriage, and the unfortunate youth may now have regretted that this alliance had not taken place. FOOTNOTES: [81] His correspondence with Gonzaga is preserved in the archives of Mantua. [82] Ad. Pisaurenses: Guidi Posthumi Silvestris Pisaurensis Elegiarum Librii ii, p. 33. Bonon, 1524. [83] Pietro Marzetti, Memorie di Pesaro. Ms. in the Oliveriana. CHAPTER XIX ANOTHER MARRIAGE PLANNED FOR LUCRETIA During this time Lucretia, with her child Rodrigo, was living in the palace of S. Peter's. If she was inclined to grieve for her husband, her father left her little time to give way to her feelings. He had recourse to her thoughtlessness and vanity, for the dead Alfonso was to be replaced by another and greater Alfonso. Scarcely was the Duke of Biselli interred before a new alliance was planned. As early as November, 1500, there was talk of Lucretia's marrying the hereditary Prince of Ferrara, who, since 1497, had been a widower; he was childless, and was just twenty-four years of age. Marino Zorzi, the new Venetian ambassador, first mentioned the project to his signory November 26th. This union, however, had been considered in the Vatican much earlier--in fact while Lucretia's husband was still living. At the Christmas holidays of 1500 it was publicly stated that she was to marry the Duke of Gravina, an Orsini who, undeterred by the fate of Lucretia's former husbands, came to Rome in December to sue for her hand. Some hope was held out to him, probably with a view to retaining the friendship of his family. Alexander himself conceived the plan of marrying Lucretia to Alfonso of Ferrara. He desired this alliance both on his beloved daughter's account and because it could not fail to prove advantageous to Cæsar; it would not only assure to him the possession of Romagna, which Venice might try to wrest from him, but it would also increase his chances of consummating his plans regarding Bologna and Florence. At the same time it would bring to him the support of the dynasties of Mantua and Urbino, which were connected by marriage with the house of Ferrara. It would be the nucleus of a great league, including France, the Papacy, Cæsar's States, Ferrara, Mantua, and Urbino, which would be sufficiently strong to defend Alexander and his house against all enemies. If the King of France was to maintain his position in Italy he would require, above all else, the help of the Pope. He already occupied Milan, and he wished to seize half of the kingdom of Naples and hold it as a vassal of the Church; for France and Spain had already agreed upon the wicked partition of Naples, to which Alexander had thus far neither refused nor given his consent. In order to win over the Duke of Ferrara to his bold scheme, Alexander availed himself, first of all, of Giambattista Ferrari of Modena, an old retainer of Ercole, who was wholly devoted to the Pope, and whom he had made datarius and subsequently a cardinal. Ferrari ventured to suggest the marriage to the duke, "on account," so he wrote him, "of the great advantage which would accrue to his State from it."[84] This proposal caused Ercole no less embarrassment than King Federico of Naples had felt when he was placed in a similar position. His pride rebelled. His daughter, the noble Marchioness Isabella of Mantua, and her sister-in-law Elisabetta of Urbino, were literally beside themselves. The youthful Alfonso objected most vigorously. Moreover, there was a plan afoot to marry the hereditary duke to a princess of the royal house of France, Louise, widow of the Duke of Angoulême.[85] Ercole rejected the offer absolutely. Alexander had foreseen his opposition, but he felt sure he could overcome it. He had the advantages of the alliance pointed out more clearly, and also the disadvantages which might result from a refusal; on one hand was Ferrara's safety and advancement, and on the other the hostility of Cæsar and the Pope, and perhaps also that of France.[86] Alexander was so certain of his victory that he made no secret of the projected marriage, and he even spoke of it with satisfaction in the consistory, as if it were an accomplished fact.[87] He succeeded in winning the support of the French court, which, however, was not difficult, as Louis XII was then very anxious for the Pope to allow him to lead his army out of Tuscany, through the States of the Church, into Naples, which he could not do without the secret consent of his Holiness. Above all, the Pope counted on the help of Cardinal Amboise, to whom Cæsar had taken the red hat when he went to France, and whose ambitious glances were directed toward the papal throne, which, with the aid of his friend Cæsar and of the Spanish cardinals, he hoped to reach on the death of Alexander. It is, nevertheless, a fact that Louis XII at first was opposed to the match, and even endeavored to prevent it. He himself was not only determinedly set against everything which would increase the power of Cæsar and the Pope, but he was also anxious to enhance his own influence with Ferrara by bringing about the marriage of Alfonso and some French princess. In May Alexander sent a secretary to France to induce the king to use his influence to effect the alliance, but this Louis declined to do.[88] On the other hand, he was anxious to bring about the marriage of Don Ferrante, Alfonso's brother, with Lucretia, and secure for her, as portion, the territory of Piombino.[89] He had also placed a check on Cæsar's operations in Central Italy, in consequence of which the latter's attempts against Bologna and Florence had miscarried. The whole scheme for the marriage would have fallen through if the subject of the French expedition against Naples had not just then come up. There is ground for believing that the Pope's consent was made contingent upon the King's agreeing to the marriage. June 13, 1501, Cæsar himself, now created Duke of Romagna by his father, came secretly to Rome, where he remained three weeks, exerting all his efforts to further the plan. After this, he and his men at arms followed the French Marshal Aubigny, who had set out from near Rome for Naples, to engage in a nefarious war of conquest, whose horrors, in the briefest of time, overwhelmed the house of Aragon. As early as June the King of France yielded to the Pope's solicitations, and exerted his influence in Ferrara, as appears from a despatch of the Ferrarese ambassador to France, dated June 22d. He reported to Ercole that he had stated to the king that the Pope threatened to deprive the duke of his domain if he did not consent to the marriage; whereupon the king replied that Ferrara was under his protection and could fall only when France fell. The envoy feared that the Pope might avail himself of the question of the investiture of Naples--upon which the king was determined--to win him over to his side. He finally wrote the duke that Monsignor de Trans, the most influential person at the king's court, had advised him to agree to the marriage upon the conditional payment of two hundred thousand ducats, the remission of Ferrara's annual dues, and certain benefices for the house of Este.[90] Amboise sent the Archbishop of Narbonne and other agents to Ferrara to win over the duke; the King of France himself wrote and urged him to give his consent, and he now refused Don Alfonso the hand of the French princess. While the French ambassador was presenting his case to the duke, the Pope's messengers and Cæsar's agents were also endeavoring to secure his consent. Caught in a network of intrigue, fear at last forced Ercole to yield. July 8th he had Louis XII notified that he would do as he wished, if he and the Pope could agree upon the conditions.[91] He yielded only to the demand of the king, who advised the marriage solely because he himself had need of the Pope. All the while he was urging Ercole to give his consent, he was also counselling him not to be in too great haste to send his son Don Ferrante to Rome to conclude the matter, but to hold him back as long as possible--until he himself should reach Lombardy, which would be in September. He even had Ercole informed that he would keep his promise to bestow the hand of Madonna d'Angoulême on Don Alfonso, and he made no effort to conceal the displeasure he felt on account of the projected alliance with Lucretia.[92] To the Ferrarese ambassador he remarked that he would consider the duke unwise if he allowed his son to marry the daughter of the Pope, for, on Alexander's death, he would no longer know with whom he had concluded the alliance, and Alfonso's position would become very uncertain.[93] The duke did not hurry; it is true he sent his secretary, Hector Bellingeri, to Rome, but only for the purpose of telling the Pope that he had yielded to the king's wishes upon the condition that his own demands would be satisfied. The Pope and Cæsar, however, urged that the marriage contract be executed at once, and they requested the Cardinal of Rouen, who was then in Milan, to induce Ercole to send his son Alfonso there (to Milan), so that the transaction might be concluded in the cardinal's presence. This the duke refused to do until the Pope agreed to the conditions upon which he had based his consent.[94] While these shameful negotiations regarding Lucretia were dragging on, Cæsar was in Naples, and was the instrument and witness of the sudden overthrow of the hated house of Aragon, whose throne, however, was not to fall to his portion. Alexander used this opportunity to appropriate the property of the barons of Latium, especially that of the Colonna, the Savelli, and Estouteville, all of which, owing to the Neapolitan war, had been left without protection. The confiscation of this property was, as we shall soon see, part of the scheme which included the marriage. As early as June, 1501, he had taken possession of a number of cities belonging to these families. Alexander, accompanied by troops, horse and foot-soldiers, went to Sermoneta July 27th. This was the time that--just before his departure--he made Lucretia his representative in the Vatican. Following are Burchard's words: "Before his Holiness, our Master, left the city, he turned over the palace and all the business affairs to his daughter Lucretia, authorizing her to open all letters which should come addressed to him. In important matters she was to ask advice of the Cardinal of Lisbon. "When a certain matter came up--I do not know just what it was--it is said Lucretia went to the above-named cardinal and informed him of the Pope's instructions, and laid the matter before him. Thereupon he said to her, that whenever the Pope had anything to submit to the consistory, the vice-chancellor, or some other cardinal in his stead, would write it down together with the opinions of those present; therefore some one should now record what is said. Lucretia replied, 'I can write very well.' 'Where is your pen?' asked the cardinal. Lucretia saw that he was joking, and she laughed, and thus their conference had a fit ending." What a scene for the Vatican! A young and beautiful woman, the Pope's own daughter, presiding over the cardinals in consistory. This one scene is sufficient to show to what depths the Church of Rome had sunk; it is more convincing than a thousand satires, than a thousand official reports. The affairs which the Pope entrusted to his daughter were--at least so we assume--wholly secular and not ecclesiastical; but this bold proceeding was entirely unprecedented. The prominence given Lucretia, the highest proof of favor her father could show her, was due to special reasons. Alexander had just been assured of the consent of Alfonso d'Este to the marriage with Lucretia, and in his joy he made her regent in the Vatican. This was to show that he recognized in her, the prospective Duchess of Ferrara, a person of weight in the politics of the peninsula. In doing this he was simply imitating the example of Ercole and other princes, who were accustomed, when absent from their domains, to confide state business to the women of their families. The duke had found it difficult to overcome his son's objections, for nothing could offend the young prince so deeply as the determination to compel him to marry Lucretia; not because she was an illegitimate child, for this blot signified little in that age when bastards flourished in all Latin countries. Many of the ruling dynasties of Italy bore this stain--the Sforza, the Malatesta, the Bentivoglio, and the Aragonese of Naples; even the brilliant Borso, the first Duke of Ferrara, was the illegitimate brother of his successor, Ercole. Lucretia, however, was the daughter of a Pope, the child of a priest, and this, in the eyes of the Este, constituted her disgrace. Neither her father's licentiousness nor Cæsar's crimes could have greatly affected the moral sense of the court of Ferrara, but not one of the princely houses of that age was so depraved that it was indifferent to the reputation of a woman destined to become one of its prominent members. Alfonso was the prospective husband of a young woman whose career, although she was only twenty-one years of age, had been most extraordinary. Twice had Lucretia been legally betrothed, twice had she been married, and twice had she been made a widow by the wickedness or crimes of others. Her reputation, consequently, was bad, therefore Alfonso, himself a man of the world, never could feel sure of this young woman's virtue, even if he did not believe all the reports which were circulated regarding her. The scandalous gossip about everything which takes place at court passed from city to city just as quickly then as it does now. The duke and his son were informed by their agents of everything which actually occurred in the Borgia family, as well as of every story which was started concerning its members. The frightful reasons which the disgraced Sforza had given Lucretia's father in writing as grounds for the annulment of his marriage were at once communicated to the duke in Ferrara. The following year his agent in Venice informed him that "a report had come from Rome that the Pope's daughter had given birth to an illegitimate child."[95] Moreover, all the satires with which the enemies of the Borgias persecuted them--including Lucretia--were well known at the court of Ferrara, and doubtless maliciously enjoyed. Are we warranted in assuming that the Este considered these reports and satires as really well founded, and yet overcame their scruples sufficiently to receive a Thais into their house when they would have incurred much less danger by following the example of Federico of Naples, who had persisted in refusing his daughter's hand to Cæsar Borgia? It is now time to investigate the charges which were made against Lucretia; and, in view of what Roscoe and others have already proved, this will not occupy us long. The number of accusers among her contemporaries certainly is not small. The following--to name only the most important--charged her explicitly or by implication with incest: the poets Sannazzaro and Pontanus, and the historians and statesmen Matarazzo, Marcus Attilius Alexis, Petrus Martyr, Priuli, Macchiavelli, and Guicciardini, and their opinions have been constantly reiterated down to the present time. On the other side we have her eulogists among her contemporaries and their successors. Here it should be noted that Lucretia's accusers and their charges can refer only to the Roman period of her life, while her admirers appear only in the second epoch, when she was Duchess of Ferrara. Among the latter are men who are no less famous than her accusers: Tito and Ercole Strozzi, Bembo, Aldo Manuzio, Tebaldeo, Ariosto, all the chroniclers of Ferrara, and the French biographer Bayard. All these bore witness to the uprightness of her life while in Ferrara, but of her career in Rome they knew nothing. Lucretia's advocate, therefore, can offer only negative proofs of her virtue. Even making allowance for the courtier's flattery, we are warranted in assuming that upright men like Aldo, Bembo, and Ariosto could never have been so shameless as to pronounce a woman the ideal character of her day if they had believed her guilty, or even capable, of the hideous crimes with which she had been charged only a short time before. Among Lucretia's accusers only those who were actual witnesses of her life in Rome are worthy of attention; and Guicciardini, her bitterest enemy, is not of this number. The verdicts of all later writers, however, have been based upon his opinion of Lucretia, because of his fame as a statesman and historian. He himself made up his estimate from current gossip or from the satires of Pontanus and Sannazzaro--two poets who lived in Naples and not in Rome. Their epigrams merely show that they were inspired by a deep-seated hatred of Alexander and Cæsar, who had wrought the overthrow of the Aragonese dynasty, and further with what crimes men were ready to credit evil-doers. [Illustration: GUICCIARDINI. From an engraving by Blanchard.] The words of Burchard, who was a daily witness of everything that occurred in the Vatican, must be considered as of much greater weight. Against him in particular has the spleen of the papists been directed, for by them his writings are regarded as the poisonous source from which the enemies of the papacy, especially the Protestants, have derived material for their slanders regarding Alexander VI. Their anger may readily be explained, for Burchard's diary is the only work written in Rome--with the exception of that of Infessura, which breaks off abruptly at the beginning of 1494--which treats of Alexander's court; moreover, it possesses an official character. Those, however, who attempt to palliate the doings of the papacy would feel less hatred for Burchard if they were acquainted with the reports of the Venetian envoys and the despatches of innumerable other ambassadors which have been used in this work. Burchard is absolutely free from malice, making no mention whatever of Alexander's private conduct. He records only facts--never rumors--and these he glosses over or cloaks diplomatically. The Venetian ambassador Polo Capello reports how Cæsar Borgia stabbed the chamberlain Perotto through the Pope's robe, but Burchard makes no mention of the fact. The same ambassador explicitly states, as does also a Ferrarese agent, that Cæsar killed his brother Gandia; Burchard, however, utters not a word concerning the subject.[96] Nor does he say anything about the way Cæsar despatched his brother-in-law Alfonso. The relations of the members of the Borgia family to each other and to strangers, such as the Farnese, the Pucci, and the Orsini; the intrigues at the papal court; the long series of crimes; the extortion of money; the selling of the cardinal's hat; and all the other enormities which fill the despatches of the ambassadors--regarding all this Burchard is silent. Even Vannozza he names but once, and then incorrectly. There are two passages in particular in his diary which have given the greatest offense: the report of the bacchanal of fifty harlots in the Vatican, and the attack made on the Borgias in the anonymous letter to Silvio Savelli. These passages are found in all the manuscripts and doubtless also in the original of the diary. That the letter to Silvio is a fabrication of neither Burchard nor of some malicious Protestant is proved by the fact that Marino Sanuto also reproduces it in his diary. Further, that neither Burchard nor any subsequent writer concocted the story of the Vatican bacchanal is proved by the same letter, whose author relates it as a well-known fact. Matarazzo of Perugia also confirms it; his account differs from that of Burchard, whose handwriting he could hardly have seen at that time, but it agrees with reports which he himself had heard. He remarks that he gave it full credence, "for the thing was known far and wide, and because my informants were not Romans merely, but were the Italian people, therefore have I mentioned it." This remark indicates the source of the scandalous anecdote--it was common talk. It doubtless was based upon an actual banquet which Cæsar gave in his palace in the Vatican. Some such orgy may have taken place there, but who will believe that Lucretia, now the legally recognized bride of Alfonso d'Este and about to set out for Ferrara, was an amused spectator of it? This is the only passage in Burchard's diary where Lucretia appears in an unfavorable light; nowhere else has he recorded anything discreditable to her. The accusations of the Neopolitans and of Guicciardini are not substantiated by anything in his diary. In fact we find corroboration nowhere unless we regard Matarazzo as an authority, which he certainly was not. He states that Giovanni Sforza had discovered that criminal relations existed between his wife and Cæsar and Don Giovanni, to which a still more terrible suspicion was added. Sforza, therefore, had murdered Gandia and fled from Rome, and in consequence Alexander had dissolved his marriage. Setting aside the monstrous idea that the young woman was guilty at one and the same time of threefold incest, Matarazzo's account contains an anachronism: Sforza left Rome two months before the murder of Gandia. An authentic despatch of the Ferrarese ambassador in Milan, dated June 23, 1497, makes it clear that Lucretia's worthless consort was the one who started these rumors about her. Certainly no one could have known Lucretia's character and mode of life better than her husband. Nevertheless Sforza, before the tribunals of every age, would be precisely the one whose testimony would receive the least credit. Consuming with hate and a desire for revenge, this was the reason he ascribed to the evil-minded Pope for dissolving the marriage. Thus the suspicion he let drop became a rumor, and the rumor ultimately crystallized into a belief. In this connection, however, it is worthy of note that Guido Posthumus, Sforza's faithful retainer, who in epigrams revenged himself on Alexander for his master's disgrace, neither mentions this suspicion nor anywhere refers to Lucretia.[97] In none of the numerous despatches of the day is this suspicion mentioned, although in a private letter of Malipiero's, dated Rome, June 17, 1497, and in one of Polo Capello's reports, allusion is made to the "rumor" regarding the criminal relations of Don Giovanni and his sister.[98] Could the fact that Lucretia never engaged in any love intrigue--at least she is not charged with having done so--with anyone else, when there were in Rome so many courtiers, young nobles, and great cardinals who were her daily companions, have given rise to these reports? It is a fact that nothing has been discovered which would indicate that this beautiful young woman ever did engage in any love affair. Even the report of the ambassador, who, writing to Ferrara, not from Rome but from Venice, states that Lucretia had given birth to a child stands alone. She had at that time been separated from her husband Sforza a whole year. But even if we admit that this rumor was well founded, and that Lucretia did engage in some illicit love affair, are not these relations and slips frequent enough in all societies and at all times? Even now nothing is more readily glossed over in the polite world. It is difficult to believe that Lucretia, in the midst of the depravity of Rome, and in the environment in which she was placed, could have kept herself spotless; but just as little will any unprejudiced person believe that she was really guilty of that unmentionable crime. If it were possible to conceive that a young woman could have the strength--a strength beyond that of the most depraved and hardened man--to hide behind a joyous exterior the moral perturbation which the most loathsome crime in the world would certainly cause the subject, we should be forced to admit that Lucretia Borgia possessed a power of dissimulation which passed all human bounds. Nothing, however, charmed the Ferrarese so much as the never failing, graceful joyousness of Alfonso's young wife. Any woman of feeling can decide correctly whether--if Lucretia were guilty of the crimes with which she was charged--she could have appeared as she did, and whether the countenance which we behold in the portrait of the bride of Alfonso d'Este in 1502 could be the face of the inhuman fury described in Sannazzaro's epigram. FOOTNOTES: [84] Compare Sannazzaro's epitaph on Alexander VI with the epigram of Guido Posthumus: In Tumulum Sexti. [85] Cardinal Ferrari to Ercole, Rome, February 18, 1501. This is the first of the letters regarding this subject in the archives of Modena. [86] Ercole's letter to his ambassador in Florence, Manfredo Manfredi, April 25, 1501. Archives of Modena. [87] Ferrari to Ercole, May 1, 1501. [88] Girolamo Saerati to Ercole, Rome, May 8, 1501. [89] Bartolomeo de' Cavallieri, Ferrarese ambassador to France, to Ercole, Chalons, May 26, 1501. [90] At least such was the plan advocated by Monsignor de Trans, French ambassador in Rome. Letter of Aldovrandus de Guidonibus to Duke Ercole, Lugo, April 25, 1501. State archives of Modena. [91] Bartolomeo de' Cavallieri to Ercole, Lyons, June 22, 1501. [92] Ercole to Giovanni Valla, July 8, 1501. Ercole to the Cardinal of Rouen, July 8, 1501. [93] Despatches of Bartolomeo de'Cavallieri, Ferrarese ambassador at the court of France, to Ercole, July 10, 14, and 21, 1501. [94] Despatch of the same, undated. [95] Ercole to Giovanni Valla, his special envoy to the Cardinal of Rouen, in Milan, July 21 and 26, 1501. [96] Da Roma accertasi, che la figliola del papa ha partorito.... Giov. Alberto della Pigna to the duke, Venice, March 15, 1498. Archives of Modena. [97] One of the first statements that Cæsar was his brother's murderer is found in a despatch of the Ferrarese ambassador at Venice. De novo ho inteso, como de la morte del Duca di Candia fo causa el Cardinale suo fratello. Pigna's despatch to Ercole, Venice, February 22, 1498. [98] The Malipiero letter (Archiv. Stor. It. VII, i, 490) contains the following: Si dice, que il sig. Giovanni Sforza ha fatto questo effetto (the murder of Gandia) perchè il Duca (di Gandia) usava con la sorella, sua consorte, la qual è fiola del Papa, ma d'un altra madre (which was incorrect). The Venetian ambassador, Polo Capello, refers to this rumor (si dice) in his well known Relation of September, 1500. CHAPTER XX NEGOTIATIONS WITH THE HOUSE OF ESTE The hereditary Prince of Ferrara made a determined resistance before yielding to his father's pressure, but the latter was now so anxious for the marriage to take place that he told his son that, if he persisted in his refusal, he would be compelled to marry Lucretia himself. After the duke had overcome his son's pride and secured his consent, he regarded the marriage merely as an advantageous piece of statecraft. He sold the honor of his house at the highest price obtainable. The Pope's agents in Ferrara, frightened by Ercole's demands, sent Ramondo Remolini to Rome to submit them to Alexander, who sought the intervention of the King of France to secure more favorable terms from the duke. A letter from the Ferrarese ambassador to France to his master throws a bright light on this transaction. MY ILLUSTRIOUS MASTER: Yesterday the Pope's envoy told me that his Holiness had written him about the messenger your Excellency had sent him demanding two hundred thousand ducats, the remission of the annual tribute, the granting of the _jus patronatus_ for the bishopric of Ferrara, by decree of the consistory, and certain other concessions. He told me that the Pope had offered a hundred thousand, and as to the rest--your Excellency should trust to him, for he would grant them in time and would advance the interests of the house of Este so that everyone would see how high in his favor it stood. In addition, he told me that he was instructed to ask his most Christian Majesty to write to the illustrious cardinal to advise your Excellency to agree. As your Excellency's devoted servant I mention this, although it is superfluous; for if this marriage is to take place, you will arrange it in such a way that "much promising and little fulfillment" will not cause you to regret it. I informed your Excellency in an earlier letter how his most Christian Majesty had told me that his wishes in this affair were the same as your own, and that if the marriage was to be brought about, you might derive as much profit from it as possible, and if it was not to take place, his Majesty stood ready to give Don Alfonso the lady whom your Excellency might select for him in France. Your ducal Excellency's servant, BARTOLOMEO CAVALERI. LYONS, _August 7, 1501_. Alexander did not wish to send his daughter to Ferrara with empty hands, but the portion which Ercole demanded was not a modest one. It was larger than Blanca Sforza had brought the Emperor Maximilian; moreover, one of the duke's demands involved an infraction of the canon law, for, in addition to the large sum of money, he insisted upon the remission of the yearly tribute paid the Church by the fief of Ferrara, the cession of Cento and Pieve, cities which belonged to the archbishopric of Bologna, and even on the relinquishment of Porto Cesenatico and a large number of benefices in favor of the house of Este. They wrangled violently, but so great was the Pope's desire to secure the ducal throne of Ferrara for his daughter that he soon announced that he would practically agree to Ercole's demands, which Cæsar urged him to do.[99] Nor was Lucretia herself less urgent in begging her father to consent; she was the duke's most able advocate in Rome, and Ercole knew that it was due largely to her skilful pleading that he succeeded in carrying his point. The negotiations took this favorable turn about the end of July or the beginning of August, and the earliest of the duke's letters to Lucretia and the Pope, among those preserved in the archives of the house of Este, belong to this period. August 6th Ercole wrote his future daughter-in-law, recommending to her for her agent one Agostino Huet (a secretary of Cæsar's), who had shown the greatest interest in conducting the negotiations. August 10th he reported to the Pope the result of the conferences which had taken place, and urged him not to look on his demands as unreasonable. This he repeated in a letter dated August 21st, in which he stated in plain, commercial terms that the price was low enough; in fact, that it was merely nominal. In the meantime the projected marriage had become known to the world, and was the subject of diplomatic consideration, for the strengthening of the papacy was agreeable to neither the Powers of Italy nor those beyond the peninsula. Florence and Bologna, which Cæsar coveted were frightened; the Republic of Venice, which was in constant friction with Ferrara, and which had designs upon the coast of Romagna, did not conceal her annoyance, and she ascribed the whole thing to Cæsar's ambition.[100] The King of France put a good face upon the matter, as did also the King of Spain; but Maximilian was so opposed to the marriage that he endeavored to prevent it. Ferrara was just beginning to acquire the political importance which Florence had possessed in the time of Lorenzo de' Medici, consequently its influence was such that the German emperor could not be indifferent to an alliance between it and the papacy and France. Moreover, Bianca Sforza was Maximilian's wife, and at the German court there were other members and retainers of the overthrown house--all bitter enemies of the Borgias. In August the Emperor despatched letters to Ferrara in which he warned Ercole against any marital alliance between his house and that of Alexander. This warning of Maximilian's must have been highly acceptable to the duke, as he could use it to force the Pope to accede to his demands. He mentioned the letter to his Holiness, but assured him that his determination would remain unshaken. Then he instructed his counselor, Gianluca Pozzi, to answer the Emperor's letter.[101] Ercole's letter to his chancellor is dated August 25th, but before its contents became known in Rome the Pope hastened to agree to the duke's conditions, and to have the marriage contract executed. This was done in the Vatican, August 26, 1501.[102] He immediately despatched Cardinal Ferrari to Ercole with the contract, whereupon Don Ramiro Remolini and other proxies hastened to Ferrara,[103] where, in the castle of Belfiore, the nuptial contract was concluded _ad verba_, September 1, 1501. On the same day the duke wrote Lucretia, saying that, while he hitherto had loved her on account of her virtues and on account of the Pope and her brother Cæsar, he now loved her more as a daughter. In the same tone he wrote to Alexander himself, informing him that the betrothal had taken place, and thanking him for bestowing the dignity of Archpriest of S. Peter's on his son, Cardinal Ippolito.[104] Less diplomatic was Ercole's letter to the Marchese Gonzaga informing him of the event. It clearly shows what was his real opinion, and he tries to excuse himself for consenting by saying he was forced to take the step. ILLUSTRIOUS SIR AND DEAREST BROTHER: We have informed your Majesty that we have recently decided--owing to practical considerations--to consent to an alliance between our house and that of his Holiness--the marriage of our eldest son, Alfonso, and the illustrious lady Lucretia Borgia, sister of the illustrious Duke of Romagna and Valentinois, chiefly because we were urged to consent by his Most Christian Majesty, and on condition that his Holiness would agree to everything stipulated in the marriage contract. Subsequently his Holiness and ourselves came to an agreement, and the Most Christian King persistently urged us to execute the contract. This was done to-day in God's name, and with the assistance of the (French) ambassador and the proxies of his Holiness, who were present; and it was also published this morning. I hasten to inform your Majesty of the event because our mutual relations and love require that you should be made acquainted with everything which concerns us--and so we offer ourselves to do your pleasure. FERRARA, _September 2, 1501_.[105] September 4th a courier brought the news that the nuptial contract had been signed in Ferrara. Alexander immediately had the Vatican illuminated and the cannon of Castle S. Angelo announce the glad tidings. All Rome resounded with the jubilations of the retainers of the house of Borgia. This moment was the turning point in Lucretia's life. If her soul harbored any ambition and yearning for worldly greatness, what must she now have felt when the opportunity to ascend the princely throne of one of Italy's oldest houses was offered her! If she had any regret and loathing for what had surrounded her in Rome, and if longings for a better life were stronger in her than were these vain desires, there was now held out to her the promise of a haven of rest. She was to become the wife of a prince famous, not for grace and culture, but for his good sense and earnestness. She had seen him once in Rome, in her early youth, when she was Sforza's betrothed. No sacrifice would be too great for her if it would wipe out the remembrance of the nine years which had followed that day. The victory she had now won by the shameful complaisance of the house of Este was associated with deep humiliation, for she knew that Alfonso had condescended to accept her hand only after long urging and under threats. A bold, intriguing woman might overcome this feeling of humiliation by summoning up the consciousness of her genius and her charm; while one less strong, but endowed with beauty and sweetness, might be fascinated by the idea of disarming a hostile husband with the magic of her personality. The question, however, whether any honor accrued to her by marrying a man against his will, or whether under such circumstances a high-minded woman would not have scornfully refused, would probably never arise in the mind of such a light-headed woman as Lucretia certainly was, and if it did in her case, Cæsar and her father would never have allowed her to give voice to any such undiplomatic scruples. We can discover no trace of moral pride in her; all we discern is a childishly naive joy at her prospective happiness. The Roman populace saw her, accompanied by three hundred knights and four bishops, pass along the city streets, September 5th, on her way to S. Maria del Popolo to offer prayers of thanksgiving. Following a curious custom of the day, which shows Folly and Wisdom side by side, just as we find them in Calderon's and Shakespeare's dramas, Lucretia presented the costly robe which she wore when she offered up her prayer, to one of her court fools, and the clown ran merrily through the streets of Rome, bawling out, "Long live the illustrious Duchess of Ferrara! Long live Pope Alexander!" With noisy demonstrations the Borgias and their retainers celebrated the great event. Alexander summoned a consistory, as though this family affair were an important Church matter. With childish loquacity he extolled Duke Ercole, pronouncing him the greatest and wisest of the princes of Italy; he described Don Alfonso as a handsomer and greater man than his son Cæsar, adding that his former wife was a sister-in-law of the Emperor. Ferrara was a fortunate State, and the house of Este an ancient one; a marriage train of great princes was shortly to come to Rome to take the bride away, and the Duchess of Urbino was to accompany it.[106] September 14th Cæsar Borgia returned from Naples, where Federico, the last Aragonese king of that country, had been forced to yield to France. To his great satisfaction he found Lucretia prospective Duchess of Ferrara. On the fifteenth Ercole's envoys, Saraceni and Bellingeri, appeared. Their object was to see that the Pope fulfilled his obligations promptly. The duke was a practical man; he did not trust him. He was unwilling to send the bridal escort until he had the papal bull in his own hands. Lucretia supported the ambassador so zealously that Saraceni wrote his master that she already appeared to him to be a good Ferrarese.[107] She was present in the Vatican while Alexander carried on the negotiations. He sometimes used Latin for the purpose of displaying his linguistic attainments; but on one occasion, out of regard for Lucretia, he ordered that Italian be used, which proves that his daughter was not a perfect mistress of the classic tongue. From this ambassador's despatches it appears that life in the Vatican was extremely agreeable. They sang, played and danced every evening. One of Alexander's greatest delights was to watch beautiful women dancing, and when Lucretia and the ladies of her court were so engaged he was careful to summon the Ferrarese ambassadors so that they might note his daughter's grace. One evening he remarked laughingly that "they might see that the duchess was not lame."[108] * * * * * The Pope never tired of passing the nights in this way, although Cæsar, a strong man, was worn out by the ceaseless round of pleasure. When the latter consented to grant the ambassadors an audience, a favor which was not often bestowed even on cardinals, he received them dressed, but lying in bed, which caused Saraceni to remark in his despatch, "I feared that he was sick, for last evening he danced without intermission, which he will do again tonight at the Pope's palace, where the illustrious duchess is going to sup."[109] Lucretia regarded it as a relief when, a few days later, the Pope went to Civitacastellana and Nepi. September 25th the ambassadors wrote to Ferrara, "The illustrious lady continues somewhat ailing, and is greatly fatigued; she is not, however, under the care of any physician, nor does she neglect her affairs, but grants audiences as usual. We think that this indisposition merely indicates that her Majesty should take better care of herself. The rest which she will have while his Holiness is away will do her good; for whenever she is at the Pope's palace, the entire night, until two or three o'clock, is spent in dancing and at play, which fatigues her greatly."[110] About this time occurred a disagreeable episode in connection with Giovanni Sforza, Lucretia's divorced husband, which the Pope discussed with the Ferrarese ambassadors. What they feared from him is revealed by the following despatch: ILLUSTRIOUS PRINCE AND MASTER: As his Holiness the Pope desires to take all proper precautions to prevent the occurrence of anything that might be unpleasant to your Excellency, to Don Alfonso, and especially to the duchess, and also to himself, he has asked us to write your Excellency and request that you see to it that Lord Giovanni of Pesaro--who, his Holiness has been informed, is in Mantua--shall not be in Ferrara at the time of the marriage festivities. For, although his divorce from the above named illustrious lady was absolutely legal and according to prescribed form, as the records of the proceedings clearly show, he himself fully consenting to it, he may, nevertheless, still harbor some resentment. If he should be in Ferrara there would be a possibility of his seeing the lady, and her Excellency would therefore be compelled to remain in concealment to escape disagreeable memories. He, therefore, requests your Excellency to prevent this possibility with your usual foresight. Thereupon his Holiness freely expressed his opinion of the Marchese of Mantua, and censured him severely because he of all the Italian princes was the only one who offered an asylum to outcasts, and especially to those who were under not only his own ban, but under that of his Most Christian Majesty. We endeavored, however, to excuse the marchese by saying that he, a high-minded man, could not close his domain to such as wished to come to him, especially when they were people of importance, and we used every argument to defend him. His Holiness, however, seemed displeased by our defense of the marchese. Your Excellency may, therefore, make such arrangements as in your wisdom seem proper. And so we, in all humility, commend ourselves to your mercy. ROME, _September 23, 1501_.[111] As a result of Ercole's insistence, the question of the reduction of Ferrara's yearly tribute as a fief of the Holy See from four hundred ducats to one hundred florins was brought to a vote in the consistory, September 17th. It was expected that there would be violent opposition. Alexander explained what Ercole had done for Ferrara, his founding convents and churches, and his strengthening the city, thus making it a bulwark for the States of the Church. The cardinals were induced to favor the reduction by the intervention of the Cardinal of Cosenza--one of Lucretia's creatures--and of Messer Troche, Cæsar's confidant. They authorized the reduction and the Pope thanked them, especially praising the older cardinals--the younger, those of his own creation, having been more obstinate.[112] The same day he secured possession of the property he had wrested from the barons who had been placed under his ban August 20th. These domains, which embraced a large part of the Roman Campagna, were divided into two districts. The center of one was Nepi; that of the other Sermoneta--two cities which Lucretia, their former mistress, immediately renounced. Alexander made these duchies over to two children, Giovanni Borgia and Rodrigo. At first the Pope ascribed the paternity of the former child to his own son Cæsar, but subsequently he publicly announced that he himself was its father. It is difficult to believe in such unexampled shamelessness, but the legal documents to prove it are in existence. Both bulls are dated September 1, 1501, and are addressed to my beloved son, "the noble Giovanni de Borgia and Infante of Rome." In the former, Alexander states that Giovanni, a child of three years, was the natural son of Cæsar Borgia, unmarried (which he was at the time of its birth), by a single woman. By apostolic authority he legitimated the child and bestowed upon it all the rights of a member of his family. In the second brief he refers to the proceedings in which the child had been declared to be Cæsar's son, and says verbatim: "Since it is owing, not to the duke named (Cæsar), but to us and to the unmarried woman mentioned that you bear this stain (of illegitimate birth), which for good reasons we did not wish to state in the preceding instrument; and in order that there may be no chance of your being caused annoyance in the future, we will see to it that that document shall never be declared null, and of our own free will, and by virtue of our authority, we confirm you, by these presents, in the full enjoyment of everything as provided in that instrument." Thereupon he renews the legitimation and announces that even if this his child, which had hitherto been declared to be Cæsar's, shall in future, in any document or act be named and described as his (Cæsar's), and even if he uses Cæsar's arms, it shall in no way inure to the disadvantage of the child, and that all such acts shall have the same force which they would have had if the boy had been described not as Cæsar's, but as his own, in the documents referring to his legitimation.[113] It is worthy of note that both these documents were executed on one and the same day, but this is explained by the fact that the canon law prevented the Pope from acknowledging his own son. Alexander, therefore, extricated himself from the difficulty by telling a falsehood in the first bull. This lie made the legitimation of the child possible, and also conferred upon it the rights of succession; and this having once been embodied in a legal document, the Pope could, without injury to the child, tell the truth. September 1, 1501, Cæsar was not in Rome. Even a man of his stamp may have blushed for his father, when he thus made him the rival of this bastard for the possession of the property. Later, after Alexander's death, the little Giovanni Borgia passed for Cæsar's son; he had, moreover, been described as such by the Pope in numerous briefs.[114] It is not known who was the mother of this mysterious child. Burchard speaks of her merely as a "certain Roman." If Alexander, who described her as an "unmarried woman," told the truth, Giulia Farnese could not have been its mother. It is possible, however, that the Pope's second statement likewise was untrue, and that the "Infante of Rome" was not his son, but was a natural child of Lucretia. The reader will remember that in March, 1498, the Ferrarese ambassador reported to Duke Ercole that it was rumored in Rome that the Pope's daughter had given birth to a child. This date agrees perfectly with the age of the Infante Giovanni in September, 1501. Both documents regarding his legitimation, which are now preserved in the Este archives, were originally in Lucretia's chancellery. She may have taken them with her from Rome to Ferrara, or they may have been brought to her later. Eventually we shall find the Infante at her court in Ferrara, where he was spoken of as her "brother." These facts suggest that the mysterious Giovanni Borgia was Lucretia's son--this, however, is only a hypothesis. The city of Nepi and thirty-six other estates were conferred upon the child as his dukedom. The second domain, including the duchy of Sermoneta and twenty-eight castles, was given to little Rodrigo, Lucretia's only son by Alfonso of Aragon. Under Lucretia's changed conditions, this child was an embarrassment to her, for she either was not allowed or did not dare to bring a child by her former husband to Ferrara. For the sake of her character let us assume that she was compelled to leave her child among strangers. The order to do so, however, does not appear to have emanated from Ferrara, for, September 28th, the ambassador Gerardi gave his master an account of a call which he made on Madonna Lucretia, in which he said, "As her son was present, I asked her--in such a way that she could not mistake my meaning--what was to be done with him; to which she replied, 'He will remain in Rome, and will have an allowance of fifteen thousand ducats.'"[115] The little Rodrigo was, in truth, provided for in a princely manner. He was placed under the guardianship of two cardinals--the Patriarch of Alexandria and Francesco Borgia, Archbishop of Cosenza. He received the revenues of Sermoneta, and he also owned Biselli, his unfortunate father's inheritance; for Ferdinand and Isabella of Castile authorized their ambassador in Rome, Francesco de Roxas, January 7, 1502, to confirm Rodrigo in the possession of the duchy of Biselli and the city of Quadrata. According to this act his title was Don Rodrigo Borgia of Aragon, Duke of Biselli and Sermoneta, and lord of Quadrata.[116] FOOTNOTES: [99] Cavallieri to Ercole, Lyons, August 8, 1501. The Pope has written his nuncio that he agreed to the duke's demands, for the purpose of concluding the marriage, which would be extraordinarily advantageous to himself and the Duke of Romagna. [100] Despatches of the Ferrarese ambassador, Bartolomeo Cartari, from Venice, June 25, July 28, and August 2, 1501. Archives of Modena. [101] Ercole's letter to Pozzi in Ferrara, August 25, 1501. Maximilian's letters are not in the Este archives but in Vienna. [102] The instrument was drawn by Beneimbene. [103] Cardinal Ferrari to Ercole, Rome, August 27, 1501. [104] Ducal Records, September 1, 1501. [105] The letter is reproduced in Zucchetti's Lucrezia Borgia, Duchessa di Ferrara, Milan, 1869. [106] Ed altre cose che egli disse per maggiormente magnificare il fatto. Matteo Canale to the Duke of Ferrara, Rome, September 11, 1501. [107] Quale mi pare già essere optima Ferrarese. Despatch from Rome, September 15th. [108] Che voleva havessimo veduto che la Duchessa non era zoppa. Saraceni to Ercole, Rome, September 16th. [109] Rome, September 23d, Saraceni. [110] Despatch, September 25th. [111] To this Ercole replied in reassuring terms. Letter to his orators in Rome, September 18, 1501. [112] Despatch of Matteo Canale to Ercole, Rome, September 18, 1501. [113] Both bulls are in the archives of Modena. The first is a copy, the second an original. The lead seal is wanting, but the red and yellow silk by which it was attached is still preserved. I first discovered the facts in a manuscript in the Barberiniana in Rome. [114] Mandate of the Pope regarding certain taxes, dated July 21, 1502: Nobili Infanti Johanni Borgia, nostro secundum carnem nepoti; and in another brief, dated June 12, 1502, Dil filii nobilis infantis Johannis Borgia ducis Nepesini delecti filii nobilis viri Cæsaris Borgia de Francia, etc. Archives of Modena. [115] Geradi to Ercole, Rome, September 28th. [116] Datum in civitate Hispali, January 7, 1502. Yo el rey. Archives of Modena. In Liber Arrendamentorum Terrarum ad Illmos Dnos Rodericum Bor. de Aragonia Sermoneti, et Jo. de bor., Nepesin. Duces infantes spectantium et alearq. scripturar. status eorundem tangentium. Biselli, 1502. CHAPTER XXI THE EVE OF THE WEDDING Lucretia was impatient to leave Rome, which, she remarked to the ambassador of Ferrara, seemed to her like a prison; the duke himself was no less anxious to conclude the transaction. The preparation of the new bull of investiture, however, was delayed, and the cession of Cento and Pievi could not be effected without the consent of Cardinal Giuliano della Rovere, Archbishop of Bologna, who was then living in France. Ercole, therefore, postponed despatching the bridal escort, although the approach of winter would make the journey, which was severe at any time, all the more difficult. Whenever Lucretia saw the Ferrarese ambassadors she asked them how soon the escort would come to fetch her. She herself endeavored to remove all obstacles. Although the cardinals trembled before the Pope and Cæsar, they were reluctant to sign a bull which would lose Ferrara's tribute to the Church. They were bitterly opposed to allowing the descendants of Alfonso and Lucretia, without limitation, to profit by a remission of the annual payment; they would suffer this privilege to be enjoyed for three generations at most. The duke addressed urgent letters to the cardinal and to Lucretia, who finally, in October, succeeded in arranging matters, thereby winning high praise from her father-in-law. During the first half of October she and the duke kept up a lively correspondence, which shows that their mutual confidence was increasing. It was plain that Ercole was beginning to look upon the unequal match with less displeasure, as he discovered that his daughter-in-law possessed greater sense than he had supposed. Her letters to him were filled with flattery, especially one she wrote when she heard he was sick, and Ercole thanked her for having written it with her own hand, which he regarded as special proof of her affection.[117] The ambassadors reported to him as follows: "When we informed the illustrious Duchess of your Excellency's illness, her Majesty displayed the greatest concern. She turned pale and stood for a moment bowed in thought. She regretted that she was not in Ferrara to take care of you herself. When the walls of the Vatican salon tumbled in, she nursed his Holiness for two weeks without resting, as the Pope would allow no one else to do anything for him."[118] Well might the illness of Lucretia's father-in-law frighten her. His death would have delayed, if not absolutely prevented, her marriage with Alfonso; for up to the present time she had no proof that her prospective husband's opposition had been overcome. There are no letters written by either to the other at this time--a silence which is, to say the least, singular. Still more disturbing to Lucretia must have been the thought that her father himself might die, for his death would certainly set aside her betrothal to Alfonso. Shortly after Ercole's illness Alexander fell sick. He had caught cold and lost a tooth. To prevent exaggerated reports reaching Ferrara, he had the duke's envoy summoned, and directed him to write his master that his indisposition was insignificant. "If the duke were here," said the Pope, "I would--even if my face is tied up--invite him to go and hunt wild boars." The ambassador remarked in his despatch that the Pope, if he valued his health, had better change his habits, and not leave the palace before daybreak, and had better return before nightfall.[119] Ercole and the Pope received congratulations from all sides. Cardinals and ambassadors in their letters proclaimed Lucretia's beauty and graciousness. The Spanish envoy in Rome praised her in extravagant terms, and Ercole thanked him for his testimony regarding the virtues of his daughter-in-law.[120] Even the King of France displayed the liveliest pleasure at the event, which, he now discovered, would redound greatly to Ferrara's advantage. The Pope, beaming with joy, read the congratulations of the monarch and his consort to the consistory. Louis XII even condescended to address a letter to Madonna Lucretia, at the end of which were two words in his own hand. Alexander was so delighted thereby that he sent a copy of it to Ferrara. The court of Maximilian was the only one from which no congratulations were received. The emperor exhibited such displeasure that Ercole was worried, as the following letter to his plenipotentiaries in Rome shows: THE DUKE OF FERRARA, ETC. OUR WELL-LOVED: We have given his Holiness, our Lord, no further information regarding the attitude of the illustrious Emperor of the Romans towards him since Messer Michele Remolines departed from here, for we had nothing definite to communicate. We have, however, been told by a trustworthy person with whom the king conversed, that his Majesty was greatly displeased, and that he criticised his Holiness in unmeasured terms on account of the alliance which we have concluded with him, as he also did in letters addressed to us before the betrothal, in which he advised us not to enter into it, as you will learn from the copies of his letters which we send you with this. They were shown and read to his Holiness's ambassador here. Although, so far as we ourselves are concerned, we did not attach much importance to his Majesty's attitude, as we followed the dictates of reason, and are daily becoming more convinced that it will prove advantageous for us; it nevertheless appears proper, in view of our relations with his Holiness, that he should be informed of our position. You will, therefore, tell him everything, and also let him see the copies, if you think best, but you must say to him in our name that he is not to ascribe their authorship to us, and that we have not sent you these copies because of any special importance that we attached to them. FERRARA, _October 3, 1501_. The duke now allowed nothing to shake his resolution. Early in October he selected the escort whose departure from Ferrara, he frankly stated, would depend upon the progress of his negotiations with the Pope. The constitution of the bridal trains, both Roman and Ferrarese, was an important question, and is referred to in one of Gerardo's despatches. ILLUSTRIOUS SIR, ETC.: To-day at six o'clock Hector and I were alone with the Pope, having your letters of the twenty-sixth ultimo and of the first of the present month, and also a list of those who are to compose the escort. His Holiness was greatly pleased, the various persons being people of wealth and standing, as he could readily see, the rank and position of each being clearly indicated. I have learned from the best of sources that your Excellency has exceeded all the Pope's expectations. After we had conversed a while with his Holiness, the illustrious Duke of Romagna and Cardinal Orsini were summoned. There were also present Monsignor Elna, Monsignor Troche, and Messer Adriano. The Pope had the list read a second time, and again it was praised, especially by the duke, who said he was acquainted with several of the persons named. He kept the list, thanking me warmly when I gave it to him again, for he had returned it to me. We endeavored to get the list of those who are to come with the illustrious Duchess, but it has not yet been prepared. His Holiness said that there would not be many women among the number, as the ladies of Rome were not skilful horsewomen.[121] Hitherto the Duchess has had five or six young ladies at her court--four very young girls and three married women--who will remain with her Majesty. She has, however, been advised not to bring them, as many of the great ladies in Ferrara will offer her their services. She has also a certain Madonna Girolama, Cardinal Borgia's sister, who is married to one of the Orsini. She and three of her women will accompany her. These are the only ladies of honor she has hitherto had. I have heard that she will endeavor to find others in Naples, but it is believed that she will be able to secure only a few, and that these will merely accompany her. The Duchess of Urbino has announced that she expects to come with a mounted escort of fifty persons. So far as the men are concerned, his Holiness said that there would not be many, as there were no Roman noblemen except the Orsini, and they generally were away from the city. Still, he hoped to be able to find sufficient, provided the Duke of Romagna did not take the field, there being a large number of nobles among his followers. His Holiness said that he had plenty of priests and scholars to send, but not such persons as were fit for a mission of this sort. However, the retinue furnished by your Majesty will serve for both, especially as--according to his Holiness--it is better for the more numerous escort to be sent by the groom, and for the bride to come accompanied by a smaller number. Still I do not think her suite will number less than two hundred persons. The Pope is in doubt what route her Majesty will travel. He thinks she ought to go by way of Bologna, and he says that the Florentines likewise have invited her. Although his Holiness has reached no decision, the Duchess has informed us that she would journey through the Marches, and the Pope has just concluded that she might do so. Perhaps he desires her to pass through the estates of the Duke of Romagna on her way to Bologna. Regarding your Majesty's wish that a cardinal accompany the Duchess, his Holiness said that it did not seem proper to him for a cardinal to leave Rome with her; but that he had written the Cardinal of Salerno, the Legate in the Marches, to go to the seat of the Duke in Romagna and wait there, and accompany the Duchess to Ferrara to read mass at the wedding. He thought that the cardinal would do this, unless prevented by sickness, in which case his Holiness would provide another. When the Pope discovered, during this conversation, that we had so far been unable to secure an audience with the illustrious Duke, he showed great annoyance, declaring it was a mistake which could only injure his Majesty, and he added that the ambassadors of Rimini had been here two months without succeeding in speaking with him, as he was in the habit of turning day into night and night into day. He severely criticized his son's mode of living. On the other hand, he commended the illustrious Duchess, saying that she was always gracious, and granted audiences readily, and that whenever there was need she knew how to cajole. He lauded her highly, and stated that she had ruled Spoleto to the satisfaction of everybody, and he also said that her Majesty always knew how to carry her point--even with himself, the Pope. I think that his Holiness spoke in this way more for the purpose of saying good of her (which according to my opinion she deserved) than to avoid saying anything ill, even if there were occasion for it. Your Majesty's Ever devoted. ROME, _October 6th_. The Pope seldom allowed an opportunity to pass for praising his daughter's beauty and graciousness. He frequently compared her with the most famous women of Italy--the Marchioness of Mantua and the Duchess of Urbino. One day, while conversing with the ambassadors of Ferrara, he mentioned her age, saying that in October (1502) she would complete her twenty-second year, while Cæsar would be twenty-six the same month.[122] The Pope was greatly pleased with the members of the bridal escort, for they all were either princes of the house of Este or prominent persons of Ferrara. He also approved the selection of Annibale Bentivoglio, son of the Lord of Bologna, and said laughingly to the Ferrarese ambassadors that, even if their master had chosen Turks to come to Rome for the bride, they would have been welcome. The Florentines, owing to their fear of Cæsar, sent ambassadors to Lucretia to ask her to come by way of their city when she went to Ferrara; the Pope, however, was determined that she should make the journey through Romagna. According to an oppressive custom of the day, the people through whose country persons of quality traveled were required to provide for them, and, in order not to tax Romagna too heavily, it was decided that the Ferrarese escort should come to Rome by way of Tuscany. The Republic of Florence firmly refused to entertain the escort all the time it was in its territory, although it was willing to care for it while in the city or to make a handsome present.[123] In the meantime preparations were under way in Ferrara for the wedding festivities. The Duke invited all the princes who were friendly to him to be present. He had even thought of the oration which was to be delivered in Ferrara when Lucretia was given to her husband. During the Renaissance these orations were regarded as of the greatest importance, and he was anxious to secure a speaker who could be depended upon to deliver a masterpiece. Ercole had instructed his ambassadors in Rome to send him particulars regarding the house of Borgia for the orator to use in preparing his speech.[124] The ambassadors scrupulously carried out their instructions, and wrote their sovereign as follows: ILLUSTRIOUS PRINCE AND MASTER: We have spared no efforts to learn everything possible regarding the illustrious house of Borgia, as your Excellency commanded. We made a thorough investigation, and members of our suite here in Rome, not only the scholars but also those who we knew were loyal to you, did the same. Although we finally succeeded in ascertaining that the house is one of the noblest and most ancient in Spain, we did not discover that its founders ever did anything very remarkable, perhaps because life in that country is quiet and uneventful--your Excellency knows that such is the case in Spain, especially in Valencia. Whatever there is worthy of note dates from the time of Calixtus, and, in fact, the deeds of Calixtus himself are those most worthy of comment; Platina, however, has given an account of his life, which, moreover, is well known to everybody. Whoever is to deliver the oration has ample material, therefore, from which to choose. We, illustrious Sir, have been able to learn nothing more regarding this house than what you already know, and this concerns only the members of the family who have been Popes, and is derived chiefly from the audience speeches. In case we succeed in finding out anything more, we shall inform your Excellency, to whom we commend ourselves in all humility. ROME, _October 18, 1501_. When the descendant of the ancient house of Este read this terse despatch he must have smiled; its candor was so undiplomatic that it bordered on irony. The doughty ambassadors, however, apparently did not go to the right sources, for if they had applied to the courtiers who were intimate with the Borgia--for example, the Porcaro--they would have obtained a genealogical tree showing a descent from the old kings of Aragon, if not from Hercules himself. In the meantime the impatience of the Pope and Lucretia was steadily increasing, for the departure of the bridal escort was delayed, and the enemies of the Borgia were already beginning to make merry. The duke declared that he could not think of sending for Donna Lucretia until the bull of investiture was in his hands. He complained at the Pope's delay in fulfilling his promises. He also demanded that the part of the marriage portion which was to be paid in coin through banking houses in Venice, Bologna, and other cities be handed over on the bridal escort's entry into Rome, and threatened in case it was not paid in full to have his people return to Ferrara without the bride.[125] As it was impossible for him to bring about the immediate cession of Cento and Pievi, he asked from the Pope as a pledge that either the bishopric of Bologna be given his son Ippolito, or that his Holiness furnish a bond. He also demanded certain benefices for his natural son Don Giulio, and for his ambassador Gianluca Pozzi. Lucretia succeeded in securing the bishopric of Reggio for the latter and also a house in Rome for the Ferrarese envoy. Another important question was the dowry of jewels which Lucretia was to receive. During the Renaissance the passion for jewels amounted to a mania. Ercole sent word to his daughter-in-law that she must not dispose of her jewels, but must bring them with her; he also said that he would send her a handsome ornament by the bridal escort, gallantly adding that, as she herself was a precious jewel, she deserved the most beautiful gems--even more magnificent ones than he and his own consort had possessed; it is true he was not so wealthy as the Duke of Savoy, but, nevertheless, he was in a position to send her jewels no less beautiful than those given her by the duke.[126] The relations between Ercole and his daughter-in-law were as friendly as could be desired, for Lucretia exerted herself to secure the Pope's consent to his demands. His Holiness, however, was greatly annoyed by the duke's conduct; he sent urgent requests to him to despatch the escort to Rome, and assured him that the two castles in Romagna would be delivered over to him before Lucretia reached Ferrara, but in case she did arrive there first that everything she asked would be granted--his love for her was such that he even thought of paying her a visit in Ferrara in the spring.[127] The Pope suspected, however, that the delay in sending the bridal escort was due to the machinations of Maximilian. Even as late as November the emperor had despatched his secretary, Agostino Semenza, to the duke to warn him not to send the escort to Rome, adding that he would show his gratitude to Ercole. November 22d the duke wrote the imperial plenipotentiary a letter in which he stated that he had immediately sent a courier to his ambassador in Rome; it would soon be winter, and the time would therefore be unfavorable for bringing Lucretia; if the Pope was willing, he would postpone the wedding, but he would not break off with him entirely. His Majesty should remember that if he did this, the Pope would become his bitterest enemy, and would persecute him, and might even make war on him. It was, he stated, for the express purpose of avoiding this that he had consented to enter into an alliance with his Holiness. He, therefore, hoped that his Majesty would not expose him to this danger, but that, with his usual justice, he would appreciate his excuses.[128] At the same time he instructed his ambassadors in Rome to inform the Pope of the emperor's threats, and to say to him that he was ready to fulfil his own obligations and also to urge his Holiness to have the bulls prepared at once, as further delay was dangerous. Alexander thereupon fell into a rage; he overwhelmed the ambassadors with reproaches, and called the duke a "tradesman." On December 1st Ercole announced to the emperor's messenger that he was unable longer to delay sending the bridal escort, for, if he did, it would mean a rupture with the Pope. The same day he wrote to his ambassadors in Rome and complained of the use of the epithet "tradesman," which the Pope had applied to him.[129] He, however, reassured his Holiness by informing him that he had decided to despatch the bridal escort from Ferrara the ninth or tenth of December.[130] [Illustration: ERCOLE D'ESTE, DUKE OF FERRARA.] FOOTNOTES: [117] Lucretia to Ercole, October 18th; Ercole to Lucretia, October 23d. [118] Gerardo to Ercole, October 15, 1501. [119] Ercole to Don Francesco de Roxas, October 24, 1501. [120] Gerardo Saraceni to Ercole, Rome, October 26, 1501. [121] Per essere queste romane salvatiche et male apte a cavallo. [122] Gerardo to Ercole, October 26, 1501. [123] The orator Manfredo Manfredi to Ercole, Florence, November 22 and 24, 1501. [124] The duke to his ambassadors in Rome, October 7, 1501. [125] Ercole to Gerardo Saraceni, November 24, 1501. Other letters of like import were written by the duke to his plenipotentiaries. [126] Ercole to Gerardo Saraceni in Rome, October 11, 1501. [127] Despatch of the Ferrarese ambassadors to Ercole, Rome, October 31, 1501. [128] Il quale mal effecto volendo nui fugire, seamo condescesi a contrahere la affinita cum soa Santità. Responsum illmi Dni ducis Ferrarie D. Augustino Semetie Ces Mtis secretario. Ferrara, November 22, 1501. [129] Che il procedere del Duca era un procedere da mercatante. Ercole to Gerardo Saraceni, December 1, 1501. [130] Ercole to Alexander VI, December 1, 1501. CHAPTER XXII ARRIVAL AND RETURN OF THE BRIDAL ESCORT In the meantime Lucretia's trousseau was being prepared with an expense worthy of a king's daughter. On December 13, 1501, the agent in Rome of the Marchese Gonzaga wrote his master as follows: "The portion will consist of three hundred thousand ducats, not counting the presents which Madonna will receive from time to time. First a hundred thousand ducats are to be paid in money in instalments in Ferrara. Then there will be silverware to the value of three thousand ducats; jewels, fine linen, costly trappings for horses and mules, together worth another hundred thousand. In her wardrobe she has a trimmed dress worth more than fifteen thousand ducats, and two hundred costly shifts, some of which are worth a hundred ducats apiece; the sleeves alone of some of them cost thirty ducats each, being trimmed with gold fringe." Another person reported to the Marchesa Isabella that Lucretia had one dress worth twenty thousand ducats, and a hat valued at ten thousand. "It is said," so the Mantuan agent writes, "that more gold has been prepared and sold here in Naples in six months than has been used heretofore in two years. She brings her husband another hundred thousand ducats, the value of the castles (Cento and Pieve), and will also secure the remission of Ferrara's tribute. The number of horses and persons the Pope will place at his daughter's disposal will amount to a thousand. There will be two hundred carriages--among them some of French make, if there is time--and with these will come the escort which is to take her."[131] The duke finally concluded to send the bridal escort, although the bulls were not ready for him. As he was anxious to make the marriage of his son with Lucretia an event of the greatest magnificence, he sent a cavalcade of more than fifteen hundred persons for her. At their head were Cardinal Ippolito and five other members of the ducal house; his brothers, Don Ferrante and Don Sigismondo; also Niccolò Maria d'Este, Bishop of Adria; Meliaduse d'Este, Bishop of Comacchio; and Don Ercole, a nephew of the duke. In the escort were numerous prominent friends and kinsmen or vassals of the house of Ferrara, lords of Correggio and Mirandola; the Counts Rangone of Modena; one of the Pio of Carpi; the Counts Bevilacqua, Roverella, Sagrato, Strozzi of Ferrara, Annibale Bentivoglio of Bologna, and many others. These gentlemen, magnificently clad, and with heavy gold chains about their necks, mounted on beautiful horses, left Ferrara December 9th, with thirteen trumpeters and eight fifes at their head; and thus this wedding cavalcade, led by a worldly cardinal, rode noisily forth upon their journey. In our time such an aggregation might easily be mistaken for a troop of trick riders. Nowhere did this brave company of knights pay their reckoning; in the domain of Ferrara they lived on the duke; in other words, at the expense of his subjects. In the lands of other lords they did the same, and in the territory of the Church the cities they visited were required to provide for them. In spite of the luxury of the Renaissance, traveling was at that time very disagreeable; everywhere in Europe it was as difficult then as it is now in the Orient. Great lords and ladies, who to-day flit across the country in comfortable railway carriages, traveled in the sixteenth century, even in the most civilized states of Europe, mounted on horses or mules, or slowly in sedan-chairs, exposed to all the inclemencies of wind and weather, and unpaved roads. The cavalcade was thirteen days on the way from Ferrara to Rome--a journey which can now be made in a few hours. Finally, on December 22d, it reached Monterosi, a wretched castle fifteen miles from Rome. All were in a deplorable condition, wet to the skin by winter rains, and covered with mud; and men and horses completely tired out. From this place the cardinal sent a messenger with a herald to Rome to receive the Pope's commands. Answer was brought that they were to enter by the Porta del Popolo. The entrance of the Ferrarese into Rome was the most theatrical event that occurred during the reign of Alexander VI. Processions were the favorite spectacles of the Middle Ages; State, Church, and society displayed their wealth and power in magnificent cavalcades. The horse was symbolic of the world's strength and magnificence, but with the disappearance of knighthood it lost its place in the history of civilization. How the love of form and color of the people of Italy--the home of processions--has changed was shown in Rome, July 2, 1871, when Victor Emmanuel entered his new capital. Had this episode--one of the weightiest in the whole history of Italy--occurred during the Renaissance, it would have been made the occasion of a magnificent triumph. The entrance into Rome of the first king of united Italy was made, however, in a few dust-covered carriages, which conveyed the monarch and his court from the railway station to their lodgings; yet in this bourgeois simplicity there was really more moral greatness than in any of the triumphs of the Cæsars. That the love of parades which existed in the Renaissance has died out is, perhaps, to be regretted, for occasions still arise when they are necessary. Alexander's prestige would certainly have suffered if, on the occasion of a family function of such importance, he had failed to offer the people as evidence of his power a brilliant spectacle of some sort. The very fact that Adrian VI did not understand and appreciate this requirement of the Renaissance made him the butt of the Romans. At ten o'clock on the morning of December 23d the Ferrarese reached the Ponte Molle, where breakfast was served in a nearby villa. The appearance of this neighborhood must at that time have been different from what it is to-day. There were casinos and wine houses on the slopes of Monte Mario--whose summit was occupied even at that time by a villa belonging to the Mellini--and on the hills beyond the Flaminian Way. Nicholas V had restored the bridge over the Tiber, and also begun a tower nearby, which Calixtus III completed. Between the Ponte Molle and the Porta del Popolo there was then,--just as there is now,--a wretched suburb. [Illustration: CASTLE OF S. ANGELO, ROME.] At the bridge crossing the Tiber they found a wedding escort composed of the senators of Rome, the governor of the city, and the captain of police, accompanied by two thousand men, some on foot and some mounted. Half a bowshot from the gate the cavalcade met Cæsar's suite. First came six pages, then a hundred mounted noblemen, followed by two hundred Swiss clothed in black and yellow velvet with the arms of the Pope, birettas on their heads, and bearing halberds. Behind them rode the Duke of Romagna with the ambassador of France at his side, who wore a French costume and a golden sash. After greeting each other mid the blare of trumpets, the gentlemen dismounted from their horses. Cæsar embraced Cardinal Ippolito and rode at his side as far as the city gate. If Valentino's following numbered four thousand and the city officials two thousand more, it is difficult to conceive, taking the spectators also into account, how so large a number of people could congregate before the Porta del Popolo. The rows of houses which now extend from this gate could not have been in existence then, and the space occupied by the Villa Borghese must have been vacant. At the gate the cavalcade was met by nineteen cardinals, each accompanied by two hundred persons. The reception here, owing to the oration, required over two hours, consequently it was evening when it was over. Finally, to the din of trumpets, fifes, and horns, the cavalcade set out over the Corso, across the Campo di Fiore, for the Vatican, where it was saluted from Castle S. Angelo. Alexander stood at a window of the palace to see the procession which marked the fulfilment of the dearest wish of his house. His chamberlain met the Ferrarese at the steps of the palace and conducted them to his Holiness, who, accompanied by twelve cardinals, advanced to meet them. They kissed his feet, and he raised them up and embraced them. A few moments were spent in animated conversation, after which Cæsar led the princes to his sister. Leaning on the arm of an elderly cavalier dressed in black velvet, with a golden chain about his neck, Lucretia went as far as the entrance of her palace to greet them. According to the prearranged ceremonial she did not kiss her brothers-in-law, but merely bowed to them, following the French custom. She wore a dress of some white material embroidered in gold, over which there was a garment of dark brown velvet trimmed with sable. The sleeves were of white and gold brocade, tight, and barred in the Spanish fashion. Her head-dress was of a green gauze, with a fine gold band and two rows of pearls. About her neck was a heavy chain of pearls with a ruby pendant. Refreshments were served, and Lucretia distributed small gifts--the work of Roman jewelers--among those present. The princes departed highly pleased with their reception. "This much I know," wrote El Prete, "that the eyes of Cardinal Ippolito sparkled, as much as to say, She is an enchanting and exceedingly gracious lady." The cardinal likewise wrote the same evening to his sister Isabella of Mantua to satisfy her curiosity regarding Lucretia's costume. Dress was then an important matter in the eyes of a court; in fact there never was a time when women's costumes were richer and more carefully studied than they were during the Renaissance. The Marchioness had sent an agent to Rome apparently for the sole purpose of giving her an account of the bridal festivities, and she had directed him to pay special attention to the dresses. El Prete carried out his instructions as conscientiously as a reporter for a daily paper would now do.[132] From his description an artist could paint a good portrait of the bride. The same evening the Ferrarese ambassadors paid their official visit to Donna Lucretia, and they promptly wrote the duke regarding the impression his daughter-in-law had made upon them. ILLUSTRIOUS MASTER: To-day after supper Don Gerardo Saraceni and I betook ourselves to the illustrious Madonna Lucretia, to pay our respects in the name of your Excellency and his Majesty Don Alfonso. We had a long conversation regarding various matters. She is a most intelligent and lovely, and also exceedingly gracious lady. Your Excellency and the illustrious Don Alfonso--so we were led to conclude--will be highly pleased with her. Besides being extremely graceful in every way, she is modest, lovable, and decorous. Moreover, she is a devout and God-fearing Christian. To-morrow she is going to confession, and during Christmas week she will receive the communion. She is very beautiful, but her charm of manner is still more striking. In short, her character is such that it is impossible to suspect anything "sinister" of her; but, on the contrary, we look for only the best. It seems to be our duty to tell you the exact truth in this letter. I commend myself to your Highness's merciful benevolence. Rome, December 23, 1501, the sixth hour of the night. Your Excellency's servant, JOHANNES LUCAS. Pozzi's letter shows how anxious were the duke and his son, even up to the last. It must have been a humiliation for both of them to have to confide their suspicions to their ambassador in Rome, and to ask him to find out what he could regarding the character of a lady who was to be the future Duchess of Ferrara. The very phrase in Pozzi's letter that there was nothing "sinister" to be suspected of Lucretia shows how black were the rumors that circulated regarding her. His testimony, therefore, is all the more valuable, and it is one of the most important documents for forming a judgment of Lucretia's character. Had she been afforded a chance to read it, her mortification would, no doubt, have outweighed her satisfaction.[133] The Ferrarese princes took up their abode in the Vatican; other gentlemen occupied the Belvedere, while the majority were provided for by the citizens, who were compelled to entertain them. At that time the popes handled their private matters just as if they were affairs of state, and met expenses by taxing the court officials, who, in spite of this, made a good living, and even grew rich by the Pope's mercy. The merchants likewise were required to bear a part of the expense of these ecclesiastical functions. Many of the officials grumbled over entertaining the Ferrarese, and provided for them so badly that the Pope was compelled to interfere.[134] During the Christmas festivities the Pope read mass in S. Peter's. The princes were present, and the duke's ambassador described Alexander's magnificent and also "saintly" bearing in terms more fitting to depict the appearance of an accomplished actor.[135] The Pope now gave orders for the carnival to begin, and there were daily banquets and festivities in the Vatican. El Prete has left a naive account of an evening's entertainment in Lucretia's palace, in which he gives us a vivid picture of the customs of the day. "The illustrious Madonna," so wrote the reporter, "appears in public but little, because she is busy preparing for her departure. Sunday evening, S. Stephen's Day, December 26th, I went unexpectedly to her residence. Her Majesty was in her chamber, seated by the bed. In a corner of the room were about twenty Roman women dressed _a la romanesca_, 'wearing certain cloths on their heads'; the ladies of her court, to the number of ten, were also present. A nobleman from Valencia and a lady of the court, Niccola, led the dance. They were followed by Don Ferrante and Madonna, who danced with extreme grace and animation. She wore a camorra of black velvet with gold borders and black sleeves; the cuffs were tight; the sleeves were slashed at the shoulders; her breast was covered up to the neck with a veil made of gold thread. About her neck she wore a string of pearls, and on her head a green net and a chain of rubies. She had an overskirt of black velvet trimmed with fur, colored, and very beautiful. The trousseaux of her ladies-in-waiting are not yet ready. Two or three of the women are pretty; one, Catalina, a native of Valencia, dances well, and another, Angela, is charming. Without telling her, I picked her out as my favorite. Yesterday evening (28th) the cardinal, the duke, and Don Ferrante walked about the city masked, and afterwards we went to the duchess's house, where there was dancing. Everywhere in Rome, from morning till night, one sees nothing but courtesans wearing masks, for after the clock strikes the twenty-fourth hour they are not permitted to show themselves abroad." Although the marriage had been performed in Ferrara by proxy, Alexander wished the service to be said again in Rome. To prevent repetition, the ceremony in Ferrara had been performed only _vis volo_, the exchange of rings having been deferred. On the evening of December 30th, the Ferrarese escorted Madonna Lucretia to the Vatican. When Alfonso's bride left her palace she was accompanied by her entire court and fifty maids of honor. She was dressed in gold brocade and crimson velvet trimmed with ermine; the sleeves of her gown reached to the floor; her train was borne by some of her ladies; her golden hair was confined by a black ribbon, and about her neck she wore a string of pearls with a pendant consisting of an emerald, a ruby, and a large pearl. Don Ferrante and Sigismondo led her by the hands; when the train set forth a body of musicians stationed on the steps of S. Peter's began to play. The Pope, on the throne in the Sala Paolina, surrounded by thirteen cardinals and his son Cæsar, awaited her. Among the foreign representatives present were the ambassadors of France, Spain, and Venice; the German envoy was absent. The ceremony began with the reading of the mandate of the Duke of Ferrara, after which the Bishop of Adria delivered the wedding sermon, which the Pope, however, commanded to be cut short.[136] A table was placed before him, and by it stood Don Ferrante--as his brother's representative--and Donna Lucretia. Ferrante addressed the formal question to her, and on her answering in the affirmative, he placed the ring on her finger with the following words: "This ring, illustrious Donna Lucretia, the noble Don Alfonso sends thee of his own free will, and in his name I give it thee"; whereupon she replied, "And I, of my own free will, thus accept it." The performance of the ceremony was attested by a notary. Then followed the presentation of the jewels to Lucretia by Cardinal Ippolito. The duke, who sent her a costly present worth no less than seventy thousand ducats, attached special weight to the manner in which it was to be given her. On December 21st he wrote his son that in presenting the jewels he should use certain words which his ambassador Pozzi would give him, and he was told that this was done as a precautionary measure, so that, in case Donna Lucretia should prove untrue to Alfonso, the jewels would not be lost.[137] Until the very last, the duke handled the Borgias with the misgivings of a man who feared he might be cheated. On December 30th Pozzi wrote him: "There is a document regarding this marriage which simply states that Donna Lucretia will be given, for a present, the bridal ring, but nothing is said of any other gift. Your Excellency's intention, therefore, was carried out exactly. There was no mention of any present, and your Excellency need have no anxiety." Ippolito performed his part so gracefully that the Pope told him he had heightened the beauty of the present. The jewels were in a small box which the cardinal first placed before the Pope and then opened. One of the keepers of the jewels from Ferrara helped him to display the gems to the best advantage. The Pope took the box in his own hand and showed it to his daughter. There were chains, rings, earrings, and precious stones beautifully set. Especially magnificent was a string of pearls--Lucretia's favorite gem. Ippolito also presented his sister-in-law with his gifts, among which were four beautifully chased crosses. The cardinals sent similar presents. After this the guests went to the windows of the salon to watch the games in the Piazza of S. Peter; these consisted of races and a mimic battle for a ship. Eight noblemen defended the vessel against an equal number of opponents. They fought with sharp weapons, and five people were wounded. This over, the company repaired to the Chamber of the Parrots, where the Pope took his position upon the throne, with the cardinals on his left, and Ippolito, Donna Lucretia, and Cæsar on his right. El Prete says: "Alexander asked Cæsar to lead the dance with Donna Lucretia, which he did very gracefully. His Holiness was in continual laughter. The ladies of the court danced in couples, and extremely well. The dance, which lasted more than an hour, was followed by the comedies. The first was not finished, as it was too long; the second, which was in Latin verse, and in which a shepherd and several children appeared, was very beautiful, but I have forgotten what it represented. When the comedies were finished all departed except his Holiness, the bride, and her brother-in-law. In the evening the Pope gave the wedding banquet, but of this I am unable to send any account, as it was a family affair." The festivities continued for days, and all Rome resounded with the noise of the carnival. During the closing days of the year Cardinal Sanseverino and Cæsar presented some plays. The one given by Cæsar was an eclogue, with rustic scenery, in which the shepherd sang the praises of the young pair, and of Duke Ercole, and the Pope as Ferrara's protector.[138] The first day of the new year (1502) was celebrated with great pomp. The various quarters of Rome organized a parade in which were thirteen floats led by the gonfalonier of the city and the magistrates, which passed from the Piazza Navona to the Vatican, accompanied by the strains of music. The first car represented the triumph of Hercules, another Julius Cæsar, and others various Roman heroes. They stopped before the Vatican to enable the Pope and his guests to admire the spectacle from the windows. Poems in honor of the young couple were declaimed, and four hours were thus passed. Then followed comedies in the Chamber of the Parrots. Subsequently a _moresca_ or ballet was performed in the "sala of the Pope," whose walls were decorated with beautiful tapestries which had been executed by order of Innocent VIII. Here was erected a low stage decorated with foliage and illuminated by torches. The lookers-on took their places on benches and on the floor, as they preferred. After a short eclogue, a _jongleur_ dressed as a woman danced the _moresca_ to the accompaniment of tamborines, and Cæsar also took part in it, and was recognized in spite of his disguise. Trumpets announced a second performance. A tree appeared upon whose top was a Genius who recited verses; these over, he dropped down the ends of nine silk ribbons which were taken by nine maskers who danced a ballet about the tree. This _moresca_ was loudly applauded. In conclusion the Pope asked his daughter to dance, which she did with one of her women, a native of Valencia, and they were followed by all the men and women who had taken part in the ballet.[139] Comedies and _moresche_ were in great favor on festal occasions. The poets of Rome, the Porcaro, the Mellini, Inghirami, and Evangelista Maddaleni, probably composed these pieces, and they may also have taken part in them, for it was many years since Rome had been given such a brilliant opportunity to show her progress in histrionics. Lucretia was showered with sonnets and epithalamia. It is strange that not one of these has been preserved, and also that not a single Roman poet of the day is mentioned as the author of any of these comedies. On January 2d a bull fight was given in the Piazza of S. Peter's. The Spanish bull fight was introduced into Italy in the fourteenth century, but not until the fifteenth had it become general. The Aragonese brought it to Naples, and the Borgias to Rome. Hitherto the only thing of the sort which had been seen was the bull-baiting in the Piazza Navona or on the Testaccio. Cæsar was fond of displaying his agility and strength in this barbarous sport. During the jubilee year he excited the wonder of all Rome by decapitating a bull with a single stroke in one of these contests. On January 2d he and nine other Spaniards, who probably were professional matadors, entered the enclosure with two loose bulls, where he mounted his horse and with his lance attacked the more ferocious one single-handed; then he dismounted, and with the other Spaniards continued to goad the animals. After this heroic performance the duke left the arena to the matadors. Ten bulls and one buffalo were slaughtered. In the evening the _Menæchmi_ of Plautus and other pieces were produced in which was celebrated the majesty of Cæsar and Ercole. The Ferrarese ambassador sent his master an account of these performances which is a valuable picture of the day. This evening the _Menæchmi_ was recited in the Pope's room, and the Slave, the Parasite, the Pandor, and the wife of Menæchmus performed their parts well. The Menæchmi themselves, however, played badly. They had no masks, and there was no scenery, for the room was too small. In the scene where Menæchmus, seized by command of his father-in-law, who thinks he is mad, exclaims that he is being subjected to force, he added: "This passes understanding; for Cæsar is mighty, Zeus merciful, and Hercules kind." Before the performance of this comedy the following play was given: first appeared a boy in woman's clothes who represented Virtue, and another in the character of Fortune. They began to banter each other as to which was the mightier, whereupon Fame suddenly appeared, standing on a globe which rested on a float, upon which were the words, "Gloria Domus Borgiæ." Fame, who also called himself Light, awarded Virtue the prize over Fortune, saying that Cæsar and Ercole by Virtue had overcome Fortune; thereupon he described a number of the heroic deeds performed by the illustrious Duke of Romagna. Hercules with the lion's skin and club appeared, and Juno sent Fortune to attack him. Hercules, however, overcame Fortune, seized her and chained her; whereupon Juno begged him to free her, and he, gracious and generous, consented to grant Juno's request on the condition that she would never do anything which might injure the house of Ercole or that of Cæsar Borgia. To this she agreed, and, in addition, she promised to bless the union of the two houses. Then Roma entered upon another float. She complained that Alexander, who occupied Jupiter's place, had been unjust to her in permitting the illustrious Donna Lucretia to go away; she praised the duchess highly, and said that she was the refuge of all Rome. Then came a personification of Ferrara--but not on a float--and said that Lucretia was not going to take up her abode in an unworthy city, and that Rome would not lose her. Mercury followed, having been sent by the gods to reconcile Rome and Ferrara, as it was in accordance with their wish that Donna Lucretia was going to the latter city. Then he invited Ferrara to take a seat by his side in the place of honor on the float. All this was accompanied by descriptions in polished hexameters, which celebrated the alliance of Cæsar and Ercole, and predicted that together they would overthrow all the latter's enemies. If this prophecy is realized, the marriage will result greatly to our advantage. So we commend ourselves to your Excellency's mercy. Your Highness's servants, JOHANN LUCAS and GERARDUS SARACENUS. JANUARY 2, 1502. Finally the date set for Lucretia to leave--January 6th--arrived. The Pope was determined that her departure should be attended by a magnificent display; she should traverse Italy like a queen. A cardinal was to accompany her as legate, Francesco Borgia, Archbishop of Cosenza, having been chosen for this purpose. To Lucretia he owed his cardinalate, and he was a most devoted retainer; "an elderly man, a worthy person of the house of Borgia," so Pozzi wrote to Ferrara. Madonna was also accompanied by the bishops of Carniola, Venosa, and Orte. Alexander endeavored to persuade many of the nobles of Rome, men and women, to accompany Lucretia, and he succeeded in inducing a large number to do so. The city of Rome appointed four special envoys, who were to remain in Ferrara as long as the festivities lasted--Stefano del Bufalo, Antonio Paoluzzo, Giacomo Frangipane, and Domenico Massimi. The Roman nobility selected for the same purpose Francesco Colonna of Palestrina and Giuliano, Count of Anguillara. There were also Ranuccio Farnese of Matelica and Don Giulio Raimondo Borgia, the Pope's nephew, and captain of the papal watch, together with eight other gentlemen belonging to the lesser nobility of Rome. Cæsar equipped at his own expense an escort of two hundred cavaliers, with musicians and buffoons to entertain his sister on the way. This cavalcade, which was composed of Spaniards, Frenchmen, Romans, and Italians from various provinces, was joined later by two famous men--Ivo d'Allegre and Don Ugo Moncada. Among the Romans were the Chevaliers Orsini; Piero Santa Croce; Giangiorgio Cesarini, a brother of Cardinal Giuliano; and other gentlemen, members of the Alberini, Sanguigni, Crescenzi, and Mancini families. Lucretia herself had a retinue of a hundred and eighty people. In the list--which is still preserved--are the names of many of her maids of honor; her first lady-in-waiting was Angela Borgia, _una damigella elegantisima_, as one of the chroniclers of Ferrara describes her, who is said to have been a very beautiful woman, and who was the subject of some verses by the Roman poet Diomede Guidalotto. She was also accompanied by her sister Donna Girolama, consort of the youthful Don Fabio Orsini. Madonna Adriana Orsini, another woman named Adriana, the wife of Don Francesco Colonna, and another lady of the house of Orsini, whose name is not given, also accompanied Lucretia. It is not likely, however, that the last was Giulia Farnese. A number of vehicles which the Pope had ordered built in Rome and a hundred and fifty mules bore Lucretia's trousseau. Some of this baggage was sent on ahead. The duchess took everything that the Pope permitted her to remove. He refused to have an inventory made, as Beneimbene the notary had advised. "I desire," so he stated to the Ferrarese ambassadors, "that the duchess shall do with her property as she wishes." He had also given her nine thousand ducats to clothe herself and her servants, and also a beautiful sedan-chair of French make, in which the Duchess of Urbino was to have a seat by her side when she joined the cavalcade.[140] While Alexander was praising his daughter's graciousness and modesty, he expressed the wish that her father-in-law would provide her with no courtiers and ladies-in-waiting but those whose character was above question. She had told him--so the ambassadors wrote their master--that she would never give his Holiness cause to be ashamed of her, and "according to our view he certainly never will have occasion, for the longer we are with her, and the closer we examine her life, the higher is our opinion of her goodness, her decorum, and modesty. We see that life in her palace is not only Christian, but also religious."[141] Even Cardinal Ferrante Ferrari ventured to write Ercole--whose servant he had been--a letter in which he spoke of the duke's daughter-in-law in unctuous terms and praised her character to the skies.[142] January 5th the balance of the wedding portion was paid to the Ferrarese ambassadors in cash, whereupon they reported to the duke that everything had been arranged, that his daughter-in-law would bring the bull with her, and that the cavalcade was ready to start.[143] Alexander had decided at what towns they should stop on their long journey. They were as follows: Castelnovo, Civitacastellana, Narni, Terni, Spoleto, and Foligno; it was expected the Duke Guidobaldo or his wife would meet Lucretia at the last-named place and accompany her to Urbino. Thence they were to pass through Cæsar's estates, going by way of Pesaro, Rimini, Cesena, Forli, Faenza, and Imola to Bologna, and from that city to Ferrara by way of the Po. As the places through which they passed would be subjected to very great expense if the entire cavalcade stopped, the retinue was sometimes divided, each part taking a different route. The Pope's brief to the Priors of Nepi shows to what imposition the people were subjected. DEAR SONS: Greeting and the Apostolic Blessing. As our dearly beloved daughter in Christ, the noble lady and Duchess Lucretia de Borgia, who is to leave here next Monday to join her husband Alfonso, the beloved son and first born of the Duke of Ferrara, with a large escort of nobles, two hundred horsemen will pass through your district; therefore we wish and command you, if you value our favor and desire to avoid our displeasure, to provide for the company mentioned above for a day and two nights, the time they will spend with you. By so doing you will receive from us all due approbation. Given in Rome, under the Apostolic seal, December 28, 1501, in the tenth year of our Pontificate.[144] Numerous other places had similar experiences. In every city in which the cavalcade stopped, and in some of those where they merely rested for a short time, Lucretia, in accordance with the Pope's commands, was honored with triumphal arches, illuminations, and processions--all the expense of which was borne by the commune. January 6th Lucretia, leaving her child Rodrigo, her brother Cæsar, and her parents, departed from Rome. Probably only two persons were present when she took leave of Vannozza. None of those who describe the festivities in the Vatican mention this woman by name. The Chamber of the Parrots was the scene of her leave-taking with her father. She remained with the Pope some time, departing on Cæsar's entrance. As she was leaving, Alexander called after her in a loud voice, telling her to be of good cheer, and to write him whenever she wanted anything, adding that he would do more for her now that she had gone from him than he had ever done for her while she was in Rome. Then he went from place to place and watched her until she and her retinue were lost to sight.[145] Lucretia set forth from Rome at three o'clock in the afternoon. All the cardinals, ambassadors, and magistrates of the city accompanied her as far as the Porta del Popolo. She was mounted on a white jennet caparisoned with gold, and she wore a riding habit of red silk and ermine, and a hat trimmed with feathers. She was surrounded by more than a thousand persons. By her side were the princes of Ferrara and the Cardinal of Cosenza. Her brother Cæsar accompanied her a short distance, and then returned to the Vatican with Cardinal Ippolito. Thus Lucretia Borgia departed, leaving Rome and a terrible past behind her forever. FOOTNOTES: [131] Despatch of Giovanni Lucido, in the archives of Mantua. [132] The report of this agent, who signs himself El Prete, is preserved in the archives of Mantua. [133] The Farrarese agent, Bartolomeo Bresciani, who had been sent to Rome on matters connected with the Church, is no less complimentary. He says, la Excell. V. remagnera molto ben satisfacto da questa Illma Madona per essere dotada de tanti costumi et buntade. (To the duke, October 30, 1501.) He informed him also that Lucretia often conversed with a saintly person who had been secluded in the Vatican for eight years. [134] Despatch of Gianluca Pozzi to Ercole, Rome, December 25, 1501. [135] Pozzi to Ercole, Rome, December 25, 1501. [136] Fu necessario che la abreviasse, Gianluca and Gerardo to Ercole, Rome, December 30, 1501. [137] E ciò nello scopo, che se mancasse essa Duchessa verso lo Illmo Don Alfonso non fosse più obbligato di quanto voleva esserlo circa dette gioje. Ercole to Cardinal Ippolito, December 21, 1501. There is a letter of the same date regarding the subject, written by Ercole to Gianluca Pozzi. [138] Pozzi to Ercole, January 1, 1502. Archives of Modena. [139] El Prete to Isabella, Rome, January 2, 1502. [140] Pozzi to Ercole, Rome, December 28, 1501. [141] Pozzi and Saraceni, Rome, December 28, 1501. [142] Rome, January 9, 1502. [143] La Illma Madama Lucrezia porta tutte le bolle piene et in optima forma. Pozzi and Gerardo to Ercole, Rome, January 6, 1502. [144] In the archives of the municipality of Nepi, where I copied the brief from the records. There is a similar letter in the same form and of the same date, addressed to the commune of Trevi, in the city archives of that place. The latter is printed in Tullio Dandolo's Arte christiána--Passeggiate nell' Umbria, 1866, p. 358. [145] Beltrando Costabili to Ercole, Rome, January 6, 1502. BOOK THE SECOND LUCRETIA IN FERRARA CHAPTER I LUCRETIA'S JOURNEY TO FERRARA Although the escort which was taking the Duchess Lucretia to Ferrara traveled by easy stages, the journey was fatiguing; for the roads, especially in winter, were bad, and the weather, even in the vicinity of Rome, was frequently wet and cold. Not until the seventh day did they reach Foligno. As the report which the Ferrarese ambassadors sent their lord from that place contains a vivid description of the journey, we quote it at length: ILLUSTRIOUS AND HONORED MASTER: Although we wrote your Excellency from Narni that we would travel from Terni to Spoleto, and from Spoleto to this place without stopping, the illustrious Duchess and her ladies were so fatigued that she decided to rest a day in Spoleto and another in Foligno. We, therefore, shall not leave here until to-morrow morning, and shall not arrive at Urbino before next Tuesday, that is the eighteenth of the current month, for to-morrow we shall reach Nocera, Saturday Gualdo, Sunday Gubbio, Monday Cagli, and Tuesday Urbino, where we shall rest another day, that is Wednesday. On the twentieth we shall set out for Pesaro, and so on from city to city, as we have already written your Excellency. We feel certain, however, that the duchess will stop frequently to rest, consequently we shall not reach Ferrara before the last of the present or the first of next month, and perhaps not until the second or third. We therefore thought it well to write your Excellency from here, letting you know where we were and where we expected to be, so that you might arrange matters as you thought best. If you wish us not to arrive in Ferrara until the second or third, it would not be difficult so to arrange it; but if you think it would be better for us to reach the city the last of this month or the first of February, write us to that effect, and we will endeavor, as we have hitherto done, to shorten the periods of rest. I mention this because the illustrious Donna Lucretia is of a delicate constitution and, like her ladies, is unaccustomed to the saddle, and because we notice that she does not wish to be worn out when she reaches Ferrara. In all the cities through which her Majesty passes she is received with every show of affection and with great honors, and presented with numerous gifts by the women. Everything is done for her comfort. She was welcomed everywhere and, as she was formerly ruler of Spoleto, she was well known to the people. Her reception here in Foligno was more cordial and accompanied by greater manifestations of joy than anywhere else outside of Rome, for not only did the signors of the city, as the officials of the commune are called, clad in red silk, come on foot to meet her and accompany her to her inn on the Piazza, but at the gate she was confronted by a float upon which was a person representing the Roman Lucretia with a dagger in her hand, who recited some verses to the effect that her Majesty excelled herself in graciousness, modesty, intelligence, and understanding, and that therefore she would yield her own place to her. There was also a float upon which was a cupid, and on the summit, with the golden apple in his hand, stood Paris, who repeated some stanzas, the gist of which was as follows: he had promised the apple to Venus, the only one who excelled both Juno and Pallas in beauty; but he now reversed his decision, and presented it to her Majesty as she, of all women, was the only one who surpassed all the goddesses, possessing greater beauty, wisdom, riches, and power than all three united. Finally, on the Piazza we discovered an armed Turkish galley coming toward us, and one of the Turks, who was standing on the bulwarks, repeated some stanzas of the following import: the sultan well knew how powerful was Lucretia in Italy, and he had sent him to greet her, and to say that his master would surrender everything he had taken from the Christians. We made no special effort to remember these verses, for they were not exactly Petrarchian, and, moreover, the ship did not appear to us to be a very happy idea; it was rather out of place. We must not forget to tell you that all the reigning Baglione came from Perugia and their castles, and were waiting for Lucretia about four miles from Foligno, and that they invited her to go to Perugia. Her Majesty, as we wrote your Excellency from Narni, persists in her wish to journey from Bologna to Ferrara by water to escape the discomfort of riding and traveling by land. His Holiness, our Lord, is so concerned for her Majesty that he demands daily and even hourly reports of her journey, and she is required to write him with her own hand from every city regarding her health. This confirms the statement which has frequently been made to your Excellency--that his Holiness loves her more than any other person of his blood. We shall not neglect to make a report to your Excellency regarding the journey whenever an opportunity offers. Between Terni and Spoleto, in the valley of the Strettura, one of the hostlers of the illustrious Don Sigismondo engaged in a violent altercation about some turtle doves with one of his fellows in the service of the Roman Stefano dei Fabii, who is a member of the duchess's escort. Both grasped their arms, whereupon one Pizaguerra, also in the service of the illustrious Don Sigismondo, happening to ride by on his horse, wounded Stefano's hostler on the head. Thereupon Stefano, who is naturally quarrelsome and vindictive, became so angry that he declared he would accompany the cavalcade no farther. About this time we reached the castle of Spoleto, and he passed the illustrious Don Sigismondo and Don Ferrante without speaking to them or even looking at them. The whole affair was due to a misunderstanding which we all regretted very much, and as Pizaguerra and Don Sigismondo's hostler had fled, there was nothing more to be done; the Cardinal of Cosenza, the illustrious Madonna, and all the others agreed that Stefano was in the wrong. He, therefore, was mollified, and continued on the journey. We commend ourselves to your Excellency's mercy. From Foligno, January 13, 1502. Your Majesty's servants, JOHANNES LUCAS and GIRARDUS SARACENUS. POSTSCRIPT: The worthy Cardinal of Cosenza, we understand, is unwilling to pass through the territory of the illustrious Duke of Urbino. From Foligno the journey was continued by way of Nocera and Gualdo to Gubbio, one of the most important cities in the duchy of Urbino. About two miles from that place the Duchess Elisabetta met Lucretia and accompanied her to the city palace. After this the two remained constantly in each other's company, for Elisabetta kept her promise and accompanied Lucretia to Ferrara. Cardinal Borgia returned to Rome from Gubbio, and the two ladies occupied the comfortable sedan-chair which Alexander had presented his daughter. January 18th, when the cavalcade was near Urbino, Lucretia was greeted by Duke Guidobaldo, who had come with his entire court to meet her. He accompanied Lucretia to the residence set apart for her--Federico's beautiful palace--where she and the princes of Este were lodged, the duke and duchess having vacated it for them. The artful Guidobaldo had set up the Borgia arms and those of the King of France in conspicuous places in Urbino and throughout the various cities of his domain. Although Lucretia's wedding was regarded by the Montrefeltre with great displeasure, they now, on account of Ferrara and because of their fear of the Pope, hastened to show her every honor. They had been acquainted with Lucretia in Rome when Guidobaldo, Alexander's condottiere, conducted the unsuccessful war against the Orsini, and they had also known her in Pesaro. Perhaps they now hoped that Urbino's safety would be assured by Lucretia's influence and friendship. However, only a few months were to pass before Guidobaldo and his consort were to be undone by the fiendishness of their guest's brother and driven from their domain. After resting a day, Lucretia and the duchess, accompanied for a short distance by Guidobaldo, set out from Urbino, January 20th, for Pesaro, which they reached late in the evening. The road connecting these cities is now a comfortable highway, traversing a beautiful, undulating country, but at that time it was little more than a bridlepath; consequently the travelers were thoroughly fatigued when they reached their destination. When Lucretia entered the latter city she must have been overcome by painful emotions, for she could not fail to have been reminded of Sforza, her discarded husband, who was now an exile in Mantua, brooding on revenge, and who might appear at any moment in Ferrara to mar the wedding festivities. Pesaro now belonged to her brother Cæsar, and he had given orders that his sister should be royally received in all the cities she visited in his domain. A hundred children clad in his colors--yellow and red--with olive branches in their hands, greeted her at the gates of Pesaro with the cry, "Duca! Duca! Lucretia! Lucretia!" and the city officials accompanied her to her former residence.[146] Lucretia was received with every evidence of joy by her former subjects, and the most prominent of the noble women of the city, among whom was the matron Lucretia Lopez, once her lady-in-waiting, and now wife of Gianfrancesco Ardizi.[147] Lucretia remained a day in Pesaro without allowing herself to be seen. In the evening she permitted the ladies of her suite to dance with those of the city, but she herself took no part in the festivities. Pozzi wrote the duke that she spent the entire time in her chamber "for the purpose of washing her head, and because she was naturally inclined to solitude." Her seclusion while in Pesaro may be explained as more likely due to the gloomy thoughts which filled her mind.[148] In every town belonging to the Duke of Romagna there was a similar reception; everywhere the magistrates presented Lucretia with the keys of the city. She was now accompanied by her brother's lieutenant in Cesena, Don Ramiro d'Orco,--a monster who was quartered by Cæsar's orders a few months later. Passing Rimini and Cesena she reached Forli, January 25th. The salon of the palace was hung with costly tapestries, and even the ceiling was covered with many-colored cloth; a tribune was erected for the ladies. Presents of food, sweetmeats, and wax tapers were offered the duchess. In spite of the stringent laws which Cæsar's rectors, especially Ramiro, had passed, bands of robbers made the roads unsafe. Fearing that the bold bandit Giambattista Carraro might overtake the bridal train after it had left the boundaries of Cervia, a guard of a thousand men on foot and a hundred and fifty troopers was furnished by the people, apparently as an escort of honor.[149] In Faenza Lucretia announced that she would be obliged to spend Friday in Imola to wash her head, as she would not have an opportunity to do this again until the end of the carnival. This washing of the head, which we have already had occasion to notice as an important part of the toilet in those days, must, therefore, have been in some manner connected with dressing the hair.[150] The Ferrarese ambassador spoke of this practice of Lucretia's as a repeated obstacle which might delay the entrance of her Majesty into Ferrara until February 2d. Don Ferrante likewise wrote from Imola that she would rest there a day to put her clothes in order and wash her head, which, said she, had not been done for eight days, and she, therefore, was suffering with headache.[151] On the way from Faenza to Imola the cavalcade stopped at Castle Bolognese, which had been abandoned by Giovanni Bentivoglio when he was threatened by Cæsar. They found the walls of the town razed, the moat filled up, and even its name changed to Cesarina. After resting a day in Imola the cavalcade set out January 28th for Bologna. When they reached the borders of the territory belonging to the city they were met by Bentivoglio's sons and his consort Ginevra, with a brilliant retinue, and two miles from the city gate Giovanni himself was waiting to greet them. The tyrant of Bologna, who owed his escape from Cæsar wholly to the protection of the French, spared nothing to honor his enemy's sister. Accompanied by several hundred riders, he led her in triumph through the city, where the arms of the Borgias, of Cæsar, the Pope, and Lucretia, and those of France, and of the Este met her eye on every side. The proud matron Ginevra, surrounded by a large number of noble ladies, received Lucretia at the portals of her magnificent palace. How this famous woman, the aunt of Giovanni Sforza of Pesaro, must in her soul have hated this Borgia! However, it was neither Alexander nor Cæsar, but Giuliano della Rovere, subsequently Julius II, who was destined, only four years later, to drive her and all her race from Bologna forever. January 30th was devoted to gorgeous festivities, and in the evening the Bentivoglio gave a ball and a banquet. The following day they accompanied Lucretia for a part of the way, as it was her purpose to continue her journey to Ferrara, which now was not far distant, by boat on the canal, which at that time ran from Bologna to the Po. The same day--January 31st--towards evening, Lucretia reached Castle Bentivoglio, which was but twenty miles from Ferrara. She had no sooner arrived at that place than her consort Alfonso suddenly appeared. She was greatly overcome, but promptly recovered herself and received him "with many professions of esteem and most graciously," to all of which he responded with great gallantry.[152] Hitherto the hereditary Prince of Ferrara had sullenly held aloof from the wife that had been forced upon him. Men of that age had not a trace of the tenderness or sentimentality of those of to-day, but, even admitting this, it is certainly strange that there is no evidence of any correspondence between Lucretia and Alfonso during the time the marriage was being arranged, although a great many letters then passed between the duchess and Ercole. Either owing to a desire to please his father or to his own curiosity or cunning, the rough and reticent Alfonso now threw off his reserve. He came in disguise, remained two hours, and then suddenly left for Ferrara. During this short interview he was greatly impressed by his wife. Lucretia in those two hours had certainly brought Alfonso under the spell of her personality, even if she had not completely disarmed him. Not wholly without reason had the gallant burghers of Foligno awarded the apple of Paris to Lucretia. Speaking of this meeting, one of the chroniclers of Ferrara says, "The entire people rejoiced greatly, as did also the bride and her own followers, because his Majesty had shown a desire to see her and had received her so well--an indication that she would be accepted and treated still better."[153] Probably no one was more pleased than the Pope. His daughter immediately informed him of her reception, for she sent him daily letters giving an account of her journey; and he also received numerous despatches from other persons in her train. Up to this time he had felt some misgivings as to her reception by the Este, but now he was relieved. After she had left Rome he frequently asked Cardinal Ferrari to warn the duke to treat his daughter-in-law kindly, remarking, at the same time, that he had done a great deal for her, and would do still more. He declared that the remission of Ferrara's tribute would, if paid for in money, require not less than two hundred thousand ducats, and that the officials of the chancellery had demanded between five and six thousand ducats merely for preparing the bulls. The kings of France and Spain had been compelled to pay the Duke of Romagna a yearly tribute of twenty thousand ducats for the remission of the taxes of Naples, which consisted only in the payment of a single white horse. Ferrara, on the other hand, had been granted everything.[154] The duke replied to the cardinal January 22d, assuring him that his daughter-in-law would meet with a most affectionate reception.[155] FOOTNOTES: [146] Lucretia's colors were yellow and dark brown (morrelo aperto), while Alexander's were yellow and black. [147] Spogli di Giambattista Almerici. i, 284. Ms. in the Oliveriana in Pesaro. [148] Si per attendere a lavarse il capo, como anche per essere assai solitaria et remota di soa natura. Despatch from Rimini, January 22, 1502. [149] Ferrante to Ercole, Rimini, January 23, 1502. [150] The expression is lavarsi il capo. [151] Ferrante to Ercole, Imola, January 27, 1502. [152] Gianluca to Ercole, January 31, 1502. [153] Bernardino Zambotto. See Monsignor Giuseppe Antonelli's work, Lucrezia Borgia in Ferrara, sposa a Don Alfonso d'Este, Memorie storiche.... Ferrara, 1867. [154] The ambassador Beltrando Costabili to Duke Ercole, Rome, January 7, 1502. [155] The duke to his ambassador in Rome, Ferrara, January 22, 1502, in the Minute Ducali a Costabili Beltrando Oratore a Roma. CHAPTER II FORMAL ENTRY INTO FERRARA February 1st Lucretia continued her journey to Ferrara by the canal. Near Malalbergo she found Isabella Gonzaga waiting to meet her. At the urgent request of her father, the marchioness, much against her will, had come to do the honors during the festivities in his palace. "In violent anger," so she wrote her husband, who remained at home, she greeted and embraced her sister-in-law. She accompanied her by boat to Torre della Fossa, where the canal empties into a branch of the Po. This river, a majestic stream, flows four miles from Ferrara, and only a branch--Po di Ferrara--now known as the Canale di Cento, reaches the city, where it divides into two arms, the Volano and Primaro, both of which empty into the Adriatic. They are very small canals, and, therefore, it could have been no pleasure to travel on them, nor was it an imposing spectacle. The duke, with Don Alfonso and his court, awaited Lucretia at Torre della Fossa. When she left the boat the duke saluted her on the cheek, she having first respectfully kissed his hand. Thereupon, all mounted a magnificently decorated float, to which the foreign ambassadors and numerous cavaliers came to kiss the bride's hand. To the strains of music and the thunder of cannon the cavalcade proceeded to the Borgo S. Luca, where they all descended. Lucretia took up her residence in the palace of Alberto d'Este, Ercole's illegitimate brother. Here she was received by Lucretia Bentivigolio, natural daughter of Ercole, and numerous ladies of her court. The duke's seneschal brought to her Madonna Teodora and twelve young women who were to serve her as ladies-in-waiting. Five beautiful carriages, each drawn by four horses, a present from her father-in-law, were placed at her disposal. In this villa, which is no longer in existence, Lucretia spent the night. The suburb of S. Luca is still there, but the entire locality is so changed that it would be impossible to recognize it. The seat of the Este was thronged with thousands of sightseers, some of whom had been invited by the duke and others drawn thither by curiosity. All the vassals of the State, but not the reigning princes, were present. The lords of Urbino and Mantua were represented by the ladies of their families, and the house of Bentivoglio by Annibale. Rome, Venice, Florence, Lucca, Siena, and the King of France had sent ambassadors, who were lodged in the palaces of the nobles. The Duke of Romagna had remained in Rome and sent a representative. It had been Alexander's wish that Cæsar's wife, Charlotte d'Albret, should come from France to attend the wedding festivities in Ferrara and remain a month, but she did not appear. With royal extravagance Ercole had prepared for the festivities; the magazines of the court and the warehouses of the city had been filled with supplies for weeks past. Whatever the Renaissance had to offer, that she provided in Ferrara; for the city was the seat of a cultivated court and the home of a hospitable bourgeoisie, and also a town where science, art, and industry thrived. Lucretia's entrance, February 2d, was, therefore, one of the most brilliant spectacles of the age, and, as far as she herself was concerned, it was the greatest moment of her life; for she was entering into the enjoyment of the highest and best of which her nature was capable. At two o'clock in the afternoon, the duke and all the ambassadors betook themselves to Alberto's villa to fetch his daughter-in-law to the city. The cavalcade set out over the bridge, crossing the branch of the Po, to pass through the gate of Castle Tedaldo, a fortress no longer in existence. At its head were seventy-five mounted archers in the livery of the house of Este--white and red--who were accompanied by eighty trumpeters and a number of fifes. Then came the nobility of Ferrara without regard to rank, followed by the members of the courts of the Marchioness of Mantua, who remained behind in the palace, and of the Duchess of Urbino. Behind them rode Alfonso, with his brother-in-law, Annibale Bentivoglio, at his side, and accompanied by eight pages. He was dressed in red velvet in the French fashion, and on his head he wore a black velvet biretta, upon which was an ornament of wrought gold. He wore small red boots and French gaiters of black velvet. His bay horse was caparisoned in crimson and gold. On the way to Ferrara, Don Alfonso did not ride by the side of his consort as this would have been contrary to the etiquette of the day. The bridegroom led the procession, near the middle of which was the bride, while the father-in-law came last. This arrangement was intended to indicate that Lucretia was the chief personage in the parade. Just behind Alfonso came her escort, pages, and court officials, among whom were several Spanish cavaliers; then five bishops, followed by the ambassadors according to rank; the four deputies of Rome, mounted upon beautiful horses and wearing long brocade cloaks and black birettas coming next. These were followed by six tambourines and two of Lucretia's favorite clowns. Then came the bride herself, radiantly beautiful and happy, mounted upon a white jennet with scarlet trappings, and followed by her master of horse. Lucretia was dressed in a loose-sleeved camorra of black velvet with a narrow gold border, and a cape of gold brocade trimmed with ermine. On her head she wore a sort of net glittering with diamonds and gold--a present from her father-in-law. She did not wear a diadem. About her neck she had a chain of pearls and rubies which had once belonged to the Duchess of Ferrara--as Isabella noticed with tears in her eyes. Her beautiful hair fell down unconfined on her shoulders. She rode beneath a purple baldachin, which the doctors of Ferrara--that is, the members of the faculties of law, medicine, and mathematics--supported in turn. For the purpose of honoring the King of France, the protector of Ferrara and of the Borgias, Lucretia had summoned the French ambassador, Philipp della Rocca Berti, to ride at her left, near her, but not under the baldachin. This was intended to show that it was owing to this powerful monarch that the bride was entering the palace of the Este. Behind Lucretia came the duke, in black velvet, on a dark horse with trappings of the same material. On his right was the Duchess of Urbino clad in a dark velvet gown.[156] Then followed nobles, pages, and other personages of the house of Este, each of whom was accompanied by one of Lucretia's ladies. The only important member of the family not present was Cardinal Ippolito, who had remained in Rome, and who, from that city, wrote Lucretia, January 16th, saying he had called on her son Rodrigo and found him asleep. February 9th he wrote that the Pope had invited Cæsar and himself together with Cardinal Borgia and the Signora Principessa--this was Sancia--to supper.[157] Of the women who accompanied Lucretia, only three were mounted--Girolama Borgia, wife of Fabio Orsini; another Orsini, who is not described more explicitly; and Madonna Adriana, "a widowed noblewoman, a kinswoman of the Pope."[158] Behind them came fourteen floats upon which were seated a number of the noble women of Ferrara, beautifully dressed, including the twelve young ladies who had been allotted to Lucretia as maids of honor. Then followed two white mules and two white horses decked with velvet and silk and costly gold trappings. Eighty-six mules accompanied the train bearing the bride's trousseau and jewels. When the good people of Ferrara saw them slowly wending their way through the streets, they must have thought that Alfonso had chosen a rich bride. It never occurred to them that these chests, boxes, and bales which were being carried through the streets with such ostentation were filled with the plunder of various cities of Christendom. At the gate near Castle Tedaldo, Lucretia's horse was frightened by the discharge of a cannon, and the chief actor was thrown. The bride rose without assistance, and the duke placed her upon another horse, whereupon the cortege started again. In honor of Lucretia there were triumphal arches, tribunes, orations, and mythological scenes. Among the last was a procession of nymphs, with their queen at their head, riding upon a bull, with satyrs disporting themselves about her. Sannazzaro may have thought that the epigram in which he had referred to Giulia Farnese as Europa on the bull suggested this representation of the Borgia arms. When the cavalcade reached the Piazza before the church, two rope-walkers descended from the towers and addressed compliments to the bride; thus was the ludicrous introduced into public festivities at that time. It was now night, and the procession had reached the palace of the duke, and at the moment it did so all prisoners were given their liberty. At this point all the trumpeters and fifes were massed. It is impossible to tell exactly where the palace was situated to which Lucretia was conducted. The Este had built a number of residences in the city, which they occupied in turn. Among them were Schifanoja, Diamanti, Paradiso, Belvedere, Belfiore, and Castle Vecchio. A local chronicler in the year 1494 mentions, in enumerating the palaces of the lords of the house of Este, the Palazzo del Cortile and Castle Vecchio as belonging to the duke; Castle Vecchio to Alfonso and the palace of the Certosa to Cardinal Ippolito.[159] Ercole, therefore, in the year 1502, was residing in one of the two palaces mentioned above, which were connected with each other by a row of structures extending from the old castle to the Piazza before the church, which ended in the Palazzo della Ragione. They are still connected, although the locality has greatly changed. The duke's palace was opposite the church. It had a large court with a marble stairway, and was therefore called the Palazzo del Cortile. This court is doubtless the one now known as the Cortile Ducale. It was entered from the Piazza through a high archway, at the sides of which were columns which formerly supported statues of Niccolò III and Borso. The writers who describe Lucretia's entrance into the city say that she dismounted from her horse at the steps of the marble court (a le scale del Cortile di Marmo). Here she was received by the Marchioness Gonzaga and numerous other prominent ladies. Alfonso's young wife must have smiled--if in the excitement of the moment she noticed it--when she found that the noble house of Este had selected such a large number of their bastard daughters to welcome her. She was greeted at the stairway by Lucretia, Ercole's natural daughter, wife of Annibale Bentivoglio, and three illegitimate daughters of Sigismondo d'Este--Lucretia, Countess of Carrara; the beautiful Diana, Countess of Uguzoni; and Bianca Sanseverino.[160] It was night, and lights and torches illuminated the palace. To the sound of music the young couple was conducted to the reception hall, where they took their places on a throne. Here followed the formal introduction of the court officials, and an orator delivered a speech apparently based upon the information which the duke had instructed his ambassadors to secure regarding the house of Borgia. It is not known who was the fortunate orator, but we are familiar with the names of some of the poets who addressed epithalamia to the beautiful princess. Nicolaus Marius Paniciatus composed a number of spirituelle Latin poems and epigrams in honor of Lucretia, Alfonso, and Ercole, which were collected under the title of "Borgias." Among them are some ardent wishes for the prosperity of the young couple. Lucretia's beauty is described as excelling that of Helen because it was accompanied by incomparable modesty.[161] Apparently this youthful poet did not have his stanzas printed, for they exist only in a manuscript in the library of Ferrara. Before Lucretia's entry the printer Laurentius published an epithalamium by a young Latinist, the celebrated Celio Calcagnini, who subsequently became famous as a mathematician. He was a favorite of Cardinal Ippolito, and a friend of the great Erasmus. The subject matter of the poem is very simple. Venus leaves Rome and accompanies Lucretia. Mnemosyne admonishes her daughters, the Muses, to celebrate the noble princess, which they accordingly do. The princes of the house are not forgotten, for Euterpe sings the praises of Ercole, Terpsicore lauds Alfonso, and Caliope recites Cæsar's victories in the Romagna.[162] Another Ferrarese poet makes his appearance on this occasion, a man of whom much was expected, Ariosto, who was then twenty-seven years old, and already known at the court of the Este and in the cultivated circles of Italy as a Latinist and a writer of comedies. He also wrote an epithalamium addressed to Lucretia. It is graceful, and not burdened with mythological pedantry, but it lacks invention. The poet congratulates Ferrara,--which will henceforth be the envy of all other cities,--for having won an incomparable jewel. He sympathizes with Rome for the loss of Lucretia, saying that it has again fallen into ruins.[163] He describes the young princess as "pulcherrima virgo," and refers to Lucretia of ancient times. On the conclusion of the festivities which greeted her on her arrival, the duke accompanied Lucretia to the apartments which had been prepared for her. She must have been pleased with her reception by the house of Este, and the impression made by her own personality was most favorable. The chronicler Bernardino Zambotto speaks of her as follows: "The bride is twenty-four years of age (this is incorrect); she has a beautiful countenance, sparkling and animated eyes; a slender figure; she is keen and intellectual, joyous and human, and possesses good reasoning powers. She pleased the people so greatly that they are perfectly satisfied with her, and they look to her Majesty for protection and good government. They are truly delighted, for they think that the city will greatly profit through her, especially as the Pope will refuse her nothing, as is shown by the portion he gave her, and by presenting Don Alfonso with certain cities." Lucretia's face, judging by the medal, must have been fascinating. Cagnolo of Parma describes her as follows: "She is of medium height and slender figure. Her face is long, the nose well defined and beautiful; her hair a bright gold, and her eyes blue; her mouth is somewhat large, the teeth dazzlingly white; her neck white and slender, but at the same time well rounded. She is always cheerful and good-humored."[164] To indicate the color of the eyes, Cagnolo uses the word "bianco," which in the language of the people still means blue. In the folk songs of Tuscany collected by Tigri, there is frequent mention of _occhi bianchi_,--that is, "blue eyes." The Florentine Firenzuola, in his work on "the perfect beauty of woman," says she must have blond hair and blue eyes, with the pupil not quite black, although the Greeks and Italians preferred it so. The most beautiful color for the eyes, according to this writer, is tané.[165] The poets of Ferrara, who immediately began to sing the dazzling power of the eyes of their beautiful duchess, did not mention their color. This remarkable woman charmed all beholders with her indescribable grace, to which there was added something of mystery, and not by any classic beauty or dignity. Vivacity, gentleness, and amiability are the qualities which all Lucretia's contemporaries discovered in her.[166] This animated and delicate face, with large blue eyes, and surrounded with golden hair, suggests the ethereal beauty of Shakespeare's Imogene. [Illustration: ARIOSTO. From a painting by Titian.] FOOTNOTES: [156] Isabella Gonzaga, who watched the parade from a window of the palace, describes this scene to the duke. Letter to her husband, Ferrara, February 2d, in the Archivio Storico Ital. App. ii, 305. Her report excels in some particulars the picture given by Marino Sanuo (Diar. vol. iv, fol. 104, sq.). Ordine di le pompe e spectaculi di le noze de mad. Lucretia Borgia. Reprinted in Rawdon Brown's Ragguaglio sulla vita e le opere di M. Sanudo, ii, 197, sq. [157] Letters in the archives of Modena. [158] This is according to Isabella Gonzaga; Cagnolo's report mentioned, instead of this woman, another Adriana, the wife of Francesco Colonna of Palestrina. [159] Ms. chronicle of Mario Equicola in the library of Ferrara, in the University, formerly the Paradiso. [160] Paolo Zerbinati, Memorie, Ms. in the library of Ferrara, p. 3. [161] The Ms. is in the library of Ferrara: Nicolai Marii Paniciati ferrariensis, Borgias. Ad. Excell. D. Lucretiam Borgiarm III. Alphonsi Estensis Sponsam celeber MDII. One epigram is as follows: Tyndaridem jactant Heroica secula cujus Armavit varies forma superba Duces, Haec collata tibi, merito Luoretia cedit, Nam tuus omne Helenes lumen obumbrat honor: Illa neces populis, diuturnaque bella paravit: Tu bona tranquillae pacis opima refers. Moribus illa suis speciem temeravit honestam: Innumeris speciem dotibus ipsa colis: Ore deam præstas: virtute venustior alma: Foeda Helenæ facies æquiparata tuæ. [162] Cælii Calcagnini Ferrariensis. In Illustriss. Divi Alphonsi Primogeniti Herculis Ducis Ferr. ac Divæ Lucretiæ Borgiæ Nuptias Epithalamium. Laurentius de Valentia Imprimebat Ferrariæ Deo Opt. Max. Favente. Calend. Febr. MDII. [163] Est levis hæc jactura tamen, ruat hoc quoque quicquid Est reliquum, juvet et nudis habitare sub antris, Vivere dura liceat tecum pulcherrima virgo. Ludovici Areosti Ferrariensis Epithalamion, in vol. i of Carmina Illustrium Poetarum Italorum, p. 342-346. [164] Di mediocre statura, gracile in aspetto, di faccia alquanto lunga, il naso profilato e bello, li capelli aurei, gli occhi bianchi, la bocca alquanto grande con li denti candidissimi; la gola schietta e bianca ornata con decente valore, ed in essere continuamente allegra e ridente. See Lucrezia Borgia in Ferrara. Ferrara, 1867. [165] Agnolo Firenzuola, vol. i. Della perfetto bellezza di una donna. [166] Fu essa Lucrezia di venusto e mansueto aspetto, prudente, di gratissime maniere negli atti, e nel parlare di molta grazia e allegrezza, says Alfonso's secretary, Bonaventura Pistofilo, in his Vita di Alfonso I d'Este. The epithets venusta, gentile, graziosa, amabile, are conferred upon her by all her contemporaries. CHAPTER III FÊTES GIVEN IN LUCRETIA'S HONOR The wedding festivities in Ferrara continued for six days during the carnival. At the period of the Renaissance, court functions and festivities, so far as the intellectual part is concerned, were not unlike those of the present day; but the magnificent costumes, the highly developed sense of material beauty, and the more elaborate etiquette of the age which gave birth to Castiglione's _Cortegiano_ lent these festivities a higher character. The sixteenth century was far behind our own in many of its productions--theatrical performances, displays of fireworks, and concert music. There were illuminations, and mounted torchlight processions; and rockets were frequently used; but an illuminated garden fête such as the Emperor of Austria gave for the Shah of Persia at Schönbrunn would at that time have been impossible. The same might be said of certain forms of musical entertainment; for example, concerts. Society in that age would have shuddered at the orchestral music of to-day, and the ear-splitting drums would have appeared barbarous to the Italians of the Renaissance, just as would the military parades, which are still among the favorite spectacles with which distinguished guests are either honored or intimidated at the great courts of Europe. Even then tourneys were rare, although there were occasional combats of gladiators, whose costumes were greatly admired. The duke and his master of ceremonies had spent weeks in preparing the program for the wedding festivities, although these did not admit of any great variety, being limited as they are now to banquets, balls, and theatrical productions. It was from the last-named form of entertainment that Ercole promised himself the most, and which, he expected, would win for him the applause of the cultivated world. He was one of the most active patrons of the theater during the Renaissance. Several years before he had commissioned the poets at his court to translate some of the plays of Plautus and Terence into _terza rima_, and had produced them. Guarino, Berardo, Collenuccio, and even Bojordo had been employed in this work by him. As early as 1486 an Italian version of the _Menæchmi_, the favorite play of Plautus, had been produced in Ferrara. In February, 1491, when Ercole, with most brilliant festivities, celebrated the betrothal of his son Alfonso and Anna Sforza, the _Menæchmi_ and one of the comedies of Terence were given. The _Amphitryon_, which Cagnolo had prepared for the stage, was also played. There was no permanent theater in Ferrara, but a temporary one had been erected which served for the production of plays which were given only during the carnival and on other important occasions. Ercole had arranged a salon in the palace of the Podestà--a Gothic building opposite the church--which is still standing and is known as the Palazzo della Ragione. The salon was connected with the palace itself by a passage way. A raised stage called the tribune was erected. It was about one hundred and twenty feet long and a hundred and fifty feet wide. It had houses of painted wood, and whatever was necessary in the way of scenery, rocks, trees, etc. It was separated from the audience by a wooden partition in which was a sheet-metal curtain. On the forward part of the stage--the orchestra--sat the princes and other important personages, and in the amphitheater were thirteen rows of cushioned seats, those in the middle being occupied by the women, and those at the sides by the men. This space accommodated about three thousand people. According to Strozzi, Ariosto, Calcagnini, and other humanists of Ferrara, it was Ercole himself who constructed this theatre. They and other academicians probably took part in the performances, but the duke also brought actors from abroad, from Mantua, Siena, and Rome. They numbered in all no less than a hundred and ten persons, and it was necessary to build a new dressing-room for them. The theatrical performances on this brilliant occasion must, therefore, have aroused great expectations. The festivities began February 3d, and it was soon apparent that the chief attraction would be the beauty of three famous women--Lucretia, Isabella, and the Duchess of Urbino. They were regarded as the three handsomest women of the age, and it was difficult to decide which was the fairer, Isabella or Lucretia. The Duchess of Mantua was six years older than her sister-in-law, but a most beautiful woman, and with feminine curiosity she studied Lucretia's appearance. In the letters which she daily wrote to her husband in Mantua, she carefully described the dress of her rival, but said not a word regarding her personal charms. "Concerning Donna Lucretia's figure," so she wrote February 1st, "I shall say nothing, for I am aware that your Majesty knows her by sight." She was unable to conceal her vanity, and in another letter, written February 3d, she gave her husband to understand that she hoped, so far as her own personality and her retinue were concerned, to be able to stand comparison with any of the others and even to bear away the prize. One of the ladies of her suite, the Marchesana of Cotrone, wrote the duke, saying, "The bride is not especially handsome, but she has an animated face, and in spite of her having such a large number of ladies with her, and notwithstanding the presence of the illustrious lady of Urbino, who is very beautiful, and who clearly shows that she is your Excellency's sister, my illustrious mistress Isabella, according to our opinion and of those who came with the Duchess of Ferrara, is the most beautiful of all. There is no doubt about this; compared with her Majesty, all the others are as nothing. Therefore we shall bring the prize home to the house of our mistress."[167] The first evening of the festivities a ball was given in the great salon of the palace at which the attendance was so large that many were unable to gain admission. Lucretia was enthroned upon a tribune, and near her were the princesses of Mantua and Urbino. Other prominent ladies and the ambassadors also came and took up a position near her. The guests, therefore, in spite of the crowd, had a chance to admire the beautiful women, and their gowns and jewels. During the Renaissance, balls were less formal than they are now. Pleasures then were more natural and simple; frequently the ladies danced with each other, and sometimes even alone. The dances were almost exclusively French, for even at that time France had begun to impose her customs on all the rest of the world; still there were some Spanish and Italian ones. Lucretia was a graceful dancer, and she was always ready to display her skill. She frequently descended from the tribune and executed Spanish and Roman dances to the sound of the tambourine.[168] The following day the eagerly expected dramatic performances were given. First the duke had the actors appear in masks and costumes for the purpose of reviewing them. The director of the troop then came forward in the character of Plautus and read the program and the argument of each piece which was to be rendered during the five evenings. The selection of comedies by living dramatists in the year 1502 could not have cost the duke much thought, for there were none of any special importance. The _Calandra_ of Dovizi, which a few years later caused such a sensation, was not yet written. It is true Ariosto had already composed his _Cassaria_ and the _Suppositi_, but he had not yet won sufficient renown for him to be honored by their presentation at the wedding festivities.[169] Moreover, the duke would have none but classic productions. He wanted to set all the world talking; and, in truth, Italy had never seen any theatrical performances equal to these. We possess careful descriptions of them which have not yet been incorporated in the history of the stage. They show more clearly than do the reports regarding the Vatican theater in the time of Leo X what was the real nature of theatrical performances during the Renaissance; consequently, they constitute a valuable picture of the times. If one could follow the reports of Gagnolo, Zambotto, and Isabella, and reproduce in imagination the brilliant wedding and the guests in their rich costumes seated in rows, he would behold one of the fairest and most illustrious gatherings of the Renaissance. This scene, rich in form and color, taken in conjunction with the stage, and the performances of the comedies of Plautus, and with the pantomimes and the _moresche_ which occupied the time between the acts, is so romantic that we might imagine ourselves translated to Shakespeare's _Midsummer-Night's Dream_, and that Duke Ercole had changed places with Theseus, Duke of Athens, and that the comedies were being performed before him and the happy bridal pair. According to the program, from February 3d to February 8th--with the exception of one evening--five of the plays of Plautus were to be given. The intermissions were to be devoted to music and _moresche_. The _moresca_ resembled the modern ballet; that is, a pantomime dance. It is of very ancient origin, and traces of it appear in the Middle Ages. At first it was a war dance in costume, which character it preserved for a long time. The name is, I believe, derived from the fact that in all the Latin countries which suffered from the invasions of the Saracens, dances in which the participants were armed and which simulated the battles of the Moor and Christian were executed. The Moors, for the sake of contrast, were represented as black. Subsequently the meaning of the term _moresca_ was extended to include the ballet in general, and all sorts of scenes in which dances accompanied by flutes and violins were introduced. The subjects were derived from mythology, the age of chivalry, and everyday life. There were also comic dances performed by fantastic monsters, peasants, clowns, wild animals, and satyrs, during which blows were freely dealt right and left. The classico-romantic ballet appears to have reached a high development in Ferrara, which was the home of the romantic epics--the _Mambriano_ and the _Orlando_. It is needless to say that the ballet possessed great attraction for the public in those days, just as it now does. The presentation of the comedies of Plautus would have no more effect upon people of this age than would a puppet show. They lasted from four to five hours--from six in the evening until midnight. The first evening the duke conducted his guests into the theater, and when they had taken their seats, Plautus appeared before the bridal couple and addressed some complimentary verses to them. After this the _Epidicus_ was presented. Each act was followed by a ballet, and five beautiful _moresche_ were given during the interludes of the play. First entered ten armed gladiators, who danced to the sound of tambourines; then followed a mimic battle between twelve people in different costumes; the third _moresca_ was led by a young woman upon a car which was drawn by a unicorn, and upon it were several persons bound to the trunk of a tree, while seated under the bushes were four lute players. The young woman loosed the bonds of the captives, who immediately descended and danced while the lute players sang beautiful canzone--at least so says Gagnolo; the cultured Duchess of Mantua, however, wrote that the music was so doleful that it was scarcely worth listening to. Isabella, however, judging by her remarkable letters, was a severe critic, not only of the plays but of all the festivities. The fourth _moresca_ was danced by ten Moors holding burning tapers in their mouths. In the fifth there were ten fantastically dressed men with feathers on their heads, and bearing lances with small lighted torches at their tips. On the conclusion of the _Epidicus_ there was a performance by several jugglers. Friday, February 4th, Lucretia did not appear until the afternoon. In the morning the duke showed his guests about the city, and they went to see a famous saint, Sister Lucia of Viterbo, whom the devout Ercole had brought to Ferrara as a great attraction. Every Friday the five wounds of Christ appeared on the body of this saint. She presented the ambassador of France with a rag with which she had touched her scars, and which Monseigneur Rocca Berti received with great respect. At the castle the duke showed his guests the artillery, to the study of which his son Alfonso was eagerly devoted. Here they waited for Lucretia, who, accompanied by all the ambassadors, soon appeared in the great salon. A dance was given which lasted until six in the evening. Then followed a presentation of the _Bacchides_ which required five hours. Isabella found these performances excessively long and tiresome. Ballets similar to those which accompanied the _Epidicus_ were given; men dressed in flesh-colored tights with torches in their hands, which diffused agreeable odors, danced fantastic figures, and engaged in a battle with a dragon. The following day Lucretia did not appear, as she was engaged in writing letters and in washing her hair, and the guests amused themselves by wandering about the city. No entertainments were given for the populace. The French ambassador, in the name of the King of France, sent presents to the princes of the house. The duke received a golden shield with a picture of S. Francis in enamel, the work of a Parisian artist, which was highly valued; to the hereditary Prince Alfonso was given a similar shield with a portrait of Mary of Magdala, the ambassador remarking that his Majesty had chosen a wife who resembled the Magdalene in character: _Quæ multum meruit, quia multum credidit._ Perhaps presenting Alfonso with a gift suggestive of the Magdalene was an intentional bit of irony on the part of the French king. In addition to this he received a written description of a process for casting cannon. A golden shield was likewise presented to Don Ferrante. Lucretia's gift was a string of gold beads filled with musk, while her charming maid of honor, Angela, was honored with a costly chain. Everything was done to flatter the French ambassador. He was invited to dinner in the evening by the Marchioness of Mantua, and was placed between his hostess and the Duchess of Urbino. The evening was passed, according to Gagnolo, in gallant and cultivated conversation. On leaving the table the marchioness sang the most beautiful songs to the accompaniment of the lute, for the entertainment of the French ambassador. After this she conducted him to her chamber, where, in the presence of two of her ladies-in-waiting, they held an animated conversation for almost an hour, at the conclusion of which she drew off her gloves and presented them to him, "and the ambassador received them with assurances of his loyalty and his love, as they came from such a charming source; he told her that he would preserve them until the end of time, as a precious relic." We may believe Gagnolo, for doubtless the fortunate ambassador regarded this memento of a beautiful woman as no less precious than the rag poor Saint Lucia had given him. Sunday, February 6th, there was a magnificent ceremony in the church; one of the Pope's chamberlains in the name of his Holiness presented Don Alfonso with a hat and also a sword which the Holy Father had blessed, and which the archbishop girded on him at the altar. In the afternoon the princes and the princesses of the house of Este went to Lucretia's apartments to fetch her to the banquet hall. They danced for two hours; Lucretia herself, with one of her ladies-in-waiting, taking part in some French dances. In the evening the _Miles Gloriosus_ was presented; it was followed by a _moresca_ in which ten shepherds with horns on their heads fought with each other. February 7th there was a tourney in the piazza before the church between two mounted knights, one of whom was a native of Bologna and the other a citizen of Imola. No blood was shed. In the evening the _Asinaria_ was presented, together with a wonderful _moresca_ in which appeared fourteen satyrs, one of which carried a silvered ass's head in his hands, in which there was a music-box, to the strains of which the clowns danced. This play of the satyrs was followed by an interlude performed by sixteen vocalists,--men and women,--and a virtuoso from Mantua who played on three lutes. In conclusion there was a _moresca_ in which was simulated the agricultural work of the peasants. The fields were prepared, the seed sown, the grain cut and threshed, and the harvest feast followed. Finally a native dance to the accompaniment of the bagpipe was executed. The last day of the festivities, February 8th, also marked the end of the carnival. The ambassadors, who were soon to depart, presented the bride with costly gifts consisting of beautiful stuffs and silverware. The most remarkable present was brought by the representatives of Venice. The Republic at its own expense had sent two noblemen to the festivities, Niccolò Dolfini and Andrea Foscolo, both of whom were magnificently clothed. In those days dress was as costly as it was beautiful, and the artists who made the clothes for the men and women of the Renaissance would look with contempt upon those of the present time, for in that æsthetic age their productions were works of art. The most magnificent stuffs, velvet, silk, and gold embroidery were used, and painters did not scorn to design the color schemes and the shapes and folds of the garments. Dress, therefore, was a most weighty consideration, and one to which great value was attached, as it indicated the importance of the wearer. All who have left accounts of the festivities in Ferrara describe in detail the costumes worn on each occasion by Donna Lucretia and the other prominent women, and even those of the men. The reports which the Venetians sent home and the description in the diary of Marino Sanuto show how great was the importance attached to these matters. The following is even more striking evidence: before the two ambassadors of Venice set out for Ferrara they were required to appear before the whole senate in their robes of crimson velvet trimmed with fur, and wearing capes of similar material. More than four thousand persons were present in the great council hall, and the Piazza of S. Marco was crowded with people who gazed with wonder on these strange creatures. One of these robes contained thirty-two and the other twenty-eight yards of velvet.[170] Following the instructions of the Seignory of Venice, the ambassadors sent their robes to Duchess Lucretia as a bridal gift.[171] This wonderful gift was presented in the most naive way imaginable. One of the noble gentlemen delivered a Latin oration, and the other followed with a long discourse in Italian; thereupon they retired to an adjoining room, removed their magnificent robes, and sent them to the bride. This present and the pedantry of the two Venetians excited the greatest mirth at the Ferrarese court.[172] In the evening they danced for the last time, and attended the final theatrical performance, the _Casina_. Before the comedy began, music composed by Rombonzino was rendered, and songs in honor of the young couple were sung. Everywhere throughout the _Casina_, musical interludes were introduced. During the intermission six violinists, among them Don Alfonso, the hereditary prince, who was a magnificent amateur performer, played. The violin seems to have been held in great esteem in Ferrara, for when Cæsar Borgia was about to set out for France he asked Duke Ercole for a violin player to accompany him, as they were much sought after in that country.[173] The ballet which followed was a dance of savages contending for the possession of a beautiful woman. Suddenly the god of love appeared, accompanied by musicians, and set her free. Hereupon the spectators discovered a great globe which suddenly split in halves and began to give forth beautiful strains. In conclusion twelve Swiss armed with halberds and wearing their national colors entered, and executed an artistic dance, fencing the while. If this scene, as Cagnolo says, ended the dramatic performances we are forced to conclude that they were exceedingly dull and spiritless. The _moresca_ partook of the character of both the opera and ballet. It was the only new form of spectacle offered during all the festivities. Compared with those which were given in Rome on the occasion of Lucretia's betrothal, they were much inferior. Among the former we noticed several pastoral comedies with allegorical allusions to Lucretia, Ferrara, Cæsar, and Alexander. In spite of the outlay the duke had made, his entertainments lacked novelty and variety, although they probably pleased most of those present. Isabella, however, did not hesitate to mention the fact that she was bored. "In truth," so she wrote her husband, "the wedding was a very cold affair. It seems a thousand years before I shall be in Mantua again, I am so anxious to see your Majesty and my son, and also to get away from this place where I find absolutely no pleasure. Your Excellency, therefore, need not envy me my presence at this wedding; it is so stiff I have much more cause to envy those who remained in Mantua." Apparently the noble lady's opinion was influenced by the displeasure she still felt on account of her brother's marriage with Lucretia, but it may also have been due partly to the character of the festivities themselves, for the marchesa in all her letters complains of their being tiresome.[174] Soon after the conclusion of the festivities the marchioness returned to Mantua; her last letter from Ferrara to her husband is dated February 9th. Her first letter from Mantua to her sister-in-law, which was written February 18th, is as follows: ILLUSTRIOUS LADY: The love which I feel for your Majesty, and my hope that you continue in the same good health in which you were at the time of my departure, cause me to believe that you have the same feelings for me; therefore I inform you--hoping that it will be pleasant news to you--that I returned to this city on Monday in the best of health, and that I found my illustrious consort also well. There is nothing more for me to write but to ask your Majesty to tell me how you are, for I rejoice like an own sister in your welfare. Although I regard it as superfluous to offer you what belongs to you, I will remind you once for all, I and mine are ever at your disposal. I am also much beholden to you, and I ask you to remember me to your illustrious consort, my most honored brother. Lucretia replied to the marchioness's letter as follows: MY ILLUSTRIOUS LADY, SISTER-IN-LAW, AND MOST HONORED SISTER: Although it was my duty to anticipate your Excellency in the proof of affection which you have given me, this neglect on my part only makes me all the more beholden to you. I can never tell you with what pleasure and relief I learned that you had reached Mantua safely and had found your illustrious husband well. May he and your Majesty, with God's help, continue to enjoy all happiness, and the increase of all good things, according to your desires. In obedience to your Majesty's commands I am compelled, and I also desire, to let you know that I, by God's mercy, am well, and shall ever be disposed to serve you. Your devoted sister, who is anxious to serve you, LUCREZIA ESTENSIS DE BORGIA.[175] FERRARA, _February 22, 1502_. These letters, written with diplomatic cunning, are the beginning of the correspondence of these two famous women which was carried on for seventeen years, and which shows that Isabella's displeasure gradually passed away, and that she became a real friend of her sister-in-law. The duke was heartily glad when his guests finally departed. Madonna Adriana, Girolama, and the woman described simply as "an Orsini" seemed in no haste to return to Rome. Alexander had instructed them to remain until Cæsar's wife arrived. They were to wait for her in Lombardy, and then accompany her to Rome. The Duchess of Romagna, however, in spite of the urgent requests of the nuncio, refused to leave France. Her brother, Cardinal d'Albret, reached Ferrara February 6th, and shortly afterwards set out for Rome. Adriana, as a near connection of the Pope and Lucretia, had been treated with the highest respect at Ercole's court, where she had enjoyed a close intimacy with the Marchioness Isabella, as is shown by a letter which the latter addressed to Adriana, February 18th, the same day on which she wrote Lucretia. It is regarding a certain person whom Adriana while in Ferrara had recommended to her in her own name and also in that of Donna Giulia. It, therefore, appears that the anonymous Orsini was not Giulia Farnese. Ercole was exceedingly anxious for the women to leave. In a letter, dated February 14th, to his ambassador in Rome, Costabili, he complains bitterly about their "useless" stay at his court. "I tell you," so he wrote, "that these women by remaining here cause a large number of other persons, men as well as women, to linger, for all wish to depart at the same time, and it is a great burden and causes heavy expense. The retinue of these ladies, taken into consideration with the other people, numbers not far from four hundred and fifty persons and three hundred and fifty horses." Ercole instructed his ambassador to inform the Pope of this, also to tell him that the supplies were about exhausted, and that the Duchess of Romagna would not arrive before Easter, and that he could stand the expense no longer, as the wedding festivities had already cost twenty-five thousand ducats. The Pope should therefore direct the ladies to return. In a postscript to the same letter the duke says: "After the noble ladies of the Duchess of Romagna had been here twelve days, I sent them away because they were impertinent, and because their presence would not do his Holiness or the duchess any good."[176] The troublesome women finally departed. There is a despatch of the orator Girardo Saraceni, dated Rome, May 4th, in which he informs the duke that Monsignor Venosa and Donna Adriana had returned from Ferrara, and had expressed to the Pope their gratitude for the affectionate reception which had been accorded them. February 14th Ercole wrote the Pope a letter whose meaning is perfectly clear, if we eliminate one or two phrases. HOLY FATHER AND MASTER: Before the illustrious Duchess, our daughter, came here, it was my firm determination to receive her, as was meet, with all friendliness and honor, and to show her in every way how great was the affection I felt for her. Now that her Majesty is here, I am so pleased with her on account of the virtues and good qualities which I have discovered in her that I am not only strengthened in that determination, but also am resolved to do even more than I had intended, and all the more because your Holiness has asked me to do so in the autographic letter which you wrote me. Your Holiness need have no fears, for I shall treat the Duchess in such a way that your Holiness will see that I regard her as the most precious jewel I have in the world. FOOTNOTES: [167] Isabella's remarkable letters regarding the marriage festivities in Ferrara are printed in the Notizie di Isabella Estense by Carlo d'Arco. Archivio Storico Ital. App. ii. 223, sq. The letter of the Marchesa of Cotrone of February 1st is in the library of Mantua, and there are several other letters in the archives of that city written by her to Gonzaga regarding the festivities. [168] Qual Madama Sposa danzò molte danze al suono delli suoi Tamburini alla Romanesca e Spagnuola: report of Niccolò Gagnolo of Parma, who had accompanied the French ambassador to Ferrara. Zambotto used this description of the wedding festivities in his chronicle, and it was subsequently reprinted in Lucrezia Borgia in Ferrara, etc. [169] The Cassaria was first produced in 1508, and the Suppositi in 1509. Giuseppe Campori, Notizie per la vita di Lod. Ariosto, 2d ed. Modena, 1871, p. 67. [170] Despatch of the Ferrarese orator, Bartolomeo Cartari, to Ercole, Venice, January 25, 1502. Archives of Modena. [171] Cartari says in the same despatch that the robes he had described were intended for presents. Li Ambasciatori Veneziani le presentarono due vesti grandi in forma di palii velluto Cremesino foderati di ermelini, quali levatesi di sopra loro le presentarono. Cagnolo. [172] Ano dato materia di ridere ad hogni homo cum suo presente. The Marchesana of Cotrone to the Marquis of Mantua, Ferrara, February 8th. [173] Violas arcu pulsantes. Cæsar Borgia to Ercole, Rome, September 3, 1498. [174] See Isabella's letters of February 3d and 5th. [175] Zuccheti reproduces the letter. [176] P.S. Li gentilhomini de lo Illmo. Sig. Duca de Romagna poichè sono stati qui XII giorni sono stati da me licentiate per essere impertinente e senza fructo alcuno a la Santità de N.S. et allo Illmo. Sig. Duca de Romagna. Minute Ducali a Costabili Beltrando, February 14, 1502. CHAPTER IV THE ESTE DYNASTY--DESCRIPTION OF FERRARA On entering the castle of the Este, Lucretia found a new environment, new interests--one might almost say a new world. She was a princess in one of the most important Italian States, and in a strange city, which, during the latter half of the century, had assumed a place of the first importance, for the spirit of Italian culture had there developed new forms. She had been received with the highest honors into a family famous and princely; one of the oldest and most brilliant in the peninsula. It was a piece of supreme good fortune that had brought her to this house, and now she would endeavor to make herself worthy of it. The family of Este, next to that of Savoy, was the oldest and most illustrious in Italy, and it forced the latter into the background by assuming the important position which the State of Ferrara, owing to its geographical position, afforded it. The history of the Este is briefly as follows: These lords, whose name is derived from a small castle between Padua and Ferrara, and who first appeared about the time of the Lombard invasion, were descended from a family whose remote ancestor was one Albert. The names Adalbert and Albert assume in Italian the form Oberto, from which we have the diminutives Obizzo and Azzo. In the tenth century there appears a Marquis Oberto who was first a retainer of King Berengar and later of Otto the Great. It is not known from what domain he and his immediate successors derived their title of marquis; they were, however, powerful lords in Lombardy as well as in Tuscany. One of Oberto's ancestors, Alberto Azzo II, who is originally mentioned as Marchio de Longobardia, governed the territory from Mantua to the Adriatic and the region about the Po, where he owned Este and Rovigo. He married Kunigunde, sister of Count Guelf III of Swabia, and in this way the famous German family of Guelf became connected with the Oberti and drawn into Italian politics. When Alberto Azzo died in the year 1096--more than a hundred years old--he left two sons, Guelf and Folco, who were the founders of the house of Este in Italy and the Guelf house of Braunschweig in Germany, for Guelf inherited the property of his maternal grandfather, Guelf III, in whom the male line of the house became extinct in the year 1055. He went to Germany, where he became Duke of Bavaria and founded the Guelf line. Folco inherited his father's Italian possessions, and in the great struggle of the German emperor with the papacy, the Margraves of Este were aggressive and determined soldiers. At first they were simply members of the Guelf faction, but subsequently they became its leaders, and thus were able to establish their power in Ferrara. The origin of the city is lost in the mists of antiquity. By the gift of Pipin and Charles it passed to the Church. It was also included in the deed of Matilda. In the war between the Pope and the Emperor, occasioned by this gift of Matilda, Ferrara succeeded in regaining its independence as a republic. The Este first appeared there about the end of the twelfth century. Folco's grandson, Azzo V, married Marchesella Adelardi, who was the heir of the leader of the Guelfs in that city, where Salinguerra was the head of the Ghibellines. From that time the Margraves of Este possessed great influence in Ferrara. They were likewise leaders of the Guelf party in the north of Italy. In the year 1208 Azzo VI succeeded in driving Salinguerra out of Ferrara, and the city having wearied of the long feud made the victor its hereditary Podestà. This is the first example of a free republic voluntarily submitting to a lord. In this way the Este established the first tyranny on the ruins of a commune. The brave Salinguerra, one of the greatest captains of Italy in the time of the Hohenstaufen, repeatedly drove Azzo VI and his successor, Azzo VII, from Ferrara, but he himself was finally defeated in 1240 and cast into prison, where he died. Thenceforth the Este ruled Ferrara. About the time of the removal of the papacy to Avignon they were expelled from the city by the Church, but they returned on the invitation of the citizens who had risen against the papal legate. John XXII issued a diploma of investiture by the terms of which they were to hold Ferrara as a fief of the Church on payment of an annual tribute of ten thousand gold ducats. The Este now set themselves up as tyrants in Ferrara, and in spite of numerous wars maintained the dynasty for a great many years. This dominion was not, like that in many other Italian States, due to a lucky stroke on the part of an upstart, but it was ancient, hereditary, and firmly established. It was due to a succession of remarkable princes, beginning with Aldobrandino, Lord of Ferrara, Modena, Rovigo, and Comacchio, that Ferrara succeeded in winning the important position she held at the beginning of the sixteenth century. Aldobrandino was followed by his brothers, Niccolò, from 1361 to 1388, and Alberto until 1393. After that his son Niccolò III, a powerful and bellicose man, ruled until the year 1441. As his legitimate children Ercole and Sigismondo were minors, he was succeeded by his natural son Lionello. This prince not only continued the work begun by his father, but also beautified Ferrara. In the year 1444 the great Alfonso of Naples gave him his daughter Maria as wife, and the Este thus entered into close relations with the royal house of Aragon. Lionello was intelligent and liberal, a patron of all the arts and sciences, a "prince of immortal name." In the year 1450 he was succeeded by his brother Borso, illegitimate like himself, as an effort was being made to displace the legitimate sons of Niccolò II. Borso was one of the most magnificent princes of his age. Frederick II, when he stopped in Ferrara on his return from his coronation in Rome, made him Duke of Modena and Reggio, and Count of Rovigo and Comacchio, all of which territories belonged to the empire. The Este thereupon adopted for their arms, instead of the white eagle they had hitherto borne, the black eagle of the empire, to which were added the lilies of France, the use of which had been granted them by Charles VII. April 14, 1471, Paul VII in Rome created Borso Duke of Ferrara. Soon after this--May 27th--this celebrated prince died unmarried and childless. He was succeeded by Ercole, the legitimate son of Niccolò II, the direct line of the Este thereby reacquiring the government of Ferrara, the importance of the State having been greatly increased by the efforts of the two illegitimate sons. In June, 1473, amid magnificent festivities, Ercole married Eleonora of Aragon, daughter of Ferdinand of Naples. Twenty-nine years--years of conflict--had passed when the second Duke of Ferrara married his son to Lucretia with similar pomp. By putting an end to the war with Venice and Pope Sixtus IV, in the year 1482, Ercole had succeeded in saving his State from the great danger which threatened it, although he had been forced to relinquish certain territory to the Venetians. This danger, however, might arise again, for Venice and the Pope continued to be Ferrara's bitterest enemies. Political considerations, therefore, compelled her to form an alliance with France, whose king already owned Milan and might permanently secure possession of Naples. For the same reason he had married his son to Lucretia on the best terms he was able to make. She, therefore, must have been conscious of her great importance to the State of Ferrara, and this it was which gave her a sense of security with regard to the noble house to which she now belonged. The Duke presented the young couple Castle Vecchio for their residence, and there Lucretia established her court. This stronghold, which is still in existence, is one of the most imposing monuments of the Middle Ages. It overlooks all Ferrara, and may be seen for miles around. Its dark red color; its gloominess, which is partly due to its architectural severity; its four mighty towers--all combine to cause a feeling of fear, especially on moonlight nights, when the shadows of the towers fall on the water in the moat, which still surrounds the castle as in days of old. The figures of the great ones who once lived in the stronghold--Ugo and Parisina Malatesta, Borso, Lucretia Borgia and Alfonso, Renée of France, and Calvin, Ariosto, Alfonso II, the unfortunate Tasso and Eleonora--seem to rise before the beholder. [Illustration: CASTLE VECCHIO AT FERRARA.] The Marchese Niccolò, owing to an uprising of the citizens began Castle Vecchio in the year 1385, and his successor completed it and decorated the interior. It is connected by covered passage-ways with the palace opposite the church. Before Ercole extended Ferrara on the north, the castle marked the boundary of the city. One of the towers, called the Tower of the Lions, protected the city gate. A branch of the Po, which at that time flowed near by, supplied the moat--over which there were several drawbridges--with water. In Lucretia's time only the main features of the stronghold were the same as they are now; the cornices of the towers are of a later date, and the towers themselves were somewhat lower; the walls were embattled like those of the Gonzaga castle in Mantua. Cannon, cast under the direction of Alfonso, were placed at various points. There is an interior quadrangular court with arcades, and there Lucretia was shown the place where Niccolò II had caused his son Ugo and his stepmother, the beautiful Parisina, to be beheaded. This gruesome deed was a warning to Alexander's daughter to be true to her husband. A wide marble stairway led to the two upper stories of the castle, one of which, the lower, consisting of a series of chambers and salons, was set aside for the princes. In the course of time this has suffered so many changes that even those most thoroughly acquainted with Ferrara do not know just where Lucretia's apartments were.[177] Very few of the paintings with which the Este adorned the castle are left. There are still some frescoes by Dossi and another unknown master. The castle was always a gloomy and oppressive residence. It was in perfect accord with the character of Ferrara, which even now is forbidding. Standing on the battlements, and looking across the broad, highly cultivated, but monotonous fields, whose horizon is not attractive, because the Veronese Alps are too far distant, and the Apennines, which are closer, are not clearly defined; and gazing down upon the black mass of the city itself, one wonders how Ariosto's exuberant creation could have been produced here. Greater inspiration would be found in the sky, the land, and the sea of idyllic Sorrento, which was Tasso's birthplace, but this is only another proof of the theory that the poet's fancy is independent of his environment. Ferrara is situated in an unhealthful plain which is traversed by a branch of the Po and several canals. The principal stream does not contribute to the life of the city or its suburbs, as it is several miles distant. The town is surrounded by strong walls in which are four gates. In addition to Castle Vecchio on the north, there was, in Lucretia's time, another at the southwest--Castle Tealto or Tedaldo--which was situated on one of the branches of the Po, and which had a gate opening into the city and a pontoon bridge connecting it with the suburb S. Giorgio. Lucretia had entered by this gate. Nothing is now left of Castle Tedaldo, as it was razed at the beginning of the seventeenth century, when the Pope, having driven out Alfonso's successors, erected the new fortress. Ferrara has a large public square, and regular streets with arcades. The church, which faces the principal piazza, and which was consecrated in the year 1135, is an imposing structure in the Lombardo-Gothic style. Its high façade is divided in three parts and gabled, and it has three rows of half Roman and half Gothic arches supported on columns. With its ancient sculptures, black with time, it presents a strange appearance of mediæval originality and romance. In Ferrara there is now nothing else so impressive on first sight as this church. It seems as if one of the structures of Ariosto's fairy world had suddenly risen before us. Opposite one side of the castle, the Palazzo del Ragione is still standing, and there are also two old towers, one of which is called the Rigobello. Opposite the façade was the Este palace in which Ercole lived, and which Eugene IV occupied when he held the famous council in Ferrara. In front of it rose the monuments of the two great princes of the house of Este, Niccolò III and Borso. One is an equestrian statue, the other a sitting figure; both were placed upon columns, and therefore are small. The crumbling pillars by the entrance archway are still standing, but the statues were destroyed in 1796. The Este vied with the other princes and republics in building churches and convents, of which Ferrara still possesses a large number. In the year 1500 the most important were: S. Domenico, S. Francesco, S. Maria in Vado, S. Antonio, S. Giorgio before the Porta Romana, the convent Corpus Domini, and the Certosa. All have been restored more or less, and although some of them are roomy and beautiful, none have any special artistic individuality. As early as the fifteenth century there were numerous palaces in Ferrara which are still numbered among the attractions of the gloomy city, and which are regarded as important structures in the history of architecture, from the early Renaissance until the appearance of the rococo style. Many of them, however, are in a deplorable state of decay. Marchese Alberto built the Palazzo del Paradiso (now the University) and Schifanoja at the end of the sixteenth century. Ercole erected the Palazzo Pareschi. He also restored a large part of Ferrara and extended the city by adding a new quarter on the north, the Addizione Erculea, which is still the handsomest part of Ferrara. The city is traversed by two long, wide streets--the Corso di Porta Po, with its continuation, the Corso di Porta Mare, and the Strada dei Piopponi. Strolling through these quiet streets one is astonished at the long rows of beautiful palaces of the Renaissance, reminders of a teeming life now passed away. Ercole laid out a large square which is surrounded by noble palaces, and which is now known as the Piazza Ariostea, from the monument of the great poet which stands in the center. This is, doubtless, the most beautiful memorial ever erected to a poet. The marble statue stands upon a high column and looks down upon the entire city. The history of the monument is interesting. Originally it was intended that an equestrian statue of Ercole on two columns should occupy this position. When the columns were being brought down the Po on a raft, one of them rolled overboard and was lost; the other was used in the year 1675 to support the statue of Pope Alexander VII, which was pulled down during the revolution of 1796 and replaced with a statue of Liberty, the unveiling of which was attended by General Napoleon Bonaparte. Three years later the Austrians overthrew the statue of Liberty, leaving the column standing, and in the year 1810 a statue of the Emperor Napoleon was placed upon it. This fell with the emperor. In the year 1833 Ferrara set Ariosto's statue upon the column, where it will remain in spite of all political change. Magnificent palaces rose in Ercole's new suburb. His brother Sigismondo erected the splendid Palazzo Diamanti, now Ferrara's art gallery, while the Trotti, Castelli, Sacrati, and Bevilacqua families built palaces there which are still in existence. Ferrara was the home of a wealthy nobility, some of whom belonged to the old baronial families. In addition there were the Contrarii, Pio, Costabili, the Strozzi, Saraceni, Boschetti, the Roverella, the Muzzarelli, and Pendaglia. The Ferrarese aristocracy had long ago emerged from the state of municipal strife and feudal dependence, and had set up their courts. The Este, especially the warlike Niccolò III, had subjugated the barons, who originally lived upon their estates beyond the city walls, and who were now in the service of the ruling family, holding the most important court and city offices; they were also commanders in the army. They took part, probably more actively than did the nobility of the other Italian States, in the intellectual movement of the age, which was fostered by the princes of the house of Este. Consequently many of these great lords won prominent places in the history of literature in Ferrara. The university, which had flourished there since the middle of the fifteenth century, was, excepting those of Padua and Bologna, the most famous in Italy. Founded by the Margrave Alberto in 1391, and subsequently remodeled by Niccolò III, it reached the zenith of its fame in the time of Lionello and Borso. The former was a pupil of the celebrated Guarino of Verona, and was himself acquainted with all the sciences. The friend and idol of the humanists of his age, he collected rare manuscripts and disseminated copies of them. He founded the library, and Borso continued the work begun by him. As early as 1474 the University of Ferrara had forty-five well paid professors, and Ercole increased their number. Printing was introduced during his reign. The earliest printer in Ferrara after 1471 was the Frenchman Andreas, called Belforte.[178] Like the city, the people seemed to have been of a serious cast of mind, which led to speculation, criticism, and the cultivation of the exact sciences. From Ferrara came Savonarola, the fanatical prophet who appeared during the moral blight which characterized the age of the Borgias, and Lucretia must frequently have recalled this man in whom her father, by the executioner's hand, sought to stifle the protestations of the faithful and upright against the immorality of his rule. Astronomy and mathematics, and especially the natural sciences and medicine, which at that time were part of the school of philosophy, were extensively cultivated in Ferrara. It is stated that Savonarola himself had studied medicine; his grandfather Michele, a famous physician of Padua, had been called to Ferrara by Niccolò II.[179] Niccolò Leoniceno, a native of Vincenza, at whose feet many of the most famous scholars and poets had sat, enjoyed great renown in Ferrara about 1464 as a physician, mathematician, philosopher, and philologist. He was still the pride of the city when Lucretia arrived there, as the great mathematician, Domenico Maria Novara, was then teaching in Bologna, where Copernicus had been his pupil. Many famous humanists, who at the time of Lucretia's arrival were still children or youths--for example, the Giraldi and genial Celio Calcagnini, who dedicated an epithalamium to her on her appearance in the city--were members of the Ferrarese university. All of these men were welcome at the court of the Este because they were accomplished and versatile. It was not until later, after the sciences had been classified and their boundaries defined, that the graceful learning of the humanists degenerated into pedantry. It was, however, especially the art of poetry which gave Ferrara, in Lucretia's time, a peculiarly romantic cast. This it was which first attracted attention to the city as one of the main centers of the intellectual movement. Ferrara produced numerous poets who composed in both tongues--Latin and Italian. Almost all the scholars of the day wrote Latin verses; most of them, however, it must be admitted, were lacking in poetic fire. Some of the Ferrarese, however, rose to high positions in poetry and are still remembered; preeminent were the two Strozzi, father and son, and Antonio Tebaldeo. The poets, however, who originated the romantic epic in Italian were much more important than the writers of Latin verse. The brilliant and sensuous court of Ferrara, together with the fascinating romance of the house of Este--which really belongs to the Middle Ages--and the charming nobility and modern chivalry, all contributed to the production of the epic, while the city of Ferrara, with its eventful history and its striking style of architecture, was a most favorable soil for it. Monuments of Roman antiquity are as rare in Ferrara as they are in Florence; everything is of the Middle Ages. Lucretia did not meet Bojardo, the famous author of the _Orlando Inamorato_, at the court of his friend Ercole, but the blind singer of the _Mambriano_, Francesco Cieco, probably was still living. We have seen how Ariosto, who was soon to eclipse all his predecessors, greeted Lucretia on her arrival. The graphic arts had made much less progress in Ferrara than had poetry and the sciences; but while no master of the first rank, no Raphael or Titian appeared, there were, nevertheless, some who won a not unimportant place in the history of Italian culture. The Este were patrons of painting; they had their palaces decorated with frescoes, some of which, still considered noteworthy on account of their originality, are preserved in the Palazzo Schifanoja, where they were rediscovered in the year 1840. About the middle of the fifteenth century, Ferrara had its own school, the chief of which was Cosimo Tura. It produced two remarkable painters, Dosso Dossi and Benvenuto Tisio, the latter of whom, under the name of Garofalo, became famous as one of Raphael's greatest pupils. The works of these artists, who were Lucretia's contemporaries--Garofalo being a year younger--still adorn many of the churches, and are the chief attractions in the galleries of the city. Such, broadly sketched, was the intellectual life of Ferrara in the year 1502. We, therefore, see that in addition to her brilliant court and her political importance as the capital of the State, she possessed a highly developed spiritual life. The chroniclers state that her population at that time numbered a hundred thousand souls; and at the beginning of the sixteenth century--her most flourishing period--she was probably more populous than Rome. In addition to the nobility there was an active bourgeoisie engaged in commerce and manufacturing, especially weaving, who enjoyed life. [Illustration: BENVENUTO GAROFALO. From an engraving by G. Batt. Cecchi.] FOOTNOTES: [177] Cittadella (Guida del Forestiere in Ferrara, Ferrara, 1873) ridicules the story of the looking-glass that disclosed the love of Ugo and Parisina. See his Castello di Ferrara, Turin, 1873, and the description of the castle in the Notizie storico-artistiche sui primarii palazzi d'Italia, Firenze, Cennini, 1871. [178] Luigi Napoleone Cittadella, La Stampa in Ferrara. Ferrara, 1873. [179] See first part of Villari's well known biography of Savonarola. CHAPTER V DEATH OF ALEXANDER VI Alexander carefully followed everything that took place in Ferrara. He never lost sight of his daughter. She and his agents reported every mark of favor or disfavor which she received. Following the excitement of the wedding festivities there were painful days for Lucretia, as she was forced to meet envy and contempt, and to win for herself a secure place at the court. Alexander was greatly pleased by her reports, especially those concerning her relations with Alfonso. He never for a moment supposed that the hereditary prince loved his daughter. All he required was that he should treat her as his wife, and that she should become the mother of a prince. With great satisfaction he remarked to the Ferrarese ambassador on hearing that Alfonso spent his nights with Lucretia, "During the day he goes wherever he likes, as he is young, and in doing this he does right."[180] Alexander also induced the duke to grant his daughter-in-law a larger allowance than he had agreed to give her. The sum stipulated was six thousand ducats. Lucretia was extravagant, and needed a large income. The amount she received from her father-in-law did not, however, exceed ten thousand ducats. In the meantime Cæsar was pursuing his own schemes, the success of which was apparently insured by his alliance with Ferrara and the sanction of France. The youthful Astorre Manfredi having been strangled in the castle of S. Angelo by his orders, Valentino set out for Romagna, June 13th, where he succeeded in ensnaring the unsuspecting Guidobaldo of Urbino and in seizing his estates, June 21st. Guidobaldo fled and found an asylum in Mantua, whence he and his wife eventually went to Venice. Cæsar now turned toward Camerino, where he surprised the Varano, destroying all but one of them. He reported these doings to the court of Ferrara, and the duke did not hesitate to congratulate him for a crime which had resulted in the overthrow of princes who were not only friendly to himself but were also closely connected with him. From Urbino Cæsar wrote his sister as follows: ILLUSTRIOUS LADY AND DEAREST SISTER: I know nothing could be better medicine for your Excellency in your present illness than the good news which I have to impart. I must tell you that I have just had information that Camerino will yield. We trust that on receiving this news your condition will rapidly improve, and that you will inform us at once of it. For your indisposition prevents us from deriving any pleasure from this and other news. We ask you to tell the illustrious Duke Don Alfonso, your husband, our brother-in-law, at once, as, owing to want of time, we have not been able to write him direct. Your Majesty's brother, who loves you better than he does himself, CÆSAR. URBINO, _July 20, 1502_. Shortly after this he surprised his sister by visiting her in the palace of Belfiore, whither he came in disguise with five cavaliers. He remained with her scarcely two hours, and then hastily departed, accompanied by his brother-in-law Alfonso as far as Modena, intending to go to the King of France, who was in Lombardy. [Illustration: Reduced facsimile of a letter written by Alexander VI to his daughter, Lucretia.] In the meantime Alexander had arrived at a decision regarding the seizure of Camerino which conflicted with Cæsar's plans, and which shows that the father's will was not wholly under his son's control. September 2, 1502, Alexander bestowed Camerino as a duchy upon the Infante Giovanni Borgia, whom he sometimes described as his own son and at others as Cæsar's. Giovanni had already been invested with the title of Nepi, and Francesco Borgia, Cardinal of Cosenza, as the child's guardian, administered these estates. There are coins of this ephemeral Duke of Camerino still in existence.[181] September 5th Lucretia gave birth to a still-born daughter, to the great disappointment of Alexander, who desired an heir to the throne. She was sick unto death, and her husband showed the deepest concern, seldom leaving her for a moment. September 7th Valentino came to see her. The secretary Castellus sent a report of this visit to Ercole, who was in Reggio, whither he had gone to meet Cæsar, who was returning from Lombardy. "To-day," he wrote, "at the twentieth hour, we bled Madama on the right foot. It was exceedingly difficult to accomplish it, and we could not have done it but for the Duke of Romagna, who held her foot. Her Majesty spent two hours with the duke, who made her laugh and cheered her greatly." Lucretia had a codicil added to her will, which she had made before leaving for Ferrara, in the presence of her brother's secretary and some monks. She, however, recovered. Cæsar remained with her two days and then departed for Imola. When Ercole returned he found his daughter-in-law attended by Alexander's most skilful physician, the Bishop of Venosa, and out of all danger.[182] As Lucretia felt oppressed in Castle Vecchio, and yearned for the free air, she removed October 8th, accompanied by the entire court, to the convent of Corpus Domini. Her recovery was so rapid that she was able again to take up her residence in the castle, October 22d, to the great joy of every one, as Duke Ercole wrote to Rome. Alfonso even went to Loretto in fulfilment of a vow he had made for the recovery of his wife. The solicitude which was displayed for Lucretia on this occasion shows that she had begun to make herself beloved in Ferrara.[183] In this same month of October occurred the disaffection of Cæsar's condottieri which nearly ended in his overthrow. In consequence of the desertion of his generals, the country about Urbino rose, and Guidobaldo even succeeded in reentering his capital city, October 18th. The protection of France and the lack of decision on the part of his enemies, however, saved the Duke of Romagna from the danger which threatened him. December 31st he relieved himself of the barons by the well-known coup of Sinigaglia. This was his masterstroke. He had Vitellozzo and Oliverotto strangled forthwith; the Orsini--Paolo, father-in-law of Girolama Borgia, and Francesco, Duke of Gravina, who had once been mentioned as a possible husband for Lucretia--suffered the same fate January 18, 1503. The Duke of Ferrara congratulated Cæsar, as did also the Gonzaga. Even Isabella did not hesitate to write a graceful letter to the man that had driven her dear sister-in-law,--whose husband had been forced to flee a second time,--from Urbino. The Gonzaga, who were anxious to marry the little hereditary Prince Federico to his daughter Luisa, were endeavoring to secure this end with the help of Francesco Trochio in Rome. Isabella's contemptible letter to Cæsar is as follows: TO HIS HIGHNESS, THE DUKE OF VALENTINO. ILLUSTRIOUS SIR: The happy progress of which your Excellency has been good enough to inform us in your amiable letter has caused us all the liveliest joy, owing to the friendship and interest which you and my illustrious husband feel for each other. We, therefore, congratulate you in his and our own name for the good fortune which has befallen you, and for your safety, and we thank you for informing us of it and for your offer to keep us advised of future events, which we hope will be no less favorable, for, loving you as we do, we hope to hear from you often regarding your plans so that we may be able to rejoice with you at the success and advancement of your Excellency. Believing that you, after the excitement and fatigue which you have suffered while engaged in your glorious undertakings, will be disposed to give some time to recreation, it seems proper to me to send you by our courier, Giovanni, a hundred masks. We, of course, know how slight is this present in proportion to the greatness of your Excellency, and also in proportion to our desires; still it indicates that if there were anything more worthy and more suitable in this our country, we certainly would send it you. If the masks, however, are not as beautiful as they ought to be, your Highness will know that this is due to the makers in Ferrara, who, as it has been for years against the law to wear masks, long ago ceased making them. May, however, our good intentions and our love make up for their shortcomings. So far as our own affairs are concerned there is nothing new to tell you until your Excellency informs us as to the decision of his Holiness, our Master, concerning the articles of guaranty upon which we, through Brognolo, have agreed. We, therefore, look forward to this, and hope to reach a satisfactory conclusion. We commend ourselves to your service. JANUARY 15, 1503. Cæsar replied to the marchioness from Aquapendente as follows: MOST ILLUSTRIOUS LADY, FRIEND, AND HONORED SISTER: We have received your Excellency's present of the hundred masks, which, owing to their diversity and beauty, are very welcome, and because the time and place of their arrival could not have been more propitious. If we neglected to inform your Excellency of all our plans and of our intended return to Rome, it was because it was only to-day that we succeeded in taking the city and territory adjacent to Sinigaglia together with the fortress, and punished our enemies for their treachery; freed Città di Castello, Fermo, Cisterna, Montone, and Perugia from their tyrants, and rendered them again subject to his Holiness, our Master; and deposed Pandolfo Petrucci from the tyranny which he had established in Siena, where he had shown himself such a determined enemy of ourselves. The masks are welcome especially because I know that the present is due to the affection which you and your illustrious husband feel for us, which is also shown by the letter which you send with it. Therefore we thank you a thousand times, although the magnitude of your and your husband's deserts exceeds the power of words. We shall use the masks, and they are so beautiful that we shall be saved the trouble of providing ourselves with any other adornment. On returning to Rome we will see that his Holiness, our Master, does whatever is necessary to further our mutual interests. We, in compliance with your Excellency's request, will grant the prisoner his liberty. We will inform your Illustrious Majesty at once, so that you may rejoice in it the moment he is free. We commend ourselves to you. From the papal camp near Aquapendente, February 1st. Your Excellency's friend and brother, the Duke of Romagna, etc. CÆSAR. Cæsar was then near the zenith of his desires--a king's throne in central Italy. This project, however, was never realized; Louis XII forbade him further conquests. The Orsini (the cardinal of this house had just been poisoned in the castle of S. Angelo) and other barons whose estates were in the vicinity of Rome rose for a final struggle, and Cæsar was compelled to hasten back to the papal city. Alexander and his son now turned toward Spain, as Gonsalvo had defeated the French in Naples and had entered the capital of the kingdom May 14th. Louis XII, however, despatched a new army under La Tremouille to recapture Naples. The Marquis of Mantua was likewise in his pay, and in August, 1503, the army entered the Patrimonium Petri. Alexander and Cæsar were suddenly taken sick at the same moment. The Pope died August 18th. It has been affirmed and also denied that both were poisoned, and proofs equally good in support of both views have been adduced; it is, therefore, a mooted question. Aside from her grief due to affection, the death of Lucretia's father was a serious event for her, as it might weaken her position in Ferrara. Alexander's power was all that had given her a sense of security, and now she could no longer feel certain of the continuance of the affection of her father-in-law or of that of her husband. Well might Alfonso now recall the words Louis XII had uttered to the effect that on the death of Alexander he would not know who the lady was whom he had married. The king one day asked the Ferrarese plenipotentiary at his court how Madonna Lucretia had taken the Pope's death. When the ambassador replied that he did not know, Louis remarked, "I know that you were never satisfied with this marriage; this Madonna Lucretia is not Don Alfonso's real wife."[184] * * * * * Lucretia would have been frightened had she read a letter which Ercole wrote to Giangiorgio Seregni, then his ambassador in Milan, which at that time was under French control, and in which he disclosed his real feelings on the Pope's demise. GIANGIORGIO: Knowing that many will ask you how we are affected by the Pope's death, this is to inform you that he was in no way displeasing to us. At one time we wished, for the honor of God, our Master, and for the general good of Christendom, that God in his goodness and foresight would provide a worthy shepherd, and that his Church would be relieved of this great scandal. Personally we had nothing to wish for; we were concerned chiefly with the honor of God and the general welfare. We may add, however, that there was never a Pope from whom we received fewer favors than from this one, and this, even after concluding an alliance with him. It was only with the greatest difficulty that we secured from him what he had promised, but beyond this he never did anything for us. For this we hold the Duke of Romagna responsible; for, although he could not do with us as he wished, he treated us as if we were perfect strangers. He was never frank with us; he never confided his plans to us, although we always informed him of ours. Finally as he inclined to Spain, and we remained good Frenchmen, we had little to look for either from the Pope or his Majesty. Therefore his death caused us little grief, as we had nothing but evil to expect from the advancement of the above-named duke. We want you to give this our confidential statement to Chaumont, word for word, as we do not wish to conceal our true feelings from him--but speak cautiously to others about the subject and then return this letter to our worthy councilor Gianluca. BELRIGUARDO, _August 24, 1503_. This statement was very candid. In view of the advantages which had accrued to Ercole's State through the marriage with Lucretia, he might be regarded as ungrateful; he had, however, never looked upon this alliance as anything more than a business transaction, and so far as his relations with Cæsar were concerned his view was entirely correct. Let us now hear what another famous prince--one who was in the confidence of the Borgias--says regarding the Pope's death. At the time of this occurrence the Marquis of Mantua was at his headquarters with the French army in Isola Farnese, a few miles from Rome. From there, September 22, 1503, he wrote his consort, Isabella, as follows: ILLUSTRIOUS LADY AND DEAREST WIFE: In order that your Majesty may be familiar with the circumstances attending the Pope's death, we send you the following particulars. When he fell sick, he began to talk in such a way that anyone who did not know what was in his mind would have thought that he was wandering, although he was perfectly conscious of what he said; his words were, "I come; it is right; wait a moment." Those who know the secret say that in the conclave following the death of Innocent he made a compact with the devil, and purchased the papacy from him at the price of his soul. Among the other provisions of the agreement was one which said that he should be allowed to occupy the Holy See twelve years, and this he did with the addition of four days. There are some who affirm that at the moment he gave up his spirit seven devils were seen in his chamber. As soon as he was dead his body began to putrefy and his mouth to foam like a kettle over the fire, which continued as long as it was on earth. The body swelled up so that it lost all human form. It was nearly as broad as it was long. It was carried to the grave with little ceremony; a porter dragged it from the bed by means of a cord fastened to the foot to the place where it was buried, as all refused to touch it. It was given a wretched interment, in comparison with which that of the cripple's dwarf wife in Mantua was ceremonious. Scandalous epigrams are every day published regarding him. The reports of Burchard, of the Venetian ambassador Giustinian, of the Ferrarese envoy Beltrando, and of numerous others describe Alexander's end in almost precisely the same way, and the fable of the devil or "babuino" that carried Alexander's soul off is also found in Marino Sanuto's diary. The highly educated Marquis of Gonzaga, with a simplicity equal to that of the people of Rome, believed it. The Mephisto legend of Faust and Don Juan, which was immediately associated with Alexander's death--even the black dog running about excitedly in St. Peter's is included--shows what was the opinion of Alexander's contemporaries regarding the terrible life of the Borgia, and the extraordinary success which followed him all his days. Alexander's moral character is, however, so incomprehensible that even the keenest psychologists have failed to fathom it. In him neither ambition nor the desire for power, which, in the majority of rulers, is the motive of their crimes, was the cause of his evil deeds. Nor was it hate of his fellows, nor cruelty, nor yet a vicious pleasure in doing evil. It was, however, his sensuality and also his love for his children--one of the noblest of human sentiments. All psychological theory would lead us to expect that the weight of his sins would have made Alexander a gloomy man with reason clouded by fear and madness, like Tiberius or Louis XI; but instead of this we have ever before us the cheerful, active man of the world--even until his last years. "Nothing worries him; he seems to grow younger every day," wrote the Venetian ambassador scarcely two years before his death. It is not his passions or his crimes that are incomprehensible, for similar and even greater crimes have been committed by other princes both before and after him, but it is the fact that he committed them while he was Pope. How could Alexander VI reconcile his sensuality and his cruelty with the consciousness that he was the High Priest of the Church, God's representative on earth? There are abysses in the human soul to the depths of which no glance can penetrate. How did he overcome the warnings, the qualms of conscience, and how was it possible for him constantly to conceal them under a joyous exterior? Could he believe in the immortality of the soul and the existence of a divine Being? When we consider the utter abandon with which Alexander committed his crimes, we are forced to conclude that he was an atheist and a materialist. There is a time in the life of every philosophic and unhappy soul when all human endeavor seems nothing more than the despairing, purposeless activity of an aggregation of puppets. But in Alexander VI we discover no trace of a Faust, nothing of his supreme contempt of the world, of his Titanic skepticism; but we find, on the contrary, that he possessed an amazingly simple faith, coupled with a capacity for every crime. The Pope who had Christ's mother painted with the features of the adulteress Giulia Farnese believed that he himself enjoyed the special protection of the Virgin. [Illustration: CARDINAL BEMBO. From an engraving by G. Benaglia.] Alexander's life is the very antithesis of the Christian ideal. To be convinced of this it is only necessary to compare the Pope's deeds with the teachings of the Gospel. Compare his actions with the Commandments: "Thou shalt not commit adultery; thou shalt not kill; thou shalt not bear false witness." The fact that Rodrigo Borgia was a pope must seem to all the members of the Church the most unholy thing connected with it, and one which they have reason bitterly to regret. This fact, however, can never lessen the dignity of the Church--the greatest production of the human mind--but does it not destroy a number of transcendental theories which have been associated with the papacy? The execrations which all Italy directed against Alexander could scarcely have reached Lucretia's ears, but she doubtless anticipated them. Her distress must have been great. Her entire life in Rome returned and overwhelmed her. Her father had been the cause, first, of all her unhappiness, and subsequently of all her good fortune. Filial affection and religious fears must have assailed her at one and the same time. Bembo describes her suffering. This man, subsequently so famous, came to Ferrara in 1503, a young Venetian nobleman of the highest culture and fairest presence. He was warmly received by Lucretia, for whom he conceived great admiration. The accomplished cavalier wrote her the following letter of condolence: I called upon your Majesty yesterday partly for the purpose of telling you how great was my grief on account of your loss, and partly to endeavor to console you, and to urge you to compose yourself, for I knew that you were suffering a measureless sorrow. I was able to do neither the one nor the other; for, as soon as I saw you in that dark room, in your black gown, lying weeping, I was so overcome by my feelings that I stood still, unable to speak, not knowing what to say. Instead of giving sympathy, I myself was in need of it, therefore I departed, completely overcome by the sad sight, mumbling and speechless, as you noticed or might have noticed. Perhaps this happened to me because you had need of neither my sympathy nor my condolences; for, knowing my devotion and fidelity, you would also be aware of the pain which I felt on account of your sorrow, and you in your wisdom may find consolation within and not look to others for it. The best way to convey to you an idea of my grief is for me to say that fate could cause me no greater sorrow than by afflicting you. No other shot could so deeply penetrate my soul as one accompanied by your tears. Regarding condolence, I can only say to you, as you yourself must have thought, that time soothes and lessens all our griefs. So high is my opinion of your intelligence and so numerous the proofs of your strength of character that I know that you will find consolation, and will not grieve too long. For, although you have now lost your father, who was so great that Fortune herself could not have given you a greater one, this is not the first blow which you have received from an evil and hostile destiny. You have suffered so much before that your soul must now be inured to misfortune. Present circumstances, moreover, require that you should not give any one cause to think that you grieve less on account of the shock than you do on account of any anxiety as to your future position. It is foolish for me to write this to you, therefore I will close, commending myself to you in all humility. Farewell. In Ostellato.[185] AUGUST 22, 1503. FOOTNOTES: [180] Maxime intendendo che continuano dormire insieme la nocte. Se ben intende ch'el Sig. Don Alfonso el dì va a piacere in diversi loci come giovene; il quale, dice S. Stà. fa molto bene. Beltrando Costabili to the duke, Rome, April 1, 1502. [181] Silver carlins. Obverse: JOANNES. BOR. DVX. CAMERINI; the Borgia arms surrounded with lilies and the crest of the Lenzuoli. Reverse: S. VENANTIVS DE CAMERI. They are described in the Periodico di Numismatica e Sfragistica per la Storia d'Italia diretto dal March. C. Strozzi, Flor. 1870, A. III, Fascic. ii, 70-77, by G. Amati, and also in A. IV, fasc. vi, 259-265, by M. Santoni. Both writers erroneously describe this Giov. Borgia as the son of the Duke of Gandia, and Amati even confuses Valence in Dauphiné with Valencia in Spain. [182] In the state archives of Modena there are several letters regarding Lucretia's illness written by the Ferrarese physicians Ludovicus Carrus and J. Castellus. [183] The duke to Costabili, his ambassador in Rome, October 9-23, 1502. [184] Despatch of Bartolomeo Cavalieri to Ercole, Macon, September 8, 1503. [185] Bembo, Opp. iii, 309. CHAPTER VI EVENTS FOLLOWING THE POPE'S DEATH After Lucretia's first transports had passed she may well have blessed her good fortune, for to what danger would she have been exposed if she now, instead of being Alfonso's wife, was still forced to share the destiny of the Borgias! She was soon able to convince herself that her position in Ferrara was unshaken. She owed this to her own personality and to the permanent advantages which she had brought to the house of Este. She saw, however, that the lives of her kinsmen in Rome were in danger; there were her sick brother, her child Rodrigo, and Giovanni, Duke of Nepi; while the Orsini, burning with a desire to wipe out old scores, were hastening thither to avenge themselves for the blood of their kinsmen. She besought her father-in-law to help Cæsar and to preserve his estates for him. Ercole thought that it would be more to his own advantage for Cæsar to hold the Romagna than to have it fall into the hands of Venice. He, therefore, sent Pandolfo Collenuccio thither to urge the people to remain true to their lord. To his ambassador in Rome he confided his joy that Cæsar was on the road to recovery.[186] With the exception of the Romagna, the empire of Alexander's son at once began to crumble away. The tyrants he had expelled returned to their cities. Guidobaldo and Elisabetta hastened from Venice to Urbino and were received with open arms. Still more promptly Giovanni Sforza had returned from Mantua to Pesaro. The Marquis Gonzaga had sent him the first news of Alexander's death and of Cæsar's illness, and Sforza thanked him in the following letter: ILLUSTRIOUS SIR AND HONORED BROTHER: I thank your Excellency for the good news which you have given me in your letter, especially regarding the condition of Valentino. My joy is great because I believe my misfortunes are now at an end. I assure you that if I return to my country, I shall regard myself as your Excellency's creature, and you may dispose of my person and my property as you will. I ask you, in case you learn anything more regarding Valentino, and especially of his death, that you will send me the news, for by so doing you will afford me great joy. I commend myself to you at all times. MANTUA, _August 25, 1503_. As early as September 3d, Sforza was able to inform the Marquis that he had entered Pesaro amid the acclamations of the people. He immediately had a medal struck in commemoration of the happy event. On one side is his bust and on the other a broken yoke with the words PATRIA RECEPTA.[187] Filled with the desire for revenge he punished the rebels of Pesaro by confiscating their property, casting them into prison, or by putting them to death. He had a number of the burghers hanged at the windows of his castle. Even Collenuccio, who had placed himself under the protection of Lucretia and the duke, in Ferrara, was soon to fall into his hands. With flattering promises Giovanni induced him to come to Pesaro, and then on the ground of the complaint he had addressed to Cæsar Borgia, which Sforza claimed he had only just discovered, he cast him into prison. Collenuccio, not wholly guiltless as far as his former master and friend was concerned, resigned himself to his fate and died in July, 1504.[188] Meanwhile Lucretia was anxiously following the course of events in Rome. None of her letters to Cæsar written at this time are preserved, nor are any of Cæsar's to her. The only ones we have are those which he exchanged with the Duke of Ferrara, who continued to write him. September 13th Ercole wrote congratulating him on his recovery, and informing him that he had sent a messenger to the people of Romagna urging them to remain true to him. Cæsar was in Nepi when he received this letter, having gone there September 2d after he had arranged with the French ambassador in Rome, on the suggestion of the cardinal, to place himself under the protection of France. He was accompanied by his mother, Vannozza, his brother Giuffrè, and, doubtless, also by his little daughter Luisa and the two children Rodrigo and Giovanni, the latter of whom was Duke of Nepi. There he was safe, as the French army was camped in the neighborhood. Just as if nothing had happened, he wrote letters to the Marquis Gonzaga, who was then at his headquarters in Campagnano. He even sent him some hunting dogs as a present. There is also in existence a letter written by Giuffrè to the same Gonzaga, dated Nepi, September 18th. While here Cæsar learned that his protector and friend, Amboise, had not been elected pope as he had hoped, but that Piccolomini had been chosen. September 22d this cardinal, senile and moribund, ascended the papal throne, assuming the name Pius III. He was the happy father of no less than twelve children, boys and girls, who would have been brought up in the Vatican as princes but for his early death. He permitted Cæsar to return to Rome and even showed him some favor; but scarcely had the Borgia appeared--October 3d--when the Orsini rose in their wrath and clamored for the death of their enemy. He and the two children took refuge in Castle S. Angelo, and October 18th Piccolomini died. The two children now had no protector but Cæsar and the cardinals whom Alexander had appointed as their guardians. On the death of the Pope their duchies crumbled away. The Gaetani returned from Mantua and again took possession of Sermoneta and all the other estates which had been bestowed upon the little Rodrigo. Ascanio Sforza demanded either Nepi or the position of chamberlain, and the last Varano again secured Camerino. Rodrigo was Duke of Biselli, and as such under the protection of Spain, Alexander having succeeded in obtaining, May 20, 1502, from Ferdinand and Isabella of Castile, a diploma by virtue of which the royal house of Spain confirmed the Borgia family in the possession of all their Neapolitan estates. In this act Cæsar and his heirs, Don Giuffrè of Squillace; Don Juan, son of the murdered Gandia; Lucretia, as Duchess of Biselli, and her son and heir Rodrigo are explicitly named.[189] There is likewise in the Este archives an instrument which was drawn up in Lucretia's chancellery, referring to the control of Rodrigo's property, and also others regarding the little Giovanni.[190] The two children, Rodrigo and Giovanni, during their early years were reared together. Lucretia provided for them from Ferrara, as is shown by the record of her household expenses in 1502 and 1503. There are numerous entries for velvet and silk and gold brocade which she bought for the purpose of clothing the children.[191] In spite of the protection of Spain, Lucretia's son's life was in danger in Rome, and it was her duty to have the child brought to her; but this she neglected to do, either because she did not dare to do so, or she was not strong enough to bring it about, or because she perhaps feared that the child would be in still greater danger in Ferrara. The Cardinal of Cosenza, Rodrigo's guardian, suggested to her that she sell all his personal property and send him to Spain, where he would be safe. In a letter she informed her father-in-law of this, and he replied as follows: ILLUSTRIOUS LADY, OUR DEAREST DAUGHTER-IN-LAW AND DAUGHTER: We have received your Majesty's letter, and also the one which his Eminence the Cardinal of Cosenza addressed to you and which you sent us; this we return to you with our letter; no one but ourselves read it. We note the unanimity with which your Majesty and the cardinal write. His advice shows such solicitude that it is at once apparent that it is due to his affection and wisdom. We have considered everything carefully, and it seems to us that your Majesty can and ought to do what the worthy monsignor suggests. In fact I think your Majesty is bound to do as he advises on account of the affection which he displays for you and the illustrious Don Rodrigo, your son, who, I am told, owes his life to the cardinal. Although Don Rodrigo will be at a distance from you, it is better for him to be away and safe than for him to be near and in danger, as the cardinal thinks he would be. Your mutual love would in no way suffer by this separation. When he grows up he can decide, according to circumstances, whether it is best for him to return to Italy or remain away. The cardinal's suggestion to convert his personal property into money to provide for his support and to increase his income--as he states he is anxious to do--is a good idea. In brief, as we have said, it seems to us that you had best consent. Nevertheless, if your Majesty, who is perfectly competent to decide this, determine otherwise, we are perfectly willing. Farewell. HERCULES, Duke of Ferrara, etc. CODEGORIO, _October 4, 1503_. In the meantime, November 1, 1503, Della Rovere ascended the papal throne as Julius II. The Rovere, the Borgias, and the Medici, each gave the Church two popes, and they impressed upon the papacy the political form of the modern state. In the entire annals of the Church there are no other families which have so deeply affected the course of history. Their names suggest innumerable political and moral revolutions. Della Rovere now released Cæsar, whose bitterest enemy he had once been. It was apparent that Valentino's destruction was imminent. Elsewhere we may read how Julius II first used Cæsar for the purpose of assuring his election by means of his influence on the Spanish cardinals, and how he subsequently--after the surrender of the fortresses in the Romagna--cast him aside. Cæsar threw himself into the arms of Spain, going from Ostia to Naples in October, 1504, where the great Captain Gonsalvo represented Ferdinand the Catholic. Don Giuffrè accompanied him. Cardinals Francesco Remolini of Sorrento and Ludovico Borgia had preceded him to Naples to escape a prosecution with which they were threatened. There Gonsalvo broke the safe-conduct which he had given Cæsar. May 27th he seized him in the name of King Ferdinand and confined him in the castle of Ischia. [Illustration: JULIUS II. From an engraving published in 1580.] We hear nothing of the fate of the Borgia children; apparently they remained under the protection of the Spanish cardinals in Rome or Naples. Cæsar, saving nothing, and barely escaping with his life, set out for Spain. He had previously placed his valuables in the hands of his friends in Rome to keep for him or to send to Ferrara. December 31, 1503, Duke Ercole wrote his ambassador in Rome to take charge of Cæsar's chests when the Cardinal of Sorrento should send them to him, and forward them to Ferrara as the property of the Cardinal d'Este.[192] Cardinal Remolini died in May, 1507, and Julius II confiscated in his house twelve chests and eighty-four bales which contained tapestries, rich stuffs, and other property belonging to Cæsar.[193] The Pope ordered the Florentines to return certain other property of Cæsar's consisting of gold, silver, and similar valuables which he had sent to their city. The Florentine Signory,[194] however, stated that they would have nothing to do with the matter. The removal of Cæsar to Spain caused great excitement. No one, neither Gonsalvo, the Pope, nor King Ferdinand was willing to assume the responsibility for it. It was even stated that it was due to Gandia's widow, who was at the Castilian court endeavoring to secure the arrest of her husband's murderer.[195] The Spanish cardinals and Lucretia exerted themselves to obtain Cæsar's release. The first news of him came from Spain in October, 1504. Costabili wrote to Ferrara: "The affairs of the Duke of Valentino do not appear to be in such a desperate condition as has been represented, for the Cardinal of Salerno has a letter of the third instant from Requesenz, the duke's majordomo, which his Majesty despatched before he reached there, and letters from several cardinals to his Majesty of Spain. Requesenz writes that the duke was confined with one servant in the castle of Seville, which, although very strong, is roomy. He was soon furnished with eight servants. He also writes that he has spoken to the king regarding freeing Cæsar, and that his Majesty stated that he had not ordered the duke's confinement but had given instructions for him to be brought to Spain on account of certain charges which Gonsalvo had made against him. If these were found to be untrue he would do as the cardinal requested concerning Cæsar. However, nothing could be done until the queen recovered. He made the same answer to the ambassador of the King and Queen of Navarre, who endeavored to secure the duke's release, and consequently Requesenz hoped that he would soon be set free."[196] From this letter of Requesenz it appears that Cæsar was first taken to Seville and from there was sent to the castle of Medina del Campo in Castile. The King of France turned a deaf ear to his petitions. No one in Italy wanted him set free. His sister was the only person in the peninsula who took any interest in the overthrown upstart, and her appeals found little support among the Este. It was well known that if Cæsar returned to Italy he would only cause uneasiness at the court of Ferrara, and would in all probability make it the center of his intrigues. The Gonzaga alone appeared not to have entirely withdrawn their favor from him, although, instead of wishing, as they once had done, to establish a matrimonial alliance with him, they now connected themselves with the Rovere, the Marquis of Mantua marrying his young daughter Leonora to Julius's nephew, Francesco Maria della Rovere, heir of Urbino, April 9, 1505.[197] It was especially Isabella who, owing to her affection for her sister-in-law Lucretia, seconded her appeals to her husband. In the archives of the house of Gonzaga are several letters written by Lucretia to the marquis in the interests of her brother. [Illustration: Reduced facsimile of a letter written by Lucretia Borgia to Marchese Gonzaga.] August 18, 1505, she wrote him from Reggio that she had taken steps in Rome to induce the Pope to permit Cardinal Petro Isualles to go to the Spanish court to endeavor to secure Cæsar's freedom, and she hoped to succeed. She, therefore, asked the marquis himself to request the Pope to allow the cardinal to undertake this mission. She wrote to him again from Belriguardo thanking him for his promise to despatch an agent to Spain, and she sent him a letter for King Ferdinand and another for her brother. It is not known whether the cardinal actually undertook this journey to Madrid, but it is hardly likely that Julius would have allowed him to do so. FOOTNOTES: [186] Minute Ducali a Costabili Beltrando, Ferrara, August 28, 1503. [187] One of these medals is preserved in the cabinet of the Oliveriana in Pesaro. It is reproduced in the Nuova Raccolta delle Monete e Zecche d'Italia di Guidantonio Zanetti, p. 1. [188] See Giulio Perticari, Op. Bol. 1839, vol. ii. Intorno la morte di Pandolfo Collenuccio. Perticari's opinion is too one-sided and optimistic. The beautiful elegy which he states Collenuccio wrote shortly before his death was written at a much happier time. [189] The document is in the Este archives. [190] This is the record already mentioned, Liber Arrendamentorum terrarum ad IIImos Dominos Rodericum Borgiam de Aragonia, Sermoneti, etc., et Johannem Borgiam Nepesini Duces, infantes spectantium. Biselli, 1502 [191] Raxo pavonazo trovato in Guardaroba. De dito raso se ne fodrato dui ziponi e dui boniti per Don Rodrigo e Don Joanne (Braccia 6). De dito raso se ne posto in la capa de Don Rodrigo--Tela d'oro. De dita tela se ne posto a fodrare due cape de raxo pavonazo per Don Rodrigo e Don Joane--braza 12. Dite peze de fuxo doro tirato se ne pose per commission de la Signora nei saioni de Don Rodrigo e Don Joanne, etc. Estratti dall' inventario di roba di Lucrezia Borgia, 1502-1503. Archives of Modena. [192] Ercole to his ambassador in Rome, December 31, 1503. [193] Costabili to Ercole, May 6, 1507. [194] Manfredo Manfredi's despatch to Ercole, Florence, August 20, 1504. [195] Perche la mogliera del Duca di Candia, che fu morto dal Duca Valentino ha procurato questo acto de tencione et vendicta et che Lei è parente del Re di Spagna. Letter of Giovanni Alberto della Pigna to Ercole, Venice, June 18, 1504. [196] Costabili's despatch to Duke Ercole, Rome, October 27, 1504. [197] The contract is in Beneimbene's protocol-book. CHAPTER VII COURT POETS--GIULIA BELLA AND JULIUS II--THE ESTE DYNASTY ENDANGERED During the year, when Lucretia, filled with a sister's love, was grieving over the fate of her terrible brother, a great change occurred in her own circumstances, she having become Duchess of Ferrara, January 25, 1505. Her husband, Alfonso, in compliance with his father's wishes, had undertaken a journey to France, Flanders, and England for the purpose of becoming acquainted with the courts of those countries. He was to return to Italy by way of Spain, but while he was at the court of Henry VII of England he received despatches informing him that his father was sick. He hastened back to Ferrara, and Ercole died shortly after his return. Alfonso ascended the ducal throne at a time when a strong hand and high intelligence were required to save his State from the dangers which threatened it. The Republic of Venice had already secured possession of a part of Romagna, and was planning to cut Ferrara off from the mouth of the Po; at the same time Julius II was scheming to take Bologna, and if he succeeded in this he would doubtless also attack Ferrara. In view of these circumstances it was a fortunate thing for the State that its chief was a practical, cool-headed man like Alfonso. He was neither extravagant nor fond of display, and he cared nothing for a brilliant court. He was indifferent to externals, even to his own clothing. His chief concern was to increase the efficiency of the army, build fortresses, and cast cannon. When the affairs of state left him any leisure he amused himself at a turning-lathe which he had set up, and also in painting majolica vases, in which art he was exceedingly skilful. He had no inclination for the higher culture--this he left to his wife. The small collection of books which Lucretia brought with her from Rome shows that she possessed some education and an inclination to take part in the intellectual movement of Ferrara. We have a catalogue of these books, of the years 1502 and 1503, which shows what were Lucretia's tastes. According to this list she possessed a number of books, many of which were beautifully bound in purple velvet, with gold and silver mountings: a breviary; a book with the seven psalms and other prayers; a parchment with miniatures in gold, called _De Coppelle ala Spagnola_; the printed letters of Saint Catharine of Siena; the Epistles and Gospels in the vulgar tongue; a religious work in Castilian; a manuscript collection of Spanish canzone with the proverbs of Domenico Lopez; a printed work entitled _Aquilla Volante_; another, called _Supplement of Chronicles_, in the vulgar tongue; the _Mirror of Faith_, in Italian; a printed copy of Dante, with a commentary; a work in Italian, on philosophy; the _Legend of the Saints_ in the vulgar tongue; an old work, _De Ventura_; a _Donatus_; a _Life of Christ_ in Spanish; a manuscript of Petrarch on parchment, in duodecimo. From this catalogue it is evident that Lucretia's studies were not very profound. Her books were confined to religious works and belles-lettres.[198] [Illustration: ALPHONSO D'ESTE, DUKE OF FERRARA.] Lucretia established her ducal court in accordance with the dictates of her own fancy. She was now the soul and center of the intellectual life of Ferrara. Her cultivated intellect, her beauty, and the irresistible joyousness of her being charmed all who came into her presence. The opposition which the members of the house of Este at first had shown her had disappeared, and, especially in the case of Isabella Gonzaga, had changed into affection, as is proved by the extensive correspondence which the two women maintained up to the time of Lucretia's death. In the archives of the house of Gonzaga there are several hundred of her letters to the Marchesa of Mantua. Her relations with the house of Urbino were no less pleasant, and they continued so even after the death of Guidobaldo in April, 1508, for his successor was Francesco Maria della Rovere, son-in-law of Isabella Gonzaga. She was frequently visited by these princes, and she enjoyed the friendship of a number of remarkable men--Baldassar Castiglione, Ottaviano Fregoso, Aldus Manutius, and Bembo. Bembo, who was in love with the beautiful duchess, constantly sang her praises, and, August 1, 1504, he dedicated to her his dialogue on love, the _Asolani_, in a letter in which he celebrated her virtues. His friend Aldo first spent some time in Ferrara at the court of Ercole, and subsequently went to the Pio at Carpi; finally he settled in Venice, where he printed the _Asolani_ in the year 1505 and dedicated it to Lucretia. There is no doubt about Bembo's passion for the duchess, but it would be a fruitless undertaking to endeavor to prove, from the evidences of affection which the beautiful woman bestowed upon him, that it passed the bounds of propriety. The belief that it did is due to the letters which Bembo wrote her, and which are printed in his works, and still more to those which Lucretia addressed to him. From 1503 to 1506--in which year he removed to the court of Guidobaldo--the intellectual Venetian enjoyed the closest friendship with Lucretia. He corresponded with her while he was living with his friends the Strozzi in Villa Ostellato. These letters, especially those addressed to an "anonymous friend," by which designation he clearly meant Lucretia, are inspired by friendship, and display a tender confidence. Lucretia's letters to Bembo are preserved in the Ambrosiana in Milan, where they and the lock of blond hair near them are examined by every one who visits the famous library. The letters are written in her own hand, and there is no doubt of their authenticity; concerning the lock of hair there is some uncertainty; still it may be one of the pledges of affection which the happy Bembo carried away with him. Lucretia's letters to Bembo were first examined and described by Baldassare Oltrocchi, and subsequently by Lord Byron; in 1859 they were published in Milan by Bernardo Gatti.[199] There are nine in all--seven in Italian and two in Spanish. They are accompanied by a Castilian canzone. It seems certain that she felt more than mere friendship for Bembo, for she was young, and he was an accomplished cavalier, fair, amiable, and witty, who cast the rough Alfonso completely in the shade. He excited the latter's jealousy, and the danger which threatened him may have been the cause of his removal to Urbino. Lucretia kept up her friendly relations with him until the year 1513. Several other poets in Ferrara devoted their talents to her glorification. The verses which the two Strozzi addressed to her are even more ardent than those of Bembo--perhaps because their authors possessed greater poetical talent. Tito, the father, experienced the same feelings for the beautiful duchess as did his genial son Ercole, and he expressed them in the same poetical forms and imagery. This very similarity indicates that their devotion was merely æsthetic. Tito sang of a rose which Lucretia had sent him, but his son excelled him in an epigram on the _Rose of Lucretia_, which could hardly have been the same one his father had received.[200] Tito, in his epigram, described himself as senescent, and consequently not likely to be wounded by Cupid's darts, but he, nevertheless, was ensnared by Lucretia's charms. "In her," so he says, "all the majesty of heaven and earth are personified, and her like is not to be found on earth." He addressed an epigram to Bembo, with whose passion for Lucretia he was acquainted, in which he derives the name Lucretia from "_lux_" and "_retia_," and makes merry over the _net_ in which Bembo was caught.[201] His son Ercole describes her as a Juno in good works, a Pallas in decorum, and a Venus in beauty. In verses in imitation of Catullus he sang of the marble Cupid which the duchess had set up in her salon, saying that the god of Love had been turned into stone by her glance. He compared Lucretia's beautiful eyes with the sun, that blinds whosoever ventures to look at it; like Medusa, whose glance turned the beholder to stone, yet in this case "the pains of love still continued immortalized in the stone." Is it possible to believe that these poets would have written such verses if they had considered Lucretia Borgia guilty of the crimes which, even after her father's death, had been ascribed to her by Sannazzaro? Antonio Tebaldeo, Calcagnini, and Giraldi sang of Lucretia's beauty and virtue. Marcelle Filosseno dedicated a number of charming sonnets to her, in which he compared her with Minerva and Venus. Jacopo Caviceo, who in the last years of his life (he died in 1511) was vicar of the bishopric of Ferrara, dedicated to her his wonderful romance "Peregrino," with an inscription in which he describes her as beautiful, learned, wise, and modest. The number of poets who threw themselves at her feet was certainly large, and she doubtless received their flattery with the same satisfied vanity with which a beautiful woman of to-day would accept such offerings. Some of these poets may really have been in love with her, while others burned their incense as court flatterers; all, doubtless, were glad to find in her an ideal to serve as a platonic inspiration for their rhymes and verses. Ariosto excepted, these poets are to us nothing more than names in the history of literature. The great poet's relations with the princely house of Ferrara began about 1503, when he entered the service of Cardinal Ippolito. Soon after this--in the year 1505--he began his great epic, and the beautiful duchess appears to have had very little influence on his work. He refers to her occasionally, especially in a stanza for which she owed the poet little thanks if she foresaw his immortality--the eighty-third stanza in the forty-second canto of the _Orlando Furioso_, in which he places Lucretia's portrait in the temple to woman. The inscription under her portrait says that her fatherland, Rome, on account of her beauty and modesty must regard her as excelling Lucretia of old.[202] A recent Italian writer, speaking of Ariosto's adulation, says, "However much of it may be looked upon as court flattery, and as due to the poet's obligations to the house of Este, we know that the art of flattery had also its laws and bounds, and that one who ascribed such qualities to a prince who was known to be entirely lacking in them would be regarded as little acquainted with the world and with court manners, for he would cause the person to be publicly ridiculed. In this case the praise would degenerate into satire and the incautious flatterer would fare badly."[203] Flattery has always been the return which court poets make for their slavery. Ariosto and Tasso were no more free from it than were Horace and Virgil. When the poet of the _Orlando Furioso_ discovered that Cardinal Ippolito was beginning to treat him coldly, he thought to strike out everything he had said in his praise. Although it was probably merely the name Lucretia which Ariosto and other poets used--comparing it with the classic ideal of feminine honor--it is, nevertheless, difficult wholly to reject the interpretation of Lucretia's modern advocates, for, even when this comparison was not made, other admirers--Ariosto especially--praised the beautiful duchess for her decorum. This much is certain: her life in Ferrara was regarded as a model of feminine virtue. There was a young woman in her household who charmed all who came in contact with her until she became the cause of a tragedy at the court. This was the Angela Borgia whom Lucretia had brought with her from Rome, and who had been affianced to Francesco Maria Rovere. It is not known when the betrothal was set aside, although it may have been shortly after Alexander's death. The heir of Urbino married, as has been stated, Eleonora Gonzaga. Among Angela's admirers were two of Alfonso's brothers, who were equally depraved, Cardinal Ippolito and Giulio, a natural son of Ercole. One day when Ippolito was assuring Angela of his devotion, she began to praise the beauty of Giulio's eyes, which so enraged his utterly degenerate rival that he planned a horrible revenge. The cardinal hired assassins and commanded them to seize his brother when he was returning from the hunt, and to tear out the eyes which Donna Angela had found so beautiful. The attempt was made in the presence of the cardinal, but it did not succeed as completely as he had wished. The wounded man was carried to his palace, where the physicians succeeded in saving one of his eyes. This crime, which occurred November 3, 1505,[204] aroused the whole court. The unfortunate Giulio demanded that it be paid in kind, but the duke merely banished the cardinal. The injured man brooded on revenge, and the direst consequences followed. Ariosto, the wicked cardinal's courtier, fell into difficulties from which he escaped in a way not altogether honorable, which lessens the worth of the praise he bestowed upon Lucretia. He wrote a poem in which he endeavored to clear the murderer by blackening Giulio's character and concealing the motive for the crime. In this same eclogue he poured forth the most ardent praise of Lucretia. He lauded not only her beauty, her good works, and her intellect, but above all her modesty, for which she was famous before coming to Ferrara.[205] A year later, December 6, 1506, Lucretia married Donna Angela to Count Alessandro Pio of Sassuolo, and by a remarkable coincidence her son Giberto subsequently became the husband of Isabella, a natural daughter of Cardinal Ippolito. In November, 1505, an event occurred in the Vatican which aroused great interest on the part of Lucretia, and likewise caused her most painful memories. Giulia Farnese, the companion of her unhappy youth, made her appearance there under circumstances which must have overcome her. We know nothing of the life of Alexander's mistress during the years immediately preceding and following his death. She and her husband, Orsini, were living in Castle Bassanello, to which her mother Adriana had also removed. At least Giulia was there in 1504, about which time one of the Orsini committed one of those crimes with which the history of the great families of Italy is filled. Her sister, Girolama Farnese, widow of Puccio Pucci, had entered into a second marriage--this time with Count Giuliano Orsini of Anguillara--and had been murdered by her stepson, Giambattista of Stabbia, because, as it was alleged, she had tried to poison him. Giulia buried her deceased sister in 1504, at Bassanello. She must have gone to Rome the following year and taken up her abode in the Orsini palace. Her husband was not living, and Adriana may also have been dead, for she was not present at the ceremony in the Vatican in November, 1505, when Giulia, to the great astonishment of all Rome, married her only daughter, Laura, to the nephew of the Pope, Niccolò Rovere, brother of Cardinal Galeotto. Laura passed among all those who were acquainted with her mother's secrets as the child of Alexander VI and natural sister of the Duchess of Ferrara. When she was only seven years old her mother had betrothed her to Federico, the twelve-year-old son of Raimondo Farnese; this was April 2, 1499. This alliance was subsequently dissolved to enable her to enter into a union as brilliant as her heart could possibly desire. The consent of Julius II to the betrothal of his nephew with the bastard daughter of Alexander VI is one of the most astonishing facts in the life of this pope. It perhaps marks his reconciliation with the Borgia. He had hated the men of this family while he was hostile to them, but his hatred was not due to any moral feelings. Julius II felt no contempt for Alexander and Cæsar, but, on the other hand, it is more likely that he marveled at their strength as did Macchiavelli. We do not know that he had any personal relations with Lucretia Borgia after he ascended the papal throne, although this certainly would have been probable owing to the position of the house of Este. On one occasion he deeply offended Lucretia when, in reinstating Guglielmo Gaetani in possession of Sermoneta by a bull dated January 24, 1504, he applied the most uncomplimentary epithets to Alexander VI, describing him as a "swindler" who had enriched his own children by plundering others.[206] This especially concerned Lucretia, for she had been mistress of Sermoneta, which had subsequently been given to her son Rodrigo. Later, after Alfonso ascended the ducal throne, the relations between the Pope and Lucretia must have become more friendly. She kept up a lively correspondence with Giulia Farnese, and doubtless received from her the news of the betrothal of her daughter to a member of the Pope's family.[207] The betrothal took place in the Vatican, in the presence of Julius II, Cardinal Alessandro Farnese, and the mother of the young bride. This was one of the greatest triumphs of Giulia's romantic life--she had overcome the opposition of another pope, and one who had been the enemy of Alexander VI, and the man who had ruined Cæsar. She, the adulteress, who had been branded by the satirists of Rome and of all Italy as mistress of Alexander VI, now appeared in the Vatican as one of the most respectable women of the Roman aristocracy, "the illustrious Donna Giulia de Farnesio," Orsini's widow, for the purpose of betrothing the daughter of Alexander and herself to the Pope's nephew, thereby receiving absolution for the sins of her youth. She was still a beautiful and fascinating woman, and at most not more than thirty years of age. This good fortune and the rehabilitation of her character (if, in view of the morals of the time, we may so describe it) she owed to the intercession of her brother the cardinal. Political considerations likewise induced the Pope to consent to the alliance, for, in order to carry out his plan for extending the pontifical States, it was necessary for him to win over the great families of Rome. He secured the support of the Farnese and of the Orsini; in May, 1506, he married his own natural daughter Felice to Giangiordano Orsini of Bracciano, and in July of the same year he gave his niece, Lucretia Gara Rovere, sister of Niccolò, to Marcantonio Colonna as wife. Again Giulia Farnese vanished from sight, and neither under Julius II nor Leo X does she reappear. March 14, 1524, she made a will which was to be in favor of her nieces Isabella and Costanza in case her daughter should die without issue. March 23d the Venetian ambassador in Rome, Marco Foscari, informed his Signory that Cardinal Farnese's sister, Madama Giulia, formerly mistress of Pope Alexander VI, was dead. From this we are led to assume that she died in Rome. No authentic likeness of Giulia Bella has come down to us, but tradition says that one of the two reclining marble figures which adorn the monument of Paul III--Farnese--in St. Peter's, Justice, represents his sister, Giulia Farnese, while the other, Wisdom, is the likeness of his mother, Giovanella Gaetani. Giulia's daughter was mistress of Bassanello and Carbognano. She had one son, Giulio della Rovere, who subsequently became famous as a scholar.[208] In the meantime the attempt against Giulio d'Este had been attended by such consequences that the princely house of Ferrara found itself confronted by a grave danger. Giulio complained to Alfonso of injustice, while the cardinal's numerous friends considered his banishment too severe a punishment. Ippolito had a great following in Ferrara. He was a lavish man of the world, while the duke, owing to his utilitarian ways and practical life, repelled the nobility. A party was formed which advocated a revolution. The house of Este had survived many of these attempts. One had occurred when Ercole ascended the throne. Giulio succeeded in winning over to his cause certain disaffected nobles and conscienceless men who were in the service of the duke; among them Count Albertino Boschetti of San Cesario; his son-in-law, the captain of the palace guard; a chamberlain; one of the duke's minstrels, and a few others. Even Don Ferrante, Alfonso's own brother, who had been his proxy when he married Lucretia in Rome, entered into the conspiracy. The plan was, first to despatch the cardinal with poison; and, as this act would be punished if the duke were allowed to live, he was to be destroyed at a masked ball, and Don Ferrante was to be placed on the throne. The cardinal, who was well served by his spies in Ferrara, received news of what was going on and immediately informed his brother Alfonso. This was in July, 1506. The conspirators sought safety in flight, but only Giulio and the minstrel Guasconi succeeded in escaping, the former to Mantua and the latter to Rome. Count Boschetti was captured in the vicinity of Ferrara. Don Ferrante apparently made no effort to escape. When he was brought before the duke he threw himself at his feet and begged for mercy; but Alfonso in his wrath lost control of himself, and not only cast him from him but struck out one of his eyes with a staff which he had in his hand. He had him confined in the tower of the castle, whither Don Giulio, whom the Marchese of Mantua had delivered after a short resistance, was soon brought. The trial for treason was quickly ended, and sentence of death passed upon the guilty. First Boschetti and two of his companions were beheaded in front of the Palazzo della Ragione. This scene is faithfully described in a contemporaneous Ferrarese manuscript on criminology now preserved in the library of the university. The two princes were to be executed in the court of the castle, August 12th. The scaffold was erected, the tribunes were filled, the duke took his place, and the unfortunate wretches were led to the block. Alfonso made a signal--he was about to show mercy to his brothers. They lost consciousness and were carried back to prison. Their punishment had been commuted to life imprisonment. They spent years in captivity, surviving Alfonso himself. Apparently it caused him no contrition to know that his miserable brothers were confined in the castle where he dwelt and held his festivities. Such were the Este whom Ariosto in his poem lauded to the skies. Not until February 22, 1540, did death release Don Ferrante, then in the sixty-third year of his age. Don Giulio was granted his freedom in 1559, and died March 24, 1561, aged eighty-three. FOOTNOTES: [198] Another list of the year 1516 contains a number of magnificently bound breviaries and books of offices, but there are no additional works of a secular nature. For this catalogue I am indebted to Foucard, who copied it from an inventory of the personal property of Lucretia Borgia in the archives of Modena. [199] Dissertazione del Sig. Dottor Baldassare Oltrocchi sopra i primi amori di Pietro Bembo, indirizzata al sig. Conte Giammaria Mazzucchelli Bresciana. In the Nuova Raccolta d'Opuscoli Scientifici del Calogerà, vol. iv. Lettere di Lucrezia Borgia a messer Pietro Bembo dagli autografi conservati in un Codice della Bibl. Ambrosiana. Milano eoi Tipi dell' Ambrosiana, 1859. [200] Laeto nata solo, dextrâ, rosa, pollice carpta; Unde tibi solito pulcrior, unde color? Num te iterum tinxit Venus? an potius tibi tantum Borgia purpureo praebuit ore decus? [201] Ad Bembum de Lucretia. Si mutatur in X. C. tertia nominis hujus Littera lux fiet, quod modo luc fuerat. Retia subsequitur, cui tu hæc subiunge paraque, Subscribens lux hæc retia, Bembe, parat. [202] La prima inscrizion ch'agli occhi occorre, Con lungo honor Lucrezia Borgia noma, La cui bellezza ed onestà preporre Debbe all' antiqua la sua patria Roma. I duo che voluto han sopra sè torre Tanto eccellente ed onorata soma, Noma lo scritto: Antonio Tebaldeo, Ercole Strozza: un Lino, e un Orfeo. [203] See the Marquis Giuseppe Campori's work: Una Vittima della Storia, Lucrezia Borgia, in the Nuova Antologia, August 31, 1866. [204] Frizzi Storia di Ferrara, iv, 205. [205] Cose tutte che sono in ontà del vero, says Antonio Cappelli. Introduction to his Lettere di Lodovico Ariosto, Bologna, 1866. The eclogue is in Ariosto's Opere Minori i. 267. Angela Borgia is mentioned in the last canto (stanza 4) of the Orlando. [206] The bull is in the archives of the house of Gaetani. [207] As late as January 15, 1519, a few months before her death, Lucretia wrote to Giulia. The 13th of that month, Pietro Torelli, the Ferrarese ambassador in Florence, reported that he had received a letter for Giulia and would attend to it. Archives of Modena. [208] Fioravanti Martinelli Carbognano illustrado, Rome, 1644. CHAPTER VIII ESCAPE AND DEATH OF CÆSAR It was at the time of this great tragedy in Ferrara, which must have vividly reminded Lucretia of her own experiences in the papal city, that Julius II left Rome for the purpose of carrying out his bold plans for reestablishing the pontifical states by driving out the tyrants who had succeeded in escaping Cæsar's sword. Alfonso, as a vassal of the Church, sent him some troops, but he did not take part personally in the expedition. Guidobaldo of Urbino, who had adopted Francesco Maria Rovere as his son and heir, and the Marchese Gonzaga served in the army of Julius II. September 12, 1506, the Pope entered Perugia, whose tyrants, the Baglioni, surrendered. November 11th he made his entry into Bologna, Giovanni Bentivoglio and his wife Ginevra having fled with their children. There Julius halted, casting longing looks at Romagna, formerly Cæsar's domain, but now occupied by the Venetian army. It is a curious coincidence that it was at this very moment that the Duke of Romagna, who had vanished from the stage, again appeared. In November Lucretia received news that her brother had escaped from his prison in Spain, and she immediately communicated the fact to the Marchese Gonzaga, who, as field marshal of the Church, was in Bologna.[209] Lucretia had frequently exerted herself to secure Cæsar's freedom and had remained in constant communication with him by messenger. Her petitions, however, had produced no effect upon the King of Spain. Finally, owing to favorable circumstances, Cæsar succeeded in effecting his escape. Zurita says that Ferdinand the Catholic intended to remove him from his prison in the spring of 1506 to Aragon, and then to take him to Naples, whither he was going to place the affairs of the kingdom in order, and to assure himself of Gonsalvo, whose loyalty he suspected. His son-in-law, the Archduke Philip, with whom he was at variance on account of his pretensions to the kingdom of Castile, refused to allow Cæsar to be released from Medina, a Castilian place. While Ferdinand was absent on his journey, Philip died at Burgos, September 5, 1506, and Cæsar took advantage of this opportunity and the king's absence to escape. This he did with the help of the Castilian party, who hoped to profit by the services of the famous condottiere. October 25th he escaped from the castle of Medina to the estates of the Count of Benavente, where he remained. Some of the barons who wished to place the government of Castile in the hands of Maximilian, Philip's father, were anxious to send him to Flanders as their messenger to the emperor's court. As this plan fell through, Cæsar betook himself to Pamplona to his brother-in-law, the King of Navarre, who had become embroiled in this Castilian intrigue and was at war with his rebellious constable the Count of Lerin. From that place Cæsar wrote the Marchese of Mantua, and this is the last letter written by him which has been discovered. ILLUSTRIOUS PRINCE: I inform you that after innumerable disappointments it has pleased God, our Master, to free me and to release me from prison. How this happened you will learn from my secretary Federigo, the bearer. May this, by God's never-failing mercy, redound to his great service. At present I am with the illustrious King and Queen of Navarre in Pamplona, where I arrived December 3d, as your Majesty will learn from the above-named Federigo, who will also inform you of all that has occurred. You may believe whatever he tells you in my name, just as if I myself were speaking to you. I commend myself to your Excellency forever. From Pamplona, December 7, 1506. Your Majesty's friend and younger brother, CÆSAR. The letter has a wafer bearing the combined arms of Cæsar with the inscription _Cæsar Borgia de Francia Dux Romandiolæ_. One shield has the Borgia arms, with the French lilies, and a helmet from which seven snarling dragons issue; the other the arms of Cæsar's wife, with the lilies of France, and a winged horse rising from the casque. Cæsar's secretary reached Ferrara the last day of December. This same Federigo had been in that city once before,--during July of the year 1506, and had been sent back to Spain by the duchess.[210] He now returned to Italy, not for the purpose of bringing the news of his master's escape, but to learn how matters stood and to ascertain whether there was any prospect of restoring the Duke of Romagna. His majordomo, Requesenz, who was in Ferrara in January, had come for the same purpose. No time, however, could have been less favorable for such schemes than the year 1506, for Julius II had just taken possession of Bologna. The Marchese Gonzaga, upon whose good will Cæsar still reckoned, was commander of the papal army, which--it was believed--was planning an expedition into the Romagna. This was the only country where there was the slightest possibility of Cæsar's succeeding in reacquiring his power, for his good government had left a favorable impression on the Romagnoles, who would have preferred his authority to that of the Church. Zurita, the historian of Aragon, is correct when he says: "Cæsar's escape caused the Pope great anxiety, for the duke was a man who would not have hesitated to throw all Italy in turmoil for the purpose of carrying out his own plans; he was greatly beloved, not only by the men of war, but also by many people in Ferrara and in the States of the Church--something which seldom falls to the lot of a tyrant." Cæsar's messenger ventured to Bologna in spite of the presence of the Pope, and there the latter had him seized. This was reported to Lucretia, who immediately wrote to the Marchese of Gonzaga as follows: ILLUSTRIOUS BROTHER-IN-LAW AND HONORED BROTHER: I have just learned that by command of his Holiness our Federigo, the chancellor of the duke, my brother, has been seized in Bologna; I am sure he has done nothing to deserve this, for he did not come here with the intention of doing or saying anything that would displease or injure his Holiness--his Excellency would not countenance or risk anything of this sort against his Holiness. If Federigo had been given any order of this nature he would have first informed me of it, and I should never have permitted him to give any ground for complaint, for I am a devoted and faithful servant of the Pope, as is also my illustrious husband. I know of no other reason for his coming than to inform us of the duke's escape. Therefore I consider his innocence as beyond question. This apprehension of the courier is especially displeasing to me because it will injure my brother, the duke, making it appear that he is not in his Holiness's favor, and the same may be said of myself. I, therefore, urgently request your Excellency--of course if you are disposed to do me a favor--to use every means to induce his Holiness to release the messenger promptly, which I trust he will do out of his own goodness, and owing to the mediation of your Excellency. There is no way your Majesty could give me greater pleasure than by doing this, for the sake of my own honor and every other consideration, and in no way could I become more beholden to you. Therefore, I commend myself again to you with all my heart. Your Majesty's Sister and Servant, THE DUCHESS OF FERRARA. FERRARA, _January 15, 1507_. Cæsar had sent his former majordomo, Don Jaime de Requesenz, from Pamplona to the King of France to ask him to allow him to return to his court and enter his service. To this, however, Louis XII would not listen. The messenger met with a severe rebuff when he demanded in Cæsar's name the duchy of Valentinois and the revenue which he had formerly enjoyed as a prince of the French house.[211] Death soon put an end to the hopes of the famous adventurer. While in the service of his brother-in-law, the King of Navarre, he conducted the siege of the castle of Viana, which was defended by the king's vassal Don Loys de Beamonte, Count of Lerin. There he fell, bravely fighting, March 12, 1507. This place is situated in the diocese of Pamplona, and, as Zurita remarks, Cæsar's death by a curious coincidence occurred on the anniversary of the day on which to him had been given the bishopric of Pamplona. There he was interred with high honors. Like Nero he was only thirty-one years of age at the time of his demise. The fall of this terrible man, before whom all Italy had once trembled, and whose name was celebrated far and wide, relieved Julius II of a pretender who in time might have been a hindrance to him; for Cæsar, as an ally and a condottiere of Venice, would have spared no effort to force him into a war with the Republic for the possession of Romagna, or into a war with France on his withdrawal from the League of Cambray, and the revengeful Louis XII would certainly have brought Cæsar back to the Romagna for the purpose of availing himself both of his former connections in that country, and also of his great talents as a soldier. The news of Cæsar's death reached Ferrara while the duke was absent, in April, 1507, by way of Rome and Naples. His counselor Magnanini and Cardinal Ippolito withheld the news from the duchess, who was near her confinement. She was merely told that her brother had been wounded in battle. Greatly distressed, she betook herself to one of the convents in the city, where she spent two days in prayer before returning to the castle. As soon as the talk regarding Cæsar's death reached her ears she despatched her servant Tullio for Navarre, but on the way he received a report of the burial and turned back to Ferrara. Grasica, one of Cassar's equerries, also came to Ferrara and gave a full report of the circumstances attending the death of his master, at whose interment in Pamplona he had been present. The cardinal therefore decided to tell Lucretia the truth, and gave her her husband's letter containing the news of Cæsar's death.[212] The duchess displayed more self-control than had been expected. Her sorrow was mingled with the bitter recollection of all she had experienced and suffered in Rome, the memory of which had been dulled but not wholly obliterated by her life in Ferrara. Twice the murder of her young husband Alfonso must have come back to her in all its horror--once on the death of her father and again on that of her terrible brother. If her grief was not inspired by the overwhelming memories of former times, the sight of Lucretia weeping for Cæsar Borgia is a beautiful example of sisterly love--the purest and most noble of human sentiments. Valentino certainly did not appear to his sister or to his contemporaries in the form in which we now behold him, for his crimes seem blacker and blacker, while his good qualities and that which--following Macchiavelli--we may call his political worth, are constantly diminishing. To every thinking man the power which this young upstart, owing to an unusual combination of circumstances, acquired is merely a proof of what the timid, short-sighted generality of mankind will tolerate. They tolerated the immature greatness of Cæsar Borgia, before whom princes and states trembled for years, and he was not the last bold but empty idol of history before whom the world has tottered. Although Lucretia may not have had a very clearly defined opinion of her brother, neither her memory nor her sight could have been wholly dulled. She herself forgave him, but she must, nevertheless, have asked herself whether the incorruptible Judge of all mankind would forgive him--for she was a devout and faithful Catholic according to the religious standards of the age. She doubtless had innumerable masses said for his soul, and assailed heaven with endless prayers. Ercole Strozzi sought to console her in pompous verse; in 1508 he dedicated to her his elegy on Cæsar. This fantastic poem is remarkable as having been the production of this man, and it might be defined as the poetic counterpart of Macchiavelli's "Prince." First the poet describes the deep sorrow of the two women, Lucretia and Charlotte, lamenting the deceased with burning tears, even as Cassandra and Polyxena bewailed the loss of Achilles. He depicts the triumphant progress of Cæsar, who resembled the great Roman by his deeds as well as in name. He enumerated the various cities he had seized in Romagna, and complained that an envious Fate had not permitted him to subjugate more of them, for if it had, the fame of the capture of Bologna would not have fallen to Julius II. The poet says that the Genius of Rome had once appeared to the people and foretold the fall of Alexander and Cæsar, complaining that all hope of the savior of the line of Calixtus,--whom the gods had promised,--would expire with them. Eratus had told the poet of these promises made in Olympus. Pallas and Venus, one as the friend of Cæsar and Spain, the other as the patron of Italy, unwilling that strangers should rule over the descendants of the Trojans, had complained to Jupiter of his failure to fulfil his promise to give Italy a great king who would be likewise her savior. Jupiter had reassured them by saying that fate was inexorable. Cæsar like Achilles had to die, but from the two lines of Este and Borgia, which sprang from Troy and Greece, the promised hero would come. Pallas thereupon appeared in Nepi, where, after Alexander's death, Cæsar lay sick of the pest, in his camp, and, in the form of his father, informed him of his approaching end, which he, conscious of his fame, must suffer like a hero. Then she disappeared in the form of a bird and hastened to Lucretia in Ferrara. After the poet described Cæsar's fall in Spain he sought to console the sister with philosophic platitudes, and then with the assurance that she was to be the mother of the child who was destined for such a great career.[213] According to Zurita, Cæsar left but one legitimate child, a daughter, who was living with her mother under the protection of the King of Navarre. Her name was Luisa; later she married Louis de la Tremouille, and on his death Philipp of Bourbon, Baron of Busset. Her mother, Charlotte d'Albret, having suffered much in life, gave herself up to holy works. She retired from the world, and died March 11, 1504. Two natural children of Cæsar, a son Girolamo and a daughter Lucretia were living in Ferrara, where the latter became a nun and died in 1573, she being at the time abbess of San Bernardino.[214] As late as February, 1550, an illegitimate son of Cæsar's appeared in Paris. He was a priest, and he announced that he was the natural son of the Duke of Romagna, and called himself Don Luigi. He had come from Rome to ask assistance of the King of France, because, as he said, his father had met his death while he was in the service of the French crown in the kingdom of Navarre. They gave him a hundred ducats, with which he returned to Rome.[215] FOOTNOTES: [209] In the record of her household expenses, under date of November 20, 1506, there is the following entry: A Garzia Spagnolo per andare a Venezia per la nova del Duca Valentino che era fugito de progione. November 27, she wrote to Gonzaga. [210] Record of Lucretia's household expenses for the year 1506 (Archives of Modena): July 31, 1506, a Federigo Cancelliere del Duca Valentino per andare per le poste in Spagna dal Duca. [211] Despatch of the Ferrarese ambassador to France, Manfredo Manfredi, to Duke Alfonso, January, 1507. [212] Letters of Hieronymus Magnaninus to his master, Alfonso, Ferrara, April 11 to 22, archives of the Este. [213] Cæsaris Borgiæ Ducis Epicedium per Herculem Strozzam ad Divam Lucretiam Borgiam Ferrariæ Ducem. In Strozzi Poetæ Pater et Filius, Paris, 1530. [214] See Cittadella's genealogy of the house of Borgia. [215] Letter of Giulio Alvarotti from France, February 14, 1550, in the archives of Modena. CHAPTER IX MURDER OF ERCOLE STROZZI--DEATH OF GIOVANNI SFORZA AND OF LUCRETIA'S ELDEST SON Alfonso's hopes of having an heir had twice been disappointed by miscarriages, but April 4, 1508, his wife bore him a son, who was baptized with the name of his grandfather. Ercole Strozzi regarded the birth of this heir to the throne as the fulfilment of his prophesy. In a _genethliakon_ he flatters the duchess with the hope that the deeds of her brother Cæsar and of her father Alexander would be an incentive to her son--both would remind him of Camillus and the Scipios as well as of the heroes of Greece. Only a few weeks after this the genial poet met with a terrible end. His devotion to Lucretia was doubtless merely that of a court gallant and poet celebrating the beauty of his patroness. The real object of his affections was Barbara Torelli, the youthful widow of Ercole Bentivoglio, who gave him the preference over another nobleman. Strozzi married her in May, 1508. Thirteen days later, on the morning of June 6th, the poet's dead body was found near the Este palace, which is now known as the Pareschi, wrapped in his mantle, some of his hair torn out by the roots, and wounded in two and twenty places. All Ferrara was in an uproar, for she owed her fame to Strozzi, one of the most imaginative poets of his time, the pet of everybody, the friend of Bembo and Ariosto, the favorite of the duchess and of the entire court. On his father's death he had succeeded to his position as chief of the twelve judges of Ferrara. He was still in the flower of his youth, being only twenty-seven years old. This terrible event must have reminded Lucretia of the day when her brother Gandia was slain. The mystery attending these crimes has never been dispelled. "No one named the author of the murder, for the pretor was silent," says Paul Jovius in his eulogy of the poet. But who, except those who had the power to do so could have compelled the court to remain silent? Some have ascribed the deed to Alfonso, stating that he destroyed Strozzi on account of his passion for the latter's wife; others claim that he simply revenged himself for the favor which Lucretia had shown the poet. Recent writers who have endeavored to fathom the mystery and who have availed themselves of authentic records of the time regard Alfonso as the guilty one.[216] One of the strongest proofs of his guilt is found in the fact that the duke, who not only had punished the conspirators against his own life so cruelly, and who had always shown himself an unyielding supporter of the law, allowed the matter to drop. Lucretia has even been charged with the murder on the ground of her jealousy of Barbara Torelli, or owing to her fear that Strozzi might disclose her relations with Bembo, especially as he had hoped to obtain the cardinal's hat through the influence of the duchess, in which he was disappointed. None of the later historians has given any credence to this theory. Ariosto did not believe it, for if he did how could he have made Ercole Strozzi the herald of her fame in the temple of honor in which he placed the women of the house of Este? Even if he wrote this stanza before the poet's death--which is not probable--he would certainly have changed it before the publication of the poem, which was in 1516. Nor did Aldo Manuzio believe in Lucretia's guilt, for in 1513 he dedicated to her an edition of the poems of the two Strozzi, father and son, accompanied by an introduction in which he praises her to the skies. In the meantime Julius II had formed the League of Cambray, which was to crush Venice, and which Ferrara had also joined. The war kept Alfonso away from his domain much of the time, and consequently he made Lucretia regent during his absence. In former days she had occasionally acted as regent in the Vatican and in Spoleto--but in a different way. In 1509 she saw the war clouds gathering about Ferrara, for it was in that year that her husband and the cardinal attacked the Venetian fleet on the Po. August 25th of this same year Lucretia bore a second son, Ippolito. The war which convulsed the entire peninsula immediately drew Ferrara into the great movement which did not subside until Charles V imposed a new order of things on the affairs of Italy. Lucretia's subsequent life, therefore, was largely influenced by politics. Her first peaceful years in Ferrara, like her youth, were past. She now devoted herself to the education of her children, the princes of Este, and to affairs of state whenever her husband entrusted them to her. She was a capable woman; her father was not mistaken in his opinion of her intellect. She made herself felt as regent in Ferrara. She was regent for the first time in May, 1506, and she acquitted herself most creditably. The Jews in Ferrara were being oppressed, and Lucretia had a law passed to protect them, and all who transgressed it were severely punished. In the dedication of the poems of the Strozzi addressed to her by Aldo, he lauds, among her other good qualities, not only her fear of God, her benevolence to the poor, and her kindness toward her relatives, but also her ability as a ruler, saying that she made an excellent regent, whose sound opinions and perspicacity were greatly admired by the burghers. Even if we make allowances for the flattery, there is still much truth in what he says. [Illustration: ALDO MANUZIO. From an engraving by Angustin de St. Aubin.] Owing to these facts it is not strange that Lucretia's personality was quite obliterated or eclipsed by the political history of Ferrara during this period. The chroniclers of the city make no mention of her except on the occasion of the birth of her children, and Paul Jovius speaks of her only two or three times in his biography of Alfonso, although in each case with the greatest respect. The personal interest which the early career of this woman had excited died out with the change in her life. Even her letters to Alfonso and those to her friend Isabella Gonzaga contain little of importance to her biographers. No one now questioned her virtues; even the Emperor Maximilian, who had endeavored to prevent her marriage with Alfonso, acknowledged them. One day in February, 1510, in Augsburg, while in conversation with the Ferrarese ambassador, Girolamo Cassola--having discussed the ladies and the festivities of Augsburg at length--he questioned the ambassador about the women of Italy, and especially about those of Ferrara, whereupon "much was said regarding the good qualities of our duchess. I spoke of her beauty, her graciousness, her modesty, and her virtues. The emperor asked me what other beauties there were in Ferrara, and I named Donna Diana and Donna Agnola, one the sister and the other the wife of Ercole d'Este." Such was the report the ambassador sent to Ferrara.[217] Lucretia's nature had become more composed, thanks to the stability of the world to which she now belonged and owing to the important duties she now had, and only rarely was it disturbed by any reminder of her experiences in Rome. The death of Giovanni Sforza of Pesaro, however, in 1510, served to recall her early life. On returning to his State, Sforza had been confirmed in its possession as a vassal of the Church by a bull of Julius II. He endeavored to rule wisely, made many improvements, and strengthened the castle of Pesaro. He was a cultivated man given over to the study of philosophy. Ratti, a biographer of the house of Sforza, mentions a catalogue which he compiled of the entire archives of Pesaro. In 1504 he married a noble Venetian, Ginevra, of the house of Tiepolo, whose acquaintance he had made while in exile. November 4, 1505, she bore him a son, Costanzo.[218] What were his exact relations with the Este, with whom he was connected, we do not know, although they, doubtless, were not altogether pleasant. Sforza could not have found much pleasure in life, for his famous house was fast becoming extinct, and he could not foresee a long future for his race. He died peacefully July 27, 1510, in the castle of Gradara, where he had been in the habit of spending much of his time alone. As his son was still a small child his natural brother Galeazzo, who had married Ginevra, a daughter of Ercole Bentivoglio, assumed the government of Pesaro. Giovanni's child died August 15, 1512, whereupon Pope Julius II withdrew his support from Galeazzo, and forced the last of the Sforza of Pesaro to enter into an agreement by which, October 30, 1512, he surrendered the castle and domain to Francesco Maria Rovere, who had been Duke of Urbino since the death of Guidobaldo in April, 1508. Pesaro therefore was united with this State. Galeazzo died in Milan in 1515, having made the Duke Maximilian Sforza his heir. The line of the lords of Pesaro thus became extinct, for Giovanni Sforza had left only a natural daughter, Isabella, who in 1520 married Sernigi Cipriano, a noble Florentine, and who died in Rome in 1561, famous for her culture and intellect. Her epitaph may still be read on a stone in the wall of the passageway behind the tribune in the Lateran basilica.[219] The death of Lucretia's first husband must have vividly reminded her of the wrong she had done him, because she had now reached the age when frivolity no longer dulled conscience; but the times were so troublous that she directed her thoughts into other channels. August 9, 1510, a few days after the death of Sforza, Julius II placed Alfonso under his ban and declared that he had forfeited all his Church fiefs. The Pope again took up the plans of his uncle Sixtus, who, in conjunction with the Venetians, had schemed to wrest Ferrara from the Este. After the Venetians had appeased him by withdrawing from the cities of Romagna, he had made peace with the Republic, and commanded Alfonso to withdraw from the League and to cease warring against Venice. The duke refused, and this was the reason for the ban. Ferrara thereupon, together with France, found itself drawn into a ruinous war which led to the famous battle of Ravenna, April 1, 1512, which was won by Alfonso's artillery. It was during this war, and on the occasion of the attempt of Julius II to capture Ferrara by surprise, that the famous Bayard made the acquaintance of Lucretia. After the French cavaliers, with their companions in arms, the Ferrarese, had captured the fortress they returned in triumph to Ferrara where they were received with the greatest honors. In remembrance of this occasion the biographer Bayard wrote in praise of Lucretia as follows: "The good duchess received the French before all the others with every mark of favor. She is a pearl in this world. She daily gave the most wonderful festivals and banquets in the Italian fashion. I venture to say that neither in her time nor for many years before has there been such a glorious princess, for she is beautiful and good, gentle and amiable to everyone, and nothing is more certain than this, that, although her husband is a skilful and brave prince, the above-named lady, by her graciousness, has been of great service to him."[220] Owing to the death of Gaston de Foix at the battle of Ravenna, the victory of the French turned to defeat and the rout of the Pope into victory. Alfonso finding himself defenseless, hastened to Rome in July, 1512, to ask forgiveness from Julius, and, although this was accorded him, he was saved from destruction, or a fate similar to Cæsar Borgia's, only by secret flight. With the help of the Colonna, who conducted him to Marino, he reached Ferrara in disguise. These were anxious days for Lucretia; for, while she was trembling for the life of her husband, she received news of the death, abroad, of her son. August 28, 1512, the Mantuan agent Stazio Gadio wrote his master Gonzaga from Rome, saying news had reached there that the Duke of Biselli, son of the Duchess of Ferrara and Don Alfonso of Aragon, had died at Bari, where he was living under the care of the duchess of that place.[221] Lucretia herself gave this information to a person whose name is not known, in a letter dated October 1st, saying, "I am wholly lost in bitterness and tears on account of the death of the Duke of Biselli, my dearest son, concerning which the bearer of this will give you further particulars."[222] We do not know how the unfortunate Rodrigo spent the first years following Alexander's death and Cæsar's exile in Spain, but there is ground for believing that he was left in Naples under the guardianship of the cardinals Ludovico Borgia and Romolini of Sorrento. By virtue of a previous agreement, the King of Spain recognized Lucretia's son as Duke of Biselli, and there is an official document of September, 1505, according to which the representative of the little duke placed his oath of allegiance in the hands of the two cardinals above named.[223] Rodrigo may have been brought up by his aunt, Donna Sancia, for she was living with her husband in the kingdom of Naples, where Don Giuffrè had been confirmed in the possession of his property. Sancia died childless in the year 1506, just as Ferdinand the Catholic appeared in Naples. The king, consequently, appropriated a large part of Don Giuffrè's estates, although the latter remained Prince of Squillace. He married a second time and left several heirs. Of his end we know nothing. One of his grandchildren, Anna de Borgia, Princess of Squillace, the last of her race, brought these estates to the house of Gandia by her marriage with Don Francesco Borgia at the beginning of the seventeenth century. It may have been on the death of Sancia that Rodrigo was placed under the protection of another aunt, Isabella d'Aragona, his father's eldest sister, the most unfortunate woman of the age, wife of Giangaleazzo of Milan, who had been poisoned by Ludovico il Moro. The figure of Isabella of Milan is the most tragic in the history of Italy of the period beginning with the invasion of Charles VIII--an epoch filled with a series of disasters that involved every dynasty of the country. For she was affected at one and the same time by the fall of two great houses, that of Sforza and that of Aragon. The saying of Caracciolo in his work, _De varietate fortunæ_, regarding the Sforza, namely, that there is no tragedy however terrible for which this house would not furnish an abundance of material may well be applied to both these families. Isabella had beheld the fall of her once mighty house, and she had seen her own son Francesco seized and taken to France by Louis XII, where he died, a priest, in his early manhood. She herself had retired to Bari, a city which Ludovico il Moro had given up to her in 1499, and of which she remained duchess until her death, February 11, 1524. Donna Isabella had taken Lucretia's son to herself, and from the records of the household expenses of the Duchess of Ferrara it appears that he was with her in Bari in March, 1505, for on the twenty-sixth of that month there is the following entry: "A suit of damask and brocade which her Majesty sent her son Don Rodrigo in Bari as a present."[224] April 3d his mother sent his tutor, Baldassare Bonfiglio, who had come to Naples, back to him. This man is named in the register under date of February 25, 1506, as tutor of Don Giovanni. It appears, therefore, that this child also was in Bari, and was being educated with his playfellow Rodrigo. In October, 1506, we find the little Giovanni in Carpi, where he was probably placed at the court of the Pio. From there Lucretia had him brought to the court of Ferrara on the date mentioned. She therefore was allowed to have this mysterious infante, but not her own child Rodrigo, with her. In November, 1506, Giovanni must again have been in Carpi, for Lucretia sent him some fine linen apparel to that place.[225] Both children were together again in Bari in April, 1508, for in the record of the household expenses the expenditures for both, beginning with May of that year, are given together, and a certain Don Bartolommeo Grotto is mentioned as instructor to both.[226] The son of Lucretia and of the murdered Alfonso, therefore, died in the home of Donna Isabella in Bari, which was not far from his hereditary duchy of Biselli. We have a letter written by this unhappy Princess Isabella a few weeks after the death of the youthful Rodrigo, to Perot Castellar, Governor of Biselli: MONSIGNOR PEROT: We write this merely to ask you to compel those of Corato to pay us what they have to pay, from the revenue of the illustrious Duke of Biselli, our nephew of blessed memory, for shortly a bill will come from the illustrious Duchess of Ferrara, and in case the money is not ready we might be caused great inconvenience. Those of Corato may delay, and we might be compelled to find the money at once. Therefore you must see to it that we are not subjected to any further inconvenience, and that we are paid immediately; for by so doing you will oblige us, and we offer ourselves to your service. ISABELLA OF ARAGON, Duchess of Milan, alone in misfortune.[227] BARI, _October 14, 1592_. Rodrigo's[228] mother laid claim to the property he left, which, as is shown by certain documents, she recovered from Isabella d'Aragona as guardian of the deceased, to the amount of several thousand ducats. To do this she was forced to engage in a long suit, and as late as March, 1518, she sent her agent, Giacomo Naselli, to Rome and Naples regarding it. His report to Cardinal Ippolito is still in existence. Whatever were the circumstances which had compelled Lucretia to send her son away, on whom, as we have shown, she always lavished her maternal care, the unfortunate child's experience will always be a blot on her memory. FOOTNOTES: [216] Campori; Una Vittima della Storia; Antonio Capelli, Lettere di L. Ariosto, Introduction, p. lxi. Also W. Gilbert, Lucrezia Borgia, Duchess of Ferrara, ii, 240. [217] Despatch of Girolamo Cassola, Augsburg, February 27, 1510. Archives of Modena. [218] This he announced to the Marchese Gonzaga from Pesaro, November 4, 1505. Archives of Mantua. [219] Copies of the following instruments concerning the last Sforza of Pesaro are in the archives of Florence: will of Giovanni Sforza, July 24, 1510; agreement between Galeazzo and the Papal Legate, October 30, 1512; Galeazzo's will, March 23, 1515; Isabella's marriage contract, Pesaro, September 29, 1520. The epitaph in the Lateran is as follows: Isabellas Sfortiæ Joannis Pisaurensium P. Feminæ Sui Temporis Prudentia Ac Pietate Insigni Exec. Test. P. Vix. Ann LVII. M. VII. D. III Obiit Ann. MDLXI. XI Kal. Febr. Consensu Nobilium De Mutis De Papazurris. Above is a profile in marble. [220] J'ose bien dire que, de son temps, ni beaucoup avant, il ne s'est point trouvé de plus triomphante princesse, car elle était belle, bonne, douce et courtoise, à toutes gens. Le Loyal Serviteur Histoire du bon Chevalier, le seigneur de Bayard, chap. xlv. [221] Despatch of this ambassador in the archives of Mantua. [222] Per trovarmi tuttavia involta in lachryme et amaritudine per la morte del Duca di Biselli mio figliolo carrissimo. [223] The instrument is in the Liber Arrendamentorum, from Lucretia's chancellery. [224] El quale zipon de Dernascho e brochato, sua Signoria el manda a donare a don Rodrigo suo figliolo a Barri. [225] October 24, 1506. Spesa per un nocchiero, che ha condotto Don Giovanni Borgia de Finale a Ferrara. November 5, 1506. Tela di renso sottile per far camicie mandato a Carpi al sig. Don Giovanni Borgia. [226] May 15, 1508. Berette per Don Giovanni e Don Rodrigo Borgia. May 25th. Spesa per guanti a Don Giovanni e Don Rodrigo Borgia. October 16th. Bartolommeo Grotto, maestro de li ragazzi, per pagare certi libri zoè Donati e regule per detti ragazzi. December 15. Per un Virgilio comprato da Don Bartolommeo Grotto a don Giovanni. [227] Unica in disgracia. [228] Letters in the Este archives show that there was another Don Rodrigo Borgia, who, in the year 1518, was described as the "brother" of the Duchess Lucretia, and was then under the care of tutors in Salerno. His guardians were Madama Elisabetta--who may have been his mother--and her daughter Giulia. Lucretia, to whom the letters of Giovanni Cases (Rome, May 12, September 3, 1518) and another by Don Giorgio de Ferrara (Rome, December, 1518,) are addressed, seems to have acted as a mother to this child. This second Rodrigo died, a young clerk, in 1527. August 30th of that year the Ferrarese ambassador in Naples, Baldassare da Fino, wrote from Posilipo as follows: Lo Illmo et Rev. Signor Don Rodrico de Casa Borgia, stando in Ciciano, cum la Signora Madama sua matre, sono da 15 giorni che, prima vexato da Febre continua, se ne morse--a sheet without any address, in the archives of Modena. Again, in January, 1535, this deceased son of Alexander VI is mentioned in a report sent from Rome, which contains the following words: Era venuta nuovamente un Vescovo fratello di Don Roderico Borgia, figliuolo che fu di Papa Alessandro.... Avvisi di Roma. State archives of Modena. CHAPTER X EFFECTS OF THE WAR--THE ROMAN INFANTE The war about Ferrara, thanks to Alfonso's skill and the determined resistance of the State, had ended. Julius II had seized Modena and Reggio, which was a great loss to the State of Ferrara, and consequently the history of that country for many years hence is taken up with her efforts to regain these cities. Fortunately for Alfonso, Julius II died in February, 1513, and Leo X ascended the papal throne. Hitherto he had maintained friendly relations with the princes of Urbino and Ferrara, who continued to look for only amicable treatment from him; but both houses were destined to be bitterly deceived by the faithless Medici, who deceived all the world. Alfonso hastened to attend Leo's coronation in Rome, and, believing a complete reconciliation with the Holy See would soon be effected, he returned to Ferrara. There Lucretia had won universal esteem and affection; she had become the mother of the people. She lent a ready ear to the suffering and helped all who were in need. Famine, high prices, and depletion of the treasury were the consequences of the war; Lucretia had even pawned her jewels. She put aside, as Jovius says, "the pomps and vanities of the world to which she had been accustomed from childhood, and gave herself up to pious works, and founded convents and hospitals. This was due as much to her own nature as it was to her past life and the fate she had suffered. Most women who have lived much and loved much finally become fanatics; bigotry is often only the last form which feminine vanity assumes. The recollection of a world of vice, and of crimes committed by her nearest kinsmen, and also of her own sins, must have constantly disturbed Lucretia's conscience. Other women who, like her, were among the chief characters in the history of the Borgias developed precisely the same frame of mind and experienced a similar need of religious consolation. Cæsar's widow ended her life in a convent; Gandia's did the same; Alexander's mistress became a fanatic; and if we had any record of the adulteress Giulia Farnese we should certainly find that she passed the closing years of her life either as a saint in a convent or engaged in pious works." [Illustration: LEO X. From an engraving published in 1580.] The year 1513, following the war in Ferarra, marked a decided change in Lucretia's life, for from that time it took a special religious turn. It did not, however, degenerate into bigotry or fanaticism; this was prevented by the vigorous Alfonso and her children, and by her court duties. The war had deprived Ferrara of much of its brilliancy, although it was still one of the most attractive of the princely courts of Italy. During the following years of peace Alfonso devoted himself to the cultivation of the arts. The most famous masters of Ferrara--Dossi, Garofalo, and Michele Costa--worked for him in the castle, in Belriguardo, and Belfiore. Titian, who was frequently a guest in Ferrara, executed some paintings for him, and the duke likewise gave Raphael some commissions. He even founded a museum of antiquities. In Lucretia's cabinet there was a Cupid by Michael Angelo. The predilection of the duchess for the fine arts, however, was not very strong; in this respect she was not to be compared with her sister-in-law, Isabella of Mantua, who maintained constant relations with all the prominent artists of the age and had her agents in all the large cities of Italy to keep her informed regarding noteworthy productions in the domain of the arts. From 1513 Ferrara's brilliancy was somewhat dimmed by the greater fame of the court of Leo X. The passion of this member of the Medici family for the arts attracted to Rome the most brilliant men of Italy, among whom were the poets Tebaldeo, Sadoleto, and Bembo--the last became Leo's secretary. Both the Strozzi were dead. Aldo, upon whose career as a printer and scholar during his early years Lucretia had not been without influence, was living in Venice, and from there he kept up a literary correspondence with his patroness. Celio Calcagnini remained true to Ferrara. The university continued to flourish. Lucretia was very friendly with the noble Venetian, Trissino, Ariosto's not altogether successful rival in epic poetry. There are in existence five letters written by Trissino to Lucretia in her last years.[229] Ferrara's pride, however, was Ariosto, and Lucretia knew him when he was at the zenith of his fame. He, however, dedicated his poem neither to her nor to Alfonso, but to the unworthy Cardinal Ippolito, in whose service a combination of circumstances had placed him. No princely house was ever glorified more highly than was the house of Este by Ariosto, for the _Orlando Furioso_ will cause it to be remembered for all time; so long as the Italian language endures it will hold an immortal place in literature. Lucretia too was given a position of honor in the poem; but however beautiful the place which she there holds, Ariosto ought to have bestowed greater praise on her if she was the inspiration which he required for his great work. Lucretia's relations with her husband, which had never been based upon love, and which were not of a passionate nature, apparently continued to grow more favorable for her. In April, 1514, she had borne him a third son, Alessandro, who died at the age of two years; July 4, 1515, she bore a daughter, Leonora, and November 1, 1516, another son, Francesco. With no little satisfaction Alfonso found himself the father of a number of children--all his legitimate heirs. He was engrossed in his own affairs, but, nevertheless, he was highly pleased with the esteem and admiration now bestowed upon his wife. While the admiration she excited in former years was due to her youthful beauty, it was now owing to her virtues. She who was once the most execrated woman of her age had won a place of the highest honor. Caviceo even ventured, when he wished to praise the famous Isabella Gonzaga, to say that she approached the perfection of Lucretia. Her past, apparently, was so completely forgotten that even her name, Borgia, was always mentioned with respect. About this time Lucretia was reminded of her life in Rome by a member of her family who was very near to her, Giovanni Borgia, the mysterious Infante of Rome, formerly Duke of Nepi and Camerino, and companion in destiny of the little Rodrigo who died in Bari. He had disappeared from the stage in 1508, and where he was during several succeeding years we do not know; but in 1517, a young man of nineteen or twenty, he came from Naples to Romagna, where he was shipwrecked. His baggage had been saved by the commune of Pesaro, and was claimed by a representative of Lucretia, December 2d; in the legal document Giovanni Borgia was described as her "brother." Other instruments show that he remained at his sister's court as late as December, 1517.[230] Her husband, therefore, did not refuse to allow her to shelter her kinsman. In December, 1518, Don Giovanni went to France, where the Duke Alfonso had him presented to the king. Lucretia had given him presents to take to the king and queen.[231] He remained at the French court some time for the purpose of making his fortune, in which, however, he did not succeed. Thereupon the Infante of Rome again disappeared from view until the year 1530, when we find him in Rome, laying claim to the Duchy of Camerino. The last Varano, Giammaria, had returned thither on Cæsar's overthrow, and had been recognized by Julius II as a vassal of the Church. In April, 1515, Leo X made him Duke of Camerino and married him to his own niece, the beautiful Catarina Cibò. Giammaria died in August, 1527, leaving as his sole heir his daughter Giulia, who was not yet of age. An illegitimate son of the house of Varano laid claim to Camerino, and he was ready to enforce his demands with arms, but he was frustrated in his attempt by a suit brought by Giovanni Borgia, the first duke, who was supported by Alfonso of Ferrara in his efforts. He furnished him with several documents dating from the time of Alexander VI which referred to his rights to Camerino, and which had been placed by Lucretia in the chancellery of the house of Este. Don Giovanni had even gone to Charles V, in Bologna, where the famous congress had been sitting since December, 1529. The emperor had advised him to endeavor to secure his rights by process of law in Rome, through the Pope. From that city, in 1530, the infante wrote a letter to Duke Alfonso, in which he informed him of his affairs, and asked him to have further search made in the archives of the Este for documents concerning himself. Don Giovanni began suit. In a voluminous document dated June 29, 1530, he describes himself not only as Domicellus Romanus Principalis, but also as "orator of the Pope." From this it appears that he--one of the illegitimate sons of Alexander VI--was a prominent gentleman in Rome, and was even in the Pope's service. The Roman Ruota decided the suit against Giovanni, who had to pay the costs. In a brief dated June 7, 1532, Clement VII commanded him to cease annoying Giulia Varano and her mother with any further claims.[232] From that time we hear nothing more of this Borgia except from a letter written in Rome, November 19, 1547, apparently by a Ferrarese agent to Ercole II, then reigning duke. In it he mentions the death of Don Giovanni. The letter is as follows: Don Giovanni Borgia has just died in Genoa; it is said he left many thousand ducats in Valencia. Here (in Rome) he had a little clothing, two horses, and a vineyard worth about three hundred ducats. As he left no will the property will be divided between your Excellency, your brothers, and among others the nobles of the Mattei family here, the Duke of Gandia, and the children of the Duke of Valentino, provided their rights are not prejudiced by the fact that they are natural children. I will not omit to inform myself regarding the money in Valencia, and will report to your Excellency.[233] FOOTNOTES: [229] Printed in the Italian edition of Roscoe's Life of Leo X, vii, 300. [230] Cittadella N 31. She endeavored to secure the Prebend of S. Jacopo for him. In her record of household expenses there are entries of purchases of clothing for him, beginning with December 23, 1517. [231] Two golden bracelets--per donare alla Regina de Franza, 27 Aprile, 1518; other articles of personal adornment--mandati per lo Illmo D. Joanne Borgia al Re de Franza (November 16, 1518). The ambassadors Carlo da Correggio and Pistofilo Bonaventura informed Lucretia of his favorable reception at the court of France, in letters dated December, 1518, and January to March, 1519. State archives of Modena. [232] Documents in the State archives of Florence, among the papers regarding Urbino. CI. I. Div. C. Fil. xiv. In 1534 Giulia Varano married Guidobaldo II of Urbino and brought him Camerino, which, however, he was compelled to relinquish in 1539 to Paul III, who gave it to his nephew Octavio Farnese. [233] Copia di una lettera da Roma di 19 Novembre, 1547. State archives of Modena. CHAPTER XI LAST YEARS AND DEATH OF VANNOZZA In the same year that this her father's last son appeared at her court Lucretia also learned of the death of her mother. Vannozza was already a widow when Alexander VI died. During his last illness she had placed herself under the protection of the troops of her son Cæsar. This she was able to do as he himself was sick at the same time. There are documents in existence which show that immediately after Alexander's death, and while the papal throne was vacant, she was living in the palace of the Cardinal of S. Clemente in the Borgo. As Cæsar was compelled to betake himself to Nepi she accompanied him thither, and on the election of Piccolomini she returned to the papal city. She did not follow her sons to Naples, but remained in Rome, where affairs became normal after the election of Rovere to the papacy. The retainers of the Borgia feared that certain suits would be brought against them. March 6, 1504, a chamberlain of Cardinal S. Angelo, who had been poisoned, was condemned to death, and in a loud voice he proclaimed that he had committed the murder on the explicit command of Alexander and Cæsar.[234] Cardinals Romolini and Ludovico Borgia at once fled to Naples. Don Micheletto, the man who executed Cæsar's bloody orders, was a prisoner in the castle of S. Angelo. The Venetian ambassador, Giustinian, informed his government in May, 1504, that Micheletto was charged with having caused the death of a number of persons, among them the Duke of Gandia, Varano of Camerino, Astorre and Ottaviano Manfredi, the Duke of Biselli, the youthful Bernardino of Sermoneta, and the Bishop of Cagli. Micheletto was brought before the representatives of the Senate for examination. He was placed upon the rack and confessed, among other things, that it was the Pope Alexander himself who had given the command for the murder of the youthful Alfonso of Biselli. This the magistrate immediately reported to Ferrara.[235] As Cæsar was out of the way, Vannozza was still able to reckon on the protection of certain powerful friends, especially the Farnese, the Cesarini, and several cardinals. She feared her property would be confiscated, for the title to much of it was questionable. Early in 1504 Ludovico Mattei charged her with having stolen, in March, 1503, through her paid servants, eleven hundred and sixty sheep while Cæsar was carrying on his war against the Orsini. These sheep had been sent by Maria d'Aragona, wife of Giovanni Giordano Orsini, to Mattei's pastures for safety. Vannozza was found guilty.[236] She endeavored in every way to save her property. December 4, 1503, she gave the Church of S. Maria del Popolo a deed of her house on the Piazza Pizzo di Merlo and of her family chapel, reserving the use of it during her life. The Augustinians on their part bound themselves to say a mass for Carlo Canale March 24th, another October 13th for Giorgio di Croce, and a third on the day of Vannozza's own death. In this instrument she calls herself widow of Carlo Canale of Mantua, apostolic secretary of the deceased Alexander VI, and she speaks of Giorgio di Croce as her first husband. This deed was executed in the Borgo of St. Peter's in the residence of Agapitus of Emelia.[237] From this it appears that at the close of December Vannozza was still living in the Borgo, and under the protection of her son's own chancellor, while Cæsar himself was a prisoner in the Torre Borgia in the Vatican, and not until he left Rome forever did she remove from the Borgo. April 1, 1504, a dwelling on the Piazza of the Holy Apostles in the Trevi quarter, which was situated in a district where the Colonna were all-powerful, was specified as her residence. The Colonna had suffered less than others from Cæsar, and by virtue of an agreement made with him they were enabled to retain their property after the death of Alexander. Vannozza had sold certain other houses which she owned to the Roman Giuliano de Lenis, and April 1, 1504, he annulled the sale, declaring that it was only through fear of force in consequence of the death of Alexander that it had taken place.[238] As she now had nothing more to fear, she again took up her abode in the house on the Piazza Branca, as is shown by an instrument of November, 1502, in which she is described as "Donna Vannozza de Cataneis of the Regola Quarter," where this house was situated. This document is regarding a complaint which the goldsmith Nardo Antonazzi of this same quarter had lodged against her. The artist demanded payment for a silver cross which he had made for Vannozza in the year 1500; he charged her with having appropriated this work of art without paying for it, which, he stated, frequently happened "at the time when the Duke of Valentino controlled the whole city and nearly all of Italy." We have not all the documents bearing on the case, but from the statements of witnesses for the accused it appears that she had grounds for bringing a suit for libel.[239] While Vannozza may not have been actually placed in possession of the castle of Bleda near Viterbo by Alexander VI, some of its appanages were allotted to her. July 6, 1513, she complained to the Cardinal-Vicar Rafael Riario that the commune of the place was withholding certain sums of money which, she claimed, belonged to her. This document, which is on parchment, is couched in pompous phraseology and is addressed to all the magistrates of the world by name and title.[240] Vannozza lived to witness the changes in affairs in the Vatican under three of Alexander's successors. There the Rovere and the Medici occupied the place once held by her own all-powerful children. She saw the Papacy changing into a secular power, and she must have known that but for Alexander and Cæsar it could never have done this. If, perchance, she saw from a distance the mighty Julius II, for example, when he returned to Rome after seizing Bologna, entering the city with the pomp of an emperor, this woman, lost in the multitude, must have exclaimed with bitter irony that her own son Cæsar had a part in this triumph, and that he had been instrumental in raising Julius II to the Papacy. It must have been a source of no little satisfaction to her to know that this pope recognized her son's importance when he wrote to the Florentines in November, 1503, saying that "on account of the preeminent virtues and great services of the Duke of Romagna" he loved him with a father's love. She may also have been acquainted with Macchiavelli's "Prince," in which the genial statesman describes Cæsar as the ideal ruler. Although the power of the Borgias had passed away and their children were either dead or scattered, their greatness was felt in the city as long as Vannozza lived. Her past experiences caused her to be looked upon as one of the most noteworthy personalities of Rome, where every one was curious to make her acquaintance. If we may compare two persons who differed in greatness, but whose destinies and positions were not dissimilar, it might be said that Vannozza at that time occupied the same position in Rome in which Letitia Bonaparte found herself after the overthrow of her powerful offspring. She looked with pride on her daughter, the Duchess of Ferrara, "la plus triomphante princesse," as the biographer Bayard calls her. She never saw her again, for she would scarcely have ventured to undertake a journey to Ferrara, but she continued to correspond with her. In the archives of the house of Este are nine letters written by Vannozza in the years 1515, 1516, and 1517. Seven of them are addressed to Cardinal Ippolito and two to Lucretia. These letters are not in her own handwriting but are dictated. They disclose a powerful will, a cast of mind that might be described as rude and egotistical, and an insinuating character. They are devoted chiefly to practical matters and to requests of various sorts. On one occasion she sent the cardinal a present of two antique columns which had been exhumed in her vineyard. She also kept up her intercourse with her son Giuffrè, Prince of Squillace. In 1515 she had received his ten-year-old son into her house in Rome apparently for the purpose of educating him.[241] An expression which Vannozza used in signing her letters defines her attitude and position,--"The fortunate and unfortunate Vannozza de Cataneis," or "Your fortunate and unfortunate mother, Vannozza Borgia,"--she used the family name in her private affairs, but not officially. Her last letter to Lucretia, written December 19, 1515, which refers to her son Cæsar's former secretary, Agapitus of Emelia, is as follows: ILLUSTRIOUS LADY: My greeting and respects. Your Excellency will certainly remember favorably the services of Messer Agapitus of Emelia to his Excellency our duke, and the love which he has always shown us. It is, therefore, meet that his kinsmen be helped and advanced in every way possible. Shortly before his death he relinquished all his benefices in favor of his nephew Giambattista of Aquila; among them are some in the bishopric of Capua which are worth very little. If your Excellency wishes to do me a kindness I will ask you, for the reasons above mentioned, to interest yourself in behalf of these nephews to whom I have referred. Nicola, the bearer of this, who is himself a nephew of Agapitus, will explain to your Excellency at length what should be done. And now farewell to your Excellency, to whom I commend myself. ROME, _December 19, 1515_. POSTSCRIPT: In this matter your Excellency will do as you think best, as I have written the above from a sense of obligation. Therefore you may do only what you know will please his Worthiness and, so far as the present is concerned, you may answer as you see fit. VANNOZZA, who prays for you constantly. Vannozza clearly was an honor to the Borgia school of diplomacy. Agapitus dei Gerardi, who wrote so many of Cæsar's letters and documents, had remained true to the Borgias, as is shown by this letter, until his death, which occurred in Rome, August 2, 1515. Vannozza, of a truth, had seen many of the former friends, flatterers, and parasites of her house desert it; but a number, among whom were several important personages, remained true. She, as mother of the Duchess of Ferrara, was still able to exert some influence; she was living a respectable life, in comfortable circumstances, as a woman of position, and was described as _la magnifica e nobile_ Madanna Vannozza. She also kept up her relations with such of the cardinals as were Spaniards and relatives of Alexander VI, or who were his creatures. She survived most of them. Of the two cardinals Giovanni Borgia, one had passed away in 1500, the other in 1503; Francesco and Ludovico died in 1511 and 1512 respectively. Cardinal Giuliano Cesarini passed away in 1510. Vannozza, in fact, survived all the favorites and creatures of Alexander in the College of Cardinals with the exception of Farnese, Adrian Castellesi, and d'Albret,--Cæsar's brother-in-law. By that sort of piety to which senescent female sinners everywhere and at all times devote themselves she secured new friends. She was an active fanatic and was constantly seen in the churches, at the confessionals, and in intimate intercourse with the pious brothers and hospitalers. In this way she made the acquaintance of Paul Jovius, who describes her as an upright woman (donna dabbene). If she had lived another decade she would probably have been canonized. She endowed a number of religious foundations--the hospitals of S. Salvator in the Lateran, of S. Maria in Porticu, the Consolazione for the Company of the Annunziata in the Minerva, and the S. Lorenzo in Damaso, as is shown by her will, which is dated January 15, 1517.[242] For years there were inscriptions in the hospitals of the Lateran and of the Consolazione which referred to her endowments and also to provisions for masses on the anniversaries of her death and those of her two husbands. Vannozza died in Rome, November 26, 1518. Her death did not pass unnoticed, as the following letter, written by a Venetian, shows: The day before yesterday died Madonna Vannozza, once the mistress of Pope Alexander and mother of the Duchess of Ferrara and the Duke of Valentino. That night I happened to be at a place where I heard the death announced, according to the Roman custom, in the following formal words: 'Messer Paolo gives notice of the death of Madonna Vannozza, mother of the Duke of Gandia; she belonged to the Gonfalone Company.' She was buried yesterday in S. Maria del Popolo, with the greatest honors,--almost like a cardinal. She was sixty-six years of age. She left all her property,--which was not inconsiderable,--to S. Giovanni in Laterano. The Pope's chamberlain attended the obsequies, which was unusual.[243] Marcantonio Altieri, one of the foremost men of Rome, who was guardian of the Company of the Gonfalone _ad Sancta Sanctorum_, and as such made an inventory of the property of the brotherhood in 1527, drew up a memorial regarding her, the manuscript of which is still preserved in the archives of the association, and is as follows: We must not forget the endowments made by the respected and honored lady, Madonna Vannozza of the house of Catanei, the happy mother of the illustrious gentlemen, the Duke of Gandia, the Duke of Valentino, the Prince of Squillace, and of Madonna Lucretia, Duchess of Ferrara. As she wished to endow the Company with her worldly goods she gave it her jewels, which were of no slight value, and so much more that the Company in a few years was able to discharge certain obligations, with the help also of the noble gentlemen, Messer Mariano Castellano, and my dear Messer Rafael Casale, who had recently been guardians. She made an agreement with the great and famous silversmith Caradosso by which she gave him two thousand ducats so that he with his magnificent work of art might gratify the wish of that noble and honorable woman. In addition she left us so much property that we shall be able to take care of the annual rent of four hundred ducats and also feed the poor and the sick, who, unfortunately, are very numerous. Out of gratitude for her piety and devout mind and for these endowments our honorable society unanimously and cheerfully decided not only to celebrate her obsequies with magnificent pomp, but also to honor the deceased with a proud and splendid monument. It was also decided from that time forth to have mass said on the anniversary of her death in the Church del Popolo, where she is buried, and to provide for other ceremonies, with an attendance of men bearing torches and tapers, in all devotion, for the purpose of commending her soul's salvation to God, and also to show the world that we hate and loathe ingratitude. Thus this woman's vanity led her to provide for a ceremonious funeral; she wanted all Rome to talk of her on that day as the mistress of Alexander VI and the mother of so many famous children. Leo X bestowed an official character upon her funeral by having his court attend it; by doing this he recognized Vannozza either as the widow of Alexander VI or as the mother of the Duchess of Ferrara. As the Company of the Gonfalone was composed of the foremost burghers and nobles of Rome, almost the entire city attended her funeral. Vannozza was buried in S. Maria del Popolo in her family chapel, by the side of her unfortunate son Giovanni, Duke of Gandia. We do not know whether a marble monument was erected to her memory, but the following inscription was placed over her grave by her executor: "To Vanotia Catanea, mother of the Duke Cæsar of Valentino, Giovanni of Gandia, Giuffrè of Squillace, and Lucretia of Ferrara, conspicuous for her uprightness, her piety, her discretion, and her intelligence, and deserving much on account of what she did for the Lateran Hospital. Erected by Hieronymus Picus, fiduciary-commissioner and executor of her will. She lived seventy-seven years, four months, and thirteen days. She died in the year 1518, November 26th." Vannozza doubtless had passed away believing that she had expiated her sins and purchased heaven with gold and silver and pious legacies. She had even purchased the pomp of a ceremonious funeral and a lie which was graven deep on her tombstone. For more than two hundred years the priests in S. Maria del Popolo sang masses for the repose of her soul, and when they ceased it was perhaps less owing to their conviction that enough of them had been said for this woman than from a growing belief in the trustworthiness of historical criticism. Later, owing either to hate or a sense of shame, her very tombstone disappeared, not a trace of it being left. FOOTNOTES: [234] Despatch of Beltrando Costabili to Ercole, Rome, March 7, 1504. [235] Magnifico et prestanti viro maiori honorandmo D. Ludovico Romanellio Ducali Secretario Ferrarie. Omissis. Il Papa mi ha mandato Don Michiele il quale habiamo cominciato examinare cum turtura de queste sue sceleranze fin qui [=e] sta saldo et nulla confessa non so m[=o] se fara cussi in futurum. Omissis. Dixe che Papa Alexandro fù quello che fece ammazzare Don Alfonso, marito che fù della Ducessa. Rome XX. Lulii, 1504. Thadeus Locumtenens Senatus. In the archives of Modena. [236] The documents are in the archives of the Sancta Sanctorum. [237] Act of December 4, 1503, in the same archives. [238] Archives of the Sancta Sanctorum. The instrument is dated April 1, 1504. [239] Archives of the Sancta Sanctorum. [240] Ibid. [241] This was reported to Cardinal Ippolito by Girolamo Sacrati from Rome, November 2, 1515. Archives of Modena. [242] Vannozza's will, in the archives of the Capitol, Cred. xiv, T. 72, p. 305, among the instruments drawn by the notary Andrea Carosi. [243] In the diary of Marino Sanuto, vol. xxvi, fol. 135. CHAPTER XII DEATH OF LUCRETIA BORGIA--CONCLUSION The State of Ferrara again found itself in serious difficulties, for Leo X, following the example of Alexander VI, was trying to build up a kingdom for his nephew Lorenzo de' Medici. As early as 1516 Leo had made him Duke of Urbino, having expelled Guidobaldo's legitimate heirs from their city. Francesco Maria Rovere, his wife, and his adopted mother, Elisabetta, were in Mantua,--the asylum of all exiled princes. Leo was consuming with a desire also to drive the Este out of Ferrara, and it was only the protection of France that saved Alfonso from a war with the Pope. The duke, to whom the Pope refused to restore the cities of Modena and Reggio, therefore went to the court of Louis XII in November, 1518, for the purpose of interesting him in his affairs. In February, 1519, he returned to Ferrara, where he learned of the death of his brother-in-law, the Marchese Francesco Gonzaga, of Mantua, which occurred February 20th. The last of March Lucretia wrote to his widow, Isabella, as follows: ILLUSTRIOUS LADY, SISTER-IN-LAW, AND MOST HONORED SISTER: The great loss by death of your Excellency's husband, of blessed memory, has caused me such profound grief, that instead of being able to offer consolation I myself am in need of it. I sympathize with your Excellency in this loss, and I cannot tell you how grieved and depressed I am, but, as it has occurred and it has pleased our Lord so to do, we must acquiesce in his will. Therefore I beg and urge your Majesty to bear up under this misfortune as befits your position, and I know that you will do so. I will at present merely add that I commend myself and offer my services to you at all times. YOUR SISTER-IN-LAW LUCRETIA, Duchess of Ferrara. FERRARA, _the last of March, 1519_. The Marchese was succeeded by his eldest son, Federico. In 1530 the Emperor Charles V created him first Duke of Mantua. The following year he married Margherita di Montferrat. This was the same Federico who had formerly been selected to be the husband of Cæsar's daughter Luisa. His famous mother lived, a widow, until February 13, 1539. Alfonso again found his wife in a precarious condition. She was near her confinement, and June 14, 1519, she bore a child which was still-born. Eight days later, knowing that her end was near, she dictated an epistle to Pope Leo. It is the last letter we have of Lucretia, and as it was written while she was dying, it is of the deepest import, enabling us to look into her soul, which for the last time was tormented by the recollection of the terrors and errors of her past life of which she had long since purged herself. MOST HOLY FATHER AND HONORED MASTER: With all respect I kiss your Holiness's feet and commend myself in all humility to your holy mercy. Having suffered for more than two months, early on the morning of the 14th of the present, as it pleased God, I gave birth to a daughter, and hoped then to find relief from my sufferings, but I did not, and shall be compelled to pay my debt to nature. So great is the favor which our merciful Creator has shown me, that I approach the end of my life with pleasure, knowing that in a few hours, after receiving for the last time all the holy sacraments of the Church, I shall be released. Having arrived at this moment, I desire as a Christian, although I am a sinner, to ask your Holiness, in your mercy, to give me all possible spiritual consolation and your Holiness's blessing for my soul. Therefore I offer myself to you in all humility and commend my husband and my children, all of whom are your servants, to your Holiness's mercy. In Ferrara, June 22, 1519, at the fourteenth hour. Your Holiness's humble servant, LUCRETIA D'ESTE. The letter is so calm and contained, so free from affectation, that one is inclined to ask whether a dying woman could have written it if her conscience had been burdened with the crimes with which Alexander's unfortunate daughter had been charged. She died in the presence of Alfonso on the night of June 24th, and the duke immediately wrote his nephew Federico Gonzaga as follows: ILLUSTRIOUS SIR AND HONORED BROTHER AND NEPHEW: It has just pleased our Lord to summon unto Himself the soul of the illustrious lady, the duchess, my dearest wife. I hasten to inform you of the fact as our mutual love leads me to believe that the happiness or unhappiness of one is likewise the happiness or unhappiness of the other. I cannot write this without tears, knowing myself to be deprived of such a dear and sweet companion. For such her exemplary conduct and the tender love which existed between us made her to me. On this sad occasion I would indeed seek consolation from your Excellency, but I know that you will participate in my grief, and I prefer to have some one mingle his tears with mine rather than endeavor to console me. I commend myself to your Majesty. Ferrara, June 24, 1519, at the fifth hour of the night. ALFONSUS, Duke of Ferrara.[244] The Marchese Federico sent his uncle Giovanni Gonzaga to Ferrara, who wrote him from there as follows: Your Excellency must not be surprised when I tell you that I shall leave here to-morrow, for no obsequies will be celebrated, only the offices said in the parish church. His Excellency the Duke accompanied his illustrious consort's body to the grave. She is buried in the Convent of the Sisters of Corpus Christi in the same vault where repose the remains of his mother. Her death has caused the greatest grief throughout the entire city, and his ducal majesty displays the most profound sorrow. Great things are reported concerning her life, and it is said that she has worn the cilice for about ten years, and has gone to confession daily during the last two years, and has received the communion three or four times every month. Your Excellency's ever devoted servant, JOHANNES DE GONZAGA, Marquis.[245] FERRARA, _June 28, 1519_. Among the numerous letters of condolence which the duke received was one in Spanish from the mysterious Infante Don Giovanni Borgia, who was then in Poissy, France. The duke himself had informed him of the death of his consort, and Don Giovanni lamented the loss of his "sister," who had also been his greatest patron. The graves of Lucretia and Alfonso and numerous other members of the house of Este in Ferrara have disappeared. No picture of the famous woman exists either in that city or in Modena. Although many, doubtless, were painted, none has been preserved. In Ferrara there were numerous artists, Dossi, Garofalo, Cosma, and others. Titian may have painted the beautiful duchess's portrait. His likeness of Isabella d'Este Gonzaga, Lucretia's rival in beauty, is preserved in the Belvedere gallery in Vienna; it shows a charming feminine face of oval contour, with regular lines, brown eyes, and an expression of gentle womanliness. There is no portrait of Lucretia from this master's hand, for the one in the Doria Gallery in Rome, which some ascribe to him and others to Paul Veronese,--although this artist was not born until 1528,--is one of the many fictions we find in galleries. In the Doria Gallery there is a life-sized figure of an Amazon with a helmet in her hand, ascribed to Dosso Dossi, which is said to be a likeness of Vannozza. Monsignor Antonelli, custodian of the numismatic collection of Ferrara, has a portrait in oil which may be that of Lucretia Borgia,--not because it has her name in somewhat archaic letters, but because the features are not unlike those of her medals. This portrait, however (the eyes are gray), is uncertain, as are also two portraits in majolica in the possession of Rawdon Brown, in Venice, which he regards as the work of Alfonso himself, who amused himself in making this ware. Even if there were any ground for this belief, the portraits, as they are merely in the decorative style of majolica, would resemble the original but slightly. The portrait in the Dresden gallery which is catalogued as a likeness of Lucretia Borgia is not authentic. There are no undoubted portraits of her except those on the medals which were struck during her life in Ferrara. One of these is reproduced as the frontispiece[246] of the present volume; it is the finest of all and is one of the most noteworthy medals of the Renaissance. It probably was engraved by Filippino Lippi in 1502, on the occasion of Lucretia's marriage. On the reverse is a design characteristic not only of the age but especially of Lucretia. It is a Cupid with out-stretched wings bound to a laurel, suspended from which are a violin and a roll of music. The quiver of the god of love hangs broken on a branch of the laurel, and his bow, with the cord snapped, lies on the ground. The inscription on the reverse is as follows: "Virtuti Ac Formæ Pudicitia Præciosissimum." Perhaps the artist by this symbolism wished to convey the idea that the time for love's free play had passed and by the laurel tree intended to suggest the famous house of Este. Although this interpretation might apply to every bride, it is especially appropriate for Lucretia Borgia. Whoever examines this girlish head with its long flowing tresses will be surprised, for no contrast could be greater than that between this portrait and the common conception of Lucretia Borgia. The likeness shows a maidenly, almost childish face, of a peculiar expression, without any classic lines. It could scarcely be described as beautiful. The Marchesana of Cotrone spoke the truth when in writing to Francesco she said that Lucretia was not especially beautiful, but that she had what might be called a "dolce ciera,"--a sweet face. The face resembles that of her father--as shown by the best medals which we have of him--but slightly; the only likeness is in the strongly outlined nose. Lucretia's forehead was arched, while Alexander's was flat; her chin was somewhat retreating while his was in line with the lips. Another medal shows Lucretia with the hair confined and the head covered with a net, and has the so-called _lenza_, a sort of fillet set with precious stones or pearls. The hair covers the ear and descends to the neck, according to the fashion of the day, which we also see in a beautiful medal of Elizabetta Gonzaga of Urbino. The original sources from which the material for this book has been derived would place the reader in a position to form his own opinion regarding Lucretia Borgia, and his view would approximate a correct one, or at least would be nearer correct than the common conception of this woman. Men of past ages are merely problems which we endeavor to solve. If we err in our conception of our contemporaries how much more likely are we to be wrong when we endeavor to analyze men whose very forms are shadowy. All the circumstances of their personal life, of their nature, the times, and their environment,--of which they were the product,--all the secrets of their being exist only as disconnected fragments from which we are forced to frame our conception of their characters. History is merely a world-judgment based upon the law of causality. Many of the characters of history would regard their portraits in books as wholly distorted and would smile at the opinion formed of them. [Illustration: LUCRETIA BORGIA. From a painting in the Musée de Nîmes.] Lucretia Borgia might correspond with the one derived from the documents of her time, which show her as an amiable, gentle, thoughtless, and unfortunate woman. Her misfortunes, in life, were due in part to a fate for which she was in no way responsible, and, after her death, in the opinion which was formed regarding her character. The brand which had been set upon her forehead was removed by herself when she became Duchess of Ferrara, but on her death it reappeared. How soon this happened is shown by what the Rovere in Urbino said of her. In the year 1532 it was arranged that Guidobaldo II, son of Francesco Maria and Eleonora Gonzaga, should marry Giulia Varano, although he himself wished to marry a certain Orsini. His father directed his attention to the unequal alliances into which princes were prone to enter, and among others to that of Alfonso of Ferrara, who, he said, had married Lucretia Borgia, a woman "of the sort which everybody knows," and who had given his son a monster (Renée) for wife. Guidobaldo acquiesced in this view and replied that he knew he had a father who would never compel him to take a wife like Lucretia Borgia, "one as bad as she and of so many disreputable connections."[247] Thus the impression grew and Lucretia Borgia became the type of all feminine depravity until finally Victor Hugo in his drama, and Donizetti in his opera, placed her upon the stage in that character. * * * * * In conclusion a few words regarding the descendants of Lucretia and Alfonso,--the Duke of Ferrara survived his wife fifteen stormy years. He, however, succeeded in defending himself against the popes of the Medici family, and he revenged himself on Clement VII by sacking Rome with the aid of the emperor's troops. Charles V gave him Modena and Reggio, and he was therefore able to leave his heir the estates of the house of Este in their integrity. He never married again, but a beautiful bourgeoise, Laura Eustochia Dianti, became his mistress. She bore him two sons, Alfonso and Alfonsino. The duke died October 31, 1534, at the age of fifty-eight; his brothers, Cardinal Ippolito and Don Sigismondo, having passed away before him, the former in 1520 and the latter in 1524. By Lucretia Borgia he had five children. Ercole succeeded him; Ippolito became a cardinal, and died December 2, 1572, in Tivoli, where the Villa d'Este remains as his monument; Elenora died, a nun, in the Convent of Corpus Domini, July 15, 1575; Francesco finally became Marchese of Massalombarda, and died February 22, 1578. Lucretia's son Ercole reigned until October, 1559. In 1528 his father had married him to Renée, the plain but intellectual daughter of Louis XII. Lucretia had never seen her daughter-in-law nor had she ever had any intimation that it was to be Renée. The life of this famous duchess forms a noteworthy part of the history of Ferrara. She was an active supporter of the Reformation, which was inaugurated to free the world from a church which was governed by the Borgia, the Rovere, and the Medici. Renée was therefore described as a monster by the Rovere. She kept Calvin and Clement Marot in concealment at her court a long time. By a curious coincidence, in the year 1550 a man appeared at the court of Lucretia's son, who vividly recalled to the Borgias who were still living their family history, which was already becoming legendary. This man was Don Francesco Borgia, Duke of Gandia, now a Jesuit. His sudden appearance in Ferrara gives us an opportunity briefly to describe the fortunes of the house of Gandia. Of all the progeny of Alexander VI the most fortunate were those who were the descendants of the murdered Don Giovanni. His widow, Donna Maria, lived for a long time highly respected at the court of Queen Isabella of Castile, and subsequently she became an ascetic bigot and entered a convent. Her daughter Isabella did the same, dying in 1537. Her only son, Don Giovanni, while a child, had succeeded his unfortunate father as Duke of Gandia and had managed to retain his Neapolitan estates, which included an extensive domain in Terra di Lavoro, with the cities of Suessa, Teano, Carinola, Montefuscolo, Fiume, and others. In 1506 the youthful Gandia relinquished these towns to the King of Spain on payment of a sum of money. To the great Captain Gonsalvo was given the Principality of Suessa. Don Giovanni remained in Spain a highly respected grandee. He married Giovanna d'Aragona, a princess of the deposed royal house of Naples; his second wife was a daughter of the Viscount of Eval, Donna Francesca de Castro y Pinos, whom he married in 1520. The marriages of the Borgias were as a rule exceedingly fruitful. When this grandson of Alexander VI died in 1543 he left no fewer than fifteen children. His daughters married among the grandees of Spain and his sons were numbered among the great nobles of the country, where they enjoyed the highest honors. The eldest, Don Francesco Borgia, born in 1510, became Duke of Gandia and a great lord in Spain and highly honored at the court of Charles V, who made him Vice-Regent of Catalonia and Commander of San Iago. He accompanied the emperor on his expedition against France and even to Africa. In 1529 he married one of the ladies in waiting to the empress, Eleonora de Castro, who bore him five sons and three daughters. When she died, in 1546, the Duke of Gandia yielded to his long-standing desire to enter the Society of Jesus and to relinquish his brilliant position forever. It seemed as if a mysterious force was impelling him thus to expiate the crimes of his house. It is not strange, however, to find a descendant of Alexander VI in the garb of a Jesuit, for the diabolic force of will which had characterized that Borgia lived again in the person of his countryman, Loyola, in another form and directed to another end. The maxims of Macchiavelli's "Prince" thus became part of the political programme of the Jesuits. In 1550 the Duke of Gandia went to Rome to cast himself at the feet of the Pope and to become a member of the Order. Paul III, brother of Giulia Farnese, had just died, and del Monte as Julius III had ascended the papal throne. Ercole II, cousin of Don Francesco, still occupied the ducal throne of Ferrara. He remembered the relationship and invited the traveler to stop at his city on his way to Rome. Francesco spent three days at the court of Lucretia's son, where he was received by Renée. Whether Loyola's brilliant pupil had any knowledge of the religious attitude of Calvin's friend is not known. The presence of this man in Savonarola's native city and at Lucretia's former residence is, on account of the contrast, remarkable. Francesco left for Rome almost immediately, and then returned to Spain. On the death of Lainez, in 1565, he became general,--the third in order,--of the Society of Jesus. He still held this position at the time of his death, which occurred in Rome in the year 1572. The Church pronounced him holy, and thus a descendant of Alexander VI became a saint.[248] The descendants of this Borgia married into the greatest families of Spain. His eldest son, Don Carlos, Duke of Gandia, married Donna Maddalena, daughter of the Count of Oliva, of the house of Centelles, and thus the family to which Lucretia's first suitor belonged, after the lapse of fifty years, became connected with the Borgias. The Gandia branch survived until the eighteenth century, when there were two cardinals of the name of Borgia who were members of it. Ercole II did not discover the heretical tendencies of his wife Renée until 1554, when he placed her in a convent. The noble princess remained true to the Reformation. As the Inquisition stamped out the reform movement in Ferrara while her son was reigning duke, she returned to France, where she lived with the Huguenots in her Castle of Montargis, dying in 1575. It is worthy of note that the Duke of Guise was her son-in-law. Renée had borne her husband several children,--the hereditary Prince Alfonso Luigi, who subsequently became a cardinal; Donna Anna, who married the Duke of Guise; Donna Lucretia, who became Duchess of Urbino; and Donna Leonora, who remained single. Her son Alfonso II succeeded to the throne of Ferrara in 1559. This was the duke whom Tasso made immortal. Just as Ariosto, during the reign of the first Alfonso and Lucretia, had celebrated the house of Este in a monumental poem, so Torquato Tasso now continued to do at the home of his descendant, Alfonso II. By a curious coincidence the two greatest epic poets of Italy were in the service of the same family. Tasso's fate is one of the darkest memories of the house of Este, and is also the last of any special importance in the history of the court of Ferrara. His poem may be regarded as the death song of this famous family, for the legitimate line of the house of Este died out October 27, 1597, in Alfonso II, Lucretia Borgia's grandson. Don Cæsar, a grandson of Alfonso I, and son of that Alfonso whom Laura Dianti had borne him and of Donna Giulia Rovere of Urbino, ascended the ducal throne of Ferrara on the death of Alfonso II as his heir. The Pope, however, would not recognize him. In vain he endeavored to prove that his grandfather, shortly before his death, had legally married Laura Dianti, and that consequently he was the legitimate heir to the throne. It availed nothing for the contestants to appear before the tribunal of emperor and pope and endeavor to make Don Cæsar's pretensions good, nor does it now avail for the Ferrarese, who, following Muratori, still seek to substantiate these claims. Don Cæsar was forced to yield to Clement VIII, January 13, 1598, the grandson of Alfonso I renouncing the Duchy of Ferrara. Together with his wife, Virginia Medici and his children, he left the old palace of his ancestors and betook himself to Modena, the title of duke of that city and the estates of Reggio and Carpi having been conferred upon him. Don Cæsar continued the branch line of the Este. At the end of the eighteenth century it passed into the Austrian Este house in the person of Archduke Ferdinand, and in the nineteenth century this line also became extinct. No longer do the popes control Ferrara. Where the castle of Tedaldo stood when Lucretia made her entry into the city in 1502, where Clement VIII later erected the great castle which was razed in 1859, there is now a wide field in the middle of which, lost and forgotten, is a melancholy statue of Paul V, and all about is a waste. There is still standing before the castle of Giovanni Sforza in Pesaro a column from which the statue has been overturned, and on the base is the inscription: "Statue of Urban VII--That is all that is left of it." FOOTNOTES: [244] This letter is quoted by Zucchetti. [245] Printed in Zucchetti's work. Che da forse dieci anni in qua la portava el silizio.... This is not, as Zucchetti supposes, the goat-hair shirt. [246] In this translation it appears on the cover. [247] Di quella mala sorte che fù quella, e con tante disoneste parti. See Ugolino Storia dei Duchi d'Urbino, ii, 242. [248] J. M. S. Daurignac, Histoire de S. François de Borgia, Duc de Gandie, Troisième Général de la Compagnie de Jesus. Paris, 1863. INDEX Adriana de Mila, see Mila, Adriana de. Albret, Charlotte d', married to Cæsar Borgia, 115, 325. Aldo Manuzio, 132, 305, 327; in Venice, 340. Alexander VI, see Borgia, Rodrigo. Alfonso d'Este, see Este. Alfonso of Biselli, see Alfonso of Naples. Alfonso of Naples, 111, 113; flees from Rome, 116; attempt on his life, 147; murdered, 148. Allegre, Monsignor d', captures Alexander's mistress, 87, 143. Amboise, Cardinal George d', 115, 169, 296. Angelo, Michael, first appearance in Rome, 135; his _Pietà_, 136. Aragon, Eleonora of, wife of Ercole d'Este, 54. Aragona, Camilla Marzana d', wife of Costanza Sforza, 78, 82. Aragona, Isabella d', of Milan, 334; guardian of Rodrigo Borgia, 335. Aragonese of Naples, their fall, 172. Arignano, Domenico of, 11. Ariosto, 247, 254, 308-309, 311; his _Orlando_, 340. _Asolani_, i, 31. Baglione, Giampolo, his cowardice, 99. Ballet, the, 255. Bayard, the Chevalier, his opinion of Lucretia, 332. Behaim, Lorenz, humanist, 32. Bella, la, or Giulia Bella, 39; see also Farnese, Giulia. Bellingeri, Hector, 188. Bembo, Cardinal, 31; eulogizes Alexander VI, 100; condoles Lucretia on Alexander's death, 291; dedicates his _Asolani_ to Lucretia, 305, 306, 340. Beneimbeni, notary, 131. Bentivoglio, Ginevra, 101. Bisceglie or Biseglia, see Biselli. Biselli, 111; Lucretia duchess of, 113. Biselli, Alfonso of, see Alfonso of Naples. Borgia, Alfonso, founder of the family, 3. Borgia, Angela, married to Francesco Maria della Rovere, 115, 223, 310; wife of Alessandro Pio, 311. Borgia, Anna de, Princess of Squillace, 334. Borgia, Beatrice, sister of Alexander VI, 5. Borgia, Cæsar, his birth, 12; his moderation, 29; at the University of Pisa, 39; made bishop of Valencia, 48; his personality, 57-58; made cardinal, 65; crowns Federico, king of Naples, 108; renounces his cardinalate, 113; sails for France, 115; made duke of Valentinois, 115; marries Charlotte d'Albret, 115; campaigns in the Romagna, 122, 280; takes Forli, 139; correspondence with Ercole d'Este, 145; letter to Gonzaga, 146; power over his father, 149; enters Romagna, 159; takes Pesaro, 161; Faenza, 166; made duke of Romagna, 170; in Naples, 172; returns from Naples, 188; his age, 202; letter to Lucretia, 280; treachery of his captains, 283; letter to Isabella Gonzaga, 285; taken sick, 286; loses his estates, 293; in Nepi, 295, 298; goes to Naples, 299; to Spain, 299; confined in Castle of Seville, 300; escapes, 317-318; informs Gonzaga of his escape, 319; his death, 321-322; his character, 323. Borgia, Catarina, sister of Calixtus III, 4. Borgia, Francesco, duke of Gandia, enters the Society of Jesus, 364; general of the order, 365; dies in Rome and is canonized, 365. Borgia, Giovanni, duke of Gandia, son of Vannozza, 12, 93. Borgia, Giovanni, Cardinal, "the elder," made cardinal, 49. Borgia, Giovanni, Cardinal, "the younger," 116; death of, 137; his parentage, 138. Borgia, Giovanni, "Infante of Rome," his parentage, 192-194, 295, 335; at Lucretia's court, 341-342; his death, 343-344. Borgia, Girolama, daughter of Cardinal Rodrigo Borgia, 18. Borgia, Giuffrè, son of Vannozza, his birth, 20; made archdeacon of Valencia, 40; marries Donna Sancia, of Naples, 65; Prince of Squillace, 71; comes to Rome, 92, 295; goes to Naples, 299. Borgia, Isabella, daughter of Cardinal Rodrigo, 19. Borgia, Isabella, sister of Calixtus III, 4. Borgia, Juana, sister of Cardinal Rodrigo, 5. Borgia, Juan Luis, nephew of Calixtus III, 4. Borgia, Lucretia, daughter of Cardinal Rodrigo and Vannozza, birth, 12-13; her education, 23; her modesty, 28; her linguistic attainments, 31; letters to Bembo, 31; betrothed to Cherubino Juan de Centelles, 41; betrothed to Gasparo de Procida, 42; married to Giovanni Sforza of Pesaro, 58-60; returns to Rome, 86; goes to the Convent of S. Sisto, 107; rumors concerning, 109; divorced from Sforza, 109; betrothed to Alfonzo of Naples, 111; becomes duchess of Biselli, 113; regent of Spoleto, 117; invested with title to Nepi, 118; gives birth to a son, 121; her private life, 125; her weakness, 151; goes to Nepi, 151; letters from there, 155-157, 172; represents the pope in his absence, 173; charges against her, 175; objections to her marriage, 184; nuptials with Alfonso d'Este, 185-187; prepares to depart, 196; her age, 201; her dowry, 204-207; her character, 212; her marriage, 216; her retinue, 222; leaves Rome, 225; journey to Ferrara, 232-240; entrance into Ferrara, 240-244; her person, 247; fêtes in her honor, 250-263; letter to Isabella Gonzaga, 263; gives birth to a daughter, 282; duchess of Ferrara, 303; her library, 304; corresponds with Giulia Farnese, 313; bears a son, 326; another, 328; regent of Ferrara, 328; claims Rodrigo's property, 336; change in her character, 338; relations with her husband, 341; her son, Alessandro, 341; letter to Isabella Gonzaga, 355; letter to Leo X, 356; her death, 357; place of burial unknown, 358; portraits of, 358-359; medals of, 359; posthumous reputation, 361; her children by Alfonso, 362. Borgia, Ludovico, governor of Spoleto, 121. Borgia, Luigi, 325. Borgia, Luisa, Cæsar's daughter, 325. Borgia, Pedro Luis, nephew of Calixtus III, 4, 5; his death, 6. Borgia, Rodrigo, nephew of Calixtus III, made cardinal, 4; vice-chancellor, 5; his sensuality, 7; his person, 9; his wealth, 17; and Adriana Orsini, 23; witness to marriage of Giulia Farnese and Orsino Orsini, 38; elected pope, 44; his coronation, 45; letter to his daughter, 74; his abstinence, 94; secures Lucretia's divorce, 108; determines to marry Lucretia into house of Naples, 110; demands hand of Carlotta of Naples for Cæsar, 110; letter to priors of Spoleto, 117; assumes control of Nepi, 120; his intellectual pleasures, 126; extols Ercole, 188; his Latin, 189; falls sick, 197; letter to the priors of Nepi, 224; sickness and death, 286; his immorality, 289-291. Borgia, Rodrigo, nephew of Alexander VI, captain of the papal guard, 49. Borgia, Rodrigo, son of Lucretia and Alfonso of Naples, his birth, 121, 194, 295-296; his death, 333. Borgia, Tecla, sister of Cardinal Rodrigo, 5. Borgias, their coat of arms, 45; their character, 93-94; family, 203. Brandolini, Aurelio, 126. Bull-fighting in Rome, 220. Burchard, 125; his diary, 129-131, 177, 289. Cagnolo of Parma, his description of Lucretia, 248. Calcagnini, Celio, bridal song, 246, 340. Calixtus III, 4; his death, 6. Calvin, 363. Cambray, League of, 327. Canale, Carlo, 21-22. Capello, Polo, account of Cæsar, 177, 180. Caracciolo, his _De Varietate Fortunæ_, 334. Caranza, Pedro, privy-chamberlain, 49. Carlotta of Naples, 110. Carlotta, Queen of Cyprus, 32. Castelli, Adriano, 132. Castiglione, 31, 250, 305. Castle Vecchio, description of, 270-272. Catanei, see Vannozza Catanei. Cavalliere, Bartolomeo, letter of, 182. Caviceo, Jacopo, dedicates his _Peregrino_ to Lucretia, 308. Centelles, Cherubino Juan de, betrothal to Lucretia, 41. Charles V, 4, 327. Charles VIII, 62; enters Italy, 87; retreats, 90. Chrysoleras, 32. Cieco, Francesco, his _Mambriano_, 277. Classic culture, 26. Collenuccio, Pandolfo, poet and orator, 85; letter to Ercole, 161, 293-294; his death, 295. Colonna, Vittoria, 30, 136, 142. Copernicus in Rome, 129. _Cortegiano, il_, 31. Cosenza, Cardinal of, 191; Rodrigo Borgia's guardian, 297. Costa, Michele, 339. Cotrone, Marchesana of, letter to Gonzaga, 253. Croce, Giorgio de, husband of Vannozza, 12, 20. Dance, the, during the Renaissance, 253. Decio, Philippo, jurisprudent, 40. Della Rovere, see Rovere. Dianti, Laura Eustochia, mistress of Alfonso d'Este, 362, 366. Diplovatazio, Giorgio, 84. Dossi, Dosso, 278, 339. Drama, the, 128. Eleonora of Aragon, wife of Ercole d'Este, 270. Enriquez, Maria, wife of Giovanni Borgia, duke of Gandia, 64. Este, palaces of the, 244; their history, 266-270; family expires in Alfonso II, 366. Este, Alfonso d', 54; projected marriage with Lucretia, 167, 182; greets his bride, 236; becomes duke of Ferrara, 303; conspiracy against, 315; suspected of the murder of Strozzi, 327; under ban of Julius II, 331; asks the pope's forgiveness, 333; attends coronation of Leo X, 338; cultivates the arts, 339; letter to his nephew on Lucretia's death, 357. Este, Alfonso II, d', succeeds to throne of Ferrara, 366. Este, Alfonso Luigi d', son of Renée, 365. Este, Anna d', wife of the duke of Guise, 366. Este, Beatrice d', wife of Ludovico il Moro, 54. Este, Ercole d', 54; letter to Alexander VI, 55; letter to Gonzaga, 186; to his envoys, 198; relations with Lucretia, 205; present to her, 217; letter to Alexander VI, 265; congratulates Cæsar, 284; letter to Seregni, 287; to Lucretia regarding her son Rodrigo, 297-298; his death, 303. Este, Ercole II, d', duke of Ferrara, 362, 364. Este, Ferrante d', his imprisonment and death, 316. Este, Giulio d', attack on, 310; its consequences, 315; his imprisonment and death, 316. Este, Ippolito d', 56; made cardinal, 65, 186, 310. Este, Isabella d', wife of Francesco Gonzaga of Montua, her learning, 30, 54; meets Lucretia, 239, 245; her beauty and vanity, 252; letter to Lucretia, 263; congratulates Cæsar on his successes, 284; predilection for the arts, 340. Estouteville, Cardinal, his children, 54. Farnese, Alessandro, 36-37; made cardinal, 65. Farnese, family, 36-37. Farnese, Girolama, 65, 312. Farnese, Giulia, 35; her betrothal, 37; marriage, 38, 39; "the pope's concubine," 63, 65; her daughter, Laura, 66; "Christ's bride," 66; her beauty, 69; captured by the French, 87, 123, 311; her death, 314. Fedeli, Cassandra, 28, 30. Federico of Naples, consents to betrothal of Alfonso and Lucretia, 110. Ferdinand of Naples, congratulates Sforza on his marriage, 62. Ferdinand of Spain, 299, 302. Ferno, Michele, describes Alexander's coronation, 46-48, 129. Ferrara, 191; Lucretia enters, 240-244; description of, 272-278. Ferrari, Cardinal, 185, 224. Filosseno, Marcello, sonnets to Lucretia, 308. Florence, her fear of Cæsar, 202. Foix, Gaston de, 332. Gaetani, family, 122; their property given Lucretia, 123; return to Sermoneta, 296. Gambara, Veronica, her learning, 30. Gandia (see also Giovanni Borgia), Duke of, gonfalonier, 103; murder of, 105-106; his heir, 106, 177. Garofalo, Benvenuto, 278, 339. Ghibbelines, 14. Gonsalvo, 299. Gonzaga, Elisabetta, her pilgrimage to Rome, 140; letter to her brother, Francesco Gonzaga, 140-142. Gonzaga, Isabella, see Este, Isabella d'. Gradara, Castle of, 83. Greek, study of, 32. Guelf III of Swabia, 267. Guelphs, 14. Guicciardini, Francesco, his charges against Lucretia, 176. Imola, attacked by Cæsar Borgia, 121. Infessura, 11, 24. Inghirami, Phædra, 128. Inquisition, the, 365. Jovius, Paul, his opinion of Lucretia, 338. Jubilee of 1500, 137, 140. Julius II (see also Rovere, Giuliano della), 298, 312; offends Lucretia, 313; takes Perugia and Bologna, 317; forms League of Cambray, 327; places Alfonso under his ban, 331; his death, 338. Lanzol family, 4. Leo X, 338; his court, 340. Literature during the Renaissance, 96. Lopez, Juan, made chancellor, 49. Louis XII, 116; takes Milan, 121; opposes marriage of Lucretia and Alfonso d'Este, 169; congratulates Alexander VI, 198. Loyola, Ignatius, 4, 364. Lucia of Viterbo, Sister, 257. Ludovico il Moro, 45; hatred of the pope, 89. Macchiavelli, his theory of the ruler, 98-99; his "Prince," 100. Majolica, 83. Malatesta, the, of Rimini, 77. Malatesta, Sigismondo, 25. Malipiero, letter of, 180. Manfredi, Astorre, surrenders to Cæsar, 166. Mantua, Isabella of, see Este, Isabella d'. Mantua, Marquis of, his letter on Alexander's death, 288. Manuzio, Aldo, see Aldo Manuzio. Marades, Juan, made privy-chancellor, 49. Marot, Clement, at court of Renée, 363. Matarazza of Perugia, 178-179. Matilda, Countess, 267. Maximilian, Emperor, opposition to Lucretia's marriage, 184, 329. Melini, the brothers, 127. Micheletto, confesses that Alfonso of Biselli was murdered by Alexander's orders, 346. Mila or Mella family, 4. Mila, Adriana, 5; married to Ludovico Orsini, 23. Montefeltre, the, 232. Montefeltre, Agnesina di, 142. Nepi, 119; given to Ascanio Sforza, 120; description of, 152-155; unhealthful climate of 158. Nepotism, 14. Novel, the, during the Renaissance, 26. Nugarolla, Isotta, her learning, 30. Orsini, Adriana (see also Mila, Adriana de), captured by the French, 87, 223. Orsini, Laura, daughter of the pope, 66; betrothed to Federico Farnese, 114; betrothed to Raimondo Farnese, 312. Orsini, Orsino, 23; betrothed to Giulia Farnese, 37; the marriage, 38. Paniciatus, N. Marius, his poems in honor of Lucretia, 245. Paul III, 36. Pazzi conspiracy, the, 14. Perotto, 177. Perugino, 100, 133. Pesaro, history of, 76-79; description of, 79-86; captured by Cæsar Borgia, 161. Pesaro, Giovanni of, see Sforza, Giovanni. Philosophy, study of, during the Renaissance, 29. Piccolomini, Cardinal, his children, 34; elected pope, 296. _Pietà_ of Michael Angelo, 136. Pinturicchio, 100; his portrait of Giulia Farnese, 133; portraits of the Borgias, 134. Pius II, admonitory letter to Cardinal Borgia, 7. Pius III, 296. Poliziano, Angelo, 21. Pollajuolo, Antonio, sculptor, 134. Pompilio, Paolo, dedicates his _Syllabica_ to Cæsar Borgia, 39, 129. Pontanus, 125; his epigrams, 176. Porcaro, the, adherents of the Borgias, 46; the brothers, 127. Posthumus, Guido, see Silvester, Guido Posthumus. Pozzi, Gianlucca, 185; description of Lucretia, 213; letter to Ercole d'Este, 220, 229-232. Prete, el, his account of Lucretia's wedding, 214-215, 218. _Principe il_, 100. Procida, Gasparo de, betrothed to Lucretia, 42; the contract dissolved, 51, 111. Pucci, Lorenzo, 66; letter to his brother, 67. Pucci, Puccio, 37, 65. Ravenna, battle of, 332. Reformation, the, 363. Renaissance, the, education of women during, 24-33; immorality during, 96-101, 135; the theater, 97, 251; traveling, 208; the dance, 253; dress, 260. Renée of France, wife of Ercole II, 362-363; placed in convent, 365; dies in France, 365. Requesenz, 300, 319, 321. Reuchlin, in Rome, 131. Romagna, Duke of, see Borgia, Cæsar. Rome, society of, 133; sack of, 362. Romolini, Francesco, 40. Romolini, Raimondo, goes to Rome, 182. Rovere, Francesco Maria della, secures Pesaro, 331. Rovere, Giuliano della (see also Julius II), his children, 34; goes to France to urge Charles VIII to invade Italy, 73, 115, 196; becomes pope, 298, 314. Sadoleto, 340. Sancia of Naples, Donna, gossip concerning, 95; banished from Rome, 134; her death, 334. Sangallo, Antonio di, Alexander's architect, 134. Sannazzaro, his epigrams, 125, 176. Sanuto, Marino, his diary, 178, 289. Saraceni, 188; letter regarding the bridal escort, 199-201; letter to Ercole d'Este, 220, 222-232. Savonarola, 95, 276. Serafina of Aquila, 126. Sermoneta, 122. Sessa, see Suessa. Sforza, the palace of, 81; tragedies among, 334. Sforza, Ascanio, made vice-chancellor, 44; joins the Colonna, 73; leaves Rome, 116, 143. Sforza, Battista, her learning, 30. Sforza, Blanca, 183, 185. Sforza, Cattarina, 101; surrenders to Cæsar, 139; her life, 139; released, 143; her death, 144. Sforza, Galeazzo, succeeds Giovanni, 331. Sforza, Ginevra, 28. Sforza, Giovanni, of Pesaro, offered Lucretia's hand, 50; betrothed to her, 52; marriage, 58; his person, 59; his relations with the pope uncertain, 71; letter to his uncle, Ludovico il Moro, 71; leaves Rome, 73; returns, 102; flees from Rome, 104; protests against divorce, 108; divorced from Lucretia, 109; appeals to Gonzaga for help, 159-160; leaves Pesaro, 160, 179; returns to Pesaro, 294; his death, 330. Sforza, Ippolita, 28. Sforza, Ludovico, captured by king of France, 143. Silvester, Guido Posthumus, poet, 85, 179. Sixtus IV, 14. Soriano, defeat of the pope at, 104. Sperulo, Francesco, Cæsar's court poet, 126. Spoleto, the castle of, 119. Squillace, Prince of, see Borgia, Giuffrè. Stage, the, during the Renaissance, 97. Strozzi, Ercole, eulogizes Cæsar Borgia, 100; poem on death of Cæsar, 324; murder of, 326. Strozzi, father and son, 277, 307. Suessa, Giovanni Borgia, duke of, 71. Taro, battle of the, 91. Tasso, Torquato, his _Aminta_, 83, 366. Tebaldeo, Antonio, 277, 308, 340. Theology, study of, during the Renaissance, 29. Tiepoli, Ginevra, wife of Giovanni Sforza, 330. Tisio, Benvenuto, see Garofalo. Titian, 327. Torelli, Barbara, 327. Trivulzia of Milan, 29. Troche, Cæsar's confidant, 191. Urbino, Elisabetta of, her learning, 30; her beauty, 252. Urbino, Guidobaldo of, in command of papal troops, 102. Valentino or Valentinois, see Borgia, Cæsar. Vannozza Catanei, mistress of Rodrigo Borgia, 10; her children, 12; her home, 15; marriage to Carlo Canale, 22, 295; charged with theft, 346; gives her house to Church of S. Maria del Popolo, 346; her last years, 347-351; her bequests, 351; her death, 351; her obsequies, 353. Vasari, his account of Pinturicchio's work, 133. Vatican, the orgy in, 178; life in, 189. Villa Imperiale, 83. Vinci, Leonardo da, 100. Virago, meaning of the term, 28, 101. Zambotto, Bernardino, his description of Lucretia, 247. 
29574	----	SEVEN MINOR EPICS OF THE ENGLISH RENAISSANCE (1596-1624) =Philos and Licia= (1624) by Anonymous =Pyramus and Thisbe= (1617) by Dunstan Gale =The Love of Dom Diego and Ginevra= (1596) by Richard Lynche =Mirrha= (1607) by William Barksted =Hiren= (1611) by William Barksted =Amos and Laura= (1613) by Samuel Page =The Scourge of Venus= (1613) by H.A. FACSIMILE REPRODUCTIONS WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY PAUL W. MILLER Gainesville, Florida SCHOLARS' FACSIMILES & REPRINTS 1967 SCHOLARS' FACSIMILES & REPRINTS 1605 N. W. 14th Avenue Gainesville, Florida, 32601, U.S.A. Harry R. Warfel, General Editor To Mary Joan L. C. Catalog Card Number: 67-10125 MANUFACTURED IN THE U.S.A. TABLE OF CONTENTS Introduction VII =A Pleasant and Delightfull Poeme of Two Lovers, Philos and Licia.= 1 =Pyramus and Thisbe.= By Dunstan Gale. 37 =The Love of Dom Diego and Ginevra.= By Richard Lynche. 61 =Mirrha the Mother of Adonis: or, Lustes Prodegies.= By William Barksted. 103 =Hiren: or The Faire Greeke.= By William Barksted. 169 =The Love of Amos and Laura.= By Samuel Page. 213 =The Scourge of Venus.= By H.A. 229 INTRODUCTION Professor Elizabeth Story Donno, in her recent =Elizabethan Minor Epics= (New York, 1963), has made an important contribution to both scholarship and teaching. Not only has she brought together for the first time in one volume most of the extant Elizabethan minor epics, but in so doing, she has hastened the recognition that the minor epic, or "epyllion" as it has often been called in modern times,[1] is a distinctive literary genre as deserving of study as the sonnet, the pastoral, or the verse satire. The purpose of the present volume is to supplement and complement Professor Donno's collection by making available in facsimile seven minor epics of the English Renaissance omitted from it. With the publication of these poems all the known, surviving minor epics of the Elizabethan and Jacobean periods will for the first time be made available for study in faithful reproductions of the earliest extant editions. Of the seven minor epics included here, three--=A Pleasant and Delightfull Poeme of Two Lovers, Philos and Licia=, =STC= 19886 (1624); Dunstan Gale's =Pyramus and Thisbe=, =STC= 11527 (1617); and S[amuel] P[age's] =The Love of Amos and Laura= (1613)[2]--have not previously been reprinted in modern times. And of these three, one, =Philos and Licia=, though listed in the =Short-Title Catalogue=, seems not to have been noticed by Renaissance scholars, nor even by any of the principal bibliographers except William C. Hazlitt, who gives this unique copy bare mention as a book from Robert Burton's collection.[3] The remaining four books--R[ichard] L[ynche's][4] =The Amorous Poeme of Dom Diego and Ginevra= published with Lynche's =Diella, Certaine Sonnets=, =STC= 17091 (1596); William Barksted's =Mirrha The Mother of Adonis: Or, Lustes Prodegies=, =STC= 1429 (1607), published with =Three Eglogs= by Lewes Machin; Barksted's =Hiren: or The Faire Greeke=, =STC= 1428 (1611); and H. A's =The Scourge of Venus, or, The Wanton Lady. With the Rare Birth of Adonis=, =STC= 968 (1613)--have been edited by the "indefatigable" Alexander B. Grosart in =Occasional Issues of Very Rare Books= (Manchester, 1876-77), limited to 50 copies each and hence extremely scarce today.[5] =Dom Diego and Ginevra= was also reprinted by Edward Arber in =An English Garner=, VII (Birmingham, 1883), 209-240. With the exception of =Philos and Licia=, these poems are printed in their approximate order of composition from 1596 to 1613.[6] AUTHORSHIP As befits the paucity of their known literary productions, the authors of these poems have in common chiefly their anonymity, or a degree of obscurity approaching it. The authors of =Philos and Licia= and of H. A's =The Scourge= are unknown. Though the authors of the other poems are known, little is known about them. The mystery of the authorship of =The Scourge= was compounded in the nineteenth century by its incorrect attribution to one Henry Austin. Grosart, for example, argued that the H. A. on the title page and on the address "To the Reader" of the 1614 impression, and the A. H. on the corresponding pages of the 1620 impression, =STC= 970, was the Austin denounced by Thomas Heywood for stealing his translations of Ovid's =Ars Amatoria= and =De Remedio Amoris=. Arthur Melville Clark, in correcting this error, pointed out that these stolen translations of Ovid should not be confused with =The Scourge=, an original poetic composition based on Book X of a quite different work by Ovid, =The Metamorphoses=. Clark concluded that "H. A. or A. H. was probably the editor, not the author, although he may have made certain corrections and additions, as the title-page of the second edition states."[7] However, H. A.--not A. H.--was almost certainly the author of =The Scourge=, as evidenced, among other details, by the title page of the 1613 =Scourge=,[8] unknown to Clark, which unequivocally states: "Written by =H. A.=" As to the initials H. A. appended to the address "To the Reader" of the 1614 impression and the A. H. on the title and address pages of the 1620 impression, they were probably printer's errors, arising in the 1614 impression from the printer's careless assumption that the address "To the Reader" was the work of the author rather than the bookseller, and in the impression of 1620 from a simple typographical metathesis of the letters H and A.[9] The authorship of the remaining five poems, together with such relevant facts of the authors' lives as are known, is as follows. =Pyramus and Thisbe= is by one Dunstan Gale (fl. 1596), about whom nothing else is known. =Dom Diego and Ginevra= has long been attributed to Richard Lynche (fl. 1601), otherwise chiefly known for his =Diella=, a conventional sonnet sequence accompanying =Dom Diego=, and for his translation of Cartari's =Le Imagini=, Englished as =The Fountaine of Ancient Fiction= (1599). =Mirrha= and =Hiren= are by William Barksted (fl. 1611), "one of the servants of his Majesties Revels," as the title page of =Hiren= proclaims. Barksted is believed to have completed =The Insatiate Countess= after Marston's withdrawal from the stage in 1608 or 1609. This play, bearing Barksted's name in one issue of the 1631 edition, contains a number of lines and phrases identical with lines and phrases in =Mirrha= and =Hiren=.[10] =Amos and Laura= has been attributed, probably correctly, to Samuel Page (1574-1630),[11] who is mentioned by Meres as "most passionate among us to bewaile and bemoane the perplexities of Love,"[12] and by his fellow-Oxonian Anthony à Wood as long-time Vicar of Deptford.[13] Although a few additional facts are known about these authors, none seems to contribute to an understanding of the poems reprinted, and all may be found under the appropriate authors' names in the =DNB=. SOURCES Traditionally the storyhouse of minor epic source materials has been classical mythology, but inevitably, as suitable classical myths were exhausted, Renaissance poets turned to such sources as the Italian novella, or even--romantic heresy--to comparatively free invention. As if to compensate for these departures from orthodoxy, the later epyllionists leaned ever more heavily on allusions to classical mythology. Of the seven poems included here only three (=Pyramus and Thisbe, Mirrha, and The Scourge=) are based on a classical source (Ovid's =Metamorphoses=). Of the remaining four tales, two are drawn from Bandello apparently by way of Painter, and the last two (=Philos and Licia, Amos and Laura=), though greatly indebted to =Hero and Leander= overall, seem not to have drawn their characters or actions directly from either a classical or more contemporary source. These last two poems, then, from a Renaissance point of view, are comparatively free inventions. But both, and especially =Philos and Licia=, are a tissue of allusions to classical mythology. Gale in =Pyramus and Thisbe= expands Golding's translation of Ovid's =Metamorphoses=, IV, from some 130 to 480 lines, Barksted expands less than 300 lines of Golding's =Ovid=, X, to nearly 900, and H. A. enlarges the same tale to about 950 lines.[14] It should be emphasized, however, that these are not mere amplified translations, but reworkings of the classics, with significant departures from them. Gale, for example, prefaces the romance of Pyramus and Thisbe with their innocent meeting out-of-doors in an arbor, amid violets and damask roses. He has Venus, enraged at seeing these youngsters engaging in child-like rather than erotic play, command Cupid to shoot his arrows at them "As nought but death, their love-dart may remove" (Stanza 8). There is no counterpart to this opening scene in Golding's Ovid. Similarly Barksted departs at length from Ovid in the beginning of his tale, where the Renaissance poet undertakes to explain why Mirrha is cursed with love for her father. While she listens to the sweet, sad songs of Orpheus, Cupid,[15] falling in love with her, courts her and is rejected; his parting kiss "did inspire/her brest with an infernall and unnam'd desire" (p. 123). Golding's Ovid, specifically denying that Cupid had anything to do with Mirrha's unnatural love, suggests that Cinyras' daughter must have been blasted by one of the Furies.[16] Other inventions of Barksted include a picture of her father with which Mirrha converses (pp. 126-127), pictures of her suitors (p. 128), a picture of her mother, over which she throws a veil (p. 128) and a description of Mirrha herself (pp. 131-132). Later in the story Mirrha meets a satyr named Poplar (unknown to Ovid), who makes free with her (pp. 148-155). As punishment for such goings on in Diana's sacred grove, he is to be metamorphosed into the tree that now bears his name (even as Mirrha is subsequently transformed into the tree that produces myrrh). =The Scourge of Venus=, though following Ovid's story more closely than =Mirrha=, expands Golding by more than 600 lines, to a little more than the average length of the Elizabethan minor epic. In the process, Mirrha is assigned lustful dreams not found in Ovid (p. 246), and is impelled to write a long letter to her father (pp. 247-250). Shortly thereafter, the author introduces an emphatically Christian digression on the horror of Mirrha's "fowle incestious lust" and on the importance of reading ="Gods holy Bible"= as a salve for sin (p. 253), and invents the Nurse's prolix arguments against such "filthy" love as Mirrha desires (pp. 258-261).[17] The fact that the author follows Ovid's story as closely as he does should be taken as a commentary on his limited powers of invention rather than on his devotion to the art of translation. Bandello, I, 27, Belleforest, 18, Whetstone's =Rocke of Regard=, 2, Fenton's =Tragicall Discourses=, 13, and Painter's =Palace of Pleasure=, II, 29[18] have all been listed as possible sources for =Dom Diego and Ginevra=.[19] Grosart regarded Fenton's work, 1579, as the source from which Lynche got the bare bones of his story, and Arber agreed.[20] But though Jeannette Fellheimer could find no evidence that Lynche knew Belleforest's or Fenton's version of the tale, she demonstrated, on the basis of two very close parallels, that he knew Painter's.[21] In support of Fellheimer's view, one notes that Lynche follows Painter in employing the form "Cathelo[y]gne"[22] (p. 63) rather than Fenton's "Catalonia."[23] Barksted may have known ballads on the subject of Hiren, alluded to in stanza 34 of his poem, as well as Peele's lost play =The Turkish Mahomet and Hyren the fair Greek=. But like Lynche, he seems heavily indebted to a tale by Painter, in this case "Hyerenee the Faire Greeke."[24] Among other equally striking but less sustained correspondences between Painter's prose narrative and Barksted's minor epic verse, one notes the following, in which Mahomet's confidant Mustapha attempts to reanimate his leader's martial spirit, drowned in uxoriousness: "But nowe I cannot revive the memorie of your father Amurate, but to my great sorow and griefe, who by the space of XL. yeres made the sea and earth to tremble and quake ... [and so cruelly treated the Greeks] that the memorie of the woundes do remaine at this present, even to the mountaines of Thomao and Pindus: he subjugated ... all the barbarous nations, from Morea to the straits of Corinthe. What neede I here to bring in the cruel battell that he fought with the Emperour Sigismunde and Philip duke of Burgundia wherein he overthrew the whole force of the Christians, toke the emperour prisoner, and the duke of Burgundie also ... or to remember other fierce armies which he sent into Hungarie."[25] Barksted versifies this speech in stanzas 1 and 2, putting it at the beginning instead of toward the end, where it comes in Painter's novella. By a poetic license, Barksted credits all these achievements to the son, none to the father. Barksted follows Painter's story quite closely, but he cuts, amplifies and invents in order to develop its minor epic potentialities. Thus, in addition to turning Painter's prose into the sixains of Shakespeare's =Venus and Adonis=, he cuts the length of Painter's tale by about two-thirds. In the process, much of Painter's attention to historical detail, his complication of plot, and his tedious moralizing are mercifully lost. By way of amplification in the minor epic mode, Barksted expands as follows Mahomet's brief command in Painter that Hiren should "adorne herselfe with her most precious jewels, and decke her with the costliest apparell shee had" (see stanza 100).[26] Also, in order to bring out Mahomet's realization of the enormity of his crime of slaying Hiren, the consummation of all his amorous dreams, Barksted invents a second killing--Mahomet's killing of Mustapha, who had driven his lord to perform the first execution. FORMAL CHARACTERISTICS Like the poems reprinted by Professor Donno, these establish their identity as minor epics by the erotic subject matter of their narration, however symbolized or moralized, and by their use of certain rhetorical devices that came to be associated with the genre. These include the set description of people and places; the =suasoria=, or invitation to love; and the formal digression, sometimes in the form of an inset tale, such as the tale of Poplar in =Mirrha= (pp. 148-155). Other rhetorical devices cultivated in the epyllion are the long apostrophe, and the sentence or wise saying. Also, these poems employ numerous compound epithets and far-fetched conceits. (Dom Diego goes hunting with a "beast-dismembring blade" [p. 64], and Cinyras incestuous bed in =The Scourge= "doth shake and quaver as they lie,/As if it groan'd to beare the weight of sinne." [p. 271].) The average length of these, like other Renaissance minor epics, is about 900 lines. Although the length of Renaissance minor epics is not rigidly prescribed, it is noteworthy that several of these poems have almost the same number of lines. =Philos and Licia=, =Mirrha=, and =Hiren=, for example, running to about 900 lines, vary in length by no more than 16 lines. (=Amos and Laura=, however, the shortest with about 300 lines, is some 650 lines shorter than =The Scourge=, the longest, with about 950.) As well as echoing Marlowe's =Hero and Leander= and Shakespeare's =Venus and Adonis= in particular words and phrases, these poems reveal a much more general indebtedness to what Professor Bush has aptly called "the twin peaks of the Ovidian tradition in England."[27] The majority employ one of two prosodic patterns--the Marlovian couplet popularized in =Hero and Leander=, or the six-line stanza used by Lodge but soon after taken over by Shakespeare in =Venus and Adonis= and thereafter associated with his poem.[28] In addition to the couplet, a common mark of Marlovian influence in the poems is the etiological myth, sometimes expanded into a tale. Thus, in =Mirrha=, for instance, the growth of rare spices and perfumes in Panchaia is explained by the story of how Hebe once spilled nectar there (p. 147). Comparable marks of Shakespearean influence are the aggressive female like Mirrha, reminiscent of Shakespeare's Venus; the hunting motif in =Dom Diego= and =Amos and Laura=, recalling Adonis' obsession with the hunt; and the catalog of the senses in =Philos and Licia=, pp. 15-16, and =Hiren=, stanzas 75-79, which imitates Shakespeare's =Venus and Adonis=, ll. 427-450. Only =Mirrha= among these poems, however, makes specific acknowledgment of a debt to Shakespeare (see p. 177). Finally, Dom Diego's plangent laments at Ginevra's cruelty recall Glaucus' unrestrained weeping at Scylla's cruelty in Lodge's =Scillaes Metamorphosis=. But whereas the "piteous Nimphes" surrounding Glaucus weep till a "pretie brooke" forms,[29] "the fayre =Oreades= pitty-moved gerles" that comfort Dom Diego are loath to lose the "liquid pearles" he weeps. Consequently they gather (and presumably preserve) them with "Spunge-like Mosse" (p. 95). Lynche extends his debt to Lodge by establishing at the end of his poem a link between Ginevra and the Maiden he professes to love. But, whereas Lodge in the Envoy to his poem uses Scylla on the rocks as a horrible example of what may happen to unyielding maids, Lynche holds up Ginevra, who finally marries her lover, as an example to be followed by the poet's disdainful Diella of the accompanying sonnets (see p. 101). It would probably be impossible, even if it were desirable, for any given minor epic to follow all the conventions of the genre, or even all its alternative conventions. Yet all the poems included here adhere so closely to most of the important minor epic conventions that there should be no question as to the minor epic identity of any.[30] THE HISTORY OF THE EARLY EDITIONS =Philos and Licia=, though entered on October 2, 1606 and presumably printed soon thereafter, survives only in the unique copy of the 1624 edition printed by W. S. [William Stansby?] for John Smethwick. (No record of transfer of this poem from William Aspley, who entered it, exists, though Aspley and Smethwick were associated, along with William Jaggard, in the publication of Shakespeare's First Folio of 1623.) Robert Burton bequeathed this copy of =Philos and Licia=, along with many of his other books, to the Bodleian Library in 1639. Under the terms of his will the Bodleian was to have first choice of his books, unless it already had duplicates, and Christ Church, Burton's college, second choice. Along with =Philos and Licia=, the Bodleian received the following other minor epics from Burton's collection: =Pigmalion's Image= (1598), =Venus and Adonis= (1602), =Samacis and Hermaphroditus= (1602), and =Hero and Leander= (1606).[31] Burton regularly wrote his name in full, some abbreviation thereof, or at least his initials, on the title page of his books, usually across the middle. In =Philos and Licia=, Burton's heavily and distinctively written initials RB are written a bit below the middle of the title page, on either side of the printer's device.[32] Also in its typical location at the bottom of the title page is found "a curious mark, a sort of hieroglyphic or cypher," which Burton almost always affixed to his books. The significance of this device remains obscure; it "has usually been supposed to represent the three 'R's' in his name joined together."[33] Although the dedication of Dunstan Gale's =Pyramus and Thisbe= is dated November 25, 1596, no copy of an earlier edition than that printed in 1617 for Roger Jackson is extant. The unsophisticated, highly imitative style of the piece, the date of the dedication, and the fact that the printer's device in the 1617 edition is an old one, used previously in 1586-87 by Ralph Newbery,[34] to whom Jackson was apprenticed from 1591-99,[35] suggests that the poem was originally published by Newbery about 1596. Probably this first edition had the same device as the edition of 1617, and a similar title page. According to Newbery's will, Roger Jackson and John Norcott were to receive his stock of books on Fleet Street, but McKerrow, citing the Prerogative Court of Canterbury, 30, Hudlestone as his authority, says the offer seems not to have been taken up.[36] Gale's poem would seem to constitute an exception to this generalization. =Pyramus and Thisbe= was also issued with Greene's =Arbasto= in 1617. On Jan. 16, 1625/26 Gale's poem was transferred from Roger Jackson's widow to Francis Williams,[37] who had it printed for the last time in 1626. Nothing of note has been turned up with regard to the first and only early edition of Lynche's =Dom Diego and Ginevra= (1596). According to their first modern editor, A. B. Grosart, the first and only early editions of =Mirrha= and =Hiren= are notorious for their wretched typography and printing errors of various kinds.[38] He writes, "In all my experience of our elder literature I have not met with more carelessly printed books. Typographical and punctuation errors not only obscure the meaning but again and again make places absolutely unintelligible."[39] Their author Barksted must share the blame, Grosart opines, for some of the poem's errors would seem to show that he was "ill-educated and unpractised in composition."[40] Henry Plomer agrees with Grosart that Edward Allde, the printer of =Mirrha=, was guilty of poor type and workmanship.[41] Perhaps the grossest example in =Mirrha= of the kind of thing Plomer may have had in mind is the tipping of the type on the title page of the two copies of this poem which have come to my attention.[42] Another example would be the awkward separation of the "A" in "Adonis" on one line of the title page from the rest of the word on the next. But although =Mirrha= is indeed a printer's nightmare, it strikes me that Grosart is far too severe in his strictures against =Hiren=, which was quite attractively and reasonably accurately printed, probably by Nicholas Okes,[43] who also printed =The Scourge=. Indeed Grosart has "corrected" a number of details of punctuation in the poem which might better have been left standing, in view of the generally light punctuation of Barksted's day. In two instances Grosart has even "corrected" details which, as "corrected," follow the unique copy of =Hiren=, the Bodleian copy which he consulted.[44] Page's =Amos and Laura= was first published in 1613,[45] a second time in 1619. Finally, in 1628, a second impression of the edition of 1613, with slight variants from it, was printed. In the nineteenth century =Amos and Laura= was remarked upon chiefly for its dedicatory verses to Izaak Walton in the unique copy of the 1619 edition at the British Museum, verses found neither in the then only known, imperfect British Museum copy of the 1613 edition, nor in the impression of 1628. These verses have long been thought to constitute the first reference to Walton in print. But three additional copies of the 1613 edition have by now come to light, at the Folger, the Huntington, and at the British Museum.[46] All three copies, though variously imperfect, contain the dedicatory verses.[47] A word remains to be said about the way in which the second impression of the 1614 =Scourge=, "corrected, and enlarged, by H. A." differs from the first edition of 1613. Though long thought to be identical with the first edition,[48] the second impression, besides being corrected in a number of details, is "enlarged" by the following two stanzas after the line on p. 262, "Helpe Nurse, else long I cannot live."[49] Some say (and you can tell the truth likewise) When women once have felt that they cal sport, And in their wombe a Tympanie doth rise For things peculiar they do oft import: And though most odious it do seeme to some, Yet give it them or they are quite undone. And so my case most desperate standes you see, I long for this yet know no reason why, Unlesse a womans will a reason bee, We'le have our will although unlawfully, It is most sweete and wholsome unto mee, Though it seeme bad and odious unto thee. The third impression of 1620 follows the edition of 1613 but prints three stanzas to a page instead of four. LITERARY VALUE Much of the literary value of these poems, it should be recognized, is historical. Like Henry Petowe's romance, =The Second Part of Hero and Leander= (1598), they are fully as interesting as reflections of the poetic genius of Marlowe and/or Shakespeare, mirrored in the works of their less gifted contemporaries, as they are in themselves. Apart from their historical significance, however, all these poems have intrinsic interest, and several, including =Dom Diego=, =Mirrha= and =Hiren= as well as =Philos and Licia=, have a considerable degree of literary merit as well. Whoever the author of Philos and Licia may have been, he was one who had thoroughly assimilated the conventions of the minor epic, especially those employed in =Hero and Leander=.[50] Unlike Page, whose imitation of Marlowe is for the most part blind, this author is skillful in working many of these conventions, and even particular words and phrases from other minor epics, into the context of his poem, somewhat as the bards of major epic are supposed to have done. Surprisingly, in view of this technique of composition, the poem is well integrated, and consistently smooth and fluent in its versification.[51] As much as this unknown poet must have admired Marlowe's verse, he evidently could not stomach the elder poet's conception of a hostile universe, or his glorification of unwedded bliss. Accordingly he constructed in =Philos and Licia= a world in which all goes well provided one follows the rules, and where one of the key rules is that Hymen's rites must precede love's consummation. One of Licia's chief responsibilities, in addition to summing up all feminine perfections, is to enforce this rule. Philos, though severely tempted to violate it, soon yields to Licia's virtuous admonitions, for he is, let it be known, a pliant youth, almost as devoted to Licia's will as the knight in Chaucer's Wife of Bath's tale to the Loathly Lady's. The poem ends happily, with the gods attending the lovers' nuptials. The result of this too easily ordered union of souls and bodies, unhappily for this otherwise charming poem, is an insufficiency of conflict. Aside from the poem's un-Marlovian insistence on matrimony, its most notable feature is its skillful and sustained use of light and dark imagery, recalling Chapman's much less extensive treatment of such imagery in his conclusion of Marlowe's poem and in Ovid's =Banquet of Sense=. Gale's =Pyramus and Thisbe= begins with a moderately engaging portrayal of the youngsters' innocent friendship; it soon falls into absurdity, from which it never subsequently gets entirely clear. Gale seems to have had no inkling of the ridiculous possibilities of "serious" verse. Consequently, he is able to write of Pyramus and Thisbe "sit[ting] on bryers,/Till they enjoyd the height of their desires," (Stanza 13), with no sense of the incongruity of the image employed. With similar ill effect in its pathetic context, Thisbe's nose bleed is introduced as an omen of disaster (Stanza 33), and Pyramus' "angry" blood, by a ridiculously far-fetched conceit, is said to gush out "to finde the author of the deed,/But when it none but =Pyramus= had found,/ Key cold with feare it stood upon the ground" (Stanza 30). =Dom Diego=, though a pleasant, occasionally charming imitation of Lodge's =Scillaes Metamorphosis=, employs fewer of the epyllionic conventions than =Philos and Licia=, and uses them less imaginatively. Though it never achieves a style of its own, it is quite successful in recapturing the lachrymose artificiality that marks Lodge's poem. Despite its oblique opening and occasionally awkward style, Barksted's =Mirrha= is a poem of more power than =Dom Diego=. Among its more affecting passages are a vivid portrayal of a "gloomy gallerie" lined with portraits of Mirrha's suitors (p. 128) and an inventive account of Hebe's spilling the nectar that rained spices on Panchaia (p. 147). Barksted's early and unqualified recognition of Shakespeare's greatness, and his humbly accurate assessment of his own limited powers, compared to "neighbor" Shakespeare's, are quite disarming. One gets the uncomfortable sense, however, that Barksted in both =Mirrha= and =Hiren=, like H. A. in =The Scourge= after him, is a moral fence straddler, enjoying vicariously the lasciviousness he so piously reprehends. =Hiren= as treated by Barksted is also deficient in imagination of a high order, but is a more absorbing story than =Mirrha=. As signaled by his undertaking a more intricately rhymed stanza than he attempted in his first poem, Barksted's versification and composition in the second poem are superior. The poet achieves his most telling effects in =Hiren= not from invention but from the elaboration of such source materials in Painter as permit him to capture the distinctive glittering artifice of minor epic. His catalog of the senses (Stanzas 75-79) serves as an example of this power of embellishment at its best. Page's =Amos and Laura=, like Gale's =Pyramus and Thisbe=, falls into bathos near the end when Amos, in an extended comparison, likens Laura's refusal to cure his love wound to an avaricious doctor's refusal to set a poor man's leg. Page's failure as a poet is not a result of temporary lapses, as here, but of his inability to invent significant conflict. As Amos says, with unintentional irony on page 235: There are no Seas to separate our joy, No future danger can our Love annoy. This is precisely the problem. But in spite of the poem's obvious weakness, one is drawn to the man who wrote it for his obviously sincere, self-deprecatory references to his "weake wit" and "inferiour stile." Fully aware of his limitations, Page, like Barksted and many another unexceptional talent of his age, was nevertheless drawn to the composition of poetry like a moth to the flame. =The Scourge= is a straightforward and lively but undistinguished redaction, in sing-song verse, of the well-worn Mirrha story. Its chief but nevertheless dubious merit, over against the epyllionic tradition, is its no-nonsense approach to the art of minor epic narration. Although it expands Ovid's speeches and descriptions where feasible and introduces a degree of invention en route, it is singularly barren of such adornments as epithets, set descriptions, and formal digressions. In consequence, it lacks the distinctive hard, bejewelled brilliance of minor epic that characterizes Barksted's poetry at its best. In summation, then, we see that although =Pyramus and Thisbe= and =Amos and Laura= have slight literary value, =The Scourge=, while failing to score very high as a minor epic, yet has a certain crude, narrative vitality. And =Dom Diego=, =Mirrha=, =Hiren=, and =Philos and Licia=, by virtue of their charm, inventiveness, or skillful adaptation of minor epic conventions to their expressive needs, form a hierarchy of increasing literary value that raises them as a group well above the level of the merely imitative. For permission to reproduce =Philos and Licia= (for the first time), =Mirrha=, and =Hiren=, I am much indebted to the Bodleian Library; for permission to reproduce =Dom Diego and Ginevra= I am similarly indebted to the Trustees of the British Museum. I am also under heavy obligation to the Folger Library for permission to reprint =Pyramus and Thisbe=, =Amos and Laura=, and =The Scourge of Venus= (1613), all for the first time. I also wish to express my thanks to The British Museum, the Bodleian Library, the University of Michigan, and the Ohio State University libraries for generous permission to use their collections, and to the Board of College Education of the Lutheran Church in America for a six-week summer study grant, which enabled me to gather research materials for this project. For help and encouragement in a great variety of ways I am grateful to the following mentors and colleagues: Professor John Arthos, who first introduced me to the beauty of minor epic, the late Professor Hereward T. Price, and Professor Warner G. Rice, all from the University of Michigan; Professor Helen C. White of the University of Wisconsin; librarians Major Felie Clark, Ret., U. S. Army, of Gainesville, Florida, and Professor Luella Eutsler of Wittenberg University; and Dr. Katharine F. Pantzer of the Houghton Library, Harvard University, editor of the forthcoming, revised =Short-Title Catalogue=. Paul W. Miller _Wittenberg University Springfield, Ohio December, 1965_ Footnotes: [1] See in this connection my article "The Elizabethan Minor Epic," =SP=, LV (1958), 31-38, answered by Walter Allen, Jr., pp. 515-518. My chief concern in this article was to show that the kind of poetry described therein, though in years past loosely and variously referred to by such terms as "Ovidian poetry" or "mythological love poetry," and often lumped together indiscriminately with other kinds such as the complaint, the tragical history, and the verse romance, actually constitutes a distinct genre recognized in practice by Renaissance poets. Whether or not there is classical authority for use of the term "epyllion," though a significant point of scholarship, is not the main issue here. Either the term "minor epic" or "epyllion" is satisfactory, provided its referent is clear, and accurately described. [2] Published with I. C's [John Chalkhill's?] =Alcilia, Philoparthens Loving Folly. Whereunto is Added Pigmalion's Image ... and Also Epigrammes by Sir I. H.= [John Harington] =and Others=, STC 4275. [3] =Bibliographical Collections and Notes, 1893-1903= (London, 1903; reprinted 1961 by Burt Franklin), p. 301. [4] Or Linche's. [5] Actually Grosart edited the second impression of =The Scourge=, STC 969 (1614), the earliest impression he knew at the time, though by 1883 he had become aware of the unique Huth copy of the 1613 edition. (See pp. 49-50 issued with copy no. 38 of Grosart's edition of =The Scourge=.) [6] =Philos and Licia= was probably not composed much before Oct. 2, 1606, when it was entered in =A Transcript of the Registers ... 1554-1640=, ed. Arber, III (London, 1876), 330. I have placed it first, however, because of the undeserved neglect from which it has suffered over the years and because of its literary superiority to the other poems in the collection. I have placed =Pyramus and Thisbe= second because, though not known to have been published prior to 1617, it was doubtless composed by Nov. 25, 1596, the date given in the dedication, and probably printed shortly thereafter in an edition now lost. [7] "Thomas Heywood's =Art of Love= Lost and Found," =The Library=, III (1922), 212. [8] The Francis Freeling-Henry Huth-W. A. White copy, here reproduced by courtesy of the Folger Shakespeare Library. [9] These evident errors appear to have been corrected in ink on the Bodleian copy of the 1620 impression, of which I have seen a microfilm. [10] Gerald Eades Bentley has gleaned and summarized a few additional facts about Barksted in =The Jacobean and Caroline Stage=, II (Oxford, 1941), 357-358. For an account of the correspondences between =The Insatiate Countess= and the poems, see R. A. Small, "The Authorship and Date of =The Insatiate Countess=," =Harvard Studies and Notes in Philology and Literature=, V (1896), 279-282. For a more recent survey of Barksted's probable contribution to =The Insatiate Countess= see A. J. Axelrad, =Un Malcontent Élizabéthain: John Marston= (Paris, 1955), pp. 86-90. [11] The attribution was made by Thomas Corser in =Collectanea Anglo-Poetica=, LII (Manchester, 1860), 24-25, and has been generally accepted. In further support of Corser's attribution, one might mention the anecdote in =Amos and Laura= about a merchant seaman, followed by a vivid description of a storm at sea (pp. 228-229). Such a tale and description are appropriate in a poem by Page, who had been a naval chaplain and who published several sermons and other devotional works for seamen. [12] Francis Meres, =Palladis Tamia= (1598). Introduction by Don Cameron Allen (New York, 1938), p. 284. [13] Anthony a Wood, =Athenae Oxonienses and Fasti Oxonienses=, 2 vols. in one (London, 1691), 467. Page was vicar of St. Nicholas Church in Deptford from 1597 until his death in 1630. [14] =Shakespeare's Ovid Being Arthur Golding's Translation of the Metamorphoses=, ed. W. H. D. Rouse (London, 1904; reprinted Carbondale, Ill. 1961), IV, 67-201; X. 327-605. [15] Not Orpheus, as stated by Professor Douglas Bush in =Mythology and the Renaissance Tradition= (Minneapolis, 1932), p. 183. [16] =Shakespeare's Ovid=, X, 343-346. [17] Despite these departures from Ovid, the British Museum Catalogue continues to list this as a "translation" of Ovid's =Metamorphoses=, X. For a somewhat later example of an actual translation of this tale, considerably amplified, see James Gresham's (not Graham's, as in =STC=) =The Picture of Incest, STC= 18969 (1626), ed. Grosart (Manchester, 1876). In idiomatic English, occasionally ornamented with such triple epithets as "azure-veyned necke" and "Nectar-candied-words," Gresham expands Golding's Ovid by more than 300 lines. Although he invents a suitable brief description of Mirrha's nurse, whom he calls "old trott," and throws in a few erotic tid-bits quite in the spirit of the minor epic, he never departs from Ovid's story line and never introduces descriptive detail of which there is not at least a hint in Ovid. [18] No. 95 in the edition cited below. [19] Mary A. Scott, =Elizabethan Translations from the Italian= (Boston, 1916), pp. 20, 144. [20] =Poems by Richard Linche, Gentleman= (=1596=), ed. Grosart, p. x; =The Love of Dom Diego and Gynevra=, ed. Arber in =An English Garner=, VII (Birmingham, 1883), 209. [21] "The Source of Richard Lynche's 'Amorous Poeme of Dom Diego and Ginevra,'" =PMLA=, LVIII (1943), 579-580. [22] William Painter, =The Palace of Pleasure=, IV (London, 1929), 74. (Actually, "Catheloigne" in Painter.) [23] =Certain Tragical Discourses of Bandello=, trans. Geffraie Fenton anno 1567. Introd. by Robert Langton Douglas, II (London, 1898), 239. [24] Painter, I, No. 40, 153-158. [25] Painter, I, 156. [26] Painter, I, 157. [27] Bush, p. 139. [28] Two (=Philos and Licia, Amos and Laura=) employ the Marlovian couplet, two (=Dom Diego= and =The Scourge=) the Shakespearean sixain, and Barksted's two employ eight-line stanzas, with =Mirrha= rhyming =_ababccdd_= (the Shakespearean stanza plus a couplet), and =Hiren= rhyming =_ababbcac_=, a more tightly knit departure from Shakespeare's stanza. The last, =Pyramus and Thisbe=, suggests its debt to both masters--or plays both ends against the middle--by employing a 12 (2×6)-line stanza composed of couplets, with the last couplet having a double rhyme probably designed to echo the concluding couplet of the Shakespearean sixain. [29] Thomas Lodge, =Scillaes Metamorphosis= in =Elizabethan Minor Epics=, ed. Donno, p. 35, stanza 71. [30] Yet =Dom Diego= seems not to have been previously identified as a minor epic. The late C. S. Lewis, a few pages before his brilliant discussion of =Hero and Leander= as an epyllion, refers to Lynche's poem as a "stanzaic =novella=." See Lewis' =English Literature in the Sixteenth Century Excluding Drama= (Oxford, 1954), p. 479, pp. 486-488. [31] For a complete list of Burton's books in the Bodleian and Christ Church libraries, numbering 581 and 473 items respectively, see "Lists of Burton's Library," ed. F. Madan, =Oxford Bibliographical Society Proceedings & Papers=, I, Part 3 (1925; printed 1926), 222-246. [32] No. 376 in Ronald B. McKerrow, =Printers' & Publishers' Devices in England & Scotland 1485-1640= (London, 1913), p. 144. According to McKerrow, the bird in this handsome device, with the word "wick" in its bill, is probably a smew, with a pun intended on the name of the owner of the device, Smethwick. [33] For these notes I am indebted to an excellent article, "The library of Robert Burton," ed. F. Madan, p. 185 especially, in the =Oxford Bibliographical Society= volume listed above. [34] No. 240 in McKerrow, =Printers' Devices=, p. 92. "Framed device of a lion passant crowned and collared, a mullet for difference, on an anchor; with =Desir n'a repos=, and the date 1586." [35] =A Dictionary of Printers and Booksellers=, ed. R. B. McKerrow (London, 1910), p. 151. [36] Ibid., p. 199. [37] Arber, =A Transcript=, IV, 149. [38] Contributing to the unattractive appearance of the Bodleian copy of =Mirrha=, which Grosart consulted, is the close cropping of its upper margins. [39] =The poems of William Barksted=, ed. Grosart (Manchester, 1876), p. x. [40] Barksted, p. xiv. [41] Henry Plomer, =A Short History of English Printing= (London, 1900), p. 163. [42] The Oxford and Folger copies, of which only the first is listed in the STC. There is a third, imperfect copy at Trinity College, Cambridge, from the Edward Capell collection. According to Mr. L.W. Hanson, Keeper of Printed Books at the Bodleian, the tipping of the type in the Bodleian copy represents a fault at binding. [43] Though the printer's name is not given, the printer's device, a fleur-de-lis, no. 251 in McKerrow, was used by Okes about this time. [44] Grosart, p. xiii, n. 17, stanza 20, line 7, which has "adoration[e]" in both the original and Grosart's "corrected" version, and p. xiii, n. 19, stanza 41, line 6, "graces" in both copies. [45] The printer was Thomas Creede, as revealed by the printer's device, no. 299 in McKerrow, p. 117: "Framed device of Truth being scourged by a hand from the clouds. Between her feet the initials T. C. The motto Viressit vulnere veritas." [46] The presence of these dedicatory verses in the Huntington copy has been noted by Franklin Williams in his =Index of Dedications and Commendatory Verses= (London, 1962), p. 193. [47] The Folger copy, here reproduced, is complete except for Sig. L4 (pp. 235-236), which have been supplied from another copy. [48] This error goes back to the first entry in =A Catalogue of the Library of Henry Huth= (London, 1880), which says the second edition is the same as the first. [49] The first word of the next stanza is changed from "And" in the 1613 edition to "Then" in the second impression. [50] Rather surprisingly, in view of its silent emulation of Marlowe's poem, =Philos and Licia= pays lavish tribute to Sidney. But since tributes to Sidney were common in the period, this one may be no more than a conventional recognition of his greatness. [51] Occasionally, though, it introduces odd off-rhymes such as "forth" and "mouth" (p. 5), "vaines" and "streames" (p. 6), "either" and "fairer" (p. 8). A PLEASANT AND DELIGHTFVLL POEME OF two Louers, PHILOS and _LICIA_. LONDON Printed by _W. S._ for _Iohn Smethwick_, and are to bee sold at his Shop in Saint _Dunstanes_ Church-yard in Fleete-streete, vnder the Dyall. 1624. To the Reader _Gentlemen; hauing beene (with the ouerthrow giuen to my best opposed forces) violently taken with the ouerflowing delights of hart-rauishing Poesie, the common infection of easie youth, and commending manie idle houres to these papers, and these to the Presse, I commit both to your fauorable censures. In which, if there be any thing (yet I feare I am not to attend so high a blisfulnesse) which may yeeld you the least content, my fortune hath brought forth the intended end of my labours, and I desire no other happinesse._ PHILOS AND LICIA. No sooner had the Sun chas'd night away, And that the Worlds discouerer, bright-eyd day, Poasting in triumph through the enameld skie, Had to the people showne this victorie, But that poore _Philos_ (in himselfe forlorne) Hasted to tell his Loue that it was morne. The milke-white path that leadeth vnto _Ioue_, Whereon the Gods continually doe moue, Compar'd with that, which leadeth to her bed, Was not so white, nor so enameled. A paire of milke-white staires, whiter than white, Was the next way vnto his chiefe delight: Vp those he mounted; and as by he paste, Vpon a wall were sundry stories plaste: Sweet weeping _Venus_, crying out amaine For the dear boy that by the bore was slaine: Skie-ruling _Ioue_ lamenting ore a Cow, That seemd to weepe with him the sweetest _Io_: And there the picture of proud _Phaeton_, Mounting the chariot of the burning Sun, Was portraied, by which _Apollo_ stood, Who seemd to check his hot sonnes youthful blood: One hand had holde, and one legge was aduanst, To climbe his longing seat; but yet it chanst, That warned by his father so, he staid A while, to heare whose teeres might well perswade; Which with such plenty answerd his desires, As though they striu'd to quench ensuing fires: Hanging so liuely on the painted wall, That standers by haue sought to make them fall. The chamber, where his hearts delight did lie, Was all behung with richest Tapistrie; Where Troies orethrow was wrought, & therwithall The goddesses dissent about the ball. Bloud-quaffing _Hector_ all in compleat steele, Coping _Achilles_ in the Troian feeld, Redoubling so his sterne stroaks on his head, That great _Achilles_ left the field, and fled; Which was so liuely by the Painter done, That one would sweare the very cloth did runne. Trecherous _Vlysses_ bringing in that horse, Which proued a fatall coffin for Troies corse. False-hearted _Synon_ groueling on the mire, Whose oily words prou'd fewell to Troies fire. Flint-brested _Pyrrhus_ with an iron mace Murdring the remnants of great _Priams_ race. Vertuous _Æneas_, with the armes of Greece, Venturing for _Troy_ as _Iason_ for his fleece. And vpward if you lookt, you might behold The roofe of it all wrought in burnisht gold: Whereon was figur'd heauen; and there anent The Gods in state riding to Parliament. Gold-showring _Ioue_ vpon a milke-white steed Rode first in ranke; on whose imperiall head A triple crowne was plac't, at which before Two matchlesse diamonds for worth he wore: On whose right hand _Idalian Ganymed_ A massie scepter strongly carried: But on his left, swift-winged _Mercurie_ A dreadfull thunderbolt (earths feare) did whurrie. Next _Ioue_, _Apollo_ came: him followed _Fame_ Baring a lawrell, on which sweet _Sydneys_ name In golden letters, plainly to be read, By the Nine Muses had beene charrectred: On whose each side Eternitie and Praise Enroll'd mens deeds, and gaue them fame to raise. Then furious _Mars_ came next with sulphure eies, Flashing forth fire as lightning from the skies; Whose vncontrolled crest and battered shield Greeke-wounding _Hector_ and _Æneas_ held. Light-headed _Bacchus_ with a cup of golde Brimfull of wine, next _Mars_ his place did holde; The which quaft off, one reeling on before Filled againe, and still supplied more. Him followed sicknesse, by excesse, being lead, With faint weake hands holding his pained head. Thus was the roofe adorn'd: but for the bed, The which those sacred limmes encanaped, I could say much: yet poised with her selfe, That gorgeous worke did seeme but drossy pelfe. All-conquering Loue inspire my weaker Muse, And with thy iocund smiles daigne to infuse Heauen-prompted praises to my vntaught story, That I may write her worth, and tell thy glory. Vpon her backe she lay (ô heauenly blisse!); Smiling like _Ioue_, being couzend of a kisse; The enuious pillow, which did beare her head, Was with it selfe at warre, and mutined: For if the midst receiu'd her chaste impression, Then the two ends would swell at such a blessing; And if she chanst to turne her head aside, Gracing one end with natures only pride, The rest for enuy straight would swell so much, As it would leape asunder for a touch. Her Sun-out-shining eyes were now at set, Yet somewhat sparkling through their cabinet; Her scorne white forehead was made vp by nature, To be a patterne to succeeding creature Of her admiring skill: her louely cheeke, To Rose, nor Lyllie, will I euer leeke, Whose wondrous beautie had that boy but prou'd, Who died for loue, and yet not any lou'd, Neuer had riuer beene adorned so, To burie more then all the world could shew. Her sweetest breath from out those sweeter lips, Much like coole winde which from the valleys skips In parching heat of Summer, stealeth forth, Wandring amongst her haire; her wel formd mouth: No art hath left vs such proportion, To modell out so true perfection. Her smoothe moist hands the sheets kept from his sight, Lest by comparing, they should staine their white. As thus she lay like _Venus_ in her pride, (Tempting sweet _Adon_, lowring by her side) _Philos_ approcht, who with this sight strooke dumbe Came stealing on to see, and being come, His greedie eye, which on the sudden meets So many various and delicious sweets, As rackt with pleasure (neuer hauing fill) Would faine looke off, and yet would looke on still. Thus do we surfet on our sudden ioyes, And ranck-fed pleasure thus it selfe destroyes: For when his eye doth light vpon her hand, He then protests, that that is whitenesse land; But when the whitenesse of her whiter brow Doth steale his eye from thence, he sweareth now Her brow is fellowlesse without all peere; When being snatcht off vnto her fairer haire, He vowes, the Sun, which makes trees burnisht gold, Is not so faire, nor glorious to behold: The viewing the strains which through those cheeks appeare, And that pure whitenesse which triumpheth there, Mixt with those azure Saphire passing vaines, Which are insert like siluer running streames, Watring those golden apples of the brests, Where heauens delight & earths contentment rests, His full-fed eye orecome with such excesse, Sweares and forsweares, denies and doth confesse: Then doth he touch her lips, Natures rich treasure, And musing thinks which is the greatest pleasure To kisse or see; for to resolue which doubt, Againe he kisses, whence comes stealing out So sweet a breath as doth confound his sence; For rarest obiects hurt with excellence: Then doth he seise her hand with softest straine, Whose moist rebound doth easily detaine A willing guest, who purposely could wish Noother food, but such a well-grac't dish. Whiles thus poore _Philos_ kisses, feeles and sees, Heauen-staining _Licia_ opes her sparkling eyes, And askt the hopelesse Louer, if mornes eye Had out-stript night. _Philos_ made answer, I. And thus the Louer did continuallie: For why, such lustre glided from her eie, Which darkt the Sun, whose glory all behold, So that she knew not day, till some man told. Which office she to _Philos_ had assign'd, Because she had him alwayes most in mind: Which had he knowne, he would not so haue spent The restlesse nights in drery languishment, Tumbling and tossing in his lothsome bed, To flie from griefe, yet that still followed. Then rising vp, and running here and there, As if he could outrun or lose his care; But being vp, and finding no reliefe, Lookt in his heart, and there he found out griefe. How cam'st thou hither (then amaine he cries) To kil my heart? Griefe answerd, Through his eyes. Mine eyes (quoth he) subornd to murder me? Well, for their treason they no more shall see. With that a floud of teeres gush out amaine; But griefe sends sighs to beat them backe againe: So that the hurt he meant to do his eies, Heart-murdring griefe resists, and it denies. Whereat amazd, as one bereft of sence, His eies fixt fast on her, as if from thence His soule had gone, he cri'd: ôh, let this moue, Loue me for pitie, or pitie me for loue. Though I am blacke, yet do me not despise, Loue looks as sweet in blacke as faire mens eies. The world may yeeld one fairer to your view; Not all the world fairer in loue to you. A iewell dropt in mire to sight ilfauoured, Now, as before, in worth is valued; An orient pearle hung in an Indians eare, Receiues no blemish, but doth shew more faire; One Diamond, compared with another, Darks his bright lustre, & their worth doth smother; Where poised with a thing of light esteeme, Their worth is knowen, and their great beauty seene. Set white to white, and who commendeth either? Set white to blacke, and then the white's the fairer. The glorious Sunne, when in his glittring pride, Scowring the heauens, in progresse he doth ride, Who runnes to see? or who his sight doth lacke? But if he chance to shute himselfe in blacke, Then the earths people couet him to see, As if he were some wondrous prodegie. The worlds perfection, at the highest rated, Was of a blacke confused thing created. The sight, wherewith such wonders we behold, The ground of it all darke, and blacke the mold. Since then by blacke, perfection most is knowne, Loue, if not for my sake, yet for your owne. Mole gracing _Venus_ neuer shewed so faire, When as _Vulcan_ the black-fac'd god was there, As thou by me: the people, as we pace, By my defects shall wonder at thy grace; And seeing me so swarthie and so tawnie, Shall haue more cause for to admire thy beautie: And all shall thinke (by whom our charriots go) That tis thy beautie which hath tann'd me so. Thy dangling tresses, if compar'd with mine, Glitter like heauen with lustre from thine eine: And those immortall eies, which like the Sunne, The lookers on with his bright rayes doth burne, If mine be nie, will seeme to shine more cleere, Than glittering _Venus_ in her Hemisphere. So thy rich worth, compared with my pelfe, Will in excelling others match thy selfe: Euen as Merchant that hath out at sea His wealth, the hope of his posteritie, And hauing heard by flying newes, at home, That all is lost by some tempestuous storme; Comming to after-knowledge in the bay, It is arriu'd, and nothing cast away, But with redoubled wealth is backe returnd, For whose supposed losse he oft hath mournd; Is scarse himselfe, with ioy of what he heares, And yet retaines some of his former feares It should proue false, recalling to his mind The certaine tokens which some had assign'd Of his more certaine wracke: So fareth she, Possest with ioy (euen to the highest degree) Of what she heard; and yet in this extreame, Was halfe affrayd she was but in a dreame: For well she knew, that some nights did present As pleasing visions to her owne content; Yet in the morne, when golden sleepe had left her, Of her supposed ioyes it had bereft her. With this conceit, her iuory hand put forth, Drawes wide the curtaines which eclips'd her worth, And then she surely thinks she sees his face, (For none but his could glory of such grace) The same maiesticke courage which was wont To place it selfe vpon his gracefull front; That speaking cheeke, and that same sparkling eie; That powrfull arme, and that same lustie thie; With all those parts, so well compact together, That Nature erd in all for him, or rather Some higher power concurr'd to beautifie So sweet a patterne of humanitie: For neuer Nature (since the world began) Could shew so true a perfect well shap't man. While these conceits busi'd her wit-fraught braine, Poore _Philos_, who imagines through disdaine She will not speake, in these words doth beseech, She will transforme her breath into her speech: Natures chiefe wonder, and the worlds bright eie, Which shrowds _Elysium_ in humanitie, _Idea_ of all blisse, ôh let me heare Those well tun'd accents which thy lips do beare: Pronounce my life or death: if death it be, Thrise happy death, the which proceeds from thee. O let those corall lips inricht with blisses, A while forbeare such loue-steept amourous kisses, And part themselues, to story to mine eares The sad misfortune which my poore heart feares. If all my loue must be repayd with hate, And I ordaind to be vnfortunate; If my poore heart being consecrate to thee, (Where thy sweet image sits in maiestie) Must turne to ruine; and my teere-spent eies Wholly possest with gripple auarice, Hourding the riches of the blessed sight Which they haue stolne from thee, must shade in night Their deerest chrystals of vnualued price, Since they haue glassd themselues within thine eies: Yet let me craue one happy-making boone, Though farre too worthy for so meane a groome, That thine owne voice may swanlike (ere I die) Relate the storie of my miserie. Poore _Licia_ fain would speake, & faine would tell him He needs not doubt, for she well doth loue him; Yet fearing he (as Chapmen vse to doo) Would hold aloofe, if Sellers gin to woo, Her tongue entreats of her vnwilling heart, She may a while forbeare, and not impart Her loue-sicke passions to his couetous minde, Lest he disdainfull proue, and so vnkinde. O wonder worker (Loue) how thou doest force Our selues against our selues! and by that course Seem'st to erect great Trophies in our brests, By which thou tak'st away our easefull rests, Nurse to thy passions, making seeming-hate Fewell to loue, and iealousie the bate To catch proud hearts, fearefull suspition Being forerunner to thy passion! Who most doth loue, must seeme most to neglect it, For he that shews most loue, is least respected. What vertue is inioyd, thats not esteemd; But what meane good we want, thats highly deemd: Which is the cause that many men do rate Their owne wiues vertues at a meane estate; Their matchlesse beautie and vnualued worth Seemes nothing in their eyes, nor bringeth forth Effects of loue, when to a meaner farre, Whose birth nor beautie comparable are; With that he's cloid, his passions will admire The very place whereon her footsteps were. The life of sweets is kild without varietie, One beautie still enioyd, breeds loathd satietie; And kindnesse, whose command lies in our power, We seldome relish; but if labourd for, Our very soule is rauisht with delight, It is so pleasing to our appetite. Vrg'd by these reasons, she would faine conceale The hid affection which her heart did feele; And yet compassion of her louers state (Whose outward habit shewd his inward fate) Perswade with her to lend him some by-taste, Lest through his loues griefe she his loues life waste. Thrise happy daies (quoth she) and too soone gone, When as the deed was coupled with the tongue, And no deceitfull flattry nor guile Hung on the Louers teere-commixed stile; When now-scornd vertue was the golden end, By which all actions were performd and scand; And nothing glorious held, but what was free From vassall guilt and staind impietie. In those gold-times poore maidens might relie (Heauens sweetest treasure, dearer chastitie) Vpon mens words: but since that age is fled, And that the staining of a lawfull bed Is youths best grace, and all his oaths and passion Must still be taken on him as a fashion, To busie idle heads: ôh, who can blame If maids grow chary, since slie men want shame! Say I should loue, and yet I know not why I should make any such supposes, I; Not that I am of such relentlesse temper, Whose heart nor vowes, nor sighs, nor teeres can enter; Nor am I only she, who thinks it good To sprinckle Loues rites with their Louers blood. Poore women neuer yet in loue offended, But that too quicke to loue they condescended: Their fault is pitie, which beleeues too soone Mens heart void tongue-delighted passion. Could women learne but that imperiousnesse, By which men vse to stint our happinesse, When they haue purchac'd vs for to be theirs By customary sighs and forced teeres, To giue vs bits of kindnesse lest we faint, But no abundance; so we euer want, And still are begging, which too well they know Endeares affection, and doth make it grow. Had we these sleights, how happy were we then, That we might glory ouer loue-sicke men! But arts we know not, nor haue any skill To faine a sower looke to a pleasing will; Nor couch our secretst loue in shew of hate: But if we like, must be compassionate. Say that thy teere-discoloured cheeke should moue Relenting pitie and that long liu'd loue. If ere thy faith should alter, and become Stranger to that which now it oft hath sworne, How were I wrapt in woe! No time to be Would euer end my datelesse miserie. Ay me (quoth _Philos_) what man can despise Such amourous looks, sweet tongues, & most sweet eies? Or who is glutted with the sight of heauen, Where still the more we looke, the more is seene? To the world of beauties Nature lent, And in each beautie worlds of loues content, Wherein delight and state moues circuler, Pleasure being captaine to thy Hemisphere. Say that the eie, wandring through white and red, Long hauing viewd Loues tower, thy wel built head, Passing those iuory walks where gentlest aire Fannes the sweet tresses of thy scorn-gold haire, Admiring oft those redder strawberries, Ript by the Sun-shine of thy loue-blest eyes, Should in this maze of pleasure, being led, Grow weary, with much time satisfied: Then might the eare be rapt with melodie Surpassing farre the seuen-spheard harmonie Deliuerd from thy pearle-enuirond tongue, Each word being sweeter then a well tun'd song. But for the touch, all ages that are past, And times to come, would steale away, and waste Euen like a minute; and no time suffice To melt the Louer in such rarities: Each day would adde to other such excesse Of Nectar-flowing sweets, that Happinesse Would be too meane a word for to dilate The enuied blisse of his vnequall state. No more (quoth _Licia_) thou enough hast sayd Fo to deceiue a sillie witted maid: But to the God of Loue I will reueale, How that thou keepst a tongue maids harts to steale, Whose fatall arrow with the golden head, Which (as some write) makes all enamoured, May be compared well (without offence) Vnto thy sweet tongue guilt with eloquence, Whose powrfull accents, so constraining loue, Had they beene knowen to Thunder-darting _Ioue_, He neuer needed to haue vs'd such shapes For to commit his slie stolne headdy rapes: Or to _Apollo_, when his harebraind sonne, The proud aspiring lucklesse _Phaeton_, Would guide the lampe of heauen he then had staid, And to his Sires graue counsels had obaid: Beast-mouing _Orpheus_, and stones void of sence, Ore which his musicke had preheminence, Did not inchant so by his power diuine, As doth that Adamantine tongue of thine. Iudge me not light, that I so soone do yeeld To part from that which I so deerely held; For where a likely beautie doth request, Euen at the first, Loue ransacketh the brest: And though maids seem coy, yet the heart is strooke At the first glancing of an amourous looke: For from the Louer to the loued eie Passeth the visuall beames, which gendred nie Vnto the heart, they thither hie amaine, And there her bloud do secretly inflame With strange desires, faint hopes, and longing feares, Vnheard of wishes, thoughts begetting teares, That ere she is aware she's farre in loue, Yet knowes no cause that should affection moue. I could be froward, techie, sullen, mute, And with loue-killing looks repell thy sute; Contemne the speaking letters which thou sends; Command thine absence, and reiect thy friends; Neglect thy presents, and thy vowes despise; And laughing at thy teeres, force teeres arise; Making thee spend a deale of precious time To get that heart which at the first was thine. More I could say. But he content with this, Closd vp the sentence with a sugred kisse. She seemd displeasd, till kissing her againe, _Achilles_ like, he tooke away her paine: And then in close coucht termes would faine desire Loues highest blisse, than which there is no higher: But yet the bashfull boy knew not what art, What termes to vse, or how for to impart His secret meaning; for he blusht for shame To thinke what he should aske; & then would faine Haue made his bolder hand supply the roome Of his tongues office, which was mute and dumbe; The which he layes vpon her siluer brest, Where little _Cupid_ slumbring takes his rest; Betweene the which an amourous streame doth run, That leads the way vnto _Elysium_. I wonder much (quoth he) when _Ioue_ did make A treble night for faire _Alcmenaes_ sake, She nere perceiued that the night was long, Since all eyes wait vpon the rising sunne: But sure some melting pleasure did detaine Her willing senses, and did so enchaine Her captiue minde, that time vnthought of fled, Long nights in sweets being swiftly buried. Might I such dalliance craue, as great _Ioue_ did Of faire _Alcmena_; or when he lay hid In the swannes shape; how happy were I then, And how farre blest aboue all other men! For this, the gods themselues haue often woed, Courted, adored, kneeld vnto and sued, Left heauen, their glory, pompe and maiestie, And put aside their glittring deitie, To get this iewell, which yeelds true content. When that seuerer state perhaps gan ornament Of inward woe, let mortals be excus'd, When deities such amourous tricks haue vs'd. O wit abusing boy (sweet _Licia_ cried;) The gods for that were neuer deified: Though they did vse it, and obserue it well, When ere they did it (as all Poets tell) They from their godheads long before were turnd, And to some monstrous beast they were transformd, And in that shape did act lasciuiousnesse: For lust transformes vs beasts, and no whit lesse Do we than they, but yet deserue more blame, We hauing reason, whose reproofe should tame Rebell-affection, and not to let it grow, To worke his owne vntimely ouerthrow. Insatiate lust as Spring-frosts nips the growth Of Natures fairest blossomes, crops the worth Of her best hopes, nay's foe vnto delight, Dulling the keene edge of our appetite, Whose rancke desire, much like the Ocean, Whose swelling ridges no bound can containe, Oreflowes whole sands, and in her emptie wombe Buries them all; Euen so doth lust intombe All disrancke thoughts, sin-breeding interuiewes, Disordred passions, all dishonest shewes Of what may fatten vice; like thriftlesse heires Lusts champians are, which kill their dearest Sires For their possessions, to giue both life and growth To helborne riot. So lasciuious youth, Courting our beauties, cares not to pollute Our soules for that, though left heauens substitute To bridle passion. Gentle boy refraine, And quench vnlawfull heat till _Hymens_ flame With sacred fire hath warmd vs, and her rites Fully performd do warrant those delites. By this the Soueraigne of heauens flaming beame Had got the full height of the starrie heauen, And she requests the boy, that for a while He will depart the roome, she may beguile The clothes of her blest presence. He obaid, And in a chamber next to hers he staid. He being gone, the sheets away she flung, Which loth to let her go, about her clung; And as she stroue to get out from the sheet, The vpper clothes imprisond both her feet; Yet out she whips, and them away she throwes, Couering her beauties with the ioyfull clothes: Her purple veluet gowne with gold-starres mixt, And euery starre with spangles set betwixt Of purest siluer, with a twist of gold, Would much amaze the gazers to behold. This starrie garment did she first put on, Which tooke light from her face as from the Sun. Her mantle was of richest taffatie, Where _Iupiter_ was seruing _Danae_, So liuely wrought by _Vestaes_ chastest Nun, As much delighted the sweet lookers on. Her stomacher was all with diamonds set, Ore which a fall was plac'd with pearles with net, And at each pearle (which seemd to darke the skie) Hung glistring Rubies and rich Porpherie. A bracelet all of pearle her hands did grace; For to her hands all orients are but base. A scarfe of maiden-blush did seeme to hide her, Wherein _Diana_ when _Acteon_ spide her, Herselfe had wrought, looking with such disdaine, As witnest well his after-following paine; One end whereof had yong _Leanders_ shape, When through the swelling main (whose waues did gape) He sought his chastest _Hero_, beating from him The waues, which murmuring stroue for to com nere him: And at the other, matchlesse _Hero_ stood Viewing _Leander_ tossed by the flood, And how the churlish billowes beat that head On which herselfe was so enamoured; Praying to _Neptune_, not to be so cruell, But to deliuer vp her dearest iewell: To figure to the world whose shining eies She set two diamonds of highest prise. Vpon her head she ware a vaile of lawne, Eclipsing halfe her eyes, through which they shone As doth the bright Sun, being shadowed By pale thin clouds, through which white streaks are spred. Poore _Philos_ wondred why she staid so long, And oft lookt out and mus'd she did not come. What need she decke her selfe with art (quoth he) Or hide those beauties with her brauerie, Which addeth glory to the meanst attire? What if she went in her loose flagging haire, Spread at his full length, that the Easterne winde Might tie loue-knots for _Cupid_ to vntwinde, With some trasparent garment ore her skin, Through which her naked glory might be seene: Then as _Diana_ a hunting might she goe; But she nor needs her arrowes nor a bow: For all the beasts that should but see her passe, With w[=o]dring straight would leaue the perled grasse And feed their eyes, while with her snowy hand She take what beasts she please; nor more command Needs she to keepe them: for her iuory palme Commandeth more than any iron chaine. But now she's come, at whose thrise radiant light As all amazd he shunnes her glorious sight, Like those which long in darke, chance to espie A candles glimmering, if it come but nie, Can not endure that weake and feeble shine, But straightway shut their dim and dazled eine. No maruell then, though in great extasie His spirits are, at glittring maiestie. She feares the worst, and to her Louer skips, Claps his plumpe cheeks, and beats his corall lips, And seeing him fall breathlesse to the earth, She seeks with kisses to inspire his breath. At last his eye-lids he vp heaues againe, And feeling her sweet kisses, gins to faine; Shuts his bright eyes, and stops his rosie breath, And for her kisses counterfeits his death. With that poore _Licia_ both her hands vpholds, And those let fall, her wofull armes enfolds, With cast vp eyes in labour with her teares, Which ioy did weep for woe to leaue those spheares Which downe her face made paths vnto her necke, And setling there shewd like a carquenet; Anon she teares her haire, away it flings, Which twining on her fingers shewd like rings; Then she assayes to speake, but sighs and teares Eats vp her words and multiplies her feares. Why wert thou borne (quoth she) to die so soone, And leaue the world poore of perfection; Or why did high heauen frame thee such a creature, So soone to perish: ô selfe-hurting Nature, Why didst thou suffer death to steale him hence, Who was thy glory and thy excellence. What are the Roses red, now he is gone, But like the broke sparks of a diamond, Whose scattred pieces shadow to the eye What the whole was, and adde to miserie? Such this faire casket of a fairer iem, Whose beautie matchlesse now, what was it then When that his precious breath gaue life and sent To those dead flowers whose feruor now is spent? O starueling Death, thou ruiner of Kings, Thou foe to youth and beautie-sealed things, Thou friend to none but sepulchers and graues, High reared monuments, lasting Epitaphs, Poore Clearks & Sextons, and some thriftlesse heires, Depriued Priests, and a few Courtiers, Who hauing liuings in reuersion, Do dayly pray for quicke possession; Who had offended thee, that blinde with rage Thou strookst at him, for whom succeeding age Will curse thy bones? Physitians be thy baine, And chase thee hence to lowest hell againe. He hearing this, from pleasing death reuiues, And drunke those teeres from her immortall eies, Which drop by drop sought other to displace, That each might kisse that sweet and daintie face. Nor doth the Soueraigne of heauens golden fires, After a storme so answer mens desires, When with a smiling countenance he orelooks The flowrie fields and siluer streaming brooks, As _Licia_ in his life was comforted, Whom new before she thought for to be dead: She locks her fingers in his crisped haire, And pulles it out at length, which leauing there, The haire bands backe at it for ioy had leapt, To be a prisoner to hand so white: And then she stroaks his alabaster skin, And chucks the boy on his immortall chin, Glassing herselfe within his matchlesse eyes, Where little _Cupids_ conquering forces lies. Faire Deere (quoth he) to night now wil I leaue you, But in your charge my heart I will bequeath you; Securely sleepe, lest in your troubled brest If you chance sigh, you keepe my heart from rest; Which I protest hath many a tedious night Counted times minutes for your absent sight: What for the nuptials will seeme requisit, That to your charge (faire creature) I commit, Which ere the bright Sun with his burning beame Hath twice more coold his tresses in the maine, Shall be performd. This sayd, away he's gone. Farewell (quoth she:) and at that word a groane Waited with sighs and teeres, which to preuent, For feare his sweet heart she should discontent, Vnto her needle in all haste she goes, For to beguile her passions and her woes. She first begins a smocke, of greater cost Than _Helen_ wore that night when as she lost Her husbands fame and honour, and thereby Had almost kept our now lost dignitie: For _Paris_ first, when as he came to bed, On that rich smocke was so enamoured, And so attentiuely beheld the same, That he forgot almost for what he came: For on the coller and the seame before Was big-bon'd _Hercules_ and the _Minetaure_, Both wrought so liuely, that the bloud which came From that deformed beast, did seeme to staine Her smocke below; which running here and there Workt in red silke, did new and fresh appeare; Which made yong _Paris_ doubt, and thinke indeed She was not well, and askt and she did bleed; And would needs see: but wide the curtains drawn, There was some iewell sparkled through the lawn, Which pleasd him so, that he had quite forgot The curious working of the rich wrought smocke. But loue-blest _Licia_ in her smocke delights To worke of pleasing tales and marriage rites, Of louers sweet stolne sports, and of the rapes Of gods immortall, and of maidens scapes: There might you see _Mars_ conquering _Venus_ shrowd, Sea-torne _Æneas_ in a foggie cloud Making for Carthage; entring all vnseene To the rich temple where the Tyrian Queene (Flashing forth beautie from her star-like eies) Sate in her throne to heare the Troians cries. Beneath this same she wrought a boistrous storme, Whereas the mercy-wanting winds had torne The tops of loftie trees, and rent the roots Of stately Cedars and of aged oakes: The horrid thunder with his dreadfull claps Made yawn the mouth of heauen, from whose great gaps The fearefull lightning flasht: and then againe _Ioue_ squeesd the clouds, & powrd down snow & rain. In this same storme she wrought the Tyrian Queene And great _Æneas_, who that day had beene Hunting the fallow deere, and thither came To shrowd themselues from tempest and raine. Into a bushie caue hard by they got, Which thicke set trees did couer ore the top; In which the Carthage Queene _Æneas_ led, Who there deceiu'd her of her maidenhead. A scarfe besides she made of cunning frame, Whereas _Alcides_ club and armour throwne, His lion skin put off, in maids attire He grad the wheele at _Omphales_ desire. And all this night she banisht sleepe by worke, Who in her chamber priuily did lurke, Tempting her eye-lids to conspire with him, Who often times would winke and ope again: But now bright _Phoebus_ in his burning car Visits each mortall eye and dimmes each star, The nights sole watch-man, when she casts aside Her curious worke, and doth in haste prouide: For the faire fountaine which not far off stands, Whose purling noise vpon the golden sands Inuites each weary wandring passenger To see and taste those streames which are so cleare. The louing banks like armes seeme to embrace it, Vpon the which there grew (the more to grace it) All sorts of coloured flowers, which seemd to looke And glasse themselues within that siluer brooke. Plentie of grasse did euery where appeare, Nurst by the moisture of the running riuer, Which euer flourishing still a beautious greene, Shewd like the palace of the Summers Queene: For neither frost nor cold did nip those flowers, Nor Sunburnt Autumne parch those leafie bowers: And as she goes to bathe, the tender grasse Twineth about her, loth to let her passe: Here loue-strucke brambles plucke her by the gown, There roses kisse her as she walks along. When being come vnto the riuer side, Looking about, for feare she should be spide, She stript her naked, standing on the brinke, When the deere water, who ten yeeres did thinke Till she was in, conspired with the banke, That downe it fell, and all vnwares she sanke Vp to the brests; then it inclos'd her round, Kisses each part, and from the purling ground The vnder-streames made haste to come and view Those beauties which no earth could euer shew. The slimy fishes with their watry finnes Stand gazing on her, and close by her swimmes, And as she mou'd they mou'd, she needs no bait, For as when _Orpheus_ plaid, so do they wait. And purple _Titan_, whom some fogs did shrowd, Perforce brake forth from his imprisond cloud To gaze vpon her, whose reflecting beames When hot she felt, she leaues the watry streames; Which they perceiuing, lessened her strength, To make her stay; yet out she got at length: For which the waters are at enmitie With the Sunnes bright and glorious maiestie, And euery morning, ere _Apollo_ rise, They send blacke vapours vp to his darke eies, And maske his beautie, that he be not seene To hinder them of such a blessed blessing. Now vp she gets, and homeward fast she goes, And by the way is musing of the ioyes To morrowes day should yeeld, and wisht it come; But her swift wishes ouergoe the Sunne, Which to her thinking, like a tired man Heauily loaden, vp a hill doth come. Ay me (quoth she) had _Thetis_ _Daphnes_ grace, Then wouldst thou ierke thy horses, and apace Scowre through the azurd skie: but for she's old, Wanting white snowy armes for to enfold Thy golden body, therefore thou doest moue (As though new parted from some amorous loue) Not like a man trudging with more than haste, That he might clip his louers melting waste. Were I the ruler of that fierie teame, Bloud would I fetch, and force them leape amaine Into the sea, and ouerspread the skie With pitchie clouds, their darkesome liuerie. Yet home she hies in hope to finde the boy Which soone would turne those sorrowes into ioy: But he was absent; for much time he spent To make his horse fit for the Turnament, Which with his curtelax and drery lance He meant to holde her beautie to aduance: When missing him, she knew not how to spend The weary day, nor bring it to end; But calls her maid to beare her companie, And willed her to tell some historie Which she had read or heard, to mocke the time; Who with a sober smile did thus beginne: In Crete there dwelt a boy of so good grace, So wondrous beautie, such a louely face, An eye so liuely, such a cherrie lip, So white a belly and so strait a hip, So well shapt, faire, in euery part and lim, That Nature was in loue with making him. This boy would oft resort vnto the Lawnes, To rouse the Satyres and the nimble fawnes, That he might chase them; but the fearefull deere Loue-taken by his presence, would not stirre: So he was faine (when he would haue some play) Himselfe to run, and then they scud away And follow him, and in the place he stands Come lightly tripping for to licke his hands: And if the lion chanst for to espie him, He would away, looke back, but not come nie him, Lest he should feare him, and complaine of Nature, That she had made him such a horrid creature, And wish himselfe to be the gentle hare, The timorous sheepe, or any beast that were, So he might gaze on him, and not beasts king, To be depriu'd of so endeerd a blessing. And many times the wood nymph in a ring Would girt the boy about, and being hemd in, Ere he get out, a kisse to each must giue, Or being so inchaind, so must he liue. As thus the boy did often times resort Vnto the woods to finde some friendly sport, One day amongst the rest he chanst to spie A virgin huntresse comming that way by, With light thin garments tuckt vp to the knees, Buskins about her legs, through which he sees A skin so white, that neuer did his eie Beholde so chaste, so pure, so sweet a die: Her vpper bodies when he did beholde, They seemd all glistring to be made of gold, But he perceiued, being somewhat nere, It was the beautie of her dangling haire, Which from her head hung downe vnto her waste, And such a bright and orient colour cast. About her necke she ware a precious stone, A high pris'd, matchlesse, sparkling diamond, But poising it with her transpiercing eye, Shewd like a candle when the Sun is by. The louely boy was taken with the hooke, The more he gazd, the more still was he strooke; A thousand amourous glances he doth throwe, And those recoild, seconds a thousands moe. At last the boy being danted by her feature, Makes his speech prologue to so admir'd a creature: Celestiall goddesse, sprung from heauenly race, _Ioues_ sweetest offpring, shew me but what place Thou doest inhabit, where thy Temple stands, That I may offer with vnspotted hands On thy deere Altar; and vpon thy praise Sing glorious hymnes and sweet tun'd roundelays; But ô most happy if I were thy Priest, To celebrate thy vigils and thy feast. If it be _Paphos_ and thou loues sweet Queene, Rose cheekt _Adonis_ would that I had beene; Or if nights gouernesse, the pale-fac'd Moone, For thy sake would I were _Endymion_: But if no goddesse, yet of heauenly birth, And not disdainst poore men that liue on earth, If thou hast any Loue, would I were he, Or if thou wantst one, fix thy loue on me. With that she blusht, and smiling lookt vpon him; But here she left: for _Philos_ comming in, Brake off her tale, and then they all deuise For state and show, how they may solemnise Their nuptials: each minute seemes a day, Till the slow houres had stolne the night away: But morne being come, theres none can tell the blis That they conceiu'd, without the like were his. The golden Sun did cherish vp the day, And chas'd the foggie mists and slime away, And gentle _Zephyre_ with perfumed breath Stealing the sweets from off the flowry earth, Doth mildly breathe among the enamord trees, Kissing their leafie locks, which like still seas Waue vp and downe: and on the sprigs there stood The feathred Quiristers of the shadowy wood, Warbling forth layes of piercing melodie, Measuring the dances of the wind-wau'd tree. Swift-winged _Mercurie_ hearing the report Of these same nuptials, trudg'd vnto the Court, And there vnto the bench of Deities Vnfolds this newes, who altogether rise, And on the battlements of the azure skie They seat themselues to see these two passe by. Afore him went a troupe of gallant youth, Of the best feature and of perfect growth; He followed in a cloake of cloth of gold, Larded with pearles, with diamonds enrold; His vpper vestment was cut out in starres, (Such wore great _Mars_ when as he left the warres, And courted _Venus_) vnder which was drawne Cloth all of tyssue couered ore with lawne. Next came the Bride, like to the Queene of light, Drawne by her dragons to adorne the night: When she is richly dect and all things on, Going to court her sweet _Endymion_, Attended by a shining companie Of louely damsels, who together hie Vnto the Temple, where the sacred Priest In all his hallowed vestments being drest, With each consent, ioyning the louers hands, Knit them together in _Hymens_ sacred bands. Pyramus and Thisbe, LONDON, Printed for _Roger Iackson_, and are to be sold at his shop neere Fleet Conduit. 1617. TO THE WORSHIPFVLL his veric friend, D.B.H. Dvnstan Gale, wisheth all happinesse. _The worthinesse (good Captaine) of your demerits, with the benefit of your friendly curtesies, incites mee to make profer vnto you of this my vnpolished Pamphlet, humbly intreating you to vouchsafe it acceptance, in that amongst many whom I haue knowne, I could finde none more meete for the patronizing it then your self. Which if it please you, I hope it wil be the better welcom to others for your sake: and if vnconstant fortune do but once more enable me for better, then shall you find a gratefull minde ready to requite you with a double guerdeon for your former kindnesse. Thus crauing pardon for this my rash attempt, I humbly take my leaue this_ 25. _of_ Nouember, 1596. _Your Worships euer devoted_, Dunstan Gale. 1 Neere to the place where _Nilus_ channels runne, There stood a town by loue long since vndone; For by a chance that hapned in the same, The town's forgot, & with the towne the name. Within which towne (for then it was a towne) Dwelt two commanders of no small renowne, Daughter to one, was _Thisbe_ smooth as glasse: Fairer then _Thisbe_ never woman was. Sonne to the other, _Pyramus_ the bright: Yong _Thisbes_ play-feare, _Thisbe_ his delight: Both firme in loue, as constant and were any, Both crost in loue, as proud Loue crosseth many. 2 For in the pride of sommers parching heat, When children play and dally in the street, Yong _Thisbe_ seuerd from the common sort, As gentle nurture lothes each rusticke sport, Went to an arbour, arbours then were greene, Where all alone, for feare she should be seene, She gatherd violets and the Damaske rose, And made sweet nosegaies, from the which she chose, One of the sweetest. Sweet were all the rest, But that which pleasd her wanton eye the best. And this (quoth she) shall be my true loues fauor: Her tender nonage did of true love sauor. 3 No sooner spake, but at her speech she blusht: For on the sudden _Pyramus_ in rusht, Hauing but newly cropt the spredding pine, And other branches that were greene and fine, Of which to passe his idle time away, The boy made wreaths and garlands that were gay, And spying _Thisbe_, _Thisbe_ made him start, And he her blush, so tender was her heart: She blusht, because another was so neere, He started, for to finde another there; Yet looking long, at last they knew each other, For why, they lov'd like sister and like brother. 4 When they left looking, for they lookt awhile, First _Pyramus_, last _Thisbe_ gan to smile, I was afraide, thus _Thisbe_ straight began: Faint (he replied) a maid and feare a man? I feard (quoth she) but now my feare is past. Then welcome me (quoth _Pyramus_) at last. Welcome (quoth she) and then she kist his lips, And he from her, sweet _Nectar_ drops out sips: She pats his lips, he puls her milke white skin. Thus children sport, and thus true loue begins: But they as children, not as louers gamed, For loue (alas) twixt them was neuer named. 5 Oft would he take her by the lillie hand, Cirkling her middle, straight as any wand, And cast her downe, but let her lye alone, For other pastime _Pyramus_ knew none. Then vp she starts and takes him by the necke, And for that fall giues _Pyramus_ a checke: Yet at the length she chanst to cast him downe, Though on the green she neuer gaind a gowne, But rose againe, and hid her in the grasse, That he might tract the place where _Thisbe_ was, And finding her (as children vse) imbrace her, For being children nothing could disgrace her. 6 But marke the issue, of their sportiue play, As this sweet couple in the coole shade lay, Faire _Venus_ posting whom to _Paphos_ Ile, Spied their sports, nor could she chuse but smile, Wherefore she straight vnyok't her siluer teame, And walkt on foot along the Chrystall streame, And enuying that these louers were so bold, VVith iealous eyes she did them both behold. And as she lookt, casting her eye awry, It was her chance (vnhappy chance) to spy, VVhere squint-eyd _Cupid_ sate vpon his quiuer, Viewing his none-eyd body in the riuer. 7 Him straight she cald, being cald he made no stay, But to his mother tooke the neerest way. Yet ere he came, she markt the tother two, Playing as oft tofore th'er wont to do: And then she sware, yong _Pyramus_ was faire, _Thisbe_ but browne, as common women are: Anon she wisht yong _Pyramus_ was neere, That she might bind loue in his golden haire, And loue him too, but that she cald to mind, That yong _Adonis_ proued so vnkinde. But _Cupid_ came, his comming causd her hate them, And in a heat, proud _Venus_ gan to rate them. 8 Seest thou my sonne (quoth she) and then she fround, Those brattish elues, that dally on the ground? They scorne my kingdome, and neglect my minde, Contemne me as inconstant as the winde. Then shoot (quoth she) and strike them so in loue, As nought but death, their loue-dart may remoue. At this he lookt, the boy was loth to shoot, Yet strucke them both so neere the hearts sweet root, As that he made them both at once to cry (Quoth he) I loue, for loue (quoth she) I die. Of this both _Venus_, and her blind boy bosted, And thence to _Paphos_ Isle in triumph posted. 9 Now was the time, when shepheards told their sheep, And weary plow-men ease themselues with sleepe, When loue-prickt _Thisbe_ no where could be found, Nor _Pyramus_, though seruants sought them round. But newes came straight, that _Pyramus_ was seene, Sporting with _Thisbe_ lately in the euen: Like newes to both their Parents soone was brought; Which newes (alas) the louers downfals wrought. For though they lov'd, as you haue heard of yore, Their angry parents hate was ten times more, And hearing that their children were together, Both were afraide least each had murthered other. 10 When they came home, as long they staid not forth, Their storming parents fround vpon them both, And charged them neuer so to meet againe, Which charge to them, God knows was endles paine: For yeres came on, and true loue tooke such strength, That they were welnigh slaine for loue at length: For though their parents houses ioynd in one, Yet they poore peats, were ioynd to liue alone. So great and deadly was the daring hate, Which kept their moody parents at debate, And yet their hearts as houses ioynd together, Though hard constraint, their bodies did disseuer. 11 At length they found, as searching louers find, A shift (though hard) which somwhat easd their mind: For Io a time worne creuis in the wall, Through this the louers did each other call, And often talke, but softly did they talke, Least busie spy-faults should find out their walke: For it was plast in such a secret roome, As thither did their parents seldome come. Through this they kist, but with their breath they kist, For why the hindring wall was them betwixt, Somtimes poor souls, they talkt till they were windles And all their talke was of their friends vnkindnes. 12 When they had long time vsd this late found shift, Fearing least some should vndermine their drift, They did agree, but through the wall agreed, That both should hast vnto the groue with speed, And in that arbour where they first did meet, With semblant loue each should the other greet, The match concluded, and the time set downe, _Thisbe_ prepar'd to get her forth the towne, For well she wot, her loue would keepe his houre, And be the first should come vnto the bowre: For _Pyramus_ had sworne there for to meete her, And like to _Venus_ champion there to greet her. 13 _Thisbe_ and he, for both did sit on bryers, Till they enioyd the height of their desires: Sought out all meanes they could to keep their vow, And steale away, and yet they knew not how. _Thisbe_ at last (yet of the two the first) Got out, she went to coole loues burning thirst, Yet ere she went (yet as she went) she hide, She had a care to decke her vp in pride, Respecting more his loue to whom she went, Then parents feare, though knowing to be shent, And trickt her selfe so like a willing louer, As purblind _Cupid_ tooke her for his mother. 14 Her vpper garment was a robe of lawne, On which bright _Venus_ siluer doues were drawne: The like wore _Venus_, _Venus_ robe was white, And so was _Thisbes_ not so faire to sight, Nor yet so fine, yet was it full as good, Because it was not stain'd with true loues bloud. About her waste, she wore a scarfe of blew, In which by cunning needle-worke she drew Loue-wounded _Venus_ in the bushie groue, VVhere she inheated, _Adon_ scornd her loue. This scarfe she wore, (_Venus_ wore such another) And that made _Cupid_ take her for his mother. 15 Nymph-like attyr'd (for so she was attyr'd) She went to purchase what true loue desyr'd, And as she trode vpon the tender grasse, The grasse did kisse her feet as she did passe: And when her feet against a floure did strike, The bending floures did stoope to doe the like: And when her feet did from the ground arise, The ground she trod on, kist her heele likewise. Tread where she would, faire _Thisbe_ could not misse, For euery grasse would rob her of a kisse. And more the boughs wold bend, for ioy to meet her And chanting birds, with madrigals would greet her. 16 Thus goes this maidlike Nimph, or Nimphlike maid, Vnto the place afore appointed laid, And as she past the groues and fountaines cleere, Where Nymphs vsd hunting, for Nymphs hunted there, They sware she was _Diana_, or more bright. For through the leauie boughs they tooke delight, To view her daintie footing as she tript: And once they smil'd, for once faire _Thisbe_ slipt, Yet though she slipt, she had so swift a pace, As that her slipping wrought her no disgrace. For of the Nymphs (whose coy eyes did attend her) Of all was none, of all that could amend her. 17 VVhen she had past _Dianes_ curious traine, The crooked way did bending turne againe, Vpon the left hand by a forrest side, Where (out alas) a woe chance did betide: For loue-adoring _Thisbe_ was so faire, That bruitish beasts at her delighted are: And from the rest as many beasts did rome, A lamb deuouring Lion forth did come, And hauing lately torne a sillie Lambe, The full gorg'd Lion sported as it came, To him a sport, his sport made _Thisbe_ hie her, For why, she durst not let the beast come nie her. 18 Yet still it came, to welcome her it came, And not to hurt, yet fearefull is the name, The name more then the Lion, her dismayd, For in her lap the Lion would haue playd. Nor meant the beast to spill her guilelesse bloud, Yet doubtfull _Thisbe_ in a fearefull moode, Let fall her mantle, made of purest white, And tender heart, betooke her straight to flight, And neere the place where she should meet her loue, Shee slipt, but quickely slipt into a groue, And lo a friendly Caue did entertaine her, For feare the bloudy Lion should haue slaine her. 19 _Thisbe_ thus scap't, for thus she scap't his force, Although (God wot) it fell out farther worse: The Lion came yet meant no harme at all, And comming found the mantle she let fall, Which now he kist, he would haue kist her too, But that her nimble footmanship said no. He found the robe, which quickly he might find, For being light, it houered in the winde: VVith which the game-some Lion long did play, Till hunger cald him thence to seeke his prey: And hauing playd, for play was all his pleasure, He left the mantle, _Thisbes_ chiefest treasure. 20 Yet ere he left it, being in a mood, He tore it much, and stain'd it ore with bloud, Which done, with rage he hasted to his prey, For they in murther passe their time away. And now time-telling, _Pyramus_ at last, (For yet the houre of meeting was not past) Got forth (he would haue got away before) But fate and fortune sought to wrong him more: For euen that day, more fatall then the rest, He needs must giue attendance at a feast, Ere which was done (swift time was shrewdly wasted) But being done, the louely stripling hasted. 21 In hast he ran, but ran in vaine God wot, _Thisbe_ he sought, faire _Thisbe_ found he not, And yet at last her long loue robe he found All rent and torne vpon the bloody ground. At which suspicion told him she was dead, And onely that remained in her stead: Which made him weepe, like mothers, so wept he, That with their eyes their murthered children see; And gathering vp the limbes in peecemeale torne, Of their deare burthen murtherously forlorne: So _Pyramus_ sicke thoughted like a mother, For _Thisbes_ losse, more deare then any other. 22 Or who hath seene a mournefull Doe lament For her young Kid, in peecemeale torne and rent, And by the poore remainders sit and mourne, For loue of that which (out alas) is gone? Let him behold sad _Pyramus_, and say, Her losse, his loue, doth equall euery way. For as a man that late hath lost his wits, Breakes into fury and disaster fits, So _Pyramus_ in griefe without compare, Doth rend his flesh, and teare his golden haire, Making the trees to tremble at his mourning, And speechlesse beasts to sorrow with his groaning. 23 Alas (quoth he) and then he tore his flesh, Gone is the sunne that did my Zone refresh, Gone is the life, by which I wretch did liue, Gone is my heauen, which hopefull blisse did giue, To giue me heat, her selfe lyes nak't and cold, To giue me life, to death her selfe she sold, To giue me ioy, she bale alas did gaine, My heat, life, ioy, procur'd her death, bale, paine: Had I beene here, my loue had not beene dead, At least the beasts had torne me in her stead, Or would they yet teare me for company, Their loue to me would slacke their tyranny. 24 And then he cast his eyes vpon the ground, And here and there where bloudie grasse he found; Sweet bloud (quoth he) and then he kist the bloud, And yet that kisse God wot did little good, Couldst thou being powr'd into my halfe slaine brest, Reuiue againe, or purchase _Thisbes_ rest, This hand should teare a passage through the same, And yet that bloud from _Thisbe_ neuer came, And then be gatherd vp the bloudie grasse, And looking grieu'd, and grieuing cryde alas, Where shall I hide this bloud of my deare louer, That neither man nor beast may it discouer? 25 Then in the mantle he the grasse vp tide, And laid it close vnto his naked side: Lie there (quoth he) deare to me as my hart, Of which thy mistresse had the greater part. Tut she is dead, and then he vow'd and swore, He would not liue to murther loue no more: Which spoke, he drew his Rapier from his side, Of which the loue-slaine youth would then haue dy'd, But that he thought, that pennance too too small, To pacifie faire _Thisbes_ Ghost withall: Wherefore he rag'd, and ragingly exclaimed, That he true loue, and true loue him had maimed. 26 And then his Rapier vp againe he tooke, Then on the mantle cast a grieuous looke. For me (quoth he) faire _Thisbe_ lost this bloud, She dead, my life would doe me little good, And well he thought he could endure the smart Of death, and yet he could not harme his heart: For why his hand being guiltlesse of the deed, Deny'd to make his harmelesse heart to bleed, And like a trembling executioner, Constrain'd to slay a guiltelesse prisoner, His hand retired still, further backe and further, As lothing to enact so vile a murther. 27 But _Pyramus_ like to a raging Iudge, Seeing his executioner flinch, and grudge To do the duty he enioyn'd him do, Reply'd, dispatch, or Ile cut thee off too: At which the trembling hand tooke vp the blade, But when the second profer it had made, It threw it downe, and boldly thus replyed, He was not cause that louely _Thisbe_ dyed, Nor would I slay thee, knew I she were dead: Then be the bloud vpon thy guiltie head. Of these last words young _Pyramus_ dispences, And cald a synodie of all his seuer'd sences. 28 His conscience told him, he deserv'd not death, For he deprav'd not _Thisbe_ of her breath: But then suspicion thought, he causd her dye, But conscience swore, suspition told a lye. At this suspicion prompted loue in th'eare, And bad him shew his verdict, and come neare, Which soone he did, and fate among the rest, As one whom _Pyramus_ esteemed best: For when proud Loue gaue in his faultie plea, He askt if he were guiltie, Loue said yea, And with the youth, fond youth by loue entangled, Agreed his guiltlesse body should be mangled. 29 Resolv'd to die, he sought the pointed blade, Which erst his hand had cast into the shade, And see, proud Chance, fell Murthers chiefest frend, Had pitcht the blade right vpwards on the end, Which being loth from murther to depart, Stood on the hilt, point-blanke against his hart: At which he smil'd, and checkt his fearefull hand, That stubbornely resisted his command. And though (quoth he) thou scorn'd to doe my will, What lets me now my minde for to fulfill? Both Fate and Fortune to my death are willing, And be thou witnesse of my minds fulfilling. 30 With that he cast himselfe vpon the sword, And with the fall his tender brest through gor'd: The angry bloud, for so his bloud was sheed, Gusht out, to finde the author of the deed, But when it none but _Pyramus_ had found, Key cold with feare it stood vpon the ground, And all the bloud, I meane that thus was spilt, Ran downe the blade, and circled in the hilt, And presently congeald about the same, And would haue cald it by some murtherous name, Could it haue spoke, nere sought it any further, But did arrest the Rapier of the murther. 31 And as the child that seeth his father slaine, Will runne (alas) although he runne in vaine, And hug about the shedder of his bloud, Although God wot, his hugging do small good, Euen so his bloud, the ofspring of his heart, Ran out amaine, to take his fathers part, And hung vpon the rapier and the hilt, As who should say, the sword his bloud had spilt: Nor would depart, but cleaue about the same, So deare it lov'd the place from whence it came: For sure it was poore _Pyramus_ was murthered, Nor by pursute, could his poore bloud be furthred. 32 When this was done, as thus the deed was done, Begun, alas, and ended too too soone, Faire _Thisbe_ strucken pale with cold despaire, Came forth the Caue into the wholsome aire: And as she came, the boughs would giue her way, Thinking her _Venus_ in her best array. But she (alas) full of suspicious feare, Least that the late feard Lion should be there, Came quaking forth, and then start backe againe, Fearing the beast, and yet she fear'd in vaine. She fear'd the Lion, Lions then were feeding, And in this feare, her nose gusht out a bleeding. 33 Her sudden bleeding argued some mischance, Which cast her doubtfull senses in a trance, But of the Lion troubled _Thisbe_ thought, And then of him, whom fearefully she sought: Yet forth she went, replete with iealous feare, Still fearing, of the Lion was her feare: And if a bird but flew from forth a bush, She straightwaies thought, she heard the Lion rush. Her nose left bleeding, that amaz'd her more Then all the troublous feare she felt before: For sudden bleeding argues ill ensuing, But sudden leauing, is fell feares renewing. 34 By this she came into the open wood, Where _Pyramus_ had lost his dearest bloud, And round about she rolles her sun bright eyes For _Pyramus_, whom no where she espies; Then forth she tript, and nearly too she tript, And ouer hedges oft this virgin skipt. Then did she crosse the fields, and new mown grasse, To find the place whereas this arbour was: For it was seated in a pleasant shade, And by the shepheards first this bowre was made. Faire _Thisbe_ made more haste into the bower, Because that now was iust the meeting hower. 35 But comming thither, as she soone was there, She found him not, which did augment her feare: But straight she thought (as true loue thinks the best) He had beene laid downe in the shade to rest, Or of set purpose hidden in the reeds, To make her seeke him in the sedgie weeds, For so of children they had done before, Which made her thoughts seeme true so much the more: But hauing sought whereas she thought he was, Shee could not finde her _Pyramus_ (alas) Wherefore she back return'd vnto the arbor, And there reposd her after all her labor. 36 To one that's weary drowsie sleepe will creepe, Weary was _Thisbe_, _Thisbe_ fell asleepe, And in her sleepe she dreamt she did lament, Thinking her heart from forth her brest was rent, By her owne censure damn'd to cruell death, And in her sight bereft of vitall breath. When she awak't, as long she had not slept, She wept amaine, yet knew not why she wept: For as before her heart was whole and sound, And no defect about her could be found, She dreamt she hurt, no hurt could she discouer, Wherefore she went to seeke her late lost louer. 37 Suspicious eyes, quick messengers of wo, Brought home sad newes ere _Thisbe_ farre could go: For lo, vpon the margent of the wood, They spy'd her loue, lye weltring in his bloud, Hauing her late lost mantle at his side, Stained with bloud, his hart bloud was not dry'd. VVisty she lookt, and as she lookt did cry, See, see, my hart, which I did iudge to dye: Poore hart (quoth she) and then she kist his brest, VVert thou inclosd in mine, there shouldst thou rest: I causd thee die poore heart, yet rue thy dying, And saw thy death, as I asleepe was lying. 38 Thou art my hart, more deare then is mine owne, And thee sad death in my false sleepe was showne: And then she pluckt away the murtherous blade, And curst the hands by whom it first was made, And yet she kist his hand that held the same, And double kist the wound from whence it came. Him selfe was author of his death she knew, For yet the wound was fresh, and bleeding new, And some bloud yet the ill-made wound did keepe, VVhich when she saw, she freshly gan to weepe, And wash the wound with fresh tears down distilling, And view'd the same (God wot) with eyes vnwilling. 39 She would haue spoke, but griefe stopt vp her breath, For me (quoth she) my Loue is done to death, And shall I liue, sighes stopt her hindmost word, When speechlesse vp she tooke the bloudy sword, And then she cast a looke vpon her Loue, Then to the blade her eye she did remoue. And sobbing cride, since loue hath murthred thee, He shall not chuse but likewise murther me: That men may say, and then she sigh'd againe, I him, he me, loue him and me hath slaine. Then with resolue, loue her resolue did further: With that same blade, her selfe, her selfe did murther. 40 Then with a sigh, she fell vpon the blade, And from the bleeding wound the sword had made, Her fearefull bloud ran trickling to the ground, And sought about, till _Pyramus_ it found: And hauing found him, circled in his corse, As who should say, Ilegard thee by my force. And when it found his bloud, as forth it came, Then would it stay, and touch, and kisse the same, As who should say, my mistresse loue to thee, Though dead in her, doth still remaine in me, And for a signe of mutuall loue in either, Their ill shed bloud congealed both together. _FINIS._ _Diella_, Certaine Sonnets, adioyned to the amorous Poeme of _Dom Diego_ and _Gineura_. _By R. L. Gentleman_. Benballa, á chi fortuna suona. AT LONDON, Printed for _Henry Olney_, and are to be sold at his shop in Fleetstreete, neer the Middle-temple gate. 1596. THE LOVE OF DOM _Diego_ and _Gyneura_. In _Catheloygne_, o'repeerd by _Pyren_ Mountaines, (a Prouince seated in the East of Spaine, Famous for hunting sports & cleerest fountains) a young heroyck gallant did remaine; Hee, Signior _Dom Diego_ had to name, Who for his constant faith had got such fame. Nature had tryde her deepest skill on him, (for so the heauen-borne powers had her desired) With such perfection framed shee each lim, that at her owne worke shee herselfe admired. Maiestick _Ioue_ gaue him a Princely grace, _Apollo_ wit, and _Venus_ gaue his face. This loue-some youth, kinde Natures fairest child, what for his beautious loue-alluring face, And for he was so gracious and so milde; was deem'd of all to be of heauenly race; Men honord him, and Maydens gaue him loue, To make him famous Men and Maydens stroue. Hunting he lou'd, nor did he scorne to loue, (a truer-louing hart was neuer knowne) Which well his Mistres cruelly did proue, whose causelesse rigor Fame abroad hath blowne. But now lets tell, how hee on hunting went, And in what sports such pleasant time he spent. Soone as the sunne had left his watry bed. (blushing for shame that he so long had slept) Reuiuing those which duskie Night made dead, when for his welcom Lambes on mountains lept. Vp starts _Diego_, and with shrill-voyc'd horne. Tells hounds & huntsmen of a cleere-fac'd morne. Cloth'd all in Greene, (_Syluanus_ lyuery) he wore a low-crown'd hat of finest silke, Whose brim turnd vp, was fastned with a Ruby, and vnderneath, a Pearle as white as milke, A sleeueles coate of Damaske, richly laced With Indian pearle, as thicke as could be placed. A glistring Cutlax pendent by his side, (he much esteem'd y^t beast-dismembring blade) And halfe-leg'd Buskins curiously ytide with loopes of burnisht gold full finely made, Thus goes _Diego_, chiefest of his name, With siluer-headed speare to finde some game. Long while it was ere any sport began, at last a Hart his big-growne hornes did shew, VVhich (winding straight the huntsmen) gan to run as fast as arrow from a Parthyan bow: In whose pursute (by wil of powreful Fates) _Diego_ lost himfelfe, and all his mates. Left thus alone in midst of vnknowne place, he inuocates the fauourable ayde Of _Ariadne_, who with smalest lace, freed Monster-killing _Theseus_, so dismaid, In worser Laborinth did he now remaine, For none saue trees or beasts, could heare him plain. In these Meanders, stragling heere and there, goes faire _Diego_, listning to each sound, Musing twixt purple hope, and palish feare, he thought to rest him (wearied) on the ground, But see, he heares a farre some forced noyse, A horne, a hound, or els some human voyce. VVith that, Desire, which scornes least tedious let, directed him vnto that very place, Where loe to hunt the tymerous Hare, were met as Knights, so Ladies, fittest for that chase: Mongst which, there came a Grace of heau[=e]ly faire, Her name _Gyneura_, with the golden hayre. Her hayre of such corruscant glitterous shine, as are the smallest streames of hottest sunne, Like starres in frostie night, so looke her eyne, within whose Arches Christall springs doe run, Her cheekes faire show of purest Porphyrie, Full curiously were typt with roseall die. Her lips like ripened Cherries seem'd to be, from out whose concaue Corrall-seeming Fount, Came sweeter breath then muske of Araby, whose teeth y^e white of blanched pearle surmount Her necke the Lillies of _Lyguria_ Did much exceed; Thus looked fayre _Gyneura_. These Dryades _Diego_ then bespake, with sugred tearmes of mildest curtesie, And crau'd to know which way he best might take with shortest cut, to such a Signiory, Whereat he nam'd himselfe; when presently The Ladies knew him (as a Neyghbour by.) _Gyneuras_ Mother (cheefe of all the rest) (for that shee knew his birth and his discent) Desir'd him home, he grants her such request, and thanks the Fates that him such hap had lent, For still on faire _Gyneura_ were his eyes, And shee reciprocally on his replyes. These dumbe Embassadors, Loues chiefe combatants tell (softly whispring in each others hart) Her of humble seruice; him of acceptance; his craued loue, hers wisht they nere might part, Much talk they had w^t tongues, more w^t their eyes, But (oh) most with their harts, where true loue lies. Now were they come whereas the good old Lady might boldly welcome her inuited guest, Where after little talke, (Hunters are hungry) they all sat downe vnto a soone-made feast, The Louers fed on glaunces of their eyes, Tis heauenly food when both do simpathize. At last, the Lady of the house espied the intercourse of those bright Messengers, Who inwardly reioycing, as fast plied hers on her daughter, fittest Harbengers, To bid her keepe the fairest and the best Place in her hart, to entertaine this guest. Word back againe was sent by her faire light, how that was done already; and replied, The Land-lord o're his Tennant hath such might, that he to enter in is nere denied. I, in a little corner of my hart Doe liue, (quoth she) he hath the greatest part. _Diego_ wisht thys supper nere would end, (and yet he long'd to be in priuate place, To ruminate vpon his fairest friend, and to recount the beauties of her face) So wisht _Gyneura_, were neuer such two, That lou'd so deerely as these Louers doe. The gloomy Curtaines of the tongue-lesse night, were drawne so close as day could not be seene, Now leaden-thoughted _Morpheus_ dyms each sight, now, murder, rapes, and robberies begin: Nature crau'd rest, but restlesse Loue would none, _Diego_, Loues young prentice, thus gan mone. Oh heauens, what new-founde griefes possesse my mind, what rare impassionated fits be these? Cold-burning Feuers in my hart I find, whose opposite effects worke mee no ease, Then loue assailes the hart with hotest fight, VVhen beauty makes her conqust at first sight. I little dreamed of thys strange euent, (this harts-inthraller, mindes-disturbing Loue, VVhen with my Huntsmen to the woods I went, Oh neere till now did I his greatnes proue, Whose first impression in the Louers hart, Till then nere tainted, bringeth deepest smart. Thus lay _Diego_ tossing in his bed, bound to the will of all commaunding beauty, Whom angry _Cupid_ now in tryumph led, expecting from his slaue all seruile duty, Hee might haue freed his prysoner so dismaid, For sighes and grones had double ransome paide. In like extreames, (Loue loues extremity) did faire _Gyneura_ passe the long-thought night, Shee raild against fell _Cupids_ crueltie, that so would tyrannize o're a Maydens spright. There needes no blowes, quoth she, when foes doe yield, Oh cease, take thou the honor of the field. The valiant Greekes (faire Ilyons fatall Foes) their tedious ten yeres siedge for Spartaes Queen Nere thought so long; (yet long it was) as those loue-scorcht enamored (so restles) now ween This night to be; A night if spent in care, Seemes longer then a thousand pleasant are. Thus lay they sleeplesse, thoughtfull, euer thinking on sluggish humor of expected Morne, They thought that Louers eyes were neuer winking nor sleepe they e're in whom Loues newly borne. Hee vow'd, when day was come, to woo his deere, Shee swore such wooing she would gladly heare. At last, the guyder of the firie Coach, drying his locks wet in _Eurotas_ floud, Gan resalute the world with bright approch, angry he seem'd, for all his face was bloud: _Auroraes_ hast had made him looke so red, For loath he was to leaue faire _Thetis_ bed. Scarce were his horses put in readines, and he himselfe full mounted on his seate, VVhen _Dom Diego_ full of heauines, abroade did walke, his night talke to repeate Some two howres spent, he in againe retires, And sees his Mistres, whom he now admires. Whereat inflam'd, (loue brookes no base delay, whose fruite is danger, whose reward is paine) With fine-fil'd termes he giues her the good day, and blushing, she returnes it him againe. _Endimeons_ blush her beauty did eclypse, His causd by _Cynthiaes_, hers _Adonis_ lyps. Boldly encourag'd by her milde aspect, he told her that which Louers vse to tell, How he did liue by her faire eyes reflect, and how his hart in midst of hers did dwell. Much eloquence he vsd, twas needles done, To win that hart which was already won. Ne're did the dungeon thiefe condemn'd to dye with greater pleasure heare his pardon read, Then did _Gyneura_ heare his Oratorie, (of force sufficient to reuiue the dead) Shee needes must yield; for sure he had the Art, VVith amorous heate to fixe _Dianaes_ hart. These Louers (thus in this both-pleasing parly) were interrupted by _Geneuraes_ Mother VVho newly vp, (age seldome ryseth early) gan straight salute her guest, so did he her, Some termes of kindnes mutually past, Shee friendly leades him in, to breake his fast. VVhich done, (as all good manners did require) hee thankt his Hostis for her curtesie, And now at length went home for to retire, where hee was looked for so earnestly, The Lady crau'd if ere hee came that way, To see her house, and there to make some stay. Then heauily, and with a dying eye, (ioylesse) hee takes his leaue of his faire Loue, VVho for to fauour him, full graciously, with louing count'nance gaue to him her Gloue. Keepe this (quoth shee) till better fortune fall, My Gloue, my Loue, my hand, my hart, and all. At this large offer, bashfull modestie, with pure Vermilion stain'd her all faire face, So lookt _Calystone_ at her great bellie, when chast _Ilythia_ spi'd her in such case; Let Louers iudge how grieuous tis to part, From two, twixt whom, there lyueth but one hart. Nowe is hee gone, who after little travell attain'd his house (not pleasing thought desired) At whose late absence each one much did maruell, but (come) at his sad lookes they more admired, Great _Cupids_ power, such sadnes in him bred, VVho (erst) all louing harts in tryumph led. One month (consum'd in pensiuenes) expir'd; to recreate and reuiue his tyred spright, Hee now on hunting goes, which hee desir'd, not for the (once well-pleasing) sports delight; But for he might some fit occasion finde, To see his Loue, on whom was all his minde. Where being come (suppose his sports prou'd bad) _Gyneura_ gaue him welcome from her hart, The Sea-tost Lord of _Ithica_ ne're had, after his twentie yeares turmoile and smart, More ioyfull welcome by his constant wife Then had _Diego_ from his loue, his lyfe. Two dayes he stay'd, whence he would ne're depart but custome wil'd that he should now returne, Yet though he went he left with her his hart, which for their parting heauily gan mourne, But for worse newes had it poore hart to greeue, In that _Gyneura_ would so soone beleeue. For sooner was hee not departed thence but straight there comes a Riuall of his Loue, VVho vnder true fidellities pretence wrought wondrous hard _Diego_ to remoue, Nor could at first his oaths or vowes preuaile, To make _Gyneuraes_ loue one whit to faile. For yet they lyu'd fast bound in Fancies chaines, stryuing to passe each other in pure loue, But (as there's nothing that for aye remaines without some change.) so do these Louers proue, That hottest loue hath soon'st the cold'st disdaine, And greatest pleasures, haue their greatest paine. For now no longer could shee so perseuer, shee turnes to deadly hate her former kindnes, Which still had lasted; but that Nature euer strikes into womens eyes such dim-sight blindnes, And such obdurate hardnes in their harts, They see, nor knowe, not truest loues desarts. _Gyneura_ this confirmes against her Louer, whom now (all guiltlesse) she condemnes to die, That in his deede or thought did nere offend her, vnlesse by louing her so wondrous deerelie. Such Loue, such hate, such lyking, such disdains, Was neuer knowne in one hart to remaine. Thus twas; _Diego_ had an enemie, (immortall vertue euer lincked is, With that pale leane-fac'd meager-hewed enuie) who secretly (so falsely) tells his Mis. How shee was mockt; _Diego_ lou'd another, And storm'd & rag'd what madnes so should moue her. To dote on him that else where sets his Loue, hee makes you thinke (quoth he) what ere he list, That this is true, you easily may proue for still he weares her fauour on his fist, A Hawke it is; which shee (so stands the Mart) Giues him, he you faire words, but her his hart. VVith this incenst, (that sex will soone beleeue) soonest when enuies broode to them display it, I'st true (quoth shee) for true loue doth he giue, such smooth-fac'd flattry, doth he thus repay it? Shee neuer scan'd, the truth of this her griefe, Loue in such cases, is of quicke beliefe. Her loue to him was neuer halfe so great, (though once shee lou'd him) as is now her hate, This _Momus_ breath (like bellowes) to her heate, did kindle firie coales of hote debate. Hee plyes her; and exasperates his spight, And sweares, and vowes, hee tells her but the right. Shee (like a franticke Froe of _Thessaly_ madded with _Bacchus_ brayne-distempring liquor) Runs here, and there, exclayming furiously with hideous, vncouth mind-affrighting terror. Swearing reuenge on false _Diegoes_ head, VVhose lying lookes in her such madnes bred. VVherewith shee inuocates great _Nemesis_, and begs the power of her deitie, Shee tells her case, to Iustice-doing _Themis_, and shewes how shee is wronged mightily. Shee leaues no power vnsought for, or vnpraide, That vse to helpe distressed with their aide. VVronged _Diego_ (little this suspecting) now thought it time to see his deerest faire, And (other matters of import neglecting, hee presently to her makes his repaire. VVhere being come, such welcome he did finde, As at the first did much disturbe his minde. For faire _Gyneura_ would not now be seene, she sent him word she scorn'd his fauning flattrie, And much did greeue that shee so fond had beene, to yield her hart to such deceitfull battrie: Bid him (quoth shee) goe flatter where he list, I like not I, that fauour on his fist. Such hap it was, _Diego_ then had brought his Hawke; (the author of this fell debate) Which well confirm'd her euer doubtfull thought, that nowe shee was resolu'd on deadly hate, Bid him (quoth she) depart hence from my sight, His loath-some presence brings me irksome spight. Twas hard; that he whose loue was neuer tainted whose sincere faith was kept inuiolate, Nay, in whose face all truest loue was painted, should for his spotlesse truth be paid with hate, Hee stone-astonied, like a Deare at gaze, Admir'd these speeches in a wondrous maze. At last hee crau'd this fauour he might haue, that shee her selfe would heare what he could say, So _Neptunes_ Towne (quoth shee) such lycense gaue to smooth-fac'd _Synon_ (_Ilions_ lost decay) So _Syrens_ sing vntill they haue their will, Some poore mistrustlesse Passenger to kill. Shee would not heare him speake (oh cruell shee) that causelesse this would kill him with disdaine, Hee sweares he's guiltlesse, vowes innocencie, & in such vowes, tears down his cheeks did raine, Those cheeks which staine the blushing of ye morne _Gyneura_ now most hatefully doth scorne. Tis strange that Maides should ere be so abused, to credit each malicious-tongued slaue, And to condemne a man (if once accused) before or proofe, or tryall, hee may haue. Too many such there be; wo's mee therefore, Such light credulitie, I must deplore. When sighes, salt tears, & vowes could do no good, nor sighes, nor teares, nor vowes could pierce her hart, In which, disdaine triumphant victor stood holding in eyther hand a sable dart, VVherewith he strikes true loue, & stainlesse truth, Condemning them vnto eternall ruth. Home goes _Diego_ with a cheereless face, whose steps were led by leaden-footed griefe, VVho neuer goes but with a dead-slowe pace, vntill hee finde some ease, or some reliefe; Twould melt a marble hart to see that man, (Earst, fresh as a new-blowne Rose) so ashie wan. VVhere being come, he straight for four daies space, locks him in his chamber, and there did poure Huge shewers of christall rayne adowne his face, (for sure he lou'd her deerely at this howre) All ouerwhelm'd in waues of sea-salt teares, Some fatall shipwrack of his life he feares. Wherewith he calls for paper, pen, and ynck, and for his Hawke, which presently he kild, Die thou (quoth he) so shall my loue nere thinke, that for thy sake to any else I yield. And plucking of her head, straight way hee writes, VVho (sending it as token) thus indites. Loe heere (thou cruell faire) that gracious fauour, the Ensigne (as thou saist) of my vntruth, Behold in what high-priz'd esteeme I haue her that gaue me it, the cause of all my ruth: Looke as this Hawke, faire Loue, so is my hart, Mangled and torne; cause thou so cruell art. I sweare to thee by all the rites of loue, by heauens faire head, by earth, & black-fac'd hel, I nere meant other loue but thine to proue, nor in my hart that any else should dwell; Let this suffize, my ioy, my deere, my chiefe, My griefes are too too long, though letter briefe. Twas time to ende, for floods gusht out amaine, out came the springtide of his brinish teares, VVhich whatsoere hee writ blot out againe all blubred so to send it scarce hee dares: And yet hee did; goe thou (quoth hee) vnto her, And for thy maister, treate, sollicite, woo her. And pray thee (if thy Fortune be so good as to be viewd by sunshine of her eyes) Bid her take heede in spilling guiltlesse blood, tell her there's danger in such cruelties: VVith this, hee gaue it to the messenger, Who (making speed) in short time brought it her. Shee, when shee heard from whom the Letter came, returnes it backe againe, and straight replied, My friend (quoth she) hadst thou not told his name perhaps thy Letter, had not beene denied: VVhereat shee paus'd; but yet ile see (quoth shee) With what perswading termes, he flatters mee. Twas quickly read; (God knowes it was but short) griefe would not let the wryter tedious be, Nor would it suffer him fit words to sort, but pens it (chaos-like) confusedly. Yet had it passion to haue turn'd hard stones To liquid moisture, if they heard his moanes. But cruell shee, more hard then any flint, worse then a Tygresse of Hyrcania, Would not be mou'd, nor could his lines take print in her hard hart, so cruell was _Gyneura_. Shee which once lou'd him deerly, (too too well) Now hates him more then any tongue can tell. Oh Nature, chiefest Mother of vs all, why did you giue such apt-beleeuing harts To women-kind, that thus poore men inthrall, and will not dulie waie true loues desarts? O had their harts been like vnto their face, They sure had been of some celestiall race. Shee pittiles, sends backe to _Dom Diego_, and sayes, his words cannot inchant her hart, _Vlisses_-like, shee will not heare _Calypso_, nor lend her eares to such intising arte. Bid him (quoth she) fr[=o] henceforth cease to write, Tell him his Letters agrauate my spight. Full heauie newes it was to stainelesse loue, to him that had enshrin'd her in his thought, And in his hart had honor'd her aboue the world; to wh[=o] all else saue her seem'd nought. Nay, vnto him, whose person, wit, and faire, Might surely with the best make iust compare. But (blinded as shee was) shee steemes him not, hate and disdaine doe neuer brooke respect, Shee did not knowe that beauties foulest blot consisted in true-louing harts neglect. No, she (more stubborne th[=e] the North-east wind) VVould not admit such knowledge in her mind. Let those who guiltleslie haue felt disdaine, whose faithfull loue hath beene repaid with hate, Giue rightfull iudgement of _Diegoes_ paine who bought his fauours at the highest rate. This newes such pleasure in his soule had bred, As hath the thiefe that heares his iudgement read. After some time, hee writes againe vnto her, hee could not thinke shee would perseuer so, But when hee sawe her aunswere like the other hee then surceas'd to send her any moe. But did resolue to seeke some vncouth place, VVhere he might (vnfound out) bewaile his case. Thinking indeede shee by his absence might at length intenerate her flintfull hart, And metamorphize her conceaued spight into true loue regardaunt of his smart; Hee seekes all meanes (poore Louer) how to gaine His rigorous Lady from such fell disdaine. At last, hee calls to mind the Pyren Mountaines, those far-fam'd, woody hills of wealthy Spaine, Which for wild Beasts, & siluer visag'd Fountaines, hath got the praise of all that there remaine; Hether postes _Dom Diego_ fraught with griefe, Hoping those woods would yield him some reliefe. VVhere, being come, all Pilgrim-like attir'd, hee pryes about to see if hee could finde, Some house-like Caue, for rest hee much desir'd, his body now was wearie, as his minde. O Gods (quoth hee) if youth finde such distresse, VVhat hope haue I, of future happines. VVith that hee sees a Rocke made like a Cabin all tapistred with Natures mossie greene, VVrought in a frizled guise, as it had been made for _Napæa_, Mountaines chiefest Queene, At mouth of which grew Cedars, Pines, & Firs, And at the top grew Maple, Yough, and Poplers. So, heere (quoth hee) ile rest my wearied bodie in thee (delightfull place of Natures building) VVill I erect a griefe-fram'd Monasterie, where night & day my prayers ile ne're cease yielding, To thee my deere; (no other Saint I haue) Oh lend thine eares, to him that his hart gaue. Two dayes were spent in this so pleasant seate, (this stone-built Pallace of the King content) Before _Diego_ tasted any meate, or once did drinke, more then his eyes had lent. O irresisted force of purest Loue, Whom paines, thirst, hunger, can no whit remoue. Sometimes, when as he scans her crueltie, & feeles his paines (like _Hydreas_ head) increasing, Hee wisht the Scithian _Anthropophagie_ did haunt these woods that liue by mans flesh eating; Or else the Thracian _Bessi_, so renound, For cruell murdring, whom in woods they found. That so the _Gordyon_ knot of his paine indissoluble e'rewhiles he did lyue, Might be vntide when as his hart were slaine, when he (ô restfull time) shold cease to grieue; But yet the Sisters kept his vitall breath, They would not let him dye so base a death. Some other times when as he waies her beautie, her _Venus_-stayning face so wondrous faire, Hee then doth thinke to waile tis but his dutie sith caus'd by her that is without compaire, And in this moode vnto high _Ioue_ hee prayes, And praying so, hee thus vnto him sayes. Great Gouernour of (wheele-resembling) Heauen, commaund thy vnder Princes to mayntaine, Those heau[=e]ly parts which to my loue th'aue giuen, ô let her ne're feele death, or deaths fell paine. And first vpon thy Sister lay thy mace, Bid her maintayne my Loues maiestick grace. Inioyne the strange-borne mother-lesse _Mynerua_, and her to whom the fomie Sea was Mother, Still to vphold their giftes in my _Gyneura_: let wit and beautie lyue vnited with her; With sweete mouth'd _Pytho_ I may not suspence, Great Goddesse; still increase her eloquence. Thou musicall _Apollo_ gau'st her hand, and thou her feete (great Sun-Gods deerest loue) To such your rare-knowne gyfts all gracious stand; and now at last this doe I craue great _Ioue_, That when they dye (perhaps they dye aboue) Thou wilt bequeath these gyfts vnto my Loue. On euery neighbour Tree, on euery stone (hee durst not far range from his secure Caue) VVould he cut out the cause of all his moane, and curiouslie with greatest skill ingraue: There needed no _Leontius_, his Art, Griefe carueth deepest, if it come from th'hart. VVhen some stone would not impression take hee straight compares it to his Mistris hart, But stay, (quoth he) my working teares shall make thee penetrable with the least skil'd art. Oh had my teares such force to pierce her mind, These sorrowes I should loose, and new ioyes find. Thou euer-memorable stone (quoth hee) tell those whom fate or fortune heere shall lead, How deerely I haue lou'd the cruel'st shee that euer Nature or the world hath bred. Tell them her hate, and her disdaine was causelesse, Oh, leaue not out to tell how I was guiltlesse. Whereat, the very stone would seeme to weepe, whose wrinkled face wold be besmeard with tears O man what ere thou be, thy sorrowes keepe vnto thy selfe, quoth hee; ile heare no cares. Tell them that care not, tell _Gyneura_ of thee, We stones are ruthfull, & thy plaints haue pierc'd mee. VVith this, hee seekes a russet-coated Tree, & straight disclothes him of his long-worne weed And whilest hee thus disroabes him busilie, hee felt his halfe-dead hart a fresh to bleed. Greeuing that hee should vse such crueltie, To turne him naked to his foe, windes furie. But now vncas'ed, hee gins to carue his cares, his passions, his constant-lyuing Loue, When (loe) there gushes out cleere sap like teares which to get forth from pryson mainly stroue, Since pitty dwells (quoth hee) in trees and stone, Them will I loue; _Gyneura_, thou hast none. Yet needs I must confesse thou once didst loue mee, thy loue was hotter then _Nimphæum_ hill, But now wh[=e] time affords me, means to proue thee, thy loue then _Caucase_ is more cold and chill, And in thy cold, like Aethiopyan hue, Thou art not to be chang'd from false to true. O looke (faire Loue) as in the springing Plant one branch intwines and growes within another, So growe my griefes; which makes my hart to pant when thicke-fetcht sighes my vitall breath doth smother, I spoild my cruelty am adiudg'd to death, Thus all alone to yield my lyuing breath. Thou hast the fayrest face that e're was seene, but in thy breast (that Alablaster Rocke) Thou hast a fouler hart; disdaine hath beene accounted blacker then the Chimnies stocke. O purifie thy soule my dearest Loue, Dislodge thy hate, and thy disdaine remoue. But all in vaine I speake vnto the wind, then should they carry these my plaints vnto her, Mee thinks thou still shouldst beare a gentle mind, (deere-louing _Zephire_) pray, intreate, & woo her; Tell her twere pittie I should dye alone, Here in these woods wher non can heare me mone. But tis no matter, shee is pittylesse like the Scycilian stone that more tis beate Doth waxe the harder; stones are not so ruthlesse, which smallest drops doe pierce though nere so great: If Seas of teares would weare into her hart, I had ere this beene eased of my smart. Thus in these speeches would _Diego_ sit bathing his siluer cheekes with trickling teares, VVhich (often running downe) at last found fit channells to send them to their standing meares, VVho at his feete (before his feete there stood A poole of teares) receau'd the smaller flood. Ne're had the world a truer louing hart, _Abydos_ cease to speake of constant loue, Por sure (thou Sygnior _Dom Diego_) art the onely man that e're hates force did proue; Thy changelesse loue hath close inrol'd thy name, In steele-leau'd booke of euer-lyuing fame. That wide-mouth'd time wc swallows good desarts shall shut his iawes, & ne're deuoure thy name, Thou shalt be crown'd with bayes by louing harts, and dwell in Temple of eternall Fame; There, is a sacred place reseru'd for thee, There, thou shalt liue with perpetuitie. So long liu'd poore _Diego_ in this case that at the length hee waxed somwhat bold, To search the woods where hee might safely chase, (necessitie, thy force cannot be told) The fearefull Hare, the Connie, and the Kid, Time made him knowe the places where they bid. This young-year'd Hermit, one day mong the rest as hee was busilie prouiding meate, VVhich was with Natures cunning almost drest, dri'd with the Sunne new readie to be eate, Inrag'd vpon a suddaine throwes away His hard-got foode; and thus began to say. O cruell starres, Step-mothers of my good, & you, you ruthlesse Fates what meane you thus, So greedely to thirst for my harts blood, why ioy you so in vnuniting vs? Great powres infuse some pitty in her hart That thus hath causelesse caus'd in me this smart. I ne're was wont to vse such Cookerie, to drudge & toile wh[=e] pesants take their pleasure, My noble birth scornes base-borne slauerie, this easelesse lyfe hath neither end nor measure; Thou great _Sosipolis_ looke vpon my state, Be of these nere-hard griefes compassionate. I feele my long-thought life begin to melt as doth the snowe gainst midday heate of Sunne, (Faire loue) thy rigour I haue too much felt, oh, at the last with crueltie haue done, If teares thy stonie hart could mollifie, My brinish springs should floe eternallie. Sweet loue, behold those pale cheekes washt in woe that so my teares may as a mirror be, Thine owne faire shaddowe liuely for to shoe, and portraite forth thy Angel-hued beautie. _Narcissus_-lyke then shouldst thou my face kisse, More honny sweete, then _Venus_ gaue _Adonis_. Feare not _Gyneura_, faire _Narcissus_ hap; thy necke, thy breast, thy hand is Lilly-white, They all are Lillies tane from _Floraes_ lap; ne're be thou chang'd vnlesse to loue from spite, Oh that thou wer't but then transformed so, My Sommers blisse, would change my winters woe. If thou did'st knowe in what a loathsome place, I spend my dayes sad and disconsolate, VVhat foggie Stigian mists hang o re my face, thou would'st exile this thy conceaued hate; This Hemisphere is darke, for _Sol_ him shroudes, My sighes doe so conglomerate the cloudes. I tolde thee, I, (thou cruell too seuere) when hate first gan to rise how I was guiltlesse, Thine eares were deaffe, ye wouldst not harken ere thy hart was hardned, rockie, pittilesse. Oh had mine eyes been blind wh[=e] first they view'd thee, Would God I had been tonglesse wh[=e] I sew'd thee. But thou wast then as readie to receaue as I to craue; ô great inconstancie, O twas that fatall houre did so bereaue my blisfull soule of all tranquillitie: Thou then didst burne in loue, now froz'd in hate, Yet pittie mee, sweete mercy ne're comes late. Looke as the crazen tops of armelesse Trees or latest down-fall of some aged building, Doe tell thee of the North-windes boistrous furies, and how that _Eolus_ lately hath beene stirring; So in my thin-cheekt face thou well maist see, The furious storme of thy black crueltie. But thou inexorable art, ne're to be wone, though Lyons, Bears, & Tigers haue been tam'd, Thy wood borne rigour neuer will be done, which thinks for this thou euer shalt be fam'd; True, so thou shalt, but fam'd in infamie, Is worse then lyuing in obscuritie. If thou didst knowe howe greeuous tis to me to lyue in this vnhabited aboade, Where none (but sorrowe) keepes me companie, I know thou wouldst thy harts hate then vnload, Oh, I did ne're deserue this miserie, For to denie the truth were heresie. I tell thee (Loue) when secret-tongued night puts on her mistie sable-coloured vayle, My wrangling woes, within them selues do fight, they murder hope, which makes their Captaine wayle, And wailing so, can neuer take his rest, That keepes such vnrul'd Souldiers in his brest. So when the cleere nights-faults-disclosing day peepes forth her purple head, from out the East, These woes (my Souldiers) crie out for their pay, (and if deni'd) they stab mee, with vnrest; My teares are pay, but all my teares are dride Therefore I must their fatall blowes abide. In these laments did _Dom Diego_ liue long time; till at the last by pourefull fate, A wandring Huntsman ignorance did driue vnto the place whence hee return'd but late; Who viewing well the print of humaine steps Directly followed them, and for ioy leaps. At last hee came vnto _Diegoes_ Caue in which he sawe a sauadge man (hee thought) Who much did looke like the _Danubyan_ slaue, such deep-worn furrows in his face were wrought, _Diego_ much abashed at this sight Came running forth, him in his armes to plight. For glad hee was (God knowes) to see a man, who (wretch) in two yeres space did ne're see any Such gladnes, ioy, such mirth, such triumph can not be set downe, suppose them to be many. But see, long had they not confer'd together, When (happie time) each one did know the other. VVith that _Diego_ shewes him all his loue, his pennance, her first loue, & now her hate, But hee requested him hence to remoue, and at his house the rest hee should dilate, Which hee deni'd, onely hee now doth write By this his friend, vnto his harts delight. Deere Loue (quoth he) when shall I home returne, wh[=e] will the coales of hate be quencht with loue, VVhich now in raging flames my hart do burne, oh, when wilt thou this thy disdaine remoue; Aske of this bearer, be inquisitiue, And hee will tell thee in what case I liue. Inquire of her, whose Hawke hath caus'd this woe, if for that fauour euer I did loue her, And shee will curse mee that did vse her so, and shee will tell thee how I lou'd another; Twas thee _Gyneura_, twas thy fairest selfe, I hel'd thee as a Pearle, her drossie pelfe. Then, when thou hast found out the naked truth, thinke of thy _Diego_, and his hard hap, Let it procure in thee some mouing ruth, that thus hast causelesse cast him from thy lap: Fare-well my deere, I hope this shall suffize, To ad a period to thy cruelties. The Messenger to spurre forth her desires, and hasten her vnto his well-lou'd friend, Tells her, how hee lyes languishing in fires of burning griefes, which neuer will haue end: Bids her to flye to him with wings of zeale, And thus _Diegoes_ paines hee doth reueale. Oh Adamantick-minded Mayde (quoth hee) why linger you in this ambiguous thought, Open thine eyes, no longer blinded bee, those wounding lookes, thy Louer, deere hath bought. Vnbolt thy harts strong gate of hardest steele, O let him nowe the warmth of pittie feele. Oh let him now the warmth of pittie feele, that long hath knockt cold-staruen at thy dore; Wanting loues foode hee here & there doth reele lyke to a storme-tost Ship that's far from shore. Feede him with loue that long hath fed on cares, Be Anchor to his soule that swims in teares. _Gyneura_, let him harbour in thy hart rig and amend his trouble-beaten face, O calme thy hate, whose winds haue rais'd his smart see him not perrish in this wofull case. And for in Sea-salt teares hee long hath liu'd, Let him by thy fresh water be relieu'd. Oh, shall I tell thee how I found him there, his house wherein hee liu'd (if lyue hee did, Or rather spend his time in dying feare) was built within the ground, all darksom hid. From _Phoebus_ light, so vgly, hell-lyke Caue, In all the world againe you cannot haue. All made of rug'd hard-fauour'd stones, whose churlish lookes afford the eye no pleasure, In whose concauity winds breath'd horce grones, to which sad musicke Sorrow daunc'd a measure. O'regrowne it was with mighty shadefull Trees, VVhere poore _Diego_ Sun nor Moone nere sees. To this black place repaired euery morne, The fayre _Oreades_ pitty-moued gerles, Bringing the poore _Diego_ so forlorne, Mosse to dry vp his teares, those liquid pearles: Full loath they were to loose such christall springs, Therfore this Spunge-like Mosse each of th[=e] brings. Here dry (say they) thou loue-forsaken man, those glassy Conduits, which do neuer cease On this soft-feeling weede; and if you can, we all intreate, your griefes you would appease, Else wilt thou make vs pine in griefe-full woe, That nere knewe care, or loue, or friend, or foe. Straight (like a shooting Commet in the ayre) away depart these sorrow-peirced maydes, Leauing _Diego_ in a deepe dispaire, who now, his fortune, now his fate vp-braides. O heauens (quoth he) how happy are these trees, That know not loue, nor feele his miseries. Melts not thy hart (_Gyneura_) at his cares? are not thy bright transparent eyes yet blinde VVith monstrous diluge of o'reflowing teares? remaines there yet disdaines within thy mind? Disgorge thy hate, O hate him not that loues thee, Maids are more milde th[=e] men, yet pitty moues me. Breake, breake in peeces that delicious chest, whiter then snow on Hyperboreall hyll, Chase out disdaine, depriue him of his rest, murder and mangle him that rules thy will. Be it nere sayd that faire _Gyneuraes_ beauty, Was ouer-peiz'd by causelesse cruelty. Cruell to him that merrits curtesie, loathed of thee that doth deserue all loue, Basely reiected, scorn'd most churlishly, that honors thee aboue the Saints aboue. True loue is pricelesse, rare, and therefore deere, VVe feast not royall Kings with homely cheere. Too long it were to tell thee all his merits, for in delay consists his long-lookt death, Post-hast of thine must now reuiue his spirits, or shortly he will gaspe his latest breath; Speake faire _Gyneura_, speake as I desire, Or let thy vaine-breath'd speeches back retyre. Looke, as a man late taken from a trance, standes gazing heere and there in sencelesse wise, Not able of himselfe his head t'aduance, but standeth like a stone in death-like guise, So lookt _Gyneura_, hanging downe her head, Shaming that folly her so much had led. Repentant sorrow would not let her speake, the burning flames of griefe did dry her teares, Yet at the last, words out of prison breake, that long'd to vtter her harts inward cares: And stealingly there glides with heauy pace A Riuolet of Pearle along her face. O cease (quoth she) to wound me any more, with oft repeating of my cruelties, Thou of thy teares (kind man) hast shed great store, when I (vnkinder mayde) scarce wet mine eyes. O let me now bewaile him once for all, Twas none but I that causd his causelesse thrall. Eternall _Ioue_, rayne showers of vengeance on me, plague me for this blacke deed of wrongful hate, Be blind mine eyes, they shall not looke vpon thee _Diego_, till thou be compassionate: And when thou doost forgiue what I haue done, Then shall they shine like shortest-shaded sunne. O slacke thy swift-pac'd gallop winged Tyme, turne backe, and register this my disdaine; Bid Poets sing my hate in ruthfull ryme, and pen sad Iliads of _Diegoes_ paine: Let them be writ in plain-seene lines of glasse, To shew how louing he, I, cruell was. Hereat shee pausd, tell me sweet sir quoth shee, how I might see my deere-embosom'd friend, That now (if what is past may pardned be) vnto his griefes I may impose an end; Where-with they both agreed, that the next day, They would eniourney them without more stay. Long were they not, Desire still goes on Ice, and nere can stay tell that he hath his wish, Mens willing mindes each thing doth soone intice, to hast to yt which they would faine accomplish. But that they came (as hauing a good guide) Vnto the place where they _Diego_ spide. Sacred _Pymplæides_ endip my quill within the holy waters of your spring, Infuze into my braine some of your skill, that ioyfully of these I now may sing: These Louers now twixt whom late dwelt annoy, Swymming in seas of ouer-whelming ioy. But, pardon mee you Dames of Helycon, for thus inuoking your diuinest ayde, Which was by me (vnworthy) call'd vpon, at your rare knowledge I am much dismaide; My barren-witted braines are all too base, To be your sacred learnings resting place. Thus, of themselues, in pleasures extasie, these Louers now embrace them in theyr armes, Speechlesse they are, eye counterfixt on eye, like two that are coniur'd by magique charmes. So close their armes were twin'd, so neer they came As if both man and woman were one frame. In th'end, (as doth a Current lately stayd, rush mainly forth his long-imprisoned flood) So brake out words; and thus _Dyego_ sayd, what my _Gyneura_? O my harts chiefe good, Ist possible that thou thy selfe should'st daigne In seeing me to take so wondrous paine. Oh, speake not of my paine (my deerest loue) all paine is pleasure that I take for thee, Thou that so loyall and so true doost proue, might scorne mee now, so credulous to be: Then sweet _Diego_, let vs now returne, And banish all things that might make vs mourne. Twere infinite to tell of their great gladnes, theyr amorous greetings, & their soules delight, _Diego_ now had exil'd griefe and sadnes, rauisht with ioy whilst he enioyde her sight. Let it suffise, they homeward now retire, Which suddaine chance both men & maids admire. _Gyneura_ now delights but in his presence, shee cannot once endure him from her sight, His loue-ful face is now her soules sole essence, and on his face shee dotes both day and night. She nere did once disdaine him halfe so much, As now she honors him, loues force is such. _Diego_ now wrapt in a world of pleasure, imparadiz'd in hauing his desire, Floting in Seas of ioy aboue all measure, sought means to mittigate loues burning fire, VVho walking with his loue alone one day, Discharg'd his minde, and thus began to say. O faire _Gyneura_, how long wil't be ere safron-robed _Hymen_ doe vnite vs? My soule doth long that happy howre to see. O let the angry Fates no longer spight vs, Lingring delays will teare my greeued hart, Let me no longer feele so painefull smart. _Gyneura_, which desir'd it as her life, tells him that paine shall shortly haue a cure, Shortly quoth she, Ile be thy married wife, ty'de in those chaynes which euer wil endure, Be patient then, and thou shalt plainly see, In working it, how forward I will be. And so she was; no time dyd she mispend, wherein shee gets not things in readines, That might to _Hymens_ rites full fitly tend, or once conduce to such theyr happines, All things prepar'd, these Louers now are chayned In marriage bands, in which they long remained. These, whilst they liu'd, did liue in all content, contending who should loue each other most, To w^c pure loue, proude Fame her eares down lent, and through the world, of it doth highly boast. O happy he to whom loue comes at last, That will restore what hate before did wast. { Then (deerest loue) _Gyneuryze_ at the last, } { And I shall soone forget what ere is past. } And now farewel, when I shal fare but ill, flourish & ioy, wh[=e] I shal droope and languish, All plentious good awaite vpon thy will, wh[=e] extreame want shal bring my soule deaths anguish. Forced by thee (thou mercy-wanting mayd) must I abandon this my natiue soyle, Hoping my sorrowes heate will be allayd by absence, tyme, necessity or toyle. So, nowe adiew; the winds call my depart. Thy beauties excellence, my rudest quill Shall neuer-more vnto the world impart, so that it know thy hate, I haue my will; And when thou hear'st that I for thee shall perrish, Be sorrowfull. And henceforth true loue cherrish. FINIS. _Poco senno basta a chi Fortuna suona._ MIRRHA _THE_ Mother of Adonis: _OR, Lustes Prodegies_. By William Barksted. _Horrace. Nansicetur enim pretium, nomenque Poeta._ _Whereunto are added certaine Eglogs._ _By_ L.M. LONDON _Printed by_ E.A. _for_ Iohn Bache, and are to be sold at his shop in the Popes-head Palace, nere the Royall Exchange. 1607. To his belooued; the Author. _Praise where so er't be found, if it be due, Shall no vaine cullour neede to set it foorth: Why should I idely then extoll the worth, Which heere (dere friend) I finde belong to you. And if I er'd, full well the learned knewe, How wide, amisse my mark I taken had, Since they distinguish can the good from bad. And through the varnish well discerne the hewe Be glad therefore, this makes for you, and knowe, When wiser Readers, heere shall fixe their sight, For vertues sake, they will doe vertue right. So shalt thou not (Friend) vnrewarded goe, Then boldly on, good fortune to thy Muse, Should all condemne, thou canst as well excuse_. I.W. _To his Louing friend and_ Kinsman: W.B. Thamis _nere heard a Song equall to this, Although the Swan that ow'd this present quill Sung to that Eccho, her owne Epitaph As proude to die, and render up her wing To Venus Swan, who doth more pleasing sing, Produce thy worke & tell the powerfull tale. Of naked Cupid, and his mothers will My selfe I doe confine from_ Helicon, _As loath to see the other Muses nine, So imodestlie eye shoot, and gaze uppon Their new borne enuie: this tenth Muse of thine, Which in my selfe I doe in thee admire, As_ Aesops _Satire the refulgent fire, Which may me burn, (I mean with amorous flame In reading, as the kissing that did him_. _And happie Mirrha that he rips thy shame, Since he so queintly doth expresse thy sin, Many would write, but see mens workes so rare, That of their owne they instantly dispaire._ Robert Glouer. _To his esteemed friend._ W.B. _Not for our friendship, or for hope of gaine Doth my pen run so swiftly in thy praise: Court-seruile flatterie I doe disdaine, "Enuie like Treason, stil it selfe betraies. This worke Detractions sting, doth disinherit: He that giues thee all praise, giues but thy merrit._ Lewes Machin. To his respected friend. W.B. _Poet, nor art thou without due desert, stil'd by that name: Though folly smile, and enuy frowne, to heare the same. Yet those who read thy worke with due respect, Will place thee with the worthiest of that sect. Then let not ignorance, nor enuie mooue thee Thou hast done well, they do not that reproue thee: Yet some (true worth nere wants an opposite) will Carpers be: Grieue not at this, not vertues selfe can scape their obloquie, But giue the raynes vnto these baser spirits, Whose Iudgements cannot paralell thy merrits, Such fooles (to seeme iudicious) take in hand, To censure what they doe not vnderstand._ _Yet cannot they detract, or wrong thy worth, maugre their spight: For thou doost chaunt incestuous_ Myrrha _forth, with such delight, And with such gould[=e] phrase gild'st ore her crime That what's moste diabolicall, seemes deuine. and who so but begins the same to reade Each powerfull line, attracts him to proceede. Then since he best deserues the Palme to weare, Who wins the same: Doe thou alone injoy those sweets, which beare thy Mirrhas name. And euer weare in memorie of her, an anademe of odoriferous_ Mirrhe, _and let_ Apollo, _thinke it no dispraise, To weare thy_ Mirrhe, _& ioyne it with his bayes._ William Bagnall. Mirrha, _The Mother of A_- donis. I sing the ruine of a beautious Maide, White as my paper, or loues fairest Doue, shine bright _Apollo_, Muse be not affraide, Although thou chauntest of vnnaturall loue. Great is my quill, to bring foorth such a birth, as shall abash the Virgins of our earth. smoake Goulden censors vpon _Paphos_ shrine, drinke deep _Leneus_ to this worke of mine. _Cupid_ to _Thracia_ went to heare a Song of _Orpheus_, to whome euen Tygers came, And left their sauage Nature, if there long they did with his sweet Melodie remaine. Wolues lost their preyes, and by signes praid him sing Beasts left the Lyon, and chose him their King. _Cecropian_ Apes did on his musicke waite, Yet of them all, not one could immitate. Tis saide when _Orpheus_ dyed, he did descend To the infernall, so the _Furies_ boast: Where now they giue him leaue his eies to bend without all feare, on her whome he once lost, By a regardant looke, but tis not so: _Ioue_ not reseru'd such musicke for belowe, But placed him amongst celestiall stars, To keep the Scorpion, Lyon, Beare from Iars. For euer since the fall of _Phaeton_, that then displaced, them they were at strife For their degrees, till his alluring Tone. who though in death hath the office of his life. Though more diuinely: and where he attracts, More glorious bodies to admire his actes. Faire stranger shape of creature, and of beast, With his concordant tunes, plac'd them in rest. The Dittie was (and _Cupid_ lent an eare) Vpon the death of his _Euridice_: Which still he sung, as if his former feare, Of loosing her was now, or else would be. The Eccho beate the noyse vp to the Spheares, And to his passionate song, Gods bent their eares. It was a signe, he was new come from hell, Their tunes so sad, he immitates so well. Such passion it did strike vpon the earth, that _Daphnes_ roote groan'd for _Apollo's_ wrong: _Hermophrodite_ wept shewers and wisht his birth had neuer bin, or that he more had clung To _Salmacis_, and _Clitie_ grieued in vaine: _Leueothoes_ wrong, the occasion of her baine, my wilful eie (this should the burthen be) Hath rob'd me of, twice slaine _Euridice_. _Cicnus_ stil proud though he confuted be, for _Phaetons_ losse, would needs afresh complaine Thinking therewith to singe as sweet as he, but pittiles he sung and dyed in vaine. Eccho was pleas'd with voice resounding brim as proud to loose her shape to answer him. Hether resorted more then wel could heare, but on my Muse, & speake what chansed there. Amongst the rest of _Vesta_-vowed Girles, came _Mirrha_ (whose thoughts no guile then knew) Like a bright diamond circled with pearls, whose radiant eye delt lustre to the hew Of all the dames; whose face so farre aboue though the rest (beautious all) vnwounded made loue, loue for neuer since _Spiches_ was made a star did he see nature excel art so far. He ch[=a]g'd his shape, his wings he oft hath torne, and like a hunter to this nimph he came: With gold tipt _Iauelin_ and a bugle Horne, such as they beare to make the Lyon tame: First did he kisse hir hand, which then did melt with loue's impression, _Cupid_ the like felt: Stroke dumbe, he stood in an vnwonted guise, such magicke beawtie carries in her eies. At length (quoth he) should I not say I loue, I should both _Cupid_ and his Mother wrong: By thee faire Maid a power farre aboue, My heart is the true index of my tongue. And by my naked wordes you may discouer, I am not traded like a common Louer. Rare obiects, rare amazements bred, tis true: And their effects are tryed in me by you. My barren braine, can bless me with no store Of able Epithits, so what praise I giue Makes not you ritcher though it makes me poore therefore in vaine against the streame I striue, Th'ore curious painter, meaning to excell, Oft marres the worke, the which before was well, And he shall dazeled be, and tyred soone, That leuelleth his shafts to hit the Moone. With this, she turnd her blushing head aside, & vail'd her face with lawne, not halfe so white That euen the blending roses were espyed despight the cloudes, that hid them in despight She threw her thin breath through the lawne, and said Leaue gentle youth, do not thus snare a maid I came to _Orpheus_ Song, good then forbeare, It is his tune, nor yours can charme mine eare. Let _Orpheus_ learne (quoth he) of thee to sing, Bid him charme men _Mirrha_ as thou canst doe: Let him tame Man, that is the Lyons King, And lay him prostrate at his feete belowe, As thou canst doe: nor _Orpheus_ nor the spheares Haue Tones like thee, to rauish mortall eares, Yea, were this Thracian Harper Iudge to tell, (As thee) hee'd sweare he sung not halfe so wel. Nor dying Swans, nor Phebus when he loue's, equals thy voice (though he in musicke courts) and as the God whose voice the firm earth moues making the terrors of the great, his sports, Whose first word strooke into the _Chaos_ light; so if that contrary thou take delight, at thy word, darknes would or'e-cloude the ayre and the fayrest day giue place to thee more faire. _Fame_ hath resing'd her lasting Trump to thee, as to the worthyer, then thy fame display: Tell Venus thou art fairer farre then she, For thine own worth becomes thee best to say, Time will stand still ,the sunne in motion stay, Sirens be mute to heare thee speake of _Mirrha_, Thy voice, if heard in the low shades should be Would a third time fetch back _Euridice_. Giue eare eternall wonder to a swaine, Twas writ in starres that I should see that face; And seeing loue, and in that loue be slaine, if beautie pittie not my wretched case. Fortune and loue, the starres and powers diuine, Haue all betraide me to those eyes of thine. O proue not then more crueller th[=e] they, Loues shaftes & fates wheeles, who hath power to stay. Stay there (quoth she) giue backe those powers their owne or not impose their powerful force on me: Haue I the least word or the least glance thrown To make you attribute what's destinie Vnto my beautie: if loue and fate you wound, Throw vowes to th[=e], their altars are soone found. Wouldst thou haue me pittie before they doe? Loue's blinde, and fortun's deafe, so am I too. I know not loue, sure tis a subtle thing, I, by these blushes that thy charmes haue raisd, T'allay more quiet' tell loues little king, I serue a Mistres he himselfe hath praisd Though he enuy, a rare and sacred floure, Whom he had will to wrong, but never power. Now _Cupid_ hangs the head, and melts in shame, for she did vtter _Vestas_ holy name. And as you see a woman teeming young, bearing the growing burthen of her wounb: Missing the dainty she hath lookt for long, falls straight in pastionate sicknes pale & dumb (for seeing she hath lost it) will not tell, for what she in this forced pastion fell. So when his hopes were lost, he would not say, what was the cause, but this to her did laye. Virgin beware that fire within thy brest, to _Vesta_ dedicate do not expire: as she must warie be that is the best to keepe it, it is knowne no lasting fier. The fuell cold fruitelesse Virginitie, which if zeale blow not violent, wil so one die: This stricts a virgins life, and who but knowes, that loue and chastitie, were euer foes. And if ere loue assaile those virgins forts, those Iuory bulwarkes that defend your heart: Though he be king of sportes he neuer sports, when as he wounds, but playes the Tirants part And so much more he wil tri[=u]ph oure thee, by how much thou contents his deitie: I know you to be chaste, but yet faire Mayd, if ere you loue youle finde what I haue sayd. Sir (quoth she) when I loue you shall be mine: but know the time, when you shall claime me your's When as the fire extinct as _Vestaes_ shrine: and _Venus_ leaues to haunt the _Papheon_ bowres, When men are perfect friendes Tigers at peace, Discord in heauen, and powers diuine doe cease, when Fortune sleeps & the north star doth moue wh[=e] Turtles leaue to mourne their mates, ile loue. Ere this was ended, _Orpheus_ song was done, And all the Virgins fell into their rankes, Each tooke their leaue of him, so did the sunne, who now was poasting to the westerne banckes and the wild beasts, who he had made more tame, seem'd to depart with reuerence at his name. Each one gaue place to _Mirrha_ as their duetie, She being preferr'd in state, first as in beautie. Now Cupid of her his last leaue doth take, so haue I seene a soule and body part: He begs a chaste kisse for her mothers sake, and vowes she shall be soueraigne of his heart. But whether he disembling did it, or twa's fate, (As extream'st loue, turnes to the direst hate) Being repulst, but this kisse did inspire, her brest with an infernall and vnnam'd desire. Night like a masque was entred heauens greate hall with thousand torches vshering the way: The complements of parting were done all, & homewards _Orpheus_ chaunteth many a lay; _Venus_ had sent her coach, drawn by a Doue, For little _Cupid_ the great God of loue. & this hath sprung (as men haue sayen of yore) For _Mirrhas_ sake he vow'd to loue no more. Blacke as my inck now must my verse commence You blushing girles, and parents siluer-gray: As farre as Trace from vs, so farre from hence goe, that you may not heare me say, A daughter did with an adulterous head, And heauie lust, presse downe her fathers bed, such Songs as these more fit the Tartars cares, had Orpheus sung it, beasts had pour'd out teares. Vnhallowed lust, for loues lies drownd in poison in what blacke ornament shall I attire thee? Since I must write of thy so sad confusion, shall I say _Cupid_ with his brand did fire thee? Accuse the Fates, or thee shall I accuse? _Mirrha_ weepes yet, onely say this my Muse: wise destinie, true loue and mortall thought, would nere confirme this, the furies brought this. She loues her Father, Daughter nere lou'd so, for as her mother lou'd so lou'd she him: Thirsting in fire those softer sweetes to know, Amidst whose waues, _Uenus_ in pride doth swim So young she was, yet that her father kist her. Which she so duely lookes for he nere mist her, Yet could he haue conceiu'd as he did after those kisses rellish much vnlike a daughter. Giue to her golde of Ophire Indian shels, Cloath her with Tirian purple skin of beast: Perfurme her waies with choice Arabian smells, Present her with the Phoenix in her nest, Delight her eare with song of poets rare, All these with _Cyneas_ might naught compare, "The comfort of the minde being tane away, "_Nectar_ not pleaseth, nor _Ambrosia_. The feast of _Bacchus_ at this present time, Was by the giddie _Menades_ intended There _Mirrha_ daunc'd, and _Orpheus_ sung in rime crownd with green thirses, now yet y[=u]hes ended with praise to _Bacchus_ all depart with spright, vnto their feastes, feasts that deuoure the night, for loe, the stars, in trauaile in the skie, brought forth their brightnes to each waking eye. High midnight came, and she to bedward hies, pretending rest, to beguile natures rest: Anon the gloomy gallerie she spies, toward her chamber, and she first that blest, Her care-fild eyes, her fathers picture was Arm'd but the face, although it dumbe, alasse, she ask'd and if he call'd, seeing no reply, she answer'd for her father, and said I. Daughter (quoth she) why art thou thus alone? Let Doues so mourn girle, yt hath lost their mates Thine is to come, then prethee cease thy mone, Care shold not dwel with great & high estates. Let her that needs and is not faire at all, Repine at fortune, loue shall be thy thrall, wing'd as he is, and armed thou shalt see, (I haue the power to giue) & giue him thee. Father (quoth she) and spoke with smaller voice, Nature hath made me yours, yours I must be: You choose my choice, for in you lies my choice, Hereat shee starts as what not feares the guiltie: Thinking the shadowe knew her double sence, and blushing, in strange feare departeth thence blaming her selfe, for vttering her blacke fault to him who armed stood gainst her assault. Anon she spies many a youthfull Lord, In seuerall Tables, each in seuerall guise; Whose pictures they had sent with one accord, To shew their manly features to her eyes, Whose dumb'd perswasiue images were plac'd, To see if any in her lookes were grac'd: But heere in vaine, their faire assayes doe proue for had they spake they could not win her loue. Ouer her Mothers shape a vaile she drew, and weeping, saide: may I nere see thee more: Poore abus'd image, doost not turne thy hew, to see so foule an obiect thee before? Didst thou but know, what's sprung from out thy wombe, thy shap cold speak, whilst yt thy self stodst d[=u]be. Art would claime Nature in thy heauie woes, thy shape haue limbs, thy limbs be stiff as those. Anon she leapt on it with ardent heate, and full of teares, yet falles vppon her backe: Wishing euen in that griefe the lustfull feate, Were now perform'd (woemen oft longings lack down sunck the down, and with so deep impresse that had Hermaphroditus bin there he might ges Salmacis were aganie his prostitute, or one more farte, then to denie her suite. A strange conceite, had now possest hir braine, nie equall to her lust, thought innocent: She gaue vp to desire and leapes amaine, From the bruisd bed, with bloodie fram'd int[=e]t To hang her selfe O, me moste wofull theame. She now espide an hie and sturdie beame: Many staue liu'd to an vnpittied death, who might haue dyed sometimes with famed breath. Yet doth she thinke what terror death would be and on her heart, imprints his Character: Faine would she die, yet first would pleased be with damned lust, which death could not deter O sinne (saies she) thou must be Natures slaue, In spight of Fate, goe to a pleasing graue. When I haue sin'd, send _Ioue_ a thunder stroake and spare thy chosen tree, the harmlesse Oake. She thinkes againe, and sees nor time nor place, to quench the thirstines of her parched blood: Time still ranne on, with an auerted face, and nothing but her passions did her good. This thought confoundes her, and she is resoul'd In deathes bleake azure armes to be inuoul'd. Fates, you are women, saue your modesties: sheele kill her selfe, you neede but close her eies. And like as when some suddaine extasie, seisth the nature of a sicklie man, When hee's discernd to swoune, straite by and by folke by his helpe confusedly haue ran, And seeking with their art to fetch him backe: so many throng, that he the ayre doth lacke, so _Mirrha's_ thoughts confusedly did stound her. some adding c[=o]fort, whilst the rest confound her. Like to a fountaines head, so shew'd her head, from whence since passion first tooke hold of hir Two springs did run thorow each flowr-fil'd mead & at her lips staid, where shee wisht _Cynir_ Would so haue done: her face with teares run ore, Like _Hebæs_ Nectar shew'd, spilt on heauens flore. or as the blomes in May the dewe drops beares, so _Mirrha's_ cheeks look'd sprinkl'd with her tears. Her haire, that with such diligence was vsde To be kemb'd vp & did like clowdes appeare; Where many spangles, star-like were infus'd, To attend the lustre of so bright a haire, Whose beames like bright _Arachnes_ web c[=o]posed Taught _Pallas_ a new enuie, now vnlosed, hiding her face, yet making it seeme rarer, as blazing Commets traine makes the star fairer. Dispaire that teacheth holy ones to die, when as affliction ministers her part: Had breathing now in Mirrha, and well nie, Like Venus, made her graspe a flaming heart. Cupid was borne at Etna, a hot sprite, Whose violence takes edge off from delight. For men deepe louing, oft themselues so waste, that proffer'd dainties, they want power to taste. Digresse no farther least thou proue obsceane, but tell by this how Nurse had broke the dore, And trembling both through age and feare, Forgot the naturall sence she had before Yet with her out-cries from the shades of death, cald Mirrhas spright, who with vnwilling breath re-enters flesh, scorning to giue it grace, with wonted beautie that adorn'd her face. She tooke the haltar, and held vp her chin, chafing her temples with a violent heate: Making her soule returne with torments in, as it went out, being come vnto retrait, Nurse heau'd her trembling body on the bed, Where sinking as in graue, she seemed dead: Chast had my verse bin, blessed Mirrhas hap, if here my pen could write thy Epitaph. When hauing gotten ope her heauie eyes, life-mocking death, with a fresh crimson hew, she thus bespake: if there be sorceries, Philters, inchauntments, any furie new That can inspire with irrelegious fire, The brest of mortall, that vntam'd desire Possesseth me, and all my bodies merrit, Shewes like a faire house, haunted with a spirit. The foure and twentie windes are not so fierce, as what doth blow the fewel in my breast: Not the soft oyle, _Apollo_ did disperse, on _Phaitons_ brow, to keep his sun-beam'd crest From face of heauenly fires, could ought preuaile Gainst raging br[=a]ds which my poore heart assaile scorch'd with materiall flames, wee soone do die and to purge sins, we imbrace purgatorie. But this a heate that nor in life or death, can render any humor but dispaire: Nor can it with the short cut of my breath, Take hence my shame, that shall suruiue mine heire Nor can the act (after tis done) content But brings with it eternall punishment, lesseneth the pleasure of the world to come, giues the iudge leaue, & strikes the guiltie dumb. The iealious nurse, did apprehend her straite, yet would extract the quintessence of all: And therefore childe (quoth she) vse no deceipt, but tel me freely whence these teares doe fall I am thy nurse, and from my aged brest Thou hadst thy second being, tell the rest. I doe coniure thee, by these siluer haires, which are grown white, the sooner in their cares. If any orped witch of _Thessalie_, haue powre vpon thee, gentle-girle relate: Or if thou haue prophan'd some dietie, wee shall some misticke fires propogate. To attone with them or if with barbarous hand devoy'd of thy first chastitie thou stand; Vnfold to me; griefes vttered finde redresse: fires vndescern'd burn the more pittilesse. Or if the sunne of bewtie shoote at thee his fiery shafts, O tell me and the rather, Because thy confidence shal answer'd be, With this my childe Ile hide it from thy father As doth a dying man hold fast what so he grasps so she her feruent armes bout her Nurse claspes and nuzzels once more twixt those dugs her face whilst ore those Ilands flow salt teares apace. That word of father was like _Persey's_ shield, to make the poore maid stone, now nurse doth threat Vnlesse she will in gentle manner yeeld, she would to morrow shew how in a heat She would haue made away her desperate life, and she must tell the man that forc'd that strife within her brest through feare she thus did frame and made her toung the trumpet of her shame. Her voyce halfe stopt with sighes (O fatal voice) pronounc'd these words, yet did the acc[=e]ts faile: How blessed is my mother in her choise, How fully she with nature did preuaile. This said, her blushing face sinkes in her shroud like _Cinthia_ muffel'd in an enuious cloud. When loe, the dying taper in his toombe, gaue darknes to it selfe and to the roome. Now had she time to waile, and well she might, Guiltie of sorrow, there might you haue seene: As glow wormes adde a tincture to the night, Glimmering in pallid fire, vppon some greene, mixt with the dew, so did her eyes appeare, Each goulden glance ioyn'd with a dewy teare, oft shut her eyes, like starres that portend ill, with bloody deluge, they their orbes did fill. The Nurse amated with the latter wordes, whose aged haires stood vp like siluer wire: Knew speech was vaine, where will the scope affords & whispering softly, saies childe thy desire Ile put into thy armes, sleepe, seize thy head, Tis now nights no one, all but the stars seem dead, Our vanities like fire-works will ascend, Vntil they breake, vncertaine where to end. Neuer did mortall with a vicious thought, wish to bring vices Embrion to aforme: But still the prince of darknesse to them brought occasions fore-locke, which they off have torne. Sin like a Cedar shadowes all our good: Whilst vertues bounded like a narrow flood. As see now, how the occasion of misfortune; Mirrha's much abus'd-mother did importune. Now came the time, of _Ceres_ sacred rite, and Misteries, when all wives young and olde Cloathed in vailes, all of transparent white, Kneele to her, and to the Attick priest vnfolde, The firstlings of the fiel'd wreath'd gilded corne, Chaplets of dill, pluckt in a blushing morne, And many such, nor may they husbands see, In nine daies, till they end their misterie. Now nurse was double diligent, watching her time and told old _Cynitas_ a louely maide Sigh'd for him: and still with cupps of wine betwixt each word his pallat she assaide. Heated with wines, he bad the Nurse repaide, and bring to him the Maide that was so faire, _Bacchus_ & _Venus_, Wine and frolicke lust, are sworne to blood, and keepe togither must. _Mirrha_ no sooner heard this glad reply, but as a poore bird long time in a snare, Ready for fammine and her woe to die, whom an vnskilful fouler vnaware hath guiuen freedome, to her foode doth hast, so Mirrha thought each houre an age was past: In her strict torments but being scapt away, her woes forgot, she thinkes vppon her prey. And as she did ascend those staires to lust, in the midway, she heard her father speake: And nere lay partridge closer to the dust, at sound o' the Faulccons bell, then she too weak To encounter or resist: and feares are such, in loue by loue, that they enccrease loue much. Loue like to Monarkes, hath his state hie reared who euer wil be lou'd, where they are feared. To a hundred seueral passions she doth yeeld, and as we see in Autumne of the yere Some gallant oake stand ready to be feld, vppon whose ribs a hundred wounds appeare Forc'd by the brawnie armes of Hynds vnlithe, who workes a passage to the weeping pith: Vncertaine (though wind shaken) where to fall: so stood her mynd doutful of rest at al. Nurse opes the doore, and brings her to the bed the darkenesse of the night abated shame: And leaues her that must leaue her maiden head to the begetter of his owne defame, With faultring hams hauing got twixt the sheetes, In fearefull lust this _Prodegiæ_ meetes, He begs a kisse, then blusht she as he spake it, yet he must giue it, shee wants power to take it. Now trembling lay she by her fathers side, like filly doue within the Eagles gripe: Nor doth she vse soft shrikes as doth a bride, (I meane a maide) when as the fruite so ripe Of maiden-head, forced from their wombe, Her fathers armes to her was as a tombe. She dead in pleasure, durst not shew her voice, least _Cyniras_ should know this faire foule choice. But when that Cupid once had whetted her, she twines her lilly stalks about his necke: So clings young _Ivie_ bout the aged oake there, _Venus_ smile, but frowning _Iuno_ checks. Their stolne delight, no nuptiall tapers shone, No Virgin belt vntyed, but all vndone, the Athenian God, kindled no hallowed fires, darke was the night, suiting to their desires. The morrow came, toyled with wakes and lust, she leaues her father, when as the rising Sun Couering the easterne Pines and mountaine dust, spyed Mirrha from her couch of sin to runne. Then blusht he first, and backward would ha fled And euer since in's rising hee's still red, Nere Turkas was at sicke blood more estrang'd, then Mirrha when her chastitie was chang'd. Oft would she leane against her fathers knees, & tie his garter in a true loue's knot: And then vndoo't againe, as to shew she were vndone, yet he conceiu'd it not. And woman like that, keep not secrets long, she shewd her loue in d[=u]b shewes with out tung, her lust she knew (yet hardly it concealde) like Fayries Treasur's vanish'd if reueal'd. A third night came, darker then shores belowe, when Cyniras (father of feareful lust) Willing to see the foule that did bestowe So many pleasures on him (Ioue is iust) Did reach a taper, whose confusiue light, Strucke like a blasting at that horrid sight. The light fell from him loathing his defame, things senceles oft are mou'd, wh[=e] men not shame. At length with bloodie eye fixed on her, out of an Iuorie scabberd hanging by: He drew a monumental Semiter, thinking with death that both their shames shold dye But night that oft befriended her with sinne, In her blacke wombe too, did her freedome win, For through the darke she slipt, and left her fire, to mourne his Fate, not execute his ire. Sped with her lust, and flying thence apace, in feares and trembling, feare doth giue vs eies: For saftie to the Gods, she lifts her face, & her claspt hands to what she now not see's, loues browe was darke, Boetes had amaine Driuen his Oxen to the lower plaine. Phebæ fled heauen, her face no tincture beares, Because shee saw a deed, worthie her teares. The morning came, where yet the fatall print of Mirrha lay vpon the pillow: _Cynix_ he Clog'd with distresse, a fathers cursse did hint, vpon that place of foule inchastitie, the sight of what we loath, breedes loathing more and vertue once renounc'd ingenders store, Leaue we him touz'd in care, for worldly wee, loue to leaue great men in their miserie. Seauen winters nights, she fled before the Moone (who knew the vnchaste act she had inforc'd) Through _Arabie_, in feare she posteth soone, To odorous Panchaia, whose confines diuorc'd Her fathers land: here grew all choicest fumes: That to Ioues temples often men presumes: and on his altars them accumulate, and how they first sprung, here thereof the Fate. _Hebæ_ now banish'd from th' _Aetherian_ boule vppon a feast day mongst the Gods aboue, Where twas made lawfull, all without controule, might freely drink it chanc'd the Queen of loue Whether she long'd, or enuied _Hebes_ starre, (Women are enuious, where they long for nectar) forc'd her to skinke so much, the iuice ran ore, so that Ioues drinke washt the defiled flore. With this he storm'd, that's Priests from altars flie streight banish'd _Hebæ_, & the world did thinke To a second Chaos they should turned be, the clouds for feare wept out th' immortal drinke and on _Panchaia_ there this Nectar fell, Made rich th' adiacent lands with odorous smell, and such rare spices to the shoares are giuen, as Ioue would thinke no Nectar were in heauen. There was a Satire rough and barbarous, pleasing his pallat at a trembling spring: Vnder a Beech with bowes frondiferous, though he had seene a nimph or rarer thing Then flesh and blood, for in the calmed streame, He saw her eyes like stars, whose raies did gleame Boue Phoebus farre, and so amazed stood, as if she had bin Goddesse of that flood. And as you see a man that hath bin long Possessed with a furie of the shades: after some prayers and many a sacred song, with blessed signes, the euill spirit vades, so fell his rudenesse from him, and her shine, Made all his earthie parts pure and diuine. O potent loue, great is thy power be falne, That makes the wife mad, & the mad man calme. Thus he begins, fairer then Venus farre, If Venus be, or if she be tis thee: Louelie as Lillies, brighter then the starre that is to earth the mornings Mercurie: Softer then Roses, sweeter breath'd then they, blush't boue _A_urora, better cloath'd then May. lipt like a cherrie, but of rarer taste, Deuine as Dian, and as fully chaste. Pardon my rude tongue, if I chance to erre, as Hermes selfe might erre being the God of Eloquence: for your bright eye doth beare all earthly blessings in a faire abode, Excuse me if I trip, I meane your weale, Error's no error, where tis done with zeale. Loue like materiall fires is made to flame: When tis supprest with fanning Fires first came. With this, the Maid (so took) hung down her head wondring that such a shape had such a tongue: able to steale her loue, had she not fled, and from his ardent gripes, her body wrung. Flying like _Phebæ_ after strucken deere: and as he follow'd she fled more for feare. _Zephire_ came foorth, to dally with her haire, while the poore Satire cried stay maide so faire. But he on sudden like a subtill Snake, rould in a heape, shootes foorth himself at l[=e]gth; and to his vigorous armes greedie doth take, his yeilding prey, won with his words not str[=e]gth To be a woman, is by nature giuen, But to be constant, is a star, which heauen Hath seald on their sex forehead as a signe, That constancie in women is diuine. Thou didst deceiue me Mirrha, when I saide, thou flew'st for feare, thou gau'st me cause to fear and I might iustlie haue this gainst thee laide, thou wentst t' auide by pathes that were so nere Who begin, ill most often end in ill, and she that doth her first pure youth so spill In lawles lust, though made a wife to one, Remaines like wax for each impression. But see the goodnesse of the Deities, who still with grace preuents our ill presage, This groue was hallow'd to no Hiadres, but chast Diana, who with violent rage Discending from her towre of Christalline, To keepe the place still sacred and diuine: against her rites, brought with her thereupon white Poplar from the banckes of _Acheron_: Then with a charme, that did her face eclips, And made her crescent quak, the iuice she powers Vpon the Satirs face, and prophane lipps, which quickly ouer all his body showers, Her borrow'd power of art being finished: (Deriued from Phoebus as her light) she saide, Nine-times the holy rime, which spok will clere, all prophane matter, and this spake she there. Sleepe Poplar sleepe, that was the Satirs name, who had bin long a king within these woods, Since thou my sacred Groue, gan to prophane: a sleepe seize on thee, still as stigian floods, by Stix I vow the partiall destenies, Did they conspire, shold nere vnclaspe thin eies, hauing thus said, the Satire vanisht so, as mens prospect that from a mirrour goe. I thinke (quoth she) accursed is this place, for heere the man, for whome I sorrow now, Heedelesse Acteon with immodest face, saw all our naked and did ouer-vewe: As men rich iuells doe, thinking there lies yet some rare vertue hidden from their eyes: And euen there quoth shee, & then did point, reuen'gd, I saw his hounds teare ioint from ioint. But since saies she, thou as a King didst reigne, and art a Trophey too of _Dians_ power: Thus much the Goddesse of the floods doth deign to change thy shape, into a vertick flower. Then thrice three words, thrice striking charmed wood The ground did crannie, and there out of hand, appeared greene Poplar, younger then before, which bow'd the head & dyan did adore. The palefac'd Mirrha sat like guiltie spright, fore the infernall iudge, yet did not see Diana great, for dull are mortalls sight, (and all inuisible is chastitie) But heard a voice as she was vanishing, saying defild maide, doost wonder at this thing? O Mirrha ere my crescents beautie change, thou shalt be turn'd into a shape as strange. With this the verdant new sprung Poplar plant (moou'd with the winde) seemd to bow down the head as cheering Mirrha, who did comfort want being amaz'd at what Diana saide, Hauing recouer'd sence, she flies the place, For feare of Phebæs comming to the chace: to Saba land she hies, where all affraide, my muse shall sing the downfall of the Maide. Then first hung downe Poplar his heauie braine, for Mirrha's losse, whose loue brought him that and for he once in woods a King did raigne, a crowne hee still wear's, richly wrought with blew and yellow eke, as figures both of loue, Which Venus dropt downe him from aboue. Bacchus doth loue him, for in feasts of wine, he weares a poplar Garland mixt with vine. The leaden God of sleepe, on his iuice feede, the vertues of him, sundry doe declare: His suddain taste a heauinesse doth breede, and drownes in rest, sences opprest with care, In places farre remote, he loues to growe, and eke by rivers that runne thicke and slowe, where drowsilie this woodish demie God, with euerie gale of winde his head doth nod. Now to proceede after a small repose, that the accursed seede gan swell her wombe, wh[=e] her drie brain, no more teares could expose she weayting for a sad and heauie dombe. For often men offending, still doe feare, Though Ioue be farre off, yet his iudgements nere downe would she sit, and so vnfolde her moane that Eccho sight hirs and forgot her owne. Distressed twixt the teadiousnesse of life, and trembling feare of death, she thus began: For when we cease to be the crimes are rife, which youth committed, and before vs then. For aged memorie doth clasp't containe, Those shapes of sin, which hot blood held as vain. O cursed Fates quoth she, that brought to passe this prodegie twixt me and Cyniras. O leaue to leape for ioy, thou prettie childe, to Heare of Cyniras, or ile leaue rather: To speake of him, whose bed I haue defilde, & made him proue thy Grandsire & thy Father Was I predestin'd to select no other, But fated for the sister and the Mother, of thee my babe, heauen here hath beene sinister the childe shall call his grandsire, son his mother sister. Oft doe two Roses grow out from one stem, and one of them is full blowne fore the other, So fares it now with thee my virgin iem, whome nature would call sonne but shame saies brother Shall I not blush when thou art ripe, to gather The circumstances of who was thy Father, yes sure I shall, yet shame forgets all shame, Ile charge thy father of a heauenly name. But oh, I feare me least some Prodegie, the heauens agree, that I to light should bring; to fright ee'n the yron age, that chastitie might take example by my suffering. That I a monster-mother should be made, If soe, O ouer equall Gods, let _Mirrha_ fade into some shape, worthy your high deuice, Pitty to me, would make Ioue seeme vnwise. Alter O Gods, death that is due to birth, nor let the dead repine, that I should see Eliziums blest shades, nor the men of earth annoided be with my impuritie, Let them enioy the fieldes, and learned Songes, Of hye brow'd Orpheus, let the vnflesht thronges that haue deseru'd this, and much more be glad, my starres, my double life, and fate, are sad. You wearyed race of Danans vnblest girles, In vaine leaue off your vnwomb'd tubs to fill, & with your teares that staynd ye Indyan pearles, Weepe out for Mirrha, and ere night you will at my sad story orebrim with your teares, Your whirle-poole vessells, which so many yeres return'd no interest, if you well deplore, you'le drowne in teares, or labour so no more. C[=o]clude my fate, quicke you eternall counsell, or else I feare the nere-erturned dead Clad in the fearefull shapes of night and hell, will rife before the general day be spred; and hurrie me in flesh to Acheron, To taste hels torture both in soule and bone: Then blast me thunderer in righteous ire, and I like _Semele_ wil meete thy fire. The Gods to her last wish was tractable. her tongue percullist twice was as she spake: aire was her voice, and Mirrha now not able, to thanke the Gods, her ioynts in sunder brake. Leaues were her locks, of golden haire bereau'd, her armes long boughes, deem & be not deceiu'd tree gan she be, yet twixt her thing so staid, you could not say she was or tree or maide. First grew her hayre vp like the Summer Corne, or as a blazing starre whose streames rise vpward & being changd, fell leaues, that vp were borne, by the rude windes, yet had you but haue heard You'd sware, a sigh for Mirrha's transmigration Had beene decreed by all the windie nation. and euerie Autume, since a thing moste rare, The falling leaues, resemble Mirrha's haire. To barke her yuorie skin polisht congeald, each blew rig'd current into melting sap, Her nailes to bolssome faire, & what reueal'd with accents sad, the babe yet in her lap. Her fingers twigs, her bright eyes turn'd to gum, Buried on earth, and her owne selfe the toombe, her sences gone, yet this sence did she win, to aye relent, the horror of her sinne. For euen as from a guilty man, that's pleading for remorse, teares follow teares, as hoping to preuaile, So from this tree, (though now a senceleffe course) flowe pretious teares, as seemes she doth bewaile In death, with euer liuing teares, the act fore-done These _Pius_ drops, made densiue by the sunne, are kept for holy vses, and the Mir, That so distilles, doth beare the name of her. The misbegotten babie, swels the tree, and loathing the defiled wombe sought vent: Those panges that mothers haue felt shee, and solemne sighes had issue, as they'd rent, and spoile the shape, she newly had assum'd, But wordes within the close bark were inhumbd Yet wept it out, as it to water would, Or seem'd it mockt Pactolus waues of golde. Till chast Lucina, whome the Poets giue, The mid-wiues power in producing creatures, by whose change we last die, and first doe liue, (be they not violent each) she that giues features Forme or takes away, makes foule or faire, Discending from her Spheare next to our ayre: with armes yspred, vppon the melting mir, brought diuine comfort downe from heau[=e] with her Few wordes she spake, but euery sillable, of power to comfort the afflicted Ghostes; Or any other sencelesse thing make able, doe better deedes then those _Alcides_ boastes, the tree streight craynes, & springs forth the child who the first minut, though his countenance smild cryed out a maine, our first propheticke breath, showes our first houre, is mother to our death. The water Nymphes then caught him tenderly, who laid him streight on the enameled bankes, and bath'd him with his mothers teares, whereby they made him fairer, and in merry prankes The Ladies call a conuocation there, Some praise his nose, his lips, his eye, his eare. Some his streight fingers, whilst a fist doth sweare his verry breath yet smelleth of the mirre. Another wishes, oh for such a face! Nor can I blame her though she did wish so: For sure, were I a wench, t'had bin my case, for nature heere, made both her ioy and woe, And spight that (but herself) commendeth none, Of force must say, this was a rarer one Then either nature did, or ere shall make, whose life holdes vp her age, whose deathe's her wrack. Eyes like two stars falne from their proper sphears as if they scorn'd the beaten pathes of heauen: Or enuying of beautie of the beares, showne firmer heere, and brighter then the seau[=e] Such was he as was Cupid wont to be In pictures lim'd, and that they may agree, furnish the babe with winges and quiuer light, or from loues God, take wings, and quier quite. Nought may compare with Time in his swift race the babe ere while feeles now youths hot alarms And as in yeares, so beautious grew his face, that he is fit againe for Ladies armes: Nor Cupid now could wound more dames th[=e] he That Venus who Captiues all, is not free From her own power, she loue's Adonis milde, That Mars doth storm, & wish he were no childe. Nor Paphos, Amathus nor fishie Gnide, delights she now to haunt, nor Etna now Burnes more then her, she roans the wood so wide after her game, that to his game doth bow. And will not heare or see, for eies and eares, If they her heare or see, their vse forbeares Yet she persues, and leaues her power vn euen on heauen & earth, she loues him more th[=e] heau[=e]. Oft would she say, and bathe those words in tears oh thou fair boy, wold God thou loudst like me but sure thou art not flesh, it well appeares, thou wert the stubborne issue of a tree, So hard thou art, then she a sigh would fet, and wish that Vulcan had not made his net, For boysterous Mars, shee'd fayner ha' bin sped with this choice floure, claspt in her yron bed. Shee'd nere haue blusht, th[=e] she does make a vow though al the Gods of both worlds had th[=e] seen She raveth that she euer lou'd til now, that she might worthily ha bin loues Queene. wel, wel (quoth she) thou hast reueng'd the spight which from my accurst Sons bow did fowly light On thy faire Mother, O immortall boy, Though thou be faire, tis I that should be coy. But stay my Muse in thine owne confines keepe, & wage not warre with so deere lou'd a neighbor, But hauing sung thy day song, rest & sleepe preserue thy small fame and his greater fauor: His song was worthie merrit (_Shakspeare_ hee) sung the faire blossome, thou the withered tree _Laurell_ is due to him, his art and wit hath purchast it, _Cypres_ thy brow will fit. FINIS. Hiren: _OR_ The faire Greeke: _By_ William Barksted, _one of_ the seruants of his Maiesties Revels. Ovid. ----_nonparuas animo dat gloria vires, Et fecunda facit pectora laudis amor._ _LONDON_: Printed for _Roger Barnes_, and are to be sold at his shop in Chancery lane, ouer against the Rolles. 1611. TO THE HEROICKE HE ros, Henry Earle of Oxenford, _Vicount Bulbeck_, &c. _Sir, if my unpolish't pen, that dedicates new The bashfull utterance of a maiden Muse, May gracefully arrive onely to you, Which for her virgin sake, do not refuse, Time, and more studious howers shall we vow, To sing your vertues, which are now profuse. Kings haue drunke water from a louing hand, And truth's accepted, though we paint her poore. The Poets say, the Gods that can command, Haue feasted gladly on a poore mans store, Whereby great Sir, we haue to understand, That humble Riuers adde to the seashore. Liue long and happy, and with gray haires crown'd, Reade thy youths acts, which fame shall euer sound._ Your honors obseruant seruant, Wil. Barksted. The faire Greeke. 1 Of _Amuraths_ yong spleenfull sonne I sing, His sonne, who to the Strand of _Hellespont_ And to the great Sea-cost his bounds did bring, Whose Empire so the _Grecians_ did confront, That euen from _Pindus_, and _Thomao_ Mont. From darke _Morea_ to _Corinthian_ streights, From _Burgon_ to _Hungaria's_ broken wing, His Nauy fetch'd contributary freights. 2 Yong _Mahomet_, the wanton of her eie, Which teacheth wars, & caught his nonage daies That gaue such hansell of his tyranny, In those first battails, and apprentize sayes, Which did so hotly dart their early rayes, On _Sigismond_, or that wherein was tane, _Philip_ the noble Duke of _Burgondy_, With him kept prisoner, ô farre better slaine! 3 Yong _Mahomet_ to _Greece_ the fatall scourge, Which thither death, and desolation brought, Euen to the faire _Constantinoples_ veirdge, The _Grecian_ Empires chaire, the which he sought For which a huge digested army fought. And at the last, distressed _Constantine_, And of all Christians did the Citty purge, O shame to _Europes_ Peeres, and Kings diuine. 4 Let _Italy_ take heed, the New-moone threats, To reare his hornes on _Romes_ great Capitall, And doth not _Rome_ deserue such rough defeats, That should be mother of compassion all? And coünite the states, and principall In league, and loue, which now for trifles iarre, The _Persian Sophy_ shames our Christian feats, Who with the _Souldan_ ioynes gainst _Turkish_ war. 5 Had _Constantine_, that three times sacred Prince, Beene rescu'd then by power of Christendome, _Mathias_ neuer should haue cran'd defence, Of _Germans_, _English_, _Spanish_, _France_, and _Rome_, Taxes of warre, to these climes had not come: Nor yet the _Turke_ with all his barbarous hoast, Durst with the Catholikes such war commence, Where now they haue heard their drums, & feard their hoast. 6 Who reads or heares the losse of that great town _Constantinople_ but doth wet his eyes? Where litle babes fr[=o] windows were pusht down Yong Ladies blotted with adulteries, Old fathers scourg'd with all base villanies? O mourne her ruine, and bewish the _Turke_, eternall depriuation of his Crowne, That durst for paganisme such outrage worke. 7 When _Mahomet_ had man'd the wals, the towne surpriz'd Great grew the slaughter, bloudy waxt the fight, Like _Troy_, where all was fir'd, and all despis'd, But what stood gracious in the victors sight. Such was the wo of this great citty right: Here lay a Saint throwne downe, & here a Nun, Rude _Sarazens_ which no high God agnis'd, Made all alike our wofull course to run. 8 And in this deadly dealing of sterne death, And busie dole of euery Souldiers hand, Where swords were dul'd with robbing men of breath Whil'st rape with murder, stalk't about the land, And vengeance did performe her own command, and where 'twas counted sin to thinke amisse: There no man thought it ill to do all scath, O what doth warre respect of bale or blisse? 9 There stood an ancient Chappell next the Court, Where sacred Bishops said their morrow Masse. And sung sweet _Anthems_ with a loud report, To that eternall God-head, whose sonne was, Sequestred from the Trinity to passe, Vnder the burthen of the holy Crosse, For our redemption, whose death did retort, The sting of Sathan, and restor'd our losse. 10 Hither was got of silly maides some few, Whom happily no Souldier yet had seas'd, Tendring their spotlesse vows, in child-cold dew, Of virgin teares, to haue the heauens appeas'd But teares too late, must be too soone displeas'd, And hither, like a Tyger from the chase, Recking in bloudy thoughts, and bloudy shew, Came _Amurath_ himselfe to sacke the place. 11 In Armour clad, of watchet steele, full grim, Fring'd round about the sides, with twisted gold, Spotted with shining stars vnto the brim, Which seem'd to burn the spheare which did th[=e] hold: His bright sword drawn, of temper good and old, A full moone in a fable night he bore, On painted shield, which much adorned him, With this short Motto: _Neuer glorious more_. 12 And as a Diamond in the dark-dead night, Cannot but point at beames on euery side, Or as the shine of Cassiopæa bright, Which make the zodiacke, where it doth abide, Farre more then other planets to be ey'd: So did faire _Hirens_ eyes encounter his, And so her beames did terror strike his sight, As at the first it made e'm vale amisse. 13 O that faire beauty in distresse should fall, For so did she, the wonder of the east, At least, if it be wondrous faire at all, That staines the morning, in her purple nest, With guilt-downe curled Tresses, rosy drest, Reflecting in a cornet wise, admire, To euery eye whom vertue might appall. And Syren loue, inchant with amorous fire. 14 A thousand Bashawes, and a thousand more, Of _Ianizaries_, crying to the spoile, Come rushing in with him at euery dore, That had not Loue giuen Barbarisme the foile, The faire had beene dishonored in this while. But ô when beauty strikes vpon the heart: What musicke then to euery sence is bore, All thought resigning them, to beare apart. 15 For as amongst the rest, she kneel'd sad weeping, In tender passion by an altars side, And to a blessed Saint begins her creeping, He stood loue-wounded, what should her betide, Whilst she saw him turnd round, & well nie died. Let darknes shroud quoth she, my soule in night, Before my honor be in _Mahounds_ keeping, Prisoner to enuy, lust, and all vnright. 16 O, if thou beest a Souldier, lend thy sword, To ope the bosomes, where yet neuer lay, Ignoble Souldier, nor imperious Lord, Of all whom war hath grip'd into her sway, Onely remaine we few, let not this day, Begin with vs, who neuer did offend, Or else do all of vs one death afford, If not, kill me, who ne'r was Pagans friend. 17 But now (said _Mahomet_) thou shall be mine, Thine eies haue power to such a great mans hart, If then they worke on me to make me thine, Say thou art wrong'd? dishonor doth impart No loue, where he may force: but mine thou art, And shalt be only in thine own free choice, What makes me speake, makes me speak thus diuine Else could I threat thee with a conquerors voyce. 18 What you may do (said she) I do not know, But know you this, there is a thousand waies, To finde out night before my shamelesse brow, Shall meet that day in guilt of such misrayes. Oh how vniust art thou? the pagan sayes, To him which sues for a respecting eye, And no ignoble action doth allow, But honor, and thy faires to gratifie. 19 The effect of both is one (said she) both spils, And layes my shame o're mastred at thy feet, But greatnesse (said he) doth outface all ills, And maiesty (make sowre apparance sweete, Where other powers th[=e] greatnes doth cut meet? It doth indeed, said she, but we adore, More th[=e] a great Earth-monarch wh[=o] death kils, Mortall soules, thinke on th'immortall more. 20 Alas faire Christian Saint (said _Mahomet_) So yong, and full of gray hair'd purity, These are but shifts of Friers, tales farre fet. Dearest, I'le teach thee my diuinity, Our Mecha's is not hung with Imagery, To tell vs of a virgin-bearing-sonne, Our adoration to the Moone is set, That pardons all that in the darke is done. 21 O blinde religion, when I learne, said she) To hallow it, my body tombe my soule, And when I leaue the mid-day-sunne for thee, Blush Moone, the regent of the nether roule. What I hold deerest, that my life controule, And what I prize more precious then imagery, Heauens, grant the same my bane and ruine be, And where I liue, wish all my Tragedy. 22 A dreadfull curse replide the Saracen, But I will teach thee how to cousen it, An oath in loue may be vnsworne againe, _Ioue_ markes not louers oathes euery whit, Thou wilt repent beside, when riper wit Shall make thee know the magicke of thine eies, How faire thou art, and how esteem'd of men, Tis no religion that is too precise. 23 Nor is this all, though this might woo a Greeke, To wantonize with princely _Mahomet_, Much more by loues inuention could I speake, By which the coldest temper might be heate: But I must hence, a fitter time I'le set, To conquer thee, Bashawes these spare or spill, Saue _Mustapha_ this maid, since her we like, Conduct vnto our Tent, now warre he will. 24 She like _Cassandra_ thral'd and innocent, Wrang her white hands, & tore her golden haire, Hal'd by the Eunuchs to the Pagans Tent, Speechlesse, and spotlesse, vnpittied, not vnfaire, Whiles he to make all sure, did repaire, To euery Souldier throughout the field, And gaue in charge matters of consequence, As a good generall, and a Souldier should. 25 Then sent he forth _Polidamus_ to bid, The Drums & Trumpets sound that daies retreit, For in his soule their ratling noyse he chid: For startling _Cupid_, whose soft bosome streight, Had lodg'd him, & grew proud of such a freight. Beside the sword and fire had swept the streetes, And all did in the victors hands abide, Night likewise came, fit time for Loues stolne-sweets. 26 Thus tumbling in conceits, he stumbled home, In the darke couerture of shady night, Cal'd for a torch, the which his chamber groome, With more then speedy haste did present light: To bed he went, as heauy in his spright, As loue, that's full of anguish makes the minde: Faine would he sleepe away this martirdome, But loues eyes open, when all else are blinde. 27 What do you talke of sleepe? talke of the _Greeke_, For being laid, he now grew almost mad, What is she not as faire (quoth he) to like, As _Phedria_, whom in _Corinth_ once I had? With that he knock't his Eunuchs vp, and bad, One aske the _Grecian_ maide, what was her name, What she made there, & whom she came to see, And to what end into his Tent she came? 28 When he was gone, somewhat the fury staid, And beat more temperate in his liuer-vaine, Onely he could not choose but praise the maid, Whose eies fr[=o] his such _womanish_ drops did strain Did not thy face (sigh'd he) such faires containe, It could not be, my heart thou couldst distract, But all abstracts of rarities are laid, In thy faire cheekes so feelingly compact. 29 Thus made, what maiest thou not command, In mighty _Amuraths_ wide Empery? My tributary loue, and not my land, Shall pay it homage to thy proud bent eye, And they who most abhorre idolatry, Shall tender Catholicke conceites to thee, O arme not honor still for to withstand, And make a foyle of loue, which dwels in me. 30 By this time was the Carpet-page returned, And told the prince the _Greeke_ was _Hiren_ hight, But so she wept, & sigh'd, & grieu'd, & mourn'd, As I could get no more (said he to night, And weeps (said _Amurath_) my loue so bright, Hence villaine, borrow wings, flie like the winde, Her beauteous cheeks with hot tears wil be burnd Fetch her to me: ô loue too deafe, too blinde! 31 Then crossing both his armes athwart his breast, And sinking downe, he set a soule taught grone, And sigh'd, and beat his heart, since loue possest, And dwelt in it which was before his owne. How bitter is sweet loue, that loues alone, And is not sympathis'd, like to a man? Rich & full cram'd, with euery thing that's best, Yet lyes bed-sicke, whom nothing pleasure can. 32 Sometimes he would inuoke sweet Poets dead, In their own shapes, to court the _maid_ with words But then he fear'd least they her maidenhead Shold win fr[=o] him: th[=e] somtimes arms & swords, His old heroike thoughts, new roome affoords, And to the field he would: but then loue speakes, And tels him _Hiren_ comes vnto his bed, Which dasheth all, and all intendments breakes. 33 And lo indeed, the purple hangings drawne, In came faire _Hiren_ in her night attire, In a silke mantle, and a smocke of lawne, Her haire at length, the beams of sweete desire) Her breasts all naked, ô inchanting fire! And siluer buskins on her feet she wore, Though all the floore with Carpet-worke was strawn Yet were such feet too good to tread that floore. 34 Now _Mahomet_ bethinke thee what is best, Said she, compell me I will speake thy shame, And tell thy hatefull fact, at euery feast, Singers in balads shall berime thy name, And for dishonoring me spot thy faire fame: But if--: No more chast maid said _Mahomet_: Though in thy grant consists all ioy and rest, I will not force thee, till thou giue me it. 35 But say I languish, faint, and grow forlorne, Fall sicke, and mourne: nay, pine away for thee, Wouldst then for euer hold me yet in scorne? Forbid my hopes, the comfort that should be In hopes in doating hopes which tire on me: O be not as some women be, for fashion, Like sun-shine daies in clouds of raine stil borne, The more you'l loue, the more shall grow my passion. 36 And then he clasp'd her frosty hand in his, An orient pearle betwixt two mother shels, And seal'd thereon a hearty burning kisse, Kisses in loue, force more then charmes or spels, And in sweet language; hopes-desires foretels, Ah louely _Greeke_, what heart hast thou (quoth he) What art thou made of? fire dissolueth yee, Tygers relent, yet thoul't not pitty me. 37 Dwel'st thou on forme? I can confirme thee than, _Sibilla_ liues to tell she did repent. Let _Latmus_ speake what it of _Delia_ can, And it will eccho her loue-languishment. Chaste eyes somtimes reflect kind blandishment: Beside, thy foueraigne will thy subiect be, Once a great king, now a despised man, A vassall, and a slaue to Loue and thee. 38 Why dost thou weep? tis I shold drown mine eies And burst my heart with languor, and dispaire, I whom thy vnrelenting thoughts despise, I who can woo thee by no sute, nor prayer, Yet doating mad for thee, ô cruell faire, I sweare by this diuine white daizy-hand, The loue I beare thee, in my heart it lies, Whose searching fire, no reason can withstand. 39 Wilt thou be mine? here shalt thou liue with me, Free'd from oppression, and the Souldiers lust, Who if thou passe my Tent, will seize on thee, And they are rude, and what they will thou must. O do not to the common Kestrels trust, They are not as the Eagles noble kinde, But rough, and daring in all villany: Honor with me, with them scarce safety finde. 40 Honor and safety, both in true loue is, And _Mahomet_ is zealous, ô loue him: With him ioy euery thing that tasts of blisse, Pompe, honor, pleasure, shews, and pastimes trim, Care dwels not where he dwels, nor sorrow grim Onely till now, that he for _Hiren_ mournes: A Greeke whom he would bring to paradice, He ner'e took thought, but now he sighs & burns. 41 Wilt thou be his, on thee shall waite and tend, A traine of Nymphs, and Pages by thy side, With faunes, horse, coach, & musicke which shall lend The spheares new notes in their harmonies pride. When thou wilt walke, and publikly be ey'd, To bring thee in thy hie way, cloath'd with flowers Shall sent like _Tempe_ when the graces send, To meet each other in those fragrant bowers. 42 At home shall comick Masques, & night disports Conduct thee to thy pillow, and thy sheetes, And all those reuels which soft loue consorts, Shall entertaine thee with their sweetest sweets. And as the warlike God with _Venus_ meetes, And dallies with her in the Paphian groue, Shall _Mahomet_ in bed shew thee such sports, As none shall haue, but she which is his loue. 43 Againe: No more againe (saies she) great king, I know you can do much, and all this to, But tell me when we loose so deere a thing, Shame can we take pride in, in publike shew: Think you the adulterate owle, then wold not so? No, no, nor state, nor honor can repure, Dishonor'd sheet's, nor lend the owle daies wing Ignoble shame a King cannot recure. 44 Now say mine eies & cheeks are faire, what then? Why so are yours, yet do I dote on you? Beauty is blacke, defam'd by wicked men, And yet must euery beauty make men sue? Too good is worse then bad, you seeme too true Too easie, passionate, loue-sicke, and kinde, Then blame not me, that cannot so soone ren Your course: the fault is in your forward minde. 45 But say great prince, I had a wanton eye, Would you adde _Syrius_ to the sommer sunne? And whurle hote flaming fire where tow doth lie By which combustion all might be vndone? For loke how mightier greater Kings do run Amisse, the fault is more pernicious, And opens more to shame and obloquy, Then what we erre in, or is done by vs. 46 A Monarch, and a mighty Conquerour To doate, proues euery woman is his better, But I'le be true to thee (said he:) One houre (Said she;) but what for truth, when it is fitter We keepe our own, then haue a doubtful debter. But I will sweare, said he: So _Iason_ did, Replide faire _Hiren_, yet who faithlesse more, or more inconstant to his sworne loues bed? 47 Too many mirrors haue we to behold, Of mens inconstancy, and womens shame. How many margent notes can we vnfold, Mourning for virgins that haue bene too blame? And shall I then run headlong to the flame? I blush, but it is you should be ashamed, For know, if that you neuer haue beene told, "Vertue may be inforc'd, but not defamed. 48 Faire louely Prince, let warre your triumphs be, Go forward in the glittering course you run, The kingly Eagle strikes through _Atomie_, Those little moates that barre him from the Sun, Then let not both of vs be here vndone, You of your Conquest, I of Chastitie. And pardon my rude specch, for lo you see, I plead for life, and who's not loath to dye? 49 Death of my fame, which oft proues mortal death Witnesse the Prince-forc'd chaste _Lucretia_, Ere I like her be rap'd, ô reaue my breath, And gainst thy nature, take a yeelding pray, That will embrace death, before thee this day. If thou loue me, shew it in killing me, Thy sword had neuer yet a chaster sheath, Nor thou, nor _Mahound_ a worse enemy. 50 He heard nor this, nor ought of what she said, For all his senses now were turn'd to eyes, And with such fired gaze he view'd this maid, That sure I thinke not _Hermes_ mysteries, Nor all his _Caducean_ nouelties, That flow from him like a slye winding streame, (To which the Gods gladly their eares haue laid) Could once haue mou'd him from this waking dreame. 51 But sighes he sends out on this embassie, Liegers that dye ere they returne againe, Poore substitutes to coape with chastity. She knew the pleading of their Liege was vaine, And all his teares like to a Mel-dew raine, That falles vpon the floures, to defloure. Yet, for twas tedious, she did aske him why, Each sigh was o're him such a conquerour. 52 By heauen he swore, and made his Eunuch start, I sigh to coole Loues fire, then kist her hand: For know, thou wonder of the Easterne part, He need not counterfeite that can command: But by thy middle, _Cupids_ coniuring wand, I am all loue, and faire beleeue my vow, Sprung from a Souldier, now a louers heart, He sweares to loue, that neuer lou'd till now. 53 Not halfe so faire was _Hellen_, thy pre'cessor, On whom the firy brand of Troy did dote, For whom so many riuall kings to succour, Made many a mountaine pine on Symois floate, Whilst fame to this day, tels it with wide throat. _Hector_ fell wounded in that warlike stir, _Peleus_ did faint, _Aiax_ that lusty warriour, Then blame not me, that loue one far 'boue her. 54 Nature deuis'd her owne despaire in thee, Thine eye not to be match'd, but by the other, Doth beare the influence of my destiny. And where they stray, my soule must wander thither Beauty of beauty, mother of Loues mother. All parts he praises, coming to her lip, Currall beneath the waues, vermilion dye, And being so neere, he wold not ouerslip. 55 Now tyres the famish'd Eagle on his pray, Incorporating his rude lips in hers, Sucking her balmey breath soft as he may: Which did more vigor, through his brest disperse, Such kisses louers vse at first conuerse. All parts were to that center drawne I wis, Close as the dew-wormes at the breake of day, That his soule shew'd, as t'were a melting kisse. 56 Till breathles now, he breath'd into her loue, Who scorn'd to take possession by degrees, No law with her strange passion, will he proue, But hauing interest, scorn'd one inch to leese, _Cupid_, sheele set thee free withouten fees. But though his wings she well nie set on fire, And burn'd the shaft, that first her brest did moue, Yet _Cupid_ would be Lord of her desire. 57 Tis sayd, _Aurora_ blushes euery morne, For feare that _Titan_ should her fault espy, And blushes so did _Hirens_ cheekes adorne, Fearing least _Mahomet_ perceiu'd her eye. Louers are blind, and what could he espy. No, twas the hidden vertue of that kisse, That her chast lips were nere vs'd to beforne, That did vnframe her, and confirme her his. 58 Louers beleeue, lips are inchanted baites, After fifteene, who kisses a faire maide, Had need to haue friends trusty of the fates, For by my muse (I sweare) I am a afraid, Hee's Iourney-man already in Loues trade. A kiffe is porter to the caue of loue, Well see, and you may enter all the gates: "Women were made to take what they reproue. 59 A kisse is the first Tutor and instinct, The guider to the Paphian shrine and bowers. They who before ne're entred loues precinct, Kissing shall finde it, and his sundry powers. O how it moues this continent of aires, And makes our pulse more strong & hye to beat, Making vs know when lips are sweetly linck't, That to those Kickshawes 'longs more dainty meate. 60 And so indeed bewitched _Hiren_ knowes, The pressure of his lips was not in vaine, Seldome proue women friends vnto their foes, But when with ouer kindnesse they are tane, So weake professors do swalow their owne bane: Shew them the axe they'l suffer martyrdome, But if promotion to them you propose, And flattery, then to the lure they come. 61 Thus _Mahomet_ blinds her with _Cupids_ vaile, And this new conuertite building on hope, Loue makes folks hardy, alas the flesh is fraile, Dispences now a little with the Pope: And fr[=o] restrictions giues her heart more scope. O Liberty, Author of heresie. Why with such violent wing dost thou assaile, To hurry vertue to impiety. 62 No pardon will she now implore of _Rome_, Her selfe she pardons twenty times an houre, Nor yet an heretike her selfe doth doome, Since she hath _Mahomet_ within her power. O loue too sweet, in the digestion sower! Yet was he made, as nature had agreed, To match them both together from her wombe, And be a ioyfull grandam in their seed. 63 A face Nature intended for a maister peece, And louely as the maide (though a blacke pearle) Painters and women say, an _Eben_ fleece, Doth well beseeme the shoulders of an Earle: Blacke snares they were, that did entrap this girle Each haire like to a subtile serpent taught her, Of the forbidden fruit to taste a peece, Whil'st _Eue_ is stain'd againe here in her daughter. 64 His eyes were stuck like Comets in his head, As if they came to treate of nouelties, And bring the world and beautie into dread: That he must conquer chastest chastities. O who such tempting graces could despise, All voluntarie sinnes soules may refraine, But Natures selfe that of the flesh is bred, Such power she hath, that vice she will retaine. 65 Let me, faire Greeke, a little plead for thee, Like a vaine Orator, more for applause, And swolne commends, of those are standers by, Then profits sake, or goodnesse of the cause. If men that vpon holy vowes do pawse, Haue broke, alas, what shall I say of these, The last thing thought on by the Deitie, Natures step-children, rather her disease. 66 Maide, why commit you wilfull periurie? To you I speake that vowe a single life, I must confesse y'are mistresse of beauty: Which beautie with your oaths is still at strife. Then know of me, thou, widow, maide or wife, She that is faire and vowes still chast to stand, Shall find an opposite to constancie, Fooles Oracles last not, are writ in sand. _The end of the first Tome._ TO THE PERFECTION OF Perfection, and wisedome of Womanhood, the intelligent, and worthily admired, Elizabeth Countesse of Darby, wife to the thrice-noble William Earle _of Darby_. _VVhen as the skilfull Statuaries make, The image of some great & worthy one, They still, as they intend his forme to take, Forecast the Basis he shall rest vpon, Whose firme infixe thunders nor winds can shake, Nor Time, that Nature deeds to liue alone. So (worthiest Lady) may I proudly vaunt, (Being neuer guilty of that crime before) That to this Laye, which I so rudely chaunt, Your diuine selfe, which_ Dian _doth adore, As her maids her, I haue select to daunt Enuy: as violent as these nam'd before_. _Uertue and beauty both with you enioy,_ Gorgon _and_ Hydra (_all but death_) _destroy._ Your honors from youth oblig'd, Wil. Barksted. The second Tome. 67 Long did this beautious martyr keep her faith, Thinking that _Mahomet_ was full of error: Treading that high coelestiall milkie path, Virginity, that did produce hels terror, Yet knowing loue in Princes turnes to wrath, She meanes to catch his fancies with her cunning: But so resistlesse is this Princes feruor, Though he imprison loue, still feares his cunning. 68 For like a Castle seated on a rocke, Besieg'd by thousands danger each way spread, That had withstood the battery of warres shock: The liuing making bulwarkes of the dead. So did this Virgins thoughts to her hart flock, Wiuing her danger, when her powers were lost: _Hyrena_ will yeeld vp her maiden head, A gift to make _Ioue_ proud, or silence bost. 69 He gently woes her with the misers God, The _Indians_ ignorance, and vertues slaue, Bright flaming gold, for where that ha's abode, All doores flies open to the wish we craue. Gold is mans mercy, and his makers rod, She loues the King for honor and for riches, He makes her eyes his heauen, her lap his graue, A womans face oft Maiesties bewitches. 70 When news is brought him that his foes are come, He catches straite this maiden in his armes, Calling for musicke that is now his drumme: Ile keepe thee safe (quoth he) for other harmes, Tho spoke in thunder they to me are dumbe. To counsell now they call him with low duty, But her Idea so his sences charmes, He drownes all speech in praising of her beauty. 71 One tels him that the Christians are in field. You do not marke her beauty, he replies. Two mightie Cities to their power doth yeeld: Note but the lustre sparkling from her eyes. Your subiects hearts, against your life are steeld: Her tongue is musick, that strikes wonder dumbe. Your people struck with warre by millions dyes: If she but frowne then I shall ouercome. 72 Shall I feare this worlds losse enioying heauen, Or thinke of danger when an Angel guards me? Can greater glory to my life be giuen, Then her maiesticke beauty that rewards me? Nay is not he of happinesse bereau'd, That neuer saw her face nor heard her voyce, And those that win our loue, most regards me, Confesse that we are godlike in our choice. 73 He left his Ianisaries in a trance, And to her priuate chamber straite enioyes, His bloud within his azure veines doth dance: "In loue th' effects are seene before the cause: For nectar'd kisses and a smile by chance, Are but loue branches, though they grow vp first, And _Cupid_ thus confines vs in his lawes, To tast the fountaine ere we quench our thirst. 74 Night like a Princes pallace full of light, Illumin'd all the earth with golden starres, Here Art crost Nature, making day of night: And _Mahomet_ prepares him for loues warres. A banquet is ordain'd to feed delight, Of his Imperiall bountie with expences: A heauen on earth he presently prepares, To rauish in one hower all her sences. 75 Her eyes could glance no way but saw a iewell, As rich as _Cleopatra_ gaue her loue. Pictures haue power to warme ice with loues fewell. The gentle treading of the Turtle-doue, The Camels lust that in his heate is cruell: And _Iupiter_ transformed from a man, When with his breast the siluer streame did moue, And rauish _Læda_ like a snowy Swan. 76 The table furnisht, to delight the taste, With food aboue _Ambrosia_ diuine, Such as would helpe consumptions that did wast: The life bloud, or the marrow, Greekish wine, So high one draught would make _Dian_ vnchast. _Nectar_ is water to this banquets drinke, Here _Æsculapius_ did his art resigne, And pleasure drown'd with standing on the brink. 77 To please her hearing Eunuches sang as shrill, As if that nature had dismembred them, All birds that ecchoes musicke through the bill, Sang ioy to her in an vndittied antheme: An artificiall heauen stands open still, Filling the roofe with a sweet vnknowne noyse, Downe fals a clowd like a rich diadem, And showes a hundred naked singing boyes. 78 The sence of smelling with all rare deuises, That rich _Arabia_ or the world can yeeld, The dew of Roses and choise Indian spices, The purest of the garden and the field. The earth to part with these rare gifts now rises, And vowes no more her nature so profuse, Shall let her sweets be from her breast distild, To feed their vanitie with her abuse. 79 Then in a rich imbroidred bed of downe, Pluck't from the c[=o]stant Turtles fethered breast, Vpon her head he set imperiall crowne, And to her goes: Now is his soule at rest. This night he counts the end of his renowne, The sence of feeling, she feeles by his power, And like a subiect yeelds to his request, Whilest _Mahomet_ a virgin doth deflower. 80 Now feares this flower deflowr'd his loue will waine, Wishing the lustfull act had bin vndoon, The pleasure cannot counteruaile the paine, For still she thinkes with torment ioy is woon, His loue growes full, she gets it now with gaine: He like a ring of gold insets his iewell, But fearing of his force she should disdaine, Till sighes and kisses did inflame Loues fewell. 81 Then like the God of Warre, caught in a net, He twin'd his _Venus_, danger was not nigh, And as a Diamond compar'd with Iet, So show'd her sparkling eye against his eye. The sunne-gaz'd Eagle now this done doth get, And gently gripes her, hurting not his pray, She sounds with pleasure, second sweets are high And wishes _Phoebus_ blinde all night, no day. 82 The red-cheek't morning opens now her gate, And busie day breathes life into the world, The heauens great coachman mounted is in state, And darknesse from the aire to hell is hurld. Now pleasures king by day light sees his mate, Whil'st she lay blushing like the damaske rose, His ietty haire she with her fingers curld, He hug'd her fast, least he his ioyes should lose. 83 Her sight begot in him a new desire, For that is restlesse alwaies in extreames, Nought but saciety can quench loues fire. Now throgh the christal casem[=e]t _Phoebus_ beames Dazled those twinckling starres that did aspire, To gaze vpon his brightnesse being a louer. Tasting her petulans in waking dreames, To hide her from the sunne, he doth her couer. 84 Then sweet breath'd musicke, like the chime of spheares, Did rauish pleasure, till this paire did rise: More wonder then that sound was to men eares Was her rare beauty to the gazers eyes. Ioy was so violent, the rockes it teares, The noise and triumphs beates vpon the aire, And like ambition pierceth through the skies, That _Ioue_ loo'kt downe on her that was so rare. 85 Thus _Mahomet_ both day and night doth spend, In obseruation of her eyes and pleasure, Growing so iealous, least he should offend, His soules perfection, natures vnspent treasure. If she but speake to him, he low doth bend, And such a seruitude he doth discouer. Neglecting of himselfe in that grosse measure, That _Hiren_ clips her slaue, no Emperour. 86 Her chamber is her prison (O most willing) And there like house-doues they each other woo At first shee'l shun him, after fall a billing, And with imagination make him doo. Thy eies quoth _Mahomet_, saues thousands killing For all my force vpon thee shall be spent, Thy warres directions I do best allow, Thy Armes my Armour, and thy bed my Tent. 87 Who doth offend this paramour, straight dyes, As certainly, as if pronounc'd by fate, Who doth with duty please her, needs must rise, Her face directeth both his loue and hate. The grosest flatterer is held most wise. Now reignes swolne gluttony, red lust, and pride: For when the heart's corrupted in a state, Needs must the other parts be putrifide. 88 The c[=o]mons like wolues, bark againft the moone And sweare they wil depose him from his throne: The Nobles whisper, and intend, that soone. Some one shal let their griefe to him be knowne. To scape that office now is each mans boone, Who speakes against her whets a fatall knife, For he replyes, I loose but what's mine owne, As sure as we haue life, you loose that life. 89 They stand amaz'd, by hearing their own feares Each viewing other with a face extracted: Some praying, cursing, other shedding teares, To see a Louer by a Souldier acted. Patience doth foole vs that so long forbeares, To tell our Emperour hee's turn'd a monster, And to such ease and vices so contracted. The world, his birth, and titles doth mis-conster. 90 Then _Mustapha_, beloued of the Turke, Stood vp, and said, I hazard will my head, Know Countrymen, Ile vndertake this worke, And if I fall, lament me being dead. No flattery within this breast shall lurke: For that to Princes eares is now grown common Whilest _Mahomet_ to haue his pleasure fed, Doth loose the worlds sway for a fickle woman. 91 Vnto her priuate chamber straight he goes, And findes his foueraigne sleeping on her lap, On suddaine wakes him: Sir, here are your foes, The sound amaz'd him like a thunder-clap: Although you sleep, awak't are all our woes. The franticke Emperour vpon him stares, Relate in briefe the worst of our mishap, Man cannot wrong vs, when a God not dares. 92 This danger _Mehomet_, attends thy reigne, The Gods are angry with thy lustfull ease, Thy priuate pleasure is the Empires paine, To please your selfe you all the world displease: The Sophy, German, and the King of Spaine, Begirt thy safety with the ribbes of death. Then worthy Prince, your wonted valour cease, And take my counsel, though it cost my breath. 93 You are but the shadow of an Emperour, Not really effecting what you are, A slothfull Epicure, a puling louer, That now en'e trembles at the name of warre, Obliuion all thy former acts do couer, Most willing to remoue you I will dye, The sunne of honour now is scarce a starre, Vertue at first was sire to Maiesty. 94 The Emperour vpon his subiect stares, As if a Gorgons head he there had seene, How comes it vassall, that thy proud t[=o]gue dares, Speake to remoue mee fr[=o] this heauenly queene? The gods wold liue on earth, to haue their shares In my _Hirena_: Sirra, you want nurture: Thy life I will not touch now in my spleene, But in cold bloud it shall depart with torture. 95 I feare not death, repli'd bold _Mustapha_, At your command I'le clime a steepy rocke, Then headlong tumble downe into the sea, Or willingly submit me to the blocke, Disrobe my nature, and my body flea: Yet in that tyranny I'le speake my minde, And boldly like a Souldier stand deaths shocke, Concluding, lust can strike the Eagle blinde. 96 His haughty words amaz'd this king of loue, Thou wert not wont to speake thus without duty. Can her embraces so my soule remoue? And must he be a coward dotes on beauty? Such rarity of pleasure I do proue, In her enioying, that my soule is fed, With that variety, to speake her truly, Each night she giues me a new maiden-head. 97 Yet shall my subiects know my power in this, That I can rule mine own affection: I pardon freely what thou speak'st amisse, Knowing it sprung from loue, and thy subiection: Your eies shall see me rob the earth of blisse, A sight too sad, all heauen strike men with terror, And in that act cast such reflexion. That kings shall see th[=e]selues in me their mirror. 98 Go, tell my Bashaes, and the noble bloud, I do inuite them to a royall dinner, And there I'le shew them loue can be withstood: Yet he that wrongs my _Greeke_ is such a sinner, He cannot cleanse himselfe, washt in _Ioues_ flood. Fortune this fate vpon my loue hath hurld, The Monarkes of the earth in hope to win her, Against her beauty would stake all the world. 99 Leaue vs: and be thou comforted my faire, I will aduance thee bou'e the stile of woman: Let not my words bring thee vnto dispaire, Thou shalt imbrace the Gods, for her's no man Worthy to taste thy sweetes, they are so rare. Drawn by the _Phoenix_ thou through heauen shalt ride And _Saturn_ wo[=u]ded by loues litle bowman Shall get his sonne to haue thee stellifide. 100 Go decke thy beauty with heauens ornament, Shine Cinthia like with iewels in the night, As she with starres stucke in heauens firmament; But thine, the greater will deface her light, Making her yeeld to thee her gouernment. On _Saturnes_ top thy face shall gaine opinion, Beyond cold _Phoebe_ shining out so bright, Thou shalt be courted by her loue _Endimion_. 101 Let ioy possesse thy heart, and be thou proud, In sight of all the Turkish Emperours Peares, Let not thy sunne of beauty in a cloud, Be hid from those, whose eies with deawy teares, For want of thy pure heate in shades do shroud, Their drooping forheads, but thy beames exhales All misty vapours, and the welkin cleares, Like putrifying lightning, or _Ioues_ balles. 102 Then hand in hand they passe out of the roome, Her beauty like a blazing starre admired, Well may I tearme it so, it shew'd the doome, Of her liues date that instant was expired. Now to the presence chamber they are come, Where all in reuerence kisse the humble earth, Here nature tooke her own, and death hath hir'd; To giue that backe againe, which she gaue birth. 103 Now stands in the midst, and thus begins, (Taking the faire _Hirena_ by the hand:) Which of you here, that such a creature wins, Would part with her, for honor, loue, or land? The gods were enuious wh[=e] they made those sins Which are th crowns of this fraile worlds c[=o]tent, Nor can it with their humane reason stand, To thinke our ioyes begets our punishiment. 104 View but her hand, her lip, her brow, her eyes, The smalnesse of her waste, and comely stature, And let your iudgement bou'e your hatred rise, Th[=e] you must needs c[=o]fesse, she excels in feature. That you are onely fooles, I truly wise, Doe not her presence admiration strike, And broken is her frame by angry nature, For feare she wrongs herselfe, and make the like. 105 What man that hauing toild in hidden Art, Spent all his youth, and substance to the bone, All bookes and knowledge in the deepest part, To finde that _Phoenix_, that gold-getting stone, And hauing it, to comfort his weake heart, Shall he his seruants, wife, or friends to please, With his owne eies go see that iewell throwne, Into the bottomelesse and gaping seas. 106 Or which of you can haue the fortitude, To lop a limbe off, or pull out an eye, Or being in a heauenly seruitude, To free your selues would with the damned lye? Of force with me you now must all conclude, That mortall men are subiect to loues rod, But heere you shall perceiue that onely I, Am natures conquerour, and a perfect God. 107 Then with a smiling looke, he came vnto her, And kist her, bad her pray, and then he smil'd, I must not in my constancy now erre, Since by mine owne tongue I a God am sti'ld. He drawes a fatall Turkish Simiter, With it he parts her body from her head. And though his tyranny did proue so vile, She seem'd to mocke him smiling being dead. 108 Vntill he tooke it in his bloudy power, And then a crimson floud gusht out a pace, The fauor chang'd fr[=o] smiling and look't sower. And senceles teares ran trickling downe her face, As who should say, I thought within this hower, For me thou wouldst haue oppos'd heauen with strife, That earthly being is like falling glasse, To thee I lost virginity and life. 109 Long stood he mute, and gaz'd vpon her forme, Till _Mustapha_ came in to play his part, His eies shot lightning like a horrid storme, Th[=e] with his fauchion runs him through the hart, O could this diuell my soule so tranforme, That I must eate that snake in him did lurke, But this is hels instruction, the blacke Art. To giue our sins the means by which they work. 110 O my _Hirena_, _Mahomet_ then cries, Looke through the orbes, & see an Emperour sad Detaine her not you rulers in the skies, But send her once more, to make Monarkes glad. My soule to thine like _Tartars_ shaft now flies, They held his arme, or else he had done the deed This mighty _Mahomet_ with loue growne mad, Can nothing ease you, but your heart must bleed. 111 Where is that God-head due vnto your birth, Descended from the _Prophet Mahomet_, Recall your spirits to their former mirth, And keep your colour constant like the Iet. Now shew your fortitude, be God on earth, Marshall your men, giue eare vnto your Drum, And let your valour with the sunne being set, With the resplendancy burne Christendome. 112 Awake dull mate, and leaue this trance, Be perfect man, as thou hast here thy being, Not subiect vnto passion or chance; But like thy selfe, with Kingly thoughts agree, Our siluer moone to heauen we will aduance, And Christendome shall mourne for _Hirens_ fall, That heathen Princes our braue acts seeing, Shall yeeld the world to vs, we king of all. 113 And for my loues vnkindly Tragedy, A thousand Citties for her death shall mourne, And as a relicke to posterity, Our priests shall keep her ashes in their vrne, And fame to future times with memory, Shall sound her glory, and my loues effects, For, till this vniuersall Masse doth burne, Her beauty rests the wonder of her sex. 114 Now order my affaires for bloudy warre, For heere I vow this loue shall be my last, No more shall downy pleasure, like a barre, Stop my designes that now at honour gast, Shoote prophet on my forhead a blessed starre, A Tygers fiercenesse, and my heart shall moue, Because with _Hiren_ all affections past, I'le pitty none, for pitty begets loue. _FINIS._ THE LOVE OF AMOS AND LAVRA. written by S. P. LONDON Printed for Richard Hawkins, dwelling in Chancery-Lane: neere Sarieants-Inne. 1613. TO MY APPROVED AND MVCH RESPECTED FRIEND, _Iz: Wa:_ To thee thou more then thrice beloued friend, I too vnworthie of so great a blisse: These harsh tun'd lines I here to thee commend, Thou being cause it is now as it is: For hadst thou held thy tongue by silence might, These had bene buried in obliuions night. If they were pleasing, I would call them thine, And disavow my title to the verse: But being bad, I needs must call them mine, No ill thing can be clothed in thy verse. Accept them then, and where I haue offended, Rase thou it out, and let it be amended. _S. P._ THE AVTHOR TO HIS BOOKE. Go little booke into the largest world, And blase the chastnes of thy maiden Muse: Regardles of all enuie on thee hurld, By the vnkindnes that the readers vse: And those that enuie thee by scruples letter, Bid them take pen in hand and make a better. THE LOVE OF _Amos_ and _Laura_. In the large confines of renowned _France_ There liu'd a Lord, whom Fortune did aduance, VVho had a Daughter, _Laura_ call'd the faire; So sweet, so proper, and so debonaire, That strangers tooke her for to be none other, Then _Venus_ selfe, the God of _Loues_ owne Mother. Not farre from thence was scituate a Towne, The Lord thereof a man of great renowne; VVhom likewise Fortune blessed with a Sonne, _Amos_ by name, so modest, ciuill, yong, And yet in sight so wondrous and so bold, As that therein he passed vncontroul'd: So kinde to strangers, and so meeke to all; Of comely grace, and stature somewhat tall. As the wide world not two such Impes affords, As were the off-springs of these happy Lords. Hunting he lou'd, and therefore in a morne He shakes off sleepe (for ease he laughes to scorne) Before the sable Curtaines of the East Proclaim'd the Sunnes approach vnto the west; Or _Tytan_, Lordly Ruler of the morne, Had in his Chariot, left the night forlorne; Or sounded sleepe to them, with whom (men say) It's darksome night when we enioy the day: He brac'd his Hounds, and striding o'er his Steed, Hope with a conquest did the youngster feed: VVhich done, he hyes him to a mighty wood, That ioyn'd where _Laura's_ Fathers Pallace stood. Thither being come, a Bore he rais'd, whose pace Did make our hunts-man loose his Hounds in chase: Ranging the woods, he light into a Groue, More pleasant farre then that where _Venus_ stroue To win _Adonis_ to her hearts desire, Moued by the burning zeale of sweet _Loues_ fire. In this sweet Groue God _Pan_ did keepe his Court, And summon'd all the petty Gods resort, As Satyres, Nymphes, and others, to the same, VVhere all sing prayses vnto _Laura's_ name. Into this Groue (neare to her chamber side) (To take the Ayre) she comes forth; soone espide Of the yong Hunts-man, who made haste vnto her, And thus the Nouice there beginnes to wooe her: Parragon of beauty, diuine, though earthly creature, And yet Celestiall in thy heauenly feature. This sodaine courting, and vnwelcome sight, Made her adde wings to feare, and to that, flight: He following after, caught her by the traine, That in a rage the Maide turn'd backe againe, And did demaund why he without remorse, Durst cause her stay, against her will, by force. Mou'd by the rosiate colour of thy face, (VVherein consists (quoth he) all heauenly grace) I was too bold, I must confesse indeede, To touch the seluage of thy sacred weede: For which my selfe Ile punish as thou wilt, VVith any paine, for my deserued guilt. Doe but pronounce the sentence of my death, These hands shall be the butchers of my breath: But since the merit of my fault's no deeper, Oh let me be thy Prisoner, thou my Keeper; So shall thine eyes be witnesse of the woe, VVhich for my bold offence Ile vndergoe. Pronounce thy sentence then. VVherwith she spake, You are your Crafts-man Sir: and there she brake. Yet turning backe, quoth she, ô would 'twere true, Your loue were firme to me, as mine to you! And here she ceased: for when he came neare her, She was afraid that he would ouer-heare her. And art thou so vnwilling then, quoth hee, To doome the sentence which I aske of thee? Perswade thy selfe it is thy purer minde That will not let thy heart proue so vnkinde: O would that minde were mine, to ioyne thy hart Eyther to end my life, or ease my smart. Loue is my sute. Nor hate is my reply, Quoth she. Quoth hee, I cannot court it I; They which but view the error in my lookes, May finde I neuer learn'd in _Cupids_ bookes: But like a stone rough hewen from the rockes, And after polish'd by the Masons knockes, The former shewes but base then in compare, So to my loue my speech disgraces are: For were my speech true patterne of my minde, Not as it doth, should't come, but farre more kinde, Like as the Marchant hearing of a losse, Is vvondrous sory for so great a crosse; And after heareth by a true report, His goods are safely landed in the Fort, Cannot expresse the joy he doth conceiue: For why? it doth his senses quite bereaue; And yet with signe of sorrow blames th'euent, Although it seeme most plaine and euident. Or like a Ship toss'd by tempestuous weather, Now here, then there; now back againe, then thither That whirle-windes meeting (roaring out aloud) Make watry mountaines shew the ship each cloud: Then with such fury they descend the deepe, From top of triple-Cedar-mountaines steepe, As of the Seas rich orientall shew, Against their wils they take a counterview. So fares his minde, which tossed to and fro, Sometimes doth ioy, and other times is woe: Sometimes from depth ascends into the ayre, And though he hope, he hides it with despayre. So long with feruent zeale he mou'd his sute, Onely for want of words his tongue was mute. "VVhere true affection rules in hottest fires, "Dumbe signes and tokens then shew mens desires: For what he thought he shew'd, he could not vtter, _W_hich made him oft when he shold speak to mutter. She that was wounded with the selfe-same dart, Reueal'd with tongue that which she wisht with hart And fram'd her answere, so much't could not grieue him, For 'twas a salue to wound and to relieue him. Say I could loue, quoth she, my milder minde, (Vnlesse you further moue) cannot vnkinde, Frame you an answere: for wee are by nature So much addicted to mans heauenly feature, That though your faults are great by your abuse, To blinde the same it is our womans vse. Then as thou found'st me, leaue me, if thou wilt; That shall be all I render for thy guilt. Further I will not credit thy report: Farewell; be gone, for I am mist in Court. With that shee flyes, and in her flight she leaues A well wrought Scarfe, which straight the winde vp heaues; And proud of such a prise, they doe infer With their embassage vnto _Jupiter_, And there presented it: who, as 'twas right, Did make the windes returne't with swiftest flight, Vnto the place where _Amos_ stood amazed At that which hapt, who like a mad-man gazed, Wondring what she by this illusion meant, When to allure him was her whole intent: But led in admiration most of all, At the rich Scarfe which from the Maide did fall. He viewes the worke, where finding of _Apollo_ Chasing a Nymph, who swifter then a Swallow Flyeth his armes, for feare did lend her wings To flye from him which after her soone flings. Himselfe a foole he cals, that wanting skill, Being allur'd, he had not knowne her will. Doubtfull, he feares offence committed to her, That he so rashly, gain'st her will, durst wooe her. To cleare himselfe of which offence he flyes, Resolu'd to winne the Maide, or lose the prize, With prosperous hast. Oh may thy hast well speed, Whose wondrous loue did vertuously proceed: Not from the flames of filthy lusts desire, As was that Rome-borne _Tarquins_ lustfull fire: But as vnspotlesse from that filthy thought, From that most hell-deseruing thing of nought, As euer heart lodg'd in a loyall brest, Or tongue, vntaught to lye, euer exprest. But why doe I digresse the path I tread, Cloying your eares with that your eyes doe read? Pardon my boldnesse, and giue eare a while To that, of him, which my inferiour stile Shall now expresse: though't not with honor stands, He thinkes one paire of legs worth twice two hands. The arrow swift sent from the sturdy bow, May be accounted (to his flight) but slow: At last he gain'd the Court, to vvhich being come, It shew'd like to the Pallace of the Sunne Describ'd in _Ouid_: for in length and fairenesse, None might surpasse the workmanship and rarenes. Through which his way lies, & he needs must passe, The pauement Marble vvas, the vvals of Glasse: VVhereunder vvas so liuely caru'd the Story Of great _Joues_ loue, his vvondrous vvorks, & glory, VVith many others loue: vvhich to rehearse VVould adde a mighty volume to my Verse, Besides mine owne weake vvit: for I doe know it, He vvas a better workeman, then I Poet. Yet could not this abate the Louers pace: For he still holds the louely Maide in chase. Passing the Court, he comes into a greene, VVhich vvas in middest of the Pallace seene: Thorough the midst there ranne a pleasant Spring, On each side with a vvall of Bricke hemm'd in, Onely in midst, a Stile; beyond, a Plancke, VVhich for a Bridge did serue to eyther bancke. Ouer this Stile as _Laura_ lightly skips, In her rent garment happily it slips, And held her there a while till hee came to her, VVhere once againe the Nouice gins to wwoe her. Flye not thy friend, our Maker vvilleth so, Things reasonlesse approue and vvish it so, If vvithout sense and reason all things then Obserue a better course then humane men, How sauage were we then offending so, Committing that vvhich vve offence doe know? O were my tongue a second _Orpheus_ Harpe, That to my loue I might allure thy heart! Or vvere thy loue but equall vnto mine, Then vvould thou seeke his fauor vvho seeks thine! Me thinkes vnkindnesse cannot come from thence, VVhere beauty raignes vvith such magnificence, I meane from thee, vvhom nature hath endow'd VVith more then Art would vvillingly allow'd: And though by nature you are borne most faire, Yet Art would adde a beautie to your share: But it being spotlesse doth disdaine receipt Of all vnpolish'd painting counterfeit. Your beautie is a snare vnto our wayes, VVherein once caught, wee cannot brooke delayes; VVhich makes vs oft through griefe of minde grow sad, Griefe follows grief, then malecontent & mad. Thus by deniall doe you cause our woe, And then doe triumph in our ouer-throw. What is it to be fayre? onely a vanitie, A fading blossome of no perpetuitie. Consider this: for beautie is a flower, Subiect to ill occasions euery hower; It is a tenure holden as wee see _Durante Dei placito_, not in fee. Measure my Loue then, proue it by a tryall: Let me not languish still by your deniall. If in my suite I erre, as by mischance, Blame not my Loue but count it ignorance. The tongue is but an instrument of nought, And cannot speake the largenesse of the thought: For when the minde abounds, and almost breaketh, Then through abundance of the heart it speaketh: No man can speake but what he hath in minde, Then what I speake I thinke; be not vnkinde Vnto your seruant, who obedience proffers, And makes firme loue the obiect of his offers. I will not boast of Parentage, or Lyne, For all are base, respecting thee diuine: Nor will I boast of wealth, or riches store, For in thy face consists all wealth, and more. Pure are my thoughts as skin betweene thy browes, And eke as chaste my speech, my oathes, & vowes. Speake sweetest fayre, but one kinde word to me, How can alas that be offence in thee? There was a Dame a moderne Poet sung, _Hero_ by name, like thee, both faire and young: And both so faire, that you did others passe As farre as rarest Dyamonds common glasse. VVhom young _Leander_ courted on a greene, A Maide so faire (but thee) was neuer seene. She granted loue, which he (alas) to gaine, To reape those ioyes, did crosse the brinish Maine. My loue to thee, I now compare to his; Accounting danger, so requited, blisse. There are no Seas to separate our ioy, No future danger can our Loue annoy: Then grant to me what she denide not him; If good in her, in thee it is no sinne. The Sunne hath shin'd thus long, ô let not now The Sunne be darkened by thine angry brow. But rather let each looke a Comet be That may presage my happy destinie. I could to you a short discourse impart, That would relent the direst stony hart, VVer't not offence. It's no offence quoth she. Then thus the same Ile briefely tell, quoth he: A poore old man by chance did breake his leg, And he was told where he was wont to beg, That such a Surgion (telling of his name,) If that he pleas'd, could quickly cure the same. VVhich when he heard, to him for helpe he goes, And craues for Gods sake he would ease his woes. The Surgion greedy to haue coyne therefore, But finding none, he would not heale the sore: VVhich caus'd the poore old man to keepe his bed, That he for want of helpe in time was dead. Alas poore soule; (quoth shee) and did he dye? VVould I were Iudge, or hee were such as I, I so would vse the Surgion, as that hee Should feele the griefe which he before did see. Thus you confesse your wrong to me sweet Maid, If you performe (quoth he) the vvords you said. I am the man, who wounded, seeke reliefe: And you, the causer of my endlesse griefe; You are the Surgion, whom I vrge the more To cure the wound because you made the sore. Be not obdurate then, sith my disease Is quickly cured, if the Surgion please. And this I vow, water shall turne to fire, Huge massie mountaines to the clouds aspire; The Sun shall leaue his course, the Moon her brightnes, Night turne to day, and day shall lose his lightnes; Fishes shall flye, birds swimme; and Hare shall hunt The Hound, which to pursue the Hare vvas wont: Ayre, Earth, Fire, VVater, all things which you view Shall change their natures, ere I turne from you: And longer then I breathe a loyall friend, Let me (ô heauens) endure a wicked end. Silence (quoth she) and here let cease thy sute, Cause of distrust in loue did make me mute: Aske why I yeelded in so short a season, Because I loue, that is a womans reason. Yet Maides are fearefull; for by mens abuse, Courting is turned to a common vse, How is he held, that cannot in these dayes Fash'on his words to each fantasticke phrase? VVhich makes vs oft with one word to debase Him from our bosomes, whom our hearts imbrace: And, as you men doe for a Prouerbe make it, That which we loue we oft say nay and take it. Delayes breede danger, wherefore what I said, And what agrees with Honour, and a Maid, I yeeld to thee, but yet on this condition, Thou shalt not dare t'attempt the least fruition Of my chaste thoughts, by drawing them aside, Before in wedlocke I am made thy Bride. This said; shee to the Court, hee to his Hounds, _W_here they had slaine a Bore, whose bloud abounds: Glad of his prey, he hastneth home amaine, VVith short returne he comes to her againe, And hauing ioyn'd themselues in _Hymens_ bands, The sacred Priest vniteth heart and hands: They reape those ioyes which elder louers know, And thus my Tale doth end, thus ends their woe. _FINIS._ THE SCOVRGE OF VENVS. _OR_, The wanton Lady. _WITH_ THE RARE BIRTH OF _ADONIS._ Written by _H. A._ _LONDON_ Printed by _Nicholas Okes_ dwelling neere _Holborne-bridge._ 1613. _To the Reader._ _Gentlemen, if your fancy will permit you to fauour this booke, I shall be thankfull, if not, I can but repent at the charge of the Impression, I meane but little gaine to my selfe, yet much pleasure to you, if it were my owne wit, and you condemne it, I should be ashamed of my publicke intrusion, but since it was the labour of a man wel-deseruing, forbeare open reprehending, for, as I haue heard, 'twas done for his pleasure, without any intent of an Impreßion; thus much I excuse him that I know not, and commend that which deserueth well, if I be partiall, I pray patience._ _The Scourge of Venus._ Whilst that the Sunne was climing vp in haste, To view the world with his ambitious eye. Faire _Myrha_; yet alas, more faire then chaste. Did set her thoughts to descant wantonly; Nay most inhumane, more then bad, or ill, As in the sequell you may reade at will. You that haue parents, or that parents be, Depart a space, and giue not eare at all To the foule tale that here shall vttered be: Some filthy shame let on all other fall, If possibly there can be any such, From nature to degenerate so much. O then with _Ouid_, I am wonderous glad That this small world of ours is put so farre From those that such incestious people had: So rest thou still in glory as a starre. That scorning thrusts from other nations quite, And in thy vertues doth thy selfe delight. And now faire _Myrha_ in her youthly blood Doth on her father dote with fond desire. Each foule occasion is accounted good, That may increase her filthy lustfull fire. And as this shamefull matter wanted grace, So doubtfully she thus doth plead her case. Why should not Gods this loue of mine permit? Or be offended with me for the same? It doth infringe their sacred lawes no whit, Adding dishonour, or deseruing blame. I will proceed, good reasons for to proue, 'Tis not vnlawfull to obtaine my loue. In many countries I do certaine know, The parents with their children married be, Which they do most, their godlinesse to show, Because their loues increast thereby they see. Then shal this lucklesse plot of ground remaine, Th'occasion that my loue I not obtaine? Each night hath Nature set at liberty: All things be c[=o]mon, for she naught restrains: Then let the Daughter with the Father lye, Like president with all things else remaines. The Kid, the Heifer, and the birds we see, Affect the same of whom they gotten be. In happy case then such her creatures are, That may do so, and yet do no offence, They be more happy then is mankinde farre: For they by some malicious base pretence Haue made a curbe to hold that still in thrall Which Nature would haue common vnto all. But yet packe hence thou foule incestious loue, What, wilt vpon thy only father dote? I ought to loue him; yet as doth behoue, Not that the world therby my shame may note. O do resolue! the neerenesse of our kin, Cuts off all hope thy wished suit to win. Did _Cupid_ then ere shoot so yet before? Can _Vulcan_ forge so foule an arrow now? Or further: will dame _Venus_ euermore Such cruelty vnto her seruants show? No, no, I am deceiu'd; for now I see, With poisoned snakes some fury wo[=u]ded thee. How great (said she) ô _Venus_ mayst thou be, How was I rauished this present night, In feeling of your pleasant sports in me? I clipt a man in prime of his delight, What liuely pleasures did I there conceiue? No fault (alasse) but they too soone did leaue. Would _Cynarus_ thou hadst some other name, How fitly mightst thou haue a loue of me? How nobly mightst thereby increase thy fame, How quickly shouldst a son gaine vnto thee? I would inforce dull earthly thoughts, to craue, To kisse and clip, and other pastimes haue. What meane my dreams? haue they effect at all? May dreames a future chance to vs portend? Let then to me such dreames more oft befall, In dreames no present witnesse can offend. In dreames we may as great a pleasure take, As in some sort is found we being awake. But yet avaunt, packe hence foule filthy fire, Wring out some teares to quench this cursed flame No otherwise the daughter-like require Thy fathers loue, that blazons on thy shame. Yet put the case he first did seeke to me; No doubt I should to his request agree. Why should it not then stand right so with him, Since of one nature we participate? What if with speech thou chance his loue to win Then maist thou write, _No time is yet too late_. What thou dost blush to speake, loue bids thee write Belieue me they read more th[=e] we indite. Resolu'd on this, with trembling hand she takes The pen and paper, framing for to write, Left h[=a]d holds way, whilst right the leter makes Composing what she did in minde indite. She writes, she doubts, she chageth this for that, She likes, dislikes, & notes she knows not what. She casts away, and doth begin anew, Yet findes a want in that she framed last She blots, & then againe that thing doth view, And now the first more fits then all that's past. Father she writes, yet shame did blot it out, Then thus she writes, and casts away all doubt. I know not what, sends to I know not whom Such health that thou maist only giue to me, Which if I want, my life cannot be long, Euen that same health thy louer sends to thee. I dare not tell thee who I am for shame, Nor (out alasse) once let thee heare my name. And if thou aske of me what I desire, Or why so doubtfull I do write to thee, Would namelesse I might tell what I require, Till that my sweet were granted vnto me: Which if to know, thou wouldst make further triall A maiden asketh but a maids deniall. In token of my wounded heart, I would Within these blotted lines there might apeare My colour pale, my body leane and cold, My watery eyes, my sighes and heauy cheere, Then mightst perceiue I were in loue with thee, And how the flames of loue tormenteth me. I call the Gods as witnesse to the same Poore wretched wench, I stroue to flie the dart And did my best that out-rage for to tame Which _Cupid_ had alotted for my smart, No wench bare more then did to me betide, Which forc'd me shew the cause that I would hide. Then mercy at thy gentle hands I craue, In fearefull wise to thee I make my mone, Thou onely maist thy louer spill or saue, No enemy doth sue, but such a one That is aly'd most sweetly vnto thee, Yet in a neerer band would linked be. My life is thine, and thou didst giue it me, Then loue thy selfe and thou wilt me affect, My beauty's much, and is deriu'd from thee, Then all thy owne be carefull to respect. O stop thy eares, and heare not _Myrha's_ name, And shut thy eies wh[=e] thou dost read the same. My youthfull yeares rash folly doth beseeme, The skill of law to aged folkes belong, And all is lawfull that we list, I deeme, We take no notice of the right or wrong, If it offend to take thy owne in't bed, Let that offence be layd vpon my head. Then set apart the dread of worldly shame, And take the Gods, as presidents herein, My pregnant wit shall shun all future blame, Our pleasure scapes wel, hid with name of kin, And you may clip and kisse, and play with me, A daughters name me thinkes a cloke wil bee. Haue mercy now, I haue my case exprest, Which loue inforst my fearefull hand to write: O grant thy daughter this her first request, That is the occasion of her chiefe delight, This Epitaph deserue thou not; I haue, The cruel father tooke the life he gaue. And though my lines are blotted euery where, 'Twas with my teares that fell ere it was dry, And if my letters scribled do appeare, Whereby you thinke some other wrot to try Your mind: because my curious hand is mist, A fearefull minde, doth bring a shaking fist. And so these scrambled lines I do commend Vnto your loue, be-blurred all with teares, With feruent hope they shall no whit offend, The minde is base, that stil continuall feares. And note you which is the greater blot, To get no childe or kill that you haue got. Thus much this lustfull Lady writ in vaine, And seald it closely with a precious stone, A precious stone clos'd vp a filthy staine, Her trusty seruant forth she cals anone, And blushing bad him with a merry cheare, He should this letter to her father beare. This scarcely said, old _Cynaras_ did come, And then she cast her letter quite aside. Daughter (said he) you see the daily throng Of suters that do seeke thee for their bride: Here be their names _my wench_, th[=e] come & show On which of them thou wilt thy selfe bestow. Now for a space she silent did remaine, And onely gazed wishly in his face: She could her teares no longer then restraine, But they ran trickling down her cheeks apace Her father kisses her, and bids her peace, And thought it tender-hearted shamefastnes. He dry'd her cheekes, and said, my wench be stil, Thy yeares of right, a husband now doth claime Thou shalt not liue a maid by my good will, Nor longer shalt a wanton bed refraine, Then what, or who wilt haue? come tell me now. At length she did reply; one like to you. He did allow the choyce, and praisd the same, And kist and clipt her for her louing speech, Not deeming that it tended to their shame, It pleasd her well, & wisht that he would seech A further suit; and then made this request, Let me live still with you, let wooers rest. Your company I most of all affect, Continue but your loue, it shall suffice, These wrangling husbands why should I respect? Her father thus againe to her replies, Thy godlinesse (at which she blushed red) I like, but thou must tast a Bride-groomes bed. Thou dost not know the pleasure it affords, Nor wanton motions that therein abound. It not consisteth all of pleasant words, More gamesome tricks are there stil to be fo[=u]d A minde so chaste as thine cannot conceiue What pleasing sports one shall therby receiue. It is no dreame, nor passion of the minde, But a substantiall pleasure there doth dwell, The practike part of dreames therein we finde, Which who so doth omit, leades Apes in hell. Why dost thou blush? I know your case, belieue, Maids must say nay, yet take when men do giue. And now the sable horses of the night, Haue drawne a mantle ore the siluer sky, And all the stars doe shew their borrowed light, Each breathing thing oprest with sleep doth ly Saue _Philomell_, that sings of _Terreus_ rape, And _Myrha_ plotting some incestious scape. No rest at all she tooke within her bed, The flames of _Cupid_ burnt so in her brest, And many a fansie comes into her head, Which ouer-much her troubled soule opprest, She _doubts_, she _hopes_ th[=e] _feare_ doth make repaire, Sh'l now att[=e]pt, then _shame_ doth bring despaire. Looke how you see a pleasant field of Corne Moue here & there by gentle-breathing wind, Now vp and downe, as waues in sea are borne: So doubtfull thoughts had motion in her mind: Now shee'l surcease, and now to him repaire Instable, like a feather in the aire. O fye vpon this fowle incestious lust, That very Nature greatly doth abhorre, Some plague will fall vpon all such I trust, If in this world there can be any more. I hope this little world well free-ed is Of Giants, and such monstrous beasts as this. So God preserue it, if it be his will, And let the Gospell euer flourish here, Yet I do feare we haue some yet as ill, The pleasing fooles do with their folly beare: In Paradice I see wee cannot live, But we shall finde some foule seducing _Eue_. My tongue doth stagger to repeate her name, So foule a blot a Christian cannot brooke, Go seeke a glasse to see this filthy shame, Upon _Gods holy Bible_ daily looke: And there thou maist, as in a mirror see, No _Alkeron_ can yeeld the like to thee. There sucke the _Nectar_ of his _Holy Word_, And begge thou pardon for thy foule abuse, For euery _Sore_ it can a _Salue_ afford. O _Atheist_! learne to make of it good use. Thou Christians blot, to leaue off further talke, Whilst thou hast light, endeuor there to walke. And thou _Pænchaia_, rich in manys a thing, In _Custus_, _Cynamon_ and _Incense_ sweete, That out of trees aboundantly doth spring, Of _Ammonie_, and things for vses meete. Yet whilst thou yeeldest _Myrrh_, I wey thee not: For thereunto hath _Myrha_ giuen a blot. No measure in her filthy loue she found: No ease, no rest, but death doth like her now. Resolu'd on this she gets vp from the ground, And mindes to hang her selfe, her loue to shew, And then the noose about her necke she drawes, And said, ô _Cynaras!_ thou art the onely cause. Farewell therfor, a thousand times farewell, Deere _Cynaras_ thou mightst haue sau'd my life, And thinke then, this to me alone befell, Because I durst not loue thee as a wife. Farewell againe. Oh welcome gentle death! And then she went about to stop her breath. A recompence fit for so foule a mind, But yet by chance her aged Nurse did lye Within a chamber that to hers adioyn'd, Who ouer-hearing this, to her did hye; And seeing her halfe murdered, so began To shrieke & screeme, & straight vnto her ran. Who first did snatch her girdle from her necke, And powring teares vpon her plentuously, Did hold her in her aged armes, though weake, And kissing her did vrge the reason why She went about away herselfe to make, Or to her shame so base a course to take? Quoth she, I pray thee tell the cause to me, Behold these empty dugs, and head all gray, These hands that pain haue took in rocking thee Let some, or all these, cause thee to bewray What cruel means haue broght thee in this case. At which the Lady turnd away her face. O be not coy sweet! hide thou nought from me, I am thy Nurse, she said, and haue good skill In charms, & hearbs, & dreams, that powerful be, Of what thou wantst, Ile helpe thee to thy fill. Art thou in loue, or witcht by any wight? Il'e finde thee ease, or else will free the quite. I haue bene wanton once as well as you, Now yet by age, am altogether dull, I haue beene loue-sicke, as you may be now, Of toyes and loue-trickes I was wondrous full, How strange so ere thy case do therefore stand, I can and will redresse it out of hand. Thou art in _Loue_ (my sweet) I well espy, If so, no lacke shalt finde in me, I sweare, The Lady in her armes sob'd bitterly, The Nurse replyd, and sayd; Why do not feare, Thy father shall not know of this at all: At which she starts, and on her bed doth fall. And frantickly she tumbles on her face, And said, get hence (good Nurse) I pre'thee go, Constraine me not to shew my wicked case. That case (quoth she) I pray thee let me know. Get hence, she answer'd, or enquire lesse, 'Tis wickednesse thou wouldst haue me c[=o]fesse. 'Tis such a thing, that if I want, I die, And being got, is nothing else but shame. The Nurse hereat did sigh most heauily, And on her knees besought to know the same, And holding vp her hands as she did kneele, Said; Madame, tell the priuie griefe you feele. If you will not discouer this to me I will acquaint your father out of hand, How you had hang'd your selfe, wer't not for me; But if you tell, your trusty friend Il'e stand, And let your griefe of any nature be, It shall go hard, but Il'e finde remedy. And if your case be ill, you need not feare The heauie load the wickednesse doth bring, I'le teach thee how most easily to beare, My age hath got experience in each thing. Tell me what 'tis that doth so neerely touch, One woman may perswade another much. And now the Lady raisd her heauy head, Hanging vpon her Nurses bosome fast, As she did rise vp from her slothfull bed, Being prodigall, her christall teares to waste, Now she wold speak, & now her speech doth stay Th[=e] shame doth cause her turne her face away. A franticke fury doth possesse her now, And then she drawes her garment ore her face, And wrings her hands, & to her Nurse doth vow For to acquaint her with her wretched case. And shedding brinish teares into her breast, Thus much her griefe to her at last exprest. Oh happy is my mothers happy state! That hath a husband _Debonaire_ and faire, Vnhappy am I, most infortunate, At which he stopt, as one falne in dispaire. The Nurse soone found _Senecdoche_ in this, And what the whole meant by a perfect gesse. Her aged bones did shake and tremble fast, Her hoary haire stood staring vp on end, From forth her eyes a heauy looke she cast, And many a sigh her heart distrest did send; And pausing long, not knowing what to say, At last her tongue her minde did thus bewray. In this I hope, good Lady, you but iest, To try your Nurses now-decaying wit; So foule a fault is not within your breast, Then tell me true the occasion of this fit. The Lady frown'd, & stopt her speaking farther, And said get h[=e]ce, is't shame to loue our father? I she reply'd, in such a filthy sort, It is not loue, but lust that you professe, Necessity with true loue cannot sort; Your loue contaminates, you must confesse. A daughters loue then to your father show, Some loue _good things_ but with _bad loue_, I know. Or if your wanton flesh you cannot tame, Nor coole the burning of your hot desire, Then take some one that not augmets the shame And set apart to dote vpon your fire. It is most vile to stand in such a need, To make the actor baser then the deed. Besides, his yeares can yeeld no such content, That blithsome wanton dames expect to haue, Herein your bargaine you will soone repent, Wh[=e] you shal find great want of that you craue: Are you so mad, o will you once beleeue Old men content to frolicke Dames can giue? Take this example of me, from the Sky, Behold a shooting star from heauen fall Whose glimmering light you scarcely do espye But it is gone as nothing were at all; And so their sports being scarse begun doth leaue As in the aire concressions we perceiue. Or as the bloomes vpon the Almond-tree, That vanish sooner the the mush-rums done: Or as the flies _Hæmere_ we do see, To leaue their breath their life being scarce begunne, Who thinks that tree whose roots decai'd by time Can yeeld like fruit to yong ones in their prime. A rotten sticke more fit to burne then vse, I maruell what from age you do expect, Let my experience their defect accuse, And teach thee how thy equals to affect; When they should toy, iocund & sport with thee, Their gouts, coughs & cramps, wil hindrance be. 'Tis nor their fault, but incident to age, Which far more imperfections with it brings, As iealousie, suspicion, fury, rage, Dislike, disdaine, and other such like things, For can the fire, hot in nature, dwell With water cold, but they at length rebell. Euen as in Summer one may aptly note, The fire and water in one cloud contain'd; And neither, yet, the mastery hauing got, Being opposits, their furie's not restrain'd, But do contend in strife and deadly warre, Til scolding Thunder do pronounce the iarre. Choose from thy woers some peculiar one, Whose loue may fill the measure of thy hopes, And balonize thy wanton sports alone, Whose appetite with thy desire copes, Youth will be frolicke in a Maidens bed, Age is vnapt and heauy as the lead. Youth hath his daliance and his kind embrace, Euen as the Elmes incircled with the Vine; Age loueth rest and quiet in this case, Saying, Oakes at such like Iuy gripes repine, Yuths pleasing weltun'd years sweet musick maks When for c[=o]sort loue strings it strains or slakes. Yet chuse thou one whose tongue's not set on wheeles Who eats his words before he brings th[=e] forth That no _decorum_ in his talking feeles, Such are but buzards, blabs of little worth: And for complexion, heerein mee beleeue, The perfect sanguine sweet content doth giue. The Phlegmaticke is like the water cold, The Cholericke wants sap, like fire dry, And Melancholy, as age, is dull and old, But in the Sanguin moist warme iuice doth lie, Whose beauty feeds the eye with sweete delight, The rest do rather feare then please the sight. What pleasure can a sterne grim face affoord, A swarfie colour or rough shagged haire, Or Rauen blacke? beleeue me at a word, They are too blame that do despise the faire: They please the eye, prouoke dull appetite, Resemble Gods, and do the minde delight. Cease chatting gentle nurse, the Lady said, Or frame thy Tale to sute more with the time, My choice is made, therein I neede no aide Which may be compast by some help of thine, It is too late of abstinence too preach, Wh[=e] one is drunk, & notes not what you teach. I seeke him not for lust, as you do deeme, For if my mind were onely bent thereto, I could find other men I might esteeme, You know the store of Suters come to woe: But 'tis some kind of naturall instinct, Or deuine flame that cannot be extinct. What I do seeke I know is wondrous vile, And haue a will for to withstand the same, Yet can those motions by no meanes exile, So seeketh lust to bring me vnto shame, Be it worse th[=e] nought to haue it flesh doth striue Helpe Nurse, else long I cannot liue. And wish not to disswade me in this case, Nor giue me counsell to withdraw my minde It likes me well, I weigh not the disgrace, O teach me then to win him to be kind! Helpe me good Nurse in this my cruell state, All other meanes of comfort comes too late. And since thou needs woldst vnderstand my sham Which I did grieue and blush to ope to thee, And had lear di'd then told thee of the same, Now be not slacke to lend thy helpe to me, Thou forst me for to open my disgrace, Then lend thy help to salue my wretched case. You do not know good Nurse or haue forgot, What 'tis to loue, and cannot it obtaine, Of youths kind daliance age doth take no note, Forgetting it, and thinke all may abstaine: But tis not so, I to those thoughts reply, Then helpe me gentle Nurse, or else I die. Liue still my sweete, quoth she, and do possesse, Yet name of (father) shame forc't her conceale And with a staggring speech the word represt, And all her helpe more amply to reueale, She made a vow, whereby herselfe she bound, To do the best that might in her be found. The feasts of gentle _Ceres_ now began, Which yearely they obseru'd, and held it ill, For thrice three nights to lye with any man, The wiues in white, apparrelled were still, And vnto _Ceres_, first fruit of the field, (As garlands made of eares of corne) did yeeld. The Queen amongst these women did frequent These Rites, and would be absent at that time. The Nurse then to accomplish her intent, And finding _Cynaras_ made blith with wine, The Syren most inchantingly did sing, And thus at last broke silence to the King. Renowned King, but that your constant loue Restraines my tongue & holds my speeches in, A wanton question I would to thee moue? Speak on, quoth he, good Nurse thy speech begin, With _Bacchus_ feasts do wanton sports agree, I know thou wouldst no ill thing vnto me. Then thus, quoth shee, there is a gallant Maide Of Princely birth and Noble high degree, Who at this time would be right well apaide To kisse thy hand, shee is so in loue with thee, Such diuine beauty in her face doth lurke, That Gods enuy at Nature for the worke. Without offence vnto your Queene and Wife, Vnto this Lady, she is a homely cate, I loue your Queene, and honour her as life, And but admire the others happy state, That's made so faire that none can like her bee, Your Queene is kind, abuse her not for mee. But if you saw her face, as I haue done, And view'd the rest of her proportion'd limbs, You would contemne my Mistres face too soone, Yet loue th[=e] both: it nought your honor dims, One as your wife, the next for beauties sake, So of them both a beauteous wife but make. The glory of her haire is wonderous bright, Vpon her brows doth ebbe and flow content Her eies in motion do beget delight, Her cheekes a tincture to _Aurora_ lent Her teeths no pearle, her eyes no rubies are, But flesh and bone, more red and white by far. No lisping tongue that fondrels count a grace, But doth to well tun'd harmony incline, A necke inferior nought vnto the face, And breath most apt for to be prest by thine, Now if the vtter view so glorious proue, Iudge how the hidden parts procure loue. The King who all this while lent listening eare, Being wrapt in admiration of her speech, Now did begin more liuely to appeare And for to know one thing of her did seech, Saying, of what yeeres may this Lady be? Iust of sweete _Myrahs_ age, replied shee. He said then, bring her to conferre with mee, That I may try if all be true you say. It is most true, as after you shall see, But said the Nurse, you now must let her stay, Perhaps shee'le blush, and be to coy by light, When she will yeeld more kindly in the night. Such pretty Dames will hardly yeeld consent, For in their mouthes they alwaies carry nay, Yet if you giue, to take, they are content, And nere refuse, whatere their tongue doth say: For so they nature simple men abuse, When what they loue they most of all refuse. If I do fable, put me vnto shame, In saying she resembles _Myrha_ much, For 'tis so much, as if it were the same; And when you seeke to gaine the loue of such Let my experience thus much you assure They Fawlcon-like stoop to a ganey lure. And now you may, voide of suspected crime, Dally with her in your lasciuious bed, The sacred _Ceres_ feasts are at this time, And there your Queen is stil: this scarcely sed, Quoth _Cyneras_, bring her this night to mee, Whereto the Nurse replide, I do agree. With hopefull newes the Nurse return'd againe, And cheer'd her chicke, & bad her not be sad, Her wished sute, she certaine should obtaine, The news wherof made _Myrha_ wondrous glad. Yet as she ioy'd, she was opprest with feare, Such discords of affections in her were. Away slips time and hasteneth on the night, And now the Beare's seene run about the Pole Conducted forward by Boætes bright, The other stars about the axe-tree role: The Southerne images do shine as gold, Fit monuments for Hunters to behold. At what time _Myrha_ wickedly proceedes And takes in hand to act her base desire, The shamefull lust with cursed hopes she feeds Which quickly sets her heart vpon a fire, And thereupon resolueth on her shame, And not one thought to contradict it came. At which the Sunne his glorious face did hide, Each Planet pulleth in his golden head, The other stars out of the heauens glide And _Cynthia_ from her siluer Palace fled, The night is robbed of her wonted light, Each thing turn'd dark that formerly was bright. Three times, by stumbling, _Myrha_ was fore-told Of bad successe, if she did not retire; Three times the Owles like lessons did vnfold, Whose dolefull note do foule mishap require; Yet she crept on, regarding not the same, The want of light alayed much the shame. The Nurse doth lead her by her owne left hand, The right doth grope the dark and desart way, As silent as the night they now do stand To heare the night-crows scrik, & goblins play The lich-foule beats, and at the window cries, For to come in, to stay the enterprise. O gentle Nurse, said _Myrha_ tell to me, What may these scremes & doleful scriks portend, The nurse reply'd, my child, no hurt to thee, They are but servants that on night attend, These goblins, lich-fouls, Owls, & night-crows to At murthers raile, with loue haue naught to do. And then the Beldam leads the Lady on Through many roomes & other turning waies As in a laborinth they two had gone; And as they go, she to the Lady saies; Now cheere you vp, and get a iocund minde In thinking of the pleasures you shall finde. At last shee brings her to the chamber dore Which softly she did ope, and led her in, The Lady fals to trembling more and more, Her very heart did to relent begin, The neerer to the wickednesse she went, The more to quake and shiuer shee was bent. Looke how you see a blind man on the way Led by another through some desart place, Stagger and grope and at each trifle stay For feare least he should fall: euen in like case, The wretched nurse the fearefull Lady leads, Who shakes and starts at euery step she treads. And now she doth her enterprise repent, And wish she might vnknowne returne againe, Vnto his bed the pawsing Nurse then went; And cal'd the King & told him thus much plaine Dread King awake, of pleasures take thy fill, This Ladie's thine, then vse her as you will. The cursed father then his bowels takes Into his bed, ô filthy blob and staine, His daughter shiuers in his armes, and quakes, This being done, the nurse returnes againe And said, make much of her, to weepe forbeare None wold weepe for that which you now feare. The King then cheeres his daughter, in his arme, Why dost thou weep? be still my sweete, be stil, Come clip thy loue I meane to do no harme, My Kingly bed with pleasures shall thee fill, And to hide all that idle heads may moue, Hence-forth I call thee daughter and not loue. Come kisse thy father, gentle daughter then, _A_nd learne to sport thee in a wanton bed; Is this the tricks (she softly said) of men? And counterfeiting speech vnknowne, she said, A daughters name, me thinkes, doth not agree, Ist well with your owne child in loue to be? The King, not deeming who lay by his side, Replies, what hurt deere Lady can it be? No ill I know by that meanes can betide, The loue more firme thereby we common see: It is not ill though men the same not craue, For we want daughters till a wife we haue. She did reply, and said, why put the case That I were _Myrha_ for as men do say, My countenance resembleth much her face; Were't not offence, think you, with me to play? Misdeeming nought, againe, he doth reply; No more th[=e] 'tis with thee, sweet wench, to lie. O would, quoth _Myrha_, you could likewise proue Whereby I might but know some reafon why, It were not ill to grant to you my loue, That loue should then alone to you apply; Were I your daughter I might well consent, Say halfe so much for me I am content. The King replies, my sweete, my will is law, And may command my subiects when I will, Besides all this, you furthermore do know You must obey, I call you daughter still; Then talke no more, she said, I do agree Thy daughter and thy subiect yeelds to thee. Oh! now the father his owne child doth take, And of his owne he doth his owne beget, Of his owne loines another child doth make, Repugnant to the Law that nature set; May ones owne seed to procreation moue? No sure, unlesse it doth a monster proue. Their musicke is the scriking of the Ow'es, As if the fiends came for to sunder them, The rauing dogs affright them with their howles, As all the fiends came forth to iniure them; The stars behind the clouds, a great way hence, Like spies lie peeping to disclose the offence. Their bed doth shake and quauer as they lie, As if it groan'd to beare the weight of sinne, The fatall night-crowes at their windowes flie, And cries out at the shame they do liue in: And that they may perceiue they heauens frown, The Poukes & Goblins pul the couerings down. The pillow that her cursed head doth beare, Which is a castle of accursed ill, The weighty burthen of the same doth feare, And therefore shrinketh inwards from her stil: Whilst both the ends high swelling with disdaine Like angry foe-men raise themselues amaine. The bed, more kind then they religious are, Doth seeke to shroud their foule defiled act, And therefore lets them fall into it farre As in some vale for to conceale the fact: Like bulwarkes rising to defend their names, Or swelling mountains to obscure their shames. O there they lie and glut themselues with sin, A iocund sin that doth the flesh delight, A filthy flesh that can reioyce herein, A silly ioy that gainst the soule doth fight, A fasting sport, a pleasure soone forgot, That bringeth shame with an eternall blot. Thrice happy now, had wicked _Myrha_ bene, If some foule swelling _Eban_ cloud would fall, For her to hide her selfe eternall in, Or had the bed bene burnt with wilde fire all, And thereby moult the heauens golden frame That al things might haue ended with her shame. And now reuenge, a souldier vnto lust, Comes scouring in, as it had bene beguil'd Accompanied with fame and foule distrust, And with disgrace, blacke luxures basest child, These threaten them and blaze abroad the fact, And like to Trumpets thunder out the act. Not many nights they spending in this sort, But _Cyneras_ at length desir'd to know Who 'twas affoorded him this pleasant sport, And freely did the curtesy bestow: And hauing done this taske vs'd euery night. Forth he doth steale and goes to seek the light. O hide thee _Myrha_, 'tis not time to sleepe, A thunderbolt is leuel'd at thy head, Vnlesse thy eies prepare them for to weepe, With fire and sword thou art betrai'd in bed, Awaken wench, the day of doome bewray, And see the father his owne child betray. And whither steales thou furious _Cynaras_? Why seekes a light to open thy owne shame? Who hop'st to finde in this accursed place? Make not such hast to spy thy ignoble game, Stay, stay thy feete, thou wilt repent to late, Mischiefe itselfe comes in with speedy gate. What, sleepst thou _Myrha_? why th[=e] sleep thou long Or else awake and welcome in thy woes, Another happy day will neuer come, Pale misery thy pleasure ouer-goes; Dreame sleeping, thou didst with thy father lie, Or wake, and see him reuenge the villany. Confound thy head, and all thy parts with feare, And thinke the fiends incompasse thee about, Striuing with burning tongs thy flesh to teare, Pulling thy tongue and eies with tortures out; O thinke with raizors they do flea thy skin, _A_dding new tortures vnto euery sin. Now comes the father, being fully bent For to disclose his loue with his faire light, Sleepe _Myrha_, thou hast time for to repent, Arise in care, passe many a weary night; Looke _Cyneras_, and spy disgrace too soone, _Myrha_ awake, see what thy lust hath done. Blush lustfull King, and see the end of lust, Behold thy owne dishonour and disgrace, Learne what it is to vse thy wife vniust, And lay a Strumpet in her Princely place, Sham follows th[=e] reu[=e]ge hangs o're their heads That basely do defile their marriage bed. It's like a tender flower nipt with frost, It euer after hangs his drooping head, And hath her wonted prime of glory lost, Or like the cup that hath his _Nectar_ shed: Cracke you the richest pointed Diamond, And all his prise and glory's lost and gone. Old _Cynaras_ his daughter knowing well, For very anger could not speake a word, But into most outragious fury fell, And would have kil'd the Lady with a sword, But nimbly she, by helpe of cloudy night, Conueyes her selfe out of her fathers sight. Most like a Lyon, ranging for a pray, Each corner of the house he madly lookes, No barre, or stop, doth hinder him, or stay, He rifles chambers, beds, and secret nookes. This Lyon seekes for her, the dart did throw, And quietly lets all the other go. By this the Lady's in the _Arabian_ fields, And fearefully doth range about the same, Which plenteously the bearing _Date-tree_ yeelds, At length she also through _Pænchaia_ came, Her fathers rage being something over-past, At _Saba_ land she doth arriue at last. The King not finding her, begins to fret, And vex himselfe with anguish, care & griefe, He scoulds with fortune, that this trap did set, _A_nd chides the Fates for yeelding no reliefe: Small sorrowes grew till they to greater came, Like little sparkes increasing into flame. Euen as a river swelling ore her bounds, By daily falling of small drops of raine, Likewise his care continually abounds, By howerly thinking of his his fault againe, Content were found soone in calamity, The thought thereof raz'd out of memory. Daughter, quoth he, with eyes full fraught with teares, What hast thou done? ô foule accursed child! Why hast deceiu'd my aged blosom'd haires? Why didst thy Princely Father so beguile? _A_lasse! I erre, thou art no childe to me, Nor longer Il'e thy louing father be. Go seeke some hole eternall to lye in, _A_nd neuermore behold the heauens light, Thou hast disgraced all thy name and kin, Then hide thee euerlasting from my sight, Thou hast not onely brought vs both to shame, But made thy father actor of the same. How will thy mother thinke her selfe abus'd, That hast made her a quot-queane shamefully, Of filthy incest I do thee accuse, That Lemmon-like didst with thy father lye, Then hye to hell, haste to the Furies there, When raging parets witnesse gainst thee beare. Oh but the fault thy owne was most of all, Poore _Myrha_ thou didst meane no hurt to me, It wot: thou said'st (my selfe I witnesse call) Twas ill with your owne childe in loue to be. And vrg'd againe, what if she _Myrha_ were, I basely said, there was no fault in her. Then rent thy braines with terror of the deed, Confused thoughts burst thine accursed breast, As if thou did'st on deadly poyson feed, And in _Elisium_ let thy soule nere rest, Rore seas, quake earth, till you deuoure him That hath defil'd his daughter with foule sin. Yet she did know I was her father deere, What meant she then to seeke me in such sort? I did not know my daughter to be there, And therefore wished her no kind of hurt. She sin'd, and knew her father she abused, I sin'd, uncertaine who it was I vsed. By this the Sunne neere past the Zodiaque ore, And thrice three signes had fully ouer-run, Returning tow'rd the point he was before, Ninty degrees wanting thereto to come, He had the Cliptike and one quadre gone, And in that space the child ripes in the womb. When _Myrha_ weeping much her barne to beare, Tired with wandring in the wood so long, Weary of life beginneth for to feare What shall hereafter on herselfe become. Now she perceiues the folly lust did bring, And may take time of penitence to sing. Things done in haste, haue leasure to repent, A hasty braine is neuer wanting woe, Youth with _Decorum_ seldome is content, Yong yeares and lust associat-like do goe, Youth hath no wit till it be deerely bought, And often times then it is good for nought. Alasse! quoth _Myrha_, bursting out with cryes, What shall I do that haue so vilely erred? Let bellowing grones pierce vp into the skyes, That all the Gods to pitty may be stirred, O let some Trumpets voice from thee be driuen To waken mighty _Iupiter_ in heauen. You gentle Gods, that wonted were to heare The suppliant praiers of distressed soules, Now open wide your gracious listning eare, That I may win some pitty with my houles. O let it stand with your omnipotence, For to remit the sorrowfuls offence. I do confesse my wickednesse is much, And there's no hope that I should fauour win. Yet your still-pardoning clemency is such, That vndeserued you forgiue our sin, We run in errors every day most ill, Yet you are apt to grant vs pardon still. What haue I gain'd? my fathers foule disgrace, My owne dishonor, and my friends disdaine; What have I won? an imputation base, My mothers curse, and a perpetuall staine, I seldome see one mischiefe to arise, But it brings others at her heeles likewise. And since my fault into such height is driuen That I deserue not in the earth to rest, Nor haue a place amongst the starres in heauen, You nightly powers grant me this request: That neither with the dead nor liue I do remain, _A_nd so no place in earth or heauen gaine. To this her last request the Gods consent, And so the ground her feet did couer ore, Out from her toes the scrawling roots were sent Which by her travell she had bruised sore. These twining roots most plentuously abound, Till they had fixt her body to the ground. Where be the walks that thou wast wont to haue The shady groues paued with Camomile? The rosie bowers that heate of Sunne did saue, And yeelded to thy sence a pleasant smile? Where be the pleasant roomes thou solast's in. Thou art dispoil'd thereof by thine owne sin. Thou shalt no more within thy Chariot ride, Gazing vpon the people kneeling downe. No more will come to woe thee for a Bride, Lust hath defil'd the tipe of thy renowne, Those feet of thine, that to offence did lead, Imprisoned are, and not allow'd to tread. By this the growing tree so far had past, That her faire bones to timber turned were: Her marow did conuert to pyth at last, And all her bloud the name of _Sap_ doth beare, Her armes to bowes, her fingers branches be, Her skin to bark, and so she made a tree. Where is the face that did all faces staine, But shrunke within a hard consolid barke? No one will sue to kisse it once againe, But must be hid perpetually in darke. That snow-white-neck, that men desir'd to tuch, Now they refuse to handle it as much. Where are those eyes, those glassy eyes of thine, That lent the glorious Sun his chiefest light? Where is that Angels voyce, that voyce deuine, Whose wel-tun'd t[=o]gue did al the gods delight? What, are they gone? doth time thy glory rust? No, they be spoiled with incestious lust. Farewell thy armes, made kindly to embrace, But now a bough for birds to pearch upon, Farewell thy pretty fingers in like case, The curious Lute ordain'd to quauer on. Your wonted glory you shall see no more, Your filthy lust hath thrust you out of dore. Now with her shape she lost her sences quite. For that and for her fault she weepeth still; Which teares are held in honor, price, & might, And daily do out of the tree distill, And from the gummy barke doth issue _Myrrh_, Which evermore shall beare the name of her. At last the swelling wombe diuides the tree, The infant seeking for some passage out, No Nurse nor Mid-wife could the baby see, The vse of speech his mother is without, And could not therefore begge _Lucina's_ aid, She might done well could she one prayer said. And therefore sighes and grones most heauily, Bending most humbly to the ground below. Shedding from euery bow teares plenteously. At length the Gods some fauour did bestow. And so _Lucina_ laid her hand thereon, And speaking words, receiu'd the words anon. The watry _Nymphs_ this pretty child take, And on soft smelling flowers laid him downe, Of which a curious cradle they did make, The hearbs perfumed were for more renowne. The Nymphs this boy affected more and more, And with his mothers teares stil washt him ore. As yeares increase, so beauty doth likewise, And is more faire tomorrow then to day, His beauty more & more continuall doth arise, That enuy did delight, in him bewray, As _Venus_ fell in loue with him at last, Who did reuenge his mothers lusting past. _FINIS._ Transcriber's Notes: Passages in italic font are indicated by _italic_. Passages in bold font are indicated by =bold=. Elongated "s" has been modernized. The use of "VV" in place of "W" is intentional to represent the appearance of the original text. Letters printed in the original text with macrons are indicated by [=x]. The macrons are used to indicate missing letters, either "m" or "n". Additional spacing after some of the quotes is intentional to indicate both the end of a quotation and the beginning of a new paragraph as presented in the original text. Misprints corrected: "Glancus" corrected to "Glaucus" (page XVII) "he" corrected to "be" (page 102) "Appollo" corrected to "Apollo" (page 134) "haning" corrected to "hauing" (page 152) Stanza number "85" corrected to "45" (page 187) Stanza number "100" corrected to "102" (page 208) "ber" corrected to "her" (page 212) "hearr" corrected to "heart" (page 223) Printing errors (such as unmatched quotation marks and parentheses, inconsistent spelling, punctuation, and capitalization) have been intentionally retained. 
10940	----	[Illustration] [Illustration: The Queen of Sheba before Solomon (_Costume of 15th century_.) Fac-simile of a miniature from the _Breviary_ of the Cardinal Grimani, attributed to Memling. Bibl. of S. Marc, Venice. (From a copy in the possession of M. Ambroise Firmin-Didot.) The King inclines his sceptre towards the Queen indicating his appreciation of her person and her gifts; five ladies attend the Queen and five of the King's courtiers stand on his right hand.] Manners, Customs, and Dress During the Middle Ages, and During the Renaissance Period. By Paul Lacroix (Bibliophile Jacob), Curator of the Imperial Library of the Arsenal, Paris. Illustrated with Nineteen Chromolithographic Prints by F. Kellerhoven and upwards of _Four Hundred Engravings on Wood_. Preface. The several successive editions of "The Arts of the Middle Ages and Period of the Renaissance" sufficiently testify to its appreciation by the public. The object of that work was to introduce the reader to a branch of learning to which access had hitherto appeared only permitted to the scientific. That attempt, which was a bold one, succeeded too well not to induce us to push our researches further. In fact, art alone cannot acquaint us entirely with an epoch. "The arts, considered in their generality, are the true expressions of society. They tell us its tastes, its ideas, and its character." We thus spoke in the preface to our first work, and we find nothing to modify in this opinion. Art must be the faithful expression of a society, since it represents it by its works as it has created them--undeniable witnesses of its spirit and manners for future generations. But it must be acknowledged that art is only the consequence of the ideas which it expresses; it is the fruit of civilisation, not its origin. To understand the Middle Ages and the Renaissance, it is necessary to go back to the source of its art, and to know the life of our fathers; these are two inseparable things, which entwine one another, and become complete one by the other. The Manners and Customs of the Middle Ages:--this subject is of the greatest interest, not only to the man of science, but to the man of the world also. In it, too, "we retrace not only one single period, but two periods quite distinct one from the other." In the first, the public and private customs offer a curious mixture of barbarism and civilisation. We find barbarian, Roman, and Christian customs and character in presence of each other, mixed up in the same society, and very often in the same individuals. Everywhere the most adverse and opposite tendencies display themselves. What an ardent struggle during that long period! and how full, too, of emotion is its picture! Society tends to reconstitute itself in every aspect. She wants to create, so to say, from every side, property, authority, justice, &c., &c., in a word, everything which can establish the basis of public life; and this new order of things must be established by means of the elements supplied at once by the barbarian, Roman, and Christian world--a prodigious creation, the working of which occupied the whole of the Middle Ages. Hardly does modern society, civilised by Christianity, reach the fullness of its power, than it divides itself to follow different paths. Ancient art and literature resuscitates because custom _insensibly_ takes that direction. Under that influence, everything is modified both in private and public life. The history of the human race does not present a subject more vast or more interesting. It is a subject we have chosen to succeed our first book, and which will be followed by a similar study on the various aspects of Religious and Military Life. This work, devoted to the vivid and faithful description of the Manners and Customs of the Middle Ages and Renaissance, answers fully to the requirements of contemporary times. We are, in fact, no longer content with the chronological narration and simple nomenclatures which formerly were considered sufficient for education. We no longer imagine that the history of our institutions has less interest than that of our wars, nor that the annals of the humbler classes are irrelevant to those of the privileged orders. We go further still. What is above all sought for in historical works nowadays is the physiognomy, the inmost character of past generations. "How did our fathers live?" is a daily question. "What institutions had they? What were their political rights? Can you not place before us their pastimes, their hunting parties, their meals, and all sorts of scenes, sad or gay, which composed their home life? We should like to follow them in public and private occupations, and to know their manner of living hourly, as we know our own." In a high order of ideas, what great facts serve as a foundation to our history and that of the modern world! We have first royalty, which, weak and debased under the Merovingians, rises and establishes itself energetically under Pépin and Charlemagne, to degenerate under Louis le Débonnaire and Charles le Chauve. After having dared a second time to found the Empire of the Caesars, it quickly sees its sovereignty replaced by feudal rights, and all its rights usurped by the nobles, and has to struggle for many centuries to recover its rights one by one. Feudalism, evidently of Germanic origin, will also attract our attention, and we shall draw a rapid outline of this legislation, which, barbarian at the onset, becomes by degrees subject to the rules of moral progress. We shall ascertain that military service is the essence itself of the "fief," and that thence springs feudal right. On our way we shall protest against civil wars, and shall welcome emancipation and the formation of the communes. Following the thousand details of the life of the people, we shall see the slave become serf, and the serf become peasant. We shall assist at the dispensation of justice by royalty and nobility, at the solemn sittings of parliaments, and we shall see the complicated details of a strict ceremonial, which formed an integral part of the law, develop themselves before us. The counters of dealers, fairs and markets, manufactures, commerce, and industry, also merit our attention; we must search deeply into corporations of workmen and tradesmen, examining their statutes, and initiating ourselves into their business. Fashion and dress are also a manifestation of public and private customs; for that reason we must give them particular attention. And to accomplish the work we have undertaken, we are lucky to have the conscientious studies of our old associates in the great work of the Middle Ages and the Renaissance to assist us: such as those of Emile Bégin, Elzéar Blaze, Depping, Benjamin Guérard, Le Roux de Lincy, H. Martin, Mary-Lafon, Francisque Michel, A. Monteil, Rabutau, Ferdinand Séré, Horace de Viel-Castel, A. de la Villegille, Vallet de Viriville. As in the volume of the Arts of the Middle Ages, engraving and chromo-lithography will come to our assistance by reproducing, by means of strict fac-similes, the rarest engravings of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, and the most precious miniatures of the manuscripts preserved in the principal libraries of France and Europe. Here again we have the aid of the eminent artist, M. Kellerhoven, who quite recently found means of reproducing with so much fidelity the gems of Italian painting. Paul Lacroix (Bibliophile Jacob). Table of Contents. Condition of Persons and Lands Disorganization of the West at the Beginning of the Middle Ages.--Mixture of Roman, Germanic, and Gallic Institutions.--Fusion organized under Charlemagne.--Royal Authority.--Position of the Great Feudalists.--Division of the Territory and Prerogatives attached to Landed Possessions.--Freeman and Tenants.--The Læti, the Colon, the Serf, and the Labourer, who may be called the Origin of the Modern Lower Classes.--Formation of Communities.--Right of Mortmain. Privileges and Rights (Feudal and Municipal) Elements of Feudalism.--Rights of Treasure-trove, Sporting, Safe-Conducts, Ransom, Disinheritance, &c.--Immunity of the Feudalists.--Dues from the Nobles to their Sovereign.--Law and University Dues.--Curious Exactions resulting from the Universal System of Dues.--Struggles to enfranchise the Classes subjected to Dues.--Feudal Spirit and Citizen Spirit.--Resuscitation of the System of Ancient Municipalities in Italy, Germany, and France.--Municipal Institutions and Associations.--The Community.--The Middle-Class Cities (_Cités Bourgeoises_).--Origin of National Unity. Private Life in the Castles, the Towns, and the Rural Districts The Merovingian Castles.--Pastimes of the Nobles: Hunting, War.--Domestic Arrangements.--Private Life of Charlemagne.--Domestic Habits under the Carlovingians.--Influence of Chivalry.--Simplicity of the Court of Philip Augustus not imitated by his Successors.--Princely Life of the Fifteenth Century.--The bringing up of Latour Landry, a Noble of Anjou.--Varlets, Pages, Esquires, Maids of Honour.--Opulence of the Bourgeoisie.--"Le Ménagier de Paris."--Ancient Dwellings.--State of Rustics at various Periods.--"Rustic Sayings," by Noël du Fail. Food and Cookery History of Bread.--Vegetables and Plants used in Cooking.--Fruits.--Butchers' Meat.--Poultry, Game.--Milk, Butter, Cheese, and Eggs.--Fish and Shellfish.--Beverages: Beer, Cider, Wine, Sweet Wine, Refreshing Drinks, Brandy.--Cookery.--Soups, Boiled Food, Pies, Stews, Salads, Roasts, Grills.--Seasoning, Truffles, Sugar, Verjuice.--Sweets, Desserts, Pastry,--Meals and Feasts.--Rules of Serving at Table from the Fifteenth to the Sixteenth Centuries. Hunting Venery and Hawking.--Origin of Aix-la-Chapelle.--Gaston Phoebus and his Book.--The Presiding Deities of Sportsmen.--Sporting Societies and Brotherhoods.--Sporting Kings: Charlemagne, Louis IX., Louis XI., Charles VIII., Louis XII., Francis I., &c.--Treatise on Venery.--Sporting Popes.--Origin of Hawking.--Training Birds.--Hawking Retinues.--Book of King Modus.--Technical Terms used in Hawking.--Persons who have excelled in this kind of Sport.--Fowling. Games and Pastimes Games of the Ancient Greeks and Romans.--Games of the Circus.--Animal Combats.--Daring of King Pepin.--The King's Lions.--Blind Men's Fights.--Cockneys of Paris.--Champ de Mars.--Cours Plénières and Cours Couronnées.--Jugglers, Tumblers, and Minstrels.--Rope-dancers.--Fireworks.--Gymnastics.--Cards and Dice.--Chess, Marbles, and Billiards.--La Soule, La Pirouette, &c.--Small Games for Private Society.--History of Dancing.--Ballet des Ardents.--The "Orchésographie" (Art of Dancing) of Thoinot Arbeau.--List of Dances. Commerce State of Commerce after the Fall of the Roman Empire; its Revival under the Frankish Kings; its Prosperity under Charlemagne; its Decline down to the Time of the Crusaders.--The Levant Trade of the East.--Flourishing State of the Towns of Provence and Languedoc.--Establishment of Fairs.--Fairs of Landit, Champagne, Beaucaire, and Lyons.--Weights and Measures.--Commercial Flanders.--Laws of Maritime Commerce.--Consular Laws.--Banks and Bills of Exchange.--French Settlements on the Coast of Africa.--Consequences of the Discovery of America. Guilds and Trade Corporations Uncertain Origin of Corporations.--Ancient Industrial Associations.--The Germanic Guild.--Colleges.--Teutonic Associations.--The Paris Company for the Transit of Merchandise by Water.--Corporations properly so called.--Etienne Boileau's "Book of Trades," or the First Code of Regulations.--The Laws governing Trades.--Public and Private Organization of Trades Corporations and other Communities.--Energy of the Corporations.--Masters, Journeymen, Supernumeraries, and Apprentices.--Religious Festivals and Trade Societies.--Trade Unions. Taxes, Money, and Finance Taxes under the Roman Rule.--Money Exactions of the Merovingian Kings.--Varieties of Money.--Financial Laws under Charlemagne.--Missi Dominici.--Increase of Taxes owing to the Crusades.--Organization of Finances by Louis IX.--Extortions of Philip lo Bel.--Pecuniary Embarrassment of his Successors.--Charles V. re-establishes Order in Finances.--Disasters of France under Charles VI., Charles VII., and Jacques Coeur.--Changes in Taxation from Louis XI. to Francis I.--The Great Financiers.--Florimond Robertet. Law and the Administration of Justice The Family the Origin of Government.--Origin of Supreme Power amongst the Franks.--The Legislation of Barbarism humanised by Christianity.--Right of Justice inherent to the Right of Property.--The Laws under Charlemagne.--Judicial Forms.--Witnesses.--Duels, &c.--Organization of Royal Justice under St. Louis.--The Châtelet and the Provost of Paris.--Jurisdiction of Parliament, its Duties and its Responsibilities.--The Bailiwicks.--Struggles between Parliament and the Châtelet.--Codification of the Customs and Usages.--Official Cupidity.--Comparison between the Parliament and the Châtelet. Secret Tribunals The Old Man of the Mountain and his Followers in Syria.--The Castle of Alamond, Paradise of Assassins.--Charlemagne the Founder of Secret Tribunals amongst the Saxons.--The Holy Vehme.--Organization of the Tribunal of the _Terre Rouge_, and Modes adopted in its Procedures.--Condemnations and Execution of Sentences.--The Truth respecting the Free Judges of Westphalia.--Duration and Fall of the Vehmie Tribunal.--Council of Ten, in Venice; its Code and Secret Decisions.--End of the Council of Ten. Punishments Refinements of Penal Cruelty.--Tortures for different Purposes.--Water, Screw-boards, and the Rack.--The Executioner.--Female Executioners.--Tortures.--Amende Honorable.--Torture of Fire, Real and Feigned.--Auto-da-fé.--Red-hot Brazier or Basin.--Beheading.--Quartering.--The Wheel.--Garotting.--Hanging.--The Whip.--The Pillory.--The Arquebuse.--Tickling.--Flaying.--Drowning.--Imprisonment.--Regulations of Prisons.--The Iron Cage.--"The Leads" of Venice. Jews Dispersion of the Jews.--Jewish Quarters in the Mediæval Towns.--The _Ghetto_ of Rome.--Ancient Prague.--The _Giudecca_ of Venice.--Condition of the Jews; Animosity of the People against them; Vexations Treatment and Severity of the Sovereigns.--The Jews of Lincoln.--The Jews of Blois.--Mission of the _Pastoureaux_.--Extermination of the Jews.--The Price at which the Jews purchased Indulgences.--Marks set upon them.--Wealth, Knowledge, Industry, and Financial Aptitude of the Jews.--Regulations respecting Usury as practised by the Jews.--Attachment of the Jews to their Religion. Gipsies, Tramps, Beggars, and Cours des Miracles First Appearance of Gipsies in the West.--Gipsies in Paris.--Manners and Customs of these Wandering Tribes.--Tricks of Captain Charles.--Gipsies expelled by Royal Edict.--Language of Gipsies.--The Kingdom of Slang.--The Great Coesre, Chief of the Vagrants; his Vassals and Subjects.--Divisions of the Slang People; its Decay, and the Causes thereof.--Cours des Miracles.--The Camp of Rogues.--Cunning Language, or Slang.--Foreign Rogues, Thieves, and Pickpockets. Ceremonials Origin of Modern Ceremonial.--Uncertainty of French Ceremonial up to the End of the Sixteenth Century.--Consecration of the Kings of France.--Coronation of the Emperors of Germany.--Consecration of the Doges of Venice.--Marriage of the Doge with the Sea.--State Entries of Sovereigns.--An Account of the Entry of Isabel of Bavaria into Paris.--Seats of Justice.--Visits of Ceremony between Persons of Rank.--Mourning.--Social Courtesies.--Popular Demonstrations and National Commemorations--New Year's Day.--Local Festivals.--_Vins d'Honneur_.--Processions of Trades. Costumes Influence of Ancient Costume.--Costume in the Fifteenth Century.--Hair.--Costumes in the Time of Charlemagne.--Origin of Modern National Dress.--Head-dresses and Beards: Time of St. Louis.--Progress of Dress: Trousers, Hose, Shoes, Coats, Surcoats, Capes.--Changes in the Fashions of Shoes and Hoods.--_Livrée_.--Cloaks and Capes.--Edicts against Extravagant Fashions.--Female Dress: Gowns, Bonnets, Head-dresses, &c.--Disappearance of Ancient Dress.--Tight-fitting Gowns.--General Character of Dress under Francis I.--Uniformity of Dress. Table of Illustrations. I. Chromolithographs. 1. The Queen of Sheba before Solomon. Fac-simile of a Miniature from the Breviary of Cardinal Grimani, attributed to Memling. Costumes of the Fifteenth Century. 2. The Court of Marie of Anjou, Wife of Charles VII. Fac-simile of a Miniature from the "Douze Perilz d'Enfer." Costumes of the Fifteenth Century. 3. Louis XII. leaving Alexandria, on the 24th April, 1507, to chastise the City of Genoa. From a Miniature in the "Voyage de Gênes" of Jean Marot. 4. A Young Mother's Retinue. Miniature from a Latin "Terence" of Charles VI. Costumes of the Fourteenth Century. 5. Table Service of a Lady of Quality. Fac-simile of a Miniature in the "Roman de Renaud de Montauban." Costumes of the Fifteenth Century. 6. Ladies Hunting. From a Miniature in a Manuscript Copy of "Ovid's Epistles." Costumes of the Fifteenth Century. 7. A Court Fool. Fac-simile of a Miniature in a Manuscript of the Fifteenth Century. 8. The Chess-players. After a Miniature of the "Three Ages of Man." (End of the Fifteenth Century.) 9. Martyrdom of SS. Crispin and Crépinien. From a Window in the Hôpital des Quinze-Vingts (Fifteenth Century). 10. Settlement of Accounts by the Brotherhood of Charité-Dieu, Rouen, in 1466. A Miniature from the "Livre des Comptes" of this Society (Fifteenth Century). 11. Decapitation of Guillaume de Pommiers and his Confessor at Bordeaux in 1377 ("Chroniques de Froissart"). 12. The Jews' Passover. Fac-simile of a Miniature in a Missal of the Fifteenth Century of the School of Van Eyck. 13. Entry of Charles VII. into Paris. A Miniature from the "Chroniques d'Enguerrand de Monstrelet." Costumes of the Sixteenth Century. 14. St. Catherine surrounded by the Doctors of Alexandria. A Miniature from the Breviary of Cardinal Grimani, attributed to Memling. Costumes of the Fifteenth Century. 15. Italian Lace-work, in Gold-thread. The Cypher and Arms of Henri III. (Sixteenth Century). II. Engravings. Aigues-Mortes, Ramparts of the Town of Alms Bag, Fifteenth Century Amende honorable before the Tribunal America, Discovery of Anne of Brittany and the Ladies of her Court Archer, in Fighting Dress, Fifteenth Century Armourer Arms of Louis XI. and Charlotte of Savoy Arms, Various, Fifteenth Century Bailiwick Bailliage, or Tribunal of the King's Bailiff, Sixteenth Century Baker, The, Sixteenth Century Balancing, Feats of, Thirteenth Century Ballet, Representation of a, before Henri III. and his Court Banner of the Coopers of Bayonne " " La Rochelle " Corporation of Bakers of Arras " " Bakers of Paris " " Boot and Shoe Makers of Issoudun " Corporation of Publichouse-keepers of Montmédy " Corporation of Publichouse-keepers of Tonnerre " Drapers of Caen " Harness-makers of Paris " Nail-makers of Paris " Pastrycooks of Caen " " La Rochelle " " Tonnerre " Tanners of Vie " Tilers of Paris " Weavers of Toulon " Wheelwrights of Paris Banquet, Grand, at the Court of France Barber Barnacle Geese Barrister, Fifteenth Century Basin-maker Bastille, The Bears and other Beasts, how they may be caught with a Dart Beggar playing the Fiddle Beheading Bell and Canon Caster Bird-catching, Fourteenth Century Bird-piping, Fourteenth Century Blind and Poor Sick of St. John, Fifteenth Century Bob Apple, The Game of Bootmaker's Apprentice working at a Trial-piece, Thirteenth Century Bourbon, Constable de, Trial of, before the Peers of France Bourgeois, Thirteenth Century Brandenburg, Marquis of Brewer, The, Sixteenth Century Brotherhood of Death, Member of the Burgess of Ghent and his Wife, from a Window of the Fifteenth Century Burgess at Meals Burgesses with Hoods, Fourteenth Century Burning Ballet, The Butcher, The, Sixteenth Century Butler at his Duties Cards for a Game of Piquet, Sixteenth Century Carlovingian King in his Palace Carpenter, Fifteenth Century Carpenter's Apprentice working at a Trial-piece, Fifteenth Century Cast to allure Beasts Castle of Alamond, The Cat-o'-nine-tails Celtic Monument (the Holy Ox) Chamber of Accounts, Hotel of the Chandeliers in Bronze, Fourteenth Century Charlemagne, The Emperor " Coronation of " Dalmatica and Sandals of " receiving the Oath of Fidelity from one of his great Barons " Portrait of Charles, eldest Son of King Pepin, receiving the News of the Death of his Father Charles V. and the Emperor Charles IV., Interview between Château-Gaillard aux Andelys Châtelet, The Great Cheeses, The Manufacture of, Sixteenth Century Chilpéric, Tomb of, Eleventh Century Clasp-maker Cloth to approach Beasts, How to carry a Cloth-worker Coins, Gold Merovingian, 628-638 " Gold, Sixth and Seventh Centuries " " Fourteenth and Fifteenth Centuries " Gold and Silver, Thirteenth Century " " Fifteenth and Sixteenth Centuries " Silver, Eighth to Eleventh Centuries Cologne, View of, Sixteenth Century Comb in Ivory, Sixteenth Century Combat of a Knight with a Dog, Thirteenth Century Companion Carpenter, Fifteenth Century Cook, The, Sixteenth Century Coppersmith, The, Sixteenth Century Corn-threshing and Bread-making, Sixteenth Century Costume of Emperors at their Coronation since the Time of Charlemagne " King Childebert, Seventh Century " King Clovis, Sixth Century " Saints in the Sixth to Eighth Century " Prelates, Eighth to Tenth Century " a Scholar of the Carlovingian Period Costume of a Scholar, Ninth Century " a Bishop or Abbot, Ninth Century " Charles the Simple, Tenth Century " Louis le Jeune " a Princess " William Malgeneste, the King's Huntsman " an English Servant, Fourteenth Century " Philip the Good " Charles V., King of France " Jeanne de Bourbon " Charlotte of Savoy " Mary of Burgundy " the Ladies of the Court of Catherine de Medicis " a Gentleman of the French Court, Sixteenth Century " the German Bourgeoisie, Sixteenth Century Costumes, Italian, Fifteenth Century Costumes of the Thirteenth Century " the Common People, Fourteenth Century " a rich Bourgeoise, of a Peasant-woman, and of a Lady of the Nobility, Fourteenth Century " a Young Nobleman and of a Bourgeois, Fourteenth Century " a Bourgeois or Merchant, of a Nobleman, and of a Lady of the Court or rich Bourgeoise, Fifteenth Century " a Mechanic's Wife and a rich Bourgeois, Fifteenth Century " Young Noblemen of the Court of Charles VIII " a Nobleman, a Bourgeois, and a Noble Lady, of the time of Louis XII " a rich Bourgeoise and a Nobleman, time of Francis I Counter-seal of the Butchers of Bruges in 1356 Country Life Cour des Miracles of Paris Court Fool " of Love in Provence, Fourteenth Century " of the Nobles, The " Supreme, presided over by the King " of a Baron, The " Inferior, in the Great Bailiwick Courtiers amassing Riches at the Expense of the Poor, Fourteenth Century Courts of Love in Provence, Allegorical Scene of, Thirteenth Century Craftsmen, Fourteenth Century Cultivation of Fruit, Fifteenth Century " Grain, and Manufacture of Barley and Oat Bread Dance called "La Gaillarde" " of Fools, Thirteenth Century " by Torchlight Dancers on Christmas Night David playing on the Lyre Dealer in Eggs, Sixteenth Century Deer, Appearance of, and how to hunt them with Dogs Deputies of the Burghers of Ghent, Fourteenth Century Dice-maker Distribution of Bread, Meat, and Wine Doge of Venice, Costume of the, before the Sixteenth Century " in Ceremonial Costume of the Sixteenth Century " Procession of the Dog-kennel, Fifteenth Century Dogs, Diseases of, and their Cure, Fourteenth Century Dortmund, View of, Sixteenth Century _Drille_, or _Narquois_, Fifteenth Century Drinkers of the North, The Great Druggist Dues on Wine Dyer Edict, Promulgation of an Elder and Juror, Ceremonial Dress of an Elder and Jurors of the Tanners of Ghent Eloy, St., Signature of Empalement Entry of Louis XI. into Paris Equestrian Performances, Thirteenth Century Estrapade, The, or Question Extraordinary Executions Exhibitor of Strange Animals Falcon, How to train a New, Fourteenth Century " How to bathe a New Falconer, Dress of the, Thirteenth Century " German, Sixteenth Century Falconers, Thirteenth Century " dressing their Birds, Fourteenth Century Falconry, Art of, King Modus teaching the, Fourteenth Century " Varlets of, Fourteenth Century Families, The, and the Barbarians Fight between a Horse and Dogs, Thirteenth Century Fireworks on the Water Fish, Conveyance of, by Water and Land Flemish Peasants, Fifteenth Century Franc, Silver, Henry IV. Franks, Fourth to Eighth Century " King or Chief of the, Ninth Century " King of the, dictating the Salic Law Frédégonde giving orders to assassinate Sigebert, from a Window of the Fifteenth Century Free Judges Funeral Token Gallo-Roman Costumes Gaston Phoebus teaching the Art of Venery German Beggars " Knights, Fifteenth Century " Soldiers, Sixth to Twelfth Century " Sportsman, Sixteenth Century Ghent, Civic Guard of Gibbet of Montfaucon, The Gipsies Fortune-telling " on the March Gipsy Encampment " Family, A " who used to wash his Hands in Molten Lead Goldbeater Goldsmith Goldsmiths of Ghent, Names and Titles of some of the Members of the Corporation of, Fifteenth Century " Group of, Seventeenth Century. Grain-measurers of Ghent, Arms of the Grape, Treading the Grocer and Druggist, Shop of a, Seventeenth Century Hanging to Music Hare, How to allure the Hatter Hawking, Lady setting out, Fourteenth Century Hawks, Young, how to make them fly, Fourteenth Century Hay-carriers, Sixteenth Century Herald, Fourteenth Century Heralds, Lodge of the Heron-hawking, Fourteenth Century Hostelry, Interior of an, Sixteenth Century Hôtel des Ursins, Paris, Fourteenth Century Hunting-meal Imperial Procession Infant Richard, The, crucified by the Jews at Pontoise Irmensul and Crodon, Idols of the Ancient Saxons Iron Cage Issue de Table, The Italian Beggar " Jew, Fourteenth Century " Kitchen, Interior of " Nobleman, Fifteenth Century Jacques Coeur, Amende honorable of, before Charles VII " House of, at Bourges Jean Jouvenel des Ursins, Provost of Paris, and Michelle de Vitry, his Wife (Reign of Charles VI.) Jerusalem, View and Plan of Jew, Legend of a, calling the Devil from a Vessel of Blood Jewish Ceremony before the Ark " Conspiracy in France " Procession Jews taking the Blood from Christian Children " of Cologne burnt alive, The " Expulsion of the, in the Reign of the Emperor Hadrian " Secret Meeting of the John the Baptist, Decapitation of John the Fearless, Duke of Burgundy, Assassination of Judge, Fifteenth Century Judicial Duel, The Jugglers exhibiting Monkeys and Bears, Thirteenth Century " performing in Public, Thirteenth Century King-at-Arms presenting the Sword to the Duc de Bourbon King's Court, The, or Grand Council, Fifteenth Century Kitchen, Interior of a, Sixteenth Century. " and Table Utensils Knife-handles in Ivory, Sixteenth Century Knight in War-harness Knight and his Lady, Fourteenth Century Knights and Men-at-Arms of the Reign of Louis le Gros Labouring Colons, Twelfth Century Lambert of Liége, St., Chimes of the Clock of Landgrave of Thuringia and his Wife Lawyer, Sixteenth Century Leopard, Hunting with the, Sixteenth Century Lubeck and its Harbour, View of, Sixteenth Century Maidservants, Dress of, Thirteenth Century Mallet, Louis de, Admiral of France Mark's Place, St., Venice, Sixteenth Century Marseilles and its Harbour, View and Plan of, Sixteenth Century Measurers of Corn, Paris, Sixteenth Century Measuring Salt Merchant Vessel in a Storm Merchants and Lion-keepers at Constantinople Merchants of Rouen, Medal to commemorate the Association of the Merchants of Rouen, Painting commemorative of the Union of, Seventeenth Century Merchants or Tradesmen, Fourteenth Century Metals, The Extraction of Miller, The, Sixteenth Century Mint, The, Sixteenth Century Musician accompanying the Dancing New-born Child, The Nicholas Flamel, and Pernelle, his Wife, from a Painting of the Fifteenth Century Nobility, Costumes of the, from the Seventh to the Ninth century " Ladies of the, in the Ninth Century Noble Ladies and Children, Dress of, Fourteenth Century Noble Lady and Maid of Honour, Fourteenth Century Noble of Provence, Fifteenth Century Nobleman hunting Nogent-le-Rotrou, Tower of the Castle of Nut-crackers, Sixteenth Century Occupations of the Peasants Officers of the Table and of the Chamber of the Imperial Court Oil, the Manufacture of, Sixteenth Century Old Man of the Mountain, The Olifant, or Hunting-horn, Fourteenth Century " " details of Orphaus, Gallois, and Family of the Grand Coesre, Fifteenth Century Palace, The, Sixteenth Century Palace of the Doges, Interior Court of the Paris, View of Partridges, Way to catch Paying Toll on passing a Bridge Peasant Dances at the May Feasts Pheasant-fowling, Fourteenth Century Philippe le Bel in War-dress Pillory, View of the, in the Market-place of Paris, Sixteenth Century Pin and Needle Maker Ploughmen. Fac-simile of a Miniature in very ancient Anglo-Saxon Manuscript Pond Fisherman, The Pont aux Changeurs, View of the ancient Pork-butcher, The, Fourteenth Century Poulterer, The, Sixteenth Century Poultry-dealer, The Powder-horn, Sixteenth Century Provost's Prison, The Provostship of the Merchants of Paris, Assembly of the, Sixteenth Century Punishment by Fire, The Purse or Leather Bag, with Knife or Dagger, Fifteenth Century Receiver of Taxes, The Remy, St., Bishop of Rheirns, begging of Clovis the restitution of the Sacred Vase, Fifteenth Century River Fishermen, The, Sixteenth Century Roi de l'Epinette, Entry of the, at Lille Roman Soldiers, Sixth to Twelfth Century Royal Costume _Ruffés_ and _Millards_, Fifteenth Century Sainte-Geneviève, Front of the Church of the Abbey of Sale by Town-Crier Salt-cellar, enamelled, Sixteenth Century Sandal or Buskin of Charlemagne Saxony, Duke of Sbirro, Chief of Seal of the Bateliers of Bruges in 1356 " Corporation of Carpenters of St. Trond (Belgium) " Corporation of Clothworkers of Bruges " Corporation of Fullers of St. Trond " Corporation of Joiners of Bruges " " Shoemakers of St. Trond " Corporation of Wool-weavers of Hasselt " Free Count Hans Vollmar von Twern " Free Count Heinrich Beckmann " " Herman Loseckin " " Johann Croppe " King Chilpéric " United Trades of Ghent, Fifteenth Century Seat of Justice held by Philippe de Valois Secret Tribunal, Execution of the Sentences of the Sémur, Tower of the Castle of Serf or Vassal, Tenth Century Serjeants-at-Arms, Fourteenth Century Shepherds celebrating the Birth of the Messiah Shoemaker Shops under Covered Market, Fifteenth Century Shout and blow Horns, How to Simon, Martyrdom of, at Trent Slaves or Serfs, Sixth to Twelfth Century Somersaults Sport with Dogs, Fourteenth Century Spring-board, The Spur-maker Squirrels, Way to catch Stag, How to kill and cut up a, Fifteenth Century Staircase of the Office of the Goldsmiths of Rouen, Fifteenth Century Stall of Carved Wood, Fifteenth Century Standards of the Church and the Empire State Banquet, Sixteenth Century Stoertebeck, Execution of Styli, Fourteenth Century Swineherd Swiss Grand Provost Sword-dance to the Sound of the Bagpipe, Fourteenth Century Sword-maker Table of a Baron, Thirteenth Century Tailor Talebot the Hunchback Tinman Tithe of Beer, Fifteenth Century Token of the Corporation of Carpenters of Antwerp Token of the Corporation of Carpenters of Maëstricht Toll under the Bridges of Paris Toll on Markets, levied by a Cleric, Fifteenth Century Torture of the Wheel, Demons applying the Tournaments in Honour of the Entry of Queen Isabel into Paris Tower of the Temple, Paris Trade on the Seaports of the Levant, Fifteenth Century Transport of Merchandise on the Backs of Camels University of Paris, Fellows of the, haranguing the Emperor Charles IV. Varlet or Squire carrying a Halberd, Fifteenth Century View of Alexandria, Sixteenth Century Village Feast, Sixteenth Century Village pillaged by Soldiers Villain, the Covetous and Avaricious Villain, the Egotistical and Envious Villain or Peasant, Fifteenth Century Villain receiving his Lord's Orders Vine, Culture of the Vintagers, The, Thirteenth Century Votive Altar of the Nautes Parisiens Water Torture, The Weight in Brass of the Fish-market at Mans, Sixteenth Century Whale Fishing William, Duke of Normandy, Eleventh Century Winegrower, The Wire-worker Wolves, how they may be caught with a Snare Woman under the Safeguard of Knighthood, Fifteenth Century Women of the Court, Sixth to Tenth Century Woodcock, Mode of catching a, Fourteenth Century Manners, Customs, and Dress During the Middle Ages, and During the Renaissance Period. Condition of Persons and Lands. Disorganization of the West at the Beginning of the Middle Ages.--Mixture of Roman, Germanic, and Gallic Institutions.--Fusion organized under Charlemagne.--Royal Authority.--Position of the Great Feudalists.--Division of the Territory and Prerogatives attached to Landed Possessions.--Freemen and Tenants.--The Læti, the Colon, the Serf, and the Labourer, who may be called the Origin of the Modern Lower Classes.--Formation of Communities.--Right of Mortmain. The period known as the Middle Ages, says the learned Benjamin Guérard, is the produce of Pagan civilisation, of Germanic barbarism, and of Christianity. It began in 476, on the fall of Agustulus, and ended in 1453, at the taking of Constantinople by Mahomet II., and consequently the fall of two empires, that of the West and that of the East, marks its duration. Its first act, which was due to the Germans, was the destruction of political unity, and this was destined to be afterwards replaced by religions unity. Then we find a multitude of scattered and disorderly influences growing on the ruins of central power. The yoke of imperial dominion was broken by the barbarians; but the populace, far from acquiring liberty, fell to the lowest degrees of servitude. Instead of one despot, it found thousands of tyrants, and it was but slowly and with much trouble that it succeeded in freeing itself from feudalism. Nothing could be more strangely troubled than the West at the time of the dissolution of the Empire of the Caesars; nothing more diverse or more discordant than the interests, the institutions, and the state of society, which were delivered to the Germans (Figs. 1 and 2). In fact, it would be impossible in the whole pages of history to find a society formed of more heterogeneous or incompatible elements. On the one side might be placed the Goths, Burgundians, Vandals, Germans, Franks, Saxons, and Lombards, nations, or more strictly hordes, accustomed to rough and successful warfare, and, on the other, the Romans, including those people who by long servitude to Roman dominion had become closely allied with their conquerors (Fig. 3). There were, on both sides, freemen, freedmen, colons, and slaves; different ranks and degrees being, however, observable both in freedom and servitude. This hierarchical principle applied itself even to the land, which was divided into freeholds, tributary lands, lands of the nobility, and servile lands, thus constituting the freeholds, the benefices, the fiefs, and the tenures. It may be added that the customs, and to a certain degree the laws, varied according to the masters of the country, so that it can hardly be wondered at that everywhere diversity and inequality were to be found, and, as a consequence, that anarchy and confusion ruled supreme. [Illustration: Figs. 1 and 2.--Costumes of the Franks from the Fourth to the Eighth Centuries, collected by H. de Vielcastel, from original Documents in the great Libraries of Europe.] [Illustration: Fig. 3.--Costumes of Roman Soldiers. Fig. 4.--Costume of German Soldiers. From Miniatures on different Manuscripts, from the Sixth to the Twelfth Centuries.] The Germans (Fig. 4) had brought with them over the Rhine none of the heroic virtues attributed to them by Tacitus when he wrote their history, with the evident intention of making a satire on his countrymen. Amongst the degenerate Romans whom those ferocious Germans had subjugated, civilisation was reconstituted on the ruins of vices common in the early history of a new society by the adoption of a series of loose and dissolute habits, both by the conquerors and the conquered. [Illustration: Fig. 5.--Costumes of Slaves or Serfs, from the Sixth to the Twelfth Centuries, collected by H. de Vielcastel, from original Documents in the great Libraries of Europe.] In fact, the conquerors contributed the worse share (Fig. 5); for, whilst exercising the low and debasing instincts of their former barbarism, they undertook the work of social reconstruction with a sort of natural and innate servitude. To them, liberty, the desire for which caused them to brave the greatest dangers, was simply the right of doing evil--of obeying their ardent thirst for plunder. Long ago, in the depths of their forests, they had adopted the curious institution of vassalage. When they came to the West to create States, instead of reducing personal power, every step in their social edifice, from the top to the bottom, was made to depend on individual superiority. To bow to a superior was their first political principle; and on that principle feudalism was one day to find its base. Servitude was in fact to be found in all conditions and ranks, equally in the palace of the sovereign as in the dwellings of his subjects. The vassal who was waited on at his own table by a varlet, himself served at the table of his lord; the nobles treated each other likewise, according to their rank; and all the exactions which each submitted to from his superiors, and required to be paid to him by those below him, were looked upon not as onerous duties, but as rights and honours. The sentiment of dignity and of personal independence, which has become, so to say, the soul of modern society, did not exist at all, or at least but very slightly, amongst the Germans. If we could doubt the fact, we have but to remember that these men, so proud, so indifferent to suffering or death, would often think little of staking their liberty in gambling, in the hope that if successful their gain might afford them the means of gratifying some brutal passion. [Illustration: Fig. 6.--King or Chief of Franks armed with the Seramasax, from a Miniature of the Ninth Century, drawn by H. de Vielcastel.] When the Franks took root in Gaul, their dress and institutions were adopted by the Roman society (Fig. 6). This had the most disastrous influence in every point of view, and it is easy to prove that civilisation did not emerge from this chaos until by degrees the Teutonic spirit disappeared from the world. As long as this spirit reigned, neither private nor public liberty existed. Individual patriotism only extended as far as the border of a man's family, and the nation became broken up into clans. Gaul soon found itself parcelled off into domains which were almost independent of one another. It was thus that Germanic genius became developed. [Illustration: Fig. 7.--The King of the Franks, in the midst of the Military Chiefs who formed his _Treuste_, or armed Court, dictates the Salic Law (Code of the Barbaric Laws).--Fac-simile of a Miniature in the "Chronicles of St. Denis," a Manuscript of the Fourteenth Century (Library of the Arsenal).] The advantages of acting together for mutual protection first established itself in families. If any one suffered from an act of violence, he laid the matter before his relatives for them jointly to seek reparation. The question was then settled between the families of the offended person and the offender, all of whom were equally associated in the object of vindicating a cause which interested them alone, without recognising any established authority, and without appealing to the law. If the parties had sought the protection or advice of men of power, the quarrel might at once take a wider scope, and tend to kindle a feud between two nobles. In any case the King only interfered when the safety of his person or the interests of his dominions were threatened. Penalties and punishments were almost always to be averted by a money payment. A son, for instance, instead of avenging the death of his father, received from the murderer a certain indemnity in specie, according to legal tariff; and the law was thus satisfied. The tariff of indemnities or compensations to be paid for each crime formed the basis of the code of laws amongst the principal tribes of Franks, a code essentially barbarian, and called the Salic law, or law of the Salians (Fig. 7). Such, however, was the spirit of inequality among the German races, that it became an established principle for justice to be subservient to the rank of individuals. The more powerful a man was, the more he was protected by the law; the lower his rank, the less the law protected him. The life of a Frank, by right, was worth twice that of a Roman; the life of a servant of the King was worth three times that of an ordinary individual who did not possess that protecting tie. On the other hand, punishment was the more prompt and rigorous according to the inferiority of position of the culprit. In case of theft, for instance, a person of importance was brought before the King's tribunal, and as it respected the rank held by the accused in the social hierarchy, little or no punishment was awarded. In the case of the same crime by a poor man, on the contrary, the ordinary judge gave immediate sentence, and he was seized and hung on the spot. Inasmuch as no political institutions amongst the Germans were nobler or more just than those of the Franks and the other barbaric races, we cannot accept the creed of certain historians who have represented the Germans as the true regenerators of society in Europe. The two sources of modern civilisation are indisputably Pagan antiquity and Christianity. After the fall of the Merovingian kings great progress was made in the political and social state of nations. These kings, who were but chiefs of undisciplined bands, were unable to assume a regal character, properly so called. Their authority was more personal than territorial, for incessant changes were made in the boundaries of their conquered dominions. It was therefore with good reason that they styled themselves kings of the Franks, and not kings of France. Charlemagne was the first who recognised that social union, so admirable an example of which was furnished by Roman organization, and who was able, with the very elements of confusion and disorder to which he succeeded, to unite, direct, and consolidate diverging and opposite forces, to establish and regulate public administrations, to found and build towns, and to form and reconstruct almost a new world (Fig. 8). We hear of him assigning to each his place, creating for all a common interest, making of a crowd of small and scattered peoples a great and powerful nation; in a word, rekindling the beacon of ancient civilisation. When he died, after a most active and glorious reign of forty-five years, he left an immense empire in the most perfect state of peace (Fig. 9). But this magnificent inheritance was unfortunately destined to pass into unworthy or impotent hands, so that society soon fell back into anarchy and confusion. The nobles, in their turn invested with power, were continually at war, and gradually weakened the royal authority--the power of the kingdom--by their endless disputes with the Crown and with one another. [Illustration: Fig. 8.--Charles, eldest Son of King Pepin, receives the News of the Death of his Father and the Great Feudalists offer him the Crown.--Costumes of the Court of Burgundy in the Fifteenth Century.--Fac-simile of a Miniature of the "History of the Emperors" (Library of the Arsenal).] [Illustration: Fig. 9. Portrait of Charlemagne, whom the Song of Roland names the King with the Grizzly Beard.--Fac-simile of an Engraving of the End of the Sixteenth Century.] The revolution in society which took place under the Carlovingian dynasty had for its especial object that of rendering territorial what was formerly personal, and, as it were, of destroying personality in matters of government. The usurpation of lands by the great having been thus limited by the influence of the lesser holders, everybody tried to become the holder of land. Its possession then formed the basis of social position, and, as a consequence, individual servitude became lessened, and society assumed a more stable condition. The ancient laws of wandering tribes fell into disuse; and at the same time many distinctions of caste and race disappeared, as they were incompatible with the new order of things. As there were no more Salians, Ripuarians, nor Visigoths among the free men, so there were no more colons, læti, nor slaves amongst those deprived of liberty. [Illustrations: Figs. 10 and 11.--Present State of the Feudal Castle of Chateau-Gaillard aux Andelys, which was considered one of the strongest Castles of France in the Middle Ages, and was rebuilt in the Twelfth Century by Richard Coeur de Lion.] Heads of families, on becoming attached to the soil, naturally had other wants and other customs than those which they had delighted in when they were only the chiefs of wandering adventurers. The strength of their followers was not now so important to them as the security of their castles. Fortresses took the place of armed bodies; and at this time, every one who wished to keep what he had, entrenched himself to the best of his ability at his own residence. The banks of rivers, elevated positions, and all inaccessible heights, were occupied by towers and castles, surrounded by ditches, which served as strongholds to the lords of the soil. (Figs. 10 and 11). These places of defence soon became points for attack. Out of danger at home, many of the nobles kept watch like birds of prey on the surrounding country, and were always ready to fall, not only upon their enemies, but also on their neighbours, in the hope either of robbing them when off their guard, or of obtaining a ransom for any unwary traveller who might fall into their hands. Everywhere society was in ambuscade, and waged civil war--individual against individual--without peace or mercy. Such was the reign of feudalism. It is unnecessary to point out how this system of perpetual petty warfare tended to reduce the power of centralisation, and how royalty itself was weakened towards the end of the second dynasty. When the descendants of Hugh Capet wished to restore their power by giving it a larger basis, they were obliged to attack, one after the other, all these strongholds, and practically to re-annex each fief, city, and province held by these petty monarchs, in order to force their owners to recognise the sovereignty of the King. Centuries of war and negotiations became necessary before the kingdom of France could be, as it were, reformed. [Illustration: Fig. 12.--Knights and Men-at-arms, cased in Mail, in the Reign of Louis le Gros, from a Miniature in a Psalter written towards the End of the Twelfth Century.] The corporations and the citizens had great weight in restoring the monarchical power, as well as in forming French nationality; but by far the best influence brought to bear in the Middle Ages was that of Christianity. The doctrine of one origin and of one final destiny being common to all men of all classes constantly acted as a strong inducement for thinking that all should be equally free. Religious equality paved the way for political equality, and as all Christians were brothers before God, the tendency was for them to become, as citizens, equal also in law. This transformation, however, was but slow, and followed concurrently the progress made in the security of property. At the onset, the slave only possessed his life, and this was but imperfectly guaranteed to him by the laws of charity; laws which, however, year by year became of greater power. He afterwards became _colon_, or labourer (Figs. 13 and 14), working for himself under certain conditions and tenures, paying fines, or services, which, it is true, were often very extortionate. At this time he was considered to belong to the domain on which he was born, and he was at least sure that that soil would not be taken from him, and that in giving part of his time to his master, he was at liberty to enjoy the rest according to his fancy. The farmer afterwards became proprietor of the soil he cultivated, and master, not only of himself, but of his lands; certain trivial obligations or fines being all that was required of him, and these daily grew less, and at last disappeared altogether. Having thus obtained a footing in society, he soon began to take a place in provincial assemblies; and he made the last bound on the road of social progress, when the vote of his fellow-electors sent him to represent them in the parliament of the kingdom. Thus the people who had begun by excessive servitude, gradually climbed to power. [Illustration: Fig. 13.--Labouring Colons (Twelfth Century), after a Miniature in a Manuscript of the Ste. Chapelle, of the National Library of Paris.] We will now describe more in detail the various conditions of persons of the Middle Ages. The King, who held his rights by birth, and not by election, enjoyed relatively an absolute authority, proportioned according to the power of his abilities, to the extent of his dominions, and to the devotion of his vassals. Invested with a power which for a long time resembled the command of a general of an army, he had at first no other ministers than the officers to whom he gave full power to act in the provinces, and who decided arbitrarily in the name of, and representing, the King, on all questions of administration. One minister alone approached the King, and that was the chancellor, who verified, sealed, and dispatched all royal decrees and orders. As early, however, as the seventh century, a few officers of state appeared, who were specially attached to the King's person or household; a count of the palace, who examined and directed the suits brought before the throne; a mayor of the palace, who at one time raised himself from the administration of the royal property to the supreme power; an arch-chaplain, who presided over ecclesiastical affairs; a lord of the bedchamber, charged with the treasure of the chamber; and a count of the stables, charged with the superintendence of the stables. [Illustration: Fig. 14.--Labouring Colons (Twelfth Century), after a Miniature in a Manuscript of the Ste. Chapelle, of the National Library of Paris.] For all important affairs, the King generally consulted the grandees of his court; but as in the five or six first centuries of monarchy in France the royal residence was not permanent, it is probable the Council of State was composed in part of the officers who followed the King, and in part of the noblemen who came to visit him, or resided near the place he happened to be inhabiting. It was only under the Capetians that the Royal Council took a permanent footing, or even assembled at stated periods. In ordinary times, that is to say, when he was not engaged in war, the King had few around him besides his family, his personal attendants, and the ministers charged with the dispatch of affairs. As he changed from one of his abodes to another he only held his court on the great festivals of the year. [Illustration: Fig. 15.--The Lords and Barons prove their Nobility by hanging their Banners and exposing their Coats-of-arms at the Windows of the Lodge of the Heralds.--After a Miniature of the "Tournaments of King Réné" (Fifteenth Century), MSS. of the National Library of Paris.] Up to the thirteenth century, there was, strictly speaking, no taxation and no public treasury. The King received, through special officers appointed for the purpose, tributes either in money or in kind, which were most variable, but often very heavy, and drawn almost exclusively from his personal and private properties. In cases of emergency only, he appealed to his vassals for pecuniary aid. A great number of the grandees, who lived far from the court, either in state offices or on their own fiefs, had establishments similar to that of the King. Numerous and considerable privileges elevated them above other free men. The offices and fiefs having become hereditary, the order of nobility followed as a consequence; and it then became highly necessary for families to keep their genealogical histories, not only to gratify their pride, but also to give them the necessary titles for the feudal advantages they derived by birth. (Fig. 15). Without this right of inheritance, society, which was still unsettled in the Middle Ages, would soon have been dissolved. This great principle, sacred in the eyes both of great and small, maintained feudalism, and in so doing it maintained itself amidst all the chaos and confusion of repeated revolutions and social disturbances. We have already stated, and we cannot sufficiently insist upon this important point, that from the day on which the adventurous habits of the chiefs of Germanic origin gave place to the desire for territorial possessions, the part played by the land increased insensibly towards defining the position of the persons holding it. Domains became small kingdoms, over which the lord assumed the most absolute and arbitrary rights. A rule was soon established, that the nobility was inherent to the soil, and consequently that the land ought to transmit to its possessors the rights of nobility. This privilege was so much accepted, that the long tenure of a fief ended by ennobling the commoner. Subsequently, by a sort of compensation which naturally followed, lands on which rent had hitherto been paid became free and noble on passing to the possession of a noble. At last, however, the contrary rule prevailed, which caused the lands not to change quality in changing owners: the noble could still possess the labourers's lands without losing his nobility, but the labourer could be proprietor of a fief without thereby becoming a noble. To the _comites_, who, according to Tacitus, attached themselves to the fortunes of the Germanic chiefs, succeeded the Merovingian _leudes_, whose assembly formed the King's Council. These _leudes_ were persons of great importance owing to the number of their vassals, and although they composed his ordinary Council, they did not hesitate at times to declare themselves openly opposed to his will. [Illustration: Fig. 16.--Knight in War-harness, after a Miniature in a Psalter written and illuminated under Louis le Gros.] The name of _leudes_ was abandoned under the second of the then French dynasties, and replaced by that of _fidèles_, which, in truth soon became a common designation of both the vassals of the Crown and those of the nobility. Under the kings of the third dynasty, the kingdom was divided into about one hundred and fifty domains, which were called great fiefs of the crown, and which were possessed in hereditary right by the members of the highest nobility, placed immediately under the royal sovereignty and dependence. [Illustration: Fig. 17.--King Charlemagne receiving the Oath of Fidelity and Homage from one of his great Feudatories or High Barons.--Fac-simile of a Miniature in Cameo, of the "Chronicles of St. Denis." Manuscript of the Fourteenth Century (Library of the Arsenal).] Vassals emanating directly from the King, were then generally designated by the title of _barons_, and mostly possessed strongholds. The other nobles indiscriminately ranked as _chevaliers_ or _cnights_, a generic title, to which was added that of _banneret_, The fiefs of _hauberk_ were bound to supply the sovereign with a certain number of knights covered with coats of mail, and completely armed. All knights were mounted in war (Fig. 16); but knights who were made so in consequence of their high birth must not be confounded with those who became knights by some great feat in arms in the house of a prince or high noble, nor with the members of the different orders of chivalry which were successively instituted, such as the Knights of the Star, the Genet, the Golden Fleece, Saint-Esprit, St. John of Jerusalem, &c. Originally, the possession of a benefice or fief meant no more than the privilege of enjoying the profits derived from the land, a concession which made the holder dependent upon the proprietor. He was in fact his "man," to whom he owed homage (Fig. 17), service in case of war, and assistance in any suit the proprietor might have before the King's tribunal. The chiefs of German bands at first recompensed their companions in arms by giving them fiefs of parts of the territory which they had conquered; but later on, everything was equally given to be held in fief, namely, dignities, offices, rights, and incomes or titles. It is important to remark (and it is in this alone that feudalism shows its social bearing), that if the vassal owed obedience and devotion to his lord, the lord in exchange owed protection to the vassal. The rank of "free man" did not necessarily require the possession of land; but the position of free men who did not hold fiefs was extremely delicate and often painful, for they were by natural right dependent upon those on whose domain they resided. In fact, the greater part of these nobles without lands became by choice the King's men, and remained attached to his service. If this failed them, they took lands on lease, so as to support themselves and their families, and to avoid falling into absolute servitude. In the event of a change of proprietor, they changed with the land into new hands. Nevertheless, it was not uncommon for them to be so reduced as to sell their freedom; but in such cases, they reserved the right, should better times come, of re-purchasing their liberty by paying one-fifth more than the sum for which they had sold it. We thus see that in olden times, as also later, freedom was more or less the natural consequence of the possession of wealth or power on the part of individuals or families who considered themselves free in the midst of general dependence. During the tenth century, indeed, if not impossible, it was at least difficult to find a single inhabitant of the kingdom of France who was not "the man" of some one, and who was either tied by rules of a liberal order, or else was under the most servile obligations. The property of the free men was originally the "_aleu_," which was under the jurisdiction of the royal magistrates. The _aleu_ gradually lost the greater part of its franchise, and became liable to the common charges due on lands which were not freehold. In ancient times, all landed property of a certain extent was composed of two distinct parts: one occupied by the owner, constituted the domain or manor; the other, divided between persons who were more or less dependent, formed what were called _tenures_. These _tenures_ were again divided according to the position of those who occupied them: if they were possessed by free men, who took the name of vassals, they were called benefices or fiefs; if they were let to læti, colons, or serfs, they were then called colonies or demesnes. [Illustration: Fig. 18.--Ploughmen.--Fac-simile of a Miniature in a very ancient Anglo-Saxon Manuscript published by Shaw, with legend "God Spede ye Plough, and send us Korne enow."] The _læti_ occupied a rank between the colon and the serf. They had less liberty than the colon, over whom the proprietor only had an indirect and very limited power. The colon only served the land, whilst the læti, whether agriculturists or servants, served both the land and the owner (Fig. 18). They nevertheless enjoyed the right of possession, and of defending themselves, or prosecuting by law. The serf, on the contrary, had neither city, tribunal, nor family. The læti had, besides, the power of purchasing their liberty when they had amassed sufficient for the purpose. _Serfs_ occupied the lowest position in the social ladder (Fig. 19). They succeeded to slaves, thus making, thanks to Christianity, a step towards liberty. Although the civil laws barely protected them, those of the Church continually stepped in and defended them from arbitrary despotism. The time came when they had no direct masters, and when the almost absolute dependence of serfs was changed by the nobles requiring them to farm the land and pay tithes and fees. And lastly, they became farmers, and regular taxes took the place of tithes and fees. The colons, læti, and serfs, all of whom were more or less tillers of the soil, were, so to speak, the ancestors of "the people" of modern times; those who remained devoted to agriculture were the ancestors of our peasants; and those who gave themselves up to trades and commerce in the towns, were the originators of the middle classes. [Illustration: Fig. 19.--Serf or Vassal of Tenth Century, from Miniatures in the "Dialogues of St. Gregory," Manuscript No. 9917 (Royal Library of Brussels).] As early as the commencement of the third royal dynasty we find in the rural districts, as well as in the towns, a great number of free men: and as the charters concerning the condition of lands and persons became more and more extended, the tyranny of the great was reduced, and servitude decreased. During the following centuries, the establishment of civic bodies and the springing up of the middle classes (Fig. 20) made the acquisition of liberty more easy and more general. Nevertheless, this liberty was rather theoretical than practical; for if the nobles granted it nominally, they gave it at the cost of excessive fines, and the community, which purchased at a high price the right of self-administration, did not get rid of any of the feudal charges imposed upon it. [Illustration: Fig. 20.--Bourgeois at the End of Thirteenth Century.--Fac-simile of Miniature in Manuscript No. 6820, in the National Library of Paris.] Fortunately for the progress of liberty, the civic bodies, as if they had been providentially warned of the future in store for them, never hesitated to accept from their lords, civil or ecclesiastical, conditions, onerous though they were, which enabled them to exist in the interior of the cities to which they belonged. They formed a sort of small state, almost independent for private affairs, subject to the absolute power of the King, and more or less tied by their customs or agreements with the local nobles. They held public assemblies and elected magistrates, whose powers embraced both the administration of civil and criminal justice, police, finance, and the militia. They generally had fixed and written laws. Protected by ramparts, each possessed a town-hall (_hôtel de ville_), a seal, a treasury, and a watch-tower, and it could arm a certain number of men, either for its own defence or for the service of the noble or sovereign under whom it held its rights. In no case could a community such as this exist without the sanction of the King, who placed it under the safeguard of the Crown. At first the kings, blinded by a covetous policy, only seemed to see in the issue of these charters an excellent pretext for extorting money. If they consented to recognise them, and even to help them against their lords, it was on account of the enormous sacrifices made by the towns. Later on, however, they affected, on the contrary, the greatest generosity towards the vassals who wished to incorporate themselves, when they had understood that these institutions might become powerful auxiliaries against the great titulary feudalists; but from the reign of Louis XI., when the power of the nobles was much diminished, and no longer inspired any terror to royalty, the kings turned against their former allies, the middle classes, and deprived them successively of all the prerogatives which could prejudice the rights of the Crown. The middle classes, it is true, acquired considerable influence afterwards by participation in the general and provincial councils. After having victoriously struggled against the clergy and nobility, in the assemblies of the three states or orders, they ended by defeating royalty itself. Louis le Gros, in whose orders the style or title of _bourgeois_ first appears (1134), is generally looked upon as the founder of the franchise of communities in France; but it is proved that a certain number of communities or corporations were already formally constituted, before his accession to the throne. The title of bourgeois was not, however, given exclusively to inhabitants of cities. It often happened that the nobles, with the intention of improving and enriching their domains, opened a kind of asylum, under the attractive title of _Free Towns_, or _New Towns_, where they offered, to all wishing to establish themselves, lands, houses, and a more or less extended share of privileges, rights, and liberties. These congregations, or families, soon became boroughs, and the inhabitants, though agriculturists, took the name of bourgeois. [Illustration: Fig. 21.--Costume of a Vilain or Peasant, Fifteenth Century, from a Miniature of "La Danse Macabre," Manuscript 7310 of the National Library of Paris.] There was also a third kind of bourgeois, whose influence on the extension of royal power was not less than that of the others. There were free men who, under the title of bourgeois of the King _(bourgeois du Roy_), kept their liberty by virtue of letters of protection given them by the King, although they were established on lands of nobles whose inhabitants were deprived of liberty. Further, when a _vilain_--that is to say, the serf, of a noble--bought a lease of land in a royal borough, it was an established custom that after having lived there a year and a day without being reclaimed by his lord and master, he became a bourgeois of the King and a free man. In consequence of this the serfs and vilains (Fig. 21) emigrated from all parts, in order to profit by these advantages, to such a degree, that the lands of the nobles became deserted by all the serfs of different degrees, and were in danger of remaining uncultivated. The nobility, in the interests of their properties, and to arrest this increasing emigration, devoted themselves to improving the condition of persons placed under their dependence, and attempted to create on their domains _boroughs_ analogous to those of royalty. But however liberal these ameliorations might appear to be, it was difficult for the nobles not only to concede privileges equal to those emanating from the throne, but also to ensure equal protection to those they thus enfranchised. In spite of this, however, the result was that a double current of enfranchisement was established, which resulted in the daily diminution of the miserable order of serfs, and which, whilst it emancipated the lower orders, had the immediate result of giving increased weight and power to royalty, both in its own domains and in those of the nobility and their vassals. These social revolutions did not, of course, operate suddenly, nor did they at once abolish former institutions, for we still find, that after the establishment of communities and corporations, several orders of servitude remained. At the close of the thirteenth century, on the authority of Philippe de Beaumanoir, the celebrated editor of "Coutumes de Beauvoisis," there were three states or orders amongst the laity, namely, the nobleman (Fig. 22), the free man, and the serf. All noblemen were free, but all free men were not necessarily noblemen. Generally, nobility descended from the father and franchise from the mother. But according to many other customs of France, the child, as a general rule, succeeded to the lower rank of his parents. There were two orders of serfs: one rigorously held in the absolute dependence of his lord, to such a degree that the latter could appropriate during his life, or after death if he chose, all he possessed; he could imprison him, ill-treat him as he thought proper, without having to answer to any one but God; the other, though held equally in bondage, was more liberally treated, for "unless he was guilty of some evil-doing, the lord could ask of him nothing during his life but the fees, rents, or fines which he owed on account of his servitude." If one of the latter class of serfs married a free woman, everything which he possessed became the property of his lord. The same was the case when he died, for he could not transmit any of his goods to his children, and was only allowed to dispose by will of a sum of about five sous, or about twenty-five francs of modern money. As early as the fourteenth century, serfdom or servitude no longer existed except in "mortmain," of which we still have to speak. [Illustration: The Court of Mary of Anjou, Wife of Charles VII. Her chaplain the learned Robert Blondel presents her with the allegorical Treatise of the "_Twelve Perils of Hell_." Which he composed for her (1455). Fac-simile of a miniature from this work. Bibl. de l'Arsenal, Paris.] _Mortmain_ consisted of the privation of the right of freely disposing of one's person or goods. He who had not the power of going where he would, of giving or selling, of leaving by will or transferring his property, fixed or movable, as he thought best, was called a man of mortmain. [Illustration: Fig. 22.--Italian Nobleman of the Fifteenth Century. From a Playing-card engraved on Copper about 1460 (Cabinet des Estampes, National Library of Paris).] This name was apparently chosen because the hand, "considered the symbol of power and the instrument of donation," was deprived of movement, paralysed, in fact struck as by death. It was also nearly in this sense, that men of the Church were also called men of mortmain, because they were equally forbidden to dispose, either in life, or by will after death, of anything belonging to them. There were two kinds of mortmain: real and personal; one concerning land, and the other concerning the person; that is to say, land held in mortmain did not change quality, whatever might be the position of the person who occupied it, and a "man of mortmain" did not cease to suffer the inconveniences of his position on whatever land he went to establish himself. The mortmains were generally subject to the greater share of feudal obligations formerly imposed on serfs; these were particularly to work for a certain time for their lord without receiving any wages, or else to pay him the _tax_ when it was due, on certain definite occasions, as for example, when he married, when he gave a dower to his daughter, when he was taken prisoner of war, when he went to the Holy Land, &c., &c. What particularly characterized the condition of mortmains was, that the lords had the right to take all their goods when they died without issue, or when the children held a separate household; and that they could not dispose of anything they possessed, either by will or gift, beyond a certain sum. The noble who franchised mortmains, imposed on them in almost all cases very heavy conditions, consisting of fees, labours, and fines of all sorts. In fact, a mortmain person, to be free, not only required to be franchised by his own lord, but also by all the nobles on whom he was dependent, as well as by the sovereign. If a noble franchised without the consent of his superiors, he incurred a fine, as it was considered a dismemberment or depreciation of the fief. As early as the end of the fourteenth century, the rigorous laws of mortmain began to fall into disuse in the provinces; though if the name began to disappear, the condition itself continued to exist. The free men, whether they belonged to the middle class or to the peasantry, were nevertheless still subject to pay fines or obligations to their lords of such a nature that they must be considered to have been practically in the same position as mortmains. In fact, this custom had been so deeply rooted into social habits by feudalism, that to make it disappear totally at the end of the eighteenth century, it required three decrees of the National Convention (July 17 and October 2, 1793; and 8 Ventôse, year II.--that is, March 2, 1794). It is only just to state, that twelve or fourteen years earlier, Louis XVI. had done all in his power towards the same purpose, by suppressing mortmain, both real or personal, on the lands of the Crown, and personal mortmain (i.e. the right of following mortmains out of their original districts) all over the kingdom. [Illustration: Fig. 23.--Alms Bag taken from some Tapestry in Orleans, Fifteenth Century.] Privileges and Rights. Feudal and Municipal. Elements of Feudalism.--Rights of Treasure-trove, Sporting, Safe Conducts, Ransom, Disinheritance, &c.--Immunity of the Feudalists.--Dues from the Nobles to their Sovereign.--Law and University Dues.--Curious Exactions resulting from the Universal System of Dues.--Struggles to Enfranchise the Classes subjected to Dues.--Feudal Spirit and Citizen Spirit.--Resuscitation of the System of Ancient Municipalities in Italy, Germany, and France.--Municipal Institutions and Associations.--The Community.--The Middle-Class Cities (_Cités Bourgeoises_).--Origin of National Unity. So as to understand the numerous charges, dues, and servitudes, often as quaint as iniquitous and vexations, which weighed on the lower orders during the Middle Ages, we must remember how the upper class, who assumed to itself the privilege of oppression on lands and persons under the feudal System, was constituted. The Roman nobles, heirs to their fathers' agricultural dominions, succeeded for the most part in preserving through the successive invasions of the barbarians, the influence attached to the prestige of birth and wealth; they still possessed the greater part of the land and owned as vassals the rural populations. The Grerman nobles, on the contrary, had not such extended landed properties, but they appropriated all the strongest positions. The dukes, counts, and marquises were generally of German origin. The Roman race, mixed with the blood of the various nations it had subdued, was the first to infuse itself into ancient Society, and only furnished barons of a secondary order. These heterogeneous elements, brought together, with the object of common dominion, constituted a body who found life and motion only in the traditions of Rome and ancient Germany. From these two historical sources, as is very judiciously pointed out by M. Mary-Lafon, issued all the habits of the new society, and particularly the rights and privileges assumed by the nobility. These rights and privileges, which we are about to pass summarily in review, were numerous, and often curious: amongst them may be mentioned the rights of treasure-trove, the rights of wreck, the rights of establishing fairs or markets, rights of marque, of sporting, &c. The rights of treasure-trove were those which gave full power to dukes and counts over all minerals found on their properties. It was in asserting this right that the famous Richard Coeur de Lion, King of England, met his death. Adhémar, Viscount of Limoges, had discovered in a field a treasure, of which, no doubt, public report exaggerated the value, for it was said to be large enough to model in pure gold, and life-size, a Roman emperor and the members of his family, at table. Adhémar was a vassal of the Duke of Guienne, and, as a matter of course, set aside what was considered the sovereign's share in his discovery; but Richard, refusing to concede any part of his privilege, claimed the whole treasure. On the refusal of the viscount to give it up he appeared under arms before the gates of the Castle of Chalus, where he supposed that the treasure was hidden. On seeing the royal standard, the garrison offered to open the gates. "No," answered Richard, "since you have forced me to unfurl my banner, I shall only enter by the breach, and you shall all be hung on the battlements." The siege commenced, and did not at first seem to favour the English, for the besieged made a noble stand. One evening, as his troops were assaulting the place, in order to witness the scene, Richard was sitting at a short distance on a piece of rock, protected with a target--that is, a large shield covered with leather and blades of iron--which two archers held over him. Impatient to see the result of the assault, Richard pushed down the shield, and that moment decided his fate (1199). An archer of Chalus, who had recognised him and was watching from the top of the rampart, sent a bolt from a crossbow, which hit him full in the chest. The wound, however, would perhaps not have been mortal, but, shortly after, having carried the place by storm, and in his delight at finding the treasure almost intact, he gave himself up madly to degrading orgies, during which he had already dissipated the greater part of his treasure, and died of his wound twelve days later; first having, however, graciously pardoned the bowman who caused his death. The right of shipwrecks, which the nobles of seaboard countries rarely renounced, and of which they were the more jealous from the fact that they had continually to dispute them with their vassals and neighbours, was the pitiless and barbaric right of appropriating the contents of ships happening to be wrecked on their shores. [Illustration: Figs. 24 and 25.--Varlet or Squire carrying a Halberd with a thick Blade; and Archer, in Fighting Dress, drawing the String of his Crossbow with a double-handled Winch.--From the Miniatures of the "Jouvencel," and the "Chroniques" of Froissart, Manuscripts of the Fifteenth Century (Imperial Library of Paris).] When the feudal nobles granted to their vassals the right of assembling on certain days, in order to hold fairs and markets, they never neglected to reserve to themselves some tax on each head of cattle, as well as on the various articles brought in and put up for sale. As these fairs and markets never failed to attract a great number of buyers and sellers, this formed a very lucrative tax for the noble (Fig. 26). [Illustration: Fig. 26.--Flemish Peasants at the Cattle Market.--Miniature of the "Chroniques de Hainaut." Manuscripts of the Fifteenth Century, vol. ii. fol. 204 (Library of the Dukes of Burgundy, Brussels).] The right of _marque_, or reprisal, was a most barbarous custom. A famous example is given of it. In 1022, William the Pious, Count of Angoulême, before starting for a pilgrimage to Rome, made his three brothers, who were his vassals, swear to live in honourable peace and good friendship. But, notwithstanding their oath, two of the brothers, having invited the third to the Easter festivities, seized him at night in his bed, put out his eyes so that he might not find the way to his castle, and cut out his tongue so that he might not name the authors of this horrible treatment. The voice of God, however, denounced them, and the Count of Angoulême, shuddering with horror, referred the case to his sovereign, the Duke of Aquitaine, William IV., who immediately came, and by fire and sword exercised his right of _marque_ on the lands of the two brothers, leaving them nothing but their lives and limbs, after having first put out their eyes and cut out their tongues, so as to inflict on them the penalty of retaliation. The right of sporting or hunting was of all prerogatives that dearest to, and most valued by the nobles. Not only were the severest and even cruellest penalties imposed on "vilains" who dared to kill the smallest head of game, but quarrels frequently arose between nobles of different degrees on the subject, some pretending to have a feudal privilege of hunting on the lands of others (Fig. 27). From this tyrannical exercise of the right of hunting, which the least powerful of the nobles only submitted to with the most violent and bitter feelings, sprung those old and familiar ballads, which indicate the popular sentiment on the subject. In some of these songs the inveterate hunters are condemned, by the order of Fairies or of the Fates, either to follow a phantom stag for everlasting, or to hunt, like King Artus, in the clouds and to catch a fly every hundred years. The right of jurisdiction, which gave judicial power to the dukes and counts in cases arising in their domains, had no appeal save to the King himself, and this was even often contested by the nobles, as for instance, in the unhappy case of Enguerrand de Coucy. Enguerrand had ordered three young Flemish noblemen, who were scholars at the Abbey of "St. Nicholas des Bois," to be seized and hung, because, not knowing that they were on the domain of the Lord of Coucy, they had killed a few rabbits with arrows. St. Louis called the case before him. Enguerrand answered to the call, but only to dispute the King's right, and to claim the judgment of his peers. The King, without taking any notice of the remonstrance, ordered Enguerrand to be locked up in the big tower of the Louvre, and was nearly applying the law of _retaliation_ to his case. Eventually he granted him letters of pardon, after condemning him to build three chapels, where masses were continually to be said for the three victims; to give the forest where the young scholars had been found hunting, to the Abbey of "St. Nicholas des Bois;" to lose on all his estates the rights of jurisdiction and sporting; to serve three years in the Holy Land; and to pay to the King a fine of 12,500 pounds tournois. It must be remembered that Louis IX., although most generous in cases relating simply to private interests, was one of the most stubborn defenders of royal prerogatives. A right which feudalists had the greatest interest in observing, and causing to be respected, because they themselves might with their wandering habits require it at any moment, was that of _safe convoy_, or _guidance_. This right was so powerful, that it even applied itself to the lower orders, and its violation was considered the most odious crime; thus, in the thirteenth century, the King of Aragon was severely abused by all persons and all classes, because in spite of this right he caused a Jew to be burned so as not to have to pay a debt which the man claimed of him. [Illustration: Fig. 27.--Nobleman in Hunting Costume, preceded by his Servant, trying to find the Scent of a Stag.--From a Miniature in the Book of Gaston Phoebus ("Des Deduitz de la Chasse des Bestes Sauvaiges").--Manuscript of the Fourteenth Century (National Library of Paris).] The right of "the Crown" should also be mentioned, which consisted of a circle of gold ornamented in various fashions, according to the different degrees of feudal monarchy, which vassals had to present to their lord on the day of his investiture. The right of seal was a fee or fine they had to pay for the charters which their lord caused to be delivered to them. The duty of _aubaine_ was the fine or due paid by merchants, either in kind or money, to the feudal chief, when they passed near his castle, landed in his ports, or exposed goods for sale in his markets. The nobles of second order possessed among their privileges that of wearing spurs of silver or gold according to their rank of knighthood; the right of receiving double rations when prisoners of war; the right of claiming a year's delay when a creditor wished to seize their land; and the right of never having to submit to torture after trial, unless they were condemned to death for the crime they had committed. If a great baron for serious offences confiscated the goods of a noble who was his vassal, the latter had a right to keep his palfrey, the horse of his squire, various pieces of his harness and armour, his bed, his silk robe, his wife's bed, one of her dresses, her ring, her cloth stomacher, &c. The nobles alone possessed the right of having seats of honour in churches and in chapels (Fig. 28), and to erect therein funereal monuments, and we know that they maintained this right so rigorously and with so much effrontery, that fatal quarrels at times arose on questions of precedence. The epitaphs, the placing of tombs, the position of a monument, were all subjects for conflicts or lawsuits. The nobles enjoyed also the right of _disinheritance_, that is to say, of claiming the goods of a person dying on their lands who had no direct heir; the right of claiming a tax when a fief or domain changed hands; the right of _common oven_, or requiring vassals to make use of the mill, the oven, or the press of the lord. At the time of the vintage, no peasant might sell his wine until the nobles had sold theirs. Everything was a source of privilege for the nobles. Kings and councils waived the necessity of their studying, in order to be received as bachelors of universities. If a noble was made a prisoner of war, his life was saved by his nobility, and his ransom had practically to be raised by the "vilains" of his domains. The nobles were also exempted from serving in the militia, nor were they obliged to lodge soldiers, &c. They had a thousand pretexts for establishing taxes on their vassals, who were generally considered "taxable and to be worked at will." Thus in the domain of Montignac, the Count of Perigord claimed among other things as follows: "for every case of censure or complaint brought before him, 10 deniers; for a quarrel in which blood was shed, 60 sols; if blood was not shed, 7 sols; for use of ovens, the sixteenth loaf of each baking; for the sale of corn in the domain, 43 setiers: besides these, 6 setiers of rye, 161 setiers of oats, 3 setiers of beans, 1 pound of wax, 8 capons, 17 hens, and 37 loads of wine." There were a multitude of other rights due to him, including the provostship fees, the fees on deeds, the tolls and furnaces of towns, the taxes on salt, on leather, corn, nuts; fees for the right of fishing; for the right of sporting, which last gave the lord a certain part or quarter of the game killed, and, in addition, the _dîme_ or tenth part of all the corn, wine, &c., &c. [Illustration: Fig. 28.--Jean Jouvenel des Ursins, Provost of the Merchants of Paris, and Michelle de Vitry, his Wife, in the Reign of Charles VI.--Fragment of a Picture of the Period, which was in the Chapel of the Ursinus, and is now in the Versailles Museum.] This worthy noble gathered in besides all this, during the religious festivals of the year, certain tributes in money on the estate of Montignac alone, amounting to as much as 20,000 pounds tournois. One can judge by this rough sketch, of the income he must have had, both in good and bad years, from his other domains in the rich county of Perigord. It must not be imagined that this was an exceptional case; all over the feudal territory the same state of things existed, and each lord farmed both his lands and the persons whom feudal right had placed under his dependence. [Illustration: Fig. 29.--Dues on Wines, granted to the Chapter of Tournai by King Chilperic.--From the Windows of the Cathedral of Tournai, Fifteenth Century.] To add to these already excessive rates and taxes, there were endless dues, under all shapes and names, claimed by the ecclesiastical lords (Figs. 29 and 30). And not only did the nobility make without scruple these enormous exactions, but the Crown supported them in avenging any act, however opposed to all sense of justice; so that the nobles were really placed above the great law of equality, without which the continuance of social order seemed normally impossible. The history of the city of Toulouse gives us a significant example on this subject. [Illustration: Fig. 30.--The Bishop of Tournai receiving the Tithe of Beer granted by King Chilpéric.--From the Windows of the Cathedral of Tournai, Fifteenth Century.] On Easter Day, 1335, some students of the university, who had passed the night of the anniversary of the resurrection of our Saviour in drinking, left the table half intoxicated, and ran about the town during the hours of service, beating pans and cauldrons, and making such a noise and disturbance, that the indignant preachers were obliged to stop in the middle of their discourses, and claimed the intervention of the municipal authorities of Toulouse. One of these, the lord of Gaure, went out of church with five sergeants, and tried himself to arrest the most turbulent of the band. But as he was seizing him by the body, one of his comrades gave the lord a blow with a dagger, which cut off his nose, lips, and part of his chin. This occurrence aroused the whole town. Toulouse had been insulted in the person of its first magistrate, and claimed vengeance. The author of the deed, named Aimeri de Bérenger, was seized, judged, condemned, and beheaded, and his body was suspended on the _spikes_ of the Château Narbonnais. [Illustration: Fig. 31.--Fellows of the University of Paris haranguing the Emperor Charles IV. in 1377.--From a Miniature of the Manuscript of the "Chroniques de St. Denis," No. 8395 (National Library of Paris).] Toulouse had to pay dearly for the respect shown to its municipal dignity. The parents of the student presented a petition to the King against the city, for having dared to execute a noble and to hang his body on a gibbet, in opposition to the sacred right which this noble had of appealing to the judgment of his peers. The Parliament of Paris finally decided the matter with the inflexible partiality to the rights of rank, and confiscated all the goods of the inhabitants, forced the principal magistrates to go on their knees before the house of Aimeri de Bérenger, and ask pardon; themselves to take down the body of the victim, and to have it publicly and honourably buried in the burial-ground of the Daurade. Such was the sentence and humiliation to which one of the first towns of the south was subjected, for having practised immediate justice on a noble, whilst it would certainly have suffered no vindication, if the culprit condemned to death had belonged to the middle or lower orders. We must nevertheless remember that heavy dues fell upon the privileged class themselves to a certain degree, and that if they taxed their poor vassals without mercy, they had in their turn often to reckon with their superiors in the feudal hierarchy. _Albere_, or right of shelter, was the principal charge imposed upon the noble. When a great baron visited his lands, his tenants were not only obliged to give him and his followers shelter, but also provisions and food, the nature and quality of which were all arranged beforehand with the most extraordinary minuteness. The lesser nobles took advantage sometimes of the power they possessed to repurchase this obligation; but the rich, on the contrary, were most anxious to seize the occasion of proudly displaying before their sovereign all the pomp in their power, at the risk even of mortgaging their revenues for several years, and of ruining their vassals. History is full of stories bearing witness to the extravagant prodigalities of certain nobles on such occasions. Payments in kind fell generally on the abbeys, up to 1158. That of St. Denis, which was very rich in lands, was charged with supplying the house and table of the King. This tax, which became heavier and heavier, eventually fell on the Parisians, who only succeeded in ridding themselves of it in 1374, when Charles V. made all the bourgeois of Paris noble. In the twelfth century, all furniture made of wood or iron which was found in the house of the Bishop at his death, became the property of the King. But in the fourteenth century, the abbots of St. Denis, St. Germain des Prés, St. Geneviève (Fig. 32), and a few priories in the neighbourhood of Paris, were only required to present the sovereign with two horse-loads of produce annually, so as to keep up the old system of fines. This system of rents and dues of all kinds was so much the basis of social organization in the Middle Ages, that it sometimes happened that the lower orders benefited by it. Thus the bed of the Bishop of Paris belonged, after his death, to the poor invalids of the Hôtel Dieu. The canons were also bound to leave theirs to that hospital, as an atonement for the sins which they had committed. The Bishops of Paris were required to give two very sumptuous repasts to their chapters at the feasts of St. Eloi and St. Paul. The holy men of St. Martin were obliged, annually, on the 10th of November, to offer to the first President of the Court of Parliament, two square caps, and to the first usher, a writing-desk and a pair of gloves. The executioner too received, from various monastic communities of the capital, bread, bottles of wine, and pigs' heads; and even criminals who were taken to Montfaucon to be hung had the right to claim bread and wine from the nuns of St. Catherine and the Filles Dieux, as they passed those establishments on their way to the gibbet. [Illustration: Fig. 32.--Front of the Ancient Church of the Abbey of Sainte-Geneviève, in Paris, founded by Clovis, and rebuilt from the Eleventh to Thirteenth Centuries.--State of the Building before its Destruction at the End of the Last Century.] Fines were levied everywhere, at all times, and for all sorts of reasons. Under the name of _épices_, the magistrates, judges, reporters, and counsel, who had at first only received sweetmeats and preserves as voluntary offerings, eventually exacted substantial tribute in current coin. Scholars who wished to take rank in the University sent some small pies, costing ten sols, to each examiner. Students in philosophy or theology gave two suppers to the president, eight to the other masters, besides presenting them with sweetmeats, &c. It would be an endless task to relate all the fines due by apprentices and companions before they could reach mastership in their various crafts, nor have we yet mentioned certain fines, which, from their strange or ridiculous nature, prove to what a pitch of folly men may be led under the influence of tyranny, vanity, or caprice. Thus, we read of vassals descending to the humiliating occupation of beating the water of the moat of the castle, in order to stop the noise of the frogs, during the illness of the mistress; we elsewhere find that at times the lord required of them to hop on one leg, to kiss the latch of the castle-gate, or to go through some drunken play in his presence, or sing a somewhat broad song before the lady. At Tulle, all the rustics who had married during the year were bound to appear on the Puy or Mont St. Clair. At twelve o'clock precisely, three children came out of the hospital, one beating a drum violently, the other two carrying a pot full of dirt; a herald called the names of the bride-grooms, and those who were absent or were unable to assist in breaking the pot by throwing stones at it, paid a fine. At Périgueux, the young couples had to give the consuls a pincushion of embossed leather or cloth of different colours; a woman marrying a second time was required to present them with an earthen pot containing twelve sticks of different woods; a woman marrying for the third time, a barrel of cinders passed thirteen times through the sieve, and thirteen spoons made of wood of fruit-trees; and, lastly, one coming to the altar for the fifth time was obliged to bring with her a small tub containing the excrement of a white hen! "The people of the Middle Ages and the Renaissance period were literally tied down with taxes and dues of all sorts," says M. Mary-Lafon. "If a few gleams of liberty reached them, it was only from a distance, and more in the hope of the future than as regarded the present. As an example of the way people were treated, a certain Lord of Laguène, spoken of in the old chronicles of the south, may be mentioned. Every year, this cunning baron assembled his tenants in the village square. A large maypole was planted, and on the top was attached a wren. The lord, pointing to the little bird, declared solemnly, that if any 'vilain' succeeded in piercing him with an arrow he should be exempt from that year's dues. The vilains shot away, but, to the great merriment of their lord, never hit, and so had to continue paying the dues." [Illustration: Fig. 33.--Ramparts of the Town of Aigues-Mortes, one of the Municipalities of Languedoc.] One can easily understand how such a system, legalised by law, hampered the efforts for freedom, which a sense of human dignity was constantly raising in the bosoms of the oppressed. The struggle was long, often bloody, and at times it seemed almost hopeless, for on both sides it was felt that the contest was between two principles which were incompatible, and one of which must necessarily end by annihilating the other. Any compromise between the complete slavery and the personal freedom of the lower orders, could only be a respite to enable these implacable adversaries to reinforce themselves, so as to resume with more vigour than ever this desperate combat, the issue of which was so long to remain doubtful. [Illustration: Louis IV Leaving Alexandria on the 24th of April 1507 To chastise the city of Genoa. From a miniature by Jean Marot. No 5091, Bibl. nat'le de Paris.] These efforts to obtain individual liberty displayed themselves more particularly in towns; but although they became almost universal in the west, they had not the same importance or character everywhere. The feudal system had not everywhere produced the same consequences. Thus, whilst in ancient Gaul it had absorbed all social vitality, we find that in Germany, the place of its origin, the Teutonic institutions of older date gave a comparative freedom to the labourers. In southern countries again we find the same beneficial effect from the Roman rule. On that long area of land reaching from the southern slope of the Cevennes to the Apennines, the hand of the barbarian had weighed much less heavily than on the rest of Europe. In those favoured provinces where Roman organization had outlived Roman patronage, it seems as if ancient splendour had never ceased to exist, and the elegance of customs re-flourished amidst the ruins. There, a sort of urban aristocracy always continued, as a balance against the nobles, and the counsel of elected _prud'hommes_, the syndics, jurors or _capitouls_, who in the towns replaced the Roman _honorati_ and _curiales_, still were considered by kings and princes as holding some position in the state. The municipal body, larger, more open than the old "ward," no longer formed a corporation of unwilling aristocrats enchained to privileges which ruined them. The principal cities on the Italian coast had already amassed enormous wealth by commerce, and displayed the most remarkable ardour, activity, and power. The Eternal City, which was disputed by emperors, popes, and barons of the Roman States, bestirred itself at times to snatch at the ancient phantom of republicanism; and this phantom was destined soon to change into reality, and another Rome, or rather a new Carthage, the lovely Venice, arose free and independent from the waves of the Adriatic (Fig. 34). In Lombardy, so thickly colonised by the German conquerors, feudalism, on the contrary, weighed heavily; but there, too, the cities were populous and energetic, and the struggle for supremacy continued for centuries in an uncompromising manner between the people and the nobles, between the Guelphs and the Ghibellines. In the north and east of the Gallic territory, the instinct of resistance did not exist any the less, though perhaps it was more intermittent. In fact, in these regions we find ambitious nobles forestalling the action of the King, and in order to attach towns to themselves and their houses, suppressing the most obnoxious of the taxes, and at the same time granting legal guarantees. For this the Counts of Flanders became celebrated, and the famous Héribert de Vermandois was noted for being so exacting in his demands with the great, and yet so popular with the small. [Illustration: Fig. 34.--View of St. Mark's Place, Venice, Sixteenth Century, after Cesare Vecellio.] The eleventh century, during which feudal power rose to its height, was also the period when a reaction set in of the townspeople against the nobility. The spirit of the city revived with that of the bourgeois (a name derived from the Teutonic word _burg_, habitation) and infused a feeling of opposition to the system which followed the conquest of the Teutons. "But," says M. Henri Martin, "what reappeared was not the Roman municipality of the Empire, stained by servitude, although surrounded with glittering pomp and gorgeous arts, but it was something coarse and almost semi-barbarous in form, though strong and generous at core, and which, as far as the difference of the times would allow, rather reminds us of the small republics which existed previous to the Roman Empire." Two strong impulses, originating from two totally dissimilar centres of action, irresistibly propelled this great social revolution, with its various and endless aspects, affecting all central Europe, and being more or less felt in the west, the north, and the south. On one side, the Greek and Latin partiality for ancient corporations, modified by a democratic element, and an innate feeling of opposition characteristic of barbaric tribes; and on the other, the free spirit and equality of the old Celtic tribes rising suddenly against the military hierarchy, which was the offspring of conquest. Europe was roused by the double current of ideas which simultaneously urged her on to a new state of civilisation, and more particularly to a new organization of city life. Italy was naturally destined to be the country where the new trials of social regeneration were to be made; but she presented the greatest possible variety of customs, laws, and governments, including Emperor, Pope, bishops, and feudal princes. In Tuscany and Liguria, the march towards liberty was continued almost without effort; whilst in Lombardy, on the contrary, the feudal resistance was very powerful. Everywhere, however, cities became more or less completely enfranchised, though some more rapidly than others. In Sicily, feudalism swayed over the countries; but in the greater part of the peninsula, the democratic spirit of the cities influenced the enfranchisement of the rural population. The feudal caste was in fact dissolved; the barons were transformed into patricians of the noble towns which gave their republican magistrates the old title of consuls. The Teutonic Emperor in vain sought to seize and turn to his own interest the sovereignty of the people, who had shaken off the yokes of his vassals: the signal of war was immediately given by the newly enfranchised masses; and the imperial eagle was obliged to fly before the banners of the besieged cities. Happy indeed might the cities of Italy have been had they not forgotten, in their prosperity, that union alone could give them the possibility of maintaining that liberty which they so freely risked in continual quarrels amongst one another! [Illustration: Fig. 35.--William, Duke of Normandy, accompanied by Eustatius, Count of Boulogne, and followed by his Knights in arms.--Military Dress of the Eleventh Century, from Bayeux Tapestry said to have been worked by Queen Matilda.] The Italian movement was immediately felt on the other side of the Alps. In Provence, Septimanie, and Aquitaine, we find, in the eleventh century, cities which enjoyed considerable freedom. Under the name of communities and universities, which meant that all citizens were part of the one body, they jointly interfered in the general affairs of the kingdom to which they belonged. Their magistrates were treated on a footing of equality with the feudal nobility, and although the latter at first would only recognise them as "good men" or notables, the consuls knew how to make a position for themselves in the hierarchy. If the consulate, which was a powerful expression of the most prominent system of independence, did no succeed in suppressing feudalism in Provence as in Italy, it at least so transformed it, that it deprived it of its most unjust and insupportable elements. At Toulouse, for instance (where the consuls were by exception called _capitouls_, that is to say, heads of the chapters or councils of the city), the lord of the country seemed less a feudal prince in his capital, than an honorary magistrate of the bourgeoisie. Avignon added to her consuls two _podestats_ (from the Latin _potestas_, power). At Marseilles, the University of the high city was ruled by a republic under the presidency of the Count of Provence, although the lower city was still under the sovereignty of a viscount. Périgueux, which was divided into two communities, "the great and the small fraternity," took up arms to resist the authority of the Counts of Périgord; and Arles under its _podestats_ was governed for some time as a free and imperial town. Amongst the constitutions which were established by the cities, from the eleventh to the sixteenth centuries, we find admirable examples of administration and government, so that one is struck with admiration at the efforts of intelligence and patriotism, often uselessly lavished on such small political arenas. The consulate, which nominally at least found its origin in the ancient grandeur of southern regions, did not spread itself beyond Lyons. In the centre of France, at Poictiers, Tours, Moulin, &c., the urban progress only manifested itself in efforts which were feeble and easily suppressed; but in the north, on the contrary, in the provinces between the Seine and the Rhine, and even between the Seine and the Loire, the system of franchise took footing and became recognised. In some places, the revolution was effected without difficulty, but in others it gave rise to the most determined struggles. In Normandy, for instance, under the active and intelligent government of the dukes of the race of Roll or Rollon, the middle class was rich and even warlike. It had access to the councils of the duchy; and when it was contemplated to invade England, the Duke William (Fig. 35) found support from the middle class, both in money and men. The case was the same in Flanders, where the towns of Ghent (Fig. 36), of Bruges, of Ypres, after being enfranchised but a short time developed with great rapidity. But in the other counties of western France, the greater part of the towns were still much oppressed by the counts and bishops. If some obtained certain franchises, these privileges were their ultimate ruin, owing to the ill faith of their nobles. A town between the Loire and the Seine gave the signal which caused the regeneration of the North. The inhabitants of Mans formed a community or association, and took an oath that they would obtain and maintain certain rights. They rebelled about 1070, and forced the count and his noble vassals to grant them the freedom which they had sworn to obtain, though William of Normandy very soon restored the rebel city to order, and dissolved the presumptuous community. However, the example soon bore fruit. Cambrai rose in its turn and proclaimed the "Commune," and although its bishop, aided by treason and by the Count of Hainault, reduced it to obedience, it only seemed to succumb for a time, to renew the struggle with greater success at a subsequent period. [Illustration: Fig. 36.--Civic Guard of Ghent (Brotherhood of St. Sebastian), from a painting on the Wall of the Chapel of St. John and St. Paul, Ghent, near the Gate of Bruges.] We have just mentioned the Commune; but we must not mistake the true meaning of this word, which, under a Latin form (_communitas_), expresses originally a Germanic idea, and in its new form a Christian mode of living. Societies of mutual defence, guilds, &c., had never disappeared from Germanic and Celtic countries; and, indeed, knighthood itself was but a brotherhood of Christian warriors. The societies of the _Paix de Dieu_, and of the _Trève de Dieu_, were encouraged by the clergy in order to stop the bloody quarrels of the nobility, and formed in reality great religious guilds. This idea of a body of persons taking some common oath to one another, of which feudalism gave so striking an example, could not fail to influence the minds of the rustics and the lower classes, and they only wanted the opportunity which the idea of the Commune at once gave them of imitating their superiors. They too took oaths, and possessed their bodies and souls in "common;" they seized, by force of strategy, the ramparts of their towns; they elected mayors, aldermen, and jurors, who were charged to watch over the interests of their association. They swore to spare neither their goods, their labour, nor their blood, in order to free themselves; and not content with defending themselves behind barricades or chains which closed the streets, they boldly took the offensive against the proud feudal chiefs before whom their fathers had trembled, and they forced the nobles, who now saw themselves threatened by this armed multitude, to acknowledge their franchise by a solemn covenant. It does not follow that everywhere the Commune was established by means of insurrection, for it was obtained after all sorts of struggles; and franchises were sold in some places for gold, and in others granted by a more or less voluntary liberality. Everywhere the object was the same; everywhere they struggled or negotiated to upset, by a written constitution or charter, the violence and arbitrary rule under which they had so long suffered, and to replace by an annual and fixed rent, under the protection of an independent and impartial law, the unlimited exactions and disguised plundering so long made by the nobility and royalty. Circumstanced as they were, what other means had they to attain this end but ramparts and gates, a common treasury, a permanent military force, and magistrates who were both administrators, judges, and captains? The hôtel de ville, or mansion-house, immediately became a sort of civic temple, where the banner of the Commune, the emblems of unity, and the seal which sanctioned the municipal acts were preserved. Then arose the watch-towers, where the watchmen were unceasingly posted night and day, and whence the alarm signal was ever ready to issue its powerful sounds when danger threatened the city. These watch-towers, the monuments of liberty, became as necessary for the burghers as the clock-towers of their cathedrals, whose brilliant peals and joyous chimes gave zest to the popular feasts (Fig. 37). The mansion-houses built in Flanders from the fourteenth to the sixteenth centuries, under municipal influence, are marvels of architecture. [Illustration: Fig. 37.--Chimes of the Clock of St. Lambert of Liége.] Who is there who could thoroughly describe or even appreciate all the happy or unhappy vicissitudes relating to the establishment of the Communes? We read of the Commune of Cambrai, four times created, four times destroyed, and which was continually at war with the Bishops; the Commune of Beauvais, sustained on the contrary by the diocesan prelate against two nobles who possessed feudal rights over it; Laon, a commune bought for money from the bishop, afterwards confirmed by the King, and then violated by fraud and treachery, and eventually buried in the blood of its defenders. We read also of St. Quentin, where the Count of Vermandois and his vassals voluntarily swore to maintain the right of the bourgeois, and scrupulously respected their oath. In many other localities the feudal dignitaries took alarm simply at the name of Commune, and whereas they would not agree to the very best arrangements under this terrible designation, they did not hesitate to adopt them when called either the "laws of friendship," the "peace of God," or the "institutions of peace." At Lisle, for instance, the bourgeois magistrates took the name of _appeasers_, or watchers over friendship. At Aire, in Artois, the members of friendship mutually, not only helped one another against the enemy, but also assisted one another in distress. [Illustration: Fig. 38.--The Deputies of the burghers of Ghent, in revolt against their Sovereign Louis II., Count of Flanders, come to beg him to pardon them, and to return to their Town. 1397--Miniature from Froissart, No. 2644 (National Library of Paris)] Amiens deserves the first place amongst the cities which dearly purchased their privileges. The most terrible and sanguinary war was sustained by the bourgeois against their count and lord of the manor, assisted by King Louis le Gros, who had under similar circumstances just taken the part of the nobles of Laon. From Amiens, which, having been triumphant, became a perfect municipal republic, the example propagated itself throughout the rest of Picardy, the Isle of France, Normandy, Brittany, and Burgundy, and by degrees, without any revolutionary shocks, reached the region of Lyons, where the consulate, a characteristic institution of southern Communes, ended. From Flanders, also, the movement spread in the direction of the German Empire; and there, too, the struggle was animated, and victorious against the aristocracy, until at last the great system of enfranchisement prevailed; and the cities of the west and south formed a confederation against the nobles, whilst those in the north formed the famous Teutonic Hanse, so celebrated for its maritime commerce. The centre of France slowly followed the movement; but its progress was considerably delayed by the close influence of royalty, which sometimes conceded large franchises, and sometimes suppressed the least claims to independence. The kings, who willingly favoured Communes on the properties of their neighbours, did not so much care to see them forming on their own estates; unless the exceptional position and importance of any town required a wise exercise of tolerance. Thus Orleans, situated in the heart of the royal domains, was roughly repulsed in its first movement; whilst Mantes, which was on the frontier of the Duchy of Normandy, and still under the King of England, had but to ask in order to receive its franchise from the King of France. It was particularly in the royal domains that cities were to be found, which, although they did not possess the complete independence of communes, had a certain amount of liberty and civil guarantees. They had neither the right of war, the watch-tower, nor the exclusive jurisdiction over their elected magistrates, for the bailiffs and the royal provosts represented the sovereign amongst them (Fig. 39). [Illustration: Fig. 39.--Bailliage, or Tribunal of the King's Bailiff.--Fac-simile of an Engraving on Wood in the Work of Josse Damhoudere, "Praxis Rerum Civilium." (Antwerp, 1557, in 4to.).] In Paris, less than anywhere, could the kings consent to the organization of an independent political System, although that city succeeded in creating for itself a municipal existence. The middle-class influence originated in a Gallo-Roman corporation. The Company of _Nautes_ or "the Corporation of the Water Trade," formed a centre round which were successively attached various bodies of different trades. Gradually a strong concourse of civic powers was established, which succeeded in electing a municipal council, composed of a provost of merchants, four aldermen, and twenty-six councillors of the town. This council afterwards succeeded in overstepping the royal influence at difficult times, and was destined to play a prominent part in history. There also sprang up a lower order of towns or boroughs than these bourgeois cities, which were especially under the Crown. Not having sufficient strength to claim a great amount of liberty, they were obliged to be satisfied with a few privileges, conceded to them by the nobles, for the most part with a political end. These were the Free Towns or New Towns which we have already named. However it came about, it is certain that although during the tenth century feudal power was almost supreme in Europe, as early as the twelfth century the municipal system had gained great weight, and was constantly progressing until the policy of the kingdom became developed on a more and more extended basis, so that it was then necessary for it to give up its primitive nature, and to participate in the great movement of consolidisation and national unity. In this way the position of the large towns in the state relatively lost their individual position, and became somewhat analogous, as compared with the kingdom at large, to that formerly held by bourgeois in the cities. Friendly ties arose between provinces; and distinct and rival interests were effaced by the general aspiration towards common objects. The towns were admitted to the states general, and the citizens of various regions mixed as representatives of the _Tiers Etat_. Three orders thus met, who were destined to struggle for predominance in the future. We must call attention to the fact that, as M. Henri Martin says, by an apparent contradiction, the fall of the Communes declared itself in inverse ratio to the progress of the _Tiers Etat_. By degrees, as the government became more settled from the great fiefs being absorbed by the Crown, and as parliament and other courts of appeal which emanated from the middle class extended their high judiciary and military authority, so the central power, organized under monarchical form, must necessarily have been less disposed to tolerate the local independence of the Communes. The State replaced the Commune for everything concerning justice, war, and administration. No doubt some valuable privileges were lost; but that was only an accidental circumstance, for a great social revolution was produced, which cleared off at once all the relics of the old age; and when the work of reconstruction terminated, homage was rendered to the venerable name of "Commune," which became uniformly applied to all towns, boroughs, or villages into which the new spirit of the same municipal system was infused. [Illustration: Fig. 40.--Various Arms of the Fifteenth Century.] Private Life in the Castles, the Towns, and the Rural Districts. The Merovingian Castles.--Pastimes of the Nobles; Hunting, War.--Domestic Arrangements.--Private Life of Charlemagne.--Domestic Habits under the Carlovingians.--Influence of Chivalry.--Simplicity of the Court of Philip Angustus not imitated by his Successors.--Princely Life of the Fifteenth Century.--The bringing up of Latour Landry, a Noble of Anjou.--Varlets, Pages, Esquires, Maids of Honour.--Opulence of the Bourgeoisie.--"Le Menagier de Paris."--Ancient Dwellings.--State of Rustics at various Periods.--"Rustic Sayings," by Noël du Fail. Augustin Thierry, taking Gregory of Tours, the Merovingian Herodotus, as an authority, thus describes a royal domain under the first royal dynasty of France:-- "This dwelling in no way possessed the military aspect of the château of the Middle Ages; it was a large building surrounded with porticos of Roman architecture, sometimes built of carefully polished and sculptured wood, which in no way was wanting in elegance. Around the main body of the building were arranged the dwellings of the officers of the palace, either foreigners or Romans, and those of the chiefs of companies, who, according to Germanic custom, had placed themselves and their warriors under the King, that is to say, under a special engagement of vassalage and fidelity. Other houses, of less imposing appearance, were occupied by a great number of families, who worked at all sorts of trades, such as jewellery, the making of arms, weaving, currying, the embroidering of silk and gold, cotton, &c. "Farm-buildings, paddocks, cow-houses, sheepfolds, barns, the houses of agriculturists, and the cabins of the serfs, completed the royal village, which perfectly resembled, although on a larger scale, the villages of ancient Germany. There was something too in the position of these dwellings which resembled the scenery beyond the Rhine; the greater number of them were on the borders, and some few in the centre of great forests, which have since been partly destroyed, and the remains of which we so much admire." [Illustration: Fig. 41.--St. Remy, Bishop of Rheims, begging of Clovis the restitution of the Sacred Vase taken by the Franks in the Pillage of Soissons.--Costumes of the Court of Burgundy in the Fifteenth Century.--Fac-simile of a Miniature on a Manuscript of the "History of the Emperors" (Library of the Arsenal).] Although historical documents are not very explicit respecting those remote times, it is only sufficient to study carefully a very small portion of the territory in order to form some idea of the manners and customs of the Franks; for in the royal domain we find the existence of all classes, from the sovereign himself down to the humblest slave. As regards the private life, however, of the different classes in this elementary form of society, we have but approximate and very imperfect notions. It is clear, however, that as early as the beginning of the Merovingian race, there was much more luxury and comfort among the upper classes than is generally supposed. All the gold and silver furniture, all the jewels, and all the rich stuffs which the Gallo-Romans had amassed in their sumptuous dwellings, had not been destroyed by the barbarians. The Frank Kings had appropriated the greater part; and the rest had fallen into the hands of the chiefs of companies in the division of spoil. A well-known anecdote, namely, that concerning the Vase of Soissons (Fig. 41), which King Clovis wished to preserve, and which a soldier broke with an axe, proves that many gems of ancient art must have disappeared, owing to the ignorance and brutality of the conquerors; although it is equally certain that the latter soon adopted the tastes and customs of the native population. At first, they appropriated everything that flattered their pride and sensuality. This is how the material remains of the civilisation of the Gauls were preserved in the royal and noble residences, the churches, and the monasteries. Gregory of Tours informs us, that when Frédégonde, wife of Chilpéric, gave the hand of her daughter Rigouthe to the son of the Gothic king, fifty chariots were required to carry away all the valuable objects which composed the princess's dower. A strange family scene, related by the same historian, gives us an idea of the private habits of the court of that terrible queen of the Franks. "The mother and daughter had frequent quarrels, which sometimes ended in the most violent encounters. Frédégonde said one day to Rigouthe, 'Why do you continually trouble me? Here are the goods of your father, take them and do as you like with them.' And conducting her to a room where she locked up her treasures, she opened a large box filled with valuables. After having pulled out a great number of jewels which she gave to her daughter, she said, 'I am tired; put your own hands in the box, and take what you find.' Rigouthe bent down to reach the objects placed at the bottom of the box; upon which Frédégonde immediately lowered the lid on her daughter, and pressed upon it with so much force that the eyes began to start out of the princess's head. A maid began screaming, 'Help! my mistress is being murdered by her mother!' and Rigouthe was saved from an untimely end." It is further related that this was only one of the minor crimes attributed by history to Frédégonde _the Terrible_, who always carried a dagger or poison about with her. Amongst the Franks, as amongst all barbaric populations, hunting was the pastime preferred when war was not being waged. The Merovingian nobles were therefore determined hunters, and it frequently happened that hunting occupied whole weeks, and took them far from their homes and families. But when the season or other circumstances prevented them from waging war against men or beasts, they only cared for feasting and gambling. To these occupations they gave themselves up, with a determination and wildness well worthy of those semi-civilised times. It was the custom for invited guests to appear armed at the feasts, which were the more frequent, inasmuch as they were necessarily accompanied with religious ceremonies. It often happened that these long repasts, followed by games of chance, were stained with blood, either in private quarrels or in a general _mêlée_. One can easily imagine the tumult which must have arisen in a numerous assembly when the hot wine and other fermented drinks, such as beer, &c., had excited every one to the highest pitch of unchecked merriment. [Illustration: Fig. 42.--Costumes of the Women of the Court from the Sixth to the Tenth Centuries, from Documents collected by H. de Vielcastel, in the great Libraries of Europe.] Some of the Merovingian kings listened to the advice of the ministers of the Catholic religion, and tried to reform these noisy excesses, and themselves abandoned the evil custom. For this purpose they received at their tables bishops, who blessed the assembly at the commencement of the meal, and were charged besides to recite chapters of holy writ, or to sing hymns out of the divine service, so as to edify and occupy the minds of the guests. Gregory of Tours bears witness to the happy influence of the presence of bishops at the tables of the Frank kings and nobles; he relates, too, that Chilpéric, who was very proud of his theological and secular knowledge, liked, when dining, to discuss, or rather to pronounce authoritatively his opinion on questions of grammar, before his companions in arms, who, for the most part, neither knew how to read nor write; he even went as far as to order three ancient Greek letters to be added to the Latin alphabet. [Illustration: Fig. 43.--Queen Frédégonde, seated on her Throne, gives orders to two young Men of Térouanne to assassinate Sigebert, King of Austrasia.--Window in the Cathedral of Tournai, Fifteenth Century.] The private properties of the Frank kings were immense, and produced enormous revenues. These monarchs had palaces in almost all the large towns; at Bourges, Châlons-sur-Saône, Châlons-sur-Marne, Dijon, Étampes, Metz, Langres, Mayence, Rheims, Soissons, Tours, Toulouse, Trèves, Valenciennes, Worms, &c. In Paris, they occupied the vast residence now known as the _Thermes de Julien_ (Hôtel de Cluny), which then extended from the hill of St. Geneviève as far as the Seine; but they frequently left it for their numerous villas in the neighbourhood, on which occasions they were always accompanied by their treasury. All these residences were built on the same plan. High walls surrounded the palace. The Roman _atrium_, preserved under the name of _proaulium_ (_preau_, ante-court), was placed in front of the _salutorium_ (hall of reception), where visitors were received. The _consistorium_, or great circular hall surrounded with seats, served for legislation, councils, public assemblies, and other solemnities, at which the kings displayed their royal pomp. The _trichorium_, or dining-room, was generally the largest hall in the palace; two rows of columns divided it into three parts; one for the royal family, one for the officers of the household, and the third for the guests, who were always very numerous. No person of rank visiting the King could leave without sitting at his table, or at least draining a cup to his health. The King's hospitality was magnificent, especially on great religious festivals such as Christmas and Easter. The royal apartments were divided into winter and summer rooms. In order to regulate the temperature hot or cold water was used, according to the season; this circulated in the pipes of the _hypocauste_, or the subterranean furnace which warmed the baths. The rooms with chimneys were called _epicaustoria_ (stoves), and it was the custom hermetically to close these when any one wished to be anointed with ointments and aromatic essences. In the same manner as the Gallo-Roman houses, the palaces of the Frank kings and principal nobles of ecclesiastical or military order had _thermes_, or bath-rooms: to the _thermes_ were attached a _colymbum_, or washhouse, a gymnasium for bodily exercise, and a _hypodrome_, or covered gallery for exercise, which must not be confounded with the _hippodrome_, a circus where horse-races took place. Sometimes after the repast, in the interval between two games of dice, the nobles listened to a bard, who sang the brilliant deeds of their ancestors in their native tongue. Under the government of Charlemagne, the private life of his subjects seems to have been less rough and coarse, although they did not entirely give up their turbulent pleasures. Science and letters, for a long time buried in monasteries, reappeared like beautiful exiles at the imperial court, and social life thereby gained a little charm and softness. Charlemagne had created in his palace, under the direction of Alcuin, a sort of academy called the "School of the Palace," which followed him everywhere. The intellectual exercises of this school generally brought together all the members of the imperial family, as well as all the persons of the household. Charlemagne, in fact, was himself one of the most attentive followers of the lessons given by Alcuin. He was indeed the principal interlocutor and discourser at the discussions, which were on all subjects, religions, literary, and philosophical. [Illustration: Fig. 44.--Costumes of the Nobility from the Seventh to the Ninth Centuries, from Documents gathered by H. de Vielcastel from the great Libraries of Europe.] Charlemagne took as much pains with the administration of his palace as he did with that of his States. In his "Capitulaires," a work he wrote on legislature, we find him descending to the minutest details in that respect. For instance, he not only interested himself in his warlike and hunting equipages, but also in his kitchen and pleasure gardens. He insisted upon knowing every year the number of his oxen, horses, and goats; he calculated the produce of the sale of fruits gathered in his orchards, which were not required for the use of his house; he had a return of the number of fish caught in his ponds; he pointed out the shrubs best calculated for ornamenting his garden, and the vegetables which were required for his table, &c. The Emperor generally assumed the greatest simplicity in his dress. His daily attire consisted of a linen shirt and drawers, and a woollen tunic fastened with a silk belt. Over this tunic he threw a cloak of blue stuff, very long behind and before, but very short on each side, thus giving freedom to his arms to use his sword, which he always wore. On his feet he wore bands of stuffs of various colours, crossed over one another, and covering his legs also. In winter, when he travelled or hunted on horseback, he threw over his shoulders a covering of otter or sheepskin. The changes in fashion which the custom of the times necessitated, but to which he would never submit personally, induced him to issue several strenuous orders, which, however, in reality had hardly any effect. He was most simple as regards his food and drink, and made a habit of having pious or historical works read to him during his repasts. He devoted the morning, which with him began in summer at sunrise, and in winter earlier, to the political administration of his empire. He dined at twelve with his family; the dukes and chiefs of various nations first waited on him, and then took their places at the table, and were waited on in their turn by the counts, prefects, and superior officers of the court, who dined after them. When these had finished the different chiefs of the household sat down, and they were succeeded lastly by servants of the lower order, who often did not dine till midnight, and had to content themselves with what was left. When occasion required, however, this powerful Emperor knew how to maintain the pomp and dignity of his station; but as soon as he had done what was necessary, either for some great religious festival or otherwise, he returned, as if by instinct, to his dear and native simplicity. It must be understood that the simple tastes of Charlemagne were not always shared by the princes and princesses of his family, nor by the magnates of his court (Fig. 45). Poets and historians have handed down to us descriptions of hunts, feasts, and ceremonies, at which a truly Asiatic splendour was displayed. Eginhard, however, assures us that the sons and daughters of the King were brought up under their father's eye in liberal studios; that, to save them from the vice of idleness, Charlemagne required his sons to devote themselves to all bodily exercises, such as horsemanship, handling of arms, &c., and his daughters to do needlework and to spin. From what is recorded, however, of the frivolous habits and irregular morals of these princesses, it is evident that they but imperfectly realised the end of their education. [Illustration: Fig. 45.--Costumes of the Ladies of the Nobility in the Ninth Century, from a Miniature in the Bible of Charles the Bold (National Library of Paris).] Science and letters, which for a time were brought into prominence by Charlemagne and also by his son Louis, who was very learned and was considered skilful in translating and expounding Scripture, were, however, after the death of these two kings, for a long time banished to the seclusion of the cloisters, owing to the hostile rivalry of their successors, which favoured the attacks of the Norman pirates. All the monuments and relics of the Gallo-Roman civilisation, which the great Emperor had collected, disappeared in the civil wars, or were gradually destroyed by the devastations of the northerners. The vast empire which Charlemagne had formed became gradually split up, so that from a dread of social destruction, in order to protect churches and monasteries, as well as castles and homesteads, from the attacks of internal as well as foreign enemies, towers and impregnable fortresses began to rise in all parts of Europe, and particularly in France. [Illustration: Fig. 46.--Towers of the Castle of Sémur, and of the Castle of Nogent-le-Rotrou (Present Condition).--Specimens of Towers of the Thirteenth Century.] During the first period of feudalism, that is to say from the middle of the ninth to the middle of the twelfth centuries, the inhabitants of castles had little time to devote to the pleasures of private life. They had not only to be continually under arms for the endless quarrels of the King and the great chiefs; but they had also to oppose the Normans on one side, and the Saracens on the other, who, being masters of the Spanish peninsula, spread like the rising tide in the southern counties of Languedoc and Provence. It is true that the Carlovingian warriors obtained a handsome and rich reward for these long and sanguinary efforts, for at last they seized upon the provinces and districts which had been originally entrusted to their charge, and the origin of their feudal possession was soon so far forgotten, that their descendants pretended that they held the lands, which they had really usurped regardless of their oath, from heaven and their swords. It is needless to say, that at that time the domestic life in these castles must have been dull and monotonous; although, according to M. Guizot, the loneliness which was the resuit of this rough and laborious life, became by degrees the pioneer of civilisation. "When the owner of the fief left his castle, his wife remained there, though in a totally different position from that which women generally held. She remained as mistress, representing her husband, and was charged with the defence and honour of the fief. This high and exalted position, in the centre of domestic life, often gave to women an opportunity of displaying dignity, courage, virtue, and intelligence, which would otherwise have remained hidden, and, no doubt, contributed greatly to their moral development, and to the general improvement of their condition. [Illustration: Fig. 47.--Woman under the Safeguard of Knighthood, allegorical Scene.--Costume of the End of the Fifteenth Century, from a Miniature in a Latin Psalm Book (Manuscript No. 175, National Library of Paris).] "The importance of children, and particularly of the eldest son, was greater in feudal houses than elsewhere.... The eldest son of the noble was, in the eyes of his father and of all his followers, a prince and heir-presumptive, and the hope and glory of the dynasty. These feelings, and the domestic pride and affection of the various members one to another, united to give families much energy and power..... Add to this the influence of Christian ideas, and it will be understood how this lonely, dull, and hard castle life was, nevertheless, favourable to the development of domestic society, and to that improvement in the condition of women which plays such a great part in the history of our civilisation." [Illustration: Fig. 48.--Court of Love in Provence in the Fourteenth Century (Manuscript of the National Library of Paris).] Whatever opinion may be formed of chivalry, it is impossible to deny the influence which this institution exercised on private life in the Middle Ages. It considerably modified custom, by bringing the stronger sex to respect and defend the weaker. These warriors, who were both simple and externally rough and coarse, required association and intercourse with women to soften them (Fig. 47). In taking women and helpless widows under their protection, they were necessarily more and more thrown in contact with them. A deep feeling of veneration for woman, inspired by Christianity, and, above all, by the worship of the Virgin Mary, ran throughout the songs of the troubadours, and produced a sort of sentimental reverence for the gentle sex, which culminated in the authority which women had in the courts of love (Fig. 48). We have now reached the reign of Philip Augustus, that is to say, the end of the twelfth century. This epoch is remarkable, not only for its political history, but also for its effect on civilisation. Christianity had then considerably influenced the world; arts, sciences, and letters, animated by its influence, again began to appear, and to add charms to the leisure of private life. The castles were naturally the first to be affected by this poetical and intellectual regeneration, although it has been too much the custom to exaggerate the ignorance of those who inhabited them. We are too apt to consider the warriors of the Middle Ages as totally devoid of knowledge, and as hardly able to sign their names, as far as the kings and princes are concerned. This is quite an error; for many of the knights composed poems which exhibit evidence of their high literary culture. It was, in fact, the epoch of troubadours, who might be called professional poets and actors, who went from country to country, and from castle to castle, relating stories of good King Artus of Brittany and of the Knights of the Round Table; repeating historical poems of the great Emperor Charlemagne and his followers. These minstrels were always accompanied by jugglers and instrumentalists, who formed a travelling troop (Fig. 49), having no other mission than to amuse and instruct their feudal hosts. After singing a few fragments of epics, or after the lively recital of some ancient fable, the jugglers would display their art or skill in gymnastic feats or conjuring, which were the more appreciated by the spectators, in that the latter were more or less able to compete with them. These wandering troops acted small comedies, taken from incidents of the times. Sometimes, too, the instrumentalists formed an orchestra, and dancing commenced. It may be here remarked that dancing at this epoch consisted of a number of persons forming large circles, and turning to the time of the music or the rhythm of the song. At least the dances of the nobles are thus represented in the MSS. of the Middle Ages. To these amusements were added games of calculation and chance, the fashion for which had much increased, and particularly such games as backgammon, draughts, and chess, to which certain knights devoted all their leisure. From the reign of Philip Augustus, a remarkable change seems to have taken place in the private life of kings, princes, and nobles. Although his domains and revenues had always been on the increase, this monarch never displayed, in ordinary circumstances at least, much magnificence. The accounts of his private expenses for the years 1202 and 1203 have been preserved, which enable us to discover some curious details bearing witness to the extreme simplicity of the court at that period. The household of the King or royal family was still very small: one chancellor, one chaplain, a squire, a butler, a few Knights of the Temple, and some sergeants-at-arms were the only officers of the palace. The king and princes of his household only changed apparel three times during the year. [Illustration: Fig. 49.--King David playing on the Lyre, surrounded by four Musicians.--Costumes of the Thirteenth Century (from a Miniature in a Manuscript Psalter in the Imperial Library, Paris).] The children of the King slept in sheets of serge, and their nurses were dressed in gowns of dark-coloured woollen stuff, called _brunette_. The royal cloak, which was of scarlet, was jewelled, but the King only wore it on great ceremonies. At the same time enormous expenses were incurred for implements of war, arrows, helmets with visors, chariots, and for the men-at-arms whom the King kept in his pay. Louis IX. personally kept up almost similar habits. The Sire de Joinville tells us in his "Chronicles," that the holy King on his return from his first crusade, in order to repair the damage done to his treasury by the failure of this expedition, would no longer wear costly furs nor robes of scarlet, and contented himself with common stuffs trimmed with hare-skin. He nevertheless did not diminish the officers of his household, which had already become numerous; and being no doubt convinced that royalty required magnificence, he surrounded himself with as much pomp as the times permitted. Under the two Philips, his successors, this magnificence increased, and descended to the great vassals, who were soon imitated by the knights "bannerets." There seemed to be a danger of luxury becoming so great, and so general in all classes of feudal society, that in 1294 an order of the King was issued, regulating in the minutest details the expenses of each person according to his rank in the State, or the fortune which he could prove. But this law had the fate of all such enactments, and was either easily evaded, or was only partially enforced, and that with great difficulty. Another futile attempt to put it in practice was made in 1306, when the splendour of dress, of equipages, and of table had become still greater and more ruinous, and had descended progressively to the bourgeois and merchants. It must be stated in praise of Philip le Bel (Fig. 50) that, notwithstanding the failure of his attempts to arrest the progress of luxury, he was not satisfied with making laws against the extravagances of his subjects, for we find that he studied a strict economy in his own household, which recalled the austere times of Philip Augustus. Thus, in the curious regulations relating to the domestic arrangements of the palace, the Queen, Jeanne de Navarre, was only allowed two ladies and three maids of honour in her suite, and she is said to have had only two four-horse carriages, one for herself and the other for these ladies. In another place these regulations require that a butler, specially appointed, "should buy all the cloth and furs for the king, take charge of the key of the cupboards where these are kept, know the quantity given to the tailors to make clothes, and check the accounts when the tailors send in their claims for the price of their work." [Illustration: Fig. 50.--King Philip le Bel in War-dress, on the Occasion of his entering Paris in 1304, after having conquered the Communes of Flanders.--Equestrian Statue placed in Notre Dame, Paris, and destroyed in 1772.--Fac-simile of a Woodcut from Thevet's "Cosmographie Universelle," 1575.] After the death of the pious Jeanne de Navarre, to whom perhaps we must attribute the wise measures of her husband, Philip le Bel, the expenses of the royal household materially increased, especially on the occasions of the marriages of the three young sons of the King, from 1305 to 1307. Gold, diamonds, pearls, and precious stones were employed profusely, both for the King's garments and for those of the members of the royal family. The accounts of 1307 mention considerable sums paid for carpets, counterpanes, robes, worked linen, &c. A chariot of state, ornamented and covered with paintings, and gilded like the back of an altar, is also mentioned, and must have been a great change to the heavy vehicles used for travelling in those days. Down to the reign of St. Louis the furniture of castles had preserved a character of primitive simplicity which did not, however, lack grandeur. The stone remained uncovered in most of the halls, or else it was whitened with mortar and ornamented with moulded roses and leaves, coloured in distemper. Against the wall, and also against the pillars supporting the arches, arms and armour of all sorts were hung, arranged in suits, and interspersed with banners and pennants or emblazoned standards. In the great middle hall, or dining-room, there was a long massive oak table, with benches and stools of the same wood. At the end of this table, there was a large arm-chair, overhung with a canopy of golden or silken stuff, which was occupied by the owner of the castle, and only relinquished by him in favour of his superior or sovereign. Often the walls of the hall of state were hung with tapestry, representing groves with cattle, heroes of ancient history, or events in the romance of chivalry. The floor was generally paved with hard stone, or covered with enamelled tiles. It was carefully strewn with scented herbs in summer, and straw in winter. Philip Augustus ordered that the Hôtel Dieu of Paris should receive the herbs and straw which was daily removed from the floors of his palace. It was only very much later that this troublesome system was replaced by mats and carpets. The bedrooms were generally at the top of the towers, and had little else by way of furniture, besides a very large bed, with or without curtains, a box in which clothes were kept, and which also served as a seat, and a _priedieu_ chair, which sometimes contained prayer and other books of devotion. These lofty rooms, whose thick walls kept out the heat in summer, and the cold in winter, were only lighted by a small window or loophole, closed with a square of oiled paper or of thin horn. A great change took place in the abodes of the nobility in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries (Fig. 51). We find, for instance, in Sauval's "History and Researches of the Antiquities of the City of Paris," that the abodes of the kings of the first dynasty had been transformed into Palaces of Justice by Philip le Bel; the same author also gives us a vivid description of the Château du Louvre, and the Hôtel St. Paul, which the kings inhabited when their court was in the capital. But even without examining into all the royal abodes, it will suffice to give an account of the Hôtel de Bohême, which, after having been the home of the Sires de Nesles, of Queen Blanche of Castille, and other great persons, was given by Charles VI., in 1388, to his brother, the famous Duke Louis of Orleans. [Illustration: Fig. 51.--The Knight and his Lady.--Costumes of the Court of Burgundy in the Fourteenth Century; Furnished Chamber.--Miniature in "Othea," Poem by Christine de Pisan (Brussels Library).] "I shall not attempt," says Sauval, "to speak of the cellars and wine-cellars, the bakehouses, the fruiteries, the salt-stores, the fur-rooms, the porters' lodges, the stores, the guard-rooms, the wood-yard, or the glass-stores; nor of the servants; nor of the place where _hypocras_ was made; neither shall I describe the tapestry-room, the linen-room, nor the laundry; nor, indeed, any of the various conveniences which were then to be found in the yards of that palace as well as in the other abodes of the princes and nobles. "I shall simply remark, that amongst the many suites of rooms which composed it, two occupied the two first stories of the main building; the first was raised some few steps above the ground-floor of the court, and was occupied by Valentine de Milan; and her husband, Louis of Orleans, generally occupied the second. Each of these suites of rooms consisted of a great hall, a chamber of state, a large chamber, a wardrobe, some closets, and a chapel. The windows of the halls were thirteen and a half feet[A] high by four and a half wide. The state chambers were eight 'toises,' that is, about fifty feet and a half long. The duke and duchess's chambers were six 'toises' by three, that is, about thirty-six feet by eighteen; the others were seven toises and a half square, all lighted by long and narrow windows of wirework with trellis-work of iron; the wainscots and the ceilings were made of Irish wood, the same as at the Louvre." [Footnote A: French feet.] In this palace there was a room used by the duke, hung with cloth of gold, bordered with vermilion velvet embroidered with roses; the duchess had a room hung with vermilion satin embroidered with crossbows, which were on her coat of arms; that of the Duke of Burgundy was hung with cloth of gold embroidered with windmills. There were, besides, eight carpets of glossy texture, with gold flowers; one representing "The Seven Virtues and the Seven Vices;" another the history of Charlemagne; another that of St. Louis. There were also cushions of cloth of gold, twenty-four pieces of vermilion leather of Aragon, and four carpets of Aragon leather, "to be placed on the floor of rooms in summer." The favourite arm-chair of the princess is thus described in an inventory:--"A chamber chair with four supports, painted in fine vermilion, the seat and arms of which are covered with vermilion morocco, or cordovan, worked and stamped with designs representing the sun, birds, and other devices, bordered with fringes of silk and studded with nails." Among the ornamental furniture were--"A large vase of massive silver, for holding sugar-plums or sweetmeats, shaped like a square table, supported by four satyrs, also of silver; a fine wooden casket, covered with vermilion cordovan, nailed, and bordered with a narrow gilt band, shutting with a key." [Illustration: Fig. 52.--Bronze Chandeliers of the Fourteenth Century (Collection of M. Ach. Jubinal).] In the daily life of Louis of Orleans and his wife, everything corresponded with the luxury of their house. Thus, for the amusement of their children, two little books of pictures were made, illuminated with gold, azure, and vermilion, and covered with vermilion leather of Cordova, which cost sixty _sols parisis, i.e. four hundred francs. But it was in the custom of New Year's gifts that the duke and duchess displayed truly royal magnificence, as we find described in the accounts of their expenses. For instance, in 1388 they paid four hundred francs of gold for sheets of silk to give to those who received the New Year's gifts from the King and Queen. In 1402, one hundred pounds (tournois) were given to Jehan Taienne, goldsmith, for six silver cups presented to Jacques de Poschin, the Duke's squire. To the Sire de la Trémouille Valentine gives "a cup and basin of gold;" to Queen Isabella, "a golden image of St. John, surrounded with nine rubies, one sapphire, and twenty-one pearls;" to Mademoiselle de Luxembourg, "another small golden sacred image, surrounded with pearls;" and lastly, in an account of 1394, headed, "Portion of gold and silver jewels bought by Madame la Duchesse d'Orleans as a New Year's gift," we find "a clasp of gold, studded with one large ruby and six large pearls, given to the King; three paternosters for the King's daughters, and two large diamonds for the Dukes of Burgundy and Berry." [Illustration: Fig. 53.--Styli used in writing in the Fourteenth Century.] Such were the habits in private life of the royal princes under Charles VI.; and it can easily be shown that the example of royalty was followed not only by the court, but also in the remotest provinces. The great tenants or vassals of the crown each possessed several splendid mansions in their fiefs; the Dukes of Burgundy, at Souvigny, at Moulins, and at Bourbon l'Archambault; the Counts of Champagne, at Troyes; the Dukes of Burgundy, at Dijon; and all the smaller nobles made a point of imitating their superiors. From the fifteenth to the sixteenth centuries, the provinces which now compose France were studded with castles, which were as remarkable for their interior, architecture as for the richness of their furniture; and it may be asserted that the luxury which was displayed in the dwellings of the nobility was the evidence, if not the resuit, of a great social revolution in the manners and customs of private life. At the end of the fourteenth century there lived a much-respected noble of Anjou, named Geoffroy de Latour-Landry, who had three daughters. In his old age, he resolved that, considering the dangers which might surround them in consequence of their inexperience and beauty, he would compose for their use a code of admonitions which might guide them in the various circumstances of life. [Illustration: A Young Mother's Retinue Representing the Parisian costumes at the end of the fourteenth century. Fac-simile of a miniature from the latin _Terence_ of King Charles VI. From a manuscript in the Bibl. de l'Arsenal.] This book of domestic maxims is most curious and instructive, from the details which it contains respecting the manners and customs, mode of conduct, and fashions of the nobility of the period (Fig. 54). The author mostly illustrates each of his precepts by examples from the life of contemporary personages. [Illustration: Fig. 54.--Dress of Noble Ladies and Children in the Fourteenth Century.--Miniature in the "Merveilles du Monde" (Manuscript, National Library of Paris).] The first advice the knight gives his daughters is, to begin the day with prayer; and, in order to give greater weight to his counsel, he relates the following anecdote: "A noble had two daughters; the one was pious, always saying her prayers with devotion, and regularly attending the services of the church; she married an honest man, and was most happy. The other, on the contrary, was satisfied with hearing low mass, and hurrying once or twice through the Lord's Prayer, after which she went off to indulge herself with sweetmeats. She complained of headaches, and required careful diet. She married a most excellent knight; but, one evening, taking advantage of her husband being asleep, she shut herself up in one of the rooms of the palace, and in company with the people of the household began eating and drinking in the most riotous and excessive manner. The knight awoke; and, surprised not to find his wife by his side, got up, and, armed with a stick, betook himself to the scene of festivity. He struck one of the domestics with such force that he broke his stick in pieces, and one of the fragments flew into the lady's eye and put it out. This caused her husband to take a dislike to her, and he soon placed his affections elsewhere." "My pretty daughters," the moralising parent proceeds, "be courteous and meek, for nothing is more beautiful, nothing so secures the favour of God and the love of others. Be then courteous to great and small; speak gently with them.... I have seen a great lady take off her cap and bow to a simple ironmonger. One of her followers seemed astonished. 'I prefer,' she said, 'to have been too courteous towards that man, than to have been guilty of the least incivility to a knight.'" [Illustration: Fig. 55.--Noble Lady and Maid of Honour, and two Burgesses with Hoods (Fourteenth Century), from a Miniature in the "Merveilles du Monde" (Manuscript in the Imperial Library of Paris).] Latour-Landry also advised his daughters to avoid outrageous fashions in dress. "Do not be hasty in copying the dress of foreign women. I will relate a story on this subject respecting a bourgeoise of Guyenne and the Sire de Beaumanoir. The lady said to him, 'Cousin, I come from Brittany, where I saw my fine cousin, your wife, who was not so well dressed as the ladies of Guyenne and many other places. The borders of her dress and of her bonnet are not in fashion.' The Sire answered, 'Since you find fault with the dress and cap of my wife, and as they do not suit you, I shall take care in future that they are changed; but I shall be careful not to choose them similar to yours.... Understand, madam, that I wish her to be dressed according to the fashion of the good ladies of France and this country, and not like those of England. It was these last who first introduced into Brittany the large borders, the bodices opened on the hips, and the hanging sleeves. I remember the time, and saw it myself, and I have little respect for women who adopt these fashions.'" Respecting the high head-dresses "which cause women to resemble stags who are obliged to lower their heads to enter a wood," the knight relates what took place in 1392 at the fête of St. Marguerite. "There was a young and pretty woman there, quite differently dressed from the others; every one stared at her as if she had been a wild beast. One respectable lady approached her and said, 'My friend, what do you call that fashion?' She answered, 'It is called the "gibbet dress."' 'Indeed; but that is not a fine name!' answered the old lady. Very soon the name of 'gibbet dress' got known all round the room, and every one laughed at the foolish creature who was thus bedecked." This head-dress did in fact owe its name to its summit, which resembled a gibbet. These extracts from the work of this honest knight, suffice to prove that the customs of French society had, as early as the end of the fourteenth century, taken a decided character which was to remain subject only to modifications introduced at various historical periods. Amongst the customs which contributed most to the softening and elegance of the feudal class, we must cite that of sending into the service of the sovereign for some years all the youths of both sexes, under the names of varlets, pages, squires, and maids of honour. No noble, of whatever wealth or power, ever thought of depriving his family of this apprenticeship and its accompanying chivalric education. Up to the end of the twelfth century, the number of domestic officers attached to a castle was very limited; we have seen, for instance, that Philip Augustus contented himself with a few servants, and his queen with two or three maids of honour. Under Louis IX. this household was much increased, and under Philippe le Bel and his sons the royal household had become so considerable as to constitute quite a large assemblage of young men and women. Under Charles VI., the household of Queen Isabella of Bavaria alone amounted to forty-five persons, without counting the almoner, the chaplains, and clerks of the chapel, who must have been very numerous, since the sums paid to them amounted to the large amount of four hundred and sixty francs of gold per annum. [Illustration: Fig. 56.--Court of the Ladies of Queen Anne of Brittany, Miniature representing this lady weeping on account of the absence of her husband during the Italian war.--Manuscript of the "Epistres Envoyées au Roi" (Sixteenth Century), obtained by the Coislin Fund for the Library of St. Germain des Pres in Paris, now in the Library of St. Petersburg.] Under Charles VIII., Louis XII., and Francis I., the service of the young nobility, which was called "apprenticeship of honour or virtue," had taken a much wider range; for the first families of the French nobility were most eager to get their children admitted into the royal household, either to attend on the King or Queen, or at any rate on one of the princes of the royal blood. Anne of Brittany particularly gave special attention to her female attendants (Fig. 56). "She was the first," says Brantôme in his work on "Illustrious Women," "who began to form the great court of ladies which has descended to our days; for she had a considerable retinue both of adult ladies and young girls. She never refused to receive any one; on the contrary, she inquired of the gentlemen of the court if they had any daughters, ascertained who they were, and asked for them." It was thus that the Admiral de Graville (Fig. 57) confided to the good Queen the education of his daughter Anne, who at this school of the Court of Ladies became one of the most distinguished women of her day. The same Queen, as Duchess of Brittany, created a company of one hundred Breton gentlemen, who accompanied her everywhere. "They never failed," says the author of "Illustrious Women," "when she went to mass or took a walk, to await her return on the little terrace of Blois, which is still called the _Perche aux Bretons_. She gave it this name herself; for when she saw them she said, 'There are my Bretons on the perch waiting for me.'" We must not forget that this queen, who became successively the wife of Charles VIII. and of Louis XII., had taken care to establish a strict discipline amongst the young men and women who composed her court. She rightly considered herself the guardian of the honour of the former, and of the virtue of the latter; therefore, as long as she lived, her court was renowned for purity and politeness, noble and refined gallantry, and was never allowed to degenerate into imprudent amusements or licentious and culpable intrigues. Unfortunately, the moral influence of this worthy princess died with her. Although the court of France continued to gather around it almost every sort of elegance, and although it continued during the whole of the sixteenth century the most polished of European courts, notwithstanding the great external and civil wars, yet it afforded at the same time a sad example of laxity of morals, which had a most baneful influence on public habits; so much so that vice and corruption descended from class to class, and contaminated all orders of society. If we wished to make investigations into the private life of the lower orders in those times, we should not succeed as we have been able to do with that of the upper classes; for we have scarcely any data to throw light upon their sad and obscure history. Bourgeois and peasants were, as we have already shown, long included together with the miserable class of serfs, a herd of human beings without individuality, without significance, who from their birth to their death, whether isolated or collectively, were the "property" of their masters. What must have been the private life of this degraded multitude, bowed down under the most tyrannical and humiliating dependence, we can scarcely imagine; it was in fact but a purely material existence, which has left scarcely any trace in history. [Illustration: Fig. 57.--Louis de Mallet, Lord of Graville, Admiral of France, 1487, in Costume of War and Tournament, from an Engraving of the Sixteenth Century (National Library of Paris, Cabinet des Estampes).] Many centuries elapsed before the dawn of liberty could penetrate the social strata of this multitude, thus oppressed and denuded of all power of action. The development was slow, painful, and dearly bought, but at last it took place; first of all towns sprang up, and with them, or rather by their influence, the inhabitants became possessed of social life. The agricultural population took its social position many generations later. As we have already seen, the great movement for the creation of communes and bourgeoisies only dates from the unsettled period ranging from the eleventh to the thirteenth centuries, and simultaneously we see the bourgeois appear, already rich and luxurious, parading on all occasions their personal opulence. Their private life could only be an imitation of that in the châteaux; by degrees as wealth strengthened and improved their condition, and rendered them independent, we find them trying to procure luxuries equal or analogous to those enjoyed by the upper classes, and which appeared to them the height of material happiness. In all times the small have imitated the great. It was in vain that the great obstinately threatened, by the exercise of their prerogatives, to try and crush this tendency to equality which alarmed them, by issuing pecuniary edicts, summary laws, coercive regulations, and penal ordinances; by the force of circumstances the arbitrary restrictions which the nobility laid upon the lower classes gradually disappeared, and the power of wealth displayed itself in spite of all their efforts to suppress it. In fact, occasions were not wanting in which the bourgeois class was able to refute the charge of unworthiness with which the nobles sought to stamp it. When taking a place in the council of the King, or employed in the administration of the provinces, many of its members distinguished themselves by firmness and wisdom; when called upon to assist in the national defence, they gave their blood and their gold with noble self-denial; and lastly, they did not fail to prove themselves possessed of those high and delicate sentiments of which the nobility alone claimed the hereditary possession. [Illustration: Fig. 58.--Burgess of Ghent and his Wife, in ceremonial Attire, kneeling in Church, from a painted Window belonging to a Chapel in that Town (Fifteenth Century).] "The bourgeois," says Arnaud de Marveil, one of the most famous troubadours of the thirteenth century, "have divers sorts of merits: some distinguish themselves by deeds of honour, others are by nature noble and behave accordingly. There are others thoroughly brave, courteous, frank, and jovial, who, although poor, find means to please by graceful speech, frequenting courts, and making themselves agreeable there; these, well versed in courtesy and politeness, appear in noble attire, and figure conspicuously at the tournaments and military games, proving themselves good judges and good company." Down to the thirteenth century, however rich their fathers or husbands might be, the women of the bourgeoisie were not permitted, without incurring a fine, to use the ornaments and stuffs exclusively reserved for the nobility. During the reigns of Philip Augustus and Louis IX., although these arbitrary laws were not positively abolished, a heavy blow was inflicted on them by the marks of confidence, esteem, and honour which these monarchs found pleasure in bestowing on the bourgeoisie. We find the first of these kings, when on the point of starting for a crusade, choosing six from amongst the principal members of the _parloir aux bourgeois_ (it was thus that the first Hôtel de Ville, situated in the corner of the Place de la Grève, was named) to be attached to the Council of Regency, to whom he specially confided his will and the royal treasure. His grandson made a point of following his grandsire's example, and Louis IX. showed the same appreciation for the new element which the Parisian bourgeoisie was about to establish in political life by making the bourgeois Etienne Boileau one of his principal ministers of police, and the bourgeois Jean Sarrazin his chamberlain. Under these circumstances, the whole bourgeoisie gloried in the marks of distinction conferred upon their representatives, and during the following reign, the ladies of this class, proud of their immense fortunes, but above all proud of the municipal powers held by their families, bedecked themselves, regardless of expense, with costly furs and rich stuffs, notwithstanding that they were forbidden by law to do so. Then came an outcry on the part of the nobles; and we read as follows, in an edict of Philippe le Bel, who inclined less to the bourgeoisie than to the nobles, and who did not spare the former in matters of taxation:--"No bourgeois shall have a chariot nor wear gold, precious stones, or crowns of gold or silver. Bourgeois, not being either prelates nor dignitaries of state, shall not have tapers of wax. A bourgeois possessing two thousand pounds (tournois) or more, may order for himself a dress of twelve sous six deniers, and for his wife one worth sixteen sous at the most." The sou, which was but nominal money, may be reckoned as representing twenty francs, and the denier one franc, but allowance must be made for the enormous difference in the value of silver, which would make twenty francs in the thirteenth century represent upwards of two hundred francs of present currency. [Illustration: Fig. 59.--The new-born Child, from a Miniature in the "Histoire de la Belle Hélaine" (Manuscript of the Fifteenth Century, National Library of Paris).] But these regulations as to the mode of living were so little or so carelessly observed, that all the successors of Philippe le Bel thought it necessary to re-enact them, and, indeed, Charles VII., one century later, was obliged to censure the excess of luxury in dress by an edict which was, however, no better enforced than the rest. "It has been shown to the said lord" (the King Charles VII.), "that of all nations of the habitable globe there are none so changeable, outrageous, and excessive in their manner of dress, as the French nation, and there is no possibility of discovering by their dress the state or calling of persons, be they princes, nobles, bourgeois, or working men, because all are allowed to dress as they think proper, whether in gold or silver, silk or wool, without any regard to their calling." At the end of the thirteenth century, a rich merchant of Valenciennes went to the court of the King of France wearing a cloak of furs covered with gold and pearls; seeing that no one offered him a cushion, he proudly sat on his cloak. On leaving he did not attempt to take up the cloak; and on a servant calling his attention to the fact he remarked, "It is not the custom in my country for people to carry away their cushions with them." Respecting a journey made by Philippe le Bel and his wife Jeanne de Navarre to the towns of Bruges and Ghent, the historian Jean Mayer relates that Jeanne, on seeing the costly array of the bourgeois of those two rich cities, exclaimed, "I thought I was the only queen here, but I see more than six hundred!" In spite of the laws, the Parisian bourgeoisie soon rivalled the Flemish in the brilliancy of their dress. Thus, in the second half of the fourteenth century, the famous Christine de Pisan relates that, having gone to visit the wife of a merchant during her confinement, it was not without some amazement that she saw the sumptuous furniture of the apartment in which this woman lay in bed (Fig. 59). The walls were hung with precious tapestry of Cyprus, on which the initials and motto of the lady were embroidered; the sheets were of fine linen of Rheims, and had cost more than three hundred pounds; the quilt was a new invention of silk and silver tissue; the carpet was like gold. The lady wore an elegant dress of crimson silk, and rested her head and arms on pillows, ornamented with buttons of oriental pearls. It should be remarked that this lady was not the wife of a large merchant, such as those of Venice and Genoa, but of a simple retail dealer, who was not above selling articles for four sous; such being the case, we need not be surprised that Christine should have considered the anecdote "worthy of being immortalised in a book." It must not, however, be assumed that the sole aim of the bourgeoisie was that of making a haughty and pompous display. This is refuted by the testimony of the "Ménagier de Paris," a curious anonymous work, the author of which must have been an educated and enlightened bourgeois. The "Ménagier," which was first published by the Baron Jérôme Pichon, is a collection of counsels addressed by a husband to his young wife, as to her conduct in society, in the world, and in the management of her household. The first part is devoted to developing the mind of the young housewife; and the second relates to the arrangements necessary for the welfare of her house. It must be remembered that the comparatively trifling duties relating to the comforts of private life, which devolved on the wife, were not so numerous in those days as they are now; but on the other hand they required an amount of practical knowledge on the part of the housewife which she can nowadays dispense with. Under this head the "Ménagier" is full of information. After having spoken of the prayers which a Christian woman should say morning and evening, the author discusses the great question of dress, which has ever been of supreme importance in the eyes of the female sex: "Know, dear sister," (the friendly name he gives his young wife), "that in the choice of your apparel you must always consider the rank of your parents and mine, as also the state of my fortune. Be respectably dressed, without devoting too much study to it, without too much plunging into new fashions. Before leaving your room, see that the collar of your gown be well adjusted and is not put on crooked." [Illustration: Fig. 60.--Sculptured Comb, in Ivory, of the Sixteenth Century (Sauvageot Collection)] Then he dilates on the characters of women, which are too often wilful and unmanageable; on this point, for he is not less profuse in examples than the Chevalier de Latour-Landry, he relates an amusing anecdote, worthy of being repeated and remembered. "I have heard the bailiff of Tournay relate, that he had found himself several times at table with men long married, and that he had wagered with them the price of a dinner under the following conditions: the company was to visit the abode of each of the husbands successively, and any one who had a wife obedient enough immediately, without contradicting or making any remark, to consent to count up to four, would win the bet; but, on the other hand, those whose wives showed temper, laughed, or refused to obey, would lose. Under these conditions the company gaily adjourned to the abode of Robin, whose wife, called Marie, had a high opinion of herself. The husband said before all, 'Marie, repeat after me what I shall say.' 'Willingly, sire.' 'Marie, say, "One, two, three!"' But by this time Marie was out of patience, and said, 'And seven, and twelve, and fourteen! Why, you are making a fool of me!' So that husband lost his wager. "The company next went to the house of Maître Jean, whose wife, Agnescat well knew how to play the lady. Jean said, 'Repeat after me, one!' 'And two!' answered Agnescat disdainfully; so he lost his wager. Tassin then tried, and said to dame Tassin, 'Count one!' 'Go upstairs!' she answered, 'if you want to teach counting, I am not a child.' Another said, 'Go away with you; you must have lost your senses,' or similar words, which made the husbands lose their wagers. Those, on the contrary, who had well-behaved wives gained their wager and went away joyful." This amusing quotation suffices to show that the author of the "Ménagier de Paris" wished to adopt a jocose style, with a view to enliven the seriousness of the subject he was advocating. The part of his work in which he discusses the administration of the house is not less worthy of attention. One of the most curious chapters of the work is that in which he points out the manner in which the young bourgeoise is to behave towards persons in her service. Rich people in those days, in whatever station of life, were obliged to keep a numerous retinue of servants. It is curious to find that so far back as the period to which we allude, there was in Paris a kind of servants' registry office, where situations were found for servant-maids from the country. The bourgeois gave up the entire management of the servants to his wife; but, on account of her extreme youth, the author of the work in question recommends his wife only to engage servants who shall have been chosen by Dame Agnes, the nun whom he had placed with her as a kind of governess or companion. "Before engaging them," he says, "know whence they come; in what houses they have been; if they have acquaintances in town, and if they are steady. Discover what they are capable of doing; and ascertain that they are not greedy, or inclined to drink. If they come from another country, try to find out why they left it; for, generally, it is not without some serious reason that a woman decides upon a change of abode. When you have engaged a maid, do not permit her to take the slightest liberty with you, nor allow her to speak disrespectfully to you. If, on the contrary, she be quiet in her demeanour, honest, modest, and shows herself amenable to reproof, treat her as if she were your daughter. "Superintend the work to be done; and choose among your servants those qualified for each special department. If you order a thing to be done immediately, do not be satisfied with the following answers: 'It shall be done presently, or to-morrow early;' otherwise, be sure that you will have to repeat your orders." [Illustration: Fig. 61.--Dress of Maidservants in the Thirteenth Century.--Miniature in a Manuscript of the National Library of Paris.] To these severe instructions upon the management of servants, the bourgeois adds a few words respecting their morality. He recommends that they be not permitted to use coarse or indecent language, or to insult one another (Fig. 61). Although he is of opinion that necessary time should be given to servants at their meals, he does not approve of their remaining drinking and talking too long at table: concerning which practice he quotes a proverb in use at that time: "Quand varlet presche à table et cheval paist en gué, il est temps qu'on l'en oste: assez y a esté;" which means, that when a servant talks at table and a horse feeds near a watering-place it is time he should be removed; he has been there long enough. [Illustration: Fig. 62.--Hôtel des Ursins, Paris, built during the Fourteenth Century, restored in the Sixteenth, and now destroyed.--State of the North Front at the End of the last Century.] The manner in which the author concludes his instruction proves his kindness of heart, as well as his benevolence: "If one of your servants fall sick, it is your duty, setting everything else aside, to see to his being cured." It was thus that a bourgeois of the fifteenth century expressed himself; and as it is clear that he could only have been inspired to dictate his theoretical teachings by the practical experience which he must have gained for the most part among the middle class to which he belonged, we must conclude that in those days the bourgeoisie possessed considerable knowledge of moral dignity and social propriety. It must be added that by the side of the merchant and working bourgeoisie--who, above all, owed their greatness to the high functions of the municipality--the parliamentary bourgeoisie had raised itself to power, and that from the fourteenth century it played a considerable part in the State, holding at several royal courts at different periods, and at last, almost hereditarily, the highest magisterial positions. The very character of these great offices of president, or of parliamentary counsel, barristers, &c., proves that the holders must have had no small amount of intellectual culture. In this way a refined taste was created among this class, which the protection of kings, princes, and lords had alone hitherto encouraged. We find, for example, the Grosliers at Lyons, the De Thous and Seguiers in Paris, regardless of their bourgeois origin, becoming judicious and zealous patrons of poets, scholars, and artists. A description of Paris, published in the middle of the fifteenth century, describes amongst the most splendid residences of the capital the hotels of Juvénal des Ursins (Fig. 62), of Bureau de Dampmartin, of Guillaume Seguin, of Mille Baillet, of Martin Double, and particularly that of Jacques Duchié, situated in the Rue des Prouvaires, in which were collected at great cost collections of all kinds of arms, musical instruments, rare birds, tapestry, and works of art. In each church in Paris, and there were upwards of a hundred, the principal chapels were founded by celebrated families of the ancient bourgeoisie, who had left money for one or more masses to be said daily for the repose of the soûls of their deceased members. In the burial-grounds, and principally in that of the Innocents, the monuments of these families of Parisian bourgeoisie were of the most expensive character, and were inscribed with epitaphs in which the living vainly tried to immortalise the deeds of the deceased. Every one has heard of the celebrated tomb of Nicholas Flamel and Pernelle his wife (Fig. 63), the cross of Bureau, the epitaph of Yolande Bailly, who died in 1514, at the age of eighty-eight, and who "saw, or might have seen, two hundred and ninety-five children descended from her." In fact, the religious institutions of Paris afford much curious and interesting information relative to the history of the bourgeoisie. For instance, Jean Alais, who levied a tax of one denier on each basket of fish brought to market, and thereby amassed an enormous fortune, left the whole of it at his death for the purpose of erecting a chapel called St. Agnes, which soon after became the church of St. Eustace. He further directed that, by way of expiation, his body should be thrown into the sewer which drained the offal from the market, and covered with a large stone; this sewer up to the end of the last century was still called Pont Alais. [Illustration: Fig. 63.--Nicholas Flamel and Pernelle, his Wife, from a Painting executed at the End of the Fifteenth Century, under the Vaults of the Cemetery of the Innocents, in Paris.] Very often when citizens made gifts during their lifetime to churches or parishes, the donors reserved to themselves certain privileges which were calculated to cause the motives which had actuated them to be open to criticism. Thus, in 1304, the daughters of Nicholas Arrode, formerly provost of the merchants, presented to the church of St. Jacques-la-Boucherie the house and grounds which they inhabited, but one of them reserved the right of having a key of the church that she might go in whenever she pleased. Guillaume Haussecuel, in 1405, bought a similar right for the sum of eighteen _sols parisis_ per annum (equal to twenty-five francs); and Alain and his wife, whose house was close to two chapels of the church, undertook not to build so as in any way to shut out the light from one of the chapels on condition that they might open a small window into the chapel, and so be enabled to hear the service without leaving their room. [Illustration: Fig. 64.--Country Life--Fac-simile of a Woodcut in a folio Edition of Virgil, published at Lyons in 1517.] We thus see that the bourgeoisie, especially of Paris, gradually took a more prominent position in history, and became so grasping after power that it ventured, at a period which does not concern us here, to aspire to every sort of distinction, and to secure an important social standing. What had been the exception during the sixteenth century became the rule two centuries later. We will now take a glance at the agricultural population (Fig. 64), who, as we have already stated, were only emancipated from serfdom at the end of the eighteenth century. But whatever might have been formerly the civil condition of the rural population, everything leads us to suppose that there were no special changes in their private and domestic means of existence from a comparatively remote period down to almost the present time. A small poem of the thirteenth century, entitled, "De l'Oustillement au Vilain," gives a clear though rough sketch of the domestic state of the peasantry. Strange as it may seem, it must be acknowledged that, with a few exceptions resulting from the progress of time, it would not be difficult, even at the present day, to find the exact type maintained in the country districts farthest away from the capital and large towns; at all events, they were faithfully represented at the time of the revolution of 1789. [Illustration: Fig. 65.--Sedentary Occupations of the Peasauts.--Fac-simile from an Engraving on Wood, attributed to Holbein, in the "Cosmographie" of Munster (Basle, 1552, folio).] We gather from this poem, which must be considered an authentic and most interesting document, that the _manse_ or dwelling of the villain comprised three distinct buildings; the first for the corn, the second for the hay and straw, the third for the man and his family. In this rustic abode a fire of vine branches and faggots sparkled in a large chimney furnished with an iron pot-hanger, a tripod, a shovel, large fire-irons, a cauldron and a meat-hook. Next to the fireplace was an oven, and in close proximity to this an enormous bedstead, on which the villain, his wife, his children, and even the stranger who asked for hospitality, could all be easily accommodated; a kneading trough, a table, a bench, a cheese cupboard, a jug, and a few baskets made up the rest of the furniture. The villain also possessed other utensils, such as a ladder, a mortar, a hand-mill--for every one then was obliged to grind his own corn; a mallet, some nails, some gimlets, fishing lines, hooks, and baskets, &c. [Illustration: Fig. 66.--Villains before going to Work receiving their Lord's Orders.--Miniature in the "Propriétaire des Choses."--Manuscript of the Fifteenth Century (Library of the Arsenal, in Paris).] His working implements were a plough, a scythe, a spade, a hoe, large shears, a knife and a sharpening stone; he had also a waggon, with harness for several horses, so as to be able to accomplish the different tasks required of him under feudal rights, either by his proper lord, or by the sovereign; for the villain was liable to be called upon to undertake every kind of work of this sort. His dress consisted of a blouse of cloth or skin fastened by a leather belt round the waist, an overcoat or mantle of thick woollen stuff, which fell from his shoulders to half-way down his legs; shoes or large boots, short woollen trousers, and from his belt there hung his wallet and a sheath for his knife (Figs. 66 and 71). He generally went bareheaded, but in cold weather or in rain he wore a sort of hat of similar stuff to his coat, or one of felt with a broad brim. He seldom wore _mouffles_, or padded gloves, except when engaged in hedging. A small kitchen-garden, which he cultivated himself, was usually attached to the cottage, which was guarded by a large watch-dog. There was also a shed for the cows, whose milk contributed to the sustenance of the establishment; and on the thatched roof of this and his cottage the wild cats hunted the rats and mice. The family were never idle, even in the bad season, and the children were taught from infancy to work by the side of their parents (Fig. 65). If, then, we find so much resemblance between the abodes of the villains of the thirteenth century and those of the inhabitants of the poorest communes of France in the present day, we may fairly infer that there must be a great deal which is analogous between the inhabitants themselves of the two periods; for in the châteaux as well as in the towns we find the material condition of the dwellings modifying itself conjointly with that of the moral condition of the inhabitants. [Illustration: Fig. 67.--The egotistical and envious Villain.--From a Miniature in "Proverbes et Adages, &c.," Manuscript of the La Vallière Fund, in the National Library of Paris, with this legend: "Attrapez y sont les plus fins: Qui trop embrasse mal estraint." ("The cleverest burn their fingers at it, And those who grasp all may lose all.") ] Another little poem entitled, "On the Twenty-four Kinds of Villains," composed about the same period as the one above referred to, gives us a graphic description of the varieties of character among the feudal peasants. One example is given of a man who will not tell a traveller the way, but merely in a surly way answers, "You know it better than I" (Fig. 67). Another, sitting at his door on a Sunday, laughs at those passing by, and says to himself when he sees a gentleman going hawking with a bird on his wrist, "Ah! that bird will eat a hen to-day, and our children could all feast upon it!" Another is described as a sort of madman who equally despises God, the saints, the Church, and the nobility. His neighbour is an honest simpleton, who, stopping in admiration before the doorway of Notre Dame in Paris in order to admire the statues of Pepin, Charlemagne, and their successors, has his pocket picked of his purse. Another villain is supposed to make trade of pleading the cause of others before "Messire le Bailli;" he is very eloquent in trying to show that in the time of their ancestors the cows had a free right of pasture in such and such a meadow, or the sheep on such and such a ridge; then there is the miser, and the speculator, who converts all his possessions into ready money, so as to purchase grain against a bad season; but of course the harvest turns out to be excellent, and he does not make a farthing, but runs away to conceal his ruin and rage. There is also the villain who leaves his plough to become a poacher. There are many other curious examples which altogether tend to prove that there has been but little change in the villager class since the first periods of History. [Illustration: Fig. 68.--The covetous and avaricious Villain.--From a Miniature in "Proverbes et Adages, &c," Manuscript in the National Library of Paris, with this legend: "Je suis icy levant les yeulx Eu ce haut lieu des attendens, En convoitant pour avoir mieulx Prendre la lune avec les dens." ("Even on this lofty height We yet look higher, As nothing will satisfy us But to clutch the moon.") ] Notwithstanding the miseries to which they were generally subject, the rural population had their days of rest and amusement, which were then much more numerous than at present. At that period the festivals of the Church were frequent and rigidly kept, and as each of them was the pretext for a forced holiday from manual labour, the peasants thought of nothing, after church, but of amusing themselves; they drank, talked, sang, danced, and, above all, laughed, for the laugh of our forefathers quite rivalled the Homeric laugh, and burst forth with a noisy joviality (Fig. 69). The "wakes," or evening parties, which are still the custom in most of the French provinces, and which are of very ancient origin, formed important events in the private lives of the peasants. It was at these that the strange legends and vulgar superstitions, which so long fed the minds of the ignorant classes, were mostly created and propagated. It was there that those extraordinary and terrible fairy tales were related, as well as those of magicians, witches, spirits, &c. It was there that the matrons, whose great age justified their experience, insisted on proving, by absurd tales, that they knew all the marvellous secrets for causing happiness or for curing sickness. Consequently, in those days the most enlightened rustic never for a moment doubted the truth of witchcraft. In fact, one of the first efforts at printing was applied to reproducing the most ridiculous stories under the title of the "Evangile des Conuilles ou Quenouilles," and which had been previously circulated in manuscript, and had obtained implicit belief. The author of this remarkable collection asserts that the matrons in his neighbourhood had deputed him to put together in writing the sayings suitable for all conditions of rural life which were believed in by them and were announced at the wakes. The absurdities and childish follies which he has dared to register under their dictation are almost incredible. The "Evangile des Quenouilles," which was as much believed in as Holy Writ, tells us, amongst other secrets which it contains for the advantage of the reader, that a girl wishing to know the Christian name of her future husband, has but to stretch the first thread she spins in the morning across the doorway; and that the first man who passes and touches the thread will necessarily have the same name as the man she is destined to marry. Another of the stories in this book was, that if a woman, on leaving off work on Saturday night, left her distaff loaded, she might be sure that the thread she would obtain from it during the following week would only produce linen of bad quality, which could not be bleached; this was considered to be proved by the fact that the Germans wore dark-brown coloured shirts, and it was known that the women never unloaded their distaffs from Saturday to Monday. Should a woman enter a cow-house to milk her cows without saying "God and St. Bridget bless you!" she was thought to run the risk of the cows kicking and breaking the milk-pail and spilling the milk. [Illustration: Fig. 69.--Village Feast.--Fac-simile of a Woodcut of the "Sandrin ou Verd Galant," facetious Work of the End of the Sixteenth Century (edition of 1609).] This silly nonsense, compiled like oracles, was printed as late as 1493. Eighty years later a gentleman of Brittany, named Noel du Fail, Lord of Herissaye, councillor in the Parliament of Rennes, published, under the title of "Rustic and Amusing Discourses," a work intended to counteract the influence of the famous "Evangile des Quenouilles." This new work was a simple and true sketch of country habits, and proved the elegance and artless simplicity of the author, as well as his accuracy of observation. He begins thus: "Occasionally, having to retire into the country more conveniently and uninterruptedly to finish some business, on a particular holiday, as I was walking I came to a neighbouring village, where the greater part of the old and young men were assembled, in groups of separate ages, for, according to the proverb, 'Each seeks his like.' The young were practising the bow, jumping, wrestling, running races, and playing other games. The old were looking on, some sitting under an oak, with their legs crossed, and their hats lowered over their eyes, others leaning on their elbows criticizing every performance, and refreshing the memory of their own youth, and taking a lively interest in seeing the gambols of the young people." The author states that on questioning one of the peasants to ascertain who was the cleverest person present, the following dialogue took place: "The one you see leaning on his elbow, hitting his boots, which have white strings, with a hazel stick, is called Anselme; he is one of the rich ones of the village, he is a good workman, and not a bad writer for the flat country; and the one you see by his side, with his thumb in his belt, hanging from which is a large game bag, containing spectacles and an old prayer book, is called Pasquier, one of the greatest wits within a day's journey--nay, were I to say two I should not be lying. Anyhow, he is certainly the readiest of the whole company to open his purse to give drink to his companions." "And that one," I asked, "with the large Milanese cap on his head, who holds an old book?" "That one," he answered, "who is scratching the end of his nose with one hand and his beard with the other?" "That one," I replied, "and who has turned towards us?" "Why," said he, "that is Roger Bontemps, a merry careless fellow, who up to the age of fifty kept the parish school; but changing his first trade he has become a wine-grower. However, he cannot resist the feast days, when he brings us his old books, and reads to us as long as we choose, such works as the 'Calondrier des Bergers,' 'Fables d'Esope,' 'Le Roman de la Rose,' 'Matheolus,' 'Alain Chartier,' 'Les Vigiles du feu Roy Charles,' 'Les deux Grebans,' and others. Neither, with his old habit of warbling, can he help singing on Sundays in the choir; and he is called Huguet. The other sitting near him, looking over his shoulder into his book, and wearing a sealskin belt with a yellow buckle, is another rich peasant of the village, not a bad villain, named Lubin, who also lives at home, and is called the little old man of the neighbourhood." After this artistic sketch, the author dilates on the goodman Anselme. He says: "This good man possessed a moderate amount of knowledge, was a goodish grammarian, a musician, somewhat of a sophist, and rather given to picking holes in others." Some of Anselme's conversation is also given, and after beginning by describing in glowing terms the bygone days which he and his contemporaries had seen, and which he stated to be very different to the present, he goes on to say, "I must own, my good old friends, that I look back with pleasure on our young days; at all events the mode of doing things in those days was very superior and better in every way to that of the present.... O happy days! O fortunate times when our fathers and grandfathers, whom may God absolve, were still among us!" As he said this, he would raise the rim of his hat. He contented himself as to dress with a good coat of thick wool, well lined according to the fashion; and for feast days and other important occasions, one of thick cloth, lined with some old gabardine. [Illustration: Fig. 70.--The Shepherds celebrating the Birth of the Messiah by Songs and Dances.--Fifteenth Century.--Fac-simile of an Engraving on Wood, from a Book of Hours, printed by Anthony Verard.] "So we see," says M. Le Roux de Lincy, "at the end of the fifteenth century that the old peasants complained of the changes in the village customs, and of the luxury which every one wished to display in his furniture or apparel. On this point it seems that there has been little or no change. We read that, from the time of Homer down to that of the excellent author of 'Rustic Discourses,' and even later, the old people found fault with the manners of the present generation and extolled those of their forefathers, which they themselves had criticized in their own youth." [Illustration: Fig. 71.--Purse or Leather Bag, with Knife or Dagger of the Fifteenth Century.] Food and Cookery. History of Bread.--Vegetables and Plants used in Cooking.--Fruits.--Butchers' Meat.--Poultry, Game.--Milk, Butter, Cheese, and Eggs.--Fish and Shellfish.--Beverages, Beer, Cider, Wine, Sweet Wine, Refreshing Drinks, Brandy.--Cookery.--Soups, Boiled Food, Pies, Stews, Salads, Roasts, Grills.--Seasoning, Truffles, Sugar, Verjuice.--Sweets, Desserts, Pastry.--Meals and Feasts.--Rules of Serving at Table from the Fifteenth to the Sixteenth Centuries. "The private life of a people," says Legrand d'Aussy, who had studied that of the French from a gastronomic point of view only, "from the foundation of monarchy down to the eighteenth century, must, like that of mankind generally, commence with obtaining the first and most pressing of its requirements. Not satisfied with providing food for his support, man has endeavoured to add to his food something which pleased his taste. He does not wait to be hungry, but he anticipates that feeling, and aggravates it by condiments and seasonings. In a word his greediness has created on this score a very complicated and wide-spread science, which, amongst nations which are considered civilised, has become most important, and is designated the culinary art." At all times the people of every country have strained the nature of the soil on which they lived by forcing it to produce that which it seemed destined ever to refuse them. Such food as human industry was unable to obtain from any particular soil or from any particular climate, commerce undertook to bring from the country which produced it. This caused Rabelais to say that the stomach was the father and master of industry. We will rapidly glance over the alimentary matters which our forefathers obtained from the animal and vegetable kingdom, and then trace the progress of culinary art, and examine the rules of feasts and such matters as belong to the epicurean customs of the Middle Ages. Aliments. Bread.--The Gauls, who principally inhabited deep and thick forests, fed on herbs and fruits, and particularly on acorns. It is even possible that the veneration in which they held the oak had no other origin. This primitive food continued in use, at least in times of famine, up to the eighth century, and we find in the regulations of St. Chrodegand that if, in consequence of a bad year, the acorn or beech-nut became scarce, it was the bishop's duty to provide something to make up for it. Eight centuries later, when René du Bellay, Bishop of Mans, came to report to Francis I. the fearful poverty of his diocese, he informed the king that the inhabitants in many places were reduced to subsisting on acorn bread. [Illustration: Figs. 72 and 73.--Corn-threshing and Bread-making.--Miniatures from the Calendar of a Book of Hours.--Manuscript of the Sixteenth Century.] In the earliest times bread was cooked under the embers. The use of ovens was introduced into Europe by the Romans, who had found them in Egypt. But, notwithstanding this importation, the old system of cooking was long after employed, for in the tenth century Raimbold, abbot of the monastery of St. Thierry, near Rheims, ordered in his will that on the day of his death bread cooked under the embers--_panes subcinericios_--should be given to his monks. By feudal law the lord was bound to bake the bread of his vassals, for which they were taxed, but the latter often preferred to cook their flour at home in the embers of their own hearths, rather than to carry it to the public oven. [Illustration: Fig. 74.--The Miller.--From an Engraving of the Sixteenth Century, by J. Amman.] It must be stated that the custom of leavening the dough by the addition of a ferment was not universally adopted amongst the ancients. For this reason, as the dough without leaven could only produce a heavy and indigestible bread, they were careful, in order to secure their loaves being thoroughly cooked, to make them very thin. These loaves served as plates for cutting up the other food upon, and when they thus became saturated with the sauce and gravy they were eaten as cakes. The use of the _tourteaux_ (small crusty loaves), which were at first called _tranchoirs_ and subsequently _tailloirs_, remained long in fashion even at the most splendid banquets. Thus, in 1336, the Dauphin of Vienna, Humbert II., had, besides the small white bread, four small loaves to serve as _tranchoirs_ at table. The "Ménagier de Paris" mentions "_des pains de tranchouers_ half a foot in diameter, and four fingers deep," and Froissart the historian also speaks of _tailloirs_. It would be difficult to point out the exact period at which leavening bread was adopted in Europe, but we can assert that in the Middle Ages it was anything but general. Yeast, which, according to Pliny, was already known to the Gauls, was reserved for pastry, and it was only at the end of the sixteenth century that the bakers of Paris used it for bread. At first the trades of miller and baker were carried on by the same person (Figs. 74 and 75). The man who undertook the grinding of the grain had ovens near his mill, which he let to his lord to bake bread, when he did not confine his business to persons who sent him their corn to grind. [Illustration: Fig. 75.--The Baker.--From an Engraving of the Sixteenth Century, by J. Amman.] At a later period public bakers established themselves, who not only baked the loaves which were brought to them already kneaded, but also made bread which they sold by weight; and this system was in existence until very recently in the provinces. Charlemagne, in his "Capitulaires" (statutes), fixed the number of bakers in each city according to the population, and St. Louis relieved them, as well as the millers, from taking their turn at the watch, so that they might have no pretext for stopping or neglecting their work, which he considered of public utility. Nevertheless bakers as a body never became rich or powerful (Figs. 76 and 77). It is pretty generally believed that the name of _boulanger_ (baker) originated from the fact that the shape of the loaves made at one time was very like that of a round ball. But loaves varied so much in form, quality, and consequently in name, that in his "Dictionary of Obscure Words" the learned Du Cange specifies at least twenty sorts made during the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, and amongst them may be mentioned the court loaf, the pope's loaf, the knight's loaf, the squire's loaf, the peer's loaf, the varlet's loaf, &c. [Illustration: Fig. 76.--Banner of the Corporation of Bakers of Paris.] [Illustration: Fig. 77.--Banner of the Corporation, of Bakers of Arras.] The most celebrated bread was the white bread of Chailly or Chilly, a village four leagues (ten miles) south of Paris, which necessarily appeared at all the tables of the _élite_ of the fourteenth century. The _pain mollet_, or soft bread made with milk and butter, although much in use before this, only became fashionable on the arrival of Marie de Medicis in France (1600), on account of this Tuscan princess finding it so much to her taste that she would eat no other. The ordinary market bread of Paris comprised the _rousset bread_, made of meslin, and employed for soup; the _bourgeoisie bread_; and the _chaland_ or _customer's bread_, which last was a general name given to all descriptions which were sent daily from the neighbouring villages to the capital. Amongst the best known varieties we will only mention the _Corbeil bread_, the _dog bread_, the _bread of two colours_, which last was composed of alternate layers of wheat and rye, and was used by persons of small means; there was also the _Gonesse bread_, which has maintained its reputation to this day. The "table loaves," which in the provinces were served at the tables of the rich, were of such a convenient size that one of them would suffice for a man of ordinary appetite, even after the crust was cut off, which it was considered polite to offer to the ladies, who soaked it in their soup. For the servants an inferior bread was baked, called "common bread." In many counties they sprinkled the bread, before putting it into the oven, with powdered linseed, a custom which still exists. They usually added salt to the flour, excepting in certain localities, especially in Paris, where, on account of its price, they only mixed it with the expensive qualities. The wheats which were long most esteemed for baking purposes, were those of Brie, Champagne, and Bassigny; while those of the Dauphiné were held of little value, because they were said to contain so many tares and worthless grains, that the bread made from them produced headache and other ailments. An ancient chronicle of the time of Charlemagne makes mention of a bread twice baked, or biscuit. This bread was very hard, and easier to keep than any other description. It was also used, as now, for provisioning ships, or towns threatened with a siege, as well as in religious houses. At a later period, delicate biscuits were made of a sort of dry and crumbling pastry which retained the original name. As early as the sixteenth century, Rheims had earned a great renown for these articles of food. Bread made with barley, oats, or millet was always ranked as coarse food, to which the poor only had recourse in years of want (Fig. 78). Barley bread was, besides, used as a kind of punishment, and monks who had committed any serious offence against discipline were condemned to live on it for a certain period. Rye bread was held of very little value, although in certain provinces, such as Lyonnais, Forez, and Auvergne, it was very generally used among the country people, and contributed, says Bruyérin Champier in his treatise "De re Cibaria," to "preserve beauty and freshness amongst women." At a later period, the doctors of Paris frequently ordered the use of bread made half of wheat and half of rye as a means "of preserving the health." Black wheat, or buck wheat, which was introduced into Europe by the Moors and Saracens when they conquered Spain, quickly spread to the northern provinces, especially to Flanders, where, by its easy culture and almost certain yield, it averted much suffering from the inhabitants, who were continually being threatened with famine. It was only later that maize, or Turkey wheat, was cultivated in the south, and that rice came into use; but these two kinds of grain, both equally useless for bread, were employed the one for fattening poultry, and the other for making cakes, which, however, were little appreciated. [Illustration: Fig. 78.--Cultivation of Grain in use amongst the Peasants, and the Manufacture of Barley and Oat Bread.--Fac-simile of a Woodcut in an edition of Virgil published at Lyons in 1517.] Vegetables and Plants Used in Cooking.--From the most ancient historical documents we find that at the very earliest period of the French monarchy, fresh and dried vegetables were the ordinary food of the population. Pliny and Columella attribute a Gallic origin to certain roots, and among them onions and parsnips, which the Romans cultivated in their gardens for use at their tables. It is evident, however, that vegetables were never considered as being capable of forming solid nutriment, since they were almost exclusively used by monastic communities when under vows of extreme abstinence. A statute of Charlemagne, in which the useful plants which the emperor desired should be cultivated in his domains are detailed, shows us that at that period the greater part of our cooking vegetables were in use, for we find mentioned in it, fennel, garlic, parsley, shallot, onions, watercress, endive, lettuce, beetroot, cabbage, leeks, carrots, artichokes; besides long-beans, broad-beans, peas or Italian vetches, and lentils. In the thirteenth century, the plants fit for cooking went under the general appellation of _aigrun_, and amongst them, at a later date, were ranked oranges, lemons, and other acid fruits. St. Louis added to this category even fruits with hard rinds, such as walnuts, filberts, and chestnuts; and when the guild of the fruiterers of Paris received its statutes in 1608, they were still called "vendors of fruits and _aigrun_." The vegetables and cooking-plants noticed in the "Ménagier de Paris," which dates from the fourteenth century, and in the treatise "De Obsoniis," of Platina (the name adopted by the Italian Bartholomew Sacchi), which dates from the fifteenth century, do not lead us to suppose that alimentary horticulture had made much progress since the time of Charlemagne. Moreover, we are astonished to find the thistle placed amongst choice dishes; though it cannot be the common thistle that is meant, but probably this somewhat general appellation refers to the vegetable-marrow, which is still found on the tables of the higher classes, or perhaps the artichoke, which we know to be only a kind of thistle developed by cultivation, and which at that period had been recently imported. About the same date melons begin to appear; but the management of this vegetable fruit was not much known. It was so imperfectly cultivated in the northern provinces, that, in the middle of the sixteenth century, Bruyérin Champier speaks of the Languedocians as alone knowing how to produce excellent _sucrins_--"thus called," say both Charles Estienne and Liébault in the "Maison Rustique," "because gardeners watered them with honeyed or sweetened water." The water-melons have never been cultivated but in the south. Cabbages, the alimentary reputation of which dates from the remotest times, were already of several kinds, most of which have descended to us; amongst them may be mentioned the apple-headed, the Roman, the white, the common white head, the Easter cabbage, &c.; but the one held in the highest estimation was the famous cabbage of Senlis, whose leaves, says an ancient author, when opened, exhaled a smell more agreeable than musk or amber. This species no doubt fell into disuse when the plan of employing aromatic herbs in cooking, which was so much in repute by our ancestors, was abandoned. [Illustration: Fig. 79.--Coat-of-arms of the Grain-measurers of Ghent, on their Ceremonial Banner, dated 1568.] By a strange coincidence, at the same period as marjoram, carraway seed, sweet basil, coriander, lavender, and rosemary were used to add their pungent flavour to sauces and hashes, on the same tables might be found herbs of the coldest and most insipid kinds, such as mallows, some kinds of mosses, &c. Cucumber, though rather in request, was supposed to be an unwholesome vegetable, because it was said that the inhabitants of Forez, who ate much of it, were subject to periodical fevers, which might really have been caused by noxious emanation from the ponds with which that country abounded. Lentils, now considered so wholesome, were also long looked upon as a doubtful vegetable; according to Liébault, they were difficult to digest and otherwise injurious; they inflamed the inside, affected the sight, and brought on the nightmare, &c. On the other hand, small fresh beans, especially those sold at Landit fair, were used in the most delicate repasts; peas passed as a royal dish in the sixteenth century, when the custom was to eat them with salt pork. Turnips were also most esteemed by the Parisians. "This vegetable is to them," says Charles Estienne, "what large radishes are to the Limousins." The best were supposed to come from Maisons, Vaugirard, and Aubervilliers. Lastly, there were four kinds of lettuces grown in France, according to Liébault, in 1574: the small, the common, the curled, and the Roman: the seed of the last-named was sent to France by François Rabelais when he was in Rome with Cardinal du Bellay in 1537; and the salad made from it consequently received the name of Roman salad, which it has ever since retained. In fact, our ancestors much appreciated salads, for there was not a banquet without at least three or four different kinds. Fruits.--Western Europe was originally very poor in fruits, and it only improved by foreign importations, mostly from Asia by the Romans. The apricot came from Armenia, the pistachio-nuts and plums from Syria, the peach and nut from Persia, the cherry from Cerasus, the lemon from Media, the filbert from the Hellespont, and chestnuts from Castana, a town of Magnesia. We are also indebted to Asia for almonds; the pomegranate, according to some, came from Africa, to others from Cyprus; the quince from Cydon in Crete; the olive, fig, pear, and apple, from Greece. The statutes of Charlemagne show us that almost all these fruits were reared in his gardens, and that some of them were of several kinds or varieties. A considerable period, however, elapsed before the finest and more luscious productions of the garden became as it were almost forced on nature by artificial means. Thus in the sixteenth century we find Rabelais, Charles Estienne, and La Framboisière, physician to Henry IV., praising the Corbeil peach, which was only an inferior and almost wild sort, and describing it as having "_dry_ and _solid_ flesh, not adhering to the stone." The culture of this fruit, which was not larger than a damask plum, had then, according to Champier, only just been introduced into France. It must be remarked here that Jacques Coythier, physician to Louis XI., in order to curry favour with his master, who was very fond of new fruits, took as his crest an apricot-tree, from which he was jokingly called Abri-Coythier. [Illustration: Fig. 80.--Cultivation of Fruit, from a Miniature of the "Propriétaire de Choses" (Manuscript of the Fifteenth Century, in the Library of the Arsenal of Paris).] It must be owned that great progress has been made in the culture of the plum, the pear, and the apple. Champier says that the best plums are the _royale_, the _perdrigon_, and the _damas_ of Tours; Olivier de Serres mentions eighteen kinds--amongst which, however, we do not find the celebrated Reine Claude (greengage), which owes its name to the daughter of Louis XII., first wife of Francis I. Of pears, the most esteemed in the thirteenth century were the _hastiveau_, which was an early sort, and no doubt the golden pear now called St. Jean, the _caillou_ or _chaillou_, a hard pear, which came from Cailloux in Burgundy and _l'angoisse_ (agony), so called on account of its bitterness--which, however, totally disappeared in cooking. In the sixteenth century the palm is given to the _cuisse dame_, or _madame_; the _bon chrétien_, brought, it is said, by St. François de Paule to Louis XI.; the _bergamote_, which came from Bergamo, in Lombardy; the _tant-bonne_, so named from its aroma; and the _caillou rosat_, our rosewater pear. Amongst apples, the _blandureau_ (hard white) of Auvergne, the _rouveau_, and the _paradis_ of Provence, are of oldest repute. This reminds us of the couplet by the author of the "Street Cries of Paris," thirteenth century:-- "Primes ai pommes de rouviau, Et d'Auvergne le blanc duriau." ("Give me first the russet apple, And the hard white fruit of Auvergne.") The quince, which was so generally cultivated in the Middle Ages, was looked upon as the most useful of all fruits. Not only did it form the basis of the farmers' dried preserves of Orleans, called _cotignac_, a sort of marmalade, but it was also used for seasoning meat. The Portugal quince was the most esteemed; and the cotignac of Orleans had such a reputation, that boxes of this fruit were always given to kings, queens, and princes on entering the towns of France. It was the first offering made to Joan of Arc on her bringing reinforcements into Orleans during the English siege. Several sorts of cherries were known, but these did not prevent the small wild or wood cherry from being appreciated at the tables of the citizens; whilst the _cornouille_, or wild cornelian cherry, was hardly touched, excepting by the peasants; thence came the proverbial expression, more particularly in use at Orleans, when a person made a silly remark, "He has eaten cornelians," _i.e._, he speaks like a rustic. In the thirteenth century, chestnuts from Lombardy were hawked in the streets; but, in the sixteenth century, the chestnuts of the Lyonnais and Auvergne were substituted, and were to be found on the royal table. Four different sorts of figs, in equal estimation, were brought from Marseilles, Nismes, Saint-Andéol, and Pont Saint-Esprit; and in Provence, filberts were to be had in such profusion that they supplied from there all the tables of the kingdom. The Portuguese claim the honour of having introduced oranges from China; however, in an account of the house of Humbert, Dauphin of Viennois, in 1333, that is, long before the expeditions of the Portuguese to India, mention is made of a sum of money being paid for transplanting orange-trees. [Illustration: Figs. 81 and 82.--Culture of the Vine and Treading the Grape.--Miniatures taken from the Calendar of a Prayer-Book, in Manuscript, of the Sixteenth Century.] In the time of Bruyérin Champier, physician to Henry II., raspberries were still completely wild; the same author states that wood strawberries had only just at that time been introduced into gardens, "by which," he says, "they had attained a larger size, though they at the same time lost their quality." The vine, acclimatised and propagated by the Gauls, ever since the followers of Brennus had brought it from Italy, five hundred years before the Christian era, never ceased to be productive, and even to constitute the natural wealth of the country (Fig. 81 and 82). In the sixteenth century, Liébault enumerated nineteen sorts of grapes, and Olivier de Serres twenty-four, amongst which, notwithstanding the eccentricities of the ancient names, we believe that we can trace the greater part of those plants which are now cultivated in France. For instance, it is known that the excellent vines of Thomery, near Fontainebleau, which yield in abundance the most beautiful table grape which art and care can produce, were already in use in the reign of Henry IV. (Fig. 83). [Illustration: Fig. 83.--The Winegrower, drawn and engraved in the Sixteenth Century, by J. Amman.] In the time of the Gauls the custom of drying grapes by exposing them to the sun, or to a certain amount of artificial heat, was already known; and very soon after, the same means were adopted for preserving plums, an industry in which then, as now, the people of Tours and Rheims excelled. Drying apples in an oven was also the custom, and formed a delicacy which was reserved for winter and spring banquets. Dried fruits were also brought from abroad, as mentioned in the "Book of Street Cries in Paris:"-- "Figues de Mélités sans fin, J'ai roisin d'outre mer, roisin." ("Figs from Malta without end, And grapes from over the sea.") Butchers' Meat.--According to Strabo, the Gauls were great eaters of meat, especially of pork, whether fresh or salted. "Gaul," says he, "feeds so many flocks, and, above all, so many pigs, that it supplies not only Rome, but all Italy, with grease and salt meat." The second chapter of the Salic law, comprising nineteen articles, relates entirely to penalties for pig-stealing; and in the laws of the Visigoths we find four articles on the same subject. [Illustration: Fig. 84.--Swineherd. Illustration: Fig 85.--A Burgess at Meals. Miniatures from the Calendar of a Book of Hours.--Manuscript of the Sixteenth Century.] In those remote days, in which the land was still covered with enormous forests of oak, great facilities were offered for breeding pigs, whose special liking for acorns is well known. Thus the bishops, princes, and lords caused numerous droves of pigs to be fed on their domains, both for the purpose of supplying their own tables as well as for the fairs and markets. At a subsequent period, it became the custom for each household, whether in town or country, to rear and fatten a pig, which was killed and salted at a stated period of the year; and this custom still exists in many provinces. In Paris, for instance, there was scarcely a bourgeois who had not two or three young pigs. During the day these unsightly creatures were allowed to roam in the streets; which, however, they helped to keep clean by eating up the refuse of all sorts which was thrown out of the houses. One of the sons of Louis le Gros, while passing, on the 2nd of October, 1131, in the Rue du Martroi, between the Hôtel de Ville and the church of St. Gervais, fractured his skull by a fall from his horse, caused by a pig running between that animal's legs. This accident led to the first order being issued by the provosts, to the effect that breeding pigs within the town was forbidden. Custom, however, deep-rooted for centuries, resisted this order, and many others on the same subject which followed it: for we find, under Francis I., a license was issued to the executioner, empowering him to capture all the stray pigs which he could find in Paris, and to take them to the Hôtel Dieu, when he should receive either five sous in silver or the head of the animal. It is said that the holy men of St. Antoine, in virtue of the privilege attached to the popular legend of their patron, who was generally represented with a pig, objected to this order, and long after maintained the exclusive right of allowing their pigs to roam in the streets of the capital. The obstinate determination with which every one tried to evade the administrative laws on this subject, is explained, in fact, by the general taste of the French nation for pork. This taste appears somewhat strange at a time when this kind of food was supposed to engender leprosy, a disease with which France was at that time overrun. [Illustration: Fig. 86.--Stall of Carved Wood (Fifteenth Century), representing the Proverb, "Margaritas ante Porcos," "Throwing Pearls before Swine," from Rouen Cathedral.] Pigs' meat made up generally the greater part of the domestic banquets. There was no great feast at which hams, sausages, and black puddings were not served in profusion on all the tables; and as Easter Day, which brought to a close the prolonged fastings of Lent, was one of the great feasts, this food formed the most important dish on that occasion. It is possible that the necessity for providing for the consumption of that day originated the celebrated ham fair, which was and is still held annually on the Thursday of Passion Week in front of Notre-Dame, where the dealers from all parts of France, and especially from Normandy and Lower Brittany, assembled with their swine. Sanitary measures were taken in Paris and in the various towns in order to prevent the evil effects likely to arise from the enormous consumption of pork; public officers, called _languayeurs_, were ordered to examine the animals to ensure that they had not white ulcers under the tongue, these being considered the signs that their flesh was in a condition to communicate leprosy to those who partook of it. For a long time the retail sale of pork was confined to the butchers, like that of other meat. Salt or fresh pork was at one time always sold raw, though at a later period some retailers, who carried on business principally among the lowest orders of the people, took to selling cooked pork and sausages. They were named _charcuitiers_ or _saucissiers_. This new trade, which was most lucrative, was adopted by so many people that parliament was forced to limit the number of _charcuitiers_, who at last formed a corporation, and received their statutes, which were confirmed by the King in 1475. Amongst the privileges attached to their calling was that of selling red herrings and sea-fish in Lent, during which time the sale of pork was strictly forbidden. Although they had the exclusive monopoly of selling cooked pork, they were at first forbidden to buy their meat of any one but of the butchers, who alone had the right of killing pigs; and it was only in 1513 that the _charcuitiers_ were allowed to purchase at market and sell the meat raw, in opposition to the butchers, who in consequence gradually gave up killing and selling pork (Fig. 87). Although the consumption of butchers' meat was not so great in the Middle Ages as it is now, the trade of a butcher, to which extraordinary privileges were attached, was nevertheless one of the industries which realised the greatest profits. We know what an important part the butchers played in the municipal history of France, as also of Belgium; and we also know how great their political influence was, especially in the fifteenth century. [Illustration: Fig. 87.--The Pork-butcher (_Charcutier_).--Fac-simile of a Miniature in a Charter of the Abbey of Solignac (Fourteenth Century).] The existence of the great slaughter-house of Paris dates back to the most remote period of monarchy. The parish church of the corporation of butchers, namely, that of St. Pierre aux Boeufs in the city, on the front of which were two sculptured oxen, existed before the tenth century. A Celtic monument was discovered on the site of the ancient part of Paris, with a bas-relief representing a wild bull carrying three cranes standing among oak branches. Archæology has chosen to recognise in this sculpture a Druidical allegory, which has descended to us in the shape of the triumphal car of the Prize Ox (Fig. 88). The butchers who, for centuries at least in France, only killed sheep and pigs, proved themselves most jealous of their privileges, and admitted no strangers into their corporation. The proprietorship of stalls at the markets, and the right of being admitted as a master butcher at the age of seven years and a day, belonged exclusively to the male descendants of a few rich and powerful families. The Kings of France alone, on their accession, could create a new master butcher. Since the middle of the fourteenth century the "Grande Boucherie" was the seat of an important jurisdiction, composed of a mayor, a master, a proctor, and an attorney; it also had a judicial council before which the butchers could bring up all their cases, and an appeal from which could only be considered by Parliament. Besides this court, which had to decide cases of misbehaviour on the part of the apprentices, and all their appeals against their masters, the corporation had a counsel in Parliament, as also one at the Châtelet, who were specially attached to the interests of the butchers, and were in their pay. [Illustration: Fig. 88.--The Holy Ox.--Celtic Monument found in Paris under the Choir of Notre-Dame in 1711, and preserved in the Musée de Cluny et des Thermes.] Although bound, at all events with their money, to follow the calling of their fathers, we find many descendants of ancient butchers' families of Paris, in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, abandoning their stalls to fill high places in the state, and even at court. It must not be concluded that the rich butchers in those days occupied themselves with the minor details of their trade; the greater number employed servants who cut up and retailed the meat, and they themselves simply kept the accounts, and were engaged in dealing through factors or foremen for the purchase of beasts for their stalls (Fig. 89). One can form an opinion of the wealth of some of these tradesmen by reading the enumeration made by an old chronicler of the property and income of Guillaume de Saint-Yon, one of the principal master butchers in 1370. "He was proprietor of three stalls, in which meat was weekly sold to the amount of 200 _livres parisis_ (the livre being equivalent to 24 francs at least), with an average profit of ten to fifteen per cent.; he had an income of 600 _livres parisis_; he possessed besides his family house in Paris, four country-houses, well supplied with furniture and agricultural implements, drinking-cups, vases, cups of silver, and cups of onyx with silver feet, valued at 100 francs or more each. His wife had jewels, belts, purses, and trinkets, to the value of upwards of 1,000 gold francs (the gold franc was worth 24 livres); long and short gowns trimmed with fur; and three mantles of grey fur. Guillaume de Saint-Yon had generally in his storehouses 300 ox-hides, worth 24 francs each at least; 800 measures of fat, worth 3-1/2 sols each; in his sheds, he had 800 sheep worth 100 sols each; in his safes 500 or 600 silver florins of ready money (the florin was worth 12 francs, which must be multiplied five times to estimate its value in present currency), and his household furniture was valued at 12,000 florins. He gave a dowry of 2,000 florins to his two nieces, and spent 3,000 florins in rebuilding his Paris house; and lastly, as if he had been a noble, he used a silver seal." [Illustration: Fig. 89.--The Butcher and his Servant, drawn and engraved by J. Amman (Sixteenth Century).] We find in the "Ménagier de Paris" curious statistics respecting the various butchers' shops of the capital, and the daily sale in each at the period referred to. This sale, without counting the households of the King, the Queen, and the royal family, which were specially provisioned, amounted to 26,624 oxen, 162,760 sheep, 27,456 pigs, and 15,912 calves per annum; to which must be added not only the smoked and salted flesh of 200 or 300 pigs, which were sold at the fair in Holy Week, but also 6,420 sheep, 823 oxen, 832 calves, and 624 pigs, which, according to the "Ménagier," were used in the royal and princely households. Sometimes the meat was sent to market already cut up, but the slaughter of beasts was more frequently done in the butchers' shops in the town; for they only killed from day to day, according to the demand. Besides the butchers' there were tripe shops, where the feet, kidneys, &c., were sold. [Illustration: Figs. 90 and 91.--Seal and Counter-Seal of the Butchers of Bruges in 1356, from an impression on green wax, preserved in the archives of that town.] According to Bruyérin Champier, during the sixteenth century the most celebrated sheep in France were those of Berri and Limousin; and of all butchers' meat, veal was reckoned the best. In fact, calves intended for the tables of the upper classes were fed in a special manner: they were allowed for six months, or even for a year, nothing but milk, which made their flesh most tender and delicate. Contrary to the present taste, kid was more appreciated than lamb, which caused the _rôtisseurs_ frequently to attach the tail of a kid to a lamb, so as to deceive the customer and sell him a less expensive meat at the higher price. This was the origin of the proverb which described a cheat as "a dealer in goat by halves." In other places butchers were far from acquiring the same importance which they did in France and Belgium (Figs. 90 and 91), where much more meat was consumed than in Spain, Italy, or even in Germany. Nevertheless, in almost all countries there were certain regulations, sometimes eccentric, but almost always rigidly enforced, to ensure a supply of meat of the best quality and in a healthy state. In England, for instance, butchers were only allowed to kill bulls after they had been baited with dogs, no doubt with the view of making the flesh more tender. At Mans, it was laid down in the trade regulations, that "no butcher shall be so bold as to sell meat unless it shall have been previously seen alive by two or three persons, who will testify to it on oath; and, anyhow, they shall not sell it until the persons shall have declared it wholesome," &c. To the many regulations affecting the interests of the public must be added that forbidding butchers to sell meat on days when abstinence from animal food was ordered by the Church. These regulations applied less to the vendors than to the consumers, who, by disobeying them, were liable to fine or imprisonment, or to severe corporal punishment by the whip or in the pillory. We find that Clément Marot was imprisoned and nearly burned alive for having eaten pork in Lent. In 1534, Guillaume des Moulins, Count of Brie, asked permission for his mother, who was then eighty years of age, to cease fasting; the Bishop of Paris only granted dispensation on condition that the old lady should take her meals in secret and out of sight of every one, and should still fast on Fridays. "In a certain town," says Brantôme, "there had been a procession in Lent. A woman, who had assisted at it barefooted, went home to dine off a quarter of lamb and a ham. The smell got into the street; the house was entered. The fact being established, the woman was taken, and condemned to walk through the town with her quarter of lamb on the spit over her shoulder, and the ham hung round her neck." This species of severity increased during the times of religious dissensions. Erasmus says, "He who has eaten pork instead of fish is taken to the torture like a parricide." An edict of Henry II, 1549, forbade the sale of meat in Lent to persons who should not be furnished with a doctor's certificate. Charles IX forbade the sale of meat to the Huguenots; and it was ordered that the privilege of selling meat during the time of abstinence should belong exclusively to the hospitals. Orders were given to those who retailed meat to take the address of every purchaser, although he had presented a medical certificate, so that the necessity for his eating meat might be verified. Subsequently, the medical certificate required to be endorsed by the priest, specifying what quantity of meat was required. Even in these cases the use of butchers' meat alone was granted, pork, poultry, and game being strictly forbidden. Poultry.--A monk of the Abbey of Cluny once went on a visit to his relations. On arriving he asked for food; but as it was a fast day he was told there was nothing in the house but fish. Perceiving some chickens in the yard, he took a stick and killed one, and brought it to his relations, saying, "This is the fish which I shall eat to-day." "Eh, but, my son," they said, "have you dispensation from fasting on a Friday?" "No," he answered; "but poultry is not flesh; fish and fowls were created at the same time; they have a common origin, as the hymn which I sing in the service teaches me." This simple legend belongs to the tenth century; and notwithstanding that the opinion of this Benedictine monk may appear strange nowadays, yet it must be acknowledged that he was only conforming himself to the opinions laid down by certain theologians. In 817, the Council of Aix-la-Chapelle decided that such delicate nourishment could scarcely be called mortification as understood by the teaching of the Church. In consequence of this an order was issued forbidding the monks to eat poultry, except during four days at Easter and four at Christmas. But this prohibition in no way changed the established custom of certain parts of Christendom, and the faithful persisted in believing that poultry and fish were identical in the eyes of the Church, and accordingly continued to eat them indiscriminately. We also see, in the middle of the thirteenth century, St. Thomas Aquinas, who was considered an authority in questions of dogma and of faith, ranking poultry amongst species of aquatic origin. Eventually, this palpable error was abandoned; but when the Church forbade Christians the use of poultry on fast days, it made an exception, out of consideration for the ancient prejudice, in favour of teal, widgeon, moor-hens, and also two or three kinds of small amphibious quadrupeds. Hence probably arose the general and absurd beliefs concerning the origin of teal, which some said sprung from the rotten wood of old ships, others from the fruits of a tree, or the gum on fir-trees, whilst others thought they came from a fresh-water shell analogous to that of the oyster and mussel. As far back as modern history can be traced, we find that a similar mode of fattening poultry was employed then as now, and was one which the Gauls must have learnt from the Romans. Amongst the charges in the households of the kings of France one item was that which concerned the poultry-house, and which, according to an edict of St. Louis in 1261, bears the name of _poulaillier_. At a subsequent period this name was given to breeders and dealers in poultry (Fig. 92). The "Ménagier" tells as that, as is the present practice, chickens were fattened by depriving them of light and liberty, and gorging them with succulent food. Amongst the poultry yards in repute at that time, the author mentions that of Hesdin, a property of the Dukes of Luxemburg, in Artois; that of the King, at the Hôtel Saint-Pol, Rue Saint-Antoine, Paris; that of Master Hugues Aubriot, provost of Paris; and that of Charlot, no doubt a bourgeois of that name, who also gave his name to an ancient street in that quarter called the Marais. [Illustration: Fig. 92.--The Poulterer, drawn and engraved in the Sixteenth Century, by J. Amman.] _Capons_ are frequently mentioned in poems of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries; but the name of the _poularde_ does not occur until the sixteenth. We know that under the Roman rule, the Gauls carried on a considerable trade in fattened geese. This trade ceased when Gaul passed to new masters; but the breeding of geese continued to be carefully attended to. For many centuries geese were more highly prized than any other description of poultry, and Charlemagne ordered that his domains should be well stocked with flocks of geese, which were driven to feed in the fields, like flocks of sheep. There was an old proverb, "Who eats the king's goose returns the feathers in a hundred years." This bird was considered a great delicacy by the working classes and bourgeoisie. The _rôtisseurs_ (Fig. 94) had hardly anything in their shops but geese, and, therefore, when they were united in a company, they received the name of _oyers_, or _oyeurs_. The street in which they were established, with their spits always loaded with juicy roasts, was called Rue des _Oues_ (geese), and this street, when it ceased to be frequented by the _oyers_, became by corruption Rue Auxours. [Illustration: Fig. 93.--Barnacle Geese.--Fac-simile of an Engraving on Wood, from the "Cosmographie Universelle" of Munster, folio, Basle, 1552.] There is every reason for believing that the domestication of the wild duck is of quite recent date. The attempt having succeeded, it was wished to follow it up by the naturalisation in the poultry-yard of two other sorts of aquatic birds, namely, the sheldrake (_tadorna_) and the moorhen, but without success. Some attribute the introduction of turkeys into France and Europe to Jacques Coeur, treasurer to Charles VII., whose commercial connections with the East were very extensive; others assert that it is due to King René, Count of Provence; but according to the best authorities these birds were first brought into France in the time of Francis I. by Admiral Philippe de Chabot, and Bruyérin Champier asserts that they were not known until even later. It was at about the same period that guinea-fowls were brought from the coast of Africa by Portuguese merchants; and the travelling naturalist, Pierre Belon, who wrote in the year 1555, asserts that in his time "they had already so multiplied in the houses of the nobles that they had become quite common." [Illustration: Fig. 94.--The Poultry-dealer.--Fac-simile of an Engraving on Wood, after Cesare Vecellio.] The pea-fowl played an important part in the chivalric banquets of the Middle Ages (Fig. 95). According to old poets the flesh of this noble bird is "food for the brave." A poet of the thirteenth century says, "that thieves have as much taste for falsehood as a hungry man has for the flesh of the peacock." In the fourteenth century poultry-yards were still stocked with these birds; but the turkey and the pheasant gradually replaced them, as their flesh was considered somewhat hard and stringy. This is proved by the fact that in 1581, "La Nouvelle Coutume du Bourbonnois" only reckons the value of these beautiful birds at two sous and a half, or about three francs of present currency. [Illustration: Fig. 95.--State Banquet.--Serving the Peacock.--Fac-simile of a Woodcut in an edition of Virgil, folio, published at Lyons in 1517.] Game.--Our forefathers included among the birds which now constitute feathered game the heron, the crane, the crow, the swan, the stork, the cormorant, and the bittern. These supplied the best tables, especially the first three, which were looked upon as exquisite food, fit even for royalty, and were reckoned as thorough French delicacies. There were at that time heronries, as at a later period there were pheasantries. People also ate birds of prey, and only rejected those which fed on carrion. Swans, which were much appreciated, were very common on all the principal rivers of France, especially in the north; a small island below Paris had taken its name from these birds, and has maintained it ever since. It was proverbially said that the Charente was bordered with swans, and for this same reason Valenciennes was called _Val des Cygnes_, or the Swan Valley. Some authors make it appear that for a long time young game was avoided owing to the little nourishment it contained and its indigestibility, and assert that it was only when some French ambassadors returned from Venice that the French learnt that young partridges and leverets were exquisite, and quite fit to appear at the most sumptuous banquets. The "Ménagier" gives not only various receipts for cooking them, but also for dressing chickens, when game was out of season, so as to make them taste like young partridges. There was a time when they fattened pheasants as they did capons; it was a secret, says Liébault, only known to the poultry dealers; but although they were much appreciated, the pullet was more so, and realised as much as two crowns each (this does not mean the gold crown, but a current coin worth three livres). Plovers, which sometimes came from Beauce in cart-loads, were much relished; they were roasted without being drawn, as also were turtle-doves and larks; "for," says an ancient author, "larks only eat small pebbles and sand, doves grains of juniper and scented herbs, and plovers feed on air." At a later period the same honour was conferred on woodcocks. Thrushes, starlings, blackbirds, quail, and partridges were in equal repute according to the season. The _bec-figue_, a small bird like a nightingale, was so much esteemed in Provence that there were feasts at which that bird alone was served, prepared in various ways; but of all birds used for the table none could be compared to the young cuckoo taken just as it was full fledged. As far as we can ascertain, the Gauls had a dislike to the flesh of rabbits, and they did not even hunt them, for according to Strabo, Southern Gaul was infested with these mischievous animals, which destroyed the growing crops, and even the barks of the trees. There was considerable change in this respect a few centuries later, for every one in town or country reared domesticated rabbits, and the wild ones formed an article of food which was much in request. In order to ascertain whether a rabbit is young, Strabo tells us we should feel the first joint of the fore-leg, when we shall find a small bone free and movable. This method is adopted in all kitchens in the present day. Hares were preferred to rabbits, provided they were young; for an old French proverb says, "An old hare and an old goose are food for the devil." [Illustration: Fig. 96.--"The way to skin and cut up a Stag."--Fac-simile of a Miniature of "Phoebus, and his Staff for hunting Wild Animals" (Manuscript of the Fifteenth Century, National Library of Paris).] The hedgehog and squirrel were also eaten. As for roe and red deer, they were, according to Dr. Bruyérin Ohampier, morsels fit for kings and rich people (Fig. 96). The doctor speaks of "fried slices of the young horn of the stag" as the daintiest of food, and the "Ménagier de Paris" shows how, as early as the fourteenth century, beef was dished up like bear's-flesh venison, for the use of kitchens in countries where the black bear did not exist. This proves that bear's flesh was in those days considered good food. Milk, Butter, Eggs, and Cheese.--These articles of food, the first which nature gave to man, were not always and everywhere uniformly permitted or prohibited by the Church on fast days. The faithful were for several centuries left to their own judgment on the subject. In fact, there is nothing extraordinary in eggs being eaten in Lent without scruple, considering that some theologians maintained that the hens which laid them were animals of aquatic extraction. It appears, however, that butter, either from prejudice or mere custom, was only used on fast days in its fresh state, and was not allowed to be used for cooking purposes. At first, and especially amongst the monks, the dishes were prepared with oil; but as in some countries oil was apt to become very expensive, and the supply even to fail totally, animal fat or lard had to be substituted. At a subsequent period the Church authorised the use of butter and milk; but on this point, the discipline varied much. In the fourteenth century, Charles V., King of France, having asked Pope Gregory XI. for a dispensation to use milk and butter on fast days, in consequence of the bad state of his health, brought on owing to an attempt having been made to poison him, the supreme Pontiff required a certificate from a physician and from the King's confessor. He even then only granted the dispensation after imposing on that Christian king the repetition of a certain number of prayers and the performance of certain pious deeds. In defiance of the severity of ecclesiastical authority, we find, in the "Journal of a Bourgeois of Paris," that in the unhappy reign of Charles VI. (1420), "for want of oil, butter was eaten in Lent the same as on ordinary non-fast days." In 1491, Queen Anne, Duchess of Brittany, in order to obtain permission from the Pope to eat butter in Lent, represented that Brittany did not produce oil, neither did it import it from southern countries. Many northern provinces adopted necessity as the law, and, having no oil, used butter; and thence originated that famous toast with slices of bread and butter, which formed such an important part of Flemish food. These papal dispensations were, however, only earned at the price of prayers and alms, and this was the origin of the _troncs pour le beurre_, that is, "alms-box for butter," which are still to be seen in some of the Flemish churches. [Illustration: Fig. 97.--The Manufacture of Oil, drawn and engraved by J. Amman in the Sixteenth Century.] It is not known when butter was first salted in order to preserve it or to send it to distant places; but this process, which is so simple and so natural, dates, no doubt, from very ancient times; it was particularly practised by the Normans and Bretons, who enclosed the butter in large earthenware jars, for in the statutes which were given to the fruiterers of Paris in 1412, mention is made of salt butter in earthenware jars. Lorraine only exported butter in such jars. The fresh butter most in request for the table in Paris, was that made at Vanvres, which in the month of May the people ate every morning mixed with garlic. The consumption of butter was greatest in Flanders. "I am surprised," says Bruyérin Champier, speaking of that country, "that they have not yet tried to turn it into drink; in France it is mockingly called _beurrière;_ and when any one has to travel in that country, he is advised to take a knife with him if he wishes to taste the good rolls of butter." [Illustration: Fig. 98.--A Dealer in Eggs.--Fac-simile of a Woodcut, after Cesare Vecellio, Sixteenth Century.] It is not necessary to state that milk and cheese followed the fortunes of butter in the Catholic world, the same as eggs followed those of poultry. But butter having been declared lawful by the Church, a claim was put in for eggs (Fig. 98), and Pope Julius III. granted this dispensation to all Christendom, although certain private churches did not at once choose to profit by this favour. The Greeks had always been more rigid on these points of discipline than the people of the West. It is to the prohibition of eggs in Lent that the origin of "Easter eggs" must be traced. These were hardened by boiling them in a madder bath, and were brought to receive the blessing of the priest on Good Friday, and were then eaten on the following Sunday as a sign of rejoicing. Ancient Gaul was celebrated for some of its home-made cheeses. Pliny praises those of Nismes, and of Mount Lozère, in Gévaudau; Martial mentions those of Toulouse, &c. A simple anecdote, handed down by the monk of St. Gall, who wrote in the ninth century, proves to us that the traditions with regard to cheeses were not lost in the time of Charlemagne: "The Emperor, in one of his travels, alighted suddenly, and without being expected, at the house of a bishop. It was on a Friday. The prelate had no fish, and did not dare to set meat before the prince. He therefore offered him what he had got, some boiled corn and green cheese. Charles ate of the cheese; but taking the green part to be bad, he took care to remove it with his knife. The Bishop, seeing this, took the liberty of telling his guest that this was the best part. The Emperor, tasting it, found that the bishop was right; and consequently ordered him to send him annually two cases of similar cheese to Aix-la-Chapelle. The Bishop answered, that he could easily send cheeses, but he could not be sure of sending them in proper condition, because it was only by opening them that you could be sure of the dealer not having deceived you in the quality of the cheese. 'Well,' said the Emperor, 'before sending them, cut them through the middle, so as to see if they are what I want; you will only have to join the two halves again by means of a wooden peg, and you can then put the whole into a case.'" Under the kings of the third French dynasty, a cheese was made at the village of Chaillot, near Paris, which was much appreciated in the capital. In the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, the cheeses of Champagne and of Brie, which are still manufactured, were equally popular, and were hawked in the streets, according to the "Book of Street-Cries in Paris,"-- "J'ai bon fromage de Champaigne; Or i a fromage de Brie!" ("Buy my cheese from Champagne, And my cheese from Brie!") Eustache Deschamps went so far as to say that cheese was the only good thing which could possibly come from Brie. The "Ménagier de Paris" praises several kinds of cheeses, the names of which it would now be difficult to trace, owing to their frequent changes during four hundred years; but, according to the Gallic author of this collection, a cheese to be presentable at table, was required to possess certain qualities (in proverbial Latin, "Non Argus, nee Helena, nee Maria Magdalena," &c.), thus expressed in French rhyme:-- "Non mie (pas) blanc comme Hélaine, Non mie (pas) plourant comme Magdelaine, Non Argus (à cent yeux), mais du tout avugle (aveugle) Et aussi pesant comme un bugle (boeuf), Contre le pouce soit rebelle, Et qu'il ait ligneuse cotelle (épaisse croûte) Sans yeux, sans plourer, non pas blanc, Tigneulx, rebelle, bien pesant." ("Neither-white like Helena, Nor weeping as Magdelena, Neither Argus, nor yet quite blind, And having too a thickish rind, Resisting somewhat to the touch, And as a bull should weigh as much; Not eyeless, weeping, nor quite white, But firm, resisting, not too light.") In 1509, Platina, although an Italian, in speaking of good cheeses, mentions those of Chauny, in Picardy, and of Brehemont, in Touraine; Charles Estienne praises those of Craponne, in Auvergne, the _angelots_ of Normandy, and the cheeses made from fresh cream which the peasant-women of Montreuil and Vincennes brought to Paris in small wickerwork baskets, and which were eaten sprinkled with sugar. The same author names also the _rougerets_ of Lyons, which were always much esteemed; but, above all the cheeses of Europe, he places the round or cylindrical ones of Auvergne, which were only made by very clean and healthy children of fourteen years of age. Olivier de Serres advises those who wish to have good cheeses to boil the milk before churning it, a plan which is in use at Lodi and Parma, "where cheeses are made which are acknowledged by all the world to be excellent." The parmesan, which this celebrated agriculturist cites as an example, only became the fashion in France on the return of Charles VIII. from his expedition to Naples. Much was thought at that time of a cheese brought from Turkey in bladders, and of different varieties produced in Holland and Zetland. A few of these foreign products were eaten in stews and in pastry, others were toasted and sprinkled with sugar and powdered cinnamon. "Le Roman de Claris," a manuscript which belongs to the commencement of the fourteenth century, says that in a town winch was taken by storm the following stores were found:--: "Maint bon tonnel de vin, Maint bon bacon (cochon), maint fromage à rostir." ("Many a ton of wine, Many a slice of good bacon, plenty of good roasted cheese.") [Illustration: Table Service of a Lady of Quality Fac-simile of a miniature from the Romance of Renaud de Montauban, a ms. of fifteenth century Bibl. de l'Arsenal] [Illustration: Ladies Hunting Costumes of the fifteenth century. From a miniature in a ms. copy of _Ovid's Epistles_. No 7231 _bis._ Bibl. nat'le de Paris.] Besides cheese and butter, the Normans, who had a great many cows in their rich pastures, made a sort of fermenting liquor from the butter-milk, which they called _serat_, by boiling the milk with onions and garlic, and letting it cool in closed vessels. [Illustration: Fig. 99.--Manufacture of Cheeses in Switzerland.--Fac-simile of a Woodcut in the "Cosmographie Universelle" of Munster, folio, Basle, 1549.] If the author of the "Ménagier" is to be believed, the women who sold milk by retail in the towns were well acquainted with the method of increasing its quantity at the expense of its quality. He describes how his _froumentée_, which consists of a sort of soup, is made, and states that when he sends his cook to make her purchases at the milk market held in the neighbourhood of the Rues de la Savonnerie, des Ecrivains, and de la Vieille-Monnaie, he enjoins her particularly "to get very fresh cow's milk, and to tell the person who sells it not to do so if she has put water to it; for, unless it be quite fresh, or if there be water in it, it will turn." Fish and Shellfish.--Freshwater fish, which was much more abundant in former days than now, was the ordinary food of those who lived on the borders of lakes, ponds, or rivers, or who, at all events, were not so far distant but that they could procure it fresh. There was of course much diversity at different periods and in different countries as regards the estimation in which the various kinds of fish were held. Thus Ausone, who was a native of Bordeaux, spoke highly of the delicacy of the perch, and asserted that shad, pike, and tench should be left to the lower orders; an opinion which was subsequently contradicted by the inhabitants of other parts of Gaul, and even by the countrymen of the Latin poet Gregory of Tours, who loudly praised the Geneva trout. But a time arrived when the higher classes preferred the freshwater fish of Orchies in Flanders, and even those of the Lyonnais. Thus we see in the thirteenth century the barbel of Saint-Florentin held in great estimation, whereas two hundred years later a man who was of no use, or a nonentity, was said to resemble a barbel, "which is neither good for roasting nor boiling." [Illustration: Fig. 100.--The Pond Fisherman.--Fac-simile of a Woodcut of the "Cosmographie Universelle" of Munster, folio, Basle, 1549.] In a collection of vulgar proverbs of the twelfth century mention is made, amongst the fish most in demand, besides the barbel of Saint-Florentin above referred to, of the eels of Maine, the pike of Chalons, the lampreys of Nantes, the trout of Andeli, and the dace of Aise. The "Ménagier" adds several others to the above list, including blay, shad, roach, and gudgeon, but, above all, the carp, which was supposed to be a native of Southern Europe, and which must have been naturalised at a much later period in the northern waters (Figs. 100, 101, and 102). [Illustration: Fig. 101.--The River Fisherman, designed and engraved, in the Sixteenth Century, by J. Amman.] [Illustration: Fig. 102.--Conveyance of Fish by Water and Land.--Fac-simile of an Engraving in the Royal Statutes of the Provostship of Merchants, 1528.] The most ancient documents bear witness that the natives of the sea-coasts of Europe, and particularly of the Mediterranean, fed on the same fish as at present: there were, however, a few other sea-fish, which were also used for food, but which have since been abandoned. Our ancestors were, not difficult to please: they had good teeth, and their palates, having become accustomed to the flesh of the cormorant, heron, and crane, without difficulty appreciated the delicacy of the nauseous sea-dog, the porpoise, and even the whale, which, when salted, furnished to a great extent all the markets of Europe. The trade in salted sea-fish only began in Paris in the twelfth century, when a company of merchants was instituted, or rather re-established, on the principle of the ancient association of Nantes. This association had existed from the period of the foundation under the Gauls of Lutetia, the city of fluvial commerce (Fig. 103), and it is mentioned in the letters patent of Louis VII. (1170). One of the first cargoes which this company brought in its boats was that of salted herrings from the coast of Normandy. These herrings became a necessary food during Lent, and "Sor et blanc harene frès pouldré (couvert de sel)!" ("Herrings smoked, fresh, and salted!") was the cry of the retailers in the streets of Paris, where this fish became a permanent article of consumption to an extent which can be appreciated from the fact that Saint Louis gave annually nearly seventy thousand herrings to the hospitals, plague-houses, and monasteries. [Illustration: Fig. 103.--A Votive Altar of the Nantes Parisiens, or the Company for the Commercial Navigation of the Seine, erected in Lutelia during the reign of Tiberius.--Fragments of this Altar, which were discovered in 1711 under the Choir of the Church of Notre-Dame, are preserved in the Museums of Cluny and the Palais des Thermes.] The profit derived from the sale of herrings at that time was so great that it soon became a special trade; it was, in fact, the regular practice of the Middle Ages for persons engaged in any branch of industry to unite together and form themselves into a corporation. Other speculators conceived the idea of bringing fresh fish to Paris by means of relays of posting conveyances placed along the road, and they called themselves _forains_. Laws were made to distinguish the rights of each of these trades, and to prevent any quarrel in the competition. In these laws, all sea-fish were comprised under three names, the fresh, the salted, and the smoked (_sor_). Louis IX. in an edict divides the dealers into two classes, namely, the sellers of fresh fish, and the sellers of salt or smoked fish. Besides salt and fresh herrings, an enormous amount of salted mackerel, which was almost as much used, was brought from the sea-coast, in addition to flat-fish, gurnets, skate, fresh and salted whiting and codfish. In an old document of the thirteenth century about fifty kinds of fish are enumerated which were retailed in the markets of the kingdom; and a century later the "Ménagier" gives receipts for cooking forty kinds, amongst which appears, under the name of _craspois_, the salted flesh of the whale, which was also called _le lard de carême_. This coarse food, which was sent from the northern seas in enormous slices, was only eaten by the lower orders, for, according to a writer of the sixteenth century, "were it cooked even for twenty-four hours it would still be very hard and indigestible." The "Proverbes" of the thirteenth century, which mention the freshwater fish then in vogue, also names the sea-fish most preferred, and whence they came, namely, the shad from Bordeaux, the congers from La Rochelle, the sturgeon from Blaye, the fresh herrings from Fécamp, and the cuttle-fish from Coutances. At a later period the conger was not eaten from its being supposed to produce the plague. The turbot, John-dory, skate and sole, which were very dear, were reserved for the rich. The fishermen fed on the sea-dragon. A great quantity of the small sea crayfish were brought into market; and in certain countries these were called _santé_, because the doctors recommended them to invalids or those in consumption; on the other hand, freshwater crayfish were not much esteemed in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, excepting for their eggs, which were prepared with spice. It is well known that pond frogs were a favourite food of the Gauls and Franks; they were never out of fashion in the rural districts, and were served at the best tables, dressed with green sauce; at the same period, and especially during Lent, snails, which were served in pyramid-shaped dishes, were much appreciated; so much so that nobles and bourgeois cultivated snail beds, somewhat resembling our oyster beds of the present day. The inhabitants of the coast at all periods ate various kinds of shell-fish, which were called in Italy sea-fruit; but it was only towards the twelfth century that the idea was entertained of bringing oysters to Paris, and mussels were not known there until much later. It is notorious that Henry IV. was a great oyster-eater. Sully relates that when he was created a duke "the king came, without being expected, to take his seat at the reception banquet, but as there was much delay in going to dinner, he began by eating some _huîtres de chasse_, which he found very fresh." By _huîtres de chasse_ were meant those oysters which were brought by the _chasse-marées_, carriers who brought the fresh fish from the coast to Paris at great speed. Beverages.--Beer is not only one of the oldest fermenting beverages used by man, but it is also the one which was most in vogue in the Middle Ages. If we refer to the tales of the Greek historians, we find that the Gauls--who, like the Egyptians, attributed the discovery of this refreshing drink to their god Osiris--had two sorts of beer: one called _zythus_, made with honey and intended for the rich; the other called _corma_, in which there was no honey, and which was made for the poor. But Pliny asserts that beer in Gallie was called _cerevisia_, and the grain employed for making it _brasce_. This testimony seems true, as from _brasce_ or _brasse_ comes the name _brasseur_ (brewer), and from _cerevisia, cervoise_, the generic name by which beer was known for centuries, and which only lately fell into disuse. [Illustration: Fig. 104.--The Great Drinkers of the North.--Fac-simile of a Woodcut of the "Histoires des Pays Septentrionaux," by Olaus Magnus, 16mo., Antwerp, 1560.] After a great famine, Domitian ordered all the vines in Gaul to be uprooted so as to make room for corn. This rigorous measure must have caused beer to become even more general, and, although two centuries later Probus allowed vines to be replanted, the use of beverages made from grain became an established custom; but in time, whilst the people still only drank _cervoise_, those who were able to afford it bought wine and drank it alternately with beer. However, as by degrees the vineyards increased in all places having a suitable soil and climate, the use of beer was almost entirely given up, so that in central Gaul wine became so common and cheap that all could drink it. In the northern provinces, where the vine would not grow, beer naturally continued to be the national beverage (Fig. 104). In the time of Charlemagne, for instance, we find the Emperor wisely ordered that persons knowing how to brew should be attached to each of his farms. Everywhere the monastic houses possessed breweries; but as early as the reign of St. Louis there were only a very few breweries in Paris itself, and, in spite of all the privileges granted to their corporation, even these were soon obliged to leave the capital, where there ceased to be any demand for the produce of their industry. They reappeared in 1428, probably in consequence of the political and commercial relations which had become established between Paris and the rich towns of the Flemish bourgeoisie; and then, either on account of the dearness of wine, or the caprice of fashion, the consumption of beer again became so general in France that, according to the "Journal d'un Bourgeois de Paris," it produced to the revenue two-thirds more than wine. It must be understood, however, that in times of scarcity, as in the years 1415 and 1482, brewing was temporarily stopped, and even forbidden altogether, on account of the quantity of grain which was thereby withdrawn from the food supply of the people (Fig. 105). [Illustration: Fig. 105.--The Brewer, designed and engraved, in the Sixteenth. Century, by J. Amman.] Under the Romans, the real _cervoise_, or beer, was made with barley; but, at a later period, all sorts of grain was indiscriminately used; and it was only towards the end of the sixteenth century that adding the flower or seed of hops to the oats or barley, which formed the basis of this beverage, was thought of. Estienne Boileau's "Book of Trades," edited in the thirteenth century, shows us that, besides the _cervoise_, another sort of beer was known, which was called _godale_. This name, we should imagine, was derived from the two German words _god ael_, which mean "good beer," and was of a stronger description than the ordinary _cervoise_; this idea is proved by the Picards and Flemish people calling it "double beer." In any case, it is from the word _godale_ that the familiar expression of _godailler_ (to tipple) is derived. In fact, there is hardly any sort of mixture or ingredient which has not been used in the making of beer, according to the fashions of the different periods. When, on the return from the Crusades, the use of spice had become the fashion, beverages as well as the food were loaded with it. Allspice, juniper, resin, apples, bread-crumbs, sage, lavender, gentian, cinnamon, and laurel were each thrown into it. The English sugared it, and the Germans salted it, and at times they even went so far as to put darnel into it, at the risk of rendering the mixture poisonous. The object of these various mixtures was naturally to obtain high-flavoured beers, which became so much in fashion, that to describe the want of merit of persons, or the lack of value in anything, no simile was more common than to compare them to "small beer." Nevertheless, more delicate and less blunted palates were to be found which could appreciate beer sweetened simply with honey, or scented with ambergris or raspberries. It is possible, however, that these compositions refer to mixtures in which beer, the produce of fermented grain, was confounded with hydromel, or fermented honey. Both these primitive drinks claim an origin equally remote, which is buried in the most distant periods of history, and they have been used in all parts of the world, being mentioned in the oldest historical records, in the Bible, the Edda, and in the sacred books of India. In the thirteenth century, hydromel, which then bore the name of _borgérafre, borgéraste_, or _bochet_, was composed of one part of honey to twelve parts of water, scented with herbs, and allowed to ferment for a month or six weeks. This beverage, which in the customs and statutes of the order of Cluny is termed _potus dulcissimus_ (the sweetest beverage), and which must have been both agreeable in taste and smell, was specially appreciated by the monks, who feasted on it on the great anniversaries of the Church. Besides this, an inferior quality of _bochet_ was made for the consumption of the lower orders and peasants, out of the honeycomb after the honey had been drained away, or with the scum which rose during the fermentation of the better qualities. [Illustration: Fig. 106.--The Vintagers, after a Miniature of the "Dialogues de Saint Gregoire" (Thirteenth Century).--Manuscript of the Royal Library of Brussels.] Cider (in Latin _sicera_) and perry can also both claim a very ancient origin, since they are mentioned by Pliny. It does not appear, however, that the Gauls were acquainted with them. The first historical mention of them is made with reference to a repast which Thierry II., King of Burgundy and Orleans (596-613), son of Childebert, and grandson of Queen Brunehaut, gave to St. Colomban, in which both cider and wine were used. In the thirteenth century, a Latin poet (Guillaume le Breton) says that the inhabitants of the Auge and of Normandy made cider their daily drink; but it is not likely that this beverage was sent away from the localities where it was made; for, besides the fact that the "Ménagier" only very curtly mentions a drink made of apples, we know that in the fifteenth century the Parisians were satisfied with pouring water on apples, and steeping them, so as to extract a sort of half-sour, half-sweet drink called _dépense_. Besides this, Paulmier de Grandmesnil, a Norman by birth, a famous doctor, and the author of a Latin treatise on wine and cider (1588), asserts that half a century before, cider was very scarce at Rouen, and that in all the districts of Caux the people only drank beer. Duperron adds that the Normans brought cider from Biscay, when their crops of apples failed. By whom and at what period the vine was naturalised in Gaul has been a long-disputed question, which, in spite of the most careful research, remains unsolved. The most plausible opinion is that which attributes the honour of having imported the vine to the Phoenician colony who founded Marseilles. Pliny makes mention of several wines of the Gauls as being highly esteemed. He nevertheless reproaches the vine-growers of Marseilles, Beziers, and Narbonne with doctoring their wines, and with infusing various drugs into them, which rendered them disagreeable and even unwholesome (Fig. 106). Dioscorides, however, approved of the custom in use among the Allobroges, of mixing resin with their wines to preserve them and prevent them from turning sour, as the temperature of their country was not warm enough thoroughly to ripen the grape. Rooted up by order of Domitian in 92, as stated above, the vine only reappeared in Gaul under Protus, who revoked, in 282, the imperial edict of his predecessor; after which period the Gallic wines soon recovered their ancient celebrity. Under the dominion of the Franks, who held wine in great favour, vineyard property was one of those which the barbaric laws protected with the greatest care. We find in the code of the Salians and in that of the Visigoths very severe penalties for uprooting a vine or stealing a bunch of grapes. The cultivation of the vine became general, and kings themselves planted them, even in the gardens of their city palaces. In 1160, there was still in Paris, near the Louvre, a vineyard of such an extent, that Louis VII. could annually present six hogsheads of wine made from it to the rector of St. Nicholas. Philip Augustus possessed about twenty vineyards of excellent quality in various parts of his kingdom. The culture of the vine having thus developed, the wine trade acquired an enormous importance in France. Gascony, Aunis, and Saintonge sent their wines to Flanders; Guyenne sent hers to England. Froissart writes that, in 1372, a merchant fleet of quite two hundred sail came from London to Bordeaux for wine. This flourishing trade received a severe blow in the sixteenth century; for an awful famine having invaded France in 1566, Charles IX. did not hesitate to repeat the acts of Domitian, and to order all the vines to be uprooted and their place to be sown with corn; fortunately Henry III. soon after modified this edict by simply recommending the governors of the provinces to see that "the ploughs were not being neglected in their districts on account of the excessive cultivation of the vine." [Illustration: Fig. 107.--Interior of an Hostelry.--Fac-simile of a Woodcut in a folio edition of Virgil, published at Lyons in 1517.] Although the trade of a wine-merchant is one of the oldest established in Paris, it does not follow that the retail sale of wine was exclusively carried on by special tradesmen. On the contrary, for a long time the owner of the vineyard retailed the wine which he had not been able to sell in the cask. A broom, a laurel-wreath, or some other sign of the sort hung over a door, denoted that any one passing could purchase or drink wine within. When the wine-growers did not have the quality and price of their wine announced in the village or town by the public crier, they placed a man before the door of their cellar, who enticed the public to enter and taste the new wines. Other proprietors, instead of selling for people to take away in their own vessels, established a tavern in some room of their house, where they retailed drink (Fig. 107). The monks, who made wine extensively, also opened these taverns in the monasteries, as they only consumed part of their wine themselves; and this system was universally adopted by wine-growers, and even by the king and the nobles. The latter, however, had this advantage, that, whilst they were retailing their wines, no one in the district was allowed to enter into competition with them. This prescriptive right, which was called _droit de ban-vin_, was still in force in the seventeenth century. Saint Louis granted special statutes to the wine-merchants in 1264; but it was only three centuries later that they formed a society, which was divided into four classes, namely, hotel-keepers, publichouse-keepers, tavern proprietors, and dealers in wine _à pot_, that is, sold to people to take away with them. Hotel-keepers, also called _aubergistes_, accommodated travellers, and also put up horses and carriages. The dealers _à pot_ sold wine which could not be drunk on their premises. There was generally a sort of window in their door through which the empty pot was passed, to be returned filled: hence the expression, still in use in the eighteenth century, _vente a huis coupé_ (sale through a cut door). Publichouse-keepers supplied drink as well as _nappe et assiette_ (tablecloth and plate), which meant that refreshments were also served. And lastly, the _taverniers_ sold wine to be drunk on the premises, but without the right of supplying bread or meat to their customers (Figs 108 and 109). [Illustration: Fig. 108.--Banner of the Corporation of the Publichouse-keepers of Montmedy.] [Illustration: Fig. 109.--Banner of the Corporation of the Publichouse-keepers of Tonnerre.] The wines of France in most request from the ninth to the thirteenth centuries were those of Mâcon, Cahors, Rheims, Choisy, Montargis, Marne, Meulan, and Orléanais. Amongst the latter there was one which was much appreciated by Henry I., and of which he kept a store, to stimulate his courage when he joined his army. The little fable of the Battle of Wines, composed in the thirteenth century by Henri d'Andelys, mentions a number of wines which have to this day maintained their reputation: for instance, the Beaune, in Burgundy; the Saint-Emilion, in Gruyenne; the Chablis, Epernay, Sézanne, in Champagne, &c. But he places above all, with good reason, according to the taste of those days, the Saint-Pourçain of Auvergne, which was then most expensive and in great request. Another French poet, in describing the luxurious habits of a young man of fashion, says that he drank nothing but Saint-Pourçain; and in a poem composed by Jean Bruyant, secretary of the Châtelet of Paris, in 1332, we find "Du saint-pourçain Que l'on met en son sein pour sain." ("Saint-Pourçain wine, which you imbibe for the good of your health.") [Illustration: Fig. 110.--Banner of the Coopers of Bayonne.] [Illustration: Fig. 111.--Banner of the Coopers of La Rochelle.] Towards 1400, the vineyards of Aï became celebrated for Champagne as those of Beaune were for Burgundy; and it is then that we find, according to the testimony of the learned Paulmier de Grandmesnil, kings and queens making champagne their favourite beverage. Tradition has it that Francis I., Charles Quint, Henry VIII., and Pope Leon X. all possessed vineyards in Champagne at the same time. Burgundy, that pure and pleasant wine, was not despised, and it was in its honour that Erasmus said, "Happy province! she may well call herself the mother of men, since she produces such milk." Nevertheless, the above-mentioned physician, Paulmier, preferred to burgundy, "if not perhaps for their flavour, yet for their wholesomeness, the vines of the _Ile de France_ or _vins français_, which agree, he says, with scholars, invalids, the bourgeois, and all other persons who do not devote themselves to manual labour; for they do not parch the blood, like the wines of Gascony, nor fly to the head like those of Orleans and Château-Thierry; nor do they cause obstructions like those of Bordeaux." This is also the opinion of Baccius, who in his Latin treatise on the natural history of wines (1596) asserts that the wines of Paris "are in no way inferior to those of any other district of the kingdom." These thin and sour wines, so much esteemed in the first periods of monarchy and so long abandoned, first lost favour in the reign of Francis I., who preferred the strong and stimulating productions of the South. Notwithstanding the great number of excellent wines made in their own country, the French imported from other lands. In the thirteenth century, in the "Battle of Wines" we find those of Aquila, Spain, and, above all, those of Cyprus, spoken of in high terms. A century later, Eustace Deschamps praised the Rhine wines, and those of Greece, Malmsey, and Grenache. In an edict of Charles VI. mention is also made of the muscatel, rosette, and the wine of Lieppe. Generally, the Malmsey which was drunk in France was an artificial preparation, which had neither the colour nor taste of the Cyprian wine. Olivier de Serres tells us that in his time it was made with water, honey, clary juice, beer grounds, and brandy. At first the same name was used for the natural wine, mulled and spiced, which was produced in the island of Madeira from the grapes which the Portuguese brought there from Cyprus in 1420. The reputation which this wine acquired in Europe induced Francis I. to import some vines from Greece, and he planted fifty acres with them near Fontainebleau. It was at first considered that this plant was succeeding so well, that "there were hopes," says Olivier de Serres, "that France would soon be able to furnish her own Malmsey and Greek wines, instead of having to import them from abroad." It is evident, however, that they soon gave up this delusion, and that for want of the genuine wine they returned to artificial beverages, such as _vin cuit_, or cooked wine, which had at all times been cleverly prepared by boiling down new wine and adding various aromatic herbs to it. Many wines were made under the name of _herbés_, which were merely infusions of wormwood, myrtle, hyssop, rosemary, &c., mixed with sweetened wine and flavoured with honey. The most celebrated of these beverages bore the pretentious name of "nectar;" those composed of spices, Asiatic aromatics, and honey, were generally called "white wine," a name indiscriminately applied to liquors having for their bases some slightly coloured wine, as well as to the hypocras, which was often composed of a mixture of foreign liqueurs. This hypocras plays a prominent part in the romances of chivalry, and was considered a drink of honour, being always offered to kings, princes, and nobles on their solemn entry into a town. [Illustration: Fig. 112.--Butler at his Duties.--Fac-simile from a Woodcut in the "Cosmographie Universelle," of Munster, folio, Basle, 1549.] The name of wine was also given to drinks composed of the juices of certain fruits, and in which grapes were in no way used. These were the cherry, the currant, the raspberry, and the pomegranate wines; also the _moré_, made with the mulberry, which was so extolled by the poets of the thirteenth century. We must also mention the sour wines, which were made by pouring water on the refuse grapes after the wine had been extracted; also the drinks made from filberts, milk of almonds, the syrups of apricots and strawberries, and cherry and raspberry waters, all of which were refreshing, and were principally used in summer; and, lastly, _tisane_, sold by the confectioners of Paris, and made hot or cold, with prepared barley, dried grapes, plums, dates, gum, or liquorice. This _tisane_ may be considered as the origin of that drink which is now sold to the poor at a sous a glass, and which most assuredly has not much improved since olden times. It was about the thirteenth century that brandy first became known in France; but it does not appear that it was recognised as a liqueur before the sixteenth. The celebrated physician Arnauld de Villeneuve, who wrote at the end of the thirteenth century, to whom credit has wrongly been given for inventing brandy, employed it as one of his remedies, and thus expresses himself about it: "Who would have believed that we could have derived from wine a liquor which neither resembles it in nature, colour, or effect?.... This _eau de vin_ is called by some _eau de vie_, and justly so, since it prolongs life.... It prolongs health, dissipates superfluous matters, revives the spirits, and preserves youth. Alone, or added to some other proper remedy, it cures colic, dropsy, paralysis, ague, gravel, &c." At a period when so many doctors, alchemists, and other learned men made it their principal occupation to try to discover that marvellous golden fluid which was to free the human race of all its original infirmities, the discovery of such an elixir could not fail to attract the attention of all such manufacturers of panaceas. It was, therefore, under the name of _eau d'or_ (_aqua auri_) that brandy first became known to the world; a name improperly given to it, implying as it did that it was of mineral origin, whereas its beautiful golden colour was caused by the addition of spices. At a later period, when it lost its repute as a medicine, they actually sprinkled it with pure gold leaves, and at the same time that it ceased to be exclusively considered as a remedy, it became a favourite beverage. It was also employed in distilleries, especially as the basis of various strengthening and exciting liqueurs, most of which have descended to us, some coming from monasteries and others from châteaux, where they had been manufactured. The Kitchen. Soups, broths, and stews, &c.--The French word _potage_ must originally have signified a soup composed of vegetables and herbs from the kitchen garden, but from the remotest times it was applied to soups in general. As the Gauls, according to Athenæus, generally ate their meat boiled, we must presume that they made soup with the water in which it was cooked. It is related that one day Gregory of Tours was sitting at the table of King Chilpéric, when the latter offered him a soup specially made in his honour from chicken. The poems of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries mention soups made of peas, of bacon, of vegetables, and of groats. In the southern provinces there were soups made of almonds, and of olive oil. When Du Gueselin went out to fight the English knight William of Blancbourg in single combat, he first ate three sorts of soup made with wine, "in honour of the three persons in the Holy Trinity." [Illustration: Fig. 113.--Interior of a Kitchen of the Sixteenth Century.--Fac-simile from a Woodcut in the "Calendarium Romanum" of Jean Staéffler, folio, Tubingen, 1518.] We find in the "Ménagier," amongst a long list of the common soups the receipts for which are given, soup made of "dried peas and the water in which bacon has been boiled," and, in Lent, "salted-whale water;" watercress soup, cabbage soup, cheese soup, and _gramose_ soup, which was prepared by adding stewed meat to the water in which meat had already been boiled, and adding beaten eggs and verjuice; and, lastly, the _souppe despourvue_, which was rapidly made at the hotels, for unexpected travellers, and was a sort of soup made from the odds and ends of the larder. In those days there is no doubt but that hot soup formed an indispensable part of the daily meals, and that each person took it at least twice a day, according to the old proverb:-- "Soupe la soir, soupe le matin, C'est l'ordinaire du bon chrétien." ("Soup in the evening, and soup in the morning, Is the everyday food of a good Christian.") The cooking apparatus of that period consisted of a whole glittering array of cauldrons, saucepans, kettles, and vessels of red and yellow copper, which hardly sufficed for all the rich soups for which France was so famous. Thence the old proverb, "En France sont les grands soupiers." But besides these soups, which were in fact looked upon as "common, and without spice," a number of dishes were served under the generic name of soup, which constituted the principal luxuries at the great tables in the fourteenth century, but which do not altogether bear out the names under which we find them. For instance, there was haricot mutton, a sort of stew; thin chicken broth; veal broth with herbs; soup made of veal, roe, stag, wild boar, pork, hare and rabbit soup flavoured with green peas, &c. The greater number of these soups were very rich, very expensive, several being served at the same time; and in order to please the eye as well as the taste they were generally made of various colours, sweetened with sugar, and sprinkled with pomegranate seeds and aromatic herbs, such as marjoram, sage, thyme, sweet basil, savoury, &c. [Illustration: Fig. 114.--Coppersmith, designed and engraved in the Sixteenth Century by J. Amman.] These descriptions of soups were perfect luxuries, and were taken instead of sweets. As a proof of this we must refer to the famous _soupe dorée_, the description of which is given by Taillevent, head cook of Charles VII., in the following words, "Toast slices of bread, throw them into a jelly made of sugar, white wine, yolk of egg, and rosewater; when they are well soaked fry them, then throw them again into the rosewater and sprinkle them with sugar and saffron." [Illustration: Fig. 115.--Kitchen and Table Uensils:-- 1, Carving-knife (Sixteenth Century); 2, Chalice or Cup, with Cover (Fourteenth Century); 3, Doubled-handled Pot, in Copper (Ninth Century); 4, Metal Boiler, or Tin Pot, taken from "L'Histoire de la Belle Hélaine" (Fifteenth Century); 5, Knife (Sixteenth Century); 6, Pot, with Handles (Fourteenth Century); 7, Copper Boiler, taken from "L'Histoire de la Belle Hélaine" (Fifteenth Century); 8, Ewer, with Handle, in Oriental Fashion (Ninth Century); 9, Pitcher, sculptured, from among the Decorations of the Church of St. Benedict, Paris (Fifteenth Century); 10, Two-branched Candlestick (Sixteenth Century); 11, Cauldron (Fifteenth Century). ] It is possible that even now this kind of soup might find some favour; but we cannot say the same for those made with mustard, hemp-seed, millet, verjuice, and a number of others much in repute at that period; for we see in Rabelais that the French were the greatest soup eaters in the world, and boasted to be the inventors of seventy sorts. We have already remarked that broths were in use at the remotest periods, for, from the time that the practice of boiling various meats was first adopted, it must have been discovered that the water in which they were so boiled became savoury and nourishing. "In the time of the great King Francis I.," says Noël du Fail, in his "Contes d'Eutrapel," "in many places the saucepan was put on to the table, on which there was only one other large dish, of beef, mutton, veal, and bacon, garnished with a large bunch of cooked herbs, the whole of which mixture composed a porridge, and a real restorer and elixir of life. From this came the adage, 'The soup in the great pot and the dainties in the hotch-potch.'" At one time they made what they imagined to be strengthening broths for invalids, though their virtue must have been somewhat delusive, for, after having boiled down various materials in a close kettle and at a slow fire, they then distilled from this, and the water thus obtained was administered as a sovereign remedy. The common sense of Bernard Palissy did not fail to make him see this absurdity, and to protest against this ridiculous custom: "Take a capon," he says, "a partridge, or anything else, cook it well, and then if you smell the broth you will find it very good, and if you taste it you will find it has plenty of flavour; so much so that you will feel that it contains something to invigorate you. Distil this, on the contrary, and take the water then collected and taste it, and you will find it insipid, and without smell except that of burning. This should convince you that your restorer does not give that nourishment to the weak body for which you recommend it as a means of making good blood, and restoring and strengthening the spirits." The taste for broths made of flour was formerly almost universal in France and over the whole of Europe; it is spoken of repeatedly in the histories and annals of monasteries; and we know that the Normans, who made it their principal nutriment, were surnamed _bouilleux_. They were indeed almost like the Romans who in olden times, before their wars with eastern nations, gave up making bread, and ate their corn simply boiled in water. In the fourteenth century the broths and soups were made with millet-flour and mixed wheats. The pure wheat flour was steeped in milk seasoned with sugar, saffron, honey, sweet wine or aromatic herbs, and sometimes butter, fat, and yolks of eggs were added. It was on account of this that the bread of the ancients so much resembled cakes, and it was also from this fact that the art of the pastrycook took its rise. Wheat made into gruel for a long time was an important ingredient in cooking, being the basis of a famous preparation called _fromentée_, which was a _bouillie_ of milk, made creamy by the addition of yolks of eggs, and which served as a liquor in which to roast meats and fish. There were, besides, several sorts of _fromentée_, all equally esteemed, and Taillevent recommended the following receipt, which differs from the one above given:--"First boil your wheat in water, then put into it the juice or gravy of fat meat, or, if you like it better, milk of almonds, and by this means you will make a soup fit for fasts, because it dissolves slowly, is of slow digestion and nourishes much. In this way, too, you can make _ordiat_, or barley soup, which is more generally approved than the said _fromentée_." [Illustration: Fig. 116.--Interior of a Kitchen.--Fac-simile from a Woodcut in the "Calendarium Romanum" of J. Staéffler, folio, Tubingen, 1518.] Semolina, vermicelli, macaroni, &c., which were called Italian because they originally came from that country, have been in use in France longer than is generally supposed. They were first introduced after the expedition of Charles VIII. into Italy, and the conquest of the kingdom of Naples; that is, in the reign of Louis XII., or the first years of the sixteenth century. Pies, Stews, Roasts, Salads, &c.--Pastry made with fat, which might be supposed to have been the invention of modern kitchens, was in great repute amongst our ancestors. The manufacture of sweet and savoury pastry was intrusted to the care of the good _ménagiers_ of all ranks and conditions, and to the corporation of pastrycooks, who obtained their statutes only in the middle of the sixteenth century; the united skill of these, both in Paris and in the provinces, multiplied the different sorts of tarts and meat pies to a very great extent. So much was this the case that these ingenious productions became a special art, worthy of rivalling even cookery itself (Figs. 117, 118, and 130). One of the earliest known receipts for making pies is that of Gaces de la Bigne, first chaplain of Kings John, Charles V., and Charles VI. We find it in a sporting poem, and it deserves to be quoted verbatim as a record of the royal kitchen of the fourteenth century. It will be observed on perusing it that nothing was spared either in pastry or in cookery, and that expense was not considered when it was a question of satisfying the appetite. "Trois perdriaulx gros et reffais Au milieu du paté me mets; Mais gardes bien que tu ne failles A moi prendre six grosses cailles, De quoi tu les apuyeras. Et puis après tu me prendras Une douzaine d'alouètes Qu'environ les cailles me mettes, Et puis pendras de ces machés Et de ces petits oiselés: Selon ce que tu en auras, Le paté m'en billeteras. Or te fault faire pourvéance D'un pen de lart, sans point de rance, Que tu tailleras comme dé: S'en sera le pasté pouldré. S tu le veux de bonne guise, Du vertjus la grappe y soit mise, D'un bien peu de sel soit pouldré ... ... Fay mettre des oeufs en la paste, Les croutes un peu rudement Faictes de flour de pur froment ... ... N'y mets espices ni fromaige ... Au four bien à point chaud le met, Qui de cendre ait l'atre bien net; E quand sera bien à point cuit, I n'est si bon mangier, ce cuit." ("Put me in the middle of the pie three young partridges large and fat; But take good care not to fail to take six fine quail to put by their side. After that you must take a dozen skylarks, which round the quail you must place; And then you must take some thrushes and such other little birds as you can get to garnish the pie. Further, you must provide yourself with a little bacon, which must not be in the least rank (reasty), and you must cut it into pieces of the size of a die, and sprinkle them into the pie. If you want it to be in quite good form, you must put some sour grapes in and a very little salt ... ... Have eggs put into the paste, and the crust made rather hard of the flour of pure wheat. Put in neither spice nor cheese ... Put it into the oven just at the proper heat, The bottom of which must be quite free from ashes; And when it is baked enough, isn't that a dish to feast on!") From this period all treatises on cookery are full of the same kind of receipts for making "pies of young chickens, of fresh venison, of veal, of eels, of bream and salmon, of young rabbits, of pigeons, of small birds, of geese, and of _narrois_" (a mixture of cod's liver and hashed fish). We may mention also the small pies, which were made of minced beef and raisins, similar to our mince pies, and which were hawked in the streets of Paris, until their sale was forbidden, because the trade encouraged greediness on the one hand and laziness on the other. Ancient pastries, owing to their shapes, received the name of _tourte_ or _tarte_, from the Latin _torta_, a large hunch of bread. This name was afterwards exclusively used for hot pies, whether they contained vegetables, meat, or fish. But towards the end of the fourteenth century _tourte_ and _tarte_ was applied to pastry containing, herbs, fruits, or preserves, and _pâté_ to those containing any kind of meat, game, or fish. [Illustration: Fig. 117.--Banner of the Corporation of Pastrycooks of Caen.] [Illustration: Fig. 118.--Banner of the Corporation of Pastrycooks of Bordeaux.] It was only in the course of the sixteenth century that the name of _potage_ ceased to be applied to stews, whose number equalled their variety, for on a bill of fare of a banquet of that period we find more than fifty different sorts of _potages_ mentioned. The greater number of these dishes have disappeared from our books on cookery, having gone out of fashion; but there are two stews which were popular during many centuries, and which have maintained their reputation, although they do not now exactly represent what they formerly did. The _pot-pourri_, which was composed of veal, beef, mutton, bacon, and vegetables, and the _galimafrée_, a fricassee of poultry, sprinkled with verjuice, flavoured with spices, and surrounded by a sauce composed of vinegar, bread crumbs, cinnamon, ginger, &c. (Fig. 119). The highest aim of the cooks of the Taillevent school was to make dishes not only palatable, but also pleasing to the eye. These masters in the art of cooking might be said to be both sculptors and painters, so much did they decorate their works, their object being to surprise or amuse the guests by concealing the real nature of the disbes. Froissart, speaking of a repast given in his time, says that there were a number of "dishes so curious and disguised that it was impossible to guess what they were." For instance, the bill of fare above referred to mentions a lion and a sun made of white chicken, a pink jelly, with diamond-shaped points; and, as if the object of cookery was to disguise food and deceive epicures, Taillevent facetiously gives us a receipt for making fried or roast butter and for cooking eggs on the spit. [Illustration: Fig. 119.--Interior of Italian Kitchen.--Fac-simile of a Woodcut in the Book on Cookery of Christoforo di Messisburgo, "Banchetti compositioni di Vivende," 4to., Ferrara, 1549.] The roasts were as numerous as the stews. A treatise of the fourteenth century names about thirty, beginning with a sirloin of beef, which must have been one of the most common, and ending with a swan, which appeared on table in full plumage. This last was the triumph of cookery, inasmuch as it presented this magnificent bird to the eyes of the astonished guests just as if he were living and swimming. His beak was gilt, his body silvered, resting 'on a mass of brown pastry, painted green in order to represent a grass field. Eight banners of silk were placed round, and a cloth of the same material served as a carpet for the whole dish, which towered above the other appointments of the table. [Illustration: Fig. 120.--Hunting-Meal.--Fac-simile of a Miniature in the Manuscript of the "Livre du Roy Modus" (National Library of Paris).] The peacock, which was as much thought of then as it is little valued now, was similarly arrayed, and was brought to table amidst a flourish of trumpets and the applause of all present. The modes of preparing other roasts much resembled the present system in their simplicity, with this difference, that strong meats were first boiled to render them tender, and no roast was ever handed over to the skill of the carver without first being thoroughly basted with orange juice and rose water, and covered with sugar and powdered spices. We must not forget to mention the broiled dishes, the invention of which is attributed to hunters, and which Rabelais continually refers to as acting as stimulants and irresistibly exciting the thirst for wine at the sumptuous feasts of those voracious heroes (Fig. 120). The custom of introducing salads after roasts was already established in the fifteenth century. However, a salad, of whatever sort, was never brought to table in its natural state; for, besides the raw herbs, dressed in the same manner as in our days, it contained several mixtures, such as cooked vegetables, and the crests, livers, or brains of poultry. After the salads fish was served; sometimes fried, sometimes sliced with eggs or reduced to a sort of pulp, which was called _carpée_ or _charpie_, and sometimes it was boiled in water or wine, with strong seasoning. Near the salads, in the course of the dinner, dishes of eggs prepared in various ways were generally served. Many of these are now in use, such as the poached egg, the hard-boiled egg, egg sauce, &c. [Illustration: Fig. 121.--Shop of a Grocer and Druggist, from a Stamp of Vriese (Seventeenth Century).] Seasonings.--We have already stated that the taste for spices much increased in Europe after the Crusades; and in this rapid historical sketch of the food of the French people in the Middle Ages it must have been observed to what an extent this taste had become developed in France (Fig. 121). This was the origin of sauces, all, or almost all, of which were highly spiced, and were generally used with boiled, roast, or grilled meats. A few of these sauces, such as the yellow, the green, and the _caméline_, became so necessary in cooking that numerous persons took to manufacturing them by wholesale, and they were hawked in the streets of Paris. These sauce-criers were first called _saulciers_, then _vinaigriers-moustardiers_, and when Louis XII. united them in a body, as their business had considerably increased, they were termed _sauciers-moutardiers-vinaigriers_, distillers of brandy and spirits of wine, and _buffetiers_ (from _buffet_, a sideboard). [Illustration: Fig. 122.--The Cook, drawn and engraved, in the Sixteenth Century, by J. Amman.] But very soon the corporation became divided, no doubt from the force of circumstances; and on one side we find the distillers, and on the other the master-cooks and cooks, or _porte-chapes_, as they were called, because, when they carried on their business of cooking, they covered their dishes with a _chape_, that is, a cope or tin cover (Fig. 122), so as to keep them warm. The list of sauces of the fourteenth century, given by the "Ménagier de Paris," is most complicated; but, on examining the receipts, it becomes clear that the variety of those preparations, intended to sharpen the appetite, resulted principally from the spicy ingredients with which they were flavoured; and it is here worthy of remark that pepper, in these days exclusively obtained from America, was known and generally used long before the time of Columbus. It is mentioned in a document, of the time of Clotaire III. (660); and it is clear, therefore, that before the discovery of the New World pepper and spices were imported into Europe from the East. Mustard, which was an ingredient in so many dishes, was cultivated and manufactured in the thirteenth century in the neighbourhood of Dijon and Angers. According to a popular adage, garlic was the medicine (_thériaque_) of peasants; town-people for a long time greatly appreciated _aillée_, which was a sauce made of garlic, and sold ready prepared in the streets of Paris. The custom of using anchovies as a flavouring is also very ancient. This was also done with _botargue_ and _cavial_, two sorts of side-dishes, which consisted of fishes' eggs, chiefly mullet and sturgeon, properly salted or dried, and mixed with fresh or pickled olives. The olives for the use of the lower orders were brought from Languedoc and Provence, whereas those for the rich were imported from Spain and some from Syria. It was also from the south of France that the rest of the kingdom was supplied with olive oil, for which, to this day, those provinces have preserved their renown; but as early as the twelfth and thirteenth centuries oil of walnuts was brought from the centre of France to Paris, and this, although cheaper, was superseded by oil extracted from the poppy. Truffles, though known and esteemed by the ancients, disappeared from the gastronomie collection of our forefathers. It was only in the fourteenth century that they were again introduced, but evidently without a knowledge of their culinary qualities, since, after being preserved in vinegar, they were soaked in hot water, and afterwards served up in butter. We may also here mention sorrel and the common mushroom, which were used in cooking during the Middle Ages. On the strength of the old proverb, "Sugar has never spoiled sauce," sugar was put into all sauces which were not _piquantes_, and generally some perfumed water was added to them, such as rose-water. This was made in great quantities by exposing to the sun a basin full of water, covered over by another basin of glass, under which was a little vase containing rose-leaves. This rose-water was added to all stews, pastries, and beverages. It is very doubtful as to the period at which white lump sugar became known in the West. However, in an account of the house of the Dauphin Viennois (1333) mention is made of "white sugar;" and the author of the "Ménagier de Paris" frequently speaks of this white sugar, which, before the discovery, or rather colonisation, of America, was brought, ready refined, from the Grecian islands, and especially from Candia. [Illustration: Fig. 123.--The _Issue de Table_.--Fac-simile of a Woodcut in the Treatise of Christoforo di Messisburgo, "Banchetti compositioni di Vivende," 4to., Ferrara, 1549.] Verjuice, or green juice, which, with vinegar, formed the essential basis of sauces, and is now extracted from a species of green grape, which never ripens, was originally the juice of sorrel; another sort was extracted by pounding the green blades of wheat. Vinegar was originally merely soured wine, as the word _vin-aigre_ denotes. The mode of manufacturing it by artificial means, in order to render the taste more pungent and the quality better, is very ancient. It is needless to state that it was scented by the infusion of herbs or flowers--roses, elder, cloves, &c.; but it was not much before the sixteenth century that it was used for pickling herbs or fruits and vegetables, such as gherkins, onions, cucumber, purslain, &c. Salt, which from the remotest periods was the condiment _par excellence_, and the trade in which had been free up to the fourteenth century, became, from that period, the subject of repeated taxation. The levying of these taxes was a frequent cause of tumult amongst the people, who saw with marked displeasure the exigencies of the excise gradually raising the price of an article of primary necessity. We have already mentioned times during which the price of salt was so exorbitant that the rich alone could put it in their bread. Thus, in the reign of Francis I., it was almost as dear as Indian spices. Sweet Dishes, Desserts, &c.--In the fourteenth century, the first courses of a repast were called _mets_ or _assiettes_; the last, "_entremets, dorures, issue de table, desserte_, and _boule-hors_." The dessert consisted generally of baked pears, medlars, pealed walnuts, figs, dates, peaches, grapes, filberts, spices, and white or red sugar-plums. At the _issue de table_ wafers or some other light pastry were introduced, which were eaten with the hypocras wine. The _boute-hors,_ which was served when the guests, after having washed their hands and said grace, had passed into the drawing-room, consisted of spices, different from those which had appeared at dessert, and intended specially to assist the digestion; and for this object they must have been much needed, considering that a repast lasted several hours. Whilst eating these spices they drank Grenache, Malmsey, or aromatic wines (Fig. 123). It was only at the banquets and great repeats that sweet dishes and _dorures_ appeared, and they seem to have been introduced for the purpose of exhibiting the power of the imagination and the talent in execution of the master-cook. The _dorures_ consisted of jellies of all sorts and colours; swans, peacocks, bitterns, and herons, on gala feasts, were served in full feather on a raised platform in the middle of the table, and hence the name of "raised dishes." As for the side-dishes, properly so called, the long list collected in the "Ménagier" shows us that they were served at table indiscriminately, for stuffed chickens at times followed hashed porpoise in sauce, lark pies succeeded lamb sausages, and pike's-eggs fritters appeared after orange preserve. At a later period the luxury of side-dishes consisted in the quantity and in the variety of the pastry; Rabelais names sixteen different sorts at one repast; Taillevent mentions pastry called _covered pastry, Bourbonnaise pastry, double-faced pastry, pear pastry_, and _apple pastry_; Platina speaks of the _white pastry_ with quince, elder flowers, rice, roses, chestnuts, &c. The fashion of having pastry is, however, of very ancient date, for in the book of the "Proverbs" of the thirteenth century, we find that the pies of Dourlens and the pastry of Chartres were then in great celebrity. [Illustration: Fig. 124.--The Table of a Baron, as laid out in the Thirteenth Century.--Miniature from the "Histoire de St. Graal" (Manuscript from the Imperial Library, Paris).] In a charter of Robert le Bouillon, Bishop of Amiens, in 1311, mention is made of a cake composed of puff flaky paste; these cakes, however, are less ancient than the firm pastry called bean cake, or king's cake, which, from the earliest days of monarchy, appeared on all the tables, not only at the feast of the Epiphany, but also on every festive occasion. Amongst the dry and sweet pastries from the small oven which appeared at the _issue de table_, the first to be noticed were those made of almonds, nuts, &c., and such choice morsels, which were very expensive; then came the cream or cheesecakes, the _petits choux_, made of butter and eggs; the _échaudés_, of which the people were very fond, and St. Louis even allowed the bakers to cook them on Sundays and feast days for the poor; wafers, which are older than the thirteenth century; and lastly the _oublies_, which, under the names of _nieules, esterets_, and _supplications_, gave rise to such an extensive trade that a corporation was established in Paris, called the _oublayeurs, oublayers,_ or _oublieux_, whose statutes directed that none should be admitted to exercise the trade unless he was able to make in one day 500 large _oublies_, 300 _supplications_, and 200 _esterets_. Repasts and Feasts. We have had to treat elsewhere of the rules and regulations of the repasts under the Merovingian and Carlovingian kings. We have also spoken of the table service of the thirteenth century (see chapter on "Private Life"). The earliest author who has left us any documents on this curious subject is that excellent bourgeois to whom we owe the "Ménagier de Paris." He describes, for instance, in its fullest details, a repast which was given in the fourteenth century by the Abbé de Lagny, to the Bishop of Paris, the President of the Parliament, the King's attorney and advocate, and other members of his council, in all sixteen guests. We find from this account that "my lord of Paris, occupying the place of honour, was, in consequence of his rank, served on covered dishes by three of his squires, as was the custom for the King, the royal princes, the dukes, and peers; that Master President, who was seated by the side of the bishop, was also served by one of his own servants, but on uncovered dishes, and the other guests were seated at table according to the order indicated by their titles or charges." The bill of fare of this feast, which was given on a fast-day, is the more worthy of attention, in that it proves to us what numerous resources cookery already possessed. This was especially the case as regards fish, notwithstanding that the transport of fresh sea-fish was so difficult, owing to the bad state of the roads. First, a quarter of a pint of Grenache was given to each guest on sitting down, then "hot _eschaudés_, roast apples with white sugar-plums upon them, roasted figs, sorrel and watercress, and rosemary." "Soups.--A rich soup, composed of six trout, six tenches, white herring, freshwater eels, salted twenty-four hours, and three whiting, soaked twelve hours; almonds, ginger, saffron, cinnamon powder and sweetmeats. "Salt-Water Fish.--Soles, gurnets, congers, turbots, and salmon. "Fresh-Water Fish.--_Lux faudis_ (pike with roe), carps from the Marne, breams. "Side-Dishes.--Lampreys _à la boee_, orange-apples (one for each guest), porpoise with sauce, mackerel, soles, bream, and shad _à la cameline_, with verjuice, rice and fried almonds upon them; sugar and apples. [Illustration: Fig. 125.--Officers of the Table and of the Chamber of the Imperial Court: Cup-bearer, Cook, Barber, and Tailor, from a Picture in the "Triomphe de Maximilien T.," engraved by J. Resch, Burgmayer, and others (1512), from Drawings by Albert Durer.] "Dessert.--Stewed fruit with white and vermilion sugar-plums; figs, dates, grapes, and filberts. "Hypocras for _issue de table_, with _oublies_ and _supplications_. "Wines and spices compose the _baute-hors_." To this fasting repast we give by way of contrast the bill of fare at the nuptial feast of Master Helye, "to which forty guests were bidden on a Tuesday in May, a 'day of flesh.'" "Soups.--Capons with white sauce, ornamented with pomegranate and crimson sweetmeats. "Roasts.--Quarter of roe-deer, goslings, young chickens, and sauces of orange, cameline, and verjuice. "Side-Dishes.--Jellies of crayfish and loach; young rabbits and pork. "Dessert.--_Froumentée_ and venison. "Issue.--Hypocras. "Boute-Hors.--Wine and spices." The clever editor of the "Ménagier de Paris," M. le Baron Jerôme Pichon, after giving us this curious account of the mode of living of the citizens of that day, thus sums up the whole arrangements for the table in the fourteenth century: "The different provisions necessary for food are usually entrusted to the squires of the kitchen, and were chosen, purchased, and paid for by one or more of these officials, assisted by the cooks. The dishes prepared by the cooks were placed, by the help of the esquires, on dressers in the kitchen until the moment of serving. Thence they were carried to the tables. Let us imagine a vast hall hung with tapestries and other brilliant stuffs. The tables are covered with fringed table-cloths, and strewn with odoriferous herbs; one of them, called the Great Table, is reserved for the persons of distinction. The guests are taken to their seats by two butlers, who bring them water to wash. The Great Table is laid out by a butler, with silver salt-cellars (Figs. 126 and 127), golden goblets with lids for the high personages, spoons and silver drinking cups. The guests eat at least certain dishes on _tranchoirs_, or large slices of thick bread, afterwards thrown into vases called _couloueres_ (drainers). For the other tables the salt is placed on pieces of bread, scooped out for that purpose by the intendants, who are called _porte-chappes._ In the hall is a dresser covered with plate and various kinds of wine. Two squires standing near this dresser give the guests clean spoons, pour out what wine they ask for, and remove the silver when used; two other squires superintend the conveyance of wine to the dresser; a varlet placed under their orders is occupied with nothing but drawing wine from the casks." At that time wine was not bottled, and they drew directly from the cask the amount necessary for the day's consumption. "The dishes, consisting of three, four, five, and even six courses, called _mets_ or _assiettes_, are brought in by varlets and two of the principal squires, and in certain wedding-feasts the bridegroom walked in front of them. The dishes are placed on the table by an _asséeur_ (placer), assisted by two servants. The latter take away the remains at the conclusion of the course, and hand them over to the squires of the kitchen who have charge of them. After the _mets_ or _assiettes_ the table-cloths are changed, and the _entremets_ are then brought in. This course is the most brilliant of the repast, and at some of the princely banquets the dishes are made to imitate a sort of theatrical representation. It is composed of sweet dishes, of coloured jellies of swans, of peacocks, or of pheasants adorned with their feathers, having the beak and feet gilt, and placed on the middle of the table on a sort of pedestal. To the _entremets_, a course which does not appear on all bills of fare, succeeds the dessert. The _issue_, or exit from table, is mostly composed of hypocras and a sort of _oublie_ called _mestier_; or, in summer, when hypocras is out of season on account of its strength, of apples, cheeses, and sometimes of pastries and sweetmeats. The _boute-hors_ (wines and spices) end the repast. The guests then wash their hands, say grace, and pass into the _chambre de parement_ or drawing-room. The servants then sit down and dine after their masters. They subsequently bring the guests wine and _épices de chambre_, after which each retires home." [Illustration: Figs. 126 and 127.--Sides of an Enamelled Salt-cellar, with six facings representing the Labours of Hercules, made at Limoges, by Pierre Raymond, for Francis I.] But all the pomp and magnificence of the feasts of this period would have appeared paltry a century later, when royal banquets were managed by Taillevent, head cook to Charles VII. The historian of French cookery, Legrand d'Aussy, thus desoribes a great feast given in 1455 by the Count of Anjou, third son of Louis II., King of Sicily:-- "On the table was placed a centre-piece, which represented a green lawn, surrounded with large peacocks' feathers and green branches, to which were tied violets and other sweet-smelling flowers. In the middle of this lawn a fortress was placed, covered with silver. This was hollow, and formed a sort of cage, in which several live birds were shut up, their tufts and feet being gilt. On its tower, which was gilt, three banners were placed, one bearing the arms of the count, the two others those of Mesdemoiselles de Châteaubrun and de Villequier, in whose honour the feast was given. "The first course consisted of a civet of hare, a quarter of stag which had been a night in salt, a stuffed chicken, and a loin of veal. The two last dishes were covered with a German sauce, with gilt sugar-plums, and pomegranate seeds.... At each end, outside the green lawn, was an enormous pie, surmounted with smaller pies, which formed a crown. The crust of the large ones was silvered all round and gilt at the top; each contained a whole roe-deer, a gosling, three capons, six chickens, ten pigeons, one young rabbit, and, no doubt to serve as seasoning or stuffing, a minced loin of veal, two pounds of fat, and twenty-six hard-boiled eggs, covered with saffron and flavoured with cloves. For the three following courses, there was a roe-deer, a pig, a sturgeon cooked in parsley and vinegar, and covered with powdered ginger; a kid, two goslings, twelve chickens, as many pigeons, six young rabbits, two herons, a leveret, a fat capon stuffed, four chickens covered with yolks of eggs and sprinkled with powder _de Duc_ (spice), a wild boar, some wafers (_darioles_), and stars; a jelly, part white and part red, representing the crests of the three above-mentioned persons; cream with _Duc_ powder, covered with fennel seeds preserved in sugar; a white cream, cheese in slices, and strawberries; and, lastly, plums stewed in rose-water. Besides these four courses, there was a fifth, entirely composed of the prepared wines then in vogue, and of preserves. These consisted of fruits and various sweet pastries. The pastries represented stags and swans, to the necks of which were suspended the arms of the Count of Anjou and those of the two young ladies." In great houses, dinner was announced by the sound of the hunting-horn; this is what Froissard calls _corner l'assiette,_ but which was at an earlier period called _corner l'eau_, because it was the custom to wash the hands before sitting down to table as well as on leaving the dining-room. [Illustration: Fig. 128.--Knife-handles in Sculptured Ivory, Sixteenth Century (Collection of M. Becker, of Frankfort).] [Illustration: Fig. 129.--Nut-crackers, in Boxwood, Sixteenth Century (Collection of M. Achille Jubinal).] For these ablutions scented water, and especially rose-water, was used, brought in ewers of precious and delicately wrought metals, by pages or squires, who handed them to the ladies in silver basins. It was at about this period, that is, in the times of chivalry, that the custom of placing the guests by couples was introduced, generally a gentleman and lady, each couple having but one cup and one plate; hence the expression, to eat from the same plate. Historians relate that in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, at certain gala feasts, the dishes were brought in by servants in full armour, mounted on caparisoned horses; but this is a custom exclusively attached to chivalry. As early as those days, powerful and ingenious machines were in use, which lowered from the story above, or raised from that below, ready-served tables, which were made to disappear after use as if by enchantment. At that period the table service of the wealthy required a considerable staff of retainers and varlets; and, at a later period, this number was much increased. Thus, for instance, when Louis of Orleans went on a diplomatic mission to Germany from his brother Charles VI., this prince, in order that France might be worthily represented abroad, raised the number of his household to more than two hundred and fifty persons, of whom about one hundred were retainers and table attendants. Olivier de la Marche, who, in his "Mémoires," gives the most minute details of the ceremonial of the court of Charles the Bold, Duke of Burgundy, tells us that the table service was as extensive as in the other great princely houses. This extravagant and ruinous pomp fell into disuse during the reigns of Louis XI., Charles VIII., and Louis XII., but reappeared in that of Francis I. This prince, after his first wars in Italy, imported the cookery and the gastronomic luxury of that country, where the art of good living, especially in Venice, Florence, and Rome, had reached the highest degree of refinement and magnificence. Henry II. and Francis II. maintained the magnificence of their royal tables; but after them, notwithstanding the soft effeminacy of the manners at court, the continued wars which Henry III. and Charles IX. had to sustain in their own states against the Protestants and the League necessitated a considerable economy in the households and tables of those kings. "It was only by fits and starts," says Brantôme, "that one was well fed during this reign, for very often circumstances prevented the proper preparation of the repasts; a thing much disliked by the courtiers, who prefer open table to be kept at both court and with the army, because it then costs them nothing." Henry IV. was neither fastidious nor greedy; we must therefore come down to the reign of Louis XIII. to find a vestige of the splendour of the banquets of Francis I. [Illustration: Fig. 130.--Grand Ceremonial Banquet at the Court of France in the Fourteenth Century, archaeological Restoration from Miniatures and Narratives of the Period. From the "Dictionnaire du Mobilier Français" of M. Viollet-Leduc.] From the establishment of the Franks in Gaul down to the fifteenth century inclusive, there were but two meals a day; people dined at ten o'clock in the morning, and supped at four in the afternoon. In the sixteenth century they put back dinner one hour and supper three hours, to which many people objected. Hence the old proverb:-- "Lever à six, dîner à dix, Souper à six, coucher à dix, Fait vivre l'homme dix fois dix." ("To rise at six, dine at ten, Sup at six, to bed at ten, Makes man live ten times ten.") [Illustration: Fig. 131.--Banner of the Corporation of Pastrycooks of Tonnerre.] Hunting. Venery and Hawking.--Origin of Aix-la-Chapelle.--Gaston Phoebus and his Book.--The Presiding Deities of Sportsmen.--Sporting Societies and Brotherhoods.--Sporting Kings: Charlemagne, Louis IX., Louis XI., Charles VIII., Louis XII., Francis I., &c.--Treatise on Venery.--Sporting Popes.--Origin of Hawking.--Training Birds.--Hawking Retinues.--Book of King Modus.--Technical Terms used in Hawking.--Persons who have excelled in this kind of Sport.--Fowling. By the general term hunting is included the three distinct branches of an art, or it may be called a science, which dates its origin from the earliest times, but which was particularly esteemed in the Middle Ages, and was especially cultivated in the glorious days of chivalry. _Venery_, which is the earliest, is defined by M. Elzéar Blaze as "the science of snaring, taking, or killing one particular animal from amongst a herd." _Hawking_ came next. This was not only the art of hunting with the falcon, but that of training birds of prey to hunt feathered game. Lastly, _l'oisellerie_ (fowling), which, according to the author of several well-known works on the subject we are discussing, had originally no other object than that of protecting the crops and fruits from birds and other animals whose nature it was to feed on them. Venery will be first considered. Sportsmen always pride themselves in placing Xenophon, the general, philosopher, and historian, at the head of sporting writers, although his treatise on the chase (translated from the Greek into Latin under the title of "De Venatione"), which gives excellent advice respecting the training of dogs, only speaks of traps and nets for capturing wild animals. Amongst the Greeks Arrian and Oppian, and amongst the Romans, Gratius Faliscus and Nemesianus, wrote on the same subject. Their works, however, except in a few isolated or scattered passages, do not contain anything about venery properly so called, and the first historical information on the subject is to be found in the records of the seventh century. Long after that period, however, they still hunted, as it were, at random, attacking the first animal they met. The sports of Charlemagne, for instance, were almost always of this description. On some occasions they killed animals of all sorts by thousands, after having tracked and driven them into an enclosure composed of cloths or nets. This illustrious Emperor, although usually at war in all parts of Europe, never missed an opportunity of hunting: so much so that it might be said that he rested himself by galloping through the forests. He was on these occasions not only followed by a large number of huntsmen and attendants of his household, but he was accompanied by his wife and daughters, mounted on magnificent coursers, and surrounded by a numerous and elegant court, who vied with each other in displaying their skill and courage in attacking the fiercest animals. It is even stated that Aix-la-Chapelle owes its origin to a hunting adventure of Charlemagne. The Emperor one day while chasing a stag required to cross a brook which came in his path, but immediately his horse had set his foot in the water he pulled it out again and began to limp as if it were hurt. His noble rider dismounted, and on feeling the foot found it was quite hot. This induced him to put his hand into the water, which he found to be almost boiling. On that very spot therefore he caused a chapel to be erected, in the shape of a horse's hoof. The town was afterwards built, and to this day the spring of hot mineral water is enclosed under a rotunda, the shape of which reminds one of the old legend of Charlemagne and his horse. The sons of Charlemagne also held hunting in much esteem, and by degrees the art of venery was introduced and carried to great perfection. It was not, however, until the end of the thirteenth century that an anonymous author conceived the idea of writing its principal precepts in an instructive poem, called "Le Dict de la Chace du Cerf." In 1328 another anonymous writer composed the "Livre du Roy Modus," which contains the rules for hunting all furred animals, from the stag to the hare. Then followed other poets and writers of French prose, such as Gace de la Vigne (1359), Gaston Phoebus (1387), and Hardouin, lord of Fontaine-Guérin (1394). None of these, however, wrote exclusively on venery, but described the different sports known in their day. Towards 1340, Alphonse XI., king of Castile, caused a book on hunting to be compiled for his use; but it was not so popular as the instruction of Gaston Phoebus (Fig. 132). If hunting with hounds is known everywhere by the French name of the chase, it is because the honour of having organized it into a system, if not of having originated it, is due to the early French sporting authors, who were able to form a code of rules for it. This also accounts for so many of the technical terms now in use in venery being of French origin, as they are no others than those adopted by these ancient authors, whose works, so to speak, have perpetuated them. [Illustration: Fig. 132.--Gaston Phoebus teaching the Art of Venery.--Fac-simile of a Miniature of "Phoebus and his Staff for Hunting Wild Animals and Birds of Prey" (Manuscript, Fifteenth Century, National Library of Paris)] [Illustration: Fig. 133.--"How to carry a Cloth to approach Beasts."--Fac-simile of a Miniature in the Manuscript of Phoebus (Fifteenth Century).] The curious miniatures which accompany the text in the original manuscript of Gaston Phoebus, and which have been reproduced in nearly all the ancient copies of this celebrated manuscript, give most distinct and graphic ideas of the various modes of hunting. We find, for instance, that the use of an artificial cow for approaching wild-fowl was understood at that time, the only difference being that a model was used more like a horse than a cow (Fig. 133); we also see sportsmen shooting at bears, wild boars, stags, and such live animals with arrows having sharp iron points, intended to enter deep into the flesh, notwithstanding the thickness of the fur and the creature's hard skin. In the case of the hare, however, the missile had a heavy, massive end, probably made of lead, which stunned him without piercing his body (Fig. 134). In other cases the sportsman is represented with a crossbow seated in a cart, all covered up with boughs, by which plan he was supposed to approach the prey without alarming it any more than a swinging branch would do (Fig. 135). Gaston Phoebus is known to have been one of the bravest knights of his time; and, after fighting, he considered hunting as his greatest delight. Somewhat ingenuously he writes of himself as a hunter, "that he doubts having any superior." Like all his contemporaries, he is eloquent as to the moral effect of his favourite pastime. "By hunting," he says, "one avoids the sin of indolence; and, according to our faith, he who avoids the seven mortal sins will be saved; therefore the good sportsman will be saved." [Illustration: Fig. 134.--"How to allure the Hare."--Fac-simile of a Miniature in the Manuscript of Phoebus (Fifteenth Century).] From the earliest ages sportsmen placed themselves under the protection of some special deity. Among the Greeks and Romans it was Diana and Phoebe. The Gauls, who had adopted the greater number of the gods and goddesses of Rome, invoked the moon when they sallied forth to war or to the chase; but, as soon as they penetrated the sacred obscurity of the forests, they appealed more particularly to the goddess _Ardhuina_, whose name, of unknown origin, has probably since been applied to the immense well-stocked forests of Ardenne or Ardennes. They erected in the depths of the woods monstrous stone figures in honour of this goddess, such as the heads of stags on the bodies of men or women; and, to propitiate her during the chase, they hung round these idols the feet, the skins, and the horns of the beasts they killed. Cernunnos, who was always represented with a human head surmounted by stags' horns, had an altar even in Lutetia, which was, no doubt, in consequence of the great woods which skirted the banks of the Seine. [Illustration: Fig. 135.--"How to take a Cart to allure Beasts."--Fac-simile of a Miniature in the Manuscript of Phoebus (Fifteenth Century).] The Gallic Cernunnos, which we also find among the Romans, since Ovid mentions the votary stags' horns, continued to be worshipped to a certain extent after the establishment of the Christian religion. In the fifth century, Germain, an intrepid hunter, who afterwards became Bishop of Auxerre, possessed not far from his residence an oak of enormous diameter, a thorough Cernunnos, which he hung with the skins and other portions of animals he had killed in the chase. In some countries, where the Cernunnos remained an object of veneration, everybody bedecked it in the same way. The largest oak to be found in the district was chosen on which to suspend the trophies both of warriors and of hunters; and, at a more recent period, sportsmen used to hang outside their doors stags' heads, boars' feet, birds of prey, and other trophies, a custom which evidently was a relic of the one referred to. On pagan idolatry being abandoned, hunters used to have a presiding genius or protector, whom they selected from amongst the saints most in renown. Some chose St. Germain d'Auxerre, who had himself been a sportsman; others St. Martin, who had been a soldier before he became Bishop of Tours. Eventually they all agreed to place themselves under the patronage of St. Hubert, Bishop of Liège, a renowned hunter of the eighth century. This saint devoted himself to a religious life, after one day haying encountered a miraculous stag whilst hunting in the woods, which appeared to him as bearing between his horns a luminous image of our Saviour. At first the feast of St. Hubert was celebrated four times a year, namely, at the anniversaries of his conversion and death, and on the two occasions on which his relics were exhibited. At the celebration of each of these feasts a large number of sportsmen in "fine apparel" came from great distances with their horses and dogs. There was, in fact, no magnificence or pomp deemed too imposing to be displayed, both by the kings and nobles, in honour of the patron-saint of hunting (Fig. 136). [Illustration: Fig. 136.--"How to shout and blow Horns."--Fac-simile of a Miniature in the Manuscript of Phoebus (Fifteenth Century).] [Illustration: Ladies Hunting Costumes of the fifteenth century. From a miniature in a ms. copy of _Ovid's Epistles_ No 7234 _bis._ Bibl. nat'le de Paris.] [Illustration: Fig. 137.--German Sportsman, drawn and engraved by J. Amman in the Sixteenth Century.] Hunters and sportsmen in those days formed brotherhoods, which had their rank defined at public ceremonials, and especially in processions. In 1455, Gérard, Duke of Cleves and Burgrave of Ravensberg, created the order of the Knights of St. Hubert, into which those of noble blood only were admitted. The insignia consisted of a gold or silver chain formed of hunting horns, to which was hung a small likeness of the patron-saint in the act of doing homage to our Saviour's image as it shone on the head of a stag. It was popularly believed that the Knights of St. Hubert had the power of curing madness, which, for some unknown reason, never showed itself in a pack of hounds. This, however, was not the only superstitious belief attached to the noble and adventurous occupations of the followers of St. Hubert. Amongst a number of old legends, which mostly belong to Germany (Fig. 137), mention is made of hunters who sold their souls to the devil in exchange for some enchanted arrow which never missed its aim, and which reached game at extraordinary distances. Mention is also made in these legends of various animals which, on being pursued by the hunters, were miraculously saved by throwing themselves into the arms of some saint, or by running into some holy sanctuary. There were besides knights who, having hunted all their lives, believed that they were to continue the same occupation in another world. An account is given in history of the apparition of a fiery phantom to Charles IX. in the forest of Lyons, and also the ominous meeting of Henry IV. with the terrible _grand-veneur_ in the forest of Fontainebleau. We may account for these strange tales from the fact that hunting formerly constituted a sort of freemasonry, with its mysterious rites and its secret language. The initiated used particular signs of recognition amongst themselves, and they also had lucky and unlucky numbers, emblematical colours, &c. The more dangerous the sport the more it was indulged in by military men. The Chronicles of the Monk of Saint-Gall describe an adventure which befell Charlemagne on the occasion of his setting out with his huntsmen and hounds in order to chase an enormous bear which was the terror of the Vosges. The bear, after having disabled numerous dogs and hunters, found himself face to face with the Emperor, who alone dared to stand up before him. A fierce combat ensued on the summit of a rock, in which both were locked together in a fatal embrace. The contest ended by the death of the bear, Charles striking him with his dagger and hurling him down the precipice. On this the hills resounded with the cry of "Vive Charles le Grand!" from the numerous huntsmen and others who had assembled; and it is said that this was the first occasion on which the companions of the intrepid monarch gave him the title of _Grand_ (Magnus), so from that time King Charles became King _Charlemagne_. This prince was most jealous of his rights of hunting, which he would waive to no one. For a long time he refused permission to the monks of the Abbey of St. Denis, whom he nevertheless held in great esteem, to have some stags killed which were destroying their forests. It was only on condition that the flesh of these animals would serve as food to the monks of inferior order, and that their hides should be used for binding the missals, that he eventually granted them permission to kill the offending animals (Fig. 138). If we pass from the ninth to the thirteenth century, we find that Louis IX., king of France, was as keen a sportsman and as brave a warrior as any of his ancestors. He was, indeed, as fond of hunting as of war, and during his first crusade an opportunity occurred to him of hunting the lion. "As soon as he began to know the country of Cesarea," says Joinville, "the King set to work with his people to hunt lions, so that they captured many; but in doing so they incurred great bodily danger. The mode of taking them was this: They pursued them on the swiftest horses. When they came near one they shot a bolt or arrow at him, and the animal, feeling himself wounded, ran at the first person he could see, who immediately turned his horse's head and fled as fast as he could. During his flight he dropped a portion of his clothing, which the lion caught up and tore, thinking it was the person who had injured him; and whilst the lion was thus engaged the hunters again approached the infuriated animal and shot more bolts and arrows at him. Soon the lion left the cloth and madly rushed at some other hunter, who adopted the same strategy as before. This was repeated until the animal succumbed, becoming exhausted by the wounds he had received." [Illustration: Fig. 138.--"Nature and Appearance of Deer, and how they can be hunted with Dogs."--Fac-simile of a Miniature in the "Livre du Roy Modus"--Manuscript of the Fourteenth Century (National Library of Paris)] Notwithstanding the passion which this king had for hunting, he was the first to grant leave to the bourgeoisie to enjoy the sport. The condition he made with them was that they should always give a haunch of any animal killed to the lord of the soil. It is to this that we must trace the origin of giving the animal's foot to the huntsman or to the person who has the lead of the hunting party. Louis XI., however, did not at all act in this liberal manner, and although it might have been supposed that the incessant wars and political intrigues in which he was constantly engaged would have given him no time for amusements of this kind, yet he was, nevertheless, the keenest sportsman of his day. This tyrant of the Castle of Plessis-les-Tours, who was always miserly, except in matters of hunting, in which he was most lavish, forbade even the higher classes to hunt under penalty of hanging. To ensure the execution of his severe orders, he had all the castles as well as the cottages searched, and any net, engine, or sporting arm found was immediately destroyed. His only son, the heir to the throne, was not exempted from these laws. Shut up in the Castle of Amboise, he had no permission to leave it, for it was the will of the King that the young prince should remain ignorant of the noble exercises of chivalry. One day the Dauphin prayed his governor, M. du Bouchage, with so much earnestness to give him an idea of hunting, that this noble consented to make an excursion into the neighbouring wood with him. The King, however, managed to find it out, and Du Bouchage had great difficulty in keeping his head on his shoulders. One of the best ways of pleasing Louis XI. was to offer him some present relating to his favourite pastime, either pointers, hounds, falcons, or varlets who were adepts in the art of venery or hawking (Figs. 139 and 140). When the cunning monarch became old and infirm, in order to make his enemies believe that he was still young and vigorous, he sent messengers everywhere, even to the most remote countries, to purchase horses, dogs, and falcons, for which, according to Comines, he paid large sums (Fig. 141). On his death, the young prince, Charles VIII., succeeded him, and he seems to have had an innate taste for hunting, and soon made up for lost time and the privation to which his father had subjected him. He hunted daily, and generously allowed the nobles to do the same. It is scarcely necessary to say that these were not slow in indulging in the privilege thus restored to them, and which was one of their most ancient pastimes and occupations; for it must be remembered that, in those days of small intellectual culture, hunting must have been a great, if not at times the only, resource against idleness and the monotony of country life. Everything which related to sport again became the fashion amongst the youth of the nobility, and their chief occupation when not engaged in war. They continued as formerly to invent every sort of sporting device. For example, they obtained from other countries traps, engines, and hunting-weapons; they introduced into France at great expense foreign animals, which they took great pains in naturalising as game or in training as auxiliaries in hunting. After having imported the reindeer from Lapland, which did not succeed in their temperate climate, and the pheasant from Tartary, with which they stocked the woods, they imported with greater success the panther and the leopard from Africa, which were used for furred game as the hawk was for feathered game. The mode of hunting with these animals was as follows: The sportsmen, preceded by their dogs, rode across country, each with a leopard sitting behind him on his saddle. When the dogs had started the game the leopard jumped off the saddle and sprang after it, and as soon as it was caught the hunters threw the leopard a piece of raw flesh, for which he gave up the prey and remounted behind his master (Fig. 142) Louis XI., Charles VIII., and Louis XII. often hunted thus. The leopards, which formed a part of the royal venery, were kept in an enclosure of the Castle of Amboise, which still exists near the gate _des Lions_, so called, no doubt, on account of these sporting and carnivorous animals being mistaken for lions by the common people. There, were, however, always lions in the menageries of the kings of France. [Illustration: Fig. 139.--"The Way to catch Squirrels on the Ground in the Woods"--Fac-simile of a Miniature in the Manuscript of the "Livre du Roy Modus" (Fourteenth Century)] Francis I. was quite as fond of hunting as any of his predecessors. His innate taste for sport was increased during his travels in Italy, where he lived with princes who displayed great splendour in their hunting equipages. He even acquired the name of the _Father of Sportsmen_. His _netting_ establishment alone, consisted of one captain, one lieutenant, twelve mounted huntsmen, six varlets to attend the bloodhounds; six whips, who had under their charge sixty hounds; and one hundred bowmen on foot, carrying large stakes for fixing the nets and tents, which were carried by fifty six-horsed chariots. He was much pleased when ladies followed the chase; and amongst those who were most inclined to share its pleasures, its toils, and even its perils, was Catherine de Medicis, then Dauphine, who was distinguished for her agility and her graceful appearance on horseback, and who became a thorough sportswoman. [Illustration: Fig. 140.-"The Way of catching Partridges with an Osier Net-Work Apparatus"--Fac-simile of a Miniature in "Livre du Roy Modus."] The taste for hunting having become very general, and the art being considered as the most noble occupation to which persons could devote themselves, it is not surprising to find sporting works composed by writers of the greatest renown and of the highest rank. The learned William Budé, whom Erasmus called the _wonder of France_, dedicated to the children of Francis I. the second book of his "Philologie," which contains a treatise on stag-hunting. This treatise, originally written in Latin, was afterwards translated into French by order of Charles IX., who was acknowledged to be one of the boldest and most scientific hunters of his time. An extraordinary feat, which has never been imitated by any one, is recorded of him, and that was, that alone, on horseback and without dogs, he hunted down a stag. The "Chasse Royale," the authorship of which is attributed to him, is replete with scientific information. "Wolf-hunting," a work by the celebrated Clamorgan, and "Yenery," by Du Fouilloux, were dedicated to Charles IX., and a great number of special treatises on such subjects appeared in his reign. [Illustration: Fig. 141.--"Kennel in which Dogs should live, and how they should be kept."--Fac-simile of a Miniature in Manuscript of Phoebus (Fifteenth Century).] His brother, the effeminate Henry III., disliked hunting, as he considered it too fatiguing and too dangerous. On the other hand, according to Sully, Henry IV., _le Béarnais_, who learned hunting in early youth in the Pyrenees, "loved all kinds of sport, and, above all, the most fatiguing and adventurous pursuits, such as those after wolves, bears, and boars." He never missed a chance of hunting, "even when in face of an enemy. If he knew a stag to be near, he found time to hunt it," and we find in the "Memoirs of Sully " that the King hunted the day after the famous battle of Ivry. One day, when he was only King of Navarre, he invited the ladies of Pau to come and see a bear-hunt. Happily they refused, for on that occasion their nerves would have been put to a serious test. Two bears killed two of the horses, and several bowmen were hugged to death by the ferocious animals. Another bear, although pierced in several places, and having six or seven pike-heads in his body, charged eight men who were stationed on the top of a rock, and the whole of them with the bear were all dashed to pieces down the precipice. The only point in which Louis XIII. resembled his father was his love of the chase, for during his reign hunting continued in France, as well as in other countries, to be a favourite royal pastime. We have remarked that St. Germain d'Auxerre, who at a certain period was the patron of sportsmen, made hunting his habitual relaxation. He devoted himself to it with great keenness in his youth, before he became bishop, that is, when he was Duke of Auxerre and general of the troops of the provinces. Subsequently, when against his will he was raised to the episcopal dignity, not only did he give up all pleasures, but he devoted himself to the strictest religious life. Unfortunately, in those days, all church-men did not understand, as he did, that the duties of their holy vocation were not consistent with these pastimes, for, in the year 507, we find that councils and synods forbade priests to hunt. In spite of this, however, the ancient historians relate that several noble prelates, yielding to the customs of the times, indulged in hunting the stag and flying the falcon. [Illustration: Fig. 142.--Hunting with the Leopard, from a Stamp of Jean Stradan (Sixteenth Century).] It is related in history that some of the most illustrious popes were also great lovers of the chase, namely, Julius II, Leo X., and, previously to them, Pius II, who, before becoming Pope, amongst other literary and scientific works, wrote a Latin treatise on venery under his Christian names, Æneas Silvius. It is easy to understand how it happened that sports formerly possessed such attractions for ecclesiastical dignitaries. In early life they acquired the tastes and habits of people of their rank, and they were accordingly extremely jealous of the rights of chase in their domains. Although Pope Clement V., in his celebrated "Institutions," called "Clémentines," had formally forbidden the monks to hunt, there were few who did not evade the canonical prohibition by pursuing furred game, and that without considering that they were violating the laws of the Church. The papal edict permitted the monks and priests to hunt under certain circumstances, and especially where rabbits or beasts of prey increased so much as to damage the crops. It can easily be imagined that such would always be the case at a period when the people were so strictly forbidden to destroy game; and therefore hunting was practised at all seasons in the woods and fields in the vicinity of each abbey. The jealous peasants, not themselves having the right of hunting, and who continually saw _Master Abbot_ passing on his hunting excursions, said, with malice, that "the monks never forgot to pray for the success of the litters and nests (_pro pullis et nidis_), in order that game might always be abundant." [Illustration: Fig. 143.--"How Wolves may be caught with a Snare."--Fac-simile of a Miniature in the Manuscript of Phoebus (Fifteenth Century).] If venery, as a regular science, dates from a comparatively recent period, it is not so with falconry, the first traces of which are lost in obscure antiquity. This kind of sport, which had become a most learned and complicated art, was the delight of the nobles of the Middle Ages and during the Renaissance period. It was in such esteem that a nobleman or his lady never appeared in public without a hawk on the wrist as a mark of dignity (Fig. 147). Even bishops and abbots entered the churches with their hunting birds, which they placed on the steps of the altar itself during the service. [Illustration: Fig. 144.--"How Bears and other Beasts may be caught with a Dart."--Fac-simile of a Miniature in the Manuscript of Phoebus (Fifteenth Century).] The bird, like the sword, was a distinctive mark which was inseparable from the person of gentle birth, who frequently even went to war with the falcon on his wrist. During the battle he would make his squire hold the bird, which he replaced on his gauntlet when the fight was over. In fact, it was forbidden by the laws of chivalry for persons to give up their birds, even as a ransom, should they be made prisoners; in which case they had to let the noble birds fly, in order that they might not share their captivity. The falcon to a certain degree partook of his owner's nobility; he was, moreover, considered a noble bird by the laws of falconry, as were all birds of prey which could be trained for purposes of sport. All other birds, without distinction, were declared _ignoble_, and no exception was made to this rule by the naturalists of the Middle Ages, even in favour of the strongest and most magnificent, such as the eagle and vulture. According to this capricious classification, they considered the sparrow-hawk, which was the smallest of the hunting-birds, to rank higher than the eagle. The nickname of this diminutive sporting bird was often applied to a country-gentleman, who, not being able to afford to keep falcons, used the sparrow-hawk to capture partridges and quail. [Illustration: Fig. 145.--Olifant, or Hunting-horn, in Ivory (Fourteenth Century).--From an Original existing in England.] It was customary for gentlemen of all classes, whether sportsmen or not, to possess birds of some kind, "to keep up their rank," as the saying then was. Only the richest nobles, however, were expected to keep a regular falconry, that is, a collection of birds suited for taking all kinds of game, such as the hare, the kite, the heron, &c., as each sport not only required special birds, but a particular and distinctive retinue and establishment. [Illustration: Fig. 146.--Details Hunting-horn of the Fourteenth Century.--From the Original in an English Collection.] Besides the cost of falcons, which was often very great (for they were brought from the most distant countries, such as Sweden, Iceland, Turkey, and Morocco), their rearing and training involved considerable outlay, as may be more readily understood from the illustrations (Figs. 148 to 155), showing some of the principal details of the long and difficult education which had to be given them. To succeed in making the falcon obey the whistle, the voice, and the signs of the falconer was the highest aim of the art, and it was only by the exercise of much patience that the desired resuit was obtained. All birds of prey, when used for sport, received the generic name of _falcon_; and amongst them were to be found the gerfalcon, the saker-hawk, the lanner, the merlin, and the sparrow-hawk. The male birds were smaller than the females, and were called _tiercelet_--this name, however, more particularly applied to the gosshawk or the largest kind of male hawk, whereas the males of the above mentioned were called _laneret, sacret, émouchet._ Generally the male birds were used for partridges and quail, and the female birds for the hare, the heron, and crane. _Oiseaux de poing_, or _hand-birds,_ was the name given to the gosshawk, common hawk, the gerfalcon, and the merlin, because they returned to the hand of their master after having pursued game. The lanner, sparrow-hawk, and saker-hawk were called _oiseaux de leure_, from the fact that it was always necessary to entice them back again. [Illustration: Fig. 147.--A Noble of Provence (Fifteenth Century).--Bonnart's "Costumes from the Tenth to the Sixteenth Century."] The lure was an imitation of a bird, made of red cloth, that it might be more easily seen from a distance. It was stuffed so that the falcon could settle easily on it, and furnished with the wings of a partridge, duck, or heron, according to circumstances. The falconer swung his mock bird like a sling, and whistled as he did so, and the falcon, accustomed to find a piece of flesh attached to the lure, flew down in order to obtain it, and was thus secured. [Illustration: Fig. 148.--King Modus teaching the Art of Falconry.--Fac-simile of a Miniature in the Manuscript of "Livre du Roy Modus" (Fourteenth Century).] The trainers of birds divided them into two kinds, namely, the _niais_ or simple bird, which had been taken from the nest, and the wild bird (_hagard_) captured when full-grown. The education of the former was naturally very much the easier, but they succeeded in taming both classes, and even the most rebellious were at last subdued by depriving them of sleep, by keeping away the light from them, by coaxing them with the voice, by patting them, by giving them choice food, &c. Regardless of his original habits, the bird was first accustomed to have no fear of men, horses, and dogs. He was afterwards fastened to a string by one leg, and, being allowed to fly a short distance, was recalled to the lure, where he always found a dainty bit of food. After he had been thus exercised for several months, a wounded partridge was let loose that he might catch it near the falconer, who immediately took it from him before he could tear it to pieces. When he appeared sufficiently tame, a quail or partridge, previously stripped of a few feathers so as to prevent it flying properly, was put in his way as before. If he was wanted for hunting hares, a stuffed hare was dragged before him, inside of which was a live chicken, whose head and liver was his reward if he did his work well. Then they tried him with a hare whose fore-leg was broken in order to ensure his being quickly caught. For the kite, they placed two hawks together on the same perch, so as to accustom them peaceably to live and hunt together, for if they fought with one another, as strange birds were apt to do, instead of attacking the kite, the sport would of course have failed. At first a hen of the colour of a kite was given them to fight with. When they had mastered this, a real kite was used, which was tied to a string and his claws and beak were filed so as to prevent him from wounding the young untrained falcons. The moment they had secured their prey, they were called off it and given chickens' flesh to eat on the lure. The same System was adopted for hunting the heron or crane (Fig. 159). [Illustration: Fig. 149.--Falconers dressing their Birds.--Fac-simile of a Miniature in the Manuscript of "Livre du Roy Modus" (Fourteenth Century).] It will be seen that, in order to train birds, it was necessary for a large number of the various kinds of game to be kept on the premises, and for each branch of sport a regular establishment was required. In falconry, as in venery, great care was taken to secure that a bird should continue at one object of prey until he had secured it, that is to say, it was most essential to teach it not to leave the game he was after in order to pursue another which might come in his way. To establish a falconry, therefore, not only was a very large poultry-yard required, but also a considerable staff of huntsmen, falconers, and whips, besides a number of horses and dogs of all sorts, which were either used for starting the game for the hawks, or for running it down when it was forced to ground by the birds. [Illustration: Fig. 150.--Varlets of Falconry.--Fac-simile of a Miniature in the Manuscript of "Livre du Roy Modus" (Fourteenth Century).] A well-trained falcon was a bird of great value, and was the finest present that could be made to a lady, to a nobleman, or to the King himself, by any one who had received a favour. For instance, the King of France received six birds from the Abbot of St. Hubert as a token of gratitude for the protection granted by him to the abbey. The King of Denmark sent him several as a gracious offering in the month of April; the Grand Master of Malta in the month of May. At court, in those days, the reception of falcons either in public or in private was a great business, and the first trial of any new birds formed a topic of conversation among the courtiers for some time after. The arrival at court of a hawk-dealer from some distant country was also a great event. It is said that Louis XI. gave orders that watch should be kept night and day to seize any falcons consigned to the Duke of Brittany from Turkey. The plan succeeded, and the birds thus stolen were brought to the King, who exclaimed, "By our holy Lady of Cléry! what will the Duke Francis and his Bretons do? They will be very angry at the good trick I have played them." European princes vied with each other in extravagance as regards falconry; but this was nothing in comparison to the magnificence displayed in oriental establishments. The Count de Nevers, son of Philip the Bold, Duke of Burgundy, having been made prisoner at the battle of Nicopolis, was presented to the Sultan Bajazet, who showed him his hunting establishment consisting of seven thousand falconers and as many huntsmen. The Duke of Burgundy, on hearing this, sent twelve white hawks, which were very scarce birds, as a present to Bajazet. The Sultan was so pleased with them that he sent him back his son in exchange. [Illustration: Fig. 151.--"How to train a New Falcon."--Fac-simile of a Miniature in the Manuscript of "Livre du Roy Modus" (Fourteenth Century).] The "Livre du Roy Modus" gives the most minute and curious details on the noble science of hawking. For instance, it tells us that the _nobility_ of the falcon was held in such respect that their utensils, trappings, or feeding-dishes were never used for other birds. The glove on which they were accustomed to alight was frequently elaborately embroidered in gold, and was never used except for birds of their own species. In the private establishments the leather hoods, which were put on their heads to prevent them seeing, were embroidered with gold and pearls and surmounted with the feathers of birds of paradise. Each bird wore on his legs two little bells with his owner's crest upon them; the noise made by these was very distinct, and could be heard even when the bird was too high in the air to be seen, for they were not made to sound in unison; they generally came from Italy, Milan especially being celebrated for their manufacture. Straps were also fastened to the falcon's legs, by means of which he was attached to the perch; at the end of this strap was a brass or gold ring with the owner's name engraved upon it. In the royal establishments each ring bore on one side, "I belong to the king," and on the other the name of the Grand Falconer. This was a necessary precaution, for the birds frequently strayed, and, if captured, they could thus be recognised and returned. The ownership of a falcon was considered sacred, and, by an ancient barbaric law, the stealer of a falcon was condemned to a very curious punishment. The unfortunate thief was obliged to allow the falcon to eat six ounces of the flesh of his breast, unless he could pay a heavy fine to the owner and another to the king. [Illustration: Fig. 152.--Falconers.--Fac-simile from a Miniature in Manuscript of the Thirteenth Century, which treats of the "Cour de Jaime, Roi de Maiorque."] A man thoroughly acquainted with the mode of training hawks was in high esteem everywhere. If he was a freeman, the nobles outbid each other as to who should secure his services; if he was a serf, his master kept him as a rare treasure, only parted with him as a most magnificent present, or sold him for a considerable sum. Like the clever huntsman, a good falconer (Fig. 156) was bound to be a man of varied information on natural history, the veterinary art, and the chase; but the profession generally ran in families, and the son added his own experience to the lessons of his father. There were also special schools of venery and falconry, the most renowned being of course in the royal household. The office of Grand Falconer of France, the origin of which dates from 1250, was one of the highest in the kingdom. The Maréchal de Fleuranges says, in his curious "Memoirs"--"The Grand Falconer, whose salary is four thousand florins" (the golden florin was worth then twelve or fifteen francs, and this amount must represent upwards of eighty thousand francs of present currency), "has fifty gentlemen under him, the salary of each being from five to six thousand livres. He has also fifty assistant falconers at two hundred livres each, all chosen by himself. His establishment consists of three hundred birds; he has the right to hunt wherever he pleases in the kingdom; he levies a tax on all bird-dealers, who are forbidden, under penalty of the confiscation of their stock, from selling a single bird in any town or at court without his sanction." The Grand Falconer was chief at all the hunts or hawking meetings; in public ceremonies he always appeared with the bird on his wrist, as an emblem of his rank; and the King, whilst hawking, could not let loose his bird until after the Grand Falconer had slipped his. [Illustration: Fig. 153.--"How to bathe a New Falcon."--Fac-simile of a Miniature in the Manuscript of "Livre du Roy Modus" (Fourteenth Century).] Falconry, like venery, had a distinctive and professional vocabulary, which it was necessary for every one who joined in hawking to understand, unless he wished to be looked upon as an ignorant yeoman. "Flying the hawk is a royal pastime," says the Jesuit Claude Binet, "and it is to talk royally to talk of the flight of birds. Every one speaks of it, but few speak well. Many speak so ignorantly as to excite pity among their hearers. Sometimes one says the _hand_ of the bird instead of saying the _talon_, sometimes the _talon_ instead of the _claw_, sometimes the _claw_ instead of the _nail_" &c. The fourteenth century was the great epoch of falconry. There were then so many nobles who hawked, that in the rooms of inns there were perches made under the large mantel-pieces on which to place the birds while the sportsmen were at dinner. Histories of the period are full of characteristic anecdotes, which prove the enthusiasm which was created by hawking in those who devoted themselves to it. [Illustration: Fig. 154.--"How to make Young Hawks fly."--Fac-simile of a Miniature in the Manuscript of "Livre du Roy Modus" (Fourteenth Century).] Emperors and kings were as keen as others for this kind of sport. As early as the tenth century the Emperor Henry I. had acquired the soubriquet of "the Bird-catcher," from the fact of his giving much more attention to his birds than to his subjects. His example was followed by one of his successors, the Emperor Henry VI., who was reckoned the first falconer of his time. When his father, the Emperor Frederick Barbarossa (Red-beard), died in the Holy Land, in 1189, the Archdukes, Electors of the Empire, went out to meet the prince so as to proclaim him Emperor of Germany. They found him, surrounded by dogs, horses, and birds, ready to go hunting. "The day is fine," he said; "allow us to put off serious affairs until to-morrow." Two centuries later we find at the court of France the same ardour for hawking and the same admiration for the performances of falcons. The Constable Bertrand du Guesclin gave two hawks to King Charles VI.; and the Count de Tancarville, whilst witnessing a combat between these noble birds and a crane which had been powerful enough to keep two greyhounds at bay, exclaimed, "I would not give up the pleasure which I feel for a thousand florins!" The court-poet, William Crétin, although he was Canon of the holy chapel of Vincennes, was as passionately fond of hawking as his good master Louis XII. He thus describes the pleasure he felt in seeing a heron succumb to the vigorous attack of the falcons:-- "Qui auroit la mort aux dents, Il revivroit d'avour un tel passe-temps!" ("He who is about to die Would live again with such amusement.") [Illustration: Fig. 155.--Lady setting out Hawking.--Fac-simile of a Miniature in the Manuscript of "Livre du Roy Modus" (Fourteenth. Century).] At a hunting party given by Louis XII. to the Archduke Maximilian, Mary of Burgundy, the Archduke's wife, was killed by a fall from her horse. The King presented his best falcons to the Archduke with a view to divert his mind and to turn his attention from the sad event, and one of the historians tells us that the bereaved husband was soon consoled: "The partridges, herons, wild ducks, and quails which he was enabled to take on his journey home by means of the King's present, materially lessening his sorrow." Falconry, after having been in much esteem for centuries, at last became amenable to the same law which affects all great institutions, and, having reached the height of its glory, it was destined to decay. Although the art disappeared completely under Louis the Great, who only liked stag-kunting, and who, by drawing all the nobility to court, disorganized country life, no greater adept had ever been known than King Louis XIII. His first favourite and Grand Falconer was Albert de Luynes, whom he made prime minister and constable. Even in the Tuileries gardens, on his way to mass at the convent of the Feuillants, this prince amused himself by catching linnets and wrens with noisy magpies trained to pursue small birds. It was during this reign that some ingenious person discovered that the words LOUIS TREIZIÈME, ROY DE FRANCE ET DE NAVARRE, exactly gave this anagram, ROY TRÈS-RARE, ESTIMÉ DIEU DE LA FAUCONNERIE. It was also at this time that Charles d'Arcussia, the last author who wrote a technical work on falconry, after praising his majesty for devoting himself so thoroughly to the divine sport, compared the King's birds to domestic angels, and the carnivorous birds which they destroyed he likened to the devil. From this he argued that the sport was like the angel Gabriel destroying the demon Asmodeus. He also added, in his dedication to the King, "As the nature of angels is above that of men, so is that of these birds above all other animals." [Illustration: Fig. 156.--Dress of the Falconer (Thirteenth Century).--Sculpture of the Cathedral of Rouen.] At that time certain religious or rather superstitious ceremonies were in use for blessing the water with which the falcons were sprinkled before hunting, and supplications were addressed to the eagles that they might not molest them. The following words were used: "I adjure you, O eagles! by the true God, by the holy God, by the most blessed Virgin Mary, by the nine orders of angels, by the holy prophets, by the twelve apostles, &c.... to leave the field clear to our birds, and not to molest them: in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost." It was at this time that, in order to recover a lost bird, the Sire de la Brizardière, a professional necromancer, proposed beating the owner of the bird with birch-rods until he bled, and of making a charm with the blood, which was reckoned infallible. [Illustration: Fig. 157.--Diseases of Dogs and their Cure.--Fac-simile of a Miniature in the Manuscript of Phoebus (Fourteenth Century).] Elzéar Blaze expressed his astonishment that the ladies should not have used their influence to prevent falconry from falling into disuse. The chase, he considered, gave them an active part in an interesting and animated scene, which only required easy and graceful movements on their part, and to which no danger was attached. "The ladies knowing," he says, "how to fly a bird, how to call him back, and how to encourage him with their voice, being familiar with him from having continually carried him on their wrist, and often even from having broken him in themselves, the honour of hunting belongs to them by right. Besides, it brings out to advantage their grace and dexterity as they gallop amongst the sportsmen, followed by their pages and varlets and a whole herd of horses and dogs." The question of precedence and of superiority had, at every period, been pretty evenly balanced between venery and falconry, each having its own staunch supporters. Thus, in the "Livre du Roy Modus," two ladies contend in verse (for the subject was considered too exalted to be treated of in simple prose), the one for the superiority of the birds, the other for the superiority of dogs. Their controversy is at length terminated by a celebrated huntsman and falconer, who decides in favour of venery, for the somewhat remarkable reason that those who pursue it enjoy oral and ocular pleasure at the same time. In an ancient Treatise by Gace de la Vigne, in which the same question occupies no fewer than ten thousand verses, the King (unnamed) ends the dispute by ordering that in future they shall be termed pleasures of dogs and pleasures of birds, so that there may be no superiority on one side or the other (Fig. 160). The court-poet, William Crétin, who was in great renown during the reigns of Louis XII. and Francis I., having asked two ladies to discuss the same subject in verse, does not hesitate, on the contrary, to place falconry above venery. [Illustration: Fig. 158.--German Falconer, designed and engraved, in the Sixteenth Century, by J. Amman.] It may fairly be asserted that venery and falconry have taken a position of some importance in history; and in support of this theory it will suffice to mention a few facts borrowed from the annals of the chase. The King of Navarre, Charles the Bad, had sworn to be faithful to the alliance made between himself and King Edward III. of England; but the English troops having been beaten by Du Guesclin, Charles saw that it was to his advantage to turn to the side of the King of France. In order not to appear to break his oath, he managed to be taken prisoner by the French whilst out hunting, and thus he sacrificed his honour to his personal interests. It was also due to a hunting party that Henry III., another King of Navarre, who was afterwards Henry IV., escaped from Paris, on the 3rd February, 1576, and fled to Senlis, where his friends of the Reformed religion came to join him. [Illustration: Fig. 159.--Heron-hawking.--Fac-simile of a Miniature in the Manuscript of the "Livre du Roy Modus" (Fourteenth Century).] Hunting formed a principal entertainment when public festivals were celebrated, and it was frequently accompanied with great magnificence. At the entry of Isabel of Bavaria into Paris, a sort of stag hunt was performed, when "the streets," according to a popular story of the time, "were full to profusion of hares, rabbits, and goslings." Again, at the solemn entry of Louis XI. into Paris, a representation of a doe hunt took place near the fountain St. Innocent; "after which the queen received a present of a magnificent stag, made of confectionery, and having the royal arms hung round its neck." At the memorable festival given at Lille, in 1453, by the Duke of Burgundy, a very curious performance took place. "At one end of the table," says the historian Mathieu de Coucy, "a heron was started, which was hunted as if by falconers and sportsmen; and presently from the other end of the table a falcon was slipped, which hovered over the heron. In a few minutes another falcon was started from the other side of the table, which attacked the heron so fiercely that he brought him down in the middle of the hall. After the performance was over and the heron was killed, it was served up at the dinner-table." [Illustration: Fig. 160.--Sport with Dogs.--"How the Wild Boar is hunted by means of Dogs."--Fac-simile of a Miniature in the Manuscript of the "Livre du Roy Modus" (Fourteenth Century).] We shall conclude this chapter with a few words on bird-fowling, a kind of sport which was almost disdained in the Middle Ages. The anonymous author of the "Livre du Roy Modus" called it, in the fourteenth century, the pastime of the poor, "because the poor, who can neither keep hounds nor falcons to hunt or to fly, take much pleasure in it, particularly as it serves at the same time as a means of subsistence to many of them." In this book, which was for a long time the authority in matters of sport generally, we find that nearly all the methods and contrivances now employed for bird-fowling were known and in use in the Middle Ages, in addition to some which have since fallen into disuse. We accordingly read in the "Roy Modus" a description of the drag-net, the mirror, the screech-owl, the bird-pipe (Fig. 161), the traps, the springs, &c., the use of all of which is now well understood. At that time, when falcons were so much required, it was necessary that people should be employed to catch them when young; and the author of this book speaks of nets of various sorts, and the pronged piece of wood in the middle of which a screech-owl or some other bird was placed in order to attract the falcons (Fig. 162). [Illustration: Fig. 161.--Bird-piping.--"The Manner of Catching Birds by piping."--Fac-simile of Miniature in the Manuscript of the "Livre du Roy Modus" (Fourteenth Century).] Two methods were in use in those days for catching the woodcook and pheasant, which deserve to be mentioned. "The pheasants," says "King Modus," "are of such a nature that the male bird cannot bear the company of another." Taking advantage of this weakness, the plan of placing a mirror, which balanced a sort of wicker cage or coop, was adopted. The pheasant, thinking he saw his fellow, attacked him, struck against the glass and brought down the coop, in which he had leisure to reflect on his jealousy (Fig. 163). Woodcocks, which are, says the author, "the most silly birds," were caught in this way. The bird-fowler was covered from head to foot with clothes of the colour of dead leaves, only having two little holes for his eyes. When he saw one he knelt down noiselessly, and supported his arms on two sticks, so as to keep perfectly still. When the bird was not looking towards him he cautiously approached it on his knees, holding in his hands two little dry sticks covered with red cloth, which he gently waved so as to divert the bird's attention from himself. In this way he gradually got near enough to pass a noose, which he kept ready at the end of a stick, round the bird's neck (Fig. 164). However ingenious these tricks may appear, they are eclipsed by one we find recorded in the "Ixeuticon," a very elegant Latin poem, by Angelis de Barga, written two centuries later. In order to catch a large number of starlings, this author assures us, it is only necessary to have two or three in a cage, and, when a flight of these birds is seen passing, to liberate them with a very long twine attached to their claws. The twine must be covered with bird-lime, and, as the released birds instantly join their friends, all those they come near get glued to the twine and fall together to the ground. [Illustration: Fig. 162.--Bird-catching with a Machine like a Long Arm.--Fac-simile of Miniature in the Manuscript of the "Livre du Roy Modus" (Fourteenth Century).] As at the present time, the object of bird-fowling was twofold, namely, to procure game for food and to capture birds to be kept either for their voice or for fancy as pets. The trade in the latter was so important, at least in Paris, that the bird-catchers formed a numerous corporation having its statutes and privileges. The Pont au Change (then covered on each side with houses and shops occupied by goldsmiths and money-changers) was the place where these people carried on their trade; and they had the privilege of hanging their cages against the houses, even without the sanction of the proprietors. This curious right was granted to them by Charles VI. in 1402, in return for which they were bound to "provide four hundred birds" whenever a king was crowned, "and an equal number when the queen made her first entry into her good town of Paris." The goldsmiths and money-changers, however, finding that this became a nuisance, and that it injured their trade, tried to get it abolished. They applied to the authorities to protect their rights, urging that the approaches to their shops, the rents of which they paid regularly, were continually obstructed by a crowd of purchasers and dealers in birds. The case was brought several times before parliament, which only confirmed the orders of the kings of France and the ancient privileges of the bird-catchers. At the end of the sixteenth century the quarrel became so bitter that the goldsmiths and changers took to "throwing down the cages and birds and trampling them under foot," and even assaulted and openly ill-treated the poor bird-dealers. But a degree of parliament again justified the sale of birds on the Pont an Change, by condemning the ring-leader, [Illustration: Fig. 163.--Pheasant Fowling.--"Showing how to catch Pheasants."--Fac-simile of a Miniature in the Manuscript of the "Livre du Roy Modus" (Fourteenth Century).] Pierre Filacier, the master goldsmith who had commenced the proceedings against the bird-catchers, to pay a double fine, namely, twenty crowns to the plaintiffs and ten to the King. [Illustration: Fig. 164.--The Mode of catching a Woodcock.--Fac-simile of a Miniature in the Manuscript of the "Livre du Roy Modus" (Fourteenth Century).] It is satisfactory to observe that at that period measures were taken to preserve nests and to prevent bird-fowling from the 15th of March to the 15th of August. Besides this, it was necessary to have an express permission from the King himself to give persons the right of catching birds on the King's domains. Before any one could sell birds it was required for him to have been received as a master bird-catcher. The recognised bird-catchers, therefore, had no opponents except dealers from other countries, who brought canary-birds, parrots, and other foreign specimens into Paris. These dealers were, however, obliged to conform to strict rules. They were required on their arrival to exhibit their birds from ten to twelve o'clock on the marble stone in the palace yard on the days when parliament sat, in order that the masters and governors of the King's aviary, and, after them, the presidents and councillors, might have the first choice before other people of anything they wished to buy. They were, besides, bound to part the male and female birds in separate cages with tickets on them, so that purchasers might not be deceived; and, in case of dispute on this point, some sworn inspectors were appointed as arbitrators. No doubt, emboldened by the victory which they had achieved over the goldsmiths of the Pont an Change, the bird-dealers of Paris attempted to forbid any bourgeois of the town from breeding canaries or any sort of cage birds. The bourgeois resented this, and brought their case before the Marshals of France. They urged that it was easy for them to breed canaries, and it was also a pleasure for their wives and daughters to teach them, whereas those bought on the Pont an Change were old and difficult to educate. This appeal was favourably received, and an order from the tribunal of the Marshals of France permitted the bourgeois to breed canaries, but it forbade the sale of them, which it was considered would interfere with the trade of the master-fowlers of the town, faubourgs, and suburbs of Paris. [Illustration: Fig. 165.--Powder-horn.--Work of the Sixteenth Century (Artillery Museum of Brussels).] Games and Pastimes. Games of the Ancient Greeks and Romans.--Games of the Circus.--Animal Combats.--Daring of King Pepin.--The King's Lions.--Blind Men's Fights.--Cockneys of Paris.--Champ de Mars.--Cours Plénières and Cours Couronnées.--Jugglers, Tumblers, and Minstrels.--Rope-dancers.--Fireworks.--Gymnastics.--Cards and Dice.--Chess, Marbles, and Billiards.--La Soule, La Pirouette, &c.--Small Games for Private Society.--History of Dancing.--Ballet des Ardents.--The "Orchésographie" (Art of Dancing) of Thoinot Arbeau.--List of Dances. People of all countries and at all periods have been fond of public amusements, and have indulged in games and pastimes with a view to make time pass agreeably. These amusements have continually varied, according to the character of each nation, and according to the capricious changes of fashion. Since the learned antiquarian, J. Meursius, has devoted a large volume to describing the games of the ancient Greeks ("De Ludis Graecorum"), and Rabelais has collected a list of two hundred and twenty games which were in fashion at different times at the court of his gay master, it will be easily understood that a description of all the games and pastimes which have ever been in use by different nations, and particularly by the French, would form an encyclopaedia of some size. We shall give a rapid sketch of the different kinds of games and pastimes which were most in fashion during the Middle Ages and to the end of the sixteenth century--omitting, however, the religious festivals, which belong to a different category; the public festivals, which will come under the chapter on Ceremonials; the tournaments and tilting matches and other sports of warriors, which belong to Chivalry; and, lastly, the scenic and literary representations, which specially belong to the history of the stage. We shall, therefore, limit ourselves here to giving in a condensed form a few historical details of certain court amusements, and a short description of the games of skill and of chance, and also of dancing. The Romans, especially during the times of the emperors, had a passionate love for performances in the circus and amphitheatre, as well as for chariot races, horse races, foot races, combats of animals, and feats of strength and agility. The daily life of the Roman people may be summed up as consisting of taking their food and enjoying games in the circus (_panem et circenses_). A taste for similar amusements was common to the Gauls as well as to the whole Roman Empire; and, were historians silent on the subject, we need no further information than that which is to be gathered from the ruins of the numerous amphitheatres, which are to be found at every centre of Roman occupation. The circus disappeared on the establishment of the Christian religion, for the bishops condemned it as a profane and sanguinary vestige of Paganism, and, no doubt, this led to the cessation of combats between man and beast. They continued, however, to pit wild or savage animals against one another, and to train dogs to fight with lions, tigers, bears, and bulls; otherwise it would be difficult to explain the restoration by King Chilpéric (A.D. 577) of the circuses and arenas at Paris and Soissons. The remains of one of these circuses was not long ago discovered in Paris whilst they were engaged in laying the foundations for a new street, on the west side of the hill of St. Geneviève, a short distance from the old palace of the Caesars, known by the name of the Thermes of Julian. Gregory of Tours states that Chilpéric revived the ancient games of the circus, but that Gaul had ceased to be famous for good athletes and race-horses, although animal combats continued to take place for the amusement of the kings. One day King Pepin halted, with the principal officers of his army, at the Abbey of Ferrières, and witnessed a fight between a lion and a bull. The bull was of enormous size and extraordinary strength, but nevertheless the lion overcame him; whereupon Pepin, who was surnamed the Short, turned to his officers, who used to joke him about his short stature, and said to them, "Make the lion loose his hold of the bull, or kill him." No one dared to undertake so perilous a task, and some said aloud that the man who would measure his strength with a lion must be mad. Upon this, Pepin sprang into the arena sword in hand, and with two blows cut off the heads of the lion and the bull. "What do you think of that?" he said to his astonished officers. "Am I not fit to be your master? Size cannot compare with courage. Remember what little David did to the Giant Goliath." Eight hundred years later there were occasional animal combats at the court of Francis I. "A fine lady," says Brantôme, "went to see the King's lions, in company with a gentleman who much admired her. She suddenly let her glove drop, and it fell into the lions' den. 'I beg of you,' she said, in the calmest way, to her admirer, 'to go amongst the lions and bring me back my glove.' The gentleman made no remark, but, without even drawing his sword, went into the den and gave himself up silently to death to please the lady. The lions did not move, and he was able to leave their den without a scratch and return the lady her missing glove. 'Here is your glove, madam,' he coldly said to her who evidently valued his life at so small a price; 'see if you can find any one else who would do the same as I have done for you.' So saying he left her, and never afterwards looked at or even spoke to her." It has been imagined that the kings of France only kept lions as living symbols of royalty. In 1333 Philippe de Valois bought a barn in the Rue Froidmantel, near the Château du Louvre, where he established a menagerie for his lions, bears, leopards, and other wild beasts. This royal menagerie still existed in the reigns of Charles VIII. and Francis I. Charles V. and his successors had an establishment of lions in the quadrangle of the Grand Hôtel de St. Paul, on the very spot which was subsequently the site of the Rue des Lions St. Paul. These wild beasts were sometimes employed in the combats, and were pitted against bulls and dogs in the presence of the King and his court. It was after one of these combats that Charles IX., excited by the sanguinary spectacle, wished to enter the arena alone in order to attack a lion which had torn some of his best dogs to pieces, and it was only with great difficulty that the audacious sovereign was dissuaded from his foolish purpose. Henry III. had no disposition to imitate his brother's example; for dreaming one night that his lions were devouring him, he had them all killed the next day. The love for hunting wild animals, such as the wolf, bear, and boar (see chapter on Hunting), from an early date took the place of the animal combats as far as the court and the nobles were concerned. The people were therefore deprived of the spectacle of the combats which had had so much charm for them; and as they could not resort to the alternative of the chase, they treated themselves to a feeble imitation of the games of the circus in such amusements as setting dogs to worry old horses or donkeys, &c. (Fig. 166). Bull-fights, nevertheless, continued in the southern provinces of France, as also in Spain. At village feasts not only did wrestling matches take place, but also queer kinds of combats with sticks or birch boughs. Two men, blindfolded, each armed with a stick, and holding in his hand a rope fastened to a stake, entered the arena, and went round and round trying to strike at a fat goose or a pig which was also let loose with them. It can easily be imagined that the greater number of the blows fell like hail on one or other of the principal actors in this blind combat, amidst shouts of laughter from the spectators. [Illustration: Fig. 166.--Fight between a Horse and Dogs.--Fac-simile of a Manuscript in the British Museum (Thirteenth Century).] Nothing amused our ancestors more than these blind encounters; even kings took part at these burlesque representations. At Mid-Lent annually they attended with their court at the Quinze-Vingts, in Paris, in order to see blindfold persons, armed from head to foot, fighting with a lance or stick. This amusement was quite sufficient to attract all Paris. In 1425, on the last day of August, the inhabitants of the capital crowded their windows to witness the procession of four blind men, clothed in full armour, like knights going to a tournament, and preceded by two men, one playing the hautbois and the other bearing a banner on which a pig was painted. These four champions on the next day attacked a pig, which was to become the property of the one who killed it. The lists were situated in the court of the Hôtel d'Armagnac, the present site of the Palais Royal. A great crowd attended the encounter. The blind men, armed with all sorts of weapons, belaboured each other so furiously that the game would have ended fatally to one or more of them had they not been separated and made to divide the pig which they had all so well earned. [Illustration: Fig. 167.--Merchants and Lion-keepers at Constantinople.--Fac-simile of an Engraving on Wood from the "Cosmographie Universelle" of Thevet: folio, 1575.] The people of the Middle Ages had an insatiable love of sight-seeing; they came great distances, from all parts, to witness any amusing exhibition. They would suffer any amount of privation or fatigue to indulge this feeling, and they gave themselves up to it so heartily that it became a solace to them in their greatest sorrows, and they laughed with that hearty laugh which may be said to be one of their natural characteristics. In all public processions in the open air the crowd (or rather, as we might say, the Cockneys of Paris), in their anxiety to see everything that was to be seen, would frequently obstruct all the public avenues, and so prevent the procession from passing along. In consequence of this the Provosts of Paris on these occasions distributed hundreds of stout sticks amongst the sergeants, who used them freely on the shoulders of the most obstinate sight-seers (see chapter on Ceremonials). There was no religious procession, no parish fair, no municipal feast, and no parade or review of troops, which did not bring together crowds of people, whose ears and eyes were wide open, if only to hear the sound of the trumpet, or to see a "dog rush past with a frying-pan tied to his tail." [Illustration: Fig. 168.--Free Distribution of Bread, Meat, and Wine to the People.--Reduced Copy of a Woodcut of the Solemn Entry of Charles V and Pope Clement VII into Bologna, in 1530.] This curiosity of the French was particularly exhibited when the kings of the first royal dynasty held their _Champs de Mars_, the kings of the second dynasty their _Cours Plenières_, and the kings of the third dynasty their _Cours Couronnées._ In these assemblies, where the King gathered together all his principal vassals once or twice a year, to hold personal communication with them, and to strengthen his power by ensuring their feudal services, large quantities of food and fermented liquors were publicly distributed among the people (Fig. 168). The populace were always most enthusiastic spectators of military displays, of court ceremonies, and, above all, of the various amusements which royalty provided for them at great cost in those days: and it was on these state occasions that jugglers, tumblers, and minstrels displayed their talents. The _Champ de Mars_ was one of the principal fêtes of the year, and was held sometimes in the centre of some large town, sometimes in a royal domain, and sometimes in the open country. Bishop Gregory of Tours describes one which was given in his diocese during the reign of Chilpéric, at the Easter festivals, at which we may be sure that the games of the circus, re-established by Chilpéric, excited the greatest interest. Charlemagne also held _Champs de Mars_, but called them _Cours Royales,_ at which he appeared dressed in cloth of gold studded all over with pearls and precious stones. Under the third dynasty King Robert celebrated court days with the same magnificence, and the people were admitted to the palace during the royal banquet to witness the King sitting amongst his great officers of state. The _Cours Plénières_, which were always held at Christmas, Twelfth-day, Easter, and on the day of Pentecost, were not less brilliant during the reigns of Robert's successors. Louis IX. himself, notwithstanding his natural shyness and his taste for simplicity, was noted for the display he made on state occasions. In 1350, Philippe de Valois wore his crown at the _Cours Plénières_, and from that time they were called _Cours Couronnées_. The kings of jugglers were the privileged performers, and their feats and the other amusements, which continued on each occasion for several days, were provided for at the sovereign's sole expense. [Illustration: Fig. 169.--Feats in Balancing.--Fac-simile of a Miniature in a Manuscript in the Bodleian Library at Oxford (Thirteenth Century).] These kings of jugglers exercised a supreme authority over the art of jugglery and over all the members of this jovial fraternity. It must not be imagined that these jugglers merely recited snatches from tales and fables in rhyme; this was the least of their talents. The cleverest of them played all sorts of musical instruments, sung songs, and repeated by heart a multitude of stories, after the example of their reputed forefather, King Borgabed, or Bédabie, who, according to these troubadours, was King of Great Britain at the time that Alexander the Great was King of Macedonia. The jugglers of a lower order especially excelled in tumbling and in tricks of legerdemain (Figs. 169 and 170). They threw wonderful somersaults, they leaped through hoops placed at certain distances from one another, they played with knives, slings, baskets, brass balls, and earthenware plates, and they walked on their hands with their feet in the air or with their heads turned downwards so as to look through their legs backwards. These acrobatic feats were even practised by women. According to a legend, the daughter of Herodias was a renowned acrobat, and on a bas-relief in the Cathedral of Rouen we find this Jewish dancer turning somersaults before Herod, so as to fascinate him, and thus obtain the decapitation of John the Baptist. [Illustration: Fig. 170.--Sword-dance to the sound of the Bagpipe.--Fac-simile of a Manuscript in the British Museum (Fourteenth Century).] "The jugglers," adds M. de Labédollière, in his clever work on "The Private Life of the French," "often led about bears, monkeys, and other animals, which they taught to dance or to fight (Figs. 171 and 172). A manuscript in the National Library represents a banquet, and around the table, so as to amuse the guests, performances of animals are going on, such as monkeys riding on horseback, a bear feigning to be dead, a goat playing the harp, and dogs walking on their hind legs." We find the same grotesque figures on sculptures, on the capitals of churches, on the illuminated margins of manuscripts of theology, and on prayer-books, which seems to indicate that jugglers were the associates of painters and illuminators, even if they themselves were not the writers and illuminators of the manuscripts. "Jugglery," M. de Labédollière goes on to say, "at that time embraced poetry, music, dancing, sleight of hand, conjuring, wrestling, boxing, and the training of animals. Its humblest practitioners were the mimics or grimacers, in many-coloured garments, and brazen-faced mountebanks, who provoked laughter at the expense of decency." [Illustration: Fig. 171.--Jugglers exhibiting Monkeys and Bears.--Fac-simile of a Manuscript in the British Museum (Thirteenth Century).] At first, and down to the thirteenth century, the profession of a juggler was a most lucrative one. There was no public or private feast of any importance without the profession being represented. Their mimicry and acrobatic feats were less thought of than their long poems or lays of wars and adventures, which they recited in doggerel rhyme to the accompaniment of a stringed instrument. The doors of the châteaux were always open to them, and they had a place assigned to them at all feasts. They were the principal attraction at the _Cours Plénières_, and, according to the testimony of one of their poets, they frequently retired from business loaded with presents, such as riding-horses, carriage-horses, jewels, cloaks, fur robes, clothing of violet or scarlet cloth, and, above all, with large sums of money. They loved to recall with pride the heroic memory of one of their own calling, the brave Norman, Taillefer, who, before the battle of Hastings, advanced alone on horseback between the two armies about to commence the engagement, and drew off the attention of the English by singing them the song of Roland. He then began juggling, and taking his lance by the hilt, he threw it into the air and caught it by the point as it fell; then, drawing his sword, he spun it several times over his head, and caught it in a similar way as it fell. After these skilful exercises, during which the enemy were gaping in mute astonishment, he forced his charger through the English ranks, and caused great havoc before he fell, positively riddled with wounds. Notwithstanding this noble instance, not to belie the old proverb, jugglers were never received into the order of knighthood. They were, after a time, as much abused as they had before been extolled. Their licentious lives reflected itself in their obscene language. Their pantomimes, like their songs, showed that they were the votaries of the lowest vices. The lower orders laughed at their coarseness, and were amused at their juggleries; but the nobility were disgusted with them, and they were absolutely excluded from the presence of ladies and girls in the châteaux and houses of the bourgeoisie. We see in the tale of "Le Jugleor" that they acquired ill fame everywhere, inasmuch as they were addicted to every sort of vice. The clergy, and St. Bernard especially, denounced them and held them up to public contempt. St. Bernard spoke thus of them in one of his sermons written in the middle of the twelfth century: "A man fond of jugglers will soon enough possess a wife whose name is Poverty. If it happens that the tricks of jugglers are forced upon your notice, endeavour to avoid them, and think of other things. The tricks of jugglers never please God." [Illustration: Fig. 172.--Equestrian Performances.--Fac-simile of a Miniature in an English Manuscript of the Thirteenth Century.] From this remark we may understand their fall as well as the disrepute in which they were held at that time, and we are not surprised to find in an old edition of the "Mémoires du Sire de Joinville" this passage, which is, perhaps, an interpolation from a contemporary document: "St. Louis drove from his kingdom all tumblers and players of sleight of hand, through whom many evil habits and tastes had become engendered in the people." A troubadour's story of this period shows that the jugglers wandered about the country with their trained animals nearly starved; they were half naked, and were often without anything on their heads, without coats, without shoes, and always without money. The lower orders welcomed them, and continued to admire and idolize them for their clever tricks (Fig. 173), but the bourgeois class, following the example of the nobility, turned their backs upon them. In 1345 Guillaume de Gourmont, Provost of Paris, forbad their singing or relating obscene stories, under penalty of fine and imprisonment. [Illustration: Fig. 173.--Jugglers performing in public.--From a Miniature of the Manuscript of "Guarin de Loherane" (Thirteenth Century).--Library of the Arsenal, Paris.] Having been associated together as a confraternity since 1331, they lived huddled together in one street of Paris, which took the name of _Rue des Jougleurs_. It was at this period that the Church and Hospital of St. Julian were founded through the exertions of Jacques Goure, a native of Pistoia, and of Huet le Lorrain, who were both jugglers. The newly formed brotherhood at once undertook to subscribe to this good work, and each member did so according to his means. Their aid to the cost of the two buildings was sixty livres, and they were both erected in the Rue St. Martin, and placed under the protection of St. Julian the Martyr. The chapel was consecrated on the last Sunday in September, 1335, and on the front of it there were three figures, one representing a troubadour, one a minstrel, and one a juggler, each with his various instruments. The bad repute into which jugglers had fallen did not prevent the kings of France from attaching buffoons, or fools, as they were generally called, to their households, who were often more or less deformed dwarfs, and who, to all intents and purposes, were jugglers. They were allowed to indulge in every sort of impertinence and waggery in order to excite the risibility of their masters (Figs. 174 and 175). These buffoons or fools were an institution at court until the time of Louis XIV., and several, such as Caillette, Triboulet, and Brusquet, are better known in history than many of the statesmen and soldiers who were their contemporaries. [Illustration: Fig. 174.--Dance of Fools.--Fac-simile of a Miniature in Manuscript of the Thirteenth Century in the Bodleian Library of Oxford.] At the end of the fourteenth century the brotherhood of jugglers divided itself into two distinct classes, the jugglers proper and the tumblers. The former continued to recite serious or amusing poetry, to sing love-songs, to play comic interludes, either singly or in concert, in the streets or in the houses, accompanying themselves or being accompanied by all sorts of musical instruments. The tumblers, on the other hand, devoted themselves exclusively to feats of agility or of skill, the exhibition of trained animals, the making of comic grimaces, and tight-rope dancing. [Illustration: A Court-Fool, of the 15th Century. Fac-simile of a miniature from a ms. in the Bibl. de l'Arsenal, Th. lat., no 125.] The art of rope dancing is very ancient; it was patronised by the Franks, who looked upon it as a marvellous effort of human genius. The most remarkable rope-dancers of that time were of Indian origin. All performers in this art came originally from the East, although they afterwards trained pupils in the countries through which they passed, recruiting themselves chiefly from the mixed tribe of jugglers. According to a document quoted by the learned Foncemagne, rope-dancers appeared as early as 1327 at the entertainments given at state banquets by the kings of France. But long before that time they are mentioned in the poems of troubadours as the necessary auxiliaries of any feast given by the nobility, or even by the monasteries. From the fourteenth to the end of the sixteenth century they were never absent from any public ceremonial, and it was at the state entries of kings and queens, princes and princesses, that they were especially called upon to display their talents. [Illustration: Fig. 175.--Court Fool.--Fac-simile of a Woodcut in the "Cosmographie Universelle" of Munster: folio (Basle, 1552).] One of the most extraordinary examples of the daring of these tumblers is to be found in the records of the entry of Queen Isabel of Bavaria into Paris, in 1385 (see chapter on Ceremonials); and, indeed, all the chronicles of the fifteenth century are full of anecdotes of their doings. Mathieu de Coucy, who wrote a history of the time of Charles VII., relates some very curious details respecting a show which took place at Milan, and which astonished the whole of Europe:--"The Duke of Milan ordered a rope to be stretched across his palace, about one hundred and fifty feet from the ground, and of equal length. On to this a Portuguese mounted, walked straight along, going backwards and forwards, and dancing to the sound of the tambourine. He also hung from the rope with his head downwards, and went through all sorts of tricks. The ladies who were looking on could not help hiding their eyes in their handkerchiefs, from fear lest they should see him overbalance and fall and kill himself." The chronicler of Charles XII., Jean d'Arton, tells us of a not less remarkable feat, performed on the occasion of the obsequies of Duke Pierre de Bourbon, which were celebrated at Moulins, in the month of October, 1503, in the presence of the king and the court. "Amongst other performances was that of a German tight-rope dancer, named Georges Menustre, a very young man, who had a thick rope stretched across from the highest part of the tower of the Castle of Mâcon to the windows of the steeple of the Church of the Jacobites. The height of this from the ground was twenty-five fathoms, and the distance from the castle to the steeple some two hundred and fifty paces. On two evenings in succession he walked along this rope, and on the second occasion when he started from the tower of the castle his feat was witnessed by the king and upwards of thirty thousand persons. He performed all sorts of graceful tricks, such as dancing grotesque dances to music and hanging to the rope by his feet and by his teeth. Although so strange and marvellous, these feats were nevertheless actually performed, unless human sight had been deceived by magic. A female dancer also performed in a novel way, cutting capers, throwing somersaults, and performing graceful Moorish and other remarkable and peculiar dances." Such was their manner of celebrating a funeral. In the sixteenth century these dancers and tumblers became so numerous that they were to be met with everywhere, in the provinces as well as in the towns. Many of them were Bohemians or Zingari. They travelled in companies, sometimes on foot, sometimes on horseback, and sometimes with some sort of a conveyance containing the accessories of their craft and a travelling theatre. But people began to tire of these sorts of entertainments, the more so as they were required to pay for them, and they naturally preferred the public rejoicings, which cost them nothing. They were particularly fond of illuminations and fireworks, which are of much later origin than the invention of gunpowder; although the Saracens, at the time of the Crusades, used a Greek fire for illuminations, which considerably alarmed the Crusaders when they first witnessed its effects. Regular fireworks appear to have been invented in Italy, where the pyrotechnic art has retained its superiority to this day, and where the inhabitants are as enthusiastic as ever for this sort of amusement, and consider it, in fact, inseparable from every religious, private, or public festival. This Italian invention was first introduced into the Low Countries by the Spaniards, where it found many admirers, and it made its appearance in France with the Italian artists who established themselves in that country in the reigns of Charles VIII., Louis XII., and Francis I. Fireworks could not fail to be attractive at the Court of the Valois, to which Catherine de Médicis had introduced the manners and customs of Italy. The French, who up to that time had only been accustomed to the illuminations of St. John's Day and of the first Sunday in Lent, received those fireworks with great enthusiasm, and they soon became a regular part of the programme for public festivals (Fig. 176). [Illustration: Fig. 176.--Fireworks on the Water, with an Imitation of a Naval Combat.--Fac-simile of an Engraving on Copper of the "Pyrotechnie" of Hanzelet le Lorrain: 4to (Pont-à-Mousson, 1630).] We have hitherto only described the sports engaged in for the amusement of the spectators; we have still to describe those in which the actors took greater pleasure than even the spectators themselves. These were specially the games of strength and skill as well as dancing, with a notice of which we shall conclude this chapter. There were, besides, the various games of chance and the games of fun and humour. Most of the bourgeois and the villagers played a variety of games of agility, many of which have descended to our times, and are still to be found at our schools and colleges. Wrestling, running races, the game of bars, high and wide jumping, leap-frog, blind-man's buff, games of ball of all sorts, gymnastics, and all exercises which strengthened the body or added to the suppleness of the limbs, were long in use among the youth of the nobility (Figs. 177 and 178). The Lord of Fleuranges, in his memoirs written at the court of Francis I., recounts numerous exercises to which he devoted himself during his childhood and youth, and which were then looked upon as a necessary part of the education of chivalry. The nobles in this way acquired a taste for physical exercises, and took naturally to combats, tournaments, and hunting, and subsequently their services in the battle-field gave them plenty of opportunities to gratify the taste thus developed in them. These were not, however, sufficient for their insatiable activity; when they could not do anything else, they played at tennis and such games at all hours of the day; and these pastimes had so much attraction for nobles of all ages that they not unfrequently sacrificed their health in consequence of overtaxing their strength. In 1506 the King of Castile, Philippe le Beau, died of pleurisy, from a severe cold which he caught while playing tennis. [Illustration: Fig. 177.--Somersaults.--Fac-simile of a Woodcut in "Exercises in Leaping and Vaulting," by A. Tuccaro: 4to (Paris, 1599).] Tennis also became the favourite game amongst the bourgeois in the towns, and tennis-courts were built in all parts, of such spacious proportions and so well adapted for spectators, that they were often converted into theatres. Their game of billiards resembled the modern one only in name, for it was played on a level piece of ground with wooden balls which were struck with hooked sticks and mallets. It was in great repute in the fourteenth century, for in 1396 Marshal de Boucicault, who was considered one of the best players of his time, won at it six hundred francs (or more than twenty-eight thousand francs of present currency). At the beginning of the following century the Duke Louis d'Orleans ordered _billes et billars_ to be bought for the sum of eleven sols six deniers tournois (about fifteen francs of our money), that he might amuse himself with them. There were several games of the same sort, which were not less popular. Skittles; _la Soule_ or _Soulette_, which consisted of a large ball of hay covered over with leather, the possession of which was contested for by two opposing sides of players; Football; open Tennis; Shuttlecock, &c. It was Charles V. who first thought of giving a more serious and useful character to the games of the people, and who, in a celebrated edict forbidding games of chance, encouraged the establishment of companies of archers and bowmen. These companies, to which was subsequently added that of the arquebusiers, outlived political revolutions, and are still extant, especially in the northern provinces of France. [Illustration: Fig. 178.--The Spring-board.--Fac-simile of a Woodcut in "Exercises in Leaping and Vaulting," by A. Tuccaro: 4to (Paris, 1599).] At all times and in all countries the games of chance were the most popular, although they were forbidden both by ecclesiastical and royal authority. New laws were continually being enacted against them, and especially against those in which dice were used, though with little avail. "Dice shall not be made in the kingdom," says the law of 1256; and "those who are discovered using them, and frequenting taverns and bad places, will be looked upon as suspicions characters." A law of 1291 repeats, "That games with dice be forbidden." Nevertheless, though these prohibitions were frequently renewed, people continued to disregard them and to lose much money at such games. The law of 1396 is aimed particularly against loaded dice, which must have been contemporary with the origin of dice themselves, for no games ever gave rise to a greater amount of roguery than those of this description. They were, however, publicly sold in spite of all the laws to the contrary; for, in the "Dit du Mercier," the dealer offers his merchandise thus:-- "J'ay dez de plus, j'ay dez de moins, De Paris, de Chartres, de Rains." ("I have heavy dice, I have light dice, From Paris, from Chartres, and from Rains.") It has been said that the game of dice was at first called the _game of God_, because the regulation of lottery was one of God's prerogatives; but this derivation is purely imaginary. What appears more likely is, that dice were first forbidden by the Church, and then by the civil authorities, on account of the fearful oaths which were so apt to be uttered by those players who had a run of ill luck. Nothing was commoner than for people to ruin themselves at this game. The poems of troubadours are full of imprecations against the fatal chance of dice; many troubadours, such as Guillaume Magret and Gaucelm Faydit, lost their fortunes at it, and their lives in consequence. Rutebeuf exclaims, in one of his satires, "Dice rob me of all my clothes, dice kill me, dice watch me, dice track me, dice attack me, and dice defy me." The blasphemies of the gamblers did not always remain unpunished. "Philip Augustus," says Bigord, in his Latin history of this king, "carried his aversion for oaths to such an extent, that if any one, whether knight or of any other rank, let one slip from his lips in the presence of the sovereign, even by mistake, he was ordered to be immediately thrown into the river." Louis XII., who was somewhat less severe, contented himself with having a hole bored with a hot iron through the blasphemer's tongue. [Illustration: Figs. 179 and 180.--French Cards for a Game of Piquet, early Sixteenth Century.--Collection of the National Library of Paris.] The work "On the Manner of playing with Dice," has handed down to us the technical terms used in these games, which varied as much in practice as in name. They sometimes played with three dice, sometimes with six; different games were also in fashion, and in some the cast of the dice alone decided. The games of cards were also most numerous, but it is not our intention to give the origin of them here. It is sufficient to name a few of the most popular ones in France, which were, Flux, Prime, Sequence, Triomphe, Piquet, Trente-et-un, Passe-dix, Condemnade, Lansquenet, Marriage, Gay, or J'ai, Malcontent, Hère, &c. (Figs. 179 and 180). All these games, which were as much forbidden as dice, were played in taverns as well as at court; and, just as there were loaded dice, so were there also false cards, prepared by rogues for cheating. The greater number of the games of cards formerly did not require the least skill on the part of the players, chance alone deciding. The game of _Tables_, however, required skill and calculation, for under this head were comprised all the games which were played on a board, and particularly chess, draughts, and backgammon. The invention of the game of chess has been attributed to the Assyrians, and there can be no doubt but that it came from the East, and reached Gaul about the beginning of the ninth century, although it was not extensively known till about the twelfth. The annals of chivalry continually speak of the barons playing at these games, and especially at chess. Historians also mention chess, and show that it was played with the same zest in the camp of the Saracens as in that of the Crusaders. We must not be surprised if chess shared the prohibition laid upon dice, for those who were ignorant of its ingenious combinations ranked it amongst games of chance. The Council of Paris, in 1212, therefore condemned chess for the same reasons as dice, and it was specially forbidden to church people, who had begun to make it their habitual pastime. The royal edict of 1254 was equally unjust with regard to this game. "We strictly forbid," says Louis IX., "any person to play at dice, tables, or chess." This pious king set himself against these games, which he looked upon as inventions of the devil. After the fatal day of Mansorah, in 1249, the King, who was still in Egypt with the remnants of his army, asked what his brother, the Comte d'Anjou, was doing. "He was told," says Joinville, "that he was playing at tables with his Royal Highness Gaultier de Nemours. The King was highly incensed against his brother, and, though most feeble from the effects of his illness, went to him, and taking the dice and the tables, had them thrown into the sea." Nevertheless Louis IX. received as a present from the _Vieux de la Montagne_, chief of the Ismalians, a chessboard made of gold and rock crystal, the pieces being of precious metals beautifully worked. It has been asserted, but incorrectly, that this chessboard was the one preserved in the Musée de Cluny, after having long formed part of the treasures of the Kings of France. Amongst the games comprised under the name of _tables_, it is sufficient to mention that of draughts, which was formerly played with dice and with the same men as were used for chess; also the game of _honchet_, or _jonchées_, that is, bones or spillikins, games which required pieces or men in the same way as chess, but which required more quickness of hand than of intelligence; and _épingles_, or push-pin, which was played in a similar manner to the _honchets_, and was the great amusement of the small pages in the houses of the nobility. When they had not épingles, honchets, or draughtsmen to play with, they used their fingers instead, and played a game which is still most popular amongst the Italian people, called the _morra_, and which was as much in vogue with the ancient Romans as it is among the modern Italians. It consisted of suddenly raising as many fingers as had been shown by one's adversary, and gave rise to a great amount of amusement among the players and lookers-on. The games played by girls were, of course, different from those in use among boys. The latter played at marbles, _luettes_, peg or humming tops, quoits, _fouquet, merelles_, and a number of other games, many of which are now unknown. The girls, it is almost needless to say, from the earliest times played with dolls. _Briche_, a game in which a brick and a small stick was used, were also a favourite. _Martiaus_, or small quoits, wolf or fox, blind man's buff, hide and seek, quoits, &c., were all girls' games. The greater part of these amusements were enlivened by a chorus, which all the girls sang together, or by dialogues sung or chanted in unison. [Illustration: Fig. 181.--Allegorical Scene of one of the Courts of Love in Provence--In the First Compartment, the God of Love, Cupid, is sitting on the Stump of a Laurel-tree, wounding with his Darts those who do him homage, the Second Compartment represents the Love Vows of Men and Women.--From the Cover of a Looking-glass, carved in Ivory, of the end of the Thirteenth Century.] [Illustration: The Chess-Players. After a miniature of "_The Three Ages of Man_", a ms. of the fifteenth century attributed to Estienne Porchier. (Bibl. of M. Ambroise Firmin-Didot.) The scene is laid in one of the saloons of the castle of Plessis-les-Tours, the residence of Louis XI; in the player to the right, the features of the king are recognisable.] If children had their games, which for many generations continued comparatively unchanged, so the dames and the young ladies had theirs, consisting of gallantry and politeness, which only disappeared with those harmless assemblies in which the two sexes vied with each other in urbanity, friendly roguishness, and wit. It would require long antiquarian researches to discover the origin and mode of playing many of these pastimes, such as _des oes, des trois ânes, des accords bigarrés, du jardin madame, de la fricade, du feiseau, de la mick_, and a number of others which are named but not described in the records of the times. The game _à l'oreille,_ the invention of which is attributed to the troubadour Guillaume Adhémar, the _jeu des Valentines,_ or the game of lovers, and the numerous games of forfeits, which have come down to us from the Courts of Love of the Middle Ages, we find to be somewhat deprived of their original simplicity in the way they are now played in country-houses in the winter and at village festivals in the summer. But the Courts of Love are no longer in existence gravely to superintend all these diversions (Fig. 181). Amongst the amusements which time has not obliterated, but which, on the contrary, seem destined to be of longer duration than monuments of stone and brass, we must name dancing, which was certainly one of the principal amusements of society, and which has come down to us through all religions, all customs, all people, and all ages, preserving at the same time much of its original character. Dancing appears, at each period of the world's history, to have been alternately religions and profane, lively and solemn, frivolous and severe. Though dancing was as common an amusement formerly as it is now, there was this essential difference between the two periods, namely, that certain people, such as the Romans, were very fond of seeing dancing, but did not join in it themselves. Tiberius drove the dancers out of Rome, and Domitian dismissed certain senators from their seats in the senate who had degraded themselves by dancing; and there seems to be no doubt that the Romans, from the conquest of Julius Caesar, did not themselves patronise the art. There were a number of professional dancers in Gaul, as well as in the other provinces of the Roman Empire, who were hired to dance at feasts, and who endeavoured to do their best to make their art as popular as possible. The lightheartedness of the Gauls, their natural gaiety, their love for violent exercise and for pleasures of all sorts, made them delight in dancing, and indulge in it with great energy; and thus, notwithstanding the repugnance of the Roman aristocracy and the prohibitions and anathemas of councils and synods, dancing has always been one of the favourite pastimes of the Gauls and the French. [Illustration: Fig. 182.--Dancers on Christmas Night punished for their Impiety, and condemned to dance for a whole Year (Legend of the Fifteenth Century).--Fac-simile of a Woodcut by P. Wohlgemuth, in the "Liber Chronicorum Mundi:" folio (Nuremberg, 1493).] Leuce Carin, a writer of doubtful authority, states that in the early history of Christianity the faithful danced, or rather stamped, in measured time during religions ceremonials, gesticulating and distorting themselves. This is, however, a mistake. The only thing approaching to it was the slight trace of the ancient Pagan dances which remained in the feast of the first Sunday in Lent, and which probably belonged to the religious ceremonies of the Druids. At nightfall fires were lighted in public places, and numbers of people danced madly round them. Rioting and disorderly conduct often resulted from this popular feast, and the magistrates were obliged to interfere in order to suppress it. The church, too, did not close her eyes to the abuses which this feast engendered, although episcopal admonitions were not always listened to (Fig. 182). We see, in the records of one of the most recent Councils of Narbonne, that the custom of dancing in the churches and in the cemeteries on certain feasts had not been abolished in some parts of the Languedoc at the end of the sixteenth century. Dancing was at all times forbidden by the Catholic Church on account of its tendency to corrupt the morals, and for centuries ecclesiastical authority was strenuously opposed to it; but, on the other hand, it could not complain of want of encouragement from the civil power. When King Childebert, in 554, forbade all dances in his domains, he was only induced to do so by the influence of the bishops. We have but little information respecting the dances of this period, and it would be impossible accurately to determine as to the justice of their being forbidden. They were certainly no longer those war-dances which the Franks had brought with them, and which antiquarians have mentioned under the name of _Pyrrhichienne_ dances. In any case, war-dances reappeared at the commencement of chivalry; for, when a new knight was elected, all the knights in full armour performed evolutions, either on foot or on horseback, to the sound of military music, and the populace danced round them. It has been said that this was the origin of court ballets, and La Colombière, in his "Théâtre d'Honneur et de Chevalerie," relates that this ancient dance of the knights was kept up by the Spaniards, who called it the _Moresque_. The Middle Ages was the great epoch for dancing, especially in France. There were an endless number of dancing festivals, and, from reading the old poets and romancers, one might imagine that the French had never anything better to do than to dance, and that at all hours of the day and night. A curious argument in favour of the practical utility of dancing is suggested by Jean Tabourot in his "Orchésographie," published at Langres in 1588, under the name of Thoinot Arbeau. He says, "Dancing is practised in order to see whether lovers are healthy and suitable for one another: at the end of a dance the gentlemen are permitted to kiss their mistresses, in order that they may ascertain if they have an agreeable breath. In this matter, besides many other good results which follow from dancing, it becomes necessary for the good governing of society." Such was the doctrine of the Courts of Love, which stoutly took up the defence of dancing against the clergy. In those days, as soon as the two sexes were assembled in sufficient numbers, before or after the feasts, the balls began, and men and women took each other by the hand and commenced the performance in regular steps (Fig. 183). The author of the poem of Provence, called "Flamença," thus allegorically describes these amusements: "Youth and Gaiety opened the ball, accompanied by their sister Bravery; Cowardice, confused, went of her own accord and hid herself." The troubadours mention a great number of dances, without describing them; no doubt they were so familiar that they thought a description of them needless. They often speak of the _danse au virlet_, a kind of round dance, during the performance of which each person in turn sang a verse, the chorus being repeated by all. In the code of the Courts of Love, entitled "Arresta Amorum," that is, the decrees of love, the _pas de Brabant_ is mentioned, in which each gentleman bent his knee before his lady; and also the _danse au chapelet_, at the end of which each dancer kissed his lady. Romances of chivalry frequently mention that knights used to dance with the dames and young ladies without taking off their helmets and coats of mail. Although this costume was hardly fitted for the purpose, we find, in the romance of "Perceforet," that, after a repast, whilst the tables were being removed, everything was prepared for a ball, and that although the knights made no change in their accoutrements, yet the ladies went and made fresh toilettes. "Then," says the old novelist, "the young knights and the young ladies began to play their instruments and to have the dance." From this custom may be traced the origin of the ancient Gallic proverb, "_Après la panse vient la danse_" ("After the feast comes the dance"). Sometimes a minstrel sang songs to the accompaniment of the harp, and the young ladies danced in couples and repeated at intervals the minstrel's songs. Sometimes the torch-dance was performed; in this each performer bore in his hand a long lighted taper, and endeavoured to prevent his neighbours from blowing it out, which each one tried to do if possible (Fig. 184). This dance, which was in use up to the end of the sixteenth century at court, was generally reserved for weddings. [Illustration: Fig. 183.--Peasant Dances at the May Feasts.--Fac-simile of a Miniature in a Prayer-book of the Fifteenth Century, in the National Library of Paris.] [Illustration: Fig. 184.--Dance by Torchlight, a Scene at the Court of Burgundy.--From a Painting on Wood of 1463, belonging to M. H. Casterman, of Tournai (Belgium).] Dancing lost much of its simplicity and harmlessness when masquerades were introduced, these being the first examples of the ballet. These masquerades, which soon after their introduction became passionately indulged in at court under Charles VI., were, at first, only allowed during Carnival, and on particular occasions called _Charivaris_, and they were usually made the pretext for the practice of the most licentious follies. These masquerades had a most unfortunate inauguration by the catastrophe which rendered the madness of Charles VI. incurable, and which is described in history under the name of the _Burning Ballet_. It was on the 29th of January, 1393, that this ballet made famous the festival held in the Royal Palace of St. Paul in Paris, on the occasion of the marriage of one of the maids of honour of Queen Isabel of Bavaria with a gentleman of Vermandois. The bride was a widow, and the second nuptials were deemed a fitting occasion for the Charivaris. [Illustration: Fig. 185.--The Burning Ballet.--Fac-simile of a Miniature in the Manuscript of the "Chroniques" of Froissart (Fifteenth Century), in the National Library of Paris.] A gentleman from Normandy, named Hugonin de Grensay, thought he could create a sensation by having a dance of wild men to please the ladies. "He admitted to his plot," says Froissart, "the king and four of the principal nobles of the court. These all had themselves sewn up in close-fitting linen garments covered with resin on which a quantity of tow was glued, and in this guise they appeared in the middle of the ball. The king was alone, but the other four were chained together. They jumped about like madmen, uttered wild cries, and made all sorts of eccentric gestures. No one knew who these hideous objects were, but the Duke of Orleans determined to find out, so he took a candle and imprudently approached too near one of the men. The tow caught fire, and the flames enveloped him and the other three who were chained to him in a moment." "They were burning for nearly an hour like torches," says a chronicler. "The king had the good fortune to escape the peril, because the Duchesse de Berry, his aunt, recognised him, and had the presence of mind to envelop him in her train" (Fig. 185). Such a calamity, one would have thought, might have been sufficient to disgust people with masquerades, but they were none the less in favour at court for many years afterwards; and, two centuries later, the author of the "Orchésographie" thus writes on the subject: "Kings and princes give dances and masquerades for amusement and in order to afford a joyful welcome to foreign nobles; we also practise the same amusements on the celebration of marriages." In no country in the world was dancing practised with more grace and elegance than in France. Foreign dances of every kind were introduced, and, after being remodelled and brought to as great perfection as possible, they were often returned to the countries from which they had been imported under almost a new character. [Illustration: Fig. 186.--Musicians accompanying the Dancing.--Fac-simile of a Wood Engraving in the "Orchésographie" of Thoinot Arbeau (Jehan Tabourot): 4to (Langres, 1588).] In 1548, the dances of the Béarnais, which were much admired at the court of the Comtes de Foix, especially those called the _danse mauresque_ and the _danse des sauvages_, were introduced at the court of France, and excited great merriment. So popular did they become, that with a little modification they soon were considered essentially French. The German dances, which were distinguished by the rapidity of their movements, were also thoroughly established at the court of France. Italian, Milanese, Spanish, and Piedmontese dances were in fashion in France before the expedition of Charles VIII. into Italy: and when this king, followed by his youthful nobility, passed over the mountains to march to the conquest of Naples, he found everywhere in the towns that welcomed him, and in which balls and masquerades were given in honour of his visit, the dance _à la mode de France_, which consisted of a sort of medley of the dances of all countries. Some hundreds of these dances have been enumerated in the fifth book of the "Pantagruel" of Rabelais, and in various humorous works of those who succeeded him. They owed their success to the singing with which they were generally accompanied, or to the postures, pantomimes, or drolleries with which they were supplemented for the amusement of the spectators. A few, and amongst others that of the _five steps_ and that of the _three faces_, are mentioned in the "History of the Queen of Navarre." [Illustration: Fig. 187.--The Dance called "La Gaillarde."--Fac-simile of Wood Engravings from the "Orchésographie" of Thoinot Arbeau (Jehan Tabourot): 4to (Langres, 1588).] Dances were divided into two distinct classes--_danses basses_, or common and regular dances, which did not admit of jumping, violent movements, or extraordinary contortions--and the _danses par haut_, which were irregular, and comprised all sorts of antics and buffoonery. The regular French dance was a _basse_ dance, called the _gaillarde_; it was accompanied by the sound of the hautbois and tambourine, and originally it was danced with great form and state. This is the dance which Jean Tabouret has described; it began with the two performers standing opposite to each other, advancing, bowing, and retiring. "These advancings and retirings were done in steps to the time of the music, and continued until the instrumental accompaniment stopped; then the gentleman made his bow to the lady, took her by the hand, thanked her, and led her to her seat." The _tourdion_ was similar to the _gaillarde_, only faster, and was accompanied with more action. Each province of France had its national dance, such as the _bourrée_ of Auvergne, the _trioris_ of Brittany, the _branles_ of Poitou, and the _valses_ of Lorraine, which constituted a very agreeable pastime, and one in which the French excelled all other nations. This art, "so ancient, so honourable, and so profitable," to use the words of Jean Tabourot, was long in esteem in the highest social circles, and the old men liked to display their agility, and the dames and young ladies to find a temperate exercise calculated to contribute to their health as well as to their amusement. The sixteenth century was the great era of dancing in all the courts of Europe; but under the Valois, the art had more charm and prestige at the court of France than anywhere else. The Queen-mother, Catherine, surrounded by a crowd of pretty young ladies, who composed what she called her _flying squadron_, presided at these exciting dances. A certain Balthazar de Beaujoyeux was master of her ballets, and they danced at the Castle of Blois the night before the Duc de Guise was assassinated under the eyes of Henry III., just as they had danced at the Château of the Tuileries the day after St. Bartholomew's Day. [Illustration: Fig. 188.--The Game of Bob Apple, or Swinging Apple.--Manuscript of the Fourteenth Century, in the British Museum.] Commerce. State of Commerce after the Fall of the Roman. Empire.--Its Revival under the Frankish Kings.--Its Prosperity under Charlemagne.--Its Decline down to the Time of the Crusaders.--The Levant Trade of the East.--Flourishing State of the Towns of Provence and Languedoc.--Establishment of Fairs.--Fairs of Landit, Champagne, Beaucaire, and Lyons.--Weights and Measures.--Commercial Flanders. Laws of Maritime Commerce.--Consular Laws.--Banks and Bills of Exchange.--French. Settlements on the Coast of Africa.--Consequences of the Discovery of America. "Commerce in the Middle Ages," says M. Charles Grandmaison, "differed but little from that of a more remote period. It was essentially a local and limited traffic, rather inland than maritime, for long and perilous sea voyages only commenced towards the end of the fifteenth century, or about the time when Columbus discovered America." On the fall of the Roman Empire, commerce was rendered insecure, and, indeed, it was almost completely put a stop to by the barbarian invasions, and all facility of communication between different nations, and even between towns of the same country, was interrupted. In those times of social confusion, there were periods of such poverty and distress, that for want of money commerce was reduced to the simple exchange of the positive necessaries of life. When order was a little restored, and society and the minds of people became more composed, we see commerce recovering its position; and France was, perhaps, the first country in Europe in which this happy change took place. Those famous cities of Gaul, which ancient authors describe to us as so rich and so industrious, quickly recovered their former prosperity, and the friendly relations which were established between the kings of the Franks and the Eastern Empire encouraged the Gallic cities in cultivating a commerce, which was at that time the most important and most extensive in the world. Marseilles, the ancient Phoenician colony, once the rival and then the successor to Carthage, was undoubtedly at the head of the commercial cities of France. Next to her came Arles, which supplied ship-builders and seamen to the fleet of Provence; and Narbonne, which admitted into its harbour ships from Spain, Sicily, and Africa, until, in consequence of the Aude having changed its course, it was obliged to relinquish the greater part of its maritime commerce in favour of Montpellier. [Illustration: Fig. 189.--View of Alexandria in Egypt, in the Sixteenth Century.--Fac-simile of a Woodcut in the Travels of P. Belon, "Observations de Plusieurs Singularitez," &c.: 4to (Paris, 1588).] Commerce maintained frequent communications with the East; it sought its supplies on the coast of Syria, and especially at Alexandria, in Egypt, which was a kind of depôt for goods obtained from the rich countries lying beyond the Red Sea (Figs. 189 and 190). The Frank navigators imported from these countries, groceries, linen, Egyptian paper, pearls, perfumes, and a thousand other rare and choice articles. In exchange they offered chiefly the precious metals in bars rather than coined, and it is probable that at this period they also exported iron, wines, oil, and wax. The agricultural produce and manufactures of Gaul had not sufficiently developed to provide anything more than what was required for the producers themselves. Industry was as yet, if not purely domestic, confined to monasteries and to the houses of the nobility; and even the kings employed women or serf workmen to manufacture the coarse stuffs with which they clothed themselves and their households. We may add, that the bad state of the roads, the little security they offered to travellers, the extortions of all kinds to which foreign merchants were subjected, and above all the iniquitous System of fines and tolls which each landowner thought right to exact, before letting merchandise pass through his domains, all created insuperable obstacles to the development of commerce. [Illustration: Fig. 190.--Transport of Merchandise on the Backs of Camels.--Fac-simile of a Woodcut in the "Cosmographie Universelle," of Thevet: folio, 1575.] The Frank kings on several occasions evinced a desire that communications favourable to trade should be re-established in their dominions. We find, for instance, Chilpéric making treaties with Eastern emperors in favour of the merchants of Agde and Marseilles, Queen Brunehaut making viaducts worthy of the Romans, and which still bear her name, and Dagobert opening at St. Denis free fairs--that is to say, free, or nearly so, from all tolls and taxes--to which goods, both agricultural and manufactured, were sent from every corner of Europe and the known world, to be afterwards distributed through the towns and provinces by the enterprise of internal commerce. After the reign of Dagobert, commerce again declined without positively ceasing, for the revolution, which transferred the power of the kings to the mayors of the palace was not of a nature to exhaust the resources of public prosperity; and a charter of 710 proves that the merchants of Saxony, England, Normandy, and even Hungary, still flocked to the fairs of St. Denis. Under the powerful and administrative hand of Charlemagne, the roads being better kept up, and the rivers being made more navigable, commerce became safe and more general; the coasts were protected from piratical incursions; lighthouses were erected at dangerous points, to prevent shipwrecks; and treaties of commerce with foreign nations, including even the most distant, guaranteed the liberty and security of French traders abroad. Under the weak successors of this monarch, notwithstanding their many efforts, commerce was again subjected to all sorts of injustice and extortions, and all its safeguards were rapidly destroyed. The Moors in the south, and the Normans in the north, appeared to desire to destroy everything which came in their way, and already Marseilles, in 838, was taken and pillaged by the Greeks. The constant altercations between the sons of Louis le Débonnaire and their unfortunate father, their jealousies amongst themselves, and their fratricidal wars, increased the measure of public calamity, so that soon, overrun by foreign enemies and destroyed by her own sons, France became a vast field of disorder and desolation. The Church, which alone possessed some social influence, never ceased to use its authority in endeavouring to remedy this miserable state of things; but episcopal edicts, papal anathemas, and decrees of councils, had only a partial effect at this unhappy period. At any moment agricultural and commercial operations were liable to be interrupted, if not completely ruined, by the violence of a wild and rapacious soldiery; at every step the roads, often impassable, were intercepted by toll-bars for some due of a vexatious nature, besides being continually infested by bands of brigands, who carried off the merchandise and murdered those few merchants who were so bold as to attempt to continue their business. It was the Church, occupied as she was with the interests of civilisation, who again assisted commerce to emerge from the state of annihilation into which it had fallen; and the "Peace or Truce of God," established in 1041, endeavoured to stop at least the internal wars of feudalism, and it succeeded, at any rate for a time, in arresting these disorders. This was all that could be done at that period, and the Church accomplished it, by taking the high hand; and with as much unselfishness as energy and courage, she regulated society, which had been abandoned by the civil power from sheer impotence and want of administrative capability. [Illustration: Fig. 191.--Trade on the Seaports of the Levant.--After a Miniature in a Manuscript of the Travels of Marco Polo (Fifteenth Century), Library of the Arsenal of Paris.] At all events, thanks to ecclesiastical foresight, which increased the number of fairs and markets at the gates of abbeys and convents, the first step was made towards the general resuscitation of commerce. Indeed, the Church may be said to have largely contributed to develop the spirit of progress and liberty, whence were to spring societies and nationalities, and, in a word, modern organization. The Eastern commerce furnished the first elements of that trading activity which showed itself on the borders of the Mediterranean, and we find the ancient towns of Provence and Languedoc springing up again by the aide of the republics of Amalfi, Venice, Genoa, and Pisa, which had become the rich depôts of all maritime trade. At first, as we have already stated, the wares of India came to Europe through the Greek port of Alexandria, or through Constantinople. The Crusades, which had facilitated the relations with Eastern countries, developed a taste in the West for their indigenous productions, gave a fresh vigour to this foreign commerce, and rendered it more productive by removing the stumbling blocks which had arrested its progress (Fig. 191). The conquest of Palestine by the Crusaders had first opened all the towns and harbours of this wealthy region to Western traders, and many of them were able permanently to establish themselves there, with all sorts of privileges and exemptions from taxes, which were gladly offered to them by the nobles who had transferred feudal power to Mussulman territories. Ocean commerce assumed from this moment proportions hitherto unknown. Notwithstanding the papal bulls and decrees, which forbade Christians from having any connection with infidels, the voice of interest was more listened to than that of the Church (Fig. 192), and traders did not fear to disobey the political and religions orders which forbade them to carry arms and slaves to the enemies of the faith. It was easy to foretell, from the very first, that the military occupation of the Holy Land would not be permanent. In consequence of this, therefore, the nearer the loss of this fine conquest seemed to be, the greater were the efforts made by the maritime towns of the West to re-establish, on a more solid and lasting basis, a commercial alliance with Egypt, the country which they selected to replace Palestine, in a mercantile point of view. Marseilles was the greatest supporter of this intercourse with Egypt; and in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries she reached a very high position, which she owed to her shipowners and traders. In the fourteenth century, however, the princes of the house of Anjou ruined her like the rest of Provence, in the great and fruitless efforts which they made to recover the kingdom of Naples; and it was not until the reign of Louis XI. that the old Phoenician city recovered its maritime and commercial prosperity (Fig. 193). [Illustration: Fig. 192.--Merchant Vessel in a Storm.--Fac-simile of a Woodcut in the "Grand Kalendrier et Compost des Bergers," in folio: printed at Troyes, about 1490, by Nicolas de Rouge.[*] [Footnote *: "Mortal man, living in the world, is compared to a vessel on perilous seas, bearing rich merchandise, by which, if it can come to harbour, the merchant will be rendered rich and happy. The ship from the commencement to the end of its voyage is in great peril of being lost or taken by an enemy, for the seas are always beset with perils. So is the body of man during its sojourn in the world. The merchandise he bears is his soul, his virtues, and his good deeds. The harbour is paradise, and he who reaches that haven is made supremely rich. The sea is the world, full of vices and sins, and in which all, during their passage through life, are in peril and danger of losing body and soul and of being drowned in the infernal sea, from which God in His grace keep us! Amen."] ] [Illustration: Fig. 193.--View and Plan of Marseilles and its Harbour, in the Sixteenth Century.--From a Copper-plate in the Collection of G. Bruin, in folio: "Théâtre des Citez du Monde."] Languedoc, depressed, and for a time nearly ruined in the thirteenth century by the effect of the wars of the Albigenses, was enabled, subsequently, to recover itself. Béziers, Agde, Narbonne, and especially Montpellier, so quickly established important trading connections with all the ports of the Mediterranean, that at the end of the fourteenth century consuls were appointed at each of these towns, in order to protect and direct their transmarine commerce. A traveller of the twelfth century, Benjamin de Tudèle, relates that in these ports, which were afterwards called the stepping stones to the Levant, every language in the world might be heard. Toulouse was soon on a par with the towns of Lower Languedoc, and the Garonne poured into the markets, not only the produce of Guienne, and of the western parts of France, but also those of Flanders, Normandy, and England. We may observe, however, that Bordeaux, although placed in a most advantageous position, at the mouth of the river, only possessed, when under the English dominion, a very limited commerce, principally confined to the export of wines to Great Britain in exchange for corn, oil, &c. La Rochelle, on the same coast, was much more flourishing at this period, owing to the numerous coasters which carried the wines of Aunis and Saintonge, and the salt of Brouage to Flanders, the Netherlands, and the north of Germany. Vitré already had its silk manufactories in the fifteenth century, and Nantes gave promise of her future greatness as a depôt of maritime commerce. It was about this time also that the fisheries became a new industry, in which Bayonne and a few villages on the sea-coast took the lead, some being especially engaged in whaling, and others in the cod and herring fisheries (Fig. 194). Long before this, Normandy had depended on other branches of trade for its commercial prosperity. Its fabrics of woollen stuffs, its arms and cutlery, besides the agricultural productions of its fertile and well-cultivated soil, each furnished material for export on a large scale. The towns of Rouen and Caen were especially manufacturing cities, and were very rich. This was the case with Rouen particularly, which was situated on the Seine, and was at that time an extensive depôt for provisions and other merchandise which was sent down the river for export, or was imported for future internal consumption. Already Paris, the abode of kings, and the metropolis of government, began to foreshadow the immense development which it was destined to undergo, by becoming the centre of commercial affairs, and by daily adding to its labouring and mercantile population (Figs. 195 and 196). It was, however, outside the walls of Paris that commerce, which needed liberty as well as protection, at first progressed most rapidly. The northern provinces had early united manufacturing industry with traffic, and this double source of local prosperity was the origin of their enormous wealth. Ghent and Bruges in the Low Countries, and Beauvais and Arras, were celebrated for their manufacture of cloths, carpets, and serge, and Cambrai for its fine cloths. The artizans and merchants of these industrious cities then established their powerful corporations, whose unwearied energy gave rise to that commercial freedom so favourable to trade. [Illustration: Fig. 194. Whale-Fishing. Fac-simile of a Woodcut in the "Cosmographie Universelle" of Thevet, in folio: Paris, 1574.] More important than the woollen manufactures--for the greater part of the wool used was brought from England--was the manufacture of flax, inasmuch as it encouraged agriculture, the raw material being produced in France. This first flourished in the north-east of France, and spread slowly to Picardy, to Beauvois, and Brittany. The central countries, with the exception of Bruges, whose cloth manufactories were already celebrated in the fifteenth century, remained essentially agricultural; and their principal towns were merely depôts for imported goods. The institution of fairs, however, rendered, it is true, this commerce of some of the towns as wide-spread as it was productive. In the Middle Ages religious feasts and ceremonials almost always gave rise to fairs, which commerce was not slow in multiplying as much as possible. The merchants naturally came to exhibit their goods where the largest concourse of people afforded the greatest promise of their readily disposing of them. As early as the first dynasty of Merovingian kings, temporary and periodical markets of this kind existed; but, except at St. Denis, articles of local consumption only were brought to them. The reasons for this were, the heavy taxes which were levied by the feudal lords on all merchandise exhibited for sale, and the danger which foreign merchants ran of being plundered on their way, or even at the fair itself. These causes for a long time delayed the progress of an institution which was afterwards destined to become so useful and beneficial to all classes of the community. We have several times mentioned the famous fair of Landit, which is supposed to have been established by Charlemagne, but which no doubt was a sort of revival of the fairs of St. Denis, founded by Dagobert, and which for a time had fallen into disuse in the midst of the general ruin which preceded that emperor's reign. This fair of Landit was renowned over the whole of Europe, and attracted merchants from all countries. It was held in the month of June, and only lasted fifteen days. Goods of all sorts, both of home and foreign manufacture, were sold, but the sale of parchment was the principal object of the fair, to purchase a supply of which the University of Paris regularly went in procession. On account of its special character, this fair was of less general importance than the six others, which from the twelfth century were held at Troyes, Provins, Lagny-sur-Marne, Rheims, and Bar-sur-Aube. These infused so much commercial vitality into the province of Champagne, that the nobles for the most part shook off the prejudice which forbad their entering into any sort of trading association. Fairs multiplied in the centre and in the south of France simultaneously. Those of Puy-en-Velay, now the capital of the Haute-Loire, are looked upon as the most ancient, and they preserved their old reputation and attracted a considerable concourse of people, which was also increased by the pilgrimages then made to Notre-Dame du Puy. These fairs, which were more of a religious than of a commercial character, were then of less importance as regards trade than those held at Beaucaire. This town rose to great repute in the thirteenth century, and, with the Lyons market, became at that time the largest centre of commerce in the southern provinces. Placed at the junction of the Saóne and the Rhône, Lyons owed its commercial development to the proximity of Marseilles and the towns of Italy. Its four annual fairs were always much frequented, and when the kings of France transferred to it the privileges of the fairs of Champagne, and transplanted to within its walls the silk manufactories formerly established at Tours, Lyons really became the second city of France. [Illustration: Fig. 195.--Measurers of Corn in Paris. Fig. 196.--Hay Carriers. Fac-simile of Woodcuts from the "Royal Orders concerning the Jurisdiction of the Company of Merchants and Shrievalty in the City of Paris," in small folio goth.: Jacques Nyverd, 1528.] It may be asserted as an established fact that the gradual extension of the power of the king, produced by the fall of feudalism, was favourable to the extension of commerce. As early as the reign of Louis IX. many laws and regulations prove that the kings were alive to the importance of trade. Among the chief enactments was one which led to the formation of the harbour of Aigues-Mortes on the Mediterranean; another to the publication of the book of "Weights and Measures," by Etienne Boileau, a work in which the ancient statutes of the various trades were arranged and codified; and a third to the enactment made in the very year of this king's death, to guarantee the security of vendors, and, at the same time, to ensure purchasers against fraud. All these bear undoubted witness that an enlightened policy in favour of commerce had already sprung up. Philippe le Bel issued several prohibitory enactments also in the interest of home commerce and local industry, which Louis X. confirmed. Philippe le Long attempted even to outdo the judicious efforts of Louis XI., and tried, though unsuccessfully, to establish a uniformity in the weights and measures throughout the kingdom; a reform, however, which was never accomplished until the revolution of 1789. It is difficult to credit how many different weights and measures were in use at that time, each one varying according to local custom or the choice of the lord of the soil, who probably in some way profited by the confusion which this uncertain state of things must have produced. The fraud and errors to which this led may easily be imagined, particularly in the intercourse between one part of the country and another. The feudal stamp is here thoroughly exhibited; as M. Charles de Grandmaison remarks, "Nothing is fixed, nothing is uniform, everything is special and arbitrary, settled by the lord of the soil by virtue of his right of _justesse_, by which he undertook the regulation and superintendence of the weights and measures in use in his lordship." Measures of length and contents often differed much from one another, although they might be similarly named, and it would require very complicated comparative tables approximately to fix their value. The _pied de roi_ was from ten to twelve inches, and was the least varying measure. The fathom differed much in different parts, and in the attempt to determine the relations between the innumerable measures of contents which we find recorded--a knowledge of which must have been necessary for the commerce of the period--we are stopped by a labyrinth of incomprehensible calculations, which it is impossible to determine with any degree of certainty. The weights were more uniform and less uncertain. The pound was everywhere in use, but it was not everywhere of the same standard (Fig. 201). For instance, at Paris it weighed sixteen ounces, whereas at Lyons it only weighed fourteen; and in weighing silk fifteen ounces to the pound was the rule. At Toulouse and in Upper Languedoc the pound was only thirteen and a half ounces; at Marseilles, thirteen ounces; and at other places it even fell to twelve ounces. There was in Paris a public scale called _poids du roi_; but this scale, though a most important means of revenue, was a great hindrance to retail trade. In spite of these petty and irritating impediments, the commerce of France extended throughout the whole world. [Illustration: Fig. 197.--View of Lubeck and its Harbour (Sixteenth Century).--From a Copper-plate in the Work of P. Bertius, "Commentaria Rerum Germanicarum," in 4to: Amsterdam, 1616.] The compass--known in Italy as early as the twelfth century, but little used until the fourteenth--enabled the mercantile navy to discover new routes, and it was thus that true maritime commerce may be said regularly to have begun. The sailors of the Mediterranean, with the help of this little instrument, dared to pass the Straits of Gibraltar, and to venture on the ocean. From that moment commercial intercourse, which had previously only existed by land, and that with great difficulty, was permanently established between the northern and southern harbours of Europe. Flanders was the central port for merchant vessels, which arrived in great numbers from the Mediterranean, and Bruges became the principal depôt. The Teutonic league, the origin of which dates from the thirteenth century, and which formed the most powerful confederacy recorded in history, also sent innumerable vessels from its harbours of Lubeck (Fig. 197) and Hamburg. These carried the merchandise of the northern countries into Flanders, and this rich province, which excelled in every branch of industry, and especially in those relating to metals and weaving, became the great market of Europe (Fig. 198). The commercial movement, formerly limited to the shores of the Mediterranean, extended to all parts, and gradually became universal. The northern states shared in it, and England, which for a long time kept aloof from a stage on which it was destined to play the first part, began to give indications of its future commercial greatness. The number of transactions increased as the facility for carrying them on became greater. Consumption being extended, production progressively followed, and so commerce went on gaining strength as it widened its sphere. Everything, in fact, seemed to contribute to its expansion. The downfall of the feudal system and the establishment in each country of a central power, more or less strong and respected, enabled it to extend its operations by land with a degree of security hitherto unknown; and, at the same time, international legislation came in to protect maritime trade, which was still exposed to great dangers. The sea, which was open freely to the whole human race, gave robbers comparatively easy means of following their nefarious practices, and with less fear of punishment than they could obtain on the shore of civilised countries. For this reason piracy continued its depredations long after the enactment of severe laws for its suppression. This maritime legislation did not wait for the sixteenth century to come into existence. Maritime law was promulgated more or less in the twelfth century, but the troubles and agitations which weakened and disorganized empires during that period of the Middle Ages, deprived it of its power and efficiency. The _Code des Rhodiens_ dates as far back as 1167; the _Code de la Mer_, which became a sort of recognised text-book, dates from the same period; the _Lois d'Oléron_ is anterior to the twelfth century, and ruled the western coasts of France, being also adopted in Flanders and in England; Venice dated her most ancient law on maritime rights from 1255, and the Statutes of Marseilles date from 1254. [Illustration: Fig. 198.--Execution of the celebrated pirate Stoertebeck and his seventy accomplices, in 1402, at Hamburg.--From a popular Picture of the end of the Sixteenth Century (Hamburg Library).] The period of the establishment of commercial law and justice corresponds with that of the introduction of national and universal codes of law and consular jurisdiction. These may be said to have originated in the sixth century in the laws of the Visigoths, which empowered foreign traders to be judged by delegates from their own countries. The Venetians had consuls in the Greek empire as early as the tenth century, and we may fairly presume that the French had consuls in Palestine during the reign of Charlemagne. In the thirteenth century the towns of Italy had consular agents in France; and Marseilles had them in Savoy, in Arles, and in Genoa. Thus traders of each country were always sure of finding justice, assistance, and protection in all the centres of European commerce. Numerous facilities for barter were added to these advantages. Merchants, who at first travelled with their merchandise, and who afterwards merely sent a factor as their representative, finally consigned it to foreign agents. Communication by correspondence in this way became more general, and paper replaced parchment as being less rare and less expensive. The introduction of Arabic figures, which were more convenient than the Roman numerals for making calculations, the establishment of banks, of which the most ancient was in operation in Venice as early as the twelfth century, the invention of bills of exchange, attributed to the Jews, and generally in use in the thirteenth century, the establishment of insurance against the risks and perils of sea and land, and lastly, the formation of trading companies, or what are now called partnerships, all tended to give expansion and activity to commerce, whereby public and private wealth was increased in spite of obstacles which routine, envy, and ill-will persistently raised against great commercial enterprises. For a long time the French, through indolence or antipathy--for it was more to their liking to be occupied with arms and chivalry than with matters of interest and profit--took but a feeble part in the trade which was carried on so successfully on their own territory. The nobles were ashamed to mix in commerce, considering it unworthy of them, and the bourgeois, for want of liberal feeling and expansiveness in their ideas, were satisfied with appropriating merely local trade. Foreign commerce, even of the most lucrative description, was handed over to foreigners, and especially to Jews, who were often banished from the kingdom and as frequently ransomed, though universally despised and hated. Notwithstanding this, they succeeded in rising to wealth under the stigma of shame and infamy, and the immense gains which they realised by means of usury reconciled them to, and consoled them for, the ill-treatment to which they were subjected. [Illustration: Fig. 199.--Discovery of America, 12th of May, 1492.--Columbus erects the Cross and baptizes the Isle of Guanahani (now Cat Island, one of the Bahamas) by the Christian Name of St. Salvador.--From a Stamp engraved on Copper by Th. de Bry, in the Collection of "Grands Voyages," in folio, 1590.] At a very early period, and especially when the Jews had been absolutely expelled, the advantage of exclusively trading with and securing the rich profits from France had attracted the Italians, who were frequently only Jews in disguise, concealing themselves as to their character under the generic name of Lombards. It was under this name that the French kings gave them on different occasions various privileges, when they frequented the fairs of Champagne and came to establish themselves in the inland and seaport towns. These Italians constituted the great corporation of money-changers in Paris, and hoarded in their coffers all the coin of the kingdom, and in this way caused a perpetual variation in the value of money, by which they themselves benefited. In the sixteenth century the wars of Italy rather changed matters, and we find royal and important concessions increasing in favour of Castilians and other Spaniards, whom the people maliciously called _negroes_, and who had emigrated in order to engage in commerce and manufactures in Saintonge, Normandy, Burgundy, Agenois, and Languedoc. About the time of Louis XI., the French, becoming more alive to their true interests, began to manage their own affairs, following the suggestions and advice of the King, whose democratic instincts prompted him to encourage and favour the bourgeois. This result was also attributable to the state of peace and security which then began to exist in the kingdom, impoverished and distracted as it had been by a hundred years of domestic and foreign warfare. From 1365 to 1382 factories and warehouses were founded by Norman navigators on the western coast of Africa, in Senegal and Guinea. Numerous fleets of merchantmen, of great size for those days, were employed in transporting cloth, grain of all kinds, knives, brandy, salt, and other merchandise, which were bartered for leather, ivory, gum, amber, and gold dust. Considerable profits were realised by the shipowners and merchants, who, like Jacques Coeur, employed ships for the purpose of carrying on these large and lucrative commercial operations. These facts sufficiently testify the condition of France at this period, and prove that this, like other branches of human industry, was arrested in its expansion by the political troubles which followed in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. Fortunately these social troubles were not universal, and it was just at the period when France was struggling and had become exhausted and impoverished that the Portuguese extended their discoveries on the same coast of Africa, and soon after succeeded in rounding the Cape of Good Hope, and opening a new maritime road to India, a country which was always attractive from the commercial advantages which it offered. Some years after, Christopher Columbus, the Genoese, more daring and more fortunate still, guided by the compass and impelled by his own genius, discovered a new continent, the fourth continent of the world (Fig. 199). This unexpected event, the greatest and most remarkable of the age, necessarily enlarged the field for produce as well as for consumption to an enormous extent, and naturally added, not only to the variety and quantity of exchangeable wares, but also to the production of the precious metals, and brought about a complete revolution in the laws of the whole civilised world. Maritime commerce immediately acquired an extraordinary development, and merchants, forsaking the harbours of the Mediterranean, and even those of the Levant, which then seemed to them scarcely worthy of notice, sent their vessels by thousands upon the ocean in pursuit of the wonderful riches of the New World. The day of caravans and coasting had passed; Venice had lost its splendour; the sway of the Mediterranean was over; the commerce of the world was suddenly transferred from the active and industrious towns of that sea, which had so long monopolized it, to the Western nations, to the Portuguese and Spaniards first, and then to the Dutch and English. France, absorbed in, and almost ruined by civil war, and above all by religious dissensions, only played a subordinate part in this commercial and pacific revolution, although it has been said that the sailors of Dieppe and Honfleur really discovered America before Columbus. Nevertheless the kings of France, Louis XII., Francis I., and Henry II., tried to establish and encourage transatlantic voyages, and to create, in the interest of French commerce, colonies on the coasts of the New World, from Florida and Virginia to Canada. But these colonies had but a precarious and transitory existence; fisheries alone succeeded, and French commerce continued insignificant, circumscribed, and domestic, notwithstanding the increasing requirements of luxury at court. This luxury contented itself with the use of the merchandise which arrived from the Low Countries, Spain, and Italy. National industry did all in its power to surmount this ignominious condition; she specially turned her attention to the manufacture of silks and of stuffs tissued with gold and silver. The only practical attempt of the government in the sixteenth century to protect commerce and manufactures was to forbid the import of foreign merchandise, and to endeavour to oppose the progress of luxury by rigid enactments. Certainly the government of that time little understood the advantages which a country derived from commerce when it forbade the higher classes from engaging in mercantile pursuits under penalty of having their privileges of nobility withdrawn from them. In the face of the examples of Italy, Genoa, Venice, and especially of Florence, where the nobles were all traders or sons of traders, the kings of the line of Valois thought proper to make this enactment. The desire seemed to be to make the merchant class a separate class, stationary, and consisting exclusively of bourgeois, shut up in their counting-houses, and prevented in every way from participating in public life. The merchants became indignant at this banishment, and, in order to employ their leisure, they plunged with all their energy into the sanguinary struggles of Reform and of the League. [Illustration: Fig. 200.--Medal to commemorate the Association of the Merchants of the City of Rouen.] It was not until the reign of Henry IV. that they again confined themselves to their occupations as merchants, when Sully published the political suggestions of his master for renewing commercial prosperity. From this time a new era commenced in the commercial destiny of France. Commerce, fostered and protected by statesmen, sought to extend its operations with greater freedom and power. Companies were formed at Paris, Marseilles, Lyons, and Rouen to carry French merchandise all over the world, and the rules of the mercantile associations, in spite of the routine and jealousies which guided the trade corporations, became the code which afterwards regulated commerce (Fig. 200). [Illustration: Fig. 201.--Standard Weight in Brass of the Fish-market at Mans: Sign of the Syren (End of the Sixteenth Century).] Guilds and Trade Corporations. Uncertain Origin of Corporations.--Ancient Industrial Associations.--The Germanic Guild.--Colleges.--Teutonic Associations.--The Paris Company for the Transit of Merchandise by Water.--Corporations properly so called.--Etienne Boileau's "Book of Trades," or the First Code of Regulations.--The Laws governing Trades.--Public and Private Organization of Trade Corporations and other Communities.--Energy of the Corporations.--Masters, Journeymen, Supernumeraries, and Apprentices.--Religious Festivals and Trade Societies.--Trade Unions. Learned authorities have frequently discussed, without agreeing, on the question of the origin of the Corporations of the Middle Ages. It may be admitted, we think _à priori_, that associations of artisans were as ancient as the trades themselves. It may readily be imagined that the numerous members of the industrial classes, having to maintain and defend their common rights and common interests, would have sought to establish mutual fraternal associations among themselves. The deeper we dive into ancient history the clearer we perceive traces, more or less distinct, of these kinds of associations. To cite only two examples, which may serve to some extent as an historical parallel to the analogous institutions of the present day, we may mention the Roman _Colleges_, which were really leagues of artisans following the same calling; and the Scandinavian guilds, whose object was to assimilate the different branches of industry and trade, either of a city or of some particular district. Indeed, brotherhoods amongst the labouring classes always existed under the German conquerors from the moment when Europe, so long divided into Roman provinces, shook off the yoke of subjection to Rome, although she still adhered to the laws and customs of the nation which had held her in subjection for so many generations. We can, however, only regard the few traces which remain of these brotherhoods as evidence of their having once existed, and not as indicative of their having been in a flourishing state. In the fifth century, the Hermit Ampelius, in his "Legends of the Saints," mentions _Consuls_ or Chiefs of Locksmiths. The Corporation of Goldsmiths is spoken of as existing in the first dynasty of the French kings. Bakers are named collectively in 630 in the laws of Dagobert, which seems to show that they formed a sort of trade union at that remote period. We also see Charlemagne, in several of his statutes, taking steps in order that the number of persons engaged in providing food of different kinds should everywhere be adequate to provide for the necessities of consumption, which would tend to show a general organization of that most important branch of industry. In Lombardy colleges of artisans were established at an early period, and were, no doubt, on the model of the Roman ones. Ravenna, in 943, possessed a College of Fishermen; and ten years later the records of that town mention a _Chief of the Corporation of Traders_, and, in 1001, a _Chief of the Corporation of Butchers_. France at the same time kept up a remembrance of the institutions of Roman Gaul, and the ancient colleges of trades still formed associations and companies in Paris and in the larger towns. In 1061 King Philip I. granted certain privileges to Master Chandlers and Oilmen. The ancient customs of the butchers are mentioned as early as the time of Louis VII., 1162. The same king granted to the wife of Ives Laccobre and her heirs the collectorship of the dues which were payable by tanners, purse-makers, curriers, and shoemakers. Under Philip Augustus similar concessions became more frequent, and it is evident that at that time trade was beginning to take root and to require special and particular administration. This led to regulations being drawn up for each trade, to which Philip Augustus gave his sanction. In 1182 he confirmed the statutes of the butchers, and the furriers and drapers also obtained favourable concessions from him. According to the learned Augustin Thierry, corporations, like civic communities, were engrafted on previously existing guilds, such as on the colleges or corporations of workmen, which were of Roman origin. In the _guild_, which signifies a banquet at common expense, there was a mutual assurance against misfortunes and injuries of all sorts, such as fire and shipwreck, and also against all lawsuits incurred for offences and crimes, even though they were proved against the accused. Each of these associations was placed under the patronage of a god or of a hero, and had its compulsory statutes; each had its chief or president chosen from among the members, and a common treasury supplied by annual contributions. Roman colleges, as we have already stated, were established with a more special purpose, and were more exclusively confined to the peculiar trade to which they belonged; but these, equally with the guilds, possessed a common exchequer, enjoyed equal rights and privileges, elected their own presidents, and celebrated in common their sacrifices, festivals, and banquets. We have, therefore, good reason for agreeing in the opinion of the celebrated historian, who considers that in the establishment of a corporation "the guild should be to a certain degree the motive power, and the Roman college, with its organization, the material which should be used to bring it into existence." [Illustration: Fig. 202.--Craftsmen in the Fourteenth Century--Fac-simile of a Miniature of a Manuscript in the Library of Brussels.] It is certain, however, that during several centuries corporations were either dissolved or hidden from public notice, for they almost entirely disappeared from the historic records during the partial return to barbarism, when the production of objects of daily necessity and the preparation of food were entrusted to slaves under the eye of their master. Not till the twelfth century did they again begin to flourish, and, as might be supposed, it was Italy which gave the signal for the resuscitation of the institutions whose birthplace had been Rome, and which barbarism had allowed to fall into decay. Brotherhoods of artisans were also founded at an early period in the north of Gaul, whence they rapidly spread beyond the Rhine. Under the Emperor Henry I., that is, during the tenth century, the ordinary condition of artisans in Germany was still serfdom; but two centuries later the greater number of trades in most of the large towns of the empire had congregated together in colleges or bodies under the name of unions (_Einnungen_ or _Innungen_) (Fig. 202), as, for example, at Gozlar, at Würzburg, at Brunswick, &c. These colleges, however, were not established without much difficulty and without the energetic resistance of the ruling powers, inasmuch as they often raised their pretensions so high as to wish to substitute their authority for the senatorial law, and thus to grasp the government of the cities. The thirteenth century witnessed obstinate and sanguinary feuds between these two parties, each of which was alternately victorious. Whichever had the upper hand took advantage of the opportunity to carry out the most cruel reprisals against its defeated opponents. The Emperors Frederick II. and Henry VII. tried to put an end to these strifes by abolishing the corporations of workmen, but these powerful associations fearlessly opposed the imperial authority. In France the organization of communities of artisans, an organization which in many ways was connected with the commercial movement, but which must not be confounded with it, did not give rise to any political difficulty. It seems not even to have met with any opposition from the feudal powers, who no doubt found it an easy pretext for levying additional rates and taxes. The most ancient of these corporations was the Parisian _Hanse_, or corporation of the bourgeois for canal navigation, which probably dates its origin back to the college of Parisian _Nautes_, existing before the Roman conquest. This mercantile association held its meetings in the island of Lutetia, on the very spot where the church of Notre-Dame was afterwards built. From the earliest days of monarchy tradesmen constituted entirely the bourgeois of the towns (Fig. 203). Above them were the nobility or clergy, beneath them the artisans. Hence we can understand how the bourgeois, who during the twelfth and thirteenth centuries were a distinct section of the community, became at last the important commercial body itself. The kings invariably treated them with favour. Louis VI. granted them new rights, Louis VII. confirmed their ancient privileges, and Philip Augustus increased them. The Parisian Hanse succeeded in monopolising all the commerce which was carried on by water on the Seine and the Yonne between Mantes and Auxerre. No merchandise coming up or down the stream in boats could be disembarked in the interior of Paris without becoming, as it were, the property of the corporation, which, through its agents, superintended its measurement and its sale in bulk, and, up to a certain point, its sale by retail. No foreign merchant was permitted to send his goods to Paris without first obtaining _lettres de Hanse_, whereby he had associated with him a bourgeois of the town, who acted as his guarantee, and who shared in his profits. [Illustration: Fig. 203.--Merchants or Tradesmen of the Fourteenth Century.--Fac-simile of a Miniature in a Manuscript of the Library at Brussels.] There were associations of the same kind in most of the commercial towns situated on the banks of rivers and on the sea-coast, as, for example, at Rouen, Arles, Marseilles, Narbonne, Toulouse, Ratisbon, Augsburg, and Utrecht. Sometimes neighbouring towns, such as the great manufacturing cities of Flanders, agreed together and entered into a leagued bond, which gave them greater power, and constituted an offensive and defensive compact (Fig. 204). A typical example of this last institution is that of the commercial association of the _Hanseatic Towns_ of Germany, which were grouped together to the number of eighty around their four capitals, viz., Lubeck, Cologne, Dantzic, and Brunswick. [Illustration: Fig. 204.--Seal of the United Trades of Ghent (End of the Fifteenth Century).] Although, as we have already seen, previous to the thirteenth century many of the corporations of artisans had been authorised by several of the kings of France to make special laws whereby they might govern themselves, it was really only from the reign of St. Louis that the first general measures of administration and police relating to these communities can be dated. The King appointed Etienne Boileau, a rich bourgeois, provost of the capital in 1261, to set to work to establish order, wise administration, and "good faith" in the commerce of Paris. To this end he ascertained from the verbal testimony of the senior members of each corporation the customs and usages of the various crafts, which for the most part up to that time had not been committed to writing. He arranged and probably amended them in many ways, and thus composed the famous "Book of Trades," which, as M. Depping, the able editor of this valuable compilation, first published in 1837, says, "has the advantage of being to a great extent the genuine production of the corporations themselves, and not a list of rules established and framed by the municipal or judicial authorities." From that time corporations gradually introduced themselves into the order of society. The royal decrees in their favour were multiplied, and the regulations with regard to mechanical trades daily improved, not only in Paris and in the provinces, and also abroad, both in the south and in the north of Europe, especially in Italy, Germany, England, and the Low Countries (Figs. 205 to 213). Etienne Boileau's "Book of Trades" contained the rules of one hundred different trade associations. It must be observed, however, that several of the most important trades, such as the butchers, tanners, glaziers, &c., were omitted, either because they neglected to be registered at the Châtelet, where the inquiry superintended by Boileau was made, or because some private interest induced them to keep aloof from this registration, which probably imposed some sort of fine and a tax upon them. In the following century the number of trade associations considerably increased, and wonderfully so during the reigns of the last of the Valois and the first of the Bourbons. The historian of the antiquities of Paris, Henry Sauval, enumerated no fewer than fifteen hundred and fifty-one trade associations in the capital alone in the middle of the seventeenth century. It must be remarked, however, that the societies of artisans were much subdivided owing to the simple fact that each craft could only practise its own special work. Thus, in Boileau's book, we find four different corporations of _patenôtriers_, or makers of chaplets, six of hatters, six of weavers, &c. Besides these societies of artisans, there were in Paris a few privileged corporations, which occupied a more important position, and were known under the name of _Corps des Marchands_. Their number at first frequently varied, but finally it was settled at six, and they were termed _les Six Corps_. They comprised the drapers, which always took precedence of the five others, the grocers, the mercers, the furriers, the hatters, and the goldsmiths. These five for a long time disputed the question of precedence, and finally they decided the matter by lot, as they were not able to agree in any other way. [Illustration: Fig. 205.--Seal of the Corporation of Carpenters of St. Trond (Belgium)--From an Impression preserved in the Archives of that Town (1481).] [Illustration: Fig. 206.--Seal of the Corporation of Shoemakers of St. Trond, from a Map of 1481, preserved in the Archives of that Town.] [Illustration: Fig. 207.--Seal of the Corporation of Wool-weavers of Hasselt (Belgium), from a Parchment Title-deed of June 25, 1574.] [Illustration: Fig. 208.--Seal of the Corporation of Clothworkers of Bruges (1356).--From an Impression preserved in the Archives of that Town.] [Illustration: Fig. 209.--Seal of the Corporation of Fullers of St. Trond (about 1350).--From an Impression preserved in the Archives of that Town.] [Illustration: Fig. 210.--Seal of the Corporation of Joiners of Bruges (1356).--From an Impression preserved in the Archives of that Town.] [Illustration: Fig. 211.--Token of the Corporation of Carpenters of Maestricht.] [Illustration: Fig. 212.--Token of the Corporation of Carpenters of Antwerp.] [Illustration: Fig. 213.--Funeral Token of the Corporation of Carpenters of Maestricht.] Trades. Fac-simile of Engravings on Wood, designed and engraved by J. Amman, in the Sixteenth Century. [Illustration: Fig. 214.--Cloth-worker.] [Illustration: Fig. 215.--Tailor.] [Illustration: Fig. 216.--Hatter.] [Illustration: Fig. 217.--Dyer.] [Illustration: Fig. 218.--Druggist] [Illustration: Fig. 219.--Barber] [Illustration: Fig. 220.--Goldsmith] [Illustration: Fig. 221.--Goldbeater] [Illustration: Fig. 222.--Pin and Needle Maker.] [Illustration: Fig. 223.--Clasp-maker.] [Illustration: Fig. 224.--Wire-worker.] [Illustration: Fig. 225.--Dice-maker.] [Illustration: Fig. 226.--Sword-maker.] [Illustration: Fig. 227.--Armourer.] [Illustration: Fig. 228.--Spur-maker.] [Illustration: Fig. 229.--Shoemaker.] [Illustration: Fig. 230.--Basin-maker.] [Illustration: Fig. 231.--Tinman.] [Illustration: Fig. 232.--Coppersmith.] [Illustration: Fig. 233.--Bell and Cannon Caster.] Apart from the privilege which these six bodies of merchants exclusively enjoyed of being called upon to appear, though at their own expense, in the civic processions and at the public ceremonials, and to carry the canopy over the heads of kings, queens, or princes on their state entry into the capital (Fig. 234), it would be difficult to specify the nature of the privileges which were granted to them, and of which they were so jealous. It is clear, however, that these six bodies were imbued with a kind of aristocratic spirit which made them place trading much above handicraft in their own class, and set a high value on their calling as merchants. Thus contemporary historians tell us that any merchant who compromised the dignity of the company "fell into the class of the lower orders;" that mercers boasted of excluding from their body the upholsterers, "who were but artisans;" that hatters, who were admitted into the _Six Corps_ to replace one of the other trades, became in consequence "merchants instead of artisans, which they had been up to that time." Notwithstanding the statutes so carefully compiled and revised by Etienne Boileau and his successors, and in spite of the numerous arbitrary rules which the sovereigns, the magistrates, and the corporations themselves strenuously endeavoured to frame, order and unity were far from governing the commerce and industry of Paris during the Middle Ages, and what took place in Paris generally repeated itself elsewhere. Serious disputes continually arose between the authorities and those amenable to their jurisdiction, and between the various crafts themselves, notwithstanding the relation which they bore to each other from the similarity of their employments. In fact in this, as in many other matters, social disorder often emanated from the powers whose duty it was in the first instance to have repressed it. Thus, at the time when Philip Augustus extended the boundaries of his capital so as to include the boroughs in it, which until then had been separated from the city, the lay and clerical lords, under whose feudal dominion those districts had hitherto been placed, naturally insisted upon preserving all their rights. So forcibly did they do this that the King was obliged to recognise their claims; and in several boroughs, including the Bourg l'Abbé, the Beau Bourg, the Bourg St. Germain, and the Bourg Auxerrois, &c., there were trade associations completely distinct from and independent of those of ancient Paris. If we simply limit our examination to that of the condition of the trade associations which held their authority immediately from royalty, we still see that the causes of confusion were by no means trifling; for the majority of the high officers of the crown, acting as delegates of the royal authority, were always disputing amongst themselves the right of superintending, protecting, judging, punishing, and, above all, of exacting tribute from the members of the various trades. The King granted to various officers the privilege of arbitrarily disposing of the freedom of each trade for their own profit, and thereby gave them power over all the merchants and craftsmen who were officially connected with them, not only in Paris, but also throughout the whole kingdom. Thus the lord chamberlain had jurisdiction over the drapers, mercers, furriers, shoemakers, tailors, and other dealers in articles of wearing apparel; the barbers were governed by the king's varlet and barber; the head baker was governor over the bakers; and the head butler over the wine merchants. [Illustration: Fig. 234.--Group of Goldsmiths preceding the _Chasse de St. Marcel_ in the Reign of Louis XIII.--From a Copper-plate of the Period (Cabinet of Stamps in the National Library of Paris).] These state officers granted freedoms to artisans, or, in other words, they gave them the right to exercise such and such a craft with assistants or companions, exacting for the performance of this trifling act a very considerable tax. And, as they preferred receiving their revenues without the annoyance of having direct communication with their humble subjects, they appointed deputies, who were authorised to collect them in their names. The most celebrated of these deputies were the _rois des merciers_, who lived on the fat of the land in complete idleness, and who were surrounded by a mercantile court, which appeared in all its splendour at the trade festivals. [Illustration: Fig. 235.--Banner of the Corporation of the United Boot and Shoe Makers of Issoudun.] The great officers of the crown exercised in their own interests, and without a thought for the public advantage, a complete magisterial jurisdiction over all crafts; they adjudicated in disputes arising between masters and men, decided quarrels, visited, either personally or through their deputies, the houses of the merchants, in order to discover frauds or infractions in the rules of the trade, and levied fines accordingly. We must remember that the collectors of court dues had always to contend for the free exercise of their jurisdiction against the provost of Paris, who considered their acquisitions of authority as interfering with his personal prerogatives, and who therefore persistently opposed them on all occasions. For instance, if the head baker ordered an artisan of the same trade to be imprisoned in the Châtelet, the high provost, who was governor of the prison, released him immediately; and, in retaliation, if the high provost punished a baker, the chief baker warmly espoused his subordinate's cause. At other times the artisans, if they were dissatisfied with the deputy appointed by the great officer of the crown, whose dependents they were, would refuse to recognise his authority. In this way constant quarrels and interminable lawsuits occurred, and it is easy to understand the disorder which must have arisen from such a state of things. By degrees, however, and in consequence of the new tendencies of royalty, which were simply directed to the diminution of feudal power, the numerous jurisdictions relating to the various trades gradually returned to the hand of the municipal provostship; and this concentration of power had the best results, as well for the public good as for that of the corporations themselves. Having examined into corporations collectively and also into their general administration, we will now turn to consider their internal organization. It was only after long and difficult struggles that these trade associations succeeded in taking a definite and established position; without, however, succeeding at any time in organizing themselves as one body on the same basis and with the same privileges. Therefore, in pointing out the influential character of these institutions generally, we must omit various matters specially connected with individual associations, which it would be impossible to mention in this brief sketch. In the fourteenth century, the period when the communities of crafts were at the height of their development and power, no association of artisans could legally exist without a license either from the king, the lord, the prince, the abbot, the bailiff, or the mayor of the district in which it proposed to establish itself. [Illustration: Fig. 236.--Banner of the Tilers of Paris, with the Armorial Bearings of the Corporation.] [Illustration: Fig. 237.--Banner of the Nail-makers of Paris, with Armorial Bearings of the Corporation.] [Illustration: Fig. 238.--Banner of the Harness-makers of Paris, with the Armorial Bearings of the Corporation.] [Illustration: Fig. 239.--Banner of the Wheelwrights of Paris, with the Armoral Bearings of the Corporation.] [Illustration: Fig. 240.--Banner of the Tanners of Vie, with the Patron Saint of the Corporation.] [Illustration: Fig. 241.--Banner of the Weavers of Poulon, with the Patron Saint of the Corporation.] These communities had their statutes and privileges; they were distinguished at public ceremonials by their _liveries_ or special dress, as well as by their arms and banners (Figs. 235 to 241). They possessed the right freely to discuss their general interests, and at meetings composed of all their members they might modify their statutes, provided that such changes were confirmed by the King or by the authorities. It was also necessary that these meetings, at which the royal delegates were present, should be duly authorised; and, lastly, so as to render the communication between members more easy, and to facilitate everything which concerned the interests of the craft, artisans of the same trade usually resided in the same quarter of the town, and even in the same street. The names of many streets in Paris and other towns of France testify to this custom, which still partially exists in the towns of Germany and Italy. [Illustration: Fig. 242.--Ceremonial Dress of an Elder and a Juror of the Corporation of Old Shoemakers of Ghent.] The communities of artisans had, to a certain extent, the character and position of private individuals. They had the power in their corporate capacity of holding and administrating property, of defending or bringing actions at law, of accepting inheritances, &c.; they disbursed from a common treasury, which was supplied by legacies, donations, fines, and periodical subscriptions. These communities exercised in addition, through their jurors, a magisterial authority, and even, under some circumstances, a criminal jurisdiction over their members. For a long time they strove to extend this last power or to keep it independent of municipal control and the supreme courts, by which it was curtailed to that of exercising a simple police authority strictly confined to persons or things relating to the craft. They carefully watched for any infractions of the rules of the trade. They acted as arbitrators between master and man, particularly in quarrels when the parties had had recourse to violence. The functions of this kind of domestic magistracy were exercised by officers known under various names, such as _kings, masters, elders, guards, syndics_, and _jurors_, who were besides charged to visit the workshops at any hour they pleased in order to see that the laws concerning the articles of workmanship were observed. They also received the taxes for the benefit of the association; and, lastly, they examined the apprentices and installed masters into their office (Fig. 242). The jurors, or syndics, as they were more usually called, and whose number varied according to the importance of numerical force of the corporation, were generally elected by the majority of votes of their fellow-workmen, though sometimes the choice of these was entirely in the hands of the great officers of state. It was not unfrequent to find women amongst the dignitaries of the arts and crafts; and the professional tribunals, which decided every question relative to the community and its members, were often held by an equal number of masters and associate craftsmen. The jealous, exclusive, and inflexible spirit of caste, which in the Middle Ages is to be seen almost everywhere, formed one of the principal features of industrial associations. The admission of new members was surrounded with conditions calculated to restrict the number of associates and to discourage candidates. The sons of masters alone enjoyed hereditary privileges, in consequence of which they were always allowed to be admitted without being subjected to the tyrannical yoke of the association. [Illustration: Martyrdom of SS. Crispin and Crépinien. From a window in the Hôpital des Quinze-Vingts (Fifteenth Century).] Generally the members of a corporation were divided into three distinct classes--the masters, the paid assistants or companions, and the apprentices. Apprenticeship, from which the sons of masters were often exempted, began between the ages of twelve and seventeen years, and lasted from two to five years. In most of the trades the master could only receive one apprentice in his house besides his own son. Tanners, dyers, and goldsmiths were allowed one of their relatives in addition, or a second apprentice if they had no relation willing to learn their trade; and although some commoner trades, such as butchers and bakers, were allowed an unlimited number of apprentices, the custom of restriction had become a sort of general law, with the object of limiting the number of masters and workmen to the requirements of the public. The position of paid assistant or companion was required to be held in many trades for a certain length of time before promotion to mastership could be obtained. [Illustration: Fig. 243.--Bootmaker's Apprentice working at a Trial-piece.--From a Window of the Thirteenth Century, published by Messrs. Cahier and Martin] When apprentices or companions wished to become masters, they were called _aspirants_, and were subjected to successive examinations. They were particularly required to prove their ability by executing what was termed a _chef-d'oeuvre_, which consisted in fabricating a perfect specimen of whatever craft they practised. The execution of the _chef-d'oeuvre_ gave rise to many technical formalities, which were at times most frivolous. The aspirant in certain cases had to pass a technical examination, as, for instance, the barber in forging and polishing lancets; the wool-weaver in making and adjusting the different parts of his loom; and during the period of executing the _chef-d'oeuvre,_ which often extended over several months, the aspirant was deprived of all communication with his fellows. He had to work at the office of the association, which was called the _bureau_, under the eyes of the jurors or syndics, who, often after an angry debate, issued their judgment upon the merits of the work and the capability of the workman (Figs. 243 and 244). [Illustration: Fig. 244.--Carpenter's Apprentice working at a Trial-piece.--From one of the Stalls called _Miséricordes_, in Rouen Cathedral (Fifteenth Century).] On his admission the aspirant had first to take again the oath of allegiance to the King before the provost or civil deputy, although he had already done so on commencing his apprenticeship. He then had to pay a duty or fee, which was divided between the sovereign or lord and the brotherhood, from which fee the sons of masters always obtained a considerable abatement. Often, too, the husbands of the daughters of masters were exempted from paying the duties. A few masters, such as the goldsmiths and the cloth-workers, had besides to pay a sum of money by way of guarantee, which remained in the funds of the craft as long as they carried on the trade. After these forms had been complied with, the masters acquired the exclusive privilege of freely exercising their profession. There were, however, certain exceptions to this rule, for a king on his coronation, a prince or princess of the royal blood at the time of his or her marriage, and, in certain towns, the bishop on his installation, had the right of creating one or more masters in each trade, and these received their licence without going through any of the usual formalities. [Illustration: Fig. 245.--Staircase of the Office of the Goldsmiths of Rouen (Fifteenth Century). The Shield which the Lion holds with his Paw shows the Arms of the Goldsmiths of Rouen. (Present Condition).] A widower or widow might generally continue the craft of the deceased wife or husband who had acquired the freedom, and which thus became the inheritance of the survivor. The condition, however, was that he or she did not contract a second marriage with any one who did not belong to the craft. Masters lost their rights directly they worked for any other master and received wages. Certain freedoms, too, were only available in the towns in which they had been obtained. In more than one craft, when a family holding the freedom became extinct, their premises and tools became the property of the corporation, subject to an indemnity payable to the next of kin. [Illustration: Fig. 246.--Shops under Covered Market (Goldsmith, Dealer in Stuffs, and Shoemaker).--From a Miniature in Aristotle's "Ethics and Politics," translated by Nicholas Oresme (Manuscript of the Fifteenth Century, Library of Rouen).] At times, and particularly in those trades where the aspirants were not required to produce a _chef-d'oeuvre_, the installation of masters was accompanied with extraordinary ceremonies, which no doubt originally possessed some symbolical meaning, but which, having lost their true signification, became singular, and appeared even ludicrous. Thus with the bakers, after four years' apprenticeship, the candidate on purchasing the freedom from the King, issued from his door, escorted by all the other bakers of the town, bearing a new pot filled with walnuts and wafers. On arriving before the chief of the corporation, he said to him, "Master, I have accomplished my four years; here is my pot filled with walnuts and wafers." The assistants in the ceremony having vouched for the truth of this statement, the candidate broke the pot against the wall, and the chief solemnly pronounced his admission, which was inaugurated by the older masters emptying a number of tankards of wine or beer at the expense of their new brother. The ceremony was also of a jovial character in the case of the millwrights, who only admitted the candidate after he had received a caning on the shoulders from the last-elected brother. [Illustration: Fig. 247.--Fac-simile of the first six Lines on the Copper Tablet on which was engraved, from the year 1470, the Names and Titles of those who were elected Members of the Corporation of Goldsmiths of Ghent.] The statutes of the corporations, which had the force of law on account of being approved and accepted by royal authority, almost always detailed with the greatest precision the conditions of labour. They fixed the hours and days for working, the size of the articles to be made, the quality of the stuffs used in their manufacture, and even the price at which they were to be sold (Fig. 246). Night labour was pretty generally forbidden, as likely to produce only imperfect work. We nevertheless find that carpenters were permitted to make coffins and other funeral articles by night. On the eve of religious feasts the shops were shut earlier than usual, that is to say, at three o'clock, and were not opened on the next day, with the exception of those of pastrycooks, whose assistance was especially required on feast days, and who sold curious varieties of cakes and sweetmeats. Notwithstanding the strictness of the rules and the administrative laws of each trade, which were intended to secure good faith and loyalty between the various members, it is unnecessary to state that they were frequently violated. The fines which were then imposed on delinquents constituted an important source of revenue, not only to the corporations themselves, but also to the town treasury. The penally, however, was not always a pecuniary one, for as late as the fifteenth century we have instances of artisans being condemned to death simply for having adulterated their articles of trade. [Illustration: Fig. 248.--Elder and Jurors of the Tanners of the Town of Ghent in Ceremonial Dress.--Fac-simile of a Miniature in a Manuscript of the Fifteenth Century.] This deception was looked upon as of the nature of robbery, which we know to have been for a long time punishable by death. Robbery on the part of merchants found no indulgence nor pardon in those days, and the whole corporation demanded immediate and exemplary justice. According to the statutes, which generally tended to prevent frauds and falsifications, in most crafts the masters were bound to put their trade-mark on their goods, or some particular sign which was to be a guarantee for the purchaser and one means of identifying the culprit in the event of complaints arising on account of the bad quality or bad workmanship of the articles sold. [Illustration: Fig. 249.--Companion Carpenter.--Fragment of a Woodcut of the Fifteenth Century, after a Drawing by Wohlgemüth for the "Chronique de Nuremberg."] Besides taking various steps to maintain professional integrity, the framers of the various statutes, as a safeguard to the public interests, undertook also to inculcate morality and good feeling amongst their members. A youth could not be admitted unless he could prove his legitimacy of birth by his baptismal register; and, to obtain the freedom, he was bound to bear an irreproachable character. Artisans exposed themselves to a reprimand, and even to bodily chastisement, from the corporation, for even associating with, and certainly for working or drinking with those who had been expelled. Licentiousness and misconduct of any kind rendered them liable to be deprived of their mastership. In some trade associations all the members were bound to solemnize the day of the decease of a brother, to assist at his funeral, and to follow him to the grave. In another community the slightest indecent or discourteous word was punishable by a fine. A new master could not establish himself in the same street as his former master, except at a distance, which was determined by the statutes; and, further, no member was allowed to ask for or attract customers when the latter were nearer the shop of his neighbour than of his own. In the Middle Ages religion placed its stamp on every occupation and calling, and corporations were careful to maintain this characteristic feature. Each was under the patronage of some saint, who was considered the special protector of the craft; each possessed a shrine or chapel in some church of the quarter where the trade was located, and some even kept chaplains at their own expense for the celebration of masses which were daily said for the souls of the good deceased members of the craft. These associations, animated by Christian charity, took upon them to invoke the blessings of heaven on all members of the fraternity, and to assist those who were either laid by through sickness or want of work, and to take care of the widows and to help the orphans of the less prosperous craftsmen. They also gave alms to the poor, and presented the broken meat left at their banquets to the hospitals. Under the name of _garçons_, or _compagnons de devoir_ (this surname was at first specially applied to carpenters and masons, who from a very ancient date formed an important association, which was partly secret, and from which Freemasonry traces its origin) (Fig. 250), the companions, notwithstanding that they belonged to the community of their own special craft, also formed distinct corporations among themselves with a view to mutual assistance. They made a point of visiting any foreign workman on his arrival in their town, supplied his first requirements, found him work, and, when work was wanting, the oldest companion gave up his place to him. These associations of companionship, however, soon failed to carry out the noble object for which they were instituted. After a time the meeting together of the fraternity was but a pretext for intemperance and debauchery, and at times their tumultuous processions and indecent masquerades occasioned much disorder in the cities. The facilities which these numerous associations possessed of extending and mutually co-operating with one another also led to coalitions among them for the purpose of securing any advantage which they desired to possess. Sometimes open violence was resorted to to obtain their exorbitant and unjust demands, which greatly excited the industrious classes, and eventually induced the authorities to interfere. Lastly, these brotherhoods gave rise to many violent quarrels, which ended in blows and too often in bloodshed, between workmen of the same craft, who took different views on debateable points. The decrees of parliament, the edicts of sovereigns, and the decisions of councils, as early as at the end of the fifteenth century and throughout the whole of the sixteenth, severely proscribed the doings of these brotherhoods, but these interdictions were never duly and rigidly enforced, and the authorities themselves often tolerated infractions of the law, and thus license was given to every kind of abuse. [Illustration: Fig. 250.--Carpenters.--Fac-simile of a Miniature in the "Chroniques de Hainaut," Manuscript of the Fifteenth Century, in the Burgundy Library, Brussels.] We have frequently mentioned in the course of this volume the political part played by the corporations during the Middle Ages. We know the active and important part taken by trades of all descriptions, in France in the great movement of the formation of communities. The spirit of fraternal association which constituted the strength of the corporations (Fig. 251), and which exhibited itself so conspicuously in every act of their public and private life, resisted during several centuries the individual and collective attacks made on it by craftsmen themselves. These rich and powerful corporations began to decline from the moment they ceased to be united, and they were dissolved by law at the beginning of the revolution of 1789, an act which necessarily dealt a heavy blow to industry and commerce. [Illustration: Fig. 251.--Painting commemorative of the Union of the Merchants of Rouen at the End of the Seventeenth Century.] [Illustration: Fig. 252.--Banner of the Drapers of Caen.] Taxes, Money, and Finance. Taxes under the Roman Rule.--Money Exactions of the Merovingian Kings.--Varieties of Money.--Financial Laws under Charlemagne.--Missi Dominici.--Increase of Taxes owing to the Crusades.--Organization of Finances by Louis IX.--Extortions of Philip le Bel.--Pecuniary Embarrassaient of his Successors.--Charles V. re-establishes Order in Finances.--Disasters of France under Charles VI., Charles VII., and Jacques Coeur.--Changes in Taxation from Louis XI. to Francis I.--The great Financiers.--Florimond Robertet. If we believe Caesar's Commentaries on the Gallic War, the Gauls were groaning in his time under the pressure of taxation, and struggled hard to remove it. Rome lightened their burden; but the fiscal system of the metropolis imperceptibly took root in all the Roman provinces. There was an arbitrary personal tax, called the poll tax, and a land tax which was named _cens_, calculated according to the area of the holding. Besides these, there were taxes on articles of consumption, on salt, on the import and export of all articles of merchandise, on sales by auction; also on marriages, on burials, and on houses. There were also legacy and succession duties, and taxes on slaves, according to their number. Tolls on highways were also created; and the treasury went so far as to tax the hearth. Hence the origin of the name, _feu_, which was afterwards applied to each household or family group assembled in the same house or sitting before the same fire. A number of other taxes sprung up, called _sordides_, from which the nobility and the government functionaries were exempt. This ruinous system of taxation, rendered still more insupportable by the exactions of the proconsuls, and the violence of their subordinates, went on increasing down to the time of the fall of the Roman Empire. The Middle Ages gave birth to a new order of things. The municipal administration, composed in great part of Gallo-Roman citizens, did not perceptibly deviate from the customs established for five centuries, but each invading nation by degrees introduced new habits and ideas into the countries they subdued. The Germans and Franks, having become masters of part of Gaul, established themselves on the lands which they had divided between them. The great domains, with their revenues which had belonged to the emperors, naturally became the property of the barbarian chiefs, and served to defray the expenses of their houses or their courts. These chiefs, at each general assembly of the _Leudes_, or great vassals, received presents of money, of arms, of horses, and of various objects of home or of foreign manufacture. For a long time these gifts were voluntary. The territorial fief, which was given to those soldlers who had deserved it by their military services, involved from the holders a personal service to the King. They had to attend him on his journeys, to follow him to war, and to defend him under all circumstances. The fief was entirely exempt from taxes. Many misdeeds--even robberies and other crimes, which were ordinarily punishable by death--were pardonable on payment of a proportionate fine, and oaths, in many cases, might be absolved in the same way. Thus a large revenue was received, which was generally divided equally between the State, the procurator fiscal, and the King. [Illustration: Fig. 253.--The Extraction of Metals.--Fac-simile of a Woodcut in the "Cosmographie Universelle" of Munster, folio: Basle, 1552.] War, which was almost constant in those turbulent times, furnished the barbarian kings with occasional resources, which were usually much more important than the ordinary supplies from taxation. The first chiefs of the Visigoths, the Ostrogoths, and the Franks, sought means of replenishing their treasuries by their victorious arms. Alaric, Totila, and Clovis thus amassed enormous wealth, without troubling themselves to place the government finances on a satisfactory basis. We see, however, a semblance of financial organization in the institutions of Alaric and his successors. Subsequently, the great Théodoric, who had studied the administrative theories of the Byzantine Court, exercised his genius in endeavouring to work out an accurate system of finance, which was adopted in Italy. Gregory of Tours, a writer of the sixteenth century, relates in several passages of his "History of the Franks," that they exhibited the same repugnance to compulsory taxation as the Germans of the time of Tacitus. The _Leudes_ considered that they owed nothing to the treasury, and to force them to submit to taxation was not an easy matter. About the year 465, Childéric I., father of Clovis, lost his crown for wishing all classes to submit to taxation equally. In 673, Childéric II., King of Austrasia, had one of these _Leudes_, named Bodillon, flogged with rods for daring to reproach him with the injustice of certain taxes. He, however, was afterwards assassinated by this same Bodillon, and the _Leudes_ maintained their right of immunity. A century before the _Leudes_ were already quarrelling with royalty on account of the taxes, which they refused to pay, and they sacrificed Queen Brunehaut because she attempted to enrich the treasury with the confiscated property of a few nobles who had rebelled against her authority. The wealth of the Frank kings, which was always very great, was a continual object of envy, and on one occasion Chilpéric I., King of Soissons, having the _Leudes_ in league with him, laid his hands on the wealth amassed by his father, Clotaire I., which was kept in the Palace of Braine. He was, nevertheless, obliged to share his spoil with his brothers and their followers, who came in arms to force him to refund what he had taken. Chilpéric (Fig. 254) was so much in awe of these _Leudes_ that he did not ask them for money. His wife, the much-feared Frédégonde, did not, however, exempt them more than Brunehaut had done; and her judges or ministers, Audon and Mummius, having met with an insurmountable resistance in endeavouring to force taxation on the nobles, nearly lost their lives in consequence. [Illustration: Fig. 254.--Tomb of Chilpéric.--Sculpture of the Eleventh Century, in the Abbey of St. Denis.] The custom of numbering the population, such as was carried on in Rome through the censors, appears to have been observed under the Merovingian kings. At the request of the Bishop of Poitiers, Childebert gave orders to amend the census taken under Sigebert, King of Austrasia. It is a most curious document mentioned by Gregory of Tours. "The ancient division," he says, "had been one so unequal, owing to the subdivision of properties and other changes which time had made in the condition of the taxpayers, that the poor, the orphans, and the helpless classes generally alone bore the real burden of taxation." Florentius, comptroller of the King's household, and Romulfus, count of the palace, remedied this abuse. After a closer examination of the changes which had taken place, they relieved the taxpayers who were too heavily rated and placed the burden on those who could better afford it. This direct taxation continued on this plan until the time of the kings of the second dynasty. The Franks, who had not the privilege of exemption, paid a poll tax and a house tax; about a tenth was charged on the produce of highly cultivated lands, a little more on that of lands of an inferior description, and a certain measure, a _cruche_, of wine on the produce of every half acre of vineyard. There were assessors and royal agents charged with levying such taxes and regulating the farming of them. In spite of this precaution, however, an edict of Clovis II., in the year 615, censures the mode of imposing rates and taxes; it orders that they shall only be levied in the places where they have been authorised, and forbade their being used under any pretext whatever for any other object than that for which they were imposed. [Illustration: Fig. 255.--Signature of St. Eloy (Eligius), Financier and Minister to Dagobert I.; from the Charter of Foundation of the Abbey of Solignac (Mabillon, "Da Re Diplomatica").] Under the Merovingians specie was not in common use, although the precious metals were abundant among the Gauls, as their mines of gold and silver were not yet exhausted. Money was rarely coined, except on great occasions, such as a coronation, the birth of an heir to the throne, the marriage of a prince, or the commemoration of a decisive victory. It is even probable that each time that money was used in large sums the pound or the _sou_ of gold was represented more by ingots of metal than by stamped coin. The third of the _sou_ of gold, which was coined on state occasions, seems to have been used only as a commemorative medal, to be distributed amongst the great officers of state, and this circumstance explains their extreme rarity. The general character of the coinage, whether of gold, silver, or of the baser metals, of the Burgundian, Austrasian, and Frank kings, differs little from what it had been at the time of the last of the Roman emperors, though the _Angel bearing the cross_ gradually replaced the _Renommée victorieuse_ formerly stamped on the coins. Christian monograms and symbols of the Trinity were often intermingled with the initials of the sovereign. It also became common to combine in a monogram letters thought to be sacred or lucky, such as C, M, S, T, &c.; also to introduce the names of places, which, perhaps, have since disappeared, as well as some particular mark or sign special to each mint. Some of these are very difficult to understand, and present a number of problems which have yet to be solved (Figs. 256 to 259). Unfortunately, the names of places on Merovingian coins to the number of about nine hundred, have rarely been studied by coin collectors, expert both as geographers and linguists. We find, for example, one hundred distinct mints, and, up to the present time, have not been able to determine where the greater number of them were situated. [Illustration: Merovingian Gold Coins, Struck by St. Eloy, Moneyer to Dagobert I. (628-638). Fig. 256.--Parisinna Ceve Fit.. Head of Dagobert with double diadem of pearls, hair hanging down the back of the neck. _Rev._, Dagobertvs Rex. Cross; above, omega; under the arms of the cross, Eligi. Fig. 257.--Parissin. Civ. Head of Clovis II., with diadem of pearls, hair braided and hanging down the back of the neck. _Rev._, Chlodovevs Rex. Cross with anchor; under the arms of the cross, Eligi. Fig. 258.--Parisivs Fit. Head of King. _Rev._, Eligivs Mone. Cross; above, omega; under, a ball. Fig. 259.--Mon. Palati. Head of King. _Rev._, Scolare. I. A. Cross with anchor; under the arms of the cross, Eligi. ] From the time that Clovis became a Christian, he loaded the Church with favours, and it soon possessed considerable revenues, and enjoyed many valuable immunities. The sons of Clovis contested these privileges; but the Church resisted for a time, though she was eventually obliged to give way to the iron hand of Charles Martel. In 732 this great military chieftain, after his struggle with Rainfroy, and after his brilliant victories over the Saxons, the Bavarians, the Swiss, and the Saracens, stripped the clergy of their landed possessions, in order to distribute them amongst his _Leudes_, who by this means he secured as his creatures, and who were, therefore, ever willing and eager to serve him in arms. On ascending the throne, King Pepin, who wanted to pacify the Church, endeavoured as far as possible to obliterate the recollection of the wrongs of which his father had been guilty towards her; he ordered the _dîmes_ and the _nones_ (tenth and ninth denier levied on the value of lands) to be placed to the account of the possessors of each ecclesiastical domain, on their under-taking to repair the buildings (churches, châteaux, abbeys, and presbyteries), and to restore to the owners the properties on which they held mortgages. The nobles long resented this, and it required the authority and the example of Charlemagne to soothe the contending parties, and to make Church and State act in harmony. Charlemagne renounced the arbitrary rights established by the Mayors of the Palace, and retained only those which long usage had legitimatised. He registered them clearly in a code called the _Capitulaires_, into which he introduced the ancient laws of the Ripuaires, the Burgundians, and the Franks, arranging them so as to suit the organization and requirements of his vast empire. From that time each freeman subscribed to the military service according to the amount of his possessions. The great vassal, or fiscal judge, was no longer allowed to practise extortion on those citizens appointed to defend the State. Freemen could legally refuse all servile or obligatory work imposed on them by the nobles, and the amount of labour to be performed by the serfs was lessened. Without absolutely abolishing the authority of local customs in matters of finance, or penalties which had been illegally exacted, they were suspended by laws decided at the _Champs de Mai_, by the Counts and by the _Leudes_, in presence of the Emperor. Arbitrary taxes were abolished, as they were no longer required. Food, and any articles of consumption, and military munitions, were exempted from taxation; and the revenues derived from tolls on road gates, on bridges, and on city gates, &c., were applied to the purposes for which they were imposed, namely, to the repair of the roads, the bridges, and the fortified enclosures. The _heriban_, a fine of sixty sols--which in those days would amount to more than 6,000 francs--was imposed on any holder of a fief who refused military service, and each noble was obliged to pay this for every one of his vassals who was absent when summoned to the King's banner. These fines must have produced considerable sums. A special law exempted ecclesiastics from bearing arms, and Charlemagne decreed that their possessions should be sacred and untouched, and everything was done to ensure the payment of the indemnity--_dîme_ and _none_--which was due to them. [Illustration: Fig. 260.--Toll on Markets levied by a Cleric.--From one of the Painted Windows of the Cathedral of Tournay (Fifteenth Century).] Charlemagne also superintended the coining and circulation of money. He directed that the silver sou should exactly contain the twenty-second part by weight of the pound. He also directed that money should only be coined in the Imperial palaces. He forbade the circulation of spurious coin; he ordered base coiners to be severely punished, and imposed heavy fines upon those who refused to accept the coin in legal circulation. The tithe due to the Church (Fig. 260), which was imposed at the National Assembly in 779, and disbursed by the diocesan bishops, gave rise to many complaints and much opposition. This tithe was in addition to that paid to the King, which was of itself sufficiently heavy. The right of claiming the two tithes, however, had a common origin, so that the sovereign defended his own rights in protecting those of the Church. This is set forth in the text of the _Capitulaires_, from the year 794 to 829. "What had originally been only a voluntary and pious offering of a few of the faithful," says the author of the "Histoire Financière de la France," "became thus a perpetual tax upon agriculture, custom rather than law enforcing its payment; and a tithe which was at first limited to the produce of the soil, soon extended itself to cattle and other live stock." Royal delegates (_missi dominici_), who were invested with complex functions, and with very extensive power, travelled through the empire exercising legal jurisdiction over all matters of importance. They assembled all the _placites_, or provincial authorities, and inquired particularly into the collection of the public revenue. During their tours, which took place four times a year, they either personally annulled unjust sentences, or submitted them to the Emperor. They denounced any irregularities on the part of the Counts, punished the negligences of their assessors, and often, in order to replace unworthy judges, they had to resort to a system of election of assessors, chosen from among the people. They verified the returns for the census; superintended the keeping up of the royal domains; corrected frauds in matters of taxation; and punished usurers as much as base coiners, for at that time money was not considered a commercial article, nor was it thought right that a money-lender should be allowed to carry on a trade which required a remuneration proportionate to the risk which he incurred. [Illustration: Fig. 261.--Sale by Town-Crier. _Preco_, the Crier, blowing a trumpet; _Subhastator_, public officer charged with the sale. In the background is seen another sale, by the Bellman.--Fac-simile of a Woodcut in the Work of Josse Damhoudere, "Praxis Rerum Civilium," 4to: Antwerp, 1557.] These _missi dominici_ were too much hated by the great vassals to outlive the introduction of the feudal system. Their royal masters, as they themselves gradually lost a part of their own privileges and power, could not sustain the authority of these officers. Dukes, counts, and barons, having become magistrates, arbitrarily levied new taxes, imposed new fines, and appropriated the King's tributes to such an extent that, towards the end of the tenth century, the laws of Charlemagne had no longer any weight. We then find a number of new taxes levied for the benefit of the nobles, the very names of which have fallen into disuse with the feudal claims which they represented. Among these new taxes were those of _escorte_ and _entrée_, of _mortmain_, of _lods et ventes_, of _relief_, the _champarts_, the _taille_, the _fouage_, and the various fees for wine-pressing, grinding, baking, &c., all of which were payable without prejudice to the tithes due to the King and the Church. However, as the royal tithe was hardly ever paid, the kings were obliged to look to other means for replenishing their treasuries; and coining false money was a common practice. Unfortunately each great vassal vied with the kings in this, and to such an extent, that the enormous quantity of bad money coined during the ninth century completed the public ruin, and made this a sad period of social chaos. The freeman was no longer distinguishable from the villain, nor the villain from the serf. Serfdom was general; men found themselves, as it were, slaves, in possession of land which they laboured at with the sweat of their brow, only to cultivate for the benefit of others. The towns even--with the exception of a few privileged cities, as Florence, Paris, Lyons, Rheims, Metz, Strasburg, Marseilles, Hamburg, Frankfort, and Milan--were under the dominion of some ecclesiastical or lay lord, and only enjoyed liberty of a more or less limited character. Towards the end of the eleventh century, under Philip I., the enthusiasm for Crusades became general, and, as all the nobles joined in the holy mission of freeing the tomb of Jesus Christ from the hands of the infidels, large sums of money were required to defray the costs. New taxes were accordingly imposed; but, as these did not produce enough at once, large sums were raised by the sale of some of the feudal rights. Certain franchises were in this way sold by the nobles to the boroughs, towns, and abbeys, though, in not a few instances, these very privileges had been formerly plundered from the places to which they were now sold. Fines were exacted from any person declining to go to Palestine; and foreign merchants--especially the Jews--were required to subscribe large sums. A number of the nobles holding fiefs were reduced to the lowest expedients with a view to raising money, and even sold their estates at a low price, or mortgaged them to the very Jews whom they taxed so heavily. Every town in which the spirit of Gallo-Roman municipality was preserved took advantage of these circumstances to extend its liberties. Each monarch, too, found this a favourable opportunity to add new fiefs to the crown, and to recall as many great vassals as possible under his dominion. It was at this period that communities arose, and that the first charters of freedom which were obligatory and binding contracts between the King and the people, date their origin. Besides the annual fines due to the King and the feudal lords, and in addition to the general subsidies, such as the quit-rent and the tithes, these communities had to provide for the repair of the walls or ramparts, for the paving of the streets, the cleaning of the pits, the watch on the city gates, and the various expenses of local administration. Louis le Gros endeavoured to make a re-arrangement of the taxes, and to establish them on a definite basis. By his orders a new register of the lands throughout the kingdom was commenced, but various calamities caused this useful measure to be suspended. In 1149, Louis le Jeune, in consequence of a disaster which had befallen the Crusaders, did what none of his predecessors had dared to attempt: he exacted from all his subjects a sol per pound on their income. This tax, which amounted to a twentieth part of income, was paid even by the Church, which, for example's sake, did not take advantage of its immunities. Forty years later, at a council, or _great parliament_, called by Philip Augustus, a new crusade was decided upon; and, under the name of Saladin's tithe, an annual tax was imposed on all property, whether landed or personal, of all who did not take up the cross to go to the Holy Land. The nobility, however, so violently resisted this, that the King was obliged to substitute for it a general tax, which, although it was still more productive, was less offensive in its mode of collection. On returning to France in 1191, Philip Augustus rated and taxed every one--nobility, bourgeois, and clergy--in order to prosecute the great wars in which he was engaged, and to provide for the first paid troops ever known in France. He began by confirming the enormous confiscations of the properties of the Jews, who had been banished from the kingdom, and afterwards sold a temporary permission to some of the richest of them to return. The Jews at that time were the only possessors of available funds, as they were the only people who trafficked, and who lent money on interest. On this account the Government were glad to recall them, so as to have at hand a valuable resource which it could always make use of. As the King could not on his own authority levy taxes upon the vassals of feudal lords, on emergencies he convoked the barons, who discussed financial matters with the King, and, when the sum required was settled, an order of assessment was issued, and the barons undertook the collection of the taxes. The assessment was always fixed higher than was required for the King's wants, and the barons, having paid the King what was due to him, retained the surplus, which they divided amongst themselves. The creation of a public revenue, raised by the contributions of all classes of society, with a definite sum to be kept in reserve, thus dates from the reign of Philip Augustus. The annual income of the State at that time amounted to 36,000 marks, or 72,000 pounds' weight of silver--about sixteen or seventeen million francs of present currency. The treasury, which was kept in the great tower of the temple (Fig. 262), was under the custody of seven bourgeois of Paris, and a king's clerk kept a register of receipts and disbursements. This treasury must have been well filled at the death of Philip Augustus, for that monarch's legacies were very considerable. One of his last wishes deserves to be mentioned: and this was a formal order, which he gave to Louis VIII., to employ a certain sum, left him for that purpose, solely and entirely for the defence of the kingdom. [Illustration: Fig. 262.--The Tower of the Temple, in Paris.--From an Engraving of the Topography of Paris, in the Cabinet des Estampes, of the National Library.] [Illustration: Gold Coins of the Sixth and Seventh Centuries. Fig. 263.--Mérovée, Son of Chilperic I. Fig. 264.--Dagobert I. Fig. 265.--Clotaire III.] [Illustration: Silver Coins from the Eighth to the Eleventh Centures. Fig 266.--Pepin the Short. Fig. 267.--Charlemagne. Fig. 268.--Henri I.] [Illustration: Gold and Silver Coins of the Thirteenth Century. Fig. 269.--Gold Florin of Louis IX. Fig. 270.--Silver Gros of Tours.--Philip III.] When Louis IX., in 1242, at Taillebourg and at Saintes, had defeated the great vassals who had rebelled against him, he hastened to regulate the taxes by means of a special code which bore the name of the _Établissements_. The taxes thus imposed fell upon the whole population, and even lands belonging to the Church, houses which the nobles did not themselves occupy, rural properties and leased holdings, were all subjected to them. There were, however, two different kinds of rates, one called the _occupation_ rate, and the other the rate of _exploitation_; and they were both collected according to a register, kept in the most regular and systematic manner possible. Ancient custom had maintained a tax exceptionally in the following cases: when a noble dubbed his son a knight, or gave his daughter in marriage, when he had to pay a ransom, and when he set out on a campaign against the enemies of the Church, or for the defence of the country. These taxes were called _l'aide aux quatre cas_. At this period despotism too often overruled custom, and the good King Louis IX., by granting legal power to custom, tried to bring it back to the true principles of justice and humanity. He was, however, none the less jealous of his own personal privileges, especially as regarded coining (Figs. 263 to 270). He insisted that coining should be exclusively carried on in his palace, as in the times of the Carlovingian kings, and he required every coin to be made of a definite standard of weight, which he himself fixed. In this way he secured the exclusive control over the mint. For the various localities, towns, or counties directly under the crown, Louis IX. settled the mode of levying taxes. Men of integrity were elected by the vote of the General Assembly, consisting of the three orders--namely, of the nobility, the clergy, and the _tiers état_--to assess the taxation of each individual; and these assessors themselves were taxed by four of their own number. The custom of levying proprietary subsidies in each small feudal jurisdiction could not be abolished, notwithstanding the King's desire to do so, owing to the power still held by the nobles. Nobles were forbidden to levy a rate under any consideration, without previously holding a meeting of the vassals and their tenants. The tolls on roads, bridges (Fig. 271), fairs, and markets, and the harbour dues were kept up, notwithstanding their obstruction to commerce, with the exception that free passage was given to corn passing from one province to another. The exemptions from taxes which had been dearly bought were removed; and the nobles were bound not to divert the revenue received from tolls for any purposes other than those for which they were legitimately intended. The nobles were also required to guard the roads "from sunrise to sunset," and they were made responsible for robberies committed upon travellers within their domains. Louis IX., by refunding the value of goods which had been stolen through the carelessness of his officers, himself showed an example of the respect due to the law. Those charged with collecting the King's dues, as well as the mayors whose duty it was to take custody of the money contributed, and to receive the taxes on various articles of consumption, worked under the eye of officials appointed by the King, who exercised a financial jurisdiction which developed later into the department or office called the Chamber of Accounts. A tax, somewhat similar to the tithe on funds, was imposed for the benefit of the nobles on property held by corporations or under charter, in order to compensate the treasury for the loss of the succession duties. This tax represented about the fifth part of the value of the estate. To cover the enormous expenses of the two crusades, Louis IX., however, was obliged to levy two new taxes, called _decimes_, from his already overburdened people. It does not, however, appear that this excessive taxation alienated the affection of his subjects. Their minds were entirely taken up with the pilgrimages to the East, and the pious monarch, notwithstanding his fruitless sacrifices and his disastrous expeditions, earned for himself the title of _Prince of Peace and of Justice_. [Illustration: Fig. 271.--Paying Toll on passing a Bridge.--From a Painted Window in the Cathedral of Tournay (Fifteenth Century).] From the time of Louis IX. down to that of Philippe le Bel, who was the most extravagant of kings, and at the same time the most ingenious in raising funds for the State treasury, the financial movement of Europe took root, and eventually became centralised in Italy. In Florence was presented an example of the concentration of the most complete municipal privileges which a great flourishing city could desire. Pisa, Genoa, and Venice attracted a part of the European commerce towards the Adriatic and the Mediterranean. Everywhere the Jews and Lombards--already well initiated into the mysterious System of credit, and accustomed to lend money--started banks and pawn establishments, where jewels, diamonds, glittering arms, and paraphernalia of all kinds were deposited by princes and nobles as security for loans (Fig. 272). [Illustration: Fig. 272.--View of the ancient Pont aux Changeurs.--From an Engraving of the Topography of Paris, in the Cabinet des Estampes, of the National Library.] The tax collectors (_maltôtiers_, a name derived from the Italian _mala tolta_, unjust tax), receivers, or farmers of taxes, paid dearly for exercising their calling, which was always a dishonourable one, and was at times exercised with a great amount of harshness and even of cruelty. The treasury required a certain number of _deniers, oboles_, or _pittes_ (a small coin varying in value in each province) to be paid by these men for each bank operation they effected, and for every pound in value of merchandise they sold, for they and the Jews were permitted to carry on trades of all kinds without being subject to any kind of rates, taxes, work, military service, or municipal dues. Philippe le Bel, owing to his interminable wars against the King of Castille, and against England, Germany, and Flanders, was frequently so embarrassed as to be obliged to resort to extraordinary subsidies in order to carry them on. In 1295, he called upon his subjects for a forced loan, and soon after he shamelessly required them to pay the one-hundredth part of their incomes, and after but a short interval he demanded another fiftieth part. The king assumed the exclusive right to debase the value of the coinage, which caused him to be commonly called the _base coiner_, and no sovereign ever coined a greater quantity of base money. He changed the standard or name of current coin with a view to counterbalance the mischief arising from the illicit coinage of the nobles, and especially to baffle the base traffic of the Jews and Lombards, who occasionally would obtain possession of a great part of the coin, and mutilate each piece before restoring it to circulation; in this way they upset the whole monetary economy of the realm, and secured immense profits to themselves (Figs. 273 to 278). In 1303, the _aide au leur_, which was afterwards called the _aide de l'ost,_ or the army tax, was invented by Philippe le Bel for raising an army without opening his purse. It was levied without distinction upon dukes, counts, barons, ladies, damsels, archbishops, bishops, abbots, chapters, colleges, and, in fact, upon all classes, whether noble or not. Nobles were bound to furnish one knight mounted, equipped, and in full armour, for every five hundred marks of land which they possessed; those who were not nobles had to furnish six foot-soldiers for every hundred households. By another enactment of this king the privilege was granted of paying money instead of complying with these demands for men, and a sum of 100 livres--about 10,000 francs of present currency--was exacted for each armed knight; and two sols--about ten francs per diem--for each soldier which any one failed to furnish. An outcry was raised throughout France at this proceeding, and rebellions broke out in several provinces: in Paris the mob destroyed the house of Stephen Barbette, master of the mint, and insulted the King in his palace. It was necessary to enforce the royal authority with vigour, and, after considerable difficulty, peace was at last restored, and Philip learned, though too late, that in matters of taxation the people should first be consulted. In 1313, for the first time, the bourgeoisie, syndics, or deputies of communities, under the name of _tiers état_--third order of the state--were called to exercise the right of freely voting the assistance or subsidy which it pleased the King to ask of them. After this memorable occasion an edict was issued ordering a levy of six deniers in the pound on every sort of merchandise sold in the kingdom. Paris paid this without hesitation, whereas in the provinces there was much discontented murmuring. But the following year, the King having tried to raise the six deniers voted by the assembly of 1313 to twelve, the clergy, nobility, and _tiers état_ combined to resist the extortions of the government. Philippe le Bel died, after having yielded to the opposition of his indignant subjects, and in his last moments he recommended his son to exercise moderation in taxing and honesty in coining. [Illustration: Gold Coins of the Fourteenth and Fifteenth Centuries. Fig. 273.--Masse d'Or. Philip IV. Fig. 274.--Small Aignel d'Or. Charles IV. Fig. 275.--Large Aignel d'Or. John the Good. Fig. 276.--Franc à Cheval d'Or. Charles V. Fig. 277.--Ecu d'Or. Philip VI. Fig. 278.--Salut d'Or. Charles VI.] On the accession of Louis X., in 1315, war against the Flemish was imminent, although the royal treasury was absolutely empty. The King unfortunately, in spite of his father's advice, attempted systematically to tamper with the coinage, and he also commenced the exaction of fresh taxes, to the great exasperation of his subjects. He was obliged, through fear of a general rebellion, to do away with the tithe established for the support of the army, and to sacrifice the superintendent of finances, Enguerrand de Marigny, to the public indignation which was felt against him. This man, without being allowed to defend himself, was tried by an extraordinary commission of parliament for embezzling the public money, was condemned to death, and was hung on the gibbet of Montfauçon. Not daring to risk a convocation of the States-General of the kingdom, Louis X. ordered the seneschals to convoke the provincial assemblies, and thus obtained a few subsidies, which he promised to refund out of the revenues of his domains. The clergy even allowed themselves to be taxed, and closed their eyes to the misappropriation of the funds, which were supposed to be held in reserve for a new crusade. Taxes giving commercial franchise and of exchange were levied, which were paid by the Jews, Lombards, Tuscans, and other Italians; judiciary offices were sold by auction; the trading class purchased letters of nobility, as they had already done under Philippe le Bel; and, more than this, the enfranchisement of serfs, which had commenced in 1298, was continued on the payment of a tax, which varied according to the means of each individual. In consequence of this system, personal servitude was almost entirely abolished under Philippe de Long, brother of Louis X. Each province, under the reign of this rapacious and necessitous monarch, demanded some concession from the crown, and almost always obtained it at a money value. Normandy and Burgundy, which were dreaded more than any other province on account of their turbulence, received remarkable concessions. The base coin was withdrawn from circulation, and Louis X. attempted to forbid the right of coinage to those who broke the wise laws of St. Louis. The idea of bills of exchange arose at this period. Thanks to the peace concluded with Flanders, on which occasion that country paid into the hands of the sovereign thirty thousand florins in gold for arrears of taxes, and, above all, owing to the rules of economy and order, from which Philip V., surnamed the Long, never deviated, the attitude of France became completely altered. We find the King initiating reform by reducing the expenses of his household. He convened round his person a great council, which met monthly to examine and discuss matters of public interest; he allowed only one national treasury for the reception of the State revenues; he required the treasurers to make a half-yearly statement of their accounts, and a daily journal of receipts and disbursements; he forbad clerks of the treasury to make entries either of receipts or expenditure, however trifling, without the authority and supervision of accountants, whom he also compelled to assist at the checking of sums received or paid by the money-changers (Fig. 279). The farming of the crown lands, the King's taxes, the stamp registration, and the gaol duties were sold by auction, subject to certain regulations with regard to guarantee. The bailiffs and seneschals sent in their accounts to Paris annually, they were not allowed to absent themselves without the King's permission, and they were formally forbidden, under pain of confiscation, or even a severer penalty, to speculate with the public money. The operations of the treasury were at this period always involved in the greatest mystery. [Illustration: Fig. 279.--Hotel of the Chamber of Accounts in the Courtyard of the Palace in Paris. From a Woodcut of the "Cosmographie Universelle" of Munster, in folio: Basle, 1552.] [Illustration: Fig. 280.--Measuring Salt.--Fac-simile of a Woodcut of the "Ordonnances de la Prevosté des Marchands de Paris," in folio: 1500.] [Illustration: Fig. 281.--Toll under the Bridges of Paris.--Fac-simile of a Woodcut of the "Ordonnances de la Prevosté des Marchands de Paris," in folio: 1500.] The establishment of a central mint for the whole kingdom, the expulsion of the money-dealers, who were mostly of Italian origin, and the confiscation of their goods if it was discovered that they had acted falsely, signalised the accession of Charles le Bel in 1332. This beginning was welcomed as most auspicious, but before long the export duties, especially on grain, wine, hay, cattle, leather, and salt, became a source of legitimate complaint (Figs. 280 and 281). Philip VI., surnamed _de Valois_, a more astute politician than his predecessor, felt the necessity of gaining the affections of the people by sparing their private fortunes. In order to establish the public revenue on a firm basis, he assembled, in 1330, the States-General, composed of barons, prelates, and deputies from the principal towns, and then, hoping to awe the financial agents, he authorised the arrest of the overseer, Pierre de Montigny, whose property was confiscated and sold, producing to the treasury the enormous sum of 1,200,000 livres, or upwards of 100,000,000 francs of present currency. The long and terrible war which the King was forced to carry on against the English, and which ended in the treaty of Bretigny in 1361, gave rise to the introduction of taxation of extreme severity. The dues on ecclesiastical properties were renewed and maintained for several years; all beverages sold in towns were taxed, and from four to six deniers in the pound were levied upon the value of all merchandise sold in any part of the kingdom. The salt tax, which Philippe le Bel had established, and which his successor, Louis X., immediately abolished at the unanimous wish of the people, was again levied by Philip VI., and this king, having caused the salt produced in his domains to be sold, "gave great offence to all classes of the community." It was on account of this that Edward III., King of England, facetiously called him the author of the _Salic_ law. Philippe de Valois, when he first ascended the throne, coined his money according to the standard weight of St. Louis, but in a short time he more or less alloyed it. This he did secretly, in order to be able to withdraw the pieces of full weight from circulation and to replace them with others having less pure metal in them, and whose weight was made up by an extra amount of alloy. In this dishonest way a considerable sum was added to the coffers of the state. King John, on succeeding his father in 1350, found the treasury empty and the resources of the kingdom exhausted. He was nevertheless obliged to provide means to continue the war against the English, who continually harassed the French on their own territory. The tax on merchandise not being sufficient for this war, the payment of public debts contracted by the government was suspended, and the State was thus obliged to admit its insolvency. The mint taxes, called _seigneuriage_, were pushed to the utmost limits, and the King levied them on the new coin, which he increased at will by largely alloying the gold with base metals. The duties on exported and imported goods were increased, notwithstanding the complaints that commerce was declining. These financial expedients would not have been tolerated by the people had not the King taken the précaution to have them approved by the States-General of the provincial states, which he annually assembled. In 1355 the States-General were convoked, and the King, who had to maintain thirty thousand soldiers, asked them to provide for this annual expenditure, estimated at 5,000,000 _livres parisis_, about 300,000,000 francs of present currency. The States-General, animated by a generous feeling of patriotism, "ordered a tax of eight deniers in the pound on the sale and transfer of all goods and articles of merchandise, with the exception of inheritances, which was to be payable by the vendors, of whatever rank they might be, whether ecclesiastics, nobles, or others, and also a salt tax to be levied throughout the whole kingdom of France." The King promised as long as this assistance lasted to levy no other subsidy and to coin good and sterling money--i.e., _deniers_ of fine gold, _white_, or silver coin, coin of _billon_, or mixed metal, and _deniers_ and _mailles_ of copper. The assembly appointed travelling agents and three inspectors or superintendents, who had under them two receivers and a considerable number of sub-collectors, whose duties were defined with scrupulous minuteness. The King at this time renounced the right of seizin, his dues over property, inherited or conveyed by sale, exchange, gift, or will, his right of demanding war levies by proclamation, and of issuing forced loans, the despotic character of which offended everybody. The following year, the tax of eight deniers having been found insufficient and expensive in its collection, the assembly substituted for it a property and income tax, varying according to the property and income of each individual. [Illustration: Fig. 282.--The Courtiers amassing Riches at the Expense of the Poor.--From a Miniature in the 'Tresor of Brunetto Latini, Manuscript of the Fourteenth Century, in the Library of the Arsenal, Paris.] The finances were, notwithstanding these additions, in a low and unsatisfactory condition, which became worse and worse from the fatal day of Poitiers, when King John fell into the hands of the English. The States-General were summoned by the Dauphin, and, seeing the desperate condition in which the country was placed, all classes freely opened their purses. The nobility, who had already given their blood, gave the produce of all their feudal dues besides. The church paid a tenth and a half, and the bourgeois showed the most noble unselfishness, and rose as one man to find means to resist the common enemy. The ransom of the King had been fixed at three millions of _écus d'or,_ nearly a thousand million francs, payable in six years, and the peace of Bretigny was concluded by the cession of a third of the territory of France. There was, however, cause for congratulation in this result, for "France was reduced to its utmost extremity," says a chronicler, "and had not something led to a reaction, she must have perished irretrievably." King John, grateful for the love and devotion shown to him by his subjects under these trying circumstances, returned from captivity with the solemn intention of lightening the burdens which pressed upon them, and in consequence be began by spontaneously reducing the enormous wages which the tax-gatherers had hitherto received, and by abolishing the tolls on highways. He also sold to the Jews, at a very high price, the right of remaining in the kingdom and of exercising any trade in it, and by this means he obtained a large sum of money. He solemnly promised never again to debase the coin, and he endeavoured to make an equitable division of the taxes. Unfortunately it was impossible to do without a public revenue, and it was necessary that the royal ransom should be paid off within six years. The people, from whom taxes might be always extorted at pleasure, paid a good share of this, for the fifth of the three millions of _écus d'or_ was realised from the tax on salt, the thirteenth part from the duty on the sale of fermented liquors, and twelve deniers per pound from the tax on the value of all provisions sold and resold within the kingdom. Commerce was subjected to a new tax called _imposition foraine_, a measure most detrimental to the trade and manufactures of the country, which were continually struggling under the pitiless oppression of the treasury. Royal despotism was not always able to shelter itself under the sanction of the general and provincial councils, and a few provinces, which forcibly protested against this excise duty, were treated on the same footing as foreign states with relation to the transit of merchandise from them. Other provinces compounded for this tax, and in this way, owing to the different arrangements in different places, a complicated system of exemptions and prohibitions existed which although most prejudicial to all industry, remained in force to a great extent until 1789. When Charles V.--surnamed the Wise--ascended the throne in 1364, France, ruined by the disasters of the war, by the weight of taxation, by the reduction in her commerce, and by the want of internal security, exhibited everywhere a picture of misery and desolation; in addition to which, famine and various epidemics were constantly breaking out in various parts of the kingdom. Besides this, the country was incessantly overrun by gangs of plunderers, who called themselves _écorcheurs, routiers, tardvenus_, &c., and who were more dreaded by the country people even than the English had been. Charles V., who was celebrated for his justice and for his economical and provident habits, was alone capable of establishing order in the midst of such general confusion. Supported by the vote of the Assembly held at Compiègne in 1367, he remitted a moiety of the salt tax and diminished the number of the treasury agents, reduced their wages, and curtailed their privileges. He inquired into all cases of embezzlement, so as to put a stop to fraud; and he insisted that the accounts of the public expenditure in its several departments should be annually audited. He protected commerce, facilitated exchanges, and reduced, as far as possible, the rates and taxes on woven articles and manufactured goods. He permitted Jews to hold funded property, and invited foreign merchants to trade with the country. For the first time he required all gold and silver articles to be stamped, and called in all the old gold and silver coins, in order that by a new and uniform issue the value of money might no longer be fictitious or variable. For more than a century coins had so often changed in name, value, and standard weight, that in an edict of King John we read, "It was difficult for a man when paying money in the ordinary course to know what he was about from one day to another." The recommencement of hostilities between England and France in 1370 unfortunately interrupted the progressive and regular course of these financial improvements. The States-General, to whom the King was obliged to appeal for assistance in order to carry on the war, decided that salt should be taxed one sol per pound, wine by wholesale a thirteenth of its value, and by retail a fourth; that a _fouage_, or hearth tax, of six francs should be established in towns, and of two francs in the country,[*] and that a duty should be levied in walled towns on the entrance of all wine. The produce of the salt tax was devoted to the special use of the King. Each district farmed its excise and its salt tax, under the superintendence of clerks appointed by the King, who regulated the assessment and the fines, and who adjudicated in the first instance in all cases of dispute. Tax-gatherers were chosen by the inhabitants of each locality, but the chief officers of finance, four in number, were appointed by the King. This administrative organization, created on a sound basis, marked the establishment of a complete financial system. The Assembly, which thus transferred the administration of all matters of taxation from the people at large to the King, did not consist of a combination of the three estates, but simply of persons of position--namely, prelates, nobles, and bourgeois of Paris, in addition to the leading magistrates of the kingdom. [Footnote *: This is the origin of the saying "smoke farthing."] The following extract from the accounts of the 15th November, 1372, is interesting, inasmuch as it represents the actual budget of France under Charles V.:-- Article 18. Assigned for the payment of men at arms ...... 50,000 francs. " 19. For payment of men at arms and crossbowmen newly formed .............................. 42,000 " " " For sea purposes ............................. 8,000 " " 20. For the King's palace ........................ 6,000 " " " To place in the King's coffers................ 5,000 " " 21. It pleases the King that the receiver-general should have monthly for matters that daily arise in the chamber ...................... 10,000 " " " For the payment of debts ..................... 10,000 " Total ..................... 131,000 " [Illustration: Settlement of Accounts by the Brothers of Cherité-Dieu of the Recovery of Roles A miniature from the "_Livre des Comptes_" of the Society (Fifteenth Century).] Thus, for the year, 131,000 francs in _écus d'or_ representing in present money about 12,000,000 francs, were appropriated to the expenses of the State, out of which the sum of 5,000 francs, equal to 275,000 francs of present money, was devoted to what we may call the _Civil List_. On the death of Charles V., in 1380, his eldest son Charles, who was a minor, was put under the guardianship of his uncles, and one of these, the Duke d'Anjou, assumed the regency by force. He seized upon the royal treasury, which was concealed in the Castle of Melun, and also upon all the savings of the deceased king; and, instead of applying them to alleviate the general burden of taxation, he levied a duty for the first time on the common food of the people. Immediately there arose a general outcry of indignation, and a formidable expression of resistance was made in Paris and in the large towns. Mob orators loudly proclaimed the public rights thus trampled upon by the regent and the King's uncles; the expression of the feelings of the masses began to take the shape of open revolt, when the council of the regency made an appearance of giving way, and the new taxes were suppressed, or, at all events, partially abandoned. The success of the insurrectionary movement, however, caused increased concessions to be demanded by the people. The Jews and tax-collectors were attacked. Some of the latter were hung or assassinated, and their registers torn up; and many of the former were ill-treated and banished, notwithstanding the price they had paid for living in the kingdom. The assembly of the States, which was summoned by the King's uncles to meet in Paris, sided with the people, and, in consequence, the regent and his brother pretended to acknowledge the justice of the claims which were made upon them in the name of the people, and, on their withdrawing the taxes, order was for a time restored. No sooner, however, was this the case than, in spite of the solemn promises made by the council of regency, the taxes were suddenly reimposed, and the right of farming them was sold to persons who exacted them in the most brutal manner. A sanguinary revolt, called that of the _Maillotins_, burst forth in Paris; and the capital remained for some time in the power of the people, or rather of the bourgeois, who led the mob on to act for them (1381-1382). The towns of Rouen, Rheims, Troyes, Orleans, and Blois, many places in Beauvoise, in Champagne, and in Normandy, followed the example of the Parisians, and it is impossible to say to what a length the revolt would have reached had it not been for the victory over the Flemish at Rosebecque. This victory enabled the King's uncles to re-enter Paris in 1383, and to re-establish the royal authority, at the same time making the _Maillotins_ and their accomplices pay dearly for their conduct. The excise duties, the hearth tax, the salt tax, and various other imposts which had been abolished or suspended, were re-established; the taxes on wine, beer, and other fermented liquors was lowered; bread was taxed twelve deniers per pound, and the duty on salt was fixed at the excessive rate of twenty francs in gold--about 1,200 francs of present money--per hogshead of sixty hundredweight. Certain concessions and compromises were made exceptionally in favour of Artois, Dauphiné, Poitou, and Saintonge, in consideration of the voluntary contributions which those provinces had made. [Illustration: Fig. 283.--Assassination of the Duke of Burgundy, John the Fearless, on the Bridge of Montereau, in 1419.--Fac-simile of a Miniature in the "Chronicles" of Monstrelet, Manuscript of the Fifteenth Century, in the Library of the Arsenal of Paris.] Emboldened by the success of their exacting and arbitrary rule, the Dukes of Anjou, Burgundy, and Berry, under pretext of requiring money for war expenses, again increased the taxes from the year 1385 to 1388; and the salt tax was raised to forty golden francs, about 24,000 francs of present money, per hogshead. The ecclesiastics paid a half décime to the King, and several décimes to the Pope, but these did not prevent a forced loan being ordered. Happily, Charles VI. about this period attained his majority, and assumed his position as king; and his uncle, the Duke of Bourbon, who was called to the direction of affairs, re-established comparative order in financial matters; but soon after the King's brother, the Duke of Orleans, seized the reins of government, and, jointly with his sister-in-law, Isabel of Bavaria, increased the taxation far beyond that imposed by the Duke d'Anjou. The Duke of Burgundy, called John the Fearless, in order to gratify his personal hatred to his cousin, Louis of Orleans, made himself the instrument of the strong popular feeling by assassinating that prince as he was returning from an entertainment. The tragical death of the Duke of Orleans no more alleviated the ills of France than did that of the Duke of Burgundy sixteen years later--for he in his turn was the victim of a conspiracy, and was assassinated on the bridge of Montereau in the presence of the Dauphin (Fig. 283). The marriage of Isabel of France with the young king Richard of England, the ransom of the Christian prisoners in the East, the money required by the Emperor of Constantinople to stop the invasions of the Turks into Europe, the pay of the French army, which was now permanent, each necessarily required fresh subsidies, and money had to be raised in some way or other from the French people. Distress was at its height, and though the people were groaning under oppression, they continued to pay not only the increased taxes on provisions and merchandise, and an additional general tax, but to submit to the most outrageous confiscations and robbery of the public money from the public treasuries. The State Assemblies held at Auxerre and Paris in 1412 and 1413, denounced the extravagance and maladministration of the treasurers, the generals, the excisemen, the receivers of royal dues, and of all those who took part in the direction of the finances; though they nevertheless voted the taxes, and promulgated most severe regulations with respect to their collection. To meet emergencies, which were now becoming chronic, extraordinary taxes were established, the non-payment of which involved the immediate imprisonment of the defaulter; and the debasement of the coinage, and the alienation of certain parts of the kingdom, were authorised in the name of the King, who had been insane for more than fifteen years. The incessant revolts of the bourgeois, the reappearance of the English on the soil of France, the ambitious rivalry of Queen Isabel of Bavaria leagued with the Duke of Burgundy against the Dauphin, who had been made regent, at last, in 1420, brought about the humiliating treaty of Troyes, by which Henry V., king of England, was to become king of France on the death of Charles VI. This treaty of Troyes became the cause of, and the pretext for, a vast amount of extortion being practised upon the unfortunate inhabitants of the conquered country. Henry V., who had already made several exactions from Normandy before he had obtained by force the throne of France, did not spare the other provinces, and, whilst proclaiming his good intentions towards his future subjects, he added a new general impost, in the shape of a forced loan, to the taxes which already weighed so heavily on the people. He also issued a new coinage, maintained many of the taxes, especially those on salt and on liquors, even after he had announced his intention of abolishing them. At the same time the Dauphin Charles, surnamed _Roi de Bourges_, because he had retired with his court and retinue into the centre of the kingdom (1422), was sadly in want of money. He alienated the State revenues, he levied excise duties and subsidies in the provinces which remained faithful to his cause, and he borrowed largely from those members of the Church and the nobility who manifested a generous pity for the sad destiny of the King and the monarchy. Many persons, however, instead of sacrificing themselves for their king and country, made conditions with him, taking advantage of his position. The heir to the throne was obliged in many points to give way, either to a noble whose services he bargained for, or to a town or an abbey whose aid he sought. At times he bought over influential bodies, such as universities and other corporation, by granting exemptions from, or privileges in, matters of taxation, &c. So much was this the case that it may be said that Charles VII. treated by private contract for the recovery of the inheritances of his fathers. The towns of Paris and Rouen, as well as the provinces of Brittany, Languedoc, Normandy, and Guyenne, only returned to their allegiance to the King on conditions more or less advantageous to themselves. Burgundy, Picardy, and Flanders--which were removed from the kingdom of Charles VII. at the treaty of peace of Arras in 1435--cordially adopted the financial system inaugurated by the Duke of Burgundy, Philip the Good. [Illustration: Fig. 284.--The House of Jacques Coeur at Bourges, now converted into the Hôtel de Ville.] Charles VII. reconquered his kingdom by a good and wise policy as much as by arms. He, doubtless, had cause to be thankful for the valeur and devotion of his officers, but he principally owed the success of his cause to one man, namely, his treasurer, the famous Jacques Coeur, who possessed the faculty of always supplying money to his master, and at the same time of enriching himself (Fig. 284). Thus it was that Charles VII., whose finances had been restored by the genius of Jacques Coeur, was at last able to re-enter his capital triumphantly, to emancipate Guyenne, Normandy, and the banks of the Loire from the English yoke, to reattach to the crown a portion of its former possessions, or to open the way for their early return, to remove bold usurpers from high places in the State, and to bring about a real alleviation of those evils which his subjects had so courageously borne. He suppressed the fraud and extortion carried on under the name of justice, put a stop to the sale of offices, abolished a number of rates illegally levied, required that the receivers' accounts should be sent in biennially, and whilst regulating the taxation, he devoted its proceeds entirely to the maintenance and pay of the army. From that time taxation, once feudal and arbitrary, became a fixed royal due, which was the surest means of preventing the pillage and the excesses of the soldiery to which the country people had been subjected for many years. Important triumphs of freedom were thus obtained over the tyrannical supremacy of the great vassals; but in the midst of all this improvement we cannot but regret that the assessors, who, from the time of their creation by St. Louis, had been elected by the towns or the corporations, now became the nominees of the crown. [Illustration: Fig. 285.--_Amende honorable_ of Jacques Coeur before Charles VII.--Fac-simile of a Miniature of the "Chroniques" of Monstrelet, Manuscript of the Fifteenth Century, in the National Library of Paris.] Philip the Good, Duke of Burgundy, taxed his subjects but little: "Therefore," says Philippe de Commines, "they became very wealthy, and lived in much comfort." But Louis XI did not imitate him. His first care was to reinstate that great merchant, that clever financier, Jacques Coeur, to whom, as much as to Joan of Arc, the kingdom owed its freedom, and whom Charles VII., for the most contemptible reasons, had had the weakness to allow to be judicially condemned Louis XI. would have been very glad to entrust the care of his finances to another Jacques Coeur; for being sadly in want of money, he ran through his father's earnings, and, to refill his coffers, he increased taxation, imposed a duty on the importation of wines, and levied a tax on those holding offices, &c. A revolution broke out in consequence, which was only quenched in the blood of the insurgents. In this manner he continued, by force of arms, to increase and strengthen his own regal power at the expense of feudalism. He soon found himself opposed by the _Ligue du Bien Public_, formed by the great vassals ostensibly to get rid of the pecuniary burden which oppressed the people, but really with the secret intention of restoring feudalism and lessening the King's power. He was not powerful enough openly to resist this, and appeared to give way by allowing the leagued nobles immense privileges, and himself consenting to the control of a sort of council of "thirty-six notables appointed to superintend matters of finance." Far from acknowledging himself vanquished, however, he immediately set to work to cause division among his enemies, so as to be able to overcome them. He accordingly showed favour towards the bourgeois, whom he had already flattered, by granting new privileges, and abolishing or reducing certain vexatious taxes of which they complained. The thirty-six notables appointed to control his financial management reformed nothing. They were timid and docile under the cunning eye of the King, and practically assisted him in his designs; for in a very few years the taxes were increased from 1,800,000 écus--about 45,000,000 francs of present money--to 3,600,000 écus--about 95,000,000 francs. Towards the end of the reign they exceeded 4,700,000 écus--130,000,000 francs of present money. Louis XI. wasted nothing on luxury and pleasure; he lived parsimoniously, but he maintained 110,000 men under arms, and was ready to make the greatest sacrifices whenever there was a necessity for augmenting the territory of the kingdom, or for establishing national unity. At his death, on the 25th of August, 1483, he left a kingdom considerably increased in area, but financialty almost ruined. When Anne de Beaujeu, eldest sister of the King, who was a minor, assumed the reins of government as regent, an immediate demand was made for reparation of the evils to which the finance ministers had subjected the unfortunate people. The treasurer-general Olivier le Dain, and the attorney-general Jean Doyat, were almost immediately sacrificed to popular resentment, six thousand Swiss were subsidised, the pensions granted during the previous reign were cancelled, and a fourth part of the taxes was removed. Public opinion being thus satisfied, the States-General assembled. The bourgeois here showed great practical good sense, especially in matters of finance; they proved clearly that the assessment was illegal, and that the accounts were fictitious, inasmuch as the latter only showed 1,650,000 livres of subsidies, whereas they amounted to three times as much. It was satisfactorily established that the excise, the salt tax, and the revenues of the public lands amply sufficed for the wants of the country and the crown. The young King Charles was only allowed 1,200,000 livres for his private purse for two years, and 300,000 livres for the expenses of the festivities of his coronation. On the Assembly being dissolved, the Queen Regent found ample means of pleasing the bourgeois and the people generally by breaking through the engagements she had entered into in the King's name, by remitting taxation, and finally by force of arms destroying the power of the last remaining vassals of the crown. [Illustration: Fig. 286.--The Mint.--Fac-simile of a Woodcut in the Translation of the Latin Work of Francis Patricius, "De l'Institution et Administration de la Chose Politique:" folio, 1520.] [Illustration: Fig. 287.--The receiver of Taxes.--Fac-simile of a Woodcut in Damhoudere's "Praxis Rerum Civilium."] Charles VIII., during a reign of fourteen years, continued to waste the public money. His disastrous expedition for the conquest of the kingdom of Naples forced him to borrow at the rate of forty-two per cent. A short time previous to his death he acknowledged his errors, but continued to spend money, without consideration or restraint, in all kinds of extravagances, but especially in buildings. During his reign the annual expenditure almost invariably doubled the revenue. In 1492 it reached 7,300,000 francs, about 244,000,000 francs of present money. The deficit was made up each year by a general tax, "which was paid neither by the nobles nor the Church, but was obtained entirely from the people" (letters from the ambassadors of Venice). When the Duke of Orleans ascended the throne as Louis XII., the people were again treated with some consideration. Having chosen George d'Amboise as premier and Florimond Robertet as first secretary of the treasury, he resolutely pursued a course of strict economy; he refused to demand of his subjects the usual tax for celebrating the joyous accession, the taxes fell by successive reductions to the sum of 2,600,000 livres, about 76,000,000 francs of present money, the salt tax was entirely abolished, and the question as to what should be the standard measure of this important article was legislated upon. The tax-gatherers were forced to reside in their respective districts, and to submit their registers to the royal commissioners before beginning to collect the tax. By strict discipline pillage by soldiers was put a stop to (Fig. 288). Notwithstanding the resources obtained by the King through mortgaging a part of the royal domains, and in spite of the excellent administration of Robertet, who almost always managed to pay the public deficit without any additional tax, it was necessary in 1513, after several disastrous expeditions to Italy, to borrow, on the security of the royal domains, 400,000 livres, 10,000,000 francs of present money, and to raise from the excise and from other dues and taxes the sum of 3,300,000 livres, about 80,000,000 francs of present money. This caused the nation some distress, but it was only temporary, and was not much felt, for commerce, both domestic and foreign, much extended at the same time, and the sale of collectorships, of titles of nobility, of places in parliament, and of nominations to numerous judicial offices, brought in considerable sums to the treasury. The higher classes surnamed the king _Le Roitelet_, because he was sickly and of small stature, parsimonious and economical. The people called him their "father and master," and he has always been styled the father of the people ever since. [Illustration: Fig. 288.--A Village pillaged by Soldiers.--Fac-simile of a Woodcut in Hamelmann's "Oldenburgisches Chronicon." in folio, 1599.] In an administrative and financial point of view, the reign of Francis I. was not at all a period of revival or of progress. The commencement of a sounder System of finance is rather to be dated from that of Charles V.; and good financial organization is associated with the names of Jacques Coeur, Philip the Good, Charles XI., and Florimond Robertet. As an example of this, it may be stated that financiers of that time established taxes on registration of all kinds, also on stamps, and on sales, which did not before exist in France, and which were borrowed from the Roman emperors. We must also give them the credit of having first commenced a public debt, under the name of _rentes perpetuelles_, which at that time realised eight per cent. During this brilliant and yet disastrous reign the additional taxes were enormous, and the sale of offices produced such a large revenue that the post of parliamentary counsel realised the sum of 2,000 golden écus, or nearly a million francs of present currency. It was necessary to obtain money at any price, and from any one who would lend it. The ecclesiastics, the nobility, the bourgeois, all gave up their plate and their jewels to furnish the mint, which continued to coin money of every description, and, in consequence of the discovery of America, and the working of the gold and silver mines in that country, the precious metals poured into the hands of the money-changers. The country, however, was none the more prosperous, and the people often were in want of even the commonest necessaries of life. The King and the court swallowed up everything, and consumed all the resources of the country on their luxury and their wars. The towns, the monasteries, and the corporations, were bound to furnish a certain number of troops, either infantry or cavalry. By the establishment of a lottery and a bank of deposit, by the monopoly of the mines and by the taxes on imports, exports, and manufactured articles, enormous sums were realised to the treasury, which, as it was being continually drained, required to be as continually replenished. Francis I. exhausted every source of credit by his luxury, his caprices, and his wars. Jean de Beaune, Baron de Semblançay, the old minister of finance, died a victim to false accusations of having misappropriated the public funds. Robertet, who was in office with him, and William Bochetel, who succeeded him, were more fortunate: they so managed the treasury business that, without meeting with any legal difficulty, they were enabled to centralise the responsibility in themselves instead of having it distributed over sixteen branches in all parts of the kingdom, a system which has continued to our day. In those days the office of superintendent of finance was usually only a short and rapid road to the gibbet of Montfaucon. [Illustrations: Gold and Silver Coins of the Fifteenth and Sixteenth Centuries. Fig. 289.--Royal d'Or. Charles VII Fig. 290.--Écu d'Argent à la Couronne. Louis XI. Fig. 291.--Écu d'Or à la Couronne. Charles VIII. Fig. 292.--Écu d'Or au Porc-épic. Louis XII. Fig. 293.--Teston d'Argent. Francis I. Fig. 294.--Teston d'Argent au Croissant. Henry II. ] [Illustration: Fig. 295.--Silver Franc. Henry IV.] Law and the Administration of Justice. The Family the Origin of Government.--Origin of Supreme Power amongst the Franks.--The Legislation of Barbarism humanised by Christianity.--Right of Justice inherent to the Bight of Property.--The Laws under Charlemagne.--Judicial Forms.--Witnesses.--Duels, &c.-- Organization of Royal Justice under St. Louis.--The Châtelet and the Provost of Paris.--Jurisdiction of Parliament, its Duties and its Responsibilities.--The Bailiwicks. Struggles between Parliament and the Châtelet.--Codification of the Customs and Usages.--Official Cupidity.--Comparison between the Parliament and the Châtelet. Amongst the ancient Celtic and German population, before any Greek or Roman innovations had become engrafted on to their customs, everything, even political power as well as the rightful possession of lands, appears to have been dependent on families. Julius Cæsar, in his "Commentaries," tells us that "each year the magistrates and princes assigned portions of land to families as well as to associations of individuals having a common object whenever they thought proper, and to any extent they chose, though in the following year the same authorities compelled them to go and establish themselves elsewhere." We again find families (_familiæ_) and associations of men (_cognationes hominum_) spoken of by Cæsar, in the barbaric laws, and referred to in the histories of the Middle Ages under the names of _genealogiæ, faramanni, faræ_, &c.; but the extent of the relationship (_parentela_) included under the general appellation of _families_ varied amongst the Franks, Lombards, Visigoths, and Bavarians. Generally, amongst all the people of German origin, the relationship only extended to the seventh degree; amongst the Celts it was determined merely by a common ancestry, with endless subdivisions of the tribe into distinct families. Amongst the Germans, from whom modern Europe has its origin, we find only three primary groups; namely, first, the family proper, comprising the father, mother, and children, and the collateral relatives of all degrees; secondly, the vassals (_ministeriales_) or servants of the free class; and, thirdly, the servants (_mansionarii, coloni, liti, servi_) of the servile class attached to the family proper (Fig. 296). Domestic authority was represented by the _mund_, or head of the family, also called _rex_ (the king), who exercised a special power over the persons and goods of his dependents, a guardianship, in fact, with certain rights and prerogatives, and a sort of civil and political responsibility attached to it. Thus the head of the family, who was responsible for his wife and for those of his children who lived with him, was also responsible for his slaves and domestic animals. To such a pitch did these primitive people carry their desire that justice should be done in all cases of infringement of the law, that the head was held legally responsible for any injury which might be done by the bow or the sword of any of his dependents, without it being necessary that he should himself have handled either of these weapons. Long before the commencement of the Merovingian era, the family, whose sphere of action had at first been an isolated and individual one, became incorporated into one great national association, which held official meetings at stated periods on the _Malberg_ (Parliament hill). These assemblies alone possessed supreme power in its full signification. The titles given to certain chiefs of _rex_ (king), _dux_ (duke), _graff_ (count), _brenn_ (general of the army), only defined the subdivisions of that power, and were applied, the last exclusively, to those engaged in war, and the others to those possessing judicial and administrative functions. The duty of dispensing justice was specially assigned to the counts, who had to ascertain the cause of quarrels between parties and to inflict penalties. There was a count in each district and in each important town; there were, besides, several counts attached to the sovereign, under the title of counts of the palace (_comites palatii_), an honourable position, which was much sought after and much coveted on account of its pecuniary and other contingent advantages. The counts of the palace deliberated with the sovereign on all matters and all questions of State, and at the same time they were his companions in hunting, feasting, and religious exercises; they acted as arbitrators in questions of inheritance of the crown; during the minority of princes they exercised the same authority as that which the constitution gave to sovereigns who were of full age; they confirmed the nominations of the principal functionaries and even those of the bishops; they gave their advice on the occasion of a proposed alliance between one nation and another, on matters connected with treaties of peace or of commerce, on military expeditions, or on exchanges of territory, as well as in reference to the marriage of a prince, and they incurred no responsibility beyond that naturally attached to persons in so distinguished a position among a semi-barbarous community. At first the legates (_legati_), and afterwards the King's ambassadors (_missi dominici_), the bishops and the dukes or commanders of the army were usually selected from the higher court officials, such as the counts of the palace, whereas the _ministeriales_, forming the second class of the royal officials, filled inferior though very honourable and lucrative posts of an administrative and magisterial character. [Illustration: Fig. 296.--The Familles and the Barbarians.--Fac-simile of a Woodcut in the "Cosmographie Universelle" of Munster: in folio, Basle, 1552.] Under the Merovingians the legal principle of power was closely bound up with the possession of landed property. The subdivision of that power, however, closely followed this union, and the constant ruin of some of the nobles rapidly increased the power of others, who absorbed to themselves the lost authority of their more unfortunate brethren, so much so that the Frank kings perceived that society would soon escape their rule unless they speedily found a remedy for this state of things. It was then that the _lois Salique_ and _Ripuaire_ appeared, which were subjected to successive revisions and gradual or sudden modifications, necessitated by political changes or by the increasing exigencies of the prelates and nobles. But, far from lessening the supremacy of the King, the national customs which were collected in a code extended the limits of the royal authority and facilitated its exercise. In 596, Childebert, in concert with his _leudes_, decided that in future the crime of rape should be punished with death, and that the judge of the district (_pagus_) in which it had been committed should kill the ravisher, and leave his body on the public road. He also enacted that the homicide should have the same fate. "It is just," to quote the words of the law, "that he who knows how to kill should learn how to die." Robbery, attested by seven witnesses, also involved capital punishment, and a judge convicted of having let a noble escape, underwent the same punishment that would have been inflicted on the criminal. The punishment, however, differed according to the station of the delinquent. Thus, for the non-observance of Sunday, a Salian paid a fine of fifteen sols, a Roman seven and a half sols, a slave three sols, or "his back paid the penalty for him." At this early period some important changes in the barbaric code had been made: the sentence of death when once given had to be carried out, and no arrangements between the interested parties could avert it. A crime could no longer be condoned by the payment of money; robbery even, which was still leniently regarded at that time, and beyond the Rhine even honoured, was pitilessly punished by death. We therefore cannot have more striking testimony than this of the abridgment of the privileges of the Frankish aristocracy, and of the progress which the sovereign power was making towards absolute and uncontrolled authority over cases of life and death. By almost imperceptible steps Roman legislation became more humane and perfect, Christianity engrafted itself into barbarism, licentiousness was considered a crime, crime became an offence against the King and society, and it was in one sense by the King's hand that the criminals received punishment. From the time of the baptism of Clovis, the Church had much to do with the re-arrangement of the penal code; for instance, marriage with a sister-in-law, a mother-in-law, an aunt, or a niece, was forbidden; the travelling shows, nocturnal dances, public orgies, formerly permitted at feasts, were forbidden as being profane. In the time of Clotaire, the prelates sat as members of the supreme council, which was strictly speaking the highest court of the land, having the power of reversing the decisions of the judges of the lower courts. It pronounced sentence in conjunction with the King, and from these decisions there was no appeal. The nation had no longer a voice in the election of the magistrates, for the assemblies of _Malberg_ did not meet except on extraordinary occasions, and all government and judicial business was removed to the supreme and often capricious arbitration of the King and his council. As long as the mayors of the palace of Austrasia, and of that of Burgundy, were only temporarily appointed, royal authority never wavered, and the sovereign remained supreme judge over his subjects. Suddenly, however, after the execution of Brunehaut, who was sacrificed to the hatred of the feudal lords, the mayoralty of the palace became a life appointment, and, in consequence, the person holding the office became possessed almost of supreme power, and the rightful sovereigns from that time practically became subject to the authority of the future usurpers of the crown. The edict of 615, to which the ecclesiastical and State nobility were parties, was in its laws and customs completely at variance with former edicts. In resuming their places in the French constitution, the Merovingian kings, who had been deprived both of influence and authority, were compelled by the Germanic institutions to return to the passive position which their predecessors had held in the forests of Germany, but they no longer had, like the latter, the prestige of military authority to enable them to keep the position of judges or arbitrators. The canons of the Council of Paris, which were confirmed by an edict of the King bearing date the 15th of the calends of November, 615, upset the political and legal system so firmly established in Europe since the fifth century. The royal power was shorn of some of its most valuable prerogatives, one of which was that of selecting the bishops; lay judges were forbidden to bring an ecclesiastic before the tribunals; and the treasury was prohibited from seizing intestate estates, with a view to increasing the rates and taxes; and it was decreed that Jews should not be employed in collecting the public taxes. By these canons the judges and other officers of State were made responsible, the benefices which had been withdrawn from the _leudes_ were restored, the King was forbidden from granting written orders (_præcepta_) for carrying off rich widows, young virgins, and nuns; and the penalty of death was ordered to be enforced against those who disobeyed the canons of the council. Thence sprung two new species of legislation, one ecclesiastical, the other civil, between which royalty, more and more curtailed of its authority, was compelled for many centuries to struggle. Amongst the Germanic nations the right of justice was inherent to landed property from the earliest times, and this right had reference to things as well as to persons. It was the patronage (_patrocinium_) of the proprietor, and this patronage eventually gave origin to feudal jurisdictions and to lordly and customary rights in each domain. We may infer from this that under the two first dynasties laws were made by individuals, and that each lord, so to speak, made his own. The right of jurisdiction seems to have been so inherent to the right of property, that a landed proprietor could always put an end to feuds and personal quarrels, could temporarily bring any lawsuit to a close, and, by issuing his _ban_, stop the course of the law in his own immediate neighbourhood--at least, within a given circumference of his residence. This was often done during any family festival, or any civil or religious public ceremony. On these occasions, whoever infringed the _ban_ of the master, was liable to be brought before his _court_, and to have to pay a fine. The lord who was too poor to create a court of sufficient power and importance obtained assistance from his lord paramount or relinquished the right of justice to him; whence originated the saying, "The fief is one thing, and justice another." The law of the Visigoths speaks of nobles holding local courts, similar to those of the official judge, count, or bishop. King Dagobert required the public and the private judges to act together. In the law of Lombardy landlords are mentioned who, in virtue of the double title of nobles and judges, assumed the right of protecting fugitive slaves taking shelter in their domains. By an article of the Salie law, the noble is made to answer for his vassal before the court of the count. We must hence conclude that the landlord's judgment was exercised indiscriminately on the serfs, the colons, and the vassals, and a statute of 855 places under his authority even the freemen who resided with other persons. From these various sources we discover a curious fact, which has hitherto remained unnoticed by historians--namely, that there existed an intermediate legislation between the official court of the count and his subordinates and the private courts, which was a kind of court of arbitration exercised by the neighbours (_vicini_) without the assistance of the judges of the county, and this was invested with a sort of authority which rendered its decisions binding. [Illustration: Fig. 297.--The Emperor Charlemagne holding in one hand the Globe and in the other the Sword.--After a Miniature in the Registers of the University of Paris (Archives of the Minister of Public Instruction of the University). The Motto, _In scelus exurgo, sceleris discrimina purgo, _ is written on a Scroll round the Sword.] Private courts, however, were limited in their power. They were neither absolutely independent, nor supreme and without appeal. All conducted their business much in the same way as the high, middle, and lower courts of the Middle Ages; and above all these authorities towered the King's jurisdiction. The usurpation of ecclesiastical bishops and abbots--who, having become temporal lords, assumed a domestic jurisdiction--was curtailed by the authority of the counts, and they were even more obliged to give way before that of the _missi dominici_, or the official delegates of the monarch. Charles the Bald, notwithstanding his enormous concessions to feudalism and to the Church, never gave up his right of final appeal. During the whole of the Merovingian epoch, the _mahl_ (_mallus_), the general and regular assembly of the nation, was held in the month of March. Persons of every class met there clad in armour; political, commercial, and judicial interests were discussed under the presidency of the monarch; but this did not prevent other special assemblies of the King's court (_curia regalis_) being held on urgent occasions. This court formed a parliament (_parlamentum_), which at first was exclusively military, but from the time of Clovis was composed of Franks, Burgundians, Gallo-Romans, as well as of feudal lords and ecclesiastics. As, by degrees, the feudal System became organized, the convocation of national assemblies became more necessary, and the administration of justice more complicated. Charlemagne decided that two _mahls_ should be held annually, one in the month of May, the other in the autumn, and, in addition, that in each county two annual _plaids_ should meet independently of any special _mahls_ and _plaids_ which it should please him to convoke. In 788, the emperor found it necessary to call three general _plaids_, and, besides these, he was pleased to summon his great vassals, both clerical and lay, to the four principal feasts of the year. It may be asserted that the idea of royalty being the central authority in matters of common law dates from the reign of Charlemagne (Fig. 297). The authority of royalty based on law took such deep root from that time forth, that it maintained itself erect, notwithstanding the weakness of the successors of the great Charles, and the repeated infractions of it by the Church and the great vassals of the crown (Fig. 298). [Illustration: Fig. 298.--Carlovingian King in his Palace personifying Wisdom appealing to the whole Human Race.--After a Miniature in a Manuscript of the Ninth Century in the Burgundian Library of Brussels, from a Drawing by Count Horace de Vielcastel.] The authoritative and responsible action of a tribunal which represented society (Fig. 299) thus took the place of the unchecked animosity of private feuds and family quarrels, which were often avenged by the use of the gibbet, a monument to be found erected at almost every corner. Not unfrequently, in those early times, the unchecked passions of a chief of a party would be the only reason for inflicting a penalty; often such a person would constitute himself sole judge, and, without the advice of any one, he would pass sentence, and even, with his own sword or any other available instrument, he would act as his own executioner. The tribunal thus formed denounced duelling, the pitiless warfare between man and man, and between family and family, and its first care was to protect, not each individual man's life, which was impossible in those days of blind barbarism, but at least his dwelling. Imperceptibly, the sanctuary of a man's house extended, first to towns of refuge, and then to certain public places, such as the church, the _mahlum_, or place of national assemblies, the market, the tavern, &c. It was next required that the accused, whether guilty or not, should remain unharmed from the time of the crime being committed until the day on which judgment was passed. [Illustration: Fig. 299.--The Court of the Nobles.--Fac-simile of a Miniature in an old Poetical Romance of Chivalry, Manuscript of the Thirteenth Century, in the Library of the Arsenal of Paris.] This right of revenge, besides being thus circumscribed as to locality, was also subject to certain rules as to time. Sunday and the principal feasts of the year, such as Advent, Christmas week, and from that time to the Epiphany, from the Ascension to the Day of Pentecost, certain vigils, &c., were all occasions upon which the right of revenge could not be exercised. "The power of the King," says a clever and learned writer, "partook to a certain degree of that of God and of the Saints; it was his province to calm human passions; by the moral power of his seal and his hand he extended peace over all the great lines of communication, through the forests, along the principal rivers, the highways and the byways, &c. The _Trêve du Dieu_ in 1035, was the logical application of these humane principles." We must not suppose that justice in those days was dispensed without formalities, and that there were no regular intervals between the various steps to be gone through before final judgment was given, and in consequence of which some guarantee was afforded that the decisions arrived at were carefully considered. No one was tried without having been previously summoned to appear before the tribunal. Under the Carlovingians, as in previous times, the periods when judicial courts were held were regulated by the moon. Preference was given to the day on which it entered the first quarter, or during the full moon; the summonses were returnable by moons or quarter moons--that is, every seventh day. The summons was issued four times, after which, if the accused did not appear, he lost the right of counterplea, or was nonsuited. The Salic law allowed but two summonses before a count, which had to be issued at an interval of forty nights the one from the other. The third, which summoned the accused before the King, was issued fourteen nights later, and if he had not put in an appearance before sunset on the fourteenth day, he was placed _hors de sa parole_, his goods were confiscated, and he forfeited the privilege of any kind of refuge. Among the Visigoths justice was equally absolute from the count to the tithe-gatherer. Each magistrate had his tribunal and his special jurisdiction. These judges called to their assistance assessors or colleagues, either _rachimbourgs_, who were selected from freemen; or provosts, or _échevins_ (_scabini_), whose appointment was of an official and permanent character. The scabins created by Charlemagne were the first elected magistrates. They numbered seven for each bench. They alone prepared the cases and arranged as to the sentence. The count or his delegate alone presided at the tribunal, and pronounced the judgment. Every vassal enjoyed the right of appeal to the sovereign, who, with his court, alone decided the quarrels between ecclesiastics and nobles, and between private individuals who were specially under the royal protection. Criminal business was specially referred to the sovereign, the _missi_, or the Count Palatine. Final appeal lay with the Count Palatine in all cases in which the public peace was endangered, such as in revolts or in armed encounters. As early as the time of the invasion, the Franks, Bavarians, and Visigoths, when investigating cases, began by an inquiry, and, previously to having recourse to trials before a judge, they examined witnesses on oath. Then, he who swore to the matter was believed, and acquitted accordingly. This system was no doubt flattering to human veracity, but, unfortunately, it gave rise to abuses; which it was thought would be avoided by calling the family and friends of the accused to take an oath, and it was then administered by requiring them to place their hands on the crucifix, on some relics, or on the consecrated Host. These witnesses, who were called _conjuratores_, came to attest before the judges not the fact itself, but the veracity of the person who invoked their testimony. [Illustration: Fig. 300.--The Judicial Duel. The Plaintiff opening his Case before the Judge.--Fac-simile of a Miniature in the "Cérémonies des Gages des Batailles," Manuscript of the Fifteenth Century in the National Library of Paris.] The number and respectability of the _conjuratores_ varied according to the importance of the case in dispute. Gregory of Tours relates, that King Gontran being suspicious as to the legitimacy of the child who afterwards became Clotaire II., his mother, Frédégonde, called in the impartial testimony of certain nobles. These, to the number of three hundred, with three bishops at their head (_tribus episcopis et trecentis viris optimis_), swore, or, as we say, made an affidavit, and the queen was declared innocent. The laws of the Burgundians and of the Anglians were more severe than those of the Germanic race, for they granted to the disputants trial by combat. After having employed the ordeal of red-hot iron, and of scalding water, the Franks adopted the judicial duel (Fig. 300). This was imposed first upon the disputing parties, then on the witnesses, and sometimes even on the judges themselves. Dating from the reign of the Emperor Otho the Great in 967, the judicial duel, which had been at first restricted to the most serious cases, was had recourse to in almost all suits that were brought before the courts. Neither women, old men, children, nor infirm persons were exempted. When a person could not himself fight he had to provide a champion, whose sole business was to take in hand the quarrels of others. [Illustration: Fig. 301.--Judicial Duel.--Combat of a Knight with a Dog.--Fac-simile of a Miniature in the Romance of "Macaire," of the Thirteenth Century (Library of the Arsenal of Paris).] Ecclesiastics were obliged, in the same maimer, to fight by deputy. The champion or substitute required, of course, to be paid beforehand. If the legend of the Dog of Montargis is to be believed, the judicial duel seems to have been resorted to even against an animal (Fig. 301). In the twelfth century Europe was divided, so to speak, into two vast judicial zones: the one, Southern, Gallo-Roman, and Visigoth; the other, Northern and Western, half Germanic and half Scandinavian, Anglian, or Saxon. Christianity established common ties between these different legislations, and imperceptibly softened their native coarseness, although they retained the elements of their pagan and barbaric origin. Sentences were not as yet given in writing: they were entrusted to the memory of the judges who had issued them; and when a question or dispute arose between the interested parties as to the terms of the decision which had been pronounced, an inquiry was held, and the court issued a second decision, called a _recordatum_. As long as the King's court was a movable one, the King carried about with him the original text of the law in rolls (_rotuli_). It was in consequence of the seizure of a number of these by the English, during the reign of Philip Augustus in 1194, that the idea was suggested of preserving the text of all the laws as state archives, and of opening authentic registers of decisions in civil and criminal cases. As early as the time of Charles the Bald, the inconvenience was felt of the high court of the count being movable from place to place, and having no special locality where instructions might be given as to modes of procedure, for the hearing of witnesses, and for keeping the accused in custody, &c. A former statute provided for this probable difficulty, but there seems to be no proof that previous to the twelfth century any fixed courts of justice had been established. The Kings, and likewise the counts, held courts in the open air at the entrance to the palace (Fig. 302), or in some other public place--under a large tree, for instance, as St. Louis did in the wood of Vincennes. M. Desmaze, in his valuable researches on the history of the Parliament of Paris, says--"In 1191, Philip Augustus, before starting for Palestine, established bailiwicks, which held their assizes once a month; during their sitting they heard all those who had complaints to make, and gave summary judgment. The bailiff's assize was held at stated periods from time to time, and at a fixed place; it was composed of five judges, the King deciding the number and quality of the persons who were to take part in the deliberations of the court for each session. The royal court only sat when it pleased the King to order it; it accompanied the King wherever he went, so that it had no settled place of residence." Louis IX. ordered that the courts of the nobles should be consolidated with the King's court, and succeeded in carrying out this reform. The bailiffs who were the direct delegates of the sovereign power, assumed an authority before which even the feudal lord was obliged to bend, because this authority was supported by the people, who were at that time organized in corporations, and these corporations were again bound together in communes. Under the bailiffs a system was developed, the principles of which more nearly resembled the Roman legislation than the right of custom, which it nevertheless respected, and the judicial trial by duel completely disappeared. Inquiries and appeals were much resorted to in all kinds of proceedings, and Louis IX. succeeded in controlling the power of ecclesiastical courts, which had been much abused in reference to excommunication. He also suppressed the arbitrary and ruinous confiscations which the nobles had unjustly made on their vassals. [Illustration: Fig. 302.--The Palace as it was in the Sixteenth Century.--After an Engraving of that Period, National Library of Paris (Cabinet des Estampes).] The edict of 1276 very clearly established the jurisdiction of parliaments and bailiwicks; it defined the important duties of the bailiffs, and at the same time specified the mode in which proceedings should be taken; it also regulated the duties of counsel, _maîtres des requêtes_, auditors, and advocates. To the bailiwicks already in existence Louis IX. added the four great assizes of Vermandois, of Sens, of Saint-Pierre-le-Moustier, and of Mâcon, "to act as courts of final appeal from the judgment of the nobles." Philippe le Bel went still further, for, in 1287, he invited "all those who possess temporal authority in the kingdom of France to appoint, for the purpose of exercising civil jurisdiction, a bailiff, a provost, and some serjeants, who were to be laymen, and not ecclesiastics, and if there should be ecclesiastics in the said offices, to remove them." He ordered, besides, that all those who had cases pending before the court of the King and the secular judges of the kingdom should be furnished with lay attorneys; though the chapters, as well as the abbeys and convents, were allowed to be represented by canons. M. Desmaze adds, "This really amounted to excluding ecclesiastics from judicial offices, not only from the courts of the King, but also from those of the nobles, and from every place in which any temporal jurisdiction existed." At the time of his accession, Hugh Capet was Count of Paris, and as such was invested with judicial powers, which he resigned in 987, on the understanding that his county of Paris, after the decease of the male heirs of his brother Eudes, should return to the crown. In 1032, a new magistrate was created, called the Provost of Paris, whose duty it was to give assistance to the bourgeois in arresting persons for debt. This functionary combined in his own person the financial and political chief of the capital, he was also the head of the nobility of the county, he was independent of the governor, and was placed above the bailiffs and seneschals. He was the senior of the urban magistracy and police, leader of the municipal troops, and, in a word, the prefect (_præfectus urbis_), as he was called under the Emperor Aurelian, or the first magistrate of Lutetia, as he was still called under Clotaire in 663. Assessors were associated with the provost, and together they formed a tribunal, which was afterwards known as the Châtelet (Fig. 303), because they assembled in that fortress, the building of which is attributed to Julius Caesar. The functions of this tribunal did not differ much from those of the royal _châtellenies:_ its jurisdiction embraced quarrels between individuals, assaults, revolts, disputes between the universities and the students, and improper conduct generally (_ribaudailles_), in consequence of which the provost acquired the popular surname of _Roi des Ribauds_. At first his judgment was final, but very soon those under his jurisdiction were allowed to appeal to Parliament, and that court was obliged to have certain cases sent back for judgment from the Châtelet. This was, however, done only in a few very important instances, notwithstanding frequent appeals being made to its supreme arbitration. [Illustration: Fig. 303.--The Great Châtelet of Paris.--Principal Front opposite the Pont-au-Change.--Fac-simile of an Engraving on Copper by Mérian, in the "Topographia Galliae" of Zeller.] In addition to the courts of the counts and bailiffs established in certain of the large towns, aldermanic or magisterial courts existed, which rather resembled the Châtelet of Paris. Thus the _capiloulat_ of Toulouse, the senior alderman of Metz, and the burgomaster of Strasburg and Brussels, possessed in each of these towns a tribunal, which judged without appeal, and united the several functions of a civil, criminal, and simple police court. Several places in the north of France had provosts who held courts whose duties were various, but who were principally charged with the maintenance of public order, and with suppressing disputes and conflicts arising from the privileges granted to the trade corporations, whose importance, especially in Flanders, had much increased since the twelfth century. "On his return from abroad, Louis IX. took his seat upon the bench, and administered justice, by the side of the good provost of Paris." This provost was no other than the learned Estienne Boileau, out of respect to whom the provostship was declared a _charge de magistrature_. The increase of business which fell to the provost's office, especially after the boundaries of Paris were extended by Philip Augustus, caused him to be released from the duty of collecting the public taxes. He was authorised to furnish himself with competent assistants, who were employed with matters of minor detail, and he was allowed the assistance of _juges auditeurs_. "We order that they shall be eight in number," says an edict of Philippe le Bel, of February, 1324, "four of them being ecclesiastics and four laymen, and that they shall assemble at the Châtelet two days in the week, to take into consideration the suits and causes in concert with our provost...." In 1343, the provost's court was composed of one King's attorney, one civil commissioner, two King's counsel, eight councillors, and one criminal commissioner, whose sittings took place daily at the Châtelet. From the year 1340 this tribunal had to adjudicate in reference to all the affairs of the university, and from the 6th of October, 1380, to all those of the salt-fish market, which were no less numerous, so that its importance increased considerably. Unfortunately, numerous abuses were introduced into this municipal jurisdiction. In 1313 and 1320, the officers of the Châtelet were suspended, on account of the extortions which they were guilty of, and the King ordered an inquiry to be made into the matter. The provost and two councillors of the Parliament sat upon it, and Philip de Valois, adopting its decisions, prescribed fresh statutes, which were naturally framed in such a way as to show the distrust in which the Châtelet was then held. To these the officers of the Châtelet promised on oath to submit. The ignorance and immorality of the lay officers, who had been substituted for the clerical, caused much disturbance. Parliament authorised two of its principal members to examine the officers of the Châtelet. Twenty years later, on the receipt of fresh complaints, Parliament decided that three qualified councillors, chosen from its own body, should proceed with the King's attorney to the Châtelet, so as to reform the abuses and informalities of that court. [Illustration: Fig. 304.--The King's Court, or Grand Council.--Fac-simile of a Miniature in the "Chroniques" of Froissart, Manuscript of the Fifteenth Century (formerly in the possession of Charles V), in the Library of the Arsenal, Paris.] In the time of Philippe le Bel there existed in reality but one Parliament, and that was the _King's Court_. Its action was at once political, administrative, financial, and judicial, and was necessarily, therefore, of a most complicated character. Philippe le Bel made it exclusively a judicial court, defined the territorial limit of its power, and gave it as a judicial body privileges tending to strengthen its independence and to raise its dignity. He assigned political functions to the Great Council (_Conseil d'Etat_); financial matters to the chamber of accounts; and the hearing of cases of heresy, wills, legacies, and dowries to the prelates. But in opposition to the wise edict of 1295, he determined that Jews should be excluded from Parliament, and prelates from the palace of justice; by which latter proceeding he was depriving justice of the abilities of the most worthy representatives of the Gallican Church. But Philippe le Bel and his successors, while incessantly quarrelling either with the aristocracy or with the clergy, wanted the great judicial bodies which issued the edicts, and the urban or municipal magistrates--which, being subject to re-election, were principally recruited from among the bourgeois--to be a common centre of opposition to any attempt at usurpation of power, whether on the part of the Church, the nobility, or the crown. The Great Days of Troyes (_dies magni Trecenses_), the assizes of the ancient counts of Champagne, and the exchequer of Normandy, were also organized by Philipe le Bel; and, further, he authorised the maintenance of a Parliament at Toulouse, a court which he solemnly opened in person on the 10th of January, 1302. In times of war the Parliament of Paris sat once a year, in times of peace twice. There were, according to circumstances, during the year two, three, or four sittings of the exchequer of Normandy, and two of the Great Days of Troyes, tribunals which were annexed to the Parliament of Paris, and generally presided over by one of its delegates, and sometimes even by the supreme head of that high court. At the King's council (Fig. 304) it was decided whether a case should be reserved for the Parliament of Paris, or passed on either to the exchequer or to the Great Days of Troyes. As that advanced reformer, Philippe le Bel, died before the institutions he had established had taken root, for many years, even down to the time of Louis XI., a continual conflict for supremacy was waged between the Parliament of Paris and the various courts of the kingdom--between the counts and the Parliament, and between the latter and the King, which, without lessening the dignity of the crown, gradually tended to increase the influence which the judges possessed. Immediately on the accession of Louis le Hutin, in 1314, a reaction commenced--the higher clergy re-entered Parliament; but Philippe le Long took care that the laity should be in a majority, and did not allow that in his council of State the titled councillors should be more numerous than the lawyers. The latter succeeded in completely carrying the day on account of the services they rendered, and the influence which their knowledge of the laws of the country gave them. As for centuries the sword had ruled the gown, so, since the emancipation of the bourgeois, the lawyers had become masters of the administrative and judicial world; and, notwithstanding the fact that they were still kept in a somewhat inferior position to the peers and barons, their opinion alone predominated, and their decision frequently at once settled the most important questions. An edict issued at Val Notre-Dame on the 11th of March, 1344, increased the number of members of Parliament, which from that time consisted of three presidents, fifteen clerical councillors, fifteen lay councillors, twenty-four clergymen and sixteen laymen of the Court of Inquiry, and five clergymen and sixteen laymen of the Court of Petitions. The King filled up the vacant seats on the recommendation of the Chancellor and of the Parliament. The reporters were enjoined to write the decisions and sentences which were given by the court "in large letters, and far apart, so that they might be more easily read." The duties of police in the courts, the keeping of the doors, and the internal arrangements generally for those attending the courts and the Parliament, were entrusted to the ushers, "who divided among themselves the gratuities which were given them by virtue of their office." Before an advocate was admitted to plead he was required to take oath and to be inscribed on the register. The Parliament as then established was somewhat similar in its character to that of the old national representative government under the Germans and Franks. For centuries it protected the King against the undue interference of the spiritual power, it defended the people against despotism, but it often lacked independence and political wisdom, and it was not always remarkable for its correct appreciation of men and things. This tribunal, although supreme over all public affairs, sometimes wavered before the threats of a minister or of a court favourite, succumbed to the influence of intrigues, and adapted itself to the prejudices of the times. We see it, in moments of error and of blindness, both condemning eminent statesmen and leading citizens, such as Jacques Coeur and Robertet, and handing over to the executioner distinguished men of learning and science in advance of the times in which they lived, because they were falsely accused of witchcraft, and also doing the same towards unfortunate maniacs who fancied they had dealings with the devil. [Illustration: Fig. 305.--Trial of the Constable de Bourbon before the Peers of France (1523).--From an Engraving in "La Monarchie Françoise" of Montfauçon.] In the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries all the members of Parliament formed part of the council of State, which was divided into the Smaller Council and the Greater Council. The Greater Council only assembled in cases of urgency and for extraordinary and very important purposes, the Smaller Council assembled every month, and its decisions were registered. From this arose the custom of making a similar registration in Parliament, confirming the decisions after they had been formally arrived at. The most ancient edict placed on the register of the Parliament of Paris dates from the year 1334, and is of a very important character. It concerns a question of royal authority, and decides that in spiritual matters the right of supremacy does not belong more to the Pope than to the King. Consequently Philippe de Valois ordered "his friends and vassals who shall attend the next Parliament and the keepers of the accounts, that for the perpetual record of so memorable a decision, it shall be registered in the Chambers of Parliament and kept for reference in the Treasury of the Charters." From that time "cases of complaint and other matters relating to benefices have no longer been discussed before the ecclesiastical judges, but before Parliament or some other secular court." During the captivity of King John in England, royal authority having considerably declined, the powers of Parliament and other bodies of the magistracy so increased, that under Charles VI. the Parliament of Paris was bold enough to assert that a royal edict should not become law until it had been registered in Parliament. This bold and certainly novel proceeding the kings nevertheless did not altogether oppose, as they foresaw that the time would come when it might afford them the means of repudiating a treaty extorted from them under difficult circumstances (Fig. 306). The close connection which existed between the various Parliaments and their political functions--for they had occasion incessantly to interfere between the acts of the government and the respective pretensions of the provinces or of the three orders--naturally increased the importance of this supreme magistracy. More than once the kings had cause to repent having rendered it so powerful, and this was the case especially with the Parliament of Paris. In this difficulty it is interesting to note how the kings acted. They imperceptibly curtailed the various powers of the other courts of justice, they circumscribed the power of the Parliament of Paris, and proportionately enlarged the jurisdiction of the great bailiwicks, as also that of the Châtelet. The provost of Paris was an auxiliary as well as a support to the royal power, which nevertheless held him in its grasp. The Châtelet was also a centre of action and of strength, which counteracted in certain cases parliamentary opposition. Thence arose the most implacable rivalries and dissensions between these various parties. [Illustration: Fig. 306.--Promulgation of an Edict.--Fac-simile of a Miniature in "Anciennetés des Juifs," (French Translation from Josephus), Manuscript of the Fifteenth Century, executed for the Duke of Burgundy (Library of the Arsenal of Paris.)] It is curious to notice with what ingenuity and how readily Parliament took advantage of the most trifling circumstances or of charges based upon the very slightest grounds to summon the officers of the Châtelet before its bar on suspicion of prevarication or of outrages against religion, morals, or the laws. Often were these officers and the provost himself summoned to appear and make _amende honourable_ before the assembly, notwithstanding which they retained their offices. More than once an officer of the Châtelet was condemned to death and executed, but the King always annulled that part of the sentence which had reference to the confiscation of the goods of the condemned, thus proving that in reality the condemnation had been unjust, although for grave reasons the royal authority had been unable to save the victim from the avenging power of Parliament. Hugues Aubriot, the provost, was thus condemned to imprisonment for life on the most trivial grounds, and he would have undergone capital punishment if Charles V. had abandoned him at the time of his trial. During the English occupation, in the disastrous reign of Charles VI., the Châtelet of Paris, which took part with the people, gave proof of extraordinary energy and of great force of character. The blood of many of its members was shed on the scaffold, and this circumstance must ever remain a reproach to the judges and to those who executed their cruel sentences, and a lasting crown of glory to the martyrs themselves. An edict of King John, issued after his return from London in 1363, a short time before his death, clearly defined the duties of Parliament. They were to try cases which concerned peers of France, and such prelates, chapters, barons, corporations, and councils as had the privilege of appealing to the supreme court; and to hear cases relating to estates, and appeals from the provost of Paris, the bailiffs, seneschals, and other judges (Fig. 307). It disregarded minor matters, but took cognizance of all judicial debates which concerned religion, the King, or the State. We must remark here that advocates were only allowed to speak twice in the same cause, and that they were subjected to fine, or at least to remonstrance, if they were tedious or indulged in needless repetition in their replies, and especially if they did not keep carefully to the facts of the case. After pleading they were permitted to give a summary in writing of "the principal points of importance as well as their clients' grounds of defence." Charles V. confirmed these orders and regulations with respect to advocates, and added others which were no less important, among which we find a provision for giving "legal assistance to poor and destitute persons who go to law." These regulations of Charles also limited the time in which officers of justice were to get through their business under a certain penalty; they also proclaimed that the King should no longer hear minor causes, and that, whatever might be the rules of the court, they forbad the presidents from deferring their judgment or from retarding the regular course of justice. Charles VI., before he became insane, contributed no less than his father to the establishment on a better footing of the supreme court of the kingdom, as well as that of the Châtelet and the bailiwicks. [Illustration: Fig. 307.--Bailiwick.--Fac-simile of a Woodcut in the "Cosmographie Universelle" of Munster: in folio, Basle, 1552.] In the fifteenth century, the Parliament of Paris was so organized as not to require material change till 1789. There were noble, clerical, and lay councillors, honorary members, and _maîtres de requête_, only four of whom sat; a first president, who was supreme head of the Parliament, a master of the great chamber of pleas, and three presidents of the chamber, all of whom were nominated for life. There were fifteen masters (_maistres_) or clerical councillors, and fifteen who were laymen, and these were annually approved by the King on the opening of the session. An attorney-general, several advocates-general, and deputies, who formed a committee or college, constituted the active part of this court, round which were grouped consulting advocates (_consiliarii_), pleading advocates (_proponentes_), advocates who were mere listeners (_audientes_), ushers and serjeants, whose chief, on his appointment, became a member of the nobility. The official costume of the first president resembled that of the ancient barons and knights. He wore a scarlet gown lined with ermine, and a black silk cap ornamented with tassels. In winter he wore a scarlet mantle lined with ermine over his gown, on which his crest was worked on a shield. This mantle was fastened to the left shoulder by three gold cords, in order to leave the sword-side free, because the ancient knights and barons always sat in court wearing their swords. Amongst the archives of the mayoralty of London, we find in the "account of the entry of Henry V., King of England, into Paris" (on the 1st of December, 1420), that "the first president was in royal dress (_estoit en habit roial_), the first usher preceding him, and wearing a fur cap; the church dignitaries wore blue robes and hoods, and all the others in the procession scarlet robes and hoods." This imposing dress, in perfect harmony with the dignity of the office of those who wore them, degenerated towards the fifteenth century. So much was this the case, that an order of Francis I. forbad the judges from wearing pink "slashed hose" or other "rakish garments." In the early times of monarchy, the judicial functions were performed gratuitously; but it was the custom to give presents to the judges, consisting of sweetmeats, spices, sugar-plums, and preserves, until at a subsequent period, 1498, when, as the judges "preferred money to sweetmeats," says the Chancellor Etienne Pasquier, the money value of the spices, &c., was fixed by law and made compulsory. In the bills of expenses preserved among the national archives, we find that the first president of the Parliament of Paris received a thousand _livres parisis_ annually, representing upwards of one hundred thousand francs at the present rate of money; the three presidents of the chamber five hundred livres, equal to fifty thousand francs; and the other nobles of the said Parliament five _sols parisis_, or six sols three deniers--about twenty-five francs--per day for the days only on which they sat. They received, besides, two mantles annually. The prelates, princes, and barons who were chosen by the King received no salaries--_ils ne prennent nuls guaiges_ (law of 27th January, 1367). The seneschals and high bailiffs, like the presidents of the chambers, received five hundred livres--fifty thousand francs. They and the bailiffs of inferior rank were expressly forbidden from receiving money or fees from the parties in any suit, but they were allowed to accept on one day refreshment and bottles of wine. The salaries were paid monthly; but this was not always done regularly; sometimes the King was to blame for this, and sometimes it was owing to the ill-nature of the chiefs of finance, or of the receivers and payers. When the blame rested with the King, the Parliament humbly remonstrated or closed the court. When, on the contrary, an officer of finance did not pay the salaries, Parliament sent him the bailiff's usher, and put him under certain penalties until he had done so. The question of salaries was frequently arising. On the 9th of February, 1369, "the court having been requested to serve without any remuneration for one Parliament, on the understanding that the King would make up for it another time, the nobles of the court replied, after private deliberation, that they were ready to do the King's pleasure, but could not do so properly without receiving their salaries" (Register of the Parliament of Paris). At the commencement of the fifteenth century, the scale of remuneration was not increased. In 1411 it was raised for the whole Parliament to twenty-five thousand livres, which, calculated according to the present rate, amounted to nearly a million francs. In consequence of financial difficulties and the general distress, the unpleasant question in reference to claims for payment of salaries was renewed, with threats that the course of justice would be interrupted if they were not paid or not promised. On the 2nd of October, 1419, two councillors and one usher were sent to the house of one of the chiefs of finance, with orders to demand payment of the salaries of the court. In October, 1430, the government owed the magistrates two years of arrears. After useless appeals to the Regent, and to the Bishop of Thérouanne, the then Chancellor of France, the Parliament sent two of its members to the King at Rouen, who obtained, after much difficulty, "one month's pay, on the understanding that the Parliament should hold its sittings in the month of April." In the month of July, 1431, there was another deputation to the King, "in order to lay before him the necessities of the court, and that it had for some time been prorogued, and was still prorogued, on account of the non-payment of salaries." After two months of repeated remonstrance, the deputies only bringing back promises, the court assumed a menacing aspect; and on the 11th of January, 1437, it pointed out to the chancellor the evil which would arise if Parliament ceased to hold its sittings; and this time the chancellor announced that the salaries would be paid, though six months passed without any resuit or any practical step being taken in the matter. This state of affairs grew worse until the year 1443, when the King was obliged to plead with the Parliament in the character of an insolvent debtor, and, in order to obtain remission of part of his debt to the members, to guarantee to them a part of the salt duties. Charles VII, after having reconquered his states, hastened to restore order. He first occupied himself with the System of justice, the Parliament, the Châtelet, and the bailiwicks; and in April, 1453, in concert with the princes, the prelates, the council of State, the judges, and others in authority, he framed a general law, in one hundred and twenty-five articles, which was considered as the great charter of Parliament (Fig. 308). According to the terms of these articles, "the councillors are to sit after dinner, to get through the minor causes. Prisoners are to be examined without delay, and to hold no communication with any one, unless by special permission. The cases are to be carefully gone through in their proper order; for courts are instructed to do justice as promptly for the poor as for the rich, as it is a greater hardship for the poor to be kept waiting than the rich." The fees of attorneys were taxed and reduced in amount. Those of advocates were reduced "to such moderation and fairness, that there should be no cause for complaint." The judgments by commissary were forbidden. The bailiffs and seneschals were directed to reside within their districts. The councillors were ordered to abstain from all communication with the parties in private, and consultations between themselves were to be held in secret. The judgments given in lawsuits were inscribed in a register, and submitted every two months to the presidents, who, if necessary, called the reporters to account for any neglect of duty. The reporter was ordered to draw attention to any point of difficulty arising in a suit, and the execution of sentences or judgments was entrusted to the ushers of the court. In 1454 the King, in consequence of a difficulty in paying the regular instalments of the usual salaries of the Parliament, created "after-dinner fees" (_des gages d'après dînées_) of five sols parisis--more than ten francs of our money--per day, payable to those councillors who should hold a second hearing. Matters did not improve much, however; nothing seemed to proceed satisfactorily, and members of Parliament, deprived of their salaries, were compelled to contract a loan, in order to commence proceedings against the treasury for the non-payment of the amount due to them. In 1493, the annual salaries of Parliament were raised to the sum of 40,630 livres, equal to about 1,100,000 francs. [Illustration: Fig. 308.--Supreme Court, presided over by the King, who is in the act of issuing a Decree which is being registered by the Usher.--Fac-simile of a Miniature in Camareu of the "Information des Rois," Manuscript of the Fifteenth Century, in the Library of the Arsenal of Paris.] The first president received 4 livres, 22 solis parisis--about 140 francs--per day; a clerical councillor 25 sols parisis--about 40 francs--and a lay councillor 20 sols--about 32 francs. This was an increase of a fifth on the preceding year. Charles VIII., in thus improving the remuneration of the members of the first court of the kingdom, reminded them of their duties, which had been too long neglected; he told them "that of all the cardinal virtues justice was the most noble and most important;" and he pointed out to them the line of conduct they were to pursue. The councillors were to be present daily in their respective chambers, from St. Martin's day to Easter, before seven o'clock in the morning; and from Easter to the closing of Parliament, immediately after six o'clock, without intermission, under penalty of punishment. Strict silence was enforced upon them during the debates; and they were forbidden to occupy themselves with anything which did not concern the case under discussion. Amidst a mass of other points upon which directions are given, we notice the following: the necessity of keeping secret the matters in course of deliberation; the prohibition to councillors from receiving, either directly or indirectly, anything in the shape of a douceur from the parties in any suit; and the forbidding all attorneys from receiving any bribe or claiming more than the actual expenses of a journey and other just charges. The great charter of the Parliament, promulgated in April, 1453, was thus amended, confirmed, and completed, by this code of Charles VIII., with a wisdom which cannot be too highly extolled. The magistrature of the supreme courts had been less favoured during the preceding reign. Louis XI., that cautious and crafty reformer, after having forbidden ecclesiastical judges to examine cases referring to the revenues of vacant benefices, remodelled the secular courts, but he ruthlessly destroyed anything which offended him personally. For this reason, as he himself said, he limited the power of the Parliaments of Paris and Toulouse, by establishing, to their prejudice, several other courts of justice, and by favouring the Châtelet, where he was sure always to find those who would act with him against the aristocracy. The Parliament would not give way willingly, nor without the most determined opposition. It was obliged, however, at last to succumb, and to pass certain edicts which were most repugnant to it. On the death of Louis XI., however, it took its revenge, and called those who had been his favourites and principal agents to answer a criminal charge, for no other reason than that they had exposed themselves to the resentment of the supreme court. The Châtelet, in its judicial functions, was inferior to the Parliament, nevertheless it acquired, through its provost, who represented the bourgeois of Paris, considerable importance in the eyes of the supreme court. In fact, for two centuries the provost held the privilege of ruling the capital, both politically and financially, of commanding the citizen militia, and of being chief magistrate of the city. In the court of audiences, a canopy was erected, under which he sat, a distinction which no other magistrate enjoyed, and which appears to have been exclusively granted to him because he sat in the place of _Monsieur Saint Loys_ (Saint Louis), _dispensing justice to the good people of the City of Paris_. When the provost was installed, he was solemnly escorted, wearing his cap, to the great chamber of Parliament, accompanied by four councillors. [Illustration: Fig. 309.--The Court of a Baron.--Fac-simile of a Woodcut in the "Cosmographie Universelle" of Munster: in folio, Basle, 1552.] After the ceremony of installation he gave his horse to the president, who had come to receive him. His dress consisted of a short robe, with mantle, collar turned down, sword, and hat with feathers; he also carried a staff of office, profusely ornamented with silver. Thus attired he attended Parliament, and assisted at the levees of the sovereign, where he took up his position on the lowest step of the throne, below the great Chamberlain. Every day, excepting at the vintage time, he was required to be present at the Châtelet, either personally or by deputy, punctually at nine in the morning. There he received the list of the prisoners who had been arrested the day before; after that he visited the prisons, settled business of various kinds, and then inspected the town. His jurisdiction extended to several courts, which were presided over by eight deputies or judges appointed by him, and who were created officers of the Châtelet by Louis XII. in 1498. Subsequently, these received their appointments direct from the King. Two auditing judges, one king's attorney, one registrar, and some bailiffs, completed the provost's staff. [Illustration: Fig. 310.--Sergeants-at-Arms of the Fourteenth Century, carved in Stone.--From the Church of St. Catherine du Val des Ecoliers, in Paris.] The bailiffs at the Châtelet were divided into five classes: the _king's sergeant-at-arms,_ the _sergeants de la douzaine_, the _sergeants of the mace_, or _foot sergeants,_ the _sergeants fieffés_, and the _mounted sergeants_. The establishment of these officers dated from the beginning of the fourteenth century, and they were originally appointed by the provost, but afterwards by the King himself. The King's sergeants-at-arms (Fig. 310) formed his body-guard; they were not under the jurisdiction of the high constable, but of the ordinary judges, which proves that they were in civil employ. The sergeants _de la douzaine_ were twelve in number, as their name implies, all of whom were in the service of the provost; the foot sergeants, who were civilians, were gradually increased to the number of two hundred and twenty as early as the middle of the fifteenth century. They acted only in the interior of the capital, and guarded the city, the suburbs, and the surrounding districts, whereas the mounted sergeants had "to watch over the safety of the rural parishes, and to act throughout the whole extent of the provost's jurisdiction, and of that of the viscount of Paris." In the midst of the changes of the Middle Ages, especially after the communes became free, all those kings who felt the importance of a strict system of justice, particularly St. Louis, Philippe le Bel, and Charles VIII., had seen the necessity of compiling a record of local customs. An edict of 1453 orders that "the custom shall be registered in writing, so as to be examined by the members of the great council of the Parliament." Nevertheless, this important work was never properly carried out, and to Louis XII. is due the honour of introducing a customary or usage law, and at the same time of correcting the various modes of procedure, upon which customs and usages had been based, and which had become singularly antiquated since the edict of 1302. No monarch showed more favour to Parliament than Louis XII. During his reign of seventeen years we never find complaints from the magistracy for not having been paid punctually. But in contrast with this, on the accession of Francis I., the court complained of not having been paid its first quarter's salary. From that moment claims were perpetually being made; there were continually delays, or absolute refusals; the members were expecting "remuneration for their services, in order absolutely to enable them to support their families and households." We can thus judge of the state of the various minor courts, which, being less powerful than the supreme tribunals, and especially than that of Paris, were quite unable to get their murmurings even listened to by the proper authorities. This sad state of things continued, and, in fact, grew worse, until the assembly of the League, when Mayenne, the chief of the leaguers, in order to gratify the Parliament, promised to double the salaries, although he was unable to fulfil his promise. [Illustration: Fig. 311.--Inferior Court in the Great Bailiwick. Adoption of Orphan Children.--Fac-simile of a Woodcut in J. Damhoudère's "Refuge et Garand des Pupilles, Orphelins:" Antwerp, J. Bellère, 1557.] Towards the end of the sixteenth century the highest French tribunal was represented by nine superior courts--namely, the Parliament of Bordeaux, created on the 9th of June, 1642; the Parliament of Brittany, which replaced the ancient _Grands-Jours,_ in March, 1553, and sat alternately at Nantes and at Rennes; the Parliament of the Dauphiné, established at Grenoble in 1451 to replace the Delphinal Council; the Parliament of Burgundy, established at Dijon in 1477, which took the place of the _Grands-Jours_ at Beaune; the movable Parliament of Dombes, created in 1528, and consisting at the same time of a court of excise and a chamber of accounts; the Parliament of Normandy, established by Louis XII. in April, 1504, intended to replace the Exchequer of Rouen, and the ancient ducal council of the province; the Parliament of Provence, founded at Aix in July, 1501; the Parliament of Toulouse, created in 1301; and the Parliament of Paris, which took precedence of all the others, both on account of its origin, its antiquity, the extent of its jurisdiction, the number of its prerogatives, and the importance of its decrees. In 1551, Henry II. created, besides these, an inferior court in each bailiwick, the duties of which were to hear, on appeal, all matters in which sums of less than two hundred livres were involved (Fig. 311). There existed, besides, a branch of the _Grands-Jours,_ occasionally sitting at Poitiers, Bayeux, and at some other central towns, in order to suppress the excesses which at times arose from religious dissensions and political controversy. The Parliament of Paris--or _Great French Parliament_, as it was called by Philip V. and Charles V., in edicts of the 17th of November, 1318, and of the 8th of October, 1371--was divided into four principal chambers: the Grand Chamber, the Chamber of Inquiry, the Criminal Chamber, and the Chamber of Appeal. It was composed of ordinary councillors, both clerical and lay; of honorary councillors, some of whom were ecclesiastics, and others members of the nobility; of masters of inquiry; and of a considerable number of officers of all ranks (Figs. 312 to 314). It had at times as many as twenty-four presidents, one hundred and eighty-two councillors, four knights of honour, four masters of records; a public prosecutor's office was also attached, consisting of the king's counsel, an attorney-general and deputies, thus forming an assembly of from fifteen to twenty persons, called a _college_. Amongst the inferior officers we may mention twenty-six ushers, four receivers-general of trust money, three commissioners for the receipt of goods which had been seized under distress, one treasurer and paymaster, three controllers, one physician, two surgeons, two apothecaries, one matron, one receiver of fines, one inspector of estates, several keepers of refreshment establishments, who resided within the precincts of the palace, sixty or eighty notaries, four or five hundred advocates, two hundred attorneys, besides registers and deputy registers. Down to the reign of Charles VI. (1380--1422) members of Parliament held their appointment by commissions granted by the King, and renewed eaeh session. From Charles VI. to Francis I. these appointments became royal charges; but from that time, owing to the office being so often prostituted for reward, it got more and more into disrepute. [Illustration: Fig. 312.--Judge.--From a Drawing in "Proverbes, Adages, &c.," Manuscript of the Fifteenth Century, in the Imperial Library of Paris.] Louis XI. made the office of member of the Parliament of Paris a permanent one, and Francis I. continued this privilege. In 1580 the supreme magistracy poured 140,000,000 francs, which now would be worth fifteen or twenty times as much, into the State treasury, so as to enable members to sit permanently _sur les fleurs de lis_, and to obtain hereditary privileges. The hereditary transmission of office from father to son dealt a heavy blow at the popularity of the parliamentary body, which had already deeply suffered through shameful abuses, the enormity of the fees, the ignorance of some of the members, and the dissolute habits of many others. [Illustration: Fig. 313.--Lawyer.--From the "Danse des Morts" of Basle, engraved by Mérian: in 4to, Frankfort, 1596.] [Illustration: Fig. 314.--Barrister.--From a Woodout in the "Danse Macabre:" Guyot's edition, 1490.] [Illustration: Fig. 315.--Assembly of the Provostship of the Merchants of Paris.--Fac-simile of a Woodcut in "Ordonnances Royaux de la Jurisdiction de la Prevoté des Marchands et Eschevinage de la Ville de Paris:" in small folio, goth. edition of Paris, Jacques Nyverd, 1528.] The Châtelet, on the contrary, was less involved in intrigue, less occupied with politics, and was daily engaged in adjudicating in cases of litigation, and thus it rendered innumerable services in promoting the public welfare, and maintained, and even increased, the respect which it had enjoyed from the commencement of its existence. In 1498, Louis XII. required that the provost should possess the title of doctor _in utroque jure_, and that his officers, whom he made to hold their appointments for life, should be chosen from amongst the most distinguished counsellors at law. This excellent arrangement bore its fruits. As early as 1510, the "Usages of the City, Provosty, and Viscounty of Paris," were published _in extenso_, and were then received with much ceremony at a solemn audience held on the 8th of March in the episcopal palace, and were deposited among the archives of the Châtelet (Fig. 315). The Parliament held a very different line of policy from that adopted by the Châtelet, which only took a political part in the religious troubles of Protestantism and the League with a view to serve and defend the cause of the people. In spite of its fits of personal animosity, and its rebellious freaks, Parliament remained almost invariably attached to the side of the King and the court. It always leaned to the absolute maintenance of things as they were, instead of following progress and changes which time necessitated. It was for severe measures, for intimidation more than for gentleness and toleration, and it yielded sooner or later to the injunctions and admonitions of the King, although, at the same time, it often disapproved the acts which it was asked to sanction. [Illustration: Fig. 316.--Seal of King Chilpéric, found in his Tomb at Tournay in 1654.] Secret Tribunals. The Old Man of the Mountain and his Followers in Syria.--The Castle of Alamond, Paradise of Assassins.--Charlemagne the Founder of Secret Tribunals amongst the Saxons.--The Holy Vehme.--Organization of the Tribunal of the _Terre Rouge_, and Modes adopted in its Procedures.--Condemnations and Execution of Sentences.--The Truth respecting the Free Judges of Westphalia.--Duration and Fall of the Vehmic Tribunal.--Council of Ten in Venice; its Code and Secret Decisions.--End of the Council of Ten. During the Middle Ages, human life was generally held in small respect; various judicial institutions--if not altogether secret, at least more or less enveloped in mystery--were remarkable for being founded on the monstrous right of issuing the most severe sentences with closed doors, and of executing these sentences with inflexible rigour on individuals who had not been allowed the slightest chance of defending themselves. While passing judgment in secret, they often openly dealt blows as unexpected and terrible as they were fatal. Therefore, the most innocent and the most daring trembled at the very name of the _Free Judges of the Terre-Rouge,_ an institution which adopted Westphalia as the special, or rather as the central, region of its authority; the _Council of Ten_ exercised their power in Venice and the states of the republic; and the _Assassins_ of Syria, in the time of St. Louis, made more than one invasion into Christian Europe. We must nevertheless acknowledge that, terrible as these mysterious institutions were, the general credulity, the gross ignorance of the masses, and the love of the marvellous, helped not a little to render them even more outrageous and alarming than they really were. Marco Polo, the celebrated Venetian traveller of the thirteenth century, says, "We will speak of the Old Man of the Mountain. This prince was named Alaodin. He had a lovely garden full of all manner of trees and fruits, in a beautiful valley, surrounded by high hills; and all round these plantations were various palaces and pavilions, decorated with works of art in gold, with paintings, and with furniture of silk. Therein were to be seen rivulets of wine, as well as milk, honey, and gentle streams of limpid water. He had placed therein damsels of transcendent beauty and endowed with great charms, who were taught to sing and to play all manner of instruments; they were dressed in silk and gold, and continually walked in these gardens and palaces. The reasons for which the Old Man had these palaces built were the following. Mahomet having said that those who should obey his will should go to paradise, and there find all kinds of luxuries, this prince wished it to be believed that he was the prophet and companion of Mahomet, and that he had the power of sending whom he chose to paradise. No one could succeed in entering the garden, because an impregnable castle had been built at the entrance of the valley, and it could only be approached by a covered and secret way. The Old Man had in his court some young men from ten to twenty years of age, chosen from those inhabitants of the hills who seemed to him capable of bearing arms, and who were bold and courageous. From time to time he administered a certain drink to ten or twelve of these young men, which sent them to sleep, and when they were in deep stupor, he had them carried into the garden. When they awoke, they saw all we have described: they were surrounded by the young damsels, who sang, played instruments together, caressed them, played all sorts of games, and presented them with the most exquisite wines and meats (Fig. 317). So that these young men, satiated with such pleasures, did not doubt that they were in paradise, and would willingly have never gone out of it again. "At the end of four or five days, the Old Man sent them to sleep again, and had them removed from the garden in the same way in which they had been brought in. He then called them before him, and asked them where they had been. 'By your grace, lord,' they answered, 'we have been in paradise.' And then they related, in the presence of everybody, what they had seen there. This tale excited the astonishment of all those who heard it, and the desire that they might be equally fortunate. The Old Man would then formally announce to those who were present, as follows: 'Thus saith the law of our prophet, He causes all who fight for their Lord to enter into paradise; if you obey me you shall enjoy that happiness.' By such words and plans this prince had so accustomed them to believe in him, that he whom he ordered to die for his service considered himself lucky. All the nobles or other enemies of the Old Man of the Mountain were put to death by the assassins in his service; for none of them feared death, provided he complied with the orders and wishes of his lord. However powerful a man might be, therefore, if he was an enemy of the Old Man's, he was sure to meet with an untimely end." [Illustration: Fig. 317.--The Castle of Alamond and its Enchantments.--Fac-simile of a Miniature in "Marco Polo's Travels," Manuscript of the Fifteenth. Century, in the Library of the Arsenal of Paris.] In his story, which we translate literally from the original, written in ancient French, the venerable traveller attributes the origin of this singular system of exercising power over the minds of persons to a prince who in reality did but keep up a tradition of his family; for the Alaodin herein mentioned is no other than a successor of the famous Hassan, son of Ali, who, in the middle of the eleventh century, took advantage of the wars which devastated Asia to create himself a kingdom, comprising the three provinces of Turkistan, Djebel, and Syria. Hassan had embraced the doctrine of the Ishmaelian sect, who pretended to explain allegorically all the precepts of the Mahometan religion, and who did away with public worship, and originated a creed which was altogether philosophical. He made himself the chief exponent of this doctrine, which, by its very simplicity, was sure to attract to him many people of simple and sincere minds. Attacked by the troops of the Sultan Sindgar, he defended himself vigorously and not unsuccessfully; but, fearing lest he should fall in an unequal and protracted struggle against an adversary more powerful than himself, he had recourse to cunning so as to obtain peace. He entranced, or fascinated probably, by means analogous to those related by Marco Polo, a slave, who had the daring, during Sindgar's sleep, to stick a sharp dagger in the ground by the side of the Sultan's head. On waking, Sindgar was much alarmed. A few days after, Hassan wrote to him, "If one had not good intentions towards the Sultan, one might have driven the dagger, which was stuck in the earth by his head, into his bosom." The Sultan Sindgar then made peace with the chief of the Ishmaelians, whose dynasty lasted for one hundred and seventy years. The Castle of Alamond, built on the confines of Persia, on the top of a high mountain surrounded with trees, after having been the usual residence of Hassan, became that of his successors. As in the native language the same word means both _prince_ and _old man_, the Crusaders who had heard the word pronounced confounded the two, and gave the name of _Old Man of the Mountain_ to the Ishmaelian prince at that time inhabiting the Castle of Alamond, a name which has remained famous in history since the period when the Sire de Joinville published his "Mémoires." Ancient authors call the subjects of Hassan, _Haschichini, Heississini, Assissini, Assassini_, various forms of the same expression, which, in fact, has passed into French with a signification which recalls the sanguinary exploits of the Ishmaelians. In seeking for the etymology of this name, one must suppose that Haschichini is the Latin transformation of the Arabic word Hachychy, the name of the sect of which we are speaking, because the ecstacies during which they believed themselves removed to paradise were produced by means of _haschisch_ or _haschischa_. We know that this inebriating preparation, extracted from hemp, really produces the most strange and delicious hallucinations on those who use it. All travellers who have visited the East agree in saying that its effects are very superior to those of opium. We evidently must attribute to some ecstatic vision the supposed existence of the enchanted gardens, which Marco Polo described from popular tales, and which, of course, never existed but in the imagination of the young men, who were either mentally excited after fasting and prayer, or intoxicated by the haschischa, and consequently for a time lulled in dreams of celestial bliss which they imagined awaited them under the guidance of Hassan and his descendants. [Illustration: Fig. 318.--The Old Man of the Mountain giving Orders to his Followers.--Fac-simile of a Miniature in the "Travels of Marco Polo," Manuscript of the Fifteenth Century (Library of the Arsenal of Paris).] The Haschischini, whom certain contemporary historians describe to us as infatuated by the hope of some future boundless felicity, owe their melancholy celebrity solely to the blind obedience with which they executed the orders of their chiefs, and to the coolness with which they sought the favourable moment for fulfilling their sanguinary missions (Fig. 318). The Old Man of the Mountain (the master of daggers, _magister cultellorum_, as he is also called by the chronicler Jacques de Vintry), was almost continually at war with the Mussulman princes who reigned from the banks of the Nile to the borders of the Caspian Sea. He continually opposed them with the steel of his fanatical emissaries; at times, also, making a traffic and merchandise of murder, he treated for a money payment with the sultans or emirs, who were desirous of ridding themselves of an enemy. The Ishmaelians thus put to death a number of princes and Mahometan nobles; but, at the time of the Crusades, religious zeal having incited them against the Christians, they found more than one notable victim in the ranks of the Crusaders. Conrad, Marquis of Montferrat, was assassinated by them; the great Salah-Eddin (Saladin) himself narrowly escaped them; Richard Coeur de Lion and Philip Augustus were pointed out to the assassins by the Old Man, who subsequently, on hearing of the immense preparations which Louis IX. was making for the Holy War, had the daring to send two of his followers to France, and even into Paris, with orders to kill that monarch in the midst of his court. This king, after having again escaped, during his sojourn in Palestine, from the murderous attempts of the savage messengers of the Prince of Alamond, succeeded, by his courage, his firmness, and his virtues, in inspiring these fanatics with so much respect, that their chief, looking upon him as protected by heaven, asked for his friendship, and offered him presents, amongst which was a magnificent set of chessmen, in crystal, ornamented with gold and amber. The successors of Hassan, simultaneously attacked by the Moguls under Houlayon, and by the Egyptians commanded by the Sultan Bibars, were conquered and dispossessed of their States towards the middle of the thirteenth century; but, long after, the Ishmaelians, either because their chiefs sought to recover their power, or because they had placed their daggers at the disposal of some foreign foe, continued notorious in history. At last the sect became extinct, or, at least, retired into obscurity, and renounced its murderous profession, which had for so long made its members such objects of terror. We have thus seen how a legion of fanatics in the East made themselves the blind and formidable tools of a religious and political chieftain, who was no less ambitious than revengeful. If we now turn our attention to Germany, we shall here find, almost at the same period, a local institution which, although very different from the sanguinary court of the Old Man of the Mountain, was of an equally terrible and mysterious character. We must not, however, look at it from the same point of view, for, having been founded with the object of furthering and defending the establishment of a regular social state, which had been approved and sanctioned by the sovereigns, and recognised by the Church, it at times rendered great service to the cause of justice and humanity at a period when might usurped right, and when the excesses and the crimes of shameless evil-doers, and of petty tyrants, entrenched in their impregnable strongholds, were but too often made lawful from the simple fact that there was no power to oppose them. The secret tribunal of Westphalia, which held its sittings and passed sentence in private, and which carried out its decrees on the spot, and whose rules, laws, and actions were enveloped in deep mystery, must unquestionably be looked upon as one of the most remarkable institutions of the Middle Ages. [Illustration: Figs. 319 and 320.--Hermensul or Irmensul and Crodon, Idols of the Ancient Saxons.--Fac-simile of a Woodcut in the "Annales Circuli Westphaliæ," by Herman Stangefol: in 4to, 1656.--The Idol Hermensul appears to have presided over Executive Justice, the attributes of which it holds in its hands.] It would be difficult to state exactly at what period this formidable institution was established. A few writers, and amongst these Sebastian Munster, wish us to believe that it was founded by Charlemagne himself. They affirm that this monarch, having subjugated the Saxons to his sway, and having forced them to be baptized, created a secret tribunal, the duties of which were to watch over them, in order that they might not return to the errors of Paganism. However, the Saxons were incorrigible, and, although Christians, they still carried on the worship of their idols (Figs. 319 and 320); and, for this reason, it is said by these authorities that the laws of the tribunal of Westphalia were founded by Charlemagne. It is well known that from the ninth to the thirteenth century, all that part of Germany between the Rhine and the Weser suffered under the most complete anarchy. In consequence of this, and of the increase of crime which remained unpunished, energetic men established a rigorous jurisdiction, which, to a certain extent, suppressed these barbarous disorders, and gave some assurance to social intercourse; but the very mystery which gave weight to the institution was the cause of its origin being unknown. It is only mentioned, and then cursorily, in historical documents towards the early part of the fifteenth century. This court of judicature received the name of _Femgericht_, or _Vehmgericht_, which means Vehmic tribunal. The origin of the word _Fem_, _Vehm_, or _Fam_, which has given rise to many scientific discussions, still remains in doubt. The most generally accepted opinion is, that it is derived from a Latin expression--_vemi_ (_vae mihi_), "woe is me!" The special dominion over which the Vehmic tribunal reigned supreme was Westphalia, and the country which was subjected to its laws was designated as the _Terre Rouge_. There was no assembly of this tribunal beyond the limits of this Terre Rouge, but it would be quite impossible to define these limits with any accuracy. However, the free judges, assuming the right of suppressing certain crimes committed beyond their territory, on more than one occasion summoned persons living in various parts of Germany, and even in provinces far from Westphalia, to appear before them. We do not know all the localities wherein the Vehmic tribunal sat; but the most celebrated of them, and the one which served as a model for all the rest, held its sittings under a lime-tree, in front of the castle-gate of Dortmund (Fig. 321). There the chapters-general of the association usually assembled; and, on certain occasions, several thousands of the free judges were to be seen there. Each tribunal was composed of an unlimited number of free judges, under the presidency of a free count, who was charged with the higher administration of Vehmic justice. A _free county_ generally comprised several free tribunals, or _friestuhle_. The free count, who was chosen by the prince of the territory in which the tribunal sat, had two courts, one secret, the other public. The public assizes, which took place at least three times a year, were announced fourteen days beforehand, and any person living within the _county_, and who was summoned before the free count, was bound to appear, and to answer all questions which might be put to him. It was required that the free judges (who are generally mentioned as _femnoten_--that is to say, _sages_--and who are, besides, denoted by writers of the time by the most honourable epithets: such as, "serious men," "very pious," "of very pure morals," "lovers of justice," &c.) should be persons who had been born in lawful wedlock, and on German soil; they were not allowed to belong to any religions order, or to have ever themselves been summoned before the Vehmic tribunal. They were nominated by the free counts, but subject to the approval of their sovereigns. They were not allowed to sit as judges before having been initiated into the mysteries of the tribunals. [Illustration: Fig. 321.--View of the Town of Dortmund in the Sixteenth Century.--From an Engraving on Copper in P. Bertius's "Theatrum Geographicum."] The initiation of a free judge was accompanied by extraordinary formalities. The candidate appeared bareheaded; he knelt down, and, placing two fingers of his right hand on his naked sword and on a rope, he took oath to adhere to the laws and customs of the holy tribunal, to devote his five senses to it, and not to allow himself to be allured therefrom either by silver, gold, or even precious stones; to forward the interests of the tribunal "above everything illumined by the sun, and all that the rain reaches;" and to defend them "against everything which is between heaven and earth." The candidate was then given the sign by which members of the association recognised each other. This sign has remained unknown; and nothing, even in the deeds of the Vehmic archives, leads one even to guess what it was, and every hypothesis on this subject must be looked upon as uncertain or erroneous. By one of the fundamental statutes of the Terre Rouge, a member convicted of betraying the secrets of the order was condemned to the most cruel punishment; but we have every reason for asserting that this sentence was never carried out, or even issued against a free judge. [Illustration: Fig. 322.--The Landgrave of Thuringia and his Wife.--Fac-simile of a Miniature in the Collection of the Minnesinger, Manuscript of the Fourteenth Century.] In one case alone during the fourteenth century, was an accusation of this sort made, and that proved to be groundless. It would have been considered the height of treason to have given a relation, or a friend, the slightest hint that he was being pursued, or that he had been condemned by the Holy Vehme, in order that he might seek refuge by flight. And in consequence of this, there was a general mistrust of any one belonging to the tribunal, so much so that "a brother," says a German writer, "often feared his brother, and hospitality was no longer possible." The functions of free judges consisted in going about the country seeking out crimes, denouncing them, and inflicting immediate punishment on any evil-doer caught in the act (Figs. 323 and 324). The free judges might assemble provided there were at least seven in number to constitute a tribunal; but we hear of as many as three hundred assisting at a meeting. [Illustration: Figs. 323 and 324.--Free Judges.--Fac-simile of two Woodcuts in the "Cosmographie Universelle" of Munster: in folio, 1552.] It has been erroneously stated that the sittings of the Vehmic tribunals were held at night in the depths of forests, or in subterranean places; but it appears that all criminal business was first heard in public, and could only be subjected to a secret judgment when the accused had failed either publicly to justify himself or to appear in person. When three free judges caught a malefactor in the very act, they could seize him, judge him, and inflict the penalty on the spot. In other cases, when a tribunal considered that it should pursue an individual, it summoned him to appear before it. The summons had to be written, without erasures, on a large sheet of vellum, and to bear at least seven seals--that of the free count, and those of six free judges; and these seals generally represented either a man in full armour holding a sword, or a simple sword blade, or other analagous emblems (Figs. 325 to 327). Two free judges delivered the summons personally where a member of the association was concerned; but if the summons affected an individual who was not of the Vehmic order, a sworn messenger bore it, and placed it in the very hands of the person, or slipped it into his house. The time given for putting in an appearance was originally six weeks and three days at least, but at a later period this time was shortened. The writ of summons was repeated three times, and each time bore a greater number of seals of free judges, so as to verify the legality of the instrument. The accused, whether guilty or not, was liable to a fine for not answering the first summons, unless he could prove that it was impossible for him to have done so. If he failed to appear on the third summons, he was finally condemned _en corps et en honneur_. [Illustration: Fig. 325.--Seal of Herman Loseckin, Free Count of Medebach, in 1410.] [Illustration: Fig. 326.--Seal of the Free Count, Hans Vollmar von Twern, at Freyenhagen, in 1476-1499.] [Illustration: Fig. 327.--Seal of Johann Croppe, Free Count of Kogelnberg, in 1413.] We have but imperfect information as to the formalities in use in the Vehmic tribunals. But we know that the sittings were invested with a certain solemnity and pomp. A naked sword--emblematical of justice, and recalling our Saviour's cross in the shape of its handle--and a rope--emblematical of the punishment deserved by the guilty--were placed on the table before the president. The judges were bareheaded, with bare hands, and each wore a cloak over his shoulder, and carried no arms of any sort. [Illustration: Fig. 328.--The Duke of Saxony and the Marquis of Brandenburg.--From the "Theatrum Orbis Terrarum sive Tabula veteris Geographiae," in folio. Engraved by Wieriex, after Gérard de Jode.] The plaintiff and the defendant were each allowed to produce thirty witnesses. The defendant could either defend himself, or entrust his case to an advocate whom he brought with him. At first, any free judge being defendant in a suit, enjoyed the privilege of justifying himself on oath; but it having been discovered that this privilege was abused, all persons, of whatever station, were compelled to be confronted with the other side. The witnesses, who were subpoened by either accuser or accused, had to give their evidence according to the truth, dispassionately and voluntarily. In the event of the accused not succeeding in bringing sufficient testimony to clear himself, the prosecutor claimed a verdict in his favour from the free count presiding at the tribunal, who appointed one of the free judges to declare it. In case the free judge did not feel satisfied as to the guilt, he could, by making oath, temporarily divest himself of his office, which devolved upon a second, a third, or even a fourth free judge. If four free judges were unable to decide, the matter was referred to another sitting; for judgment had to be pronounced by the appointed free judge at the sitting. The various penalties for different crimes were left to the decision of the tribunal. The rules are silent on the subject, and simply state that the culprits will be punished "according to the authority of the secret bench." The _royale, i.e._ capital punishment, was strictly applied in all serious cases, and the manner of execution most in use was hanging (Figs. 329, 330). A person accused who did not appear after the third summons, was out-lawed by a terrible sentence, which deprived him of all rights, of common peace, and forbad him the company of all Christians; by the wording of this sentence, his wife was looked upon as a widow, his children as orphans; his neck was abandoned to the birds of the air, and his body to the beasts of the field, "but his soul was recommended to God." At the expiration of one year and a day, if the culprit had not appeared, or had not established his common rights, all his goods were confiscated, and appropriated by the King or Emperor. When the condemnation referred to a prince, a town, or a corporation (for the accusations of the tribunal frequently were issued against groups of individuals), it caused the loss of all honour, authority, and privileges. The free count, in pronouncing the sentence, threw the rope, which was before him, on to the ground; the free judges spat upon it, and the name of the culprit was inscribed on the book of blood. The sentence was kept secret; the prosecutor alone was informed of it by a written notice, which was sealed with seven seals. When the condemned was present, the execution took place immediately, and, according to the custom of the Middle Ages, its carrying out was deputed to the youngest of the free judges. The members of the Vehmic association enjoyed the privilege of being hung seven feet higher than those who were not associates. The Vehmic judgments were, however, liable to be appealed against: the accused might, at the sitting, appeal either to what was termed the imperial chamber, a general chapter of the association, which assembled at Dortmund, or (and this was the more frequent custom) to the emperor, or ruler of the country, whether he were king, prince, duke, or bishop, provided that these authorities belonged to the association. The revision of the judgment could only be entrusted to members of the tribunal, who, in their turn, could only act in Westphalia. The condemned might also appeal to the lieutenant-general of the emperor, or to the grand master of the Holy Vehme, a title which, from the remotest times, was given to the Archbishop of Cologne. There are even instances of appeals having been made to the councils and to the Popes, although the Vehmic association never had any communication or intercourse with the court of Rome. We must not forget a very curious privilege which, in certain cases, was left to the culprit as a last resource; he might appeal to the emperor, and solicit an order which required the execution of the sentence to be applied after a delay _of one hundred years, six weeks, and one day_. [Illustration: Figs. 329 and 330.--Execution of the Sentences of the Secret Tribunal.--Fac-simile of Woodcuts in the "Cosmographie Universelle" of Munster: in folio, Basle, 1552.] The chapter-general of the association was generally summoned once a year by the emperor or his lieutenant, and assembled either at Dortmund or Arensberg, in order to receive the returns of causes judged by the various Vehmic tribunals; to hear the changes which had taken place among the members of the order; to receive the free judges; to hear appeals; and, lastly, to decide upon reforms to be introduced into the rules. These reforms usually had reference to the connection of imperial authority with the members of the secret jurisdiction, and were generally suggested by the emperors, who were jealous of the increasing power of the association. From what we have shown, on the authority of authentic documents, we understand how untrue is the tradition, or rather the popular idea, that the _Secret Tribunal_ was an assembly of bloodthirsty judges, secretly perpetrating acts of mere cruelty, without any but arbitrary laws. It is clear, on the contrary, that it was a regular institution, having, it is true, a most mysterious and complex organization, but simply acting in virtue of legal prescriptions, which were rigorously laid down, and arranged in a sort of code which did honour to the wisdom of those who had created it. It was towards the end of the fourteenth and the beginning of the fifteenth centuries that the Vehmic jurisdiction reached its highest degree of power; its name was only pronounced in a whisper and with trembling; its orders were received with immediate submission, and its chastisements always fell upon the guilty and those who resisted its authority. There cannot be a doubt but that the Westphalian tribunal prevented many great crimes and public misfortunes by putting a wholesome check on the nobles, who were ever ready to place themselves above all human authority; and by punishing, with pitiless severity, the audacity of bandits, who would otherwise have been encouraged to commit the most daring acts with almost the certainty of escaping with impunity. But the Holy Vehme, blinded by the terror it inspired, was not long without displaying the most extravagant assumption of power, and digressing from the strict path to which its action should have been confined. It summoned before its tribunals princes, who openly denied its authority, and cities, which did not condescend to answer to its behests. In the fifteenth century, the free judges were composed of men who could not be called of unimpeachable integrity; many persons of doubtful morals having been raised to the dignity by party influence and by money. The partiality and the spirit of revenge which at times prompted their judgments, were complained of; they were accused of being open to corruption; and this accusation appears to have been but too well founded. It is known that, according to a feudal practice established in the Vehmic system, every new free judge was obliged to make a present to the free count who had admitted him into the order; and the free counts did not hesitate to make this an important source of revenue to themselves by admitting, according to an historian, "many people as _judges_ who, in reality, deserved to be _judged_." [Illustration: Fig. 331.--View of Cologne in the Sixteenth Century.--From a Copper-plate in the "Theatrum Geographicum" of P. Bertius. The three large stars represent, it is supposed, the Three Persons of the Trinity, and the seven small ones the Electors of the Empire.] [Illustration: Fig. 332.--German Knights (Fifteenth Century).--From a Plate in the "Life of the Emperor Maximilian," engraved by Burgmayer, from Drawings by Albert Durer.] Owing to the most flagrant and most insolent abuses of power, the ancient authority of the institution became gradually more and more shaken. On one occasion, for instance, in answer to a summons issued by the Imperial Tribunal against some free judges, the tribunal of the Terre-Rouge had the daring to summon the Emperor Frederick III. before it to answer for this want of respect. On another occasion, a certain free count, jealous of one of his associates, hung him with his own hands while out on a hunting excursion, alleging that his rank of free judge authorised him to execute summary justice. From that time there was a perpetual cry of horror and indignation against a judicial institution which thus interpreted its duties, and before long the State undertook the suppression of these secret tribunals. The first idea of this was formed by the electors of the empire at the diet of Trèves in 1512. The Archbishop of Cologne succeeded, however, in parrying the blow, by convoking the chapter-general of the order, on the plea of the necessity of reform. But, besides being essentially corrupt, the Holy Vehme had really run its course, and it gradually became effete as, by degrees, a better organized and more defined social and political state succeeded to the confused anarchy of the Middle Ages, and as the princes and free towns adopted the custom of dispensing justice either in person or through regular tribunals. Its proceedings, becoming more and more summary and rigorous, daily gave rise to feelings of greater and greater abhorrence. The common saying over all Germany was, "They first hang you, and afterwards inquire into your innocence." On all sides opposition arose against the jurisdiction of the free judges. Princes, bishops, cities, and citizens, agreed instinctively to counteract this worn-out and degenerate institution. The struggle was long and tedious. During the last convulsions of the expiring Holy Vehme, there was more than one sanguinary episode, both on the side of the free judges themselves, as well as on that of their adversaries. Occasionally the secret tribunal broke out into fresh signs of life, and proclaimed its existence by some terrible execution; and at times, also, its members paid dearly for their acts. On one occasion, in 1570, fourteen free judges, whom Kaspar Schwitz, Count of Oettingen, caused to be seized, were already tied up in bags, and about to be drowned, when the mob, pitying their fate, asked for and obtained their reprieve. The death-blow to the Vehmic tribunal was struck by its own hand. It condenmed summarily, and executed without regular procedure, an inhabitant of Munster, who used to scandalize the town by his profligacy. He was arrested at night, led to a small wood, where the free judges awaited him, and condemned to death without being allowed an advocate; and, after being refused a respite even of a few hours, that he might make his peace with heaven, he was confessed by a monk, and his head was severed from his body by the executioner on the spot. [Illustration: Fig. 333.--Interior Court of the Palace of the Doges of Venice: Buildings in which are the Cells and _the Leads_.--From Cesare Vecellio.] Dating from this tragical event, which excited universal indignation, the authority of the free judges gradually declined, and, at last, the institution became almost defunct, and merely confined itself to occasionally adjudicating in simple civil matters. We must not omit to mention the Council of Ten of Venice when speaking on the subject of arbitrary executions and of tyrannical and implacable justice. In some respects it was more notorious than the Vehmic tribunal, exercising as it did a no less mysterious power, and inspiring equal terror, though in other countries. This secret tribunal was created after a revolt which burst on the republic of Venice on the 15th of June, 1310. At first it was only instituted for two months, but, after various successive prorogations, it was confirmed for five years, on the 31st of January, 1311. In 1316 it was again appointed for five years; on the 2nd of May, 1327, for ten years more; and at last was established permanently. In the fifteenth century the authority of the Council of Ten was consolidated and rendered more energetic by the creation of the Inquisitors of State. These were three in number, elected by the Council of Ten; and the citizens on whom the votes fell could not refuse the functions which were thus spontaneously, and often unexpectedly, assigned to them. The authority of Inquisitors of State was declared to be "unlimited." In order to show the power and mode of action of this terrible tribunal, it is perhaps better to make a few extracts from the code of rules which it established for itself in June, 1454. This document--several manuscript copies of which are to be found in the public libraries of Paris--says, "The inquisitors may proceed against any person whomsoever, no rank giving the right of exemption from their jurisdiction. They may pronounce any sentence, even that of death; only their final sentences must be passed unanimously. They shall have complete charge of the prisons and _the leads_ (Fig. 333). They may draw at sight from the treasury of the Council of Ten, without having to give any account of the use made of the funds placed in their hands. "The proceedings of the tribunal shall always be secret; its members shall wear no distinctive badge. No open arrests shall be made. The chief of the bailiffs (_sbirri_) shall avoid making domiciliary arrests, but he shall try to seize the culprit unawares, away from his home, and so securely get him under _the leads_ of the Palace of the Doges. When the tribunal shall deem the death of any person necessary, the execution shall never be public; the condemned shall be drowned at night in the Orfano Canal. "The tribunal shall authorise the generals commanding in Cyprus or in Candia, in the event of its being for the welfare of the Republic, to cause any patrician or other influential person in either of those Venetian provinces to disappear, or to be assassinated secretly, if such a measure should conscientiously appear to them indispensable; but they shall be answerable before God for it. [Illustration: Fig. 334.--Member of the Brotherhood of Death, whose duty it was to accompany those sentenced to death.--From Cesare Vecellio.] "If any workman shall practise in a foreign land any art or craft to the detriment of the Republic, he shall be ordered to return to his country; and should he not obey, all his nearest relatives shall be imprisoned, in order that his affection for them may bring him to obedience. Should he still persist in his disobedience, secret measures shall be taken to put him to death, wherever he may be. "If a Venetian noble reveal to the tribunal propositions which have been made to him by some foreign ambassador, the agent, excepting it should be the ambassador himself, shall be immediately carried off and drowned. "If a patrician having committed any misdeed shall take refuge under the protection of a foreign ambassador, he shall be put to death forthwith. "If any noble in full senate take upon himself to question the authority of the Council of Ten, and persist in attacking it, he shall be allowed to speak without interruption; immediately afterwards he shall be arrested, and instructions as to his trial shall be given, so that he may be judged by the ordinary tribunals; and, if this does not succeed in preventing his proceedings, he shall be put to death secretly. "In case of a complaint against one of the heads of the Council of Ten, the instructions shall be made secretly, and, in case of sentence of death, poison shall be the agent selected. "Should any dissatisfied noble speak ill of the Government, he shall first be forbidden to appear in the councils and public places for two years. Should he not obey, or should he repeat the offence after the two years, he shall be drowned as incorrigible...." &c. One can easily understand that in order to carry out these laws the most careful measures were taken to organize a system of espionage. The nobles were subjected to a rigorous supervision; the privacy of letters was not respected; an ambassador was never lost sight of, and his smallest acts were narrowly watched. Any one who dared to throw obstacles in the way of the spies employed by the Council of Ten, was put on the rack, and "made afterwards to receive the punishment which the State inquisitors might consider befitting." Whole pages of the secret statutes bear witness that lying and fraud formed the basis of all the diplomatic relations of the Venetian Government. Nevertheless the Council of Ten, which was solely instituted with the view of watching over the safety of the Republic, could not inter-meddle in civil cases, and its members were forbidden to hold any sort of communication with foreigners. [Illustration: Figs. 335 and 336.--Chiefs of Sbirri, in the Secret Service of the Council of Ten.--From Cesare Vecellio.] The list of names of Venetian nobles and distinguished persons who became victims to the suspicions tyranny of the Council of Ten, and of the State inquisitors, would be very long and of little interest. We may mention a few, however. We find that in 1385, Peter Justiniani, and, in 1388, Stephen Monalesco, were punished for holding secret transactions with the Lord of Padua; in 1413, John Nogarola, for having tried to set fire to Verona; in 1471, Borromeo Memo, for having uttered defamatory speeches against the Podestat of Padua. Not only was this Borromeo Memo punished, but three witnesses of the crime which was imputed to him were condemned to a year's imprisonment and three years' banishment, for not having denounced the deed "between evening and morning." In 1457 we find the Council of Ten attacking the Doge himself, by requiring the abdication of Francis Foscari. A century earlier it had caused the Doge, Marino Faliero, who was convicted of having taken part in a plot to destroy the influence of the nobility, to be executed on the very staircase of the ducal palace, where allegiance to the Republic was usually sworn. [Illustration: Fig. 337.--Doge of Venice. Costume before the Sixteenth Century. From Cesare Vecellio.] [Illustration: Fig. 338.--Doge of Venice in Ceremonial Costume of the Sixteenth Century. From Cesare Vecellio.] Like the Holy Vehme, the Council of Ten compromised its authority by the abuse of power. In 1540, unknown to the Senate, and in spite of the well-prescribed limit of its authority, it concluded a treaty with the Turkish Sultan, Soliman II. The Senate at first concealed its indignation at this abuse of power, but, in 1582, it took measures so as considerably to restrain the powers of the Council of Ten, which, from that date, only existed in name. [Illustration: Fig. 339.--Seal of the Free Count Heinrich Beckmann, of Medebach. (1520--1533).] Punishments. Refinements of Penal Cruelty.--Tortures for different Purposes.--Water, Screw-boards, and the Rack.--The Executioner.--Female Executioners.--Tortures.--Amende Honorable.--Torture of Fire, Real and Feigned.--Auto-da-fé.--Red-hot Brazier or Basin.--Beheading.--Quartering.--Wheel.--Garotte.--Hanging.--The Whip.--The Pillory.--The Arquebuse.--Tickling.--Flaying.--Drowning.--Imprisonment.--Regulations of Prisons.--The Iron Cage.--The Leads of Venice. "It is very sad," says the learned M. de Villegille, "to observe the infinite variety of tortures which have existed since the beginning of the world. It is, in fact, difficult to realise the amount of ingenuity exercised by men in inventing new tortures, in order to give themselves the satisfaction of seeing their fellow-creatures agonizing in the most awful sufferings." In entering upon the subject of ancient modes of punishment, we must first speak of the torture, which, according to the received phrase, might be either _previous_ or _preparatory: previous_, when it consisted of a torture which the condemned had to endure previous to capital punishment; and _preparatory_, when it was applied in order to elicit from the culprit an avowal of his crime, or of that of his accomplices. It was also called _ordinary_, or _extraordinary_, according to the duration or violence with which it was inflicted. In some cases the torture lasted five or six consecutive hours; in others, it rarely exceeded an hour. Hippolyte de Marsillis, the learned and venerable jurisconsult of Bologna, who lived at the beginning of the fifteenth century, mentions fourteen ways of inflicting torture. The compression of the limbs by special instruments, or by ropes only; injection of water, vinegar, or oil, into the body of the accused; application of hot pitch, and starvation, were the processes most in use. Other means, which were more or less applied according to the fancy of the magistrate and the tormentor or executioner, were remarkable for their singular atrocities. For instance, placing hot eggs under the arm-pits; introducing dice between the skin and flesh; tying lighted candles to the fingers, so that they might be consumed simultaneously with the wax; letting water trickle drop by drop from a great height on the stomach; and also the custom, which was, according to writers on criminal matters, an indescribable torture, of watering the feet with salt water and allowing goats to lick them. However, every country had special customs as to the manner of applying torture. In France, too, the torture varied according to the provinces, or rather according to the parliaments. For instance, in Brittany the culprit, tied in an iron chair, was gradually brought near a blazing furnace. In Normandy, one thumb was squeezed in a screw in the ordinary, and both thumbs in the extraordinary torture. At Autun, after high boots made of spongy leather had been placed on the culprit's feet, he was tied on to a table near a large fire, and a quantity of boiling water was poured on the boots, which penetrated the leather, ate away the flesh, and even dissolved the bones of the victim. At Orleans, for the ordinary torture the accused was stripped half naked, and his hands were tightly tied behind his back, with a ring fixed between them. Then by means of a rope fastened to this ring, they raised the poor man, who had a weight of one hundred and eighty pounds attached to his feet, a certain height from the ground. For the extraordinary torture, which then took the name of _estrapade_, they raised the victim, with two hundred and fifty pounds attached to his feet, to the ceiling by means of a capstan; he was then allowed to fall several times successively by jerks to the level of the ground, by which means his arms and legs were completely dislocated (Fig. 340). At Avignon, the ordinary torture consisted in hanging the accused by the wrists, with a heavy iron ball at each foot; for the extraordinary torture, which was then much in use in Italy under the name of _veglia_, the body was stretched horizontally by means of ropes passing through rings riveted into the wall, and attached to the four limbs, the only support given to the culprit being the point of a stake cut in a diamond shape, which just touched the end of the back-bone. A doctor and a surgeon were always present, feeling the pulse at the temples of the patient, so as to be able to judge of the moment when he could not any longer bear the pain. [Illustration: Fig. 340.--The Estrapade, or Question Extraordinary.--Fac-simile of a Woodcut in the Work of J. Millaeus, "Praxis Criminis Persequendi." folio, Paris, 1541.] [Illustration: Fig. 341.--The Water Torture.--Fac-simile of a Woodcut in J. Damhoudère's "Praxis Rerum Criminalium:" in 4to, Antwerp, 1556.] At that moment he was untied, hot fomentations were used to revive him, restoratives were administered, and, as soon as he had recovered a little strength, he was again put to the torture, which went on thus for six consecutive hours. In Paris, for a long time, the _water torture_ was in use; this was the most easily borne, and the least dangerous. A person undergoing it was tied to a board which was supported horizontally on two trestles. By means of a horn, acting as a funnel, and whilst his nose was being pinched, so as to force him to swallow, they slowly poured four _coquemars_ (about nine pints) of water into his mouth; this was for the ordinary torture. For the extraordinary, double that quantity was poured in (Fig. 341). When the torture was ended, the victim was untied, "and taken to be warmed in the kitchen," says the old text. At a later period, the _brodequins_ were preferred. For this torture, the victim was placed in a sitting posture on a massive bench, with strong narrow boards fixed inside and outside of each leg, which were tightly bound together with strong rope; wedges were then driven in between the centre boards with a mallet; four wedges in the ordinary and eight in the extraordinary torture. Not unfrequently during the latter operation the bones of the legs were literally burst. The _brodequins_ which were often used for ordinary torture were stockings of parchment, into which it was easy enough to get the feet when it was wet, but which, on being held near the fire, shrunk so considerably that it caused insufferable agony to the wearer. Whatever manner of torture was applied, the accused, before undergoing it, was forced to remain eight or ten hours without eating. Damhoudère, in his famous technical work, called "Practique et Enchiridion des Causes Criminelles" (1544), also recommends that the hair should be carefully shaved from the bodies of persons about to undergo examination by torture, for fear of their concealing some countercharm which would render them insensible to bodily pain. The same author also recommends, as a rule, when there are several persons "to be placed on the rack" for the same deed, to begin with those from whom it would be most probable that confession would be first extorted. Thus, for instance, when a man and a woman were to suffer one after the other, he recommended that the woman be first tortured, as being the weaker of the two; when a father and son were concerned, the son should be tortured in presence of the father, "who naturally fears more for his son than for himself." We thereby see that the judges were adepts in the art of adding moral to physical tortures. The barbarous custom of punishment by torture was on several occasions condemned by the Church. As early as 866, we find, from Pope Nicholas V.'s letter to the Bulgarians, that their custom of torturing the accused was considered contrary to divine as well as to human law: "For," says he, "a confession should be voluntary, and not forced. By means of the torture, an innocent man may suffer to the utmost without making any avowal; and, in such a case, what a crime for the judge! Or the person may be subdued by pain, and may acknowledge himself guilty, although he be not so, which throws an equally great sin upon the judge." [Illustration: Fig. 342.--Type of Executioner in the Decapitation of John the Baptist (Thirteenth Century).--Fac-simile of a Miniature in the Psalm-book of St. Louis. Manuscript preserved in the Musée des Souverains.] After having endured the _previous_ torture, the different phases of which were carried out by special tormentors or executioners, the condemned was at last handed over to the _maistre des haultes oeuvres_--that is to say, the _executioner_--whose special mission was that of sending culprits to another world (Fig. 342). [Illustration: Fig. 343.--Swiss Grand Provost (Fifteenth Century).--From a Painting in the "Danse des Morts" of Basle, engraved by Mérian.] The executioner did not hold the same position in all countries. For whereas in France, Italy, and Spain, a certain amount of odium was attached to this terrible craft, in Germany, on the contrary, successfully carrying out a certain number of capital sentences was rewarded by titles and the privileges of nobility (Fig. 343). At Reutlingen, in Suabia, the last of the councillors admitted into the tribunal had to carry out the sentence with his own hand. In Franconia, this painful duty fell upon the councillor who had last taken a wife. In France, the executioner, otherwise called the _King's Sworn Tormentor,_ was the lowest of the officers of justice. His letters of appointment, which he received from the King, had, nevertheless, to be registered in Parliament; but, after having put the seal on them, it is said that the chancellor threw them under the table, in token of contempt. The executioner was generally forbidden to live within the precincts of the city, unless it was on the grounds where the pillory was situated; and, in some cases, so that he might not be mistaken amongst the people, he was forced to wear a particular coat, either of red or yellow. On the other hand, his duties ensured him certain privileges. In Paris, he possessed the right of _havage_, which consisted in taking all that he could hold in his hand from every load of grain which was brought into market; however, in order that the grain might be preserved from ignominious contact, he levied his tax with a wooden spoon. He enjoyed many similar rights over most articles of consumption, independently of benefiting by several taxes or fines, such as the toll on the Petit-Pont, the tax on foreign traders, on boats arriving with fish, on dealers in herrings, watercress, &c.; and the fine of five sous which was levied on stray pigs (see previous chapter), &c. And, lastly, besides the personal property of the condemned, he received the rents from the shops and stalls surrounding the pillory, in which the retail fish trade was carried on. It appears that, in consequence of the receipts from these various duties forming a considerable source of revenue, the prestige of wealth by degrees dissipated the unfavourable impressions traditionally attached to the duties of executioner. At least, we have authority for supposing this, when, for instance, in 1418, we see the Paris executioner, who was then captain of the bourgeois militia, coming in that capacity to touch the hand of the Duke of Burgundy, on the occasion of his solemn entry into Paris with Queen Isabel of Bavaria. We may add that popular belief generally ascribed to the executioner a certain practical knowledge of medicine, which was supposed inherent in the profession itself; and the acquaintance with certain methods of cure unknown to doctors, was attributed to him; people went to buy from him the fat of culprits who had been hung, which was supposed to be a marvellous panacea. We may also remark that, in our day, the proficiency of the executioner in setting dislocated limbs is still proverbial in many countries. [Illustration: Fig. 344.--Amende Honorable before the Tribunal.--Fac-simile of a Woodcut in J. Damhoudère's "Praxis Rerum Criminalium:" in 4to, Antwerp, 1556.] More than once during the thirteenth century the duties of the executioner were performed by women, but only in those cases in which their own sex was concerned; for it is expressly stated in an order of St. Louis, that persons convicted of blasphemy shall be beaten with birch rods, "the men by men, and the women by women only, without the presence of men." This, however, was not long tolerated, for we know that a period soon arrived when women were exempted from a duty so little adapted to their physical weakness and moral sensitiveness. The learned writer on criminal cases, Josse Damhoudère, whom we have already mentioned, and whom we shall take as our special guide in the enumeration of the various tortures, specifies thirteen ways in which the executioner "carries out his executions," and places them in the following order:--"Fire"--"the sword"--"mechanical force"--"quartering"--"the wheel"--"the fork"--"the gibbet"--"drawing"--"spiking"--"cutting off the ears"--"dismembering"--"flogging or beating"--and the "pillory." [Illustration: Fig. 345.--The Punishment by Fire.--Fac-simile of a Woodcut of the "Cosmographie Universelle" of Munster: in folio, Basle, 1552.] But before entering upon the details of this revolting subject, we must state that, whatever punishment was inflicted upon a culprit, it was very rare that its execution had not been preceded by the _amende honorable_, which, in certain cases, constituted a distinct punishment, but which generally was but the prelude to the torture itself. The _amende honorable_ which was called _simple_ or _short_, took place without the assistance of the executioner in the council chamber, where the condemned, bareheaded and kneeling, had to state that "he had falsely said or done something against the authority of the King or the honour of some person" (Fig. 344). For the _amende honorable in figuris_--that is to say, in public--the condemned, in his shirt, barefooted, the rope round his neck, followed by the executioner, and holding in his hand a wax taper, with a weight, which was definitely specified in the sentence which had been passed upon him, but which was generally of two or four pounds, prostrated himself at the door of a church, where in a loud voice he had to confess his sin, and to beg the pardon of God and man. When a criminal had been condemned to be burnt, a stake was erected on the spot specially designed for the execution, and round it a pile was prepared, composed of alternate layers of straw and wood, and rising to about the height of a man. Care was taken to leave a free space round the stake for the victim, and also a passage by which to lead him to it. Having been stripped of his clothes, and dressed in a shirt smeared with sulphur, he had to walk to the centre of the pile through a narrow opening, and was then tightly bound to the stake with ropes and chains. After this, faggots and straw were thrown into the empty space through which he had passed to the stake, until he was entirely covered by them; the pile was then fired on all sides at once (Fig. 345). Sometimes, the sentence was that the culprit should only be delivered to the flames after having been previously strangled. In this case, the dead corpse was then immediately placed where the victim would otherwise have been placed alive, and the punishment lost much of its horror. It often happened that the executioner, in order to shorten the sufferings of the condemned, whilst he prepared the pile, placed a large and pointed iron bar amongst the faggots and opposite the stake breast high, so that, directly the fire was lighted, the bar was quickly pushed against the victim, giving a mortal blow to the unfortunate wretch, who would otherwise have been slowly devoured by the flames. If, according to the wording of the sentence, the ashes of the criminal were to be scattered to the winds, as soon as it was possible to approach the centre of the burning pile, a few ashes were taken in a shovel and sprinkled in the air. They were not satisfied with burning the living, they also delivered to the flames the bodies of those who had died a natural death before their execution could be carried out, as if an anticipated death should not be allowed to save them from the punishment which they had deserved. It also happened in certain cases, where a person's guilt was only proved after his decease, that his body was disinterred, and carried to the stake to be burnt. The punishment by fire was always inflicted in cases of heresy, or blasphemy. The Spanish Inquisition made such a constant and cruel use of it, that the expression _auto-da-fé_ (act of faith), strangely perverted from its original meaning, was the only one employed to denote the punishment itself. In France, in the beginning of the fourteenth century, fifty-nine Templars were burned at the same time for the crimes of heresy and witchcraft. And three years later, on the 18th March, 1314, Jacques Molay, and a few other dignitaries of the Order of the Templars, also perished in the flames at the extremity of the island of Notre Dame, on the very spot where the equestrian statue of Henry IV. now stands. Every one is acquainted with the fact that judges were found iniquitous enough to condemn Joan of Arc to death by fire as a witch and a heretic. Her execution, which took place in the market-place of Rouen, is remarkable from a circumstance which is little known, and which had never taken place on any other occasion. When it was supposed that the fire which surrounded the young heroine on all sides had reached her and no doubt suffocated her, although sufficient time had not elapsed for it to consume her body, a part of the blazing wood was withdrawn, "in order to remove any doubts from the people," and when the crowd had satisfied themselves by seeing her in the middle of the pile, "chained to the post and quite dead, the executioner replaced the fire...." It should be stated in reference to this point, that Joan having been accused of witchcraft, there was a general belief among the people that the flames would be harmless to her, and that she would be seen emerging from her pile unscathed. The sentence of punishment by fire did not absolutely imply death at the stake, for there was a punishment of this description which was specially reserved for base coiners, and which consisted in hurling the criminals into a cauldron of scalding water or oil. We must include in the category of punishment by fire certain penalties, which were, so to speak, but the preliminaries of a more severe punishment, such as the sulphur-fire, in which the hands of parricides, or of criminals accused of high treason, were burned. We must also add various punishments which, if they did not involve death, were none the less cruel, such as the red-hot brazier, _bassin ardent_, which was passed backwards and forwards before the eyes of the culprit, until they were destroyed by the scorching heat; and the process of branding various marks on the flesh, as an ineffaceable stigma, the use of which has been continued to the present day. In certain countries decapitation was performed with an axe; but in France, it was carried out usually by means of a two-handed sword or glave of justice, which was furnished to the executioner for that purpose (Fig. 346). We find it recorded that in 1476, sixty sous parisis were paid to the executioner of Paris "for having bought a large _espée à feuille_," used for beheading the condemned, and "for having the old sword done up, which was damaged, and had become notched whilst carrying out the sentence of justice upon Messire Louis de Luxembourg." [Illustration: Fig. 346.--Beheading.--Fac-simile of a Miniature on Wood in the "Cosmographie Universelle" of Munster: in folio, Basle, 1552.] Originally, decapitation was indiscriminately inflicted on all criminals condemned to death; at a later period, however, it became the particular privilege of the nobility, who submitted to it without any feeling of degradation. The victim--unless the sentence prescribed that he should be blindfolded as an ignominious aggravation of the penalty--was allowed to choose whether he would have his eyes covered or not. He knelt down on the scaffold, placed his head on the block, and gave himself up to the executioner (Fig. 347). The skill of the executioner was generally such that the head was almost invariably severed from the body at the first blow. Nevertheless, skill and practice at times failed, for cases are on record where as many as eleven blows were dealt, and at times it happened that the sword broke. It was no doubt the desire to avoid this mischance that led to the invention of the mechanical instrument, now known under the name of the _guillotine_, which is merely an improvement on a complicated machine which was much more ancient than is generally supposed. As early as the sixteenth century the modern guillotine already existed in Scotland under the name of the _Maiden_, and English historians relate that Lord Morton, regent of Scotland during the minority of James VI., had it constructed after a model of a similar machine, which had long been in use at Halifax, in Yorkshire. They add, and popular tradition also has invented an analogous tale in France, that this Lord Morton, who was the inventor or the first to introduce this kind of punishment, was himself the first to experience it. The guillotine is, besides, very accurately described in the "Chronicles of Jean d'Auton," in an account of an execution which took place at Genoa at the beginning of the sixteenth century. Two German engravings, executed about 1550 by Pencz and Aldegrever, also represent an instrument of death almost identical with the guillotine; and the same instrument is to be found on a bas-relief of that period, which is still existing in one of the halls of the Tribunal of Luneburg, in Hanover. [Illustration: Decapitation of Guillaume de Pommiers. [Illustration: Fig. 347.--Public Executions.--Fac-simile of a Woodcut in the Latin Work of J. Millaeus, "Praxis Criminis Persequendi:" small folio, Parisis, Simon de Colines, 1541.] And his Confessor, at Bordeaux in 1377, by order of the King of England's Lieutenant. _Froissart's Chronicles._ No. 2644, Bibl. nat'le de Paris.] Possibly the invention of such a machine was prompted by the desire to curtail the physical sufferings of the victim, instead of prolonging them, as under the ancient system. It is, however, difficult to believe that the mediæval judges were actuated by any humane feelings, when we find that, in order to reconcile a respect for _propriety_ with a due compliance with the ends of justice, the punishment of burying alive was resorted to for women, who could not with decency be hung up to the gibbets. In 1460, a woman named Perette, accused of theft and of receiving stolen goods, was condemned by the Provost of Paris to be "buried alive before the gallows," and the sentence was literally carried out. _Quartering_ may in truth be considered the most horrible penalty invented by judicial cruelty. This punishment really dates from the remotest ages, but it was scarcely ever inflicted in more modern times, except on regicides, who were looked upon as having committed the worst of crimes. In almost all cases, the victim had previously to undergo various accessory tortures: sometimes his right hand was cut off, and the mutilated stump was burnt in a cauldron of sulphur; sometimes his arms, thighs, or breasts were lacerated with red-hot pincers, and hot oil, pitch, or molten lead was poured into the wounds. [Illustration: Fig. 348.--Demons applying the Torture of the Wheel.--Fac-simile of a Woodcut in the "Grand Kalendrier ou Compost des Bergers:" small folio, Troyes, Nicholas le Rouge, 1529.] After these horrible preliminaries, a rope was attached to each of the limbs of the criminal, one being bound round each leg from the foot to the knee, and round each arm from the wrist to the elbow. These ropes were then fastened to four bars, to each of which a strong horse was harnessed, as if for towing a barge. These horses were first made to give short jerks; and when the agony had elicited heart-rending cries from the unfortunate man, who felt his limbs being dislocated without being broken, the four horses were all suddenly urged on with the whip in different directions, and thus all the limbs were strained at one moment. If the tendons and ligaments still resisted the combined efforts of the four horses, the executioner assisted, and made several cuts with a hatchet on each joint. When at last--for this horrible torture often lasted several hours--each horse had drawn out a limb, they were collected and placed near the hideous trunk, which often still showed signs of life, and the whole were burned together. Sometimes the sentence was, that the body should be hung to the gibbet, and that the limbs should be displayed on the gates of the town, or sent to four principal towns in the extremities of the kingdom. When this was done, "an inscription was placed on each of the limbs, which stated the reason of its being thus exposed." The _wheel_ is the name applied to a torture of very ancient origin, but which was applied during the Middle Ages to quite a different torture from that used in olden times. The modern instrument might indeed have been called the cross, for it only served for the public exhibition of the body of the criminal whose limbs had been previously broken alive. This torture, which does not date earlier than the days of Francis I., is thus described:--The victim was first tied on his back to two joists forming a St. Andrew's cross, each of his limbs being stretched out on its arms. Two places were hollowed out under each limb, about a foot apart, in order that the joints alone might touch the wood. The executioner then dealt a heavy blow over each hollow with a square iron bar, about two inches broad and rounded at the handle, thus breaking each limb in two places. To the eight blows required for this, the executioner generally added two or three on the chest, which were called _coups de grâce_, and which ended this horrible execution. It was only after death that the broken body was placed on a wheel, which was turned round on a pivot. Sometimes, however, the sentence ordered that the condemned should be strangled before being broken, which was done in such cases by the instantaneous twist of a rope round the neck. Strangling, thus carried out, was called _garotting_. This method is still in use in Spain, and is specially reserved for the nobility. The victim is seated on a scaffold, his head leaning against a beam and his neck grasped by an iron collar, which the executioner suddenly tightens from behind by means of a screw. For several centuries, and down to the Revolution, hanging was the most common mode of execution in France; consequently, in every town, and almost in every village, there was a permanent gibbet, which, owing to the custom of leaving the bodies to hang till they crumbled into dust, was very rarely without having some corpses or skeletons attached to it. These gibbets, which were called _fourches patibulaires_ or _justices_, because they represented the authority of the law, were generally composed of pillars of stone, joined at their summit by wooden traverses, to which the bodies of criminals were tied by ropes or chains. The gallows, the pillars of which varied in number according to the will of the authorities, were always placed by the side of frequented roads, and on an eminence. [Illustration: Fig. 349.--The Gibbet of Montfaucon.--From an Engraving of the Topography of Paris, in the Collection of Engravings of the National Library.] According to prescribed rule, the gallows of Paris, which played such an important part in the political as well as the criminal history of that city, were erected on a height north of the town, near the high road leading into Germany. Montfaucon, originally the name of the hill, soon became that of the gallows itself. This celebrated place of execution consisted of a heavy mass of masonry, composed of ten or twelve layers of rough stones, and formed an enclosure of forty feet by twenty-five or thirty. At the upper part there was a platform, which was reached by a stone staircase, the entrance to which was closed by a massive door (Fig. 349). On three sides of this platform rested sixteen square pillars, about thirty feet high, made of blocks of stone a foot thick. These pillars were joined to one another by double bars of wood, which were fastened into them, and bore iron chains three feet and a half long, to which the criminals were suspended. Underneath, half-way between these and the platform, other bars were placed for the same purpose. Long and solid ladders riveted to the pillars enabled the executioner and his assistants to lead up criminals, or to carry up corpses destined to be hung there. Lastly, the centre of the structure was occupied by a deep pit, the hideous receptacle of the decaying remains of the criminals. One can easily imagine the strange and melancholy aspect of this monumental gibbet if one thinks of the number of corpses continually attached to it, and which were feasted upon by thousands of crows. On one occasion only it was necessary to replace _fifty-two_ chains, which were useless; and the accounts of the city of Paris prove that the expense of executions was more heavy than that of the maintenance of the gibbet, a fact easy to be understood if one recalls to mind the frequency of capital sentences during the Middle Ages. Montfaucon was used not only for executions, but also for exposing corpses which were brought there from various places of execution in every part of the country. The mutilated remains of criminals who had been boiled, quartered, or beheaded, were also hung there, enclosed in sacks of leather or wickerwork. They often remained hanging for a considerable time, as in the case of Pierre des Essarts, who had been beheaded in 1413, and whose remains were handed over to his family for Christian burial after having hung on Montfaucon for three years. The criminal condemned to be hanged was generally taken to the place of execution sitting or standing in a waggon, with his back to the horses, his confessor by his side, and the executioner behind him. He bore three ropes round his neck; two the size of the little finger, and called _tortouses_, each of which had a slip-knot; the third, called the _jet_, was only used to pull the victim off the ladder, and so to launch him into eternity (Fig. 350). When the cart arrived at the foot of the gallows, the executioner first ascended the ladder backwards, drawing the culprit after him by means of the ropes, and forcing him to keep pace with him; on arriving at the top, he quickly fastened the two _tortouses_ to the arm of the gibbet, and by a jerk of his knee he turned the culprit off the ladder, still holding the _jet_ in his own hand. He then placed his feet on the tied hands of the condemned, and suspending himself by his hands to the gibbet, he finished off his victim by repeated jerks, thus ensuring complete strangulation. When the words "shall be hung until death doth ensue" are to be found in a sentence, it must not be supposed that they were used merely as a form, for in certain cases the judge ordered that the sentence should be only carried out as far as would prove to the culprit the awful sensation of hanging. In such cases, the victim was simply suspended by ropes passing under the arm-pits, a kind of exhibition which was not free from danger when it was too prolonged, for the weight of the body so tightened the rope round the chest that the circulation might be stopped. Many culprits, after hanging thus an hour, when brought down, were dead, or only survived this painful process a short time. [Illustration: Fig. 350.--Hanging to Music. (A Minstrel condemned to the Gallows obtained permission that one of his companions should accompany him to his execution, and play his favourite instrument on the ladder of the Gallows.)--Fac-simile of a Woodcut in Michault's "Doctrinal du Temps Présent:" small folio, goth., Bruges, about 1490.] We have seen elsewhere (chapter on _Privileges and Rights, Feudal and Municipal_) that, when the criminal passed before the convent of the _Filles-Dieu_, the nuns of that establishment were bound to bring him out a glass of wine and three pieces of bread, and this was called _le dernier morceau des patients._ It was hardly ever refused, and an immense crowd assisted at this sad meal. After this the procession went forward, and on arriving near the gallows, another halt was made at the foot of a stone cross, in order that the culprit might receive the religions exhortations of his confessor. The moment the execution was over, the confessor and the officers of justice returned to the Châtelet, where a repast provided by the town awaited them. [Illustration: Fig. 351.--View of the Pillory in the Market-place of Paris in the Sixteenth Century, after a Drawing by an unknown Artist of 1670.] Sometimes the criminals, in consequence of a peculiar wording of the sentence, were taken to Montfaucon, whether dead or alive, on a ladder fastened behind a cart. This was an aggravation of the penalty, which was called _traîner sur la claie_. The penalty of the lash was inflicted in two ways: first, under the _custode_, that is to say within the prison, and by the hand of the gaoler himself, in which case it was simply a correction; and secondly, in public, when its administration became ignominious as well as painful. In the latter case the criminal was paraded about the town, stripped to the waist, and at each crossway he received a certain number of blows on the shoulders, given by the public executioner with a cane or a knotted rope. When it was only required to stamp a culprit with infamy he was put into the _pillory_, which was generally a kind of scaffold furnished with chains and iron collars, and bearing on its front the arms of the feudal lord. In Paris, this name was given to a round isolated tower built in the centre of the market. The tower was sixty feet high, and had large openings in its thick walls, and a horizontal wheel was provided, which was capable of turning on a pivot. This wheel was pierced with several holes, made so as to hold the hands and head of the culprit, who, on passing and repassing before the eyes of the crowd, came in full view, and was subjected to their hootings (Fig. 351). The pillories were always situated in the most frequented places, such as markets, crossways, &c. Notwithstanding the long and dreadful enumeration we have just made of mediæval punishments, we are far from having exhausted the subject; for we have not spoken of several more or less atrocious punishments, which were in use at various times and in various countries; such as the _Pain of the Cross_, specially employed against the Jews; the _Arquebusade_, which was well adapted for carrying out prompt justice on soldiers; the _Chatouillement_, which resulted in death after the most intense tortures; the _Pal_ (Fig. 352), _flaying alive_, and, lastly, _drowning_, a kind of death frequently employed in France. Hence the common expression, _gens de sac et de corde_, which was derived from the sack into which persons were tied who were condemned to die by immersion.... But we will now turn away from these horrible scenes, and consider the several methods of penal sequestration and prison arrangements. It is unnecessary to state that in barbarous times the cruel and pitiless feeling which induced legislators to increase the horrors of tortures, also contributed to the aggravation of the fate of prisoners. Each administrator of the law had his private gaol, which was entirely under his will and control (Fig. 353). Law or custom did not prescribe any fixed rules for the internal government of prisons. There can be little doubt, however, that these prisons were as small as they were unhealthy, if we may judge from that in the Rue de la Tannerie, which was the property of the provost, the merchants, and the aldermen of Paris in 1383. Although this dungeon was only eleven feet long by seven feet wide, from ten to twenty prisoners were often immured in it at the same time. [Illustration: Fig. 352.--Empalement.--Fac-simile of a Woodcut in the "Cosmographie Universelle" of Munster: in folio, Basle, 1552.] Paris alone contained twenty-five or thirty special prisons, without counting the _vade in pace_ of the various religious communities. The most important were the Grand Châtelet, the Petit Châtelet, the Bastille, the Conciergerie, and the For-l'Evêque, the ancient seat of the ecclesiastical jurisdiction of the Bishop of Paris. Nearly all these places of confinement contained subterranean cells, which were almost entirely deprived of air and light. As examples of these may be mentioned the _Chartres basses_ of the Petit Châtelet, where, under the reign of Charles VI., it was proved that no man could pass an entire day without being suffocated; and the fearful cells excavated thirty feet below the surface of the earth, in the gaol of the Abbey of Saint Germain des Prés, the roof of which was so low that a man of middle height could not stand up in them, and where the straw of the prisoners' beds floated upon the stagnant water which had oozed through the walls. [Illustration: Fig. 353.--The Provost's Prison.--Fac-simile of a Woodcut in J. Damhoudère's "Praxis Rerum Civilium."] The Grand Châtelet was one of the most ancient prisons of Paris, and probably the one which held the greatest number of prisoners. By a curious and arbitrary custom, prisoners were compelled to pay a gaol fee on entering and going out of this prison, which varied according to their rank, and which was established by a law of the year 1425. We learn from this enactment the names by which the various places of confinement composing this spacious municipal prison were known. A prisoner who was confined in the _Beauvoir, La Mate_ or _La Salle_, had the right of "having a bed brought from his own house," and only had to pay the _droit de place_ to the gaoler; any one who was placed in the _Boucherie_, in the _Beaumont_, or in the _Griseche_, "which are closed prisons," had to pay four deniers "_pour place_;" any one who was confined in the _Beauvais_, "lies on mats or on layers of rushes or straw" (_gist sur nates ou sur couche de feurre ou de paille_); if he preferred, he might be placed _au Puis_, in the _Gourdaine_, in the _Bercueil_, or in the _Oubliette_, where he did not pay more than in the _Fosse_. For this, no doubt, the smallest charge was made. Sometimes, however, the prisoner was left between two doors ("_entre deux huis_"), and he then paid much less than he would in the _Barbarie_ or in the _Gloriette_. The exact meaning of these curious names is no longer intelligible to us, notwithstanding the terror which they formerly created, but their very strangeness gives us reason to suppose that the prison system was at that time subjected to the most odious refinement of the basest cruelty. From various reliable sources we learn that there was a place in the Grand Châtelet, called the _Chausse d'Hypocras_, in which the prisoners had their feet continually in water, and where they could neither stand up nor lie down; and a cell, called _Fin d'aise_, which was a horrible receptacle of filth, vermin, and reptiles; as to the _Fosse_, no staircase being attached to it, the prisoners were lowered down into it by means of a rope and pulley. By the law of 1425, the gaoler was not permitted to put more than _two or three_ persons in the same bed. He was bound to give "bread and water" to the poor prisoners who had no means of subsistence; and, lastly, he was enjoined "to keep the large stone basin, which was on the pavement, full of water, so that prisoners might get it whenever they wished." In order to defray his expenses, he levied on the prisoners various charges for attendance and for bedding, and he was authorised to detain in prison any person who failed to pay him. The power of compelling payment of these charges continued even after a judge's order for the release of a prisoner had been issued. [Illustration: Fig. 354.--The Bastille.--From an ancient Engraving of the Topography of Paris, in the Collection of Engravings of the National Library.] The subterranean cells of the Bastille (Fig. 354) did not differ much from those of the Châtelet. There were several, the bottoms of which were formed like a sugar-loaf upside down, thus neither allowing the prisoner to stand up, nor even to adopt a tolerable position sitting or lying down. It was in these that King Louis XI., who seemed to have a partiality for filthy dungeons, placed the two young sons of the Duke de Nemours (beheaded in 1477), ordering, besides, that they should be taken out twice a week and beaten with birch rods, and, as a supreme measure of atrocity, he had one of their teeth extracted every three months. It was Louis XI., too, who, in 1476, ordered the famous _iron cage_, to be erected in one of the towers of the Bastille, in which Guillaume, Bishop of Verdun, was incarcerated for fourteen years. The Château de Loches also possessed one of these cages, which received the name of _Cage de Balue_, because the Cardinal Jean de la Balue was imprisoned in it. Philippe de Commines, in his "Mémoires," declares that he himself had a taste of it for eight months. Before the invention of cages, Louis XI. ordered very heavy chains to be made, which were fastened to the feet of the prisoners, and attached to large iron balls, called, according to Commines, the King's little daughters (_les fillettes du roy_). [Illustration: Fig. 355.--Movable Iron Cage.--Fac-simile of a Woodcut in the "Cosmographie Universelle" of Munster, in folio, Basle, 1552.] The prison known by the name of The Leads of Venice is of so notorious a character that its mere mention is sufficient, without its being necessary for us to describe it. To the subject of voluntary seclusions, to which certain pious persons submitted themselves as acts of extreme religious devotion, it will only be necessary to allude here, and to remark that there are examples of this confinement having been ordered by legal authority. In 1485, Renée de Vermandois, the widow of a squire, had been condemned to be burnt for adultery and for murdering her husband; but, on letters of remission from the King, Parliament commuted the sentence pronounced by the Provost of Paris, and ordered that Renée de Vermandois should be "shut up within the walls of the cemetery of the Saints-Innocents, in a small house, built at her expense, that she might therein do penance and end her days." In conformity with this sentence, the culprit having been conducted with much pomp to the cell which had been prepared for her, the door was locked by means of two keys, one of which remained in the hands of the churchwarden (_marguillier_) of the Church of the Innocents, and the other was deposited at the office of the Parliament. The prisoner received her food from public charity, and it is said that she became an object of veneration and respect by the whole town. [Illustration: Fig. 356.--Cat-o'-nine-tails.--Fac-simile of a Woodcut in the "Cosmographie Universelle" of Munster.] Jews. Dispersion of the Jews.--Jewish Quarters in the Mediæval Towns.--The _Ghetto_ of Rome.--Ancient Prague.--The _Giudecca_ of Venice.--Condition of the Jews.--Animosity of the People against them--Severity and vexatious Treatment of the Sovereigns.--The Jews of Lincoln.--The Jews of Blois.--Mission of the _Pastoureaux_.--Extermination of the Jews.--The Price at which the Jews purchased Indulgences.--Marks set upon them.--Wealth, Knowledge, Industry, and Financial Aptitude of the Jews.--Regulations respecting Usury as practised by the Jews.--Attachment of the Jews to their Religion. A painful and gloomy history commences for the Jewish race from the day when the Romans seized upon Jerusalem and expelled its unfortunate inhabitants, a race so essentially homogeneous, strong, patient, and religious, and dating its origin from the remotest period of the patriarchal ages. The Jews, proud of the title of "the People of God," were scattered, proscribed, and received universal reprobation (Fig. 357), notwithstanding that their annals, collected under divine inspiration by Moses and the sacred writers, had furnished a glorious prologue to the annals of all modern nations, and had given to the world the holy and divine history of Christ, who, by establishing the Gospel, was to become the regenerator of the whole human family. Their Temple is destroyed, and the crowd which had once pressed beneath its portico as the flock of the living God has become a miserable tribe, restless and unquiet in the present, but full of hope as regards the future. The Jewish _nation_ exists nowhere, nevertheless, the Jewish _people_ are to be found everywhere. They are wanderers upon the face of the earth, continually pursued, threatened, and persecuted. It would seem as if the existence of the offspring of Israel is perpetuated simply to present to Christian eyes a clear and awful warning of the Divine vengeance, a special, and at the same time an overwhelming example of the vicissitudes which God alone can determine in the life of a people. [Illustration: Fig. 357.--Expulsion of the Jews in the Reign of the Emperor Hadrian (A.D. 135): "How Heraclius turned the Jews out of Jerusalem."--Fac-simile of a Miniature in the "Histoire des Empereurs," Manuscript of the Fifteenth Century, in the Library of the Arsenal, Paris.] M. Depping, an historian of this race so long accursed, after having been for centuries blessed and favoured by God, says, "A Jewish community in an European town during the Middle Ages resembled a colony on an island or on a distant coast. Isolated from the rest of the population, it generally occupied a district or street which was separated from the town or borough. The Jews, like a troop of lepers, were thrust away and huddled together into the most uncomfortable and most unhealthy quarter of the city, as miserable as it vas disgusting. There, in ill-constructed houses, this poor and numerous population was amassed; in some cases high walls enclosed the small and dark narrow streets of the quarter occupied by this branded race, which prevented its extension, though, at the same time, it often protected the inhabitants from the fury of the populace." In order to form a just appreciation of what the Jewish quarters were like in the mediæval towns, one must visit the _Ghetto_ of Rome or ancient Prague. The latter place especially has, in all respects, preserved its antique appearance. We must picture to ourselves a large enclosure of wretched houses, irregularly built, divided by small streets with no attempt at uniformity. The principal thoroughfare is lined with stalls, in which are sold not only old clothes, furniture, and utensils, but also new and glittering articles. The inhabitants of this enclosure can, without crossing its limits, procure everything necessary to material life. This quarter contains the old synagogue, a square building begrimed with the dirt of ages, and so covered with dirt and moss that the stone of which it is built is scarcely visible. The building, which is as mournful as a prison, has only narrow loopholes by way of windows, and a door so low that one must stoop to enter it. A dark passage leads to the interior, into which air and light can scarcely penetrate. A few lamps contend with the darkness, and lighted fires serve to modify a little the icy temperature of this cellar. Here and there pillars seem to support a roof which is too high and too darkened for the eye of the visitor to distinguish. On the sides are dark and damp recesses, where women assist at the celebration of worship, which is always carried on, according to ancient custom, with much wailing and strange gestures of the body. The book of the law which is in use is no less venerable than the edifice in which it is contained. It appears that this synagogue has never undergone the slightest repairs or changes for many centuries. The successive generations who have prayed in this ancient temple rest under thousands of sepulchral stones, in a cemetery which is of the same date as the synagogue, and is about a league in circumference. Paris has never possessed, properly speaking, a regular _Jewish quarter_; it is true that the Israelites settled down in the neighbourhood of the markets, and in certain narrow streets, which at some period or other took the name of _Juiverie_ or _Vieille Juiverie (Old Jewry_); but they were never distinct from the rest of the population; they only had a separate cemetery, at the bottom or rather on the slope of the hill of Sainte-Geneviève. On the other hand, most of the towns of France and of Europe had their _Jewry_. In certain countries, the colonies of Jews enjoyed a share of immunities and protections, thus rendering their life a little less precarious, and their occupations of a rather more settled character. In Spain and in Portugal, the Jews, in consequence of their having been on several occasions useful to the kings of those two countries, were allowed to carry on their trade, and to engage in money speculations, outside their own quarters; a few were elevated to positions of responsibility, and some were even tolerated at court. In the southern towns of France, which they enriched by commerce and taxes, and where they formed considerable communities, the Jews enjoyed the protection of the nobles. We find them in Languedoc and Provence buying and selling property like Christians, a privilege which was not permitted to them elsewhere: this is proved by charters of contracts made during the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, which bear the signature of certain Jews in Hebrew characters. On Papal lands, at Avignon, at Carpentras, and at Cavaillon, they had _bailes_, or consuls of their nation. The Jews of Rousillon during the Spanish rule (fifteenth century) were governed by two syndics and a scribe, elected by the community. The latter levied the taxes due to the King of Aragon. In Burgundy they cultivated the vines, which was rather singular, for the Jews generally preferred towns where they could form groups more compact, and more capable of mutual assistance. The name of _Sabath_, given to a vineyard in the neighbourhood of Mâcon, still points out the position of their synagogue. The hamlet of _Mouys_, a dependency of the communes of Prissey, owes its name to a rich Israelite, Moses, who had received that land as an indemnity for money lent to the Count Gerfroy de Mâcon, which the latter had been unable to repay. In Vienna, where the Israelites had a special quarter, still called _the Jews'_ [Illustration: Fig. 358.--Jews taking the Blood from Christian Children, for their Mystic Rites.--From a Pen-and-ink Drawing, illuminated, in the Book of the Cabala of Abraham the Jew (Library of the Arsenal, Paris).] _Square_, a special judge named by the duke was set over them. Exempted from the city rates, they paid a special poil tax, and they contributed, but on the same footing as Christian vassals, to extraordinary rates, war taxes, and travelling expenses of the nobles, &c. This community even became so rich that it eventually held mortgages on the greater part of the houses of the town. In Venice also, the Jews had their quarter--the _Giudecca_--which is still one of the darkest in the town; but they did not much care about such trifling inconveniences, as the republic allowed them to bank, that is, to lend money at interest; and although they were driven out on several occasions, they always found means to return and recommence their operations. When they were authorised to establish themselves in the towns of the Adriatic, their presence did not fail to annoy the Christian merchants, whose rivals they were; but neither in Venice nor in the Italian republics had they to fear court intrigues, nor the hatred of corporations of trades, which were so powerful in France and in Germany. It was in the north of Europe that the animosity against the Jews was greatest. The Christian population continually threatened the Jewish quarters, which public opinion pointed to as haunts and sinks of iniquity. The Jews were believed to be much more amenable to the doctrines of the Talmud than to the laws of Moses. However secret they may have kept their learning, a portion of its tenets transpired, which was supposed to inculcate the right to pillage and murder Christians; and it is to the vague knowledge of these odious prescriptions of the Talmud that we must attribute the readiness with which the most atrocious accusations against the Jews were always welcomed. Besides this, the public mind in those days of bigotry was naturally filled with a deep antipathy against the Jewish deicides. When monks and priests came annually in Holy week to relate from the pulpit to their hearers the revolting details of the Passion, resentment was kindled in the hearts of the Christians against the descendants of the judges and executioners of the Saviour. And when, on going out of the churches, excited by the sermons they had just heard, the faithful saw in pictures, in the cemeteries, and elsewhere, representations of the mystery of the death of our Saviour, in which the Jews played so odious a part, there was scarcely a spectator who did not feel an increased hatred against the condemned race. Hence it was that in many towns, even when the authorities did not compel them to do so, the Israelites found it prudent to shut themselves up in their own quarter, and even in their own houses, during the whole of Passion week; for, in consequence of the public feeling roused during those days of mourning and penance, a false rumour was quite sufficient to give the people a pretext for offering violence to the Jews. In fact, from the earliest days of Christianity, a certain number of accusations were always being made, sometimes in one country, sometimes in another, against the Israelites, which always ended in bringing down the same misfortunes on their heads. The most common, and most easily credited report, was that which attributed to them the murder of some Christian child, said to be sacrificed in Passion week in token of their hatred of Christ; and in the event of this terrible accusation being once uttered, and maintained by popular opinion, it never failed to spread with remarkable swiftness. In such cases, popular fury, not being on all occasions satisfied with the tardiness of judicial forms, vented itself upon the first Jews who had the misfortune to fall into the hands of their enemies. As soon as the disturbance was heard the Jewish quarter was closed; fathers and mothers barricaded themselves in with their children, concealed whatever riches they possessed, and listened tremblingly to the clamour of the multitude which was about to besiege them. [Illustration: Fig. 359.--Secret Meeting of the Jews at the Rabbi's House.--Fac-simile of a Miniature of the "Pèlerinage de la Vie Humaine," Manuscript of the Fourteenth Century, in the National Library of Paris.] In 1255, in Lincoln, the report was suddenly spread that a child of the name of Hughes had been enticed into the Jewish quarter, and there scourged, crucified, and pierced with lances, in the presence of all the Israelites of the district, who were convoked and assembled to take part in this horrible barbarity. The King and Queen of England, on their return from a journey to Scotland, arrived in Lincoln at the very time when the inhabitants were so much agitated by this mysterious announcement. The people called for vengeance. An order was issued to the bailiffs and officers of the King to deliver the murderer into the hands of justice, and the quarter in which the Jews had shut themselves up, so as to avoid the public animosity, was immediately invaded by armed men. The rabbi, in whose house the child was supposed to have been tortured, was seized, and at once condemned to be tied to the tail of a horse, and dragged through the streets of the town. After this, his mangled body, which was only half dead, was hung (Fig. 359). Many of the Jews ran away and hid themselves in all parts of the kingdom, and those who had the misfortune to be caught were thrown into chains and led to London. Orders were given in the provinces to imprison all the Israelites who were accused or even suspected of having taken any part, whether actively or indirectly, in the murder of the Lincoln child; and suspicion made rapid strides in those days. In a short space of time, eighteen Israelites in London shared the fate of the rabbi of their community in Lincoln. Some Dominican monks, who were charitable and courageous enough to interfere in favour of the wretched prisoners, brought down odium on their own heads, and were accused of having allowed themselves to be corrupted by the money of the Jews. Seventy-one prisoners were retained in the dungeons of London, and seemed inevitably fated to die, when the king's brother, Richard, came to their aid, by asserting his right over all the Jews of the kingdom--a right which the King had pledged to him for a loan of 5,000 silver marks. The unfortunate prisoners were therefore saved, thanks to Richard's desire to protect his securities. History does not tell what their liberty cost them; but we must hope that a sense of justice alone guided the English prince, and that the Jews found other means besides money by which to show their gratitude. There is scarcely a country in Europe which cannot recount similar tales. In 1171, we find the murder of a child at Orleans, or Blois, causing capital punishment to be inflicted on several Jews. Imputations of this horrible character were continually renewed during the Middle Ages, and were of very ancient origin; for we hear of them in the times of Honorius and Theodosius the younger; we find them reproduced with equal vehemence in 1475 at Trent, where a furious mob was excited against the Jews, who were accused of having destroyed a child twenty-nine months old named Simon. The tale of the martyrdom of this child was circulated widely, and woodcut representations of it were freely distributed, which necessarily increased, especially in Germany, the horror which was aroused in the minds of Christians against the accursed nation (Fig. 361). [Illustration: Fig. 360.--The Infant Richard crucified by the Jews, at Pontoise.--Fac-simile of a Woodcut, with Figures by Wohlgemuth, in the "Liber Chronicarum Mundi:" large folio, Nuremberg, 1493.] [Illustration: Fig. 361.--Martyrdom of Simon at Trent.--Fac-simile, reduced, of a Woodcut of Wohlgemuth, in the "Liber Chronicarum Mundi:" large folio, Nuremberg, 1493.] The Jews gave cause for other accusations calculated to keep up this hatred; such as the desecration of the consecrated host, the mutilation of the crucifix. Tradition informs us of a miracle which took place in Paris in 1290, in the Rue des Jardins, when a Jew dared to mutilate and boil a consecrated host. This miracle was commemorated by the erection of a chapel on the spot, which was afterwards replaced by the church and convent of the Billettes. In 1370, the people of Brussels were startled in consequence of the statements of a Jewess, who accused her co-religionists of having made her carry a pyx full of stolen hosts to the Jews of Cologne, for the purpose of submitting them to the most horrible profanations. The woman added, that the Jews having pierced these hosts with sticks and knives, such a quantity of blood poured from them that the culprits were struck with terror, and concealed themselves in their quarter. The Jews were all imprisoned, tortured, and burnt alive (Fig. 362). In order to perpetuate the memory of the miracle of the bleeding hosts, an annual procession took place, which was the origin of the great kermesse, or annual fair. In the event of any unforeseen misfortune, or any great catastrophe occurring amongst Christians, the odium was frequently cast on the Jews. If the Crusaders met with reverses in Asia, fanatics formed themselves into bands, who, under the name of _Pastoureaux_, spread over the country, killing and robbing not only the Jews, but many Christians also. In the event of any general sickness, and especially during the prevalence of epidemics, the Jews were accused of having poisoned the water of fountains and pits, and the people massacred them in consequence. Thousands perished in this way when the black plague made ravages in Europe in the fourteenth century. The sovereigns, who were tardy in suppressing these sanguinary proceedings, never thought of indemnifying the Jewish families which so unjustly suffered. [Illustration: Fig. 362.--The Jews of Cologne burnt alive.--From a Woodcut in the "Liber Chronicarum Mundi:" large folio, Nuremberg, 1493.] In fact, it was then most religiously believed that, by despising and holding the Jewish nation under the yoke, banished as it was from Judæa for the murder of Jesus Christ, the will of the Almighty was being carried out, so much so that the greater number of kings and princes looked upon themselves as absolute masters over the Jews who lived under their protection. All feudal lords spoke with scorn of _their Jews_; they allowed them to establish themselves on their lands, but on the condition that as they became the subjects and property of their lord, the latter should draw his best income from them. We have shown by an instance borrowed from the history of England that the Jews were often mortgaged by the kings like land. This was not all, for the Jews who inhabited Great Britain during the reign of Henry III., in the middle of the thirteenth century, were not only obliged to acknowledge, by voluntarily contributing large sums of money, the service the King's brother had rendered them in clearing them from the imputation of having had any participation in the murder of the child Richard, but the loan on mortgage, for which they were the material and passive security, became the cause of odious extortions from them. The King had pledged them to the Earl of Cornwall for 5,000 marks, but they themselves had to repay the royal loan by means of enormous taxes. When they had succeeded in cancelling the King's debt to his brother, that necessitous monarch again mortgaged them, but on this occasion to his son Edward. Soon after, the son having rebelled against his father, the latter took back his Jews, and having assembled six elders from each of their communities, he told them that he required 20,000 silver marks, and ordered them to pay him that sum at two stated periods. The payments were rigorously exacted; those who were behind-hand were imprisoned, and the debtor who was in arrear for the second payment was sued for the whole sum. On the King's death his successor continued the same system of tyranny against the Jews. In 1279 they were charged with having issued counterfeit coin, and on this vague or imaginary accusation two hundred and eighty men and women were put to death in London alone. In the counties there were also numerous executions, and many innocent persons were thrown into dungeons; and, at last, in 1290 King Edward, who wished to enrich himself by taking possession of their properties, banished the Jews from his kingdom. A short time before this, the English people had offered to pay an annual fine to the King on condition of his expelling the Jews from the country; but the Jews outbid them, and thus obtained the repeal of the edict of banishment. However, on this last occasion there was no mercy shown, and the Jews, sixteen thousand in number, were expelled from England, and the King seized upon their goods. At the same period Philippe le Bel of France gave the example of this system of persecuting the Jews, but, instead of confiscating all their goods, he was satisfied with taking one-fifth; his subjects, therefore, almost accused him of generosity. [Illustration: Fig. 363.--Jewish Conspiracy in France.--From a Miniature in the "Pèlerinage de la Vie Humaine" (Imperial Library, Paris).] The Jews often took the precaution of purchasing certain rights and franchises from their sovereign or from the feudal lord under whose sway they lived; but generally these were one-sided bargains, for not being protected by common rights, and only forming a very small part of the population, they could nowhere depend upon promises or privileges which had been made to them, even though they had purchased them with their own money. To the uncertainty and annoyance of a life which was continually being threatened, was added a number of vexatious and personal insults, even in ordinary times, and when they enjoyed a kind of normal tolerance. They were almost everywhere obliged to wear a visible mark on their dress, such as a patch of gaudy colour attached to the shoulder or chest, in order to prevent their being mistaken for Christians. By this or some other means they were continually subject to insults from the people, and only succeeded in ridding themselves of it by paying the most enormous fines. Nothing was spared to humiliate and insult them. At Toulouse they were forced to send a representative to the cathedral on every Good Friday, that he might there publicly receive a box on the ears. At Béziers, during Passion week, the mob assumed the right of attacking the Jews' houses with stones. The Jews bought off this right in 1160 by paying a certain sum to the Vicomte de Béziers, and by promising an annual poll-tax to him and to his successors. A Jew, passing on the road of Etampes, beneath the tower of Montlhéry, had to pay an obole; if he had in his possession a Hebrew book, he paid four deniers; and, if he carried his lamp with him, two oboles. At Châteauneuf-sur-Loire a Jew on passing had to pay twelve deniers and a Jewess six. It has been said that there were various ancient rates levied upon Jews, in which they were treated like cattle, but this requires authentication. During the Carnival in Rome they were forced to run in the lists, amidst the jeers of the populace. This public outrage was stopped at a subsequent period by a tax of 300 écus, which a deputation from the Ghetto presented on their knees to the magistrates of the city, at the same time thanking them for their protection. When Pope Martin IV. arrived at the Council of Constance, in 1417, the Jewish community, which was as numerous as it was powerful in that old city, came in great state to present him with the book of the law (Fig. 364). The holy father received the Jews kindly, and prayed God to open their eyes and bring them back into the bosom of his church. We know, too, how charitable the popes were to the Jews. In the face of the distressing position they occupied, it may be asked what powerful motive induced the Jews to live amongst nations who almost invariably treated them as enemies, and to remain at the mercy of sovereigns whose sole object was to oppress, plunder, and subject them to all kinds of vexations? To understand this it is sufficient to remember that, in their peculiar aptness for earning and hoarding money, they found, or at least hoped to find, a means of compensation whereby they might be led to forget the servitude to which they were subjected. There existed amongst them, and especially in the southern countries, some very learned men, who devoted themselves principally to medicine; and in order to avoid having to struggle against insuperable prejudice, they were careful to disguise their nationality and religion in the exercise of that art. [Illustration: Fig. 364.--The Jewish Procession going to meet the Pope at the Council of Constance, in 1417.--After a Miniature in the Manuscript Chronicle of Ulrie de Reichental, in the Library of the Mansion-house of Basle, in Switzerland.] They pretended, in order not to arouse the suspicion of their patients, to be practitioners from Lombardy or Spain, or even from Arabia; whether they were really clever, or only made a pretence of being so, in an art which was then very much a compound of quackery and imposture, it is difficult to say, but they acquired wealth as well as renown in its practice. But there was another science, to the study of which they applied themselves with the utmost ardour and perseverance, and for which they possessed in a marvellous degree the necessary qualities to insure success, and that science was the science of finance. In matters having reference to the recovering of arrears of taxes, to contracts for the sale of goods and produce of industry, to turning a royalty to account, to making hazardous commercial enterprises lucrative, or to the accumulating of large sums of money for the use of sovereigns or poor nobles, the Jews were always at hand, and might invariably be reckoned upon. They created capital, for they always had funds to dispose of, even in the midst of the most terrible public calamities, and, when all other means were exhausted, when all expedients for filling empty purses had been resorted to without success, the Jews were called in. Often, in consequence of the envy which they excited from being known to possess hoards of gold, they were exposed to many dangers, which they nevertheless faced, buoying themselves up with the insatiable love of gain. Few Christians in the Middle Ages were given to speculation, and they were especially ignorant of financial matters, as demanding interest on loans was almost always looked upon as usury, and, consequently, such dealings were stigmatized as disgraceful. The Jews were far from sharing these high-minded scruples, and they took advantage of the ignorance of Christians by devoting themselves as much as possible to enterprises and speculations, which were at all times the distinguishing occupation of their race. For this reason we find the Jews, who were engaged in the export trade from the twelfth to the fifteenth centuries, doing a most excellent business, even in the commercial towns of the Mediterranean. We can, to a certain extent, in speaking of the intercourse of the Jews with the Christians of the Middle Ages, apply what Lady Montague remarked as late as 1717, when comparing the Jews of Turkey with the Mussulmans: "The former," she says, "have monopolized all the commerce of the empire, thanks to the close ties which exist amongst them, and to the laziness and want of industry of the Turks. No bargain is made without their connivance. They are the physicians and stewards of all the nobility. It is easy to conceive the unity which this gives to a nation which never despises the smallest profits. They have found means of rendering themselves so useful, that they are certain of protection at court, whoever the ruling minister may be. Many of them are enormously rich, but they are careful to make but little outward display, although living in the greatest possible luxury." [Illustration: Fig. 365.--Costume of an Italian Jew of the Fourteenth Century.--From a Painting by Sano di Pietro, preserved in the Academy of the Fine Arts, at Sienna.] [Illustration: The Jews' Passover. Fac-simile of a miniature from a missel of fifteenth century ornamented with paintings of the School of Van Eyck. Bibl. de l'Arsenal, Th. lat., no 199.] The condition of the Jews in the East was never so precarious nor so difficult as it was in the West. From the Councils of Paris, in 615, down to the end of the fifteenth century, the nobles and the civil and ecclesiastical authorities excluded the Jews from administrative positions; but it continually happened that a positive want of money, against which the Jews were ever ready to provide, caused a repeal or modification of these arbitrary measures. Moreover, Christians did not feel any scruple in parting with their most valued treasures, and giving them as pledges to the Jews for a loan of money when they were in need of it. This plan of lending on pledge, or usury, belonged specially to the Jews in Europe during the Middle Ages, and was both the cause of their prosperity and of their misfortune. Of their prosperity, because they cleverly contrived to become possessors of all the coin; and of their misfortune, because their usurious demands became so detrimental to the public welfare, and were often exacted with such unscrupulous severity, that people not unfrequently became exasperated, and acts of violence were committed, which as often fell upon the innocent as upon the guilty. The greater number of the acts of banishment were those for which no other motive was assigned, or, at all events, no other pretext was made, than the usury practised by these strangers in the provinces and in the towns in which they were permitted to reside. When the Christians heard that these rapacious guests had harshly pressed and entirely stripped certain poor debtors, when they learned that the debtors, ruined by usury, were still kept prisoners in the house of their pitiless creditors, general indignation often manifested itself by personal attacks. This feeling was frequently shared by the authorities themselves, who, instead of dispensing equal justice to the strangers and to the citizens, according to the spirit of the law, often decided with partiality, and even with resentment, and in some cases abandoned the Jews to the fury of the people. The people's feelings of hatred against the sordid avarice of the Jews was continually kept up by ballads which were sung, and legends which were related, in the public streets of the cities and in the cottages of the villages--ballads and legends in which usurers were depicted in hideous colours (Fig. 366). The most celebrated of these popular compositions was evidently that which must have furnished the idea to Shakespeare of the _Merchant of Venice_, for in this old English drama mention is made of a bargain struck between a Jew and a Christian, who borrows money of him, on condition that, if he cannot refund it on a certain day, the lender shall have the right of cutting a pound of flesh from his body. All the evil which the people said and thought of the Jews during the Middle Ages seems concentrated in the Shylock of the English poet. The rate of interest for loans was, nevertheless, everywhere settled by law, and at all times. This rate varied according to the scarcity of gold, and was always high enough to give a very ample profit to the lenders, although they too often required a very much higher rate. In truth, the small security offered by those borrowing, and the arbitrary manner in which debts were at times cancelled, increased the risks of the lender and the normal difficulties of obtaining a loan. We find everywhere, in all ancient legislations, a mass of rules on the rate of pecuniary interest to be allowed to the Jews. [Illustration: Fig. 366.--Legend of the Jew calling the Devil from a Vessel of Blood.--Fac-simile of a Woodcut in Boaistuau's "Histoires Prodigieuses:" in 4to, Paris, Annet Briere, 1560.] In some countries, especially in England, precautionary measures were taken for regulating the compacts entered into between Christians and Jews. One of the departments of the Exchequer received the register of these compacts, which thus acquired a legal value. However, it was not unfrequent for the kings of England to grant, of their own free will, letters of release to persons owing money to Jews; and these letters, which were often equivalent to the cancelling of the entire debt, were even at times actually purchased from the sovereign. Mention of sums received by the royal treasury for the liberation of debtors, or for enabling them to recover their mortgaged lands without payment, may still be found in the registers of the Exchequer of London; at the same time, Jews, on the other hand, also paid the King large sums, in order that he might allow justice to take its course against powerful debtors who were in arrear, and who could not be induced to pay. We thus see that if the Jews practised usury, the Christians, and especially kings and powerful nobles, defrauded the Jews in every way, and were too often disposed to sell to them the smallest concessions at a great price. Indeed, Christians often went so far as to persecute them, in order to obtain the greatest possible amount from them; and the Jews of the Middle Ages put up with anything provided they could enrich themselves. [Illustration: Fig. 367.--View and Plan of Jerusalem.--Fac-simile of a Woodout in the "Liber Chronicarum Mundi" large folio, Nuremberg, 1493.] It must not be supposed, however, that, great as were their capabilities, the Jews exclusively devoted themselves to financial matters. When they were permitted to trade they were well satisfied to become artisans or agriculturists. In Spain they proved themselves most industrious, and that kingdom suffered a great loss in consequence of their being expelled from it. In whatever country they established themselves, the Jews carried on most of the mechanical and manual industries with cleverness and success; but they could not hope to become landed proprietors in countries where they were in such bad odour, and where the possession of land, far from offering them any security, could not fail to excite the envy of their enemies. If, as is the case, Oriental people are of a serious turn of mind, it is easy to understand that the Jews should have been still more so, since they were always objects of hatred and abhorrence. We find a touching allegory in the Talmud. Each time that a human being is created God orders his angels to bring a soul before his throne, and orders this soul to go and inhabit the body which is about to be born on earth. The soul is grieved, and supplicates the Supreme Being to spare it that painful trial, in which it only sees sorrow and affliction. This allegory may be suitably applied to a people who have only to expect contempt, mistrust, and hatred, everywhere. The Israelites, therefore, clung enthusiastically to the hope of the advent of a Messiah who should bring back to them the happy days of the land of promise, and they looked upon their absence from Palestine as only a passing exile. "But," the Christians said to them, "this Messiah has long since come." "Alas!" they answered, "if He had appeared on earth should we still be miserable?" Fulbert, Bishop of Chartres, preached three sermons to undeceive the Jews, by endeavouring to prove to them that their Messiah was no other than Jesus Christ; but he preached to the winds, for the Jews remained obstinately attached to their illusion that the Messiah was yet to come. In any case, the Jews, who mixed up the mysteries and absurdities of the Talmud with the ancient laws and numerous rules of the religion of their ancestors, found in the practice of their national customs, and in the celebration of their mysterious ceremonies, the sweetest emotions, especially when they could devote themselves to them in the peaceful retirement of the Ghetto; for, in all the countries in which they lived scattered and isolated amongst Christians, they were careful to conceal their worship and to conduct their ceremonial as secretly as possible. The clergy, in striving to convert the Jews, repeatedly had conferences with the rabbis of a controversial character, which often led to quarrels, and aggravated the lot of the Jewish community. If Catholic proselystism succeeded in completely detaching a few individuals or a few families from the Israelitish creed, these ardent converts rekindled the horror of the people against their former co-religionists by revealing some of the precepts of the Talmud. Sometimes the conversion of whole masses of Jews was effected, but this happened much less through conviction on their part than through the fear of exile, plunder, or execution. These pretended conversions, however, did not always protect them from danger. In Spain the Inquisition kept a close watch on converted Jews, and, if they were not true to their new faith, severe punishment was inflicted upon them. In 1506, the inhabitants of Abrantès, a town of Portugal, massacred all the baptized Jews. Manoël, a king of Portugal, forbad the converts from selling their goods and leaving his dominions. The Church excluded them from ecclesiastical dignities, and, when they succeeded in obtaining civil employments, they were received with distrust. In France the Parliaments tried, with a show of justice, to prevent converted Jews from being reproached for their former condition; but Louis XII., during his pressing wants, did not scruple to exact a special tax from them. And, in 1611, we again find that they were unjustly denounced, and under the form of a _Remonstrance to the King and the Parliament of Provence, on account of the great family alliances of the new converts_, an appeal was made for the most cruel reprisals against this unfortunate race, "which deserved only to be banished and their goods confiscated." [Illustration: Fig. 368.--Jewish Ceremony before the Ark.--Fac-simile of a woodcut printed at Troyes.] Gipsies, Tramps, Beggars, and Cours des Miracles. First Appearance of Gipsies in the West.--Gipsies in Paris.--Manners and Customs of these Wandering Tribes.--Tricks of Captain Charles.--Gipsies expelled by Royal Edict.--Language of Gipsies.--The Kingdom of Slang.--The Great Coesre, Chief of the Vagrants; his Vassals and Subjects.--Divisions of the Slang People; its Decay and the Causes thereof.--Cours des Miracles.--The Camp of Rognes.--Cunning Language, or Slang.--Foreign Rogues, Thieves, and Pickpockets. In the year 1417 the inhabitants of the countries situated near the mouth of the Elbe were disturbed by the arrival of strangers, whose manners and appearance were far from pre-possessing. These strange travellers took a course thence towards the Teutonic Hanse, starting from Luneburg: they subsequently proceeded to Hamburg, and then, going from east to west along the Baltic, they visited the free towns of Lubeck, Wismar, Rostock, Stralsund, and Greifswald. These new visitors, known in Europe under the names of _Zingari, Cigani, Gipsies, Gitanos, Egyptians_, or _Bohemians_, but who, in their own language, called themselves _Romi_, or _gens mariés_, numbered about three hundred men and women, besides the children, who were very numerous. They divided themselves into seven bands, all of which followed the same track. Very dirty, excessively ugly, and remarkable for their dark complexions, these people had for their leaders a duke and a count, as they were called, who were superbly dressed, and to whom they acknowledged allegiance. Some of them rode on horseback, whilst others went on foot. The women and children travelled on beasts of burden and in waggons (Fig. 369). If we are to believe their own story, their wandering life was caused by their return to Paganism after having been previously converted to the Christian faith, and, as a punishment for their sin, they were to continue their adventurous course for a period of seven years. They showed letters of recommendation from various princes, among others from Sigismund, King of the Romans, and these letters, whether authentic or false, procured for them a welcome wherever they went. They encamped in the fields at night, because the habit they indulged in of stealing everything for which they had a fancy, caused them to fear being disturbed in the towns. It was not long, however, before many of them were arrested and put to death for theft, when the rest speedily decamped. [Illustration: Fig. 369.--Gipsies on the March.--Fifteenth Century Piece of old Tapestry in the Château d'Effiat, contributed by M.A. Jubinal.] In the course of the following year we find them at Meissen, in Saxony, whence they were driven out on account of the robberies and disturbances they committed; and then in Switzerland, where they passed through the countries of the Grisons, the cantons of Appenzell, and Zurich, stopping in Argovie. Chroniclers who mention them at that time speak of their chief, Michel, as Duke of Egypt, and relate that these strangers, calling themselves Egyptians, pretended that they were driven from their country by the Sultan of Turkey, and condemned to wander for seven years in want and misery. These chroniclers add that they were very honest people, who scrupulously followed all the practices of the Christian religion; that they were poorly clad, but that they had gold and silver in abundance; that they lived well, and paid for everything they had; and that, at the end of seven years, they went away to return home, as they said. However, whether because a considerable number remained on the road, or because they had been reinforced by others of the same tribe during the year, a troop of fifty men, accompanied by a number of hideous women and filthy children, made their appearance in the neighbourhood of Augsburg. These vagabonds gave out that they were exiles from Lower Egypt, and pretended to know the art of predicting coming events. It was soon found out that they were much less versed in divination and in the occult sciences than in the arts of plundering, roguery, and cheating. In the following year a similar horde, calling themselves Saracens, appeared at Sisteron, in Provence; and on the 18th. of July, 1422, a chronicler of Bologna mentions the arrival in that town of a troop of foreigners, commanded by a certain André, Duke of Egypt, and composed of at least one hundred persons, including women and children. They encamped inside and outside the gate _di Galiera_, with the exception of the duke, who lodged at the inn _del Re_. During the fifteen days which they spent at Bologna a number of the people of the town went to see them, and especially to see "the wife of the duke," who, it was said, knew how to foretell future events, and to tell what was to happen to people, what their fortunes would be, the number of their children, if they were good or bad, and many other things (Fig. 370). Few men, however, left the house of the so-called Duke of Egypt without having their purses stolen, and but few women escaped without having the skirts of their dresses cut. The Egyptian women walked about the town in groups of six or seven, and whilst some were talking to the townspeople, telling them their fortunes, or bartering in shops, one of their number would lay her hands on anything which was within reach. So many robberies were committed in this way, that the magistrates of the town and the ecclesiastical authorities forbad the inhabitants from visiting the Egyptians' camp, or from having any intercourse with them, under penalty of excommunication and of a fine of fifty livres. Besides this, by a strange application of the laws of retaliation, those who had been robbed by these foreigners were permitted to rob them to the extent of the value of the things stolen. In consequence of this, the Bolognians entered a stable in which several of the Egyptians' horses were kept, and took out one of the finest of them. In order to recover him the Egyptians agreed to restore what they had taken, and the restitution was made. But perceiving that they could no longer do any good for themselves in this province, they struck their tents and started for Rome, to which city they said they were bound to go, not only in order to accomplish a pilgrimage imposed upon them by the Sultan, who had expelled them from their own land, but especially to obtain letters of absolution from the Holy Father. [Illustration: Fig. 370.--Gipsies Fortune-telling.--Fac-simile of a Woodcut in the "Cosmographie Universelle" of Munster: in folio, Basle, 1552.] In 1422 the band left Italy, and we find them at Basle and in Suabia. Then, besides the imperial passports, of which they had up to that time alone boasted, they pretended to have in their possession bulls which they stated that they had obtained from the Pope. They also modified their original tale, and stated that they were descendants of the Egyptians who refused hospitality to the Holy Virgin and to St. Joseph during their flight into Egypt: they also declared that, in consequence of this crime, God had doomed their race to perpetual misery and exile. Five years later we find them in the neighbourhood of Paris. "The Sunday after the middle of August," says "The Journal of a Bourgeois of Paris," "there came to Paris twelve so-called pilgrims, that is to say, a duke, a count, and ten men, all on horseback; they said that they were very good Christians, and that they came from Lower Egypt; ... and on the 29th of August, the anniversary of the beheading of St. John, the rest of the band made their appearance. These, however, were not allowed to enter Paris, but, by order of the provost, were lodged in the Chapel of St. Denis. They did not number more than one hundred and twenty, including women and children. They stated that, when they left their own country, they numbered from a thousand to twelve hundred, but that the rest had died on the road..... Whilst they were at the chapel never was such a concourse of people collected, even at the blessing of the fair of Landit, as went from Paris, St. Denis, and elsewhere, to see these strangers. Almost all of them had their ears pierced, and in each one or two silver rings, which in their country, they said, was a mark of nobility. The men were very swarthy, with curly hair; the women were very ugly, and extremely dark, with long black hair, like a horse's tail; their only garment being an old rug tied round the shoulder by a strip of cloth or a bit of rope (Fig. 371). Amongst them were several fortune-tellers, who, by looking into people's hands, told them what had happened or what was to happen to them, and by this means often did a good deal to sow discord in families. What was worse, either by magic, by Satanic agency, or by sleight of hand, they managed to empty people's purses whilst talking to them.... So, at least, every one said. At last accounts respecting them reached the ears of the Bishop of Paris. He went to them with a Franciscan friar, called Le Petit Jacobin, who, by the bishop's order, delivered an earnest address to them, and excommunicated all those who had anything to do with them, or who had their fortunes told. He further advised the gipsies to go away, and, on the festival of Notre-Dame, they departed for Pontoise." [Illustration: Fig. 371.--A Gipsy Family.--Fac-simile of a Woodcut in the "Cosmographie Universelle" of Munster: in folio, Basle, 1552.] Here, again, the gipsies somewhat varied their story. They said that they were originally Christians; but that, in consequence of an invasion by the Saracens, they had been forced to renounce their religion; that, at a subsequent period, powerful monarchs had come to free them from the yoke of the infidels, and had decreed that, as a punishment to them for having renounced the Christian faith, they should not be allowed to return to their country before they had obtained permission from the Pope. They stated that the Holy Father, to whom they had gone to confess their sins, had then ordered them to wander about the world for seven years, without sleeping in beds, at the same time giving direction to every bishop and every priest whom they met to offer them ten livres; a direction which the abbots and bishops were in no hurry to obey. These strange pilgrims stated that they had been only five years on the road when they arrived in Paris. Enough has been said to show that, although the object of their long pilgrimage was ostensibly a pious one, the Egyptians or gipsies were not very slow in giving to the people whom they visited a true estimate of their questionable honesty, and we do not think it would be particularly interesting to follow step by step the track of this odious band, which from this period made its appearance sometimes in one country and sometimes in another, not only in the north but in the south, and especially in the centre of Europe. Suffice it to say that their quarrels with the authorities, or the inhabitants of the countries which had the misfortune to be periodically visited by them, have left numerous traces in history. On the 7th of November, 1453, from sixty to eighty gipsies, coming from Courtisolles, arrived at the entrance of the town of Cheppe, near Châlons-sur-Marne. The strangers, many of whom carried "javelins, darts, and other implements of war," having asked for hospitality, the mayor of the town informed them "that it was not long since some of the same company, or others very like them, had been lodged in the town, and had been guilty of various acts of theft." The gipsies persisted in their demands, the indignation of the people was aroused, and they were soon obliged to resume their journey. During their unwilling retreat, they were pursued by many of the inhabitants of the town, one of whom killed a gipsy named Martin de la Barre: the murderer, however, obtained the King's pardon. In 1532, at Pleinpalais, a suburb of Geneva, some rascals from among a band of gipsies, consisting of upwards of three hundred in number, fell upon several of the officers who were stationed to prevent their entering the town. The citizens hurried up to the scene of disturbance. The gipsies retired to the monastery of the Augustin friars, in which they fortified themselves: the bourgeois besieged them, and would have committed summary justice on them, but the authorities interfered, and some twenty of the vagrants were arrested, but they sued for mercy, and were discharged. [Illustration: Fig. 372.--Gipsy Encampment.--Fac-simile of a Copper-plate by Callot.] In 1632, the inhabitants of Viarme, in the Department of Lot-et-Garonne, made an onslaught upon a troop of gipsies who wanted to take up their quarters in that town. The whole of them were killed, with the exception of their chief, who was taken prisoner and brought before the Parliament of Bordeaux, and ordered to be hung. Twenty-one years before this, the mayor and magistrates of Bordeaux gave orders to the soldiers of the watch to arrest a gipsy chief, who, having shut himself up in the tower of Veyrines, at Merignac, ransacked the surrounding country. On the 21st of July, 1622, the same magistrates ordered the gipsies to leave the parish of Eysines within twenty-four hours, under penalty of the lash. It was not often that the gipsies used violence or openly resisted authority; they more frequently had recourse to artifice and cunning in order to attain their end. A certain Captain Charles acquired a great reputation amongst them for the clever trickeries which he continually conceived, and which his troop undertook to carry out. A chronicler of the time says, that by means of certain herbs which he gave to a half-starved horse, he made him into a fat and sleek animal; the horse was then sold at one of the neighbouring fairs or markets, but the purchaser detected the fraud within a week, for the horse soon became thin again, and usually sickened and died. Tallemant des Réaux relates that, on one occasion, Captain Charles and his attendants took up their quarters in a village, the curé of which being rich and parsimonious, was much disliked by his parishioners. The curé never left his house, and the gipsies could not, therefore, get an opportunity to rob him. In this difficulty, they pretended that one of them had committed a crime, and had been condemned to be hung a quarter of a league from the village, where they betook themselves with all their goods. The man, at the foot of the gibbet, asked for a confessor, and they went to fetch the curé. He, at first, refused to go, but his parishioners compelled him. During his absence some gipsies entered his house, took five hundred écus from his strong box, and quickly rejoined the troop. As soon as the rascal saw them returning, he said that he appealed to the king of _la petite Egypte_, upon which the captain exclaimed, "Ah! the traitor! I expected he would appeal." Immediately they packed up, secured the prisoner, and were far enough away from the scene before the curé re-entered his house. Tallemant relates another good trick. Near Roye, in Picardy, a gipsy who had stolen a sheep offered it to a butcher for one hundred sous (about sixty francs of our money), but the butcher declined to give more than four livres for it. The butcher then went away; whereupon the gipsy pulled the sheep from a sack into which he had put it, and substituted for it a child belonging to his tribe. He then ran after the butcher, and said, "Give me five livres, and you shall have the sack into the bargain." The butcher paid him the money, and went away. When he got home he opened the sack, and was much astonished when he saw a little boy jump out of it, who, in an instant, caught up the sack and ran off. "Never was a poor man so thoroughly hoaxed as this butcher," says Tallemant des Réaux. The gipsies had thousands of other tricks in stock as good as the ones we have just related, in proof of which we have but to refer to the testimony of one of their own tribe, who, under the name of Pechon de Ruby, published, towards the close of the sixteenth century, "La Vie Généreuse des Mattois, Guex, Bohémiens, et Cagoux." "When they want to leave a place where they have been stopping, they set out in an opposite direction to that in which they are going, and after travelling about half a league they take their right course. They possess the best and most accurate maps, in which are laid down not only all the towns, villages, and rivers, but also the houses of the gentry and others; and they fix upon places of rendezvous every ten days, at twenty leagues from the point from whence they set out.... The captain hands over to each of the chiefs three or four families to take charge of, and these small bands take different cross-roads towards the place of rendezvous. Those who are well armed and mounted he sends off with a good almanac, on which are marked all the fairs, and they continually change their dress and their horses. When they take up their quarters in any village they steal very little in its immediate vicinity, but in the neighbouring parishes they rob and plunder in the most daring manner. If they find a sum of money they give notice to the captain, and make a rapid flight from the place. They coin counterfeit money, and put it into circulation. They play at all sorts of games; they buy all sorts of horses; whether sound or unsound, provided they can manage to pay for them in their own base coin. When they buy food they pay for it in good money the first time, as they are held in such distrust; but, when they are about to leave a neighbourhood, they again buy something, for which they tender false coin, receiving the change in good money. In harvest time all doors are shut against them; nevertheless they contrive, by means of picklocks and other instruments, to effect an entrance into houses, when they steal linen, cloaks, silver, and any other movable article which they can lay their hands on. They give a strict account of everything to their captain, who takes his share of all they get, except of what they earn by fortune-telling. They are very clever at making a good bargain; when they know of a rich merchant being in the place, they disguise themselves, enter into communications with him, and swindle him, ... after which they change their clothes, have their horses shod the reverse way, and the shoes covered with some soft material lest they should be heard, and gallop away." [Illustration: Fig. 373.--The Gipsy who used to wash his Hands in Molten Lead.--Fac-simile of a Woodcut in the "Histoires Merveilleuses" of Pierre Boaistuau: in 4to, 1560.] In the "Histoire Générale des Larrons" we read that the vagabonds called gipsies sometimes played tricks with goblets, sometimes danced on the tight-rope, turned double-somersaults, and performed other feats (Fig. 373), which proves that these adventurers adopted all kinds of methods of gaining a livelihood, highway robbery not excepted. We must not, therefore, be surprised if in almost all countries very severe police measures were taken against this dangerous race, though we must admit that these measures sometimes partook of a barbarous character. After having forbidden them, with a threat of six years at the galleys, to sojourn in Spain, Charles V. ordered them to leave Flanders under penalty of death. In 1545, a gipsy who had infringed the sentence of banishment was condemned by the Court of Utrecht to be flogged till the blood appeared, to have his nostrils slit, his hair removed, his beard shaved off, and to be banished for life. "We can form some idea," says the German historian Grellman, "of the miserable condition of the gipsies from the following facts: many of them, and especially the women, have been burned by their own request, in order to end their miserable state of existence; and we can give the case of a gipsy who, having been arrested, flogged, and conducted to the frontier, with the threat that if he reappeared in the country he would be hanged, resolutely returned after three successive and similar threats, at three different places, and implored that the capital sentence might be carried out, in order that he might be released from a life of such misery. These unfortunate people," continues the historian, "were not even looked upon as human beings, for, during a hunting party, consisting of members of a small German court, the huntsmen had no scruple whatever in killing a gipsy woman who was suckling her child, just as they would have done any wild beast which came in their way." M. Francisque Michel says, "Amongst the questions which arise from a consideration of the existence of this remarkable people, is one which, although neglected, is nevertheless of considerable interest, namely, how, with a strange language, unlike any used in Europe, the gipsies could make themselves understood by the people amongst whom they made their appearance for the first time: newly arrived in the west, they could have none of those interpreters who are only to be found amongst a long-established people, and who have political and commercial intercourse with other nations. Where, then, did the gipsies obtain interpreters? The answer seems to us to be clear. Receiving into their ranks all those whom crime, the fear of punishment, an uneasy conscience, or the charm of a roaming life, continually threw in their path, they made use of them either to find their way into countries of which they were ignorant, or to commit robberies which would otherwise have been impracticable. Themselves adepts in all sorts of bad practices, they were not slow to form an alliance with profligate characters who sometimes worked in concert with them, and sometimes alone, and who always framed the model for their own organization from that of the gipsies." [Illustration: Fig. 374.--Orphans, _Callots_, and the Family of the Grand Coesre.--From painted Hangings and Tapestry from the Town of Rheims, executed during the Fifteenth Century.] This alliance--governed by statutes, the honour of compiling which has been given to a certain Ragot, who styled himself captain--was composed of _matois_, or sharpers; of _mercelots_, or hawkers, who were very little better than the former; of _gueux_, or dishonest beggars, and of a host of other swindlers, constituting the order or hierarchy of the _Argot_, or Slang people. Their chief was called the _Grand Coesre_, "a vagabond broken to all the tricks of his trade," says M. Francisque Michel, and who frequently ended his days on the rack or the gibbet. History has furnished us with the story of a "miserable cripple" who used to sit in a wooden bowl, and who, after having been Grand Coesre for three years, was broken alive on the wheel at Bordeaux for his crimes. He was called _Roi de Tunes_ (Tunis), and was drawn about by two large dogs. One of his successors, the Grand Coesre surnamed Anacréon, who suffered from the same infirmity, namely, that of a cripple, rode about Paris on a donkey begging. He generally held his court on the Port-au-Foin, where he sat on his throne dressed in a mantle made of a thousand pieces. The Grand Coesre had a lieutenant in each province called _cagou_, whose business it was to initiate apprentices in the secrets of the craft, and who looked after, in different localities, those whom the chief had entrusted to his care. He gave an account of the property he received in thus exercising his stewardship, and of the money as well as of the clothing which he took from the _Argotiers_ who refused to recognise his authority. As a remuneration for their duties, the cagoux were exempt from all tribute to their chief; they received their share of the property taken from persons whom they had ordered to be robbed, and they were free to beg in any way they pleased. After the cagoux came the _archisuppôts_, who, being recruited from the lowest dregs of the clergy and others who had been in a better position, were, so to speak, the teachers of the law. To them was intrusted the duty of instructing the less experienced rogues, and of determining the language of Slang; and, as a reward for their good and loyal services, they had the right of begging without paying any fees to their chiefs. [Illustration: Fig. 375.--The Blind and the Poor Sick of St. John.--From painted Hangings and Tapestry in the Town of Rheims, executed during the Fifteenth Century.] The Grand Coesre levied a tax of twenty-four sous per annum upon the young rogues, who went about the streets pretending to shed tears (Fig. 374), as "helpless orphans," in order to excite public sympathy. The _marcandiers_ had to pay an écu; they were tramps clothed in a tolerably good doublet, who passed themselves off as merchants ruined by war, by fire, or by having been robbed on the highway. The _malingreux_ had to pay forty sous; they were covered with sores, most of which were self-inflicted, or they pretended to have swellings of some kind, and stated that they were about to undertake a pilgrimage to St. Méen, in Brittany, in order to be cured. The _piètres_, or lame rogues, paid half an écu, and walked with crutches. The _sabouleux_, who were commonly called the _poor sick of St. John_, were in the habit of frequenting fairs and markets, or the vicinity of churches; there, smeared with blood and appearing as if foaming at the mouth by means of a piece of soap they had placed in it, they struggled on the ground as if in a fit, and in this way realised a considerable amount of alms. These consequently paid the largest fees to the Coesre (Fig. 375). [Illustration: Fig. 376.--The _Ruffes_ and the _Millards_.--From painted Hangings and Tapestry of Rheims, executed about the Fifteenth Century.] Besides these, there were the _callots_, who were either affected with a scurfy disease or pretended to be so, and who were contributors to the civil list of their chief to the amount of sevens sous; as also the _coquillards_, or pretended pilgrims of St. James or St. Michael; and the _hubins_, who, according to the forged certificate which they carried with them, were going to, or returning from, St. Hubert, after having been bitten by a mad dog. The _polissons_ paid two écus to the Coesre, but they earned a considerable amount, especially in winter; for benevolent people, touched with their destitution and half-nakedness, gave them sometimes a doublet, sometimes a shirt, or some other article of clothing, which of course they immediately sold. The _francs mitoux_, who were never taxed above five sous, were sickly members of the fraternity, or at all events pretended to be such; they tied their arms above the elbow so as to stop the pulse, and fell down apparently fainting on the public footpaths. We must also mention the _ruffés_ and the _millards_, who went into the country in groups begging (Fig. 376). The _capons_ were cut-purses, who hardly ever left the towns, and who laid hands on everything within their reach. The _courtauds de boutanche_ pretended to be workmen, and were to be met with everywhere with the tools of their craft on their back, though they never used them. The _convertis_ pretended to have been impressed by the exhortations of some excellent preacher, and made a public profession of faith; they afterwards stationed themselves at church doors, as recently converted Catholics, and in this way received liberal contributions. Lastly, we must mention the _drilles_, the _narquois_, or the people of the _petite flambe_, who for the most part were old pensioners, and who begged in the streets from house to house, with their swords at their sides (Fig. 377). These, who at times lived a racketing and luxurious life, at last rebelled against the Grand Coesre, and would no longer be reckoned among his subjects--a step which gave a considerable shock to the Argotic monarchy. [Illustration: Fig. 377.--The _Drille_ or _Narquois_.--From painted Hangings from the Town of Rheims (Fifteenth Century).] [Illustration: Fig. 378.--Perspective View of Paris in 1607.--Fac-simile of a Copper-plate by Léonard Gaultier. (Collection of M. Guénebault, Paris.)] There was another cause which greatly contributed to diminish the power as well as the prestige of this eccentric sovereign, and this was, that the cut-purses, the night-prowlers and wood-thieves, not finding sufficient means of livelihood in their own department, and seeing that the Argotiers, on the contrary, were always in a more luxurious position, tried to amalgamate robbery with mendicity, which raised an outcry amongst these sections of their community. The archisuppôts and the cagoux at first declined such an alliance, but eventually they were obliged to admit all, with the exception of the wood-thieves, who were altogether excluded. In the seventeenth century, therefore, in order to become a thorough Argotier, it was necessary not only to solicit alms like any mere beggar, but also to possess the dexterity of the cut-purse and the thief. These arts were to be learned in the places which served as the habitual rendezvous of the very dregs of society, and which were generally known as the _Cours des Miracles_. These houses, or rather resorts, had been so called, if we are to believe a writer of the early part of the seventeenth century, "Because rogues ... and others, who have all day been cripples, maimed, dropsical, and beset with every sort of bodily ailment, come home at night, carrying under their arms a sirloin of beef, a joint of veal, or a leg of mutton, not forgetting to hang a bottle of wine to their belt, and, on entering the court, they throw aside their crutches, resume their healthy and lusty appearance, and, in imitation of the ancient Bacchanalian revelries, dance all kinds of dances with their trophies in their hands, whilst the host is preparing their suppers. Can there be a greater _miracle_ than is to be seen in this court, where the maimed walk upright?" [Illustration: Fig. 379.--_Cour des Miracles_ of Paris. Talebot the Hunchback, a celebrated Scamp during the Seventeenth Century.--From an old Engraving in the Collection of Engravings in the National Library of Paris.] In Paris there were several _Cours des Miracles_, but the most celebrated was that which, from the time of Sauval, the singular historian of the "Antiquities of Paris," to the middle of the seventeenth century, preserved this generic name _par excellence_, and which exists to this day (Fig. 379). He says, "It is a place of considerable size, and is in an unhealthy, muddy, and irregular blind alley. Formerly it was situated on the outskirts of Paris, now it is in one of the worst built, dirtiest, and most out-of-the-way quarters of the town, between the Rue Montorgueil, the convent of the Filles-Dieu, and the Rue Neuve-Saint-Sauveur. To get there one must wander through narrow, close, and by-streets; and in order to enter it, one must descend a somewhat winding and rugged declivity. In this place I found a mud house, half buried, very shaky from old age and rottenness, and only eight mètres square; but in which, nevertheless, some fifty families are living, who have the charge of a large number of children, many of whom are stolen or illegitimate.... I was assured that upwards of five hundred large families occupy that and other houses adjoining.... Large as this court is, it was formerly even bigger.... Here, without any care for the future, every one enjoys the present; and eats in the evening what he has earned during the day with so much trouble, and often with so many blows; for it is one of the fundamental rules of the Cour des Miracles never to lay by anything for the morrow. Every one who lives there indulges in the utmost licentiousness; both religion and law are utterly ignored.... It is true that outwardly they appear to acknowledge a God; for they have set up in a niche an image of God the Father, which they have stolen from some church, and before which they come daily to offer up certain prayers; but this is only because they superstitiously imagine that by this means they are released from the necessity of performing the duties of Christians to their pastor and their parish, and are even absolved from the sin of entering a church for the purpose of robbery and purse-cutting." Paris, the capital of the kingdom of rogues, was not the only town which possessed a Cour des Miracles, for we find here and there, especially at Lyons and Bordeaux, some traces of these privileged resorts of rogues and thieves, which then flourished under the sceptre of the Grand Coesre. Sauval states, on the testimony of people worthy of credit, that at Sainte-Anne d'Auray, the most holy place of pilgrimage in Brittany, under the superintendence of the order of reformed Carmelite friars, there was a large field called the _Rogue's Field_. This was covered with mud huts; and here the Grand Coesre resorted annually on the principal solemn festivals, with his officers and subjects, in order "to hold his council of state," that is to say, in order to settle and arrange respecting robbery. At these _state_ meetings, which were not always held at Sainte-Anne d'Auray, all the subjects of the Grand Coesre were present, and paid homage to their lord and master. Some came and paid him the tribute which was required of them by the statutes of the craft; others rendered him an account of what they had done, and what they had earned during the year. When they had executed their work badly, he ordered them to be punished, either corporally or pecuniarily, according to the gravity of their offences. When he had not himself properly governed his people, he was dethroned, and a successor was appointed by acclamation. [Illustration: Fig. 380.--Beggar playing the Fiddle, and his Wife accompanying him with the Bones.--From an old Engraving of the Seventeenth Century.] At these assemblies, as well as in the Cours des Miracles, French was not spoken, but a strange and artificial language was used called _jargon_, _langue matoise, narquois_, &c. This language, which is still in use under the name of _argot_, or slang, had for the most part been borrowed from the jargon or slang of the lower orders. To a considerable extent, according to the learned philologist of this mysterious language, M. Francisque Michel, it was composed of French words lengthened or abbreviated; of proverbial expressions; of words expressing the symbols of things instead of the things themselves; of terms either intentionally or unintentionally altered from their true meaning; and of words which resembled other words in sound, but which had not the same signification. Thus, for mouth, they said _pantière_, from _pain_ (bread), which they put into it; the arms were _lyans_ (binders); an ox was a _cornant_ (horned); a purse, a _fouille_, or _fouillouse_; a cock, a _horloge_, or timepiece; the legs, _des quilles_ (nine-pins); a sou, a _rond_, or round thing; the eyes, _des luisants_ (sparklers), &c. In jargon several words were also taken from the ancient language of the gipsies, which testifies to the part which these vagabonds played in the formation of the Argotic community. For example, a shirt was called _lime_; a chambermaid, _limogère;_ sheets, _limans_--words all derived from the gipsy word _lima_, a shirt: they called an écu, a _rusquin_ or _rougesme_, from _rujia_, the common word for money; a rich man, _rupin_; a house, _turne_; a knife, _chourin_, from _rup, turna_, and _chori_, which, in the gipsy tongue, mean respectively silver, castle, and knife. From what we have related about rogues and the Cours des Miracles, one might perhaps be tempted to suppose that France was specially privileged; but it was not so, for Italy was far worse in this respect. The rogues were called by the Italians _bianti_, or _ceretani_, and were subdivided into more than forty classes, the various characteristics of which have been described by a certain Rafael Frianoro. It is not necessary to state that the analogue of more than one of these classes is to be found in the short description we have given of the Argotic kingdom in France. We will therefore only mention those which were more especially Italian. It must not be forgotten that in the southern countries, where religions superstition was more marked than elsewhere, the numerous family of rogues had no difficulty in practising every description of imposture, inasmuch as they trusted to the various manifestations of religions feeling to effect their purposes. Thus the _affrati_, in order to obtain more alms and offerings, went about in the garb of monks and priests, even saying mass, and pretending that it was the first time they had exercised their sacred office. So the _morghigeri_ walked behind a donkey, carrying a bell and a lamp, with their string of beads in their hands, and asking how they were to pay for the bell, which they were always "just going to buy." The _felsi_ pretended that they were divinely inspired and endowed with the gift of second sight, and announced that there were hidden treasures in certain houses under the guardianship of evil spirits. They asserted that these treasures could not be discovered without danger, except by means of fastings and offerings, which they and their brethren could alone make, in consideration of which they entered into a bargain, and received a certain sum of money from the owners. The _accatosi_ deserve mention on account of the cleverness with which they contrived to assume the appearance of captives recently escaped from slavery. Shaking the chains with which they said they had been bound, jabbering unintelligible words, telling heart-rending tales of their sufferings and privations, and showing the marks of blows which they had received, they went on their knees, begging for money that they might buy off their brethren or their friends, whom they said they had left in the hands of the Saracens or the Turks, We must mention, also, the _allacrimanti_, or weepers, who owed their name to the facility which they possessed of shedding tears at will; and the _testatori_, who, pretending to be seriously ill and about to die, extorted money from all those to whom they promised to leave their fortunes, though, of course, they had not a son to leave behind them. We must not forget the _protobianti_ (master rogues), who made no scruple of exciting compassion from their own comrades (Fig. 381), nor the _vergognosi_, who, notwithstanding their poverty, wished to be thought rich, and considered that assistance was due to them from the mere fact of their being noble. We must here conclude, for it would occupy too much time to go through the list of these Italian vagabonds. As for the German (Figs. 382 and 383), Spanish, and English rogues, we may simply remark that no type exists among them which is not to be met with amongst the Argotiers of France or the Bianti of Italy. In giving a description, therefore, of the mendicity practised in these two countries during the Middle Ages, we are sure to be representing what it was in other parts of Europe. [Illustration: Fig. 381.--Italian Beggar.--From an Engraving by Callot.] [Illustration: Figs. 382 and 383.--German Beggars.--Fac-simile of a Woodcut in the "Cosmographie Universelle" of Munster: in folio, Basle, 1552.] The history of regular robbers and highwaymen during this long period is more difficult to describe; it contains only disconnected anecdotes of a more or less interesting character. It is probable, moreover, that robbers did not always commit their depredations singly, and that they early understood the advantages of associating together. The _Tafurs_, or _Halegrins_, whom we notice as followers of Godefroy de Bouillon at the time of the Crusades, towards the end of the eleventh century, were terribly bad characters, and are actually accused by contemporary writers of violating tombs, and of living on human flesh. On this account they were looked upon with the utmost horror by the infidels, who dreaded more their savage ferocity than the valour of the Crusaders. The latter even, who had these hordes of Tafurs under their command, were not without considerable mistrust of them, and when, during their march through Hungary, under the protection of the cross, these miscreants committed depredations, Godefroy de Bouillion was obliged to ask pardon for them from the king of that country. An ancient poet has handed down to us a story in verse setting forth the exploits of Eustace the monk, who, after having thrown aside his frock, embraced the life of a robber, and only abandoned it to become Admiral of France under Philip Augustus. He was killed before Sandwich, in 1217. We have satisfactory proof that as early as the thirteenth century sharpers were very expert masters of their trade, for the ingenious and amusing tricks of which they were guilty are quite equal to the most skilled of those now recorded in our police reports. In the two following centuries the science of the _pince_ and of the _croc_ (pincers and hook), as it was then called, alone made progress, and Pathelin (a character in comedy, and an incomparable type of craft and dishonesty) never lacked disciples any more than Villon did imitators. We know that this charming poet, who was at the same time a most expert thief, narrowly escaped hanging on two occasions. His contemporaries attributed to him a poem of twelve hundred verses, entitled "Les Repues Franches," in which are described the methods in use among his companions for procuring wine, bread, meat, and fish, without having to pay for them. They form a series of interesting stories, the moral of which is to be gathered from the following lines:-- "C'est bien, disné, quand on eschappe Sans desbourcer pas ung denier, Et dire adieu an tavernier, En torchant son nez à la nappe." The meaning of this doggrel, which is somewhat broad, may be rendered--"He dines well who escapes without paying a penny, and who bids farewell to the innkeeper by wiping his nose on the tablecloth." Side by side with this poem of Yillon we ought to cite one of a later period--"La Légende de Maître Faifeu," versified by Charles Boudigné. This Faifeu was a kind of Villon of Anjou, who excelled in all kinds of rascality, and who might possibly have taught it even to the gipsies themselves. The character of Panurge, in the "Pantagruel," is no other than the type of Faifeu, immortalised by the genius of Rabelais. We must also mention one of the pamphlets of Guillaume Bouchet, written towards the end of the sixteenth century, which gives a very amusing account of thieves of every description, and also "L'Histoire Générale des Larrons," in which are related numerous wonderful tales of murders, robberies, and other atrocities, which made our admiring ancestors well acquainted with the heroes of the Grève and of Montfaucon. It must not be supposed that in those days the life of a robber who pursued his occupation with any degree of industry and skill was unattended with danger, for the most harmless cut-purses were hung without mercy whenever they were caught; the fear, however, of this fate did not prevent the _Enfants de la Matte_ from performing wonders. Brantôme relates that King Charles IX. had the curiosity to wish to "know how the cut-purses performed their arts with so much skill and dexterity," and begged Captain La Chambre to introduce to him, on the occasion of a banquet and a ball, the cleverest cut-purses, giving them full liberty to exhibit their skill. The captain went to the Cours des Miracles and fetched ten of the most expert of these thieves, whom he presented to the King. Charles, "after the dinner and the ball had taken place, wished to see all the plunder, and found that they had absolutely earned three thousand écus, either in money from purses, or in precious stones, pearls, or other jewels; some of the guests even lost their cloaks, at which the King thought he should die of laughter." The King allowed them to keep what they had thus earned at the expense of his guests; but he forbad them "to continue this sort of life," under penalty of being hung, and he had them enrolled in the army, in order to recompense them for their clever feats. We may safely assert that they made but indifferent soldiers. [Illustration: Fig. 384.--The Exhibitor of strange Animals (Twelfth Century Manuscript, Royal Library of Brussels).] Ceremonials. Origin of Modern Ceremonial.--Uncertainty of French Ceremonial up to the End of the Sixteenth Century.--Consecration of the Kings of France.--Coronation of the Emperors of Germany.--Consecration of the Doges of Venice.--Marriage of the Doge with the Sea.--State Entries of Sovereigns.--An Account of the Entry of Isabel of Bavaria into Paris.--Seats of Justice.--Visits of Ceremony between Persons of rank.--Mourning.--Social Courtesies.--Popular Demonstrations and National Commemorations.--New Year's Day.--Local Festivals.--_Vins d'Honneur._--Processions of Trades. Although society during the Middle Ages was, as a whole, closely cemented together, being animated by the same sentiments and imbued with the same spirit, it was divided, as we have already stated, into three great classes, namely, the clergy, the nobility, and the _liers-état._ These classes, each of which formed a distinct body within the State, carried on an existence peculiar to itself, and presented in its collective capacity a separate individuality. Hence there was a distinct ceremonial for each class. We will not attempt to give in detail the innumerable laws of these three kinds of ceremonial; our attention will be directed solely to their most characteristic customs, and to their most remarkable and interesting aspects taken as a whole. We must altogether lay aside matters relating specially to ceremonies of a purely religions character, as they are connected more or less with the traditions and customs of the Church, and belong to quite a distinct order of things. "When the Germans, and especially the Franks," says the learned paleographer Vallet de Viriville, "had succeeded in establishing their own rule in place of that of the Romans, these almost savage nations, and the barbarian chiefs who were at their head under the title of kings, necessarily borrowed more or less the refined practices relating to ceremonial possessed by the people whom they had conquered. The elevation of the elected chief or king on the shield and the solemn taking of arms in the midst of the tribe seem to be the only traces of public ceremonies which we can discover among the Grermans. The marvellous display and the imposing splendour of the political hierarchy of the Roman Empire, especially in its outward arrangements, must have astonished the minds of these uncultivated people. Thus we find the Frank kings becoming immediately after a victory the simple and clumsy imitators of the civilisation which they had broken up." Clovis on returning to Tours in 507, after having defeated Alaric, received the titles of _Patrician_ and _Consul_ from the Emperor Anastasius, and bedecked himself with the purple, the chlamys, and the diadem. The same principle of imitation was afterwards exhibited in the internal and external court ceremonial, in proportion as it became developed in the royal person. Charlemagne, who aimed at everything which could adorn and add strength to a new monarchy, established a regular method for the general and special administration of his empire, as also for the internal arrangement and discipline of his palace. We have already referred to this twofold organization (_vide_ chapters on Private Life and on Food), but we may here remark that, notwithstanding these ancient tendencies to the creation of a fixed ceremonial, the trifling rules which made etiquette a science and a law, were introduced by degrees, and have only very recently been established amongst us. In 1385, when King Charles VI. married the notorious Isabel of Bavaria, then scarcely fourteen years of age, he desired to arrange for her a magnificent entry into Paris, the pomp and brilliancy of which should be consistent with the rank and illustrious descent of his young bride. He therefore begged the old Queen Blanche, widow of Philippe de Valois, to preside over the ceremony, and to have it conducted according to the custom of olden times. She was consequently obliged, in the absence of any fixed rules on the subject, to consult the official records,--that is to say, the "Chronique du Monastère de Saint-Denis." The first embodiment of rules relating to these matters in use among the nobility, which had appeared in France under the title of "Honneurs de la Cour," only goes back to the end of the fifteenth century. It appears, however, that even then this was not generally admitted among the nobility as the basis of ceremonial, for in 1548 we find that nothing had been definitely settled. This is evident from the fact that when King Henri III. desired to know the rank and order of precedence of the princes of the royal blood, both dukes and counts--as also that of the other princes, the barons, the nobles of the kingdom, the constables, the marshals of France and the admirals, and what position they had held on great public occasions during the reigns of his predecessors--he commissioned Jean du Tillet, the civil registrar of the Parliament of Paris, to search among the royal archives for the various authentic documents which might throw light on this question, and serve as a precedent for the future. In fact, it was Henri III. who, in 1585, created the office of Grand Master of the Ceremonies of France, entrusting it to Guillaume Pot, a noble of Rhodes, which office for many generations remained hereditary in his family. [Illustration: Fig. 385.--Herald (Fourteenth Century).--From a Miniature in the "Chroniques de Saint-Denis" (Imperial Library of Paris).] Nevertheless the question of ceremonial, and especially that of precedence, had already more than once occupied the attention of sovereigns, not only within their own states, but also in relation to diplomatic matters. The meetings of councils, at which the ambassadors of all the Christian Powers, with the delegates of the Catholic Church, were assembled, did not fail to bring this subject up for decision. Pope Julius II. in 1504 instructed Pierre de Crassis, his Master of the Ceremonies, to publish a decree, determining the rank to be taken by the various sovereigns of Europe or by their representatives; but we should add that this Papal decree never received the sanction of the parties interested, and that the question of precedence, even at the most unimportant public ceremonies, was during the whole of the Middle Ages a perpetual source of litigation in courts of law, and of quarrels which too often ended in bloodshed. It is right that we should place at the head of political ceremonies those having reference to the coronation of sovereigns, which were not only political, but owed their supreme importance and dignity to the necessary intervention of ecclesiastical authority. We will therefore first speak of the consecration and coronation of the kings of France. Pépin le Bref, son of Charles Martel and founder of the second dynasty, was the first of the French kings who was consecrated by the religions rite of anointing. But its mode of administration for a long period underwent numerous changes, before becoming established by a definite law. Thus Pépin, after having been first consecrated in 752 in the Cathedral of Boissons, by the Archbishop of Mayence, was again consecrated with his two sons Charlemagne and Carloman, in 753, in the Abbey of St. Denis, by Pope Stephen III. Charlemagne was twice anointed by the Sovereign Pontiff, first as King of Lombardy, and then as Emperor. Louis le Débonnaire, his immediate successor, was consecrated at Rheims by Pope Stephen IV. in 816. In 877 Louis le Bègue received unction and the sceptre, at Compiègne, at the hands of the Archbishop of Rheims. Charles le Simple in 893, and Robert I. in 922, were consecrated and crowned at Rheims; but the coronation of Raoul, in 923, was celebrated in the Abbey of St. Médard de Soissons, and that of Louis d'Outremer, in 936, at Laon. From the accession of King Lothaire to that of Louis VI. (called Le Gros), the consecration of the kings of France sometimes took place in the metropolitan church of Rheims, and sometimes in other churches, but more frequently in the former. Louis VI. having been consecrated in the Cathedral of Orleans, the clergy of Rheims appealed against this supposed infraction of custom and their own special privileges. A long discussion took place, in which were brought forward the titles which the Church of Rheims possessed subsequently to the reign of Clovis to the exclusive honour of having kings consecrated in it; and King Louis le Jeune, son of Louis le Gros, who was himself consecrated at Rheims, promulgated a special decree on this question, in anticipation of the consecration of his son, Philippe Auguste. This decree finally settled the rights of this ancient church, and at the same time defined the order which was to be observed in future at the ceremony of consecration. From that date, down to the end of the reign of the Bourbons of the elder line, kings were invariably consecrated, according to legal rite, in the metropolitan church of Rheims, with the exception of Henry IV., who was crowned at Chartres by the bishop of that town, on account of the civil wars which then divided his kingdom, and caused the gates of Rheims to be closed against him. [Illustration: Fig. 386.--Coronation of Charlemagne.--Fac-simile of a Miniature in the "Chroniques de Saint-Denis," Manuscript of the Fourteenth Century (Imperial Library of Paris).] The consecration of the kings of France always took place on a Sunday. On the previous day, at the conclusion of evening prayers, the custody of the cathedral devolved upon certain royal officers, assisted by the ordinary officials. During the evening the monarch came to the church for devotion, and "according to his religions feelings, to pass part of the night in prayer," an act which was called _la veillée des armes_. A large platform, surmounted by a throne, was erected between the chancel and the great nave. Upon this assembled, besides the King and his officers of State, twelve ecclesiastical peers, together with those prelates whom the King might be pleased to invite, and six lay peers, with other officers or nobles. At daybreak, the King sent a deputation of barons to the Abbey of St. Remi for the holy vial, which was a small glass vessel called _ampoule_, from the Latin word _ampulla_, containing the holy oil to be used at the royal anointing. According to tradition, this vial was brought from heaven by a dove at the time of the consecration of Clovis. Four of the nobles remained as hostages at the abbey during the time that the Abbot of St. Remi, followed by his monks and escorted by the barons, went in procession to the cathedral to place the sacred vessel upon the altar. The abbot of St. Denis in France had in a similar manner to bring from Rheims with great pomp, and deposit by the side of the holy vial, the royal insignia, which were kept in the treasury of his monastery, and had been there since the reign of Charlemagne. They consisted of the crown, the sword sheathed, the golden spurs, the gilt sceptre, the rod adorned with an ivory handle in the form of a hand, the sandals of blue silk, embroidered with fleur de lis, the chasuble or _dalmatique_, and the _surcot_, or royal mantle, in the shape of a cape without a hood. The King, immediately on rising from his bed, entered the cathedral, and forthwith took oath to maintain the Catholio faith and the privileges of the Church, and to dispense good and impartial justice to his subjects. He then walked to the foot of the altar, and divested himself of part of his dress, having his head bare, and wearing a tunic with openings on the chest, on the shoulders, at the elbows, and in the middle of the back; these openings were closed by means of silver aigulets. The Archbishop of Rheims then drew the sword from the scabbard and handed it to the King, who passed it to the principal officer in attendance. The prelate then proceeded with the religious part of the ceremony of consecration, and taking a drop of the miraculous oil out of the holy vial by means of a gold needle, he mixed it with the holy oil from his own church. This being done, and sitting in the posture of consecration, he anointed the King, who was kneeling before him, in five different parts of the body, namely, on the forehead, on the breast, on the back, on the shoulders, and on the joints of the arms. After this the King rose up, and with the assistance of his officers, put on his royal robes. The Archbishop handed to him successively the ring, the sceptre, and the rod of justice, and lastly placed the crown on his head. At this moment the twelve peers formed themselves into a group, the lay peers being in the first rank, immediately around the sovereign, and raising their hands to the crown, they held it for a moment, and then they conducted the King to the throne. The consecrating prelate, putting down his mitre, then knelt at the feet of the monarch and took the oath of allegiance, his example being followed by the other peers and their vassals who were in attendance. At the same time, the cry of "_Vive le Roi_!" uttered by the archbishop, was repeated three times outside the cathedral by the heralds-at-arms, who shouted it to the assembled multitude. The latter replied, "_Noel! Noel! Noel!_" and scrambled for the small pieces of money thrown to them by the officers, who at the same time cried out, "_Largesse, largesse aux manants_!" Every part of this ceremony was accompanied by benedictions and prayers, the form of which was read out of the consecration service as ordered by the bishop, and the proceedings terminated by the return of the civil and religious procession which had composed the _cortège_. When the sovereign was married, his wife participated with him in the honours of the consecration, the symbolical investiture, and the coronation; but she only partook of the homage rendered to the King to a limited degree, which was meant to imply that the Queen had a less extended authority and a less exalted rank. [Illustration: Fig. 387.--Dalmatica and Sandals of Charlemagne, Insignia of the Kings of France at their Coronation, preserved in the Treasury of the Abbey of St. Denis.] The ceremonies which accompanied the accessions of the emperors of Germany (Fig. 388) are equally interesting, and were settled by a decree which the Emperor Charles IX. promulgated in 1356, at the Diet of Nuremberg. According to the terms of this decree--which is still preserved among the archives of Frankfort-on-the-Main, and which is known as the _bulle d'or_, or golden bull, from the fact of its bearing a seal of pure gold--on the death of an emperor, the Archbishop of Mayence summoned, for an appointed day, the Prince Electors of the Empire, who, during the whole course of the Middle Ages, remained seven in number, "in honour," says the bull, "of the seven candlesticks mentioned in the Apocalypse." These Electors--who occupied the same position near the Emperor that the twelve peers did in relation to the King of France--were the Archbishops of Mayence, of Trèves, and of Cologne, the King of Bohemia, the Count Palatine of the Rhine, the Duke of Saxony, and the Margrave of Brandenburg. On the appointed day, the mass of the Holy Spirit was duly solemnized in the Church of St. Bartholomew of Frankfort, a town in which not only the election of the Emperor, but also his coronation, almost always took place, though one might have supposed that Aix-la-Chapelle would have been selected for such ceremonies. The Electors attended, and after the service was concluded, they retired to the sacristy of the church, accompanied by their officers and secretaries, They had thirty days for deliberation, but beyond that period they were not allowed "to eat bread or drink water" until they had agreed, at least by a majority, to give _a temporal chief to the Christian people, that is to say, a King of the Romans, who should in due time be promoted to be Emperor_, The newly-elected prince was, in fact, at first simply _King of the Romans_, and this title was often borne by persons who were merely nominated for the office by the voice of the Electors, or by political combinations. In order to be promoted to the full measure of power and authority, the King of the Romans had to receive both religions consecration and the crown. The ceremonies adopted at this solemnity were very analogous to those used at the consecrations of the kings of France, as well as to those of installation of all Christian princes. The service was celebrated by the Archbishop of Cologne, who placed the crown on the head of the sovereign-elect, whom he consecrated Emperor. The symbols of his authority were handed to him by the Electors, and then he was proclaimed, "_Cæsar, most sacred, ever august Majesty, Emperor, of the Holy Roman Empire of the nation of Germany_." [Illustration: Fig. 388.--Costume of Emperors at their Coronation since the Time of Charlemagne.--From an Engraving in a Work entitled "Insignia Sacre Majistatis Cæsarum Principum." Frankfort, 1579, in folio.] The imperial _cortége_ then came out from the Church of St. Bartholomew, and went through the town, halting at the town-hall (called the _Roemer_, in commemoration of the noble name of Rome), where a splendid banquet, prepared in the _Kaysersaal_ (hall of the Caesars), awaited the principal performers in this august ceremony. At the moment that the Emperor set foot on the threshold of the Roemer, the Elector of Saxony, Chief Marshal of the Empire, on horseback, galloped at full speed towards a heap of oats which was piled up in the middle of the square. Holding in one hand a silver measure, and in the other a scraper of the same metal, each of which weighed six marks, he filled the measure with oats, levelled it with the scraper, and handed it over to the hereditary marshal. The rest of the heap was noisily scrambled for by the people who had been witnesses of this allegorical performance. Then the Count Palatine, as chief seneschal, proceeded to perform his part in the ceremony, which consisted of placing before the Emperor, who was sitting at table, four silver dishes, each weighing three marks. The King of Bohemia, as chief butler, handed to the monarch wine and water in a silver cup weighing twelve marks; and then the Margrave of Magdeburg presented to him a silver basin of the same weight for washing his hands. The other three Electors, or arch-chancellors, provided at their own expense the silver baton, weighing twelve marks, suspended to which one of them carried the seals of the empire. Lastly, the Emperor, and with him the Empress if he was married, the princes, and the Electors, sat down to a banquet at separate tables, and were waited upon by their respective officers. On another table or stage were placed the Imperial insignia. The ceremony was concluded outside by public rejoicings: fountains were set to play; wine, beer, and other beverages were distributed; gigantic bonfires were made, at which whole oxen were roasted; refreshment tables were set out in the open air, at which any one might sit down and partake, and, in a word, every bounty as well as every amusement was provided. In this way for centuries public fêtes were celebrated on these occasions. [Illustration: Fig. 389.--Imperial Procession.--From an Engraving of the "Solemn Entry of Charles V. and Clement VII. into Bologna," by L. de Cranach, from a Fresco by Brusasorci, of Verona.] The doges of Venice, as well as the emperors of Germany, and some other heads of states, differed from other Christian sovereigns in this respect, that, instead of holding their high office by hereditary or divine right, they were installed therein by election. At Venice, a conclave, consisting of forty electors, appointed by a much more numerous body of men of high position, elected the Doge, or president of _the most serene Republic_. From the day when Laurent Tiepolo, immediately after his election in 1268, was spontaneously carried in triumph by the Venetian sailors, it became the custom for a similar ovation to take place in honour of any newly-elected doge. In order to do this, the workmen of the harbour had the new Doge seated in a splendid palanquin, and carried him on their shoulders in great pomp round the Piazza San Marco. But another still more characteristic ceremony distinguished this magisterial election. On Ascension Day, the Doge, entering a magnificent galley, called the _Bucentaur_, which was elegantly equipped, and resplendent with gold and precious stuffs, crossed the Grand Canal, went outside the town, and proceeded in the midst of a nautical _cortége_, escorted by bands of music, to the distance of about a league from the town on the Adriatic Gulf. Then the Patriarch of Venice gave his blessing to the sea, and the Doge, taking the helm, threw a gold ring into the water, saying, "O sea! I espouse thee in the name, and in token, of our true and perpetual sovereignty." Immediately the waters were strewed with flowers, and the shouts of joy, and the clapping of hands of the crowd, were intermingled with the strains of instruments of music of all sorts, whilst the glorious sky of Venice smiled on the poetic scene. The greater part of the principal ceremonies of the Middle Ages acquired, from various accessory and local circumstances, a character of grandeur well fitted to impress the minds of the populace. On these memorable occasions the exhibition of some historical memorial, of certain traditional symbols, of certain relics, &c., brought to the recollection the most celebrated events in national history--events already possessing the prestige of antiquity as well as the veneration of the people. Thus, as a memorial of the consecration of the kings of Hungary, the actual crown of holy King Stephen was used; at the consecration of the kings of England, the actual chair of Edward the Confessor was used; at the consecration of the emperors of Germany, the imperial insignia actually used by Charlemagne formed part of the display; at the consecration of the kings of France at a certain period, the hand of justice of St. Louis, which has been before alluded to, was produced. [Illustration: Fig. 390.--Standards of the Church and the Empire.--Reduced from an Engraving of the "Entry of Charles V. and Clement VII. into Bologna," by Lucas de Cranach, from a Fresco by Brusasorci, of Verona.] After their consecration by the Church and by the spiritual power, the sovereigns had simply to take actual possession of their dominions, and, so to speak, of their subjects. This positive act of sovereignty was often accompanied by another class of ceremonies, called _joyous entry_, or _public entry._ These entries, of which numerous accounts have been handed down to us by historians, and which for the most part were very varied in character, naturally took place in the capital city. We will limit ourselves to transcribing the account given by the ancient chronicler, Juvenal des Ursins, of the entry into Paris of Queen Isabel of Bavaria, wife of Charles VI., which was a curious specimen of the public fêtes of this kind. [Illustration: Fig. 391.--Grand Procession of the Doge, Venice (Sixteenth Century).--Reduced from one of fourteen Engravings representing this Ceremony, designed and engraved by J. Amman.] "In the year 1389, the King was desirous that the Queen should make a public entry into Paris, and this he made known to the inhabitants, in order that they should make preparations for it. And there were at each cross roads divers _histoires_ (historical representations, pictures, or tableaux vivants), and fountains sending forth water, wine, and milk. The people of Paris in great numbers went out to meet the Queen, with the Provost of the Merchants, crying '_Noel!_' The bridge by which she passed was covered with blue taffeta, embroidered with golden fleurs-de-lys. A man of light weight, dressed in the guise of an angel, came down, by means of some well-constructed machinery, from one of the towers of Notre-Dame, to the said bridge through an opening in the said blue taffeta, at the moment when the Queen was passing, and placed a beautiful crown on her head. After he had done this, he withdrew through the said opening by the same means, and thus appeared as if he were returning to the skies of his own accord. Before the Grand Chastelet there was a splendid court adorned with azure tapestry, which was intended to be a representation of the _lit-de-justice,_ and it was very large and richly decorated. In the middle of it was a very large pure white artificial stag, its horns gilt, and its neck encircled with a crown of gold. It was so ingeniously constructed that its eyes, horns, mouth, and all its limbs, were put in motion by a man who was secreted within its body. Hanging to its neck were the King's arms--that is to say, three gold fleur-de-lys on an azure shield.... Near the stag there was a large sword, beautiful and bright, unsheathed; and when the Queen passed, the stag was made to take the sword in the right fore-foot, to hold it out straight, and to brandish it. It was reported to the King that the said preparations were made, and he said to Savoisy, who was one of those nearest to him, 'Savoisy, I earnestly entreat thee to mount a good horse, and I will ride behind thee, and we will so dress ourselves that no one will know us, and let us go and see the entry of my wife.' And, although Savoisy did all he could to dissuade him, the King insisted, and ordered that it should be done. So Savoisy did what the King had ordered, and disguised himself as well as he could, and mounted on a powerful horse with the King behind him. They went through the town, and managed so as to reach the Chastelet at the time the Queen was passing. There was a great crowd, and Savoisy placed himself as near as he could, and there were sergeants on all sides with thick birch wands, who, in order to prevent the crowd from pressing upon and injuring the court where the stag was, hit away with their wands as hard as they could. Savoisy struggled continually to get nearer and nearer, and the sergeants, who neither knew the King nor Savoisy, struck away at them, and the King received several very hard and well-directed blows on the shoulders. In the evening, in the presence of the ladies, the matter was talked over, and they began to joke about it, and even the King himself laughed at the blows he had received. The Queen on her entry was seated on a litter, and very magnificently dressed, as were also the ladies and maids of honour. It was indeed a splendid sight; and if any one wished to describe the dresses of the ladies, of the knights and squires, and of those who escorted the Queen, it would take a long time to do so. After supper, singing and dancing commenced, which continued until daylight. The next day there were tournaments and other sports" (Fig. 392). [Illustration: Entry of Charles the Seventh into Paris A miniature from _Monstrelet the Chronicles_ in the Bibl. nat. de Paris, no 20,861 Costumes of the Sixteenth century.] [Illustration: Fig. 392.--Tournaments in honour of the Entry of Queen Isabel into Paris--From a Miniature in the "Chroniques" of Froissart, Manuscript of the Fifteenth Century (National Library of Paris).] [Illustration: Fig. 393.--Seat of Justice, held by King Philippe de Valois, on the 8th April, 1332, for the Trial of Robert, Comte d'Artois.--From a Pen-and-ink Sketch in an Original Manuscript (Arch. of the Empire)] In the course of this simple and graphic description mention has been made of the _lit de justice_ (seat of justice). All judicial or legislative assemblies at which the King considered it his duty to be present were thus designated; when the King came there simply as a looker-on, they were more commonly called _plaidoyers_, and, in this case, no change was made in the ordinary arrangements; but when the King presided they were called _conseils_, and then a special ceremonial was required. In fact, by _lit de justice_ (Fig. 393), or _cour des pairs_, we understand a court consisting of the high officers of the crown, and of the great executive of the State, whose duty it was to determine whether any peer of France should be tried on a criminal charge; gravely to deliberate on any political matter of special interest; or to register, in the name of the absolute sovereignty of the King, any edict of importance. We know the prominent, and, we may say, even the fatal, part played by these solemnities, which were being continually re-enacted, and on every sort of pretext, during the latter days of monarchy. These courts were always held with impressive pomp. The sovereign usually summoned to them the princes of the blood royal and the officers of his household; the members of the Parliament took their seats in scarlet robes, the presidents being habited in their caps and their mantles, and the registrars of the court also wearing their official dress. The High Chancellor, the First Chamberlain, and the Provost of Paris, sat at the King's feet. The Chancellor of France, the presidents and councillors of the Parliament, occupied the bar, and the ushers of the court were in a kneeling posture. Having thus mentioned the assemblies of persons of distinction, the interviews of sovereigns (Fig. 394), and the reception of ambassadors--without describing them in detail, which would involve more space than we have at our command--we will enter upon the subject of the special ceremonial adopted by the nobility, taking as our guide the standard book called "Honneurs de la Cour," compiled at the end of the fifteenth century by the celebrated Aliénor de Poitiers. In addition to her own observations, she gives those of her mother, Isabelle de Souza, who herself had but continued the work of another noble lady, Jeanne d'Harcourt--married in 1391 to the Count William de Namur--who was considered the best authority to be found in the kingdom of France. This collection of the customs of the court forms a kind of family diary embracing three generations, and extending back over more than a century. Notwithstanding the curious and interesting character of this book, and the authority which it possesses on this subject, we cannot, much to our regret, do more than borrow a few passages from it; but these, carefully selected, will no doubt suffice to give some idea of the manners and customs of the nobility during the fifteenth century, and to illustrate the laws of etiquette of which it was the recognised code. One of the early chapters of the work sets forth this fundamental law of French ceremonial, namely, that, "according to the traditions or customs of France, women, however exalted their position, be they even king's daughters, rank with their husbands." We find on the occasion of the marriage of King Charles VII. with Mary of Anjou, in 1413, although probably there had never been assembled together so many princes and ladies of rank, that at the banquet the ladies alone dined with the Queen, "and no gentlemen sat with them." We may remark, whilst on this subject, that before the reign of Francis I. it was not customary for the two sexes to be associated together in the ordinary intercourse of court life; and we have elsewhere remarked (see chapter on Private Life) that this departure from ancient custom exerted a considerable influence, not only on manners, but also on public affairs. [Illustration: Fig. 394.--Interview of King Charles V. with the Emperor Charles IV. in Paris in 1378.--Fac-simile of a Miniature in the Description of this Interview, Manuscript of the Fifteenth Century, in the Library of the Arsenal of Paris.] The authoress of the "Honneurs de la Cour" specially mentions the respect which Queen Mary of Anjou paid to the Duchess of Burgundy when she was at Châlons in Champagne in 1445: "The Duchess came with all her retinue, on horseback and in carriages, into the courtyard of the mansion where the King and Queen were, and there alighted, her first maid of honour acting as her train-bearer. M. de Bourbon gave her his right hand, and the gentlemen went on in front. In this manner she was conducted to the hall which served as the ante-chamber to the Queen's apartment. There she stopped, and sent in M. de Crequi to ask the Queen if it was her pleasure that she should enter.... When the Duchess came to the door she took the train of her dress from the lady who bore it and let it trail on the ground, and as she entered she knelt and then adyanced to the middle of the room. There she made the same obeisance, and moved straight towards the Queen, who was standing close to the foot of her throne. When the Duchess had performed a further act of homage, the Queen advanced two or three steps, and the Duchess fell on her knees; the Queen then put her hand on her shoulder, embraced her, kissed her, and commanded her to rise." The Duchess then went up to Margaret of Scotland, wife of the Dauphin, afterwards Louis XI., "who was four or five feet from the Queen," and paid her the same honours as she had done to the Queen, although the Dauphine appeared to wish to prevent her from absolutely kneeling to her. After this she turned towards the Queen of Sicily (Isabelle de Lorraine, wife of René of Anjou, brother-in-law of the King), "who was two or three feet from the Dauphine," and merely bowed to her, and the same to another Princess, Madame de Calabre, who was still more distantly connected with the blood royal. Then the Queen, and after her the Dauphine, kissed the three maids of honour of the Duchess and the wives of the gentlemen. The Duchess did the same to the ladies who accompanied the Queen and the Dauphine, "but of those of the Queen of Sicily the Duchess kissed none, inasmuch as the Queen had not kissed hers. And the Duchess would not walk behind the Queen, for she said that the Duke of Burgundy was nearer the crown of France than was the King of Sicily, and also that she was daughter of the King of Portugal, who was greater than the King of Sicily." Further on, from the details given of a similar reception, we learn that etiquette was not at that time regulated by the laws of politeness as now understood, inasmuch as the voluntary respect paid by men to the gentle sex was influenced much by social rank. Thus, at the time of a visit of Louis XI., then Dauphin, to the court of Brussels, to which place he went to seek refuge against the anger of his father, the Duchesses of Burgundy, of Charolais, and of Clèves, his near relatives, exhibited towards him all the tokens of submission and inferiority which he might have received from a vassal. The Dauphin, it is true, wished to avoid this homage, and a disussion on the subject of "more than a quarter of an hour ensued;" at last he took the Duchess of Burgundy by the arm and led her away, in order to cut short the ceremonies "about which Madame made so much to do." This, however, did not prevent the princesses, on their withdrawing, from kneeling to the ground in order to show their respect for the son of the King of France. [Illustration: Fig. 395.--The Entry of Louis XI. into Paris.--Fac-simile of a Miniature in the "Chroniques" of Monstrelet, Manuscript of the Fifteenth Century (Imperial Library of Paris).] We have already seen that the Duchess of Burgundy, when about to appear before the Queen, took her train from her train-bearer in order that she might carry it herself. In this she was only conforming to a general principle, which was, that in the presence of a superior, a person, however high his rank, should not himself receive honours whilst at the same time paying them to another. Thus a duke and a duchess amidst their court had all the things which were used at their table covered--hence the modern expression, _mettre le couvert_ (to lay the cloth)--even the wash-hand basin and the _cadenas_, a kind of case in which the cups, knives, and other table articles were kept; but when they were entertaining a king all these marks of superiority were removed, as a matter of etiquette, from the table at which they sat, and were passed on as an act of respect to the sovereign present. The book of Dame Aliénor, in a series of articles to which we shall merely allude, speaks at great length and enters into detail respecting the interior arrangements of the rooms in which princes and other noble children were born. The formalities gone through on these occasions were as curious as they were complicated; and Dame Aliénor regretted to see them falling into disuse, "owing to which," she says, "we fear that the possessions of the great houses of the nobility are getting too large, as every one admits, and chicanery or concealment of birth, so as to make away with too many children, is on the increase." Mourning is the next subject which we shall notice. The King never wore black for mourning, not even for his father, but scarlet or violet. The Queen wore white, and did not leave her apartments for a whole year. Hence the name of _château, hôtel,_ or _tour de la Reine Blanche_, which many of the buildings of the Middle Ages still bear, from the fact that widowed queens inhabited them during the first year of their widowhood. On occasions of mourning, the various reception rooms of a house were hung with black. In deep mourning, such as that for a husband or a father, a lady wore neither gloves, jewels, nor silk. The head was covered with a low black head-dress, with trailing lappets, called _chaperons, barbettes, couvre-chefs_, and _tourets_. A duchess and the wife of a knight or a banneret, on going into mourning, stayed in their apartments for six weeks; the former, during the whole of this time, when in deep mourning, remained lying down all day on a bed covered with a white sheet; whereas the latter, at the end of nine days, got up, and until the six weeks were over, remained sitting in front of the bed on a black sheet. Ladies did not attend the funerals of their husbands, though it was usual for them to be present at those of their fathers and mothers. For an elder brother, they wore the same mourning as for a father, but they did not lie down as above described. [Illustration: Fig. 396.--"How the King-at-Arms presents the Sword to the Duke of Bourbon."--From a Miniature in "Tournois du Roi René," Manuscript of the Fifteenth Century (Imperial Library of Paris).] In their everyday intercourse with one another, kings, princes, dukes, and duchesses called one another _monsieur_ and _madame_, adding the Christian name or that of the estate. A superior speaking or writing to an inferior, might prefix to his or her title of relationship _beau_ or _belle_; for instance, _mon bel oncle, ma belle cousine_. People in a lower sphere of life, on being introduced to one another, did not say, "Monsieur Jean, ma belle tante"--"Mr. John, allow me to introduce you to my aunt"--but simply, "Jean, ma tante." The head of a house had his seat under a canopy or _dosseret_ (Fig. 396), which he only relinquished to his sovereign, when he had the honour of entertaining him. "Such," says Aliénor, in conclusion, "are the points of etiquette which are observed in Germany, in France, in Naples, in Italy, and in all other civilised countries and kingdoms." We may here remark, that etiquette, after having originated in France, spread throughout all Christian nations, and when it had become naturalised, as it were, amongst the latter, it acquired a settled position, which it retained more firmly than it did in France. In this latter country, it was only from the seventeenth century, and particularly under Louis XIV., that court etiquette really became a science, and almost a species of religions observance, whose minutiae were attended to as much as if they were sacramental rites, though they were not unfrequently of the most childish character, and whose pomp and precision often caused the most insufferable annoyance. But notwithstanding the perpetual changes of times and customs, the French nation has always been distinguished for nobility and dignity, tempered with good sense and elegance. If we now direct our attention to the _tiers état_, that class which, to quote a celebrated expression, "was destined to become everything, after having for a long time been looked upon as nothing," we shall notice that there, too, custom and tradition had much to do with ceremonies of all kinds. The presence of the middle classes not only gave, as it were, a stamp of grandeur to fêtes of an aristocratic and religions character, but, in addition, the people themselves had a number of ceremonies of every description, in which etiquette was not one whit less strict than in those of the court. The variety of civic and popular ceremonies is so great, that it would require a large volume, illustrated with numerous engravings, to explain fully their characteristic features. The simple enumeration of the various public fêtes, each of which was necessarily accompanied by a distinct ceremonial, would take up much time were we to attempt to give it even in the shortest manner. [Illustration: Fig. 397.--Entry of the Roi de l'Epinette at Lille, in the Sixteenth Century.--From a Miniature in a Manuscript of the Library of Rouen.] Besides the numerous ceremonies which were purely religious, namely, the procession of the _Fête-Dieu_, in Rogation week, and the fêtes which were both of a superstitions and burlesque character, such as _des Fous, de l'Ane, des Innocents_, and others of the same kind, so much in vogue during the Middle Ages, and which we shall describe more in detail hereafter, we should like to mention the military or gymnastic fêtes. Amongst these were what were called the processions of the _Confrères de l'Arquebuse_, the _Archers_, the _Papegaut_, the _roi de l'Epinette_, at Lille (Fig. 397), and the _Forestier_ at Bruges. There were also what may be termed the fêtes peculiar to certain places, such as those of _Béhors_, of the _Champs Galat_ at Epinal, of the _Laboureurs_ at Montélimar, of _Guy l'an neuf_ at Anjou. Also of the fêtes of _May_, of the _sheaf_, of the _spring_, of the _roses_, of the _fires of St. John_, &c. Then there were the historical or commemorative fêtes, such as those of the _Géant Reuss_ at Dunkerque, of the _Gayant_ at Douai, &c.; also of _Guet de Saint-Maxime_ at Riez in Provence, the processions of _Jeanne d'Arc_ at Orleans, of _Jeanne Hachette_ at Beauvais; and lastly, the numerous fêtes of public corporations, such as the _Écoliers_, the _Nations_, the _Universités_; also the _Lendit_, the _Saint-Charlemagne_, the _Baillée des roses au Parlement_; the literary fêtes of the _Pays et Chambres de rhetorique_ of Picardy and Flanders, of the _Clémence Isaure_ at Toulouse, and of the _Capitole_ at Rome, &c.; the fêtes of the _Serments, Métiers_, and _Devoirs_ of the working men's corporation; and lastly, the _Fêtes Patronales_, called also _Assemblées, Ducasses, Folies, Foires, Kermesses, Pardons_, &c. From this simple enumeration, it can easily be understood what a useless task we should impose upon ourselves were we merely to enter upon so wide and difficult a subject. Apart from the infinite variety of details resulting from the local circumstances under which these ceremonies had been instituted, which were everywhere celebrated at fixed periods, a kind of general principle regulated and directed their arrangement. Nearly all these fêtes and public rejoicings, which to a certain extent constituted the common basis of popular ceremonial, bore much analogy to one another. There are, however, certain peculiarities less known and more striking than the rest, which deserve to be mentioned, and we shall then conclude this part of our subject. [Illustration: Fig. 398.--Representation of a Ballet before Henri III. and his Court, in the Gallery of the Louvre.--Fac-simile of an Engraving on Copper of the "Ballet de la Royne," by Balthazar de Beaujoyeulx (folio, Paris, Mamert Patisson, 1582.)] Those rites, ceremonies, and customs, which are the most commonly observed, and which most persistently keep their place amongst us, are far from being of modern origin. Thus, the custom of jovially celebrating the commencement of the new year, or of devoting certain particular days to festivity, is still universally followed in every country in the world. The practice of sending presents on _New Year's Day_ is to be found among civilised nations in the East as well as in our own country. In the Middle Ages the intimate friends of princes, and especially of the kings of France, received Christmas gifts, for which they considered themselves bound to make an ample return. In England these interchanges of generosity also take place on Christmas Day. In Russia, on Easter Day, the people, on meeting in the street, salute one another by saying "Christ is risen." These practices, as well as many others, have no doubt been handed down to us from the early ages of Christianity. The same may be said of a vast number of customs of a more or less local character, which have been observed in various countries for centuries. In former times, at Ochsenbach, in Wurtemberg, during the carnival, women held a feast at which they were waited upon by men, and, after it was over, they formed themselves into a sort of court of plenary indulgence, from which the men were uniformly excluded, and sat in judgment on one another. At Ramerupt, a small town in Champagne, every year, on the 1st of May, twenty of the citizens repaired to the adjoining hamlet of St. Remy, hunting as they went along. They were called _the fools of Rameru_, and it was said that the greatest fool led the band. The inhabitants of St. Remy were bound to receive them gratuitously, and to supply them, as well as their horses and dogs, with what they required, to have a mass said for them, to put up with all the absurd vagaries of the captain and his troop, and to supply them with a _fine and handsome horned ram,_ which was led back in triumph. On their return into Ramerupt they set up shouts at the door of the curé, the procurator fiscal, and the collector of taxes, and, after the invention of gunpowder, fireworks were let off. They then went to the market-place, where they danced round the ram, which was decorated with ribbons. No doubt this was a relic of the feasts of ancient heathenism. A more curious ceremony still, whose origin, we think, may be traced to the Dionysian feasts of heathenism, has continued to be observed to this day at Béziers. It bears the names of the _Feast of Pepézuch_, the _Triumph of Béziers,_ or the _Feast of Caritats_ or _Charités_. At the bottom of the Rue Française at Béziers, a statue is to be seen which, notwithstanding the mutilations to which it has been subjected, still distinctly bears traces of being an ancient work of the most refined period of art. This statue represents Pepézuch, a citizen of Béziers, who, according to somewhat questionable tradition, valiantly defended the town against the Goths, or, as some say, against the English; its origin, therefore, cannot be later than the thirteenth century. On Ascension Day, the day of the Feast of Pepézuch, an immense procession went about the town. Three remarkable machines were particularly noticeable; the first was an enormous wooden camel made to walk by mechanism, and to move its limbs and jaws; the second was a galley on wheels fully manned; the third consisted of a cart on which a travelling theatre was erected. The consuls and other civic authorities, the corporations of trades having the pastors walking in front of them, the farriers on horseback, all bearing their respective insignia and banners, formed the procession. A double column, composed of a division of young men and young women holding white hoops decorated with ribbons and many-coloured streamers, was preceded by a young girl crowned with flowers, half veiled, and carrying a basket. This brilliant procession marched to the sound of music, and, at certain distances, the youthful couples of the two sexes halted, in order to perform, with the assistance of their hoops, various figures, which were called the _Danse des Treilles_. The machines also stopped from time to time at various places. The camel was especially made to enter the Church of St. Aphrodise, because it was said that the apostle had first come on a camel to preach the Gospel in that country, and there to receive the palm of martyrdom. On arriving before the statue of Pepézuch the young people decorated it with garlands. When the square of the town was reached, the theatre was stopped like the ancient car of Thespis, and the actors treated the people to a few comical drolleries in imitation of Aristophanes. From the galley the youths flung sugar-plums and sweetmeats, which the spectators returned in equal profusion. The procession closed with a number of men, crowned with green leaves, carrying on their heads loaves of bread, which, with other provisions contained in the galley, were distributed amongst the poor of the town. In Germany and in France it was the custom at the public entries of kings, princes, and persons of rank, to offer them the wines made in the district and commonly sold in the town. At Langres, for instance, these wines were put into four pewter vessels called _cimaises_, which are still to be seen. They were called the _lion, monkey, sheep_, and _pig_ wines, symbolical names, which expressed the different degrees or phases of drunkenness which they were supposed to be capable of producing: the lion, courage; the monkey, cunning; the sheep, good temper; the pig, bestiality. We will now conclude by borrowing, from the excellent work of M. Alfred Michiels on Dutch and Flemish painting, the abridged description of a procession of corporations of trades, which took place at Antwerp in 1520, on the Sunday after Ascension Day. "All the corporations of trades were present, every member being dressed in his best suit." In front of each guild a banner floated; and immediately behind an enormous lighted wax-taper was carried. March music was played on long silver trumpets, flutes, and drums. The goldsmiths, painters, masons, silk embroiderers, sculptors, carpenters, boatmen, fishermen, butchers, curriers, drapers, bakers, tailors, and men of every other trade marched two abreast. Then came crossbowmen, arquebusiers, archers, &c., some on foot and some on horseback. After them came the various monastic orders; and then followed a crowd of bourgeois magnificently dressed. A numerous company of widows, dressed in white from head to foot, particularly attracted attention; they constituted a sort of sisterhood, observing certain rules, and gaining their livelihood by various descriptions of manual work. The cathedral canons and the other priests walked in the procession in their gorgeous silk vestments sparkling with gold. Twenty persons carried on their shoulders a huge figure of the Virgin, with the infant Saviour in her arms, splendidly decorated. At the end of the procession were chariots and ships on wheels. There were various groups in the procession representing scenes from the Old and New Testament, such as the _Salutation of the Angels_, the _Visitation of the Magi_, who appeared riding on camels, the _Flight into Egypt_, and other well-known historical incidents. The last machine represented a dragon being led by St. Margaret with a magnificent bridle, and was followed by St. George and several brilliantly attired knights. [Illustration: Fig. 399.--Sandal and Buskin of Charlemagne.--From the Abbey of St. Denis.] Costumes. Influence of Ancient Costume.--Costume in the Fifth Century.--Hair.--Costumes in the Time of Charlemagne.--Origin of Modern National Dress.--Head-dresses and Beards: Time of St. Louis.--Progress of Dress: Trousers, Hose, Shoes, Coats, Surcoats, Capes.--Changes in the Fashions of Shoes and Hoods.--_Livrée_,--Cloaks and Capes.--Edicts against Extravagant Fashions.--Female Dress: Gowns, Bonnets, Head-dresses, &c.--Disappearance of Ancient Dress.--Tight-fitting Gowns.--General Character of Dress under Francis I.--Uniformity of Dress. Long garments alone were worn by the ancients, and up to the period when the barbarous tribes of the North made their appearance, or rather, until the invasion of the Roman Empire by these wandering nations, male and female dress differed but little. The Greeks made scarcely any change in their mode of dress for centuries; but the Romans, on becoming masters of the world, partially adopted the dress and arms of the people they had conquered, where they considered them an improvement on their own, although the original style of dress was but little altered (Figs. 400 and 401). Roman attire consisted of two garments--the under garment, or _tunic_, and the outer garment, or _cloak_; the latter was known under the various names of _chlamys, toga_, and _pallium_, but, notwithstanding these several appellations, there was scarcely any appreciable distinction between them. The simple tunic with sleeves, which answered to our shirt, was like the modern blouse in shape, and was called by various names. The _chiridota_ was a tunic with long and large sleeves, of Asiatic origin; the _manuleata_ was a tunic with long and tight sleeves coming to the wrists; the _talaris_ was a tunic reaching to the feet; the _palmata_ was a state tunic, embroidered with palms, which ornamentation was often found in other parts of dress. The _lacerna_, _loena_, _cucullus_, _chlamys_, _sagum_, _paludamentum_, were upper garments, more or less coarse, either full or scant, and usually short, and were analogous to our cloaks, mantles, &c., and were made both with and without hoods. There were many varieties of the tunic and cloak invented by female ingenuity, as well as of other articles of dress, which formed elegant accessories to the toilet, but there was no essential alteration in the national costume, nor was there any change in the shape of the numerous descriptions of shoes. The barbarian invasions brought about a revolution in the dress as well as in the social state of the people, and it is from the time of these invasions that we may date, properly speaking, the history of modern dress; for the Roman costume, which was in use at the same time as that of the Franks, the Huns, the Vandals, the Goths, &c., was subjected to various changes down to the ninth century. These modifications increased afterwards to such an extent that, towards the fourteenth century, the original type had altogether disappeared. [Illustration: Figs. 400 and 401.--Gallo-Roman Costumes.--From Bas-reliefs discovered in Paris in 1711 underneath the Choir of Notre-Dame.] It was quite natural that men living in a temperate climate, and bearing arms only when in the service of the State, should be satisfied with garments which they could wear without wrapping themselves up too closely. The northern nations, on the contrary, had early learned to protect themselves against the severity of the climate in which they lived. Thus the garments known by them as _braies_, and by the Parthians as _sarabara_, doubtless gave origin to those which have been respectively called by us _chausses, haut-de-chausses, trousses, grègues, culottes, pantalons_, &c. These wandering people had other reasons for preferring the short and close-fitting garments to those which were long and full, and these were their innate pugnacity, which forced them ever to be under arms, their habit of dwelling in forests and thickets, their love of the chase, and their custom of wearing armour. The ancient Greeks and Romans always went bareheaded in the towns; but in the country, in order to protect themselves from the direct rays of the sun, they wore hats much resembling our round hats, made of felt, plaited rushes, or straw. Other European nations of the same period also went bareheaded, or wore caps made of skins of animals, having no regularity of style, and with the shape of which we are but little acquainted. Shoes, and head-dresses of a definite style, belong to a much more modern period, as also do the many varieties of female dress, which have been known at all times and in all countries under the general name of _robes_. The girdle was only used occasionally, and its adoption depended on circumstances; the women used it in the same way as the men, for in those days it was never attached to the dress. The great difference in modern female costume consists in the fact of the girdle being part of the dress, thus giving a long or short waist, according to the requirements of fashion. In the same manner, a complete revolution took place in men's dress according as loose or tight, long or short sleeves were introduced. We shall commence our historical sketch from the fifth century, at which period we can trace the blending of the Roman with the barbaric costume--namely, the combination of the long, shapeless garment with that which was worn by the Germans, and which was accompanied by tight-fitting braies. Thus, in the recumbent statue which adorned the tomb of Clovis, in the Church of the Abbey of St. Geneviève, the King is represented as wearing the _tunic_ and the _toga_, but, in addition, Gallo-Roman civilization had actually given him tight-fitting braies, somewhat similar to what we now call pantaloons. Besides this, his tunic is fastened by a belt; which, however, was not a novelty in his time, for the women then wore long dresses, fastened at the waist by a girdle. There is nothing very remarkable about his shoes, since we find that the shoe, or closed sandal, was worn from the remotest periods by nearly all nations (Figs. 402 and 403). [Illustration: Fig. 402.--Costume of King Clovis (Sixth Century).--From a Statue on his Tomb, formerly in the Abbey of St. Geneviève.] [Illustration: Fig. 403.--Costume of King Childebert (Seventh Century).--From a Statue formerly placed in the Refectory of the Abbey of St. Germain-des-Prés.] The cloak claims an equally ancient origin. The principal thing worthy of notice is the amount of ornament with which the Franks enriched their girdles and the borders of their tunics and cloaks. This fashion they borrowed from the Imperial court, which, having been transferred from Rome to Constantinople during the third century, was not slow to adopt the luxury of precious stones and other rich decorations commonly in use amongst Eastern nations. Following the example of Horace de Vielcastel, the learned author of a history of the costumes of France, we may here state that it is very difficult, if not impossible, to define the exact costume during the time of the early Merovingian periods. The first writers who have touched upon this subject have spoken of it very vaguely, or not being contemporaries of the times of which they wrote, could only describe from tradition or hearsay. Those monuments in which early costume is supposed to be represented are almost all of later date, when artists, whether sculptors or painters, were not very exact in their delineations of costume, and even seemed to imagine that no other style could have existed before their time than the one with which they were daily familiar. In order to be as accurate as possible, although, after all, we can only speak hypothetically, we cannot do better than call to mind, on the one hand, what Tacitus says of the Germans, that they "were almost naked, excepting for a short and tight garment round their waists, and a little square cloak which they threw over the right shoulder," and, on the other, to carry ourselves back in imagination to the ancient Roman costume. We may notice, moreover, the curious description given of the Franks by Sidoine Apollinaire, who says, "They tied up their flaxen or light-brown hair above their foreheads, into a kind of tuft, and then made it fall behind the head like a horse's tail. The face was clean shaved, with the exception of two long moustaches. They wore cloth garments, fitting tight to the body and limbs, and a broad belt, to which they hung their swords." But this is a sketch made at a time when the Frankish race was only known among the Gauls through its marauding tribes, whose raids, from time to time, spread terror and dismay throughout the countries which they visited. From the moment when the uncultivated tribes of ancient Germany formally took possession of the territory which they had withdrawn from Roman rule, they showed themselves desirous of adopting the more gentle manners of the conquered nation. "In imitation of their chief," says M. Jules Quicherat, the eminent antiquarian, "more than once the Franks doffed the war coat and the leather Belt, and assumed the toga of Roman dignity. More than once their flaxen hair was shown to advantage by flowing over the imperial mantle, and the gold of the knights, the purple of the senators and patricians, the triumphal crowns, the fasces, and, in short, everything which the Roman Empire invented in order to exhibit its grandeur, assisted in adding to that of our ancestors." [Illustration: Figs. 404 and 405.--Saints in the Costume of the Sixth to the Eighth Centuries.--From Miniatures in old Manuscripts of the Royal Library of Brussels (Designs by Count H. de Vielcastel).] One great and characteristic difference between the Romans and the Franks should, however, be specially mentioned; namely, in the fashion of wearing the hair long, a fashion never adopted by the Romans, and which, during the whole of the first dynasty, was a distinguishing mark of kings and nobles among the Franks. Agathias, the Greek historian, says, "The hair is never cut from the heads of the Frankish kings' sons. From early youth their hair falls gracefully over their shoulders, it is parted on the forehead, and falls equally on both sides; it is with them a matter to which they give special attention." We are told, besides, that they sprinkled it with gold-dust, and plaited it in small bands, which they ornamented with pearls and precious metals. Whilst persons of rank were distinguished by their long and flowing hair, the people wore theirs more or less short, according to the degree of freedom which they possessed, and the serfs had their heads completely shaved. It was customary for the noble and free classes to swear by their hair, and it was considered the height of politeness to pull out a hair and present it to a person. Frédégaire, the chronicler, relates that Clovis thus pulled out a hair in order to do honour to St. Germer, Bishop of Toulouse, and presented it to him; upon this, the courtiers hastened to imitate their sovereign, and the venerable prelate returned home with his hand full of hair, delighted at the flattering reception he had met with at the court of the Frankish king. Durinig the Merovingian period, the greatest insult that could be offered to a freeman was to touch him with a razor or scissors. The degradation of kings and princes was carried out in a public manner by shaving their heads and sending them into a monastery; on their regaining their rights and their authority, their hair was always allowed to grow again. We may also conclude that great importance was attached to the preservation of the hair even under the kings of the second dynasty, for Charlemagne, in his Capitulaires, orders the hair to be removed as a punishment in certain crimes. The Franks, faithful to their ancient custom of wearing the hair long, gradually gave up shaving the face. At first, they only left a small tuft on the chin, but by degrees they allowed this to increase, and in the sixth and seventh centuries freemen adopted the usual form of beard. Amongst the clergy, the custom prevailed of shaving the crown of the head, in the same way as that adopted by certain monastic orders in the present day. Priests for a long time wore beards, but ceased to do so on their becoming fashionable amongst the laity (Figs. 406, 407). Painters and sculptors therefore commit a serious error in representing the prelates and monks of those times with large beards. As far as the monumental relics of those remote times allow us to judge, the dress as worn by Clovis underwent but trifing modifications during the first dvnasty; but during the reigns of Pepin and Charlemagne considerable changes were effected, which resulted from the intercourse, either of a friendly or hostile nature, between the Franks and the southern nations. About this time, silk stuffs were introduced into the kingdom, and the upper classes, in order to distinguish themselves from the lower, had their garments trimmed round with costly furs (see chapter on Commerce). [Illustration: Fig. 406 and 407.--Costume of the Prelates from the Eighth to the Tenth Centuries--After Miniatures in the "Missal of St. Gregory," in the National Library of Paris.] We have before stated (see chapter on Private Life) that Charlemagne, who always was very simple in his tastes, strenuously set his face against these novel introductions of luxury, which he looked upon as tending to do harm. "Of what use are these cloaks?" he said; "in bed they cannot cover us, on horseback they can neither protect us from the rain nor the wind, and when we are sitting they can neither preserve our legs from the cold nor the damp." He himself generally wore a large tunic made of otters' skins. On one occasion his courtiers went out hunting with him, clothed in splendid garments of southern fashion, which became much torn by the briars, and begrimed with the blood of the animals they had killed. "Oh, ye foolish men!" he said to them the next day as he showed them his own tunic, which a servant had just returned to him in perfect condition, after having simply dried it before the fire and rubbed it with his hands. "Whose garments are the more valuable and the more useful? mine, for which I have only paid a sou (about twenty-two francs of present money), or yours, which have cost so much?" From that time, whenever this great king entered on a campaign, the officers of his household, even the most rich and powerful, did not dare to show themselves in any clothes but those made of leather, wool, or cloth; for had they, on such occasions, made their appearance dressed in silk and ornaments, he would have sharply reproved them and have treated them as cowards, or as effeminate, and consequently unfit for the work in which he was about to engage. Nevertheless, this monarch, who so severely proscribed luxury in daily life, made the most magnificent display on the occasions of political or religious festivals, when the imperial dignity with which he was invested required to be set forth by pompous ceremonial and richness of attire. During the reign of the other Carlovingian kings, in the midst of political troubles, of internal wars, and of social disturbances, they had neither time nor inclination for inventing new fashions. Monuments of the latter part of the ninth century prove, indeed, that the national dress had hardly undergone any change since the time of Charlemagne, and that the influence of Roman tradition, especially on festive occasions, was still felt in the dress of the nobles (Figs. 408 to 411). In a miniature of the large MS. Bible given by the canons of Saint-Martin of Tours in 869 to Charles the Bald (National Library of Paris), we find the King sitting on his throne surrounded by the dignitaries of his court, and by soldiers all dressed after the Roman fashion. The monarch wears a cloak which seems to be made of cloth of gold, and is attached to the shoulder by a strap or ribbon sliding through a clasp; this cloak is embroidered in red, on a gold ground; the tunic is of reddish brown, and the shoes are light red, worked with gold thread. In the same manuscript there is another painting, representing four women listening to the discourse of a prophet. From this we discover that the female costume of the time consisted of two tunics, the under one being longer but less capacious than the other, the sleeves of the former coming down tight to the wrists, and being plaited in many folds, whilst those of the latter open out, and only reach to the elbow. The lower part, the neck, and the borders of the sleeves are trimmed with ornamented bands, the waist is encircled by a girdle just above the hips, and a long veil, finely worked, and fastened on the head, covers the shoulders and hangs down to the feet, completely hiding the hair, so that long plaits falling in front were evidently not then in fashion. The under dress of these four women--who all wear black shoes, which were probably made of morocco leather--are of various colours, whereas the gowns or outer tunics are white. [Illustration: Fig. 408.--Costume of a Scholar of the Carlovingian Period (St. Matthew writing his Gospel under the Inspiration of Christ).--From a Miniature in a Manuscript of the Ninth Century, in the Burgundian Library, Brussels (drawn by Count H. de Vielcastel).] Notwithstanding that under the Carlovingian dynasty it was always considered a shame and a dishonour to have the head shaved, it must not be supposed that the upper classes continued to wear the long Merovingian style of hair. After the reign of Charlemagne, it was the fashion to shave the hair from above the forehead, the parting being thus widened, and the hair was so arranged that it should not fall lower than the middle of the neck. Under Charles the Bald, whose surname proves that he was not partial to long hair, this custom fell into disuse or was abandoned, and men had the greater part of their heads shaved, and only kept a sort of cap of hair growing on the top of the head. It is at this period that we first find the _cowl_ worn. This kind of common head-dress, made from the furs of animals or from woollen stuffs, continued to be worn for many centuries, and indeed almost to the present day. It was originally only a kind of cap, light and very small; but it gradually became extended in size, and successively covered the ears, the neck, and lastly even the shoulders. No great change was made in the dress of the two sexes during the tenth century. "Nothing was more simple than the head-dress of women," says M. Jules Quicherat; "nothing was less studied than their mode of wearing their hair; nothing was more simple, and yet finer, than their linen. The elegant appearance of their garments recalls that of the Greek and Roman, women. Their dresses were at times so tight as to display all the elegance of their form, whilst at others they were made so high as completely to cover the neck; the latter were called _cottes-hardies_. The _cotte-hardie_, which has at all times been part of the dress of French women, and which was frequently worn also by men, was a long tunic reaching to the heels, fastened in at the waist and closed at the wrists. Queens, princesses, and ladies of the nobility wore in addition a long cloak lined with ermine, or a tunic with or without sleeves; often, too, their dress consisted of two tunics, and of a veil or drapery, which was thrown over the head and fell down before and behind, thus entirely surrounding the neck." [Illustration: Fig. 409.--Costume of a Scholar. Fig. 410.--Costume of a Bishop or Abbot. Fac-similes of Miniatures in a Manuscript of the Ninth Century ("Biblia Sacra"), in the Royal Library of Brussels.] We cannot find that any very decided change was made in dress before the end of the eleventh century. The ordinary dress made of thick cloths and of coarse woollen stuffs was very strong and durable, and not easily spoiled; and it was usual, as we still find in some provinces which adhere to old customs, for clothes, especially those worn on festive occasions and at ceremonials, to be handed down as heirlooms from father to son, to the third or fourth generation. The Normans, who came from Scandinavia towards the end of the tenth century, A.D. 970, with their short clothes and coats of mail, at first adopted the dress of the French, and continued to do so in all its various changes. In the following century, having found the Saxons and Britons in England clad in the garb of their ancestors, slightly modified by the Roman style of apparel, they began to make great changes in their manner of dressing themselves. They more and more discarded Roman fashions, and assumed similar costumes to those made in France at the same period. [Illustration: Fig. 411.--Costume of Charles the Simple (Tenth Century).--From a Miniature in the "Rois de France," by Du Tillet, Manuscript of the Sixteenth Century (Imperial Library of Paris).] Before proceeding further in our history of mediæval dress, we must forestall a remark which will not fail to be made by the reader, and this is, that we seem to occupy ourselves exclusively with the dress of kings, queens, and other people of note. But we must reply, that though we are able to form tolerably accurate notions relative to the dress of the upper classes during these remote periods, we do not possess any reliable information relative to that of the lower orders, and that the written documents, as well as the sculptures and paintings, are almost useless on this point. Nevertheless, we may suppose that the dress of the men in the lowest ranks of society has always been short and tight, consisting of _braies_, or tight drawers, mostly made of leather, of tight tunics, of _sayons_ or doublets, and of capes or cloaks of coarse brown woollen. The tunic was confined at the waist by a belt, to which the knife, the purse, and sometimes the working tools were suspended. The head-dress of the people was generally a simple cap made of thick, coarse woollen cloth or felt, and often of sheep's skin. During the twelfth century, a person's rank or social position was determined by the head-dress. The cap was made of velvet for persons of rank, and of common cloth for the poor. The _cornette_, which was always an appendage to the cap, was made of cloth, with which the cap might be fastened or adjusted on the head. The _mortier_, or round cap, dates from the earliest centuries, and was altered both in shape and material according to the various changes of fashion; but lawyers of high position continued to wear it almost in its original shape, and it became like a professional badge for judges and advocates. In the miniatures of that time we find Charles the Good, Count of Flanders, who died in 1127, represented with a cap with a point at the top, to which a long streamer is attached, and a peak turned up in front. A cap very similar, but without the streamer, and with the point turned towards the left, is to be seen in a portrait of Geoffroy le Bel, Comte de Maine, in 1150. About the same period, Agnès de Baudement is represented with a sort of cap made of linen or stuff, with lappets hanging down over the shoulders; she is dressed in a robe fastened round the waist, and having long bands attached to the sleeves near the wrists. Queen Ingeburge, second wife of Philip Augustus, also wore the tight gown, fastened at the collar by a round buckle, and two bands of stuff forming a kind of necklace; she also used the long cloak, and the closed shoes, which had then begun to be made pointed. Robert, Comte de Dreux, who lived at the same period, is also dressed almost precisely like the Queen, notwithstanding the difference of sex and rank; his robe, however, only descends to the instep, and his belt has no hangings in front. The Queen is represented with her hair long and flowing, but the count has his cut short. [Illustration: Fig. 412.--Costume of King Louis le Jeune--Miniature of the "Rois de France," by Du Tillet (Sixteenth Century), in the National Library of Paris.] [Illustration: Fig. 413.--Royal Costume.--From a Miniature in a Manuscript of the Twelfth Century, in the Burgundian Library, Brussels.] Women, in addition to their head-dress, often wore a broad band, which was tied under the chin, and gave the appearance of a kind of frame for the face. Both sexes wore coloured bands on their shoes, which were tied round the ankles like those of sandals, and showed the shape of the foot. The beard, which was worn in full at the beginning of the twelfth century, was by degrees modified both as to shape and length. At first it was cut in a point, and only covered the end of the chin, but the next fashion was to wear it so as to join the moustaches. Generally, under Louis le Jeune (Fig. 412), moustaches went out of fashion. We next find beards worn only by country people, who, according to contemporary historians, desired to preserve a "remembrance of their participation in the Crusades." At the end of this century, all chins were shaved. The Crusades also gave rise to the general use of the purse, which was suspended to the belt by a cord of silk or cotton, and sometimes by a metal chain. At the time of the Holy War, it had become an emblem characteristic of pilgrims, who, before starting for Palestine, received from the hands of the priest the cross, the pilgrim's staff, and the purse. We now come to the time of Louis IX. (Figs. 414 to 418), of that good king who, according to the testimony of his historians, generally dressed with the greatest simplicity, but who, notwithstanding his usual modesty and economy, did not hesitate on great occasions to submit to the pomp required by the regal position which he held. "Sometimes," says the Sire de Joinville, "he went into his garden dressed in a camel's-hair coat, a surcoat of linsey-woolsey without sleeves, a black silk cloak without a hood, and a hat trimmed with peacocks' feathers. At other times he was dressed in a coat of blue silk, a surcoat and mantle of scarlet satin, and a cotton cap." The surcoat (_sur-cotte_) was at first a garment worn only by females, but it was soon adopted by both sexes: it was originally a large wrapper with sleeves, and was thrown over the upper part of the robe (_cotte_), hence its name, _sur-cotte._ Very soon it was made without sleeves--doubtless, as M. Quicherat remarks, that the under garment, which was made of more costly material, might be seen; and then, with the same object, and in order that the due motion of the limbs might not be interfered with, the surcoat was raised higher above the hips, and the arm-holes were made very large. [Illustration: Fig. 414.--Costume of a Princess dressed in a Cloak lined with Fur.--From a Miniature of the Thirteenth Century.] [Illustration: Fig. 415.--Costume of William Malgeneste, the King's Huntsman, as represented on his Tomb, formerly in the Abbey of Long-Pont.] At the consecration of Louis IX., in 1226, the nobles wore the cap (_mortier_) trimmed with fur; the bishops wore the cope and the mitre, and carried the crosier. Louis IX., at the age of thirteen, is represented, in a picture executed in 1262 (Sainte-Chapelle, Paris), with his hair short, and wearing a red velvet cap, a tunic, and over this a cloak open at the chest, having long sleeves, which are slit up for the arms to go through; this cloak, or surcoat, is trimmed with ermine in front, and has the appearance of what we should now call a fur shawl. The young King has long hose, and shoes similar in shape to high slippers. In the same painting Queen Margaret, his wife, wears a gown with tight bodice opened out on the hips, and having long and narrow sleeves; she also has a cloak embroidered with fleurs-de-lis, the long sleeves of which are slit up and bordered with ermine; a kind of hood, much larger than her head, and over this a veil, which passes under the chin without touching the face; the shoes are long, and seem to enclose the feet very tightly. [Illustration: Fig. 416.--Costumes of the Thirteenth Century: Tristan and the beautiful Yseult.--From a Miniature in the Romance of "Tristan," Manuscript of the Fourteenth Century (Imperial Library of Paris).] From this period gowns with tight bodices were generally adopted; the women wore over them a tight jacket, reaching to a little below the hips, often trimmed with fur when the gown was richly ornamented, and itself richly ornamented when the gown was plain. They also began to plait the hair, which fell down by the side of the face to the neck, and they profusely decorated it with pearls or gold or silver ornaments. Jeanne, Queen of Navarre, wife of Philippe le Bel, is represented with a pointed cap, on the turned-up borders of which the hair clusters in thick curls on each side of the face; on the chest is a frill turned down in two points; the gown, fastened in front by a row of buttons, has long and tight sleeves, with a small slit at the wrists closed by a button; lastly, the Queen wears, over all, a sort of second robe in the shape of a cloak, the sleeves of which are widely slit in the middle. At the end of the thirteenth century luxury was at its height at the court of France: gold and silver, pearls and precious stones were lavished on dress. At the marriage of Philip III., son of St. Louis, the gentlemen were dressed in scarlet; the ladies in cloth of gold, embroidered and trimmed with gold and silver lace. Massive belts of gold were also worn, and chaplets sparkling with the same costly metal. Moreover, this magnificence and display (see chapter on Private Life) was not confined to the court, for we find that it extended to the bourgeois class, since Philippe le Bel, by his edict of 1294, endeavoured to limit this extravagance, which in the eyes of the world had an especial tendency to obliterate, or at least to conceal, all distinctions of birth, rank, and condition. Wealth strove hard at that time to be the sole standard of dress. As we approach the fourteenth century--an epoch of the Middle Ages at which, after many changes of fashion, and many struggles against the ancient Roman and German traditions, modern national costume seems at last to have assumed a settled and normal character--we think it right to recapitulate somewhat, with a view to set forth the nature of the various elements which were at work from time to time in forming the fashions in dress. In order to give more weight to our remarks, we will extract, almost word for word, a few pages from the learned and excellent work which M. Jules Quicherat has published on this subject. "Towards the year 1280," he says, "the dress of a man--not of a man as the word was then used, which meant _serf_, but of one to whom the exercise of human prerogatives was permitted, that is to say, of an ecclesiastic, a bourgeois, or a noble--was composed of six indispensable portions: the _braies_, or breeches, the stockings, the shoes, the coat, the surcoat, or _cotte-hardie,_ and the _chaperon_, or head-dress. To these articles those who wished to dress more elegantly added, on the body, a shirt; on the shoulders, a mantle; and on the head, a hat, or _fronteau_. [Illustration: Fig. 417.--Costumes of the Common People in the Fourteenth Century: Italian Gardener and Woodman.--From two Engravings in the Bonnart Collection.] "The _braies_, or _brayes_, were a kind of drawers, generally knitted, sometimes made of woollen stuff or silk, and sometimes even of undressed leather. .... Our ancestors derived this part of their dress from the ancient Gauls; only the Gallic braies came down to the ankle, whereas those of the thirteenth century only reached to the calf. They were fastened above the hips by means of a belt called the _braier_. "By _chausses_ was meant what we now call long stockings or hose. The stockings were of the same colour and material as the braies, and were kept up by the lower part of the braies being pulled over them, and tied with a string. "The shoes were made of various kinds of leather, the quality of which depended on the way in which they were tanned, and were either of common leather, or of leather which was similar to that we know as morocco, and was called _cordouan_ or _cordua_ (hence the derivation of the word _cordouannier_, which has now become _cordonnier_). Shoes were generally made pointed; this fashion of the _poulaines_, or Polish points, was followed throughout the whole of Europe for nearly three hundred years, and, when first introduced, the Church was so scandalized by it that it was almost placed in the catalogue of heresies. Subsequently, the taste respecting the exaggerated length of the points was somewhat modified, but it had become so inveterate that the tendency for pointed shoes returning to their former absurd extremes was constantly showing itself. The pointed shoes became gradually longer during the struggles which were carried on in the reign of Philippe le Bel between Church and State. "Besides the shoes, there were also the _estiviaux_, thus named from. _estiva_ (summer thing), because, being generally made of velvet, brocade, or other costly material, they could only be worn in dry weather. "The coat (_cotte_) corresponded with the tunic of the ancients, it was a blouse with tight sleeves. These sleeves were the only part of it which were exposed, the rest being completely covered by the surcoats, or _cotte-hardie,_ a name the origin of which is obscure. In shape the surcoat somewhat resembled a sack, in which, at a later period, large slits were made in the arms, as well as over the hips and on the chest, through which appeared the rich furs and satins with which it was lined.... The ordinary material of the surcoat for the rich was cloth, either scarlet, blue, or reddish brown, or two or more of these colours mixed together; and for the poor, linsey-woolsey or fustian. The nobles, princes, or barons, when holding a court, wore surcoats of a colour to match their arms, which were embroidered upon them, but the lesser nobles who frequented the houses of the great spoke of themselves as in the robes of such and such a noble, because he whose patronage they courted was obliged to provide them with surcoats and mantles. These were of their patron's favourite colour, and were called the livery (_livrée_), on account of their distribution (_livraison_), which took place twice a year. The word has remained in use ever since, but with a different signification; it is, however, so nearly akin to the original meaning that its affinity is evident." [Illustration: Fig. 418.--Costume of English Servants in the Fourteenth Century.--From Manuscripts in the British Museum.] [Illustration: Fig. 419.--Costume of Philip the Good, with Hood and "Cockade."--From a Miniature in a Manuscript of the Period.] An interesting anecdote relative to this custom is to be found in the chronicles of Matthew Paris. When St. Louis, to the dismay of all his vassals, and of his inferior servants, had decided to take up the cross, he succeeded in associating the nobles of his court with him in his vow by a kind of pious fraud. Having had a certain number of mantles prepared for Christmas-day, he had a small white cross embroidered on each above the right shoulder, and ordered them to be distributed among the nobles on the morning of the feast when they were about to go to mass, which was celebrated some time before sunrise. Each courtier received the mantle given by the King at the door of his room, and put it on in the dark without noticing the white cross; but, when the day broke, to his great surprise, he saw the emblem worn by his neighbour, without knowing that he himself wore it also. "They were surprised and amused," says the English historian, "at finding that the King had thus piously entrapped them.... As it would have been unbecoming, shameful, and even unworthy of them to have removed these crosses, they laughed heartily, and said that the good King, on starting as a pilgrim-hunter, had found a new method of catching men." "The chaperon," adds M. Quicherat, "was the national head-dress of the ancient French, as the _cucullus_, which was its model, was that of the Gauls. We can imagine its appearance by its resemblance to the domino now worn at masked balls. The shape was much varied during the reign of Philippe le Bel, either by the diminution of the cape or by the lengthening of the hood, which was always sufficiently long to fall on the shoulders. In the first of these changes, the chaperon no longer being tied round the neck, required to be held on the head by something more solid. For this reason it was set on a pad or roll, which changed it into a regular cap. The material was so stitched as to make it take certain folds, which were arranged as puffs, as ruffs, or in the shape of a cock's comb; this last fashion, called _cockade_, was especially in vogue (Fig. 419)--hence the origin of the French epithet _coquard_, which would be now expressed by the word _dandy_. "Hats were of various shapes. They were made of different kinds of felt, or of otter or goat's skin, or of wool or cotton. The expression _chapeau de fleurs_ (hat of flowers), which continually occurs in ancient works, did not mean any form of hat, but simply a coronet of forget-me-nots or roses, which was an indispensable part of dress for balls or festivities down to the reign of Philippe de Valois (1347). Frontlets (_fronteaux_), a species of fillet made of silk, covered with gold and precious stones, superseded the _chapeau de fleurs_, inasmuch as they had the advantage of not fading. They also possessed the merit of being much more costly, and were thus the means of establishing in a still more marked manner distinctions in the social positions of the wearers. [Illustration: Fig. 420.--Costumes of a rich Bourgeoise, of a Peasant-woman, and of a Lady of the Nobility, of the Fourteenth Century.--From various painted Windows in the Churches of Moulins (Bourbonnais).] [Illustration: Saint Catherine Surrounded by the Doctors of Alexandria. A miniature from the _Breviary_ of the cardinal Grimani, attributed to Memling. Bibl. of Saint-Marc, Venice. (From a copy belonging to M. Ambroise Firmin-Didot.)] "There were two kinds of mantles; one was open in front, and fell over the back, and a strap which crossed the chest held it fixed on the shoulders; the other, enveloping the body like a bell, was slit up on the right side, and was thrown back over the left arm; it was made with a fur collar, cut in the shape of a tippet. This last has been handed down to us, and is worn by our judges under the name of _toge_ and _épitoge_. "It is a very common mistake to suppose that the shirt is an article of dress of modern invention; on the contrary, it is one of great antiquity, and its coming into general use is the only thing new about it. "Lastly, we have to mention the _chape_, which was always regarded as a necessary article of dress. The _chape_ was the only protection against bad weather at a period when umbrellas and covered carriages were unknown. It was sometimes called _chape de pluie_, on account of the use to which it was applied, and it consisted of a large cape with sleeves, and was completely waterproof. It was borne behind a master by his servant, who, on account of this service was called a _porte-chape._ It is needless to say that the common people carried it themselves, either slung over their backs, or folded under the arm." If we now turn to female attire, we shall find represented in it all the component parts of male dress, and almost all of them under the same names. It must be remarked, however, that the women's coats and surcoats often trailed on the ground; that the hat--which was generally called a _couvre-chef,_ and consisted of a frame of wirework covered over with stuff which was embroidered or trimmed with lace--was not of a conical shape; and, lastly, that the _chaperon_, which was always made with a tippet, or _chausse_, never turned over so as to form a cap. We may add that the use of the couvre-chef did not continue beyond the middle of the fourteenth century, at which time women adopted the custom of wearing any kind of head-dress they chose, the hair being kept back by a silken net, or _crépine_, attached either to a frontlet, or to a metal fillet, or confined by a veil of very light material, called a _mollequin_ (Fig. 420). With the aid of our learned guide we have now reached a period (end of the thirteenth century) well adapted for this general study of the dress of our ancestors, inasmuch as soon afterwards men's dress at least, and especially that of young courtiers, became most ridiculously and even indecently exaggerated. To such an extent was this the case, that serious calamities having befallen the French nation about this time, and its fashions having exercised a considerable influence over the whole continent of Europe, contemporary historians do not hesitate to regard these public misfortunes as a providential chastisement inflicted on France for its disgraceful extravagance in dress. [Illustration: Fig. 421.--Costumes of a young Nobleman and of a Bourgeois in the Fourteenth Century.--From a painted Window in the Church of Saint-Ouen at Rouen, and from a Window at Moulins (Bourbonnais).] "We must believe that God has permitted this as a just judgment on us for our sins," say the monks who edited the "Grande Chronique de St. Denis," in 1346, at the time of the unfortunate battle of Cressy, "although it does not belong to us to judge. But what we see we testify to; for pride was very great in France, and especially amongst the nobles and others, that is to say, pride of nobility, and covetousness. There was also much impropriety in dress, and this extended throughout the whole of France. Some had their clothes so short and so tight that it required the help of two persons to dress and undress them, and whilst they were being undressed they appeared as if they were being skinned. Others wore dresses plaited over their loins like women; some had chaperons cut out in points all round; some had tippets of one cloth, others of another; and some had their head-dresses and sleeves reaching to the ground, looking more like mountebanks than anything else. Considering all this, it is not surprising if God employed the King of England as a scourge to correct the excesses of the French people." And this is not the only testimony to the ridiculous and extravagant tastes of this unfortunate period. One writer speaks with indignation of the _goats' beards_ (with two points), which seemed to put the last finishing touch of ridicule on the already grotesque appearance of even the most serious people of that period. Another exclaims against the extravagant luxury of jewels, of gold and silver, and against the wearing of feathers, which latter then appeared for the first time as accessories to both male and female attire. Some censure, and not without reason, the absurd fashion of converting the ancient leather girdle, meant to support the waist, into a kind of heavy padded band, studded with gilded ornaments and precious stones, and apparently invented expressly to encumber the person wearing it. Other contemporary writers, and amongst these Pope Urban V. and King Charles V. (Fig. 422), inveigh against the _poulaines_, which had more than ever come into favour, and which were only considered correct in fashion when they were made as a kind of appendix to the foot, measuring at least double its length, and ornamented in the most fantastical manner. The Pope anathematized this deformity as "a mockery of God and the holy Church," and the King forbad craftsmen to make them, and his subjects to wear them. All this is as nothing in comparison with the profuse extravagance displayed in furs, which was most outrageous and ruinous, and of which we could not form an idea were it not for the items in certain royal documents, from which we gather that, in order to trim two complete suits for King John, no fewer than six hundred and seventy martens' skins were used. It is also stated that the Duke of Berry, the youngest son of that monarch, purchased nearly ten thousand of these same skins from a distant country in the north, in order to trim only five mantles and as many surcoats. We read also that a robe made for the Duke of Orleans, grandson of the same king, required two thousand seven hundred and ninety ermines' skins. It is unnecessary to state, that in consequence of this large consumption, skins could only be purchased at the most extravagant prices; for example, fifty skins cost about one hundred francs (or about six thousand of present currency), showing to what an enormous expense those persons were put who desired to keep pace with the luxury of the times (Fig. 424). [Illustration: Fig. 422.--Costume of Charles V., King of France.--From a Statue formerly in the Church of the Célestins, Paris.] [Illustration: Fig. 423.--Costume of Jeanne de Bourbon, Wife of Charles V.--From a Statue formerly in the Church of the Célestins, Paris.] We have already seen that Charles V. used his influence, which was unfortunately very limited, in trying to restrain the extravagance of fashion. This monarch did more than decree laws against indelicate or unseemly and ridiculous dress; he himself never wore anything but the long and ample costume, which was most becoming, and which had been adopted in the preceding century. His example, it is true, was little followed, but it nevertheless had this happy resuit, that the advocates of short and tight dresses, as if suddenly seized with instinctive modesty, adopted an upper garment, the object of which seemed to be to conceal the absurd fashions which they had not the courage to rid themselves of. This heavy and ungraceful tunic, called a _housse_, consisted of two broad bands of a more or less costly material, which, starting from the neck, fell behind and before, thus almost entirely concealing the front and back of the person, and only allowing the under garments to be seen through the slits which naturally opened on each side of it. A fact worthy of remark is, that whilst male attire, through a depravity of taste, had extended to the utmost limit of extravagance, women's dress, on the contrary, owing to a strenuous effort towards a dignified and elegant simplicity, became of such a character that it combined all the most approved fashions of female costume which had been in use in former periods. The statue of Queen Jeanne de Bourbon, wife of Charles V., formerly placed with that of her husband in the Church of the Célestins at Paris, gives the most faithful representation of this charming costume, to which our artists continually have recourse when they wish to depict any poetical scenes of the French Middle Ages (Fig. 423). [Illustration: Fig. 424.--Costumes of Bourgeois or Merchant, of a Nobleman, and of a Lady of the Court or rich Bourgeoise, with the Head-dress (_escoffion_) of the Fifteenth Century.--From a Painted Window of the Period, at Moulins (Bourbonnais), and from a Painting on Wood of the same Period, in the Musee de Cluny.] This costume, without positively differing in style from that of the thirteenth century, inasmuch as it was composed of similar elements, was nevertheless to be distinguished by a degree of elegance which hitherto had been unknown. The coat, or under garment, which formerly only showed itself through awkwardly-contrived openings, now displayed the harmonious outlines of the figure to advantage, thanks to the large openings in the overcoat. The surcoat, kept back on the shoulders by two narrow bands, became a sort of wide and trailing skirt, which majestically draped the lower part of the body; and, lastly, the external corset was invented, which was a kind of short mantle, falling down before and behind without concealing any of the fine outlines of the bust. This new article of apparel, which was kept in its place in the middle of the chest by a steel busk encased in some rich lace-work, was generally made of fur in winter and of silk in summer. If we consult the numerous miniatures in manuscripts of this period, in which the gracefulness of the costume was heightened by the colours employed, we shall understand what variety and what richness of effect could be displayed without departing from the most rigid simplicity. One word more in reference to female head-dress. The fashion of wearing false hair continued in great favour during the middle of the fourteenth century, and it gave rise to all sorts of ingenious combinations; which, however, always admitted of the hair being parted from the forehead to the back of the head in two equal masses, and of being plaited or waved over the ears. Nets were again adopted, and head-dresses which, whilst permitting a display of masses of false hair, hid the horsehair or padded puffs. And, lastly, the _escoffion_ appeared--a heavy roll, which, being placed on a cap also padded, produced the most clumsy, outrageons, and ungraceful shapes (Fig. 424). At the beginning of the fifteenth century men's dress was still very short. It consisted of a kind of tight waistcoat, fastened by tags, and of very close-fitting breeches, which displayed the outlines of the figure. In order to appear wide at the shoulders artificial pads were worn, called _mahoitres_. The hair was allowed to fall on the forehead in locks, which covered the eyebrows and eyes. The sleeves were slashed, the shoes armed with long metal points, and the conical hat, with turned-up rim, was ornamented with gold chains and various jewels. The ladies, during the reign of Charles VI., still wore long trains to their dresses, which they carried tucked up under their arms, unless they had pages or waiting-maids (see chapter on Ceremonials). The tendency, however, was to shorten these inconvenient trains, as well as the long hanging and embroidered or fringed sleeves. On the other hand, ladies' dresses on becoming shorter were trimmed in the most costly manner. Their head-dresses consisted of very large rolls, surmounted by a high conical bonnet called a _hennin_, the introduction of which into France was attributed to Queen Isabel of Bavaria, wife of Charles VI. It was at this period that they began to uncover the neck and to wear necklaces. [Illustration: Fig. 425.--Italian Costumes of the Fifteenth Century: Notary and Sbirro.--From two Engravings in the Bonnart Collection.] [Illustration: Fig. 426.--Costumes of a Mechanic's Wife and a rich Bourgeois in the latter part of the Fifteenth Century.--From Windows in the Cathedral of Moulins (Bourbonnais).] Under Louis XI. this costume, already followed and adopted by the greatest slaves of fashion, became more general. "In this year (1487)," says the chronicler Monstrelet, "ladies ceased to wear trains, substituting for them trimmings of grebe, of martens' fur, of velvet, and of other materials, of about eighteen inches in width; some wore on the top of their heads rolls nearly two feet high, shaped like a round cap, which closed in above. Others wore them lower, with veils hanging from the top, and reaching down to the feet. Others wore unusually wide silk bands, with very elegant buckles equally wide, and magnificent gold necklaces of various patterns. "About this time, too, men took to wearing shorter clothes than ever, having them made to fit tightly to the body, after the manner of dressing monkeys, which was very shameful and immodest; and the sleeves of their coats and doublets were slit open so as to show their fine white shirts. They wore their hair so long that it concealed their face and even their eyes, and on their heads they wore cloth caps nearly a foot or more high. They also carried, according to fancy, very splendid gold chains. Knights and squires, and even the varlets, wore silk or velvet doublets; and almost every one, especially at court, wore poulaines nine inches or more in length. They also wore under their doublets large pads (_mahoitres_), in order to appear as if they had broad shoulders." Under Charles VIII. the mantle, trimmed with fur, was open in front, its false sleeves being slit up above in order to allow the arms of the under coat to pass through. The cap was turned up; the breeches or long hose were made tight-fitting. The shoes with poulaines were superseded by a kind of large padded shoe of black leather, round or square at the toes, and gored over the foot with coloured material, a fashion imported from Italy, and which was as much exaggerated in France as the poulaine had formerly been. The women continued to wear conical caps (_hennins_) of great height, covered with immense veils; their gowns were made with tight-fitting bodies, which thus displayed the outlines of the figure (Figs. 427 and 428). Under Louis XII., Queen Anne invented a low head-dress--or rather it was invented for her--consisting of strips of velvet or of black or violet silk over other bands of white linen, which encircled the face and fell down over the back and shoulders; the large sleeves of the dresses had a kind of turned-over borders, with trimmings of enormous width. Men adopted short tunics, plaited and tight at the waist. The upper part of the garments of both men and women was cut in the form of a square over the chest and shoulders, as most figures are represented in the pictures of Raphael and contemporary painters. [Illustration: Italian Lacework, in Gold Thread. The cypher and arms of Henry III. (16th century.)] [Illustration: Fig. 427.--Costume of Charlotte of Savoy, second Wife of Louis XI.--From a Picture of the Period formerly in the Castle of Bourbon-l'Archambault, M. de Quedeville's Collection, in Paris. The Arms of Louis XI. and Charlotte are painted behind the picture.] [Illustration: Fig. 428.--Costume of Mary of Burgundy, Daughter of Charles the Bold, Wife of Maximilian of Austria (end of the Fifteenth Century). From an old Engraving in the Collection of the Imperial Library, Paris.] The introduction of Italian fashions, which in reality did not much differ from those which had been already adopted, but which exhibited better taste and a greater amount of elegance, dates from the famous expedition of Charles VIII. into Italy (Figs. 429 and 430). Full and gathered or puffed sleeves, which gave considerable gracefulness to the upper part of the body, succeeded to the _mahoitres_, which had been discarded since the time of Louis XI. A short and ornamental mantle, a broad-brimmed hat covered with feathers, and trunk hose, the ample dimensions of which earned for them the name of _trousses_, formed the male attire at the end of the fifteenth century. Women wore the bodies of their dresses closely fitting to the figure, embroidered, trimmed with lace, and covered with gilt ornaments; the sleeves were very large and open, and for the most part they still adhered to the heavy and ungraceful head-dress of Queen Anne of Brittany. The principal characteristic of female dress at the time was its fulness; men's, on the contrary, with the exception of the mantle or the upper garment, was usually tight and very scanty. We find that a distinct separation between ancient and modern dress took place as early as the sixteenth century; in fact, our present fashions may be said to have taken their origin from about that time. It was during this century that men adopted clothes closely fitting to the body; overcoats with tight sleeves, felt hats with more or less wide brims, and closed shoes and boots. The women also wore their dresses closely fitting to the figure, with tight sleeves, low-crowned hats, and richly-trimmed petticoats. These garments, which differ altogether from those of antiquity, constitute, as it were, the common type from which have since arisen the endless varieties of male and female dress; and there is no doubt that fashion will thus be continually changing backwards and forwards from time to time, sometimes returning to its original model, and sometimes departing from it. [Illustration: Figs. 429 and 430.--Costumes of Young Nobles of the Court of Charles VIII., before and after the Expedition into Italy.--From Miniatures in two Manuscripts of the Period in the National Library of Paris.] During the sixteenth century, ladies wore the skirts of their dresses, which were tight at the waist and open in front, very wide, displaying the lower part of a very rich under petticoat, which reached to the ground, completely concealing the feet. This, like the sleeves with puffs, which fell in circles to the wrists, was altogether an Italian fashion. Frequently the hair was turned over in rolls, and adorned with precious stones, and was surmounted by a small cap, coquettishly placed either on one side or on the top of the head, and ornamented with gold chains, jewels, and feathers. The body of the dress was always long, and pointed in front. Men wore their coats cut somewhat after the same shape: their trunk hose were tight, but round the waist they were puffed out. They wore a cloak, which only reached as far as the hips, and was always much ornamented; they carried a smooth or ribbed cap on one side of the head, and a small upright collar adorned the coat. This collar was replaced, after the first half of the sixteenth century, by the high, starched ruff, which was kept out by wires; ladies wore it still larger, when it had somewhat the appearance of an open fan at the back of the neck. If we take a retrospective glance at the numerous changes of costume which we have endeavoured to describe in this hurried sketch, we shall find that amongst European nations, during the Middle Ages, there was but one common standard of fashion, which varied from time to time according to the particular custom of each country, and according to the peculiarities of each race. In Italy, for instance, dress always maintained a certain character of grandeur, ever recalling the fact that the influence of antiquity was not quite lost. In Germany and Switzerland, garments had generally a heavy and massive appearance; in Holland, still more so (Figs. 436 and 437). England uniformly studied a kind of instinctive elegance and propriety. It is a curious fact that Spain invariably partook of the heaviness peculiar to Germany, either because the Gothic element still prevailed there, or that the Walloon fashions had a special attraction to her owing to associations and general usage. France was then, as it is now, fickle and capricious, fantastical and wavering, but not from indifference, but because she was always ready to borrow from every quarter anything which pleased her. She, however, never failed to put her own stamp on whatever she adopted, thus making any fashion essentially French, even though she had only just borrowed it from Spain, England, Germany, or Italy. In all these countries we have seen, and still see, entire provinces adhering to some ancient costume, causing them to differ altogether in character from the rest of the nation. This is simply owing to the fact that the fashions have become obsolete in the neighbouring places, for every local costume faithfully and rigorously preserved by any community at a distance from the centre of political action or government, must have been originally brought there by the nobles of the country. Thus the head-dress of Anne of Brittany is still that of the peasant-women of Penhoét and of Labrevack, and the _hennin_ of Isabel of Bavaria is still the head-dress of Normandy. [Illustration: Fig. 431.--Costumes of a Nobleman or a very rich Bourgeois, of a Bourgeois or Merchant, and of a Noble Lady or rich Bourgeoise, of the Time of Louis XII.--From Miniatures in Manuscripts of the Period, in the Imperial Library of Paris.] [Illustration: Fig. 432.--Costume of a rich Bourgeoise, and of a Noble, or Person of Distinction, of the Time of Francis I.--From a Window in the Church of St. Ouen at Rouen, by Gaignières (National Library of Paris).] Although the subject has reached the limits we have by the very nature of this work assigned to it, we think it well to overstep them somewhat, in order briefly to indicate the last connecting link between modern fashions and those of former periods. [Illustration: Figs. 433 and 434.--Costumes of the Ladies and Damsels of the Court of Catherine de Medicis.--After Cesare Vecellio.] Under Francis I., the costumes adopted from Italy remained almost stationary (Fig. 432). Under Henri II. (Figs. 433 and 434), and especially after the death of that prince, the taste for frivolities made immense progress, and the style of dress in ordinary use seemed day by day to lose the few traces of dignity which it had previously possessed. Catherine de Medicis had introduced into France the fashion of ruffs, and at the beginning of the fourteenth century, Marie de Medicis that of small collars. Dresses tight at the waist began to be made very full round the hips, by means of large padded rolls, and these were still more enlarged, under the name of _vertugadins_ (corrupted from _vertu-gardiens),_ by a monstrous arrangement of padded whalebone and steel, which subsequently became the ridiculous _paniers_, which were worn almost down to the commencement of the present century; and the fashion seems likely to come into vogue again. [Illustration: Fig. 435.--Costume of a Gentleman of the French Court, of the End of the Sixteenth Century.--Fac-simile of a Miniature in the "Livre de Poésies," Manuscript dedicated to Henry IV.] Under the last of the Valois, men's dress was short, the jacket was pointed and trimmed round with small peaks, the velvet cap was trimmed with aigrettes; the beard was pointed, a pearl hung from the left ear, and a small cloak or mantle was carried on the shoulder, which only reached to the waist. The use of gloves made of scented leather became universal. Ladies wore their dresses long, very full, and very costly, little or no change being made in these respects during the reign of Henry IV. At this period, the men's high hose were made longer and fuller, especially in Spain and the Low Countries, and the fashion of large soft boots, made of doeskin or of black morocco, became universal, on account of their being so comfortable. We may remark that the costume of the bourgeois was for a long time almost unchanged, even in the towns. Never having adopted either the tight-fitting hose or the balloon trousers, they wore an easy jerkin, a large cloak, and a felt hat, which the English made conical and with a broad brim. Towards the beginning of the seventeenth century, the high hose which were worn by the northern nations, profusely trimmed, was transformed into the _culotte_, which was full and open at the knees. A division was thus suddenly made between the lower and the upper part of the hose, as if the garment which covered the lower limbs had been cut in two, and garters were then necessarily invented. The felt hat became over almost the whole of Europe a cap, taking the exact form of the head, and having a wide, flat brim turned up on one side. High heels were added to boots and shoes, which up to that time had been flat and with single soles.... Two centuries later, a terrible social agitation took place all over Europe, after which male attire became mean, ungraceful, plain and more paltry than ever; whereas female dress, the fashions of which were perpetually changing from day to day, became graceful and elegant, though too often approaching to the extravagant and absurd. [Illustration: Figs. 436 and 437.--Costumes of the German Bourgeoisie in the Middle of the Sixteenth Century.--Drawings attributed to Holbein.] 
27766	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 27766-h.htm or 27766-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/7/7/6/27766/27766-h/27766-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/7/7/6/27766/27766-h.zip) ROMANCE OF ROMAN VILLAS [Illustration] [Illustration: Pope Julius II. Viewing the Newly-found Statue of the Apollo Belvedere From the painting by Carl Becker. Permission of the Berlin Photographic Co.] (The Renaissance) by ELIZABETH W. CHAMPNEY Author of "Romance of the Italian Villas," "Romance of the Feudal Châteaux," "Romance of the French Abbeys," Etc. Illustrated G. P. Putnam's Sons New York and London The Knickerbocker Press 1908 INTRODUCTION In came the cardinal, grave and coldly wise, His scarlet gown and robes of cobweb lace Trailed on the marble floor; with convex glass He bent o'er Guido's shoulder. WALTER THORNBURY. Still unrivalled, after the lapse of four centuries the villas of the great cardinals of the Renaissance retain their supremacy over their Italian sisters, not, as once, by reason of their prodigal magnificence but in the appealing charm of their picturesque decay. The centuries have bestowed a certain pathetic beauty, they have also taken away much, and the sympathy which these ruined pleasure palaces evoke whets our curiosity to know what they were like in their heyday of joyous revelling. If we run down the list of the nobler villas of Rome we will find that, with few exceptions, they were built by princes of the purple, and that the names they bear are not Roman but those of the ruling families of other Italian cities. That the sixteenth century should have produced the most palatial residences ever inhabited by prelates was but a natural outcome of the conditions then existing. The society of Rome was a hierarchical aristocracy made up of the younger sons of every powerful and ambitious family of Italy, and the red hat was so greatly desired not for the honour or emoluments of the cardinalcy _per se_ but because it was a step to the papacy. "To an Italian," says Alfred Austin, "it must seem a reproach never to have had a pope in the family, and you will with difficulty find a villa of any pretension, certainly not in Frascati, where memorial tassels and tiara carven in stone over porch and doorway do not attest pontifical kinship." The young cardinal's first move in the game which he was to play was at all expense to create an impression, and if, as in the case of Ippolito d'Este, he had no benevolent uncle in St. Peter's chair to guide his career, the parental coffers were drawn upon recklessly and the cadet of the great house led a more extravagant life in his Roman villa than the duke his elder brother in his provincial court. The object of his ambition once attained the new Pope unscrupulously enriched his family, and endeavoured to make his office hereditary by elevating his favourite nephew to the cardinalcy, and endowing this future candidate for the papacy with means from the revenues of the Church to purchase the votes of his rivals. This is the constantly reiterated history of the builders of the palaces and villas of Rome. Sixtus IV. made the fortunes of his numerous de la Rovere and Riario nephews,--one of whom, Pietro, Cardinal of San Sisto, for whom Bramante built the Cancellaria Palace, set the pace for his comrades of the Sacred College by squandering in two years the enormous sum of $2,800,000. Cardinal Raphael Riario of the next generation began the most beautiful of all villas, Lante, which three other cardinals subsequently perfected. Leo X. after his election as pope, proved to be a greater spendthrift than Sixtus IV., for he not only repaired the broken fortunes of the Medici but eclipsed his father as a patron of art, making the erection of monumental buildings and the collection of objects of art a mania among all men of wealth and culture. Cardinal Giulio (afterwards Clement VII.) in the Villa Madama, and Cardinal Ferdinando in the Villa Medici sustained the family tradition, but Cardinal Alexander Farnese (Pope Paul III.) outrivalled them both, by filling the Farnese palace with the most valuable collections ever amassed by a private individual.[1] Immediately succeeding Alexander Farnese Julius III. built the noble Villa di Papa Giulio, and Pius IV. the charming Villa Pia; but nepotism did not scandalously reassert itself until the last quarter of the century, when the immense Villa Aldobrandini was erected by a nephew of Clement VIII. Pope Paul V. in his turn bestowed more than a million dollars upon his Borghese nephews, to one of whom, Cardinal Scipione, we owe the delightful Villa Borghese, just outside the Porta del Popolo. Early in the next century the evil attained greater proportions. Olimpia Pamphili, whose name and memory are perpetuated in the villa built by her son, received from Pope Innocent X. more than two millions. But Innocent seems to have a fair claim to his name when compared with his immediate predecessor Urban VIII. who conferred upon his nephews, the brothers Barberini, sums amounting to one hundred and five millions! An architecture of pompous ostentation and riotous overloading of ornament, the Baroque, now took the place of the classical beauty of the Renaissance and art degraded became the slave of wealth, until the great Cardinal Albani erected his villa to serve as her temple. We are ready to expect great results in the villas and palaces of the millionaires of the earlier half of the sixteenth century when we reflect that they were executed by Bramante, Peruzzi, San Gallo, Michael Angelo, and Raphael with a host of lesser men who would have been great in any other age, and that the ruins of imperial Rome furnished them with models for their designs and an inexhaustible quarry of statues, columns, mosaics, and other materials. The point of view of the present volume is the life rather than the art of these villas, but it is not possible to ignore the stimulus which the daily discovery of the masterpieces of ancient art afforded to the artists of the day, and the connoisseurship imposed upon the rivalling patrons and collectors. In the chapters entitled: "The Finding of Apollo" and "The Lure of Old Rome" I have striven to depict the influence of these discoveries upon such sensitive souls as those of Raphael and Ligorio, and the gradual education of the financier Chigi and Cardinal Ippolito d'Este in the refinements of dilettantism. But the Fornarina left a more potent impression on Raphael's art than the Apollo Belvedere, and her memory and that of Imperia still haunt the villa of the Farnesina indissolubly united with that of the master of art and the master of revels. In the noble Colonna palace the personality most vividly present to-day is that of Vittoria Colonna, making good the boast of Michael Angelo's sonnet,-- "So I can give long life to both of us In either way by colour or by stone, Making the semblance of thy face and mine, Centuries hence when both are buried thus Thy beauty and my sadness shall be shown And men shall say, 'For her 't was right to pine.'" But if Michael Angelo carved or painted Vittoria the portrait is lost; and it is to his love, not to his art that she owes her immortality. So from the history of these beautiful dwellings I have chosen as the focal point of each of the following chapters, the half-forgotten face of some woman, and were it not that the story of Vittoria Colonna is so well known that noble woman might well have led the procession. For the same reason, and because her castle of Spoleto could not be classed under my topic, I have laid aside a study of Lucrezia Borgia and of another Lucrezia who may have resided within its walls. But from the succession of beauties who kissed their lovers beneath the rose-trellises of Rome, I have stolen secrets enough to overfill these pages, secrets which few of the gentle shades would forbid my telling, since for the most part they are sweet and innocent and true. For the others, daughters of disorder, may their sufferings bespeak your pity. The difficulty in arriving at just estimates has only made the attempt the more engrossing, as those will attest who have tracked through the mass of conflicting histories the story of the elusive lady who gave the name of Madama to the exquisite villa which Raphael designed for Clement VII. The Villa Aldobrandini recalls an ancient legend preserved in more than one of the Italian novelli; and reading between the lines of the Amyntas we may trace Tasso's love for Leonora which blossomed in the terraced garden of the Villa d'Este. The villas Borghese and Mondragone are still instinct with the personality of a romantic little lady of a later period, the bewildering Pauline Bonaparte. It is impossible while enthralled by her portrait statue to remember any other princess of that noble house; but as we wander through the portrait gallery of the Colonna palace it is equally difficult to choose a favourite from its brilliant gallery. My apologies are due to many another in fixing upon Giulia Gonzaga, wife of Vespasian Colonna as my heroine, though such was the fame of her beauty that the Sultan of Turkey despatched a fleet for her capture. In the last decade of the century, Marie de' Medici looked down upon Rome from the villa of her uncle, Cardinal Ferdinando, and wandered among that wonderful array of statues which now form the glory of the Pitti Palace. This was the time, if ever, that Shakespeare visited Italy, and I have attempted to give a true picture of the life and scenes which he may have viewed. To my last chapter is left the confession that the supreme charm of Rome of the Renaissance lies not in itself, but in the fact that it is the bridge which unites modernity to the Rome of antiquity. Each statue unearthed in the cardinal's garden, as it reassumed its place upon the familiar terrace, must have whispered to its marble companions: "They call this the Villa d'Este! We know better, it is Hadrian's. Their learned men have labelled you, 'By an Unknown Sculptor,' little suspecting that your lips were arched by Praxiteles. They have christened our friend in the garden of Lucullus, the 'Venus de' Medici,' ignorant of the prouder name she bore, and they call the relief in that new villa, 'The Antinous of Cardinal Albani,' not knowing that the portrait and its original were alike, Faustina's." Shall we, indulgent reader, on some fair, future day, led by the lure of _old_ Rome, together revisit our loved villas and win the confidences of these marble men and women who smile on us so inscrutably, and yet with such all-compelling fascination? Dear Italy, the sound of thy soft name Soothes me with balm of Memory and of Hope. Mine for the moment height and steep and slope That once were mine. Supreme is still the aim To flee the cold and grey Of our December day, And rest where thy clear spirit burns with unconsuming flame. Fount of _Romance_ whereat our Shakespeare drank! Through him the loves of all are linked to thee, By Romeo's ardour, Juliet's constancy He sets the peasant in the royal rank, Shows, under mask and paint, Kinship of knave and saint And plays on stolid man with Prospero's wand and Ariel's prank. Then take these lines and add to them the lay All inarticulate, I to thee indite; The sudden longing on the sunniest day, The happy sighing in the stormiest night, The tears of love that creep From eyes unwont to weep, Full with remembrance, blind with joy and with devotion deep.[2] CONTENTS INTRODUCTION I.--THE EYES OF A BASILISK (Vatican, Villa of the Belvedere) II.--THE FINDING OF APOLLO (Villa Farnesina) III.--A CELLINI CASKET (Villa Madama) IV.--FLOWER O' THE PEACH (Villa Aldobrandini) V.--WITH TASSO AT VILLA D'ESTE (Villa d'Este) VI.--MONDRAGONE (Villas Borghese and Mondragone) VII.--THE ADVENTURE OF THE KNIGHT OF THE BRANDISHED LANCE (Villa Medici) VIII.--THE LADIES OF PALLIANO (Colonna Palace and Castle of Palliano) IX.--THE LURE OF OLD ROME (Hadrian's Villa. Villas d'Este and Albani) [Illustration] ILLUSTRATIONS IN PHOTOGRAVURE _Pope Julius II. Viewing the Newly-found Statue of the Apollo Belvedere_ _Frontispiece_ _From the painting by Carl Becker. Permission of the Berlin Photographic Co._ _The Borgias_ _From a painting by Dante Gabriel Rossetti. (Pope Alexander VI. regards the dancing children, Lucrezia plays the viol, Cesar beats time with his stiletto on the stem of a wine glass.) Permission of George Bell & Sons._ _Pope Leo X. at Raphael's Bier_ _From the painting by Pietro Michis. Permission of Franz Hanfstaengl._ _Face of Young Girl in the Coronation of the Virgin_ _By Fra Filippo Lippi. Permission of Alinari._ _The Floral Games_ _From the painting by Jacques Wagrez. Permission of Braun, Clement & Co._ _In the Garden of Villa d'Este_ _From a photograph by Mr. Charles A. Platt._ _Choosing the Casket_ _From the painting by F. Barth. Permission of the Berlin Photographic Co._ _Antinous as Bacchus, in the Museum of the Vatican_ _Permission of Alinari._ [Illustration] ILLUSTRATIONS OTHER THAN PHOTOGRAVURE *_Cæsar Borgia_ *_Caterina Sforza. Castle of Forlì in Background_ _By Palmezzani._ *_Unknown Lady_ (_probably Imperia_) _By Sebastian del Piombo. Uffizi._ *_Virgin and Child_ _By Sodoma. Pinacoteca, Milan._ *_Raphael and Sodoma_ _Fragment of School of Athens, in the Vatican--Raphael._ *_Villa Farnesina, Rome_ *_Giovanni Antonio Bazzi, called Sodoma_ _From the portrait by himself in the Abbey of Monte Oliveto Maggiore._ *_By permission of Messrs. Alinari._ *_Margherita_ (_La Fornarina_) _Attributed to Raphael. Pitti Gallery, Florence._ *_Pope Leo X., Giulio de Medici_ (_afterward Pope Clement VII._), _and Luigi de Rossi_ _By Raphael. Pitti Gallery._ _Villa Madama_ _Detail of Vault in Villa Madama_ _Stucchi by Giovanni da Udine._ _Margaret of Austria, Duchess of Parma, 1586_ _From an old engraving._ _Stucchi by Giovanni da Udine_ _Villa Madama._ _Villa Madama--Interior_ *_Villa Aldobrandini, Frascati. The Grand Cascade and Fountain of Atlas_ *_Upper Cascade, Villa Aldobrandini_ *_Villa d'Este, at Tivoli--Present State_ _Hydraulic Organ, Villa d'Este_ _Villa d'Este in 1740_ _From an etching by Piranesi._ *_Villa d'Este--Terrace Staircase_ *_By permission of Messrs. Alinari._ _*Fountain in Gardens of the Villa Borghese_ _*Pauline Bonaparte, Princess Borghese_ _Portrait statue by Canova at Villa Borghese._ _Henri IV. Receiving the Portrait of Marie de Medici_ _Painted at her order by Rubens._ _View from the Garden of the Villa Medici_ _Colonna Palace, Rome_--_The Grand Salon_ _Garden of the Colonna Palace, Rome_ _With permission of Charles A. Platt._ _Castle of Vittoria Colonna at Ischia_ _The Cascade_ _Villa Conti Torlonia, Frascati._ _The Haunted Pool_ _Villa Conti Torlonia, Frascati._ _Vittoria Colonna_ _From a portrait in the Colonna Gallery._ ___Marie Mancini, Princess Colonna_ _From a portrait in later life by Netscher._ _Court of the Massimi Palace_ _Marie Mancini Colonna, Principessa di Palliano_ _By Mignard. Photographische Gesellschaft, Berlin._ _*By permission of Messrs. Alinari._ _Antinous_ _Bas-relief found at Hadrian's Villa, now in the Villa Albani._ _Ruins of a Gallery of Statues in Hadrian's Villa_ _From an etching by Piranesi._ *_Villa Pia in Garden of the Vatican_ _Pirro Ligorio, architect._ *_Villa Pia, Vatican_ _The rotondo--Pirro Ligorio, architect._ _Eros Bending the Bow_ _Capitoline Museum._ _Faun of Praxiteles_ _Capitoline Museum._ _Villa Albani_ *_Casino, Villa Albani_ *_Candelabra from Hadrian's Villa_ _Museum of the Vatican._ *_Urania_ _Museum of the Vatican._ _View through the Key-hole of the Gate of the Villa of the Knights of Malta_ *_By permission of Messrs. Alinari._ ROMANCE OF ROMAN VILLAS [Illustration] CHAPTER I THE EYES OF A BASILISK (AN EPISODE OF THE FRENCH WARS IN ITALY, FROM THE MEMOIRS OF THE GOOD KNIGHT YVES D'ALLEGRE) I There is not one that looketh upon her eyes but he dieth presently. The like property has the basilisk. A white spot or star she carrieth on her head and setteth it out like a diadem. If she but hiss no other serpent dare come near.--PLINY. A strange story is mine, not of love but of hatred, the slow coiling of a human serpent about its prey, with something more than human in the sudden deliverance which came from so unexpected a quarter when all hope had gone and struggle ceased. Certes, I am not one of your practised romancers thus to reveal my plot at the beginning, and yet, with all I have told, you will never guess in what mysterious guise, yet so subtly that it seemed a breath of wind had but fluttered a leaf of paper, the enemy we feared was struck with such opportune paralysis. Let those who doubt the truth of this tale or the existence of the basilisk question Cesare Borgia, for we saw the creature at the same time as we rode together near Imola in northern Italy. It was the beginning of that campaign in which I, much against my will, was in command of the French troops, which his Majesty Louis XII. had sent to aid his ally in the conquest of Romagna. I would far liefer have gone with my brother knights deputed to sustain Louis's right to the Milanese, for it is one thing to fight honourably for France and another, as I soon discovered, to aid a villain in the massacre of his own countrymen, and all for aims in which I had no interest. But it was only by degrees that I was enlightened concerning the character of Borgia. He was brave beyond doubt, and courage had for me great fascination. I never saw him flinch but once, and that before a thing which seemed so trivial that I counted it but a matter of physical repulsion. [Illustration: _Alinari_ Cæsar Borgia] We were riding thus side by side in advance of our men, when a small snake darted from the thicket and hissed its puny defiance. I stooped from my saddle, impaled it on my sword, and waved it writhing in the air. But Cesare, to my astonishment, turned deadly pale and galloped incontinently in the opposite direction. When I rejoined him after throwing the reptile into the underbrush he explained the seizure. The astrologer, Ormes, had predicted that he would meet his death neither from natural sickness nor from poison, nor yet by the sword or cord, but from the eye of a basilisk. "And what manner of creature may that be?" I asked, wonderingly. "It is a serpent," he replied, "but one so rare in Italy that not once in a century is it met with. The monster is gifted with the evil eye, killing whomsoever it looks upon. It bears a star-shaped spot upon its head, and when you whirled yon reptile in the air methought I discerned its baleful flash." "And so you did," I replied, "but you need have no apprehension, the creature is blind." "Blind!" he repeated incredulously. "Of a verity. Its eyes have long since been removed, for the flesh has grown over the empty sockets." "Then," said Cesare, "some wizard must have extracted them to serve him in his black art, and has let the serpent go free knowing that it is only by the eye of a living basilisk that this prodigy can be wrought. Fortunately you have killed it and there is no longer any danger." "Nay," I replied, "I but wounded the creature. It crawled away when it fell." "Then he who holds its eyes holdeth my life and by his hand I shall die," he stammered with white lips. Little thought I then that Cesare's inhuman cruelty and perfidy would cause me to thank God for his belief in the creature's malignancy and that the basilisk was to aid in the one episode which was in some measure to take the evil taste of this campaign from my mouth. Only a few weeks later, on the first of January, 1500, our combined forces began in earnest the assault of the citadel of Forlì, which we had held in siege throughout the previous month. Little stomach had I for the business, since to my shame I was making war upon a woman. Imola which had already surrendered to us, was also her fief, but had she commanded its forces in person we would not have taken it so easily. For fighting blood ran in the veins of the Lady of Forlì, she being the grand-daughter of the great condottiere Francesco Sforza. And this was not the first time that she had fought for her castle. She had come to it first as the bride of Girolamo Riario, but the townspeople had refused to recognise his authority and had stabbed him to death, throwing his naked, mutilated body into the moat before her windows. The young widow instantly trained the guns of the citadel upon the town, and when it surrendered caused the murderers and their families to be hacked in pieces; and this was but one of many instances reported of her dauntless and vindictive character. She had remarried, but her second husband, Giovanni de' Medici, had recently died, and Caterina Sforza Riario de' Medici, in spite of her noble birth and connexions, had none to help her. If Cesare Borgia had not already married perchance the opportunity would have been offered her to add another great name to those she already bore, for he recognised in this tigerish woman a fitting mate. He hated her indeed, but one does not hate one's inferiors, one despises or pets them, and Cesare hated the Lady of Forlì because he knew that he could never master her. Therefore on New Year's Day, we having, as I have said, drawn our forces so closely about the citadel that for weeks past not a mouse could escape, Cesare before ordering the assault sent me to its lady with sealed conditions of capitulation. I thought, as I rode across the draw-bridge with the white truce pennon fluttering from my lance, how at that other siege when summoned to surrender on pain of having her children put to death before her walls, this unnatural mother had replied coldly: "Children are more easily replaced than castles," and I was unprepared for the vision which greeted me in the gloomy hall. For Caterina was no repulsive termagant, but a woman of marvellous charm. This fascination was something quite different from ordinary beauty. Its seat was in her eyes, which many thought not at all beautiful, for they were like those gems called aquamarine, of a puzzling tint varying from blue to green, lustrous and lapping the beholder with their gentle lambency, except when passion moved her, when I have seen them glow with a menacing light as though they might shoot forth green flames. But now she was all loveliness. The vicissitudes of her tragic life had left no trace except the slight scowl, which might be due to defective vision, for from the curiously linked chatelaine there depended a lorgnon with which she had a nervous trick of trifling. [Illustration: _Alinari_ Catenna Sforza Castle of Forlì in Background By Palmezzani] She leaned forward as I entered, her lips a little apart and her cheeks glowing with excitement. "You have brought me a message from your commander?" she asked, and I presented the letter. But as she read her colour flamed to deeper crimson and her small hands tore the missive in fragments. "And these are the terms proposed by a belted knight, companion of Bayard _sans reproche_; this your fufilment of your sworn devoir to women in distress? Then here is my answer," and she dashed the bits of paper in my face, "for my garrison will prefer annihilation rather than permit me to submit to such indignity." "Believe me," I protested, "that, far from assisting in the framing of those terms, I am in utter ignorance of their purport. Believe also that though what I have hitherto heard has not prepossessed me in your favour, I now count those charges as lying slanders, knowing that no evil soul could inhabit so lovely a person." Her lip curled scornfully. "I have listened to lovers' flatteries ere this," she answered, "and know how little they are worth." "By your pardon," I retorted, "I am a lover indeed, but none of yours. It is because I love my good wife in Auvergne that I honour all women." She had lifted her eyeglass as though to scan my face the more keenly to know if I spoke the truth; but apparently my words alone convinced her, and, feeling the discourtesy of such an act, she looked about the room irresolutely and let the lorgnon fall without meeting my eyes. "Good," she said at length, "I like you better for that word. 'Tis a pity we must be enemies. Tell your master that I shall defend my fortress to the last extremity. If I am so unfortunate as to be conquered, demand that he appoint you my jailer, for to no one else will I submit myself alive." I have taken part in many sieges but never saw I a more gallant defence than the one made by that doomed citadel. Its besiegers were quartered within the town, fattening on the supplies which flowed in from the country and sleeping warm at night, while the garrison of the castle burned its carved wainscotings for fuel and daily buried some famine-stricken sentry. Twice with blazing missiles Caterina's archers set fire to the houses within range of her guns, striving by destroying the homes of her own people to drive us from our shelter, and once in the dead of night she made sortie and strove to cut her way through only to be beaten back. She seemed more a deluding spirit of evil leading us on to our own destruction than an ordinary mortal, and when Cesare gave orders to bombard the castle it made our flesh creep to see her seated nonchalantly upon the ramparts scanning the artillerymen through her lorgnon, laughing when their shots went wild, and clapping her hands when they tore off fragments of the parapet on which she leaned as though she were but applauding a play. That very night an epidemic so deadly broke out among the cannoneers that some foolishly superstitious declared she had bewitched them with the evil eye, and others as falsely that the springs in the hills above the castle which supplied the fountains of the town were poisoned at her command. But the inevitable day came when the Lady of Forlì announced that she was ready to surrender. Even then she demanded lenient and honourable terms as though mistress of the situation. There must be neither bloodshed nor pillage. The allegiance of her subjects should be transferred indeed to Cesare as Duke of Romagna, and she offered herself and her children as hostages for their loyalty, but not to Cesare. They would trust themselves only to the watch-care of the Pope, and she stipulated that the French troops should be their body-guard to Rome. Cesare laughed maliciously. "She is as safe in my care as in that of his Holiness," he said, "and it is to my interest that the boy alone should die. It was the great statesman Machiavelli who counselled that when a city was captured every male heir to its former lord should be slain, to guard against uprisings in the future. I will take her son into my own safe-conduct, but you may escort his sisters and mother in welcome, for I have no wish to come within the range of her quizzing glasses." When I reported this to Caterina she shuddered slightly and answered questioningly, "From Cesare's so great personal solicitude I gather that the health of the young duke might suffer at the Borgia's table?" To these alarms I could not reply reassuringly, but the lady presently laughed gleefully. "This is not a recent thought of mine," she said. "The idea occurred to me when Cesare first laid claim to our estates. Tell him that I cannot take advantage of his kind offer for I sent my son before the siege to join his cousin and godfather, Cardinal de' Medici, in his exile. The Cardinal's family feeling extends even to his most distant relatives and the boy could have no better guardian." "Surely it is fortunate that you were so wise," I replied, and even Cesare had no doubt that she spoke truly. It was the twelfth of January, the very day of the surrender, that I set out with my captives for the Eternal City. Caterina was conveyed in her litter with her elder daughter, but the younger insisted on riding on horseback at my side. She was an ugly little hoyden of five years, this Giovanna, who, squat of stature and swarthy as a gypsy, bestrode her little pony like a man; but, though by nature stubborn and subject to fits of anger in which she bit and scratched like a wildcat, to me she had taken a fancy as intense as it was inexplicable. When I upbraided her manners as ill befitting a little maid, and marvelled at her unlikeness to her mother, she made answer: "Nay, but mamma can scratch also. You should have seen the face of the messenger who told us that the town of Forlì had opened its gates to the besiegers. I am like my father in looks, but I have my mother's spirit. Cardinal de' Medici said that if my father had worn the petticoat and my mother had been the man, the Medici would be ruling now in Florence." "Would you like to rule, little princess?" I asked. "Nay, I would rather fight. When I am grown I will be a great condottiere like you, Sir Knight." "Tush!" I reproved her. "A girl a condottiere--who ever heard of such a prodigy?" The child smiled mysteriously. "I have a mind to tell you a secret," she said. "Giovanna, Giovanna!" her mother called, beckoning from her litter, but the little maid had fast hold of my stirrup leather, and pulled me close while she confided: "I am not Giovanna, I am not a girl at all. I am Giovanni de' Medici, Duke of Forlì, and one of these days I will cut off that Borgia man's head. But fear not; I will be good to you if only you do not tell." [Illustration] [Illustration: The Borgias From a painting by Dante Gabriel Rossetti. (Pope Alexander VI. regards the dancing children, Lucrezia plays the viol, Cesar beats time with his stiletto on the stem of a wine glass.) Permission of George Bell & Sons] I had no mind to tell, and though I let the Duchess know that her little son had betrayed his disguise, and reproached her for bringing him into the wolf's jaws, I swore to her that the secret should be safe in my keeping. II The bob of gold Which a pomander ball doth hold, This to her side she doth attach With gold crochet or French pennache. Then raises to her eyes of blue Her lorgnon, as she looks at you. Arrived at Rome, the Pope assigned the captives to the Villa of the Belvedere, so named from a graceful tower which shot high above the encircling walls, and commanded a delightful prospect. A charming garden connected the villa with the Vatican, but it was none the less a prison whose only approach or egress was through the corridors of the papal palace. The Lady of Forlì had been received with hypocritical cordiality by the family of the Pope at one of those intimate gatherings in the Borgia apartments which, devoted to song, dance, and feasting were greatly enjoyed by Alexander and his children, and so shamelessly disgraced the residence consecrated to the head of the Church. Cesare upon his return would find in them an opportunity for meeting his prisoner, and, if she denied him further familiarity, he held the power of executing swift vengeance. It behooved us therefore to act quickly and before the arrival of my superior. The only hope which seemed to me at all reasonable was of French interference. Cardinal d'Amboise was in Milan, having recently arrived from the French Court, and acting upon my advice the Lady of Forlì appealed through him to the King of France, I urging her petition with every conceivable argument. While anxiously awaiting his reply I took advantage of my authority as her body-guard to station a French sentinel at her door, relinquishing my own cook to protect her from poisoning, and my faithful valet as groom and guardian of the children. But all these precautions were swept away by Cesare on his arrival in the middle of February. For he sent me at that time a curt note stating that after we had taken part in the triumph granted him by the Pope in recognition of his victories in Romagna, he would have no further need either of my troops or myself; and we would be at liberty to report ourselves at Milan to the commander of the French army. The "triumph" to which he referred consisted of a procession with allegorical floats and every description of gala costume. The houses along its course were hung with brilliant draperies; flags and pennons should wave, martial music bray, and salvos of artillery were to be fired at frequent intervals. But the principal feature of the demonstration and the one on which the Pope counted to raise popular enthusiasm to the point of delirium was to be the parade of the captives. Cesare, in emulation of the celebration of the conquest of Palmyra by the Emperor Aurelian, had conceived the brilliant idea of compelling Caterina to walk in the procession bound like Zenobia with golden chains. Hitherto Caterina and I had discussed with each other every plan of action, but now unfortunately we had no opportunity of taking counsel with one another. Still she had been accustomed too long to self-reliance to hesitate for that reason, and divining by a flash of woman's intuition how this spectacle might be converted into an opportunity of escape, she consented gracefully to Cesare's plans, requesting only that the French troops should march as her guard. To this arrangement Cesare gave his ready acquiescence, promising also of his own accord that I should ride directly behind her and beside her children. It was well thought out, for she had counted not alone upon my assistance, but had determined to use every detail of the programme which Cesare had devised to rouse the populace of Rome to aid in her rescue. She robed herself therefore in most becoming though sable garments, allowing her veil of thinnest gauze to flutter artfully and display her beautiful face while the long velvet sleeves open to the shoulder showed the double manacles at the wrist and above the elbow, made purposely too tight and cutting into the lovely rounded arm. Growls of indignation from the men and cries of sympathy from the women rose as they marked her fatigue, and how ruthlessly the men-at-arms who led her dragged her on, and the demonstration was a triumph to Caterina rather than to Cesare. As the float representing the dismantled citadel of Forlì tottered by with her little girls upon the battlements, waving, the one the bull-blazoned ensign of the Borgias and the other the reversed and degraded arms of the Medici, shouts of "Shame, shame!" were heard, and the riotous crowd surged so close to the float that it was impossible for it to proceed. We had reached at this critical juncture the Porta del Popolo and through its open gates the via Flaminia stretching straight to the north across the free Campagna was discernible. With that sight I comprehended Caterina's intention and at the same instant the boy-girl Giovanni let fall the Borgia emblem, which was instantly trampled in the mire by the mob, and snatching the banner bearing the Medici balls from his sister's hand he waved it triumphantly in its proper position, crying "Palle, palle! Rescue, rescue!" Then it was that Caterina had counted on my trusty Frenchmen to sweep her and her children on to liberty while the mob hindered pursuit. But alas! Cesare had suspected some such plot, and had interposed between the prisoners and my brave troopers his own corps of veteran pikemen. For an instant they wavered, for Caterina had sprung upon the float and was gazing at them through her lorgnon. They remembered what had happened to the gunners at Forlì, and shuddered, but the mob attacking them with paving stones interposed a screen between them and the danger they dreaded and roused their mettle. With their old war cry their first battalion charged the rioters while their second division, halting, kept back my men. As the full signification of this lost opportunity overwhelmed me, I could not in my mortification meet Caterina's reproachful eyes. Her last gallant stroke for liberty had failed through my lack of co-operation. Cesare's pikemen enclosed her with a wall of bristling spears; the populace slunk into side alleys, the gates of the Porta del Popolo had been closed during the tumult, and the procession resumed its line of march in the direction of the castle of St. Angelo. As I cursed my stupidity, Cesare, purple with rage, rode back to me with Giovanni struggling wildly in his arms. "Take this brat of a girl to the Belvedere," he commanded, "and beat her soundly." But as I lifted the child before me he ceased not to shriek to Cesare: "Beat me if you dare. I am no girl-brat. I am Giovanni de' Medici, Duke of Forlì!" There was a chance that Cesare had not rightly understood him, for I had held my hand over the boy's mouth. I would not save him and desert his mother, so I rode with him to the Belvedere; but I paused on the way to obtain a rope-ladder, and to conceal it in a basket of fruit which I bade Giovanni give to his mother. I dared not write a letter had there been time to I do so, but the child was intelligent and I made him repeat my message again and again. With the help of the ladder they must descend at midnight into the garden of the Belvedere, and climb by the rose espalier to the top of the garden wall. I would be on horseback on the other side and would receive them in my arms. Then with forged passports I would take them to Milan. A light in the window of the tower at eleven would signify her acquiescence in this plan. But at the time appointed I saw no light, and though my men waited in the lofts of the stable where their horses stood ready saddled, and I paced the lane on the hither side of the garden wall until dawn, no fugitives joined me. When I returned to my lodgings at daybreak I found a summons from the Pope awaiting me which bade me attend him at the Vatican at his morning levee. Presently, too, a man in Cesare's livery brought me the basket of fruit and the rope-ladder which I had sent to Caterina. "My master bade me return this to you," said the lackey, "as you may find it useful for your own needs in future." I understood the cold sarcasm of the message. I was to be imprisoned, and I did not flatter myself that any opportunity for use of a rope-ladder would be left me. But in that supreme moment it was not my own doom that I thought upon but that of the unfortunate Lady of Forlì. As I prepared to obey the papal summons my landlady brought me a letter which had arrived during my absence, the long-expected instructions from Cardinal d'Amboise. They called me and my troop to Milan--the Pope would not dare controvert that command; and as my eye sought eagerly for an answer to my appeal for Caterina it caught at the bottom of the page this line: "As for Caterina Sforza Riario de' Medici and her children----" Trembling with excitement I turned the leaf but my hopes died within me as I read on: "----that belligerent and unwomanly woman hath but received her just deserts. We are to be congratulated that her fortresses and her army fell into the power of our ally before it was possible for her to aid her uncle Lodovico Sforza, usurper of Milan, at present our prisoner. "Our fortunes are now so assured either by conquest or alliance that all the leading families of northern Italy are on our side. Even the Medici are with us. Sooner or later"---- Here I turned a page again. "They must be returned to Florence, as the King desires the good will of the Medici." There was more to the effect that the Cardinal desired me to kiss for him the hands of his Holiness, and to assure both him and Cesare that--if their promise to the King of France were carried out--they would ever find in the French army a sure defence. But all this seemed of little moment to me since the letter contained no hope for Caterina. I thrust it in my pouch and pursued my way to the Vatican, cudgelling my brains for some other means by which to save her. Was there, I questioned, no motive within the complicated mechanism of Cesare's mind upon which I could play? Was there nothing which he held sacred, no terror in earth or hell which could daunt his inexorable will? Then suddenly I remembered the flaw in his armour, and that he who could neither be persuaded by friendship nor coerced by authority trembled before a baseless superstition--the dread of the evil eye. I had still a card to play, and would continue the game resolutely to the end. It might be that I could arm his captive with the one weapon which he feared. With this thought in my mind I came upon Cesare suddenly, in the ante-room of the Pope's audience chamber. "Ah," he exclaimed maliciously, "you thought to anticipate me in gaining my father's ear. I confess I had the same intention. Well, since chance will have it so, we will go in together." "One moment," I replied; "I am glad to have met you thus opportunely, for I have a word of warning for you." "Of warning?" he questioned. "Yes," I replied, "in return for that you so kindly sent me with the rope-ladder this morning. You may need mine first. Let me beg you to pursue the Lady of Forlì no further. If you do not instantly let her go free she may work you a terrible mischief--the only one you dread." The scornful smile which had curled his lip died out, and though he asked my meaning I knew he already had an inkling of it. "You remember the eyeless basilisk which we found near Imola?" He nodded and caught my hand. "She has the eyes?" he asked. "Nay, you need not answer, I know where she keeps them,--in the pomander that hangs always at her chatelaine." "That is no pomander," I replied, "but a lorgnon. She is near-sighted; have you not noted, as she looks from her window of the Belvedere how she scans the objects in the garden through its lenses?" "She was looking for me," he chattered insanely, "she was looking for me through the eyes of the basilisk; but I am not so dull as you think. I have long suspected this, and when she glared at my men as they charged the rioters I struck the diabolical things from her hand with the flat of my sword. I know not where they fell but she has them no longer." "Be not so sure of that," I ventured with a grimace, which I strove to make a smile. "I found the lorgnon in the street and carried it back to the Belvedere. Be warned and anger her no more." "It was a thoughtful and friendly act," he sneered exultantly, "but useless, dear fellow, quite useless. _Mal vedere_ should that falsely named villa be called; but neither for good nor for evil will she evermore gaze forth from any casement. She and the son whom she thought to palm off as a girl lie at this moment in a windowless dungeon in the vaults of the castle of St. Angelo. I had thought for a moment to give you guest-room beside her, but you have warned me of her designs, and my father argues that we must not anger the French King in any fashion. Had he demanded my prisoners I might even have lost this dear revenge, but now I shall give orders to their gaoler that he waste no good money on their nourishment. In less than a week's time their career and my danger will be over." I would have strangled him as he stood there but at that instant the doors of the audience-chamber flew open and the Pope, attended by his guards, stood between us. He extended his left hand, which Cesare kissed, and he gave me his benediction with the other. "I have sent for you, my friend," he said, "to bid you farewell, for I have just received word from Cardinal d'Amboise that you and your good fellows are needed in the Milanese. The Cardinal informs me that he has written you by the same post. May I read the letter? Perchance I may gain from it a clearer understanding concerning his desires and how we may forward them." "I will go and fetch it," I stammered, for the request was a demand, and the thought came to me that I might cut out all reference to the Lady of Forlì from the letter. "I think we shall not need to trouble you to do so," cried the lynx-eyed Cesare. "Your pouch is open, and if I mistake not that is the handwriting of the Cardinal." He had snatched the letter, and it was in his father's hand before he had said half these words. I am not a man given to prayer, but from the bitterness of my despair my soul cried silently in that instant, "O God, save her, for vain is the help of man!" The Pope ran his eye quickly along the lines without speaking until he came to the name of the Lady of Forlì. "As to Caterina Sforza Riario de' Medici and her children"--he read aloud with illy suppressed excitement, and then in his eagerness to know more he turned two pages at once, without perceiving that the one which should have followed next adhered to that which he had just read--"As to Caterina Sforza Riario de' Medici and her children," he repeated, "they must be returned to Florence, as the King desires the good will of the Medici." In utter stupefaction, I could not at first understand how this misreading had chanced. "Hem, hem!" grunted the Pope--"but she is only the widow of a member of the cadet branch, a person of no importance. I see not why the King of France should concern himself with her fate. Nevertheless, since our prisoners have his patronage, they shall be detained no longer. I will write to the Florentine signory commending the lady and her children to their loving watch-care, and as you, Sir Yves, have been their conductor hither, so shall you escort them to their destination." Cesare could not gainsay his father's command. An hour later the gates of St. Angelo opened for the departure of the Lady of Forlì and her children. I waited not for any chance of fate to turn backward the wheel of fortune, and as my faithful troop galloped into line about her litter, I gave the triumphant order-- "To Florence." She dwells there even as I write these chronicles, in the Medicean villa of Castello, and as at first she dared not keep her little son with her (the men of the Medici being banished from Florence), she confided him, still habited in girlish disguise, to the care of a community of nuns, who kept a seminary for the daughters of noble families. But at length, on the restoration of the Medici, he issued from that retreat, and is now being bred to the profession of arms, in the which he bids fair to realise the ambitions confided to me as we rode from Forlì, what time I deemed him the most unmannerly little princess which it had been my lot to meet. CHAPTER II THE FINDING OF APOLLO (AN ESCAPADE OF BAZZI'S) I _Giovanni Antonio Bazzi (called Sodoma) to Giulio Romano, painter and architect at Mantua._ _Good Friend and sometime Pot-Comrade:_ By the which epithet I would signify that comradeship at Chigi's villa at Rome in orgies of paint pots and brushes, flesh pots and flagons, feasts of reason and of unreason, wherein we were alike insatiable until the light of our revels went out in the death of our adored Raphael. You write me that in the intervals of your labour you are piecing together memoirs of those glorious Roman days in order to leave to the world some record of the more intimate private life of our friend, and you ask me for any anecdotes or remembered conversations which may fill out this sheaf of tribute. Faith, you, who have a whole garden of such souvenirs from which to cull, in that you shared his labours, his home, his confidence and his largess, have come to a wild and barren pasture for such sweet flowers; and yet there was love between us, love which ever radiated from him as it were sunshine and caused many a briar-rose to blossom in the thorny tangle of my life. I knew him also before you, in the summer of 1503, at Siena; and it is of certain pranks in that early comradeship that I will now write. Raphael was then a youth of scarce twenty years. He had come fresh from his apprenticeship to that old pietist Perugino, to assist in the decoration of the cathedral library. I was twenty-four, but older far in world-knowledge, and exulting in my first success as a painter, for though the spoiled favourite of the town I stood _facile princeps_ among the Sienese of my craft. We met first at Cetinale, the villa of our patron, Agostino Chigi. From the first Raphael's honest admiration of my work warmed me to friendship and I strove to enlighten his ignorance. Chigi had placed at our joint disposition a loft in his stables which we fitted up as a studio and bed-chamber, and hither we resorted for work or play as opportunity and inclination moved us. It was oftener play for me, for I was more interested in my host's horses in those days than in my art. Chigi and I were both amateurs of the race-track and though he spent enormous sums on his stud I had once beaten him at the _palio_. In spite of this we were good friends. I had the run of his stables and many a reckless ride have we enjoyed together. I was fond of all sports which were spiced with danger, and particularly of hunting. But there was no sport I loved so well as a practical joke, no game that for me had so delicious a flavour as the teasing of my friends and especially the more serious and dignified--though such pranks have frequently cost me dear. From the multitude of which I have been guilty I recall one which had different consequences from those I had foreseen. I was hunting in the neighbourhood of Siena late one afternoon in the summer of which I speak. Chigi was detained at his villa in the expectation of guests, and I was alone save for the company of my ape, Ciacco, which I had purchased of some strolling Bohemians. I was training the creature to retrieve my game, in which service he was extremely zealous and clever. We had ridden far and were both parched with thirst, when I paused to rest in the shadow of a ruined tower which crowned a hill and commanded the road to Siena. Two sumpter mules, guarded by armed men, had just passed on in the direction of the city, and following at some distance in the rear two travellers, an elderly man and a young girl, were approaching the tower where at that moment I chanced to be stationed. In spite of the fact that their horses were jaded they were pushing them to the utmost, anxious, doubtless, to rejoin their convoy and to gain Siena before the closing of the gates. I doubt not, that, armed as I was, and with wind-disordered hair, I presented in front of that grim barbican a sufficiently sinister appearance. Certain it is they took me for a bandit and their faces blanched. The man retained some vestiges of self-possession, however, and, doffing his hat, craved permission to pass. Apprehending the situation, the spirit of mischief with which I am at all times possessed moved me to personate the character for which he took me, and I gruffly bade him stand and deliver toll of the valuables he carried. "My property has preceded me," he replied unsteadily, "but I will blow this whistle and bid the knaves unload it for your worship's choice." "Nay," I replied, "my merry men are dealing with your servants. I am a robber-knight, it is true, but one not altogether devoid of courtesy. I therefore ask but a kiss from your pretty daughter, and that small melon which dangles in the netted pouch at her saddle-bow, for which my thirsty ape is gibbering." If the traveller had been pale hitherto he was livid now. "Not that, not that," he cried; "hold me in ransom if you will, but let my niece pass on unmolested. She will send back whatever sum you demand, for we have wealthy friends in Siena." "Is it so?" I replied; "then I will forego the kiss, which is doubtless reserved for a wealthier suitor, but the fruit you will not deny, for I have ridden far to-day, and have the thirst of the evil one." The man's only reply was to cut the girl's horse so savagely across the flanks that the frightened creature dashed past while his own horse blocked my pursuit. But Ciacco, perceiving that the coveted fruit was about to be lost, in three flying leaps overtook the fugitive and clambering up the lady's draperies seized on the swaying pouch, which his sharp teeth managed to unravel, and presently came hopping back, man-like upon his hind feet, the melon clasped within his hairy arms. My prisoner uttered a wail of anguish. One would have thought the ape's trifling booty an inestimable treasure, for he rode so furiously toward Ciacco that the ape dropped the melon and scampered up a neighbouring tree. But my blood was up. I was not to be defrauded of my prey, and as the traveller was on the point of dismounting, I fired my arquebus in the air, and so terrified his horse that it galloped after the fleeing maiden. Its rider was also well frightened, for, though he drew rein uncertainly when he saw me possess myself of his luncheon, when I fired again (though purposely wide of the mark) both travellers resumed their flight, nor paused until they had gained Siena. I laughed to myself at the success of my prank, thinking of the added mirth I should enjoy in telling the tale that evening. Meantime I hastened to rescue the melon from my pet, but his strong hands had already rent it asunder, and to my astonishment there rolled from its interior and broke open upon the flinty road a little casket for which the rind had been but the concealing envelope. I was in very truth a highwayman, for unaware I had stolen the travellers' treasure. The melon had hidden a quantity of jewels, which now besprinkled the dust; rubies, emeralds, pearls, sapphires, beryls, as well as semi-precious stones such as jacinths, onyx, and sardonyx, rendered more costly than their brilliant fellows by the skill with which they had been cut into cameos and intaglios. It needed but a glance at an amethyst incised with a scene from the history of Cupid, and Psyche, and at another larger stone bearing a marvellous Apollo and Marsyas, to realise that they were antiques of inestimable value, the collection of some great prince. I gathered up the gems by handfuls and stuffed them into my wallet. I was sobered by the realisation of the enormity of my crime, for I had possessed myself, _vi et armis_, of jewels worth a king's ransom; and I had no clue by which I could safely return them. I sifted the dust with my fingers, explored Ciacco's mouth, and gathered up the fragments of the melon-rind that no stray gem should escape me; but it was with sincere repentance and the gravest apprehensions that I took my way to Villa Cetinale. Repairing to the stables, I put up my horse and climbed with my booty to my loft. Raphael was not there, and tying Ciacco to my bed-post I again examined the gems, gloating over their beauty and yet wishing with all my heart that they had never come into my possession. I compared them with a list in the box, found none missing, and returning them to the little casket carefully corded and sealed the same, and sat for a long time racking my brains for some issue from the dilemma. I was awakened from my dreams by a servant who announced that dinner was served, and that his master awaited my coming to present me to his guests. While hastily dressing, I resolved at the first opportunity to confide frankly in Chigi and to take his advice in the matter. Having thus lightly shifted the responsibility from my mind, and not being able to think of any better method of concealment, I once more placed the casket within the melon with the intention of returning for it in the course of the evening, and so hastened to my friend's table. Here what was my astonishment at being presented to the very persons who had figured in my adventure, and who proved to be Messer Bernardo Dovizio, Chancellor of his Eminence Cardinal Giovanni de' Medici, and his niece Maria, whose beauty was somewhat lessened by weariness and the traces of recent tears. The Chancellor, also,--who to my relief did not recognise me,--was by no means in good form, nor did he regale us with any of those witty stories for which he is so justly famed, but sighed and groaned between every mouthful. His misfortune had so afflicted him that he could not keep silence, and disregarding my presence, which indeed he hardly noticed, he poured forth the cause of his woe. The gems which he had lost were a part of the famous collection of Lorenzo de' Medici, which his son, the Cardinal Giovanni, had carried with him in his flight from Florence, and was now secretly sending by his Chancellor in the expectation of pledging them to Chigi, in return for bills of exchange which would serve him in good stead during his exile in France. The faithful Dovizio, devoted to the Cardinal's service, as he had been to that of his father, was in an agony of despair. "I will bring this highwayman to the gallows," he continually repeated. "I will move heaven and earth to discover the villain." "Have you any guess as to whom he may be?" I asked, for the humour of the matter grew apace upon me. "Certainly not of his name," replied Chigi, "but the description given by my friend is so exact that he cannot fail to be discovered." "A man of gigantic stature," repeated the Chancellor, "with eyes of green fire gleaming from under his matted hair, a raucous voice which I could not fail to recognise; and on his croup an enormous baboon, as dangerous and malignant a beast as his master, trained also to like acts of brigandage, for it attacked my niece and robbed her while I held the bandit in play with my sword." "The baboon will bring him to justice," said Chigi, for it so happened that he had never seen Ciacco; "there is no such creature in Siena. This description shall be sent to every town in the vicinity and the miscreant will be easily identified." I could scarcely conceal my amusement, but turning to the Signorina I asked her if she could recognise their assailant. "Of a surety," she rejoined "though I cannot corroborate my uncle's description. The brigand's eyes were not green, for I marked them well, and they were black and merry as your own, nor was his voice harsh, but sweetly cadenced. Indeed now I bethink me you resemble him in other particulars." "You resemble that villain not at all, young man," interrupted her uncle. "He was twice your weight and bulk. I would know him anywhere and at our next meeting he shall not escape me." "Truly," I said, "a most lamentable mischance, and to think that you lost not only the jewels but your fruit as well. However, since you have a fondness for melons I may be able to furnish this repast with a desert of your liking, and if our host will excuse my absence I will fetch it." I ran to my loft bubbling over with appreciation of the exceeding wittiness of my own joke, but on opening my door a cry of dismay escaped me. My window was broken, the cord which had tied Ciacco gnawed through, and both the ape and the casket had disappeared. Nemesis had now loaded me with a despair identical with that of Bernardo Dovizio's. Like him, I foresaw myself suspected of having stolen the jewels. The amusing joke had assumed the proportions of a dangerous situation, and since I could not restore my ill-gotten gains I rashly determined to make no confession. I reflected that though the Signorina Dovizio might have shrewd suspicions she could bring forward no proofs. Ciacco, my compromising partner in crime, had fled. No one at the villa knew that I had ever owned such a pet. Even Raphael had not seen him, for he had been busy in Siena for a fortnight, and the Bohemians from whom I had bought Ciacco had passed by a week before. In an evil hour I determined to hold my peace for the present, hoping that some happy chance would lead to the discovery of the lost jewels, for which indeed I sought continually with every means at my command. Chigi too had instituted such search as was possible without putting the matter in the hands of the authorities, which would have brought about awkward complications with the signory of Florence. In the meantime he had invited the Dovizios to remain at the villa as his guests, an invitation which was accepted with much content. The Chancellor gave himself up to the delay with such resignation that I presently perceived that he had business of his own at Cetinale other than procuring funds for his patron, that in fact he had brought his niece in the hope of securing for her husband the banker Chigi, a good match even then in point of fortune. There was in Maria Dovizio such dewy freshness and sweetness, such absolute simplicity and purity as could not fail to appeal to any man with eyes to see; but Chigi was blind, being enamoured of another woman and she of a very different type, the improvisatrice Imperia, accounted the most talented singer in all Italy. While the Dovizios lingered in this unavailing quest, of which the gentle Maria was in utter ignorance, Raphael returned to the villa, and Love, who is always sharpening his arrows for the unwary, was not idle. It was the lady whom he first wounded, though we suspected it not at the time. Later, in Rome, the Signora Giovanna de Rovere gave me a letter written her by Maria Dovizio when at Cetinale, because forsooth I was mentioned therein, though in no complimentary a wise; and as this letter showeth forth the trend of affairs better than could any words of mine, I enclose it with this memorial. [Illustration: _Alinari_ Unknown Lady (probably Imperia), by Sebastian del Piombo Uffizi] [Illustration: _Alinari_ Virgin and Child, by Sodoma Pinacoteca, Milan] _Maria Dovizio to the Lady Giovanna Feltra de Rovere (Sister of the Duke of Urbino), Duchess of Sora and Prefectissa of Rome at Urbino._ "SIENA, October, 1504. "_Most magnificent, most beloved, and most sweet Lady_: "For whom my heart longs with true devotion. Truly Madam, since we parted in Urbino most strange adventures have befallen me which I will now relate. On our way to Siena we fell in with a bandit who robbed us, and though my uncle is tarrying here in the hope of the recovery of his property the matter is not altogether simple but presents more complications than I can explain or indeed understand. "While we are thus delayed we are the guests of the banker Agostino Chigi at his villa of Cetinale. With the exception of our host and of two young painters, also his guests, we see no one, so, for lack of other material, I will describe these young men. The elder is a conceited prankish fop, if no worse, called Giovanni Bazzi, and why his comrade, Raphael Santi, should hold him in affection I can by no means understand, unless the vulgar saying be indeed true that love goes by contraries. In presenting Raphael to us our host assured my uncle that though as a painter he is as yet unknown he is destined to make for himself a great career. But to these eulogies of Chigi's I scarcely listened, my attention being held by the charm of the artist's personality. Though he said but little, his eyes were eloquent, and a smile of heavenly sweetness lighted from time to time the gravity of his thoughtful face. "At our host's insistence Bazzi showed one of his paintings--a Madonna and Child--which I scarce regarded until Raphael praised its excellencies, boldly defending the painting from my uncle's strictures. "While he spoke so eloquently I made a feint of examining the picture and was indeed moved by the love which overflowed it, the Madonna caressing her babe and he in turn petting a little lamb; but my uncle pished and poohed, saying that this sentimentality was but a feeble reflection of his master Da Vinci; and our host cut the discussion short by demanding that Raphael should show his own work. This he could not be persuaded to do, modestly persisting that he had naught worthy of our consideration, though he promised later to show us a Sposalizio upon which he was engaged but which was not then finished. "With all this, I have not related the circumstance which at once put us upon the familiar footing of old acquaintanceship. It was Chigi's chance remark that Raphael was a native of Urbino, where he had been a favourite with all those choice spirits who make your brother's court the most brilliant in Italy. "And when I demanded of Raphael if he knew you and he told me of your goodness to him, and how you were held in love and admiration of all, then it was that our common affection for your ladyship made us to feel that we had known each other from the time that we first knew you. "It is true that he did not boast as he might well have done that you had kindly written a letter in his behalf to the Gonfalonier of Florence, whither he intends later to journey. But my uncle learning of this later was duly impressed thereby, and pronounced him a young man of engaging manners who doubtless deserved such distinguished favour. "Even with this warrant our acquaintance has made no such rapid strides. I meet him rarely except at our host's table where there are often other guests and always that pest Giovanni Bazzi, whom I can in no wise abide, and concerning whose honesty I have of late entertained very grave suspicions. So serious indeed are they that I will not at present divulge them but shall continue to watch the rogue, knowing that the guilty sooner or later accuse themselves. I think he dreads me for he leaves me always to converse with Raphael, with whom my topic is ever Florence, which I knew as a child before the banishment of the Medici. "He tells me that he longs to see the city on account of the artists there assembled and chiefly the painter Frate, formerly known as Baccio della Porta, who turned monk under the preaching of Savonarola. "'And truly,' said he, 'I think that art and a monastic life wed well together, and I would willingly retire to some cloistered garden afar from the world if I might carry my box of colours with me, and might sometimes see as in a vision a face like thine to paint from.' Then was I seized with a foolish timidity so that I could in no wise answer--nay, nor so much as lift up my head--but my heart said, 'And why afar from the world? Why not in it making all better and happier?' "And while I sat thus silent, abashed, he, continuing to gaze upon me, cried: 'Nay, but I _must_ paint thee: for thou art the very embodiment of the ideal which I am striving to shadow forth in my picture. I wish to depict the Virgin at the time of her betrothal to St. Joseph, And to show a soul as pure as any of Fra Angelico's angels shining through a body that shall have all the perfection and charm of Da Vinci's women. It is what my master, Perugino, strove for but never attained. How could he when he had only his beautiful but soulless wife Chiara Fancelli to paint from?' "'And do I look thus to thee?' I asked in wonder. 'Then, indeed, I would that I might pose for thy painting; but, alas! I fear that to this my uncle would in no wise consent.' "And so, indeed, it proved. For later, when my uncle fancied that he perceived some likeness to myself in the Sposalizio, though I had given Raphael no sittings, he was vehement in his denunciation of the presumption of all artists. "My uncle might not have been so vexed but for the ill-timed jesting of this same Bazzi. We had been asked to inspect the picture before it should be sent to the monks for whom it was painted, and while I stood entranced with its exceeding loveliness and my uncle himself was astonished by the skill displayed, the Signor Chigi explained the details of the composition. "'It is a tradition,' he said, 'that the blessed Virgin was sought in marriage by so many young men that her parents besought the high-priest to aid them in their choice of her husband. He accordingly demanded that her suitors should give their staves into his keeping, to be placed over night before the altar, with the understanding, in which Mary herself meekly acquiesced, that he whose staff budded should become her husband. On the morrow Joseph's staff was found to have put forth blossoms. This legend, as you see, our artist has followed in his painting, for not only is Joseph's staff tipped by a cluster of small flowers, but the young men who accompany him, the disappointed suitors, bear flowerless staves, and one of the rejected is breaking his across his knee in token of his vexation.' "Of this incident I would make no account, had it not been the occasion for Bazzi's unmannerly trick. For that graceless fellow chancing to spy leaning against his easel, the rod upon which Raphael was wont to rest his hand while painting, he very slyly made fast to it a nosegay of orange blossoms which the Signor Chigi had presented to me on my entrance and which I had carelessly let fall. "You cannot imagine the coil which this trick occasioned, for its author speedily called our host's attention to the decorated rod, and the signification of its adornment was at once apprehended to be my own approval of the painter. "Raphael alone retained his senses, for he at once divined that the perpetrator of the jest was his scapegrace friend and extorted from him full confession of his prank, asserting that it was inconceivable that I could have had any part in it. "My confusion was such that I accepted the explanation with gratitude as an escape from the bantering of the Signor Chigi and the displeasure of my uncle. But as days passed by and Raphael held himself aloof, giving me no opportunity to thank him for his tactful defence, I perceived that it was not so much the meaning of the token which had been imputed to me at which my heart revolted, as the shameless and public way in which it had been thrust upon my friend. In this plight I still remain and turn to you for sympathy in my trouble, to you sweet lady who cannot fail to think me sadly love-sick and bold, but I pray you chide me not, seeing the matter can go no further, for I learn that Raphael has been recalled to Urbino by your ladyship's brother to execute certain commissions. So that your ladyship will soon see him and will have an opportunity of learning from him whether he at all regrets leaving Siena, though I beg that you will ascertain this without so much as suffering him to suspect that I have in any way signified that I have met him. For it is perchance best that he is going, for were I to see him often I do fear me that my heart might become so pitched and set upon him, that I should in time most rashly and inconsiderately fall in love, which were a bold and unmaidenly thing to do, and I mind that you once said that no virtuous woman would allow her affections to conduct themselves thus insubordinately until the Church had by the sacrament of marriage given her good and sufficient license thereto. "And so Madam, praying Maria Sanctissima and Maria, the sister of Lazarus, my patroness, to keep me constant in this mind, I rest your ladyship's loving friend and devoted servitor "MARIA DOVIZIO." It must be understood that this letter came not to my knowledge until long after its writing. I knew not then either the deep affection of the writer for Raphael, or her aversion for myself. By an irony of fate we had begun our acquaintance by loving at cross purposes. The "prankish fop" and "graceless fellow"--whose affection had indeed been hitherto no great compliment to a woman, being lightly caught and as lightly lost--was to his own surprise falling very honestly in love. So accustomed was I to the attraction of false lights that I said to myself often in the earlier stages of the malady, "This will pass like the others," not realising that I was entering upon the one great passion of my life, which all my later experience would but deepen, and death itself, if the soul be immortal, will have no power to quench. II APOLLO PROMISES Little we see of Nature that is ours. * * * It moves us not,--Great God! I'd rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn, So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathéd horn. W. WORDSWORTH. Raphael, at the period of which I write, had but one mistress,--his art,--and after finishing the Sposalizio he withdrew from the society of the Dovizios, painting most assiduously. I remember that his model was a pretty maid of seven years, named Margherita, the child of one of Chigi's servants, as playful and as ignorant as a little fawn. The startled look in her eyes, when spoken to by any one but Raphael, reminded me of some wild creature of the woods. But with him she was never shy,--singing and prattling the livelong day with the most charming and naïve affection. While Raphael painted, Bernardo Dovizio, who apparently regretted having wounded him, came from time to time to lend him books, much deploring that one so gifted by nature should be unread in the classics. His daughter watched them from a distance, and when Raphael left his easel would steal near and study the picture or chat with me and with the little Margherita. On such occasions the child, usually merry and loving, would sulk and scowl unhandsomely, and though Maria Dovizio was sweet and generous to her, she showed an unreasoning prejudice amounting to discourtesy, for which at first I was at a loss to account. I mind me that she was present when I tied the bunch of orange blossoms to Raphael's mahl stick, and after the visitors had left the studio the child, believing that the flowers were the gift of the Signorina Dovizio, tore them from the rod and trampled them beneath her feet. When I chid her for such savage behaviour Margherita burst into tears and cried out passionately that Raphael was her friend, and that the strange lady had no business to try to steal him from her. Seeing her so unreasoningly jealous at such a tender age I was mightily amused, having no premonition that these two would one day be rivals in good earnest for Raphael's love. But Margherita's jealousy woke in me a curiosity as to how far it was well-founded, and bantering Raphael thereon I came to the conclusion that he loved Maria Dovizio, but that he had so modest an estimate of his own talent and prospects that he would never tell her of his affection. The knowledge that I had a rival enlivened mightily my own passion, and determined me to lay the matter plainly before the lady and demand that she should choose between us. Finding my opportunity I argued my friend's cause, as it seemed to me with great magnanimity, but at the same time I neglected not to set forth how superior were my own advantages. To my immense surprise she refused me in such terms as to leave me with no ground for hope,--persisting at the same time that I was mistaken in regard to Raphael's feelings. In sheer contrariety and because her refusal had temporarily taken away my senses, I maintained that I knew whereof I spoke. "Would that I had known this before," she said turning from me. "You would not then have disclaimed sending the message implied by the flowers which I attached to his mahl stick?" I persisted rudely. "Nay, nay," she cried all of a tremble, "it is best as it is," and she made me swear that I would tell nothing of all this. The oath sat lightly on my conscience, and when my pride had somewhat recovered from the wound which it had received, my better nature asserted itself for I reflected that here were two young creatures whom nature intended for one another and I determined to give these bashful lovers another opportunity in which to understand each other. Though I prided myself not a little on the rare nobility of soul which I manifested by such unusual procedure, it was not so disinterested as might at first appear. For, I reasoned in my heart, when all comes to be known Maria Dovizio will give me credit for great self-sacrifice and delicacy of feeling, while Raphael cannot fail to be touched by my magnanimity. Back of all this self-laudation there was an ulterior motive hardly confessed to myself. By springing the mine prematurely I would either cement their union or drive them permanently apart, thus clearing my path of a dangerous rival while removing any imputation of underhand dealing upon my part. I dared the risk for I was nearing that point of desperation where uncertainty is worse than the knowledge of absolute defeat. While I sought for some promising way in which to execute my scheme, Raphael read the translations of the pagan writers which Dovizio had lent him, and this plunge into a bath of the old literature, so new to him, had a tremendous effect upon his susceptible mind. He regretted deeply that Pico della Mirandola, who strove to harmonise Greek mythology with the Christian religion, had been snatched away by death before he could have had the opportunity to converse with him. He read his writings with avidity and listened to what Dovizio remembered of his arguments that the religion of the Greeks was as truly a revelation from God as our own, and he could readily believe the assertion of certain of the humanist's friends that at Pico's death-bed the Virgin and Venus had met, and comforting his dying gaze with their presence, had together borne away his soul to the regions of the blest. Without being any less Christian, Raphael's soul expanded in the sunshine of these influences, absorbing all that was joyous and beautiful in pagan ideas. Chigi lent him his favourite manuscript, the Myth of Psyche, translated from Apuleius, which he declared Raphael must one day paint for him. But of all the gods of antiquity the one which roused our young enthusiast to deepest admiration was Apollo, whose avatar was the sun, but whose spiritual significance was infinitely more, the light of the soul, the god of music, art, and poetry and all that elevates the spirit of man. "Listen Giovanni," he said to me one day, "I could pray to such a deity. Think you that it would be sin to utter a prayer like this of Socrates: 'Beloved Pan, and all ye gods who haunt this place, give me beauty of the inward soul, and may the outward and the inward man be at one'?" Seeing sport in the idea I assured him that such adoration was commendable and would doubtless meet with a response. I had my own idea of what form that response should take. Chigi held revel that night to celebrate a visit from the improvisatrice Imperia, who was on her way to Rome. Raphael could not be induced to join the company, preferring to spend the night devouring some books lately come from Venice. He had striven to tell me of a mysterious experience. A stone bearing the image of Apollo had fallen before him as he read, and he had accepted it as a propitious omen. I laughed rudely and he shrank from me offended. "I would have shown it to you," he said, "but now you shall not see it." I repeated this hallucination to Chigi and Imperia, and they also found it amusing. "He is as drunk with poesy," I insisted, "as ever I have been with wine. If the Signorina would graciously sing some old Greek chant yonder in the garden he would believe that he heard the voice of the gods." Imperia's eyes sparkled with mischief. "Let us humour this young enthusiast to his bent," she said. "I will hide in the laurel copse at the foot of the garden if Bazzi here will bring him out upon the terrace." "He could never be content to hear your divine voice," Chigi objected, "without seeking you out, and then--" "And then, my friend, you would imply that the disillusion would be too cruel. No, I am too evidently a part of this solid earth to pass as a nymph of Apollo." I remained silent but I looked meaningly at Maria Dovizio, who stood near the window, her slight figure outlined against its darkness. Imperia followed my glance. "Ah! there is a girl, graceful and ethereal enough to satisfy an artist's ideal." "What a pity," Chigi said, "that she has not your voice." "Nay, if the Signora will but deign to sing as she suggested," I persisted, "we will robe the Signorina Dovizio in Greek draperies and pose her in the little pillared temple in front of the laurel thicket and Raphael will not doubt that the voice is hers." Thus, at last, my scheme was carried out, though we had much difficulty in persuading Maria Dovizio to lend herself to it. Only when Chigi explained that it was an ovation to Raphael, in which she was to crown him with a wreath of laurel and foretell him a glorious future, did she consent. Even then she had no suspicion that I had any ulterior motive in suggesting the little tableau. It was late at night, or rather early in the morning, when all our arrangements were completed and, returning to the studio, I dragged Raphael from his books on pretence that we both had need to cool our brains. The view from the terrace was a favourite one with each of us. In the mysterious morning twilight there seemed something supernaturally sentient in the atmosphere, as though it quivered in expectation of the dawn. A soft trill, faint with rapture, filtered through the foliage of the neighbouring wood. It was a solitary nightingale calling his mate; and presently he was answered by flute-like notes which soared above the soft murmur of a viol still strumming in the villa as a skylark cuts the mists. It was not another nightingale as I at first thought, but Imperia's voice from the laurel thicket mocking the melody. As she sang there appeared within the circle of the tiny temple's columns a white-robed figure, outlined against the pale green and lemon yellow of the dawn. It might have been a statue save that as the song of the improvisatrice, a rhapsody to Apollo, thrilled the air with passionate sweetness, it raised its perfect arms in invocation. As though in response to the gesture the clouds flushed through delicate rose to crimson, while the radiance beneath their exquisite arch burned like molten gold, with ever-increasing intensity, until the sun itself blinded our eyes with its intolerable white fire. Though this was exactly the event which I had planned, I was not prepared for such phenomenal success, and I stole nearer the temple spellbound by my own artifice. The effect upon Raphael in his exalted mood may readily be imagined. To him my little comedy was a supernatural vision, and kneeling before Maria Dovizio he exclaimed: "Beautiful priestess, beseech Apollo to grant me the power to make the world more beautiful." Mechanically the Signorina repeated the lines which I had assigned her: "To you it is decreed to find Apollo and to bring back the Golden Age." Then, as she bent to crown him with the wreath of laurel, the perfume and warmth of her person intoxicating his senses, her bared arms encircling his neck, her soul in her eyes, Raphael awoke to the consciousness that this was no phantom but a woman pulsing with life and love, and that woman Maria Dovizio. He might have revolted at the trick and have thrust her from him; but look you--it is always the unforeseen which happens. His arms were around her and he drew her to him unresisting till for an instant her lips touched his forehead and his face was buried in her bosom. Then she withdrew herself, pushing him from her very gently and steadying herself tremblingly with her hands upon his shoulders. "And shall I not find you again, O my beloved?" he cried, springing to his feet. "Surely," she answered, "surely, when you have found Apollo." She had turned from him and was hurrying toward the villa, but he followed her, calling her name. "Claim me not now, not now!" she cried, as he caught her hand. "When you will," he answered, closing her fingers over some small object, "this is my pledge that when you call me I will keep the tryst." He passed me a moment later, but so great was his preoccupation that he did not see me. I knew by the exalted look upon his face that I had played and lost. Raphael had awakened from his dreams to love. That instant of mutual enlightenment for two such natures was not alone an ineffaceable memory but a sacred though wordless betrothal. Through my pain I vaguely heard Chigi calling and returned to the villa. Neither he nor his friends had understood the full significance of what had just happened, and Bernardo Dovizio was demanding of his niece an explanation of the scene. "He thought me one of the muses," she said, "and begged me to beseech for him the favour of Apollo." "But he gave you something," said Dovizio. "Show it to me," and he wrenched open his niece's fingers. For one instant he gazed wonder-stricken at the token, and as I pressed close with the others I also recognised the famous Apollo intaglio, the gem of the collection of Lorenzo the Magnificent, of which for a few hours I had been the unlawful possessor. Exclamations of wonder and admiration arose on all sides. But Dovizio, recovering his power of speech, seized Chigi by the arm, exclaiming: "We have the thief! Look you Agostino, I have had my suspicions all along. It was Raphael who played the bandit, and robbed me of my jewels. I demand that you arrest the villain." Maria's look of anguish cut me to the heart. "Nay, listen to me," I cried; "it was not Raphael but I who stole your gems. You shall not burst in upon him and kill him with the shock of your accusations. Listen while I confess the truth." And then and there I did confess it, to the wonder but not to the satisfaction of Dovizio. "But where are the other gems?" he insisted. "You are a pair of rogues, the two of you. Come with me to your confederate and disgorge your booty." "Give o'er, my good Dovizio," said Chigi. "I will sift this matter; come with me but keep silence, for I believe in my soul that Bazzi speaks the truth. I will hear Raphael's version of how he came by this intaglio; since a portion of your lost property has been returned, perchance the remainder is on the way." And so indeed it proved. Raphael had not returned to the studio, but as we opened the door we heard a scampering and chattering, and caught a glimpse of Ciacco leaping to the top of a high cabinet and thence to a rafter where he perched whimpering in fear of punishment. "Come down, you rogue," I cried, "come down and retrieve your game." The creature understood and climbing into the hay loft, which joined the studio, returned, hugging to his breast the lost casket. Dovizio, nearly fainting with excitement, counted his treasures, and compared them with the list. All were there, excepting the Apollo intaglio, which Ciacco, driven by hunger, had that evening restored to Raphael. As it came so pat with the matter of his reading, it is no wonder that he imagined it had fallen from the skies, and this view of the case even the placated Dovizio took upon reflection. "It were a pity to rob him of his illusions if they are an inspiration to him," he mused. "Let him think himself favoured by Apollo; and as for my niece, since our business here is now accomplished and we shall leave Siena on the morrow, he will probably never see her again, and it is as well that he should not connect her with his visions." Thus ended our adventures at the villa of Cetinale for Raphael also presently left us for Urbino and Florence and all things seemed as they had been before our meeting together. But I knew that the day would surely come when he would claim his beloved, and that in the spinning of their fates so slight a thing as the pranking of a fool had twisted itself into the very fibre of their lives, never to be unravelled until the shears of Atropos should cut the cords asunder. III APOLLO FULFILS HIS PROMISE _Federigo de Montefeltro, Duke of Urbino, gives his views of Raphael_ Then why too will he try so many things, Instead of sticking to one single art; He must be studying music, twanging strings, And writing sonnets with their "heart and dart," Lately he's setting up for architect, And planning palaces, and, as I learn, Has made a statue--every art in turn. W. W. STORY. Raphael, as I have said, betook himself to Florence, that centre of the arts, and for a matter of four years I saw him not, nor can I, my Giulio, give you any record of his Florentine experiences, vital as they were to the flowering of his character and genius. I saw only the change; he left me a youth, naïve, ignorant, but filled with a divine enthusiasm, inspired as it were by the very spirit of God. In those four years he became instructed, absorbing all that was best from ancient and modern art, but still a mystic, a young archangel in knowledge and power. He studied first with Fra Bartolommeo in the cloister of San Marco, and the painter-monk yearned over him, as the child of his soul. But he divined also from the mere beholding of Da Vinci's pictures what I had been able to learn only by painful study, the secret of the master's charm. At the same time the strong undercurrent of the Greek spirit rife in Florence was bearing him irresistibly on to his mission as leader of all that is beautiful, joyous, and noble in classical art. Fra Bartolommeo could not fail to be distressed by these tendencies in his disciple. Raphael came to him one day saying, "Beloved Master, his holiness the Pope has called me to Rome; and I go with joy, for it has been revealed to me that there I shall find Apollo." "Ah! my son," the pious painter replied in anguished warning, "beware, for whoso findeth Apollo loseth Christ." And now I come to our Roman life and especially to that familiar intercourse at the Villa Chigi where Raphael and I were nearer of one spirit, for all your opportunities, than were you and he, my Giulio. In Rome, as in Siena, I preceded him, and had the better chance for fortune's favours, which I wilfully threw away. For early in his pontificate, Pope Julius II. made Agostino Chigi his banker and farmer of the alum mines whose yearly revenue was estimated at $100,000. Nor did Chigi with this elevation forget old friends, for in the spring of 1507 he came to Siena to fetch me as a personal favour to Rome, but on our arrival he introduced me to the Pope, and obtained from him my commission to decorate the Stanza della Segnatura. But, fool that I was, I fancied my luck could not desert me, and painted only when it pleased me, ran my horses at all the races in Italy, and played the dandy, the spendthrift, and the roistering spark, until his Holiness in disgust turned me from the Vatican, and called Raphael to take my place, bidding him erase the little work I had done upon the ceiling. This, however, Raphael refused to do. On the contrary he did me the honour to paint my portrait beside his own, where you may see both of them to-day in that glorious fresco of the _School of Athens_, the serious inspired face of the young maestro cheek by cheek with the coarser features of his laughing, devil-may-care friend; and I prize more highly that testimony of his esteem than all the other honours of my life. I lingered on aimlessly at Rome, watching him at his work, fascinated by the superb conceptions with which he glorified the walls of the Vatican, and admiring the daring which enthroned Apollo and his attendant muses there in the very sanctuary of Christendom. It was his homage to the old worship, his endeavour to bring back Apollo, and that he thought then of Maria Dovizio's promise that he should find her when this was accomplished I had one day convincing proof; for, turning over his sketches, I found scribbled upon the back of a study for the _Disputa_ this sonnet: "LOVE'S BONDAGE" "Love, thou hast bound me with a cruel force, The light of her two tender starry eyes, A face like snow flushed rose 'neath sunset skies, With gentle bearing and with chaste discourse. But I would make no plaint, so great my bliss. The more I love, I long to love again. How light the yoke, how sweet the circling chain Of her arms round my neck! And 'neath her kiss Leaps forth the embodied soul in ecstacy. Unloosed those bonds I suffer ceaseless pain, For great joy kills whom it doth wholly move. Though throbbing still with tender thought of thee, My heart is heavy and I speak in vain, But be my silence eloquent of love."[3] [Illustration: _Alinari_ Raphael and Sodoma Fragment of School of Athens, in the Vatican--Raphael] I knew that the poem was addressed to Maria, for it was at this time that Bernardo Dovizio, dazzled by the change in Raphael's fortunes and repenting of his hasty action at Cetinale, offered my friend the hand of his niece. Raphael had told me of this, begging my congratulations. "She is at Urbino," he said, "but has written me confirming our betrothal. She tells me, too, that she has loved me all these years. Such constancy is miraculous, and I am the happiest of men." It was with a sore heart that I wished my friend joy. He knew not of my trouble, or I think it would have poisoned his happiness, for he sympathised so deeply with all his friends that their sorrows were his own. I mind me that we met Agostino Chigi that day, and that he told us of his prosperity; how he was sole owner of five score banking houses outrivalling those of the Medici and, indeed, every other firm in the world; how he monopolised not alone the alum, but also the wheat and salt industries; how his lakes alone supplied Rome with fish and his stock farms its markets; that his fleet numbered upwards of an hundred merchant vessels, while thousands of men did him service; that, in short, his fortune was now past computation, and his income beyond his power of spending. He explained all this not in a spirit of boastfulness, but, with an arm about each of us, told how he desired that we should share in his glory. He had determined to build a villa in Lungara upon the Tiber which should excel all of the Roman palaces, and while Peruzzi was his chosen architect, Raphael and I should divide its decoration. "For if I have become a prince of finance," he ended, "you, dear friends, are princes of art, and we will all three join in making this villa a worthy dwelling-place for one whom you knew and admired at Cetinale." Thinking for the instant that he referred to Imperia, who was now in Rome, Raphael congratulated him warmly and confided his own betrothal to Maria Dovizio. But at that news a sudden transformation was wrought in the demeanour of our old friend. His face became purple and swollen and his arms fell to his sides. Not a word spake he for a full minute, but he drew his breath hard, flinging out at length a bitter sarcasm on the faithlessness of women, and bidding Raphael trust not too much to their promises, he abruptly left us. [Illustration: _Alinari_ Villa Farnesina, Rome] There was only one construction to be put upon his conduct. Maria's loveliness had apparently made no impression upon him at Cetinale, but the memory of it had lingered in his heart, and when he met her after a lapse of years and saw how her beauty had matured, an affection, of which he himself may not have been conscious, flowered suddenly, just as a rose-tree set in ungrateful soil and long accounted dead may in the fulness of time come to unlooked-for efflorescence. Sharing his envy, I could only mark it with a laugh, but Raphael said, kindly, "Poor fellow, with all his wealth, I am many times richer than he." In my heart I knew that of her three lovers Maria had chosen wisely, and Chigi's disappointment would not have added to my own affliction, but for the reflection that in the present turn of affairs he would not be likely to hasten the building of his villa, and my last hope of employment in Rome was fading like a cruel mirage. But Raphael could well afford to waive Chigi's patronage, for him it was but another step in the golden staircase of success which now mounted invitingly before him. The Pope not only overwhelmed him with projects for the decoration of the Vatican but made him curator of all antiques which might be discovered near Rome, with full power to direct excavations. Returning to the Vatican from the walk during which we had encountered Chigi, Raphael found awaiting him a letter from the Pope, announcing that certain ancient statues had been discovered in the gardens of the villa of Nero at Antium, (now Porto d'Anzio), and desiring him to examine them and arrange for the transportation of the more remarkable to Rome. "Come with me," Raphael cried, "since you have nothing better to do--pardon me, my friend--since such an excursion is exactly what you would enjoy. We will ride to-morrow morning to Ostia and charter some fishing craft there for the sail to Porto d'Anzio." I accepted the invitation, glad to visit this favourite seaside resort of the Roman emperors. Even before we landed we could see the ruins of their villas deep in the clear waters of the bay, fish gliding through arches and the seaweed waving its pennons from the walls. The cliff at the back of the town presented a most impressive appearance, being pierced by great arched openings like the portals of a Roman bath. And such, indeed, they were, for on the promontory above had been the gardens of the imperial villa, and from them staircases carven in the rock descended to this subterranean chamber, which at full-tide the sea, rushing through a long canal, once converted into a swimming-pool. The great cavern had been dry for centuries, for the tides had piled their own sandy dykes before it, and the vaulting had fallen bringing with it a portion of the garden of the imperial villa and burying its statues beneath the debris. It was here that excavations had been begun, and as we entered the cave from the beach, our way was bordered by the fragments of many a column and capital, by broken vases and by headless statues. But none of these attracted us, for in the centre of the chamber, perfectly illumined by a shaft of light which fell upon it slantwise from the chasm in the roof, was the most superb statue which our eyes, nay, which any human vision had ever beheld. Apollo's very self stood there, god-like in superhuman majesty, as though he were an archangel who had alighted from his flaming chariot to lift a threatening hand against the workers of iniquity. I cannot describe the profound impression which this discovery made upon Raphael. He was raised to the seventh heaven, as on that memorable night at Siena, and while he gazed at the statue a mysterious voice, clear but freighted with intense emotion, chanted the _Hymn to Apollo_ to which we had listened at Chigi's villa. At first we could not tell from whence it came but looked about in startled surprise. Presently, however, a branch of laurel fell through the opening in the roof, the song ended in a peal of laughter, and we knew that some one was looking down upon us from the old Roman garden. No one but Imperia could sing like that, and when Raphael exclaimed. "It is the same song, the same singer that we heard at Cetinale." I cried out. "The same, the same. She is celebrating the discovery of Apollo." "She promised to come to me when I had found Apollo," he said, and bounded up the rude stairway. Even then I did not realise that though Raphael had recognised the voice he still supposed that it was Maria Dovizio who had sung on that evening, and that it was she whom he now believed he was about to meet. There was no one in the ruined villa. A goatherd at a little distance, of whom I inquired, pointed to the shore, and we saw some pleasure-seekers embarking in a small sailboat. "It is Chigi's yacht," said Raphael, "that is his pennon which flaps from the mast, and Chigi himself is standing at the stern waving his cap to us. There is a lady with him. He is steadying her with his arm. Your eyes are better than mine, is it she?" "It is indeed," I replied, "I would know her anywhere. His arm is around her waist and she is clinging to him as of old. The unsteadiness of the vessel is but an excuse. Many times at Cetinale have I seen them standing thus. What else could you expect of such a woman? He is the richest man in Italy." IV AN ORGY AT CHIGI'S VILLA And Chigi made a joyous feast; I never Sat at a costlier; for all round his hall From column on to column, as in a wood, Great garlands swung and blossomed, and beneath Heirlooms and ancient miracles of Art Chalice and salver, wines that Heaven knows when Had sucked the fire of some forgotten sun And kept it through a hundred years of gloom, Yet glowing in a heart of ruby, cups Where nymph and god ran ever round in gold, Others with glass as costly, some with gems Movable and resetable at will, And trebling all the rest in value. Ah! heavens! Why need I tell you all? Suffice! to say That whatsoever boundless wealth like his, And genius high, can compass, rare or fair, Was brought before the guest. TENNYSON:--Altered. So I found Raphael and so I left him, successful and apparently happy. Had I comprehended what the incident which I have just related meant to him,--had I even suspected his misconception of the situation,--I might have made him understand that neither at Cetinale nor at Porto d'Anzio had Maria Dovizio sung the _Hymn to Apollo_, that in both places it was Imperia who had chanted, Imperia who had responded to Chigi's caresses, and so this woful misunderstanding might never have divided these young lovers. Maria, far from being Chigi's guest at the moment of the discovery of the _Apollo_, was in Urbino, awaiting in ever-increasing wonder and dismay some word of affection from her betrothed. Failing to receive it she came to Rome, but Raphael held himself aloof, pleading the Pope's demands upon his time. He thought that she would understand the cause of his neglect, and herself sunder the engagement, for he would not shame her by any accusation. One ineffaceable picture of my friend I carried with me into my exile, for going to the Vatican to bid Raphael farewell, I was told that he was in the Pope's villa of the Belvedere superintending the placing of the _Apollo_, which had just arrived. The guards barred my entrance to the loggia, and indeed I cared not to intrude, for I saw that the Pope was there, gazing at the statue with a grim delight, as though he believed that the god had descended to earth to expel as of old the barbarian Gauls. Raphael stood entranced, unmindful of the presence of Maria Dovizio, who sat a little apart, heart-sick and bewildered, unable to grope her way through the thick fog of misconception which had drifted between herself and her beloved. And over all the white form of _Apollo_ gleamed in heartless gladness, untouched by any feeling for his votary's sins of ignorance for which he would cry in vain repentance, "Had I but known, had I but known!" It was impossible for me to tarry longer in Rome without employment, and I bethought me of the monks of Oliveto, and how they had asked for a series of paintings for their cloister. To this refuge, therefore, I repaired, completing, in two years, thirty-one great frescoes for little more than my sustenance. Yea; and for my belly's sake I might have accepted the life of a cowled monk, had not Chigi in the nick of time drawn me from that slough with the announcement that Peruzzi had completed the building of his villa, and that it was now ready for decoration. Here accordingly, while painting in the upper rooms, I enjoyed the comradeship of that brotherhood of choice spirits--Giovanni da Udine, Francesco Penni, and the rest--who with thee, my Giulio, wrought so lovingly under Raphael's direction, illuminating the lower loggia with the legend of _Cupid and Psyche_. It is true that to my surprise and sorrow Raphael himself came not, but I knew that he was overwhelmed with commissions, and to their demands upon his time I attributed his avoidance of the villa. In the meantime I delayed not to seek him out, and to express my surprise that I found him still a bachelor. But at my first probing of that old wound he winced so perceptibly that I perceived that it was by no means cured, and I made no demand upon his confidence for an explanation of his delay in demanding the consummation of an engagement which had not been publicly dissolved. [Illustration: _Alinari_ Giovanni Antonio Bazzi, called Sodoma From the portrait of himself in the Abbey of Monte Oliveto Maggiore] The world gossiped as to the cause of Raphael's neglect of his affianced. The most part declared him cold, absorbed only in love of his art, and some whispered that the Pope who was insatiable in his demands for his work, feared that marriage would lessen his enthusiasm for art, and had put off indefinitely the wedding-day, promising Raphael the Cardinal's hat if he remained a celibate. While I could not believe that this was the true explanation of the estrangement between the lovers, I was far from suspecting the truth. Though I called upon Maria Dovizio I got no enlightenment in that quarter, nay, nor encouragement for my own passion, for when I put forth some timid essays, they were promptly crushed by a look of such reproach that I called myself brute as well as fool for my persistency. Longing to do her service, I determined to haunt my friend until he should voluntarily confide the secret of the trouble, and if it were possible bring them together. With this end in view, in all my leisure hours I frequented Raphael's studio, where he was painting the most glorious of his Madonnas for the monks of San Sisto. And here, posing for that divine work, I found again our child-model of Cetinale, the little Margherita. She was no longer a child, for the years which had elapsed had transformed her into a woman; but she had retained her old characteristics of shyness, simplicity, and a worshipful love of Raphael. She had followed him to Rome, so he told me, like some faithful, dumb animal which could not live away from its master, and moved by her great affection he had given her lodging and employment as his model. There lacked not malicious tongues who called her his mistress; but so modest yet unabashed was her demeanour that I can well believe that she deserved to the end the honour which he paid in choosing her face as his ideal of all that is noblest in woman. [Illustration: _Alinari_ Margherita (La Fornarina), Attributed to Raphael Pitti Gallery, Florence] While I worked at Chigi's villa my patron gave me much of his company; for though the decorations were unfinished he had established his residence here. Imperia was his guest at this time, and as we sat at table one evening Chigi complained in her presence that Raphael slighted his engagements and avoided his company. "Have I not heard," Imperia hazarded boldly, "that he is to marry the Maria Dovizio whom I met at Cetinale?" "If her uncle speaks true," Chigi replied, "Raphael is but a recalcitrant lover, continually putting off the date of the marriage. Bernardo Dovizio admitted to me that his niece's patience is at an end, and that she could be persuaded to accept a more ardent suitor." Imperia darted a keen look at Chigi, but replied calmly, "It is plain that Raphael has been entangled by some other woman," and she demanded of me suddenly if it were not so. "It may be," I admitted reluctantly, for this possibility had of late occurred to me, and I told them of Margherita. Chigi was delighted. "If Maria Dovizio but knew of that liaison," he cried, "she would send her betrothed about his business." "Have a care, Agostino," Imperia exclaimed. "Let the news reach her through any one but you. She would hardly regard with kindness the man who brought her proof of Raphael's faithlessness." Chigi looked at me significantly. "_You_ knew her," he said. "It is in your power to serve us both." "God knows I would give my life to serve her," I cried unguardedly. Imperia laughed. "You have more than one rival, my Agostino," she said. "Bazzi is a good fellow, but not to be trusted with your love affairs." "I deny the accusation that I am your honour's rival," I cried hotly. "I had never any hope in that quarter." Chigi nodded thoughtfully and pressed my hand. "Do not torment yourself, Imperia," he said after a moment, as he left us. "We have neither of us any chance with Maria Dovizio; and you shall be mistress of this villa and of its master so long as you care for your kingdom." But Imperia was not deceived though she feigned to believe Agostino's protestations. Chigi's information that Maria's hand had been practically offered him by her uncle had wakened the most intense alarm for her own position, and she instantly determined to effect a reconciliation between Maria and Raphael. "Look you, Bazzi," she said when we were alone, "that hussy, Margherita, must leave our friend's house at once. I can see that you love Maria Dovizio so disinterestedly that you prefer her happiness to your own. Now it is certain that Raphael and Maria love each other; and we must not allow any foolishness to part them. Let us work in concert to bring them together." I remember that when I heard Imperia say this it struck me as an instance of an angel being served by the machinations of an evil spirit. But I hesitated not to make her my fellow-conspirator, nor did I revolt that Margherita must suffer, nay, that I myself must relinquish any lingering hope of winning my idol's heart if so be that her happiness could be secured. "I am with you in that business," I assured Imperia, "but how can we effect it?" "Very easily," Imperia replied. "Margherita is the daughter of Chigi's pastry-cook at Cetinale. Send for him--I will give you money. He shall exercise a father's authority to compel his daughter to return to her home. His mistress once beyond his reach, Raphael will forget her, and imagine that he has never loved any one but his betrothed. I know you men--the nearest is ever the dearest." Imperia's plot was but partially successful. She brought Margherita's father indeed from Siena and established him as a baker near the villa; but no commands, threats, or bribe of his could induce his daughter to renounce Raphael's protection. Imperia again took counsel with me. "The fool loves him," she said; "we must act through her love, not against it." "And how shall we do that?" I asked. "We must make her understand that her lover, intoxicated by his delight in her company, is disregarding his own advantage in neglecting Chigi's commissions, and that she must reside here in order to induce Raphael to follow her." The scheme seemed to me likely to succeed, and one morning, when I shrewdly suspected that Raphael would be busied at the Vatican, I took Imperia with me to his studio to try her powers of persuasion upon Margherita. Even then she could not have succeeded but for my help, for Margherita, trusting in my friendship for Raphael, appealed to me. "It is for his good," I assured her. "Then I will not refuse," she replied, "but will go with you at once. So write for me to my master that if he wishes to paint from me, he will find me when he is prepared to fulfil his promises to his patron." Thus, without giving her time to reflect, we carried Margherita in Imperia's carriage to Chigi's villa. I guessed that she had no intention of sending the girl's message to her lover; that she planned to keep Margherita hidden until Raphael, believing her false or losing all hope of finding her, would return to his allegiance to Maria. But there were other forces at work on which I had not counted, and the first of these was Chigi. Something like the same chain of reasoning had been started in his mind by my mention of Margherita, but he had reached the conclusion that Raphael's infatuation for his pretty model must be encouraged. He therefore privately requested me to induce her, by exactly the same arguments which we had already employed, to do precisely what she had already done. The humour of the situation was so great that I burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. This so angered the unsuspecting man that I managed to ejaculate between my paroxysms: "Margherita in this villa! And what pray you would the Signora Imperia say to that?" At this question Chigi whistled. "I had forgotten Imperia," he admitted, and then to my utter confusion that lady entered the room with her arm about the waist of Margherita. Never before had I seen Imperia unable to give a plausible account of a situation, but while she hesitated, Margherita did her good service by telling the simple truth. She thanked Chigi warmly for his patronage of Raphael, and explained how Imperia and she had plotted to induce him to complete the frescoes. "And you did this to give me pleasure?" Chigi asked, regarding Imperia with wonder and admiration. She felt her advantage and found her tongue. "You little know your Imperia," she said, sweetly; and true though the words were he understood them falsely, as she meant he should, and the recording angel gave her credit for a lie. "I am more grateful than I can express," cried Chigi, "for I have great need of Raphael at this moment, and you, dearest Imperia, shall never regret this kindness." "We have played into the hands of the enemy," Imperia said to me in a low voice as Chigi darted away to write to Raphael; "nevertheless the game is not yet lost. I know my dear Agostino's cards, and though they are good ones I have some which he recks not of and he shall never wed the fair Maria." A wonderful woman was this Imperia, as I was beginning to realise, though I had not yet sounded the depths of that strange nature. Chigi's letter to Raphael was a masterpiece of duplicity. He confided to him as the most sacred secret the information that his engagement to a certain mutual acquaintance of Cetinale days would soon be announced, and he begged his friend, for the sake of the lady, to give his personal and inimitable touch to the frescoes of _Cupid and Psyche_, and to other decorations in the villa which he was preparing for his bride. Although he also confessed the stratagem by which he had secured the presence of Margherita, it was the news of Chigi's approaching marriage which determined Raphael to accede to his request. Though Agostino had worded his allusions to his betrothed so skilfully that they applied with equal fitness to either Imperia or Maria Dovizio, Raphael never doubted that he referred to the latter. The news simply confirmed the suspicions which he had long entertained, and with characteristic magnanimity, he determined to leave Maria the highest masterpiece of which his hand was capable. He came at once, and Imperia sat smiling at his side while he painted Margherita as the principal figure in the glorious _Triumph of Galatea_, Chigi, marking Margherita's look of rapt devotion, drew me aside in ecstacy. "It is plain that they love each other," he said. "When the picture is nearly finished I will invite Bernardo Dovizio and his niece to see it. They will understand the relations of this artist and model. He is cutting his own throat with every stroke of his facile brush, for Maria Dovizio will brook no divided affection." But when in alarm I reported this conversation to Imperia--"Children!" she cried scornfully; "what children you men are! Can you not see, Giovanni, that, though Margherita worships her painter as a god, he cares for her only as a piece of stuff, a marble column, or a jewel, beautiful truly and therefore serviceable to paint from, but nothing more. Let Agostino bring Maria Dovizio here. I desire nothing more warmly than to compass her meeting with Raphael. But give me a moment with her to prepare her for that meeting, and one in which to withdraw Margherita and all others from the scene, and think you that in the joy of their reconciliation either he or she will give a thought to his picture or to the models who posed for it?" [Illustration: _Alinari_ Pope Leo X, Giulio de Medici (afterward Pope Clement VII), and Luigi De Rossi, by Raphael Pitti Gallery] Chigi did not at once carry out his intention of inviting the Dovizios to his villa, for another project for the moment eclipsed that design and demands a temporary digression from my story; for if he was to be reckoned with as a lover, in a review of the hidden causes which brought about the catastrophe, he is still less to be neglected in his proper rôle of financier. Pope Leo X. was to discover this as his predecessor Julius had done, and with more reason, for Leo was the greater borrower, all of his family and the adherents of the Medici descending upon him on his accession to the papacy like a flock of buzzards. Julius had left the papal coffers well filled, but Leo had not only emptied them, but he had anticipated his own revenues and those of his successor. Truly was it said after his death, that upon his family and the building of Saint Peter's he had spent the income of three pontificates. Chigi was not distressed that there was no likelihood that the Pope would ever repay what he owed, for he had not only received ample security through Dovizio at Cetinale, but there were richer spoils in view which made that transaction seem of trifling account. Agostino desired to become the sole manager of the papal finances; and he did indeed inaugurate that system of loans by which the Pope's entire revenue was not sufficient to meet the interest on his debts. As a means of impressing Leo not only with his friendship but with his boundless wealth, he determined to entertain his Holiness with hospitality so lavish that it would put to shame the very feasts of Lucullus. Leo was in a certain way to blame for this foolish display, for Cardinal Riario was building his palace at this time, and his Holiness piqued Chigi by insinuating that the residence of Riario would rival the one which he was erecting. To this slur Chigi retorted hotly that Riario's palace would not be able to compare with his own stables. It was no empty boast, but in order to realise it our patron immediately put a stop to the work upon the main villa and, as you, my Giulio, will well remember, set us all to the task of transforming the larger building upon the river bank (originally planned to house his stud of horses) into an immense banqueting-hall. The stalls of inlaid woods were concealed by the Medici tapestries; and by means of stucco, paint, lavish gilding, and innumerable sparkling lights, depending in crystal lustres and silver lamps, we achieved an effect of magnificence unsurpassed by the imaginary creations of oriental enchanters. In this gorgeous apartment, carpeted by rugs given Chigi by eastern princes and crowded with the costliest works of art, was served a feast for whose menu the scholars of the city ransacked the records of the orgies of the Roman emperors. The cardinals and foreign ambassadors invited were surprised by dainties and wines peculiar to their own countries, timed to arrive in Rome from many distant lands on the very eve of the banquet. Golden beakers richly ornamented in _repoussé_ with bacchanalian subjects, and engraved with the coat of arms of the guest before whom they were placed, were provided with every different wine, and the convives were begged to accept the entire set as trifling mementos. To prove that the plates of solid gold on which the many courses were served were not used twice, they were when changed ostentatiously cast through the open windows into the Tiber. But here I had contrived to secure my friend the reputation of prodigality without its penalty, for we caused nets to be stretched in the river under the windows so that the service was presently hauled safely in by Chigi's servants, who patrolled the river in small boats. I was responsible also for another feature, which was in a manner too successful. When the fruit was served I placed before Bernardo Dovizio (now Cardinal Bibbiena) a melon, which upon cutting open he found filled with what he took to be the very gems lost and found at Cetinale in so remarkable a manner, and which he had left in pawn with Chigi. As with trembling fingers he was attempting to transfer them to his pocket, I set free my ape Ciacco, who, previously coached to this performance, descended a rope which depended over the table, seized the melon, and climbing again beyond Dovizio's reach pelted the company with the jewels. Great was the indignation of the Cardinal as he saw them scrambled for and pocketed as souvenirs by the guests, until our host presented Leo with the casket containing the original intaglios of which the ones placed before Dovizio were but imitations. The banquet being now concluded, the tapestries concealing the stalls were drawn aside, and a hundred pages, each habited like a prince, led in as many superb horses caparisoned in cloth of gold, and fastened them with silver chains to feeding-racks of the same metal. Chigi then apologised for having received his Holiness in a stable, saying that he would not have dared to do so had not the great Head of the Church accepted such humble hospitality for his birthplace. Leo graciously admitted that his host had fulfilled his boast, for Riario, with all his extravagance, had never attempted a scene like this. The tapestries were sent to the Vatican on the morrow, but, in displaying them and returning publicly the Medici jewels, we had over-shot the mark, for the Pope's self-love was wounded by the exposition of the straits to which he must have been reduced, to have accounted for their having been even temporarily in Chigi's possession, and another banker received the patronage which our friend had coveted. On Bernardo Dovizio, however, this feast made an immense impression, and when Chigi invited him to bring his niece to dine more intimately at his villa, he accepted the invitation with an alacrity which gave color to Agostino's hopes. Chigi had no intention that Imperia should either preside on this occasion or suspect what he was planning. He had asked a sister-in-law to do the honours of his villa for the day, and had requested me to escort Imperia to the Pope's villa of Magliana, where he had secured her an invitation to sing for a party of sport-loving cardinals whom Leo had asked to enjoy his favourite pastime of hunting. "And see to it, my dear Bazzi," Agostino had said to me, "that you on no account bring her back until late at night, for Maria Dovizio must not know that Imperia is an inmate of my house." As in duty bound I secretly took counsel with Imperia, discussing, as we fancied, every phase of the situation. Chigi, over-confident in the superiority of his own attractions, had not at first deemed it necessary to send Raphael away. It is possible that he even thought that Maria would be shocked at seeing her betrothed apparently domiciled under the same roof with Margherita, and glorifying her charms with such over-appreciation, while Raphael, surprised by Maria's sudden appearance as a willing and familiar guest, would accept the desired construction as to her relations with his patron, and that thus the estrangement between these unhappy lovers would become irremediable. Imperia admitted that if neither of them were previously warned, and, if no opportunity were afforded them to converse together alone, appearances would be much against Raphael, and Chigi's plot would have a fair chance of succeeding. "Especially," she added, "if Maria Dovizio has any conversation with Margherita will Raphael's chance of placating her be lost, for a woman who loves can not fail to recognise the same affection in another, and Margherita's infatuation is so evident that the blind might see it." "Then," said I, "our first concern must be to spirit Margherita away, else Maria in her injured pride may accept Agostino." "'Tis the first step," Imperia replied. "Leave it to me; think you I have not long since foreseen and provided for such an emergency?" As she spoke there was a look in her set face which frightened me. "I will ask Margherita's father to send for her for the day," I said, uneasy, I knew not why. "Leave her to me, I tell you," Imperia commanded hastily. "If Raphael and Maria Dovizio are to be reconciled Margherita must drop out of his life--not for one day but for ever." I liked this still less, though I laughed and reminded her how she herself had said that, when they once understood each other, Margherita would be no more to either of them than a lay-figure on which to hang draperies. Imperia smiled bitterly. "I may have thought so once, I know better now." "There is another way to foil Agostino," I suggested. "He will show the Dovizios my painting of the _Marriage of Alexander and Roxana_, in his own room. Leave such of your jewels on his dressing-case as will prove to Maria that you have recently occupied the apartment--that necklace which she admired so greatly at Cetinale. She would recognise it at once." Imperia shook her head contemptuously. "Agostino would gather up all such equivocal objects before he showed her the room," she said. "Then, since we cannot hinder Maria Dovizio from accepting this invitation, would you dare to return earlier than you are expected, and converse with her before she leaves? We might explain to Chigi afterward that we had miscalculated the time, or that our appearance was in some other way unpremeditated." "He would never forgive me," she said slowly; "nevertheless, if I do not succeed in removing Margherita, I shall return in time to pull the strings of my puppets, for Agostino shall never marry another woman." I well remember the last evening which we spent together. The air was sultry, and through the arches of the loggia occasional flashes of lightning made fiery crevices in the black heavens. Imperia paced uneasily to and fro. "We shall have a storm," she said. "I have a mind not to go to Magliana." Chigi turned pale and rose and walked beside her. He even attempted to put his arm about her waist, but she repulsed him with a savage scowl. "Do not pretend that you care for me, Agostino," she said angrily; "I will believe it only on one condition, that you accompany me to Magliana." "I have told you it is impossible, Imperia. Bazzi is an amusing fellow, a hundred times more entertaining than I." "I am tired of Bazzi. He is an insufferable idiot. I will not go unless you escort me, Agostino." "Then Raphael shall take you. His Holiness will be delighted to welcome him, as he desires him to plan some decorations for the villa; and you cannot, my Imperia, call Raphael an idiot." It was Imperia's turn to blanch as Raphael came forward and courteously asked the honour of her company. But she quickly recovered herself, "Raphael is too charming," she said guilefully, "and were it not that his heart is given to the beautiful Margherita I might be tempted to angle for it." "Ah!" exclaimed Chigi, well pleased, "that is good news. Margherita is a rare prize, and I am glad to know that the unimpressionable Raphael at last really loves." The eyes of Imperia and Chigi were intently fixed on Raphael's face, striving to read his true feelings. He felt and resented the scrutiny. "I doubt if the man lives who has not loved," he said, flushing. "Perhaps it is because I love so deeply that I cannot speak of it." Imperia softened for an instant, and, taking a lute, sang, _Quant'e bella giovinezza_.[4] But the pent-up passion that possessed her this evening woke again in the line, _Che si fugge tuttavia_, and she ended suddenly with a dry choking sob. An embarrassing silence fell upon us all, broken finally by Imperia. "A little honesty might clear the atmosphere," she said to Raphael; "besides what need is there of such secrecy when we have all guessed the truth. No, you shall not escort me to Magliana. I will be no man's second choice, not even yours, Agostino," and so saying she ungraciously departed from us. "She is in a devil of a humour," Chigi said to me, uneasily, when Raphael had bidden us good-night. "What can have angered her? Is it possible that she suspects that her reign is over?" "She suspects nothing," I assured him, truthfully; in my heart I added, "but she knows everything." "But will she go?" Chigi asked, anxiously; "that is the immediate question. I cannot put her out by force." "You will never have to do that," I replied. "She will go, never fear. Leave her to herself, her mood will have changed by morning. There is only one thing to be relied upon in women, and that is their inconstancy, not alone to men but to any fixed idea." In spite of the flippancy with which I had striven to beguile Chigi, I was vaguely but none the less genuinely troubled. Unable to sleep, I strolled toward dawn in the garden. A lamp burned in the tiny room assigned to Margherita, and to my surprise there flitted across the window the shadow of Imperia. What business could she have there at such an hour? Certain expressions, to which I had given no weight at the time of their utterance, came back to me with sinister significance, and especially her declaration that Margherita must disappear, "not for one day, but for ever." I continued my watch until a gust of rain drove me into the house, and I fell asleep to dream that an oubliette lined with the blades of scythes (such as I knew existed in certain old Roman houses) had at Imperia's touch yawned beneath the couch of Margherita; and that the innocent barrier to Raphael's reconciliation with Maria had indeed "dropped from his life." But I awoke at Chigi's cheery halloo to find that the storms of the previous evening had cleared. Imperia had expressed her readiness to spend the day at Magliana, and my host desired me to select horses for the excursion. I never saw her gayer than on that day, and when I looked askance as she jested with his Holiness and flirted with Riario, daring him to give a supper in her honour in his new palace, she pressed my foot beneath the table and looked me smilingly in the face, as though striving to assure me that all was well. But she would not comply with Leo's request for his father's canzone, _Quant e bella_, which she had sung with such effect the previous evening. She left the gay company while they were all clamoring for more, and insisted that I should urge the horses to the utmost as we dashed back to Rome. Our common anxiety to know the outcome of Maria Dovizio's visit to Chigi's villa, together with her great longing for sympathy in this crisis of her life, so wrought with the favouring opportunity of that wild drive that Imperia granted me such a revelation of her inmost soul as I believe no other man can boast, and I knew her that night as God knew her. She had sought Margherita the night before a criminal at heart, for she had determined to sacrifice the girl. Imperia possessed a house in Rome. It was on her lips to tell Margherita that Raphael, who had met with an accident, was lying there at the point of death, and had sent for her to come to him. She had already instructed her servants, and had Margherita once entered that house its doors would never again have been opened for her. But Imperia's guardian angel was kind. Before the words could be uttered Margherita had poured out her heart in gratitude to the woman whom she believed to be her benefactress. While the girl spoke, Imperia strove to steel herself, repeating mentally the round of cruel reasoning which had been the Ixion's wheel on which her tortured brain had unceasingly revolved: "If Margherita speaks to Maria Dovizio, Maria will never be reconciled with Raphael. Unless Maria weds Raphael she will surely marry Chigi. Either Margherita or I must perish. Which shall it be?" But gradually this fiend's chatter grew less insistent and Imperia heard instead Margherita's impassioned protestations. She was happy, blissfully happy, and owed it all to the disinterested kindness of her patroness; for though Raphael had always loved her he had been bound by a hateful engagement to a cold, proud woman, who had cast him aside for a wealthier suitor. Her memory had rankled in the mind of both, poisoning their happiness, for Margherita well realised that she was herself but a peasant, not to be compared in birth and breeding to this high lady. Until lately she had not deemed herself worthy to mate with so exalted a personage as her lover. But since she had known Imperia she had comprehended how such a miracle might be. "For," said she, "you are just like me, and all of the Signor Chigi's wealth and glory does not crush or humiliate you, because when two people really love each other it makes them equal, and neither genius nor riches nor anything else in all the world is worthy of being compared to the love of a true woman." That shaft went home. The thought of being classed with this single-hearted girl who had sacrificed everything to a great love so humiliated and touched the heart of the venal courtesan that in spite of all she had at stake, she could not prevail upon herself to do Margherita this great wrong. So, finding that she knew not who the great lady was to whom Raphael was betrothed, Imperia told her of Maria Dovizio's expected visit, as of that of an old friend who had been interested in her as a child at Cetinale, and bade her if opportunity offered repeat to Maria the story exactly as she had just told it, for it would surely be to her advantage to do so. When Imperia told me this I cried out, "But it will kill Maria, and you forget that Raphael is there and will not permit her thus to speak." "Nay, my friend," Imperia answered. "Raphael is not there, for Agostino, on reflection, wisely decided not to risk the meeting, and gave him a holiday this morning to work in his own house. Never fear that Chigi will not leave Maria Dovizio alone with Margherita, or that her revelations will have any such deadly effect. Agostino is an adept in consolation, and Maria must long since have divined the truth." My heart beat in a tumult of conflicting emotions. For an instant a wild, unreasoning hope overpowered all the rest. "Imperia," I exclaimed, "you shall not lose Agostino. I will surrender my chances with Maria to no man but Raphael. If in truth he has ceased to love her,--then, for all you think me mad in saying so, we may both, may all be happy yet." [Illustration: Villa Madama] But such joyous ending to lovers' woes is found only in the fictions of romancers. Certes I have often thought I could design a fairer web than that the fates weave for us. Even as I spoke Imperia caught my arm and I drew rein, for we were nearing the gateway of Chigi's villa. A carriage was leaving the grounds, and as it passed us we saw Maria Dovizio lying in a swoon in her uncle's arms. Chigi was not with them, for she had left his house apparently indifferent to all that she had seen or heard within it, and had succumbed only when beyond his view. "Poor child," said Imperia, "you are not wounded so deeply as you fancy. No, do not drive in, Giovanni, I have learned all I wished to know. In spite of her present despair Maria will enter those gates ere long a happy bride; but I shall never knock at them again. The end would have come soon in any event, for Agostino had ceased to love me, but he shall never boast that he cast me out." I took her to her own house, and when Chigi learned that she had not returned with me he but shrugged his shoulders, for she had rightly divined his heart. I never saw her again, but I heard much, for Rome still rings with wild tales of her notoriously evil life. A nature hers that had much of good in it I bear witness, though sadly she mistook her way. She mistook it even when she tried to do a kindness to Margherita. Shame and heart-break was the guerdon which that poor child received in return for her great devotion. As for me, the glimpse I had caught of Maria's death-struck face so rankled in my soul through the long watches of that sleepless night that on the morrow, in anguished contrition, I confessed all that miserable story to Raphael. When he knew how cruelly he had misjudged her he was smitten with such remorse that he could never forgive himself or take joy in life. For though he went to her at once and she forgave him freely, nay, strove to comfort him by protesting there was naught to forgive, she had suffered overmuch to endure the great joy of their reconciliation. Prattling of love and happiness and smiling still when she no longer had strength to utter his name, she peacefully died within his arms. [Illustration: Pope Leo X. at Raphael's Bier From the painting by Pietro Michis. Permission of Franz Hanfstaengl] It was Raphael's grief rather than, as reported, a fever taken in superintending archæological excavations which truly caused his death on his thirty-seventh birthday, upon that Good Friday which neither you nor I, my Giulio, can ever forget. Margherita told me that in his delirium he knew her not, but kissed her hands, calling her "Maria" and begging her forgiveness. To the poor girl he left by will ample support; but, by the same testament, he was buried by the side of Maria Dovizio, beneath whose name he caused to be chiselled the inscription, "The affianced wife of Raphael Santi, whom death deprived of a happy marriage." CHAPTER III A CELLINI CASKET INTERLUDE The trellis that once shut the forest trees From the fair flowers, all torn and broken is, Though still the lily's scent is on the breeze, And the rose clasps the broken images. WILLIAM MORRIS. Neglected but not ruinous, its marbles mossy, its once unrivalled garden invaded by sweet wild-flower banditti which run riot among the gentle roses, its fountains dry, their cracks and crannies the homes of basking lizards, its charming loggia trodden only by enthusiasts for whom every spot touched by the genius of Raphael is a shrine of pilgrimage--the Villa Madama, though appealing in its desertion, is not a melancholy solitude. [Illustration: Detail of Vault in Villa Madama--Stucchi by Giovanni da Udine] The imagination is intoxicated as by some heady wine as one gazes outward upon the dazzling panorama which originally determined the site of the loggia; and when, fatigued by the flashing sunlight, our eyes turn to the interior they are soothed by the subtler beauties of the half-effaced frescoes, the floral arabesques which Giovanni da Udine lavished upon the spandrils, the pouting _putti_ in Giulio Romano's frieze of cherub faces, carrying out a scheme of decoration which could have been designed by no other than Raphael. We are certain as we recognise in a more delicate line, or exquisite touch recalling the arabesques of the Vatican loggia, that just here the great impresario must have caught palette and brushes from the hand of his pupil with, "_Me perdone Giovanino mio_, let me frolic a while with these fairy creatures and show them to you as I saw them in my childhood dancing in the swaying vines that garlanded the pergolas of Urbino." And so they revel here, myths of the childhood of the race, monstrous creatures, half beast, half human; centaurs, fauns, tritons, mermaids, sphinxes, lamias, their grotesquerie no longer repulsive, for it is a foil to the utmost elegance and sumptuousness of Renaissance art, their multiplicity never wearying, because they are marshalled by the greatest master in decorative design that the world has known. They lurk in the convolutions of exquisite _rinceaux_, uncoiling themselves from the scrolls of acanthus foliage, where sport also more delicate hybrid flowers;--women, whose beautiful bodies rise like anthers from the calices of impossible blossoms, whose arms are coiling tendrils and whose limbs melt into the curves of exuberant leafage unknown to the botanist. But the charm which holds the visitor who penetrates this delicious solitude is due not alone to the sense of sight. A haunting suggestiveness breathes from these surroundings, like the perfume exhaled when one unlocks a long-closed sandal-wood casket, once the depository of dainty feminine trifles. It needs not the name of the villa to tell us that a lady, sitting in this loggia, once duplicated Da Udine's traceries in her embroidery, gathered roses in the garden, and looked longingly toward Rome while awaiting the coming of her princely lover, and many a visitor has been piqued by the ignorance of the custodian of the villa to search history for this mysterious Madama. [Illustration: Margaret of Austria, Duchess of Parma, 1586 From an old engraving] Margaret of Austria, daughter of an Emperor, wife of the reputed son of one Pope and of the grandson of another, Grand Duchess of Tuscany, and Duchess of Parma, quartered the imperial eagle upon the balls of the Medici and the lilies of the Farnese. That the bar sinister was conspicuous upon her escutcheon mattered little in the age in which she lived, for the Emperor Charles V. acknowledged and advanced the interests of his illegitimate daughter with the same lack of embarrassment shown by the popes in the favouritism of their "nephews." A doubtful advantage this, but one with far-reaching consequences, for when Margaret was twelve years of age, Charles conquered Rome and the child's connection with Italy and the Villa Madama had its beginning. The villa had been built by Raphael for Pope Clement VII., while he was yet only Cardinal Giulio de' Medici, as a pleasure casino to which he could retreat from the cares imposed upon him by his cousin, Pope Leo X. Later when as successor to the tiara he found that not the least burden in the heavy legacy bequeathed him was that of the guardianship of the Medici family, it became the resort of his Florentine relatives on their quieter visits to Rome and the home of a mysterious child, Alessandro, of whom the Pope announced himself the guardian. When Lorenzo II., (grandson of the Magnificent) died, leaving but one legitimate child, Catherine de' Medici, the future Queen of France, Clement imposed Alessandro upon Florence as the natural son of Duke Lorenzo. There lacked not shrugging of shoulders at this imputed parentage and Florence revolted against receiving a bastard and a mulatto as its sovereign. But trouble was brewing both for Florence and the Pope. Charles V. had determined to make himself master of Italy; his forces closed around Rome, and Clement, fleeing through the underground passage from the Vatican, shut himself up in the castle of St. Angelo, and from it beheld the horrors of the sack of the city. From its parapets, too, he witnessed the occupation of his cherished villa by Bourbon's savage soldiery. Benvenuto Cellini relates (with his characteristic self-laudation) his prowess in killing the Constable de Bourbon and in defending the castle of St. Angelo, and although his perspective is slightly forced from his habit of placing his own colossal figure in the foreground, no chronicle gives a more vivid account of these stirring events. [Illustration: Stucchi by Giovanni da Udine Villa Madama] What a picture he might have painted for us of the meeting of the Pope and the Emperor after the pacification; when Clement crowned his late adversary and Charles, reinstating Duke Alessandro over Florence, betrothed his beautiful daughter Margaret to that base-born reprobate! Cellini might also have told us much of the after-life of the Duchess, for he knew her well, and mentions her with admiration in his autobiography. He served Alessandro too in Florence, and boasts of the intimacy which he enjoyed in the ducal household. There was no one living at that period so well qualified as he to relate the inner history of that tragical marriage and of the romance which effaced its memory and lingers still like an elusive perfume in her exquisite villa. Judge, lenient reader, if Cellini had told that last story, would not its main _facts_ have corresponded with those embodied in the following pages, though the tamer phrasing and more conventional attitude of the writer compared with the audacity of his racier chronicle "Are as moonlight unto sunlight, And as water unto wine." THE ADVENTURE OF THE CASKET BEING CERTAIN PAGES NOT INCLUDED IN THE AUTO-BIOGRAPHY OF ITS MAKER I It will be remembered by those who have read my published memoirs that in the year 1535, while I was in Florence in the service of Duke Alessandro de' Medici, I received orders from his excellency to execute a little _coffre_ in gold to hold his own portrait, a medallion which I had previously modelled from life and cast in relievo. That I dismissed so lightly masterpieces of which I had such reason to be proud was due to the fact that certain personages of exalted station and of choleric temper, quick and able to revenge any imputation upon their honour were concerned in the adventures of the casket, so that I deemed it prudent during their lifetime to withhold a recital which I trust my present reader may find of a diverting nature. This casket was conceded by all connoisseurs in such matters to be the most admirable work of its kind hitherto produced. It was crowned by a statuette of Hercules, with other most exquisite figurines at the four corners, set upon feet of crouching sphinxes, half women and half panthers, and was further enriched by reliefs of laughing boys holding garlands, by grotesque masks and foliages of the most graceful and ingenious design that could possibly be conceived. [Illustration: Villa Madama--Interior] I had been to infinite pains, as was but fitting since the Duke proposed to present it to his betrothed, Margaret Duchess of Parma, daughter of the Emperor Charles the Fifth, to whom he was to be married at Naples on the return of her father from his glorious expedition against the Turkish Corsairs. This marriage had been arranged for his "nephew" by Pope Clement VII. on his pacification with the Emperor after the taking of Rome, but its consummation had been hitherto delayed on account of the tender age of the bride. Now, however, she was upon her way to meet her father. Therefore the Duke requested me to serve as his messenger in presenting these gifts, whose excellencies I of any person in the world was most competent to explain and extol. Instructed that the Duchess Margaret would rest upon her journey at the villa which Raphael had built for the Pope upon the slopes of Monte Mario, and which Clement had bestowed upon her as a part of her dowry, I repaired thither before entering the gates of Rome. I had been told by the Duke to ask upon my arrival not for the Duchess but for Monna Afra, who had been installed as housekeeper of the villa by the Pope when he was as yet only young Cardinal Giulio de' Medici, and his personal affairs were not submitted to the glare which surrounds the tiara. Whatever these may have been, Monna Afra, though once a Moorish slave, and of dark complexion and uncertain temper, was not without a certain savage beauty, or would have been but for the marks of tattooing between her eyes, and, though well advanced in years, carried herself erect with a dignity worthy of royal descent. She was dressed in the Moorish fashion, with a profusion of necklaces of linked sequins of uncut precious stones and of large turquoises, some of them I could judge of great value, though clumsily set. These necklaces depended from beneath her gaily striped head-cloth upon her forehead and also covered her bosom. Her dark blue robe was girdled by a golden belt of curious workmanship, and she wore bangles upon her ankles with bracelets of cheap blue glass upon her arms. Her hair, braided in a multitude of fine plaits, was jet black and heavily perfumed. She wore but one ear-ring, a hoop of gold in which twinkled a great diamond. I had a letter for her from the Duke, and as it has never been my practice to deliver a missive of whose contents I am ignorant, lest I might be deputed to give orders for my own execution, I had taken the precaution to open it (having first made an impression of the seal so that I could reseal it beyond possibility of detection), but all to no avail for this letter was written in Arabic, of which language I have no knowledge. I was in twenty minds to destroy it, professing that I had lost it _en route_, but having calculated that honesty was the more gainful part to play, I put my trust in my patron saint and boldly presented it. By so doing I came into possession of an important secret, for on reading the letter Monna Afra exclaimed: "My son informs me that you are an unprincipled rogue whose life he holds in his hands, on account of certain murders which you have committed, and that therefore I need not fear to trust you with our private affairs." The opening words of this ungracious speech caused my spirit to leap within me, for Duke Alessandro far from confiding to me or to any one else the secret that he was the child of a mulattress, and in all probability the bastard of the Pope, had persistently maintained that he was the legitimatised son and rightful heir of the last Duke of Florence, and his mother a princess whose name would in time be divulged, and this notwithstanding that his dark complexion proclaimed him of Oriental race. I dissimulated my exultation, swore loyalty to my patron's honoured mother, and showed her the portrait of her son, with which she was greatly pleased. "You shall give this to the Duchess, later," she declared, taking the casket from me, "but first I desire you to copy the medallion for me, and to say nothing of this commission." The wish to possess the likeness of her son seemed so natural to a mother and so flattering to me that I readily consented to oblige her, being the more content to do so that I found myself extremely well lodged and nourished in one of the dependencies of the villa, with the suite of noble attendants appointed to wait upon the Duchess. Among these I have cause to remember with the utmost vividness a beautiful page, the grandson of Cardinal Farnese, who waited upon Margaret as her train-bearer. This boy's name was Ottavio, and I was drawn to him from the first for his character matched the exceeding loveliness of his lineaments. Monna Afra from some strange whim had desired me to copy the Duke's portrait upon glass, and thinking possibly that I might break the slip, had given me two of precisely the same size. On one of these I was impelled to paint for myself the miniature of this adorable child in the court costume of white satin doublet and white silk hose which he was to wear at the wedding of the Duchess. To this circumstance was due a mischance, which while it seemed to work me ill at the time was in the end productive of good. Though but a child in years the soul of the page, Ottavio Farnese, was well-nigh ravished from his body with love for the Duchess, who but six years older than himself was still but a slip of a girl. Often as I saw these two children pelting each other with roses and playing many childish games I wished that by some enchantment I might keep them thus forever, for my heart revolted at the thought that this exquisite creature was soon to be sacrificed to a brutal profligate twice her own age. "Certes," I said one day to Ottavio, "it is a great pity that you are not some ten years older, then would I devote myself to your service and it should go hard ere the daughter of Charles V. should wed with that swine of an Alessandro de' Medici." "Is he indeed a hog?" cried the boy, "then will I slay him, for I would gladly give my life for her." Seeing that so precocious and so pure an affection was beyond the conception of our comrades (though not of the ancients since they figured the love of the boy Cupid for Psyche), I protected Ottavio from their ribaldry, declaring that I would punish with my sword any who made a jest of a devotion which might have drawn tears from the angels. While the Duchess Margaret was in her way equally charming, she was not of such a heavenly gravity as her little comrade. On the contrary, at this time her spirits overflowed in a bewitching and mischievous wilfulness, which made her the more irresistible. She was conscious that she was soon to be wedded, and this knowledge gave her a sense of importance together with mysterious heart throbbings and perturbations, a wild curiosity to know what manner of man her future husband might be--the coquettishness natural to woman which at times made her rebel at being thus fettered, all the more that it was without her consent, and at others built up an ideal in her imagination which she was ready to fall down and worship. Seeing her thus curious, Monna Afra had promised Margaret that a necromancer should show her the presentment of her future husband; and upon a certain morning this designing woman sent for me, saying that the slave who ordinarily assisted this magician had suddenly died, and that she desired me to aid him in his magic rites. She neglected not at the same time to remind me again that I was completely in her power and that if I did not perform all that was demanded of me she would denounce me to the authorities as a murderer. Thus admonished, and believing also that the necromancer was able to work me a mischief, I put my trust in St. Michael, confounder of Satan, and faithfully performed all that I was bidden to do. Hurrying me into a musician's gallery, which overlooked the chamber in which the incantations were about to take place, the sorcerer showed me a strange instrument, compounded of lenses set in a black box in which burned a small lamp. "Fear not, Benvenuto," he whispered, seeing that I hesitated, "but manipulate this machine as I will now show you, placing from time to time these slips of painted glass in front of the lamp, and when I shall call upon the name of the arch fiend Beelzebub, be careful to introduce the copy of the portrait of the Duke which you have just made for Monna Afra." He then made some cabalistic signs upon my forehead and bidding me be of stout heart descended to the main floor of the room, which was but dimly lighted by the flames of a brazier. I could see, however, that around the light were grouped the Duchess Margaret, Monna Afra and Ottavio, who suspecting some design against his mistress, had insisted on accompanying her. Around these three the necromancer now traced upon the floor a magic circle; entering it and directing Margaret to keep her eyes fixed on the wall opposite to the little gallery where I stood, he invoked with a loud voice the demons Soracil, Sathiel, and Ammon dwellers in the moon, bidding them appear with all their legions. As I had previously witnessed a similar conjuration by which another necromancer had filled the tiers of the Colosseum with innumerable legions of devils, the horrible fear which I had experienced on that occasion returned in so lively a manner that my hands trembled so that I could scarcely perform the rites assigned to me. I had hardly introduced the first slip of glass when Ottavio cried out that the house was on fire and endeavoured to drag the Duchess from the circle, but the necromancer held him firmly and commanded him on his life not to stir as the demons were gathering in force. Having placed the next slip of glass in its place I myself perceived them, horrid creatures of gigantic stature clutching at their victims. Thus the ceremony proceeded, the enchanter uttering strange sentences in the Hebrew language, while Monna Afra shrieked and howled in blood-curdling tones. Ottavio also was well-nigh bereft of his senses with fear, and flinging his arms about the Duchess cried to the fiends to take him to hell, but to spare his beloved lady. At this point, Margaret, who was strangely unafraid, repeated after the necromancer these words: "I conjure thee, Beelzebub, Prince of Darkness, to reveal to me the likeness of my lord and husband, and renouncing all others I promise to be true to him throughout all eternity." This was my cue, but fumbling in the casket for the portrait of Duke Alessandro I inadvertently introduced into the throat of the infernal machine not that bit of glass but the one on which I had painted the likeness of Ottavio. Seeing the beautiful face of the lad gleaming like that of an angel between the rifts of the smoke of hell, there was not one of us who for the instant doubted that the apparition was miraculous. Monna Afra ceased her diabolical bellowing, the necromancer was speechless with surprise, only Ottavio found his voice, and crying, "It is I, it is I!" fainted from stress of emotion. Comprehending immediately that I would be held responsible for the miscarriage of the prodigy I hastily made my escape from the villa, nor did I, until long thereafter, meet with any of the parties concerned in this adventure. The augury in which I had assisted seemed false for the marriage of Margaret to Duke Alessandro took place, as had been planned, on the arrival of the Emperor at Naples. Though Charles was greeted with acclamations as the champion of the Church against the infidel, he having put to flight Hayraddin, admiral of the Sultan, and taken the city of Tunis, thus liberating thousands of Christian captives,--yet in the midst of the festivities there lacked not those who saw a certain inconsistency in the wedding of his sweet daughter to a man notorious for his wickedness and of the very race which he professed to hold in such abhorrence. Duke Alessandro after his marriage refrained not one whit from his evil ways, but rather exceeded his former profligacy, so that all Florence was scandalised thereby and pitied his gentle Duchess. I mind me now, however, that to my astonishment there was one who took another view of the matter, for Lorenzino de' Medici affirmed that Margaret was possessed of that dauntless courage which one sees sometimes in the tamers of lions and other savage beasts; that Alessandro was a mean-spirited creature cowed by his child wife; and that one had but to note the haughty poise of her head and the hang-dog sullenness which he maintained in her presence to guess the truth. Though I abhorred the Duke, yet as he had made me master of the mint it was necessary that I should have commerce with him, and on the first occasion upon which I presented myself being made to wait in an ante-chamber, I overheard a remarkable conversation which caused me to credit the opinion of Lorenzino. The door was ajar between the room in which I sat and the next in which the Duke and Duchess had just risen from breakfast. What he had said to her I know not, but his face was one malignity as he leaned toward her across the small table. She faced his snake's eyes, her own dark with an intensity which should have warned him, and half beneath her breath, as though she told him of some danger with which she had nothing to do, as one might have said, "Provoke not that dog, or you will inevitably be bitten,"--she very quietly uttered these words: "Lay so much as your finger upon me and I will kill you." "And what is to hinder my killing you first, my little tigress?" he hissed. I had gripped my sword in answer to that question, but there was no need, for she blazed forth at him, the very daughter of her father. "The Emperor!" she cried triumphantly, and there she had him; for though Charles had sold her like a slave and lifted no finger to avenge the indignity which she suffered, yet Alessandro well knew that he would be answerable for her life. As she left the room the Duke turned upon his heel, and catching sight of me cried out angrily that I was well come, for he was on the point of arresting me for feloniously making away with the casket and portrait which he had bidden me take to his consort. I told him truly that I had left the casket in the possession of his mother. With that he flew into a rage, demanding who had dared to say that this vile hag was in anyway related to him. I made answer that Monna Afra had herself told me that this was the fact, whereupon he swore that he would kill her for spreading such a rumour, and offered me a large sum to undertake her execution for him. When I respectfully declined this office he replied: "As you please, but if you hold not your tongue concerning this matter I will find effectual means to silence you." Then reflecting doubtless that I was not a man to be governed by threats but more likely to be moved to generous deeds by appreciation of my talents, he admitted that his wife had indeed had the casket in her possession after I left Villa Madama, and had not missed it until her chests were unpacked at Naples, and that his true reason for choosing me to regain and restore it to her was that I was the best fitted of all his courtiers for so difficult an undertaking. I replied that the opportunity to serve the Duchess would be the greatest favour and honour which he could confer upon me,--and with that he showed me the key of the casket which until now had never quitted Margaret's chatelaine, desiring me to duplicate it for him, with this difference that the handle was to be ornamented by a crown of thorns. When I objected that the metal points would inevitably pierce the hand of the Duchess when she attempted to unlock the casket, he replied that he did not design the key for his wife, and bade me obey orders without foolish comment. As I am an expert in forging metals I soon made a little key with which the Duke was delighted. Taking it into his cabinet he returned presently with a little box on which were inscribed certain Arabic characters. "This box," said he, "contains the key which you have just fabricated with an order to Monna Afra to deliver the casket into your hands." "Since I am to bring away the casket," I replied, "for what purpose do you send this key? Is it, perchance, that Monna Afra may retain for herself any of the contents of the _coffre_?" "I have already reproached you"--the Duke answered with a most malignant expression--"for giving vent to vain imaginings. If you cannot refrain from thinking, at least keep silence, and implicitly carry out my instructions. "After delivering this package wait a little, while Monna Afra goes to fetch the casket; should she tarry follow her and, no matter what you may see or surmise, make no outcry but hasten from the villa failing not to bring the casket with you. The Duchess tells me that while at the villa she kept it in a hiding-place constructed by the Pope for his jewels, which opens by pressing a certain ball upon one of the Medicean shields with which the villa is so profusely ornamented. But, on reflection, I see no reason for giving you access to our family treasure-chest. Monna Afra will not have placed the casket there, since she herself showed the Duchess the secret receptacle, and it would be the first place in which she would search for it; and if, indeed, it is hidden there it is perfectly safe." Thus commissioned I betook myself again to Rome; but being welcomed by old acquaintances, and finding an accumulation of important orders awaiting my attention, I naturally thought that the Duke's business might wait upon my own, and indeed might have clean forgotten it but for the following circumstance. I had gone fowling one day with a friend in the marshes near the villa of Magliana, in the neighbourhood of Ostia. Toward nightfall (as I have elsewhere related), happening from a little hill to look in the direction of Florence, I saw an extraordinary phenomenon, namely, a heavenly body in the shape of a Turkish scimitar, its blade directed toward the city. Whereat I exclaimed loudly, "We shall certainly hear that some great event has occurred at Florence." Even as I spoke a stranger wrapped in a long cloak who at a little distance from us was attentively observing this appearance, asked me what I supposed the portent might signify. "Nothing less," I replied confidently, giving vent to the first thought which came into my mind, "than the assassination of Duke Alessandro." With that he uttered an exclamation in Arabic, and hurried in the direction of the Tiber. We had ridden but a short distance when some peasants rushed toward us with frantic gestures, crying out that a ship rigged after the manner of the Turkish corsairs was moored in the river. This gave us such a fright that we clapped spurs to our horses and rode with the utmost speed to Rome. But our fears having somewhat abated, we made no report of the alarm upon our arrival, realising that we had cut no great figure in the adventure. The next day, my thoughts being still upon the Duke, I resolved to execute his orders and so rode out to the Villa Madama. As I approached what was my surprise to see descending its terraces the same man who had accosted me near Magliana. Monna Afra stood in the loggia watching him, her hand, lifted to her eyes to protect them from the rays of the setting sun. I told her that I had come from the Duke and on what errand, and presented the packet which he had given me. She read it attentively, and without making any objection or inquiry, instantly brought the casket. But as she was about to unlock it something awoke her suspicions, and examining the key more attentively she thrust it before my eyes exclaiming, "Dog of a Christian, you have attempted to poison me!" It needed but a glance to show her fears well founded, for the handle of the key once of shining copper was corroded to a virulent green, so that it resembled a bit of antique bronze, and I comprehended that her villain of a son had dipped the sharp-pointed crown of thorns in some deadly acid, hoping that in exercising some force in turning the lock she would lacerate her hand, and that he would thus compass her death. As I remained speechless she took my condition as an evidence of guilt, and seizing a torch which hung in a metal _torchère_, rushed upon the terrace waving it to and fro like a fury. Though I lacked not the wit to perceive that this was a signal of some sort, yet remembering the Duke's orders by all means to secure the casket, I did not immediately address myself to flight, but strove to wrest it from her by force. She, however, opposed me in this design with all her strength, and throwing it aside fell upon me with a most ungentle embrace, throttling me and burying her nails in my neck. While we struggled thus I was aware of trampling feet and saw the loggia suddenly filled by a horde of barbarous pirates, refugee Moorish cut-throats, who had conceived the daring design of making a descent upon the outskirts of Rome to plunder its rich villas, and first that of Chigi, in revenge for the chastisement received at the hands of the Emperor. For the moment my only thought was one of thankfulness for my release from this hell-cat, but as I stood with my arms pinioned Monna Afra brought forward a large sack and, as I understood from her expressive gestures, demanded that I should be sewn up therein and cast into the Tiber. Though he had thrown aside the cloak in which he had previously disguised, I recognised the man whom I had already twice seen in the gaudily accoutred officer whom Afra now addressed as Hayraddin. He spoke to her very earnestly, and I could see that what he said caused her the greatest consternation, for she tore her hair, howled and scratched her own face as vehemently as she had formerly maltreated mine. Shaking her by the arm he continued to admonish her, until picking up the casket she retired into the interior of the villa. Then turning to me he addressed me in good Italian in these words: "Most noble Signor: You cannot fail to have understood that my sister desired me to kill you, and that I could readily have done so; but I have explained to her that you are a great astrologer, for from the appearance of the heavens you announced to me yesterday the assassination of her son which news has not yet reached Rome--and has but this moment been told to me by a party of my men who intercepted the messenger at the Ponte Molle. "In deference to your supernatural knowledge I spare your life, and shall leave you here bound and gagged, where in good time you will doubtless be discovered. This news of the death of my nephew has effected more than all my arguments and entreaties, for my sister has no further desire to remain in this accursed land, but will return with me to Africa." Scarcely had he concluded when Monna Afra entered, heavily veiled and carrying an immense bundle. This one of the pirates took from her, and supported by two others she followed her brother and I saw her no more. It was two full days, during which I neither ate nor drank, before I was released from my miserable plight, but even so I counted myself fortunate to have escaped with my life. II "Ye mariners of Spain Bend stoutly to your oars And bring my love again, For he lies among the Moors." _Old Spanish Song._ Foreseeing after the death of Duke Alessandro that Florence would long remain in a disordered condition, I deemed it a proper season to accept the overtures of his majesty, Francis I., King of the French, to enter into his service in France. This patronage I owed solely to my own fame and not, as has been asserted, to the favour of his daughter-in-law, Catherine de' Medici, for that princess had no love for her supposed half-brother Alessandro, or for his Florentine familiars. Though I could never have been accessory to such vile work as to stab an unarmed and unsuspecting man, yet often as I thought of Alessandro's satyr leer, and the loathing bravely coupled with defiance which I had seen leap in answer to it in the face of his child Duchess, I thanked God that Lorenzino had no such squeamish conscience. And yet,--as in the virgin purity of the orange-blossom, the voluptuous perfume yearningly foretells the luscious, perfect fruit, and the blush of the peach-bloom shows the flower coyly but triumphantly conscious that it will one day ripen into mouth-watering deliciousness,--so even then there were hints and prophecies in Margaret's budding womanliness that the time was approaching when she would not only awaken love but would herself know the joy of loving. The time and the man were nearer than I thought. It was a matter of but six years subsequent to our first meeting that, chancing to be again in Rome, I next encountered Ottavio Farnese. He was no longer the pretty page who had served the Duchess at the Villa Madama, but had grown into a tall, handsome youth, with the first down of manhood upon his lip. Though much lighter in weight than myself and his rapier as slender as a child's toy, he had been well taught in fencing, as I learned when meeting him by chance in front of St. Peter's church, he, to my utter surprise, fell upon me crying out that I was a scurvy knave unfit to live. As I am not the man to swallow insults of this sort we slashed at one another without further ceremony until the Papal guards, rushing from the Vatican, separated us. Recognising Ottavio as the grandson of the Pope (for Cardinal Farnese had on the death of Clement VI. succeeded to the tiara), they demanded why we fought. I replied that I had not the least idea, but Ottavio declared that it was to force me to confess what I had done with the casket which I had been commissioned to bring to the Duchess Margaret at Florence. Laughing a little at his own zeal, but with all due deference I told him how the casket had been carried away by the Moors, on the evening when I repaired to Villa Madama to fetch it, and I had the happiness to convince him of the truth of my statement. Dismissing the guards he strolled with me in the most amicable manner, informing me of many events which had happened during my absence in France. The first in importance to himself was the fact that he was more madly than ever in love with the Duchess, and that she having experienced the brutality of one husband had no mind to venture another, and had announced her firm intention to remain a widow for the rest of her life. In spite of this he had told her of his love, but she had treated him as a child and made sport of his passion. "I shall die of her disdain," he said to me, "for my love is beyond my power to conquer." Taking him by the hand and perceiving that he was in a fever, and that unless some hope was extended to him he must lose either his life or his reason, I counselled him to keep a stout heart. "For," said I, "though you are young it is a fault which will lessen as years go by, and the Emperor surely will not look upon his daughter's repugnance to marriage with approval. Rumour hath it that he is on his way to punish, for a second time, the Moorish pirates who are back in their old nest at Tunis. When he visits Rome you should persuade the Pope to intercede with him in your behalf." "As if I had not already thought of that!" Ottavio replied. "I have freely opened my heart to my grandfather, and he has negotiated with the Emperor, who is as favourable to an alliance with a Farnese Pope as he was to a similar compact with the Medici. Charles could force his daughter to accept me, as he compelled her to marry Alessandro; but I will not win her in that way, and she despises me, doubtless, for what she considers my pusillanimity. "When I pleaded with her but yesterday bidding her set me any task to accomplish as a proof of my love--she laughed scornfully, saying that she had no lack of pages to fetch and carry unless it were to demand of Benvenuto Cellini the casket which he had forgotten to return to her. "Then, though I knew that you, Benvenuto, were accounted a desperate man, I swore to her that I would not enter her presence again until I had fulfilled her behest. Yea, and I will fulfil it, for I will sail with the Emperor on this expedition to Tunis and will find the hag Afra and wrest it from her." "Your determination," I replied, "is a good one, and, as the adventure appeals to me, I will go with you. I have already met Hayraddin, commander of the Corsairs and brother of Monna Afra, who should know the whereabouts of the casket, and I may be able to aid you in obtaining it." As the affair turned out, though Ottavio did indeed sail for Africa with the Emperor, I was not allowed to accompany him, for his father, feigning to believe that the casket, together with certain valuable jewels stolen from Pope Clement, was in my possession, or at least hidden in some spot nearer to Rome than Tunis, caused me to be imprisoned in the castle of St. Angelo, until such time as I should make restitution. He did this, moreover, without informing his son of my arrest, so that Ottavio departed believing that I had wilfully failed of my promise to go with him. But I was not alone in misfortune, for the Emperor far from achieving victories similar to those which crowned his previous expedition, met with terrible storms which scattered the ships of his fleet and wrecked many of them upon the coast of Africa, where the savage barbarians, descending upon the drowning mariners, massacred them in cold blood. Word was brought back to Rome that this was the fate both of the Emperor and of Ottavio Farnese, and though this proved but an unfounded rumour, the heart of the gentle Margaret was filled with remorse as well as grief, for having driven so chivalrous a youth and one who loved her so devotedly to his death. She mourned him most sincerely, wearing widow's weeds in his honour as though she had in reality been his bride. Such is the strange contrariety of a woman's heart that he who living had been the object of her scorn, was now loved with the most vehement passion. When at last it was known that the Emperor and Ottavio had indeed been rescued and were returning to Italy, but that the latter was dangerously ill, her transports of alternate joy and foreboding were most piteous to behold. I was a witness to them, for at this time by twisting my sheets into a rope I had most marvellously escaped from the battlements of St. Angelo. As I deemed it prudent to remain for a time in hiding and knew that the Villa Madama was unoccupied, I had repaired thither under cover of the night, and without undressing had slept soundly upon the floor, the house being denuded of furniture. But in the morning I was awakened by a great clatter of trampling horses and sumpter mules, and springing to my feet and finding myself confronted by the Duchess I gave myself up for lost. This was, however, the most fortunate circumstance which could have happened to me, for on hearing my story she promised me her protection and her intercession with the Pope. She told me also that she had come with all this train of servants and household stuff to put the villa in order for the reception of her betrothed husband, Ottavio Farnese, as a more salubrious residence than her palace at Rome, and more conducive to his rapid recovery. And hither, shortly after, he was borne in a litter and I beheld their rapturous meeting, and certes the spectacle of so great joy went far toward repaying me for all the misfortunes which I had suffered. The young Duke, though very weak, extended his hand to me with a smile, saying that I was ever Benvenuto (welcome), and reminding me how in that very spot I had assisted at incantations which had foretold that he would one day be the husband of the Duchess, which prognostication was now so miraculously fulfilled. "I have," he added, "but one regret--that I come to her forsworn, for I promised ere claiming her as my wife to recover the casket." "That promise, my Lord," I made haste to reply, "you shall keep, for I have been more fortunate in my quest than your excellency." I then showed him the secret hiding-place constructed by Pope Clement in the wall; for, while prowling in the villa, I had remembered what Duke Alessandro had said of it, and had not failed to press each one of the Medici balls, so frequently employed in the decoration of the villa, until I lighted upon the ingenious spring which disclosed the recess, and within it a package marked with the name of the Duchess. The wrapper had mouldered away with dampness and discovered the casket with the poisoned key still in the lock, having been so left by that wicked Afra with the express design of revenging herself upon the innocent Margaret for the death of her abominable son, and perhaps also upon Margaret's father for the misfortunes which he had occasioned her race. The Duchess being called, evinced the greatest joy and would have fallen into the trap and have unlocked the casket at once, had I not first discovered the key and sent for a pair of pincers with which I turned it. While waiting the arrival of the pincers she asked her consort if he had any idea why she set such store upon the casket. "Doubtless," he replied with a frown, "because it contains the portrait of your husband, who, with all his faults, was at least a brave man." "You have rightly guessed," she answered, "the bravest of the brave and the only man whom I have ever loved." I marvelled to hear her thus speak, until the lid being opened, we discovered, not my medal of Alessandro de' Medici, for that Margaret had long ago given to his mother as an inconsiderate trifle; but the likeness of the pretty page, Ottavio, which I had painted at their first acquaintance; and which, in despite all contrariety of womanly coquetry, had remained as ineffaceably imprinted upon her heart. CHAPTER IV FLOWER O' THE PEACH Now for a tale illustrative That shall delight my passion for romance, Embodying hints authentic of some theme * * * Or incident that to my knowledge came When sojourning abroad, the background true; Like to some faded tapestry retouched With the seductive broidery-work of fancy. ANON--altered. I Let the trovere ease her conscience at the outset--the tale about to be recorded is _over_ true. Even as there was more truth than called for in the testimony of that ingenious witness who, being adjured by the judge to speak the truth, replied: "Of a surety, your honor, that will I, the truth, the whole truth, and--a little more." But the little more which I shall give you is peradventure the truest part of my tale; for, though you will find it not in the chronicles of such historiographers as give their quills solely to statecraft and wars, yet it lies like a pressed flower between the musty leaves of the _novellini_ of Franco Sacchetti and of Ser Giovanni Fiorentino, who relate with great particularity the artifice by which the head of the house of the Aldobrandini won his bride. Let who will carp that in combining matter from various sources I have followed the example of those unscrupulous antiquaries who, discovering an antique statue, straightway replace its missing parts by others lying near at hand, or, more criminal still, complete it according to the whims of their own fancy. To that accusation needs must that I plead at the outset _mea culpa_, advancing only that the original torso as well as the legs and arms which I have made free to assemble are still preserved, properly ticketed, in the museum of history, while for him who cavils with the authenticity of this "restoration" the buried palaces of the ancient world patiently await exhumation to yield to each body its own particular members, and to each excavator his own treasure trove. [Illustration: _Alinari_ Villa Aldobrandini, Frascati. The Grand Cascade and Fountain of Atlas] Let thus much suffice for apology--now to our legend. In the Court of the Cascade of that most magnificent of the Frascati villas, namely that of the Aldobrandini, whoso lists may see to-day two fountains; the greater, figuring the demigod Atlas, well-nigh crushed under the weight of our terrestrial globe, is niched conspicuously to the fore of the grand terrace; but the other is in a hidden pleasance, and is but a lop-sided vase, considered to have settled thus awry from the natural subsidence of the soil rather than to have been so placed by design. Nevertheless, our legend will have this to have been done a purpose; and there are no acts in all the annals of that illustrious house more chivalrous or magnanimous than those supposed to be commemorated by this fountain of Atlas and its fellow of the Spilling Cup. And first of Atlas Aldobrandino, lord of that fair estate and many others in that dim time centuries before the building of the villa. Atlas was he named not at his baptism, but half in admiration, half in derision by his mates, for his burliness of body and his inordinate greediness of all kinds, for he coveted, say they, the entire earth, clutched at a mighty part thereof, and what he seized upheld manfully. Beside his Italian possessions he was lord of the whole of Venisi in Southern France adjoining fair Provence, and though a bachelor of upwards of seventy-one winters found himself mightily distraught with love for the fair daughter of his neighbour, the figures of whose age exactly reversed his own. Many lords, counts, and barons were sighing suitors for her regard, and when Aldobrandino, prefacing his request with lavish gifts of steeds, falcons, and hounds, besought her hand of the great Count of Provence, her father, the latter, not wishing to offend him, replied: "I would willingly give her to you, were it not that it might seem strange to the multitude of young knights eighteen to twenty years of age now in pursuit of her, lords of Baux, of Toulouse, of Perpignan, and vavasours of the great Emperor beyond the Rhone, who might all join together and fall upon me. It is my one desire to live at peace with my neighbours and to this end I have had to fight many hard battles. Moreover, the girl herself may have her eye set upon some one of those fresher sparks who are continually fluttering about her." [Illustration: _Alinari_ Upper Cascade, Villa Aldobrandini] "Friend," returned Aldobrandino, "be not anxious as to the event, for I will devise a method of arranging the affair amicably with our young friends." We are informed that the enamoured Aldobrandino slept not a wink that night, but concocted a wileful scheme which he confided to his friend. "Do you announce a tournament at which whoever desires the honour of your daughter's hand, and is of a rank and wealth sufficient to warrant such pretension, shall have cordial welcome to fight, and in God's name let her be the prize of the victor." This proposition appealed to the lord of Provence, for it seemed a fair one to which none of his warlike neighbours could object. Moreover, it was even generous, coming as it did from Aldobrandino, who, though he had been a doughty knight in his day, could now scarcely sit his saddle for corpulency or aim a straight lance-thrust with his shaking arm. The lists were made ready at Arles, heralds sent into all countries near and far, and the tournament given out for the first of May following. But Aldobrandino was more wily than appeared. He had no over-confidence in his own prowess, and he sent immediately to the King of France, with whom he was closely allied, begging him to lend him to act as his champion for this occasion his most doughty knight, the most invincible that could be met with in all feats of arms. In consideration of his esteem for Aldobrandino the King sent him his favourite cavalier Ricciardo (of whom much more hereafter), who, arriving at the castle of the aged lover thus reported himself: "I am sent," quoth he, "by my royal master to act in whatever capacity may be most agreeable to you. Give your orders, therefore; it is my devoir to execute them manfully." "Then hear me," explained Aldobrandino. "It is my wish that you should carry all before you at this tournament until I ride into the field, when I will engage you, and you must suffer yourself to be vanquished, so that I may remain the victor of the day." Thus far have we followed with exact circumstantiality the relation of the Italian writers before mentioned, to which also we shall later return; but let us, for the sake of novelty in the telling of an old story, for a little space change our view-point and give the play as it was acted before the eyes of the fair lady who was herself its heroine. Sancie was her name, or, if you will, Sanchia, third of the four fair daughters of Raymond Berenger, Count of Provence, who had the singular fortune to marry each of the four to a king. Perilous seemed this honour to this future father-in-law of monarchs, as he admitted to his friend, Romeo de Villeneuve, what time he ceded to St. Louis of France the strong castle of Tarascon as the dowry of his daughter Marguerite. But Villeneuve very shrewdly consoled him. "For," quoth he, "let not this great expense trouble you. If you marry your eldest high the mere consideration of that alliance will get the others husbands at less cost." The event approved his sagacity and also the prediction of a soothsayer, to whom the four sisters had applied to know the rank of their future husbands, for, requested to draw at venture from a pack of cards, Marguerite straightway drew the king of swords, Eleanor the king of money, Sancie the king of goblets, and Beatrice the king of clubs.[5] The witch expounded this to mean that Marguerite should wed the knightliest king in all the world and in all ages (which indeed came to pass in the person of St. Louis); that Eleanor should in her king of coins gain the monarch of the wealthiest of all realms, namely, England; that Beatrice should have the misfortune to mate with a hard-hitting savage, but still a king--a forecast fulfilled in Charles of Anjou, brother of St. Louis, who won his kingdom of the two Sicilies by as hard and as cruel fighting as ever dinted the armour or soiled the fame of a knight; and that, finally, Sancie, the third in order of birth, but last to find a lover, should of her own free will choose for her husband a king of good fellows, whose kingdom was but that of cups. This prophecy, I say, had been more than half fulfilled. The two elder daughters were queens; the youngest was besought and contracted, when their father, fearing perchance that the prediction would be carried out in the case of his third and best-loved, set himself against fate and called a halt in its proceedings. It was unfitting, he declared, that Beatrice should be married before her elder sister Sancie, and Charles of Anjou must perforce hold his amorous desires in leash until his prospective sister-in-law was disposed of. This at first sight seemed no such difficult matter, for while the others had each been meted one lover, on Sancie fortune had bestowed a full half dozen. But though their numbers flattered the vanity and pleased the coquetry of the lady, the quality of no one of them was satisfactory to the father. He had now an appetite for kings. Counts, barons, princes even would not suit his palate, and as no monarch or scion of royalty had as yet applied for Sancie's hand it struck his humour that a tournament such as Aldobrandino proposed, well advertised in every court of Europe, might draw some king, or at least an adventurous princeling, to the lists, as indeed was proved by the sequel. The queenly sisters of Sancie took up the project with great enthusiasm. Queen Eleanor, consort of Henry III. of England, was visiting her sister of France, and together they arranged every detail of the tournament, of which King Louis was to be the judge. The hopes of Beatrice jumped also with this plan as one which would remove Sancie from her own path to true love, and of all the four daughters of Raymond, Sancie was the only one who looked upon the scheme with any dubiety. But her older sisters, on their arrival at their father's capital city of Arles, reassured her, explaining that though there would be a great show of fair dealing yet they had plotted so cleverly that Sancie would take her own pick from this rich strawberry plot of lovers. "It is my husband's privilege," expounded Queen Marguerite, "before ever the fighting begins, to bar out any knight as the procession files before him in the grand entrée of the lists. You shall sit beside him and indicate any whom you wish disallowed. Moreover, you can at any moment whisper in Louis's ear and he will throw every advantage possible in the way of your champion." "Nevertheless," continued Queen Eleanor, "since it is possible that the knight you favour may be notoriously inept in arms, you shall have resource to another trial of skill--namely that of minstrelsy. Here (like my predecessor of the same name, Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine) I will be judge. "From the knights who have previously taken part in the tournament you yourself shall winnow out a half dozen, and shall tell me secretly to which of these I am to award the prize. Now confess, can anything be fairer? Is there a possibility of your true love failing, if so be he but enter the contest?" But Sancie hung her head. "I have no true love," she said, "I am absolutely heart-free." "So much the better," cried the Queen of France, "and this shall be announced at the outset. The tournament also shall be delayed a week after the time set, to give you an opportunity to meet the contestants and to know your own mind." But the Queen of England caught Sancie's cheeks between her two hands. "Listen little sister," she said softly, "I have brought with me from England the very prince for you, my husband's brother, Richard, Earl of Cornwall[6]; well worthy he to bear the name of his great uncle, Coeur de Lion. 'King of Good Fellows' he is dubbed by his friends, for he is loved by all who know him." "King of Good Fellows," repeated Sancie softly; "tell me more of him, sweet sister. Is he as valiant in arms as he is lovable, as fortunate as he is deserving?" "Accomplished is he in all that becomes a knight," replied Eleanor, "but fortunate so far is he not. Always when he stands on the verge of success he yields his advantage to another, holding that love, even that of an adversary, is the dearest prize of all." "Would he so yield me, think you?" questioned Sancie. "Nay, not if he knew you," replied Queen Eleanor; "therefore to your instant acquaintance, I have bidden him this afternoon to a game of ball in the pleasance of the castle." King Louis heard this conversation and it irked him, for though he had assured the sisters that Richard would take part in the tournament, he had not confided to them that he would do so in behalf of Prince Aldobrandino. The pretensions of this aged lover had greatly amused the ladies. They counted so surely on his discomfiture that even Sancie, who abhorred him, had not thought it worth while to ask King Louis to bar him from the contest. Richard also had given his word to play but the part of an understudy in this drama before he had seen Sancie, else never would he have consented to the compact. King Louis had indeed explained it to him before sending him to Aldobrandino, and Richard had demanded carelessly: "Of what sort is the maiden?" The King had answered: "All of the daughters of Raymond Berenger are fair, and Sancie is next to my Marguerite, who is fairest fair." Then Richard smiled, for he remembered that when he had questioned his brother Henry, of England, what time he went to claim his bride, of her beauty, he had answered: "All of the daughters of Raymond Berenger are fair, but my Eleanor is fairest, and the next in beauty is Sancie." "Where such difference of opinion exists," thought Richard, "it were well to leave the matter to an umpire," and he straightway submitted the question to Charles of Anjou. "Nay, they are both wrong," confidently declared that prince; "my Beatrice is fairest, but Sancie is not far beneath her." Then Richard laughed to himself: "Truly if the girl ranks but second when compared with each of these her sisters, whose beauty I esteem not at all, she is not worth the winning on my own behalf; and I am safe in adventuring for the joy of the mere adventure." But when Aldobrandino spake to him of her it was in other wise. "Consider well," he said, "ere you undertake this business, for should the beauty of Sancie drive you to such madness as to play me false then of a surety I will kill you. Not in vain am I dubbed Atlas, for all things upon earth which I desire I bear away upon my shoulders, and I have sworn by the five wounds of God that she and she alone shall sit as princess in my palace." "'Tis a great oath," said Richard, "but you shall not be forsworn by me, and verily I marvel that you have set your heart upon her if the opinion of her brothers-in-law be credible." And with that he told the several answers given to his questions. Aldobrandino glowered upon him and grunted this reply: "You mind me of a _stornello_ sung by our peasants: "'Flower o' the peach, Flowers for all fancies, his own love for each.' "And verily," he added, "it is well that it is so, else should I have had for rivals Louis and Henry and Charles, and perchance you also. The flower o' the peach suits her well; she is but a homely little bloom o' the kitchen garden beside her statelier rose and lily sisters. But, look you, what use have I for such useless ornaments as your waxy-pale lilies, your flaunting and fragile roses? What fruit bear they, I ask? Why, pips and briars. Whereas the peach is a stocky tree, prolific and profitable to its owner, for to its unadmired and modest blossom succeedeth a toothsome fruitage. Therefore say I the flower o' the peach for me. For, hist, Ricciardo, I am past the age when one goes maying for flowers only. Women have had no great power over me, and a bachelor I should die but that I have regard for what shall happen after me, and a natural desire for the continuance of my race upon their old estates. It is not so much a wife that I seek as a mother for my children. I would see many and goodly sons about me, strong of body, lusty in fight, such as only a wholesome and sturdy woman can bear and rear. If she have wit enough to rule them it is enough for me; and as for beauty, the less the better in the eyes of other men for her whom my descendants shall claim with pride as mother of the Aldobrandini." II THE ORDEAL One maiden trimly girt Bore in her gleaming upheld skirt Fair silken balls sewed round with gold; Which when the others did behold Men cast their mantles unto earth, And maids within their raiment's girth Drew up their gown skirts, loosening here Some button on their bosoms dear Or slender wrists, then making tight The laces round their ankles light; For folk were wont within that land To cast the ball from hand to hand, Dancing meanwhile full orderly. Lovely to look on was the sway Of the slim maidens neath the ball As they swung back to note its fall With dainty balanced feet; and fair The bright out-flowing, golden hair, As swiftly yet in measured wise One maid ran forth to gain the prize; Eyes glittered and young cheeks glowed bright And gold-shod feet, round limb and light, Gleamed from beneath the girded gown That, unrebuked, untouched was thrown Hither and thither by the breeze; Shrill laughter smote the thick-leaved trees, Till they, for very breathlessness, With rest the trodden daisies bless. WILLIAM MORRIS. Cold and calculating, nay coarse also seemed the motives of Aldobrandino to Richard as he pondered them. "Not so," thought he, "would I set about the choosing of my wife--as it were the purchase of a brood-mare." Still more his soul revolted at this low animalism when that afternoon he for the first time beheld sweet Sancie playing at ball with her sisters in the pleasance of the palace of Aries. The game was set to music, the measured beating of a tambour with the light chiming of silver bells. Some said that Marguerite was most regal; so stately she moved to the rhythm of the dance, that one might have fancied that the glorious statue of the Venus of Arles had descended from her ancient shrine to tread a measure with her maidens. But Eleanor danced with more vivacity and passion. You would have thought her of Spanish blood as she leapt and whirled, catching the ball with the lithe ferocity of a panther. For Beatrice, Richard had no eyes, for as he watched Sancie, he knew what her three kingly brothers-in-law had meant when each could name only his own heart's dearest as her superior. He saw, too, why Aldobrandino had likened her to a peach-blossom, for her complexion had that even delicate flush, not white and red in spots, but roseate everywhere, like the heart of a conch shell or the breast of a pink curlew. Abounding health spake in her buoyant step, but she was fine as well as strong. The rounded contours of her cheeks and shoulders were soft as those of a babe, and Richard had seen naught in all his life so exquisite as her dimpling smile. Would you know with more particularity how she appeared to him, look you straightway at the sweet maid in the foreground of that _Coronation of the Virgin_ which Fra Lippo Lippi painted; and from the framing of wayward little curls that make their escape from a veil of silver tissue, a tangle withal to mesh a man's heart in, from that face, I say (though the painter-monk had ne'er the felicity to see her), Sancie's round eyes will search your soul and will remain in your memory for evermore. You will not wonder then that Richard blessed God in his heart for making a thing so fair, and stood as one in amaze until the ball with which she was playing fell at his feet. Needs must then that he return it to her and join in the game, for this was the custom when one of the players dropped out, as had Beatrice from weariness. So he played, but he saw not the ball, only her who sped it, and making many faults the game was adjudged to her. [Illustration: Face of Young Girl in the Coronation of the Virgin By Fra Filippo Lippi Permission of Alinari] Then they walked together, others of the company following in twos and threes at a discreet distance, in that _allée_ which still retains its ancient name, Les Alyscamps (Champs Elysées--Elysian Fields), where 'neath the taller trees the oleanders shot in long curves bursting in pink fire, like rockets, above their heads. Here, seated upon one of those carven tombs which now make benches for lovers in that enchanting spot, she told him old legends of St. Trophime, how he and his fellows sculptured about the portal of his abbey descend from their niches and keep here the eve of Toussaint. "You will see them," she said, "when you go to hang your shield in the cloister, where it must be displayed, if so be you fight in this foolish joust. Truly sorry and shamed am I that so many gallant knights must run the risk of wounds and death for little me." "'Tis a small venture for so great a prize," said Richard. "Then, as you fight, let it be your best, for--" but here she paused and ended her sentence differently from her first intention--"for I would not have you hurt," and her face grew yet rosier. Richard cursed his fate that he might not fight his best, but his cursing was in his heart, what he said was: "The fortunes of such a joust are very fickle and it must needs happen that many a good knight will fight his doughtiest and yet not succeed. If I am among that number, sweet lady, I pray you set not my mischance down to lack of will, for in no tournament that I have ever entered had I so great desire to win." She looked no higher than the Plantagenet leopards gold-embroidered upon the breast of his doublet. "Since, to spare the knights the mortification of public discomfiture, my father hath decreed that they fight incognito (their true names being known only to the _roi d'armes_ who passes upon their qualifications), will you not tell me the device which you have chosen?" "Choose my device for me," he said, "and I will cause it to be blazoned on my shield and embroidered on my pennant." "It has been foretold," she answered pensively, "that I shall wed the King of Cups. Therefore, if you honestly desire to win choose that emblem." "My cup runneth over," he murmured--and their lips met. Ere they parted there was heard a sound of laughter, as it were the crackling of light flame, for there was no mirth in the sound, and Aldobrandino stood before them regarding the pair with a derisive leer. "There is an old proverb which it were well you should both remember," he said. "If I mistake not it runneth in this wise, 'There is many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip.' It were meet that the cup you blazon should be a spilling one." "Better spilling than swilling," cried Richard, his eyes aflame, and Sancie affrighted ran away. "I forgive you those stolen sweets for this once," said Aldobrandino, "for you had great provocation. Said I not rightly a peach-blossom? Nay, a peach rather, ripe and luscious. Watered not your mouth in that game of ball when the strain of her deep breathing and the violent turning and twisting of her lithe body burst the lacing of her corsage and half her fair bosom broke covert? What a pillow was that for a bridegroom, eh, Ricciardo?" "Nay," retorted Richard, "while she repaired that accident I lifted not my eyes above the hem of her robe, that so her rare modesty might take no offence." "And had you kept them there throughout the game you would have seen much to admire," continued Aldobrandino. "Ah! the pretty little feet, the shapely ankles! But marked you those of her sisters? Cranes and ostriches! storks and sandpipers! And they call themselves not water-fowl but women!" "Swine!" said Richard to himself, "hog, not another word or I shall burst. And what unspeakable villainy is this that I should have taken service to deliver so pure and precious a maiden into the power of such a beast!" This feeling grew upon him in the short space of time before the tournament, for he met her daily, and as he marked her,--the flicker of her eyelashes upon her cheeks and the quick in-drawing of breath through her sensitive nostrils when the tales of the trouvères and jests of the jongleurs offended her exquisite modesty--his heart swelled with pain intolerable that so pure a flower should be set up as a prize for the hardest fighter to snuff at. Not so, he made bold to express his mind to Aldobrandino, should such a maid be won. "How then," snorted the other in astonishment. "What method were fairer, I ask you?" "What than to appeal to her own heart," Richard made answer, "and that by gentle observance, delicate attentions, and such refinements of self-sacrifice as in their practice might elevate a lover to some worthiness of the honour he courts?" Aldobrandino sniffed his scorn. "Appeal to her heart in the last resort I grant you, but only thus: Lady, will you have me? An she will _not_, what would your servility gain? An she _will_, it is needless. In either case it is ridiculous. Trust me, a woman sets more store by the man who compels her admiration than by him who sues for it. If he breaks the bones of other men to win her, that is compliment enough and mark you well, Ricciardo, it is all that I demand of you in my service." So the week sped before the tournament; and Richard loved Sancie more and more, and ever Aldobrandino was at his side taunting him until he burst forth into many a torrent of indignation, whereat the other but laughed and leered, so that Richard loathed and hated him to the death. At last came the great day, and among the pennons of the challenging knights, which made gay the ancient amphitheatre of Arles where the lists were staked, there fluttered one bearing the device of a golden cup from which ran a stream of silver water. Also when Richard, with visor drawn and all in mail of shining steel, caracoled in the field, he was hailed Knight of the Spilling Cup, and Sancie's hand at that sign trembled so that had it held a beaker her robe would have been well besprinkled. As the prize of this joust was a peculiar one, so was the manner of its contention. King René had not then formulated his rules for the conduct of a tourney, and the public tournaments at this time were of so savage a character that King Louis held them in reprehension and was determined that this trial of arms, which was but a friendly joust, should be a model of chivalric self-restraint and courtesy. There was much grumbling when the rules were published by the heralds that there was to be no fighting to the death with weapons of war, no sharp steel points to the lances, nor hacking with battle-axes, and though the mace was allowed this bludgeon was shorn of its iron knobs and points. But when it was known that the King had stricken out the mêlée, or pitched battle of the second day, when all comers gentle and simple were by ancient custom allowed to range themselves in two parties under the banners of the victorious knight and him who stood second, all were of one opinion, namely that Louis had so emasculated the sport of all its zest that now was neither opportunity for young and unknown knights to distinguish themselves or a spectacle sufficiently diverting to keep the ladies from yawning. Nevertheless the King would not budge from his ruling, and the descendants of the very barbarians for whom Cæsar had built the amphitheatre in order that their savage instincts might be sated came sulkily to their seats ready to deride this gentle passage at arms. But certes they had more thrilling sensations than they had counted upon, more of tingling along the spine and lifting of the hair as knight after knight went down and esquires dragged their masters from the tawny dust clouds that hid the plunging chaos. Tender maids, noble ladies, yea, and strong men felt their hearts stop and their stomachs turn as these pale, blood-bedabbled contestants were carried away, their heads wagging from limp necks, to the pavilion where the leeches provided by Raymond Berenger awaited them. But I do anticipate the order of my relation. Eight noble knights, lords of neighbouring provinces and some as well of foreign countries, all sumptuously accoutred and mounted on gaily caparisoned steeds, entered the arena in procession, and, having saluted the King and the ladies, took their positions in two companies at either extremity of the lists. For in this wise had it been ordered--that they should tilt in single combat, their adversaries having been previously determined by lot, one couple succeeding another until each knight had fought once. And after these four trial courses had been run, the four knights adjudged to have won therein the greatest glory must be matched again in two other duels, whereof the two victors might contest in the final combat for the great prize of the tourney. Hautboys and trumpets sounded shrilly the onset, and the first pair of knights, laying their lances in rest, rushed to the encounter. It may well be understood that in this series of preliminary single combats, Sancie had eyes alone for that in which Richard figured. Easy was his victory, for charging against young Raymond of Toulouse (seventh of that name) so violent was the shock of his spear against his opponent's shield that both Raymond and his steed rolled upon the ground. Fortunate was that knight to have broken only his thigh, a mischance which Richard strove to mitigate by most assiduous tendance during Raymond's convalescence. But now for the glory of the feat he was apportioned a weightier warrior, Barral des Baux, who had won like renown in the trial contest, having thrust his antagonist out of his saddle in such wise that he dinted the field with the back of his head, and to such effect that thereafter he had no memory either for good or ill, no, not so much as of this astounding adventure or of his sweetheart's face. When Richard met the redoutable Des Baux their lance-heads were planted squarely each upon the shield of the other, but the polished curving surface offering no purchase both lances slipped, and Barral's splintering and glancing downward was thrust into the haunch of Richard's horse. The creature uttered a piteous, human-like cry which was echoed by Sancie, and Richard hearing that wail and feeling himself sinking so that his feet touched the ground, believed that he had lost the day. But even then a roar echoed around the concave of the amphitheatre: "The cup hath it, the cup! the cup!" and he saw the Lord of Les Baux lying at a little distance with blood trickling upon the sand from the bars of his helmet. For Richard's lance had slipped upward and penetrating between gorget and helmet had pierced and dislocated Barral's jaw. This alone was enough to give Richard his second victory, but there were three added points of humiliation for the Knight of Les Baux, namely: his lance had been broken, he had been unhorsed, and, with maladroitness worthy of the merest tyro, had injured a horse when he had aimed at its rider. On the other hand Richard was untouched in person, his arms also in good condition, and he could not be said even to have quit his saddle since he remained astride his steed with his feet still in the stirrups. But Alphonso of Aragon, had also won laurels for the second time, for though his lance had slipped on the shield of his opponent precisely as Richard's had done, it had wrought far greater damage, for, tearing away the visor from the helmet of his antagonist it had blinded and disfigured him for life. Therefore honours remained equal between these two champions who must now run the final and deciding course. But Richard's good horse was cruelly maimed and could scarce be gotten from the arena, nor had he thought to have another ready outside the lists. Raymond Berenger sent a page to his own stables for his best horse, but ere he returned the loss was repaired by another, and Richard entered upon a powerful coal black stallion, tricked with scarlet housings. A noise of clapping greeted his entrance for the favourite horse of Aldobrandino had been recognised and it was supposed (though in this they much mistook their man), that by this courtesy he signified his renunciation of any intention to compete. The heralds also made proclamation that if the knights chose they might fight this last passage at arms with swords or maces, and swords being chosen each spurred toward the other, their good blades flashing in the sunshine and Richard with a sweep of his arm sheared the plume from his adversary's crest. But Alphonso, who missed his proper stroke, dealt him a dirty thrust in the side as he was passing. It pricked through Richard's armour but scratched him only and roused him to such energy that he swung around, clasped Alphonso in his arms, and all on horseback as they were, wrestled with him till he threw him over his charger's crupper to the earth. Then the King asked Sancie loudly: "Are you content to give your hand to the winner of this contest?" and the herald shouted her answer so that all heard it: "The high and puissant Lady, Sancie, willingly grants her hand as prize to the victor." But even as he cried, all were aware that the end was not yet, for the _roi d'armes_ pricked to the King's balcony and again the herald blew his trumpet and announced that another challenger, delayed from appearing at the first, contested this decision. Having been bidden enter, a burly knight mounted upon a giant percheron rode into the lists, all cased in sable armour and carrying a shield which displayed Atlas supporting the globe. Then Charles of Anjou, who fought not, but sat by the side of his betrothed, scoffed, "Ho, mountain of flesh, globe of blubber, and colossus of conceit, here is a whale indeed among fishes, a world-bearing monster, who fancieth that all the affairs of this earth rest upon his shoulders. 'Tis a cup which our gallant knight will soon spill for him. Hold fast, fair ladies, for the globe is about to topple from its foundations!" But, to the astonishment of the speaker and of all present, the knight of Atlas riding full tilt against him of the Spilling Cup, drove him backward, as it seemed, by his sheer weight, so that the barrier crashed behind his horse's haunches, and the rider, letting fall his lance acknowledged himself vanquished. Only Richard himself knew what that submission cost him. For while their spears were crossed, the head of Aldobrandino's tapping his opponent's shield, it was with a weak and wavering touch; while Richard's had found a joint in the armour of the knight of Atlas, and had he not generously and dexterously withdrawn his lance, Aldobrandino by the very force of his onset, would have transpierced himself upon it. For the moment he had his adversary in his power, and even as he withheld the spear he cried to Aldobrandino, "What hinders me from rolling you in the dust and myself winning that prize inestimable?" Aldobrandino, knowing well in what emergency he stood, replied calmly, "But one thing hinders--your word as a belted knight," and at that answer Richard's head drooped and he sank to earth as one sore wounded. But the spectators knew naught of this byplay. Hearing not the words, they put their own construction on the pantomime. Judge then what was their surprise, what the vexation of the two Queens and the despair of the fair Sancie, when the knight of Atlas, raising his visor, displayed the features of Aldobrandino. King Louis announced him victor, though it was noted that he had never done anything with so ill a grace, and indeed the good King's conscience smote him so sorely, knowing himself a partner in the trick, that he could never have made the ruling but that he hoped it would be reversed in the poetical contest yet to come. III THE "FLORAL GAMES" O for a draught of vintage that hath been Cool'd a long age in the deep delved earth, Tasting of Flora and the country green, Dance and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth. KEATS. The tournament of wits seemed to give, Richard one more chance to win the prize he coveted; for this purpose it was originally instituted, and it seemed to the luckless knight himself that here at last he had fair play, since he was under no obligation to Aldobrandino to defer to him in this contention, nor did he believe that Aldobrandino's talents were superior to his own. The only other knight who had registered for this contest was Barral des Baux, and this in despite of his bandaged visage, for though his hurt permitted him not either to sing or to speak, yet by good fortune he could write, having been instructed by the monks of Mont Majour, and being violently in love with the fair Sancie, he would bate no effort to win her. So though all the nine who had taken part in the passage-at-arms were eligible, there were but three competitors, for five had been so desperately wounded that they could not stand, and Alphonso of Aragon so shamed and furious that he refused to take part. But when his friends congratulated Richard that this was so, and especially that Raymond of Toulouse was out of the reckoning (for he of all the nine was the only troubadour of repute and the one likely to be a formidable antagonist) though Richard's heart at first leapt at their news, he liked it the less as he gave it more consideration. For he had it on his conscience that he was responsible for Raymond's incapacitation, and he wished not to win a victory on such terms. Therefore he went to his wounded rival, tended and encouraged him, and in the end brought him to the contest in a litter, thereby gravely jeopardising his own chance of success. Richard, never at any time a glib jingler of rhymes, was in sorry case, for now that he had most need of his wits, his passion instead of sharpening them seemed to have removed them utterly. If he had but known it, he had a good friend in Queen Eleanor, who was determined that he should win, and she fancied that she had hit upon a scheme which would aid him. Angry was she that such an accomplished poet as Raymond of Toulouse must be admitted to the contest. "But, at all events," she told her sisters, "that renowned minstrel shall bring no polished work of long study to match against the untutored outpourings of my favourite's heart. Already have I ordained, with my assistant judges, that since some one of the contestants may be tempted to present a poem not his own, plagiarism shall be counted the one unpardonable crime, and, to guard against it, we demand that no verses of any sort be brought to the games, but that the competitors improvise on the instant upon one and the same theme to be given out after their assembling." This proposal pleased her three sisters. "They shall recite or sing to us, 'poesies on the flowers we wear,'" said Queen Marguerite, "and shall thus rank and compare our own qualifications for esteem. Clever will he be who can do this without offending any of us. But let us each beware of imparting to any one this information." Even while she thus spoke Marguerite's right eyelid, the one nearest to Queen Eleanor, quivered ever so slightly, and her foot pressed Sancie's. The kindly plotter counted that the girl would straightway convey this news to Richard, and she, poor child, was sorely tempted to do so. But she knew instinctively that he would refuse to profit by such advantage, therefore she told him not so much as the flower which she would herself wear, though she had chosen a spray of blossoming peach because he had once said it was his favourite, and because in her heart of hearts she hoped that rhymes concerning these sweet blooms might be already in his mind. But Richard, suspecting nothing of this, came to the Floral Games empty headed and as ignorant as the others as to the programme; and when he saw the brilliant and distinguished company waiting to pass verdict upon his poor verse he was filled with confusion. At the right of Queen Eleanor, sat the troubadour Sordello, the friend of Charles of Anjou who might easily have vanquished all present in the framing of _coblas_, _sirenas_, _sirventes_ and all kinds of poems, as well as in the ruder feats which may become a knight; but he for love of his fair Cunizza had disdained the prize of the present contest, and had come solely to assist the Queen in her decision. Also in the raised arbour by the side of Eleanor sat her uncle Boniface of Savoy, whom the King of England had made Archbishop of Canterbury. His grace was said to have no little skill in the framing of love sonnets, though chants and canticles would have better beseemed a churchman. The pleasance was all abloom with flowers, for the month was May, but the ladies in their gauzy robes of delicate rainbow hues were lovelier far than the favourites of Flora. Eleanor having announced the terms of the contest, she and her three sisters displayed the flowers which they had chosen as themes for the controversy, and the challengers drew lots for order of precedence, with the result that Barral des Baux came first, Aldobrandino second, Raymond of Toulouse third, and Richard last. Barral had composed and committed to memory a _sirvente_ or song of battle which he proposed to write out, paper and quill being permitted him in deference to his broken jaw. Great was his discomfiture to find that it fitted not to the theme prescribed, but he cut his cloth to the new pattern to the best of his ability. He retained the most effective portions of his poem, its high-sounding phrases, and picturesque descriptions of marshalling knights, the very category of whose arms, plumed helms, hauberks, blazoned shields, flaunting pennons, inlaid gauntlets, cross-hiked swords, golden spurs, and caparisoned steeds was in itself a pageant. True he gave these champions as a motive for their deeds of high emprise the demonstration of the supremacy of the differing and rival charms of the four sisters as typified by the flowers they affected; but he implied too plainly that those of the peach-bloom were alone worthy of such contention. Himself he figured as her accepted knight, hacking, slaying, scaling fortresses, pillaging, burning, putting to torture or ransoming prisoners, and scorning with brutal insults her sisters' flowers. This _sirvente_ which was apparently composed during a brief interval during which the jongleurs amused the company, was read in a sonorous voice by Archbishop Boniface. But had Barral's desire been to antagonise all the daughters of Raymond Berenger he could not better have succeeded, and when the Archbishop took his seat a glance at the face of Queen Eleanor told des Baux that he had lost the prize. Aldobrandino was no more fortunate. He cast his poem in the form of a _serena_ or night song, and spoke sadly and sentimentally of the evening of old age, dusky and drear, and of that night of death which he saw approaching. Strangely enough, he made no plea for present happiness, but begged the flowers, or their ladies, to drop tears upon his grave when he declared that he would sleep content. Though chanted in all earnestness this grave-yard ditty chimed not in with the joyous temper of the company. There was sly nudging and smiling, a snicker from an ill-mannered page, and the only sighs were those of relief when he ended. It was now the opportunity of Raymond of Toulouse. Besides being an accomplished technician in all forms of writing he was a man of shrewd and lively apprehension, and his wound had by no means injured his wits. As he lay upon the litter engaging the sympathy of the ladies and the leniency of the judges he had divined rightly the reason of the discomforture of each of his rivals. He saw that Aldobrandino had made shipwreck by reason of his indifference to the charms of all, and des Baux on account of his zeal for one at the expense of the others, for not a single protestation of esteem, not a compliment even had any one of Sancie's sisters received, and this in face of the well known fact that all were beautiful and eager for appreciation. In avoiding the conspicuous lapses of his predecessors Raymond with all his guile fell into another pitfall. He lauded the Rose, the Daisy, the Garland of Vine Leaves worn by Eleanor, Marguerite, and Beatrice in three canzonets so perfect in form, so exquisite in diction that they rivalled the ditties of Thibault of Champagne, who was hitherto accounted as having written "the most delightful and most melodious canzonets that at any time were heard." But in doing this he exhausted all terms of endearment and admiration which he could command, and when he attempted to celebrate the Peach Blossom he could only repeat utterances already made, so that his conclusion was an anticlimax, bad in art and unfortunately giving the impression that he was more enamoured of Sancie's sisters than of herself. The insincerity of his graceful verse was apparent to all. Sordello and Boniface who had nodded their appreciation at the conclusion of the first, second, and third canzonets, scowled and coughed at the fourth, and though there was applause sufficient to gratify this poet's vanity it misled him as to the impression which he had made upon his judges. Richard knew not that Raymond had over-shot his mark; it seemed to him that he had surely won, and that it was useless for him to offer his halting verses, save as a tribute of genuine feeling. Such they were, and honesty even in literature and courtship is some whiles best policy. But one thought had sunk itself in his distracted brain since noting what flower his beloved carried, how that Sancie was Flower o' the Peach and be the others what they might she was the flower of all flowers to him. He had no knowledge of the complicated metres with which Provençal troubadours played so deftly, but he had been in Italy and had marked how the peasants bandied back and forth their bright _stornelli_ as though the quick play were that of ball, the thought striking the fancy and deftly handled as it leapt from one to the other of the players. Therefore he modestly announced that he would strive to imitate in the _langue d'oc_ certain of these _stornelli a fiore_ trusting that their rudeness and brevity might be forgiven.[7] Queen Eleanor was crowned with roses and was throned beneath a canopy of those royal flowers. To her Richard, accompanying himself upon the lute, addressed his first _stornello_: "Flower o' the Briar-- Though high on her trellis the Rose o' the Briar, Sits supreme o'er the garden my heart clambers higher." "How may that be," laughed Eleanor, "if I am 'supreme o'er the garden?' 'Tis enough for me; but I see not how you can o'ertop that compliment. Let me hear what you have to say to my sister of France." Marguerite, as befitting her name, wore daisies, and squaring his shoulders Richard sang lustily, "Flower o' the Marguerite; Queen of the garden, fair Reine Marguerite, If my heart were not captive 't would lie at your feet." "'Tis Beatrice then who holds your heart in thrall?" bantered the queen, for she was malicious enough to plunge him in further difficulty. Here also was a coil for Beatrice was jealous of Sancie's beauty, and her lover, Charles of Anjou, sat beside her quick to resent any aspersion upon his mistress. Beatrice, like a bacchante, had bound her brows with vine leaves one of which Charles now broke off and handed to the competing minstrel. With a gallant bow and a smile which atoned for the quizzical reservation, Richard sang, "Flower o' the Vine; For you, merry Charles, the chaplet of vine 'T is a guerdon all envy, so pray grant me mine." Laughter resounded from every side of the pleasance mingled with cries, "Your flower! Name your favourite flower." Then Richard knelt before Sancie, who hid her face behind the blossoms which so well matched her blushes, and sang from his heart: "Flower o' the Peach, Flower o' the Peach, dearest Flower o' the Peach, A flower for each fancy--his own love for each." Brief was the consultation between the judges. Queen Eleanor descended from her throne and amid clappings and bravoes gave Richard the stalk of lilies which had served her for sceptre and was now his palm of victory. [Illustration: The Floral Games From the painting by Jacques Wagrez. Permission of Braun, Clement & Co.] Ere he could take it from her hand, however, with a snort and bellow like that of a bull, my lord Aldobrandino faced the Queen. "Gramercy," he cried, "shall so fair a prize be won foully by false plagiarism?" "What charge is this you make," demanded Queen Eleanor. "That yon traitor stole from me that songlet of the peach, and though he has trussed it out of countenance with gawds of his own invention still the root of the matter is mine." "What answer you to this accusation, Richard?" asked the Queen. "That he speaks truly," Richard replied, "mine is indeed a spilling cup." The queen was loth to give judgment against her favourite and there was wrangling between her advisors as to what amount of theft were admissible in literature, but their opinion was stricter than I pray yours may be, most gentle reader, and they gave their verdict, "The prize is to Prince Aldobrandino." At that verdict Sancie fainted in the arms of Queen Marguerite, and Richard hid his face in his hands, crying, "I cannot bear it." Then Prince Aldobrandino spoke and they saw how they had misjudged the man. "You cannot bear this disappointment, say you, Ricciardo? Look you at the device upon my shield, Atlas, and the motto, _Sustino omnes_. I can bear all things, even such loss as this, and, since I see well that the lady loves me not, of my own motive yield I the prize to you, Ricciardo, who well deserve what you have truly won." "Nay," cried Richard, for admiration of so great magnanimity fired his emulation, and he would not be outdone. "Nay, my lord, the judgment of this court cannot be thus lightly set aside. 'The prize' it has decreed, 'must be to Prince Aldobrandino.' Thy oath also that the Lady Sancie shall be mother of the Aldobrandini is registered in heaven." "I would forfeit neither prize nor oath," replied Aldobrandino, "but there is a scripture on which I have pondered much of late--'Who knoweth,' quoth the wise man, 'who shall reign after thee, and whether thy son shall be a fool?' So might he well be if he resembled me, and against such ill-chancing will I now be assured. A son after my own heart do I find in thee, Ricciardo, for I have probed and proved thee, taking the measure of thy mind until I know thee clean of soul as thou art strong of body. I go in fulfilment of a secret vow, neither recently nor lightly made, to end my days with the brotherhood of St. Benedict, but first I do adopt thee son, and heir to all my estates. Let the judgment of this court stand and the prize be to Prince Aldobrandino for henceforth that is thy name and title." The good man could not be swerved from this resolution. The lawyers drew up the act of relinquishment, Archbishop Boniface blessed the happy pair, who spent their honeymoon in their villa at Frascati, and from thence was Richard called by election to be King of the Romans. It was an honour which he held not long, nor did children of his continue the line of the Aldobrandini. Too careless was he of his own advantage when it ran counter to the desires of another; but in the magnificent Frascati villa, where he made such short tarrying, you may still find Richard's fountain not far from that of Atlas. To his estates in Cornwall he shortly returned; and testimony to his character corroborative of this story, and as credible as that of the Italian authorities we have quoted (Sacchetti and Ser Giovanni), you may read in the ballad of ERL RICHARD, KING OF GOOD FELLOWS. "His wine was for others' sipping, For lightly he gave it up, There's slipping 'twixt pouring and lipping And his was a spilling cup. "But ne'er for the lost good liquor Was Richard heard to sigh. 'I shall not bicker so friends grow thicker, And the cup of love hold I.' "So in praise of that loser willing They carved his cup awry,-- Spilling----but aye re-filling To witness if I lie!" [Illustration: _Alinari_ Villa d'Este, at Tivoli--Present State] CHAPTER V WITH TASSO AT VILLA D'ESTE His weary heart awhile to soothe He wove all into verses smooth. * * * for soothly he Was deemed a craft-master to be In those most noble days of old, Whose lays were e'en as kingly gold To our thin brass or drossy lead; Well, e'en so all the tale is said How twain grew one and came to bliss? Woe's me, an idle dream it is! WILLIAM MORRIS. Supreme above all the enchanted gardens of Italy, both in the bewildering beauty of its sensuous charm and in the potency of its appeal to the imagination, stands the Villa d'Este at Tivoli. It is a hillside villa, a succession of terraces forming a stairway of flowers between the palace and the lower garden, where "Cypress and fig tree and orange in tier upon tier still repeated, Rose-garden on garden upheaved in balconies step to the sky." But it is also a superb water-staircase, for the river Anio, turned from its course by a gigantic feat of engineering, leaps in a magnificent cascade, laughs in the spray of a thousand fountain jets, and makes the bosquets which shadow the regal staircase a haunt of the water nymphs as well as of the Dryads. You fancy, as your unwary foot presses the concealed springs that it is the white hands of mischievous Naiads which dash the water in your face, a pensive melancholy settles upon you with the mysterious dusk, and you are startled by Undine's "short, quick sobs," and are loth to believe that the plaintive sounds with which the air pulses are but the dropping of rills in and out of the shadowy pools. The pompous hydraulic organ no longer thunders its "full-mouthed diapason," but the nightingales fill the long summer nights with their surges of wild rhapsodies. Both the eye and the ear of the artist receive refreshment and stimulus here. The garden is a bath of verdancy and coolness even upon the most torrid day. The very light which filters through the dense foliage is tinged with green. The marbles are velvety and moist with moss, and the maidenhair fern drips lush and dank. Here Liszt drew inspiration from the harmonies of water notes blended with the chiming of distant bells, and Watteau showed in the many studies which he made in the garden how potent was its influence in investing his _fêtes champêtres_ with the grace of the idyl. [Illustration: In the Garden of Villa d'Este From a photograph by Mr. Charles S. Platt] That its appeal was no less powerful to a poet, the "craft-master" of his day, it is our purpose later to show. Many minor poets also have felt and, with more or less success, have interpreted its wondrous charm--Story perhaps best of all. "What peace and quiet in this villa sleep! Here let us pause nor chase for pleasure on, Nothing can be more exquisite than this. See how the old house lifts its face of light Against the pallid olives that between Throng up the hill. Look down this vista's shade Of dark square-shaven ilexes where sports The fountain's, thin white thread and blows away. And mark! along the terraced balustrade Two contadini stopping in the shade With copper vases poised upon their heads, How their red jackets tell against the green! Old, all is old,--what charm there is in age! Do you believe this villa when 'twas new Was half so beautiful as now it seems? Look at these balustrades of travertine-- Had they the charm when fresh and shapely carved As now that they are stained and graved with time And mossed with lichens, every grim old mask That grins upon their pillars bearded o'er With waving sprays of slender maidenhair? Ah, no! I cannot think it; things of art Snatch nature's graces from the hand of Time." But it is the view afforded by the double arcade of loggias and by every window of the palace façade which was the crowning glory of the villa. The amethystine Sabine Hills and the immense Campagna encircle the Eternal City, from whose mists the dome of Saint Peter's seems to rise a buoyant, iridescent bubble. It was Pirro Ligorio (architect also of the exquisite Villa Pia) who in 1545 accomplished the miracle of converting the savage cliff into a staircase of enchantment. Nature had given the villa its marvellous site and genius availed itself of all the resources of art and wealth to effect the wonder. Cardinal Ippolito's orders to Ligorio were: "Surpass the work of Vignola in the villas of Caprarola and Lante. Restore the glory of Tivoli in the Augustan age." [Illustration: Hydraulic Organ, Villa d'Este.] Excavations in the neighbourhood were daily bringing to light masterpieces of classical sculpture, and for the "statues which whiten the shadow" of Villa d'Este, Ligorio was given carte blanche to despoil the gardens of Hadrian's palace. To-day only a long procession of broken pedestals bears witness to statues of emperors, gods, and goddesses long since removed to different museums. The exodus began immediately upon the succession of Ippolito's nephew, Cardinal Luigi d'Este, who came to his inheritance deeply in debt; but that spendthrift prelate retained sixty statues, some of which are seen in the etching made by Piranesi, and it was not until 1745 that these were purchased by Cardinal Albani. The creator of this paradise, Cardinal Ippolito d'Este II., son of Lucrezia Borgia, was, like his villa, a refined product of the later Renaissance and must not be confounded with his uncle, Cardinal Ippolito d'Este I. This first Cardinal Ippolito was a man of very different fibre, as may be seen from a single incident. Sent to Rome as his brother's envoy, on the occasion of Duke Alphonso's marriage, he fell in love with a pretty cousin of Lucrezia Borgia who accompanied the bride on her wedding journey to Ferrara. Unfortunately the coquettish girl praised the beautiful eyes of Giulio d'Este, the Cardinal's younger brother, whereupon this prince of the Church hired assassins who waylaid his brother and tore out his offending eyes. The Duke banished Ippolito temporarily, but Giulio brooded over the injury and conspired to depose Alphonso and place another brother, Don Ferrante, on the throne. For this act both Ferrante and Giulio were condemned to be imprisoned for life. Ferrante died in confinement but Giulio, after fifty-three years spent in a dungeon of the castle, was finally released. It might have been expected that the blending of d'Este brutality with the unscrupulous Borgia craft would have given as a result only a more refined cruelty; but if this was the case Cardinal Ippolito II. completely deceived his contemporaries and has left the reputation (through the pen of his panegyrist Mureto) of the utmost affable condescension and magnificent patronage of men of genius. He was himself a dilettante; and it was his ambition to pose as the most cultured and brilliant of the great cardinals of his day. Ippolito I. had been a boon companion of Leo X. in his hunting parties at the Villa La Magliana, but it was not as a "_cacciator signorile_" or "sporting gentleman" that Ippolito II. wished to eclipse the then illustrious representative of the house of Medici, Cardinal Ferdinando, who was attempting to rival him in his magnificent villa on the Pincian hill. [Illustration: Villa d'Este in 1740 From an etching by Piranesi] It does not seem to have occurred to Mureto that both of these men were looking forward to the papacy, and desired to emulate in their own pontificates that of Leo X. Each piece of sculpture acquired for their villas, every literary man attached to their service was a step toward that end. Ippolito II. was as keen a hunter of genius as his uncle had been of deer or boar; and having once bagged his game, as capable of availing himself without scruple of his trophies as Ippolito I. of tearing the antlers from a dying stag. The princely Cardinal entertained on one occasion a house party of two hundred and fifty guests in his palatial villa, and established here a veritable court. The grandiose frescoes of Zuccari, Tempesta, Muziano, and Vasari still celebrate the glories of his family under the guise of the heroes of mythology garlanded by troops and bevies of cupids, "_una copiosa quantita di Amorini_." But the gods and demigods banquet all alone on the ceiling of the great hall where they once looked down upon the revels of the Cardinal's convives--noble or distinguished men all of them in their day, although the one name that comes to us of all who shared Ippolito's lavish hospitality and that sheds most glory upon his proud house is that of a poet, by turns patronised as a dependent, ungratefully neglected, and cruelly wronged. The visitor is shown with pride the room so whimsically decorated with singing birds, where Tasso wrote his _Amyntas_, and the Fountain of Nature in the lower garden where the pastoral was presented with musical accompaniment before a distinguished audience. That Leonora d'Este was among those who listened, and indeed had been her uncle's guest and Tasso's good and evil fate during the months which he spent at Villa d'Este, is the only conclusion possible for the thoughtful reader of the poem; and the idyl composed under such circumstances leads inevitably to the tragedy (enacted at that other villa) of Belriguardo, of which Goethe has given us so truthful and so masterly a transcription. Cardinal Ippolito, as his portraits make him known to us, has none of the sensuality which stamped the face of his grandfather Pope Alexander Borgia, or the heaviness of jaw expressing the stubborness and brutality of the earlier D'Estes; on the contrary, every line of the slight figure is expressive of refinement, the delicate red-stockinged feet are as shapely as a woman's, the expressive, almost transparent hands might be those of an artist as they finger caressingly his collection of intaglios and luxuriate in the smoothness of jades and ivory carvings. His excessive pallor and thinness would give an expression of asceticism, almost of spirituality to the intellectual face were it not in a measure contradicted by the craft in the close-set, slanting eyes, which with the pointed, fulvous beard suggest a possibility of foxy cunning, and inspire in the beholder an uncomfortable, haunting feeling of distrust even when the Cardinal's manner is most condescending and cajoling. So, robed in filmy lace over rosy velvet, we may see him in imagination tripping daintily down his monumental staircase, his train islanding his figure as in some ensanguined pool and slipping after him adown the steps like the drip of some trail of blood which strangely leaves no stain upon the white marble. But his face is wreathed with smiles, for he genuinely loves his two beautiful nieces, Lucrezia, Duchess of Urbino, and the gentle Leonora, who are his guests, and he loves his villa, whose beauties he is pointing out to them. "You do not see the garden at its best," he cavils. "Wait till the roses garland the balustrades. It is too early yet to enjoy Tivoli; the frost may have left the ground but it lingers still in the pavements of this great palace. The halls are damp as vaults; we would have done well, my nieces, to have remained another month in Rome. Not till the middle of May will society desert the city for its _villeggiatura_. What do you say, Leonora, shall we confess that we have made a mistake and return?" "Dear uncle, as you say, it is only the palace which, in spite of its braziers, retains the winter chill. Here in the garden the air is balmy, and the Judas trees are all a crimson mist. See how the green is creeping, like an inundation through the russets of last year's grasses. In another fortnight all this magical change will have been wrought, and those who come later will have missed the fairy spectacle." "Spectacle! ah! that reminds me," replied the Cardinal; "while Nature is shifting the scenes we must prepare the _scenario_. Confess that I have provided a worthy theatre, one which should suggest to a poet a worthy theme. There, alas! is my great lack--I have no poet. How wastefully on those who need them not are the most precious gifts bestowed! My uncle and godfather, Cardinal Ippolito--the saints rest his soul!--was a dull-brained barbarian and yet he had attached to his service that pearl of poets Ariosto, whom he had neither the intelligence to appreciate nor the justice to reward. What think you was Ariosto's meed for dedicating to his patron the _Orlando Furioso_? He was made governor of that nest of bandits, the mountain district of Garfagnana, and it in open insurrection against the Duke of Ferrara. A pretty post for a scholar and a poet! But to it he went, and conquered the brigands, proving himself as expert in the use of the sword as in that of the pen. "We produce no such men now. Bernardo Tasso, to whom I gave employment when he was exiled from Naples, and who wandered freely in this garden, felt not its charm, for he was but a third-rate poet, and even he is dead. Who in our day can interpret the poetry which I feel here but cannot express? And with but so little more of endowment I might have done it, for after all is not the inner ear, the second sight, the major part of genius? "Listen, and tell me what you hear. Only the musical plash of the fountains and the sonorous undertone of the organ, like the distant roar of surf upon the beach? Ah, me! ah, me! how materialistic you are, my children. Your old uncle hears in these myriad-voiced fountains the musical instruments which Boccaccio gave to the Satyrs; 'cymbals, pipes, and whistling reeds,' and the song of the nymphs. Did you note that startled cry? It is the Oread Arethusa flying from the river-god Alpheus. He is imprisoned in the organ, where he is mightily bellowing, and whence he will presently burst forth. But Arethusa will slip away (coquette that she is), under ground and under sea to her Sicilian home; for fable and stream sing eternally the same story, _Mulier hominis confusio est_. "Tell me, my niece, have we in all Italy a poet who can voice such a theme?" "Yes, uncle," the Duchess of Urbino interposed, "Bernardo Tasso's little son heard and understood the song of the fountains when he played here in his childhood. He told me that he believed a _folletto_ or tricksy spirit talked with him here and promised him that if he came again he would find here both love and fame. He can interpret your songs for you, for he has grown a man, and is a greater poet than his father." "And meantime," added Leonora, "he has absorbed all that the universities of Bologna and Padua can give him, and has written a romantic poem, the _Rinaldo_, on the exploits of one of our ancestors, that mythical old peer of Charlemagne, which he has dedicated to our house. It is in recognition of this tribute that our brother Luigi has made him his secretary." "And Luigi is at the French Court intriguing with the Queen Mother, Catherine de' Medici. Torquato is doubtless with him," replied the Cardinal. "I ask you of what good to tantalise me with impossible suggestions? He had the eyes of a poet, that lad, and he might have served my turn." "He may still serve you, Uncle Ippolito, for he has quarrelled with Luigi, and is in Rome." "And wherefore in Rome? To curry favour with Cardinal de' Medici?" "Possibly, for Tasso is writing a great epic on the taking of Jerusalem by Godfrey of Bouillon and his crusaders." "'Tis no epic that I wish, but a pastoral--a mere trifle. Yet not so fast. A poem such as you describe, if it were indeed a work of genius, might rouse Christendom to another crusade, a life-work worthy of the next Pope. Lucrezia, the boy must not submit his poem to Cardinal de' Medici. Can you summon him to me, and will he come instantly?" "If Leonora calls him," the Duchess replied, "he will come." Cardinal Ippolito lifted his eyebrows almost imperceptibly and darted a keen, sidelong glance at Leonora. She had not heard her sister's last remark, the name of Torquato Tasso had obliterated the present and she was gazing dreamily at the rainbow-tinted dome of St. Peter's. "Leonora," the Cardinal said softly, "have you heard what Lucrezia was saying, that this young poet has written an epic? If I could see it I might be able to help him in his career, perhaps give him fame." "O Uncle, will you? How good you are! I will write him at once." "My dear, I am not good, or disinterested. I am a selfish, an ambitious old man. This festival, given ostensibly for the entertainment of my friends and to introduce my charming nieces, is a part of my deep, ulterior motives. Come, I will confess the machinations of my wicked old heart. Why not, since my ambitions are for you as well as for myself? Nay, Leonora, never flush and tremble, I have no wish to buy my own advancement by selling you to some degenerate prince. Matchmaking is not my kind of diplomacy. I have seen enough in our own family of magnificence won through the martyrdom of women. Your mother, Renée of France, though a king's daughter, brought with her a dowry of unhappiness. My own mother, innocent though she was, bequeathed to us the shameful legacy of the Borgias' deeds and instincts. You may be happy, Lucrezia, with your Duke of Urbino. I ask no confidences, but I am glad that I am not responsible for your marriage. "You, at least, Leonora, shall live your own life wedded or unwedded as you like. I shall be so great that I can ennoble whom I will, and you, beloved child, shall be the power behind the throne to advise me on whom to shower my benefits." Lucrezia clapped her hands softly. "Bravo, dear Uncle, I have guessed this ambition, have I not? Cardinal de' Medici is already spoken of as the Pope's successor. But the Medici balls have been carved too often over St. Peter's chair, and you are minded to blazon in their place the d'Este eagle. You need not answer for I know that I am right." The Cardinal smiled mysteriously. "Too shrewd, my niece, too shrewd by half. How your woman's intuition leaps over intervening obstacles. Never a whisper of this guess at my aims. Remember, it is but your own surmise and that I have never breathed such an aspiration. The immediate object of my solicitude is to secure a charming play worthy of the setting of Villa d'Este breathing the spirit of Ovid and Anacreon, one which will make the old Greek gods live again in these delicious haunts and will redound to the reputation of your uncle's taste in literature." "How magnanimous you are," cried Leonora, "to disclaim your principal motive, that of helping Tasso! He shall come, and he will give you the most beautiful idyl that was ever written." * * * And who shall say that Tasso did not make good the promise of his patroness? In the _Amyntas_ we have the development of a theme which is the inevitable product of such a temperament in such a situation, and to the poem itself we will now look for a record of what transpired at Villa d'Este during the writing and the presentation of the pastoral. To us it is true that the archaic quality, the pseudo-classicism of this pastoral seems at first artificial. "It has only so much of rustic nature as suits a graceful urban fancy." Arcadia is a no man's land, so far from our desires that we cannot picture it even in imagination; but to one who knows how sincere was the enthusiasm of the Renaissance for Greek ideals as well as for modes of expression, how classicism had come to be understood as a synonym for perfection in form whether in literature or the plastic arts,--all the pretty imagery of the Golden Age and its demigods becomes as natural a poetic rendering of sincere feeling as the equally formal restrictions of the measure of the sonnet or the rules which govern the composition of a concerto. Having once learned its technique genius and passion were unconscious of their limitations, but flowed with as true and spontaneous an impulse within these formal bounds as waters in their marble fountains and conduits. "All the melodies that had been growing through two centuries in Italy [says Symonds] are concentrated in the songs of the _Amyntas_ and the _Pastor Fido_. The idyllic voluptuousness which permeated literature and art steeps their pictures in a golden glow. While we recognise in both these poems--the one perfumed and delicate like flowers of spring, the other sculptured in pure forms of classic grace--evident signs of a civilisation sinking to decay, we are bound to confess that to this goal the Italian genius had been steadily advancing. They complete and close the Renaissance." But the living quality in the _Amyntas_ which makes it a thousand-fold more real to us than the Elizabethan masques is not its perfectness of form but the stamp which it bears of being the expression of personal experience and longing but thinly veiled in poetic imagery. Reading the poem at Villa d'Este we read between the lines and recognise the _scena_ of the pastoral and the love which inspired its plot. In spite of the changes wrought by time we discover the origin of each descriptive passage. This rocky reservoir whose shadowy surface seems to mirror reflections of mysterious faces is surely-- "Dian's pool Where the great plane's cool shade to cooler waves Invites the huntress nymphs." Its encircling laurel thickets might mask to-day strange woodland deities like the Satyr of the play who while Sylvia bathed "Crouched lynx-eyed among the thick-set shrubs." The description of the tumultuous pursuit of this Satyr calls up so vividly the Polyphemus in the _Triumph of Galatea_ that we are convinced that Tasso must have been influenced by Raphael's great painting in the Farnesina. "Not all am I A despicable thing,..." He makes the Satyr say; "This ruddy russet front, these shoulders huge, These nervy bull-thewed arms, this silky breast, And these my velvet thighs are manhood's mould robust. Ill favoured I? Not so!" As one listens to the delirious nightingales in the dim, green-arched _allées_, one forgets the trysting trees in other Italian gardens and is sure that only here could Daphne have drawn her argument for love from their caresses. "_Daphne:_ The gentle, jocund spring, Smiling and wantoning, Makes all things amorous. Thou only thus, Untamed wild creature, wilder than the rest, Deniest love the harbourage of thy breast. List to yon nightingale Singing within the vale 'I love, love, love.' With what renewed embracement vine clasps vine, Fir blends its boughs with fir, and pine with pine. Beneath the rugged bark May'st thou mute inward sighings mark, And wilt thou graceless be Less than a vine or tree-- To keep thyself unloving, loverless? Bend, bend thy stubborn heart Fool that thou art." But the physical peculiarity which actually identifies Villa d'Este as the locale of the poem is its cliff, the "sheer crag" from whence Amyntas leaps in his despair. "Now did he lead me where the cloven steep Among the rocks and solitary crags Looms pathless and breaks sheer above a vale. There paused we, and I, peering far below, Shuddered, drew from the brink. * * * 'Sylvia, I come, I follow!' So he cried: Then headlong leaped,--and left me turned to stone." There are other poems of Tasso's which refer to his residence at Villa d'Este, and infer Leonora's presence at that time. We may cite in particular the canzone to Leonora at her uncle's villa, beginning "_Al nobil colle ove in antichi marmi_": "To the romantic hills where free To thine enchanted eyes Works of Greek art in statuary Of antique marbles rise, My thought, fair Leonora, roves, And with it to their gloomy groves Fast bears me as it flies. For far from thee, in crowds unblest, My fluttering heart but ill can rest. "There to the rock, cascade, and grove, On mosses dropt with dew, Like one who thinks and sighs of love The livelong summer through, Oft would I dictate glorious things Of heroes to the Tuscan strings On my sweet lyre anew, And to the brooks and trees around Ippolito's high name resound." This poem would seem to imply that a part of the _Jerusalem_ was written here, possibly the episode of Sophronia and Olindo, so dear to Tasso himself that though it was not an integral part of the epic he dared the Inquisition rather than comply with the demands of the censor that it should be stricken out. The description of Sophronia is admitted to have been intended to denote Leonora: "Amongst them in the city lived a maid The flower of virgins in her perfect prime, Supremely beautiful! but that she made Never her care, or beauty only weighed In worth with virtue; and her worth acquired A deeper charm from blooming in the shade, Lovers she shunned, nor loved to be admired, But from their praises turned to live a life retired." Equally applicable to Tasso is that of Olindo, the lover who-- "Feared much, hoped little, and in nought presumed. He could not or he durst not speak, but doomed To voiceless thought his passion." But during those "livelong summer days" the poet's passion was not utterly voiceless. The _Amyntas_ is throughout a continual and unequivocal expression, and he daringly in the very prelude makes the god of love, who explains the scheme of the play, declare-- "For wheresoe'er I am, there I am Love, No less in shepherds' than in heroes' hearts, The _unequal lot grows equal_ at my will, My chiefest vaunt, my miracle is this." Openly and repeatedly Tasso asserts that while he is not indifferent to literary distinction it is not the chief end which he has in view in writing the _Amyntas._ "Deem not" (he says) "that all Love's bliss At last is but a breath Of fame that followeth. Love's meed is love, it wooeth, _winneth_ this. Nathless the lover steadfast to his end Hath laud ofttimes and maketh Fame his friend." Goethe makes Tasso confide this double aim to Leonora and her reply shows that he did indeed win the meed he sought. "For what" the poet asks her "is more deserving to survive and silently to last for centuries than the confession of a noble love, confided modestly to gentle song?" We follow step by step that wooing, finding it in the exquisite apostrophe to the golden age--which concludes: "Then let us live as erst kind Nature's thralls And let us love--since hearts No truce of time may know, and youth departs: Ay! let us love: suns sink but sink to soar-- On us, our brief day o'er, Night falls and sleep descends for evermore." Here again Goethe discovers the personal note, transcribing the poem unscrupulously from its setting in the _Amyntas_ and making Leonora reply with didactic coldness to Tasso's appeal-- "_Tasso:_ The golden age, ah! whither is it flown, For which in secret every heart repines? When every bird winging the limpid air And every living thing o'er hill and dale Proclaimed to man, What pleases is allowed. "_Princess_: My friend, the golden age hath passed away. Shall I confess to thee my secret thoughts? The golden age, wherewith the bard is wont Our spirits to beguile, that lovely prime, Existed in the past no more than now; Still meet congenial spirits and enhance Each other's pleasures in this beauteous world; But in the motto change one single word And say my friend,--What's fitting is allowed." Perhaps Leonora did speak thus in the open discussion which followed the reading of the poem as in that at the Court of Urbino when Cardinal Bembo, distraught by his own rhapsody on love, stood silent as one transported, and the lady Emilia to recall him to himself shook him playfully, crying, "Have a care, Pietro, lest in this mood your soul should be separated from your body." And the gay Cardinal replied: "Madam, this would not be the first miracle which Love hath wrought in me." Certainly, Tasso's wooing, even at Villa d'Este, was not always a happy one. In the following stanzas he tells of temporary despairs, but he hints also of a great hope at his darkest moment: "By what dim ways at last Love leadeth man Unto his joy and sets him 'mid the bliss Of his heart's heaven of love--then when he most Thinketh him sunk in an abyss of bale; O blest Amyntas--from thy fate I augur for mine own, that so may she, That fair untender maid, who in a smile Of pity sheaths the steel of heartlessness, So may she with true pity heal the hurt Wherewith feigned pity pierced me to the heart." In another beautiful passage it is not hope which he sings but rapture: "Let him who serveth Love Divine it in his heart, though scarce may he Divine or give it voice." What was the boon which gave Tasso so much bliss? Perchance no greater than the one he celebrates in the exquisite lines: _Stava Madonna ad un balcon soletta._ "My lady at a balcony alone One day was standing, when I chanced to stretch My arm on hers; pardon I begged, if so I had offended her; she sweetly answered, 'Not by the placing of thy arm hast thou Displeased me aught, but by withdrawing it Do I remain offended!' O fond words! Dear little love words, short but sweet, and courteous! Courteous as sweet, affectionate as courteous! If it were true and certain what I heard, I shall be always seeking not to offend thee, Repeating the great bliss: but my sweet life, By all my eagerness therein remember-- Where there is no offence, there must be No visiting of vengeance!" It must have been early in their acquaintance that such gratitude was poured forth for so slight a favour. There are balconies at Villa d'Este, balustraded terraces where now the contorted stems of giant vines wrestle with the carved pillarets and rend them relentlessly from their copings where at intervals the bayonet-leaved aloes keep sentinel like the bravi of Cardinal Ippolito I., their long green knives unsheathed and ready for any deed of horror. Here, unconscious of spying eyes, Leonora may have leant apparently absorbed in that glorious view, and Tasso's hand have stolen furtively to her own. But was there no other guerdon for his long service than this shy avowal--no other bliss before that long horror of imprisonment and real or imputed madness which ended only after Leonora's death? Only the Duke Alphonso and those who so basely read the poet's private papers can reply. Cardinal Ippolito must have guessed to what end the pastoral of Villa d'Este was tending; but whether his sympathy was real or feigned for his own uses we cannot know. [Illustration: _Alinari_ Villa d'Este--Terrace Staircase] He never attained his ambition, for death suddenly claimed him before the aged Pope whom he had hoped to succeed. Tasso's tragedy culminated, as Goethe tells us, at another villa, that of Belriguardo. The pastoral of Villa d'Este ends in a chorus or envoy expressive of that tremulous hope which flutters so deliciously in every line of the exquisite poem: "I know not if the bitterness That, serving long, long yearning, one hath borne In tears and all forlorn, May wholly turn to sweet, and Love requite All sorrows with delight. But if this be and pain That bringeth joy enricheth often gain; I ask thee not, O Love, To give me gain thy common gains above. * * * If gentle dear disdains And dulcet coy defeats And strifes fond lovers use To fire their hearts--but close with love's long truce." NOTE.--The selections from the _Amyntas_ quoted in this article have been selected from the admirable metrical translation of Mr. R. Whitmore. [Illustration] CHAPTER VI MONDRAGONE "'Tis a grave responsibility to play the dragon to a pretty woman." This was the assertion with which Celio Benvoglio, private secretary of her Highness, Princess Pauline Bonaparte Borghese, invariably prefaced the following story, and had I a like knack in telling it, you would admit the demonstration of that proposition. By dragon you will understand that his Excellency, Prince Camillo Borghese, signified a guardian and protector. To constitute Celio Malespini a spy and reporter was no more in the thought of the Prince than it could have been in Celio's performance. He was young, and as chivalric an admirer of the Princess as he was loyal in his devotion to her husband. Had he discovered anything equivocal in her conduct, wild horses could not have torn her secret from him, and it is possible that the Prince counted upon this when he said: "Celio, the Princess is very young and impulsive; that she is a foreigner and therefore inexperienced in our strict etiquette will not excuse her slightest mistake in the eyes of our severe Roman dames, who would be prejudiced against the sister of Napoleon were she as circumspect as the Madonna. Her beauty has already made them envious, her wit and light-heartedness is considered levity. They will delight in wagging their tongues maliciously on the least shadow of suspicion. In appointing you secretary to the Princess I place you in a position where you will be able to guard her from the appearance of evil. Understand well that I have no fear of its reality, but where there are windows overlooking one's garden the neighbours may see more than the owner, more even than actually occurs." "Have no fear, my lord," the young secretary rashly promised. "You know the Tuscan proverb in regard to avoiding the suspicion of fruit stealing. Ah, well, no visitor shall be allowed to tie his shoestrings among your strawberries or to use his handkerchief under your plum tree." So the Prince went away to Florence and Celio found that he had more than he had bargained for. Not that Pauline Bonaparte committed actual indiscretions; but she was wild for admiration, loved dress, and knew how to dress well, setting off her marvellous beauty with that combination of style and taste that the French call _chic_, which the heavier intellects of the Roman modistes with all their pretence to fashion can never attain, and which the imperious Roman matrons could never forgive. One of these, hoping to rob this audacious rival of the advantage of Parisian modishness, gave a fête in which the guests were requested to appear in classical costume, whose severe simplicity she fancied would be more becoming to the plenitude of her own Juno-like charms than to the slight figure of the French girl. But the Princess vanquished her hostess for she came as a Bacchante in a robe of her own designing, bordered with vine leaves embroidered in gold and belted beneath the breasts with a golden girdle. A mantle of panther's fur swept from her shoulders, her arms and her bust were laden with heavy necklaces and bracelets taken from some Etruscan tomb, and she waved a golden thyrsus. Her entrance illuminated the ball-room and the character which she represented gave her authority for giving free vent to her natural vivacity and dancing with the utmost grace and abandon. Her victory over the male part of the assembly was complete for they saw no one else that evening. They were wrong who supposed that her beauty was enhanced by dress; on the contrary it was limited by the clothing which it adorned. The sculptor Canova proved this in his portrait statue of her as Venus Victorious, and then her detractors, affecting to be greatly scandalised, changed their tune and declared that it was false that the Princess was too fond of dress, that on the contrary a greater regard for it would have been more decent. The young secretary was not a little troubled by the caprice of his patroness to thus display her beauty to the world. "But why not, my Celio?" she had argued. "The Prince, my husband, has bestowed upon me a great title for which I feel my obligation to his noble family, and I shall pay it with interest, for I shall leave the Borgheses this incomparable statue, and the glory of having possessed one Princess whose beauty cannot be denied or equalled." Why Prince Borghese should have deputed this dragon service to another instead of undertaking it himself, is a question which I cannot answer. Some misunderstanding doubtless there was, or two people who loved each other would never have agreed that it was better to live apart, but the Prince carried a sore and longing heart with him to Florence, and it may be that the Princess was no happier, though she had more bravado. "I will come when you send for me and not before," her husband said to her, "and I trust you understand the motives which underlie my self-banishment." "I am grateful to them at least," was her equivocal retort. "Has your Highness any preference as to my residence during your absence?" "None," he replied sadly, "but I shall be happier if you do not make choice of your Neapolitan villa." She flashed at him indignantly, "You wish to estrange me from my family, from my sister Caroline." "I have only the highest respect for her Majesty, the Queen of Naples," he replied; "her devotion to her husband is undoubted. I could wish--" and here the Prince paused. "That I were more like her," the Princess finished his sentence. "I never said so, Pauline," he said impulsively, "or wished that you were like any other than yourself." His last words should have softened her, but, pained and indignant at his desertion, she hardly heeded them; how was she to know that Camillo Borghese was, under his cold exterior, very honestly in love with his wife and just now cruelly tortured with jealousy of her brother-in-law, the dare-devil Murat? For the latter was as unscrupulous as he was handsome, as Napoleon was to find to his cost, though in recognition of his services as a dashing leader of cavalry he had rewarded him with the hand of his sister Caroline and the crown of Naples. Hitherto the Princess had not even remarked the bold admiration of her brother-in-law, and after the departure of her husband she wept and sulked for days, when suddenly an event of great political importance, which was also of deep personal interest to herself, threw into the background every other consideration. Napoleon's abdication and the treaty of Fontainebleau came upon his friends with the shock of an earthquake. Especially to his sister Pauline it was as though the foundations of the earth were tottering. He had been the Providence of all his family, dividing the nations between them; but Pauline had been his favourite, he had loved her sincerely, and she had responded with the utmost devotion. "I will go to him in his trouble," she declared, and though her secretary could not see how her presence could aid the deposed Emperor, he could not but approve her generous impulse. She met her brother at Hyères near the frontier of France, from which point he embarked for the Island of Elba. The allies had granted him the lordship of the island, with an income to support a pseudo court; but the framers of that treaty, and Napoleon himself, knew well that its terms were a farce and his kingdom in reality a prison. What transpired between the Princess and her brother in that brief interview Celio did not know. Each passed from it calmed and cheerful. There was a kindlier look in the Emperor's face, a more assured elasticity in his step as the English sailors who transported him to his exile shouted their, "Better luck next time"; and sparks were lighted in the eyes of the Princess which every one who saw her noted, though none guessed what hidden fires of resolve fed their flashes. [Illustration: _Alinari_ Fountain in Gardens of the Villa Borghese] They called her that season the Firefly, and many misinterpreted her illy suppressed excitement and the scrutiny of those lambent eyes sending out their flame signals in search of answering lights. Even her secretary did not know that the dark shadows which ringed them were not due to the balls and other frivolities in which she was so conspicuous; but to complicated and dangerous schemes which robbed her of sleep at night, and were never forgotten as she danced and chatted and coquetted while the most astute diplomats laid their hearts and their secrets at her feet. She received strange visitors too at the magnificent Villa Borghese, just outside the Porta del Popolo, wild-eyed agitators and suspects who had never before been permitted to enter those aristocratic gates. The first had come disguised in a marble-cutter's blouse as an assistant of Canova; but he had dropped a word which the noble model understood, and the fire signals had flashed between them. After the sculptor had left the casino his assistant tarried, and Celio, dismissed by his mistress but lingering at the threshold, heard fragments of the man's talk: "Liberty, united Italy, and death to the Austrians." Later, when he attempted to warn the Princess that if the man were not a maniac he was more dangerous, she asked him bluntly if her husband had constituted him her dragon, and thereafter in half contemptuous banter she gave him the nickname of "Mondragone." It was the name also of another villa belonging to the Borghese, the most sightly of all the boldly seated summer resorts of the nobility at beautiful Frascati. Not one of these commands a view comparable to the one from its terrace of the Pope's Chimneys, so named from the strange monumental constructions which are so conspicuous that, with a glass, they are plainly visible from Rome. So when the Princess announced, "I love Mondragone," her secretary did not flatter himself that the equivocal utterance bore any reference to himself. Had he also had the wit to perceive that if she indeed cared for the villa or for any other object at this time, it was only for some service which it might render her brother, his duties as dragon would have occasioned him far less of mental anguish. Celio was writing one day in a room adjoining the apartment which Canova had used as his studio in the casino of Villa Borghese, when he was startled by a heavy step in the room which he had supposed unoccupied. Throwing aside the portière he instantly recognised from report the imposing figure which confronted him. On a lesser man so gorgeous a costume as the one which now dazzled the astonished eyes of the secretary would have suggested the mountebank; but there was something regal as well as Oriental in Joachim Murat's appearance, and the barbarous colour extravagances of his dress became him like those of a sultan. His curling hair, black and long, fell upon a green velvet cloak heavily embroidered with gold which hung from his shoulders displaying a sky-blue frogged tunic, whose breast was covered with jewelled crosses and beribboned decorations. The crimson breeches which met the high boots of yellow morocco were braided with gold in the Polish fashion and fitted closely his shapely thighs, but the tarnished and battered cavalry sabre clanking at his side occasioned him no inconvenience, and it needed but a glance at the broken plumes of the ruby-clasped aigrette which decorated a shabby wide-brimmed hat to convince the beholder that this was no gala costume but the habitual garb of a soldier. He was spurred and played nonchalantly with his riding-whip as he returned Celio's questioning glance with a smile, half arrogant, half familiar. Wheeling upon his heel without deigning any explanation of his presence, he returned to his contemplation of the portrait statue of the Princess, and the young secretary's blood boiled as he saw that the expression of contemptuous familiarity on the sensual face had been elicited not by his insignificant self but by the masterpiece of Canova. "A fair portrait doubtless," he said indifferently, "for I recognise certain points of resemblance to her sister, whose perfections, however, the Princess Borghese cannot hope to emulate." "Pardon me, sir," stammered the secretary in tones which he vainly strove to render icy,--"but this is the Villa Borghese and not a public museum." The intruder looked down with amused bonhommie. "I am an acquaintance of the Prince," he vouchsafed, "and have been invited by him to view his art collections." [Illustration: _Alinari_ Pauline Bonaparte, Princess Borghese Portrait statue by Canova at Villa Borghese] Celio bridled with increased importance. "Prince Borghese's specimens of antique sculpture are in the palazzo where, if the Signor will announce himself, he will doubtless be accorded the privilege of seeing them. This palazzita is the private boudoir of the Princess." "So much the better," the other laughed. "But when she commanded that statue she doubtless contemplated the possibility of its being admired by other eyes than her own. No insult is intended, my young popinjay. It is all in the family. Restrain your indignation and inform the Princess that the King of Naples is waiting here in obedience to her appointment." The secretary was not pleased with this message, and he liked still less the manner in which it was received, for the Princess hurried to meet her brother-in-law and allowed him to salute her gallantly upon both cheeks, and to address her as "Paulette." Celio, excused from attendance, had no opportunity, though he stood sentinel in the loggia, to overhear their conversation. Finally the Princess summoned him. "Order my carriage," she commanded, "and the caleche, and ask the attendance of my first lady-in-waiting. Tell Maurice to arrange a lunch-hamper quickly. His Majesty insists he must set out this afternoon for Naples. We will accompany him as far as Mondragone and picnic there." So they dashed away on the road to Frascati, the Princess lolling alone in her open carriage, for Murat had declined the seat beside her, though he kept his horse recklessly near her wheels, Celio following with the maid of honour and the lunch basket in the caleche, and one of Murat's orderlies (the other had been dispatched to order his suite to meet him at Mondragone) bringing up the rear. At the wildest and steepest part of the road the party halted, and the Princess alighting announced her intention of taking a short cut across the hills while the carriages followed the more circuitous driveway. Murat threw his reins to his orderly, and Celio, true to his self-constituted duties as dragon, left the maid of honour dozing in the caleche and followed his mistress. She had brought a tall staff, knotted with a tri-colour ribbon, which she used as an alpenstock, springing lightly over the steep boulders, while the athletic Murat kept pace with the easy swinging stride of a mountaineer. Suddenly Celio saw him catch the Princess by the arm and both stood as though instantaneously frozen. Then, as the secretary came panting up, Murat handed the Princess to him, and taking a few steps forward and apparently addressing the landscape, for Celio saw no one said in a voice of calm but inflexible authority: "Lay down your gun, and come from behind that rock." To Celio's astonishment a villainous appearing brigand advanced and knelt at Murat's feet. "Why did you not shoot me when I was at the lower turn of the road, my friend?" Murat demanded; "you had the better opportunity then, for I had not discovered you, and I was for several minutes within your range." "True, your Majesty," replied the bandit, "but I said to myself, 'that is too magnificent a figure of a man to kill, even though he is a king.'" Murat laughed. "I will return the compliment," he said, writing rapidly on a card. "You have too much discrimination and obey orders too well to be a brigand. I wonder now if you have heard of a secret organisation called the Carbonari? I thought so" (replying by an almost imperceptible gesture to a signal made by the bandit); "you see you have made a mistake, for I also am a member of the order. All in time, my good fellow, and you shall use your rifle against the Austrians. Take this to the recruiting office of the Neapolitan army at Castel di Rocca. Never fear, it is no trap. This young man will read it for you." And the secretary read: "Give this brave fellow a place in the Corps of Calabrian Sharpshooters, and assure Captain Castiglione that he can be relied upon for expert guerilla service. Giacomo Rè." The man went away trembling with emotion but Murat called to him: "Come back, you have forgotten your gun," and stood carelessly regarding the view with his back turned while the would-be assassin regained possession of his weapon. The Princess clapped her hands. "I understand now," she said, "why you bore a charmed life when you came dashing out of the smoke of the battle-field, sweeping within a few feet of the muzzles of the enemy's guns. It needed not the command of the Czar that you were not to be fired upon,--the gunners could no more have done so than this poor outlaw. I comprehend also how you have managed to augment the roll of your army, which on your accession included but fifty thousand names, to its present list of seventy-five thousand, and at the same time have so marvellously reduced the number of brigands in your kingdom." "Partly in this way," he acknowledged, lightly, "but the Austrian officers would be surprised to know how many of my best disciplined soldiers have had the advantage of their drilling." "Deserters?" the Princess asked. "And whole companies in Northern Italy waiting for the first symptoms of a war with Italy to desert en masse." When the party reached Mondragone the custodian, surprised at their coming (for the villa had been long unoccupied), unbarred the shutters and let the light into the dusty salons. "It is roomy enough for a barracks," Murat remarked as he wandered through suite after suite of the great tenantless rooms. "I forbid you so to use it," the Princess jested, "though you may occupy Mondragone yourself when you lay siege to Rome." "It would not be a bad headquarters," he said as they came out upon the terrace. "Imagine a semaphore in the place of those monstrous and absurd columns--what are they, by the way? One could waft signals from Rome to Calabria and from the Adriatic to the Tirrenian." That was an exaggeration, of course, but Mondragone would have been a good station in such a signal service. "Those absurd columns," the Princess replied, "might themselves serve as semaphores. They are chimneys, colossal enough to serve a foundry, though they do duty to simple kitchens, those which prepared the excellent dinners with which Pope Paul V. entertained his guests. When the smoke rises from that one I can see the cloudy column from my windows at Rome." "And I could see it far on the road from Naples," he mused, and then the two wandered away from their watching dragon and leaning on the balustrade with their faces toward the magnificent view earnestly discussed projects which had nothing to do with that unrivalled panorama. Celio was in torment. What was Murat saying in that low, guarded voice, while his hand clenched and crushed the roses that swarmed over the balustrade and scattered their petals to the wind? Why did the Princess's colour come and go as she listened, her cheek much too near his passionate lips? Since there was no way of overhearing this equivocal conversation, it must at all hazards be interrupted, and Celio prematurely announced the _al fresco_ supper. Here, while he fluttered behind them in a pretence of service, he heard both too much for his peace of mind and too little for his complete enlightenment. At first the talk was of family matters, chiefly of Napoleon at Elba, with whom Pauline begged her brother-in-law to be reconciled, for this was in the summer of 1814, when Murat, foreseeing that Napoleon's star had set, had signed a treaty with the allies. "One would think I had done enough for your brother," he said, moodily. "I left my kingdom to lead the cavalry of the _grande armée_ in the Russian campaign. I gained his victories and I commanded the _escadron sacrée_ which protected his person in the retreat, and what is my reward?" "What is your present position?" the Princess asked. "I am your brother-in-law," Murat replied, "but, as I wrote Napoleon, I conferred as much honour as I received when I married your sister, and, as for my kingship, the Emperor wished only a devoted servant whom he could command, and he has discovered his mistake." The eyes of Pauline Bonaparte shot fire while the other spoke. "You are very stupid to talk in this way to me, Joachim," she said, commanding herself in time. "You needed Napoleon--you need him now, for your scheme will never succeed unless he supports you. It is your good fortune that he needs you enough to forgive your defection. The family stands or falls together, _mon ami_." "Evidently your mother does not think so," Murat replied, with pique. "I have just brought Madame Mère a present of eight fine carriage-horses. She declined them with thanks, and would not see me when I called on her in Rome. As for my loving brother-in-law, your noble husband----" "Why should you mind Camillo's sulks since I do not? He and Madame Mère have such amusing ideas. It was not so much Caroline's correspondence with your 'dear Metternich' which offended them and my brother, too. They have never forgotten that little affair of the silver lemon squeezer. Ah, _mon ami_! you had had too much champagne when you brewed that bowl of punch at the officers' dinner." "I never said that it was the Empress who taught me the recipe and gave me the lemon squeezer," he retorted, flushing. "Oh! no; nor told you that oranges and not lemons were used with Jamaica rum in the islands; nor why pretty creoles were like lemons." "Do you mean to provoke me?" Murat exclaimed, rising quickly. "No, _mon ami_, though I shared in that suspicion, too, for they called me a creole on my return from San Domingo." Murat's jaw fell. "Do you mean that your husband thought I meant _you_?" he asked. "Prince Borghese is too polite a man to voice such a suspicion, and I am too clever a woman to show that I have guessed it, but that is reason enough why I cannot accept my sister's invitation to take possession of the entrancing Neapolitan villa which you so kindly offer me." "You are like your mother. You refuse my peace-offerings; you will not visit us?" "Peace-offerings, yes; but make me some offerings of war, that fine army, for instance; and, by the way, if you will give me a yacht instead of the villa I may consent to be your guest. Meantime we understand each other. I will give immediate orders to my people that no fire is on any account to be lighted in the Pope's kitchens, as the chimneys are unsafe. Should I perceive a column of smoke rising from them I shall know that you are here, and I will come to you. If, on the other hand, I hear that you are in this vicinity on the business of which we spoke, I shall make Mondragone my residence; and should you perceive my smoke signal----" "Then," he interrupted, speaking very low, but so distinctly that Celio's heart froze as he listened--"then, Paulette, be the danger what it may, heaven nor hell shall keep me from you." They parted in the most commonplace manner, the Princess returning to Rome after the conclusion of the repast, but, though she appeared to sleep all the way, Celio marked when she alighted that her face, illuminated by the strong glare that blazed from the open door of the villa, was haggard as from long vigils. Deeply distressed, the poor dragon spent a sleepless night, but towards morning an inspiration came to him. He saw his way to saving his lady without arousing the suspicions of her husband. She had forbidden the use of the Pope's chimneys to the guardian of the villa, plainly that they should serve solely as signals between herself and Murat. But the reason which she had given for their disuse, that they were unsafe, furnished the secretary with his pretext, and he wrote his master urging that they should be taken down. Before the Prince had time to reply the event which he had dreaded took place. The Princess, in direct opposition to her husband's parting request, announced her determination to visit her sister at Naples. It was not in her secretary's province to remonstrate, and he was soon to gain a point of view from which the inexplicable behaviour of his mistress presented a very different aspect. Arrived at Naples the Princess and her suite were met by Queen Caroline and installed in a charming villa near the city, and on the succeeding day the entire household were taken by the King and Queen for a short cruise in the royal yacht. Outside the island of Ischia the party landed, and climbing to a ruined tower which commanded an extensive prospect, they plainly discerned in a hidden cove a little craft flying a flag unfamiliar at that time to Celio Benvoglio, a striped red and white pennon studded with golden bees. It was the ensign chosen by Napoleon while lord of Elba, and displayed by the six swift sailing pinnaces which made up the Emperor's little navy. Pauline now informed her suite that she was about to pay a visit to her brother, which for important reasons must not for the present be suspected. Her maids of honour must therefore return to her Neapolitan villa, and, to keep up the fiction of her presence, announce on the morrow that the Princess had succumbed to an attack of fever. The Court physician would pay daily visits as would the King and Queen, but no others would be admitted to the secret. With feminine fondness for intrigue the three maids of honour entered into the plan, while Celio, relieved from his tormenting suspicions accompanied his mistress to Elba. Here, admitted to her conferences with her brother as he fulfilled new and arduous duties in the transcription of dispatches, he comprehended that the secret alliance between the Princess and Murat had been purely political, and with what tact she had won him to reconciliation and co-operation with Napoleon. The Emperor's plans were more audacious and far-reaching than ever. In their scope the movement for the independence and unification of Italy was but a subordinate detail. Pauline knew that her brother was developing a great _coup d'état_, that he would presently escape from Elba and seize again the reins of power, and it was she who had first perceived and who now explained to him how the undercurrent of events in Italy might become a factor in his scheme. Agitators had been busy in every part of the peninsula firing patriot hearts to throw off the domination of the three foreign powers which held them enslaved. The King of Naples by naturalising himself as an Italian, and compelling his French soldiers to do so, had been permitted to take part in the plot. It is possible that the revolutionists, who saw the immense advantage of the services of so able a general as Murat, intended to repudiate him after they had gained their ends. But at that time they flattered him with the hope of becoming the king as well as the deliverer of all Italy. As Celio Benvoglio toiled over his papers he was amazed at the imagination of his mistress which had first discerned the possibility of making the cause of Italian liberty serve her brother's ambitious imperialism, and the marvellous finesse with which she had vanquished Murat's gascon envy and resentment and made him once more a tool in the hand of the Emperor. Still more he admired Napoleon's acumen and resource as he saw order coming out of chaos and all things working together for the success of his stupendous undertaking. The Emperor had planned to first secure Paris, and then, proclaiming the independence of Italy, to make common cause with her against Austria and at the head of the united French and Italian armies, one hundred thousand strong, march by way of the Julian Alps upon Vienna. As the impressionable secretary traced the burning proclamation which Napoleon dictated to his old soldiers, he doubted not that it would fire the heart of every veteran and the great enterprise seemed infallible. "Take again the eagles you followed at Ulm, Austerlitz, Jena, and Montmirail," pleaded their adored commander. "Range yourselves under the banners of your old chief. Victory shall march with every step. In your old age you shall say with pride, I also was one of that great army which twice entered the walls of Vienna, took Rome, Berlin, Madrid, and Moscow, and which delivered Paris from domestic treason and the occupation of strangers." What wonder that, carried away by the immensity and daring of the conquest of the continent, the happiness of one longing heart should have seemed a very insignificant thing, and that Celio should have quite forgotten that his master, Camillo Borghese, was waiting for some reassuring word from him, that he had heard of the Princess's reckless removal to Naples, and was distracted between anger at her flagrant disregard of his wishes, suspicion of what such heartlessness might mean, and acute distress on learning of her illness? The Prince could not, on account of personal reasons, present himself at the Court of the King of Naples, but he had written repeatedly to Celio Benvoglio and these letters the first maid of honour, finding no opportunity to forward to Elba, had judged best to retain at Naples unopened until the return of the secretary. So the days flew for the Princess and dragged for her husband, until at midnight on the twenty-seventh of February, 1815, Napoleon with his handful of devoted soldiers embarked for France, and his sister returned to Naples with instructions for Murat. Then the Neapolitan villa was suddenly vacated and the seven carriages of the Princess took up their line of march for Rome. She had found awaiting her at Naples letters in which her husband passionately besought her to return; and, while her face flushed as she realised the motives which he attributed to Murat, her heart swelled with triumph that he believed in her in spite of all. "He loves me!" she murmured to herself unguardedly, in the presence of her secretary. "Then give me leave to write him," the young man cried, impulsively, "that I may relieve his anxiety. Let me bid him join you at Rome. Think, dearest madam, what he must suffer." But at that word the Princess frowned. "And do you think I have not suffered?" she cried. "I am glad that he is jealous, since it proves that he can love. Nevertheless I would gladly summon him if I could. But do you not see, Celio, that he must not be implicated in our plots? If we fail, he must be known to have had no letters from me. I forbid you to communicate with him until I give you permission. Camillo is too honest to make a good conspirator. If I can wait, cannot you? The game may not be worth the candle, but I will play it to the end." The little cavalcade paused at Mondragone, for the Princess had decided to spend a few weeks at her Frascati villa. Here, to her indignation, she found engineers preparing to take down the Pope's chimneys. "On whose authority do you presume to do a thing so outrageous?" she demanded, and they showed her the order of Prince Borghese. "Delay the execution of these instructions until such time as they are repeated," she commanded. "I have decided to take up my residence here for the present, and cannot be disturbed by repairs and alterations." When the men were gone she faced her secretary in consternation. "Who can have incited Camillo to such a resolution?" she demanded, and the consciousness of guilt in his face was a sufficient answer. "It was you, dear lady, who put the idea into my head," he stammered; "you said the chimneys were cracked and might set fire to the villa." "Spy and traitor," she hissed, "you tried to make it impossible for me to communicate with Murat. It is your idiotic suspicions that have roused Camillo's jealousy." "You have said that you were glad of that jealousy," Celio ventured; and the Princess laughed bitterly, then softening, said: "I do believe you thought yourself acting for my good, oh, foolish little dragon. Confess, my poor boy, that Pauline Borghese has the wit to take care of herself." Very humbly Celio confessed that this was evident, but his troubles were by no means over. A fortnight later Italy was electrified by the startling rumour that the King of Naples had declared war with Austria and was marching toward Lombardy. The Princess was struck with consternation, for she knew that Napoleon could not so soon have perfected his arrangements for making a junction with Murat. Though she entertained no one it was noticed by her neighbours that the Pope's chimneys smoked continually, as though the most elaborate banquets were in preparation and one night the expected guest arrived. Murat had intended to give Rome a wide berth, stealing around it by the Abruzzi. But his left wing had scouts on the western slopes of the Sabine Mountains and were instructed to keep a lookout for the smoke signal from Mondragone, and he had ridden across the mountains for a day and half a night to answer her summons. She gave him food and a fresh horse, but she sent him back to the Castello Borghese at Monte Compatri for his lodging, with many reproaches and gloomy prophecies for his mad precipitation in anticipating the _mot d'ordre_ of Napoleon. Theirs was no loving tryst, but a stormy altercation, for Murat defended his act and refused her entreaties, which were rather in the nature of commands, to go back to Naples and wait for advice from his general. "Why should I put myself under his orders?" he demanded. "Austria has taken alarm and is pouring its forces into Lombardy. If I do not secure Milan at once it will be too late and the opportunity will be lost. Who knows when Napoleon will think of us? They say he is at Paris preparing to meet the allies in Belgium. Our little rendezvous for the excursion to Vienna is apparently forgotten. He has other matters to attend to. Well, so have I. I am weary of governing for him. When I am King of Italy I will rule according to the ideas of Joachim Murat." "You would never have been a King in name but for him," she replied hotly, "you are not fit to rule. You are a good soldier, Joachim, but you need your master." So they parted in bitterness, and Celio, who was present at their interview, rejoiced that such was the manner of their parting, and prayed that they might never meet again, but that prayer was not to be answered. The Princess returned to Rome and soon received information of the fulfilment of her prophecy. For a few days Murat held Bologna, then the Austrians swooped down upon him and he met them gallantly, but disastrously, near Modena. Reverse followed reverse and at Tolentino his mad campaign of six weeks ended in total defeat. His army fled in all directions, and a refugee brought word that Murat, scorning surrender, had fallen sabring desperately to the last. Pauline received the news, pale but unshaken. "My poor sister," she said, and then quickly, "but she knows her refuge; by this time doubtless she is on her way to Napoleon." Then a great light illumined her face. "The revolution has failed, my work is done. I can now write to Camillo." She was writing when a messenger entered with a letter from her husband. "He is coming, Celio," she cried joyfully. "He will be here in an hour. He writes that in disaster and grief his place is at my side, and he could not wait my summons. Oh, Celio, was there ever such magnanimity?" As she rang to give orders for her husband's reception, her third maid of honour, Pippa Serbonella, a waspish, deceitful creature whom Celio had never liked, flung wide the curtain of the window and cried: "Eccellentissima, look,--the chimneys of Mondragone!" It was true, from one of them rose a thin waving scarf of smoke, fluttering and beckoning in the light wind. The Princess caught the arm of her secretary. "Joachim is not dead!" she cried; "he is there and I must go to him." "Not now, not now, dearest lady," pleaded the young man. "Your husband is coming. Think what that means." "Yes, yes, I know," she gasped, wringing her hands, "but I cannot desert my brother-in-law in his extremity. I led him into this, Celio. I promised to come when he called. I must keep my promise. Stay you, and say what you will to Camillo. I will be back this evening." With many a misgiving the wretched dragon saw her drive away, and a little later confronted the eager face of Prince Borghese. "My wife?" he questioned, and Celio could only stammer, "She has gone out for a drive; she will be back presently." "Did she not receive my letter?" and the Prince had his answer, for it lay with broken seal upon her escritoire. "Did she go to meet me? Have we missed each other?" he asked. "Not so, your Highness," Pippa Serbonella interpolated, "the Princess had another appointment," and again with significant finger and hateful smile she pointed to the smoke signal. The Prince stood transfixed, and Celio understood from their two faces that the girl had given unsolicited full reports of that correspondence written in the air. "Oh! you women, you women!" he groaned, and "I will strangle you, traitress," he whispered as she passed him. But the Prince had other occupation for him at that moment. "Now tell the whole truth," he commanded sternly, and the secretary told it, exulting that against her will the malicious maid-of-honour must confirm his statement that while the Princess had been supposed to be at Naples she was really with Napoleon at Elba. A look of relief smoothed Borghese's forehead for an instant. "I never doubted my wife," he declared proudly, "nevertheless the King of Naples has certain explanations to make to me. Celio there was in that cabinet a case of pistols which the Emperor gave me." "The Princess took them with her this morning," Pippa vouchsafed officiously. "Ah!" the Prince drew in his breath. "It is of no consequence," he added. "General Murat will require but one and will doubtless lend me the other. Quick, Celio, our horses. The Princess has only an hour the start of us. We will overtake them at Mondragone." They passed her in fact at Frascati where they saw her carriage standing unharnessed before the inn. "She is resting," said the Prince, "we will not disturb her until after our business at Mondragone is finished." At the gate an astonished servant took their horses, and as the Prince walked through the shady cypress avenue his brain cooled and he formed a resolution differing from the one that had brought him to the villa. Upon the fountain terrace they saw the man they had come to seek. Not the galliard of his last visit, but a hunted refugee, his gaudy hussar uniform soiled and torn, the ballas ruby which had buckled his aigrette shot from his hat, and a tiny rill of blood trickling from his matted hair upon the golden bees that ornamented the sky-blue velvet tunic. Stretched prone upon a marble bench, sleeping the sleep of utter exhaustion, his sword-arm beneath his head, the other trailing relaxed upon the ground, he was entirely at the mercy of the man who looked down upon his haggard face. The Prince studied it for a moment in silence, then, with finger on lip, drew Celio into the loggia. "Let him rest," he whispered, "time enough when he awakes." Ere that happened footsteps were heard and the voice of the Princess calling, "Joachim, where are you?" Murat sprang up instantly. "Paulette, is it you?" "It is I. O mon Dieu; how you have changed! but we heard you were killed. Thank God, that is not true." "I am beaten, which is worse," he said bitterly. "You were right, you see, quite right, all is lost--why do you not say 'I told you so'?" "No," she exclaimed, "all is not lost. Go at once to Napoleon, confess your error, and atone for it." "He will never forgive me," Murat replied; "and why should he, with his army of three hundred thousand men and an Imperial Guard of forty thousand chosen veterans? What have I to offer him? My troops have deserted me. I have nothing to fight with and nothing for which to fight." "My brother needs you," the Princess insisted. "He may have soldiers enough, but he knows there is no such leader of cavalry in all the world as you, and he is about to engage in a crucial struggle with Wellington. You have your marvellous leadership to offer. You say you have nothing to fight for. Think of your honour, and of Caroline." "Ah! I had forgotten her, poor child. I will do as you say, Paulette. You have the brains of your family in your little head. Perhaps that is the reason the good God made Caroline more attractive. Well, one more fight for her sake, and she shall thank you for it. I shall get to Naples in some way, then by sea to Marseilles, and then to Napoleon." "Good!" cried the Princess. "Did you find your horse in the stables? I gave orders to have him well cared for until you claimed him. I have brought a disguise and arms and money. Now, off with you, for I can waste no more time. Ah! how much we have already wasted, Joachim, in this mad pursuit of ambition, when only love was worth the while. My sister will rejoice to retire with you to private life and to know of my happiness, for Camillo is waiting for me at Rome, and all the cruel misunderstanding is over!" Thus ended Celio Benvoglio's dragon-service, for the Prince, forced either to overhear or interrupt the foregoing conversation, had fortunately chosen the former alternative. And here, perchance, should the story end, for the after-history of Joachim Murat is a tragical addendum to that happy dénouement. Pauline overestimated her brother's magnanimity, Napoleon coldly refused the profferred services of his brother-in-law, confessing afterwards that this implacability lost him the battle of Waterloo, for Ney could not equal Murat in his skilful manoeuvring of horse. Murat, desperate, took refuge in Corsica, where he raised a little band of two hundred and fifty men, and landed near Naples, believing that his old troops would rally to his standard. Indifferent, or perhaps unable to help him, they abandoned him to his fate. He faced his executioners with unbandaged eyes and himself gave the order to fire. According to the account of an eye-witness, he first kissed the miniature of his wife, which he carried within the case of his watch, and with the request, "Spare my face," directed the aim of the soldiers to his breast. Their firmness did not equal his own, and he was obliged to twice give the command before it was obeyed. [Illustration] CHAPTER VII THE ADVENTURE OF THE KNIGHT OF THE BRANDISHED LANCE I THE QUEST Robert Devreux, Earl of Essex, was in one of his worst moods as he strode the deck of his flag-ship in Cadiz Bay on a certain June morning in 1596. And yet this favourite of Fortune stood then at the summit of his career, having by a brilliant assault taken the city for England, while a letter whose seal he had just broken assured him of the doting infatuation of England's Queen. It was precisely this letter, as he now explained to his friend, which occasioned his dissatisfaction. "You will not refuse me, Will," he pleaded, "since I can not undertake the quest, you must go in my stead. These papers contain negotiations of such delicacy that Henry of Navarre dared not send them overland through France, and my word is pledged to him to deliver them personally into the hands of the Grand Duke Ferdinando de' Medici, at his villa in Rome. "When I met the King at Boulogne, on our first night out, this seemed an easy thing to do, for I had reason to believe that our cruise would extend to Italy. But now in the hour of my victory, when I have sacked Cadiz, I open the Queen's letter (which was not to be read until the accomplishment of that task), and find that, instead of being permitted to proceed, I must first sail at once for England; and all forsooth because of her love and impatience to reward the valour of her favourite! Can such a summons be disregarded? Assuredly not; but my honour and the fate of the Protestant cause in France hang upon your decision. "Since it means so much," replied the other, "assuredly I will not fail you. But why may I not do this under my own name, as your authorised messenger?" "Because the Grand Duke expects the Earl of Essex, the accredited deputy of the King of France. The deputy of a deputy would have no prestige with him, and would not even be admitted as guest at the villa. And it is with its lady, mark you, that your true errand lies. "These negotiations have to do with the marriage of Henry of Navarre to the Grand Duke's niece Marie de' Medici. Ferdinando will make and break treaties as suits his advantage. The lady's heart must be gained, she must be made so ardently to desire this marriage that she will refuse all other suitors. In short you must woo and win her for the King of France. For such a task you have every qualification. You possess a knowledge of the Italian language and the understanding of its temperament and character which comes from sympathy. The Italians will not need to know that you bear the name of Brandilancia to recognise that you are the embodiment of the type of chivalry dreamed of by their poets. Beware, however, of receiving or giving too much love, for report hath it that the heiress of the Medici is surpassingly beautiful." Brandilancia smiled somewhat bitterly. "You should know," he said, "that my heart is in England and though my love should remain forever unrequited, it can never be given to another." "An excellent safeguard, in the present business," the Earl replied cheerily, "so here are all objections overcome, and may you have many a merry experience to recount when next we meet in England." Hand met hand upon that compact, and while one Earl of Essex pursued his homeward course another in a swift sailing pinnace flew eastward bound upon adventures of which the archives of the English Admiralty preserve no record. As the young adventurer Brandilancia, who was to play the part of the true Essex, rode up the hill crowned by the Villa Medici he was struck by the resemblance of the massive retaining walls to those of some medieval fortress. As such they had served in ancient days, holding the villa safe in their protecting embrace from any uprising of the populace of Rome, while on the side toward the Campagna they had withstood more than one siege of the Goths. But high aloft, near the summit of this cliff of natural rock and hewn stone the inhospitable windowless expanse was broken by a row of arched openings, and silhouetted against the dark void of one of these he caught a glimpse of a face framed in golden hair. Though so far above him the lady, who had been gazing down the road from sheer ennui, had noticed the graceful figure of the cavalier, and had watched his approach until he halted with upturned face beneath her window. At that instant a little fan opening as it fell, dropped from her hand and fluttered in the light breeze, like a bird with a broken wing, beyond the road and into the ravine at its side. Instantly Brandilancia sprang from his horse and, vaulting over the low embankment, clambered down the incline. A smiling contadina, who was beating out her linen on the margin of a basin of water, assisted him in his search, but having found the fan she was so curious in regard to its donor that Brandilancia endeavoured to divert her attention by plying her with questions concerning the locality. From her replies he learned that the washing pool was fed from an old aqueduct which passed under the Villa Medici on its way to supply the fountains of Rome. "See, Signor," she said, pointing out a nail-studded oaken door concealed in the angle of a huge abutment, "they say that if that door were not bolted on the inside one might enter the tunnel which brings the water through the hill from its source miles away. There is a legend, too, that a Roman princess who lived up yonder, centuries ago, betrayed the secret to the barbarians, who came through the tunnel and sacked Rome." Brandilancia paid little heed to this information, not dreaming that he would one day be indebted to it for escape from the villa which he was now so blithely entering. Climbing back to the roadway he waved the fan above his head and was greeted by a light clapping of hands from the lofty window. Who could the lady be? He would ascertain in time, and until he did so it was pleasant to reflect that some one within the villa was interested in his coming and had wafted him this welcome. He had need of hospitality for he was faint from the ride from Ostia in the heat of an Italian June. The beautiful gardens glowed in dazzling sunshine which the scintillating jets of the fountains reflected and intensified. The statues seemed to shrink from the blinding light into their niches in the great square-cut hedges, and the tessellated pavement was hot beneath his tread. Every detail of the antique relievi which the façade of the palace had been designed to display was brought out by the intense illumination. In its lavish ornamentation and elegant proportions the building suggested a carved ivory cabinet, but one rifled of its jewels, for except for the keeper of the gate-lodge, to whom he had tossed his bridle, he had met no guards. The great doorway stood invitingly open, but Brandilancia hesitated to enter and looked about for some means of announcing his presence. "Is the villa under some enchantment?" he asked himself. "If so some imp or sprite should lurk hereabouts and now make its appearance." As if in answer to this mental question a peal of elfish laughter greeted his ear,--a mirthless, falsetto cackle, like that of a parrot, and half hidden behind one of the great marble lions in the shade of the loggia he discerned a grotesque little creature, with the figure of a child and a woman's face, old in its expression of slyness and malignity. Brandilancia started, although he knew that it was the custom of Italian princes to maintain dwarfs in their households. This woman, probably a dependent, was dressed like a princess. Her dress though soiled was of stiff brocade embroidered with gold thread, and the high lace ruff, which made her swarthy complexion darker by contrast with its whiteness, was edged with seed pearls. "Come in, my lord," she croaked. "The Grand Duke regretted that, obliged to be temporarily in Florence, he could not receive you, but awaiting his return the villa is at your service, and the Grand Duchess and the Signorina will endeavour to make the time pass pleasantly." He followed her, wondering as to her position. "How did you know me?" he asked. "You are expected," she replied, "and no one but an Englishman would have called at the hour of the siesta. Shall I show your worship to your own room, or will you await the ladies in the library?" His hand was on the little fan, and he was striving to frame some question whose answer would enlighten him as to the giver, but the dwarf's last word caught his ear, and acted like the scent of spirits upon a man thirsting for drink. "To the library, by all means," he replied eagerly, and, as the heavy portières were drawn aside, the tiny creature at his side and even the golden-haired woman who had greeted his coming so graciously were for the moment clean forgotten, for he comprehended that one of his dearest hopes, long thwarted but never entirely relinquished, the hidden personal motive which had been the determining factor in his acceptance of this mission, was now about to be realised. The immense room from floor to cornice was walled with books: the writings of the fathers of the church--huge folios hasped in brass and ornamented with priceless illuminations--side by side with pagan literature, Greek manuscripts, and volumes of the Roman classics, while all the new harvest of the Italian Renaissance, in every department then known, had been carefully garnered. But high above the marshalled works of the poets, which his fingers lingeringly caressed as he passed them by, Brandilancia had detected a row of small volumes, and a thrill of triumphant delight shot through his frame as he climbed the step-ladder and with eager fingers plucked them from their niches. For here were the novelli of Boccaccio, Masaccio, and Bandello, of Giraldi Cinthio and Ser Giovanni Fiorentino and of many another writer of romantic tales of whimsical gaiety, of intrigue, or of tragedy, and Brandilancia was a playwright gifted with a most exceptional genius for adaptation. He had read a few of these tales and had realised that they contained admirable material for dramatisation, but now by a turn of the wheel of Fortune the entire inexhaustible mine of absorbing plot of piquant situation and contrasting characters, slightly sketched but waiting only the touch of genius to spring into life, lay open before him. With a sigh of supreme satisfaction he sank into the nearest chair and read like one under the influence of some hypnotic spell. The secretary of the Grand Duke entered the library, shuffled about noisily, coughed, and even addressed him, but the reader was unconscious of his presence. Curious as to what so enthralled the stranger the man of the ink-horn tiptoed behind him, read the title over his shoulder, and laughed aloud. Brandilancia surprised, laid down the volume and demanded the cause of this demonstration. "Pardon me, Signor," replied the secretary, "but I could not refrain, your absorption pays me a great compliment for I am the author of that book." "You, sir?" exclaimed the half incredulous reader. "I, Celio Malespini, Secretary to his Excellency, the Grand Duke, a man of letters who has tried his quill in sundry other fields, as well." "Then, Signor Malespini, accept my congratulations, for this story of the company of the Calza of Venice is one of the merriest I have ever read, and makes me eager to see their festival. Have you written other books as entertaining?" "I have as yet written no others," replied Celio, flattered and wholly won by the stranger's praise, "but since you care for my poor efforts I can lay before your worship those of other authors more worthy of your attention." From inconspicuous nooks and corners he dragged them forth and piled them before the appreciative Brandilancia, who forgot all else until a servant announced that his hostesses would receive him in the grand salon a half hour before the hour of dining. Even then he would have turned again to the fascinating volumes had not the valet's added information that the luggage of the Signor was in his room reminded him that dinner in such a house was a function and not simply an opportunity for absorbing the provender necessary to sustain life. Fortunately, Brandilancia was an accomplished actor as well as writer, and his theatrical experience had taught him to make quick changes not only of costume, but of mental points of view and characteristics, and Essex's wardrobe became him no more than the grace and manner of the gallant young nobleman which he assumed with equal ease. The transformation effected within the next hour was even deeper than this, for as his eyes met those of Marie de' Medici he knew that here, either for good or evil, was a woman destined to exert a compelling influence upon his life. It was not love, he told himself, for he was on his guard against that passion. She did not impress him as beautiful. Her eyes were overbold and searching but cold; but her bearing arrogant at first, softened as the days went by into a frank comradeship, and he discovered that she possessed a cultured and an appreciative mind. Hitherto Brandilancia had hidden a sensitive heart craving the sympathy that no woman had ever given him, under a gay and sportive exterior which made him a prince of good fellows, a man's man, and a loyal lover of his comrades, though they were far from appreciating his genius and his aims. But every serious conversation held with his young hostess confirmed him in his delusion that he had found a friend capable of understanding him. That she did not as yet wholly do so was the fault of his cursed disguise, which confused her perceptions of his real character with preconceived ideas of Essex. He longed to reveal himself to her, and did so to a greater degree than he realised. Especially was this the case upon one memorable morning when, piqued that he should spend so much time in the library, she had followed him to that retreat. She had found him absorbed in Luigi da Porto's novel _La Giulietta_, "a pitiable history that occurred at Verona in the time of Bartolommeo Scala," and she watched him slyly for some minutes amused by his preoccupation before interrupting his feast. "Ah!" she exclaimed at length in pleased surprise, "you have chanced upon my favourite of all the books in my uncle's library. How many tears have I shed for these poor lovers but chiefly because I knew no Romeo so brave and noble and handsome to tempt me to die for him, or so devoted as to die for me. That was when I was a child of ten, my lord. I have learned since that such love exists only in novels, and have ceased to cry for it." "You are very cynical, sweet lady," he replied, "and unkind to the novelists, whom I hold in worshipful esteem." "And I also esteem them. It is precisely because the life they tell of is so different from my own, in which nothing ever happens, that a book-cover is for me a magic door by whose opening I escape out of the unendurable present. Even more than the novels do I love the plays, and to see them acted is better than to read them, best of all it must be to act in one. Ah! that would indeed be like living another life." "True, dear lady," he answered eagerly, "but there is a form of diversion which to my mind is the most fascinating of all, and that is the writing of a drama, for in so doing we create a little world of our own, and control the destinies of the men and women whom we bring into being." She shrugged her shoulders. "But I care only to be the author of my own rôle." "And what," he asked, "would you choose that rôle to be?" "I would be a Princess beloved by the King of the greatest nation in the world. Beloved, mark you, not bargained for, but sought out personally by the King who should love me for myself alone, a manifestly impossible plot even for a play." "On the contrary, 't is a good one. Let us collaborate now in the planning of such a scheme. Let us suppose that for political reasons the King could not come in his proper person, but having learned to love you from report, were to seek you out incognito. Let us also imagine him so happy as to win your love. Would you be capable of the devotion which you demand of him?" "Would I wed such a King whom I had learned to love, though in disguise? Most certainly." "Ah! dear lady, you wilfully disregard the point I make. Would you wed this true lover, not knowing that he was a King? Let me put it still more strongly. Would you give yourself to the _man_ you loved knowing that he was not of royal birth?" "Ah! that is a different question; but I answer yes, for I am certain that my intuitions are so true that I could never love a man who was not in every sense a King." He smiled indulgently. "So be it, we will write such a drama and show the world how true love pierces all disguise, and knowing its own, challenges all dangers." She listened eagerly, but she attributed an interpretation which he had not intended to his perfectly simple suggestion. Placing her own personality out of the question was impossible for one so absorbed in self as this egoistic young creature. If Henry of Navarre were but like his Ambassador how easy it would be to love him! and suddenly it flashed through her mind that they were indeed one and the same. What other signification could be placed upon this supposititious drama which they were to evolve together? Intrigue ran in her blood and distorted her perceptions. Transparent frankness was incomprehensible to her, and it appealed to her romantic imagination that the King of France should come like the hero of some wonder-tale disguised as his own envoy extraordinary to see and woo his princess. Had she confided this wild idea to the experienced Malespini or to her companion, the dwarf Leonora, whose shrewd intellect was out of all proportion to her stunted body, she might easily have been disabused of her error; but with an overweening confidence in the accuracy of her own judgment she determined to weigh every sentence uttered by the man who purported to be the Earl of Essex and draw her own conclusions as to his identity. To a mind preconvinced, proofs were not wanting. Brandilancia, fancying that the little fan had fallen from the hand of Marie de' Medici by accident, naively offered to return it. Her face clouded. "Then you do not care to keep my first gift?" she pouted. "Your gift? _May_ I then keep it?" he asked delighted. "In exchange for the ring you wear," she replied, and he laid it in her hand. She examined with curiosity the device engraved upon the seal, a gauntleted hand holding a lance in rest. "Essex gave me that ring," he said thoughtlessly, for he was too excited to measure his own words. "I value it, not because I have a right to the arms it bears, but because he thought me a true knight errant eager for any enterprise of honour and gallantry." "Essex gave it. Then you are not Essex?" she asked smiling. "'T was but a slip of the tongue," he replied confusedly. "It was the King of France who presented it to me when I joined him with the English auxiliaries at the siege of Rouen. We were much in each other's company, not only in the main business of fighting, but in hawking and hunting in the neighbourhood. It was the enemy's country, and this gave zest to our escapades." He spoke rapidly but he could not distract her attention from his inadvertent admission. "Yes," she commented thoughtfully, "I have heard that you were friends and comrades in many a wild adventure. Tell me more of the King, since you of all others should know him best." [Illustration: _Neurdein_ Henri IV. receiving the portrait of Marie de Medici P. P. Rubens From the series of paintings ordered by her for the Palace of the Luxembourg] "I know, dear lady, that he loves you." "How can that be since he has never seen me?" "Love enters the heart through many strange portals, and Henry of Navarre knows you better than you suspect. Your portrait sent him by your uncle is engraved upon his heart. Love gives a mysterious power of second sight, and I doubt not that the King of France sees you at this moment even as I do, and that Marie de' Medici is for him as for me the embodiment of all womanly perfection." "The Grand Duchess is approaching," she said in a low voice, "and Henry of Navarre is a forbidden topic--talk of anything else--talk of art." The subject was apropos, for they were in the garden and Ferdinando's collection of masterpieces was all about them, but the Grand Duchess had caught his closing phrase. "Who is it," she asked drily, "who has the honour of being the embodiment of the Earl of Essex's ideal of womanly perfection?" "The Medicean Venus," Brandilancia replied unhesitatingly, with a wave of the hand which took in that famous statue and also the lady at his side. The Grand Duchess sniffed, she was silenced but not deceived, and she remained at her niece's side through the remainder of the afternoon. As several guests joined them and discussed with great connoisseurship the merits of the sculpture Brandilancia's thoughts wandered to his host. "What manner of man was this Ferdinando de' Medici who had converted his garden pleasance into a museum?" Mentally reviewing what he had heard of the Grand Duke it seemed that all that was most admirable in the race must focus in its present representative. But Marie de' Medici had let fall a disquieting remark which pointed to another side to his character. "See, your grace," she had said to Brandilancia, "here is a favourite play of mine, _Il Moro di Venezia_, a sad tragedy but it stirs one's blood to read it. Perhaps it stirs mine because it is not long since tragedies like that have been enacted in my own family. Love and jealousy and revenge are a part of our heritage, and at times I long to come into my birthright, for such existence as I now lead is not life." This half-revelation so impressed Brandilancia that he could not expel it from his mind, and when next alone with the secretary, Malespini, he begged for an explanation. "Tell me something," he begged, "of the character of the Grand Duke. I do not ask you to divulge private matters, but only such as are public property and with which I would be acquainted were I not so newly arrived in Italy." Malespini gave him a compassionate glance. "I thought that all the world knew that my master was a child of Satan," he replied coolly. "The Signorina told you truly. He caused the death of his two sisters-in-law, and was responsible for the murder of his own sister, goading her husband the Duke of Bracciano to the act. It is commonly reported also that the Signorina's father, the former Grand Duke of Tuscany, together with his wife, Bianca Capello, were poisoned by Ferdinando, though he made the act appear to be that of the murdered Duchess." "And what," asked the horrified Brandilancia, "was the motive of this crime?" "Is it not apparent? Ferdinando de Medici, then a cardinal, had just failed in his candidacy for the pontificate (outwitted by that fox Montalto). If he could not be pope it suited him as well to be Grand Duke of Tuscany." "If this is true is the Signorina safe in his power?" "So long as their interests are the same, Signor. And you who are the friend of Henry of Navarre should know that the Grand Duke is anxious to place his niece upon the throne of France. Should she set her will against her uncle's ambition he would scruple at no perfidity or crime. You wonder why I, who am in his service, should tell you this. It is because I am strangely drawn to you. From the moment I saw that you appreciated what I had written, that we spoke the same language, strove after the same ideals, I was yours heart and soul. They talk of love at first sight, a foolish matter between man and woman, but when two men recognise that they are congenial spirits it is the most natural and inevitable thing in all the world. And so I tell you again, be on your guard for your personal safety. If, however unjustly, any distrust of you should be awakened in the mind of the Grand Duke, if he imagined that the Signorina had learned to care for you, then your life, and hers as well, would not be worth one soldo." This conversation occasioned the guest of the villa serious thought. It obtruded itself in the very tales of intrigue, passion, and murder which he read to drive it from his mind, those fascinating novelli with their records of bloody hereditary vendettas, of innocent or guilty lovers alike done to death by indiscriminating cruelty. "Truly," he thought, "in Italy a woman's kiss and that of a poniard go often in such close company that the sweet woman's mouth which lets love in almost touches the red mouth of the wound which lets life out." Though not so definitely explained, he had felt the presence of danger before; but so long as it threatened himself alone it added a spice of excitement to the adventure; now, however, that he realised what grave consequences the least indiscretion on his part might bring upon Marie de' Medici herself, he determined to be doubly circumspect. With this intention he held himself aloof from the superb mundane life of the villa, and, retiring to the library, occupied himself in translating and rearranging old plays. But all day as he wrote, though half unconsciously, his thoughts were with his fair hostess, and always at the hour of the siesta of the Grand Duchess Marie de' Medici was with him in person. It was on the second morning of his seclusion that she had tapped at the door and offered her aid in his work; thus converting the very means by which he sought to avoid her into a stratagem for the uninterrupted enjoyment of her society. Had Brandilancia been more sophisticated, it might have struck him as exceptional that a princess who been brought up in the strictest conventionality should have granted the privilege of such intimate association even to so exalted a personage as the Earl of Essex. He believed her confidence due to girlish innocence, and was more than ever determined to protect her from himself. Leonora was always on guard in the ante-room, and joined them whenever she heard the sound of approaching footsteps. It surprised this world-wise little sentinel that on none of these occasions had the young man appeared to have taken any advantage of his opportunity, and she was irritated by the amused condescension with which he treated her. He could never realise that this grotesque and tiny creature was not an uncanny child, and he had nicknamed her good-humouredly The Owlet, on account of her large round eyes. "I had not thought the Earl of Essex so blind," she said to him one day when they chanced to be alone. "My eyes are not fashioned to see in the dark like yours, Owlet," he replied. "Tell me what it is you see." "Many things, but the plainest of all to me is that whoever you may be you are not the Earl of Essex." He was off his guard, and his expression confirmed her suspicions. She laughed maliciously, and her face, always sly and old beyond her years, was absolutely repulsive now as it reflected her gloating sense of her advantage. "Put your mind at rest, my lord," she said, mockingly. "Your secret is safe in my keeping. I do not know your aims, but if you will take me into your confidence you are sure of success. I am only dangerous when I am angered. Why should you not succeed? The Signorina is completely infatuated with you. If we make her believe that you have assumed the character of the Earl of Essex from love of her she will readily forgive you that deceit. Together we can accomplish anything and everything, for you have a winning way with women, and I have brains--yes, more than you give me credit for--and this doll-faced girl shall make our fortunes. When we have sucked the coffers of the Medici dry, take me with you to your own country, and I will be your faithful accomplice there also, for, misshapen and hideous as I am, I love you, my beautiful adventurer; yes, with a devotion of which my mistress is not capable, for she is vain and shallow and selfish. Oh, why did God give her the form of an angel and put my soul in the body of a demon?" Brandilancia, up to this point speechless with astonishment, had not been able to interrupt her, and the dwarf had climbed to the table, where, perched at his elbow, she had poured her confidences into his ear; but as she drew his face to hers with her small claw-like hands he forgot all considerations of policy in an unconquerable repulsion, and wrenched himself rudely from her. "Imp!" he exclaimed, "your soul matches your body. You are hideous through and through." The look which she gave him was full of malignity. "You shall live to learn that the good-will of a devil is better than her ill-will," she said, as she slipped from the table and left the room. Brandilancia's uneasy compunction which immediately followed his hasty exclamation was soon effaced by the dwarf's apparent forgiveness. "We were both indiscreet," she said to him the following day; "let us forget and be friends." But Leonora would not forget, and the young man had lost his opportunity of making her his friend. She immediately carried her doubts to her mistress. "The man is not the Earl of Essex," she asserted. "He is some base impostor, I know not whom, but I will make him declare himself ere long." Marie de' Medici was silent, but her thoughts were voluble. Since it had pleased her royal lover to come incognito she would betray him to no one nor even allow him to suspect that she had penetrated his disguise, but would flatter the King by feigning that she loved him for himself alone, and would exert every endeavour to make him sincerely her lover. In spite of the injunction of the Grand Duchess, they often spoke of Henry of Navarre, and Brandilancia in the desire to forward the mission upon which he had been sent, told of Henry's unhappy wedded life, expressing with great frankness his own detestation of the craft and cruelty of Catherine de' Medici and the levity of her daughter Marguerite of Valois. "You forget," Marie de' Medici had replied, "that they are my kinswomen." "I forget many things in your presence which I should remember," he had replied. "Sometimes even that I, too, am a married man and, knowing you as I do, I can not blame the King of France that he is seeking, through divorce, freedom from a marriage into which he was half tricked, half forced, and that he is willing to risk salvation for the hope of your love." That answer pleased her well. She had no doubt now that he loved her, and did not hesitate to assure him in many covert ways that the feeling was reciprocated. Brandilancia would have been blind indeed not to have recognised her admiration, but he believed it merely appreciation of his genius, whereas her mind was too limited to comprehend it. She was in love with the possibility of being a queen upon such easy terms, delighted to find that the necessary husband was no uncouth tyrant but a man of winsome personality whose delicate assiduities were ever present and yet never over passed the restraints of deference. It would have been difficult for two persons to have more utterly misunderstood each other. Brandilancia had reached the full maturity of his mental powers. His genius had created many charming women, but the ideal for which his lonely heart yearned had only gradually taken shape in his mind, and the heroine which he now gave to literature marked an epoch in his career. He had found the plot of his drama sketched in part in one of the novelli of Ser Giovanni; but the conception of an aristocratic yet gracious lady gifted with all perfection, with which he replaced the siren of Belmont, was not, as he supposed, a portrait from life of Marie de' Medici. The character sprang directly from his own intense longing, and by some unreasoning reflex action, his mind endowed the woman who happened to be near him with qualities which he created and which she unhappily did not possess. The idol which he worshipped was absolutely the work of his own hands, for it was not until his imagination had cheated his eyes, and he had begun to look at Marie de' Medici through its flattering lenses that he thought her beautiful. And yet at the age of twenty she possessed very real attractions: a southern blond, not milky-veined, like the pale maidens of the north, but with all the gold of the hot sunshine in her hair, and the rich blood glowing through her fair skin like flame in an alabaster lamp. Superbly modelled, but lithe and tall, she carried regally the sumptuous opulence with which nature had endowed her, and the soft curve of her shoulders, throat, and bosom had not as yet blossomed into the plethora which Rubens depicted with so gloating a brush. Nor was she precisely the same as when Brandilancia had looked upon these charms unmoved. All arrogance and self-confidence were gone or lay buried under the most appealing of coquetry, a shy tenderness apparently born of irresistible impulse showing itself in little wilful sallies, a glance or touch, seemingly instantly regretted, and followed by alternations of reticence. He admitted her bewitching but had no idea that he was himself bewitched. His was a literary passion. He was a student of life as well as of books, and he had never before had the opportunity of studying such glorious examples of both at close range. He completed his portrait of his ideal heroine Portia, the noblest that he ever depicted, and found to his surprise that quite another type of woman was forming itself in his mind. Powerful outside influences mingled their impressions with the long-stifled hunger in his heart. He was not in love with his hostess, but he was starving for love, and each book that he read, every object of art that he looked upon, and nature itself was steeped with the charm and passion of Italy. If he tossed aside Boccaccio and his too suggestive _confrères_ to seek refreshment in the garden it was only to find himself face to face with the famous statue of the most seductive of all women, she who made Cæsar her slave and Antony her "floor-cloth." She obtruded herself upon him everywhere, for his very bed was hanged With tapestry of silk and silver, the story Proud Cleopatra when she met her Roman. He had read with Marie de' Medici the history of the Egyptian Queen, and had brooded over it until against his will something of the fascination of the "Serpent of Old Nile" invested his comrade, and the name of Antony ever after called up in her memory also the inspired face of her fellow-student in the dangerous science of love. Realising vaguely the influence which like some mephitic perfume, an opiate of the soul, emanated from the purely literary reconstruction of such a character, he laid it aside for the heart-breaking story of Giulietta, whose very innocence moved him still more profoundly. It was midsummer, the quivering July heat brought out the pungent scent of the freshly clipped box-hedges, and set the mad flood stirring as in the brief action of the play. During the day the white glare drove the guests of the garden festivals into the shadiest recesses of the cypress labyrinths. The flowers themselves seemed to have vanished from the parterres, or, like the Cereus, bloomed only at night, plainly visible under the luminous sky, when the nightingales vied with the viols of the serenaders. On such a night as this Brandilancia, who had been reading late, closed his book and, after the departure of the last reveller, stepped upon the terrace to cool his brain heated by inspiration. A kindred restlessness brought Marie de' Medici to her balcony and he recklessly sprang upon a marble bench which almost enabled him to touch her hand. "Listen, dearest lady," he said, "it is your favourite story, which I have re-written with my own heart's blood." Enthralled, though only half comprehending, Marie de' Medici listened as he poured forth in impassioned improvisation lines which from that day to this no one who has ever loved has heard untouched. The actor's training gave to the burning words of the poet artistic expression worthy of the most finished theatrical production, and as such they lacked not their due appreciation and applause though from a most undesired audience. A low chuckling and a clapping of hands greeted the close of the recital, and the two successful impersonators of Romeo and Juliet saw to their confusion that the scene had been witnessed by a burly man-at-arms, who now stalked from the shadow of a group of cypresses. "Bravo!" he cried, "da Groto himself did not act that play so well, when I saw him years since in the Farnese theatre at Parma. But you have taken liberties with the lines and, per Bacco! have improved them. Whoever you may be you are too good an actor for such paltry assistance." "And I know no one better qualified to pronounce upon a play than Captain Radicofani," replied Marie de' Medici, reappearing from the interior of her chamber whither she had retreated on the appearance of the intruder. "It is odd that you should have chanced so opportunely upon us as we were rehearsing our little comedy. My lord of Essex, permit me to present Captain Tuzio Radicofani, as brave a soldier as ever wielded sword, and one loyally attached to my uncle's service. What news do you bring from the Grand Duke, Captain? Will he soon return to us?" "The Earl of Essex?" the other repeated in surprise disregarding for the moment Marie de' Medici's questions. "It is rare indeed to find one of Fortune's favourites so variously talented. His Excellency the Grand Duke, though he enumerated both your physical and mental accomplishments with great particularity spoke not of play-acting." Brandilancia did not relish the shrewd look in the half-closed eyes, nor did he fancy the bullet-shaped close-cropped head with its overweight of occiput and bull-dog jaw, but he replied courteously, "such trifling diversion on the part of an idle man is surely less remarkable than its appreciation by one of action like yourself." "The Grand Duke would also have been surprised," the soldier continued, "could he have assisted at this little scene. Your highness does himself discredit in referring to the performance as trifling, for, by the Blood, I never saw so accomplished an actor. The Signorina's talent likewise astonished me, though it was confined to mere pantomime, one might have thought it the languishing of a love-sick girl. By your favour, Signorina, there are indeed certain letters in my saddle-bags which my groom has in charge, but the varlet has gone to his supper in the servants' hall. I, too, am hungry and will seek the steward. The letters, with your Highness's permission, shall be presented on the morrow, which indeed is almost here." They entered the villa together in apparent friendliness, but it was with a sense of impending evil that Brandilancia retired to his room. Was it simply that the man had interrupted them at a moment when in spite of Marie de' Medici's tactful greeting no audience was desired, or was there something sinister in his coming? The more Brandilancia reflected the less he liked the familiarity which amounted to an assumption of authority. Radicofani's voice had not rung true. "The fellow suspects me. Nay, he knows that I am not the Earl of Essex," groaned the young man, as he tossed upon his bed; "and if his creature knows, then the Grand Duke knows also, and who can guess on what errand this villain comes? He pretended to believe that we were rehearsing a comedy, but he doubtless places the worst possible construction upon the scene which he has just witnessed. Was it a comedy, or am I in earnest? Ah! I have deliberately fallen into the trap against which Malespini warned me. I have lingered too long in this fool's paradise. Love and its penalty have stricken me in the same instant. Thank Heaven! no thought of this madness of mine can have entered the pure mind of my lady. Until this night I have breathed no word that could have betrayed it, and even now she doubtless thinks my ravings those of a poet. I will leave the villa to-morrow, lest my further presence here should bring trouble upon her." Even as he formed the resolution a slight sound caught his ear, the cautious opening and closing of the door which led from the ante-chamber of his bedroom into the outer hall, the only means of communication between his own room and other parts of the villa. A light shone between the folds of the portière, and there were sounds of some one moving about softly in the ante-room. Springing from his bed, Brandilancia seized his sword. "Who is there?" he demanded. "'T is I, Radicofani," and the tapestries parted, disclosing the form of the Captain, towering beyond a camp-bed which had been spread across the doorway. "I should have informed your worship," he apologised smugly, "that I sleep here to-night. Put up your sword, and rest assured that no one shall pass this room without my license." "And could they give you no better lodging than that?" asked Brandilancia. "Room in plenty," the Captain replied, "but it is on the Grand Duke's orders that I act as your body-guard, and I enter upon my duties at once, for I am responsible for your safety." The prisoner inquired no further, but letting fall the portière, threw himself upon his bed confounded. His resolution to leave the villa had been made too late. But the morning brought a fresh access of hope, as Brandilancia noticed between the widely-drawn curtains that the obstructing truckle-bed had been set against the wall and that his guard had left his post. The dwarf Leonora, who was the only occupant of the dining hall when he descended, stole to his side and bade him await the Signorina in the belvedere in the upper garden. Here Marie de' Medici presently joined him. "My lord," she said, between her quick panting, for she was out of breath with running, "I shame to tell you, but you must leave us at once, indeed you should have done so long since." "It is what I had upon my mind to say to you, sweet lady," he replied. "I have an appointment to meet at Venice ten days hence, and must leave my papers for the Grand Duke and proceed upon my journey, much as it irks me to tear myself from your company." "Then you know not that my uncle has sent Radicofani to take you to Florence?" "The Grand Duke does me honour, and under other circumstances I would gladly accept his further hospitality; but his Highness will understand that Robert Devreux is not free to follow his own inclinations." "No, you are not free," she answered hastily. "Read this letter which Radicofani gave to my aunt this morning and which I purloined from her writing-cabinet. Nay, hesitate not but read, for it concerns you vitally." At her command he read: "_To the Grand Duchess Christina de' Medici._ "MOST HONOURED AND DEAR SPOUSE: "Your letter informing me of the arrival at the villa of a person purporting to be the Earl of Essex has occasioned me great concern inasmuch as the fellow is undoubtedly an impostor. "His Eminence, Don Jerome Osorio, Bishop of Algarve, who arrived in this city some five days since, asserts positively that on the date upon which this rascal presented himself at the Villa Medici the Earl of Essex personally conducted the sack of the town of Faro in southern Portugal, and, having feloniously carried the bishop's library on board the English flag-ship, he forth-with set sail for the open ocean, evidently upon his return voyage for England. "Imagine, therefore, my anxiety on learning that you have given harbourage to some rascal, who having by base practises learned that the Earl had an errand with me, now usurps his name and credit. I send this letter by my trusty servitor, Radicofani, whom I have charged to bring the villain with all speed to me that I may examine him by the question and learn his motives in assuming this disguise. If he has brought with him any papers (some of which he may easily have stolen from the Earl of Essex) see to it that Radicofani obtains possession of them before the rascal's suspicions are aroused. I tremble when I think how he may have practised upon your unsuspicious nature, and what villainies he may already have accomplished, or rather I would thus tremble did I not know that you inherit the resolution of the race of Lorraine, which, even when a mistake has been committed, knows how to wring success from disaster. Confiding thus in your courage and your woman's wit, I remain, "Your loving husband, "FERDINANDO. "P.S. For the better furtherance of my desires confide my suspicions to no one not even to my niece, but take leave of this caitiff with all ceremony as though he were indeed him whom he represents." Brandilancia paled slightly, but not at the danger in which he stood. "The Grand Duke is correct in his suspicions," he said, "I have lied to you, I am not the Earl of Essex." She smiled enigmatically. "You have known it all along?" he exclaimed. "Then I am a poorer actor than I thought." "Nay, you acted your part well, but early in our acquaintance I knew you for a nobler man than the Earl of Essex. I have no guess as to the station to which you may have been born, but you are fitted to play a knightly part, on a far different stage from this, my King among men." "And when I have won my crown," he replied, "the world shall know that it was your faith in me which nerved me to the effort, for I shall lay it at your feet, my Queen, the only woman who has ever really understood or cared for me." His arms were about her and she was sobbing in the excitement of her triumph. "Yes, yes," she cried, "you will come again, but now you must fly. What am I that I should hold you thus when you stand in danger of your life?" "Have no fear for me dear lady," he replied. "The Grand Duke is fair-minded, and will not fail to credit my assertions when I explain why I undertook this adventure." "My uncle believes nothing without absolute proof. Such chivalrous motives as yours would seem to him incredible. If you fail to convince him of your identity he will execute you as a common rogue. If you prove it he will use every inch of his advantage ere you escape his clutches. You must fly, but how? On learning an hour since, that Radicofani had descended to the city, I ordered our horses for a ride only to learn that he had left strict orders at the stables and at the gates of the villa that you were not to be allowed to leave the grounds. My friend, you are a close prisoner. Think fast. What can you do?" "Nothing, dear lady, but trust that since I have committed no crime I shall not receive the treatment of a criminal." "What loss of time is this?" exclaimed Leonora as she suddenly made her appearance from behind the hedge. "Here I have stood on guard for half an hour by the sun-dial and you have wasted it in idle chatter. I tell you, Signor, my mistress is right, you are as good as a dead man if you trust to the Grand Duke; but take the advice of the Owlet and we will foil him nicely." For an instant a suspicion flashed across his mind that her apparent friendliness was untrustworthy. It was she, he suspected, who had ushered Radicofani into the garden on the previous evening, or at least had failed to give warning of his approach. But he dismissed these thoughts as unworthy. "What expedient do you suggest Leonora?" he asked. "Do you not recognise that contadina," the dwarf replied, "the one standing between the fountain and the parapet yonder? She is a friend of yours and will help me save you." "A friend of mine!" Brandilancia repeated wonderingly. Leonora laughed maliciously. "Have you forgotten possessing yourself of a little fan which my mistress dropped, quite by accident, from a window on the day of your arrival, and that you were assisted in finding it by the laundress of the villa? The artful jade has a better memory. She does not fail to remind me of the incident and to inquire for you whenever she calls for the linen. I have been obliged to stop her mouth with more than one coin to keep her from blabbing to the Grand Duchess. However that incident proves to have been all for the best. Her cart is at the kitchen door, she is waiting there at my orders. Summon her to your room, purchase and don the costume which she now wears. With her kerchief shading your face no one will recognise you, and you will drive away in triumph throned upon her hampers, until well beyond the city when you can turn the donkey loose and catch the Venetian post." [Illustration: View from the Garden of the Villa Medici] His laugh rang out boyishly. "The adventure of Bucciolo, which I read to the Signorina, from the tales of Ser Giovanni suggested that expedient," he said. "It were a good motive for a roaring farce, but I must consider the dignity of the name I bear." "Nay speak it not," entreated Marie de' Medici in a whisper, throwing her arms about his neck. "I heard a step upon the gravel." He regarded her wonderingly, "Let who will hear," he persisted. "It shall never be said that the Earl of Essex slunk from danger in a wench's petticoats." "Well spoken, I like you the better for that," laughed a loud voice, and Captain Radicofani parting the shrubbery suddenly appeared, interrupting, for the second time, their confidences. "How unsuspectingly you children fell into my trap," he sneered. "I knew that the Signorina would warn you. You were acting a tableau I presume just now as you held her in your embrace. A pretty scene, i' faith, but one of which the Grand Duke will not be amused to hear. I had hoped to learn still more of the libretto of this little play, but you know more of mine. We will make no further pretence, and lest I lose you by further shilly-shallying, we will start upon our journey at once. "Until we are well upon our way, Signorina, may I beg you, and Leonora also, to remain in your own suite of apartments and to attempt to hold no communication with this gentleman?" Marie de' Medici bowed haughtily. "I shall employ the time in writing my uncle how unwarrantably Captain Radicofani exceeds his orders," she replied as she swept angrily from the belvedere. Seeing that the indignation of her mistress merely amused the condottiere the dwarf took a cajoling tone. "At least your highness will remain to luncheon," she said insinuatingly. "That invitation I am powerless to refuse," replied the Captain, "but you may order it served in this gentleman's chamber, whither I will now conduct him." With a disconcerting chuckle Radicofani suited his action to the word, and busied himself with preparations for the journey, taking care, however, as he strode from ante-room to bed-chamber to keep his prisoner constantly in sight. The latter's hope of escape had reached a low ebb when Malespini knocked timidly. He had brought certain papers which the Signor had left in the library. Captain Radicofani received the secretary distrustfully and bestowed the papers among his own effects. "I will look them over," he commented, "and if innocent pass them on to our friend before we arrive in Florence." Malespini retreated deferentially, but, once outside the door he executed a silent war-dance as an outlet for his rage. In its eccentric evolutions he hurtled against a servant bringing the luncheon, and fully half of the viands poured like an avalanche down the stairs. While the man strove to gather up the broken crockery the secretary snatched the tray and with ill-concealed triumph re-entered the apartment. "Is this all you have brought?" grumbled the disappointed Captain. "Truly," replied the wily Malespini, "this light collation was intended solely for his highness the Earl of Essex, who I hear must keep his room. For your lordship dinner awaits in the banquet-room, where the Grand Duchess has ordered a boar's-head, stuffed with sage and onions, together with a pasty of pheasants, and where she will serve you with her own hands a stirrup-cup of the Grand Duke's oldest vintage." Captain Radicofani sprang up with alacrity, but noticing that Malespini was edging nearer to his friend, ordered the secretary gruffly to pass out before him. "Behind the bed," said Malespini in a low voice to the prisoner, as he lighted one of the tapers in the mantel candelabra, "and take all of these candles, _all_ or you are lost." "Idiot," shouted the Captain; "it is not yet noon. What need of lights? Play me no tricks, but leave the room." Springing from his chair as soon as the door had closed behind Radicofani, Brandilancia examined the huge state-bedstead, and with a little exertion trundled it forward. Behind its tapestry hangings a secret door, suspected only by a crack in the wainscotting, opened beneath his prying fingers, and revealed a spiral staircase leading downward into pitchy darkness. Comprehending Malespini's admonition, he hastily appropriated the candles, and, drawing the bedstead into its place behind him, descended the dizzily circling steps. Eighty-seven he counted, twisting round and round within the turret, and then he paused, for he distinctly heard the sound of rushing water. The air had become moist as well as cool, and the steps were green and slippery with moss. Advancing with more caution, he presently found himself in a vaulted passage a little higher than his head, where a narrow pathway followed a conduit of dark water, which reflected the flame of his candle in a thousand glancing sparkles. II IN WHICH IT IS DEMONSTRATED THAT IT IS SOMETIMES EASIER TO SET OUT UPON A QUEST THAN TO RETURN THEREFROM It was the Aqua Virgo, the old subterranean aqueduct built by the Emperor Claudius, that pierced the hill beneath the Villa Medici, in which Brandilancia now found himself. If he turned to the left he knew he would soon find egress through the doorway to which the chance fluttering of Marie de' Medici's fan had led him. But this would be to appear upon the streets of Rome in open day, and to run the risk of seizure by Radicofani's guards. Moreover, Malespini's advice to provide himself with so many candles was significant, and Brandilancia unhesitatingly chose the longer way, not doubting that it would finally lead him into the open country. The stream at his side was of considerable volume and flowed with great swiftness, while the shelf upon which he was advancing was hardly more than ten inches broad. Both it and the wall were slimy with dampness, giving no secure hold to hand or foot. The pathway mounted steadily, and apparently pursued a straight course, but no opening showed itself in the distance, and the light of his taper penetrated but a little way into the blackness. As he glanced backward his shadow loomed in a gigantic and almost unrecognisable form, following him waveringly like a malevolent spirit. His footsteps woke hollow reverberations; the water gurgled and sobbed, and an odor suggestive of the tomb added to the impression that he was wandering in some unexplored catacomb. He could proceed but slowly, and the low temperature chilled him to the bone, but he pushed on resolutely as it seemed to him for interminable hours. "I shall go mad," he thought, "if there is no change in this deadly monotony," and at that instant the vault echoed with the beat of hurrying footsteps. Brandilancia could see the distant flare of torches, and he knew that his candle was as plainly visible to his pursuers. He dared not extinguish it, but quickened his pace to a run, slipping, almost falling into the water as he dashed recklessly forward. Suddenly, but not an instant too soon, he halted before a void. The pathway had disappeared; another step and he would have plunged into a reservoir of unknown depth which yawned without a barrier before him. As he lifted his candle and peered across the wide expanse he saw that the tunnel was closed directly opposite him by a wall of solid masonry, and in his dismay almost a minute elapsed before he discovered to the left an open archway which indicated that the tunnel here turned at an angle. But how should he cross to this doorway? The coping which separated the cistern from the canal in the centre of the tunnel was too narrow and the water poured over it noisily. He was about to attempt swimming when he noticed that he was standing upon a plank, evidently placed here to be used as a bridge. He retreated a few steps and pushed it cautiously forward. It reached across the cistern and rested upon the sill of the arched doorway. In the brief interval thus consumed the footsteps had gained upon him and in the light of the approaching torches he plainly recognised Radicofani, who shouted to him to surrender. Thus beset he ventured the crossing, but the plank was rotten and broke under his weight, falling with him into the reservoir. He struck out in the direction in which he imagined the archway to be, by good fortune found it by feeling along the wall, and clambered upon the ledge which ran along the side of the conduit as in the first tunnel. He had suffered no other harm than the thorough wetting and the loss of his candles, and the torches of his pursuers, who had now reached the opposite side of the cistern, showed that the tunnel was slightly wider than its opening, and that by hugging the wall he was not visible to Radicofani. The latter had heard the splash and regarded the water dubiously. "Have you gone to the bottom?" he shouted, but Brandilancia was wisely silent. "If not," cried the Captain, "and you are hiding yonder within hearing, let me tell you that you will die like a rat in a sewer unless you give yourself up at the entrance to that tunnel, where you will find me waiting for you." Drenched to the skin Brandilancia's teeth chattered with the physical cold, and fear numbed his heart. "What if Radicofani spoke the truth?" But to carry out his threat the Captain must retrace his steps and ride to the spot where the aqueduct entered the hill. How far he had proceeded Brandilancia could not guess, possibly half or three-fourths of the way. If so there was hope of reaching the opening before Radicofani, and he hurried on with what speed he could consistent with groping his way with hands and feet in the total darkness. The exertion stirred his blood but the tunnel seemed to have no end. His hands were worn and bleeding with clinging to the rough wall, and a great lassitude was stealing over him when he caught a faint glimmer of light like that of a star, not the lurid glow of a candle or torch but the blessed white light of day. It was the longed-for opening, though still far away. He thought that he had out-distanced Radicofani and stumbled on, exultation giving him new strength when a sudden eclipse of this star of hope made him crouch motionless, grovelling close to the earth. A man's head and shoulders were silhouetted blackly against the brightness. The man peered cautiously into the tunnel, and listened; but neither hearing nor seeing anything, presently withdrew. Was it Radicofani? Were workmen preparing to wall up the exit? Ought he to make a sudden rush for life and liberty? Every instinct prompted him to this resolution, and he crawled cautiously forward to within a few feet of the opening. Again the man appeared, with a sudden bound Brandilancia was upon him and both rolled in a life-and-death struggle upon the ground. So dazed was he by the glare of the full light of day, so nearly crazed with desperation that he did not recognise the voice that implored him to cease his blows, or realise that his supposed antagonist was the friendly Malespini, who, on the instant that Radicofani had discovered and descended the secret staircase, had slipped his guards and ridden to Brandilancia's succour on the swiftest horse obtainable in Rome. Hastily exchanging his own mire-besmirched garments for the secretary's unobtrusive suit, Brandilancia, with many apologies for his onslaught, listened to Malespini's explanations of a circuitous route by which he could avoid Radicofani, ride to Orte, and, leaving the horse at the inn stables, take the diligence on the following day for Venice. Malespini's suggestions, acceptable in themselves, were gratifyingly supplemented by a tender letter from Marie de' Medici and a purse well filled with gold. "Of the money I have fortunately no need," Brandilancia replied, "but the care of your mistress for my safety and your own pains in my behalf command my eternal gratitude. You shall both hear from me from Venice, and so farewell." Malespini's scheme seemed at first likely to be crowned with success, and having secured his seat in the Venetian post, Brandilancia naturally imagined his troubles at an end; but shortly after leaving Orte, where the road turns to the eastward for its climb over the Apennines, the lumbering vehicle came to a sudden halt. Shouts and oaths without, the shrieks of a woman at his side, and the opening of the door by a masked man, formidably armed, sufficiently explained the situation. The passengers on dismounting were relieved of their purses by the bandits, but, with the exception of Brandilancia, were allowed to proceed upon their journey. No explanation was offered for this discrimination, but there was something familiar in the figure of the leader, who, after pointing out Brandilancia, had ridden rapidly on in advance of his men, and the captive wondered at the excellent accoutrements of the band and the good quality of the horse which he was compelled to mount. They struck at once into a wild mountain gorge, avoiding villages and farms, and when at noon the brigands halted for refreshments in a little wood, and removed their masks, Brandilancia recognised no familiar faces. Remounting, the brigands pursued their way up a steep bridle path, their destination a strong castle, perched high on a spur of the mountain. The prisoner's heart sank as he noted its isolation and strength, for here a captive might remain for years and finally die undiscovered. But Brandilancia had not reckoned on the cupidity of his host. His capture had been planned not by hatred, but in the hope of ransom, as was explained to him by the brigand chief, into whose presence he was led upon his arrival at the stronghold. The man still wore his mask, but at the first word which he uttered Brandilancia to his astonishment recognised the condottiere Radicofani. Accosted by name, the Captain removed his mask, and coolly confronted his prisoner. "It is as well," he said, "that you should understand the situation. Your flight and apparent escape remove my accountability to the Grand Duke for your person. I should not have troubled myself further about you, were it not that upon my empty-handed return to the villa the Signorina Marie de' Medici very indiscreetly taunted me with having allowed a far more important personage than the Earl of Essex to slip unrecognised through my fingers. Just who you are she did not see fit to divulge; but I gathered that you are of sufficient consequence for your friends to be willing to pay handsomely for your release. You may therefore write to them, and I will see that your letters reach their destination on condition that you advise the fulfilment of my demands." "The Signorina has unwittingly misled you," Brandilancia replied. "The Grand Duke was right in his belief that the Earl of Essex had sailed for England, but though I am his accredited representative, as I hope to prove to your master if you will convey me to him, I am a man of no wealth and one whom the world will not miss." "Tush! my fine fellow; it is useless to attempt to deceive me, and it is against your own interest; for you can make better terms with me than with the Grand Duke, who is by far a greater brigand than your present host." Thus admonished Brandilancia resigned himself to the inevitable, and wrote two letters; the first to the Earl of Essex, expressing his regret that he had not been able to personally present to Ferdinando de' Medici the papers entrusted to him instead of sending them by the hand of Radicofani. While reporting his captive condition, he begged his friend to be at no expense or trouble for his redemption, beyond an explanation to the Grand Duke that he had undertaken the mission upon proper authority and should be allowed to return. Having dashed off this missive at fever heat Brandilancia paused, pen in hand, moodily regarding the blank sheet before him until gruffly reminded by Radicofani that he must either write or give over the attempt. He started at the command, for in imagination he had been far away in a thatch-roofed cottage behind hawthorne hedges, where Anne, faithful Anne, had so often welcomed her wild lover. Their wills had clashed after their marriage. She had objected unreasonably when his career led him to London, had been sceptical as to his success, and even, so it seemed to him, as to his genius. There had been angry reproaches and bitter recriminations, but at heart he had never doubted her affection and had always intended to convince her of his own when he could also prove that in following the call of his talent he had acted for her best interest. His stay at the Villa Medici and its very hostess seemed to him now a hallucination whose passing left no trace upon his sober senses, but could Anne understand this? If she believed him erring was the high-spirited wife capable of forgiveness? He saw himself condemned and shame-stricken before the tribunal of her unswerving rectitude but none the less he ventured his plea in lines that had been forming themselves, as always when he was under the stress of emotion, with the clarity and perfection of a crystal born from the drip and ooze of some dark cavern. It is of all his sonnets the one which rings most true, ending with its appeal for reconciliation after long estrangement. "Your heart My home of love; if I have ranged, Like him that travels, I return again!" He was not certain that he would be permitted to rejoin her, but he would not sadden Anne by his foreboding. His heart had returned to its allegiance; this was the important thing, and this she should know. "I leave you now," said Radicofani as Brandilancia handed him the letters, "for I must make speed to wait upon the Grand Duke at Florence. Regard yourself as my guest rather than as a prisoner. I leave only a few old servants charged to make you as comfortable as the ruinous condition of this old castle of my ancestors will permit. The length of your stay is conditioned only upon the promptitude of your friends in complying with my conditions. I see that your letters are written in English. No matter, I have no desire to pry into your private affairs and shall send them by the earliest opportunity." Brandilancia bowed ceremoniously, but sank exhausted into his chair. He was shivering in a violent chill, the first stages of Roman fever, brought on by his experiences in the subterranean aqueduct. For weeks he tossed upon his pallet alternately freezing and burning, much of the time delirious--now wandering with Anne through English meadows with "daisies pied" and "babbling of green fields"--and anon scorching the wings of his soul in the flame of Italian beauty and passion. With the passing of the fever he eagerly demanded an interview with Radicofani but was informed that the Captain was still at Florence. He had written that no response of any kind had been received from either of the letters sent to England, though ample time had elapsed for their arrival. Brandilancia was not, however, to be set at liberty on this account, and days lengthened to weeks and weeks to months and he was still a prisoner. The lofty situation of the castle far above the malaria of the valleys, swept by every wind of heaven, had completed his cure, and as he paced the sightly platform he found himself hungering for liberty and action. In this reflux of returning health and energy, on one exhilarating morning in early spring, when all nature seemed calling to him to escape, Brandilancia hailed with gratitude the arrival of the secretary Malespini bringing the almost despaired of tidings that his prison doors were open and he was at last free to depart. "The Grand Duke has commanded this," Brandilancia asked, "through the intervention of my faithful friend the Earl of Essex?" "Not so," Malespini responded drily. "You may thank friends nearer at hand, for the Grand Duke knows as little of your existence as your English friends apparently care for it." "Then it is the Signorina who has effected my deliverance?" Malespini shook his head. "The Signorina believes, as we all did until recently, that you made your escape to your own country. She is entirely absorbed at present with her approaching marriage, for your embassy was successful. Your papers, which Radicofani carried to the Grand Duke, initiated negotiations that have been carried to a successful termination. The Duke of Nevers, who is a Gonzaga, and a cousin of the Marquis of Mantua has come to Italy, as proxy of the French king, to betroth the Signorina." "May she have all happiness," Brandilancia exclaimed fervently, "but to whom then do I owe my release?" "Partly to the friend now before you, but in great measure also to one whom you will hardly guess, that little package of ruse and malice Leonora Dosi." "Not the Owlet!" "My friend you might have rotted in this mountain dungeon but for her cleverness, and Radicofani's stupidity. The Grand Duke sent him a fortnight since to escort us all from the Villa Medici to Mantua, where the Marchioness Eleonora de' Medici Gonzaga is preparing a brilliant fête in honour of her sister's approaching marriage. On the way Radicofani, who is loquacious in his cups, bragged to Leonora of how neatly he had captured you. The Owlet took counsel with me, and together we so intimidated the Captain with threats to report him to the Grand Duke, convincing him at the same time of your utter insignificance (for Leonora declares that you confessed to her mistress in her presence that you were not the Earl of Essex), that he consented to your release. "By good luck I am commissioned to present a comedy in the palace and am now supposed to be travelling in search of artists to assist in the performance. You shall return with me in that capacity. Though the Signorina knows not as yet of your presence in Italy she will be rejoiced to see you again and will speed you on your homeward journey,--for Mantua is on your way to Venice whence you told me you would take ship." "I would be overjoyed to carry out your plan, my good friend," replied Brandilancia, "but shall I be safe? I have found such difficulty in tearing myself away from the hospitalities of Italy that I am wary of accepting further entertainment." "I wonder not at your reluctance, but with the Gonzagas at Mantua you will be beyond the power of the Grand Duke of Tuscany, who though he is indeed expected to attend the festivities, will never suspect that you played another rôle at his Roman villa. The play is to be acted in part by noble amateurs, and the Signorina herself will take the principal part. It is the comedy which you dramatised from Ser Giovanni's story of the heiress of Belmont, for nothing else would suit the Signorina. You shall impersonate the successful lover. There have been many aspirants for that rôle but I have held it for you. Can you resist my lord?" "No, Malespini, I cannot resist, for I am indeed what you would have me seem, a simple player. I will go with you since you need my service, and will bid your mistress and the Owlet also a grateful farewell." Thus, though he had thought never again to see the woman who had so powerfully influenced his imagination and because he honestly believed her influence at an end, Brandilancia ventured himself again within its domain. Tranquil, lily-starred lakes, blue as the heavens they mirror, lapped with caressing ripples the foundations of the immense Gonzaga palace and gave it the same enchanting environment on the morning of his arrival as to-day. Its rosy walls glowed in the morning light like a cluster of pink lotus-blossoms, while, a little apart from the main group of buildings, a slender tower shot into the air, and suspended from its summit, like some bell-shaped flower which droops its head, an iron cage was sharply etched against the glowing sky. "Is that a beacon?" asked Brandilancia. "If so, though unlighted, I accept it as a good omen, as it were a signal hung out for my welcome." "Heaven forfend that it should have aught to do with you, my lord, or you with it," replied Malespini. "The flame of many a poor fellow's life has gone out in that sinister cresset; but think not of it, for my lady awaits you within the palace. You are to learn how the Medici love, not how they hate." Through interminable apartments regal with paintings and statues, collected earlier in the century by Isabella d'Este Gonzaga, the secretary led Brandilancia to the small writing-room of the Marchesa. Marie de' Medici was standing alone at the window gazing at the darkening lake. She turned as he entered, and her cry, "At last you have returned, at last, O my beloved!" broken by sobs and wild caresses, made good Malespini's promise. She believed that the King of France, instead of sending the promised proxy, had himself returned to betroth her at the approaching festival, when he would doubtless declare himself publicly. Since it pleased him, to make further proof of her affection, she accepted his confession that he was only a poor comedian with apparent faith and with protestations of unshaken love. She told him of the despair with which she faced her brilliant future, of the loathing which overcame her at the thought of any husband but himself; and she begged him to rescue her from so hideous a fate. How could he brutally tell so adorable a creature that the burning words, which he had spoken on the night before his flight from the Villa Medici, were but a poetic rhapsody, inspired by a frenzy which had passed with the glamour that evoked it? He strove instead to recall her to a sense of her own position, and he urged every consideration of honour and of interest, apparently with some success; for she became calmer, and promised to do whatever he desired, if he would but remain and sustain her through the ordeal of her betrothal. He believed himself abandoned by the woman whom he had loved, but his heart was cold. He told himself that he would live henceforth without love, but would endeavour in purest friendship to save this woman who leaned on him for strength from making shipwreck of her life. They met constantly in the intimacy of rehearsals, and as these proceeded personal sentiments were occasionally introduced into the lines. [Illustration: Choosing the Casket From the painting by F. Barth. Permission of the Berlin Photographic Co.] "Ah, me! this word choose," Marie de' Medici exclaimed on one occasion. "I may neither choose whom I would nor refuse whom I dislike. So is the will of a living daughter curbed by the will of a dead father." On the evening of the final presentation of the play she startled Brandilancia by laying her hand in his as she interpolated the declaration: "My spirit commits itself to yours to be directed, as by her lord, her governor, and king." The play ended, she led him to a portico overlooking the lake. "I have only a moment," she said, "while I am supposed to be dressing for the dance which follows. You doubtless recognised in the small dark man seated at my uncle's side the Duke of Nevers, and you have probably informed him of your presence here; but my uncle little suspects that we have anticipated their negotiation. Now surely is the proper time to announce yourself. Wait in the ante-room of the Marquis, it adjoins the library, and after the Grand Duke has set his signature to the settlement, and the Duke of Nevers is about to sign for the King of France, enter, take the pen from his hand, and sign for yourself. If you wish I will accompany you, and we will confess that we are already affianced. Why do you hesitate? Surely this is now the only thing to do." He gazed at her in uncomprehending astonishment. "Nay, dearest lady," he protested, "put this wild fancy from your mind. Your uncle would never accept me as your suitor; you would gain only dishonour by such a course. Bid me farewell, and forget me in the glory of your new life; and God help us both." "Nay, I can not, I can not give you up," she cried passionately her arms about his neck, "you have made me love you. I shall die if you leave me." "If this is true," he stammered, "if by some miracle you do indeed love me beyond all earthly considerations, and your heart is great enough to sacrifice all for the devotion of a heart that will at least be loyal, then fly with me from this world of shame and cruelty, to some paradise beyond the power of all who know us." "Fly," she repeated in bewilderment, "and leave your kingdom, your crown?" "Oh! what is fame, what is honour," he cried, "to love like yours? Listen, it is perfectly feasible. When I parted with my friends at Cadiz Essex told me he would return with the fleet as soon as he could refit, and cruise about the Azores, hoping to intercept the Spanish treasure-fleet. He should be there at this time, and Raleigh with him. But Raleigh purposed after aiding his friend in his enterprise to continue his voyage to the new world, where he has planted a colony. In Venice we can take passage with some merchant-man and join Raleigh at Flores. Come with me, my Queen to the new world, where we will found a new dynasty, for I can wait for my kingdom. I can write my plays and my poems there, in some lodge in the forest, and years hence, when cities have sprung up in that wilderness great actors will give them presentation before men who can appreciate them, who will honour our memory and glory that we were Americans." She regarded him with eyes widening with alarm. "Surely you are mad," she said, "to throw away the Crown of France for which you have fought so bravely." "The crown of bay and laurel for which I am fighting has no root in France, sweetheart, but in English soil," he replied wonderingly. "Good God!" she cried, "then you are not--not Henry of Navarre?" "Nay, how could that be possible? I am, as I long since told you, only a simple English playwright who, much against his will, came hither on the business of his friend the Earl of Essex. If you love me not I would to God that I had never so come, since, by some strange delusion, I have troubled your pure heart and have brought upon myself grief, and dishonour. "But forgive me, sweet lady, this madness shall be as though it had not been, soon forgotten by you and safely hidden in the deepest chamber of my heart." For a moment she gazed at him astounded, for her mind refused to credit the truth. In despite of his words she believed that he was putting her disinterestedness to a supreme test which she must not fail. She clung to him convulsively. "I love you, you alone," she declared, "and I will go to El Dorado. I will meet you to-morrow at this hour at the water-gate of the palace. I will come in the Gonzaga barge, and we will flee together to Venice, and thence whither you will." As she spoke the door leading into the palace was flung open, and the Grand Duke followed by courtiers and ladies came toward them. "Ah! here are our actors," he exclaimed, "bring the laurel crowns. This for my niece and this for the gifted artist who has honoured our festival. Come forward Brandilancia and receive the token of our appreciation." But as the wreath was presented the Grand Duchess caught her husband's arm, exclaiming: "Ferdinando, this is the false Earl of Essex who deceived us all in Rome. Ask Radicofani, ask your niece, she cannot have failed to recognise him." "Nay, ask the French envoy," replied Marie de' Medici, "his Highness the Duke of Nevers will tell you whom we have the honour to entertain as our guest." "I, Mademoiselle," exclaimed the representative of the French King, "truly, I have never before looked upon his face." "Declare yourself Sire, I beseech of you," Marie de' Medici implored, and Brandilancia answered calmly: "I am the authorised representative of the Earl of Essex. Brandilancia is the Italian equivalent of my name, which in English is plain Will Shakespeare. That I am an actor and playwright you have graciously conceded, and that is the only distinction which I have ever claimed." His words carried overwhelming conviction to the brain of the deluded girl, and she sank fainting into the arms of the man whom she had so misunderstood and who was still far from comprehending the cause of her emotion. "Leave my niece to the care of her women," the Grand Duke commanded sternly. "Radicofani, is this indeed the rogue who slipped from your clutches?" "It is, my lord," replied that worthy, as he grasped the actor's arm. "Then consign him to the hospitalities of our sky-parlour. In the cage suspended from that tower, young man, you may await my investigation of your case." From his lofty outlook in the iron cage, dizzily suspended between earth and heaven, our adventurer obtained a new and wider view. The palace and its life dwindled to a speck. Far away to the north he could discern the white summits of the mountains that cradle the blue lake of Garda, while at his feet the Mincio flowed peacefully toward the Adriatic, where a good ship (on which, but for his folly in pausing at Mantua, he might on the morrow be voyaging homeward) was impatiently tugging at her moorings. Fool that he was, he had made his bed and must lie on it. It was a very uncomfortable bed at the present moment, for he could neither stretch himself at full length nor stand erect, but sat with his hands clasping his knees and his head bowed upon them. How long must he retain this cramped position? Malespini's words came to him with sinister emphasis. Would he be left here until starvation released him from agony and his bones bleached in the sun? The Angelus chimed from the belfries, the only structures which reached his plane, and gave him a sense of human companionship, but the tones of the bells sounded thin in the empty air, and his loneliness increased with their cessation. The sun climbed the heavens and beat unmercifully upon his unprotected head, but just as his thirst became intolerable and he groaned in agony, a low, chuckling laugh replied from a window in the tower near his cage, and turning his head he saw the malicious face of the dwarf Leonora Dosi. Repugnant as she was to him he greeted her appearance now, for it flashed through his mind that she might have brought him some message from Marie de' Medici. "It is good of you, Signorina," he said, "to think of me in my trouble; or is it perchance your mistress who has sent you?" He could not have asked a question which would have angered her more. "My mistress may not have clean forgotten her singing-bird," she replied, "but she has forgotten to order that his cage should be supplied with water and seed cups, and I cajoled Radicofani till he let me supply this neglect." As she spoke she held aloft a flask of water whose crystal clearness seemed to Brandilancia's blood-shot eyes the most desirable thing in all the world. "Ah! Signorina how can I ever thank you? and how can you get it to me?" "Oh! I have thought of that. See I have brought a pole long enough to reach your cage, and the bottle is so slender that it will pass between the bars." She attached the flask to one end of the pole with tantalising deliberation, pausing after it was fastened to pour and drink a glass of the water with expressive gusto. The gurgle of the liquid was more than the tortured man could bear. "Dear Signorina for the love of Heaven be quick. I die of thirst." "Oh! no, Signor, one does not die so soon, or with so little suffering. Men in your predicament have been known to live three days before they went mad, and four more before they died." "You hell cat!" he cried, "have you come to gloat over and increase my agony?" "That is not a pretty name," she said slowly, "I like better the 'dear Signorina' with which you honoured me just now. You are too hasty, Signor Brandilancia, too hasty in your conclusions, and in speaking them forth. It might strike a wiser man in your situation that it would be worth while not to antagonise a friend who has come to serve you. In proof that you have misunderstood my motives I now pass you the water. It was good? You would like more? Presently. It is not well to drink too much when one is as thirsty as you are, besides I want to talk with you. Do you realise that you are in a very serious position?" "Have I been condemned to death?" "Not so. There will be no trial, no execution. You will simply be forgotten, left here to die. The Grand Duke believes you to be the lover of his niece. That fact would not in the least distress him, were it not for her approaching marriage, which he fears may be interrupted by some rash act on your part." "Tell the Grand Duke, if you come from him, and the Signorina also to have no fear, that madness is past. If I am released I will repair to England and never trouble her again." Scorn curled the dwarf's lips. "Think you, the Duke would trust your promise? And as for the Signorina she desires nothing of the sort, for she loves you passionately." "Poor lady," he groaned. "But for me she might have reconciled herself to her destiny, wretch that I am to break the heart of one who loves me. Tell her from me, that if she desires me to do so, and God in His mercy delivers me from this bed of death I will keep my promise to snatch her from the fate she dreads, and we will begin the new life in the new world of which we dreamed." The face of the dwarf was contorted with merriment which made it the more hideous. "Is the life of a savage in the wilderness a fit one for a daughter of the Medici?" she demanded. "You need neither of you die or forego a single luxury which your hearts desire, if you will gather your wits together and listen to me. "Possibly you think that I have no influence with the Grand Duke, but if so you greatly mistake. I know the secret of my parentage, and have so disposed matters that my death would bring it to light. Ferdinando de' Medici will grant any request of mine. I am to go to Paris, not as the servant but as the Lady in Waiting of the Queen of France. Will it please you to join her train as Manager of her Royal Theatre and Purveyor of Sports to the French Court? You could then enjoy the society of the Queen without scandal." His heart was hot with indignation but he restrained his anger. "If indeed," he said, "there is no escape from this loathed marriage for that sweet lady, I shall pray that no memory of me may ever intrude upon her happiness. Surely what you suggest is as impossible as it is infamous. The Grand Duke would never allow me to follow his niece to Paris." "The Grand Duke cares not one whit what his niece may choose to do after she is once securely married. What I suggest is perfectly possible. I have taken a fancy to you, Brandilancia. If I ask the Grand Duke to give you to me as my husband he will not refuse me; on the contrary it will be a welcome solution of the problem before him. If perchance any inconvenient inquiries should in future be made by England concerning your welfare he will be spared all responsibility. His niece will have the plaything she desired, and will no longer mope. He will have secured my gratitude and can trust me to preserve the conventionalities; and as for you, my popinjay, your fortune is made. Do not fancy that you will remain a mere montebank. You shall exchange your cap and bells for a ducal coronet, châteaux jewels, honours, wealth in what form you will shall be yours. You will be King in everything but name. Henry of Navarre shall in reality be nothing but your condottiere, and I will not be _exigeante_. I know that I am misshapen, hideous. I ask only a little gratitude." That word stopped his mouth, for he was about to curse her as a minister of Satan, but a touch of pity softened his anger and contempt. "You know not what you ask," he said. "She would despise me, and I would abhor myself. Let me die without forfeiting her respect." "_She!_" the dwarf sneered, and was suddenly silent. Her keen insight told her that if she betrayed to this strangely constituted man that the scheme had originated with her mistress he would loathe where he now pitied and every chance of success be lost. "What were you about to say?" he asked. "Only that you little know the love you slight. She would forgive you anything but desertion. Yours is a strange code of honour, that can win the affection of a noble lady and then throw it lightly away. I am going now. Once for all I ask, will you accept my offer?" "And tempt that innocent soul to a life of perfidy and shame?--God send me death quickly and spare me such villainy as that." "Your prayer will not be answered," she sneered. "Death will come, but not quickly,--unless you beat your brains out against the bars of your cage, and before that you will shriek and call for me, but I will not come. You have known how the women of the Medici love. Learn now how they hate." Her footsteps died away and despair settled upon his heart. How long, how long, he asked himself, must he endure this agony before death would come to his release. The dwarf had left food and water on the window-sill in plain sight but beyond his reach. He closed his eyes but the odour of the viands reached him and increased his faintness. The hours lagged on, and toward evening a light breeze sprang up and he fell into a troubled sleep which somewhat dulled his suffering. From this he was rudely awakened by the swaying and jolting of his cage, and he realised that it was being hauled hastily and not too gently into the tower. Men dragged him from it, a physician gave him a reviving draught and assisted him down the staircase at whose foot he fell into the arms of the faithful Malespini. "Is it she, who has rescued me?" he asked as the secretary seated him in a row-boat which shot toward the palace. "Nay, you are released by the Grand Duke's orders," Malespini replied. "I bring you great news, Signor. A gentleman has arrived from England who demands your safe return in the Queen's name. Even the Medici could not gainsay a summons signed 'Elizabeth' and emphasised by one of her Majesty's ships of war. Say naught of the hospitality just accorded you, I beseech you, until well out of Italy, else you may excite the English admiral who is the bearer of the Queen's message to some rash act, for he seems to me a man of short temper, and it were well that the Grand Duke in his chagrin were not tried too far." "The English Admiral!" repeated the astonished Brandilancia,--"sent for me by Queen Elizabeth. It is not possible!" But, as the torchlight fell upon the gallant figure impatiently pacing the landing which they were approaching, he cried "Miracle of God! it is indeed Essex!" "It is I, Will, of a surety," replied the other. "Did you think I would suffer you to die in the trap into which you had ventured for love of me? I have been consumed with anxiety, especially after the Grand Duke in answer to my importunity assured me that you left the Villa Medici months since and that he was ignorant of your whereabouts. I had quarrelled with the Queen when that news arrived, and she had ordered me to the Azores. I asked for an audience, but she would not receive me, and I left England determined to push on to Italy without her knowledge and rescue you _vi et armis_." "You should not have done that, my good friend. Elizabeth has beheaded men for slighter disregard of her authority." "I outran not my orders, Will, for I had scarcely left England when a swift sailing packet overtook me with letters from the Queen, one for the Grand Duke desiring your immediate return, the other my instructions to use all despatch in securing your person." "But if you received no letter from me and had no speech with the Queen, I do not understand how her Majesty learned of my predicament." "Through your wife, Will. When I returned to England from my expedition to Cadiz she sought me out, and demanded why I had not brought you. Then, as the time passed by at which I had told her she might expect you, it seems she grew wild with anxiety, and, journeying to London, laid the matter before the Queen, who admires your talent as a playwright and has herself some ambition in that direction. Anne, the artful wench, very tactfully persuaded her Majesty that, with you for a collaborator, she might write a comedy which would redound to her eternal fame. Therefore, our royal mistress bids you think of some plot which shall bring again upon the boards that arch-rogue, John Falstaff. I am to bring you to Windsor Castle, where you are to prepare this masterpiece, at the Queen's dictation (Heaven save the mark!), in time for its presentation before the Court during the Twelfth Night festivities." "And Anne, whom I thought so indifferent to my career, to my very existence, did this for me?" "Yes, Will, 't is a good girl and a handsome, and one you have not treated overly well, as it seems to me; but you will make it all up over your Christmas pudding." As he spoke the great clock of the palace slowly clanged midnight, and Brandilancia turned white and caught Essex's arm for support. "Would to God that I might go with you," he groaned; "would that I had never come to Italy upon your cursed business. I stand here a doubly perjured man. How, I scarcely know (for I swear I set not about it cold-bloodedly), I have won the love of the peerless Marie de' Medici. For me she has discarded the King of France, and has promised to meet me at this spot and at this very hour and fly with me to El Dorado. I left her stricken to the heart by my misfortunes. If I desert her now her death will be upon my head. See you not the Gonzaga barge is approaching in which she promised to forsake the world with me." "Make yourself easy on the score of my mistress," exclaimed Malespini. "You have kept your appointment, but when she made hers she had no intention of keeping it with a man of your quality. Under a strange hallucination she has fancied all along that you were the King of France, and her fainting fit was occasioned by her dismay and humiliation on discovering that you were only the king of poets. I will not say that she did not find you agreeable. She was pleased when she learned that your friend had arrived in time to rescue you, and ere she left for Florence this afternoon bade me wish you _bon voyage_, and to thank you for much merry entertainment." The Earl of Essex whistled softly, and an expression of infinite relief relaxed the contorted features of Brandilancia. "I have learned how the women of the Medici love," he murmured. "Thank God, our English women love in a different fashion." [Illustration: COLONNA] CHAPTER VIII THE LADIES OF PALLIANO (BEING A RELATION BY THE CONDOTTIERE LUIGI RODOMONTE GONZAGA OF CERTAIN OF HIS ADVENTURES DURING THE CAMPAIGNS OF 1525 TO 1528) I THE NEST OF THE PHOENIX 'Tis an incredible fable that of the phoenix, the crimson wonder-bird, which springs in immortal youth from the flames which destroy its eyrie. But it is not more strange than one which I could tell of how I found Fenice, and snatched the joy and glory of my life from the conflagration of her ancestral town and castle, in which, but for my efforts, her pure soul would have vanished from the earth. Fenice, flame-bird, radiant and peerless, I had named her at our first meeting, long before the tragic burning of Palliano, for it seemed to me that in her vivacity and brilliancy she resembled a little dancing flame. I well remember also how at that time the longing came to me to warm my numbed heart forever in her presence. I am no poet, but a plain man of war, and this phantasy of the phoenix came into my head in a very natural and simple way, for Fenice when first I saw her was sending up little fire-balloons from the garden of the Colonna palace. It was an unusual and a dangerous pastime for a young girl, but the sudden flashing from the gloom of those flickering lights, that illumined for an instant the beautiful face which the darkness as quickly obliterated, gave an additional zest to my enjoyment of the vision. I strode to her side and affected great interest in her occupation. The balloons were ingeniously constructed to represent birds with spread wings, and it was the alchemist of the family who dwelt at Palliano who had invented them. "It is his conceit," she explained, "that rising from the flames they resemble the phoenix, a bird peerless in beauty and song, which appears upon earth but twice in a thousand years." "Then that shall be my name for you," I said, for we were alone for the instant; "but will you as tranquilly soar away from me, leaving the world the darker for your passing?" Though she gave me not at that time the answer I coveted, I liked none the less the modesty which made her winning difficult. There were also other matters of importance to the world at large, which I must now digress to explain, that at first hindered, but in the end abetted that winning. It was in the spring of the eventful year of 1525 that my cousin, Federigo Gonzaga, Marquis of Mantua, requested me to escort his mother, the worshipful Marchesa Isabella d'Este Gonzaga, upon her journey to Rome. This demand was the more reasonable in that the Marchesa was a most loving and munificent patroness of my sister Giulia, for whose orphaned condition the great lady had shown the most tender sympathy, removing her from our lonely ancestral castle, and bringing the girl up in her own brilliant court. Giulia was now at the height of the attractiveness which was soon to be so extravagantly sung, many still maintaining her the most beautiful woman of our time. From that estimate her brother must be allowed to differ. A superbly regal creature she certainly was, but too grandly made for my ideals. Let the question rest, for her heart was ever as great as her body, and I deny her supremacy to but one other. At this time I loved her better than any woman in the world, and as she was to accompany the Marchesa, I was the more willing to lend my protection to the cortège. It was an inauspicious season for ladies to choose for a pleasure jaunt, for their Majesties the Emperor Charles V. and Francis I. had entered upon their struggle for the possession of Italy. The French had already entered Lombardy, and the Imperial forces under the Viceroy of Naples, Pescara and Bourbon were marching to meet them, but the Marchesa was of an adventurous and fearless disposition, and was moreover bent in her present expedition upon something more than pleasure. Never have I known man or woman of such marvellous finesse as well as courage, and she desired above all things to obtain the cardinal's hat for Ercole, her second son. Therefore it seemed good to her, while the actual fighting was still confined to the north of Italy, to hasten to Rome, and obtain this coveted prize, before the Emperor should succeed in deposing Pope Clement and possibly set up another pontiff less friendly to the House of Gonzaga. [Illustration: Colonna Palace, Rome--The Grand Salon] At the same time, that Charles V. might have no cause to complain of her lack of loyalty, she sent her third son, Ferrante, to Spain to assure the Emperor of her entire sympathy with his cause and to ask for a command in the Imperial army. Rome at this time was a place where there were wheels within wheels. While on the surface all was gay and peaceful, and old enemies hobnobbed with one another, daggers lurked under the olive branches, old feuds were not forgotten, plots were hatched, and secrets were wormed from comrades over the wine-cup. While I could not emulate the consummate ruse with which the Marchesa trimmed her sails to every possible wind I had my own little surprise to spring at the auspicious moment. I believed that the firm hand of the Emperor alone could give peace to Italy. I had lost faith in the Medicean popes, and especially in this weak and crafty cousin of Leo X. As a condottiere by profession I could have sold my services to the French but I preferred to offer them to Charles V., and I had a secret commission in my pocket from his representative, the Marquis of Pescara, then near Pavia, authorising me to raise and command the Italian contingent to the Imperial army. The Marquis desired me to take counsel with his wife's kindred, the Colonnas, who were always inimical to the Pope, as to the best means of effecting a junction with their troops in case an attack upon Rome should be decided upon the coming year. When I add that the head of the house, Vespasian Colonna, had offered the hospitalities of his palace to the Marchesa Isabella d'Este Gonzaga, it will be understood how marvellously this lady's visit to Rome fell in with my schemes. As we made our entry into that most beautiful room of all the world, the _sala de gala_ of the Colonna palace, my sister clutched my arm tightly. A glimpse of the glories of heaven could not in sooth have been more transporting to the rapt gaze of an anchorite, for Giulia was essentially of this world and a superb mundane life was her highest ambition. She had profited by her tutelage at the court of the Marchesa, the most cultured in the north of Italy, but this dazzling room surpassed any in the Mantuan palace as far as her own beauty outshone that of her protectress. So as her foolish little heart cried out "Oh! that I might reign here as Queen," she looked up into the admiring eyes of Vespasian Colonna and heard the echo of her unuttered cry--"Reign here as Queen." [Illustration: Garden of the Colonna Palace, Rome With permission of Mr. Charles A. Platt] For Vespasian was a widower, and the snows of age had not cooled the volcanic fires of his heart. He offered his arm to the Marchesa, and together they made the rounds of the regal apartments. But ever as we paused before a portrait and he explained that this was some fair ancestress his backward glance at Giulia told that in his estimation she surpassed them all. The interior of the palace inspected we passed over a bridge, which spanned a side street, to the terraced garden crowned by the ruins of the old Roman Temple of the Sun. Here were also statues and fountains, square-cut hedges, and sun-warmed, marble seats, and the air was heavy with the perfume of roses and jasmine. But the glory of the garden, as Colonna told us, was its outlook over Rome. This we could not now fully appreciate for dusk was falling and the city was in a purple haze, which deepened as we looked. Soon coloured lights glimmered forth in the dark _allées_, and suddenly from the summit of the ruin there rose slowly a fire balloon and twinkling far away into the blue seemed to seek its companion stars. "It is the conceit of my daughter Isabella," Vespasian explained, "a fête of fire-works in honour of your coming." I delayed to hear no more, but drawn by some mysterious attraction sought and found the Signorina Colonna. The flame signals flashed in her cheeks as her eyes met mine, for my glance seemed to her doubtless overbold, though it held naught of disrespect God wot. And then she explained the mechanism of her fire balloon which was simple enough though it had been invented by a Moorish alchemist, who still practised the black art in a tower of the family castle in the Campagna. "If you ever come to Palliano we will greet you with a still more brilliant illumination," she promised, little realising how well she would keep that pledge. It was then as I have already said that I bestowed upon her the name of Fenice, making what improvement I could of my scant opportunities. These were suddenly cut short, for Ippolito de' Medici, the Pope's handsome and dissipated nephew, presently joined us and bore Fenice away with the air of a proprietor. Such indeed he had a right to regard himself, as I ascertained on the next day during a conference with Vespasian Colonna and his nephew the Cardinal Pompeo. [Illustration: Castle of Vittoria Colonna at Ischia.] I had arrived at the understanding desired by their kinsman the Marquis of Pescara, for they very willingly agreed that whenever desired all the clansmen of the Colonna would be ready to combine with the Imperial forces in the siege of Rome. Pompeo, the most truculent of the race in spite of the fact that he was a churchman, would take command, but Ascanio Colonna who was now in Naples with his sister Vittoria, the Marchesa di Pescara, might be counted upon with his sturdy vassals from the Abruzzi. We were jubilant, for news had just arrived that the Emperor's troops had won the battle of Pavia and that Francis I. was a prisoner. The Pope was reported nearly crazed with fear, and our plot of taking Rome for Charles V. seemed perfectly feasible. "In any event," said Vespasian, "our compact of friendship stands, and I hold you and your family in such high esteem that I desire to make our alliance not merely that of comrades-in-arms but a much closer relationship. I wish to propose a marriage, which Pompeo here shall celebrate, in our ancestral home before you leave us." My hopes rose high for I thought he had perceived my love for Fenice and I sank upon one knee in a transport of gratitude. "Nay, rise my brother," he continued, "I count myself honoured in your acceptance of that relation. Your sister's beauty will confer undying lustre upon our house. Believe me she runs no danger as my wife, for even should the chances of war reverse the present position of King and Emperor, I have assured myself with the Pope, since my daughter is betrothed to his nephew Ippolito. He will not break with me for she will be one of the richest heiresses in Italy, well able to aid her husband in his ambition to become the Grand Duke of Tuscany." My heart, which had been so hot, was like ice. So wretched was I that I got no comfort from the thought of the brilliant future opening before my sister. I terminated my interview with Vespasian in all haste, and strode into the garden, pacing its walks like a madman. Here, as my good fortune willed, I came upon Ippolito de' Medici, seated with all the familiarity of an accepted lover by the side of Fenice. It was true that the young couple were chaperoned by my sister, and that Ippolito, who was holding a skein which she was winding, was leaning forward in rapt attention listening to some merry story which Giulia was relating; but, instead of congratulating myself that Fenice had now a protectress who was devoted to my interest, I was filled with rage to see Ippolito thus received into the intimacy of the family. My sister by a light gesture indicated that there was room for me on the marble bench near Fenice, and the girl, to give me room, moved a trifle nearer to her betrothed. This angered me, and, instead of seating myself, I glowered at a little distance until Giulia, having finished her winding and her story, came toward me, leaving Ippolito free to address himself to Fenice. To my surprise he did not avail himself of the opportunity, but, springing up, begged my sister to walk with him to another part of the garden. Delighted by this unexpected turn of affairs, I seated myself by the side of Fenice and rallied her upon her lover's neglect. "He could not have pleased me more," she replied. "The Signorina Gonzaga would be my good angel if she could rid me of him forever." This admission was like the striking of a spark in the darkness. It was not only illuminating as to Fenice's feeling toward her fiancé, but it fired the mine of passion stored in my heart. How I told her I know not; the words exploded from me with such violence that I fear I frightened her, and yet--and yet she was not displeased, for when Giulia returned to us she found Fenice striving to cool my hot cheeks with her small hands, but succeeding only in inflaming them the more by her gentle caresses. My sister paused before us with her arms akimbo. "Here is a coil," she said, "and I beg you to tell me how I am to explain it to the Signor Ippolito de' Medici." "Ah! dearest lady, can you think of no way of persuading the Signor Ippolito to renounce his suit?" cried Fenice. "Very easily," Giulia replied, "since he has just besought me to pray you to release him from his engagement that he may be free to marry me; but upon reflection I am not sure that this expedient would please your honoured father." With that we all fell a-laughing, though the situation was serious enough. It grew rapidly more so, for my sister, apparently forgetting her new vows, manifested the utmost pleasure in Ippolito's society, and drove me wild with her coquetry. I remonstrated with her, telling her plainly that I could not understand her behaviour. "Have you no sense of decency," I cried, "to contract yourself to a noble gentleman, who, though he is no longer young, is still distinguished in appearance and possessed of many attractions--one whose fortune and rank immeasurably surpass your own, and who, moreover, loves you beyond your desert? Are you not ashamed, I insist, to accept all this and then to treat your affianced husband with such indignity? If you must take a lover, wait at least till your honeymoon is over, and then choose one who will contrast less unfavourably with the man whom you so dishonour." She laughed at me when I began, but as I waxed more imprudent in my chiding her cheek flamed and she retorted "Truly, since you misunderstand me thus, I scorn to explain my conduct." Nor did she deign to amend it, and so anxious was I, that (a temporary peace delaying any warlike demonstration), I lingered on in Rome to protect her against herself, and to see her safely married. The wedding took place in midsummer, but the aged bridegroom was in no happy frame of mind, for Giulia had led him a lively dance during their short engagement, and had so practised upon Ippolito de' Medici by her wiles that the infatuated young man had broken his compact with the Colonnas. Suspecting that my sister had caused this defection Vespasian hastened his marriage and retired with his bride and his daughter to Palliano the strongest of his castles. Nor was I invited to accompany the party for, having dared to ask her father for the hand of Fenice, I met with an angry refusal and was accused of having by my attentions given Ippolito an excuse for breaking his word. But Fenice promised with many tears to be true to me, and with her pledge to await my coming I was forced to be content. Rome having now no further attraction for me I returned to Lombardy, leaving the Marchesa, who still awaited her son's cardinalate, in the security of a peace which at that time promised to be lasting. No sooner, however, was Francis I. released from his Spanish captivity than the Pope began again to intrigue with him, and the Emperor, learning that Clement had broken faith, ordered the attack upon Rome. Then, at last, the Pope, realising how much he needed the friendship of the Gonzagas, sent the Marchesa Ercole's red hat. That triumph achieved she would gladly have returned to Mantua but it was now too late, for Bourbon had arrived before the city. The siege had begun, and neither man nor woman might leave Rome. At the Pope's own villa upon Mount Mario (the Villa Madama), without the walls, I met Cardinal Pompeo Colonna and heard the news that his uncle Vespasian had died, and that Giulia and Fenice were still at Palliano, where I vowed soon to join them. Of the sack of Rome which intervened I shall say nothing. Would God that I could as easily dismiss its memory from my mind. I entered the city with the youngest son of the Marchesa Isabella d'Este, Ferrante Gonzaga, who commanded a division of Spaniards, and we made our way at once to the Colonna palace which refuge the Marchesa had packed with her friends. Their lives we saved and the palace from burning and plundering. Cardinal Pompeo himself paid the ransoms of many of its guests, and rescued from the Spanish soldiery upwards of five hundred nuns. Far be it from me to extenuate the life of that profligate prelate, but his brave and generous acts at this fearful time must be counted to his credit. After that horror of cruelty and wanton destruction abated I counted on being free to seek Fenice and my sister, but greatly to my disgust, I was constituted the warden of the Pope, who was confined a close prisoner in the castle of St. Angelo. Though this seemed to me at the time a great hardship it proved in the end the best that could have happened, for so I came to know Clement most intimately and even to feel a pity for one so beset. I well remember his dismay when Ippolito de' Medici came to him with the alarming news that the Orsini, who, under cover of their devotion to the Pope embraced every opportunity to fight the Colonnas, had refused to recognise that the war was ended and were now burning and pillaging the castles of their rivals throughout the Campagna. Ippolito reported that Fenice and my sister were for the present safe, having fortified themselves in Palliano, but he desired the Pope to send him with orders to Napoleone Orsini to restrain his wild clansmen, and also to grant him a far greater favour. This was no less than absolution from clerical vows, which he had taken at the time of my sister's marriage, and permission, since she was now a widow, to ask for her hand. But Clement knew that Ippolito's next move would be to use my sister's wealth to secure the government of Florence, which his Holiness desired for his more favoured nephew Alessandro. He therefore refused to release Ippolito from his vows as a churchman, salving the wound by creating him a cardinal and promising that he should one day succeed to the tiara. Then, imagining that he had thus disposed forever of so slight a thing as a young man's passion, he bade him make all speed to the pacifying of the truculent Orsini, for he well knew that unless this were instantly done the Emperor would call him in question for their unruliness. I had been present during this interview, as was my duty, and the Pope now turned to me and bade me assist Ippolito by all means in my power, and we went forth together to prepare for the expedition. But Ippolito's face was all aflame, and he could at first speak of nothing but his disappointment. "By the Blood!" he cried, "his Holiness shall rue his interference in my love affairs, for I will balk him yet." "Have you forgotten," I asked, "that you have just been made a cardinal?" "And what of that? Is not Pompeo Colonna a cardinal? He can find no fault with me if I follow his example. I tell you that I love your sister and that she loves me. Is there any power that can divide us?" "Yea," I answered "that of God, and there is also my power with which it seems you have forgotten to reckon." He looked at me and laughed. "That for _your_ power," he scoffed, snapping his fingers. We had planned to ride to Nemi to find Napoleone Orsini but at Frascati we were met by a messenger who gave Ippolito a letter. On reading it he told me excitedly that Pompeo Colonna was besieged in his monastery of Subiaco by a rabble of the Orsini. "Go, and hold them in play," he commanded, "and I will hasten on to Nemi and fetch Napoleone with me, to command his clansmen to raise the siege." The plan commended itself to my reason and, suspecting no treachery, I galloped off with my troop for the relief of Pompeo. Ippolito shouted to me to await his coming at Subiaco, and I might have remained there until this day had I obeyed him. But at the monastery to my surprise I found all quiet nor had there been any fighting since the previous year, when the papal troops had been beaten by the monks and left their banner behind them. Both Cardinal Pompeo and I were puzzled by the false news which had brought me in such haste, but, being where we were, we accepted the hospitality of the monastery and rested and refreshed ourselves for three hours and no more. For, at the expiration of that time, came an aged man clad in Oriental garments, who had escaped from Palliano that morning while Napoleone Orsini was sacking the town. The castle on the summit of the cliff was unstormed when he left, but its fall was inevitable unless help should speedily arrive. Then I knew how Ippolito de' Medici had tricked me, for he desired not my company at Palliano, where he wished to pose as the sole rescuer of its ladies. The messenger whom my sister had sent to Subiaco was the Moorish alchemist who had taught Fenice to make the fire balloons, and I was at first encouraged by his assurance that the fortress was well munitioned, and that he had manufactured great quantities of gunpowder which was stored in its donjon. But I reflected that this circumstance was but an added danger as the assailants were endeavouring to fire the castle. With this news the Cardinal ordered his bravi to horse, and the monks girded up their gowns for the march. As fighting men the latter suffered no disparagement when matched with my soldiery save in their weapons, for, as their vows forbade them to take the sword, they were forced to content themselves with battle-axes. Wearied as were our horses my troop took the lead, and all night by toilsome ways over the mountains we rode toward Palliano, in the vain hope of arriving there before Ippolito in spite of the long detour which he had foisted upon us; and I felt no fatigue, for I rode for my sister's honour and the life of her I loved. But, in the grey dawn, at the little town of Genazzano, some six miles from the Colonna stronghold, I met Ippolito and his escort returning from Palliano, for he, too, had ridden hard. His face was drawn and white, but he faced me unflinchingly. "You need not have come," he said, "for I have given Napoleone Orsini the mandate of his Holiness. He will draw off his men. They will leave the castle of Palliano unattacked. I was too late to save the town." "And my sister?" for Fenice's name stuck in my throat. "Your sister is capable of taking care of herself," he answered bitterly; "at least that was the reply she gave me when I offered to remain for her defence. Nay, look not so black for I am not the villain that my mad words of yesterday stamped me. Let me right myself in your estimation. I offered her no insult, but honourable marriage, for I have not yet been consecrated, and I would have repudiated the cardinalcy and every other bribe of the devil, if she could have loved me. But she told me plainly that she had never done so, that she had but coquetted with me in the old days to prove me fickle and false to my betrothed, and thus leave Fenice free to wed with you; and that this Vespasian Colonna understood and left you his blessing ere he died." "Say you so! Ippolito," I cried. "Then I have not made this journey in vain, and you are a better man than I thought. I will plead your cause with my sister. You shall win her yet." But he shook his head though he wrung my hand for he knew her mind better than I. So I rode on with my men, and it was well that I did so, for Orsini after the departure of Ippolito had returned to the attack of Palliano, and as we came in sight of the promontory on which it stands, the sky was crimson, not with sunrise, but with the reflection of burning houses. The citadel towered gaunt and black above the ruined town like the phoenix in its flaming nest, and I acknowledged that my darling had kept her promise to greet my coming with a festival of fire. I wondered if from one of those dark windows she were looking forth anxiously for succour, and I called the alchemist to my side and bade him send up a fire balloon as a signal that help was at hand. "It will notify the enemy of our approach," he protested, but I replied that I cared not, and from the silken guidon of my troop he fashioned the balloon so that as it soared aloft the device of the Gonzagas was displayed to all onlookers. Then, with hardly an interval, there shot from the platform of the great tower of the castle in quick succession a flight of answering flame signals--one, two, three, a half-dozen; I counted them as they rose and drifted away on the light morning breeze. There flashed forth lights also below in the camp of the Orsini which ringed the town, for the sentries had sounded the alarm, and when we came up with their outposts the army had formed in battle array. I was glad of this, for it has never been my practice to fall upon and massacre sleeping men. My trumpeter sounded a parley and with a white handkerchief on the staff from which I had stripped my ensign I rode out to meet Napoleone. I told him that I came as messenger from the Pope to bid him keep the peace, for the war was over. He replied that he had already received that news from Ippolito de' Medici, who on the previous evening had come and gone; but that it was not easy to pacify such men as the Orsini when their blood was up. "Then I will pacify them," I cried, "for peace I will have, though I fight for it." "That is the peace for me," he replied, and at it we went. I banged them well, and the monks of Subiaco coming up in good time when we were nearly spent, joined in the fray with their war-cry of "The Holy Column!" and "Christ for Colonna!" My sister's vassals also made a sally from the castle but were driven back, certain of Orsini's men following them closely and throwing firebrands upon them as they dashed through the postern gate. That was the great disaster and tragedy of the day, for the tower in which the fugitives had sought shelter was the powder-magazine and a spark from the fiery missile thrown, guided by the evil one, found its way to a little trail of the devil's dust, which had been scattered on the stairs, and so fired the mine in that pent-up hell. With a noise as of the rending of mountains the tower belched a volcano of flame and the battle-field was as Sodom and Gomorrah when the heavens rained brimstone. By good fortune the occupants of the castle were chiefly in a tower upon the other side of the court, at whose foot the main battle was now raging, so that the loss of life was not so great as it might otherwise have been. As it was we were all so terrified that we ceased from our fighting, Orsini's men fleeing in hot haste, nor did our troops pursue, but busied themselves in giving help to the wounded. At the same time those within the castle, seeing that the battle was over, opened its gates, and to my unutterable joy I beheld Fenice and my sister standing unharmed within its portal. So it was that we pacified the wild Orsini, and later a new castle was born phoenix-like from the ashes of the old. But for a while it was deserted, for Cardinal Pompeo would no longer risk the lives of his relatives at Palliano, but leaving the wounded in the care of the monks we escorted the ladies to the Colonna palace at Rome which was thereafter my sister's residence. [Illustration: Villa Madama--Interior] By all the canons of romance-writing my story should end here at its climax, but this is not the way of real life, which goes on spinning new threads, and intertwining them so with the old that there is no coming to the end until the shears of death cut the skein. My duty as the Pope's body-guard kept me at his side, and my cousin Ferrante Gonzaga having less to do, was constantly at the Colonna palace, where he incontinently fell in love with Fenice. This had indeed been planned out long before by his mother, for the Marchesa had lived long enough in the Colonna palace to fall under its spell and she had marked the Colonna heiress as a suitable parti for Ferrante. Therefore at the great reconciliation between the Emperor and the Pope which took place at Bologna, where Clement crowned Charles, and they parcelled out to their favourites the dignities of Italy, Ferrante Gonzaga besought the hand of Fenice in recognition of the services of his house. To this request both the Emperor and the Pope agreed, but when the parties to be contracted were called into their presence, Cardinal Pompeo Colonna and I came with them and forbade the banns. Being asked why we thus defied the will of the greatest powers of Christendom, I confessed how in the crimson dawn of the peace of Palliano, being determined that no power in heaven or earth or hell should henceforth jeopardise our happiness, Fenice and I had been secretly but soundly married by the Cardinal, deferring only the public festivities of the wedding to a merrier morn. With that the Emperor declared the jest a good one, and that one Gonzaga was as good as another. "And better," whispered his Holiness in my ear, as I knelt before him for his blessing. II OTHER BIRDS OF THE FLAMING NEST Centuries ago--here the Colonna came, Vittoria with them, Angelo himself Gazing upon her as she gravely moved, And sighing for her, while Fabrizio's sword Clanged on the gravel--here the d'Este came From Tivoli, where o'er dark cypresses Their villa looks above the billowy land Of the Campagna. WILLIAM WETMORE STORY. It was with the Villa Conti-Torlonia at Frascati that Story rightly associated the men and women of the Colonna in the lines which I have quoted. [Illustration: The Haunted Pool Villa Conti Torlonia, Frascati] Hither certainly came the ladies of Palliano[8] from their castle in the neighbouring hills, for the Conti were cousins of the Colonna, and fond of entertaining their kindred on the terraces of their ancestral villa. Here Giulia Gonzaga must have met another renowned woman of the family, Giovanna of Aragon, the wife of Ascanio Colonna, with their little son Marcantonio, from the Castle of Marino, hardly three miles away. This boy was to become the most renowned man of his race, and was to form a link between the lives of two women of Palliano, to whom brief reference must be made, for the pity and horror of their fate are not surpassed in all the annals of tragedy. At first glance it may seem strange that the Colonnas possessed no suburban villa which could rival that of the Conti. Castles in plenty were theirs, Marino, Palliano, Palestrina, and a score of others, but though these sheltered comfortless, so-called palaces within their strong walls, there was never an attempt made here to indulge in such a feat of landscape-gardening as the Conti's "fountain stairs, Down which the sheeted water leaps alive." The reason of this lack of the amenities of life is not far to seek. The magnificent Colonna palace at Rome, with its beautiful garden, answered every purpose of an elaborate villa. Here they flaunted in seasons of prosperity, retiring to their mountain fastnesses in times of trouble. For five hundred years succeeding generations have added to the sumptuousness and charm of the Roman palace, and the portraits of the fair ladies who once gave those regal rooms their chief attraction still look down upon us from their walls. They hold us still with an all-compelling fascination: the noble Vittoria Colonna, whom Michael Angelo worshipped; that Duchessa Lucrezia, whom Van Dyck painted in her velvet robe and jewelled ruff; Felice Orsini and her children; and the bewitching Marie Mancini, as Mignard makes her known in her arch and innocent girlhood, and again with world-weary disillusion betraying itself through Netscher's pomp and opulence. [Illustration: Vittoria Colonna From a portrait in the Colonna Gallery] [Illustration: Marie Mancini, Princess Colonna From a portrait in later life by Netscher] It is the women who interest us most, for the men of the race, masterful and brave, heroic even in certain great crisis, have often shown themselves brutally cruel. The ceilings of the Colonna palace blaze with the victory of Lepanto whose hero Marcantonio Colonna is the glory of his family; but you will find no portrait of his murdered mistress Eufrosina, or of the most famous of all the duchesses of Palliano, whose ghost might well haunt that gloomy castle. Violante de Cardona was, in the latter part of the sixteenth century, the most charming woman in Naples. Her wonderful eyes alone rendered her irresistible to most men, and she added to remarkable beauty the fascinations of wit and culture. All of the young bloods of Naples were captives at her chariot wheels, all but young Marcantonio Colonna, who must have known her for he dwelt at this time at the Castle of Ischia inherited from his aunt Vittoria Colonna. Violante made choice among her adorers of Giovanni Caraffa, nephew of Pope Paul IV. whom Marcantonio had cause to hate, for Paul had despoiled him of Palliano, under pretext of his mother's heretical opinions, and had given the fief to this very Giovanni. Thus Violante to her great misfortune became the usurping Duchess of Palliano, for her husband made her life a martyrdom and was ultimately responsible for her death. He was not so utterly depraved as his brother Cardinal Carlo Caraffa but his maniacal jealousy was more dangerous than the Cardinal's vices, and he made himself rich by the maladministration of the papal revenues. The Pope though bigoted and fanatical was sternly upright, and discovering the crimes of his nephews visited unsparing retribution upon them. Cardinal Carlo's offences were most flagrant. He had quarrelled openly with a young gallant, Marcello Capecce, for the favours of Martuccia one of the most notorious courtesans of Rome, drawing his sword upon Capecce at a banquet where he had denied the Cardinal's right to appear as Martuccia's escort. Though the Pope had banished the brothers from Rome they might have lived in peace and obscurity but for Carlo's attempt to revenge himself upon Capecce. It happened most opportunely for the Cardinal's purpose that Capecce had long cherished a hopeless passion for the Duchess of Palliano. The Cardinal fanned this flame and Marcello, believing himself encouraged followed Violante to her villa. Here the Cardinal managed to bring the Duke at the very moment of the compromising visit. Why Carlo Caraffa should thus have endangered the life and reputation of his sister-in-law as well as that of his enemy is not definitely stated. Perhaps he counted on the Duke's love for his wife and intended simply to enrage his brother against a presuming but unfavoured lover. Whatever the accusation the jealous husband was not at first absolutely convinced, and he placed the matter for investigation in the hands of his wife's brother the Count Aliffe, who spied upon Capecce and reported that he was undoubtedly in love with the Duchess of Palliano for his desk was filled with poems in her honour. De Stendhal tells us vividly how Capecce was arrested on the charge of having attempted to poison the Duke, who, "to avoid public scandal stabbed him to death in prison." He also murdered the Duchess's lady-in-waiting, but seems not to have had the heart to kill his wife with his own hands. Nevertheless he believed it incumbent upon him as a wronged husband to exercise justice upon her, and he deputed the deed to her brother, who was nothing loth to wipe out the stain upon his family honour. On the night of the twenty-fifth of August, 1559, the Count Aliffe, with his friend Leonardo del Cardine, a friar, and some soldiers, appeared at the villa and told his sister his errand. She received her sentence with the haughtiest disdain. Never had she been so thoroughly a duchess. When urged to confess she protested her innocence, and assisted her brother in bandaging her own eyes. He hesitated for a moment; perhaps if she had appealed to his affection his heart might have given way; but she raised the handkerchief and coolly asked: "Well, what are we about, then?" Thus taunted he turned the wand in the noose about her neck, and so strangled her. The Pope seems to have approved the act or to have been indifferent to it; but it created a thrill of horror even at that time, for the beautiful Duchess had been greatly loved and was believed to be innocent. Strange to say, the man who was to avenge her fate was he whose heritage she had usurped. Marcantonio Colonna had used all his influence at the Court of Spain until Philip declared war upon Pope Paul IV., and deputed the Duke of Alva and the Spanish Army to wage the famous war of the Campagna. Thus Marcantonio came to his own again, and the Pope, who was near his end, in bitterness of soul signed the capitulation which saved Rome from a second sack by the Spaniards. News that the Pope was dying ran through Rome, and the populace liberated the prisoners of the Inquisition and burned the building. They howled for the Dominican monks, the guardians of the tribunal, that they might burn them also, but at the entrance to the monastery they were stopped by five mounted knights keeping guard over the doomed monks. They were all of them nobles, and all had suffered from the Pope, and they were led by Marcantonio Colonna, whose father and mother had been persecuted by the Inquisition. They had ridden in haste to Rome when they heard that Paul was dying to preserve order in the city. "And at the sight of those calm knights," says Marion Crawford, "sitting their horses without armour and with sheathed swords, the people drew back while Colonna spoke; and because he also had suffered much at Paul's hands they listened to him, and the great monastery was saved from fire and the monks from death." But though Revenge was restrained, Justice claimed the murderers of the Duchess of Palliano. Their trial was deliberate, but in the end Cardinal Carlo Caraffa met the same death which she had suffered, while her husband, her brother, and their accomplice were beheaded in the Torre di Nona. The first use made by Colonna of his revenues was to equip the battleship which he commanded at Lepanto, where he won the title of Champion of Christendom. The pitiful story of Eufrosina, who for a brief period was mistress of Palliano, is a sad blot upon the Champion's otherwise honourable career. Some authorities maintain that she was of good family, and that Marcantonio had killed her husband for love of her; others that she was a slave girl whom he had brought back from the Orient. All agree that she was beautiful, but Colonna had not made her his duchess. Strangely enough he offered the tiara of the murdered Violante to Felice Orsini, daughter of the very man who had striven in vain to win Palliano by force of arms. It was a tempting marriage, for it united the two great rival houses of Rome, and Eufrosina was heartlessly cast aside. Her after-history is a tragedy beside which the story just related pales to an idyl. [Illustration: Court of the Massimi Palace] That she was a woman of extraordinary powers of fascination is proved by the fact that, though it was notorious that she had been abandoned by Marcantonio, Lelio Massimi, then the representative of one of the proudest patrician families of Rome, did not hesitate to make her his wife. Massimi was an old man and a widower, whose first wife, Gerolema Savelli, had given him six sons, notable for their herculean strength and arrogance and their father's remarriage to such a woman was an insult to their mother's memory which they could not condone. They entered Massimi's apartment upon his wedding night and shot his bride to death in his arms. The old man cursed his sons excepting only the youngest, Pompeo, who had taken no part in the assassination, and shortly afterward died broken-hearted, foretelling that Pompeo alone would continue the line as all of his brothers would die violent deaths.[9] The record of the hearts of flame which have burned themselves out in the old nest of the phoenix might be indefinitely prolonged, for though battered by many sieges Palliano was never totally destroyed, and formed the background of many a sinister drama. Marie Mancini Colonna, Principessa di Palliano, writes that fear of imprisonment in the dungeon of her titular castle was the principal motive of her flight from her husband in 1672. She had been threatened with such a fate and the threat was not without precedent. As a prison the Castle of Palliano exists at the present day. Has its symbol of the phoenix attained a new meaning, and is it possible that erring souls issue from its gates, their stains burned clean by purgatorial flame? [Illustration: Marie Mancini Colonna, Principessa di Palliano, by Mignard Photographische Gesellschaft, Berlin] [Illustration] CHAPTER IX THE LURE OF OLD ROME ANTINOUS Brother, 't is vain to hide That thou dost know of things mysterious, Immortal, starry; such alone could thus Weigh down thy nature. Hast thou sinned in aught Offensive to the heavenly powers? Caught A Paphian dove upon a message sent? Thy doubtful bow against some deer herd bent Sacred to Dian? Haply thou hast seen Her naked limbs among the alders green And that, alas is death. KEATS. It is impossible to saunter even so aimlessly as we have done through the villas of the cardinals of the Renaissance and not feel the potency of the charm by which their builders were enthralled, "the glamour of the world antique." We may struggle against the spell, telling ourselves that the scope and limits of the present volume will not permit of a glance at the villas of ancient Rome, but they insidiously steal upon us through those of the Renaissance. Particularly is this true of the Villa d'Este and the Villa Albani, magic gateways both leading directly into that earlier, and only real, Rome. For, though separated by the gulf of many centuries from the villa of the Emperor Hadrian at Tivoli, they are virtually ante-chambers to that once magnificent palace. We might turn from the attractive vista which they reveal but for an alluring phantom which can never be disassociated from those imperial ruins, a face whose beauty and pathos draws us on irresistibly to solve the mystery of its gentle sadness. Who, that has stood before the matchless relief of Antinous in the villa Albani, does not agree with the assertion, that "it is no shadow of sin which gives the pure brow its gravity, and that whatever may be the burden which bows the beautiful head, he bears it with a noble resignation which proves him superior to his suffering and unsullied by his doom." [Illustration: Antinous Bas-relief found at Hadrian's Villa, now in the Villa Albani] In the general resurrection of ancient masterpieces which took place during the Renaissance only one, the Apollo Belvedere, commanded wider admiration as a type of manly beauty. But the Apollo is a theatrical manifestation of the popular conception of god-like perfection, while Antinous makes appeals directly to the heart through his very humanity. One hundred and thirty-six of his portrait statues, busts, and reliefs have come down to us, and as many engraved gems and coins bearing varying interpretations of his familiar and unmistakable personality; so that it is common to speak of the Antinous type as the last ideal creation of ancient art. And yet we are assured on the highest authority that Antinous really lived, and that there is historical foundation for the authenticity of these portraits. "He has a distinct individuality always recognisable," says Gregorovius. "In every case we see a face bowed down, full of melancholy beauty, with deep-set eyes, slightly arched eyebrows, and abundant curls falling over the forehead. It is the beautiful expression of a nature which combined the Greek and the Asiatic characteristics only slightly idealised. We read the fate of Antinous in this sorrowful figure, for the artists knew of the death of sacrifice to which he dedicated himself, and this mysterious sadness would attract the observer even if he could not give the name to the statue." But history only whets our curiosity, for ancient writers are neglectful or tantalisingly bald in their allusions to Antinous. We are told only that he was the favourite of Hadrian, the most magnificent and enlightened of all the Roman emperors, who loved the gentle Bithynian youth so extravagantly that he made him his inseparable companion and even contemplated him as his successor; that during the fateful Egyptian journey an oracle announced that the Emperor must shortly die unless a voluntary victim could be found to take upon himself the doom with which he was threatened; and that Antinous unhesitatingly laid down his life for his patron. "Greater love hath no man than this," and Hadrian's ostentatious lamentation, and even his deification of his friend, seems puerile in comparison with the devotion of Antinous. No modern author has developed this alluring theme in a satisfactory manner. Ebers in his novel _The Emperor_, is inadequate. He laboriously loads its pages with his carefully verified material, but his imagination is wingless, the result far from convincing. [Illustration: Ruins of a Gallery of Statues in Hadrian's Villa From an etching by Piranesi] One poet there was, he whose lines head this chapter, endowed with the inspiration to divine, and the power to worthily reveal the secret of the sadness in that haunting face, to which sculptors alone have done full justice. There are hints scattered through his poems that startlingly supplement the vague clues which now tantalise and baffle as we trace the story of Antinous in Hadrian's villa. For where history and literature fail us archæology supplies its circumstantial evidence, and if we scan, through the crystal lenses of uncoloured truth, the stage where the drama which we seek was enacted we shall see the sculptured semblances of the vanished actors, and be able to surmise in part the lost book of the play. The ruins of the great pleasure-palace, where the Emperor and his favourite resided during the opening scenes of their history, now lie bleak and bare, exposed to the burning sun and the wandering winds, despoiled even of the vines and flowers with which nature has striven to hide the ravages of man. We must go back to their excavation in the early part of the sixteenth century if we would study the tell-tale _mise-en-scène_. It was Pirro Ligorio who in 1538 made for Cardinal Ippolito d'Este II. the first systematic exploration and authoritative map of Hadrian's villa. A Neapolitan by birth, but called to Rome by his friend Pope Paul IV. (Caraffa), Ligorio, upon his arrival was associated with the aged Michael Angelo in the building of St. Peter's. With the arrogance of youth he quarrelled with the great master and did not hesitate to speak of him openly as a dotard who had outlived his usefulness and should yield his place to a younger genius. Paul IV. had the wisdom to retain Michael Angelo in his important post, and the tact to take the sting from Ligorio's removal by giving him the commission for the casino in the Vatican Gardens which (as it was not finished until the pontificate of Pius IV.) was destined to bear the name of the Villa Pia. Learned authorities have endeavoured to find the original of Ligorio's masterpiece in some ancient building, whereas the perfect adaptability of its plan to new requirements proves that it could never have been produced earlier than the Renaissance. It has been well epitomised as the "day-dream of an artist who has saturated his mind with the past." [Illustration: Antinous as Bacchus, in the Museum of the Vatican Permission of Alinari.] In the profusion of joyous mythological deities which give the façade of the Casino the richness of decoration of a jewel-casket, nymphs and graces dance, Pan flutes, and marine monsters frolic with all the abandon of classical feeling, and it is in the ornamental details, not in the conception of the ensemble, that we detect the influence of the Villa of Hadrian. When the papal villa was approaching completion, Ligorio attracted the attention of Cardinal Ippolito d'Este II. (the patron of Tasso) a connoisseur and dilettante in all the arts, who wisely entrusted to the young architect the construction of his famous villa at Tivoli. The Cardinal had the right to quarry materials from the neighbouring ruins, and among the first of the great discoveries which Ligorio records is that of a statue of Antinous. It depicted the youth under the attributes of Bacchus, and was possibly a replica of the beautiful statue found later at Præneste and now in the Sala Rotonda of the Vatican. From the hour that it was carried in triumph to the terraces of Villa d'Este, Ligorio and his patron as well, were taken captive by a new enthusiasm, for a lucky chance had guided the excavators to the most richly ornamented of all the apartments in the Emperor's wonderful palace--the heavy-folded curtain of Time had rolled upward disclosing the scene of the happiest hours in the short life of Antinous. An exquisite circular palazzita lay before them, islanded by a marble-lined canal five metres broad from an encircling portico, whose roof was supported by forty Corinthian columns of precious _giallo antico_. Noting the important part played by water in this construction, the canal fed by fountains, whose pipes and mechanism plainly showed within the statues which ornamented the rotunda, Ligorio hastily concluded that this was the Emperor's natatorium or swimming pool. But the feminine elegance of the fairy-like suite of apartments, to which the canal served as a moat; the presence of drawbridges worked from the centre, thus cutting off or affording communication with the colonnade at the will of the occupant, and evidences that the canal itself was a _nympheum_ or aquatic garden, among whose rose-coloured lotus blossoms white swans glided, flamingoes darted, and tall clusters of papyrus screened the porticoes from the gaze of passers, favoured the conclusion that this pavilion of all delight was designed for some beautiful woman royally beloved. The frieze of loves, mounted upon hippocampi imitating the games of the circus, which Ligorio copied in the vestibule of the Villa Pia formed a part of the decoration lavished here. [Illustration: _Alinari_ Villa Pia in the Garden of the Vatican Pirro Ligorio, architect] The conspicuous situation of the palazzita between the basilica and the imperial apartments, to which its encircling colonnade served as a corridor of communication, indicated that the lady was not a favourite of low degree, to be hidden away in some Rosalind's bower of the immense labyrinthine palace, while the most valuable statues in the entire villa, such as the replica of the Cnidian Venus by Praxiteles, the Eros bending the bow, by the same master, made this temple of love and Venus a fitting pavilion for an empress. Such it may well have been, for here was found the sculptured portrait of Faustina, the wife of Antoninus Pius, Hadrian's successor, who resided in the villa both before and after the death of Antinous. She was the beautiful mother of a more beautiful daughter of the same name, an empress in her turn, and both branded by a historian of the time as infamous. Swinburne's apostrophe in _Ave Faustina Imperatrix_ applies equally to the portrait bust of mother or daughter: "Your throat, Strong, heavy, throwing out the face, And hard, bright chin And shameful, scornful lips that grace Their shame, Faustine." But it is possible that Swinburne was too hasty in accepting ancient gossip, and that both the Faustinas were maligned. "Modern scholarship," says Monsieur Victor Duruy, "argues for their rehabilitation, and chiefly because the husbands of each, good and wise men both, have left such unequivocal testimony of their respect." "To the gods," wrote Marcus Aurelius of the younger Faustina, "I am indebted that I have such a wife, so obedient, so affectionate, and so simple." And after the death of his wife (Faustina the elder) Antoninus Pius cried in his grief: "O God, I would rather live with her in a desert than without her in this palace." In this enchanting palazzita the younger Faustina may have passed her childhood, while the scholarly boy, Marcus Aurelius, her cousin, listened to the disquisitions of the philosophers as they discussed great problems with the Emperor. [Illustration: _Alinari_ Villa Pia, Vatican The Rotondo--Pirro Ligorio, architect] Hadrian loved the lad, and for his absolute truthfulness nicknamed him Verissimus, making him a knight at the age of six. He was the comrade of Antinous, and as they passed to and fro together through colonnaded rotonda they must have often noted the young mother (she was sixteen when married) and her bewitching child, waving white hands from across the lily-padded moat. Here, then, are certain of the actors, as well as our _mise-en-scène_, and Marcus Aurelius, in his _Meditations_, has himself given us a hint as to the drama. "Forget not," he writes, "that in times gone by everything has already happened just as it is happening. Place before thine eyes whole dramas with the same endings, the same scenes, just as thou knowest them by thine own experience, or from earlier history--such, for example, as the whole Court of Hadrian." If with these instructions we remember Marcus Aurelius's still more significant words, "Even in a palace life may be well led," each of us can according to his own fancy divine the secret which Antinous kept so well. Had Ligorio given to literature the sympathetic imagination which he displayed in his art it might have been worthily revealed. For ten years he explored with the most intense enthusiasm the interminable apartments which were to prove an inexhaustible mine of art for modern museums, and whose bibliography would fill a library. Then in 1572 his munificent patron died, and the work suddenly came to an end. For two centuries the Villa of Hadrian lay neglected until new discoveries revived popular interest, and a young German scholar was called to superintend the building and installation of the last of the great villas erected in Rome by a member of its hierarchical aristocracy. There exists such striking parallelism in the history of the Villa d'Este and the Villa Albani, and on such identical lines was the work carried on that it would almost seem that, the duration of human life not being sufficient to complete it, Cardinal Ippolito and Pirro Ligorio were granted reincarnation for another fifty years in Cardinal Albani and his friend Winckelmann. [Illustration: Eros Bending the Bow Capitoline Museum] [Illustration: Faun of Praxiteles Capitoline Museum] Notwithstanding the many masterpieces secured by Cardinal d'Este it was known from ancient records that the greatest treasures of the Villa Hadriana had escaped his eager search, having been so securely hidden on the invasion of the Goths, that they evaded as well all other plunderers. But early in the eighteenth century Gavin Hamilton, commissioned to secure antiques for the British Museum, drained an extensive marsh called the Pantello and found it to be the depository in which Belisarius had secreted the missing statues on the approach of Totila.[10] From this hiding-place there emerged between 1730 and 1780, the _Antinous_ of the museum of the Capitol and the relief of the Villa Albani together with the _Resting Faun_ of Praxiteles which so captivated the imagination of Hawthorne, and many another famous work of art now the glory of some far distant museum. Fortunately for Italy, England found a contesting bidder in Cardinal Albani, and the majority of the statues found in the Pantello were purchased by him. At the same time the magnificent collection of Cardinal Ippolito d'Este, was offered at public sale by the degenerate spendthrift who inherited it, and sixty of the finest statues were secured for Villa Albani and rejoined their old companions. Winckelmann gloated over their beauty, for he united the artist's appreciation to the connoisseurship of the archæologist. What solicitude for its appropriate setting, only surpassed by that of Hadrian himself, did he bestow on the placing of each individual statue, and with what exultation he records its arrival. "The Cardinal has brought from Tivoli on a _carro_ drawn by sixteen bullocks a female river deity of colossal size well preserved" (and still to be seen reclining on the margin of a reservoir). To the relief of _Antinous_ Winckelmann gave the place of honour which it now occupies. Let us read his own record of the esteem in which he held it. "The glory and the crown of sculpture in this age _as well as in all ages_" he does not hesitate to assert, "are two likenesses of Antinous." One of them, in the Albani villa, is in relief, the other is a colossal head in the Mondragone villa. "The former disinterred from Hadrian's villa is," says Winckelmann, "only a fragment of an entire figure which probably stood on a chariot. For the right hand, which is empty, is in a position that leads me to conclude that it must have held the reins. In this work therefore would have been represented the deification of Antinous as we know that figures so honoured were placed upon cars to signify their translation to the gods. [Illustration: Villa Albani] [Illustration: Casino, Villa Albani _Alinari_] [Illustration: _Alinari_ Candelabrum from Hadrian's Villa Museum of the Vatican] [Illustration: _Alinari_ Candelabrum from Hadrian's Villa Museum of the Vatican] "The colossal head in the Mondragone villa (now in the Louvre) I hold it no heresy to say is, next to the Vatican Apollo and the Laocoon, the most beautiful work which has come down to us." The two friends lived a charmed life more in the past than in the Rome of their own day until the spree was rudely broken by Winckelmann's tragic death at the hands of a vulgar robber, and the grey-haired cardinal wandered alone among his cherished marbles. Many of these he donated to the Capitoline Museum and to the Vatican, but the relief of Antinous he held among his most cherished possessions. It would have broken the good man's heart to have known that these statues were doomed to wander far from the home which he had provided for them. The French took possession of Italy, and the masterpieces of the Villa Albani formed only a fraction of the wholesale robberies which for a time enriched the museum of the Louvre. On the fall of Napoleon the Pope chose the sculptor Canova as his envoy to negotiate with the allies for the return of the art treasures of Italy. Canova was successful, for he pleaded from a full heart; but although he secured the restitution of the two hundred and ninety-four statues which Napoleon had taken from the Villa Albani, Cardinal Giuseppe Albani, an unworthy successor of the great collector, sold all but one in order to avoid the cost of their return transportation. The poor peripatetic philosophers, emperors, empresses, gods, and goddesses trooped on like uneasy ghosts, not a few of them finding shelter in the Glyptothek at Munich. The one piece of sculpture reserved from this fate of expatriation, and reinstated in triumph in its old position in the salon at the left of the main gallery of the villa, it is hardly necessary to state, was the relief of _Antinous_. Here it remains and lures us, according to our bent, to study or to dream of the life which its original so passionately lived, and instinctively we search for some statue of a woman of equal charm to link with it in our dreams. Ebers thought he had found it in the loveliest of the nine muses which Ligorio discovered in the theatre of Hadrian's villa. In 1689 Velasquez was sent to Rome to acquire them for Philip V. Eight of them may still be seen in the Museum of Madrid, but the ninth muse, Urania, from which the d'Estes could not then be induced to part, is now in the Sala delle Muse of the Vatican. This is the Urania which Ebers imagines to have been carved by the young Alexandrine sculptor, Pollux, from the Selene whom we are told Antinous vainly loved. The face is very winsome and the romance might satisfy us, but for a portrait-statue of a genuine Selene, found by Ligorio near the palazzita and now in the casino of the Villa Albani. [Illustration: _Alinari_ Urania Museum of the Vatican] It is catalogued as _Iris Descending_, but mistakenly, says Monsieur Guzman, for Iris was invariably represented with wings, and this graceful figure is wingless, a torch in hand, and floating downward so gently that her motion scarcely agitates her soft drapery. Authorities are now agreed that the lovely figure represents Selene, the moon-goddess, who, enamoured with Endymion, kept tryst with him in his dreams, and a beautiful "Sleeping Youth" was actually discovered beneath the descending Selene, thus completing the composition and verifying the assumption as to its subject. That the recumbent youth was not at once recognised as intended to represent Endymion is due to the inability of the scientific mind to grasp more than one idea at a time, for the features bore so marked a resemblance to those of Antoninus Pius that it was rightly considered a portrait of that Emperor in his youth. Only recently have archæologists accepted the title, _Antoninus Pius as Endymion_ and it seems probable that the Selene of Villa Albani portrayed the Empress Faustina, and that this group was a tribute of the Emperor's to his beautiful wife, his "Diva Faustina," who stooped to him like the moon-goddess from the sky. Is it not equally possible that he caused the symbols of Selene to be cut upon her signet that she might use it in her intimate correspondence, that the charm of this wonderful woman was associated in his mind with the magic of moonlight, gentle, love-compelling, and pure? Such a testimonial does in fact exist in a medal struck by the command of Antoninus Pius after the death of the Empress, representing Faustina bearing two torches, but returning to heaven, and depriving him of the light which had illumined their wedded life; and lest there should be any doubt that the deity typified in this apotheosis is Selene the Emperor caused the words _Luna lucifera_ to be engraved beneath the name of Faustina. The myth of the love of the lady-moon has nowhere been so exquisitely rendered as in the _Endymion_ of Keats, and his description of the descent of Selene applies well to the moon-maiden of the Villa Albani: "I raised My sight right upward, but it was quite daz'd By a bright something sailing down apace, Making me quickly veil my eyes and face. . . . . . . . Her locks were simply gordianed up and braided Leaving in naked comeliness unshaded Her pearl round ears, white neck, and orbed brow. . . . I see her hovering feet More bluely veined, more whitely sweet Than those of sea-born Venus when she rose From out her cradle shell. The wind out-blows Her scarf into a fluttering pavilion, 'Tis blue and over-spangled with a million Of little eyes, as though thou wert to shed Over the darkest lushest blue-bell bed Handfuls of daisies."[11] Faustina may have known Antinous before her marriage, while Hadrian still hoped to make him his successor, ere the clamours of the people forced him to make the wiser choice. Had Antinous been so favoured, is there any doubt whether Faustina would not have inclined to him instead of to the good man with the serious, anxious face, who was more than twice her age when he became her husband? The statues of Antinous fully realise Keats's ideal of Endymion. "His youth was fully blown Shining like Ganymede to manhood grown, A smile was on his countenance; he seemed To common lookers-on like one who dreamed Of idleness in groves Elysian But there were some who feelingly could scan A lurking trouble in his nether lip. Then would they sigh, 'Ah! well-a-day Why should our young Endymion pine away?'" We know not on what authority Ebers links the name of Antinous, Endymion-like, with that of Selene. Was there some missive sealed by a moon-beam torch, or addressed to the lady moon which went astray and set the gossip of the Court crackling like a flame in dry grass? Or was it merely his aspiration for the throne of the Cæsars which was signified by the common expression, "he longed for the moon," and not a love hopeless, but beyond his power to conquer for the unattainable Selene, which saddened his young life so deeply, and determined him to throw it away when the occasion seemed to demand the sacrifice. Both research and fancy will lead you far, for it was in Egypt that the most dramatic part of the story was enacted, and that Antinous, believing that in so doing he saved Hadrian's life, launched forth upon the Nile during a terrific tempest, and standing erect in the unguided canoe sought a voluntary death in the storm-lashed waters. The Emperor's grief was wildly extravagant. He gave the beautiful body a king's burial in a tomb flanked by obelisks and guarded by a sphinx; and he built about it a magnificent city which he called Antinopolis, a city which exists to this day though no man lives within its desolate columned streets. But the deserted city has been identified in the ruins called by the Egyptians, Antinoe. Its hippodrome, and theatres, and temple tomb have all been mapped by archæologists, and its Arch of Triumph, of Roman bricks faced with white marble, its long colonnades of Corinthian columns, and its melancholy waving palms have been photographed by troops of unreflecting tourists. While erecting memorials to his friend, Hadrian was not unmindful of his own sepulchral monument, the present castle of St. Angelo. It served as a mausoleum for the imperial family. The ashes of Faustina (to whose memory her husband erected the beautiful temple bearing her name) were placed here, their urn guarded by two bronze peacocks, the emblems of an empress. These peacocks with the pineapple, which crowned the summit of the tomb, now ornament the Court of the Belvedere of the Vatican, in whose galleries may be found some of the statues with which Hadrian decorated the upper colonnade of the mausoleum, and which were wrenched from their pedestals and toppled upon the heads of the Goths when Totila besieged Rome. Gregorovius in his scholarly biography of Hadrian thus sums up his achievements and estimates his character: "He ruled the empire like a noble Roman, with prudence and strength. He enjoyed life with the joy of the ancients. He travelled throughout the world and found it worth the trouble. He restored it and embellished it with new beauty. He was lavish on a great scale." We certainly do not know what he thought of his whole life at the end of it. He might have agreed with the estimate of Marcus Aurelius: "All that belongs to the soul is a dream and a delusion; life is a struggle and a wandering among strangers, and fame after death is forgetfulness." That he had some vague belief in the immortality of the soul the well-known poem written shortly before his death certainly shows: "Animula, vagula, blandula; Hospes, comesque corporis, Quæ nunc abibis in loca; Pallidula, rigida, nudula, Nec ut soles dabis jocos?" "Celestial spirit, evanescent fay, Supernal guest and sharer of my might, Wherefore and whither dost thou fly away, Exquisite phantom, nude and ghostly white, Never with me again to flit and play, Never with me to play?" Reluctantly, after all our search, we find that archæology, while it tells us much of Hadrian, leaves Antinous still a mystery. The forsaken pleasure palace is silent and empty save for ghosts of the imagination. We see the imperial barges glide up the Nile as in a pageant, but it is all a wordless pantomime, though the beautiful immortal figure stands. "Still there where he a thousand years hath stood And watched, with gaze intent, the ages' flood His graceful limbs reflecting, then as now His lotus crown the sadness on his brow, And races new in line unending glide Along in shells upon the flowing tide; But aye as they approach and look on him Athwart their joy there falls a sorrow dim, The citherns cease that rang as they drew nigh, On glowing lips the jests and kisses die. And, lo! the heart is seized by infinite woe, With arms outstretched they gaze as on they go-- 'O waken, boy! O waken from thy dream! Say what thou seest below the ages stream, Tell us, is life's enigma known to thee? Give us thy own fair immortality!' But ere he from his revery wakens they Have with the river drifted far away." [Illustration: View through the Key-hole of the Gate of the Villa of the Knights of Malta] [Illustration] L'ENVOI A keyhole glimpse at Rome they show 'Twixt cypresses, a stately row, Where all who pass are free to see The villa of the Priory. Here belted knights, with cross on breast, In days of old were wont to rest, And 'neath the ilex hedges tall Oft paced the subtle Cardinal, His robe upon the pavement cool Mantling like some ensanguined pool. St. Peter's keys, traditions tell, Open the gates of Heaven and Hell. O'er many a villa gate they 're shown, With triple crown carved deep in stone. If, then, you crave a fuller view Than keyhole glimpses give to you, Unlock and enter. You shall know A Heaven of art, a Hell of woe. THE END FOOTNOTES: [1] His magnificent villa of Caprarola and the still more entrancing villa of Lante are linked with legends of Giulio Farnese and Vittoria Accoramboni in the author's _Romance of Italian Villas_, which with the _Romance of the Renaissance Châteaux_ will be found supplementary to the present volume. [2] From _The Italian Rhapsody_, by permission of Mr. Robert Underwood Johnson. [3] Translated by E. Frère Champney. [4] A song composed by Lorenzo de' Medici. "How lovely is our youth, and yet how fast it flies! Those who wish for joy must snatch it now. Trust not to to-morrow; seize it now, seize it now!" [5] The earliest cards were not inscribed with hearts, diamonds, clubs, and spades, but with swords, money, clubs, and cups. The same emblems are still used on the Spanish playing-cards. [6] The French historians call him Richart de Cornouailles, the Italians Ricciardo. [7] A _stornello a fiore_ consists generally of a couplet beginning with an invocation to a flower, as: Fior di limone! Limone è agro e non si puoi mangiare Ma son più agre le pene d'amore. Fior di granato! Se li sospiri mie fossere fuocco, Tutto il mondo sarebbe buciato. See also the _stornelli_ in Browning's _Fra Lippo Lippi_ of two of which Richard's are variants. [8] Palliano or Pagliano, for the name is variously spelled. [9] John Addington Symonds further relates in what strange ways fate fulfilled this prediction. "Disaster fell on each of the five brothers. The first of them, Ottavio, was killed by a cannon-ball at sea in honorable combat with the Turk. Another, Girolamo, who sought refuge in France, was shot down in an ambuscade while pursuing his amours with a gentle lady. A third, Alessandro, died under arms before Paris in the troops of General Farnese. A fourth, Luca, was imprisoned at Rome for his share of the step-mother's murder, but was released on the plea that he had avenged the wounded honour of his race. He died, however, poisoned by his own brother Marcantoni in 1599. Marcantoni was arrested on suspicion and imprisoned in Torre di Nona, where he confessed his guilt. He was shortly afterward beheaded on the little square before the bridge of St. Angelo." [10] Hamilton was aided in his work by Piranesi whose engravings record the state of the ruins at this time. [11] The same figure is depicted in the frescoes of Pompeii, and here the deep blue of an Italian night glittering with stars gives the added touch of colour. 
15400	----	RENAISSANCE IN ITALY The Age of the Despots by JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS Author of _Studies of the Greek Poets_, _Sketches in Italy and Greece_, etc. 'Di questi adunque oziosi principi, e di queste vilissime armi, sarà piena la mia Istoria' Mach. 1_st_. _Fior_. lib. i. New York Henry Holt and Company 1888 TO MY FRIEND JOHN BEDDOE, M.D., F.R.S., I DEDICATE MY WORK ON THE ITALIAN RENAISSANCE. AUTHOR'S EDITION AUTHOR'S NOTE TO THE AMERICAN EDITION. Though these books taken together and in the order planned by the author form one connected study of Italian culture at a certain period of history, still each aims at a completeness of its own, and each can be read independently of its companions. That the author does not regard acquaintance with any one of them as essential to a profitable reading of any other has been shown by the publication of each with a separate title-page and without numeration of the volumes, while all three bear the same general heading of "Renaissance in Italy." PREFACE. This volume is the First Part of a work upon the 'Renaissance in Italy.' The Second Part treats of the Revival of Learning. The Third, of the Fine Arts. The Fourth Part, in two volumes, is devoted to Italian Literature. Owing to the extent of the ground I have attempted to traverse, I feel conscious that the students of special departments will find much to be desired in my handling of each part. In some respects I hope that the several portions of the work may complete and illustrate each other. Many topics, for example, have been omitted from Chapter VIII. in this volume because they seemed better adapted to treatment in the future. One of the chief difficulties which the critic has to meet in dealing with the Italian Renaissance is the determination of the limits of the epoch. Two dates, 1453 and 1527, marking respectively the fall of Constantinople and the sack of Rome, are convenient for fixing in the mind that narrow space of time during which the Renaissance culminated. But in order to trace its progress up to this point, it is necessary to go back to a far more remote period; nor, again, is it possible to maintain strict chronological consistency in treating of the several branches of the whole theme. The books of which the most frequent use has been made in this first portion of the work are Sismondi's 'Républiques Italiennes'; Muratori's 'Rerum Italicarum Scriptores'; the 'Archivio Storico Italiano'; the seventh volume of Michelet's 'Histoire de France'; the seventh and eighth volumes of Gregorovius' 'Geschichte der Stadt Rom'; Ferrari's 'Rivoluzioni d' Italia'; Alberi's series of Despatches; Gino Capponi's 'Storia della Repubblica di Firenze'; and Burckhardt's 'Cultur der Renaissance in Italien.' To the last-named essay I must acknowledge especial obligations. It fell under my notice when I had planned, and in a great measure finished, my own work. But it would be difficult for me to exaggerate the profit I have derived from the comparison of my opinions with those of a writer so thorough in his learning and so delicate in his perceptions as Jacob Burckhardt, or the amount I owe to his acute and philosophical handling of the whole subject. I must also express a special debt to Ferrari, many of whose views I have adopted in the Chapter on 'Italian History.' With regard to the alterations introduced into the substance of the book in this edition, it will be enough to say that I have endeavored to bring each chapter up to the level of present knowledge. In conclusion, I once more ask indulgence for a volume which, though it aims at a completeness of its own, is professedly but one part of a long inquiry. CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. THE SPIRIT OF THE RENAISSANCE. Difficulty of fixing Date--Meaning of Word Renaissance--The Emancipation of the Reason--Relation of Feudalism to the Renaissance--Mediæval Warnings of the Renaissance--Abelard, Bacon, Joachim of Flora, the Provencals, the Heretics, Frederick II.--Dante, Petrarch, Boccaccio--Physical Energy of the Italians--The Revival of Learning--The Double Discovery of the World and of Man--Exploration of the Universe and of the Globe--Science--The Fine Arts and Scholarship--Art Humanizes the Conceptions of the Church--Three Stages in the History of Scholarship--The Age of Desire--The Age of Acquisition--The Legend of Julia's Corpse--The Age of the Printers and Critics--The Emancipation of the Conscience--The Reformation and the Modern Critical Spirit--Mechanical Inventions--The Place of Italy in the Renaissance P. 1. CHAPTER II. ITALIAN HISTORY. The special Difficulties of this Subject--Apparent Confusion--Want of leading Motive--The Papacy--The Empire--The Republics--The Despots--The People--The Dismemberment of Italy--Two main Topics--The Rise of the Communes--Gothic Kingdom--Lombards--Franks--Germans--The Bishops--The Consuls--The Podestas--Civil Wars--Despots--The Balance of Power--The Five Italian States--The Italians fail to achieve National Unity--The Causes of this Failure--Conditions under which it might have been achieved--A Republic--A Kingdom--A Confederation--A Tyranny--The Part played by the Papacy P. 32. CHAPTER III. THE AGE OF THE DESPOTS. Salient Qualities of the Fourteenth and Fifteenth Centuries in Italy--Relation of Italy to the Empire and to the Church--The Illegitimate Title of Italian Potentates--The Free Emergence of Personality--Frederick II. and the Influence of his Example--Ezzelino da Romano--Six Sorts of Italian Despots--Feudal Seigneurs--Vicars of the Empire--Captains of the People--Condottieri--Nephews and Sons of Popes--Eminent Burghers--Italian Incapacity for Self-government in Commonwealths--Forcible Tenure of Power encouraged Personal Ability--The Condition of the Despot's Life--Instances of Domestic Crime in the Ruling Houses--Macaulay's Description of the Italian Tyrant--Savonarola's and Matteo Villani's Descriptions of a Tyrant--The Absorption of Smaller by Greater Tyrannies in the Fourteenth Century--History of the Visconti--Francesco Sforza--The Part played in Italian Politics by Military Leaders--Mercenary Warfare--Alberico da Barbiano, Braccio da Montone, Sforza Attendolo--History of the Sforza Dynasty--The Murder of Galeazzo Maria Sforza--The Ethics of Tyrannicide in Italy--Relation of the Despots to Arts and Letters--Sigismondo Pandolfo Malatesta--Duke Federigo of Urbino--The School of Vittorino and the Court of Urbino--The Cortegiano of Castiglione--The Ideals of the Italian Courtier and the Modern Gentleman--General Retrospect P. 99. CHAPTER IV. THE REPUBLICS. The different Physiognomies of the Italian Republics--The Similarity of their Character as Municipalities--The Rights of Citizenship--Causes of Disturbance in the Commonwealths--Belief in the Plasticity of Constitutions--Example of Genoa--Savonarola's Constitution--Machiavelli's Discourse to Leo X.--Complexity of Interests and Factions--Example of Siena--Small Size of Italian Cities--Mutual Mistrust and Jealousy of the Commonwealths--The notable Exception of Venice--Constitution of Venice--Her wise System of Government--Contrast of Florentine Vicissitudes--The Magistracies of Florence--Balia and Parlamento--The Arts of the Medici--Comparison of Venice and Florence in respect to Intellectual Activity and Mobility--Parallels between Greece and Italy--Essential Differences--The Mercantile Character of Italian Burghs--The 'Trattato del Governo della Famiglia'--The Bourgeois Tone of Florence, and the Ideal of a Burgher--Mercenary Arms P. 193. CHAPTER V. THE FLORENTINE HISTORIANS. Florence, the City of Intelligence--Cupidity, Curiosity, and the Love of Beauty--Florentine Historical Literature--Philosophical Study of History--Ricordano Malespini--Florentine History compared with the Chronicles of other Italian Towns--The Villani--The Date 1300--Statistics--Dante's Political Essays and Pamphlets--Dino Compagni--Latin Histories of Florence in Fifteenth Century--Lionardo Bruni and Poggio Bracciolini--The Historians of the First Half of the Sixteenth Century--Men of Action and Men of Letters; the Doctrinaires--Florence between 1494 and 1537--Varchi, Segni, Nardi, Pitti, Nerli, Guicciardini--The Political Importance of these Writers--The Last Years of Florentine Independence, and the Siege of 1529--State of Parties--Filippo Strozzi--Different Views of Florentine Weakness taken by the Historians--Their Literary Qualities--Francesco Guicciardini and Niccolo Machiavelli--Scientific Statists--Discord between Life and Literature--The Biography of Guicciardini--His 'Istoria d'Italia,' 'Dialogo del Reggimento di Firenze,' 'Storia Fiorentina,' 'Ricordi'--Biography of Machiavelli--His Scheme of a National Militia--Dedication of 'The Prince'--Political Ethics of the Italian Renaissance--The 'Discorsi'--The Seven Books on the Art of War and the 'History of Florence. P. 246. CHAPTER VI. 'THE PRINCE' OF MACHIAVELLI. The Sincerity of Machiavelli in this Essay--Machiavellism--His deliberate Formulation of a cynical political Theory--Analysis of 'The Prince'--Nine Conditions of Principalities--The Interest of the Conqueror acknowledged as the sole Motive of his Policy--Critique of Louis XII.--Feudal Monarchy and Oriental Despotism--Three Ways of subduing a free City--Example of Pisa--Principalities founded by Adventurers--Moses, Romulus, Cyrus, Theseus--Savonarola--Francesco Sforza--Cesare Borgia--Machiavelli's personal Relation to him--Machiavelli's Admiration of Cesare's Genius--A Sketch of Cesare's Career--Concerning those who have attained to Sovereignty by Crimes--Oliverotto da Fermo--The Uses of Cruelty--Messer Ramiro d' Orco--The pessimistic Morality of Machiavelli--On the Faith of Princes--Alexander VI.--The Policy of seeming virtuous and honest--Absence of chivalrous Feeling in Italy--The Military System of a powerful Prince--Criticism of Mercenaries and Auxiliaries--Necessity of National Militia--The Art of War--Patriotic Conclusion of the Treatise--Machiavelli and Savonarola P. 334. CHAPTER VII. THE POPES OF THE RENAISSANCE. The Papacy between 1447 and 1527--The Contradictions of the Renaissance Period exemplified by the Popes--Relaxation of their hold over the States of the Church and Rome during the Exile in Avignon--Nicholas V.--His Conception of a Papal Monarchy--Pius II.--The Crusade--Renaissance Pontiffs--Paul II.--Persecution of the Platonists--Sixtus IV.--Nepotism--The Families of Riario and Delia Rovere--Avarice--Love of Warfare--Pazzi Conspiracy--Inquisition in Spain--Innocent VIII.--Franceschetto Cibo--The Election of Alexander VI.--His Consolidation of the Temporal Power--Policy toward Colonna and Orsini Families--Venality of everything in Rome--Policy toward the Sultan--The Index--The Borgia Family--Lucrezia--Murder of Duke of Gandia--Cesare and his Advancement--The Death of Alexander--Julius II.--His violent Temper--Great Projects and commanding Character--Leo X.--His Inferiority to Julius--S. Peter's and the Reformation--Adrian VI.--His Hatred of Pagan Culture--Disgust of the Roman Court at his Election--Clement VII.--Sack of Rome--Enslavement of Florence P. 371. CHAPTER VIII. THE CHURCH AND MORALITY. Corruption of the Church--Degradation and Division of Italy--Opinions of Machiavelli, Guicciardini, and King Ferdinand of Naples--Incapacity of the Italians for thorough Reformation--The Worldliness and Culture of the Renaissance--Witness of Italian Authors against the Papal Court and the Convents--Superstitious Respect for Relics--Separation between Religion and Morality--Mixture of Contempt and Reverence for the Popes--Gianpaolo Baglioni--Religious Sentiments of the Tyrannicides--Pietro Paolo Boscoli--Tenacity of Religions--The direct Interest of the Italians in Rome--Reverence for the Sacraments of the Church--Opinions pronounced by Englishmen on Italian Immorality--Bad Faith and Sensuality--The Element of the Fancy in Italian Vice--The Italians not Cruel, or Brutal, or Intemperate by Nature--Domestic Murders--Sense of Honor in Italy--Onore and Onesta--General Refinement--Good Qualities of the People--Religious Revivalism P. 447. CHAPTER IX. SAVONAROLA. The Attitude of Savonarola toward the Renaissance--His Parentage, Birth, and Childhood at Ferrara--His Poem on the Ruin of the World--Joins the Dominicans at Bologna--Letter to his Father--Poem on the Ruin of the Church--Begins to preach in 1482--First Visit to Florence--San Gemignano--His Prophecy--Brescia in 1486--Personal Appearance and Style of Oratory--Effect on his audience--The three Conclusions--His Visions--Savonarola's Shortcomings as a patriotic Statesman--His sincere Belief in his prophetic Calling--Friendship with Pico della Mirandola--Settles in Florence, 1490--Convent of San Marco--Savonarola's Relation to Lorenzo de' Medici--The death of Lorenzo--Sermons of 1493 and 1494--the Constitution of 1495--Theocracy in Florence--Piagnoni, Bigi, and Arrabbiati--War between Savonarola and Alexander VI.--The Signory suspends him from preaching in the Duomo in 1498--Attempts to call a Council--The Ordeal by Fire--San Marco stormed by the Mob--Trial and Execution of Savonarola P. 497. CHAPTER X. CHARLES VIII. The Italian States confront the Great Nations of Europe--Policy of Louis XI. of France--Character of Charles VIII.--Preparations for the Invasion of Italy--Position of Lodovico Sforza--Diplomatic Difficulties in Italy after the Death of Lorenzo de' Medici--Weakness of the Republics--Il Moro--The year 1494---Alfonso of Naples--Inefficiency of the Allies to cope with France--Charles at Lyons is stirred up to the Invasion of Italy by Giuliano della Rovere--Charles at Asti and Pavia--Murder of Gian Galeazzo Sforza--Mistrust in the French Army--Rapallo and Fivizzano--The Entrance into Tuscany--Part played by Piero de' Medici--Charles at Pisa--His Entrance into Florence--Piero Capponi--The March on Rome--Entry into Rome--Panic of Alexander VI.--The March on Naples--The Spanish Dynasty: Alfonso and Ferdinand--Alfonso II. escapes to Sicily--Ferdinand II. takes Refuge in Ischia--Charles at Naples--The League against the French--De Comines at Venice--Charles makes his Retreat by Rome, Siena, Pisa, and Pontremoli--The Battle of Fornovo--Charles reaches Asti and returns to France--Italy becomes the Prize to be fought for by France, Spain, and Germany--Importance of the Expedition of Charles VIII. P. 537. * * * * * APPENDICES. No. I.--The Blood-madness of Tyrants 589 No. II.--Translations of Nardi, 'Istorie di Firenze,' lib. l. cap. 4; and of Varchi, 'Storia Fiorentina,' lib. iii. caps. 20, 21, 22; lib. ix. caps. 48, 49, 46 592 No. III.--The Character of Alexander VI., from Guicciardini's 'Storia Fiorentina,' cap. 27 603 No. IV.--Religious Revivals in Mediæval Italy 606 No. V.--The 'Sommario della Storia d' Italia dal 1511 al 1527, by Francesco Vettori 624 RENAISSANCE IN ITALY. CHAPTER I. THE SPIRIT OF THE RENAISSANCE. Difficulty of fixing Date--Meaning of Word Renaissance--The Emancipation of the Reason--Relation of Feudalism to the Renaissance--Mediæval Warnings of the Renaissance--Abelard, Bacon, Joachim of Flora, the Provençals, the Heretics, Frederick II.--Dante, Petrarch, Boccaccio--Physical Energy of the Italians--The Revival of Learning--The Double Discovery of the World and of Man--Exploration of the Universe and of the Globe--Science--The Fine Arts and Scholarship--Art Humanizes the Conceptions of the Church--Three Stages in the History of Scholarship--The Age of Desire--The Age of Acquisition--The Legend of Julia's Corpse--The Age of the Printers and Critics--The Emancipation of the Conscience--The Reformation and the Modern Critical Spirit--Mechanical Inventions--The Place of Italy in the Renaissance. The word Renaissance has of late years received a more extended significance than that which is implied in our English equivalent--the Revival of Learning. We use it to denote the whole transition from the Middle Ages to the Modern World; and though it is possible to assign certain limits to the period during which this transition took place, we cannot fix on any dates so positively as to say--between this year and that the movement was accomplished. To do so would be like trying to name the days on which spring in any particular season began and ended Yet we speak of spring as different from winter and from summer. The truth is, that in many senses we are still in mid-Renaissance. The evolution has not been completed. The new life is our own and is progressive. As in the transformation scene of some great Masque, so here the waning and the waxing shapes are mingled; the new forms, at first shadowy and filmy, gain upon the old; and now both blend; and now the old scene fades into the background; still, who shall say whether the new scene be finally set up? In like manner we cannot refer the whole phenomena of the Renaissance to any one cause or circumstance, or limit them within the field of any one department of human knowledge. If we ask the students of art what they mean by the Renaissance, they will reply that it was the revolution effected in architecture, painting, and sculpture by the recovery of antique monuments. Students of literature, philosophy, and theology see in the Renaissance that discovery of manuscripts, that passion for antiquity, that progress in philology and criticism, which led to a correct knowledge of the classics, to a fresh taste in poetry, to new systems of thought, to more accurate analysis, and finally to the Lutheran schism and the emancipation of the conscience. Men of science will discourse about the discovery of the solar system by Copernicus and Galileo, the anatomy of Vesalius, and Harvey's theory of the circulation of the blood. The origination of a truly scientific method is the point which interests them most in the Renaissance. The political historian, again, has his own answer to the question. The extinction of feudalism, the development of the great nationalities of Europe, the growth of monarchy, the limitation of the ecclesiastical authority and the erection of the Papacy into an Italian kingdom, and in the last place the gradual emergence of that sense of popular freedom which exploded in the Revolution; these are the aspects of the movement which engross his attention. Jurists will describe the dissolution of legal fictions based upon the false decretals, the acquisition of a true text of the Roman Code, and the attempt to introduce a rational method into the theory of modern jurisprudence, as well as to commence the study of international law. Men whose attention has been turned to the history of discoveries and inventions will relate the exploration of America and the East, or will point to the benefits conferred upon the world by the arts of printing and engraving, by the compass and the telescope, by paper and by gunpowder; and will insist that at the moment of the Renaissance all these instruments of mechanical utility started into existence, to aid the dissolution of what was rotten and must perish, to strengthen and perpetuate the new and useful and life-giving. Yet neither any one of these answers taken separately, nor indeed all of them together, will offer a solution of the problem. By the term Renaissance, or new birth, is indicated a natural movement, not to be explained by this or that characteristic, but to be accepted as an effort of humanity for which at length the time had come, and in the onward progress of which we still participate. The history of the Renaissance is not the history of arts, or of sciences, or of literature, or even of nations. It is the history of the attainment of self-conscious freedom by the human spirit manifested in the European races. It is no mere political mutation, no new fashion of art, no restoration of classical standards of taste. The arts and the inventions, the knowledge and the books, which suddenly became vital at the time of the Renaissance, had long lain neglected on the shores of the Dead Sea which we call the Middle Ages. It was not their discovery which caused the Renaissance. But it was the intellectual energy, the spontaneous outburst of intelligence, which enabled mankind at that moment to make use of them. The force then generated still continues, vital and expansive, in the spirit of the modern world. How was it, then, that at a certain period, about fourteen centuries after Christ, to speak roughly, the intellect of the Western races awoke as it were from slumber and began once more to be active? That is a question which we can but imperfectly answer. The mystery of organic life defeats analysis; whether the subject of our inquiry be a germ-cell, or a phenomenon so complex as the commencement of a new religion, or the origination of a new disease, or a new phase in civilization, it is alike impossible to do more than to state the conditions under which the fresh growth begins, and to point out what are its manifestations. In doing so, moreover, we must be careful not to be carried away by words of our own making. Renaissance, Reformation, and Revolution are not separate things, capable of being isolated; they are moments in the history of the human race which we find it convenient to name; while history itself is one and continuous, so that our utmost endeavors to regard some portion of it independently of the rest will be defeated. A glance at the history of the preceding centuries shows that, after the dissolution of the fabric of the Roman Empire, there was no immediate possibility of any intellectual revival. The barbarous races which had deluged Europe had to absorb their barbarism: the fragments of Roman civilization had either to be destroyed or assimilated: the Germanic nations had to receive culture and religion from the people they had superseded; the Church had to be created, and a new form given to the old idea of the Empire. It was further necessary that the modern nationalities should be defined, that the modern languages should be formed, that peace should be secured to some extent, and wealth accumulated, before the indispensable conditions for a resurrection of the free spirit of humanity could exist. The first nation which fulfilled these conditions was the first to inaugurate the new era. The reason why Italy took the lead in the Renaissance was, that Italy possessed a language, a favorable climate, political freedom, and commercial prosperity, at a time when other nations were still semi-barbarous. Where the human spirit had been buried in the decay of the Roman Empire, there it arose upon the ruins of that Empire; and the Papacy, called by Hobbes the ghost of the dead Roman Empire, seated, throned and crowned, upon the ashes thereof, to some extent bridged over the gulf between the two periods. Keeping steadily in sight the truth that the real quality of the Renaissance was intellectual, that it was the emancipation of the reason for the modern world, we may inquire how feudalism was related to it. The mental condition of the Middle Ages was one of ignorant prostration before the idols of the Church--dogma and authority and scholasticism. Again, the nations of Europe during these centuries were bound down by the brute weight of material necessities. Without the power over the outer world which the physical sciences and useful arts communicate, without the ease of life which wealth and plenty secure, without the traditions of a civilized past, emerging slowly from a state of utter rawness, each nation could barely do more than gain and keep a difficult hold upon existence. To depreciate the work achieved during the Middle Ages would be ridiculous. Yet we may point out that it was done unconsciously--that it was a gradual and instinctive process of becoming. The reason, in one word, was not awake; the mind of man was ignorant of its own treasures and its own capacities. It is pathetic to think of the mediæval students poring over a single ill-translated sentence of Porphyry, endeavoring to extract from its clauses whole systems of logical science, and torturing their brains about puzzles hardly less idle than the dilemma of Buridan's donkey, while all the time, at Constantinople and at Seville, in Greek and Arabic, Plato and Aristotle were alive but sleeping, awaiting only the call of the Renaissance to bid them speak with voice intelligible to the modern mind. It is no less pathetic to watch tide after tide of the ocean of humanity sweeping from all parts of Europe, to break in passionate but unavailing foam upon the shores of Palestine, whole nations laying life down for the chance of seeing the walls of Jerusalem, worshiping the sepulcher whence Christ had risen, loading their fleet with relics and with cargoes of the sacred earth, while all the time within their breasts and brains the spirit of the Lord was with them, living but unrecognized, the spirit of freedom which erelong was destined to restore its birthright to the world. Meanwhile the middle age accomplished its own work. Slowly and obscurely, amid stupidity and ignorance, were being forged the nations and the languages of Europe. Italy, France, Spain, England, Germany took shape. The actors of the future drama acquired their several characters, and formed the tongues whereby their personalities should be expressed. The qualities which render modern society different from that of the ancient world, were being impressed upon these nations by Christianity, by the Church, by chivalry, by feudal customs. Then came a further phase. After the nations had been molded, their monarchies and dynasties were established. Feudalism passed by slow degrees into various forms of more or less defined autocracy. In Italy and Germany numerous principalities sprang into pre-eminence; and though the nation was not united under one head, the monarchical principle was acknowledged. France and Spain submitted to a despotism, by right of which the king could say, 'L'Etat c'est moi.' England developed her complicated constitution of popular right and royal prerogative. At the same time the Latin Church underwent a similar process of transformation. The Papacy became more autocratic. Like the king, the Pope began to say, 'L'Eglise c'est moi.' This merging of the mediæval State and mediæval Church in the personal supremacy of King and Pope may be termed the special feature of the last age of feudalism which preceded the Renaissance. It was thus that the necessary conditions and external circumstances were prepared. The organization of the five great nations, and the leveling of political and spiritual interests under political and spiritual despots, formed the prelude to that drama of liberty of which the Renaissance was the first act, the Reformation the second, the Revolution the third, and which we nations of the present are still evolving in the establishment of the democratic idea. Meanwhile, it must not be imagined that the Renaissance burst suddenly upon the world in the fifteenth century without premonitory symptoms. Far from that: within the middle age itself, over and over again, the reason strove to break loose from its fetters. Abelard, in the twelfth century, tried to prove that the interminable dispute about entities and words was founded on a misapprehension. Roger Bacon, at the beginning of the thirteenth century, anticipated modern science, and proclaimed that man, by use of nature, can do all things. Joachim of Flora, intermediate between the two, drank one drop of the cup of prophecy offered to his lips, and cried that 'the Gospel of the Father was past, the Gospel of the Son was passing, the Gospel of the Spirit was to be.' These three men, each in his own way, the Frenchman as a logician, the Englishman as an analyst, the Italian as a mystic, divined the future but inevitable emancipation of the reason of mankind. Nor were there wanting signs, especially in Provence, that Aphrodite and Phoebus and the Graces were ready to resume their sway. The premature civilization of that favored region, so cruelly extinguished by the Church, was itself a reaction of nature against the restrictions imposed by ecclesiastical discipline; while the songs of the wandering students, known under the title of _Carmina Burana_, indicate a revival of Pagan or pre-Christian feeling in the very stronghold of mediæval learning. We have, moreover, to remember the Cathari, the Paterini, the Fraticelli, the Albigenses, the Hussites--heretics in whom the new light dimly shone, but who were instantly exterminated by the Church. We have to commemorate the vast conception of the Emperor Frederick II., who strove to found a new society of humane culture in the South of Europe, and to anticipate the advent of the spirit of modern tolerance. He, too, and all his race were exterminated by the Papal jealousy. Truly we may say with Michelet that the Sibyl of the Renaissance kept offering her books in vain to feudal Europe. In vain because the time was not yet. The ideas projected thus early on the modern world were immature and abortive, like those headless trunks and zoophitic members of half-molded humanity which, in the vision of Empedocles, preceded the birth of full-formed man. The nations were not ready. Franciscans imprisoning Roger Bacon for venturing to examine what God had meant to keep secret; Dominicans preaching crusades against the cultivated nobles of Toulouse; Popes stamping out the seed of enlightened Frederick; Benedictines erasing the masterpieces of classical literature to make way for their own litanies and lurries, or selling pieces of the parchment for charms; a laity devoted by superstition to saints and by sorcery to the devil; a clergy sunk in sensual sloth or fevered with demoniac zeal: these still ruled the intellectual destinies of Europe. Therefore the first anticipations of the Renaissance were fragmentary and sterile. Then came a second period. Dante's poem, a work of conscious art, conceived in a modern spirit and written in a modern tongue, was the first true sign that Italy, the leader of the nations of the West, had shaken off her sleep. Petrarch followed. His ideal, of antique culture as the everlasting solace and the universal education of the human race, his lifelong effort to recover the classical harmony of thought and speech, gave a direct impulse to one of the chief movements of the Renaissance--its passionate outgoing toward the ancient world. After Petrarch, Boccaccio opened yet another channel for the stream of freedom. His conception of human existence as joy to be accepted with thanksgiving, not as a gloomy error to be rectified by suffering, familiarized the fourteenth century with that form of semi-pagan gladness which marked the real Renaissance. In Dante, Petrarch, and Boccaccio Italy recovered the consciousness of intellectual liberty. What we call the Renaissance had not yet arrived; but their achievement rendered its appearance in due season certain. With Dante the genius of the modern world dared to stand alone and to create confidently after its own fashion. With Petrarch the same genius reached forth across the gulf of darkness, resuming the tradition of a splendid past. With Boccaccio the same genius proclaimed the beauty of the world, the goodliness of youth and strength and love and life, unterrified by hell, unappalled by the shadow of impending death. It was now, at the beginning of the fourteenth century, when Italy had lost indeed the heroic spirit which we admire in her Communes of the thirteenth, but had gained instead ease, wealth, magnificence, and that repose which springs from long prosperity, that the new age at last began. Europe was, as it were, a fallow field, beneath which lay buried the civilization of the old world. Behind stretched the centuries of mediævalism, intellectually barren and inert. Of the future there were as yet but faint foreshadowings. Meanwhile, the force of the nations who were destined to achieve the coming transformation was unexhausted; their physical and mental faculties were unimpaired. No ages of enervating luxury, of intellectual endeavor, of life artificially preserved or ingeniously prolonged, had sapped the fiber of the men who were about to inaugurate the modern world. Severely nurtured, unused to delicate living, these giants of the Renaissance were like boys in their capacity for endurance, their inordinate appetite for enjoyment. No generations, hungry, sickly, effete, critical, disillusioned, trod them down. Ennui and the fatigue that springs from skepticism, the despair of thwarted effort, were unknown. Their fresh and unperverted senses rendered them keenly alive to what was beautiful and natural. They yearned for magnificence, and instinctively comprehended splendor. At the same time the period of satiety was still far off. Everything seemed possible to their young energy; nor had a single pleasure palled upon their appetite. Born, as it were, at the moment when desires and faculties are evenly balanced, when the perceptions are not blunted nor the senses cloyed, opening their eyes for the first time on a world of wonder, these men of the Renaissance enjoyed what we may term the first transcendent springtide of the modern world. Nothing is more remarkable than the fullness of the life that throbbed in them. Natures rich in all capacities and endowed with every kind of sensibility were frequent. Nor was there any limit to the play of personality in action. We may apply to them what Mr. Browning has written of Sordello's temperament:-- A footfall there Suffices to upturn to the warm air Half germinating spices, mere decay Produces richer life, and day by day New pollen on the lily-petal grows, And still more labyrinthine buds the rose. During the Middle Ages man had lived enveloped in a cowl. He had not seen the beauty of the world or had seen it only to cross himself, and turn aside and tell his beads and pray. Like S. Bernard traveling along the shores of the Lake Leman, and noticing neither the azure of the waters, nor the luxuriance of the vines, nor the radiance of the mountains with their robe of sun and snow, but bending a thought-burdened forehead over the neck of his mule; even like this monk, humanity had passed, a careful pilgrim, intent on the terrors of sin, death, and judgment, along the highways of the world, and had scarcely known that they were sightworthy, or that life is a blessing. Beauty is a snare, pleasure a sin, the world a fleeting show, man fallen and lost, death the only certainty, judgment inevitable, hell everlasting, heaven hard to win; ignorance is acceptable to God as a proof of faith and submission; abstinence and mortification are the only safe rules of life: these were the fixed ideas of the ascetic mediæval Church. The Renaissance shattered and destroyed them, rending the thick veil which they had drawn between the mind of man and the outer world, and flashing the light of reality upon the darkened places of his own nature. For the mystic teaching of the Church was substituted culture in the classical humanities; a new ideal was established, whereby man strove to make himself the monarch of the globe on which it is his privilege as well as destiny to live. The Renaissance was the liberation of the reason from a dungeon, the double discovery of the outer and the inner world. An external event determined the direction which this outburst of the spirit of freedom should take. This was the contact of the modern with the ancient mind which followed upon what is called the Revival of Learning. The fall of the Greek Empire in 1453, while it signalized the extinction of the old order, gave an impulse to the now accumulated forces of the new. A belief in the identity of the human spirit under all previous manifestations and in its uninterrupted continuity was generated. Men found that in classical as well as Biblical antiquity existed an ideal of human life, both moral and intellectual, by which they might profit in the present. The modern genius felt confidence in its own energies when it learned what the ancients had achieved. The guesses of the ancients stimulated the exertions of the moderns. The whole world's history seemed once more to be one. The great achievements of the Renaissance were the discovery of the world and the discovery of man.[1] Under these two formulæ may be classified all the phenomena which properly belong to this period. The discovery of the world divides itself into two branches--the exploration of the globe, and that systematic exploration of the universe which is in fact what we call Science. Columbus made known America in 1492; the Portuguese rounded the Cape in 1497; Copernicus explained the solar system in 1507. It is not necessary to add anything to this plain statement; for, in contact with facts of such momentous import, to avoid what seems like commonplace reflection would be difficult. Yet it is only when we contrast the ten centuries which preceded these dates with the four centuries which have ensued, that we can estimate the magnitude of that Renaissance movement by means of which a new hemisphere has been added to civilization. In like manner, it is worth while to pause a moment and consider what is implied in the substitution of the Copernican for the Ptolemaic system. The world, regarded in old times as the center of all things, the apple of God's eye, for the sake of which were created sun and moon and stars, suddenly was found to be one of the many balls that roll round a giant sphere of light and heat, which is itself but one among innumerable suns attended each by a _cortège_ of planets, and scattered, how we know not, through infinity. What has become of that brazen seat of the old gods, that Paradise to which an ascending Deity might be caught up through clouds, and hidden for a moment from the eyes of his disciples. The demonstration of the simplest truths of astronomy destroyed at a blow the legends that were most significant to the early Christians by annihilating their symbolism. Well might the Church persecute Galileo for his proof of the world's mobility. Instinctively she perceived that in this one proposition was involved the principle of hostility to her most cherished conceptions, to the very core of her mythology. Science was born, and the warfare between scientific positivism and religious metaphysic was declared. Henceforth God could not be worshiped under the forms and idols of a sacerdotal fancy; a new meaning had been given to the words: 'God is a Spirit, and they that worship Him must worship Him in spirit and in truth.' The reason of man was at last able to study the scheme of the universe, of which he is a part, and to ascertain the actual laws by which it is governed. Three centuries and a half have elapsed since Copernicus revolutionized astronomy. It is only by reflecting on the mass of knowledge we have since acquired, knowledge not only infinitely curious but also incalculably useful in its application to the arts of life, and then considering how much ground of this kind was acquired in the ten centuries which preceded the Renaissance, that we are at all able to estimate the expansive force which was then generated. Science, rescued from the hand of astrology, geomancy, alchemy, began her real life with the Renaissance. Since then, as far as to the present moment she has never ceased to grow. Progressive and durable, Science may be called the first-born of the spirit of the modern world. [1] It is to Michelet that we owe these formulæ, which have passed into the language of history. Thus by the discovery of the world is meant on the one hand the appropriation by civilized humanity of all corners of the habitable globe, and on the other the conquest by Science of all that we now know about the nature of the universe. In the discovery of man, again, it is possible to trace a twofold process. Man in his temporal relations, illustrated by Pagan antiquity, and man in his spiritual relations, illustrated by Biblical antiquity; these are the two regions, at first apparently distinct, afterwards found to be interpenetrative, which the critical and inquisitive genius of the Renaissance opened for investigation. In the former of these regions we find two agencies at work, art and scholarship. During the Middle Ages the plastic arts, like philosophy, had degenerated into barren and meaningless scholasticism--a frigid reproduction of lifeless forms copied technically and without inspiration from debased patterns. Pictures became symbolically connected with the religious feelings of the people, formulæ from which to deviate would be impious in the artist and confusing to the worshiper. Superstitious reverence bound the painter to copy the almond eyes and stiff joints of the saints whom he had adored from infancy; and, even had it been otherwise, he lacked the skill to imitate the natural forms he saw around him. But with the dawning of the Renaissance, a new spirit in the arts arose. Men began to conceive that the human body is noble in itself and worthy of patient study. The object of the artist then became to unite devotional feeling and respect for the sacred legend with the utmost beauty and the utmost fidelity of delineation. He studied from the nude; he drew the body in every posture; he composed drapery, invented attitudes, and adapted the action of his figures and the expression of his faces to the subject he had chosen. In a word, he humanized the altar-pieces and the cloister-frescoes upon which he worked. In this way the painters rose above the ancient symbols, and brought heaven down to earth. By drawing Madonna and her son like living human beings, by dramatizing the Christian history, they silently substituted the love of beauty and the interests of actual life for the principles of the Church. The saint or angel became an occasion for the display of physical perfection, and to introduce 'un bel corpo ignudo' into the composition was of more moment to them than to represent the macerations of the Magdalen. Men thus learned to look beyond the relique and the host, and to forget the dogma in the lovely forms which gave it expression. Finally, when the classics came to aid this work of progress, a new world of thought and fancy, divinely charming, wholly human, was revealed to their astonished eyes. Thus art, which had begun by humanizing the legends of the Church, diverted the attention of its students from the legend to the work of beauty, and lastly, severing itself from the religious tradition, became the exponent of the majesty and splendor of the human body. This final emancipation of art from ecclesiastical trammels culminated in the great age of Italian painting. Gazing at Michael Angelo's prophets in the Sistine Chapel, we are indeed in contact with ideas originally religious. But the treatment of these ideas is purely, broadly human, on a level with that of the sculpture of Pheidias. Titian's Virgin received into Heaven, soaring midway between the archangel who descends to crown her and the apostles who yearn to follow her, is far less a Madonna Assunta than the apotheosis of humanity conceived as a radiant mother. Throughout the picture there is nothing ascetic, nothing mystic, nothing devotional. Nor did the art of the Renaissance stop here. It went further, and plunged into Paganism. Sculptors and painters combined with architects to cut the arts loose from their connection with the Church by introducing a spirit and a sentiment alien to Christianity. Through the instrumentality of art, and of all the ideas which art introduced into daily life, the Renaissance wrought for the modern world a real resurrection of the body, which, since the destruction of antique civilization, had lain swathed up in hair-shirts and cerements within the tomb of the mediæval cloister. It was scholarship which revealed to men the wealth of their own minds, the dignity of human thought, the value of human speculation, the importance of human life regarded as a thing apart from religious rules and dogmas. During the Middle Ages a few students had possessed the poems of Virgil and the prose of Boethius--and Virgil at Mantua, Boethius at Pavia, had actually been honored as saints--together with fragments of Lucan, Ovid, Statius, Juvenal, Cicero, and Horace. The Renaissance opened to the whole reading public the treasure-houses of Greek and Latin literature. At the same time the Bible in its original tongues was rediscovered. Mines of Oriental learning were laid bare for the students of the Jewish and Arabic traditions. The Aryan and Semitic revelations were for the first time subjected to something like a critical comparison. With unerring instinct the men of the Renaissance named the voluminous subject-matter of scholarship 'Litteræ Humaniores,'--the more human literature, or the literature that humanizes. There are three stages in the history of scholarship during the Renaissance. The first is the age of passionate desire; Petrarch poring over a Homer he could not understand, and Boccaccio in his maturity learning Greek, in order that he might drink from the well-head of poetic inspiration, are the heroes of this period. They inspired the Italians with a thirst for antique culture. Next comes the age of acquisition and of libraries. Nicholas V., who founded the Vatican Library in 1453, Cosimo de Medici, who began the Medicean Collection a little earlier, and Poggio Bracciolini, who ransacked all the cities and convents of Europe for manuscripts, together with the teachers of Greek, who in the first half of the fifteenth century escaped from Constantinople with precious freights of classic literature, are the heroes of this second period. It was an age of accumulation, of uncritical and indiscriminate enthusiasm. Manuscripts were worshiped by these men, just as the reliques of Holy Land had been adored by their great-grandfathers. The eagerness of the Crusades was revived in this quest of the Holy Grail of ancient knowledge. Waifs and strays of Pagan authors were valued like precious gems, reveled in like odoriferous and gorgeous flowers, consulted like oracles of God, gazed on like the eyes of a beloved mistress. The good, the bad, and the indifferent received an almost equal homage. Criticism had not yet begun. The world was bent on gathering up its treasures, frantically bewailing the lost books of Livy, the lost songs of Sappho--absorbing to intoxication the strong wine of multitudinous thoughts and passions that kept pouring from those long-buried amphora of inspiration. What is most remarkable about this age of scholarship is the enthusiasm which pervaded all classes in Italy for antique culture. Popes and princes, captains of adventure and peasants, noble ladies and the leaders of the demi-monde, alike became scholars. There is a story told by Infessura which illustrates the temper of the times with singular felicity. On the 18th of April 1485 a report circulated in Rome that some Lombard workmen had discovered a Roman sarcophagus while digging on the Appian Way. It was a marble tomb, engraved with the inscription, 'Julia, Daughter of Claudius,' and inside the coffer lay the body of a most beautiful girl of fifteen years, preserved by precious unguents from corruption and the injury of time. The bloom of youth was still upon her cheeks and lips; her eyes and mouth were half open; her long hair floated round her shoulders. She was instantly removed, so goes the legend, to the Capitol; and then began a procession of pilgrims from all the quarters of Rome to gaze upon this saint of the old Pagan world. In the eyes of those enthusiastic worshipers, her beauty was beyond imagination or description: she was far fairer than any woman of the modern age could hope to be. At last Innocent VIII. feared lest the orthodox faith should suffer by this new cult of a heathen corpse. Julia was buried secretly and at night by his direction, and naught remained in the Capitol but her empty marble coffin. The tale, as told by Infessura, is repeated in Matarazzo and in Nantiporto with slight variations. One says that the girl's hair was yellow, another that it was of the glossiest black. What foundation for the legend may really have existed need not here be questioned. Let us rather use the mythus as a parable of the ecstatic devotion which prompted the men of that age to discover a form of unimaginable beauty in the tomb of the classic world.[1] [1] The most remarkable document regarding the body of Julia which has yet been published is a Latin letter, written by Bartholomæus Fontius to his friend Franciscus Saxethus, minutely describing her, with details which appear to prove that he had not only seen but handled the corpse. It is printed in Janitschek, _Die Gesellschaft der R. in It._: Stuttgart, 1879, p. 120. Then came the third age of scholarship--the age of the critics, philologers, and printers. What had been collected by Poggio and Aurispa had now to be explained by Ficino, Poliziano, and Erasmus. They began their task by digesting and arranging the contents of the libraries. There were then no short cuts to learning, no comprehensive lexicons, no dictionaries of antiquities, no carefully prepared thesauri of mythology and history. Each student had to hold in his brain the whole mass of classical erudition. The text and the canon of Homer, Plato, Aristotle, and the tragedians had to be decided. Greek type had to be struck. Florence, Venice, Basle, Lyons, and Paris groaned with printing presses. The Aldi, the Stephani, and Froben toiled by night and day, employing scores of scholars, men of supreme devotion and of mighty brain, whose work it was to ascertain the right reading of sentences, to accentuate, to punctuate, to commit to the press, and to place beyond the reach of monkish hatred or of envious time that everlasting solace of humanity which exists in the classics. All subsequent achievements in the field of scholarship sink into insignificance beside the labors of these men, who needed genius, enthusiasm, and the sympathy of Europe for the accomplishment of their titanic task. Virgil was printed in 1470, Homer in 1488, Aristotle in 1498, Plato in 1513. They then became the inalienable heritage of mankind. But what vigils, what anxious expenditure of thought, what agonies of doubt and expectation, were endured by those heroes of humanizing scholarship, whom we are apt to think of merely as pedants! Which of us now warms and thrills with emotion at hearing the name of Aldus Manutius, or of Henricus Stephanus, or of Johannes Froben? Yet this we surely ought to do; for to them we owe in a great measure the freedom of our spirit, our stores of intellectual enjoyment, our command of the past, our certainty of the future of human culture. This third age in the history of the Renaissance Scholarship may be said to have reached its climax in Erasmus; for by this time Italy had handed on the torch of learning to the northern nations. The publication of his "Adagia" in 1500, marks the advent of a more critical and selective spirit, which from that date onward has been gradually gaining strength in the modern mind. Criticism, in the true sense of accurate testing and sifting, is one of the points which distinguish the moderns from the ancients; and criticism was developed by the process of assimilation, comparison, and appropriation, which was necessary in the growth of scholarship. The ultimate effect of this recovery of classic literature was, once and for all, to liberate the intellect. The modern world was brought into close contact with the free virility of the ancient world, and emancipated from the thralldom of unproved traditions. The force to judge and the desire to create were generated. The immediate result in the sixteenth century was an abrupt secession of the learned, not merely from monasticism, but also from the true spirit of Christianity. The minds of the Italians assimilated Paganism. In their hatred of mediæval ignorance, in their loathing of cowled and cloistered fools, they flew to an extreme, and affected the manner of an irrevocable past. This extravagance led of necessity to a reaction--in the north to Puritanism, in the south to what has been termed the Counter-Reformation effected under Spanish influences in the Latin Church. But Christianity, that most precious possession of the modern world, was never seriously imperiled by the classical enthusiasm of the Renaissance; nor, on the other hand, was the progressive emancipation of the reason materially retarded by the reaction it produced. The transition at this point to the third branch in the discovery of man, the revelation to the consciousness of its own spiritual freedom, is natural. Not only did scholarship restore the classics and encourage literary criticism; it also restored the text of the Bible, and encouraged theological criticism. In the wake of theological freedom followed a free philosophy, no longer subject to the dogmas of the Church. To purge the Christian faith from false conceptions, to liberate the conscience from the tyranny of priests, and to interpret religion to the reason has been the work of the last centuries; nor is this work as yet by any means accomplished. On the one side Descartes and Bacon, Spinoza and Locke, are sons of the Renaissance, champions of new-found philosophical freedom; on the other side, Luther is a son of the Renaissance, the herald of new-found religious freedom. The whole movement of the Reformation is a phase in that accelerated action of the modern mind which at its commencement we call the Renaissance. It is a mistake to regard the Reformation as an isolated phenomenon or as a mere effort to restore the Church to purity. The Reformation exhibits in the region of religious thought and national politics what the Renaissance displays in the sphere of culture, art, and science--the recovered energy and freedom of the reason. We are too apt to treat of history in parcels, and to attempt to draw lessons from detached chapters in the biography of the human race. To observe the connection between the several stages of a progressive movement of the human spirit, and to recognize that the forces at work are still active, is the true philosophy of history. The Reformation, like the revival of science and of culture, had its mediæval anticipations and foreshadowings. The heretics whom the Church successfully combated in North Italy, France, and Bohemia were the precursors of Luther. The scholars prepared the way in the fifteenth century. Teachers of Hebrew, founders of Hebrew type--Reuchlin in Germany, Aleander in Paris, Von Hutten as a pamphleteer, and Erasmus as a humanist--contribute each a definite momentum. Luther, for his part, incarnates the spirit of revolt against tyrannical authority, urges the necessity of a return to the essential truth of Christianity, as distinguished from the idols of the Church, and asserts the right of the individual to judge, interpret, criticise, and construct opinion for himself. The veil which the Church had interposed between the human soul and God was broken down. The freedom of the conscience was established. Thus the principles involved in what we call the Reformation were momentous. Connected on the one side with scholarship and the study of texts, it opened the path for modern biblical criticism. Connected on the other side with the intolerance of mere authority it led to what has since been named rationalism--the attempt to reconcile the religious tradition with the reason, and to define the logical ideas that underlie the conceptions of the popular religious consciousness. Again, by promulgating the doctrine of personal freedom, and by connecting itself with national politics, the reformation was linked historically to the revolution. It was the Puritan Church in England stimulated by the patriotism of the Dutch Protestants, which established our constitutional liberty, and introduced in America the general principle of the equality of men. This high political abstraction, latent in Christianity, evolved by criticism, and promulgated as a gospel in the second half of the last century, was externalized in the French Revolution. The work that yet remains to be accomplished for the modern world is the organization of society in harmony with democratic principles. Thus what the word Renaissance really means is new birth to liberty--the spirit of mankind recovering consciousness and the power of self-determination, recognizing the beauty of the outer world, and of the body through art, liberating the reason in science and the conscience in religion, restoring culture to the intelligence, and establishing the principle of political freedom. The Church was the schoolmaster of the Middle Ages. Culture was the humanizing and refining influence of the Renaissance. The problem for the present and the future is how through education to render knowledge accessible to all--to break down that barrier which in the Middle Ages was set between clerk and layman, and which in the intermediate period has arisen between the intelligent and ignorant classes. Whether the Utopia of a modern world, in which all men shall enjoy the same social, political, and intellectual advantages, be realized or not, we cannot doubt that the whole movement of humanity from the Renaissance onward has tended in this direction. To destroy the distinctions, mental and physical, which nature raises between individuals, and which constitute an actual hierarchy, will always be impossible. Yet it may happen that in the future no civilized man will lack the opportunity of being physically and mentally the best that God has made him. It remains to speak of the instruments and mechanical inventions which aided the emancipation of the spirit in the modern age. Discovered over and over again, and offered at intervals to the human race at various times and on divers soils, no effective use was made of these material resources until the fifteenth century. The compass, discovered according to tradition by Gioja of Naples in 1302, was employed by Columbus for the voyage to America in 1492. The telescope, known to the Arabians in the Middle Ages, and described by Roger Bacon in 1250, helped Copernicus to prove the revolution of the earth in 1530, and Galileo to substantiate his theory of the planetary system. Printing, after numerous useless revelations to the world of its resources, became an art in 1438; and paper, which had long been known to the Chinese, was first made of cotton in Europe about 1000, and of rags in 1319. Gunpowder entered into use about 1320. As employed by the Genius of the Renaissance, each one of these inventions became a lever by means of which to move the world. Gunpowder revolutionized the art of war. The feudal castle, the armor of the Knight and his battle-horse, the prowess of one man against a hundred, and the pride of aristocratic cavalry trampling upon ill-armed militia, were annihilated by the flashes of the canon. Courage became more a moral than a physical quality. The victory was delivered to the brain of the general. Printing has established, as indestructible, all knowledge, and disseminated, as the common property of every one, all thought; while paper has made the work of printing cheap. Such reflections as these, however, are trite, and must occur to every mind. It is far more to the purpose to repeat that not the inventions, but the intelligence that used them, the conscious calculating spirit of the modern world, should rivet our attention when we direct it to the phenomena of the Renaissance. In the work of the Renaissance all the great nations of Europe shared. But it must never be forgotten that as a matter of history the true Renaissance began in Italy. It was there that the essential qualities which distinguish the modern from the ancient and the mediæval world were developed. Italy created that new spiritual atmosphere of culture and of intellectual freedom which has been the life-breath of the European races. As the Jews are called the chosen and peculiar people of divine revelation, so may the Italians be called the chosen and peculiar vessels of the prophecy of the Renaissance. In art, in scholarship, in science, in the mediation between antique culture and the modern intellect, they took the lead, handing to Germany and France and England the restored humanities complete. Spain and England have since done more for the exploration and colonization of the world. Germany achieved the labor of the Reformation almost single-handed. France has collected, centralized, and diffused intelligence with irresistible energy. But if we return to the first origins of the Renaissance, we find that, at a time when the rest of Europe was inert, Italy had already begun to organize the various elements of the modern spirit, and to set the fashion whereby the other great nations should learn and live. CHAPTER II. ITALIAN HISTORY. The special Difficulties of this Subject--Apparent Confusion--Want of leading Motive--The Papacy--The Empire--The Republics--The Despots--The People--The Dismemberment of Italy--Two main Topics--The Rise of the Communes--Gothic Kingdom--Lombards--Franks--Germans--The Bishops--The Consuls--The Podestàs--Civil Wars--Despots--The Balance of Power--The Five Italian States--The Italians fail to achieve National Unity--The Causes of this Failure--Conditions under which it might have been achieved--A Republic--A Kingdom--A Confederation--A Tyranny--The Part played by the Papacy. After a first glance into Italian history the student recoils as from a chaos of inscrutable confusion. To fix the moment of transition from ancient to modern civilization seems impossible. There is no formation of a new people, as in the case of Germany or France or England, to serve as starting-point. Differ as the Italian races do in their original type; Gauls, Ligurians, Etruscans, Umbrians, Latins, Iapygians, Greeks have been fused together beneath the stress of Roman rule into a nation that survives political mutations and the disasters of barbarian invasions. Goths, Lombards, and Franks blend successively with the masses of this complex population, and lose the outlines of their several personalities. The western Empire melts imperceptibly away. The Roman Church grows no less imperceptibly, and forms the Holy Roman Empire as the equivalent of its own spiritual greatness in the sphere of secular authority. These two institutions, the crowning monuments of Italian creative genius, dominate the Middle Ages, powerful as facts, but still more powerful as ideas. Yet neither of them controls the evolution of Italy in the same sense as France was controlled by the monarchical, and Germany by the federative, principle. The forces of the nation, divided and swayed from side to side by this commanding dualism, escaped both influences in so far as either Pope or Emperor strove to mold them into unity. Meanwhile the domination of Byzantine Greeks in the southern provinces, the kingdom of the Goths at Ravenna, the kingdom of the Lombards and Franks at Pavia, the incursions of Huns and Saracens, the kingdom of the Normans at Palermo, formed but accidents and moments in a national development which owed important modifications to each successive episode, but was not finally determined by any of them. When the Communes emerge into prominence, shaking off the supremacy of the Greeks in the South, vindicating their liberties against the Empire in the North, jealously guarding their independence from Papal encroachment in the center, they have already assumed shapes of marked distinctness and bewildering diversity. Venice, Milan, Genoa, Florence, Bologna, Siena, Perugia, Amalfi, Lucca, Pisa, to mention only a few of the more notable, are indiscriminately called Republics. Yet they differ in their internal type no less than in external conditions. Each wears from the first and preserves a physiognomy that justifies our thinking and speaking of the town as an incarnate entity. The cities of Italy, down to the very smallest, bear the attributes of individuals. The mutual attractions and repulsions that presided over their growth have given them specific qualities which they will never lose, which will be reflected in their architecture, in their customs, in their language, in their policy, as well as in the institutions of their government. We think of them involuntarily as persons, and reserve for them epithets that mark the permanence of their distinctive characters. To treat of them collectively is almost impossible. Each has its own biography, and plays a part of consequence in the great drama of the nation. Accordingly the study of Italian politics, Italian literature, Italian art, is really not the study of one national genius, but of a whole family of cognate geniuses, grouped together, conscious of affinity, obeying the same general conditions, but issuing in markedly divergent characteristics. Democracies, oligarchies, aristocracies spring into being by laws of natural selection within the limits of a single province. Every municipality has a separate nomenclature for its magistracies, a somewhat different method of distributing administrative functions. In one place there is a Doge appointed for life; in another the government is put into commission among officers elected for a period of months. Here we find a Patrician, a Senator, a Tribune; there Consuls, Rectors, Priors, Ancients, Buonuomini, Conservatori. At one period and in one city the Podestà seems paramount; across the border a Captain of the People or a Gonfaloniere di Giustizia is supreme. Vicars of the Empire, Exarchs, Catapans, Rectors for the Church, Legates, Commissaries, succeed each other with dazzling rapidity. Councils are multiplied and called by names that have their origin and meaning buried in the dust of archæology. Consigli del Popolo, Credenza, Consiglio del Comune, Senato, Gran Consiglio, Pratiche, Parlamenti, Monti, Consiglio de' Savi, Arti, Parte Guelfa, Consigli di Dieci, di Tre, I Nove, Gli Otto, I Cento--such are a few of the titles chosen at random from the constitutional records of different localities. Not one is insignificant. Not one but indicates some moment of importance in the social evolution of the state. Not one but speaks of civil strife, whereby the burgh in question struggled into individuality and defined itself against its neighbor. Like fossils, in geological strata, these names survive long after their old uses have been forgotten, to guide the explorer in his reconstruction of a buried past. While one town appears to respect the feudal lordship of great families, another pronounces nobility to be a crime, and forces on its citizens the reality or the pretense of labor. Some recognize the supremacy of ecclesiastics. Others, like Venice, resist the least encroachment of the Church, and stand aloof from Roman Christianity in jealous isolation. The interests of one class are maritime, of another military, of a third industrial, of a fourth financial, of a fifth educational. Amalfi, Pisa, Genoa, and Venice depend for power upon their fleets and colonies; the little cities of Romagna and the March supply the Captains of adventure with recruits; Florence and Lucca live by manufacture; Milan by banking; Bologna, Padua, Vicenza, owe their wealth to students attracted by their universities. Foreign alliances or geographical affinities connect one center with the Empire of the East, a second with France, a third with Spain. The North is overshadowed by Germany; the South is disquieted by Islam. The types thus formed and thus discriminated are vital, and persist for centuries with the tenacity of physical growths. Each differentiation owes its origin to causes deeply rooted in the locality. The freedom and apparent waywardness of nature, when she sets about to form crystals of varying shapes and colors, that shall last and bear her stamp for ever, have governed their uprising and their progress to maturity. At the same time they exhibit the keen jealousies and mutual hatreds of rival families in the animal kingdom. Pisa destroys Amalfi; Genoa, Pisa; Venice, Genoa; with ruthless and remorseless egotism in the conflict of commercial interests. Florence enslaves Pisa because she needs a way to the sea. Siena and Perugia, upon their inland altitudes, consume themselves in brilliant but unavailing efforts to expand. Milan engulfs the lesser towns of Lombardy. Verona absorbs Padua and Treviso. Venice extends dominion over the Friuli and the Veronese conquests. Strife and covetousness reign from the Alps to the Ionian Sea. But it is a strife of living energies, the covetousness of impassioned and puissant units. Italy as a whole is almost invisible to the student by reason of the many-sided, combative, self-centered crowd of numberless Italian communities. Proximity foments hatred and stimulates hostility. Fiesole looks down and threatens Florence. Florence returns frown for frown, and does not rest till she has made her neighbor of the hills a slave. Perugia and Assissi turn the Umbrian plain into a wilderness of wolves by their recurrent warfare. Scowling at one another across the Valdichiana, Perugia rears a tower against Chiusi, and Chiusi builds her Becca Questa in responsive menace. The tiniest burgh upon the Arno receives from Dante, the poet of this internecine strife and fierce town-rivalry, its stigma of immortalizing satire and insulting epithet, for no apparent reason but that its dwellers dare to drink of the same water and to breathe the same air as Florence. It would seem as though the most ancient furies of antagonistic races, enchained and suspended for centuries by the magic of Rome, had been unloosed; as though the indigenous populations of Italy, tamed by antique culture, were reverting to their primal instincts, with all the discords and divisions introduced by the military system of the Lombards, the feudalism of the Franks, the alien institutions of the Germans, superadded to exasperate the passions of a nation blindly struggling against obstacles that block the channel of continuous progress. Nor is this the end of the perplexity. Not only are the cities at war with one another, but they are plunged in ceaseless strife within the circuit of their ramparts. The people with the nobles, the burghs with the castles, the plebeians with the burgher aristocracy, the men of commerce with the men of arms and ancient lineage, Guelfs and Ghibellines, clash together in persistent fury. One half the city expels the other half. The exiles roam abroad, cement alliances, and return to extirpate their conquerors. Fresh proscriptions and new expulsions follow. Again alliances are made and revolutions accomplished, till the ancient feuds of the towns are crossed, recrossed, and tangled in a web of madness that defies analysis. Through the medley of quarreling, divided, subdivided, and intertwisted factions, ride Emperors followed by their bands of knights, appearing for a season on vain quests, and withdrawing after they have tenfold confounded the confusion. Papal Legates drown the cities of the Church in blood, preach crusades, fulminate interdictions, rouse insurrections in the States that own allegiance to the Empire. Monks stir republican revivals in old cities that have lost their liberties, or assemble the populations of crime-maddened districts in aimless comedies of piety and false pacification, or lead them barefooted and intoxicated with shrill cries of 'Mercy' over plain and mountain. Princes of France, Kings of Bohemia and Hungary, march and countermarch from north to south and back again, form leagues, establish realms, head confederations, which melt like shapes we form from clouds to nothing. At one time the Pope and Emperor use Italy as the arena of a deadly duel, drawing the congregated forces of the nation into their dispute. At another they join hands to divide the spoil of ruined provinces. Great generals with armies at their backs start into being from apparent nothingness, dispute the sovereignty of Italy in bloodless battles, found ephemeral dynasties, and pass away like mists upon a mountain-side beneath a puff of wind. Conflict, ruin, desolation, anarchy are ever yielding place to concord, restoration, peace, prosperity, and then recurring with a mighty flood of violence. Construction, destruction, and reconstruction play their part in crises that have to be counted by the thousands. In the mean time, from this hurricane of disorder rises the clear ideal of the national genius. Italy becomes self-conscious and attains the spiritual primacy of modern Europe. Art, Learning, Literature, State-craft, Philosophy, Science build a sacred and inviolable city of the soul amid the tumult of seven thousand revolutions, the dust and crash of falling cities, the tramplings of recurrent invasions, the infamies and outrages of tyrants and marauders who oppress the land. Unshaken by the storms that rage around it, this refuge of the spirit, raised by Italian poets, thinkers, artists, scholars, and discoverers, grows unceasingly in bulk and strength, until the younger nations take their place beneath its ample dome. Then, while yet the thing of wonder and of beauty stands in fresh perfection, at that supreme moment when Italy is tranquil and sufficient to fulfill the noblest mission for the world, we find her crushed and trampled under foot. Her tempestuous but splendid story closes in the calm of tyranny imposed by Spain. Over this vertiginous abyss of history, where the memories of antique civilization blend with the growing impulses of modern life in an uninterrupted sequence of national consciousness; through this many-chambered laboratory of conflicting principles, where the ideals of the Middle Age are shaped, and laws are framed for Europe; across this wonder-land of waning and of waxing culture, where Goths, Greeks, Lombards, Franks, and Normans come to form themselves by contact with the ever-living soul of Rome; where Frenchmen, Spaniards, Swiss, and Germans at a later period battle for the richest prize in Europe, and learn by conquest from the conquered to be men; how shall we guide our course? If we follow the fortunes of the Church, and make the Papacy the thread on which the history of Italy shall hang, we gain the advantage of basing our narrative upon the most vital and continuous member of the body politic. But we are soon forced to lose sight of the Italians in the crowd of other Christian races. The history of the Church is cosmopolitan. The Sphere of the Papacy extends in all directions around Italy taken as a local center. Its influence, moreover, was invariably one of discord rather than of harmony within the boundaries of the peninsula. If we take the Empire as our standing-ground, we have to write the annals of a sustained struggle, in the course of which the Italian cities were successful, when they reduced the Emperor to the condition of an absentee with merely nominal privileges. After Frederick II. the Empire played no important part in Italy until its rights were reasserted by Charles V. upon the platform of modern politics. A power so external to the true life of the nation, so successfully resisted, so impotent to control the development of the Italians, cannot be chosen as the central point of their history. If we elect the Republics, we are met with another class of difficulties. The historian who makes the Commune his unit, who confines attention to the gradual development, reciprocal animosities, and final decadence of the republics, can hardly do justice to the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies and the Papacy, which occupy no less than half the country. Again, the great age of the Renaissance, when all the free burghs accepted the rule of despots, and when the genius of the Italians culminated, is for him a period of downfall and degradation. Besides, he leaves the history of the Italian people before the starting-point of the Republics unexplained. He has, at the close of their career, to account for the reason why these Communes, so powerful in self-development, so intelligent, so wealthy, and so capable of playing off the Pope against the Empire, failed to maintain their independence. In other words he selects one phase of Italian evolution, and writes a narrative that cannot but be partial. If we make the Despots our main point, we repeat the same error in a worse form. The Despotisms imply the Communes as their predecessors. Each and all of them grew up and flourished on the soil of decadent or tired Republics. Though they are all-important at one period of Italian history--the period of the present work--they do but form an episode in the great epic of the nation. He who attempts a general history of Italy from the point of view of the despotisms, is taking a single scene for the whole drama. Finally we might prefer the people--that people, instinctively and persistently faithful to Roman traditions, which absorbed into itself the successive hordes of barbarian invaders, civilized them, and adopted them as men of Italy; that people which destroyed the kingdoms of the Goths and Lombards humbled the Empire at Legnano, and evolved the Communes; that people which resisted alien feudalism, and spent its prime upon eradicating every trace of the repugnant system from its midst; that people which finally attained to the consciousness of national unity by the recovery of scholarship and culture under the dominion of despotic princes. This people is Italy. But the documents that should throw light upon the early annals of the people are deficient. It does not appear upon the scene before the reign of Otho I. Nor does it become supreme till after the Peace of Constance. Its biography is bound up with that of the republics and the despots. Before the date of their ascendency we have to deal with Bishops of Rome, Emperors of the East and West, Exarchs and Kings of Italy, the feudal Lords of the Marches, the Dukes and Counts of Lombard and Frankish rulers. Through that long period of incubation, when Italy freed herself from dependence upon Byzantium, created the Papacy and formed the second Roman Empire, the people exists only as a spirit resident in Roman towns and fostered by the Church, which effectually repelled all attempts at monarchical unity, playing the Lombards off against the Goths, the Franks against the Lombards, the Normans against the Greeks, merging the Italian Kingdom in the Empire when it became German, and resisting the Empire of its own creation when the towns at last were strong enough to stand alone. To speak about the people in this early period is, therefore, to invoke a myth; to write its history is the same as writing an ideal history of mediæval Europe. The truth is that none of these standpoints in isolation suffices for the student of Italy. Her inner history is the history of social and intellectual progress evolving itself under the conditions of attraction and repulsion generated by the double ideas of Papacy and Empire. Political unity is everywhere and at all times imperiously rejected. The most varied constitutional forms are needed for the self-effectuation of a race that has no analogue in Europe. The theocracy of Rome, the monarchy of Naples, the aristocracy of Venice, the democracy of Florence, the tyranny of Milan are equally instrumental in elaborating the national genius that gave art, literature, and mental liberty to modern society. The struggles of city with city for supremacy or bare existence, the internecine wars of party against party, the never-ending clash of principles within the States, educated the people to multifarious and vivid energy. In the course of those long complicated contests, the chief centers acquired separate personalities, assumed the physiognomy of conscious freedom, and stamped the mark of their own spirit on their citizens. At the end of all discords, at the close of all catastrophes, we find in each of the great towns a population released from mental bondage and fitted to perform the work of intellectual emancipation for the rest of Europe. Thus the essential characteristic of Italy is diversity, controlled and harmonized by an ideal rhythm of progressive movement.[1] We who are mainly occupied in this book with the Italian genius as it expressed itself in society, scholarship, fine art, and literature, at its most brilliant period of renascence, may accept this fact of political dismemberment with acquiescence. It was to the variety of conditions offered by the Italian communities that we owe the unexampled richness of the mental life of Italy. Yet it is impossible to overlook the weakness inflicted on the people by those same conditions when the time came for Italy to try her strength against the nations of Europe.[2] It was then shown that the diversities which stimulated spiritual energy were a fatal source of national instability. The pride of the Italians in their local independence, their intolerance of unification under a single head, the jealousies that prevented them from forming a permanent confederation, rendered them incapable of coping with races which had yielded to the centripetal force of monarchy. If it is true that the unity of the nation under a kingdom founded at Pavia would have deprived the world of much that Italy has yielded in the sphere of thought and art, it is certainly not less true that such centralization alone could have averted the ruin of the sixteenth century which gives the aspect of a tragedy to each volume of my work on the Renaissance. [1] See Guicciardini (_Op. Ined._ vol. i. p. 28) for an eloquent demonstration of the happiness, prosperity, and splendor conferred on the Italians by the independence of their several centers. He is arguing against Machiavelli's lamentation over their failure to achieve national unity. [2] This was the point urged by Machiavelli, in the _Principe_, the _Discorsi_, and the _Art of War_. With keener political insight than Guicciardini, he perceived that the old felicity of Italy was about to fail her through the very independence of her local centers, which Guicciardini rightly recognized as the source of her unparalleled civilization and wealth. The one thing needful in the shock with France and Spain was unity. Without seeking to attack the whole problem of Italian history, two main topics must be briefly discussed in the present chapter before entering on the proper matter of this work. The first relates to the growth of the Communes, which preceded, necessitated, and determined the despotisms of the fifteenth century. The second raises the question why Italian differs from any other national history, why the people failed to achieve unity either under a sovereign or in a powerful confederation. These two subjects of inquiry are closely connected and interdependent. They bring into play the several points that have been indicated as partially and imperfectly explanatory of the problem of Italy. But, since I have undertaken to write neither a constitutional nor a political history, but a history of culture at a certain epoch, it will be enough to treat of these two questions briefly, with the special view of showing under what conditions the civilization of the Renaissance came to maturity in numerous independent Communes, reduced at last by necessary laws of circumstance to tyranny; and how it was checked at the point of transition to its second phase of modern existence, by political weakness inseparable from the want of national coherence in the shock with mightier military races. Modern Italian history may be said to begin with the retirement of Honorius to Ravenna and the subsequent foundation of Odoacer's Kingdom in 476. The Western Empire ended, and Rome was recognized as a Republic. When Zeno sent the Goths into Italy, Theodoric established himself at Ravenna, continued the institutions and usages of the ancient Empire, and sought by blending with the people to naturalize his alien authority. Rome was respected as the sacred city of ancient culture and civility. Her Consuls, appointed by the Senate, were confirmed in due course by the Greek Emperor; and Theodoric made himself the vicegerent of the Cæsars rather than an independent sovereign. When we criticise the Ostro-Gothic occupation by the light of subsequent history, it is clear that this exclusion of the capital from Theodoric's conquest and his veneration for the Eternal City were fatal to the unity of the Italian realm. From the moment that Rome was separated from the authority of the Italian Kings, there existed two powers in the Peninsula--the one secular, monarchical, with the military strength of the barbarians imposed upon its ancient municipal organization; the other ecclesiastical, pontifical, relying on the undefined ambitions of S. Peter's See and the unconquered instincts of the Roman people scattered through the still surviving cities.[1] Justinian, bent upon asserting his rights as the successor of the Cæsars, wrested Italy from the hands of the Goths; but scarcely was this revolution effected when Narses, the successor of Belisarius, called a new nation of barbarians to support his policy in Italy. Narses died before the advent of the Lombards; but they descended, in forces far more formidable than the Goths, and established a second kingdom at Pavia. Under the Lombard domination Rome was left untouched. Venice, with her population gathered from the ruins of the neighboring Roman cities, remained in quasi-subjection to the Empire of the East. Ravenna became a Greek garrison, ruling the Exarchate and Pentapolis under the name of the Byzantine Emperors. The western coast escaped the Lombard domination; for Genoa grew slowly into power upon her narrow cornice between hills and sea, while Pisa defied the barbarians intrenched in military stations at Fiesole and Lucca. In like manner the islands, Sicily, Sardinia, and Corsica, were detached from the Lombard Kingdom; and the maritime cities of Southern Italy, Bari, Naples, Amalfi, and Gaeta asserted independence under the shadow of the Greek ascendency. What the Lombards achieved in their conquest, and what they failed to accomplish, decided the future of Italy. They broke the country up into unequal blocks; for while the inland regions of the north obeyed Pavia, while the great duchies of Spoleto in the center and of Benevento in the south owned the nominal sway of Alboin's successors,[2] Venice and the Riviera, Pisa and the maritime republics of Apulia and Calabria, Ravenna and the islands, repelled their sovereignty. Rome remained inviolable beneath the ægis of her ancient prestige, and the decadent Empire of the East was too inert to check the freedom of the towns which recognized its titular supremacy. [1] When I apply the term Roman here and elsewhere to the inhabitants of the Italian towns, I wish to indicate the indigenous Italic populations molded by Roman rule into homogeneity. The resurgence of this population and its reattainment of intellectual consciousness by the recovery of past traditions and the rejection of foreign influence constitutes the history of Italy upon the close of the Dark Ages. [2] It will be remembered by students of early Italian history that Benevento and Spoleto joined the Church in her war upon the Lombard kingdom. Spoleto was broken up. Benevento survived as a Lombard duchy till the Norman Conquest. The kingdom of the Lombards endured two centuries, and left ineffaceable marks upon Italy. A cordon of military cities was drawn round the old Roman centers in Lombardy, Tuscany, and the Duchy of Spoleto. Pavia rose against Milan, which had been a second Rome, Cividale against Aquileia, Fiesole against Florence, Lucca against Pisa. The country was divided into Duchies and Marches; military service was exacted from the population, and the laws of the Lombards, _asininum jus, quoddam jus quod faciebant reges per se_, as the jurists afterwards defined them, were imposed upon the descendants of Roman civilization. Yet the outlying cities of the sea-coast, as we have already seen, were independent; and Rome remained to be the center of revolutionary ideas, the rallying-point of a policy inimical to Lombard unity. Not long after their settlement, the princes of the Lombard race took the fatal step of joining the Catholic communion, whereby they strengthened the hands of Rome and excluded themselves from tyrannizing in the last resort over the growing independence of the Papal See. The causes of their conversion from Arianism to orthodox Latin Christianity are buried in obscurity. But it is probable that they were driven to this measure by the rebelliousness of their great vassals and the necessity of resting for support upon the indigenous populations they had subjugated. Rome, profiting by the errors and the weakness of her antagonists, extended her spiritual dominion by enforcing sacraments, ordeals, and appeals to ecclesiastical tribunals, organized her hierarchy under Gregory the Great, and lost no opportunity of enriching and aggrandizing her bishoprics. In 718 she shook off the yoke of Byzantium by repelling the heresies of Leo the Isaurian; and when this insurrection menaced her with the domestic tyranny of the Lombard Kings, who possessed themselves of Ravenna in 728, she called the Franks to her aid against the now powerful realm. Stephen II. journeyed in 753 to Gaul, named Pippin Patrician of Rome, and invited him to the conquest of Italy. In the war that followed, the Franks subdued the Lombards, and Charles the Great was invested with their kingdom and crowned Emperor in 800 by Leo III. at Rome. The famous compact between Charles the Great and the Pope was in effect a ratification of the existing state of things. The new Emperor took for himself and converted into a Frankish Kingdom all the provinces that had been wrested from the Lombards. He relinquished to the Papacy Rome with its patrimony, the portions of Spoleto and Benevento that had already yielded to the See of S. Peter, the southern provinces that owned the nominal ascendency of Byzantium, the islands and the cities of the Exarchate and Pentapolis which formed no part of the Lombard conquest. By this stipulation no real temporal power was accorded to the Papacy, nor did the new Empire surrender its paramount rights over the peninsula at large. The Italian kingdom, transferred to the Franks in 800, was the kingdom founded by the Lombards; while the outlying and unconquered districts were placed beneath the protectorate of the power which had guided their emancipation. Thus the dualism introduced into Italy by Theodoric's veneration for Rome, and confirmed by the failure of the Lombard conquest, was ratified in the settlement whereby the Pope gave a new Empire to Western Christendom. Venice, Pisa, Genoa, and the maritime Republics of the south, excluded from the kingdom, were left to pursue their own course of independence; and this is the chief among many reasons why they rose so early into prominence. Rome consolidated her ancient patrimonies and extended her rectorship in the center, while the Frankish kings, who succeeded each other through eight reigns, developed the Regno upon feudal principles by parceling the land among their Counts. New marches were formed, traversing the previous Lombard fabric and introducing divisions that decentralized the kingdom. Thus the great vassals of Ivrea, Verona, Tuscany, and Spoleto raised themselves against Pavia. The monarchs, placed between the Papacy and their ambitious nobles, were unable to consolidate the realm; and when Berengar, the last independent sovereign strove to enforce the declining authority of Pavia, he was met with the resistance and the hatred of the nation. The kingdom Berengar attempted to maintain against his vassals and the Church was virtually abrogated by Otho I., whom the Lombard nobles summoned into Italy in 951. When he reappeared in 961, he was crowned Emperor at Rome, and assumed the title of the King of Italy. Thus the Regno was merged in the Empire, and Pavia ceased to be a capital. Henceforth the two great potentates in the peninsula were an unarmed Pontiff and an absent Emperor. The subsequent history of the Italians shows how they succeeded in reducing both these powers to the condition of principles, maintaining the pontifical and imperial ideas, but repelling the practical authority of either potentate. Otho created new marches and gave them to men of German origin. The houses of Savoy and Montferrat rose into importance in his reign. To Verona were intrusted the passes between Germany and Italy. The Princes of Este at Ferrara held the keys of the Po, while the family of Canossa accumulated fiefs that stretched from Mantua across the plain of Lombardy, over the Apennines to Lucca, and southward to Spoleto. Thus the ancient Italy of Lombards and Franks was superseded by a new Italy of German feudalism, owing allegiance to a suzerain whose interests detained him in the provinces beyond the Alps. At the same time the organization of the Church was fortified. The Bishops were placed on an equality with the Counts in the chief cities, and Viscounts were created to represent their civil jurisdiction. It is difficult to exaggerate the importance of Otho's concessions to the Bishops. During the preceding period of Frankish rule about one third of the soil of Italy had been yielded to the Church, which had the right of freeing its vassals from military service; and since the ecclesiastical sees were founded upon ancient sites of Roman civilization, without regard to the military centers of the barbarian kingdoms, the new privileges of the Bishops accrued to the benefit of the indigenous population. Milan, for example, down-trodden by Pavia, still remained the major See of Lombardy. Aquileia, though a desert, had her patriarch, while Cividale, established as a fortress to coerce the neighboring Roman towns, was ecclesiastically but a village. At this epoch a third power emerged in Italy. Berengar had given the cities permission to inclose themselves with walls in order to repel the invasions of the Huns.[1] Otho respected their right of self-defense, and from the date of his coronation the history of the free burghs begins in Italy. It is at first closely connected with the changes wrought by the extinction of the kingdom of Pavia, by the exaltation of the clergy, and by the dislocation of the previous system of feud-holding, which followed upon Otho's determination to remodel the country in the interest of the German Empire. The Regno was abolished. The ancient landmarks of nobility were altered and confused. The cities under their Bishops assumed a novel character of independence. Those of Roman origin, being ecclesiastical centers, had a distant advantage over the more recent foundations of the Lombard and the Frankish monarchs. The Italic population everywhere emerged and displayed a vitality that had been crushed and overlaid by centuries of invasion and military oppression. [1] It is worthy of notice that to this date belongs the war-chant of the Modenese sentinels, with its allusions to Troy and Hector, which is recognized as the earliest specimen of the Italian hendecasyllabic meter. The burghs at this epoch may be regarded as luminous points in the dense darkness of feudal aristocracy.[1] Gathering round their Cathedral as a center, the towns inclose their dwellings with bastions, from which they gaze upon a country bristling with castles, occupied by serfs, and lorded over by the hierarchical nobility. Within the city the Bishop and the Count hold equal sway; but the Bishop has upon his side the sympathies and passions of the burghers. The first effort of the towns is to expel the Count from their midst. Some accident of misrule infuriates the citizens. They fly to arms and are supported by the Bishop. The Count has to retire to the open country, where he strengthens himself in his castle.[2] Then the Bishop remains victor in the town, and forms a government of rich and noble burghers, who control with him the fortunes of the new-born state. At this crisis we begin to hear for the first time a word that has been much misunderstood. The _Popolo_ appears upon the scene. Interpreting the past by the present, and importing the connotation gained by the word _people_ in the revolutions of the last two centuries, students are apt to assume that the Popolo of the Italian burghs included the whole population. In reality it was at first a close aristocracy of influential families, to whom the authority of the superseded Counts was transferred in commission, and who held it by hereditary right.[3] Unless we firmly grasp this fact, the subsequent vicissitudes of the Italian commonwealths are unintelligible, and the elaborate definitions of the Florentine doctrinaires lose half their meaning. The internal revolutions of the free cities were almost invariably caused by the necessity of enlarging the Popolo, and extending its franchise to the non-privileged inhabitants. Each effort after expansion provoked an obstinate resistance from those families who held the rights of burghership; and thus the technical terms _primo popolo_, _secondo popolo_, _popolo grasso_, _popolo minuto_, frequently occurring in the records of the Republics, indicate several stages in the progress from oligarchy to democracy. The constitution of the city at this early period was simple. At the head of its administration stood the Bishop, with the Popolo of enfranchised burghers. The _Commune_ included the Popolo, together with the non-qualified inhabitants, and was represented by Consuls, varying in number according to the division of the town into quarters.[4] Thus the Commune and the Popolo were originally separate bodies; and this distinction has been perpetuated in the architecture of those towns which still can show a Palazzo del Popolo apart from the Palazzo del Commune. Since the affairs of the city had to be conducted by discussion, we find Councils corresponding to the constituent elements of the burgh. There is the _Parlamento_, in which the inhabitants meet together to hear the decisions of the Bishop and the Popolo, or to take measures in extreme cases that affect the city as a whole; the _Gran Consiglio_, which is only open to duly qualified members of the Popolo; and the _Credenza_, or privy council of specially delegated burghers, who debate on matters demanding secrecy and diplomacy. Such, generally speaking, and without regard to local differences, was the internal constitution of an Italian city during the supremacy of the Bishops. [1] It is not necessary to raise antiquarian questions here relating to the origin of the Italian Commune. Whether regarded as a survival of the ancient Roman _municipium_ or as an offshoot from the Lombard _guild_, it was a new birth of modern times, a new organism evolved to express the functions of Italian as different from ancient Roman or mediæval Lombard life. The affection of the people for their past induced them to use the nomenclature of Latin civility for the officers and councils of the Commune. Thus a specious air of classical antiquity, rather literary and sentimental than real, was given to the Commune at the outset. Moreover, it must be remembered that Rome herself had suffered no substantial interruption of republican existence during the Dark Ages. Therefore the free burghs, though their vitality was the outcome of wholly new conditions, though they were built up of guilds and associations representing interests of modern origin, flattered themselves with an uninterrupted municipal succession from the Roman era, and pointed for proof to the Eternal City. [2] The Italian word _contado_ is a survival from this state of things. It represents a moment in the national development when the sphere of the Count outside the city was defined against the sphere of the municipality. The _Contadini_ are the people of the Contado, the Count's men. [3] Even Petrarch, in his letter to four Cardinals (Lett. Fam. xi. 16, ed. Fracassetti) on the reformation of the Roman Commonwealth, recommends the exclusion of the neighboring burghs and all strangers, inclusive of the Colonna and Orsini families, from the franchise. None but pure Romans, how to be discovered from the _colluviet omnium gentium_ deposited upon the Seven Hills by centuries of immigration he does not clearly say, should be chosen to revive the fallen majesty of the Republic. See in particular the peroration of his argument (op. cit. vol. iii. p. 95). In other words, he aims at a narrow Popolo, a _pura cittadinanza_, in the sense of Cacciaguida Par. xvi. [4] In some places we find as many as twelve Consuls. It appears that both the constituent families of the Popolo and the numbers of the Consuls were determined by the Sections of the city, so many being told off for each quarter. In the North of Italy not a few of the greater vassals, among whom may be mentioned the houses of Canossa, Montferrat, Savoy, and Este, creations of the Salic Emperors, looked with favor upon the development of the towns, while some nobles went so far as to constitute themselves feudatories of Bishops.[1] The angry warfare carried on against Canossa by the Lombard barons has probably to be interpreted by the jealousy this popular policy excited. At the same time, while Lombardy and Tuscany were establishing their municipal liberties, a sympathetic movement began in Southern Italy, which resulted in the conquest of Apulia, Calabria, and Sicily by the Normans. Omitting all the details of this episode, than which nothing more dramatic is presented by the history of modern nations, it must be enough to point out here that the Normans finally severed Italy from the Greek Empire, gave a monarchical stamp to the south of the peninsula, and brought the Regno they consolidated into the sphere of national politics under the protection of the Pope. Up to the date of their conquest Southern Italy had a separate and confused history. It now entered the Italian community, and by the peculiar circumstances of its cession to the Holy See was destined in the future to become the chief instrument whereby the Popes disturbed the equilibrium of the peninsula in furtherance of their ambitious schemes. [1] The Pelavicini of S. Donnino, for example, gave themselves to Parma. The greatness of the Roman cities under the popular rule of their Bishops is illustrated by Milan, second only to Rome in the last days of the Empire. Milan had been reduced to the condition of abject misery by the Kings, who spared no pains to exalt Pavia at the expense of her elder sister. After the dissolution of the kingdom, she started into a new life, and in 1037 her archbishop, Heribert, was singled out by Conrad II. as the protagonist of the episcopal revolution against feudalism.[1] Heribert was in truth the hero of the burghs in their first strife for independence. It was he who devised the _Carroccio_, an immense car drawn by oxen, bearing the banner of the Commune, with an altar and priests ministrant, around which the pikemen of the city mustered when they went to war. This invention of Heribert's was soon adopted by the cities throughout Italy. It gave cohesion and confidence to the citizens, reminded them that the Church was on their side in the struggle for freedom, and served as symbol of their military strength in union. The first authentic records of a Parliament, embracing the nobles of the Popolo, the clergy, and the multitude, are transmitted to us by the Milanese Chronicles, in which Heribert figures as the president of a republic. From this date Milan takes the lead in the contests for municipal independence. Her institutions like that of the Carroccio, together with her tameless spirit, are communicated to the neighboring cities of Lombardy, cross the Apennines, and animate the ancient burghs of Tuscany. [1] He was summoned before the Diet of Pavia for having dispossessed a noble of his feud. Having founded their liberties upon the episcopal presidency, the cities now proceeded to claim the right of choosing their own Bishops. They refused the prelates sent them by the Emperor, and demanded an election by the Chapters of each town. This privilege was virtually won when the war of Investitures broke out in 1073. After the death of Gregory VI. in 1046, the Emperors resolved to enforce their right of nominating the Popes. The two first prelates imposed on Rome, Clement II. and Damatus II., died under suspicion of poison. Thus the Roman people refused a foreign Pope, as the Lombards had rejected the bishops sent to rule them. The next Popes, Leo IX. and Victor II., were persuaded by Hildebrand, who now appears upon the stage, to undergo a second election at Rome by the clergy and the people. They escaped assassination. But the fifth German, Stephen X., again died suddenly; and now the formidable monk of Soana felt himself powerful enough to cause the election of his own candidate, Nicholas II. A Lateran council, inspired by Hildebrand, transferred the election of Popes to the Cardinals, approved by the clergy and people of Rome, and confirmed the privilege of the cities to choose their bishops, subject to Papal ratification. In 1073 Hildebrand assumed the tiara as Gregory VII., and declared a war that lasted more than forty years against the Empire. At its close in 1122 the Church and the Empire were counterposed as mutually exclusive autocracies, the one claiming illimitable spiritual sway, the other recognized as no less illimitably paramount in civil society. From the principles raised by Hildebrand and contested in the struggles of this duel, we may date those new conceptions of the two chief powers of Christendom which found final expression in the theocratic philosophy of the _Summa_ and the imperial absolutism of the _De Monarchiâ_. Meanwhile the Empire and the Papacy, while trying their force against each other, had proved to Italy their essential weakness. What they gained as ideas, controlling the speculations of the next two centuries, they lost as potentates in the peninsula. It was impossible for either Pope or Emperor to carry on the war without bidding for the support of the cities; and therefore, at the end of the struggle, the free burghs found themselves strengthened at the expense of both powers. Still it must not be forgotten that the wars of Investitures, while they developed the independent spirit and the military energies of the Republics, penetrated Italy with the vice of party conflict. The ineradicable divisions of Guelf and Ghibelline were a heavy price to pay for a step forward on the path of emancipation; nor was the ecclesiastical revolution, which tended to Italianize the Papacy, while it magnified its cosmopolitan ascendency, other than a source of evil to the nation. The forces liberated in the cities by these wars brought the Consuls to the front. The Bishops had undermined the feudal fabric of the kingdom, depressed the Counts, and restored the Roman towns to prosperity. During the war both Popolo and Commune grew in vigor, and their Consuls began to use the authority that had been conquered by the prelates. At first the Consuls occupied a subordinate position as men of affairs and notaries, needed to transact the business of the mercantile inhabitants. They now took the lead as political agents of the first magnitude, representing the city in its public acts, and superseding the ecclesiastics. The Popolo was enlarged by the admission of new burgher families, and the ruling caste, though still oligarchical, became more fairly representative of the inhabitants. This progress was inevitable, when we remember that the cities had been organized for warfare, and that, except their Consuls, they had no officials who combined civil and military functions. Under the jurisdiction of the Consuls Roman law was everywhere substituted for Lombard statutes, and another strong blow was thus dealt against decaying feudalism. The school of Bologna eclipsed the university of Pavia. Justinian's Code was studied with passionate energy, and the Italic people enthusiastically reverted to the institutions of their past. In the fable of the Codex of the _Pandects_ brought by Pisa from Amalfi we can trace the fervor of this movement, whereby the Romans of the cities struggled after resurrection. One of the earliest manifestations of municipal vitality was the war of city against city, which began to blaze with fury in the first half of the twelfth century, and endured so long as free towns lasted to perpetuate the conflict. No sooner had the burghs established themselves beneath the presidency of their Consuls than they turned the arms they had acquired in the war of independence, against their neighbors. The phenomenon was not confined to any single district. It revealed a new necessity in the very constitution of the commonwealths. Penned up within the narrow limits of their petty dependencies, throbbing with fresh life, overflowing with a populace inured to warfare, demanding channels for their energies in commerce, competing with each other on the paths of industry, they clashed in deadliest duels for breathing space and means of wealth. The occasions that provoked one Commune to declare war upon its rival were trivial. The animosity was internecine and persistent. Life or death hung in the balance. It was a conflict for ascendency that brought the sternest passions into play, and decided the survival of the fittest among hundreds of competing cities. The deeply rooted jealousies of Roman and feudal centers, the recent partisanship of Papal and Imperial principles, imbittered this strife. But what lay beneath all superficial causes of dissension was the economic struggle of communities, for whom the soil of Italy already had begun to seem too narrow. So superabundant were the forces of her population, so vast were the energies emancipated by her attainment of municipal freedom, that this mighty mother of peoples could not afford equal sustenance to all her children. New-born, they had to strangle one another as they hung upon the breast that gave them nourishment. It was impossible for the Emperor to overlook the apparent anarchy of his fairest province. Therefore, when Frederick Barbarossa was elected in 1152, his first thought was to reduce the Garden of the Empire to order. Soon after his election he descended into Lombardy and formed two leagues among the cities of the North, the one headed by Pavia, the center of the abrogated kingdom, the other by Milan, who inherited the majesty of Rome and contained within her loins the future of Italian freedom. It is not necessary to follow in detail the conflict of the Lombard burghs with Frederick, so enthusiastically described by their historian, Sismondi, It is enough for our present purpose to remember that in the course of that contention both leagues made common cause against the Emperor, drew the Pope Alexander III. into their quarrel, and at last in 1183, after the victory of Legnano had convinced Frederick of his weakness, extorted by the Peace of Constance privileges whereby their autonomy was amply guaranteed and recognized. The advantages won by Milan who sustained the brunt of the imperial onslaughts, and by the splendor of her martyrdom surmounted the petty jealousies of her municipal rivals, were extended to the cities of Tuscany. After the date of that compact signed by the Emperor and his insurgent subjects, the burghs obtained an assured position as a third power between the Empire and the Church. The most remarkable point in the history of this contention is the unanimous submission of the Communes to what they regarded as the just suzerainty of Cæsar's representative. Though they were omnipotent in Lombardy, they took no measures for closing the gates of the Alps against the Germans. The Emperor was free to come and go as he listed; and when peace was signed, he reckoned the burghers who had beaten him by arms and policy, among his loyal vassals. Still the spirit of independence in Italy had been amply asserted. This is notably displayed in the address presented to Frederick, before his coronation, by the senate of Rome. Regenerated by Arnold of Brescia's revolutionary mission, the Roman people assumed its antique majesty in these remarkable words: 'Thou wast a stranger; I have made thee citizen; thou camest from regions from beyond the Alps; I have conferred on thee the principality.'[1] Presumptuous boast as this sounded in the ears of Frederick, it proved that the Italic nation had now sharply defined itself against the Church and the barbarians. It still accepted the Empire because the Empire was the glory of Italy, the crown that gave to her people the presidency of civilization. It still recognized the authority of the Church because the Church was the eldest daughter of Italy emergent from the wrecks of Roman society. But the nation had become conscious of its right to stand apart from either. [1]: 'Hospes eras, civem feci. Advena fuisti ex transalpinis partibus, principem constitui. Quod meum jure fuit, tibi dedi.' See _Ottonis Episcopi Frisingensis Chronicon_, De Rebus Gestis Frid. i. Imp. Lib. ii. cap. 21. Basileæ, 1569. The Legates appointed by the Senate met the Emperor at Sutri, and delivered the oration of which the sentence just quoted was part. It began: 'Urbis legati nos, rex optime, ad tuam a Senatu, populoque Romano destinati sumus excellentiam,' and contained this remarkable passage: 'Orbis imperium affectas, coronam præbitura gratanter assurgo, jocanter occurro ... indebitum clericorum excussurus jugum.' If the words are faithfully reported, the Republic separates itself abruptly from the Papacy, and claims a kind of precedence in honor before the Empire. Frederick is said to have interrupted the Legates in a rage before they could finish their address, and to have replied with angry contempt. The speech put into his mouth is probably a rhetorical composition, but it may have expressed his sentiments. 'Multa de Romanorum sapientia seu fortitudine hactenus audivimus, magis tamen de sapientia. Quare satis mirari non possumus, quod verba vestra plus arrogantiæ tumore insipida quam sale sapientiæ condita sentimus.... Fuit, fuit quondam in hac Republica virtus. Quondam dico, atque o utinam tam veracitur quam libenter nunc dicere possemus,' etc. Strengthened by their contest with Frederick Barbarossa, recognized in their rights as belligerent powers, and left to their own guidance by the Empire, the cities were now free to prosecute their wars upon the remnants of feudalism. The town, as we have learned to know it, was surrounded by a serried rank of castles, where the nobles held still undisputed authority over serfs of the soil. Against this cordon of fortresses every city with singular unanimity directed the forces it had formed in the preceding conflicts. At the same time the municipal struggles of Commune against Commune lost none of their virulence. The Counts, pressed on all sides by the towns that had grown up around them, adopted the policy of pitting one burgh against another. When a noble was attacked by the township near his castle, he espoused the animosities of a more distant city, compromised his independence by accepting the captaincy or lieutenancy of communes hostile to his natural enemies, and thus became the servant or ally of a Republic. In his desperation he emancipated his serfs, and so the folk of the Contado profited by the dissensions of the cities and their feudal masters. This new phase of republican evolution lasted over a long and ill-defined period, assuming different characters in different centers; but the end of it was that the nobles were forced to submit to the cities. They were admitted to the burghership, and agreed to spend a certain portion of every year in the palaces they raised within the circuit of the walls. Thus the Counts placed themselves beneath the jurisdiction of the Consuls, and the Italic population absorbed into itself the relics of Lombard, Frank, and German aristocracy. Still the gain upon the side of the republics was not clear. Though the feudal lordship of the nobles had been destroyed, their wealth, their lands, and their prestige remained untouched. In the city they felt themselves but aliens. Their real home was still the castle on the neighboring mountain. Nor, when they stooped to become burghers, had they relinquished the use of arms. Instead of building peaceable dwelling-houses in the city, they filled its quarters with fortresses and towers, whence they carried on feuds among themselves and imperiled the safety of the streets. It was speedily discovered that the war against the Castles had become a war against the Palaces, and that the arena had been transferred from the open Contado to the Piazza and the barricade. The authority of the consuls proved insufficient to maintain an equilibrium between the people and the nobles. Accordingly a new magistrate started into being, combining the offices of supreme justiciary and military dictator. When Frederick Barbarossa attempted to govern the rebellious Lombard cities in the common interest of the Empire, he established in their midst a foreign judge, called Podestà _quasi habens potestatem Imperatoris in hâc parte_. This institution only served at the moment to inflame and imbitter the resistance of the Communes: but the title of Podestà was subsequently conferred upon the official summoned to maintain an equal balance between the burghers and the nobles. He was invariably a foreigner, elected for one year, intrusted with summary jurisdiction in all matters of dispute, exercising the power of life and death, and disposing of the municipal militia. The old constitution of the Commune remained to control this dictator and to guard the independence of the city. All the Councils continued to act, and the Consuls were fortified by the formation of a College of Ancients or Priors. The Podestà was created with the express purpose of effecting a synthesis between two rival sections of the burgh. He was never regarded as other than an alien to the city, adopted as a temporary mediator and controller of incompatible elements. The lordship of the burgh still resided with the Consuls, who from this time forward began to lose their individuality in the College of the _Signoria_--called _Priori_, _Anziani_, or _Rettori_, as the case might be in various districts. The Italian republics had reached this stage when Frederick II. united the Empire and the kingdom of the Two Sicilies. It was a crisis of the utmost moment for Italian independence. Master of the South, Frederick sought to reconquer the lost prerogatives of the Empire in Lombardy and Tuscany; nor is it improbable that he might have succeeded in uniting Italy beneath his sway but for the violent animosity of the Church. The warfare of extermination carried on by the Popes against the house of Hohenstauffen was no proof of their partiality for the cause of freedom. They dreaded the reality of a kingdom that should base itself on Italy and be the rival of their own authority. Therefore they espoused the cause of the free burghs against Frederick, and when the North was devastated by his Vicars, they preached a crusade against Ezzelino da Romano. In the convulsions that shook Italy from North to South the parties of Guelf and Ghibelline took shape, and acquired an ineradicable force. All the previous humors and discords of the nation were absorbed by them. The Guelf party meant the burghers of the consular Communes, the men of industry and commerce, the upholders of civil liberty, the friends of democratic expansion. The Ghibelline party included the naturalized nobles, the men of arms and idleness, the advocates of feudalism, the politicians who regarded constitutional progress with disfavor. That the banner of the Church floated over the one camp, while the standard of the Empire rallied to itself the hostile party, was a matter of comparatively superficial moment. The true strength of the war lay in the population, divided by irreconcilable ideals, each eager to possess the city for itself, each prepared to die for its adopted principles. The struggle is a social struggle, played out within the precincts of the Commune, for the supremacy of one or the other moiety of the whole people. A city does not pronounce itself either Guelf or Ghibelline till half the burghers have been exiled. The victorious party organizes the government in its own interest, establishes itself in a Palazzo apart from the Commune, where it develops its machinery at home and abroad, and strengthens its finance by forced contributions and confiscations.[1] The exiles make common cause with members of their own faction in an adverse burgh; and thus, by the diplomacy of Guelfs and Ghibellines, the most distant centers are drawn into the network of a common dualism. In this way we are justified in saying that Italy achieved her national consciousness through strife and conflict; for the Communes ceased to be isolated, cemented by temporary leagues, or engaged in merely local conflicts. They were brought together and connected by the sympathies and antipathies of an antagonism which embraced and dominated the municipalities, set Republics and Regno on equal footing, and merged the titular leaders of the struggle, Pope and Emperor, in the uncontrollable tumult. The issue was no vulgar one; no merely egotistic interests were at stake. Guelfs and Ghibellines alike interrogated the oracle, with perfect will to obey its inspiration for the common good; but they read the utterances of the Pythia in adverse senses. The Ghibelline heard Italy calling upon him to build a citadel that should be guarded by the lance and shield of chivalry, where the hierarchies of feudalism, ranged beneath the dais of the Empire, might dispense culture and civil order in due measure to the people. The Guelf believed that she was bidding him to multiply arts and guilds within the burgh, beneath the mantle of the Pope, who stood for Christ, the preacher of equality and peace for all mankind, in order that the beehive of industry should in course of time evolve a civil order and a culture representative of its own freely acting forces. [1] It is enough to refer to the importance of the _Parte Guelfa_ in the history of Florence. During the stress and storm of the fierce warfare carried on by Guelfs and Ghibellines, the Podestà fell into the second rank. He had been created to meet an emergency; but now the discord was too vehement for arbitration. A new functionary appears, with the title of _Captain of the People_. Chosen when one or other of the factions gains supreme power in the burgh, he represents the victorious party, takes the lead in proscribing their opponents, and ratifies on his responsibility the changes introduced into the constitution. The old magistracies and councils, meanwhile, are not abrogated. The Consiglio del Popolo, with the Capitano at its head, takes the lead; and a new member, called the Consiglio della Parte, is found beside them, watchful to maintain the policy of the victorious faction. But the Consiglio del Comune, with the Podestà, who has not ceased to exercise judicial functions, still subsists. The Priors form the signory as of old. The Credenza goes on working, and the Gran Consiglio represents the body of privileged burghers. The party does but tyrannize over the city it has conquered, and manipulates the ancient constitution for its own advantage. In this clash of Guelf with Ghibelline the beneficiaries were the lower classes of the people. Excluded from the Popolo of episcopal and consular revolutions, the trades and industries of the great cities now assert their claims to be enfranchised. The advent of the _Arti_ is the chief social phenomenon of the crisis.[1] Thus the final issue of the conflict was a new Italy, deeply divided by factions that were little understood, because they were so vital, because they represented two adverse currents of national energy, incompatible, irreconcilable, eternal in antagonism as the poles. But this discordant nation was more commercial and more democratic. Families of merchants rose upon the ruins of the old nobility. Roman cities of industry reduced their military rivals of earlier or later origin to insignificance. The plain, the river, and the port asserted themselves against the mountain fastness and the barrackburgh. The several classes of society, triturated, shaken together, leveled by warfare and equalized by industry, presented but few obstacles to the emergence of commanding personalities, however humble, from their ranks. Not only had the hierarchy of feudalism disappeared; but the constitution of the city itself was confused, and the Popolo, whether 'primo' or 'secondo or even 'terzo,' was diluted with recently franchised Contadini and all kinds of 'novi homines.'[2] The Divine Comedy, written after the culmination of the Guelf and Ghibelline dissensions, yields the measure of their animosity. Dante finds no place in Hell Heaven, or Purgatory for the souls who stood aloof from strife, the angels who were neither Guelf nor Ghibelline in Paradise. His Vigliacchi, 'wretches who never lived,' because they never felt the pangs or ecstasies of partisanship, wander homeless on the skirts of Limbo, among the abortions and offscourings of creation. Even so there was no standing-ground in Italy outside one or the other hostile camp. Society was riven down to its foundation. Rancors dating from the thirteenth century endured long after the great parties ceased to have a meaning. They were perpetuated in customs, and expressed themselves in the most trivial details. Banners, ensigns, and heraldic colors followed the divisions of the factions. Ghibellines wore the feathers in their caps upon one side, Guelfs upon the other. Ghibellines cut fruit at table crosswise, Guelfs straight down. In Bergamo some Calabrians were murdered by their host, who discovered from their way of slicing garlic that they sided with the hostile party. Ghibellines drank out of smooth, and Guelfs out of chased, goblets. Ghibellines wore white, and Guelfs red, roses. Yawning, passing in the street, throwing dice, gestures in speaking or swearing, were used as pretexts for distinguishing the one half of Italy from the other. So late as the middle of the fifteenth century, the Ghibellines of Milan tore Christ from the high-altar of the Cathedral at Crema and burned him because he turned his face to the Guelf shoulder. Every great city has a tale of love and death that carries the contention of its adverse families into the region of romance and legend. Florence dated her calamities from the insult offered by Buondelmonte dei Buondelmonti to the Amidei in a broken marriage. Bologna never forgot the pathos of Imelda Lambertazzi stretched in death upon her lover Bonifazio Gieremei's corpse. The story of Romeo and Juliet at Verona is a myth which brings both factions into play, the well-meaning intervention of peace-making monks, and the ineffectual efforts of the Podestà to curb the violence of party warfare. [1] The history of Florence illustrates more clearly than that of any other town the vast importance acquired by trades and guilds in politics at this epoch of the civil wars. [2] This is the sting of Cacciaguida's scornful lamentation over Florence Par. xvi. Ma la cittadinanza, ch' è or mista Di Campi e di Certaldo e di Figghine, Pura vedeasi nell' ultimo artista. Tal fatto è fiorentino, e cambia e merca, Che si sarebbe volto a Semifonti, Là dove andava l' avolo alia cerca. Sempre la confusione delle persone Principio fu del mal della cittade, Come del corpo il cibo che s' appone. So deep and dreadful was the discord, so utter the exhaustion, that the distracted Communes were fain at last to find some peace in tyranny. At the close of their long quarrel with the house of Hohenstauffen, the Popes called Charles of Anjou into Italy. The final issue of that policy for the nation at large will be discussed in another portion of this work. It is enough to point out here that, as Ezzelino da Romano introduced despotism in its worst form as a party leader of the Ghibellines, so Charles of Anjou became a typical tyrant in the Guelf interest. He was recognized as chief of the Guelf party by the Florentines, and the kingdom of the Two Sicilies was conferred upon him as the price of his dictatorship. The republics almost simultaneously entered upon a new phase. Democratized by the extension of the franchise, corrupted, to use Machiavelli's phrase, in their old organization of the Popolo and Commune, they fell into the hands of tyrants, who employed the prestige of their party, the indifference of the Vigliacchi, and the peace-loving instincts of the middle class for the consolidation of their selfish autocracy.[1] Placing himself above the law, manipulating the machinery of the State for his own ends, substituting the will of a single ruler for the clash of hostile passions in the factions, the tyrant imposed a forcible tranquillity upon the city he had grasped. The Captaincy of the people was conferred upon him.[2] The Councils were suffocated and reduced to silence. The aristocracy was persecuted for the profit of the plebs. Under his rule commerce flourished; the towns were adorned with splendid edifices; foreign wars were carried on for the aggrandizement of the State without regard to factious rancors. Thus the tyrant marked the first emergence of personality supreme within the State, resuming its old forces in an autocratic will, superseding and at the same time consciously controlling the mute, collective, blindly working impulses of previous revolutions. His advent was welcomed as a blessing by the recently developed people of the cities he reduced to peace. But the great families and leaders of the parties regarded him with loathing, as a reptile spawned by the corruption and disease of the decaying body politic. In their fury they addressed themselves to the two chiefs of Christendom. Boniface VIII., answering to this appeal, called in a second Frenchman, Charles of Valois, with the titles of Marquis of Ancona, Count of Romagna, Captain of Tuscany, who was bidden to reduce Italy to order on Guelf principles. Dante in his mountain solitudes invoked the Emperor, and Italy beheld the powerless march of Henry VII. Neither Pope nor Emperor was strong enough to control the currents of the factions which were surely whirling Italy into the abyss of despotism. Boniface died of grief after Sciarra Colonna, the terrible Ghibelline's outrage at Anagni, and the Papal Court was transferred to Avignon in 1316. Henry VII. expired, of poison probably, at Buonconvento, in 1313. The parties tore each other to fragments. Tyrants were murdered. Whole families were extirpated. Yet these convulsions bore no fruit of liberty. The only exit from the situation was in despotism--the despotism of a jealous oligarchy as at Florence, or the despotism of new tyrants in Lombardy and the Romagna.[3] [1] Not to mention the republics of Lombardy and Romagna, which took the final stamp of despotism at the beginning of the fourteenth century, it is noticeable that Pisa submitted to Uguccione da Faggiuola, Lucca to Castruccio Castracane, and Florence to the Duke of Athens. The revolution of Pisa in 1316 delivered it from Uguccione; the premature death of Castruccio in 1328 destroyed the Tuscan duchy he was building up upon the basement of Ghibellinism; while the rebellion of 1343 averted tyranny from Florence for another century. [2] Machiavelli's _Vita di Castruccio Castracane_, though it is rather a historical romance than a trustworthy biography, illustrates the gradual advances made by a bold and ambitious leader from the Captaincy of the people, conferred upon him for one year, to the tyranny of his city. [3] The Divine comedy is, under one of its aspects, the Epic of Italian tyranny, so many of its episodes are chosen from the history of the civil wars: Chè le terre d' Italia tutte piene Son di tiranni; ed un Marcel diventa Ogni villan che parteggiando viene. Those lines occur in the apostrophe to Italy (_Purg._ vi.) where Dante refers to the Empire, idealized by him as the supreme authority in Europe. Meanwhile the perils to which the tyrants were exposed taught them to employ cruelty and craft in combination. From the confused and spasmodic efforts of the thirteenth century, when Captains of the people and leaders of the party seized a momentary gust of power, there arose a second sort of despotism, more cautious in its policy, more methodic in its use of means to ends, which ended by metamorphosing the Italian cities and preparing the great age of the Renaissance. It would be sentimental to utter lamentations over this change, and unphilosophical to deplore the diminution of republican liberty as an unmixed evil. The divisions of Italy and the weakness of both Papacy and Empire left no other solution of the political problem. All branches of the municipal administration, strained to the cracking-point by the tension of party conflict, were now isolated from the organism, abnormally developed, requiring the combining effort of a single thinker to reunite their scattered forces in one system or absorb them in himself. The indirect restraints which a calmer period of municipal vitality had placed upon tyrannic ambition, were removed by the leveling of classes and the presentation of an equal surface to the builder of the palace-dome of monarchy. Moreover, it must be remembered that what the Italians then understood by freedom was municipal autonomy controlled by ruling houses in the interest of the few. These considerations need not check our sympathy with Florence in the warfare she carried on against the Milanese tyrants. But they should lead us to be cautious in adopting the conclusions of Sismondi, who saw Italian greatness only in her free cities. The obliteration of the parties beneath despotism was needed, under actual conditions, for that development of arts and industry which raised Italy to a first place among civilized nations. Of the manners of the Despots, and of the demoralization they encouraged in the cities of their rule, enough will be said in the succeeding chapters, which set forth the social conditions of the Renaissance in Italy. But attention should here be called to the general character of despotic authority, and to the influence the Despots exercised for the pacification of the country. We are not justified by facts in assuming that had the free burghs continued independent, arts and literature would have risen to a greater height. Venice, in spite of an uninterrupted republican career, produced no commanding men of letters, and owed much of her splendor in the art of painting to aliens from Cadore, Castelfranco, and Verona. Genoa remained silent and irresponsive to the artistic movement of Italy until the last days of the republic, when her independence was but a shadow. Pisa, though a burgh of Tuscany, displayed no literary talent, while her architecture dates from the first period of the Commune. Siena, whose republican existence lasted longer even than that of Florence, contributed nothing of importance to Italian literature. The art of Perugia was developed during the ascendency of despotic families. The painting of the Milanese School owed its origin to Lodovico Sforza, and survived the tragic catastrophes of his capital, which suffered more than any other from the brutalities of Spaniards and Frenchmen. Next to Florence, the most brilliant centers of literary activity during the bright days of the Renaissance were princely Ferrara and royal Naples. Lastly, we might insist upon the fact that the Italian language took its first flight in the court of imperial Palermo, while republican Rome remained dumb throughout the earlier stage of Italian literary evolution. Thus the facts of the case seem to show that culture and republican independence were not so closely united in Italy as some historians would seek to make us believe. On the other hand it is impossible to prove that the despotisms of the fifteenth century were necessary to the perfecting of art and literature. All that can be safely advanced upon this subject, is that the pacification of Italy was demanded as a preliminary condition, and that this pacification came to pass through the action of the princes, checked and equilibrated by the oligarchies of Venice and Florence. It might further be urged that the Despots were in close sympathy with the masses of the people, shared their enthusiasms, and promoted their industry. When the classical revival took place at the close of the fourteenth century, they divined this movement of the Italic races to resume their past, and gave it all encouragement. To be a prince, and not to be the patron of scholarship, the pupil of humanists, and the founder of libraries, was an impossibility. In like manner they employed their wealth upon the development of arts and industries. The great age of Florentine painting is indissolubly connected with the memories of Casa Medici. Rome owes her magnificence to the despotic Popes. Even the pottery of Gubbio was a creation of the ducal house of Urbino. After the death of Henry VII. and the beginning of the Papal exile at Avignon, the Guelf party became the rallying-point of municipal independence, with its headquarters in Florence. Ghibellinism united the princes in an opposite camp. 'The Guelf party,' writes Giovanni Villani, 'forms the solid and unalterable basis of Italian liberty, and is so antagonistic to all tyranny that, if a Guelf become a tyrant, he must of necessity become at the same moment Ghibelline.' Milan, first to assert the rights of the free burghs, was now the chief center of despotism; and the events of the next century resume themselves in the long struggle between Florence and the Visconti. The chronicle of the Villani and the Florentine history of Poggio contain the record of this strife, which seemed to them the all-important crisis of Italian affairs. In the Milanese annals of Galvano Fiamma and Mussi, on the other hand, the advantages of a despotic sovereignty in giving national coherence, the crimes of the Papacy, which promoted anarchy in its ill-governed States, and the prospect of a comprehensive Italian tyranny under the great house of the Visconti, are eloquently pleaded. The terms of the main issue being thus clearly defined, we may regard the warfare carried on by Bertrand du Poiet and Louis of Bavaria in the interests of Church and Empire, the splendid campaigns of Egidio d'Albornoz, and the delirious cruelty of Robert of Geneva, no less than the predatory excursions of Charles IV., as episodical. The main profits of those convulsions, which drowned Italy in blood during nearly all the fourteenth century, accrued to the Despots, who held their ground in spite of all attempts to dispossess them. The greater houses, notably the Visconti, acquired strength by revolutions in which the Church and Empire neutralized each other's action. The lesser families struck firm roots into cities, infuriated rather than intimidated by such acts of violence as the massacres of Faenza and Cesena in 1377. The relations of the imperial and pontifical parties were confused; while even in the center of republican independence, at Florence, social changes, determined in great measure by the exhaustion of the city in its conflict, prepared the way for the Medicean tyranny. Neither the Church nor the Empire gained steady footing in Italy, while the prestige of both was ruined.[1] Municipal freedom, instead of being enlarged, was extinguished by the ambition of the Florentine oligarchs, who, while they spent the last florin of the Commune in opposing the Visconti, never missed an opportunity of enslaving the sister burghs of Tuscany. In a word, the destiny of the nation was irresistibly impelling it toward despotism. [1] Machiavelli, in his _Istorie Fiorentine_ (Firenze, 1818, vol. i. pp. 47, 48), points out how the competition of the Church and Empire, during the Papacies of Benedict XII. and Clement VI. and the reign of Louis strengthened the tyrants of Lombardy, Romagna, and the March. Each of the two contending powers gave away what did not belong to them, bidding against each other for any support they might obtain from the masters of the towns. In order to explain the continual prosperity of the princes amid the clash of forces brought to bear against them from so many sides, we must remember that they were the partisans of social order in distracted burghs, the heroes of the middle classes and the multitude, the quellers of faction, the administrators of impartial laws, and the aggrandizers of the city at the expense of its neighbors. Ser Gorello, singing the praises of the Bishop Guido dei Tarlati di Pietra Mala, who ruled Arezzo in the first half of the fourteenth century, makes the Commune say:[1] 'He was the lord so valiant and magnificent, so full of grace and daring, so agreeable to both Guelfs and Ghibellines. He, for his virtue, was chosen by common consent to be the master of my people. Peace and justice were the beginning, middle, and end of his lordship, which removed all discord from the State. By the greatness of his valor I grew in territory round about. Every neighbor reverenced me, some through love and some through dread; for it was dear to them to rest beneath his mantle.' These verses set forth the qualities which united the mass of the populations to their new lords. The Despot delivered the industrial classes from the tyranny and anarchy of faction, substituting a reign of personal terrorism that weighed more heavily upon the nobles than upon the artisans or peasants. Ruling more by perfidy, corruption, and fraud than by the sword, he turned the leaders of parties into courtiers, brought proscribed exiles back into the city as officials, flattered local vanity by continuing the municipal machinery in its functions of parade, and stopped the mouths of unruly demagogues by making it their pecuniary interest to preach his benefits abroad. So long as the burghers remained peaceable beneath his sway and refrained from attacking him in person, he was mild. But at the same moment the gallows, the torture-chamber, the iron cage suspended from the giddy height of palace-roof or church tower, and the dreadful dungeons, where a prisoner could neither stand nor lie at ease, were ever ready for the man who dared dispute his authority. That authority depended solely on his personal qualities of will, courage, physical endurance. He held it by intelligence, being as it were an artificial product of political necessities, an equilibrium of forces, substituted without legal title for the Church and Empire, and accumulating in his despotic individuality the privileges previously acquired by centuries of consuls, Podestàs, and Captains of the people. The chief danger he had to fear was conspiracy; and in providing himself against this peril he expended all the resources suggested by refined ingenuity and heightened terror. Yet, when the Despot was attacked and murdered, it followed of necessity that the successful conspirator became in turn a tyrant. 'Cities,' wrote Machiavelli,[2] 'that are once corrupt and accustomed to the rule of princes, can never acquire freedom, even though the prince with all his kin be extirpated. One prince is needed to extinguish another; and the city has no rest except by the creation of a new lord, unless it chance that one burgher by his goodness and great qualities may during his lifetime preserve its temporary independence.' Palace intrigues, therefore, took the place of Piazza revolutions, and dynasties were swept away to make room for new tyrants without material change in the condition of the populace. [1] _Mur. Scr. R. It._ xv. 826. Compare what G. Merula wrote about Azzo Visconti: 'He conciliated the people to him by equal justice without distinction of Guelf or Ghibelline.' [2] _Discorsi_. i. 17. It was the universal policy of the Despots to disarm their subjects. Prompted by considerations of personal safety, and demanded by the necessity of extirpating the factions, this measure was highly popular. It relieved the burghers of that most burdensome of all public duties, military service. A tax on silver and salt was substituted in the Milanese province for the conscription, while the Florentine oligarchs, actuated probably by the same motives, laid a tax upon the country. The effect of this change was to make financial and economical questions all-important, and to introduce a new element into the balance of Italian powers. The principalities were transformed into great banks, where the lords of cities sat in their bureau, counted their money, and calculated the cost of wars or the value of towns they sought to acquire by bargain. At first they used their mercenary troops like pawns, buying up a certain number for some special project, and dismissing them when it had been accomplished. But in course of time the mercenaries awoke to the sense of their own power, and placed themselves beneath captains who secured them a certainty of pay with continuity of profitable service. Thus the Condottieri came into existence, and Italy beheld the spectacle of moving despotisms, armed and mounted, seeking to effect establishment upon the weakest, worst-defended points of the peninsula. They proved a grave cause of disquietude alike to the tyrants and the republics; and until the settlement of Francesco Sforza in the Duchy of Milan, when the employers of auxiliaries had come to understand the arts of dealing with them by perfidy, secret assassination, and a system of elaborate counter-checks, the equilibrium of power in Italy was seriously threatened. The country suffered at first from marauding excursions conducted by piratical leaders of adventurous troops, by Werner of Urslingen, the Conte Lando, and Fra Moriale; afterwards from the discords of Braccio da Montone and Sforza Attendolo, incessantly plotting to carve duchies for themselves from provinces they had been summoned by a master to subdue. At this period gold ruled the destinies of Italy. The Despots, relying solely on their exchequer for their power, were driven to extortion. Cities became bankrupt, pledged their revenues, or sold themselves to the highest bidder.[1] Indescribable misery oppressed the poorer classes and the peasants. A series of obscure revolutions in the smaller despotic centers pointed to a vehement plebeian reaction against a state of things that had become unbearable. The lower classes of the burghers rose against the 'popolani grassi,' and a new class of princes emerged at the close of the crisis. Thus the plebs forced the Bentivogli on Bologna and the Medici on Florence, and Baglioni on Perugia and the Petrucci on Siena. [1] Perugia, for example, farmed out the tax upon her country population for 12,000 florins, upon her baking-houses for 7,266, upon her wine for 4,000, upon her lake for 5,200, upon contracts for 1,500. Two bankers accepted the Perugian loan at this price in 1388. The emergence of the Condottieri at the beginning of the fourteenth century, the anarchy they encouraged for their own aggrandizement, and the financial distress which ensued upon the substitution of mercenary for civic warfare, completed the democratization of the Italian cities, and marked a new period in the history of despotism. From the date of Francesco Sforza's entry into Milan as conqueror in 1450, the princes became milder in their exercise of power and less ambitious. Having begun by disarming their subjects, they now proceeded to lay down arms themselves, employing small forces for the protection of their person and the State, engaging more cautiously in foreign strife, and substituting diplomacy, wherever it was possible, for warfare. Gold still ruled in politics, but it was spent in bribery. To the ambitious military schemes of Gian Galeazzo Visconti succeeded the commercial cynicism of Cosimo de' Medici, who enslaved Florence by astute demoralization.[1] The spirit of the age was materialistic and positive. The Despots held their state by treachery, craft, and corruption. The element of force being virtually eliminated, intelligence at last gained undivided sway; and the ideal statecraft of Machiavelli was realized with more or less completeness in all parts of the peninsula. At this moment and by these means Italy obtained a brief but golden period of peace beneath the confederation of her great powers. Nicholas V. had restored the Papal court to Rome in 1447; where he assumed the manners of despotism and counted as one among the Italian Signori. Lombardy remained tranquil under the rule of Francesco Sforza, and Tuscany under that of the Casa Medici. The kingdom of Naples, conquered by Alfonso of Aragon in 1442, was equally ruled in the spirit of enlightened despotism, while Venice, who had so long formed a state apart, by her recent acquisition of a domain on terra firma, entered the community of Italian politics. Thus the country had finally resolved itself into five grand constituent elements--the Duchy of Milan, the Republic of S. Mark, Florence, Rome, and the kingdom of Naples--all of them, though widely differing in previous history and constitutional peculiarities, now animated by a common spirit.[2] Politically they tended to despotism; for though Venice continued to be a republic, the government of the Venetian oligarchy was but despotism put into commission. Intellectually, the same enthusiasm for classical studies, the same artistic energy, and the same impulse to revive Italian literature brought the several centers of the nation into keener sympathy than they had felt before. A network of diplomacy embraced the cities; and round the leaders of the confederation were grouped inferior burghs, republican or tyrannical as the case might be, like satellites around the luminaries of a solar system. When Constantinople was taken by the Turks in 1453, Italy felt the need of suppressing her old jealousies, and Nicholas V. induced the four great powers to sign with him a treaty of peace and amity. The political tact and sagacity of Lorenzo de' Medici enabled him to develop and substantiate the principle of balance then introduced into Italian politics; nor was there any apparent reason why the equilibrium so hardly won, so skillfully maintained, should not have subsisted but for Lodovico Sforza's invitation to the French in 1494. Up to that date the more recent wars of Italy had been principally caused by the encroachments of Venice and the nepotism of successive Popes. They raised no new enthusiasm hostile to the interests of peace. The Empire was eliminated and forgotten as an obsolete antiquity. Italy seemed at last determined to manage her own affairs by mutual agreement between the five great powers. [1] I have attempted to analyze Cosimo's method in the article on 'Florence and the Medici,' _Studies and Sketches in Italy_. [2] This centralization of Italy in five great powers was not obtained without the depression or total extinction of smaller cities. Ferrari counts seventeen towns, who died, to use his forcible expression, at the close of the civil wars. _Storia delle Rivoluzioni d' Italia_, iii. 239. Still the ground beneath this specious fabric of diplomacy rung hollow. The tyrannies represented a transient political necessity. They were not the product of progressive social growth, satisfying and regulating organic functions of the nation. Far from being the final outcome of a slow, deliberate accretion in the states they had absorbed, we see in them the climax of conflicting humors, the splendid cancers and imposthumes of a desperate disease. That solid basis of national morality which grounds the monarch firm upon the sympathies and interests of the people whom he seems to lead, but whom he in reality expresses, failed them. Therefore each individual despot trembled for his throne, while Italy, as in the ominous picture drawn by her historian, felt that all the elements were combining to devour her with a coming storm. The land of earthquakes divined a cataclysm, to cope with which she was unable. An apparently insignificant event determined the catastrophe. The Sforza appealed to France, and after the disastrous descent of Charles VIII. the whole tide of events turned. Instead of internal self-government by any system of balance, Italy submitted to a succession of invasions terminating in foreign tyranny. The problem why the Italians failed to achieve the unity of a coherent nation has been implicitly discussed in the foregoing pages upon the history of the Communes and the development of despotism. We have already seen that their conception of municipal independence made a narrow oligarchy of enfranchised burghers lords of the city, which in its turn oppressed the country and the subject burghs of its domain. Every conquest by a republic reduced some village or center of civil life to the condition of serfdom. The voices of the inhabitants were no longer heard debating questions that affected their interests. They submitted to dictation from their masters, the enfranchised few in the ascendant commonwealth. Thus, as Guicciardini pointed out in his 'Considerations on the Discourses of Machiavelli,' the subjection of Italy by a dominant republic would have meant the extinction of numberless political communities and the sway of a close oligarchy from the Alps to the Ionian Sea.[1] The 3,200 burghers who constituted Florence in 1494, or the nobles of the Golden Book at Venice, would by such unification of the country under a victorious republic have become sovereigns, administering the resources of the nation for their profit. The dread of this catastrophe rendered Venice odious to her sister commonwealths at the close of the fifteenth century, and justified, according to Guicciardini's views of history, the action taken by Cosimo de' Medici in 1450, when he rendered Milan strong by supporting her despot, Francesco Sforza.[2] In a word republican freedom, as the term is now understood, was unknown in Italy. Municipal autonomy, implying the right of the municipality to rule its conquests for its own particular profit, was the dominant idea. To have advanced from this stage of thought to the highly developed conception of a national republic, centralizing the forces of Italy and at the same time giving free play to its local energies, would have been impossible. This kind of republican unity implies a previous unification of the people in some other form of government. It furthermore demands a system of representation extended to all sections of the nation. Their very nature, therefore, prevented the republican institutions won by the Italians in the early Middle Ages from sufficing for their independence in a national republic. [1] _Op. Ined._ vol. i. p. 28. [2] _Ib._ vol. iii. p. 8. It may with more reason be asked in the next place why Italy did not become a monarchy, and again why she never produced a confederation, uniting the Communes as the Swiss Cantons were combined for mutual support and self-defense. When we attack the first of these two questions, our immediate answer must be that the Italians had a rooted disinclination for monarchical union.[1] Their most strenuous efforts were directed against it when it seemed to threaten them. It may be remembered that they were not a new people, needing concentration to secure their bare existence. Even during the great days of ancient Rome they had not been what we are wont to call a nation, but a confederacy of municipalities governed and directed by the mistress of the globe. When Rome passed away, the fragments of the body politic in Italy, though rudely shaken, retained some portion of the old vitality that joined them to the past. It was to the past rather than the future that the new Italians looked; and even as they lacked initiative forces in their literature, so in their political systems they ventured on no fresh beginning. Though Rome herself was ruined, the shadow of the name of Rome, the mighty memory of Roman greatness, still abode with them. Instead of a modern capital and a modern king, they had an idea for their rallying-point, a spiritual city for their metropolis. Nor was there any immediate reason why they should have sacrificed their local independence in order to obtain the security afforded by a sovereign. It was not till a later epoch that Italy learned by bitter experience that unity at any cost would be acceptable, face to face with the organized armies of modern Europe. But when the chance of securing that safeguard was offered in the Middle Ages, it must have been bought by subjection to foreigners, by toleration of feudalism, by the extinction of Roman culture in the laws and customs of barbarians. Thus it is not too much to say that the Italians themselves rejected it. Moreover, the problem of unifying Italy in a monarchy was never so practically simple as that of forming nations out of the Teutonic tribes. Not only was the instinct of clanship absent, but before the year 800 all attempts to establish a monarchical state were thwarted by the still formidable proximity of the Greek Empire and by the growing power of ecclesiastical Rome. We have seen how the Goths erred by submitting-to the Empire and merging their authority in a declining organization. We have seen again how the Lombards erred by adopting Catholic Christianity and thus entangling themselves in the policy of Papal Rome. Both Goths and Lombards committed the mistake of sparing the Eternal City; or it may be more accurate to say that neither of them were strong enough to lay hands of violence upon the sacred and mysterious metropolis and hold it as their seat of monarchy against the world. So long as Rome remained independent, neither Ravenna nor Pavia could head a kingdom in the peninsula. Meanwhile Rome lent her prestige to the advancement of a spiritual power which, subject to no dynastic weakness, with the persistent force of an idea that cannot die, was bent on subjugating Europe. The Papacy needed Italy as the basis of its operations, and could not brook a rival that might reduce the See of S. Peter to the level of an ordinary bishopric. Rome therefore, generation after generation, upheld the so-called liberties of Italy against all comers; and when she summoned the Franks, it was to break the growing power of the Lombard monarchs. The pact between the Popes and Charles the Great, however we may interpret its meaning, still further removed the possibility of a kingdom by dividing Italy into two sections with separate allegiances; and since the sway of neither Pope nor Emperor, the one unarmed, the other absent, was stringent enough to check the growth of independent cities, a third and all-important factor was added to the previous checks upon national unity. [1] Guicciardini (_Op. Ined._ i. 29) remarks: 'O sia per qualche fato d' Italia, o per la complessione degli uomini temperata in modo che hanno ingegno e forze, non è mai questa provincia stata facile a ridursi sotto uno imperio.' He speaks again of her disunion as 'quello modo di vivere che è più secondo la antiquissima consuetudine e inclinazione sua.' But Guicciardini, with that defect of vision which rendered him incapable of appreciating the whole situation while he analyzed its details so profoundly, was reckoning without the great nations of Europe. See above, pp. 40, 41. After 1200 the problem changes its aspect. We have now to ask ourselves why, when the struggle with the Empire was over, when Frederick Barbarossa had been defeated at Legnano, when the Lombard and the Tuscan Leagues were in full vigor before the Guelf and Ghibelline factions had confused the mainsprings of political activity, and while the national militia was still energetic, the Communes did not advance from the conception of local and municipal independence to that of national freedom in a confederacy similar to the Swiss Bund. The Italians, it may be suggested, saw no immediate necessity for a confederation that would have limited the absolute autonomy of their several parcels. Only the light cast by subsequent events upon their early history makes us perceive that they missed an unique opportunity at this moment. What they then desired was freedom for expansion each after his own political type, freedom for the development of industry and commerce, freedom for the social organization of the city beloved by its burghers above the nation as a whole. Special difficulties, moreover, lay in the way of confederation. The Communes were not districts, like the Swiss Cantons, but towns at war with the Contado round them and at war among themselves. Mutually jealous and mistrustful, with a country population that but partially obeyed their rule, these centers of Italian freedom were in a very different position from the peasant communities of Schwytz, Uri, Untenvalden. Italy, moreover, could not have been federally united without the consent of Naples and the Church. The kingdom of the Two Sicilies, rendered definitely monarchical by the Norman Conquest, offered a serious obstacle; and though the Regno might have been defied and absorbed by a vigorous concerted movement from the North and center, there still remained the opposition of the Papacy. It had been the recent policy of the Popes to support the free burghs in their war with Frederick. But they did this only because they could not tolerate a rival near their base of spiritual power; and the very reasons which had made them side with the cities in the wars of liberation would have roused their hostility against a federative union. To have encouraged an Italian Bund, in the midst of which they would have found the Church unarmed and on a level with the puissant towns of Lombardy and Tuscany, must have seemed to them a suicidal error. Such a coalition, if attempted, could not but have been opposed with all their might; for the whole history of Italy proves that Machiavelli was right when he asserted that the Church had persistently maintained the nation in disunion for the furtherance of her own selfish ends. We have furthermore to add the prestige which the Empire preserved for the Italians, who failed to conceive of any civilized, human society whereof the representative of Cæsar should not be the God-appointed head. Though the material power of the Emperors was on the wane, it still existed as a dominant idea. Italy was still the Garden of the Empire no less than the Throne of Christ on earth. After the burghs had wrung what they regarded as their reasonable rights and privileges from Frederick, they laid down their arms, and were content to flourish beneath the imperial shadow. To raise up a political association as a bulwark against the Holy Roman Empire, and by the formation of this defense to become an independent and united nation, instead of remaining an aggregate of scattered townships, would have seemed to their minds little short of sacrilege. Up to this point the Church and the Empire had been, theoretically at least, concordant. They were the sun and moon of a sacred social system which ruled Europe with light and might. But the Wars of Investiture placed them in antagonism, and the result of that quarrel was still further to divide the Italians, still further to remove the hope of national unity into the region of things unattainable. The great parties accentuated communal jealousies and gave external form and substance to the struggles of town with town. So far distant was the possibility of confederation on a grand scale that every city strove within itself to establish one of two contradictory principles, and the energies of the people were expended in a struggle that set neighbor against neighbor on the field of war and in the market-place. The confusion, exhaustion, and demoralization engendered by these conflicts determined the advent of the Despots; and after 1400 Italy could only have been united under a tyrant's iron rule. At such an universal despotism Gian Galeazzo Visconti was aiming when the plague cut short his schemes. Cesare Borgia played his highest stakes for it. Leo X. dreamed of it for his family. Machiavelli, at the end of the _Principe_, when the tragedy of Italy was almost accomplished, invoked it. But even for this last chance of unification it was now too late. The great nations of Europe were in movement, and the destinies of Italy depended upon France and Spain. When Charles V. remained victor in the struggle of the sixteenth century, he stereotyped and petrified the divisions of Italy in the interest of his own dynastic policy. The only Italian power that remained unchangeable throughout all changes was the Papacy--the first to emerge into prominence after the decay of the old Western Empire, the last to suffer diminution in spite of vicissitudes, humiliations, schisms, and internal transformation. As the Papacy had created and maintained a divided Italy, as it had opposed itself to every successive prospect of unification, so it survived the extinction of Italian independence, and lent its aid to that imperial tyranny whereby the disunion of the nation was confirmed and prolongated till the present century. CHAPTER III. THE AGE OF THE DESPOTS. Salient Qualities of the Fourteenth and Fifteenth Centuries in Italy--Relation of Italy to the Empire and to the Church--The Illegitimate Title of Italian Potentates--The Free Emergence of Personality--Frederick II. and the Influence of his Example--Ezzelino da Romano--Six Sorts of Italian Despots--Feudal Seigneurs--Vicars of the Empire--Captains of the People--Condottieri--Nephews and Sons of Popes--Eminent Burghers--Italian Incapacity for Self-Government in Commonwealths--Forcible Tenure of Power encouraged Personal Ability--The Condition of the Despot's Life--Instances of Domestic Crime in the Ruling Houses--Macaulay's Description of the Italian Tyrant-- Savonarola's and Matteo Villani's Description of a Tyrant--The Absorption of Smaller by Greater Tyrannies in the Fourteenth Century--History of the Visconti--Francesco Sforza--The Part played in Italian Politics by Military Leaders--Mercenary Warfare--Alberico da Barbiano, Braccio da Montone, Sforza Attendolo--History of the Sforza Dynasty--The Murder of Galeazzo Maria Sforza--The Ethics of Tyrannicide in Italy--Relation of the Despots to Arts and Letters--Sigismondo Pandolfo Malatesta--Duke Federigo of Urbino--The School of Vittorino and the Court of Urbino--The Cortegiano of Castiglione--The Ideals of the Italian Courtier and the Modern Gentleman--General Retrospect. The fourteenth and fifteenth centuries may be called the Age of the Despots in Italian history, as the twelfth and thirteenth are the Age of the Free Burghs, and as the sixteenth and seventeenth are the Age of Foreign Enslavement. It was during the age of the Despots that the conditions of the Renaissance were evolved, and that the Renaissance itself assumed a definite character in Italy. Under tyrannies, in the midst of intrigues, wars, and revolutions, the peculiar individuality of the Italians obtained its ultimate development. This individuality, as remarkable for salient genius and diffused talent as for self-conscious and deliberate vice, determined the qualities of the Renaissance and affected by example the whole of Europe. Italy led the way in the education of the Western races, and was the first to realize the type of modern as distinguished from classical and mediæval life. During this age of the despots, Italy presents the spectacle of a nation devoid of central government and comparatively uninfluenced by feudalism. The right of the Emperor had become nominal, and served as a pretext for usurpers rather than as a source of order. The visits, for instance, of Charles IV. and Frederick III. were either begging expeditions or holiday excursions, in the course of which ambitious adventurers bought titles to the government of towns, and meaningless honors were showered upon vain courtiers. It was not till the reign of Maximilian that Germany adopted a more serious policy with regard to Italy, which by that time had become the central point of European intrigue. Charles V. afterwards used force to reassert imperial rights over the Italian cities, acting not so much in the interest of the Empire as for the aggrandizement of the Spanish monarchy. At the same time the Papacy, which had done so much to undermine the authority of the Empire, exercised a power at once anomalous and ill-recognized except in the immediate States of the Church. By the extinction of the House of Hohenstauffen and by the assumed right to grant the investiture of the kingdom of Naples to foreigners, the Popes not only struck a death-blow at imperial influence, but also prepared the way for their own exile to Avignon. This involved the loss of the second great authority to which Italy had been accustomed to look for the maintenance of some sort of national coherence. Moreover, the Church, though impotent to unite all Italy beneath her own sway, had power enough to prevent the formation either by Milan or Venice or Naples of a substantial kingdom. The result was a perpetually recurring process of composition, dismemberment, and recomposition, under different forms, of the scattered elements of Italian life. The Guelf and Ghibelline parties, inherited from the wars of the thirteenth century, survived the political interests which had given them birth, and proved an insurmountable obstacle, long after they had ceased to have any real significance, to the pacification of the country.[1] The only important state which maintained an unbroken dynastic succession of however disputed a nature at this period was the kingdom of the Two Sicilies. The only great republics were Venice, Genoa, and Florence. Of these, Genoa, after being reduced in power and prosperity by Venice, was overshadowed by the successive lords of Milan; while Florence was destined at the end of a long struggle to fall beneath a family of despots. All the rest of Italy, especially to the north of the Apennines, was the battle-field of tyrants, whose title was illegitimate--based, that is to say, on no feudal principle, derived in no regular manner from the Empire, but generally held as a gift or extorted as a prize from the predominant parties in the great towns. [1] So late as 1526 we find the burlesque poet Folengo exclaiming (_Orlandino_, ii. 59)-- Chè se non fusser le gran parti in quella, Dominerebbe il mondo Italia bella. If we examine the constitution of these tyrannies, we find abundant proofs of their despotic nature. The succession from father to son was always uncertain. Legitimacy of birth was hardly respected. The last La Scalas were bastards. The house of Aragon in Naples descended from a bastard. Gabriello Visconti shared with his half-brothers the heritage of Gian Galeazzo. The line of the Medici was continued by princes of more than doubtful origin. Suspicion rested on the birth of Frederick of Urbino. The houses of Este and Malatesta honored their bastards in the same degree as their lawful progeny. The great family of the Bentivogli at Bologna owed their importance at the end of the fifteenth century to an obscure and probably spurious pretender, dragged from the wool-factories of Florence by the policy of Cosimo de' Medici. The sons of popes ranked with the proudest of aristocratic families. Nobility was less regarded in the choice of a ruler than personal ability. Power once acquired was maintained by force, and the history of the ruling families is one long catalogue of crimes. Yet the cities thus governed were orderly and prosperous. Police regulations were carefully established and maintained by governors whose interest it was to rule a quiet state. Culture was widely diffused without regard to rank or wealth. Public edifices of colossal grandeur were multiplied. Meanwhile the people at large were being fashioned to that self-conscious and intelligent activity which is fostered by the modes of life peculiar to political and social centers in a condition of continued rivalry and change. Under the Italian despotisms we observe nearly the opposite of all the influences brought to bear in the same period upon the nations of the North. There is no gradual absorption of the great vassals in monarchies, no fixed allegiance to a reigning dynasty, no feudal aid or military service attached to the tenure of the land, no tendency to centralize the whole intellectual activity of the race in any capital, no suppression of individual character by strongly biased public feeling, by immutable law, or by the superincumbent weight of a social hierarchy. Everything, on the contrary, tends to the free emergence of personal passions and personal aims. Though the vassals of the despot are neither his soldiers nor his loyal lieges, but his courtiers and taxpayers, the continual object of his cruelty and fear, yet each subject has the chance of becoming a prince like Sforza or a companion of princes like Petrarch. Equality of servitude goes far to democratize a nation, and common hatred of the tyrant leads to the combination of all classes against him. Thence follows the fermentation of arrogant and self-reliant passions in the breasts of the lowest as well as the highest.[1] The rapid mutations of government teach men to care for themselves and to depend upon themselves alone in the battle of the world; while the necessity of craft and policy in the conduct of complicated affairs sharpens intelligence. The sanction of all means that may secure an end under conditions of social violence encourages versatility unprejudiced by moral considerations. At the same time the freely indulged vices of the sovereign are an example of self-indulgence to the subject, and his need of lawless instruments is a practical sanction of force in all its forms. Thus to the play of personality, whether in combat with society and rivals, or in the gratification of individual caprice, every liberty is allowed. Might is substituted for right, and the sense of law is supplanted by a mere dread of coercion. What is the wonder if a Benvenuto Cellini should be the outcome of the same society as that which formed a Cesare Borgia? What is the miracle if Italy under these circumstances produced original characters and many-sided intellects in greater profusion than any other nation at any other period, with the single exception of Greece on her emergence from the age of her despots? It was the misfortune of Italy that the age of the despots was succeeded not by an age of free political existence, but by one of foreign servitude. [1] See Guicciardini, 'Dialogo del Reggimento di Firenze,' _Op. Ined._ vol. ii. p. 53, for a critique of the motives of tyrannicide in Italy. Frederick II. was at the same time the last emperor who maintained imperial sway in Italy in person, and also the beginner of a new system of government which the despots afterwards pursued. His establishment of the Saracen colony at Nocera, as the nucleus of an army ready to fulfill his orders with scrupulous disregard for Italian sympathies and customs, taught all future rulers to reduce their subjects to a state of unarmed passivity, and to carry on their wars by the aid of German, English, Swiss, Gascon, Breton, or Hungarian mercenaries, as the case might be. Frederick, again, derived from his Mussulman predecessors in Sicily the arts of taxation to the utmost limits of the national capacity, and founded a precedent for the levying of tolls by a Catasto or schedule of the properties attributed to each individual in the state. He also destroyed the self-government of burghs and districts, by retaining for himself the right to nominate officers, and by establishing a system of judicial jurisdiction which derived authority from the throne. Again, he introduced the example of a prince making profit out of the industries of his subjects by monopolies and protective duties. In this path he was followed by illustrious successors--especially by Sixtus IV. and Alfonso II. of Aragon, who enriched themselves by trafficking in the corn and olive-oil of their famished provinces. Lastly, Frederick established the precedent of a court formed upon the model of that of Oriental Sultans, in which chamberlains and secretaries took the rank of hereditary nobles, and functions of state were confided to the body-servants of the monarch. This court gave currency to those habits of polite culture, magnificent living, and personal luxury which played so prominent a part in all subsequent Italian despotism. It is tempting to overstrain a point in estimating the direct influence of Frederick's example. In many respects doubtless he was merely somewhat in advance of his age; and what we may be inclined to ascribe to him personally, would have followed in the natural evolution of events. Yet it remains a fact that he first realized the type of cultivated despotism which prevailed throughout Italy in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. Italian literature began in his court, and many Saracenic customs of statecraft were transmitted through him from Palermo to Lombardy. While Frederick foreshadowed the comparatively modern tyrants of the coming age, his Vicar in the North of Italy, Ezzelino da Romano, represented the atrocities towards which they always tended to degenerate. Regarding himself with a sort of awful veneration as the divinely appointed scourge of humanity, this monster in his lifetime was execrated as an aberration from 'the kindly race of men,' and after his death he became the hero of a fiendish mythus. But in the succeeding centuries of Italian history his kind was only too common; the immorality with which he worked out his selfish aims was systematically adopted by princes like the Visconti, and reduced to rule by theorists like Machiavelli. Ezzelino, a small, pale, wiry man, with terror in his face and enthusiasm for evil in his heart, lived a foe to luxury, cold to the pathos of children, dead to the enchantment of women. His one passion was the greed of power, heightened by the lust for blood. Originally a noble of the Veronese Marches, he founded his illegal authority upon the captaincy of the Imperial party delegated to him by Frederick. Verona, Vicenza, Padua, Feltre, and Belluno made him their captain in the Ghibelline interest, conferring on him judicial as well as military supremacy. How he fearfully abused his power, how a crusade was preached against him,[1] and how he died in silence, like a boar at bay, rending from his wounds the dressings that his foes had placed to keep him alive, are notorious matters of history. At Padua alone he erected eight prisons, two of which contained as many as three hundred captives each; and though the executioner never ceased to ply his trade there, they were always full. These dungeons were designed to torture by their noisomeness, their want of air and light and space. Ezzelino made himself terrible not merely by executions and imprisonments but also by mutilations and torments. When he captured Friola he caused the population, of all ages, sexes, occupations, to be deprived of their eyes, noses, and legs, and to be cast forth to the mercy of the elements. On another occasion he walled up a family of princes in a castle and left them to die of famine. Wealth, eminence, and beauty attracted his displeasure no less than insubordination or disobedience. Nor was he less crafty than cruel. Sons betrayed their fathers, friends their comrades, under the fallacious safeguard of his promises. A gigantic instance of his scheming was the coup-de-main by which he succeeded in entrapping 11,000 Paduan soldiers, only 200 of whom escaped the miseries of his prisons. Thus by his absolute contempt of law, his inordinate cruelty, his prolonged massacres, and his infliction of plagues upon whole peoples, Ezzelino established the ideal in Italy of a tyrant marching to his end by any means whatever. In vain was the humanity of the race revolted by the hideous spectacle. Vainly did the monks assemble pity-stricken multitudes upon the plain of Paquara to atone with tears and penitence for the insults offered to the saints in heaven by Ezzelino's fury. It laid a deep hold upon the Italian imagination, and, by the glamor of loathing that has strength to fascinate, proved in the end contagious. We are apt to ask ourselves whether such men are mad--whether in the case of a Nero or a Maréchal de Retz or an Ezzelino the love of evil and the thirst for blood are not a monomaniacal perversion of barbarous passions which even in a cannibal are morbid.[2] Is there in fact such a thing as Hæmatomania, Bloodmadness? But if we answer this question in the affirmative, we shall have to place how many Visconti, Sforzeschi, Malatesti, Borgias, Farnesi, and princes of the houses of Anjou and Aragon in the list of these maniacs? Ezzelino was indeed only the first of a long and horrible procession, the most terror-striking because the earliest, prefiguring all the rest. [1] Alexander IV. issued letters for this crusade in 1255. It was preached next year by the Archbishop of Ravenna. [2] See Appendix, No. I. Ezzelino's cruelty was no mere Berserkir fury or Lycanthropia coming over him in gusts and leaving him exhausted. It was steady and continuous. In his madness, if such we may call this inhumanity, there was method; he used it to the end of the consolidation of his tyranny. Yet, inasmuch as it passed all limits and prepared his downfall, it may be said to have obtained over his nature the mastery of an insane appetite. While applying the nomenclature of disease to these exceptional monsters, we need not allow that their atrocities were, at first at any rate, beyond their control. Moral insanity is often nothing more than the hypertrophy of some vulgar passion--lust, violence, cruelty, jealousy, and the like. The tyrant, placed above law and less influenced by public opinion than a private person, may easily allow a greed for pleasure or a love of bloodshed to acquire morbid proportions in his nature. He then is not unjustly termed a monomaniac. Within the circle of his vitiated appetite he proves himself irrational. He becomes the puppet of passions which the sane man cannot so much as picture to his fancy, the victim of desire, ever recurring and ever destined to remain unsatisfied; nor is any hallucination more akin to lunacy than the mirage of a joy that leaves the soul thirstier than it was before, the paroxysm of unnatural pleasure which wearies the nerves that crave for it. In Frederick, the modern autocrat, and Ezzelino, the legendary tyrant, we obtain the earliest specimens of two types of despotism in Italy. Their fame long after their death powerfully affected the fancy of the people, worked itself into the literature of the Italians, and created a consciousness of tyranny in the minds of irresponsible rulers. During the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries we find, roughly speaking, six sorts of despots in Italian cities.[1] Of these the _first_ class, which is a very small one, had a dynastic or hereditary right accruing from long seignioral possession of their several districts. The most eminent are the houses of Montferrat and Savoy, the Marquises of Ferrara, the Princes of Urbino. At the same time it is difficult to know where to draw the line between such hereditary lordship as that of the Este family, and tyranny based on popular favor. The Malatesti of Rimini, Polentani of Ravenna, Manfredi of Faenza, Ordelaffi of Forli, Chiavelli of Fabriano, Varani of Camerino, and others, might claim to rank among the former, since their cities submitted to them without a long period of republican independence like that which preceded despotism in the cases to be next mentioned. Yet these families styled themselves Captains of the burghs they ruled; and in many instances they obtained the additional title of Vicars of the Church.[2] Even the Estensi were made hereditary captains of Ferrara at the end of the thirteenth century, while they also acknowledged the supremacy of the Papacy. There was in fact no right outside the Empire in Italy; and despots of whatever origin or complexion gladly accepted the support which a title derived from the Empire, the Church, or the People might give. Brought to the front amid the tumults of the civil wars, and accepted as pacificators of the factions by the multitude, they gained the confirmation of their anomalous authority by representing themselves to be lieutenants or vicegerents of the three great powers. The _second_ class comprise those nobles who obtained the title of Vicars of the Empire, and built an illegal power upon the basis of imperial right in Lombardy. Of these, the Della Scala and Visconti families are illustrious instances. Finding in their official capacity a ready-made foundation, they extended it beyond its just limits, and in defiance of the Empire constituted dynasties. The _third_ class is important. Nobles charged with military or judicial power, as Capitani or Podestàs, by the free burghs, used their authority to enslave the cities they were chosen to administer. It was thus that almost all the numerous tyrants of Lombardy, Carraresi at Padua, Gonzaghi at Mantua, Rossi and Correggi at Parma, Torrensi and Visconti at Milan, Scotti at Piacenza, and so forth, first erected their despotic dynasties. This fact in the history of Italian tyranny is noticeable. The font of honor, so to speak, was in the citizens of these great burghs. Therefore, when the limits of authority delegated to their captains by the people were overstepped, the sway of the princes became confessedly illegal. Illegality carried with it all the consequences of an evil conscience, all the insecurities of usurped dominion all the danger from without and from within to which an arbitrary governor is exposed. In the _fourth_ class we find the principle of force still more openly at work. To it may be assigned those Condottieri who made a prey of cities at their pleasure. The illustrious Uguccione della Faggiuola, who neglected to follow up his victory over the Guelfs at Monte Catini, in order that he might cement his power in Lucca and Pisa, is an early instance of this kind of tyrant. His successor, Castruccio Castracane, the hero of Machiavelli's romance, is another. But it was not until the first half of the fifteenth century that professional Condottieri became powerful enough to found such kingdoms as that, for example, of Francesco Sforza at Milan.[3] The _fifth_ class includes the nephews or sons of Popes. The Riario principality of Forli, the Della Rovere of Urbino, the Borgia of Romagna, the Farnese of Parma, form a distinct species of despotisms; but all these are of a comparatively late origin. Until the Papacies of Sixtus IV. and Innocent VIII. the Popes had not bethought them of providing in this way for their relatives. Also, it may be remarked, there was an essential weakness in these tyrannies. Since they had to be carved out of the States of the Church, the Pope who had established his son, say in Romagna, died before he could see him well confirmed in a province which the next Pope sought to wrest from his hands, in order to bestow it on his own favorite. The fabric of the Church could not long have stood this disgraceful wrangling between Papal families for the dynastic possession of Church property. Luckily for the continuance of the Papacy, the tide of counter-reformation which set in after the sack of Rome and the great Northern Schism, put a stop to nepotism in its most barefaced form. [1] This classification must of necessity be imperfect, since many of the tyrannies belong in part to two or more of the kinds which I have mentioned. [2] See Guicc. _Ist._ end of Book 4. [3] John Hawkwood (died 1393), the English adventurer, held Cotignola and Bagnacavallo from Gregory XI. In the second half of the fifteenth century the efforts of the Condottieri to erect tyrannies were most frequent. Braccio da Montone established himself in Perugia in 1416, and aspired, not without good grounds for hope, to acquiring the kingdom of Italy. Francesco Sforza, before gaining Milan, had begun to form a despotism at Ancona. Sforza's rival, Giacomo Piccinino, would probably have succeeded in his own attempt, had not Ferdinand of Aragon treacherously murdered him at Naples in 1465. In the disorganization caused by Charles VIII., Vidovero of Brescia in 1495 established himself at Cesena and Castelnuovo, and had to be assassinated by Pandolfo Malatesta at the instigation of Venice. After the death of Gian Galeazzo Visconti, in 1402, the generals whom he had employed in the consolidation of his vast dominions attempted to divide the spoil among themselves. Naples, Venice, Milan, Rome, and Florence were in course of time made keenly alive to the risk of suffering a captain of adventure to run his course unchecked. There remains the _sixth_ and last class of despots to be mentioned. This again is large and of the first importance. Citizens of eminence, like the Medici at Florence, the Bentivogli at Bologna, the Baglioni of Perugia, the Vitelli of Città di Castello, the Gambacorti of Pisa, like Pandolfo Petrucci in Siena (1502), Roméo Pepoli, the usurer of Bologna (1323), the plebeian, Alticlinio, and Agolanti of Padua (1313), Giovanni Vignate, the millionaire of Lodi (1402), acquired more than their due weight in the conduct of affairs, and gradually tended to tyranny. In most of these cases great wealth was the original source of despotic ascendency. It was not uncommon to buy cities together with their Signory. Thus the Rossi bought Parma for 35,000 florins in 1333; the Appiani sold Pisa; Astorre Manfredi sold Faenza and Imola in 1377. In 1444 Galeazzo Malatesta sold Pesaro to Alessandro Sforza, and Fossombrone to Urbino; in 1461 Cervia was sold to Venice by the same family. Franceschetto Cibo purchased the County of Anguillara. Towns at last came to have their market value. It was known that Bologna was worth 200,000 florins, Parma 60,000, Arezzo 40,000 Lucca 30,000, and so forth. But personal qualities and nobility of blood might also produce despots of the sixth class. Thus the Bentivogli claimed descent from a bastard of King Enzo, son of Frederick II., who was for a long time an honorable prisoner in Bologna. The Baglioni, after a protracted struggle with the rival family of Oddi, owed their supremacy to ability and vigor in the last years of the fifteenth century. But the neighborhood of the Papal power, and their own internal dissensions, rendered the hold of this family upon Perugia precarious. As in the case of the Medici and the Bentivogli, many generations might elapse before such burgher families assumed dynastic authority. But to this end they were always advancing. The history of the bourgeois despots proves that Italy in the fifteenth century was undergoing a natural process of determination toward tyranny. Sismondi may attempt to demonstrate that Italy was 'not answerable for the crimes with which she was sullied by her tyrants.' But the facts show that she was answerable for choosing despots instead of remaining free, or rather that she instinctively obeyed a law of social evolution by which princes had to be substituted for municipalities at the end of those fierce internal conflicts and exhausting wars of jealousy which closed the Middle Ages. Machiavelli, with all his love of liberty, is forced to admit that in his day the most powerful provinces of Italy had become incapable of freedom. 'No accident, however weighty and violent, could ever restore Milan or Naples to liberty, owing to their utter corruption. This is clear from the fact that after the death of Filippo Visconti, when Milan tried to regain freedom, she was unable to preserve it.'[1] Whether Machiavelli is right in referring this incapacity for self-government to the corruption of morals and religion may be questioned. But it is certain that throughout the states of Italy, with the one exception of Venice, causes were at work inimical to republics and favorable to despotisms. [1] _Discorsi_, i. 17. The Florentine philosopher remarks in the same passage, 'Cities, once corrupt, and accustomed to the rule of a prince, can never acquire their freedom even though the prince with all his kith and kin be extirpated. One prince is needed to extinguish another; and the city has no rest except by the creation of a new lord, unless one burgher by his goodness and his great qualities may chance to preserve its independence during his lifetime.' It will be observed in this classification of Italian tyrants that the tenure of their power was almost uniformly forcible. They generally acquired it through the people in the first instance, and maintained it by the exercise of violence. Rank had nothing to do with their claims. The bastards of Popes, who like Sixtus IV. had no pedigree, merchants like the Medici, the son of a peasant like Francesco Sforza, a rich usurer like Pepoli, had almost equal chances with nobles of the ancient houses of Este, Visconti, or Malatesta. The chief point in favor of the latter was the familiarity which through long years of authority had accustomed the people to their rule. When exiled, they had a better chance of return to power than parvenus, whose party-cry and ensigns were comparatively fresh and stirred no sentiment of loyalty--if indeed the word loyalty can be applied to that preference for the established and the customary which made the mob, distracted by the wrangling of doctrinaires and intriguers, welcome back a Bentivoglio or a Malatesta. Despotism in Italy as in ancient Greece was democratic. It recruited its ranks from all classes and erected its thrones upon the sovereignty of the peoples it oppressed. The impulse to the free play of ambitious individuality which this state of things communicated was enormous. Capacity might raise the meanest monk to the chair of S. Peter's, the meanest soldier to the duchy of Milan. Audacity, vigor, unscrupulous crime were the chief requisites for success. It was not till Cesare Borgia displayed his magnificence at the French Court, till the Italian adventurer matched himself with royalty in its legitimate splendor, that the lowness of his origin and the frivolity of his pretensions appeared in any glaring light.[1] In Italy itself, where there existed no time-honored hierarchy of classes and no fountain of nobility in the person of a sovereign, one man was a match for another, provided he knew how to assert himself. To the conditions of a society based on these principles we may ascribe the unrivaled emergence of great personalities among the tyrants, as well as the extraordinary tenacity and vigor of such races as the Visconti. In the contest for power, and in the maintenance of an illegal authority, the picked athletes came to the front. The struggle by which they established their tyranny, the efforts by which they defended it against foreign foes and domestic adversaries, trained them to endurance and to daring. They lived habitually in an atmosphere of peril which taxed all their energies. Their activity was extreme, and their passions corresponded to their vehement vitality. About such men there could be nothing on a small or mediocre scale. When a weakling was born in a despotic family, his brothers murdered him, or he was deposed by a watchful rival. Thus only gladiators of tried capacity and iron nerve, superior to religious and moral scruples, dead to national affection, perfected in perfidy, scientific in the use of cruelty and terror, employing first-rate faculties of brain and will and bodily powers in the service of transcendent egotism, only the _virtuosi_ of political craft as theorized by Machiavelli, could survive and hold their own upon this perilous arena. [1] Brantôme _Capitaines Etrangers_, Discours 48, gives an account of the entrance of the Borgia into Chinon in 1498, and adds: 'The king being at the window saw him arrive, and there can be no doubt how he and his courtiers ridiculed all this state, as unbecoming the petty Duke of Valentinois.' The life of the despot was usually one of prolonged terror. Immured in strong places on high rocks, or confined to gloomy fortresses like the Milanese Castello, he surrounded his person with foreign troops, protected his bedchamber with a picked guard, and watched his meat and drink lest they should be poisoned. His chief associates were artists, men of letters, astrologers, buffoons, and exiles. He had no real friends or equals, and against his own family he adopted an attitude of fierce suspicion, justified by the frequent intrigues to which he was exposed.[1] His timidity verged on monomania. Like Alfonso II. of Naples, he was tortured with the ghosts of starved or strangled victims; like Ezzelino, he felt the mysterious fascination of astrology; like Filippo Maria Visconti, he trembled at the sound of thunder, and set one band of body-guards to watch another next his person. He dared not hope for a quiet end. No one believed in the natural death of a prince: princes must be poisoned or poignarded.[2] Out of thirteen of the Carrara family, in little more than a century (1318-1435), three were deposed or murdered by near relatives, one was expelled by a rival from his state, four were executed by the Venetians. Out of five of the La Scala family, three were killed by their brothers, and a fourth was poisoned in exile. [1] See what Guicciardini in his _History of Florence_ says about the suspicious temper of even such a tyrant as the cultivated and philosophical Lorenzo de' Medici. See too the incomparably eloquent and penetrating allegory of _Sospetto_, and its application to the tyrants of Italy in Ariosto's _Cinque Canti_ (C. 2. St. 1-9). [2] Our dramatist Webster, whose genius was fascinated by the crimes of Italian despotism, makes the Duke of Bracciano exclaim on his death-bed:-- 'O thou soft natural Death, thou art joint-twin To sweetest Slumber! no rough-bearded comet Stares on thy mild departure; the dull owl Beats not against thy casement; the hoarse wolf Scents not thy carrion: pity winds thy corse, Whilst horror waits on princes.' Instances of domestic crime might be multiplied by the hundred. Besides those which will follow in these pages, it is enough to notice the murder of Giovanni Francesco Pico, by his nephew, at Mirandola (1533); the murder of his uncle by Oliverotto da Fermo; the assassination of Giovanni Varano by his brothers at Camerino (1434); Ostasio da Polenta's fratricide (1322); Obizzo da Polenta's fratricide in the next generation, and the murder of Ugolino Gonzaga by his brothers; Gian Francesco Gonzaga's murder of his wife; the poisoning of Francesco Sforza's first wife, Polissena, Countess of Montalto, with her little girl, by her aunt; and the murder of Galeotto Manfredi, by his wife, at Faenza (1488). To enumerate all the catastrophes of reigning families, occurring in the fifteenth century alone, would be quite impossible within the limits of this chapter. Yet it is only by dwelling on the more important that any adequate notion of the perils of Italian despotism can be formed. Thus Girolamo Riario was murdered by his subjects at Forli (1488), and Francesco Vico dei Prefetti in the Church of S. Sisto at Viterbo[1] (1387). At Lodi in 1402 Antonio Fisiraga burned the chief members of the ruling house of Vistarini on the public square, and died himself of poison after a few months. His successor in the tyranny, Giovanni Vignate, was imprisoned by Filippo Maria Visconti in a wooden cage at Pavia, and beat his brains out in despair against its bars. At the same epoch Gabrino Fondulo slaughtered seventy of the Cavalcabò family together in his castle of Macastormo, with the purpose of acquiring their tyranny over Cremona. He was afterwards beheaded as a traitor at Milan (1425). Ottobon Terzi was assassinated at Parma (1408), Nicola Borghese at Siena (1499). Altobello Dattiri at Todi (about 1500), Raimondo and Pandolfo Malatesta at Rimini, and Oddo Antonio di Montefeltro at Urbino (1444).[2] The Varani were massacred to a man in the Church of S. Dominic at Camerino (1434), the Trinci at Foligno (1434), and the Chiavelli of Fabriano in church upon Ascension Day (1435). This wholesale extirpation of three reigning families introduces one of the most romantic episodes in the history of Italian despotism. From the slaughter of the Varani one only child, Giulio Cesare, a boy of two years old, was saved by his aunt Tora. She concealed him in a truss of hay and carried him to the Trinci at Foligno. Hardly had she gained this refuge, when the Trinci were destroyed, and she had to fly with her burden to the Chiavelli at Fabriano. There the same scenes of bloodshed awaited her. A third time she took to flight, and now concealed her precious charge in a nunnery. The boy was afterwards stolen from the town on horseback by a soldier of adventure. After surviving three massacres of kith and kin, he returned as despot at the age of twelve to Camerino, and became a general of distinction. But he was not destined to end his life in peace. Cesare Borgia finally murdered him, together with three of his sons, when he had reached the age of sixty. Less romantic but not less significant in the annals of tyranny is the story of the Trinci. A rival noble of Foligno, Pietro Rasiglia, had been injured in his honor by the chief of the ruling house. He contrived to assassinate two brothers, Nicolà and Bartolommeo, in his castle of Nocera; but the third, Corrado Trinci, escaped, and took a fearful vengeance on his enemy. By the help of Braccio da Montone he possessed himself of Nocera and all its inhabitants, with the exception of Pietro Rasiglia's wife, whom her husband flung from the battlements. Corrado then butchered the men, women, and children of the Rasiglia clan, to the number of three hundred persons, accomplishing his vengeance with details of atrocity too infernal to be dwelt on in these pages. It is recorded that thirty-six asses laden with their mangled limbs paraded the streets of Foligno as a terror-striking spectacle for the inhabitants. He then ruled the city by violence, until the warlike Cardinal dei Vitelleschi avenged society of so much mischief by destroying the tyrant and five of his sons, in the same year. Equally fantastic are the annals of the great house of the Baglioni at Perugia. Raised in 1389 upon the ruins of the bourgeois faction called Raspanti, they founded their tyranny in the person of Pandolfo Baglioni, who was murdered together with sixty of his clan and followers by the party they had dispossessed. The new despot, Biordo Michelotti, was stabbed in the shoulders with a poisoned dagger by his relative, the abbot of S. Pietro. Then the city, in 1416, submitted to Braccio da Montone, who raised it to unprecedented power and glory. On his death it fell back into new discords, from which it was rescued again by the Baglioni in 1466, now finally successful in their prolonged warfare with the rival family of Oddi. But they did not hold their despotism in tranquillity. In 1500 one of the members of the house, Grifonetto degli Baglioni, conspired against his kinsmen and slew them in their palaces at night. As told by Matarazzo, this tragedy offers an epitome of all that is most, brilliant and terrible in the domestic feuds of the Italian tyrants.[3] The vicissitudes of the Bentivogli at Bologna present another series of catastrophes, due less to their personal crimes than to the fury of the civil strife that raged around them. Giovanni Bentivoglio began the dynasty in 1400. The next year he was stabbed to death and pounded in a wine-vat by the infuriated populace, who thought he had betrayed their interests in battle. His son, Antonio, was beheaded by a Papal Legate, and numerous members of the family on their return from exile suffered the same fate. In course of time the Bentivogli made themselves adored by the people; and when Piccinino imprisoned the heir of their house, Annibale, in the castle of Varano, four youths of the Marescotti family undertook his rescue at the peril of their lives, and raised him to the Signory of Bologna. In 1445 the Canetoli, powerful nobles, who hated the popular dynasty, invited Annibale and all his clan to a christening feast, where they exterminated every member of the reigning house. Not one Bentivoglio was left alive. In revenge for this massacre, the Marescotti, aided by the populace, hunted down the Canetoli for three whole days in Bologna, and nailed their smoking hearts to the doors of the Bentivoglio palace. They then drew from his obscurity in Florence the bastard Santi Bentivoglio, who found himself suddenly lifted from a wool-factory to a throne. Whether he was a genuine Bentivoglio or not, mattered little. The house had become necessary to Bologna, and its popularity had been baptized in the bloodshed of four massacres. What remains of its story can be briefly told. When Cesare Borgia besieged Bologna, the Marescotti intrigued with him, and eight of their number were sacrificed by the Bentivogli in spite of their old services to the dynasty. The survivors, by the help of Julius II., returned from exile in 1536, to witness the final banishment of the Bentivogli and to take part in the destruction of the palace, where their ancestors had nailed the hearts of the Canetoli upon the walls. [1] The family of the Prefetti fed up the murderer in their castle and then gave him alive to be eaten by their hounds. [2] Sforza Attendolo killed Terzi by a spear-thrust in the back. Pandolfo Petrucci murdered Borghese, who was his father-in-law. Raimondo Malatesta was stabbed by his two nephews disguised as hermits. Dattiri was bound naked to a plank and killed piecemeal by the people, who bit his flesh, cut slices out, and sold and ate it--distributing his living body as a sort of infernal sacrament among themselves. [3] See the article 'Perugia' in my _Sketches in Italy and Greece_. To multiply the records of crime revenged by crime, of force repelled by violence, of treason heaped on treachery, of insult repaid by fraud, would be easy enough. Indeed, a huge book might be compiled containing nothing but the episodes in this grim history of despotism, now tragic and pathetic, now terror-moving in sublimity of passion, now despicable by the baseness of the motives brought to light, at one time revolting through excess of physical horrors, at another fascinating by the spectacle of heroic courage, intelligence, and resolution. Enough however, has been said to describe the atmosphere of danger in which the tyrants breathed and moved, and from which not one of them was ever capable of finding freedom. Even a princely house so well based in its dynasty and so splendid in its parade of culture as that of the Estensi offers a long list of terrific tragedies. One princess is executed for adultery with her stepson (1425); a bastard's bastard tries to seize the throne, and is put to death with all his kin (1493); a wife is poisoned by her husband to prevent her poisoning him (1493); two brothers cabal against the legitimate heads of the house, and are imprisoned for life (1506). Such was the labyrinth of plot and counterplot, of force repelled by violence, in which the princes praised by Ariosto and by Tasso lived. Isolated, crime-haunted, and remorseless, at the same time fierce and timorous, the despot not unfrequently made of vice a fine art for his amusement, and openly defied humanity. His pleasures tended to extravagance. Inordinate lust and refined cruelty sated his irritable and jaded appetites. He destroyed pity in his soul, and fed his dogs with living men, or spent his brains upon the invention of new tortures. From the game of politics again he won a feverish pleasure, playing for states and cities as a man plays chess, and endeavoring to extract the utmost excitement from the varying turns of skill and chance. It would be an exaggeration to assert that all the princes of Italy were of this sort. The saner, better, and nobler among them--men of the stamp of Gian Galeazzo Visconti, Can Grande della Scala, Francesco and Lodovico Sforza, found a more humane enjoyment in the consolidation of their empire, the cementing of their alliances, the society of learned men, the friendship of great artists, the foundation of libraries, the building of palaces and churches, the execution of vast schemes of conquest. Others, like Galeazzo Visconti, indulged a comparatively innocent taste for magnificence. Some, like Sigismondo Pandolfo Malatesta, combined the vices of a barbarian with the enthusiasm of a scholar. Others again, like Lorenzo de' Medici and Frederick of Urbino, exhibited the model of moderation in statecraft and a noble width of culture. But the tendency to degenerate was fatal in all the despotic houses. The strain of tyranny proved too strong. Crime, illegality, and the sense of peril, descending from father to son, produced monsters in the shape of men. The last Visconti, the last La Scalas, the last Sforzas, the last Malatestas, the last Farnesi, the last Medici are among the worst specimens of human nature. Macaulay's brilliant description of the Italian tyrant in his essay on Machiavelli deserves careful study. It may, however, be remarked that the picture is too favorable. Macaulay omits the darker crimes of the despots, and draws his portrait almost exclusively from such men as Gian Galeazzo Visconti, Francesco and Lodovico Sforza, Frederick of Urbino, and Lorenzo de' Medici. The point he is seeking to establish--that political immorality in Italy was the national correlative to Northern brutality--leads him to idealize the polite refinement, the disciplined passions, the firm and astute policy, the power over men, and the excellent government which distinguished the noblest Italian princes. When he says 'Wanton cruelty was not in his nature: on the contrary, where no political object was at stake, his disposition was soft and humane'; he seems to have forgotten Gian Maria Visconti, Corrado Trinci, Sigismondo Pandolfo Malatesta, and Cesare Borgia. When he writes, 'His passions, like well-trained troops, are impetuous by rule, and in their most headstrong fury never forget the discipline to which they have been accustomed,' he leaves Francesco Maria della Rovere, Galeazzo Maria Sforza, Pier Luigi Farnese, Alexander VI., out of the reckoning. If all the despots had been what Macaulay describes, the revolutions and conspiracies of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries would not have taken place. It is, however, to be remarked that in the sixteenth century the conduct of the tyrant toward his subjects assumed an external form of mildness. As Italy mixed with the European nations, and as tyranny came to be legalized in the Italian states, the despots developed a policy not of terrorism but of enervation (Lorenzo de' Medici is the great example), and aspired to be paternal governors. What I have said about Italian despotism is no mere fancy picture. The actual details of Milanese history, the innumerable tragedies of Lombardy, Romagna, and the Marches of Ancona, during the ascendency of despotic families, are far more terrible than any fiction; nor would it be easy for the imagination to invent so perplexing a mixture of savage barbarism with modern refinement. Savonarola's denunciations[1] and Villani's descriptions of a despot read like passages from Plato's Republic, like the most pregnant of Aristotle's criticisms upon tyranny. The prologue to the sixth book of Matteo Villani's Chronicle may be cited as a fair specimen of the judgment passed by contemporary Italian thinkers upon their princes (Libro Sesto, cap. i.): 'The crimes of despots always hinder and often neutralize the virtues of good men. Their pleasures are at variance with morality. By them the riches of their subjects are swallowed up. They are foes to men who grow in wisdom and in greatness of soul in their dominions. They diminish by their imposts the wealth of the peoples ruled by them. Their unbridled lust is never satiated, but their subjects have to suffer such outrages and insults as their fancy may from time to time suggest. But inasmuch as the violence of tyranny is manifested to all eyes by these and many other atrocities, we need not enumerate them afresh. It is enough to select one feature, strange in appearance but familiar in fact; for what can be more extraordinary than to see princes of ancient and illustrious lineage bowing to the service of despots, men of high descent and time-honored nobility frequenting their tables and accepting their bounties? Yet if we consider the end of all this, the glory of tyrants often turns to misery and ruin. Who can exaggerate their wretchedness? They know not where to place their confidence; and their courtiers are always on the lookout for the despot's fall, gladly lending their influence and best endeavors to undo him in spite of previous servility. This does not happen to hereditary kings, because their conduct toward their subjects, as well as their good qualities and all their circumstances, are of a nature contrary to that of tyrants. Therefore the very causes which produce and fortify and augment tyrannies, conceal and nourish in themselves the sources of their overthrow and ruin. This indeed is the greatest wretchedness of tyrants.' [1] See the passage condensed from his Sermons in Villari's Life of Savonarola (Eng. Tr. vol. ii. p. 62). The most thorough-going analysis of despotic criminality is contained in Savonarola's _Tractato circa el Reggimento e Governo della Città di Firenze_, Trattato ii. cap. 2. _Della Malitia e pessime Conditioni del Tyranno_. It may be objected that this sweeping criticism, from the pen of a Florentine citizen at war with Milan, partakes of the nature of an invective. Yet abundant proofs can be furnished from the chronicles of burghs which owed material splendor to their despots, confirming the censure of Villani. Matarazzo, for example, whose sympathy with the house of Baglioni is so striking, and who exults in the distinction they conferred upon Perugia, writes no less bitterly concerning the pernicious effects of their misgovernment.[1] It is to be noticed that Villani and Matarazzo agree about the special evils brought upon the populations by their tyrants. Lust and violence take the first place. Next comes extortion; then the protection of the lawless and the criminal against the better sort of citizens. But the Florentine, with intellectual acumen, lays his finger on one of the chief vices of their rule. They retard the development of mental greatness in their states, and check the growth of men of genius. Ariosto, in the comparative calm of the sixteenth century, when tyrannies had yielded to the protectorate of Spain, sums up the records of the past in the following memorable passage:[2] 'Happy the kingdoms where an open-hearted and blameless man gives law! Wretched indeed and pitiable are those where injustice and cruelty hold sway, where burdens ever greater and more grievous are laid upon the people by tyrants like those who now abound in Italy, whose infamy will be recorded through years to come as no less black than Caligula's or Nero's.' Guicciardini, with pregnant brevity, observes:[3] 'The mortar with which the states of the tyrants are cemented is the blood of the citizens.' [1] Arch. Stor. xvi. 102. See my _Sketches in Italy and Greece_, p. 84. [2] Cinque Canti, ii. 5. [3] Ricordi Politici, ccxlii. In the history of Italian despotism two points of first-rate importance will demand attention. The first is the process by which the greater tyrannies absorbed the smaller during the fourteenth century. The second is the relation of the chief Condottieri to the tyrants of the fifteenth century. The evolution of these two phenomena cannot be traced more clearly than by a study of the history of Milan, which at the same time presents a detailed picture of the policy and character of the Italian despot during this period. The dynasties of Visconti and Sforza from 1300 to 1500 bridged over the years that intervened between the Middle Age and the Renaissance, between the period of the free burghs and the period during which Italy was destined to become the theater of the action of more powerful nations. Their alliances and diplomatic relations prepared the way for the interference of foreigners in Italian affairs. Their pedigree illustrates the power acquired by military adventurers in the peninsula. The magnitude of their political schemes displays the most soaring ambition which it was ever granted to Italian princes to indulge. The splendor of their court and the intelligence of their culture bear witness to the high state of civilization which the Italians had reached. The power of the Visconti in Milan was founded upon that of the Della Torre family, who preceded them as Captains General of the people at the end of the thirteenth century. Otho, Archbishop of Milan, first laid a substantial basis for the dominion of his house by imprisoning Napoleone Della Torre and five of his relatives in three iron cages in 1277, and by causing his nephew Matteo Visconti to be nominated both by the Emperor and by the people of Milan as imperial Vicar. Matteo, who headed the Ghibelline party in Lombardy, was the model of a prudent Italian despot. From the date 1311, when he finally succeeded in his attempts upon the sovereignty of Milan, to 1322, when he abdicated in favor of his son Galeazzo, he ruled his states by force of character, craft, and insight, more than by violence or cruelty. Excellent as a general, he was still better as a diplomatist, winning more cities by money than by the sword. All through his life, as became a Ghibelline chief at that time, he persisted in fierce enmity against the Church. But just before his death a change came over him. He showed signs of superstitious terror, and began to fear the ban of excommunication which lay upon him. This weakness alarmed the suspicions of his sons, terrible and wolf-like men, whom Matteo had hitherto controlled with bit and bridle. They therefore induced him to abdicate in 1322, and when in the same year he died, they buried his body in a secret place, lest it should be exhumed, and scattered to the winds in accordance with the Papal edict against him.[1] Galeazzo, his son, was less fortunate than Matteo, surnamed Il Grande by the Lombards. The Emperor Louis of Bavaria threw him into prison on the occasion of his visit to Milan in 1327, and only released him at the intercession of his friend Castruccio Castracane. To such an extent was the growing tyranny of the Visconti still dependent upon their office delegated from the Empire. This Galeazzo married Beatrice d' Este, the widow of Nino di Gallura, of whom Dante speaks in the eighth canto of the Purgatory, and had by her a son named Azzo. Azzo bought the city, together with the title of Imperial Vicar, from the same Louis who had imprisoned his father.[2] When he was thus seated in the tyranny of his grandfather, he proceeded to fortify it further by the addition of ten Lombard towns, which he reduced beneath the supremacy of Milan. At the same time he consolidated his own power by the murder of his uncle Marco in 1329, who had grown too mighty as a general. Giovio describes him as fair of complexion, blue-eyed, curly-haired, and subject to the hereditary disease of gout.[3] Azzo died in 1339, and was succeeded by his uncle Lucchino. In Lucchino the darker side of the Visconti character appears for the first time. Cruel, moody, and jealous, he passed his life in perpetual terror. His nephews, Galeazzo and Barnabas, conspired against him, and were exiled to Flanders. His wife, Isabella Fieschi, intrigued with Galeazzo and disgraced him by her amours with Ugolino Gonzaga and Dandolo the Doge of Venice. Finally suspicion rose to such a pitch between this ill-assorted couple, that, while Lucchino was plotting how to murder Isabella, she succeeded in poisoning him in 1349. In spite of these domestic calamities, Lucchino was potent as a general and governor. He bought Parma from Obizzo d' Este, and made the town of Pisa dependent upon Milan. Already in his policy we can trace the encroachment which characterized the schemes of the Milanese despots, who were always plotting to advance their foot beyond the Apennines as a prelude to the complete subjugation of Italy. Lucchino left sons, but none of proved legitimacy.[4] Consequently he was succeeded by his brother Giovanni, son of old Matteo il Grande, and Archbishop of Milan. This man, the friend of Petrarch, was one of the most notable characters of the fourteenth century. Finding himself at the head of sixteen cities, he added Bologna to the tyranny of the Visconti in 1350, and made himself strong enough to defy the Pope. Clement VI., resenting his encroachments on Papal territory, summoned him to Avignon. Giovanni Visconti replied that he would march thither at the head of 12,000 cavalry and 6,000 infantry. In the Duomo of Milan he ascended his throne with the crosier in his left hand and a drawn sword in his right; and thus he is always represented in pictures. The story of Giovanni's answer to the Papal Legate is well told by Corio:[5] 'After Mass in the Cathedral the great-hearted Archbishop unsheathed a flashing sword, which he had girded on his thigh, and with his left hand seized the cross, saying, "This is my spiritual scepter, and I will wield the sword as my temporal, in defense of all my empire."' Afterwards he sent couriers to engage lodgings for his soldiers and his train for six months. Visitors to Avignon found no room in the city, and the Pope was fain to decline so terrible a guest. In 1353 Giovanni annexed Genoa to the Milanese principality, and died in 1354, having established the rule of the Visconti over the whole of the North of Italy, with the exception of Piedmont, Verona, Mantua, Ferrara and Venice. [1] We may compare what Dante puts into the mouth of Manfred in the 'Purgatory' (canto iii.). The great Ghibelline poet here protests against the use of excommunication as a political weapon. His sense of justice will not allow him to believe that God can regard the sentence of priests and pontiffs, actuated by the spite of partisans; yet the examples of Frederick II. and of this Matteo Visconti prove how terrifying, even to the boldest, those sentences continued to be. Few had the resolute will of Galeazzo Pico di Mirandola, who expired in 1499 under the ban of the Church, which he had borne for sixteen years. [2] This was in 1328. Azzo agreed to pay 25,000 florins. The vast wealth of the Visconti amassed during their years of peaceful occupation always stood them in good stead when bad times came, and when the Emperor was short of cash. Azzo deserves special commendation from the student of art for the exquisite octagonal tower of S. Gottardo, which he built of terra cotta with marble pilasters, in Milan. It is quite one of the loveliest monuments of mediæval Italian architecture. [3] Lucchino and Galeazzo Visconti were both afflicted with gout, the latter to such an extent as to be almost crippled. [4] This would not have been by itself a bar to succession in an Italian tyranny. But Lucchino's bastards were not of the proper stuff to continue their father's government, while their fiery uncle was precisely the man to sustain the honor and extend the power of the Visconti. [5] Storia di Milano, 1554, p. 223. The reign of the archbishop Giovanni marks a new epoch in the despotism of the Visconti. They are now no longer the successful rivals of the Della Torre family or dependents on imperial caprice, but self-made sovereigns, with a well-established power in Milan and a wide extent of subject territory. Their dynasty, though based on force and maintained by violence, has come to be acknowledged; and we shall soon see them allying themselves with the royal houses of Europe. After the death of Giovanni, Matteo's sons were extinct. But Stefano, the last of his family, had left three children, who now succeeded to the lands and cities of the house. They were named Matteo, Bernabo, and Galeazzo. Between these three princes a partition of the heritage of Giovanni Visconti was effected. Matteo took Bologna, Lodi, Piacenza, Parma, Bobbio, and some other towns of less importance. Bernabo received Cremona, Crema, Brescia, and Bergamo. Galeazzo held Como, Novara, Vercelli, Asti, Tortona, and Alessandria. Milan and Genoa were to be ruled by the three in common. It may here be noticed that the dismemberment of Italian despotisms among joint-heirs was a not unfrequent source of disturbance and a cause of weakness to their dynasties. At the same time the practice followed naturally upon the illegal nature of the tyrant's title. He dealt with his cities as so many pieces of personal property, which he could distribute as he chose, not as a coherent whole to be bequeathed to one ruler for the common benefit of all his subjects. In consequence of such partition, it became the interest of brother to murder brother, so as to effect a reconsolidation of the family estates. Something of the sort happened on this occasion. Matteo abandoned himself to bestial sensuality; and his two brothers, finding him both feeble and likely to bring discredit on their rule, caused him to be assassinated in 1355.[1] They then jointly swayed the Milanese, with unanimity remarkable in despots. Galeazzo was distinguished as the handsomest man of his age. He was tall and graceful, with golden hair, which he wore in long plaits, or tied up in a net, or else loose and crowned with flowers. Fond of display and magnificence, he spent much of his vast wealth in shows and festivals, and in the building of palaces and churches. The same taste for splendor led him to seek royal marriages for his children. His daughter Violante was wedded to the Duke of Clarence, son of Edward III. of England, who received with her for dowry the sum of 200,000 golden florins, as well as five cities bordering on Piedmont.[2] It must have been a strange experience for this brother of the Black Prince, leaving London, where the streets were still unpaved, the houses thatched, the beds laid on straw, and where wine was sold as medicine, to pass into the luxurious palaces of Lombardy, walled with marble, and raised high above smooth streets of stone. Of his marriage with Violante Giovio gives some curious details. He says that Galeazzo on this occasion made splendid presents to more than 200 Englishmen, so that he was reckoned to have outdone the greatest kings in generosity. At the banquet Gian Galeazzo, the bride's brother, leading a choice company of well-born youths, brought to the table with each course fresh gifts.[3] 'At one time it was a matter of sixty most beautiful horses with trappings of silk and silver; at another, plate, hawks, hounds, horse-gear, fine cuirasses, suits of armor fashioned of wrought steel, helmets adorned with crests, surcoats embroidered with pearls, belts, precious jewels set in gold, and great quantities of cloth of gold and crimson stuff for making raiment. Such was the profusion of this banquet that the remnants taken from the table were enough and to spare for 10,000 men.' Petrarch, we may remember, assisted at this festival and sat among the princes. It was thus that Galeazzo displayed his wealth before the feudal nobles of the North, and at the same time stretched the hand of friendly patronage to the greatest literary man of Europe. Meanwhile he also married his son Gian Galeazzo to Isabella, daughter of King John of France, spending on this occasion, it is said, a similar sum of money for the honor of a royal alliance.[4] [1] M. Villani, v. 81. Compare Corio, p. 230. Corio gives the date 1356. [2] Namely, Alba, Cuneo, Carastro, Mondovico, Braida. See Corio, p. 238, who adds sententiously, 'il che quasi fu l' ultima roina del suo stato.' [3] Corio (pp. 239, 240) gives the bill of fare of the banquet. [4] Sismondi says he gave 600,000 florins to Charles, the brother of Isabella, but authorities differ about the actual amount. Galeazzo held his court at Pavia. His brother reigned at Milan. Bernabo displayed all the worst vices of the Visconti. His system of taxation was most oppressive, and at the same time so lucrative that he was able, according to Giovio's estimate, to settle nine of his daughters at an expense of something like two millions of gold pieces. A curious instance of his tyranny relates to his hunting establishment. Having saddled his subjects with the keep of 5,000 boar-hounds, he appointed officers to go round and see whether these brutes were either too lean or too well-fed to be in good condition for the chase. If anything appeared defective in their management, the peasants on whom they were quartered had to suffer in their persons and their property.[1] This Bernabo was also remarkable for his cold-blooded cruelty. Together with his brother, he devised and caused to be publicly announced by edict that State criminals would be subjected to a series of tortures extending over the space of forty days. In this infernal programme every variety of torment found a place, and days of respite were so calculated as to prolong the lives of the victims for further suffering, till at last there was little left of them that had not been hacked and hewed and flayed away.[2] To such extremities of terrorism were the despots driven in the maintenance of their illegal power. [1] 'Per cagione di questa caccia continoamente teneva cinque mila cani; e la maggior parte di quelle distribuiva alla custodia de i cittadini, e anche a i contadini, i quali niun altro cane che quelli potevano tenere. Questi due volte il mese erano tenuti a far la mostra. Onde trovandoli macri in gran somma di danari erano condannati, e se grossi erano, incolpandoli del troppo, erano multati; se morivano, li pigliava il tutto.--Corio, p. 247. Read M. Villani, vii. 48, for the story of a peasant who was given to Bernabo's dogs to be devoured for having killed a hare. Corio (p. 247) describes the punishments which he inflicted on his subjects who were convicted of poaching--eyes put out, houses burned, etc. A young man who dreamed of killing a boar had an eye put out and a hand cut off because he imprudently recounted his vision of sport in sleep. On one occasion he burned two friars who ventured to remonstrate. We may compare Pontanus, 'De Immanitate,' vol. i. pp. 318, 320, for similar cruelty in Ferdinand, King of Naples. [2] This programme may be read in Sismondi, iv. 282. Galeazzo died in 1378, and was succeeded in his own portion of the Visconti domain by his son Gian Galleazzo. Now began one of those long, slow, internecine struggles which were so common between the members of the ruling families in Italy. Bernabo and his sons schemed to get possession of the young prince's estate. He, on the other hand, determined to supplant his uncle, and to reunite the whole Visconti principality beneath his own sway. Craft was the weapon which he chose in this encounter. Shutting himself up in Pavia, he made no disguise of his physical cowardice, which was real, while he simulated a timidity of spirit wholly alien to his temperament. He pretended to be absorbed in religious observances, and gradually induced his uncle and cousins to despise him as a poor creature whom they could make short work of when occasion served. In 1385, having thus prepared the way for treason, he avowed his intention of proceeding on a pilgrimage to Our Lady of Varese. Starting from Pavia with a body guard of Germans, he passed near Milan, where his uncle and cousins came forth to meet him. Gian Galeazzo feigned a courteous greeting; but when he saw his relatives within his grasp, he gave a watchword in German to his troops, who surrounded Bernabo and took him prisoner with his sons. Gian Galeazzo marched immediately into Milan, poisoned his uncle in a dungeon, and proclaimed himself sole lord of the Visconti heirship.[1] [1] The narrative of this coup-de-main may be read with advantage in Corio, p. 258. The reign of Gian Galeazzo, which began with this coup-de-main (1385-1402), forms a very important chapter in Italian history. We may first see what sort of man he was, and then proceed to trace his aims and achievements. Giovio describes him as having been a remarkably sedate and thoughtful boy, so wise beyond his years that his friends feared he would not grow to man's estate. No pleasures in after-life drew him away from business. Hunting, hawking, women, had alike no charms for him. He took moderate exercise for the preservation of his health, read and meditated much, and relaxed himself in conversation with men of letters. Pure intellect, in fact, had reached to perfect independence in this prince, who was far above the boisterous pleasures and violent activities of the age in which he lived. In the erection of public buildings he was magnificent. The Certosa of Pavia and the Duomo of Milan owed their foundation to his sense of splendor. At the same time he completed the palace of Pavia, which his father had begun, and which he made the noblest dwelling-house in Europe. The University of Pavia was raised by him from a state of decadence to one of great prosperity, partly by munificent endowments and partly by a wise choice of professors. In his military undertakings he displayed a kindred taste for vast engineering projects. He contemplated and partly carried out a scheme for turning the Mincio and the Brenta from their channels, and for drying up the lagoons of Venice. In this way he purposed to attack his last great enemy, the Republic of S. Mark, upon her strongest point. Yet in the midst of these huge designs he was able to attend to the most trifling details of economy. His love of order was so precise that he may be said to have applied the method of a banker's office to the conduct of a state. It was he who invented Bureaucracy by creating a special class of paid clerks and secretaries of departments. Their duty consisted in committing to books and ledgers the minutest items of his private expenditure and the outgoings of his public purse; in noting the details of the several taxes, so as to be able to present a survey of the whole state revenue; and in recording the names and qualities and claims of his generals, captains, and officials. A separate office was devoted to his correspondence, of all of which he kept accurate copies.[1] By applying this mercantile machinery to the management of his vast dominions, at a time when public economy was but little understood in Europe, Gian Galeazzo raised his wealth enormously above that of his neighbors. His income in a single year is said to have amounted to 1,200,000 golden florins, with the addition of 800,000 golden florins levied by extraordinary calls.[2] The personal timidity of this formidable prince prevented him from leading his armies in the field. He therefore found it necessary to employ paid generals, and took into his service all the chief Condottieri of the day, thus giving an impulse to the custom which was destined to corrupt the whole military system of Italy. Of these men, whom he well knew how to choose, he was himself the brain and moving principle. He might have boasted that he never took a step without calculating the cost, carefully considering the object, and proportioning the means to his end. How mad to such a man must have seemed the Crusaders of previous centuries, or the chivalrous Princes of Northern Germany and Burgundy, who expended their force upon such unprofitable and impossible undertakings as the subjugation, for instance, of Switzerland! Not a single trait in his character reminds us of the Middle Ages, unless it be that he was said to care for reliques with a superstitious passion worthy of Louis XI. Sismondi sums up the description of this extraordinary despot in the following sentences, which may be quoted for their graphic brevity: 'False and pitiless, he joined to immeasurable ambition a genius for enterprise, and to immovable constancy a personal timidity which he did not endeavor to conceal. The least unexpected motion near him threw him into a paroxysm of nervous terror. No prince employed so many soldiers to guard his palace, or took such multiplied precautions of distrust. He seemed to acknowledge himself the enemy of the whole world. But the vices of tyranny had not weakened his ability. He employed his immense wealth without prodigality; his finances were always flourishing; his cities well garrisoned and victualed; his army well paid; all the captains of adventure scattered throughout Italy received pensions from him, and were ready to return to his service whenever called upon. He encouraged the warriors of the new Italian school; he knew well how to distinguish, reward, and win their attachment.'[3] Such was the tyrant who aimed at nothing less than the reduction of the whole of Italy beneath the sway of the Visconti, and who might have achieved his purpose had not his career of conquest been checked by the Republic of Florence, and afterwards cut short by a premature death. [1] Giovio is particular upon these points: 'Ho veduto io ne gli armari de' suoi Archivi maravigliosi libri in carta pecora, i quali contenevano d' anno in anno i nomi de' capitani, condottieri, e soldati vecchi, e le paghe di ogn' uno, e 'l rotulo delle cavallerie, et delle fanterie: v' erano anco registrate le copie delle lettere le quali negli importantissimi maneggi di far guerra o pace, o egli haveva scritto ai principi o haveva ricevuto da loro.' [2] The description given by Corio (pp. 260, 266-68) of the dower in money, plate, and jewels brought by Valentina Visconti to Louis d'Orleans is a good proof of Gian Galeazzo's wealth. Besides the town of Asti, she took with her in money 400,000 golden florins. Her gems were estimated at 68,858 florins, and her plate at 1,667 marks of Paris. The inventory is curious. [3] 'History of the Italian Republics' (1 vol. Longmans), p. 190. At the time of his accession the Visconti had already rooted out the Correggi and Rossi of Parma, the Scotti of Piacenza, the Pelavicini of San Donnino, the Tornielli of Novara, the Ponzoni and Cavalcabò of Cremona, the Beccaria and Languschi of Pavia, the Fisiraghi of Lodi, the Brusati of Brescia. Their viper had swallowed all these lesser snakes.[1] But the Carrara family still ruled at Padua, the Gonzaga at Mantua, the Este at Ferrara, while the great house of Scala was in possession of Verona. Gian Galeazzo's schemes were first directed against the Scala dynasty. Founded, like that of the Visconti, upon the imperial authority, it rose to its greatest height under the Ghibelline general Can Grande and his nephew Mastino, in the first half of the fourteenth century (1312-51). Mastino had himself cherished the project of an Italian Kingdom; but he died before approaching its accomplishment. The degeneracy of his house began with his three sons. The two younger killed the eldest; of the survivors the stronger slew the weaker and then died in 1374, leaving his domains to two of his bastards. One of these, named Antonio, killed the other in 1381,[2] and afterwards fell a prey to the Visconti in 1387. In his subjugation of Verona Gian Galeazzo contrived to make use of the Carrara family, although these princes were allied by marriage to the Scaligers, and had everything to lose by their downfall. He next proceeded to attack Padua, and gained the co-operation of Venice. In 1388 Francesco da Carrara had to cede his territory to Visconti's generals, who in the same year possessed themselves for him of the Trevisan Marches. It was then that the Venetians saw too late the error they had committed in suffering Verona and Padua to be annexed by the Visconti, when they ought to have been fortified as defenses interposed between his growing power and themselves. Having now made himself master of the North of Italy,[3] with the exception of Mantua, Ferrara, and Bologna, Gian Galeazzo turned his attention to these cities. Alberto d' Este was ruling in Ferrara; Francesco da Gonzaga in Mantua. It was the Visconti's policy to enfeeble these two princes by causing them to appear odious in the eyes of their subjects.[4] Accordingly he roused the jealousy of the Marquis of Ferrara against his nephew Obizzo to such a pitch that Alberto beheaded him together with his mother, burned his wife, and hung a third member of his family, besides torturing to death all the supposed accomplices of the unfortunate young man. Against the Marquis of Mantua Gian Galeazzo devised a still more diabolical plot. By forged letters and subtly contrived incidents he caused Francesco da Gonzaga to suspect his wife of infidelity with his secretary.[5] In a fit of jealous fury Francesco ordered the execution of his wife, the mother of several of his children, together with the secretary. Then he discovered the Visconti's treason. But it was too late for anything but impotent hatred. The infernal device had been successful; the Marquis of Mantua was no less discredited than the Marquis of Ferrara by his crime. It would seem that these men were not of the stamp and caliber to be successful villans, and that Gian Galeazzo had reckoned upon this defect in their character. Their violence caused them to be rather loathed than feared. The whole of Lombardy was now prostrate before the Milanese tyrant. His next move was to set foot in Tuscany. For this purpose Pisa had to be acquired; and here again he resorted to his devilish policy of inciting other men to crimes by which he alone would profit in the long-run. Pisa was ruled at that time by the Gambacorta family, with an old merchant named Pietro at their head. This man had a friend and secretary called Jacopo Appiano, whom the Visconti persuaded to turn Judas, and to entrap and murder his benefactor and his children. The assassination took place in 1392. In 1399 Gherardo, son of Jacopo Appiano, who held Pisa at the disposal of Gian Galeazzo, sold him this city for 200,000 florins.[6] Perugia was next attacked. Here Pandolfo, chief of the Baglioni family, held a semi-constitutional authority, which the Visconti first helped him to transmute into a tyranny, and then, upon Pandolfo's assassination, seized as his own.[7] All Italy and even Germany had now begun to regard the usurpations of the Milanese despot with alarm. But the sluggish Emperor Wenceslaus refused to take action against him; nay, in 1395 he granted to the Visconti the investiture of the Duchy of Milan for 100,000 florins, reserving only Pavia for himself. In 1399 the Duke laid hands on Siena; and in the next two years the plague came to his assistance by enfeebling the ruling families of Lucca and Bologna, the Guinizzi and the Bentivogli, so that he was now able to take possession of those cities. [1] Il Biscione, or the Great Serpent, was the name commonly given to the tyranny of the Visconti (see M. Villani, vi. 8), in allusion to their ensign of a naked child issuing from a snake's mouth. [2] Corio, p. 255, tells how the murder was accomplished. Antonio tried to make it appear that his brother Bartolommeo had met his death in the prosecution of infamous amours. [3] Savoy was not in his hands, however, and the Marquisate of Montferrat remained nominally independent, though he held its heir in a kind of honorable confinement. Venice, too, remained in formidable neutrality, the spectator of the Visconti's conquests. [4] The policy adopted by the Visconti against the Estensi and the Gonzaghi was that recommended by Machiavelli (Disc. iii. 32): 'quando alcuno vuole o che un popolo o un principe levi al tutto l' animo ad uno accordo, non ci è altro modo più vero, nè più stabile, che fargli usare qualche grave scelleratezza contro a colui con il qual tu non vuoi che l' accordo si faccia.' [5] This lady was a first cousin as well as sister-in-law of Gian Galeazzo Visconti, who in second marriage had taken Caterina, daughter of Bernabo Visconti, to wife. This fact makes his perfidy the more disgraceful. [6] The Appiani retired to Piombino, where they founded a petty despotism. Appiano's crime, which gave a tyranny to his children, is similar to that of Tremacoldo, who murdered his masters, the Vistarini of Lodi, and to that of Luigi Gonzaga, who founded the Ducal house of Mantua by the murder of his patron, Passerino Buonacolsi. [7] Pandolfo was murdered in 1393. Gian Galeazzo possessed himself of Perugia in 1400, having paved his way for the usurpation by causing Biordo Michelotti, the successor of the Baglioni to be assassinated by his friend Francesco Guidalotti. It will be noticed that he proceeded slowly and surely in the case of each annexation, licking over his prey after he had throttled it and before he swallowed it, like a boa-constrictor. There remained no power in Italy, except the Republic of Florence and the exiled but invincible Francesco da Carrara, to withstand his further progress. Florence delayed his conquests in Tuscany. Francesco managed to return to Padua. Still the peril which threatened the whole of Italy was imminent. The Duke of Milan was in the plenitude of manhood--rich, prosperous, and full of mental force. His acquisitions were well cemented; his armies in good condition; his treasury brim full; his generals highly paid. All his lieutenants in city and in camp respected the iron will and the deep policy of the despot who swayed their action from his arm-chair in Milan. He alone knew how to use the brains and hands that did him service, to keep them mutually in check, and by their regulated action to make himself not one but a score of men. At last, when all other hope of independence for Italy had failed, the plague broke out with fury in Lombardy. Gian Galeazzo retired to his isolated fortress of Marignano in order to escape infection. Yet there in 1402 he sickened. A comet appeared in the sky, to which he pointed as a sign of his approaching death--'God could not but signalize the end of so supreme a ruler,' he told his attendants. He died aged 55. Italy drew a deep breath. The danger was passed. The systematic plan conceived by Gian Galeazzo for the enslavement of Italy, the ability and force of intellect which sustained him in its execution, and the power with which he bent men to his will, are scarcely more extraordinary than the sudden dissolution of his dukedom at his death. Too timid to take the field himself, he had trained in his service a band of great commanders, among whom Alberico da Barbino, Facino Cane, Pandolfo Malatesta, Jacopo dal Verme, Gabrino Fondulo, and Ottobon Terzo were the most distinguished. As long as he lived and held them in leading strings, all went well. But at his death his two sons were still mere boys. He had to intrust their persons, together with the conduct of his hardly won dominions, to these captains in conjunction with the Duchess Catherine and a certain Francesco Barbavara. This man had been the Duke's body-servant, and was now the paramour of the Duchess. The generals refused to act with them; and each seized upon such portions of the Visconti inheritance as he could most easily acquire. The vast tyranny of the first Duke of Milan fell to pieces in a day. The whole being based on no legal right, but held together artificially by force and skill, its constituent parts either reasserted their independence or became the prey of adventurers.[1] Many scions of the old ejected families recovered their authority in the subject towns. We hear again of the Scotti at Piacenza, the Rossi and Correggi at Parma, the Benzoni at Crema, the Rusconi at Como, the Soardi and Colleoni at Bergamo, the Landi at Bobbio, the Cavalcabò at Cremona. Facino Cane appropriated Alessandria; Pandolfo Malatesta seized Brescia; Ottonbon Terzo established himself in Parma. Meanwhile Giovanni Maria Visconti was proclaimed Duke of Milan, and his brother Filippo Maria occupied Pavia. Gabriello, a bastard son of the first duke, fortified himself in Crema. [1] The anarchy which prevailed in Lombardy after Gian Galeazzo's death makes it difficult to do more than signalize a few of these usurpations. Corio, pp. 292 et seq., contain the details. In the despotic families of Italy, as already hinted, there was a progressive tendency to degeneration. The strain of tyranny sustained by force and craft for generations, the abuse of power and pleasure, the isolation and the dread in which the despots lived habitually, bred a kind of hereditary madness.[1] In the case of Giovanni Maria and Filippo Maria Visconti these predisposing causes of insanity were probably intensified by the fact that their father and mother were first cousins, the grandchildren of Stefano, son of Matteo il Grande. Be this as it may, the constitutional ferocity of the race appeared as monomania in Giovanni, and its constitutional timidity as something akin to madness in his brother. Gian Maria, Duke of Milan in nothing but in name, distinguished himself by cruelty and lust. He used the hounds of his ancestors no longer in the chase of boars, but of living men. All the criminals of Milan, and all whom he could get denounced as criminals, even the participators in his own enormities, were given up to his infernal sport. His huntsman, Squarcia Giramo, trained the dogs to their duty by feeding them on human flesh, and the duke watched them tear his victims in pieces with the avidity of a lunatic.[2] In 1412 some Milanese nobles succeeded in murdering him, and threw his mangled corpse into the street. A prostitute is said to have covered it with roses. Filippo Maria meanwhile had married the widow of Facino Cane,[3] who brought him nearly half a million of florins for dowry, together with her husband's soldiers and the cities he had seized after Gian Galeazzo's death. By the help of this alliance Filippo was now gradually recovering the Lombard portion of his father's dukedom. The minor cities, purged by murder of their usurpers, once more fell into the grasp of the Milanese despot, after a series of domestic and political tragedies that drenched their streets with blood. Piacenza was utterly depopulated. It is recorded that for the space of a year only three of its inhabitants remained within the walls. [1] I may refer to Dr. Maudsley (Mind and Matter) for a scientific statement of the theory of madness developed by accumulated and hereditary vices. [2] Corio, p. 301, mentions by name Giovanni da Pusterla and Bertolino del Maino as 'lacerati da i cani del Duca.' Members of the families of these men afterwards helped to kill him. [3] Beatrice di Tenda, the wife of Facino Cane, was twenty years older than the Duke of Milan. As soon as the Visconti felt himself assured in his duchy, he caused a false accusation to be brought against her of adultery with the youthful Michele Oranbelli, and, in spite of her innocence, beheaded her in 1418. Machiavelli relates this act of perfidy with Tacitean conciseness (1st. Fior. lib. i. vol. i. p. 55): 'Dipoi per esser grato de' benefici grandi, come sono quasi sempre tutti i Principi, accusè Beatrice sua moglie di stupro e la fece morire.' Filippo, the last of the Visconti tyrants, was extremely ugly, and so sensitive about his ill-formed person that he scarcely dared to show himself abroad. He habitually lived in secret chambers, changed frequently from room to room, and when he issued from his palace refused salutations in the streets. As an instance of his nervousness, the chroniclers report that he could not endure to hear the noise of thunder.[1] At the same time he inherited much of his father's insight into character, and his power of controlling men more bold and active than himself. But he lacked the keen decision and broad views of Gian Galeazzo. He vacillated in policy and kept planning plots which seemed to have no object but his own disadvantage. Excess of caution made him surround the captains of his troops with spies, and check them at the moment when he feared they might become too powerful. This want of confidence neutralized the advantage which he might have gained by his choice of fitting instruments. Thus his selection of Francesco Sforza for his general against the Venetians in 1431 was a wise one. But he could not attach the great soldier of fortune to himself. Sforza took the pay of Florence against his old patron, and in 1441 forced him to a ruinous peace; one of the conditions of which was the marriage of the Duke of Milan's only daughter, Bianca, to the son of the peasant of Cotignola. Bianca was illegitimate, and Filippo Maria had no male heir. The great family of the Visconti had dwindled away. Consequently, after the duke's death in 1447, Sforza found his way open to the Duchy of Milan, which he first secured by force and then claimed in right of his wife. An adverse claim was set up by the House of Orleans, Louis of Orleans having married Valentina, the legitimate daughter of Gian Galeazzo.[2] But both of these claims were invalid, since the investiture granted by Wenceslaus to the first duke excluded females. So Milan was once again thrown open to the competition of usurpers. [1] The most complete account of Filippo Maria Visconti written by a contemporary is that of Piero Candido Decembrio (Muratori, vol. xx.). The student must, however, read between the lines of this biography, for Decembrio, at the request of Leonello d' Este, suppressed the darker colors of the portrait of his master. See the correspondence in Rosmini's Life of Guarino da Verona. [2] This claim of the House of Orleans to Milan was one source of French interference in Italian affairs. Judged by Italian custom, Sforza's claim through Bianca was as good as that of the Orleans princes through Valentina, since bastardy was no real bar in the peninsula. It is said that Filippo Maria bequeathed his duchy to the Crown of Naples, by a will destroyed after his death. Could this bequest have taken effect, it might have united Italy beneath one sovereign. But the probabilities are that the jealousies of Florence, Venice, and Rome against Naples would have been so intensified as to lead to a bloody war of succession, and to hasten the French invasion. The inextinguishable desire for liberty in Milan blazed forth upon the death of the last duke. In spite of so many generations of despots, the people still regarded themselves as sovereign, and established a republic. But a state which had served the Visconti for nearly two centuries, could not in a moment shake off its weakness and rely upon itself alone. The republic, feeling the necessity of mercenary aid, was short-sighted enough to engage Francesco Sforza as commander-in-chief against the Venetians, who had availed themselves of the anarchy in Lombardy to push their power west of the Adda. Sforza, though the ablest general of the day, was precisely the man whom common prudence should have prompted the burghers to mistrust. In one brilliant campaign he drove the Venetians back beyond the Adda, burned their fleet at Casal Maggiore on the Po, and utterly defeated their army at Caravaggio. Then he returned as conqueror to Milan, reduced the surrounding cities, blockaded the Milanese in their capital, and forced them to receive him as their Duke in 1450. Italy had lost a noble opportunity. If Florence and Venice had but taken part with Milan, and had stimulated the flagging energies of Genoa, four powerful republics in federation might have maintained the freedom of the whole peninsula and have resisted foreign interference. But Cosimo de' Medici, who was silently founding the despotism of his own family in Florence, preferred to see a duke in Milan; and Venice, guided by the Doge Francesco Foscari, thought only of territorial aggrandizement. The chance was lost. The liberties of Milan were extinguished. A new dynasty was established in the duchy, grounded on a false hereditary claim, which, as long as it continued, gave a sort of color to the superior but still illegal pretensions of the house of Orleans. It is impossible at this point in the history of Italy to refrain from judging that the Italians had become incapable of local self-government, and that the prevailing tendency to despotism was not the results of accidents in any combination, but of internal and inevitable laws of evolution. It was at this period that the old despotisms founded by Imperial Vicars and Captains of the People came to be supplanted or crossed by those of military adventurers, just as at a somewhat later time the Condottiere and the Pope's nominee were blent in Cesare Borgia. This is therefore the proper moment for glancing at the rise and influence of mercenary generals in Italy, before proceeding to sketch the history of the Sforza family. After the wars in Sicily, carried on by the Angevine princes, had ceased (1302), a body of disbanded soldiers, chiefly foreigners, was formed under Fra Ruggieri, a Templar, and swept the South of Italy. Giovanni Villani marks this as the first sign of the scourge which was destined to prove so fatal to the peace of Italy.[1] But it was not any merely accidental outbreak of Banditti, such as this, which established the Condottiere system. The causes were far more deeply seated, in the nature of Italian despotism and in the peculiar requirements of the republics. We have already seen how Frederick II. found it convenient to employ Saracens in his warfare with the Holy See. The same desire to procure troops incapable of sympathizing with the native population induced the Scala and Visconti tyrants to hire German, Breton, Swiss, English, and even Hungarian guards. These foreign troops remained at the disposal of the tyrants and superseded the national militia. The people of Italy were reserved for taxation; the foreigners carried on the wars of the princes. Nor was this policy otherwise than popular. It relieved all classes from the conscription, leaving the burgher free to ply his trade, the peasant to till his fields, and disarming the nobles who were still rebellious and turbulent within the city walls. The same custom gained ground among the Republics. Rich Florentine citizens preferred to stay at home at ease, or to travel abroad for commerce, while they intrusted their military operations to paid generals.[2] Venice, jealous of her own citizens, raised no levies in her immediate territory, and made a rule of never confiding her armies to Venetians. Her admirals, indeed, were selected from the great families of the Lagoons. But her troops were placed beneath the discipline of foreigners. The warfare of the Church, again, had of necessity to be conducted on the same principles; for it did not often happen that a Pope arose like Julius II., rejoicing in the sound of cannon and the life of camps. In this way principalities and republics gradually denationalized their armies, and came to carrying on campaigns by the aid of foreign mercenaries under paid commanders. The generals, wishing as far as possible to render their troops movable and compact, suppressed the infantry, and confined their attention to perfecting the cavalry. Heavy-armed cavaliers, officered by professional captains, fought the battles of Italy; while despots and republics schemed in their castles, or debated in their council-chambers, concerning objects of warfare about which the soldiers of fortune were indifferent. The pay received by men-at-arms was more considerable than that of the most skilled laborers in any peaceful trade. The perils of military service in Italy, conducted on the most artificial principles, were but slight; while the opportunities of self-indulgence--of pillage during war and of pleasure in the brief intervals of peace--attracted all the hot blood of the country to this service.[3] Therefore, in course of time, the profession of Condottiere fascinated the needier nobility of Italy, and the ranks of their men-at-arms were recruited by townsfolk and peasants, who deliberately chose a life of adventure. [1] VIII. 51. [2] We may remember how the Spanish general Cardona, in 1325, misused his captaincy of the Florentine forces to keep rich members of the republican militia in unhealthy stations, extorting money from them as the price of freedom from perilous or irksome service. [3] Matarazzo, in his Chronicle of Perugia, gives a lively picture of an Italian city, in which the nobles for generations followed the trade of Condottieri, while the people enlisted in their bands--to the utter ruin of the morals and the peace of the community. At first the foreign troops of the despots were engaged as body-guards, and were controlled by the authority of their employers. But the captains soon rendered themselves independent, and entered into military contracts on their own account. The first notable example of a roving troop existing for the sake of pillage, and selling its services to any bidder, was the so-called Great Company (1343), commanded by the German Guarnieri, or Duke Werner who wrote upon his corselet: 'Enemy of God, of Pity and of Mercy.' This band was employed in 1348 by the league of the Montferrat, La Scala, Carrara, Este, and Gonzaga houses, formed to check the Visconti. 'In the middle of the fourteenth century,' writes Sismondi,[1] 'all the soldiers who served in Italy were foreigners: at the end of the same century they were all, or nearly all, Italian.' This sentence indicates a most important change in the Condottiere system, which took place during the lifetime of Gian Galeazzo Visconti. Alberico da Barbiano, a noble of Romagna, and the ancestor of the Milanese house of Belgiojoso, adopted the career of Condottiere, and formed a Company, called the Company of S. George, into which he admitted none but Italians. The consequence of this rule was that he Italianized the profession of mercenary arms for the future. All the great captains of the period were formed in his ranks, during the course of those wars which he conducted for the Duke of Milan. Two rose to paramount importance--Braccio da Montone, who varied his master's system by substituting the tactics of detached bodies of cavalry for the solid phalanx in which Barbiano had moved his troops; and Sforza Attendolo, who adhered to the old method. Sforza got his name from his great physical strength. He was a peasant of the village of Cotignola, who, being invited to quit the mattock for a sword, threw his pickax into an oak, and cried, 'If it stays there, it is a sign that I shall make my fortune.' The ax stuck in the tree, and Sforza went forth to found a line of dukes.[2] After the death of Barbiano in 1409, Sforza and Braccio separated and formed two distinct companies, known as the Sforzeschi and Bracceschi, who carried on between them, sometimes in combination, but usually in opposition, all the wars of Italy for the next twenty years. These old comrades, who had parted in pursuit of their several advantage, found that they had more to lose than to gain by defeating each other in any bloody or inconveniently decisive engagement. Therefore they adopted systems of campaigning which should cost them as little as possible, but which enabled them to exhibit a chess-player's capacity for designing clever checkmates.[3] Both Braccio and Sforza died in 1424, and were succeeded respectively by Nicolo Piccinino and Francesco Sforza. These two men became in their turn the chief champions of Italy. At the same time other Condottieri rose into notice. The Malatesta family at Rimini, the ducal house of Urbino, the Orsini and the Vitelli of the Roman States, the Varani of Camerino, the Baglioni of Perugia, and the younger Gonzaghi furnished republics and princes with professional leaders of tried skill and independent resources. The vassals of these noble houses were turned into men-at-arms, and the chiefs acquired more importance in their roving military life than they could have gained within the narrow circuit of their little states. [1] Vol. v. p. 207. [2] This is the commonly received legend. Corio, p. 255, does not draw attention to the lowness of Sforza's origin, but says that he was only twelve years of age when he enlisted in the corps of Boldrino da Panigale, condottiere of the Church. His robust physical qualities were hereditary for many generations in his family. His son Francesco was tall and well made, the best runner, jumper, and wrestler of his day. He marched, summer and winter, bareheaded; needed but little sleep; was spare in diet, and self-indulgent only in the matter of women. Galeazzo Maria, though stained by despicable vices was a powerful prince, who ruled his duchy with a strong arm. Of his illegitimate daughter, Caterina, the wife of Girolamo Riario, a story is told, which illustrates the strong coarse vein that still distinguished this brood of princes. [See Dennistoun, 'Dukes of Urbino,' vol. i. p. 292, for Boccalini's account of the Siege of Forli, sustained by Caterina in 1488. Compare Sismondi, vol. vii. p. 251.] Caterina Riario Sforza, as a woman, was no unworthy inheritor of her grandfather's personal heroism and genius for government. [3] I shall have to notice the evils of this system in another place, while reviewing the _Principe_ of Machiavelli. In that treatise the Florentine historian traces the whole ruin of Italy during the sixteenth century to the employment of mercenaries. The biography of one of these Condottieri deserves special notice, since it illustrates the vicissitudes of fortune to which such men were exposed, as well as their relations to their patrons. Francesco Carmagnuola was a Piedmontese. He first rose into notice at the battle of Monza in 1412, when Filippo Maria Visconti observed his capacity and bravery, and afterwards advanced him to the captaincy of a troop. Having helped to reduce the Visconti duchy to order, Carmagnuola found himself disgraced and suspected without good reason by the Duke of Milan; and in 1426 he took the pay of the Venetians against his old master. During the next year he showed the eminence of his abilities as a general; for he defeated the combined forces of Piccinino, Sforza, and other captains of the Visconti, and took them prisoners at Macalo. Carmagnuola neither imprisoned nor murdered his foes.[1] He gave them their liberty, and four years later had to sustain a defeat from Sforza at Soncino. Other reverses of fortune followed, which brought upon him the suspicion of bad faith or incapacity. When he returned to Venice, the state received their captain with all honors, and displayed unusual pomp in his admission to the audience of the Council. But no sooner had their velvet clutches closed upon him, than they threw him into prison, instituted a secret impeachment of his conduct, and on May 5, 1432, led him out with his mouth gagged, to execution on the Piazza. No reason was assigned for this judicial murder. Had Carmagnuola been convicted of treason? Was he being punished for his ill success in the campaign of the preceding years? The Republic of Venice, by the secrecy in which she enveloped this dark act of vengeance, sought to inspire the whole body of her officials with vague alarm. [1] Such an act of violence, however consistent with the morality of a Cesare Borgia, a Venetian Republic, or a Duke of Milan, would have been directly opposed to the code of honor in use among Condottieri. Nothing, indeed, is more singular among the contradictions of this period than the humanity in the field displayed by hired captains. War was made less on adverse armies than on the population of provinces. The adventurers respected each other's lives, and treated each other with courtesy. They were a brotherhood who played at campaigning, rather than the representatives of forces seriously bent on crushing each other to extermination. Machiavelli says (Princ. cap. xii.) 'Aveano usato ogni industria per levar via a se e a' soldati la fatica e la paura, non s'ammazzando nelle zuffe, ma pigliandosi prigioni e senza taglia.' At the same time the license they allowed themselves against the cities and the districts they invaded is well illustrated by the pillage of Piacenza in 1447 by Francesco Sforza's troops. The anarchy of a sack lasted forty days, during which the inhabitants were indiscriminately sold as slaves, or tortured for their hidden treasure. Sism. vi. 170. But to return to the Duchy of Milan. Francesco Sforza entered the capital as conqueror in 1450, and was proclaimed Duke. He never obtained the sanction of the Empire to his title, though Frederick III. was proverbially lavish of such honors. But the great Condottiere, possessing the substance, did not care for the external show of monarchy. He ruled firmly, wisely, and for those times well, attending to the prosperity of his states, maintaining good discipline in his cities, and losing no ground by foolish or ambitious schemes. Louis XI. of France is said to have professed himself Sforza's pupil in statecraft, than which no greater tribute could be paid to his political sagacity. In 1466 he died, leaving three sons, Galeazzo, Duke of Milan, the Cardinal Ascanio, and Lodovico, surnamed Il Moro. 'Francesco's crown,' says Ripamonti, 'was destined to pass to more than six inheritors, and these five successions were accomplished by a series of tragic events in his family. Galeazzo, his son, was murdered because of his abominable crimes, in the presence of his people, before the altar, in the middle of the sacred rites. Giovanni Galeazzo, who followed him, was poisoned by his uncle Lodovico. Lodovico was imprisoned by the French, and died of grief in a dungeon.[1] One of his sons perished in the same way; the other, after years of misery and exile, was restored in his childless old age to a throne which had been undermined, and when he died, his dynasty was extinct. This was the recompense for the treason of Francesco to the State of Milan. It was for such successes that he passed his life in perfidy, privation, and danger.' In these rapid successions we trace, besides the demoralization of the Sforza family, the action of new forces from without. France, Germany, and Spain appeared upon the stage; and against these great powers the policy of Italian despotism was helpless. [1] In the castle of Loches, there is said to be a roughly painted wall-picture of a man in a helmet over the chimney in the room known as his prison, with this legend, _Voilà un qui n'est pas content_. Tradition gives it to Il Moro. We have now reached the threshold of the true Renaissance, and a new period is being opened for Italian politics. The despots are about to measure their strength with the nations of the North. It was Lodovico Sforza who, by his invitation of Charles VIII. into Italy, inaugurated the age of Foreign Enslavement. His biography belongs, therefore, to another chapter. But the life of Galeazzo Maria, husband of Bona of Savoy, and uncle by marriage to Charles VIII. of France, forms an integral part of that history of the Milanese despots which we have hitherto been tracing. In him the passions of Gian Maria Visconti were repeated with the addition of extravagant vanity. We may notice in particular his parade-expedition in 1471 to Florence, when he flaunted the wealth extorted from his Milanese subjects before the soberminded citizens of a still free city. Fifty palfreys for the Duchess, fifty chargers for the Duke, trapped in cloth of gold; a hundred men-at-arms and five hundred foot soldiers for a body-guard; five hundred couples of hounds and a multitude of hawks; preceded him. His suite of courtiers numbered two thousand on horseback: 200,000 golden florins were expended on this pomp. Machiavelli (1st. Fior. lib. 7) marks this visit of the Duke of Milan as a turning-point from austere simplicity to luxury and license in the manners of the Florentines, whom Lorenzo de' Medici was already bending to his yoke. The most extravagant lust, the meanest and the vilest cruelty, supplied Galeazzo Maria with daily recreation.[1] He it was who used to feed his victims on abominations or to bury them alive, and who found a pleasure in wounding or degrading those whom he had made his confidants and friends. The details of his assassination, in 1476, though well known, are so interesting that I may be excused for pausing to repeat them here; especially as they illustrate a moral characteristic of this period which is intimately connected with the despotism. Three young nobles of Milan, educated in the classic literature by Montano, a distinguished Bolognese scholar, had imbibed from their studies of Greek and Latin history an ardent thirst for liberty and a deadly hatred of tyrants.[2] Their names were Carlo Visconti, Girolamo Olgiati, and Giannandrea Lampugnani. Galeazzo Sforza had wounded the two latter in the points which men hold dearest--their honor and their property[3]--by outraging the sister of Olgiati and by depriving Lampugnani of the patronage of the Abbey of Miramondo. The spirit of Harmodius and Virginius was kindled in the friends, and they determined to rid Milan of her despot. After some meetings in the garden of S. Ambrogio, where they matured their plans, they laid their project of tyrannicide as a holy offering before the patron saint of Milan.[4] Then having spent a few days in poignard exercise for the sake of training,[5] they took their place within the precincts of S. Stephen's Church. There they received the sacrament and addressed themselves in prayer to the Protomartyr, whose fane was about to be hallowed by the murder of a monster odious to God and man. It was on the morning of December 26, 1476, that the duke entered San Stefano. At one and the same moment the daggers of the three conspirators struck him--Olgiati's in the breast, Visconti's in the back, Lampugnani's in the belly. He cried 'Ah, Dio!' and fell dead upon the pavement. The friends were unable to make their escape; Visconti and Lampugnani were killed on the spot; Olgiati was seized, tortured, and torn to death. [1] Allegretto Allegretti, Diari Sanesi, in Muratori, xxiii. p. 777, and Corio, p. 425, should be read for the details of his pleasures. See too his character by Machiavelli, 1st. Fior. lib. 7, vol. ii. p. 316. Yet Giovio calls him a just and firm ruler, stained only with the vice of unbridled sensuality. [2] The study of the classics, especially of Plutarch, at this time, as also during the French Revolution, fired the imagination of patriots. Lorenzino de' Medici appealed to the example of Timoleon in 1537, and Pietro Paolo Boscoli to that of Brutus in 1513. [3] 'Le ingiurie conviene che siano nella roba, nel sangue, o nell' onore.... La roba e l'onore sono quelle due cose che offendono più gli uomini che alcun' altra offesa, e dalle quali il principe si debbe guardare: perchè e' non può mai spogliare uno tanto che non gli resti un coltello da vendicarsi; non può tanto disonorare uno che non gli resti un animo ostinato alla vendetta.' Mach. Disc. iii. 6. [4] See Olgiati's prayer to Saint Ambrose in Sismondi, vii. 87, and in Mach. Ist. Fior. lib. 7. [5] Giovanni Sanzi's chronicle, quoted by Dennistoun, vol. i. p. 223, describes the conspirators rehearsing on a wooden puppet. In the interval which elapsed between the rack and the pincers, Olgiati had time to address this memorable speech to the priest who urged him to repent: 'As for the noble action for which I am about to die, it is this which gives my conscience peace; to this I trust for pardon from the Judge of all. Far from repenting, if I had to come ten times to life in order ten times to die by these same torments, I should not hesitate to dedicate my blood and all my powers to an object so sublime.' When the hangman stood above him, ready to begin the work of mutilation, he is said to have exclaimed: Mors acerba, fama perpetua, stabit vetus memora facti--my death is untimely, my fame eternal, the memory of the deed will last for aye.' He was only twenty-two years of age.[1] There is an antique grandeur about the outlines of this story, strangely mingled with mediæval Catholicism in the details, which makes it typical of the Renaissance. Conspiracies against rulers were common at the time in Italy; but none were so pure and honorable as this. Of the Pazzi Conjuration (1478) which Sixtus IV. directed to his everlasting infamy against the Medici, I shall have to speak in another place. It is enough to mention here in passing the patriotic attempt of Girolamo Gentile against Galeazzo Sforza at Genoa in 1476, and the more selfish plot of Nicolo d' Este, in the same year, against his uncle Ercole, who held the Marquisate of Ferrara to the prejudice of his own claim. The latter tragedy was rendered memorable by the vengeance taken by Ercole. He beheaded Nicolo and his cousin Azzo together with twenty-five of his comrades, effectually preventing by this bloodshed any future attempt to set aside his title. Falling as these four conspiracies do within the space of two years, and displaying varied features of antique heroism, simple patriotism, dynastic dissension, and ecclesiastical perfidy, they present examples of the different forms and causes of political tragedies with a noteworthy and significant conciseness.[2] [1] The whole story may be read in Ripamonti, under the head of 'Confessio Olgiati;' in Corio, who was a page of the Duke's and an eye-witness of the murder; and in the seventh book of Machiavelli's 'History.' Sismondi's summary and references, vol. vii. pp. 86-90, are very full. [2] It is worthy of notice that very many tyrannicides took place in Church--for example, the murders of Francesco Vico dei Prefetti, of the Varani, the Chiavelli, Giuliano de' Medici, and Galeazzo Maria Sforza. The choice of public service, as the best occasion for the commission of these crimes, points to the guarded watchfulness maintained by tyrants in their palaces and on the streets. Banquets and festivities offered another kind of opportunity; and it was on such occasions that domestic tragedies, like Oliverotto's murder of his uncle and Grifonetto Baglioni's treason, were accomplished. Such was the actual condition of Italy at the end of the fifteenth century. Neither public nor private morality in our sense of the word existed. The crimes of the tyrants against their subjects and the members of their own families had produced a correlative order of crime in the people over whom they tyrannized. Cruelty was met by conspiracy. Tyrannicide became honorable; and the proverb, 'He who gives his own life can take a tyrant's,' had worked itself into popular language. At this point it may be well to glance at the opinions concerning public murder which prevailed in Italy. Machiavelli, in the _Discorsi_ iii. 6, discusses the whole subject with his usual frigid and exhaustive analysis. It is no part of his critical method to consider the morality of the matter. He deals with the facts of history scientifically. The esteem in which tyrannicide was held at Florence is proved by the erection of Donatello's Judith in 1495, at the gate of the Palazzo Pubblico, with this inscription, _exemplum salutis publicæ cives posuere_. All the political theorists agree that to rid a state of its despot is a virtuous act. They only differ about its motives and its utility. In Guicciardini's Reggimento di Firenze (Op. Ined. vol. ii. pp. 53, 54, 114) the various motives of tyrannicide are discussed, and it is concluded that _pochissimi sono stati quelli che si siano mossi meramente per amore della libertà della sua patria, a' quali si conviene suprema laude_.[1] Donato Giannotti (Opere, vol. i. p. 341) bids the conspirator consider whether the mere destruction of the despot will suffice to restore his city to true liberty and good government--a caution by which Lorenzino de' Medici in his assassination of Duke Alessandro might have profited; for he killed one tyrant in order only to make room for another. Lorenzino's own Apology (Varchi, vol. iii. pp. 283-295) is an important document, as showing that the murderer of a despot counted on the sympathy of honorable men. So, too, is the verdict of Boscolo's confessor (Arch. Stor. vol. i. p. 309), who pronounced that conspiracy against a tyrant was no crime. Nor did the demoralization of the age stop here. Force, which had been substituted for Law in government, became, as it were, the mainspring of society. Murders, poisoning, rapes, and treasons were common incidents of private as of public life.[2] In cities like Naples bloodguilt could be atoned at an inconceivably low rate. A man's life was worth scarcely more than that of a horse. The palaces of the nobles swarmed with professional cut-throats, and the great ecclesiastics claimed for their abodes the right of sanctuary. Popes sold absolution for the most horrible excesses, and granted indulgences beforehand for the commission of crimes of lust and violence. Success was the standard by which acts were judged; and the man who could help his friends intimidate his enemies, and carve a way to fortune for himself by any means he chose, was regarded as a hero. Machiavelli's use of the word _virtù_ is in this relation most instructive. It has altogether lost the Christian sense of _virtue_, and retains only so much of the Roman _virtus_ as is applicable to the courage, intellectual ability, and personal prowess of one who has achieved his purpose, be that what it may. The upshot of this state of things was that individuality of character and genius obtained a freer scope at this time in Italy than during any other period of modern history. [1] 'Very few indeed have those been, whose motive for tyrannicide was a pure love of their country's liberty; and these deserve the highest praise.' [2] It is quite impossible to furnish a complete view of Italian society under this aspect. Students must be referred to the stories of the novelists, who collected the more dramatic incidents and presented them in the form of entertaining legends. It may suffice here to mention Bartolommeo Colleoni, Angelo Poliziano, and Pontano, all of whom owed their start in life to the murder of their respective fathers by assassins; to Varchi and Filelfo, whose lives were attempted by cut-throats; to Cellini, Perugino, Masaccio, Berni, in each of whose biographies poison and the knife play their parts. If men of letters and artists were exposed to these perils, the dangers of the great and noble may be readily imagined. At the same time it must not be forgotten that during this period the art and culture of the Renaissance were culminating. Filelfo was receiving the gold of Filippo Maria Visconti. Guarino of Verona was instructing the heir of Ferrara, and Vittorino da Feltre was educating the children of the Marquis of Mantua. Lionardo was delighting Milan with his music and his magic world of painting. Poliziano was pouring forth honeyed eloquence at Florence. Ficino was expounding Plato. Boiardo was singing the prelude to Ariosto's melodies at Ferrara. Pico della Mirandola was dreaming of a reconciliation of the Hebrew, Pagan, and Christian traditions. It is necessary to note these facts in passing; just as when we are surveying the history of letters and the arts, it becomes us to remember the crimes and the madness of the despots who patronized them. This was an age in which even the wildest and most perfidious of tyrants felt the ennobling influences and the sacred thirst of knowledge. Sigismondo Pandolfo Malatesta, the Lord of Rimini, might be selected as a true type of the princes who united a romantic zeal for culture with the vices of barbarians.[1] The coins which bear the portraits of this man, together with the medallions carved in red Verona marble on his church at Rimini, show a narrow forehead, protuberant above bushy eyebrows, a long hooked nose, hollow cheeks, and petulant, passionate, compressed lips. The whole face seems ready to flash with sudden violence, to merge its self-control in a spasm of fury. Sigismondo Pandolfo Malatesta killed three wives in succession, violated his daughter, and attempted the chastity of his own son. So much of him belongs to the mere savage. He caused the magnificent church of S. Francesco at Rimini to be raised by Leo Alberti in a manner more worthy of a Pagan Pantheon than of a Christian temple. He incrusted it with exquisite bas-reliefs in marble, the triumphs of the earliest Renaissance style, carved his own name and ensigns upon every scroll and frieze and point of vantage in the building, and dedicated a shrine there to his concubine--_Divæ Isottæ Sacrum_. So much of him belongs to the Neo-Pagan of the fifteenth century. He brought back from Greece the mortal remains of the philosopher Gemistos Plethon, buried them in a sarcophagus outside his church, and wrote upon the tomb this epigraph: 'These remains of Gemistus of Byzantium, chief of the sages of his day, Sigismondo Pandolfo Malatesta, son of Pandolfo, commander in the war against the king of the Turks in the Morea, induced by the mighty love with which he burns for men of learning, brought hither and placed within this chest. 1466.' He, the most fretful and turbulent of men, read books with patient care, and bore the contradictions of pedants in the course of long discussions on philosophy and arts and letters. So much of him belonged to the new spirit of the coming age, in which the zeal for erudition was a passion, and the spell of science was stronger than the charms of love. At the same time, as Condottiere, he displayed all the treasons, duplicities, cruelties, sacrileges, and tortuous policies to which the most accomplished villain of the age could have aspired. [1] For a fuller account of him, see my 'Sketches in Italy and Greece,' article _Rimini_. It would be easy, following in the steps of Tiraboschi, to describe the patronage awarded in the fifteenth century to men of letters by princes--the protection extended by Nicholas III. of Ferrara to Guarino and Aurispa--the brilliant promise of his son Leonello, who corresponded with Poggio, Filelfo, Guarino, Francesco Barbaro, and other scholars--the liberality of Duke Borso, whose purse was open to poor students. Or we might review the splendid culture of the court of Naples, where Alfonso committed the education of his terrible son Ferdinand to the care of Lorenzo Valla and Antonio Beccadelli.[1] More insight, however, into the nature of Italian despotism in all its phases may be gained by turning from Milan to Urbino, and by sketching a portrait of the good Duke Frederick.[2] The life of Frederick, Count of Montefeltro, created Duke of Urbino in 1474 by Pope Sixtus IV., covers the better part of the fifteenth century (b. 1422, d. 1482). A little corner of old Umbria lying between the Apennines and the Adriatic, Rimini and Ancona, formed his patrimony. Speaking roughly, the whole duchy was but forty miles square, and the larger portion consisted of bare hillsides and ruinous ravines. Yet this poor territory became the center of a splendid court. 'Federigo,' says his biographer, Muzio, 'maintained a suite so numerous and distinguished as to rival any royal household.' The chivalry of Italy flocked to Urbino in order to learn manners and the art of war from the most noble general of his day. 'His household,' we hear from Vespasiano, 'which consisted of 500 mouths entertained at his own cost, was governed less like a company of soldiers than a strict religious community. There was no gaming nor swearing, but the men conversed with the utmost sobriety.' In a list of the court officers we find forty-five counts of the duchy and of other states, seventeen gentlemen, five secretaries, four teachers of grammar, logic, and philosophy, fourteen clerks in public offices, five architects and engineers, five readers during meals, four transcribers of MSS. The library, collected by Vespasiano during fourteen years of assiduous labor, contained copies of all the Greek and Latin authors then discovered, the principal treatises on theology and church history, a complete series of Italian poets, historiographers, and commentators, various medical, mathematical, and legal works, essays on music, military tactics and the arts, together with such Hebrew books as were accessible to copyists. Every volume was bound in crimson and silver, and the whole collection cost upwards of 30,000 ducats. For the expenses of so large a household, and the maintenance of this fine library, not to mention a palace that was being built and churches that required adornment, the mere revenues of the duchy could not have sufficed. Federigo owed his wealth to his engagements as a general. Military service formed his trade. 'In 1453,' says Dennistoun, 'his war-pay from Alfonso of Naples exceeded 8,000 ducats a month, and for many years he had from him and his son an annual peace-pension of 6,000 in name of past services. At the close of his life, when captain-general of the Italian league, he drew in war 165,000 ducats of annual stipend, 45,000 being his own share; in peace, 65,000 in all.' As a Condottiere, Federigo was famous in this age of broken faith for his plain dealing and sincerity. Only one piece of questionable practice--the capture of Verucchio in 1462 by a forged letter pretending to come from Sigismondo Malatesta--stained his character for honesty. To his soldiers in the field he was considerate and generous; to his enemies compassionate and merciful.[3] 'In military science,' says Vespasiano, 'he was excelled by no commander of his time; uniting energy with judgment, he conquered by prudence as much as by force. The like wariness was observed in all his affairs; and in none of his many battles was he worsted. Nor may I omit the strict observance of good faith, wherein he never failed. All to whom he once gave his word, might testify to his inviolate performance of it.' The same biographer adds that 'he was singularly religious, and most observant of the Divine commands. No morning passed without his hearing mass upon his knees.' [1] The Panormita; author, by the way, of the shameless 'Hermaphroditus.' This fact is significant. The moral sense was extinct when such a pupil was intrusted to such a tutor. [2] For the following details I am principally indebted to 'The Memoirs of the Dukes of Urbino,' by James Dennistoun; 3 vols., Longmans, 1851. Vespasiano's Life of Duke Frederick (Vite di uomini illustri, pp. 72-112) is one of the most charming literary portraits extant. It has, moreover, all the value of a personal memoir, for Vespasiano had lived in close relation with the Duke as his librarian. [3] See the testimony of Francesco di Giorgio; Dennistoun, vol. i. p. 259. The sack of Volterra was, however, a blot upon his humanity. While a boy, Federigo had been educated in the school of Vittorino da Feltre at Mantua. Gian Francesco Gonzaga invited that eminent scholar to his court in 1425 for the education of his sons and daughter, assembling round him subordinate teachers in grammar, mathematics, music, painting, dancing, riding, and all noble exercises. The system supervised by Vittorino included not only the acquisition of scholarship, but also training in manly sports and the cultivation of the moral character. Many of the noblest Italians were his pupils. Ghiberto da Correggio, Battista Pallavicíni, Taddeo Manfredi of Faenza, Gabbriello da Cremona, Francesco da Castiglione, Niccolo Perrotti, together with the Count of Montefeltro, lived in Vittorino's house, associating with the poorer students whom the benevolent philosopher instructed for the love of learning. Ambrogio Camaldolese in a letter to Niccolo Niccoli gives this animated picture of the Mantuan school: 'I went again to visit Vittorino and to see his Greek books. He came to meet me with the children of the prince, two sons and a daughter of seven years. The eldest boy is eleven, the younger five. There are also other children of about ten, sons of nobles, as well as other pupils. He teaches them Greek, and they can write that language well. I saw a translation from Saint Chrysostom made by one of them which pleased me much.' And again a few years later: 'He brought me Giovanni Lucido, son of the Marquis, a boy of about fourteen, whom he has educated, and who then recited two hundred lines composed by him upon the shows with which the Emperor was received in Mantua. The verses were most beautiful, but the sweetness and elegance of his recitation made them still more graceful. He also showed me two propositions added by him to Euclid, which prove how eminent he promises to be in mathematical studies. There was also a little daughter of the Marquis, of about ten, who writes Greek beautifully; and many other pupils, some of noble birth, attended them.' The medal struck by Pisanello in honor of Vittorino da Feltre bears the ensign of a pelican feeding her young from a wound in her own breast--a symbol of the master's self-sacrifice.[1] I hope to return in the second volume of this work to Vittorino. It is enough here to remark that in this good school the Duke of Urbino acquired that solid culture which distinguished him through life. In after years, when the cares of his numerous engagements fell thick upon him, we hear from Vespasiano that he still prosecuted his studies, reading Aristotle's Ethics, Politics, and Physics, listening to the works of S. Thomas Aquinas and Scotus read aloud, perusing at one time the Greek fathers and at another the Latin historians.[2] How profitably he spent his day at Urbino may be gathered from this account of his biographer: 'He was on horseback at daybreak with four or six mounted attendants and not more, and with one or two foot servants unarmed. He would ride out three or four miles, and be back again when the rest of his court rose from bed. After dismounting, he heard mass. Then he went into a garden open at all sides, and gave audience to those who listed until dinner-time. At table, all the doors were open; any man could enter where his lordship was; for he never ate except with a full hall. According to the season he had books read out as follows--in Lent, spiritual works; at other times, the history of Livy; all in Latin. His food was plain; he took no comfits, and drank no wine, except drinks of pomegranate, cherry, or apples.' After dinner he heard causes, and gave sentence in the Latin tongue. Then he would visit the nuns of Santa Chiara or watch the young men of Urbino at their games, using the courtesy of perfect freedom with his subjects. His reputation as a patron of the arts and of learning was widely spread. 'To hear him converse with a sculptor,' says Vespasiano, 'you would have thought he was a master of the craft. In painting, too, he displayed the most acute judgment; and as he could not find among the Italians worthy masters of oil colors, he sent to Flanders for one, who painted for him the philosophers and poets and doctors of the Church. He also brought from Flanders masters in the art of tapestry.' Pontano, Ficino, and Poggio dedicated works of importance to his name; and Pirro Perrotti, in the preface to his uncle's 'Cornucopia,' draws a quaint picture of the reception which so learned a book was sure to meet with at Urbino.[3] But Frederick was not merely an accomplished prince. Concurrent testimony proves that he remained a good husband and a constant friend throughout his life, that he controlled his natural quickness of temper, and subdued the sensual appetites which in that age of lax morality he might have indulged without reproach. In his relations to his subjects he showed what a paternal monarch should be, conversing familiarly with the citizens of Urbino, accosting them with head uncovered, inquiring into the necessities of the poorer artisans, relieving the destitute, dowering orphan girls, and helping distressed shopkeepers with loans. Numerous anecdotes are told which illustrate his consideration for his old servants, and his anxiety for the welfare and good order of his state. At a time when the Pope and the King of Naples were making money by monopolies of corn, the Duke of Urbino filled his granaries from Apulia, and sold bread during a year of scarcity at a cheap rate to his poor subjects. Nor would he allow his officers to prosecute the indigent for debts incurred by such purchases. He used to say: 'I am not a merchant; it is enough to have saved my people from hunger.' We must remember that this excellent prince had a direct interest in maintaining the prosperity and good-will of his duchy. His profession was warfare, and the district of Urbino supplied him with his best troops. Yet this should not diminish the respect due to the foresight and benevolence of a Condottiere who knew how to carry on his calling with humanity and generosity. Federigo wore the Order of the Garter, which Henry VII. conferred on him, the Neapolitan Order of the Ermine, and the Papal decorations of the Rose, the Hat, the Sword. He served three pontiffs, two kings of Naples, and two dukes of Milan. The Republic of Florence and more than one Italian League appointed him their general in the field. If his military career was less brilliant than that of the two Sforzas, Piccinino, or Carmagnuola, he avoided the crimes to which ambition led some of these men and the rocks on which they struck. At his death he transmitted a flourishing duchy, a cultivated court, a renowned name, and the leadership of the Italian League to his son Guidobaldo. [1] Prendilacqua, the biographer of Vittorino, says that he died so poor that his funeral expenses had to be defrayed. [2] Pius II. in his Commentaries gives an interesting account of the conversations concerning the tactics of the ancients which he held with Frederick, in 1461, in the neighborhood of Tivoli. [3] The preface to the original edition of the 'Cornucopia' is worth reading for the lively impression which it conveys of Federigo's personality: 'Admirabitur in te divinam illam corporis proceritatem, membrorum robur eximium, venerandam oris dignitatem, ætatis maturam gravitatem, divinam quandam majestatem cum humanitate conjunctam, totum præterea talem qualem esse oportebat eum principem quem nuper pontifex maximus et universus senatus omnium rerum suarum et totius ecclesiastici imperii ducem moderatoremque constituit.' The young Duke, whose court, described by Castiglione, may be said to have set the model of good breeding to all Europe, began life under the happiest auspices. From his tutor Odasio of Padua we hear that even in boyhood he cared only for study and for manly sports. His memory was so retentive that he could repeat whole treatises by heart after the lapse of ten or fifteen years, nor did he ever forget what he had resolved to retain. In the Latin and Greek languages he became an accomplished scholar,[1] and while he appreciated the poets, he showed peculiar aptitude for philosophy and history. But his development was precocious. His zeal for learning and the excessive ardor with which he devoted himself to physical exercises undermined his constitution. He became an invalid and died childless, after exhibiting to his court for many years an example of patience in sickness and of dignified cheerfulness under the restraints of enforced inaction. His wife, Elizabetta Gonzaga, one of the most famous women of her age, was no less a pattern of noble conduct and serene contentment. Such were the two last princes of the Montefeltro dynasty.[2] It is necessary to bear their virtues in mind while dwelling on the characteristics of Italian despotism in the fifteenth century. The Duchy of Urbino, both as an established dynasty not founded upon violence, and also as a center of really humane culture, formed, it is true, an exception to the rule of Italian tyrannies: yet, if we omitted this state from our calculation, confining our attention to the extravagant iniquities of the Borgia family, or to the eccentricities of the Visconti, or to the dark crimes of the court of Naples, we should gain a false notion of the many-sided character of Italy, in which at that time vices and virtues were so strangely blended. We must never forget that the same society which produced a Filippo Maria Visconti, a Galeazzo Maria Sforza, a Sigismondo Malatesta, a Ferdinand of Aragon, gave birth also to a Lorenzo de' Medici and a Federigo da Montefeltro. It is only by studying the lives of all these men in combination that we can obtain a correct conception of the manifold personality, the mingled polish and barbarism, of the Italian Renaissance. [1] It is not easy to say what a panegyrist of that period intended by 'a complete knowledge of Greek,' or 'fluent Greek writing,' in a Prince. I suspect, however, that we ought not to understand by these phrases anything like a real familiarity with Greek literature, but rather such superficial knowledge as would enable a reader of Latin books to understand allusions and quotations. Poliziano, it may be remarked, thought it worth while to flatter Guidobaldo in a Greek epigram. [2] After Guidobaldo's death the duchy was continued by the Della Rovere family, one of whom, Giovanni, Prefect of Rome and nephew of Sixtus IV., married the Duke's sister Giovanna in 1474. Some more detailed account of Baldassare Castiglione's treatise _Il Cortegiano_ will form a fitting conclusion to this Chapter on the Despots. It is true that his book was written later than the period we have been considering,[1] and he describes court life in its most graceful aspect. Yet all the antecedent history of the past two centuries had been gradually producing the conditions under which his courtier flourished; and the Italian of the Renaissance, as he appeared to the rest of Europe, was such a gentleman as he depicts. For the historian his book is of equal value in its own department with the Principe of Machiavelli, the Autobiography of Benvenuto Cellini, and the Diary of Burchard. [1] It was written in 1514, and first published in folio by the Aldi of Venice in 1528. We find an English translation so early as 1561 by Thomas Hoby. At this time it was in the hands of all the gentlefolk of Europe. It is interesting to compare the 'Cortegiano' with Della Casa's 'Galateo,' published in 1558. The 'Galateo' professes to be a guide for gentlemen in social intercourse, and the minute rules laid down would satisfy the most exacting purist of the present century. In manners and their ethical analysis we have certainly gained nothing during the last three centuries. The principle upon which these precepts of conduct are founded is not etiquette or fashion, but respect for the sensibilities of others. It would be difficult to compose a more philosophical treatise on the lesser duties imposed upon us by the conditions of society--such minute matters as the proper way to blow the nose or use the napkin, being referred to the one rule of acting so as to cause no inconvenience to our neighbors. In the opening of his 'Cortegiano' Castiglione introduces us to the court of Urbino--refined, chivalrous, witty, cultivated, gentle--confessedly the purest and most elevated court in Italy. He brings together the Duchess Elizabetta Gonzaga; Emilia Pia, wife of Antonio da Montefeltro, whose wit is as keen and active as that of Shakespeare's Beatrice; Pietro Bembo, the Ciceronian dictator of letters in the sixteenth century; Bernardo Bibbiena, Berni's patron, the author of 'Calandra,' whose portrait by Raphael in the Pitti enables us to estimate his innate love of humor; Giuliano de' Medici, Duke of Nemours, of whom the marble effigy by Michael Angelo still guards the tomb in San Lorenzo; together with other knights and gentlemen less known to fame--two Genoese Fregosi, Gasparo Pallavicini, Lodovico, Count of Canossa, Cesare Gonzaga, l' Unico Aretino, and Fra Serafino the humorist. These ladies and gentlemen hold discourse together, as was the custom of Urbino, in the drawing-room of the duchess during four consecutive evenings. The theme of their conversation is the Perfect Courtier. What must that man be who deserves the name of Cortegiano, and how must he conduct himself? The subject of discussion carries us at once into a bygone age. No one asks now what makes the perfect courtier; but in Italy of the Renaissance, owing to the changes from republican to despotic forms of government which we have traced in the foregoing pages, the question was one of the most serious importance. Culture and good breeding, the amenities of intercourse, the pleasures of the intellect, scarcely existed outside the sphere of courts; for one effect of the Revival of Learning had been to make the acquisition of polite knowledge difficult, and the proletariat was less cultivated then than in the age of Dante. Men of ambition who desired to acquire a reputation whether as soldiers or as poets, as politicians or as orators, came to court and served their chosen prince in war or at the council-table, or even in humbler offices of state. To be able, therefore, to conduct himself with dignity, to know how to win the favor of his master and to secure the good-will of his peers, to retain his personal honor and to make himself respected without being hated, to inspire admiration and to avoid envy, to outshine all honorable rivals in physical exercises and the craft of arms, to maintain a credable equipage and retinue, to be instructed in the arts of polite intercourse, to converse with ease and wit, to be at home alike in the tilting-yard, the banquet-hall, the boudoir, and the council-chamber, to understand diplomacy, to live before the world and yet to keep a fitting privacy and distance,--these and a hundred other matters were the climax and perfection of the culture of a gentleman. Courts being now the only centers in which it was possible for a man of birth and talents to shine, it followed that the perfect courtier and the perfect gentleman were synonymous terms. Castiglione's treatise may therefore be called an essay on the character of the true gentleman as he appeared in Italy. Eliminating all qualities that are special to any art or calling, he defines those essential characteristics which were requisite for social excellence in the sixteenth century. It is curious to observe how unchangeable are the laws of real politeness and refinement. Castiglione's courtier is, with one or two points of immaterial difference, a modern gentleman, such as all men of education at the present day would wish to be. The first requisite in the ideal courtier is that he must be noble. The Count of Canossa, who proposed the subject of debate, lays down this as an axiom. Gaspar Pallavicino denies the necessity[1] But after a lively discussion, his opinion is overruled, on the ground that, although the gentle virtues may be found among people of obscure origin, yet a man who intends to be a courtier must start with the prestige of noble birth. Next he must be skillful in the use of weapons and courageous in the battle-field. He is not, however, bound to have the special science of a general, nor must he in times of peace profess unique devotion to the art of war: that would argue a coarseness of nature or vainglory. Again, he must excel in all manly sports and exercises, so as, if possible, to beat the actual professors of each game, or feat of skill on their own ground. Yet here also he should avoid mere habits of display, which are unworthy of a man who aspires to be a gentleman and not an athlete. Another indispensable quality is gracefulness in all he does and says. In order to secure this elegance, he must beware of every form of affectation: 'Let him shun affectation, as though it were a most perilous rock; and let him seek in everything a certain carelessness, to hide his art, and show that what he says or does comes from him without effort or deliberation.' This vice of affectation in all its kinds, and the ways of avoiding it, are discussed with a delicacy of insight which would do credit to a Chesterfield of the present century, sending forth his son into society for the first time. Castiglione goes so far as to condemn the pedantry of far-fetched words and the coxcombry of elaborate costumes, as dangerous forms of affectation. His courtier must speak and write with force and freedom. He need not be a purist in his use of language, but may use such foreign phrases and modern idioms as are current in good society, aiming only at simplicity and clearness. He must add to excellence in arms polite culture in letters and sound scholarship, avoiding that barbarism of the French, who think it impossible to be a good soldier and an accomplished student at the same time. Yet his learning should be always held in reserve, to give brilliancy and flavor to his wit, and not brought forth for merely erudite parade. He must have a practical acquaintance with music and dancing; it would be well for him to sing and touch various stringed and keyed instruments, so as to relax his own spirits and to make himself agreeable to ladies. If he can compose verses and sing them to his own accompaniment, so much the better. Finally, he ought to understand the arts of painting and sculpture; for criticism, even though a man be neither poet nor artist, is an elegant accomplishment. Such are the principal qualities of the Cortegiano. [1] Italy, earlier than any other European nation, developed theoretical democracy. Dante had defined true nobility to consist of personal excellence in a man or in his ancestors; he also called 'nobiltà' sister of 'filosofia.' Poggio in his 'Dialogue De Nobilitate,' into which he introduces Niccolo Niccoli and Lorenzo de' Medici (Cosimo's brother), decides that only merit constitutes true nobility. Hawking and hunting are far less noble occupations than agriculture; descent from a long line of historic criminals is no honor. French and English castle-life, and the robber-knighthood of Germany, he argues, are barbarous. Lorenzo pleads the authority of Aristotle in favor of noble blood; Poggio contests the passage quoted, and shows the superiority of the Latin word 'nobilitas' (distinction) over the Greek term [Greek: _eugeneia_] (good birth). The several kinds of aristocracy in Italy are then discussed. In Naples the nobles despise business and idle their time away. In Rome they manage their estates. In Venice and Genoa they engage in commerce. In Florence they either take to mercantile pursuits or live upon the produce of their land in idleness. The whole way of looking at the subject betrays a liberal and scientific spirit, wholly free from prejudice. Machiavelli ('Discorsi,' i. 55) is very severe on the aristocracy, whom he defines as 'those who live in idleness on the produce of their estates, without applying themselves to agriculture or to any other useful occupation.' He points out that the Venetian nobles are not properly so called, since they are merchants. The different districts of Italy had widely different conceptions of nobility. Naples was always aristocratic, owing to its connection with France and Spain. Ferrara maintained the chivalry of courts. Those states, on the other hand, which had been democratized, like Florence, by republican customs, or like Milan, by despotism, set less value on birth than on talent and wealth. It was not until the age of the Spanish ascendency (latter half of sixteenth century) that Cosimo I. withdrew the young Florentines from their mercantile pursuits and enrolled them in his order of S. Stephen, and that the patricians of Genoa carried daggers inscribed 'for the chastisement of villeins.' The precepts which are laid down for the use of his acquirements and his general conduct, resolve themselves into a strong recommendation of tact and caution. The courtier must study the nature of his prince, and show the greatest delicacy in approaching him, so as to secure his favor, and to avoid wearying him with importunities. In tendering his advice he must be modest; but he should make a point of never sacrificing his own liberty of judgment. To obey his master in dishonorable things would be a derogation from his dignity; and if he discovers any meanness in the character of the prince, it is better to quit his service.[1] A courtier must be careful to create beforehand a favorable opinion of himself in places he intends to visit. Much stress is laid upon his choice of clothes and the equipment of his servants. In these respects he should aim at combining individuality with simplicity, so as to produce an impression of novelty without extravagance or eccentricity. He must be very cautious in his friendships, selecting his associates with care, and admitting only one or two to intimacy. [1] From many passages in the 'Cortegiano' it is clear that Castiglione is painting the character of an independent gentleman, to whom self-culture in all humane excellence is of far more importance than the acquisition of the art of pleasing. Circumstances made the life of courts the best obtainable; but there is no trace of French 'oeil-de-boeuf' servility. In connection with the general subject of tact and taste, the Cardinal Bibbiena introduces an elaborate discussion of the different sorts of jokes, which proves the high value attached in Italy to all displays of wit. It appears that even practical jokes were not considered in bad taste, but that irreverence and grossness were tabooed as boorish. Mere obscenity is especially condemned, though it must be admitted that many jests approved of at that time would now appear intolerable. But the essential point to be aimed at then, as now, was the promotion of mirth by cleverness, and not by mere tricks and clumsy inventions. In bringing this chapter on Italian Despotism in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries to a conclusion, it will be well to cast a backward glance over the ground which has been traversed. A great internal change took place and was accomplished during this period. The free burghs which flourished in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, gave place to tyrannies, illegal for the most part in their origin, and maintained by force. In the absence of dynastic right, violence and craft were instruments by means of which the despots founded and preserved their power. Yet the sentiments of the Italians at large were not unfavorable to the growth of principalities. On the contrary, the forces which move society, the inner instinct of the nation, and the laws of progress and development, tended year by year more surely to the consolidation of despotisms. City after city lost its faculty for self-government, until at last Florence, so long the center of political freedom, fell beneath the yoke of her merchant princes. It is difficult for the historian not to feel either a monarchical or a republican bias. Yet this internal and gradual revolution in the states of Italy may be regarded neither as a matter for exultation in the cause of sovereignty, nor for lamentation over the decay of liberty. It was but part of an inevitable process which the Italians shared, according to the peculiarities of their condition, in common with the rest of Europe. In tracing the history of the Visconti and the Sforzas our attention has been naturally directed to the private and political vices of the despot. As a contrast to so much violence and treachery, we have studied the character of one of the best princes produced in this period. Yet it must be borne in mind that the Duke of Urbino was far less representative of his class than Francesco Sforza, and that the aims and notions of Gian Galeazzo Visconti formed the ideal to which an Italian prince of spirit, if he had the opportunity, aspired. The history of art and literature in this period belongs to another branch of the inquiry; and a separate chapter must be devoted to the consideration of political morality as theorized by the Italians at the end of these two centuries of intrigue. But having insisted on the violence and vices of the tyrants, it seemed necessary to close the review of their age by describing the Italian nobleman as court-life made him. Castiglione shows him at the very best: the darker shadows of the picture are omitted; the requirements of the most finished culture and the tone of the purest society in Italy are depicted with the elegance of a scholar and the taste of a true gentleman. The fact remains that the various influences at work in Italy during the age of the despots had rendered the conception of this ideal possible. Nowhere else in Europe could a portrait of so much dignity and sweetness, combining the courage of a soldier with the learning of a student and the accomplishments of an artist, the liberality of freedom with the courtesies of service, have been painted from the life and been recognized as the model which all members of polite society should imitate. Nobler characters and more heroic virtues might have been produced by the Italian commonwealths if they had continued to enjoy their ancient freedom of self-government. Meanwhile we must render this justice to Italian despotism, that beneath its shadow was developed the type of the modern gentleman. CHAPTER IV. THE REPUBLICS. The different Physiognomies of the Italian Republics--The Similarity of their Character as Municipalities--The Rights of Citizenship--Causes of Disturbance in the Commonwealths--Belief in the Plasticity of Constitutions--Example of Genoa--Savonarola's Constitution--Machiavelli's Discourse to Leo X.--Complexity of Interests and Factions--Example of Siena--Small Size of Italian Cities--Mutual Mistrust and Jealousy of the Commonwealths--The notable Exception of Venice--Constitution of Venice--Her wise System of Government--Contrast of Florentine Vicissitudes--The Magistracies of Florence--Balia and Parlamento--The Arts of the Medici--Comparison of Venice and Florence in respect to Intellectual Activity and Mobility--Parallels between Greece and Italy--Essential Differences--The Mercantile Character of Italian Burghs--The 'Trattato del Governo della Famiglia'--The Bourgeois Tone of Florence, and the Ideal of a Burgher--Mercenary Arms. The despotisms of Italy present the spectacle of states founded upon force, controlled and molded by the will of princes, whose object in each case has been to maintain usurped power by means of mercenary arms and to deprive the people of political activity. Thus the Italian principalities, however they may differ in their origin, the character of their administration, or their relation to Church and Empire, all tend to one type. The egotism of the despot, conscious of his selfish aims and deliberate in their execution, formed the motive principle in all alike. The republics on the contrary are distinguished by strongly marked characteristics. The history of each is the history of the development of certain specific qualities, which modified the type of municipal organization common to them all. Their differences consist chiefly in the varying forms which institutions of a radically similar design assumed, and also in those peculiar local conditions which made the Venetians Levant merchants, the Perugians captains of adventure, the Genoese admirals and pirates, the Florentines bankers, and so forth. Each commonwealth contracted a certain physiognomy through the prolonged action of external circumstances and by the maintenance of some political predilection. Thus Siena, excluded from maritime commerce by its situation, remained, broadly speaking, faithful to the Ghibelline party; while Perugia at the distance of a few miles, equally debarred from mercantile expansion, maintained the Guelf cause with pertinacity. The annals of the one city record a long succession of complicated party quarrels, throughout the course of which the State continued free; the Guelf leanings of the other exposed it to the gradual encroachment of the Popes, while its civic independence was imperiled and enfeebled by the contests of a few noble families. Lucca and Pistoja in like manner are strongly contrasted, the latter persisting in a state of feud and faction which delivered it bound hand and foot to Florence, the former after many vicissitudes attaining internal quiet under the dominion of a narrow oligarchy. But while recognizing these differences, which manifest themselves partly in what may be described as national characteristics, and partly in constitutional varieties, we may trace one course of historical progression in all except Venice. This is what natural philosophers might call the morphology of Italian commonwealths. To begin with, the Italian republics were all municipalities. That is, like the Greek states, they consisted of a small body of burghers, who alone had the privileges of government, together with a larger population, who, though they paid taxes and shared the commercial and social advantages of the city had no voice in its administration. Citizenship was hereditary in those families by whom it had been once acquired, each republic having its own criterion of the right, and guarding it jealously against the encroachments of non-qualified persons. In Florence, for example, the burgher must belong to one of the Arts.[1] In Venice his name must be inscribed upon the Golden Book. The rivalries to which this system of municipal government gave rise were a chief source of internal weakness to the commonwealths. Nor did the burghers see far enough or philosophically enough to recruit their numbers by a continuous admission of new members from the wealthy but unfranchised citizens.[2] This alone could have saved them from the death by dwindling and decay to which they were exposed. The Italian conception of citizenship may be set forth in the words of one of their acutest critics, Donato Giannotti, who writes concerning the electors in a state:[3] 'Non dico tutti gli abitanti della terra, ma tutti quelli che hanno grado; cioè che hanno acquistato, o eglino o gli antichi loro, facultà d'ottenere i magistrate; e in somma che sono _participes imperandi et parendi_.' No Italian had any notion of representative government in our sense of the term. The problem was always how to put the administration of the state most conveniently into the hands of the fittest among those who were qualified as burghers, and how to give each burgher his due share in the government; not how to select men delegated from the whole population. The wisest among their philosophical politicians sought to establish a mixed constitution, which should combine the advantages of principality, aristocracy, and democracy. Starting with the fact that the eligible burghers numbered some 5,000, and with the assumption that among these the larger portion would be content with freedom and a voice in the administration, while a certain body were ambitious of honorable distinctions, and a few aspired to the pomp of titular presidency, they thought that these several desires might be satisfied and reconciled in a republic composed of a general assembly of the citizens, a select Senate, and a Doge. In these theories the influence of Aristotelian studies[4] and the example of Venice are apparent. At the same time it is noticeable that no account whatever is taken of the remaining 95,000 who contributed their wealth and industry to the prosperity of the city.[5] The theory of the State rests upon no abstract principle like that of the divine right of the Empire, which determined Dante's speculation in the Middle Ages, or that of the divine right of kings, with which we Englishmen were made familiar in the seventeenth century, or that again of the rights of men, on which the democracies of France and America were founded. The right contemplated by the Italian politicians is that of the burghers to rule the commonwealth for their advantage. As a matter of fact, Venice was the only Italian republic which maintained this kind of oligarchy with success through centuries of internal tranquillity. The rest were exposed to a series of revolutions which ended at last in their enslavement. [1] Villari, _Life of Savonarola_, vol. i. p. 259, may be consulted concerning the further distinction of Benefiziati, Statuali, Aggravezzati, at Florence. See also Varchi, vol. i. pp. 165-70. Consult Appendix ii. [2] It must be mentioned that a provision for admitting deserving individuals to citizenship formed part of the Florentine Constitution of 1495. The principle was not, however, recognized at large by the republics. [3] On the Government of Siena (vol. i. p. 351 of his collected works): 'I say not all the inhabitants of the state, but all those who have rank; that is, who have acquired, either in their own persons or through their ancestors, the right of taking magistracy, in short those who are participes imperandi et parendi.' What has already been said in Chapter II. about the origin of the Italian Republics will explain this definition of burghership. [4] It would be very interesting to trace in detail the influence of Aristotle's Politics upon the practical and theoretical statists of the Renaissance. The whole of Giannotti's works; the discourses of de' Pazzi, Vettori, Acciaiuoli, and the two Guicciardini on the State of Florence (_Arch. St. It._ vol. i.); and Machiavelli's _Discorso sul Reggimento di Firenze_, addressed to Leo X., illustrate in general the working of Aristotelian ideas. At Florence, in 1495, Savonarola urged his Constitution on the burghers by appeals to Aristotle's doctrine and to the example of Venice [see Segni, p. 15, and compare the speeches of Pagolo Antonio Soderini and Guido Antonio Vespucci, in Guicciardini's _Istoria d' Italia_, vol. ii. p. 155 of Rosini's edition, on the same occasion]. Segni, p. 86, mentions a speech of Pier Filippo Pandolfini, the arguments of which, he says, were drawn from Aristotle and illustrated by Florentine history. The Italian doctrinaires seem to have imagined that, by clever manipulation of existing institutions, they could construct a state similar to that called [Greek: _politeia_] by Aristotle, in which all sections of the community should be fairly represented. Venice, meanwhile, was a practical instance of the possible prosperity of such a constitution with a strong oligarchical complexion. [5] These numbers, 100,000 for the population, and 5,000 for the burghers, are stated roundly. In Florence, when the Consiglio Maggiore was opened in 1495, it was found that the Florentines altogether numbered about 90,000, while the qualified burghers were not more than 3,200. In 1581 the population of Venice numbered 134,890, whereof 1,843 were adult patricians [see below, p. 209]. Intolerant of foreign rule, and blinded by the theoretical supremacy of the Empire to the need of looking beyond its own municipal institutions, each city in the twelfth century sought to introduce such a system into the already existing machinery of the burgh as should secure its independence and place the government in the hands of its citizens. But the passing of bad laws, or the non-observance of wise regulations, or, again, the passions of individuals and parties, soon disturbed the equilibrium established in these little communities. Desire for more power than their due prompted one section of the burghers to violence. The love of independence, or simple insubordination, drove another portion to resistance. Matters were further complicated by resident or neighboring nobles. Then followed the wars of factions, proscriptions, and exiles. Having banished their rivals, the party in power for the time being remodeled the institutions of the republic to suit their own particular interest. Meanwhile the opposition in exile fomented every element of discontent within the city, which this short-sighted policy was sure to foster. Sudden revolutions were the result, attended in most cases by massacres consequent upon the victorious return of the outlaws. To the action of these peccant humors--_umori_ is the word applied by the elder Florentine historians to the troubles attendant upon factions--must be added the jealousy of neighboring cities, the cupidity of intriguing princes, the partisanship of the Guelfs and Ghibellines, the treason and the egotism of mercenary generals, and the false foreign policy which led the Italians to rely for aid on France or Germany or Spain. Little by little, under the prolonged action of these disturbing forces, each republic in turn became weaker, more confused in policy, more mistrustful of itself and its own citizens, more subdivided into petty but ineradicable factions, until at last it fell a prey either to some foreign potentate, or to the Church, or else to an ambitious family among its members. The small scale of the Italian commonwealths, taken singly, favored rapid change, and gave an undue value to distinguished wealth or unscrupulous ability among the burghers. The oscillation between democracy and aristocracy and back again, the repetition of exhausting discords, and the demoralizing influences of occasional despotism, so broke the spirit of each commonwealth that in the end the citizens forgot their ancient zeal for liberty, and were glad to accept tyranny for the sake of the protection it professed to extend to life and property. To these vicissitudes all the republics of Italy, with the exception of Venice, were subject. In like manner, they shared in common the belief that constitutions could be made at will, that the commonwealth was something plastic, capable of taking the complexion and the form impressed upon it by speculative politicians. So firmly rooted was this conviction, and so highly self-conscious had the statesmen of Italy become, partly by the experience of their shifting history, and partly by their study of antiquity, that the idea of the State as something possessed of organic vitality can scarcely be said to have existed among them. The principle of gradual growth, which gives its value, for example, to the English Constitution, was not recognized by the Italians. Nor again had their past history taught them the necessity, so well defined and recognized by the Greek statesmen, of maintaining a fixed character at any cost in republics, which, in spite of their small scale, aspired to permanence.[1] The most violent and arbitrary changes which the speculative faculty of a theorist could contrive, or which the prejudices of a party could impose, seemed to them not only possible but natural. [1] The value of the [Greek: _êthos_] was not wholly unrecognized by political theorists. Giannotti (vol. i. p. 160, and vol. ii. p. 13), for example translates it by the word 'temperamento.' A very notable instance of this tendency to treat the State as a plastic product of political ingenuity, is afforded by the annals of Genoa. After suffering for centuries from the vicissitudes common to all Italian free cities--discords between the Guelf and Ghibelline factions, between the nobles and the people, between the enfranchised citizens and the proletariat--after submitting to the rule of foreign masters, especially of France and Milan, and after being torn in pieces by the rival houses of Adorni and Fregosi, the Genoese at last received liberty from the hands of Andrea Doria in 1528. They then proceeded to form a new Constitution for the protection of their freedom; and in order to destroy the memory of the old parties which had caused their ruin, they obliterated all their family names with the exception of twenty, under one or other of which the whole body of citizens were bound to enroll themselves.[1] This was nothing less than an attempt to create new _gentes_ by effacing the distinctions established by nature and tradition. To parallel a scheme so artificial in its method, we must go back to the history of Sicyon and the changes wrought in the Dorian tribes by Cleisthenes. [1] See Varchi, _St. F._ lib. vii. cap. 3. Short of such violent expedients as these, the whole history of towns like Florence reveals a succession of similar attempts. When, for example, the Medici had been expelled in 1494, the Florentines found themselves without a working constitution, and proceeded to frame one. The matter was at first referred to two eminent jurists, Guido Antonio Vespucci and Paolo Antonio Soderini, who argued for and against the establishment of a Grand Council on the Venetian model, before the Signory in the Palazzo. At this juncture Savonarola in his sermon for the third Sunday in Advent[1] suggested that each of the sixteen Companies should form a plan, that these should be submitted to the Gonfaloniers, who should choose the four best, and that from these four the Signory should select the most perfect. At the same time he pronounced himself in favor of an imitation of the Venetian Consiglio Grande. His scheme, as is well known, was adopted.[2] Running through the whole political writings of the Florentine philosophers and historians, we find the same belief in artificial and arbitrary alterations of the state. Machiavelli pronounces his opinion that, in spite of the corruption of Florence, a wise legislator might effect her salvation.[3] Skill alone was needed. There lay the wax; the scientific artist had only to set to his hand and model it. [1] December 12, 1494. [2] Segni (pp. 15, 16) says that Savonarola deserved to be honored for this Constitution by the Florentines no less than Numa by the Romans. Varchi (vol. i. p. 169) judges the Consiglio Grande to have been the only good institution ever adopted by the Florentines. We may compare Giannotti (_Sopra la Repubblica di Siena_ p. 346) for a similar opinion. Guicciardini, both in the _Storia d' Italia_ and the _Storia di Firenze_, gives to Savonarola the whole credit of having passed this Constitution. Nardi and Pitti might be cited to the same effect. None of these critics doubt for a moment that what was theoretically best ought to have been found practically feasible. [3] _St. Fior._ lib. iii. 1. 'Firenze a quel grado è pervenuta che facilmente da uno savio dator di leggi potrebbe essere in qualunque forma di governo riordinata.' This is the dominant thought which pervades his treatise on the right ordering of the State of Florence addressed to Leo X.[1] A more consummate piece of political mechanism than that devised by Machiavelli in this essay can hardly be imagined. It is like a clock with separate actions for hours, minutes, seconds, and the revolutions of the moon and planets. All the complicated interest of parties and classes in the state, the traditional pre-eminence of the Medicean family, the rights of the Church, and the relation of Florence to foreign powers, have been carefully considered and provided for. The defect of this consummate work of art is that it remained a mere machine, devised to meet the exigencies of the moment, and powerless against such perturbations as the characters and passions of living men must introduce into the working of a Commonwealth. Had Florence been a colony established in a new country with no neighbors but savages, or had it been an institution protected from without against the cupidity of selfish rivals, then such a constitution might have been imposed on it with profit. But to expect that a city dominated by ancient prejudices, connected by a thousand subtle ties not only with the rest of Italy but also with the states of Europe, and rotten to the core in many of its most important members, could be restored to pristine vigor by a doctrinaire however able, was chimerical. The course of events contradicted this vain expectation. Meanwhile a few clear-headed and positive observers were dimly conscious of the instability of merely speculative constitution-making. Varchi, in a weighty passage on the defects of the Florentine republic, points out that its weakness arose partly from the violence of factions, but also in a great measure from the implicit faith reposed in doctors of the law.[2] The history of the Florentine Constitution, he says, is the history of changes effected by successions of mutually hostile parties, each in its own interest subverting the work of its predecessor, and each in turn relying on the theories of jurists, who without practical genius for politics make arbitrary rules for the control of state-affairs. Yet even Varchi shares the prevailing conviction that the proper method is first to excogitate a perfect political system, and then to impress that like a stamp upon the material of the commonwealth. His criticism is directed against lawyers, not against philosophers and practical diplomatists. [1] The language of this treatise is noteworthy. After discoursing on the differences between republics and principalities, and showing that Florence is more suited to the former, and Milan to the latter, form of government, he says: 'Ma perchè _fare_ principato dove starebbe bene repubblica,' etc. ... 'si perche Firenze _è subietto attissimo di pigliare questa forma_,' etc. The phrases in italics show how thoroughly Machiavelli regarded the commonwealth as plastic. We may compare the whole of Guicciardini's elaborate essay 'Del Reggimento di Firenze' (_Op. Ined._ vol. ii.), as well as the 'Discourses' addressed by Alessandro de' Pazzi, Francesco Vettori, Ruberto Acciaiuoli, Francesco Guicciardini, and Luigi Guicciardini, to the Cardinal Giulio de' Medici, on the settlement of the Florentine Constitution in 1522 (_Arch. Stor._ vol. i.). Not one of these men doubted that his nostrum would effect the cure of the republic undermined by slow consumption. [2] _St. Fior._ lib. vi. cap. 4; vol. i. p. 294. In this sense and to this extent were the republics of Italy the products of constructive skill; and great was the political sagacity educed among the Italians by this state of things. The citizens reflected on the past, compared their institutions with those of neighboring states, studied antiquity, and applied the whole of their intelligence to the one aim of giving a certain defined form to the commonwealth. Prejudice and passion distorted their schemes, and each successive modification of the government was apt to have a merely temporary object. Thus the republics, as I have already hinted, lacked that safeguard which the Greek states gained by clinging each to its own character. The Greeks were no less self-conscious in their political practice and philosophy; but after the age of the Nomothetæ, when they had experienced nearly every phase through which a commonwealth can pass, they recognized the importance of maintaining the traditional character of their constitutions inviolate. Sparta adhered with singular tenacity to the code of Lycurgus; and the Athenians, while they advanced from step to step in the development of a democracy, were bent on realizing the ideal they had set before them. Religion, which in Greece, owing to its local and genealogical character, was favorable to this stability, proved in Italy one of the most potent causes of disorder. The Greek city grew up under the protection of a local deity, whose blood had been transmitted in many instances to the chief families of the burgh. This ancestral god gave independence and autonomy to the State; and when the Nomothetes appeared, he was understood to have interpreted and formulated the inherent law that animated the body politic. Thus the commonwealth was a divinely founded and divinely directed organism, self-sufficing, with no dependence upon foreign sanction, with no question of its right. The Italian cities, on the contrary, derived their law from the common _jus_ of the Imperial system, their religion from the common font of Christianity. They could not forget their origin, wrung with difficulty from existing institutions which preceded them and which still remained ascendant in the world of civilized humanity. The self-reliant autonomy of a Greek state, owing allegiance only to its protective deity and its inherent Nomos, had no parallel in Italy outside Venice. All the other republics were conscious of dependence on external power, and regarded themselves as _ab initio_ artificial rather than natural creations. Long before a true constitutional complexion had been given to any Italian State but Venice, parties had sprung up, and taken such firm root that the subsequent history of the republics was the record of their factions. To this point I have already alluded; but it is too important to be passed by without further illustration. The great division of Guelf and Ghibelline introduced a vital discord into each section of the people, by establishing two antagonistic theories respecting the right of supreme government. Then followed subordinate quarrels of the nobles with the townsfolk, schisms between the wealthier and poorer burghers, jealousies of the artisans and merchants, and factions for one or other eminent family. These different elements of discord succeed each other with astonishing rapidity; and as each gives place to another, it leaves a portion of its mischief rankling in the body politic, until last there remains no possibility of self-government.[1] The history of Florence, or Genoa, or Pistoja would supply us with ample illustrations of each of these obstacles to the formation of a solid political temperament. But Siena furnishes perhaps the best example of the extent to which such feuds could disturb a state. The way in which this city conducted its government for a long course of years, justified Varchi in calling it 'a jumble, so to speak, and chaos of republics, rather than a well-ordered and disciplined commonwealth.'[2] The discords of Siena were wholly internal. They proceeded from the wrangling of five successive factions, or Monti, as the people of Siena called them. The first of these was termed the _Monte de' Nobili_; for Siena, like all Italian free burghs, had originally been controlled by certain noble families, who formed the people and excluded the other citizens from offices of state. In course of time the plebeians acquired wealth, and the nobles split into parties among themselves. To such a pitch were the quarrels of these nobles carried, that at last they found it impossible to conduct the government, and agreed to relinquish it for a season to nine plebeian families chosen from among the richest and most influential. This gave rise to the _Monte de' Nove_, who were supposed to hold the city in commission for the nobles, while the latter devoted themselves to the prosecution of their private animosities. Weakened by feuds, the patricians fell a prey to their own creatures, the _Monte de' Nove_, who in their turn ruled Siena like oligarchs, refusing to give up the power which had been intrusted to them. In time, however, their insolence became insufferable. The populace rebelled, deposed the _Nove_, and invested with supreme authority twelve other families of mixed origin. The _Monte de' Dodici_, created after this fashion, ran nearly the same course as their predecessors, except that they appear to have administered the city equitably. Getting tired of this form of government, the people next superseded them by sixteen men, chosen from the dregs of the plebeians, who assumed the title of _Riformatori_. This new _Monte de' Sedici_ or _de' Riformatori_ showed much integrity in their management of affairs, but, as is the wont of red republicans, they were not averse to bloodshed. Their cruelty caused the people, with the help of the surviving patrician houses, together with the _Nove_ and the _Dodici_, to rise and shake them off. The last governing body formed in this diabolical five-part fugue of crazy statecraft received the name of _Monte del Popolo_, because it included all who were then eligible to the Great Council of the State. Yet the factions of the elder _Monti_ still survived; and to what extent they had absorbed the population may be gathered from the fact that, on the defeat of the _Riformatori_, 4,500 of the Sienese were exiled. It must be borne in mind that with the creation of each new _Monte_ a new party formed itself in the city, and the traditions of these parties were handed down from generation to generation. At last, in the beginning of the sixteenth century, Pandolfo Petrucci, who belonged to the _Monte de' Nove_, made himself in reality, if not in name, the master of Siena, and the Duke of Florence, later on in the same century extended his dominion over the republic.[3] There is something almost grotesque in the bare recital of these successive factions; yet we must remember that beneath their dry names they conceal all elements of class and party discord. [1] Machiavelli, in spite of his love of freedom, says (_St. Fior._ lib. vii. 1): 'Coloro che sperano che una repubblica possa essere unita assai di questa speranza s'ingannano.' [2] Vol. i. pp. 324-30. See, too, Segni, p. 213, and Giannotti, vol. i. p. 341. De Comines describes Siena thus: 'La ville est de tout temps en partialité, et se gouverne plus follement que ville d'Italie.' [3] Siena capitulated, in 1555, to the Spanish troops, who resigned it to Duke Cosmo I. in 1557. What rendered the growth of parties still more pernicious, as already mentioned, was the smallness of Italian republics. Varchi reckoned 10,000 _fuochi_ in Florence, 50,000 _bocche_ of seculars, and 20,000 _bocche_ of religious. According to Zuccagni Orlandini there were 90,000 Florentines in 1495, of whom only 3,200 were burghers. Venice, according to Giannotti, counted at about the same period 20,000 _fuochi_, each of which supplied the state with two men fit to bear arms. These calculations, though obviously rough and based upon no accurate returns, show that a republic of 100,000 souls, of whom 5,000 should be citizens, would have taken distinguished rank among Italian cities.[1] In a state of this size, divided by feuds of every kind, from the highest political antagonism down to the meanest personal antipathy, changes were very easily effected. The slightest disturbance of the equilibrium in any quarter made itself felt throughout the city.[2] The opinions of each burgher were known and calculated. Individuals, by their wealth, their power of aiding or of suppressing poorer citizens, and the force of their personal ability, acquired a perilous importance. At Florence the political balance was so nicely adjusted that the ringing of the great bell in the Palazzo meant a revolution, and to raise the cry of _Palle_ in the streets was tantamount to an outbreak in the Medicean interest. To call aloud _Popolo e libertà_ was nothing less than riot punishable by law. Segni tells how Jacopino Alamanni, having used these words near the statue of David on the Piazza in a personal quarrel, was beheaded for it the same day.[3] The secession of three or four families from one faction to another altered the political situation of a whole republic, and led perhaps to the exile of a sixth part of the enfranchised population.[4] After this would follow the intrigues of the outlaws eager to return, including negotiations with lukewarm party-leaders in the city, alliances with hostile states, and contracts which compromised the future conduct of the commonwealth in the interest of a few revengeful citizens. The biographies of such men as Cosimo de' Medici the elder and Filippo Strozzi throw the strongest light upon these delicacies and complexities of party politics in Florence. [1] It may be worth while to compare the accurate return of the Venetian population in 1581 furnished by Yriarte (Vie d'un Patricien de Venise, p. 96). The whole number of the inhabitants was 134,600. Of these 1,843 were adult patricians; 4,309 women and children of the patrician class; Cittadini of all ages and both sexes, 3,553; monks, nuns, and priests, 3,969; Jews, 1,043; beggars, 187. [2] We might mention, as famous instances, the Neri and Bianchi factions introduced into Pistoja in 1296 by a quarrel of the Cancellieri family, the dismemberment of Florence in 1215 by a feud between the Buondelmonti and Amidei, the tragedy of Imelda Lambertazzi, which upset Bologna in 1273, the student riot which nearly delivered Bologna into the hands of Roméo de' Pepoli in 1321, the whole action of the Strozzi family at the period of the extinction of Florentine liberty, the petty jealousies of the Cerchi and Donati detailed by Dino Compagni, in 1294. [3] Segni, _St. Fior_. p. 53. [4] As an instance, take what Marco Foscari reported in 1527 to the Venetian Senate respecting the parties in Florence (_Rel. Ven._ serie ii. vol. i. p. 70). The _Compagnacci_, one of the three great parties, only numbered 800 persons. In addition to the evils of internal factions we must reckon all the sources of mutual mistrust to which the republics were exposed. As the Italians had no notion of representative government, so they never conceived a confederation. The thirst for autonomy in each state was as great as of old among the cities of Greece. To be independent of a sister republic, though such freedom were bought at the price of the tyranny of a native family was the first object of every commonwealth. At the same time this passion for independence was only equaled by the greed of foreign usurpation. The second object of each republic was to extend its power at the expense of its neighbors. As Pisa swallowed Amalfi, so Genoa destroyed Pisa, and Venice did her best to cripple Genoa. Florence obliterated the rival burgh of Semifonte, and Milan twice reduced Piacenza to a wilderness. The notion that the great maritime powers of Italy or the leading cities of Lombardy should permanently co-operate for a common purpose was never for a moment entertained. Such leagues as were formed were understood to be temporary. When their immediate object had been gained, the members returned to their initial rivalries. Milan, when, on the occasion of Filippo Maria Visconti's death, she had a chance of freedom, refused to recognize the liberties of the Lombard cities, and fell a prey to Francesco Sforza. Florence, under the pernicious policy of Cosimo de' Medici, helped to enslave Milan and Bologna instead of entering into a republican league against their common foes, the tyrants. Pisa, Arezzo, and the other subject cities of Tuscany were treated by her with such selfish harshness that they proved her chiefest peril in the hour of need.[1] Competition in commerce increased the mutual hatred of the free burghs. States like Venice, Florence, Pisa, Genoa, depending for their existence upon mercantile wealth, and governed by men of business, took every opportunity they could of ruining a rival in the market. So mean and narrow was the spirit of Italian policy that no one accounted it unpatriotic or dishonorable for Florence to suck the very life out of Pisa, or for Venice to strangle a competitor so dangerous as Genoa. [1] See the instructions furnished to Averardo dei Medici, quoted by Von Reumont in his _Life of Lorenzo_, vol. ii. p. 122, German edition. Thus the jealousy of state against state, of party against party, and of family against family, held Italy in perpetual disunion; while diplomatic habits were contracted which rendered the adoption of any simple policy impossible. When the time came for the Italians to cope with the great nations of Europe, the republics of Venice, Genoa, Milan, Florence ought to have been leagued together and supported by the weight of the Papal authority. They might then have stood against the world. Instead of that, these cities presented nothing but mutual rancors, hostilities, and jealousies to the common enemy. Moreover, the Italians were so used to petty intrigues and to a system of balance of power within the peninsula, that they could not comprehend the magnitude of the impending danger. It was difficult for a politician of the Renaissance, accustomed to the small theater of Italian diplomacy, schooled in the traditions of Lorenzo de' Medici, swayed in his calculations by the old pretensions of Pope and Emperor, dominated by the dread of Venice, Milan, and Naples, and as yet but dimly conscious of the true force of France or Spain, to conceive that absolutely the only chance of Italy lay in union at any cost and under any form. Machiavelli indeed seems too late to have discerned this truth. But he had been lessoned by events, which rendered the realization of his cherished schemes impossible; nor, could he find a Prince powerful enough to attempt his Utopia. Of the Republics he had abandoned all hope. To the laws which governed the other republics of Italy, Venice offered in many respects a notable exception. Divided from the rest of Italy by the lagoons, and directed by her commerce to the Eastern shores of the Mediterranean, Venice took no part in the factions which rent the rest of the peninsula, and had comparatively little to fear from foreign invasion. Her attitude was one of proud and almost scornful isolation. In the Lombard Wars of Independence she remained neutral, and her name does not appear among the Signataries to the Peace of Constance. Both the Papacy and the Empire recognized her independence. Her true policy consisted in consolidating her maritime empire and holding aloof from the affairs of Italy. As long as she adhered to this course, she remained the envy and the admiration of the rest of Europe.[1] It was only when she sought to extend her hold upon the mainland that she aroused the animosity of the Italian powers, and had to bear the brunt of the League of Cambray alone.[2] Her selfish prudence had been a source of dread long before this epoch: when she became aggressive, she was recognized as a common and intolerable enemy. [1] De Comines, in his _Memoirs of the Reign of Charles VIII._ (tom. ii. p, 69), draws a striking picture of the impression made upon his mind by the good government of the state of Venice. This may be compared with what he says of the folly of Siena. [2] See Mach. _1st. Fior._ lib. i. 'Avendo loro con il tempo occupata Padova, Vicenza, Trevigi, e dipoi Verona, Bergamo e Brescia, e nel Reame e in Romagna molte città, cacciati dalla cupidità del dominare vennero in tanta opinione di potenza, che non solamente ai principi Italiani ma ai Rè oltramontani erano in terrore. Onde congiurati quelli contra di loro, in un giorno fu tolto loro quello stato che si avevano in molti anni con infiniti spendii guadagnato. E benchè ne abbino in questi ultimi tempi racquistato parte, non avendo racquistata nè la riputazione, nè le forze, a discrezione d'altri, come tutti gli altri principi Italiani vivono.' It was Francesco Foscari who first to any important extent led the republic astray from its old policy. He meddled in Italian affairs, and sought to encroach upon the mainland. For this, and for the undue popularity he acquired thereby, the Council of Ten subjected him and his son Jacopo to the most frightfully protracted martyrdom that a relentless oligarchy has ever inflicted [1445-57]. The external security of Venice was equaled by her internal repose. Owing to continued freedom from party quarrels, the Venetians were able to pursue a consistent course of constitutional development. They in fact alone of the Italian cities established and preserved the character of their state. Having originally founded a republic under the presidency of a Doge, who combined the offices of general and judge, and ruled in concert with a representative council of the chief citizens (697-1172), the Venetians by degrees caused this form of government to assume a strictly oligarchical character. They began by limiting the authority of the Doge, who, though elected for life, was in 1032 forbidden to associate his son in the supreme office of the state. In 1172 the election of the Doge was transferred from the people to the Grand Council, who, as a co-opting body, tended to become a close aristocracy. In 1179 the Ducal power was still further restricted by the creation of a senate called the Quarantia for the administration of justice; while in 1229 the Senate of the Pregadi, interposed between the Doge and the Grand Council, became an integral part of the constitution. To this latter Senate were assigned all deliberations upon peace and war, the voting of supplies, the confirmation of laws. Both the Quarantia and the Pregadi were elected by the Consiglio Grande, which by this time had become the virtual sovereign of the State of Venice. It is not necessary here to mention the further checks imposed upon the power of the Doges by the institution of officials named Correttori and Inquisitori, whose special business it was to see that the coronation oaths were duly observed, or by the regulations which prevented the supreme magistrate from taking any important action except in concert with carefully selected colleagues. Enough has been said to show that the constitution of Venice was a pyramid resting upon the basis of the Grand Council and rising to an ornamented apex, through the Senate, and the College, in the Doge. But in adopting this old simile--originally the happy thought of Donato Giannotti, it is said[1]--we must not forget that the vital force of the Grand Council was felt throughout the whole of this elaborate system, and that the same individuals were constantly appearing in different capacities. It is this which makes the great event of the years 1297-1319 so all-important for the future destinies of Venice. At this period the Grand Council was restricted to a certain number of noble families who had henceforth the hereditary right to belong to it. Every descendant of a member of the Grand Council could take his seat there at the age of twenty-five; and no new families, except upon the most extraordinary occasions, were admitted to this privilege.[2] By the Closing of the Grand Council, as the ordinances of this crisis were termed, the administration of Venice was vested for perpetuity in the hands of a few great houses. The final completion was given to the oligarchy in 1311 by the establishment of the celebrated Council of Ten,[3] who exercised a supervision over all the magistracies, constituted the Supreme Court of judicature, and ended by controlling the whole foreign and internal policy of Venice. The changes which I have thus briefly indicated are not to be regarded as violent alterations in the constitution, but rather as successive steps in its development. Even the Council of Ten, which seems at first sight the most tyrannous state-engine ever devised for the enslavement of a nation, was in reality a natural climax to the evolution which had been consistently advancing since the year 1172. Created originally during the troublous times which succeeded the closing of the Grand Council, for the express purpose of curbing unruly nobles and preventing the emergence of conspirators like Tiepolo, the Council of Ten were specially designed to act as a check upon the several orders in the state and to preserve its oligarchical character inviolate. They were elected by the Consiglio Grande, and at the expiration of their office were liable to render strict account of all that they had done. Nor was this magistracy coveted by the Venetian nobles. On the contrary, so burdensome were its duties, and so great was the odium which from time to time the Ten incurred in the discharge of their functions, that it was not always found easy to fill up their vacancies. A law had even to be passed that the Ten had not completed their magistracy before their successors were appointed.[4] They may therefore be regarded as a select committee of the citizens, who voluntarily delegated dictatorial powers to this small body in order to maintain their own ascendency, to centralize the conduct of important affairs, to preserve secrecy in the administration of the republic, and to avoid the criticism to which the more public government of states like Florence was exposed.[5] The weakness of this portion of the state machinery was this: created with ill-defined and almost unlimited authority,[6] designed to supersede the other public functionaries on occasions of great moment, and composed of men whose ability placed them in the very first rank of citizens, the Ten could scarcely fail, as time advanced, to become a permanently oppressive power--a despotism within the bosom of an oligarchy. Thus in the whole mechanism of the state of Venice we trace the action of a permanent aristocracy tolerating, with a view to its own supremacy, an amount of magisterial control which in certain cases, like that of the two Foscari, amounted to the sternest tyranny. By submitting to the Council of Ten the nobility of Venice secured its hold upon the people and preserved unity in its policy. [1] Vol. ii. of his works, p. 37. On p. 29 he describes the population of Venice as divided into 'Popolari,' or plebeians, exercising small industries, and so forth: 'Cittadini,' or the middle class, born in the state, and of more importance than the plebeians; 'Gentiluomini,' or masters of Venice by sea and land, about 3,000 in number, corresponding to the burghers of Florence. What he says about the Constitution refers solely to this upper class. The elaborate work of M. Yriarte, _La Vie d'un Patricien de Venise an Seizième Siècle_, Paris, 1874, contains a complete analysis of the Venetian state-machine. See in particular what he says about the helplessness of the Doges, ch. xiii. 'Rex in foro, senator in curiâ, captivus in aulâ,' was a current phrase which expressed the contrast between their dignity of parade and real servitude. They had no personal freedom, and were always ruined by office. It was necessary to pass a law compelling the Doge elect to accept the onerous distinction thrust upon him. The Venetian oligarchs argued that it was good that one man should die for the people. [2] See Giannotti, vol. ii. p. 55, for the mention of fifteen, admitted on the occasion of Baiamonte Tiepolo's conspiracy, and of thirty ennobled during the Genoese war. [3] The actual number of this Council was seventeen, for the Ten associated with the Signoria, which consisted of the Doge and six Counselors. [4] Giannotti, vol. ii. p. 123. [5] The diplomatic difficulties of a popular government, a 'governo largo,' as opposed to a 'governo stretto,' are set forth with great acumen by Guicciardini, _Op. Ined._ vol. ii. p. 84. Cf. vol. iii. p. 272. [6] 'è la sua autorità pari a quella del Consiglio de' Pregati e di utta la città,' says Giannotti, vol. ii. p. 120. No state has ever exercised a greater spell of fascination over its citizens than Venice. Of treason against the Republic there was little. Against the decrees of the Council, arbitrary though they might be, no one sought to rebel. The Venetian bowed in silence and obeyed, knowing that all his actions were watched, that his government had long arms in foreign lands, and that to arouse revolt in a body of burghers so thoroughly controlled by common interests, would be impossible. Further security the Venetians gained by their mild and beneficent administration of subject cities, and by the prosperity in which their population flourished. When, during the war of the League of Cambray, Venice gave liberty to her towns upon the mainland, they voluntarily returned to her allegiance. At home, the inhabitants of the lagoons, who had never seen a hostile army at their gates, and whose taxes were light in comparison with those of the rest of Italy, regarded the nobles as the authors of their unexampled happiness. Meanwhile, these nobles were merchants. Idleness was unknown in Venice. Instead of excogitating new constitutions or planning vengeance against hereditary foes the Venetian attended to his commerce on the sea, swayed distant provinces, watched the interests of the state in foreign cities, and fought the naval battles of the republic. It was the custom of Venice to employ her patricians only on the sea as admirals, and never to intrust her armies to the generalship of burghers. This policy had undoubtedly its wisdom; for by these means the nobles had no opportunity of intriguing on a large scale in Italian affairs, and never found the chance of growing dangerously powerful abroad. But it pledged the State to that system of paid condottieri and mercenary troops, jealously watched and scarcely ever trustworthy, which proved nearly as ruinous to Venice as it did to Florence. It is difficult to imagine a greater contrast than that which is presented by Florence to Venice. While Venice pursued one consistent course of gradual growth, and seemed immovable, Florence remained in perpetual flux, and altered as the strength of factions or of party-leaders varied.[1] When the strife of Guelfs and Ghibellines, Neri, and Bianchi, had exhausted her in the fourteenth century, she submitted for a while to the indirect ascendency of the kings of Naples, who were recognized as Chiefs of the Guelf Party. Thence she passed for a few months into the hands of a despot in the person of the Duke of Athens (1342-43). After the confirmation of her republican liberty, followed a contest between the proletariat and the middle classes (Ciompi 1378). During the fifteenth century she was kept continually disturbed by the rivalry of her great merchant families. The rule of the Albizzi, who fought the Visconti and extended the Florentine territory by numerous conquests, was virtually the despotism of a close oligarchy. This phase of her career was terminated by the rise of the Medici, who guided her affairs with a show of constitutional equity for four generations. In 1494, this state of things was violently shaken. The Florentines expelled the Medici, who had begun to throw off their mask and to assume the airs of sovereignty; then they reconstituted their Commonwealth as nearly as they could upon the model of Venice, and to this new form of government Savonarola gave a quasi-theocratic complexion by naming Christ the king of Florence.[2] But the internal elements of the discord were too potent for the maintenance of this régime. The Medici were recalled; and this time Florence fell under the shadow of Church-rule, being controlled by Leo X. and Clement VII., through the hands of prelates whom they made the guardians and advisers of their nephews. In 1527 a final effort for liberty shed undying luster on the noblest of Italian cities. The sack of Rome had paralyzed the Pope. His family were compelled to quit the Medicean palace. The Grand Council was restored: a Gonfalonier was elected; Florence suffered the hardships of her memorable siege. At the end of her trials, menaced alike by Pope and Emperor, who shook hands over her prostrate corpse, betrayed by her general, the infamous Malatesta Baglioni, and sold by her own selfish citizens, she had to submit to the hereditary sovereignty of the Medici. It was in vain that Lorenzino of that house pretended to play Brutus and murdered his cousin the Duke Alessandro in 1536. Cosimo succeeded in the same year, and won the title of Grand Duke, which he transmitted to a line of semi-Austrian princes. [1] 'Nunquam in eodem statu permanserunt,' says Marco Foscari (as quoted above, p. 42 of his report). The flux of Florence struck a Venetian profoundly. [2] The Gonfalonier Capponi put up a tablet on the Public Palace, in 1528, to this effect: 'Jesus Christus Rex Florentini Populi S.F. decreto electus.' This inscription is differently given. See Varchi, vol. i. p. 266; Segni, p. 46. Nothing is more significant of the difference between Venice and Florence than the political idealism implied in this religious consecration of the republic by statute. In my essay on 'Florence and the Medici' (_Sketches and Studies in Italy_) I have attempted to condense the internal history of the Republic and to analyze the state-craft of the Medici. Throughout all these vicissitudes every form and phase of republican government was advocated, discussed, and put in practice by the Florentines. All the arts of factions, all the machinations of exiles, all the skill of demagogues, all the selfishness of party-leaders, all the learning of scholars, all the cupidity of subordinate officials, all the daring of conspirators, all the ingenuity of theorists, and all the malice of traitors, were brought successively or simultaneously into play by the burghers, who looked upon their State as something they might mold at will. One thing at least is clear amid so much apparent confusion, that Florence was living a vehemently active and self-conscious life, acknowledging no principle of stability in her constitution, but always stretching forward after that ideal _Reggimento_ which was never realized.[1] [1] In his 'Proemio' to the 'Trattato del Reggimento di Firenze, Guicciardini thus describes the desideratum: 'introdurre in Firenze un governo onesto, bene ordinato, e che veramente si potesse chiamare libero, il che dalla sua prima origine insino a oggi non è mai stato cittadino alcuno che abbia saputo o potuto fare.' It is worth while to consider more in detail the different magistracies by which the government of Florence was conducted between the years of 1250 and 1531, and the gradual changes in the constitution which prepared the way for the Medicean tyranny.[1] It is only thus an accurate conception of the difference between the republican systems of Venice and of Florence can be gained. Before the date 1282, which may be fixed as the turning-point in Florentine history we hear of twelve Anziani, two chosen for each Sestiere of the city, acting in concert with a foreign Podestà, and a Captain of the People charged with military authority. At this time no distinction was made between nobles and plebeians; and the town, though Guelf, had not enacted rigorous laws against the Ghibelline families. Towards the end of the thirteenth century, however, important, changes were effected in the very elements of the commonwealth. The Anziani were superseded by the Priors of the Arts. Eight Priors, together with a new officer called the Gonfalonier of Justice, formed the Signoria, dwelling at public charge in the Palazzo and holding office only for two months.[2] No one who had not been matriculated into one of the Arti or commercial guilds could henceforth bear office in the state. At the same time severe measures, called Ordinanze della Giustizia, were passed, by which the nobles were for ever excluded from the government, and the Gonfalonier of Justice was appointed to maintain civil order by checking their pride and turbulence.[3] These modifications of the constitution, effected between 1282 and 1292, gave its peculiar character to the Florentine republic. Henceforward Florence was governed solely by merchants. Both Varchi and Machiavelli have recorded unfavorable opinions of the statute which reduced the republic of Florence to a commonwealth of shop-keepers.[4] But when we read these criticisms, we must bear in mind the internecine ferocity of party-strife at this period, and the discords to which a city divided between a territorial aristocracy and a commercial bourgeoisie was perpetually exposed. If anything could make the Ordinanze della Giustizia appear rational, it would be a cool perusal of the _Chronicle_ of Matarazzo, which sets forth the wretched state of Perugia owing to the feuds of its patrician houses, the Oddi and the Baglioni.[5] Peace for the republic was not, however, secured by these strong measures. The factions of the Neri and Bianchi opened the fourteenth century with battles and proscriptions; and in 1323 the constitution had again to be modified. At this date the Signoria of eight Priors with the Gonfalonier of Justice, the College of the twelve Buonuomini, and the sixteen Gonfaloniers of the companies--called collectively _i tre maggiori_, or the three superior magistracies--were rendered eligible only to Guelf citizens of the age of thirty, who had qualified in one of the seven Arti Maggiori, and whose names were drawn by lot. This mode of election, the most democratic which it is possible to adopt, held good through all subsequent changes in the state. Its immediate object was to quiet discontent and to remove intrigue by opening the magistracies to all citizens alike. But, as Nardi has pointed out, it weakened the sense of responsibility in the burghers, who, when their names were once included in the bags kept for the purpose, felt sure of their election, and had no inducement to maintain a high standard of integrity. Sismondi also dates from this epoch the withdrawal of the Florentines from military service.[6] Nor, as the sequel shows, was the measure efficient as a check upon the personal ambition of encroaching party leaders. The _Squittino_ and the _Borse_ became instruments in the hands of the Medici for the consolidation of their tyranny.[7] By the end of the fourteenth century (about 1378)the Florentines had to meet a new difficulty. The Guelf citizens began to abuse the so-called Law of Admonition, by means of which the Ghibellines were excluded from the government. This law had formed an essential part of the measures of 1323. In the intervening half-century a new aristocracy, distinguished by the name of _nobili popolani_, had grown up and were now threatening the republic with a close oligarchy.[8] The discords which had previously raged between the people and the patricians were now transferred to this new aristocracy and the plebeians. It was found necessary to abolish the Admonition, which had been made a pretext of excluding all _novi homines_ from the government, and to place the members of the inferior Arti on the same footing as those of the superior.[9] At this epoch the Medici, who neither belonged to the ancient aristocracy nor y the more distinguished houses of the _nobili popolani_, but rather to the so-called _gente grassa_ or substantial tradesmen, first acquired importance. It was by a law of Salvestro de' Medici's in 1378 that the constitution received its final development in the direction of equality. Yet after all this leveling, and in the vehement efforts made by the proletariat on the occasion of the Ciompi outbreak, the exclusive nature of the Florentine republic was maintained. The franchise was never extended to more than the burghers, and the matter in debate was always virtually, who shall be allowed to rank as citizen upon the register? In fact, by using the pregnant words of Machiavelli, we may sum up the history of Florence to this point in one sentence: 'Di Firenze in prima si divisono intra loro i nobili, dipoi i nobili e il popolo, e in ultimo il popolo e la plebe; e molte volte occorse che una di queste parti rimasa superiore, si divise in due.'[10] [1] I will place in an appendix (No. ii.) translations of Varchi, book iii. sections 20-22, and Nardi, book i. cap. 4, which give complete and clear accounts of the Florentine constitution after 1292. [2] See Machiavelli, _Ist. Fior._ lib. ii. sect. II. The number of the Priors was first three, then six, and finally eight. Up to 1282 the city had been divided into Sestieri. It was then found convenient to divide it into quarters, and the numbers followed this alteration. [3] Machiavelli, _Ist. Fior._ lib. ii. sect. 13, may be consulted for the history of Giano della Bella and his memorable ordinance. Dino Compagni's _Chronicle_ contains the account of a contemporary. [4] See Varchi, vol. i. p. 169; Mach. _Ist. Fior._ end of book ii. [5] _Archivio Storico_, vol. xvi. See also the article 'Perugia,' in my _Sketches in Italy and Greece_. [6] Vol. iii. p. 347. [7] See App. ii. for the phrases 'Squittino' and 'Borse.' [8] Of these new nobles the Albizzi and Ricci, deadly foes, were the most eminent. The former strove to exclude the Medici from the government. [9] The number of the Arti varied at different times. Varchi treats of them as finally consisting of seven maggiori and fourteen minori. [10] Proemio to _Storia Fiorentina_. 'In Florence the nobles first split up, then the nobles and the people, lastly the people and the multitude; and it often happened that when one of these parties got the upper hand, it divided into two camps.' For the meaning of _Popolo_ see above, p. 55. In the next generation the constitutional history of Florence exhibits a new phase. The equality which had been introduced into all classes of the commonwealth, combined with an absence of any state machinery like that of Venice, exposed Florence at this period to the encroachments of astute and selfish parvenus. The Medici, who had hitherto been nobodies, begin now to aspire to despotism. Partly by his remarkable talent for intrigue, partly by the clever use which he made of his vast wealth, and partly by espousing the plebeian cause, Cosimo de' Medici succeeded in monopolizing the government. It was the policy of the Medici to create a party dependent for pecuniary aid upon their riches, and attached to their interests by the closest ties of personal necessity. At the same time they showed consummate caution in the conduct of the state, and expended large sums on works of public utility. There was nothing mean in their ambition; and though posterity must condemn the arts by which they sought to sap the foundations of freedom in their native city, we are forced to acknowledge that they shared the noblest enthusiasms of their brilliant era. Little by little they advanced so far in the enslavement of Florence that the elections of all the magistrates, though still conducted by lot, were determined at their choice: the names of none but men devoted to their interests were admitted to the bags from which the candidates for office were selected, while proscriptive measures of various degrees of rigor excluded their enemies from participation in the government.[1] At length in 1480 the whole machinery of the republic was suspended by Lorenzo de' Medici in favor of the Board of Seventy, whom he nominated, and with whom, acting like a Privy Council, he administered the state.[2] It is clear that this revolution could never have been effected without a succession of coups d'état. The instrument for their accomplishment lay ready to the hands of the Medicean party in the pernicious system of the Parlamento and Balia, by means of which the people, assembled from time to time in the public square, and intimidated by the reigning faction, intrusted full powers to a select committee nominated in private by the chiefs of the great house.[3] It is also clear that so much political roguery could not have been successful without an extensive demoralization of the upper rank of citizens. The Medici in effect bought and sold the honor of the public officials, lent money, jobbed posts of profit, and winked at peculation, until they had created a sufficient body of _âmes damnées_, men who had everything to gain by a continuance of their corrupt authority. The party so formed, including even such distinguished citizens as the Guicciardini, Baccio Valori, and Francesco Vettori, proved the chief obstacle to the restoration of Florentine liberty in the sixteenth century. [1] What Machiavelli says (_Ist. Fior._ vii. 1) about the arts of Cosimo contains the essence of the policy by which the Medici rose. Compare v. 4 and vii. 4-6 for his character of Cosimo. Guicciardini (_Op. Ined._ vol. ii. p. 68) describes the use made of extraordinary taxation as a weapon of offense against his enemies, by Cosimo: 'usò le gravezze in luogo de' pugnali che communemente suole usare chi ha simili reggimenti nelle mani.' The Marchese Gino Capponi (_Arch. Stor._ vol. i. pp. 315-20) analyzes the whole Medicean policy in a critique of great ability. [2] Guicciardini (_Op. Ined._ vol. ii. pp. 35-49) exposes the principle and the _modus operandi_ of this Council of Seventy, by means of which Lorenzo controlled the election of the magistracies, diverted the public moneys to his own use, and made his will law in Florence. The councils which he superseded at this date were the Consiglio del Popolo and the Consiglio del Comune, about which see Nardi, lib i. cap. 4. [3] For the operation of the Parlamento and Balia, see Varchi, vol. ii. p. 372; Segni, p. 199; Nardi, lib. vi. cap. 4. Segni says: 'The Parlamento is a meeting of the Florentine people on the Piazza of the Signory. When the Signory has taken its place to address the meeting, the piazza is guarded by armed men, and then the people are asked whether they wish to give absolute power (Balia) and authority to the citizens named, for their good. When the answer, yes, prompted partly by inclination and partly by compulsion, is returned, the Signory immediately retires into the palace. This is all that is meant by this parlamento, which thus gives away the full power of effecting a change in the state.' The description given by Marco Foscari, p. 44 (loc. cit. supr.) is to the same effect, but the Venetian exposes more clearly the despotic nature of the institution in the hands of the Medici. It is well known how hostile Savonarola was to an institution which had lent itself so easily to despotism. This couplet he inscribed on the walls of the Council Chamber, in 1495:-- 'E sappi che chi vuol parlamento Vuol torti dalle mani il reggimento.' Compare the proverb, 'Chi disse parlamento disse guastamento.' This tyranny of a commercial family, swaying the republic without the title and with but little of the pomp of princes, subsisted until the hereditary presidency of the state was conferred upon Alessandro de' Medici, Duke of Cività di Penna, in 1531. Cosimo his successor, obtained the rank of Grand Duke from Pius V. in 1569, and his son received the imperial sanction to the title in 1575. The re-establishment at two different periods of a free commonwealth upon the sounder basis of the Consiglio Grande (1494-1512 and 1527-30) formed but two episodes in the history of this masked but tenacious despotism. Had Savonarola's constitution been adopted in the thirteenth instead of at the end of the fifteenth century, the stability of Florence might have been secured. But at the latter date the roots of the Medicean influence were too widely intertwined with private interests, the jealousies of classes and of factions were too inveterate, for any large and wholesome form of popular government to be universally acceptable. Besides, the burghers had been reduced to a nerveless equality of servitude, in which ambition and avarice took the place of patriotism; while the corruption of morals, fostered by the Medici for the confirmation of their own authority, was so widely spread as to justify Segni, Varchi, Giannotti, Guicciardini, and Machiavelli in representing the Florentines as equally unable to maintain their liberty and to submit to control. The historical vicissitudes of Florence were no less remarkable than the unity of Venice. If in Venice we can trace the permanent and corporate existence of a state superior to the individuals who composed it, Florence exhibits the personal activity and conscious effort of her citizens. Nowhere can the intricate relations of classes to the commonwealth be studied more minutely than in the annals of Florence. In no other city have opinions had greater value in determining historical events; and nowhere was the influence of character in men of mark more notable. In this agitated political atmosphere the wonderful Florentine intelligence, which Varchi celebrated as the special glory of the Tuscan soil, and which Vasari referred to something felicitous in Tuscan air, was sharpened to the finest edge.[1] Successive generations of practical and theoretical statesmen trained the race to reason upon government, and to regard politics as a science. Men of letters were at the same time also prominent in public affairs. When, for instance, the exiles of 1529 sued Duke Alessandro before Charles V. at Naples, Jacopo Nardi drew up their pleas, and Francesco Guicciardini rebutted them in the interest of his master. Machiavelli learned his philosophy at the Courts of France and Germany and in the camp of Cesare Borgia. Segni shared the anxieties of Nicolo Capponi, when the Gonfalonier was impeached for high treason to the state of Florence. This list might be extended almost indefinitely, with the object of proving the intimate connection which subsisted at Florence between the thinkers and the actors. No other European community of modern times has ever acquired so subtle a sense of its own political existence, has ever reasoned upon its past history so acutely, or has ever displayed so much ingenuity in attempting to control the future. Venice on the contrary owed but little to the creative genius of her citizens. In Venice the state was everything: the individual was almost nothing. We find but little reflection upon politics, and no speculative philosophy of history among the Venetians until the date of Trifone Gabrielli and Paruta. Their records are all positive and detailed. The generalizations and comparisons of the Florentines are absent; nor was it till a late date of the Renaissance that the Venetian history came to be written as a whole. It would seem as though the constitutional stability which formed the secret of the strength of Venice was also the source of comparative intellectual inertness. This contrast between the two republics displayed itself even in their art. Statues of Judith, the tyrannicide, and of David, the liberator of his country, adorned the squares and loggie of Florence. The painters of Venice represented their commonwealth as a beautiful queen receiving the homage of her subjects and the world. Florence had no mythus similar to that which made Venice the Bride of the Sea, and which justified the Doge in hailing Caterina Cornaro as daughter of S. Mark's (1471). It was in the personal courage and intelligence of individual heroes that the Florentines discovered the counterpart of their own spirit; whereas the Venetians personified their city as a whole, and paid their homage to the Genius of the State. [1] Varchi, ix. 49; Vasari, xii. p. 158; Burckhardt, p. 270. It is not merely fanciful to compare Athens, the city of self-conscious political activity, variable, cultivated, and ill-adapted by its very freedom for prolonged stability, with Florence; Sparta, firmly based upon an ancient constitution, indifferent to culture, and solid at the cost of some rigidity, with Venice. As in Greece the philosophers of Athens, especially Plato and Aristotle, wondered at the immobility of Sparta and idealized her institutions; so did the theorists of Florence, Savonarola, Giannotti, Guicciardini, look with envy at the state machinery which secured repose and liberty for Venice. The parallel between Venice and Sparta becomes still more remarkable when we inquire into the causes of their decay. Just as the Ephors, introduced at first as a safeguard to the constitution, by degrees extinguished the influence of the royal families, superseded the senate, and exercised a tyrannous control over every department of the state; so the Council of Ten, dangerous because of its vaguely defined dictatorial functions, reduced Venice to a despotism.[1] The gradual dwindling of the Venetian aristocracy, and the impoverishment of many noble families, which rendered votes in the Grand Council venal, and threw the power into the hands of a very limited oligarchy, complete the parallel.[2] One of the chief sources of decay both to Venice and to Sparta was that shortsighted policy which prevented the nobles from recruiting their ranks by the admission of new families. The system again of secret justice, the espionage, and the calculated terrorism, by means of which both the Spartan Ephoralty and the Venetian Council imposed their will upon the citizens, were stifling to the free life of a republic.[3] Venice in the end became demoralized in politics and profligate in private life. Her narrowing oligarchy watched the national degeneration with approval, knowing that it is easier to control a vitiated populace than to curb a nation habituated to the manly virtues. [1] Aristotle terms the Spartan Ephoralty [Greek: _isotyrannos_]. Giannotti (vol-ii. p. 120) compares the Ten to dictators. We might bring the struggles of the Spartan kings with the Ephoralty into comparison with the attempts of the Doges Falieri and Foscari to make themselves the chiefs of the republic in more than name. Müller, in his _Dorians_, observes that 'the Ephoralty was the moving element, the principle of change, in the Spartan constitution, and, in the end, the cause of its dissolution.' Sismondi remarks that the precautions which led to the creation of the Council of Ten 'dénaturaient entièrement la constitution de l'état.' [2] See what Aristotle in the _Politics_ says about [Greek: _oliganthrôpia_], and the unequal distribution of property. As to the property of the Venetian nobles, see Sanudo, _Vite dei Duchi_, Murat. xxii. p. 1194, who mentions the benevolences of the richer families to the poor. They built houses for aristocratic paupers to live in free of rent. [3] A curious passage in Plutarch's _Life of Cleomenes_ (Clough's Translation, vol. iv. p. 474) exactly applies to the Venetian statecraft:--'They, the Spartans, worship Fear, not as they do supernatural powers which they dread, esteeming it hurtful, but thinking their polity is chiefly kept up by fear ... and therefore the Lacedæmonians placed the temple of Fear by the Syssitium of the Ephors, having raised that magistracy to almost regal authority.' Between Athens and Florence the parallel is not so close. These two republics, however, resemble one another in the freedom and variety of their institutions. In Athens, as in Florence, there was constant change and a highly developed political consciousness. Eminent men played the same important part in both. In both the genius of individuals was even stronger than the character of the state. Again, as Athens displayed more of a Panhellenic feeling than any other Greek city, so Florence was invariably more alive to the interests of Italy at large than any other state of the peninsula. Florence, like Athens, was the center of culture for the nation. Like Athens, she give laws to her sister towns in language, in literature, in fine arts, poetry, philosophy, and history. Without Florence it is not probable that Italy would have taken the place of proud pre-eminence she held so long in Europe. Florence never attained to the material greatness of Athens, because her power, relatively to the rest of Italy, was slight, her factions were incessant, and her connection with the Papacy was a perpetual source of weakness. But many of the causes which ruined Athens were in full operation at Florence. First and foremost was the petulant and variable temper of a democracy, so well described by Plato, and so ably analyzed by Machiavelli. The want of agreement among the versatile Florentines, fertile in plans but incapable of concerted action, was a chief source of political debility. Varchi and Segni both relate how, in spite of wealth, ability, and formidable forces, the Florentine exiles under the guidance of Filippo Strozzi (1533-37) became the laughing-stock of Italy through their irresolution. The Venetian ambassadors agree in representing the burghers of Florence as timid from excess of intellectual mobility. And Dante, whose insight into national characteristics was of the keenest, has described in ever-memorable lines the temperament of his fickle city (_Purg._ vi. 135-51). Much of this instability was due to the fact that Florentine, like Athenian, intelligence was overdeveloped. It passed into mere cleverness, and overreached itself. Next we may note the tyranny which both republics exercised over cities that had once been free. Athens created a despotic empire instead of forming an Ionian Confederation. Florence reduced Pisa to the most miserable servitude, rendered herself odious to Arezzo and Volterra, and never rested from attempts upon the liberties of Lucca and Siena. All these states, which as a Tuscan federation should have been her strength in the hour of need, took the first opportunity of throwing off her yoke and helping her enemies. What Florence spent in recapturing Pisa, after the passage of Charles VIII. in 1494, is incalculable. And no sooner was she in difficulties during the siege of 1329, than both Arezzo and Pisa declared for her foes. It will not do to push historical parallels too far, interesting as it may be to note a repetition of the same phenomena at distant periods and under varying conditions of society. At the same time, to observe fundamental points of divergence is no less profitable. Many of the peculiarities of Greek history are attributable to the fact that a Greek commonwealth consisted of citizens living in idleness, supported by their slaves, and bound to the state by military service and by the performance of civic duties. The distinctive mark of both Venice and Florence, on the other hand, was that their citizens were traders. The Venetians carried on the commerce of the Levant; the Florentines were manufacturers and bankers: the one town sent her sons forth on the seas to barter and exchange; the other was full of speculators, calculating rates of interest and discount, and contracting with princes for the conduct of expensive wars. The mercantile character of these Italian republics is so essential to their history that it will not be out of place to enlarge a little on the topic. We have seen that the Florentines rendered commerce a condition of burghership. Giannotti, writing the life of one of the chief patriots of the republic,[1] says: 'Egli stette a bottega, come fanno la maggior parte de' nostri, cosi nobili come ignobili.' To quote instances in a matter so clear and obvious would be superfluous: else I might show how Bardi and Peruzzi, Strozzi, Medici, Pitti, and Pazzi, while they ranked with princes at the Courts of France, or Rome, or Naples, were money-lenders, mortgagees and bill-discounters in every great city of Europe. The Palle of the Medici, which emboss the gorgeous ceilings of the Cathedral of Pisa, still swing above the pawnbroker's shop in London. And though great families like the Rothschilds in the most recent days have successfully asserted the aristocracy of wealth acquired by usury, it still remains a surprising fact that the daughter of the mediæval bankers should have given a monarch to the French in the sixteenth century. [1] _Sulle azioni del Ferruccio_, vol. i. p. 44. The report of Marco Foscari on the state of Florence, already quoted more than once, contains a curious aristocratic comment upon the shop-life of illustrious Florentine citizens. See Appendix ii. Even Piero de' Medici refused a Neapolitan fief on the ground that he was a tradesman. A very lively picture of the modes of life and the habits of mind peculiar to the Italian burgher may be gained by the perusal of Agnolo Pandolfini's treatise, _Del Governo della Famiglia_. This essay should be read side by side with Castiglione's _Cortegiano_, by all who wish to understand the private life of the Italians in the age of the Renaissance.[1] Pandolfini lived at the time of the war of Florence with Filippo Visconti the exile, and the return of Cosimo de' Medici. He was employed by the republic on important missions, and his substance was so great that, on occasion of extraordinary aids, his contributions stood third or fourth upon the list. In the Councils of the Republic he always advocated peace, and in particular he spoke against Impresa di Lucca. As age advanced, he retired from public affairs, and devoted himself to study, religious exercises, and country excursions. He possessed a beautiful villa at Signa, notable for the splendor of its maintenance in all points which befit a gentleman. There he had the honor on various occasions of entertaining Pope Eugenius, King Réné, Francesco Sforza, and the Marchese Piccinino. His sons lived with him, and spent much of their spare time in hawking and the chase. They were three, Carlo, who rose to great dignity in the republic, Giannozzo, still more eminent as a public man, and Pandolfo, who died young. His wife, one of the Strozzi, died while Agnolo was between thirty and forty; but he never married again. He was a great friend of Lionardo Aretino, who published nothing without his approval. He lived to be upwards of eighty-five, and died in 1446. These facts sufficiently indicate what sort of man was the supposed author of the "Essay on the Family," proving, as they do, that he passed his leisure among princes and scholars, and that he played some part in the public affairs of the State of Florence. Yet his view of human life is wholly _bourgeois_, though by no means ignoble. In his conception, the first of all virtues is thrift, which should regulate the use not only of money, but of all the gifts of nature and of fortune. The proper economy of the mind involves liberal studies, courteous manners, honest conduct, and religion.[2] The right use of the body implies keeping it in good health by continence, exercise and diet.[3] The thrift of time consists in being never idle. Agnolo's sons, who are represented as talking with their father in this dialogue, ask him, in relation to the gifts of fortune, whether he thinks the honors of the State desirable. This question introduces a long and vehement invective against the life of a professional statesman, as of necessity fraudulent, mendacious, egotistic, cruel.[4] The private man of middle station is really happiest; and only a sense of patriotism should induce him, not seeking but when sought, to serve the State in public office. The really dear possessions of a man are his family, his wealth, his good repute, and his friendships. In order to be successful in the conduct of the family, a man must choose a large and healthy house, where the whole of his offspring--children and grandchildren, may live together. He must own an estate which will supply him with corn, wine, oil, wood, fowls, in fact with all the necessaries of life, so that he may not need to buy much. The main food of the family will be bread and wine. The discussion of the utility of the farm leads Agnolo to praise the pleasure and profit to be derived from life in the Villa. But at the same time a town-house has to be maintained; and it is here that the sons of the family should be educated, so that they may learn caution, and avoid vice by knowing its ugliness. In order to meet expenses, some trade must be followed, silk or wool manufacture being preferred; and in this the whole family should join, the head distributing work of various kinds to his children, as he deems most fitting, and always employing them rather than strangers. Thus we get the three great elements of the Florentine citizen's life: the _casa_, or town-house, the _villa_, or country-farm, and the _bottega_, or place of business. What follows is principally concerned with the details of economy. Expenses are of two sorts: necessary, for the repair of the house, the maintenance of the farm, the stocking of the shop; and unnecessary, for plate, house decoration, horses, grand clothes, entertainments. On this topic Agnolo inveighs with severity against household parasites, bravi, and dissolute dependents.[5] A little further on he indulges in another diatribe against great nobles, _i signori_, from whom he would have his sons keep clear at any cost.[6] It is the animosity of the industrious burgher for the haughty, pleasure-loving, idle, careless man of blood and high estate. In the bourgeois household described by Pandolfini no one can be indolent. The men have to work outside and collect wealth, the women to stay at home and preserve it. The character of a good housewife is sketched very minutely. Pandolfini describes how, when he was first married, he took his wife over the house, and gave up to her care all its contents. Then he went into their bedroom, and made her kneel with him before Madonna, and prayed God to give them wealth, friends, and male children. After that he told her that honesty would be her great charm in his eyes, as well as her chief virtue, and advised her to forego the use of paints and cosmetics. Much sound advice follows as to the respective positions of the master and the mistress in the household, the superintendence of domestics, and the right ordering of the most insignificant matters. The quality of the dress which will beseem the children of an honored citizen on various occasions, the pocket money of the boys, the food of the common table, are all discussed with some minuteness: and the wife is made to feel that she must learn to be neither jealous nor curious about concerns which her husband finds it expedient to keep private. [1] I ought to state that Pandolfini is at least a century earlier in date than Casliglione, and that he represents a more primitive condition of society. The facts I have mentioned about his life are given on the authority of Vespasiano da Bisticci. The references are made to the Milanese edition of 1802. It must also be added that there are strong reasons for assigning the treatise in question to Leo Battista Alberti. As it professes, however, to give a picture of Pandolfini's family, I have adhered to the old title. But the whole question of the authorship of the Famiglia will be fully discussed in the last section of my book, which deals with Italian literature. Personally. I accept the theory of Alberti's authorship. [2] A beautiful description of the religious temper, p. 74. [3] What Pandolfini says about the beauty of the body is worthy of a Greek: what he says about exercise might have been written by an Englishman, p. 77. [4] Pp. 82-89 are very important as showing how low the art of politics had sunk in Italy. [5] P. 125. [6] P. 175. The charm of a treatise like that of Pandolfini on the family evaporates as soon as we try to make a summary of its contents. Enough, however, has been quoted to show the thoroughly _bourgeois_ tone which prevailed among the citizens of Florence in the fifteenth century.[1] Very important results were the natural issue of this commercial spirit in the State. Talking of the Ordinanze di Giustizia, Varchi observes: 'While they removed in part the civil discords of Florence, they almost entirely extinguished all nobility of feeling in the Florentines, and tended as much to diminish the power and haughtiness of the city as to abate the insolence of the patriciate.'[2] A little further on he says: 'Hence may all prudent men see how ill-ordered in all things, save only in the Grand Council, has been the commonwealth of Florence; seeing that, to speak of nought else, that kind of men who in a wisely constituted republic ought not to fulfill any magistracy whatever, the merchants and artisans of all sorts, are in Florence alone capable of taking office, to the exclusion of all others.' Machiavelli, less wordy but far more emphatic than Varchi, says of the same revolution: 'This caused the abandonment by Florence not only of arms, but of all nobility of soul.'[3] The most notable consequence of the mercantile temper of the republics was the ruinous system of mercenary warfare, with all its attendant evils of ambitious captains of adventure, irresponsible soldiery, and mock campaigns, adopted by the free Italian States. It is true that even if the Italians had maintained their national militias in full force, they might not have been able to resist the shock of France and Spain any better than the armies of Thebes, Sparta, and Athens averted the Macedonian hegemony. But they would at least have run a better chance, and not perhaps have perished so ignobly through the treason of an Alfonso d'Este (1527), of a Marquis of Pescara (1525), of a Duke of Urbino (1527), and of a Malatesta Baglioni (1530).[4] Machiavelli, in a weighty passage at the end of the first book of his Florentine History, sums up the various causes which contributed to the disuse of national arms among the Italians of the Renaissance. The fear of the despot for his subjects, the priest-rule of the Church, the jealousy of Venice for her own nobles, and the commercial sluggishness of the Florentine burghers, caused each and all of these powers, otherwise so different, to intrust their armies to paid captains. 'Di questi adunque oziosi principi e di queste vilissime armi sarà piena la mia istoria,' is the contemptuous phrase with which he winds up his analysis.[5] [1] Varchi (book x. cap. 69) quotes a Florentine proverb: 'Chiunque non sta a bottega è ladro.' See above, p. 239. [2] Varchi, vol. i. p. 168; compare vol. ii. p. 87, however. [3] _Ist. Fior._ lib. ii. end. Aristotle's contempt for the [Greek: _technitai_] emerges in these comments of the doctrinaires. [4] To multiply the instances of fraud and treason on the part of Italian condottieri would be easy. I have only mentioned the notable examples which fall within a critical period of five years. The Marquis of Pescara betrayed to Charles V. the league for the liberation of Italy, which he had joined at Milan. The Duke of Ferrara received and victualed Bourbon's (then Frundsberg's) army on its way to sack Rome, because he spited the Pope, and wanted to seize Modena for himself. The Duke of Urbino, wishing to punish Clement VII. for personal injuries, omitted to relieve Rome when it was being plundered by the Lutherans, though he held the commission of the Italian League. Malatesta Baglioni sold Florence, which he had undertaken to defend, to the Imperial army under the Prince of Orange. [5] 'With the records of these indolent princes and most abject armaments, my history will, therefore, be filled.' Compare the following passage in a letter from Machiavelli to Francesco Guicciardini (_Op._ vol. x. p. 255): 'Comincio ora a scrivere di nuovo, e mi sfogo accusando i principi, che hanno fatto ogni cosa per condurci qui.' CHAPTER V. THE FLORENTINE HISTORIANS. Florence, the City of Intelligence--Cupidity, Curiosity, and the Love of Beauty--Florentine Historical Literature--Philosophical Study of History--Ricordano Malespini--Florentine History compared with the Chronicles of other Italian Towns--The Villani--The Date 1300--Statistics--Dante's Political Essays and Pamphlets--Dino Compagni--Latin Histories of Florence in Fifteenth Century--Lionardo Bruni and Poggio Bracciolini--The Historians of the First Half of the Sixteenth Century--Men of Action and Men of Letters: the Doctrinaires--Florence between 1494 and 1537--Varchi, Segni, Nardi, Pitti, Nerli, Guicciardini--The Political Importance of these Writers--The Last Years of Florentine Independence, and the Siege of 1529--State of Parties--Filippo Strozzi--Different Views of Florentine Weakness taken by the Historians--Their Literary Qualities--Francesco Guicciardini and Niccolo Machiavelli--Scientific Statists--Discord between Life and Literature--The Biography of Guicciardini--His 'Istoria d'Italia,' 'Dialogo del Reggimento di Firenze,' 'Storia Fiorentina,' 'Ricordi'--Biography of Machiavelli--His Scheme of a National Militia--Dedication of 'The Prince'--Political Ethics of the Italian Renaissance--The Discorsi--The Seven Books on the Art of War and the 'History of Florence.' Florence was essentially the city of intelligence in modern times. Other nations have surpassed the Italians in their genius--the quality which gave a superhuman power of insight to Shakespeare and an universal sympathy to Goethe. But nowhere else except at Athens has the whole population of a city been so permeated with ideas, so highly intellectual by nature, so keen in perception, so witty and so subtle, as at Florence. The fine and delicate spirit of the Italians existed in quintessence among the Florentines. And of this superiority not only they but the inhabitants also of Rome and Lombardy and Naples, were conscious. Boniface VIII., when he received the ambassadors of the Christian powers in Rome on the occasion of the Jubilee in 1300, observed that all of them were citizens of Florence. The witticism which he is said to have uttered, _i Fiorentini essere il quinto elemento_, 'that the men of Florence form a fifth element,' passed into a proverb. The primacy of the Florentines in literature, the fine arts, law, scholarship, philosophy, and science was acknowledged throughout Italy. When the struggle for existence has been successfully terminated, and the mere instinct of self-preservation no longer absorbs the activities of a people, then the three chief motive forces of civilization begin to operate. These are cupidity, or the desire of wealth and all that it procures; curiosity, or the desire to discover new facts about the world and man; and the love of beauty, which is the parent of all art. Commerce, philosophy, science, scholarship, sculpture, architecture, painting, music, poetry, are the products of these ruling impulses--everything in fact which gives a higher value to the life of man. Different nations have been swayed by these passions in different degrees. The artistic faculty, which owes its energy to the love of beauty, has been denied to some; the philosophic faculty, which starts with curiosity, to others; and some again have shown but little capacity for amassing wealth by industry or calculation. It is rare to find a whole nation possessed of all in an equal measure of perfection. Such, however, were the Florentines.[1] The mere sight of the city and her monuments would suffice to prove this. But we are not reduced to the necessity of divining what Florence was by the inspection of her churches, palaces, and pictures. That marvelous intelligence which was her pride, burned brightly in a long series of historians and annalists, who have handed down to us the biography of the city in volumes as remarkable for penetrative acumen as for definite delineation and dramatic interest. We possess picture-galleries of pages in which the great men of Florence live again and seem to breathe and move, epics of the commonwealth's vicissitudes from her earliest commencement, detailed tragedies and highly finished episodes, studies of separate characters, and idylls detached from the main current of her story. The whole mass of this historical literature is instinct with the spirit of criticism and vital with experience. The writers have been either actors or spectators of the drama. Trained in the study of antiquity, as well as in the council-chambers of the republic and in the courts of foreign princes, they survey the matter of their histories from a lofty vantage ground, fortifying their speculative conclusions by practical knowledge and purifying their judgment of contemporary events with the philosophy of the past. Owing to this rare mixture of qualities, the Florentines deserve to be styled the discoverers of the historic method for the modern world. They first perceived that it is unprofitable to study the history of a state in isolation, that not wars and treaties only, but the internal vicissitudes of the commonwealth, form the real subject matter of inquiry,[2] and that the smallest details, biographical, economical, or topographical, may have the greatest value. While the rest of Europe was ignorant of statistics, and little apt to pierce below the surface of events to the secret springs of conduct, in Florence a body of scientific historians had gradually been formed, who recognized the necessity of basing their investigations upon a diligent study of public records, state-papers, and notes of contemporary observers.[3] The same men prepared themselves for the task of criticism by a profound study of ethical and political philosophy in the works of Aristotle, Plato, Cicero, and Tacitus.[4] They examined the methods of classical historians, and compared the annals of Greece, Rome, and Palestine with the chronicles of their own country. They attempted to divine the genius and to characterize the special qualities of the nations, cities, and individuals of whom they had to treat.[5] At the same time they spared no pains in seeking out persons possessed of accurate knowledge in every branch of inquiry that came beneath their notice, so that their treatises have the freshness of original documents and the charm of personal memoirs. Much, as I have elsewhere noted, was due to the peculiarly restless temper of the Florentines, speculative, variable, unquiet in their politics. The very qualities which exposed the commonwealth to revolutions, developed the intelligence of her historians; her want of stability was the price she paid for intellectual versatility and acuteness unrivaled in modern times. '"_O ingenia magis acria quam matura_," said Petrarch, and with truth, about the wits of the Florentines; for it is their property by nature to have more of liveliness and acumen than of maturity or gravity.'[6] [1] Since the Greeks, no people have combined curiosity and the love of beauty, the scientific and the artistic sense, in the same proportions as the Florentines. [2] See Machiavelli's critique of Lionardo d'Arezzo and Messer Poggio, in the Proemio to his _Florentine History_. His own conception of history, as the attempt to delineate the very spirit of a nation, is highly philosophical. [3] The high sense of the requirements of scientific history attained by the Italians is shown by what Giovio relates of Gian Galeazzo's archives (_Vita di Gio. Galeazzo_, p. 107). After describing these, he adds: 'talche, chi volesse scrivere un' historia giusta non potrebbe desiderare altronde nè più abbondante nè più certa materia; perciocchè da questi libri facilissimamente si traggono le cagioni delle guerre, i consigli, e i successi dell' imprese.' The Proemio to Varchi's _Storie Fiorentine_ (vol. i. pp. 42-44), which gives an account of his preparatory labors, is an unconscious treatise on the model historian. Accuracy, patience, love of truth, sincerity in criticism, and laborious research, have all their proper place assigned to them. Compare Guicciardini, _Ricordi_, No. cxliii., for sound remarks upon the historian's duty of collecting the statistics of his own age and country. [4] The prefaces to Giannotti's critiques of Florence and of Venice show how thoroughly his mind had been imbued with the _Politics_ of Aristotle. Varchi acknowledges the direct influence of Polybius and Tacitus. Livy is Machiavelli's favorite. [5] On this point the Relazioni of Italian ambassadors are invaluable. What dryly philosophical compendia are the notes of Machiavelli upon the French Court and Cesare Borgia! How astute are the Venetian letters on the opinions and qualities of the Roman Prelates! [6] Guicc. _Ricordi_, cciii. _Op. Ined._ vol. i. p. 229. The year 1300 marks the first development of historical research in Florence. Two great writers, Dante Alighieri and Giovanni Villani, at this epoch pursued different lines of study, which determined the future of this branch of literature for the Italians. It is not uncharacteristic of Florentine genius that while the chief city of Tuscany was deficient in historians of her achievements before the date which I have mentioned, her first essays in historiography should have been monumental and standard-making for the rest of Italy. Just as the great burghs of Lombardy attained municipal independence somewhat earlier than those of Tuscany, so the historic sense developed itself in the valley of the Po at a period when the valley of the Arno had no chronicler. Sire Raul and Ottone Morena, the annalists of Milan, Fra Salimbene, the sagacious and comprehensive historian of Parma, Rolandino, to whom we owe the chronicle of Ezzelino and the tragedy of the Trevisan Marches, have no rivals south of the Apennines in the thirteenth century. Even the Chronicle of the Malespini family, written in the vulgar tongue from the beginning of the world to the year 1281, which occupies 146 volumes of Muratori's Collection, and which used to be the pride of Tuscan antiquarians, has recently been shown to be in all probability a compilation based upon the Annals of Villani.[1] This makes the clear emergence of a scientific sense for history in the year 1300 at Florence all the more remarkable. In order to estimate the high quality of the work achieved by the Villani it is only necessary to turn the pages of some early chronicles of sister cities which still breathe the spirit of unintelligent mediæval industry, before the method of history had been critically apprehended. The naïveté of these records may be appreciated by the following extracts. A Roman writes[2]: 'I Lodovico Bonconte Monaldeschi was born in Orvieto, and was brought up in the city of Rome, where I have resided. I was born in the year 1327, in the month of June, at the time when the Emperor Lodovico came. Now I wish to relate the whole history of my age, seeing that I lived one hundred and fifteen years without illness, except that when I was born I fainted, and I died of old age, and remained in bed twelve months on end.' Burigozzo's Chronicle of Milan, again, concludes with these words:[3] 'As you will see in the Annals of my son, inasmuch as the death which has overtaken me prevents my writing more.' Chronicles conceived and written in this spirit are diaries of events, repertories of strange stories, and old wives' tales, without a deep sense of personal responsibility, devoid alike of criticism and artistic unity. Very different is the character of the historical literature which starts into being in Florence at the opening of the fourteenth century. [1] See Paul Scheffer-Boichorst, _Florentiner Studien_, Leipzig, 1874, Carl Hegel, in his defense of Compagni, _Die Chronik des Dino Compagni, Versuch einer Rettung_, Leipzig, 1875, admits the proof of spuriousness. See the preface, p. v. The point, however, is still disputed by Florentine scholars of high authority. Gino Capponi, in his _Storia della Repubblica di Firenze_ (vol. i. Appendix, final note), observes that while the Villani are popular in tone the Malespini Chronicle is feudal. Adolfo Bartoli (_Storia della Lett. It._ vol. iii. p. 155) treats the question as still open. The custom of preserving brief _fasti_ in the archives of great houses rendered such compilations as the Malespini Chronicle is now supposed to have been both easy and attractive. The Christian name _Ricordano_ given to the first Malespini annalist does not exist. It has been suggested that it is due to a misreading of an initial sentence, _Ricordano i Malespini_. [2] Muratori, vol. xii. p. 529. [3] _Arch. Stor._ vol. iii. p. 552. Both Monaldeschi and Burigozzo appear to mention their own death. The probability is that their annals, as we have them, have been freely dealt with by transcribers or continuators adopting the historic 'I' after the decease of the titular authors. Giovanni Villani relates how, having visited Rome on the occasion of the Jubilee, when 200,000 pilgrims crowded the streets of the Eternal City, he was moved in the depth of his soul by the spectacle of the ruins of the discrowned mistress of the world.[1] 'When I saw the great and ancient monuments of Rome, and read the histories and the great deeds of the Romans, written by Virgil, and by Sallust, and by Lucan, and by Livy, and by Valerius, and Orosius, and other masters of history, who related small as well as great things of the acts and doings of the Romans, I took style and manner from them, though, as a learner, I was not worthy of so vast a work.' Like our own Gibbon, musing upon the steps of Ara Celi, within sight of the Capitol, and within hearing of the monks at prayer, he felt the _genius loci_ stir him with a mixture of astonishment and pathos. Then 'reflecting that our city of Florence, the daughter and the creature of Rome, was in the ascendant toward great achievements, while Rome was on the wane, I thought it seemly to relate in this new Chronicle all the doings and the origins of the town of Florence, as far as I could collect and discover them, and to continue the acts of the Florentines and the other notable things of the world in brief onwards so long as it shall be God's pleasure, hoping in whom by His grace I have done the work rather than by my poor knowledge; and therefore in the year 1300, when I returned from Rome, I began to compile this book, to the reverence of God and Saint John and the praise of this our city Florence.' The key-note is struck in these passages. Admiration for the past mingles with prescience of the future. The artist and the patriot awake together in Villani at the sight of Rome and the thought of Florence. [1] Lib. viii. cap. 36. The result of this visit to Rome in 1300 was the Chronicle which Giovanni Villani carried in twelve books down to the year 1346. In 1348 he died of the plague, and his work was continued on the same plan by his brother Matteo. Matteo in his turn died of plague in 1362, and left the Chronicle to his son Filippo, who brought it down to the year 1365. Of the three Villani, Giovanni is the greatest, both as a master of style and as an historical artist. Matteo is valuable for the general reflections which form exordia to the eleven books that bear his name. Filippo was more of a rhetorician. He is known as the public lecturer upon the Divine Comedy, and as the author of some interesting but meager lives of eminent Florentines, his predecessors or contemporaries. The Chronicle of the Villani is a treasure-house of clear and accurate delineations rather than of profound analysis. Not only does it embrace the whole affairs of Europe in annals which leave little to be desired in precision of detail and brevity of statement; but, what is more to our present purpose, it conveys a lively picture of the internal condition of the Florentines and the statistics of the city in the fourteenth century. We learn, for example, that the ordinary revenues of Florence amounted to about 300,000 golden florins,[1] levied chiefly by way of taxes--90,200 proceeding from the octroi, 58,300 from the retail wine trade, 14,450 from the salt duties, and so on through the various imposts, each of which is carefully calculated. Then we are informed concerning the ordinary expenditure of the Commune--15,240 lire for the podestà and his establishment, 5,880 lire for the Captain of the people and his train, 3,600 for the maintenance of the Signory in the Palazzo, and so on down to a sum of 2,400 for the food of the lions, for candles, torches, and bonfires. The amount spent publicly in almsgiving; the salaries of ambassadors and governors; the cost of maintaining the state armory; the pay of the night-watch; the money spent upon the yearly games when the palio was run; the wages of the city trumpeters; and so forth, are all accurately reckoned. In fact the ordinary Budget of the Commune is set forth. The rate of extraordinary expenses during war-time is estimated on the scale of sums voted by the Florentines to carry on the war with Martino della Scala in 1338. At that time they contributed 25,000 florins monthly to Venice, maintained full garrisons in the fortresses of the republic, and paid as well for upwards of 1,000 men at arms. In order that a correct notion of these balance-sheets may be obtained, Villani is careful to give particulars about the value of the florin and the lira, and the number of florins coined yearly. In describing the condition of Florence at this period, he computes the number of citizens capable of bearing arms, between the ages fifteen and seventy, at 25,000; the population of the city at 90,000, not counting the monastic communities, nor including the strangers, who are estimated at about 15,000. The country districts belonging to Florence add 80,000 to this calculation. It is further noticed that the excess of male births over female was between 300 and 500 yearly in Florence, that from 8,000 to 10,000 boys and girls learned to read; that there were six schools, in which from 10,000 to 12,000 children learned arithmetic; and four high schools, in which from 550 to 600 learned grammar and logic. Then follows a list of the religious houses and churches: among the charitable institutions are reckoned 30 hospitals capable of receiving more than 1,000 sick people. Here too it may be mentioned that Villani reckons the beggars of Florence at 17,000, with the addition of 4,000 paupers and sick persons and religious mendicants.[2] These mendicants were not all Florentines, but received relief from the city charities. The big wool factories are numbered at upwards of two hundred; and it is calculated that from sixty to eighty thousand pieces of cloth were turned out yearly, to the value in all of about 1,200,000 florins. More than 30,000 persons lived by this industry. The _calimala_ factories, where foreign cloths were manufactured into fine materials, numbered about twenty. These imported some 10,000 pieces of cloth yearly, to the value of 300,000 florins. The exchange offices are estimated at about eighty in number. The fortunes made in Florence by trade and by banking were colossal for those days. Villani tells us that the great houses of the Bardi and Peruzzi lent to our King Edward III. more than 1,365,000 golden florins.[3] 'And mark this,' he continues, 'that these moneys were chiefly the property of persons who had given it to them on deposit.' This debt was to have been recovered out of the wool revenues and other income of the English; in fact, the Bardi and Peruzzi had negotiated a national loan, by which they hoped to gain a superb percentage on their capital. The speculation, however, proved unfortunate; and the two houses would have failed, but for their enormous possessions in Tuscany. We hear, for example, of the Bardi buying the villages of Vernia and Mangona in 1337.[4] As it was, their credit received a shock from which it never thoroughly recovered; and a little later on, in 1342, after the ruinous wars with the La Scala family and Pisa, and after the loss of Lucca, they finally stopped payment and declared themselves bankrupt.[5] The shock communicated by this failure to the whole commerce of Christendom is well described by Villani.[6] The enormous wealth amassed by Florentine citizens in commerce may be still better imagined when we remember that the Medici, between the years 1434 and 1471, spent some 663,755 golden florins upon alms and public works, of which 400,000 were supplied by Cosimo alone. But to return to Villani; not content with the statistics which I have already extracted, he proceeds to calculate how many bushels of wheat, hogsheads of wine, and head of cattle were consumed in Florence by the year and the week.[7] We are even told that in the month of July 1280, 40,000 loads of melons entered the gate of San Friano and were sold in the city. Nor are the manners and the costume of the Florentines neglected: the severe and decent dress of the citizens in the good old times (about 1260) is contrasted with the new-fangled fashions introduced by the French in 1342.[8] In addition to all this miscellaneous information may be mentioned what we learn from Matteo Villani concerning the foundation of the Monte or Public Funds of Florence in the year 1345,[9] as well as the remarkable essay upon the economical and other consequences of the plague of 1348, which forms the prelude to his continuation of his brother's Chronicle.[10] [1] xi. 62. [2] x. 162. [3] xi. 88. [4] xi. 74. On this occasion a law was passed forbidding citizens to become lords of districts within the territory of Florence. [5] xi. 38. [6] xi. 88. [7] xi, 94. [8] vi. 69; xii. 4. [9] iii. 106. [10] i. 1-8. In his survey of the results of the Black Death, Matteo notices not only the diminution of the population, but the alteration in public morality, the displacement of property, the increase in prices, the diminution of labor, and the multiplication of lawsuits, which were the consequences direct or indirect of the frightful mortality. Among the details which he has supplied upon these topics deserve to be commemorated the enormous bequests to public charities in Florence--350,000 florins to the Society of Orsammichele, 25,000 to the Compagnia della Misericordia, and 25,000 to the Hospital of Santa Maria Nuova. The poorer population had been almost utterly destroyed by the plague; so that these funds were for the most part wasted, misapplied, and preyed upon by mal-administrators.[1] The foundation of the University of Florence is also mentioned as one of the extraordinary consequences of this calamity. [1] Matteo Villani expressly excepts the Hospital of S. Maria Nuova, which seems to have been well managed. The whole work of the Villani remains a monument, unique in mediæval literature, of statistical patience and economical sagacity, proving how far in advance of the other European nations were the Italians at this period.[1] Dante's aim is wholly different. Of statistics and of historical detail we gain but little from his prose works. His mind was that of a philosopher who generalizes, and of a poet who seizes salient characteristics, not that of an annalist who aims at scrupulous fidelity in his account of facts. I need not do more than mention here the concise and vivid portraits, which he has sketched in the Divine Comedy, of all the chief cities of Italy; but in his treatise 'De Monarchiâ' we possess the first attempt at political speculation, the first essay in constitutional philosophy, to which the literature of modern Europe gave birth; while his letters addressed to the princes of Italy, the cardinals, the emperor and the republic of Florence, are in like manner the first instances of political pamphlets setting forth a rationalized and consistent system of the rights and duties of nations. In the 'De Monarchiâ' Dante bases a theory of universal government upon a definite conception of the nature and the destinies of humanity. Amid the anarchy and discord of Italy, where selfishness was everywhere predominant, and where the factions of the Papacy and Empire were but cloaks for party strife, Dante endeavors to bring his countrymen back to a sublime ideal of a single monarchy, a true _imperium_, distinct from the priestly authority of the Church, but not hostile to it,--nay, rather seeking sanction from Christ's Vicar upon earth and affording protection to the Holy See, as deriving its own right from the same Divine source. Political science in this essay takes rank as an independent branch of philosophy, and the points which Dante seeks to establish are supported by arguments implying much historical knowledge, though quaintly scholastic in their application. The Epistles contain the same thoughts: peace, mutual respect, and obedience to a common head, the duty of the chief to his subordinates and of the governed to their lord, are urged with no less force, but in a more familiar style and with direct allusion to the events which called each letter forth. They are in fact political brochures addressed by a thinker from his solitude to the chief actors in the drama of history around him. Nor would it here be right to omit some notice of the essay 'De Vulgari Eloquio,' which, considering the date of its appearance, is no less original and indicative of a new spirit in the world than the treatise 'De Monarchiâ.' It is an attempt to write the history of Italian as a member of the Romance Languages, to discuss the qualities of its several dialects, and to prove the advantages to be gained by the formation of a common literary tongue for Italy. Though Dante was of course devoid of what we now call comparative philology, and had but little knowledge of the first beginnings of the languages which he discusses, yet it is not more than the truth to say that this essay applies the true method of critical analysis for the first time to the subject, and is the first attempt to reason scientifically upon the origin and nature of a modern language. [1] We must remember that our own annalists, Holinshed and Stow, were later by two centuries than the Villani. While discussing the historical work of Dante and the Villani, it is impossible that another famous Florentine should not occur to our recollection, whose name has long been connected with the civic contests that resulted in the exile of Italy's greatest poet from his native city. Yet it is not easy for a foreign critic to deal with the question of Dino Compagni's Chronicle--a question which for years has divided Italian students into two camps, which has produced a voluminous literature of its own, and which still remains undecided. The point at issue is by no means insignificant. While one party contends that we have in this Chronicle the veracious record of an eye-witness, the other asserts that it is the impudent fabrication of a later century, composed on hints furnished by Dante, and obscure documents of the Compagni family, and expressed in language that has little of the fourteenth century. The one regards it as a faithful narrative, deficient only in minor details of accuracy. The other stigmatizes it as a wholly untrustworthy forgery, and calls attention to numberless mistakes, confusions, misconceptions, and misrepresentations of events, which place its genuineness beyond the pale of possibility. After a careful consideration of Scheffer's, Fanfani's, Gino Capponi's, and Isidoro del Lungo's arguments, it seems to me clearly established that the Chronicle of Dino Compagni can no longer be regarded as a perfectly genuine document of fourteenth-century literature. In the form in which we now possess it, we are rather obliged to regard it as a _rifacimento_ of some authentic history, compiled during the course of the fifteenth century in a prose which bears traces of the post-Boccaccian style of composition.[1] Yet the authority of Dino Compagni has long been such, and such is still the literary value of the monograph which bears his name, that it would be impertinent to dismiss the 'Chronicle' unceremoniously as a mere fiction. I propose, therefore, first to give an account of the book on its professed merits, and then to discuss, as briefly as I can, the question of its authenticity. [1] The first critic to call Compagni's authenticity in question was Pietro Fanfani, in an article of _Il Pievano Arlotto_, 1858. The cause was taken up, shortly after this date, by an abler German authority, P. Scheffer-Boichorst. The works which I have studied on this subject are, 1. _Florentiner Studien_, von P. Scheffer-Boichorst, Leipzig, Hirzel, 1874. 2. _Dino Compagni vendicato dalla Calunnia di Scrittore della Cronica_, di Pietro Fanfani, Milano, Carrara, 1875. 3. _Die Chronik des Dino Compagni, Versuch einer Rettung_, von Dr. Carl Hegel, Leipzig, Hirzel, 1875. 4. _Die Chronik des Dino Compagni, Kritik der Hegelschen Schrift_, von P. Scheffer-Boichorst, Leipzig, Hirzel, 1875. 5. The note appended to Gino Capponi's _Storia della Repubblica di Firenze_. 6. _Dino Compagni e la sua Chronica_, per Isidoro del Lungo, Firenze, Le Mornier. Unluckily, the last-named work, though it consists already of two bulky volumes in large 8vo, is not yet complete; and the part which will treat of the question of authorship and MS. authority has not appeared. The year 1300, which Dante chose for the date of his descent with Virgil to the nether world, and which marked the beginning of Villani's 'Chronicle,' is also mentioned by Dino Compagni in the first sentence of the preface to his work. 'The recollections of ancient histories,' he says, 'have a long while stirred my mind to writing the perilous and ill-fated events, which the noble city, daughter of Rome, has suffered many years, and especially at the time of the jubilee in the year 1300.' Dino Compagni, whose 'Chronicle' embraces the period between 1280 and 1312, took the popular side in the struggles of 1282, sat as Prior in 1289, and in 1301, and was chosen Gonfalonier of Justice in 1293. He was therefore a prominent actor in the drama of those troublous times. He died in 1324, two years and four months after the date of Dante's death, and was buried in the church of Santa Trinità. He was a man of the same stamp as Dante;[1] burning with love for his country, but still more a lover of the truth; severe in judgment, but beyond suspicion of mere partisanship; brief in utterance, but weighty with personal experience, profound conviction, prophetic intensity of feeling, sincerity, and justice. As a historian, he narrowed his labors to the field of one small but highly finished picture. He undertook to narrate the civic quarrels of his times, and to show how the commonwealth of Florence was brought to ruin by the selfishness of her own citizens; nor can his 'Chronicle,' although it is by no means a masterpiece of historical accuracy or of lucid arrangement, be surpassed for the liveliness of its delineation, the graphic clearness of its characters, the earnestness of its patriotic spirit, and the acute analysis which lays bare the political situation of a republic torn by factions, during the memorable period which embraced the revolution of Giano della Bella and the struggles of the Neri and Bianchi. The comparison of Dino Compagni with any contemporary annalist in Italy shows that here again, in these pages, a new spirit has arisen. Muratori, proud to print them for the first time in 1726, put them on a level with the 'Commentaries of Cæsar'; Giordani welcomed their author as a second Sallust. The political sagacity and scientific penetration, possessed in so high a degree by the Florentines, appear in full maturity. Compagni's 'Chronicle' heads a long list of similar monographs, unique in the literature of a single city.[2] [1] The apostrophes to the citizens of Florence at large, and the imprecations on some of the worst offenders among the party-leaders (especially in book ii. on the occasion of the calamities of 1301) are conceived and uttered in the style of Dante. [2] Among these I may here mention Gino Capponi's history of the Ciompi Rebellion, Giovanni Cavalcanti's memoirs of the period between 1420 and 1452, Leo Battista Alberti's narrative of Porcari's attempt upon the life of Nicholas V., Vespasiano's 'Biographies,' and Poliziano's 'Essay on the Pazzi Conspiracy.' Gino Capponi, born about 1350, was Prior in 1396, and Gonfalonier of Justice in 1401 and 1418; he died in 1421. Giovanni Cavalcanti was a zealous admirer of Cosimo de' Medici; he composed his 'Chronicle' in the prison of the Stinche, where he was unjustly incarcerated for a debt to the Commune of Florence. Vespasiano da Bisticci contributed a series of most valuable portraits to the literature of Italy: all the great men of his time are there delineated with a simplicity that is the sign of absolute sincerity, Poliziano was present at the murder of Giuliano de' Medici in the Florentine Duomo. The historians of the sixteenth century will be noticed together further on. The arguments against the authenticity of Dino Compagni's 'Chronicle' may be arranged in three groups. The _first_ concerns the man himself. It is urged that, with the exception of his offices as Prior and Gonfalonier, we have no evidence of his political activity, beyond what is furnished by the disputed 'Chronicle.' According to his own account, Dino played a part of the first importance in the complicated events of 1280-1312. Yet he is not mentioned by Giovanni Villani, by Filippo Vallani, or by Dante. There is no record of his death, except a MS. note in the Magliabecchian Codex of his 'Chronicle' of the date 1514.[1] He is known in literature as the author of a few lyrics and an oration to Pope John XXII., the style of which is so rough and mediæval as to make it incredible that the same writer should have composed the masterly paragraphs of the 'Chronicle.'[2] The _second_ group of arguments affects the substance of the 'Chronicle' itself. Though Dino was Prior when Charles of Valois entered Florence, he records that event under the date of Sunday the fourth of November, whereas Charles arrived on the first of November, and the first Sunday of the month was the fifth. He differs from the concurrent testimony of other historians in making the affianced bride of Buondelmonte dei Buondelmonti a Giantruffetti instead of an Amidei, and the Bishop of Arezzo a Pazzi instead of an Ubertini. He reckons the Arti at twenty-four, whereas they numbered twenty-one. He places the Coronation of Henry VII. in August, instead of in June, 1312. He seems to refer to the Palace of the Signory, which could not have been built at the date in question. He asserts that a member of the Benivieni family was killed by one of the Galligai, whereas the murderer was of the blood of the Galli. He represents himself as having been the first Gonfalonier of Justice who destroyed the houses of rebellious nobles, while Baldo de' Ruffoli, who held the office before him, had previously carried out the Ordinances. Speaking of Guido Cavalcanti about the year 1300, he calls him 'uno giovane gentile'; and yet Guido had married the daughter of Farinata degli Uberti in 1266, and certainly did not survive 1300 more than a few months. The peace with Pisa, which was concluded during Compagni's tenure of the Gonfalonierate, is not mentioned, though this must have been one of the most important public events with which he was concerned. Chronology is hopelessly and inextricably confused; while inaccuracies and difficulties of the kind described abound on every page of the 'Chronicle,' rendering the labor of its last commentator and defender one of no small difficulty. The _third_ group of arguments assails the language of the 'Chronicle' and its MS. authority. Fanfani, who showed more zeal than courtesy in his destructive criticism, undertook to prove that Dino's style in general is not distinguished for the 'purity, simplicity, and propriety' of the trecento[3]; that it abounds in expressions of a later period, such as _armata_ for _oste_, _marciare_ for _andare_, _acciò_ for _acciocchè_, _onde_ for _affinchè_; that numerous imitations of Dante can be traced in it; and that to an acute student of early Italian prose its palpable _quattrocentismo_ is only slightly veiled by a persistent affectation of fourteenth-century archaism. This argument from style seems the strongest that can be brought against the genuineness of the 'Chronicle'; for while it is possible that Dino may have made innumerable blunders about the events in which he took a part, it is incredible that he should have anticipated the growth of Italian by at least a century. Yet judges no less competent than Fanfani in this matter of style, and far more trustworthy as witnesses, Vincenzo Nannucci, Gino Capponi, Isidoro del Lungo, are of opinion that Dino's 'Chronicle' is a masterpiece of Italian fourteenth-century prose; and till Italian experts are agreed, foreign critics must suspend their judgment. The analysis of style receives a different development from Scheffer-Boichorst. In his last essay he undertakes to show that many passages of the 'Chronicle,' especially the important one which refers to the _Ordinamenti della Giustizia_, have been borrowed from Villani.[4] This critical weapon is difficult to handle, for it almost always cuts both ways. Yet the German historian has made out an undoubtedly good case by proving Villani's language closer to the original _Ordinamenti_ than Compagni's. With regard to MS. authority, the codices of Dino's 'Chronicle' extant in Italy are all of them derived from a MS. transcribed by Noferi Busini and given by him to Giovanni Mazzuoli, surnamed Lo Stradino, who was a member of the Florentine Academy and a greedy collector of antiquities. This MS. bears the date 1514. The recent origin of this parent codex, and the questionable character of Lo Stradino, gave rise to not unreasonable suspicions. Fanfani roundly asserted that the 'Chronicle' must have been fabricated as a hoax upon the uncritical antiquary, since it suddenly appeared without a pedigree, at a moment when such forgeries were not uncommon. Scheffer-Boichorst, in his most recent pamphlet, committed himself to the opinion that either Lo Stradino himself, nicknamed _Cronaca Scorretta_ by his Florentine cronies, or one of his contemporaries, was the forger.[5] An Italian impugner of the 'Chronicle,' Giusto Grion of Verona, declared for Antonfrancesco Doni as the fabricator.[6] These hypotheses, however, are, to say the least, unlucky for their suggestors, and really serve to weaken rather than to strengthen the destructive line of argument. There exists an elder codex of which Fanfani and his followers were ignorant. It is a MS. of perhaps the middle of the fifteenth century, which was purchased for the Ashburnham Library in 1846. This MS. has been minutely described by Professor Paul Meyer; and Isidoro del Lungo publishes a fac-simile specimen of one of its pages.[7] By some unaccountable negligence this latest and most determined defender of Compagni has failed to examine the MS. with his own eyes. [1] This is Isidoro del Lungo's Codex A. The note occurs also in the Ashburnham MS. which Del Lungo refers to the fifteenth century. [2] On this point it is worth mentioning that some good critics refer the poems to an elder Dino Compagni, who sat as Ancient in 1251. See the discussion of this question, as also of the authorship of the _Intelligenza_, claimed by Isidoro del Lungo for the writer of the 'Chronicle,' in Borgognini's Essays (_Scritti Vari_, Bologna, Romagnoli, 1877, vol. i.). With regard to the oration to Pope John XXII. date 1326, it must be noted that this performance was first printed by Anton Francesco Doni in 1547, and that its genuineness may be disputed. See Carl Hegel, op. cit. pp. 18-22. [3] The most important of Fanfani's numerous essays on the Compagni controversy, together with minor notes by his supporters, are collected in the book quoted above, Note to p. 241. Fanfani exceeds all bounds of decency in the language he uses, and in his arrogant claims to be considered an unique judge of fourteenth-century style. These claims he bases in some measure upon the fact that he deceived the Della Crusca by a forgery of his own making, which was actually accepted for the _Archivio Storico_. See op. cit. p. 181. [4] _Die Chronik_, etc., pp. 53-57. [5] _Die Chronik_, etc., p. 39. [6] See Hegel's op. cit. p. 6. [7] See Del Lungo, op. cit. vol. ii. pp. 19-23, and fac-simile, to face p. 1. This MS. was bought by G. Libri from the Pucci family in 1840, and sold to Lord Ashburnham. Del Lungo identifies it with a MS. which Braccio Compagni in the seventeenth century spoke of as 'la copia più antica, appresso il Signor senatore Pandolfini.' Thus stands the question of Dino Compagni's 'Chronicle.' The defenders of its authenticity, forced to admit Compagni's glaring inaccuracies, fall back upon arguments deduced from the internal spirit of the author, from the difficulties of fabricating a personal narrative instinct with the spirit of the fourteenth century, from the hypotheses of a copyist's errors or of a thorough-going literary process of rewriting at a later date, from the absence of any positive evidence of forgery, and from general considerations affecting the validity of destructive criticism. One thing has been clearly proved in the course of the controversy, that the book can have but little historical value when not corroborated. Still there is a wide gap between inaccuracy and willful fabrication. Until the best judges of Italian style are agreed that the 'Chronicle' could not have been written in the second decade of the fourteenth century, the arguments adduced from an examination of the facts recorded in it are not strong enough to demonstrate a forgery. There is the further question of _cui bono?_ which in all problems of literary forgery must first receive some probable solution. What proof is there that the vanity or the cupidity of any parties was satisfied by its production? A book exists in a MS. of about 1450, acquires some notice in a MS. of 1514, but is not published to the world until 1726. Supposing it to have been a forgery, the labor of concocting it must have been enormous. With all its defects, the 'Chronicle' would still remain a masterpiece of historical research, imagination, sympathy with bygone modes of feeling, dramatic vigor, and antiquarian command of language. But who profited by that labor? Not the author of the forgery, since he was dead or buried more than two centuries before his fabrication became famous. Not the Compagni family; for there is no evidence to show that they had piqued themselves upon being the depositaries of their ancestors masterpiece, nor did they make any effort, at a period when the printing-press was very active, to give this jewel of their archives to the public. If it be objected that, on the hypothesis of genuineness, the MS. of the 'Chronicle' must have been divulged before the beginning of the sixteenth century, we can adduce two plausible answers. In the first place, Dino was the partisan of a conquered cause; and his family had nothing to gain by publishing an acrimonious political pamphlet during the triumph of his antagonists. In the second place, MSS. of even greater literary importance disappeared in the course of the fourteenth century, to be reproduced when their subjects again excited interest in the literary world. The history of Dante's treatise _De Vulgari Eloquio_ is a case in point. With regard to style, no foreigner can pretend to be a competent judge. Reading the celebrated description of Florence at the opening of Dino's 'Chronicle,' I seem indeed, for my own part, to discern a post-Boccaccian artificiality of phrase. Still there is nothing to render it impossible that the 'Chronicle,' as we possess it, in the texts of 1450(?) and 1514, may be a _rifacimento_ of an elder and simpler work. In that section of my history which deals with Italian literature of the fifteenth century, I shall have occasion to show that such remodeling of ancient texts to suit the fashion of the time was by no means unfrequent. The curious discrepancies between the _Trattato della Famiglia_ as written by Alberti and as ascribed to _Pandolfini_ can only be explained upon the hypothesis of such _rifacimento_. If the historical inaccuracies in which the 'Chronicle' abounds are adduced as convincing proof of its fabrication, it may be replied that the author of so masterly a romance would naturally have been anxious to preserve a strict accordance with documents of acknowledged validity. Consequently, these very blunders might not unreasonably be used to combat the hypothesis of deliberate forgery. It is remarkable, in this connection, that only one meager reference is made to Dante by the Chronicler, who, had he been a literary forger, would scarcely have omitted to enlarge upon this theme. Without, therefore, venturing to express a decided opinion on a question which still divides the most competent Italian judges, I see no reason to despair of the problem being ultimately solved in a way less unfavorable to Dino Compagni than Scheffer-Boichorst and Fanfani would approve of. Considered as the fifteenth century _rifacimento_ of an elder document, the 'Chronicle' would lose its historical authority, but would still remain an interesting monument of Florentine literature, and would certainly not deserve the unqualified names of 'forgery' and 'fabrication' that have been unhesitatingly showered upon it.[1] [1] It is to be hoped that the completion of Del Lungo's work may put an end to the Compagni controversy, either by a solid vindication of the 'Chronicle,' or by so weak a defense as to render further partisanship impossible. So far as his book has hitherto appeared, it contains no signs of an ultimate triumph. The weightiest point contained in it is the discovery of the Ashburnham MS. If Del Lungo fails to prove his position, we shall be left to choose between Scheffer-Boichorst's absolute skepticism or the modified view adopted by me in the text. The two chief Florentine historians of the fifteenth century are Lionardo Bruni of Arezzo, and Poggio Bracciolini, each of whom, in his capacity of Chancellor to the Republic, undertook to write the annals of the people of Florence from the earliest date to his own time. Lionardo Aretino wrote down to the year 1404, and Poggio Bracciolini to the year 1455. Their histories are composed in Latin, and savor much of the pedantic spirit of the age in which they were projected.[1] Both of them deserve the criticism of Machiavelli, that they filled their pages too exclusively with the wars and foreign affairs in which Florence was engaged, failing to perceive that the true object of the historian is to set forth the life of a commonwealth as a continuous whole, to draw the portrait of a state with due regard to its especial physiognomy.[2] To this critique we may add that both Lionardo and Poggio were led astray by the false taste of the earlier Renaissance. Their admiration for Livy and the pedantic proprieties of a labored Latinism made them pay more attention to rhetoric than to the substance of their work.[3] We meet with frigid imitations and bombastic generalities, where concise details and graphic touches would have been acceptable. In short, these works are rather studies of style in an age when the greatest stylists were but bunglers and beginners, than valuable histories. The Italians of the fifteenth century, striving to rival Cicero and Livy, succeeded only in becoming lifeless shadows of the past. History dictated under the inspiration of pedantic scholarship, and with the object of reproducing an obsolete style, by men of letters who had played no prominent part in the Commonwealth,[4] cannot pretend to the vigor and the freshness that we admire so much in the writings of men like the Villani, Gino Capponi, Giovanni Cavalcanti, and many others. Yet even after making these deductions, it may be asserted with truth that no city of Italy at this period of the Renaissance, except Florence, could boast historiographers so competent. Vespasiano at the close of his biography of Poggio estimates their labor in sentences which deserve to be remembered: 'Among the other singular obligations which the city of Florence owes to Messer Lionardo and to Messer Poggio, is this, that except the Roman Commonwealth no republic or free state in Italy has been so distinguished as the town of Florence, in having had two such notable writers to record its doings as Messer Lionardo and Messer Poggio; for up to the time of their histories everything was in the greatest obscurity. If the republic of Venice, which can show so many wise citizens, had the deeds which they have done by sea and land committed to writing, it would be far more illustrious even than it is now. And Galeazzo Maria, and Filippo Maria, and all the Visconti--their actions would also be more famous than they are. Nay, there is not any republic that ought not to give every reward to writers who should commemorate its doings. We see at Florence that from the foundation of the city to the days of Messer Lionardo and Messer Poggio there was no record of anything that the Florentines had done, in Latin, or history devoted to themselves. Messer Poggio follows after Messer Lionardo, and writes like him in Latin. Giovanni Villani, too, wrote an universal history in the vulgar tongue of whatsoever happened in every place, and introduces the affairs of Florence as they happened. The same did Messer Filippo Villani, following after Giovanni Villani. These are they alone who have distinguished Florence by the histories that they have written.'[5] The pride of the citizen and a just sense of the value of history, together with sound remarks upon Venice and Milan, mingle curiously in this passage with the pedantry of a fifteenth-century scholar. [1] Poggio's _Historia Populi Florentini_ is given in the XXth volume of Muratori's collection. Lionardo's _Istoria Fiorentina_, translated into Italian by Donato Acciajuoli, has been published by Le Monnier (Firenze, 1861). The high praise which Ugo Foscolo bestowed upon the latter seems due to a want of familiarity. [2] See the preface to the _History of Florence_, by Machiavelli. [3] Lionardo Bruni, for example, complains in the preface to his history that it is impossible to accommodate the rude names of his personages to a polished style. [4] Both Poggio and Lionardo began life as Papal secretaries; the latter was not made a citizen of Florence till late in his career. [5] _Vite di Uomini Illustri_. Barbera, 1859; p. 425. The historians of the first half of the sixteenth century are a race apart. Three generations of pedantic erudition and of courtly or scholastic trifling had separated the men of letters from the men of action, and had made literature a thing of curiosity. Three generations of the masked Medicean despotism had destroyed the reality of freedom in Florence, and had corrupted her citizens to the core. Yet, strange to say, it was at the end of the fifteenth century that the genius of the thirteenth revived. Italian literature was cultivated for its own sake under the auspices of Lorenzo de' Medici. The year 1494 marks the resurrection of the spirit of old liberty beneath the trumpet-blast of Savonarola's oratory. Amid the universal corruption of public morals, from the depth of sloth and servitude, when the reality of liberty was lost, when fate and fortune had combined to render constitutional reconstruction impossible for the shattered republics of Italy, the intellect of the Florentines displayed itself with more than its old vigor in a series of the most brilliant political writers who have ever illustrated one short but eventful period in the life of a single nation. That period is marked by the years 1494 and 1537. It embraces the two final efforts of the Florentines to shake off the Medicean yoke, the disastrous siege at the end of which they fell a prey to the selfishness of their own party-leaders, the persecution of Savonarola by Pope Alexander, the Church-rule of Popes Leo and Clement, the extinction of the elder branch of the Medici in its two bastards (Ippolito, poisoned by his brother Alessandro, and Alessandro poignarded by his cousin Lorenzino), and the final eclipse of liberty beneath the Spain-appointed dynasty of the younger Medicean line in Duke Cosimo. The names of the historians of this period are Niccolo Machiavelli, Jacopo Nardi, Francesco Guicciardini, Filippo Nerli, Donato Giannotti, Benedetto Varchi, Bernardo Segni, and Jacopo Pitti.[1] In these men the mental qualities which we admire in the Villani, Dante, and Compagni reappear, combined, indeed, in different proportions, tempered with the new philosophy and scholarship of the Renaissance, and permeated with quite another morality. In the interval of two centuries freedom has been lost. It is only the desire for freedom that survives. But that, after the apathy of the fifteenth century, is still a passion. The rectitude of instinct and the intense convictions of the earlier age have been exchanged for a scientific clairvoyance, a 'stoic-epicurean acceptance' of the facts of vitiated civilization, which in men like Guicciardini and Machiavelli is absolutely appalling. Nearly all the authors of this period bear a double face. They write one set of memoirs for the public, and another set for their own delectation. In their inmost souls they burn with the zeal for liberty: yet they sell their abilities to the highest bidder--to Popes whom they despise, and to Dukes whom they revile in private. What makes the literary labors of these historians doubly interesting is that they were carried on for the most part independently; for though they lived at the same time, and in some cases held familiar conversation with each other, they gave expression to different shades of political opinion, and their histories remained in manuscript till some time after their death.[2] The student of the Renaissance has, therefore the advantage of comparing and confronting a whole band of independent witnesses to the same events. Beside their own deliberate criticism of the drama in which all played some part as actors or spectators, we can use the not less important testimony they afford unconsciously, according to the bias of private or political interest by which they are severally swayed. [1] The dates of these historians are as follows:-- BORN. DIED. Machiavelli 1469 1527 Nardi 1476 1556 Guicciardini 1482 1540 Nerli 1485 1536 Giannotti 1492 1572 Varchi 1502 1565 Segni 1504 1558 Pitti 1519 1589 [2] Varchi, it is true, had Nardi's _History of Florence_ and Guicciardini's _History of Italy_ before him while he was compiling his _History of Florence_. But Segni and Nerli were given for the first time to the press in the last century; Pitti in 1842, and Guicciardini's _History of Florence_ in 1859. The Storia Fiorentina of Varchi extends from the year 1527 to the year 1538; that of Segni from 1527 to 1555; that of Nardi from 1494 to 1552; that of Pitti from 1494 to 1529; that of Nerli from 1494 to 1537; that of Guicciardini from 1420 to 1509. The prefatory chapters, which in most cases introduce the special subject of each history, contain a series of retrospective surveys over the whole history of Florence extremely valuable for the detailed information they contain, as well as for the critical judgments of men whose acumen had been sharpened to the utmost by their practical participation in politics. It will not, perhaps, be superfluous to indicate the different parts played by these historians in the events of their own time. Guicciardini, it is well known, had governed Bologna and Romagna for the Medicean Popes. He too was instrumental in placing Duke Cosimo at the head of the republic in 1536. At Naples, in 1535, he pleaded the cause of Duke Alessandro against the exiles before Charles V. Nardi on this occasion acted as secretary and advocate for Filippo Strozzi and the exiles; his own history was composed in exile at Venice, where he died. Segni was nephew of the Gonfalonier Capponi, and shared the anxieties of the moderate liberals during the siege of Florence. Pitti was a member of the great house who contested the leadership of the republic with the Medici in the fifteenth century; his zeal for the popular party and his hatred of the Palleschi may still perhaps be tinctured with ancestral animosity. Giannotti, in whose critique of the Florentine republic we trace a spirit no less democratic than Pitti's, was also an actor in the events of the siege, and afterwards appeared among the exiles. In the attempt made by the Cardinal Salviati (1537) to reconcile Duke Cosimo and the adherents of Filippo Strozzi, Giannotti was chosen as the spokesman for the latter. He wrote and died in exile at Venice. Nerli again took part in the events of those troublous times, but on the wrong side, by mixing himself up with the exiles and acting as a spy upon their projects. All the authors I have mentioned were citizens of Florence, and some of them were members of her most illustrious families. Varchi, in whom the flame of Florentine patriotism burns brightest, and who is by far the most copious annalist of the period, was a native of Montevarchi. Yet, as often happens, he was more Florentine than the Florentines; and of the events which he describes, he had for the most part been witness. Duke Cosimo employed him to write the history; it is a credit both to the prince and to the author that its chapters should be full of criticisms so outspoken, and of aspirations after liberty so vehement. On the very first page of his preface Varchi dares to write these words respecting Florence--'divenne, dico, di stato piuttosto corrotto e licenzioso, tirannide, che di sana e moderata repubblica, principato';[1] in which he deals blame with impartial justice all round. It must, however, be remembered that at the time when Varchi wrote, the younger branch of the Medici were firmly established on the throne of Florence. Between this branch and the elder line there had always been a coldness. Moreover, all parties had agreed to accept the duchy as a divinely appointed instrument for rescuing the city from her factions and reducing her to tranquillity.[2] [1] 'It passed, I say, from the condition of a corrupt and ill-conducted commonwealth to tyranny, rather than from a healthy and well-tempered republic to principality.' [2] See _Arch. Stor._ vol. i. p. xxxv. It would be beyond the purpose of this chapter to enter into the details of the history of Florence between 1527 and 1531--those years of her last struggle for freedom, which have been so admirably depicted by her great political annalists. It is rather my object to illustrate the intellectual qualities of philosophical analysis and acute observation for which her citizens were eminent. Yet a sketch of the situation is necessary in order to bring into relief the different points of view maintained by Segni, Nardi, Varchi, Pitti, and Nerli respectively. At the period in question Florence was, according to the universal testimony of these authors, too corrupt for real liberty and too turbulent for the tranquil acceptance of a despotism. The yoke of the Medici had destroyed the sense of honor and the pride of the old noble families; while the policy pursued by Lorenzo and the Popes had created a class of greedy professional politicians. The city was not content with slavery; but the burghers, eminent for wealth or ability, were egotistical, vain, and mutually jealous. Each man sought advantage for himself. Common action seemed impossible. The Medicean party, or Palleschi, were either extreme in their devotion to the ruling house, and desirous of establishing a tyranny; or else they were moderate and anxious to retain the Medici as the chiefs of a dominant oligarchy. The point of union between these two divisions of the party was a prejudice in favor of class rule, a hope to get power and wealth for themselves through the elevation of the princely family The popular faction on the other hand agreed in wishing to place the government of the city upon a broad republican basis. But the leaders of this section of the citizens favored the plebeian cause from different motives. Some sought only a way to riches and authority, which they could never have opened for them under the oligarchy contemplated by the Palleschi. Others, styled Frateschi or Piagnoni, clung to the ideas of liberty which were associated with the high morality and impassioned creed of Savonarola. These were really the backbone of the nation, the class which might have saved the state if salvation had been possible. Another section, steeped in the study of ancient authors and imbued with memories of Roman patriotism, thought it still possible to secure the freedom of the state by liberal institutions. These men we may call the Doctrinaires. Their panacea was the establishment of a mixed form of government, such as that which Giannotti so learnedly illustrated. To these parties must be added the red republicans, or Arrabbiati--a name originally reserved for the worst adherents of the Medici, but now applied to fanatics of Jacobin complexion--and the Libertines, who only cared for such a form of government as should permit them to indulge their passions. Amid this medley of interests there resulted, as a matter of fact, two policies at the moment when the affairs of Florence, threatened by Pope and Emperor in combination, and deserted by France and the rest of Italy, grew desperate. One was that of the Gonfalonier Capponi, who advocated moderate counsels and an accommodation with Clement VII. The other was that of the Gonfalonier Carducci, who pushed things to extremities and used the enthusiasm of the Frateschi for sustaining the spirit of the people in the siege.[1] The latter policy triumphed over the former. Its principles were an obstinate belief in Francis, though he had clearly turned a deaf ear to Florence; confidence in the generals, Baglioni and Colonna, who were privately traitors to the cause they professed to defend; and reliance on the prophecies of Savonarola, supported by the preaching of the Friars Foiano, Bartolommeo, and Zaccaria. Ill-founded as it was in fact, the policy of Carducci had on its side all that was left of nobility, patriotism, and the fire of liberty among the Florentines. In spite of the hopelessness of the attempt, we cannot now read without emotion how bravely and desperately those last champions of freedom fought, to maintain the independence of their city at any cost, and in the teeth of overwhelming opposition. The memory of Savonarola was the inspiration of this policy. Ferrucci was its hero. It failed. It was in vain that the Florentines had laid waste Valdarno, destroyed their beautiful suburbs, and leveled their crown of towers. It was in vain that they had poured forth their treasures to the uttermost farthing, had borne plague and famine without a murmur, and had turned themselves at the call of their country into a nation of soldiers, Charles, Clement, the Palleschi, and Malatesta Baglioni--enemies without the city walls and traitors within its gates--were too powerful for the resistance of burghers who had learned but yesterday to handle arms and to conduct a war on their own account.[2] Florence had to capitulate. The venomous Palleschi, Francesco Guicciardini and Baccio Valori, by proscription, exile, and taxation, drained the strength and broke the spirit of the state. Cæsar and Christ's Vicar, a new Herod and a new Pilate, embraced and made friends over the prostrate corpse of sold and slaughtered liberty. Florence was paid as compensation for the insult offered to the Pontiff in the sack of Rome. [1] Guicciardini, writing his _Ricordi_ during the first months of the siege, remarks upon the power of faith (_Op. Ined._ vol. i. p. 83. Compare p. 134): 'Esemplo a' dì nostri ne è grandissimo questa ostinazione de' Fiorentini, che essendosi contro a ogni ragione del mondo messi a aspettare la guerra del papa e imperadore, senza speranza di alcuno soccorso di altri, disuniti e con mille difficultà, hanno sostenuto in quelle mura già sette mesi gli e serciti, e quali non sì sarebbe creduto che avessino sostenuti sette dì; e condotto le cose in luogo che se vincessino, nessuno più se ne maraviglierebbe, dove prima da tutti erano giudicati perduti; e questa ostinazione ha causata in gran parte la fede di non potere perire, secondo le predicazioni di Fra Jeronimo da Ferrara.' [2] See above, p. 238, for what Giannotti says of the heroic Ferrucci. The part played by Filippo Strozzi in this last drama of the liberties of Florence is feeble and discreditable, but at the same time historically instructive, since it shows to what a point the noblest of the Florentines had fallen. All Pitti's invectives against the Ottimati, bitter as they may be, are justified by the unvarnished narrative we read upon the pages of Varchi and Segni concerning this most vicious, selfish, vain, and brilliant hero of historical romance. Married to Clarice de' Medici, by whom he had a splendid family of handsome and vigorous sons, he was more than the rival of his wife's princely relatives by his wealth. Yet though he made a profession of patriotism, Filippo failed to use this great influence consistently as a counterpoise to the Medicean authority. It was he, for instance, who advised Lorenzo the younger to make himself Duke of Florence. Distinguished, as he was, above all men of his time for wit, urbanity, accomplishments, and splendid living, his want of character neutralized these radiant gifts of nature. His private morals were infamous. He encouraged by precept and example the worst vices of his age and nation, consorting with young men whom he instructed in the arts of dissolute living, and to whom he communicated his own selfish Epicureanism. To him in a great measure may be attributed the corruption of the Florentine aristocracy in the sixteenth century. In his public action he was no less vacillating than unprincipled in private life. After prevailing upon Ippolito and Alessandro de' Medici to leave Florence in 1527, he failed to execute his trust of getting Pisa from their grasp (moved, it is said, by a guilty fondness for the young and handsome Ippolito), nor did he afterwards share any of the hardships and responsibilities of the siege. Indeed, he then found it necessary to retire into exile in France, on the excuse of superintending his vast commercial affairs at Lyons. After the restoration of the Medici he returned to Florence as the courtier of Duke Alessandro, whom he aided and abetted in his juvenile debaucheries. Quarreling with Alessandro on the occasion of an insult offered to his daughter Luisa, and the accusation of murder brought against his son Piero, he went into opposition and exile, less for political than for private reasons. After the murder of Alessandro, he received Lorenzo de' Medici, the fratricide, with the title of 'Second Brutus' at Venice. Meanwhile it was he who paid the dowry of Catherine de' Medici to the Duke of Orleans, helping thus to strengthen the house of princes against whom he was plotting, by that splendid foreign alliance which placed a descendant of the Florentine bill-brokers on the throne of France. After all these vicissitudes Filippo Strozzi headed an armed attack upon the dominions of Duke Cosimo, was taken in the battle of Montemurlo, and finally was murdered in that very fortress, outside the Porto a Faenza, which he had counseled Alessandro to construct for the intimidation of the Florentines.[1] The historians with the exception of Nerli agree in describing him as a pleasure-loving and self-seeking man, whose many changes of policy were due, not to conviction, but to the desire of gaining the utmost license of disorderly living. At the same time we cannot deny him the fame of brilliant mental qualities, a princely bearing, and great courage. [1] See Varchi, vol. iii. p. 61, for the first stone laid of this castle. It should be said that accounts disagree about Filippo's death. Nerli very distinctly asserts that he committed suicide. Segni inclines to the belief that he was murdered by the creatures of Duke Cosimo. The moral and political debility which proved the real source of the ruin of Florence is accounted for in different ways by the historians of the siege. Pitti, whose insight into the situation is perhaps the keenest, and who is by far the most outspoken, does not refer the failure of the Florentines to the cowardice or stupidity of the popular party, but to the malignity of the Palleschi, the double-dealing and egotism of the wealthy nobles, who to suit their own interests favored now one and now another of the parties. These Ottimati--as he calls them, by a title borrowed from classical phraseology--whether they professed the Medicean or the popular cause, were always bent on self-aggrandizement at the expense of the people or their princes.[1] The sympathies of Pitti were on the side of the plebeians, whose policy during the siege was carried out by the Gonfalonier Carducci. At the same time he admitted the feebleness and insufficiency of many of these men, called from a low rank of life and from mechanical trades to the administration of the commonwealth. The state of Florence under Piero Soderini--that 'non mai abbastanza lodato cavaliere,' as he calls him--was the ideal to which he reverted with longing eyes. Segni, on the other hand, condemns the ambition of the plebeian leaders, and declares his opinion that the State could only have been saved by the more moderate among the influential citizens. He belonged in fact to that section of the Medicean party which Varchi styles the Neutrals. He had strong aristocratic leanings, and preferred a government of nobles to the popular democracy which flourished under Francesco Carducci. While he desired the liberty of Florence, Segni saw that the republic could not hold its own against both Pope and Emperor, at a crisis when the King of France, who ought to have rendered assistance in the hour of need, was bound by the treaty of Cambray, and by the pledges he had given to Charles in the persons of his two sons. The policy of which Segni approved was that which Niccolo Capponi had prepared before his fall--a reconciliation with Clement through the intervention of the Emperor, according to the terms of which the Medici should have been restored as citizens of paramount authority, but not as sovereigns. Varchi, while no less alive to the insecurity of Carducci's policy, was animated with a more democratic spirit. He had none of Segni's Whig leanings, but shared the patriotic enthusiasm which at that supreme moment made the whole state splendidly audacious in the face of insurmountable difficulties. Both Segni and Varchi discerned the exaggerated and therefore baneful influence of Savonarola's prophecies over the populace of Florence. In spite of continued failure, the people kept trusting to the monk's prediction that, after her chastisement, Florence would bloom forth with double luster, and that angels in the last resort would man her walls and repel the invaders. There is something pathetic in this delusion of a great city, trusting with infantine pertinacity to the promises of the man whom they had seen burned as an impostor, when all the while their statesmen and their generals were striking bargains with the foe. Nardi is more sincerely Piagnone than either Segni or Varchi. Yet, writing after the events of the siege, his faith is shaken; and while he records his conviction that Savonarola was an excellent Nomothetes, he questions his prophetic mission, and deplores the effect produced by his vain promises. Nerli, as might have been expected from a noble married to Caterina Salviati, the niece of Leo and the aunt of Cosimo, who had himself been courtier to Clement and privy councilor to Alessandro, sustains the Medicean note throughout his commentaries. [1] He goes so far as to assert that Leo X. and Clement VII. wished to give a liberal constitution to Florence, but that their plans were frustrated by the avarice and jealousy of the would-be oligarchs. See _Arch. Stor_. vol. i. pp. 121,131. The passages quoted from his 'Apologia de' Cappucci,' relative to Machiavelli, Filippo Strozzi, and Francesco Guicciardini (_Arch. Stor_. vol. i. pp. xxxix. xxxviii.), are very instructive; with such greedy self-seeking oligarchs, it was impossible for the Medicean Popes to establish any government but a tyranny in Florence. Thus from these five authors, writing from different points of view, we gain a complete insight into the complicated politics of Florence, at a period when her vitality was still vigorous, but when she had lost all faculty for centralized or concerted action. In sagacity, in the power of analysis with which they pierce below the surface, trace effects to causes, discern character, and regard the facts of history as the proper subject-matter of philosophical reflection, they have much in common. He who has seen Rembrandt's painting of the dissecting-room might construct for himself another picture, in which the five grave faces of these patient observers should be bent above the dead and diseased body of their native city. Life is extinct. Nothing is left for science but, scalpel in hand, to lay bare the secret causes of dissolution. Each anatomist has his own opinion to deliver upon the nature of the malady. Each records the facts revealed by the autopsy according to his own impressions. The literary qualities of these historians are very different, and seem to be derived from essential differences in their characters. Pitti is by far the most brilliant in style, concentrated in expression to the point of epigram, and weighty in judgment. Nardi, though deficient in some of the most attractive characteristics of the historian, is invaluable for sincerity of intention and painstaking accuracy. The philosophical, rhetorical, and dramatic passages which add so much splendor to the works of Guicciardini are absent from the pages of Nardi. He is anxious to present a clear picture of what happened; but he cannot make it animated, and he never reflects at length upon the matter of his history. At the same time he lacks the _naïiveté_ which makes Corio, Allegretti, Infessura, and Matarazzo so amusing. He gossips as little as Machiavelli, and has no profundity to make up for the want of piquancy. The interest of his chronicle is greatest in the part which concerns Savonarola, though even here the peculiarly reticent and dubitative nature of the man is obvious. While he sympathizes with Savonarola's political and moral reforms, he raises a doubt about his inner sincerity, and does not approve of the attitude of the Piagnoni.[1] In his estimation of men Nardi was remarkably cautious, preferring always to give an external relation of events, instead of analyzing motives or criticising character.[2] He is in especial silent about bad men and criminal actions. Therefore, when he passes an adverse judgment (as, for instance, upon Cesare Borgia), or notes a dark act (as the _stuprum_ committed upon Astorre Manfredi), his corroboration of historians more addicted to scandal is important. Segni is far more lively than Nardi, while he is not less painstaking to be accurate. He shows a partisan feeling, especially in his admiration for Niccolo Capponi and his prejudice against Francesco Carducci, which gives the relish of personality that Nardi's cautiously dry chronicle lacks. Rarely have the entangled events of a specially dramatic period been set forth more lucidly, more succinctly, and with greater elegance of style. Segni is deficient, when compared with Varchi, only perhaps in volume, minuteness, and that wonderful mixture of candor, enthusiasm, and zeal for truth which makes Varchi incomparable. His sketches of men, critiques, and digressions upon statistical details are far less copious than Varchi's. But in idiomatic purity of language he is superior. Varchi had been spoiled by academic habits of composition. His language is diffuse and lumbering. He lacks the vivacity of epigram, selection, and pointed phrase. But his Storia Fiorentina remains the most valuable repertory of information we possess about the later vicissitudes of the republic, and the charm of detail compensates for the lack of style. Nerli is altogether a less interesting writer than those that have been mentioned; yet some of the particulars which he relates, about Savonarola's reform of manners, for example, and the literary gatherings in the Rucellai gardens, are such as we find nowhere else. [1] Book ii. cap. 16. [2] See lib. ii. cap. 34: 'Nel nostro scrivere non intendiamo far giudizio delle cose incerte, e massimamente della intenzione e animo segreto degli uomini, che non apparisce chiara se non per congettura e riscontro delle cose esteriori. E però stando termo il primo proposito, vogliamo raccontare quanto più possibile ci sia, la verità delle cose fatte, più tosto che delle pensate o immaginate.' This is dignified and noble language in an age which admired the brilliant falsehoods of Giovio. Many of my readers will doubtless feel that too much time has been spent in the discussion of these annalists of the siege of Florence. Yet for the student of history they have a value almost unique. They suggest the possibilities of a true science of comparative history, and reveal a vivacity of the historic consciousness which can be paralleled by no other nation. How different might be our conception of the vicissitudes of Athens between 404 and 338 B.C. if we possessed a similar Pleiad of contemporary Greek authors! Having traced the development of historical research and political philosophy in Florence from the year 1300 to the fall of the Republic, it remains to speak of the two greatest masters of practical and theoretical statecraft--Francesco Guicciardini and Niccolo Machiavelli. These two writers combine all the distinctive qualities of the Florentine historiographers in the most eminent perfection. At the same time they are, not merely as authors but also as men, mirrors of the times in which they both played prominent parts. In their biographies and in their works we trace the spirit of an age devoid of moral sensibility, penetrative in analysis, but deficient in faith, hope, enthusiasm, and stability of character. The dry light of the intellect determined their judgment of men, as well as their theories of government. On the other hand, the sordid conditions of existence to which they were subjected as the servants of corrupt states, or the instruments of wily princes--as diplomatists intent upon the plans of kings like Ferdinand or adventurers like Cesare Borgia, privy councilors of such Popes as Clement VII. and such tyrants as Duke Alessandro de' Medici--distorted their philosophy and blunted their instincts. For the student of the sixteenth century they remain riddles, the solution of which is difficult, because by no strain of the imagination is it easy to place ourselves in their position. One half of their written utterances seem to be at variance with the other half. Their actions often contradict their most brilliant and emphatic precepts; while contemporaries disagree about their private character and public conduct. All this confusion, through which it is now perhaps impossible to discern what either Guicciardini or Machiavelli really was, and what they really felt and thought, is due to the anomaly of consummate ability and unrivaled knowledge of the world existing without religious or political faith, in an age of the utmost depravity of public and private morals. No criticism could be more stringent upon the contemporary disorganization of society in Italy than is the silent witness of these men, sublimely great in all mental qualities, but helplessly adrift upon a sea of contradictions and of doubts, ignorant of the real nature of mankind in spite of all their science, because they leave both goodness and beauty out of their calculations. Francesco Guicciardini was born in 1482. In 1505, at the age of twenty-three, he had already so distinguished himself as a student of law that he was appointed by the Signoria of Florence to read the Institutes in public. However, as he preferred active to professorial work, he began at this time to practice at the bar, where he soon ranked as an able advocate and eloquent speaker. This reputation, together with his character for gravity and insight, determined the Signoria to send him on an embassy to the Court of Ferdinand of Aragon in 1512. Thus Guicciardini entered on the real work of his life as a diplomatist and statesman. We may also conclude with safety that it was at the court of that crowned hypocrite and traitor to all loyalty of soul that he learned his first lessons in political cynicism. The court of Spain under Ferdinand the Catholic was a perfect school of perfidy, where even an Italian might discern deeper reaches of human depravity and formulate for his own guidance a philosophy of despair. It was whispered by his enemies that here, upon the threshold of his public life, Guicciardini sold his honor by accepting a bribe from Ferdinand.[1] Certain it is that avarice was one of his besetting sins, and that from this time forward he preferred expediency to justice, and believed in the policy of supporting force by clever dissimulation.[2] Returning to Florence, Guicciardini was, in 1515, deputed to meet Leo X. on the part of the Republic at Cortona. Leo, who had the faculty of discerning able men and making use of them, took him into favor, and three years later appointed him Governor of Reggio and Modena. In 1521 Parma was added to his rule. Clement VII. made him Viceroy of Romagna in 1523, and in 1526 elevated him to the rank of Lieutenant-General of the Papal army. In consequence of this high commission, Guicciardini shared in the humiliation attaching to all the officers of the League who, with the Duke of Urbino at their head suffered Rome to be sacked and the Pope to be imprisoned in 1527. The blame of this contemptible display of cowardice or private spite cannot, however, be ascribed to him: for he attended the armies of the League not as general, but as counselor and chief reporter. It was his business not to control the movements of the army so much as to act as referee in the Pope's interest, and to keep the Vatican informed of what was stirring in the camp. In 1531 Guicciardini was advanced to the governorship of Bologna, the most important of all the Papal lord-lieutenancies. This post he resigned in 1534 on the election of Paul III., preferring to follow the fortunes of the Medicean princes at Florence. In this sketch of his career I must not omit to mention that Guicciardini was declared a rebel in 1527 by the popular government on account of his well-known Medicean prejudices, and that in 1530 he had been appointed by Clement VII. to punish the rebellious citizens. On the latter occasion he revenged himself for the insults offered him in 1527 by the cruelty with which he pushed proscription to the utmost limits, relegating his enemies to unhealthy places of exile, burdening them with intolerable fines, and using all the indirect means which his ingenuity could devise for forcing them into outlawry and contumacy.[3] Therefore when he returned to inhabit Florence, he did so as the creature of the Medici, sworn to maintain the bastard Alessandro in his power. He was elected a member of the Senate of eighty; and so thoroughly did he espouse the cause of his new master, that he had the face to undertake the Duke's defense before Charles V. at Naples in 1535. On this occasion Alessandro, who had rendered himself unbearable by his despotic habits, and in particular by the insults which he offered to women of all ranks and conditions in Florence, was arraigned by the exiles before the bar of Cæsar. Guicciardini won the cause of his client, and restored Alessandro with an Imperial confirmation of his despotism to Florence. This period of his political career deserves particular attention, since it displays a glaring contradiction between some of his unpublished compositions and his actions, and confirms the accusations of his enemies.[4] That he should have preferred a government of Ottimati, or wealthy nobles, to a more popular constitution, and that he should have adhered with fidelity to the Medicean faction in Florence, is no ground for censure.[5] But when we find him in private unmasking the artifices of the despots by the most relentless use of frigid criticism, and advocating a mixed government upon the type of the Venetian Constitution, we are constrained to admit with Varchi and Pitti that his support of Alessandro was prompted less by loyalty than by a desire to gratify his own ambition and avarice under the protective shadow of the Medicean tyranny.[6] He belonged in fact to those selfish citizens whom Pitti denounces, diplomatists and men of the world, whose thirst for power induced them to play into the hands of the Medici, wishing to suck the state[7] themselves, and to hold the prince in the leading-strings of vice and pleasure for their own advantage.[8] After the murder of Alessandro, it was principally through Guicciardini's influence that Cosimo was placed at the head of the Florentine Republic with the title of Duke. Cosimo was but a boy, and much addicted to field sports. Guicciardini therefore reckoned that, with an assured income of 12,000 ducats, the youth would be contented to amuse himself, while he left the government of Florence in the hands of his Vizier.[9] But here the wily politician overreached himself. Cosimo wore an old head on his young shoulders. With decent modesty and a becoming show of deference, he used Guicciardini as his ladder to mount the throne by, and then kicked the ladder away. The first days of his administration showed that he intended to be sole master in Florence. Guicciardini, perceiving that his game was spoiled, retired to his villa in 1537 and spent the last years of his life in composing his histories. The famous Istoria d' Italia was the work of one year of this enforced retirement. The question irresistibly rises to our mind, whether some of the severe criticisms passed upon the Medici in his unpublished compositions were the fruit of these same bitter leisure hours.[10] Guicciardini died in 1540 at the age of fifty-eight, without male heirs. [1] See the 'Apologia de' Cappucci,' _Arch. Stor._ vol. iv. part 2, p. 318. [2] For the avarice of Guicciardini, see Varchi, vol. i. p. 318. His _Ricordi Politici_ amply justify the second, though not the first, clause of this sentence. [3] See Varchi, book xii. (and especially cap. xxv.), for these arts; he says, 'Nel che messer Francesco Guicciardini si scoperse più crudele e più appassionato degli altri.' [4] Knowing what sort of tyrant Alessandro was, and remembering 'hat Guicciardini had written (_Ricordi_, No. ccxlii.): 'La calcina con che si murano gli stati de' tiranni è il sangue de' cittadini: però doverebbe sforzarsi ognuno che nella città sua non s'avessino a murare tali palazzi,' it is very difficult to approve of his advocacy of the Duke. [5] Though even here the selfish ambition of the man was apparent to contemporaries: 'egli arebbe voluto uno stato col nome d' Ottimati, ma in fatti de' Pochi, nel quale larghissima parte, per le sue molte e rarissime qualità, meritissimamente gli si venia.'--Varchi, vol. i. p. 318. [6] Guicciardini's _Storia Fiorentina_ and _Reggimento di Firenze_ (_Op. Ined._ vols. i, and iii.) may be consulted for his private critique of the Medici. What was the judgment passed upon him by contemporaries may be gathered from Varchi, vols. i. pp. 238, 318; ii. 410; iii. 204. Segni, pp. 219, 332. Nardi, vol. ii. p. 287. Pitti, quoted in _Arch. Stor._ vol. i. p. xxxviii., and the 'Apologia de' Cappucci' (_Arch. Stor._ vol. iv. pt. 2). It is, however, only fair to Guicciardini to record here his opinion, expressed in _Ricordi_, Nos. ccxx. and cccxxx., that it was the duty of good citizens to seek to guide the tyrant: 'Credo sia uficio di buoni cittadini, quando la patria viene in mano di tiranni, cercare d'avere luogo con loro per potere persuadere il bene, e detestare il male; e certo è interesse della città che in qualunque tempo gli uomini da bene abbino autorità; e ancora che gli ignoranti e passionati di Firenze l' abbino sempre intesa altrimenti, si accorgerebbono quanta pestifero sarebbe il governo de' Medici, se non avessi intorno altri che pazzi e cattivi.' [7] See Varchi, vol. iii. p. 204. 'Che Cosimo ... _succiarsi lo stato_.' [8] Pitti dips his pen in gall when he describes these citizens: 'Cotesti vogliosi Ottimati; i quali non hanno saputo mai ritrovare luogo che piaccia loro, sottomendosi ora al Medici per l'ingorda avarizia; ora gittandosi al popolo, per non potere a modo loro tiraneggiare; ora rivendendolo a' Medici, vedutisi scoperti e raffrenati da lui; e sempre mai con danno della Repubblica, e di ciascuna parte, inquieti, insaziabili e fraudolenti.'--'Apologia de' Cappucci,' _Arch. Stor._ xv. pt. ii. p. 215. [9] Here is a graphic touch in Varchi's _History_, vol. iii. p. 202. Guicciardini is discussing the appointment of Cosimo de' Medici: 'Gli dovessero esser pagati per suo piatto ogn' anno 12,000 fiorini d' oro, e non più, avendo il Guicciardino, _abbassando il viso e alzando gli occhi_, detto: "Un 12,000 fiorini d' oro è--un bello spendere."' [10] Pitti seems to have taken this view: see 'Apologia de' Cappucci' (_Arch. Stor._ vol. iv. part ii. p. 329): 'Tosto che 'l duca Cosimo lo pose a sedere insieme con certi altri suoi colleghi, si adirò malamente; e se la disputa della provvisione non l' avesse ritenuto, sarebbe ito a servire papa Pagolo terzo. Onde, restato confuso e disperato, si tratteneva alla sua villa di Santa Margarita a Montici; dove transportato dalla stizza ritoccò in molte parti la sua Istoria, per mostrare di non essere stato della setta Pallesca; e dove potette, accattó l' occasione di parere istrumento della Repubblica.' Guicciardini's own apology for his treatment of the Medici, in the proemio to the treatise _Del Reggimento di Firenze_, deserves also to be read. Turning now from the statesman to the man of letters, we find in Guicciardini one of the most consummate historians of any nation or of any age. The work by which he is best known, the Istoria d' Italia, is one that can scarcely be surpassed for masterly control of a very intricate period, for subordination of the parts to the whole, for calmness of judgment and for philosophic depth of thought. Considering that Guicciardini in this great work was writing the annals of his own times, and that he had to disentangle the raveled skein of Italian politics in the sixteenth century, these qualities are most remarkable. The whole movement of the history recalls the pomp and dignity of Livy, while a series of portraits sketched from life with the unerring hand of an anatomist and artist add something of the vivid force of Tacitus. Yet Guicciardini in this work deserves less commendation as a writer than as a thinker. There is a manifest straining to secure style, by manipulation and rehandling, which contrasts unfavorably with the unaffected ease, the pregnant spontaneity, of his unpublished writings. His periods are almost interminable, and his rhetoric is prolix and monotonous. We can trace the effort to emulate the authors of antiquity without the ease which is acquired by practice or the taste that comes with nature. The transcendent merit of the history is this--that it presents us with a scientific picture of politics and of society during the first half of the sixteenth century. The picture is set forth with a clairvoyance and a candor that are almost terrible. The author never feels enthusiasm for a moment: no character, however great for good or evil, rouses him from the attitude of tranquil disillusioned criticism. He utters but few exclamations of horror or of applause. Faith, religion, conscience, self-subordination to the public good, have no place in his list of human motives; interest, ambition, calculation, envy, are the forces which, according to his experience, move the world. That the strong should trample on the weak, that the wily should circumvent the innocent, that hypocrisy and fraud and dissimulation should triumph, seems to him but natural. His whole theory of humanity is tinged with the sad gray colors of a stolid, cold-eyed, ill-contented, egotistical indifference. He is not angry, desperate, indignant, but phlegmatically prudent, face to face with the ruin of his country. For him the world was a game of intrigue, in which his friends, his enemies, and himself played parts, equally sordid, with grave faces and hearts bent only on the gratification of mean desires. Accordingly, though his mastery of detail, his comprehension of personal motives, and his analysis of craft are alike incomparable, we find him incapable of forming general views with the breadth of philosophic insight or the sagacity of a frank and independent nature. The movements of the eagle and the lion must be unintelligible to the spider or the fox. It was impossible for Guicciardini to feel the real greatness of the century, or to foresee the new forces to which it was giving birth. He could not divine the momentous issues of the Lutheran schism; and though he perceived the immediate effect upon Italian politics of the invasion of the French, he failed to comprehend the revolution marked out for the future in the shock of the modern nations. While criticising the papacy, he discerned the pernicious results of nepotism and secular ambition: but he had no instinct for the necessity of a spiritual and religious regeneration. His judgment of the political situation led him to believe that the several units of the Italian system might be turned to profit and account by the application of superficial remedies,--by the development of despotism, for example, or of oligarchy, when in reality the decay of the nation was already past all cure. Two other masterpieces from Guicciardini's pen, the _Dialogo del Reggimento di Firenze_ and the _Storia Fiorentina_, have been given to the world during the last twenty years. To have published them immediately after their author's death would have been inexpedient, since they are far too candid and outspoken to have been acceptable to the Medicean dynasty. Yet in these writings we find Guicciardini at his best. Here he has not yet assumed the mantle of the rhetorician, which in the _Istoria d' Italia_ sits upon him somewhat cumbrously. His style is more spontaneous; his utterances are less guarded. Writing for himself alone, he dares to say more plainly what he thinks and feels. At the same time the political sagacity of the statesman is revealed in all its vigor. I have so frequently used both of these treatises that I need not enter into a minute analysis of their contents. It will be enough to indicate some of the passages which display the literary style and the scientific acumen of Guicciardini at their best. The _Reggimento di Firenze_ is an essay upon the form of government for which Florence was best suited. Starting with a discussion of Savonarola's constitution, in which ample justice is done to the sagacity and promptitude by means of which he saved the commonwealth at a critical juncture (pp. 27-30), the interlocutors pass to an examination of the Medicean tyranny (pp. 34-49). This is one of the masterpieces of Guicciardini's analysis. He shows how the administration of justice, the distribution of public honors, and the foreign policy of the republic were perverted by this family. He condemns Cosimo's tyrannical application of fines and imposts (p. 68), Piero the younger's insolence (p. 46), and Lorenzo's appropriation of the public moneys to his private use (p. 43). Yet while setting forth the vices of this tyranny in language which even Sismondi would have been contented to translate and sign, Guicciardini shows no passion. The Medici were only acting as befitted princes eager for power, although they crushed the spirit of the people, discouraged political ardor, extinguished military zeal, and did all that in them lay to enervate the nation they governed. The scientific statist acknowledges no reciprocal rights and duties between the governor and the governed. It is a trial of strength. If the tyrant gets the upper hand, the people must expect to be oppressed. If, on the other side, the people triumph, they must take good care to exterminate the despotic brood: 'The one true remedy would be to destroy and extinguish them so utterly that not a vestige should remain, and to employ for this purpose the poignard or poison, as may be most convenient; otherwise the least surviving spark is certain to cause trouble and annoyance for the future'(p. 215). The same precise criticism lays bare the weakness of democracy. Men, says Guicciardini, always really desire their own power more than the freedom of the state (p. 50), and the motives even of tyrannicides are very rarely pure (pp. 53-54). The governments established by the liberals are full of defects. The Consiglio Grande, for example, of the Florentines is ignorant in its choice of magistrates, unjust in its apportionment of taxes, scarcely less prejudiced against individuals than a tyrant would be, and incapable of diplomatic foreign policy (pp. 58-69). Then follows a discussion of the relative merits of the three chief forms of government--the Governo dell' Uno, the Governo degli Ottimati, and the Governo del Popolo (p. 129). Guicciardini has already criticised the first and the third.[1] He now expresses a strong opinion that the second is the worst which could be applied to the actual conditions of the Florentine Republic (p. 130). His panegyric of the Venetian constitution (pp. 139-41) illustrates his plan for combining the advantages of the three species and obviating their respective evils. In fact he declares for that Utopia of the sixteenth century--the Governo Misto--a political invention which fascinated the imagination of Italian statesmen much in the same way as the theory of perpetual motion attracted scientific minds in the last century.[2] What follows is an elaborate scheme for applying the principles of the Governo Misto to the existing state of things in Florence. This lucid and learned disquisition is wound up (p. 188) with a mournful expression of the doubt which hung like a thick cloud over all the political speculations of both Guicciardini and Machiavelli: 'I hold it very doubtful, and I think it much depends on chance whether this disorganized constitution will ever take new shape or not ... and as I said yesterday, I should have more hope if the city were but young; seeing that not only does a state at the commencement take form with greater facility than one that has grown old under evil governments, but things always turn out more prosperously and more easily while fortune is yet fresh and has not run its course,' etc.[3] In reading the Dialogue on the Constitution of Florence it must finally be remembered that Guicciardini has thrown it back into the year 1494, and that he speaks through the mouths of four interlocutors. Therefore we may presume that he intended his readers to regard it as a work of speculative science rather than of practical political philosophy. Yet it is not difficult to gather the drift of his own meaning. [1] Cf. _Ricordi_, cxl.: 'Chi disse uno popolo, disse veramente uno animale pazzo, pieno ni mille errori, di mille confusioni, sanza gusto, sanza diletto, sanza stabilità.' It should be noted that Guicciardini here and elsewhere uses the term Popolo in its fuller democratic sense. The successive enlargements of the burgher class in Florence, together with the study of Greek and Latin political philosophy, had introduced the modern connotation of the term. [2] A lucid criticism of the three forms of government is contained in Guicciardini's Comment on the second chapter of the first book of Machiavelli's _Discorsi_ (_Op. Ined._ vol. i. p. 6): 'E non è dubio che il governo misto delle tre spezie, principi, ottimati e popolo, è migliore e più stabile che uno governo semplice di qualunque delle tre spezie, e massime quando è misto in modo che di qualunque spezie è tolto il buono e lasciato indietro il cattivo.' Machiavelli had himself, in the passage criticised, examined the three simple governments and declared in favor of the mixed as that which gave stability to Sparta, Rome, and Venice. The same line of thought may be traced in the political speculations of both Plato and Aristotle. The Athenians and Florentines felt the superior stability of the Spartan and Venetian forms of government, just as a French theorist might idealize the English constitution. The essential element of the Governo Misto, which Florence had lost beyond the possibility of regaining it, was a body of hereditary and patriotic patricians. This gave its strength to Venice; and this is that which hitherto has distinguished the English nation. [3] Compare _Ricordi Politici e Civili_, No. clxxxix., for a lament of this kind over the decrepitude of kingdoms, almost sublime in its stoicism. The _Istoria Fiorentina_ is a succinct narrative of the events of Italian History, especially as they concerned Florence, between the years 1378 and 1509. In other words it relates the vicissitudes of the Republic under the Medici, and the administration of the Gonfalonier Soderini. This masterpiece of historical narration sets forth with brevity and frankness the whole series of events which are rhetorically and cautiously unfolded in the Istoria d' Italia. Most noticeable are the characters of Lorenzo de' Medici (cap. ix.), of Savonarola (cap. xvii.), and of Alexander VI. (cap. xxvii.). The immediate consequences of the French invasion have never been more ably treated than in Chapter xi., while the whole progress of Cesare Borgia in his career of villany is analyzed with exquisite distinctness in Chapter xxvi. The wisdom of Guicciardini nowhere appears more ripe, or his intellect more elastic, than in the _Istoria Fiorentina_. Students who desire to gain a still closer insight into the working of Guicciardini's mind should consult the 403 _Ricordi Politici e Civili_ collected in the first volume of his _Opere Inedite_. These have all the charm which belongs to occasional utterances, and are fit, like proverbs, to be worn for jewels on the finger of time. The biography of Niccolo Machiavelli consists for the most part of a record of his public services to the State of Florence. He was born on May 3, 1469, of parents who belonged to the prosperous middle class of Florentine citizens. His ancestry was noble; for the old tradition which connected his descent with the feudal house of Montespertoli has been confirmed by documentary evidence.[1] His forefathers held offices of high distinction in the Commonwealth; and though their wealth and station had decreased, Machiavelli inherited a small landed estate. His family, who were originally settled in the Val di Pesa, owned farms at San Casciano and in other villages of the Florentine dominion, a list of which may be seen in the return presented by his father Bernardo to the revenue office in 1498.[2] Their wealth was no doubt trivial in comparison with that which citizens amassed by trade in Florence; for it was not the usage of those times to draw more than the necessaries of life from the Villa: all superfluities were provided by the Bottega in the town.[3] Yet there can be no question, after a comparison of Bernardo Machiavelli's return of his landed property with Niccolo Machiavelli's will,[4] that the illustrious war secretary at all periods of his life owned just sufficient property to maintain his family in a decent, if not a dignified, style. About his education we know next to nothing. Giovio[5] asserts that he possessed but little Latin, and that he owed the show of learning in his works to quotations furnished by Marcellus Virgilius. This accusation, which, whether it be true or not, was intended to be injurious, has lost its force in an age that, like ours, values erudition less than native genius. It is certain that Machiavelli knew quite enough of Latin and Greek literature to serve his turn; and his familiarity with some of the classical historians and philosophers is intimate. There is even too much parade in his works of illustrations borrowed from Polybius, Livy, and Plutarch: the only question is whether Machiavelli relied upon translations rather than originals. On this point, it is also worthy of remark that his culture was rather Roman than Hellenic. Had he at any period of his life made as profound a study of Plato's political dialogues as he made of Livy's histories, we cannot but feel that his theories both of government and statecraft might have been more concordant with a sane and normal humanity. [1] See Villani's _Machiavelli_, vol. i. p. 303. Ed. Le Monnier. [2] See vol. i. of the edition of Machiavelli, by Mess. Fanfani and Passerini, Florence, 1873; p. lv. Villani's Machiavelli, ib. p. 306. The income is estimated at about 180_l._ [3] See Pandolfini, _Trattato del Governo della Famiglia_. [4] Fanfani and Passerini's edition, vol. i. p. xcii. [5] Elogia, cap. 87. In 1494, the date of the expulsion of the Medici, Machiavelli was admitted to the Chancery of the Commune as a clerk; and in 1498 he was appointed to the post of chancellor and secretary to the _Dieci di libertà e pace_. This place he held for the better half of fifteen years, that is to say, during the whole period of Florentine freedom. His diplomatic missions undertaken at the instance of the Republic were very numerous. Omitting those of less importance, we find him at the camp of Cesare Borgia in 1502, in France in 1504, with Julius II. in 1506, with the Emperor Maximilian in 1507, and again at the French Court in 1510.[1] To this department of his public life belong the dispatches and Relazioni which he sent home to the Signory of Florence, his Monograph upon the Massacre of Sinigaglia, his treatises upon the method of dealing with Pisa, Pistoja, and Valdichiana, and those two remarkable studies of foreign nations which are entitled _Ritratti delle Cose dell' Alemagna_ and _Ritratti delle Cose di Francia_. It was also in the year 1500 that he laid the first foundations of his improved military system. The political sagacity and the patriotism for which Machiavelli has been admired are nowhere more conspicuous than in the discernment which suggested this measure, and in the indefatigable zeal with which he strove to carry it into effect. Pondering upon the causes of Italian weakness when confronted with nations like the French, and comparing contemporary with ancient history, Machiavelli came to the conclusion that the universal employment of mercenary troops was the chief secret of the insecurity of Italy. He therefore conceived a plan for establishing a national militia, and for placing the whole male population at the service of the state in times of war. He had to begin cautiously in bringing this scheme before the public; for the stronghold of the mercenary system was the sloth and luxury of the burghers. At first he induced the _Dieci di libertà e pace_, or war office, to require the service of one man per house throughout the Florentine dominion; but at the same time he caused a census to be taken of all men capable of bearing arms. His next step was to carry a law by which the permanent militia of the state was fixed at 10,000. Then in 1503, having prepared the way by these preliminary measures, he addressed the Council of the Burghers in a set oration, unfolding the principles of his proposed reform, and appealing not only to their patriotism but also to their sense of self-preservation. It was his aim to prove that mercenary arms must be exchanged for a national militia, if freedom and independence were to be maintained. The Florentines allowed themselves to be convinced, and, on the recommendation of Machiavelli, they voted in 1506 a new magistracy, called the _Nove dell' Ordinanza e Milizia_, for the formation of companies, the discipline of soldiers, and the maintenance of the militia in a state of readiness for active service.[2] Machiavelli became the secretary of this board; and much of his time was spent thenceforth in the levying of troops and the practical development of his system. It requires an intimate familiarity with the Italian military system of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries to understand the importance of this reform. We are so accustomed to the systems of Militia, Conscription, and Landwehr, by means of which military service has been nationalized among the modern races, that we need to tax our imagination before we can place ourselves at the point of view of men to whom Machiavelli's measure was a novelty of genius.[3] [1] Machiavelli never bore the title of Ambassador on these missions. He went as Secretary. His pay was miserable. We find him receiving one ducat a day for maintenance. [2] Documents relating to the institution of the _Nove dell' Ordinanza e Milizia_, and to its operations between December 6, 1506, and August 6, 1512, from the pen of Machiavelli, will be found printed by Signor Canestrini in _Arch. Stor._ vol. xv. pp. 377 to 453. Machiavelli's treatise _De re militari_, or _I libri sull' arte della guerra_, was the work of his later life; it was published in 1521 at Florence. [3] Though Machiavelli deserves the credit of this military system, the part of Antonio Giacomini in carrying it into effect must not be forgotten. Pitti, in his 'Life of Giacomini' (_Arch. Stor._ vol. iv. pt. ii. p. 241), says: 'Avendo per dieci anni continovi fatto prova nelle fazioni e nelle battaglie de' fanti del dominio e delli esterni, aveva troppo bene conosciuto con quanta più sicurezza si potesse la repubblica servire de' suoi propri che delli istranieri.' Machiavelli had gone as Commissary to the camp of Giacomini before Pisa in August 1505; there the man of action and the man of theory came to an agreement: both found in the Gonfalonier Soderini a chief of the republic capable of entering into their views. It must be admitted that the new militia proved ineffectual in the hour of need. To revive the martial spirit of a nation, enervated by tyranny and given over to commerce, merely by a stroke of genius, was beyond the force of even Machiavelli. When Prato had been sacked in 1512, the Florentines, destitute of troops, divided among themselves and headed by the excellent but hesitating Piero Soderini, threw their gates open to the Medici. Giuliano, the brother of Pope Leo, and Lorenzo, his nephew, whose statues sit throned in the immortality of Michael Angelo's marble upon their tombs in San Lorenzo, disposed of the republic at their pleasure. Machiavelli, as War Secretary of the anti-Medicean government, was of course disgraced and deprived of his appointments. In 1513 he was suspected of complicity in the conjuration of Pietropaolo Boscoli and Agostino Capponi, was imprisoned in the Bargello, and tortured to the extent of four turns of the rack. It seems that he was innocent. Leo X. released him by the act of amnesty passed upon the event of his assuming the tiara; and Machiavelli immediately retired to his farm near San Casciano. Since we are now approaching the most critical passage of Machiavelli's biography, it may be well to draw from his private letters a picture of the life to which this statesman of the restless brain was condemned in the solitude of the country.[1] Writing on December 10 to his friend Francesco Vettori, he says, 'I am at my farm; and, since my last misfortunes, have not been in Florence twenty days. I rise with the sun, and go into a wood of mine that is being cut, where I remain two hours inspecting the work of the previous day and conversing with the woodcutters, who have always some trouble on hand among themselves or with their neighbors. When I leave the wood, I proceed to a well, and thence to the place which I use for snaring birds, with a book under my arm--Dante, or Petrarch, or one of the minor poets, like Tibullus or Ovid. I read the story of their passions, and let their loves remind me of my own, which is a pleasant pastime for a while. Next I take the road, enter the inn door, talk with the passers-by, inquire the news of the neighborhood, listen to a variety of matters, and make note of the different tastes and humors of men. This brings me to dinner-time, when I join my family and eat the poor produce of my farm. After dinner I go back to the inn, where I generally find the host and a butcher, a miller, and a pair of bakers. With these companions I play the fool all day at cards or backgammon: a thousand squabbles, a thousand insults and abusive dialogues take place, while we haggle over a farthing, and shout loud enough to be heard from San Casciano. But when evening falls I go home and enter my writing-room. On the threshold I put off my country habit, filthy with mud and mire, and array myself in royal courtly garments; thus worthily attired, I make my entrance into the ancient courts of the men of old, where they receive me with love, and where I feed upon that food which only is my own and for which I was born. I feel no shame in conversing with them and asking them the reason of their actions. They, moved by their humanity, make answer; for four hours' space I feel no annoyance, forget all care; poverty cannot frighten, nor death appall me. I am carried away to their society. And since Dante says "that there is no science unless we retain what we have learned," I have set down what I have gained from their discourse, and composed a treatise, _De Principatibus_, in which I enter as deeply as I can into the science of the subject, with reasonings on the nature of principality, its several species, and how they are acquired, how maintained, how lost. If you ever liked any of my scribblings, this ought to suit your taste. To a prince, and especially to a new prince, it ought to prove acceptable. Therefore I am dedicating it to the Magnificence of Giuliano.' [1] This letter may be compared with others of about the same date. In one (Aug. 3, 1514) he says: 'Ho lasciato dunque i pensieri delle cose grandi e gravi, non mi diletta più leggere le cose antiche, nè ragionare delle moderne; tutte si son converse in ragionamenti dolci,' etc. Again he writes (Dec. 4, 1514): 'Quod autem ad me pertinet, si quid agam scire cupis, omnem meae vitae rationem ab eodem Tafano intelliges, quam sordidam ingloriamque, non sine indignatione, si me ut soles amas, cognosces.' Later on, we may notice the same language. Thus (Feb. 5, 1515), 'Sono diventato inutile a me, a' parenti ed agli amici,' and (June 8, 1517) 'Essendomi io ridotto a stare in villa per le avversità che io ho avuto ed ho, sto qualche volta un mese che non mi ricordo di me.' Further on in the same letter he writes: 'I have talked with Filippo Casavecchia about this little work of mine, whether I ought to present it or not; and if so, whether I ought to send or take it myself to him. I was induced to doubt about presenting it at all by the fear lest Giuliano should not even read it, and that this Ardinghelli should profit by my latest labors. On the other hand, I am prompted to present it by the necessity which pursues me, seeing that I am consuming myself in idleness, and I cannot continue long in this way without becoming contemptible through poverty. I wish these Signori Medici would begin to make some use of me, if it were only to set me to the work of rolling a stone.[1] If I did not win them over to me afterwards, I should only complain of myself. As for my book, if they read it, they would perceive that the fifteen years I have spent in studying statecraft have not been wasted in sleep or play; and everybody ought to be glad to make use of a man who has so filled himself with experience at the expense of others. About my fidelity they ought not to doubt. Having always kept faith, I am not going to learn to break it now. A man who has been loyal and good for forty-three years, like me, is not likely to change his nature; and of my loyalty and goodness my poverty is sufficient witness to them.' [1] Compare the letter, dated June 10, 1514, to Fr. Vettori: 'Starommi dunque così tra i miei cenci, senza trovare uomo che della mia servitù si ricordi, o che creda che io possa esser buono a nulla. Ma egli è impossibile che io possa star molto così, perchè io mi logoro,' etc. Again, Dec. 20, 1514: 'E se la fortuna avesse voluto che i Medici, o in cosa di Firenze o di fuora, o in cose loro particolari o in pubbliche, mi avessino una volta comandato, io sarei contento.' This letter, invaluable to the student of Machiavelli's works, is prejudicial to his reputation. It was written only ten months after he had been imprisoned and tortured by the Medici, just thirteen months after the republic he had served so long had been enslaved by the princes before whom he was now cringing. It is true that Machiavelli was not wealthy; his habits of prodigality made his fortune insufficient for his needs.[1] It is true that he could ill bear the enforced idleness of country life, after being engaged for fifteen years in the most important concerns of the Florentine Republic. But neither his poverty, which, after all, was but comparative, nor his inactivity, for which he found relief in study, justifies the tone of the conclusion to this letter. When we read it, we cannot help remembering the language of another exile, who while he tells us-- Come sa di sale Lo pane altrui, e com' è duro calle Lo scendere e 'l salir per l' altrui scale --can yet refuse the advances of his factious city thus: 'If Florence cannot be entered honorably, I will never set foot within her walls. And what? Shall I not be able from any angle whatsoever of the earth to gaze upon the sun and stars? shall I not beneath whatever region of the heavens have power to meditate the sweetest truths, unless I make myself ignoble first, nay ignominious, in the face of Florence and her people? Nor will bread, I warrant, fail me!' If Machiavelli, who in this very letter to Vettori quoted Dante, had remembered these words, they ought to have fallen like drops of molten lead upon his soul. But such was the debasement of the century that probably he would have only shrugged his shoulders and sighed, 'Tempora mutantur, nos et mutamur in illis.' [1] See familiar letter, June 10, 1514. In some respects Dante, Machiavelli, and Michael Angelo Buonarroti may be said to have been the three greatest intellects produced by Florence. Dante in exile and in opposition, would hold no sort of traffic with her citizens. Michael Angelo, after the siege, worked at the Medici tombs for Pope Clement, as a makepeace offering for the fortification of Samminiato; while Machiavelli entreats to be put _to roll a stone by these Signori Medici_, if only he may so escape from poverty and dullness. Michael Angelo, we must remember, owed a debt of gratitude as an artist to the Medici for his education in the gardens of Lorenzo. Moreover, the quatrain which he wrote for his statue of the Night justifies us in regarding that chapel as the cenotaph designed by him for murdered Liberty. Machiavelli owed nothing to the Medici, who had disgraced and tortured him, and whom he had opposed in all his public action during fifteen years. Yet what was the gift with which he came before them as a suppliant, crawling to the footstool of their throne? A treatise _De Principatibus_; in other words, the celebrated _Principe_; which, misread it as Machiavelli's apologists may choose to do, or explain it as the rational historian is bound to do, yet carries venom in its pages. Remembering the circumstances under which it was composed, we are in a condition to estimate the proud humility and prostrate pride of the dedication. 'Niccolo Machiavelli to the Magnificent Lorenzo, son of Piero de' Medici:' so runs the title. 'Desiring to present myself to your Magnificence with some proof of my devotion, I have not found among my various furniture aught that I prize more than the knowledge of the actions of great men acquired by me through a long experience of modern affairs and a continual study of ancient. These I have long and diligently revolved and examined in my mind, and have now compressed into a little book which I send to your Magnificence. And though I judge this work unworthy of your presence, yet I am confident that your humanity will cause you to value it when you consider that I could not make you a greater gift than this of enabling you in a few hours to understand what I have learned through perils and discomforts in a lengthy course of years.' 'If your Magnificence will deign, from the summit of your height, some time to turn your eyes to my low place, you will know how unjustly I am forced to endure the great and continued malice of fortune.' The work so dedicated was sent in MS. for the Magnificent's private perusal. It was not published until 1532, by order of Clement VII., after the death of Machiavelli. I intend to reserve the _Principe_, considered as the supreme expression of Italian political science, for a separate study; and after the introduction to Macaulay's Essay on Machiavelli, I need hardly enter in detail into a discussion of the various theories respecting the intention of this treatise.[1] Yet this is the proper place for explaining my view about Machiavelli's writings in relation to his biography, and for attempting to connect them into such unity as a mind so strictly logical as his may have designed. [1] Macaulay's essay is, of course, brilliant and comprehensive. I do not agree with his theory of the Italian despot, as I have explained on p. 127 of this volume. Sometimes, too, he indulges in rhetoric that is merely sentimental, as when he says about the dedication of the Florentine History to Clement: 'The miseries and humiliations of dependence, the bread which is more bitter than every other food, the stairs which are more painful than every other ascent, had not broken the spirit of Machiavelli. _The most corrupting post in a corrupting profession had not depraved the generous heart of Clement._' The sentence I have printed in italics may perhaps tell the truth about the Church and Popes in general; but the panegyric of Clement is preposterous. Macaulay must have been laughing in his sleeve. With regard to the circumstances under which the Prince was composed, enough has been already said. Machiavelli's selfish purpose in putting it forth seems to my mind apparent. He wanted employment: he despaired of the republic: he strove to furnish the princes in power with a convincing proof of his capacity for great affairs. Yet it must not on this account be concluded that the _Principe_ was merely a cheap bid for office. On the contrary, it contained the most mature and the most splendid of Machiavelli's thoughts, accumulated through his long years of public service; and, strange as it may seem, it embodied the dream of a philosophical patriot for the restitution of liberty to Italy. Florence, indeed, was lost. 'These Signori Medici' were in power. But could not even they be employed to purge the sacred soil of Italy from the Barbarians? If we can pretend to sound the depths of Machiavelli's mind at this distance of time, we may conjecture that he had come to believe the free cities too corrupt for independence. The only chance Italy had of holding her own against the great powers of Europe was by union under a prince. At the same time the Utopia of this union, with which he closes the _Principe_, could only be realized by such a combination as would either neutralize the power of the Church, or else gain the Pope for an ally by motives of interest. Now at the period of the dedication of the _Principe_ to Lorenzo de' Medici, Leo X. was striving to found a principality in the states of the Church.[1] In 1516 he created his nephew Duke of Urbino, and it was thought that this was but a prelude to still further greatness. Florence in combination with Rome might do much for Italy. Leo meanwhile was still young, and his participation in the most ambitious schemes was to be expected. Thus the moment was propitious for suggesting to Lorenzo that he should put himself at the head of an Italian kingdom, which, by its union beneath the strong will of a single prince, might suffice to cope with nations more potent in numbers and in arms.[2] The _Principe_ was therefore dedicated in good faith to the Medici, and the note on which it closes was not false. Machiavelli hoped that what Cesare Borgia had but just failed in accomplishing, Lorenzo de' Medici, with the assistance of a younger Pope than Alexander, a firmer basis to his princedom in Florence, and a grasp upon the states of the Church made sure by the policy of Julius II., might effect. Whether so good a judge of character as Machiavelli expected really much from Lorenzo may be doubted. [1] We are, however, bound to remember that Leo was only made Pope in March 1513, and that the _Principe_ was nearly finished in the following December. Machiavelli cannot therefore be credited with knowing as well as we do now to what length the ambition of the Medici was about to run when he composed his work. He wrote in the hope that it might induce them to employ him. [2] The two long letters to Fr. Vettori (Aug. 26, 1513) and to Piero Soderini (no date) should be studied side by side with the _Principe_ for the light they throw on Machiavelli's opinions there expressed. These circumstances make the morality of the book the more remarkable. To teach political science denuded of commonplace hypocrisies was a worthy object. But while seeking to lay bare the springs of action, and to separate statecraft from morals, Machiavelli found himself impelled to recognize a system of inverted ethics. The abrupt division of the two realms, ethical and political, which he attempted, was monstrous; and he ended by substituting inhumanity for human nature. Unable to escape the logic which links morality of some sort with conduct, he gave his adhesion to the false code of contemporary practice. He believed that the right way to attain a result so splendid as the liberation of Italy was to proceed by force, craft, bad faith, and all the petty arts of a political adventurer. The public ethics of his day had sunk to this low level. Success by means of plain dealing was impossible. The game of statecraft could only be carried on by guile and violence. Even the clear genius of Machiavelli had been obscured by the muddy medium of intrigue in which he had been working all his life. Even his keen insight was dazzled by the false splendor of the adventurer Cesare Borgia. To have formulated the ethics of the _Principe_ is not diabolical. There is no inventive superfluity of naughtiness in the treatise. It is simply a handbook of princecraft, as that art was commonly received in Italy, where the principles of public morality had been translated into terms of material aggrandizement, glory, gain, and greatness. No one thought of judging men by their motives but by their practice; they were not regarded as moral but as political beings, responsible, that is to say, to no law but the obligation of success. Crimes which we regard as horrible were then commended as magnanimous, if it could be shown that they were prompted by a firm will and had for their object a deliberate end. Machiavelli and Paolo Giovio, for example, both praise the massacre at Sinigaglia as a masterstroke of art, without uttering a word in condemnation of its perfidy. Machiavelli sneers at Gianpaolo Baglioni because he had not the courage to strangle his guest Julius II. and to crown his other crimes with this signal act of magnanimity. What virtue had come to mean in the Italian language we have seen already. The one quality which every one despised was simplicity, however this might be combined with lofty genius and noble aims. It was because Soderini was simple and had a good heart that Machiavelli wrote the famous epigram-- La notte che morì Pier Soderini L' alma n' andò dell' inferno alla bocca; E Pluto le gridò: Anima sciocca, Che inferno? va nel limbo de' bambini. The night that Peter Soderini died, His soul flew down unto the mouth of hell: 'What? Hell for you? You silly spirit!' cried The fiend: 'your place is where the babies dwell.' As of old in Corcyra, so now in Italy, 'guilelessness, which is the principal ingredient of genuine nobleness, was laughed down, and disappeared.'[1] What men feared was not the moral verdict of society, pronouncing them degraded by vicious or violent acts, but the intellectual estimate of incapacity and the stigma of dullness. They were afraid of being reckoned among feebler personalities; and to escape from this contempt, by the commission even of atrocities, had come to be accounted manly. The truth, missed almost universally, was that the supreme wisdom, the paramount virility, is law-abiding honesty, the doing of right because right is right, in scorn of consequence. Nothing appears more clearly in the memoirs of Cellini than this point, while the Italian novels are full of matter bearing on the same topic. It is therefore ridiculous to assume that an Italian judged of men or conduct in any sense according to our standards. Pinturicchio and Perugino thought it no shame to work for princes like the Baglioni and for Popes like Alexander VI. Lionardo da Vinci placed his talents as an engineer at the service of Cesare Borgia, and employed his genius as a musician and a painter for the amusement of the Milanese Court, which must have been, according to Corio's account, flagrantly and shamelessly corrupt. Leo Battista Alberti, one of the most charming and the gentlest spirits of the earlier Renaissance, in like manner lent his architectural ability to the vanity of the iniquitous Sigismondo Malatesta. No: the _Principe_ was not inconsistent with the general tone of Italian morality; and Machiavelli cannot be fairly taxed with the discovery of a new infernal method. The conception of politics as a bare art of means to ends had grown up in his mind by the study of Italian history and social customs. His idealization of Cesare Borgia and his romance of Castruccio were the first products of the theory he had formed by observation of the world he lived in. The _Principe_ revealed it fully organized. But to have presented such an essay in good faith to the despots of his native city, at that particular moment in his own career, and under the pressure of trivial distress, is a real blot upon his memory. [1] Thuc. iii. 83. The whole of the passage about Corcyra in the third book of Thucydides (chs. 82 and 83) applies literally to the moral condition of Italy at this period. We learn from Varchi that Machiavelli was execrated in Florence for his _Principe_, the poor thinking it would teach the Medici to take away their honor, the rich regarding it as an attack upon their wealth, and both discerning in it a death-blow to freedom.[1] Machiavelli can scarcely have calculated upon this evil opinion, which followed him to the grave: for though he showed some hesitation in his letter to Vettori about the propriety of presenting the essay to the Medici, this was only grounded on the fear lest a rival should get the credit of his labors. Again, he uttered no syllable about its being intended for a trap to catch the Medici, and commit them to unpardonable crimes. We may therefore conclude that this explanation of the purpose of the _Principe_ (which, strange to say, has approved itself to even recent critics) was promulgated either by himself or by his friends, as an after-thought, when he saw that the work had missed its mark, and at the time when he was trying to suppress the MS.[2] Bernardo Giunti in the dedication of the edition of 1532, and Reginald Pole in 1535, were, I believe, the first to put forth this fanciful theory in print. Machiavelli could not before 1520 have boasted of the patriotic treachery with which he was afterwards accredited, so far, at any rate, as to lose the confidence of the Medicean family; for in that year the Cardinal Giulio de' Medici commissioned him to write the history of Florence. [1] _Storia Fior._ lib. iv. cap. 15. [2] See Varchi, loc. cit. The letter written by Machiavelli to Fr. Guicciardini from Carpi, May 17, 1521, should be studied in this connection. It is unfortunately too mutilated to be wholly intelligible. After explaining his desire to be of use to Florence, but not after the manner most approved of by the Florentines themselves, he says: 'io credo che questo sarebbe il vero modo di andare in Paradiso, imparare la via dell' Inferno per fuggirla.' The _Principe_, after its dedication to Lorenzo, remained in MS., and Machiavelli was not employed in spite of the continual solicitations of his friend Vettori.[1] Nothing remained for him but to seek other patrons, and to employ his leisure in new literary work. Between 1516 and 1519, therefore, we find him taking part in the literary and philosophical discussions of the Florentine Academy, which assembled at that period in the Rucellai Gardens.[2] It was here that he read his Discourses on the First Decade of Livy--a series of profound essays upon the administration of the state, to which the sentences of the Roman historian serve as texts. Having set forth in the _Principe_ the method of gaining or maintaining sovereign power, he shows in the _Discorsi_ what institutions are necessary to preserve the body politic in a condition of vigorous activity. We may therefore regard the _Discorsi_ as in some sense a continuation of the _Principe_. But the wisdom of the scientific politician is no longer placed at the disposal of a sovereign. He addresses himself to all the members of a state who are concerned in its prosperity. Machiavelli's enemies have therefore been able to insinuate that, after teaching tyranny in one pamphlet, he expounded the principles of opposition to a tyrant in the other, shifting his sails as the wind veered.[3] The truth here also lies in the critical and scientific quality of Machiavelli's method. He was content to lecture either to princes or to burghers upon politics, as an art which he had taken great pains to study, while his interest in the demonstration of principles rendered him in a measure indifferent to their application.[4] In fact, to use the pithy words of Macaulay, 'the Prince traces the progress of an ambitious man, the Discourses the progress of an ambitious people. The same principles on which, in the former work, the elevation of an individual is explained, are applied in the latter to the longer duration and more complex interest of a society.' [1] The political letters addressed to Francesco Vettori, at Rome, and intended probably for the eye of Leo X., were written in 1514. The discourse addressed to Leo, _sulla riforma dello stato di Firenze_, may be referred perhaps to 1519. [2] Of these meetings Filippo de' Nerli writes in the Seventh Book of his Commentaries, p. 138: 'Avendo convenuto assai tempo nell' orto de' Rucellai una certa scuola di giovani letterati e d' elevato ingegno, infra quali praticava continuamente Niccolò Machiavelli (ed io ero di Niccolò e di tutti loro amicissimo, e molto spesso con loro convirsavo), s' esercitavano costoro assai, mediante le lettere, nelle lezioni dell' istorie, e sopra di esse, ed a loro istanza compose il Machiavello quel suo libro de' discorsi sopra Tito Livio, e anco il libro di que' trattati e ragionamenti sopra la milizia.' [3] See Pitti, 'Apologia de' Cappucci,' _Arch. Stor._ vol. iv. pt. ii. p. 294. [4] The dedication of the _Discorsi_ contains a phrase which recalls Machiavelli's words about the _Principe_: 'Perche in quello io ho espresso quanto io so, e quanto io ho imparato per una lunga pratica e continua lezione delle cose del mondo.' The Seven Books on the Art of War may be referred with certainty to the same period of Machiavelli's life. They were probably composed in 1520. If we may venture to connect the works of the historian's leisure, according to the plan above suggested, this treatise forms a supplement to the _Principe_ and the _Discorsi_. Both in his analysis of the successful tyrant and in his description of the powerful commonwealth he had insisted on the prime necessity of warfare, conducted by the people and their rulers in person. The military organization of a great kingdom is here developed in a separate Essay, and Machiavelli's favorite scheme for nationalizing the militia of Italy is systematically expounded. Giovio's flippant objection, that the philosopher could not in practice maneuver a single company, is no real criticism on the merit of his theory. By this time the Medici had determined to take Machiavelli into favor; and since he had expressed a wish to be set at least to rolling stones, they found for him a trivial piece of work. The Franciscans at Carpi had to be requested to organize a separate Province of their Order in the Florentine dominion; and the conduct of this weighty matter was intrusted to the former secretary at the Courts of Maximilian and Louis. Several other missions during the last years of his life devolved upon Machiavelli; but none of them were of much importance: nor, when the popular government was instituted in 1527, had he so far regained the confidence of the Florentines as to resume his old office of war secretary. This post, considering his recent alliance with the Medicean party, he could hardly have expected to receive; and therefore it is improbable that the news of Gianotti's election at all contributed to cause his death.[1] Disappointment he may indeed have felt: for his moral force had been squandered during fifteen years in the attempt to gain the favor of princes who were now once more regarded as the enemies of their country. When the republic was at last restored, he found himself in neither camp. The overtures which he had made to the Medici had been but coldly received; yet they were sufficiently notorious to bring upon him the suspicion of the patriots. He had not sincerely acted up to the precept of Polonius: 'This above all,--to thine own self be true.' His intellectual ability, untempered by sufficient political consistency or moral elevation, had placed him among the outcasts:-- che non furon ribelli, Nè fur fedeli a Dio, ma per sè foro. The great achievement of these years was the composition of the _Istorie Fiorentine_. The commission for this work he received from Giulio de' Medici through the Officiali dello Studio in 1520, with an annual allowance of 100 florins. In 1527, the year of his death, he dedicated the finished History to Pope Clement VII. This masterpiece of literary art, though it may be open to the charges of inaccuracy and superficiality,[2] marks an epoch in the development of modern historiography. It must be remembered that it preceded the great work of Guicciardini by some years, and that before the date of its appearance the annalists of Italy had been content with records of events, personal impressions, and critiques of particular periods. Machiavelli was the first to contemplate the life of a nation in its continuity, to trace the operation of political forces through successive generations, to contrast the action of individuals with the evolution of causes over which they had but little control, and to bring the salient features of the national biography into relief by the suppression of comparatively unimportant details. By thus applying the philosophical method to history, Machiavelli enriched the science of humanity with a new department. There is something in his view of national existence beyond the reach of even the profoundest of the classical historians. His style is adequate to the matter of his work. Never were clear and definite thoughts expressed with greater precision in language of more masculine vigor. We are irresistibly compelled, while characterizing this style, to think of the spare sinews of a trained gladiator. Though Machiavelli was a poet, he indulges in no ornaments of rhetoric.[3] His images, rare and carefully chosen, seem necessary to the thoughts they illustrate. Though a philosopher, he never wanders into speculation. Facts and experience are so thoroughly compacted with reflection in his mind, that his widest generalizations have the substance of realities. The element of unreality, if such there be, is due to a misconception of human nature. Machiavelli seems to have only studied men in masses, or as political instruments, never as feeling and thinking personalities. [1] See Varchi, loc. cit. [2] See the criticisms of Ammirato and Romagnosi, quoted by Cantù, _Letteratura Italiana_, p. 187. [3] I shall have to speak elsewhere of Machiavelli's comedies, occasional poems, novel of 'Belphegor,' etc. Machiavelli, according to the letter addressed by his son Pietro to Francesco Nelli, died of a dose of medicine taken at the wrong time. He was attended on his deathbed by a friar, who received his confession. His private morality was but indifferent. His contempt for weakness and simplicity was undisguised. His knowledge of the world and men had turned to cynicism. The frigid philosophy expressed in his political Essays, and the sarcastic speeches in which he gave a vent to his soured humors, made him unpopular. It was supposed that he had died with blasphemy upon his lips, after turning all the sanctities of human nature into ridicule. Through these myths, as through a mist, we may discern the bitterness of that great, disenchanted, disappointed soul. The desert in which spirits of the stamp of Machiavelli wander is too arid and too aerial for the gross substantial bugbears of the vulgar conscience to inhabit. Moreover, as Varchi says, 'In his conversation Machiavelli was pleasant, serviceable to his friends, a friend of virtuous men, and, in a word, worthy of having received from nature either less genius or a better mind.' CHAPTER VI. 'THE PRINCE' OF MACHIAVELLI. The Sincerity of Machiavelli in this Essay--Machiavellism--His deliberate Formulation of a cynical political Theory--Analysis of the Prince--Nine Conditions of Principalities--The Interest of the Conqueror acknowledged as the sole Motive of his Policy--Critique of Louis XII.--Feudal Monarchy and Oriental Despotism--Three Ways of subduing a free City--Example of Pisa--Principalities founded by Adventurers--Moses, Romulus, Cyrus, Theseus--Savonarola--Francesco Sforza--Cesare Borgia--Machiavelli's personal Relation to him--Machiavelli's Admiration of Cesare's Genius--A Sketch of Cesare's Career--Concerning those who have attained to Sovereignty by Crimes--Oliverotto da Fermo--The Uses of Cruelty--Messer Ramiro d' Orco--The pessimistic Morality of Machiavelli--On the Faith of Princes--Alexander VI.--The Policy of seeming virtuous and honest--Absence of chivalrous Feeling in Italy--The Military System of a powerful Prince--Criticism of Mercenaries and Auxiliaries--Necessity of National Militia--The Art of War--Patriotic Conclusion of the Treatise--Machiavelli and Savonarola. After what has been already said about the circumstances under which Machiavelli composed the _Principe_, we are justified in regarding it as a sincere expression of his political philosophy. The intellect of its author was eminently analytical and positive; he knew well how to confine himself within the strictest limits of the subject he had chosen. In the _Principe_ it was not his purpose to write a treatise of morality, but to set forth with scientific accuracy the arts which he considered necessary to the success of an absolute ruler. We may therefore accept this essay as the most profound and lucid exposition of the principles by which Italian statesmen were guided in the sixteenth century. That Machiavellism existed before Machiavelli has now become a truism. Gian Galeazzo Visconti, Louis XI. of France, Ferdinand the Catholic, the Papal Curia, and the Venetian Council had systematically pursued the policy laid down in the chapters of the _Prince_. But it is no less true that Machiavelli was the first in modern times to formulate a theory of government in which the interests of the ruler are alone regarded, which assumes a separation between statecraft and morality, which recognizes force and fraud among the legitimate means of attaining high political ends, which makes success alone the test of conduct, and which presupposes the corruption, venality, and baseness of mankind at large. It was this which aroused the animosity of Europe against Machiavelli, as soon as the Prince attained wide circulation. Nations accustomed to the Monarchical rather than the Despotic form of government resented the systematic exposition of an art of tyranny which had long been practiced among the Italians. The people of the North, whose moral fiber was still vigorous, and who retained their respect for established religion, could not tolerate the cynicism with which Machiavelli analyzed his subject from the merely intellectual point of view. His name became a byword. 'Am I Machiavel?' says the host in the _Merry Wives of Windsor_. Marlowe makes the ghost of the great Florentine speak prologue to the _Jew of Malta_ thus-- I count religion but a childish toy, And hold there is no sin but ignorance. When the Counter-reformation had begun in Italy, and desperate efforts were being made to check the speculative freedom of the Renaissance, the _Principe_ was condemned by the Inquisition. Meanwhile it was whispered that the Spanish princes, and the sons of Catherine de' Medici upon the throne of France, conned its pages just as a manual of toxicology might be studied by a Marquise de Brinvilliers. Machiavelli became the scapegoat of great political crimes; and during the religious wars of the sixteenth century there were not wanting fanatics who ascribed such acts of atrocity as the Massacre of S. Bartholomew to his venomous influence. Yet this book was really nothing more or less than a critical compendium of facts respecting Italy, a highly condensed abstract of political experience. In it as in a mirror we may study the lineaments of the Italian despot who by adventure or by heritage succeeded to the conduct of a kingdom. At the same time the political principles here established are those which guided the deliberations of the Venetian Council and the Papal Court, no less than the actions of a Sforza or a Borgia upon the path to power. It is therefore a document of the very highest value for the illustration of the Italian conscience in relation to political morality. The _Principe_ opens with the statement that all forms of government may be classified as republics or as principalities. Of the latter some are hereditary, others acquired. Of the principalities acquired in the lifetime of the ruler some are wholly new, like Milan under Francesco Sforza; others are added of hereditary kingdoms, like Naples to Spain. Again, such acquired states have been previously accustomed either to the rule of a single man or to self-government. Finally they are won either with the conqueror's own or with borrowed armies, either by fortune or by ability.[1] Thus nine conditions under which principalities may be considered are established at the outset. [1] The word Virtù, which I have translated ability, is almost equivalent to the Greek [Greek: _aretê_], before it had received a moral definition, or to the Roman Virtus. It is very far, as will be gathered from the sequel of the _Principe_, from denoting what we mean by Virtue. The short chapter devoted by Machiavelli to hereditary principalities may be passed over as comparatively unimportant. It is characteristic of Italian politics that the only instance he adduces of this form of government in Italy is the Duchy of Ferrara. States and cities were so frequently shifting owners in the sixteenth century that the scientific politician was justified in confining his attention to the method of establishing and preserving principalities acquired by force. When he passes to the consideration of this class, Machiavelli enters upon the real subject of his essay. The first instance he discusses is that of a prince who has conquered a dominion which he wishes to unite as firmly as possible to his hereditary states. The new territory may either belong to the same nationality and language as the old possession, or may not. In the former case it will be enough to extinguish the whole line of the ancient rulers, and to take care that neither the laws nor the imposts of the province be materially altered. It will then in course of time become by natural coalition part of the old kingdom. But if the acquired dominion be separate in language, customs, and traditions from the old, then arises a real difficulty for the conqueror. In order to consolidate his empire and to accustom his new subjects to his rule, Machiavelli recommends that he should either take up his residence in the subjugated province, or else plant colonies throughout it, but that he should by no means trust merely to garrisons. 'Colonies,' he remarks, 'are not costly to the prince, are more faithful, and cause less offense to the subject states; those whom they may injure, being poor and scattered, are prevented from doing mischief. For it should be observed that men ought either to be caressed or trampled out, seeing that small injuries may be avenged, whereas great ones destroy the possibility of retaliation; and so the damage that has to be inflicted ought to be such that it need involve no fear of vengeance.' I quote this passage as a specimen of Machiavelli's direct and scientific handling of the most inhuman necessities of statecraft, as conceived by him.[1] He uses no hypocritical palliation to disguise the egotism of the conqueror. He does not even pretend to take into consideration any interests but those of the ambitious prince. He treats humanity as though it were the marble out of which the political artist should hew the form that pleased his fancy best. He calculates the exact amount of oppression which will render a nation incapable of resistance, and relieve the conqueror of trouble in his work of building up a puissant kingdom for his own aggrandizement. [1] It is fair to call attention to the strong expressions used by Machiavelli in the _Discorsi_, lib. i. cap. 18 and cap. 26, on the infamies and inhumanities to which the aspirant after tyranny is condemned. What Machiavelli says about mixed principalities is pointed by a searching critique of the Italian policy of Louis XII. The French king had well-known claims upon the Duchy of Milan, which the Venetians urged him to make good. They proposed to unite forces and to divide the conquered province of Lombardy. Machiavelli does not blame Louis for accepting this offer and acting in concert with the Republic. His mistakes began the moment after he had gained possession of Milan, Genoa, and the majority of the North Italian cities. It was then his true policy to balance Venice against Rome, to assume the protectorate of the minor states, and to keep all dangerous rivals out of Italy. Instead of acting thus, he put Romagna into the hands of the Pope and divided Naples with the King of Spain. 'Louis indeed,' concludes Machiavelli, 'was guilty of five capital errors: he destroyed the hopes of his numerous and weak allies; he increased the power, already too great, of the Papacy; he introduced a foreign potentate; he neglected to reside in Italy; he founded no colonies for the maintenance of his authority. If I am told that Louis acted thus imprudently toward Alexander and Ferdinand in order to avoid a war, I answer that in each case the mistake was as bad as any war could be in its results. If I am reminded of his promise to the Pope, I reply that princes ought to know how and when to break their faith, as I intend to prove. When I was at Nantes, the Cardinal of Rouen told me that the Italians did not know how to conduct a war: I retorted that the French did not understand statecraft, or they would not have allowed the Church to gain so much power in Italy. Experience showed that I was right; for the French wrought their own ruin by aggrandizing the Papacy and introducing Spain into the realm of Naples.' This criticism contains the very essence of political sagacity. It lays bare the secret of the failure of the French under Charles, under Louis, and under Francis, to establish themselves in Italy. Expeditions of parade, however brilliant, temporary conquests, cross alliances, and bloody victories do not consolidate a kingdom. They upset states and cause misery to nations: but their effects pass and leave the so-called conquerors worse off than they were before. It was the doom of Italy to be ravaged by these inconsequent marauders, who never attempted by internal organization to found a substantial empire, until the mortmain of the Spanish rule was laid upon the peninsula, and Austria gained by marriages what France had failed to win by force of arms. The fourth chapter of the _Principe_ is devoted to a parallel between Monarchies and Despotisms which is chiefly interesting as showing that Machiavelli appreciated the stability of kingdoms based upon feudal foundations. France is chosen as the best example of the one and Turkey of the other. 'The whole empire of the Turk is governed by one Lord; the others are his servants; he divides his kingdom into satrapies, to which he appoints different administrators, whom he changes about at pleasure. But the King of France is placed in the center of a time-honored company of lords, acknowledged as such by their subjects and loved by them; they have their own prerogatives, nor can the king deprive them of these without peril.' Hence it follows that the prince who has once dispossessed a despot finds ready to his hand a machinery of government and a band of subservient ministers; while he who may dethrone a monarch has immediately to cope with a multitude of independent rulers, too numerous to extinguish and too proud to conciliate. Machiavelli now proceeds to discuss the best method of subjugating free cities which have been acquired by a prince. There are three ways of doing it, he says. 'The first is to destroy them utterly; the second, to rule them in your own person; the third, to leave them their constitution under the conduct of an oligarchy chosen by yourself, and to be content with tribute. But, to speak the truth, the only safe way is to ruin them.' This sounds very much like the advice which an old spider might give to a young one: When you have caught a big fly, suck him at once; suck out at any rate so much of his blood as may make him powerless to break your web, and feed on him afterwards at leisure. Then he goes on to give his reasons. 'He who becomes the master of a city used to liberty, and does not destroy it, should be prepared to be undone by it himself, because that name of Liberty, those ancient usages of Freedom, which no length of years and no benefits can extinguish in the nation's mind, which cannot be uprooted by any forethought or by any pains, unless the citizens themselves be broken or dispersed, will always be a rallying-point for revolution when an opportunity occurs.' This terrific moral--through which, let it be said in justice to Machiavelli, the enthusiasm of a patriot transpires--is pointed by the example of Pisa. Pisa, held for a century beneath the heel of Florence--her ports shut up, her fields abandoned to marsh fever, her civic life extinguished, her arts and sciences crushed out--had yet not been utterly ruined in the true sense of depopulation or dismemberment. Therefore when Charles VIII. in 1494 entered Pisa, and Orlandi, the orator, caught him by the royal mantle, and besought him to restore her liberty, that word, the only word the crowd could catch in his petition, inflamed a nation: the lions and lilies of Florence were erased from the public buildings; the Marzocco was dashed from its column on the quay into the Arno; and in a moment the dead republic awoke to life. Therefore, argues Machiavelli, so tenacious is the vitality of a free state that a prudent conqueror will extinguish it entirely or will rule it in person with a rod of iron. This, be it remembered, is the advice of Machiavelli, the the Florentine patriot, to Lorenzo de' Medici, the Florentine tyrant, who has recently resumed his seat upon the neck of that irrepressible republic. Hitherto we have been considering how the state acquired by a conqueror should be incorporated with his previous dominions. The next section of Machiavelli's discourse is by far the most interesting. It treats of principalities created by the arms, personal qualities, and good fortune of adventurers. Italy alone in the sixteenth century furnished examples of these tyrannies: consequently that portion of the _Principe_ which is concerned with them has a special interest for students of the Renaissance. Machiavelli begins with the founders of kingdoms who have owed but little to fortune and have depended on their own forces. The list he furnishes, when tested by modern notions of history, is to say the least a curious one. It contains Moses, Cyrus, Romulus, and Theseus. Having mentioned Moses first, Machiavelli proceeds to explain that, though we have to regard him as the mere instrument of God's purpose, yet the principles on which the other founders acted were 'not different from those which Moses derived from so supreme a teacher.' What these men severally owed to fortune was but the occasion for the display of the greatness that was in them. Moses found the people of Israel enslaved in Egypt. Romulus was an exile from Alba. Cyrus had to deal with the Persian people tired of the empire of effeminate Medes. Theseus undertook to unite the scattered elements of the Athenian nation. Thus each of these founders had an opening provided for him, by making use of which he was able to bring his illustrious qualities into play. The achievement in each case was afterwards due solely to his own ability, and the conquest which he made with difficulty was preserved with ease. This exordium is not without practical importance, as will be seen when we reach the application of the whole argument to the house of Medici at the conclusion of the treatise. The initial obstacles which an innovator has to overcome, meanwhile, are enormous. 'He has for passionate foes all such as flourish under the old order, for friends those who might flourish under the new; but these are lukewarm, partly from fear of their opponents, on whose side are established law and right, partly from the incredulity which prevents men from putting faith in what is novel and untried.' It therefore becomes a matter of necessity that the innovator should be backed up with force, that he should be in a position to command and not obliged to sue for aid. This is the reason why all the prophets who have used arms to enforce their revelations have succeeded, and why those who have only trusted to their personal ascendency have failed. Moses, of course, is an illustrious example of the successful prophet. Savonarola is adduced as a notable instance of a reformer 'who was ruined in his work of innovation as soon as the multitude lost their faith in him, since he had no means of keeping those who had believed firm, or of compelling faith from disbelievers.' In this critique Machiavelli remains true to his positive and scientific philosophy of human nature. He will not allow that there are other permanent agencies in the world than the calculating ability of resolute men and the might derived from physical forces. Among the eminent examples of Italian founders who rose to princely power by their own ability or by availing themselves of the advantages which fortune put within their reach, Machiavelli selects Francesco Sforza and Cesare Borgia. The former is a notable instance of success achieved by pure _virtù_: 'Francesco, by using the right means, and by his own singular ability, raised himself from the rank of a private man to the Duchy of Milan, and maintained with ease the mastery he had acquired with infinite pains.' Cesare, on the other hand, illustrates both the strength and the weakness of _fortuna_: 'he acquired his dominion by the aid derived from his father's position, and when he lost that he also lost his power, notwithstanding that he used every endeavor and did all that a prudent and able man ought to do in order to plant himself firmly in those states which the arms and fortune of others had placed at his disposal.' It is not necessary to dwell upon the career of Francesco Sforza. Not he but Cesare Borgia is Machiavelli's hero in this treatise, the example from which he deduces lessons both of imitation and avoidance for the benefit of Lorenzo de' Medici. Lorenzo, it must be remembered, like Cesare, would have the fortunes of the Church to start with in that career of ambition to which Machiavelli incites him. Unlike Francesco Sforza, he was no mere soldier of adventure, but a prince, born in the purple, and bound to make use of those undefined advantages which he derived from his position in Florence and from the countenance of his uncle, the Pope. The Duke Valentino, therefore, who is at one and the same time Machiavelli's ideal of prudence and courage in the conduct of affairs, and also his chief instance of the instability of fortune, supplies the philosopher with all he needed for the guidance of his princely pupil. With the Duke Valentino Machiavelli had conversed on terms of private intimacy, and there is no doubt that his imagination had been dazzled by the brilliant intellectual abilities of this consummate rogue. Dispatched in 1502 by the Florentine Republic to watch the operations of Cesare at Imola, with secret instructions to offer the Duke false promises in the hope of eliciting information that could be relied upon, Machiavelli had enjoyed the rare pleasure of a game at political écarté with the subtlest and most unscrupulous diplomatist of his age. He had witnessed his terrible yet beneficial administration of Romagna. He had been present at his murder of the chiefs of the Orsini faction at Sinigaglia. Cesare had confided to him, or had pretended to confide, his schemes of personal ambition, as well as the motives and the measures of his secret policy. On the day of the election of Pope Julius II. he had laid bare the whole of his past history before the Florentine secretary, and had pointed out the single weakness of which he felt himself to have been guilty. In these trials of skill and this exchange of confidence it is impossible to say which of the two gamesters may have been the more deceived. But Machiavelli felt that the Borgia supplied him with a perfect specimen for the study of the arts of statecraft; and so deep was the impression produced upon his mind, that even after the utter failure of Cesare's designs he made him the hero of the political romance before us. His artistic perception of the perfect and the beautiful, both in unscrupulous conduct and in frigid calculation of conflicting interests, was satisfied by the steady selfishness, the persistent perfidy, the profound mistrust of men, the self-command in the execution of perilous designs, the moderate and deliberate employment of cruelty for definite ends, which he observed in the young Duke, and which he has idealized in his own _Principe_. That nature, as of a salamander adapted to its element of fire, as of 'a resolute angel that delights in flame,' to which nothing was sacred, which nothing could daunt, which never for a moment sacrificed reason to passion, which was incapable of weakness or fatigue, had fascinated Machiavelli's fancy. The moral qualities of the man, the base foundations upon which he raised his power, the unutterable scandals of his private life, and the hatred of all Christendom were as nothing in the balance. Such considerations had, according to the conditions of his subject, to be eliminated before he weighed the intellectual qualities of the adventurer. 'If all the achievements of the Duke are considered'--it is Machiavelli speaking--'it will be found that he built up a great substructure for his future power; nor do I know what precepts I could furnish to a prince in his commencement better than such as are to be derived from his example.' It is thus that Machiavelli, the citizen, addresses Lorenzo, the tyrant of Florence. He says to him: Go thou and do likewise. And what, then, is this likewise? Cesare, being a Pope's son, had nothing to look to but the influence of his father. At first he designed to use this influence in the Church; but after murdering his elder brother, he threw aside the Cardinal's scarlet and proclaimed himself a political aspirant. His father could not make him lord of any state, unless it were a portion of the territory of the Church: and though, by creating, as he did, twelve Cardinals in one day, he got the Sacred College to sanction his investiture of the Duchy of Romagna, yet both Venice and Milan were opposed to this scheme. Again there was a difficulty to be encountered in the great baronial houses of Orsini and Colonna, who at that time headed all the mercenary troops of Italy, and who, as Roman nobles, had a natural hatred for the Pope. It was necessary to use their aid in the acquisition of Cesare's principality. It was no less needful to humor their animosity. Under these circumstances Alexander thought it best to invite the French king into Italy, bargaining with Louis that he would dissolve his marriage in return for protection awarded to Cesare. The Colonna faction meanwhile was to be crushed, and the Orsini to be flattered. Cesare, by the help of his French allies and the Orsini captains, took possession of Imola and Faenza, and thence proceeded to overrun Romagna. In this enterprise he succeeded to the full. Romagna had been, from the earliest period of Italian history, a nest of petty tyrants who governed badly and who kept no peace in their dominions. Therefore the towns were but languid in their opposition to Cesare, and were soon more than contented with a conqueror who introduced a good system for the administration of justice. But now two difficulties arose. The subjugation of Romagna had been effected by the help of the French and the Orsini. Cesare as yet had formed no militia of his own, and his allies were becoming suspicious. The Orsini had shown some slackness at Faenza; and when Cesare proceeded to make himself master of Urbino, and to place a foot in Tuscany by the capture of Piombino--which conquests he completed during 1500 and 1501--Louis began to be jealous of him. The problem for the Duke was how to disembarrass himself of the two forces by which he had acquired a solid basis for his future principality. His first move was to buy over the Cardinal d'Amboise, whose influence in the French Court was supreme and thus to keep his credit for awhile afloat with Louis. His second was to neutralize the power of the Orsini, partly by pitting them against the Colonnesi, and partly by superseding them in their command as captains. For the latter purpose he became his own Condottiere, drawing to his standard by the lure of splendid pay all the minor gentry of the Roman Campagna. Thus he collected his own forces and was able to dispense with the unsafe aid of mercenary troops. At this point of his career the Orsini, finding him established in Romagna, in Urbino, and in part of Tuscany, while their own strength was on the decline, determined if possible to check the career of this formidable tyrant by assassination. The conspiracy known as the 'Diet of La Magione' was the consequence. In this conjuration the Cardinal Orsini, Paolo Orsini, his brother and head of the great house, together with Vitellozzo Vitelli, lord of Città di Castello, the Baglione of Perugia, the Bentivoglio of Bologna, Antonio da Venasso from Siena, and Oliverotto da Fermo took each a part. The result of their machinations against the common foe was that Cesare for a moment lost Urbino, and was nearly unseated in Romagna. But the French helped him, and he stood firm. Still it was impossible to believe that Louis XII. would suffer him to advance unchecked in his career of conquest; and as long as he continued between the French and the Orsini his position was of necessity insecure. The former had to be cast off; the latter to be extirpated; and yet he had not force enough to play an open game. 'He therefore,' says Machiavelli, 'turned to craft, and displayed such skill in dissimulation that the Orsini through the mediation of Paolo became his friends again.' The cruelty of Cesare Borgia was only equalled by his craft; and it was by a supreme exercise of his power of fascination that he lured the foes who had plotted against him at La Magione into his snare at Sinigaglia. Paolo Orsini, Francesco Orsini, duke of Gravina, Vitellozzo Vitelli, and Oliverotto da Fermo were all men of arms, accustomed to intrigue and to bloodshed, and more than one of them were stained with crimes of the most atrocious treachery. Yet such were the arts of Cesare Borgia that in 1502 he managed to assemble them, apart from their troops, in the castle of Sinigaglia, where he had them strangled. Having now destroyed the chiefs of the opposition and enlisted their forces in his own service, Cesare, to use the phrase of Machiavelli, 'had laid good foundations for his future power.' He commanded a sufficient territory; he wielded the temporal and spiritual power of his father; he was feared by the princes and respected by the people throughout Italy; his cruelty and perfidy and subtlety and boldness caused him to be universally admired. But as yet he had only laid foundations. The empire of Italy was still to win; for he aspired to nothing else, and it is even probable that he entertained a notion of secularizing the Papacy. France was the chief obstacle to his ambition. The alarm of Louis had at last been roused. But Louis' own mistake in bringing the Spaniards into Naples afforded Cesare the means of shaking off the French control. He espoused the cause of Spain, and by intriguing now with the one power and now with the other made himself both formidable and desirable to each. His geographical position between Milan and Naples enforced this policy. Another difficulty against which he had to provide was in the future rather than the present. Should his father die, and a new Pope adverse to his interests be elected, he might lose not only the support of the Holy See, but also his fiefs of Romagna and Urbino. To meet this contingency he took four precautions, mentioned with great admiration by Machiavelli. In the first place he systematically murdered the heirs of the ruling families of all the cities he acquired--as for example three Varani at Camerino, two Manfredi at Faenza, the Orsini and Vitelli at Sinigaglia, and others whom it would be tedious to mention. By this process he left no scion of the ancient houses for a future Pope to restore. In the second place he attached to his person by pensions, offices, and emoluments, all the Roman gentry, so that he might be able to keep the new Pope a prisoner and unarmed in Rome. Thirdly, he reduced the College of Cardinals, by bribery, terrorism, poisoning, and packed elections, to such a state that he could count on the creation of a Pope, if not his nominee, at least not hostile to his interests. Fourthly, he lost no time, but pushed his plans of conquest on with utmost speed, so as, if possible, to command a large territory at the time of Alexander's death. Machiavelli, who records these four points with approbation, adds: 'He therefore, who finds it needful in his new authority to secure himself against foes, to acquire allies, to gain a point by force or fraud, etc., etc., could not discover an ensample more vigorous and blooming than that of Cesare.' Such is the panegyric which Machiavelli, writing, as it seems to me, in all good faith and innocence, records of a man who, taken altogether, is perhaps the most selfish, perfidious, and murderous of adventurers on record. The only fault for which he blames him is that he did not prevent the election of Pope Julius II, by concentrating his influence on either the Cardinal d'Amboise or a Spaniard. It is curious to read the title of the chapter following that which criticises the action of Cesare Borgia: it runs thus, 'Concerning those who have attained to sovereignty by crimes.' Cesare was clearly not one of these men in the eyes of Machiavelli, who confines his attention to Agathocles of Syracuse, and to Oliverotto da Fermo, a brigand who acquired the lordship of Fermo by murdering his uncle and benefactor, Giovanni Fogliani, and all the chief men of the city at a banquet to which he had invited them. This atrocity, according to Machiavelli's creed, would have been justified, if Oliverotto had combined cruelty and subtlety in proper proportions. But his savagery was not sufficiently veiled; a prince should never incur odium by crimes of violence, but only use them as the means of inspiring terror. Besides, Oliverotto was so simple as to fall at last into the snare of Cesare Borgia at Sinigaglia. Cesare himself supplies Machiavelli with a notable example of the way in which cruelty can be well used. Having found the cities of Romagna in great disorder, Cesare determined to quell them by the ferocity of a terrible governor. For this purpose he chose Messer Ramiro d' Orco, 'a man cruel and quick of action, to whom he gave the fullest power.' A story is told of Messer Ramiro which illustrates his temper in a very bizarre fashion: he one day kicked a clumsy page on to the fire, and held him there with a poker till he was burned up. Acting after this fashion, with plenipotentiary authority, Ramiro soon froze the whole province into comparative tranquillity. But it did not suit Cesare to incur the odium which the man's cruelty brought on his administration. Accordingly he had him decapitated one night and exposed to public view, together with the block and bloody hatchet, in the square at Cesena. Of the art with which Cesare first reduced Romagna to order by the cruelty of his agent, and then avoided the odium of this cruelty by using the wretched creature as an appalling example of his justice and his power, Machiavelli wholly approves. His theory is that cruelty should be employed for certain definite purposes, but that the Prince should endeavor to shun as far as possible the hatred it inspires. In justice both to Machiavelli and to Cesare, it should be said that the administration of Romagna was far better under the Borgia rule than it had ever been before. The exhibition of savage violence of which Machiavelli approves was perhaps needed to cow so brutalized a population. In those chapters which Machiavelli has devoted to the exposition of the qualities that befit a Prince, it is clear that Cesare Borgia was not unfrequentlv before his eyes.[1] The worst thing that can be said about Italy of the sixteenth century is that such an analyst as Machiavelli should have been able to idealize an adventurer whose egotistic immorality was so undisguised. The ethics of this profound anatomist of human motives were based upon a conviction that men are altogether bad. When discussing the question whether it be better to be loved or feared, Machiavelli decides that 'it is far safer to be feared than loved, if you must choose; seeing that you may say of men generally that they are ungrateful and changeable, dissemblers, apt to shun danger, eager for gain; as long as you serve them, they offer you everything, down to their very children, if you have no need; but when you want help, they fail you. Therefore it is best to put no faith in their pretended love.' This is language which could only be used in a country where loyalty was unknown and where all political and social combinations were founded upon force or convenience. Princes must, however, be cautious not to injure their subjects in their honor or their property--especially the latter, since men 'forget the murder of their fathers quicker than the loss of their money.' Under another heading Machiavelli returns to the same topic, and lays it down as an axiom that, since the large majority of men are bad, a prince must learn in self-defense how to be bad, and must use this science when and where he deems appropriate, endeavoring, however, under all circumstances to pass for good. [1] In a letter to Fr. Vettori (Jan. 31, 1514) he says: 'Il duca Valentino, l' opere del quale io imiterei sempre quando fossi principe nuove. He brings the same desperate philosophy of life, the same bitter experience of mankind, to bear upon his discussion of the faith of princes. The chapter which is entitled 'How princes ought to keep their word' is one of the most brilliantly composed and thoroughly Machiavellian of the whole treatise. He starts with the assertion that to fight the battles of life in accordance with law is human, to depend on force is brutal; yet when the former method is insufficient, the latter must be adopted. A prince should know how to combine the natures of the man and of the beast; and this is the meaning of the mythus of Cheiron, who was made the tutor of Achilles. He should strive to acquire the qualities of the fox and of the lion, in order that he may both avoid snares and guard himself from wolves. A prudent prince cannot and must not keep faith, when it is harmful to do so, or when the occasion under which he promised has passed by. He will always find colorable pretexts for breaking his word; and if he learns well how to feign, he will have but little difficulty in deceiving people. Among the innumerable instances of successful hypocrites Machiavelli can think of none more excellent than Alexander VI. 'He never did anything else but deceive men, nor ever thought of anything but this, and always found apt matter for his practice. Never was there a man who had greater force in swearing and tying himself down to his engagements, or who observed them less. Nevertheless his wiles were always successful in the way he wished, because he well knew that side of the world.' It is curious that Machiavelli should have forgotten that the whole elaborate life's policy of Alexander and his son was ruined precisely by their falling into one of their own traps, and that the mistake or treason of a servant upset the calculations of the two most masterly deceivers of their age.[1] Following out the same line of thought, which implies that in a bad world a prince cannot afford to be good, Machiavelli asserts: 'It is not necessary that a prince should be merciful, loyal, humane, religious, just: nay, I will venture to say, that if he had all these qualities and always used them, they would harm him. But he must _seem_ to have them, especially if he be new in his principality, where he will find it quite impossible to exercise these virtues, since in order to maintain his power he will be often obliged to act contrary to humanity, charity, religion.' Machiavelli does not advise him to become bad for the sake of badness, but to know when to quit the path of virtue for the preservation of his kingdom. 'He must take care to say nothing that is not full of these five qualities, and must always appear all mercy, all loyalty, all humanity, all justice, all religion, especially the last.' On the advantage of a reputation for piety Machiavelli insists most strongly. He points out how Ferdinand the Catholic used the pretext of religious zeal in order to achieve the conquest of Granada, to invade Africa, to expel the Moors, and how his perfidies in Italy, his perjuries to France, were colored with a sanctimonious decency. [1] Perhaps this is an indirect argument against the legend of their death. After reading these passages we feel that though it may be true that Machiavelli only spoke with scientific candor of the vices which were common to all statesmen in his age--though the Italians were so corrupt that it seemed hopeless to deal fairly with them--yet there was a radical taint in the soul of the man who could have the heart to cull these poisonous herbs of policy and distill their juices to a quintessence for the use of the prince to whom he was confiding the destinies of Italy.[1] Almost involuntarily we remember the oath which Arthur administered to his knights, when he bade them 'never to do outrage nor murder, and always to flee treason; also by no means to be cruel, but to give mercy unto him that asked mercy, upon pain of forfeiture of their worship and lordship of King Arthur for evermore.' In a land where chivalry like this had ever taken root, either as an ideal or as an institution, the chapters of Machiavelli could scarcely have been published. The Italians lacked the virtues of knighthood. It was possible among them for the philosophers to teach the princes that success purchased at the expense of honor, loyalty, humanity, and truth might be illustrious. It is refreshing to turn from those chapters in which Machiavelli teaches the Prince how to cope with the world by using the vices of the wicked, to his exposition of the military organization suited to the maintenance of a great kingdom. Machiavelli has no mean or humble ambition for his Prince: 'double will his glory be, who has founded a new realm, and fortified and adorned it with good laws, good arms, good friends, and good ensamples.' What the enterprise to which he fain would rouse Lorenzo really is, will appear in the conclusion. Meanwhile he encourages him by the example of Ferdinand the Catholic to gird his loins up for great enterprises. He bids him be circumspect in his choice of secretaries, seeing that 'the first opinion formed of a prince and of his capacity is derived from the men whom he has gathered round him.' He points out how he should shun flattery and seek respectful but sincere advice. Finally he reminds him that a prince is impotent unless he can command obedience by his arms. Fortresses are a doubtful source of strength; against foreign foes they are worse than useless; against subjects they are worthless in comparison with the goodwill of the people: 'the best fortress possible is to escape the hatred of your subjects.' Everything therefore depends upon the well-ordering of a national militia. The neglect of that ruined the princes of Italy and enabled Charles VIII. to conquer the fairest of European kingdoms with wooden spurs and a piece of chalk.[2] [1] In the _Discorsi_, lib. i. cap. 55, he calls Italy 'la coruttela del mondo,' and judges that her case is desperate; 'non si può sperare nelle provincie che in questi tempi si veggono corrotte, come è l' Italia sopra tutte le altre.' [2] The references in this paragraph are made to chapters xx.-xxiv. and chapter xii. of the _Principe_. In his discourse on armies Machiavelli lays it down that the troops with which a prince defends his state are either his own, or mercenaries, or auxiliaries, or mixed. 'Mercenary and auxiliary forces are both useless and perilous, and he who founds the security of his dominion on the former will never be established firmly: seeing that they are disunited, ambitious, and undisciplined, without loyalty, truculent to their friends, cowardly among foes; they have no fear of God, no faith with men; you are only safe with them before they are attacked; in peace they plunder you; in war you are the prey of your enemies. The cause of this is that they have no other love nor other reason to keep the field, beyond a little pay, which is far from sufficient to make them wish to die for you. They are willing enough to be your soldiers so long as you are at peace, but when war comes their impulse is to fly or sneak away. It ought to be easy to establish the truth of this assertion, since the ruin of Italy is due to nothing else except this, that we have now for many years depended upon mercenary arms.'[1] Here he touches the real weakness of the Italian states. Then he proceeds to explain further the rottenness of the Condottiere system. Captains of adventure are either men of ability or not. If they are, you have to fear lest their ambition prompt them to turn their arms against yourself or your allies. This happened to Queen Joan of Naples, who was deserted by Sforza Attendolo in her sorest need; to the Milanese, when Francesco Sforza made himself their despot; to the Venetians, who were driven to decapitate Carmagnuola because they feared him. The only reason why the Florentines were not enslaved by Sir John Hawkwood was that, though an able general, he achieved no great successes in the field. In the same way they escaped by luck from Sforza, who turned his attention to Milan, and from Braccio, who formed designs against the Church and Naples. If Paolo Vitelli had been victorious against Pisa (1498), he would have held them at discretion. In each of these cases it was only the good fortune of the republic which saved it from a military despotism. If, on the other hand, the mercenary captains are men of no capacity, you are defeated in the field. [1] See chapter xii. of the _Principe._ Proceeding to the historical development of this bad system, Machiavelli points out how after the decline of the Imperial authority in Italy, the Papacy and the republics got the upper hand. Priests and merchants were alike unwilling to engage in war. Therefore they took mercenary troops into their pay. The companies of the Sforzeschi and Bracceschi were formed; and 'after these came all those others who have ruled this sort of warfare down to our own days. The consequence of their valor is that Italy has been harried by Charles, plundered by Louis, forced by Ferdinand, insulted by the Swiss. Their method has been to enhance the reputation of their cavalry by depressing the infantry. Being without dominion of their own, and making war their commerce, a few foot soldiers brought them no repute, while they were unable to support many. Therefore they confined themselves to cavalry, until in a force of 20,000 men you could not number 2,000 infantry. Besides this they employed all their ingenuity to relieve themselves and their soldiers of fatigue and peril, by refraining from slaughter and from taking prisoners without ransom. Night attacks and sorties were abandoned; stockades and trenches in the camp were given up; no one thought of a winter campaign. All these things were allowed, or rather introduced, in order to avoid, as I have said, fatigue and peril. Whereby they have reduced Italy to slavery and insult.' Auxiliaries, such as the French troops borrowed by Cesare Borgia, and the Spaniards engaged by Julius II., are even worse. 'He who wants to be unable to win the game should make use of these forces; for they are far more dangerous than mercenaries, seeing that in them the cause of ruin is ready made--they are united together, and inclined to obey their own masters. Machiavelli enforces this moral by one of those rare but energetic figures which add virile dignity to his discourse. He compares auxiliary troops to the armor of Saul, which David refused, preferring to fight Goliath with his stone and sling. 'In one word, arms borrowed from another either fall from your back, or weigh you down, or impede your action.' It remains for a prince to form his own troops and to take the field in person, like Cesare Borgia, when he discarded his French allies and the mercenary aid of the Orsini captains. Republics should follow the same course, dispatching, as the Romans did, their own citizens to the war, and controlling by law the personal ambition of victorious generals. It was thus that the Venetians prospered in their conquests, before they acquired their provinces in Italy and adopted the Condottiere system from their neighbors. 'A prince, therefore, should have but one object, one thought, one art--the art of war.' Those who have followed this rule have attained to sovereignty, like Francesco Sforza, who became Duke of Milan; those who have neglected it have lost even hereditary kingdoms, like the last Sforzas, who sank from dukedom into private life. Even amid the pleasures of the chase a prince should always be studying the geographical conformation of his country with a view to its defense, and should acquire a minute knowledge of such strategical laws as are everywhere applicable. He should read history with the same object, and should keep before his eyes the example of those great men of the past from whom he can learn lessons for his guidance in the present. This brings us to the peroration of the _Principe_, which contains the practical issue toward which the whole treatise has been tending, the patriotic thought that reflects a kind of luster even on the darkest pages that have gone before. Like Thetis, Machiavelli has dipped his Achilles in the Styx of infernal counsels; like Cheiron, he has shown him how the human and the bestial natures should be combined in one who has to break the teeth of wolves and keep his feet from snares; like Hephaistos, he has forged for him invulnerable armor. The object toward which this preparation has been leading is the liberation of Italy from the barbarians. The slavery of Israel in Egypt, the oppression of the Persians by the Medes, the dispersion of the Athenians into villages, were the occasions which enabled Moses and Cyrus and Theseus to display their greatness. The new Prince, who would fain win honor in Italy and confer upon his country untold benefits, finds her at the present moment 'more enslaved than the Hebrews, more downtrodden than the Persians, more disunited than the Athenians, without a chief, without order, beaten, despoiled, mangled, overrun, subject to every sort of desolation.' Fortune could not have offered him a nobler opportunity. 'See how she prays God to send her some one who should save her from these barbarous cruelties ind insults! See her all ready and alert to follow any standard, if only there be a man to raise it!' Then Machiavelli addresses himself to the chief of the Medici in person. 'Nor is there at the present moment any place more full of hope for her than your illustrious House, which by its valor and its fortune, favored by God and by the Church, whereof it is now the head, might take the lead in this delivery.' This is followed by one of the rare passages of courtly rhetoric which, when Machiavelli condescends to indulge in them, add peculiar splendor to his style. Then he turns again to speak of the means which should immediately be used. He urges Lorenzo above all things to put no faith in mercenaries or auxiliaries, but to raise his own forces, and to rely on the Italian infantry. If Italian armies have always been defeated in the field during the past twenty years, it is not due so much to their defective courage as to the weakness of their commanders. Lorenzo will have to raise a force capable of coping with the Swiss, the Spanish, and the French. The respect with which Machiavelli speaks at this supreme moment of these foreign troops, proves how great was their prestige in Italy; yet he ventures to point out that there are faults peculiar to each of them: the Spanish infantry cannot stand a cavalry charge, and the Switzers are liable to be disconcerted by the rapid attack of the wiry infantry of Spain. It is therefore necessary to train troops capable of resisting cavalry, and not afraid of facing any foot soldiers in the world. 'This opportunity, therefore, must not be suffered to slip by; in order that Italy may after so long a time at last behold her saviour. Nor can I find words to describe the love with which he would be hailed in all the provinces that have suffered through these foreign deluges, the thirst for vengeance, the stubborn fidelity, the piety, the tears, that he would meet What gates would be closed against him? What people would refuse him allegiance? What jealousy would thwart him? What Italian would be found to refuse him homage? This rule of the barbarians stinks in the nostrils of us all. Then let your illustrious House assume this enterprise in the spirit and the confidence wherewith just enterprises are begun, that so, under your flag, this land of ours may be ennobled, and under your auspices be brought to pass that prophecy of Petrarch:-- 'Lo, valor against rage Shall take up arms, nor shall the fight be long; For that old heritage Of courage in Italian hearts is stout and strong. With this trumpet-cry of impassioned patriotism the _Principe_ closes. Hegel, in his 'Philosophy of History,' has recorded a judgment of Machiavelli's treatise in relation to the political conditions of Italy at the end of the mediaeval period, which might be quoted as the most complete apology for the author it is possible to make. 'This book,' he says, 'has often been cast aside with horror as containing maxims of the most revolting tyranny; yet it was Machiavelli's high sense of the necessity of constituting a state which caused him to lay down the principles on which alone states could be formed under the circumstances. The isolated lords and lordships had to be entirely suppressed; and though our idea of Freedom is incompatible with the means which he proposes both as the only available and also as wholly justifiable--including, as these do, the most reckless violence, all kinds of deception, murder, and the like--yet we must confess that the despots who had to be subdued were assailable in no other way, inasmuch as indomitable lawlessness and perfect depravity were thoroughly engrained in them.' Yet after the book has been shut and the apology has been weighed, we cannot but pause and ask ourselves this question, Which was the truer patriot--Machiavelli, systematizing the political vices and corruptions of his time in a philosophical essay, and calling on the despot to whom it was dedicated to liberate Italy; or Savonarola, denouncing sin and enforcing repentance--Machiavelli, who taught as precepts of pure wisdom those very principles of public immorality which lay at the root of Italy's disunion and weakness; or Savonarola, who insisted that without a moral reformation no liberty was possible? We shall have to consider the action of Savonarola in another place. Meanwhile, it is not too much to affirm that, with diplomatists like Machiavelli, and with princes like those whom he has idealized, Italy could not be free. Hypocrisy, treachery, dissimulation, cruelty are the vices of the selfish and the enslaved. Yet Machiavelli was led by his study of the past and by his experience of the present to defend these vices, as the necessary qualities of the prince whom he would fain have chosen for the saviour of his country. It is legitimate to excuse him on the ground that the Italians of his age had not conceived a philosophy of right which should include duties as well as privileges, and which should guard the interests of the governed no less than those of the governor. It is true that the feudal conception of Monarchy, so well apprehended by him in the fourth chapter of the _Principe,_ had nowhere been realized in Italy, and that therefore the right solution of the political problem seemed to lie in setting force against force, and fraud against fraud, for a sublime purpose. It may also be urged with justice that the historians and speculators of antiquity, esteemed beyond their value by the students of the sixteenth century, confirmed him in his application of a positive philosophy to statecraft. The success which attended the violence and dissimulation of the Romans, as described by Livy, induced him to inculcate the principles on which they acted. The scientific method followed by Aristotle in the Politics encouraged him in the adoption of a similar analysis; while the close parallel between ancient Greece and mediaeval Italy was sufficient to create a conviction that the wisdom of the old world would be precisely applicable to the conditions of the new. These, however, are exculpations of the man rather than justifications of his theory. The theory was false and vicious. And the fact remains that the man, impregnated by the bad morality of the period in which he lived, was incapable of ascending above it to the truth, was impotent with all his acumen to read the deepest lessons of past and present history, and in spite of his acknowledged patriotism succeeded only in adding his conscious and unconscious testimony to the corruption of the country that he loved. The broad common-sense, the mental soundness, the humane instinct and the sympathy with nature, which give fertility and wholeness to the political philosophy of men like Burke, are absent in Machiavelli. In spite of its vigor, his system implies an inversion of the ruling laws of health in the body politic. In spite of its logical cogency, it is inconclusive by reason of defective premises. Incomparable as an essay in pathological anatomy, it throws no light upon the working of a normal social organism, and has at no time been used with profit even by the ambitious and unscrupulous. CHAPTER VII. THE POPES OF THE RENAISSANCE. The Papacy between 1447 and 1527--The Contradictions of the Renaissance Period exemplified by the Popes--Relaxation of their hold over the States of the Church and Rome during the Exile in Avignon--Nicholas V.--His Conception of a Papal Monarchy--Pius II.--The Crusade--Renaissance Pontiffs--Paul II.--Persecution of the Platonists--Sixtus IV.--Nepotism--The Families of Riario and Delia Rovere--Avarice--Love of Warfare--Pazzi Conspiracy--Inquisition in Spain--Innocent VIII.--Franceschetto Cibo--The Election of Alexander VI.--His Consolidation of the Temporal Power--Policy toward Colonna and Orsini Families--Venality of everything in Rome--Policy toward the-- Sultan--The Index--The Borgia Family--Lucrezia--Murder of Duke of Gandia Cesare and his Advancement--The Death of Alexander--Julius II.--His violent Temper--Great Projects and commanding Character--Leo X.--His Inferiority to Julius--S. Peter's and the Reformation--Adrian VI.--His Hatred of Pagan Culture--Disgust of the Roman Court at his Election--Clement VII.--Sack of Rome--Enslavement of Florence. In the fourteenth and the first half of the fifteenth centuries the authority of the Popes, both as Heads of the Church and as temporal rulers, had been impaired by exile in France and by ruinous schisms. A new era began with the election of Nicholas V. in 1447, and ended during the pontificate of Clement VII. with the sack of Rome in 1527. Through the whole of this period the Popes acted more as monarchs than as pontiffs, and the secularization of the See of Rome was earned to its utmost limits. The contrast between the sacerdotal pretensions and the personal immorality of the Popes was glaring; nor had the chiefs of the Church yet learned to regard the liberalism of the Renaissance with suspicion. About the middle of the sixteenth century the Papal States had become a recognized kingdom; while the Popes of this later epoch were endeavoring by means of the inquisition and the educational orders to check the free spirit of Italy. The history of Italy has at all times been closely bound up with that of the Papacy; but at no period has this been more the case than during these eighty years of Papal worldliness, ambition, depotism, and profligacy, which are also marked by the irruption of the European nations into Italy and by the secession of the Teutonic races from the Latin Church. In this short space of time a succession of Popes filled the Holy Chair with such dramatic propriety--displaying a pride so regal, a cynicism so unblushing, so selfish a cupidity, and a policy so suicidal as to favor the belief that they had been placed there in the providence of God to warn the world against Babylon. At the same time the history of the Papal Court reveals with peculiar vividness the contradictions of Renaissance morality and manners. We find in the Popes of this period what has been already noticed in the despots--learning, the patronage of of the arts, the passion for magnificence, and the refinements of polite culture, alternating and not unfrequently combined with barbarous ferocity of temper and with savage and coarse tastes. On the one side we observe a Pagan dissoluteness which would have scandalized the parasites of Commodus and Nero; on the other, a seeming zeal for dogma worthy of S. Dominic. The Vicar of Christ is at one time worshiped as a god by princes seeking absolution for sins or liberation from burdensome engagements; at another he is trampled under foot, in his capacity of sovereign, by the same potentates. Undisguised sensuality; fraud cynical and unabashed; policy marching to its end by murders, treasons, interdicts, and imprisonments; the open sale of spiritual privileges; commercial traffic in ecclesiastical emoluments; hypocrisy and cruelty studied as fine arts; theft and perjury reduced to system--these are the ordinary scandals which beset the Papacy. Yet the Pope is still a holy being. His foot is kissed by thousands. His curse and blessing carry death and life. He rises from the bed of harlots to unlock or bolt the gates of heaven and purgatory. In the midst of crime he believes himself to be the representative of Christ on earth. These anomalies, glaring as they seem to us, and obvious as they might be to deeper thinkers like Machiavelli or Savonarola, did not shock the mass of men who witnessed them. The Renaissance was so dazzling by its brilliancy, so confusing by its rapid changes, that moral distinctions were obliterated in a blaze of splendor, an outburst of new life, a carnival of liberated energies. The corruption of Italy was only equaled by its culture. Its immorality was matched by its enthusiasm. It was not the decay of an old age dying, so much as the fermentation of a new age coming into life, that bred the monstrous paradoxes of the fifteenth and the sixteenth centuries. The contrast between mediæval Christianity and renascent Paganism--the sharp conflict of two adverse principles, destined to fuse their forces and to recompose the modern world--made the Renaissance what it was in Italy. Nowhere is the first effervescence of these elements so well displayed as in the history of those Pontiffs who, after striving in the Middle Ages to suppress humanity beneath a cowl, are now the chief actors in the comedy of Aphrodite and Priapus raising their foreheads once more to the light of day. The struggle carried on between the Popes of the thirteenth century and the House of Hohenstauffen ended in the elevation of the Princes of Anjou to the throne of Naples--the most pernicious of all the evils inflicted by the Papal power on Italy. Then followed the French tyranny, under which Boniface VIII. expired at Anagni. Benedict XI. was poisoned at the instigation of Philip le Bel, and the Papal see was transferred to Avignon. The Popes lost their hold upon the city of Rome and upon those territories of Romagna, the March, and S. Peter's Patrimony which had been confirmed to them by the grant of Rodolph of Hapsburg (1273). They had to govern their Italian dependencies by means of Legates, while, one by one, the cities which had recognized their sway passed beneath the yoke of independent princes. The Malatesti established themselves in Rimini, Pesaro, and Fano; the house of Montefeltro confirmed its occupation of Urbino; Camerino, Faenza, Ravenna, Forli, and Imola became the appanages of the Varani, the Manfredi, the Polentani, the Ordelaffi, and the Alidosi.[1] The traditional supremacy of the Popes was acknowledged in these tyrannies; but the nobles I have named acquired a real authority, against which Egidio Albornoz and Robert of Geneva struggled to a great extent in vain, and to break which at a future period taxed the whole energies of Sixtus and of Alexander. [1] See Mach. _Ist. Fior_. lib. i. While the influence of the Popes was thus weakened in their states beyond the Apennines, three great families, the Orsini, the Savelli, and the Colonnesi, grew to princely eminence in Rome and its immediate neighborhood. They had been severally raised to power during the second half of the thirteenth century by the nepotism of Nicholas III., Honorius IV., and Nicholas IV. This nepotism bore baneful fruits in the future; for during the exile at Avignon the houses of Colonna and Orsini became so overbearing as to threaten the freedom and safety of the Popes. It was again reserved for Sixtus and Alexander to undo the work of their predecessors and to secure the independence of the Holy See by the coercion of these towering nobles. In the States of the Church the temporal power of the Popes, founded upon false donations, confirmed by tradition, and contested by rival despots, was an anomaly. In Rome itself their situation, though different, was no less peculiar. While the factions of Orsini and Colonna divided the Campagna and wrangled in the streets of the city, Rome continued to preserve, in form at least, the old constitution of Caporioni and Senator. The Senator, elected by the people, swore, not to obey the Pope, but to defend his person. The government was ostensibly republican. The Pope had no sovereign rights, but only the ascendency inseparable from his wealth and from his position as Primate of Christendom. At the same time the spirit of Arnold of Brescia, of Brancaleone, and of Rienzi revived from time to time in patriots like Porcari and Baroncelli, who resented the encroachments of the Church upon the privileges of the city. Rome afforded no real security to the members of the Holy College. They commanded no fortress like the Castello of Milan, and had no army at their disposition. When the people or the nobles rose against them, the best they could do was to retire to Orvieto or Viterbo, and to wait the passing of the storm. Such was the position of the Pope, considered as one of the ruling princes of Italy, before the election of Nicholas V. His authority was wide but undefined, confirmed by prescription, but based on neither force nor legal right. Italy, however, regarded the Papacy as indispensable to her prosperity, while Rome was proud to be called the metropolis of Christendom, and ready to sacrifice the shadow of republican liberty for the material advantages which might accrue from the sovereignty of her bishop. How the Roman burghers may have felt upon this point we gather from a sentence of Leo Alberti's, referring to the administration of Nicholas: 'The city had become a city of gold through the jubilee; the dignity of the citizens was respected; all reasonable petitions were granted by the Pontiff. There were no exactions, no new taxes. Justice was fairly administered. It was the whole care of the Pontiff to adorn the city.'[1] The prosperity which the Papal court brought to Rome was the main support of the Popes as princes, at a time when many thinkers looked with Dante's jealousy upon the union of temporal and spiritual functions in the Papacy.[2] Moreover, the whole of Italy, as we have seen in the previous chapters, was undergoing a gradual and instinctive change in politics; commonwealths were being superseded by tyrannies, and the sentiments of the race at large were by no means unfavorable to this revolution. Now was the proper moment, therefore, for the Popes to convert their ill-defined authority into a settled despotism, to secure themselves in Rome as sovereigns, and to subdue the States of the Church to their temporal jurisdiction. [1] See history of Porcari's Conspiracy (Muratori, vol. xxv.). [2] Lorenzo Valla's famous declamation against the Donation of Constantine, which appeared during the pontificate of Nicholas, contained these reminiscences of the 'De Monarchiá': 'Ut Papa tantum vicarius Christi sit et non etiam Cæsaris ... tune Papa et erit et dicetur pater sanctus, pater omnium, pater ecclesæ.' The work was begun by Thomas of Sarzana, who ascended the Chair of S. Peter, as Nicholas V., in 1447. One part of his biography belongs to the history of scholarship, and need not here be touched upon. Educated at Florence, under the shadow of the house of Medici, he had imbibed those principles of deference to princely authority which were supplanting the old republican virtues throughout Italy. The schisms which had rent the Catholic Church were healed; and finding no opposition to his spiritual power, he determined to consolidate the temporalities of his See. In this purpose he was confirmed by the conspiracy of Stefano Porcari, a Roman noble who had endeavored to rouse republican enthusiasm in the city at the moment of the Pope's election, and who subsequently plotted against his liberty, if not his life. Porcari and his associates were put to death in 1453, and by this act the Pope proclaimed himself a monarch. The vast wealth which the jubilee of 1450 had poured into the Papal coffers[1] he employed in beautifying the city of Rome and in creating a stronghold for the Sovereign Pontiff. The mausoleum of Hadrian, used long before as a fortress in the Middle Ages, was now strengthened, while the bridge of S. Angelo and the Leonine city were so connected and defended by a system of walls and outworks as to give the key of Rome into the hands of the Pope. A new Vatican began to rise, and the foundations of a nobler S. Peter's Church were laid within the circuit of the Papal domain. Nicholas had, in fact, conceived the great idea of restoring the supremacy of Rome, not after the fashion of a Hildebrand, by enforcing the spiritual despotism of the Papacy, but by establishing the Popes as kings, by renewing the architectural magnificence of the Eternal City, and by rendering his court the center of European culture. In the will which he recited on his death-bed to the princes of the Church, he set forth all that he had done for the secular and ecclesiastical architecture of Rome, explaining his deep sense of the necessity of securing the Popes from internal revolution and external force, together with his desire to exalt the Church by rendering her chief seat splendid in the eyes of Christendom. This testament of Nicholas remains a memorable document. Nothing illustrates more forcibly the transition from the Middle Ages to the worldliness of the Renaissance than the conviction of the Pontiff that the destinies of Christianity depended on the state and glory of the town of Rome. What he began was carried on amid crime, anarchy, and bloodshed by successive Popes of the Renaissance, until at last the troops of Frundsberg paved the way, in 1527, for the Jesuits of Loyola, and Rome, still the Eternal City, cloaked her splendor and her scandals beneath the black pall of Spanish inquisitors. The political changes in the Papacy initiated by Nicholas had been, however, by that date fully accomplished, and for more than three centuries the Popes have since held rank among the kings of the earth. [1] The bank of the Medici alone held 100,000 florins for the Pope. Vespasiano, _Vit, Nic. V._ Of Alfonso Borgia, who reigned for three years as Calixtus III., little need be said, except that his pontificate prepared for the greatness of his nephew, Roderigo Lenzuoli, known as Borgia in compliment to his uncle. The last days of Nicholas had been imbittered by the fall of Constantinople and the imminent peril which threatened Europe from the Turks. The whole energies of Pius II. were directed towards the one end of uniting the European nations against the infidel. Æneas Sylvius Piccolomini, as an author, an orator, a diplomatist, a traveller, and a courtier, bears a name illustrious in the annals of the Renaissance. As a Pope, he claims attention for the single-hearted zeal which he displayed in the vain attempt to rouse the piety of Christendom against the foes of civilization and the faith. Rarely has a greater contrast been displayed between the man and the pontiff than in the case of Pius. The pleasure-loving, astute, free-thinking man of letters and the world has become a Holy Father, jealous for Christian proprieties, and bent on stirring Europe by an appeal to motives which had lost their force three centuries before. Frederick II. and S. Louis closed the age of the Crusades, the one by striking a bargain with the infidel, the other by snatching at a martyr's crown. Æneas Sylvius Piccolomini was the mirror of his times--a humanist and stylist, imbued with the rhetorical and pseudo-classic taste of the earlier Renaissance. Pius II. is almost an anachronism. The disappointment which the learned world experienced when they discovered that the new Pope, from whom so much had been expected, declined to play the part of their Mæcenas, may be gathered from the epigrams of Filelfo upon his death[1]:-- Gaudeat orator, Musæ gaudete Latinæ; Sustulit e medio quod Deus ipse Pium. Ut bene consuluit doctis Deus omnibus æque, Quos Pius in cunctos se tulit usque gravem. Nunc sperare licet. Nobis Deus optime Quintum Reddito Nicoleon Eugeniumve patrem. and again:-- Hac sibi quam vivus construxit clauditur arca Corpore; nam Stygios mens habet atra lacus. Pius himself was not unconscious of the discrepancy between his old and his new self. _Æneam rejicite, Pium recipite_, he exclaims in a celebrated passage of his Retractation, where he declares his heartfelt sorrow for the irrevocable words of light and vain romance that he had scattered in his careless youth. Yet though Pius II. proved a virtual failure by lacking the strength to lead his age either backwards to the ideal of earlier Christianity or forwards on the path of modern culture, he is the last Pope of the Renaissance period whom we can regard with real respect. Those who follow, and with whose personal characters, rather than their action as Pontiffs, we shall now be principally occupied, sacrificed the interests of Christendom to family ambition, secured their sovereignty at the price of discord in Italy, transacted with the infidel, and played the part of Antichrist upon the theater of Europe. [1] Rosmini, _Vita di Filelfo_, vol. ii. p. 321. It would be possible to write the history of these priest-kings without dwelling more than lightly on scandalous circumstances, to merge the court-chronicle of the Vatican in a recital of European politics, or to hide the true features of high Papal dignitaries beneath the masks constructed for them by ecclesiastical apologists. That cannot, however, be the line adopted by a writer treating of civilization in Italy during the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. He must paint the Popes of the Renaissance as they appeared in the midst of society, when Lorenzo de' Medici called Rome 'a sink of all the vices,' and observers so competent as Machiavelli and Guicciardini ascribed the moral depravity and political decay of Italy to their influence. It might be objected that there is now no need to portray the profligacy of that court, which, by arousing the conscience of Northern Europe to a sense of intolerable shame, proved one of the main causes of the Reformation. But without reviewing those old scandals, a true understanding of Italian morality, and a true insight into Italian social feeling as expressed in literature, are alike impossible. Nor will the historian of this epoch shrink from his task, even though the transactions he has to record seem to savor of legend rather than of simple fact. No fiction contains matter more fantastic, no myth or allegory is more adapted to express a truth in figures of the fancy, than the authentic well-attested annals of this period of seventy years, from 1464 to 1534. Paul the Second was a Venetian named Pietro Barbi, who began life as a merchant. He had already shipped his worldly goods on board a trading vessel for a foreign trip, when news reached him that his uncle had been made Pope under the name of Eugenius IV. His call to the ministry consisted of the calculation that he could make his fortune in the Church with a Pope for uncle sooner than on the high seas by his wits. So he unloaded his bales, took to his book, became a priest, and at the age of forty-eight rose to the Papacy. Being a handsome man, he was fain to take the ecclesiastical title of Formosus; but the Cardinals dissuaded him from this parade of vanity, and he assumed the tiara as Paul in 1464. A vulgar love of show was his ruling characteristic. He spent enormous sums in the collection of jewels, and his tiara alone was valued at 200,000 golden florins. In all public ceremonies, whether ecclesiastical or secular, he was splendid, delighting equally to sun himself before the eyes of the Romans as the chief actor in an Easter benediction or a Carnival procession. The poorer Cardinals received subsidies from his purse in order that they might add luster to his pageants by their retinues. The arts found in him munificent patron. For the building of the palace of S. Marco, which marks an abrupt departure from the previous Gothic style in vogue, he brought architects of eminence to Rome, and gave employment to Mino da Fiesole, the sculptor, and to Giuliano da San Gallo, the wood-carver. The arches of Titus and Septimius Severus were restored at his expense, together with the statue of Marcus Aurelius and the horses of Monte Cavallo. But Paul showed his connoisseurship more especially in the collection of gems, medals, precious stones, and cameos, accumulating rare treasures of antiquity and costly masterpieces of Italian and Flemish gold-work in his cabinets. This patronage of contemporary art, no less than the appreciation of classical monuments, marked him as a Mæcenas of the true Renaissance type.[1] But the qualities of a dilettante were not calculated to shed luster on a Pontiff who spent the substance of the Church in heaping up immensely valuable curiosities. His thirst for gold and his love of hoarding were so extreme that, when bishoprics fell vacant, he often refused to fill them up, drawing their revenues for his own use. His court was luxurious, and in private he was addicted to sensual lust.[2] This would not, however, have brought his name into bad odor in Rome, where the Holy Father was already regarded as an Italian despot with certain sacerdotal additions. It was his prosecution of the Platonists which made him unpopular in an age when men had the right to expect that, whatever happened, learning at least would be respected. The example of the Florentine and Neapolitan academies had encouraged the Romans to found a society for the discussion of philosophical questions. The Pope conceived that a political intrigue was the real object of this club. Nor was the suspicion wholly destitute of color. The conspiracy of Porcari against Nicholas, and the Catilinarian riots of Tiburzio which had troubled the pontificate of Pius, were still fresh in people's memories; nor was the position of the Pope in Rome as yet by any means secure. What increased Paul's anxiety was the fact that some scholars, appointed secretaries of the briefs (Abbreviatori) by Pius and deprived of office by himself, were members of the Platonic Society. Their animosity against him was both natural and ill-concealed. At the same time the bitter hatred avowed by Laurentius Valla against the temporal power might in an age of conjurations have meant active malice. Leo Alberti hints that Porcari had been supported by strong backers outside Rome; and one of the accusations against the Platonists was that Pomponius Lætus had addressed Platina as Holy Father. Now both Pomponius Lætus and Valla had influence in Naples, while Paul was on the verge of open rupture with King Ferdinand. He therefore had sufficient grounds for suspecting a Neapolitan intrigue, in which the humanists were playing the parts of Brutus and Cassius. Yet though we take this trouble to construct some show of reason for the panic of the Pope, the fact remains that he was really mistaken at the outset; and of the stupidity, cruelty, and injustice of his subsequent conduct there can be no doubt. He seized the chief members of the Roman Academy, imprisoned them, put them to the torture, and killed some of them upon the rack. 'You would have taken Castle S. Angelo for Phalaris' bull,' writes Platina; 'the hollow vaults did so resound with the cries of innocent young men.' No evidence of a conspiracy could be extorted. Then Paul tried the survivors for unorthodoxy. They proved the soundness of their faith to the satisfaction of the Pope's inquisitors. Nothing remained but to release them, or to shut them up in dungeons, in order that the people might not say the Holy Father had arrested them without due cause. The latter course was chosen. Platina, the historian of the Popes, was one of the _abbreviatori_ whom Paul had cashiered, and one of the Platonists whom he had tortured. The tale of Papal persecution loses, therefore, nothing in the telling; for if the humanists of the fifteenth century were powerful in anything it was in writing innuendoes and invectives. Among other anecdotes, he relates how, while he was being dislocated on the rack, the inquisitors Vianesi and Sanga held a sprightly colloquy about a ring which the one said jestingly the other had received as a love-token from a girl. The whole situation is characteristic of Papal Rome in the Renaissance. [1] See _Les Arts à la Cour des Papes pendant le XV. et le XVI. Siècles_, E. Müntz, Paris, Thorin, 2me Partie. M. Müntz has done good service to æsthetic archæology by vindicating the fame of Paul II. as an employer of artists from the wholesale abuse heaped on him by Platina. It may here be conveniently noticed that even the fierce Sixtus IV. showed intelligence as a patron of arts and letters. He built the Sistine Chapel, and brought the greatest painters of the day to Rome--Signorelli, Perugino, Botticelli, Cosimo, Rosselli, and Ghirlandajo. Melozzo da Forlì worked for him. One of that painter's few remaining masterpieces is the wall-picture, now in the Vatican, which represents Sixtus among his Cardinals and Secretaries--a magnificent piece of vivid portraiture. Sixtus again threw the Vatican library open to the public, and In his days the Confraternity of S. Luke was founded for the encouragement of design. Rome owes to him the hospital of S. Spirito, a severe building, by Baccio Pontelli, and the churches of S. Maria del Popolo and S. Maria della Pace. Innocent VIII. added the Belvedere to the Vatican after Antonio del Pollajuolo's plan, and commenced the Villa Magliana. Alexander VI. enriched the Vatican with the famous Borgia apartments, decorated by Pinturhicchio. He also began the Palace of the University, and converted the Mausoleum of Hadrian into the Castle of S. Angelo. These brief allusions must suffice. It is not the object of the present chapter to treat of the Popes as patrons; but it should not be forgotten that, having accepted a place among the despots of Italy, they strove to acquit their debt to art and learning in the spirit of contemporary potentates. [2] Corio sums up his character thus: 'Fu costui uomo alla libidine molto proclivo; in grandissimo precio furono le gioie appresso di lui. Del giorno faceva notte, e la notte ispediva quanto gli occorreva.' Marcus Attilius Alexius says: 'Paulus II. ex concubiná domum replevit, et quasi sterquilinium facta est sedes Barionis.' See Gregorovius, _Stadt Rom_, vol. vii. p. 215, for the latter quotation. Paul did not live as long as his comparative youth led people to anticipate. He died of apoplexy in 1471, alone and suddenly, after supping on two huge watermelons, _duos prægrandes pepones_. His successor was a man of base extraction, named Francesco della Rovere, born near the town of Savona on the Genoese Riviera. It was his whim to be thought noble; so he bought the goodwill of the ancient house of Rovere of Turin by giving them two cardinals' hats, and proclaimed himself their kinsman. Theirs is the golden oak-tree on an azure ground which Michael Angelo painted on the roof of the Sistine Chapel in compliment to Sixtus and his nephew Julius. Having bribed the most venal members of the Sacred College, Francesco della Rovere was elected Pope, and assumed the name of Sixtus IV. He began his career with a lie; for though he succeeded to the avaricious Paul who had spent his time in amassing money which he did not use, he declared that he had only found 5,000 florins in the Papal treasury. This assertion was proved false by the prodigality with which he lavished wealth immediately upon his nephews. It is difficult even to hint at the horrible suspicions which were cast upon the birth of two of the Pope's nephews and upon the nature of his weakness for them. Yet the private life of Sixtus rendered the most monstrous stories plausible, while his public treatment of these men recalled to mind the partiality of Nero for Doryphorus.[1] We may, however, dwell upon the principal features of his nepotism; for Sixtus was the first Pontiff who deliberately organized a system for pillaging the Church in order to exalt his family to principalities. The weakness of this policy has already been exposed[2]: its justification, if there is any, lies in the exigencies of a dynasty which had no legitimate or hereditary succession. The names of the Pope's nephews were Lionardo, Giuliano, and Giovanni della Rovere, the three sons of his brother Raffaello; Pietro and Girolamo Riario, the two sons of his sister Jolanda; and Girolamo, the son of another sister married to Giovanni Basso. With the notable exception of Giuliano della Rovere,[3] these young men had no claim to distinction beyond good looks and a certain martial spirit which ill suited with the ecclesiastical dignities thrust upon some of them. Lionardo was made prefect of Rome and married to a natural daughter of King Ferdinand of Naples. Giuliano received a Cardinal's hat, and, after a tempestuous warfare with the intervening Popes, ascended the Holy Chair as Julius II. Girolamo Basso was created Cardinal of San Crisogono in 1477, and died in 1507. Girolamo Riario wedded Catherine, a natural daughter of Galeazzo Sforza. For him the Pope in 1473 bought the town of Imola with money of the Church, and, after adding to it Forli, made Girolamo a Duke. He was murdered by his subjects in the latter place in 1488, not, however, before he had founded a line of princes. Pietro, another nephew of the Riario blood, or, as scandal then reported and Muratori has since believed, a son of the Pope himself, was elevated at the age of twenty-six to the dignities of Cardinal, Patriarch of Constantinople, and Archbishop of Florence. He had no virtues, no abilities, nothing but his beauty, the scandalous affection of the Pope, and the extravagant profligacy of his own life to recommend him to the notice of posterity. All Italy during two years rang with the noise of his debaucheries. His official revenues were estimated at 60,000 golden florins; but in his short career of profligate magnificence he managed to squander a sum reckoned at not less than 200,000. When Leonora of Aragon passed through Rome on her way to wed the Marquis of Ferrara, this fop of a Patriarch erected a pavilion in the Piazza de' Santi Apostoli for her entertainment.[4] The square was partitioned into chambers communicating with the palace of the Cardinal. The ordinary hangings were of velvet and of white and crimson silk, while one of the apartments was draped with the famous tapestries of Nicholas V., which represented the Creation of the World. All the utensils in this magic dwelling were of silver--even to the very vilest. The air of the banquet-hall was cooled with punkahs; _ire mantici coperti, che facevano continoamemte vento_, are the words of Corio; and on a column in the center stood a living naked gilded boy, who poured forth water from an urn. The description of the feast takes up three pages of the history of Corio, where we find a minute list of the dishes--wild boars and deer and peacocks, roasted whole; peeled oranges, gilt and sugared; gilt rolls; rosewater for washing; and the tales of Perseus, Atalanta, Hercules, etc., I wrought in pastry--_tutte in vivande_. We are also told how masques of Hercules, Jason, and Phædra alternated with the story of Susannah and the Elders, played by Florentine actors, and with the Mysteries of _San Giovan Battista decapitato_ and _quel Giudeo che rosfi il corpo di Cristo_. The servants were arrayed in silk, and the seneschal changed his dress of richest stuffs and jewels four times in the course of the banquet. Nymphs and centaurs, singers and buffoons, drank choice wine from golden goblets. The most eminent and reverend master of the palace, meanwhile, moved among his guests 'like some great Cæsar's son.' The whole entertainment lasted from Saturday till Thursday, during which time Ercole of Este and his bride assisted at Church ceremonies in S. Peter's, and visited the notabilities of Rome in the intervals of games, dances, and banquets of the kind described. We need scarcely add that, in spite of his enormous wealth, the young Cardinal died 60,000 florins in debt. Happily for the Church and for Italy, he expired at Rome in January 1474, after parading his impudent debaucheries through Milan and Venice as the Pope's Legate. It was rumored, but never well authenticated, that the Venetians helped his death by poison.[5] The sensual indulgences of every sort in which this child of the proletariat, suddenly raised to princely splendor, wallowed for twenty-five continuous months, are enough to account for his immature death without the hypothesis of poisoning. With him expired a plan which might have ended in making the Papacy a secular, hereditary kingdom. During his stay at Milan, Pietro struck a bargain with the Duke, by the terms of which Galeazzo Maria Sforza was to be crowned king of Lombardy, while the Cardinal Legate was to return and seize upon the Papal throne.[6] Sixtus, it is said, was willing to abdicate in his nephew's favor, with a view to the firmer establishment of his family in the tyranny of Rome. The scheme was a wild one, yet, considering the power and wealth of the Sforza family, not so wholly impracticable as might appear. The same dream floated, a few years later, before the imagination of the two Borgias; and Machiavelli wrote in his calm style that to make the Papal power hereditary was all that remained for nepotism in his days to do.[7] The opinion which had been conceived of the Cardinal of San Sisto during his two years of eminence may be gathered from the following couplets of an epigram placed, as Corio informs us, on his tomb:-- Fur, scortum, leno, moechus, pedico, cynædus, Et scurra, et fidicen cedat ab Italiâ: Namque illa Ausonii pestis scelerata senatûs, Petrus, ad infernas est modo raptus aquas. After the death of Pietro, Sixtus took his last nephew, Giovanni della Rovere, into like favor. He was married to Giovanna, daughter of Federigo di Montefeltro, Duke of Urbino, and created Duke of Sinigaglia. Afterwards he became Prefect of Rome, upon the death of his brother Lionardo. This man founded the second dynasty in the Dukedom of Urbino. The plebeian violence of the della Rovere temper reached a climax in Giovanni's son, the Duke Francesco Maria, who murdered his sister's lover with his own hand when a youth of sixteen, stabbed the Papal Legate to death in the streets of Bologna at the age of twenty, and knocked Guicciardini, the historian, down with a blow of his fist during a council of war in 1526. [1] The infamous stories about Sixtus and Alexander may in part be fables, currently reported by the vulgar and committed to epigrams by scholars. Still the fact remains that Infessura, Burchard, and the Venetian ambassadors relate of these two Popes such traits of character and such abominable actions as render the worst calumnies probable. Infessura, though he expressed horror for the crimes of Sixtus, was yet a dry chronicler of daily events, many of which passed beneath his own eyes, Burchurd was a frigid diarist of Court ceremonies, who reported the rapes, murders, and profligacies of Alexander with phlegmatic gravity. The evidence of these men, neither of whom indulges in satire strictly so called, is more valuable than that of Tacitus or Suetonius to the vices of the Roman emperors. The dispatches of the Venetian ambassadors, again, are trustworthy, seeing they were always written with political intention and not for the sake of gossip. [2] See ch. iii. p. 113. [3] As Julius II., by far the greatest name in his age. Yet even Giuliano did not at first impress men with his power. Jacobus Volaterranus (Mur. xxiii. 107) writes of him: 'Vir est naturæ duriusculæ, ac uti ingenii, mediocris literaturæ.' [4] For what follows read Corio, _Storia di Milano_, pp. 417-20. [5] Mach. _1st. Fior_. lib. vii.; Corio, p. 420. [6] See Corio, p. 420. Corio hints that the Venetians poisoned the Cardinal for fear of this convention being carried out. [7] _1st. Fior_, lib. i. vol. i. p. 38. Sixtus, however, while thus providing for his family, could not enjoy life without some youthful protégé about his person. Accordingly in 1463 he made his valet, a lad of no education and of base birth, Cardinal and Bishop of Parma at the age of twenty. His merit was the beauty of a young Olympian. With this divine gift he luckily combined a harmless though stupid character. With all these favorites to plant out in life, the Pope was naturally short of money. He relied on two principal methods for replenishing his coffers. One was the public sale of places about the Court at Rome, each of which had its well-known price.[1] Benefices were disposed of with rather more reserve and privacy, for simony had not yet come to be considered venial. Yet it was notorious that Sixtus held no privilege within his pontifical control on which he was not willing to raise money: 'Our churches, priests, altars, sacred rites, our prayers, our heaven, our very God, are purchasable!' exclaims a scholar of the time; while the Holy Father himself was wont to say, 'A pope needs only pen and ink to get what sum he wants.'[2] The second great financial expedient was the monopoly of corn throughout the Papal States. Fictitious dearths were created; the value of wheat was raised to famine prices; good grain was sold out of the kingdom, and bad imported in exchange; while Sixtus forced his subjects to purchase from his stores, and made a profit by the hunger and disease of his emaciated provinces. Ferdinand, the King of Naples, practiced the same system in the south. It is worth while to hear what this bread was like from one of the men condemned to eat it: 'The bread made from the corn of which I have spoken was black, stinking, and abominable; one was obliged to consume it, and from this cause sickness frequently took hold upon the State.'[3] [1] The greatest ingenuity was displayed in promoting this market. Infessura writes: 'Multa et inexcogitata in Curia Romana officia adinvenit et vendidit,' p. 1183. [2] Baptista Mantuanus, _de Calamitatibus Temporum_, lib. iii. Venalia nobis Templa, sacerdotes, altaria, sacra, coronæ, Ignes, thura, preces, coelum est venale, Deusque. Soriano, the Venetian ambassador, ap. Alberi ii. 3, p. 330, writes: 'Conviene ricordarsi quello che soleva dire Sisto IV., che al papa bastava solo la mano con la penna e l'inchiostro, per avere quella somma che vuole.' Cp. Aen. Sylv. Picc. _Ep_. i. 66: 'Nihil est quod absque argento Romana Curia dedat; nam et ipsæ manus impositiones et Spiritus Sancti dona venduntur, nec peccatorum venia nisi nummatis impenditur.' [3] Infessura, _Eccardus_, vol. ii. p. 1941: 'Panis vero qui ex dicto frumento fiebat, erat ater, foetidus, et abominabilis; e ex necessitate comedebatur, ex quo sæpenumero in civitate morbus viguit.' But Christendom beheld in Sixtus not merely the spectacle of a Pope who trafficked in the bodies of his subjects and the holy things of God, to squander basely gotten gold upon abandoned minions. The peace of Italy was destroyed by desolating wars in the advancement of the same worthless favorites, Sixtus desired to annex Ferrara to the dominions of Girolamo Riario. Nothing stood in his way but the House of Este, firmly planted for centuries, and connected by marriage or alliance with all the chief families of Italy. The Pope, whose lust for blood and broils was only equaled by his avarice and his libertinism,[1] rushed with wild delight into a project which involved the discord of the whole Peninsula. He made treaties with Venice and unmade them, stirred up all the passions of the despots and set them together by the ears, called the Swiss mercenaries into Lombardy, and when finally, tired of fighting for his nephew, the Italian powers concluded the peace of Bagnolo, he died of rage in 1484. The Pope did actually die of disappointed fury because peace had been restored to the country he had mangled for the sake of a favorite nephew. [1] This phrase requires support. Infessura (loc. cit. p. 1941) relates the savage pleasure with which Sixtus watched a combat 'a steccato chiuso.' Hearing that a duel to the death was to be fought by two bands of his body-guard, he told them to choose the Piazza of S. Peter for their rendezvous. Then he appeared at a window, blessed the combatants, and crossed himself as a signal for the battle to begin. We who think the ring, the cockpit, and the bullfight barbarous, should study Pollajuolo's engraving in order to imagine the horrors of a duel 'a steccato chiuso.' Of the inclination of Sixtus to sensuality, Infessura writes: 'Hic, ut fertur vulgo, et experientia demonstravit, puerorum amator et sodomita fuit.' After mentioning the Riarii and a barber's son, aged twelve, he goes on: 'taceo nunc alia, quæ circa hoc possent recitari, quia visa sunt de continuo.' It was not, perhaps, a wholly Protestant calumny which accused Sixtus of granting private indulgences for the commission of abominable crimes in certain seasons of the year. The crime of Sixtus which most vividly paints the corruption of the Papacy in his age remains still to be told. This was the sanction of the Pazzi Conjuration against Giuliano and Lorenzo de' Medici. In the year 1477 the Medici, after excluding the merchant princes of the Pazzi family from the magistracy at Florence and otherwise annoying them, had driven Francesco de' Pazzi in disgust to Rome. Sixtus chose him for his banker in the place of the Medicean Company. He became intimate with Girolamo Riario, and was well received at the Papal Court. Political reasons at this moment made the Pope and his nephew anxious to destroy the Medici, who opposed Girolamo's schemes of aggrandizement in Lombardy. Private rancor induced Francesco de' Pazzi to second their views and to stimulate their passion. The three between them hatched a plot which was joined by Salviati, Archbishop of Pisa, another private foe of the Medici, and by Giambattista Montesecco, a captain well affected to the Count Girolamo. The first design of the conspirators was to lure the brothers Medici to Rome, and to kill them there. But the young men were too prudent to leave Florence. Pazzi and Salviati then proceeded to Tuscany, hoping either at a banquet or in church to succeed in murdering their two enemies together. Bernardo Bandini, a man of blood by trade, and Francesco de' Pazzi were chosen to assassinate Giuliano. Giambattista Montesecco undertook to dispose of Lorenzo.[1] The 26th of April 1478 was finally fixed for the deed. The place selected was the Duomo.[2] The elevation of the Host at Mass-time was to be the signal. Both the Medici arrived. The murderers embraced Giuliano and discovered that this timid youth had left his secret coat of mail at home. But a difficulty, which ought to have been foreseen, arose. Monteseoco, cut-throat as he was, refused to stab Lorenzo before the high altar: at the last moment some sense of the _religio loci_ dashed his courage. Two priests were then discovered who had no such silly scruples. In the words of an old chronicle, 'Another man was found, who, _being a priest_, was more accustomed to the place and therefore less superstitious about its sanctity.' This, however, spoiled all. The priests, though more sacrilegious than the bravos, were less used to the trade of assassination. They failed to strike home. Giuliano, it is true, was stabbed to death by Bernardo Bandini and Francesco de' Pazzi at the very moment of the elevation of Christ's body. But Lorenzo escaped with a slight flesh-wound. The whole conspiracy collapsed. In the retaliation which the infuriated people of Florence took upon the murderers, the Archbishop Salviati, together with Jacopo and Francesco de' Pazzi and some others among the principal conspirators, were hung from the windows of the Palazzo Pubblico. For this act of violence to the sacred person of a traitorous priest, Sixtus, who had upon his own conscience the crime of mingled treason, sacrilege, and murder, ex-communicated Florence, and carried on for years a savage war with the Republic. It was not until 1481, when the descent of the Turks upon Otranto made him tremble for his own safety, that he chose to make peace with these enemies whom he had himself provoked and plotted against. [1] His 'Confession,' printed by Fabroni, _Lorenzi Medicis Vita_, vol. ii. p. 168, gives an interesting account of the hatching of the plot. It is fair to Sixtus to say that Montesecco exculpates him of the design to murder the Medici. He only wanted to ruin them. [2] It is curious to note how many of the numerous Italian tyrannicides took place in church. The Chiavelli of Fabriano were murdered during a solemn service in 1435; the sentence of the creed 'Et incarnatus est' was chosen for the signal. Gian Maria Visconti was killed in San Gottardo (1412), Galeazzo Maria Sforza in San Stefano (1484). Lodovico Moro only just escaped assassination in Sant' Ambrogio (1484). Machiavelli says that Lorenzo de' Medici's life was attempted by Batista Frescobaldi in the Carmine (see _1st. Fior._ book viii. near the end). The Bagliani of Perugia were to have been massacred during the marriage festival of Astorre with Lavinia Colonna(1500). Stefano Porcari intended to capture Nicholas V. at the great gate of S. Peter's (1453). The only chance of catching cautious princes off their guard was when they were engaged in high solemnities. See above, p. 168. Another peculiarity in the Pontificate of Sixtus deserves special mention. It was under his auspices in the year 1478 that the Inquisition was founded in Spain for the extermination of Jews, Moors, and Christians with a taint of heresy. During the next four years 2,000 victims were burned in the province of Castile. In Seville, a plot of ground, called the Quemadero, or place of burning--a new Aceldama--was set apart for executions; and here in one year 280 heretics were committed to the flames, while 79 were condemned to perpetual imprisonment, and 17,000 to lighter punishments of various kinds. In Andalusia alone 5,000 houses were at once abandoned by their inhabitants. Then followed in 1492 the celebrated edict against the Jews. Before four months had expired the whole Jewish population were bidden to leave Spain, carrying with them nothing in the shape of gold or silver. To convert their property into bills of exchange and movables was their only resource. The market speedily was glutted: a house was given for an ass, a vineyard for a suit of clothes. Vainly did the persecuted race endeavor to purchase a remission of the sentence by the payment of an exorbitant ransom. Torquemada appeared before Ferdinand and his consort, raising the crucifix, and crying: 'Judas sold Christ for 30 pieces of silver; sell ye him for a larger sum, and account for the same to God!' The exodus began. Eight hundred thousand Jews left Spain[1]--some for the coast of Africa, where the Arabs ripped their bodies up in search for gems or gold they might have swallowed, and deflowered their women--some for Portugal, where they bought the right to exist for a large head-tax, and where they saw their sons and daughters dragged away to baptism before their eyes. Others were sold as slaves, or had to satisfy the rapacity of their persecutors with the bodies of their children. Many flung themselves into the wells, and sought to bury despair in suicide. The Mediterranean was covered with famine-stricken and plague-breeding fleets of exiles. Putting into the Port of Genoa, they were refused leave to reside in the city, and died by hundreds in the harbor.[2] Their festering bodies, bred a pestilence along the whole Italian sea-board, of which at Naples alone 20,000 persons died. Flitting from shore to shore, these forlorn specters, the victims of bigotry and avarice, everywhere pillaged and everywhere rejected, dwindled away and disappeared. Meanwhile the orthodox rejoiced. Pico della Mirandola, who spent his life in reconciling Plato with the Cabala, finds nothing more to say than this: 'The sufferings of the Jews, in which the glory of the Divine justice delighted, were so extreme as to fill us Christians with commiseration.' With these words we may compare the following passage from Senarega: 'The matter at first sight seemed praiseworthy, as regarding the honor done to our religion; yet it involved some amount of cruelty, if we look upon them, not as beasts, but as men, the handiwork of God.' A critic of this century can only exclaim with stupefaction: _Tantum religio potuit suadere malorum!_ Thus Spain began to devour and depopulate herself. The curse which fell upon the Jew and Moor descended next upon philosopher and patriot. The very life of the nation, in its commerce, its industry, its free thought, its energy of character, was deliberately and steadily throttled. And at no long interval of time the blight of Spain was destined to descend on Italy, paralyzing the fair movements of her manifold existence to a rigid uniformity, shrouding the light and color of her art and letters in the blackness of inquisitorial gloom. [1] This number is perhaps exaggerated. Limborch in his _History of the Inquisition_ (p. 83) gives both 800,000 and 400,000; he also speaks of 170,000 _families_ as one calculation. [2] Senarega's account of the entry of the Jews into Genoa is truly awful. He was an eye-witness of what he relates. The passage may be read in Prescott's _Ferdinand and Isabella_, chapter 17. Most singular is the attitude of a Sixtus--indulging his lust and pride in the Vatican, adorning the chapel called after his name with masterpieces,[1] rending Italy with broils for the aggrandizement of favorites, haggling over the prices to be paid for bishoprics, extorting money from starved provinces, plotting murder against his enemies, hounding the semi-barbarous Swiss mountaineers on Milan by indulgences, refusing aid to Venice in her championship of Christendom against the Turk--yet meanwhile thinking to please God by holocausts of Moors, by myriads of famished Jews, conferring on a faithless and avaricious Ferdinand the title of Catholic, endeavoring to wipe out his sins by the blood of others, to burn his own vices in the _autos da fé_ of Seville, and by the foundation of that diabolical engine the Inquisition to secure the fabric his own infamy was undermining.[2] This is not the language of a Protestant denouncing the Pope. With all respect for the Roman Church, that Alma Mater of the Middle Ages, that august and venerable monument of immemorial antiquity, we cannot close our eyes to the contradictions between practice and pretension upon which the History of the Italian Renaissance throws a light so lurid. [1] Musing beneath the Sibyls and before the Judgment of Michael Angelo, it is difficult not to picture to the fancy the arraignment of the Popes who built and beautified that chapel, when the Christ, whose blood they sold, should appear with His menacing right arm uplifted, and the prophets should thunder their denunciations: 'Howl, ye shepherds, and cry; and wallow yourselves in the ashes, ye principal of the flock, for the days of your slaughter and your dispersions are accomplished.' [2] The same incongruity appears also in Innocent VIII., whose bull against witchcraft (1484) systematized the persecution directed against unfortunate old women and idiots. Sprenger, in the _Malleus Maleficarum_, mentions that in the first year after its publication forty-one witches were burned in the district of Como, while crowds of suspected women took refuge in the province of the Archduke Sigismond. Cantù's _Storia della Diocesi di Como_ (Le Monnier, 2 vols.) may be consulted for the persecution of witches in Valtellina and Val Camonica. Cp. Folengo's _Maccaronea_ for the prevalence of witchcraft in those districts. After Sixtus IV. came Innocent VIII. His secular name was Giambattista Cibo. The sacred College, terrified by the experience of Sixtus into thinking that another Pope, so reckless in his creation of scandalous Cardinals, might ruin Christendom, laid the most solemn obligations on the Pope elect. Cibo took oaths on every relic, by every saint, to every member of the conclave, that he would maintain a certain order of appointment and a purity of election in the Church. No Cardinal under the age of thirty, not more than one of the Pope's own blood, none without the rank of Doctor of Theology or Law, were to be elected, and so forth. But as soon as the tiara was on his head, he renounced them all as inconsistent with the rights and liberties of S. Peter's Chair. Engagements made by the man might always be broken by the Pope. Of Innocent's Pontificate little need be said. He was the first Pope publicly to acknowledge his seven children, and to call them sons and daughters.[1] Avarice, venality, sloth, and the ascendency of base favorites made his reign loathsome without the blaze and splendor of the scandals of his fiery predecessor. In corruption he advanced a step even beyond Sixtus, by establishing a Bank at Rome for the sale of pardons.[2] Each sin had its price, which might be paid at the convenience of the criminal: 150 ducats of the tax were poured into the Papal coffers; the surplus fell to Franceschetto, the Pope's son. This insignificant princeling, for whom the county of Anguillara was purchased, showed no ability or ambition for aught but getting and spending money. He was small of stature and tame-spirited: yet the destinies of an important house of Europe depended on him; for his father married him to Maddalena, the daughter of Lorenzo de' Medici, in 1487. This led to Giovanni de' Medici receiving a Cardinal's hat at the age of thirteen, and thus the Medicean interest in Rome was founded; in the course of a few years the Medici gave two Popes to the Holy See, and by their ecclesiastical influence riveted the chains of Florence fast.[3] The traffic which Innocent and Franceschetto carried on in theft and murder filled the Campagna with brigands and assassins.[4] Travelers and pilgrims and ambassadors were stripped and murdered on their way to Rome; and in the city itself more than two hundred people were publicly assassinated with impunity during the last months of the Pope's life. He was gradually dozing off into his last long sleep, and Franceschetto was planning how to carry off his ducats. While the Holy Father still hovered between life and death, a Jewish doctor proposed to reinvigorate him by the transfusion of young blood into his torpid veins. Three boys throbbing with the elixir of early youth were sacrificed in vain. Each boy, says Infessura, received one ducat. He adds, not without grim humor: 'Et paulo post mortui sunt; Judæus quidem aufugit, et Papa non sanatus est.' The epitaph of this poor old Pope reads like a rather clever but blasphemous witticism: 'Ego autem in Innocentiâ meâ ingressus sum.' [1] 'Primus pontificum filios filiasque palam ostentavit, primus eorum apertas fecit nuptias, primus domesticos hymenæos celebravit.' Egidius of Viterbo, quoted by Greg. _Stadt Rom_, vol. vii. p. 274, note. [2] Infessura says he heard the Vice-chancellor, when asked why criminals were allowed to pay instead of being punished, answer: 'God wills not the death of a sinner, but rather that he should pay and live.' Dominico di Viterbo, Apostolic Scribe, forged bulls by which the Pope granted indulgences for the commission of the worst scandals. His father tried to buy him off for 5,000 ducats. Innocent replied that, as his honor was concerned, he must have 6,000. The poor father could not scrape so much money together; so the bargain fell through, and Dominico was executed. A Roman who had killed two of his own daughters bought his pardon for 800 ducats. [3] Guicciardini, i. 1., points out that Lorenzo, having the Pope for his ally, was able to create that balance of power in Italy which it was his chief political merit to have maintained until his death. [4] It is only by reading the pages of Infessura's Diary (Eccardus vol. ii. pp. 2003-2005) that any notion of the mixed debauchery and violence of Rome at this time can be formed. Meanwhile the Cardinals had not been idle. The tedious leisure of Innocent's long lethargy was employed by them in active simony. Simony, it may be said in passing, gave the great Italian families a direct interest in the election of the richest and most paying candidate. It served the turn of a man like Ascanio Sforza to fatten the golden goose that laid such eggs, before he killed it--in other words, to take the bribes of Innocent and Alexander, while deferring for a future time his own election. All the Cardinals, with the exception of Roderigo Borgia,[1] were the creatures of Sixtus or of Innocent. Having bought their hats with gold, they were now disposed to sell their votes to the highest bidder. The Borgia was the richest, strongest, wisest, and most worldly of them all. He ascertained exactly what the price of each suffrage would be, and laid his plans accordingly. The Cardinal Ascanio Sforza, brother of the Duke of Milan, would accept the lucrative post of Vice-Chancellor. The Cardinal Orsini would be satisfied with the Borgia Palaces at Rome and the Castles of Monticello and Saviano. The Cardinal Colonna had a mind for the Abbey of Subbiaco with its fortresses. The Cardinal of S. Angelo preferred the comfortable Bishopric of Porto with its palace stocked with choice wines. The Cardinal of Parma would take Nepi. The Cardinal of Genoa was bribable with the Church of S. Maria in Via Lata. Less influential members of the Conclave sold themselves for gold; to meet their demands the Borgia sent Ascanio Sforza four mules laden with coin in open day, requesting him to distribute it in proper portions to the voters. The fiery Giuliano della Rovere remained implacable and obdurate. In the Borgia his vehement temperament perceived a fit antagonist. The armor which he donned in their first encounters he never doffed, but waged fierce war with the whole brood of Borgias at Ostia, at the French Court, in Romagna, wherever and whenever he found opportunity.[2] He and five other Cardinals--among them his cousin Raphael Riario--refused to sell their votes. But Roderigo Borgia, having corrupted the rest of the college, assumed the mantle of S. Peter in 1492, with the ever-memorable title of Alexander VI. [1] Roderigo was the son of Isabella Borgia, niece of Pope Calixtus III., by her marriage with Joffré Lenzuoli. He took the name of Borgia, when he came to Rome to be made Cardinal, and to share in his uncle's greatness. [2] The marriage of his nephew Nicolo della Rovere to Laura, the daughter of Alexander VI. by Giulia Bella, in 1505, long after the Borgia family had lost its hold on Italy, is a curious and unexplained incident. Rome rejoiced. The Holy City attired herself in festival array, exhibiting on every flag and balcony the Bull of the house of Borgia, and crying like the Egyptians when they found Apis:-- Vive diu Bos! Vive diu Bos! Borgia vive! Vivit Alexander: Roma beata manet. In truth there was nothing to convince the Romans of the coming woe, or to raise suspicion that a Pope had been elected who would deserve the execration of succeeding centuries. In Roderigo Borgia the people only saw, as yet, a man accomplished at all points, of handsome person, royal carriage, majestic presence, affable address. He was a brilliant orator, a passionate lover, a demigod of court pageantry and ecclesiastic parade--qualities which, though they do not suit our notions of a churchman, imposed upon the taste of the Renaissance. As he rode in triumph toward the Lateran, voices were loud in his praise. 'He sits upon a snow-white horse,' writes one of the humanists of the century,[1] 'with serene forehead, with commanding dignity. As he distributes his blessing to the crowd, all eyes are fixed upon him, and all hearts rejoice. How admirable is the mild composure of his mien! how noble his countenance! his glance how free! His stature and carriage, his beauty and the full health of his body, how they enhance the reverence which he inspires!' Another panegyrist[2] describes his 'broad forehead, kingly brow, free countenance full of majesty,' adding that 'the heroic beauty of his whole body' was given him by nature in order that he might 'adorn the seat of the Apostles with his divine form in the place of God.' How little in the early days of his Pontificate the Borgia resembled that Alexander with whom the legend of his subsequent life has familiarized our fancy, may be gathered from the following account:[3] 'He is handsome, of a most glad countenance and joyous aspect, gifted with honeyed and choice eloquence; the beautiful women on whom his eyes are cast he lures to love him, and moves them in a wondrous way, more powerfully than the magnet influences iron.' These, we must remember, are the testimonies of men of letters, imbued with the Pagan sentiments of the fifteenth century, and rejoicing in the advent of a Pope who would, they hoped, make Rome the capital of luxury and license. Therefore they require to be received with caution. Yet there is no reason to suppose that the majority of the Italians regarded the elevation of the Borgia with peculiar horror. As a Cardinal he had given proof of his ability, but shown no signs of force or cruelty or fraud. Nor were his morals worse than those of his colleagues. If he was the father of several children, so was Giuliano della Rovere, and so had been Pope Innocent before him. This mattered but little in an age when the Primate of Christendom had come to be regarded as a secular potentate, less fortunate than other princes inasmuch as his rule was not hereditary, but more fortunate in so far as he could wield the thunders and dispense the privileges of the Church. A few men of discernment knew what had been done, and shuddered. 'The king of Naples,' says Guicciardini, 'though he dissembled his grief, told the queen, his wife, with tears--tears which he was wont to check even at the death of his own sons--that a Pope had been made who would prove most pestilent to the whole Christian commonwealth.' The young Cardinal Giovanni de' Medici, again, showed his discernment of the situation by whispering in the Conclave to his kinsman Cibo: 'We are in the wolf's jaws; he will gulp us down, unless we make our flight good.' Besides, there was in Italy a widely spread repugnance to the Spanish intruders--Marrani, or renegade Moors, as they were properly called--who crowded the Vatican and threatened to possess the land of their adoption like conquerors. 'Ten Papacies would not suffice to satiate the greed of all this kindred,' wrote Giannandrea Boccaccio to the Duke of Ferrara in 1492: and events proved that these apprehensions were justified; for during the Pontificate of Alexander eighteen Spanish Cardinals were created, five of whom belonged to the house of the Borgias. [1] See Michael Fernus, quoted by Greg. _Lucrezia Borgia_, p. 45. [2] Jason Mainus, quoted by Greg, _Stadt Rom._ p. 314, note. [3] Gasp. Ver., quoted by Greg. _Stadt Rom._ p. 208, note. It is certain, however, that the profound horror with which the name of Alexander VI. strikes a modern ear was not felt among the Italians at the time of his election. The sentiment of hatred with which he was afterwards regarded arose partly from the crimes by which his Pontificate was rendered infamous, partly from the fear which his son Cesare inspired, and partly from the mysteries of his private life, which revolted even the corrupt conscience of the sixteenth century. This sentiment of hatred had grown to universal execration at the date of his death. In course of time, when the attention of the Northern nations had been directed to the iniquities of Rome, and when the glaring discrepancy between Alexander's pretension as a Pope and his conduct as a man had been apprehended, it inspired a legend which, like all legends, distorts the facts which it reflects. Alexander was, in truth, a man eminently fitted to close an old age and to inaugurate a new, to demonstrate the paradoxical situation of the Popes by the inexorable logic of his practical impiety, and to fuse two conflicting world-forces in the cynicism of supreme corruption. The Emperors of the Julian house had exhibited the extreme of sensual insolence in their autocracy. What they desired of strange and sweet and terrible in the forbidden fruits of lust, they had enjoyed. The Popes of the Middle Ages--Hildebrand and Boniface--had displayed the extreme of spiritual insolence in their theocracy. What they desired of tyrannous and forceful in the exercise of an usurped despotism over souls, they had enjoyed. The Borgia combined both impulses toward the illimitable. To describe him as the Genius of Evil, whose sensualities, as unrestrained as Nero's, were relieved against the background of flame and smoke which Christianity had raised for fleshly sins, is justifiable. His spiritual tyranny, that arrogated Jus, by right of which he claimed the hemisphere revealed by Christopher Columbus, and imposed upon the press of Europe the censure of the Church of Rome, was rendered ten times monstrous by the glare reflected on it from the unquenched furnace of a godless life. The universal conscience of Christianity is revolted by those unnamable delights, orgies of blood and festivals of lust, which were enjoyed in the plenitude of his green and vigorous old age by this versatile diplomatist and subtle priest, who controlled the councils of kings, and who chanted the sacramental service for a listening world on Easter Day in Rome. Rome has never been small or weak or mediocre. And now in the Pontificate of Alexander 'that memorable scene' presented to the nations of the modern world a pageant of Antichrist and Antiphysis--the negation of the Gospel and of nature; a glaring spectacle of discord between humanity as it aspires to be at its best, and humanity as it is at its worst; a tragi-comedy composed by some infernal Aristophanes, in which the servant of servants, the anointed of the Lord, the lieutenant upon earth of Christ, played the chief part. It may be objected that this is the language not of history but of the legend. I reply that there are occasions when the legend has caught the spirit of the truth. Alexander was a stronger and a firmer man than his immediate predecessors. 'He combined,' says Guicciardini, 'craft with singular sagacity, a sound judgment with extraordinary powers of persuasion; and to all the grave affairs of life he applied ability and pains beyond belief.'[1] His first care was to reduce Rome to order. The old factions of Colonna and Orsini, which Sixtus had scotched, but which had raised their heads again during the dotage of Innocent, were destroyed in his Pontificate. In this way, as Machiavelli observed,[2] he laid the real basis for the temporal power of the Papacy. Alexander, indeed, as a sovereign, achieved for the Papal See what Louis XI. had done for the throne of France, and made Rome on its small scale follow the type of the large European monarchies. The faithlessness and perjuries of the Pope, 'who never did aught else but deceive, nor ever thought of anything but this, and always found occasion for his frauds,'[3] when combined with his logical intellect and persuasive eloquence, made him a redoubtable antagonist. All considerations of religion and morality were subordinated by him with strict impartiality to policy: and his policy he restrained to two objects--the advancement of his family, and the consolidation of the temporal power. These were narrow aims for the ambition of a potentate who with one stroke of his pen pretended to confer the new-found world on Spain. Yet they taxed his whole strength, and drove him to the perpetration of enormous crimes. [1] It is but fair to Guicciardini to complete his sentence in a note: 'These good qualities were far surpassed by his vices; private habits of the utmost obscenity, no shame nor sense of truth, no fidelity to his engagements, no religious sentiment; insatiable avarice, unbridled ambition, cruelty beyond the cruelty of barbarous races, burning desire to elevate his sons by any means: of these there were many, and among them--in order that he might not lack vicious instruments for effecting his vicious schemes--one not less detestable in any way than his father.' _St. d'It._ vol. i. p. 9. I shall translate and put into the appendix Guicciardini's character of Alexander from the _Storia di Firenze_. [2] In the sentences which close the 11th chapter of the _Prince_. [3] Mach. _Prince_, ch. xvii. In the Satires of Ariosto (Satire i. 208-27) there is a brilliant and singularly outspoken passage on the nepotism of the Popes and its ruinous results for Italy. Former Pontiffs had raised money by the sale of benefices and indulgences: this, of course, Alexander also practiced--to such an extent, indeed, that an epigram gained currency: 'Alexander sells the keys, the altars, Christ. Well, he bought them; so he has a right to sell them.' But he went further and took lessons from Tiberius. Having sold the scarlet to the highest bidder, he used to feed his prelate with rich benefices. When he had fattened him sufficiently, he poisoned him, laid hands upon his hoards, and recommenced the game. Paolo Capello, the Venetian Ambassador, wrote in the year 1500: 'Every night they find in Rome four or five murdered men, Bishops and Prelates and so forth.' Panvinius mentions three Cardinals who were known to have been poisoned by the Pope; and to their names may be added those of the Cardinals of Capua and of Verona.[1] To be a prince of the Church was dangerous in those days; and if the Borgia had not at last poisoned himself by mistake, he must in the long-run have had to pay people to accept so perilous a privilege. His traffic in Church dignities was carried on upon a grand scale: twelve Cardinals' hats, for example, were put to auction in a single day in 1500.[2] This was when he wished to pack the Conclave with votes in favor of the cession of Romagna to Cesare Borgia, as well as to replenish his exhausted coffers. Forty-three Cardinals were created by him in eleven promotions: each of these was worth on an average 10,000 florins; while the price paid by Francesco Soderini amounted to 20,000 and that paid by Domenico Grimani reached the sum of 30,000. [1] See the authorities in Burckhardt, pp. 93, 94. [2] Guicc. _St. d'It._ vol. iii. p. 15. Former Popes had preached crusades against the Turk, languidly or energetically according as the coasts of Italy were threatened. Alexander frequently invited Bajazet to enter Europe and relieve him of the princes who opposed his intrigues in the favor of his children. The fraternal feeling which subsisted between the Pope and the Sultan was to some extent dependent on the fate of Prince Djem, a brother of Bajazet and son of the conqueror of Constantinople, who had fled for protection to the Christian powers, and whom the Pope kept prisoner, receiving 40,000 ducats yearly from the Porte for his jail fee. Innocent VIII. had been the first to snare this lucrative guest in 1489. The Lance of Longinus was sent him as a token of the Sultan's gratitude, and Innocent, who built an altar for the relique, caused his own tomb to be raised close by. His effigy in bronze by Pollajuolo still carries in its hand this blood-gift from the infidel to the High Priest of Christendom. Djem meanwhile remained in Rome, and held his Moslem Court side by side with the Pontiff in the Vatican. Dispatches are extant in which Alexander and Bajazet exchange terms of the warmest friendship, the Turk imploring his Greatness--so he addressed the Pope--to put an end to the unlucky Djem, and promising as the price of this assassination a sum of 300,000 ducats and the tunic worn by Christ, presumably that very seamless coat over which the soldiers of Calvary had cast their dice.[1] The money and the relique arrived in Italy and were intercepted by the partisans of Giuliano della Rovere. Alexander, before the bargain with the Sultan had been concluded by the murder of Djem, was forced to hand him over to the French king. But the unlucky Turk carried in his constitution the slow poison of the Borgias, and died in Charles's camp between Rome and Naples. Whatever crimes may be condoned in Alexander, it is difficult to extenuate this traffic with the Turks. By his appeal from the powers of Europe to the Sultan, at a time when the peril to the Western world was still most serious, he stands attained for high treason against Christendom, of which he professed to be the chief; against civilization, which the Church pretended to protect; against Christ, whose vicar he presumed to style himself. [1] See the letters in the 'Preuves et Observations,' printed at the end of the _Mémoires de Comines_. Like Sixtus, Alexander combined this deadness to the spirit and the interests of Christianity with zeal for dogma. He never flinched in formal orthodoxy, and the measures which he took for riveting the chains of superstition on the people were calculated with the military firmness of a Napoleon. It was he who established the censure of the press, by which printers were obliged, under pain of excommunication, to submit the books they issued to the control of the Archbishops and their delegates. The Brief of June 1, 1501, which contains this order, may be reasonably said to have retarded civilization, at least in Italy and Spain. Carnal sensuality was the besetting vice of this Pope throughout his life.[1] This, together with his almost insane weakness for his children, whereby he became a slave to the terrible Cesare, caused all the crimes which he committed. At the same time, though sensual, Alexander was not gluttonous. Boccaccio, the Ferrarese Ambassador, remarks: 'The Pope eats only of one dish. It is, therefore, disagreeable to have to dine with him.' In this respect he may be favorably contrasted with the Roman prelates of the age of Leo. His relations to Vannozza Catanei, the titular wife first of Giorgio de Croce, and then of Carlo Canale, and to Giulia Farnese,[2] surnamed La Bella, the titular wife of Orsino Orsini, were open and acknowledged. These two sultanas ruled him during the greater portion of his career, conniving meanwhile at the harem, which, after truly Oriental fashion, he maintained in the Vatican. An incident which happened during the French invasion of 1494 brings the domestic circumstances of a Pope of the Renaissance vividly before us. Monseigneur d'Allegre caught the ladies Giulia and Girolama Farnese, together with the lady Adriana de Mila, who was employed as their duenna, near Capodimonte, on November 29, and carried them to Montefiascone. The sum fixed for their ransom was 3,000 ducats. This the Pope paid, and on December 1 they were released. Alexander met them outside Rome, attired like a layman in a black jerkin trimmed with gold brocade, and fastened round his waist by a Spanish girdle, from which hung his dagger. Lodovico Sforza, when he heard what had happened, remarked that it was weak to release these ladies, who were 'the very eyes and heart' of his Holiness, for so small a ransom--if 50,000 ducats had been demanded, they would have been paid. This and a few similar jokes, uttered at the Pope's expense, make us understand to what extent the Italians were accustomed to regard their high priest as a secular prince. Even the pageant of Alexander seated in S. Peter's, with his daughter Lucrezia on one side of his throne and his daughter-in-law Sancia upon the other, moved no moral indignation; nor were the Romans astonished when Lucrezia was appointed Governor of Spoleto, and plenipotentiary Regent of the Vatican in her father's absence. These scandals, however, created a very different impression in the north, and prepared the way for the Reformation. [1] Guicciardini (_St. Fior._ cap. 27) writes: 'Fu lussoriosissimo nell' uno e nell' altro sesso, tenendo publicamente femine e garzoni, ma più ancora nelle femine.' A notion of the public disorders connected with his dissolute life may be gained from this passage in Sanuto's Diary (Gregorovius, _Lucrezia Borgia_, p. 88): 'Da Roma per le lettere del orator nostro se intese et etiam de private persone cossa assai abominevole in le chiesa di Dio, che al papa erra nato un fiolo di una dona romana maritata, ch' el padre l' havea rufianata, e di questa il marito invitò il suocero a la vigna e lo uccise tagliandoli el capo, ponendo quello sopra uno legno con letere che diceva questo è il capo de mio suocero che a rufianato sua fiola al papa, et che inteso questo il papa fece metter el dito in exilio di Roma con taglia. Questa nova venne per letere particular; etiam si godea con la sua spagnola menatali per suo fiol duca di Gandia novamente li venuto.' [2] Her brother Alexander, afterwards Paul III., owed his promotion to the purple to this liaison, which was, therefore, the origin of the greatness of the Farnesi. The tomb of Paul III. in the Tribune of S. Peter's has three notable family portraits--the Pope himself in bronze; his sister Giulia, naked in marble, as Justice; and their old mother, Giovanna Gaetani, the bawd, as Prudence. The nepotism of Sixtus was like water to the strong wine of Alexander's paternal ambition. The passion of paternity, exaggerated beyond the bounds of natural affection, and scandalous in a Roman Pontiff, was the main motive of the Borgia's action. Of his children by Vannozza, he caused the eldest son to be created Duke of Gandia; the youngest he married to Donna Sancia, a daughter of Alfonso of Aragon, by whom the boy was honored with the Dukedom of Squillace. Cesare, the second of this family, was appointed Bishop of Valentia, and Cardinal. The Dukedoms of Camerino and Nepi were given to another John, whom Alexander first declared to be his grandson through Cesare, and afterwards acknowledged as his son. This John may possibly have been Lucrezia's child. The Dukedom of Sermoneta, wrenched for a moment from the hands of the Gaetani family, who still own it, was conferred upon Lucrezia's son, Roderigo. Lucrezia, the only daughter of Alexander by Vannozza, took three husbands in succession, after having been formally betrothed to two Spanish nobles, Don Cherubino Juan de Centelles, and Don Gasparo da Procida, son of the Count of Aversa. These contracts, made before her father became Pope, were annulled as not magnificent enough for the Pontiff's daughter. In 1492 she was married to Giovanni Sforza, Lord of Pesaro. But in 1497 the pretensions of the Borgias had outgrown this alliance, and their public policy was inclining to relations with the Southern Courts of Italy. Accordingly she was divorced and given to Alfonso, Prince of Biseglia, a natural son of the King of Naples. When this man's father lost his crown, the Borgias, not caring to be connected with an ex-royal family, caused Alfonso to be stabbed on the steps of S. Peter's in 1501; and while he lingered between life and death, they had him strangled in his sick-bed, by Michellozzo, Cesare's assassin in chief. Finally Lucrezia was wedded to Alfonso, crown-prince of Ferrara, in 1502.[1] The proud heir of the Este dynasty was forced by policy, against his inclination, to take to his board and bed a Pope's bastard, twice divorced, once severed from her husband by murder, and soiled, whether justly or not, by atrocious rumors, to which her father's and her brother's conduct gave but too much color. She proved a model princess after all, and died at last in childbirth, after having been praised by Ariosto as a second Lucrece, brighter for her virtues than the star of regal Rome. [1] Her dowry was 300,000 ducats, besides wedding presents, and certain important immunities and privileges granted to Ferrara by the Pope. History has at last done justice to the memory of this woman, whose long yellow hair was so beautiful, and whose character was so colorless. The legend which made her a poison-brewing Mænad has been proved a lie--but only at the expense of the whole society in which she lived. The simple northern folk, familiar with the tales of Chriemhild, Brynhild, and Gudrun, who helped to forge this legend, could not understand that a woman should be irresponsible for all the crimes and scandals perpetrated in her name. Yet it seems now clear enough that not hers, but her father's and her brother's, were the atrocities which made her married life in Rome a byword. She sat and smiled through all the tempests which tossed her to and fro, until she found at last a fair port in the Duchy of Ferrara. Nursed in the corruption of Papal Rome, which Lorenzo de' Medici described to his son Giovanni as 'a sink of all the vices,' consorting habitually with her father's concubines, and conscious that her own mother had been married for show to two successive husbands, it is not possible that Lucrezia ruled her conduct at any time with propriety. It is even probable that the darkest tales about her are true. The Lord of Pesaro, we must remember, told his kinsman, the Duke of Milan, that the assigned reasons for his divorce were false, and that the fact was what can scarcely be recorded.[1] Still, there is no ground for supposing that, in the matter of her first husband's divorce and the second's murder, she was more than a passive agent in the hands of Alexander and Cesare. The pleasure-loving, careless woman of the Renaissance is very different from the Medea of Victor Hugo's romance; and what remains most revolting to the modern conscience in her conduct is complacent acquiescence in scenes of debauchery devised for her amusement.[2] Instead of viewing her with dread as a potent and malignant witch, we have to regard her with contempt as a feeble woman, soiled with sensual foulness from the cradle. It is also due to truth to remember that at Ferrara she won the esteem of a husband who had married her unwillingly, attached the whole state to her by her sweetness of temper, and received the panegyrics of the two Strozzi, Bembo, Ariosto, Aldo Manuzio, and many other men of note. Foreigners who saw her surrounded by her brilliant Court exclaimed, like the French biographer of Bayard: 'J'ose bien dire que, de son temps, ni beau coup avant, il ne s'est point trouvé de plus triomphante princesse; car elle était belle, bonne douce, et courtoise à toutes gens.' [1] The whole question of Lucrezia's guilt has been ably investigated by Gregorovius (_Lucrezia Borgia_, pp. 101, 159-64). Charity suggests that the dreadful tradition of her relation to her father and brothers is founded less upon fact than upon the scandals current after her divorce. What Giovanni Sforza said was this: '_anzi haverla conosciuta infinite volte, ma chel Papa non gelha tolta per altro se non per usare con lei_.' This confession of the injured husband went the round of all the Courts of Italy, was repeated by Malipiero and Paolo Capello, formed the substance of the satires of Sannazaro and Pontano, crept into the chronicle of Matarazzo, and survived in the histories of Machiavelli and Guicciardini. There was nothing in his words to astonish men who were cognizant of the acts of Gianpaolo Baglioni and Sigismondo Malatesta; while the frantic passion of Alexander for his children, closely allied as this feeling was in him to excessive sensuality, gave them confirmation. Were they, however, true; or were they a malevolent lie? That is the real point at issue. Psychological speculation will help but little here. It is true that Lucrezia in after-life showed all the signs of a clear conscience. But so also did Alexander, whose buoyancy of spirits lasted till the very day of his death. Yet he was stained with crimes foul enough to darken the conscience of any man, at any period of life, and in any position. [2] See Burchard, ed. Leibnitz, pp. 77 and 78. Yet even at Ferrara tragedies which might remind her of the Vatican continued to surround her path. Alfonso, rude in manners and devoted to gun-foundry, interfered but little with the life she led among the wits and scholars who surrounded her. One day, however, in 1508, the poet Ercole Strozzi, who had sung her praises, was found dead, wrapped in his mantle, and pierced with two-and-twenty wounds. No judicial inquiry into this murder was made. Rumor credited both Alfonso and Lucrezia with the deed--Alfonso, because he might be jealous of his wife--Lucrezia, because her poet had recently married Barbara Torelli. Two years earlier another dark crime at Ferrara brought the name of Borgia before the public. One of Lucrezia's ladies, Angela Borgia, was courted by both Giulio d' Este and the Cardinal Ippolito. The girl praised the eyes of Giulio in the hearing of the Cardinal, who forthwith hired assassins to mutilate his brother's face. Giulio escaped from their hands with the loss of one of his eyes, and sought justice from the Duke against the Cardinal in vain. Thereupon he vowed to be revenged on both Ippolito and Alfonso. His plot was to murder them, and to place Ferdinand of Este on the throne. The treason was discovered; the conspirators appeared before Alfonso: he rushed upon Ferdinand, and with his dagger stabbed him in the face. Both Giulio and Ferdinand were thrown into the dungeons of the palace at Ferrara, where they languished for years, while the Duke and Lucrezia enjoyed themselves in its spacious halls and su ny loggie among their courtiers. Ferdinand died in prison, aged sixty-three, in 1540. Giulio was released in 1559 and died, aged eighty-three, in 1561. These facts deserve to be recorded in connection with Lucrezia's married life at Ferrara, lest we should pay too much attention to the flatteries of Ariosto. At the same time her history as Duchess consists, for the most part, in the record of the birth of children. Like her mother Vannozza, she gave herself, in the decline of life, to works of charity and mercy. After this fashion the bright and baleful dames of the Renaissance saved their souls. But to return to the domestic history of Alexander. The murder of the Duke of Gandia brings the whole Borgia family upon the scene. It is related with great circumstantiality and with surprising sangfroid by Burchard, the Pope's Master of the Ceremonies. The Duke with his brother Cesare, then Cardinal Valentino, supped one night at the house of their mother Vannozza. On their way home the Duke said that he should visit a lady of their acquaintance. He parted from Cesare and was never seen again alive. When the news of his disappearance spread abroad, a boatman of the Tiber deposed to having watched the body of a man thrown into the river on the night of the Duke's death, the 14th of June; he had not thought it worth while to report this fact, for he had seen 'a hundred bodies in his day thrown into the water at the said spot, and no questions asked about them afterwards.' The Pope had the Tiber dragged for some hours, while the wits of Rome made epigrams upon this true successor of S. Peter, this new fisher of men. At last the body of the Duke of Gandia was hauled up: nine wounds, one in the throat, the others in the head and legs and trunk, were found upon the corpse. From the evidence accumulated on the subject of the murder it appeared that Cesare had planned it; whether, as some have supposed, out of a jealousy of his brother too dreadful to describe, or, as is more probable, because he wished to take the first place in the Borgia family, we do not know exactly. The Pontiff in his rage and grief was like a wild beast driven to bay. He shut himself up in a private room, refused food, and howled with so terrible a voice that it was heard in the streets beyond his palace. When he rose up from this agony, remorse seemed to have struck him. He assembled a Conclave of the Cardinals, wept before them, rent his robes, confessed his sins, and instituted a commission for the reform of the abuses he had sanctioned in the Church. But the storm of anguish spent its strength at last. A visit from Vannozza, the mother of his children, wrought a sudden change from fury to reconcilement. What passed between them is not known for certain; Vannozza is supposed, however, to have pointed out, what was indisputably true, that Cesare was more fitted to support the dignity of the family by his abilities than had been the weak and amiable Duke of Gandia. The miserable father rose from the earth, dried his eyes, took food, put from him his remorse, and forgot together with his grief for Absalom the reforms which he had promised for the Church. Henceforth he devoted himself with sustained energy to building up the fortunes of Cesare, whom he released from all ecclesiastical obligations, and to whose service he seemed bound by some mysterious power. Nor did he even resent the savageness and cruelty which this young hell-cat vented in his presence on the persons of his favorites. At one time Cesare stabbed Perotto, the Pope's minion, with his own hand, when the youth had taken refuge in Alexander's arms: the blood spirted out upon the priestly mantle, and the young man died there.[1] At another time he employed the same diabolical temper for the delectation of his father. He turned out some prisoners sentenced to death in a court-yard of the palace, arrayed himself in fantastic clothes, and amused the papal party by shooting the unlucky criminals. They ran round and round the court crouching and doubling to avoid his arrows. He showed his skill by hitting each where he thought fit. The Pope and Lucrezia looked on applaudingly. Other scenes, not of bloodshed, but of groveling sensuality, devised for the entertainment of his father and his sister, though described by the dry pen of Burchard, can scarcely be transferred to these pages. [1] The account is given by Capello, the Venetian envoy. The history of Cesare's attempt to found a principality belongs properly to another chapter.[1] But the assistance rendered by his father is essential to the biography of Alexander. The vision of an Italian sovereignty which Charles of Anjou, Gian Galeazzo Visconti, and Galeazzo Maria Sforza had successively entertained, now fascinated the imagination of the Borgias. Having resolved to make Cesare a prince, Alexander allied himself with Louis XII. of France, promising to annul his first marriage and to sanction his nuptials with Ann of Brittany, if he would undertake the advancement of his son. This bribe induced Louis to create Cesare Duke of Valence and to confer on him the hand of Charlotte of Navarre. He also entered Italy and with his arms enabled Cesare to subdue Romagna. The system adopted by Alexander and his son in their conquests was a simple one. They took the capitals and murdered the princes. Thus Cesare strangled the Varani at Camerino in 1502, and the Vitelli and Orsini at Sinigaglia in the same year: by his means the Marcscotti had been massacred wholesale in Bologna; Pesaro, Rimini, and Forli had been treated in like manner; and after the capture of Faenpza in 1501, the two young Manfredi had been sent to Rome; where they were exposed to the worst insults, drowned or strangled.[2] A system of equal simplicity kept their policy alive in foreign Courts. The Bishop of Cette in France was poisoned for hinting at a secret of Cesare's (1498); the Cardinal d'Amboise was bribed to maintain the credit of the Borgias with Louis XII.; the offer of a red hat to Briçonnet saved Alexander from a general council in 1494. The historical interest of Alexander's method consists of its deliberate adaptation of all the means in his power to one end--the elevation of his family. His spiritual authority, the wealth of the Church, the honors of the Holy College, the arts of an assassin, the diplomacy of a despot, were all devoted systematically and openly to the purpose in view. Whatever could be done to weaken Italy by foreign invasions and internal discords, so as to render it a prey for his poisonous son, he attempted. When Louis XII. made his infamous alliance with Ferdinand the Catholic for the spoliation of the house of Aragon in Naples, the Pope gladly gave it his sanction. The two kings quarreled over their prey: then Alexander fomented their discord in order that Cesare might have an opportunity of carrying on his operations in Tuscany unchecked. Patriotism in his breast, whether the patriotism of a born Spaniard or the patriotism of an Italian potentate, was as dead as Christianity. To make profit for the house of Borgia by fraud, sacrilege, and the dismemberment of nations, was the Papal policy. [1] See Chapter VI. [2] Their father, Galeotto Manfredi, had been murdered in 1488 by their mother, Francesca Bentivogli. Of Astorre's death Guicciardini writes: 'Astorre, che era minore di diciotto anni e di forma eccellente ... condotto a Roma, saziata prima (secondo che si disse) la libidine di qualcuno, fu occultamente insieme con un suo fratello naturale privato della vita.' Nardi (_Storie Florentine_, lib. iv. 13) credits Cesare with the violation and murder of the boy. How far, we may ask, were these dark crimes of violence actuated by astrological superstition? This question is raised by Burckhardt (p. 363) apropos of Sigismondo Malatesta's assault upon his son, and Pier Luigi Farnese's violation of the Bishop of Fano. To a temperament like Alexander's, however, mere lust enhanced by cruelty, and seasoned with the joy of insult to an enemy, was a sufficient motive for the commission of monstrous crime. It is wearisome to continue to the end the catalogue of his misdoings. We are relieved when at last the final crash arrives. The two Borgias, so runs the legend of their downfall, invited themselves to dine with the Cardinal Adriano of Corneto in a vineyard of the Vatican belonging to their host. Thither by the hands of Alexander's butler they previously conveyed some poisoned wine. By mistake, or by the contrivance of the Cardinal, who may have bribed this trusted agent, they drank the death-cup mingled for their victim. Nearly all contemporary Italian annalists, including Guicciardini, Paolo Giovio, and Sanudo, gave currency to this version of the tragedy, which became the common property of historians, novelists, and moralists.[1] Yet Burchard who was on the spot, recorded in his diary that both father and son were attacked by a malignant fever; and Giustiniani wrote to his masters in Venice that the Pope's physician ascribed his illness to apoplexy.[2] The season was remarkably unhealthy, and deaths from fever had been frequent. A circular letter to the German Princes, written probably by the Cardinal of Gurk, and dated August 31, 1503, distinctly mentioned fever as the cause of the Pope's sudden decease, _ex hoc seculo horrendâ febrium incensione absorptum_.[3] Machiavelli, again, who conversed with Cesare Borgia about this turning-point in his career, gave no hint of poison, but spoke only of son and father being simultaneously prostrated by disease. [1] The story is related by Cinthio in his _Ecatommithi_, December 9, November 10. [2] The various accounts of Alexander's death have been epitomized by Gregorovius (_Stadt Rom_, vol. vii.), and have been discussed by Villari in his edition of the Giustiniani Dispatches, 2 vols. Florence, Le Monnier. Gregorovius thinks the question still open. Villari decides in favor of fever against poison. [3] Reprinted by R. Garnett in _Athenæum_, Jan. 16, 1875. At this distance of time, and without further details of evidence, we are unable to decide whether Alexander's death was natural, or whether the singularly circumstantial and commonly accepted story of the poisoned wine contained the truth. On the one side, in favor of the hypothesis of fever, we have Burchard's testimony, which does not, however, exactly agree with Giustiniani's, who reported apoplexy to the Venetian senate as the cause of death, and whose report, even at Venice, was rejected by Sanudo for the hypothesis of poison. On the other side, we have the consent of all contemporary historians, with the single and, it must be allowed, remarkable exception of Machiavelli. Paolo Giovio goes even so far as to assert that the Cardinal Corneto told him he had narrowly escaped from the effects of antidotes taken in his extreme terror to counteract the possibility of poison. Whatever may have been the proximate cause of his sickness, Alexander died, a black and swollen mass, hideous to contemplate, after a sharp struggle with the venom he had absorbed.[1] 'All Rome,' says Guicciardini, 'ran with indescribable gladness to view the corpse. Men could not satiate their eyes with feeding on the carcass of a serpent who, by his unbounded ambition and pestiferous perfidy, by every demonstration of horrible cruelty, monstrous lust, and unheard-of avarice, selling without distinction things sacred and profane, had filled the world with venom.' Cesare languished for some days on a sick bed; but in the end, by the aid of a powerful constitution, he recovered, to find his claws cut and his plans in irretrievable confusion. 'The state of the Duke of Valence,' says Filippo Nerli,[2] 'vanished even as smoke in air, or foam upon the water.' [1] 'Morto chel fu, il corpo cominciò a bollire, e la bocca a spumare come faria uno caldaro al focho, assì perseverò mentre che fu sopra terra; divenne anchor ultra modo grosso in tanto che in lui non apparea forma di corpo humano, ne dala larghezza ala lunghezza del corpo suo era differenzia alcuna' (letter of Marquis of Mantua). [2] _Commentari_, lib, v. The moral sense of the Italians expressed itself after Alexander's death in the legend of a devil, who had carried off his soul. Burchard, Giustiniani, Sanudo, and others mention this incident with apparent belief. But a letter from the Marquis of Mantua to his wife, dated September 22, 1503, gives the fullest particulars: 'In his sickness the Pope talked in such a way that those who did not know what was in his mind thought him wandering, though he spoke with great feeling, and his words were: _I will come; it is but right; wait yet a little while_. Those who were privy to his secret thought, explained that, after the death of Innocent, while the Conclave was sitting, he bargained with the devil for the Papacy at the price of his soul; and among the agreements was this, that he should hold the See twelve years, which he did, with the addition of four days; and some attest they saw seven devils in the room at the moment that he breathed his last.' Mere old wives' tales; yet they mark the point to which the credit of the Borgia had fallen, even in Italy, since the hour when the humanists had praised his godlike carriage and heroic mien upon the day of his election. Thus, overreaching themselves, ended this pair of villains--the most notable adventurers who ever played their part upon the stage of the great world. The fruit of so many crimes and such persistent effort was reaped by their enemy, Giuliano della Rovere, for whose benefit the nobles of the Roman state and the despots of Romagna had been extirpated.[1] Alexander had proved the old order of Catholicity to be untenable. The Reformation was imperiously demanded. His very vices spurred the spirit of humanity to freedom. Before a saintly Pontiff the new age might still have trembled in superstitious reverence. The Borgia to all logical intellects rendered the pretensions of a Pope to sway the souls of men ridiculous. This is an excuse for dwelling so long upon the spectacle of his enormities. Better than any other series of facts, they illustrate, not only the corruption of society, and the separation between morality and religion in Italy, but also the absurdity of that Church policy which in the age of the Renaissance confined the action of the head of Christendom to the narrow interests of a brood of parvenus and bastards. [1] Cesare, it must be remembered, had ostensibly reduced the cities of Lombardy, Romagna, and the March, as Gonfalonier of the Church. Of Pius III., who reigned for a few days after Alexander, no account need be taken. Giuliano della Rovere was made Pope in 1503. Whatever opinion may be formed of him considered as the high-priest of the Christian faith, there can be no doubt that Julius II. was one of the greatest figures of the Renaissance, and that his name, instead of that of Leo X., should by right be given to the golden age of letters and of arts in Rome. He stamped the century with the impress of a powerful personality. It is to him we owe the most splendid of Michael Angelo's and Raphael's masterpieces. The Basilica of S. Peter's, that materialized idea, which remains to symbolize the transition from the Church of the Middle Ages to the modern semi-secular supremacy of Papal Rome, was his thought. No nepotism, no loathsome sensuality, no flagrant violation of ecclesiastical justice, stain his pontificate. His one purpose was to secure and extend the temporal authority of the Popes; and this he achieved by curbing the ambition of the Venetians, who threatened to absorb Romagna, by reducing Perugia and Bologna to the Papal sway, by annexing Parma and Piacenza, and by entering on the heritage bequeathed to him by Cesare Borgia. At his death he transmitted to his successors the largest and most solid sovereignty in Italy. But restless, turbid, never happy unless fighting, Julius drowned the peninsula in blood. He has been called a patriot, because from time to time he raised the cry of driving the barbarians from Italy: it must, however, be remembered that it was he, while still Cardinal di San Pietro in Vincoli, who finally moved Charles VIII. from Lyons; it was he who stirred up the League of Cambray against Venice, and who invited the Swiss mercenaries into Lombardy; in each case adding the weight of the Papal authority to the forces which were enslaving his country. Julius, again, has been variously represented as the saviour of the Papacy, and as the curse of Italy.[1] He was emphatically both. In those days of national anarchy it was perhaps impossible for Julius to magnify the Church except at the expense of the nation, and to achieve the purpose of his life without inflicting the scourge of foreign war upon his countrymen. The powers of Europe had outgrown the Papal discipline. Italian questions were being decided in the cabinets of Louis, Maximilian, and Ferdinand. Instead of controlling the arbiters of Italy, a Pope could only play off one against another. [1] 'Fatale instrumento e allora e prima e poi de' mali d'Italia,' says Guicciardini, _Storia d'Italia_, vol. i. p. 84. 'Der Retter des Papstthums,' says Burckhardt, p. 95. Leo X. succeeded Julius in 1513, to the great relief of the Romans, wearied with the continual warfare of the old _Pontifice terribile_. In the gorgeous pageant of his triumphal procession to the Lateran, the streets were decked with arches, emblems, and inscriptions. Among these may be noticed the couplet emblazoned by the banker Agostino Chigi before his palace: Olim habuit Cypris sua tempora; tempora Mavors Olim habuit; sua nunc tempora Pallas habet. 'Venus ruled here with Alexander; Mars with Julius; now Pallas enters on her reign with Leo.' To this epigram the goldsmith Antonio di San Marco answered with one pithy line: Mars fuit; est Pallas; Cypria semper ero: 'Mars reigned; Pallas reigns; Venus' own I shall always be.' This first Pope of the house of Medici enjoyed at Rome the fame of his father Lorenzo the Magnificent at Florence. Extolled as an Augustus in his lifetime, he has given his name to what is called the golden age of Italian culture. As a man, he was well qualified to represent the neo-pagan freedom of the Renaissance. Saturated with the spirit of his period, he had no sympathy with religious earnestness, no conception of moral elevation, no aim beyond a superficial polish of the understanding and the taste. Good Latinity seemed to him of more importance than true doctrine: Jupiter sounded better in a sermon than Jehovah; the immortality of the soul was an open topic for debate. At the same time he was extravagantly munificent to men of culture, and hearty in his zeal for the diffusion of liberal knowledge. But what was reasonable in the man was ridiculous in the pontiff. There remained an irreconcilable incongruity between his profession of the Primacy of Christianity and his easy epicurean philosophy. Leo, like all the Medici after the first Cosimo, was a bad financier. His reckless expenditure contributed in no small measure to the corruption of Rome and to the ruin of the Latin Church, while it won the praises of the literary world. Julius, who had exercised rigid economy, left 700,000 ducats in the coffers of S. Angelo. The very jewels of Leo's tiara were pledged to pay his debts, when he died suddenly in 1521. During the heyday of his splendor he spent 8,000 ducats monthly on presents to his favorites and on his play-debts. His table, which was open to all the poets, singers, scholars, and buffoons of Rome, cost half the revenues of Romagna and the March. He founded the knightly Order of S. Peter to replenish his treasury, and turned the conspiracy of the Cardinal Petrucci against his life to such good account--extorting from the Cardinal Riario a fine of 5,000 ducats, and from the Cardinals Soderini and Hadrian the sum of 125,000--that Von Hutten was almost justified in treating the whole of that dark business as a mere financial speculation. The creation of thirty-nine Cardinals in 1517 brought him in above 500,000 ducats. Yet, in spite of these expedients for getting gold, the bankers of Rome were half ruined when he died. The Bini had lent him 200,000 ducats; the Gaddi, 32,000; the Ricasoli, 10,000; the Cardinal Salviati claimed a debt of 80,000; the Cardinals Santi Quattro and Armellini, each 150,000.[1] These figures are only interesting when we remember that the mountains of gold which they denote were squandered in æsthetic sensuality. When the Pope was made, he said to Giuliano (Duke of Nemours): 'Let us enjoy the Papacy since God has given it us--_godiamoci il Papato, poichè Dio ce l' ha dato_.[2]' It was in this spirit that Leo administered the Holy See. The keynote which he struck dominated the whole society of Rome. At Agostine Chigi's banquets, prelates of the Church and Apostolic secretaries sat side by side with beautiful Imperias and smooth-cheeked singing-boys; fishes from Byzantium and ragouts of parrots' tongues were served on golden platters, which the guests threw from the open windows into the Tiber. Masques and balls, comedies and carnival processions filled the streets and squares and palaces of the Eternal City with a mimicry of pagan festivals, while art went hand in hand with luxury. It seemed as though Bacchus and Pallas and Priapus would be reinstated in their old realm, and yet Rome had not ceased to call herself Christian. The hoarse rhetoric of friars in the Coliseum, and the drone of pifferari from the Ara Coeli, mingled with the Latin declamations of the Capitol and the twang of lute-strings in the Vatican. Meanwhile, amid crowds of Cardinals in hunting-dress, dances of half-naked girls, and masques of Carnival Bacchantes, moved pilgrims from the North with wide, astonished, woeful eyes--disciples of Luther, in whose soul, as in a scabbard, lay sheathed the sword of the Spirit, ready to flash forth and smite. [1] See Gregorovius, _Stadt Rom_, book xiv. ch. 3. [2] 'Relazione di Marino Giorgi,' March 17, 1517. Alberi, series ii. vol. iii. p. 51. A more complete conception may be formed of Leo by comparing him with Julius. Julius disturbed the peace of Italy with a view to establishing the temporal power of his see. Leo returned to the old nepotism of the previous Popes, and fomented discord for the sake of the Medici. It was at one time his project to secure the kingdom of Naples for his brother Giuliano, and a Milanese sovereignty for his nephew Lorenzo. On the latter he succeeded in conferring the Duchy of Urbino, to the prejudice of its rightful owners.[1] With Florence in their hands and the Papacy under their control, the Medici might have swayed all Italy. Such plans, however, in the days of Francis I. and Charles V. had become impracticable; nor had any of the Medicean family stuff to undertake more than the subjugation of their native city. Julius was violent in temper, but observant of his promises. Leo was suave and slippery. He lured Gianpaolo Baglioni to Rome by a safe-conduct, and then had him imprisoned and beheaded in the Castle of S. Angelo. Julius delighted in war and was never happier than when the cannons roared around him at Mirandola. Leo vexed the soul of his master of the ceremonies because he would ride out a-hunting in topboots. Julius designed S. Peter's and comprehended Michael Angelo. Leo had the wit to patronize the poets, artists and historians who added luster to his Court; but he brought no new great man of genius to the front. The portraits of the two Popes, both from the hand of Raphael, are exceedingly characteristic. Julius, bent and emaciated, has the nervous glance of a passionate and energetic temperament; though the brand is hoar with ashes and more than half burned out, it glows and can inflame a conflagration. Leo, heavy jawed, dull-eyed, with thick lips and a brawny jowl, betrays the coarser fiber of a sensualist. [1] He would have given it to Giuliano, but Giuliano was an honest man and remembered what he owed to the della Rovere family. See the 'Relazione' of Marino Giorgi (_Rel. Ven._ ser. ii. vol. iii. p. 51). It has often been remarked that both Julius and Leo raised money by the sale of indulgences with a view to the building of S. Peter's, thus aggravating one of the chief scandals which provoked the Reformation. In that age of maladjusted impulses the desire to execute a great work of art, combined with the cynical resolve to turn the superstitions of the people to account, forced rebellion to a head. Leo was unconscious of the magnitude of Luther's movement. If he thought at all seriously of the phenomenon, it stirred his wonder. Nor did he feel the necessity of reformation in the Church of Italy. The rich and many-sided life of Rome and the diplomatic interests of Italian despotism absorbed his whole attention. It was but a small matter what barbarians thought or did. The sudden death of Leo threw the Holy College into great perplexity. To choose the new Pope without reference to political interests was impossible; and these were divided between Charles V. and Francis I. After twelve days spent by the Cardinals in conclave, the result of their innumerable schemes and counter-schemes was the election of the Cardinal of Tortosa. No one knew him; and his elevation to the Papacy, due to the influence of Charles, was almost as great a surprise to the electors as to the Romans. In their rage and horror at having chosen this barbarian, the College began to talk about the inspiration of the Holy Ghost, seeking the most improbable of all excuses for the mistake to which intrigue had driven them. 'The courtiers of the Vatican and chief officers of the Church,' says an eyewitness, 'wept and screamed and cursed and gave themselves up to despair.' Along the blank walls of the city was scrawled: 'Rome to let.' Sonnets fell in showers, accusing the cardinals of having delivered over 'the fair Vatican to a German's fury.'[1] Adrian VI. came to Rome for the first time as Pope.[2] He knew no Italian, and talked Latin with an accent unfamiliar to southern ears. His studies had been confined to scholastic philosophy and theology. With courts he had no commerce; and he was so ignorant of the state a Pope should keep in Rome, that he wrote beforehand requesting that a modest house and garden might be hired for his abode. When he saw the Vatican, he exclaimed that here the successors, not of Peter, but of Constantine should dwell. Leo kept one hundred grooms for the service of his stable; Adrian retained but four. Two Flemish valets sufficed for his personal attendance, and to these he gave each evening one ducat for the expenses of the next day's living. A Flemish serving woman cooked his food, made his bed and washed his linen. Rome, with its splendid immorality, its classic art and pagan culture, made the same impression on him that it made on Luther. When his courtiers pointed to the Laocoon as the most illustrious monument of ancient sculpture, he turned away with horror, murmuring: 'Idols of the Pagans!' The Belvedere, which was fast becoming the first statue-gallery in Europe, he walled up and never entered. At the same time he set himself with earnest purpose, so far as his tied hands and limited ability would go, to reform the more patent abuses of the Church. Leo had raised about three million ducats by the sale of offices, which represented an income of 348,000 ducats to the purchasers, and provided places for 2,550 persons. By a stroke of his pen Adrian canceled these contracts and threw upon the world a crowd of angry and defrauded officials. It was but poor justice to remind them that their bargain with his predecessor had been illegal. Such attempts, however, at a reformation of ecclesiastical society were as ineffectual as pin-pricks in the cure of a fever which demands blood-letting. The real corruption of Rome, deeply seated in high places, remained untouched. Luther meanwhile had carried all before him in the North, and accurate observers in Rome itself dreaded some awful catastrophe for the guilty city. 'This state is set upon the razor-edge of peril; God grant we have not soon to take flight to Avignon or to the ends of the ocean. I see the downfall of this spiritual monarchy at hand. Unless God help, it is all over with us.'[3] Adrian met the emergency, and took up arms against the sea of troubles by expressing his horror of simony, sensuality, thievery and so forth. The result was that he was simply laughed at. Pasquin made so merry with his name that Adrian vowed he would throw the statue into the Tiber; whereupon the Duke of Sessa wittily replied: 'Throw him to the bottom, and, like a frog, he'll go on croaking.' Berni, again, wrote one of his cleverest Capitoli upon the dunce who could not comprehend his age; and when he died, his doctor's door was ornamented with this inscription: _Liberatori patriæ Senatus Populusque Romanus_. [1] See Greg. _Stadt Rom_, vol. viii. pp. 382, 383. The details about Adriano are chiefly taken from the _Relazioni_ of the Venetian embassadors, series ii. vol. iii. pp. 75-120. [2] His father's name was Florus or Flerentius, of the Flemish family, it is supposed, of Dedel. Berni calls him a carpet-maker. Other accounts represent him as a ship's carpenter. The Pope's baptismal name was Adrian. [3] See the passage quoted from the _Lettere de Principi_, Rome, March 17, 1523, by Burckhardt, p. 99, note. Great was the rejoicing when another Medici was made Pope in 1523. People hoped that the merry days of Leo would return. But things had gone too far toward dissolution. Clement VII. failed to give satisfaction to the courtiers whom his more genial cousin had delighted: even the scholars and the poets grumbled.[1] His rule was weak and vacillating, so that the Colonna faction raised its head again and drove him to the Castle of S. Angelo. The political horizon of Italy grew darker and more sullen daily, as before some dreadful storm. Over Rome itself impended ruin-- as when God Will o'er some high-viced city hang his poison In the sick air.[2] At last the crash came. Clement by a series of treaties, treacheries, and tergiversations had deprived himself of every friend and exasperated every foe. Italy was so worn out with warfare, so accustomed to the anarchy of aimless revolutions and to the trampling to and fro of stranger squadrons on her shores, that the news of a Lutheran troop, levied with the express object of pillaging Rome, and reinforced with Spanish ruffians and the scum of every nation, scarcely roused her apathy. The so-called army of Frundsberg--a horde of robbers held together by the hope of plunder--marched without difficulty to the gates of Rome. So low had the honor of Italian princes fallen that the Duke of Ferrara, by direct aid given, and the Duke of Urbino, by counter-force withheld, opened the passes of the Po and of the Apennines to these marauders. They lost their general in Lombardy. The Constable Bourbon, who succeeded him, died in the assault of the city. Then Rome for nine months was abandoned to the lust, rapacity, and cruelty of some 30,000 brigands without a leader. It was then discovered to what lengths of insult, violence, and bestiality the brutal barbarism of Germans and the avarice of Spaniards could be carried. Clement, beleaguered in the Castle of S. Angelo, saw day and night the smoke ascend from desolated palaces and desecrated temples, heard the wailing of women and the groans of tortured men mingle with the jests of Lutheran drunkards and the curses of Castilian bandits. Roaming its galleries and leaning from its windows he exclaimed with Job:[3] '_Quare de vulvâ eduxisti me? qui utinam consumptus essem, ne oculus me videret_.' What the Romans, emasculated by luxury and priest rule, what the Cardinals and prelates, lapped in sensuality and sloth, were made to suffer during this long agony, can scarcely be described. It is too horrible. When at last the barbarians, sated with blood, surfeited with lechery, glutted with gold, and decimated by pestilence, withdrew, Rome raised her head a widow. From the shame and torment of that sack she never recovered, never became again the gay licentious lovely capital of arts and letters, the glittering gilded Rome of Leo. But the kings of the earth took pity on her desolation. The treaty of Amiens (August 18, 1527), concluded between Francis I. and Henry VIII. against Charles V., in whose name this insult had been offered to the Holy City of Christendom, together with Charles's own tardy willingness to make amends, restored the Papacy to the respect of Europe. [1] See, for instance, Berni's sonnets. In one of these, Berni very powerfully describes the vacillation and irresolution of Clement's state-policy. [2] See Varchi's picture of the state of Rome, _St. Fior._ ii. [3] So Luigi Guicciardini in his account of the sack of Rome relates. It is well known that at this crisis the Emperor seriously thought of putting an end to the State of the Church. His councilors advised him to restore the Pope to his original rank of Bishop, and to make Rome again the seat of Empire.[1] But to have done this would have been impossible under the political conditions of the sixteenth century, and in the face of Christendom still Catholic. His deliberations, therefore, cost Rome the miseries of the sack; but they were speedily superseded by the determination to strengthen the Papal by means of the Imperial authority in Italy. Florence was given as a make-peace offering to the contemptible Medici; and it remains the worst shame of Clement that he used the dregs of the army that had sacked Rome for the enslavement of his mother-city. [1] See the authorities in Greg. _Stadt Rom_, vol. viii. pp. 569, 575. Internally, the Papal State had learned by its misfortunes the necessity of a reform. Sadoleto, writing in the September of that memorable year to Clement, reminds him that the sufferings of Rome have satisfied the wrath of God, and that the way was now open for an amelioration of manners and laws.[1] No force of arms could prevent the Holy City from returning to a better life, and proving that the Christian priesthood was not a mere mockery and sham.[2] In truth the Counter-Reformation may be said to date historically from 1527. [1] It was universally recognized in Italy that the sack of Rome was a punishment inflicted by Providence upon the godless city. Without quoting great authorities like Sadoleto or the Bishop of Fossombrone, one of whose letters gives a really awful picture of Roman profligacy (_Opere di M.G. Guidiccioni_, Barbera, vol. i. p. 193), we find abundant testimony to this persuasion regarding the intolerible vice of Rome, even in men devoid of moral conscience. Aretino (_La Cortegiana_, end of Act i. Sc. xxiii.) writes: 'Io mic redeva che il castigo, che l' ha dato Cristo per mano degli Spagnuoli, l'avesse fatta migliore, et è più scellerata che mai.' Bandello (_Novelle_, Parte ii. xxxvii.) alluding to the sack, remarks in a parenthesis, 'benche i peccati di quella città meritassero esser castigati.' After adducing two such witnesses, it would weaken the case to cite Trissino or Vettori, both of whom expressed themselves with force upon the iniquities of Papal Rome. [2] Compare _Lettere de' Princ._ ii. 77; Cardinal Cajetanus, and other testimonies quoted by Greg. _Stadt Rom_, vol. viii. pp. 568, 578. CHAPTER VIII. THE CHURCH AND MORALITY. Corruption of the Church--Degradation and Division of Italy--Opinions of Machiavelli, Guicciardini, and King Ferdinand of Naples--Incapacity of the Italians for thorough Reformation--The Worldliness and Culture of the Renaissance--Witness of Italian Authors against the Papal Court and the Convents--Superstitious Respect for Relics--Separation between Religion and Morality--Mixture of Contempt and Reverence for the Popes--Gianpaolo Baglioni--Religious Sentiments of the Tyrannicides--Pietro Paolo Boscoli--Tenacity of Religions--The direct Interest of the Italians in Rome--Reverence for the Sacraments of the Church--Opinions pronounced by Englishmen on Italian Immorality--Bad Faith and Sensuality--The Element of the Fancy in Italian Vice--The Italians not Cruel, or Brutal, or Intemperate by Nature--Domestic Murders--Sense of Honor in Italy--Onore and Onesta--General Refinement--Good Qualities of the People--Religious Revivalism. The corruption of the Papal Court involved a corresponding moral weakness throughout Italy. This makes the history of the Popes of the Renaissance important precisely in those details which formed the subject of the preceding chapter. Morality and religion suffered an almost complete separation in the fifteenth century. The chiefs of the Church with cynical effrontery violated every tradition of Christ and the Apostles, so that the example of Rome was in some sense the justification of fraud, violence, lust, filthy living, and ungodliness to the whole nation. The contradiction between the spiritual pretensions of the Popes and their actual worldliness was not so glaring to the men of the Renaissance, accustomed by long habit to the spectacle of this anomaly, as it is to us. Nor would it be scientific to imagine that any Italian in that age judged by moral standards similar to ours. Æsthetic propriety rather than strict conceptions of duty ruled the conduct even of the best, and it is wonderful to observe with what artless simplicity the worst sinners believed they might make peace in time of need with heaven. Yet there were not wanting profound thinkers who traced the national decay of the Italians to the corruption of the Church. Among these Machiavelli stands foremost. In a celebrated passage of the _Discorsi_,[1] after treating the whole subject of the connection between good government and religion, he breaks forth into this fiery criticism of the Papacy: 'Had the religion of Christianity been preserved according to the ordinances of its founder, the states and commonwealths of Christendom would have been far more united and far happier than they are. Nor is it possible to form a better estimate of its decay than by observing that, in proportion as we approach nearer to the Roman Church, the head of this religion, we find less piety prevail among the nations. Considering the primitive constitution of that Church, and noting how diverse are its present customs, we are forced to judge that without doubt either ruin or a scourge is now impending over it. And since some men are of opinion that the welfare of Italy depends upon the Church, I wish to put forth such arguments as occur to my mind to the contrary; and of these I will adduce two, which, as I think, are irrefutable. The first is this: that owing to the evil ensample of the Papal Court, Italy has lost all piety and all religion: whence follow infinite troubles and disorders; for as religion implies all good, so its absence implies the contrary. Consequently, to the Church and priests of Rome we Italians owe this obligation first--that we have become void of religion and corrupt. But we also owe them another, even greater, which is the cause of our ruin. I mean that the Church has maintained and still maintains Italy divided. Of a truth no province ever was united and prosperous, unless it were reduced beneath the sway of one republic or one monarch, as is the case with France and Spain. And the reason why Italy is not in this condition, but has neither commonwealth nor monarch for her head, is none other than the Church: for the Church, established in our midst and exercising a temporal authority, has never had the force or vigor to extend its sway over the whole country and to become the ruling power in Italy. Nor on the other hand has it been so feeble as not to be able, when afraid of losing its temporalities, to call in a foreign potentate, as a counterpoise in its defense against those powers which threatened to become supreme. Of the truth of this, past history furnishes many instances; as when, by the help of Charlemagne, the Popes expelled the Lombards; and when in our own days they humbled Venice by the aid of France, and afterwards drove out the French by calling in the Swiss. So then the Church, being on the one hand too weak to grasp the whole of Italy, and at the same time too jealous to allow another power to do so, has prevented our union beneath one head, and has kept us under scattered lords and princes. These have caused so much discord and debility that Italy has become the prey not only of powerful barbarians, but also of every assailant. And this we owe solely and entirely to the Church. In order to learn by experience the truth of what I say, one ought to be able to send the Roman Court, armed with like authority to that it wields in Italy, to take up its abode among the Swiss, who at the present moment are the only nation living, as regards religion and military discipline, according to the antique fashion; he would then see that the evil habits of that Court would in no long space of time create more disorders than any other misfortune that could arise there in any period whatever.' In this scientific and deliberate opinion pronounced by the profoundest thinker of the sixteenth century, the Papacy is accused of having caused both the moral depravation and the political disunion of Italy. The second of these points, which belongs to the general history of the Italian nation, might be illustrated abundantly: but one other sentence from the pen of Machiavelli exposes the ruinous and selfish policy of the Church more forcibly than could be done by copious examples:[2] 'In this way the Pontiffs at one time by love of their religion, at other times for the furtherance of their ambitious schemes, have never ceased to sow the seeds of disturbance and to call foreigners into Italy, spreading wars, making and unmaking princes, and preventing stronger potentates from holding the province they were too feeble to rule.' [1] Lib. i. cap. 12. [2] _Ist. Fior._ lib. i. Guicciardini, commenting upon the _Discorsi_ of Machiavelli, begins his gloss upon the passage I have just translated, with these emphatic words:[1] 'It would be impossible to speak so ill of the Roman Court but that more abuse would not be merited, seeing it is an infamy, an example of all the shames and scandals of the world.' He then proceeds to argue, like Machiavelli, that the greatness of the Church prevented Italy from becoming a nation under one head, showing, however, at the same time that the Italians had derived much benefit from their division into separate states.[2] To the concurrent testimony of these great philosophic writers may be added the evidence of a practical statesman, Ferdinand, king of Naples, who in 1493 wrote as follows:[3] 'From year to year up to this time we have seen the Popes seeking to hurt and hurting their neighbors, without having to act on the defensive or receiving any injury. Of this we are ourselves the witness, by reason of things they have done and attempted against us through their inborn ambition; and of the many misfortunes which have happened of late in Italy it is clear that the Popes are authors.' It is not so much however with the political as with the moral aspect of the Church that we are at present concerned: and on the latter point Guicciardini may once more be confronted with his illustrious contemporary. In his aphorisms he says:[4] 'No man hates the ambition, avarice, and effeminacy of the priests more than I do; for these vices, odious in themselves, are most unseemly in men who make a profession of living in special dependence on the Deity. Besides, they are so contradictory that they cannot be combined except in a very extraordinary subject. My position under several Popes has compelled me to desire their aggrandizement for the sake of my own profit.[5] Otherwise, I should have loved Martin Luther like myself--not that I might break loose from the laws which Christianity, as it is usually interpreted and comprehended, imposes on us, but that I might see that horde of villains reduced within due limits, and forced to live either without vices or without power.' [1] Guicc. _Op. Ined._ vol. i. p. 27. [2] In another place (_Op. Ined._ vol. i. p. 104) Guicciardini describes the rule of priests as founded on violence of two sorts; 'perchè ci sforzano con le armi temporali e con le spirituali.' It may be well to collect the chief passages in Machiavelli and Guicciardini, besides those already quoted, which criticise the Papacy in relation to Italian politics. The most famous is at the end of the fourth book of the _Istoria d' Italia_ (Edn. Rosini, vol. ii. pp. 218-30). Next may be placed the sketch of Papal History in Machiavelli's _Istorie Fiorentine_ (lib. i. cap. 9-25). The eleventh chapter of the _Principe_ gives a short sketch of the growth of the temporal power, so framed as to be acceptable to the Medici, but steeped in the most acid irony. See, in particular, the sentence 'Costoro solo hanno stati e non li difendono, hanno sudditi e non li governano,' etc. [3] See the dispatch quoted by Gregorovius, _Stadt Rom_, vol. vii. p. 7, note. [4] _Op. Ined. Ricordi_ No. 28. Compare Ariosto, Satire i. 208-27. [5] Guicciardini had been secretary and vicegerent of the Medicean Popes. See back, p. 206. These utterances are all the more remarkable because they do not proceed from the deep sense of holiness which animated reformers like Savonarola. Machiavelli was not zealous for the doctrines of Christianity so much as for the decencies of an established religion. In one passage of the _Discorsi_ he even pronounces his opinion that the Christian faith compared with the creeds of antiquity, had enfeebled national spirit.[1] Privately, moreover, he was himself stained with the moral corruption which he publicly condemned. Guicciardini, again, in the passage before us, openly avows his egotism. Keen-sighted as they were in theory, these politicians suffered in their own lives from that gangrene which had penetrated the upper classes of Italy to the marrow. Their patriotism and their desire for righteousness were not strong enough to make them relinquish the pleasure and the profit they derived from the existing state of things. Nor had they the energy or the opportunity to institute a thorough revolution. Italy, as Machiavelli pointed out in another passage of the _Discorsi_, had become too prematurely decrepit for reinvigorating changes;[2] and the splendid appeal with which the _Principe_ is closed must even to its author have sounded like a flourish of rhetorical trumpets. [1] _Discorsi_, ii. 2, iii. 1. These chapters breathe the bitterest contempt for Christianity, the most undisguised hatred for its historical development, the intensest rancor against Catholic ecclesiastics. [2] _Discorsi_, i. 55. Moreover, it seemed impossible for an Italian to rise above the conception of a merely formal reformation, or to reach that higher principle of life which consists in the enunciation of a new religious truth. The whole argument in the _Discorsi_ which precedes the chapter I have quoted, treats religion not in its essence as pure Christianity, but as a state engine for the maintenance of public order and national well-being.[1] That Milton and Cromwell may have so regarded religion is true: but they had, besides, a personal sense of the necessity of righteousness, the fear of God, at the root of their political convictions. While Machiavelli and Guicciardini wished to deprive the Popes of temporal sovereignty, in order that the worst scandals of their Court might be suppressed, and that the peace of Italy might be secured, Savonarola desired to purge the Church of sin, but to retain its hierarchy and its dogmas inviolate. Neither the politicians nor the prophet had discerned, what Luther and the nations of the North saw clearly, that a fresh element of spiritual vitality was necessary for the regeneration of society; or in other words, that good government presupposes living religion, and not that religion should be used as an engine for the consolidation of empire over the people.[2] [1] Mach. _Disc._ i. 12, after exposing the shams on which, as he believed, the religious institutions of Numa rested, asserts that, however much governors may be persuaded of the falseness of religions, it is their duty to maintain them: 'e debbono ... come che le giudicassero false, favorirle e accrescerle.' [2] Yet read the curious passage (_Disc_. iii. 1) in which Machiavelli discusses the regeneration of religion by a return to its vital principle, and shows how S. Francis and S. Dominic had done this in the thirteenth century. It was precisely what Luther was designing while Machiavelli was writing. The inherent feebleness of Italy in this respect proceeded from an intellectual apathy toward religious questions, produced partly by the stigma attaching to unorthodoxy, partly by the absorbing interests of secular culture, partly by the worldliness of the Renaissance, partly by the infamy of the ecclesiastics, and partly by the enervating influence of tyrannies. However bold a man might be, he dread of heretic; the term _paterino_, originally applied to religious innovators, had become synonymous in common phraseology with rogue. It was a point of good society and refined taste to support the Church. Again, the mental faculties of Italy had for three centuries been taxed to the utmost in studies wide apart from the field of religious faith. Art, scholarship, philosophy, and meditation upon politics had given a definite direction to the minds of thinking men, so that little energy was left for those instinctive movements of the spirit which produced the German Reformation. The great work of Italy had been the genesis of the Renaissance, the development of modern culture. And the tendencies of the Renaissance were worldly: its ideal of human life left no room for a pure, and ardent intuition into spiritual truth. Scholars occupied with the interpretation of classic authors, artists bent upon investing current notions with the form of beauty, could hardly be expected to exclaim: 'The fear of the Lord, that is wisdom; and to depart from evil, that is understanding.'[1] Materialism ruled the speculations no less than the conduct of the age. Pamponazzo preached an atheistic doctrine, with the plausible reservation of _Salva Fide_, which then covered all. The more delicate thinkers, Pico and Ficino, sought to reconcile irreconcilables by fusing philosophy and theology, while they distinguished truths of science from truths of revelation. It seems meanwhile to have occurred to no one in Italy that the liberation of the reason necessitated an abrupt departure from Catholicism. They did not perceive that a power antagonistic to mediæval orthodoxy had been generated. This was in great measure due to indifference; for the Church herself had taught her children by example to regard her dogmas and her discipline as a convenient convention. It required all the scourges of the Inquisition to flog the nation back, not to lively faith, but to hypocrisy. Furthermore, the political conditions of Italy were highly unfavorable to a profound religious revolution. The thirst for national liberty which inspired England in the sixteenth century, impelling the despotic Tudors to cast off the yoke of Rome, arming Howard the Catholic against the holy fleet of Philip, and joining prince and people in one aspiration after freedom, was impossible in Italy. The tone of Machiavelli's _Principe_, the whole tenor of Castiglione's _Cortigiano_, prove this without the need of further demonstration. [1] It is well known that Savonarola's objection to classical culture was based upon his perception of its worldliness. It is very remarkable to note the feeling on this point of some of the greatest northern scholars. Erasmus, for example, writes: 'unus adhuc scrupulus habet animum meum, ne sub obtentu priscæ literaturæ renascentis caput erigere conetur Paganismus, ut sunt inter Christianos qui titulo pæne duntaxat Christum agnoscunt, ceterum intus Gentilitatem spirant'--Letter 207 (quoted by Milman in his Quarterly article on Erasmus). Ascham and Melanchthon passed similar judgments upon the Italian scholars. The nations of the north had the Italians at a disadvantage, for they entered into their labors, and all the dangerous work of sympathy with the ancient world, upon which modern scholarship was based, had been done in Italy before Germany and England came into the field. Few things are more difficult than to estimate the exact condition of a people at any given period with regard to morality and religion. And this difficulty is increased tenfold when the age presents such rapid transitions and such bewildering complexities as mark the Renaissance. Yet we cannot omit to notice the attitude of the Italians at large in relation to the Church, and to determine in some degree the character of their national morality. Against the corruption of Rome one cry of hatred and contempt arises from a crowd of witnesses. Dante's fiery denunciations, Jacopone's threats, the fierce invectives of Petrarch, and the thundering prophecies of Joachim lead the chorus. Boccaccio follows with his scathing irony. 'Send the most obstinate Jew to Rome,' he says, 'and the profligacy of the Papal Court will not fail to convert him to the faith that can resist such obloquy.'[1] Another glaring scandal was the condition of the convents. All novelists combine in painting the depravity of the religious houses as a patent fact in social life. Boccaccio, Sacchetti, Bandello, and Masuccio may be mentioned in particular for their familiar delineation of a profligacy which was interwoven with the national existence.[2] The comic poets take the same course, and delight in ridiculing the gross manners of the clergy. Nor do the ecclesiasties spare themselves. Poggio, the author of the _Facetiæ_, held benefices and places at the Papal Court. Bandello was a Dominican and nephew of the General of his order. Folengo was a Benedictine. Bibbiena became a cardinal. Berni received a Canonry in the Cathedral of Florence. Such was the open and acknowledged immorality of the priests in Rome that more than one Papal edict was issued forbidding them to keep houses of bad repute or to act as panders.[3] Among the aphorisms of Pius II. is recorded the saying that if there were good reasons for enjoining celibacy on the clergy, there were far better and stronger arguments for insisting on their marriage.[4] [1] We may compare this Umbrian Rispetto for the opposite view. A Roma Santa ce so gito anch'io, E ho visto co'miei occhi il fatto mio: E quando a Roma ce s'e posto il piede, Resta la rabbia e se ne va la fede. [2] It may not be out of place to collect some passages from Masuccio's Novelle on the Clergy, premising that what he writes with the fierceness of indignation is repeated with the cynicism of indulgence by contemporary novelists. Speaking of the Popes, he says (ed, Napoli, Morano, 1874): 'me tacerò non solo de loro scelesti ed enormissimi vizi e pubblici e occulti adoperati, e de li officii, de beneficil, prelature, i vermigli cappelli, che all' incanto per loro morte vendono, ma del camauro del principe San Pietro che ne è gia stato latto partuito baratto non farò alcuna mentione.' Descending to prelates, he uses similar language (p. 64): 'non possa mai pervenire ad alcun grado di prelatura se non col favore del maestro della zecca, e quelle conviensela comprare all' incanto come si fa dei cavalli in fiera.' A priest is (p. 31) 'il venerabile lupo.' The members of religious orders are (p. 534) 'ministri de satanasso ... soldati del gran diavolo: (p. 25) 'piu facilmente tra cento soldati se ne trovarebbero la meta buoni, che tra tutto un capitolo de frati ne fosse uno senza bruttissima macchia.' It is perilous to hold any communication with them (p. 39): 'Con loro non altri che usurai, fornicatori, e omini di mala sorte conversare si vedeno.' Their sins against nature (p. 65), the secret marriages of monks and nuns (p. 83), the 'fetide cioache oi monache,' choked with the fruits of infanticide (p. 81), not to mention their avarice (p. 55) and gross impiety (p. 52), are described with a naked sincerity that bears upon its face the stamp of truth. [3] A famous passage from Agrippa (De Vanitate Scientiarum) deserves a place here. After alluding to Sixtus IV, he says that many state officers 'in civitatibus suis lupanaria construunt foventque, non nihil ex meretricio questu etiam ærario suo accumulantes emolumenti; quod quidem in Italiâ non rarum est, ubi etiam Romana scorta in singulas hebdomadas Julium pendent Pontifici, qui census annuus nonnunquam viginti millia ducatos excedit, adeoque Ecclesiæ procerum id munus est, ut una cum Ecclesiarum proventibus etiam lenociniorum numerent mercedem. Sic enim ego illos supputantes aliquando audivi: Habet, inquientes, ille duo beneficia, unum curaturn aureorum viginti, alterum prioratum ducatorum quadraginta, el tres putanas in burdello, quæ reddunt singulis hebdomadibus Julios Viginti.' [4] Very few ecclesiastics of high rank escaped the contagion of Roman society. It was fashionable for men like Bembo and La Casa to form connections with women of the _demi-monde_ and to recognize their children, whose legitimation they frequently procured. The Capitoli of the burlesque poets show that this laxity of conduct was pardonable, when compared with other laughingly avowed and all but universal indulgences. Once more, compare Guidiccioni's letter to M. Giamb. Bernardi Opp. vol. i. p. 102. Some of the contempt and hatred expressed by the Italian satirists for the two great orders of S. Francis and S. Dominic may perhaps be due to an ancient grudge against them as a Papal police founded in the interests of orthodoxy. But the chief point aimed at is the mixture of hypocrisy with immorality, which rendered them odious to all classes of society. At the same time the Franciscans embraced among their lay brethren nearly all the population of Italy, and to die in the habit of the order was thought the safest way of cheating the devil of his due. Corruption had gone so far and deep that it was universally recognized and treated with the sarcasm of levity. It roused no sincere reaction, and stimulated no persistent indignation. Every one acknowledged it; yet every one continued to live indolently according to the fashion of his forefathers, acting up to Ovid's maxim-- Pro magna parte vetustas Creditur; acceptam parce movere fidem. It is only this incurable indifference that renders Machiavelli's comic portraits of Fra Alberigo and Fra Timoteo at all intelligible. They are neither satires nor caricatures, but simple pictures drawn for the amusement of contemporaries and the stupefaction of posterity. The criticism of the Italian writers, so far as we have yet followed it, was directed against two separate evils--the vicious worldliness of Rome, and the demoralization of the clergy both in their dealings with the people and in their conventual life. Contempt for false miracles and spurious reliques, and the horror of the traffic in indulgences, swelled the storm of discontent among the more enlightened. But the people continued to make saints, to adore wonder-working shrines, and to profit by the spiritual advantages which could be bought. Pius II., mindful of the honor of his native city, canonized S. Bernardine and S. Catherine of Siena. Innocent VIII consecrated a chapel for the Lance of Longinus, which he had received from the Turk as part-payment for the guardianship of Djem. The Venetian Senate offered 10,000 ducats for the seamless coat of Christ (1455). The whole of Italy was agitated by the news that S. Andrew's head had arrived from Patras (1462). The Pope and his Cardinals went forth to meet it near the Milvian bridge. There Pius II. pronounced a Latin speech of welcome, while Bessarion delivered an oration when the precious member was deposited in S. Peter's. In this passion for reliques two different sentiments seem to have been combined--the merely superstitious belief in the efficacy of charms, which caused the Venetians to guard the body of S. Mark so jealously, and the Neapolitans to watch the liqifaction of the blood of S. Januarius with a frenzy of excitement--and that nobler respect for the persons of the mighty dead which induced Sigismondo Malatesta to transport the body of Gemistus Pletho to Rimini, and which rendered the supposed coffin of Aristotle at Palermo an object of admiration to Mussulman and Christian alike. The bones of Virgil, it will be remembered, had been built into the walls of Naples, while those of Livy were honored with splendid sepulture at Padua. Owing to the separation between religion and morality which existed in Italy under the influence of Papal and monastic profligacy, the Italians saw no reason why spiritual benefits should not be purchased from a notoriously rapacious Pontiff, or why the penalty of hell should not depend upon the mere word of a consecrated monster. The Pope as successor of S. Peter, and the Pope as Roman sovereign, were two separate beings. Many curious indications of the mixed feeling of the people upon this point, and of the advantage which the Pope derived from his anomalous position, may be gathered from the historians of the period. Machiavelli, in his narrative of the massacre at Sinigaglia, relates that Vitellozzo Vitelli, while being strangled by Cesare Borgia's assassin, begged hard that the father of his murderer, the horrible Alexander, might be entreated to pronounce his absolution. The same Alexander was nearly suffocated in the Vatican by the French soldiers who crowded round to kiss his mantle, and who had made him tremble for his life a few days previously. Cellini on his knees implored Pope Clement to absolve him from the guilt of homicide and theft, yet spoke of him as 'transformed to a savage beast' by a sudden access of fury. At one time he trembled before the awful Majesty of Christ's Vicar, revealed in Paul III.; at another he reviled him as a man 'who neither believed in God nor in any other article of religion. A mysterious sanctity environed the person of the Pontiff. When Gianpaolo Baglioni held Julius II. in his power in Perugia, he respected the Pope's freedom, though he knew that Julius would overthrow his tyranny. Machiavelli condemns this as cowardice, but it was wholly consistent with the sentiment of the age. 'It cannot have been goodness or conscience which restrained him,' writes the philosopher of Florence, 'for the heart of a man who cohabited with his sister, and had massacred his cousins and his nephews, could not have harbored any piety. We must conclude that men know not how to be either guilty in a noble manner, or entirely good. Although crime may have a certain grandeur of its own, or at least a mixture of more generous motives, they do not attain to this. Gianpaolo, careless though he was about incest and parricide, could not, or dared not, on a just occasion, achieve an exploit for which the whole world would have admired his spirit, and by which he would have won immortal glory: for he would have been the first to show how little prelates, living and ruling as they do, deserve to be esteemed, and would have done a deed superior in its greatness to all the infamy, to all the peril, that it might have brought with it.'[1] It is difficult to know which to admire most, the superstition of Gianpaolo, or the cynicism of the commentary, the spurious piety which made the tyrant miss his opportunity, or the false standard of moral sublimity by which the half-ironical critic measures his mistake. In combination they produce a lively impression of the truth of what I have attempted to establish--that in Italy at this period religion survived as superstition even among the most depraved, and that the crimes of the Church had produced a schism between this superstition and morality. [1] _Discorsi_, i. 27. This episode in Gianpaolo Baglioni's life may be illustrated by the curious story told about Gabrino Fondulo, the tyrant of Cremona. The Emperor Sigismund and Pope John XXIII. were his guests together in the year 1414. Part of their entertainment consisted in visiting the sights of Cremona with their host, who took them up the great Tower (396 feet high) without any escort. They all three returned safely, but when Gabrino was executed at Milan in 1425, he remarked that he only regretted one thing in the course of his life--namely, that he had not pitched Pope and Emperor together from the Torazzo. What a golden opportunity to have let slip! The story is told by Antonio Campo, _Historia di Cremona_ (Milan, 1645), p. 114. While the Church was thus gradually deviating more and more directly from the Christian ideal, and was exhibiting to Italy an ensample of worldliness and evil living, the Italians, earlier than any other European nation, had become imbued with the spirit of the ancient world. Instead of the Gospel and the Lives of the Saints, men studied Plutarch and Livy with avidity. The tyrannicides of Greece and the suicides of the Roman Empire, patriots like Harmodius and Brutus, philosophers like Seneca and Pætus Thrasea, seemed to the humanists of the fifteenth century more admirable than the martyrs and confessors of the faith. Pagan virtues were strangely mingled with confused and ill-assimilated precepts of the Christian Church, while pagan vices wore a halo borrowed from the luster of the newly found and passionately welcomed poets of antiquity. Blending the visionary intuitions of the Middle Ages with the positive and mundane ethics of the ancients, the Italians of the Renaissance strove to adopt the sentiments and customs of an age long dead and not to be resuscitated. At the same time the rhetorical taste of the nation inclined the more adventurous and passionate natures to seek glory by dramatic exhibitions of personal heroism. The Greek ideal of [Greek: _to êalon_], the Roman conception of _Virtus_, agitated the imagination of a people who had been powerfully influenced by professors of eloquence, by public orators, by men of letters, masters in the arts of style and of parade. Painting and sculpture, and that magnificence of public life which characterized the fifteenth century, contributed to the substitution of æsthetic for moral or religious standards. Actions were estimated by the effect which they produced; and to sin against the laws of culture was of more moment than to transgress the code of Christianity. Still, the men of the Renaissance could not forget the creed which they had drawn in with their mothers' milk, but which the Church had not adjusted to the new conditions of the growing age. The result was a wild phantasmagoric chaos of confused and clashing influences. Of this peculiar moral condition the records of the numerous tyrannicides supply many interesting examples.[1] Girolamo Olgiati offered prayers to S. Ambrose for protection before he stabbed the Duke of Milan in S. Stephen's Church.[2] The Pazzi conspirators, intimidated by the sanctity of the Florentine Duomo, had to employ a priest to wield the sacrilegious dagger.[3] Pietro Paolo Boscoli's last confession, after the failure of his attempt to assassinate the Medici in 1513, adds further details in illustration of the mixture of religious feeling with patriotic paganism. Luca della Robbia, the nephew of the great sculptor of that name, and himself no mean artist, visited his friend Boscoli on the night of his execution, and wrote a minute account of their interview. Both of these men were members of the Confraternità de' Neri, who assumed the duty of comforting condemned prisoners with spiritual counsel, prayer, and exhortation. The narrative, dictated in the choicest vernacular Tuscan, by an artist whose charity and beauty of soul transpire in every line in contrast with the fiercer fortitude of Boscoli, is one of the most valuable original documents for this period which we possess.[4] What is most striking is the combination of deeply rooted and almost infantine piety with antique heroism in the young patriot. He is greatly concerned because, ignorant of his approaching end, he had eaten a hearty supper: 'Son troppo carico di cibo, et ho mangiatccose insalate; in modo che non mi pare poter unir Io spirito a Dio ... Iddio abbi di me misericordia, che costoro m' hanno carico di cibo. Oh indiscrezione!'[5] Then he expresses a vehement desire for the services of a learned confessor, to resolve his intellectual doubts, pleading with all the earnestness of desperate conviction that the salvation of his soul must depend upon his orthodoxy at the last. He complains that he ought to have been allowed at least a month's seclusion with good friars before he was brought face to face with death. At another time he is chiefly anxious to free himself from classic memories: 'Deh! Luca, cavatemi della testa quel Bruto, acciò ch' io faccia questo passo interamente da Cristiano'.[6] Then again it grieves him that the tears of compunction, which he has been taught to regard as the true sign of a soul at one with God, will not flow. About the mere fact of dying he has no anxiety. The philosophers have strengthened him upon that point. He is only eager to die piously. When he tries to pray, he can barely remember the Paternoster and the Ave Maria. That reminds him how easy it would have been to have spent his time better, and he bids Luca remember that the mind a man makes for himself in life, will be with him in death. When they bring him a picture of Christ, he asks whether he needs _that_ to fix his soul upon his Saviour. Throughout this long contention of so many varying thoughts, he never questions the morality of the act for which he is condemned to die. Luca, however, has his doubts, and privately asks the confessor whether S. Thomas Aquinas had not discountenanced tyrannicide. 'Yes,' answers the monk, 'in case the people have elected their own tyrant, but not when he has imposed himself on them by force.' This casuistical answer satisfies Luca that his friend may reasonably be held blameless. After confessing, Boscoli received the sacrament with great piety, and died bravely. The confessor told Luca, weeping, that he was sure the young man's soul had gone straight to Paradise, and that he might be reckoned a real martyr. His head after death was like that of an angel; and Luca was, we know, a connoisseur in angels' heads. Boscoli was only thirty-two years of age; he had light hair, and was short-sighted. [1] For the Italian ethics of tyrannicide, see back, pp. 169, 170. [2] See p. 166. [3] See p. 398. [4] It is printed in _Arch. Stor_, vol. i. [5] 'I am over-burdened with food, and I have eaten salt meats; so that I do not seem able to join my spirit to God.... God have pity on me, for they have burdened me with food. Oh, how thoughtless of them!' His words cannot be translated. Naïf in the extreme, they become ludicrous in English. [6] 'Ah, Luca, turn that Brutus out of my head, in order that I may take this last step wholly as a Christian man!' To this narrative might be added the apology written by Lorenzino de' Medici, after the murder of his cousin Alessandro in 1536.[1] He relies for his defense entirely upon arguments borrowed from Pagan ethics, and by his treatment of the subject vindicates for himself that name of Brutus with which Filippo Strozzi in person at Venice, and Varchi and Molsa in Latin epigrams, saluted him. There is no trace of Christian feeling in this strong and splendid display of rhetorical ability; nor does any document of the age more forcibly exhibit the extent to which classical studies had influenced the morality of the Renaissance. Lorenzino, however, when he wrote it, was not, like Boscoli, upon the point of dying. [1] It is printed at the end of the third volume of Varchi, pp. 283-95; compare p. 210. A medal in honor of Lorenzino's tyrannicide was struck with a profile copied from Michael Angelo's bust of Brutus. The last thing to perish in a nation is its faith. The whole history of the world proves that no anomalies are so glaring, no inconsistencies so paradoxical, as to sap the credit of a religious system which has once been firmly rooted in the habits, instincts, and traditions of a race: and what remains longest is often the least rational portion. Religions from the first are not the product of logical reflection or experiment, but of sentiment and aspiration. They come into being as simple intuitions, and afterwards invade the province of the reason and assimilate the thought of centuries to their own conceptions. This is the secret of their strength as well as the source of their weakness. It is only a stronger enthusiasm, a new intuition, a fresh outburst of emotional vitality, that can supplant the old:-- 'Cotal rimedio ha questo aspro furore, Tale acqua suole spegner questo fuoco, Come d'asse si trae chiodo con chiodo.' Criticism from without, internal corruption, patent absurdity, are comparatively powerless to destroy those habits of belief which once have taken hold upon the fancy and the feeling of a nation. The work of dissolution proceeds in silence and in secret. But the established order subsists until the moment comes for a new synthesis. And in the sixteenth century the necessary impulse of regeneration was to come, not from Italy, satisfied with the serenity of her art, preoccupied with her culture, and hardened to the infamy of her corruption, but from the Germany of the barbarians she despised. These considerations will help to explain how it was that the Church, in spite of its corruption, stood its ground and retained the respect of the people in Italy. We must moreover bear in mind that, bad as it was, it still to some extent maintained the Christian verity. Apart from the Roman Curia and the Convents, there existed a hierarchy of able and God-fearing men, who by the sanctity of their lives, by the gravity of their doctrine, by the eloquence of their preaching, by their ministration to the sick, by the relief of the poor, by the maintenance of hospitals, Monti di Pietà, schools and orphanages, kept alive in the people of Italy the ideal at least of a religion pure and undefiled before God.[1] In the tottering statue of the Church some true metal might be found between the pinchbeck at the summit and the clay of the foundation. [1] See the life of S. Antonino, the good Archbishop of Florence. It must also be remembered how far the worldly interests and domestic sympathies of the Italians were engaged in the maintenance of their Church system. The fibers of the Church were intertwined with the very heartstrings of the people. Few families could not show one or more members who had chosen the clerical career, and who looked to Rome for patronage, employment, and perhaps advancement to the highest honors. The whole nation felt a pride in the Eternal City: patriotic vanity and personal interest were alike involved in the maintenance of the metropolis of Christendom, which drew the suites of ambassadors, multitudes of pilgrims, and the religious traffic of the whole of Europe to the shores of Italy. It was easy for Germans and Englishmen to reason calmly about dethroning the Papal hierarchy. Italians, however they might loathe the temporal power, could not willingly forego the spiritual primacy of the civilized world. Moreover, the sacraments of the Church, the absolutions, consecrations, and benedictions which priests dispensed or withheld at pleasure, had by no means lost their power. To what extent even the nations of the north still clung to them is proved by our own Liturgy, framed in the tumult of war with Rome, yet so worded as to leave the utmost resemblance to the old ritual consistent with the spirit of the Reformation. Far more imposing were they in their effect upon the imagination of Italians, who had never dreamed of actual rebellion, who possessed the fountain of Apostolical privileges in the person of the Pope, and whose southern temperament inclined them to a more sensuous and less metaphysical conception of Christianity than the Germans or the English. The dread of the Papal Interdict was still a reality. Though the clergy of Florence, roused to retaliative fury, might fling back in the teeth of Sixtus such words as _leno matris suæ, adulterorum minister, diaboli vicarius_, yet the people could not long endure 'the niggardly and imperfect rites, the baptism sparingly administered, the extreme unction or the last sacrament coldly vouchsafed to the chosen few, the churchyard closed against the dead,' which, to quote the energetic language of Dean Milman,[1] were the proper fruits of the Papal ban, however unjustly issued and however manfully resisted. [1] Latin Christianity, vol. vi. p. 361. The history of the despots and the Popes, together with the analysis of Machiavelli's political ethics, prove the demoralization of a society in which crimes so extravagant could have their origin, and cynicism so deliberate could be accepted as a system. Yet it remains in estimating the general character of Italian morality to record the judgment passed upon it by foreign nations of a different complexion. The morality of races, as of individuals, is rarely otherwise than mixed--virtue balancing vice and evil vitiating goodness. Still the impression produced by Renaissance Italy upon observers from the North was almost wholly bad. Our own ancestors returned from their Italian travels either horrified with what they had witnessed, or else contaminated. Ascham writes:[1] 'I was once in Italy myself; but I thank God my abode there was but nine days; and yet I saw in that little time, in one city, more liberty to sin than ever I heard tell of in our noble City of London in nine years. I saw it was there as free to sin, not only without all punishment, but also without any man's marking, as it is free in the City of London to choose without all blame whether a man lust to wear shoe or pantocle.' Robert Greene, who did so much to introduce the novels of Italy into England, confesses that during his youthful travels in the south he 'saw and practiced such villany as it is abominable to declare.'[2] The whole of our dramatic literature corroborates these witnesses, while the proverb, _Inglese Italianato è un diavolo incarnato_, quoted by Sidney, Howell, Parker, Ascham, shows how pernicious to the coarser natures of the north were the refined vices of the south. What principally struck our ancestors in the morality of the Italians was the license allowed in sensual indulgences, and the bad faith which tainted all public and private dealings. In respect to the latter point, what has already been said about Machiavelli is enough.[3] Loyalty was a virtue but little esteemed in Italy: engagements seemed made to be broken; even the crime of violence was aggravated by the crime of perfidy, a bravo's stiletto or a slow poison being reckoned among the legitimate means for ridding men of rivals or for revenging a slight. Yet it must not be forgotten that the commercial integrity of the Italians ranked high. In all countries of Europe they carried on the banking business of monarchs, cities, and private persons. [1] _The Schoolmaster;_ edn. 1863, p. 87. The whole discourse on Italian traveling and Italian influence is very curious, when we reflect that at this time contact with Italy was forming the chief culture of the English in literature and social manners. The ninth satire in Marston's _Scourge of Villanie_ contains much interesting matter on the same point. Howell's _Instructions for forreine Travell_ furnishes the following illustration: 'And being in Italy, that great limbique of working braines, he must be very circumspect in his carriage, for she is able to turne a Saint into a devill, and deprave the best natures, if one will abandon himself, and become a prey to dissolute courses and wantonnesse.' [2] _The Repentance of Robert Greene_, quoted in the memoir to Dyce's edition of his Dramatic Works. [3] See chapter v. With reference to carnal vice, it cannot be denied that the corruption of Italy was shameful. Putting aside the profligacy of the convents, the City of Rome in 1490 is reported to have held as many as 6,800 public prostitutes, besides those who practiced their trade under the cloak of concubinage.[1] These women were accompanied by confederate ruffians, ready to stab, poison, and extort money; thus violence and lust went hand in hand, and to this profligate lower stratum of society may be ascribed the crimes of lawlessness which rendered Rome under Innocent VIII. almost uninhabitable. Venice, praised for its piety by De Comines,[2] was the resort of all the debauchees of Europe who could afford the time and money to visit this modern Corinth. Tom Coryat, the eccentric English traveler, gives a curious account of the splendor and refinement displayed by the demi-monde of the lagoons, and Marston describes Venice as a school of luxury in which the monstrous Aretine played professor.[3] Of the state of morals in Florence Savonarola's sermons give the best picture. [1] Infessura, p. 1997. He adds: 'Consideratur modo qualiter vivatur Romæ ubi caput fidei est.' From what Parent Duchatelet _(Prostitution dans la Ville de Paris,_ p. 27) has noted concerning the tendency to exaggerate the numbers of prostitutes in any given town, we have every reason to regard the estimate of Infessura as excessive. In Paris, in 1854, there were only 4,206 registered 'filles publiques,' when the population of the city numbered 1,500,000 persons; while those who exercised their calling clandestinely were variously computed at 20,000 or 40,000 and upwards to 60,000. Accurate statistics relating to the population of any Italian city in the fifteenth century do not, unfortunately, exist. [2] _Memoirs,_ lib. vii. 'C'est la plus triomphante cité que j'ai jamais vue, et qui plus fait d'honneur à ambassadeurs et étrangers, et qui plus sagement se gouverne, _et ou le service de Dieu est le plus solemnellement faict.'_ The prostitutes of Venice were computed to number 11,654 so far back as the end of the 14th century. See Filiasi, quoted by Mutinelli in his _Annali urbani di Venezia._ [3] Satires, ii. But the characteristic vice of the Italian was not coarse sensuality. He required the fascination of the fancy to be added to the allurement of the senses.[1] It is this which makes the Capitoli of the burlesque poets, of men of note like Berni, La Casa, Varchi, Mauro, Molsa, Dolce, Bembo, Firenzuola, Bronzino, Aretino, and de' Medici, so amazing. The crudest forms of debauchery receive the most refined and highly finished treatment in poems which are as remarkable for their wit as for their cynicism. A like vein of elaborate innuendo runs through the _Canti Carnascialeschi_ of Florence, proving that however profligate the people might have been, they were not contented with grossness unless seasoned with wit. The same excitement of the fancy, playing freely in the lawlessness of sensual self-indulgence and heightening the consciousness of personal force in the agent, rendered the exercise of ingenuity or the avoidance of peril an enhancement of pleasure to the Italians. This is perhaps one of the reasons why all the imaginative compositions of the Renaissance, especially the _Novelle,_ turn upon adultery. Judging by the majority of these romances, by the comedies of the time, and by the poetry of Ariosto, we are compelled to believe that such illicit love was merely sensual, and owed its principal attractions to the scope it afforded for whimsical adventures. Yet Bembo's _Asolani,_ Castiglione's panegyric of Platonic Love, and much of the lyrical poetry in vogue warn us to be cautious. The old romantic sentiment expressed by the Florentines of the thirteenth century still survived to some extent, adding a sort of dignity in form at least to these affections. [1] Much might be written about the play of the imagination which gave a peculiar complexion to the profligacy, the jealousy, and the vengeance of the Italians. I shall have occasion elsewhere to maintain that in their literature at least the Italians were not a highly imaginative race; nor were they subject to those highly wrought conditions of the brooding fancy, termed by the northern nations Melancholy, which Dürer has personified in his celebrated etching, and Burton has described in his _Anatomy._ But in their love and hatred, their lust and their cruelty, the Italians required an intellectual element which brought the imaginative faculty into play. It was due again in a great measure to their demand for imaginative excitement in all matters of the sense, to their desire for the extravagant and extraordinary as a seasoning of pleasure, that the Italians came to deserve so terrible a name among the nations for unnatural passions.[1] This is a subject which can hardly be touched in passing: yet the opinion may be recorded that it belongs rather to the science of psychopathy than to the chronicle of vulgar lusts. English poets have given us the right key to the Italian temperament, on this as on so many other points. Shelley in his portrait of Francesco Cenci has drawn a man in whom cruelty and incest have become appetites of the distempered soul; the love of Giovanni and Annabella in Ford's tragedy is rightly depicted as more imaginative than sensual. It is no excuse for the Italians to say that they had spiritualized abominable vices. What this really means is that their immorality was nearer that of devils than of beasts. But in seeking to distinguish its true character, we must take notice of the highly wrought fantasy which seasoned both their luxury and their jealousy, their vengeance and their lust. [1] Italian literature is loud-voiced on this topic. The concluding stanzas of Poliziano's _Orfeo_, recited before the Cardinal of Mantua, the Capitoli of Berni, Bronzino, La Casa, and some of the _Canti Carnasialeschi_, might be cited. We might add Varchi's express testimony as to the morals of Filippo Strozzi, Lorenzino de' Medici, Pier Luigi Farnese, and Clement VII. What Segni (lib. x. p. 409) tells us about the brave Giovanni Bandini is also very significant. In the Life of San Bernardino of Siena, Vespasiano (_Vite di Illustri Uomini_, p. 186) writes: 'L'Italia, ch' era piena di queste tenebre, e aveva lasciata ogni norma di buoni costumi, e non era più chi conoscesse Iddio. Tanto erano sommersi e sepulti ne' maladetti e abbominevoli vizi nefandi! Gli avevano in modo messi in uso, che non temevano nè Iddio nè l'onore del mondo. Maladetta cecità! In tanto eccesso era venuto ogni cosa, che gli scellerati ed enormi vizi non era più chi gli stimasse, per lo maladetto uso che n'avevano fatto ... massime il maladetto e abominando e detestando peccato della sodomia. Erano in modo stracorsi in questa cecità, che bisognava che l'onnipotente Iddio facesse un' altra volta piovere dal cielo zolfo e fuoco come egli fece a Sodoma e Gomorra.' Compare Savonarola passim, the inductions to the Sacre Rappresentazioni, the familiar letters of Machiavelli, and the statute of Cosimo against this vice (year 1542, Sabellii Summa. Venice, 1715; vol. v. p. 287). The same is to some extent true of their cruelty. The really cruel nation of the Renaissance was Spain, not Italy.[1] The Italians, as a rule, were gentle and humane, especially in warfare.[2] No Italian army would systematically have tortured the whole population of a captured city day after day for months, as the Spaniards did in Rome and Milan, to satisfy their avarice and glut their stolid appetite for blood. Their respect for human life again was higher than that of the French or Swiss. They gave quarter to their foes upon the battle-field, and were horrified with the massacres in cold blood perpetrated at Fivizzano and Rapallo by the army of Charles VIII. But when the demon of cruelty possessed the imagination of an Italian, when, like Gian Maria Visconti, he came to relish the sight of torment for its own sake, or when he sought to inspire fear by the spectacle of pain, then no Spaniard surpassed him in the ingenuity of his devices. In gratifying his thirst for vengeance he was never contented with mere murder. To obtain a personal triumph at the expense of his enemy by the display of superior cunning, by rendering him ridiculous, by exposing him to mental as well as physical anguish, by wounding him through his affections or his sense of honor, was the end which he pursued. This is why so many acts of violence in Italy assumed fantastic forms. Even the country folk showed an infernal art in the execution of their _vendette_. To serve the flesh of children up to their fathers at a meal of courtesy is mentioned, for example, as one mode of wreaking vengeance in country villages. Thus the high culture and æsthetic temperament of the Italians gave an intellectual quality to their vices. Crude lust and bloodshed were insipid to their palates: they required the pungent sauce of a melodramatic catastrophe. [1] Those who wish to gain a lively notion of Spanish cruelty in Italy should read, besides the accounts of the Sacco di Roma by Guicciardini and Buonaparte, the narrative of the Sacco di Prato in the _Archivio Storico Italiano_, vol. i., and Cagnola's account of the Spanish occupation of Milan, ib. vol. iii. [2] De Comines more than once notices the humanity shown by the Italian peasants to the French army. The drunkenness and gluttony of northern nations for a like reason found no favor in Italy. It disgusted the Romans beyond measure to witness the swinish excesses of the Germans. Their own sensuality prompted them to a refined Epicureanism in food and drink; on this point, however, it must be admitted that the prelates, here as elsewhere foremost in profligacy, disgraced the age of Leo with banquets worthy of Vitellius.[1] We trace the same play of the fancy, the same promptitude to quicken and intensify the immediate sense of personality at any cost of after-suffering, in another characteristic vice of the Italians. Gambling among them was carried further and produced more harm than it did in the transalpine cities. This we gather from Savonarola's denunciations, from the animated pictures drawn by Alberti in his _Trattato della Famiglia_ and _Cena della Famiglia_ and also from the inductions to many of the _Sacre Rappresentazioni_.[2] [1] See Gregorovius, _Stadt Rom_, vol. viii. p. 225: 'E li cardinali comenzarono a vomitar e cussi li altri,' quoted from Sanudo. [2] One of the excellent characteristics of Alfonso the Great (_Vespasiano_, p. 49) was his abhorrence of gambling. Another point which struck a northern visitor in Italy was the frequency of private and domestic murders.[1] The Italians had and deserved a bad reputation for poisoning and assassination. To refer to the deeds of violence in the history of a single family, the Baglioni of Perugia, as recorded by their chronicler Matarazzo; to cite the passages in which Varchi relates the deaths by poison of Luisa Strozzi, Cardinal Ippolito de' Medici, and Sanga; or to translate the pages of annalists, who describe the palaces of nobles swarming with _bravi_, would be a very easy task.[2] But the sketch of Benvenuto Cellini's autobiography, which will form part of my third volume, gives so lively a picture of this aspect of Italian life, that there is no reason to enlarge upon the topic now. It is enough to observe that, in their employment of poison and of paid assassins, the Italians were guided by those habits of calculation which distinguished their character.[3] They thought nothing of removing an enemy by craft or violence: but they took no pleasure in murder for its own sake.[4] The object which they had in view prompted them to take a man's life; the mere delight in brawls and bloodshed of Switzers, Germans, and Spaniards offended their taste. [1] See Guicc. _St. Il._ vol. i. p. 101, for the impression produced upon the army of Charles by the murder by poison of Gian Galeazzo Sforza. [2] A vivid illustration of the method adopted by hired assassins in tracking and hunting down their victims is presented by Francesco Bibboni's narrative of his murder of Lorenzino de' Medici at Venice. It casts much curious light, moreover, on the relations between paid _bravi_ and their employers, the esteem in which professional cutthroats were held, and their connection with the police of the Italian towns. It is published in a tract concerning Lorenzino, Milano, Daelli, 1862. [3] See the instructions given by the Venetian government to their agents for the purchase of poison and the hiring of secret murderers. See also the Maxims laid down by Sarpi. [4] This at least was accounted eccentric and barbarous in the extreme. See Pontano, _de Immanitate_, vol. i. p. 326, concerning Niccolo Fortibraccio, Antonio, Pontadera, and the Riccio Montechiaro, who stabbed and strangled for the pleasure of seeing men die. I have already discussed the blood-madness of some of the despots. While the imagination played so important a part in the morality of the Italians, it must be remembered that they were deficient in that which is the highest imaginative safeguard against vice, a scrupulous sense of honor. It is true that the Italian authors talk much about _Onore_. Pandolfini tells his sons that _Onore_ is one of the qualities which require the greatest thrift in keeping, and Machiavelli asserts that it is almost as dangerous to attack men in their _Onore_ as in their property. But when we come to analyze the word, we find that it means something different from that mixture of conscience, pride, and self-respect which makes a man true to a high ideal in all the possible circumstances of life. The Italian _Onore_ consisted partly of the credit attaching to public distinction, and partly of a reputation for _Virtù_, understanding that word in its Machiavellian usage, as force, courage, ability, virility. It was not incompatible with craft and dissimulation, or with the indulgence of sensual vices. Statesmen like Guicciardini, who, by the way, has written a fine paragraph upon the very word in question,[1] did not think it unworthy of their honor to traffic in affairs of state for private profit. Machiavelli not only recommended breaches of political faith, but sacrificed his principles to his pecuniary interests with the Medici. It would be curious to inquire how far the obtuse sensibility of the Italians on this point was due to their freedom from vanity.[2] No nation is perhaps less influenced by mere opinion, less inclined to value men by their adventitious advantages: the Italian has the courage and the independence of his personality. It is, however, more important to take notice that Chivalry never took a firm root in Italy; and honor, as distinguished from vanity, _amour propre_, and credit, draws its life from that ideal of the knightly character which Chivalry established. The true knight was equally sensitive upon the point of honor, in all that concerned the maintenance of an unsullied self, whether he found himself in a king's court or a robber's den. Chivalry, as epitomized in the celebrated oath imposed by Arthur on his peers of the Round Table, was a northern, a Teutonic, institution. The sense of honor which formed its very essence was further developed by the social atmosphere of a monarch's court. It became the virtue of the nobly born and chivalrously nurtured, as appears very remarkably in this passage from Rabelais[3]: 'En leur reigle n'estoit que ceste clause: Fay ce que vouldras. Parce que gens liberes, bien nayz, bien instruictz, conversans en compaignies honnesties, ont par nature ung instinct et aguillon qui toujours les poulse à faitctz vertueux, et retire de vice: lequel ils nommoyent honneur.' Now in Italy not only was Chivalry as an institution weak; but the feudal courts in which it produced its fairest flower, the knightly sense of honor, did not exist.[4] Instead of a circle of peers gathered from all quarters of the kingdom round the font of honor in the person of the sovereign, commercial republics, forceful tyrannies, and the Papal Curia gave the tone to society. In every part of the peninsula rich bankers who bought and sold cities, adventurers who grasped at principalities by violence or intrigue, and priests who sought the aggrandizement of a sacerdotal corporation, were brought together in the meshes of diplomacy. The few noble families which claimed a feudal origin carried on wars for pay by contract in the interest of burghers, popes, or despots. Of these conditions not one was conducive to the sense of honor as conceived in France or England. Taken altogether and in combination, they could not fail to be eminently unfavorable to its development. In such a society Bayard and Sir Walter Manny would have been out of place: the motto _noblesse oblige_ would have had but little meaning.[5] Instead of Honor, Virtù ruled the world in Italy. The moral atmosphere again was critical and highly intellectualized. Mental ability combined with personal daring gave rank. But the very subtlety and force of mind which formed the strength of the Italians proved hostile to any delicate sentiment of honor. Analysis enfeebles the tact and spontaneity of feeling which constitute its strongest safeguard. All this is obvious in the ethics of the _Principe_. What most astounds us in that treatise is the assumption that no men will be bound by laws of honor when utility or the object in view require their sacrifice. In conclusion; although the Italians were not lacking in integrity, honesty, probity, or pride, their positive and highly analytical genius was but little influenced by that chivalrous honor which was an enthusiasm and a religion to the feudal nations, surviving the decay of chivalry as a preservative instinct more undefinable than absolute morality. Honor with the northern gentry was subjective; with the Italians _Onore_ was objective--an addition conferred from without, in the shape of reputation, glory, titles of distinction, or offices of trust.[6] [1] Ricordi politici e civili, No. 118, _Op. Ined._ vol. i. [2] See De Stendhal, _Histoire de la peinture en Italie_, pp. 285-91, for a curious catalogue of examples. The modern sense of honor is based, no doubt, to some extent on a delicate _amour propre_, which makes a man desirous of winning the esteem of his neighbors for its own sake. Granting that conscience, pride, vanity, and self-respect are all constituents of honor, we may, perhaps, find more pride in the Spanish, more _amour propre_ in the French, and more conscience in the English. [3] Gargantua, lib. 1. ch. 57. [4] See, however, what I have already said about Castiglione and his ideal of the courtier in Chapter III. We must remember that he represents a late period of the Renaissance. [5] It is curious to compare, for example, the part played by Italians, especially by Venice, Pisa, Genoa, Amalfi, as contractors and merchants in the Crusades, with the enthusiasm of the northern nations. [6] In confirmation of this view I may call attention to Giannotti's critique of the Florentine constitution (Florence, 1850, vol. i. pp. 15 and 156), and to what Machiavelli says about Gianpaolo Baglioni (_Disc_. i. 27), 'Gli uomini non sanno essere _onorevolmente_ tristi'; men know not how to be bad with credit to themselves. The context proves that Gianpaolo failed to win the honor of a signal crime. Compare the use of the word _onore_ in Lorinzino de' Medici's 'Apologia.' With the Italian conception of _Onore_ we may compare their view of _Onestà_ in the female sex. This is set forth plainly by Piccolomini in _La Bella Creanza delle Donne_.[1] As in the case of _Onore_, we have here to deal, not with an exquisite personal ideal, but with something far more material and external. The _onestà_ of a married woman is compatible with secret infidelity, provided she does not expose herself to ridicule and censure by letting her amour be known. Here again, therefore, the proper translation of the word seems to be credit. Finally, we may allude to the invective against honor which Tasso puts into the mouths of his shepherds in _Aminta_[2] Though at this period the influence of France and Spain had communicated to aristocratic society in Italy an exotic sense of honor, yet a court poet dared to condemn it as unworthy of the _Bell' età dell' oro_, because it interfered with pleasure and introduced disagreeable duties into life. Such a tirade would not have been endured in the London of Elizabeth or in the Paris of Louis XIV. Tasso himself, it may be said in passing, was almost feverishly punctilious in matters that touched his reputation. [1] _La Raffaella, ovvero Delia bella Creanza delle Donne_ (Milano, Daelli). Compare the statement of the author in his preface, p. 4, where he speaks in his own person, with the definition of _Onore_ given by Raffaella, pp. 50 and 51 of the Dialogue: 'l'onore non è riposto in altro, se non nella stimazione appresso agli uomini ... l'onor della donna non consiste, come t'ho detto, nel fare o non fare, chè questo importa poco, ma nel credersi o non credersi.' [2] This invective might be paralleled from one ot Masuccio's Novelle (ed. Napoli, pp. 389, 390), in which he almost cynically exposes the inconvenience of self-respect and delicacy. The situation of two friends, who agree that honor is a nuisance and share their wives in common, is a favorite of the Novelists. An important consideration, affecting the whole question of Italian immorality, is this. Whereas the northern races had hitherto remained in a state of comparative poverty and barbarism, distributed through villages and country districts, the people of Italy had enjoyed centuries of wealth and civilization in great cities. Their towns were the centers of luxurious life. The superfluous income of the rich was spent in pleasure, nor had modern decorum taught them to conceal the vices of advanced culture beneath the cloak of propriety. They were at the same time both indifferent to opinion and self-conscious in a high degree. The very worst of them was seen at a glance and recorded with minute particularity. The depravity of less cultivated races remained unnoticed because no one took the trouble to describe mere barbarism.[1] Vices of the same sort, but less widely dispersed, perhaps, throughout the people, were notorious in Italy, because they were combined with so much that was beautiful and splendid. In a word, the faults of the Italians were such as belong to a highly intellectualized society, as yet but imperfectly penetrated with culture, raised above the brutishness of barbarians, but not advanced to the self-control of civilization, hampered by the corruption of a Church that trafficked in crime, tainted by uncritical contact with pagan art and literature, and emasculated by political despotism. Their vices, bad as they were in reality, seemed still worse because they attacked the imagination instead of merely exercising the senses. As a correlative to their depravity, we find a sobriety of appetite, a courtesy of behavior, a mildness and cheerfulness of disposition, a widely diffused refinement of sentiment and manners, a liberal spirit of toleration, which can nowhere else be paralleled in, Europe at that period. It was no small mark of superiority to be less ignorant and gross than England, less brutal and stolid than Germany, less rapacious than Switzerland, less cruel than Spain, less vain and inconsequent than France. [1] Read, however, the Saxon Chronicles or the annals of Ireland in Froude. Italy again was the land of emancipated individuality. What Mill in his Essay on Liberty desired, what seems every day more unattainable in modern life, was enjoyed by the Italians. There was no check to the growth of personality, no grinding of men down to match the average. If great vices emerged more openly than they did elsewhere in Europe, great qualities also had the opportunity of free development in heroes like Ferrucci, in saints like Savonarola, in artists like Michael Angelo. While the social atmosphere of the Papal and despotic courts was unfavorable to the highest type of character, we find at least no external engine of repression, no omnipotent inquisition, no overpowering aristocracy.[1] False political systems and a corrupt Church created a malaria, which poisoned the noble spirits of Machiavelli, Ariosto, Guicciardini, Giuliano della Rovere. It does not, however, follow therefore that the humanities of the race at large, in spite of superstition and bad government, were vitiated. [1] I am of course speaking of the Renaissance as distinguished from that new phase of Italian history which followed the Council of Trent and the Spanish despotism. We have positive proofs to the contrary in the art of the Italians. The April freshness of Giotto, the piety of Fra Angelico, the virginal purity of the young Raphael, the sweet gravity of John Bellini, the philosophic depth of Da Vinci, the sublime elevation of Michael Angelo, the suavity of Fra Bartolommeo, the delicacy of the Della Robbia, the restrained fervor of Rosellini, the rapture of the Sienese and the reverence of the Umbrian masters, Francia's pathos, Mantegna's dignity, and Luini's divine simplicity, were qualities which belonged not only to these artists but also to the people of Italy from whom they sprang. If men not few of whom were born in cottages and educated in workshops could feel and think and fashion as they did, we cannot doubt that their mothers and their friends were pure and pious, and that the race which gave them to the world was not depraved. Painting in Italy, it must be remembered, was nearer to the people than literature: it was less a matter of education than instinct, a product of temperament rather than of culture. Italian art alone suffices to prove to my mind that the immorality of the age descended from the upper stratum of society downwards. Selfish despots and luxurious priests were the ruin of Italy; and the bad qualities of the princes, secular and ecclesiastical, found expression in the literature of poets and humanists, their parasites. But in what other nation of the fifteenth century can we show the same of social urbanity and intellectual light diffused throughout all classes from the highest to the lowest? It is true that the sixteenth century cast a blight upon their luster. But it was not until Italian taste had been impaired by the vices of Papal Rome and by contact with the Spaniards that the arts became either coarse or sensual. Giulio Romano (1492-1546) and Benvenuto Cellini (1500-70) mark the beginning of the change. In Riberia, a Spaniard, in Caravaggio, and in the whole school of Bologna, it was accomplished. Yet never at any period did the native Italian masters learn to love ugliness with the devotion that reveals innate grossness. It remained for Dürer, Rembrandt, and Hogarth to elevate the grotesque into the region of high art, for Rubens to achieve the apotheosis of pure animalism, for Teniers to devote distinguished genius to the service of the commonplace. In any review of Italian religion and morality, however fragmentary it may be, as this indeed is, one feature which distinguishes the acute sensibility of the race ought not to be omitted. Deficient in profound intellectual convictions, incapable of a fixed and radical determination towards national holiness, devoid of those passionate and imaginative intuitions into the mysteries of the world which generate religions and philosophies, the Italians were at the same time keenly susceptible to the beauty of the Christian faith revealed to them by inspired orators. What we call Revivalism was an institution in Italy, which the Church was too wise to discountenance or to suppress, although the preachers of repentance were often insubordinate and sometimes even hostile to the Papal system. The names of Arnold of Brescia, San Bernardino of Siena, John of Vicenza, Jacopo Bussolari, Alberto da Lecce, Giovanni Capistrano, Jacopo della Marca, Girolamo Savonarola, bring before the memory of those who are acquainted with Italian history innumerable pictures of multitudes commoved to tears, of tyrannies destroyed and constitutions founded by tumultuous assemblies, of hostile parties and vindictive nobles locked in fraternal embraces, of cities clothed in sackcloth for their sins, of exhortations to peace echoing by the banks of rivers swollen with blood, of squares and hillsides resonant with sobs, of Lenten nights illuminated with bonfires of Vanity.[1] In the midst of these melodramatic scenes towers the single form of a Dominican or Franciscan friar: while one voice thundering woe or pleading peace dominates the crowd. Of the temporary effects produced by these preachers there can be no question. The changes which they wrought in states and cities prove that the enthusiasm they aroused was more than merely hysterical. Savonarola, the greatest of his class, founded not only a transient commonwealth in Florence, but also a political party of importance, and left his lasting impress on the greatest soul of the sixteenth century in Italy--Michael Angelo Buonarroti. There was a real religious vigor in the people corresponding to the preacher's zeal. But the action of this earnest mood was intermittent and spasmodic. It coexisted with too much superstition and with passions too vehemently restless to form a settled tone of character. In this respect the Italian nation stands not extravagantly pictured in the life of Cellini, whose violence, self-indulgence, keen sense of pleasure, and pagan delight in physical beauty were interrupted at intervals by inexplicable interludes of repentance, Bible-reading, psalm-singing, and visions. To delineate Cellini will be the business of a distant chapter. The form of the greatest of Italian preachers must occupy the foreground of the next. [1] I have thrown into an appendix some of the principal passages from the chronicles about revivals in mediæval Italy. Before closing the imperfect and scattered notices collected in this chapter, it will be well to attempt some recapitulation of the points already suggested. Without committing ourselves to the dogmatism of a theory, we are led to certain general conclusions on the subject of Italian society in the sixteenth century. The fierce party quarrels which closed the Middle Ages had accustomed the population to violence, and this violence survived in the too frequent occurrence of brutal crimes. The artificial sovereignty of the despots being grounded upon perfidy, it followed that guile and fraud came to be recognized in private no less than public life. With the emergence of the bourgeois classes a self-satisfied positivism, vividly portrayed in the person of Cosimo de' Medici, superseded the passions and enthusiasms of a previous age. Thus force, craft, and practical materialism formed the basis of Italian immorality. Vehement contention in the sphere of politics, restless speculation, together with the loosening of every tie that bound society together in the Middle Ages, emancipated personality and substituted the freedom of self-centered vigor and virility (Virtù) for the prescriptions of civil or religions order. In the nation that had shaken off both Papal and Imperial authority no conception of law remained to control caprice. Instead of law men obeyed the instincts of their several characters, swayed by artistic taste or tyrannous appetite, or by the splendid heroism of extinct antiquity. The Church had alienated the people from true piety. Yet no new form of religious belief arose; and partly through respect for the past, partly through the convenience of clinging to existing institutions, Catholicism was indulgently tolerated. At the same time the humanists introduced an ideal antagonistic to Christianity of the monastic type. Without abruptly severing themselves from the communion of the Church, and while in form at least observing all its ordinances, they thought, wrote, spoke, felt, and acted like Pagans. To the hypocrisies of obsolete asceticism were added the affectations of anachronistic license. Meanwhile, the national genius for art attained its fullest development, simultaneously with the decay of faith, the extinction of political liberty, and the anarchy of ethics. So strong was the æsthetic impulse that it seemed for a while capable of drawing all the forces of the nation to itself. A society that rested upon force and fraud, corroded with cynicism, cankered with hypocrisy recognizing no standard apart from success in action and beauty in form, so conscious of its own corruption that it produced no satirist among the many who laughed lightly at its vices, wore the external aspect of exquisite refinement, and was delicately sensitive to every discord. Those who understood the contradictions of the age most deeply were the least capable of rising above them Consequently we obtain in Machiavelli's works the ideal picture of personal character, moving to calculated ends by scientifically selected means, none of which are sanctioned by the unwritten code of law that governs human progress. Cosimo's positivism is reduced to theory. Fraud becomes a rule of conduct. Force is advocated, when the dagger or the poisoned draught or the extermination of a city may lead the individual straight forward to his object. Religion is shown to be a political engine. Hypocrisy is a mask that must be worn. The sanctities of ancient use and custom controlling appetite have no place assigned them in the system. Action is analyzed as a branch of the fine arts; and the spirit of the age, of which the philosopher makes himself the hierophant, compels him to portray it as a sinister and evil art. In the civilization of Italy, carried prematurely beyond the conditions of the Middle Ages, before the institutions of mediævalism had been destroyed or its prejudices had been overcome, we everywhere discern the want of a co-ordinating principle. The old religion has died; but there is no new faith. The Communes have been proved inadequate; but there is no nationality. Practical positivism has obliterated the virtues of a chivalrous and feudal past; but science has not yet been born. Scholarship floods the world with the learning of antiquity; but this knowledge is still undigested. Art triumphs; but the æsthetic instinct has invaded the regions of politics and ethics, owing to defective analysis in theory, and in practice to over-confident reliance on personal ability. The individual has attained to freedom; but he has not learned the necessity of submitting his volition to law. At all points the development of the Italians strikes us as precocious, with the weakness of precocity scarcely distinguishable from the decay of old age. A transition from the point attained in the Renaissance to some firmer and more solid ground was imperatively demanded. But the fatality of events precluded the Italians from making it. Their evolution, checked in mid career by the brilliant ambition of France and the cautious reactionary despotism of Spain, remained suspended. Students are left, face to face with the sixteenth century, to decipher an inscription that lacks its leading verb, to puzzle over a riddle whereof the solution is hidden from us by the ruin of a people. It must ever be an undecided question whether the Italians, undisturbed by foreign interference, could have passed beyond the artificial and exceptional stage of the Renaissance to a sounder and more substantial phase of national vitality; or whether, as their inner conscience seems to have assured them, their disengagement from moral obligation and their mental ferment foreboded an inevitable catastrophe. CHAPTER IX. SAVONAROLA. The Attitude of Savonarola toward the Renaissance--His Parentage, Birth, and Childhood at Ferrara--His Poem on the Ruin of the World--Joins the Dominicans at Bologna--Letter to his Father--Poem on the Ruin of the Church--Begins to preach in 1482--First Visit to Florence--San Gemignano--His Prophecy--Brescia in 1486--Personal Appearance and Style of Oratory--Effect on his audience--The three Conclusions--His Visions--Savonarola's Shortcomings as a patriotic Statesman--His sincere Belief in his prophetic Calling--Friendship with Pico della Mirandola--Settles in Florence, 1490--Convent of San Marco--Savonarola's Relation to Lorenzo de' Medici--The death of Lorenzo--Sermons of 1493 and 1494--the Constitution of 1495--Theocracy in Florence--Piagnoni, Bigi, and Arrabbiati--War between Savonarola and Alexander VI.--The Signory suspends him from preaching in the Duomo in 1498--Attempts to call a Council--The Ordeal by Fire--San Marco stormed by the Mob--Trial and Execution of Savonarola. Nothing is more characteristic of the sharp contrasts of the Italian Renaissance than the emergence not only from the same society, but also from the bosom of the same Church, of two men so diverse as the Pope Alexander VI. and the Prophet Girolamo Savonarola. Savonarola has been claimed as a precursor of the Lutheran Reformers, and as an inspired exponent of the spirit of the fifteenth century. In reality he neither shared the revolutionary genius of Luther, which gave a new vitality to the faiths of Christendom, nor did he sympathize with that free movement of the modern mind which found its first expression in the arts and humanistic studies of Renaissance Italy. Both toward Renaissance and Reform he preserved the attitude of a monk, showing on the one hand an austere mistrust of pagan culture, and on the other no desire to alter either the creeds or the traditions of the Romish Church. Yet the history of Savonarola is not to be dissociated from that of the Italian Renaissance. He more clearly than any other man discerned the moral and political situation of his country. When all the states of Italy seemed sunk in peace and cradled in prosperity, he predicted war, and felt the imminence of overwhelming calamity. The purification of customs which he preached was demanded by the flagrant vices of the Popes and by the wickedness of the tyrants. The scourge which he prophesied did in fact descend upon Italy. In addition to this clairvoyance by right of which we call him prophet, the hold he took on Florence at a critical moment of Italian history is alone enough to entitle him to more than merely passing notice. Girolamo Savonarola was born at Ferrara in 1452.[1] His grandfather Michele, a Paduan of noble family, had removed to the capital of the Este princes at the beginning of the fifteenth century. There he held the office of court physician; and Girolamo was intended for the same profession. But early in his boyhood the future prophet showed signs of disinclination for a worldly life, and an invincible dislike of the court. Under the House of Este, Ferrara was famous throughout Italy for its gayety and splendor. No city enjoyed more brilliant and more frequent public shows. Nowhere did the aristocracy maintain so much of feudal magnificence and chivalrous enjoyment. The square castle of red brick, which still stands in the middle of the town, was thronged with poets, players, fools who enjoyed an almost European reputation, court flatterers, knights, pages, scholars and fair ladies. But beneath its cube of solid masonry, on a level with the moat, shut out from daylight by a sevenfold series of iron bars, lay dungeons in which the objects of the Duke's displeasure clanked chains and sighed their lives away.[2] Within the precincts of this palace the young Savonarola learned to hate alike the worldly vices and the despotic cruelty against which in after-life he prophesied and fought unto the death. [1] In this chapter on Savonarola I have made use of Villari's _Life_ (translated by Leonard Horner, Longmans, 1863, 2 vols.), Michelet's _Histoire de France_, vol. vii., Milman's article on Savonarola (John Murray, 1870), Nardi's _Istoria Fiorentina_, book ii., and the _Memoirs_ of De Comines. [2] See p. 424. Of his boyhood we know but little. His biographers only tell us that he was grave and solitary, frequenting churches, praying with passionate persistence, obstinately refusing, though otherwise docile, to join his father in his visits to the court. Aristotle and S. Thomas Aquinas seem to have been the favorite masters of his study. In fact he refused the new lights of the humanists, and adhered to the ecclesiastical training of the schoolmen. Already at the age of twenty we find him composing a poem in Italian on the Ruin of the World, in which he cries: 'The whole world is in confusion: all virtue is extinguished, and all good manners; I find no living light abroad, nor one who blushes for his vices.' His point of departure had been taken, and the keynote of his life had been struck. The sense of intolerable sin that came upon him in Ferrara haunted him through manhood, set his hand against the Popes and despots of Italy, and gave peculiar tone to his prophetic utterances. The attractions of the cloister, as a refuge from the storms of the world, and as a rest from the torments of the sins of others, now began to sway his mind.[1] But he communicated his desire to no one. It would have grieved his father and his mother to find that their son, who was, they hoped, to be a shining light at the court of Ferrara, had determined to assume the cowl. At length, however, came the time at which he felt that leave the world he must. 'It was on the 23d of April 1475,' says Villari; 'he was sitting with his lute and playing a sad melody; his mother, as if moved by a spirit of divination, turned suddenly round to him, and exclaimed mournfully, My son, that is a sign we are soon to part. He roused himself, and continued, but with a trembling hand, to touch the strings of the lute, without raising his eyes from the ground.' This would make a picture: spring twilight in the quaint Italian room, with perhaps a branch of fig-tree or of bay across the open window; the mother looking up with anxious face from her needlework; the youth, with those terrible eyes and tense lips and dilated nostrils of the future prophet, not yet worn by years of care, but strongly marked and unmistakable, bending over the melancholy chords of the lute, dressed almost for the last time in secular attire. [1] Often in later life Savonarola cried that he had sought the cloister to find rest, but that God had chosen, instead of bringing him into calm waters, to cast him on a tempest-swollen sea. See the Sermon quoted by Villari, vol. i. p. 298. On the very next day Girolamo left Ferrara in secret and journeyed to Bologna. There he entered the order of S. Dominic, the order of the Preachers, the order of his master S. Thomas, the order too, let us remember, of inquisitorial crusades. The letter written to his father after taking this step is memorable. In it he says: 'The motives by which I have been led to enter into a religious life are these: the great misery of the world; the iniquities of men, their rapes, adulteries, robberies, their pride, idolatry, and fearful blasphemies: so that things have come to such a pass that no one can be found acting righteously. Many times a day have I repeated with tears the verse: Heu, fuge crudeles terras, fuge littus avarum! I could not endure the enormous wickedness of the blinded people of Italy; and the more so because I saw everywhere virtue despised and vice honored.' We see clearly that Savonarola's vocation took its origin in a deep sense of the wickedness of the world. It was the same spirit as that which drove the early Christians of Alexandria into the Thebaid. Austere and haggard, consumed with the zeal of the Lord, he had moved long enough among the Ferrarese holiday-makers. Those elegant young men in tight hose and particolored jackets, with oaths upon their lips and deeds of violence and lust within their hearts, were no associates for him. It is touching, however, to note that no text of Ezekiel or Jeremiah, but Virgil's musical hexameter, sounded through his soul the warning to depart. In this year Savonarola composed another poem, this time on the Ruin of the Church. In his boyhood he had witnessed the pompous shows which greeted Æneas Sylvius, more like a Roman general than a new-made Pope, on his entrance into Ferrara. Since then he had seen the monster Sixtus mount the Papal throne. No wonder if he, who had fled from the world to the Church for purity and peace, should need to vent his passion in a song. 'Where,' he cries, 'are the doctors of old times, the saints, the learning, charity, chastity of the past?' The Church answers by displaying her rent raiment and wounded body, and by pointing to the cavern in which she has to make her home. 'Who,' exclaims the poet, 'has wrought this wrong?' _Una fallace, superba meretrice_--Rome! Then indeed the passion of the novice breaks in fire:-- Deh! per Dio, donna, Se romper si potria quelle grandi ale! The Church replies:-- Tu píangi e taci: e questo meglio parmi. No other answer could be given to Savonarola's impatient yearnings even by his own hot heart, while he yet remained a young and unknown monk in Bologna. Nor, strive as he might strive through all his life, was it granted to him to break those outspread wings of arrogant Rome. The career of Savonarola as a preacher began in 1482, when he was sent first to Ferrara and then to Florence on missions by his superiors. But at neither place did he find acceptance. A prophet has no honor in his own country; and for pagan-hearted Florence, though destined to be the theater of his life-drama, Savonarola had as yet no thundrous burden of invective to utter. Besides, his voice was sharp and thin; his face and person were not prepossessing. The style of his discourse was adapted to cloisteral disputations, and overloaded with scholastic distinctions. The great orator had not yet arisen in him. The friar, with all his dryness and severity, was but too apparent. With what strange feelings must the youth have trodden the streets of Florence! In after-days he used to say that he foreknew those streets and squares were destined to be the scene of his labors. But then, voiceless, powerless, without control of his own genius, without the consciousness of his prophetic mission, he brooded alone and out of harmony with the beautiful and mundane city. The charm of the hills and gardens of Valdarno, the loveliness of Giotto's tower, the amplitude of Brunelleschi's dome--these may have sunk deep into his soul. And the subtle temper of the Florentine intellect must have attracted his own keen spirit by a secret sympathy. For Florence erelong became the city of his love, the first-born of his yearnings. In the cloisters of San Marco, enriched with splendid libraries by the liberality of the Medicean princes, he was at peace. The walls of that convent had recently been decorated with frescoes by Fra Angelico, even as a man might crowd the leaves of a missal with illuminations. Among these Savonarola meditated and was happy. But in the pulpit and in contact with the holiday folk of Florence he was ill at ease. Lorenzo de' Medici overshadowed the whole city. Lorenzo, in whom the pagan spirit of the Renaissance, the spirit of free culture, found a proper incarnation, was the very opposite of Savonarola, who had already judged the classical revival by its fruits, and had conceived a spiritual resurrection for his country. At Florence a passionate love of art and learning--the enthusiasm which prompted men to spend their fortunes upon MSS. and statues, the sensibility to beauty which produced the masterworks of Donatello and Ghiberti, the thirst for knowledge which burned in Pico and Poliziano and Ficino--existed side by side with impudent immorality, religious deadness, cold contempt for truth, and cynical admiration of successful villainy. Both the good and the evil which flourished on this fertile soil so luxuriantly were combined in the versatile genius of the merchant prince, whose policy it was to stifle freedom by caressing the follies, vices, and intellectual tastes of his people. The young Savonarola was as yet no match for Lorenzo. And whither could he look for help? The reform of morals he so ardently desired was not to be expected from the Church. Florence well knew that Sixtus had plotted to murder the Medici before the altar at the moment of the elevation of the Host. Excommunicated for a deed of justice after the failure of this Popish plot, the city had long been at war with the pontiff. If anywhere it was in the cells of the philosophers, in that retreat where Ficino burned his lamp to Plato, in that hall where the Academy crowned their master's bust with laurels, that the more sober-minded citizens found ghostly comfort and advice. But from this philosophy the fervent soul of Savonarola turned with no less loathing, and with more contempt, than from the Canti Carnascialeschi and Aristophanic pageants of Lorenzo, which made Florence at Carnival time affect the fashions of Athens during the Dionysia. It is true that Italy owed much to the elevated theism developed by Platonic students. While the humanists were exalting pagan license, and while the Church was teaching the worst kinds of immorality, the philosophers kept alive in cultivated minds a sense of God. But the monk, nourished on the Bible and S. Thomas, valued this confusion of spirits and creeds in a chaos of indiscriminate erudition, at a small price. He had the courage in the fifteenth century at Florence to proclaim that the philosophers were in hell, and that an old woman knew more of saving faith than Plato. Savonarola and Lorenzo were opposed as champions of two hostile principles alike emergent from the very life of the Renaissance: paganism reborn in the one, the spirit of the gospel in the other. Both were essentially modern; for it was the function of the Renaissance to restore to the soul of man its double heritage of the classic past and Christian liberty, freeing it from the fetters which the Middle Ages had forged. Not yet, however, were Lorenzo and Savonarola destined to clash. The obscure friar at this time was preaching to an audience of some thirty persons in San Lorenzo, while Poliziano and all the fashion of the town crowded to the sermons of Fra Mariano da Genezzano in Santo Spirito. This man flattered the taste of the moment by composing orations on the model of Ficino's addresses to the Academy, and by complimenting Christianity upon its similarity to Platonism. Who could then have guessed that beneath the cowl of the harsh-voiced Dominican, his rival, burned thoughts that in a few years would inflame Florence with a conflagration powerful enough to destroy the fabric of the Medicean despotism? From Florence, where he had met with no success, Savonarola was sent to San Gemignano, a little town on the top of a high hill between Florence and Siena. We now visit San Gemignano in order to study some fading frescoes of Gozzoli and Ghirlandajo, or else for the sake of its strange feudal towers, tall pillars of brown stone, crowded together within the narrow circle of the town walls. Very beautiful is the prospect from these ramparts on a spring morning, when the song of nightingales and the scent of acacia flowers ascend together from the groves upon the slopes beneath. The gray Tuscan landscape for scores and scores of miles all round melts into blueness, like the blueness of the sky, flecked here and there with wandering cloud-shadows. Let those who pace the grass-grown streets of the hushed city remember that here the first flash of authentic genius kindled in Savonarola's soul. Here for the first time he prophesied: 'The church will be scourged, then regenerated, and this quickly.' These are the celebrated three conclusions, the three points to which Savonarola in all his prophetic utterances adhered. But not yet had he fully entered on his vocation. His voice was weak; his style uncertain; his soul, we may believe, still wavering between strange dread and awful joy, as he beheld, through many a backward rolling mist of doubt, the mantle of the prophets descend upon him. Already he had abandoned the schoolmen for the Bible. Already he had learned by heart each verse of the Old and New Testaments. Pondering on their texts, he had discovered four separate interpretations for every suggestion of Sacred Writ. For some of the pregnant utterances of the prophets he found hundreds, pouring forth metaphor and illustration in wild and dazzling profusion of audacious, uncouth imagery. The flame which began to smoulder in him at San Gemignano burst forth into a blaze at Brescia, in 1486. Savonarola was now aged thirty-four. 'Midway upon the path of life' he opened the Book of Revelation: he figured to the people of Brescia the four-and-twenty elders rising to denounce the sins of Italy, and to declare the calamities that must ensue. He pictured to them their city flowing with blood. His voice, which now became the interpreter of his soul, in its resonance and earnestness and piercing shrillness, thrilled his hearers with strange terror. Already they believed his prophecy; and twenty-six years later, when the soldiers of Gaston de Foix slaughtered six thousand souls in the streets of Brescia, her citizens recalled the Apocalyptic warnings of the Dominican monk. As Savonarola is now launched upon his vocation of prophecy, this is the right moment to describe his personal appearance and his style of preaching. We have abundant material for judging what his features were, and how they flashed beneath the storm of inspiration.[1] Fra Bartolommeo, one of his followers, painted a profile of him in the character of S. Peter Martyr. This shows all the benignity and grace of expression which his stern lineaments could assume. It is a picture of the sweet and gentle nature latent within the fiery arraigner of his nation at the bar of God. In contemporary medals the face appears hard, keen, uncompromising, beneath its heavy cowl. But the noblest portrait is an intaglio engraved by Giovanni della Corniole, now to be seen in the Uffizzi at Florence. Of this work Michael Angelo, himself a disciple of Savonarola, said that art could go no further. We are therefore justified in assuming that the engraver has not only represented faithfully the outline of Savonarola's face, but has also indicated his peculiar expression. A thick hood covers the whole head and shoulders. Beneath it can be traced the curve of a long and somewhat flat skull, rounded into extraordinary fullness at the base and side. From a deeply sunken eye-socket emerges, scarcely seen, but powerfully felt, the eye that blazed with lightning. The nose is strong, prominent, and aquiline, with wide nostrils, capable of terrible dilation under the stress of vehement emotion. The mouth has full, compressed, projecting lips. It is large, as if made for a torrent of eloquence: it is supplied with massive muscles, as if to move with energy and calculated force and utterance. The jawbone is hard and heavy; the cheekbone emergent: between the two the flesh is hollowed, not so much with the emaciation of monastic vigils as with the athletic exercise of wrestlings in the throes of prophecy. The face, on the whole, is ugly, but not repellent; and, in spite of its great strength, it shows signs of feminine sensibility. Like the faces of Cicero and Demosthenes, it seems the fit machine for oratory. But the furnaces hidden away behind that skull, beneath that cowl, have made it haggard with a fire not to be found in the serener features of the classic orators. Savonarola was a visionary and a monk. The discipline of the cloister left its trace upon him. The wings of dreams have winnowed and withered that cheek as they passed over it. The spirit of prayer quivers upon those eager lips. The color of Savonarola's flesh was brown: his nerves were exquisitely sensitive yet strong; like a network of wrought steel, elastic, easily overstrained, they recovered their tone and temper less by repose than by the evolution of fresh electricity. With Savonarola fasts were succeeded by trances, and trances by tempests of vehement improvization. From the midst of such profound debility that he could scarcely crawl up the pulpit steps, he would pass suddenly into the plenitude of power, filling the Dome of Florence with denunciations, sustaining his discourse by no mere trick of rhetoric that flows to waste upon the lips of shallow preachers, but marshaling the phalanx of embattled arguments and pointed illustrations, pouring his thought forth in columns of continuous flame, mingling figures of sublimest imagery with reasonings severest accuracy, at one time melting his audience tears, at another freezing them with terror, again quickening their souls with prayers and pleadings and blessings that had in them the sweetness of the very spirit of Christ. His sermons began with scholastic exposition; as they advanced, the ecstasy of inspiration fell upon the preacher, till the sympathies of the whole people of Florence gathered round him,[2] met and attained, as it were, to single consciousness in him. He then no longer restrained the impulse of his oratory, but became the mouthpiece of God, the interpreter to themselves of all that host. In a fiery crescendo, never flagging, never losing firmness of grasp or lucidity of vision, he ascended the altar steps of prophecy, and, standing like Moses on the mount between the thunders of God and the tabernacles of the plain, fulminated period after period of impassioned eloquence. The walls of the church re-echoed with sobs and wailings dominated by one ringing voice. The scribe to whom we owe the fragments of these sermons, at times breaks off with these words: 'Here I was so overcome with weeping that I could not go on.' Pico della Mirandola tells us that the mere sound of Savonarola's voice, startling the stillness of the Duomo, thronged through all its space with people, was like a clap of doom: a cold shiver ran through the marrow of his bones, the hairs of his head stood on end, as he listened. Another witness reports: 'These sermons caused such terror, alarm, sobbing, and tears that every one passed through the streets without speaking, more dead than alive.' [1] Engravings of the several portraits may be seen in Harford's _Life of Michael Angelo Buonarroti_ (Longmans, 1857 vol. i.), and also in Villari. [2] Nardi, in his _Istorie di Firenze_ (lib. ii. cap. 16), describes the crowd assembled in the Duomo to hear Savonarola preach: 'Per la moltitudine degli uditori non essendo quasi bastante la chiesa cattedrale di santa Maria del Fiore, ancora che molto grande e capace sia, fu necessario edificar dentro lungo i pareti di quella, dirempetto al pergamo, certi gradi di legname rilevati con ordine di sederi, a guisa di teatro, e così dalla parte di sopra all' entrata del coro e dalla parte di sotto in verso le porte della detta chiesa.' Such was the preacher: and such was the effect of his oratory. The theme on which he loved to dwell was this. Repent! A judgment of God is at hand. A sword is suspended over you. Italy is doomed for her iniquity--for the sins of the Church, whose adulteries have filled the world--for the sins of the tyrants, who encourage crime and trample upon souls--for the sins of you people, you fathers and mothers, you young men, you maidens, you children that lisp blasphemy! Nor did Savonarola deal in generalities. He described in plain language every vice; he laid bare every abuse; so that a mirror was held up to the souls of his hearers, in which they saw their most secret faults appallingly portrayed and ringed around with fire. He entered with particularity into the details of the coming woes. One by one he enumerated the bloodshed, the ruin of cities, the trampling down of provinces, the passage of armies, the desolating wars that were about to fall on Italy.[1] You may read pages of his sermons which seem like vivid narratives of what afterwards took place in the sack of Prato, in the storming of Brescia, in the battle of the Ronco, in the cavern-massacre of Vicenza. No wonder that he stirred his audience to their center. The hell within them was revealed. The coming doom above them was made manifest. Ezekiel and Jeremiah were not more prophetic. John crying to a generation of vipers, 'Repent ye, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand!' was not more weighty with the mission of authentic inspiration. [1] Savonarola's whole view of the situation and of the perils of Italy was that of a prophet. He saw more clearly than other people what was inevitable. But his disciples and the vulgar believed implicitly in his prophetic gift in the narrower sense, that is, in his power to predict events, such as the deaths of Lorenzo and the King of Naples, the punishment of Charles VIII, in the loss of the dauphin, etc. Pico says: 'Savonarola could read the future as clearly as one sees the whole is greater than the part.' And there is no doubt that, as time went on, Savonarola came to believe himself that he possessed this faculty. After his trial and execution a very uncomfortable sense of doubt remained upon the minds of those who had been witnesses of his life-drama. Upon this topic Guicciardini, _Stor. Fior., Op. Ined._ vol. iii. p. 179; Nardi, _Stor. Fior._ lib. ii. caps. 16 and 36, may be read with advantage. 'I began'--Savonarola writes himself with reference to a course of sermons delivered in 1491--'I began publicly to expound the Revelation in our Church of S. Mark. During the course of the year I continued to develop to the Florentines these three propositions: That the Church would be renewed in our time; that before that renovation God would strike all Italy with a fearful chastisement; that these things would happen shortly.' It is by right of the foresight of a new age contained in these three famous so-called conclusions that Savonarola deserves to be named the Prophet of the Renaissance. He was no apostle of reform: it did not occur to him to reconstruct the creed, to dispute the discipline, or to criticise the authority of the Church. He was no founder of a new order: unlike his predecessors, Dominic and Francis, he never attempted to organize a society of saints or preachers; unlike his successors, Caraffa the Theatine and Loyola the Jesuit, he enrolled no militia for the defense of the faith, constructed no machinery for education. Starting with simple horror at the wickedness of the world, he had recourse to the old prophets. He steeped himself in Bible studies. He caught the language of Malachi and Jeremiah. He became convinced that for the wickedness of Italy a judgment was imminent. From that conclusion he rose upon the wings of faith to the belief that a new age would dawn. The originality of his intuition consisted in this, that while Italy was asleep, and no man trembled for the future, he alone felt that the stillness of the air was fraught with thunder, that its tranquillity was like that which precedes a tempest blown from the very nostrils of the God of Hosts. To the astonishment of his hearers, and perhaps also of himself, his prophecies began to fulfill themselves. Within three years after his first sermon in S. Mark's, Charles VIII. had entered Italy, Lorenzo de' Medici was dead, and politicians no less than mystics felt that a new chapter had been opened in the book of the world's history. The Reform of the Church was also destined to follow. What Savonarola had foreseen, here too happened; but not in the way he would have wished, nor by the means he would have used. It is one thing to be a prophet in the sense of discerning the catastrophe to which circumstances must inevitably lead, another thing to trace beforehand the path which will be taken by the hurricanes that change the face of the world. Remaining in his soul a monk, attached by education and by natural sympathy to the past rather than the future, he felt in spite of himself the spirit of the coming age. Had he lived but one century earlier, we should not have called him prophet. It was the Renaissance which set the seal of truth upon his utterances. Yet in his vision of the world to be, he was like Balaam prophesying blindly of a star. Sixtus IV. had died and been succeeded by Innocent VIII. Innocent had given place to Alexander. The very nadir of the abyss had been reached. Then Savonarola saw a vision and heard a voice: _Ecce gladius Domini super terram cito et velociter._ The sword turned earthward; the air was darkened with fiery sleet and arrows; thunders rolled; the world was filled with pestilences, wars, famines. At another time he dreamed and looked toward Rome. From the Eternal City there rose a black cross, reaching to heaven, and on it was inscribed _Crux iræ Dei._ Then too the skies were troubled; clouds rushed through the air discharging darts and fire and swords, and multitudes below were dying. These visions he published in sermons and in print. Pictures were made from them. They and the three conclusions went abroad through Italy. Again, Charles was preparing for his expedition. Savonarola took the Ark of Noah for his theme. The deluge was at hand; he bade his hearers enter the ship of refuge before the terrible and mighty nation came: 'O Italy! O Rome! I give you over to the hands of a people who will wipe you out from among the nations! I see them descending like lions. Pestilence comes marching hand in hand with war. The deaths will be so many that the buriers shall go through the streets crying out: Who hath dead, who hath dead? and one will bring his father, and another his son. O Rome! I cry again to you to repent, Repent, Venice! Milan, repent!' 'The prophets a hundred years ago proclaimed to you the flagellation of the Church. For five years I have been announcing it: and now again I cry to you. The Lord is full of wrath. The angels on their knees cry to Him: Strike, strike! The good sob and groan: We can no more. The orphans, the widows say: We are devoured, we cannot go on living. All the Church triumphant hath cried to Christ: Thou diedst in vain. It is heaven which is in combat. The saints of Italy, the angels, are leagued with the barbarians. Those who called them in have put the saddles to the horses. Italy is in confusion, saith the Lord; this time she shall be yours. And the Lord cometh above his saints, above the blessed ones who march in battle-array, who are drawn up in squadrons. Whither are they bound? S. Peter is for Rome, crying: To Rome, to Rome! and S. Paul and S. Gregory march, crying: To Rome! And behind them go the sword, the pestilence, the famine. S. John cries: Up, up, to Florence! And the plague follows him. S. Anthony cries: Ho for Lombardy! S. Mark cries: Haste we to the city that is throned upon the waters! And all the angels of heaven, sword in hand, and all the celestial consistory, march on unto this war.' Then he speaks of his own fate: 'What shall be the end of our war, you ask? If this be a general question, I shall answer Victory! If you ask it of myself in particular, I answer, Death, or to be hewn in pieces. This is our faith, this is our guerdon, this is our reward! We ask for no more than this. But when you see me dead, be not then troubled. All those who have prophesied have suffered and been slain. To make my word prevail, there is needed the blood of many.' These are the prophecies with which Savonarola anticipated the coming of a foreign conqueror. It is interesting to trace in his apostrophes the double feeling of the prophet. Desire for the advent of Charles as a Messiah, liberator, and purifier of the Church, contends with an instinctive horror of the barbarian. Savonarola, like Dante, like all Italian patriots, except only Machiavelli, who too late had been lessoned by bitter experience to put no trust in foreign princes, could not refrain from hoping even against hope that good might come from beyond the Alps. Yet when the foreigners appeared, he trembled at the violence they wrought upon the ancient liberties of Italy. Savonarola's chief shortcoming as a patriot consisted in this, that he strengthened the old folly of the Florentines in leaning upon strangers.[1] Had he taught the Italians to work out their self-regeneration from within, instead of preparing them to accept an alien's yoke, he would have won a far more lasting meed of fame. As it was, together with the passion for liberty which became a religion with his followers, he strove to revive the obsolete tactics of an earlier age, and bequeathed to Florence the weak policy of waiting upon France. This legacy bore bitter fruits in the next century. If it was the memory of the Friar which nerved the citizens of Florence to sustain the siege of 1528, the same memory bound them to seek aid from inconsequent Francis, and to hope that at the last moment a cohort of seraphim would defend their walls.[2] [1] Segni, _Ist. Fior._ lib. i. p. 23, records a saying of Savonarola's, _Gigli con gigli dover fiorire_, as one of the causes of the obstinate French partiality of the Florentines in 1529. [2] See Varchi, Segni, and Nardi, who agree on these points. That Savonarola believed in his own prophecies there is no doubt. They were in fact, as I have already tried to show, a view of the political and moral situation of Italy, expressed with the force of profound religious conviction and based upon a theory of the divine government of the world. But now far he allowed himself to be guided by visions and by words uttered to his soul in trance, is a somewhat different question. It is just at this point that a man possessed of acute insight and trusting to the truth of his instincts may be tempted under strong devotional excitement to pass the border land which separates healthy intuition from hallucination. If Savonarola's studies of the Hebrew prophets inclined him to believe in dreams and revelations, yet on the other hand the strong logic of his intellect, trained in scholastic distinctions, taught him to mistrust the promptings of a power that spoke to him when he was somewhat more or less than his prosaic self. How could he be sure that the spirit came from God? We know for certain that he struggled against the impulse of divination and refused at times to obey it. But it overcame him. Like the Cassandra of Æschylus, he panted in the grasp of one mightier than himself. 'An inward fire,' he cried, 'consumes my bones and forces me to speak out' And again: 'I have, O Lord, burnt my wings of contemplation, and I have launched into a tempestuous sea, where I have found contrary winds in every quarter. I wished to reach a harbor, but could not find the way thither; I wished to lay me down, but could meet with no resting-place. I longed to be silent and to utter not a word. But the word of the Lord is in my heart; and if it does not come forth, it must consume the marrow of my bones. Thus, O Lord, if it be Thy will that I should navigate in deep waters, Thy will, be done.' At another time he says: 'I remember well that upon one occasion, in the year 1491, when I was preaching in the Duomo, having composed my sermon entirely upon these visions, I determined to abstain from all allusion to them, and in future to adhere to this resolution. God is my witness that the whole of Saturday and the whole of the succeeding night I lay awake, and could see no other course, no other doctrine. At daybreak, worn out and depressed by the many hours I had lain awake, while I was praying I heard a voice that said to me: "Fool that thou art, dost thou not see that it is God's will that thou shouldst keep to the same path?" The consequence of which was that on the same day I preached a tremendous sermon.' These passages leave upon the mind no doubt of Savonarola's sincerity. If he deceived others, he was himself the first to be deceived, and that too not before he had subjected himself to the most searching examination, seeking in vain to escape from the force which compelled him to play the part of prophet. Terrible, indeed, must have been the wrestlings and questionings of this strong-fibered intellect, alone and diffident, within the toils of ecstasy. Returning to the details of Savonarola's biography, we find him still in Lombardy in 1486. After leaving Brescia he moved to Reggio, where he made the friendship of the famous Giovanni Pico della Mirandola. They continued intimate till the death of the latter in 1494; it was his nephew, Giovanni Francesco Pico della Mirandola, who afterwards wrote the Life of Savonarola. From Reggio the friar went to Genoa; and by this time his fame as a prophet in the north of Lombardy was well established. Now came the turning-point in his life. Fourteen hundred and ninety is the date which determined his public action as a man of power in Italy. Lorenzo de' Medici, strangely enough, was the instrument of his recall in this year to Florence. Lorenzo, who, if he could have foreseen the future of his own family in Florence, would rather have stifled this monk's voice in his cowl, took pains to send for him and bring him to S. Mark's, the convent upon which his father had lavished so much wealth. He hoped to add luster to his capital by the preaching of the most eloquent friar in Italy. Clear-sighted as he was, he could not discern the flame of liberty which burned in Savonarola's soul. Savonarola, the democratic party leader, was a force in politics as incalculable beforehand as Ferrucci the hero. On August 1, 1490, the monk ascended the pulpit of S. Mark's, and delivered a tremendous sermon on a passage from the Apocalypse. On the eve of this commencement he is reported to have said: 'Tomorrow I shall begin to preach, and I shall preach for eight years.' The Florentines were greatly moved. Savonarola had to remove from the Church of S. Mark to the Duomo; and thus began the spiritual dictatorship which he exercised thenceforth without intermission till his death. Lorenzo soon began to resent the influence of this uncompromising monk, who, not content with moral exhortations, confidently predicted the coming of a foreign conqueror, the fall of the Magnificent, the peril of the Pope, and the ruin of the King of Naples. Yet it was no longer easy to suppress the preacher. Very early in his Florentine career Savonarola had proved himself to be fully as great an administrator as an orator. The Convent of San Marco dominated by his personal authority, had made him Prior in 1491, and he was already engaged in a thorough reform of all the Dominican monasteries of Tuscany. It was usual for the Priors elect of S. Mark to pay a complimentary visit to the Medici, their patrons. Savonarola, thinking this a worldly and unseemly custom, omitted to observe it. Lorenzo, noticing the discourtesy, is reported to have said, with a smile: 'See now! here is a stranger who has come into _my house_, and will not deign to visit me.' He forgot that Savonarola looked upon his convent as a house of God. At the same time the prince made overtures of goodwill to the Prior, frequently attended his services, and dropped gold into the alms-box of S. Mark's. Savonarola took no notice of him, and handed his florins over to the poor of the city. Then Lorenzo stirred up Fra Mariano da Genezzano, Savonarola's old rival, against him; but the clever rhetorician was no longer a match for the full-grown athlete of inspired eloquence. Da Genezzano was forced to leave Florence in angry discomfiture. With such unbending haughtiness did Savonarola already dare to brave the powers that be. He had recognized the oppressor of liberty, the corrupter of morality, the opponent of true religion, in Lorenzo. He hated him as a tyrant. He would not give him the right hand of friendship or the salute of civility. In the same spirit he afterwards denounced Alexander, scorned his excommunication, and plotted with the kings of Christendom for the convening of a Council. Lorenzo, however, was a man of supreme insight into character, and knew how to value his antagonist. Therefore, when the hour for dying came, and when, true child of the Renaissance that he was, he felt the need of sacraments and absolution, he sent for Savonarola, saying that he was the only honest friar he knew. The magnanimity of the Medici was only equaled by the firmness of the monk. Standing by the bedside of the dying man, who had confessed his sins, Savonarola said: 'Three things are required of you: to have a full and lively faith in God's mercy; to restore what you have unjustly gained; to give back liberty to Florence.' Lorenzo assented readily to the two first requisitions. At the third he turned his face in silence to the wall. He must indeed have felt that to demand and promise this was easier than to carry it into effect. Savonarola left him without absolution. Lorenzo died.[1] [1] It is just to observe that great doubt has been thrown on the facts above related concerning Lorenzo's death. Poliziano, who was with Lorenzo during his last illness, does not mention them in his letter to Jacobus Antiquarius (xv. Kal. Jun. 1492). But Burlmacchi, Pico, Barsanti, Razzi, and others of the Frate's party, agree in the story. What Poliziano wrote was that Savonarola confessed Lorenzo and retired without volunteering the blessing. Razzi says the interview between Savonarola and Lorenzo took place without witnesses; Pico and Burlamacchi relate the event as they heard of it from the lips of Savonarola. We have therefore to judge between the testimony of Poliziano, who held no communication with the friar, and the veracity of several narrators, biassed indeed by hostility toward the Medici, but in direct intercourse with the only man who could tell the exact truth of what passed--the confessor, Savonarola, who had been alone with Lorenzo. Villari, after sifting the evidence, arrives at the conclusion that we may believe Burlamacchi. The Baron Reumont, in his recent _Life of Lorenzo_, vol. ii. p. 590, gives some solid reasons for accepting this conclusion with caution, and Gino Capponi expresses a distinct disbelief in Burlamacchi's narration. The third point insisted upon by the friar, Restore liberty to Florence, not only broke the peace of the dying prince, but it also afterwards for ever ruled the conduct of Savonarola. From this time his life is that of a statesman no less than of a preacher. What Lorenzo refused, or was indeed upon his deathbed quite unable to perform, the monk determined to achieve. Henceforth he became the champion of popular liberty in the pulpit. Feeling that in the people alone lay any hope of regeneration for Italy, he made it the work of his whole life to give the strength and sanction of religion to republican freedom. This work he sealed with martyrdom. The spirit of the creed which he bequeathed to his partisans in Florence was political no less than pious. Whether Savonarola was right to embark upon the perilous sea of statecraft cannot now be questioned. What prophet of Israel from Samuel to Isaiah was not the maker and destroyer of kings and constitutions? When we call him by their title, we mean to say that he, like them, controlled by spiritual force the fortunes of his people. Whether he sought it or not, this rôle of politician was thrust upon him by the course of events: nor was the history of Italian cities deficient in precedents of similar functions assumed by preaching friars.[1] [1] It is enough to allude to Arnold of Brescia in Rome, to Fra Bussolari in Pavia, ami to John of Vicenza. Sec Appendix iv. To Lorenzo succeeded the incompetent Piero de' Medici, who surrendered the fortresses of Tuscany to the French army. While Savonarola was prophesying a sword, a scourge, a deluge, Charles VIII. rode at the head of his knighthood into Florence. The city was leaderless, unused to liberty. Who but the monk who had predicted the invasion should now attempt to control it? Who but he whose voice alone had power to assemble and to sway the Florentines should now direct them? His administrative faculty in a narrow sphere had been proved by his reform of the Dominican Convents. His divine mission was authenticated by the arrival of the French. The Lord had raised him up to act as well as to utter. He felt this: the people felt it. He was not the man to refuse responsibility. During the years of 1493 and 1494, when Florence together with Italy was in imminent peril, the voice of Savonarola never ceased to ring. His sermons on the psalm 'Quam bonus' and on the Ark of Noah are among the most stupendous triumphs of his eloquence. From his pulpit beneath the somber dome of Brunelleschi he kept pouring forth words of power to resuscitate the free spirit of his Florentines. In 1495, when the Medici had been expelled and the French army had gone upon its way to Naples, Savonarola was called upon to reconstitute the state. He bade the people abandon their old system of Parlamenti and Balia, and establish a Grand Council after the Venetian type.[1] This institution, which seemed to the Florentines the best they had ever adopted, might be regarded by the historian as only one among their many experiments in constitution-making, if Savonarola had not stamped it with his peculiar genius by announcing that Christ was to be considered the Head of the State.[2] This step at once gave a theocratic bias to the government, which determined all the acts of the monk's administration. Not content with political organization, too impatient to await the growth of good manners from sound institutions, he set about a moral and religious reformation. Pomps, vanities, and vices were to be abandoned. Immediately the women and the young men threw aside their silks and fine attire. The Carnival songs ceased. Hymns and processions took the place of obscene choruses and pagan triumphs. The laws were remodeled in the same severe and abrupt spirit. Usury was abolished. Whatever Savonarola ordained, Florence executed. By the magic of his influence the city for a moment assumed a new aspect. It seemed as though the old austerity which Dante and Villani praised were about to return without the factious hate and pride that ruined medæival Tuscany. In everything done by Savonarola at this epoch there was a strange combination of political sagacity with monastic zeal. Neither Guicciardini nor Machiavelli, writing years afterwards, when Savonarola had fallen and Florence was again enslaved, could propose anything wiser than his Consiglio Grande. Yet the fierce revivalism advocated by the friar--the bonfire of Lorenzo di Credi's and Fra Bartolommeo's pictures, of MSS, of Boccaccio and classic poets, and of all those fineries which a Venetian Jew is said to have valued in one heap at 22,000 florins--the recitation of such Bacchanalian songs as this-- Never was there so sweet a gladness, Joy of so pure and strong a fashion, As with zeal and love and passion Thus to embrace Christ's holy madness! Cry with me, cry as I now cry, Madness, madness, holy madness! --the procession of boys and girls through the streets, shaming their elders into hypocritical piety, and breeding in their own hearts the intolerable priggishness of premature pietism--could not bring forth excellent and solid fruits. The change was far too violent. The temper of the race was not prepared for it. It clashed too rudely with Renaissance culture. It outraged the sense of propriety in the more moderate citizens, and roused to vindictive fury the worst passions of the self-indulgent and the worldly. A reaction was inevitable.[3] [1] This change was certainly wrought out by the influence of the friar and approved by him. Segni, lib. i. p. 15, speaks clearly on the point, and says that the friar for this service to the city 'debbe esser messo tra buoni datori di leggi, e debbe essere amato e onorato da' Fiorentini non altrimenti che Numa dai Romani e Solone dagli Ateniesi e Licurgo da' Lacedemoni.' The evil of the old system was that the Parlamento, which consisted of the citizens assembled in the Piazza, was exposed to intimidation, and had no proper initiative, while the Balia, or select body, to whom they then intrusted plenipotentiary authority, was always the faction for the moment uppermost. For the mode of working the Parlamento and Balia, see Segni, p. 199; Nardi, lib. vi. cap. 4; Varchi, vol. ii. p. 372. Savonarola inscribed this octave stanza on the wall of the Consiglio Grande: 'Se questo popolar consiglio e certo Governo, popol, de la tua cittate Conservi, che da Dio t'e stato offerto, In pace starai sempre e libertate: Tien dunque l'occhio della mente aperto, Chè molte insidie ognor ti fien parate; E sappi che chi vuol far parlamento Vuol tórti dalle mani il reggimento.' [2] See Varchi, vol. i. p. 169. Niccolo Capponi, in 1527, returning to the policy of Savonarola, caused the Florentines to elect Christ for their king, and inscribed upon the door of the Palazzo Pubblico:-- Y.H.S. CHRISTUS REX FLORENTINI POPULI S.P. DECRETO ELECTUS. [3] The position of the Puritan leaders in England was somewhat similar to Savonarola's. But they had at the end of a long war, the majority of the nation with them. Besides, the English temperament was more adapted to Puritanism than the Italian, nor were the manifestations of piety prescribed by Parliament so extravagant. And yet even in England a reaction took place under the Restoration. Meanwhile the strong wine of prophecy intoxicated Savonarola. His fiery temperament, strained to the utmost by the dead weight of Florentine affairs that pressed upon him, became more irritable day by day. Vision succeeded vision; trance followed upon trance; agonies of dejection were suddenly transformed into outbursts of magnificent and soul-sustaining enthusiasm. It was no wonder if, passing as he had done from the discipline of the cloister to the dictatorship of a republic, he should make extravagant mistakes. The tension of this abnormal situation in the city grew to be excessive, and cool thinkers predicted that Savonarola's position would become untenable. Parties began to form and gather to a head. The followers of the monk, by far the largest section of the people, received the name of Piagnoni or Frateschi. The friends of the Medici, few at first and cautious, were called Bigi. The opponents of Savonarola and of the Medici, who hated his theocracy, but desired to see an oligarchy and not a tyranny in Florence, were known as the Arrabbiati. The discontent which germinated in Florence displayed itself in Rome. Alexander found it intolerable to be assailed as Antichrist by a monk who had made himself master of the chief Italian republic. At first he used his arts of blandishment and honeyed words in order to lure Savonarola to Rome. The friar refused to quit Florence. Then Alexander suspended him from preaching. Savonarola obeyed, but wrote at the same time to Charles VIII. denouncing his indolence and calling upon him to reform the Church. At the request of the Florentine Republic, though still suffering from the Pope's interdict, he then resumed his preaching. Alexander sought next to corrupt the man he could not intimidate. To the suggestion that a Cardinal's hat might be offered him, Savonarola replied that he preferred the red crown of martyrdom. Ascending the pulpit of the Duomo in 1496, he preached the most fiery of all his Lenten courses. Of this series of orations Milman writes: 'His triumphal career began with the Advent of 1494 on Haggai and the Psalms. But it is in the Carême of 1496 on Amos and Zechariah that the preacher girds himself to his full strength, when he had attained his full authority, and could not but be conscious that there was a deep and dangerous rebellion brooding in the hearts of the hostile factions at Florence, and when already ominous rumors began to be heard from Rome. He that would know the power, the daring, the oratory of Savonarola, must study this volume.'[1] [1] These sermons were printed from the notes taken by Lorenzo Violi in one volume at Venice, 1534. Very terrific indeed are the denunciations contained in these discourses--denunciations fulminated without disguise against the Pope and priests of Rome, against the Medici, against the Florentines themselves, in whom the traces of rebellion were beginning to appear. Mingled with these vehement invectives, couched in Savonarola's most impassioned style and heightened by his most impressive imagery, are political harangues and polemical arguments against the Pope. The position assumed by the friar in his war with Rome was not a strong one, and the reasoning by which he supported it was marked by curious self-deception mingled with apparent efforts to deceive his audience. He had not the audacious originality of Luther. He never went to the length of braving Alexander by burning his bulls and by denying the authority of popes in general. Not daring to break all connection with the Holy See, he was driven to quibble about the distinction between the office and the man, assuming a hazardous attitude of obedience to the Church whose head and chief he daily outraged. At the same time he took no pains to enlist the sympathies of the Italian princes, many of whom might presumably have been hostile to the Pope, on his side of the quarrel. All the tyrants came in for a share of his prophetic indignation. Lodovico Sforza, the lord of Mirandola, and Piero de' Medici felt themselves specially aggrieved, and kept urging Alexander to extinguish this source of scandal to established governments. Against so great and powerful a host one man could not stand alone. Savonarola's position became daily more dangerous in Florence. The merchants, excommunicated by the Pope and thus exposed to pillage in foreign markets, grumbled at the friar who spoiled their trade. The ban of interdiction lay upon the city, where the sacraments could no longer be administered or the dead be buried with the rites of Christians. Meanwhile a band of high-spirited and profligate young men, called Compagnacci, used every occasion to insult and interrupt him. At last in March 1498 his staunch friends, the Signory, or supreme executive of Florence, suspended him from preaching in the Duomo. Even the populace were weary of the protracted quarrel with the Holy See: nor could any but his own fanatical adherents anticipate the wars which threatened the state, with equanimity. Savonarola himself felt that the supreme hour was come. One more resource was left; to that he would now betake himself: he could afterwards but die. This last step was the convening of a general council.[1] Accordingly he addressed letters to all the European potentates. One of these, inscribed to Charles VIII., was dispatched, intercepted, and conveyed to Alexander. He wrote also to the Pope and warned him of his purpose. The termination of that epistle is noteworthy: 'I can thus have no longer any hope in your Holiness, but must turn to Christ alone, who chooses the weak of this world to confound the strong lions among the perverse generations. He will assist me to prove and sustain, in the face of the world, the holiness of the work for the sake of which I so greatly suffer: and He will inflict a just punishment on those who persecute me and would impede its progress. As for myself, I seek no earthly glory, but long eagerly for death. May your Holiness no longer delay but look to your salvation.' [1] This scheme was by no means utterly unpractical. The Borgia had only just escaped deposition in 1495 by the gift of a Cardinal's hat to the Bishop of S. Malo. He was hated no less than feared through the length and breadth of Italy. But Savonarola had allowed the favorable moment to pass by. But while girding on his armor for this singlehanded combat with the Primate of Christendom and the Princes of Italy, the martyrdom to which Savonarola now looked forward fell upon him. Growing yearly more confident in his visions and more willing to admit his supernatural powers, he had imperceptibly prepared the pit which finally ingulfed him. Often had he professed his readiness to prove his vocation by fire. Now came the moment when this defiance to an ordeal was answered.[1] A Franciscan of Apulia offered to meet him in the flames and see whether he were of God or not. Fra Domenico, Savonarola's devoted friend, took up the gauntlet and proposed himself as champion. The furnace was prepared: both monks stood ready to enter it: all Florence was assembled in the Piazza to witness what should happen. Various obstacles, however, arose; and after waiting a whole day for the friar's triumph, the people had to retire to their homes under a pelting shower of rain, unsatisfied, and with a dreary sense that after all their prophet was but a mere man. The Compagnacci got the upper hand. S. Mark's convent was besieged. Savonarola was led to prison, never to issue till the day of his execution by the rope and faggot. We may draw a veil over those last weeks. Little indeed is known about them, except that in his cell the Friar composed his meditations on the the 31st and 51st Psalms, the latter of which was published in Germany with a preface by Luther in 1573. Of the rest we hear only of prolonged torture before stupid and malignant judges, of falsified evidence and of contradictory confessions. What he really said and chose to stand by, what he retracted, what he shrieked out in the delirium of the rack, and what was falsely imputed to him, no one now can settle.[2] Though the spirit was strong, the flesh was weak; he had the will but not the nerve to be a martyr. At ten o'clock on the 23d of May 1498 he was led forth together with brother Salvestro, the confidant of his visions, and brother Domenico, his champion in the affair of the ordeal, to a stage prepared in the Piazza.[3] These two men were hanged first. Savonarola was left till the last. As the hangman tied the rope round his neck, a voice from the crowd shouted: 'Prophet, now is the time to perform a miracle!' The Bishop of Vasona, who conducted the execution, stripped his friar's frock from him, and said, 'I separate thee from the Church militant and triumphant.' Savonarola, firm and combative even at the point of death, replied, 'Militant yes: triumphant, no: _that_ is not yours.' The last words he uttered were, 'The Lord has suffered as much for me.' Then the noose was tightened round his neck. The fire beneath was lighted. The flames did not reach his body while life was in it; but those who gazed intently thought they saw the right hand give the sign of benediction. A little child afterwards saw his heart still whole among the ashes cast into the Arno; and almost to this day flowers have been placed every morning of the 23d of May upon the slab of the Piazza where his body fell. [1] There seems to be no doubt that this Ordeal by Fire was finally got up by the Compagnacci with the sanction of the Signory, who were anxious to relieve themselves by any means of Savonarola. The Franciscan chosen to enter the flames together with Fra Domenico was a certain Giuliano Rondinelli. Nardi calls him Andrea Rondinelli. [2] Nardi, lib. ii. vol. i. p. 128, treats the whole matter of Savonarola's confessions under torture with good sense. He says: 'Avendo domandato il frate quello che diceva e affermava delle sue esamine fatte infino a quel di, rispose, che ciò ch' egli aveva ne' tempi passati detto e predetto era la pura verita, e che quello di che s'era ridetto e aveva ritratto, era tutto falso e era seguito per il dolor grande e per la paura che egli aveva de' tormenti, e che di nuovo si ridirebbe e ritratterebbe tante volte, quante ci fusse di nuovo tormentato, perciò che si conosceva molto debole e inconstante nel sopportare i supplicii.' Burchard, in his Diary, reports the childish, foul, malignant gossip current in Rome. This may be read in the 'Preuves et Observations' appended to the _Memoirs_ of De Comines, vol. v. p. 512. See the Marchese Gino Capponi's _Storia della Firenze_ (tom. ii. pp. 248-51) for a critical analysis of the depositions falsely ascribed to Savonarola. [3] There is a curious old picture in the Pinacoteca of Perugia which represents the burning of the three friars. The whole Piazza della Signoria is shown, with the houses of the fifteenth century, and without the statues which afterwards adorned it. The spectator fronts the Palazzo, and has to his extreme right the Loggia de' Lanzi. The center of the square is occupied by a great circular pile of billets and fagots, to which a wooden bridge of scaffolding leads from the left angle of the Polazzo. From the middle of the pile rises a pole, to which the bodies of the friars in their white clothes are suspended. Sta Maria del Fiore, the Badia tower, and the distant hills above Fiesole complete a scene which is no doubt accurate in detail. Thus died Savonarola: and immediately he became a saint. His sermons and other works were universally distributed. Medals in his honor were struck. Raphael painted him among the Doctors of the Church in the Camera della Segnatura of the Vatican. The Church, with strange inconsistency, proposed to canonize the man whom she had burned as a contumacious heretic and a corrupter of the people. This canonization never took place: but many Dominican Churches used a special office with his name and in his honor.[1] A legend similar to that of S. Francis in its wealth of mythical details embalmed the memory of even the smallest details of his life. But, above all, he lived in the hearts of the Florentines. For many years to come his name was the watchword of their freedom; his prophecies sustained their spirit during the siege of 1528;[2] and it was only by returning to his policy that Niccolo Capponi and Francesco Carducci ruled the people through those troublous times. The political action of Savonarola forms but a short episode in the history of Florence. His moral revival belongs to the history of popular enthusiasm. His philosophical and theological writings are chiefly interesting to the student of post-medæival scholasticism. His attitude as a monastic leader of the populace, attempting to play the old game whereby the factious warfare of a previous age had been suspended by appeals to piety, and politicians had looked for aid outside the nation, was anachronistic. But his prophecy, his insight into the coming of a new era for the Church and for Italy, is a main fact in the psychology of the Renaissance. [1] _Officio del Savonarola_, with preface by Cesare Guasti. Firenze, 1863. [2] Guicciardini, in his _Ricordt_, No. i., refers the incredible obstinacy of the Florentines at this period in hoping against all hope and reason to Savonarola: 'questa ostinazione ha causata in gran parte a fede di non potere perire, secondo le predicazioni di Fra Jeronirno da Ferrara.' CHAPTER X. CHARLES VIII. The Italian States confront the Great Nations of Europe--Policy of Louis XI. of France--Character of Charles VIII.--Preparations for the Invasion of Italy--Position of Lodovico Sforza--Diplomatic Difficulties in Italy after the Death of Lorenzo de' Medici--Weakness of the Republics--II Moro--The year 1494--Alfonso of Naples--Inefficiency of the Allies to cope with France--Charles at Lyons is stirred up to the Invasion of Italy by Giuliano della Rovere--Charles at Asti and Pavia--Murder of Gian Galeazzo Sforza--Mistrust in the French Army--Rapallo and Fivizzano--The Entrance into Tuscany--Part played by Piero de' Medici--Charles at Pisa--His Entrance into Florence--Piero Capponi--The March on Rome--Entry into Rome--Panic of Alexander VI.--The March on Naples--The Spanish Dynasty: Alfonso and Ferdinand--Alfonso II. escapes to Sicily--Ferdinand II. takes Refuge in Ischia--Charles at Naples--The League against the French--De Comines at Venice--Charles makes his Retreat by Rome, Siena, Pisa, and Pontremoli--The Battle of Fornovo--Charles reaches Asti and returns to France--Italy becomes the Prize to be fought for by France, Spain, and Germany--Importance of the Expedition of Charles VIII. One of the chief features of the Renaissance was the appearance for the first time on the stage of history of full-formed and colossal nations. France, Spain, Austria, and England are now to measure their strength. Venice, Florence, Milan, Naples, even Rome, are destined in the period that is opening for Europe to play but secondary parts. Italy, incapable of coping with these great powers, will become the mere arena of their contests, the object of their spoliations. Yet the Italians themselves were far from being conscious of this change. Accustomed through three centuries to a system of diplomacy and intrigue among their own small states, they still thought more of the balance of power within the peninsula than of the means to be adopted for repelling foreign force. Their petty jealousies kept them disunited at an epoch when the best chance of national freedom lay in a federation. Firmly linked together in one league, or subject to a single prince, the Italians might not only have met their foes on equal ground, but even have taken a foremost place among the modern nations.[1] Instead of that, their princes were foolish enough to think that they could set France, Germany, or Spain in motion for the attainment of selfish objects within the narrow sphere of Italian politics, forgetting the disproportion between these huge monarchies and a single city like Florence, a mere province like the Milanese. It was just possible for Lorenzo de' Medici to secure the tranquillity of Italy by combining the Houses of Sforza and of Aragon with the Papal See in the chains of the same interested policy with the Commonwealth of Florence. It was ridiculous of Lodovico Sforza to fancy that he could bring the French into the game of peninsular intrigue without irrevocably ruining its artificial equilibrium. The first sign of the alteration about to take place in European history was the invasion of Italy by Charles VIII. This holiday excursion of a hairbrained youth was as transient as a border-foray on a large scale. The so-called conquest was only less sudden than the subsequent loss of Italy by the French. Yet the tornado which swept the peninsula from north to south, and returned upon its path from south to north within the space of a few months, left ineffaceable traces on the country which it traversed, and changed the whole complexion of the politics of Europe. [1] Read, however, Sismondi's able argument against the view that Italy, united as a single nation under a sovereign, would have been better off, vol. vii. p. 298 et seq. He is of opinion that her only chance lay in a Confederation. See chapter ii. above, for a discussion of this chance. The invasion of Italy had been long prepared in the counsels of Louis XI. After spending his lifetime in the consolidation of the French monarchy, he constructed an inheritance of further empire for his successors by dictating to the old King Réné of Anjou (1474) and to the Count of Maine (1481) the two wills by which the pretensions of the House of Anjou to the Crown of Naples were transmitted to the royal family of France.[1] On the death of Louis, Charles VIII. became King in 1483. He was then aged only thirteen, and was still governed by his elder sister, Anne de Beaujeu.[2] It was not until 1492 that he actually took the reins of the kingdom into his own hands. This year, we may remark, is one of the most memorable dates in history. In 1492 Columbus discovered America: in 1492 Roderigo Borgia was made Pope: in 1492 Spain became a nation by the conquest of Granada. Each of these events was no less fruitful of consequences to Italy than was the accession of Charles VIII. The discovery of America, followed in another six years by Vasco de' Gama's exploration of the Indian seas, diverted the commerce of the world into new channels; Alexander VI. made the Reformation and the Northern Schism certainties; the consolidation of Spain prepared a way for the autocracy of Charles V. Thus the commercial, the spiritual, and the political scepter fell in this one year from the grasp of the Italians. [1] Sismondi, vol. vi. p. 285. The Appendix of Pièces Justificatives to Philip de Comines' _Memoirs_ contains the will of Réné King of Sicily, Count of Provence, dated July 22, 1474, by which he constitutes his nephew, Charles of Anjou, Duke of Calabria, Count of Maine, his heir-in-chief; as well as the will of Charles of Anjou, King of Sicily, Count of Provence, dated December 10, 1481, by which he makes Louis XI. his heir, naming Charles the Dauphin next in succession. [2] Her husband was a cadet of the House of Bourbon. Both Philip de Comines and Guicciardini have described the appearance and the character of the prince who was destined to play a part so prominent, so pregnant of results, and yet so trivial in the affairs of Europe. Providence, it would seem, deigns frequently to use for the most momentous purposes some pantaloon or puppet, environing with special protection and with the prayers and aspirations of whole peoples a mere manikin. Such a puppet was Charles. 'From infancy he had been weak in constitution and subject to illness. His stature was short, and his face very ugly, if you except the dignity and vigor of his glance. His limbs were so disproportioned that he had less the appearance of a man than of a monster. Not only was he ignorant of liberal arts, but he hardly knew his letters. Though eager to rule, he was in truth made for anything but that; for while surrounded by dependents, he exercised no authority over them and preserved no kind of majesty. Hating business and fatigue, he displayed in such matters as he took in hand a want of prudence and of judgment. His desire for glory sprang rather from impulse than from reason. His liberality was inconsiderate, immoderate, promiscuous. When he displayed inflexibility of purpose, it was more often an ill-founded obstinacy than firmness, and that which many people called his goodness of nature rather deserved the name of coldness and feebleness of spirit.' This is Guicciardini's portrait. De Comines is more brief: 'The king was young, a fledgling from the nest; provided neither with money nor with good sense; weak, willful, and surrounded by foolish counselors.' These foolish counselors, or, as Guicciardini calls them, 'men of low estate, body-servants for the most part of the king,' were headed by Stephen de Vesc, who had been raised from the post of the king's valet de chambre to be the Seneschal de Beaucaire, and by William Briçonnet, formerly a merchant, now Bishop of S. Malo. These men had everything to gain by an undertaking which would flatter the vanity of their master, and draw him into still closer relations with themselves. Consequently, when the Count of Belgioioso arrived at the French Court from Milan, urging the king to press his claims on Naples, and promising him a free entrance into Italy through the province of Lombardy and the port of Genoa, he found ready listeners. Anne de Beaujeu in vain opposed the scheme. The splendor and novelty of the proposal to conquer such a realm as Italy inflamed the imagination of Charles, the cupidity of his courtiers, the ambition of de Vesc and Briçonnet. In order to assure his situation at home, Charles concluded treaties with the neighboring great powers. He bought peace with Henry VII. of England by the payment of large sums of money. The Emperor Maximilian, whose resentment he had aroused by sending back his daughter Margaret after breaking his promise to marry her, and by taking to wife Anne of Brittany, who was already engaged to the Austrian, had to be appeased by the cession of provinces. Ferdinand of Spain received as the price of his neutrality the strong places of the Pyrenees which formed the key to France upon that side. Having thus secured tranquillity at home by ruinous concessions, Charles was free to turn his attention to Italy. He began by concentrating stores and ships on the southern ports of Marseilles and Genoa; then he moved downward with his army, to Lyons, in 1494. At this point we are called to consider the affairs of Italy, which led the Sforza to invite his dangerous ally. Lorenzo de' Medici during his lifetime had maintained a balance of power between the several states by his treaties with the Courts of Milan, Naples, and Ferrara. When he died, Piero at once showed signs of departure from his father's policy. The son and husband of Orsini,[1] he embraced the feudal pride and traditional partialities of the great Roman house who had always been devoted to the cause of Naples. The suspicions of Lodovico Sforza were not unreasonably aroused by noticing that the tyrant of Florence inclined to the alliance of King Ferdinand rather than to his own friendship. At this same time Alfonso, the Duke of Calabria, heir to the throne of Naples, was pressing the rights of his son-in-law, Gian Galeazzo Sforza, on the attention of Italy, complaining loudly that his uncle Lodovico ought no longer to withhold from him the reins of government.[2] Gian Galcazzo was in fact the legitimate successor of Galeazzo Maria Sforza, who had been murdered in Santo Stefano in 1476. After this assassination Madonna Bona of Savoy and Cecco Simonetta, who had administered the Duchy as grand vizier during three reigns extending over a period of half a century, governed Milan as regents for the young Duke. But Lodovico, feeling himself powerful enough to assume the tyranny, beheaded Simonetta at Pavia in 1480, and caused Madonna Bona, the Duke's mother, on the pretext of her immorality, to quit the regency. Thus he took the affairs of Milan into his own hands, confined his nephew in an honorable prison, and acted in a way to make it clear that he intended thenceforth to be Duke in fact.[3] It was the bad conscience inseparable from this usurpation which made him mistrust the princes of the house of Aragon, whose rights in Isabella, wife of the young Duke, were set at nought by him. The same uneasy sense of wrong inclined him to look with dread upon the friendship of the Medici for the ruling family of Naples. [1] His mother Clarice and his wife Alfonsina were both of them Orsini. Guicciardini, in his 'Dialogo del Reggimento di Firenze' (_Op. Ined._ vol. ii. p. 46), says of him: 'sendo nato di madre forestiera, era imbastardito in lui il sangue Fiorentino, e degenerato in costumi esterni, e troppo insolenti e altieri al nostro vivere.' Piero, nevertheless, refused to accept estates from King Alfonso which would have made him a Baron and feudatory of Naples. See _Arch. Stor._ vol. i. p. 347. [2] The young Duke was aged twenty-four in 1493. [3] Lodovico had taken measures for cloaking his usurpation with the show of legitimate right. He betrothed his niece Bianca Maria, in 1494, to the Emperor Maximilian, with a dower of 400,000 ducats, receiving in return an investiture of the Duchy, which, however, he kept secret. While affairs were in this state, and as yet no open disturbance in Lorenzo's balance of power had taken place, Alexander VI. was elected to the Papacy. It was usual for the princes and cities of Italy to compliment the Pope with embassies on his assumption of the tiara; and Lodovico suggested that the representatives of Milan, Florence, Ferrara, and Naples should enter Rome together in a body. The foolish vanity of Piero, who wanted to display the splendor of his own equipage without rivals, induced him to refuse this proposal, and led to a similar refusal on the part of Ferdinand. This trivial circumstance confirmed the suspicions of Lodovico, who, naturally subtle and intriguing, thought that he discerned a deep political design in what was really little more than the personal conceit of a broad-shouldered simpleton.[1] He already foresaw that the old system of alliances established by Lorenzo must be abandoned. Another slight incident contributed to throw the affairs of Italy into confusion by causing a rupture between Rome and Naples. Lorenzo, by the marriage of his daughter to Franceschetto Cibo, had contrived to engage Innocent VIII. in the scheme of policy which he framed for Florence, Naples, Milan, and Ferrara. But on the accession of Alexander, Franceschetto Cibo determined to get rid of Anguillara, Cervetri, and other fiefs, which he had taken with his father's connivance from the Church. He found a purchaser in Virginio Orsini. Alexander complained that the sale was an infringement of his rights. Ferdinand supported the title of the Orsini to his new acquisitions. This alienated the Pope from the King of Naples, and made him willing to join with Milan and Venice in a new league formed in 1493. [1] Piero de' Medici was what the French call a _bel homme_, and little more. He was tall, muscular, and well-made, the best player at _pallone_ in Italy, a good horseman, fluent and agreeable in conversation, and excessively vain of these advantages. Thus the old equilibrium was destroyed, and fresh combinations between the disunited powers of Italy took place. Lodovico, however, dared not trust his new friends. Venice had too long hankered after Milan to be depended upon for real support; and Alexander was known to be in treaty for a matrimonial alliance between his son Geoffrey and Donna Sancia of Aragon. Lodovico was therefore alone, without a firm ally in Italy, and with a manifestly fraudulent title to maintain. At this juncture he turned his eyes towards France; while his father-in-law, the Duke of Ferrara, who secretly hated him, and who selfishly hoped to secure his own advantage in the general confusion which he anticipated, urged him to this fatal course. Alexander at the same time, wishing to frighten the princes of Naples into a conclusion of the projected marriage, followed the lead of Lodovico, and showed himself at this moment not averse to a French invasion. It was in this way that the private cupidities and spites of princes brought woe on Italy: Lodovico's determination to secure himself in the usurped Duchy of Milan, Ercole d' Este's concealed hatred, and Alexander's unholy eagerness to aggrandize his bastards, were the vile and trivial causes of an event which, however inevitable, ought to have been as long as possible deferred by all true patriots in Italy. But in Italy there was no zeal for freedom left, no honor among princes, no virtue in the Church. Italy, which in the thirteenth century numbered 1,800,000 citizens--that is, members of free cities, exercising the franchise in the government of their own states--could show in the fifteenth only about 18,000 such burghers:[1] and these in Venice were subject to the tyranny of the Council of Ten, in Florence had been enervated by the Medici, in Siena were reduced by party feuds and vulgar despotism to political imbecility. Amid all the splendors of revived literature and art, of gorgeous courts and refined societies, this indeed was the right moment for the Dominican visionary to publish his prophecies, and for the hunchback puppet of destiny to fulfill them. Guicciardini deplores, not without reason, the bitter sarcasm of fate which imposed upon his country the insult of such a conqueror as Charles. He might with equal justice have pointed out in Lodovico Sforza the actor of a tragi-comic part upon the stage of Italy. Lodovico, called II Moro, not, as the great historian asserts, because he was of dark complexion, but because he had adopted the mulberry-tree for his device,[2] was in himself an epitome of all the qualities which for the last two centuries had contributed to the degradation of Italy in the persons of the despots. Gifted originally with good abilities, he had so accustomed himself to petty intrigues that he was now incapable of taking a straightforward step in any direction. While he boasted himself the Son of Fortune and listened with complacency to a foolish rhyme that ran: _God only and the Moor foreknow the future safe and sure_, he never acted without blundering, and lived to end his days in the intolerable tedium of imprisonment at Loches. He was a thoughtful and painstaking ruler; yet he so far failed to win the affection of his subjects that they tossed up their caps for joy at the first chance of getting rid of him. He disliked bloodshed; but the judicial murder of Simonetta, and the arts by which he forced his nephew into an early grave, have left an ineffaceable stain upon his memory. His court was adorned by the presence of Lionardo da Vinci; but at the same time it was so corrupt that, as Corio tells us,[3] fathers sold their daughters, brothers their sisters, and husbands their wives there. In a word Lodovico, in spite of his boasted prudence, wrought the ruin of Italy and himself by his tortuous policy, and contributed by his private crimes and dissolute style of living no little to the general depravity of his country.[4] [1] This is Sismondi's calculation (vol. vii. p. 305). It must be taken as a rough one. Still students who have weighed the facts presented in Ferrari's _Rivoluzioni d' Italia_ will not think the estimate exaggerated. In the municipal and civil wars, free burghs were extinguished by the score. [2] See Varchi, vol. i. p. 49. Also the _Elogia_ of Paulus Jovius, who remarks that the complexion of Lodovico was fair. His surname, however, provoked puns. Me had, for example, a picture painted, in which Italy, dressed like a queen, is having her robe brushed by a Moorish page. A motto ran beneath, _Per Italia nettar d' ogni bruttura_. He adopted the mulberry because Pliny called it the most prudent of all trees, inasmuch as it waits till winter is well over to put forth its leaves, and Lodovico piqued himself on his sagacity in choosing the right moment for action. [3] _L' Historia di Milano_, Vinegia, 1554, p. 448: 'A quella (scola di Venere) per ogni canto vi si convenivan bellissimi giovani. I padri vi concedevano le figliuole, i mariti le mogliere, i fratelli le sorelle; e per sifatto modo senz' alcun riguardo molti concorreano all' amoroso ballo, che cosa stupendissima era riputata per qualunque l' intendeva.' [4] Guicciardini, _Storia d' Italia_, lib. iii. p. 35, sums up the character of Lodovico with masterly completeness. Amid this general perturbation of the old political order the year 1494, marked in its first month by the death of King Ferdinand, began--'a year,' to quote from Guicciardini, 'the most unfortunate for Italy, the very first in truth of our disastrous years, since it opened the door to numberless and horrible calamities, in which it may be said that a great portion of the world has subsequently shared.' The expectation and uneasiness of the whole nation were proportioned to the magnitude of the coming change. On every side the invasion of the French was regarded with that sort of fascination which a very new and exciting event is wont to inspire. In one mood the Italians were inclined to hail Charles as a general pacificator and restorer of old liberties.[1] Savonarola had preached of him as the _flagellum Dei_, the minister appointed to regenerate the Church and purify the font of spiritual life in the peninsula. In another frame of mind they shuddered to think what the advent of the barbarians--so the French were called--might bring upon them. It was universally agreed that Lodovico by his invitation had done no more than bring down, as it were, by a breath the avalanche which had been long impending. 'Not only the preparations made by land and sea, but also the consent of the heavens and of men, announced the woes in store for Italy. Those who pretend either by art or divine inspiration to the knowledge of the future, proclaimed unanimously that greater and more frequent changes, occurrences more strange and awful than had for many centuries been seen in any part of the world, were at hand.' After enumerating divers signs and portents, such as the passing day after day in the region round Arezzo of innumerable armed men mounted on gigantic horses with a hideous din of drums and trumpets, the great historian resumes: 'These things filled the people with incredible fear; for, long before, they had been terrified by the reputation of the power of the French and of their fierceness, seeing that histories are full of their deeds--how they had already overrun the whole of Italy, sacked the city of Rome with fire and sword, subdued many provinces of Asia, and at one time or another smitten with their arms all quarters of the world.' [1] This was the strictly popular as opposed to the aristocratic feeling. The common folk, eager for novelty and smarting under the bad rule of monsters like the Aragonese princes, expected in Charles VIII. a Messiah, and cried 'Benedictus qui venit in nomine Domini.' See passages quoted in a note below. Among all the potentates of Italy, Alfonso of Naples had the most to dread; for against him the invasion was specially directed. No time was to be lost. He assembled his allies at Vicovaro near Tivoli in July and explained to them his theory of resistance. The allies were Florence, Rome, Bologna, and all the minor powers of Romagna.[1] For once the southern and the middle states of Italy were united against a common foe. After Alfonso, Alexander felt himself in greatest peril, for he dreaded the assembly of a Council which might depose him from the throne he had bought by simony. So strong was his terror that he had already sent ambassadors to the Sultan imploring him for aid against the Most Christian King, and had entreated Ferdinand the Catholic, instead of undertaking a crusade against the Turk, to employ his arms in opposition to the French. But Bajazet was too far off to be of use; and Ferdinand was prudent. It remained for the allies to repel the invader by their unassisted force. This might have been done if Alfonso's plan had been adhered to. He designed sending a fleet, under his brother Don Federigo, to Genoa, and holding with his own troops the passes of the Apennines to the North, while Piero de' Medici undertook to guard the entrances to Tuscany on the side of Lunigiana. The Duke of Calabria meanwhile was to raise Gian Galeazzo's standard in Lombardy. But that absolute agreement which is necessary in the execution of a scheme so bold and comprehensive was impossible in Italy. The Pope insisted that attention should first be paid to the Colonnesi--Prospero and Fabrizio being secret friends of France, and their castles offering a desirable booty. Alfonso, therefore, determined to occupy the confines of the Roman territory on the side of the Abruzzi, while he sent his son, with the generals Giovan Jacopo da Trivulzi and the Count of Pitigliano, into Lombardy. They never advanced beyond Cesena, where the troops of the Sforza, in conjunction with the French, held them at bay. The fleet under Don Federigo sailed too late to effect the desired rising in Genoa. The French, forewarned, had thrown 2,000 Swiss under the Baily of Dijon and the Duke of Orleans into the city, and the Neapolitan admiral fell back upon Leghorn. The forces of the league were further enfeebled and divided by the necessity of leaving Virginio Orsini to check the Colonnesi in the neighborhood of Rome. How utterly Piero de' Medici by his folly and defection ruined what remained of the plan will be seen in the sequel. This sluggishness in action and dismemberment of forces--this total inability to strike a sudden blow--sealed beforehand the success of Charles. Alfonso, a tyrant afraid of his own subjects, Alexander, a Pope who had bought the tiara to the disgust of Christendom, Piero, conscious that his policy was disapproved by the Florentines, together with a parcel of egotistical petty despots, were not the men to save a nation. Italy was conquered, not by the French king, but by the vices of her own leaders. The whole history of Charles's expedition is one narrative of headlong rashness triumphing over difficulties and dangers which only the discord of tyrants and the disorganization of peoples rendered harmless. The Atè of the gods had descended upon Italy, as though to justify the common belief that the expedition of Charles was divinely sustained and guided.[2] [1] Venice remained neutral. She had refused to side with Charles, on the pretext that the fear of the Turk kept her engaged. She declined to join the league of Alfonso by saying it was mad to save others at the risk of drawing the war into your own territory. Nothing is more striking than the want of patriotic sentiment or generous concurrence to a common end in Italy at this time. Florence, by temper and tradition favorable to France, had been drawn into the league by Piero de' Medici, whose sympathies were firm for the Aragonese princes. [2] This, of course, was Savonarola's prophecy. But both Guicciardini and De Comities use invariably the same language. The phrase _Dieu monstroit conduire l'entreprise_ frequently recurs in the _Memoirs_ of De Comines. While Alfonso and Alexander were providing for their safety in the South, Charles remained at Lyons, still uncertain whether he should enter Italy by sea or land, or indeed whether he should enter it at all. Having advanced so far as the Rhone valley, he felt satisfied with his achievement and indulged himself in a long bout of tournaments and pastimes. Besides, the want of money, which was to be his chief embarrassment throughout the expedition, had already made itself felt.[1] It was an Italian who at length roused him to make good his purpose against Italy--Giuliano della Rovere,[2] the haughty nephew of Sixtus, the implacable foe of Alexander, whom he was destined to succeed in course of time upon the Papal throne. Burning to punish the Marrano, or apostate Moor, as he called Alexander, Giuliano stirred the king with taunts and menaces until Charles felt he could delay his march no longer. When once the French army got under weigh, it moved rapidly. Leaving Vienne on August 23, 1494, 3,600 men at arms, the flower of the French chivalry, 6,000 Breton archers, 6,000 crossbowmen, 8,000 Gascon infantry, 8,000 Swiss and German lances, crossed the Mont Genevre, debouched on Susa, passed through Turin, and entered Asti on September 19.[3] Neither Piedmont nor Montferrat stirred to resist them. Yet at almost any point upon the route they might have been at least delayed by hardy mountaineers until the commissariat of so large a force had proved an insurmountable difficulty. But before this hunchback conqueror with the big head and little legs, the valleys had been exalted and the rough places had been made plain. The princes whose interest it might have been to throw obstacles in the way of Charles were but children. The Duke of Savoy was only twelve years old, the Marquis of Montferrat fourteen; their mothers and guardians made terms with the French king, and opened their territories to his armies. [1] 'La despense de ces navires estoit fort grande, et suis d'advis qu'elle cousta trois cens mille francs, et si ne servit de rien, et y alla tout l'argent contant que le Roy peut finer de ses finances: car comme j'ay dit, il n'estoit point pourveu ne de sens, ne d'argent, oy d'autre chose nécessaire à telle entreprise, et si en vint bien à bout, moyennant la grâce de Dieu, qui clairement le donna ainsi à cognoistre.' De Comines, lib. vii. [2] Guicciardini calls him on this occasion 'fatale instrumento e allora e prima e poi de' mali d' Italia.' Lib. i. cap. 3. [3] I have followed the calculation of Sismondi (vol. vii. p. 383), to which should be added perhaps another 10,000 in all attached to the artillery, and 2,000 for sappers, miners, carpenters, etc. See Dennistoun, _Dukes of Urbino_, vol. i. p. 433, for a detailed list of Charles's armaments by land and sea. At Asti Charles was met by Lodovico Sforza and his father-in-law, Ercole d' Este. The whole of that Milanese Court which Corio describes[1] followed in their train. It was the policy of the Italian princes to entrap their conqueror with courtesies, and to entangle in silken meshes the barbarian they dreaded. What had happened already at Lyons, what was going to repeat itself at Naples, took place at Asti. The French king lost his heart to ladies, and confused his policy by promises made to Delilahs in the ballroom. At Asti he fell ill of the small-pox, but after a short time he recovered his health, and proceeded to Pavia. Here a serious entanglement of interests arose. Charles was bound by treaties and engagements to Lodovico and his proud wife Beatrice d' Este; the very object of his expedition was to dethrone Alfonso and to assume the crown of Naples; yet at Pavia he had to endure the pathetic spectacle of his forlorn cousin[2] the young Giovanni Galeazzo Sforza in prison, and to hear the piteous pleadings of the beautiful Isabella of Aragon. Nursed in chivalrous traditions, incapable of resisting a woman's tears, what was Charles to do, when this princess in distress, the wife of his first cousin, the victim of his friend Lodovico, the sister of his foe Alfonso, fell at his feet and besought him to have mercy on her husband, on her brother, on herself? The situation was indeed enough to move a stouter heart than that of the feeble young king. For the moment Charles returned evasive answers to his petitioners; but the trouble of his soul was manifest, and no sooner had he set forth on his way to Piacenza than the Moor resolved to remove the cause of further vacillation. Sending to Pavia, Lodovico had his nephew poisoned.[3] When the news of Gian Galeazzo's death reached the French camp, it spread terror and imbittered the mistrust which was already springing up between the frank cavaliers and the plausible Italians with whom they had to deal. [1] See above, p. 548. [2] The mothers of Charles VIII. and Gian Galeazzo were sisters, princesses of Savoy. [3] Sismondi does not discuss the fact minutely, but he inclines to believe that Gian Galeazzo was murdered. Michelet raises a doubt about it, though the evidence is such as he would have accepted without question in the case of a Borgia. Guicciardini, who recounts the whole matter at length, says that all Italy believed the Duke had been murdered, and quotes Teodoro da Pavia, one of the royal physicians, who attested to having seen clear signs of a slow poison in the young man. Pontano, _de Prudentiâ_, lib. 4, repeats the accusation. Guicciardini only doubts Lodovico's motives. He inclines to think the murder had been planned long before, and that Charles was invited into Italy in order that Lodovico might have a good opportunity for effecting it, while at the same time he had taken care to get the investiture of the Duchy from the Emperor ready against the event. What was this beautiful land in the midst of which they found themselves, a land whose marble palaces were thronged with cut-throats in disguise, whose princes poisoned while they smiled, whose luxuriant meadows concealed fever, whose ladies carried disease upon their lips? To the captains and the soldiery of France, Italy already appeared a splendid and fascinating Circe, arrayed with charms, surrounded with illusions, hiding behind perfumed thickets her victims changed to brutes, and building the couch of her seduction on the bones of murdered men. Yet she was so beautiful that, halt as they might for a moment and gaze back with yearning on the Alps that they had crossed, they found themselves unable to resist her smile. Forward they must march through the garden of enchantment, henceforth taking the precaution to walk with drawn sword, and, like Orlando in Morgana's park, to stuff their casques with roses that they might not hear the siren's voice too clearly. It was thus that Italy began the part she played through the Renaissance for the people of the North. _The White Devil of Italy_ is the title of one of Webster's best tragedies. A white Devil, a radiant daughter of sin and death, holding in her hands the fruit of the knowledge of good and evil, and tempting the nations to eat: this is how Italy struck the fancy of the men of the sixteenth century. She was feminine, and they were virile; but she could teach and they must learn. She gave them pleasure; they brought force. The fruit of her embraces with the nations was the spirit of modern culture, the genius of the age in which we live. Two terrible calamities warned the Italians with what new enemies they had to deal. Twice at the commencement of the invasion did the French use the sword which they had drawn to intimidate the sorceress. These terror-striking examples were the massacres of the inhabitants of Rapallo on the Genoese Riviera, and of Fivizzano in Lunigiana. Soldiers and burghers, even prisoners and wounded men in the hospitals, were butchered, first by the Swiss and German guards, and afterwards by the French, who would not be outdone by them in energy. It was thus that the Italians, after a century of bloodless battles and parade campaigning, learned a new art of war, and witnessed the first act of those Apocalyptic tragedies which were destined to drown the peninsula with French, Spanish, German, Swiss, and native blood. Meanwhile the French host had reached Parma, traversing, all through the golden autumn weather, those plains where mulberry and elm are married by festoons of vines above a billowy expanse of maize and corn. From Parma, placed beneath the northern spurs of the Apennines, to Sarzana, on the western coast of Italy, where the marbles of Carrara build their barrier against the Tyrrhene Sea, there leads a winding barren mountain pass. Charles took this route with his army, and arrived in the beginning of November before the walls of Sarzana. Meanwhile we may well ask what Piero de' Medici had been doing, and how he had fulfilled his engagement with Alfonso. He had undertaken, it will be remembered, to hold the passes of the Apennines upon this side. To have embarrassed the French troops among those limestone mountains, thinly forested with pine and chestnut-trees, and guarded here and there with ancient fortresses, would have been a matter of no difficulty. With like advantages 2,000 Swiss troops during their wars of independence would have laughed to scorn the whole forces of Burgundy and Austria. But Piero, a feeble and false tyrant, preoccupied with Florentine factions, afraid of Lucca, and disinclined to push forward into the territory of the Sforza, had as yet done nothing when the news arrived that Sarzana was on the point of capitulation. In this moment of peril he rode as fast as horses could carry him to the French camp, besought an interview with Charles, and then and there delivered up to him the keys of Sarzana and its citadel, together with those of Pietra Santa, Librafratta, Pisa, and Leghorn. Any one who has followed the sea-coast between Pisa and Sarzana can appreciate the enormous value of these concessions to the invader. They relieved him of the difficulty of forcing his way along a narrow belt of land, which is hemmed in on one side by the sea and on the other by the highest and most abrupt mountain range in Italy. To have done this in the teeth of a resisting army and beneath the walls of hostile castles would have been all but impossible. As it was, Piero cut the Gordian knot by his incredible cowardice, and for himself gained only ruin and dishonor. Charles, the foe against whom he had plotted with Alfonso and Alexander, laughed in his face and marched at once into Pisa. The Florentines, whom he had hitherto engaged in ah unpopular policy, now rose in fury, expelled him from the city, sacked his palace, and erased from their memory the name of Medici except for execration. The unsuccessful tyrant, who had proved a traitor to his allies, to his country, and to himself, saved his life by flying first to Bologna and thence to Venice, where he remained in a sort of polite captivity--safe, but a slave, until the Doge and his council saw which way affairs would tend. On the 9th of November Florence after a tyranny of fifty years, and Pisa after the servitude of a century, recovered their liberties and were able to reconstitute republican governments. But the situation of the two states was very different. The Florentines had never lost the name of liberty, which in Italy at that period meant less the freedom of the inhabitants to exercise self-government than the independence of the city in relation to its neighbors. The Pisans on the other hand had been reduced to subjection by Florence: their civic life had been stifled, their pride wounded in the tenderest point of honor, their population decimated by proscription and exile. The great sin of Florence was the enslavement of Pisa: and Pisa in this moment of anarchy burned to obliterate her shame with bloodshed. The French, understanding none of the niceties of Italian politics, and ignorant that in giving freedom to Pisa they were robbing Florence of her rights, looked on with wonder at the citizens who tossed the lion of the tyrant town into the Arno and took up arms against its officers. It is sad to witness this last spasm of the long-suppressed passion for liberty in the Pisans, while we know how soon they were reduced again to slavery by the selfish sister state, herself too thoroughly corrupt for liberty. The part of Charles, who espoused the cause of the Pisans with blundering carelessness, pretended to protect the new republic, and then abandoned it a few months later to its fate, provokes nothing but the languid contempt which all his acts inspire. After the flight of Piero and the proclamation of Pisan liberty the King of France was hailed as saviour of the free Italian towns. Charles received a magnificent address from Savonarola, who proceeded to Pisa, and harangued him as the chosen vessel of the Lord and the deliverer of the Church from anarchy. At the same time the friar conveyed to the French king a courteous invitation from the Florentine republic to enter their city and enjoy their hospitality. Charles, after upsetting Piero de' Medici with the nonchalance of a horseman in the tilting yard, and restoring the freedom of Pisa for a caprice, remained as devoid of policy and indifferent to the part assigned him by the prophet as he was before. He rode, armed at all points, into Florence on November 17, and took up his residence in the palace of the Medici. Then he informed the elders of the city that he had come as conqueror and not as guest, and that he intended to reserve to himself the disposition of the state. It was a dramatic moment. Florence, with the Arno flowing through her midst, and the hills around her gray with olive-trees, was then even more lovely than we see her now. The whole circuit of her walls remained, nor had their crown of towers been leveled yet to make resistance of invading force more easy Brunelleschi's dome and Giotto's tower and Arnolfo's Palazzo and the Loggie of Orcagna gave distinction to her streets and squares. Her churches were splendid with frescoes in their bloom, and with painted glass, over which as yet the injury of but a few brief years had passed. Her palaces, that are as strong as castles, overflowed with a population cultivated, polished, elegant, refined, and haughty. This Florence, the city of scholars, artists, intellectual sybarites, and citizens in whom the blood of the old factions beat, found herself suddenly possessed as a prey of war by flaunting Gauls in their outlandish finery, plumed Germans, kilted Celts, and particolored Swiss. On the other hand these barbarians awoke in a terrestrial paradise of natural and æsthetic beauty. Which of us who has enjoyed the late gleams of autumn in Valdarno, but can picture to himself the revelation of the inner meaning of the world, incomprehensible yet soul-subduing, which then first dawned upon the Breton bowmen and the bulls of Uri? Their impulse no doubt was to pillage and possess the wealth before them, as a child pulls to pieces the wonderful flower that has surprised it on some mountain meadow. But in the very rudeness of desire they paid a homage to the new-found loveliness of which they had not dreamed before. Charles here as elsewhere showed his imbecility. He had entered and laid hands on hospitable Florence like a foe. What would he now do with her--reform the republic--legislate--impose a levy on the citizens, and lead them forth to battle? No. He asked for a huge sum of money, and began to bargain. The Florentine secretaries refused his terms. He insisted. Then Piero Capponi snatched the paper on which they were written, and tore it in pieces before his eyes. Charles cried: 'I shall sound my trumpets.' Capponi answered: 'We will ring our bells.' Beautiful as a dream is Florence; but her somber streets, overshadowed by gigantic belfries and masked by grim brown palace-fronts, contained a menace that the French king could not face. Let Capponi sound the tocsin, and each house would become a fortress, the streets would be barricaded with iron chains, every quarter would pour forth men by hundreds well versed in the arts of civic warfare. Charles gave way, covering with a bad joke the discomfiture he felt: _Ah, Ciappon, Ciappon, voi siete un mal Ciappon!_ The secretaries beat down his terms. All he cared for was to get money.[1] He agreed to content himself with 120,000 florins. A treaty was signed, and in two days he quitted Florence. Hitherto Charles had met with no serious obstacle. His invasion had fallen like the rain from heaven, and like rain, as far as he was concerned, it ran away to waste. Lombardy and Tuscany, the two first scenes in the pageant displayed by Italy before the French army, had been left behind. Rome now lay before them, magnificent in desolation; not the Rome which the Farnesi and Chigi and Barberini have built up from the quarried ruins of amphitheaters and baths, but the Rome of the Middle Ages, the city crowned with relics of a pagan past, herself still pagan, and holding in her midst the modern Antichrist. The progress of the French was a continued triumph. They reached Siena on the second of December. The Duke of Urbino and the lords of Pesaro and Bologna laid down their arms at their approach. The Orsini opened their castles: Virginio, the captain-general of the Aragonese army and grand constable of the kingdom of Naples, hastened to win for himself favorable terms from the French sovereign. The Baglioni betook themselves to their own rancors in Perugia. The Duke of Calabria retreated. Italy seemed bent on proving that cowardice and selfishness and incapacity had conquered her. Viterbo was gained: the Ciminian heights were traversed: the Campagna, bounded by the Alban and the Sabine hills, with Rome, a bluish cloud upon the lowlands of the Tiber, spread its solemn breadth of beauty at the invader's feet. Not a blow had been struck, when he reached the Porta del Popolo upon the 31st of December 1494. At three o'clock in the afternoon began the entry of the French army. It was nine at night before the last soldiers, under the flaring light of torches and flambeaux, defiled through the gates, and took their quarters in the streets of the Eternal City. The gigantic barbarians of the cantons, flaunting with plumes and emblazoned surcoats, the chivalry of France, splendid with silk mantles and gilded corselets, the Scotch guard in their wild costume of kilt and philibeg, the scythe-like halberds of the German lanz-knechts, the tangled elf-locks of stern-featured Bretons, stamped an ineffaceable impression on the people of the South. On this memorable occasion, as in a show upon some holiday, marched past before them specimens and vanguards of all those legioned races which were soon to be too well at home in every fair Italian dwelling-place. Nothing was wanting to complete the symbol of the coming doom but a representative of the grim, black, wiry infantry of Spain. [1] The want of money determined all Charles's operations in this expedition. Borrowing from Lodovico, laying requisitions on Piero and the Florentines, pawning the jewels of the Savoy princesses, he passed from place to place, bargaining and contracting debts instead of dictating laws and founding constitutions. _La carestia dei danari_ is a phrase continually recurring in Guicciardini. Speaking of the jewels lent to Charles by the royal families of Savoy and Montferrat at Turin, de Comines exclaims: 'Et pouvez voir quel commencement de guerre c'estoit, si Dieu n'eut guidé l'oeuvre.' The Borgia meanwhile crouched within the Castle of S. Angelo. How would the Conqueror, now styled Flagellum Dei, deal with the abomination of desolation seated in the holy place of Christendom? At the side of Charles were the Cardinals Ascanio Sforza and Giuliano della Rovere, urging him to summon a council and depose the Pope. But still closer to his ear was Briçonnet, the _ci-devant_ tradesman, who thought it would become his dignity to wear a cardinal's hat. On this trifle turned the destinies of Rome, the doom of Alexander, the fate of the Church. Charles determined to compromise matters. He demanded a few fortresses, a red hat for Briçonnet, Cesare Borgia as a hostage for four months, and Djem, the brother of the Sultan.[1] After these agreements had been made and ratified, Alexander ventured to leave his castle and receive the homage of the faithful. Charles staid* a month in Rome, and then set out for Naples. The fourth and last scene in the Italian pageant was now to be displayed. After the rich plain and proud cities of Lombardy, beneath their rampart of perpetual snow; after the olive gardens and fair towns of Tuscany; after the great name of Rome; Naples, at length, between Vesuvius and the sea, that first station of the Greeks in Italy, world-famed for its legends of the Sibyl and the sirens and the sorcerer Virgil, received her king. The very names of Parthenope, Posilippo, Inarime, Sorrento, Capri, have their fascination. There too the orange and lemon groves are more luxuriant; the grapes yield sweeter and more intoxicating wine; the villagers are more classically graceful; the volcanic soil is more fertile; the waves are bluer and the sun is brighter than elsewhere in the land. None of the conquerors of Italy have had the force to resist the allurements of the bay of Naples. The Greeks lost their native energy upon these shores and realized in the history of their colonies the myth of Ulysses' comrades in the gardens of Circe. Hannibal was tamed by Capua. The Romans in their turn dreamed away their vigor at Baiæ, at Pompeii at Capreæ, until the whole region became a byword for voluptuous living. Here the Saracens were subdued to mildness, and became physicians instead of pirates. Lombards and Normans alike were softened down, and lost their barbarous fierceness amid the enchantments of the southern sorceress. [1] See above, p. 416, for the history of this unfortunate prince. When Alexander ceded Djem, whom he held as a captive for the Sultan at a yearly revenue of 40,000 ducats, he was under engagements with Bajazet to murder him. Accordingly Djem died of slow poison soon after he became the guest of Charles. The Borgia preferred to keep faith with the Turk. Naples was now destined to ruin for Charles whatever nerve yet remained to his festival army. The witch too, while brewing for the French her most attractive potions, mixed with them a deadly poison--the virus of a fell disease, memorable in the annals of the modern world, which was destined to infect the nations of Europe from this center, and to prove more formidable to our cities than even the leprosy of the Middle Ages.[1] [1] Those who are curious to trace the history of the origin of syphilis, should study the article upon the subject in Von Hirsch, _Historisch-geographische Pathologie_ (Erlangen, 1860), and in Rosenbaum _Geschichte der Lustseuche im Alterthum_ (Halle, 1845). Some curious contemporary observations concerning the rapid diffusion of the disease in Italy, its symptoms, and its cure, are contained in Matarazzo's _Cronaca di Perugia_ (_Arch. Stor. It._ vol. xvi. part ii. pp. 32-36), and in Portovenere (_Arch. St._ vol. vi. pt. ii. p. 338). The celebrated poem of Fracastorius deserves to be read both for its fine Latinity and for its information. One of the earliest works issued from the Aldine press in 1497 was the _Libellus de Epidemiâ quam vulgo morbum Gallicum vocant_. It was written by Nicolas Leoniceno, and dedicated to the Count Francesco de la Mirandola. The kingdom of Naples, through the frequent uncertainty which attended the succession to the throne, as well as the suzerainty assumed and misused by the Popes, had been for centuries a standing cause of discord in Italy. The dynasty which Charles now hoped to dispossess was Spanish. After the death of Joanna II. in 1435, Alfonso, King of Aragon and Sicily, who had no claim to the crown beyond what he derived through a bastard branch of the old Norman dynasty, conquered Naples, expelled Count Réné of Anjou, and established himself in this new kingdom, which he preferred to those he had inherited by right. Alfonso, surnamed the Magnanimous, was one of the most brilliant and romantic personages of the fifteenth century. Historians are never weary of relating his victories over Caldora and Francesco Sforza, the coup-de-main by which he expelled his rival Réné, and the fascination which he exercised in Milan, while a captive, over the jealous spirit of Filippo Maria Visconti.[1] Scholars are no less profuse in their praises of his virtues, the justice, humanity, religion, generosity, and culture which rendered him pre-eminent among the princes of that splendid period.[2] His love of learning was a passion. Whether at home in the retirement of his palace, or in his tent during war, he was always attended by students, who read aloud and commented on Livy, Seneca, or the Bible. No prince was more profuse in his presents to learned men. Bartolommeo Fazio received 500 ducats a year for the composition of his histories, and when, at their conclusion, the scholar asked for a further gift of 200 or 300 florins, the prince bestowed upon him 1,500. The year he died, Alfonso distributed 20,000 ducats to men of letters alone. This immoderate liberality is the only vice of which he is accused. It bore its usual fruits in the disorganization of finance. [1] Mach. _Ist. Fior._ lib. v. cap. 5. Corio, pp. 332, 333, may be consulted upon the difficulties which Alfonso overcame at the commencement of his conquest. Defeated by the Genoese near the Isle of Ponza, and carried a prisoner to Milan, he succeeded in proving to Filippo Visconti that it was more to his interest to have him king of Naples than to keep the French there. Upon, this the Duke of Milan restored him with honor to his throne, and confirmed him in the conquest which before he had successfully opposed. It is a singular instance of the extent to which Italian princes were controlled by policy and reason. [2] Vespasiano's _Life of Alfonso_ (_Vite di Uomini Illustri_, pp. 48-72) is a model of agreeable composition and vivid delineation. It is written of course from the scholar's more than the politician's point of view. Compare with it Giovio, _Elogia_, and Pontanus, _de Liberalitate_. The generous humanity of Alfonso endeared him greatly to the Neapolitans. During the half-century in which so many Italian princes succumbed to the dagger of their subjects, he, in Naples, where, according to Pontano, 'nothing was cheaper than the life of a man,' walked up and down unarmed and unattended. 'Why should a father fear among his children?' he was wont to say in answer to suggestions of the danger of this want of caution. The many splendid qualities by which he was distinguished were enhanced rather than obscured by the romance of his private life. Married to Margaret of Castile, he had no legitimate children; Ferdinand, with whom he shared the government of Naples in 1443, and whom he designated as his successor in 1458, was supposed to be his son by Margaret de Hijar. It was even whispered that this Ferdinand was the child of Catherine the wife of Alfonso's brother Henry, whom Margaret, to save the honor of the king, acknowledged as her own. Whatever may have been the truth of this dark history, it was known for certain that the queen had murdered her rival, the unhappy Margaret de Hijar, and that Alfonso never forgave her or would look upon her from that day. Pontano, who was Ferdinand's secretary, told a different tale. He affirmed that the real father of the Duke of Calabria was a Marrano of Valentia. This last story is rendered probable by the brusque contrast between the character of Alfonso and that of Ferdinand. It would be terrible to think that such a father could have been the parent of such a son. In Ferdinand the instinct of liberal culture degenerated into vulgar magnificence; courtesy and confidence gave place to cold suspicion and brutal cruelty. His ferocity bordered upon madness. He used to keep the victims of his hatred in cages, where their misery afforded him the same delight as some men derived from watching the antics of monkeys.[1] In his hunting establishment were repeated the worst atrocities of Bernabo Visconti: wretches mutilated for neglect of his hounds extended their handless stumps for charity to the travelers through his villages.[2] Instead of the generosity for which Alfonso had been famous, Ferdinand developed all the arts of avarice. Like Sixtus IV. he made the sale of corn and oil a royal monopoly, trafficking in the hunger of his subjects.[3] Like Alexander VI. he fattened his viziers and secretaries upon the profits of extortion which he shared with them, and when they were fully gorged he cut their throats and proclaimed himself the heir through their attainder.[4] Alfonso had been famous for his candor and sincerity. Ferdinand was a demon of dissimulation and treachery. His murder of his guest Jacopo Piccinino at the end of a festival, which extended over twenty-seven days of varied entertainments, won him the applause of Machiavellian spirits throughout Italy. It realized the ideal of treason conceived as a fine art. Not less perfect as a specimen of diabolical cunning was the vengeance which Ferdinand, counseled by his son Alfonso, inflicted on the barons who conspired against him.[5] Alfonso was a son worthy of his terrible father. The only difference between them was that Ferdinand dissembled, while Alfonso, whose bravery at Otranto against the Turks had surrounded him with military glory, abandoned himself with cynicism to his passions. Sketching characters of both in the same paragraph, de Comines writes: 'Never was man more cruel than Alfonso, nor more vicious, nor more wicked, nor more poisonous, nor more gluttonous. His father was more dangerous, because he could conceal his mind and even his anger from sight; in the midst of festivity he would take and slaughter his victims by treachery. Grace or mercy was never found in him, nor yet compassion for his poor people. Both of them laid forcible hands on women. In matters of the Church they observed nor reverence nor obedience. They sold bishoprics, like that of Tarento, which Ferdinand disposed of for 13,000 ducats to a Jew in favor of his son whom he called a Christian.' [1] See Pontanus, _de Immanitate,_ Aldus, 1518, vol. 1. p. 318: 'Ferdinandus Rex Neapolitanorum præclaros etiam viros conclusos carcere etiam bene atque abunde pascebat, eandem ex iis voluptatem capiens quam pueri e conclusis in caveâ aviculis: quâ de re sæpenumero sibi ipsi inter intimos suos diu multumque gratulatus subblanditusque in risum tandem ac cachinnos profundebatur.' [2] See Pontanus, _de Immanitate_, Aldus; 1518, vol. i. p. 320: 'Ferd. R.N. qui cervum aprumve occidissent furtimve palamve, alios remo addixit, alios manibus mutilavit, alios suspendio affecit: agros quoque serendos inderdixit dominis, legendasque aut glandes aut poma, quæ servari quidem volebat in escam feris ad venationis suæ usum.' [3] Caracciolo, _de Varietate Fortunæ_, Muratori, vol. xxii. p. 87, exposes this system in a passage which should be compared with Infessura on the practices of Sixtus. De Comines, lib. vii. cap. 11, may be read with profit on the same subject. [4] See Caracciolo, loc. cit. pp. 88, 89, concerning the judicial murder of Francesco Coppola and Antonello Perucci, both of whom had been raised to eminence by Ferdinand, used through their lives as the instruments of his extortion, and murdered by him in their rich old age. [5] See De Comines, lib. vii. cap. 11; Sismondi, vol. vii. p. 229. Read also the short account of the massacre of the Barons given in the _Chronicon Venetum_, Muratori, xxiv. p. 15, where the intense loathing felt throughout Italy for Ferdinand and his son Alfonso is powerfully expressed. This kind of tyranny carried in itself its own death-warrant. It needed not the voice of Savonarola to proclaim that God would revenge the crimes of Ferdinand by placing a new sovereign on his throne. It was commonly believed that the old king died in 1494 of remorse and apprehension, when he knew that the French expedition could no longer be delayed. Alfonso, for his part, bold general in the field and able man of affairs as he might be, found no courage to resist the conqueror. It is no fiction of a poet or a moralist, but plain fact of history, that this King of Naples, grandson of the great Alfonso and father of the Ferdinand to be, quailed before the myriads of accusing dead that rose to haunt his tortured fancy in the supreme hour of peril. The chambers of his palace in Naples were thronged with ghosts by battalions, pale specters of the thousands he had reduced to starvation, bloody phantoms of the barons he had murdered after nameless tortures, thin wraiths of those who had wasted away in dungeons under his remorseless rule. The people around his gates muttered in rebellion. He abdicated in favor of his son, took ship for Sicily, and died there conscience-stricken in a convent ere the year was out. Ferdinand, a brave youth, beloved by the nation in spite of his father's and grandfather's tyranny, reigned in his stead. Yet even for him the situation was untenable. Everywhere he was beset by traitors--by his whole army at San Germano, by Trivulzi at Capua, by the German guide at Naples. Without soldiers, without allies, with nothing to rely upon but the untried goodwill of subjects who had just reason to execrate his race, and with the conquerors of Italy advancing daily through his states, retreat alone was left to him. After abandoning his castles to pillage, burning the ships in the harbor of Naples, and setting Don Federigo together with the Queen dowager and the princess Joanna upon a quick-sailing galley, Ferdinand bade farewell to his kingdom. Historians relate that as the shore receded from his view he kept intoning in a loud voice this verse of the 127th Psalm: 'Except the Lord keep the city, the watchman waketh but in vain.' Between the beach of Naples and the rocky shore of Ischia, for which the exiles were bound, there is only the distance of some seventeen miles. It was in February, a month of mild and melancholy sunshine in those southern regions, when the whole bay of Naples with its belt of distant hills is wont to take one tint of modulated azure, that the royal fugitives performed this voyage. Over the sleeping sea they glided; while from the galley's stern the king with a voice as sad as Boabdil's when he sat down to weep for Granada, cried: 'Except the Lord keep the city, the watchman waketh but in vain.' There was no want of courage in the youth. By his simple presence he had intimidated a mob of rebels in Naples. By the firmness of his carriage he subdued the insolent governor of Ischia, and made himself master of the island. There he waited till the storm was overpast. Ten times more a man than Charles, he watched the French king depart from Naples leaving scarcely a rack behind--some troops decimated by disease and unnerved by debauchery, and a general or two without energy or vigor. Then he returned and entered on a career of greater popularity than could have been enjoyed by him if the French had never made the fickle race of Naples feel how far more odious is a foreign than a familiar yoke.[1] Charles entered Naples as a conqueror or liberator on February 22, 1495. He was welcomed and fêted by the Neapolitans, than whom no people are more childishly delighted with a change of masters. He enjoyed his usual sports, and indulged in his usual love-affairs. With suicidal insolence and want of policy he alienated the sympathies of the noble families by dividing the titles, offices, and fiefs of the kingdom among his retinue.[2] Without receiving so much as a provisional investiture from the Pope, he satisfied his vanity by parading on May 12 as sovereign, with a ball in one hand and a scepter in the other, through the city. Then he was forced to return upon his path and to seek France with the precipitancy he had shown in gaining Naples. Alexander, who was witty, said the French had conquered Italy with lumps of chalk and wooden spurs, because they rode unarmed in slippers and sent couriers before them to select their quarters. It remained to be seen that the achievements of this conquest could be effaced as easily as a chalk mark is rubbed out, or a pair of wooden spurs are broken. [1] The misfortunes and the bravery of this young prince inspire a deep feeling of interest. It is sad to read that after recovering his kingdom in 1496, he died in his twenty-eighth year, worn out with fatigue and with the pleasures of his marriage to his aunt Joanna, whom he loved too passionately. His uncle Frederick, the brother of Alfonso II., succeeded to the throne. Thus in three years Naples had five Sovereigns. [2] 'Tous estats et offices furent donnez aux François, à deux ou trois,' says De Comines. While Charles was amusing himself at Naples, a storm was gathering in his rear. A league against him had been formed in April by the great powers of Europe. Venice, alarmed for the independence of Italy, and urged by the Sultan, who had reason to dread Charles VIII.,[1] headed the league. Lodovico, now that he had attained his selfish object in the quiet position of Milan, was anxious for his safety. The Pope still feared a general council. Maximilian, who could not forget the slight put upon him in the matter of his daughter and his bride, was willing to co-operate against his rival. Ferdinand and Isabella, having secured themselves in Roussillon, thought it behooved them to re-establish Spaniards of their kith and kin in Naples. Each of the contracting parties had his rôle assigned to him. Spain undertook to aid Ferdinand of Aragon in Calabria. Venice was to attack the seaports of the kingdom; Lodovico Sforza, to occupy Asti; the King of the Romans, to make a diversion in the North. Florence alone, though deeply injured by Charles in the matter of Pisa, kept faith with the French. [1] Charles, by an act dated A.D. 1494, September 6, had bought the title of Emperor of Constantinople and Trebizond from Andrew Palæologus (see Gibbon, vol. viii. p. 183, ed. Milman). When he took Djem from Alexander in Rome, his object was to make use of him in a war against Bajazet; and the Pope was always impressing on the Turk the peril of a Frankish crusade. The danger was imminent. Already Ferdinand the Catholic had disembarked troops on the shore of Sicily, and was ready to throw an army into the ports of Reggio and Tropea. Alexander had refused to carry out his treaty by the surrender of Spoleto. Cesare Borgia had escaped from the French camp. The Lombards were menacing Asti, which the Duke of Orleans held, and without the possession of which there was no safe return to France. Asti indeed at this juncture would have fallen, and Charles would have been caught in a trap, if the Venetians had only been quick or wary enough to engage German mercenaries.[1] The danger of the situation may best be judged by reading the Memoirs of De Comines, who was then ambassador at Venice. 'The league was concluded very late one evening. The next morning the Signory sent for me earlier than usual. They were assembled in great numbers, perhaps a hundred or more, and held their heads high, made a good cheer, and had not the same countenance as on the day when they told me of the capture of the citadel of Naples.[2] My heart was heavy, and I had grave doubts about the person of the king and about all his company; and I thought their scheme more ripe than it really was, and feared they might have Germans ready; and if it had been so, never could the king have got safe out of Italy.' Nevertheless De Comines put a brave face on the matter, and told the council that he had already received information of the league and had sent dispatches to his master on the subject.[3] 'After dinner,' continues De Comines, 'all the ambassadors of the league met for an excursion on the water, which is the chief recreation at Venice, where every one goes according to the retinue he keeps, or at the expense of the Signory. There may have been as many as forty gondolas, all bearing displayed the arms of their masters upon banners. I saw the whole of this company pass before my windows, and there were many minstrels on board. Those of Milan, one at least of them who had often kept my company, put on a brave face not to know me; and for three days I remained without going forth into the town, nor my people, nor was there all that time a single courteous word said to me or to any of my suite.' [1] See De Comines, lib. vii. cap. 15, pp. 78, 79. [2] De Comines' account of the alarm felt at Venice on that occasion is very graphic: 'They sent for me one morning, and I found them to the number of fifty or sixty in the Doge's bedchamber, for he was ill of colic; and there he told me the news with a good countenance. But none of the company knew so well how to feign as he. Some were seated on a wooden bench, leaning their heads on their hands, and others otherwise; and all showed great heaviness at heart. I think that when the news reached Rome of the battle of Cannæ, the senators were not more confounded or frightened.' [3] Bembo, in his _Venetian History_ (lib. ii. p. 32), tells a different tale. He represents De Comines quite unnerved by the news. Returning northward by the same route, Charles passed Rome and reached Siena on June 13. The Pope had taken refuge, first at Orvieto, and afterwards at Perugia, on his approach; but he made no concessions. Charles could not obtain from him an investiture of the kingdom he pretended to have conquered, while he had himself to surrender the fortresses of Civita Vecchia and Terracina. Ostia alone remained in the clutch of Alexander's implacable enemy, the Cardinal della Rovere. In Tuscany the Pisan question was again opened. The French army desired to see the liberties of Pisa established on a solid basis before they quitted Italy. On their way to Naples the misfortunes of that ancient city had touched them: now on their return they were clamorous that Charles should guarantee its freedom. But to secure this object was an affair of difficulty. The forces of the league had already taken the field, and the Duke of Orleans was being besieged in Novara. The Florentines, jealous of the favor shown, in manifest infringement of their rights, to citizens whom they regarded as rebellious bondsmen, assumed an attitude of menace. Charles could only reply with vague promises to the solicitations of the Pisans, strengthen the French garrisons in their fortresses, and march forward as quickly as possible into the Apennines. The key of the pass by which he sought to regain Lombardy is the town of Pontremoli. Leaving that in ashes on June 29, the French army, distressed for provisions and in peril among those melancholy hills, pushed onward with all speed. They knew that the allied forces, commanded by the Marquis of Mantua, were waiting for them at the other side upon the Taro, near the village of Fornovo. Here, if anywhere, the French ought to have been crushed. They numbered about 9,000 men in all, while the allies were close upon 40,000. The French were weary with long marches, insufficient food, and bad lodgings. The Italians were fresh and well cared for. Yet in spite of all this, in spite of blind generalship and total blundering, Charles continued to play his part of fortune's favorite to the end. A bloody battle, which lasted for an hour, took place upon the banks of the Taro.[1] The Italians suffered so severely that, though they still far outnumbered the French, no persuasions could make them rally and renew the fight. Charles in his own person ran great peril during this battle; and when it was over, he had still to effect his retreat upon Asti in the teeth of a formidable army. The good luck of the French and the dilatory cowardice of their opponents saved them now again for the last time. [1] The action at Fornovo lasted a quarter of an hour, according to De Comines. The pursuit of the Italians occupied about three quarters of an hour more. Unaccustomed to the quick tactics of the French, the Italians, when once broken, persisted in retreating upon Reggio and Parma. The Gonzaghi alone distinguished themselves for obstinate courage, and lost four or five members of their princely house. The Stradiots, whose scimitars ought to have dealt rudely with the heavy French men-at-arms, employed their time in pillaging the Royal pavilion, very wisely abandoned to their avarice by the French captains. To such an extent were military affairs misconstrued in Italy, that, on the strength of this brigandage, the Venetians claimed Fornovo for a victory. See my essay 'Fornovo,' in _Sketches and Studies in Italy_, for a description of the ground on which the battle was fought. On July 15, Charles at the head of his little force marched into Asti and was practically safe. Here the young king continued to give signal proofs of his weakness. Though he knew that the Duke of Orleans was hard pressed in Novara, he made no effort to relieve him; nor did he attempt to use the 20,000 Switzers who descended from their Alps to aid him in the struggle with the league. From Asti he removed to Turin, where he spent his time in flirting with Anna Soléri, the daughter of his host. This girl had been sent to harangue him with a set oration, and had fulfilled her task, in the words of an old witness, 'without wavering, coughing, spitting, or giving way at all.' Her charms delayed the king in Italy until October 19, when he signed a treaty at Vercelli with the Duke of Milan. At this moment Charles might have held Italy in his grasp. His forces, strengthened by the unexpected arrival of so many Switzers, and by a junction with the Duke of Orleans, would have been sufficient to overwhelm the army of the league, and to intimidate the faction of Ferdinand in Naples. Yet so light-minded was Charles, and so impatient were his courtiers, that he now only cared for a quick return to France. Reserving to himself the nominal right of using Genoa as a naval station, he resigned that town to Lodovico Sforza, and confirmed him in the tranquil possession of his Duchy. On October 22 he left Turin, and entered his own dominions through the Alps of Dauphiné. Already his famous conquest of Italy was reckoned among the wonders of the past, and his sovereignty over Naples had become the shadow of a name. He had obtained for himself nothing but momentary glory, while he imposed on France a perilous foreign policy, and on Italy the burden of bloody warfare in the future. A little more than a year had elapsed between the first entry of Charles into Lombardy and his return to France. Like many other brilliant episodes of history, this conquest, so showy and so ephemeral, was more important as a sign than as an actual event. 'His passage,' says Guicciardini, 'was the cause not only of change in states, downfalls of kingdoms, desolations of whole districts, destructions of cities, barbarous butcheries; but also of new customs, new modes of conduct, new and bloody habits of war, diseases hitherto unknown. The organization upon which the peace and harmony of Italy depended was so upset that, since that time, other foreign nations and barbarous armies have been able to trample her under foot and to ravage her at pleasure.' The only error of Guicciardini is the assumption that the holiday excursion of Charles VIII. was in any deep sense the cause of these calamities.[1] In truth the French invasion opened a new era for the Italians, but only in the same sense as a pageant may form the prelude to a tragedy. Every monarch of Europe, dazzled by the splendid display of Charles and forgetful of its insignificant results, began to look with greedy eyes upon the wealth of the peninsula. The Swiss found in those rich provinces an inexhaustible field for depredation. The Germans, under the pretense of religious zeal, gave a loose rein to their animal appetites in the metropolis of Christendom. France and Spain engaged in a duel to the death for the possession of so fair a prey. The French, maddened by mere cupidity, threw away those chances which the goodwill of the race at large afforded them.[2] Louis XII. lost himself in petty intrigues, by which he finally weakened his own cause to the profit of the Borgias and Austria. Francis I. foamed his force away like a spent wave at Marignano and Pavia. The real conqueror of Italy was Charles V. Italy in the sixteenth century was destined to receive the impress of the Spanish spirit, and to bear the yoke of Austrian dukes. Hand in hand with political despotism marched religious tyranny. The Counter-Reformation over which the Inquisition presided, was part and parcel of the Spanish policy for the enslavement of the nation no less than for the restoration of the Church. Meanwhile the weakness, discord, egotism, and corruption which prevented the Italians from resisting the French invasion in 1494, continued to increase. Instead of being lessoned by experience, Popes, Princes, and Republics vied with each other in calling in the strangers, pitting Spaniard against Frenchman, and paying the Germans to expel the Swiss, oblivious that each new army of foreigners they summoned was in reality a new swarm of devouring locusts. In the midst of this anarchy it is laughable to hear the shrill voice of priests, like Julius and Leo, proclaiming before God their vows to rid Italy of the barbarians. The confusion was tenfold confounded when the old factions of Guelf and Ghibelline put on a new garb of French and Spanish partisanship. Town fought with town and family with family, in the cause of strangers whom they ought to have resisted with one will and steady hatred. The fascination of fear and the love of novelty alike swayed the fickle population of Italian cities. The foreign soldiers who inflicted on the nation such cruel injuries made a grand show in their streets, and there will always be a mob so childish as to covet pageants at the expense of freedom and even of safety. [1] Guicciardini's _Dialogo del Reggimento di Firenze_ (_Op. Ined._ vol. ii. p. 94) sets forth the state of internal anarchy and external violence which followed the departure of Charles VIII., with wonderful acuteness. 'Se per sorte l' uno Oltramontano caccerà l' altro, Italia resterà in estrema servitù,' is an exact prophecy of what happened before the end of the sixteenth century, when Spain had beaten France in the duel for Italy. [2] Matarazzo, in his _Cronaca della Città di Perugia_ (_Arch. St._, vol. xvi. part 2, p. 23), gives a lively picture of the eagerness with which the French were greeted in 1495, and of the wanton brutality by which they soon alienated the people. In this he agrees almost textually with De Comines, who writes: 'Le peuple nous advouoit comme Saincts, estimans en nous toute foy et bonté; mais ce propos ne leur dura gueres, tant pour nostre desordre et pillerie, et qu'aussi les ennemis oppreschoient le peuple en tous quartiers,' etc., lib. vii. cap. 6. In the first paragraph of the _Chronicon Venetum_ (_Muratori_, vol. xxlv. p. 5), we read concerning the advent of Charles: 'I popoli tutti dicevano _Benedictus qui venit in nomine Domini_. Nè v'era alcuno che li potesse contrastare, nè resistere, tanto era da tutti i popoli Italiani chiamato.' The Florentines, as burghers of a Guelf city, were always loyal to the French. Besides, their commerce with France (_e.g._ the wealth of Filippo Strozzi) made it to their interest to favor the cause of the French. See Guicc. i. 2, p. 62. This loyalty rose to enthusiasm under the influence of Savonarola, survived the stupidities of Charles VIII. and Louis XII., and committed the Florentines in 1328 to the perilous policy of expecting aid from Francis I. In spite of its transitory character the invasion of Charles VIII., therefore, was a great fact in the history of the Renaissance. It was, to use the pregnant phrase of Michelet, no less than the revelation of Italy to the nations of the North. Like a gale sweeping across a forest of trees in blossom, and bearing their fertilizing pollen, after it has broken and deflowered their branches, to far-distant trees that hitherto have bloomed in barrenness, the storm of Charles's army carried far and wide through Europe thought-dust, imperceptible, but potent to enrich the nations. The French alone, says Michelet, understood Italy. How terrible would have been a conquest by Turks with their barbarism, of Spaniards with their Inquisition, of Germans with their brutality! But France, impressible, sympathetic, ardent for pleasure, generous, amiable and vain, was capable of comprehending the Italian spirit. From the Italians the French communicated to the rest of Europe what we call the movement of the Renaissance. There is some truth in this panegyric of Michelet's. The passage of the army of Charles VIII. marks a turning-point in modern history, and from this epoch dates the diffusion of a spirit of culture over Europe. But Michelet forgets to notice that the French never rightly understood their vocation with regard to Italy. They had it in their power to foster that free spirit which might have made her a nation capable, in concert with France, of resisting Charles V. Instead of doing so, they pursued the pettiest policy of avarice and egotism. Nor did they prevent that Spanish conquest the horrors of which their historian has so eloquently described. Again, we must remember that it was the Spaniards and not the French who saved Italy from being barbarized by the Turk. For the historian of Italy it is sad and humiliating to have to acknowledge that her fate depended wholly on the action of more powerful nations, that she lay inert and helpless at the discretion of the conqueror in the duels between Spain and France and Spain and Islam. Yet this is the truth. It would seem that those peoples to whom we chiefly owe advance in art and knowledge, are often thus the captives of their intellectual inferiors. Their spiritual ascendency is purchased at the expense of political solidity and national prosperity. This was the case with Greece, with Judah, and with Italy. The civilization of the Italians, far in advance of that of other European nations, unnerved them in the conflict with robust barbarian races. Letters and the arts and the civilities of life were their glory. 'Indolent princes and most despicable arms' were their ruin. Whether the Renaissance of the modern world would not have been yet more brilliant if Italy had remained free, who shall say? The very conditions which produced her culture seem to have rendered that impossible. APPENDICES APPENDIX I. _Blood-madness_. See Chapter iii, p. 109. One of the most striking instances afforded by history of Hæmatomania in a tyrant is Ibrahim ibn Ahmed, prince of Africa and Sicily (A.D. 875). This man, besides displaying peculiar ferocity in his treatment of enemies and prisoners of war, delighted in the execution of horrible butcheries within the walls of his own palace. His astrologers having once predicted that he should die by the hands of a 'small assassin,' he killed off the whole retinue of his pages, and filled up their places with a suit of negroes whom he proceeded to treat after the same fashion. On another occasion, when one of his three hundred eunuchs had by chance been witness of the tyrant's drunkenness, Ibrahim slaughtered the whole band. Again, he is said to have put an end to sixty youths, originally selected for his pleasures, burning them by gangs of five or six in the furnace, or suffocating them in the hot chambers of his baths. Eight of his brothers were murdered in his presence; and when one, who was so diseased that he could scarcely stir, implored to be allowed to end his days in peace, Ibrahim answered: 'I make no exceptions.' His own son Abul-Aghlab was beheaded by his orders before his eyes; and the execution of chamberlains, secretaries, ministers, and courtiers was of common occurrence. But his fiercest fury was directed against women. He seems to have been darkly jealous of the perpetuation of the human race. Wives and concubines were strangled, sawn asunder, and buried alive, if they showed signs of pregnancy. His female children were murdered as soon as they saw the light; sixteen of them, whom his mother managed to conceal and rear at her own peril, were massacred upon the spot when Ibrahim discovered whom they claimed as father. Contemporary Arab chroniclers, pondering upon the fierce and gloomy passions of this man, arrived at the conclusion that he was the subject of a strange disease, a portentous secretion of black bile producing the melancholy which impelled him to atrocious crimes. Nor does the principle on which this diagnosis of his case was founded appear unreasonable. Ibrahim was a great general, an able ruler, a man of firm and steady purpose; not a weak and ineffectual libertine whom lust for blood and lechery had placed below the level of brute beasts. When the time for his abdication arrived, he threw aside his mantle of state and donned the mean garb of an Arab devotee, preached a crusade, and led an army into Italy, where he died of dysentery before the city of Cosenza. The only way of explaining his eccentric thirst for slaughter is to suppose that it was a dark monomania, a form of psychopathy analogous to that which we find in the Maréchal de Retz and the Marquise de Brinvilliers. One of the most marked symptoms of this disease was the curiosity which led him to explore the entrails of his victims, and to feast his eyes upon their quivering hearts. After causing his first minister Ibn-Semsâma to be beaten to death, he cut his body open, and with his own knife sliced the brave man's heart. On another occasion he had 500 prisoners brought before him. Seizing a sharp lance he first explored the region of the ribs, and then plunged the spear-point into the heart of each victim in succession. A garland of these hearts was made and hung up on the gate of Tunis. The Arabs regarded the heart as the seat of thought in man, the throne of the will, the center of intellectual existence. In this preoccupation with the hearts of his victims we may therefore trace the jealousy of human life which Ibrahim displayed in his murder of pregnant women, as well as a tyrant's fury against the organ which had sustained his foes in their resistance. We can only comprehend the combination of sanguinary lust with Ibrahim's vigorous conduct of civil and military affairs, on the hypothesis that this man-tiger, as Amari, to whom I owe these details, calls him, was possessed with a specific madness. APPENDIX II. _Nardi, Istorie di Firenze, lib. i. cap. 4._ See Chap. iv. p. 195. After the freedom regained by the expulsion of the Duke of Athens and the humbling of the nobles, regularity for the future in the government might have been expected, since a very great equality among the burghers had been established in consequence of those troubles. The city too had been divided into quarters, and the supreme magistracy of the republic assigned to the eight priors, called _Signori Priori di libertá_, together with the Gonfalonier of Justice. The eight priors were chosen, two for each quarter; the Gonfalonier, their chief, differed in no respect from his colleagues save in precedence of dignity; and as the fourth part of the honors pertained to the members of the lesser arts, their turn kept coming round to that quarter to which the Gonfalonier belonged. This magistracy remained for two whole months, always living and sleeping in the Palace; in order that, according to the notion of our ancestors, they might be able to attend with greater diligence to the affairs of the commonwealth, in concert with their colleagues, who were the sixteen gonfaloniers of the companies of the people, and the twelve _buoni uomini_, or special advisers of the Signory. These magistrates collectively in one body were called the College, or else the Signory and the Colleagues. After this magistracy came the Senate; the number of which varied, and the name of which was altered several times up to the year 1494, according to circumstances. The larger councils, whose business it was to discuss and make the laws and all provisions both general and particular, were until that date two; the one called the Council of the people, formed only by the _cittadini popolani_, and the other the Council of the Commune, because it embraced both nobles and plebeians from the-date of the formation of these councils.[1] The appointment of the magistrates, which of old times and under the best and most equitable governments was made on the occasion of each election, in this more modern period was consigned to a special council called _Squittino_.[2] The mode and act of the election was termed _Squittinare_, which is equivalent to Scrutinium in the Latin tongue, because minute investigation was made into the qualities of the eligible burghers. This method, however, tended greatly to corrupt the good manners of the city, inasmuch as, the said scrutiny being made every three or five years, and not on each occasion, as would have been right, considering the present quality of the burghers and the badness of the times, those who had once obtained their nomination and been put into the purses thereto appointed, being certain to arrive some time at the honors and offices for which they were designed, became careless and negligent of good customs in their lives. The proper function of the Gonfaloniers was, in concert with their Gonfalons and companies, to defend with arms the city from perils foreign and civil, when occasion rose, and to control the fire-guards specially deputed by that magistracy in four convenient stations. All the laws and provisions, as well private as public, proposed by the Signory, had to be approved and carried by that College, then by the Senate, and lastly by the Councils named above. Notwithstanding this rule, everything of high importance pertaining to the state was discussed and carried into execution during the whole time that the Medici administered the city by the Council vulgarly called _Balia_, composed of men devoted to that government. While the Medici held sway, the magistracy of the _Dieci della Guerra_ or of Liberty and Peace were superseded by the _Otto della Pratica_ in the conduct of all that concerned wars, truces, and treaties of peace, in obedience to the will of the chief agents of that government. The _Otto di guardia e balia_ were then as now delegated to criminal business, but they were appointed by the fore-named Council of Balia, or rather such authority and commission was assigned them by the Signory, and this usage was afterwards continued on their entry into office. Let this suffice upon these matters. Now the burghers who have the right of discussing and determining the affairs of the republic were and still are called privileged, _beneficiati_ or _statuali_, of that quality and condition to which, according to the laws of our city, the government belongs; in other words they are eligible for office, as distinguished from those who have not this privilege. Consequently the _benefiziati_ and _statuali_ of Florence correspond to the _gentiluomini_ of Venice. Of these burghers there were about 400 families or houses, but at different times the number was larger, and before the plague of 1527 they made up a total of about 4,000 citizens eligible for the Consiglio Grande. During the period of freedom between 1494 and 1512 the other or nonprivileged citizens could be elevated to this rank of enfranchisement according as they were judged worthy by the Council: at the present time they gain the same distinction by such merits as may be pleasing to the ruler of the city for the time being: our commonwealth from the year 1433 having been governed according to the will of its own citizens, though one faction has from time to time prevailed over another, and though before that date the republic was distressed and shaken by the divisions which affected the whole of Italy, and by many others which are rather to be reckoned as sedition peculiar and natural to free cities. Seeing that men by good and evil arts in combination are always striving to attain the summit of human affairs, together also with the favor of fortune, who ever insists on having her part in our actions. [1] Lorenzo de' Medici superseded these two councils by the Council of the Seventy, without, however, suppressing them. [2] A corruption of Scrutinio. _Varchi: Storia Fiorentina, lib. iii. caps. 20, 21, 22._ The whole city of Florence is divided into four quarters, the first of which takes in the whole of that part which is now called Beyond the Arno, and the chief church of the district gives it the name of Santo Spirito. The other three, which embrace all that is called This side the Arno, also take their names from their chief churches, and are the Quarters of Sta. Croce, Sta. Maria Novella, and San Giovanni. Each of these four quarters is divided into four gonfalons, named after the different animals or other things they carry painted on their ensigns. The quarter of Santo Spirito includes the gonfalons of the Ladder, the Shell, the Whip, and the Dragon; that of Santa Croce, the Car, the Ox, the Golden Lion, and the Wheels; that of Santa Maria Novella, the Viper, the Unicorn, the Red Lion, and the White Lion; that of San Giovanni, the Black Lion, the Dragon, the Keys, and the Vair. Now all the households and families of Florence are included and classified under these four quarters and sixteen gonfalons, so that there is no burgher of Florence who does not rank in one of the four quarters and one of the sixteen gonfalons. Each gonfalon had its standard-bearer, who carried the standard like captains of bands; and their chief office was to run with arms whenever they were called by the Gonfalonier of Justice, and to defend, each under his own ensign, the palace of the Signory, and to fight for the people's liberty; wherefore they were called Gonfaloniers of the companies of the people, or, more briefly, from their number, the Sixteen. Now since they never assembled by themselves alone, seeing that they could not propose or carry any measure without the Signory, they were also called the Colleagues, that is, the companions of the Signory, and their title was venerable. This, after the Signory, was the first and most honorable magistracy of Florence; and after them came the Twelve Buonuomini, also called, for the like reason, Colleagues. So the Signory with the Gonfalonier of Justice, the Sixteen, and the Twelve were called the Three Greater. No man was said to have the franchise (_aver lo stato_), and in consequence to frequent the council, or to exercise any office, whose grandfather or father had not occupied or been passed for (_seduto o veduto_) one of these three magistracies. To be passed (_veduto_) Gonfalonier or Colleague meant this: when a man's name was drawn from the purse of the Gonfaloniers or of the College to exercise the office of Gonfalonier or Colleague, but by reason of being below the legal age, or for some other cause, he never sat himself upon the Board or was in fact Gonfalonier or Colleague, he was then said to have been passed; and this held good of all the other magistracies of the city. It should also be known that all the Florentine burghers were obliged to rank in one of the twenty-one arts: that is, no one could be a burgher of Florence unless he or his ancestors had been approved and matriculated in one of these arts, whether they practiced it or no. Without the proof of such matriculation he could not be drawn for any office, or exercise any magistracy, or even have his name put into the bags. The arts were these: i. Judges and Notaries (for the doctors of the law were styled of old in Florence Judges); Merchants, or the Arts of; ii. Calimala,[1] iii. Exchange, iv. Wool; Porta Santa Maria, or the Arts of; v. Silk; vi. Physicians and Apothecaries; vii. Furriers. The others were viii. Butchers, ix. Shoemakers, x. Blacksmiths, xi. Linen-drapers and Clothesmen, xii. Masters, or Masons, and Stone-cutters, xiii. Vintners, xiv. Innkeepers, xv. Oilsellers, Pork-butchers, and Rope-makers, xvi. Hosiers, xvii. Armorers, xviii. Locksmiths, xix. Saddlers, xx. Carpenters, xxi. Bakers. The last fourteen were called Lesser Arts; whoever was enrolled or matriculated into one of these was said to rank with the lesser (_andare per la minore_); and though there were in Florence many other trades than these, yet having no guild of their own they were associated to one or other of those that I have named. Each art had, as may still be seen, a house or mansion, large and noble, where they assembled, appointed officers, and gave account of debit and credit to all the members of the guild.[2] In processions and other public assemblies the heads (for so the chiefs of the several arts were called) had their place and precedence in order. Moreover, these arts at first had each an ensign for the defense, on occasion, of liberty with arms. Their origin was when the people in 1282 overcame the nobles (_Grandi_), and passed the Ordinances of Justice against them, whereby no nobleman could exercise any magistracy; so that such of the patricians as desired to be able to hold office had to enter the ranks of the people, as did many great houses of quality, and matriculate into one of the arts. Which thing, while it partly allayed the civil strife of Florence, almost wholly extinguished all noble feeling in the souls of the Florentines; and the power and haughtiness of the city were no less abated than the insolence and pride of the nobles, who since then have never lifted up their heads again. These arts, the greater as well as the lesser, have varied in numbers at different times; and often have not only been rivals, but even foes, among themselves; so much so that the lesser arts once got it passed that the Gonfalonier should be appointed only from their body. Yet after long dispute it was finally settled that the Gonfalonier could not be chosen from the lesser, but that he should always rank with the greater, and that in all other offices and magistracies, the lesser should always have a fourth and no more. Consequently, of the eight Priors, two were always of the lesser; of the Twelve, three; of the Sixteen, four; and so on through all the magistracies. [1] The name Calimala was given to a trade in cloth carried on at Florence by merchants who bought rough goods in France, Flanders, and England, and manufactured them into more delicate materials. [2] Marco Foscari, quoted lower down, estimates the property the Arts at 200,000 ducats. As a consequence from what has been said, it is easy to perceive that all the inhabitants of Florence (by inhabitants I mean those only who are really settled there, for of strangers, who are passing or sojourning a while, we need not here take any account) are of two sorts. The one class are liable to taxation in Florence, that is, they pay tithes of their goods and are inscribed upon the books of the Commune, and these are called contributors. The others are not taxed nor inscribed upon the registers of the Commune, inasmuch as they do not pay the tithes or other ordinary imposts; and these are called non-contributors: who, seeing that they live by their hands, and carry on mechanical arts and the vilest trades, should be called plebeians; and though they have ruled Florence more than once, ought not even to entertain a thought about public affairs in a well-governed state. The contributors are of two sorts: for some, while they pay the taxes, do not enjoy the citizenship (_i.e._ cannot attend the council or take any office); either because none of their ancestors, and in particular their father or their grandfather, has sat or been passed for any of the three greater magistracies; or else because they have not had themselves submitted to the scrutiny,[1] or, if they have advanced so far, have not been approved and nominated for office. These are indeed entitled citizens: but he who knows what a citizen is really, knows also that, being unable to share either the honors or the advantages of the city, they are not truly citizens; therefore let us call them burghers, without franchise. Those again who pay taxes and enjoy the citizenship (whom we will therefore call enfranchised burghers) are in like manner of two kinds. The one class, inscribed and matriculated into one of the seven first arts, are said to rank with the greater; whence we may call them Burghers of the Greater: the others, inscribed and matriculated into the fourteen lesser arts, are said to rank with the lesser; whence we may call them Burghers of the Lesser. This distinction had the Romans, but not for the same reason. _Varchi: Storia Fiorentina, lib. ix. chs. 48, 49, 46._ As for natural abilities, I for my part cannot believe that any one either could or ought to doubt that the Florentines, even if they do not excel all other nations, are at least inferior to none in those things to which they give their minds. In trade, whereon of a truth their city is founded, and wherein their industry is chiefly exercised, they ever have been and still are reckoned not less trusty and true than great and prudent: but besides trade, it is clear that the three most noble arts of painting, sculpture, and architecture have reached that degree of supreme excellence in which we find them now, chiefly by the toil and by the skill of the Florentines, who have beautified and adorned not only their own city but also very many others, with great glory and no small profit to themselves and to their country. And, seeing that the fear of being held a flatterer should not prevent me from testifying to the truth, though this will turn to the highest fame and honor of my lords and patrons, I say that all Italy, nay the whole world, owes it solely to the judgment and the generosity of the Medici that Greek letters were not extinguished to the great injury of the human race, and that Latin literature was restored to the incalculable profit of all men. [1] For an explanation of _Squittino_ and _Squittinare_, see Nardi, p. 593 above. I am wholly of opinion opposed to that of some, who, because the Florentines are merchants, hold them for neither noble nor high-spirited, but for tame and low.[1] On the contrary, I have often wondered with myself how it could be that men who have been used from their childhood upwards for a paltry profit to carry bales of wool and baskets of silk like porters, and to stand like slaves all day and great part of the night at the loom, could summon, when and where was need, such greatness of soul, such high and haughty thoughts, that they have wit and heart to say and do those many noble things we know of them. Pondering on the causes of which, I find none truer than this, that the Florentine climate, between the fine air of Arezzo and the thick air of Pisa, infuses into their breasts the temperament of which I spoke. And whoso shall well consider the nature and the ways of the Florentines, will find them born more apt to rule than to obey. Nor would it be easily believed how much was gained for the youth of Florence by the institution of the militia; for whereas many of the young men, heedless of the commonwealth and careless of themselves, used to spend all the day in idleness, hanging about places of public resort, girding at one another, or talking scandal of the passers by, they immediately, like beasts by some benevolent Circe transformed again to men, gave all their heart and soul, regardless of peril or loss, to gaining fame and honor for themselves, and liberty and safety for their country. I do not by what I have been saying mean to deny that among the Florentines may be found men proud, ambitious, and greedy of gain; for vices will exist as long as human nature lasts: nay, rather, the ungrateful, the envious, the malicious, and the evil-minded among them are so in the highest degree, just as the virtuous are supremely virtuous. It is indeed a common proverb that Florentine brains have no mean either way; the fools are exceeding simple, and the wise exceeding prudent. [1] Compare, however, Varchi, quoted above, p. 243. The Report of Marco Foscari, _Relazioni Venete_, series ii, vol. i. p. 9 et seq., contains a remarkable estimate of the Florentine character. He attributes the timidity and weakness which he observes in the Florentines to their mercantile habits, and notices, precisely what Varchi here observes with admiration: 'li primi che governano lo stato vanno alle loro botteghe di seta, e gittati li lembi del mantello sopra le spalle, pongonsi alia caviglia e lavorano pubblicamente che ognuno li vede; ed i figliuoli loro stanno in bottega con li grembiuli dinanzi, e portano il sacco e le sporte alle maestre con la seta e fanno gli altri esercizi di bottega.' A strong aristocratic prejudice transpires in every line. This report was written early in 1527. The events of the Siege must have surprised Marco Foscari. He notices among other things, as a source of weakness, the country villas which were all within a few months destroyed by their armies for the public good. Their mode of life is simple and frugal, but wonderfully and incredibly clean and neat; and it may be said with truth that the artisans and handicraftsmen live at Florence even better than the citizens themselves: for whereas the former change from tavern to tavern, according as they find good wine, and only think of joyous living; the latter in their homes, with the frugality of merchants, who for the most part make but do not spend money, or with the moderation of orderly burghers, never exceed mediocrity. Nevertheless there are not wanting families, who keep a splendid table and live like nobles, such as the Antinori, the Bartolini, the Tornabuoni, the Pazzi, the Borgherini, the Gaddi, the Rucellai, and among the Salviati, Piero d'Alamanno and Alamanno d'Jacopo, and some others. At Florence every one is called by his proper name or his surname; and the common usage, unless there be some marked distinction of rank or age, is to say _thou_ and not _you_; only to knights, doctors, and prebendaries is the title of _messere_ allowed; to doctors that of _maestro_, to monks _don_, and to friars _padre_. True, however, is it that since there was a Court at Florence, first that of Giulio, the Cardinal de' Medici, then that of the Cardinal of Cortona, which enjoyed more license than the former, the manners of the city have become more refined--or shall I say more corrupt? APPENDIX III. _The Character of Alexander VI., from Guicciardini's Story, Fiorentina, cap. 27._ See Chap. vii. p. 412 above. So died Pope Alexander, at the height of glory and prosperity; about whom it must be known that he was a man of the utmost power and of great judgment and spirit, as his actions and behavior showed. But as his first accession to the Papacy was foul and shameful, seeing he had bought with gold so high a station, in like manner his government disagreed not with this base foundation. There were in him, and in full measure, all vices both of flesh and spirit; nor could there be imagined in the ordering of the Church a rule so bad but that he put it into working. He was most sensual toward both sexes, keeping publicly women and boys, but more especially toward women; and so far did he exceed all measure that public opinion judged he knew Madonna Lucrezia, his own daughter, toward whom he bore a most tender and boundless love. He was exceedingly avaricious, not in keeping what he had acquired, but in getting new wealth: and where he saw a way toward drawing money, he had no respect whatever; in his days were sold as at auction all benefices, dispensations, pardons, bishoprics, cardinalships, and all court dignities: unto which matters he had appointed two or three men privy to his thought, exceeding prudent, who let them out to the highest bidder. He caused the death by poison of many cardinals and prelates, even be rich in benefices and understood to have hoarded much, with the view of seizing on their wealth. His cruelty was great, seeing that by his direction many were put to violent death; nor was the ingratitude less with which he caused the ruin of the Sforzeschi and Colonnesi, by whose favor he acquired the Papacy. There was in him no religion, no keeping of his troth: he promised all things liberally, but stood to nought but what was useful to himself: no care for justice, since in his days Rome was like a den of thieves and murderers: his ambition was boundless, and such that it grew in the same measure as his state increased: nevertheless, his sins meeting with no due punishment in this world, he was to the last of his days most prosperous. While young and still almost a boy, having Calixtus for his uncle, he was made Cardinal and then Vice-Chancellor: in which high place he continued till his papacy, with great revenue, good fame, and peace. Having become Pope, he made Cesare, his bastard son and bishop of Pampeluna, a Cardinal, against the ordinances and decrees of the Church, which forbid the making of a bastard Cardinal even with the Pope's dispensation, wherefore he brought proof by false witnesses that he was born in wedlock. Afterwards he made him a layman and took away the Cardinal's dignity from him, and turned his mind to making a realm; wherein he fared far better than he purposed, and beginning with Rome, after undoing the Orsini, Colonnesi, Savelli, and those barons who were wont to be held in fear by former Popes, he was more full master of Rome than ever had been any Pope before. With greatest ease he got the lordships of Romagna, the March, and the Duchy; and having made a most fair and powerful state, the Florentines held him in much fear, the Venetians in jealousy, and the King of France in esteem. Then having got together a fine army, he showed how great was the might of a Pontiff when he hath a valiant general and one in whom he can place faith. At last he grew to that point that he was counted the balance in the war of France and Spain. In one word he was more evil and more lucky than ever for many ages peradventure had been any pope before. APPENDIX IV. _Religious Revivals in Mediæval Italy._ See Chap. viii. p. 491 above. It would be unscientific to confound events of such European importance as the foundation of the orders of S. Francis and S. Dominic with the phenomena in question. Still it may be remarked, that the sudden rise and the extraordinary ascendency of the mendicants and preachers were due in a great measure to the sensitive and lively imagination of the Italians. The Popes of the first half of the thirteenth century were shrewd enough to discern the political and ecclesiastical importance of movements which seemed at first to owe their force to mere fanatical revivalism. They calculated on the intensely excitable temperament of the Italian nation, and employed the Franciscans and Dominicans as their militia in the crusade against the Empire and the heretics. Again, it is necessary to distinguish what was essentially national from what was common to all Europeans in the Middle Ages. Every country had its wandering hordes of flagellants and penitents, its crusaders and its pilgrims. The vast unsettled populations of mediæval Europe, haunted with the recurrent instinct of migration, and nightmare-ridden by imperious religious yearnings, poured flood after flood of fanatics upon the shores of Palestine. Half-naked savages roamed, dancing and groaning and scourging their flesh, from city to city, under the stress of semi-bestial impulses. Then came the period of organized pilgrimages. The celebrated shrines of Europe--Rome, Compostella, Monte Gargano, Canterbury--acted like lightning-conductors to the tempestuous devotion of the mediæval races, like setons to their over-charged imagination. In all these universal movements the Italians had their share: being more advanced in civilization than the Northern peoples, they turned the crusades to commercial count, and maintained some moderation in the _fakir_ fury of their piety. It is not, therefore, with the general history of religious enthusiasm in the Middle Ages that we have to do, but rather with those intermittent manifestations of revivalism which were peculiar to the Italians. The chief points to be noticed are the political influence acquired by monks in some of the Italian cities, the preaching of peace and moral reformation, the panics or superstitious terror which seized upon wide districts, and the personal ascendency of hermits unaccredited by the Church, but believed by the people to be divinely inspired. One of the most picturesque figures of the first half of the thirteenth century is the Dominican monk, John of Vicenza. His order, which had recently been founded, was already engaged in the work of persecution. France was reeking with the slaughter of the Albigenses, and the stakes were smoking in the town of Milan, when this friar undertook the noble task of pacifying Lombardy. Every town in the north of Italy was at that period torn by the factions of the Guelfs and Ghibellines; private feuds crossed and intermingled with political discords; and the savage tyranny of Ezzelino had shaken the fabric of society to its foundations. It seemed utterly impossible to bring this people for a moment to agreement. Yet what popes and princes had failed to achieve, the voice of a single friar accomplished. John of Vicenza began his preaching in Bologna during the year 1233. The citizens and the country folk of the surrounding districts flocked to hear him. It was noticed with especial wonder that soldiers of all descriptions yielded to the magic of his eloquence. The themes of his discourse were invariably reconciliation and forgiveness of injuries. The heads of rival houses, who had prosecuted hereditary feuds for generations, met before his pulpit, and swore to live thenceforth in amity. Even the magistrates entreated him to examine the statutes of their city, and to point out any alterations by which the peace of the commonwealth might be assured. Having done his best for Bologna, John journeyed to Padua, where the fame of his sanctity had been already spread abroad. The _carroccio_ of the city, on which the standard of Padua floated, and which had led the burghers to many a bloody battle, was sent out to meet him at Monselice, and he entered the gates in triumph. In Padua the same exhortations to peace produced the same results. Old enmities were abandoned, and hands were clasped which had often been raised in fierce fraternal conflict. Treviso, Feltre, Beliuno, Conegliano, and Romano, the very nests of the grim brood of Ezzelino, yielded to the charm. Verona, where the Scalas were about to reign, Vicenza, Mantua, and Brescia, all placed themselves at the disposition of the monk, and prayed him to reform their constitution. But it was not enough to restore peace to each separate community, to reconcile household with household, and to efface the miseries of civil discord. John of Vicenza aimed at consolidating the Lombard cities in one common bond. For this purpose he bade the burghers of all the towns where he had preached to meet him on the plain of Paquara, in the country of Verona. The 28th of August was the day fixed for this great national assembly. More than four hundred thousand persons, according to the computation of Parisio di Cereta, appeared upon the scene. This multitude included the populations of Verona, Mantua, Brescia, Padua, and Vicenza, marshaled under their several standards, together with contingents furnished by Ferrara, Modena, Reggio, Parma, and Bologna. Nor was the assembly confined to the common folk. The bishops of these flourishing cities, the haughty Marquis of Este, the fierce lord of Romano, and the Patriarch of Aquileia, obeyed the invitation of the friar. There, on the banks of the Adige, and within sight of the Alps, John of Vicenza ascended a pulpit that had been prepared for him, and preached a sermon on the text, _Pacem meam do vobis, pacem relinquo vobis_. The horrors of war, and the Christian duty of reconciliation, formed the subject of his sermon, at the end of which he constrained the Lombards to ratify a solemn league of amity, vowing to eternal perdition all who should venture to break the same, and imprecating curses on their crops, their vines, their cattle, and everything they had. Furthermore, he induced the Marquis of Este to take in marriage a daughter of Alberico da Romano. Up to this moment John of Vicenza had made a noble use of the strange power which he possessed. But his success seems to have turned his head. Instead of confining himself to the work of pacification so well begun, he now demanded to be made lord of Vicenza, with the titles of Duke and Count, and to receive the supreme authority in Verona. The people, believing him to be a saint, readily acceded to his wishes; but one of the first things he did, after altering the statutes of these burghs, was to burn sixty citizens of Verona, whom he had himself condemned as heretics. The Paduans revolted against his tyranny. Obliged to have recourse to arms, he was beaten and put in prison; and when he was released, at the intercession of the Pope, he found his wonderful prestige annihilated.[1] [1] The most interesting accounts of Fra Giovanni da Vicenza are to be found in Muratori, vol. viii., in the Annals of Rolandini and Gerardus Maurisius. The position of Fra Jacopo del Bussolaro in Pavia differed from that of Fra Giovanni da Vicenza in Verona. Yet the commencement of his political authority was very nearly the same. The son of a poor boxmaker of Pavia, he early took the habit of the Augustines, and acquired a reputation for sanctity by leading the austere life of a hermit. It happened in the year 1356 that he was commissioned by the superiors of his order to preach the Lenten sermons to the people of Pavia. 'Then,' to quote Matteo Villani, 'it pleased God that this monk should make his sermons so agreeable to every species of people, that the fame of them and the devotion they inspired increased marvelously. And he, seeing the concourse of the people, and the faith they bare him, began to denounce vice, and specially usury, revenge, and ill-behavior of women; and thereupon he began to speak against the disorderly lordship of the tyrants; and in a short time he brought the women to modest manners, and the men to renunciation of usury and feuds.' The only citizens of Pavia who resisted his eloquence were the Beccaria family, who at that time ruled Pavia like despots. His most animated denunciations were directed against their extortions and excesses. Therefore they sought to slay him. But the people gave him a bodyguard, and at last he wrought so powerfully with the burghers that they expelled the house of Beccaria and established a republican government. At this time the Visconti were laying siege to Pavia: the passes of the Ticino and the Po were occupied by Milanese troops, and the city was reduced to a state of blockade. Fra Jacopo assembled the able-bodied burghers, animated them by his eloquence, and led them to the attack of their besiegers. They broke through the lines of the beleaguering camp, and re-established the freedom of Pavia. What remained, however, of the Beccaria party passed over to the enemy, and threw the whole weight of their influence into the scale of the Visconti: so that at the end of a three years' manful conflict, Pavia was delivered to Galeazzo Visconti in 1359. Fra Jacopo made the best terms that he could for the city, and took no pains to secure his own safety. He was consigned by the conquerors to the superiors of his order, and died in the dungeons of a convent at Vercelli. In his case, the sanctity of an austere life, and the eloquence of an authoritative preacher of repentance, had been strictly subordinated to political aims in the interests of republican liberty. Fra Jacopo deserves to rank with Savonarola: like Savonarola, he fell a victim to the selfish and immoral oppressors of his country. As in the case of Savonarola, we can trace the connection which subsisted in Italy between a high standard of morality and patriotic heroism.[1] [1] The best authorities for the life and actions of Fra Jacopo are Matteo Villani, bks. 8 and 9, and Peter Azarius, in his Chronicle (Groevius, vol. ix.). San Bernardino da Massa heads a long list of preachers, who, without taking a prominent part in contemporary politics, devoted all their energies to the moral regeneration of the people. His life, written by Vespasiano da Bisticci, is one of the most valuable documents which we possess for the religious history of Italy in the first half of the fifteenth century. His parents, who were people of good condition, sent him at an early age to study the Canon law at Siena. They designed him for a lucrative and important office in the Church. But, while yet a youth, he was seized with a profound conviction of the degradation of his countrymen. The sense of sin so weighed upon him that he sold all his substance, entered the order of S. Francis, and began to preach against the vices which were flagrant in the great Italian cities. After traveling through the length and breadth of the peninsula, and winning all men by the magic of his eloquence, he came to Florence. 'There,' says Vespasiano, 'the Florentines being by nature very well disposed indeed to truth, he so dealt that he changed the whole State and gave it, one may say, a second birth. And in order to abolish the false hair which the women wore, and games of chance, and other vanities, he caused a sort of large stall to be raised in the Piazza di Santa Croce, and bade every one who possessed any of these vanities to place them there; and so they did; and he set fire thereto and burned the whole.' S. Bernardino preached unremittingly for forty-two years in every quarter of Italy, and died at last worn out with fatigue and sickness. 'Of many enmities and deaths of men he wrought peace and removed deadly hatreds; and numberless princes, who harbored feuds to the death, he reconciled, and restored tranquillity to many cities and peoples.' A vivid picture of the method adopted by S. Bernardino in his dealings with these cities is presented to us by Graziani, the chronicler of Perugia: 'On September 23, 1425, a Sunday, there were, as far as we could reckon, upwards of 3,000 persons in the Cathedral. His sermon was from the Sacred Scripture, reproving men of every vice and sin, and teaching Christian living. Then he began to rebuke the women for their paints and cosmetics, and false hair, and such like wanton customs; and in like manner the men for their cards and dice-boards and masks and amulets and charms: insomuch that within a fortnight the women sent all their false hair and gewgaws to the Convent of S. Francis, and the men their dice, cards, and such gear, to the amount of many loads. And on October 29 Fra Bernardino collected all these devilish things on the piazza, where he erected a kind of wooden castle between the fountain and the Bishop's palace; and in this he put all the said articles, and set fire to them; and the fire was so great that none durst go near; and in the fire were burned things of the greatest value, and so great was the haste of men and women to escape that fire that many would have perished but for the quick aid of the burghers.' Together with this onslaught upon vanities, Fra Bernardino connected the preaching of peace and amity. It is noticeable that while his sermon lasted and the great bell of S. Lorenzo went on tolling, no man could be taken or imprisoned in the city of Perugia.[1] [1] See Vespasiano, _Vite di Uomini Illustri,_ pp. 185-92. Graziani, _Archivio Storico,_ vol. xvi. part i. pp. 313, 314. The same city was the scene of many similar displays. During the fifteenth century it remained in a state of the most miserable internal discord, owing to the feuds of its noble families. Graziani gives an account of the preaching there of Fra Jacopo della Marca, in 1445: on this occasion a temporary truce was patched up between old enemies, a witch was burned for the edification of the burghers, the people were reproved for their extravagance in dress, and two peacemakers (_pacieri_) were appointed for each gate. On March 22, after undergoing this discipline, the whole of Perugia seemed to have repented of its sins; but the first entry for April 15 is the murder of one of the Ranieri family by another of the same house. So transitory were the effects of such revivals.[1] Another entry in Graziani's _Chronicle_ deserves to be noticed. He describes how, in 1448, Fra Roberto da Lecce (like S. Bernardino and Fra Jacopo della Marca, a Franciscan of the Order of Observance) came to preach in January. He was only twenty-two years of age; but his fame was so great that he drew about 15,000 persons into the piazza to listen to him. The stone pulpit, we may say in passing, is still shown, from which these sermons were delivered. It is built into the wall of the Cathedral, and commands the whole square. Roberto da Lecce began by exhibiting a crucifix, which moved the audience to tears; 'and the weeping and crying, _Jesu misericordia!_ lasted about half an hour. Then he made four citizens be chosen for each gate as peacemakers.' What follows in Graziani is an account of a theatrical show, exhibited upon the steps of the Cathedral. On Good Friday the friar assembled all the citizens, and preached; and when the moment came for the elevation of the crucifix, 'there issued forth from San Lorenzo Eliseo di Christoforo, a barber of the quarter of Sant Angelo, like a naked Christ with the cross on his shoulder, and the crown of thorns upon his head, and his flesh seemed to be bruised as when Christ was scourged.' The people were immensely moved by this sight. They groaned and cried out, _'Misericordia!'_ and many monks were made upon the spot. At last, on April 7, Fra Roberto took his leave of the Perugians, crying as he went, _'La pace sia con voi!'_[2] We have a glimpse of the same Fra Roberto da Lecce at Rome, in the year 1482. The feuds of the noble families della Croce and della Valle were then raging in the streets of Rome. On the night of April 3 they fought a pitched battle in the neighborhood of the Pantheon, the factions of Orsini and Colonna joining in the fray. Many of the combatants were left dead before the palaces of the Vallensi; the numbers of the wounded were variously estimated; and all Rome seemed to be upon the verge of civil war. Roberto da Lecce, who was drawing large congregations, not only of the common folk, but also of the Roman prelates, to his sermons at Santa Maria sopra Minerva, interrupted his discourse upon the following Friday, and held before the people the image of their crucified Saviour, entreating them to make peace. As he pleaded with them, he wept; and they too fell to weeping--fierce satellites of the rival factions and worldly prelates lifting up their voice in concert with the friar who had touched their hearts.[3] Another member of the Franciscan Order of Observance should be mentioned after Fra Roberto. This was Fra Giovanni da Capistrano, of whose preaching at Brescia in 1451 we have received a minute account. He brought with him a great reputation for sanctity and eloquence, and for the miraculous cures which he had wrought. The Rectors of the city, together with 300 of the most distinguished burghers upon horseback, and a crowd of well-born ladies on foot, went out to meet him on February 9. Arrangements were made for the entertainment of himself and 100 followers, at public cost. Next morning, three hours before dawn, there were already assembled upwards of 10,000 people on the piazza, waiting for the preacher. 'Think, therefore,' says the _Chronicle,_ 'how many there must have been in the daytime! and mark this, that they came less to hear his sermon than to see him.' As he made his way through the throng, his frock was almost torn to pieces on his back, everybody struggling to get a fragment.[4] [1] See Graziani, pp. 565-68. [2] Graziani, pp, 597-601. [3] See Jacobus Volaterranus. Muratori, xxiii. pp. 126, 156, 167. [4] See _Istoria Bresciana._ Muratori, xxi. 865. It did not always need the interposition of a friar to arouse a strong religious panic in Italian cities. After an unusually fierce bout of discord the burghers themselves would often attempt to give the sanction of solemn rites and vows before the altar to their temporary truces. Siena, which was always more disturbed by civil strife than any of her neighbors, offered a notable example of this custom in the year 1494. The factions of the Monti de' Nove and del Popolo had been raging; the city was full of feud and suspicion, and all Italy was agitated by the French invasion. It seemed good, therefore, to the heads of the chief parties that an oath of peace should be taken by the whole body of the burghers. Allegretti's account of the ceremony, which took place at dead of night in the beautiful Cathedral of Siena, is worthy to be translated. 'The conditions of the peace were then read, which took up eight pages, together with an oath of the most horrible sort, full of maledictions, imprecations, excommunications, invocations of evil, renunciation of benefits temporal and spiritual, confiscation of goods, vows, and so many other woes that to hear it was a terror; _et etiam_ that _in articulo mortis_ no sacrament should accrue to the salvation, but rather to the damnation of those who might break the said conditions; insomuch that I, Allegretto di Nanni Allegretti, being present, believe that never was made or heard a more awful and horrible oath. Then the notaries of the Nove and the Popolo, on either side of the altar, wrote down the names of all the citizens, who swore upon the crucifix, for on each side there was one, and every couple of the one and the other faction kissed; and the bells clashed, and _Te Deum laudamus_ was sung with the organs and the choir while the oath was being taken. All this happened between one and two hours of the night, with many torches lighted. Now may God will that this be peace indeed, and tranquillity for all citizens, whereof I doubt.'[1] The doubt of Allegretti was but too reasonable. Siena profited little by these dreadful oaths and terrifying functions. Two years later on, the same chronicler tells how it was believed that blood had rained outside the Porta a Laterino, and that various visions of saints and specters had appeared to holy persons, proclaiming changes in the state, and commanding a public demonstration of repentance. Each parish organized a procession, and all in turn marched, some by day and some by night, singing Litanies, and beating and scourging themselves, to the Cathedral, where they dedicated candles; and 'one ransomed prisoners, for an offering, and another dowered a girl in marriage.' In Bologna in 1457 a similar revival took place on the occasion of an outbreak of the plague. 'Flagellants went round the city, and when they came to a cross, they all cried with a loud voice: _Misericordia! misericordia!_ For eight days there was a strict fast; the butchers shut their shops.' What follows in the Chronicle is comic: 'Meretrices ad concubita nullum admittebant. Ex eis quâdam quæ cupiditate lucri adolescentem admiserat, deprehensâ, aliæ meretrices ita illius nates nudas corrigiis percusserunt, ut sanguinem emitteret.'[2] Ferrara exhibited a like devotion in 1496, on even a larger scale. About this time the entire Italian nation was panic-stricken by the passage of Charles VIII., and by the changes in states and kingdoms which Savonarola had predicted. The Ferrarese, to quote the language of their chronicler, expected that 'in this year, throughout Italy, would be the greatest famine, war, and want that had ever been since the world began.' Therefore they fasted, and 'the Duke of Ferrara fasted together with the whole of his court. At the same time a proclamation was made against swearing, games of hazard, and unlawful trades: and it was enacted that the Jews should resume their obnoxious yellow gaberdine with the O upon their breasts. In 1500 these edicts were repeated. The condition of Italy had grown worse and worse: it was necessary to besiege the saints with still more energetic demonstrations. Therefore 'the Duke Ercole d' Este, for good reasons to him known, _and because it is always well to be on good terms with God,_ ordained that processions should be made every third day in Ferrara, with the whole clergy, and about 4,000 children or more from twelve years of age upwards, dressed in white, and each holding a banner with a painted Jesus. His lordship, and his sons and brothers, followed this procession, namely the Duke on horseback, because he could not then walk, and all the rest on foot, behind the Bishop.'[3] A certain amount of irony transpires in this quotation, which would make one fancy that the chronicler suspected the Duke of ulterior, and perhaps political, motives. [1] See Muratori, vol. xxiii. p. 839. [2] _Annales Bononienses._ Mur. xxiii. 890. [3] _Diario Ferrarese._ Mur. xxiv. pp. 17-386. It sometimes happened that the contagion of such devotion spread from city to city; on one occasion, in 1399, it traveled from Piedmont through the whole of Italy. The epidemic of flagellants, of which Giovanni Villani speaks in 1310 (lib. viii. cap. 121), began also in Piedmont, and spread along the Genoese Riviera. The Florentine authorities refused entrance to these fanatics into their territory. In 1334, Villani mentions another outburst of the same devotion (lib xi. cap. 23), which was excited by the preaching of Fra Venturino da Bergamo. The penitents on this occasion wore for badge a dove with the olive-branch. They staid fifteen days in Florence, scourging themselves before the altars of the Dominican churches, and feasting, five hundred at a time, in the Piazzi di S. M. Novella. Corio, in the _Storia di Milano_ (p. 281), gives an interesting account of these 'white penitents,' as they were called, in the year 1399: 'Multitudes of men, women, girls, boys, small and great, townspeople and countryfolk, nobles and burghers, laity and clergy, with bare feet and dressed in white sheets from head to foot,' visited the towns and villages of every district in succession. 'On their journey, when they came to a cross-road or to crosses, they threw themselves on the ground, crying _Misericordia_ three times; then they recited the Lord's Prayer and the Ave Maria. On their entrance into a city, they walked singing _Stabat Mater dolorosa_ and other litanies and prayers. The population of the places to which they came were divided: for some went forth and told those who staid that they should assume the same habit, so that at one time there were as many as 10,000, and at another as many as 15,000 of them.' After admitting that the fruit of this devotion was in many cases penitence, amity, and alms-giving, Corio goes on to observe: 'However, men returned to a worse life than ever after it was over.' It is noticeable that Italy was devastated in 1400 by a horrible plague; and it is impossible not to believe that the crowding of so many penitents together on the highways and in the cities led to this result. During the anarchy of Italy between 1494--the date of the invasion of Charles VIII.--and 1527--the date of the sack of Rome--the voice of preaching friars and hermits was often raised, and the effect was always to drive the people to a frenzy of revivalistic piety. Milan was the center of the military operations of the French, the Swiss, the Spaniards, and the Germans. No city suffered more cruelly, and in none were fanatical prophets received with greater superstition. In 1516 there appeared in Milan 'a layman, large of stature, gaunt, and beyond measure wild, without shoes, without shirt, bareheaded, with bristly hair and beard, and so thin that he seemed another Julian the hermit.' He lived on water and millet-seed, slept on the bare earth, refused alms of all sorts, and preached with wonderful authority. In spite of the opposition of the Archbishop and the Chapter, he chose the Duomo for his theater; and there he denounced the vices of the priests and monks to vast congregations of eager listeners. In a word, he engaged in open warfare with the clergy on their own ground. But they of course proved too strong for him, and he was driven out of the city. He was a native of Siena, aged 30.[1] We may compare with this picturesque apparition of Jeronimo in Milan what Varchi says about the prophets who haunted Rome like birds of evil omen in the first years of the pontificate of Clement VII. 'Not only friars from the pulpit, but hermits on the piazza, went about preaching and predicting the ruin of Italy and the end of the world with wild cries and threats.'[2] In 1523 Milan beheld the spectacle of a parody of the old preachers. There appeared a certain Frate di S. Marco, whom the people held for a saint, and who 'encouraged the Milanese against the French, saying it was a merit with Jesus Christ to slay those Frenchmen, and that they were pigs.' He seems to have been a feeble and ignorant fellow, whose head had been turned by the examples of Bussolaro and Savonarola.[3] Again, in 1529, we find a certain monk, Tommaso, of the order of S. Dominic, stirring up a great commotion of piety in Milan. The city had been brought to the very lowest state of misery by the Spanish occupation; and, strange to say, this friar was himself a Spaniard. In order to propitiate offended deities, he organized a procession on a great scale. 700 women, 500 men, and 2,500 children assembled in the cathedral. The children were dressed in white, the men and women in sackcloth, and all were barefooted. They promenaded the streets of Milan, incessantly shouting _Misericordia!_ and besieged the Duomo with the same dismal cry, the Bishop and the Municipal authorities of Milan taking part in the devotion.[4] These gusts of penitential piety were matters of real national importance. Writers imbued with the classic spirit of the Renaissance thought them worthy of a place in their philosophical histories. Thus we find Pitti, in the _Storia Fiorentina (Arch. Stor._ vol. i. p. 112), describing what happened at Florence in 1514: 'There appeared in Santa Croce a Frate Francesco da Montepulciano, very young, who rebuked vice with severity, and affirmed that God had willed to scourge Italy, especially Florence and Rome, in sermons so terrible that the audience kept crying with floods of tears, _Misericordia!_ The whole people were struck dumb with horror, for those who could not hear the friar by reason of the crowd, listened with no less fear to the reports of others. At last he preached a sermon so awful that the congregation stood like men who had lost their senses; for he promised to reveal upon the third day how and from what source he had received this prophecy. However, when he left the pulpit, worn out and exhausted, he was seized with an illness of the lungs, which soon put an end to his life. Pitti goes on to relate the frenzy of revivalism excited by this monk's preaching, which had roused all the old memories of Savonarola in Florence. It became necessary for the Bishop to put down the devotion by special edicts, while the Medici endeavored to distract the minds of the people by tournaments and public shows. [1] See Prato and Burigozzo, _Arch. Stor._ vol. iii. pp. 357, 431. It is here worth noticing that Siena, the city of civil discord, was also the city of frenetic piety. The names of S. Caterina, S. Bernardino, and Bernardo Tolomei occur to the mind. [2] _Storia Fiorintina,_ vol. i. p. 87. [3] _Arch. Stor._ vol. iii. p. 443. [4] Burigozzo, pp. 485-89. Enough has now been quoted from various original sources to illustrate the feverish recurrences of superstitious panics in Italy during the Middle Ages and the Renaissance. It will be observed, from what has been said about John of Vicenza, Jacopo del Bussolaro, S. Bernardino, Roberto da Lecce, Giovanni della Marca, and Fra Capistrano, that Savonarola was by no means an extraordinary phenomenon in Italian history. Combining the methods and the aims of all these men, and remaining within the sphere of their conceptions, he impressed a rôle, which had been often played in the chief Italian towns, with the stamp of his peculiar genius. It was a source of weakness to him in his combat with Alexander VI., that he could not rise above the monastic ideal of the prophet which prevailed in Italy, or grasp one of those regenerative conceptions which formed the motive force of the Reformation. The inherent defects of all Italian revivals, spasmodic in their paroxysms, vehement while they lasted, but transient in their effects, are exhibited upon a tragic scale by Savonarola. What strikes us, after studying the records of these movements in Italy, is chiefly their want of true mental energy. The momentary effect produced in great cities like Florence, Milan, Verona, Pavia, Bologna, and Perugia is quite out of proportion to the slight intellectual power exerted by the prophet in each case. He has nothing really new or life-giving to communicate. He preaches indeed the duty of repentance and charity, institutes a reform of glaring moral abuses, and works as forcibly as he can upon the imagination of his audience. But he sets no current of fresh thought in motion. Therefore, when his personal influence was once forgotten, he left no mark upon the nation he so deeply agitated. We can only wonder that, in many cases, he obtained so complete an ascendency in the political world. All this is as true of Savonarola as it is of S. Bernardino. It is this which removes him so immeasurably from Huss, from Wesley and from Luther. APPENDIX V. _The 'Sommario della Storia d'Italia dal_ 1511 _al_ 1527,'_ by Francesco Vettori._[1] I have reserved for special notice in this Appendix the short history written of the period between 1511 and 1527 by Francesco Vettori; not because I might not have made use of it in several of the previous chapters, but because it seemed to me that it was better to concentrate in one place the illustrations of Machiavelli and Guicciardini which it supplies. Francesco Vettori was born at Florence in 1474 of a family which had distinguished itself by giving many able public servants to the Commonwealth. He adopted the politics of the Medicean party, remaining loyal to his aristocratic creed all through the troublous times which followed the French invasion of 1494, the sack of Prato in 1512, the sack of Rome in 1527, and the murder of Duke Alessandro in 1536. Even when he seemed to favor a republican policy, he continued in secret stanch to the family by whom he hoped to obtain honors and privileges in the state. Like all the Ottimati, so furiously abused by Pitti, Francesco Vettori found himself at last deceived in his expectations. To the Medici they sold the freedom of their native city, and in return for this unpatriotic loyalty they were condemned to exile, death, imprisonment, or frosty toleration by the prudent Cosimo. Two years after Cosimo had been made Duke, Vettori died, aged upwards of sixty, without having shared in the prosperity of the princes to whose service he had consecrated his life and for whose sake he had helped to enslave Florence. To respect this species of fidelity, or to feel any pity for the men who were so cruelly disappointed of their selfish expectations, is impossible. [1] Printed in _Arch. Stor. It._ Appendice No. 22, vol. vl. Francesco Vettori held offices of importance on various occasions in the Commonwealth of Florence. In 1520, for example, he entered the Signory; and in 1521 he was Gonfalonier of Justice. Many years of his life were spent on foreign missions, as ambassador to the Emperor Maximilian, resident ambassador at the Courts of Julius and Leo, ambassador together with Filippo Strozzi to the Court of Francis I., and orator at Rome on the election of Clement. He had therefore, like Machiavelli and Guicciardini, the best opportunities of forming a correct judgment of the men whose characters he weighed in his _Sommario_, and of obtaining a faithful account of the events which he related. He deserves a place upon the muster-roll of literary statesmen mentioned by me in chapter V.; nor should I have omitted him from the company of Segni and Varchi, had not his history been exclusively devoted to an earlier period than theirs. At the same time he was an intimate friend both of Guicciardini and Machiavelli. Some of the most precious compositions of the latter are letters addressed from Florence or San Casciano to Francesco Vettori, at the time when the ex-war-secretary was attempting to gain the favor of the Medici. The clairvoyance and acuteness, the cynical philosophy of life, the definite judgment of men, the clear comprehension of events, which we trace in Machiavelli, are to be found in Vettori. Vettori, however, had none of Machiavelli's genius. What he writes is, therefore, valuable as proving that the Machiavellian philosophy was not peculiar to that great man, but was shared by many inferior thinkers. Florentine culture at the end of the fifteenth century culminated in these statists of hard brain and stony hearts, who only saw the bad in human nature, but who were not led by cynicism or skepticism to lose their interest in the game of politics. In the dedication of the _Sommario della Storia d' Italia_ to Francesco Scarfi, Vettori says that he composed it at his villa, whither he retired in 1527. I do not purpose to extract portions of the historical narrative contained in this sketch; to do so indeed would be to transcribe the whole, so closely and succinctly is it written; but rather to quote the passages which throw a light upon the opinions of Machiavelli and Guicciardini, or confirm the views of men and morals adopted in my previous chapters. After touching on the sack of Prato and the consternation which ensued in Florence, Vettori describes the return of the Medici in 1512. Giuliano, the son of Lorenzo, was the first to appear: after him came the Cardinal Giovanni, and Giuliano's son Giulio.[1] The elder among their partisans persuaded them to call a Parlamento and assume the government in earnest. On September 16, accordingly, the Cardinal took possession of the palace, _fece pigliare il Palazzo_; the Signory summoned the people into the piazza--a mere matter of form; a Balia of forty men was appointed; the Gonfalonier Ridolfi resigned; and the city was reduced to the will and pleasure of the Cardinal de' Medici. Then reasons sons Vettori:[2] 'This was what is called an absolute tyranny; yet, speaking of the things of this world without prejudice and according to the truth, I say that if it were possible to institute republics like that imagined by Plato, or feigned to exist in Utopia by Thomas More, we might affirm they were not tyrannical governments: but all the commonwealths or kingdoms I have seen or read of, have, it seems to me, a savor of tyranny. Nor is it a matter for astonishment that parties and factions have often prevailed in Florence, and that one man has arisen to make himself the chief, when we reflect that the city is very populous, that many of the burghers desire to share in its advantages, and that there are few prizes to distribute: wherefore one party always must have the upper hand and enjoy the honors and benefits of the state, while the other stands by to watch the game.' He then proceeds to criticise France, where the nobles alone bear arms and pay no taxes, and where the administration of justice is slow and expensive; and Venice, where three thousand gentlemen keep more than 100,000 of the inhabitants below their feet, unhonored, powerless, unprivileged, oppressed. Having demonstrated the elements of tyranny and injustice both in a kingdom and a commonwealth reputed prosperous and free, he shows that, according to his own philosophy, no blame attaches to a burgher who succeeds in usurping the sole mastery of a free state, provided he rule wisely; for all kingdoms were originally founded either by force or by craft. 'We ought not therefore to call that private citizen a tyrant who has usurped the government of his state, if he be a good man; nor again to call a man the real lord of a city who, though he has the investiture of the Emperor, is bad and malevolent.' This critique of constitutions from the pen of a doctrinaire, who was also a man of experience, is interesting, partly for its positive frankness, and partly as showing what elementary notions still prevailed about the purposes of government. Vettori's ultimate criterion is the personal quality of the ambitious ruler. [1] Giovanni and Giulio were afterwards Leo X. and Clement VII. [2] P. 293. Passing to what he says about Leo X.,[1] it is worth while to note that he attributes his election chiefly to the impression produced upon the Cardinals by Alexander and Julius. 'During the reign of two fierce and powerful Pontiffs, Cardinals had been put to death, imprisoned, deprived of their property, exiled, and kept in continual alarm; and so great was the dread among them now of electing another such Pope, that they unanimously chose Giovanni de' Medici. Up to that time he had always shown himself liberal and easy, or, rather, prodigal in squandering the little that he owned; he had moreover managed so to dissemble as to acquire a reputation for most excellent habits of life.' Vettori adds that his power in Florence helped him, and that he owed much to the ability displayed by Bernardo da Bibbiena in winning votes. The joy of the Florentines at his election is attributed to mean motives: 'being all of them given over to commerce and gain, they thought they ought to get some profit from this Papacy.'[2] The government which Lorenzo, afterwards Duke of Urbino, now established in Florence is very favorably described by Vettori.[3] 'Lorenzo, though still a young man, applied himself with great attention to the business of the city, providing that equal justice should be administered to all, that the public moneys should be levied and spent with frugality, and that disputes should be settled to the satisfaction of all parties. His rule was tolerated, because, while the revenues were large and the expenses small, the citizens were not troubled with taxes; and this is the chief way to please a people, seeing their affection for a prince is measured by the good they get from him. Taking this opinion of Lorenzo, it is possible for Vettori in another place to say of him that 'he governed Florence like a citizen;'[4] and on the occasion of his death in 1520, he passes what amounts to a panegyric on his character. 'His death was a misfortune for Florence, which it would be difficult to describe. Though young, he had the qualities of virtuous maturity. He bore a real affection toward the citizens, was parsimonious of the moneys of the Commune, prodigal of his own; while a foe to vice, he was not too severe on those who erred. Though he began his military life at twenty-three, he always bore the cuirass of a man at arms upon his shoulders day and night on active service. He slept very little, was sober in his diet, temperate in love. The Florentines did not love him, because it is not possible for men used to freedom to love a ruler; but he, for his part, had not sought the office which was thrust upon him by the will of others. Madonna Alfonsina, his mother, brought unpopularity upon him; for she was avaricious, and the Florentines, who noticed every detail, thought her grasping: and though he wanted to restrain her, he found himself unable to do so through the high esteem in which he held her. Maddalena, his wife, died six days before him, after giving birth to a daughter Catherine.' This is the, no doubt, highly favorable portrait of the man to whom Machiavelli dedicated his _Principe_. The somewhat negative good qualities of Lorenzo, his prudence and parsimony, his freedom from despotic ambition, and dislike of dangerous service, combined with his deference to the powerful members of his own family, are very unlike Machiavelli's ideal of the founder of a state. Cesare Borgia was almost the exact opposite. The impression produced by Vettori's panegyric is further confirmed by what he says about Lorenzo's disinclination to undertake the Duchy of Urbino.[5] [1] P. 297. [2] P. 300. [3] Ibid. [4] P. 306. [5] P. 321. See too p. 307. But to return to the early days of Leo's pontificate. Vettori marks his interference in the affairs of Lucca as the first great mistake he made.[1] His advisers in Florence had not reflected 'what infamy it would bring upon the Pope in the opinion of all men, or what suspicion it would rouse among the princes, if in the first months of his power he were led to sanction an attack by the Florentines upon the Lucchese, their neighbors and allies. How too could the burghers of Florence, who had urged him to this step, remind the pontiff that he ought to moderate his desire of gaining dominion for the Church and for his kin, by the example of former Popes, all of whom, in the interest of their dependents, had acquired to their own dishonor with peril and expense what in a few days upon their death returned to the old and rightful owners?' The conduct of Leo with regard to Lucca, his policy in Florence, and the splendor maintained by his brother at Rome, did in fact rouse the jealousy of the Italian powers both great and small.[2] 'King Ferdinand remarked: If Giuliano has left Florence, he must be aiming at something better, which can be nothing but the realm of Naples. The Dukes of Milan, Ferrara, and Urbino said the same. The Sienese thought: If the pope allows the Florentines to attack Lucca, which is so strong, well furnished, and harmonious, far more will he consent to their encroaching upon us, who are weak, ill-provided, and at odds among ourselves. The Duke of Ferrara had further reasons for discontent in respect to Modena and Reggio.' Altogether, Leo began to lose credit. Secret alliances were formed against him by the della Rovere, the Baglioni, and the Petrucci; and though he took care to attend public services and to fast more than etiquette required, nobody believed in him. Vettori's comment reads like an echo of Machiavelli and Guicciardini.[3] 'Assuredly it is most difficult to combine temporal lordship with a reputation for religion: for they are two things which will not harmonize. He who well considers the law of the Gospel will observe that the pontiffs, though called Christ's Vicars, have originated a new religion unlike that of Christ except in name. His enjoins poverty; they desire riches. He preached humility; they follow after pride. He commanded obedience; they aim at universal sovereignty. I could enlarge upon their other vices; but it is enough to allude to these, without entering into inconvenient discourses.' While treating of the affairs of Urbino,[4] however, Vettori remarks that Leo could not have done otherwise than punish Francesco Maria della Rovere, if he wished to maintain the Papacy at the height of reputation to which it had been raised by his predecessors. [1] P. 301. [2] P. 303. [3] P. 304. [4] P. 319. In his general estimate of Leo, Vettori confirms all that we know about this Pope from other sources. He insists more perhaps than other historians upon the able diplomacy by which Lodovico Canossa, Bishop of Tricarico, made terms with Francis after Marignano,[1] and traces Leo's fatal alliance with Charles V. in 1520 to the influence of Jeronimo Adorno.[2] The secret springs of Leo's conduct, when he was vainly endeavoring to steer to his own profit between the great rivals for power in Europe, are exposed with admirable precision at both of these points. Of the prodigality which helped to ruin this Pope, and which made his two successors impotent, he speaks with sneering sarcasm. 'It was as easy for him to keep 1,000 ducats together as for a stone to fly into the air by its own weight.'[3] When the news of the capture of Milan reached him on November 27, 1520, Leo was at the Villa Magliana in the neighborhood of Rome.[4] Whether he took cold at a window, or whether his anxiety and jealousy disturbed his constitution, Vettori remains uncertain. At any rate, he was attacked with fever, returned to Rome, and died. 'It was said that his death was caused by poison; but these stories are always circulated about men of high estate, especially when they succumb to acute disease. Those, however, who knew the constitution and physical conformation of Leo, and his habits of life, will rather wonder that he lived so long.' After summing up the vicissitudes of his career and passing a critique upon his vacillating policy, Vettori resumes:[5] 'while on the one hand he would fain have never had one care to trouble him; on the other he was desirous of fame and sought to aggrandize his kindred. Fortune, to rid him of this ambition, removed his brother and his nephew in his lifetime. Lastly, when he had engaged in a war against the King of France, in which, if he won, he lost, and was going to meet obvious ruin, fortune removed him from the world so that he might not see his own mischance. In his pontificate at Rome there was no plague, no poverty, no war. Letters and the arts flourished, and the vices were also at their height. Alexander and Julius had been wont to seize the inheritance not only of the prelates but of every little priest or clerk who died in Rome. Leo abstained entirely from such practices. Therefore people came in crowds; and it may be said for certain that in the eight years of his papacy, the population of Rome increased by one third.' Vettori prudently refuses to sum up the good and bad of Leo's character in one decisive sentence. He notes, however, that he was blamed for not keeping to his word: 'it was a favorite expression with him, that princes ought to give such answers as would send petitioners away satisfied; accordingly he made so many promises; and fed people with such great expectations, that it became impossible to please them.' [1] P. 313. [2] P. 334. [3] P. 322. [4] P. 338. [5] P. 339. The election of Adrian is attributed by Vettori to the mutual hatred and jealousy of the Cardinals.[1] He ascribes the loss of Rhodes to the Pope's want of interest in great affairs, adds his testimony to his private excellence and public incapacity, and dismisses him without further notice.[2] [1] P. 341. [2] Pp. 343, 347. What he tells us about Clement is more interesting. In the dedication to the _Sommario_ he apologized in express terms for the high opinion recorded of this Pope. Yet the impression which he leaves upon our mind by what he writes is so unfavorable as to make it clear what Clement's foes habitually said against him. He remarks, as one excuse for his ill-success in office, that he succeeded to a Papacy ruined by the prodigality in war and peace of Leo.[1] As knight of Rhodes, as governor of Florence, and as Cardinal, Clement had shown himself an able man. Fortune heaped her favors on him then. As soon as he was made Pope, she veered round. 'From a puissant and respected Cardinal, he became a feeble and discredited Pope.' His first care was to provide for the government of Florence. In order to arrive at a decision, he asked council of the Florentine orators and four other noble burghers then in Rome, as to whether he could advantageously intrust the city to the Cardinal of Cortona in guardianship over Ippolito and Alessandro, the young bastards of the Medici.[2] 'All men nearly,' says Vettori, 'are flatterers, and say what they believe will please great folk, although they think the contrary. Of the thirteen whom the Pope consulted, ten advised him to send Ippolito to Florence under the guardianship of the Cardinal of Cortona.' The remaining three, who were Ruberto Acciajuoli, Lorenzo Strozzi, and Francesco Vettori, pointed out the impropriety of administering a free city through a priest who held his title from a subject town. They recommended the appointment of a Gonfalonier for one year, and so on, till a member of the Medicean family could take the lead. Clement, however, decided on the other course; and to this cause may be traced half the troubles of his reign. [1] P. 348. [2] P. 349. They were 14 and 13 years of age respectively. The greater part of what remains of the _Sommario_ is occupied with the wars and intrigues of Francis, Charles, and Clement. Vettori, it may be said in passing, records a very unfavorable opinion of the Marquis of Pescara, who was, he hints, guilty of first turning a favorable ear to Moroni's plot and then of discovering the whole to his master.[1] A few days after his breach of faith with the Milanese, he fell ill and died. 'He was a man whose military excellence cannot be denied; but proud beyond all measure, envious, ungrateful, avaricious, venomous, cruel, without religion or humanity, he was born to be the ruin of Italy; and it may be truly said that of the evil she has suffered and still suffers, a large part was caused by him.' [1] Pp. 358, 359. Of the breach of faith of Francis, after he had left his Spanish prison, Vettori speaks in terms of the very highest commendation.[1] His refusal to cede Burgundy to Charles was just and patriotic. That he broke his faith was no crime; for, though a man ought rather to die than forswear himself, yet his first duty is to God, his second to his country, Francis was clearly acting for the benefit of his kingdom; and had he not left his two sons as hostages in Spain? The whole defense is a good piece of specious pleading, and might be used to illustrate the chapter on the Faith of Princes in the _Principe_. [1] P. 362. By far the most striking passage in Vettori's _Sommario_ is the description of the march of Frundsberg's and De Bourbon's army upon Rome.[1] He makes it clear to what extent the calamity of the sack was due to the selfishness and cowardice of the Italian princes. First of all the Venetians refused to offer any obstacles before the passage of the Po, feeling that by doing so they might draw trouble on their own provinces. Then the Duke of Ferrara supplied the Lutherans with artillery, of which they hitherto had stood in need. The first use they made of their fire-arms was to shoot the best captain in Italy, Giovanni de' Medici of the Black Bands. The Duke of Urbino, the Marquis of Saluzzo, and Guido Rangoni watched them cross the river and proceed by easy stages through the district of Piacenza, 'following them like lacqueys waiting on their lords.' The same thing happened at Parma and Modena, while the Duke of Ferrara kept supplying the foreigners with food and money. Clement meanwhile was penniless in Rome. Rich as the city was, he had so utterly lost credit that he dared not ask for loans, and was so feeble that he could not rob. The Colonnesi, moreover, who had recently plundered the Vatican, kept him in a state of terror. As the invaders, now commanded by the Constable de Bourbon, approached Tuscany, the youth of Florence demanded to be armed in defense of their hearths and homes. The Cardinal of Cortona, fearing a popular rising, refused to grant their request. A riot broke out, and the Medici were threatened with expulsion: but by the aid of influential citizens a revolution was averted. The Constable, avoiding Florence and Siena, marched straight on Rome, still watched but unmolested by the armies of the League. He left his artillery on the road, and, as is well known, carried the walls of Rome by assault on the morning of May 3, dying himself at the moment of victory. From what has just been rapidly narrated, it will be seen how utterly abject was the whole of Italy at this moment, when a band of ruffians, headed by a rebel from his sovereign, in disobedience to the viceroy of the king he pretended to serve, was not only allowed but actually helped to traverse rivers, plains, and mountains, on their way to Rome. What happened after the capture of the Transteverine part of the city moves even deeper scorn. 'It still remained for the Imperial troops to enter the populous and wealthy quarters; and these they had to reach by one of three bridges. They numbered hardly more than 25,000 men, all told. In Rome were at least 30,000 men fit to bear arms between the ages of sixteen and fifty, and among them were many trained soldiers, besides crowds of Romans, swaggering braggarts used to daily quarrels, with beards upon their breasts. Nevertheless, it was found impossible to get 500 together in one band for the defense of one of the three bridges.' What immediately follows gives so striking a picture of the sack: that a translation of it will form a fit conclusion to this volume. 'The soldiers slew at pleasure; pillaged the houses of the middle classes and small folk, the palaces of the nobles, the convents of both sexes, and the churches. They made prisoners of men, women, and even of little children, without regard to age, or vows, or any other claim on pity. The slaughter was not great, for men rarely kill those who offer no resistance: but the booty was incalculable, in coin, jewels, gold and silver plate, clothes, tapestries, furniture, and goods of all descriptions. To this should be added the ransoms, which amounted to a sum that, if set down, would win no credence. Let any one consider through how many years the money of all Christendom had been flowing into Rome, and staying there in a great measure; let him remember the Cardinals, Bishops, Prelates, and public officers, the wealthy merchants, both Roman and foreign, selling at high prices, letting their houses at dear rents, and paying nothing in the way of taxes; let him call to mind the artisans, the poorer folk, the prostitutes; and he will judge that never was a city sacked of which the memory remains, whence greater store of treasure could be drawn. Though Rome has at other times been taken and pillaged, yet never before was it the Rome of our days. Moreover, the sack lasted so long that what might not perhaps have been discovered on the first day sooner or later came to light. This disaster was an example to the world that men proud, avaricious, envious, murderous, lustful, hypocritical, cannot long preserve their state. Nor can it be denied that the inhabitants of Rome, especially the Romans, were stained with all these vices, and with many greater.' [1] Pp. 372-82. INDEX A Abelard, 9. Adrian VI., 441. Agrippa quoted, 459. Ahmed, 589. Albigenses, 9. Aldi, the, 23. Aleander, 27. Alexander VI., 406, 407 _seq._., 603; death, 430 (see Papacy). Alfonso I. of Naples, 568. Alfonso II., 119, 572. Allegre, 418, Allegretti, works, 292; cited, 165; quoted, 616 America, effects of its discovery, 540. Ammanati, works, 489. Anjou, house of, transfers its claims to Sicily, 539. Appiani, 148. Ariosto, works, 119; cited, 413; quoted, 130 Aristotle, influence of his writings, 197; quoted, 234, 235. Art in Middle Age, 17; effect of religious conventionalism, 18; revolution made by Renaissance, 18, 19. Italian, inimical to ugliness, 490; flourishes under despots, 79. Ascham, R., quoted, 472. B Bacon, Francis, 26; Roger, 9, 10. Baglioni, 122, 148. Barbiano, 159. Bartoli, A., cited, 252. Beccadelli, 174. Bellini, works, 488. Bentivogli, 102, 115, 123. Bergamo, V. da, 618. Bernard, St., 13. Berni cited, 443. Bibbiena, 184; quoted, 190. Bible, discovery of the original, 20. Blood-madness, 109, 589 _seq._ Boccaccio, 11, 20. Boiado, 171. Bologna, 123, 617. Boniface VIII., 76. Borgia, Cesare, 117, 324, 345 _seq._, 426, 577; murders, 352. Borgia, Lucrezia, 419; character cleared of calumny, 420. Borgia, Roderigo (see Alexander VI). Boscoli, P. P., 466. Bracciolini, P., 274. Brantôme quoted, 117. Brescia, 615; Arnold of, 64. Browning, R., quoted, 13. Bruni, L., 274. Buonarottí, 491; works, 19. Burchard cited, 430, 431. Burckhardt cited, 428; quoted, 434. Burton, Robert, cited, 475. Bussolaro, J. del, 610. Byzantine empire, effect of its fall, 14 C Capistrano, G. da, 615. Capponi, P., 284, 563. Carducci, 284, 289; works, 293. Carmagnuola, F., 161. "Carmina Burana," 9. Carrara, 149. Carroccio, 58. Castiglione, works, 183, 457. Catholic Church (see Papacy). Support of Church required by good society, 455; philosophy and theology fused, 456; religion divorced from morality, 462, 493; influence of ancient literature, 464; æstheticism, 465; humanism antagonistic to Christianity, 493; its corruption, 448 _seq._; not universal, 470; immorality of priests, 458, 459; superstition, 466; relics, 461; sanctity of pope, 462; power of forms, 471; counter-reformation, 25; power of ecclesiastical eloquence, 491; revivals, 490, 606 _seq_.; indestructable vigor of religious faith, 469. Cellini, B., 104, 462, 492; memoirs, 325. Charles VIII. (see Italy, history), 540 _seq_.; escape, 580. Charles of Anjou, 75. Charles the Great, 50. Chivalry, 483. Christianity (see Catholic Church, Morals), influence in forming modern society, 7; how affected by Renaissance, 25. Clement VII., 443, 633. Colonnesi, 375. Columbus, 15. Comines cited, 416; quoted, 214, 475, 541, 553, 572, 578. Condottieri, 86, 113, 131, 156 _seq_.; 245, 361; character of warfare, 102, 363. Compagni, Dino, chronicle of, 262; its authenticity, 266 _seq_. Copernicus, 15. Corio, works, 292; quoted, 135, 143, 145, 152. 160, 385, 391, 392, 619. Coryat, T., quoted, 475. Croce, della, 614. Cromwell, 454. Cruelty (see Blood-madness), instances of, 151, 478, 571; of French, 557, 583; its use, 354. Crusades, 7. D Dante, political views, 261; works, 10, 11, 73, 260; quoted, 73, 76, 77, 133. Democratic idea, its gradual growth, 8. Dennistoun cited, 160. Descartes, 26. Djem, 415, 566, 576. Dürer, works, 490; cited, 475. E Erasmus, 24, 27. Este, house of, 395, 420; Nicolo, 168. F Fanfoni, P., cited, 263, 268. Feltre, V. da, 171, 176. Ferdinand of Arragon, 296, 358; of Naples, 570. Ferrara, 499, 617; court, 423. Ficino, 175, 456. Fiesole, G. da, Works, 488. Filelfo, 171; quoted, 381. Flora, Joachim of, 9. Florence, its constitution, 195, 201, 592, 596, 598; number of citizens, 598; parties, 211; perpetual flux, 221; government by merchants, 225; the "parlamento," 230; cause of failure of popular government, 231; population, 256; the "arti," 597; militia, its value, 601; Machiavelli's reforms, 312; revenues, 255; topography, 595; history (see Italy), rule of the Medici, 277, 305, 629, years 1527-31, 282; recovers liberty through the French, 560; occupation, 562; commonwealth, 282; divisions of popular party, 283; siege, 285; effect of Savonarola's prophecies, 290; Pazzi conspiracy, 398; final subjugation, 446; character of its historians, 248 _seq_., 274. Society, character of people, 600; their enlightenment and immorality, 504; absence of religious faith, 295; excess of intellectual mobility, 237; commercial character, 238; social life, 242. A city of intelligence, 232, 246. Fondulo, G., 463. Ford, J., cited, 477. Foscari, F., 215; quoted, 600. Francia, works, 489. Frattcelli, 9. Frederick I., 63. Frederick II., 10, 68, 105. Froben, J., 23. G Gambacorta, 147. Gemistos Plethon, 173. Genezzano, 506, 522. Genoa, 79; history, 201. Giacomini, 313. Giannotti cited, 217; quoted, 169, 196, 216, 238, 278, 280. Giotto, works, 488. Giovio, quoted, 249. God, medieval idea of, 16. Gonzaghi, 146. Government, Guicciardini's theories, 305. [See Machiavelli.] Graziani quoted, 614. Greek, knowledge of, in Renaissance, 182. Greene, R., quoted, 473. Gregorovius cited, 421, 430, 479,. Guarino, 171. Guarnieri, 158. Guelphs and Ghibeliines, 69, 206. Guicciardini, 278, 280, 285, 295, 482; works, 291, 294, 301 _seq_.; political theories analyzed, 304 _seq_.; quoted, 44, 91, 92, 119, 169, 223, 284, 404, 409, 412, 417, 431, 434, 451, 536. 541. 547, 549, 582, 583, 603. H Hawkwood, J., 113. Hegel quoted, 367. Hegel, C, cited, 252. Heribert, 58. Hildebrand, 59. Hirsch cited, 567. Hogarth, works, 490. Howell cited, 473. Hussites, 9. Hutten, 27. I Infessura, works, 292; cited, 405; quoted, 395, 404, 474, Innocent VIII., 403. Inquisition in Spain, 399. Inventions of Renaissance, 29. Italy, history (see Condottieri, Papacy), its character, 32; papacy and empire, 33, 41, 43, 94, 97, 99; variety of governments, 35, 43; their influence on national development, 44; politics, 36; invasions, 39; want of historical continuity, 41; the despotisms, 42; origin of modern history, 46; the Lombards, 48; Charles the Great, 51; Berengar, 52; Otho I., 52; growth of power of Church, 53; Frederick I., 63; Charles of Anjou, 75; convulsions of 14th century, 81; states of 15th century, 88; obstacles to unity, 89; to monarchy, 92; to federalism, 95; in time of Machiavelli, 365; policy of Lorenzo, 543; equilibrium destroyed, 545; French invasion, 549; character of their army, 565; league against them, 576; cause of their failure, 340; effect of their example, 583; on other nations, 585; Charles V., 98. Italians incapable of helping themselves, 586; responsible for their despots, 115; development precocious and unsound, 495; fatal effects of want of union, 538, 552. _The Republics_, character of their history, 33, 193; beginning of the power of the cities, 53; their origin, 54; count and bishop, 55; "people," 55; commune, 56; consuls, 56; effect of struggle of papacy and empire, 61; influence of latter, 198; Guelphs and Ghibeliines, 69, 80, 206; wars of cities, 62; Frederic I., 64; struggle with nobles, 66; the podesta, 67; "captain of the people," 71; the "arti," 72; distinction between parties, 74; not representative governments, 196; not democratic, 195; factions, 195, 210; small number of active citizens, 209; temporal character of alliances, 212. _The Despotisms_, 42, 76; their justification, 83; idea of liberty, 78; republican freedom unknown, 91; policy commercial, 85; taxation, 86; diplomacy substituted for warfare, 87; illegitimacy, 102; good government, 103; bad effect of their example, 104; courts, 106, 186; varieties of despotisms, 109; claims of despots due to force, not rank, 116; their democratic character, 117; uncertainty of tenure of power, 117, 129; domestic crime, 119; murders, 120; tastes and pursuits, 126; degeneracy of their houses, 126, 151; bad effects of rule, 130; centralizing tendencies, 131; cruelty, 151; absence of all morality, 168. _Society_. Why Italy took the lead in the Renaissance, 5; Italians gentle and humane, 478; not gluttons, 479; personal originality not discouraged, 488; Italy originates type of gentleman, 192; courtiers, idea of nobility, 186; community of interest with that of Roman Church, 470; immorality not great relatively, 487; superiority to their contemporaries, 489; purity of their art shows that heart of the people was not vitiated, 488; commercial integrity, 474; demoralization of society, 472; immorality came from above, 489; commonness of crime, 170, 480; exceptions to rule, 183; murders, 480; deficiency in sense of honor, 481; chastity in women, 486; unnatural passions, 477; charms of illicit love, 476; immoral literature, 475. Literature, early, 53. J Jews, expulsion from Spain, 400. Julia, daughter of Claudius, 22, 23. Julius II., 389, 406, 432 seq. L Lecce, Roberto da, 614. Leo X., 435, 630. Libraries of Renaissance, 21. Locke, J., 26. Lombards, 48 seq. London, mediæval, 137. Louis XII., 339. Luini, works, 489. Lungo, del, cited, 273. Luther, 26, 442, 454, 530. M Macaulay on the despots, 127, 320. Machiavelli, 232, 278, 308 seq.; property, 309; education, 310; political career, 311; cringing character, 317; intercourse with Cesare Borgia, 347; compared with Savonarola, 368; last years, 328; death, 333. Works, 76, 169, 203, 249, 332, 369, 457, 494; military system, 312; Art of War, 328; History, 331; The Prince, 319; object in writing it, 321; appeal to the Medici, 366; apology for the author, 367; morality of the work, 324-6; author's sincerity, 333; not the inventor of Machiavellianism, 335; it assumes Reparation of statecraft and morality, 335; an abstract of political expediency, 336; how permanently to assimilate provinces, 338; colonies, 338; founders of monarchies, 343; distinction between monarch and despot, 341; use of cruelty, 354; value of distrust, 358; military precautions, 360; the work condemned by the Inquisition, 336; opinion of it in France, 326; quoted, 45, 82, 84, 96, 98, 115, 116, 146, 152, 187, 202, 214, 215, 245, 325, 447, 450, 453, 460. Madonna, conventional idea of, 18. Malatesta, 172. Malespini, chronicle, 251. Mantegna, works, 489. Mantuanus, B., quoted, 394. Marlowe quoted, 336. Marston, cited, 473, 475. Massa, B. da, 611. Masuccio quoted, 458, 486. Matarazzo, works, 292; quoted, 583. Medici, their policy, 87, 90, 128, 155, 228, 230; expulsion, 222; connection with papacy, 404; services to literature, 600. Alessandro, 298; Cosimo, 300, 492; Lorenzo, 504, 628; death, 523; Piero, 558. Michelet quoted, 15, 585. Middle Age: mental condition, 6, 13; inaccessibility to mental ideas, 7; political character, 8; art, 17; scholarship, 20. Milan, 58; Visconti and Sforza, 154. Milman quoted, 530. Milton, 454. Mirandola, 171, 456, 520; quoted, 401, 511. Monaldeschi, L. B., 252. Montferrat, 146. Montone, B. da, 123, 159. Morals (see Italy, society; Papacy, court; Virtu;) in Cellini's memoirs, 325; sexual immorality,474; tyrannicide defended, 468. Müntz, E., cited, 384. Muzio quoted, 174. N Naples (see Italy), attraction for foreigners, 566; claims of house of Anjou, 539; flight of king, 574. Nardi, 278, 280, 290; works, 291; quoted, 292, 511, 534, 592. Nerli, 278, 290; works, 293 seq.; quoted, 328. Nicholas V., 378. Normans In Italy, 58. O Olgiati, 166. Orsini, 375. Otho 1., 52. P Pamponazzo, 456. Pandolfini, 239; works, 241. Papacy (see Catholic Church), "the ghost of the Roman empire," 6; church and state, 8; Charles the Great, 51; imperial nominees, 59; change in mode of election, 60; effect of crushing the Hohenstauffen, 101; nepotism, 114; authority in 14th century, 371, 375; secularization, 371, 375; temporal power, 376; its consolidation, 378; its extent, 434; persecution, 402; of Platonists, 417; its effect, 418; plan to transform Papacy to kingdom, 392; sale of pardons, 404, 439; no horror felt at election of Alexander VI., 410; Turks invited to Italy, 415, 551; censure of press, 416: alliance with France, 427, 566; political crimes of Alexander VI., 428; tide turns with Julius II., 433; reforms of Adrian VI., 441; moral advantage of sack of Rome, 445. Court, 372; its scandalous history, 390, 403, 411, 414, 420, 424, 439, 457; extravagance, 390, 436, 437; extortion, 437; monopolies, 394; nepotism, 419, 438; simony, 394, 405, 414; art patronage, 384, 401, 433, 436. Paterini, 9. Paul II., 383. Pazzi conspiracy, 396. Perrotti quoted, 179. Perugia, 612. Pescara, marquis of, 634. Petrarch, 11, 20; quoted, 250. Piccolomini (see Pius II.). Pisa, 342, 560. Pitti, 275, 280; works, 291, Pius II., 380. Poggio quoted, 187. Poliziano, 171, Poontano cited, 481. Printers of Renaissance, 23, Provence, civilization of, 9. Puritanism, 25, 37. R Raffaella quoted, 483. Raphael, works, 488. Reformation, 433; how affected by Renaissance, 27. Rembrandt, works, 490. Renaissance (see Middle Age), not synonymous with "revival of learning," 1; not completed, 2; extent of signification, 2-3; origin, 4; idea not separable from "Reformation," "Revolution," 5; effect on old beliefs, 14, 16; all its tendencies worldly, 455; restores double past, Christian and pagan, 506; obstacles in the way, 5; preparation, 9; opposition of the Church, 10; character of the men, 12; discoveries, 15; scholarship, 20; assimilation of paganism, 25; reaction against enlightenment, 25; inventions, 29. Reuchlin, 27. Reumont, A. von, cited, 212, 524. Ripamonti quoted, 163, 167. Robbia, works, 489. Romagna, 349. Romano, Ezzelino da, 69, 75, 106, 119; Giulio, works, 490. Rome (see Italy, Papacy), effect of its ruins, 253; appearance at time of French occupation, 564; early mediæval history, 47; opposition to Lombards, 49; government semi-independent of pope, 376; advantages derived from presence of papal court, 377; improvements under Nicholas V., 378; impunity of criminals, 405; factions destroyed, 413; rising of Colonnas, 443; sack, 444, 636; prostitutes, 474. Romeo and Juliet, 74, Rosellini, works, 489, Rosenbaum cited, 567. Royere, F. della (see Sixtus IV.); Francesco Maria, 393; Giuliano (see Julius II,); Pietro, 390. Rubens, works, 490. S Sadoleto, quoted, 446. Savelli, 375. Savonarola, 202, 221, 230, 277, 283, 290, 345, 368, 453, 454, 456, 491, 498 seq., 561, 622; poems, 502; settles in Florence, 504; portraits, 508; eloquence, 510; creed, 513; prophecies, 514; political career, 526; hatred of secular culture, 527; dares not break with Rome, 531; martyrdom, 533; works, 536; quoted, 128. Savoy, 146. Scala, della, family, 145, 258. Scheffer-Bolchorst cited, 252, 269. Segal, 278, 280, 289; works 292, seq. Sforza family, 131 seq.; their magnificience, 164; to be made kings of Lombardy, 392; Francesco, 153, 159 seq., 345; Galeazzo, 165; Ludovico, 543 seq. Shelley cited, 477. Siena, 207, 616. Sismondi quoted, 138, 144, 159, 226, 533. Sixtus IV., 388 seq., 502. Soderini, P., 289, 324. Spaniards, cruelty of, 478. Spinoza, 26. Stendhal cited, 482. Stephani, the, 23. Strozzi, Ercole, 423; F., 285. Swiss, 450. Syphilis, history of, 567. T Tasso, 486. Temporal Power (see Papacy). Tenda, Beatrice di, 152. Theodoric, 47. Theology, effect of Renaissance upon, 16. Tiraboschi, quoted, 173. Titian, works, 19 Torre, della, 132. Trinci, 122. U Urbino, dukes of, 174 seq., 393, 438. V Valois, Charles of, 76. Varani, 121. Varchi, 278, 290; works, 279, 303 seq.; quoted, 204, 244, 505. Venice, 79, 88, 91; an exception among the republics, 195, 214; constitution, 215; the Ten, 218; fascination exercised by government, 220; military system, 220; no initiative mining citizens, 233; compared with Sparta, 234; indifference to prosperity of Italy, 550. Vespusiano quoted, 174, 477, 612. Vettori, F., 624; works, 626. Vicenza, John of, 607. Villani, M., works, 251 seq., quoted, 128, 139. Villari, quoted, 195, 500. Vinci, da, 326, 548; works, 489. Virgil, 20. Virtu, 171, 337, 345, 484, 493. Visconti, family, 131 seq.; their realm falls to pieces, 150; Filippo, 152; Gisa, 141; Violante, 137. W Webster, J., quoted, 119, 557. Witchcraft persecutions, 402. Y Yriarte, quoted, 210, 217. 
36245	----	TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES: Minor spelling inconsistencies have been silently corrected. Apart from a few corrections listed at the end of the book, original spelling was retained. Footnotes were sequentially numbered and placed at the end of each chapter. p. 300: in the words carpenter, majesty and merchaundise letters [e macron] and [u with breve] are encoded as plain [e and u] respectively. p. 303: in the words mournfully, mournfuly, royalty letters [u with breve], [u, a macron] are encoded as plain [u and a] respectively. p. 304: in the words Trumpington, love-sik and dangerus letters [i macron] and [i, u with breve] are encoded as plain [i and u] respectively. p. 321-322: superscripts are preceded by the [^] sign and enclosed in braces if more than one letter is in superscript. p. 354: in the word Pusan letters [u macron] and [s with cedilla] are encoded as plain [u and s] respectively. Ligature [oe] is encoded as oe. Mark up: _italics_ =bold= *font change* *Columbia University* _STUDIES IN LITERATURE_ |===============================================================| |*Columbia University* | | | |STUDIES IN LITERATURE | | | | | | | |=A HISTORY OF LITERARY CRITICISM IN | | THE RENAISSANCE=: With Special Reference | | to the Influence of Italy in the Formation and | | Development of Modern Classicism. By JOEL | | ELIAS SPINGARN. | | | | | |_In Press:_ | | | | | |=ROMANCES OF ROGUERY=: An Episode in the | | Development of the Modern Novel, Part I. | | The Picaresque Novel in Spain. By FRANK | | WADLEIGH CHANDLER. | | | |=SPANISH LITERATURE IN ENGLAND UNDER | | THE TUDORS=. By JOHN GARRETT | | UNDERHILL. | | | | | | * * * * * | | | |***_Other numbers of this series will be issued from | |time to time, containing the results of literary research, | |or criticism by the students or officers of | |Columbia University, or others associated with them | |in study, under the authorization of the Department | |of Literature_, GEORGE EDWARD WOODBERRY _and_ | |BRANDER MATTHEWS, _Professors_. | |===============================================================| A HISTORY OF LITERARY CRITICISM IN THE RENAISSANCE WITH SPECIAL REFERENCE TO THE INFLUENCE OF ITALY IN THE FORMATION AND DEVELOPMENT OF MODERN CLASSICISM BY JOEL ELIAS SPINGARN [Illustration] *New York* PUBLISHED FOR THE COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY PRESS BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY LONDON: MACMILLAN & CO., LTD. 1899 _All rights reserved_ _COPYRIGHT_, 1899, BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY. *Norwood Press* J. S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith Norwood Mass. U.S.A. PREFACE THIS essay undertakes to treat the history of literary criticism in the Renaissance. The three sections into which the essay is divided are devoted, respectively, to Italian criticism from Dante to Tasso, to French criticism from Du Bellay to Boileau, and to English criticism from Ascham to Milton; but the critical activity of the sixteenth century has been the main theme, and the earlier or later literature has received treatment only in so far as it serves to explain the causes or consequences of the critical development of this central period. It was at this epoch that modern criticism began, and that the ancient ideals of art seemed once more to sway the minds of men; so that the history of sixteenth-century criticism must of necessity include a study of the beginnings of critical activity in modern Europe and of the gradual introduction of the Aristotelian canons into modern literature. This study has been made subservient, more particularly, to two specific purposes. While the critical activity of the period is important and even interesting in itself, it has been here studied primarily for the purpose of tracing the origin and causes of the classic spirit in modern letters and of discovering the sources of the rules and theories embodied in the neo-classic literature of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. How did the classic spirit arise? Whence did it come, and how did it develop? What was the origin of the principles and precepts of neo-classicism? These are some of the questions I have attempted to answer in this essay; and, in answering them, I have tried to remember that this is a history, not of critical literature, but of literary criticism. For this reason I have given to individual books and authors less prominence than some of them perhaps deserved, and have confined myself almost exclusively to the origin of principles, theories, and rules, and to the general temper of classicism. For a similar reason I have been obliged to say little or nothing of the methods and results of applied, or concrete, criticism. This, then, has been the main design of the essay; but furthermore, as is indicated in the title, I have attempted to point out the part played by Italy in the growth of this neo-classic spirit and in the formulation of these neo-classic principles. The influence of the Italian Renaissance in the development of modern science, philosophy, art, and creative literature has been for a long time the subject of much study. It has been my more modest task to trace the indebtedness of the modern world to Italy in the domain of literary criticism; and I trust that I have shown the Renaissance influence to be as great in this as in the other realms of study. The birth of modern criticism was due to the critical activity of Italian humanism; and it is in sixteenth-century Italy that we shall find, more or less matured, the general spirit and even the specific principles of French classicism. The second half of the design, then, is the history of the Italian influence in literary criticism; and with Milton, the last of the humanists in England, the essay naturally closes. But we shall find, I think, that the influence of the Italian Renaissance in the domain of literary criticism was not even then all decayed, and that Lessing and Shelley, to mention no others, were the legitimate inheritors of the Italian tradition. This essay was submitted to the Faculty of Philosophy, Columbia University, in partial fulfillment of the requirements of the degree of Doctor of Philosophy. The bibliography at the end of the essay indicates sufficiently my obligations to preceding writers. It has been prepared chiefly for the purpose of facilitating reference to works cited in the text and in the foot-notes, and should be consulted for the full titles of books therein mentioned; it makes no pretence of being a complete bibliography of the subject. It will be seen that the history of Italian criticism in the sixteenth century has received scarcely any attention from modern scholars. In regard to Aristotle's _Poetics_, I have used the text, and in general followed the interpretation, given in Professor S. H. Butcher's _Aristotle's Theory of Poetry and Fine Art_, a noble monument of scholarship vivified by literary feeling. I desire also to express my obligations to Professor Butcher for an abstract of Zabarella, to Mr. P. O. Skinner of Harvard for an analysis of Capriano, to my friend, Mr. F. W. Chandler, for summaries of several early English rhetorical treatises, and to Professor Cavalier Speranza for a few corrections; also to my friends, Mr. J. G. Underhill, Mr. Lewis Einstein, and Mr. H. A. Uterhart, and to my brother, Mr. A. B. Spingarn, for incidental assistance of some importance. But, above all, I desire to acknowledge my indebtedness to Professor George E. Woodberry. This book is the fruit of his instruction; and in writing it, also, I have had recourse to him for assistance and criticism. Without the aid so kindly accorded by him, the book could hardly have been written, and certainly would never have assumed its present form. But my obligations to him are not limited to the subject or contents of the present essay. Through a period of five years the inspiration derived from his instruction and encouragement has been so great as to preclude the possibility of its expression in a preface. _Quare habe tibi quidquid hoc libelli._ NEW YORK, March, 1899. CONTENTS PART FIRST _LITERARY CRITICISM IN ITALY_ PAGE I. THE FUNDAMENTAL PROBLEM OF RENAISSANCE CRITICISM 3 i. Mediæval Conceptions of Poetry. ii. The Moral Justification of Poetry. iii. The Final Justification of Poetry. II. THE GENERAL THEORY OF POETRY IN THE ITALIAN RENAISSANCE 24 i. Poetry as a Form of Scholastic Philosophy. ii. Poetry as an Imitation of Life. iii. The Function of Poetry. III. THE THEORY OF THE DRAMA 60 i. The Subject of Tragedy. ii. The Function of Tragedy. iii. The Characters of Tragedy. iv. The Dramatic Unities. v. Comedy. IV. THE THEORY OF EPIC POETRY 107 i. The Theory of the Epic Poem. ii. Epic and Romance. V. THE GROWTH OF THE CLASSIC SPIRIT IN ITALIAN CRITICISM 125 i. Humanism. ii. Aristotelianism. iii. Rationalism. VI. ROMANTIC ELEMENTS IN ITALIAN CRITICISM 155 i. The Ancient Romantic Element. ii. Mediæval Elements. iii. Modern Elements. PART SECOND _LITERARY CRITICISM IN FRANCE_ I. THE CHARACTER AND DEVELOPMENT OF FRENCH CRITICISM IN THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY 171 i. Character. ii. Development. II. THE THEORY OF POETRY IN THE FRENCH RENAISSANCE 190 i. The Poetic Art. ii. The Drama. iii. Heroic Poetry. III. CLASSIC AND ROMANTIC ELEMENTS IN FRENCH CRITICISM DURING THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY 214 i. Classical Elements. ii. Romantic Elements. IV. THE FORMATION OF THE CLASSIC IDEAL IN THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY 232 i. The Romantic Revolt. ii. The Reaction against the Pléiade. iii. The Second Influx of Italian Ideas. iv. The Influence of Rationalistic Philosophy. PART THIRD _LITERARY CRITICISM IN ENGLAND_ I. THE EVOLUTION OF ENGLISH CRITICISM FROM ASCHAM TO MILTON 253 II. THE GENERAL THEORY OF POETRY IN THE ELIZABETHAN AGE 261 III. THE THEORY OF DRAMATIC AND HEROIC POETRY 282 i. Tragedy. ii. Comedy. iii. The Dramatic Unities. iv. Epic Poetry. IV. CLASSICAL ELEMENTS IN ELIZABETHAN CRITICISM 296 i. Introductory: Romantic Elements. ii. Classical Metres. iii. Other Evidences of Classicism. APPENDICES 312 A. Chronological Table of the Chief Critical Works of the Sixteenth Century. B. Salviati's Account of the Commentators on Aristotle's _Poetics_. BIBLIOGRAPHY 317 INDEX 325 PART FIRST _LITERARY CRITICISM IN ITALY_ LITERARY CRITICISM IN ITALY CHAPTER I THE FUNDAMENTAL PROBLEM OF RENAISSANCE CRITICISM THE first problem of Renaissance criticism was the justification of imaginative literature. The existence and continuity of the æsthetic consciousness, and perhaps, in a less degree, of the critical faculty, throughout the Middle Ages, can hardly be denied; yet distrust of literature was keenest among the very class of men in whom the critical faculty might be presupposed, and it was as the handmaid of philosophy, and most of all as the vassal of theology, that poetry was chiefly valued. In other words, the criteria by which imaginative literature was judged during the Middle Ages were not literary criteria. Poetry was disregarded or contemned, or was valued if at all for virtues that least belong to it. The Renaissance was thus confronted with the necessity of justifying its appreciation of the vast body of literature which the Revival of Learning had recovered for the modern world; and the function of Renaissance criticism was to reëstablish the æsthetic foundations of literature, to reaffirm the eternal lesson of Hellenic culture, and to restore once and for all the element of beauty to its rightful place in human life and in the world of art. I. _Mediæval Conceptions of Poetry_ The mediæval distrust of literature was the result of several coöperating causes. Popular literature had fallen into decay, and in its contemporary form was beneath serious consideration. Classical literature was unfortunately pagan, and was moreover but imperfectly known. The mediæval Church from its earliest stages had regarded pagan culture with suspicion, and had come to look upon the development of popular literature as antagonistic to its own supremacy. But beyond this, the distrust of literature went deeper, and was grounded upon certain theoretical and fundamental objections to all the works of the imagination. These theoretical objections were in nowise new to the Middle Ages. They had been stated in antiquity with much more directness and philosophical efficacy than was possible in the mediæval period. Plato had tried imaginative literature by the criteria of reality and morality, both of which are unæsthetic criteria, although fundamentally applicable to poetry. In respect to reality, he had shown that poetry is three removes from the truth, being but the imitation, by the artist, of the imitation, in life, of an idea in the mind of God. In respect to morality, he had discovered in Homer, the greatest of poets, deviations from truth, blasphemy against the gods, and obscenity of various sorts. Furthermore, he had found that creative literature excites the emotions more than does actual life, and stirs up ignoble passions which were better restrained. These ideas ran throughout the Middle Ages, and indeed persisted even beyond the Renaissance. Poetry was judged by these same criteria, but it was natural that mediæval writers should substitute more practical reasons for the metaphysical arguments of Plato. According to the criterion of reality, it was urged that poetry in its very essence is untrue, that at bottom it is fiction, and therefore false. Thus Tertullian said that "the Author of truth hates all the false; He regards as adultery all that is unreal.... He never will approve pretended loves, and wraths, and groans, and tears;"[1] and he affirmed that in place of these pagan works there was in the Bible and the Fathers, a vast body of Christian literature and that this is "not fabulous, but true, not tricks of art, but plain realities."[2] According to the criterion of morality, it was urged that as few works of the imagination were entirely free from obscenity and blasphemy, such blemishes are inseparable from the poetic art; and accordingly, Isidore of Seville says that a Christian is forbidden to read the figments of the poets, "quia per oblectamenta inanium fabularum mentem excitant ad incentiva libidinum."[3] The third, or psychological objection, made by Plato, was similarly emphasized. Thus Tertullian pointed out that while God has enjoined us to deal calmly and gently and quietly with the Holy Spirit, literature, and especially dramatic literature, leads to spiritual agitation.[4] This point seemed to the mediæval mind fundamental, for in real beauty, as Thomas Aquinas insisted, desire is quieted.[5] Furthermore, it was shown that the only body of literary work worthy of serious study dealt with pagan divinities and with religious practices which were in direct antagonism to Christianity. Other objections, also, were incidentally alluded to by mediæval writers. For example, it was said, the supreme question in all matters of life is the question of conduct, and it was not apparent in what manner poetry conduces to action. Poetry has no practical use; it rather enervates men than urges them to the call of duty; and above all, there are more profitable occupations in which the righteous man may be engaged. These objections to literature are not characteristically mediæval. They have sprung up in every period of the world's history, and especially recur in all ages in which ascetic or theological conceptions of life are dominant. They were stock questions of the Greek schools, and there are extant treatises by Maximus of Tyre and others on the problem whether or not Plato was justified in expelling Homer from his ideal commonwealth. The same objections prevailed beyond the Renaissance; and they were urged in Italy by Savonarola, in Germany by Cornelius Agrippa, in England by Gosson and Prynne, and in France by Bossuet and other ecclesiastics. II. _The Moral Justification of Poetry_ The allegorical method of interpreting literature was the result of the mediæval attempt to answer the objections just stated. This method owed its origin to the mode of interpreting the popular mythology first employed by the Sophists and more thoroughly by the later Stoics. Such heroes as Hercules and Theseus, instead of being mere brute conquerors of monsters and giants, were regarded by the Stoic philosophers as symbols of the early sages who had combated the vices and passions of mankind, and they became in the course of time types of pagan saints. The same mode of interpretation was later applied to the stories of the Old Testament by Philo Judæus, and was first introduced into Occidental Europe by Hilary of Poitiers and Ambrose, Bishop of Milan.[6] Abraham, Adam, Eve, Jacob, became types of various virtues, and the biblical stories were considered as symbolical of the various moral struggles in the soul of man. The first instance of the systematic application of the method to the pagan myths occurs in the _Mythologicon_ of Fulgentius, who probably flourished in the first half of the sixth century; and in his _Virgiliana Continentia_, the _Æneid_ is treated as an image of life, and the travels of Æneas as the symbol of the progress of the human soul, from nature, through wisdom, to final happiness. From this period, the allegorical method became the recognized mode of interpreting literature, whether sacred or profane. Petrarch, in his letter, _De quibusdam fictionibus Virgilij_,[7] treats the _Æneid_ after the manner of Fulgentius; and even at the very end of the Renaissance Tasso interpreted his own romantic epics in the same way. After the acceptance of the method, its application was further complicated. Gregory the Great ascribes three meanings to the Bible,--the literal, the typical or allegorical, and the moral. Still later, a fourth meaning was added; and Dante distinctly claims all four, the literal, the allegorical, the moral or philosophical, and the anagogical or mystical, for his _Divine Comedy_.[8] This method, while perhaps justifying poetry from the standpoint of ethics and divinity, gives it no place as an independent art; thus considered, poetry becomes merely a popularized form of theology. Both Petrarch and Boccaccio regarded allegory as the warp and woof of poetry; but they modified the mediæval point of view by arguing conversely that theology itself is a form of poetry,--the poetry of God. Both of them insist that the Bible is essentially poetical, and that Christ himself spoke largely in poetical images. This point was so emphasized by Renaissance critics that Berni, in his _Dialogo contra i Poeti_ (1537), condemns the poets for speaking of God as Jupiter and of the saints as Mercury, Hercules, Bacchus, and for even having the audacity to call the prophets and the writers of the Scriptures poets and makers of verses.[9] The fourteenth and fifteenth books of Boccaccio's treatise, _De Genealogia Deorum_, have been called "the first defence of poesy in honor of his own art by a poet of the modern world;" but Boccaccio's justification of imaginative literature is still primarily based on the usual mediæval grounds. The reality of poetry is dependent on its allegorical foundations; its moral teachings are to be sought in the hidden meanings discoverable beneath the literal expression; pagan poetry is defended for Christianity on the ground that the references to Greek and Roman gods and rituals are to be regarded only as symbolical truths. The poet's function, for Boccaccio, as for Dante and Petrarch, was to hide and obscure the actual truth behind a veil of beautiful fictions--_veritatem rerum pulchris velaminibus adornare._[10] The humanistic point of view, in regard to poetry, was of a more practical and far-reaching nature than that of the Middle Ages. The allegorical interpretation did indeed continue throughout the Renaissance, and Mantuan, for example, can only define a poem as a literary form which is bound by the stricter laws of metre, and which has its fundamental truths hidden under the literal expressions of the fable. For still later writers, this mode of regarding literature seemed to present the only loophole of escape from the moral objections to poetry. But in employing the old method, the humanists carried it far beyond its original application. Thus, Lionardo Bruni, in his _De Studiis et Literis_ (_c._ 1405), after dwelling on the allegorical interpretation of the pagan myths, argues that when one reads the story of Æneas and Dido, he pays his tribute of admiration to the genius of the poet, but the matter itself is known to be fiction, and so leaves no moral impression.[11] By this Bruni means that fiction as such, when known to be fiction, can leave no moral impression, and secondly, that poetry is to be judged by the success of the artist, and not by the efficacy of the moralist. Similarly, Battista Guarino, in his _De Ordine Docendi et Studendi_ (1459), says that we are not disturbed by the impieties, cruelties, horrors, which we find in poetry; we judge these things simply by their congruity with the characters and incidents described. In other words, "we criticise the artist, not the moralist."[12] This is a distinct attempt at the æsthetic appreciation of literature, but while such ideas are not uncommon about this time, they express isolated sentiments, rather than a doctrine strictly coördinated with an æsthetic theory of poetry. The more strict defence of poetry was attempted for the most part on the grounds set forth by Horace in his _Ars Poetica_. At no period from the Augustan Age to the Renaissance does the _Ars Poetica_ seem to have been entirely lost. It is mentioned or quoted, for example, by Isidore of Seville[13] in the sixth century, by John of Salisbury[14] in the twelfth century, and by Dante[15] in the fourteenth. Horace insists on the mingled instructiveness and pleasurableness of poetry; and beyond this, he points out the value of poetry as a civilizing factor in history, regarding the early poets as sages and prophets, and the inventors of arts and sciences:-- "Orpheus, inspired by more than human power, Did not, as poets feigned, tame savage beasts, But men as lawless and as wild as they, And first dissuaded them from rage and blood. Thus when Amphion built the Theban wall, They feigned the stones obeyed his magic lute; Poets, the first instructors of mankind, Brought all things to their proper native use; Some they appropriated to the gods, And some to public, some to private ends: Promiscuous love by marriage was restrained, Cities were built, and useful laws were made; So ancient is the pedigree of verse, And so divine the poet's function."[16] This conception of the early poet's function was an old one. It is to be found in Aristophanes;[17] it runs through Renaissance criticism; and even in this very century, Shelley[18] speaks of poets as "the authors of language, and of music, of the dance, and architecture, and statuary, and painting," as "the institutors of laws, and the founders of civil society, and the inventors of the arts of life." To-day the idealist takes refuge in the same faith: "The tree of knowledge is of equal date with the tree of life; nor were even the tamer of horses, the worker in metals, or the sower, elder than those twin guardians of the soul,--the poet and the priest. Conscience and imagination were the pioneers who made earth habitable for the human spirit."[19] It was this ethical and civilizing function of poetry which was first in the minds of the humanists. Action being the test of all studies,[20] poetry must stand or fall in proportion as it conduces to righteous action. Thus, Lionardo Bruni[21] speaks of poetry as "so valuable an aid to knowledge, and so ennobling a source of pleasure"; and Æneas Sylvius Piccolomini, in his treatise _De Liberorum Educatione_ (1450), declares that the crucial question is not, Is poetry to be contemned? but, How are the poets to be used? and he solves his own question by asserting that we are to welcome all that poets can render in praise of integrity and in condemnation of vice, and that all else is to be left unheeded.[22] Beyond this, the humanists urged in favor of poetry the fact of its antiquity and divine origin, and the further fact that it had been praised by great men of all professions, and its creators patronized by kings and emperors from time immemorial. There were then at the end of the Middle Ages, and the beginning of the Renaissance, two opposing tendencies in regard to the poetic art, one representing the humanistic reverence for ancient culture, and for poetry as one of the phases of that culture, and the other representing not only the mediæval tradition, but a purism allied to that of early Christianity, and akin to the ascetic conceptions of life found in almost every period. These two tendencies are expressed specifically in their noblest forms by the great humanist Poliziano, and the great moral reformer Savonarola. In the _Sylvæ_, written toward the close of the fifteenth century, Poliziano dwells on the divine origin of poetry, as Boccaccio had done in his _Vita di Dante_; and then, after the manner of Horace, he describes its ennobling influence on man, and its general influence on the progress of civilization.[23] He then proceeds to survey the progress of poetry from the most ancient times, and in so doing may be said to have written the first modern history of literature. The second section of the _Sylvæ_ discusses the bucolic poets; the third contains that glorification of Virgil which began during the Middle Ages, and, continued by Vida and others, became in Scaliger literary deification; and the last section is devoted to Homer, who is considered as the great teacher of wisdom, and the wisest of the ancients. Nowhere does Poliziano exhibit any appreciation of the æsthetic value of poetry, but his enthusiasm for the great poets, and indeed for all forms of ancient culture, is unmistakable, and combined with his immense erudition marks him as a representative poet of humanism.[24] On the other hand, the puristic conception of art is elaborated at great length by Savonarola in an apology for poetry contained in his tractate, _De Divisione ac Utilitate Omnium Scientarum_,[25] written about 1492. After classifying the sciences in true scholastic fashion, and arranging them according to their relative importance and their respective utility for Christianity, he attacks all learning as superfluous and dangerous, unless restricted to a chosen few. Poetry, according to the scholastic arrangement, is grouped with logic and grammar; and this mediæval classification fixes Savonarola's conception of the theory of poetic art. He expressly says that he attacks the abuse of poetry and not poetry itself, but there can be no doubt that, at bottom, he was intolerant of creative literature. Like Plato, like moral reformers of all ages, he feared the free play of the imaginative faculty; and in connecting poetry with logic he was tending toward the elimination of the imagination in art. The basis of his æsthetic system, such as it is, rests wholly on that of Thomas Aquinas;[26] but he is in closer accord with Aristotle when he points out that versification, a merely conventional accompaniment of poetry, is not to be confounded with the essence of poetry itself. This distinction is urged to defend the Scriptures, which he regards as the highest and holiest form of poetry. For him poetry is coördinate with philosophy and with thought; but in his intolerance of poetry in its lower forms, he would follow Plato in banishing poets from an ideal state. The imitation of the ancient poets especially falls under his suspicion, and in an age given up to their worship he denies both their supremacy and their utility. In fine, as a reformer, he represents for us the religious reaction against the paganization of culture by the humanists. But the forces against him were too strong. Even the Christianization of culture effected during the next century by the Council of Trent was hardly more than temporary. Humanism, which represents the revival of ancient pagan culture, and rationalism, which represents the growth of the modern spirit in science and art, were currents too powerful to be impeded by any reformer, however great, and, when combined in classicism, were to reign supreme in literature for centuries to come. But Savonarola and Poliziano serve to indicate that modern literary criticism had not yet begun. For until some rational answer to the objections urged against poetry in antiquity and in the Middle Ages was forthcoming, literary criticism in any true sense was fundamentally impossible; and that answer came only with the recovery of Aristotle's _Poetics_. III. _The Final Justification of Poetry_ The influence of Aristotle's _Poetics_ in classical antiquity, so far as it is possible to judge, was very slight; there is no apparent reference to the _Poetics_ in Horace, Cicero, or Quintilian,[27] and it was entirely lost sight of during the Middle Ages. Its modern transmission was due almost exclusively to Orientals.[28] The first Oriental version of Aristotle's treatise appears to have been that made by Abu-Baschar, a Nestorian Christian, from the Syriac into Arabic, about the year 935. Two centuries later, the Moslem philosopher Averroës made an abridged version of the _Poetics_, which was translated into Latin in the thirteenth century, by a certain German, named Hermann, and again, by Mantinus of Tortosa in Spain, in the fourteenth century. Hermann's version seems to have circulated considerably in the Middle Ages, but it had no traceable influence on critical literature whatsoever. It is mentioned and censured by Roger Bacon, but the _Poetics_ in any form was probably unknown to Dante, to Boccaccio, and beyond a single obscure reference, to Petrarch. There is no question that for a long time before the beginning of the sixteenth century the _Poetics_ had been entirely neglected. Not only do the critical ideas of this period show no indication of Aristotelian influence, but during the sixteenth century itself there seems to have been a well-defined impression that the _Poetics_ had been recovered only after centuries of oblivion. Thus, Bernardo Segni, who translated the _Poetics_ into Italian in 1549, speaks of it as "abandoned and neglected for a long time";[29] and Bernardo Tasso, some ten years later, refers to it as "buried for so long a time in the obscure shadows of ignorance."[30] It was then as a new work of Aristotle that the Latin translation by Giorgio Valla, published at Venice in 1498, must have appeared to Valla's contemporaries. Though hardly successful as a work of scholarship, this translation, and the Greek text of the _Poetics_ published in the Aldine _Rhetores Græci_ in 1508, had considerable influence on dramatic literature, but scarcely any immediate influence on literary criticism. Somewhat later, in 1536, Alessandro de' Pazzi published a revised Latin version, accompanied by the original; and from this time, the influence of the Aristotelian canons becomes manifest in critical literature. In 1548, Robortelli produced the first critical edition of the _Poetics_, with a Latin translation and a learned commentary, and in the very next year the first Italian translation was given to the world by Bernardo Segni. From that day to this the editions and translations of the _Poetics_ have increased beyond number, and there is hardly a single passage in Aristotle's treatise which has not been discussed by innumerable commentators and critics. It was in Aristotle's _Poetics_ that the Renaissance was to find, if not a complete, at least a rational justification of poetry, and an answer to every one of the Platonic and mediæval objections to imaginative literature. As to the assertion that poetry diverges from actual reality, Aristotle[31] contended that there is to be found in poetry a higher reality than that of mere commonplace fact, that poetry deals not with particulars, but with universals, and that it aims at describing not what has been, but what might have been or ought to be. In other words, poetry has little regard for the actuality of the specific event, but aims at the reality of an eternal probability. It matters not whether Achilles or Æneas did this thing, or that thing, which Homer or Virgil ascribes to either, but if Achilles or Æneas was such a man as the poet describes, he must necessarily act as Homer or Virgil has made him do. It is needless to say that Aristotle is here simply distinguishing between ideal truth and actual fact, and in asserting that it is the function of poetry to imitate only ideal truth he laid the foundations, not only of an answer to mediæval objections, but also of modern æsthetic criticism. Beyond this, poetry is justified on the grounds of morality, for while not having a distinctly moral aim, it is essentially moral, because it is this ideal representation of life, and an idealized version of human life must necessarily present it in its moral aspects. Aristotle distinctly combats the traditional Greek conception of the didactic function of poetry; but it is evident that he insists fundamentally that literature must be moral, for he sternly rebukes Euripides several times on grounds that are moral, rather than purely æsthetic. In answer to the objection that poetry, instead of calming, stirs and excites our meanest passions, that it "waters and cherishes those emotions which ought to wither with drought, and constitutes them our rulers, when they ought to be our subjects,"[32] Aristotle taught those in the Renaissance who were able to understand him, that poetry, and especially dramatic poetry, does not indeed starve the emotions, but excites them only to allay and to regulate them, and in this æsthetic process purifies and ennobles them.[33] In pointing out these things he has justified the utility of poetry, regarding it as more serious and philosophic than history, because it universalizes mere fact, and imitates life in its noblest aspects. These arguments were incorporated into Renaissance criticism; they were emphasized, as we shall see, over and over again, and they formed the basis of the justification of poetry in modern critical literature. At the same time, this purely æsthetic conception of art did not prevail by itself in the sixteenth century, even in those for whom Aristotle meant most, and who best understood his meaning; the Horatian elements, also, as found in the early humanists, were elaborated and discussed. In the _Poetica_ of Daniello (1536), these Horatian elements form the basis for a defence of poetry[34] that has many marked resemblances to various passages in Sir Philip Sidney's _Defence of Poesy_. After referring to the antiquity and nobility of poetry, and affirming that no other art is nobler or more ancient, Daniello shows that all things known to man, all the secrets of God and nature, are described by the poets in musical numbers and with exquisite ornament. He furthermore asserts, in the manner of Horace, that the poets were the inventors of the arts of life; and in answer to the objection that it was the philosophers who in reality did these things, he shows that while instruction is more proper to the philosopher than to the poet, poets teach too, in many more ways, and far more pleasantly, than any philosopher can. They hide their useful teachings under various fictions and fabulous veils, as the physician covers bitter medicine with a sweet coating. The style of the philosopher is dry and obscure, without any force or beauty by itself; and the delightful instruction of poetry is far more effective than the abstract and harsh teachings of philosophy. Poetry, indeed, was the only form of philosophy that primitive men had, and Plato, while regarding himself as an enemy of poets, was really a great poet himself, for he expresses all his ideas in a wondrously harmonious rhythm, and with great splendor of words and images. This defence of Daniello's is interesting, as anticipating the general form of such apologies throughout the sixteenth century. Similarly, Minturno in his _De Poeta_ (1559), elaborates the Horatian suggestions for a defence of poetry. He begins by pointing out the broad inclusiveness of poetry, which may be said to comprehend in itself every form of human learning, and by showing that no form of learning can be found before the first poets, and that no nation, however barbarous, has ever been averse to poetry. The Hebrews praised God in verse; the Greeks, Italians, Germans, and British have all honored poetry; the Persians have had their Magi and the Gauls their bards. Verse, while not essential to poetry, gives the latter much of its delightful effectiveness, and if the gods ever speak, they certainly speak in verse; indeed, in primitive times it was in verse that all sciences, history, and philosophy were written.[35] To answer the traditional objections against imaginative literature which had survived beyond the Middle Ages seemed to the Renaissance a simpler task, however, than to answer the more philosophical objections urged in the Platonic dialogues. The authority of Plato during the Renaissance made it impossible to slight the arguments stated by him in the _Republic_, and elsewhere. The writers of this period were particularly anxious to refute, or at least to explain away, the reasons for which Plato had banished poets from his ideal commonwealth. Some critics, like Bernardo Tasso[36] and Daniello,[37] asserted that Plato had not argued against poetry itself, but only against the abuse of poetry. Thus, according to Tasso, only impure and effeminate poets were to be excluded from the ideal state, and according to Daniello, only the more immoral tragic poets, and especially the authors of obscene and lampooning comedies. Other Renaissance writers, like Minturno[38] and Fracastoro,[39] answered the Platonic objections on more philosophical grounds. Thus Fracastoro answers Plato's charge that, since poetry is three removes from ideal truth, poets are fundamentally ignorant of the realities they attempt to imitate, by pointing out that the poet is indeed ignorant of what he is speaking of, in so far as he is a versifier and skilled in language, just as the philosopher or historian is ignorant of natural or historical facts in so far as he, too, is merely skilled in language, but knows these facts in so far as he is learned, and has thought out the problems of nature and history. The poet, as well as the philosopher and the historian, must possess knowledge, if he is to teach anything; he, too, must learn the things he is going to write about, and must solve the problems of life and thought; he, too, must have a philosophical and an historical training. Plato's objection, indeed, applies to the philosopher, to the orator, to the historian, quite as much as to the poet. As to Plato's second charge, that imagination naturally tends toward the worst things, and accordingly that poets write obscenely and blasphemously, Fracastoro points out that this is not the fault of the art, but of those who abuse it; there are, indeed, immoral and enervating poets, and they ought to be excluded, not only from Plato's, but from every commonwealth. Thus various Aristotelian and Horatian elements were combined to form a definite body of Renaissance criticism. FOOT-NOTES: [1] _De Spectac._ xxiii. [2] _Ibid._ xxii. [3] _Differentiæ_, iii. 13, 1. [4] _De Spectac._ xv. _Cf._ Cyprian, _Epist. ad Donat._ viii. [5] _Cf._ Bosanquet, _Hist. of Æsthetic_, p. 148. [6] _Cf._ St. Augustine, _Confess._ v. 14, vi. 4; Clemens Alex. _Stromata_, v. 8. [7] _Opera_, p. 867. [8] _Cf._ Dante, _Epist._ xi. 7; _Convito_, ii. 1, 1. [9] Berni, p. 226 _sq._ [10] Petrarch, _Opera_, p. 1205; _cf._ Boccaccio, _Gen. degli Dei_, p. 250, v. [11] Woodward, _Vittorino da Feltre_, p. 132. [12] _Ibid._ p. 175. [13] _Etymologiæ_, viii. 7, 5. [14] _Policraticus_, i. 8. [15] Moore, _Dante and his Early Biographers_, London, 1890, pp. 173, 174. [16] _Ars Poet._ 391 (Roscommon). [17] _Frogs_, 1030 _sq._ [18] _Defence of Poetry_, ed. Cook, p. 5. [19] Woodberry, "A New Defence of Poetry," in _Heart of Man_, New York, 1899, p. 76. [20] Woodward, p. 182 _sq._ [21] _Ibid._ p. 131. [22] _Ibid._ p. 150. [23] Pope, _Selecta Poemata_, ii. 108; _cf._ _Ars Poet._ 398. [24] _Cf._ Gaspary, ii. 220. [25] Villari, p. 501 _sq._, and Perrens, ii. 328 _sq._ [26] _Cf._ Cartier, _L'Esthétique de Savonarole_, in Didron's _Annales Archéologiques_, 1847, vii. 255 _sq._ [27] Egger, 209 _sq._ [28] _Ibid._ 555 _sq._ [29] Segni, p. 160. [30] B. Tasso, _Lettere_, ii. 525. So also, Robortelli, 1548, "Jacuit liber hic neglectus, ad nostra fere haec usque tempora." [31] _Poet._ ix. [32] Plato, _Rep._ x. 660. [33] _Poet._ vi. 2; _Pol._ viii. 7. [34] Daniello, p. 10 _sq._ [35] _De Poeta_, p. 13 _sq._ [36] _Lettere_, ii. 526. [37] _Poetica_, p. 14 _sq._ [38] _De Poeta_, p. 30 _sq._ [39] _Opera_, i. 361 _sq._ CHAPTER II THE GENERAL THEORY OF POETRY IN THE ITALIAN RENAISSANCE IN the first book of his _Geography_ Strabo defines poetry as "a kind of elementary philosophy, which introduces us early to life, and gives us pleasurable instruction in reference to character, emotion, action." This passage sounds the keynote of the Renaissance theory of poetry. Poetry is therein stated to be a form of philosophy, and, moreover, a philosophy whose subject is life, and its object is said to be pleasurable instruction. I. _Poetry as a Form of Scholastic Philosophy_ In the first place, poetry is a form of philosophy. Savonarola had classed poetry with logic and grammar, and had asserted that a knowledge of logic is essential to the composing of poetry. The division of the sciences and the relative importance of each were a source of infinite scholastic discussion during the Middle Ages. Aristotle had first placed dialectic or logic, rhetoric, and poetics in the same category of efficient philosophy. But Averroës was probably the first to confuse the function of poetics with that of logic, and to make the former a subdivision, or form, of the latter; and this classification appears to have been accepted by the scholastic philosophers of the Middle Ages. This conception of the position of poetry in the body of human knowledge may be found, however, throughout the Renaissance. Thus, Robortelli, in his commentary on Aristotle's _Poetics_ (1548), gives the usual scholastic distinctions between the various forms of the written or spoken word (_oratio_): the demonstrative, which deals with the true; the dialectic, which deals with the probable; the rhetorical, with the persuasive; and the poetic, with the false or fabulous.[40] By the term "false" or "fabulous" is meant merely that the subject of poetry is not actual fact, but that it deals with things as they ought to be, rather than as they are. Varchi, in his public lectures on poetry (1553), divides philosophy into two forms, real and rational. Real philosophy deals with things, and includes metaphysics, ethics, physics, geometry, and the like; while rational philosophy, which includes logic, dialectic, rhetoric, history, poetry, and grammar, deals not with things, but with words, and is not philosophy proper, but the instrument of philosophy. Poetry is therefore, strictly speaking, neither an art nor a science, but an instrument or faculty; and it is only an art in the sense that it has been reduced to rules and precepts. It is, in fact, a form of logic, and no man, according to Varchi, can be a poet unless he is a logician; the better logician he is, the better poet he will be. Logic and poetry differ, however, in their matter and their instruments; for the subject of logic is truth, arrived at by means of the demonstrative syllogism, while the subject of poetry is fiction or invention, arrived at by means of that form of the syllogism known as the example. Here the enthymeme, or example, which Aristotle has made the instrument of rhetoric, becomes the instrument of poetry. This classification survived in the Aristotelian schools at Padua and elsewhere as late as Zabarella and Campanella. Zabarella, a professor of logic and later of philosophy at Padua from 1564 to 1589, explains at length Averroës's theory that poetics is a form of logic, in a treatise on the nature of logic, published in 1578.[41] He concludes that the two faculties, logic and poetics, are not instruments of philosophy in general, but only of a part of it, for they refer rather to action than to knowledge; that is, they come under Aristotle's category of efficient philosophy. They are not the instruments of useful art or of moral philosophy, the end of which is to make one's self good; but of civil philosophy, the end of which is to make others good. If it be objected that they are [Greek: tôn enantiôn], that is, of both good and evil, it may be answered that their proper end is good. Thus, in the _Symposium_, the true poet is praised; while in the _Republic_ the poets who aim at pleasure and who corrupt their audiences are censured; and Aristotle in his definition of tragedy says that the end of tragedy is to purge the passions and to correct the morals of men (_affectiones animi purgare et mores corrigere_). Even later than Zabarella, we find in the _Poetica_ of Campanella a division of the sciences very similar to that of Savonarola and Varchi. Theology is there placed at the head of all knowledge, in accordance with the mediæval tradition, while poetics, with dialectic, grammar, and rhetoric, is placed among the logical sciences. Considering _poetica_ as a form of philosophy, another commentator on Aristotle, Maggi (1550), takes great pains to distinguish its various manifestations. _Poetica_ is the art of composing poetry, _poesis_, the poetry composed according to this art, _poeta_, the composer of poetry, and _poema_, a single specimen of poetry.[42] This distinction is an elaboration of two passages in Plutarch and Aphthonius. II. _Poetry as an Imitation of Life_ In the second place, according to the passage from Strabo cited at the beginning of this chapter, poetry introduces us early to life, or, in other words, its subject is human action, and it is what Aristotle calls it, an imitation of human life. This raises two distinct problems. First, what is the meaning of imitation? and what in life is the subject-matter of this imitation? The conception of imitation held by the critics of the Renaissance was that expressed by Aristotle in the ninth chapter of the _Poetics_. The passage is as follows:-- "It is evident from what has been said that it is not the function of the poet to relate what has happened, but what may happen,--what is possible according to the law of probability or necessity. The poet and the historian differ not by writing in verse or in prose. The work of Herodotus might be put into verse, and it would still be a species of history, with metre no less than without it. The true difference is that one relates what has happened, the other what may happen. Poetry, therefore, is a more philosophical and a higher thing than history; for poetry tends to express the universal, history the particular. The universal tells us how a person of given character will on occasion speak or act, according to the law of probability or necessity; and it is this universality at which poetry aims in giving expressive names to the characters." In this passage Aristotle has briefly formulated a conception of ideal imitation which may be regarded as universally valid, and which, repeated over and over again, became the basis of Renaissance criticism. In the _Poetica_ of Daniello (1536), occurs the first allusion in modern literary criticism to the Aristotelian notion of ideal imitation. According to Daniello, the poet, unlike the historian, can mingle fictions with facts, because he is not obliged, as is the historian, to describe things as they actually are or have been, but rather as they ought to be; and it is in this that the poet most differs from the historian, and not in the writing of verses; for even if Livy's works were versified, they would still be histories as before.[43] This is of course almost a paraphrase of the passage in Aristotle; but that Daniello did not completely understand the ideal element in Aristotle's conception is shown by the further distinction which he draws between the historian and the poet. For he adds that the poet and the historian have much in common; in both there are descriptions of places, peoples, laws; both contain the representation of vices and virtues; in both, amplification, variety, and digressions are proper; and both teach, delight, and profit at the same time. They differ, however, in that the historian, in telling his story, recounts it exactly as it happened, and adds nothing; whereas the poet is permitted to add whatever he desires, so long as the fictitious events have all the appearance of truth. Somewhat later, Robortelli treats the question of æsthetic imitation from another point of view. The poet deals with things as they ought to be, but he can either appropriate actual fact, or he can invent his material. If he does the former, he narrates the truth not as it really happened, but as it might or ought to happen; while if he invents his material, he must do so in accordance with the law of possibility, or necessity, or probability and verisimilitude.[44] Thus Xenophon, in describing Cyrus, does not depict him as he actually was, but as the best and noblest king can be and ought to be; and Cicero, in describing the orator, follows the same method. From this it is evident that the poet can invent things transcending the order of nature; but if he does so, he should describe what might or ought to have been. Here Robortelli answers a possible objection to Aristotle's statement that poets deal only with what is possible and verisimilar. Is it possible and verisimilar that the gods should eat ambrosia and drink nectar, as Homer describes, and that such a being as Cerberus should have several heads, as we find in Virgil, not to mention various improbable things that occur in many other poets? The answer to such an objection is that poets can invent in two ways. They can invent either things according to nature or things transcending nature. In the former case, these things must be in keeping with the laws of probability and necessity; but in the latter case, the things are treated according to a process described by Aristotle himself, and called paralogism, which means, not necessarily false reasoning, but the natural, if quite inconclusive, logical inference that the things we know not of are subject to the same laws as the things we know. The poets accept the existence of the gods from the common notion of men, and then treat all that relates to these deities in accordance with this system of paralogism. In tragedy and comedy men are described as acting in accordance with the ordinary occurrences of nature; but in epic poetry this is not entirely the case, and the marvellous is therefore admitted. Accordingly, this marvellous element has the widest scope in epic poetry; while in comedy, which treats of things nearest to our own time, it ought not to be admitted at all. But there is another problem suggested by the passage from the _Poetics_ which has been cited. Aristotle says that imitation, and not metre, is the test of poetry; that even if a history were versified, it would still remain history. The question then arises whether a writer who imitates in prose, that is, without verse, would be worthy of the title of poet. Robortelli answers this question by pointing out that metre does not constitute the nature, force, or essence of poetry, which depends entirely on the fact of imitation; but at the same time, while one who imitates without verse is a poet, in the best and truest poetry imitation and metre are combined.[45] In Fracastoro's _Naugerius, sive de Poetica Dialogus_ (1555), there is the completest explanation of the ideal element in the Aristotelian conception of imitation. The poet, according to Aristotle, differs from other writers in that the latter consider merely the particular, while the poet aims at the universal. He is, in other words, attempting to describe the simple and essential truth of things, not by depicting the nude thing as it is, but the idea of things clothed in all their beauties.[46] Here Fracastoro attempts to explain the Aristotelian conception of the type with the aid of the Platonic notion of beauty. There were, in fact, in the Renaissance, three conceptions of beauty in general vogue. First, the purely objective conception that poetry is fixed or formal, that it consists in approximating to a certain mechanical or geometrical form, such as roundness, squareness, or straightness; secondly, the Platonic conception, ethical rather than æsthetic, connecting the beautiful with the good, and regarding both as the manifestation of divine power; and, thirdly, a more purely æsthetic conception of beauty, connecting it either with grace or conformity, or in a higher sense with whatever is proper or fitting to an object. This last idea, which at times approaches the modern conception that beauty consists in the realization of the objective character of any particular thing and in the fulfilment of the law of its own being, seems to have been derived from the _Idea_ of the Greek rhetorician Hermogenes, whose influence during the sixteenth century was considerable, even as early as the time of Filelfo. It was the celebrated rhetorician Giulio Cammillo, however, who appears to have popularized Hermogenes in the sixteenth century, by translating the _Idea_ into Italian, and by expounding it in a discourse published posthumously in 1544. As will be seen, Fracastoro's conception of beauty approximates both to the Platonic and to the more purely æsthetic doctrines which we have mentioned; and he expounds and elaborates this æsthetic notion in the following manner. Each art has its own rules of proper expression. The historian or the philosopher does not aim at all the beauties or elegancies of expression, but only such as are proper to history or philosophy. But to the poet no grace, no embellishment, no ornament, is ever alien; he does not consider the particular beauty of any one field,--that is, the singular, or particular, of Aristotle,--but all that pertains to the simple idea of beauty and of beautiful speech. Yet this universalized beauty is no extraneous thing; it cannot be added to objects in which it has no place, as a golden coat on a rustic; all the essential beauty of each species is to be the especial regard of the poet. For in imitating persons and things, he neglects no beauty or elegance which he can attribute to them; he strives only after the most beautiful and most excellent, and in this way affects the minds of men in the direction of excellence and beauty. This suggests a problem which is at the very root of Aristotle's conception of ideal imitation; and it is Fracastoro's high merit that he was one of the first writers of the Renaissance to explain away the objection, and to formulate in the most perfect manner what Aristotle really meant. For, even granting that the poet teaches more than others, may it not be urged that it is not what pertains to the thing itself, but the beauties which he adds to them,--that it is ornament, extraneous to the thing itself (_extra rem_), and not the thing itself,--which seems to be the chief regard of the poet? But after all, what is _extra rem_? Are beautiful columns, domes, peristyles _extra rem_, because a thatched roof will protect us from rain and frost; or is noble raiment _extra rem_, because a rustic garment would suffice? The poet, so far from adding anything extraneous to the things he imitates, depicts them in their very essence; and it is because he alone finds the true beauty in things, because he attributes to them their true nobility and perfection, that he is more useful than any other writer. The poet does not, as some think, deal with the false and the unreal.[47] He assumes nothing openly alien to truth, though he may permit himself to treat of old and obscure legends which cannot be verified, or of things which are regarded as true on account of their appearance, their allegorical signification (such as the ancient myths and fables), or their common acceptance by men. So we may conclude that not every one who uses verse is a poet, but only he who is moved by the true beauty of things--by their simple and essential beauties, not merely apparent ones. This is Fracastoro's conclusion, and it contains that mingling of Platonism and Aristotelianism which may be found somewhat later in Tasso and Sir Philip Sidney. It is the chief merit of Fracastoro's dialogue, that even while emphasizing this Platonic element, he clearly distinguishes and defines the ideal element in æsthetic imitation. About the same time, in the public lectures of Varchi (1553), there was an attempt to formulate a more explicit definition of poetry on the basis of Aristotle's definition[48] of tragedy. Poetry, according to Varchi, is an imitation of certain actions, passions, habits of mind, with song, diction, and harmony, together or separately, for the purpose of removing the vices of men and inciting them to virtue, in order that they may attain their true happiness and beatitude.[49] In the first place, poetry is an imitation. Every poet imitates, and any one who does not imitate cannot be called a poet. Accordingly, Varchi follows Maggi in distinguishing three classes of poets,--the poets _par excellence_, who imitate in verse; the poets who imitate without using verse, such as Lucian, Boccaccio in the _Decameron_, and Sannazaro in the _Arcadia_; and the poets, commonly but less properly so called, who use verse, but who do not imitate. Verse, while not an essential attribute of poetry, is generally required; for men's innate love of harmony, according to Aristotle, was one of the causes that gave rise to poetic composition. Certain forms of poetry however, such as tragedy, cannot be written without verse; for "embellished language," that is, verse, is included in the very definition of tragedy as given by Aristotle. The question whether poetry could be written in prose was a source of much discussion in the Renaissance; but the consensus of opinion was overwhelmingly against the prose drama. Comedy in prose was the usual Italian practice of this period, and various scholars[50] even sanction the practice on theoretical grounds. But the controversy was not brought to a head until the publication of Agostino Michele's _Discorso in cui si dimostra come si possono scrivere le Commedie e le Tragedie in Prosa_ in 1592; and eight years later, in 1600, Paolo Beni published his Latin dissertation, _Disputatio in qua ostenditur præstare Comoediam atque Tragoediam metrorum vinculis solvere_.[51] The language of Beni's treatise was strong--its very title speaks of liberating the drama from the shackles of verse; and for a heresy of this sort, couched as it was in language that might even have been revolutionary enough for the French romanticists of 1830, the sixteenth century was not yet fully prepared. Faustino Summo, answering Beni in the same year, asserts that not only is it improper for tragedy and comedy to be written in prose, but that no form of poetry whatever can properly be composed without the accompaniment of verse.[52] The result of the whole controversy was to fix the metrical form of the drama throughout the period of classicism. But it need not be said that the same conclusion was not accepted by all for every form of poetry. The remark of Cervantes in _Don Quixote_, that epics can be written in prose as well as in verse, is well known; and Julius Cæsar Scaliger[53] speaks of Heliodorus's romance as a model epic. Scaliger, however, regards verse as a fundamental part of poetry. For him, poetry and history have the forms of narration and ornament in common, but differ in that poetry adds fictions to the things that are true, or imitates actual things with fictitious ones,--_majore sane apparatu_, that is, among other things, with verse. As a result of this notion, Scaliger asserts that if the history of Herodotus were versified, it would no longer be history, but historical poetry. Under no circumstances, theoretically, will he permit the separation of poetry from mere versification. He accordingly dismisses with contempt the usual argument of the period that Lucan was an historian rather than a poet. "Take an actual history," says Scaliger; "how does Lucan differ, for example, from Livy? He differs in using verse. Well, then he is a poet." Poetry, then, is imitation in verse;[54] but in imitating what ought to be rather than what is, the poet creates another nature and other fortunes, as if he were another God.[55] It will be seen from these discussions that the Renaissance always conceived of æsthetic imitation in this ideal sense. There are scarcely any traces of realism, in anything like its modern sense, in the literary criticism of this period. Torquato Tasso does indeed say that art becomes most perfect as it approaches most closely to nature;[56] and Scaliger declares that the dramatic poet must beyond all things aim at reproducing the actual conditions of life.[57] But it is the appearance of reality, and not the mere actuality itself, that the critics are speaking of here. With the vast body of mediæval literature before them, in which impossibilities follow upon impossibilities, and the sense of reality is continually obscured, the critical writers of the Renaissance were forced to lay particular stress on the element of probability, the element of close approach to the seeming realities of life; but the imitation of life is for them, nevertheless, an imitation of things as they ought to be--in other words, the imitation is ideal. Muzio says that nature is adorned by art:-- "Suol far l' opere sue roze, e tra le mani Lasciarle a l' arte, che le adorni e limi;"[58] and he distinctly affirms that the poet cannot remain content with exact portraiture, with the mere actuality of life:-- "Lascia 'l vero a l' historia, e ne' tuoi versi Sotto i nomi privati a l' universo Mostra che fare e che non far si debbia." In keeping with this idealized conception of art, Muzio asserts that everything obscene or immoral must be excluded from poetry; and this puristic notion of art is everywhere emphasized in Renaissance criticism. It was the _verisimile_, as has been said, that the writers of this period especially insisted upon. Poetry must have the appearance of truth, that is, it must be probable; for unless the reader believes what he reads, his spirit cannot be moved by the poem.[59] This anticipates Boileau's famous line:-- "L'esprit n'est point ému de ce qu'il ne croit pas."[60] But beyond and above the _verisimile_, the poet must pay special regard to the ethical element (_il lodevole e l' onesto_). A poet of the sixteenth century, Palingenius, says that there are three qualities required of every poem:-- "Atqui scire opus est, triplex genus esse bonorum, Utile, delectans, majusque ambobus honestum."[61] Poetry, then, is an ideal representation of life; but should it be still further limited, and made an imitation of only human life? In other words, are the actions of men the only possible themes of poetry, or may it deal, as in the _Georgics_ and the _De Rerum Natura_, with the various facts of external nature and of science, which are only indirectly connected with human life? May poetry treat of the life of the world as well as of the life of men; and if only of the latter, is it to be restricted to the actions of men, or may it also depict their passions, emotions, and character? In short, how far may external nature on the one hand, and the internal working of the human soul on the other hand, be regarded as the subject-matter of poetry? Aristotle says that poetry deals with the actions of men, but he uses the word "actions" in a larger sense than many of the Renaissance critics appear to have believed. His real meaning is thus explained by a modern writer:-- "Everything that expresses the mental life, that reveals a rational personality, will fall within this larger sense of action.... The phrase is virtually an equivalent for [Greek: êthê] (character), [Greek: pathê] (emotion), [Greek: praxeis] (action).... The common original from which all the arts draw is human life,--its mental processes, its spiritual movements, its outward acts issuing from deeper sources; in a word, all that constitutes the inward and essential activity of the soul. On this principle landscape and animals are not ranked among the objects of æsthetic imitation. The whole universe is not conceived of as the raw material of art. Aristotle's theory is in agreement with the practice of the Greek poets and artists of the classical period, who introduce the external world only so far as it forms a background of action, and enters as an emotional element into man's life and heightens the human interest."[62] Aristotle distinctly says that "even if a treatise on medicine or natural philosophy be brought out in verse, the name of poet is by custom given to the author; and yet Homer and Empedocles have nothing in common except the material; the former, therefore, is properly styled poet, the latter, physicist rather than poet."[63] The Aristotelian doctrine was variously conceived during the Renaissance. Fracastoro, for example, asserts that the imitation of human life alone is not of itself a test of poetry, for such a test would exclude Empedocles and Lucretius; it would make Virgil a poet in the _Æneid_, and not a poet in the _Georgics_. All matters are proper material for the poet, as Horace says, if they are treated poetically; and although the imitation of men and women may seem to be of higher importance for us who are men and women, the imitation of human life is no more the poet's end than the imitation of anything else.[64] This portion of Fracastoro's argument may be called apologetic, for the imitation of human actions as a test of poetry would exclude most of his own poems,[65] such as his famous _De Morbo Gallico_ (1529), written before the influence of Aristotle was felt in anything but the mere external forms of creative literature. For Fracastoro, all things poetically treated become poetry, and Aristotle himself[66] says that everything becomes pleasant when correctly imitated. So that not the mere composition of verse, but the Platonic rapture, the delight in the true and essential beauty of things, is for Fracastoro the test of poetic power. Varchi, on the other hand, is more in accord with Aristotle, in conceiving of "action," the subject-matter of poetry, as including the passions and habits of mind as well as the merely external actions of mankind. By passions Varchi means those mental perturbations which impel us to an action at any particular time ([Greek: pathê]); while by manners, or habits of mind, he means those mental qualities which distinguish one man or one class of men from another ([Greek: êthê]). The exclusion of the emotional or introspective side of human life would leave all lyric and, in fact, all subjective verse out of the realms of poetry; and it was therefore essential, in an age in which Petrarch was worshipped, that the subjective side of poetry should receive its justification.[67] There is also in Varchi a most interesting comparison between the arts of poetry and painting.[68] The basis of his distinction is Horace's _ut pictura poesis_, doubtless founded on the parallel of Simonides preserved for us by Plutarch; and this distinction, which regarded painting as silent poetry, and poetry as painting in language, may be considered almost the keynote of Renaissance criticism, continuing even up to the time of Lessing. In Capriano's _Della Vera Poetica_ (1555) poetry is given a preëminent place among all the arts, because it does not merely deal with actions or with the objects of any single sense. For Capriano, poetry is an ideal representation of life, and as such "vere nutrice e amatrice del nostro bene."[69] All sensuous or comprehensible objects are capable of being imitated by various arts. The nobler of the imitative arts are concerned with the objects of the nobler senses, while the ignobler arts are concerned with the objects of the senses of taste, touch, and smell. Poetry is the finest of all the arts, because it comprehends in itself all the faculties and powers of the other arts, and can in fact imitate anything, as, for example, the form of a lion, its color, its ferocity, its roar, and the like. It is also the highest form of art because it makes use of the most efficacious means of imitation, namely, words, and especially since these receive the additional beauty and power of rhythm. Accordingly, Capriano divides poets into two classes: natural poets, who describe the things of nature, and moral poets (such as epic and tragic poets), who aim at presenting moral lessons and indicating the uses of life; and of these two classes the moral poets are to be rated above the natural poets. But if all things are the objects of poetic imitation, the poet must know everything; he must have studied nature as well as life; and, accordingly, Lionardi, in his dialogues on poetic imitation (1554), says that to be a good poet, one must be a good historian, a good orator, and a good natural and moral philosopher as well;[70] and Bernardo Tasso asserts that a thorough acquaintance with the art of poetry is only to be gained from the study of Aristotle's _Poetics_, combined with a knowledge of philosophy and the various arts and sciences, and vast experience of the world.[71] The Renaissance, with its humanistic tendencies, never quite succeeded in discriminating between erudition and genius. Scaliger says that nothing which proceeds from solid learning can ever be out of place in poetry, and Fracastoro (1555) and Tomitano (1545) both affirm that the good poet and the good orator must essentially be learned scholars and philosophers. Scaliger therefore distinguishes three classes of poets,--first, the theological poets, such as Orpheus and Amphion; secondly, the philosophical poets, of two sorts, natural poets, such as Empedocles and Lucretius, and moral poets, who again are either political, as Solon and Tyrtæus, economic, as Hesiod, or common, as Phocyllides; and, thirdly, the ordinary poets who imitate human life.[72] The last are divided according to the usual Renaissance classification into dramatic, narrative, and common or mixed. Scaliger's classification is employed by Sir Philip Sidney;[73] and a very similar subdivision is given by Minturno.[74] The treatment of Castelvetro, in his commentary on the _Poetics_ (1570), is at times much more in accord with the true Aristotelian conception than most of the other Renaissance writers. While following Aristotle in asserting that verse is not of the essence of poetry, he shows that Aristotle himself by no means intended to class as poetry works that imitated in prose, for this was not the custom of Hellenic art. Prose is not suited to imitative or imaginative subjects, for we expect themes treated in prose to be actual facts.[75] "Verse does not distinguish poetry," says Castelvetro, "but clothes and adorns it; and it is as improper for poetry to be written in prose, or history in verse, as it is for women to use the garments of men, and for men to wear the garments of women."[76] The test of poetry therefore is not the metre but the material. This approximates to Aristotle's own view; since while imitation is what distinguishes the poetic art, Aristotle, by limiting it to the imitation of human life, was, after all, making the matter the test of poetry. Castelvetro, however, arrives at this conclusion on different grounds. Science he regards as not suitable material for poetry, and accordingly such writers as Lucretius and Fracastoro are not poets. They are good artists, perhaps, or good philosophers, but not poets; for the poet does not attempt to discover the truth of nature, but to imitate the deeds of men, and to bring delight to his audience by means of this imitation. Moreover, poetry, as will be seen later, is intended to give delight to the populace, the untrained multitude, to whom the sciences and the arts are dead letters;[77] if we concede these to be fit themes for poetry, then poetry is either not meant to delight, or not meant for the ordinary people, but is intended for instruction and for those only who are versed in sciences and arts. Moreover, comparing poetry with history, Castelvetro finds that they resemble each other in many points, but are not identical. Poetry follows, as it were, in the footsteps of history, but differs from it in that history deals with what has happened, poetry with what is probable; and things that have happened, though probable, are never considered in poetry as probable, but always as things that have happened. History, accordingly, does not regard verisimilitude or necessity, but only truth; poetry must take care to establish the probability of its subject in verisimilitude and necessity, since it cannot regard truth. Castelvetro in common with most of the critics of the Renaissance seems to misconceive the full meaning of ideal truth; for to the Renaissance--nay, even to Shakespeare, if we are to consider as his own various phrases which he has put into the mouths of his dramatic characters--truth was regarded as coincident with fact; and nothing that was not actual fact, however subordinated to the laws of probability and necessity, was ever called truth. It is in keeping with this conception of the relations between history and poetry, that Castelvetro should differ not only from Aristotle, but from most of the critics of his own time, in asserting that the order of the poetic narrative may be the same as that of historical narrative. "In telling a story," he says, "we need not trouble ourselves whether it has beginning, middle, and end, but only whether it is fitted to its true purpose, that is, to delight its auditors by the narration of certain circumstances which could possibly happen but have not actually happened."[78] Here the only vital distinction between history and poetry is that the incidents recounted in history have once happened, while those recounted in poetry have never actually happened, or the matter will not be regarded as poetry. Aristotle's fundamental requirement of the unity of the fable is regarded as unessential, and is simply observed in order to show the poet's ingenuity. This notion of poetic ingenuity is constant throughout Castelvetro's commentary. Thus he explains Aristotle's statement that poetry is more philosophic than history--more philosophic, according to Castelvetro, in the sense of requiring more thought, more speculation in its composition--by showing that it is a more difficult and more ingenious labor to invent things that could possibly happen, than merely to repeat things that have actually happened.[79] III. _The Function of Poetry_ According to Strabo, it will be remembered, the object or function of poetry is pleasurable instruction in reference to character, emotion, action. This occasions the inquiry as to what is the function of the poetic art, and, furthermore, what are its relations to morality. The starting-point of all discussions on this subject in the Renaissance was the famous verse of Horace:-- "Aut prodesse volunt aut delectare poetæ."[80] This line suggests that the function of poetry may be to please, or to instruct, or both to please and instruct; and every one of the writers of the Renaissance takes one or other of these three positions. Aristotle, as we know, regarded poetry as an imitation of human life, for the purpose of giving a certain refined pleasure to the reader or hearer. "The end of the fine arts is to give pleasure ([Greek: pros hêdonên]), or rational enjoyment ([Greek: pros diagôgên])."[81] It has already been said that poetry, in so far as it is an imitation of human life, and attempts to be true to human life in its ideal aspects, must fundamentally be moral; but to give moral or scientific instruction is in no way the end or function of poetry. It will be seen that the Renaissance was in closer accord with Horace than with Aristotle, in requiring for the most part the _utile_ as well as the _dulce_ in poetry. For Daniello, one of the earliest critical writers of the century, the function of the poet is to teach and delight. As the aim of the orator is to persuade, and the aim of the physician to cure, so the aim of the poet is equally to teach and delight; and unless he teaches and delights he cannot be called a poet, even as one who does not persuade cannot be called an orator, or one who does not cure, a physician.[82] But beyond profitableness and beauty, the poet must carry with him a certain persuasion, which is one of the highest functions of poetry, and which consists in moving and affecting the reader or hearer with the very passions depicted; but the poet must be moved first, before he can move others.[83] Here Daniello is renewing Horace's "Si vis me flere, dolendum est Primum ipsi tibi,"-- a sentiment echoed by poets as different as Vauquelin, Boileau, and Lamartine. Fracastoro, however, attempts a deeper analysis of the proper function of the poetic art. What is the aim of the poet? Not merely to give delight, for the fields, the stars, men and women, the objects of poetic imitation themselves do that; and poetry, if it did no more, could not be said to have any reason for existing. Nor is it merely to teach and delight, as Horace says; for the descriptions of countries, peoples, and armies, the scientific digressions and the historical events, which constitute the instructive side of poetry, are derived from cosmographers, scientists, and historians, who teach and delight as much as poets do. What, then, is the function of the poet? It is, as has already been pointed out, to describe the essential beauty of things, to aim at the universal and ideal, and to perform this function with every possible accompaniment of beautiful speech, thus affecting the minds of men in the direction of excellence and beauty. Portions of Fracastoro's argument have been alluded to before, and it will suffice here to state his own summing up of the aim of the poet, which is this, "Delectare et prodesse imitando in unoquoque maxima et pulcherrima per genus dicendi simpliciter pulchrum ex convenientibus."[84] This is a mingling of the Horatian and Platonic conceptions of poetic art. By other critics a more practical function was given to poetry. Giraldi Cintio asserts that it is the poet's aim to condemn vice and to praise virtue, and Maggi says that poets aim almost exclusively at benefiting the mind. Poets who, on the contrary, treat of obscene matters for the corruption of youth, may be compared with infamous physicians who give their patients deadly poison in the guise of wholesome medicine. Horace and Aristotle, according to Maggi, are at one on this point, for in the definition of tragedy Aristotle ascribes to it a distinctly useful purpose, and whatever delight is obtainable is to be regarded as a result of this moral function; for Maggi and the Renaissance critics in general would follow the Elizabethan poet who speaks of "delight, the fruit of virtue dearly loved." Muzio, in his versified _Arte Poetica_ (1555), regards the end of poetry as pleasure and profit, and the pleasurable aim of poetry as attained by variety, for the greatest poems contain every phase of life and art. It has been seen that Varchi classed poetry with rational philosophy. The end of all arts and sciences is to make human life perfect and happy; but they differ in their modes of producing this result. Philosophy attains its end by teaching; rhetoric, by persuasion; history, by narration; poetry, by imitation or representation. The aim of the poet, therefore, is to make the human soul perfect and happy, and it is his office to imitate, that is, to invent and represent, things which render men virtuous, and consequently happy. Poetry attains this end more perfectly than any of the other arts or sciences, because it does so, not by means of precept, but by means of example. There are various ways of making men virtuous,--by teaching them what vice is and what virtue is, which is the province of ethics; by actually chastising vices and rewarding virtues, which is the province of law; or by example, that is, by the representation of virtuous men receiving suitable rewards for their virtue, and of vicious men receiving suitable punishments, which is the province of poetry. This last method is the most efficacious, because it is accompanied by delight. For men either can not or will not take the trouble to study sciences and virtues--nay, do not even like to be told what they should or should not do; but in hearing or reading poetic examples, not only is there no trouble, but there is the greatest delight, and no one can help being moved by the representation of characters who are rewarded or punished according to an ideal justice. For Varchi, then, as for Sir Philip Sidney later, the high importance of poetry is to be found in the fact that it teaches morality better than any other art, and the reason is that its instrument is not precept but example, which is the most delightful and hence the most efficacious of all means. The function of poetry is, therefore, a moral one, and it consists in removing the vices of men and inciting them to virtue. This twofold moral object of poetry--the removal of vices, which is passive, and the incitement to virtue, which is active--is admirably attained, for example, by Dante in his _Divina Commedia_; for in the _Inferno_ evil men are so fearfully punished that we resolve to flee from every form of vice, and in the _Paradiso_ virtuous men are so gloriously rewarded that we resolve to imitate every one of their perfections. This is the expression of the extreme view of poetic justice; and while it is in keeping with the common sentiment of the Renaissance, it is of course entirely un-Aristotelian. Scaliger's point of view is in accord with the common Renaissance tradition. Poetry is imitation, but imitation is not the end of poetry. Imitation for its own sake--that is, art for art's sake--receives no encouragement from Scaliger. The purpose of poetry is to teach delightfully (_docere cum delectatione_); and, therefore, not imitation, as Aristotle says, but delightful instruction, is the test of poetry.[85] Minturno (1559) adds a third element to that of instruction and of delight.[86] The function of poetry is not only to teach and delight, but also to move, that is, beyond instruction and delight the poet must impel certain passions in the reader or hearer, and incite the mind to admiration of what is described.[87] An ideal hero may be represented in a poem, but the poem is futile unless it excites the reader to admiration of the hero depicted. Accordingly, it is the peculiar office of the poet to move admiration for great men; for the orator, the philosopher, and the historian need not necessarily do so, but no one who does not incite this admiration can really be called a poet. This new element of admiration is the logical consequence of the Renaissance position that philosophy teaches by precept, but poetry by example, and that in this consists its superior ethical efficacy. In Seneca's phrase, "longum iter per præcepta, breve per exempla." If poetry, therefore, attains its end by means of example, it follows that to arrive at this end the poet must incite in the reader an admiration of the example, or the ethical aim of poetry will not be accomplished. Poetry is more than a mere passive expression of truth in the most pleasurable manner; it becomes like oratory an active exhortation to virtue, by attempting to create in the reader's mind a strong desire to be like the heroes he is reading about. The poet does not tell what vices are to be avoided and what virtues are to be imitated, but sets before the reader or hearer the most perfect types of the various virtues and vices. It is, in Sidney's phrase (a phrase apparently borrowed from Minturno), "that feigning notable images of virtues, vices, or what else, with that delightful instruction, which must be the right describing note to know a poet by." Dryden, a century later, seems to be insisting upon this same principle of admiration when he says that it is the work of the poet "to affect the soul, and excite the passions, and above all to move admiration, which is the delight of serious plays."[88] But Minturno goes even further than this. If the poet is fundamentally a teacher of virtue, it follows that he must be a virtuous man himself; and in pointing this out, Minturno has given the first complete expression in modern times of the consecrated conception of the poet's office. As no form of knowledge and no moral excellence is foreign to the poet, so at bottom he is the truly wise and good man. The poet may, in fact, be defined as a good man skilled in language and imitation; not only ought he to be a good man, but no one will be a good poet unless he is so.[89] This conception of the moral nature of the poet may be traced henceforth throughout modern times. It is to be found in Ronsard[90] and other French and Italian writers; it is especially noticeable in English literature, and is insisted on by Ben Jonson,[91] Milton,[92] Shaftesbury,[93] Coleridge,[94] and Shelley.[95] In this idea Plato's praise of the philosopher, as well as Cicero's and Quintilian's praise of the orator, was by the Renaissance transferred to the poet;[96] but the conception itself goes back to a passage in Strabo's _Geography_, a work well known to sixteenth-century scholars. This passage is as follows:-- "Can we possibly imagine that the genius, power, and excellence of a real poet consist in aught else than the just imitation of life in formed discourse and numbers? But how should he be that just imitator of life, whilst he himself knows not its measures, nor how to guide himself by judgment and understanding? For we have not surely the same notion of the poet's excellence as of the ordinary craftsman's, the subject of whose art is senseless stone or timber, without life, dignity, or beauty; whilst the poet's art turning principally on men and manners, he has his virtues and excellence as poet naturally annexed to human excellence, and to the worth and dignity of man, insomuch that it is impossible he should be a great and worthy poet who is not first a worthy and good man."[97] Another writer of the sixteenth century, Bernardo Tasso, tells us that in his poem of the _Amadigi_ he has aimed at delight rather than profitable instruction.[98] "I have spent most of my efforts," he says, "in attempting to please, as it seems to me that this is more necessary, and also more difficult to attain; for we find by experience that many poets may instruct and benefit us very much, but certainly give us very little delight." This agrees with what one of the sanest of English critics, John Dryden (1668), has said of verse, "I am satisfied if it caused delight, for delight is the chief if not the only end of poesie; instruction can be admitted but in the second place, for poesie only instructs as it delights."[99] It is this same end which Castelvetro (1570) ascribes to poetic art. For Castelvetro, as in a lesser degree for Robortelli also, the end of poetry is delight, and delight alone.[100] This, he asserts, is the position of Aristotle, and if utility is to be conceded to poetry at all, it is merely as an accident, as in the tragic purgation of terror and compassion.[101] But he goes further than Aristotle would have been willing to go; for poetry, according to Castelvetro, is intended not merely to please, but to please the populace, in fact everybody, even the vulgar mob.[102] On this he insists throughout his commentary; indeed, as will be seen later, it is on this conception that his theory of the drama is primarily based. But it may be confidently asserted that Aristotle would have willingly echoed the conclusion of Shakespeare, as expressed in _Hamlet_, that the censure of one of the judicious must o'erweigh a whole theatre of others. At the same time, Castelvetro's conception is in keeping with a certain modern feeling in regard to the meaning of poetic art. Thus a recent writer regards literature as aiming "at the pleasure of the greatest possible number of the nation rather than instruction and practical effects," and as applying "to general rather than specialized knowledge."[103] There is, then, in Castelvetro's argument this modicum of truth, that poetry appeals to no specialized knowledge, but that its function is, as Coleridge says, to give a definite and immediate pleasure. Torquato Tasso, as might be expected, regards poetry in a more highly ideal sense. His conception of the function of poets and of the poetic art may be explained as follows: The universe is beautiful in itself, because beauty is a ray from the Divine splendor; and hence art should seek to approach as closely as possible to nature, and to catch and express this natural beauty of the world.[104] Real beauty, however, is not so called because of any usefulness it may possess, but is primarily beautiful in itself; for the beautiful is what pleases every one, just as the good is what every one desires.[105] Beauty is therefore the flower of the good (_quasi un fiore del buono_); it is the circumference of the circle of which the good is the centre, and accordingly, poetry, as an expression of this beauty, imitates the outward show of life in its general aspects. Poetry is therefore an imitation of human actions, made for the guidance of life; and its end is delight, _ordinato al giovamento_.[106] It must essentially delight, either because delight is its aim, or because delight is the necessary means of effecting the ethical end of art.[107] Thus, for example, heroic poetry consists of imitation and allegory, the function of the former being to cause delight, and that of the latter to give instruction and guidance in life. But since difficult or obscure conceits rarely delight, and since the poet does not appeal to the learned only, but to the people, just as the orator does, the poet's idea must be, if not popular in the ordinary sense of the word, at least intelligible to the people. Now the people will not study difficult problems; but poetry, by appealing to them on the side of pleasure, teaches them whether they will or no; and this constitutes the true effectiveness of poetry, for it is the most delightful, and hence the most valuable, of teachers.[108] Such, then, are the various conceptions of the function of poetry, as held by the critics of the Renaissance. On the whole, it may be said that at bottom the conception was an ethical one, for, with the exception of such a revolutionary spirit as Castelvetro, by most theorists it was as an effective guide to life that poetry was chiefly valued. Even when delight was admitted as an end, it was simply because of its usefulness in effecting the ethical aim. In concluding this chapter, it may be well to say a few words, and only a few, upon the classification of poetic forms. There were during the Renaissance numerous attempts at distinguishing these forms, but on the whole all of them are fundamentally equivalent to that of Minturno, who recognizes three _genres_,--the lyric or melic, the dramatic or scenic, and the epic or narrative. This classification is essentially that of the Greeks, and it has lasted down to this very day. With lyric poetry this essay is scarcely concerned, for during the Renaissance there was no systematic lyric theory. Those who discussed it at all gave most of their attention to its formal structure, its style, and especially the conceit it contained. The model of all lyrical poetry was Petrarch, and it was in accordance with the lyrical poet's agreement or disagreement with the Petrarchan method that he was regarded as a success or a failure. Muzio's critical poem (1551) deals almost entirely with lyrical verse, and there are discussions on this subject in the works of Trissino, Equicola, Ruscelli, Scaliger, and Minturno. But the real question at issue in all these discussions is merely that of external form, and it is with the question of principles, in so far as they regard literary criticism, that this essay is primarily concerned. The theory of dramatic and epic poetry, being fundamental, will therefore receive almost exclusive attention. FOOT-NOTES: [40] Robortelli, p. 1 _sq._ [41] This analysis of Zabarella, _Opera Logica, De Natura Logicæ_, ii. 13-23, I owe to the kindness of Professor Butcher of Edinburgh. Zabarella probably derived his knowledge of Aristotle's _Poetics_ from Robortelli, under whom he studied Greek. _Cf._ Bayle, _Dict._ s. v. Zabarella. [42] Maggi, p. 28 _sq._ _Cf._ B. Tasso, _Lettere_, ii. 514; Scaliger, _Poet._ i. 2; Castelvetro, _Poetica_, p. 7; Salviati, Cod. Magliabech. ii. ii. 11, fol. 384 v.; B. Jonson, _Timber_, p. 74. [43] Daniello, p. 41 _sq._ [44] Robortelli, p. 86 _sq._ [45] Robortelli, p. 90 _sq._ [46] Fracastoro, i. 340. [47] Fracastoro, i. 357 _sq._ [48] _Poet._ vi. 2. [49] Varchi, p. 578. [50] _E.g._ Piccolomini, p. 27 _sq._ [51] Tiraboschi, vii. 1331. [52] Summo, pp. 61-69. [53] _Poet._ iii. 95. [54] _Poet._ i. 1. [55] Another critic of the time, Vettori, 1560, pp. 14, 93, attacks poetic prose on the ground that in Aristotle's definition of the various poetic forms, verse is always spoken of as an essential part. It is interesting to note that the phrase "poetic prose" is used, perhaps for the first time, in Minturno, _Arte Poetica_, 1564, p. 3, etc. [56] _Opere_, x. 254. _Cf._ Minturno, _Arte Poetica_, p. 33. [57] _Poet._ iii. 96. [58] Muzio, p. 69. [59] Giraldi Cintio, i. 61. [60] _Art Poét._ iii. 50. _Cf._ Horace, _Ars Poet._ 188. [61] _Zodiac. Vitæ_, i. 143. [62] Butcher, pp. 117, 118. [63] _Poet._ i. 8. [64] Fracastoro, i. 335 _sq._ [65] _Cf._ Castelvetro, _Poetica_, p. 27 _sq._ [66] _Rhet._ i. 11. [67] _Cf._ A. Segni, 1581, cap. i. [68] Varchi, p. 227 _sq._ [69] Capriano, cap. ii. [70] Lionardi, p. 43 _sq._ [71] _Lettere_, ii. 525. [72] Scaliger, _Poet._ i. 2. [73] _Defense_, pp. 10, 11. [74] _De Poeta_, p. 53 _sq._ [75] Castelvetro, _Poetica_, p. 23 _sq._ [76] _Ibid._ p. 190. [77] _Cf._ T. Tasso, xi. 51. [78] _Poetica_, p. 158. [79] _Poetica_, p. 191. [80] _Ars Poet._ 333. [81] Butcher, p. 185. [82] Daniello, p. 25. [83] _Ibid._ p. 40. [84] Fracastoro, i. 363. [85] Scaliger, _Poet._ vi. ii. 2. [86] _De Poeta_, p. 102. _Cf._ Scaliger, _Poet._ iii. 96. [87] _De Poeta_, p. 11. [88] _Essay of Dramatic Poesy_, p. 104. [89] _De Poeta_, p. 79. [90] _Oeuvres_, vii. 318. [91] _Works_, i. 333. [92] _Prose Works_, iii. 118. [93] _Characteristicks_, 1711, i. 207. [94] H. C. Robinson, _Diary_, May 29, 1812, "Coleridge talked of the impossibility of being a good poet without being a good man." [95] _Defence of Poetry_, p. 42. [96] Minturno plainly says as much, _De Poeta_, p. 105. [97] _Geog._ i. ii. 5, as cited by Shaftesbury. [98] _Lettere_, ii. 195. [99] _Essay of Dramatic Poesy_, p. 104. [100] _Cf._ Piccolomini, p. 369. [101] Castelvetro, _Poetica_, p. 505. _Cf._ Twining, ii. 449, 450. [102] _Poetica_, p. 29. [103] Posnett, cited by Cook, p. 247. [104] _Opere_, viii. 26 _sq._ [105] _Ibid._ ix. 123. [106] _Ibid._ xii. 13. [107] _Ibid._ xi. 50. [108] _Ibid._ xii. 212. CHAPTER III THE THEORY OF THE DRAMA ARISTOTLE'S definition of tragedy is the basis of the Renaissance theory of tragedy. That definition is as follows: "Tragedy is an imitation of an action that is serious, complete, and of a certain magnitude; in language embellished with each kind of artistic ornament, the several kinds being found in separate parts of the play; in the form of action, not of narration; through pity and fear effecting the proper _katharsis_ or purgation of these emotions."[109] To expand this definition, tragedy, in common with all other forms of poetry, is the imitation of an action; but the action of tragedy is distinguished from that of comedy in being grave and serious. The action is complete, in so far as it possesses perfect unity; and in length it must be of the proper magnitude. By embellished language, Aristotle means language into which rhythm, harmony, and song enter; and by the remark that the several kinds are to be found in separate parts of the play, he means that some parts of tragedy are rendered through the medium of verse alone, while others receive the aid of song. Moreover, tragedy is distinguished from epic poetry by being in the form of action instead of that of narration. The last portion of Aristotle's definition describes the peculiar function of tragic performance. I. _The Subject of Tragedy_ Tragedy is the imitation of a _serious_ action, that is, an action both grave and great, or, as the sixteenth century translated the word, illustrious. Now, what constitutes a serious action, and what actions are not suited to the dignified character of tragedy? Daniello (1536) distinguishes tragedy from comedy in that the comic poets "deal with the most familiar and domestic, not to say base and vile operations; the tragic poets, with the deaths of high kings and the ruins of great empires."[110] Whichever of these matters the poet selects should be treated without admixture of any other form; if he resolves to treat of grave matters, mere loveliness should be excluded; if of themes of loveliness, he should exclude all grave themes. Here, at the very beginning of dramatic discussion, the strict separation of themes or _genres_ is advocated in as formal a manner as ever during the period of classicism; and this was never deviated from, at least in theory, by any of the writers of the sixteenth century. Moreover, according to Daniello, the dignified character of tragedy demands that all unseemly, cruel, impossible, or ignoble incidents should be excluded from the stage; while even comedy should not attempt to represent any lascivious act.[111] This was merely a deduction from Senecan tragedy and the general practice of the classics. There is, in Daniello's theory of tragedy, no single Aristotelian element, and it was not until about a decade later that Aristotle's theory of tragedy played any considerable part in the literary criticism of the sixteenth century. In 1543, however, the _Poetics_ had already become a part of university study, for Giraldi Cintio, in his _Discorso sulle Comedie e sulle Tragedie_, written in that year, says that it was a regular academic exercise to compare some Greek tragedy, such as the _Oedipus_ of Sophocles, with a tragedy of Seneca on the same subject, using the _Poetics_ of Aristotle as a dramatic text-book.[112] Giraldi distinguishes tragedy from comedy on somewhat the same grounds as Daniello. "Tragedy and comedy," he says, "agree in that they are both imitations of an action, but they differ in that the former imitates the illustrious and royal, the latter the popular and civil. Hence Aristotle says that comedy imitates the worse sort of actions, not that they are vicious and criminal, but that, as regards nobility, they are worse when compared with royal actions." Giraldi's position is made clear by his further statement that the actions of tragedy are called illustrious, not because they are virtuous or vicious, but merely because they are the actions of people of the highest rank.[113] This conception of the serious action of tragedy, which makes its dignity the result of the rank of those who are its actors, and thus regards rank as the real distinguishing mark between comedy and tragedy, was not only common throughout the Renaissance, but even throughout the whole period of classicism, and had an extraordinary effect on the modern drama, especially in France. Thus Dacier (1692) says that it is not necessary that the action be illustrious and important in itself: "On the contrary, it may be very ordinary or common; but it must be so by the quality of the persons who act.... The greatness of these eminent men renders the action great, and their reputation makes it credible and possible."[114] Again, Robortelli (1548) maintains that tragedy deals only with the greater sort of men (_præstantiores_), because the fall of men of such rank into misery and disgrace produces greater commiseration (which is, as will be seen, one of the functions of tragedy) than the fall of men of merely ordinary rank. Another commentator on the _Poetics_, Maggi (1550), gives a slightly different explanation of Aristotle's meaning. Maggi asserts that Aristotle,[115] in saying that comedy deals with the worse and tragedy with the better sort of men, means to distinguish between those whose rank is lower or higher than that of ordinary men; comedy dealing with slaves, tradesmen, maidservants, buffoons, and other low people, tragedy with kings and heroes.[116] This explanation is defended on grounds similar to those given by Robortelli, that is, the change from felicity to infelicity is greater and more noticeable in the greatest men.[117] This conception of the rank of the characters as the distinguishing mark between tragedy and comedy is, it need not be said, entirely un-Aristotelian. "Aristotle does undoubtedly hold," says Professor Butcher, "that actors in tragedy ought to be illustrious by birth and position. The narrow and trivial life of obscure persons cannot give scope for a great and significant action, one of tragic consequence. But nowhere does he make outward rank the distinguishing feature of tragic as opposed to comic representation. Moral nobility is what he demands; and this--on the French stage, or at least with French critics--is transformed into an inflated dignity, a courtly etiquette and decorum, which seemed proper to high rank. The instance is one of many in which literary critics have wholly confounded the teaching of Aristotle."[118] This distinction, then, though common up to the end of the eighteenth century, is not to be found in Aristotle; but the fact is, that a similar distinction can be traced, throughout the Middle Ages, throughout classical antiquity, back almost to the time of Aristotle himself. The grammarian, Diomedes, has preserved the definition of tragedy formulated by Theophrastus, Aristotle's successor as head of the Peripatetic school. According to this definition, tragedy is "a change in the fortune of a hero."[119] A Greek definition of comedy preserved by Diomedes, and ascribed to Theophrastus also,[120] speaks of comedy as dealing with private and civil fortunes, without the element of danger. This seems to have been the accepted Roman notion of comedy. In the treatise of Euanthius-Donatus, comedy is said to deal with the common fortunes of men, to begin turbulently, but to end tranquilly and happily; tragedy, on the other hand, has only mighty personages, and ends terribly; its subject is often historical, while that of comedy is always invented by the poet.[121] The third book of Diomedes's _Ars Grammatica_, based on Suetonius's tractate _De Poetis_ (written in the second century A.D.), distinguishes tragedy from comedy in that only heroes, great leaders, and kings are introduced in tragedy, while in comedy the characters are humble and private persons; in the former, lamentations, exiles, bloodshed predominate, in the latter, love affairs and seductions.[122] Isidore of Seville, in the seventh century, says very much the same thing: "Comic poets treat of the acts of private men, while tragic poets treat of public matters and the histories of kings; tragic themes are based on sorrowful affairs, comic themes on joyful ones."[123] In another place he speaks of tragedy as dealing with the ancient deeds and misdeeds of infamous kings, and of comedy as dealing with the actions of private men, and with the defilement of maidens and the love affairs of strumpets.[124] In the _Catholicon_ of Johannes Januensis de Balbis (1286) tragedy and comedy are distinguished on similar grounds: tragedy deals only with kings and princes, comedy with private citizens; the style of the former is elevated, that of the latter humble; comedy begins sorrowfully and ends joyfully, tragedy begins joyfully and ends miserably and terribly.[125] For Dante, any poem written in an elevated and sublime style, beginning happily and ending in misery and terror, is a tragedy; his own great vision, written as it is in the vernacular, and beginning in hell and ending gloriously in paradise, he calls a comedy.[126] It appears, therefore, that during the post-classic period and throughout the Middle Ages, comedy and tragedy were distinguished on any or all of the following grounds:-- i. The characters in tragedy are kings, princes, or great leaders; those in comedy, humble persons and private citizens. ii. Tragedy deals with great and terrible actions; comedy with familiar and domestic actions. iii. Tragedy begins happily and ends terribly; comedy begins rather turbulently and ends joyfully. iv. The style and diction of tragedy are elevated and sublime; while those of comedy are humble and colloquial. v. The subjects of tragedy are generally historical; those of comedy are always invented by the poet. vi. Comedy deals largely with love and seduction; tragedy with exile and bloodshed. This, then, was the tradition that shaped the un-Aristotelian conception of the distinctions between comedy and tragedy, which persisted throughout and even beyond the Renaissance. Giraldi Cintio has followed most of these traditional distinctions, but he is in closer accord with Aristotle[127] when he asserts that the tragic as well as the comic plot may be purely imaginary and invented by the poet.[128] He explains the traditional conception that the tragic fable should be historical, on the ground that as tragedy deals with the deeds of kings and illustrious men, it would not be probable that remarkable actions of such great personages should be left unrecorded in history, whereas the private events treated in comedy could hardly be known to all. Giraldi, however, asserts that it does not matter whether the tragic poet invents his story or not, so long as it follows the law of probability. The poet should choose an action that is probable and dignified, that does not need the intervention of a god in the unravelling of the plot, that does not occupy much more than the space of a day, and that can be represented on the stage in three or four hours.[129] In respect to the dénouement of tragedy, it may be happy or unhappy, but in either case it must arouse pity and terror; and as for the classic notion that no deaths should be represented on the stage, Giraldi declares that those which are not excessively painful may be represented, for they are represented not for the sake of commiseration but of justice. The argument here centres about Aristotle's phrase [Greek: en tô phanerô thanatoi],[130] but the common practice of classicism was based on Horace's express prohibition:-- "Ne pueros coram populo Medea trucidet."[131] Giraldi gives it as a universal rule of the drama that nothing should be represented on the stage which could not with propriety be done in one's own house.[132] Scaliger's treatment of the dramatic forms is particularly interesting because of its great influence on the neo-classical drama. He defines tragedy as an imitation of an illustrious event, ending unhappily, written in a grave and weighty style, and in verse.[133] Here he has discarded, or at least disregarded, the Aristotelian definition of tragedy, in favor of the traditional conception which had come down through the Middle Ages. Real tragedy, according to Scaliger, is entirely serious; and although there are a few happy endings in ancient tragedy, the unhappy ending is most proper to the spirit of tragedy itself. _Mortes aut exilia_--these are the fit accompaniments of the tragic catastrophe.[134] The action begins tranquilly, but ends horribly; the characters are kings and princes, from cities, castles, and camps; the language is grave, polished, and entirely opposed to colloquial speech; the aspect of things is troubled, with terrors, menaces, exiles, and deaths on every hand. Taking as his model Seneca, whom he rates above all the Greeks in majesty,[135] he gives as the typical themes of tragedy "the mandates of kings, slaughters, despairs, executions, exiles, loss of parents, parricides, incests, conflagrations, battles, loss of sight, tears, shrieks, lamentations, burials, epitaphs, and funeral songs."[136] Tragedy is further distinguished from comedy on the ground that the latter derives its argument and its chief characters from history, inventing merely the minor characters; while comedy invents its arguments and all its characters, and gives them names of their own. Scaliger distinguishes men, for the purposes of dramatic poetry, according to character and rank;[137] but it would seem that he regarded rank alone as the distinguishing mark between tragedy and comedy. Thus tragedy is made to differ from comedy in three things: in the rank of the characters, in the quality of the actions, and in their different endings; and as a result of these differences, in style also. The definition of tragedy given by Minturno, in his treatise _De Poeta_ (1559), is merely a paraphrase of Aristotle's. He conceives of tragedy as describing _casus heroum cuius sibi quisque fortunæ fuerit faber_, and it thus acts as a warning to men against pride of rank, insolence, avarice, lust, and similar passions.[138] It is grave and illustrious because its characters are illustrious; and no variety of persons or events should be introduced that are not in keeping with the calamitous ending. The language throughout must be grave and severe; and Minturno has expressed his censure in such matters by the phrase, _poema amatorio mollique sermone effoeminat_,[139] a censure which would doubtless apply to a large portion of classic French tragedy. In Castelvetro (1570) we find a far more complete theory of the drama than had been attempted by any of his predecessors. His work is by no means a model of what a commentary on Aristotle's _Poetics_ should be. In the next century, Dacier, whose subservience to Aristotle was even greater than that of any of the Italians, accuses Castelvetro of lacking every quality necessary to a good interpreter of Aristotle. "He knew nothing," says Dacier, "of the theatre, or of character, or of the passions; he understood neither the reasons nor the method of Aristotle; and he sought rather to contradict Aristotle than to explain him."[140] The fact is that Castelvetro, despite considerable veneration for Aristotle's authority, often shows remarkable independence of thought; and so far from resting content, in his commentary, with the mere explanation of the details of the _Poetics_, he has attempted to deduce from it a more or less complete theory of poetic art. Accordingly, though diverging from many of the details, and still more from the spirit of the _Poetics_, he has, as it were, built up a dramatic system of his own, founded upon certain modifications and misconceptions of the Aristotelian canons. The fundamental idea of this system is quite modern; and it is especially interesting because it indicates that by this time the drama had become more than a mere academic exercise, and was actually regarded as intended primarily for representation on the stage. Castelvetro examines the physical conditions of stage representation, and on this bases the requirements of dramatic literature. The fact that the drama is intended for the stage, that it is to be acted, is at the bottom of his theory of tragedy, and it was to this notion, as will be seen later, that we are to attribute the origin of the unities of time and place. But Castelvetro's method brings with it its own _reductio ad absurdum_. For after all, stage representation, while essential to the production of dramatic literature, can never circumscribe the poetic power or establish its conditions. The conditions of stage representation change, and must change, with the varying conditions of dramatic literature and the inventive faculty of poets, for truly great art makes, or at least fixes, its own conditions. Besides, it is with what is permanent and universal that the artist--the dramatic artist as well as the rest--is concerned; and it is the poetic, and not the dramaturgic, element that is permanent and universal. "The power of tragedy, we may be sure," says Aristotle, "is felt even apart from representation and actors;"[141] and again: "The plot [of a tragedy] ought to be so constructed that even without the aid of the eye any one who is told the incidents will thrill with horror and pity at the turn of events."[142] But what, according to Castelvetro, are the conditions of stage representation? The theatre is a public place, in which a play is presented before a motley crowd,--_la moltitudine rozza_,--upon a circumscribed platform or stage, within a limited space of time. To this idea the whole of Castelvetro's dramatic system is conformed. In the first place, since the audience may be great in number, the theatre must be large, and yet the audience must be able to hear the play; accordingly, verse is added, not merely as a delightful accompaniment, but also in order that the actors may raise their voices without inconvenience and without loss of dignity.[143] In the second place, the audience is not a select gathering of choice spirits, but a motley crowd of people, drawn to the theatre for the purpose of pleasure or recreation; accordingly, abstruse themes, and in fact all technical discussions, must be eschewed by the playwright, who is thus limited, as we should say to-day, to the elemental passions and interests of man.[144] In the third place, the actors are required to move about on a raised and narrow platform; and this is the reason why deaths or deeds of violence, and many other things which cannot be acted on such a platform with convenience and dignity, should not be represented in the drama.[145] Furthermore, as will be seen later, it is on this conception of the circumscribed platform and the physical necessities of the audience and the actors, that Castelvetro bases his theory of the unities of time and place. In distinguishing the different _genres_, Castelvetro openly differs with Aristotle. In the _Poetics_, Aristotle distinguishes men according as they are better than we are, or worse, or the same as we are; and from this difference the various species of poetry, tragic, comic, and epic, are derived. Castelvetro thinks this mode of distinction not only untrue, but even inconsistent with what Aristotle says later of tragedy. Goodness and badness are to be taken account of, according to Castelvetro, not to distinguish one form of poetry from another, but merely in the special case of tragedy, in so far as a moderate virtue, as Aristotle says, is best able to produce terror and pity. Poetry, as indeed Aristotle himself acknowledges, is not an imitation of character, or of goodness and badness, but of men acting; and the different kinds of poetry are distinguished, not by the goodness and badness, or the character, of the persons selected for imitation, but by their rank or condition alone. The great and all-pervading difference between royal and private persons is what distinguishes tragedy and epic poetry on the one hand from comedy and similar forms of poetry on the other. It is rank, then, and not intellect, character, action,--for these vary in men according to their condition,--that differentiates one poetic form from another; and the distinguishing mark of rank on the stage, and in literature generally, is the bearing of the characters, royal persons acting with propriety, and meaner persons with impropriety.[146] Castelvetro has here escaped one pitfall, only to fall into another; for while goodness and badness cannot, from any æsthetic standpoint, be made to distinguish the characters of tragedy from those of comedy,--leaving out of consideration here the question whether this was or was not the actual opinion of Aristotle,--it is no less improper to make mere outward rank or condition the distinguishing feature. Whether it be regarded as an interpretation of Aristotle or as a poetic theory by itself, Castelvetro's contention is, in either case, equally untenable. II. _The Function of Tragedy_ No passage in Aristotle's _Poetics_ has been subjected to more discussion, and certainly no passage has been more misunderstood, than that in which, at the close of his definition of tragedy, he states its peculiar function to be that of effecting through pity and fear the proper purgation ([Greek: katharsis]) of these emotions. The more probable of the explanations of this passage are, as Twining says,[147] reducible to two. The first of these gives to Aristotle's _katharsis_ an ethical meaning, attributing the effect of the tragedy to its moral lesson and example. This interpretation was a literary tradition of centuries, and may be found in such diverse writers as Corneille and Lessing, Racine and Dryden, Dacier and Rapin. According to the second interpretation, the purgation of the emotions produced by tragedy is an emotional relief gained by the excitement of these emotions. Plato had insisted that the drama excites passions, such as pity and fear, which debase men's spirits; Aristotle in this passage answers that by the very exaltation of these emotions they are given a pleasurable outlet, and beyond this there is effected a purification of the emotions so relieved. That is, the emotions are clarified and purified by being passed through the medium of art, and by being, as Professor Butcher points out, ennobled by objects worthy of an ideal emotion.[148] This explanation gives no direct moral purpose or influence to the _katharsis_, for tragedy acts on the feelings and not on the will. While the ethical conception, of course, predominates in Italian criticism, as it does throughout Europe up to the very end of the eighteenth century, a number of Renaissance critics, among them Minturno and Speroni, even if they failed to elaborate the further æsthetic meaning of Aristotle's definition, at least perceived that Aristotle ascribed to tragedy an emotional and not an ethical purpose. It is unnecessary to give a detailed statement of the opinions of the various Italian critics on this point; but it is essential that the interpretations of the more important writers should be alluded to, since otherwise the Renaissance conception of the function of the drama could not be understood. Giraldi Cintio points out that the aim of comedy and of tragedy is identical, viz. to conduce to virtue; but they reach this result in different ways; for comedy attains its end by means of pleasure and comic jests, while tragedy, whether it ends happily or unhappily, purges the mind of vice through the medium of misery and terror, and thus attains its moral end.[149] Elsewhere,[150] he affirms that the tragic poet condemns vicious actions, and by combining them with the terrible and the miserable makes us fear and hate them. In other words, men who are bad are placed in such pitiable and terrible positions that we fear to imitate their vices; and it is not a purgation of pity and fear, as Aristotle says, but an eradication of all vice and vicious desire that is effected by the tragic _katharsis_. Trissino, in the fifth section of his _Poetica_ (1563), cites Aristotle's definition of tragedy; but makes no attempt to elucidate the doctrine of _katharsis_. His conception of the function of the drama is much the same as Giraldi's. It is the office of the tragic poet, through the medium of imitation, to praise and admire the good, while that of the comic poet is to mock and vituperate the bad; for tragedy, as Aristotle says, deals with the better sort of actions, and comedy with the worse.[151] Robortelli (1548), however, ascribes a more æsthetic function to tragedy. By the representation of sad and atrocious deeds, tragedy produces terror and commiseration in the spectator's mind. The exercise of terror and commiseration purges the mind of these very passions; for the spectator, seeing things performed which are very similar to the actual facts of life, becomes accustomed to sorrow and pity, and these emotions are gradually diminished.[152] Moreover, by seeing the sufferings of others, men sorrow less at their own, recognizing such things as common to human nature. Robortelli's conception of the function of tragedy is, therefore, not an ethical one; the effect of tragedy is understood primarily as diminishing pity and fear in our minds by accustoming us to the sight of deeds that produce these emotions. A similar interpretation of the _katharsis_ is given by Vettori (1560) and Castelvetro (1570).[153] The latter compares the process of purgation with the emotions which are excited by a pestilence. At first the infected populace is crazed by excitement, but gradually becomes accustomed to the sight of the disease, and the emotions of the people are thus tempered and allayed. A somewhat different conception of _katharsis_ is that of Maggi. According to him, we are to understand by purgation the liberation through pity and fear of passions similar to these, but not pity and fear themselves; for Maggi cannot understand how tragedy, which induces pity and fear in the hearer, should at the same time remove these perturbations.[154] Moreover, pity and fear are useful emotions, while such passions as avarice, lust, anger, are certainly not. In another place, Maggi, relying on citations from Plato, Aristotle, and Alexander of Aphrodisias, explains the pleasure we receive from tragedy, by pointing out that we feel sorrow by reason of the human heart within us, which is carried out of itself by the sight of misery; while we feel pleasure because it is human and natural to feel pity. Pleasure and pain are thus fundamentally the same.[155] Varchi[156] is at one with Maggi in interpreting the _katharsis_ as a purgation, not of pity and fear themselves, but of emotions similar to them. For Scaliger (1561) the aim of tragedy, like that of all poetry, is a purely ethical one. It is not enough to move the spectators to admiration and dismay, as some critics say Æschylus does; it is also the poet's function to teach, to move, and to delight. The poet teaches character through actions, in order that we should embrace and imitate the good, and abstain from the bad. The joy of evil men is turned in tragedy to bitterness, and the sorrow of good men to joy.[157] Scaliger is here following the extreme view of poetic justice which we have found expressed in so many of the Renaissance writers. In the last century, Dr. Johnson, in censuring Shakespeare for the tragic fate meted out to Cordelia and other blameless characters, showed himself an inheritor of this Renaissance tradition, just as we shall see that Lessing was in other matters. For Scaliger the moral aim of the drama is attained both indirectly, by the representation of wickedness ultimately punished and virtue ultimately rewarded, and more directly by the enunciation of moral precepts throughout the play. With the Senecan model before him, such precepts (_sententiæ_) became the very props of tragedy,--_sunt enim quasi columnæ aut pilæ quædam universæ fabricæ illius_,--and so they remained in modern classical tragedy. Minturno points out that these _sententiæ_ are to be used most in tragedy and least in epic poetry.[158] Minturno also follows Scaliger in conceiving that the purpose of tragedy is to teach, to delight, and to move. It teaches by setting before us an example of the life and manners of superior men, who by reason of human error have fallen into extreme unhappiness. It delights us by the beauty of its verse, its diction, its song, and the like. Lastly, it moves us to wonder, by terrifying us and exciting our pity, thus purging our minds of such matters. This process of purgation is likened by Minturno to the method of a physician: "As a physician eradicates, by means of poisonous medicine, the perfervid poison of disease which affects the body, so tragedy purges the mind of its impetuous perturbations by the force of these emotions beautifully expressed in verse."[159] According to this interpretation of the _katharsis_, tragedy is a mode of homoeopathic treatment, effecting the cure of one emotion by means of a similar one; and we find Milton, in the preface to _Samson Agonistes_, explaining the _katharsis_ in much the same manner:-- "Tragedy, as it was anciently composed, hath been ever held the gravest, moralest, and most profitable of all other poems; therefore said by Aristotle to be of power, by raising pity and fear, or terror, to purge the mind of those and such like passions; that is, to temper and reduce them to just measure with a kind of delight, stirred up by reading or seeing those passions well imitated. Nor is nature wanting in her own effects to make good his assertion; for so in physic, things of melancholic hue and quality are used against melancholy, sour against sour, salt to remove salt humours." This passage has been regarded by Twining, Bernays, and other modern scholars as a remarkable indication of Milton's scholarship and critical insight;[160] but after all, it need hardly be said, he was merely following the interpretation of the Italian commentators on the _Poetics_. Their writings he had studied and knew thoroughly, had imbibed all the critical ideas of the Italian Renaissance, and in the very preface from which we have just quoted, filled as it is with ideas that may be traced back to Italian sources, he acknowledges following "the ancients and Italians," as of great "authority and fame." Like Milton, Minturno conceived of tragedy as having an ethical aim; but both Milton and Minturno clearly perceived that by _katharsis_ Aristotle had reference not to a moral, but to an emotional, effect. One of the most interesting discussions on the meaning of the _katharsis_ is to be found in a letter of Sperone Speroni[161] written in 1565. His explanation of the passage itself is quite an impossible one, if only on philological grounds; but his argument is very interesting and very modern. He points out that pity and fear may be conceived of as keeping the spirit of men in bondage, and hence it is proper that we should be purged of these emotions. But he insists that Aristotle cannot refer to the complete eradication of pity and fear--a conception which is Stoic rather than Peripatetic, for Aristotle does not require us to free ourselves from emotions, but to regulate them, since in themselves they are not bad. III. _The Characters of Tragedy_ Aristotle's conception of the ideal tragic hero is based on the assumption that the function of tragedy is to produce the _katharsis_, or purgation, of pity and fear,--"pity being felt for a person who, if not wholly innocent, meets with suffering beyond his deserts; fear being awakened when the sufferer is a man of like nature with ourselves."[162] From this it follows that if tragedy represents the fall of an entirely good man from prosperity to adversity, neither pity nor fear is produced, and the result merely shocks and repels us. If an entirely bad man is represented as undergoing a change from distress to prosperity, not only do we feel no pity and no fear, but even the sense of justice is left unsatisfied. If, on the contrary, such a man entirely bad falls from prosperity into adversity and distress, the moral sense is indeed satisfied, but without the tragic emotions of pity and fear. The ideal hero is therefore morally between the two extremes, neither eminently good nor entirely bad, though leaning to the side of goodness; and the misfortune which falls upon him is the result of some great flaw of character or fatal error of conduct.[163] This conception of the tragic hero was the subject of considerable discussion in the Renaissance; in fact, the first instance in Italian criticism of the application of Aristotelian ideas to the theory of tragedy is perhaps to be found in the reference of Daniello (1536) to the tragic hero's fate. Daniello, however, understood Aristotle's meaning very incompletely, for he points out that tragedy, in order to imitate most perfectly the miserable and the terrible, should not introduce just and virtuous men fallen into vice and injustice through the adversity of fortune, for this is more wicked than it is miserable and terrible, nor should evil men, on the contrary, be introduced as changed by prosperity into good and just men.[164] Here Daniello conceives of tragedy as representing the change of a man from vice to virtue, or from virtue to vice, through the medium of prosperity or misfortune. This is a curious misconception of Aristotle's meaning. Aristotle refers, not to the ethical effect of tragedy, but to the effect of the emotions of pity and terror upon the mind of the spectator, although of course he does not wish the catastrophe to shock the moral sense or the sense of justice. Giraldi Cintio, some years after Daniello, follows Aristotle more closely in the conception of the tragic hero; and he affirms, moreover, that tragedy may end happily or unhappily so long as it inspires pity and terror. Now, Aristotle has expressly stated his disapprobation of the happy ending of tragedy, for in speaking of tragedies with a double thread and a double catastrophe, that is, tragedies in which the good are ultimately rewarded and the bad punished, he shows that such a conclusion is decidedly against the general tragic effect.[165] Scaliger's conception of the moral function of the tragic poet as rewarding virtue and punishing vice is therefore inconsistent with the Aristotelian conception; for, as Scaliger insists that every tragedy should end unhappily, it follows that only the good must survive and only the bad suffer. Another critic of this time, Capriano (1555), points out that the fatal ending of tragedy is due to the inability of certain illustrious men to conduct themselves with prudence; and this is more in keeping with Aristotle's true meaning.[166] It has been seen that Aristotle regarded a perfectly good man as not fitted to be the ideal hero of tragedy. Minturno, however, asserts that tragedy is grave and illustrious because its characters are illustrious, and that therefore he can see no reason, despite Aristotle, why the lives of perfect men or Christian saints should not be represented on the stage, and why even the life of Christ would not be a fit subject for tragedy.[167] This is, indeed, Corneille's opinion, and in the _examen_ of his _Polyeucte_ he cites Minturno in justification of his own case. As regards the other characters of tragedy, Minturno states a curious distinction between characters fit for tragedy and those fit for comedy.[168] In the first place, he points out that no young girls, with the exception of female slaves, should appear in comedy, for the reason that the women of the people do not appear in public until marriage, and would be sullied by the company of the low characters of comedy, whereas the maidens of tragedy are princesses, accustomed to meet and converse with noblemen from girlhood. Secondly, married women are always represented in comedy as faithful, in tragedy as unfaithful to their husbands, for the reason that comedy concludes with friendship and tranquillity, and unfaithful relations could never end happily, while the love depicted in tragedy serves to bring about the tragic ruin of great houses. Thirdly, in comedy old men are often represented as in love, but never in tragedy, for an amorous old man is conducive to laughter, which comedy aims at producing, but which would be wholly out of keeping with the gravity required in tragedy. These distinctions are of course deduced from the practice of the Latin drama--the tragedies of Seneca on the one hand, and the comedies of Plautus and Terence on the other. In a certain passage of Aristotle's _Poetics_ there is a formulation of the requirements of character-drawing in the drama.[169] In this passage Aristotle says that the characters must be good; that they must be drawn with propriety, that is, in keeping with the type to which they belong; that they must be true to life, something quite distinct either from goodness or propriety; and that the characters must be self-consistent. This passage gave rise to a curious conception of character in the Renaissance and throughout the period of classicism. According to this, the conception of _decorum_, it was insisted that every old man should have such and such characteristics, every young man certain others, and so on for the soldier, the merchant, the Florentine or Parisian, and the like. This fixed and formal mode of regarding character was connected with the distinction of rank as the fundamental difference between the characters of tragedy and comedy, and it was really founded on a passage in Horace's _Ars Poetica_,-- "Ætatis cujusque notandi sunt tibi mores,"[170] and on the rhetorical descriptions of the various characteristics of men in the second book of Aristotle's _Rhetoric_. The explanation of the Renaissance conception of _decorum_ may start from either of two points of view. In the first place, it is to be noted that Horace, and after him the critics of the Renaissance, set about to transpose to the domain of poetry the tentative distinctions of character formulated by Aristotle, in the _Rhetoric_, simply for the purposes of rhetorical exposition. These distinctions, it must be repeated, were rhetorical and not æsthetic, and they are therefore not alluded to by Aristotle in the _Poetics_. The result of the attempt to transpose them to the domain of poetry led to a hardening and crystallization of character in the classic drama. But the æsthetic misconception implied by such an attempt is only too obvious. In such a system poetry is held accountable, not to the ideal truth of human life, but to certain arbitrary, or at best merely empirical, formulæ of rhetorical theory. The Renaissance was in this merely doing for character what was being done for all the other elements of art. Every such element, when once discriminated and definitely formulated, became fixed as a necessary and inviolable substitute for the reality which had thus been analyzed. But we may look at the principle of _decorum_ from another point of view. A much deeper question--the question of social distinctions--is here involved. The observance of _decorum_ necessitated the maintenance of the social distinctions which formed the basis of Renaissance life and of Renaissance literature. It was this same tendency which caused the tragedy of classicism to exclude all but characters of the highest rank. Speaking of narrative poetry, Muzio (1551), while allowing kings to mingle with the masses, considers it absolutely improper for one of the people, even for a moment, to assume the sceptre.[171] Accordingly, men as distinguished by the accidents of rank, profession, country, and not as distinguished by that only which art should take cognizance of, character, became the subjects of the literature of classicism; and in so far as this is true, that literature loses something of the profundity and the universality of the highest art. This element of _decorum_ is to be found in all the critics of the Renaissance from the time of Vida[172] and Daniello.[173] So essential became the observance of _decorum_ that Muzio and Capriano both considered it the most serious charge to be made against Homer, that he was not always observant of it. Capriano, comparing Virgil with Homer, asserts that the Latin poet surpasses the Greek in eloquence, in dignity, in grandeur of style, but beyond everything in _decorum_.[174] The seeming vulgarity of some of Homer's similes, and even of the actions of some of his characters, appeared to the Renaissance a most serious blemish; and it was this that led Scaliger to rate Homer not only below Virgil, but even below Musæus. In Minturno and Scaliger we find every detail of character minutely analyzed. The poet is told how young men and old men should act, should talk, and should dress; and no deviations from these fixed formulæ were allowed under any circumstances. As a result of this, even when the poet liberated himself from these conceptions, and aimed at depicting character in its true sense, we find character, but never the development of character, portrayed in the neo-classic drama. The character was fixed from the beginning of the play to the end; and it is here that we may find the origin of Ben Jonson's conception of "humours." In one of Salviati's lectures, _Del Trattato della Poetica_,[175] Salviati defines a humour as "a peculiar quality of nature according to which every one is inclined to some special thing more than to any other." This would apply very distinctly to the sense in which the Elizabethans used the word. Thus Jonson himself, in the Induction of _Every Man out of his Humour_, after expounding the medical notion of a humour, says:-- "It may, by metaphor, apply itself Unto the general disposition: As when some one peculiar quality Doth so possess a man, that it doth draw All his effects, his spirits, and his powers, In their confluctions, all to run one way, This may be truly said to be a humour." The origin of the term "humour," in Jonson's sense, has never been carefully studied. Jonson's editors speak of it as peculiar to the English language, and as first used in this sense about Jonson's period. It is not our purpose to go further into this question; but Salviati's definition is close enough to Jonson's to indicate that the origin of this term, as of all other critical terms and critical ideas throughout sixteenth-century Europe, must be looked for in the æsthetic literature of Italy.[176] IV. _The Dramatic Unities_ In his definition of tragedy Aristotle says that the play must be complete or perfect, that is, it must have unity. By unity of plot he does not mean merely the unity given by a single hero, for, as he says, "infinitely various are the incidents in one man's life which cannot be reduced to unity; and so, too, there are many actions of one man out of which we cannot make one action. Hence the error, as it appears, of all poets who have composed a Heracleid, a Theseid, or other poems of the kind. They imagine that as Heracles was one man, the story of Heracles ought also to be a unity."[177] This is Aristotle's statement of the unity of action. But what is the origin of the two other unities,--the unities of time and place? There is in the _Poetics_ but a single reference to the time-limit of the tragic action and none whatsoever to the so-called unity of place. Aristotle says that the action of tragedy and that of epic poetry differ in length, "for tragedy endeavors, so far as possible, to confine itself to a single revolution of the sun, or but slightly to exceed this limit; whereas the epic action has no limits of time."[178] This passage is the incidental statement of an historical fact; it is merely a tentative deduction from the usual practice of Greek tragedy, and Aristotle never conceived of it as an inviolable law of the drama. Of the three unities which play so prominent a part in modern classical drama, the unity of action was the main, and, in fact, the only unity which Aristotle knew or insisted on. But from his incidental reference to the general time-limits of Greek tragedy, the Renaissance formulated the unity of time, and deduced from it also the unity of place, to which there is absolutely no reference either in Aristotle or in any other ancient writer whatever. It is to the Italians of the Renaissance, and not to the French critics of the seventeenth century, that the world owes the formulation of the three unities. The attention of scholars was first called to this fact about twenty years ago, by the brochure of a Swiss scholar, H. Breitinger, on the unities of Aristotle before Corneille's _Cid_; but the gradual development and formulation of the three unities have never been systematically worked out. We shall endeavor here to trace their history during the sixteenth century, and to explain the processes by which they developed. The first reference in modern literature to the doctrine of the unity of time is to be found in Giraldi Cintio's _Discorso sulle Comedie e sulle Tragedie_. He says that comedy and tragedy agree, among other things, in the limitation of the action to one day or but little more;[179] and he has thus for the first time converted Aristotle's statement of an historical fact into a dramatic law. Moreover, he has changed Aristotle's phrase, that tragedy limits itself "to a single revolution of the sun," into the more definite expression of "a single day." He points out that Euripides, in the _Heraclidæ_, on account of the long distance between the places in the action, had been unable to limit the action to one day. Now, as Aristotle must have known many of the best Greek dramas which are now lost, it was probably in keeping with the practice of such dramas that their actions were not strictly confined within the limits of one day. Aristotle, therefore, intentionally allowed the drama a slightly longer space of time than a single day. The unity of time, accordingly, becomes a part of the theory of the drama between 1540 and 1545, but it was not until almost exactly a century later that it became an invariable rule of the dramatic literature of France and of the world. In Robortelli (1548) we find Aristotle's phrase, "a single revolution of the sun," restricted to the artificial day of twelve hours; for as tragedy can contain only one single and continuous action, and as people are accustomed to sleep in the night, it follows that the tragic action cannot be continued beyond one artificial day. This holds good of comedy as well as tragedy, for the length of the fable in each is the same.[180] Segni (1549) differs from Robortelli, however, in regarding a single revolution of the sun as referring not to the artificial day of twelve hours, but to the natural day of twenty-four hours, because various matters treated in tragedy, and even in comedy, are such as are more likely to happen in the night (adulteries, murders, and the like); and if it be said that night is naturally the time for repose, Segni answers that unjust people act contrary to the laws of nature.[181] It was about this time, then, that there commenced the historic controversy as to what Aristotle meant by limiting tragedy to one day; and three-quarters of a century later, in 1623, Beni could cite thirteen different opinions of scholars on this question. Trissino, in his _Poetica_ (1563), paraphrases as follows the passage in Aristotle which refers to the unity of time: "They also differ in length, for tragedy terminates in one day, that is, one period of the sun, or but little more, while there is no time determined for epic poetry, as indeed was the custom with tragedy and comedy at their beginning, and is even to-day among ignorant poets."[182] Here for the first time, as a French critic remarks, the observance of the unity of time is made a distinction between the learned and the ignorant poet.[183] It is evident that Trissino conceives of the unity of time as an artistic principle which has helped to save dramatic poetry from the formlessness and chaotic condition of the mediæval drama. So that the unity of time became not only a dramatic law, but one the observation of which distinguished the dramatic artist from the mere ignorant compiler of popular plays. There is in none of the writers we have mentioned so far any reference to the unity of place, for the simple reason that there is no allusion to such a requirement for the drama in Aristotle's _Poetics_. Maggi's discussion of the unity of time, in his commentary on the _Poetics_ (1550), is of particular interest as preparing the way for the third unity. Maggi attempts to explain logically the reason for the unity of time.[184] Why should tragedy be limited as to time, and not epic poetry? According to him, this difference is to be explained by the fact that the drama is represented on the stage before our eyes, and if we should see the actions of a whole month performed in about the time it takes to perform the play, that is, two or three hours, the performance would be absolutely incredible. For example, says Maggi, if in a tragedy we should send a messenger to Egypt, and he would return in an hour, would not the spectator regard this as ridiculous? In the epic, on the contrary, we do not see the actions performed, and so do not feel the need of limiting them to any particular time. Now, it is to be noted here that this limitation of time is based on the idea of representation. The duration of the action of the drama itself must fairly coincide with the duration of its representation on the stage. This is the principle which led to the acceptance of the unity of place, and upon which it is based. Limit the time of the action to the time of representation, and it follows that the place of the action must be limited to the place of representation. Such a limitation is of course a piece of realism wholly out of keeping with the true dramatic illusion; but it was almost exclusively in the drama that classicism tended toward a minuter realism than could be justified by the Aristotelian canons. In Maggi the beginnings of the unity of place are evident, inasmuch as he finds that the requirements of the representation do not permit a messenger or any character in the drama to be sent very far from the place where the action is being performed. The closer action and representation coincide, the clearer becomes the necessity of a limitation in place as well as in time; and it was on this principle that Scaliger and Castelvetro, somewhat later, formulated the three unities. There is, indeed, in Scaliger (1561) no direct statement of the unity of time; but the reference to it is nevertheless unmistakable. First of all, Scaliger requires that the events be so arranged and disposed that they approach nearest to actual truth (_ut quam proxime accedant ad veritatem_).[185] This is equivalent to saying that the duration of the action, its place, its mode of procedure, must correspond more or less exactly with the representation itself. The dramatic poet must aim, beyond all things, at reproducing the actual conditions of life. The _verisimile_, the _vraisemblable_, in the etymological sense of these words, must be the final criterion of dramatic composition. It is not sufficient that the spectator should be satisfied with the action as typical of similar actions in life. An absolutely perfect illusion must prevail; the spectator must be moved by the actions of the play exactly as if they were those of real life. This notion of the _verisimile_, and of its effect of perfect illusion on the spectator's mind, prevailed throughout the period of classicism, and was vigorously defended by no less a critic than Voltaire himself. Accordingly, as Maggi first pointed out, if the playwright, in the few hours it takes to represent the whole play, requires one of his characters to perform an action that cannot be done in less than a month, this impression of actual truth and perfect illusion will not be left on the spectator's mind. "Therefore," says Scaliger, "those battles and assaults which take place about Thebes in the space of two hours do not please me; no sensible poet should make any one move from Delphi to Thebes, or from Thebes to Athens, in a moment's time. Agamemnon is buried by Æschylus after being killed, and Lichas is hurled into the sea by Hercules; but this cannot be represented without violence to truth. Accordingly, the poet should choose the briefest possible argument, and should enliven it by means of episodes and details.... Since the whole play is represented on the stage in six or eight hours, it is not in accordance with the exact appearance of truth (_haud verisimile est_) that within that brief space of time a tempest should arise and a shipwreck occur, out of sight of land." The observance of the unity of time could not be demanded in clearer or more forcible terms than this. But it is a mistake to construe this passage into a statement of the unity of place.[186] When Scaliger says that the poet should not move any one of the characters from Delphi to Thebes, or from Thebes to Athens, in a moment's time, he is referring to the exigencies, not of place, but of time. In this, as in many other things, he is merely following Maggi, who, as we have seen, says that it is ridiculous for a dramatist to have a messenger go to Egypt with a message and return in an hour. The characters, according to Scaliger, should not move from Delphi to Thebes in a moment, not because the action need necessarily occur in one single place, but because the characters cannot with any appearance of truth go a great distance in a short space of time. This is an approach to the unity of place, and had Scaliger followed his contention to its logical conclusion, he must certainly have formulated the three unities. But by requiring the action to be disposed with the greatest possible approach to the actual truth, or, in other words, by insisting that the action must coincide with the representation, Scaliger helped more than any of his predecessors to the final recognition of the unity of place. In Minturno[187] and in Vettori[188] we find a tendency to restrict the duration of the epic as well as the tragic action. It has been seen that Aristotle distinctly says that while the action of tragedy generally endeavors to confine itself within a period of about one day, that of epic poetry has no determined time. Minturno, however, alludes to the unity of time in the following words: "Whoever examines well the works of the most esteemed ancient writers, will find that the action represented on the stage is terminated in one day, or does not pass beyond the space of two days; while the epic has a longer period of time, except that its action cannot exceed one year in duration."[189] This limitation Minturno deduces from the practice of Homer and Virgil.[190] The action of the _Iliad_ begins in the tenth year of the Trojan war, and lasts one year; the action of the _Æneid_ begins in the seventh year after the departure of Æneas from Troy, and also lasts one year. Castelvetro, however, was the first theorist to formulate the unity of place, and thus to give the three unities their final form. We have seen that Castelvetro's theory of the drama was based entirely upon the notion of stage representation. All the essentials of dramatic literature are thus fixed by the exigencies of the stage. The stage is a circumscribed space, and the play must be performed upon it within a period of time limited by the physical necessities of the spectators. It is from these two facts that Castelvetro deduces the unities of time and place. While asserting that Aristotle held it as _cosa fermissima e verissima_ that the tragic action cannot exceed the length of an artificial day of twelve hours, he does not think that Aristotle himself understood the real reason of this limitation.[191] In the seventh chapter of the _Poetics_ Aristotle says that the length of the plot is limited by the possibility of its being carried in the memory of the spectator conveniently at one time. But this, it is urged, would restrict the epic as well as the tragic fable to one day. The difference between epic and dramatic poetry in this respect is to be found in the essential difference between the conditions of narrative and scenic poetry.[192] Narrative poetry can in a short time narrate things that happen in many days or months or even years; but scenic poetry, which spends as many hours in representing things as it actually takes to do them in life, does quite otherwise. In epic poetry words can present to our intellect things distant in space and time; but in dramatic poetry the whole action occurs before our eyes, and is accordingly limited to what we can actually see with our own senses, that is, to that brief duration of time and to that small amount of space in which the actors are occupied in acting, and not any other time or place. But as the restricted place is the stage, so the restricted time is that in which the spectators can at their ease remain sitting through a continuous performance; and this time, on account of the physical necessities of the spectators, such as eating, drinking, and sleeping, cannot well go beyond the duration of one revolution of the sun. So that not only is the unity of time an essential dramatic requirement, but it is in fact impossible for the dramatist to do otherwise even should he desire to do so--a conclusion which is of course the _reductio ad absurdum_ of the whole argument. In another place Castelvetro more briefly formulates the law of the unities in the definitive form in which it was to remain throughout the period of classicism: "La mutatione tragica non può tirar con esso seco se non una giornata e un luogo."[193] The unities of time and place are for Castelvetro so very important that the unity of action, which is for Aristotle the only essential of the drama, is entirely subordinated to them. In fact, Castelvetro specifically says that the unity of action is not essential to the drama, but is merely made expedient by the requirements of time and place. "In comedy and tragedy," he says, "there is usually one action, not because the fable is unfitted to contain more than one action, but because the restricted space in which the action is represented, and the limited time, twelve hours at the very most, do not permit of a multitude of actions."[194] In a similar manner Castelvetro applies the law of the unities to epic poetry. Although the epic action can be accomplished in many places and at diverse times, yet as it is more commendable and pleasurable to have a single action, so it is better for the action to confine itself to a short time and to but few places. In other words, the more the epic attempts to restrict itself to the unities of place and time, the better, according to Castelvetro, it will be.[195] Moreover, Castelvetro was not merely the first one to formulate the unities in their definitive form, but he was also the first to insist upon them as inviolable laws of the drama; and he refers to them over and over again in the pages of his commentary on the _Poetics_.[196] This then is the origin of the unities. Our discussion must have made it clear how little they deserve the traditional title of Aristotelian unities, or as a recent critic with equal inaccuracy calls them, the Scaligerian unities (_unités scaligériennes_).[197] Nor were they, as we have seen, first formulated in France, though this was the opinion of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Thus Dryden says that "the unity of place, however it might be practised by the ancients, was never one of their rules: we neither find it in Aristotle, Horace, or any who have written of it, till in our age the French poets first made it a precept of the stage."[198] It may be said, therefore, that just as the unity of action is _par excellence_ the Aristotelian unity, so the unities of time and place are beyond a doubt the Italian unities. They enter the critical literature of Europe from the time of Castelvetro, and may almost be said to be the last contributions of Italy to literary criticism. Two years after their formulation by Castelvetro they were introduced into France, and a dozen years after this formulation, into England. It was not until 1636, however, that they became fixed in modern dramatic literature, as a result of the _Cid_ controversy. This is approximately a hundred years after the first mention of the unity of time in Italian criticism. V. _Comedy_ The treatment of comedy in the literary criticism of this period is entirely confined to a discussion and elaboration of the little that Aristotle says on the subject of comedy in the _Poetics_. Aristotle, it will be remembered, had distinguished tragedy from comedy in that the former deals with the nobler, the latter with the baser, sort of actions. Comedy is an imitation of characters of a lower type than those of tragedy,--characters of a lower type indeed, but not in the full sense of the word bad. "The ludicrous is merely a subdivision of the ugly. It may be defined as a defect or ugliness which is not painful or destructive. Thus, for example, the comic mask is ugly and distorted, but does not cause pain."[199] From these few hints the Italian theorists constructed a body of comic doctrine. There is, however, in the critical literature of this period no attempt to explain the theory of the indigenous Italian comedy, the _commedia dell' arte_. The classical comedies of Plautus and Terence were the models, and Aristotle's _Poetics_ the guide, of all the discussions on comedy during the Renaissance. The distinction between the characters of comedy and tragedy has already been explained in sufficient detail. All that remains to be done in treating of comedy is to indicate as briefly as possible such definitions of it as were formulated by the Renaissance, and the special function which the Renaissance understood comedy to possess. According to Trissino (1563), the comic poet deals only with base things, and for the single purpose of chastising them. As tragedy attains its moral end through the medium of pity and fear, comedy does so by means of the chastisement and vituperation of things that are base and evil.[200] The comic poet, however, is not to deal with all sorts of vices, but only such as give rise to ridicule, that is, the jocose actions of humble and unknown persons. Laughter proceeds from a certain delight or pleasure arising from the sight of objects of ugliness. We do not laugh at a beautiful woman, a gorgeous jewel, or beautiful music; but a distortion or deformity, such as a silly speech, an ugly face, or a clumsy movement, makes us laugh. We do not laugh at the benefits of others; the finder of a purse, for example, arouses not laughter but envy. But we do laugh at some one who has fallen into the mud, because, as Lucretius says, it is sweet to find in others some evil not to be found in ourselves. Yet great evils, so far from causing us to laugh, arouse pity and fear, because we are apprehensive lest such things should happen to us. Hence we may conclude that a slight evil which is neither sad nor destructive, and which we perceive in others but do not believe to be in ourselves, is the primary cause of the ludicrous.[201] In Maggi's treatise, _De Ridiculis_, appended to his commentary on the _Poetics_, the Aristotelian conception of the ridiculous is accepted, with the addition of the element of _admiratio_. Maggi insists on the idea of suddenness or novelty; for we do not laugh at painless ugliness if it be very familiar or long continued.[202] According to Robortelli (1548), comedy, like all other forms of poetry, imitates the manners and actions of men, and aims at producing laughter and light-heartedness. But what produces laughter? The evil and obscene merely disgust good men; the sad and miserable cause pity and fear. The basis of laughter is therefore to be found in what is only slightly mean or ugly (_subturpiculum_). The object of comedy, according to the consensus of Renaissance opinion, is therefore to produce laughter for the purpose of rendering the minor vices ridiculous. Muzio (1551) indeed complains, as both Sidney and Ben Jonson do later, that the comic writers of his day were more intent on producing laughter than on depicting character or manners:-- "Intenta al riso Più ch' a i costumi." But Minturno points out that comedy is not to be contemned because it excites laughter; for by comic hilarity the spectators are kept from becoming buffoons themselves, and by the ridiculous light in which amours are placed, are made to avoid such things in future. Comedy is the best corrective of men's morals; it is indeed what Cicero calls it, _imitatio vitæ, speculum consuetudinis, imago veritatis_. This phrase, ascribed by Donatus to Cicero, runs through all the dramatic discussions of the Renaissance,[203] and finds its echo in a famous passage in _Hamlet_. Cervantes cites the phrase in _Don Quixote_;[204] and Il Lasca, in the prologue to _L'Arzigoglio_, berates the comic writers of his day after this fashion: "They take no account of the absurdities, the contradictions, the inequalities, and the discrepancies of their pieces; for they do not seem to know that comedy should be truth's image, the ensample of manners, and the mirror of life." This is exactly what Shakespeare is contending for when he makes Hamlet caution the players not to "o'erstep the modesty of nature; for anything so overdone is from the purpose of playing, whose end, both at the first and now, was and is, to hold as 'twere the mirror up to nature; to show virtue her own feature, scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time his form and pressure."[205] The high importance which Scaliger (1561) gives to comedy, and in fact to satiric and didactic poetry in general, is one of many indications of the incipient formation of neo-classical ideals during the Renaissance. He regards as absurd the statement which he conceives Horace to have made, that comedy is not really poetry; on the contrary, it is the true form of poetry, and the first and highest of all, for its matter is entirely invented by the poet.[206] He defines comedy as a dramatic poem filled with intrigue (_negotiosum_), written in popular style, and ending happily.[207] The characters in comedy are chiefly old men, slaves, courtesans, all in humble station or from small villages. The action begins rather turbulently, but ends happily, and the style is neither high nor low. The typical themes of comedy are "sports, banquets, nuptials, drunken carousals, the crafty wiles of slaves, and the deception of old men."[208] The theory of comedy in sixteenth-century Italy was entirely classical, and the practice of the time agrees with its theory. There are indeed to be heard occasional notes of dissatisfaction and revolt, especially in the prologues of popular plays. Il Lasca, in the prologue to the _Strega_, defiantly protests against the inviolable authority of Aristotle and Horace, and in the prologue to his _Gelosia_ reserves the right to copy the manner of his own time, and not those of Plautus and Terence. Cecchi, Aretino, Gelli, and other comic writers give expression to similar sentiments.[209] But on the whole these protests availed nothing. The authors of comedy, and more especially the literary critics, were guided by classical practice and classical theory. Dramatic forms like the improvised _commedia dell' arte_ had marked influence on the practice of European comedy in general, especially in France, but left no traces of their influence on the literary criticism of the Italian Renaissance. FOOT-NOTES: [109] _Poet._ vi. 2. [110] Daniello, p. 34. [111] _Cf._ Horace, _Ars Poet._ 182 _sq._ [112] Giraldi Cintio, ii. 6. [113] _Ibid._ ii. 30. [114] Cited by Butcher, p. 220. [115] _Poet._ iv. 7. [116] Maggi, p. 64. [117] Maggi, p. 154. [118] Butcher, p. 220 _sq._ [119] Butcher, p. 219, n. 1.--Müller, ii. 394, attempts to harmonize the definition of Theophrastus with that of Aristotle. [120] Egger, _Hist. de la Critique_, p. 344, n. 2. [121] Cloetta, i. 29. _Cf._ Antiphanes, cited by Egger, p. 72. [122] Cloetta, p. 30. [123] _Etymol._ viii. 7, 6. [124] _Etymol._ xviii. 45 and 46. [125] Cloetta, p. 28, and p. 31 _sq._ [126] _Epist._ xi. 10. _Cf._ Gelli's Lectures on the Divine Comedy, ed. Negroni, 1887, i. 37 _sq._ [127] _Poet._ ix. 5-9. [128] Giraldi Cintio, ii. 14. [129] Giraldi Cintio, ii. 20. [130] _Poet._ xi. 6. [131] _Ars Poet._ 182-188. [132] Giraldi Cintio, ii. 119. [133] Scaliger, _Poet._ i. 6. [134] Scaliger, i. 11; iii. 96. [135] _Ibid._ vi. 6. [136] _Ibid._ iii. 96. [137] _Ibid._ i. 13. [138] _De Poeta_, p. 43 _sq._ [139] _Ibid._ p. 173. _Cf._ Milton's phrase, "vain and amatorious poem." [140] Dacier, 1692, p. xvii. [141] _Poet._ vi. 19. [142] _Poet._ xiv. 1. [143] Castelvetro, _Poetica_, p. 30. [144] Castelvetro, _Poetica_, pp. 22, 23. [145] _Ibid._ p. 57. [146] Castelvetro, _Poetica_, pp. 35, 36. [147] Twining, ii. 3. [148] Butcher, ch. vi. [149] Giraldi Cintio, ii. 12. [150] _Ibid._ i. 66 _sq._ [151] Trissino, ii. 93 _sq._ [152] Robortelli, p. 52 _sq._ [153] Vettori, p. 56 _sq._, and Castelvetro, _Poetica_, p. 117 _sq._ [154] Maggi, p. 97 _sq._ [155] _Cf._ Shelley, _Defence of Poetry_, p. 35, "Tragedy delights by affording a shadow of that pleasure which exists in pain," etc. [156] _Lezzioni_, p. 660. [157] Scaliger, _Poet._ vii. i. 3; iii. 96. [158] _Arte Poetica_, p. 287. [159] _Arte Poetica_, p. 77. [160] Butcher, pp. 229, 230. [161] _Opere_, v. 178. [162] Butcher, p. 280 _sq._ [163] _Poet._ xiii. 2, 3. [164] Daniello, p. 38. [165] _Poet._ xiii. 7. [166] _Della Vera Poetica_, cap. iii. [167] _De Poeta_, p. 182 _sq._ [168] _Arte Poetica_, p. 118 _sq._; also in Scaliger and Giraldi Cintio. [169] _Poet._ xv. 1-5. [170] _Ars Poet._ 154 _sq._ [171] Muzio, p. 80. [172] Pope, i. 165. [173] _Poetica_, p. 36 _sq._ [174] Capriano, _op. cit._, cap. v. [175] Cod. Magliabechiano, vii. 7, 715. [176] Another expression of Jonson's, "small Latin and less Greek," may perhaps be traced to Minturno's "poco del Latino e pochissimo del Greco," _Arte Poetica_, p. 158. [177] _Poet._ viii. 1-4. [178] _Poet._ v. 4. [179] Giraldi Cintio, ii. 10 _sq._ [180] Robortelli, pp. 50, 275, and appendix, p. 45. _Cf._ Luisino's Commentary on Horace's _Ars Poetica_, 1554, p. 40. [181] B. Segni, p. 170 v. [182] Trissino, ii. 95. [183] Brunetière, i. 69. [184] Maggi, p. 94. [185] Scaliger, iii. 96. So Robortelli, p. 53, speaks of tragedy as representing things _quæ multum accedunt ad veritatem ipsam_. [186] _E.g._ Lintilhac, _De Scal. Poet._ p. 32. [187] _De Poeta_, pp. 185, 281. [188] Vettori, p. 250. [189] _Arte Poet._ pp. 71, 117. [190] _Ibid._ p. 12. [191] Castelvetro, _Poetica_, pp. 157, 170. [192] _Ibid._ pp. 57, 109. [193] Castelvetro, _Poetica_, p. 534. _Cf._ Boileau, _Art Poét._ iii. 45. [194] Castelvetro, _Poetica_, p. 179. [195] _Ibid._ pp. 534, 535. [196] Other allusions to the unities, besides those already mentioned, will be found in Castelvetro, _Poetica_, pp. 163-165, 168-171, 191, 397, 501, 527, 531-536, 692, 697, etc. [197] Lintilhac, in the _Nouvelle Revue_, lxiv. 541. [198] _Essay of Dramatic Poesy_, p. 31. [199] _Poet._ v. 1. _Cf._ _Rhet._ iii. 18. [200] Trissino, ii. 120. _Cf._ Butcher, p. 203 _sq._ [201] Trissino, ii. 127-130. Trissino seems to follow Cicero, _De Orat._ ii. 58 _sq._ It is to these Italian discussions of the ludicrous that the theory of laughter formulated by Hobbes, and after him by Addison, owes its origin. For Renaissance discussions of wit and humor before the introduction of Aristotle's _Poetics_, _cf._ the third and fourth books of Pontano's _De Sermone_, and the second book of Castiglione's _Cortigiano_. [202] Maggi, p. 307. _Cf._ Hobbes, _Human Nature_, 1650, ix. 13. [203] _Cf._ B. Tasso, ii. 515; Robortelli, p. 2; etc. [204] _Don Quix._ iv. 21. [205] _Hamlet_, iii. 2. [206] Scaliger, _Poet._ i. 2. Castiglione, in the second book of the _Cortigiano_, says that the comic writer, more than any other, expresses the true image of human life. [207] _Poet._ i. 5. [208] _Poet._ iii. 96. [209] Symonds, _Ren. in Italy_, v. 124 _sq._, 533 _sq._ CHAPTER IV THE THEORY OF EPIC POETRY EPIC poetry was held in the highest esteem during the Renaissance and indeed throughout the period of classicism. It was regarded by Vida as the highest form of poetry,[210] and a century later, despite the success of tragedy in France, Rapin still held the same opinion.[211] The reverence for the epic throughout the Renaissance may be ascribed in part to the mediæval veneration of Virgil as a poet, and his popular apotheosis as prophet and magician, and also in part to the decay into which dramatic literature had fallen during the Middle Ages in the hands of the wandering players, the _histriones_ and the _vagantes_. Aristotle[212] indeed had regarded tragedy as the highest form of poetry; and as a result, the traditional reverence for Virgil and Homer, and the Renaissance subservience to Aristotle, were distinctly at variance. Trissino (1561) paraphrases Aristotle's argument in favor of tragedy, but points out, notwithstanding this, that the whole world is unanimous in considering Virgil and Homer greater than any tragic poet before or after them.[213] Placed in this quandary, he concludes by leaving the reader to judge for himself whether epic or tragedy be the nobler form. I. _The Theory of the Epic Poem_ Vida's _Ars Poetica_, written before 1520, although no edition prior to that of 1527 is extant, is the earliest example in modern times of that class of critical poems to which belong Horace's _Ars Poetica_, Boileau's _Art Poétique_, and Pope's _Essay on Criticism_. Vida's poem is entirely based on that of Horace; but he substitutes epic for Horace's dramatic studies, and employs the _Æneid_ as the model of an epic poem. The incompleteness of the treatment accorded to epic poetry in Aristotle's _Poetics_ led the Renaissance to deduce the laws of heroic poetry and of poetic artifice in general from the practice of Virgil; and it is to this point of view that the critical works on the _Æneid_ by Regolo (1563), Maranta (1564), and Toscanella (1566) owe their origin. The obvious and even accidental qualities of Virgil's poem are enunciated by Vida as fundamental laws of epic poetry. The precepts thus given are purely rhetorical and pedagogic in character, and deal almost exclusively with questions of poetic invention, disposition, polish, and style. Beyond this Vida does not attempt to go. There is in his poem no definition of the epic, no theory of its function, no analysis of the essentials of narrative structure. In fact, no theory of poetry in any real sense is to be found in Vida's treatise. Daniello(1536) deals only very cursorily with epic poetry, but his definition of it strikes the keynote of the Renaissance conception. Heroic poetry is for him an imitation of the illustrious deeds of emperors and other men magnanimous and valorous in arms,[214]--a conception that goes back to Horace's "Res gestae regumque ducumque et tristia bella."[215] Trissino (1563) first introduced the Aristotelian theory of the epic into modern literary criticism; and the sixth section of his _Poetica_ is given up almost exclusively to the treatment of heroic poetry. The epic agrees with tragedy in dealing with illustrious men and illustrious actions. Like tragedy it must have a single action, but it differs from tragedy in not having the time of the action limited or determined. While unity of action is essential to the epic, and is indeed what distinguishes it from narrative poems that are not really epics, the Renaissance conceived of vastness of design and largeness of detail as necessary to the grandiose character of the epic poem.[216] Thus Muzio says:-- "Il poema sovrano è una pittura De l' universo, e però in sè comprende Ogni stilo, ogni forma, ogni ritratto." Trissino regards _versi sciolti_ as the proper metre for an heroic poem, since the stanzaic form impedes the continuity of the narrative. In this point he finds fault with Boccaccio, Boiardo, and Ariosto, whose romantic poems, moreover, he does not regard as epics, because they do not obey Aristotle's inviolable law of the single action. He also finds fault with the romantic poets for describing the improbable, since Aristotle expressly prefers an impossible probability to an improbable possibility. Minturno's definition of epic poetry is merely a modification or paraphrase of Aristotle's definition of tragedy. Epic poetry is an imitation of a grave and noble deed, perfect, complete, and of proper magnitude, with embellished language, but without music or dancing; at times simply narrating and at other times introducing persons in words and actions; in order that, through pity and fear of the things imitated, such passions may be purged from the mind with both pleasure and profit.[217] Here Minturno, like Giraldi Cintio, ascribes to epic poetry the same purgation of pity and fear effected by tragedy. Epic poetry he rates above tragedy, since the epic poet, more than any other, arouses that admiration of great heroes which it is the peculiar function of the poet to excite, and therefore attains the end of poetry more completely than any other poet. This, however, is true only in the highest form of narrative poetry; for Minturno distinguishes three classes of narrative poets, the lowest, or _bucolici_, the mediocre, or _epici_, who have nothing beyond verse, and the highest, or _heroici_, who imitate the life of a single hero in noble verse.[218] Minturno insists fundamentally on the unity of the epic action; and directly against Aristotle's statement, as we have seen, he restricts the duration of the action to one year. The license and prolixity of the _romanzi_ led the defenders of the classical epic to this extreme of rigid circumspection. According to Scaliger, the epic, which is the norm by which all other poems may be judged and the chief of all poems, describes _heroum genus_, _vita_, gesta_.[219] This is the Horatian conception of the epic, and there is in Scaliger little or no trace of the Aristotelian doctrine. He also follows Horace closely in forbidding the narrative poet to begin his poem from the very beginning of his story (_ab ovo_), and in various other details. Castelvetro (1570) differs from Aristotle in regard to the unity of the epic fable, on the ground that poetry is merely imaginative history, and can therefore do anything that history can do. Poetry follows the footsteps of history, differing merely in that history narrates what has happened, while poetry narrates what has never happened but yet may possibly happen; and therefore, since history recounts the whole life of a single hero, without regard to its unity, there is no reason why poetry should not do likewise. The epic may in fact deal with many actions of one person, one action of a whole race, or many actions of many people; it need not necessarily deal with one action of one person, as Aristotle enjoins, but if it does so it is simply to show the ingenuity and excellence of the poet.[220] II. _Epic and Romance_ This discussion of epic unity leads to one of the most important critical questions of the sixteenth century,--the question of the unity of romance. Ariosto's _Orlando Furioso_ and Boiardo's _Orlando Innamorato_ were written before the Aristotelian canons had become a part of the critical literature of Italy. When it became clear that these poems diverged from the fundamental requirements of the epic as expounded in the _Poetics_, Trissino set out to compose an heroic poem which would be in perfect accord with the precepts of Aristotle. His _Italia Liberata_, which was completed by 1548, was the result of twenty years of study, and it is the first modern epic in the strict Aristotelian sense. With Aristotle as his guide, and Homer as his model, he had studiously and mechanically constructed an epic of a single action; and in the dedication of his poem to the Emperor Charles V. he charges all poems which violate this primary law of the single action with being merely bastard forms. The _romanzi_, and among them the _Orlando Furioso_, in seemingly disregarding this fundamental requirement, came under Trissino's censure; and this started a controversy which was not to end until the commencement of the next century, and in a certain sense may be said to remain undecided even to this day. The first to take up the cudgels in defence of the writers of the _romanzi_ was Giraldi Cintio, who in his youth had known Ariosto personally, and who wrote his _Discorso intorno al comporre dei Romanzi_, in April, 1549. The grounds of his defence are twofold. In the first place, Giraldi maintains that the romance is a poetic form of which Aristotle did not know, and to which his rules therefore do not apply; and in the second place, Tuscan literature, differing as it does from the literature of Greece in language, in spirit, and in religious feeling, need not and indeed ought not to follow the rules of Greek literature, but rather the laws of its own development and its own traditions. With Ariosto and Boiardo as models, Giraldi sets out to formulate the laws of the _romanzi_. The _romanzi_ aim at imitating illustrious actions in verse, with the purpose of teaching good morals and honest living, since this ought to be the aim of every poet, as Giraldi conceives Aristotle himself to have said.[221] All heroic poetry is an imitation of illustrious actions, but Giraldi, like Castelvetro twenty years later, recognizes several distinct forms of heroic poetry, according as to whether it imitates one action of one man, many actions of many men, or many actions of one man. The first of these is the epic poem, the rules of which are given in Aristotle's _Poetics_. The second is the romantic poem, after the manner of Boiardo and Ariosto. The third is the biographical poem, after the manner of the _Theseid_ and similar works dealing with the whole life of a single hero. These forms are therefore to be regarded as three distinct and legitimate species of heroic poetry, the first of them being an epic poem in the strict Aristotelian sense, and the two others coming under the general head of _romanzi_. Of the two forms of _romanzi_, the biographical deals preferably with an historical subject, whereas the noblest writers of the more purely romantic form, dealing with many actions of many men, have invented their subject-matter. Horace says that an heroic poem should not commence at the very beginning of the hero's life; but it is difficult to understand, says Giraldi, why the whole life of a distinguished man, which gives us so great and refined a pleasure in the works of Plutarch and other biographers, should not please us all the more when described in beautiful verse by a good poet.[222] Accordingly, the poet who is composing an epic in the strict sense should, in handling the events of his narrative, plunge immediately _in medias res_. The poet dealing with many actions of many men should begin with the most important event, and the one upon which all the others may be said to hinge; whereas the poet describing the life of a single hero should begin at the very beginning, if the hero spent a really heroic youth, as Hercules for example did. The poem dealing with the life of a hero is thus a separate _genre_, and one for which Aristotle does not attempt to lay down any laws. Giraldi even goes so far as to say that Aristotle[223] censured those who write the life of Theseus or Hercules in a single poem, not because they dealt with many actions of one man, but because they treated such a poem in exactly the same manner as those who dealt with a single action of a single hero,--an assertion which is of course utterly absurd. Giraldi then proceeds to deal in detail with the disposition and composition of the _romanzi_, which he rates above the classical epics in the efficacy of ethical teaching. It is the office of the poet to praise virtuous actions and to condemn vicious actions; and in this the writers of the _romanzi_ are far superior to the writers of the ancient heroic poems.[224] Giraldi's discourse on the _romanzi_ gave rise to a curious dispute with his own pupil, Giambattista Pigna, who published a similar work, entitled _I Romanzi_, in the same year (1554). Pigna asserted that he had suggested to Giraldi the main argument of the discourse, and that Giraldi had adopted it as his own. Without entering into the details of this controversy, it would seem that the priority of Giraldi cannot fairly be contested.[225] At all events, there is a very great resemblance between the works of Giraldi and Pigna. Pigna's treatise, however, is more detailed than Giraldi's. In the first book, Pigna deals with the general subject of the _romanzi_; in the second he gives a life of Ariosto, and discusses the _Furioso_, point by point; in the third he demonstrates the good taste and critical acumen of Ariosto by comparing the first version of the _Furioso_ with the completed and perfected copy.[226] Both Pigna and Giraldi consider the _romanzi_ to constitute a new _genre_, unknown to the ancients, and therefore not subject to Aristotle's rules. Giraldi's sympathies were in favor of the biographical form of the _romanzi_, and his poem, the _Ercole_ (1557), recounts the whole life of a single hero. Pigna, who keeps closer to the tradition of Ariosto, regards the biographical form as not proper to poetry, because too much like history. These arguments, presented by Giraldi and Pigna, were answered by Speroni, Minturno, and others. Speroni pointed out that while it is not necessary for the romantic poets to follow the rules prescribed by the ancients, they cannot disobey the fundamental laws of poetry. "The _romanzi_," says Speroni, "are epics, which are poems, or they are histories in verse, and not poems."[227] That is, how does a poem differ from a well-written historical narrative, if the former be without organic unity?[228] As to the whole discussion, it may be said here, without attempting to pass judgment on Ariosto, or any other writer of _romanzi_, that unity of some sort every true poem must necessarily have; and, flawless as the _Orlando Furioso_ is in its details, the unity of the poem certainly has not the obviousness of perfect, and especially classical, art. A work of art without organic unity may be compared with an unsymmetrical circle; and, while the _Furioso_ is not to be judged by any arbitrary or mechanical rules of unity, yet if it has not that internal unity which transcends all mere external form, it may be considered, as a work of art, hardly less than a failure; and the farther it is removed from perfect unity, the more imperfect is the art. "Poetry adapts itself to its times, but cannot depart from its own fundamental laws."[229] Minturno's answer to the defenders of the _romanzi_ is more detailed and explicit than Speroni's, and it is of considerable importance because of its influence on Torquato Tasso's conception of epic poetry. Minturno does not deny--and in this his point of view is identical with Tasso's--that it is possible to employ the matter of the _romanzi_ in the composition of a perfect poem. The actions they describe are great and illustrious, their knights and ladies are noble and illustrious, too, and they contain in a most excellent manner that element of the marvellous which is so important an element in the epic action. It is the structure of the _romanzi_ with which Minturno finds fault. They lack the first essential of every form of poetry,--unity. In fact, they are little more than versified history or legend; and, while expressing admiration for the genius of Ariosto, Minturno cannot but regret that he so far yielded to the popular taste of his time as to employ the method of the _romanzi_. He approves of the suggestion of Bembo, who had tried to persuade Ariosto to write an epic instead of a romantic poem,[230] just as later, and for similar reasons, Gabriel Harvey attempted to dissuade Spenser from continuing the _Faerie Queene_. Minturno denies that the Tuscan tongue is not well adapted to the composition of heroic poetry; on the contrary, there is no form of poetry to which it is not admirably fitted. He denies that the romantic poem can be distinguished from the epic on the ground that the actions of knights-errant require a different and broader form of narrative than do those of the classical heroes. The celestial and infernal gods and demi-gods of the ancients correspond with the angels, saints, anchorites, and the one God of Christianity; the ancient sibyls, oracles, enchantresses, and divine messengers correspond with the modern necromancers, fates, magicians, and celestial angels. To the claim of the romantic poets that their poems approximate closer to that magnitude which Aristotle enjoins as necessary for all poetry, Minturno answers that magnitude is of no avail without proportion; there is no beauty in the giant whose limbs and frame are distorted. Finally, the _romanzi_ are said to be a new form of poetry unknown to Aristotle and Horace, and hence not amenable to their laws. But time, says Minturno, cannot change the truth; in every age a poem must have unity, proportion, magnitude. Everything in nature is governed by some specific law which directs its operation; and as it is in nature so it is in art, for art tries to imitate nature, and the nearer it approaches nature in her essential laws, the better it does its work. In other words, as has already been pointed out, poetry adapts itself to its times, but cannot depart from its own laws. Bernardo Tasso, the father of Torquato, had originally been one of the defenders of the classical epic; but he seems to have been converted to the opposite view by Giraldi Cintio, and in his poem of the _Amadigi_ he follows romantic models. His son Torquato, in his _Discorsi dell' Arte Poetica_, originally written one or two years after the appearance of Minturno's _Arte Poetica_, although not published until 1587, was the first to attempt a reconciliation of the epic and romantic forms; and he may be said to have effected a solution of the problem by the formulation of the theory of a narrative poem which would have the romantic subject-matter, with its delightful variety, and the epic form, with its essential unity. The question at issue, as we have seen, is that of unity; that is, does the heroic poem need unity? Tasso denies that there is any difference between the epic poem and the romantic poem as poems. The reason why the latter is more pleasing, is to be found in the fact of the greater delightfulness of the themes treated.[231] Variety in itself is not pleasing, for a variety of disagreeable things would not please at all. Hence the perfect and at the same time most pleasing form of heroic poem would deal with the chivalrous themes of the _romanzi_, but would possess that unity of structure which, according to the precepts of Aristotle and the practice of Homer and Virgil, is essential to every epic. There are two sorts of unity possible in art as in nature,--the simple unity of a chemical element, and the complex unity of an organism like an animal or plant,--and of these the latter is the sort of unity that the heroic poet should aim at.[232] Capriano (1555) had referred to this same distinction, when he pointed out that poetry ought not to be the imitation of a single act, such as a single act of weeping in the elegy, or a single act of pastoral life in the eclogue, for such a sporadic imitation is to be compared to a picture of a single hand without the rest of the body; on the contrary, poetry ought to be the representation of a number of attendant or dependent acts, leading from a given beginning to a suitable end.[233] Having settled the general fact that the attractive themes of the _romanzi_ should be employed in a perfect heroic poem, we may inquire what particular themes are most fitted to the epic, and what must be the essential qualities of the epic material.[234] In the first place, the subject of the heroic poem must be historical, for it is not probable that illustrious actions such as are dealt with in the epic should be unknown to history. The authority of history gains for the poet that semblance of truth necessary to deceive the reader and make him believe that what the poet writes is true. Secondly, the heroic poem, according to Tasso, must deal with the history, not of a false religion, but of the true one, Christianity. The religion of the pagans is absolutely unfit for epic material; for if the pagan deities are not introduced, the poem will lack the element of the marvellous, and if they are introduced it will lack the element of probability. Both the marvellous and the _verisimile_ must exist together in a perfect epic, and difficult as the task may seem, they must be reconciled. Another reason why paganism is unfit for the epic is to be found in the fact that the perfect knight must have piety as well as other virtues. In the third place, the poem must not deal with themes connected with the articles of Christian faith, for such themes would be unalterable, and would allow no scope to the free play of the poet's inventive fancy. Fourthly, the material must be neither too ancient nor too modern, for the latter is too well known to admit of fanciful changes with probability, and the former not only lacks interest but requires the introduction of strange and alien manners and customs. The times of Charlemagne and Arthur are accordingly best fitted for heroic treatment. Finally, the events themselves must possess nobility and grandeur. Hence an epic should be a story derived from some event in the history of Christian peoples, intrinsically noble and illustrious, but not of so sacred a character as to be fixed and immutable, and neither contemporary nor very remote. By the selection of such material the poem gains the authority of history, the truth of religion, the license of fiction, the proper atmosphere in point of time, and the grandeur of the events themselves.[235] Aristotle says that both epic and tragedy deal with illustrious actions. Tasso points out that if the actions of tragedy and of epic poetry were both illustrious in the same way, they would both produce the same results; but tragic actions move horror and compassion, while epic actions as a rule do not and need not arouse these emotions. The tragic action consists in the unexpected change of fortune, and in the grandeur of the events carrying with them horror and pity; but the epic action is founded upon undertakings of lofty martial virtue, upon deeds of courtesy, piety, generosity, none of which is proper to tragedy. Hence the characters in epic poetry and in tragedy, though both of the same regal and supreme rank, differ in that the tragic hero is neither perfectly good nor entirely bad, as Aristotle says, while the epic hero must have the very height of virtue, such as Æneas, the type of piety, Amadis, the type of loyalty, Achilles, of martial virtue, and Ulysses, of prudence. Having formulated these theories of heroic poetry in his youth, Tasso set out to carry them into practice, and his famous _Gerusalemme Liberata_ was the result. This poem, almost immediately after its publication, started a violent controversy, which raged for many years, and which may be regarded as the legitimate outcome of the earlier dispute in connection with the _romanzi_.[236] The _Gerusalemme_ was in fact the centre of critical activity during the latter part of the century. Shortly after its publication, Camillo Pellegrino published a dialogue, entitled _Il Caraffa_ (1583), in which the _Gerusalemme_ is compared with the _Orlando Furioso_, much to the advantage of the former. Pellegrino finds fault with Ariosto on account of the lack of unity of his poem, the immoral manners imitated, and various imperfections of style and language; and in all of these things, unity, morality, and style, he finds Tasso's poem perfect. This was naturally the signal for a heated and long-continued controversy. The Accademia della Crusca had been founded at Florence, in 1582, and it seems that the members of the new society felt hurt at some sarcastic remarks regarding Florence in one of Tasso's dialogues. Accordingly, the head of the academy, Lionardo Salviati, in a dialogue entitled _L' Infarinato_, wrote an ardent defence of Ariosto; and an acrid and undignified dispute between Tasso and Salviati was begun.[237] Tasso answered the Accademia della Crusca in his _Apologia_; and at the beginning of the next century, Paolo Beni, the commentator on Aristotle's _Poetics_, published his _Comparazione di Omero, Virgilio, e Torquato_, in which Tasso is rated above Homer, Virgil, and Ariosto, not only in dignity, in beauty of style, and in unity of fable, but in every other quality that may be said to constitute perfection in poetry. Before dismissing this whole matter, it should be pointed out that the defenders of Aristotle had absolutely abandoned the position of Giraldi and Pigna, that the _romanzi_ constitute a _genre_ by themselves, and are therefore not subject to Aristotle's law of unity. The question as Giraldi had stated it was this: Does every poem need to have unity? The question as discussed in the Tasso controversy had changed to this form: What is unity? It was taken for granted by both sides in the controversy that every poem must have organic unity; and the authority of Aristotle, in epic as in dramatic poetry, was henceforth supreme. It was to the authority of Aristotle that Tasso's opponents appealed; and Salviati, merely for the purpose of undermining Tasso's pretensions, wrote an extended commentary on the _Poetics_, which still lies in Ms. at Florence, and which has been made use of in the present essay.[238] FOOT-NOTES: [210] Pope, i. 133. [211] Rapin, 1674, ii. 2. [212] _Poet._ xxvi. [213] Trissino, ii. 118 _sq._ [214] Daniello, p. 34. [215] _Ars Poet._ 73. [216] Trissino, ii. 112 _sq._ [217] _Arte Poetica_, p. 9. [218] _De Poeta_, pp. 105, 106. [219] _Poet._ iii. 95. [220] Castelvetro, _Poetica_, p. 178 _sq._ [221] Giraldi Cintio, i. 11, 64. [222] Giraldi Cintio, i. 24. [223] _Poet._ viii. 2. [224] Giraldi, i. 66 _sq._ [225] _Cf._ Tiraboschi, vii. 947 _sq._, and Giraldi, ii. 153 _sq._ Pigna's own words are cited in Giraldi, i. p. xxiii. [226] Canello, p. 306 _sq._ [227] Speroni, v. 521. [228] _Cf._ Minturno, _De Poeta_, p. 151. [229] Minturno, _Arte Poetica_, p. 31. For various opinions on the unity of the _Orlando Furioso_, _cf._ Canello, p. 106, and Foffano, p. 59 _sq._ [230] _Arte Poetica_, p. 31. [231] T. Tasso, xii. 219 _sq._ [232] T. Tasso, xii. 234. [233] _Della Vera Poetica_, cap. iii. [234] T. Tasso, xii. 199 _sq._ [235] T. Tasso, xii. 208. [236] Accounts of this famous controversy will be found in Tiraboschi, Canello, Serassi, etc.; but the latest and most complete is that given in the twentieth chapter of Solerti's monumental _Vita di Torquato Tasso_, Torino, 1895. [237] Nearly all the important documents of the Tasso controversy are reprinted in Rosini's edition of Tasso, _Opere_, vols. xviii.-xxiii. [238] The question of unity was also raised in another controversy of the second half of the sixteenth century. A passage in Varchi's _Ercolano_ (1570), rating Dante above Homer, started a controversy on the _Divine Comedy_. The most important outcome of this dispute was Mazzoni's _Difesa di Dante_ (1573), in which a whole new theory of poetry is expounded in order to defend the great Tuscan poet. CHAPTER V THE GROWTH OF THE CLASSIC SPIRIT IN ITALIAN CRITICISM THE growth of classicism in Renaissance criticism was due to three causes,--humanism, or the imitation of the classics, Aristotelianism, or the influence of Aristotle's _Poetics_, and rationalism, or the authority of the reason, the result of the growth of the modern spirit in the arts and sciences. These three causes are at the bottom of Italian classicism, as well as of French classicism during the seventeenth century. I. _Humanism_ The progress of humanism may be distinguished by an arbitrary but more or less practical division into four periods. The first period was characterized by the discovery and accumulation of classical literature, and the second period was given up to the arrangement and translation of the works thus discovered. The third period is marked by the formation of academies, in which the classics were studied and humanized, and which as a result produced a special cult of learning. The fourth and last period is marked by the decline of pure erudition, and the beginning of æsthetic and stylistic scholarship.[239] The practical result of the revival of learning and the progress of humanism was thus the study and imitation of the classics. To this imitation of classical literature all that humanism gave to the modern world may be ultimately traced. The problem before us, then, is this: What was the result of this imitation of the classics, in so far as it regards the literary criticism of the Renaissance? In the first place, the imitation of the classics resulted in the study and cult of external form. Elegance, polish, clearness of design, became objects of study for themselves; and as a result we have the formation of æsthetic taste, and the growth of a classic purism, to which many of the literary tendencies of the Renaissance may be traced.[240] Under Leo X. and throughout the first half of the sixteenth century, the intricacies of style and versification were carefully studied. Vida was the first to lay down laws of imitative harmony;[241] Bembo, and after him Dolce and others, studied the poetic effect of different sounds, and the onomatopoeic value of the various vowels and consonants;[242] Claudio Tolomei attempted to introduce classical metres into the vernacular;[243] Trissino published subtle and systematic researches in Tuscan language and versification.[244] Later, the rhetorical treatises of Cavalcanti (1565), Lionardi (1554), and Partenio (1560), and the more practical manuals of Fanucci (1533), Equicola (1541), and Ruscelli (1559), all testify to the tremendous impulse which the imitation of the classics had given to the study of form both in classical and vernacular literatures. In Vida's _Ars Poetica_ there are abundant evidences of the rhetorical and especially the puristic tendencies of modern classicism. The mechanical conception of poetic expression, in which imagination, sensibility, and passion are subjected to the elaborate and intricate precepts of art, is everywhere found in Vida's poem. Like Horace, Vida insists on long preparation for the composition of poetry, and warns the poet against the indulgence of his first impulses. He suggests as a preparation for the composition of poetry, that the poet should prepare a list of phrases and images for use whenever occasion may demand.[245] He impresses upon the poet the necessity of euphemistic expressions in introducing the subject of his poem; for example, the name of Ulysses should not be mentioned, but he should be referred to as one who has seen many men and many cities, who has suffered shipwreck on the return from Troy, and the like.[246] In such mechanical precepts as these, the rhetoric of seventeenth-century classicism is anticipated. Its restraint, its purity, its mechanical side, are everywhere visible in Vida. A little later, in Daniello, we find similar puristic tendencies. He requires the severe separation of _genres_, decorum and propriety of characterization, and the exclusion of everything disagreeable from the stage. In Partenio's _Della Imitatione Poetica_ (1560), the poet is expressly forbidden the employment of the ordinary words in daily use,[247] and elegance of form is especially demanded. Partenio regards form as of superior importance to subject or idea; for those who hear or read poetry care more for beauty of diction than for character or even thought.[248] It is on merely rhetorical grounds that Partenio distinguishes excellent from mediocre poetry. The good poet, unlike the bad one, is able to give splendor and dignity to the most trivial idea by means of adornments of diction and disposition. This conception seems to have particularly appealed to the Renaissance; and Tasso gives expression to a similar notion when he calls it the poet's noblest function "to make of old concepts new ones, to make of vulgar concepts noble ones, and to make common concepts his own."[249] In a higher and more ideal sense, poetry, according to Shelley, "makes familiar objects be as if they were not familiar."[250] It is in keeping with this rhetorical ideal of classicism that Scaliger makes _electio et sui fastidium_ the highest virtues of the poet.[251] All that is merely popular (_plebeium_) in thought and expression is to be minutely avoided; for only that which proceeds from solid erudition is proper to art. The basis of artistic creation is imitation and judgment; for every artist is at bottom somewhat of an echo.[252] Grace, decorum, elegance, splendor are the chief excellences of poetry and the life of all excellence lies in measure, that is, moderation and proportion. It is in the spirit of this classical purism that Scaliger minutely distinguishes the various rhetorical and grammatical figures, and carefully estimates their proper place and function in poetry. His analysis and systematization of the figures were immediately accepted by the scholars and grammarians of his time, and have played a large part in French education ever since. Another consequence of Scaliger's dogmatic teaching, the Latinization of culture, can only be referred to here in passing.[253] A second result of the imitation of the classics was the paganization of Renaissance culture. Classic art is at bottom pagan, and the Renaissance sacrificed everything in order to appear classical.[254] Not only did Christian literature seem contemptible when compared with classic literature, but the mere treatment of Christian themes offered numerous difficulties in itself. Thus Muzio declares that the ancient fables are the best poetic materials, since they permit the introduction of the deities into poetry, and a poem, being something divine, should not dispense with the association of divinity.[255] To bring the God of Israel into poetry, to represent him, as it were, in the flesh, discoursing and arguing with men, was sacrilege; and to give the events of poetic narrative divine authoritativeness, the pagan deities became necessities of Renaissance poetry. Savonarola, in the fifteenth century, and the Council of Trent, in the sixteenth, reacted against the paganization of literature, but in vain. Despite the Council of Trent, despite Tasso and Du Bartas, the pagan gods held sway over Parnassus until the very end of the classical period; and in the seventeenth century, as will be seen, Boileau expressly discourages the treatment of Christian themes, and insists that the ancient pagan fables alone must form the basis of neo-classical art. A third result of the imitation of the classics was the development of applied, or concrete, criticism. If the foundations of literature, if the formation of style, can result only from a close and judicious imitation of classical literature, this problem confronts us: Which classical authors are we to imitate? An answer to this question involves the application of concrete criticism. A reason must be given for one's preferences; in other words, they must be justified on principle. The literary controversies of the humanists, the disputes on the subject of imitation, of Ciceronianism, and what not, all tended in this direction. The judgment of authors was dependent more or less on individual impressions. But the longer these controversies continued, the nearer was the approach to a literary criticism, justified by appeals to general principles, which became more and more fixed and determined; so that the growth of principles, or criteria of judgment in matters of literature, is in reality coterminous with the history of the growth of classicism.[256] But one of the most important consequences of the imitation of the classics was that this imitation became a dogma of criticism, and radically changed the relations of art and nature in so far as they touch letters and literary criticism. The imitation of the classics became, in a word, the basis of literary creation. Vida, for example, affirms that the poet must imitate classical literature, for only by such imitation is perfection attainable in modern poetry. In fact, this notion is carried to such an extreme that the highest originality becomes for Vida merely the ingenious translation of passages from the classic poets:-- "Haud minor est adeo virtus, si te audit Apollo, Inventa Argivûm in patriam convertere vocem, Quam si tute aliquid intactum inveneris ante."[257] Muzio, echoing Horace, urges the poet to study the classics by day and by night; and Scaliger, as has been seen, makes all literary creation depend ultimately on judicious imitation: "Nemo est qui non aliquid de Echo." As a result, imitation gradually acquired a specialized and almost esoteric meaning, and became in this sense the starting-point of all the educational theories of the later humanists. The doctrine of imitation set forth by John Sturm, the Strasburg humanist, was particularly influential.[258] According to Sturm, imitation is not the servile copying of words and phrases; it is "a vehement and artistic application of mind," which judiciously uses and transfigures all that it imitates. Sturm's theory of imitation is not entirely original, but comes through Agricola and Melanchthon from Quintilian.[259] Quintilian had said that the greater part of art consists in imitation; but for the humanists imitation became the chief and almost the only element of literary creation, since the literature of their own time seemed so vastly inferior to that of the ancients. The imitation of the classics having thus become essential to literary creation, what was to be its relation to the imitation of nature? The ancient poets seemed to insist that every writer is at bottom an imitator of nature, and that he who does not imitate nature diverges from the purpose and principle of art. A lesson coming from a source so authoritative as this could not be left unheeded by the writers of the Renaissance, and the evolution of classicism may be distinguished by the changing point of view of the critics in regard to the relations between nature and art. This evolution may be traced in the neo-classical period through three distinct stages, and these three stages may be indicated by the doctrines respectively of Vida, Scaliger, and Boileau. Vida says that it is the first essential of literary art to imitate the classics. This, however, does not prevent him from warning the poet that it is his first duty to observe and copy nature:-- "Præterea haud lateat te, nil conarier artem, Naturam nisi ut assimulet, propiusque sequatur." For Vida, however, as for the later classicists, nature is synonymous with civilized men, perhaps even further restricted to the men of the city and the court; and the study of nature was hardly more for him than close observation of the differences of human character, more especially of the external differences which result from diversity of age, rank, sex, race, profession, and which may be designated by the term _decorum_.[260] The imitation of nature even in this restricted sense Vida requires on the authority of the ancients. The modern poet should imitate nature because the great classical poets have always acknowledged her sway:-- "Hanc unam vates sibi proposuere magistram." Nature has no particular interest for Vida in itself. He accepts the classics as we accept the Scriptures; and nature is to be imitated and followed because the ancients seem to require it. In Scaliger this principle is carried one stage farther. The poet creates another nature and other fortunes as if he were another God.[261] Virgil especially has created another nature of such beauty and perfection that the poet need not concern himself with the realities of life, but can go to the second nature created by Virgil for the subject-matter of his imitation. "All the things which you have to imitate, you have according to another nature, that is, Virgil."[262] In Virgil, as in nature, there are the most minute details of the foundation and government of cities, the management of armies, the building and handling of ships, and in fact all the secrets of the arts and sciences. What more can the poet desire, and indeed what more can he find in life, and find there with the same certainty and accuracy? Virgil has created a nature far more perfect than that of reality, and one compared with which the actual world and life itself seem but pale and without beauty. What Scaliger stands for, then, is the substitution of the world of art instead of life as the object of poetic imitation. This point of view finds expression in many of the theorists of his time. Partenio, for example, asserts that art is a firmer and safer guide than nature; with nature we can err, but scarcely with art, for art eradicates from nature all that is bad, while nature mingles weeds with flowers, and does not distinguish vices from virtues.[263] Boileau carries the neo-classical ideal of nature and art to its ultimate perfection. According to him, nothing is beautiful that is not true, and nothing is true that is not in nature. Truth, for classicism, is the final test of everything, including beauty; and hence to be beautiful poetry must be founded on nature. Nature should therefore be the poet's sole study, although for Boileau, as for Vida, nature is one with the court and the city. Now, in what way can we discover exactly how to imitate nature, and perceive whether or not we have imitated it correctly? Boileau finds the guide to the correct imitation of nature, and the very test of its correctness, in the imitation of the classics. The ancients are great, not because they are old, but because they are true, because they knew how to see and to imitate nature; and to imitate antiquity is therefore to use the best means the human spirit has ever found for expressing nature in its perfection.[264] The advance of Boileau's theory on that of Vida and Scaliger is therefore that he founded the rules and literary practice of classical literature on reason and nature, and showed that there is nothing arbitrary in the authority of the ancients. For Vida, nature is to be followed on the authority of the classics; for Boileau, the classics are to be followed on the authority of nature and reason. Scaliger had shown that such a poet as Virgil had created another nature more perfect than that of reality, and that therefore we should imitate this more beautiful nature of the poet. Boileau, on the contrary, showed that the ancients were simply imitating nature itself in the closest and keenest manner, and that by imitating the classics the poet was not imitating a second and different nature, but was being shown in the surest way how to imitate the real and only nature. This final reconciliation of the imitation of nature and the imitation of the classics was Boileau's highest contribution to the literary criticism of the neo-classical period. II. _Aristotelianism_ The influence of Aristotle's _Poetics_ is first visible in the dramatic literature of the early sixteenth century. Trissino's _Sofonisba_ (1515), usually accounted the first regular modern tragedy, Rucellai's _Rosmunda_ (1516), and innumerable other tragedies of this period, were in reality little more than mere attempts at putting the Aristotelian theory of tragedy into practice. The Aristotelian influence is evident in many of the prefaces of these plays, and in a few contemporary works of scholarship, such as the _Antiquæ Lectiones_ (1516) of Cælius Rhodiginus, whom Scaliger called _omnium doctissimus præceptor noster_. At the same time, the _Poetics_ did not immediately play an important part in the critical literature of Italy. From the time of Petrarch, Aristotle, identified in the minds of the humanists with the mediæval scholasticism so obnoxious to them, had lost somewhat of his supremacy; and the strong Platonic tendencies of the Renaissance had further contributed to lower the prestige of Aristotelianism among the humanists. At no time of the Renaissance, however, did Aristotle lack ardent defenders, and Filelfo, for example, wrote in 1439, "To defend Aristotle and the truth seems to me one and the same thing."[265] In the domain of philosophy the influence of Aristotle was temporarily sustained by the liberal Peripateticism of Pomponazzi; and numerous others, among them Scaliger himself, continued the traditions of a modernized Aristotelianism. From this time, however, Aristotle's position as the supreme philosopher was challenged more and more; and he was regarded by the advanced thinkers of the Renaissance as the representative of the mediæval obscurantism that opposed the progress of modern scientific investigation. But whatever of Aristotle's authority was lost in the domain of philosophy was more than regained in the domain of literature. The beginning of the Aristotelian influence on modern literary theory may be said to date from the year 1536, in which year Trincaveli published a Greek text of the _Poetics_, Pazzi his edition and Latin version, and Daniello his own _Poetica_. Pazzi's son, in dedicating his father's posthumous work, said that in the _Poetics_ "the precepts of poetic art are treated by Aristotle as divinely as he has treated every other form of knowledge." In the very year that this was said, Ramus gained his Master's degree at the University of Paris by defending victoriously the thesis that Aristotle's doctrines without exception are all false.[266] The year 1536 may therefore be regarded as a turning-point in the history of Aristotle's influence. It marks the beginning of his supremacy in literature, and the decline of his dictatorial authority in philosophy. Between the year 1536 and the middle of the century the lessons of Aristotle's _Poetics_ were being gradually learned by the Italian critics and poets. By 1550 the whole of the _Poetics_ had been incorporated in the critical literature of Italy, and Fracastoro could say that "Aristotle has received no less fame from the survival of his _Poetics_ than from his philosophical remains."[267] According to Bartolommeo Ricci, in a letter to Prince Alfonso, son of Hercules II., Duke of Ferrara, Maggi was the first person to interpret Aristotle's _Poetics_ in public.[268] These lectures were delivered some time before April, 1549. As early as 1540, Bartolommeo Lombardi, the collaborator of Maggi in his commentary on the _Poetics_, had intended to deliver public lectures on the _Poetics_ before a Paduan academy, but died before accomplishing his purpose.[269] Numerous public readings on the subject of Aristotle and Horace followed those of Maggi,--among them those by Varchi, Giraldi Cintio, Luisino, and Trifone Gabrielli; and the number of public readings on topics connected with literary criticism, and on the poetry of Dante and Petrarch, increased greatly from this time. The number of commentaries on the _Poetics_ itself, published during the sixteenth century, is really remarkable. The value of these commentaries in general is not so much that they add anything to the literary criticism of the Renaissance, but that their explanations of Aristotle's meaning were accepted by contemporary critics, and became in a way the source of all the literary arguments of the sixteenth century. Nor was their influence restricted merely to this particular period. They were, one might almost say, living things to the critics and poets of the classical period in France. Racine, Corneille, and other distinguished writers possessed copies of these commentaries, studied them carefully, cited them in their prefaces and critical writings, and even annotated their own copies of the commentaries with marginal notes, of which some may be seen in the modern editions of their works. In the preface to Rapin's _Réflexions sur l'Art Poétique_ (1674) there is a history of literary criticism, which is almost entirely devoted to these Italian commentators; and writers like Chapelain and Balzac eagerly argued and discussed their relative merits. Several of these Italian commentators have been alluded to already.[270] The first critical edition of the _Poetics_ was that of Robortelli (1548), and this was followed by those of Maggi (1550) and Vettori (1560), both written in Latin, and both exhibiting great learning and acumen. The first translation of the _Poetics_ into the vernacular was that by Segni (1549), and this was followed by the Italian commentaries of Castelvetro (1570) and Piccolomini (1575). Tasso, after comparing the works of these two commentators, concluded that while Castelvetro had greater erudition and invention, Piccolomini had greater maturity of judgment, more learning, perhaps, with less erudition, and certainly learning more Aristotelian and more suited to the interpretation of the _Poetics_.[271] The two last sections of Trissino's _Poetica_, published in 1563, are little more than a paraphrase and transposition of Aristotle's treatise. But the curious excesses into which admiration of Aristotle led the Italian scholars may be gathered from a work published at Milan in 1576, an edition of the _Poetics_ expounded in verse, Baldini's _Ars Poetica Aristotelis versibus exposita_. The _Poetics_ was also adapted for use as a practical manual for poets and playwrights in such works as Riccoboni's brief _Compendium Artis Poeticæ Aristotelis ad usum conficiendorum poematum_ (1591). The last of the great Italian commentaries on the _Poetics_ to have a general European influence was perhaps Beni's, published in 1613; but this carries us beyond the confines of the century. Besides the published editions, translations, and commentaries, many others were written which may still be found in Ms. in the libraries of Italy. Reference has already been made to Salviati's (1586). There are also two anonymous commentaries dating from this period in Ms. at Florence,--one in the Magliabechiana and the other in the Riccardiana. The last work which may be mentioned here is Buonamici's _Discorsi Poetici in difesa d' Aristotele_, in which Aristotle is ardently defended against the attacks of his detractors. It was in Italy during this period that the literary dictatorship of Aristotle first developed, and it was Scaliger to whom the modern world owes the formulation of the supreme authority of Aristotle as a critical theorist. Fracastoro had likened the importance of Aristotle's _Poetics_ to that of his philosophical treatises. Trissino had followed Aristotle verbally and almost literally. Varchi had spoken of years of Aristotelian study as an essential prerequisite for every one who entered the field of literary criticism. Partenio, a year before the publication of Scaliger's _Poetics_, had asserted that everything relating to tragedy and epic poetry had been settled by Aristotle and Horace. But Scaliger went farther still. He was the first to regard Aristotle as the perpetual lawgiver of poetry. He was the first to assume that the duty of the poet is first to find out what Aristotle says, and then to obey these precepts without question. He distinctly calls Aristotle the perpetual dictator of all the arts: "Aristoteles imperator noster, omnium bonarum artium dictator perpetuus."[272] This is perhaps the first occasion in modern literature in which Aristotle is definitely regarded as a literary dictator, and the dictatorship of Aristotle in literature may, therefore, be dated from the year 1561. But Scaliger did more than this. He was the first apparently to attempt to reconcile Aristotle's _Poetics_, not only with the precepts of Horace and the definitions of the Latin grammarians, but with the whole practice of Latin tragedy, comedy, and epic poetry. It was in the light of this reconciliation, or concord of Aristotelianism with the Latin spirit, that Aristotle became for Scaliger a literary dictator. It was not Aristotle that primarily interested him, but an ideal created by himself, and founded on such parts of the doctrine of Aristotle as received confirmation from the theory or practice of Roman literature; and this new ideal, harmonizing with the Latin spirit of the Renaissance, became in the course of time one of the foundations of classicism. The influence of Aristotelianism was further augmented by the Council of Trent, which gave to Aristotle's doctrine the same degree of authority as Catholic dogma. All these circumstances tended to favor the importance of Aristotle in Italy during the sixteenth century, and as a result the literary dictatorship of Aristotle was by the Italians foisted on Europe for two centuries to come. From 1560 to 1780 Aristotle was regarded as the supreme authority in letters throughout Europe. At no time, even in England, during and after that period, was there a break in the Aristotelian tradition, and the influence of the _Poetics_ may be found in Sidney and Ben Jonson, in Milton and Dryden, as well as in Shelley and Coleridge. Lessing, even in breaking away from the classical practice of the French stage, defended his innovations on the authority of Aristotle, and said of the _Poetics_, "I do not hesitate to acknowledge, even if I should therefore be held up to scorn in these enlightened times, that I consider the work as infallible as the Elements of Euclid."[273] In 1756, a dozen years before Lessing, one of the precursors of the romantic movement in England, Joseph Warton, had also said of the _Poetics_, "To attempt to understand poetry without having diligently digested this treatise would be as absurd and impossible as to pretend to a skill in geometry without having studied Euclid."[274] One of the first results of the dictatorship of Aristotle was to give modern literature a body of inviolable rules for the drama and the epic; that is, the dramatic and heroic poets were restricted to a certain fixed form, and to certain fixed characters. Classical poetry was of course the ideal of the Renaissance, and Aristotle had analyzed the methods which these works had employed. The inference seems to have been that by following these rules a literature of equal importance could be created. These formulæ were at the bottom of classical literature, and rules which had created such literatures as those of Greece and Rome could hardly be disregarded. As a result, these rules came to be considered more and more as essentials, and finally, almost as the very tests of literature; and it was in consequence of their acceptance as poetic laws that the modern classical drama and epic arose. The first modern tragedies and the first modern epics were hardly more than such attempts at putting the Aristotelian rules into practice. The cult of form during the Renaissance had produced a reaction against the formlessness and invertebrate character of mediæval literature. The literature of the Middle Ages was infinitely inferior to that of the ancients; mediæval literature lacked form and structure, classical literature had a regular and definite form. Form then came to be regarded as the essential difference between the perfect literatures of Greece and Rome, and the imperfect and vulgar literature of the Middle Ages; and the deduction from this was that, to be classical, the poet must observe the form and structure of the classics. Minturno indeed says that "the precepts given of old by the ancient masters, and now repeated by me here, are to be regarded merely as common usage, and not as inviolable laws which must serve under all circumstances."[275] But this was not the general conception of the Renaissance. Muzio, for example, specifically says:-- "Queste legge ch' io scrivo e questi esempi Sian, lettore, al tuo dir perpetua norma;" and in another place he speaks of a precept he has given, as "vera, ferma, e inevitabil legge."[276] Scaliger goes still further than this; for, according to him, even the classics themselves are to be judged by these standards and rules. "It seems to me," says Scaliger, "that we ought not to refer everything back to Homer, just as though he were the norm, but Homer himself should be referred to the norm."[277] In the modern classical period somewhat later, these rules were found to be based on reason:-- "These rules of old, discovered not devised, Are nature still, but nature methodized."[278] But during the Renaissance they were accepted _ex cathedra_ from classical literature. The formulation of a fixed body of critical rules was not the only result of the Aristotelian influence. One of the most important of these results, as has appeared, was the rational justification of imaginative literature. With the introduction of Aristotle's _Poetics_ into modern Europe the Renaissance was first able to formulate a systematic theory of poetry; and it is therefore to the rediscovery of the _Poetics_ that we may be said to owe the foundation of modern criticism. It was on the side of Aristotelianism that Italian criticism had its influence on European letters; and that this influence was deep and widespread, our study of the critical literatures of France and England will in part show. The critics with whom we have been dealing are not merely dead provincial names; they influenced, for two whole centuries, not only France and England, but Spain, Portugal, and Germany as well. Literary criticism, in any real sense, did not begin in Spain until the very end of the sixteenth century, and the critical works that then appeared were wholly based on those of the Italians. Rengifo's _Arte Poética Española_ (1592), in so far as it deals with the theory of poetry, is based on Aristotle, Scaliger, and various Italian authorities, according to the author's own acknowledgment. Pinciano's _Philosophia Antigua Poética_ (1596) is based on the same authorities. Similarly, Cascales, in his _Tablas Poéticas_ (1616), gives as his authorities Minturno, Giraldi Cintio, Maggi, Riccoboni, Castelvetro, Robortelli, and his own countryman Pinciano. The sources of these and all other works written at this period are Italian; and the following passage from the _Egemplar Poético_, written about 1606 by the Spanish poet Juan de la Cueva, is a good illustration, not only of the general influence of the Italians on Spanish criticism, but of the high reverence in which the individual Italian critics were held by Spanish men of letters:-- "De los primeros tiene Horacio el puesto, En numeros y estilo soberano, Qual en su Arte al mundo es manifesto. Escaligero [_i.e._ Scaliger] hace el paso llano Con general enseñamiento y guia, Lo mismo el docto Cintio [_i.e._ Giraldi Cintio] y Biperano.[279] Maranta[280] es egemplar de la Poesia, Vida el norte, Pontano[281] el ornamento, La luz Minturno qual el sol del dia.... Acuden todos a colmar sus vasos Al oceano sacro de Stagira [_i.e._ Aristotle], Donde se afirman los dudosos pasos, Se eterniza la trompa y tierna lira."[282] The influence of the Italians was equally great in Germany. From Fabricius to Opitz, the critical ideas of Germany were almost all borrowed, directly or indirectly, from Italian sources. Fabricius in his _De Re Poetica_ (1584) acknowledges his indebtedness to Minturno, Partenio, Pontanus, and others, but above all to Scaliger; and most of the critical ideas by which Opitz renovated modern German literature go back to Italian sources, through Scaliger, Ronsard, and Daniel Heinsius. No better illustration of the influence of the Italian critics upon European letters could be afforded than that given by Opitz's _Buch von der deutschen Poeterei_.[283] The influence of Italian criticism on the critical literature of France and England will be more or less treated in the remaining portions of this essay. It may be noted here, however, that in the critical writings of Lessing there is represented the climax of the Italian tradition in European letters, especially on the side of Aristotelianism. Shelley represents a similar culmination of the Italian tradition in England. His indebtedness to Sidney and Milton, who represent the Italian influence in the Elizabethan age, and especially to Tasso, whom he continually cites, is very marked. The debt of modern literature to Italian criticism is therefore not slight. In the half century between Vida and Castelvetro, Italian criticism formulated three things: a theory of poetry, a rigid form for the epic, and a rigid form for the drama. These rigid forms for drama and epic governed the creative imagination of Europe for two centuries, and then passed away. But while modern æsthetics for over a century has studied the processes of art, the theory of poetry, as enunciated by the Italians of the sixteenth century, has not diminished in value, but has continued to pervade the finer minds of men from that time to this. III. _Rationalism_ The rationalistic temper may be observed in critical literature almost at the very beginning of the sixteenth century. This spirit of rationalism is observable throughout the Renaissance; and its general causes may be looked for in the liberation of the human reason by the Renaissance, in the growth of the sciences and arts, and in the reaction against mediæval sacerdotalism and dogma. The causes of its development in literary criticism may be found not only in these but in several other influences of the period. The paganization of culture, the growth of rationalistic philosophies, with their all-pervading influence on arts and letters, and moreover the influence of Horace's _Ars Poetica_, with its ideal of "good sense," all tended to make the element of reason predominate in literature and in literary criticism. In Vida the three elements which are at the bottom of classicism, the imitation of the classics, the imitation of nature, and the authority of reason, may all be found. Reason is for him the final test of all things:-- "Semper nutu rationis eant res."[284] The function of the reason in art is, first, to serve as a standard in the choice and carrying out of the design, a bulwark against the operation of mere chance,[285] and secondly, to moderate the expression of the poet's own personality and passion, a bulwark against the morbid subjectivity which is the horror of the classical temperament.[286] It has been said of Scaliger that he was the first modern to establish in a body of doctrine the principal consequences of the sovereignty of the reason in literature.[287] That was hardly his aim, and certainly not his attainment. But he was, at all events, one of the first modern critics to affirm that there is a standard of perfection for each specific form of literature, to show that this standard may be arrived at _a priori_ through the reason, and to attempt a formulation of such standard for each literary form. "Est in omni rerum genere unum primum ac rectum ad cuius tum norman, tum rationem cætera dirigenda sunt."[288] This, the fundamental assumption of Scaliger's _Poetics_, is also one of the basic ideas of classicism. Not only is there a standard, a norm, in every species of literature, but this norm can be definitely formulated and defined by means of the reason; and it is the duty of the critic to formulate this norm, and the duty of the poet to study and follow it without deviating from the norm in any way. Even Homer, as we have seen, is to be judged according to this standard arrived at through the reason. Such a method cuts off all possibility of novelty of form or expression, and holds every poet, ancient or modern, great or small, accountable to one and the same standard of perfection. The growth and influence of rationalism in Italian criticism may be best observed by the gradual effect which its development had on the element of Aristotelianism. In other words, rationalism changed the point of view according to which the Aristotelian canons were regarded in the Italian Renaissance. The earlier Italian critics accepted their rules and precepts on the authority of Aristotle alone. Thus Trissino, at the beginning of the fifth section of his _Poetica_, finished in 1549, although begun about twenty years before, says, "I shall not depart from the rules and precepts of the ancients, and especially Aristotle."[289] Somewhat later, in 1553, Varchi says, "Reason _and_ Aristotle are my _two_ guides."[290] Here the element of the reason first asserts itself, but there is no intimation that the Aristotelian canons are in themselves reasonable. The critic has two guides, the individual reason and the Aristotelian rules, and each of these two guides is to serve wherever the other is found wanting. This same point of view is found a decade later in Tasso, who says that the defenders of the unity of the epic poem have made "a shield of the authority of Aristotle, nor do they lack the arms afforded by the reason;"[291] and similarly, in 1583, Sir Philip Sidney says that the unity of time is demanded "both by Aristotle's precept and common reason."[292] Here both Tasso and Sidney, while contending that the particular law under discussion is in itself reasonable, speak of Aristotle's _Poetics_ and the reason as separate and distinct authorities, and fail to show that Aristotle himself based all his precepts upon the reason. In Denores, a few years later, the development is carried one stage farther in the direction of the ultimate classical attitude, as when he speaks of "reason and Aristotle's _Poetics_, which is indeed founded on naught save reason."[293] This is as far as Italian criticism ever went. It was the function of neo-classicism in France, as will be seen, to show that such a phrase as "reason _and_ Aristotle" is a contradiction in itself, that the Aristotelian canons and the reason are ultimately reducible to the same thing, and that not only what is in Aristotle will be found reasonable, but all that reason dictates for literary observance will be found in Aristotle. Rationalism produced several very important results in literature and literary criticism during the sixteenth century. In the first place, it tended to give the reason a higher place in literature than imagination or sensibility. Poetry, it will be remembered, was often classified by Renaissance critics as one of the logical sciences; and nothing could be in greater accord with the neo-classical ideal than the assertion of Varchi and others that the better logician the poet is, the better he will be as a poet. Sainte-Beuve gives Scaliger the credit of having first formulated this theory of literature which subordinates the creative imagination and poetic sensibility to the reason;[294] but the credit or discredit of originating it does not belong exclusively to Scaliger. This tendency toward the apotheosis of the reason was diffused throughout the sixteenth century, and does not characterize any individual author. The Italian critics of this period were the first to formulate the classical ideal that the standard of perfection may be conceived of by the reason, and that perfection is to be attained only by the realization of this standard. The rationalistic spirit also tended to set the seal of disapprobation on extravagances of any sort. Subjectivity and individualism came to be regarded more and more, at least in theory, as out of keeping with classical perfection. Clearness, reasonableness, sociableness, were the highest requirements of art; and any excessive expression of the poet's individuality was entirely disapproved of. Man, not only as a reasonable being, but also as a social being, was regarded as the basis of literature. Boileau's lines:-- "Que les vers ne soient pas votre éternel emploi; Cultivez vos amis, soyez homme de foi; C'est peu d'être agréable et charmant dans un livre, Il faut savoir encore et converser et vivre,"[295] were anticipated in Berni's _Dialogo contra i Poeti_, written in 1526, though not published until 1537. This charming invective is directed against the fashionable literature of the time, and especially against all professional poets. Writing from the standpoint of a polished and rationalistic society, Berni lays great stress on the fact that poetry is not to be taken too seriously, that it is a pastime, a recreation for cultured people, a mere bagatelle; and he professes to despise those who spend all their time in writing verses. The vanity, the uselessness, the extravagances, and the ribaldry of the professional poets receive his hearty contempt; only those who write verses for pastime merit approbation. "Are you so stupid," he cries, "as to think that I call any one who writes verses a poet, and that I regard such men as Vida, Pontano, Bembo, Sannazaro, as mere poets? I do not call any one a poet, and condemn him as such, unless he does nothing but write verses, and wretched ones at that, and is good for nothing else. But the men I have mentioned are not poets by profession."[296] Here the sentiments expressed are those of a refined and social age,--the age of Louis XIV. no less than that of Leo X. The irreligious character of neo-classic art may also be regarded as one of the consequences of this rationalistic temper. The combined effect of humanism, essentially pagan, and rationalism, essentially sceptical, was not favorable to the growth of religious feeling in literature. Classicism, the result of these two tendencies, became more and more rationalistic, more and more pagan; and in consequence, religious poetry in any real sense ceased to flourish wherever the more stringent forms of classicism prevailed. In Boileau these tendencies result in a certain distinct antagonism to the very forms of Christianity in literature:-- "C'est donc bien vainement que nos auteurs déçus, Bannissant de leurs vers ces ornemens reçus, Pensent faire agir Dieu, ses saints et ses prophètes, Comme ces dieux éclos du cerveau des poëtes; Mettent à chaque pas le lecteur en enfer; N'offrent rien qu'Astaroth, Belzébuth, Lucifer. De la foi d'un chrétien les mystères terribles D'ornemens égayés ne sont point susceptibles; L'Évangile à l'esprit n'offre de tous côtés Que pénitence à faire et tourmens mérités; Et de vos fictions le mélange coupable Même à ses vérités donne l'air de la fable."[297] FOOT-NOTES: [239] Symonds, ii. 161, based on Voigt. [240] _Cf._ Woodward, p. 210 _sq._ [241] Hallam, _Lit. of Europe_, i. 8. 1. _Cf._ Pope, i. 182: "Omnia sed numeris vocum concordibus aptant," etc. [242] Bembo, _Le Prose_, 1525; Dolce, _Osservationi_, 1550, lib. iv.; etc. [243] _Versi e Regole de la Nuova Poesia Toscana_, 1539. [244] Trissino, _Poetica_, lib. i.-iv., 1529; Tomitano, _Della Lingua Toscana_, 1545; etc. [245] Pope, i. 134. _Cf._ De Sanctis, ii. 153 _sq._ [246] Pope, i. 152. [247] Partenio, p. 80. [248] _Ibid._ p. 95. [249] _Opere_, xi. 51. [250] _Defence_, p. 13. [251] _Poet._ v. 3. [252] _Poet._ v. 1; vi. 4. [253] _Cf._ Brunetière, p. 53. [254] Symonds, ii. 395 _sq._ [255] Muzio, p. 94. [256] _Cf._ Dennis, _Select Works_, 1718, ii. 417 _sq._ [257] Pope, i. 167. [258] Laas, _Die Paedagogik des Johannes Sturm_, Berlin, 1872, p. 65 _sq._ [259] _Inst. Orat._ x. 2. [260] Pope, i. 165. [261] _Poet._ i. 1. [262] _Poet._ iii. 4. [263] Partenio, p. 39 _sq._ [264] _Cf._ Brunetière, p. 102 _sq._, and Lanson, _Hist. de la Litt. fr._, p. 494 _sq._ [265] _Lettres grecques_, ed. Legrand, 1892, p. 31. [266] "Quæcunque ab Aristotele dicta sint falsa et commentitia esse;" Bayle, _Dict._ s. v. Ramus, note C. [267] Fracastoro, i. 321. [268] Tiraboschi, vii. 1465. [269] Maggi, dedication. [270] In an appendix to this essay will be found an excerpt from Salviati's unpublished commentary on the _Poetics_, giving his judgment of the commentators who had preceded him. [271] Tasso, xv. 20. [272] _Poet._ vii. ii. 1. [273] _Hamburg. Dramat._ 101-104. [274] _Essay on Pope_, 3d ed., i. 171. [275] _Arte Poetica_, p. 158. [276] Muzio, pp. 81 v., 76 v. [277] _Poet._ i. 5. [278] Pope, _Essay on Criticism_, 88. [279] Viperano, author of _De Poetica libri tres_, Antwerp, 1579. [280] Maranta, author of _Lucullanæ Quæstiones_, Basle, 1564. [281] Three writers of the Renaissance bore this name: G. Pontano, the famous Italian humanist and Latin poet, who died in 1503; P. Pontano, of Bruges, the author of an _Ars Versificatoria_, published in 1520; and J. Pontanus, a Bohemian Jesuit, author of _Institutiones Poeticæ_, first published at Ingolstadt in 1594, and several times reprinted. [282] Sedano, _Parnaso Español_, Madrid, 1774, viii. 40, 41. [283] _Cf._ Berghoeffer, _Opitz' Buch von der Poeterei_, 1888, and Beckherrn, _Opitz, Ronsard, und Heinsius_, 1888. The first reference to Aristotle's _Poetics_, north of the Alps, is to be found in Luther's _Address to the Christian Nobles of the German Nation_, 1520. Schosser's _Disputationes de Tragoedia_, published in 1559, two years before Scaliger's work appeared, is entirely based on Aristotle's _Poetics_. [284] Pope, i. 155. [285] _Loc. cit._, beginning, "Nec te fors inopina regat." [286] Pope, i. 164, beginning, "Ne tamen ah nimium." [287] Lintilhac, in _Nouvelle Revue_, lxiv. 543. [288] Scaliger, _Poet._ iii. 11. [289] Trissino, ii. 92. [290] Varchi, p. 600. [291] Tasso, xii. 217. [292] _Defense of Poesy_, p. 48. [293] _Discorso_, 1587, p. 39 v. [294] _Causeries du Lundi_, iii. 44. [295] _Art Poét._ iv. 121. [296] Berni, p. 249. [297] _Art Poét._ iii. 193. _Cf._ Dryden, _Discourse on Satire_, in _Works_, xiii. 23 _sq._ CHAPTER VI ROMANTIC ELEMENTS IN ITALIAN CRITICISM IN the Italian critical literature of the sixteenth century there are to be found the germs of romantic as well as classical criticism. The development of romanticism in Renaissance criticism is due to various tendencies, of ancient, of mediæval, and of modern origin. The ancient element is Platonism; the mediæval elements are Christianity, and the influence of the literary forms and the literary subject-matter of the Middle Ages; and the modern elements are the growth of national life and national literatures, and the opposition of modern philosophy to Aristotelianism. I. _The Ancient Romantic Element_ As the element of reason is the predominant feature of neo-classicism, so the element of imagination is the predominant feature of romanticism; and according as the reason or the imagination predominates in Renaissance literature, there results neo-classicism or romanticism, while the most perfect art finds a reconciliation of both elements in the imaginative reason. According to the faculty of reason, when made the basis of literature, the poet is, as it were, held down to earth, and art becomes the mere reasoned expression of the truth of life. By the faculty of imagination, the poet is made to create a new world of his own,--a world in which his genius is free to mould whatever its imagination takes hold of. This romantic doctrine of the freedom of genius, of inspiration and the power of imagination, in so far as it forms a part of Renaissance criticism, owes its origin to Platonism. The influence of the Platonic doctrines among the humanists has already been alluded to. Plato was regarded by them as their leader in the struggle against mediævalism, scholasticism, and Aristotelianism. The Aristotelian dialectic of the Middle Ages appealed exclusively to the reason; Platonism gave opportunities for the imagination to soar to vague and sublime heights, and harmonize with the divine mysteries of the universe. As regards poetry and imaginative literature in general, the critics of the Renaissance appealed from the Plato of the _Republic_ and the _Laws_ to the Plato of the _Ion_, the _Phædrus_, and the _Symposium_. Beauty being the subject-matter of art, Plato's praise of beauty was transferred by the Renaissance to poetry, and his praise of the philosopher was transferred to the poet. The Aristotelian doctrine defines beauty according to its relations to the external world; that is, poetry is an imitation of nature, expressed in general terms. The Platonic doctrine, on the contrary, is concerned with poetry, or beauty, in so far as it concerns the poet's own nature; that is, the poet is divinely inspired and is a creator like God. Fracastoro, as has been seen, makes the Platonic rapture, the delight in the true and essential beauty of things, the true tests of poetic power. In introducing this Platonic ideal of poetic beauty into modern literary criticism, he defines and distinguishes poetry according to a subjective criterion; and it is according to whether the objective or the subjective conception of art is insisted upon, that we have the classic spirit or the romantic spirit. The extreme romanticists, like the Schlegels and their contemporaries in Germany, entirely eliminate the relation of poetry to the external world, and in this extreme form romanticism becomes identified with the exaggerated subjective idealism of Fichte and Schelling. The extreme classicists entirely eliminate the poet's personality; that is, poetry is merely reasoned expression, a perfected expression of what all men can see in nature, for the poet has no more insight into life--no more imagination--than any ordinary, judicious person. The effects of this Platonic element upon Renaissance criticism were various. In the first place, it was through the Platonic influence that the relation of beauty to poetry was first made prominent.[298] According to Scaliger, Tasso, Sidney, another world of beauty is created by the poet,--a world that possesses beauty in its perfection as this world never can. The reason alone leaves no place for beauty; and accordingly, for the neo-classicists, art was ultimately restricted to moral and psychological observation. Moreover, Platonism raised the question of the freedom of genius and of the imagination. Of all men, only the poet, as Sidney and others pointed out, is bound down and restricted by no laws. But if poetry is a matter of inspiration, how can it be called an art? If genius alone suffices, what need is there of study and artifice? For the extreme romanticists of this period, genius alone was accounted sufficient to produce the greatest works of poetry; for the extreme classicists, studious and labored art unaided by genius fulfilled all the functions of poetic creation; but most of the critics of the sixteenth century seem to have agreed with Horace that genius, or an inborn aptitude, is necessary to begin with, but that it needs art and study to regulate and perfect it. Genius cannot suffice without restraint and cultivation. Scaliger, curiously, reconciles both classic and romantic elements. The poet, according to Scaliger, is inspired, is in fact a creator like God; but poetry is an imitation (that is, re-creation) of nature, according to certain fixed rules obtained from the observation of the anterior expression of nature in great art. It is these rules that make poetry an art; and these rules form a distinct neo-classic element imposed on the Aristotelian doctrine. II. _Mediæval Elements_ The Middle Ages contributed to the poetic ideal of the Renaissance two elements: romantic themes and the Christian spirit. The forms and subjects of mediæval literature are distinctly romantic. Dante's _Divine Comedy_ is an allegorical vision; it is almost unique in form, and has no classical prototype.[299] The tendency of Petrarchism was also in the direction of romanticism. Its "conceits" and its subjectivity led to an unclassical extravagance of thought and expression; and the Petrarchistic influence made lyric poetry, and accordingly the criticism of lyric poetry, more romantic than any other form of literature or literary criticism during the period of classicism. It was for this reason that there was little lyricism in the classical period, not only in France, but wherever the classic temper predominated. The themes of the _romanzi_ are also mediæval and romantic; but while they are mediæval contributions to literature,[300] they became contributions to literary criticism only after the growth of national life and the development of the feeling of nationality, both distinctly modern. Some reference has already been made to the paganization of culture by the humanists. But with the growth of that revival of Christian sentiment which led to the Reformation, there were numerous attempts to reconcile Christianity with pagan culture.[301] Such men as Ficino and Pico della Mirandola attempted to harmonize Christianity and Platonic philosophy; and under the great patron of letters, Pope Leo X., there were various attempts to harmonize Christianity with the classic spirit in literature. In such poems as Vida's _Christiad_ and Sannazaro's _De Partu Virginis_, Christianity is covered with the drapery of paganism or classicism. The first reaction against this paganization of culture was, as has been seen, effected by Savonarola. This reaction was reënforced, in the next century, by the influence and authority of the Council of Trent; and after the middle of the sixteenth century the Christian ideal plays a prominent part in literary criticism. The spirit of both Giraldi Cintio and Minturno is distinctly Christian. For Giraldi the _romanzi_ are Christian, and hence superior to the classical epics. He allows the introduction of pagan deities only into epics dealing with the ancient classical subjects; but Tasso goes further, and says that no modern heroic poet should have anything to do with them. According to Tasso, the heroes of an heroic poem must be Christian knights, and the poem itself must deal with a true, not a false, religion. The subject is not to be connected with any article of Christian faith or dogma, because that was fixed by the Council of Trent; but paganism in any form is altogether unfit for a modern epic. Tasso even goes so far as to assert that piety shall be numbered among the virtues of the knightly heroes of epic poetry. At the same time also, Lorenzo Gambara wrote his work, _De Perfecta Poeseos Ratione_, to prove that it is essential for every poet to exclude from his poems, not only everything that is wicked or obscene, but also everything that is fabulous or that deals with pagan divinities.[302] It was to this religious reaction that we owe the Christian poetry of Tasso, Du Bartas, and Spenser. But humanism was strong, and rationalism was rife; and the religious revival was hardly more than temporary. Neo-classicism throughout Europe was essentially pagan. III. _Modern Elements_ The literature of the Middle Ages constitutes, as it were, one vast body of European literature; only with the Renaissance did distinctly national literatures spring into existence. Nationalism as well as individualism was subsequent to the Renaissance; and it was at this period that the growth of a national literature, of national life,--in a word, patriotism in its widest sense,--was first effected. The linguistic discussions and controversies of the sixteenth century prepared the way for a higher appreciation of national languages and literatures. These controversies on the comparative merits of the classical and vernacular tongues had begun in the time of Dante, and were continued in the sixteenth century by Bembo, Castiglione, Varchi, Muzio, Tolomei, and many others; and in 1564 Salviati summed up the Italian side of the question in an oration in which he asserted that the Tuscan, or, as he called it, the Florentine language and the Florentine literature are vastly superior to any other language or literature, whether ancient or modern. However extravagant this claim may appear, the mere fact that Salviati made such a claim at all is enough to give him a place worthy of serious consideration in the history of Italian literature. The other side of the controversy finds its extremest expression in a treatise of Celio Calcagnini addressed to Giraldi Cintio, in which the hope is expressed that the Italian language, and all the literature composed in that language, would be absolutely abandoned by the world.[303] In Giraldi Cintio we find the first traces of purely national criticism. His purpose, in writing the discourse on the _romanzi_, was primarily to defend Ariosto, whom he had known personally in his youth. The point of view from which he starts is that the _romanzi_ constitute a new form of poetry of which Aristotle did not know, and to which, therefore, Aristotle's rules do not apply. Giraldi regarded the romantic poems of Ariosto and Boiardo both as national and as Christian works; and Italian literature is thus for the first time critically distinguished from classical literature in regard to language, religion, and nationality. In Giraldi's discourse there is no apparent desire either to underrate or to disregard the _Poetics_ of Aristotle; the fact was simply that Aristotle had not known the poems which deal with many actions of many men, and hence it would be absurd to demand that such poems should conform to his rules. The _romanzi_ deal with phases of poetry, and phases of life, which Aristotle could not be expected to understand. A similar feeling of the distinct nationality of Italian literature is to be found in many of the prefaces of the Italian comedies of this period. Il Lasca, in the preface of the _Strega_ (_c._ 1555), says that "Aristotle and Horace knew their own times, but ours are not the same at all. We have other manners, another religion, and another mode of life; and it is therefore necessary to make comedies after a different fashion." As early as 1534, Aretino, in the prologue of his _Cortegiana_, warned his audience "not to be astonished if the comic style is not observed in the manner required, for we live after a different fashion in modern Rome than they did in ancient Athens." Similarly, Gelli, in the dedication of the _Sporta_ (1543), justifies the use of language not to be found in the great sources of Italian speech, on the ground that "language, together with all other natural things, continually varies and changes."[304] Although there is in Giraldi Cintio no fundamental opposition to Aristotle, it is in his discourse on the _romanzi_ that there may be found the first attempt to wrest a province of art from Aristotle's supreme authority. Neither Salviati, who had rated the Italian language above all others, nor Calcagnini, who had regarded it as the meanest of all, had understood the discussion of the importance of the Tuscan tongue to be concerned with the question of Aristotle's literary supremacy. It was simply a national question--a question as to the national limits of Aristotle's authority, just as was the case in the several controversies connected with Tasso, Dante, and Guarini's _Pastor Fido_.[305] Castelvetro, in his commentary on the _Poetics_, differs from Aristotle on many occasions, and does not hesitate even to refute him. Yet his reverence for Aristotle is great; his sense of Aristotle's supreme authority is strong; and on one occasion, where Horace, Quintilian, and Cicero seem to differ from Aristotle, Castelvetro does not hesitate to assert that they could not have seen the passage of the _Poetics_ in question, and that, in fact, they did not thoroughly understand the true constitution of a poet.[306] The opposition to Aristotelianism among the humanists has already been alluded to. This opposition increased more and more with the development of modern philosophy. In 1536 Ramus had attacked Aristotle's authority at Paris. A few years later, in 1543, Ortensio Landi, who had been at the Court of France for some time, published his _Paradossi_, in which it is contended that the works which pass under the name of Aristotle are not really Aristotle's at all, and that Aristotle himself was not only an ignoramus, but also the most villanous man of his age. "We have, of our own accord," he says, "placed our necks under the yoke, putting that vile beast of an Aristotle on a throne, and depending on his conclusions as if he were an oracle."[307] It is the philosophical authority of Aristotle that Landi is attacking. His attitude is not that of a humanist, for Cicero and Boccaccio do not receive more respectful treatment at his hands than Aristotle does. Landi, despite his mere eccentricities, represents the growth of modern free thought and the antagonism of modern philosophy to Aristotelianism. The literary opposition and the philosophical opposition to Aristotelianism may be said to meet in Francesco Patrizzi, and, in a less degree, in Giordano Bruno. Patrizzi's bitter Antiperipateticism is to be seen in his _Nova de Universis Philosophia_ (1591), in which the doctrines of Aristotle are shown to be false, inconsistent, and even opposed to the doctrines of the Catholic Church. His literary antagonism to Aristotle is shown in his remarkable work, _Della Poetica_, published at Ferrara in 1586. This work is divided into two parts,--the first historical, _La Deca Istoriale_, and the second controversial, _La Deca Disputata_. In the historical section he attempts to derive the norm of the different poetic forms, not from one or two great works as Aristotle had done, but from the whole history of literature. It is thus the first work in modern times to attempt the philosophical study of literary history, and to trace out the evolution of literary forms. The second or controversial section is directed against the _Poetics_ of Aristotle, and in part also against the critical doctrines of Torquato Tasso. In this portion of his work Patrizzi sets out to demonstrate--_per istoria, e per ragioni, e per autorità de' grandi antichi_--that the accepted critical opinions of his time were without foundation; and the _Poetics_ of Aristotle himself he exhibits as obscure, inconsistent, and entirely unworthy of credence. Similar antagonism to the critical doctrines of Aristotle is to be found in passages scattered here and there throughout the works of Giordano Bruno. In the first dialogue of the _Eroici Furori_, published at London in 1585, while Bruno was visiting England, he expresses his contempt for the mere pedants who judge poets by the rules of Aristotle's _Poetics_. His contention is that there are as many sorts of poets as there are human sentiments and ideas, and that poets, so far from being subservient to rules, are themselves really the authors of all critical dogma. Those who attack the great poets whose works do not accord with the rules of Aristotle are called by Bruno stupid pedants and beasts. The gist of his argument may be gathered from the following passage:-- "TANS. Thou dost well conclude that poetry is not born in rules, or only slightly and accidentally so; the rules are derived from the poetry, and there are as many kinds and sorts of true rules as there are kinds and sorts of true poets. CIC. How then are the true poets to be known? TANS. By the singing of their verses; in that singing they give delight, or they edify, or they edify and delight together. CIC. To whom then are the rules of Aristotle useful? TANS. To him who, unlike Homer, Hesiod, Orpheus, and others, could not sing without the rules of Aristotle, and who, having no Muse of his own, would coquette with that of Homer."[308] A similar antagonism to Aristotle and a similar literary individualism are to be found in a much later work by Benedetto Fioretti, who under the pseudonym of Udeno Nisieli published the five volumes of his _Proginnasmi Poetici_ between 1620 and 1639.[309] Just before the close of the sixteenth century, however, the _Poetics_ had obtained an ardent defender against such attacks in the person of Francesco Buonamici, in his _Discorsi Poetici_; and three years later, in 1600, Faustino Summo published a similar defence of Aristotle. The attacks on Aristotle's literary dictatorship were of little avail; it was hardly necessary even to defend him. For two centuries to come he was to reign supreme on the continent of Europe; and in Italy this supremacy was hardly disturbed until the days of Goldoni and Metastasio. FOOT-NOTES: [298] De Sanctis, ii. 193 _sq._ [299] _Cf._ Bosanquet, _Hist. of Æsthetic_, p. 152 _sq._ [300] _Cf._ Foffano, p. 151 _sq._ [301] Symonds, ii. 470. [302] Baillet, iii. 70. [303] Tiraboschi, vii. 1559. [304] Several similar extracts from Italian comic prologues may be found in Symonds, v. 533 _sq._ [305] Foffano, p. 154 _sq._ [306] _Poetica_, p. 32. [307] _Paradossi_, Venetia, 1545, ii. 29. [308] _Opere_, ii. 315 (Williams's translation). [309] _Cf._ the diverse opinions of Tiraboschi, viii. 516, and Hallam, _Lit. of Europe_, pt. iii. ch. 7. PART SECOND _LITERARY CRITICISM IN FRANCE_ LITERARY CRITICISM IN FRANCE CHAPTER I THE CHARACTER AND DEVELOPMENT OF FRENCH CRITICISM IN THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY LITERARY criticism in France, while beginning somewhat later than in Italy, preceded the birth of criticism in England and in Spain by a number of years. Critical activity in nearly all the countries of western Europe seems to have been ushered in by the translation of Horace's _Ars Poetica_ into the vernacular tongues. Critical activity in Italy began with Dolce's Italian version of the _Ars Poetica_ in 1535; in France, with the French version of Pelletier in 1545; in England, with the English version of Drant in 1567; and in Spain, with the Spanish versions of Espinel and Zapata in 1591 and 1592, respectively. Two centuries of literary discussion had prepared the way for criticism in Italy; and lacking this period of preparation, French criticism during the sixteenth century was necessarily of a much more practical character than that of Italy during the same age. The critical works of France, and of England also, were on the whole designed for those whose immediate intention it was to write verse themselves. The disinterested and philosophic treatment of æsthetic problems, wholly aside from all practical considerations, characterized much of the critical activity of the Italian Renaissance, but did not become general in France until the next century. For this reason, in the French and English sections of this essay, it will be necessary to deal with various rhetorical and metrical questions which in the Italian section could be largely disregarded. In these matters, as in the more general questions of criticism, it will be seen that sixteenth-century Italy furnished the source of all the accepted critical doctrines of western Europe. The comparative number of critical works in Italy and in France is also noteworthy. While those of the Italian Renaissance may be counted by the score, the literature of France during the sixteenth century, exclusive of a few purely rhetorical treatises, hardly offers more than a single dozen. It is evident, therefore, that the treatment of French criticism must be more limited in extent than that of Italian criticism, and somewhat different in character. The literature of the sixteenth century in France is divided into two almost equal parts by Du Bellay's _Défense et Illustration de la Langue française_, published in 1549. In no other country of Europe is the transition from the Middle Ages to the Renaissance so clearly marked as it is in France by this single book. With the invasion of Italy by the army of Charles VIII. in 1494, the influence of Italian art, of Italian learning, of Italian poetry, had received its first impetus in France. But over half a century was to elapse before the effects of this influence upon the creative literature of France was universally and powerfully felt. During this period the activity of Budæus, Erasmus, Dolet, and numerous other French and foreign humanists strengthened the cause and widened the influence of the New Learning. But it is only with the birth of the Pléiade that modern French literature may be said to have begun. In 1549 Du Bellay's _Défense_, the manifesto of the new school, appeared. Ronsard's _Odes_ were published in the next year; and in 1552 Jodelle inaugurated French tragedy with his _Cléopâtre_, and first, as Ronsard said, "Françoisement chanta la grecque tragédie." The _Défense_ therefore marks a distinct epoch in the critical as well as the creative literature of France. The critical works that preceded it, if they may be called critical in any real sense, did not attempt to do more than formulate the conventional notions of rhetorical and metrical structure common to the French poets of the later Middle Ages. The Pléiade itself, as will be more clearly understood later, was also chiefly concerned with linguistic and rhetorical reforms; and as late as 1580 Montaigne could say that there were more poets in France than judges and interpreters of poetry.[310] The creative reforms of the Pléiade lay largely in the direction of the formation of a poetic language, the introduction of new _genres_, the creation of new rhythms, and the imitation of classical literature. But with the imitation of classical literature there came the renewal of the ancient subjects of inspiration; and from this there proceeded a high and dignified conception of the poet's office. Indeed, many of the more general critical ideas of the Pléiade spring from the desire to justify the function of poetry, and to magnify its importance. The new school and its epigones dominate the second half of the sixteenth century; and as the first half of the century was practically unproductive of critical literature, a history of French Renaissance criticism is hardly more than an account of the poetic theories of the Pléiade. The series of rhetorical and metrical treatises that precede Du Bellay's _Défense_ begins with _L'Art de dictier et de fere chançons, balades, virelais et rondeaulx_, written by the poet Eustache Deschamps in 1392, over half a century after the similar work of Antonio da Tempo in Italy.[311] Toward the close of the fifteenth century a work of the same nature, the _Fleur de Rhétorique_, by an author who refers to himself as L'Infortuné, seems to have had some influence on later treatises. Three works of this sort fall within the first half of the sixteenth century: the _Grand et vrai Art de pleine Rhétorique_ of Pierre Fabri, published at Rouen in 1521; the _Rhétorique metrifiée_ of Gracien du Pont, published at Paris in 1539; and the _Art Poétique_ of Thomas Sibilet, published at Paris in 1548. The second part of Fabri's _Rhétorique_ deals with questions of versification--of rhyme, rhythm, and the complex metrical form of such poets as Crétin, Meschinot, and Molinet, in whom Pasquier found _prou de rime et équivoque, mais peu de raison_. As the _Rhétorique_ of Fabri is little more than an amplification of the similar work of L'Infortuné, so the work of Gracien du Pont is little more than a reproduction of Fabri's. Gracien du Pont is still chiefly intent on _rime équivoquée_, _rime entrelacée_, _rime retrograde_, _rime concatenée_, and the various other mediæval complexities of versification. Sibilet's _Art Poétique_ is more interesting than any of its predecessors. It was published a year before the _Défense_ of Du Bellay, and discusses many of the new _genres_ which the latter advocates. Sibilet treats of the sonnet, which had recently been borrowed from the Italians by Mellin de Saint-Gelais, the ode, which had just been employed by Pelletier, and the epigram, as practised by Marot. The eclogue is described as "Greek by invention, Latin by usurpation, and French by imitation." But one of the most interesting passages in Sibilet's book is that in which the French morality is compared with the classical drama. This passage exhibits perhaps the earliest trace of the influence of Italian ideas on French criticism; it will be discussed later in connection with the dramatic theories of this period. It is about the middle of the sixteenth century, then, that the influence of Italian criticism is first visible. The literature of Italy was read with avidity in France. Many educated young Frenchmen travelled in Italy, and several Italian men of letters visited France. Girolamo Muzio travelled in France in 1524, and again in 1530 with Giulio Camillo.[312] Aretino mentions the fact that a Vincenzo Maggi was at the Court of France in 1548, but it has been doubted whether this was the author of the commentary on the _Poetics_.[313] In 1549, after the completion of the two last parts of his _Poetica_, dedicated to the Bishop of Arras, Trissino made a tour about France.[314] Nor must we forget the number of Italian scholars called to Paris by Francis I.[315] The literary relations between the two countries do not concern us here; but it is no insignificant fact that the great literary reforms of the Pléiade should take place between 1548 and 1550, the very time when critical activity first received its great impetus in Italy. This Italian influence is just becoming apparent in Sibilet, for whom the poets between Jean le Maire de Belges and Clément Marot are the chief models, but who is not wholly averse to the moderate innovations derived by France from classical antiquity and the Italian Renaissance. M. Brunetière, in a very suggestive chapter of his History of French Criticism, regards the _Défense_ of Du Bellay, the _Poetics_ of Scaliger, and the _Art Poétique_ of Vauquelin de la Fresnaye as the most important critical works in France during the sixteenth century.[316] It may indeed be said that Du Bellay's _Défense_ (1549) is not in any true sense a work of literary criticism at all; that Scaliger's _Poetics_ (1561) is the work, not of a French critic, but of an Italian humanist; and that Vauquelin's _Art Poétique_ (not published until 1605), so far as any influence it may have had is concerned, does not belong to the sixteenth century, and can hardly be called important. At the same time these three works are interesting documents in the literary history of France, and represent three distinct stages in the development of French criticism in the sixteenth century. Du Bellay's work marks the beginning of the introduction of classical ideals into French literature; Scaliger's work, while written by an Italian and in Latin, was composed and published in France, and marks the introduction of the Aristotelian canons into French criticism; and Vauquelin's work indicates the sum of critical ideas which France had gathered and accepted in the sixteenth century. With Du Bellay's _Défense et Illustration de la Langue française_ (1549) modern literature and modern criticism in France may be said to begin. The _Défense_ is a monument of the influence of Italian upon French literary and linguistic criticism. The purpose of the book, as its title implies, is to defend the French language, and to indicate the means by which it can approach more closely to dignity and perfection. The fundamental contention of Du Bellay is, first, that the French language is capable of attaining perfection; and, secondly, that it can only hope to do so by imitating Greek and Latin. This thesis is propounded and proved in the first book of the _Défense_; and the second book is devoted to answering the question: By what specific means is this perfection, based on the imitation of the perfection of Greek and Latin, to be attained by the French tongue? Du Bellay contends that as the diversity of language among the different nations is ascribable entirely to the caprice of men, the perfection of any tongue is due exclusively to the diligence and artifice of those who use it. It is the duty, therefore, of every one to set about consciously to improve his native speech. The Latin tongue was not always as perfect as it was in the days of Virgil and Cicero; and if these writers had regarded language as incapable of being polished and enriched, or if they had imagined that their language could only be perfected by the imitation of their own national predecessors, Latin would never have arrived at a higher state of perfection than that of Ennius and Crassus. But as Virgil and Cicero perfected Latin by imitating Greek, so the French tongue can only be made beautiful by imitating Greek, Latin, and Italian, all of which have attained a certain share of perfection.[317] At the same time, two things must be guarded against. The French tongue cannot be improved by merely translating the classic and Italian tongues. Translation has its value in popularizing ideas; but by mere translation no language or literature can hope to attain perfection. Nor is a mere bald imitation sufficient; but, in Du Bellay's oft-cited phrase, the beauties of these foreign tongues "must be converted into blood and nourishment."[318] The classics have "blood, nerves, and bones," while the older French writers have merely "skin and color."[319] The modern French writer should therefore dismiss with contempt the older poets of France, and set about to imitate the Greeks, Latins, and Italians. He should leave off composing rondeaux, ballades, virelays, and such _épiceries_, which corrupt the taste of the French language, and serve only to show its ignorance and poverty; and in their stead he should employ the epigram, which mingles, in Horace's words, the profitable with the pleasant, the tearful elegy, in imitation of Ovid and Tibullus, the ode, one of the sublimest forms of poetry, the eclogue, in imitation of Theocritus, Virgil, and Sannazaro, and the beautiful sonnet, an Italian invention no less learned than pleasing.[320] Instead of the morality and the farce, the poet should write tragedies and comedies; he should attempt another _Iliad_ or _Æneid_ for the glory and honor of France. This is the gist of Du Bellay's argument in so far as it deals in general terms with the French language and literature. The six or seven concluding chapters treat of more minute and detailed questions of language and versification. Du Bellay advises the adoption of classical words as a means of enriching the French tongue, and speaks with favor of the use of rhymeless verse in imitation of the classics. The _Défense_ ends with an appeal to the reader not to fear to go and despoil Greece and Rome of their treasures for the benefit of French poetry.[321] From this analysis it will be seen that the _Défense_ is really a philological polemic, belonging to the same class as the long series of Italian discussions on the vulgar tongue which begins with Dante, and which includes the works of Bembo, Castiglione, Varchi, and others. It is, as a French critic has said, a combined pamphlet, defence, and _ars poetica_;[322] but it is only an _ars poetica_ in so far as it advises the French poet to employ certain poetic forms, and treats of rhythm and rhyme in a concluding chapter or two. But curiously enough, the source and inspiration of Du Bellay's work have never been pointed out. The actual model of the _Défense_ was without doubt Dante's _De Vulgari Eloquio_, which, in the Italian version of Trissino, had been given to the world for the first time in 1529, exactly twenty years before the _Défense_. The two works, allowing for the difference in time and circumstance, resemble each other closely in spirit and purpose as well as in contents and design. Du Bellay's work, like Dante's, is divided into two books, each of which is again divided into about the same number of chapters. The first book of both works deals with language in general, and the relations of the vulgar tongue to the ancient and modern languages; the second book of both works deals with the particular practices of the vulgar tongue concerning which each author is arguing. Both works begin with a somewhat similar theory of the origin of language; both works close with a discussion of the versification of the vernacular. The purpose of both books is the justification of the vulgar tongue, and the consideration of the means by which it can attain perfection; the title of _De Vulgari Eloquio_ might be applied with equal force to either treatise. The _Défense_, by this justification of the French language on rational if not entirely cogent and consistent grounds, prepared the way for critical activity in France; and it is no insignificant fact that the first critical work of modern France should have been based on the first critical work of modern Italy. Thirty years later, Henri Estienne, in his _Précellence du Langage françois_, could assert that French is the best language of ancient or modern times, just as Salviati in 1564 had claimed that preëminent position for Italian.[323] It is not to be expected that so radical a break with the national traditions of France as was implied by Du Bellay's innovations would be left unheeded by the enemies of the Pléiade. The answer came soon, in an anonymous pamphlet, entitled _Le Quintil Horatian sur la Défense et Illustration de la Langue françoise_. Until a very few years ago, this treatise was ascribed to a disciple of Marot, Charles Fontaine. But in 1883 an autograph letter of Fontaine's was discovered, in which he strenuously denies the authorship of the _Quintil Horatian_; and more recent researches have shown pretty conclusively that the real author was a friend of Fontaine's, Barthélemy Aneau, head of the College of Lyons.[324] The _Quintil Horatian_ was first published in 1550, the year after the appearance of the _Défense_.[325] The author informs us that he had translated the whole of Horace's _Ars Poetica_ into French verse "over twenty years ago, before Pelletier or any one else," that is, between 1525 and 1530.[326] This translation was never published, but fragments of it are cited in the _Quintil Horatian_. The pamphlet itself takes up the arguments of Du Bellay step by step, and refutes them. The author finds fault with the constructions, the metaphors, and the neologisms of Du Bellay. Aneau's temperament was dogmatic and pedagogic; his judgment was not always good; and modern French critics cannot forgive him for attacking Du Bellay's use of such a word as _patrie_. But it is not entirely just to speak of the _Quintil Horatian_, in the words of a modern literary historian, as full of futile and valueless criticisms. The author's minute linguistic objections are often hypercritical, but his work represents a natural reaction against the Pléiade. His chief censure of the _Défense_ was directed against the introduction of classical and Italian words into the French language. "Est-ce là défense et illustration," he exclaims, "ou plus tost offense et dénigration?" He charges the Pléiade with having contemned the classics of French poetry; the new school advocated the disuse of the complicated metrical forms merely because they were too difficult. The sonnet, the ode, and the elegy he dismisses as useless innovations. The object of poetry, according to Horace, is to gladden and please, while the elegy merely saddens and brings tears to the eyes. "Poetry," he says, "is like painting; and as painting is intended to fill us with delight, and not to sadden us, so the mournful elegy is one of the meanest forms of poetry." Aneau is unable to appreciate the high and sublime conception of the poet's office which the Pléiade first introduced into French literature; for him the poet is a mere versifier who amuses his audience. He represents the general reaction of the national spirit against the classical innovations of the Pléiade; and the _Quintil Horatian_ may therefore be called the last representative work of the older school of poetry. It was at about this period that Aristotle's _Poetics_ first influenced French criticism. In one of the concluding chapters of the _Défense_ Du Bellay remarks that "the virtues and vices of a poem have been diligently treated by the ancients, such as Aristotle and Horace, and after them by Hieronymus Vida."[327] Horace is mentioned and cited in numerous other places, and the influence of the general rhetorical portions of the _Ars Poetica_ is very marked throughout the _Défense_; there are also many traces of the influence of Vida. But there is no evidence whatsoever of any knowledge of Aristotle's _Poetics_. Of its name and importance Du Bellay had probably read in the writings of the Italians, but of its contents he knew little or nothing. There is indeed no well-established allusion to the _Poetics_ in France before this time. None of the French humanists seems to have known it. Its title is cited by Erasmus in a letter dated February 27, 1531, and it was published by him without any commentary at Basle in the same year, though Simon Grynæus appears to have been the real editor of this work. An edition of the _Poetics_ was also published at Paris in 1541, but does not seem to have had any appreciable influence on the critical activity of France. Several years after the publication of the _Défense_, in the satirical poem, _Le Poëte Courtisan_, written shortly after his return from Italy in 1555, Du Bellay shows a somewhat more definite knowledge of the contents of the _Poetics_:-- "Je ne veux point ici du maistre d'Alexandre [_i.e._ Aristotle], Touchant l'art poétic, les preceptes t'apprendre Tu n'apprendras de moy comment jouer il faut Les miseres des rois dessus un eschaffaut: Je ne t'enseigne l'art de l'humble comoedie Ni du Méonien la muse plus hardie: Bref je ne monstre ici d'un vers horacien Les vices et vertus du poëme ancien: Je ne depeins aussi le poëte du Vide."[328] In 1555 Guillaume Morel, the disciple of Turnebus, published an edition of Aristotle's _Poetics_ at Paris. It is interesting to note, however, that the reference in the _Défense_ is the first allusion to the _Poetics_ to be found in the critical literature of France; by 1549 the Italian Renaissance, and Italian criticism, had come into France for good. In 1560, the year before the publication of Scaliger's _Poetics_, Aristotle's treatise had acquired such prominence that in a volume of selections from Aristotle's works, published at Paris in that year, _Aristotelis Sententiæ_, the selections from the _Poetics_ are placed at the head of the volume.[329] In 1572 Jean de la Taille refers his readers to what "the great Aristotle in his _Poetics_, and after him Horace though not with the same subtlety, have said more amply and better than I."[330] The influence of Scaliger's _Poetics_ on the French dramatic criticism of this period has generally been overestimated. Scaliger's influence in France was not inconsiderable during the sixteenth century, but it was not until the very end of the century that he held the dictatorial position afterward accorded to him. No edition of his _Poetics_ was ever published at Paris. The first edition appeared at Lyons, and subsequent editions appeared at Heidelberg and Leyden. It was in Germany, in Spain, and in England that his influence was first felt; and it was largely through the Dutch scholars, Heinsius and Vossius, that his influence was carried into France in the next century. It is a mistake to say that he had any primary influence on the formulation and acceptance of the unities of time and place in French literature; there is in his _Poetics_, as has been seen, no such definite and formal statement of the unities as may be found in Castelvetro, in Jean de la Taille, in Sir Philip Sidney, or in Chapelain. At the same time, while Scaliger's _Poetics_ did not assume during the sixteenth century the dictatorial supremacy it attained during the seventeenth, and while the particular views enunciated in its pages had no direct influence on the current of sixteenth-century ideas, it certainly had an indirect influence on the general tendency of the critical activity of the French Renaissance. This indirect influence manifests itself in the gradual Latinization of culture during the second half of the sixteenth century, and, as will be seen later, in the emphasis on the Aristotelian canons in French dramatic criticism. Scaliger was a personal friend of several members of the Pléiade, and there is every reason to believe that he wielded considerable, even if merely indirect, influence on the development of that great literary movement. The last expression of the poetic theories of the Pléiade is to be found in the didactic poem of Vauquelin de la Fresnaye, _L'Art Poétique françois, où l'on peut remarquer la perfection et le défaut des anciennes et des modernes poésies_. This poem, though not published until 1605, was begun in 1574 at the command of Henry III., and, augmented by successive additions, was not yet complete by 1590. Vauquelin makes the following explicit acknowledgment of his indebtedness to the critical writers that preceded him:-- "Pour ce ensuivant les pas du fils de Nicomache [_i.e._ Aristotle], Du harpeur de Calabre [_i.e._ Horace], et tout ce que remache Vide et Minturne aprés, j'ay cet oeuvre apresté."[331] Aristotle, Horace, Vida, and Minturno are thus his acknowledged models and sources. Nearly the whole of Horace's _Ars Poetica_ he has translated and embodied in his poem; and he has borrowed from Vida a considerable number of images and metaphors.[332] His indebtedness to Aristotle and to Minturno brings up several intricate questions. It has been said that Vauquelin simply mentioned Minturno in order to put himself under the protection of a respectable Italian authority.[333] On the contrary, exclusive of Horace, Ronsard, and Du Bellay, the whole of whose critical discussions he has almost incorporated into his poem, Minturno is his chief authority, his model, and his guide. In fact, it was probably from Minturno that he derived his entire knowledge of the Aristotelian canons; it is not Aristotle, but Minturno's conception of Aristotle, that Vauquelin has adhered to. Many points in his poem are explained by this fact; here only one can be mentioned. Vauquelin's account, in the second canto of his _Art Poétique_, of the origin of the drama from the songs at the altar of Bacchus at the time of the vintage, is undoubtedly derived from Minturno.[334] It may have been observed that during the Renaissance there were two distinct conceptions of the origin of poetry. One, which might be called ethical, was derived from Horace, according to whom the poet was originally a lawgiver, or divine prophet; and this conception persists in modern literature from Poliziano to Shelley. The other, or scientific conception, was especially applied to the drama, and was based on Aristotle's remarks on the origin of tragedy; this attempt to discover some scientific explanation for poetic phenomena may be found in the more rationalistic of Renaissance critics, such as Scaliger and Viperano. Vauquelin de la Fresnaye, the disciple of Ronsard and the last exponent of the critical doctrines of the Pléiade, thus represents the incorporation of the body of Italian ideas into French criticism. With Vauquelin de la Fresnaye and De Laudun Daigaliers (1598) the history of French criticism during the sixteenth century is at an end. The critical activity of this period, as has already been remarked, is of a far more practical character than that of Italy. Literary criticism in France was created by the exigencies of a great literary movement; and throughout the century it never lost its connection with this movement, or failed to serve it in some practical way. The poetic criticism was carried on by poets, whose desire it was to further a cause, to defend their own works, or to justify their own views. The dramatic criticism was for the most part carried on by dramatists, sometimes even in the prefaces of their plays. In the sixteenth century, as ever since, the interrelation of the creative and the critical faculties in France was marked and definite. But there was, one might almost say, little critical theorizing in the French Renaissance. Excepting, of course, Scaliger, there was even nothing of the deification of Aristotle found in Italian criticism. To take notice of a minute but significant detail, there was no attempt to explain Aristotle's doctrine of _katharsis_, the source of infinite controversy in Italy. There was no detailed and consistent discussion of the theory of the epic poem. All these things may be found in seventeenth-century France; but their home was sixteenth-century Italy. FOOT-NOTES: [310] _Essais_, i. 36. [311] On these early works, see Langlois, _De Artibus Rhetoricæ Rhythmicæ_, Parisiis, 1890. [312] Tiraboschi, vii. 350. [313] _Ibid._ vii. 1465. [314] Morsolin, _Trissino_, p. 358. [315] Egger, _Hellénisme_, ch. vii. [316] Brunetière, i. 43. [317] _Cf._ Horace, _Ars Poet._ 53 _sq._ [318] _Défense_, i. 7. [319] _Ibid._ ii. 2. [320] _Ibid._ ii. 4. [321] _Cf._ Vida, in Pope, i. 167. [322] Lanson, _op. cit._, p. 274. [323] _Cf._ T. Tasso, xxiii. 97. [324] H. Chamard, "Le Date et l'Auteur du Quintil Horatian," in the _Revue d'Histoire littéraire de la France_, 1898, v. 59 _sq._ [325] _Ibid._ v. 54 _sq._ [326] _Ibid._ v. 62; 63, n. 1. [327] _Défense_, ii. 9. [328] Du Bellay, p. 120. [329] Parisiis, apud Hieronymum de Marnaf, 1560. [330] Robert, appendix iii. [331] _Art Poét._ i. 63. [332] Pellissier, pp. 57-63. [333] Lemercier, _Étude sur Vauquelin_, 1887, p. 117, and Pellissier, p. 57. [334] Minturno, _Arte Poetica_, p. 73; _De Poeta_, p. 252. _Cf._ Vauquelin, Pellissier's introduction, p. xliv. CHAPTER II THE THEORY OF POETRY IN THE FRENCH RENAISSANCE IT is in keeping with the practical character of the literary criticism of this period that the members of the Pléiade did not concern themselves with the general theory of poetry. Until the very end of the century there is not to be found any systematic poetic theory in France. It is in dramatic criticism that this period has most to offer, and the dramatic criticism is peculiarly interesting because it foreshadows in many ways the doctrines upon which were based the dramas of Racine and Corneille. I. _The Poetic Art_ In Du Bellay's _Défense_ there is no attempt to formulate a consistent body of critical doctrine; but the book exhibits, in a more or less crude form, all the tendencies for which the Pléiade stands in French literature. The fundamental idea of the _Défense_ is that French poetry can only hope to reach perfection by imitating the classics. The imitation of the classics implies, in the first place, erudition on the part of the poet; and, moreover, it requires intellectual labor and study. The poet is born, it is true; but this only refers to the ardor and joyfulness of spirit which naturally excite him, but which, without learning and erudition, are absolutely useless. "He who wishes poetic immortality," says Du Bellay, "must spend his time in the solitude of his own chamber; instead of eating, drinking, and sleeping, he must endure hunger, thirst, and long vigils."[335] Elsewhere he speaks of silence and solitude as _amy des Muses_. From all this there arises a natural contempt for the ignorant people, who know nothing of ancient learning: "Especially do I wish to admonish him who aspires to a more than vulgar glory, to separate himself from such inept admirers, to flee from the ignorant people,--the people who are the enemies of all rare and antique learning,--and to content himself with few readers, following the example of him who did not demand for an audience any one beside Plato himself."[336] In the _Art Poétique_ of Jacques Pelletier du Mans, published at Lyons in 1555, the point of view is that of the Pléiade, but more mellow and moderate than that of its most advanced and radical members. The treatise begins with an account of the antiquity and excellence of poetry; and poets are spoken of as originally the _maîtres et réformateurs de la vie_. Poetry is then compared with oratory and with painting, after the usual Renaissance fashion; and Pelletier agrees with Horace in regarding the combined power of art and nature as necessary to the fashioning of a poet. His conception of the latter's office is not unlike that of Tasso and Shelley, "It is the office of the poet to give novelty to old things, authority to the new, beauty to the rude, light to the obscure, faith to the doubtful, and to all things their true nature, and to their true nature all things." Concerning the questions of language, versification, and the feeling for natural scenery, he agrees fundamentally with the chief writers of the Pléiade. The greatest of these, Ronsard, has given expression to his views on the poetic art in his _Abrégé de l'Art Poétique françois_ (1565), and later in the two prefaces of his epic of the _Franciade_. The chief interest of the _Abrégé_ in the present discussion is that it expounds and emphasizes the high notion of the poet's office introduced into French poetry by the Pléiade. Before the advent of the new school, mere skill in the complicated forms of verse was regarded as the test of poetry. The poet was simply a _rimeur_; and the term "_poète_," with all that it implies, first came into use with the Pléiade. The distinction between the versifier and the poet, as pointed out by Aristotle and insisted upon by the Italians, became with the Pléiade almost vital. Binet, the disciple and biographer of Ronsard, says of his master that "he was the mortal enemy of versifiers, whose conceptions are all debased, and who think they have wrought a masterpiece when they have transposed something from prose into verse."[337] Ronsard's own account of the dignity and high function of poetry must needs be cited at length:-- "Above all things you will hold the Muses in reverence, yea, in singular veneration, and you will never let them serve in matters that are dishonest, or mere jests, or injudicious libels; but you will hold them dear and sacred, as the daughters of Jupiter, that is, God, who by His holy grace has through them first made known to ignorant people the excellencies of His majesty. For poetry in early times was only an allegorical theology, in order to make stupid men, by pleasant and wondrously colored fables, know the secrets they could not comprehend, were the truth too openly made known to them.... Now, since the Muses do not care to lodge in a soul unless it is good, holy, and virtuous, you should try to be of a good disposition, not wicked, scowling, and cross, but animated by a gentle spirit; and you should not let anything enter your mind that is not superhuman and divine. You should have, in the first place, conceptions that are high, grand, beautiful, and not trailing upon the ground; for the principal part of poetry consists of invention, which comes as much from a beautiful nature as from the reading of good and ancient authors. If you undertake any great work, you will show yourself devout and fearing God, commencing it either with His name or by any other which represents some effects of His majesty, after the manner of the Greek poets ... for the Muses, Apollo, Mercury, Pallas, and other similar deities, merely represent the powers of God, to which the first men gave several names for the diverse effects of His incomprehensible majesty."[338] In this eloquent passage the conception of the poet as an essentially moral being,--a doctrine first enunciated by Strabo, and repeated by Minturno and others,--and Boccaccio's notion of poetry as originally an allegorical theology, are both introduced into French criticism. Elsewhere Ronsard repeats the mediæval concept that poets "d'un voile divers Par fables ont caché le vray sens de leurs vers."[339] It will be seen also that for Ronsard, poetry is essentially a matter of inspiration; and in the poem just quoted, the _Discours à Jacques Grévin_, he follows the Platonic conception of divine inspiration or madness. A few years later Montaigne said of poetry that "it is an easier matter to frame it than to know it; being base and humble, it may be judged by the precepts and art of it, but the good and lofty, the supreme and divine, are beyond rules and above reason. It hath no community with our judgment, but ransacketh and ravisheth the same."[340] In his various critical works Ronsard shows considerable indebtedness to the Italian theorists, especially to Minturno. He does not attempt any formal definition of poetry, but its function is described as follows: "As the end of the orator is to persuade, so that of the poet is to imitate, invent, and represent the things that are, that can be, or that the ancients regarded as true."[341] The concluding clause of this passage is intended to justify the modern use of the ancient mythology; but the whole passage seems primarily to follow Scaliger[342] and Minturno.[343] It is to be observed that verse is not mentioned in this definition as an essential requirement of poetry. It was indeed a favorite contention of his, and one for which he was indebted to the Italians, that all who write in verse are not poets. Lucan and Silius Italicus have robed history with the raiment of verse; but according to Ronsard they would have done better in many ways to have written in prose. The poet, unlike the historian, deals with the verisimilar and the probable; and while he cannot be responsible for falsehoods which are in opposition to the truth of things, any more than the historian can, he is not interested to know whether or not the details of his poems are actual historical facts. Verisimilitude, and not fact, is therefore the test of poetry. In Vauquelin de la Fresnaye may be found most of the Aristotelian distinctions in regard to imitation, harmony, rhythm, and poetic theory in general; but these distinctions he derived, as has already been said, not directly from Aristotle, but in all probability from Minturno. Poetry is defined as an art of imitation:-- "C'est un art d'imiter, un art de contrefaire Que toute poësie, ainsi que de pourtraire."[344] Verse is described as a heaven-sent instrument, the language of the gods; and its value in poetry consists in clarifying and making the design compact.[345] But it is not an essential of poetry; Aristotle permits us to poetize in prose; and the romances of Heliodorus and Montemayor are examples of this poetic prose.[346] The object of poetry is that it shall cause delight, and unless it succeeds in this it is entirely futile:-- "C'est le but, c'est la fin des vers que resjouir: Les Muses autrement ne les veulent ouir." As it is the function of the orator to persuade and the physician to cure, and as they fail in their offices unless they effect these ends, so the poet fails unless he succeeds in pleasing.[347] This comparison is a favorite one with the Italian critics. A similar passage has already been cited from Daniello; and the same notion is thus expressed by Lodovico Dolce: "The aim of the physician is to cure diseases by means of medicine; the orator's to persuade by force of his arguments; and if neither attains this end, he is not called physician or orator. So if the poet does not delight, he is not a poet, for poetry delights all, even the ignorant."[348] But delight, according to Vauquelin, is merely the means of directing us to higher things; poetry is a delightful means of leading us to virtue:-- "C'est pourquoy des beaus vers la joyeuse alegresse Nous conduit aux vertus d'une plaisante addresse."[349] Vauquelin, like Scaliger, Tasso, Sidney, compares the poet with God, the great Workman, who made everything out of nothing.[350] The poet is a divinely inspired person, who, _sans art, sans sçavoir_, creates works of divine beauty. Vauquelin's contemporary, Du Bartas, has in his _Uranie_ expressed this idea in the following manner:-- "Each art is learned by art; but Poesie Is a mere heavenly gift, and none can taste The dews we drop from Pindus plenteously, If sacred fire have not his heart embraced. "Hence is't that many great Philosophers, Deep-learned clerks, in prose most eloquent, Labor in vain to make a graceful verse, Which many a novice frames most excellent."[351] While this is the accepted Renaissance doctrine of inspiration, Vauquelin, in common with all other followers of the Pléiade, was fully alive to the necessity of artifice and study in poetry; and he agrees with Horace in regarding both art and nature as equally necessary to the making of a good poet. It is usage that makes art, but art perfects and regulates usage:-- "Et ce bel Art nous sert d'escalier pour monter A Dieu."[352] II. _The Drama_ Dramatic criticism in France begins as a reaction against the drama of the Middle Ages. The mediæval drama was formless and inorganic, without art or dignity. The classical drama, on the other hand, possessed both form and dignity; and the new school, perceiving this contrast, looked to the Aristotelian canons, as restated by the Italians, to furnish the dignity and art which the tragedy of Greece and Rome possessed, and which their own moralities and farces fundamentally lacked. In the first reference to dramatic literature in French criticism, the mediæval and classical dramas are compared after this fashion; but as Sibilet (1548), in whose work this passage appears, wrote a year or so before the advent of the Pléiade, the comparison is not so unfavorable to the morality and the farce as it became in later critics. "The French morality," says Sibilet, "represents, in certain distinct traits, Greek and Latin tragedy, especially in that it treats of grave and momentous deeds (_faits graves et principaus_); and if the French had always made the ending of the morality sad and dolorous, the morality would be a tragedy. But in this, as in all things, we have followed our natural taste or inclination, which is to take from foreign things not all we see, but only what we think will be useful to us and of national advantage; for in the morality we treat, as the Greeks and Romans do in their tragedies, the narration of deeds that are illustrious, magnanimous, and virtuous, or true, or at least verisimilar; but we do otherwise in what is useful to the information of our manners and life, without subjecting ourselves to any sorrow or pleasure of the issue."[353] It would seem that Sibilet regards the morality as lacking nothing but the unhappy ending of classical tragedy. At the same time this passage exhibits perhaps the first trace of Aristotelianism in French critical literature; for Sibilet specifies several characteristic features of Greek and Latin tragedy, which he could have found only in Aristotle or in the Italians. In the first place, tragedy deals only with actions that are grave, illustrious, and for the most part magnanimous or virtuous. In the second place, the actions of tragedy are either really true, that is, historical, or if not true, have all the appearance of truth, that is, they are verisimilar. Thirdly, the end of tragedy is always sad and dolorous. Fourthly, tragedy performs a useful function, which is connected in some way with the reformation of manners and life; and, lastly, the effect of tragedy is connected with the sorrow or pleasure brought about by the catastrophe. These distinctions anticipate many of those found later in Scaliger and in the French critics. In Du Bellay (1549) we find no traces of dramatic theory beyond the injunction, already noted, that the French should substitute classical tragedy and comedy for the old morality and farce. A few years later, however, in Pelletier (1555), there appears an almost complete system of dramatic criticism. He urges the French to attempt the composition of tragedy and comedy. "This species of poetry," he says, "will bring honor to the French language, if it is attempted,"--a remark which illustrates the innate predisposition of the French for dramatic poetry.[354] He then proceeds to distinguish tragedy from comedy much in the same manner as Scaliger does six years later. It is to be remembered that Pelletier's _Art Poétique_ was published at Lyons in 1555, while Scaliger's _Poetics_ was published at the same place in 1561. Pelletier may have known Scaliger personally; but it is more probable that Pelletier derived his information from the same classical and traditional sources as did Scaliger. At all events, Pelletier distinguishes tragedy from comedy in regard to style, subject, characters, and ending in exact Scaligerian fashion. Comedy has nothing in common with tragedy except the fact that neither can have more or less than five acts. The style and diction of comedy are popular and colloquial, while those of tragedy are most dignified and sublime. The comic characters are men of low condition, while those of tragedy are kings, princes, and great lords. The conclusion of comedy is always joyous, that of tragedy is always sorrowful and heart-rending. The themes of tragedy are deaths, exiles, and unhappy changes of fortune; those of comedy are the loves and passions of young men and young women, the indulgence of mothers, the wiles of slaves, and the diligence of nurses.[355] By this time, then, Aristotle's theory of tragedy, as restated by the Italians, had become part of French criticism. The actual practice of the French drama had been modified by the introduction of these rules; and they had played so important a part that Grévin, in his _Bref Discours pour l'Intelligence de ce Théâtre_, prefixed to his _Mort de César_ (1562), could say that French tragedy had already attained perfection, even when regarded from the standpoint of the Aristotelian canons. "Our tragedies," says Grévin, "have been so well polished that there is nothing left now to be desired,--I speak of those which are composed according to the rules of Aristotle and Horace." Grévin's _Discours_ was published the year after Scaliger's _Poetics_, but shows no indication of Scaligerian influence. His definition of tragedy is based on a most vague and incomplete recollection of Aristotle, "Tragedy, as Aristotle says in his _Poetics_, is an imitation or representation of some action that is illustrious and great in itself, such as the death of Cæsar." He shows his independence or his ignorance of Scaliger by insisting on the inferiority of Seneca, whom Scaliger had rated above all the Greeks; and he shows his independence of the ancients by substituting a crowd of Cæsar's soldiers for the singers of the older chorus, on the ground that there ought not to be singing in the representation of tragedy any more than there is in actual life itself, for tragedy is a representation of truth or of what has the appearance of truth. There are in Grévin's _Discours_ several indications that the national feeling had not been entirely destroyed by the imitation of the classics; but a discussion of this must be left for a later chapter. In Jean de la Taille's _Art de Tragédie_, prefixed to his _Saül le Furieux_ (1572), a drama in which a biblical theme is fashioned after the manner of classical tragedy, there is to be found the most explicit and distinct antagonism to the old, irregular moralities, which are not modelled according to the true art and the pattern of the ancients. They are but _amères épiceries_--words that recall Du Bellay. But curiously enough, Jean de la Taille differs entirely from Grévin, and asserts positively that France had as yet no real tragedies, except possibly a few translated from the classics. Waging war, as he is, against the crude formlessness of the national drama, perfect construction assumes for him a very high importance. "The principal point in tragedy," he says, "is to know how to dispose and fashion it well, so that the plot is well intertwined, mingled, interrupted, and resumed, ... and that there is nothing useless, without purpose, or out of place." For Jean de la Taille, as for most Renaissance writers, tragedy is the least popular and the most elegant and elevated form of poetry, exclusive of the epic. It deals with the pitiful ruin of great lords, with the inconstancy of fortune, with banishment, war, pestilence, famine, captivity, and the execrable cruelty of tyrants.[356] The end of tragedy is in fact to move and to sting the feelings and the emotions of men. The characters of tragedy--and this is the Aristotelian conception--should be neither extremely bad, such men as by their crimes merit punishment, nor perfectly good and holy, like Socrates, who was wrongfully put to death. Invented or allegorical characters, such as Death, Avarice, or Truth, are not to be employed. At the same time, Jean de la Taille, like Grévin, is not averse to the use of scriptural subjects in tragedy, although he cautions the poet against long-winded theological discussions. The Senecan drama was his model in treating of tragedy, as it was indeed that of the Renaissance in general; and tragedy approached more and more closely to the oratorical and sententious manner of the Latin poet. Ronsard, for example, asserts that tragedy and comedy are entirely _didascaliques et enseignantes_, and should be enriched by numerous excellent and rare _sentences_ (_sententiæ_), "for in a few words the drama must teach much, being the mirror of human life."[357] Similarly, Du Bellay advises poets to embellish their poetry with grave _sentences_, and Pelletier praises Seneca principally because he is _sentencieux_. Vauquelin, in his _Art Poétique_, gives a metrical paraphrase of Aristotle's definition of tragedy:-- "Mais le sujet tragic est un fait imité De chose juste et grave, en ses vers limité; Auquel on y doit voir de l'affreux, du terrible, Un fait non attendu, qui tienne de l'horrible, Du pitoyable aussi, le coeur attendrissant D'un tigre furieux, d'un lion rugissant."[358] The subject of tragedy should be old, and should be connected with the fall of great tyrants and princes;[359] and in regard to the number of acts, the number of interlocutors on the stage, the _deus ex machina_, and the chorus,[360] Vauquelin merely paraphrases Horace. Comedy is defined as the imitation of an action which by common usage is accounted wicked, but which is not so wicked that there is no remedy for it; thus, for example, a man who has seduced a young girl may recompense her by taking her in marriage.[361] Hence while the actions of tragedy are "virtuous, magnificent, and grand, royal, and sumptuous," the incidents of comedy are actually and ethically of a lower grade.[362] For tragi-comedy Vauquelin has nothing but contempt. It is, in fact, a bastard form, since the tragedy with a happy ending serves a similar but more dignified purpose. Vauquelin, like Boileau and most other French critics after him, follows Aristotle at length in the description of dramatic recognitions and reversals of fortune.[363] Most of the other Aristotelian distinctions are also to be found in his work. In the _Art Poétique françois_ of Pierre de Laudun, Sieur d'Aigaliers, published in 1598, these distinctions reappear in a more or less mutilated form. In the fifth and last book of this treatise, De Laudun follows the Italian scholars, especially Scaliger and Viperano. He does not differ essentially from Scaliger in the definition of tragedy, in the division into acts and the place of the chorus, in the discussion of the characters and subjects of tragedy, and in the distinction between tragedy and comedy.[364] His conception of tragedy is in keeping with the usual Senecan ideal; it should be adorned by frequent _sentences_, allegories, similitudes, and other ornaments of poetry. The more cruel and sanguinary the tragic action is, the more excellent it will be; but at the same time, much that makes the action cruel is to be enacted only behind the stage. Like Pelletier, he objects to the introduction of all allegorical and invented characters, or even gods and goddesses, on the ground that these are not actual beings, and hence are out of keeping with the theme of tragedy, which must be real and historical. De Laudun has also something to say concerning the introduction of ghosts in the tragic action; and his discussion is peculiarly interesting when we remember that it was almost at this very time, in England, that the ghost played so important a part in the Shakespearian drama. "If the ghosts appear before the action begins," says De Laudun, "they are permissible; but if they appear during the course of the action, and speak to the actors themselves, they are entirely faulty and reprehensible." De Laudun borrowed from Scaliger the scheme of the ideal tragedy: "The first act contains the complaints; the second, the suspicions; the third, the counsels; the fourth, the menaces and preparations; the fifth, the fulfilment and effusion of blood."[365] But despite his subservience to Scaliger, he is not afraid to express his independence of the ancients. We are not, he says, entirely bound to their laws, especially in the number of actors on the stage, which according to classic usage never exceeded three; for nowadays, notwithstanding the counsels of Aristotle and Horace, an audience has not the patience to be satisfied with only two or three persons at one time. The history of the dramatic unities in France during the sixteenth century demands some attention. That they had considerable effect on the actual practice of dramatic composition from the very advent of the Pléiade is quite obvious; for in the first scene of the first French tragedy, the _Cléopâtre_ of Jodelle (1552), there is an allusion to the unity of time, which Corneille was afterward to call the _règle des règles_:-- "Avant que ce soleil, qui vient ores de naître, Ayant tracé son jour chez sa tante se plonge, Cléopâtre mourra!" In 1553 Mellin de Saint-Gelais translated Trissino's _Sofonisba_ into French, and the influence of the Italian drama became fixed in France. But the first distinct formulation of the unities is to be found in Jean de la Taille's _Art de Tragédie_ (1572). His statement of the unity is explicit, "Il faut toujours représenter l'histoire ou le jeu en un même jour, en un même temps, et en un même lieu."[366] Jean de la Taille was indebted for this to Castelvetro, who two years before had stated them thus, "La mutatione tragica non può tirar con esso seco se non una giornata e un luogo."[367] The unity of time was adopted by Ronsard about this same time in the following words:-- "Tragedy and comedy are circumscribed and limited to a short space of time, that is, to one whole day. The most excellent masters of this craft commence their works from one midnight to another, and not from sunrise to sunset, in order to have greater compass and length of time. On the other hand, the heroic poem, which is entirely of a martial character (_tout guerrier_), comprehends only the actions of one whole year."[368] This passage is without doubt borrowed from Minturno (1564):-- "Whoever regards well the works of the most admired ancient authors will find that the materials of scenic poetry terminate in one day, or do not pass beyond the space of two days; just as the action of the epic poem, however great and however long it may be, does not occupy more than one year."[369] Minturno, it will be remembered, was the first to limit the action of the heroic poem to one year. In another passage he deduces the rule from the practice of Virgil and Homer;[370] but Ronsard seems to think that Virgil himself has not obeyed this law. We have already alluded to the influence of Minturno on the Pléiade. Vauquelin de la Fresnaye, who explicitly acknowledges his indebtedness to Minturno, also follows him in limiting the action of the drama to one day and that of the epic to one year:-- "Or comme eux l'heroic suivant le droit sentier, Doit son oeuvre comprendre au cours d'un an entier; Le tragic, le comic, dedans une journee Comprend ce que fait l'autre au cours de son annee: Le theatre jamais ne doit estre rempli D'un argument plus long que d'un jour accompli."[371] The two last lines of this passage bear considerable resemblance to Boileau's famous statement of the unities three-quarters of a century later.[372] Toward the end of the sixteenth century, then, the unity of time, and in a less degree the unity of place, had become almost inviolable laws of the drama. But at this very period strong notes of revolt against the tyranny of the unities begin to be heard. Up to this time the classical Italian drama had been the pattern for French playwrights; but the irregular Spanish drama was now commencing to exert considerable influence in France, and with this Spanish influence came the Spanish opposition to the unities. In 1582 Jean de Beaubreuil, in the preface of his tragedy of _Régulus_, had spoken with contempt of the rule of twenty-four hours as _trop superstitieux_. But De Laudun was probably the first European critic to argue formally against it. The concluding chapter of his _Art Poétique_ (1598) gives five different reasons why the unity of time should not be observed in the drama. The chapter is entitled, "Concerning those who say that the action of tragedy must conclude in a single day;" and De Laudun begins by asserting that this opinion had never been sustained by any good author. This is fairly conclusive evidence that De Laudun had never directly consulted Aristotle's _Poetics_, but was indebted for his knowledge of Aristotle to the Italians, and especially to Scaliger. The five arguments which he formulates against the unity of time are as follows:-- "In the first place, this law, if it is observed by any of the ancients, need not force us to restrict our tragedies in any way, since we are not bound by their manner of writing or by the measure of feet and syllables with which they compose their verses. In the second place, if we were forced to observe this rigorous law, we should fall into one of the greatest of absurdities, by being obliged to introduce impossible and incredible things in order to enhance the beauty of our tragedies, or else they would lack all grace; for besides being deprived of matter, we could not embellish our poems with long discourses and various interesting events. In the third place, the action of the _Troades_, an excellent tragedy by Seneca, could not have occurred in one day, nor could even some of the plays of Euripides or Sophocles. In the fourth place, according to the definition already given [on the authority of Aristotle], tragedy is the recital of the lives of heroes, the fortune and grandeur of kings, princes, and others; and all this could not be accomplished in one day. Besides, a tragedy must contain five acts, of which the first is joyous, and the succeeding ones exhibit a gradual change, as I have already indicated above; and this change a single day would not suffice to bring about. In the fifth and last place, the tragedies in which this rule is observed are not any better than the tragedies in which it is not observed; and the tragic poets, Greek and Latin, or even French, do not and need not and cannot observe it, since very often in a tragedy the whole life of a prince, king, emperor, noble, or other person is represented;--besides a thousand other reasons which I could advance if time permitted, but which must be left for a second edition."[373] The history of the unity of time during the next century does not strictly concern us here; but it may be well to point out that it was through the offices of Chapelain, seconded by the authority of Cardinal Richelieu, that it became fixed in the dramatic theory of France. In a long letter, dating from November, 1630, and recently published for the first time, Chapelain sets out to answer all the objections made against the rule of twenty-four hours. It is sustained, he says, by the practice of the ancients and the universal consensus of the Italians; but his own proof is based on reason alone. It is the old argument of _vraisemblance_, as found in Maggi, Scaliger, and especially Castelvetro, whom Chapelain seems in part to follow. By 1635 he had formulated the whole theory of the three unities and converted Cardinal Richelieu to his views. In the previous year Mairet's _Sophonisbe_, the first "regular" French tragedy, had been produced. In 1636 the famous _Cid_ controversy had begun. By 1640 the battle was gained, and the unities became a part of the classic theory of the drama throughout Europe. A few years later their practical application was most thoroughly indicated by the Abbé d'Aubignac, in his _Pratique du Théâtre_; and they were definitely formulated for all time by Boileau in the celebrated couplet:-- "Qu'en un lieu, qu'en un jour, un seul fait accompli Tienne jusqu'à la fin le théâtre rempli."[374] III. _Heroic Poetry_ It was the supreme ambition of the Pléiade to produce a great French epic. In the very first manifesto of the new school, Du Bellay urges every French poet to attempt another _Iliad_ or _Æneid_ for the honor and glory of France. For Pelletier (1555) the heroic poem is the one that really gives the true title of poet; it may be compared to the ocean, and all other forms to rivers.[375] He seems to be following Giraldi Cintio's discourse on the _romanzi_, published the year before his own work, when he says that the French poet should write a _Heracleid_, the deeds of Hercules furnishing the mightiest and most heroic material he can think of.[376] At the same time Virgil is for him the model of an epic poet; and his parallel between Homer and Virgil bears striking resemblance to the similar parallel in Capriano's _Della Vera Poetica_, published in the very same year as his own treatise.[377] Like Capriano, Pelletier censures the superfluous exuberance, the loquaciousness, the occasional indecorum, and the inferiority in eloquence and dignity of Homer when compared with the Latin poet. It was Ronsard's personal ambition to be the French Virgil, as in lyric poetry he had been proclaimed the French Pindar. For twenty years he labored on the _Franciade_, but never finished it. In the two prefaces which he wrote for it, the first in 1572, and the second (published posthumously) about 1584, he attempts to give expression to his ideal of the heroic poet. In neither of them does he succeed in formulating any very definite or consistent body of epic theory. They are chiefly interesting in that they indicate the general tendencies of the Pléiade, and show Ronsard's own rhetorical principles, and his feeling for nature and natural beauty. The passage has already been cited in which he speaks of the heroic poem as entirely of a martial character, and limits its action to the space of one year. It has also been seen that for him, as for the Italians, verisimilitude, and not fact, is the test of poetry. At the same time, the epic poet is to avoid anachronisms and misstatements of fact. Such faults do not disturb the reader so much when the story is remote in point of time; and the poet should therefore always use an argument, the events of which are at least three or four hundred years old. The basis of the work should rest upon some old story of past times and of long-established renown, which has gained the credit of men.[378] This notion of the antiquity of the epic fable had been accepted long ago by the Italians. It is stated, for example, in Tasso's _Discorsi dell' Arte Poetica_, written about 1564, though not published until 1587, fifteen years after Tasso had visited Ronsard in Paris. Vauquelin de la Fresnaye has the Pléiade veneration for heroic poetry; but he cannot be said to exhibit any more definite conception of its form and function. For him the epic is a vast and magnificent narration, a world in itself, wherein men, things, and thoughts are wondrously mirrored:-- "C'est un tableau du monde, un miroir qui raporte Les gestes des mortels en differente sorte.... Car toute poësie il contient en soyméme, Soit tragique ou comique, ou soit autre poëme."[379] With this we may compare what Muzio had said in 1551:-- "Il poema sovrano è una pittura De l' universo, e però in sè comprende Ogni stilo, ogni forma, ogni ritratto." But despite this very vague conception of the epic in the French Renaissance, there was, as has been said, a high veneration for it as a form, and for its masters, Homer and especially Virgil. This accounts for the large number of attempts at epic composition in France during the next century. But beyond the earlier and indefinite notion of heroic poetry the French did not get for a long time to come. Even for Boileau the epic poem was merely the _vaste récit d'une longue action_.[380] FOOT-NOTES: [335] _Défense_, ii. 3. [336] _Ibid._ ii. 11. [337] Ronsard, vii. 310, 325. [338] Ronsard, vii. 37 _sq._ [339] Ronsard, vi. 311 _sq._ [340] _Essais_, i. 36, Florio's translation. [341] Ronsard, vii. 322. _Cf._ Aristotle, _Poet._ ix. 1-4; xxv. 6, 7. [342] _Poet._ iii. 24. [343] _De Poeta_, pp. 44, 47. [344] _Art Poét._ i. 187. [345] _Ibid._ i. 87 _sq._ [346] _Art Poét._ ii. 261. [347] _Ibid._ i. 697 _sq._ [348] _Osservationi_, Vinegia, 1560, p. 190. [349] _Art Poét._ i. 744. [350] _Art Poét._ i. 19. _Cf._ Tasso, cited by Shelley, _Defence_, p. 42, "No one merits the name of creator except God and the poet." [351] Sylvester's _Du Bartas_, 1641, p. 242. [352] _Art Poét._ i. 149. [353] Sibilet, _Art Poét._ ii. 8. [354] Pelletier, _Art Poét._ ii. 7. [355] _Ibid._ [356] Robert, app. iii. [357] Ronsard, iii. 18 _sq._ [358] _Art Poét._ iii. 153. [359] _Ibid._ ii. 1113, 441. [360] _Art Poét._ ii. 459. [361] _Ibid._ iii. 143. [362] _Ibid._ iii. 181. [363] _Ibid._ iii. 189 _sq._ [364] Robert, app. iv. [365] _Art Poét._ v. 6. [366] Robert, app. iii. [367] _Poetica_, p. 534. [368] Ronsard, iii. 19. [369] _Arte Poetica_, p. 71. [370] _Ibid._ p. 12; _De Poeta_, p. 149. [371] _Art Poét._ ii. 253. [372] Boileau, _Art Poét._ iii. 45. [373] Arnaud, app. iii. [374] _Art Poét._ iii. 45. [375] _Art Poét._ ii. 8. [376] _Ibid._ i. 3. [377] _Ibid._ i. 5. _Cf._ Capriano, cap. v. [378] Ronsard, iii. 23, 29. [379] Vauquelin, _Art Poét._ i. 471, 503. [380] Boileau, _Art Poét._ iii. 161. CHAPTER III CLASSIC AND ROMANTIC ELEMENTS IN FRENCH CRITICISM DURING THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY THE principle for which the Pléiade stood was, like that of humanism, the imitation of the classics; and the Pléiade was the first to introduce this as a literary principle into France. This means, as regards French literature, in the first place, the substitution of the classical instead of its own national tradition; and, secondly, the substitution of the imitation of the classics for the imitation of nature itself. In making these vital substitutions, Du Bellay and his school have been accused of creating once and for all the gulf that separates French poetry from the national life.[381] This accusation is perhaps unfair to the Pléiade, which insisted on the poet's going directly to nature, which emphasized most strongly the sentiment for natural scenery and beauty, and which first declared the importance of the artisan and the peasant as subjects for poetry. But there can be but little doubt that the separation of poetry from the national life was the logical outcome of the doctrines of the Pléiade. In disregarding the older French poets and the evolution of indigenous poetry, in formulating an ideal of the poet as an unsociable and ascetic character, it separated itself from the natural tendencies of French life and letters, and helped to effect the final separation between poetry and the national development. I. _Classical Elements_ It was to Du Bellay (1549) that France owes the introduction of classical ideas into French literature. He was the first to regard the imitation of the classics as a literary principle, and to advise the poet, after the manner of Vida, to purloin all the treasures of Greek and Latin literature for the benefit of French poetry. Moreover, he first formulated the aristocratic conception of the poet held by the Pléiade. The poet was advised to flee from the ignorant people, to bury himself in the solitude of his own chamber, to dream and to ponder, and to content himself with few readers. "Beyond everything," says Du Bellay, "the poet should have one or more learned friends to whom he can show all his verses; he should converse not only with learned men, but with all sorts of workmen, mechanics, artists, and others, in order to learn the technical terms of their arts, for use in beautiful descriptions."[382] This was a favorite theory of the Pléiade, which like some of our own contemporary writers regarded the technical arts as important subjects of inspiration. But the essential point at the bottom of all these discussions is a high contempt for the opinion of the vulgar in matters of art. The _Quintil Horatian_ (1550) represents, as has already been seen, a natural reaction against the foreign and classical innovations of the Pléiade. Du Bellay's advice, "Prens garde que ce poëme soit eslogné du vulgaire,"--advice insisted upon by many of the rhetoricians of the Italian Renaissance,--receives considerable censure; on the contrary, says the author of the _Quintil_, the poet must be understood and appreciated by all, unlearned as well as learned, just as Marot was. The _Quintil_ was, in fact, the first work to insist on definiteness and clearness in poetry, as these were afterward insisted on by Malherbe and Boileau. Like Malherbe, and his disciple Deimier, the author of the _Académie de l'Art Poétique_ (1610), in which the influence of the _Quintil_ is fully acknowledged, the author of the _Quintil_ objects to all forms of poetic license, to all useless metaphors that obscure the sense, to all Latinisms and foreign terms and locutions.[383] Du Bellay had dwelt on the importance of a knowledge of the classical and Italian tongues, and had strongly advised the French poet to naturalize as many Latin, Greek, and even Spanish and Italian terms as he could. The _Quintil_ is particularly bitter against all such foreign innovations. The poet need not know foreign tongues at all; without this knowledge he can be as good a poet as any of the _græcaniseurs, latiniseurs, et italianiseurs en françoys_. This protest availed little, and Du Bellay's advice in regard to the use of Italian terms was so well followed that several years later, in 1578, Henri Estienne vigorously protested against the practice in his _Dialogues du Nouveau Langage françois italianisé_. As Ronsard and Du Bellay represent the foreign elements that went to make up classicism in France, so the author of the _Quintil Horatian_ may be said to represent in his humble way certain enduring elements of the _esprit gaulois_. He represents the national traditions, and he prepares the way for the two great bourgeois poets of France,--Boileau, with his "Tout doit tendre au bon sens," and Molière, with his bluff cry, "Je suis pour le bon sens." According to Pelletier (1555), French poetry is too much like colloquial speech; in order to equal classical literature, the poets of France must be more daring and less popular.[384] Pelletier's point of view is here that of the Pléiade, which aimed at a distinct poetic language, diverse from ordinary prose speech. But he is thoroughly French, and in complete accord with the author of the _Quintil Horatian_, in his insistence on perfect clearness in poetry. "Clearness," he says, "is the first and worthiest virtue of a poem."[385] Obscurity is the chief fault of poetry, "for there is no difference between not speaking at all and not being understood."[386] For these reasons he is against all unnecessary and bombastic ornament; the true use of metaphors and comparisons of all sorts is "to explain and represent things as they really are." Similarly, Ronsard, while recognizing the value of comparisons, rightfully used, as the very nerves and tendons of poetry, declares that if instead of perfecting and clarifying, they obscure or confuse the idea, they are ridiculous.[387] Obscurity was the chief danger, and indeed the chief fault, of the Pléiade; and it is no small merit that both Ronsard and Pelletier perceived this fact. The Pléiade exhibits the classic temper in its insistence on study and art as essential to poetry; but it was not in keeping with the doctrines of later French classicists in so far as it regarded the poetic labors as of an unsociable and even ascetic character. In this, as has been seen, Ronsard is a true exponent of the doctrines of the new school. But on the whole the classic spirit was strong in him. He declares that the poet's ideas should be high and noble, but not fantastic. "They should be well ordered and disposed; and while they seem to transcend those of the vulgar, they should always appear to be easily conceived and understood by any one."[388] Here Du Bellay's aristocratic conception of poetry is modified so as to become a very typical statement of the principle underlying French classicism. Again, Ronsard points out, as Vida and other Italian critics had done before, that the great classical poets seldom speak of things by their bare and naked names. Virgil does not, for example, say, "It was night," or "It was day," but he uses some such circumlocution as this:-- "Postera Phoebea lustrabat lampade terras." The unfortunate results of the excessive use of such circumlocutions are well exemplified in the later classicists of France. Ronsard perhaps foresaw this danger, and wisely says that circumlocution, if not used judiciously, makes the style inflated and bombastic. In the first preface to the _Franciade_, he expresses a decided preference for the naïve facility of Homer over the artful diligence of Virgil.[389] In the second preface, however, written a dozen years later, and published posthumously as revised by his disciple Binet, there is interesting evidence, in the preëminence given to Virgil, of the rapidity with which the Latinization of culture was being effected at this period. "Our French authors," says Ronsard, "know Virgil far better than they know Homer or any other Greek writer." And again, "Virgil is the most excellent and the most rounded, the most compact and the most perfect of all poets."[390] Of the naïve facility of Homer we hear absolutely nothing. We are now beginning to enter the era of rules. Ronsard did not undervalue the "rules and secrets" of poetry; and Vauquelin de la Fresnaye calls his own critical poem _cet Art de Règles recherchées_.[391] In regard to the imitation of the classics, Vauquelin agrees heart and soul with the Pléiade that the ancients "nous ont desja tracé Un sentier qui de nous ne doit estre laissé."[392] Nothing, indeed, could be more classical than his comparison of poetry to a garden symmetrically laid out and trimmed.[393] Moreover, like the classicists of the next century, he affirms, as does Ronsard also, that art must fundamentally imitate and resemble nature.[394] The imitation of the classics had also a decided effect on the technique of French verse and on the linguistic principles of the Pléiade. Enjambement (the carrying over into another line of words required to complete the sense) and hiatus (the clash of vowels in a line) were both employed in Latin and Greek verse, and were therefore permitted in French poetry by the new school. Ronsard, however, anticipated the reforms of Malherbe and the practice of French classic verse, in forbidding both hiatus and enjambement, though in a later work of his this opinion is reversed. He was also probably the first to insist on the regular alternation of masculine and feminine rhymes in verse. This had never been strictly adhered to in practice, or required by stringent rule, before Ronsard, but has become the invariable usage of French poetry ever since. Ronsard regards this device as a means of making verse keep tune more harmoniously with the music of instruments. It was one of the favorite theories of the Pléiade that poetry is intended, not to be read, but to be recited or sung, and that the words and the notes should be coupled lovingly together. Poetry without an accompaniment of vocal or instrumental music exhibits but a small part of its harmony or perfection; and while composing verses, the poet should always pronounce them aloud, or rather sing them, in order to test their melody.[395] This conception of music "married to immortal verse" doubtless came from Italy, and is connected with the rise of operatic music. De Laudun (1598) differs from the members of the Pléiade in forbidding the use of words newly coined or taken from the dialects of France, and in objecting to the use of enjambement and hiatus. It is evident, therefore, that while the influence of the Pléiade is visible throughout De Laudun's treatise, his disagreement with Ronsard and Du Bellay on a considerable number of essential points shows that by the end of the century the supremacy of the Pléiade had begun to wane. The new school also attempted to introduce classical metres into French poetry. The similar attempt at using the ancient versification in Italy has already been incidentally referred to.[396] According to Vasari, Leon Battista Alberti, in his epistle, "Questa per estrema miserabile pistola mando," was the first to attempt to reduce the vernacular versification to the measure of the Latins.[397] In October, 1441, the _Scena dell' Amicizia_ of Leonardo Dati was composed and recited before the Accademia Coronaria at Florence.[398] The first two parts of this piece are written in hexameters, the third in Sapphics, the fourth in sonnet form and rhymed. The prologues of Ariosto's comedies, the _Negromante_ and the _Cassaria_, are also in classical metres. But the remarkable collection of Claudio Tolomei, _Versi e Regole de la Nuova Poesia Toscana_, published at Rome in 1539, marked an epoch in sixteenth-century letters. In this work the employment of classical metres in the vulgar tongue is defended, and rules for their use given; then follows a collection of Italian verse written after this fashion by a large number of scholars and poets, among them Annibal Caro and Tolomei himself. This group of scholars had formed itself into an esoteric circle, the Accademia della Nuova Poesia; and from the tone of the verses addressed to Tolomei by the members of this circle, it would seem that he regarded himself, and was regarded by them, as the founder and expositor of this poetic innovation.[399] Luigi Alamanni, whose life was chiefly spent at the Court of France, published in 1556 a comedy, _La Flora_, written in classical metres; and two years later Francesco Patrizzi published an heroic poem, the _Eridano_, written in hexameters, with a defence of the form of versification employed.[400] This learned innovation spread throughout western Europe.[401] In France, toward the close of the fifteenth century, according to Agrippa d'Aubigné, a certain Mousset had translated the _Iliad_ and the _Odyssey_ into French hexameters; but nothing else is known either of Mousset or of his translations. As early as 1500 one Michel de Bouteauville, the author of an _Art de métrifier françois_, wrote a poem in classical distichs on the English war. Sibilet (1548) accepted the use of classical metres, though with some distrust, for to him rhyme seemed as essential to French poetry as long and short syllables to Greek and Latin. In 1562 Ramus, in his _Grammar_, recommended the ancient versification, and expressed his regret that it had not been accepted with favor by the public. In the same year Jacques de la Taille wrote his treatise, _La Manière de faire des Vers en françois comme en grec et en latin_, but it was not published until 1573, eleven years after his death. His main object in writing the book was to show that it is not as difficult to employ quantity in French verse as some people think, nor even any more difficult than in Greek and Latin.[402] In answer to the objection that the vulgar tongues are by their nature incapable of quantity, he argues, after the manner of Du Bellay, that such things do not proceed from the nature of a language, but from the labor and diligence of those who employ it. He is tired of vulgar rhymes, and is anxious to find a more ingenious and more difficult path to Parnassus. He then proceeds to treat of quantity and measure in French, of feet and verse, and of figures and poetic license.[403] The name most inseparably connected with the introduction of classical metres into France in the sixteenth century is that of Jean Antoine de Baïf. This young member of the Pléiade, after publishing several unsuccessful volumes of verse, visited Italy, and was present at the Council of Trent in 1563. In Italy he doubtless learnt of the metrical innovations then being employed; and upon his return, without any apparent knowledge of Jacques de la Taille's as yet unpublished treatise, he set about to make a systematic reform in French versification. His purpose was to bring about a more perfect unison between poetry and music; and in order to accomplish this, he adopted classical metres, based as they were on a musical prosody, and accepted the phonetic reforms of Ramus. He also established, no doubt in imitation of the Accademia della Nuova Poesia, the Académie de Poésie et de Musique, authorized by letters patent from Charles IX. in November, 1570.[404] The purpose of this academy was to encourage and establish the metrical and musical innovations advocated by Baïf and his friends. On the death of Charles IX. the society's existence was menaced; but it was restored, with a broader purpose and function, as the Académie du Palais, by Guy du Faur de Pibrac in 1576, under the protection of Henry III., and it continued to nourish until dispersed by the turmoils of the League about 1585. But Baïf's innovations were not entirely without fruit. A similar movement, and a not dissimilar society, will be found somewhat later in Elizabethan England. II. _Romantic Elements_ Some of the romantic elements in the critical theory of the Pléiade have already been indicated. The new movement started, in Du Bellay's _Défense_, with a high conception of the poet's office. It emphasized the necessity, on the part of the poet, of profound and solitary study, of a refined and ascetic life, and of entire separation from vulgar people and pleasures. Du Bellay himself is romantic in that he decides against the _traditions de règles_,[405] deeming the good judgment of the poet sufficient in matters of taste; but the reason of this was that there were no rules which he would have been willing to accept. It took more than a century for the French mind to arrive at the conclusion that reason and rules, in matters of art, proceed from one and the same cause. The feeling for nature and for natural beauty is very marked in all the members of the Pléiade. Pelletier speaks of war, love, agriculture, and pastoral life as the chief themes of poetry.[406] He warns the poet to observe nature and life itself, and not depend on books alone; and he dwells on the value of descriptions of landscapes, tempests, and sunrises, and similar natural scenes.[407] The feeling for nature is even more intense in Ronsard; and like Pelletier, he urges the poet to describe in verse the rivers, forests, mountains, winds, the sea, gods and goddesses, sunrise, night, and noon.[408] In another place the poet is advised to embellish his work with accounts of trees, flowers, and herbs, especially those dignified by some medicinal or magical virtues, and with descriptions of rivers, towns, forests, mountains, caverns, rocks, harbors, and forts. Here the appreciation of natural beauty as introduced into modern Europe by the Italian Renaissance--the feeling for nature in its wider aspects, the broad landscape, the distant prospect--first becomes visible in France. "In the painting or rather imitation of nature," says Ronsard, "consists the very soul of heroic poetry." Ronsard also gives warning that ordinary speech is not to be banished from poetry, or too much evaded, for by doing so the poet is dealing a death-blow to "naïve and natural poetry."[409] This sympathy for the simple and popular forms of poetry as models for the poetic artist is characteristic of the Pléiade. There is a very interesting passage in Montaigne, in which the popular ballads of the peasantry are praised in a manner that recalls the famous words of Sir Philip Sidney concerning the old song of Percy and Douglas,[410] and which seems to anticipate the interest in popular poetry in England two centuries later:-- "Popular and purely natural and indigenous poetry has a certain native simplicity and grace by which it may be favorably compared with the principal beauty of perfect poetry composed according to the rules of art; as may be seen in the villanelles of Gascony, and in songs coming from nations that have no knowledge of any science, not even of writing. But mediocre poetry, which is neither perfect nor popular, is held in disdain by every one, and receives neither honor nor reward."[411] The Pléiade, as has already been intimated, accepted without reserve the Platonic doctrine of inspiration. By 1560 a considerable number of the Platonic dialogues had already been translated into French. Dolet had translated two of the spurious dialogues; Duval, the _Lysis_ in 1547; and Le Roy, the _Phædo_ in 1553 and the _Symposium_ in 1559. The thesis of Ramus in 1536 had started an anti-Aristotelian tendency in France, and the literature of the French Renaissance became impregnated with Platonism.[412] It received the royal favor of Marguerite de Navarre, and its influence became fixed in 1551, by the appointment of Ramus to a professorship in the Collège de France. Ronsard, Vauquelin, Du Bartas, all give expression to the Platonic theory of poetic inspiration. The poet must feel what he writes, as Horace says, or his reader will never be moved by his verses; and for the Pléiade, the excitement of high emotions in the reader or hearer was the test or touchstone of poetry.[413] The national and Christian points of view never found expression in France during the sixteenth century in so marked a manner as in Italy. There are, indeed, traces of both a national and a Christian criticism, but they are hardly more than sporadic. Thus, it has been seen that Sibilet, as early as 1548, had clearly perceived the distinguishing characteristic of the French genius. He had noted that the French have only taken from foreign literature what they have deemed useful and of national advantage; and only the other day a distinguished French critic asserted in like manner that the high importance of French literature consists in the fact that it has taken from the other literatures of Europe the things of universal interest and disregarded the accidental picturesque details. Distinct traces of a national point of view may be found in the dramatic criticism of this period. Thus Grévin, in his _Bref Discours_ (1562), attempts to justify the substitution of a crowd of Cæsar's soldiers for the singers of the ancient chorus, in one of his tragedies, on the following grounds:-- "If it be alleged that this practice was observed throughout antiquity by the Greeks and Latins, I reply that it is permitted to us to attempt some innovation of our own, especially when there is occasion for it, or when the grace of the poem is not diminished thereby. I know well that it will be answered that the ancients employed the chorus of singers to divert the audience, made gloomy perhaps by the cruelties represented in the play. To this I reply that diverse nations require diverse manners of doing things, and that among the French there are other means of doing this without interrupting the continuity of a story."[414] The Christian point of view, on the other hand, is found in Vauquelin de la Fresnaye, who differs from Ronsard and Du Bellay in his preference for scriptural themes in poetry. The Pléiade was essentially pagan, Vauquelin essentially Christian. The employment of the pagan divinities in modern poetry seemed to him often odious, for the times had changed, and the Muses were governed by different laws. The poet should attempt Christian themes; and indeed the Greeks themselves, had they been Christians, would have sung the life and death of Christ. In this passage Vauquelin is evidently following Minturno, as the latter was afterward followed by Corneille:-- "Si les Grecs, comme vous, Chrestiens eussent escrit, Ils eussent les hauts faits chanté de Iesus Christ.... Hé! quel plaisir seroit-ce à cette heure de voir Nos poëtes Chrestiens, les façons recevoir Du tragique ancien? Et voir à nos misteres Les Payens asservis sous les loix salutaires De nos Saints et Martyrs? et du vieux testament Voir une tragedie extraite proprement?"[415] Vauquelin's opinion here is out of keeping with the general theory of the Pléiade, especially in that his suggestions imply a return to the mediæval mystery and morality plays. The _Uranie_ of Du Bartas is another and more fervid expression of this same ideal of Christian poetry. In the _Semaines_, Du Bartas himself composed the typical biblical poem; and tragedies on Christian or scriptural subjects were composed during the French Renaissance from the time of Buchanan and Beza to that of Garnier and Montchrestien. But Vauquelin's ideal was not that of the later classicism; and Boileau, as has been seen, distinctly rejects Christian themes from modern poetry. Although the linguistic and prosodic theories of the Pléiade partly anticipate both the theory and the practice of later classicism, the members of the school exhibit numerous deviations from what was afterward accepted as inviolable law in French poetry. The most important of these deviations concerns the use of words from the various French dialects, from foreign tongues, and from the technical and mechanical arts. A partial expression of this theory of poetic language has already been seen in Du Bellay's _Défense et Illustration_, in which the poet is urged to use the more elegant technical dialectic terms. Ronsard gives very much the same advice. The best words in all the French dialects are to be employed by the poet; for it is doubtless to the number of the dialects of Greece that we may ascribe the supreme beauty of its language and literature. The poet is not to affect too much the language of the court, since it is often very bad, being the language of ladies and of young gentlemen who make a profession of fighting well rather than of speaking well.[416] Unlike Malherbe and his school, Ronsard allows a certain amount of poetic license, but only rarely and judiciously. It is to poetic license, he says, that we owe nearly all the beautiful figures with which poets, in their divine rapture, enfranchising the laws of grammar, have enriched their works. "This is that birthright," said Dryden, a century later, in the preface of his _State of Innocence and the Fall of Man_, "which is derived to us from our great forefathers, even from Homer down to Ben; and they who would deny it to us have, in plain terms, the fox's quarrel to the grapes--they cannot reach it." Vauquelin de la Fresnaye follows Ronsard and Du Bellay in urging the use of new and dialect words, the employment of terms and comparisons from the mechanic arts, and the various other doctrines by which the Pléiade is distinguished from the school of Malherbe. How these useless linguistic innovations were checked and banished from the French language forever will be briefly alluded to in the next chapter. FOOT-NOTES: [381] Brunetière, i. 45. [382] _Défense_, ii. 11. [383] _Cf._ Rucktäschel, p. 10 _sq._ [384] _Art Poét._ i. 3. [385] _Ibid._ i. 9. [386] _Ibid._ i. 10. [387] Ronsard, iii. 26 _sq._ [388] _Ibid._ vii. 323. [389] Ronsard, iii. 9 _sq._ [390] _Ibid._ iii. 23, 26. [391] _Art Poét._ iii. 1151. [392] _Ibid._ i. 61. [393] _Art Poét._ i. 22 _sq._ [394] _Ibid._ i. 813. _Cf._ Ronsard, ii. 12. [395] Ronsard, vii. 320, 332. [396] The early Italian poetry written in classical metres has been collected by Carducci, _La Poesia Barbara nei Secoli XV e XVI_, Bologna, 1881. [397] Carducci, p. 2. [398] _Ibid._ p. 6 _sq._ [399] Carducci, pp. 55, 87, etc. [400] _Ibid._ pp. 327, 443. _Cf._ Du Bellay, _Défense_, ii. 7. [401] For the history of classical metres in France, _cf._ Egger, _Hellénisme en France_, p. 290 _sq._, and Darmesteter and Hatzfeld, _Seizième Siècle en France_, p. 113 _sq._ [402] Estienne Pasquier, in his _Recherches de la France_, vii. 11, attempts to prove that the French language is capable of employing quantity in its verse, but does not decide whether quantity or rhymed verse is to be preferred. [403] _Cf._ Rucktäschel, p. 24 _sq._, and Carducci, p. 413 _sq._ [404] This academy has been made the subject of an excellent monograph by É. Fremy, _L'Académie des Derniers Valois_, Paris, n. d. The statutes of the academy will be found on page 39 of this work, and the letters-patent granted to it by Charles IX. on page 48. [405] _Défense_, ii. 11. [406] _Art Poét._ i. 3. [407] _Art Poét._ ii. 10; i. 9. [408] Ronsard, vii. 321, 324. [409] _Ibid._ iii. 17 _sq._ [410] Sidney, _Defence_, p. 29. [411] _Essais_, i. 54. [412] _Cf._ the _Revue d'Hist. litt. de la France_, 1896, iii. 1 _sq._ [413] Ronsard, iii. 28; Du Bellay, _Défense_, ii. 11. [414] Arnaud, app. ii. [415] Vauquelin, _Art Poét._ iii. 845; _cf._ iii. 33; i. 901. [416] Ronsard, vii. 322. CHAPTER IV THE FORMATION OF THE CLASSIC IDEAL IN THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY I. _The Romantic Revolt_ IT is a well-known fact that between 1600 and 1630 there was a break in the national evolution of French literature. This was especially so in the drama, and in France the drama is the connecting link between century and century. The dramatic works of the sixteenth century had been fashioned after the regular models borrowed by the Italians from Seneca. The change that came was a change from Italian classical to Spanish romantic models. The note of revolt was beginning to be heard in Grévin, De Laudun, and others. The seventeenth century opened with the production of Hardy's irregular drama, _Les Amours de Théagène et Cariclée_ (1601), and the influence of the Spanish romantic drama and the Italian pastoral, dominant for over a quarter of a century, was inaugurated in France. The logic of this innovation was best expounded in Spain, and it was there that arguments in favor of the romantic and irregular drama were first formulated. The two most interesting defences of the Spanish national drama are doubtless the _Egemplar Poético_ of Juan de la Cueva (1606) and Lope de Vega's _Arte Nuevo de Hacer Comedias_ (1609). Their inspiration is at bottom the same. Their authors were both classicists at heart, or rather classicists in theory, yet with differences. Juan de la Cueva's conception of poetry is entirely based on the precepts of the Italians, except in what regards the national drama, for here he is a partisan and a patriot. He insists that the difference of time and circumstance frees the Spanish playwright from all necessity of imitating the ancients or obeying their rules. "This change in the drama," he says, "was effected by wise men, who applied to new conditions the new things they found most suitable and expedient; for we must consider the various opinions, the times, and the manners, which make it necessary for us to change and vary our operations."[417] His theory of the drama was entirely opposed to his conception of the other forms of poetry. According to this standpoint, as a recent writer has put it, "the theatre was to imitate nature, and to please; poetry was to imitate the Italians, and satisfy the orthodox but minute critic."[418] Lope de Vega, writing three years later, does not deny the universal applicability of the Aristotelian canons, and even acknowledges that they are the only true rules. But the people demand romantic plays, and the people, rather than the poet's literary conscience, must be satisfied by the playwright. "I myself," he says, "write comedies according to the art invented by those whose sole object it is to obtain the applause of the crowd. After all, since it is the public who pays for these stupidities, why should we not serve what it wants?"[419] Perhaps the most interesting of all the expositions of the theory of the Spanish national drama is a defence of Lope de Vega's plays by one Alfonso Sanchez, published in 1618 in France, or possibly in Spain with a false French imprint. The apology of Sanchez is comprehended in six distinct propositions. First, the arts have their foundation in nature. Secondly, a wise and learned man may alter many things in the existing arts. Thirdly, nature does not obey laws, but gives them. Fourthly, Lope de Vega has done well in creating a new art. Fifthly, in his writings everything is adjusted to art, and that a real and living art. Lastly, Lope de Vega has surpassed all the ancient poets.[420] The following passage may be extracted from this treatise, if only to show how little there was of novelty in the tenets of the French romanticists two centuries later:-- "Is it said that we have no infallible art by which to adjust our precepts? But who can doubt it? We have art, we have precepts and rules which bind us, and the principal precept is to imitate nature, for the works of poets express the nature, the manners, and the genius of the age in which they write.... Lope de Vega writes in conformity with art, because he follows nature. If, on the contrary, the Spanish drama adjusted itself to the rules and laws of the ancients, it would proceed against the requirements of nature, and against the foundations of poetry.... The great Lope has done things over and above the laws of the ancients, but never against these laws." Another Spanish writer defines art as "an attentive observation of examples graded by experience, and reduced to method and the majesty of laws."[421] It was this naturalistic conception of the poetic art, and especially of the drama, that obtained in France during the first thirty years of the seventeenth century. The French playwrights imitated the Spanish drama in practice, and from the Spanish theorists seemed to have derived the critical justification of their plays. Hardy himself, like Lope de Vega, argues that "everything which is approved by usage and the public taste is legitimate and more than legitimate." Another writer of this time, François Ogier, in the preface of the second edition of Jean de Schelandre's remarkable drama of _Tyr et Sidon_ (1628), argues for intellectual independence of the ancients much in the same way as Giraldi Cintio, Pigna, and the other partisans of the _romanzi_ had done three-quarters of a century before. The taste of every nation, he says, is quite different from any other. "The Greeks wrote for the Greeks, and in the judgment of the best men of their time they succeeded. But we should imitate them very much better by giving heed to the tastes of our own country, and the genius of our own language, than by forcing ourselves to follow step by step both their intention and their expression." This would seem to be at bottom Goethe's famous statement that we can best imitate the Greeks by trying to be as great men as they were. It is interesting to note, in all of these early critics, traces of that historical criticism which is usually regarded as the discovery of our own century. But after all, the French like the Spanish playwrights were merely beginning to practise what the Italian dramatists in their prefaces, and some of the Italian critics in their treatises, had been preaching for nearly a century. The Abbé d'Aubignac speaks of Hardy as "arresting the progress of the French theatre"; and whatever practical improvements the French theatre owes to him, there can be little doubt that for a certain number of years the evolution of the classical drama was partly arrested by his efforts and the efforts of his school. But during this very period the foundations of the great literature that was to come were being built on classical lines; and the continuance of the classical tradition after 1630 was due to three distinct causes, each of which will be discussed by itself as briefly as possible. These three causes were the reaction against the Pléiade, the second influx of the critical ideas of the Italian Renaissance, and the influence of the rationalistic philosophy of the period. II. _The Reaction against the Pléiade_ The reaction against the Pléiade was effected, or at least begun, by Malherbe. Malherbe's power or message as a poet is of no concern here; in his rôle of grammarian and critic he accomplished certain important and widespread reforms in French poetry. These reforms were connected chiefly, if not entirely, with the external or formal side of poetry. His work was that of a grammarian, of a prosodist--in a word, that of a purist. He did not, indeed, during his lifetime, publish any critical work, or formulate any critical system. But the reforms he executed were on this account no less influential or enduring. His critical attitude is to be looked for in the memoirs of his life written by his disciple Racan, and in his own _Commentaire sur Desportes_, which was not published in its entirety until very recently.[422] This commentary consists of a series of manuscript notes written by Malherbe about the year 1606 in the margins of a copy of Desportes. These notes are of a most fragmentary kind; they seldom go beyond a word or two of disapproval, such as _faible_, _mal conçu_, _superflu_, _sans jugement_, _sottise_, or _mal imaginé_; and yet, together with a few detached utterances recorded in his letters and in the memoirs by Racan, they indicate quite clearly the critical attitude of Malherbe and the reforms he was bent on bringing about. These reforms were, in the first place, largely linguistic. The Pléiade had attempted to widen the sphere of poetic expression in French literature by the introduction of words from the classics, from the Italian and even the Spanish, from the provincial dialects, from the old romances, and from the terminology of the mechanic arts. All these archaisms, neologisms, Latinisms, compound words, and dialectic and technical expressions, Malherbe set about to eradicate from the French language. His object was to purify French, and, as it were, to centralize it. The test he set up was actual usage, and even this was narrowed down to the usage of the court. Ronsard had censured the exclusive use of courtly speech in poetry, on the ground that the courtier cares more about fighting well than about speaking or writing well. But Malherbe's ideal was the ideal of French classicism--the ideal of Boileau, Racine, and Bossuet. French was to be no longer a hodgepodge or a patois, but the pure and perfect speech of the king and his court. Malherbe, while thus reacting against the Pléiade, made no pretensions of returning to the linguistic usages of Marot; his test was present usage, his model the living language.[423] At the same time his reforms in language, as in other things, represent a reaction against foreign innovations and a return to the pure French idiom. They were in the interest of the national traditions; and it is this national element which is his share in the body of neo-classical theory and practice. His reforms were all in the direction of that verbal and mechanical perfection, the love of which is innate in the French nature, and which forms the indigenous or racial element in French classicism. He eliminated from French verse hiatus, enjambement, inversions, false and imperfect rhymes, and licenses or cacophonies of all kinds. He gave it, as has been said, mechanical perfection,-- "Et réduisit la Muse aux règles du devoir." For such a man--_tyran des mots et des syllabes_, as Balzac called him--the higher qualities of poetry could have little or no meaning. His ideals were propriety, clearness, regularity, and force. These, as Chapelain perceived at the time, are oratorical rather than purely poetic qualities; yet for these, all the true qualities that go to make up a great poet were to be sacrificed. Of imagination and poetic sensibility he takes no account whatsoever. After the verbal perfection of the verse, the logical unity of the poem was his chief interest. Logic and reason are without doubt important things, but they cannot exist in poetry to the exclusion of imagination. By eliminating inspiration, as it were, Malherbe excluded the possibility of lyrical production in France throughout the period of classicism. He hated poetic fictions, since for him, as for Boileau, only actual reality is beautiful. If he permitted the employment of mythological figures, it was because they are reasonable and universally intelligible symbols. The French mind is essentially rational and logical, and Malherbe reintroduced this native rationality into French poetry. He set up common sense as a poetic ideal, and made poetry intelligible to the average mind. The Pléiade had written for a learned literary coterie; Malherbe wrote for learned and unlearned alike. For the Pléiade, poetry had been a divine office, a matter of prophetic inspiration; for Malherbe, it was a trade, a craft, to be learnt like any other. Du Bellay had said that "it is a well-accepted fact, according to the most learned men, that natural talents without learning can accomplish more in poetry than learning without natural talents." Malherbe, it has been neatly said, would have upheld the contrary doctrine that "learning without natural talents can accomplish more than natural talents without learning."[424] After all, eloquence was Malherbe's ideal; and as the French are by nature an eloquent rather than a poetic people, he deserves the honor of having first shown them how to regain their true inheritance. In a word, he accomplished for classical poetry in France all that the national instinct, the _esprit gaulois_, could accomplish by itself. Consistent structural laws for the larger poetic forms he could not give; these France owes to Italy. Nor could he appreciate the high notion of abstract perfection, or the classical conception of an absolute standard of taste--that of several expressions or several ways of doing something, one way and only one is the right one; this France owes to rationalistic philosophy. Malherbe seems almost to be echoing Montaigne when he says in a letter to Balzac:-- "Do you not know that the diversity of opinions is as natural as the difference of men's faces, and that to wish that what pleases or displeases us should please or displease everybody is to pass the limits where it seems that God in His omnipotence has commanded us to stop?"[425] With this individualistic expression of the questions of opinion and taste, we have but to compare the following passage from La Bruyère to indicate how far Malherbe is still from the classic ideal:-- "There is a point of perfection in art, as of excellence or maturity in nature. He who is sensible of it and loves it has perfect taste; he who is not sensible of it and loves this or that else on either side of it has a faulty taste. There is then a good and a bad taste, and men dispute of tastes not without reason."[426] III. _The Second Influx of Italian Ideas_ The second influx of Italian critical ideas into France came through two channels. In the first place, the direct literary relations between Italy and France during this period were very marked. The influence of Marino, who lived for a long time at Paris and published a number of his works there, was not inconsiderable, especially upon the French concettists and _précieux_. Two Italian ladies founded and presided over the famous Hotel de Rambouillet,--Julie Savelli, Marquise de Pisani, and Catherine de Vivonne, Marquise de Rambouillet. It was partly to the influence of the Accademia della Crusca that the foundation of the French Academy was due. Chapelain and Ménage were both members of the Italian society, and submitted to it their different opinions on a verse of Petrarch. Like the Accademia della Crusca, the French Academy purposed the preparation of a great dictionary; and each began its existence by attacking a great work of literature, the _Gerusalemme Liberata_ in the case of the Italian society, Corneille's _Cid_ in the case of the French. The regency of Marie de Medici, the supremacy of Mazarin, and other political events, all conspired to bring Italy and France into the closest social and literary relationship. But the two individuals who first brought into French literature and naturalized the primal critical concepts of Italy were Chapelain and Balzac. Chapelain's private correspondence indicates how thorough was his acquaintance with the critical literature of Italy. "I have a particular affection for the Italian language," he wrote in 1639 to Balzac.[427] Of the _Cid_, he says that "in Italy it would be considered barbarous, and there is not an academy which would not banish it beyond the confines of its jurisdiction."[428] Speaking of the greatness of Ronsard, he says that his own opinion was in accord with that of "two great savants beyond the Alps, Speroni and Castelvetro";[429] and he had considerable correspondence with Balzac on the subject of the controversy between Caro and Castelvetro in the previous century. In a word, he knew and studied the critics and scholars of Italy, and was interested in discussing them. Balzac's interest, on the other hand, was rather toward Spanish literature; but he was the agent of the Cardinal de la Valette at Rome, and it was on his return to France that he published the first collection of his letters. The influence of both Chapelain and Balzac on French classicism was considerable. During the sixteenth century, literary criticism had been entirely in the hands of learned men. Chapelain and Balzac vulgarized the critical ideas of the Italian Renaissance, and made them popular, human, but inviolable. Balzac introduced into France the fine critical sense of the Italians; Chapelain introduced their formal rules, and imposed the three unities on French tragedy. Together they effected a humanizing of the classical ideal, even while subjecting it to rules. It was to the same Italian influences that France owed the large number of artificial epics that appeared during this period. About ten epics were published in the fifteen years between 1650 and 1665.[430] The Italians of the sixteenth century had formulated a fixed theory of the artificial epic; and the nations of western Europe rivalled one another in attempting to make practical use of this theory. It is to this that the large number of Spanish epics in the sixteenth century and of French epics in the seventeenth may be ascribed. Among the latter we may mention Scudéry's _Alaric_, Lemoyne's _Saint Louis_, Saint-Amant's _Moyse Sauvé_, and Chapelain's own epic, _La Pucelle_, awaited by the public for many years, and published only to be damned forever by Boileau. The prefaces of all these epics indicate clearly enough their indebtedness to the Italians. They were indeed scarcely more than attempts to put the rules and precepts of the Italian Renaissance into practice. "I then consulted the masters of this art," says Scudéry, in the preface of _Alaric_, "that is to say, Aristotle and Horace, and after them Macrobius, Scaliger, Tasso, Castelvetro, Piccolomini, Vida, Vossius, Robortelli, Riccoboni, Paolo Beni, Mambrun, and several others; and passing from theory to practice I reread very carefully the _Iliad_ and the _Odyssey_, the _Æneid_, the _Pharsalia_, the _Thebaid_, the _Orlando Furioso_, and the _Gerusalemme Liberata_, and many other epic poems in diverse languages." Similarly, Saint-Amant, in the preface of his _Moyse Sauvé_, says that he had rigorously observed "the unities of action and place, which are the principal requirements of the epic; and besides, by an entirely new method, I have restricted my subject not only within twenty-four hours, the limit of the dramatic poem, but almost within half of that time. This is more than even Aristotle, Horace, Scaliger, Castelvetro, Piccolomini, and all the other moderns have ever required." It is obvious that for these epic-makers the rules and precepts of the Italians were the final tests of heroic poetry. Similarly, the Abbé d'Aubignac, at the beginning of his _Pratique du Théâtre_, advises the dramatic poet to study, among other writers, "Aristotle, Horace, Castelvetro, Vida, Heinsius, Vossius, and Scaliger, of whom not a word should be lost." From the Italians also came the theory of poetry in general as held throughout the period of classicism, and expounded by the Abbé d'Aubignac, La Mesnardière, Corneille, Boileau, and numerous others; and it is hardly necessary to repeat that Rapin, tracing the history of criticism at the beginning of his _Réflexions sur la Poétique_, deals with scarcely any critics but the Italians. Besides the direct influence of the Italian critics, another influence contributed its share to the sum of critical ideas which French classicism owes to the Italian Renaissance. This was the tradition of Scaliger, carried on by the Dutch scholars Heinsius and Vossius. Daniel Heinsius was the pupil of Joseph Scaliger, the illustrious son of the author of the _Poetics_; and through Heinsius the dramatic theories of the elder Scaliger influenced classical tragedy in France. The treatise of Heinsius, _De Tragoediæ Constitutione_, published at Leyden in 1611, was called by Chapelain "the quintessence of Aristotle's _Poetics_"; and Chapelain called Heinsius himself "a prophet or sibyl in matters of criticism."[431] Annoted by Racine, cited as an infallible authority by Corneille, Heinsius's work exercised a marked influence on French tragedy by fixing upon it the laws of Scaliger; and later the works of Vossius coöperated with those of Heinsius in widening the sphere of the Italian influence. It is evident, therefore, that while French literature had already during the sixteenth century taken from the Italian Renaissance its respect for antiquity and its admiration for classical mythology, the seventeenth century owed to Italy its definitive conception of the theory of poetry, and especially certain rigid structural laws for tragedy and epic. It may be said without exaggeration that there is not an essential idea or precept in the works of Corneille and D'Aubignac on dramatic poetry, or of Le Bossu and Mambrun on epic poetry, that cannot be found in the critical writings of the Italian Renaissance. IV. _The Influence of Rationalistic Philosophy_ The influence of rationalistic philosophy on the general attitude of classicism manifested itself in what may be called the gradual rationalization of all that the Renaissance gave to France. The process thus effected is most definitely exhibited in the evolution of the rules which France owed to Italy. It has already been shown how the rules and precepts of the Italians had originally been based on authority alone, but had gradually obtained a general significance of their own, regardless of their ancient authority. Somewhat later, in England, the Aristotelian canons were defended by Ben Jonson on the ground that Aristotle understood the causes of things, and that what others had done by chance or custom, Aristotle did by reason alone.[432] By this time, then, the reasonableness of the Aristotelian canons was distinctly felt, although they were still regarded as having authoritativeness in themselves; and it was first in the French classicists of the seventeenth century that reason and the ancient rules were regarded as one and inseparable. Rationalism, indeed, is to be found at the very outset of the critical activity of the Renaissance; and Vida's words, already cited, "Semper nutu rationis eant res," represent in part the attitude of the Renaissance mind toward literature. But the "reason" of the earlier theorists was merely empirical and individualistic; it did not differ essentially from Horace's ideal of "good sense." In fact, rationalism and humanism, while existing together throughout the Renaissance, were never to any extent harmonized; and extreme rationalism generally took the form of an avowed antagonism to Aristotle. The complete rationalization of the laws of literature is first evident toward the middle of the seventeenth century. "The rules of the theatre," says the Abbé d'Aubignac, at the beginning of his _Pratique du Théâtre_, "are founded, not on authority, but on reason," and if they are called the rules of the ancients, it is simply "because the ancients have admirably practised them." Similarly, Corneille, in his discourse _Des Trois Unités_, says that the unity of time would be arbitrary and tyrannical if it were merely required by Aristotle's _Poetics_, but that its real prop is the natural reason; and Boileau sums up the final attitude of classicism in these words:-- "Aimez donc la _raison_; que toujours vos écrits Empruntent _d'elle seule_ et leur lustre et leur prix."[433] Here the rationalizing process is complete, and the actual requirements of authority become identical with the dictates of the reason. The rules expounded by Boileau, while for the most part the same as those enunciated by the Italians, are no longer mere rules. They are laws dictated by abstract and universal reason, and hence inevitable and infallible; they are not tyrannical or arbitrary, but imposed upon us by the very nature of the human mind. This is not merely, as we have said, the good nature and the good sense, in a word, the sweet reasonableness, of such a critic as Horace.[434] There is more than this in the classicists of the seventeenth century. Good sense becomes universalized, becomes, in fact, as has been said, not merely an empirical notion of good sense, but the abstract and universal reason itself. From this follows the absolute standard of taste at the bottom of classicism, as exemplified in the passage already cited from La Bruyère, and in such a line as this from Boileau:-- "La raison pour marcher n'a souvent qu'une voie."[435] This rationalization of the Renaissance rules of poetry was effected by contemporary philosophy; if not by the works and doctrines of Descartes himself, at least by the general tendency of the human mind at this period, of which these works and doctrines are the most perfect expressions. Boileau's _Art Poétique_ has been aptly called the _Discours de la Méthode_ of French poetry. So that while the contribution of Malherbe and his school to classicism lay in the insistence on clearness, propriety, and verbal and metrical perfection, and the contribution of the Italian Renaissance lay in the infusion of respect for classical antiquity and the imposition of a certain body of fixed rules, the contribution of contemporary philosophy lay in the rationalization or universalization of these rules, and in the imposition of an abstract and absolute standard of taste. But Cartesianism brought with it certain important limitations and deficiencies. Boileau himself is reported to have said that "the philosophy of Descartes has cut the throat of poetry;"[436] and there can be no doubt that this is the exaggerated expression of a certain inevitable truth. The excessive insistence on the reason brought with it a corresponding undervaluation of the imagination. The rational and rigidly scientific basis of Cartesianism was forced on classicism; and reality became its supreme object and its final test:-- "Rien n'est beau que le vrai." Reference has already been made to various disadvantages imposed on classicism by the very nature of its origin and growth; but the most vital of all these disadvantages was the influence of the Cartesian philosophy or philosophic temper. With the scientific basis thus imposed on literature, its only safeguard against extinction was the vast influence of a certain body of fixed rules, which literature dared not deviate from, and which it attempted to justify on the wider grounds of philosophy. These rules, then, the contribution of Italy, saved poetry in France from extinction during the classical period; and of this a remarkable confirmation is to be found in the fact that not until the rationalism of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries was superseded in France, did French literature rid itself of this body of Renaissance rules. Cartesianism, or at least the rationalistic spirit, humanized these rules, and imposed them on the rest of Europe. But though quintessentialized, they remained artificial, and circumscribed the workings of the French imagination for over a century. FOOT-NOTES: [417] Sedano, _Parnaso Español_, viii. 61. [418] Hannay, _Later Renaissance_, 1898, p. 39. [419] Menéndez y Pelayo, iii. 434. [420] _Ibid._ iii. 447 _sq._ [421] Menéndez y Pelayo, iii. 464. [422] The _Commentaire_ is printed entire in Lalanne's edition of Malherbe, Paris, 1862, vol. iv. The critical doctrine of Malherbe has been formulated by Brunot, _Doctrine de Malherbe_, pp. 105-236. [423] _Cf._ Horace, _Ars Poet._ 71, 72. [424] Brunot, p. 149. [425] _Oeuvres_, Lalanne's edition, iv. 91. [426] _Caractères_, "Des Ouvrages de l'Esprit." [427] _Lettres_, i. 413. The references are to the edition by Tamizey de Larroque, Paris, 1880-1883. [428] _Ibid._ i. 156. [429] _Ibid._ i. 631 _sq._ [430] These epics have been treated at length by Duchesne, _Histoire des Poèmes Épiques français du XVII Siècle_, Paris, 1870. [431] _Lettres_, i. 269, 424. On the theories of Heinsius, see Zerbst, _Ein Vorläufer Lessings in der Aristotelesinterpretation_, Jena, 1887. [432] _Discoveries_, p. 80. [433] _Art Poét._ i. 37. [434] _Cf._ Brunetière, _Études Critiques_, iv. 136; and Krantz, p. 93 _sq._ [435] _Art Poét._ i. 48. [436] Reported by J. B. Rousseau, in a letter to Brossette, July 21, 1715. PART THIRD _LITERARY CRITICISM IN ENGLAND_ LITERARY CRITICISM IN ENGLAND CHAPTER I THE EVOLUTION OF ENGLISH CRITICISM FROM ASCHAM TO MILTON LITERARY criticism in England during the Elizabethan age was neither so influential nor so rich and varied as the contemporary criticism of Italy and France. This fact might perhaps be thought insufficient to affect the interest or patriotism of English-speaking people, yet the most charming critical monument of this period, Sidney's _Defence of Poesy_, has been slightingly referred to by the latest historian of English poetry. Such interest and importance as Elizabethan criticism possesses must therefore be of an historical nature, and lies in two distinct directions. In the first place, the study of the literature of this period will show, not only that there was a more or less complete body of critical doctrine during the Renaissance, but also that Englishmen shared in this creation, or inheritance, of the Renaissance as truly as did their continental neighbors; and on the other hand this study may be said to possess an interest in itself, in so far as it will make the growth of classicism in England intelligible, and will indicate that the formation of the classic ideal had begun before the introduction of the French influence. In neither case, however, can early English criticism be considered wholly apart from the general body of Renaissance doctrine; and its study loses in importance and perspicuity according as it is kept distinct from the consideration of the critical literature of France, and especially of Italy. English criticism, during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, passed through five more or less distinct stages of development. The first stage, characterized by the purely rhetorical study of literature, may be said to begin with Leonard Coxe's _Arte or Crafte of Rhetoryke_, a hand-book for young students, compiled about 1524, chiefly from one of the rhetorical treatises of Melanchthon.[437] This was followed by Wilson's _Arte of Rhetorike_ (1553), which is more extensive and certainly more original than Coxe's manual, and which has been called by Warton "the first book or system of criticism in our language." But the most important figure of this period is Roger Ascham. The educational system expounded in his _Scholemaster_, written between 1563 and 1568, he owed largely to his friend, John Sturm, the Strasburg humanist, and to his teacher, Sir John Cheke, who had been Greek lecturer at the University of Padua; but for the critical portions of this work he seems directly indebted to the rhetorical treatises of the Italians.[438] Yet his obligations to the Italian humanists did not prevent the expression of his stern and unyielding antagonism to the romantic Italian spirit as it influenced the imaginative literature of his time. In studying early English literature it must always be kept in mind that the Italian Renaissance influenced the Elizabethan age in two different directions. The Italianization of English poetry had been effected, or at least begun, by the publication of Tottel's _Miscellany_ in 1557; on this, the creative side of English literature, the Italian influence was distinctly romantic. The influence of the Italian humanists, on the other hand, was directly opposed to this romantic spirit; even in their own country they had antagonized all that was not classical in tendency. Ascham, therefore, as a result of his humanistic training, became not only the first English man of letters, but also the first English classicist. The first stage of English criticism, then, was entirely given up to rhetorical study. It was at this time that English writers first attained the appreciation of form and style as distinguishing features of literature; and it was to this appreciation that the formation of an English prose style was due. This period may therefore be compared with the later stages of Italian humanism in the fifteenth century; and the later humanists were the masters and models of these early English rhetoricians. Gabriel Harvey, as a Ciceronian of the school of Bembo, was perhaps their last representative. The second stage of English criticism--a period of classification and especially of metrical studies--commences with Gascoigne's _Notes of Instruction concerning the making of Verse_,[439] published in 1575, and modelled apparently on Ronsard's _Abrégé de l'Art Poétique françois_ (1565). Besides this brief pamphlet, the first work on English versification, this stage also includes Puttenham's _Arte of English Poesie_, the first systematic classification of poetic forms and subjects, and of rhetorical figures; Bullokar's _Bref Grammar_, the first systematic treatise on English grammar; and Harvey's _Letters_ and Webbe's _Discourse of English Poetrie_, the first systematic attempts to introduce classical metres into English poetry. This period was characterized by the study and classification of the practical questions of language and versification; and in this labor it was coöperating with the very tendencies which Ascham had been attempting to counteract. The study of the verse-forms introduced into England from Italy helped materially to perfect the external side of English poetry; and a similar result was obtained by the crude attempts at quantitative verse suggested by the school of Tolomei. The Italian prosodists were thus, directly or indirectly, the masters of the English students of this era. The representative work of the third stage--the period of philosophical and apologetic criticism--is Sir Philip Sidney's _Defence of Poesy_, published posthumously in 1595, though probably written about 1583. Harington's _Apologie of Poetrie_, Daniel's _Defence of Ryme_, and a few others, are also contemporary treatises. These works, as their titles indicate, are all defences or apologies, and were called forth by the attacks of the Puritans on poetry, especially dramatic poetry, and the attacks of the classicists on English versification and rhyme. Required by the exigencies of the moment to defend poetry in general, these authors did not attempt to do so on local or temporary grounds, but set out to examine the fundamental grounds of criticism, and to formulate the basic principles of poetry. In this attempt they consciously or unconsciously sought aid from the critics of Italy, and thus commenced in England the influence of the Italian theory of poetry. How great was their indebtedness to the Italians the course of the present study will make somewhat clear; but it is certainly remarkable that this indebtedness has never been pointed out before. Speaking of Sidney's _Defence of Poesy_, one of the most distinguished English authorities on the Renaissance says: "Much as the Italians had recently written upon the theory of poetry, I do not remember any treatise which can be said to have supplied the material or suggested the method of this apology."[440] On the contrary, the doctrines discussed by Sidney had been receiving very similar treatment from the Italians for over half a century; and it can be said without exaggeration that there is not an essential principle in the _Defence of Poesy_ which cannot be traced back to some Italian treatise on the poetic art. The age of which Sidney is the chief representative is therefore the first period of the influence of Italian critics. The fourth stage of English criticism, of which Ben Jonson is, as it were, the presiding genius, occupies the first half of the seventeenth century. The period that preceded it was in general romantic in its tendencies; that of Jonson leaned toward a strict though never servile classicism. Sidney's contemporaries had studied the general theory of poetry, not for the purpose of enunciating rules or dogmas of criticism, but chiefly in order to defend the poetic art, and to understand its fundamental principles. The spirit of the age was the spirit, let us say, of Fracastoro; that of Jonson was, in a moderate form, the spirit of Scaliger or Castelvetro. With Jonson the study of the art of poetry became an inseparable guide to creation; and it is this element of self-conscious art, guided by the rules of criticism, which distinguishes him from his predecessors. The age which he represents is therefore the second period of the influence of Italian criticism; and the same influence also is to be seen in such critical poems as Suckling's _Session of the Poets_, and the _Great Assises holden in Parnassus_, ascribed to Wither, both of which may be traced back to the class of critical poetry of which Boccalini's _Ragguagli di Parnaso_ is the type.[441] The fifth period, which covers the second half of the seventeenth century, is characterized by the introduction of French influence, and begins with Davenant's letter to Hobbes, and Hobbes's answer, both prefixed to the epic of _Gondibert_ (1651). These letters, written while Davenant and Hobbes were at Paris, display many of the characteristic features of the new influence,--the rationalistic spirit, the stringent classicism, the restriction of art to the imitation of nature, with the further limitation of nature to the life of the city and the court, and the confinement of the imagination to what is called "wit." This specialized sense of the word "wit" is characteristic of the new age, of which Dryden, in part the disciple of Davenant, is the leading figure. The Elizabethans used the term in the general sense of the understanding,--wit, the mental faculty, as opposed to will, the faculty of volition. With the neo-classicists it was used sometimes to represent, in a limited sense, the imagination,[442] more often, however, to designate what we should call fancy,[443] or even mere propriety of poetic expression;[444] but whatever its particular use, it was always regarded as of the essence of poetic art. With the fifth stage of English criticism this essay is not concerned. The history of literary criticism in England will be traced no farther than 1650, when the influence of France was substituted for that of Italy. This section deals especially with the two great periods of Italian influence,--that of Sidney and that of Ben Jonson. These two men are the central figures, and their names, like those of Dryden, Pope, and Samuel Johnson, represent distinct and important epochs in the history of literary criticism. FOOT-NOTES: [437] _Cf._ _Mod. Lang. Notes_, 1898, xiii. 293. [438] _Cf._ Ascham, _Works_, ii. 174-191. [439] The _Reulis and Cautelis of Scottis Poesie_ by James VI. of Scotland is wholly based on Gascoigne's treatise. [440] J. A. Symonds, _Sir Philip Sidney_, p. 157. _Cf._ also, Sidney, _Defence_, Cook's introduction, p. xxvii. [441] _Cf._ Foffano, p. 173 _sq._ In Spain, Lope de Vega's _Laurel de Apolo_ and Cervantes' _Viage del Parnaso_ belong to the same class of poems. [442] _Cf._ Dryden, ded. epist. to the _Annus Mirabilis_. [443] Addison, _Spectator_, no. 62. [444] Dryden, preface to the _State of Innocence_. CHAPTER II THE GENERAL THEORY OF POETRY IN THE ELIZABETHAN AGE THOSE who have some acquaintance, however superficial, with the literary criticism of the Italian Renaissance will find an account of the Elizabethan theory of poetry a twice-told tale. In England, as in France, criticism during this period was of a more practical character than in Italy; but even for the technical questions discussed by the Elizabethans, some prototype, or at least some equivalent, may be found among the Italians. The first four stages of English criticism have therefore little novelty or original value; and their study is chiefly important as evidence of the gradual application of the ideas of the Renaissance to English literature. The writers of the first stage, as might be expected, concerned themselves but little with the theory of poetry, beyond repeating here and there the commonplaces they found in the Italian rhetoricians. Yet it is interesting to note that as early as 1553, Wilson, in the third book of his _Rhetoric_, gives expression to the allegorical conception of poetry which in Italy had held sway from the time of Petrarch and Boccaccio, and which, more than anything else, colored critical theory in Elizabethan England. The ancient poets, according to Wilson, did not spend their time inventing meaningless fables, but used the story merely as a framework for contents of ethical, philosophic, scientific, or historical import; the trials of Ulysses, for example, were intended to furnish a lively picture of man's misery in this life. The poets are, in fact, wise men, spiritual legislators, reformers, who have at heart the redressing of wrongs; and in accomplishing this end,--either because they fear to rebuke these wrongs openly, or because they doubt the expediency or efficacy of such frankness with ignorant people,--they hide their true meaning under the veil of pleasant fables. This theory of poetic art, one of the commonplaces of the age, may be described as the great legacy of the Middle Ages to Renaissance criticism. The writers of the second stage were, in many cases, too busy with questions of versification and other practical matters to find time for abstract theorizing on the art of poetry. A long period of rhetorical and metrical study had helped to formulate a rhetorical and technical conception of the poet's function, aptly exemplified in the sonnet describing the perfect poet prefixed to King James's brief treatise on Scotch poetry.[445] The marks of a perfect poet are there given as skilfulness in the rhetorical figures, quick wit, as shown in the use of apt and pithy words, and a good memory;--a merely external view of the poet's gifts, which takes no account of such essentials as imagination, sensibility, and knowledge of nature and human life. Webbe's _Discourse of English Poetrie_ (1586) gives expression to a conception of the object of poetry which is the logical consequence of the allegorical theory, and which was therefore almost universally accepted by Renaissance writers. The poet teaches by means of the allegorical truth hidden under the pleasing fables he invents; but his first object must be to make these fables really pleasing, or the reader is deterred at the outset from any acquaintance with the poet's works. Poetry is therefore a delightful form of instruction; it pleases and profits together; but first of all it must delight, "for the very sum and chiefest essence of poetry did always for the most part consist in delighting the readers or hearers."[446] The poet has the highest welfare of man at heart; and by his sweet allurements to virtue and effective caveats against vice, he gains his end, not roughly or tyrannically, but, as it were, with a loving authority.[447] From the very beginnings of human society poetry has been the means of civilizing men, of drawing them from barbarity to civility and virtue. If it be objected that this art--or rather, from the divine origin of its inspiration, this more than art--has ever been made the excuse for the enticing expression of obscenity and blasphemy, Webbe has three answers. In the first place, poetry is to be moralized, that is, to be read allegorically. The _Metamorphoses_ of Ovid, for example, will become, when so understood, a fount of ethical teaching; and Harington, a few years later, actually explains in detail the allegorical significance of the fourth book of that poem.[448] This was a well-established tradition, and indeed a favorite occupation, of the Middle Ages; and the _Ovide Moralisé_, a long poem by Chrétien Le Gouais, written about the beginning of the fourteenth century, and the equally long Ovidian commentary of Pierre Berçuire, are typical examples of this practice.[449] In the second place, the picture of vices to be found in poetry is intended, not to entice the reader to imitate them, but rather to deter sensible men from doing likewise by showing the misfortune that inevitably results from evil. Moreover, obscenity is in no way essentially connected with poetic art; it is to the abuse of poetry, and not to poetry itself, that we must lay all blame for this fault. A still higher conception of the poet's function is to be found in Puttenham's _Arte of English Poesie_ (1589). The author of this treatise informs us that he had lived at the courts of France, Italy, and Spain, and knew the languages of these and other lands; and the results of his travels and studies are sufficiently shown in his general theory of poetry. His conception of the poet is directly based on that of Scaliger. Poetry, in its highest form, is an art of "making," or creation; and in this sense the poet is a creator like God, and forms a world out of nothing. In another sense, poetry is an art of imitation, in that it presents a true and lively picture of everything set before it. In either case, it can attain perfection only by a divine instinct, or by a great excellence of nature, or by vast observation and experience of the world, or indeed by all these together; but whatever the source of its inspiration, it is ever worthy of study and praise, and its creators deserve preëminence and dignity above all other artificers, scientific or mechanical.[450] The poets were the first priests, prophets, and legislators of the world, the first philosophers, scientists, orators, historians, and musicians. They have been held in the highest esteem by the greatest men from the very first; and the nobility, antiquity, and universality of their art prove its preëminence and worth. With such a history and such a nature, it is sacrilege to debase poetry, or to employ it upon any unworthy subject or for ignoble purpose. Its chief themes should therefore be such as these: the honor and glory of the gods, the worthy deeds of noble princes and great warriors, the praise of virtue and the reproof of vice, instruction in moral doctrine or scientific knowledge, and finally, "the common solace of mankind in all the travails and cares of this transitory life," or even for mere recreation alone.[451] This is the sum of poetic theorizing during the second stage of English criticism. Yet it was at this very time that the third, or apologetic, period was prepared for by the attacks which the Puritans directed against poetry, and especially the drama. Of these attacks, Gosson's, as the most celebrated, may be taken as the type. Underlying the rant and exaggerated vituperation of his _Schoole of Abuse_ (1579), there is a basis of right principles, and some evidence at least of a spirit not wholly vulgar. He was a moral reformer, an idealist, who looked back with regret toward "the old discipline of England," and contrasted it with the spirit of his own day, when Englishmen seemed to have "robbed Greece of gluttony, Italy of wantonness, Spain of pride, France of deceit, and Dutchland of quaffing."[452] The typical evidences of this moral degradation and effeminacy he found in poetry and the drama; and it is to this motive that his bitter assault on both must be ascribed. He specifically insists that his intention was not to banish poetry, or to condemn music, or to forbid harmless recreation to mankind, but merely to chastise the abuse of all these.[453] He praises plays which possess real moral purpose and effect, and points out the true use and the worthy subjects of poetry much in the same manner as Puttenham does a few years later.[454] But he affirms, as Plato had done hundreds of years before, and as a distinguished French critic has done only the other day, that art contains within itself the germ of its own disintegration; and he shows that in the English poetry of his own time this disintegration had already taken place. The delights and ornaments of verse, intended really to make moral doctrine more pleasing and less abstruse and thorny, had become, with his contemporaries, mere alluring disguises for obscenity and blasphemy. In the first of the replies to Gosson, Lodge's _Defence of Poetry, Musick, and Stage Plays_, written before either of the treatises of Webbe and Puttenham, are found the old principles of allegorical and moral interpretation,--principles which to us may seem well worn, but which to the English criticism of that time were novel enough. Lodge points out the efficacy of poetry as a civilizing factor in primitive times, and as a moral agency ever since. If the poets have on occasion erred, so have the philosophers, even Plato himself, and grievously.[455] Poetry is a heavenly gift, and is to be contemned only when abused and debased. Lodge did not perceive that his point of view was substantially the same as his opponent's; and indeed, throughout the Elizabethan age, there was this similarity in the point of view of those who attacked and those who defended poetry. Both sides admitted that not poetry, but its abuse, is to be disparaged; and they differed chiefly in that one side insisted almost entirely on the ideal perfection of the poetic art, while the other laid stress on the debased state into which it had fallen. A dual point of view was attempted in a work, licensed in January, 1600, which pretended to be "a commendation of true poetry, and a discommendation of all bawdy, ribald, and paganized poets."[456] This Puritan movement against the paganization of poetry corresponds to the similar movement started by the Council of Trent in Catholic countries. The theory of poetry during the second stage of English criticism was in the main Horatian, with such additions and modifications as the early Renaissance had derived from the Middle Ages. The Aristotelian canons had not yet become a part of English criticism. Webbe alludes to Aristotle's dictum that Empedocles, having naught but metre in common with Homer, was in reality a natural philosopher rather than a poet;[457] but all such allusions to Aristotle's _Poetics_ were merely incidental and sporadic. The introduction of Aristotelianism into England was the direct result of the influence of the Italian critics; and the agent in bringing this new influence into English letters was Sir Philip Sidney. His _Defence of Poesy_ is a veritable epitome of the literary criticism of the Italian Renaissance; and so thoroughly is it imbued with this spirit, that no other work, Italian, French, or English, can be said to give so complete and so noble a conception of the temper and the principles of Renaissance criticism. For the general theory of poetry, its sources were the critical treatises of Minturno[458] and Scaliger.[459] Yet without any decided novelty of ideas, or even of expression, it can lay claim to distinct originality in its unity of feeling, its ideal and noble temper, and its adaptation to circumstance. Its eloquence and dignity will hardly appear in a mere analysis, which pretends to give only the more important and fundamental of its principles; but such a summary--and this is quite as important--will at least indicate the extent of its indebtedness to Italian criticism. In all that relates to the antiquity, universality, and preëminence of poetry, Sidney apparently follows Minturno. Poetry, as the first light-giver to ignorance, flourished before any other art or science. The first philosophers and historians were poets; and such supreme works as the _Psalms_ of David and the _Dialogues_ of Plato are in reality poetical. Among the Greeks and the Romans, the poet was regarded as a sage or prophet; and no nation, however primitive or barbarous, has been without poets, or has failed to receive delight and instruction from poetry.[460] But before proceeding to defend an art so ancient and universal, it is necessary to define it; and the definition which Sidney gives agrees substantially with what might be designated Renaissance Aristotelianism. "Poetry," says Sidney,[461] "is an art of imitation, for so Aristotle termeth it in his word [Greek: mimêsis], that is to say, a representing, counterfeiting, or figuring forth; to speak metaphorically, a speaking picture,[462] with this end,--to teach and delight."[463] Poetry is, accordingly, an art of imitation, and not merely the art of versifying; for although most poets have seen fit to apparel their poetic inventions in verse, verse is but the raiment and ornament of poetry, and not one of its causes or essentials.[464] "One may be a poet without versing," says Sidney, "and a versifier without poetry."[465] Speech and reason are the distinguishing features between man and brute; and whatever helps to perfect and polish speech deserves high commendation. Besides its mnemonic value, verse is the most fitting raiment of poetry because it is most dignified and compact, not colloquial and slipshod. But with all its merits, it is not an essential of poetry, of which the true test is this,--feigning notable images of vices and virtues, and teaching delightfully. In regard to the object, or function, of poetry, Sidney is at one with Scaliger. The aim of poetry is accomplished by teaching most delightfully a notable morality; or, in a word, by delightful instruction.[466] Not instruction alone, or delight alone, as Horace had said, but instruction made delightful; and it is this dual function which serves not only as the end but as the very test of poetry. The object of all arts and sciences is to lift human life to the highest altitudes of perfection; and in this respect they are all servants of the sovereign, or architectonic, science, whose end is well-doing and not well-knowing only.[467] Virtuous action is therefore the end of all learning;[468] and Sidney sets out to prove that the poet, more than any one else, conduces to this end. This is the beginning of the apologetic side of Sidney's argument. The ancient controversy--ancient even in Plato's days--between poetry and philosophy is once more reopened; and the question is the one so often debated by the Italians,--shall the palm be given to the poet, to the philosopher, or to the historian? The gist of Sidney's argument is that while the philosopher teaches by precept alone, and the historian by example alone, the poet conduces most to virtue because he employs both precept and example. The philosopher teaches virtue by showing what virtue is and what vice is, by setting down, in thorny argument, and without clarity or beauty of style, the bare rule.[469] The historian teaches virtue by showing the experience of past ages; but, being tied down to what actually happened, that is, to the particular truth of things and not to general reason, the example he depicts draws no necessary consequence. The poet alone accomplishes this dual task. What the philosopher says should be done is by the poet pictured most perfectly in some one by whom it has been done, thus coupling the general notion with the particular instance. The philosopher, moreover, teaches the learned only; the poet teaches all, and is, in Plutarch's phrase, "the right popular philosopher,"[470] for he seems only to promise delight, and moves men to virtue unawares. But even if the philosopher excel the poet in teaching, he cannot move his readers as the poet can, and this is of higher importance than teaching; for what is the use of teaching virtue if the pupil is not moved to act and accomplish what he is taught?[471] On the other hand, the historian deals with particular instances, with vices and virtues so commingled that the reader can find no pattern to imitate. The poet makes history reasonable; he gives perfect examples of vices and virtues for human imitation; he makes virtue succeed and vice fail, as history can but seldom do. Poetry, therefore, conduces to virtue, the end of all learning, better than any other art or science, and so deserves the palm as the highest and the noblest form of human wisdom.[472] The basis of Sidney's distinction between the poet and the historian is the famous passage in which Aristotle explains why poetry is more philosophic and of more serious value than history.[473] The poet deals, not with the particular, but with the universal,--with what might or should be, not with what is or has been. But Sidney, in the assertion of this principle, follows Minturno[474] and Scaliger,[475] and goes farther than Aristotle would probably have gone. All arts have the works of nature as their principal object, and follow nature as actors follow the lines of their play. Only the poet is not tied to such subjects, but creates another nature better than ever nature itself brought forth. For, going hand in hand with nature, and being enclosed not within her limits, but only by the zodiac of his own imagination, he creates a golden world for nature's brazen; and in this sense he may be compared as a creator with God.[476] Where shall you find in life such a friend as Pylades, such a hero as Orlando, such an excellent man as Æneas? Sidney then proceeds to answer the various objections that have been made against poetry. These objections, partly following Gosson and Cornelius Agrippa,[477] and partly his own inclinations, he reduces to four.[478] In the first place, it is objected that a man might spend his time more profitably than by reading the figments of poets. But since teaching virtue is the real aim of all learning, and since poetry has been shown to accomplish this better than all other arts or sciences, this objection is easily answered. In the second place, poetry has been called the mother of lies; but Sidney shows that it is less likely to misstate facts than other sciences, for the poet does not publish his figments as facts, and, since he affirms nothing, cannot ever be said to lie.[479] Thirdly, poetry has been called the nurse of abuse, that is to say, poetry misuses and debases the mind of man by turning it to wantonness and by making it unmartial and effeminate. But Sidney argues that it is man's wit that abuses poetry, and not poetry that abuses man's wit; and as to making men effeminate, this charge applies to all other sciences more than to poetry, which in its description of battles and praise of valiant men notably stirs courage and enthusiasm. Lastly, it is pointed out by the enemies of poetry that Plato, one of the greatest of philosophers, banished poets from his ideal commonwealth. But Plato's _Dialogues_ are in reality themselves a form of poetry; and it argues ingratitude in the most poetical of philosophers, that he should defile the fountain which was his source.[480] Yet though Sidney perceives how fundamental are Plato's objections to poetry, he is inclined to believe that it was rather against the abuse of poetry by the contemporary Greek poets that Plato was chiefly cavilling; for poets are praised in the _Ion_, and the greatest men of every age have been patrons and lovers of poetry. In the dozen years or so which elapsed between the composition and the publication of the _Defence of Poesy_, during which time it seems to have circulated in manuscript, a number of critical works appeared, and the indebtedness of several of them to Sidney's book is considerable. This is especially so of the _Apologie of Poetrie_ which Sir John Harington prefixed to his translation of the _Orlando Furioso_ in 1591. This brief treatise includes an apology for poetry in general, for the _Orlando Furioso_ in particular, and also for his own translation. The first section, which alone concerns us here, is almost entirely based on the _Defence of Poesy_. The distinguishing features of poetry are imitation, or fiction, and verse.[481] Harington disclaims all intention of discussing whether writers of fiction and dialogue in prose, such as Plato and Xenophon, are poets or not, or whether Lucan, though writing in verse, is to be regarded as an historiographer rather than as a poet;[482] so that his argument is confined to the element of imitation, or fiction. He treats poetry rather as a propædeutic to theology and moral philosophy than as one of the fine arts. All human learning may be regarded by the orthodox Christian as vain and superfluous; but poetry is one of the most effective aids to the higher learning of God's divinity, and poets themselves are really popular philosophers and popular divines. Harington then takes up, one by one, the four specific charges of Cornelius Agrippa, that poetry is a nurse of lies, a pleaser of fools, a breeder of dangerous errors, and an enticer to wantonness; and answers them after the manner of Sidney. He differs from Sidney, however, in laying particular stress on the allegorical interpretation of imaginative literature. This element is minimized in the _Defence of Poesy_; but Harington accepts, and discusses in detail, the mediæval conception of the three meanings of poetry, the literal, the moral, and the allegorical.[483] The death-knell of this mode of interpreting literature was sounded by Bacon, who, while not asserting that all the fables of poets are but meaningless fictions, declared without hesitation that the fable had been more often written first and the exposition devised afterward, than the moral first conceived and the fable merely framed to give expression to it.[484] This passage occurs in the second book of the _Advancement of Learning_ (1605), where Bacon has briefly stated his theory of poetry. His point of view does not differ essentially from that of Sidney, though the expression is more compact and logical. The human understanding, according to Bacon, includes the three faculties of memory, imagination, and reason, and each of these faculties finds typical expression in one of the three great branches of learning, memory in history, reason in philosophy, and imagination in poetry.[485] The imagination, not being tied to the laws of matter, may join what nature has severed and sever what nature has joined; and poetry, therefore, while restrained in the measure of words, is in all things else extremely licensed. It may be defined as feigned history, and in so far as its form is concerned, may be either in prose or in verse. Its source is to be found in the dissatisfaction of the human mind with the actual world; and its purpose is to satisfy man's natural longing for more perfect greatness, goodness, and variety than can be found in the nature of things. Poetry therefore invents actions and incidents greater and more heroic than those of nature, and hence conduces to magnanimity; it invents actions more agreeable to the merits of virtue and vice, more just in retribution, more in accordance with revealed providence, and hence conduces to morality; it invents actions more varied and unexpected, and hence conduces to delectation. "And therefore it was ever thought to have some participation of divineness, because it doth raise the mind, by submitting the shows of things to the desires of the mind; whereas reason doth buckle and bow the mind unto the nature of things."[486] For the expression of affections, passions, corruptions, and customs, the world is more indebted to poets than to the works of philosophers, and for wit and eloquence no less than to orators and their orations. It is for these reasons that in rude times, when all other learning was excluded, poetry alone found access and admiration. This is pure idealism of a romantic type; but in his remarks on allegory Bacon was foreshadowing the development of classicism, for from the time of Ben Jonson the allegorical mode of interpreting poetry ceased to have any effect on literary criticism. The reason for this is obvious. The allegorical critics regarded the plot, or fable,--to use a simile so often found in Renaissance criticism--as a mere sweet and pleasant covering for the wholesome but bitter pill of moral doctrine. The neo-classicists, limiting the sense and application of Aristotle's definition of poetry as an imitation of life, regarded the fable as the medium of this imitation, and the more perfect according as it became more truly and more minutely an image of human life. In criticism, therefore, the growth of classicism is more or less coextensive with the growth of the conception of the fable, or plot, as an end in itself. This vaguely defines the change which comes over the spirit of criticism about the beginning of the seventeenth century, and which is exemplified in the writings of Ben Jonson. His definition of poetry does not differ substantially from that of Sidney, but seems more directly Aristotelian:-- "A poet, _poeta_, is ... a maker, or feigner; his art, an art of imitation or feigning; expressing the life of men in fit measure, numbers, and harmony; according to Aristotle from the word [Greek: poiein], which signifies to make or feign. Hence he is called a poet, not he which writeth in measure only, but that feigneth and formeth a fable, and writes things like the truth; for the fable and fiction is, as it were, the form and soul of any poetical work or poem."[487] Poetry and painting agree in that both are arts of imitation, both accommodate all they invent to the use and service of nature, and both have as their common object profit and pleasure; but poetry is a higher form of art than painting, since it appeals to the understanding, while painting appeals primarily to the senses.[488] Jonson's conception of his art is thus essentially noble; of all arts it ranks highest in dignity and ethical importance. It contains all that is best in philosophy, divinity, and the science of politics, and leads and persuades men to virtue with a ravishing delight, while the others but threaten and compel.[489] It therefore offers to mankind a certain rule and pattern of living well and happily in human society. This conception of poetry Jonson finds in Aristotle;[490] but it is to the Italians of the Renaissance, and not to the Stagyrite, that these doctrines really belong. Jonson ascribes to the poet himself a dignity no less than that of his craft. Mere excellence in style or versification does not make a poet, but rather the exact knowledge of vices and virtues, with ability to make the latter loved and the former hated;[491] and this is so far true, that to be a good poet it is necessary, first of all, to be a really good man.[492] A similar doctrine has already been found in many critical writers of the sixteenth century; but perhaps the noblest expression of this conception of the poet's consecrated character and office occurs in the original quarto edition of Jonson's _Every Man in his Humour_, in which the "reverend name" of poet is thus exalted:-- "I can refell opinion, and approve The state of poesy, such as it is, Blessed, eternal, and most true divine: Indeed, if you will look on poesy, As she appears in many, poor and lame, Patched up in remnants and old worn-out rags, Half-starved for want of her peculiar food, Sacred invention; then I must confirm Both your conceit and censure of her merit: But view her in her glorious ornaments, Attired in the majesty of art, Set high in spirit with the precious taste Of sweet philosophy; and, which is most, Crowned with the rich traditions of a soul, That hates to have her dignity prophaned With any relish of an earthly thought, Oh then how proud a presence doth she bear! Then is she like herself, fit to be seen Of none but grave and consecrated eyes."[493] Milton also gives expression to this consecrated conception of the poet. Poetry is a gift granted by God only to a few in every nation;[494] but he who would partake of the gift of eloquence must first of all be virtuous.[495] It is impossible for any one to write well of laudable things without being himself a true poem, without having in himself the experience and practice of all that is praiseworthy.[496] Poets are the champions of liberty and the "strenuous enemies of despotism";[497] and they have power to imbreed and cherish in a people the seeds of virtue and public civility, to set the affections in right tune, and to allay the perturbations of the mind.[498] Poetry, which at its best is "simple, sensuous, and passionate," describes everything that passes through the brain of man,--all that is holy and sublime in religion, all that in virtue is amiable and grave. Thus by means of delight and the force of example, those who would otherwise flee from virtue are taught to love her. FOOT-NOTES: [445] Haslewood, ii. 103. [446] Haslewood, ii. 28. [447] _Ibid._ ii. 42. [448] Haslewood, ii. 128. [449] _Hist. Litt. de la France_, xxix. 502-525. [450] Puttenham, p. 19 _sq._ [451] _Ibid._ p. 39. [452] Gosson, p. 34. [453] _Ibid._ p. 65. [454] _Ibid._ pp. 25, 40. [455] Lodge, _Defence_ (_Shakespeare Soc. Publ._), p. 6. [456] Arber, _Transcript of the Stat. Reg._, iii. 154. [457] Haslewood, ii. 28. [458] Sidney's acquaintance with Minturno is proved beyond doubt, even were such proof necessary, by the list of poets (_Defence_, pp. 2, 3) which he has copied from Minturno's _De Poeta_, pp. 14, 15. [459] Scaliger's _Poetics_ is specifically mentioned and cited by Sidney four or five times; but these citations are far from exhausting his indebtedness to Scaliger. [460] _Defence_, p. 2 _sq._; _cf._ Minturno, _De Poeta_, pp. 9, 13. [461] _Defence_, p. 9. [462] This ancient phrase had become, as has been seen, a commonplace during the Renaissance. _Cf._, _e.g._, Dolce, _Osservationi_, 1560, p. 189; Vauquelin, _Art Poét._ i. 226; Camoens, _Lusiad._ vii. 76. [463] Sidney's classification of poets, _Defence_, p. 9, is borrowed from Scaliger, _Poet._ i. 3. [464] _Defence_, p. 11. _Cf._ Castelvetro, _Poetica_, pp. 23, 190. [465] _Defence_, p. 33. _Cf._ Ronsard, _Oeuvres_, iii. 19, vii. 310; and Shelley, _Defence of Poetry_, p. 9: "The distinction between poets and prose writers is a vulgar error." [466] _Defence_, pp. 47, 51. _Cf._ Scaliger, _Poet._ i. 1, and vii. i. 2: "Poetæ finem esse, docere cum delectatione." [467] Aristotle, _Ethics_, i. 1; Cicero, _De Offic._ i. 7. [468] This was the usual attitude of the humanists; _cf._ Woodward, p. 182 _sq._ [469] _Cf._ Daniello, p. 19; Minturno, _De Poeta_, p. 39. [470] _Defence_, p. 18. [471] _Ibid._ p. 22. _Cf._ Minturno, _De Poeta_, p. 106; Varchi, _Lezzioni_, p. 576. [472] That is, the highest form of _human_ wisdom, for Sidney, as a Christian philosopher, naturally leaves revealed religion out of the discussion. [473] _Poet._ ix. 1-4. [474] _De Poeta_, p. 87 _sq._ [475] _Poet._ i. 1. [476] _Defence_, pp. 7, 8. [477] _De Van. et Incert. Scient._ cap. v. [478] _Defence_, p. 34 _sq._ [479] _Cf._ Boccaccio, _Gen. degli Dei_, p. 257 _sq._; and Haslewood, ii. 127. [480] _Defence_, pp. 3, 41; _cf._ Daniello, p. 22. [481] Haslewood, ii. 129. [482] _Ibid._ ii. 123. [483] Haslewood, ii. 127. [484] Bacon, _Works_, vi. 204-206. [485] _Cf._ _Anglia_, 1899, xxi. 273. [486] _Works_, vi. 203. [487] _Discoveries_, p. 73. Jonson's distinction between poet (_poeta_), poem (_poema_), and poesy (_poesis_), was derived from Scaliger or Maggi. [488] _Discoveries_, p. 49. [489] _Ibid._ p. 34. [490] _Ibid._ p. 74. [491] _Ibid._ p. 34. [492] _Works_, i. 333. [493] _Works_, i. 59, _n._ [494] Milton, _Prose Works_, ii. 479. [495] _Ibid._ iii. 100. [496] _Ibid._ iii. 118. [497] _Prose Works_, i. 241. [498] _Ibid._ ii. 479. CHAPTER III THE THEORY OF DRAMATIC AND HEROIC POETRY DRAMATIC criticism in England began with Sir Philip Sidney. Casual references to the drama can be found in critical writings anterior to the _Defence of Poesy_; but to Sidney belongs the credit of having first formulated, in a more or less systematic manner, the general principles of dramatic art. These principles, it need hardly be said, are those which, for half a century or more, had been undergoing discussion and modification in Italy and France, and of which the ultimate source was the _Poetics_ of Aristotle. Dramatic criticism in England was thus, from its very birth, both Aristotelian and classical, and it remained so for two centuries. The beginnings of the Elizabethan drama were almost contemporary with the composition of the _Defence of Poesy_, and the decay of the drama with Jonson's _Discoveries_. Yet throughout this period the romantic drama never received literary exposition. The great Spanish drama had its critical champions and defenders, the Elizabethan drama had none. It was, perhaps, found to be a simpler task to echo the doctrines of others, than to formulate the principles of a novel dramatic form. But the true explanation has already been suggested. The sources of the dramatic criticism were the writings of the Italian critics, and these were entirely classical. In creative literature, however, the Italian Renaissance influenced the Elizabethans almost entirely on the romantic side. This, perhaps, suffices to explain the lack of fundamental coördination between dramatic theory and dramatic practice during the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries. Ascham, writing twenty years before Sidney, indicated "Aristotle's precepts and Euripides' example" as the criteria of dramatic art;[499] and in spirit these remained the final tests throughout the Elizabethan age. I. _Tragedy_ In Webbe's _Discourse of English Poetrie_ we find those general distinctions between tragedy and comedy which had been common throughout the Middle Ages from the days of the post-classic grammarians. Tragedies express sorrowful and lamentable histories, dealing with gods and goddesses, kings and queens, and men of high estate, and representing miserable calamities, which become worse and worse until they end in the most woful plight that can be devised. Comedies, on the other hand, begin doubtfully, become troubled for a while, but always, by some lucky chance, end with the joy and appeasement of all concerned.[500] This distinction is said to be derived from imitation of the _Iliad_ and the _Odyssey_; and in this, as well in his fanciful account of the origins of the drama, Webbe seems to have had a vague recollection of Aristotle. Puttenham's account of dramatic development is scarcely more Aristotelian;[501] yet in its general conclusions it agrees with those in the _Poetics_. His conception of tragedy and comedy is similar to Webbe's. Comedy expresses the common behavior and manner of life of private persons, and such as are of the meaner sort of men.[502] Tragedy deals with the doleful falls of unfortunate and afflicted princes, for the purpose of reminding men of the mutability of fortune, and of God's just punishment of a vicious life.[503] The Senecan drama and the Aristotelian precepts were the sources of Sidney's theory of tragedy. The oratorical and sententious tragedies of Seneca had influenced dramatic theory and practice throughout Europe from the very outset of the Renaissance. Ascham, indeed, preferred Sophocles and Euripides to Seneca, and cited Pigna, the rival of Giraldi Cintio, in confirmation of his opinion;[504] but this, while an indication of Ascham's own good taste, is an exceptional verdict, and in direct opposition to the usual opinion of contemporary critics. Sidney, in his account of the English drama, could find but one tragedy modelled as it should be on the Senecan drama.[505] The tragedy of _Gorboduc_, however, has one defect that provokes Sidney's censure,--it does not observe the unities of time and place. In all other respects, it is an ideal model for English playwrights to imitate. Its stately speeches and well-sounding phrases approach almost to the height of Seneca's style; and in teaching most delightfully a notable morality, it attains the very end of poetry. The ideal tragedy--and in this Sidney closely follows the Italians--is an imitation of a noble action, in the representation of which it stirs "admiration and commiseration,"[506] and teaches the uncertainty of the world and the weak foundations upon which golden roofs are built. It makes kings fear to be tyrants, and tyrants manifest their tyrannical humors. Sidney's censure of the contemporary drama is that it outrages the grave and weighty character of tragedy, its elevated style, and the dignity of the personages represented, by mingling kings and clowns, and introducing the most inappropriate buffoonery. There are, indeed, one or two examples of tragi-comedy in ancient literature, such as Plautus's _Amphitryon_;[507] but never do the ancients, like the English, match hornpipes and funerals.[508] The English dramas are neither true comedies nor true tragedies, and disregard both the rules of poetry and honest civility. Tragedy is not tied to the laws of history, and may arrange and modify events as it pleases; but it is certainly bound by the rules of poetry. It is evident, therefore, that the _Defence of Poesy_, as a French writer has observed, "gives us an almost complete theory of neo-classic tragedy, a hundred years before the _Art Poétique_ of Boileau: the severe separation of poetic forms, the sustained dignity of language, the unities, the _tirade_, the _récit_, nothing is lacking."[509] Ben Jonson pays more attention to the theory of comedy than to that of tragedy; but his conception of the latter does not differ from Sidney's. The parts, or divisions, of comedy and tragedy are the same, and both have on the whole a common end, to teach and delight; so that comic as well as tragic poets were called by the Greeks [Greek: didaskaloi].[510] The external conditions of the drama require that it should have the equal division into acts and scenes, the true number of actors, the chorus, and the unities.[511] But Jonson does not insist on the strict observance of these formal requirements, for the history of the drama shows that each successive poet of importance has gradually and materially altered the dramatic structure, and there is no reason why the modern poet may not do likewise. Moreover, while these requirements may have been regularly observed in the ancient state and splendor of dramatic poetry, it is impossible to retain them now and preserve any measure of popular delight. The outward forms of the ancients, therefore, may in part be disregarded; but there are certain essentials which must be observed by the tragic poet in whatsoever age he may flourish. These are, "Truth of argument, dignity of persons, gravity and height of elocution, fulness and frequency of sentence."[512] In other words, Jonson's model is the oratorical and sententious tragedy of Seneca, with its historical plots and its persons of high estate. In the address, "Of that Sort of Dramatic Poem which is called Tragedy," prefixed to _Samson Agonistes_, Milton has minutely adhered to the Italian theory of tragedy. After referring to the ancient dignity and moral effect of tragedy,[513] Milton acknowledges that, in the modelling of his poem, he has followed the ancients and the Italians as of greatest authority in such matters. He has avoided the introduction of trivial and vulgar persons and the intermingling of comic and tragic elements; he has used the chorus, and has observed the laws of verisimilitude and decorum. His explanation of the peculiar effect of tragedy--the purgation of pity and fear--has already been referred to in the first section of this essay.[514] II. _Comedy_ The Elizabethan theory of comedy was based on the body of rules and observations which the Italian critics, aided by a few hints from Aristotle, had deduced from the practice of Plautus and Terence. It will, therefore, be unnecessary to dwell at any great length on the doctrines of Sidney and Ben Jonson, who are the main comic theorists of this period. Sidney defines comedy as "an imitation of the common errors of our life," which are represented in the most ridiculous and scornful manner, so that the spectator is anxious to avoid such errors himself. Comedy, therefore, shows the "filthiness of evil," but only in "our private and domestical matters."[515] It should aim at being wholly delightful, just as tragedy should be maintained by a well-raised admiration. Delight is thus the first requirement of comedy; but the English comic writers err in thinking that delight cannot be obtained without laughter, whereas laughter is neither an essential cause nor an essential effect of delight. Sidney then distinguishes delight from laughter almost exactly after the manner of Trissino.[516] The great fault of English comedy is that it stirs laughter concerning things that are sinful, _i.e._ execrable rather than merely ridiculous--forbidden plainly, according to Sidney, by Aristotle himself--and concerning things that are miserable, and rather to be pitied than scorned. Comedy should not only produce delightful laughter, but mixed with it that delightful teaching which is the end of all poetry. Ben Jonson, like Sidney, makes human follies or errors the themes of comedy, which should be "an image of the times, And sport with human follies, not with crimes, Except we make them such, by loving still Our popular errors, when we know they're ill; I mean such errors as you'll all confess By laughing at them, they deserve no less."[517] In depicting these human follies, it is the office of the comic poet to imitate justice, to improve the moral life and purify language, and to stir up gentle affections.[518] The moving of mere laughter is not always the end of comedy; in fact, Jonson interprets Aristotle as asserting that the moving of laughter is a fault in comedy, a kind of turpitude that depraves a part of man's nature.[519] This conclusion is based on an interpretation of Aristotle which has persisted almost to the present day. In the _Poetics_, [Greek: to geloion], the ludicrous, is said to be the subject of comedy;[520] and many critics have thought that Aristotle intended by this to distinguish between the risible and the ridiculous, between mere laughter and laughter mixed with contempt or disapprobation.[521] The nature and the source of one of the most important elements in Jonson's theory of comedy, his doctrine of "humours," have been briefly discussed in the first section of this essay. It will suffice here to define a "humour" as an absorbing singularity of character,[522] and to note that it grew out of the conception of _decorum_ which played so important a part in poetic theory during the Italian Renaissance. III. _The Dramatic Unities_ Before leaving the theory of the drama, there is one further point to be discussed,--the doctrine of the unities. It has been seen that the unities of time and place were, in Italy, first formulated together by Castelvetro in 1570, and in France by Jean de la Taille in 1572. The first mention of the unities in England is to be found, a dozen years later, in the _Defence of Poesy_, and it cannot be doubted that Sidney derived them directly from Castelvetro. Sidney, in discussing the tragedy of _Gorboduc_, finds it "faulty in time and place, the two necessary companions of all corporal actions; for where the stage should always represent but one place, and the uttermost time presupposed in it should be, both by Aristotle's precept and common reason, but one day, there [_i.e._ in _Gorboduc_] is both many days and many places inartificially imagined."[523] He also objects to the confusions of the English stage, where on one side Africa and on the other Asia may be represented, and where in an hour a youth may grow from boyhood to old age.[524] How absurd this is, common sense, art, and ancient examples ought to teach the English playwright; and at this day, says Sidney, the ordinary players in Italy will not err in it. If indeed it be objected that one or two of the comedies of Plautus and Terence do not observe the unity of time, let us not follow them when they err but when they are right; it is no excuse for us to do wrong because Plautus on one occasion has done likewise. The law of the unities does not receive such rigid application in England as is given by Sidney until the introduction of the French influence nearly three quarters of a century later. Ben Jonson is considerably less stringent in this respect than Sidney. He lays particular stress on the unity of action, and in the _Discoveries_ explains at length the Aristotelian conception of the unity and magnitude of the fable. "The fable is called the imitation of one entire and perfect action, whose parts are so joined and knit together, as nothing in the structure can be changed, or taken away, without impairing or troubling the whole, of which there is a proportionable magnitude in the members."[525] Simplicity, then, should be one of the chief characteristics of the action, and nothing receives so much of Jonson's censure as "monstrous and forced action."[526] As to the unity of time, Jonson says that the action should be allowed to grow until necessity demands a conclusion; the argument, however, should not exceed the compass of one day, but should be large enough to allow place for digressions and episodes, which are to the fable what furniture is to a house.[527] Jonson does not formally require the observance of the unity of place, and even acknowledges having disregarded it in his own plays; but he does not favor much change of scene on the stage. In the prologue of _Volpone_, he boasts that he has followed all the laws of refined comedy, "As best critics have designed; The laws of time, place, persons he observeth, From no needful rule he swerveth." Milton observes the unity of time in the _Samson Agonistes_: "The circumscription of time, wherein the whole drama begins and ends is, according to ancient rule and best example, within the space of twenty-four hours." With the introduction of the French influence, the unities became fixed requirements of the English drama, and remained so for over a century. Sir Robert Howard, in the preface of his tragedy, _The Duke of Lerma_, impugned their force and authority; but Dryden, in answering him, pointed out that to attack the unities is really to contend against Aristotle, Horace, Ben Jonson, and Corneille.[528] Farquhar, however, in his _Discourse upon Comedy_ (1702), argued with force and wit against the unities of time and place, and scoffed at all the legislators of Parnassus, ancient and modern,--Aristotle, Horace, Scaliger, Vossius, Heinsius, D'Aubignac, and Rapin. IV. _Epic Poetry_ The Elizabethan theory of heroic poetry may be dismissed briefly. Webbe refers to the epic as "that princely part of poetry, wherein are displayed the noble acts and valiant exploits of puissant captains, expert soldiers, wise men, with the famous reports of ancient times;"[529] and Puttenham defines heroic poems as "long histories of the noble gests of kings and great princes, intermeddling the dealings of gods, demi-gods, and heroes, and weighty consequences of peace and war."[530] The importance of this form of poetry, according to Puttenham, is largely historical, in that it sets forth an example of the valor and virtue of our forefathers.[531] Sidney is scarcely more explicit.[532] He asserts that heroic poetry is the best and noblest of all forms; he shows that such characters as Achilles, Æneas, and Rinaldo are shining examples for all men's imitation; but of the nature or structure of the epic he says nothing. The second part of Harington's _Apologie of Poetrie_ is given up to a defence of the _Orlando Furioso_, and here the Aristotelian theory of the epic appears for the first time in English criticism. Harington, taking the _Æneid_ as the approved model of all heroic poetry, first shows that Ariosto has followed closely in Virgil's footsteps, but is to be preferred even to Virgil in that the latter pays reverence to false deities, while Ariosto has the advantage of the Christian spirit. But since some critics, "reducing all heroical poems unto the method of Homer and certain precepts of Aristotle," insist that Ariosto is wanting in art, Harington sets out to prove that the _Orlando Furioso_ may not only be defended by the example of Homer, but that it has even followed very strictly the rules and precepts of Aristotle.[533] In the first place, Aristotle says that the epic should be based on some historical action, only a short part of which, in point of time, should be treated by the poet; so Ariosto takes the story of Charlemagne, and does not exceed a year or so in the compass of the argument.[534] Secondly, Aristotle holds that nothing that is utterly incredible should be invented by the poet; and nothing in the _Orlando_ exceeds the possibility of belief. Thirdly, epics, as well as tragedies, should be full of [Greek: peripeteia], which Harington interprets to mean "an agnition of some unlooked for fortune either good or bad, and a sudden change thereof"; and of this, as well as of apt similitudes and passions well expressed, the _Orlando_ is really full. In conclusion, it may be observed that epic poetry did not receive adequate critical treatment in England until after the introduction of the French influence. The rules and theories of the Italian Renaissance, restated in the writings of Le Bossu, Mambrun, Rapin, and Vossius, were thus brought into English criticism, and found perhaps their best expression in Addison's essays on _Paradise Lost_. Such epics as Davenant's _Gondibert_, Chamberlayne's _Pharonnida_, Dryden's _Annus Mirabilis_, and Blackmore's _Prince Arthur_, like the French epics of the same period, doubtless owed their inspiration to the desire to put into practice the classical rules of heroic poetry.[535] FOOT-NOTES: [499] _Scholemaster_, p. 139. [500] Haslewood, ii. 40. [501] Puttenham, p. 47 _sq._ [502] _Ibid._ p. 41. [503] _Ibid._ p. 49. [504] Ascham, _Works_, ii. 189. [505] _Defence_, p. 47 _sq._ [506] _Defence_, p. 28. This is the Elizabethan equivalent for Aristotle's _katharsis_ of "pity and terror." [507] _Cf._ Scaliger, _Poet._ i. 7. [508] _Defence_, p. 50. [509] Breitinger, p. 37. [510] _Discoveries_, p. 81. [511] _Works_, i. 69. [512] _Works_, i. 272. [513] _Cf._ Bacon, _De Augm. Scient._ iii. 13; and Ascham, _Scholemaster_, p. 130. [514] He seems also to allude to the theory of _katharsis_ in the _Reason of Church Government_; _Prose Works_, ii. 479. [515] _Defence_, p. 28. [516] _Ibid._ p. 50 _sq._ _Cf._ Trissino, _Opere_, ii. 127 _sq._; and Cicero, _De Orat._ ii. 58 _sq._ [517] _Works_, i. 2. [518] _Ibid._ i. 335. [519] _Discoveries_, p. 82. [520] _Poet._ v. 1. [521] _Cf._ Twining, i. 320 _sq._, and Kames, _Elements of Criticism_, vol. i. chap. 7. [522] _Cf._ Jonson, _Works_, i. 67 and 31. [523] _Defence_, p. 48; _cf._ Castelvetro, _Poetica_, pp. 168, 534. [524] _Cf._ Whetstone, _Promos and Cassandra_ (1578), cited in Ward, _Dram. Lit._ i. 118; also, Jonson, _Works_, i. 2, 70; Cervantes, _Don Quix._ i. 48; Boileau, _Art Poét._ iii. 39. In the theory of the drama, Sidney's point of view coincides very closely with that of Cervantes. [525] _Discoveries_, p. 83. [526] _Works_, i. 337. [527] _Discoveries_, p. 85. [528] _Essay of Dram. Poesy_, p. 118. [529] Haslewood, ii. 45. [530] Puttenham, p. 40. [531] _Ibid._ p. 54. [532] _Defence_, p. 30. [533] Haslewood, ii. 140 _sq._ [534] _Cf._ Minturno, _Arte Poetica_, p. 71; and Ronsard, _Oeuvres_, iii. 19. [535] _Cf._ Dryden, _Discourse on Satire_, in _Works_, xiii. 37. CHAPTER IV CLASSICAL ELEMENTS IN ELIZABETHAN CRITICISM I. _Introductory: Romantic Elements_ IT were no less than supererogation to adduce evidences of the romantic spirit of the age of Shakespeare. No period in English literature is more distinctly romantic; and although in England criticism is less affected by creative literature, and has had less effect upon it, than in France, it is only natural to suppose that Elizabethan criticism should be as distinctly romantic as the works of imagination of which it is presumably an exposition. As early as Wilson's _Rhetoric_ we find evidences of that independence of spirit in questions of art which seems typical of the Elizabethan age; and none of the writers of this period exhibits anything like the predisposition of the French mind to submit instinctively to any rule, or set of rules, which bears the stamp of authority. From the outset the element of nationality colors English criticism, and this is especially noticeable in the linguistic discussions of the age. At the very time when Sidney was writing the _Defence of Poesy_, Spenser's old teacher, Mulcaster, wrote: "I love Rome, but London better; I favor Italy, but England more; I honor the Latin, but I worship the English."[536] It is this spirit which pervades what may be called the chief expression of the romantic temper in Elizabethan criticism,--Daniel's _Defence of Rhyme_ (1603), written in answer to Campion's attack on rhyme in the _Observations in the Art of English Poesy_. The central argument of Daniel's defence is that the use of rhyme is sanctioned both by custom and by nature--"custom that is before all law, nature that is above all art."[537] He rebels against that conception which would limit "Within a little plot of Grecian ground The sole of mortal things that can avail;" and he shows that each age has its own perfections and its own usages. This attempt at historical criticism leads him into a defence of the Middle Ages; and he does not hesitate to assert that even classical verse had its imperfections and deficiencies. In the minutiæ of metrical criticism, also, he is in opposition to the neo-classic tendencies of the next age; and his favorable opinion of _enjambement_ and his unfavorable comments on the heroic couplet[538] drew from Ben Jonson an answer, never published, in which the latter attempted to prove that the couplet is the best form of English verse, and that all other forms are forced and detestable.[539] II. _Classical Metres_ Daniel's _Defence of Rhyme_ may be said to have dealt a death-blow to a movement which for over half a century had been a subject of controversy among English men of letters. In reading the critical works of this period, it is impossible not to notice the remarkable amount of attention paid by the Elizabethans to the question of classical metres in the vernacular. The first organized attempt to introduce the classical versification into a modern language was, as Daniel himself points out,[540] that of Claudio Tolomei in 1539. The movement then passed into France; and classical metres were adopted by Baïf in practice, and defended by Jacques de la Taille in theory. In England the first recorded attempt at the use of quantity in the vernacular was that of Thomas Watson, from whose unpublished translation of the _Odyssey_ in the metre of the original Ascham has cited a single distich:-- "All travellers do gladly report great prayse of Ulysses, For that he knew many mens maners, and saw many cities."[541] This was probably written between 1540 and 1550; toward the close of the preceding century, we are told, a certain Mousset had already translated the _Iliad_ and the _Odyssey_ into French hexameters. Ascham was the first critical champion of the use of quantity in English verse.[542] Rhyme, he says, was introduced by the Goths and Huns at a time when poetry and learning had ceased to exist in Europe; and Englishmen must choose either to imitate these barbarians or to follow the perfect Grecians. He acknowledges that the monosyllabic character of the English language renders the use of the dactyl very difficult, for the hexameter "doth rather trot and hobble than run smoothly in our English tongue;" but he argues that English will receive the _carmen iambicum_ as naturally as Greek or Latin. He praises Surrey's blank verse rendering of the fourth book of the _Æneid_, but regrets that, in disregarding quantity, it falls short of the "perfect and true versifying." An attempt to put Ascham's theories into practice was made by Thomas Blenerhasset in 1577; but the verse of his _Complaynt of Cadwallader_, though purporting to be "a new kind of poetry," is merely an unrhymed Alexandrine.[543] In 1580, however, five letters which had passed between Spenser and Gabriel Harvey appeared in print as _Three proper, and wittie, familiar Letters_ and _Two other very commendable Letters_; and from this correspondence we learn that an organized movement to introduce classical metres into English had been started. It would seem that for several years Harvey had been advocating the use of quantitative verse to several of his friends; but the organized movement to which reference has just been made seems to have been started independently by Thomas Drant, who died in 1578. Drant had devised a set of rules and precepts for English classical verse; and these rules, with certain additions and modifications, were adopted by a coterie of scholars and courtiers, among them being Sidney, Dyer, Greville, and Spenser, who thereupon formed a society, the Areopagus,[544] independent of Harvey, but corresponding with him regularly. This society appears to have been modelled on Baïf's Académie de Poésie et de Musique, which had been founded in 1570 for a similar purpose, and which Sidney doubtless became acquainted with when at Paris in 1572. From the correspondence published in 1580, it becomes evident that Harvey's and Drant's systems of versification were almost antipodal. According to Drant's system, the quantity of English words was to be regulated entirely by the laws of Latin prosody,--by position, diphthong, and the like. Thus, for example, the penult of the word _carpenter_ was regarded as long by Drant because followed by two consonants. Harvey, who was unacquainted with Drant's rules before apprised of them by Spenser in the published letters, follows a more normal and logical system. To him, accent alone is the best of quantity, and the law of position cannot make the penult of _carpenter_ or _majesty_ long. "The Latin is no rule for us," says Harvey;[545] and often where position and diphthong fall together, as in the penult of _merchaundise_, we must pronounce the syllable short. In all such matters, the use, custom, propriety, or majesty of our speech must be accounted the only infallible and sovereign rule of rules. It was not, then, Harvey's purpose to Latinize our tongue. His intention was apparently twofold,--to abolish rhyme, and to introduce new metres into English poetry. Only a few years before, Gascoigne had lamented that English verse had only one form of metre, the iambic.[546] Harvey, in observing merely the English accent, can scarcely be said to have introduced quantity into our verse, but was simply adapting new metres, such as dactyls, trochees, and spondees, to the requirements of English poetry. Drant's and Harvey's rules therefore constitute two opposing systems. According to the former, English verse is to be regulated by Latin prosody regardless of accent; according to the latter, by accent regardless of Latin prosody. By neither system can quantity be successfully attempted in English; and a distinguished classical scholar of our own day has indicated what is perhaps the only method by which this can be accomplished.[547] This method may be described as the harmonious observance of both accent and position; all accented syllables being generally accounted long, and no syllable which violates the Latin law of position being used when a short syllable is required by the scansion. These three systems, with more or less variation, have been employed throughout English literature. Drant's system is followed in the quantitative verse of Sidney and Spenser; Harvey's method is that employed by Longfellow in _Evangeline_; and Tennyson's beautiful classical experiments are practical illustrations of the method of Professor Robinson Ellis. In 1582, Richard Stanyhurst published at Leyden a translation of the first four books of the _Æneid_ into English hexameters. From Ascham he seems to have derived his inspiration, and from Harvey his metrical system. Like Harvey he refuses to be bound by the laws of Latin prosody,[548] and follows the English accent as much as possible. But in one respect his translation is unique. Harvey, in his correspondence with Spenser, had suggested that the use of quantitative verse in English necessitated the adoption of a certain uniformity in spelling; and the curious orthography of Stanyhurst was apparently intended as a serious attempt at phonetic reform. Spelling reform had been agitated in France for some time; and in Baïf's _Etrennes de Poésie françoise_ (1574), we find French quantitative verse written according to the phonetic system of Ramus. Webbe's _Discourse of English Poetrie_ is really a plea in favor of quantitative verse. His system is based primarily on Latin prosody, but reconciled with English usage. The Latin rules are to be followed when the English and Latin words agree; but no word is to be used that notoriously impugns the laws of Latin prosody, and the spelling of English words should, when possible, be altered to conform to the ancient rules. The difficulty of observing the law of position in the middle of English words may be obviated by change in spelling, as in the word _mournfully_, which should be spelled _mournfuly_; but where this is impossible, the law of position is to be observed, despite the English accent, as in _royalty_. Unlike Ascham, Webbe regards the hexameter as the easiest of all classical metres to use in English.[549] Puttenham is not averse to the use of classical metres, but as a conservative he considers all sudden innovations dangerous.[550] The system he adopts is not unlike Harvey's. Sidney's original enthusiasm for quantitative verse soon abated; and in the _Defence of Poesy_ he points out that although the ancient versification is better suited to musical accompaniment than the modern, both systems cause delight, and are therefore equally effective and valuable; and English is more fitted than any other language to use both.[551] Campion, like Ascham, regards English polysyllables as too heavy to be used as dactyls; so that only trochaic and iambic verse can be suitably employed in English poetry.[552] He suggests eight new forms of verse. The English accent is to be diligently observed, and is to yield to nothing save the law of position; hence the second syllable of _Trumpington_ is to be accounted long.[553] In observing the law of position, however, the sound, and not the spelling, is to be the test of quantity; thus, _love-sick_ is pronounced _love-sik_, _dangerous_ is pronounced _dangerus_, and the like.[554] III. _Other Evidences of Classicism_ With Campion's _Observations_ (1602) the history of classical metres in England may be said to close, until the resuscitation of quantitative verse in the present century. Daniel's _Defence of Rhyme_ effectually put an end to this innovation; but the strong hold which the movement seems to have had during the Elizabethan age is interesting evidence of the classical tendencies of the period. Ben Jonson has usually been regarded as the forerunner of neo-classicism in England; but long before his influence was felt, classical tendencies may be observed in English criticism. Thus Ascham's conservatism and aversion to singularity in matters of art are distinctly classical. "He that can neither like Aristotle in logic and philosophy, nor Tully in rhetoric and eloquence," says Ascham, "will from these steps likely enough presume by like pride to mount higher to the misliking of graver matters; that is, either in religion to have a dissentious head, or in the commonwealth to have a factious heart."[555] His insistence that it is no slavery to be bound by the laws of art, and the stress he lays on perfection of style, are no less classical.[556] Similar tendencies may be observed in the writers that follow Ascham. Harvey's strictures on the _Faerie Queene_ were inspired by two influences. As a humanist, he looked back with contempt on mediæval literature in general, its superstitions, its fairy lore, and the like. As a classicist in art, he preferred the regular, or classic, form of the epic to the romantic, or irregular form; and his strictures may be compared in this respect with those of Bembo on the _Orlando_ or those of Salviati on the _Gerusalemme_. So Harington attempts to make the _Orlando_ chime with the laws of Aristotle, and Sidney attempts to force these laws on the English drama. So also Sidney declares that genius, without "art, imitation, and exercise," is as nothing, and censures his contemporaries for neglecting "artificial rules and imitative patterns."[557] So Webbe attempts to find a fixed standard or criterion by which to judge good and bad poets, and translates Fabricius's summary of the rules of Horace as a guide for English poetry.[558] English criticism, therefore, may be said to exhibit classical tendencies from its very beginning. But it is none the less true that before Ben Jonson there was no systematic attempt to force, as it were, the classic ideal on English literature. In Spain, as has been seen, Juan de la Cueva declared that poetry should be classical and imitative, while the drama should be romantic and original. Sidney, on the contrary, sought to make the drama classical, while allowing freedom of imagination and originality of form to the non-dramatic poet. Ben Jonson was the first complete and consistent English classicist; and his classicism differs from that of the succeeding age rather in degree than in kind. Bacon's assertion that poetry is restrained in the measure of words, but in all other points extremely licensed,[559] is characteristic of the Elizabethan point of view. The early critics allowed extreme license in the choice and treatment of material, while insisting on strict regularity of expression. Thus Sidney may advocate the use of classical metres, but this does not prevent him from celebrating the freedom of genius and the soaring heights of the imagination. There is nothing of these things in Ben Jonson. He, too, celebrates the nobility and power of poetry, and the dignity of the poet's office; but nowhere does he speak of the freedom of the imagination or the force of genius. Literature for him was not an expression of personality, not a creation of the imagination, but an image of life, a picture of the world. In other words, he effected what may be called an objectification of the literary ideal. In the second place, this image of life can be created only by conscious effort on the part of the artist. For the creation of great poetry, genius, exercise, imitation, and study are all necessary, but to these art must be added to make them perfect, for only art can lead to perfection.[560] It is this insistence on art as a distinct element, almost as an end in itself, that distinguishes Jonson from his predecessors; and nowhere is his ideal of art expressed as pithily as in the address to the reader prefixed to the _Alchemist_ (1612):-- "In Poetry, especially in Plays, ... the concupiscence of dances and of antics so reigneth, as to run away from nature, and be afraid of her, is the only point of art that tickles the spectators. But how out of purpose, and place, do I name art? When the professors are grown so obstinate contemners of it, and presumers on their own naturals, as they are deriders of all diligence that way, and, by simple mocking at the terms, when they understand not the things, think to get off wittily with their ignorance. Nay, they are esteemed the more learned, and sufficient for this, by the many, through their excellent vice of judgment. For they commend writers as they do fencers or wrestlers; who, if they come in robustiously, and put for it with a great deal of violence, are received for the braver fellows; when many times their own rudeness is the cause of their disgrace, and a little touch of their adversary gives all that boisterous force the foil. I deny not but that these men, who always seek to do more than enough, may some time happen on some thing that is good and great; but very seldom; and when it comes it doth not recompense the rest of their ill.... But I give thee warning, that there is a great difference between those that, to gain the opinion of copy [_i.e._ copiousness], utter all they can, however unfitly; and those that use election and a mean[561] [_i.e._ selection and moderation]. For it is only the disease of the unskilful to think rude things greater than polished; or scattered more numerous than composed."[562] Literature, then, aims at presenting an image of life through the medium of art; and the guide to art, according to Jonson, is to be found in the rules of criticism. Thus, for example, success in comedy is to be attained "By observation of those comic laws Which I, your master, first did teach the age;"[563] and elsewhere, it will be remembered, Jonson boasts that he had swerved from no "needful law." But though art can find a never-failing guide and monitor in the rules of criticism, he does not believe in mere servile adherence to the practice or theory of classical literature. The ancients are to be regarded as guides, not commanders.[564] In short, the English mind was not yet prepared to accept the neo-classic ideal in all its consequences; and absolute subservience to ancient authority came only with the introduction of the French influence. This is, perhaps, best indicated by the history of Aristotle's influence in English criticism from Ascham to Milton. The first reference to the _Poetics_ in England is to be found in Ascham's _Scholemaster_.[565] There we are told that Ascham, Cheke, and Watson had many pleasant talks together at Cambridge, comparing the poetic precepts of Aristotle and Horace with the examples of Euripides, Sophocles, and Seneca. In Sidney's _Defence of Poesy_, Aristotle is cited several times; and in the drama, his authority is regarded by Sidney as almost on a par with that of the "common reason."[566] Harington was not satisfied until he had proved that the _Orlando_ agrees substantially with Aristotle's requirements. Jonson wrote a commentary on Horace's _Ars Poetica_, with elucidations from Aristotle, in which "All the old Venusine [_i.e._ Horace], in poetry, And lighted by the Stagyrite [_i.e._ Aristotle], could spy, Was there made English;"[567] but the manuscript was unfortunately destroyed by fire in 1623. Yet Jonson was aware how ridiculous it is to make any author a dictator.[568] His admiration for Aristotle was great; but he acknowledges that the Aristotelian rules are useless without natural talent, and that a poet's liberty cannot be bound within the narrow limits prescribed by grammarians and philosophers.[569] At the same time, he points out that Aristotle was the first critic, and the first of all men to teach the poet how to write. The Aristotelian authority is not to be contemned, since Aristotle did not invent his rules, but, taking the best things from nature and the poets, converted them into a complete and consistent code of art. Milton, also, had a sincere admiration for "that sublime art which [is taught] in Aristotle's _Poetics_, in Horace, and the Italian commentaries of Castelvetro, Tasso, Mazzoni, and others."[570] But despite all this, the English independence of spirit never failed; and before the French influence we can find no such thing in English criticism as the literary dictatorship of Aristotle.[571] To conclude, then, it would seem that by the middle of the sixteenth century there had grown up in Italy an almost complete body of poetic rules and theories. This critical system passed into France, England, Spain, Germany, Portugal, and Holland; so that by the beginning of the seventeenth century there was a common body of Renaissance doctrine throughout western Europe. Each country, however, gave this system a national cast of its own; but the form which it received in France ultimately triumphed, and modern classicism therefore represents the supremacy of the French phase, or version, of Renaissance Aristotelianism. A number of modern writers, among them Lessing and Shelley, have returned more or less to the original Italian form. This is represented, in Elizabethan criticism, by Sidney; Ben Jonson represents a transitional phase, and Dryden and Pope the final form of French classicism. FOOT-NOTES: [536] Morley, _English Writers_, ix. 187. [537] Haslewood, ii. 197. [538] _Ibid._ ii. 217. [539] Jonson, _Works_, iii. 470. _Cf._ Gascoigne's comments on _enjambement_, in Haslewood, ii. 11. [540] Haslewood, ii. 205. [541] _Scholemaster_, p. 73. [542] _Ibid._ p. 145 _sq._ [543] _Cf._ Haslewood, ii. p. xxii. The treatises of Gascoigne (1575) and King James VI. (1584) contain no reference to quantitative verse. [544] _Cf._ Pulci, _Morgante Maggiore_, xxv. 117. [545] Haslewood, ii. 280. [546] Haslewood, ii. 5. [547] R. Ellis, _Poems and Fragments of Catullus translated in the original metres_, London, 1871, p. xiv. _sq._ [548] Stanyhurst, p. 11 _sq._ [549] Haslewood, ii. 69. [550] Puttenham, p. 126 _sq._ [551] _Defence_, p. 55. [552] Haslewood, ii. 167. [553] Haslewood, ii. 186. [554] _Cf._ Ellis, _op. cit._, p. xvi. [555] _Scholemaster_, p. 93. [556] _Ibid._ pp. 118, 121. [557] _Defence_, p. 46. [558] Haslewood, ii. 19, 85 _sq._ [559] _Works_, vi. 202. [560] _Discoveries_, p. 78. [561] _Cf._ Scaliger, _Poet._ v. 3, where the highest virtue of a poet is said to be _electio et sui fastidium_; and vi. 4, where it is said that the "life of all excellence lies in measure." [562] _Works_, ii. 3; _cf._ _Discoveries_, pp. 22-27. [563] _Works_, iii. 297. [564] _Discoveries_, p. 7. [565] _Scholemaster_, p. 139. [566] _Defence_, p. 48. [567] _Works_, iii. 321; _cf._ i. 335, iii. 487. [568] _Discoveries_, p. 66. [569] _Ibid._ p. 78 _sq._ [570] _Works_, iii. 473. [571] The chapter on poetry in Peacham's _Compleat Gentleman_ (1622) is interesting chiefly because of its indebtedness to Scaliger, who is called by Peacham (p. 91) "the prince of all learning and the judge of judgments, the divine Julius Cæsar Scaliger." This constitutes him a literary arbiter if not dictator. In the _Great Assises holden in Parnassus_ (1645), Scaliger is proclaimed one of the lords of Parnassus, in company with Bacon, Sidney, Erasmus, Budæus, Heinsius, Vossius, Casaubon, Mascardo, Pico della Mirandola, Selden, Grotius, and others. APPENDICES APPENDIX A CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE OF THE CHIEF CRITICAL WORKS OF THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY ======================================================================= DATE |ITALY |DATE |FRANCE |DATE |ENGLAND -----+-------------------+------+----------------+---------+----------- | | | | | 1527 | Vida: _De Arte | | | c. 1524 | Cox: | Poetica_. | | | | _Rhetoric_. | | | | | 1529 | Trissino: | | | | | _Poetica_, | | | | | pts. i.-iv. | | | | | | | | | 1535 | Dolce: | | | | | trans. of | | | | | Horace's | | | | | _Ars Poetica_. | | | | | | | | | 1536 | Pazzi: transl. | | | | | of Aristotle's | | | | | _Poetics_. | | | | | | | | | 1536 | Daniello: | | | | | _Poetica_. | | | | | | | | | 1539 | Tolomei: | 1545 | Pelletier: | | | _Versi e Regole | | trans. of | | | della Nuova | | Horace's _Ars | | | Poesia_. | | Poetica_. | | | | | | | 1548 | Robortelli: | 1548 | Sibilet: _Art | | | ed. of | | Poétique_. | | | Aristotle's | | | | | _Poetics_. | | | | | | | | | 1549 | Segni: transl. | 1549 | Du Bellay: | | | of Aristotle's | | _Défense et | | | _Poetics_. | | Illustration_. | | | | | | | 1550 | Maggi: ed. of | | | 1553 | Wilson: | Aristotle's | | | | _Rhetoric_. | _Poetics_. | | | | | | | | | 1551 | Muzio: _Arte | | | | | Poetica_. | | | | | | | | | 1554 | Giraldi | 1554 | Pelletier: | | | Cintio: | | _Art | | | _Discorsi_. | | Poétique_. | | | | | | | 1559 | Minturno: _De | 1555 | Morel: ed. of | | | Poeta_. | | Aristotle's | | | | | _Poetics_. | | 1560 | Vettori: ed. | | | 1567 | Drant: | of Aristotle's | 1560 | Pasquier: | | transl. of | _Poetics_. | | _Recherches_. | | Horace's | | | | | _Ars Poetica_. 1561 | Scaliger: | 1561 | [Scaliger: | 1570 | Ascham: | _Poetics_. | | _Poetics_.] | | _Scholemaster_. | | | | | 1563 | Trissino: | | | 1575 | Gascoigne: | _Poetica_, | | | | _Notes of | pts. v., vi. | | | | Instruction_. | | | | | 1564 | Minturno: | | | | | _Arte | | | | | Poetica_. | | | 1579 | Gosson: | | | | | _School 1570 | Castelvetro: | 1565 | Ronsard: | | of Abuse_. | ed. of | | _Abrégé | | | Aristotle's | | de l'Art | 1579 | Lodge: | _Poetics_. | | Poétique_. | | _Reply to | | | | | Gosson_. | | | | | 1575 | Piccolomini: | 1572 | Jean de la | 1580 | Harvey and | ed. of | | Taille: | | Spenser: | Aristotle's | | preface of | | _Letters_. | _Poetics_. | | _Saül_. | | | | | | c. 1583 | Sidney: 1579 | Viperano: | 1572 | Ronsard: | | _Defence | _De Arte | | preface of | | of Poesy_ | Poetica_. | | _Franciade_. | | (publ. 1595). | | | | | 1586 | Patrizzi: | | | 1585 | James VI.: | _Della | | | | _Reulis and | Poetica_. | | | | Cautelis_. | | | | | 1587 | T. Tasso: | 1573 | Jacques de la | | | _Discorsi | | Taille: | 1586 | Webbe: | dell' | | treatise | | _Discourse | Arte Poetica_. | | on French | | of English | | | classical | | Poetrie_. 1588 | Denores: | | metres. | | | _Poetica_. | | | | | | | | | 1597 | Buonamici: | 1598 | De Laudun: | 1589 | Puttenham: | _Discorsi | | _Art | | _Arte of | Poetici_. | | Poétique | | English | | | françois_. | | Poesie_. 1598 | Ingegneri: | | | | | _Poesia | -- | Vauquelin: | | | Rappresentativa_. | | _Art | 1591 | Harington: | | | Poétique_. | | _Apologie 1600 | Summo: _Discorsi | | | | of | Poetici_. | | | | Poetrie_. ======================================================================= APPENDIX B SALVIATI'S ACCOUNT OF THE COMMENTATORS ON ARISTOTLE'S "POETICS." THE following is Lionardo Salviati's account of the commentators on Aristotle's _Poetics_ up to 1586. The passage is cited from an unpublished Ms. at Florence (Cod. Magliabech. ii. ii. II.), beginning at fol. 371. The title of the Ms. is _Parafrasi e Commento della Poetica d'Aristotile_; and at fol. 370 it is dated January 28, 1586. DELLI INTERPRETI DI QUESTO LIBRO DELLA POETICA [Sidenote: =Averroës.=] Averroe primo di tutti quelli interpreti della Poetica che a nostri tempi sono pervenuti, fece intorno a esso una breve Parafrasi, nella quale come che pure alcune buone considerationi si ritrovino, tutta via per la diversità e lontananza de costumi, che tra greco havea, e tra gli arabi poca notizia havendone, pochissima ne potè dare altrui. [Sidenote: =Valla.=] Appresso hebbe voglia Giorgio Valla di tradur questo libro in latino, ma o che la copia del testo greco lo ingannasse, o che verso di sè fusse l'opera malagevole per ogni guisa massimamente in quei tempi, egli di quella impresa picciola lode si guadagnò. [Sidenote: =Pazzi.=] Il che considerando poi Alessandro de Pazzi, huomo delle lingue intendente, et ingegnoso molto, alla medesima cura si diede, et ci lasciò la latina traduzzione, che in tutti i latini comenti fuorch'in quello del Vettorio si leggie. E per ciò che dotto huomo era, et hebbe copia di ottimi testi scritti a penna, diede non poca luce a questa opera, e più anche fatto havrebbe se da la morte stato non fusse sopravenuto. [Sidenote: =Robortelli.=] Ma Francesco Rubertello a tempi nostri, nelli studj delle lingue esercitatissimo, conoscendo che di maggior aviso li faceva mestieri, non solamente purgò il testo di molte macchie che accecato il tenevano, ma il primo fu ancora, che con distese dichiarationi, et con innumerabili esempli di poeti greci e latini, fece opera di illustrarlo. [Sidenote: =Segni.=] Vulgarizzollo appresso Bernardo Segni in questo nostro Idioma, et con alcune sue brevi annotationi lo diede in luce. E nella tradutione per alcune proprie voci et ai greci vocaboli ottimamente corrisposero, non se n' uscì anche egli senza commendazione. Ma con molto maggior grido et applauso, il comento del [Sidenote: =Maggi.=] Maggio, chiarissimo filosopho, fu dal mondo ricevuto; perciochè havendo egli con somma gloria nella continua lettura della Philosophia i suoi anni trapassati, con l' ordine principalmente giovò a questo libro, e col mostrarne la continuatione et in non pochi luoghi soccorse il Rubertello. E se si fusse alquanto meno ardente contro di lui dimonstrato, nè così vago stato fusse di contrapporseli, sarebbe alcuna volta per avventura uscito fuor più libero il parer suo, e più saldo. [Sidenote: =Vettori.=] A lato a quel del Maggio fu la latina traduzione et comento di Pier Vettori pubblicato, il quale essendo oltre ad ogni altro, delle antiche scritture diligentissimo osservatore, e nella cognitione delle lingue havendosi sì come io stimo a tempi nostri, il primo luogo guadagnato, hauta commodità, et in gran numero di preziosi et antichi esemplarj scritti a mano, in ogni parte, ma nella correzzione del testo spetialmente e nella traduzione, ha fatto sì che poco più avanti pare che di lume a questo libro possa desiderarsi. [Sidenote: =Castelvetro.=] Pur non di manco a questi anni di nuovo, da un dotto huomo in questa lingua volgarizzato et esposto, et più a lungo che alcun altro che ciò habbia fin quì adoprato ancor mai. Questo sarà da me per tutto ovunque mi convenga nominarlo, il comento vulgare appellato, e per più brevità con quelle due prime lettere C. V. in questa guisa lo noterò. Nel qual comento hanno senza alcun fallo di sottilissimi avvedimenti, ma potrebb' essere, sì come io credo, più sincero. Perciò che io stimo, che dove egli dal vero si diparte, il faccia per emulazione per lo più per dimostrarsi di sottil sentimento e per non dire come li altri. È la costui tradutione, fuorchè in alcune parti dove egli secondo che io avviso volontariamente erra, tra le toscane la migliore. E sono le sue parole et in essa e nell' espositione molto pure, et in puro volgare fiorentino, quanto comporta la materia l'una e l'altra è dettata. Ultimamente la traduzzione, e con essa l'annotazione di [Sidenote: =Piccolomini.=] Mgr. Alessandro Piccolomini sono uscite in stampa, il quale havendosi con molte altre sue opere d' astrologia e di filosofia e di rettorica parte composte, parte volgarizzate, non picciol nome e molta riputazione acquistata, creder si può altrettanto doverli della presente faticha avvenire. Dietro a sì chiari interpreti non per emulatione, la quale tra me e sì fatti huomini [Sidenote: =Salviati.=] non potrebbe haver luogo, ma per vaghezza che io pure havrei di dover ancor io, se io potessi a questa impresa, alcun aiuto arrecare dopo lo studio di dieci anni che io ci ho spesi, scendo, quantunque timido, in questo campo, più con accesa volontà, che con speranza, o vigore desideroso che avanti che venirmi gloria per false opinioni, sieno i miei difetti discretamente da savio giudice gastigati. BIBLIOGRAPHY THIS bibliography includes a list of the principal books and editions used in the preparation of the essay, and should be consulted for the full titles of works cited in the text and in the foot-notes. I. SOURCES Ascham, R. _The Scholemaster_, edited by E. Arber. London, 1870. ---- _The Whole Works_, edited by Rev. Dr. Giles. 3 vols. in 4 parts. London, 1864. Aubignac, Abbé d'. _La Pratique du Théâtre_. 2 vols. Amsterdam, 1715. Bacon, F. _Works_, edited by J. Spedding, R. L. Ellis, and D. D. Heath. 15 vols. Boston, 1863. Batteux, C. _Les Quatres Poétiques d'Aristote, d'Horace, de Vida, de Despréaux_. Paris, 1771. Berni, F. _Rime, Poesie Latine, e Lettere_, per cura di P. Virgili. Firenze, 1885. Boccaccio, G. _Geneologia degli Dei_, trad. per G. Betussi. Vinegia, 1547. ---- _Vita di Dante_, per cura di F. Macrì-Leone. Firenze, 1888. Bruno, G. _Opere_, raccolte da A. Wagner. 2 vols. Lipsia, 1830. Butcher, S. H. _Aristotle's Theory of Poetry and Fine Art, with a Critical Text and a Translation of the Poetics_. London, 1895. Carducci, G. _La Poesia Barbara nei Secoli XV e XVI_. Bologna, 1881. Caro, A. _Apologia degli Academici di Bianchi di Roma contra M. Lodovico Castelvetro_. Parma, 1558. Castelvetro, L. _Poetica d' Aristotele vulgarizzata et sposta_. Basilea, 1576. ---- _Opere Varie Critiche_, colla vita dell' autore scritta da L. A. Muratori. Milano, 1727. Cook, A. S. _The Art of Poetry: The Poetical Treatises of Horace, Vida, and Boileau, with the translations by Howes, Pitt, and Soame_. Boston, 1892. Dacier, A. _La Poétique traduite en François, avec des Rémarques_. Paris, 1692. Daniello, B. _La Poetica_. Vinegia, 1536. Dante Alighieri. _Tutte le Opere_, per cura di E. Moore. Oxford, 1894. Denores, J. _Discorso intorno a que' Principii che la Comedia, la Tragedia, et il Poema Heroico ricevono dalla Philosophia_. Padova, 1587. ---- _In Epistolam Q. Horatij Flacci de Arte Poetica, ex quotidianis Tryphonis Gabrielij Sermonibus Interpretatio_. Venetiis, 1553. ---- _Poetica, nel qual si tratta secondo l' opinion d' Arist. della Tragedia, del Poema Heroico, & della Comedia_. Padova, 1588. Donatus, A. _Ars Poetica_. Bononiæ, 1659. Dryden, J. _An Essay of Dramatic Poesy_, edited by T. Arnold. Oxford, 1889. Du Bellay, J. _Oeuvres Choisies_, publiées par L. Becq de Fouquières. Paris, 1876. Fracastoro, G. _Opera_. 2 vols. Genevæ, 1621. Giraldi Cintio, G. B. _Scritti Estetici: De' Romanzi, delle Comedie, e delle Tragedie, ecc._ (Daelli's _Biblioteca Rara_, lii., liii.) 2 vols. Milano, 1864. Gosson, S. _The Schoole of Abuse_, edited by E. Arber. London, 1868. Haslewood, J. _Ancient Critical Essays upon English Poets and Poesy_. 2 vols. London, 1811-1815. Ingegneri, A. _Della Poesia Rappresentativa_. Firenze, 1734. Jonson, B. _Timber, or Discoveries made upon Men and Matter_, edited by F. E. Schelling. Boston, 1892. ---- Works, with Notes and Memoir by W. Gifford, edited by F. Cunningham. 3 vols. London, n. d. Klette, T. _Beiträge zur Geschichte und Litteratur der Italienischen Gelehrtenrenaissance_. 3 parts. Greifswald, 1888-1890. Le Bossu, R. _Treatise of the Epic Poem_, made English by W. J. Second edition. 2 vols. London, 1719. Lionardi, A. _Dialogi della Inventione Poetica_. Venetia, 1554. Luisino, F. _In Librum Q. Horatii Flacci de Arte Poetica Commentarius_. Venetiis, 1554. Maggi, V., and Lombardi, B. _In Aristotelis Librum de Poetica Explanationes_. Venetijs, 1560. Milton, J. _Prose Works_, edited by J. A. St. John. (Bohn's Library.) 5 vols. London, 1848. Minturno, A. S. _L' Arte Poetica_. Venetia, 1564. ---- _De Poeta Libri Sex_. Venetiis, 1559. Muzio, G. _Rime Diverse: Tre Libri di Arte Poetica, Tre Libri di Lettere in rime sciolti, ecc._ Vinegia, 1551. Partenio, B. _Della Imitatione Poetica_. Vinegia, 1560. Patrizzi, F. _Della Poetica: La Deca Istoriale, La Deca Disputata_. Ferrara, 1586. Petrarca, F. _Opera quæ extant Omnia_. Basileæ, 1554. Piccolomini, A. _Annotationi nel Libro della Poetica d' Aristotele_. Vinegia, 1575. Pope, A. _Selecta Poemata Italorum, qui Latine Scripserunt_. 2 vols. Londini, 1740. Puttenham, G. _The Arte of English Poesie_, edited by E. Arber. London, 1869. Rapin, R. _Reflections on Aristotle's Treatise of Poesie_ (transl.). London, 1674. Robortelli, F. _In Librum Aristotelis de Arte Poetica Explicationes_. Florentiæ, 1548. Ronsard, P. de. _Oeuvres Complètes_, publiées par P. Blanchemain. 8 vols. Paris, 1857-1867. Salviati, L. _Parafrasi e Commento della Poetica di Aristotile_, 370 folios, Cod. Magliabechiano, ii. ii. II. Ms. ---- _Trattato della Poetica, Lettura Terza_, 22 folios, Cod. Magliabechiano, vii. 7, 715. Ms. Scaliger, J. C. _Poetices Libri Septem_. Editio Quinta. In Bibliopolio Commeliano, 1617. Segni, A. _Ragionamento sopra le Cose pertinenti alla Poetica_. Fiorenza, 1581. Segni, B. _Rettorica et Poetica d' Aristotele tradotte in lingua vulgare Fiorentina_. Vinegia, 1551. Sidney, Sir P. _The Defense of Poesy, otherwise known as An Apology for Poetry_, edited by A. S. Cook. Boston, 1890. Speroni, Sperone. _Opere_. 5 vols. Venezia, 1740. Stanyhurst, R. _Translation of the First Four Books of the Æneid of P. Virgilius Maro_, edited by E. Arber. London, 1880. Summo, F. _Discorsi Poetici_. Padova, 1600. Tasso, B. _Delle Lettere: aggiuntovi il Ragionamento della Poesia_. 2 vols. Padova, 1733. Tasso, T. _Opere, colle Controversie sulla Gerusalemme_, per cura di G. Rosini. 33 vols. Pisa, 1821-1832. Trissino, G. G. _Tutte le Opere_. 2 vols. Verona, 1729. Twining, T. _Aristotle's Treatise on Poetry, translated with Notes and two Dissertations on Poetical and Musical Imitation_. Second edition. 2 vols. London, 1812. Varchi, B. _Lezzioni, lette nell' Accademia Fiorentina_. Fiorenza, 1590. Vauquelin de la Fresnaye, J. _L'Art Poétique_, publié par G. Pellissier. Paris, 1885. Vettori, P. _Commentarii in primum Librum Aristotelis de Arte Poetarum_. Florentiæ, 1560. Webbe, W. _A Discourse of English Poetrie_, edited by E. Arber. London, 1871. Woodward, W. H. _Vittorino da Feltre and other Humanist Educators: Essays and Versions_. Cambridge, 1897. II. SECONDARY WORKS Arnaud, C. _Études sur la Vie et les Oeuvres de l'Abbé d'Aubignac, et sur les Théories Dramatiques au XVII^e Siècle_. Paris, 1887. Aronstein, P. "Ben Jonson's Theorie des Lustspiels," in _Anglia_ (1895), vol. xvii. Baillet, A. _Jugemens des Savans sur les Principaux Ouvrages des Auteurs_, revûs par M. de la Monnoye. 8 vols. Amsterdam, 1725. Borinski, K. _Die Poetik der Renaissance, und die Anfänge der litterarischen Kritik in Deutschland_. Berlin, 1886. Bourgoin, A. _Les Maîtres de la Critique au XVII^{ème} Siècle_. Paris, 1889. Breitinger, H. _Les Unités d'Aristote avant le Cid de Corneille_. Deuxième édition. Genève et Bâle, 1895. Brunetière, F. _L'Évolution des Genres dans l'Histoire de la Littérature_. Deuxième édition. Vol. i. Paris, 1892. Brunot, F. _La Doctrine de Malherbe d'après son Commentaire sur Desportes_. Paris, 1891. Canello, U. _Storia della Letteratura Italiana nel Secolo XVI_. Milano, 1880. Cecchi, P. L. _T. Tasso, il Pensiero e le Belle Lettere Italiane nel Secolo XVI_. Firenze, 1877. Cloetta, W. _Beiträge zur Litteraturgeschichte des Mittelalters und der Renaissance_. 2 vols. Halle, 1890-1892. Comparetti, D. _Vergil in the Middle Ages_, translated by E. F. M. Benecke. London, 1895. Crescimbeni, G. M. de. _Istoria della Volgar Poesia_. Roma, 1698. De Sanctis, F. _Storia della Letteratura Italiana_. Sesta edizione. 2 vols. Napoli, 1893. Di Niscia, G. "La Gerusalemme Conquistata e l' Arte Poetica di Tasso," in _Il Propugnatore_ (1889), N.S. vol. ii. parts 1, 2. Ebert, A. _Allgemeine Geschichte der Literatur des Mittelalters im Abendlande_. 3 vols. Leipzig, 1874-1887. Egger, É. _Essai sur l'Histoire de la Critique chez les Grecs_. Deuxième édition. Paris, 1886. ---- _L'Hellénisme en France_. 2 vols. Paris, 1869. Faguet, É. _La Tragédie française au XVI^e Siècle_. Paris, 1894. Foffano, F. _Ricerche Letterarie_. Livorno, 1897. Gaspary, A. _Geschichte der Italienischen Literatur_. 2 vols. Strassburg, 1885-1888. Hamelius, P. _Die Kritik in der Englischen Literatur des 17. und 18. Jahrhunderts_. Leipzig, 1897. Jacquinet, P. _Francisci Baconi de Re Litteraria Judicia_. Parisiis, 1863. Koerting, G. _Geschichte der Litteratur Italiens im Zeitalter der Renaissance_. 3 vols. Leipzig, 1878-1884. Krantz, É. _L'Esthétique de Descartes, étudiée dans les Rapports de la Doctrine cartésienne avec la Littérature classique française au XVII^e Siècle_. Paris, 1882. Langlois, E. _De Artibus Rhetoricæ Rhythmicæ_. Parisiis, 1890. Lintilhac, E. _De J.-C. Scaligeri Poetice_. Paris, 1887. ---- "Un Coup d'État dans la République des Lettres," in the _Nouvelle Revue_ (1890), vol. lxiv. Menéndez y Pelayo, M. _Historia de las Ideas Estéticas en España_. Segunda edición. 9 vols. Madrid, 1890-1896. Müller, E. _Geschichte der Theorie der Kunst bei den Alten_. 2 vols. Breslau, 1834-1837. Natali, G. _Torquato Tasso, Filosofo del Bello, dell' Arte, e dell' Amore_. Roma, 1895. Pellissier, G. _De Sexti Decimi Sæculi in Francia Artibus Poeticis_. Paris, 1882. Perrens, F. T. _Jérome Savonarole_. 2 vols. Paris, 1853. Quadrio, F. S. _Della Storia e della Ragione d' ogni Poesia_. 5 vols. Milano, 1739-1752. Quossek, C. _Sidney's Defense of Poesy und die Poetik des Aristoteles_. Krefeld, 1884. Robert, P. _La Poétique de Racine_. Paris, 1890. Rosenbauer, A. _Die Poetischen Theorien der Plejade nach Ronsard und Dubellay_. Erlangen, 1895. Rucktäschel, T. _Einige Arts Poétiques aus der Zeit Ronsard's und Malherbe's_. Leipzig, 1889. Schelling, F. E. _Poetic and Verse Criticism of the Reign of Elizabeth_. Philadelphia, University of Pennsylvania Press, 1891. Solerti, A. _Vita di Torquato Tasso_. 3 vols. Torino, 1895. Symonds, J. A. _Renaissance in Italy_. 7 vols. New York, 1888. Teichmüller, G. _Aristotelische Forschungen_. 2 vols. Halle, 1869. Tiraboschi, G. _Storia della Letteratura Italiana_. 9 vols. Firenze, 1805-1813. Villari, P. _Life and Times of Girolamo Savonarola_, translated by L. Villari. New York, 1896. INDEX Abu-Baschar, 16. Académie de Poésie et de Musique, 224, 300. Accademia della Crusca, 123. Accademia della Nuova Poesia, 222, 224. Addison, 295. Æschylus, 96. Agricola, 132. Agrippa, Cornelius, 7, 273, 275. Alamanni, Luigi, 222. Alberti, Leon Battista, 221. Alexander of Aphrodisias, 78. Ambrose of Milan, 7. Aneau, Barthélemy, 182 _sq._ Aphthonius, 27. Aquinas, Thomas, 6, 15. Areopagus, 300. Aretino, 106, 163. Ariosto, 109, 112 _sq._, 115 _sq._, 123, 162, 222, 293 _sq._ Aristophanes, 11. Aristotle, _passim_, especially 16 _sq._, 136 _sq._, 164 _sq._, 183 _sq._, 308 _sq._; _Poetics_, _passim_; _Rhetoric_, 86. Ascham, 254 _sq._, 283 _sq._, 298 _sq._, 302 _sq._; _Scholemaster_, 254. Aubignac, Abbé d', 210, 223, 236, 245 _sq._; _Pratique du Théâtre_, 210, 245. Averroës, 16, 24, 26, 314. Bacon, Francis, 276 _sq._, 306; _Advancement of Learning_, 276. Bacon, Roger, 16. Baïf, J. A. de, 224 _sq._, 298, 300. Baldini, _Ars Poetica Aristotelis_, 140. Balzac, Guez de, 139, 239 _sq._ Bartas, Salluste du, 130, 161, 197, 227, 230. Beaubreuil, Jean de, 208. Bellay, Joachim du, 172 _sq._, 182 _sq._, 199 _sq._, 210 _sq._; _Défense et Illustration_, 172, 177 _sq._ Bembo, 117, 126, 153, 161, 180, 255, 305. Beni, Paolo, 36, 92, 123, 140, 244. Bernays, 80. Berni, _Dialogo contra i Poeti_, 9, 153. Beza, 230. Binet, 192, 219. Blackmore, 295. Blenerhasset, Thomas, 299. Boccaccio, 8, 13, 16, 35, 165, 193, 261; _De Genealogia Deorum_, 9. Boccalini, _Ragguagli di Parnaso_, 258. Boileau, 39, 48, 108, 130 _sq._, 153, 208 _sq._, 245 _sq._, 286; _Art Poétique_, 108, 249. Bossuet, 7, 238. Bouteauville, Michel de, 223. Breitinger, H., 90. Brunetière, 93, 176. Bruni, Lionardo, 10, 12; _De Studiis et Literis_, 10. Bruno, Giordano, 165 _sq._ Buchanan, 230. Budæus, 173, 310 _n._ Bullokar, 256. Buonamici, _Discorsi Poetici_, 140, 167. Butcher, S. H., 26 _n._, 40, 64, 75. Calcagnini, 162 _sq._ Cammillo, Giulio, 32, 176. Campanella, 26 _sq._ Campion, _Observations in the Art of English Poesy_, 297, 304. Capriano, 83, 87, 120; _Della Vera Poetica_, 42, 211. Caro, Annibal, 222. Cascales, 146. Castelvetro, 44 _sq._, 55, 316, _et passim_. Castiglione, 103, 161, 180. Cavalcanti, 127. Cecchi, 106. Cervantes, 36, 104, 258 _n._, 290 _n._ Chamberlayne, 295. Chapelain, 139, 186, 210, 239 _sq._ Cheke, Sir John, 254, 308. Chrétien Le Gouais, 264. Cicero, 16, 30, 54, 104, 164, 178. Coleridge, 54, 56, 142. Corneille, 75, 84, 90, 101, 139, 206, 210, 229, 245. Council of Trent, 15, 130, 142, 160, 224, 268, 292. Coxe, Leonard, 254. Cueva, Juan de la, 146, 233, 305; _Egemplar Poético_, 146, 234. Dacier, 63, 70, 75. Daniel, _Defence of Rhyme_, 257, 297 _sq._, 304. Daniello, 20, 28, 48, 61, 82, 137, 196. Dante, 8, 16, 51, 66, 109, 138, 180 _sq._ Dati, Leonardo, 221. Davenant, 259, 295. Deimier, 216. Denores, 151. Descartes, 249. Deschamps, Eustache, 174. Desportes, 237. Diomedes, 64 _sq._ Dolce, Lodovico, 126, 171, 196. Dolet, 173, 227. Donatus, 104. Drant, Thomas, 171, 300 _sq._ Dryden, 53, 75, 100, 142, 231, 259, 295, 310. Duval, 227. Dyer, 300. Ellis, Robinson, 301 _sq._ Equicola, 58, 127. Erasmus, 173, 184. Espinel, 171. Estienne, Henri, 181, 217. Euanthius-Donatus, 65. Euripides, 284, 308. Fabri, Pierre, 174 _sq._ Fabricius, 147, 305. Fanucci, 127. Farquhar, 292. Fichte, 157. Ficino, 160. Filelfo, 32, 136. Fioretti, Benedetto, 167. _Fleur de Rhétorique_, 174. Fontaine, Charles, 181 _sq._ Fracastoro, 22, 31 _sq._, 40 _sq._, 141, 157, 258; _Naugerius_, 31. Fulgentius, 7, 8. Gabrielli, Trifone, 138. Gambara, _De Perfecta Poeseos Ratione_, 161. Garnier, 230. Gascoigne, 256, 301. Gelli, 106, 163. Giraldi Cintio, 49, 62, 67, 76, 83, 91, 110 _sq._, 123, 138, 146, 162, 211, 235, 284. Goldoni, 167. Gosson, 7, 266 _sq._, 273. Gracien du Pont, 174 _sq._ _Great Assises holden in Parnassus_, 258, 310 _n._ Gregory the Great, 8. Greville, Fulke, 300. Grévin, 201 _sq._, 228, 232. Grynæus, 184. Guarini, _Pastor Fido_, 164. Guarino, _De Ordine Docendi_, 10. Hardy, Alexandre, 232, 235 _sq._ Harington, 275, 293, 305, 308; _Apologie of Poetrie_, 257, 275, 293. Harvey, Gabriel, 117, 255, 299 _sq._, 303 _sq._ Heinsius, Daniel, 147, 185, 245, 292; _De Tragoediæ Constitutione_, 245. Heliodorus, 36, 196. Hermann, 16. Hermogenes, 32; _Idea_, 32. Hilary of Poitiers, 7. Hobbes, 103 _n._, 259. Homer, 4, 6, 18, _et passim_. Horace, 11, 16, _et passim_; _Ars Poetica_, _passim_. Howard, Sir Robert, 292. Isidore of Seville, 5, 11, 65. James VI. of Scotland, 262. Jodelle, 173, 206. Johannes Januensis de Balbis, 66. John of Salisbury, 11. Johnson, Samuel, 79, 260. Jonson, Ben, 54, 88 _sq._, 104, 142, 246, 258, 278 _sq._, 288 _sq._, 297, 304 _sq._ La Bruyère, 241, 248. Lamartine, 48. La Mesnardière, 245. Landi, Ortensio, 164, 165; _Paradossi_, 164. Lasca, Il, 104, 106, 163. Laudun, Pierre de, 188, 204, 221, 233; _Art Poétique_, 208. Le Bossu, 246, 294. Lemoyne, 244. Leo X., 126, 154, 160. Le Roy, 227. Lessing, 75, 79, 142, 147, 310. Lionardi, Alessandro, 43, 127. Livy, 29, 37. Lodge, _Defence of Poetry, Musick, and Stage Plays_, 267. Lombardi, 138. Longfellow, 302. Lucan, 195, 275. Lucian, 35. Lucretius, 45. Luisino, 138. Luther, 147 _n._ Macrobius, 244. Maggi, 27, 49, 63, 78, 314, _et passim_. Mairet, 210. Malherbe, 216, 220, 231, 236 _sq._; _Commentaire sur Desportes_, 237. Mambrun, 244, 246, 294. Mantinus of Tortosa, 16. Mantuan, 9. Maranta, 108, 146. Marguerite de Navarre, 227. Marino, 241. Marot, 175, 216, 238. Mascardo, 310 _n._ Maximus of Tyre, 6. Mazzoni, Jacopo, 309; _Difesa di Dante_, 124 _n._ Melanchthon, 132, 254. Mellin de Saint-Gelais, 175, 206. Ménage, 241. Metastasio, 167. Michele, A., 36. Milton, 54, 70 _n._, 80 _sq._, 142, 147, 280, 287, 292, 308 _sq._ Minturno, 21, 52, 269, _et passim_; _Arte Poetica_, 119; _De Poeta_, 21. Mirandola, Pico della, 160, 310 _n._ Molière, 217. Montaigne, 173, 194, 226 _sq._, 240. Montchrestien, 230. Montemayor, 196. Morel, Guillaume, 184. Mousset, 223, 298. Mulcaster, 296. Musæus, 88. Muzio, 38, 58, 87, 104, 129, 144, 161, 213; _Arte Poetica_, 50. Nisieli, Udeno, _v._ Fioretti, Benedetto. Nores, J. de, _v._ Denores. Ogier, François, 235. Opitz, _Buch von der deutschen Poeterei_, 147. Ovid, 179, 263. Palingenius, 39. Partenio, 127, 134, 141, 147; _Della Imitatione Poetica_, 128. Pasquier, 223 _n._ Patrizzi, 165 _sq._, 222; _Della Poetica_, 165. Pazzi, Alessandro de', 17, 137, 314. Peacham, _Compleat Gentleman_, 310 _n._ Pellegrino, Camillo, 122 _sq._ Pelletier, 171, 175, 182, 191, 199 _sq._, 205, 211, 217, 225. Petrarch, 8, 16, 58, 138, 261. Philo Judæus, 7. Pibrac, Guy du Faur de, 225. Piccolomini, Æneas Sylvius, 12. Piccolomini, Alessandro, 139 _sq._, 244, 316. Pierre Berçuire, 264. Pigna, G. B., 115 _sq._, 123, 235, 284. Pinciano, 146. Pindar, 211. Pisani, Marquise de, 241. Plato, 4 _sq._, 14, 78, _et passim_, especially 156 _sq._ Plautus, 85, 102, 285, 291. Plutarch, 27, 42, 114. Poliziano, 13 _sq._, 188; _Sylvæ_, 13. Pomponazzi, 137. Pontano, G., 103 _n._, 146 _n._, 153. Pontano, P., 146 _n._ Pontanus, J., 146 _n._, 147. Pope, Alexander, 260, 310; _Essay on Criticism_, 108. Prynne, 7. Puttenham, 264 _sq._, 284, 293; _Arte of English Poesie_, 256, 264. _Quintil Horatian_, 181 _sq._, 216 _sq._ Quintilian, 16, 54, 132, 164. Racan, 237. Racine, 75, 139, 238, 245. Rambouillet, Marquise de, 241. Ramus, 137, 164, 223 _sq._, 227. Rapin, 75, 106, 245, 292, 294; _Réflexions sur l'Art Poétique_, 139. Regolo, 108. Rengifo, 145. _Rhetores Græci_, 17. Rhodiginus, 136. Ricci, B., 138. Riccoboni, 140, 146, 244. Richelieu, 209 _sq._ Robortelli, 17, 25, 29 _sq._, 63, 77, 91, 103, 139, 244, 315. Ronsard, 54, 147, 173, 187 _sq._, 206, 211, 218 _sq._, 226 _sq._, 231, 256. Rucellai, 136. Ruscelli, 58, 127. Sackville, _Gorboduc_, 284, 290. Saint-Amant, 244. Sainte-Beuve, 152. Salviati, Lionardo, 88 _sq._, 123 _sq._, 139 _n._, 140, 162, 181, 305, 314, 316. Sanchez, Alfonso, 234. Sannazaro, 35, 153, 160, 179, 234. Savonarola, 6, 13 _sq._, 24, 27, 130, 160. Scaliger, Joseph Justus, 245. Scaliger, Julius Cæsar, 14, 36 _sq._, 43, 58, 131 _sq._, 310 _n._, _et passim_; _Poetics_, 150, 176, _et passim_. Schelandre, J. de, 235. Schelling, 157. Schlegel, 157. Schosser, _Disputationes de Tragoedia_, 147 _n._ Scudéry, 244. Segni, A., 42 _n._ Segni, B., 17, 92, 139, 315. Selden, 310 _n._ Seneca, 62, 69, 85, 201, 232, 284 _sq._, 308. Shaftesbury, 54. Shakespeare, 46, 56, 79, 104 _sq._, 205, 296. Shelley, 12, 54, 128, 142, 147, 188, 192, 310. Sibilet, 174 _sq._, 223; _Art Poétique_, 175. Sidney, Sir Philip, 34, 51, 104, 142, _et passim_; _Defence of Poesy_, 268 _sq._, _et passim_. Silius Italicus, 195. Simonides, 42. Sophocles, 62, 284, 308. Spenser, 117, 161, 296, 299, 302, 305. Speroni, Sperone, 75, 81, 116 _sq._, 242. Stanyhurst, Richard, 302. Strabo, 24, 27, 47, 54, 193. Sturm, John, 132, 254. Suckling, _Session of the Poets_, 258. Suetonius, _De Poetis_, 65. Summo, Faustino, 36, 167. Surrey, 299. Symonds, J. A., 257. Taille, Jacques de la, 223 _sq._, 298. Taille, Jean de la, 185 _sq._, 201 _sq._, 290; _Art de Tragédie_, 201, 206. Tasso, Bernardo, 17, 22, 55, 119. Tasso, Torquato, 8, 34, 37, 56, 117, 119 _sq._, 128, 130, 139, 151, 192, 309; _Discorsi dell'Arte Poetica_, 119, 213; _Apologia_, 123. Tempo, Antonio di, 174. Tennyson, 302. Terence, 85, 106, 287, 291. Tertullian, 5. Theocritus, 179. Theophrastus, 64 _sq._ Tibullus, 179. Tolomei, Claudio, 126, 161, 222, 256, 298. Tomitano, 43. Toscanella, 108. Tottel's _Miscellany_, 255. Trincaveli, 137. Trissino, 58, 92 _sq._, 102, 106, 112, 126, 136, 176, 206, 288; _Poetica_, 76, 92, 109, 140, 150. Turnebus, 184. Twining, 80. Valla, Giorgio, 17, 314. Varchi, 27, 34, 41, 50, 124 _n._, 138, 141, 150, 161, 180. Vauquelin de la Fresnaye, 48, 176 _sq._, 186, 196, 203, 207, 212, 219, 227 _sq._ Vega, Lope de, 233 _sq._, 258 _n._ Vettori, 37 _n._, 77, 97, 139, 315. Vida, 13, 87, 106, 126 _sq._, 131 _sq._, 148, 160, 183, 187, 215, 218, 244, 247. Viperano, 146 _n._, 188, 204. Virgil, 18, 30, 87, 106, _et passim_. Voltaire, 95. Vossius, 185, 244 _sq._, 292, 294, 310 _n._ Warton, Joseph, 143. Warton, Thomas, 254. Watson, Thomas, 298, 308. Webbe, William, 268, 284, 293, 302, 305; _Discourse of English Poetrie_, 256, 263, 283. Wilson, _Rhetoric_, 254, 261, 296. Wither, 258. Woodberry, G. E., 12 _n._ Xenophon, 30, 275. Zabarella, 26 _sq._ Zapata, 171. LI LIVRES DU GOUVERNEMENT DES ROIS. _Being a Thirteenth Century French Version of EGIDIO COLONNA'S treatise, "De Regimine Principium." From the Kerr MS._ EDITED BY SAMUEL PAUL MOLENAER, A.M., _Instructor in the University of Pennsylvania; Sometime Fellow of Columbia University._ 8vo. Cloth. $3.00, net. * * * * * This treatise, "On the Education of Princes," was prepared in Latin about the year 1285, by the preceptor of the boy prince Philip the Fair (afterward Philip IV. of France), and on the accession of the youthful king was by him ordered translated into French for the benefit of the general public. Numerous editions in the original Latin were published in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, but the French version has never before appeared in print. The work covers a wide range of topics, educational and social, discussed in the spirit of enlightened mediæval scholarship. It is believed that, in its present accessible form, it will be found to constitute an interesting chapter in the history of educational ideas. BOSTON TRANSCRIPT. "To professional scholars and to those interested in the study of political science in the Middle Ages it will have unusual interest." SAN FRANCISCO ARGONAUT. "The work will appeal not only to the limited number of professional scholars for whom the edition is primarily intended, but beyond that to the wider circle of those interested in the study of the Middle Ages and in the evolution of pedagogy and of political economy." ANNALS OF THE AMERICAN ACADEMY. "The edition of Colonna's 'De Regimine Principium,' of which Dr. Molenaer has given us an excellent thirteenth-century French version, will interest students of widely differing tastes." * * * * * THE MACMILLAN COMPANY, 66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK. PUBLICATIONS OF THE COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY PRESS. CLASSICAL STUDIES IN HONOUR OF HENRY DRISLER. _A volume of Essays on Classical Subjects contributed by a number of Dr. Drisler's former pupils, in commemoration of the fiftieth year of his official connection with Columbia College._ 8vo. Cloth. $4.00, net. * * * * * THE TITLES OF THE CONTRIBUTIONS ARE AS FOLLOWS: On the Meaning of 'Nauta' and 'Viator' in Horace, Sat. i. 5. 11-23. Anaximander on the Prolongation of Infancy in Man. A Note on the History of the Theory of Evolution. Of Two Passages in Euripides' Medea. The Preliminary Military Service of the Equestrian Cursus Honorum. References to Zoroaster in Syriac and Arabic Literature. Literary Frauds among the Greeks. Henotheism in the Rig-Veda. On Plato and the Attic Comedy. Herodotus vii. 61, or the Arms of the Ancient Persian Illustrated from Iranian Sources. Archaism in Aulus Gellius. On Certain Parallelisms between the Ancient and the Modern Drama. Ovid's Use of Colour and Colour-Terms. A Bronze of Polyclitan Affinities in the Metropolitan Museum. Geryon in Cyprus. Hercules, Hydra, and Crab. Onomatopoetic Words in Latin. Notes on the Vedic Deity Pusan. The So-Called Medusa Ludovisi. Aristotle and the Arabs. Iphigenia in Greek and French Tragedy. Gargettus: an Attic Deme. * * * * * "The circumstances of the issue of this handsome volume give it an emotional interest which makes it a volume separate and distinct among the collected records of the investigations of scholars. The studies themselves, for the most part, appeal in the first instance to specialists, but many of them have a much wider interest. The book is a credit to American scholarship, as well as a fit tribute to the honored name of Professor Drisler."--_The Outlook_. * * * * * THE MACMILLAN COMPANY, 66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK. * * * * * CORRECTIONS: Footnote 30: ad nostras was changed to ad nostra ("Jacuit liber hic neglectus, ad nostra"). Page 26: [Greek: tôn euantiôn] was changed to [Greek: tôn enantiôn]. Page 218: Postero was changed to Postera (Postera Phoebea lustrabat lampade terras). Page 229: sulutaires was changed to salutaires (sous les loix salutaires). REMARKS: Part I, Chapter IV: Trissino (1561): Appendix A does not list Trissino in 1561. Part II, Chapter I: The two subsections listed in the Table of Contents do not appear in the text. 
31303	----	EUPHORION: BEING STUDIES OF THE ANTIQUE AND THE MEDIÆVAL IN THE RENAISSANCE BY VERNON LEE _Author of "Studies of the 18th Century in Italy," "Belcaro" etc._ VOL. I. WALTER PATER, IN APPRECIATION OF THAT WHICH, IN EXPOUNDING THE BEAUTIFUL THINGS OF THE PAST, HE HAS ADDED TO THE BEAUTIFUL THINGS OF THE PRESENT. TABLE OF CONTENTS. Introduction The Sacrifice The Italy of the Elizabethan Dramatists The Out-Door Poetry Symmetria Prisca INTRODUCTION. _Faustus is therefore a parable of the impotent yearnings of the Middle Ages--its passionate aspiration, its conscience-stricken desire, its fettered curiosity amid the tramping limits of imperfect knowledge and irrational dogmatism. The indestructible beauty of Greek art,--whereof Helen was an emblem, became, through the discovery of classic poetry and sculpture, the possession of the modern world. Mediævalism took this Helen to wife, and their offspring, the Euphorion of Goethe's drama, is the spirit of the modern world._--J.A. Symonds, "Renaissance In Italy," vol. ii. p. 54. Euphorion is the name given by Goethe to the marvellous child born of the mystic marriage of Faust and Helena. Who Faust is, and who Helena, we all know. Faust, of whom no man can remember the youth or childhood, seems to have come into the world by some evil spell, already old and with the faintness of body and of mind which are the heritage of age; and every additional year of mysterious study and abortive effort has made him more vacillating of step and uncertain of sight, but only more hungry of soul. Postponed and repressed by reclusion from the world, and desperate tension over insoluble problems; diverted into the channels of mere thought and vision; there boils within him the energy, the passion, of retarded youth: its appetites and curiosities, which, cramped by the intolerant will, and foiled by many a sudden palsy of limb and mind, torment him with mad visions of unreal worlds, mock him with dreams of superhuman powers, from which he awakes in impotent and apathetic anguish. But these often-withstood and often-baffled cravings are not those merely of scholar or wizard, they are those of soldier and poet and monk, of the mere man: lawless desires which he seeks to divert, but fails, from the things of the flesh and of the world to the things of the reason; supersensuous desires for the beautiful and intangible, which he strives to crush, but in vain, with the cynical scepticism of science, which derides the things it cannot grasp. In this strange Faustus, made up of so many and conflicting instincts; in this old man with ever-budding and ever-nipped feelings of youthfulness, muddling the hard-won secrets of nature in search after impossibilities; in him so all-sided, and yet so wilfully narrowed, so restlessly active, yet so often palsied and apathetic; in this Faustus, who has laboured so much and succeeded in so little, feeling himself at the end, when he has summed up all his studies, as foolish as before--which of us has not learned to recognize the impersonated Middle Ages? And Helena, we know her also, she is the spirit of Antiquity. Personified, but we dare scarcely say, embodied; for she is a ghost raised by the spells of Faustus, a simulacrum of a thing long dead; yet with such continuing semblance of life, nay, with all life's real powers, that she seems the real, vital, living one, and Faustus yonder, thing as he is of the present, little better than a spectre. Yet Helena has been ages before Faust ever was; nay, by an awful mystery like those which involve the birth of Pagan gods, she whom he has evoked to be the mother of his only son has given, centuries before, somewhat of her life to make this self-same Faust. A strange mystery of Fate's necromancy this, and with strange anomalies. For opposite this living, decrepit Faust, Helena, the long dead, is young; and she is all that which Faust is not. Knowing much less than he, who has plunged his thoughts like his scalpel into all the mysteries of life and death, she yet knows much more, can tell him of the objects and aims of men and things; nay, with little more than the unconscious faithfulness to instinct of the clean-limbed, placid brute, she can give peace to his tormented conscience; and, while he has suffered and struggled and lashed himself for every seeming baseness of desire, and loathed himself for every imagined microscopic soiling, she has walked through good and evil, letting the vileness of sin trickle off her unhidden soul, so quietly and majestically that all thought of evil vanishes; and the self-tormenting wretch, with macerated flesh hidden beneath the heavy garments of mysticism and philosophy, suddenly feels, in the presence of her unabashed nakedness, that he, like herself, is chaste. Such are the parents, Faustus and Helena; we know them; but who is this son Euphorion? To me it seems as if there could be but one answer--the Renaissance. Goethe indeed has told us (though, with his rejuvenation of Faustus, unknown to the old German legend and to our Marlowe, in how bungling a manner!) the tale of that mystic marriage; but Goethe could not tell us rightly, even had he attempted, the real name of its offspring. For even so short a time ago, the Middle Ages were only beginning to be more than a mere historical expression, Antiquity was being only then critically discovered; and the Renaissance, but vaguely seen and quite unformulated by the first men, Gibbon and Roscoe, who perceived it at all, was still virtually unknown. To Goethe, therefore, it might easily have seemed as if the antique Helena had only just been evoked, and as if of her union with the worn-out century of his birth, a real Euphorion, the age in which ourselves are living, might have been born. But, at the distance of additional time, and from the undreamed-of height upon which recent historical science has enabled us to stand, we can easily see that in this he would have been mistaken. Not only is our modern culture no child of Faustus and Helena, but it is the complex descendant, strangely featured by atavism from various sides, of many and various civilizations; and the eighteenth century, so far from being a Faustus evoking as his bride the long dead Helen of Antiquity, was in itself a curiously varied grandchild or great-grandchild of such a marriage, its every moral feature, its every intellectual movement proclaiming how much of its being was inherited from Antiquity. No allegory, I well know, and least of all no historical allegory, can ever be strained to fit quite tight--the lives of individuals and those of centuries, their modes of intermixture, genesis, and inheritance are far different; but if an allegory is to possess any meaning at all, we must surely apply it wherever it will fit most easily and completely; and the beautiful allegory prepared by the tradition of the sixteenth century for the elaborating genius of Goethe, can have a real meaning only if we explain Faust as representing the Middle Ages, Helena as Antiquity, and Euphorion as that child of the Middle Ages, taking life and reality from them, but born of and curiously nurtured by the spirit of Antiquity, to which significant accident has given the name of Renaissance. After Euphorion I have therefore christened this book; and this not from any irrational conceit of knowing more (when I am fully aware that I know infinitely less) than other writers about the life and character of this wonderful child of Helena and Faustus, but merely because it is more particularly as the offspring of this miraculous marriage, and with reference to the harmonies and anomalies which therefrom resulted, that Euphorion has exercised my thoughts. The Renaissance has interested and interests me, not merely for what it is, but even more for what it sprang from, and for the manner in which the many things inherited from both Middle Ages and Renaissance, the tendencies and necessities inherent in every special civilization, acted and reacted upon each other, united in concord or antagonism; forming, like the gases of the chemist, new things, sometimes like and sometimes unlike themselves and each other; producing now some unknown substance of excellence and utility, at other times some baneful element, known but too well elsewhere, but unexpected here. But not the watching of the often tragic meeting of these great fatalities of inherited spirit and habit only: for equally fascinating almost has been the watching of the elaboration by this double-natured period of things of little weight, mere trifles of artistic material bequeathed to it by one or by the other of its spiritual parents. The charm for me--a charm sometimes pleasurable, but sometimes also painful, like the imperious necessity which we sometimes feel to see again and examine, seemingly uselessly, some horrible evil--the charm, I mean the involuntary compulsion of attention, has often been as great in following the vicissitudes of a mere artistic item, like the Carolingian stories or the bucolic element, as it has been in looking on at the dissolution of moral and social elements. And in this, that I have tried to understand only where my curiosity was awakened, tried to reconstruct only where my fancy was taken; in short, studied of this Renaissance civilization only as much or as little as I cared, depends all the incompleteness and irrelevancy and unsatisfactoriness of this book, and depends also whatever addition to knowledge or pleasure it may afford; Were I desirous of giving a complete, clear notion of the very complex civilization of the Renaissance, a kind of encyclopædic atlas of that period, where (by a double power which history alone possesses) you could see at once the whole extent and shape of this historical territory, and at the same time, with all its bosses of mountain and furrows of valley, the exact composition of all its various earths and waters, the exact actual colour and shape of all its different vegetations, not to speak of its big towns and dotting villages;--were I desirous of doing this, I should not merely be attempting a work completely beyond my faculties, but a work moreover already carried out with all the perfection due to specially adapted gifts, to infinite patience and ingenuity, occasionally amounting almost to genius. Such is not at all within my wishes, as it assuredly would be totally without my powers. But besides such marvels of historic mapping as I have described, where every one can find at a glance whatever he may be looking for, and get the whole topography, geological and botanical, of an historic tract at his fingers' ends, there are yet other kinds of work which may be done. For a period in history is like a more or less extended real landscape: it has, if you will, actual, chemically defined colours in this and that, if you consider this and that separate and unaffected by any kind of visual medium; and measurable distances also between this point and the other, if you look down upon it as from a balloon. But, like a real landscape, it may also be seen from different points of view, and under different lights; then, according as you stand, the features of the scene will group themselves--this ridge will disappear behind that, this valley will open out before you, that other will be closed. Similarly, according to the light wherein the landscape is seen, the relative scale of colours and tints of objects, due to pervading light and to distances--what painters call the values--will alter: the scene will possess one or two predominant effects, it will produce also one or, at most, two or three (in which case co-ordinated) impressions. The art which deals with impressions, which tries to seize the real relative values of colours and tints at a given moment, is what you call new-fangled: its doctrines and works are still subject to the reproach of charlatanry. Yet it is the only truly realistic art, and it only, by giving you a thing as it appears at a given moment, gives it you as it really ever is; all the rest is the result of cunning abstraction, and representing the scene as it is always, represents it (by striking an average) as it never is at all. I do not pretend that in questions of history we can proceed upon the principles of modern landscape painting: we do not know what were the elevations which made perspective, what were the effects of light which created scales of tints, in that far distant country of the past; and it is safer certainly, and doubtless much more useful, to strike an average, and represent the past as seen neither from here nor from there, neither in this light nor that, and let each man imagine his historical perspective and colour value to the best of his powers. Yet it is nevertheless certain that the past, to the people who were in it, was not a miraculous map or other marvellous diagram constructed on the principle of getting at the actual qualities of things by analysis; that it must have been, to its inhabitants, but a series of constantly varied perspectives and constantly varied schemes of colour, according to the position of each individual, and the light in which that individual viewed it. To attempt to reconstruct those various perspective-making heights, to rearrange those various value-determining lights, would be to the last degree disastrous; we should have valleys where there existed mountains, and brilliant warm schemes of colour where there may have been all harmonies of pale and neutral tints. Still the perspective and colour valuation of individual minds there must have been; and since it is not given to us to reproduce those of the near spectator in a region which we can never enter, we may yet sometimes console ourselves for the too melancholy abstractness and averageness of scientific representations, by painting that distant historic country as distant indeed, but as its far-off hill ranges and shimmering plains really appear in their combination of form and colour, from the height of an individual interest of our own, and beneath the light of our individual character. We see only very little at a time, and that little is not what it appeared to the men of the past; but we see at least, if not the same things, yet in the same manner in which they saw, as we see from the standpoints of personal interest and in the light of personal temper. Scientifically we doubtless lose; but is the past to be treated only scientifically? and can it not give us, and do we not owe it, something more than a mere understanding of why and how? Is it a thing so utterly dead as to be fit only for the scalpel and the microscope? Surely not so. The past can give us, and should give us, not merely ideas, but emotions: healthy pleasure which may make us more light of spirit, and pain which may make us more earnest of mind; the one, it seems to me, as necessary for our individual worthiness as is the other. For to each of us, as we watch the past, as we lie passive and let it slowly circulate around us, there must come sights which, in their reality or in their train of associations, and to the mind of each differently, must gladden as with a sense of beauty, or put us all into a sullen moral ache. I should hate to be misunderstood in this more, perhaps, than in anything else in the world. I speak not of any dramatic emotion, of such egotistic, half-artistic pleasure as some may get from the alternation of cheerfulness and terror, from the excitement caused by evil from which we are as safely separated as are those who look on from the enfuriate bulls in an arena. To such, history, and the history especially of the Renaissance, has been made to pander up but too much. The pain I speak of is the pain which must come to every morally sentient creature with the contemplation of some one of the horrible tangles of evil, of the still fouler intermeshing of evil with good, which history brings up ever and anon. Evil which is past, it is true, but of which the worst evil almost of all, the fact of its having been, can never be past, must ever remain present; and our trouble and indignation at which is holy, our pain is healthy: holy and healthy, because every vibration of such pain as that makes our moral fibre more sensitive; because every immunity from such sensation deadens our higher nature: holy and healthy also because, just as no image of pleasurable things can pass before us without gathering about it other images of some beauty which have long lain by in each individual mind, so also no thought of great injustice of man or of accident, of signal whitewashing of evil or befouling of good, but must, in striking into our soul, put in motion there the salutary thought of some injustice or lying legitimation or insidious pollution, smaller indeed perhaps, but perhaps also nearer to ourselves. Be not therefore too hard upon me if in what I have written of the Renaissance, there is too little attempt to make matters scientifically complete, and too much giving way to personal and perhaps sometimes irrelevant impressions of pleasure and of pain; if I have followed up those pleasurable and painful impressions rather more than sought to discover the exact geography of the historical tract which gave them. Consider, moreover, that this very cause of deficiency may have been also the cause of my having succeeded in achieving anything at all. Personal impression has led me, perhaps, sometimes away from the direct road; but had it not beckoned me to follow, I should most likely have simply not stirred. Pleasant impression and painful, as I have said; and sometimes the painful has been more efficacious than the other. I do not know whether the interest which I have always taken in the old squabble of real and ideal has enabled me to make at all clearer the different characteristics of painting and sculpture in Renaissance portraiture, the relation of the art of Raphael to the art of Velasquez and the art of Whistler. I can scarcely judge whether the pleasure which I owe to the crowding together, the moving about in my fancy, of the heroes and wizards and hippogriffs of the old tales of Oberon and Ogier; the association with the knights and ladies of Boiardo and Ariosto, of this or that figure out of a fresco of Pinturicchio, or a picture by Dosso, has made it easier or more difficult for me to sum up the history of mediæval romance in Renaissance Italy; nor whether the recollection of certain Tuscan farms, the well-known scent of the sun-dried fennel and mint under the vine-trellis, the droning song of the contadino ploughing or pruning unseen in the valley, the snatches of peasants' rhymes, the outlines of peasants' faces--things all these of this our own time, of yesterday or to-day; whether all this, running in my mind like so many scribbly illustrations and annotations along the margin of Lorenzo dei Medici's poems, has made my studies of rustic poetry more clear or more confused. But this much I know as a certainty, that never should I have tried to unravel the causes of the Renaissance's horrible anomaly of improvement and degradation, had not that anomaly returned and returned to make me wretched with its loathsome mixture of good and evil; its detestable alternative of endurance of vile solidarities in the souls of our intellectual forefathers, or of unjust turning away from the men and the times whose moral degradation paid the price of our moral dignity. I also have the further certainty of its having been this long-endured moral sickening at the sight of this moral anomaly, which enabled me to realize the feelings of such of our nobler Elizabethan playwrights as sought to epitomize in single tales of horror the strange impressions left by the accomplished and infamous Italy of their day; and which made it possible for me to express perhaps some of the trouble which filled the mind of Webster and of Tourneur merely by expressing the trouble which filled my own. The following studies are not samples, fragments at which one tries one's hand, of some large and methodical scheme of work. They are mere impressions developed by means of study: not merely currents of thought and feeling which I have singled out from the multifold life of the Renaissance; but currents of thought and feeling in myself, which have found and swept along with them certain items of Renaissance lore. For the Renaissance has been to me, in the small measure in which it has been anything, not so much a series of studies as a series of impressions. I have not mastered the history and literature of the Renaissance (first-hand or second-hand, perfectly or imperfectly), abstract and exact, and then sought out the places and things which could make that abstraction somewhat more concrete in my mind; I have seen the concrete things, and what I might call the concrete realities of thought and feeling left behind by the Renaissance, and then tried to obtain from books some notion of the original shape and manner of wearing these relics, rags and tatters of a past civilization. For Italy, beggared and maimed (by her own unthrift, by the rapacity of others, by the order of Fate) at the beginning of the sixteenth century, was never able to weave for herself a new, a modern civilization, as did the nations who had shattered her looms on which such woofs are made, and carried off her earnings with which such things may be bought; and she had, accordingly, to go through life in the old garments, still half mediæval in shape, which had been fashioned for her during the Renaissance: apparel of the best that could then be made, beautiful and strong in many ways, so beautiful and strong indeed as to impose on people for a good long time, and make French, and Germans, and Spaniards, and English believe (comparing these brilliant tissues with the homespun they were providing for themselves) that it must be all brand new, and of the very latest fashion. But the garments left to Italy by those latest Middle Ages which we call Renaissance, were not eternal: wear and tear, new occupations, and the rough usage of other nations, rent them most sorely; their utter neglect by the long seventeenth century, their hasty patchings up (with bits of odd stuff and all manner of coloured thread and string, so that a harlequin's jacket could not look queerer) by the happy-go-lucky practicalness of the eighteenth century and the Revolution, reduced them thoroughly to rags; and with these rags of Renaissance civilization, Italy may still be seen to drape herself. Not perhaps in the great centres, where the garments of modern civilization, economical, unpicturesque, intended to be worn but a short time, have been imported from other countries; but yet in many places. Yes, you may still see those rags of the Renaissance as plainly as you see the tattered linen fluttering from the twisted iron hooks (made for the display of precious brocades and carpets on pageant days) which still remain in the stained whitewash, the seams of battered bricks of the solid old escutcheoned palaces; see them sometimes displayed like the worm-eaten squares of discoloured embroidery which the curiosity dealers take out of their musty oak presses; and sometimes dragging about mere useless and befouled odds and ends, like the torn shreds which lie among the decaying kitchen refuse, the broken tiles and plaster, the nameless filth and ooze which attracts the flies under every black archway, in every steep bricked lane descending precipitously between the high old houses. Old palaces, almost strongholds, and which are still inhabited by those too poor to pull them down and build some plastered bandbox instead; poems and prose tales written or told five hundred years ago, edited and re-edited by printers to whom there come no modern poems or prose tales worth editing instead; half-pagan, mediæval priest lore, believed in by men and women who have not been given anything to believe instead; easy-going, all-permitting fifteenth century scepticism, not yet replaced by the scientific and socialistic disbelief which is puritanic and iconoclastic; sly and savage habits of vengeance still doing service among the lower classes instead of the orderly chicanery of modern justice;--these are the things, and a hundred others besides, concrete and spiritual, things too magnificent, too sordid, too irregular, too nauseous, too beautiful, and, above all, too utterly unpractical and old-fashioned for our times, which I call the rags of the Renaissance, and with which Italy still ekes out her scanty apparel of modern thoughts and things. It is living among such things, turn by turn delighted by their beauty and offended by their foulness, that one acquires the habit of spending a part only of one's intellectual and moral life in the present, and the rest in the past. Impressions are not derived from description, and thoughts are not suggested by books. The juxtaposition of concrete objects invites the making of a theory as the jutting out of two branches invites the spinning of a spider's web. You find everywhere your facts without opening a book. The explanation which I have tried to give of the exact manner in which mediæval art was influenced by the remains of antiquity, came like a flash during a rainy morning in the Pisan Campo Santo; the working out and testing of that explanation in its details was a matter of going from one church or gallery to the other, a reference or two to Vasari for some date or fact being the only necessary reading; and should any one at this moment ask me for substantiation of that theory, instead of opening books I would take that person to this Sienese Cathedral, and there bid him compare the griffins and arabesques, the delicate figure and foliage ornaments carved in wood and marble by the latter Middle Ages, with the griffins and arabesques, the boldly bossed horsemen, the exquisite fruit garlands of a certain antique altar stone which the builders of the church used as a base to a pillar, and which must have been a never-ceasing-object of study to every draughtsman and stoneworker in Siena. Nor are such everywhere-scattered facts ready for working into theoretic shape, the most which Italy still affords to make the study of the Renaissance an almost involuntary habit. In certain places where only decay has altered things from what they were four centuries ago, Perugia, Orvieto, S. Gimignano, in the older quarters of Florence, Venice, and Verona, but nowhere I think so much as in this city of Siena (as purely mediæval as the suits of rusted armour which its townsfolk patch up and bury themselves in during their August pageants), we are subjected to receive impressions of the past so startlingly lifelike as to get quite interwoven with our impressions of the present; and from that moment the past must share, in a measure, some of the everyday thoughts which we give to the present. In such a city as this, the sudden withdrawal, by sacristan or beggar-crone, of the curtain from before an altar-piece is many a time much more than the mere displaying of a picture: it is the sudden bringing us face to face with the real life of the Renaissance. We have ourselves, perhaps not an hour before, sauntered through squares and dawdled beneath porticos like those which we see filled with the red-robed and plumed citizens and patricians, the Jews and ruffians whom Pinturicchio's parti-coloured men-at-arms are dispersing to make room for the followers of Æneas Sylvius; or clambered up rough lanes, hedged in between oak woods and oliveyards, which we might almost swear were the very ones through which are winding Sodoma's cavalcades of gallantly dressed gentlemen, with their hawks and hounds, and negro jesters and apes and beautiful pages, cantering along on shortnecked little horses with silver bits and scarlet trappings, on the pretence of being the Kings from the East, carrying gold and myrrh to the infant Christ. It seems as if all were astoundingly real, as if, by some magic, we were actually going to mix in the life of the past. But it is in reality but a mere delusion, a deceit like those dioramas which we have all been into as children, and where, by paying your shilling, you were suddenly introduced into an oasis of the desert, or into a recent battle-field: things which surprised us, real palm trunks and Arabian water jars, or real fascines and cannon balls, lying about for us to touch; roads opening on all sides into this simulated desert, through this simulated battle-field. So also with these seeming realities of Renaissance life. We can touch the things scattered on the foreground, can handle the weapons, the furniture, the books and musical instruments; we can see, or think we see, most plainly the streets and paths, the faces and movements of that Renaissance world; but when we try to penetrate into it, we shall find that there is but a slip of solid ground beneath us, that all around us is but canvas and painted wall, perspectived and lit up by our fancy; and that when we try to approach to touch one of those seemingly so real men and women, our eyes find only daubs of paint, our hands meet only flat and chilly stucco. Turn we to our books, and seek therein the spell whereby to make this simulacrum real; and I think the plaster will still remain plaster, the stones still remain stone. Out of the Renaissance, out of the Middle Ages, we must never hope to evoke any spectres which can talk with us and we with them; nothing of the kind of those dim but familiar ghosts, often grotesque rather than heroic, who come to us from out of the books, the daubed portraits of times nearer our own, and sit opposite us, making us laugh, and also cry, with humdrum stories and humdrum woes so very like our own. No; such ghosts the Renaissance has not left behind it. From out of it there come to us no familiars. They are all faces--those which meet us in the pages of chronicles and in the frames of pictures: they are painted records of the past--we may understand them by scanning well their features, but they cannot understand, they cannot perceive us. Such, when all is said, are my impressions of the Renaissance. The moral atmosphere of those days is as impossible for us to breathe as would be the physical atmosphere of the moon: could we, for a moment, penetrate into it, we should die of asphyxia. Say what we may against both Protestant reformation and Catholic reaction, these two began to make an atmosphere (pure or foul) different from that of the Middle Ages and the Renaissance, an atmosphere in which lived creatures like ourselves, into which ourselves might penetrate. A crotchet this, perhaps, of my own; but it is my feeling, nevertheless. The Renaissance is, I say again, no period out of which we must try and evoke ghostly companions. Let us not waste our strength in seeking to do so; but be satisfied if it teaches us strange truths, scientific and practical; if its brilliant and solemn personalities, its bright and majestic art can give us pleasure; if its evils and wrongs, its inevitable degradation, can move us to pity and to indignation. Siena, _September_, 1882. THE SACRIFICE. Ihr führt ins Leben uns hinein; Ihr lässt den armen schuldig werden; Dann übergiebt Ihr ihm der Pein, Denn alle Schuld rächt sich auf Erden. At the end of the fifteenth century, Italy was the centre of European civilization: while the other nations were still plunged in a feudal barbarism which seems almost as far removed from all our sympathies as is the condition of some American or Polynesian savages, the Italians appear to us as possessing habits of thought, a mode of life, political, social, and literary institutions, not unlike those of to-day; as men whom we can thoroughly understand, whose ideas and aims, whose general views, resemble our own in that main, indefinable characteristic of being modern. They had shaken off the morbid monastic ways of feeling, they had thrown aside the crooked scholastic modes of thinking, they had trampled under foot the feudal institutions of the Middle Ages; no symbolical mists made them see things vague, strange, and distorted; their intellectual atmosphere was as clear as our own, and, if they saw less than we do, what they did see appeared to them in its true shape and proportions. Almost for the first time since the ruin of antique civilization, they could show well-organized, well-defined States; artistically disciplined armies; rationally devised laws; scientifically conducted agriculture; and widely extended, intelligently undertaken commerce. For the first time, also, they showed regularly built, healthy, and commodious towns; well-drained fields; and, more important than all, hundreds of miles of country owned not by feudal lords, but by citizens; cultivated not by serfs, but by free peasants. While in the rest of Europe men were floundering among the stagnant ideas and crumbling institutions of the effete Middle Ages, with but a vague half-consciousness of their own nature, the Italians walked calmly through a life as well arranged as their great towns, bold, inquisitive, and sceptical: modern administrators, modern soldiers, modern politicians, modern financiers, scholars, and thinkers. Towards the end of the fifteenth century, Italy seemed to have obtained the philosophic, literary, and artistic inheritance of Greece; the administrative, legal, and military inheritance of Rome, increased threefold by her own strong, original, essentially modern activities. Yet, at that very time, and almost in proportion as all these advantages developed, the moral vitality of the Italians was rapidly decreasing, and a horrible moral gangrene beginning to spread: liberty was extinguished; public good faith seemed to be dying out; even private morality flickered ominously; every free State became subject to a despot, always unscrupulous and often infamous; warfare became a mere pretext for the rapine and extortions of mercenaries; diplomacy grew to be a mere swindle; the humanists inoculated literature with the filthiest refuse cast up by antiquity; nay, even civic and family ties were loosened; assassinations and fratricides began to abound, and all law, human and divine, to be set at defiance. The nations who came into contact with the Italians opened their eyes with astonishment, with mingled admiration and terror; and we, people of the nineteenth century, are filled with the same feeling, only much stronger and more defined, as we watch the strange ebullition of the Renaissance, seething with good and evil, as we contemplate the enigmatic picture drawn by the puzzled historian, the picture of a people moving on towards civilization and towards chaos. Our first feeling is perplexity; our second feeling, anger; we do not at first know whether we ought to believe in such an anomaly; when once we do believe in it, we are indignant at its existence. We accuse these Italians of the Renaissance of having wilfully and shamefully perverted their own powers, of having wantonly corrupted their own civilization, of having cynically destroyed their own national existence, of having boldly called down the vengeance of Heaven; we lament and we accuse, naturally enough, but perhaps not justly. Let us ask ourselves what the Renaissance really was, and what was its use; how it was produced, and how it necessarily ended. Let us try to understand its inherent nature, and the nature of what surrounded it, which, taken together, constitute its inevitable fate; let us seek the explanation of that strange, anomalous civilization, of that life in death, and death in life. The Renaissance, inasmuch as it is something which we can define, and not a mere vague name for a certain epoch, is not a period, but a condition; and if we apply the word to any period in particular, it is because in it that condition was peculiarly marked. The Renaissance may be defined as being that phase in mediæval history in which the double influence, feudal and ecclesiastic, which had gradually crushed the spontaneous life of the early mediæval revival, and reduced all to a dead, sterile mass, was neutralized by the existence of democratic and secular communities; that phase in which, while there existed not yet any large nations, or any definite national feeling, there existed free towns and civic democracies. In this sense the Renaissance began to exist with the earliest mediæval revival, but its peculiar mission could be carried out only when that general revival had come to an end. In this sense, also, the Renaissance did not exist all over Italy, and it existed outside Italy; but in Italy it was far more universal than elsewhere: there it was the rule, elsewhere the exception. There was no Renaissance in Savoy, nor in Naples, nor even in Rome; but north of the Alps there was Renaissance only in individual towns like Nürnberg, Augsburg, Bruges, Ghent, &c. In the North the Renaissance is dotted about amidst the stagnant Middle Ages; in Italy the Middle Ages intersect and interrupt the Renaissance here and there: the consequence was that in the North the Renaissance was crushed by the Middle Ages, whereas in Italy the Middle Ages were crushed by the Renaissance. Wherever there was a free town, without direct dependence on feudal or ecclesiastical institutions, governed by its own citizens, subsisting by its own industry and commerce; wherever the burghers built walls, slung chains across their streets, and raised their own cathedral; wherever, be it in Germany, in Flanders, or in England, there was a suspension of the deadly influences of the later Middle Ages; there, to greater or less extent, was the Renaissance. But in the North this rudimentary Renaissance was never suffered to spread beyond the walls of single towns; it was hemmed in on all sides by feudal and ecclesiastical institutions, which restrained it within definite limits. The free towns of Germany were mostly dependent upon their bishops or archbishops; the more politically important cities of Flanders were under the suzerainty of a feudal family; they were subject to constant vexations from their suzerains, and their very existence was endangered by an attempt at independence; Liege was well-nigh destroyed by the supporters of her bishop, and Ghent was ruined by the revenge of the Duke of Burgundy. In these northern cities, therefore, the commonwealth was restricted to a sort of mercantile corporation--powerful within the town, but powerless without it; while outside the town reigned feudalism, with its robber nobles, free companies, and bands of outlawed peasants, from whom the merchant princes of Bruges and Nürnberg could scarcely protect their wares. To this political feebleness and narrowness corresponded an intellectual weakness and pettiness: the burghers were mere self-ruling tradesfolk; their interests did not extend far beyond their shops and their houses; literature was cramped in guilds, and reflection and imagination were confined within the narrow limits of town life. Everything was on a small scale; the Renaissance was moderate and inefficient, running no great dangers and achieving no great conquests. There was not enough action to produce reaction; and, while the Italian free States were ground down by foreign tyrannies, the German and Flemish cities insensibly merged into the vast empire of the House of Austria. While also the Italians of the sixteenth century rushed into moral and religious confusion, which only Jesuitism could discipline, the Germans of the same time quietly and comfortably adopted the Reformation. The main cause of this difference, the main explanation of the fact that while in the North the Renaissance was cramped and enfeebled, in Italy it carried everything before it, lies in the circumstance that feudalism never took deep root in Italy. The conquered Latin race was enfeebled, it is true, but it was far more civilized than the conquering Teutonic peoples; the Barbarians came down, not on to a previous layer of Barbarians, but on to a deep layer of civilized men; the nomads of the North found in Italy a people weakened and corrupt, but with a long and inextinguishable habit of independence, of order, of industry. The country had been cultivated for centuries, the Barbarians could not turn it into a desert; the inhabitants had been organized as citizens for a thousand years, the Barbarians could not reorganize them feudally. The Barbarians who settled in Italy, especially the latest of them, the Lombards, were not only in a minority, but at an immense disadvantage. They founded kingdoms and dukedoms, where German was spoken and German laws were enacted; but whenever they tried to communicate with their Italian subjects, they found themselves forced to adopt the Latin language, manners, and laws; their domination became real only in proportion as it ceased to be Teutonic, and the Barbarian element was swallowed up by what remained of Roman civilization. Little by little these Lombard monarchies, without roots in the soil, and surrounded by hostile influences, died out, and there remained of the invaders only a certain number of nobles, those whose descendants were to bear the originally German names of Gherardesca, Rolandinghi, Soffredinghi, Lambertazzi, Guidi, and whose suzerains were the Bavarian and Swabian dukes and marquises of Tuscan. Meanwhile the Latin element revived; towns were rebuilt; a new Latin language was formed; and the burghers of these young communities gradually wrested franchises and privileges from the weak Teutonic rulers, who required Italian agriculture, industry, and commerce, without which they and their feudal retainers would have starved. Feudalism became speedily limited to the hilly country; the plain became the property of the cities which it surrounded; the nobles turned into mere robber chieftains, then into mercenary soldiers, and finally, as the towns gained importance, they gradually descended into the cities and begged admission into the guilds of artizans and tradesfolk. Thus they grew into citizens and Italians; but for a long time they kept hankering after feudalism, and looking towards the German emperors who claimed the inheritance of the Lombard kings. The struggle between Guelphs and Ghibellines, between the German feudal element and the Latin civic one, ended in the complete annihilation of the former in all the north and centre of Italy. The nobles sank definitely into merchants, and those who persisted in keeping their castles were speedily ousted by the commissaries of the free towns. Such is the history of feudalism in Italy--the history of Barbarian minority engulphed in Latin civilization; of Teutonic counts and dukes turned into robber nobles, hunted into the hills by the townsfolk, and finally seeking admission into the guilds of wool-spinners or money-changers; and in it is the main explanation of the fact that the Italian republics, instead of remaining restricted within their city walls like those of the North, spread over whole provinces, and became real politically organized States. And in such States having a free political, military, and commercial life, uncramped by ecclesiastic or feudal influence, in them alone could the great revival of human intelligence and character thoroughly succeed. The commune was the only species of free government possible during the Middle Ages, the only form which could resist that utterly prostrating action of later mediævalism. Feudalism stamped out civilization; monasticism warped it; in the open country it was burnt, trampled on, and uprooted; in the cloister it withered and shrank and perished; only within the walls of a city, protected from the storm without, and yet in the fresh atmosphere of life, could it develope, flourish, and bear fruit. But this system of the free town contained in itself, as does every other institution, the seed of death--contained it in that expanding element which developes, ripens, rots, and finally dissolves all living organisms. A little town is formed in the midst of some feudal state, as Pisa, Florence, Lucca, and Bologna were formed in the dominions of the lords of Tuscany; the _elders_ govern it; it is protected from without; it obtains privileges from its suzerain, always glad to oppose anything to his vassals, and who, unlike them, is too far removed in the feudal scale to injure the commune, which is under his supreme jurisdiction but not in his land. The town can thus develope regularly, governing itself, taxing itself, defending itself against encroaching neighbours; it gradually extends beyond its own walls, liberates its peasantry, extends its commerce, extinguishes feudalism, beats back its suzerain or buys privileges from him; in short, lives the vigorous young life of the early Italian commonwealths. But now the danger begins. The original system of government, where every head of a family is a power in the State, where every man helps to govern, without representation or substitution, could exist only as long as the commune remained small enough for the individual to be in proportion with it; as long as the State remained small enough for all its citizens to assemble in the market-place and vote, for every man to know every detail of the administration, every inch of the land. When the limits were extended, the burgher had to deal with towns and villages and men and things which he did not know, and which he probably hated, as every small community hated its neighbour; witness the horrible war, lasting centuries, between the two little towns of Dinant and Bouvines on the Meuse. Still more was this the case with an important city: the subjugated town was hated all the more for being a rival centre; the burghers of Florence, inspired only by their narrow town interest, treated Pisa according to its dictates, that is, tried to stamp it out. Thence the victorious communes came to be surrounded by conquered communes, which they dared not trust with any degree of power; and which, instead of being so many allies in case of invasion, were merely focuses of revolt, or at best inert impediments. Similarly, when the communes enlarged, and found it indispensable to delegate special men, who could attend to political matters more thoroughly than the other citizens, they were constantly falling under the tyranny of their _captains of the people_, of their _gonfalonieri_, and of all other heads of the State; or else, as in Florence, they were frightened by this continual danger into a system of perpetual interference with the executive, which was thus rendered well-nigh helpless. To this rule Venice forms the only exception, on account of her exceptional position and history: the earliest burghers turning into an intensely conservative and civic aristocracy, while everywhere else the feudal nobles turned into petty burghers, entirely subversive of communal interests. Venice had the yet greater safeguard of being protected both from her victorious enemies and her own victorious generals; who, however powerful on the mainland, could not seriously endanger the city itself, which thus remained a centre of reorganization in time of disaster. In this Venice was entirely unique, as she was unique in the duration of her institutions and independence. In the other towns of Italy, where there existed no naturally governing family or class, where every citizen had an equal share in government, and there existed no distinction save that of wealth and influence, there was a constant tendency to the illegitimate preponderance of every man or every family that rose above the average; and in a democratic, mercantile State, not a day passed without some such elevation. In a systematic, consolidated State, where the power is in the hands of a hereditary sovereign or aristocracy, a rich merchant remains a rich merchant, a victorious general remains a victorious general, an eloquent orator remains an eloquent orator; but in a shapeless, flunctuating democracy like those of Italy, the man who has influence over his fellow-citizens, whether by his money, his soldiers, or his eloquence, necessarily becomes the head of the State; everything is free and unoccupied, only a little superior strength is required to push into it. Cosimo de' Medici has many clients, many correspondents, many debtors; he can bind people by pecuniary obligations: he becomes prince. Sforza has a victorious army, whom he can either hound on to the city or restrain into a protection of its interests: he becomes prince. Savonarola has eloquence that makes the virtuous start up and the wicked tremble: he becomes prince. The history of the Italian commonwealths shows us but one thing: the people, the only legal possessors of political power, giving it over to their bankers (Medici, Pepoli); to their generals (Della Torre, Visconti, Scaligeri); to their monkish reformers (Fra Bussolaro, Fra Giovanni da Vincenza, Savonarola). Here then we have the occasional but inevitable usurpers, who either momentarily or finally disorganize the State. But this is not all. In such a State every family hate, every mercantile hostility, means a corresponding political division. The guilds are sure to be rivals, the larger wishing to exclude the smaller from government: the lower working classes (the _ciompi_ of Florence) wish to upset the guilds completely; the once feudal nobles wish to get back military power; the burghers wish entirely to extirpate the feudal nobles; the older families wish to limit the Government, the newer prefer democracy and Cæsarism. Add to this the complications of private interests, the personal jealousies and aversions, the private warfare, inevitable in a town where legal justice is not always to be had, while forcible retaliation is always within reach; and the result is constant party spirit, insults, scuffles, conspiracies: the feudal nobles build towers in the streets, the burghers pull them down; the lower artizans set fire to the warehouses of the guilds, the magistrates take part in the contest; blood is spilt, magistrates are beheaded or thrown out of windows, a foreign State is entreated to interfere, and a number of citizens are banished by the victorious party. This latter result creates a new and terrible danger for the State, in the persons of so many exiles, ready to do anything, to join with any one, in order to return to the city and drive out their enemies in their turn. The end of such constant upheavings is that the whole population is disarmed, no party suffering its rival to have any means of offence or defence. Moreover, as industry and commerce develope, the citizens become unwilling to fight, while on the other hand the invention of firearms, subverting the whole system of warfare, renders special military training more and more necessary. In the days of the Lombard League, of Campaldino and Montaperti, the citizens could fight, hand to hand, round their _carroccio_ or banner, without much discipline being required; but when it came to fortifying towns against cannon, to drilling bodies of heavily armed cavalry, acting by the mere dexterity of their movements; when war became a science and an art, then the citizen had necessarily to be left out, and adventurers and poor nobles had to form armies of mercenaries, making warfare their sole profession. This system of mercenary troops, so bitterly inveighed against by Machiavelli (who, of course, entirely overlooked its inevitable origin and viewed it as a voluntarily incurred pest), added yet another and, perhaps, the very worst danger to civil liberty. It gave enormous, irresistible power to adventurers unscrupulous by nature and lawless by education, the sole object of whose career it became to obtain possession of States; by no means a difficult enterprise, considering that they and their fellows were the sole possessors of military force in the country. At the same time, this system of mercenaries perfected the condition of utter defencelessness in which the gradual subjection of rival cities, the violent party spirit, and the general disarming of the burghers, had placed the great Italian cities. For these troops, being wholly indifferent as to the cause for which they were fighting, turned war into the merest game of dodges--half-a-dozen men being killed at a great battle like that of Anghiari--and they at the same time protracted campaigns beyond every limit, without any decisive action taking place. The result of all these inevitable causes of ruin, was that most of the commonwealths fell into the hands of despots; while those that did not were paralyzed by interior factions, by a number of rebellious subject towns, and by generals who, even if they did not absolutely betray their employers, never efficiently served them. Such a condition of civic disorder lasted throughout the Middle Ages, until the end of the fifteenth century, without any further evils arising from it. The Italians made endless wars with each other, conquered each other, changed their government without end, fell into the power of tyrants; but throughout these changes their civilization developed unimpeded; because, although one of the centres of national life might be momentarily crushed, the others remained in activity, and infused vitality even into the feeble one, which would otherwise have perished. All these ups and downs seemed but to stir the life in the country: and no vital danger appeared to threaten it; nor did any, so long as the surrounding countries--France, Germany, and Spain--remained mere vast feudal nebulae, formless, weightless, immovable. The Italians feared nothing from them; they would call down the King of France or the Emperor of Germany without a moment's hesitation, because they knew that the king could not bring France, nor the emperor bring Germany, but only a few miserable, hungry retainers with him; but Florence would watch the growth of the petty State of the Scaligers, and Venice look with terror at the Duke of Milan, because they knew that _there_ there was concentrated life, and an organization which could be wielded as' perfectly as a sword by the head of the State. In the last decade of the fifteenth century the Italians called in the French to put down their private enemies: Lodovico of Milan called down Charles VIII. to rid him of his nephew and of the Venetians; the Venetians to rid them of Lodovico: the Medici to establish them firmly in Florence; the party of freedom to drive out the Medici. Each State intended to use the French to serve their purpose, and then to send back Charles VIII. with a little money and a great deal of derision, as they had done with kings and emperors of earlier days. But Italian politicians suddenly discovered that they had made a fatal mistake; that they had reckoned in ignorance, and that instead of an army they had called down a nation: for during the interval since their last appeal to foreign interference, that great movement had taken place which had consolidated the heterogeneous feudal nebulae into homogeneous and compact kingdoms. Single small States, relying upon mercenary troops, could not for a moment resist the shock of such an agglomeration of soldiery as that of the French, and of their successors the Spaniards and Germans. Sismondi asks indignantly, Why did the Italians not form a federation as soon as the strangers appeared? He might as well ask, Why did the commonwealths not turn into a modern monarchy? The habit of security from abroad and of jealousy within; the essential nature of a number of rival trading centres, made such a thing not only impossible of execution, but for a while impossible of conception; confederacies had become possible only when Burlamacchi was decapitated by the imperialists; popular resistance had become a reality only when Feruccio was massacred by the Spaniards; a change of national institutions was feasible only when all national institutions had been destroyed; when the Italians, having recognized the irresistible force of their adversaries, had ceased to form independent States and larger and smaller guilds; when all the characteristics of Italian civilization had been destroyed; when, in short, it was too late to do anything save theorize with Machiavelli and Guicciardini as to what ought to have been done. We must not hastily accuse the volition of the Italians of the Renaissance; they may have been egotistic and timid, but had they been (as some most certainly were) heroic and self-sacrificing to the utmost degree, they could not have averted the catastrophe. The nature of their civilization prevented not only their averting the peril, but even their conceiving its existence; the very nature of their political forms necessitated such a dissolution of them. The commune grows from within; it is a little speck which gradually extends its circumference, and the further this may be from the original centre, the less do its parts coalesce. The modern monarchy grows from external pressure, and towards the centre; it is a huge mass consolidating into a hard, distinct shape. Thence it follows that the more the commonwealth developes, the weaker it grows, because its tendency is to spread and fall to pieces; whereas the more the monarchy developes, the stronger it becomes, because it fills up towards the centre, and becomes more vigorously knit together. The city ceases to be a city when extended over hundreds of miles; the nation becomes all the more a nation for being compressed towards a central point. The entire political collapse of Italy in the sixteenth century was not only inevitable, from the essential nature of the civilization of the Renaissance, but it was also indispensable in order that this civilization might fulfil its mission. Civilization cannot spread so long as it is contained within a national mould, and only a vanquished nation can civilize its victors. The Greece of Pericles could not Hellenize Rome, but the Greece of the weak successors of Alexander could; the Rome of Cæsar did not Romanize the Teutonic races as did the Rome of Theodosius; no amount of colonizing among the vanquished can ever produce the effect of a victorious army, of a whole nation, suddenly finding itself in the midst of the superior civilization of a conquered people. Michelet may well call the campaign of Charles VIII. the discovery of Italy. His imaginative mind seized at once the vast importance of this descent of the French into Italy, which other historians have been too prone to view in the same light as any other invasion. It is from this moment that dates the _modernisation_, if we may so express ourselves, of the North. The barbarous soldiers of Gaston de Foix, of Frundsberg, and of Gonsalvo, were the unconscious bearers of the seeds of the ages of Elizabeth, of Louis XIV., and of Goethe. These stupid and rapacious ruffians, while they wantonly destroyed the works of Italian civilization, rendered possible the existence of a Montaigne, a Shakespeare, and a Cervantes. Italy was as a vast store-house, sheltered from all the dangers of mediæval destruction; in which, while all other nations were blindly and fiercely working out their national existence, the inheritance of Antiquity and the produce of the earliest modern civilization had been peaceably garnered up. When the store-house was full, its gates had to be torn open and its riches plundered and disseminated by the intellectual starvelings of the North; thus only could the rest of mankind feed on these riches, regain and develope their mental life. What were those intellectual riches of the Renaissance? What was that strong intellectual food which revived the energies and enriched the blood of the Barbarians of the sixteenth century? The Renaissance possessed the germs of every modern thing, and much that was far more than a mere germ: it possessed the habit of equality before the law, of civic organization, of industry and commerce developed to immense and superb proportions. It possessed science, literature, and art; above all, that which at once produced and was produced by all these--thorough perception of what exists, thorough consciousness of our own freedom and powers: self-cognizance. In Italy there was intellectual light, enabling men to see and judge all around them, enabling them to act wittingly and deliberately. In this lies the immense greatness of the Renaissance; to this are due all its achievements in literature and science, and, above all, in art: that, for the first time since the dissolution of antique civilization, men were free agents, both in thought and in deed; that there was an end of that palsying slavery of the Middle Ages, slavery of body and of mind, slavery to stultified ideas and effete forms, which made men endure every degree of evil and believe every degree of absurdity. For the first time since Antiquity, man walks free of all political and intellectual trammels, erect, conscious of his own thoughts, master of his own actions; ready to seek for truth across the ocean like Columbus, or across the heavens like Copernicus; to seek it in criticism and analysis like Machiavelli or Guicciardini, boldly to reproduce it in its highest, widest sense like Michael Angelo and Raphael. The men of the Renaissance had to pay a heavy price for this intellectual freedom and self-cognizance which they not only enjoyed themselves, but transmitted to the rest of the world; the price was the loss of all moral standard, of all fixed public feeling. They had thrown aside all accepted rules and criteria, they had cast away all faith in traditional institutions, they had destroyed, and could not yet rebuild. In their instinctive and universal disbelief in all that had been taught them, they lost all respect for opinion, for rule, for what had been called right and wrong. Could it be otherwise? Had they not discovered that what had been called right had often been unnatural, and what had been called wrong often natural? Moral teachings, remonstrances, and judgments belonged to that dogmatism from which they had broken loose; to those schools and churches where the foolish and the unnatural had been taught and worshipped; to those priests and monks who themselves most shamefully violated their teachings. To profess morality was to be a hypocrite; to reprobate others was to be narrow-minded. There was so much error mixed up with truth that truth had to share the discredit of error; so many innocent things had been denounced as sins that sinful ones at length ceased to be reprobated; people had so often found themselves sympathizing with supposed criminals, that they soon lost their horror of real ones. Damnation came to be disassociated from moral indignation: it was the retribution, not of the unnatural and immoral, but of the unlawful; and unlawful with respect to a law made without reference to reason and instinct. As reason and instinct were thus set at defiance, but could not be silenced, the law was soon acquiesced in without being morally supported; thus, little by little, moral feeling became warped. This was already the case in Dante's day. Farinata is condemned to the most horrible punishment, which to Dante seems just, because in accordance with an accepted code; yet Dante cannot but admire him and cannot really hate him, for there is nothing in him to hate; he is a criminal and yet respected--fatal combination! Dante punishes Francesca, Pier delle Vigne, and Brunetto Latini, but he shows no personal horror of them; in the one case his moral instinct refrains from censuring the comparatively innocent, in the other it has ceased to revolt from the really infamous. Where Dante does feel real indignation, is most often in cases unprovided for by the religious codes, as with those low, grovelling, timid natures (the very same with whom Machiavelli, the admirer of great villains, fairly loses patience), those creatures whom Dante personally despises, whom he punishes with filthy devices of his own, whom he passes by with words such as he never addresses to Semiramis, Brutus, or Capaneus. This toleration of vice, while acquiescing in its legal punishment, increased in proportion to the development of individual judgment, and did not cease till all the theories of the lawful and unlawful had been so completely demolished as to permit of their being rebuilt on solid bases. This work of demolition had not yet ceased in the beginning of the sixteenth century; and the moral confusion due to it was increased by various causes dependent on political and other circumstances. The despots in whose hands it was the inevitable fate of the various commonwealths to fall, were by their very position immoral in all their dealings: violent, fraudulent, suspicious, and, from their life of constant unnatural tension of the feelings, prone to every species of depravity; while, on the other hand, in the feudal parts of Italy--which had merely received a superficial Renaissance varnish imported from other places with painters and humanists--in Naples, Rome, and the greater part of Umbria and the Marches, the upper classes had got into that monstrous condition which seems to have been the inevitable final product of feudalism, and which, while it gave France her Armagnacs, her Foix, and her Retz, gave Italy their counterparts in her hideously depraved princelets, the Malatestas, Varanos, Vitelli, and Baglioni. Both these classes of men, despots and feudal nobles, had a wide field for their ambition among the necessarily dissolved civic institutions; and their easy success contributed to confirm the general tendency of the day to say with Commines, "Qui a le succès a l'honneur," and to confound these two words and ideas. Nor was this yet all: the men of the Renaissance discovered the antique world, and in their wild, blind enthusiasm, in their ardent, insatiable thirst for its literature, swallowed it eagerly, dregs and all, till they were drunk and poisoned. These are the main causes of the immorality of the Renaissance: first, the general disbelief in all accepted doctrines, due to the falseness and unnaturalness of those hitherto prevalent; secondly, the success of unscrupulous talent in a condition of political disorder; thirdly, the wholesale and unjudging enthusiasm for all that remained of Antiquity, good or bad. These three great causes, united in a general intellectual ebullition, are the explanation of the worst feature of the Renaissance: not the wickedness of numberless single individuals, but the universal toleration of it by the people at large. Men like Sigismondo Malatesta, Sixtus IV., Alexander VI., and Cæsar Borgia might be passed over as exceptions, as monstrous aberrations which cannot affect our judgment of their time and nation; but the general indifference towards their vices shown by their contemporaries and countrymen is a conclusive and terrible proof of the moral chaos of the Renaissance. It is just the presence of so much instinctive simplicity and virtue, of childlike devotion to great objects, of patriarchal simplicity of manners, of all that is loveable in the books of men like Vespasiano da Bisticci and Leon Battista Albert; of so much that seems like the realization of the idyllic home and merchant life of Schiller's "Song of the Bell," by the side of all the hideous lawlessness and vice of the despots and humanists; that makes the Renaissance so drearily painful a spectacle. The presence of the good does not console us for that of the evil, because it neither mitigates nor even shrinks from it; we merely lose our pleasure in the good nature and simplicity of Æneas Sylvius when we see his cool admiration for a man of fraud and violence like Sforza; we begin to mistrust the purity and integrity of the upright Guarino da Verona when we hear his lenient judgment of the infamous Beccadelli; we require of the virtuous that they should not only be incapable of vice, but abhorrent of it; and this is what even the best men of the Renaissance rarely were. Such a state of moral chaos there has constantly been when an old effete mode of thought required to be destroyed. Such work is always attended, in greater or less degree, by this subversion of all recognized authority, this indifference to evil, this bold tasting of the forbidden. In the eighteenth century France plays the same part that was played in the fifteenth by Italy: again we meet the rebellion against all that has been consecrated by time and belief, the toleration of evil, the praise of the abominable, in the midst of the search for the good. These two have been the great fever epochs of modern history; fever necessary for a subsequent steady growth. Both gave back truth to man, and man to nature, at the expense of temporary moral uncertainty and ruthless destruction. The Renaissance reinstated the individual in his human dignity, as a thinking, feeling, and acting being; the Eighteenth Century reconstructed society as a homogeneous free existence; both at the expense of individual degradation and social disorder. Both were moments of ebullition in which horrible things rose to the surface, but after which what remained was purer than it had ever been before. This is no plea for the immorality of the Renaissance: evil is none the less evil for being inevitable and necessary; but it is nevertheless well that we should understand its necessity. It certainly is a terrible admission, but one which must be made, that evil is part of the mechanism for producing good; and had the arrangement of the universe been entrusted to us, benevolent and equitable people of an enlightened age, there would doubtless have been invented some system of evolution and progression differing from the one which includes such machinery as hurricanes and pestilences, carnage and misery, superstition and license, Renaissance and Eighteenth Century. But unfortunately Nature was organized in a less charitable and intelligent fashion; and, among other evils required for the final attainment of good, we find that of whole generations of men being condemned to moral uncertainty and error in order that other generations may enjoy knowledge peacefully and guiltlessly. Let us remember this, and let us be more generous towards the men who were wicked that we might be enlightened. Above all, let us bear in mind, in judging the Renaissance, that the sacrifice which it represents could be useful only in so far as it was complete and irretrievable. Let us remember that the communal system of government, on whose development the Renaissance mainly depended, inevitably perished in proportion as it developed; that the absolute subjugation of Italy by Barbarous nations was requisite to the dissemination of the civilization thus obtained; that the Italians were politically annihilated before they had time to recover a normal condition, and were given up crushed and broken spirited, to be taught righteousness by Spaniards and Jesuits. That, in short, while the morality of the Italians was sacrificed to obtain the knowledge on which modern society depends, the political existence of Italy was sacrificed to the diffusion of that knowledge, and that the nation was not only doomed to immorality, but doomed also to the inability to reform. Perhaps, if we think of all this, and weigh the tremendous sacrifice to which we owe our present intellectual advantages, we may still feel sad, but sad rather with remorse than with indignation, in contemplating the condition of Italy in the first years of the sixteenth century; in looking down from our calm, safe, scientific position, on the murder of the Italian Renaissance: great and noble at heart, cut off pitilessly at its prime; denied even an hour to repent and amend; hurried off before the tribunal of posterity, suddenly, unexpectedly, and still bearing its weight of unexpiated, unrecognized guilt. THE ITALY OF THE ELIZABETHAN DRAMATISTS. I. The chroniclers of the last years of the fifteenth century have recorded how the soldiery of Charles VIII. of France amused the tedious leisure of their sullen and suspicious occupation of Rome, by erecting in the camp a stage of planks, and performing thereon a rude mystery-play. The play thus improvised by a handful of troopers before this motley invading army: before the feudal cavalry of Burgundy, strange steel monsters, half bird, half reptile, with steel beaked and winged helmets and claw-like steel shoes, and jointed steel corselet and rustling steel mail coat; before the infantry of Gascony, rapid and rapacious with their tattered doublets and rag-bound feet; before the over-fed, immensely plumed, and slashed and furbelowed giants of Switzerland, and the starved, half-naked savages of Brittany and the Marches--before this multifaced, many-speeched army, gathered from the rich cities of the North and the devastated fields of the South, and the wilds and rocks of the West and the East, alike in nothing save in its wonder and dread and delight and horror at this strange invaded Italy--the play performed for the entertainment of this encamped army was no ordinary play. No clerkly allegorical morality; no mouthing and capering market-place farce; no history of Joseph and his brethren, of the birth of the Saviour, or of the temptations of St. Anthony. It was the half-allegorical, half-dramatic representation of the reigning Borgia pope and his children; it was the rude and hesitating moulding into dramatic shape of those terrible rumours of simony and poison, of lust and of violence, of mysterious death and abominable love, which had met the invaders as they had first set their feet in Italy; which had become louder and clearer with every onward step through the peninsula, and now circulated around them, with frightful distinctness, in the very capital of Christ's vicar on earth. This blundering mystery-play of the French troopers is the earliest imaginative fruit of that first terrified and fascinated glimpse of the men of the barbarous North at the strange Italy of the Renaissance; it is the first manifestation of that strong tragic impulse due to the sudden sight, by rude and imaginative young nations, of the splendid and triumphant wickedness of Italy. The French saw, wondered, shuddered, and played upon their camp stage the tragedy of the Borgias. But the French remained in Italy, became familiar with its ways, and soon merely shrugged their shoulders and smiled where they had once stared in horror. They served under the flags of Sforzas, Borgias, Baglionis, and Vitellis, by the side of the bravos of Naples and Umbria; they saw their princes wed the daughters of evil-famed Italian sovereigns, and their princes' children, their own Valois and Guises, develope into puny, ambiguous, and ominous Medicis and Gonzagas, surrounded by Italian minions and poison distillers, and buffoons and money-lenders. The French of the sixteenth century, during their long Neapolitan and Lombard wars and negotiations, and time to learn all that Italy could teach; to become refined, subtle, indifferent, and cynical: bastard Italians, with the bastard Italian art of Goujon and Philibert Delorme, and the bastard Italian poetry of Du Bellay and Ronsard. The French of the sixteenth century therefore translated Machiavel and Ariosto and Bandello; but they never again attempted such another play as that which they had improvised while listening to the tales of Alexander VI. and Cæsar and Lucrezia, in their camp in the meadows behind Sant' Angelo. The Spaniards then came to Italy, and the Germans: strong mediæval nations, like the French, with the creative power of the Middle Ages still in them, refreshed by the long rest of the dull fifteenth century. But Spaniards and Germans came as mere greedy and besotten and savage mercenaries: the scum of their countries, careless of Italian sights and deeds, thinking only of torturing for hidden treasure, or swilling southern wines; and they returned to Spain and to Germany, to persecutions of Moriscos and plundering of abbeys, as savage and as dull as they had arrived. A smattering of Italian literature, art, and manners was carried back to Spain and Germany by Spanish and German princes and governors, to be transmitted to a few courtiers and humanists; but the imagination of the lower classes of Spain and of Germany, absorbed in the Quixotic Catholicism of Loyola and the biblical contemplation of Luther, never came into fertilizing contact with the decaying Italy of the Renaissance. The mystery-play of the soldiers of Charles VIII. seemed destined to remain an isolated and abortive attempt. But it was not so. The invasions had exhausted themselves; the political organization of Italy was definitely broken up; its material wealth was exhausted; the French, Germans, and Spaniards had come and gone, and returned and gone again; they had left nothing to annex or to pillage; when, about the middle of the sixteenth century, the country began to be overrun by a new horde of barbarians: the English. The English came neither as invaders nor as marauders; they were peaceable students and rich noblemen, who, so far from trying to extort money or annex territory, rather profited the ruined Italians by the work which they did and the money which they squandered. Yet these quiet and profitable travellers, before whom the Italians might safely display their remaining wealth, were in reality as covetous of the possessions of Italy and as resolute to return home enriched as any tattered Gascon men-at-arms or gluttonous Swiss or grinding Spaniards. They were, one and all, consciously and unconsciously, dragged to Italy by the irresistible instinct that Italy possessed that which they required; by the greed of intellectual gain. That which they thus instinctively knew that Italy possessed, that which they must obtain, was a mode of thought, a habit of form; philosophy, art, civilization: all the materials for intellectual manipulation. For, in the sixteenth century, on awakening from its long evil sleep, haunted by the nightmare of civil war, of the fifteenth century, the English mind had started up in the vigour of well-nigh mature youth, fed up and rested by the long inactivity in which it had slept through its period of assimilation and growth. It had awakened at the first touch of foreign influence, and had grown with every fresh contact with the outer world: with the first glance at Plato and Xenophon suddenly opened by Erasmus and Colet, at the Bible suddenly opened by Cranmer; it had grown with its sob of indignation at the sight of the burning faggots surrounding the martyrs, with its joyous heart-throbs at the sight of the seas and islands of the New World; it had grown with the sudden passionate strain of every nerve and every muscle when the galleys of Philip had been sighted in the Channel. And when it had paused, taken breath, and looked calmly around it, after the tumult of all these sights and sounds and actions, the English mind, in the time of Elizabeth, had found itself of a sudden full-grown and blossomed out into superb manhood, with burning activities and indefatigable powers. But it had found itself without materials for work. Of the scholastic philosophy and the chivalric poetry of the Middle Ages there remained but little that could be utilized: the few bungled formulæ, the few half-obsolete rhymes still remaining, were as unintelligible, in their spirit of feudalism and monasticism and mysticism, as were the Angevin English and the monkish Latin in which they were written to these men of the sixteenth century. All the intellectual wealth of England remained to be created; but it could not be created out of nothing. Spenser, Shakespeare, and Bacon could not be produced out of the half-effete and scattered fragments of Chaucer, of Scotus, and of Wycliffe. The materials on which English genius was to work must be sought abroad, and abroad they could be found only in Italy. For in the demolished Italy of the sixteenth century lay the whole intellectual wealth of the world: the great legacy of Antiquity, the great work of the Middle Ages had been stored up, and had been increased threefold, and sorted and classified by the Renaissance; and now that the national edifice had been dismantled and dilapidated, and the national activity was languishing, it all lay in confusion, awaiting only the hand of those who would carry it away and use it once more. To Italy therefore Englishmen of thought and fancy were dragged by an impulse of adventure and greed as irresistible as that which dragged to Antwerp and the Hanse ports, to India and America, the seekers for gold and for soil. To Italy they flocked and through Italy they rambled, prying greedily into each cranny and mound of the half-broken civilization, upturning with avid curiosity all the rubbish and filth; seeking with aching eyes and itching fingers for the precious fragments of intellectual splendour; lingering with fascinated glance over the broken remnants and deep, mysterious gulfs of a crumbling and devastated civilization. And then, impatient of their intoxicating and tantalizing search, suddenly grown desperate, they clutched and stored away everything, and returned home tattered, soiled, bedecked with gold and with tinsel, laden with an immense uncouth burden of jewels, and broken wealth, and refuse and ordure, with pseudo-antique philosophy, with half-mediæval Dantesque and Petrarchesque poetry, with Renaissance science, with humanistic pedantry and obscenity, with euphuistic conceits and casuistic quibble, with art, politics, metaphysics--civilization embedded in all manner of rubbish and abomination, soiled with all manner of ominous stains. All this did they carry home and throw helter-skelter into the new-kindled fire of English intellectual life, mingling with it many a humble-seeming Northern alloy; cleaning and compounding, casting into shapes, mediæval and English, this strange Corinthian brass made of all these heterogeneous remnants, classical, Italian, Saxon, and Christian. A strange Corinthian brass indeed; and as various in tint, in weight, and in tone, in manifold varieties of mixture, as were the moulds into which it was cast: the white and delicate silver settling down in the gracious poetic moulds of Sidney and Spenser; the glittering gold, which can buy and increase, in the splendid, heavy mould of Bacon's prose; and the copper, the iron, the silver and gold in wondrous mixture, with wondrous iridescences of colour and wondrous scale of tone, all poured into the manifold moulds, fantastic and beautiful and grand, of Shakespeare. And as long as all this dross and ore and filth brought from the ruins of Italy was thus mingling in the heat of English genius, while it was yet but imperfectly fused, while already its purest and best compounded portion was being poured in Shakespeare's mould, and when already there remained only a seething residue; as long as there remained aught of the glowing fire and the molten mass, some of it all, of the pure metal bubbling up, of the scum frothing round, nay, of the very used-up dregs, was ever and anon being ladled out--gold, dross, filth, all indiscriminately--and cast into shapes severe, graceful, or uncouth. And this somewhat, thus pilfered from what was to make, or was making, or had made, the works of Shakespeare; this base and noble, still unfused or already exhausted alloy, became the strange heterogeneous works of the Elizabethan dramatists: of Webster, of Ford, of Tourneur, of Ben Jonson, of Beaumont and Fletcher, and of their minor brethren; from the splendid ore of Marlowe, only half molten and half freed from dross, down to the shining metal, smooth and silvery as only tinsel can be, of Massinger. In all the works of our Elizabethans, we see not only the assimilated intellectual wealth of Italy, but we see the deep impression, the indelible picture in the memory, of Italy itself; the positive, unallegorical, essentially secular mode of thought; the unascetic, æsthetic, eminently human mode of feeling; the artistic desire of clear and harmonious form; the innumerable tendencies and habits which sever the Elizabethans so completely from the Middle Ages, and bring them so near at once to ourselves and to the ancients, making them at once antique and modern, in opposition to mediæval; these essential characters and the vast bulk of absolute scientific fact and formula, of philosophic opinion, of artistic shape, of humanistic learning, are only one-half of the debt of our sixteenth century to the Italy of the Renaissance. The delicate form of the Italian sonnet, as copied by Sidney from Bembo and Molza and Costanzo, contained within it the exotic and exquisite ideal passion of the "Vita Nuova" and Petrarch. With the bright, undulating stanza Spenser received from Ariosto and Tasso the richly coloured spirit of the Italian descriptive epic. With the splendid involutions of Machiavelli's and Guicciardini's prose Bacon learned their cool and disimpassioned philosophy. From the reading of Politian and Lorenzo dei Medici, from the sight of the Psyche of Raphael, the Europa of Veronese, the Ariadne of Tintoret, men like Greene and Dorset learned that revival of a more luscious and pictorial antique which was brought to perfection in Shakespeare's "Venus and Adonis" and Marlowe's "Sestiad." From the Platonists and Epicureans of Renaissance Italy our greatest dramatists learned that cheerful and serious love of life, that solemn and manly facing of death, that sense of the finiteness of man, the inexhaustibleness of nature, which shines out in such grand, paganism, with such Olympian serenity, as of the bent brows and smiling lips of an antique Zeus, in Shakespeare, in Marlowe, in Beaumont and Fletcher, even in the sad and savage Webster. But with the abstract, with the imbibed modes of thought and feeling, with the imitated forms, the Elizabethans brought back from Italy the concrete, the individual, the personal. They filled their works with Italian things: from the whole plot of a play borrowed from an Italian novel, to the mere passing allusion to an Italian habit, or the mere quotation of an Italian word; from the full-length picture of the actions of Italian men and women, down to the mere sketch, in two or three words, of a bit of Italian garden or a group of Italian figures; nay, to the innumerable scraps of tiny detail, grotesque, graceful, or richly coloured, which they stuffed into all their works: allusions to the buffoons of the mask comedy, to the high-voiced singers, to the dress of the Venetian merchants, to the step of a dance; to the pomegranate in the garden or the cypress on the hillside; mere names of Italian things: the _lavolta_ and _corranto_ dances, the _Traglietto_ ferry, the Rialto bridge; countless little touches, trifling to us, but which brought home to the audience at the Globe or at Blackfriars that wonderful Italy which every man of the day had travelled through at least in spirit, and had loved at least in imagination. And of this wonderful Italy the Englishmen of the days of Elizabeth and of James knew yet another side; were familiar, whether travelled or untravelled, with yet other things besides the buffoons and singers and dancers, the scholars and learned ladies, the pomegranates, and cypresses and roses and nightingales; were fascinated by something besides the green lagoons, the clear summer nights, the soft spring evenings of which we feel as it were the fascination in the words of Jessica and Portia and Juliet. The English knew and were haunted by the crimes of Italy: the terrible and brilliant, the mysterious and shadowy crimes of lust and of blood which, in their most gigantic union and monstrous enthronement on the throne of the vicar of Christ, had in the first terrified glimpse awakened the tragic impulse in the soldiers of Charles VIII. We can imagine the innumerable English travellers who went to Italy greedy for life and knowledge or merely obeying a fashion of the day--travellers forced into far closer contact with the natives than the men of the time of Walpole and of Beckford, who were met by French-speaking hosts and lacqueys and officials--travellers also thirsting to imbibe the very spirit of the country as the travellers of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries never thirsted; we can imagine these Englishmen possessed by the morbid passion for the stories of abominable and unpunished crime--crime of the learned, the refined, the splendid parts of society--with which the Italy of the deeply corrupted sixteenth century was permeated. We can imagine how the prosaic merchants' clerks from London; the perfumed dandies, trying on Italian clothes, rehearsing Italian steps and collecting Italian oaths, the Faulcon-bridges of Shakespeare and Mr. Gingleboys of Beaumont and Fletcher, sent to Italy to be able gracefully to Kiss the hand and cry, "sweet lady!" Say they had been at Rome and seen the relics, Drunk your Verdea wine, and rid at Naples-- how all these privileged creatures ferreted about for monstrous crimes with which to horrify their stay-at-home countrymen; how the rich young lords, returning home with mincing steps and high-pitched lisp, surrounded by a train of parti-coloured, dialect-jabbering Venetian clowns, deft and sinister Neapolitan fencing masters, silver-voiced singing boys decoyed from some church, and cynical humanists escaped from the faggot or the gallows, were expected to bring home, together with the newest pastoral dramas, lewd novels, Platonic philosophy and madrigals set in complicated counterpoint; stories of hideous wickedness, of the murders and rapes and poisonings committed by the dukes and duchesses, the nobles and senators, in whose palaces they had so lately supped and danced. The crimes of Italy fascinated Englishmen of genius with a fascination even more potent than that which they exercised over the vulgar imagination of mere foppish and swashbuckler lovers of the scandalous and the sensational: they fascinated with the attraction of tragic grandeur, of psychological strangeness, of moral monstrosity, a generation in whom the passionate imagination of the playwright was curiously blent with the metaphysical analysis of the philosopher and the ethical judgment of the Puritan. To these men, ardent and serious even in their profligacy; imaginative and passionate even in their Puritanism, all sucking avidly at this newly found Italian civilization; the wickedness of Italy was more than morbidly attractive or morbidly appalling: it was imaginatively and psychologically fascinating. Whether they were as part of the action or as allusions, as in Webster's two great plays, in which there occurs poisoning by means of the leaves of a book, poisoning by the poisoned lips of a picture, poisoning by a helmet, poisoning by the pommel of a saddle; crimes were multiplied by means of subordinate plots and unnecessary incidents, like the double vengeance of Richardetto and of Hippolita in Ford's "Giovanni and Annabella," where both characters are absolutely unnecessary to the main story of the horrible love of the hero and heroine; like the murders of Levidulcia and Sebastian in Tourneur's "Atheist's Tragedy," and the completely unnecessary though extremely pathetic death of young Marcello in Webster's "White Devil;" until the plays were brought to a close by the gradual extermination of all the principal performers, and only a few confidants and dummies remained to bury the corpses which strewed the stage. Imaginary monsters were fashioned out of half-a-dozen Neapolitan and Milanese princes, by Ford, by Beaumont and Fletcher, by Middleton, by Marston, even by the light and graceful Philip Massinger: mythical villains, Ferdinands, Lodowicks, and Fernezes, who yet fell short of the frightful realities of men like Sigismondo Malatesta, Alexander VI., and Pier Luigi Farnese; nay, more typical monsters, with no name save their vices, Lussuriosos, Gelosos, Ambitiosos, and Vindicis, like those drawn by the strong and savage hand of Cyril Tourneur. Nothing which the English stage could display seemed to the minds of English playwrights and the public to give an adequate picture of the abominations of Italy; much as they heaped up horrors and combined them with artistic skill, much as they forced into sight, there yet remained an abyss of evil which the English tongue refused to mention, but which weighed upon the English mind; and which, unspoken, nay (and it is the glory of the Elizabethan dramatists excepting Ford), unhinted, yet remained as an incubus in the consciousness of the playwrights and the public, was in their thoughts when they wrote and heard such savage misanthropic outbursts as those of Tourneur and of Marston. The sense of the rottenness of the country whence they were obtaining their intellectual nourishment, haunted with a sort of sickening fascination the imaginative and psychological minds of the late sixteenth century, of the men who had had time to outgrow the first cynical plunge of the rebellious immature intellects of the contemporaries of Greene, Peele, and Marlowe into that dissolved civilization. And of the great men who were thus enthralled by Italy and Italian evil, only Shakespeare and Massinger maintain or regain their serenity and hopefulness of spirit, resist the incubus of horror: Shakespeare from the immense scope of his vision, which permitted him to pass over the base and frightful parts of human nature and see its purer and higher sides; Massinger from the very superficiality of his insight and the narrowness of his sympathies, which prevented his ever thoroughly realizing the very horrors he had himself invented. But on the minds less elastic than that of Shakespeare, and less superficial than that of Massinger, the Italian evil weighed like a nightmare. With an infinitely powerful and passionate imagination, and an exquisitely subtle faculty of mental analysis; only lately freed from the dogma of the Middle Ages; unsettled in their philosophy; inclined by wholesale classical reading to a sort of negative atheism, a fatalistic and half-melancholy mixture of epicurism and stoicism; yet keenly alive, from study of the Bible and of religious controversies, to all questions of right and wrong; thus highly wrought and deeply perplexed, the minds of the Elizabethan poets were impressed by the wickedness of Italy as by the horrible deeds of one whom we are accustomed to venerate as our guide, whom we cannot but love as our benefactor, whom we cannot but admire as our superior: it was a sense of frightful anomaly, of putrescence in beauty and splendour, of death in life and life in death, which made the English psychologist-poets savage and sombre, cynical and wrathful and hopeless. The influence is the same on all, and the difference of attitude is slight, and due to individual characters; but the gloom is the same in each of them. In Webster--no mere grisly inventor of Radcliffian horrors, as we are apt to think of the greatest of our dramatists--after Shakespeare--in the noble and tender nature of Webster the sense is one of ineffable sadness, unmarred by cynicism, but unbrightened by hope. The villains, even if successful till death overtake them, are mere hideous phantoms-- these wretched eminent things Leave no more fame behind 'em, than should one Fall in a frost, and leave his print in snow-- the victims of tortured conscience, or, worse still, the owners of petrified hearts; there is nothing to envy in them. But none the better is it for the good: if Ferdinands, Bosolas, Brachianos, and Flaminios perish miserably, it is only after having done to death the tender and brave Duchess, the gentle Antonio, the chivalric Marcello; there is virtue on earth, but there is no justice in heaven. The half-pagan, half-puritanic feeling of Webster bursts out in the dying speech of the villain Bosola-- O, this gloomy world! In what a shadow, or deep pit of darkness, Doth womanish and fearful mankind live! Let worthy minds ne'er stagger in distrust To suffer death or shame for what is just. Of real justice in this life or compensation in another, there is no thought: Webster, though a Puritan in spirit, is no Christian in faith. On Ford the influence is different; although equal, perhaps, in genius to Webster, surpassing him even in intense tragic passion, he was far below Webster, and, indeed, far below all his generation, in moral fibre. The sight of evil fascinates him; his conscience staggers, his sympathies are bedraggled in foulness; in the chaos of good and evil he loses his reckoning, and recognizes the superiority only of strength of passion, of passion for good or evil: the incestuous Giovanni, daring his enemies like a wild beast at bay and cheating them of their revenge by himself murdering the object of his horrible passion, is as heroic in the eyes of Ford as the magnanimous Princess of Sparta, bearing with unflinching spirit the succession of misfortunes poured down upon her, and leading off the dance while messenger succeeds messenger of evil; till, free from her duties as a queen, she sinks down dead. Cyril Tourneur and John Marston are far more incomplete in genius than either Webster or Ford, although Tourneur sometimes obtains a lurid and ghastly tragic intensity which more than equals Ford when at his best; and Marston, in the midst of crabbedness and dulness, sometimes has touches of pathos and Michelangelesque foreshortenings of metaphor worthy of Webster. But Tourneur and Marston have neither the constant sympathy with oppressed virtue of the author of the "Duchess of Malfy," nor the blind fury of passion of the poet of "Giovanni and Annabella;" they look on grim and hopeless spectators at the world of fatalistic and insane wickedness which they have created, in which their heroes and heroines and villains are slowly entangled in inextricable evil. The men and women of Tourneur and Marston are scarcely men and women at all: they are mere vague spectres, showing their grisly wounds and moaning out their miserable fate. There is around them a thick and clammy moral darkness, dispelled only by the ghastly flashes of lurid virtue of maniacs like Tourneur's Vindici and Hippolito; a crypt-like moral stillness, haunted by strange evil murmurs, broken only by the hysterical sobs and laughs of Marston's Antonios and Pandulphos. At the most there issues out of the blood-reeking depth a mighty yell of pain, a tremendous imprecation not only at sinful man but at unsympathizing nature, like that of Marston's old Doge, dethroned, hunted down, crying aloud into the grey dawn-mists of the desolate marsh by the lagoon-- O thou all-bearing earth Which men do gape for till thou cram'st their mouths And choak'st their throats for dust: O charme thy breast And let me sinke into thee. Look who knocks; Andrugio calls. But O, she's deafe and blinde. A wretch but leane relief on earth can finde. The tragic sense, the sense of utter blank evil, is stronger in all these Elizabethan painters of Italian crime than perhaps in any other tragic writers. There is, in the great and sinister pictures of Webster, of Ford, of Tourneur, and of Marston, no spot of light, no distant bright horizon. There is no loving suffering, resigned to suffer and to pardon, like that of Desdemona, whose dying lips forgive the beloved who kills from too great love; no consoling affection like Cordelia's, in whose gentle embrace the poor bruised soul may sink into rest; no passionate union in death with the beloved, like the union of Romeo and Juliet; nothing but implacable cruelty, violent death received with agonized protest, or at best as the only release from unmitigated misery with which the wretch has become familiar, As the tann'd galley slave is with his oar. Neither is there in these plays that solemn sense of heavenly justice, of the fatality hanging over a house which will be broken when guilt shall have been expiated, which lends a sort of serene background of eternal justice to the terrible tales of Thebes and Argos. There is for these men no fatality save the evil nature of man, no justice save the doubling of crime, no compensation save revenge: there is for Webster and Ford and Tourneur and Marston no heaven above, wrathful but placable; there are no Gods revengeful but just: there is nothing but this blood-stained and corpse-strewn earth, defiled by lust-burnt and death-hungering men, felling each other down and trampling on one another blindly in the eternal darkness which surrounds them. The world of these great poets is not the open world with its light and its air, its purifying storms and lightnings: it is the darkened Italian palace, with its wrought-iron bars preventing escape; its embroidered carpets muffling the foot steps; its hidden, suddenly yawning trapdoors; its arras-hangings concealing masked ruffians; its garlands of poisoned flowers; its long suites of untenanted darkened rooms, through which the wretch is pursued by the half-crazed murderer; while below, in the cloistered court, the clanking armour and stamping horses, and above, in the carved and gilded hall, the viols and lutes and cornets make a cheery triumphant concert, and drown the cries of the victim. II. Such is the Italy of the Renaissance as we see it in the works of our tragic playwrights: a country of mysterious horror, the sinister reputation of which lasted two hundred years; lasted triumphantly throughout the light and finikin eighteenth century, and found its latest expression in the grim and ghastly romances of the school of Ann Radcliff, romances which are but the last puny and grotesque descendants of the great stock of Italian tragedies, born of the first terror-stricken meeting of the England of Elizabeth with the Italy of the late Renaissance. Is the impression received by the Elizabethan playwrights a correct impression? Was Italy in the sixteenth century that land of horrors? Reviewing in our memory the literature and art of the Italian Renaissance, remembering the innumerable impressions of joyous and healthy life with which it has filled us; recalling the bright and thoughtless rhymes of Lorenzo dei Medici, of Politian, of Bern!, and of Ariosto; the sweet and tender poetry of Bembo and Vittoria Colonna and Tasso; the bluff sensuality of novelists like Bandello and Masuccio, the Aristophanesque laughter of the comedy of Bibbiena and of Beolco; seeing in our mind's eye the stately sweet matrons and noble senators of Titian, the virginal saints and madonnas of Raphael, the joyous angels of Correggio;--recapitulating rapidly all our impressions of this splendid time of exuberant vitality, of this strong and serene Renaissance, we answer without hesitation, and with only a smile of contempt at our credulous ancestors--no. The Italy of the Renaissance was, of all things that have ever existed or ever could exist, the most utterly unlike the nightmare visions of men such as Webster and Ford, Marston and Tourneur. The only Elizabethan drama which really represents the Italy of the Renaissance is the comedy of Shakespeare, of Beaumont and Fletcher, and of Ben Jonson and Massinger: to the Renaissance belong those clear and sunny figures, the Portias, Antonios, Gratianos, Violas, Petruchios, Bellarios, and Almiras; their faces do we see on the canvases of Titian and the frescoes of Raphael; they are the real children of the Italian Renaissance. These frightful Brachianos and Annabellas and Ferdinands and Corombonas and Vindicis and Pieros of the "White Devil," of the "Duchess of Malfy," of the "Revenger's Tragedy," and of "Antonio and Mellida," are mere fantastic horrors, as false as the Counts Udolpho, the Spalatros, the Zastrozzis, and all their grotesquely ghastly pseudo-Italian brethren of eighty years ago. And, indeed, the Italy of the Renaissance, as represented in its literature and its art, is the very negation of Elizabethan horrors. Of all the mystery, the colossal horror and terror of our dramatists, there is not the faintest trace in the intellectual productions of the Italian Renaissance. The art is absolutely stainless: no scenes of horror, no frightful martyrdoms, as with the Germans under Albrecht Dürer; no abominable butcheries, as with the Bolognese of the seventeenth century; no macerated saints and tattered assassins, as with the Spaniards; no mystery, no contortion, no horrors: vigorous and serene beauty, pure and cheerful life, real or ideal, on wall or canvas, in bronze or in marble. The literature is analogous to the art, only less perfect, more tainted with the weakness of humanity, less ideal, more real. It is essentially human, in the largest sense of the word; or if it cease, in creatures like Aretine, to be humanly clean, it becomes merely satyr-like, swinish, hircose. But it is never savage in lust or violence; it is quite free from the element of ferocity. It is essentially light and quiet and well regulated, sane and reasonable, never staggering or blinded by excess: it is full of intelligent discrimination, of intelligent leniency, of well-bred reserved sympathy; it is civilized as are the wide well-paved streets of Ferrara compared with the tortuous black alleys of mediæval Paris; as are the well-lit, clean, spacious palaces of Michelozzo or Bramante compared with the squalid, unhealthy, uncomfortable mediæval castles of Dürer's etchings. It is indeed a trifle too civilized; too civilized to produce every kind of artistic fruit; it is--and here comes the crushing difference between the Italian Renaissance and our Elizabethans' pictures of it--it is, this beautiful rich literature of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, completely deficient in every tragic element; it has intuition neither for tragic event nor for tragic character; it affords not a single tragic page in its poems and novels; it is incapable, after the most laborious and conscientious study of Euripides and Seneca, utterly and miserably incapable of producing a single real tragedy, anything which is not a sugary pastoral or a pompous rhetorical exercise. The epic poets of the Italian Renaissance, Pulci, Boiardo, Berni, and Ariosto, even the stately and sentimental Tasso, are no epic poets at all. They are mere light and amusing gossips, some of them absolute buffoons. Their adventures over hill and dale are mere riding parties; their fights mere festival tournaments, their enchantments mere pageant wonders. Events like the death of Hector, the slaughter of Penelope's suitors, the festive massacre of Chriemhilt, the horrible deceit of Alfonso the Chaste sending Bernardo del Carpio his father's corpse on horseback-- things like these never enter their minds. When tragic events do by some accident come into their narration, they cease to be tragic; they are frittered away into mere pretty conceits like the death of Isabella and the sacrifice of Olympia in the "Orlando Furioso;" or melted down into vague pathos, like the burning of Olindo and Sofronia, and the death of Clorinda by the sentimental Tasso. Neither poet, the one with his cheerfulness, the other with his mild melancholy, brings home, conceives the horror of the situation; the one treats the tragic in the spirit almost of burlesque, the other entirely in the spirit of elegy. So, again, with the novel writers: these professional retailers of anecdotes will pick up any subject to fill their volumes. In default of pleasant stories of filthy intrigue or lewd jest, men like Cinthio and Bandello will gabble off occasionally some tragic story, picked out of a history book or recently heard from a gossip: the stories of Harmodius and Aristogeiton, of Disdémona and the Moorish Captain, of Roméo Montecchio and Giulietta Cappelletti, of the Cardinal d'Aragona and the Duchess of Amalfi, of unknown grotesque Persian Sophis and Turkish Bassas--stories of murder, massacre, rape, incest, anything and everything, prattled off, with a few words of vapid compassion and stale moralizing, in the serene, cheerful, chatty manner in which they recount their Decameronian escapades or Rabelaisian repartees. As it is with tragic action, so is it with tragic character. The literature of the country which suggested to our Elizabethans their colossal villains, can display only a few conventional monsters, fire-eating, swashbuckler Rodomonts and Sultan Malechs, strutting and puffing like the grotesque villains of puppet-shows; Aladins and Ismenos, enchanters and ogres fit to be put into Don Quixote's library: mere conventional rag puppets, doubtless valued as such and no more by the shrewd contemporaries of Ariosto and Tasso. The inhabitants of Tasso's world of romance are pale chivalric unrealities, lifeless as Spenser's half-allegoric knights and ladies; those of Pulci's Ardenne forests and Cathay deserts are buffoons such as Florentine shopmen may have trapped out for their amusement in rusty armour and garlands of sausages. The only lifelike heroes and heroines are those of Ariosto. And they are most untragic, unromantic. The men are occasionally small scoundrels, but unintentionally on the part of the author. They show no deep moral cancers or plague-spots; they display cheerfully all the petty dishonour and small lusts which the Renaissance regarded as mere flesh and blood characteristics. So also Ariosto's ladies: the charming, bright women, coquettish or Amazonian, are frail and fickle to the degree which was permissible to a court lady, who should be neither prudish nor coquettish; doing unchaste things and listening to unchaste words simply, gracefully, without prurience or horror; perfectly well-bred, _gentili_, as Ariosto calls them; prudent also, according to the notions of the day, in limiting their imprudence. The adventure of Fiordispina with Ricciardetto would have branded an English serving-wench as a harlot; the behaviour of Roger towards the lady he has just rescued from the sea-monster would have blushingly been attributed by Spenser to one of his satyrs; but these were escapades quite within Ariosto's notions of what was permitted to a _gentil cavaliero_ and a _nobil donzella_; and if Fiordispina and Roger are not like Florimell and Sir Calidore, still less do they in the faintest degree resemble Tourneur and Marston's Levidulcias and Isabellas and Lussuriosos. And with the exception perhaps, of this heroine and this hero, we cannot find any very great harm in Ariosto's ladies and gentlemen: we may, indeed, feel indignant when we think that they replace the chaste and noble impossibilities of earlier romance, the Rolands and Percivals, the Beatrices and Lauras of the past; when we consider that they represent for Ariosto, not the bespattered but the spotless, not the real but the ideal. All this may awaken in us contempt and disgust; but if we consider these figures in themselves as realities, and compare them with the evil figures of our drama, we find that they are mere venial sinners--light, fickle, amorous, fibbing--very human in their faults; human, trifling, mild, not at all monstrous, like all the art products of the Renaissance.[1] [1] The "Orlando Innamorato" of Boiardo contains, part i, canto 8, a story too horrible and grotesque for me to narrate, of a monster born of Marchino and his murdered sister-in-law, which forms a strange exception to my rule, even as does, for instance, Matteo di Giovanni's massacre of the Innocents. Can this story have been suggested, a ghastly nightmare, by the frightful tale of Sigismondo Malatesta and the beautiful Borbona, which was current in Boiardo's day? A serene and spotless art, a literature often impure but always cheerful, rational, civilized--this is what the Italian Renaissance displays when we seek in it for spirits at all akin to Webster or Lope de Vega, to Holbein or Ribera. To find the tragic we must wait for the Bolognese painters of the seventeenth century, for Metastasio and Alfieri in the eighteenth; it is useless seeking it in this serene and joyous Renaissance. Where, then, in the midst of these spotless virgins, these noble saints, these brilliant pseudo-chivalric joustings and revels, these sweet and sonneteering pastorals, these scurrilous adventures and loose buffooneries; where in this Italian Renaissance are the horrors which fascinated so strangely our English playwrights: the fratricides and incests, the frightful crimes of lust and blood which haunted and half crazed the genius of Tourneur and Marston? Where in this brilliant and courteous and humane and civilized nation are the gigantic villains whose terrible features were drawn with such superb awfulness of touch by Webster and Ford? Where in this Renaissance of Italian literature, so cheerful and light of conscience, is the foul and savage Renaissance of English tragedy? Does the art of Italy tell an impossible, universal lie? or is the art of England the victim of an impossible, universal hallucination? Neither; for art can neither tell lies nor be the victim of hallucination. The horror exists, and the light-heartedness exists; the unhealthiness and the healthiness. For as, in that weird story by Nathaniel Hawthorne, the daughter of the Paduan wizard is nurtured on the sap and fruit and the emanations of poisonous plants, till they become her natural sustenance, and she thrives and is strong and lovely; while the youth, bred in the ordinary pure air and nourished on ordinary wholesome food, faints and staggers as soon as he breathes the fatal odours of the poison garden, and sinks down convulsed and crazed at the first touch of his mistress' blooming but death-breathing lips; so also the Italians, steeped in the sin of their country, seeing it daily and hourly, remained intellectually healthy and serene; while the English, coming from a purer moral atmosphere, were seized with strange moral sickness of horror at what they had seen and could not forget. And the nation which was chaste and true wrote tales of incest and treachery, while the nation which was foul and false wrote poetry of shepherds and knights-errant. The monstrous immorality of the Italian Renaissance, as I have elsewhere shown in greater detail, was, like the immorality of any other historical period, not a formal rebellion against God, but a natural result of the evolution of the modern world. The Italy of the Renaissance was one of the many victims which inevitable moral sequence dooms to be evil in order that others may learn to be good: it was a sacrifice which consisted in a sin, a sacrifice requiring frightful expiation on the part of the victim. For Italy was subjected, during well-nigh two centuries, to a slow process of moral destruction; a process whose various factors--political disorganization, religious indifference, scientific scepticism, wholesale enthusiasm for the antique, breaking-up of mediæval standards and excessive growth of industry, commerce, and speculative thought at the expense of warlike and religious habits--were at the same time factors in the great advent of modern civilization, of which Italy was the pioneer and the victim; a process whose result was, in Italy, insensibly and inevitably to reduce to chaos the moral and political organization of the nation; at once rendering men completely unable to discriminate between good and evil, and enabling a certain proportion of them to sin with complete impunity: creating on the one hand moral indifference, and on the other social irresponsibility. Civilization had kept pace with demoralization; the faculty of reasoning over cause and effect had developed at the expense of the faculty of judging of actions. The Italians of the Renaissance, little by little, could judge only of the adaptation of means to given ends; whether means or ends were legitimate or illegitimate they soon became unable to perceive and even unable to ask. Success was the criterion of all action, and power was its limits. Active and furious national wickedness there was not: there was mere moral inertia on the part of the people. The Italians of the Renaissance neither resisted evil nor rebelled against virtue; they were indifferent to both, and a little pressure sufficed to determine them to either. In the governed classes, where the law was equal between men, and industry and commerce kept up healthy activity, the pressure was towards good. The artizans and merchants lived decent lives, endowed hospitals, listened to edifying sermons, and were even moved (for a few moments) by men like San Bernardino or Savonarola. In the governing classes, where all right lay in force, where the necessity of self-defence induced treachery and violence, and irresponsibility produced excess, the pressure was towards evil. The princelets and prelates and mercenery generals indulged in every sensuality, turned treachery into a science and violence into an instrument; and sometimes let themselves be intoxicated into mad lust and ferocity, as their subjects were occasionally intoxicated with mad austerity and mysticism; but the excesses of mad vice, like the excesses of mad virtue, lasted only a short time, or lasted only in individual saints or blood-maniacs; and the men of the Renaissance speedily regained their level of indifferent righteousness and of indifferent sinfulness. Righteousness and sinfulness both passive, without power of aggression or resistance, and consequently in strange and dreadful peace with each other. The wicked men did not dislike virtue, nor the good men vice: the villain could admire a saint, and the saint could condone a villain. The prudery of righteousness was as unknown as the cynicism of evil; the good man, like Guarino da Verona, would not shrink from the foul man; the foul man, like Beccadelli, would not despise the pure man. The ideally righteous citizen of Agnolo Pandolfini does not interfere with the ideally unrighteous prince of Machiavelli: each has his own position and conduct; and who can say whether, if the positions were exchanged, the conduct might not be exchanged also? In such a condition of things as this, evil ceases to appear monstrous; it is explained, endured, condoned. The stately philosophical historians, so stoically grand, and the prattling local chroniclers, so highly coloured and so gentle and graceful; Guicciardini and Machiavelli and Valori and Segni, on the one hand--Corio, Allegretti, Matarazzo, Infessura, on the other; all these, from whom we learn the real existence of immorality far more universal and abominable than our dramatists venture to show, relate quietly, calmly, with analytical frigidness or gossiping levity, the things which we often shrink from repeating, and sometimes recoil from believing. Great statesmanlike historians and humble chattering chroniclers are alike unaffected by what goes on around them: they collect anecdotes and generalize events without the fumes of evil, among which they seek for materials in the dark places of national or local history, ever going to their imagination, ever making their heart sicken and faint, and their fancy stagger and reel. The life of these righteous, or at least, not actively sinning men, may be hampered, worried, embittered, or even broken by the villainy of their fellow-men; but, except in some visionary monk, life can never be poisoned by the mere knowledge of evil. Their town maybe betrayed to the enemy, their daughters may be dishonoured or poisoned, their sons massacred; they may, in their old age, be cast starving on the world, or imprisoned or broken by torture; and they will complain and be fierce in diatribe: the fiercest diatribe written against any Pope of the Renaissance being, perhaps, that of Platina against Paul II., who was a saint compared with his successors Sixtus and Alexander, because the writer of the diatribe and his friends were maltreated by this pope. When personally touched, the Italians of the Renaissance will brook no villainy--the poniard quickly despatches sovereigns like Galeazzo Maria Sforza; but when the villainy remains abstract, injures neither themselves nor their immediate surroundings, it awakens no horror, and the man who commits it is by no means regarded as a fiend. The great criminals of the Renaissance--traitors and murderers like Lodovico Sforza, incestuous parricides like Gianpaolo Baglioni, committers of every iniquity under heaven like Cæsar Borgia--move through the scene of Renaissance history, as shown by its writers great and small, quietly, serenely, triumphantly; with gracious and magnanimous bearing; applauded, admired, or at least endured. On their passage no man, historian or chronicler, unless the agent of a hostile political faction, rises up, confronts them and says, "This man is a devil." And devils these men were not: the judgment of their contemporaries, morally completely perverted, was probably psychologically correct; they misjudged the deeds, but rarely, perhaps, misjudged the man. To us moderns, as to our English ancestors of the sixteenth century, this is scarcely conceivable. A man who does devilish deeds is necessarily a devil; and the evil Italian princes of the Renaissance, the Borgias, Sforzas, Baglionis, Malatestas, and Riarios appear, through the mist of horrified imagination, so many uncouth and gigantic monsters, nightmare shapes, less like human beings than like the grand and frightful angels of evil who gather round Milton's Satan in the infernal council. Such they appear to us. But if we once succeed in calmly looking at them, seeing them not in the lurid lights and shadows of our fancy, but in the daylight of contemporary reality, we shall little by little be forced to confess (and the confession is horrible) that most of these men are neither abnormal nor gigantic. Their times were monstrous, not they. They were not, that is clear, at variance with the moral atmosphere which surrounded them; and they were the direct result of the social and political condition. This may seem no answer; for although we know the causes of monster births, they are monstrous none the less. What we mean is not that the existence of men capable of committing such actions was normal; we mean that the men who committed them, the conditions being what they were, were not necessarily men of exceptional character. The level of immorality was so high that a man need be no giant to reach up into the very seventh heaven of iniquity. When to massacre at a banquet a number of enemies enticed by overtures of peace was considered in Cæsar Borgia merely a rather audacious and not very holy action, indicative of very brilliant powers of diplomacy, then Cæsar Borgia required, to commit such an action, little more than a brilliant diplomatic endowment, unhampered by scruples and timidity; when a brave, and gracious prince like Gianpaolo Baglioni could murder his kinsmen and commit incest with his sister without being considered less gracious and magnanimous, then Gianpaolo Baglioni might indeed be but an indifferent villain; when treachery, lust, and bloodshed, although objected to in theory, were condoned In practice, and were regarded as venial sins, those who indulged in them might be in fact scarcely more than venial sinners. In short, where a fiendish action might be committed without the perpetrator being considered a fiend, there was no need of his being one. And, indeed, the great villains of the Renaissance never take up the attitude of fiends; one or two, like certain Visconti or Aragonese, were madmen, but the others were more or less normal human beings. There was no barrier between them and evil; they slipped into it, remained in it, became accustomed to it; but a vicious determination to be wicked, a feeling of the fiend within one, like that of Shakespeare's Richard, or a gradual, conscious irresistible absorption into recognized iniquity like Macbeth's, there was not. The mere sense of absolute power and impunity, together with the complete silence of the conscience of the public at large, can make a man do strange things. If Cæsar Borgia be free to practise his archery upon hares and deer, why should he not practise it upon these prisoners? Who will blame him? Who can prevent him? If he had for his mistress every woman he might single out from among his captives, why not his sister? If he have the force to carry out a plan, why should a man stand in his way? The complete facility in the commission of all actions quickly brings such a man to the limits of the legitimate: there is no universal cry to tell him where those limits are, no universal arm to pull him back. He pooh-poohs, pushes them a little further, and does the iniquity. Nothing prevents his gratifying his ambition, his avarice, and his lust, so he gratifies them. Soon, seeking for further gratification, he has to cut new paths in villainy: he has not been restrained by man, who is silent; he is soon restrained no longer by nature, whose only voice is in man's conscience. Pleasure in wanton cruelty takes the same course: he prefers to throw javelins at men and women to throwing javelins at bulls or bears, even as he prefers throwing javelins at bulls or bears rather than at targets; the excitement is greater; the instinct is that of the soldiers of Spain and of France, who invariably preferred shooting at a valuable fresco like Sodoma's Christ, at Siena, or Lo Spagna's Madonna, at Spoleto, to practising against a mere worthless piece of wood. Such a man as Cæsar Borgia is the _nec plus ultra_ of a Renaissance villain; he takes, as all do not, absolute pleasure in evil as such. Yet Cæsar Borgia is not a fiend nor a maniac. He can restrain himself whenever circumstances or policy require it; he can be a wise administrator, a just judge. His portraits show no degraded criminal; he is, indeed, a criminal in action, but not necessarily a criminal in constitution, this fiendish man who did not seem a fiend to Machiavel. We are astonished at the strange anomaly in the tastes and deeds of these Renaissance villains; we are amazed before their portraits. These men, who, in the frightful light of their own misdeeds, appear to us as complete demons or complete madmen, have yet much that is amiable and much that is sane; they stickle at no abominable lust, yet they are no bestial sybarites; they are brave, sober, frugal, enduring like any puritan; they are treacherous, rapacious, cruel, utterly indifferent to the sufferings of their enemies, yet they are gentle in manner, passionately fond of letters and art, superb in their works of public utility, and not incapable of genuinely admiring men of pure life like Bernardino or Savonarola: they are often, strange to say, like the frightful Baglionis of Perugia, passionately admired and loved by their countrymen. The bodily portraits of these men, painted by the sternly realistic art of the fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries, are even more confusing to our ideas than their moral portraits drawn by historians and chroniclers. Cæsar Borgia, with his long fine features and noble head, is a gracious and refined prince; there is, perhaps, a certain duplicity in the well-cut lips; the beard, worn full and peaked in Spanish fashion, forms a sort of mask to the lower part of the face, but what we see is noble and intellectual. Sigismondo Malatesta has on his medals a head whose scowl has afforded opportunity for various fine descriptions of a blood maniac; but the head, thus found so expressive, of this monster, is infinitely more human than the head on the medals of Lionello d'Este, one of the most mild and cultivated of the decently behaved Ferrarese princes. The very flower of precocious iniquity, the young Baglionis, Vitellis, and Orsinis, grouped round Signorelli's preaching Antichrist at Orvieto, are, in their gallantly trimmed jerkins and jewelled caps, the veriest assemblage of harmless young dandies, pretty and insipid; we can scarcely believe that these mild beardless striplings, tight-waisted and well-curled like girls of sixteen, are the terrible Umbrian brigand condottieri--Gianpaolos, Simonettos, Vitellozzos, and Astorres--whose abominable deeds fill the pages of the chronicles of Matarazzo, of Frolliere, of Monaldeschi. Nowhere among the portraits of Renaissance monsters do we meet with anything like those Roman emperors, whose frightful effigies, tumid, toad-like Vitelliuses or rage-convulsed Caracallas, fill all our museums in marble or bronze or loathsome purple porphyry; such types as these are as foreign to the reality of the Italian Renaissance as are the Brachianos and Lussuriosos, the Pieros and Corombonas, to the Italian fiction of the sixteenth century. Nor must such anomalies between the type of the men and their deeds, between their abominable crimes and their high qualities, be merely made a subject for grandiloquent disquisition. The man of the Renaissance, as we have said, had no need to be a monster to do monstrous things; a crime did not necessitate such a moral rebellion as requires complete unity of nature, unmixed wickedness; it did not precipitate a man for ever into a moral abyss where no good could ever enter. Seeing no barrier between the legitimate and the illegitimate, he could alternate almost unconsciously between them. He was never shut out from evil, and never shut out from good; the judgment of men did not dress him in a convict's jacket which made evil his only companion; it did not lock him up in a moral dungeon where no ray of righteousness could enter; he was not condemned, like the branded harlot, to hopeless infamy. He need be bad only as much and as long as he chose. Hence, on the part of the evil-doer of the Renaissance, no necessity either for violent rebellion or for sincere repentance; hence the absence of all characters such as the tragic writer seeks, developed by moral struggle, warped by the triumph of vice, or consciously soiled in virtue. What a "Revenger's Tragedy" might not Cyril Tourneur have made, had he known all the details, of the story of Alessandro de' Medici's death! What a Vindici he would have made of the murderer Lorenzino; with what a strange lurid grandeur he would have surrounded the plottings of the pander Brutus. But Lorenzino de' Medici had none of the feeling of Tourneur's Vindici; there was in him none of the ghastly spirit of self-immolation of the hero of Tourneur in his attendance upon the foul creature whom he leads to his death. Lorenzino had the usual Brutus mania of his day, but unmixed with horror. To be the pander and jester of the Duke was no pain to his nature; there was probably no sense of debasement in the knowledge either of his employer or of his employment. To fasten on Alexander, to pretend to be his devoted slave and server of his lust, this piece of loathsome acting, merely enhanced, by the ingenuity it required, the attraction of what to Lorenzino was an act of heroism. His ambition was to be a Brutus; that he had bespattered the part probably never occurred to him. The indifference to good and evil permitted the men of the Renaissance to mix the two without any moral sickness, as it permitted them to alternate them without a moral struggle. Such is the wickedness of the Renaissance: not a superhuman fury of lust and cruelty, like Victor Hugo's Lucrezia Borgia; but an indifferent, a characterless creature like the Lucrezia Borgia of history: passive to surrounding influences, blind to good and evil, infamous in the infamous Rome, among her father and brother's courtesans and cut-throats; grave and gracious! in the grave and gracious Ferrara, among the Platonic poets and pacific courtiers of the court of the Estensi. Thus, in the complete prose and colourlessness of reality, has the evil of the Renaissance been understood and represented only by one man, and transmitted to us in one pale and delicate psychological masterpiece far more loathsome than any elaborately hideous monster painting by Marston or Tourneur. The man who thus conceived the horrors of the Italian Renaissance in the spirit in which they were committed is Ford. In his great play he has caught the very tone of the Italian Renaissance: the abominableness of the play consisting not in the coarse slaughter scenes added merely to please the cockpit of an English theatre, but in the superficial innocence of tone; in its making evil lose its appearance of evil, even as it did to the men of the Renaissance. Giovanni and Annabella make love as if they were Romeo and Juliet: there is scarcely any struggle, and no remorse; they weep and pay compliments and sigh and melt in true Aminta style. There is in the love of the brother and sister neither the ferocious heat of tragic lust, nor the awful shudder of unnatural evil; they are lukewarm, neither good nor bad. Their abominable love is in their own eyes a mere weakness of the flesh; there is no sense of revolt against man and nature and God; they are neither dragged on by irresistible demoniac force nor held back by the grip of conscience; they slip and slide, even like Francesca and Paolo. They pay each other sweet and mawkish compliments. The ferocious lust of Francesco Cenci is moral compared with the way in which the "trim youth" Giovanni praises Annabella's beauty; the blushing, bride-like way in which Annabella, "white in her soul," acknowledges her long love. The atrociousness of all this is, that if you strike out a word or two the scene may be read with perfect moral satisfaction, with the impression that this is really "sacred love." For in these scenes Ford wrote with a sweetness and innocence truly diabolical, not a shiver of horror passing through him--serene, unconscious; handling the filthy without sense of its being unclean, to the extent, the incredible extent, of making Giovanni and Annabella swear on their mother's ashes eternal fidelity in incest: horror of horrors, to which no Walpurgis Night abomination could ever approach, this taking as witness of the unutterable, not an obscene Beelzebub with abominable words and rites, but the very holiest of holies. If ever Englishman approached the temper of the Italian Renaissance, it was not Tourneur, nor Shelley with his cleansing hell fires of tragic horror, but this sweet and gentle Ford. If ever an artistic picture approached the reality of such a man as Gianpaolo Baglioni, the incestuous murderer whom the Frolliere chronicler, enthusiastic like Matarazzo, admires, for "his most beautiful person, his benign and amiable manner and lordly bearing," it is certainly not the elaborately villainous Francesco Cenci of Shelley, boasting like another Satan of his enormous wickedness, exhausting in his picture of himself the rhetoric of horror, committing his final enormity merely to complete the crown of atrocities in which he glories; it is no such tragic impossibility of moral hideousness as this; it is the Giovanni of Ford, the pearl of virtuous and studious youths, the spotless, the brave, who, after a moment's reasoning, tramples on a vulgar prejudice--"Shall a peevish sound, a customary form from man to man, of brother and of sister, be a bar 'twixt my eternal happiness and me?" who sins with a clear conscience, defies the world, and dies, bravely, proudly, the "sacred name" of Annabella on his lips, like a chivalrous hero. The pious, pure Germany of Luther will give the world the tragic type of the science-damned Faustus; the devout and savage Spain of Cervantes will give the tragic type of Don Juan, damned for mockery of man and of death and of heaven; the Puritan England of Milton will give the most sublimely tragic type of all, the awful figure of him who says, "Evil, be thou my good." What tragic type can this evil Italy of Renaissance give to the world? None: or at most this miserable, morbid, compassionated Giovanni: whom Ford would have us admire, and whom we can only despise. The blindness to evil which constitutes the criminality of the Renaissance is so great as to give a certain air of innocence. For the men of that time were wicked solely from a complete sophistication of ideas, a complete melting away (owing to slowly operating political and intellectual tendencies) of all moral barriers. They walked through the paths of wickedness with the serenity with which they would have trod the ways of righteousness; seeing no boundary, exercising their psychic limbs equally in the open and permitted spaces and in the forbidden. They plucked the fruit of evil without a glance behind them, without a desperate setting of their teeth; plucked it openly, calmly, as they would have plucked the blackberries in the hedge; bit into it, ate it, with perfect ease and serenity, saying their prayers before and after, as if it were their natural daily bread mentioned in the Lord's Prayer; no grimace or unseemly leer the while; no moral indigestion or nightmare (except very rarely) in consequence. Hence the serenity of their literature and art. These men and women of the Italian Renaissance have, in their portraits, a very pleasing nobility of aspect: serene, thoughtful, healthy, benign. Titian's courtesans are our archetypes of dignified womanhood; we might fancy Portia or Isabella with such calm, florid beauty, so wholly unmeretricious and uncankered. The humanists and priests who lie outstretched on the acanthus-leaved and flower-garlanded sarcophagi by Desiderio and Rossellino are the very flowers of refined and gentle men of study; the youths in Botticelli's "Adoration of The Magi," for instance, are the ideal of Boiardo's chivalry, Rinaldos and Orlandos every one; the corseleted generals of the Renaissance, so calm and stern and frank, the Bartolomeo Colleoni of Verrocchio, the Gattamelata by Giorgione (or Giorgione's pupil), look fit to take up the banner of the crusade: that Gattamelata in the Uffizi gallery especially looks like a sort of military Milton: give him a pair of wings and he becomes at once Signorelli's archangel, clothed in heavenly steel and unsheathing the flaming sword of God. Compare with these types Holbein's courtiers of Henry VIII.; what scrofulous hogs! Compare Sanchez Coello's Philip II. and Don Carlos; what monomaniacs. Compare even Dürer's magnificent head of Willibald Pirkheimer: how the swine nature is blended with the thinker. And the swine will be subdued, the thinker will triumph. Why? Just because there is a contest--because the thinker-Willibald is conscious of the swine-Willibald. In this coarse, brutal, deeply stained Germany of the time of Luther, affording Dürer and Holbein, alas! how many besotten and bestial types, there will arise a great conflict: the obscene leering Death--Death-in-Life as he really is--will skulk everywhere, even as in the prints of the day, hideous and powerful, trying, with hog's snout, to drive Christ Himself out of limbo; but he is known, seen, dreaded. The armed knight of Dürer turns away from his grimacings, and urges on his steel-covered horse. He visits even the best, even Luther in the Wartburg; but the good men open their Bibles, cry "Vade retro!" and throw their inkstands at him, showing themselves terrified and ruffled after the combat. And these Germans of Luther's are disgustingly fond of blood and horrors: they like to see the blood spirt from the decapitated trunk, to watch its last contortions; they hammer with a will (in Dürer's "Passion") the nails of the cross, they peel off strips of skin in the flagellation. But then they can master all that; they can be pure, charitable; they have gentleness for the hare and the rabbit, like Luther; they kneel piously before the cross-bearing stag, like Saint Hubert. Not so the Italians. They rarely or never paint horrors, or death, or abominations. Their flagellated Christ, their arrow-riddled Sebastian, never writhe or howl with pain; indeed, they suffer none. Judith, in Mantegna's print, puts the head of Holophernes into her bag with the serenity of a muse; and the head is quite clean, without loathsome drippings or torn depending strings of muscle; unconvulsed, a sort of plaster cast. The tragedy of Christ, the tragedy of Judith; the physical agency shadowing the moral agony; the awfulness of victim and criminal--the whole tragic meaning was unknown to the light and cheerful contemporaries of Ariosto, the cold and cynical contemporaries of Machiavelli. The tragic passion and imagination which, in the noble and grotesque immaturity of the Middle Ages, had murmured confusedly in the popular legends which gave to Ezzelin the Fiend as a father, and Death and Sin as adversaries at dice; which had stammered awkwardly but grandly in the school Latin of Mussato's tragedy of "Eccerinis;" which had wept and stormed and imprecated and laughed for horror in the infinite tragedy--pathetic, grand, and grotesque, like all great tragedy--of Dante; this tragic passion and imagination, this sense of the horrible and the terrible, had been forfeited by the Italy of the Renaissance, lost with its sense of right and wrong. The Italian Renaissance, supreme in the arts which require a subtle and strong perception of the excellence of mere lines and colours and lights and shadows, which demand unflinching judgment of material qualities; was condemned to inferiority in the art which requires subtle and strong perception of the excellence of human emotion and action; in the art which demands unflinching judgment of moral motives. The tragic spirit is the offspring of the conscience of a people. The sense of the imaginative grandeur of evil may perhaps be a forerunner of demoralization; but such a sense of wonder and awe, such an imaginative fascination of the grandly, superhumanly wicked such a necessity to magnify a villain into a demon with archangelic splendour of power of evil, can exist only in minds pure and strong, braced up to virtue, virgin of evil, with a certain childlike power of wonder; minds to whom it appears that to be wicked requires a powerful rebellion; minds accustomed to nature and nature's plainness, to whom the unnatural can be no subject of sophistication and cynicism, but only of wonder. While, in Italy, Giraldi Cinthio prattles off to a gay party of ladies and gentlemen stories of murder and lust as frightful as those of "Titus' Andronicus," of "Giovanni and Annabella," and of the "Revenger's Tragedy," in the intelligent, bantering tone in which he tells his Decameronian tales; in England, Marston, in his superb prologue to the second part of "Antonio and Mellida," doubts whether all his audience can rise to the conception of the terrible passions he wishes to display: If any spirit breathes within this round Uncapable of weighty passion, Who winks and shuts his apprehension up From common sense of what men were and are, Who would not know what men must be: let such Hurry amain from our black visaged shows; We shall affright their eyes. The great criminals of Italy were unconscious of being criminals; the nation was unconscious of being sinful. Bembo's sonnets were the fit reading for Lucrezia Borgia; pastorals by Guarini the dramatic amusements of Rannuccio Farnesi; if Vittoria Accoramboni and Francesco Cenci read anything besides their prayerbook or ribald novels, it was some sugary "Aminta" or "Pastor Fido:" their own tragedies by Webster and Shelley they could never have understood. And thus the Italians of the Renaissance walked placidly through the evil which surrounded them; for them, artists and poets, the sky was always blue and the sun always bright, and their art and their poetry were serene. But the Englishmen of the sixteenth century were astonished and fascinated by the evil of Italy: the dark pools of horror, the dabs of infamy which had met them ever and anon in the brilliant southern cities, haunted them like nightmare, bespattered for them the clear blue sky, and danced, black and horrible spots, before the face of the sun. The remembrance of Italian wickedness weighed on them like an incubus, clung to them with a frightful fascination. While the foulest criminals of Italy discussed the platonic vapidnesses of Bembo's sonnets, and wept at the sweet and languid lamentations of Guarini's shepherds and nymphs; the strong Englishmen of the time of Shakespeare, the men whose children were to unsheathe under Cromwell the sword of righteousness, listened awe-stricken and fascinated with horror to the gloomy and convulsed, the grand and frightful plays of Webster and of Tourneur. And the sin of the Renaissance, which the art of Italy could neither pourtray nor perceive; appeared on the stage decked in superb and awful garb by the tragic imagination of Elizabethan England. THE OUTDOOR POETRY. The thought of winter is bleak and barren to our mind; the late year is chary of æsthetic as of all other food. In the country it does not bring ugliness; but it terribly reduces and simplifies things, depriving them of two-thirds of their beauty. In sweeping away the last yellow leaves, the last crimson clouds, and in bleaching the last green grass, it effaces a whole wealth of colour. It deprives us still more by actually diminishing the number of forms: for what summer had left rich, various, complex, winter reduces to blank uniformity. There is a whole world of lovely things, shapes and tints, effects of light, colour, and perspective in a wood, as long as it is capriciously divided into a thousand nooks and crannies by projecting boughs, bushes, hedges, and hanging leaves; and this winter clears away and reduces to a Haussmanized simplicity of plan. There is a smaller world, yet one quite big enough for a summer's day, in any hay field, among the barren oats, the moon-daisies, the seeded grasses, the sorrel, the buttercups, all making at a distance a wonderful blent effect of luminous brown and lilac and russet foamed with white; and forming, when you look close into it, an unlimited forest of delicately separate stems and bloom and seed; every plant detaching itself daintily from an undefinable background of things like itself. This winter turns into a rusty brown and green expanse, or into a bog, or a field of frozen upturned clods. The very trees, stripped of their leaves, look as if prepared for diagrams of the abstraction tree. Everything, in short, is reduced most philosophically to its absolutely ultimate elements; and beauty is got rid of almost as completely as by a metaphysical definition. This æsthetic barrenness of winter is most of all felt in southern climates, to which it brings none of the harsh glitter and glamour of snow and ice; but leaves the frozen earth and leafless trees merely bare, without the crisp sheen of snow, the glint and glimmer of frost and icicles, forming for the denuded rigging of branches a fantastic system of ropes and folded sails. In the South, therefore, unless you go where winter never comes, and autumn merely merges into a lengthened spring, winter is more than ever negative, dreary, barren to our fancy. Yet even this southern winter gives one things, very lovely things: things which one scarcely notices perhaps, yet which would baffle the most skilled painter to imitate, the most skilled poet to describe. Thus, for instance, there is a peculiar kind of morning by no means uncommon in Tuscany in what is completely winter, not a remnant of autumn or a beginning of spring. It is cold, but windless; the sky full of sun, the earth full of mist. Sun and mist uniting into a pale luminousness in which all things lose body, become mere outline; bodiless hills taking shape where they touch the sky with their curve; clear line of irregular houses, of projecting ilex roundings and pointed cypresses marking the separation between hill and sky, the one scarcely more solid, corporeal than the other; the hill almost as blue as the sky, the sky almost as vaporous as the hill; the tangible often more ghostlike than the intangible. But the sun has smitten the higher hills, and the vapours have partially rolled down, in a scarcely visible fold, to their feet; and the high hill, not yet rock or earth, swells up into the sky as something real, but fluid and of infinite elasticity. All in front the plain is white with mist; or pinkish grey with the unseen agglomeration of bare tree boughs and trunks, of sere field; till, nearer us, the trees become more visible, the short vinebearing elms in the fields, interlacing their branches compressed by distance, the clumps of poplars, so scant and far between from nearly, so serried and compact from afar; and between them an occasional flush, a tawny vapour of the orange twigged osiers; and then, still nearer, the expanse of sere field, of mottled, crushed-together, yellowed grass and grey brown leaves; things of the summer which winter is burying to make room for spring. Along the reaches of the river the clumps of leafless poplars are grey against the pale, palest blue sky; grey but with a warmth of delicate brown, almost of rosiness. Grey also the shingle in the river bed; the river itself either (if after rain) pale brown, streaked with pale blue sky reflections; or (after a drought), low, grey, luminous throughout its surface, you might think, were it not that the metallic sheen, the vacillating sparkles of where the sun, smiting down, frets it into a shifting mass of scintillating facets, gives you the impression that this other luminousness of silvery water must be dull and dead. And, looking up the river, it gradually disappears, its place marked only, against the all-pervading pale blue haze, by the brownish grey spectre of the furthest poplar clumps. This, I have said, is an effect which winter produces, nay, even a southern winter, with those comparatively few and slight elements at its disposal. We see it, notice it, and enjoy its delicate loveliness; but while so doing we do not think, or we forget, that the habit of noticing, nay, the power of perceiving such effects as this, is one of those habits and powers which we possess, so to speak, only since yesterday. The possibility of reproducing in painting effects like this one; or, more truthfully, the wish to reproduce them, is scarcely as old as our own century; it is, perhaps, the latest born of all our artistic wishes and possibilities. But the possibility of any visible effect being perceived and reproduced by the painter, usually precedes--at least where any kind of pictorial art already exists--the perception of such effects by those who are not painters, and the attempt to reproduce them by means of words. We do not care to admit that our grandfathers were too unlike ourselves, lest ourselves should be found too unlike our grandchildren. We hold to the metaphysic fiction of man having always been the same, and only his circumstances having changed; not admitting that the very change of circumstances implies something new in the man who altered them; and similarly we shrink from the thought of the many things which we used never to notice, and which it has required a class of men endowed with special powers of vision to find out, copy, and teach us to see and appreciate. Yet there is scarcely one of us who has not a debt towards some painter or writer for first directing his attention to objects or effects which may have abounded around him, but unnoticed or confused with others. The painters, as I have said, the men who see more keenly and who study what they have seen, naturally come first; nor does the poet usually describe what his contemporary painter attempts not to paint. An exception might, perhaps, require to be made for Dante, who would seem to have seen and described many things left quite untouched by Giotto, and even by Raphael; but in estimating Dante we must be careful to distinguish the few touches which really belong to him, from the great mass of colour and detail which we have unconsciously added thereto, borrowing from our own experience and from innumerable pictures and poems which, at the moment, we may not in the least remember; and having done so, we shall be led to believe that those words which suggest to us so clear and coloured a vision of scenes often complex and uncommon, presented to his own mind only a comparatively simple and incomplete idea: the atmospheric effects, requiring a more modern painter than Turner, which we read between the lines of the "Inferno" and the "Purgatorio," most probably existed as little for Dante as they did for Giotto; the poet seeing and describing in reality only salient forms of earth and rock, monotonous in tint and deficient in air, like those in the backgrounds of mediæval Tuscan frescoes and panels. Be this as it may, the fact grows daily on me that men have not at all times seen in the same degree the nature which has always equally surrounded them; and that during some periods they have, for explicable reasons, seen less not only than their successors, but also than their predecessors; and seen that little in a manner conventional in proportion to its monotony. There are things about which certain historic epochs are strangely silent; so much so, indeed, that the breaking of the silence impresses us almost as the more than human breaking of a spell; and that silence Is the result of a grievous wrong, of a moral disease which half closes the eyes of the fancy, or of a moral poison which presents to those sorely aching eyes only a glimmer amid darkness. And it is as the most singular instance of such conditions that I should wish to study, in themselves, their causes and effects, the great differences existing between the ancients and ourselves on the one hand, and the men of the genuine Middle Ages on the other, in the degree of interest taken respectively by each in external nature, the seasons and that rural life which seems to bring us into closest contact with them both. There is, of course, a considerable difference between the manner in which the country, its aspects and occupations, are treated by the poets of Antiquity and by those of our own day; in the mode of enjoying them of an ancient who had read Theocritus and Virgil and Tibullus, and a modern whose mind is unconsciously full of the influence of Wordsworth or Shelley or Ruskin. But it is a mere difference of mode; and is not greater, I think, than the difference between the descriptions in the "Allegro," and the descriptions in "Men and Women;" than the difference between the love of our Elizabethans for the minuter details of the country, the flowers by the stream, the birds in the bushes, the ferrets, frogs, lizards, and similar small creatures; and the pleasure of our own contemporaries in the larger, more shifting, and perplexing forms and colours of cloud, sunlight, earth, and rock. The description of effects such as these latter ones, nay, the attention and appreciation given to them, are things of our own century, even as is the power and desire of painting them. Landscape, in the sense of our artists of to-day, is a very recent thing; so recent that even in the works of Turner, who was perhaps the earliest landscape painter in the modern sense, we are forced to separate from the real rendering of real effects, a great deal in which the tints of sky and sea are arranged and distributed as a mere vast conventional piece of decoration. Nor could it be otherwise. For, in poetry as in painting, landscape could become a separate and substantive art only when the interest in the mere ins and outs of human adventure, in the mere structure and movement of human limbs, had considerably diminished. There is room, in epic or drama, only for such little scraps of description as will make clearer, without checking, the human action; as there is place, in a fresco of a miracle, or a little picture of carousing and singing bacchantes and Venetian dandies, only for such little bits of laurel grove, or dim plain, or blue alpine crags, as can be introduced in the gaps between head and head, or figure and figure. Thus, therefore, a great difference must exist between what would be felt and written about the country and the seasons by an ancient, by a man of the sixteenth century, or by a contemporary of our own: a difference, however, solely of mode; for we feel sure that of the three men each would find something to delight himself and wherewith to delight others among the elm-bounded English meadows, the fiat cornfields of central France, the vine and olive yards of Italy-- wherever, in short, he might find himself face to face and, so to speak, hand in hand with Nature. But about the man of the Middle Ages (unless, perhaps, in Italy, where the whole Middle Ages were merely an earlier Renaissance) we could have no such assurance; nay, we might be persuaded that, however great his genius, be he even a Gottfried von Strassburg, or a Walther von der Vogelweide, or the unknown Frenchman who has left us "Aucassin et Nicolette," he would bring back impressions only of two things, authorized and consecrated by the poetic routine of his contemporaries--of spring and of the woods. There is nothing more characteristic of mediæval poetry than this limitation. Of autumn, of winter; of the standing corn, the ripening fruit of summer; of all these things so dear to the ancients and to all men of modern times, the Middle Ages seem to know nothing. The autumn harvests, the mists and wondrous autumnal transfiguration of the humblest tree, or bracken, or bush; the white and glittering splendour of winter, and its cosy life by hearth or stove; the drowsiness of summer, its suddenly inspired wish for shade and dew and water, all this left them stolid. To move them was required the feeling of spring, the strongest, most complete and stirring impression which, in our temperate climates, can be given by Nature. The whole pleasurableness of warm air, clear moist sky, the surprise of the shimmer of pale green, of the yellowing blossom on tree tops, the first flicker of faint shadow where all has been uniform, colourless, shadeless; the replacing of the long silence by the endless twitter and trill of birds, endless in its way as is the sea, twitter and trill on every side, depths and depths of it, of every degree of distance and faintness, a sea of bird song; and along with this the sense of infinite renovation to all the earth and to man's own heart. Of all Nature's effects this one alone goes sparkling to the head; and it alone finds a response in mediæval poetry. Spring, spring, endless spring--for three long centuries throughout the world a dreary green monotony of spring all over France, Provence, Italy, Spain, Germany, England; spring, spring, nothing but spring even in the mysterious countries governed by the Grail King, by the Fairy Morgana, by Queen Proserpine, by Prester John; nay, in the new Jerusalem, in the kingdom of Heaven itself, nothing but spring; till one longs for a bare twig, for a yellow leaf, for a frozen gutter, as for a draught of water in the desert. The green fields and meadows enamelled with painted flowers, how one detests them! how one would rejoice to see them well sprinkled with frost or burnt up to brown in the dry days! the birds, the birds which warble through every sonnet, canzone, sirventes, glosa, dance lay, roundelay, virelay, rondel, ballade, and whatsoever else it may be called,--how one wishes them silent for ever, or their twitter, the tarantarantandei of the eternal German nightingale especially, drowned by a good howling wind J After any persistent study of mediæval poetry, one's feeling towards spring is just similar to that of the morbid creature in Schubert's "Müllerin," who would not stir from home for the dreadful, dreadful greenness, which he would fain bleach with tears, all around: Ich möchte ziehn in die Welt hinaus, hinaus in die weite Welt, Wenn's nur so grün, so grün nicht war da draussen in Wald und Feld. Moreover this mediæval spring is the spring neither of the shepherd, nor of the farmer, nor of any man to whom spring brings work and anxiety and hope of gain; it is a mere vague spring of gentle-folk, or at all events of well-to-do burgesses, taking their pleasure on the lawns of castle parks, or the green holiday places close to the city, much as we see them in the first part of "Faust;" a sweet but monotonous charm of grass, beneath green lime tree, or in the South the elm or plane; under which are seated the poet and the fiddler, playing and singing for the young women, their hair woven with chaplets of fresh flowers, dancing upon the sward. And poet after poet, Provençal, Italian, and German, Nithart and Ulrich, and even the austere singer of the Holy Grail, Wolfram, pouring out verse after verse of the songs in praise of spring, which they make even as girls wind their garlands: songs of quaint and graceful ever-changing rythm, now slowly circling, now bounding along, now stamping out the measure like the feet of the dancers, now winding and turning as wind and twine their arms in the long-linked mazes; while the few and ever-repeated ideas, the old, stale platitudes of praise of woman, love pains, joys of dancing, pleasure of spring (spring, always spring, eternal, everlasting spring) seem languidly to follow the life and movement of the mere metre. Poets, these German, Provençal, French, and early Italian lyrists, essentially (if we venture to speak heresy) not of ideas or emotions, but of metre, of rythm and rhyme; with just the minimum of necessary thought, perpetually presented afresh just as the words, often and often repeated and broken up and new combined, of a piece of music--poetry which is in truth a sort of music, dance or dirge or hymn music as the case may be, more than anything else. As it is in mediæval poetry with the seasons, so it is likewise with the country and its occupations: as there is only spring, so there is only the forest. Of the forest, mediæval poetry has indeed much to say; more perhaps, and more familiar with its pleasures, than Antiquity. There is the memorable forest where the heroes of the Nibelungen go to hunt, followed by their waggons of provisions and wine; where Siegfried overpowers the bear, and returns to his laughing comrades with the huge thing chained to his saddle; where, in that clear space which we see so distinctly, a lawn on to which the blue black firs are encroaching, Siegfried stoops to drink of the spring beneath the lime tree, and Hagen drives his boarspear straight through the Nibelung's back. There is the thick wood, all a golden haze through the young green, and with an atmosphere of birds' song, where King Mark discovers Tristram and Iseult in the cave, the deceitful sword between them, as Gottfried von Strassburg relates with wonderful luscious charm. The forest, also, more bleak and austere, where the four outlawed sons of Aymon live upon roots and wild animals, where they build their castle by the Meuse. Further, and most lovely of all, the forest in which Nicolette makes herself a hut of branches, bracken, and flowers, through which the stars peep down on her whiteness as she dreams of her Lord Aucassin. The forest where Huon meets Oberon; and Guy de Lusignan, the good snake-lady; and Parzival finds on the snow the feathers and the drops of blood which throw him into his long day-dream; and Owen discovers the tomb of Merlin; the forest, in short, which extends its interminable glades and serried masses of trunks and arches of green from one end to the other of mediæval poetry. It is very beautiful, this forest of the Middle Ages; but it is monotonous, melancholy; and has a terrible eeriness in its endlessness. For there is nothing else. There are no meadows where the cows lie lazily, no fields where the red and purple kerchiefs of the reapers overtop the high corn; no orchards, no hayfields; nothing like those hill slopes where the wild herbs encroach upon the vines, and the goats of Corydon and Damoetas require to be kept from mischief; where, a little lower down, the Athenian shopkeeper of Aristophanes goes daily to look whether yesterday's hard figs may not have ripened, or the vine wreaths pruned last week grown too lushly. Nor anything of the sort of those Umbrian meadows, where Virgil himself will stop and watch the white bullocks splashing slowly into the shallow, sedgy Clitumnus; still less like those hamlets in the cornfields through which Propertius would stroll, following the jolting osier waggon, or the procession with garlands and lights to Pales or to the ochre-stained garden god. Nothing of all this: there are no cultivated spots in mediæval poetry; the city only, and the castle, and the endless, all-encompassing forest. And to this narrowness of mediæval notions of outdoor life, inherited together with mediæval subjects by the poets even of the sixteenth century, must be referred the curious difference existing between the romance poets of antiquity, like Homer in the Odyssey, and the romance poets--Boiardo, Ariosto, Tasso, Spenser, Camoens--of modern times, in the matter of--how shall I express it?--the ideal life, the fortunate realms, the "Kennaqwhere." In Homer, in all the ancients, the ideal country is merely a more delightful reality; and its inhabitants happier everyday men and women; in the poetry sprung from the Middle Ages it is always a fairy-land constructed by mechanicians and architects. For, as we have seen, the Middle Ages could bequeath to the sixteenth century no ideal of peaceful outdoor enjoyment. Hence, in the poetry of the sixteenth century, still permeated by mediæval traditions, an appalling artificiality of delightfulness. Fallerina, Alcina, Armida, Acrasia, all imitated from the original Calypso, are not strong and splendid god-women, living among the fields and orchards, but dainty ladies hidden in elaborate gardens, all bedizened with fashionable architecture: regular palaces, pleasaunces, with uncomfortable edifices, artificial waterfalls, labyrinths, rare and monstrous plants, parrots, apes, giraffes; childish splendours of gardening and engineering and menageries, which we meet already in "Ogier the Dane" and "Huon of Bordeaux," and which later poets epitomized out of the endless descriptions of Colonna's "Hypnerotomachia Poliphili," the still more frightful inventories of the Amadis romances. They are, each of them, a kind of anticipated Marly, Versailles, Prince Elector's Friedrichsruhe or Nymphenburg, with clipped cypresses and yews, doubtless, and (O Pales and Pan!) flower-beds filled with coloured plaster and spas, and cascades spirting out (thanks to fifty invisible pumps) under your feet and over your head. All the vineyards and cornfields have been swept away to make these solemn terraces and water-works; all the cottages which, with their little wooden shrine, their humble enclosure of sunflowers and rosemary and fruit trees, their buzzing hives and barking dogs, were loved and sung even by town rakes like Catullus and smart coffeehouse wits like Horace; all these have been swept away to be replaced by the carefully constructed (? wire) bowers, the aviaries, the porticoes, the frightful circular edifice (_tondo è il ricco edificio_), a masterpiece of Palladian stucco work, in which Armida and Rinaldo, Acrasia and her Knight, drearily disport themselves. What has become of Calypso's island? of the orchards of Alcinous? What would the noble knights and ladies of Ariosto and Spenser think of them? What would they say, these romantic, dainty creatures, were they to meet Nausicaa with the washed linen piled on her waggon? Alas! they would take her for a laundress. For it is the terrible aristocratic idleness of the Middle Ages, their dreary delicacy, which hampers Boiardo, Ariosto, Tasso, Spenser, even in the midst of their most unblushing plagiarisms from Antiquity: their heroes and heroines have been brought up, surrounded by equerries and duennas, elegant, useless things, or at best (the knights at least) good only for aristocratic warfare. Plough or prune! defile the knightly hands! wash or cook, ply the loom like Nausicaa, Calypso, or Penelope! The mere thought sends them very nearly into a faint. No: the ladies of mediæval romance must sit quiet, idle; at most they may sing to the lute; and if they work with their hands, it must be some dreary, strictly useless, piece of fancy work; they are hot-house plants, all these dainty folk. Had they no eyes, then, these poets of the Middle Ages, that they could see, among all the things of Nature, only those few which had been seen by their predecessors? At first one feels tempted to think so, till the recollection of many vivid touches in spring and forest descriptions persuades one that, enormous as was the sway of tradition among these men, they were not all of them, nor always, repeating mere conventional platitudes. This singular limitation in the mediæval perceptions of Nature--a limitation so important as almost to make it appear as if the Middle Ages had not perceived Nature at all--is most frequently attributed to the prevalence of asceticism, which, according to some critics, made all mediæval men into so many repetitions of Bernard of Clairvaux, of whom it is written that, being asked his opinion of Lake Leman, he answered with surprise that, during his journey from Geneva to the Rhone Valley, he had remarked no lake whatever, so absorbed had he been in spiritual meditations. But the predominance of asceticism has been grossly exaggerated. It was a state of moral tension which could not exist uninterruptedly, and could exist only in the classes for whom poetry was not written. The mischief done by asceticism was the warping of the moral nature of men, not of their æsthetic feelings; it had no influence upon the vast numbers, the men and women who relished the profane and obscene fleshliness and buffoonery of stage plays and fabliaux, and those who favoured the delicate and exquisite immoralities of Courtly poetry. Indeed, the presence of whole classes of writings, of which such things as Boccaccio's Tales, "The Wife of Bath," and Villon's "Ballades," on the one hand, and the songs of the troubadours, the poem of Gottfried, and the romance or rather novel of "Flamenca," are respectively but the most conspicuous examples, ought to prove only too clearly that the Middle Ages, for all their asceticism, were both as gross and as æsthetic in sensualism as antiquity had been before them. We must, therefore, seek elsewhere than in asceticism, necessarily limited, and excluding the poetry-reading public, for an explanation of this peculiarity of mediæval poetry. And we shall find it, I think, in that which during the Middle Ages could, because it was an all-regulating social condition, really create universal habits of thought and feeling, namely, feudalism. A moral condition like asceticism must leave unbiassed all such minds as are incapable of feeling it; but a social institution like feudalism walls in the life of every individual, and forces his intellectual movements into given paths; nor is there any escape, excepting in places where, as in Italy and in the free towns of the North, the feudal conditions are wholly or partially unknown. To feudalism, therefore, would I ascribe this, which appears at first so purely æsthetic, as opposed to social, a characteristic of the Middle Ages. Ever since Schiller, in his "Gods of Greece," spoke for the first time of undivinized Nature (_die entgötterte Natur_), it has been the fashion among certain critics to fall foul of Christianity for having robbed the fields and woods of their gods, and reduced to mere manured clods the things which had been held sacred by antiquity. Desecrated in those long mediæval centuries Nature may truly have been, but not by the holy water of Christian priests. Desecrated because out of the fields and meadows was driven a divinity greater than Pales or Vertumnus or mighty Pan, the divinity called _Man_. For in the terrible times when civilization was at its lowest, the things of the world had been newly allotted; and by this new allotment, man--the man who thinks and loves and hopes and strives, man who fights and sings--was shut out from the fields and meadows, forbidden the labour, nay, almost the sight, of the earth; and to the tending of kine, and sowing of crops, to all those occupations which antiquity had associated with piety and righteousness, had deemed worthy of the gods themselves, was assigned, or rather condemned, a creature whom every advancing year untaught to think or love, or hope, or fight, or strive; but taught most utterly to suffer and to despair. For a man it is difficult to call him, this mediæval serf, this lump of earth detached from the field and wrought into a semblance of manhood, merely that the soil of which it is part should be delved and sown, and then manured with its carcass or its blood; nor as a man did the Middle Ages conceive it. The serf was not even allowed human progenitors: his foul breed had originated in an obscene miracle; his stupidity and ferocity were as those of the beasts; his cunning was demoniac; he was born under God's curse; no words could paint his wickedness, no persecutions could exceed his deserts; the whole world turned pale at his crime, for he it was, he and not any human creature, who had nailed Christ upon the cross. Like the hunger and sores of a fox or a wolf, his hunger and his sores are forgotten, never noticed. Were it not that legal and ecclesiastical narratives of trials (not of feudal lords for crushing and contaminating their peasants, but of peasants for spitting out and trampling on the consecrated wafer) give us a large amount of pedantically stated detail; tell us how misery begat vice, and filth and starvation united families in complicated meshes of incest, taught them depopulation as a virtue and a necessity; and how the despair of any joy in nature, of any mercy from God, hounded men and women into the unspeakable orgies, the obscene parodies, of devil worship; were it not for these horrible shreds of judicial evidence (as of tatters of clothes or blood-clotted hairs on the shoes of a murderer) we should know little or nothing of the life of the men and women who, in mediæval France and Germany, did the work which had been taught by Hesiod and Virgil. About all these tragedies the literature of the Middle Ages, ready to show us town vice and town horror, dens of prostitution and creaking, overweighted gibbets, as in Villon's poems, utters not a word. All that we can hear is the many-throated yell of mediæval poets, noble and plebeian, French, Provençal, and German, against the brutishness, the cunning, the cruelty, the hideousness, the heresy of the serf, whose name becomes synonymous with every baseness; which, in mock grammatical style, is declined into every epithet of wickedness; whose punishment is prayed for from the God whom he outrages by his very existence; a hideous clamour of indecent jibe, of brutal vituperation, of senseless accusation, of every form of words which furious hatred can assume, whose echoes reached even countries like Tuscany, where serfdom was well nigh unknown, and have reached even to us in the scraps of epigram still bandied about by the townsfolk against the peasants, nay, by the peasants against themselves.[1] A monstrous rag doll, dressed up in shreds of many-coloured villainy without a recognizable human feature, dragged in mud, pilloried with unspeakable ordure, paraded in mock triumph like a King of Fools, and burnt in the market-place like Antichrist, such is the image which mediæval poetry has left us of the creature who was once the pious rustic, the innocent god-beloved husbandman, on whose threshold justice stopped a while when she fled from the towns of Antiquity. [1] The reader may oppose to my views the existence of the--class of poems, French, Latin, and German, of which the Provençal Pastourela is the original type, and which represent the courting, by the poet, who is, of course, a knight, of a beautiful country-girl, who is shown us as feeding her sheep or spinning with her distaff. But these poems are, to the best of my knowledge, all of a single pattern, and extremely insincere and artificial in tone, that I feel inclined to class them with the pastorals--Dresden china idylls by men who had never looked a live peasant in the face--of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, --as distant descendants from the pastoral poetry of antiquity, of which the chivalric poets may have got some indirect notions as they did of the antique epics. It is moreover extremely the likely that these love poems, in which, successfully or unsuccessfully, the poet usually offers a bribe to the woman of low degree, conceal beneath the conventional pastoral trappings the intrigues of minnesingers and troubadours with women of the small artizan or village proprietor class. The real peasant woman--the female of the villain--could scarcely have been above the notice of the noblemen's servants; and, in countries where the seigneurial rights were in vigour, would scarcely have been offered presents and fine words. As regards the innumerable poems against the peasantry, I may refer the reader to an extremely curious publication of "Carmina Medii Ævi," recently made by Sig. Francesco Novati, and which contains, besides a selection of specimens, a list of references on the subject of poems "De Natura Rusticorum." One of the satirical declensions runs as follows: Singulariter. Pluraliter. Nom. Hic villanus. Nom. Hi maledicti. Gen. Huius rustici. Gen. Horum tristium. Dat. Huic tferfero (_sic_). Dat. His mendacibus. Acc. Hunc furem. Acc. Hos nequissimos. Voc. O latro. Voc. O pessimi. Abl. Ab hoc depredatore. Abl. Ab his infidelibus. The accusation of heresy and of crucifying Christ is evidently due to the devil-worship prevalent among the serfs, and is thus, alluded to in a north Italian poem, probably borrowed from the French: Christo fo da villan crucifiò, E stagom sempre in pioza, in vento, e in neve, Perchè havom fato cosi gran peccà. This feeling is exactly analogous to that existing nowadays in semi-barbarous countries against the Jews. The idle hated the industrious, and hated them all the more when their industry brought them any profit.] Yet not so; I can recall one, though only one, occasion in which mediæval literature shows us the serf. The place is surely the most unexpected, the charming thirteenth century tale of "Aucassin et Nicolette." In his beautiful essay upon that story, Mr. Pater has deliberately omitted this episode, which is indeed like a spot of blood-stained mud upon some perfect tissue of silver flowers on silver ground. It is a piece of cruellest realism, because quite quiet and unforced, in the midst of a kind of fairy-land idyl of almost childish love, the love of the beautiful son of the lord of Beaucaire for a beautiful Saracen slave girl. For, although Aucassin and Nicolette are often separated, and always disconsolate--she in her wonderfully frescoed vaulted room, he in his town prison--there is always surrounding them a sort of fairy land of trees and flowers, a constant song of birds; although they wander through the woods and tear their delicate skin, and catch their hair in brambles and briars, we have always the sense of the daisies bending beneath their tread, of the green leaves rustling aside from their heads covered with hair--"blond et menu crespelé." Their very hardships are lovely, like the hut of flowering branches and grapes, which Nicolette builds for herself, and through whose fissures the moonlight shines and the little stars twinkle: so much so, that when they weep, these two beautiful and dainty creatures, we listen as if to singing, and with no more sense of grief than at some pathetic little snatch of melody. And in the midst of this idyl of lovely things; in the midst of all these delicate patternings, whose minuteness and faint tint merge into one vague pleasurable impression; stands out, unintentionally placed there by the author, little aware of its terrible tragic realism, the episode which I am going to translate. "Thus Aucassin wandered all day through the forest, without hearing any news of his sweet love; and when he saw that dusk was spreading, he began bitterly to weep. As he was riding along an old road, where weeds and grass grew thick and high, he suddenly saw before him, in the middle of this road, a man such as I am going to describe to you. He was tall, ugly; nay, hideous quite marvellously. His face was blacker than smoked meat, and so wide, that there was a good palm's distance between his eyes; his cheeks were huge, his nostrils also, with a very big flat nose; thick lips as red as embers, and long teeth yellow and smoke colour. He wore leathern shoes and gaiters, kept up with string at the knees; on his back was a parti-coloured coat. He was leaning upon a stout bludgeon. Aucassin was startled and fearful, and said: "'Fair brother ("beau frère"--a greeting corresponding to the modern "bon homme")! God be with thee!' "'God bless you!' answered the man. "'What dost thou here?' asked Aucassin. "'What is that to you?' answered the man. "'I ask thee from no evil motive.' "'Then tell me why,' said the man, 'you yourself are weeping with such grief? Truly, were I a rich man like you, nothing in the world should make me weep.' "'And how dost thou know me?' "'I know you to be Aucassin, the son of the Count; and if you will tell me why you weep, I will tell you why I am here.' "'I will tell thee willingly,' answered Aucassin. 'This morning I came to hunt in the forest; I had a white leveret, the fairest in the world; I have lost him--that is why I am weeping.' "'What!' cried the man;' it is for a stinking hound that you waste the tears of your body? Woe to those who shall pity you; you, the richest man of this country. If your father wanted fifteen or twenty white leverets, he could get them. I am weeping and mourning for more serious matters.' "'And what are these?' "'I will tell you. I was hired to a rich farmer to drive his plough, dragged by four bullocks. Three days ago, I lost a red bullock, the best of the four. I left the plough, and sought the red bullock on all sides, but could not find him. For three days I have neither eaten nor drunk, and have been wandering thus. I have been afraid of going to the town, where they would put me in jail, because I have not wherewith to pay for the bullock. All I possess are the clothes on my back. I have a mother; and the poor woman had nothing more valuable than me; since she had only an old smock wherewith to cover her poor old limbs. They have torn the smock off her back, and now she has to lie on the straw. It is about her that I am afflicted more than about myself, because, as to me, I may get some money some day or other, and as to the red bullock, he may be paid for when he may. And I should never weep for such a trifle as that. Ah! woe betide those who shall make sorrow with you!'" Inserted merely to give occasion to show Aucassin's good heart in paying the twenty _sols_ for the man's red bullock; perhaps for no reason at all, but certainly with no idea of making the lover's misery seem by comparison trifling--there are, nevertheless, few things in literature more striking than the meeting in the wood of the daintily nurtured boy, weeping over the girl whom he loves with almost childish love of the fancy; and of that ragged, tattered, hideous serf, at whose very aspect the Bel Aucassin stops in awe and terror. And the attitude is grand of this unfortunate creature, who neither begs nor threatens, scarcely complains, and not at all for himself; but merely tells his sordid misfortune with calm resignation, as if used to such everyday miseries, roused to indignation only at the sight of the tears which the fine-bred youth is shedding. We feel the dreadful solemnity of the man's words; of the reproach thus thrown by the long-suffering serf, accustomed to misfortunes as the lean ox is to blows, to that delicate thing weeping for his lady love, for the lady of his fancy. It is the one occasion upon which that delicate and fantastic mediæval love poetry, that fanciful, wistful stripling King Love of the Middle Ages, in which he keeps high court, and through which he rides in triumphal procession; that King Love laughing and fainting by turns with all his dapper artificiality of woes; is confronted with the sordid reality, the tragic impersonation of all the dumb miseries, the lives and loves, crushed and defiled unnoticed, of the peasantry of those days. Yes, while they sing--Provençals, minnesingers, Sicilians, sing of their earthly lady and of their paramour in heaven--the hideous peasant, whose naked granny is starving on the straw, looks on with dull and tearless eyes; crying out to posterity, as the serf cries to Aucassin: "Woe to those who shall sorrow at the tears of such as these." II. But meanwhile, during those centuries which lie between the dark ages and modern times, the Middle Ages (inasmuch as they mean not a mere chronological period, but a definite social and mental condition) fortunately did not exist everywhere. Had they existed, it is almost impossible to understand how they would ever throughout Europe have come to an end; for as the favourite proverb of Catharine of Siena has it, one dead man cannot bury another dead man; and the Middle Ages, after this tedious dying of the fifteenth century, required to be shovelled into the tomb, nay, rather, given the final stroke, by the Renaissance. This that we foolishly call--giving a quite incorrect notion of sudden and miraculous birth--the Renaissance, and limit to the time of the revival of Greek humanities, really existed, as I have repeatedly suggested wherever, during the mediæval centuries, the civilization of which the twelfth and thirteenth centuries were big was not, by the pressure of feudalism and monasticism, made to be abortive or stillborn. Low as was Italy at the very close of the dark ages, and much as she borrowed for a long while from the more precocious northern nations, especially France and Provence; Italy had, nevertheless, an enormous advantage in the fact that her populations were not divided into victor and vanquished, and that the old Latin institutions of town and country were never replaced, except in certain northern and southern districts, by feudal arrangements. The very first thing which strikes us in the obscure Italian commonwealths of early times, is that in these resuscitated relics of Roman or Etruscan towns there is no feeling of feudal superiority and inferiority; that there is no lord, and consequently no serf. Nor is this the case merely within the city walls. The never sufficiently appreciated difference between the Italian free burghs and those of Germany, Flanders, and Provence, is that the citizens depend only in the remotest and most purely fictitious way upon any kind of suzerain; and moreover that the country, instead of belonging to feudal nobles, belong every day more and more completely to the burghers. The peasant is not a serf, but one of three things--a hired labourer, a possessor of property, or a farmer, liable to no taxes, paying no rent, and only sharing with the proprietor the produce of the land. By this latter system, existing, then as now, throughout Tuscany, the peasantry was an independent and well-to-do class. The land owned by one man (who, in the commonwealths, was usually a shopkeeper or manufacturer in the town) was divided into farms small enough to be cultivated--vines, olives, corn, and fruit--by one family of peasants, helped perhaps by a paid labourer. The thriftier and less scrupulous peasants could, in good seasons, put by sufficient profit from their share of the produce to suffice after some years, and with the addition of what the women might make by washing, spinning, weaving, plaiting straw hats (an accomplishment greatly insisted upon by Lorenzo dei Medici), and so forth, to purchase some small strip of land of their own. Hence, a class of farmers at once living on another man's land and sharing its produce with him, and cultivating and paying taxes upon land belonging to themselves. Of these Tuscan peasants we get occasional glimpses in the mediæval Italian novelists--a well-to-do set of people, in constant communication with the town where they sell their corn, oil, vegetables, and wine, and easily getting confused with the lower class of artizans with whom they doubtless largely intermarried. These peasants whom we see in tidy kilted tunics and leathern gaiters, driving their barrel-laden bullock carts, or riding their mules up to the red city gates in many a Florentine and Sienese painting of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, were in many respects better off than the small artizans of the city, heaped up in squalid houses, and oppressed by the greater and smaller guilds. Agnolo Pandolfini, teaching thrift to his sons in Alberti's charming treatise on "The Government of the Family," frequently groans over the insolence, the astuteness of the peasantry; and indeed seems to consider that it is impossible to cope with them--a conclusion which would have greatly astounded the bailiffs of the feudal proprietors in the Two Sicilies and beyond the Alps. Indeed it is impossible to conceive a stranger contrast than that between the northern peasant, the starved and stunted serf, whom Holbein drew, driving his lean horses across the hard furrow, with compassionate Death helping along the plough, and the Tuscan farmer, as shown us by Lorenzo dei Medici--the young fellow who, while not above minding his cows or hoeing up his field, goes into Florence once a week, offers his sweetheart presents of coral necklaces, silk staylaces, and paint for her cheeks and eyelashes; who promises, to please her, to have his hair frizzled (as only the youths of the Renaissance knew how to be frizzled and fuzzed) by the barber, and even dimly hints that some day he may appear in silken jerkin and tight hose, like a well-to-do burgess. No greater contrast perhaps, unless indeed we should compare his sweetheart, Lorenzo's beautiful Nenciozza, with her box full of jewels, her Sunday garb of damask kirtle and gold-worked bodice, her almost queenly ways towards her adorers, with the wretched creature, not a woman, but a mere female animal, cowering among her starving children in her mud cottage, and looking forward, in dull lethargy, after the morning full of outrages at the castle, to the night, the night on the heath, lit with mysterious flickers, to the horrible joys of the sacrifice which the oppressed brings to the dethroned, the serf to Satan; when, in short, we compare the peasant woman described by Lorenzo with the female serf resuscitated by the genius of Michelet; nay, more poignant still, with that mother in the "Dance of Death," seated on the mud flood of the broken-roofed, dismantled hovel, stewing something on a fire of twigs, and stretching out vain arms to her poor tattered baby-boy, whom, with the good-humoured tripping step of an old nurse, the kindly skeleton is leading away out of this cruel world. Such were the conditions of the peasantry of the great Italian commonwealths. They were, as much as the northern serfs were the reverse, creatures pleasant to deal with, pleasant to watch. The upper classes, on the other hand, differed quite as much from the upper classes of feudal countries. They were, be it remembered, men of business, constantly in contact with the working classes; Albizis, Strozzis, Pandolfinis, Guinigis, Tolomeis, no matter what their name, these men who built palaces and churches which outdid the magnificence of northern princes, and who might, at any moment, be sent ambassadors from Florence, Lucca, or Siena, to the French or English kings, to the Emperor or the Pope, spent a large portion of their days at their office desk, among the bales of their warehouses, behind the counter of their shops; they wore the same dress, had the same habits, spoke the same dialect, as the weavers and dyers, the carriers and porters whom they employed, and whose sons might, by talent and industry, amass a fortune, build palaces, and go ambassadors to kings in their turn. When, therefore, these merchant nobles turned to the country for rest and relief from their cares, it was not to the country as it existed for the feudal noble of the North. Boar and stag hunts had no attraction for quiet men of business; forests stocked with wild beasts where vineyard and cornfield might have extended, would have seemed to them the very height of wastefulness, discomfort, and ugliness. Pacific and businesslike, they merely transferred to the country the habits of thought and of life which had arisen in the city. Not for them any imitation of the feudal castle, turreted and moated, cut up into dark irregular rooms and yards, filled with noisy retainers and stinking hounds. On some gentle hillside a well-planned palace, its rooms spacious and lofty, and sparely windowed for coolness in summer; with a neat cloistered court in the centre, ventilating the whole house, and affording a cool place, full of scent of flowers and sound of fountains for the burning afternoons; a belvedere tower also, on which to seek a breeze on stifling nights, when the very stars seem faint for heat, and the dim plumy heads of cypress and poplar are motionless against the misty blue sky. In front a broad terrace, whence to look down towards the beloved city, a vague fog of roofs in the distance; on the side and behind, elaborate garden walks walled with high walls of box and oak and laurel, in which stand statues in green niches; gardens with little channels to bring water, even during droughts, to the myrtles, the roses, the stocks and clove pinks, over which bend with blossoms brilliant against the pale blue sky the rose-flowered oleander, the scarlet-flowered pomegranate; also aviaries and cages full of odd and harmless creatures, ferrets, guinea pigs, porcupines, squirrels, and monkeys; arbours where wife, daughters, and daughters-in-law may sew and make music; and neat lawns where the young men may play at quoits, football, or swordsticks and bucklers; and then, sweeping all round the house and gardens and terraces an undulating expanse of field and orchard, smoke-tinted with olive, bright green in spring with budding crops, russet in autumn with sere vines; and from which, in the burning noon, rises the incessant sawing noise of the cicalas, and ever and anon the high, nasal, melancholy chant of the peasant, lying in the shade of barn door or fig tree till the sun shall sink and he can return to his labour. If the house in town, with its spacious store-rooms, its carved chapel, and painted banqueting hall, large enough to hold sons' children and brothers' wives and grandchildren, and a whole host of poor relatives, whom the wise father (as Pandolfini teaches) employs rather than strangers for his clerks and overseers--if this town house was the pride of the Italian burgess; the villa, with its farms and orchards, was the real joy, the holiday paradise of the over-worked man. To read in the cool house, with cicala's buzz and fountain plash all round, the Greek and Latin authors; to discuss them with learned men; to watch the games of the youths and the children, this was the reward for years of labour and intelligence; but sweeter than all this (how we feel it in Agnolo Pandolfini's speeches!) were those occupations which the city could not give: the buying and selling of plants, grain, and kine, the meddling with new grafted trees, the mending of spaliers, the straightening of fences, the going round (with the self-importance and impatience of a cockney) to see what flowers had opened, what fruit had ripened over-night; to walk through the oliveyards, among the vines; to pry into stable, pig-stye, and roosting-place, taking up handfuls of drying grain, breaking twigs of olives, to see how things were doing; and to have long conversations with the peasants, shrewd enough to affect earnest attention when the master was pleased to vent his town-acquired knowledge of agriculture and gardening. Sweet also, doubtless, for younger folk, or such perhaps as were fonder of teaching new lute tunes to the girls than of examining into cabbages, and who read Dante and Boccaccio more frequently than Cicero or Sallust; though sweet perhaps only as a vague concomitant of their lazy pleasures, to listen to those songs of the peasantry rising from the fields below, while lying perhaps on one's back in the shaded grass, watching the pigeons whirring about the belvedere tower. Vaguely pleasant this also, doubtless; but for a long while only vaguely. For, during more than two centuries, the burgesses of Italy were held enthralled by the Courtly poets of other countries; listening to, and reading, at first, only Provençals and Sicilians, or Italians, like Sordello, pretending to be of Provence or Sicily; and even later, enduring in their own poets, their own Guittones, Cavalcantis, Cinos, Guinicellis, nay even in Dante and Petrarch's lyrics, only the repetition (however vivified by genius) of the old common-places of Courtly love, and artificial spring, of the poetry of feudal nations. But the time came when not only Provençal and Sicilian, but even Tuscan, poetry was neglected, when the revival of Greek and Latin letters made it impossible to rewrite the threadbare mediæval prettinesses, or even to write in earnest in the modern tongue, so stiff and thin (as it seemed) and like some grotesque painted saint, when compared with the splendidly fleshed antique languages, turning and twining in graceful or solemn involutions, as of a Pyrrhic or a maidens' dance. And it was during this period, from Petrarch to Politian, that, as philologists have now proved beyond dispute, the once fashionable chivalric romance, and the poetry of Provençal and Sicilian school, cast off by the upper classes, was gradually picked up by the lower and especially by the rural classes. Vagabond ballad-singers and story-tellers--creatures who wander from house to house, mending broken pottery, collecting rags or selling small pedlar's wares--were the old clothesmen who carried about these bits of tarnished poetic finery. The people of the town, constantly in presence of the upper classes, and therefore sooner or later aware of what was or was not in fashion, did not care long for the sentimental daintiness of mediæval poetry; besides, satire and scurrility are as inevitable in a town as are dogs in gutters and cats on roofs; and the townsfolk soon set their own buffoonish or satirical ideas to whatever remained of the music of mediæval poetry: already early in the fifteenth century the sonnet had become for the Florentine artizans a mere scurrilous epigram. It was different in the country. The peasant, at least the Tuscan peasant, is eminently idealistic and romantic in his literary tastes; it may be that he has not the intellectual life required for any utterances or forms of his own, and that he consequently accepts poetry as a ready-made ornament, something pretty and exotic, which is valued in proportion to its prettiness and rarity. Be the reason whatever it may, certain it is that nothing can be too artificial or high-flown to please the Italian peasantry: its tales are all of kings; princesses, fairies, knights, winged horses, marvellous jewels, and so forth; its songs are almost without exception about love, constancy, moon, stars, flowers. Such things have not been degraded by familiarity and parody as in the town; they retain for the country folk the vague charm (like that of music, automatic and independent of thorough comprehension) of belonging to a sphere of the marvellous; hence they are repeated and repeated with almost religious servility, as any one may observe who will listen to the stories and verses told and sung even nowadays in the Tuscan country, or who will glance over the splendid collections of folklore made in the last twenty years. Such things, must suffer alteration from people who can neither read nor write, and who cannot be expected to remember very clearly details which, in many cases, must have for them only the vaguest meaning. The stories split in process of telling and re-telling, and are completed with bits of other stories; details are forgotten and have to be replaced; the same happens with poetry: songs easily get jumbled together, their meaning is partially obliterated, and has to be restored or, again, an attempt is made by bold men to adapt some seemingly adaptable old song to a new occasion an old love ditty seems fit to sing to a new sweetheart.--names, circumstances, and details require arranging for this purpose; and hence more alterations. Now, however much a peasant may enjoy the confused splendours of Court life and of Courtly love, he cannot, with the best will in the world, restore their details or colouring if they happen to become obliterated. If he chance to forget that when the princess first met the wizard she was riding forth on a snow-white jennet with a falcon on her glove, there is nothing to prevent his describing her as walking through the meadow in charge of a flock of geese; and similarly, should he happen to forget that the Courtly lover compares the skin of his mistress to ivory and her eyes to Cupid's torches, he is quite capable of filling up the gap by saying that the girl is as white as a turnip and as bright-eyed as a ferret. As with details of description and metaphors, so also with the emotional and social parts of the business. The peasant has not been brought up in the idea that the way to gain a woman's affection is to stick her glove on a helmet and perform deeds of prowess closely resembling those of Don Quixote in the Sierra Morena; so he attempts to ingratiate himself by offering her presents of strawberries, figs, buttons, hooks-and-eyes, and similar desirable things. Again, were the peasant to pay attentions to a married woman, he would merely get (what noble husbands were too well bred to dream of) a sound horsewhipping, or perhaps even a sharp knife thrust in his stomach; so that he takes good care to address his love songs only to marriageable young women. In this way, without any deliberate attempt .at originality, the old Courtly poetry becomes, when once removed to the country, thoroughly patched and seamed with rustic ideas, feelings, and images; while never ceasing to be, in its general stuff and shape, of a kind such as only professional poets of the upper classes can produce. The Sicilian lyrics collected by Signor Pitre, still more the Tuscan poems of Tigri's charming volume, are, therefore, a curious mixture of high-flown sentiment, dainty imagery, and most artistic arrangements of metre and diction (especially in the rispetto, where metrical involution is accompanied by logical involution of the most refined mediæval sort), with hopes and complaints such as only a farmer could frame, with similes and descriptions such as only the business of the field, vineyard, and dairy could suggest. A mixture, but not a jumble. For as in this slow process of assimilation and alteration only that was remembered by the peasant which the peasant could understand and sympathize with; and only that was welded into the once Courtly poetry which was sufficiently refined to please the people who delighted in the exotic refinement--as, in short, everything came about perfectly simply and unconsciously, there resulted what in good sooth may be considered as a perfectly substantive and independent form of art, with beauties and refinements of its own. And, indeed, it appears to me that one might say, without too much paradox, that in these peasant songs only does the poetry of minnesingers and troubadours, become thoroughly enjoyable; that only when the conventionality of feeling and imagery is corrected by the freshness, the straightforwardness, nay, even the grotesqueness of rural likings, dislikings, and comparisons, can the dainty beauty of mediæval Courtly poetry ever really satisfy our wishes. Comparing together Tigri's collection of Tuscan folk poetry with any similar anthology that might be made of middle-high German and Provençal, and early Italian lyrics, I feel that the adoption of Courtly mediæval poetry by the Italian peasantry of the Renaissance can be compared more significantly than at first seemed with the adoption of a once fashionable garb by country folk. The peasant pulled about this Courtly lyrism, oppressively tight in its conventional fit and starched with elaborate rhetorical embroideries; turned it inside out, twisted a bit here, a bit there, ripped open seam after seam, patched and repatched with stuffs and stitches of its own; and then wore the whole thing as it had never been intended to be worn; until this cast-off poetic apparel, stretched on the freer moral limbs of natural folk, faded and stained by weather and earth into new and richer tints, had lost all its original fashionable stiffness, and crudeness of colour, and niminy-piminy fit, and had acquired instead I know not what grace of unexpectedness, picturesqueness, and ease.[1] [1] Any one who is sceptical of the Courtly derivation of the Italian popular song may, besides consulting the admirable book of Prof. d'Ancona, compare with the contents of Tigri's famous "Canti popolari Toscani," the following scraps of Sicilian and early Italian lyrics:-- The Emperor Frederick II. writes: "Rosa di maggio--Colorita e fresca--Occhi hai fini--E non rifini--Di gioie dare--Lo tuo parlare--La gente innamora--Castella ed altura." Jacopo Pugliesi says of his lady: "Chiarita in viso più che argento--Donami allegrezze--Ben eo son morto--E mal colto--Se non mi dai conforto--_Fior dell' orto_." Inghilfredi Siciliano: "Gesù Cristo ideolla in paradiso--E poi la fece angelo incarnando--Gioia aggio preso di giglio novello--E vago, che sormonta ogni ricchezza--Sua dottrina m' affrezza--Cosi mi coglie e olezza--Come pantera le bestie selvagge." Jacopo da Lentino: "E di virtute tutte l' altre avanza--E somigliante a stella è di splendore--Colla sua conta (_cf_. Provençal _coindeta_, gentille) e gaia innamoranza--E più bella è che rosa e che fiore--Cristo le doni vita ed allegranza--E sì la cresca in gran pregio ed onore." I must finish off what might be a much longer collection with a charming little scrap, quite in rispetto tone, by Guinicelli: "Vedut 'ho la lucente stella diana--Ch' appare anzi che 'l giorno renda albore--Ch' a preso forma di figura umana--Sovr' ogni altra mi par che dia splendore--Viso di neve colorato in grana--Occhi lucenti, gai e pien d'amore--Non credo che nel mondo sia cristiana--Si piena di beltate e di valore."] Well; for many a year did the song of the peasants rise up from the fields and oliveyards unnoticed by the good townsfolk taking their holiday at the Tuscan villa; but one day, somewhere in the third quarter of the fifteenth century, the long-drawn chant of the rispetto, telling perhaps how the singer's sweetheart was beautiful as the star Diana, so beautiful as a baby that the Pope christened her with his own hands; the quavering nasal cadence of the stornello saying by chance-- Flower of the Palm, &c., did at last waken the attention of one lettered man, a man of curious and somewhat misshapen body and mind, of features satyr-like in ugliness, yet moody and mystical in their very earthiness; a man essentially of the senses, yet imperfect in them, without taste or smell, and, over and above, with a marvellously supple intellect; weak and coarse and idealistic; and at once feebly the slave of his times, and so boldly, spontaneously innovating as to be quite unconscious of innovation: the mixed nature, or rather the nature in many heterogeneous bits, of the man of letters who is artistic almost to the point of being an actor, natural in every style because morally connected with no style at all. The man was Lorenzo di Piero dei Medici, for whom posterity has exclusively reserved the civic title of all his family and similar town despots, calling him the Magnificent. It is the fashion at present to give Lorenzo only the leavings, as it were, of our admiration for the weaker, less original, nay, considerably enervate, humanistic exquisite Politian; and this absurd injustice appears to me to show that the very essence and excellence of Lorenzo is not nowadays perceived. The Renaissance produced several versatile and charming poets; and, in the midst of classic imitation, one or two, of whom one is certainly Boiardo, of real freshness and raciness. But of this new element in the Renaissance, this element which is neither imitation of antiquity nor revival of mediæval, which is original, vital, fruitful, in short, modern, Lorenzo is the most versatile example. He is new, Renaissance, modern; not merely in this or that quality, he is so all round. And this in the first place because he is so completely the man of impressions; the man not uttering wonderful things, nor elaborating exquisite ones, but artistically embodying with marvellous versatility whatever strikes his fancy and feeling--fancy and feeling which are as new as the untouched sculptor's clay. And this extraordinary temper of art for art's sake, or rather effect for effect and form's sake, was possible in that day only in a man equally without strong passions, and without strong convictions. He is naturally attracted most by what is most opposed to the academic, Virgilian, Horatian, or Petrarchesque æstheticism of his contemporaries; he is essentially a realist, and all the effects, which he produces, all the beauty, charm, or beastliness of his work, corresponds to beauty, charm, or beastliness in the reality of things. If Lorenzo writes at one moment carnival songs of ribald dirtiness, at the next hymns full of holy solemnity; it is, I think, merely because this versatile artist takes pleasure in trying whether his face may not be painted into grinning drunkenness, and then elongated and whitened into ascetic gentleness. Instead of seeking, like most of his contemporaries, to be Greek, Roman, or mediæval by turns, he preferred trying on all the various tricks of thought and feeling which he remarked among his unlettered townsfolk. His realism naturally drew him towards the classes where realism can deal with the real; and not the affected, the self-conscious, the deliberately attempted. Hence those wonderful little poems, the carnival songs of the gold-thread spinners, of the pastry-cooks, of the shoemakers, which give us so completely, so gracefully, the whole appearance, work, manner, gesture of the people; give them to us with ease and rapidity so perfect, that we scarcely know how they are given; that we almost forget verses and song, and actually see the pulling, twisting, and cutting of the gold-threads; that we see and hear the shoemaker's hands smoothing down the leather of the shoe in his hand, to convince his customers of its pliability; that we see and smell the dear little pale yellow pasties nestling in the neat white baskets, after having stood by and watched the dough being kneaded, chopped, and floured over, the iron plates heated in the oven, the soft, half-baked paste twisted and bent; nay, we feel almost as if we had eaten of them, those excellent things which seem such big mouthfuls but are squeezed and crunched at one go like nothing at all. Hence, I mean from this love of watching effects and reproducing them, originated also the masterpiece of Lorenzo dei Medici, the "Nencia da Barberino." This poem, of some fifty octaves, is the result of those Tuscan peasant songs, of which I have told you the curious Courtly descent, at last having struck the fancy of a real poet. It is, what Lorenzo's masterpiece necessarily must be, in the highest degree a modern performance; as modern as a picture by Bastien Lepage; as an opera, founded upon local music, by Bizet. For it is not by any manner of means a pastoral, a piece of conventional poetic decoration, with just a little realistic detail, more of the mere conventional or more of the realistic dominating according as it is a pastoral by Theocritus, or a pastoral by Quinault or Metastasio. It is the very reverse of this: it is the attempt to obtain a large and complete, detailed and balanced impression by the cunning arrangement of a number of small effects which the artist has watched in reality; it is the making into a kind of little idyl, something half narrative, half drama, with distinct figures and accessories and background, of a whole lot of little fragments imitated from the peasant poetry, and set in thin, delicate rims of imitation no longer of the peasant's songs, but of the peasant's thoughts and speech; a perfect piece of impressionist art, marred only in rare places by an attempt (inevitable in those days) to force the drawing and colour into caricature. The construction, which appears to be nowhere, is in reality a masterpiece; for, without knowing it, you are shown the actors, the background, the ups and downs of temper, the variation of the seasons; above all you are shown the heroine through the medium of the praises, the complaints, the narratives of the past, the imaginings of the future, of the hero, whose incoherent rhapsodizing constitutes the whole poem. He, Valléra, is a well-to-do young farmer; she, Nencia, is the daughter of peasant folk of the castellated village of Barberino in the Mugello; he is madly in love, but shy, and (to all appearance) awkward, so that we feel convinced that of all these speeches in praise of his Nenciozza, in blame of his indifference, highly poetic flights and most practical adjurations to see all the advantages of a good match, the young woman hears few or none; Valléra is talking not to her, but at her, or rather, he is rehearsing to himself all the things which he cannot squeeze out in her presence. It is the long day-dream, poetic, prosaic, practical, and imaginative, of a love-sick Italian peasant lad, to whom his sweetheart is at once an ideal thing of beauty, a goddess at whose shrine songs must be sung and wreaths twined; and a very substantial lass, who cannot be indifferent to sixpenny presents, and whom he cannot conceive as not ultimately becoming the sharer of his cottage, the cooker of his soup, the mender of his linen, the mother of his brats--a dream in which image is effaced by image, and one thought is expelled, unfinished, by another. She is to him like the Fairy Morgana, the fairy who kept so much of chivalry in her enchanted island; she is like the evening star when above his cottage it slowly pierces the soft blue sky with its white brilliancy; she is purer than the water in the well, and sweeter than the malmsey wine, and whiter than the miller's flour; but her heart is as hard as a pebble, and she loves driving to distraction a whole lot of youths who dangle behind her, captives of those heart-thievish eyes of hers. But she is also a most excellent housewife, can stand any amount of hard field labour, and makes lots of money by weaving beautiful woollen stuff. To see her going, to church of a morning, she is a little pearl! her bodice is of damask, and her petticoat of bright, colour, and she kneels down carefully where she may be seen, being so smart. And then, when she dances!--a born dancer, bouncing like a little goat, and twirling more than a mill-wheel; and when she has finished she makes you such a curtsey; no citizen's wife in Florence can curtsey as she does. It was in April that he first fell in love. She was picking salad in the garden; he begged her for a little, and she sent him about his business; las, alas! ever since then his peace has been gone; he cannot sleep, he can only think of her, and follow her about; he has become quite good-for-nothing as to his field work,--yet he hears all the people around laughing and saying, "Of course Valléra will get her." Only _she_ will pay no heed to him. She is finer to look at than the Pope, whiter than the whitest wood core: she is more delectable than are the young figs to the earwigs, more beautiful than the turnip flower, sweeter than honey. He is more in love with her than the moth is in love with the lamp; she loves to see him perishing for her. If he could cut himself in two without too much pain, he would, just to let her see that he carries her in his heart. No; he would cut out his heart, and when she has touched it with that slender hand of hers, it would cry out, "Nencia, Nencia bella." But, after all, he is not to be despised: he is an excellent labourer, most learned in buying--and selling pigs, he can play the bagpipe beautifully; he is rich, is willing to go to any expense to please her, nay, even to pay the barber double that his hair may be nice and fuzzy from the crimping irons; and if only he were to get himself tight hose and a silk jerkin, he would be as good as any Florentine burgess. But she will not listen; or, rather, she listens and laughs. Yes, she sits up in bed at night and laughs herself to death at the mere thought of him, that is all he gets. But he knows what it is! There is a fellow who will keep sneaking about her; if Valléra only catch him near his cottage, won't he give him a taste of his long new knife! nay, rip him up and throw his bowels, like those of a pig, to dry on a roof! He is sorry--perhaps he bores her--God bless you, Nencia!--he had better go and look after his sheep. All this is not the poetry of the Renaissance peasant; it is the poem made out of his reality; the songs which Valléra sang in the fields about his Nencia we must seek in the volume of Tigri; those rispetti and stornelli of to-day are the rispetti and stornelli of four centuries ago; they are much more beautiful and poetic than any of Lorenzo's work; but Lorenzo has given us not merely a peasant's love-song; he has given us a peasant's thoughts, actions, hopes, fears; he has given us the peasant himself, his house, his fields, and his sweetheart, as they exist even now. For Lorenzo is gone, and, greater than he, the paladins and ladies of Boiardo and Ariosto, have followed the saints and virgins of Dante into the limbo of fair unrealities; and the very Greek and Roman heroes of a hundred years ago, the very knights and covenanters of forty years since, have joined them; but Valléra exists still, and still in the flesh exists his Nenciozza. Everything changes, except the country and the peasant. For, in the long farms of Southern Tuscany, with double row of blackened balcony all tapestried with heavy ingots of Indian corn, and spread out among the olives of the hillside, up which twists the rough bullock road protected by its vine trellis; and in the little farms, with queer hood-shaped double roofs (as if to pull over the face of the house when it blows hard), and pigeon towers which show that some day they must have been fortified, all about Florence; farms which I pass every day, with their sere trees all round, their rough gardens of bright dahlias and chrysanthemums draggled by the autumn rains--in these there are, do not doubt it, still Nencias: magnificent creatures, fit models for Amazons, only just a trifle too full-blown and matronly; but with real Amazonian limbs, firm and delicate, under their red and purple striped print frocks; creatures with heads set on necks like towers or columns, necks firm in broad, well-fleshed chest as branches in a tree's trunk; great penthouses of reddish yellow or lustreless black crimped hair over the forehead; the forehead, like the cheeks, furrowed a good deal--perhaps we dainty people might say, faded and wrinkled by work in the burning sun and the wind; women whom you see shovelling bread into the heated ovens, or plashing in winter with bare arms in half-frozen streams, or digging up a turnip field in the drizzle; or on a Sunday, standing listless by their door, surrounded by rolling and squalling brats, and who, when they slowly look up at the passer-by, show us, on those monumental faces of theirs, a strange smile, a light of bright eyes and white teeth; a smile which to us sophisticated townspeople is as puzzling as certain sudden looks in some comely animal, but which yet makes us understand instinctively that we have before us a Nencia; and that the husband yonder, though he now swears at his wife, and perhaps occasionally beats her, has nevertheless, in his day, dreamed, argued, raged, and sung to himself just like Lorenzo's Valléra. The "Nencia da Barberino" is certainly Lorenzo dei Medici's masterpiece: it is completely and satisfactorily worked out. Yet we may strain possibilities to the point of supposing (which, however, I cannot for a moment suppose) that this "Nencia" is a kind of fluke; that by an accident a beautiful and seemingly appreciative poem has resulted where the author, a mediæval realist of a superior Villon sort, had intended only a piece of utter grotesqueness. But important as is the "Nencia," Lorenzo has left behind him another poem, greatly inferior in completeness, but which settles beyond power of doubt that in him the Renaissance was not merely no longer mediæval, but most intensely modern. This poem is the "Ambra." It is simply an allegorical narrative of the inundation, by the river Ombrone, of a portion, called Ambra, of the great Medicean villa of Poggio a Caiano. Lorenzo's object was evidently to write a semi-Ovidian poem, of a kind common in his day, and common almost up to our own: a river-god, bearded, crown of reeds, urn, general dampness and uproariousness of temper, all quite correct; and a nymph, whom he pursues, who prays to the Virgin huntress to save her from his love, and who, just in the nick of time, is metamorphosed into a mossy stone, dimly showing her former woman's shape; the style of thing, charming, graceful, insipid, of which every one can remember a dozen instances, and which immediately brings up to the mind a vision of grand-ducal gardens, where, among the clipped ilexes and the cypress trunks, great lumbering water-gods and long-limbed nymphs splash, petrified and covered with melancholy ooze and yellow lichen, among the stagnant grotto waters. In some respects, therefore, there is in the "Ambra" somewhat more artificial, more _barrocco_ than that early Renaissance of Politian and Pontano would warrant. There also several bits, half graceful, half awkward, pedantic, constrained, childish, delightful, like the sedge-crowned rivers telling each other anecdotes of the ways and customs of their respective countries, and especially the charming dance of zephyr with the flowers on the lawns of Cyprus, which must immediately suggest pictures by Piero di Cosimo and by Botticelli. So far, therefore, there is plenty to enjoy, but nothing to astonish, in the "Ambra." But the Magnificent Lorenzo has had the extraordinary whim of beginning his allegory with a description, twenty-one stanzas long, of the season of floods. A description, full of infinitely delicate minute detail: of the plants which have kept their foliage while the others are bare--the prickly juniper, the myrtle and bay; of the flocks of cranes printing the sky with their queer shapes, of the fish under the ice, and the eagle circling slowly round the ponds--little things which affect us mixed up as they are with all manner of stiff classic allusions, very much as do the carefully painted daisies and clover among the embossed and gilded unrealities of certain old pictures. From these rather finikin details, Lorenzo passes, however, to details which are a good deal more than details, things little noticed until almost recently: the varying effect of the olives on the hillside--a grey, green mass, a silver ripple, according as the wind stirs them; the golden appearance of the serene summer air, and so forth; details no longer, in short, but essentially, however minute, effects. And then, suddenly leaving such things behind, he rushes into the midst of a real picture, a picture which you might call almost impressionistic, of the growth of rivers and the floods. The floods are a grand sight; more than a sight--a grand performance, a drama; sometimes, God knows, a tragedy. Last night, under a warm, hazy sky, through whose buff-tinted clouds the big moon crept in and out, the mountain stream was vaguely visible--a dark riband in its wide shingly bed, when the moon was hidden; a narrow, shallow, broken stream, sheets of brilliant metallic sheen, and showers of sparkling facets, when the moon was out; a mere drowsy murmur mixing with the creaking and rustling of dry reeds in the warm, wet wind. Thus in the evening. Look down from your window next morning. A tremendous rushing mass of waters, thick, turbid, reddish, with ominous steel-like lustre where its coppery surface reflects the moist blue sky, now fills the whole bed, shaking its short fringe of foam, tossing the spray as it swirls round each still projecting stone, angrily tugging at the reeds and alders which flop their draggled green upon its surface; eddying faster and faster, encircling each higher rock or sandbank, covering it at last with its foaming red mass. Meanwhile, the sky is covered in with vaporous grey clouds, which enshroud the hills; the clear runnels, dash over the green banks, spirt through the walls, break their way across the roads; the little mountain torrents, dry all summer, descend, raging rivers, red with the hill soil; and with every gust of warm wind the river rises higher and rushes along tremendously impetuous. Down in the plain it eats angrily at the soft banks, and breaks its muddy waters, fringed on the surface with a sort of ominous grime of broken wood and earth, higher and higher against the pierheads of the bridges; shaking them to split their masonry, while crowds of men and women look on, staring at the rising water, at the planks, tables, beams, cottage thatches, nay, whole trees, which it hurls at the bridge piers. And then, perhaps, the terrible, soft, balmy flood-wind persisting, there comes suddenly the catastrophe; the embankment, shaken by the resistless current, cracks, fissures gives way; and the river rushes into the city, as it has already rushed into the fields, to spread in constantly rising, melancholy livid pools, throughout the streets and squares. This Lorenzo saw, and, wonderful to say, in this soiled and seething river, in these torn and crumbling banks, in all the dreadfulness of these things, he saw a beauty and a grandeur. But he saw not merely the struggle of the waters and of the land; he--the heartless man who laid his hand even upon the saved-up money of orphan girls in order to keep up the splendour of his house and of his bank--saw the misfortunes of the peasantry; the mill, the cottage by the riverside, invaded by the flood; the doors burst open by the tremendous rushing stream, the stables and garners filled with the thick and oozy waters; the poor creatures, yesterday prosperous, clinging to the roof, watching their sheep and cows, their hay, and straw, and flour, the hemp bleached in the summer, the linen spun and woven in the long winter, their furniture and chattels, their labour and their hope whirled along by the foaming river. Thus by this versatile Lorenzo dei Medici, this flippant, egotistic artist and despot, has at last been broken the long spell of the Middle Ages. The Renaissance has sung no longer of knights and of spring, but of peasants and of autumn. An immoral and humanistic time, an immoral and humanistic man, have had at length a heart for the simpler, ruder less favoured classes of mankind; an eye for the bolder, grander, more solemn sights of Nature: modern times have begun, modern sympathies, modern art are in full swing. SYMMETRIA PRISCA. Mirator veterum, discipulusque memor, Defuit mini symmetria prisca. Peregi Quod potui; Veniam da mihi, posteritas. --_Lionardo da Vinci's epitaph by Platino Piatto_. Into the holy enclosure which had received the precious shiploads of earth from Calvary, the Pisans of the thirteenth century carried the fragments of ancient sculpture brought from Rome and from Greece; and in the Gothic cloister enclosing the green sward and dark cypresses of the graveyard of Pisa, the art of the Middle Ages came for the first time face to face with the art of Antiquity. There, among pagan sarcophagi turned into Christian tombs, with heraldic devices chiselled on their arabesques and vizored helmets surmounting their garlands, the great unsigned artist of the fourteenth century, Orcagna of Florence, or Lorenzetti of Siena, painted the typical masterpiece of mediæval art, the great fresco of the Triumph of Death. With wonderful realization of character and situation he painted the prosperous of the world, the dapper youths and damsels seated with dogs and falcons beneath the orchard trees, amusing themselves with Decameronian tales and sound of lute and psaltery, unconscious of the colossal scythe wielded by the gigantic dishevelled Death, and which, in a second, will descend and mow them to the ground; while the crowd of beggars, ragged, maimed, paralyzed, leprous, grovelling on their withered limbs, see and implore Death, and cry stretching forth their arms, their stumps, and their crutches. Further on, three kings in long embroidered robes and gold-trimmed shovel caps, Lewis the Emperor, Uguccione of Pisa, and Castruccio of Lucca, with their retinue of ladies and squires, and hounds and hawks, are riding quietly through a wood. Suddenly their horses stop, draw back; the Emperor's bay stretches out his long neck sniffing the air; the kings strain forward to see, one holding his nose for the stench of death which meets him; and before them are three open coffins, in which lie, in three loathsome stages of corruption, from blue and bloated putrescence to well-nigh fleshless decay, three crowned corpses. This is the triumph of Death; the grim and horrible jest of the Middle Ages: equality in decay; kings, emperors, ladies, knights, beggars, and cripples, this is what we all come to be, stinking corpses; Death, our lord, our only just and lasting sovereign, reigns impartially over all. But opposite, all along the sides of the painted cloister, the Amazons are wrestling with the youths on the stone of the sarcophagi; the chariots are dashing forward, the Tritons are splashing in the marble waves; the Bacchantæ are striking their timbrels in their dance with the satyrs; the birds are pecking at the grapes, the goats are nibbling at the vines; all is life, strong and splendid in its marble eternity. And the mutilated Venus smiles towards the broken Hermes; the stalwart Hercules, resting against his club, looks on quietly, a smile beneath his beard; and the gods murmur to each other, as they stand in the cloister filled with earth from Calvary, where hundreds of men lie rotting beneath the cypresses, "Death will not triumph for ever; our day will come." We have all seen them opposite to each other, these two arts, the art born of Antiquity and the art born of the Middle Ages; but whether this meeting was friendly or hostile or merely indifferent, is a question of constant dispute. To some, mediæval art has appeared being led, Dante-like, by a magician Virgil through the mysteries of nature up to a Christian Beatrice, who alone can guide it to the kingdom of heaven; others have seen mediæval art, like some strong, chaste Sir Guyon turning away resolutely from the treacherous sorceress of Antiquity, and pursuing solitarily the road to the true and the good; for some the antique has been an impure goddess Venus, seducing and corrupting the Christian artist; the antique has been for others a glorious Helen, an unattainable perfection, ever pursued by the mediæval craftsman, but seized by him only as a phantom. Magician or witch, voluptuous, destroying Venus or cold and ungrasped Helen, what was the antique to the art born of the Middle Ages and developed during the Renaissance? Was the relation between them that of tuition, cool and abstract; or of fruitful love; or of deluding and damning example? The art which came to maturity in the late fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries was generated in the early mediæval revival. The seeds may, indeed, have come down from Antiquity, but they remained for nearly a thousand years hidden in the withered, rotting remains of former vegetation; and it was not till that vegetation had completely decomposed and become part of the soil, it was not till putrefaction had turned into germination, that artistic organism timidly reappeared. The new art-germ developed with the new civilization which surrounded it. Manufacture and commerce reappeared: the artizans and merchants formed into communities; the communities grew into towns, the towns into cities; in the city arose the cathedral; the Lombard or Byzantine mouldings and traceries of the cathedral gave birth to figure-sculpture; its mosaics gave birth to painting; every forward movement of the civilization unfolded as it were a new form or detail of the art, until, when mediæval civilization was reaching its moment of consolidation, when the cathedrals of Lucca and Pisa stood completed, when Niccolò and Giovanni Pisano had sculptured their pulpits and sepulchres; painting, in the hands of Cimabue and Duccio, of Giotto and of Guido da Siena, freed itself from the tradition of the mosaicists as sculpture had freed itself from the practice of the stone-masons, and stood forth an independent and organic art. Thus painting was born of a new civilization, and grew by its own vital force; a thing of the Middle Ages, original and spontaneous. But contemporaneous with the mediæval revival was the resuscitation of Antiquity; in proportion as the new civilization developed, the old civilization was exhumed; real Latin began to be studied only when real Italian began to be written; Dante, Petrarca, and Boccaccio were at once the founders of modern literature and the exponents of the literature of antiquity; the strong young present was to profit by the experience of the past. As it was with literature, so likewise was it with art. The most purely mediæval sculpture, the sculpture which has, as it were, just detached itself from the capitals and porches of the cathedral, is the direct pupil of the antique; and the three great Gothic sculptors, Niccolò, Giovanni, and Andrea of Pisa, learn from fragments of Greek and Roman sculpture how to model the figure of the Redeemer and how to chisel the robe of the Virgin. This spontaneous mediæval sculpture, aided by the antique, preceded by a full half-century the appearance of mediæval painting; and it was from the study of the works of the Pisan sculptors that Cimabue and Giotto learned to depart from the mummified monstrosities of the hieratic, Byzantine and Roman style of Giunta and Berlinghieri. Thus, through the sculpture of the Pisans the painting of the school of Giotto received at second-hand the teachings of Antiquity. Sculpture had created painting; painting now belonged to the painters. In the hands of Giotto it developed within a few years into an art which seemed almost mature, an art dealing victoriously with its materials, triumphantly solving its problems, executing as if by miracle all that was demanded of it. But Giottesque art appeared perfect merely because it was limited; it did all that was required of it, because that which was required was little; it was not asked to reproduce the real nor to represent the beautiful; it was asked merely to suggest a character, a situation, a story. The artistic development of a nation has its exact parallel in the artistic development of an individual. The child uses his pencil to tell a story, satisfied with balls and sticks as body, head, and legs; provided he and his friends can associate with them the ideas in their minds. The youth sets himself to copy what he sees, to reproduce forms and effects, without any aim beyond the mere pleasure of copying. The mature artist strives to obtain forms and effects of which he approves, he seeks for beauty. In the life of Italian painting the generation of men who flourished at the beginning of the sixteenth century are the mature artists; the men of the fifteenth century are the inexperienced youths; the Giottesques are the children--children Titanic and seraph-like, but children nevertheless; and, like all children, learning more perhaps in their few years than can the youth and the man learn in a lifetime. Like the child, the Giottesque painter wished to show a situation or express a story, and for this purpose the absolute realization of objects was unnecessary. Giottesque art is not incorrect art, it is generalized art; it is an art of mere outline. The Giottesques could draw with great accuracy the hand: the form of the fingers, the bend of the limb, they could give to perfection its whole gesture and movement, they could produce a correct and spirited outline, but within this correct outline marked off in dark paint there is but a vague, uniform mass of pale colour; the body of the hand is missing, and there remains only its ghost, visible indeed, but unsubstantial, without weight or warmth, eluding the grasp. The difference between this spectre hand of the Giottesques, and the sinewy, muscular hand which can shake and crush of Masaccio and Signorelli; or the soft hand with throbbing pulse and warm pressure of Perugino and Bellini,--this difference is typical of the difference between the art of the fourteenth century and the art of the fifteenth century: the first suggests, the second realizes; the one gives impalpable outlines, the other gives tangible bodies. The Giottesque cares for the figure only inasmuch as it displays an action; he reduces it to a semblance, a phantom, to the mere exponent of an idea; the man of the Renaissance cares for the figure inasmuch as it is a living organism, he gives it substance and weight, he makes it stand out as an animate reality. Thence, despite its early triumphs, the Giottesque style, by its inherent nature, forbade any progress; it reached its limits at once, and the followers of Giotto look almost as if they were his predecessors, for the simple reason that, being unable to advance, they were forced to retrograde. The limited amount of artistic realization required to present to the mind of the spectator a situation or an allegory, had been obtained by Giotto himself, and bequeathed by him to his followers; who, finding it more than sufficient for their purposes, and having no incentive to further acquisition in the love of form and reality for their own sake, worked on with their master's materials, composing and recomposing, but adding nothing of their own. Giotto had observed Nature with passionate interest, because, although its representation was only a means to an end, it was a means which required to be mastered; and as such became in itself a sort of secondary aim; but the followers of Giotto merely utilized his observations--of Nature, and in so doing gradually conventionalized and debased these second-hand observations. Giotto's forms are wilfully incomplete, because they aim at mere suggestion, but they are not conventional: they are diagrams, not symbols, and thence it is that Giotto seems nearer to the Renaissance than do his latest followers, not excepting even Orcagna. Painting, which had made the most prodigious strides from Giunta to Cimabue, and from Cimabue to Giotto, had got enclosed within a vicious circle, in which it moved for nearly a century neither backwards nor forwards: painters were satisfied with suggestion; and as long as they were satisfied, no progress was possible. From this Giottesque treadmill, painting was released by the intervention of another art. The painters were hopelessly mediocre; their art was snatched from them by the sculptors. Orcagna himself, perhaps the only Giottesque who gave painting an onward push, had modelled and cast one of the bronze gates of the Florence baptistery; the generation of artists who arose at the beginning of the fifteenth century, and who opened the period of the Renaissance, were sculptors or pupils of sculptors. When we see these vigorous lovers of nature, these heroic searchers after truth, suddenly pushing aside the decrepit Giottesque allegory-mongers, we ask ourselves in astonishment whence they have arisen, and how those broken-down artists of effete art could have begotten such a generation of giants. Whence do they come? Certainly not from the studios of the Giottesques. No, they issue out of the workshops of the stone-mason, of the goldsmith, of the worker in bronze, of the sculptor. Vasari has preserved the tradition that Masolino and Paolo Uccello were apprentices of Ghiberti; he has remarked that their greatest contemporary, Masaccio, "trod in the steps of Brunelleschi and of Donatello." Pollaiolo and Verrocchio we know to have been equally excellent as painters and as workers in bronze. Sculpture, at once more naturalistic and more constantly under the influence of the antique, had for the second time laboured for painting. Itself a subordinate art, without much vitality, without deep roots in the civilization, sculpture was destined to remain the unsuccessful pupil of the antique, and the unsuccessful rival of painting; but sculpture had for its mission to prepare the road for painting and to prepare painting for antique influence; and the noblest work of Ghiberti and Donatello was Masaccio, as the most lasting glory to the Pisani had been Giotto. With Masaccio began the study of nature for its own sake, the desire of reproducing external objects, without any regard to their significance as symbols, or as parts of a story; the passionate wish to arrive at absolute realization. The merely suggestive outline art of the Giottesques had come to an end; the suggestion became a matter of indifference, the realization became a paramount interest; the story was forgotten in the telling, the religious thought was lost in the search for the artistic form. The Giottesques had used debased conventionalism to represent action with wonderful narrative and logical power; the artists of the early Renaissance became unskilful narrators and foolish allegorists almost in proportion as they became skilful draughtsmen and colourists; the saints had become to Masaccio merely so many lay figures on to which to cast drapery; for Fra Filippo the Madonna was a mere peasant model; for Filippino Lippi and for Ghirlandajo, a miracle meant merely an opportunity of congregating a number of admirable portrait figures in the dress of the day; the Baptism for Verrocchio had significance only as a study of muscular legs and arms; and the sacrifice of Noah had no importance for Uccello save as a grand opportunity for foreshortenings. In the hands of the Giottesques, interested in the subject and indifferent to the representation, painting had remained stationary for eighty years; for eighty years did it develope in the hands of the men of the fifteenth century, indifferent to the subject and passionately interested in the representation. The unity, the appearance of comparative perfection of the art had disappeared with the limits within which the Giottesques had been satisfied to move; instead of the intelligible and solemn conventionalism of the Giottesques, we see only disorder, half-understood ideas and abortive attempts, confusion which reminds us of those enigmatic sheets on which Leonardo or Michael Angelo scrawled out their ideas--drawings within drawings, plans of buildings scratched over Madonna heads, single flowers upside down next to flayed arms, calculations, monsters, sonnets; a very chaos of thoughts and of shapes, in which the plan of the artist is inextricably lost, which mean everything and nothing, but out of whose unintelligible network of lines and curves have issued masterpieces, and which only the foolish or the would-be philosophical would exchange for some intelligible, hopelessly finished and finite illustration out of a Bible or a book of travels. Anatomy, perspective, colour, drapery, effects of light, of water, of shadow, forms of trees and flowers, converging lines of architecture, all this at once absorbed and distracted the attention of the artists of the early Renaissance; and while they studied, copied, and calculated, another thought began to haunt them, another eager desire began to pursue them: by the side of Nature, the manifold, the baffling, the bewildering, there rose up before them another divinity, another sphinx, mysterious in its very simplicity and serenity--the Antique. The exhumation of the antique had, as we have seen, been contemporaneous with the birth of painting; nay, the study of the remains of antique sculpture had, in contributing to form Niccolò Pisano, indirectly helped to form Giotto; the very painter of the Triumph of Death had inserted into his terrible fresco two-winged genii, upholding a scroll, copied without any alteration from some coarse Roman sarcophagus, in which they may have sustained the usual _Dis Manibus Sacrum_. There had been, on the part of both sculptors and painters, a constant study of the antique; but during the Giottesque period this study had been limited to technicalities, and had in no way affected the conception of art. The mediæval artists, surrounded by physical deformities, and seeing sanctity in sickness and dirt, little accustomed to observe the human figure, were incapable, both as men and as artists, of at all entering into the spirit of antique art. They could not perceive the superior beauty of the antique; they could recognize only its superior science and its superior handicraft, and these alone they studied to obtain. Giovanni Pisano sculpturing the unfleshed, caried carcases of the devils who leer, writhe, crunch, and tear on the outside of Orvieto Cathedral; and the Giottesques painting those terrible green, macerated Christs, hanging livid and broken from the cross, which abound in Tuscany and Umbria; the artists who produced these loathsome and lugubrious works were indubitably students of the antique; but they had learned from it not a love for beautiful form and noble drapery, but merely the general shape of the limbs and the general fall of the garments: the anatomical science and technical processes of Antiquity were being used to produce the most intensely un-antique, the most intensely mediæval works. Thus matters stood in the time of Giotto. His followers, who studied only arrangement, probably consulted the antique as little as they consulted nature; but the contemporary sculptors were brought by the very constitution of their art into close contact both with Nature and with the antique; they studied both with determination, and handed over the results of their labours to the sculptor-taught painters of the fifteenth century. Here, then, were the two great factors in the art of the Renaissance--the study of nature, and the study of the Antique: both understand slowly, imperfectly; the one counteracting the effect of the other; the study of nature now scaring away all antique influence, the study of the antique now distorting all imitation of nature; rival forces confusing the artist and marring the work, until, when each could receive its due, the one corrected the other, and they combined, producing by this marriage of the living reality with the dead but immortal beauty, the great art of Michael Angelo, of Raphael, and of Titian: double, like its origin, antique and modern, real and ideal. The study of the antique is thus placed opposite to the study of nature, the comprehension of the works of Antiquity is the momentary antagonist of the comprehension of the works of nature. And this may seem strange, when we consider that antique art was itself due to perfect comprehension of nature. But the contradiction is easily explained. The study of nature, as it was carried on in the Renaissance, comprised the study of effects which had remained unnoticed by Antiquity; and the study of the statue,--colourless, without light, shade, or perspective, hampered, and was hampered by, the study of colour, of light and shade, of perspective, and of all that a generation of painters would seek to learn from nature. Nor was this all; the influence of the civilization of the Renaissance, of a civilization directly issued from the Middle Ages, was entirely at variance with the influence of antique civilization through the medium of ancient art; the Middle Ages and Antiquity, Christianity and Paganism, were even more opposed to each other than could be the statue and the easel picture, the fresco and the bas-relief. First, then, we have the hostility between painting--and sculpture, between the _modus operandi_ of the modern and the _modus operandi_ of the ancient art. Antique art is, in the first place, purely linear art, colourless, tintless, without light and shade; next, it is essentially the art of the isolated figure, without background, grouping, or perspective. As linear art it could directly affect only that branch of painting which was itself linear; and as art of the isolated figure it was ever being contradicted by the constantly developing arts of perspective and landscape. The antique never' directly influenced the Venetians, not from reasons of geography and culture, but from the fact that Venetian painting, founded from the earliest times upon a system of colour, could not be affected by antique sculpture, based upon a system of modelled, colourless form; the men who saw form only through the medium of colour could not learn much from purely linear form; hence it is that even after a certain amount of antique imitation had passed into Venetian painting, through the medium of Mantegna, the Venetian painters display comparatively little antique influence. In Bellini, Carpaccio, Cima, and other early masters, the features, forms, and dress are mainly modern and Venetian; and Giorgione, Titian, and even the eclectic Tintoret, were more interested in the bright lights of a steel breastplate than in the shape of a limb; and preferred in their hearts a shot brocade of the sixteenth century to the finest drapery ever modelled by an ancient. The antique influence was naturally strongest among the Tuscan schools; because the Tuscan schools were essentially schools of drawing, and the draughtsman recognized in antique sculpture the highest perfection of that linear form which was his own domain. Yet while the antique appealed most to the linear schools, even in these it could strongly influence only the purely linear part; it is strong in the drawings and weak in the paintings. As long as the artists had only the pencil or pen, they could reproduce much of the linear perfection of the antique; they were, so to speak, alone with it; but as soon as they brought in colour, perspective, and scenery, the linear perfection was lost in attempts at something new; the antique was put to flight by the modern. Botticelli's crayon study for his Venus is almost antique; his tempera picture of Venus, with the pale blue scaly sea, the laurel grove, the flower-embroidered garments, the wisps of tawny hair, is comparatively mediæval; Pinturicchio's sketch of Pans and satyrs contrasts strangely with his frescoes in the library of Siena; Mantegna himself, supernaturally antique in his engravings, becomes comparatively trivial and modern in his oil-paintings. Do what they might, draw from the antique and calculate its proportions, the artists of the Renaissance found themselves baffled as soon as they attempted to apply the result of then linear studies to coloured pictures; as soon as they tried to make the antique unite with the modern, one of the two elements was sure to succumb. In Botticelli, draughtsman and student though he was, the modern, the mediæval, that part of the art which had arisen in the Middle Ages, invariably had the upper hand; his Venus, despite her forms studied from the antique and her gesture imitated from some earlier discovered copy of the Medicean Venus, has the woe-begone prudery of a Madonna or of an abbess; she shivers physically and morally in her unaccustomed nakedness, and the goddess of Spring, who comes skipping up from beneath the laurel copse, does well to prepare her a mantle, for in the pallid tempera colour, against the dismal background of rippled sea, this mediæval Venus, at once indecent and prudish, is no very pleasing sight. In the Allegory of Spring in the Academy of Florence, we again have the antique; goddesses and nymphs whose clinging garments the gentle Sandro Botticelli has assuredly studied from some old statue of Agrippina or Faustina; but what strange livid tints are there beneath those draperies, what eccentric gestures are those of the nymphs, what a green, ghostlike light illumines this garden of Venus Are these goddesses and nymphs immortal women such as the ancients conceived, or are they not rather fantastic fairies or nixen, Titanias and Undines, incorporeal daughters of dew and gossamer and mist? In Sandro Botticelli the teachings of the statue are forgotten or distorted when the artist takes up his palette and brushes; in his greater contemporary, Andrea Mantegna, the ever-present antique chills and arrests the vitality of the modern. Mantegna, the pupil of the ancient marbles of Squarcione's workshop even more than the pupil of Donatello, studies for his paintings not from nature, but from sculpture; his figures are seen in strange projection and foreshortening, like figures in a high relief seen from below; despite his mastery of perspective, they seem hewn out of the background; despite the rich colours which he displays in his Veronese altar-piece, they look like painted marbles, with their hard clots of stonelike hair and beard, with their vacant glance and their wonderful draperies, clinging and weighty like the wet draperies of ancient sculpture. They are beautiful petrifactions, or vivified statues; Mantegna's masterpiece, the sepia "Judith" in Florence, is like an exquisite, pathetically lovely Eurydice, who has stepped unconscious and lifeless out of a Praxitelian bas-relief. And there are stranger works than even the Judith; strange statuesque fancies, like the fight of Marine Monsters and the Bacchanal among Mantegna's engravings. The group of three wondrous creatures, at once men, fish, and gods, is as grand and even more fantastic than Leonardo's Battle of the Standard: a Triton, sturdy and muscular, with sea-weed beard and hair, wheels round his finned horse, preparing to strike his adversary with a bunch of fish which he brandishes above him; on him is rushing, careering on an osseous sea-horse, a strange, lank, sinewy being, fury stretching every tendon, his long-clawed feet striking into the flanks of his steed, his sharp, reed-crowned head turned fiercely, with clenched teeth, on his opponent, and stretching forth a truncheon, ready to run down his enemy as a ship runs down another; and further off a young Triton, with clotted hair and heavy eyes, seems ready to sink wounded below the rippling wavelets, with the massive head and marble agony of the dying Alexander; enigmatic figures, grand and grotesque, lean, haggard, vehement, and yet, in the midst of violence and monstrosity, unaccountably antique. The other print, called the Bacchanal, has no background: half a dozen male figures stand separate and naked as in a bas-relief. Some are leaning against a vine-wreathed tub; a satyr, with acanthus-leaves growing wondrously out of him, half man, half plant, is emptying a cup; a heavy Silenus is prone upon the ground; a faun, seated upon the vat, is supporting in his arms a beautiful sinking youth; another youth, grand, muscular, and grave as a statue, stands on the further side. Is this really a bacchanal? Yes, for there is the paunchy Silenus, there are the fauns, there the vat and vine-wreaths and drinking-horns. And yet it cannot be a bacchanal. Compare with it one of Rubens's orgies, where the overgrown, rubicund men and women and fauns tumble about in tumultuous, riotous intoxication: that is a bacchanal; they have been drinking, those magnificent brutes, there is wine firing their blood and weighing down their heads. But here all is different, in this so-called Bacchanal of Mantegna. This heavy Silenus is supine like a mass of marble; these fauns are shy and mute; these youths are grave and sombre; there is no wine in the cups, there are no lees in the vat, there is no life in these magnificent colossal forms; there is no blood in their grandly bent lips, no light in their wide-opened eyes; it is not the drowsiness of intoxication which is weighing down the youth sustained by the faun; it is no grapejuice which gives that strange, vague glance. No; they have drunk, but not of any mortal drink; the grapes are grown in Persephone's garden, the vat contains no fruits that have ripened beneath our sun. These strange, mute, solemn revellers have drunk of Lethe, and they are growing cold with the cold of death and of marble; they are the ghosts of the dead ones of antiquity, revisiting the artist of the Renaissance, who paints them, thinking he is painting life, while that which he paints is in reality death. This anomaly, this unsatisfactory character of the works of both Botticelli and Mantegna, is mainly technical; the antique is frustrated in Botticelli, not so much by the Christian, the mediæval, the modern mode of feeling, as by the new methods and aims of the new art which disconcert the methods and aims of the old art; and that which arrests Mantegna in his development as a painter is not the spirit of Paganism deadening the spirit of Christianity, but the laws of sculpture hampering painting. But this technical contest between two arts, the one not yet fully developed, the other not yet fully understood, is as nothing compared with the contest between the two civilizations, the antique and the modern; between the habits and tendencies of the contemporaries of the artists of the Renaissance and of the artists themselves, and the habits and tendencies of the antique artists and their contemporaries. We are apt to think of the Renaissance as of a period closely resembling antiquity, misled by the inevitable similarity between southern and democratic countries of whatever age; misled still less pardonably by the Ciceronian pedantries and pseudo-antique obscenities of a few humanists, and by the pseudo-Corinthian arabesques and capitals of a few learned architects. But all this was mere archaeological finery borrowed by a civilization in itself entirely unlike that of ancient Greece. The Renaissance, let us remember, was merely the flowering time of that great mediæval movement which had germinated early in the twelfth century; it was merely a more advanced stage of the civilization which had produced Dante and Giotto, of the civilization which was destined to produce Luther and Rabelais. The fifteenth century was merely the continuation of the fourteenth century, as the fourteenth had been of the thirteenth; there had been growth and improvement; development of the more modern, diminishing of the more mediæval elements; but, despite growth and the changes due to growth, the Renaissance was part and parcel of the Middle Ages. The life, thought, aspirations, and habits were mediæval; opposed to the open-air life, the physical training and the materialistic religion of Antiquity. The surroundings of Masaccio and of Signorelli, nay, even of Raphael, were very different from those of Phidias or Praxiteles. Let us think what were the daily and hourly impressions given by the Renaissance to its artists. Large towns, in which thousands of human beings were crowded together, in narrow, gloomy streets, with but a strip of blue visible between the projecting roofs; and in these cities an incessant commercial activity, with no relief save festivals at the churches, brawls at the taverns, and carnival buffooneries. Men and women pale and meagre for want of air, and light, and movement; undeveloped, untrained bodies, warped by constant work at the loom or at the desk, at best with the lumpish freedom of the soldier and the vulgar nimbleness of the prentice. And these men and women dressed in the dress of the Middle Ages, gorgeous perhaps in colour, but heavy, miserable, grotesque, nay, sometimes ludicrous in form; citizens in lumpish robes and long-tailed caps; ladies in stiff and foldless brocade hoops and stomachers; artizans in striped and close-adhering hose and egg-shaped padded jerkin; soldiers in lumbering armour-plates, ill-fitted over ill-fitting leather, a shapeless shell of iron, bulging out and angular, in which the body was buried as successfully as in the robes of the magistrates. Thus we see the men and women of the Renaissance in the works of all its painters: heavy in Ghirlandajo, vulgarly jaunty in Filippino, preposterously starched and prim in Mantegna, ludicrously undignified in Signorelli; while mediæval stiffness, awkwardness, and absurdity reach their acme perhaps in the little boys, companions of the Medici children, introduced into Benozzo Gozzoli's Building of Babel. These are the prosperous townsfolk, among whom the Renaissance artist is but too glad to seek for models; but besides these there are lamentable sights, mediæval beyond words, at every street corner: dwarfs and cripples, maimed and diseased beggars of all degrees of loathsomeness, lepers and epileptics, and infinite numbers of monks, brown, grey, and black, in sack-shaped frocks and pointed hoods, with shaven crown and cropped beard, emaciated with penance or bloated with gluttony. And all this the painter sees, daily, hourly; it is his standard of humanity, and as such finds its way into every picture. It is the living; but opposite it arises the dead. Let us turn aside from the crowd of the mediæval city, and look at what the workmen have just laid bare, or what the merchant has just brought from Rome or from Greece. Look at this: it is corroded by oxides, battered by ill-usage, stained with earth: it is not a group, not even a whole statue, it has neither head nor arms remaining; it is a mere broken fragment of antique sculpture,--a naked body with a fold or two of drapery; it is not by Phidias nor by Praxiteles, it may not even be Greek; it may be some cheap copy, made for a garden or a bath, in the days of Hadrian. But to the artist of the fifteenth century it is the revelation of a whole world, a world in itself. We can scarcely realize all this; but let us look and reflect, and even we may feel as must have felt the man of the Renaissance in the presence of that mutilated, stained, battered torso. He sees in that broken stump a grandeur of outline, a magnificence of osseous structure, a breadth of muscle and sinew, a smooth, firm covering of flesh, such as he would vainly seek in any of his living models; he sees a delicate and infinite variety of indentures, of projections, of creases following the bend of every limb; he sees, where the surface still exists intact, an elasticity of skin, a buoyancy of hidden life such as all the colours of his palette are unable to imitate; and in this piece of drapery, negligently gathered over the hips or rolled upon the arm, he sees a magnificent alternation of large folds and small plaits, of straight lines, and broken lines, and curves. He sees all this; but he sees more: the broken torso is, as we have said, not merely a world in itself, but the revelation of a world. It is the revelation of antique civilization, of the palaestra and the stadium, of the sanctification of the body, of the apotheosis of man, of the religion of life and nature and joy; revealed to the man of the Middle Ages, who has hitherto seen in the untrained, diseased, despised body but a deformed piece of baseness, which his priests tell him belongs to the worms and to Satan; who has been taught that the monk living in solitude and celibacy, filthy, sick, worn out with fastings and bleeding with flagellation, is the nearest approach to divinity; who has seen Divinity itself, pale, emaciated, joyless, hanging bleeding from the cross; and who is for ever reminded that the kingdom of this Godhead is not of this world. What passes in the mind of that artist? What surprise, what dawning doubts, what sickening fears, what longings and what remorse are not the fruit of this sight of Antiquity? Is he to yield or to resist? Is he to forget the saints and Christ, and give himself over to Satan and to Antiquity? Only one man boldly answered, Yes. Mantegna abjured his faith, abjured the Middle Ages, abjured all that belonged to his time; and in so doing cast away from him the living art and became the lover, the worshipper of shadows. And only one man turned completely aside from the antique as from the demon, and that man was a saint, Fra Angelico da Fiesole. And with the antique, Fra Angelico rejected all the other artistic influences and aims of his time, the time not of Giotto or of Orcagna, but of Masaccio and Uccello, of Pollaiolo and Donatello. For the mild, meek, angelic monk dreaded the life of his days; dreaded to leave the cloister where the sunshine was tempered and the noise reduced to a mere faint hum, and where the flower-beds were tidy and prim; dreaded to soil or rumple his spotless white robe and his shining black cowl; a spiritual sybarite, shrinking from the sight of the crowd seething in the streets, shrinking from the idea of stripping the rags off the beggar in order to see his tanned and gnarled limbs; shuddering at the thought of seeking for muscles in the dead, cut-open body; fearful of every whiff of life that might mingle with the incense atmosphere of his chapel, of every cry of human passion which might break through the well-ordered sweetness of his chants. No; the Renaissance did not exist for him who lived in a world of diaphanous form, colour and character, unsubstantial and unruffled; dreaming feebly and sweetly of transparent-cheeked Madonnas with no limbs beneath their robes; of smooth-faced saints with well-combed beard and placid, vacant gaze, seated in well-ordered masses, holy with the purity of inanity; of divine dolls with pallid flaxen locks, floating between heaven and earth, playing upon lute and viol and psaltery; raised to faint visions of angels and blessed, moving noiseless, feelingless, meaningless, across the flowerets of Paradise; of assemblies of saints seated, arrayed in pure pink, and blue and lilac, in an atmosphere of liquid gold, in glory. And thus Fra Angelico worked on, content with the dearly purchased science of his masters, placid, beatic, effeminate, in an æsthetical paradise of his own, a paradise of sloth and sweetness, a paradise for weak souls, weak hearts, and weak eyes; patiently repeating the same fleshless angels, the same boneless saints, the same bloodless virgins; happy in smoothing the unmixed, unshaded tints of the sky, and earth, and dresses; laying on the gold of the fretted skies, and of the iridescent wings, embroidering robes, instruments of music, halos, flowers, with threads of gold.... Sweet, simple artist saint, reducing art to--something akin to the delicate pearl and silk embroidery of pious nuns, to the exquisite sweetmeat cookery of pious monks; a something too delicately gorgeous, too deliciously insipid for human wear or human food; no, the Renaissance does not exist for thee, either in its study of the existing reality, or in its study of antique beauty. Mantegna, the learned, the archæological, the pagan, who renounces his times and his faith; and Angelico, the monk, the saint, who shuts and bolts his monastery doors and sprinkles holy water in the face of the antique; the two extremes, are both exceptions. The innumerable artists of the Renaissance remained in hesitation; tried to court both the antique and the modern, to unite the Pagan and the Christian--some, like Ghirlandajo, in cold indifference to all but mere artistic science, encrusting marble bacchanals into the walls of the Virgin's paternal house, bringing together, unthinkingly, antique-draped women carrying baskets, and noble Strozzi and Ruccellai ladies with gloved hands folded over their gold brocaded skirts; others, with cheerful and childlike pleasure in both antique and modern, like Benozzo, crowding together half-naked youths and nymphs treading the grapes and scaling the trellise with Florentine magnificos in plaited skirts and starched collars, among the pines, and porticos, the sprawling children, barking dogs, peacocks sunning themselves, and partridges picking up grain, of his Pisan frescoes; yet others using the antique as mere pageant shows, allegorical mummeries, destined to amuse some Duke of Ferrara or Marquis of Mantua, together with the hurdle races of Jews, hags, and riderless donkeys. Thus little by little the antique amalgamates with the modern; the art born of the Middle Ages absorbs the art born of Paganism; but how slowly, and with what fantastic and ludicrous results at first; as when the anatomical sculptor Pollaiolo gives scenes of naked Roman prize-fighters as martyrdoms of St. Sebastian; or when the pious Perugino (pious at least with his brush) dresses up his sleek, hectic, beardless archangels as Roman warriors, and makes them stand, straddling beatically on thin little dapper legs, wistfully gazing from beneath their wondrously ornamented helmets on the walls of the Cambio at Perugia; when he masquerades meditative fathers of the Church as Socrates and haggard anchorites as Numa Pompilius; most ludicrous of all, when he attires in scantiest of--clinging antique drapery his mild and pensive Madonnas, and, with daintily pointed toes, places them to throne bashfully on allegorical chariots as Venus or Diana. Long is the period of amalgamation, and small are the results throughout that long early Renaissance. Mantegna, Piero della Francesca, Melozzo, Ghirlandajo, Filippino, Botticelli, Verrocchio, have none of them shown us the perfect fusion of the two elements whose union is to give us Michael Angelo, Raphael, and all the great perfect artists of the early sixteenth century; the two elements are for ever ill-combined and hostile to each other; the modern vulgarizes the antique, the antique paralyzes the modern. And meanwhile the fifteenth century, the century of study, of conflict, and of confusion, is rapidly drawing to a close; eight or ten more years, and it will be gone. Is the new century to find the antique still dead and the modern still mediæval? The antique and the modern had met for the first time and as irreconcilable enemies in the cloisters of Pisa; and the modern had triumphed in the great mediæval fresco of the Triumph of Death. By a strange coincidence, by a sublime jest of accident, the antique and the modern were destined to meet again, and this time indissolubly united, in a painting representing the Resurrection. Yes, Signorelli's fresco in Orvieto Cathedral is indeed a resurrection, the resurrection of human beauty after the long death-slumber of the Middle Ages. And the artist would seem to have been dimly conscious of the great allegory he was painting. Here and there are strewn skulls; skeletons stand leering by, as if in remembrance of the ghastly past, and as a token of former death; but magnificent youths are breaking through the crust of the earth, emerging, taking shape and flesh; arising, strong and proud, ready to go forth at the bidding of the Titanic angels who announce from on high with trumpet blast and waving banners, that the death of the world has come to an end, and that humanity has arisen once more in the youth and beauty of Antiquity. II. Signorelli's frescoes at Orvieto, at once the latest works of the fifteenth century, and the latest works of an old man nurtured in the traditions of Benozzo Gozzoli and of Piero della Francesca, mark the beginning of the maturity and perfection of Italian art. From them Michael Angelo learns what he could not be taught even by his master Ghirlandajo, the grand and cold realist. He learns; and what he has learned at Orvieto he teaches with doubled force in Rome; and the ceiling of the Sixtine Chapel, the superb and heroic nudities, the majestic draperies, the reappearance in the modern art of painting of the spirit and hand of Phidias, give a new impulse and hasten on perfection. When the doors of the chapel are at length opened, Raphael forgets Perugino; Fra Bartolomeo forgets Botticelli; Sodoma forgets Leonardo; the narrower hesitating styles of the fifteenth century are abandoned, as the great example is disseminated throughout Italy; and even the tumult of angels in glory which the Lombard Correggio is to paint in far-off Parma, and the daringly simple Bacchus and Ariadne with which Tintoret will decorate the Ducal Palace more than fifty years later--all that is great and bold, all that is a re-incarnation of the spirit of Antiquity, all that marks the culmination of Renaissance art, seems due to the impulse of Michael Angelo, and, through him, to the example of Signorelli. From the celestial horseman and bounding avenging angels of Raphael's Heliodorus, to the St. Sebastian of Sodoma, with exquisite limbs and head, rich with tendril-like locks, delicate against the brown Umbrian sunset; from the Madonna of Andrea del Sarto seated, with the head and drapery of a Niobe, by the sack of flour in the Annunziata cloister, to the voluptuous goddess, with purple mantle half concealing her body of golden white, who leans against the sculptured fountain in Titian's Sacred and Profane Love, with the greenish blue sky and hazy light of evening behind her; from the most extreme examples of the most extreme schools of Lombardy and Venetia, to the most intense examples of the remotest schools of Tuscany and Umbria; throughout the art of the early sixteenth century, of those thirty years which were the years of perfection, we see, more or less marked, but always distinct, the union of the living art born of the Middle Ages with the dead art left by Antiquity, a union producing life and perfection, producing the great art of the Renaissance. This much is clear and easy of definition; but what is neither clearly understood nor easily defined is the nature of this union, the manner in which the antique and the modern did thus amalgamate. It is easy to speak of a vague union of spirit, of the antique idea having permeated the modern; but all this explains but little: art is not a metaphysical figment, and all its phases and revolutions are concrete, and, so to speak, physically explicable and definable. The union of the antique with the modern meant simply the absorption by the art of the Renaissance of elements of civilization necessary for its perfection, but not existing in the medieval civilization of the fifteenth century; of elements of civilization which gave what the civilization of the fifteenth century--which could give colour, perspective, grouping, and landscape--could never have afforded: the nude, drapery, and gesture. The naked human body, which the Greeks had trained, studied, and idolized, did not exist in the fifteenth century; in its stead there was only the undressed body, ill-developed, untrained, pinched, and distorted by the garments only just cast off; cramped and bent by sedentary occupations, livid with the plague-spots of the Middle Ages, scarred by the whipmarks of asceticism. This stripped body, unseen and unfit to be seen, unaccustomed to the air and to the eyes of others, shivered and cowered for cold and for shame. The Giottesques ignored its very existence, conceiving humanity as a bodiless creature, with face and hands to express emotion, and just enough malformed legs and feet to be either standing or moving; further, beneath the garments, there was nothing. The realists of the fifteenth century tore off the clothes and drew the ugly thing beneath; and bought the corpses from the lazar-houses, and stole them from the gallows; in order to see how bone fitted into bone, and muscle was stretched over muscle. They learned to perfection the anatomy of the human frame, but they could not learn its beauty; they became even reconciled to the ugliness they were accustomed to see; and, with their minds full of antique examples, Verrocchio, Donatello, Pollaiolo, and Ghirlandajo, the greatest anatomists of the fifteenth century, imitated their coarse and ill-made living models when they imagined that they were imitating antique marbles. So much for the nude. Drapery, as the ancients understood it in the delicate plaits of Greek chiton and tunic, in the grand folds of Roman toga, the fifteenth century could not show; it knew only the stiff, scanty raiment of the active classes; the shapeless masses of lined cloth of the merchants and magistrates; the prudish and ostentatious starched dress of the women; and the coarse, lumpish garb of the monks. The artist of the fifteenth century knew drapery only as an exotic, an exotic with whose representation the habit of seeing mediæval costume was for ever interfering; on the stripped, unseemly, indecent body he places, with the stiffness of artificiality, drapery such as he has never seen upon any living creature; the result is awkwardness and rigidity. And what attitude, what gesture, can he expect from this stripped and artificially draped model? None, for the model scarce knows how to stand in so unaccustomed a condition of body. The artist must seek for attitude and gesture among his townsfolk, and among them he can find only trivial, awkward, often vulgar movement. They have never been taught how to stand or to move with grace and dignity; the artist must study attitude and gesture in the market-place or the bull-baiting ground, where Ghirlandajo found his jauntily strutting idlers, and Verrocchio his brutally staggering prize-fighters. Between the constrained attitudinizing of Byzantine and Giottesque tradition, and the imitation of the movements of clodhoppers and ragamuffins, the realist of the fifteenth century would wander hopelessly were it not for the antique. Genius and science are of no avail; the position of Christ in baptism in the paintings of Verrocchio and Ghirlandajo is mean and servile; the movements of the "Thunder-stricken" in Signorelli's lunettes is an inconceivable mixture of the brutish, the melodramatic, and the comic; the magnificently drawn youth at the door of the prison in Filippino's Liberation of St. Peter is gradually going to sleep and collapsing in a fashion which is truly ignoble. And the same applies to sculptured figures or to figures standing isolated like statues; no Greek would have ventured upon the swaggering position, with legs apart and elbows out, of Donatello's St. George, or Perugino's St. Michael; and a young Athenian who should have assumed the attitude of Verrocchio's David, with tripping legs and hand clapped on his hip, would have been sent to sit in a corner as a saucy little ragamuffin. Coarse nude, stiff drapery, vulgar attitude, was all that the fifteenth century could offer to its artists; but Antiquity could offer more and very different things: the naked body developed by the most artistic training, drapery the most natural and refined, and attitude and gesture regulated by an education the most careful and artistic; and all these things Antiquity did give to the artists of the Renaissance. They did not copy antique statues as living naked men and women, but they corrected the faults of their living models by the example of the statues; they did not copy antique stone draperies in coloured pictures, but they arranged the robes on their models with the antique folds well in their memory; they did not give the gestures of statues to living figures, but they made the living figures move in accordance with those principles of harmony which they had found exemplified in the statues. They did not imitate the antique, they studied it; they obtained through the fragments of antique sculpture a glimpse into the life of antiquity, and that glimpse served to correct the vulgarism and distortion of the mediæval life of the fifteenth century. In the perfection of Italian painting, the union of antique and modern being consummated, it is perhaps difficult to disentangle what really is antique from what is modern; but in the earlier times, when the two elements were still separate, we can see them opposite each other and compare them in the works of the greatest artists. Wherever, in the paintings of the early Renaissance, there is realism, marked by the costume of the times, there is ugliness of form and vulgarity of movement; where there is idealism, marked by imitation of the antique, the nude, and drapery, there is beauty and dignity. We need only compare Filippino's Scene before the Proconsul with his Raising of the King's Son in the Brancacci Chapel; the grand attitude and draperies of Ghirlandajo's Zachariah with the vulgar dress and movements of the Florentine citizens surrounding him; Benozzo Gozzoli's noble naked figure of Noah with his ungainly, hideously dressed figure of Cosimo de' Medici; Mantegna's exquisite Judith with his preposterous Marquis of Mantua; in short, all the purely realistic with all the purely idealistic painting of the fifteenth century. We may give one last instance. In Signorelli's Orvieto frescoes there is a figure of a young man, with aquiline features, long crisp hair and strongly developed throat, which reappears unmistakably in all the compositions, and in some of them twice and thrice in various positions. His naked figure is magnificent, his attitudes splendid, his thrown-back head superb, whether he be slowly and painfully emerging from the earth, staggered and gasping with his newly infused life, or sinking oppressed on the ground, broken and crushed by the sound of the trumpet of judgment; or whether he be moving forward with ineffable longing towards the angel about to award him the crown of the blessed; in all these positions he is heroically beautiful. We meet him again, unmistakable, but how different, in the realistic group of the "Thunder-stricken "--the long, lank youth, with spindle-shanks and egg-shaped body, bounding forward, with most grotesque strides, over the uncouth heap of dead bodies, ungainly masses with soles and nostrils uppermost, lying in beast-like confusion. This youth, with something of a harlequin in his jumps and his ridiculous thin legs and preposterous round body, is evidently the model for the naked demi-gods of the Resurrection and the Paradise: he is the handsome boy as the fifteenth century gave him to Signorelli; opposite, he is the living youth of the fifteenth century idealized by the study of ancient sculpture; just as the "Thunder-stricken" may be some scene of street massacre such as Signorelli might have witnessed at Cortona or Perugia; while the agonies of the "Hell" are the grouped and superb agonies taught by the antique; just as the two archangels of the "Hell," in their armour of Baglioni's heavy cavalry, may represent the modern element, and the same archangels, naked, with magnificent flying draperies, blowing the trumpets of the Resurrection, may show the antique element in Renaissance art. The antique influence was not, indeed, equally strong throughout Italy; it was strongest in the Tuscan school, which, seeking for perfection of linear form, found that perfection in the antique; it was weakest in the Lombard and Venetian schools, which sought for what the antique could not give, light and shade and colour; the antique was most efficacious where it was most indispensable, and it was more necessary to a Tuscan, strong only with his charcoal or pencil, than to Leonardo da Vinci, who could make an imperfect figure, beckoning mysteriously from out of the gloom, more fascinating than the finest drawn Florentine Madonna, and could surround an insignificant childish head with the wondrous sheen and ripple of hair, as with an aureole of poetry; it was also less necessary to Giorgione and Titian, who could hide coarse limbs beneath their draperies of precious ruby, and transfigure, by the liquid gold of their palettes, a peasant woman into a goddess. But even the Lombards, even the Venetians, required the antique influence. They could not perhaps have obtained it direct like the Tuscans: the colourists and masters of light and shade might never have understood the blank lines and faint shadows of the marble; but they received the antique influence, strong but modified by the medium through which it had passed, from Mantegna; and the relentless self-sacrifice to Antiquity, the self-paralyzation of the great artist, was not without its use: from Venetian Padua, Mantegna influenced the Bellini and Giorgione; from Lombard Mantua, he influenced Leonardo; and Mantegna's influence was that of the antique. What would have been the art of the Renaissance without the antique? The speculation is vain, for the antique had influenced it, had been goading it on ever since the earliest times; it had been present at its birth, it had affected Giotto through Niccolò Pisano, and Masaccio through Ghiberti; the antique influence cannot be conceived as absent in the history of Italian painting. So far, as a study of the impossible, the speculation respecting the fate of Renaissance art had it not been influenced by the antique would be childishly useless. But lest we forget that this antique influence did exist, lest, grown ungrateful and blind, we refuse it its immense share in producing Michael Angelo, Raphael, and Titian, we may do well to turn to an art born and bred like Italian art, in the Middle Ages; like it, full of strength and power of self-development, but which, unlike Italian art, was not influenced by the antique. This art is the great German art of the early sixteenth century; the art of Martin Schongauer, of Aldegrever, of Altdorfer, of Wohlgemuth, of Kranach, of Albrecht Dürer and Hans Holbein, whom they resemble as Pinturicchio and Lo Spagna resemble Perugino, as Palma and Paris Bordone resemble Titian. This is an art born in a civilization less perfect indeed than that of Italy, narrower, as Nürnberg or Basle is narrower than Florence; but resembling it in habits, dress, religion, above all, the main characteristic of being mediæval; and its masters, as great as their Italian contemporaries in all the technicalities of the art, and In absolute honesty of endeavour, may show what the Italian art of the sixteenth century might have been without the antique. Let us therefore open a portfolio of those wonderful minute yet grand engravings of the old Germans. They are for the most part Scriptural scenes or allegories, quite analogous to those of the Italians, but purely realistic, conscious of no world beyond that of an Imperial City of the year 1520. Here we have the whole turn-out, male and female, of a German free-town, in the shape of scenes from the lives of the Virgin and saints; here are short fat burghers, with enormous blotchy, bloated faces and little eyes set in fat, their huge stomachs protruding from under their jackets; here are blear-eyed ladies, tall, thin, wrinkled though not old, with figures like hungry harpies, stalking about in high headgears and stiff gowns, or sitting by the side of lean and stunted pages, singing (with dolorous voice) to lutes; or promenading under trees with long-shanked, high-shouldered gentlemen, with vacant sickly face and long scraggy hair and beard, their bony elbows sticking out of their slashed doublets. These courtly figures culminate in Dürer's magnificent plate of the wild man of the woods kissing the hideous, leering Jezebel in her brocade and jewels. These aristocratic women are terrible; prudish, malicious, licentious, never modest because they are always ugly. Even the poor Madonnas, seated in front of village hovels or windmills, smile the smile of starved, sickly sempstresses. It is a stunted, poverty-stricken, plague-sick society, this mediæval society of burghers and burghers' wives; the air seems bad and heavy, and the light wanting physically and morally, in these old free-towns; there is intellectual sickness as well as bodily in those musty gabled houses; the mediæval spirit blights what revival of healthiness may exist in these commonwealths. And feudalism is outside the gates. There are the brutal, leering men-at-arms, in slashed, puffed doublets and heavy armour, face and dress as unhuman as possible, standing grimacing at the blood spirting from John the Baptist's decapitated trunk, as in Kranach's horrible print, while gaping spectators fill the castle-yard; there are the castles high on rocks amidst woods, with miserable villages below, where the Prodigal Son wallows among the swine, and the tattered boors tumble about in drunkenness, or rest wearied on their spades. There are the Middle Ages in full force. But had these Germans of the days of Luther really no thought beyond their own times and their own country? Had they really no knowledge of the antique? Not so; they had heard from their learned men, from Willibald Pirkheimer and Ulrich von Hutten, that the world had once been peopled with naked gods and goddesses. Nay, the very year perhaps that Raphael handed to his engraver, Marc Antonio, his magnificent drawing of the Judgment of Paris, Lukas Kranach bethought him to represent the story of the good Knight Paris giving the apple to the Lady Venus. So Kranach took up his steady pencil and sharp chisel, and in strong, clear, minute lines of black and white showed us the scene. There, on Mount Ida, with a castellated rock in the distance, the charger of Paris browses beneath some stunted larches; the Trojan knight's helmet, with its monstrous beak and plume, lies on the ground; and near it reclines Paris himself, lazy, in complete armour, with frizzled fashionable beard. To him, all wrinkled and grinning with brutal lust, comes another bearded knight, with wings to his vizored helmet, Sir Mercury, leading the three goddesses, short, fat-cheeked German wenches, housemaids stripped of their clothes, stupid, brazen, indifferent. And Paris is evidently prepared with his choice: he awards the apple to the fattest, for among a half-starved, plague-stricken people like this, the chosen of gods and men must needs be the fattest. No, such pagan scenes are mere burlesques, coarse mummeries, such as may have amused Nürnberg and Augsburg during Shrovetide, when drunken louts figured as Bacchus and sang drinking songs by Hans Sachs. There is no reality in all this; there is no belief in pagan gods. If we would see the haunting divinity of the German Renaissance, we shall find him prying and prowling in nearly every scene of real life; him, the ever present, the king of the Middle Ages, whose triumph we have seen on the cloister wall at Pisa, the Lord Death. His fleshless face peers from behind a bush at Zatzinger's stunted, fever-stricken lady and imbecile gentleman; he sits grinning on a tree in Orso Grafs allegory, while the cynical knights, with haggard, sensual faces, crack dirty jokes with the fat, brutish woman squatted below; he puts his hand into the basket of Dürer's tattered pedlar; he leers hideously at the stirrup of Dürer's armed and stalwart knight. No gods of youth and nature, no Hercules, no Hermes, no Venus, have invaded his German territories, as they invaded even his own palace, the burial-ground at Pisa; the antique has not perverted Dürer and his fellows, as it perverted Masaccio and Signorelli and Mantegna, from the mediæval worship of Death. The Italians had seen the antique and had let themselves be seduced by it, despite their civilization and their religion. Let us only rejoice thereat. There are indeed some, and among them the great English critic who is irrefutable when he is a poet, and irrational when he becomes a philosopher;--there are some who tell us that in its union with antique art, the art of the followers of Giotto embraced death, and rotted away ever after. There are others, more moderate but less logical, who would teach us that in uniting with the antique, the mediæval art of the fifteenth century purified and sanctified the beautiful but evil child of Paganism; that the goddess of Scopas and the athlete of Polyclete were raised to a higher sphere when Raphael changed the one into a Madonna, and Michael Angelo metamorphosed the other into a prophet. But both schools of criticism are wrong. Every civilization has its inherent evil; Antiquity had its inherent evils, as the Middle Ages had theirs; Antiquity may have bequeathed to the Renaissance the bad with the good, as the Middle Ages had bequeathed to the Renaissance the good with the bad. But the art of Antiquity was not the evil, it was the good of Antiquity; it was born of its strength and its purity only, and it was the incarnation of its noblest qualities. It could not be purified, because it was spotless; it could not be sanctified, because it was holy. It could gain nothing from the art of the Middle Ages, alternately strong in brutal reality, and languid in mystic inanity; the men of the Renaissance could, if they influenced it at all, influence the antique only for evil; they belonged to an inferior artistic civilization, and if we conscientiously seek for the spiritual improvements brought by them into antique types, we shall see that they consist in spoiling their perfect proportions; in making necks longer and muscles more prominent; in rendering more or less flaccid, or meagre or coarse, the grand and delicate forms of antique art. And when we have examined into this purified art of the Renaissance, when we have compared coolly and equitably, we may perhaps confess that, while the Renaissance added immense wealth of beauty in colour, perspective, and grouping, it took away something of the perfection of simple lines and modest light and shade of the antique; we may admit to ourselves that the grandest saint by Raphael is meagre and stunted; and the noblest Virgin by Titian is overblown and sensual by the side of the demi-gods and amazons of antique sculpture. The antique perfected the art of the Renaissance, it did not corrupt it. The art of the Renaissance fell indeed into shameful degradation soon after the period of its triumphant union with the antique; and Raphael's grand gods and goddesses, his exquisite Eros and radiant Psyche of the Farnesina, are indeed succeeded but too soon by the Olympus of Giulio Romano, an Olympus of harlots and acrobats, who smirk and mouth and wriggle and sprawl ignobly on the walls and ceilings of the dismantled palace which crumbles away among the stunted willows, the stagnant pools, and rank grass of the marshes of Mantua. But this is no more the fault of Antiquity than it is the fault of the Middle Ages; it is the fault of that great principle of life and of change which makes all things organic, be they physical or intellectual, germinate, grow, attain maturity, and then fade, wither, and rot. The dead art of Antiquity could never have brought the art of the Renaissance to an untimely end; the art of the Renaissance decayed because it was mature, and died because it had lived. 
41924	----	[Transcriber's Note: This e-book was prepared from a 1960 G.P. Putnam's Sons reprint of the 1900 edition of _The Revival of Learning_, originally published by Smith, Elder, & Co., London, as Volume II of John Addington Symonds's _Renaissance in Italy_ series. Obvious printer errors have been corrected without note; other errors are indicated by a [Transcriber's Note]. Older spellings of Italian names (e.g. "Lionardo" for "Leonardo") have been retained as they appear in the original.] _JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS_ _The Revival of Learning_ At tibi fortassis, si, quod mens sperat et optat, Es post me victura diu, meliora supersunt Secula; non omnes veniet lethaeus in annos Iste sopor; poterunt, discussis forte tenebris, Ad purum priscumque jubar remeare nepotes. Tunc Helicona novâ revirentem stirpe videbis, Tunc lauros frondere sacras; tunc alta resurgent Ingenia atque animi dociles, quibus ardor honesti Pieridum studii veterem geminabit amorem. PETRARCHÆ _Africa_, _lib. ix_ PREFACE[1] [Footnote 1: To the original edition of this volume.] This volume on the 'Revival of Learning' follows that on the 'Age of the Despots,' published in 1875, and precedes that on the 'Fine Arts,' which is now also offered to the public. In dealing with the 'Revival of Learning' and the 'Fine Arts,' I have tried to remember that I had not so much to write again the history of these subjects, as to treat their relation to the 'Renaissance in Italy.' In other words, I have regarded each section of my theme as subordinate to the general culture of a great historical period. The volume on 'Italian Literature,' still in contemplation, is intended to complete the work. While handling the theme of the Italian Renaissance, I have selected such points, and emphasised such details, as I felt to be important for the biography of a nation at the most brilliant epoch of its intellectual activity. The historian of culture sacrifices much that the historian of politics will judge essential, and calls attention to matters that the general reader may sometimes find superfluous. He must submit to bear the reproach of having done at once too little and too much. He must be content to traverse at one time well-worn ground, and at another to engage in dry or abstruse inquiries. He must not shrink from seeming to affect the fame of a compiler; nor, unless his powers be of the highest, can he hope altogether to avoid repetitions wearisome alike to reader and to writer. His main object is to paint the portrait of national genius identical through all varieties of manifestation; and in proportion as he has preserved this point of view with firmness, he may hope to have succeeded. For the History of the Revival of Learning I have had continual recourse to Tiraboschi's 'Storia della Letteratura Italiana.' That work is still the basis of all researches bearing on the subject. I owe besides particular obligations to Vespasiano's 'Vite di Uomini Illustri,' to Comparetti's 'Virgilio nel Medio Evo,' to Rosmini's 'Vita di Filelfo,' 'Vita di Vittorino da Feltre,' and 'Vita di Guarino da Verona,' to Shepherd's 'Life of Poggio Bracciolini,' to Dennistoun's 'Dukes of Urbino,' to Schultze's 'Gemistos Plethon,' to Didot's 'Alde Manuce,' to Von Reumont's 'Lorenzo de' Medici,' to Burckhardt's 'Cultur der Renaissance in Italien,' to Voigt's 'Wiederbelebung des classischen Alterthums,' and to Gregorovius's 'Geschichte der Stadt Rom.' To Voigt and Burckhardt, having perforce traversed the same ground that they have done, I feel that I have been in a special sense indebted. At the same time I have made it my invariable practice, as the notes to this volume will show, to found my own opinions on the study of original sources. To mention in detail all the editions of the works of humanists and scholars I have consulted, would be superfluous. To me it has been a labour of love to record even the bare names of those Italian worthies who recovered for us in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries 'the everlasting consolations' of the Greek and Latin classics. The thought that I was tracing the history of an achievement fruitful of the weightiest results for modern civilisation has sustained me in a task that has been sometimes tedious. The collective greatness of the Revival has reconciled my mind to many trivialities of detail. The prosaic minutiæ of obscure biographies and long-forgotten literary labours have been glorified by what appears to me the poetry and the romance of the whole theme. It lies not in my province or my power to offer my readers any adequate apology for such defects as my own want of skill in exposition, or the difficulty of transfiguring with vital light and heat a subject so remote from present interests, may have occasioned. I must leave this volume in their hands, hoping that some at least may be animated by the same feeling of gratitude toward those past workers in the field of learning which has supported me. CLIFTON: _March 1877_. CONTENTS CHAPTER I THE MEN OF THE RENAISSANCE PAGE Formation of Conscious Personality in Italy -- Aristocracy of Intellect -- Self-culture as an Aim -- Want of National Architecture -- Want of National Drama -- Eminence of Sculpture and Painting -- Peculiar Capacity for Literature -- Scholarship -- Men of Many-sided Genius -- Their Relation to the Age -- Conflict between Mediæval Tradition and Humanism -- Petrarch -- The Meaning of the Revival begun by him -- Cosmopolitan Philosophy -- Toleration -- An Intellectual Empire -- Worldliness -- Confusion of Impulses and Inspirations -- Copernicus and Columbus -- Christianity and the Classics -- Italian Incapacity for Religious Reformation -- Free Thought takes the form of License -- Harmonies attempted between Christianity and Antique Philosophy -- Florentine Academy -- Physical Qualities of the Italians -- Portraits of Two Periods -- Physical Exercises -- Determination of the Race to Scholarship -- Ancient Memories of Rome -- The Cult of Antiquity -- Desire of Fame -- Fame to be found in Literature -- The Cult of Intellect -- The Cult of Character -- Preoccupation with Personal Details -- Biography -- Ideal Sketches -- Posthumous Glory -- Enthusiasm for Erudition -- Piero de' Pazzi -- Florence and Athens -- Paganism -- Real Value of Italian Humanism -- Pico on the Dignity of Man 1 CHAPTER II FIRST PERIOD OF HUMANISM Importance of the Revival of Learning -- Mediæval Romance -- The Legend of Faustus -- Its Value for the Renaissance -- The Devotion of Italy to Study -- Italian Predisposition for this Labour -- Scholarship in the Dark Ages -- Double Attitude assumed by the Church -- Piety for Virgil -- Meagre Acquaintance with the Latin Classics -- No Greek Learning -- The Spiritual Conditions of the Middle Ages adverse to Pure Literature -- Italy no Exception to the rest of Europe -- Dante and Petrarch -- Definition of Humanism -- Petrarch's Conception of it -- His Æsthetical Temperament -- His Cult for Cicero, Zeal in Collecting Manuscripts, Sense of the Importance of Greek Studies -- Warfare against Pedantry and Superstition -- Ideal of Poetry and Rhetoric -- Critique of Jurists and Schoolmen -- S. Augustine -- Petrarch's Vanity -- Thirst for Fame -- Discord between his Life and his Profession -- His Literary Temperament -- Visionary Patriotism -- His Influence -- His Successors -- Boccaccio and Greek Studies -- Translation of Homer -- Philosophy of Literature -- Sensuousness of Boccaccio's Inspiration -- Giovanni da Ravenna -- The Wandering Professor -- His Pupils in Latin Scholarship -- Luigi Marsigli -- The Convent of S. Spirito -- Humanism in Politics -- Coluccio de' Salutati -- Gasparino da Barzizza -- Improved Style in Letter-writing -- Revival of Greek Learning -- Manuel Chrysoloras -- His Pupils -- Lionardo Bruni -- Value of Greek for the Renaissance 37 CHAPTER III FIRST PERIOD OF HUMANISM Condition of the Universities in Italy -- Bologna -- High Schools founded from it -- Naples under Frederick II. -- Under the House of Anjou -- Ferrara -- Piacenza -- Perugia -- Rome -- Pisa -- Florence -- Imperial and Papal Charters -- Foreign Students -- Professorial Staff -- Subjects taught in the High Schools -- Place assigned to Humanism -- Pay of the Professors of Eloquence -- Francesco Filelfo -- The Humanists less powerful at the Universities -- Method of Humanistic Teaching -- The Book Market before Printing -- Mediæval Libraries -- Cost of Manuscripts -- 'Stationarii' and 'Peciarii' -- Negligence of Copyists -- Discovery of Classical Codices -- Boccaccio at Monte Cassino -- Poggio at Constance -- Convent of S. Gallen -- Bruni's Letter to Poggio -- Manuscripts Discovered by Poggio -- Nicholas of Treves -- Collection of Greek Manuscripts -- Aurispa, Filelfo, and Guarino -- The Ruins of Rome -- Their Influence on Humanism -- Dante and Villani -- Rienzi -- His Idealistic Patriotism -- Vanity -- Political Incompetence -- Petrarch's Relations with Rienzi -- Injury to Monuments in Rome -- Poggio's Roman Topography -- Sentimental Feeling for the Ruins of Antiquity -- Ciriac of Ancona 83 CHAPTER IV SECOND PERIOD OF HUMANISM Intricacy of the Subject -- Division into Four Periods -- Place of Florence -- Social Conditions favourable to Culture -- Palla degli Strozzi -- His Encouragement of Greek Studies -- Plan of a Public Library -- His Exile -- Cosimo de' Medici -- His Patronage of Learning -- Political Character -- Love of Building -- Generosity to Students -- Foundation of Libraries -- Vespasiano and Thomas of Sarzana -- Niccolo de' Niccoli -- His Collection of Codices -- Description of his Mode of Life -- His Fame as a Latinist -- Lionardo Bruni -- His Biography -- Translations from the Greek -- Latin Treatises and Histories -- His Burial in Santa Croce -- Carlo Aretino -- Fame as a Lecturer -- The Florentine Chancery -- Matteo Palmieri -- Giannozzo Manetti -- His Hebrew Studies -- His Public Career -- His Eloquence -- Manetti ruined by the Medici -- His Life in Exile at Naples -- Estimate of his Talents -- Ambrogio Traversari -- Study of Greek Fathers -- General of the Camaldolese Order -- Humanism and Monasticism -- The Council of Florence -- Florentine Opinion about the Greeks -- Gemistos Plethon -- His Life -- His Philosophy -- His Influence at Florence -- Cosimo de' Medici and the Florentine Academy -- Study of Plato -- Plethon's Writings -- Platonists and Aristotelians in Italy and Greece -- Bessarion -- His Patronage of Greek Refugees in Rome -- Humanism in the Smaller Republics -- In Venice 115 CHAPTER V SECOND PERIOD OF HUMANISM Transition from Florence to Rome -- Vicissitudes of Learning at the Papal Court -- Diplomatic Humanists -- Protonotaries -- Apostolic Scribes -- Ecclesiastical Sophists -- Immorality and Artificiality of Scholarship in Rome -- Poggio and Bruni, Secretaries -- Eugenius IV. -- His Patronage of Scholars -- Flavio Biondo -- Solid Erudition -- Nicholas V. -- His Private History -- Nature of his Talents -- His unexpected Elevation to the Roman See -- Jubilation of the Humanists -- His Protection of Learned Men in Rome -- A Workshop of Erudition -- A Factory of Translations -- High Sums paid for Literary Labour -- Poggio Fiorentino -- His Early Life -- His Journeys -- His Eminence as a Man of Letters -- His attitude towards Ecclesiastics -- His Invectives -- Humanistic Gladiators -- Poggio and Filelfo -- Poggio and Guarino -- Poggio and Valla -- Poggio and Perotti -- Poggio and Georgios Trapezuntios -- Literary Scandals -- Poggio's Collections of Antiquities -- Chancellor of Florence -- Cardinal Bessarion -- His Library -- Theological Studies -- Apology for Plato -- The Greeks in Italy -- Humanism at Naples -- Want of Culture in Southern Italy -- Learning an Exotic -- Alfonso the Magnificent -- Scholars in the Camp -- Literary Dialogues at Naples -- Antonio Beccadelli -- The 'Hermaphroditus' -- Lorenzo Valla -- The Epicurean -- The Critic -- The Opponent of the Church -- Bartolommeo Fazio -- Giannantonio Porcello -- Court of Milan -- Filippo Maria Visconti -- Decembrio's Description of his Master -- Francesco Filelfo -- His Early Life -- Visit to Constantinople -- Place at Court -- Marriage -- Return to Italy -- Venice -- Bologna -- His Pretensions as a Professor -- Florence -- Feuds with the Florentines -- Immersion in Politics -- Siena -- Settles at Milan -- His Fame -- Private Life and Public Interests -- Overtures to Rome -- Filelfo under the Sforza Tyranny -- Literary Brigandage -- Death at Florence -- Filelfo as the Representative of a Class -- Vittorino da Feltre -- Early Education -- Scheme of Training Youths as Scholars -- Residence at Padua -- Residence at Mantua -- His School of Princes -- Liberality to Poor Students -- Details of his Life and System -- Court of Ferrara -- Guarino da Verona -- House Tutor of Lionello d'Este -- Giovanni Aurispa -- Smaller Courts -- Carpi -- Mirandola -- Rimini and the Malatesta Tyrants -- Cesena -- Pesaro -- Urbino and Duke Frederick -- Vespasiano da Bisticci 155 CHAPTER VI THIRD PERIOD OF HUMANISM Improvement in Taste and Criticism -- Coteries and Academies -- Revival of Italian Literature -- Printing -- Florence, the Capital of Learning -- Lorenzo de' Medici and his Circle -- Public Policy of Lorenzo -- Literary Patronage -- Variety of his Gifts -- Meetings of the Platonic Society -- Marsilio Ficino -- His Education for Platonic Studies -- Translations of Plato and the Neoplatonists -- Harmony between Plato and Christianity -- Giovanni Pico -- His First Appearance in Florence -- His Theses proposed at Rome -- Censure of the Church -- His Study of the Cabbala -- Large Conception of Learning -- Occult Science -- Cristoforo Landino -- Professor of Fine Literature -- Virgilian Studies -- Camaldolese Disputations -- Leo Battista Alberti -- His Versatility -- Bartolommeo Scala -- Obscure Origin -- Chancellor of Florence -- Angelo Poliziano -- Early Life -- Translation of Homer -- The 'Homericus Juvenis' -- True Genius in Poliziano -- Command of Latin and Greek -- Resuscitation of Antiquity in his own Person -- His Professorial Work -- The 'Miscellanea' -- Relation to Medici -- Roman Scholarship in this Period -- Pius II. -- Pomponius Lætus -- His Academy and Mode of Life -- Persecution under Paul II. -- Humanism at Naples -- Pontanus -- His Academy -- His Writings -- Academies established in all Towns of Italy -- Introduction of Printing -- Sweynheim and Pannartz -- The Early Venetian Press -- Florence -- Cennini -- Alopa's Homer -- Change in Scholarship effected by Printing -- The Life of Aldo Manuzio -- The Princely House of Pio at Carpi -- Greek Books before Aldo -- The Aldine Press at Venice -- History of its Activity -- Aldo and Erasmus -- Aldo and the Greek Refugees -- Aldo's Death -- His Family and Successors -- The Neacademia -- The Salvation of Greek Literature 224 CHAPTER VII FOURTH PERIOD OF HUMANISM Fall of the Humanists -- Scholarship permeates Society -- A New Ideal of Life and Manners -- Latinisation of Names -- Classical Periphrases -- Latin Epics on Christian Themes -- Paganism -- The Court of Leo X. -- Honours of the Church given to Scholars -- Ecclesiastical Men of the World -- Mæcenases at Rome -- Papal and Imperial Rome -- Moral Corruption -- Social Refinement -- The Roman Academy -- Pietro Bembo -- His Life at Ferrara -- At Urbino -- Comes to Rome -- Employed by Leo -- Retirement to Padua -- His Dictatorship of Letters -- Jacopo Sadoleto -- A Graver Genius than Bembo -- Paulus Jovius -- Latin Stylist -- His Histories -- Baldassare Castiglione -- Life at Urbino and Rome -- The Courtly Scholar -- His Diplomatic Missions -- Alberto Pio -- Gian Francesco Pico della Mirandola -- The Vicissitudes of his Life -- Jerome Aleander -- Oriental Studies -- The Library of the Vatican -- His Mission to Germany -- Inghirami, Beroaldo, and Acciaiuoli -- The Roman University -- John Lascaris -- Study of Antiquities -- Origin of the 'Corpus Inscriptionum' -- Topographical Studies -- Formation of the Vatican Sculpture Gallery -- Discovery of the Laocoon -- Feeling for Statues in Renaissance Italy -- Venetian Envoys in the Belvedere -- Raphael's Plan for Excavating Ancient Rome -- His Letter to Leo -- Effect of Antiquarian Researches on the Arts -- Intellectual Supremacy of Rome in this Period -- The Fall -- Adrian VI. -- The Sack of Rome -- Valeriano's Description of the Sufferings of Scholars 284 CHAPTER VIII LATIN POETRY Special Causes for the Practice of Latin Versification in Italy -- The Want of an Italian Language -- Multitudes of Poetasters -- Beccadelli -- Alberti's 'Philodoxus' -- Poliziano -- The 'Sylvæ' -- 'Nutricia,' 'Rusticus,' 'Manto,' 'Ambra' -- Minor Poems -- Pontano -- Sannazzaro -- Elegies and Epigrams -- Christian Epics -- Vida's 'Christiad' -- Vida's 'Poetica' -- Fracastoro -- The 'Syphilis' -- _Barocco_ Flatteries -- Bembo -- Immoral Elegies -- Imitations of Ovid and Tibullus -- The 'Benacus' -- Epitaphs -- Navagero -- Epigrams and Eclogues -- Molsa -- Poem on his own Death -- Castiglione -- 'Alcon' and 'Lycidas' -- Verses of Society -- The Apotheosis of the Popes -- Poem on the Ariadne of the Vatican -- Sadoleto's Verses on the Laocoon -- Flaminio -- His Life -- Love of the Country -- Learned Friends -- Scholar-Poets of Lombardy -- Extinction of Learning in Florence -- Decay of Italian Erudition 324 CHAPTER IX CONCLUSION General Survey -- The Part played in the Revival by the Chief Cities -- Preoccupation with Scholarship in spite of War and Conquest -- Place of the Humanists in Society -- Distributors of Praise and Blame -- Flattery and Libels -- Comparison with the Sophists -- The Form preferred to the Matter of Literature -- Ideal of Culture as an end in itself -- Suspicion of Zealous Churchmen -- Intrusion of Humanism into the Church -- Irreligion of the Humanists -- Gyraldi's 'Progymnasma' -- Ariosto -- Bohemian Life -- Personal Immorality -- Want of Fixed Principles -- Professional Vanity -- Literary Pride -- Estimate of Humanistic Literature -- Study of Style -- Influence of Cicero -- Valla's 'Elegantiæ' -- Stylistic Puerilities -- Value attached to Rhetoric -- 'Oratore' -- Moral Essays -- Epistolography -- Histories -- Critical and Antiquarian Studies -- Large Appreciation of Antiquity -- Liberal Spirit -- Poggio and Jerome of Prague -- Humanistic Type of Education -- Its Diffusion through Europe -- Future Prospects -- Decay of Learning in Italy 372 RENAISSANCE IN ITALY CHAPTER I THE MEN OF THE RENAISSANCE Formation of Conscious Personality in Italy -- Aristocracy of Intellect -- Self-culture as an Aim -- Want of National Architecture -- Want of National Drama -- Eminence of Sculpture and Painting -- Peculiar Capacity for Literature -- Scholarship -- Men of Many-sided Genius -- Their Relation to the Age -- Conflict between Mediæval Tradition and Humanism -- Petrarch -- The Meaning of the Revival begun by him -- Cosmopolitan Philosophy -- Toleration -- An Intellectual Empire -- Worldliness -- Confusion of Impulses and Inspirations -- Copernicus and Columbus -- Christianity and the Classics -- Italian Incapacity for Religious Reformation -- Free Thought takes the form of License -- Harmonies attempted between Christianity and Antique Philosophy -- Florentine Academy -- Physical Qualities of the Italians -- Portraits of Two Periods -- Physical Exercises -- Determination of the Race to Scholarship -- Ancient Memories of Rome -- The Cult of Antiquity -- Desire of Fame -- Fame to be found in Literature -- The Cult of Intellect -- The Cult of Character -- Preoccupation with Personal Details -- Biography -- Ideal Sketches -- Posthumous Glory -- Enthusiasm for Erudition -- Piero de' Pazzi -- Florence and Athens -- Paganism -- Real Value of Italian Humanism -- Pico on the Dignity of Man. The conditions, political, social, moral, and religious, described in the first volume of this work, produced among the Italians a type of character nowhere else observable in Europe. This character, highly self-conscious and mentally mature, was needed for the intellectual movement of the Renaissance. Italy had proved herself incapable of forming an united nation, or of securing the principle of federal coherence; of maintaining a powerful military system, or of holding her own against the French and Spaniards. For these defects her Communes and her Despots, the Papacy and the kingdom of Naples, the theories of the mediæval doctrinaires and the enthusiasm of the humanists, were alike responsible; though the larger share belongs to Rome, resolutely hostile to the monarchical principle, and zealous, by espousing the Guelf faction, to maintain the discord of the nation. At the same time the very causes of political disunion were favourable to the intellectual growth of the Italians. Each State, whether republican or despotic, had, during the last years of the Middle Ages, formed a mixed society of nobles, merchants, and artisans, enclosed within the circuit of the city walls, and strongly marked by the peculiar complexion of their native place. Every town was a centre of activity and industry, eagerly competing with its neighbours, proud of its local characteristics, anxious to confer distinction on citizens who rose to eminence by genius or practical ability. Party strife in the republics, while it disturbed their internal repose, sharpened the intellect and strengthened the personality of the burghers. Exile and proscription, the common climax of civic warfare, made them still more self-determined and self-reliant by driving each man back upon his own resources. The despots, again, through the illegal tenure of their authority, were forced to the utmost possible development of individual character: since all their fortunes depended on their qualities as men. The plots and counter-plots of subjects eager for a change of government, and of neighbours anxious to encroach upon their territory, kept the atmosphere of their Courts in a continual state of agitation. One type of ability was fostered by the diplomatic relations of the several cities, yielding employment to a multitude of secretaries and ambassadors; another by the system of Condottiere warfare, offering a brilliant career to ambitious adventurers. In all departments open to a man of talent birth was of less importance than natural gifts; for the social barriers and grades of feudalism had either never existed in Italy, or had been shaken and confounded during the struggles of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. The ranks of the tyrants were filled with sons of Popes and captains risen from the proletariat. The ruling class in the republics consisted of men self-made by commerce; and here the name at least of Popolo was sovereign. It followed that men were universally rated at what they proved themselves to be; and thus an aristocracy of genius and character grew up in Italy at a period when the rest of Europe presented but rare specimens of individuals emergent from the common herd. As in ancient Greece, the nation was of less importance than the city, and within the city personal ability carried overwhelming weight. The Italian history of the Renaissance resumes itself in the biography of men greater than their race, of mental despots, who absorbed its forces in themselves. The intellectual and moral milieu created by multitudes of self-centred, cultivated personalities was necessary for the evolution of that spirit of intelligence, subtle, penetrative, and elastic, that formed the motive force of the Renaissance. The work achieved by Italy for the world in that age was less the work of a nation than that of men of power, less the collective and spontaneous triumph of a puissant people than the aggregate of individual efforts animated by one soul of free activity, a common striving after fame. This is noticeable at the very outset. The Italians had no national Epic: their Divine Comedy is the poem of the individual man. Petrarch erects self-culture to the rank of an ideal, and proposes to move the world from the standpoint of his study, darting his spirit's light through all the void circumference, and making thought a power. The success and the failure of the Italians are alike referable to their political subdivisions, and to this strong development of their personality. We have already seen how they fell short of national unity and of military greatness. Even in the realm of art and literature the same conditions were potent. Some of the chief productions of humanity seem to require the co-operation of whole peoples working sympathetically to a common end. Foremost among these are architecture and the drama. The most splendid triumphs of modern architecture in the French and English Gothic were achieved by the half-unconscious striving of the national genius through several centuries. The names of the builders of the cathedrals are unknown: the cathedrals themselves bear less the stamp of individual thought than of popular instinct; their fame belongs to the race that made them, to the spirit of the times that gave them birth. It is not in architecture, therefore, that we expect the Italians, divided into small and rival States, and distinguished by salient subjectivity, to show their strength. Men like Niccola Pisano, Arnolfo del Cambio, Alberti, Brunelleschi, and Bramante were gifted with an individuality too paramount for the creation of more than mighty experiments in architecture. They bowed to no tradition, but followed the dictates of their own inventive impulse, selecting the types that suited them, and dealing freely with the forms they found around them. Instead of seeking to carry on toward its accomplishment a style, not made, but felt and comprehended by their genius, they were eager to produce new and characteristic masterpieces--signs and symbols of their own peculiar quality of mind. Italy is full of splendid but imperfect monuments of personal ability, works of beauty displaying no unbroken genealogy of unknown craftsmen, but attesting the skill of famous artists. For the practical architect her palaces and churches may, for this reason, be less instructive and less attractive than the public buildings of France. Yet for the student of national and personal characteristics, who loves to trace the physiognomy of a people in its edifices, to discover the mind of the artist in his work, their interest is unrivalled. In each city the specific _genius loci_ meets us face to face: from each town-hall or cathedral the soul of a great man leans forth to greet our own. These advantages compensate for frequent extravagances, for audacities savouring of ignorance, and for awkwardness in the adoption and modification of incongruous styles. Moreover, it must always be remembered that in Italy the architect could not forget the monuments of Roman and Byzantine art around him. Classic models had to be suited to the requirements of modern life and Christian ritual; and when the Germans brought their Gothic from beyond the Alps, it suffered from its adaptation to a southern climate. The result was that Italy arrived at no great national tradition in architecture, and that free scope was offered to the whims and freaks of individual designers. When at length, at the end of the sixteenth century, the Italians attained to uniformity of taste, it was by the sacrifice of their originality. The pedantry of the classical revival did more harm to architecture than to letters, and pseudo-Roman purism superseded the genial caprices of the previous centuries. If architecture may be said to have suffered in Italy from the supremacy of local characteristics and personal genius, overruling tradition and thwarting the evolution of a national style, the case was quite different with the other arts. Painting and sculpture demand the highest independence in the artist, and are susceptible of a far more many-sided treatment than architecture. They cannot be the common product of a people, but require the conscious application of a special ability to the task of translating thought and feeling into form. As painters, the Italians hold the first rank among civilised nations of the modern and the ancient world; and their inferiority as sculptors to the Greeks is mainly due to their mastery over painting, the essentially romantic art. The sensibilities of the new age craved a more emotional and agitated expression than is proper to sculpture. As early as the days of Ghiberti and Donatello it became clear that the Italian sculptors were following the methods of the sister art in their designs, while Michael Angelo alone had force enough to make marble the vehicle of thoughts that properly belong to painting or to music. The converse probably held good with the Greeks. What remains of their work in fresco and mosaic seems to show that they were satisfied with groups and figures modelled upon bas-reliefs and statues; just as the Florentines carved pictures, with architecture and landscape, in stone. More need not here be said upon this topic, since the achievements of the Italians in painting and in sculpture will form a main part of my history. As regards literature, the subdivision of Italy into numerous small States and the energetic self-assertion of the individual were distinctly favourable. Though the want of a great public, such as can alone be found in the capital of a free, united nation, may be reckoned among the many reasons which prevented the Italians from developing the drama, yet the rivalry of town with town and of burgher with burgher, Court life with its varied opportunities for the display of talent, and municipal life with its restless competition in commerce and public affairs, encouraged the activity of students, historians, statisticians, critics, and poets. Culture, in the highest and widest sense of the word, was what Renaissance Italy obtained and gave to Europe; and this culture implies a full-formed personality in the men who seek it. It was the highly perfected individuality of the Italians that made them first emerge from mediæval bondage and become the apostles of humanism for the modern world. It may be regretted that their force was expended upon the diffusion of learning and the purification of style, instead of being concentrated on the creation of national masterpieces. We seek in vain for Dante's equal among the poets of the Renaissance. The 'Orlando Furioso' is but a poor second to the 'Divina Commedia;' and all those works of scholarship, which seemed to our ancestors the _ne plus ultra_ of refinement, are now relegated to the lumber-room of erudition that has been superseded, or of literary ingenuity that has lost its point. Now that the boon of culture, so hardly won by the students of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, has become the common heritage of Europe, it is not always easy to explain the mental grandeur of the Italians in that age. Yet we should fail to recognise their merit, if we did not comprehend that, precisely by this absorption of their genius in the task of the Revival, they conferred the most enduring benefits upon humanity. What the modern world would have been, if the Italian nation had not devoted its energies to the restoration of liberal learning, cannot even be imagined. The history of that devotion will form the principal subject of my present volume. The comprehensive and many-sided natures, frequent in Renaissance Italy, were specially adapted for the dissemination of the new spirit. The appearance of such men as Leo Battista Alberti, Lionardo da Vinci, Lorenzo de' Medici, Brunelleschi and Buonarroti, Poliziano and Pico della Mirandola, upon the stage of the Renaissance is not the least fascinating of its phenomena. We can only find their parallels by returning to the age of Pericles. But the problem for the Florentines differed from that which the Athenians had before them. In Greece, the morning-land of civilisation, men of genius, each perfect in his own capacity, were needed. Standards had to be created for the future guidance of the world in all the realms of art and thought. We are therefore less struck with the versatility than with the concentration of Pheidias, Pindar, Sophocles, Socrates. Italy, on the other hand, had for her task the reabsorption of a bygone culture. It was her vocation to resuscitate antiquity, to gather up afresh the products of the classic past, and so to blend them with the mediæval spirit as to generate what is specifically modern. It was indispensable that the men by whom this work was accomplished should be no less distinguished for largeness of intelligence, variety of acquirements, quickness of sympathy, and sensitive susceptibility, than for the complete development of some one faculty. The great characters of the Greek age were what Hegel calls plastic, penetrated through and through with a specific quality. Those of the Italian age were comprehensive and encyclopædic; the intensity of their force in any one sphere is less remarkable than its suitableness to all. They were of a nature to synthesise, interpret, reproduce, and mould afresh--like Mr. Browning's Cleon, with the addition of the consciousness of young and potent energy within them. It consequently happens that, except in the sphere of the Fine Arts, we are tempted to underrate the heroes of the Renaissance. The impression they leave upon our minds at any one point is slight in comparison with the estimate we form of them when we consider each man as a whole. Nor can we point to monumental and colossal works in proof of their creative faculty. The biographies of universal geniuses like Leo Battista Alberti or Lionardi [Transcriber's Note: Lionardo] da Vinci, so multiform in their capacity and so creative in their intuitions, prompt us to ask what is the connection between the spirit of an age and the men in whom it is incorporated. Not without reason are we forced to personify the Renaissance as something external to its greatest characters. There is an intellectual strength outside them in the century, a heritage of power prepared for them at birth. The atmosphere in which they breathe is so charged with mental vitality that the least stirring of their special energy brings them into relation with forces mightier than are the property of single natures. In feebler periods of retrospect and criticism we can but wonder at the combination of faculties so varied, and at miracles so easily accomplished. These times of clairvoyance and of intellectual magnetism, when individuals of genius appear to move like vibrios in a life-sustaining fluid specially adapted to their needs, are rare in the history of the world; nor has our science yet arrived at analysing their causes. They are not on that account the less real. To explain them by the hypothesis of a _Weltgeist_, the collective spirit of humanity proceeding in its evolution through successive phases, and making its advance from stage to stage by alternations of energy and repose, is simply to restore, in other terms, a mystery that finds its final and efficient cause in God.[2] [Footnote 2: The analogy of the individual might be quoted. We are aware within ourselves of times when thought is fertile and insight clear, times of conception and projection, followed by seasons of slow digestion, assimilation, and formation, when the creative faculty stagnates, and the whole force of the intellect is absorbed in mastering through years what it took minutes to divine.] Gifted with the powerful individuality I am attempting to describe, the men of the Renaissance received their earliest education in the religion of the Middle Ages, their second in the schools of Greece and Rome. It was the many-sided struggle of personal character with time-honoured tradition on the one hand, and with new ideals on the other, that lent so much of inconsistency and contradiction to their aims. Dante remained within the pale of mediæval thoughts, and gave them full poetical expression. To him, in a truer sense than to any other poet, belongs the double glory of immortalising in verse the centuries behind him, while he inaugurated the new age. The 'Vita Nuova' and the 'Divina Commedia' are modern, in so far as the one is the first complete analysis of personal emotion, and the other is the epic of the soul conceived as concrete personality. But the form and colour, the material and structure, the warp of thought and the woof of fancy, are not modern. Petrarch opens a new era. He is not satisfied with the body of mediæval beliefs and intellectual conceptions. Antiquity presents a more fascinating ideal to his spirit, and he feels the subjectivity within him strong enough to assimilate what suits it in the present and the past. The Revival of Learning, begun by Petrarch, was no mere renewal of interest in classic literature. It was the emancipation of the reason in a race of men, intolerant of control, ready to criticise accepted canons of conduct, enthusiastic in admiration of antique liberty, freshly awakened to the sense of beauty, and anxious above all things to secure for themselves free scope in spheres outside the region of authority. Men so vigorous and independent felt the joy of exploration. There was no problem they feared to face, no formula they were not eager to recast according to their new convictions. This liberty of judgment did not of necessity lead to lawlessness; nor in any case did it produce that insurgence against Catholic orthodoxy which marked the German Reformation. Yet it lent a characteristic quality to thought and action. Men were, and dared to be, themselves for good or evil without too much regard for what their neighbours thought of them. At the same time they were tolerant. The culture of the Renaissance implied a philosophical acceptance of variety in fashion, faith, and conduct; and this toleration was no doubt one reason why Italian scepticism took the form of cynicism, not of religious revolution. Contact with Islam in the south and east, diplomatic relations with the Turks, familiarity with the mixed races of Spain, and commerce with the nations of the north, had widened the sympathies of the Italians, and taught them to regard humanity as one large family. The liberal spirits of the Renaissance might have quoted Marcus Aurelius with slight alteration: 'I will not say, dear City of St. Peter, but, dear City of Man!' And just as their moral and religious sensibilities were blunted, so patriotism with them ceased to be an instinct. Instead of patriotism, the Italians were inflamed with the zeal of cosmopolitan culture. In proportion as Italy lost year by year the hope of becoming an united nation, in proportion as the military instincts died in her, and the political instincts were extinguished by despotism, in precisely the same ratio did she evermore acquire a deeper sense of her intellectual vocation. What was world-embracing in the spirit of the mediæval Church passed by transmutation into the humanism of the fifteenth century. As though aware of the hopelessness of being Italians in the same sense as the natives of Spain were Spaniards, or the natives of France were Frenchmen, the giants of the Renaissance did their utmost to efface their nationality in order that they might the more effectually restore the cosmopolitan ideal of the human family. To this end both artists and scholars, the depositaries of the real Italian greatness at this epoch, laboured; the artists by creating an ideal of beauty with a message and a meaning for all Europe, the scholars by recovering for Europe the burghership of Greek and Roman civilisation. In spite of the invasions and convulsions that ruined Italy between the years 1494 and 1527, the painters and the humanists proceeded with their task, as though the fate of Italy concerned them not, as though the destinies of the modern world depended on their activity. After Venice had been desolated by the armies of the League of Cambray, Aldus Manutius presented the peace-gift of Plato to the foes of his adopted city; and when the Lutherans broke into Parmegiano's workshop at Rome, even they were awed by the tranquil majesty of the Virgin on his easel. Stories like these remind us that Renaissance Italy met her doom of servitude and degradation in the spirit of ancient Hellas, repeating as they do the tales told of Archimedes in his study, and of Paulus Æmilius face to face with the Zeus of Pheidias. As patriotism gave way to cosmopolitan enthusiasm, and toleration took the place of earnestness, in like manner the conflict of mediæval tradition with revived Paganism in the minds of these self-reliant men, trained to indulgence by their large commerce with the world, and familiarised with impiety by the ever-present pageant of an anti-Christian Church, led, as I have hinted, to recklessness and worldly vices, rather than to reformed religion. Contented with themselves and their surroundings, they felt none of the unsatisfied cravings after the infinite, none of the mysterious intuitions and ascetic raptures, the self-abasements and transfigurations, stigmata and beatific visions, of the Middle Ages. The plenitude of life within them seemed to justify their instincts and their impulses, however varied and discordant these might be. The sonorous current of the world around them drowned the voice of conscience, the suggestion of religious scruples. It is only thus we can explain to ourselves the attitude of such men as Sixtus and Alexander, serenely vicious in extreme old age. The gratification of their egotism was so complete as to exclude self-judgment by the rules and standards they professionally applied; their personality was too exacting to admit of hesitation when their instincts were concerned; in common with their age they had lost sight of all but mundane aims and interests. Three aphorisms, severally attributed to three representative Italians, may be quoted in illustration of these remarks. 'You follow infinite objects; I follow the finite;' said Cosimo de' Medici; 'you place your ladders in the heavens; I on earth, that I may not seek so high or fall so low.' 'If we are not ourselves pious,' said Julius II., 'why should we prevent other people from being so?' 'Let us enjoy the Papacy,' said Leo X., 'now that God has given it to us.' It was only under the influence of some external terror--a plague, a desolating war, an imminent peril to the nation--that the religious sense, deadened by worldliness and selfish philosophy, made itself felt. At such seasons whole cities rushed headlong into fierce revivalism, while men of violent or profligate lives saw visions, and betook themselves to penance. Cellini's Memoirs are, on this point, a valuable mirror of the age in which he lived. It is clear that his ecstasies of devotion in the dungeons of S. Angelo were as sincere as the fiery impulses he obeyed with so much complacency. Passionate and worldly as men of Cellini's stamp might be, they could not shake off the associations that bound them to the past. The energy of their intense individuality took turn by turn the form and colour of ascetic piety and Pagan sensuality; and at times these strong contrasts of emotion seemed bordering upon insanity. Ungovernable natures, swayed by no fixed principle, and bent on moulding the world of thought afresh to suit their own desires, became the puppets of astrological superstition, the playthings of mad lust. Much that appears unaccountable and contradictory in the Renaissance may be referred to this imperfect blending of ecclesiastical tradition and idealised Paganism in natures potent enough to be original and wilful, but not yet tamed from semi-savagery into acquiescence by experience. Experience came to the Italians in servitude beneath the heel of Spain. The confusion of influences, classical and mediæval, Christian and Pagan, in that age is not the least extraordinary of its phenomena. Even the new thoughts that illuminated the minds of great discoverers, seemed to them like reflections from antiquity; and while they were opening fresh worlds, their hearts were turned toward the Holy Land of the Crusades. Columbus and Copernicus, the two men who did more than any others to revolutionise the mental attitude of humanity, appealed to their contemporaries on the strength of texts from Aristotle and Philolaus. Conscious that the guesses of the Greek cosmographers had stimulated in themselves that curiosity whereby they made the motion of the earth a certainty, and found a way across the waves to a new continent, these mighty spirits forgot how slight in reality was their debt to the inert speculators of the classic age. The truth was that in them throbbed a force of enterprise and conquering discovery, a spirit of exploration resolute and hardy, denied to the ancients. How far this new and fruitful temper of the modern mind was due to Christianity, is a problem for the deepest speculation. The conception of a God who had made no part of His world in vain, of a Christ who had bought with His blood the whole seed of Adam, and who imposed the preaching of the faith upon His followers as a duty, wrought powerfully on Columbus. The Crusades, again, had familiarised the nations with distant objects and ideal quests; while chivalry was essentially antagonistic to positive and selfish aims. The spirit of mankind had marched a long stage during the Middle Ages. It was not possible now to conceive of God as a tranquil thinking upon thought, with Aristotle. There was no Augustus to set arbitrary limits to the empire of the world in the interest of a conquering nation, or to make the two words _orbs_ and _urbs_ synonymous. When Strabo hazarded the opinion that there might be populous islands in the other hemisphere, he added, with the sublime indifference of a Roman, 'But these speculations have nothing in common with practical geography; and if such islands exist, they cannot support peoples of like origin with us.' Such language was impossible for a man educated in the Christian faith, and imbued with the instincts of romanticism. Therefore, though the study of Strabo and Ptolemy at Pavia impressed Columbus with the certainty of the new route across the ocean, he owed the courage that sustained him to the conviction that God was leading him to a great end. 'When I first undertook to start for the discovery of the Indies,' he says in his will, 'I intended to beg the King and Queen to devote the whole of the money that might be drawn from these realms to Jerusalem.' The religious yearning of the mediæval pilgrim added fervour to the conviction of the student, who, by reasoning on antique texts, guessed the greatest secret of which the world has record. At the same time there was something more in Columbus than either antiquity or mediævalism could provide. The modern spirit is distinct from both; and though, in the Renaissance, creation wore the garb of imitation, and the new forces used the organs they were destined to outlive and destroy, yet we must allow to native personality the lion's share in such achievement as that of Columbus. It is the variety of spiritual elements in combination and solution, which he illustrates, that makes the psychology of the Renaissance at once so fascinating and so difficult to analyse. While so much liberty of thought prevailed in Italy, it may be wondered why the Renaissance, eminently fertile in the domains of art and culture, bore but meagre fruit in those of religion and philosophy. The German Reformation was the Renaissance of Christianity; and in this the Italians had no share, though it should be remembered that, without their previous labours in the field of scholarship, the band who led the Reformation could hardly have given that high intellectual character to the movement which made it a new starting-point in the history of the reason. To expect from Italy the ethical regeneration of the modern world would be to misapprehend her true vocation; art and erudition were sufficient to engage her spiritual energies. The Church again, though by no means adverse to laxity in morals, was jealous of heterodoxy. So long as freethinkers confined their audacity to such matters as form the topic of Poggio's 'Facetiæ,' Beccadelli's 'Hermaphroditus,' or La Casa's 'Capitolo del Forno,' the Roman Curia looked on and smiled approvingly. The most obscene books to be found in any literature escaped the Papal censure, and Aretino, notorious for ribaldry, aspired not wholly without reason to the scarlet of a cardinal. But even in the fifteenth century the taint of heresy was dangerous, and this peril was magnified when the Lutheran schism had roused the Papacy to a sense of its position. Under the patronage, therefore, of ecclesiastics, in the depraved atmosphere of Rome, the free thought of the Italians turned to licentiousness; this suited the temper of the people, fascinated by Paganism and little inclined to raise debate upon matters of no practical utility. Those who reflected on religious topics kept their own counsel. How purely political were the views of profound thinkers in Italy upon all Church questions may be gathered from the observations of Guicciardini and Machiavelli; how little the most earnest antagonist of ungodly ecclesiastics dreamed of disturbing the Catholic Church system is clear in the biography of Savonarola.[3] The first satire of Ariosto may be indicated as an epitome of the opinions entertained by sound and liberal intellects in Italy upon the relation of Papal Rome to the nation. There is not a trace in it of Teutonic revolt against authority, of pious yearning for a purer faith. The standpoint of the critic, though solid and sincere, is worldly. [Footnote 3: See Vol. I., _Age of Despots_, pp. 239, 350-356, 415-420, where I have endeavoured to treat these topics more at length.] True to culture as their main preoccupation, the Italian thinkers sought to philosophise faith by bringing Christianity into harmony with antique speculation, and forming for themselves a theism that should embrace the systems of the Platonists and Stoics, the Hebrew Cabbala and the Sermon on the Mount. There is much that strikes us as both crude and pedantic, at the same time infantine and pompous, in the systems elaborated by those pioneers of modern eclecticism. They lack the vigorous simplicity that gave its force to Luther's intuition, the sublime unity of Spinoza's deductions. The dross of erudition mingles with the pure gold of personal conviction; while Pagan phrases, ill suited to express Christian notions, lend an air of unreality to the sincerest efforts after rational theology. The Platonic Academy of Florence was the centre of this search after the faith of culture, whereof the real merit was originality, and the true force lay in the conviction that humanity is one and indivisible. Its apostles were Pico della Mirandola and Ficino. It found lyrical expression in verses like the following, translated by me from the Greek hexameters of Poliziano:-- O Father, Lord enthroned on gold, that dwellest in high heaven, O King of all things, deathless God, Thou Pan supreme, celestial! That seest all, and movest all, and all with might sustainest, Older than oldest time, of all first, last, and without ending! The firmament of blessed souls, of stars the heavenly splendour, The giant sun himself, the moon that in her circle shineth, And streams and fountains, earth and sea, are things of Thy creating, Thou givest life to all; all these Thou with Thy Spirit fillest. The powers of earth, and powers of heaven, and they in pain infernal Who pine below the roots of earth, all these obey Thy bidding. Behold, I call upon Thee now, Thy creature on earth dwelling, Poor, short of life, O God, of clay a mean unworthy mortal, Repenting sorely of my sins, and tears of sorrow shedding. O God, immortal Father, hear! I cry to Thee; be gracious, And from my breast of this vain world the soul-enslaving passion, The demon's wiles, the wilful lust, that damns the impious, banish! Wash throughly all my heart with Thy pure Spirit's rain abundant, That I may love Thee, Lord, alone, Thee, King of kings, for ever. This is but a poor substitute for the Lord's Prayer. Hell and purgatory are out of place in its theism. [Greek: Chrysothronos] and [Greek: aitheri naiôn] are tawdry epithets for 'Our Father which art in heaven.' Yet it is precisely in these contradictions and confusions that we trace the sincerity of the Renaissance spirit, seeking to fuse together the vitality of the old faith and the forms of novel culture, worshipping a Deity created in the image of its own mind, composite and incoherent. Physically, the Italians of the Renaissance were equal to any task they chose to set themselves. No mistake is greater than to suppose that, because the summer climate of Italy is hotter than our own, therefore her children must be languid, pleasure-loving, and relaxed. Twelve months spent in Tuscany would suffice to dissipate illusions about the enervating Italian air, even if the history of ancient Rome were not a proof that the hardiest race of combatants and conquerors the world has ever seen were nurtured between Soracte and the sea. After the downfall of the Empire, what remained of native vigour in the Latin cities found a refuge in the lagoons of Venice and other natural strongholds. Walled towns in general retained a Roman population. The primitive Italic races still existed in the valleys of the Apennines, while the Ligurians held the Genoese Riviera; nor were the Etruscans extinct in Tuscany. It is true that Rome had fused these races into a people using the same language. Yet the ethnologist will hardly allow that the differences noticeable between the several districts of Italy were not connected with original varieties of stock. To the people, as Rome had made it, fresh blood was added by the Goths, Lombards, and Germans descending from the North. Greeks, Arabs, Normans, and, in course of time, Franks influenced the South. During the Middle Ages a new and mighty breed of men sprang into being by the combination of these diverse elements, each district deriving specific quality from the varying proportions in which the chief constituents were mingled. It is noticeable that where the Roman-Etruscan blood was purest probably from mixture, in the valley of the Arno, the modern Italian genius found its home. Florence and her sister cities formed the language and the arts of Italy. To this race, in conjunction with the natives of Lombardy and Central Italy, was committed the civilisation of Europe in the fifteenth century. It was only south of Rome, where the brutalising traditions of the Roman _latifundia_ had never yielded to the burgh-creating impulse of the Middle Ages, that the Italians were unfit for their great duty. On these southern states the Empire of the East, Saracen marauders and Norman conquerors, the French and the Spanish dynasties, had successively exercised a pernicious influence; nor did the imperial policy of Frederick II. remain long enough in operation to effect a radical improvement in the people. Even at Naples culture was always an exotic. Elsewhere throughout the peninsula the Italians of the new age were a noble nation, gifted with physical, emotional, and mental faculties in splendid harmony. In some districts, notably in Florence, circumstance and climate had been singularly favourable to the production of such glorious human beings as the world has rarely seen. Beauty of person, strength of body, and civility of manners were combined in the men of that favoured region with intellectual endowments of the highest order: nor were these gifts of nature confined to a caste apart; the whole population formed an aristocracy of genius. In order to comprehend the greatness of this Italian type in the Renaissance, it is only needful to study the picture galleries of Florence or of Venice with special attention to the portraits they contain. When we compare those senators and sages with the subjects of Dürer's and of Cranach's art, we feel the physical superiority of the Italians. In like manner a comparison of the men of the fifteenth century with those of the sixteenth shows how much of that physical grandeur had been lost. It is easy to wander astray while weaving subtle theories on this path of criticism. Yet it cannot be a mere accident that Vandyck's portrait of the Cardinal de' Bentivogli in the Pitti Palace differs as it does from that of the Cardinal Ippolito de' Medici by Pontormo or by Titian. The Medici is an Italian of the Renaissance, with his imperious originality and defiance of convention. He has refused to be portrayed as an ecclesiastic. Titian has painted him in Hungarian costume of dark red velvet, moustached, and sworded like a soldier; in Pontormo's picture he wears a suit of mail, and rests his left hand on a large white hound. The Bentivoglio is an Italian of the type produced by the Counter-Reformation. His delicate lace ruffs, the coquetry of his scarlet robes, and the fine keen cut of his diplomatic features betray a new spirit.[4] Surely the physical qualities of a race change with the changes in their thought and feeling. The beauty of Tasso is more feminine and melancholy than that of Ariosto, in whom the liberal genius of the Renaissance was yet alive. Among the scowling swordsmen of the seventeenth century you cannot find a face like Giorgione's Gattamelata;[5] the nobles who bear themselves so proudly on the canvases of Vandyck at Genoa lack the urbanity of Raphael's Castiglione; Moroni's black-robed students are more pinched and withered than the Pico of the Uffizzi. It will not do to strain such points. It is enough to suggest them. What remains, however, for certain is that the Italians of the fifteenth century--and among these must be included those who lived through the first half of the sixteenth--had physical force and character corresponding to their robust individuality. Until quite late in the Renaissance so much survived of feudal customs even in Italy that riding, the handling of the lance and sword, and all athletic exercises formed a part of education no less indispensable than mental training. Great cities had open places set apart for tournaments and games; in Tuscan burghs the _palio_ was run on feast days, and May mornings saw the prentice lads of Florence tilting beneath the smiles of girls who danced at nightfall on the square of Santa Trinità. Bloody battles in the streets were frequent. The least provocation caused a man to draw his dagger. Combats _a steccato chiuso_ were among the pastimes to which a Pope might lend his countenance. Skill in swordsmanship was therefore a necessity. For the rest, we learn from Castiglione that the perfect gentleman was bound to be an accomplished dancer, a bold rider, a skilled wrestler, a swift runner, to shoot well at the mark, to hurl the javelin and the quoit with grace, and to play at tennis and _pallone_. In addition he ought to affect some one athletic exercise in such perfection as to beat professors of the same on their own ground. Cesare Borgia took pride in felling an ox at a single blow, and exhibited his marksman's cunning by shooting condemned criminals in a courtyard of the Vatican. [Footnote 4: It would be easy to multiply these contrasts, comprising, for example, the Cardinals Inghirami and Bibbiena and the Leo of Raphael with the Farnesi portraits at Modena or the grave faces of Moroni's patrons at Bergamo.] [Footnote 5: Portrait in the Uffizzi, ascribed to Giorgione, but more probably by some pupil of Mantegna.] That such men should have devoted their energies to intellectual culture at a time when English nobles could barely read or write, and when the chivalry of France regarded learning with disdain, was a proof of their rich natural endowments. Nor was the determination of the race to scholarship in any sense an accident. Throughout the length and breadth of Italy, memories of ancient greatness spurred her children on to emulation. Ghosts of Roman patriots and poets seemed hovering round their graves, and calling on posterity to give them life again. If we cannot bring back Greece and Rome, at least let us make Florence a second Athens, and restore the Muses to Ausonian vales. That was the cry. It was while gazing on the ruins of Rome that Villani felt impelled to write his chronicle. Pavia honoured Boethius like a saint. Mantua struck coins with the head of Virgil, and Naples pointed out his tomb. Padua boasted of Livy, and Como of the Plinies. 'Sulmona,' cried Boccaccio, 'mourns because she holds not Ovid's dust; and Parma is glad that Cassius rests within her walls.' Such reverence for the great men of antiquity endured throughout the Middle Ages, creating myths that swayed the fancy, and forming in the popular consciousness a presentiment of the approaching age. There is something pathetic in the survival of old Roman titles, in the freak of the legend-making imagination that gave to Orlando the style of Roman senator, in the outburst of enthusiasm for Rienzi when he called himself Tribunus Populi Romani. With the Renaissance itself this affection for the past became a passion. Pius II. amnestied the people of Arpino because they were fellow-citizens of Cicero. Alfonso of Naples received as a most precious gift from Venice a bone supposed to be the leg of Livy. All the patricians of Italy invented classical pedigrees; and even Paul II., because he was called Barbo, claimed descent from the Ahenobarbi. Such instances might be multiplied indefinitely. It is, however, more to the purpose here to notice that in Italy this adoration of the antique world was common to all classes; not students alone, but the people at large regarded the dead grandeur of the classic age as their especial heritage. To resuscitate that buried glory, and to reunite themselves with the past, was the earnest aim of the Italians as a nation. A conviction prevailed that the modern world could never be so radiant as the old. This found its expression in the saying that Rome's chief ornaments were her ruins; in the belief that Julia's corpse, discovered in the Appian Way, surpassed all living maidens; in Matarazzo's observation that Astorre Baglioni's body was worthy of an ancient Roman. In their admiration for antiquity, scholars were blind to the specific glories of the modern genius. Lionardo Bruni, for example, exclaimed that 'the ancient Greeks by far excelled us Italians in humanity and gentleness of heart.' Yet what Greek poem can be compared for tenderness with Dante's 'Vita Nuova,' with the 'Canzoniere' of Petrarch, or with the tale of Griselda in Boccaccio? _Gentilezza di cuore_ was the most characteristic product of chivalry, and the fourth Æneid is the only classic masterpiece of pure romantic pathos. This humility of discipleship was not, however, strong enough to check emulation. On the contrary, the yearning towards antiquity acted like a potent stimulus on personal endeavour, generating an acute desire for fame, a burning aspiration to be numbered with the mighty men of old. When Virgil introduced Dante to the company of Homer and his peers, the rank of _sesto tra cotanto senno_ rewarded him for all his labour in the rhyme that made him thin through half a lifetime. Petrarch, who exceeded Dante in the thirst for literary honour, turned from the men of his generation to converse in long epistles with the buried saints of Latin culture. For men of less ambition it was enough to feel that they could raise their souls through study to communion with the stately spirits of antiquity, passing like Machiavelli from trivial affairs into their closet, where they donned their reading robes and shook hands across the centuries with Cicero or Livy. It was the universal object of the humanists to gain a consciousness of self distinguished from the vulgar herd, and to achieve this by joining the great company of bards and sages, whose glory could not perish. Whoever felt within himself the stirring of the spirit under any form, sought earnestly for fame; and in this way a new social atmosphere, unknown to the nations of the Middle Ages, was formed in Italy. A large and liberal acceptance, recognising ability of all kinds, irrespective of rank or piety or martial prowess, displaced the narrower judgments of the Church and feudalism. Giotto, the peasant's son, ranked higher in esteem than Cimabue, the Florentine citizen, because his work of art was worthier. Petrarch had his place in no official capacity, but as an honoured equal, at the marriage feasts of princes. Poliziano corresponded with kings, promising immortality as a more than regal favour. Pomponius Lætus could afford to repel the advances of the Sanseverini, feeling that erudition ranked him higher than his princely kinsmen. It was not wealth or policy alone that raised the Medici among the Despots so far above the Baglioni of Perugia or the Petrucci of Siena. They owed this distinction rather to their comprehension of the craving of their age for culture. Thus though birth commanded respect for its own sake, a new standard of eminence had been established, and personal merit was the passport which carried the meanest into the most illustrious company. Men of all conditions and all qualifications met upon the common ground of intellectual intercourse. The subjects they discussed may be gathered from the introductions to Firenzuola's novels, from Bembo's 'Asolani' and Castiglione's 'Cortegiano,' from Guicciardini's 'Dialogue on Florence,' or from the 'Camaldolese Discourses' of Landino. Society of this kind existed nowhere else in Europe. To Italy belongs the proud priority of having invented the art of polite conversation, and anticipated the French _salon_ after an original and urbane fashion of her own. Under these conditions a genuine cultus of intellect sprang up in Italy. Princes and people shared a common impulse to worship the mental superiority of men who had no claim to notice but their genius. It was in the spirit of this hero-worship that the terrible Gismondo Pandolfo Malatesta transferred to Rimini the bones of Pletho, and wrote his impassioned epitaph upon the sarcophagus outside Alberti's church. The biographies of the humanists abound in stories of singular honours paid to men of parts, not only by princes who rejoiced in their society, but also by cities receiving them with public acclamation. And, as it often happens that a parody reveals the nature of the art it travesties, such light is thrown upon our subject by the vile Pietro Aretino, who, because he was a man of talent and unscrupulous in its employment, held kings and potentates beneath his satyr's hoof. It is not, however, needful to go thus far afield for instances. Some lines of our own poet Webster exactly describe the Catholicity of the Renaissance, which first obtained in Italy for men of marked abilities, and afterwards to some extent prevailed at large in Europe:-- Virtue is ever sowing of her seeds: In the trenches for the soldier; in the wakeful study For the scholar; in the furrows of the sea For men of our profession: of all which Arise and spring up honour. The virtue here described bears the Italian sense of _virtù_, the Latin _virtus_, the Greek [Greek: aretê], that which makes a man. It might display itself in a thousand ways; but all alike brought honour, and honour every man was bound to seek. The standard whereby the Italians judged this virtue was æsthetical rather than moral. They were too dazzled by brilliant achievement to test it in the crucible of ethics. This is the true key to Machiavelli's critique of Castruccio Castracane, Gianpaolo Baglioni, Cesare Borgia, and Piero Soderini. In common with his race, he was fascinated by character, and attached undue importance to the force that made men seek success even through crime. The thirst for glory and the worship of ability stimulated the Italians, earlier than any other nation, to commemorate what seemed to them noteworthy in their own lives and in those of their contemporaries. Dante, within the pale of mediævalism, led the way in both of these directions. His 'Vita Nuova' is a chapter of autobiography restrained within the limits of consummate art. His portraits of S. Francis and S. Dominic (not to mention other medallions and cameos of predecessors or contemporaries--Farinata, for example, or Boniface VIII.) record the special qualities whereby those heroes of the faith were distinguished from the herd of men around them. Boccaccio's 'Life of Dante' is a further step in the direction of purely modern biography. Then follow the collections of Filippo Villani, Giovanni Cavalcanti, Vespasiano, Platina, Decembrio, Beccadelli, Caracciolo, and Paolo Giovio. Vasari's 'Lives of the Painters' are unique in their attempt to embrace within a single work whatever struck their author as most characteristic in the career of one particular class of men. For historical precision the portraits composed by Machiavelli, Guicciardini, Varchi, Pitti, and many of the minor annalists leave nothing to be desired. Such autobiographies as those of Petrarch, Cellini, Cardano, and Cornaro are models in their kind; whether their object were simply self-glorification, or whether a scientific and didactic purpose underlay the chronicle of a lifetime, the result is equally vivid and interesting. Hero-worship prompted Gian Francesco Pico to compose the 'Life of Savonarola,' and Condivi to write that of Michael Angelo. Scorn and hatred impelled Platina to transmit the outline of Paul II. to posterity in a caricature, the irony of which is so restrained that it might pass for sincerity. Machiavelli's 'Biography of Castruccio' is a political romance indited with a philosophical intention. What motive, beyond admiration, produced the anonymous 'Memoir of Alberti,' so terse in its portraiture, so tranquil in style, we do not know; but this too, like Prendilacqua's 'Life of Vittorino da Feltre,' is a masterpiece of natural delineation. For these biographies the works of Plutarch and Suetonius served no doubt as models. Yet this does not make the preoccupation of the Italians with the phenomena of personality the less remarkable. Another phase of the same impulse led to special treatises upon ideal characters. The picture of the perfect householder was drawn by Alberti, that of the courtier by Castiglione, that of the prince by Machiavelli. Da Vinci discoursed upon the physical proportions of the human form. Firenzuola and Luigini analysed the beauty of women; Piccolomini undertook to describe the manners of a well-bred lady; and La Casa laid down rules for polite behaviour in society. The names of treatises of this description might easily be multiplied. Enough, however, has been said to show the tendency of the Italian intellect to occupy itself with salient qualities, whether exhibited in individuals or idealised and abstracted by the reflective fancy. The whole of this literature implies an intense self-consciousness in the nation, an ardent interest in men as men, because of the specific virtue to be found in each. The spirit, therefore, in which these authors of the Renaissance approached their task was wholly different from that which induced the mediæval annalist to register the miracles of saints, to chronicle the princes of some dynasty or the abbots of a convent. Nor had it much in common with the mythologising enthusiasm of romantic poets. The desire for edification and the fire of fancy had yielded to an impulse more strictly scientific, to a curiosity more positive. The attention directed in literature and social intercourse upon great men implied a corresponding thirst for posthumous glory as a subjective quality of the Renaissance character. To perpetuate a name and fame was the most fervent passion, shared alike by artists and princes, by men of letters and by generals. It was not enough for a man to show forth the vigour that was in him, or to win the applause of his contemporaries. He must go beyond and wrest something permanent for himself from the ideal world that will survive our transient endeavours. When Alfonso the Magnanimous employed Fazio to compose his chronicle, when Francesco Sforza paid Filelfo for his verses by the dozen, when Cosimo de' Medici regretted that he had not spent more wealth on building, when Bartolommeo Colleoni decreed the erection of his chapel at Bergamo, and his statue on the public square of Venice, these men, so different in all things else, were striving, each after his own fashion, to buy an immortality his own achievements in the field or Senate might not win. Dante, here as elsewhere the first to utter the word of the modern age, has given expression to this thirst for lasting recollection in his lines about the planet Mercury:[6]-- Questa picciola stella si correda De' buoni spirti, che son stati attivi, Perchè onore e fama gli succeda. [Footnote 6: _Paradiso_, vi. 112.] At the same time Dante, imbued with the mystic spirit of the Middle Ages, felt an antagonism between worldly ambition and the ideal of the Christian life. There are other passages, where fame is mentioned by him as a fleeting breath, a flower that blooms and fades.[7] In truth, the passionate desire for glory was part of the Renaissance worldliness, caught from communion with the classic past, and connected with that vivid apprehension of human life which gave its vigour to an age of reawakened impulses and positive ambitions. This world was so much with them, so much to them, that these men would not lose their grasp of it in death, or willingly exchange it for a paradise of hopes beyond. [Footnote 7: Notably _Purg._ xi. 100-117.] The enthusiasm for antiquity coloured this desire for fame by forcing on the Italians the conviction that in culture was the real title to eternity. How could they have entered into the spiritual kingdom of the Greeks and Romans, if it had not been for MSS. and works of art? It became the fashion therefore, to seek immortality through literature. The study of the classics was not then confined to men of a peculiar bent. On all alike, even on women, there weighed the one belief that to be a scholar was the surest way of saving something from the wreck that is the doom of human deeds.[8] Only at rare intervals, and in rare natures of the type of Michael Angelo, did the Christian ideal resume its sway. Tired with the radiance of art or learning, they turned to the Cross of Christ, and laid their secular achievements down as vain and worthless. The time, however, had not yet come when a disgust of culture and an exhaustion of the intellect should make asceticism and monastic ecstasy acceptable once more. That belonged to the age of Spanish tyranny, and what is called the Counter-Reformation. For the real Renaissance Leo's memorable _imprimatur_, granted to the editors of Tacitus, struck the true key-note; while Sappho's solemn lines of warning to a friend careless of literature might be paraphrased to speak the feeling of Poliziano:-- Lo, thou shalt die, And lie Dumb in the silent tomb; Nor of thy name Shall there be any fame In ages yet to be or years to come: For of the rose That on Pieria blows Thou hast no share; But in sad Hades' house, Unknown, inglorious, Mid the dim shades that wander there, Shalt thou flit forth and haunt the filmy air. [Footnote 8: A curious echo of this Italian conviction may be traced in Fletcher's _Elder Brother_.] These words found no uncertain echo in Renaissance Italy, where lads with long dark hair and liquid eyes left their loves to listen to a pedant's lectures, where Niccolo de' Niccoli wooed Piero de' Pazzi from a life of pleasure by the promise of a spiritual kingdom in the world of books. Piero was 'a man born with thy face and throat, Lyric Apollo!' His only object was to enjoy--_darsi buon tempo_, as the phrase of Florence hath it. Yet these words of the student: 'Seeing thou art the son of such a man, and of comely person, it is a shame thou dost not give thyself to learn Latin, the which would be unto thee a great ornament; and if thou dost not learn it, thou wilt be nought esteemed; the flower of youth once passed, thou wilt find thyself without virtue'--these words carried such weight, and sank so deeply into the young man's heart, that, smitten with the love of learning, he forsook his boon companions, engaged Pontano as house-tutor at a salary of one hundred golden florins, and spent his leisure time in learning Livy and the 'Æneid' by heart.[9] What he sought he gained; his name is still recorded, now that not only the bloom of youth, but life itself has passed away, and he has slept for nearly four centuries in Florentine earth. Yet we, no less wearied of erudition than Faust was, when he held the cup of laudanum in his hand and heard the Easter voices singing, may well ask ourselves what Piero carried with him to the grave more than Sardanapalus, over whom the Greeks inscribed their bitter epitaphs. Disenchanted and disillusioned as we are by those four centuries of learning, the musical lament of Dido and the stately periods of Latin prose are little better, considered as spiritual sustenance, to us than the husks that the swine did eat. How can we picture to ourselves the conditions of an age when scholarship was an evangel, forcing the Levis of Florence by the persuasion of its irresistible beauty to forsake the tables of the money-changers, tempting young men of great possessions to sell all and give to the Muses, making of Lucrezia Borgia herself the Magdalen of polite literature? Fortunately for the civilisation of the modern world, the men of the Renaissance, untroubled by a surfeit of knowledge, made none of these reflections. It was an age of sincere faith in the goodness and the glory of the intellect revealed by art and letters. When we read Vespasiano's account of the grey-haired Niccolo accosting the young Pazzi on the steps of the Bargello, our mind turns instinctively to an earlier dayspring of the reason in ancient Greece; we think of the charm exercised by Socrates over Critias and Alcibiades: and had an Aristophanes appeared in Italy, we fancy how he might have criticised this seduction of the youth from citizenship and arms to tranquil contemplations and the cosmopolitan interests of culture. [Footnote 9: Vespasiano, _Vita di Piero de' Pazzi_. Compare the beautiful letter of Æneas Sylvius Piccolomini to his nephew (_Ep. Lib._ i. 4). He reminds the young man that fair as youth is, and delightful as are the pleasures of the May of life, learning is more fair and knowledge more delightful. 'Non enim Lucifer aut Hesperus tam pulcher est quam sapientia quæ studiis acquiritur litterarum.'] It is not without real reason that these Hellenic parallels confront us in the study of Italian Renaissance. Florence borrowed her light from Athens, as the moon shines with rays reflected from the sun. The Revival was the silver age of that old golden age of Greece. In a literal, not a merely metaphorical sense, the fifteenth century witnessed a new birth of the classic spirit. And what, let us ask ourselves, since here at last is the burning point of our inquiry, what was the true note of this spirit, in so far as its recovery concerned the Italian race? Superficial observers will speak of the Paganism of the Renaissance, its unblushing license, its worldliness, its self-satisfied sensuality, as though that were all, as though these qualities were not inherent in human nature, ready at any moment to emerge when the strain of nobler enthusiasm is relaxed, or the self-preservative instincts of society are enfeebled. There is indeed a truth in this rough and ready answer, which requires to be stated on the threshold. The contact of the modern with the ancient world did encourage a profligate and godless mode of living in men who preferred Petronius to S. Paul, and yearned less after Galilee than Corinth. The humanists were distinguished even above the Roman clergy for open disorder in their lives. They developed filthy speaking as a special branch of rhetoric, and professed the science of recondite and obsolete obscenity. It was just this fashion of the learned classes that made Erasmus mistrust the importation of scholarship into the North. 'One scruple still besets my mind,' he wrote, 'lest under the cloak of revived literature Paganism should strive to raise its head, there being among Christians men who, while they recognise the name of Christ, breathe in their hearts the spirit of the Gentiles.' Christianity, especially in Italy, where the spectacle of the Holy See inspired disgust, had been prostituted to the vilest service by the Church.[10] Faith was associated with folly, superstition, ignorance, intolerance, and cruelty. The manners of the clergy were in flagrant discord with the Gospel, and Antichrist found fitter incarnation in Roderigo Borgia than in Nero. While the essence of religion was thus sacrificed by its professors, there appeared upon the horizon of the modern world, like some bright blazing star, the ideal of that Pagan civilisation against which in its decadence the ascendant force of Christianity had striven. It was not unnatural that a reaction in favour of Paganism, now that the Church had been found wanting, should ensue, or that the passions of humanity should justify their self-indulgence by appealing to the precedents of Greece and Rome. Good and bad were mingled in the classical tradition. Vices, loathsome enough in a Pope who had instituted the censure of the press, seemed venial when combined with the manliness of Hadrian or the refined charm of Catullus. Sin itself lost half its evil coming from the new-found Holy Land of culture. Still this so-called Paganism of the Renaissance, real as it was, had but a superficial connection with classical studies. The corruption of the Church and the political degeneracy of the commonwealths had quite as much to do with it as the return to heathen standards. Nor could the Renaissance have been the great world-historical era it truly was, if such demoralisation had been a part and parcel of its essence. Crimes and vices are not the hotbed of arts and literature: lustful priests and cruel despots were not necessary to the painting of Raphael or the poetry of Ariosto. The faults of the Italians in the age of the Renaissance were neither productive of their high achievements, nor conversely were they generated by the motion of the intellect toward antique forms of culture. The historian notes synchronisms, whereof he is not bound to prove the interdependence, and between which he may feel there is no causal link. [Footnote 10: It is enough to refer to Luther's _Table Talk_ upon the state of Rome in Leo's reign.] It does not, moreover, appear that the demoralisation of Italian society, however this may have been brought about, produced either physical or intellectual degeneration in the people. Commercial prosperity, indeed, had rendered them inferior in brute strength to their semi-barbarous neighbours; while the cosmopolitan interests of culture had destroyed the energy of national instincts. But it would be wrong to charge their neopaganism alone with results whereof the causes were so complex. Meanwhile, what gave its deep importance to the classical revival, was the emancipation of the reason, consequent upon the discovery that the best gifts of the spirit had been enjoyed by the nations of antiquity. An ideal of existence distinct from that imposed upon the Middle Ages by the Church, was revealed in all its secular attractiveness. Fresh value was given to the desires and aims, enjoyments and activities of man, considered as a noble member of the universal life, and not as a diseased excrescence on the world he helped to spoil. Instead of the cloistral service of the 'Imitatio Christi,' that conception of communion, through knowledge, with God manifested in His works and in the soul of man, which forms the indestructible religion of science and the reason, was already generated. The intellect, after lying spell-bound during a long night, when thoughts were as dreams and movement as somnambulism, resumed its activity, interrogated nature, and enjoyed the pleasures of unimpeded energy. Without ceasing to be Christians (for the moral principles of Christianity are the inalienable possession of the human race), the men of the Revival dared once again to exercise their thought as boldly as the Greeks and Romans had done before them. More than this, they were now able, as it were, by the resuscitation of a lost faculty, to do so freely and clear-sightedly. The touch upon them of the classic spirit was like the finger of a deity giving life to the dead. That more and nobler use was not made of the new light which dawned upon the world in the Revival; that the humanists abandoned the high standpoint of Petrarch for a lower and more literary level; that society assimilated the Hedonism more readily than the Stoicism of the ancients; that scholars occupied themselves with the form rather than the matter of the classics; that all these shortcomings in their several degrees prevented the Italians from leading the intellectual movement of the sixteenth century in religion and philosophy, as they had previously led the mind of Europe in discovery and literature--is deeply to be lamented by those who are jealous for their honour. For the rest, no words can be found more worthy to express their high conception of man, regarded as a free yet responsible personality, sent into the world to mould his own nature, and by this power of self-determination severed from both brutes and angels, than the following passage from Pico della Mirandola's 'Oration on the Dignity of Man.' It combines antique liberty of thought with Christian faith in a style distinctive of the Renaissance at its best; nor is its note of mediæval cosmology uncharacteristic of an age that divined as yet more than it firmly grasped the realities of modern science. Here, if anywhere, may be hailed the Epiphany of the modern spirit, contraposing God and man in a relation inconceivable to the ancients, unapprehended in its fulness by the Middle Ages. 'Then the Supreme Maker decreed that unto Man, on whom He could bestow nought singular, should belong in common whatsoever had been given, to His other creatures. Therefore He took man, made in His own individual image, and having placed him in the centre of the world, spake to him thus: "Neither a fixed abode, nor a form in thine own likeness, nor any gift peculiar to thyself alone, have we given thee, O Adam, in order that what abode, what likeness, what gifts thou shalt choose, may be thine to have and to possess. The nature allotted to all other creatures, within laws appointed by ourselves, restrains them. Thou, restrained by no narrow bounds, according to thy own free will, in whose power I have placed thee, shalt define thy nature for thyself. I have set thee midmost the world, that thence thou mightest the more conveniently survey whatsoever is in the world. Nor have we made thee either heavenly or earthly, mortal or immortal, to the end that thou, being, as it were, thy own free maker and moulder, shouldst fashion thyself in what form may like thee best. Thou shalt have power to decline unto the lower or brute creatures. Thou shalt have power to be reborn unto the higher, or divine, according to the sentence of thy intellect." Thus to Man, at his birth, the Father gave seeds of all variety and germs of every form of life.' Out of thoughts like these, if Italy could only have been free, if her society could have been uncorrupted, if her Church could have returned to the essential truths of Christianity, might have sprung, as from a seed, the noblest growth of human science. But _dis aliter visum est_. The prologue to this history of culture--the long account taken of selfish tyrants, vicious clergy, and incapable republics, in my 'Age of the Despots'--is intended to make it clear why the conditions under which the Revival began in Italy rendered its accomplishment imperfect. CHAPTER II FIRST PERIOD OF HUMANISM Importance of the Revival of Learning -- Mediæval Romance -- The Legend of Faustus -- Its Value for the Renaissance -- The Devotion of Italy to Study -- Italian Predisposition for this Labour -- Scholarship in the Dark Ages -- Double Attitude assumed by the Church -- Piety for Virgil -- Meagre Acquaintance with the Latin Classics -- No Greek Learning -- The Spiritual Conditions of the Middle Ages adverse to Pure Literature -- Italy no exception to the rest of Europe -- Dante and Petrarch -- Definition of Humanism -- Petrarch's Conception of it -- His Æsthetical Temperament -- His Cult for Cicero, Zeal in collecting Manuscripts, Sense of the Importance of Greek Studies -- Warfare against Pedantry and Superstition -- Ideal of Poetry and Rhetoric -- Critique of Jurists and Schoolmen -- S. Augustine -- Petrarch's Vanity -- Thirst for Fame -- Discord between his Life and his Profession -- His Literary Temperament -- Visionary Patriotism -- His Influence -- His Successors -- Boccaccio and Greek Studies -- Translation of Homer -- Philosophy of Literature -- Sensuousness of Boccaccio's Inspiration -- Giovanni da Ravenna -- The Wandering Professor -- His Pupils in Latin Scholarship -- Luigi Marsigli -- The Convent of S. Spirito -- Humanism in Politics -- Coluccio de' Salutati -- Gasparino da Barzizza -- Improved Style in Letter-writing -- Revival of Greek Learning -- Manuel Chrysoloras -- His Pupils -- Lionardo Bruni -- Value of Greek for the Renaissance. I have already observed that it would be inaccurate to identify the whole movement of the Renaissance with the process whereby the European nations recovered and appropriated the masterpieces of Greek and Latin literature. At the same time this reconquest of the classic world of thought was by far the most important achievement of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. It absorbed nearly the whole mental energy of the Italians, and determined in a great measure the quality of all their intellectual production in the period I have undertaken to illustrate. Through their activity in the field of scholarship the proper starting-point was given to the modern intellect. The revelation of what men were and what they wrought under the influence of other faiths and other impulses, in distant ages with a different ideal for their aim, not only widened the narrow horizon of the Middle Ages, but it also restored self-confidence to the reason of humanity. Research and criticism began to take the place of scholastic speculation. Positive knowledge was substituted for the intuitive guesses of idealists and dreamers. The interests of this world received their due share of attention, and the _litteræ humaniores_ of the student usurped upon the _divinarum rerum cognitio_ of theologians. All through the Middle Ages uneasy and imperfect memories of Greece and Rome had haunted Europe. Alexander, the great conqueror; Hector, the noble knight and lover; Helen, who set Troy town on fire; Virgil, the magician; Dame Venus lingering about the hill of Hörsel--these phantoms, whereof the positive historic truth was lost, remained to sway the soul and stimulate desire in myth and saga. Deprived of actual knowledge, imagination transformed what it remembered of the classic age into romance. The fascination exercised by these dreams of a half-forgotten past over the mediæval fancy expressed itself in the legend of Doctor Faustus. That legend tells us what the men upon the eve of the Revival longed for, and what they dreaded, when they turned their minds towards the past. The secret of enjoyment and the source of strength possessed by the ancients, allured them; but they believed that they could only recover this lost treasure by the suicide of their soul. So great was the temptation that Faustus paid the price. After imbibing all the knowledge of his age, he sold himself to the Devil, in order that his thirst for experience might be quenched, his grasp upon the world be strengthened, and the ennui of his inactivity be soothed. His first use of this dearly-bought power was to make blind Homer sing to him. Amphion tunes his harp in concert with Mephistopheles. Alexander rises from the dead at his behest, with all his legionaries; and Helen is given to him for a bride. Faustus is therefore a parable of the impotent yearnings of the spirit in the Middle Ages--its passionate aspiration, its conscience-stricken desire, its fettered curiosity amid the cramping limits of imperfect knowledge and irrational dogmatism. That for which Faustus sold his soul, the freedom he acquired by magic, the sense of beauty he gratified through visions, the knowledge he gained by interrogation of demons, was yielded to the world without price at the time of the Renaissance. Homer, no longer by the intervention of a fiend, but by the labour of the scholar, sang to the new age. The pomp of the empires of the old world was restored in the pages of historians. The indestructible beauty of Greek art, whereof Helen was an emblem, became, through the discovery of classic poetry and sculpture, the possession of the modern world. Mediævalism took this Helen to wife, and their offspring, the Euphorion of Goethe's drama, is the spirit of the modern world. But how was this effected? By long and toilsome study, by the accumulation of MSS., by the acquisition of dead languages, by the solitary labour of grammarians, by the lectures of itinerant professors, by the scribe, by the printing press, by the self-devotion of magnificent Italy to erudition. In this way the Renaissance realised the dream of the Middle Ages, and the genius of the Italians wrought by solid toil what the myth-making imagination of the Germans had projected in a poem. It is impossible to exaggerate the benefit conferred upon Europe by the Italians at this epoch. The culture of the classics had to be reappropriated before the movement of the modern mind could begin: before the nations could start upon a new career of progress, the chasm between the old and new world had to be bridged over. This task of reappropriation the Italians undertook alone, and achieved at the sacrifice of their literary independence and their political freedom. The history of Renaissance literature in Italy is the history of a national genius deviating from the course of self-development into the channels of scholarship and antiquarian research. The language created by Dante as a thing of power, polished by Petrarch as a thing of beauty, trained by Boccaccio as the instrument of melodious prose, was abandoned even by the Tuscans in the fifteenth century for revived Latin and newly-discovered Greek. Patent acquisition took the place of proud inventiveness; laborious imitation of classical authors suppressed originality of style. The force of mind which in the fourteenth century had produced a 'Divine Comedy' and a 'Decameron,' in the fifteenth was expended upon the interpretation of codices, the settlement of texts, the translation of Greek books into Latin, the study of antiquities, the composition of commentaries, encyclopædias, dictionaries, ephemerides. While we regret this change from creative to acquisitive literature, we must bear in mind that those scholars who ought to have been poets accomplished nothing less than the civilisation, or, to use their own phrase, the humanisation, of the modern world.[11] At the critical moment when the Eastern Empire was being shattered by the Turks, and when the other European nations were as yet unfit for culture, Italy saved the arts and sciences of Greece and Rome, and interpreted the spirit of the classics. Devoting herself to what appears the slavish work of compilation and collection, she transmitted an inestimable treasure to the human race; and though for a time the beautiful Italian tongue was superseded by a jargon of dead languages, yet the literature of the Renaissance yielded in the end the poetry of Ariosto, the political philosophy of Machiavelli, the histories of Guicciardini and Varchi. Meanwhile the whole of Europe had received the staple of its intellectual education. [Footnote 11: Poliziano, Pontano, Sannazzaro, and Bembo divided their powers between scholarship and poetry, to the injury of the latter.] It is necessary to repeat the observation that this absorption of energy in the task of scholarship was no less natural to the Italians than necessary for the world at large. The Italians were not a new nation like the Franks and Germans. Nothing is more remarkable in the mediæval history of Italy than the sense, shared alike by poets and jurists, by the leaders of popular insurrections and the moulders of philosophic thought, that the centre of national vitality existed in the Roman Empire. It was this determination to look backward rather than forward, to trust the past rather than the present, that neutralised the forces of the Lombard League, and prevented the communes from asserting their independence face to face with foreigners who claimed to be the representatives of Cæsar. The Italians, unlike any other European people, sacrificed the reality of political freedom for the idea of majesty and glory, to be recovered by the restitution of the Empire. Guelf and Ghibelline coincided in this delusion, that Rome, whether Papal or Imperial, was destined still to place the old Italic stock upon the throne of civilised humanity. When the three great authors of the thirteenth century appeared, each in turn cast his eyes to ancient Rome as the true source of national greatness. The language of modern Italy was known to be a scion of the Latin speech, and the Italians called themselves _Latini_. The attempt to conform their literature to the Roman type was therefore felt to be but a return to its true standard; the 'Æneid' of Virgil was their _Nibelungen-Lied_. Thus the humanistic enthusiasm of the fifteenth century assumed an almost patriotic character. In it, moreover, the doctrine that had ruled the Middle Ages, interrupting political cohesion without acquiring the consistency of fact, attained at last its proper sphere of development. The ideal of Dante in the 'De Monarchiâ' had proved a baseless dream; no emperor was destined to take his seat in Rome and sway the world. But the ideal of Petrarch was realised; the scholars, animated by his impulse, reacquired the birthright of culture which belonged of old to Italy, and made her empress of the intellect for Europe. Not political but spiritual supremacy was the real heritage of these new Romans. As an introduction to the history of the Revival, and in order that the work to be performed by the Italian students may be accurately measured, it will be necessary to touch briefly upon the state of scholarship during the dark ages. To underrate the achievement of that period, especially in logic, theology, and law, is only too easy, seeing that a new direction was given to the mind of Europe by the Renaissance, and that we have moved continuously on other lines to other objects since the opening of the fifteenth century. Mediæval thought was both acute and strenuous in its own region of activity. What it lacked was material outside the speculative sphere to feed upon. Culture, in our sense of the word, did not exist, and the intellect was forced to deal subtly with a very limited class of conceptions. Long before the fall of the Roman Empire it became clear that both fine arts and literature were gradually declining. Sculpture in the age of Constantine had lost distinction of style; and though the practice of verse survived as a rhetorical exercise, no works of original genius were produced. Ausonius and Claudian, just before the division of the Empire and the irruption of the barbarian races, uttered the last swan's note of classic poetry. Meanwhile true taste and criticism were extinct.[12] The Church, while battling with Paganism, recognised her deadliest foes in literature. Not only were the Greek and Latin masterpieces the stronghold of a mythology that had to be erased from the popular mind; not only was their morality antagonistic to the principles of Christian ethics: in addition to these grounds for hatred and mistrust, the classics idealised a form of human life which the new faith regarded as worthless. What was culture in comparison with the salvation of the soul? Why should time be spent upon the dreams of poets, when every minute might be well employed in pondering the precepts of the Gospels? What was the use of making this life refined and agreeable by study, when it formed but an insignificant prelude to an eternity wherein mere mundane learning would be valueless? Why raise questions about man's condition on this earth, when the creeds had to be defined and expounded, when the nature of God and the relation of the human soul to its Creator had to be established? It was easy to pass from this state of mind to the belief that learning in itself was impious.[13] 'Let us shun the lying fables of the poets,' cries Gregory of Tours, 'and forego the wisdom of sages at enmity with God, lest we incur the doom of endless death by sentence of our Lord.' Even Augustine deplored his time spent in reading Virgil, weeping over Dido's death by love, when all the while he was himself both morally and spiritually dead. Alcuin regretted that in his boyhood he had preferred Virgil to the legends of the Saints, and stigmatised the eloquence of the Latin writers by the epithet of wanton. Such phrases as _poetarum figmenta, gentilium figmenta sive deliramenta_ (the fictions or mad ravings of Pagan poets) are commonly employed by Christian authors of the Lives of Saints, in order to mark the inferiority of Virgil and Ovid to their own more edifying compositions. Relying on their spiritual pretensions, the monkish scribes gloried in ignorance and paraded want of grammar as a sign of grace. 'I warn the curious reader,' writes a certain Wolfhard in the 'Life of S. Walpurgis,' 'not to mind the mass of barbarisms in this little work; I bid him ponder what he finds upon these pages, and seek the pearl within the dung-heap.' Gregory the Great goes further, and defies the pedantry of pedagogues. 'The place of prepositions and the cases of the nouns I utterly despise, since I deem it unfit to confine the words of the celestial oracle within the rules of Donatus.' 'Let philosophers and impure scholars of Donatus,' writes a fanatic of Cordova, 'ply their windy problems with the barking of dogs, the grunting of swine, snarling with skinned throat and teeth; let the foaming and bespittled grammarians belch, while we remain evangelical servants of Christ, true followers of rustic teachers.' Thus the opposition of the Church to Paganism, the conviction that Christianity was alien to culture, and the absorption of intellectual interest in theological questions contributed to destroy what had remained of sound scholarship in the last years of the Empire. The task of the Church, moreover, in the Middle Ages was not so much to keep learning alive as to moralise the savage races who held Europe at their pleasure. Pure Latinity, even if it could have been instilled into the nations of the North, was of less moment than elementary discipline in manners and religion. It must not be forgotten that the literature of ancient Rome was artificial in its best days, confined to a select few, and dependent on the capital for its support. After the dismemberment of the Empire the whole of Europe was thrown open to the action of spiritual powers who had to use unlettered barbarians for their ministers and missionaries. To submit this vast field to classic culture at the same time that Christianity was being propagated, would have been beyond the strength of the Church, even had she chosen to undertake this task, and had the vital forces of antiquity not been exhausted. [Footnote 12: For the low state of criticism, even in a good age, see Aulus Gellius, lib. xiv. cap. vi. He describes the lecture of a rhetor, _quispiam linguæ Latinæ literator_, on a passage in the seventh Æneid. The man's explanation of the word _bidentes_ proves an almost more than mediæval puerility and ignorance.] [Footnote 13: Most of the following quotations will be found in Comparetti, _Virgilio nel Medio Evo_, vol. i., a work of sound scholarship and refined taste upon the place of Virgil in the Middle Ages.] At this point an inevitable reaction, illustrating the compromise thrust upon the Church by her peculiar position, made itself apparent. In proportion as the dangers of Paganism decreased, the clergy, on whom devolved the double duty of civilising as well as moralising society, began to feel the need of arresting the advance of ignorance. Knowledge of Latin was required for ecclesiastical uses, for the interpretation of Scripture, for the study of the Fathers, and for the establishment of a common language among many divers nationalities. A middle course between the fanaticism which regarded classical literature as worthless and impure, and the worldliness that might have been encouraged by enthusiasm for the ancients, had therefore to be steered. Grammar was taught in the schools, and where grammar was taught, it was impossible to exclude Virgil and some other Latin authors. A conflict in the monkish mind was the unavoidable consequence. Since the classics alone communicated sound learning, the study of them formed a necessary part of education; and yet these authors were unbaptized Pagans, doomed to everlasting death because of their impiety and immorality. Poets who had hitherto been regarded as deadly foes, were now accepted as auxiliaries in the battle of the Church against barbarism. While copying the elegies of Ovid, the compassionate scribe sought to place them in a favourable light, and to render them edifying at the cost of contradicting their plain meaning.[14] Virgil was credited with allegorical significance; and the strong sympathy he roused in those who felt the beauty of his style, produced a belief that, if not quite, he was almost a Christian. The piety and pity for Virgil as a gentle soul who had just missed the salvation offered by Christ, found expression in the service for S. Paul's Day used at Mantua:[15]-- Ad Maronis mausoleum Ductus, fudit super eum Piæ rorem lacrymæ; Quem te, inquit, reddidissem Si te vivum invenissem, Poetarum maxime! [Footnote 14: _Hoc est quod pueri tangar amore minus_, for example, was altered into _Hoc est quod pueri tangar amore nihil_; for _lusisset amores_ was substituted _dampnasset amores_, and so forth.] [Footnote 15: The hymn quoted above in the text refers to a legend of S. Paul having visited the tomb of Virgil at Naples:-- 'When to Maro's tomb they brought him Tender grief and pity wrought him To bedew the stone with tears; What a saint I might have crowned thee, Had I only living found thee, Poet first and without peers!'] Meanwhile the utter confusion consequent upon the downfall of the Roman Empire and the irruption of the Germanic races was causing, by the mere brute force of circumstance, a gradual extinction of scholarship too powerful to be arrested. The teaching of grammar for ecclesiastical purposes was insufficient to check the influence of many causes leading to this overthrow of learning. It was impossible to communicate more than a mere tincture of knowledge to students separated from the classical tradition, for whom the antecedent history of Rome was a dead letter. The meaning of Latin words derived from the Greek was lost. Smaragdus, a grammarian, mistook _Eunuchus Comoedia_ and _Orestes Tragoedia_, mentioned by Donatus, for the names of authors. Remigius of Auxerre explained _poema_ by _positio_, and _emblema_ by _habundantia_. Homer and Virgil were supposed to have been friends and contemporaries, while the Latin epitome of the 'Iliad,' bearing the name of Pindar, was fathered on the Theban lyrist. Theological notions, grotesque and childish beyond description, found their way into etymology and grammar. The three persons of the Trinity were discovered in the verb, and mystic numbers in the parts of speech. Thus analytical studies like that of language came to be regarded as an open field for the exercise of the mythologising fancy; and etymology was reduced to a system of ingenious punning. _Voluntas_ and _voluptas_ were distinguished, for example, as pertaining to the nature of _Deus_ and _diabolus_ respectively; and, in order to make the list complete, _voluntas_ was invented as an attribute of _homo_. It is clear that on this path of verbal quibbling the intellect had lost tact, taste, and common sense together. When the minds of the learned were possessed by these absurdities to the exclusion of sound method, we cannot wonder that antiquity survived but as a strange and shadowy dream in popular imagination. Virgil, the only classic who retained distinct and living personality, passed from poet to philosopher, from philosopher to Sibyl, from Sibyl to magician, by successive stages of transmutation, as the truth about him grew more dim and the faculty to apprehend him weakened. Forming the staple of education in the schools of the grammarians, and metamorphosed by the vulgar consciousness into a wizard,[16] he waited on the extreme verge of the dark ages to take Dante by the hand, and lead him, as the type of human reason, through the realms of Hell and Purgatory. [Footnote 16: The common use of the word _grammarie_ for occult science in our ballads illustrates this phase of popular opinion. So does the legend of Friar Bacon. See Thoms, _Early English Prose Romances_.] With regard to the actual knowledge of Latin literature possessed in the Middle Ages, it may be said in brief that Virgil was continually studied, and that a certain familiarity with Ovid, Lucan, Horace, Juvenal, and Statius was never lost. Among the prose-writers, portions of Cicero were used in education; but the compilations of Boethius, Priscian, Donatus, and Cassiodorus were more widely used. In the twelfth century the study of Roman law was revived, and the scholastic habit of thought found scope for subtlety in the discussion of cases and composition of glosses. The general knowledge and intellectual sympathy required for comprehension of the genuine classics were, however, wanting; and thus it happened that their place was taken by epitomes and abstracts, and by the formal digests of the Western Empire in its decadence. This lifeless literature was better suited to the meagre intellectual conditions of the Middle Ages than the masterpieces of the Augustan and Silver periods. Of Greek there was absolutely no tradition left.[17] When the names of Greek poets or philosophers are cited by mediæval authors, it is at second hand from Latin sources; and the Aristotelian logic of the schoolmen came through Latin translations made by Jews from Arabian MSS. Occasionally it might happen that a Western scholar acquired Greek at Constantinople or in the south of Italy, where it was spoken; but this did not imply Hellenic culture, nor did such knowledge form a part and parcel of his erudition. Greek was hardly less lost to Europe then than Sanskrit in the first half of the eighteenth century. [Footnote 17: Didot, in his _Life of Aldus_, tries to make out that Greek learning survived in Ireland longer than elsewhere.] The meagreness of mediæval learning was, however, a less serious obstacle to culture than the habit of mind, partly engendered by Christianity and partly idiosyncratic to the new races, which prevented students from appreciating the true spirit of the classics. While mysticism and allegory ruled supreme, the clearly-defined humanity of the Greeks and Romans could not fail to be misapprehended. The little that was known of them reached students through a hazy and distorting medium. Poems like Virgil's fourth Eclogue were prized for what the author had not meant when he was writing them; while his real interests were utterly neglected. Against this mental misconception, this original obliquity of vision, this radical lie in the intellect, the restorers of learning had to fight at least as energetically as against brute ignorance and dulness. It was not enough to multiply books and to discover codices; they had to teach men how to read them, to explain their inspiration, to defend them against prejudice, to protect them from false methods of interpretation. To purge the mind of fancy and fable, to prove that poetry apart from its supposed prophetic meaning was delightful for its own sake, and that the history of the antique nations, in spite of Paganism, could be used for profit and instruction, was the first step to be taken by these pioneers of modern culture. They had, in short, to create a new mental sensibility by establishing the truth that pure literature directly contributes to the dignity and happiness of human beings. The achievement of this revolution in thought was the great performance of the Italians in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. During the dark ages Italy had in no sense enjoyed superiority of culture over the rest of Europe. On the contrary, the first abortive attempt at a revival of learning was due to Charlemagne at Aix, the second to the Emperor Frederick in Apulia and Sicily; and while the Romance nations had lost the classical tradition, it was still to some extent preserved by the Moslem dynasties. The more we study the history of mediæval learning, the more we recognise the debt of civilised humanity to the Arabs for their conservation and transmission of Greek thought in altered form to Europe. Yet, though the Italians came comparatively late into the field, their action was decisive. Neither Charlemagne nor Frederick, neither the philosophy of the Arabian sages nor the precocious literature of Provence, succeeded in effecting for the education of the modern intellect that which Dante and Petrarch performed--the one by the production of a monumental work of art in poetry, the other by the communication of a new enthusiasm for antiquity to students. Dante does not belong in any strict sense to the history of the Revival of Learning. The 'Divine Comedy' closes the Middle Ages and preserves their spirit. It stands before the vestibule of modern literature like a solitary mountain at the entrance of a country rich in all varieties of landscape. In order to become acquainted with its grandeur, we must leave the fields and forests that we know, ascend the heights, and use ourselves to an austerer climate. In spite of this isolation, Dante's influence was powerful upon succeeding generations. The modern mind first found in him its scope, and recognised its freedom; first dared and did what placed it on a level with antiquity in art. Many ideas, moreover, destined to play an important part in the coming age, received from him their germinal expression. It may thus be truly said that Dante initiated the movement of the modern intellect in its entirety, though he did not lead the Revival considered as a separate moment in this evolution. That service was reserved for Petrarch. There are spots upon the central watershed of Europe where, in the stillness of a summer afternoon, the traveller may listen to the murmurs of two streams--the one hurrying down to form the Rhine, the other to contribute to the Danube or the Po. Born within hearing of each other's voices, and nourished by the self-same clouds that rest upon the crags around them, they are henceforth destined to an ever-widening separation. While the one sweeps onward to the Northern seas, the other will reach the shores of Italy or Greece and mingle with the Mediterranean. To these two streamlets we might compare Dante and Petrarch, both of whom sprang from Florence, both of whom were nurtured in the learning of the schools and in the lore of chivalrous love. Yet how different was their mission! Petrarch marks the rising of that great river of intellectual energy which flowed southward to recover the culture of the ancient world. The current of Dante's genius took the contrary direction. Borne upon its mighty flood, we visit the lands and cities of the Middle Ages, floating toward infinities divined and made the heritage of human nature by the mediæval spirit. In speaking of Petrarch here, it is necessary to concentrate attention upon his claims to be considered as the apostle of scholarship, the inaugurator of the humanistic impulse of the fifteenth century. We have nothing to do with his Italian poetry. The _Rime_ dedicated to Madonna Laura have eclipsed the fame of the Latin epic, philosophical discourses, epistles, orations, invectives, and dissertations, which made Petrarch the Voltaire of his own age, and on which he thought his immortality would rest. Yet it is with these latter products of his genius, not with the _Canzoniere_, that we are now concerned; nor can it be too emphatically asserted that his originality was even more eminently displayed in the revelation of humanism to the modern world than in the verses that impressed their character upon Italian literature. To have foreseen a whole new phase of European culture, to have interpreted its spirit, and determined by his own activity the course it should pursue, is in truth a higher title to fame than the composition of even the most perfect sonnets. The artist, however, has this advantage over the pioneer of intellectual progress, that his delicate creations are indestructible, and that his work cannot be merged in that of a continuator. Therefore Petrarch lives and will live in the memory of millions as the poet of Laura, while only students know how much the world owes to his humanistic ardour. As I cannot dispense with the word Humanism in this portion of my work, it may be well to fix the sense I shall attach to it.[18] The essence of humanism consisted in a new and vital perception of the dignity of man as a rational being apart from theological determinations, and in the further perception that classic literature alone displayed human nature in the plenitude of intellectual and moral freedom. It was partly a reaction against ecclesiastical despotism, partly an attempt to find the point of unity for all that had been thought and done by man, within the mind restored to consciousness of its own sovereign faculty. Hence the single-hearted devotion to the literature of Greece and Rome that marks the whole Renaissance era. Hence the watchword of that age, the _Litteræ Humaniores_. Hence the passion for antiquity, possessing thoughtful men, and substituting a new authority for the traditions of the Church. Hence the so-called Paganism of centuries bent upon absorbing and assimilating a spirit no less life-giving from their point of view than Christianity itself. Hence the persistent effort of philosophers to find the meeting-point of two divergent inspirations. Hence, too, the ultimate antagonism between the humanists, or professors of the new wisdom, and those uncompromising Christians who, like S. Paul, preferred to remain fools for Christ's sake. [Footnote 18: The word Humanism has a German sound, and is in fact modern. Yet the generic phrase _umanità_ for humanistic culture, and the name _umanista_ for a professor of humane studies, are both pure Italian. Ariosto, in his seventh satire, line 25, writes-- 'Senza quel vizio son pochi umanisti.'] Humanism in this, the widest, sense of the word was possessed by Petrarch intuitively. It belonged to his nature as much as music to Mozart; so that he seemed sent into the world to raise, by the pure exercise of innate faculties, a standard for succeeding workers. Physically and æsthetically, by the fineness of his ear for verbal harmonies, and by the exquisiteness of his sensibilities, he was fitted to divine what it took centuries to verify. While still a boy, long before he could grasp the meaning of classical Latin, he used to read the prose of Cicero aloud, delighting in the sonorous cadence and balanced periods of the master's style.[19] Nor were the moral qualities of industry and perseverance, needed to supplement these natural gifts, defective. In his maturity he spared no pains to collect the manuscripts of Cicero, sometimes transcribing them with his own hand, sometimes employing copyists, sending and journeying to distant parts of Europe where he heard a fragment of his favourite author might be found.[20] His greatest literary disappointment was the loss of a treatise by Cicero on Glory, a theme exceedingly significant for the Renaissance, which he lent to his tutor Convennevole, and which the old man pawned.[21] Though he could not read Greek, he welcomed with profoundest reverence the codices of Homer and Plato sent to him from Constantinople, and exhorted Boccaccio to dedicate his genius to the translation of the sovran poet into Latin.[22] In this susceptibility to the melodies of rhetorical prose, in this special cult of Cicero, in the passion for collecting manuscripts, and in the intuition that the future of scholarship depended upon the resuscitation of Greek studies, Petrarch initiated the four most important momenta of the classical Renaissance. He, again, was the first to understand the value of public libraries;[23] the first to accumulate coins and inscriptions, as the sources of accurate historical information; the first to preach the duty of preserving ancient monuments. It would seem as though, by the instinct of genius, he foresaw the future for at least three centuries, and comprehended the highest uses whereof scholarship is capable. [Footnote 19: See the interesting letter to Luca di Penna, _De Libris Ciceronis_, p. 946, and compare _De Ignorantiâ sui ipsius_, &c. p. 1044. These references, as well as those which follow under the general sign _Ibid._, are made to the edition of Petrarch's collected works, Basle, 1581.] [Footnote 20: _Ibid._ p. 948. Cf. the fine letter on the duty of collecting and preserving codices (_Fam. Epist._ lib. iii. 18, p. 619). 'Aurum, argentum, gemmæ, purpurea vestis, marmorea domus, cultus ager, pictæ tabulæ, phaleratus sonipes, cæteraque id genus mutam habent et superficiariam voluptatem: libri medullitus delectant, colloquuntur, consulunt, et vivâ quâdam nobis atque argutâ familiaritate junguntur.'] [Footnote 21: _De Libris Ciceronis_, p. 949. Cf. his _Epistle to Varro_ for an account of a lost MS. of that author. _Ibid._ p. 708.] [Footnote 22: _Ibid._ p. 948. Cf. _De Ignorantiâ_, pp. 1053, 1054. See, too, the letter to Nicolaus Syocerus of Constantinople, _Epist. Var._ xx. p. 998, thanking him for the Homer and the Plato, in which Petrarch gives an account of his slender Greek studies. 'Homerus tuus apud me mutus, immo vero ego apud illum surdus sum. Gaudeo tamen vel aspectu solo, et sæpe illum amplexus et suspirans dico.... Plato philosophorum princeps ... nunc tandem tuo munere Philosophorum principi Poetarum princeps asserit. Quis tantis non gaudeat et glorietur hospitibus?... Græcos spectare, et si nihil aliud, certe juvat.' The letter urging Boccaccio to translate Homer--'an tuo studio, meâ impensâ fieri possit, ut Homerus integer bibliothecæ huic, ubi pridem Græcus habitat, tandem Latinus accedat'--will be found [Transcriber's Note: original missing 'in'] _Ep. Rer. Sen._ lib. iii. 5, p. 775. In another letter, _Ep. Rer. Sen._ lib. vi. 2, p. 807, he thanks Boccaccio for the Latin version.] [Footnote 23: _De Remediis utriusque Fortunæ_, p. 43. A plea for public as against private collections of useful books. 'Multos in vinculis tenes,' &c.] So far the outside only of Petrarch's instinct for humanism has been touched. How fully he possessed its large and liberal spirit is shown by the untiring war he carried on against formalism, tradition, pedantry, and superstition. Whatever might impede the free play of the intellect aroused his bitterest hatred. Against the narrow views of scholastic theologians, against the futile preoccupations of the Middle-Age materialists, against the lawyers and physicians and astrologers in vogue, he declared inexorable hostility.[24] These men, by their puerilities and falsities, obstructed the natural action of the mind; therefore Petrarch attacked them. At the same time he recognised the liberators of the reason by a kind of tact. Though he could not interpret the sixteen dialogues of Plato he possessed in Greek, he perceived intuitively that Plato, as opposed to Aristotle, would become the saint of liberal philosophy, surveyed by him as in a Pisgah-view. His enthusiasm for Cicero and Virgil was twofold; in both respects he proved how capable he was of moulding the taste and directing the mental force of his successors. As an artist, he discerned in their style the harmonies of sound and the proprieties of diction, whereby Latin might once again become the language of fine thoughts and delicate emotions. As a champion of intellectual independence, he saw that, studying their large discourse of all things which the reason and imagination can appropriate, the thinkers of the modern age might shake off scholastic fetters, and enter into the inheritance of spiritual freedom. Poetry and rhetoric he regarded not merely as the fine arts of literature, but as two chief instruments whereby the man of genius arrives at self-expression, perpetuates the qualities of his own soul, and impresses his character upon the age. Since this realisation of the individual in a high and puissant work of art appeared to him the noblest aim of man on earth, it followed that the inspired speech of the poet and the eloquence of the orator became for Petrarch the summit of ambition, the two-peaked Parnassus he struggled through his lifetime to ascend.[25] The ideal was literary; but literature implied for Petrarch more than words and phrases. It was not enough to make melodious verse, or to move an audience with well-sounding periods. The hexameters of the epic and the paragraphs of the oration had to contain solid thought, to be the genuine outcome of the poet's or the rhetorician's soul. The writer was bound to be a preacher, to discover truth, and make the truths he found agreeable to the world.[26] His life, moreover, ought to be in perfect harmony with all he sought to teach.[27] Upon the purity of his enthusiasm, the sincerity of his inspiration, depended the future well-being of the world for which he laboured.[28] Thus for this one man at least the art of letters was a priesthood; and the earnestness of his vocation made him fit to be the master of succeeding ages. It is not easy for us to appreciate the boldness and sincerity of these conceptions. Many of them, since the days of Petrarch, have been overstrained and made ridiculous by false pretensions. Besides, the whole point of view has been appropriated; and men invariably undervalue what they feel they cannot lose. It is only by comparing Petrarch's own philosophy of literature with the dulness of the schoolmen in their decadence, and with the stylistic shallowness of subsequent scholars, that we come to comprehend how luminous and novel was the thesis he supported. [Footnote 24: See the four books of Invectives, _Contra Medicum quendam_, and the treatise _De sui ipsius et aliorum Ignorantiâ_. Page 1038 of the last dissertation contains a curious list of frivolous questions discussed by the Averrhoists. Cf. the letter on the decadence of true learning, _Ep. Var._ 31, p. 1020; the letter to a friend exhorting him to combat Averrhoism, _Epist. sine titulo_, 18, p. 731; two letters on physicians, _Epist. Rerum Senilium_, lib. xii. 1 and 2, pp. 897-914; a letter to Francesco Bruno on the lies of the astrologers, _Epist. Rer. Sen._ lib. i. 6, p. 747; a letter to Boccaccio on the same theme, _Epist. Rer. Sen._ lib. iii. 1, p. 765; another on physicians to Boccaccio, _Epist. Rer. Sen._ lib. v. 4, p. 796. Cf. the Critique of Alchemy, _De Remediis utriusque Fortunæ_, p. 93.] [Footnote 25: In comparing the orator and the poet, Petrarch gives the palm to the former. He thought the perfect rhetorician, capable of expressing sound philosophy with clearness, was rarer than the poet. See _De Remediis utriusque Fortunæ_, lib. ii. dial. 102, p. 192.] [Footnote 26: See, among other passages, _Inv. contra Medicum_, lib. i. p. 1092. 'Poetæ studium est veritatem veram pulchris velaminibus adornare.' Cf. p. 905, the paragraph beginning 'Officium est ejus fingere,' &c.] [Footnote 27: See the preface to the _Epistolæ Familiares_, p. 570. 'Scribendi enim mihi vivendique unus (ut auguror) finis erit.'] [Footnote 28: For his lofty conception of poetry see the two letters to Boccaccio and Benvenuto da Imola, pp. 740, 941. _Epist. Rerum Senilium_, lib. i. 4, lib. xiv. 11.] Having thus conceived of literature, Petrarch obtained a standard for estimating the barren culture of his century. He taxed the disputations of the doctors with lifeless repetition unmeaning verbiage. Schoolman after schoolman had been occupied with formal trifles. The erudition of the jurist and the theologian revealed nothing fruitful for the heart or intellect; and everything was valueless that did not come straight from a man's soul, speaking to the soul of one who heard him. At the same time he read the Fathers and the Scriptures in a new light. Augustine, some few of whose sentences had been used as links in the catena of dogmatic orthodoxy, seemed to Petrarch no longer a mere master of theology, but a man conversing with him across the chasm of eight centuries. In the 'Confessions,' 'running over with a fount of tears,' the poet of Vaucluse divined a kindred nature; one who used exalted eloquence for the expression of vital thoughts and passionate emotions; one, moreover, who had reached the height of human happiness in union with God.[29] Not less real was the grasp he laid upon the prophets and apostles of the Bible. All words that bore a message to his heart were words of authority and power. The _ipse dixit_ of an Aristotle or a Seraphic doctor had for him no weight, unless it came home to him as a man.[30] Even Cicero and Seneca, the saints of philosophical antiquity, he dared to criticise for practising less wisdom than they preached.[31] [Footnote 29: The references to Augustine as a 'divine genius,' equal to Cicero in eloquence, superior to the classics in his knowledge of Christ, are too frequent for citation. See, however, _Fam. Epist._ lib. ii. 9, p. 601; the letter to Boccaccio, _Variarum_, 22, p. 1001; and _Fam. Epist._ lib. iv. 9, p. 635. The phrase describing the _Confessions_, quoted in my text, is from Petrarch's letter to his brother Gerard, _Epist. Var._ 27, p. 1012, 'Scatentes lachrymis Confessionum libros.'] [Footnote 30: 'Sum sectarum negligens, veri appetens.' _Epist. Rer. Sen._ lib. i. 5, p. 745. 'Nam apud Horatium Flaccum, nullius jurare in verba magistri, puer valde didiceram.' _Epist. Fam._ lib. iv. 10, p. 637.] [Footnote 31: See the letters addressed to Cicero and Seneca, pp. 705, 706.] While regarding Petrarch as the first and, in some respects, the greatest of the humanists, we are bound to recognise the faults as well as the good qualities he shared with them. To dwell on these in detail would be a thankless task, were it not for the conviction that his personality impressed itself too strongly on the fourteenth century to escape our criticism. We cannot afford to leave even the foibles of the man who gave a pattern to his generation unstudied. Foremost among these may be reckoned his vanity, his eagerness to grasp the poet's crown, his appetite for flattery, his restless change from place to place in search of new admirers, his self-complacent garrulity. This vanity was perhaps inseparable from the position he assumed upon the threshold of the modern world. It was hardly possible that the prophet of a new phase of culture should not look down with contempt upon the uneducated masses, and believe that learning raised a man into a demigod. Study of the classics taught him to despise his age and yearn for immortality; but the assurance of the honours that he sought, could only come to him upon the lips of his contemporaries. In conflict with the dulness and the darkness of preceding centuries, he felt the need of a new motive, unrecognised by the Church and banished from the cloister. That motive was the thirst for fame, the craving to make his personality eternal in the minds of men. Meanwhile he was alone in a dim wilderness of transitory interests and sordid aims, where human life was shadowy, and where, when death arrived, there would remain no memory of what had been. The gloom of this present in contrast with the glory of the past he studied, and the glory of the future he desired, confirmed his egotism. His name and fame depended on his self-assertion. To achieve renown by writing, to wrest for himself even in his lifetime a firm place among the immortals, became his feverish spur to action. He was conscious how deep a hold the passion for celebrity had taken on his nature; and not unfrequently he speaks of it as a disease.[32] The Christian within him wrestled vigorously with the renascent Pagan. Religion taught him to renounce what ambition prompted him to grasp. Yet he continued to deceive himself. While penning dissertations on the worthlessness of praise and the futility of fame, he trimmed his sails to catch the breeze of popular applause; and as his reputation widened, his desires grew ever stronger. The last years of his life were spent in writing epistles to the great men of the past, in whom alone he recognised his equals, and to posterity, in whom he hoped to meet at last with judges worthy of him. [Footnote 32: 'Ægritudo' is a phrase that constantly recurs in his epistles to indicate a restless, craving habit of the soul. See, too, the whole second book of the _De Contemptu Mundi_.] This almost morbid vanity, peculiar to Petrarch's temperament and encouraged by the circumstances of his life, introduced a division between his practice and his profession. He was never tired of praising solitude, and many years of his manhood he spent in actual retirement at Vaucluse.[33] Yet he only loved seclusion as a contrast to the society of Courts, and would have been most miserable if the world, taking him at his own estimate, had left him in peace. No one wrote more eloquently about equal friendship, or professed a stronger zeal for candid criticism. Yet he admitted few but professed admirers to his intimacy, and regarded his literary antagonists as personal detractors. The same sensitive egotism led him to depreciate the fame of Dante, in whom he cannot but have recognised a poet in the highest sense superior to himself.[34] Again, while he complained of celebrity as an obstacle to studious employment, he showed the most acute interest when the details of his life were called in question.[35] Nothing, if we took his philosophic treatises for record, would have pleased him better than to live unnoticed. His letters make it manifest that he believed the eyes of the whole world were fixed upon him, and that he courted this attention of the public with a greedy appetite. [Footnote 33: See the treatise _De Vitâ Solitariâ_, pp. 223-292, and the letters on 'Vaucluse,' pp. 691-697.] [Footnote 34: See the discussion of this point in Baldelli's _Vita del Boccaccio_, pp. 130-135.] [Footnote 35: Compare the chapter in the dissertation _De Remediis_ on troublesome notoriety, p. 177, with the letter on his reception at Arezzo, p. 918, the letter to Nerius Morandus on the false news of his death, p. 776, and the letter to Boccaccio on his detractors, p. 749.] These qualities and contradictions mark Petrarch as a man of letters, not of action. He belonged essentially to the _genus irritabile vatum_, for whom the sphere of thoughts expressed on paper is more vivid than the world of facts. We may trace a corresponding weakness in his chief enthusiasms. Unable to distinguish between the realities of existence and the dreamland of his study, he hailed in Rienzi the restorer of old Rome, while he stigmatised his friends the Colonnesi as barbarian intruders.[36] The Rome he read of in the pages of Livy, seemed to the imagination of this visionary still alive and powerful; nor did he feel the absurdity of addressing the mediæval rabble of the Romans in phrases high-flown for a Gracchus.[37] While he courted the intimacy of the Correggi, and lived as a house-guest with the Visconti, he denounced these princes as tyrants, and appealed to the Emperor to take the reins and bring all Italy beneath his yoke.[38] Herein, it may be urged, Petrarch did but share a delusion common to his age. This is true; but the point to notice is the contradiction between his theories and the habits of his life. He was not a partisan on the Ghibelline side, but a believer in impossible ideals. His patriotism was no less literary than his temperament. The same tendency to measure all things by a student's standard made him exaggerate mere verbal eloquence. Words, according to his view, were power. Cicero held the highest place in his esteem, because his declamation was most copious. Aristotle, in spite of his profound philosophy, was censured for his lack of rhetoric.[39] Throughout the studied works of Petrarch we can trace this vice of a stylistic ideal. Though he never writes without some solid germ of thought, he loves to play with phrases, producing an effect of unreality, and seeming emulous of casuistical adroitness.[40] [Footnote 36: See the _Epistles to Rienzi_, pp. 677, 535.] [Footnote 37: Epistle to the Roman people, beginning 'Apud te invictissime domitorque terrarum popule meus,' p. 712.] [Footnote 38: Epistle to Charles IV., _De Pacificandâ Italiâ_, p. 531. This contradiction struck even his most ardent admirers with painful surprise. See Boccaccio quoted in Baldelli's _Life_, p. 115.] [Footnote 39: _Rerum memorandarum_, lib. ii. p. 415.] [Footnote 40: This is particularly noticeable in the miscellaneous collection of essays called _De Remediis utriusque Fortunæ_, where opposite views on a wide variety of topics are expressed with great dexterity.] The foregoing analysis was necessary because Petrarch became, as it were, a model for his followers in the field of scholarship. Italian humanism never lost the powerful impress of his genius, and the value of his influence can only be appreciated when the time arrives for summing up the total achievement of the Revival.[41] It remains to be regretted that the weaknesses of his character, his personal pretension and literary idealism, were more easily imitated than his strength. Petrarch's egotism differed widely from the insolent conceit of Filelfo and the pedantic boasts of Alciato. Nor did his enthusiasm for antiquity degenerate, like theirs, into a mere uncritical and servile worship. His humanism was both loftier and larger. He never forgot that Christianity was an advance upon Paganism, and that the accomplished man of letters must acquire the culture of the ancients without losing the virtues or sacrificing the hopes of a Christian. If only the humanists of the Renaissance could have preserved this point of view intact, they would have avoided the worst evils of the age, and have secured a nobler liberation of the modern reason. Petrarch created for himself a creed compounded of Roman Stoicism and Christian doctrine, adapting the precepts of the Gospels and the teaching of the Fathers, together with the ethics of Cicero and Seneca, to his own needs. Herein he showed the freedom of his genius, and led the way for the most brilliant thinkers of the coming centuries. The fault of his successors was a tendency to recede from this high vantage-ground, to accept the customary creed with cynical facility, while they inclined in secret to a laxity adopted from their study of the classics. By separating himself from tradition, without displaying an arrogant spirit of revolt against authority, Petrarch established the principle that men must guide their own souls by the double lights of culture and of conscience. His followers were too ready to make culture all in all, and lost thereby the opportunity of grounding a rational philosophy of life upon a solid basis for the modern world. Petrarch made it his sincere aim to be both morally and intellectually his highest self; and if he often failed in practice--if he succumbed to carnal frailty while he praised sobriety--if he sought for notoriety while professing indifference to fame--if he mistook dreams for realities and words for facts--still the ideal he proposed to himself and eloquently preached to his contemporaries, was a new and lofty one. After the lapse of five centuries, few as yet have passed beyond it. Even Goethe, for example, can claim no superiority of humanism above Petrarch, except by right of his participation in the scientific spirit. [Footnote 41: See the last chapter of this volume.] We are therefore justified in hailing Petrarch as the Columbus of a new spiritual hemisphere, the discoverer of modern culture. That he knew no Greek, that his Latin verse was lifeless and his prose style far from pure, that his contributions to history and ethics have been superseded, and that his epistles are now only read by antiquaries, cannot impair his claim to this title. From him the inspiration needed to quicken curiosity and stimulate a zeal for knowledge proceeded. But for his intervention in the fourteenth century, it is possible that the Revival of Learning, and all that it implies, might have been delayed until too late. Petrarch died in 1374. The Greek Empire was destroyed in 1453. Between those dates Italy recovered the Greek classics; but whether the Italians would have undertaken this labour if no Petrarch had preached the attractiveness of liberal studies, or if no school of disciples had been formed by him in Florence, remains more than doubtful. We are brought thus to recognise in him one of those heroes concerning whose relation to the spirit of the ages Hegel has discoursed in his 'Philosophy of History.' Petrarch, by anticipating the tendencies of the Revival, created the intellectual milieu required for its evolution.[42] Yet we are not therefore justified in saying that he was not himself the product of already existing spiritual forces in his century. The vast influence he immediately exercised, while Dante, though gifted with a far more powerful individuality, remained comparatively inoperative, proves that the age was specially prepared to receive his inspiration. [Footnote 42: The lines from the _Africa_ used as a motto for this volume are a prophecy of the Renaissance.] What remains to be said about the first period of Italian humanism is almost wholly concerned with men who either immediately or indirectly felt the influence of Petrarch's genius.[43] His shadow stretches over the whole age. Incited by his brilliant renown, Boccaccio, while still a young man, began to read the classical authors, bemoaning the years he had wasted in commerce and the study of the law to please his father. From what the poet of the 'Decameron' has himself told us about the origin of his literary enthusiasm, it appears that Petrarch's example was decisive in determining his course. There is, however, another tale, reported by his fellow-citizen Villani, so characteristic of the age that to omit it in this place would be to sacrifice one of the most attractive legends in the history of literature.[44] 'After wandering through many lands, now here, now there, for a long space of time, when he had reached at last his twenty-eighth year, Boccaccio, at his father's bidding, took up his abode at Naples in the Pergola. There it chanced one day that he walked forth alone for pleasure, and came to the place where Virgil's dust lies buried. At the sight of this sepulchre, he fell into long musing admiration of the man whose bones it covered, brooding with meditative soul upon the poet's fame, until his thoughts found vent in lamentations over his own envious fortunes, whereby he was compelled against his will to give himself to things of commerce that he loathed. A sudden love of the Pierian Muses smote his heart, and turning homeward, he abandoned trade, devoting himself with fervent study to poetry; wherein very shortly, aided alike by his noble genius and his burning desire, he made marvellous progress. This when his father noted, and perceived the heavenly inspiration was more powerful within his son than the paternal will, he at last consented to his studies, and helped him as best he could, although at first he tried to make him turn his talents to the canon law.' [Footnote 43: It is very significant of Petrarch's influence that his contemporaries ranked him higher, even as a sonnet-writer, than Dante. See _Coluccio de' Salutati's Letters_, part ii. p. 57.] [Footnote 44: Filippo Villani, _Vite d'Uomini Illustri Fiorentini_, Firenze, 1826, p. 9.] The hero-worship of Boccaccio, not only for the august Virgil, but also for Dante, the master of his youth and the idol of his mature age, is the most amiable trait in a character which, by its geniality and sweetness, cannot fail to win affection.[45] When circumstances brought him into personal relations with Petrarch, he transferred the whole homage of his ardent soul to the only man alive who seemed to him a fit inheritor of ancient fame.[46] Petrarch became the director of his conscience, the master of his studies, the moulder of his thoughts upon the weightiest matters of literary philosophy. The friendship established between the poet of Vaucluse and the lover of Fiammetta lasted through more than twenty years, and was only broken by the death of the former. Throughout this long space of time Boccaccio retained the attitude of a humble scholar, while in his published works, the 'Genealogiâ Deorum' and the 'Comento sopra i Primi Sedici Capitoli dell' "Inferno" di Dante,' he uniformly spoke of Petrarch as his father and his teacher, the wonder of the century, a heavenly poet better fitted to be numbered with the giants of the past than with the pygmies of a barren age. The fame enjoyed by Petrarch, the honours showered upon him by kings and princes, his own vanity, and even the discrepancies between his habits and his theories, produced no bitterness in Boccaccio's more modest nature. It was enough for the pupil to use his talents for the propagation of his master's views; and thus the influence of Petrarch was communicated to Florence, where Boccaccio continued to reside.[47] [Footnote 45: With his own hand Boccaccio transcribed the _Divine Comedy_, and sent the MS. to Petrarch, who in his reply wrote thus:--'Inseris nominatim hanc hujus officii tui escusationem, quod tibi adolescentulo primus studiorum dux, prima fax fuerit.' Baldelli, p. 133. The enthusiasm of Boccaccio for Dante contrasts favourably with Petrarch's grudging egotism.] [Footnote 46: Boccaccio was present at Naples when Petrarch disputed before King Robert for his title to the poet's crown (_Gen. Deor._ xiv. 22); but he first became intimate with him as a friend during Petrarch's visit to Florence in 1350.] [Footnote 47: Salutato, writing to Francesco da Brossano, describes his conversations with Boccaccio thus:--'Nihil aliud quam de Francisco (_i.e._ Petrarcha) conferebamus. In cujus laudationem adeo libenter sermones usurpabat, ut nihil avidius nihilque copiosius enarraret. Et eo magis quia tali orationis generi me prospiciebat intentum. Sufficiebat enim nobis Petrarcha solus, et omni posteritati sufficiet in moralitate sermonis, in eloquentiæ soliditate atque dulcedine, in lepore prosarum et in concinnitate metrorum.' _Epist. Fam._ p. 45.] In obedience to Petrarch's advice, Boccaccio in middle life applied himself to learning Greek. Petrarch had never acquired a real knowledge of the language, though he received a few lessons at Avignon from Barlaam, a Calabrian, who had settled in Byzantium, and who sought to advance his fortunes in Italy and Greece by alternate acts of apostasy, and afterwards at Venice from Leontius Pilatus.[48] The opportunities of Greek study enjoyed by Boccaccio were also very meagre, and his mastery of the idiom was superficial. Yet he advanced considerably beyond the point reached by any of his predecessors, so that he deserves to be named as the first Grecian of the modern world. Leontius Pilatus, a Southern Italian and a pupil of Barlaam, who, like his teacher, had removed to Byzantium and renounced the Latin faith, arrived at Venice on his way to Avignon in 1360. Boccaccio induced him to visit Florence, received him into his own house, and caused him to be appointed Greek Professor in the University. Then he set himself to work in earnest on the text of Homer. The ignorance of the teacher was, however, scarcely less than that of his pupil. While Leontius possessed a fair knowledge of Byzantine Greek, his command of Latin was very limited, and his natural stupidity was only equalled by his impudent pretensions. Of classical usages he seems to have known nothing. The imbecility of his master could scarcely have escaped the notice of Boccaccio. Indeed, both he and Petrarch have described Leontius as a sordid cynic with a filthy beard and tangled hair, morose in his temper and disgusting in his personal habits, who concealed a bovine ignorance beneath a lion's hide of ostentation. It was, however, necessary to make the best of him; for Greek in Northern Italy could nowhere else be gained, and Boccaccio had not thought, it seems, of journeying to Byzantium in search of what he wanted.[49] Boccaccio, accordingly, drank the muddy stream of pseudo-learning and lies that flowed from this man's lips, with insatiable avidity. The nonsense administered to him by way of satisfying his thirst for knowledge may best be understood from the following etymologies. [Greek: Achilleus] was derived from [Greek: a] and [Greek: chilos], 'without fodder.'[50] The names of the Muses gave rise to these extraordinary explanations:[51]--Melpomene is derived from _Melempio comene_, which signifies _facente stare la meditazione_; Thalia is the same as _Tithonlia_ or _pognente cosa che germini_; Polyhymnia, through _Polium neemen_, is the same as _cosa che faccia molta memoria_; Erato becomes _Euruncomenon_ or _trovatore del simile_, and Terpsichore is described as _dilettante ammaestramento_. [Footnote 48: _Epist. Rer. Sen._, lib. xi. 9, p. 887; lib. vi. 1, p. 806; lib. v. 4, p. 801.] [Footnote 49: Petrarch's letter to Ugone di San Severino, _Epist. Rer. Sen._ lib. xi. 9, p. 887, deserves to be read, since it proves that Italian scholars despaired at this time of gaining Greek learning from Constantinople. They were rather inclined to seek it in Calabria. 'Græciam, ut olim ditissimam, sic nunc omnis longe inopem disciplinæ ... quod desperat apud Græcos, non diffidit apud Calabros inveniri posse.'] [Footnote 50: _De Gen. Deor._ xv. 6, 7.] [Footnote 51: _Comento sopra Dante, Opp. Volg._ vol. x. p. 127. After allowing for the difficulty of writing Greek, pronounced by an Italian, in Italian letters, and also for the errors of the copyist and printer, it is clear that a Greek scholar who thought Melpomene was one 'who gives fixity to meditation,' Thalia one 'who plants the capacity of growth,' Polyhymnia she 'who strengthens and expands memory,' Erato 'the discoverer of similarity,' and Terpsichore 'delightful instruction,' was on a comically wrong track.] Such was the bathos reached by erudition in Byzantium. Yet Boccaccio made what use he could of his contemptible materials. At the dictation of Leontius he wrote out the 'Iliad' and 'Odyssey' in Latin; and this was the first translation made of Homer for modern readers. The manuscript, despatched to Petrarch, was, as we have seen already, greeted with enthusiasm.[52] This moment in the history of scholarship is so memorable that I may be excused for borrowing Baldelli's extract from an ancient copy of Boccaccio's autograph.[53] Lycaon addresses his last prayer to Achilles:-- Genu deprecor te Achilles: tu autem venerare et me miserere. Vada Servus. Jove genite venerabilis. Penes enim te primo gustavi Cereris farinam, Die illo, quando me cepisti in bene facto viridario; Et me transtulisti procul ferens patreque amicisque Lemnon ad gloriosam. Hecatombium autem honorem inveni, Nunc autem læsus ter tot ferens. Dies autem mihi est Hæc duodecima, quando ad Ilion veni Multa passus. Nunc iterum me in tuis manibus posuit Fatum destructibile. Debeo odio esse Jovi patri, Qui me tibi iterum dedit, medio cuique, me mater Genuit Lathoi, filia Altai senis. [Footnote 52: See above, p. 53, note 4.] [Footnote 53: _Vita del Boccaccio_, p. 264. The autograph was probably burned with other books of Boccaccio, and some of the unintelligible passages in the above quotation may be due to the ignorance of the copyist.] Only by keeping firmly in mind that such men as Petrarch and Boccaccio, the two chief masters of Italian literature, prized this wretched stuff as an inestimable treasure, can we justly conceive how utterly Greek had been lost, and what an effort it required to restore it to the modern world. Indefatigable industry was Boccaccio's great merit as a student. He transcribed the whole of Terence with his own hands, and showed a real sense of the advantage to be gained by a critical comparison of texts. In his mythological, geographical, and historical collections he bequeathed to posterity a curious mass of miscellaneous knowledge, forming, as it were, the first dictionaries of biography and antiquity for modern scholars.[54] Far from sharing the originality of Petrarch's humanistic ideal, he remained at best a laborious chronicler of facts and anecdotes. The author of the 'Decameron,' so richly gifted with humour, pathos, and poetic fancy, when he wrapped his student's robe around him, became a painstaking pioneer of antiquarian research. [Footnote 54: _De Genealogiâ Deorum_; _De Casibus Virorum ac Feminarum Illustrium_; _De Claris Muliebribus_; _De Montibus, Silvis, Fontibus_, &c.] One very important part of Petrarch's programme was eloquently supported by Boccaccio. The fourteenth and fifteenth books of the 'Genealogiâ Deorum' form what may be termed the first defence of poesy, composed in honour of his own art by a poet of the modern world. In them Boccaccio expounds a theory already sketched in outline by Petrarch. We have seen that the worst obstacle to humanistic culture lay, not so much in ignorance, as in misconceptions based upon prejudice and scruple. The notion of fine literature as an elevating and purifying influence had been lost. To restore it was the object of these earliest humanists. By poetry, contends Boccaccio, we must understand whatever of weighty in argument, deep in doctrine, and vivid in imagination the man of genius may produce with conscious art in prose and verse. Poetry is instruction conveyed through allegory and fiction. Theology itself, he reasons, is a form of poetry; even the Holy Ghost may be called a Poet, inasmuch as He used the vehicle of symbol in the visions of the prophets and the Revelation of S. John.[55] To such strained arguments was the apostle of culture driven in order to persuade his hearers, and to drag literature from the Avernus of mediæval neglect. We must not, however, imagine that Boccaccio was himself superior to a point of view so puerile. Allegory appeared to him a necessary condition of art: only a madman could deny the hidden meaning of the 'Georgics' and the 'Æneid;'[56] while the verses of Dante and of Petrarch owed their value to the Christian mysteries they shrouded. The poet, according to this mediæval philosophy of literature, was a sage and teacher wrapping up his august meanings in delightful fictions.[57] Though the common herd despised him as a liar and a falsehood-fabricator, he was, in truth, a prophet uttering his dark speech in parables. How foolish, therefore, reasons the apologist, are the enemies of poetry--sophistical dialecticians and avaricious jurists, who have never trodden the Phoebean hill, and who scorn the springs of Helicon because they do not flow with gold! Far worse is the condition of those monks and hypocrites who accuse the divine art of immorality and grossness, instead of reading between the lines and seeking the sense conveyed to the understanding under veils of allegory. Truly, proceeds Boccaccio, we do well to shun the errors of Pagans; nor can it be denied that poets of antiquity have written verse abhorrent to the Christian spirit. But, Jesus Christ be praised, the faith has triumphed. Strong in the doctrines of the Gospel and the Church, the student may safely approach the masterpieces of classic literature without fearing the seductions of the Siren. [Footnote 55: 'La teologia e la poesia quasi una cosa si possono dire ... la teologia niuna altra cosa è che una poesia d'Iddio.' _Vita di Dante_, p. 59. Cf. _Comento sopra Dante_, loc. cit. p. 45. The explanation of the Muses referred to above is governed by the same determination to find philosophy in poetry.] [Footnote 56: See Petrarch's letter 'De quibusdam fictionibus Virgilii.' _Ep. Rer. Sen._ lib. iv. 4, p. 785.] [Footnote 57: See the privilege granted to Petrarch by the Roman senator in 1343, _Petr. Opp._ tom. iii. p. 6.] This argument, forming the gist of the 'Apology for Poetry' in the 'Genealogiâ Deorum,' is repeated in the 'Comment upon Dante.' It is doubly interesting, both as showing the popular opinion of poetry and the prejudices Boccaccio thought it needful to attack, and also as containing a full exposition of the allegorising theories with which humanism started. For some time after Boccaccio's death the paragraphs condensed above supplied the champions of culture with weapons to be used against their ecclesiastical and scholastic antagonists; nor was it until humanism had triumphed, that the allegorical interpretation of the ancients was finally abandoned. Independently of his contributions to learning, Boccaccio occupies a prominent place in the history of the Revival through the new spirit he introduced into the vulgar literature. He was the first who frankly sought to justify the pleasures of the carnal life, whose temperament, unburdened by asceticism, found a congenial element in amorous legends of antiquity. The romances of Boccaccio, with their beautiful gardens and sunny skies, fair women and luxurious lovers, formed a transition from the chivalry of the early Italian poets to the sensuality of Beccadelli and Pontano. He prepared the nation for literary and artistic Paganism by unconsciously divesting thought and feeling of their spiritual elevation. Dante had made the whole world one in Christ. Petrarch put humanity to school in the lecture-room of Roman sages and in the councils of the Church. A terrestrial paradise of sensual delight, where all things were desirable and delicate, contented the poet of the 'Fiammetta' and 'Filostrato.' To the beatific vision of the 'Divine Comedy,' to the 'Trionfo della Morte,' succeeded the 'Visione Amorosa'--a review of human life, in which Boccaccio begins by invoking Dame Venus and ends with earthly love, _Il Sior di tutta pace_. The name given to Boccaccio by contemporaries, _Giovanni della Tranquillità_, sufficiently indicates his peaceful temperament. He was, in fact, the scholar, working in his study, and contributing to the erudition of his age by writings. Another of Petrarch's disciples, Giovanni Malpaghino, called from his birthplace Giovanni da Ravenna, exercised a more active personal influence over the destinies of scholarship. While still a youth he had been employed by Petrarch as secretary and amanuensis. His general ability, clear handwriting, and enthusiasm for learning first recommended him to the poet, who made use of him for copying manuscripts and arranging his familiar letters. In the course of this work John of Ravenna became himself a learned man, acquiring a finer sense of Latinity than was possessed by any other scholar of his time. Something, too, of the sacred fire he caught from Petrarch, so that in his manhood the very faults of his nature became instrumental in diffusing throughout Italy the passion for antiquity. He could not long content himself with being even Petrarch's scribe. Irresistible restlessness impelled him to seek adventures in the outer world, to mix with men and gain the glory he was always reading of. Petrarch, incapable of comprehending that any honour was greater than that of being his satellite, treated this ambitious pupil like a wilful child. A quarrel ensued. Giovanni left his benefactor's house and went forth to try his fortunes. Without repeating the vicissitudes of his career in detail, it is enough to mention that want and misery soon drove him back to Petrarch; that once more the vagrant impulse came upon him, and that for a season he filled the post of chancellor in the little principality of Carrara.[58] The one thing, however, which he could not endure, was the routine of fixed employment. Therefore we find that he abandoned the Court of the Malaspini, and betook himself to the more congenial work of a wandering professor. His prodigious memory, by enabling him to retain, word for word, the text of authors he had read, proved of invaluable service to him in this career. His passionate poetic temper made him apt to raise enthusiasm in young souls for literary studies. Giovanni da Ravenna was in fact the first of those vagabond humanists with whom we shall be occupied in the next chapters, and of whom Filelfo was the most illustrious example. Florence, Padua, Venice, and many other cities of Italy received the Latinist, whose reputation now increased with every year. In each of these towns in succession he lectured upon Cicero and the Roman poets, pouring forth the knowledge he had acquired in Petrarch's study, and transmitting to his audience the inspiration he had received from his master. The school thus formed was compared a century later to the Trojan horse, whence issued a band of heroes destined to possess the capital of classic learning. As a writer, he produced little that is worth more than a passing notice. His real merit consisted, as Lionardo Bruni witnessed, in his faculty of arousing a passion for pure literature, and especially for the study of Cicero. Among his most illustrious pupils may be mentioned Francesco Barbaro, Palla degli Strozzi, Roberto de' Rossi, Francesco Filelfo, Carlo Marsuppini, Poggio Bracciolini, Lionardo Bruni, Guarino da Verona, Vittorino da Feltre, Ambrogio Traversari, Ognibene da Vicenza, and Pier Paolo Vergerio. This list, as will appear from the sequel of my work, includes nearly all those scholars who devoted their energies to erudition at Venice, Florence, Rome, Mantua, Ferrara, and Perugia in the fifteenth century. Giovanni da Ravenna deserves, therefore, to be honoured as the link between the age of Petrarch and the age of Poggio, as the vessel chosen for communicating the sacred fire of humanism to the Courts and Republics of Italy. None but a wanderer, _vagus quidam_, as Petrarch, half in scorn and half in sorrow, called his protégé, could so effectually have carried on the work of propagation.[59] [Footnote 58: De Sade, in his _Memoirs of Petrarch_, gives an interesting account of this romantic episode in his life. See too Petrarch, _Epist. Rer. Sen._ lib. v. 6 and 7, pp. 802-806.] [Footnote 59: _Epist. Rer. Sen._ lib. xiv. 14, p. 942.] The name of the next student claiming our attention as a disciple of Petrarch, brings us once more back to Florence. Luigi Marsigli was a monk of the Augustine Order of S. Spirito. Petrarch, noticing his distinguished abilities, had exhorted him to make a special study of theology, and to enter the lists as a champion of Christianity against the Averrhoists.[60] Under the name of Averrhoists in the fourteenth century were ranged all freethinkers who questioned the fundamental doctrines of the Church, doubted the immortality of the soul, and employed their ingenuity in a dialectic at least as trivial as that of the schoolmen, but directed to a very different end.[61] Petrarch disliked their want of liberal culture as much as he abhorred their affectation of impiety. The stupid materialism they professed, their gross flippancy, and the idle pretence of natural science upon which they piqued themselves, were regarded by him as so many obstacles to his own ideal of humanism. He only saw in them another set of scholastic wranglers, worse than the theologians, inasmuch as they had cast off Christ. Against Averrhoes, 'the raging hound who barked at all things sacred and Divine,' Petrarch therefore sought to stimulate the young Marsigli. Marsigli, however, while he shared Petrarch's respect for humane culture, seems to have sympathised with the audacity and freedom of his proposed antagonists. The Convent of S. Spirito became under his influence the centre of a learned society, who met there regularly for disputations. The theme chosen for discussion was posted up upon the wall of the debating-room, metaphysical and ethical subjects forming the most frequent matter of inquiry.[62] Among the members of the circle who sharpened their wits in this species of dialectic, we find Coluccio de' Salutati, Roberto de' Rossi, Niccolo de' Niccoli, and Giannozzo Manetti. The influence of Marsigli in forming their character was undoubtedly powerful. Poggio, in his funeral oration upon Niccolo de' Niccoli, tells us that 'the house of Marsigli was frequented by distinguished youths, who set themselves to imitate his life and habits; it was, moreover, the resort of the best and noblest burghers of this city, who flowed together from all quarters to him as to some oracle of more than human wisdom.'[63] His intellectual acuteness, solid erudition, and winning eloquence were displayed in moral disquisitions upon Virgil, Cicero, and Seneca. In this way he had the merit of combining the dialectic method and the bold spirit of the Averrhoists with the sound learning and polite culture of the newly-discovered humanities. The Convent of S. Spirito has to be mentioned as the first of those many private academies to which the free thought and the scholarship of Italy were afterwards destined to owe so much. [Footnote 60: _Epist. sine titulo_, xviii. p. 732.] [Footnote 61: See the exhaustive work of Renan, _Averroès et l'Averroïsme_.] [Footnote 62: See Manetti's _Life_, Mur. xx. col. 531. Other references will be found in Vespasiano's _Lives_. Boccaccio's library was preserved in this convent.] [Footnote 63: _Poggii Opera_, p. 271.] It is my object in this chapter to show how humanistic scholarship, starting from Petrarch, penetrated every department of study, and began to permeate the intellectual life of the Italians. We have now to notice its intrusion into the sphere of politics. Petrarch died in 1374, Boccaccio in 1375. The latter date is also that of Coluccio de' Salutati's entrance upon the duties of Florentine Chancellor. Salutato, the friend of Boccaccio and the disciple of Marsigli, the professed worshipper of Petrarch and the translator of Dante into Latin verse, was destined to exercise an important influence in his own department as a stylist. Before he was called to act as secretary to the Signory of Florence in his forty-sixth year, he had already acquired the learning and imbibed the spirit of his age. He was known as a diligent collector of manuscripts and promoter of Greek studies, as a writer on mythology and morals, as an orator and miscellaneous author.[64] His talents had now to be concentrated on the weightier business of the Florentine Republic; but his study of antiquity caused him to conceive his duties and the political relations of the State he served, in a new light. During the wars carried on with Gregory XI. and the Visconti, his pen was never idle. For the first time he introduced into public documents the gravity of style and melody of phrase he had learned in the school of classic rhetoricians. The effect produced by this literary statesman, as elegant in authorship as he was subtle in the conduct of affairs, can only be estimated at its proper value when we remember that the Italians were now ripe to receive the influence of rhetoric, and only too ready to attribute weight to verbal ingenuity. Gian Galeazzo Visconti is said to have declared that Salutato had done him more harm by his style than a troop of paid mercenaries.[65] The epistles, despatches, protocols, and manifestoes composed by their Chancellor for the Florentine priors, were distributed throughout Italy. Read and copied by the secretaries of other states, they formed the models of a new State eloquence.[66] Elegant Latinity became a necessary condition of public documents, and Ciceronian phrases were henceforth reckoned among the indispensable engines of a diplomatic armoury. Offices of trust in the Papal Curia, the courts of the Despots, and the chanceries of the republics were thus thrown open to professional humanists. In the next age we shall find that neither princes, popes, nor priors could do without the services of trained stylists. [Footnote 64: Salutato's familiar letters, _Lini Coluci Pieri Salutati Epistolarum Pars Secunda, Florentiæ_, MDCCXXXXI., are a valuable source of information respecting scholarship at the close of the fourteenth century. See especially his letter to Benvenuto da Imola on the death of Petrarch (p. 32), his letter to the same about Petrarch's _Africa_ (p. 41), another letter about the preservation of the _Africa_ (p. 79), a letter to Petrarch's nephew Francesco da Brossano on the death of Boccaccio (p. 44), and a letter to a certain Comes Magnificus on the literary and philosophical genius of Petrarch (p. 49).] [Footnote 65: 'Galeacius Mediolanensium Princeps crebro auditus est dicere non tam sibi mille Florentinorum equites quam Colucii scripta nocere.' _Pii Secundi Europæ Commentarii_, p. 454.] [Footnote 66: 'Costui fu de' migliori dittatori di pistole al mondo, perocchè molti quando ne potevano avere, ne toglieano copie; si piaceano a tutti gl'intendenti: e nelle corte di Re e di signori del mondo, e anchora de' cherici era di lui in questa arte maggiore fama che di alcuno altro uomo.' From the Chronicle of Luca da Scarparia. These epistles were collected and printed by Josephus Rigaccius, Bibliopola Florentinus Celeberrimus, in 1741. Among the letters written for the Signory of Florence, that of congratulation to Gian Galeazzo Visconti on his murder of Bernabo (p. 16), that to the French Cardinals (p. 18), to Sir John Hawkwood, or Domino Joanni Aucud (p. 107), to the Marquis of Moravia (p. 110), and to the Romans (p. 141) deserve to be read.] While concentrating attention upon this chief contribution of Salutato to Italian scholarship, I must not omit to notice, however briefly, the patronage he exercised at Florence. Both Poggio Bracciolini and Lionardo Bruni owed their advancement to his interest.[67] Giacomo da Scarparia, the first Florentine who visited Byzantium with a view to learning Greek, received from him the warmest encouragement, together with a commission for the purchase of manuscripts. To his activity in concert with Palla degli Strozzi was due the establishment of a Greek chair in the University of Florence. Nor was this zeal confined to the living. He composed the Lives of Dante, Petrarch, and Boccaccio, translated a portion of the 'Divine Comedy' into Latin for its wider circulation through the learned world, and caused the 'Africa' of Petrarch to be published.[68] When the illustrious Chancellor died, in the year 1406, at the age of seventy-six, he was honoured with a public funeral; the poet's crown was placed upon his brow, a panegyrical oration was recited, and a monument was erected to him in the Duomo.[69] [Footnote 67: See the letter of Lionardo Bruni, quoted in _Lini Coluci Pieri Salutati Epistolæ_, p. xv. Coluccio's own letter recommending Lionardo to Innocent VII., ib. p. 5, and his numerous familiar letters to Poggio, ib. pp. 13, 173, &c.] [Footnote 68: 'Certe cogitabam revidere librum, et si quid, ut scribis, vel absonum, vel contra metrorum regulam intolerabile deprehendissem, curiosius elimare et sicut Naso finxit in Æneida, singulos libros paucis versiculis quasi in argumenti formam brevissime resumere, et exinde pluribus sumptis exemplis, et per me ipsum correctis et diligenter revisis, unum ad Bononiense gymnasium, unum Parisiis, unum in Angliam cum meâ epistolâ de libri laudibus destinare, et unum in Florentiâ ponere in loco celebri,' &c. _Epistolæ_, part ii. p. 80.] [Footnote 69: Among the other _laureati_ who filled the post of Florentine Chancellor may be mentioned Dante's tutor, Brunetto Latini, Lionardo Bruni, Carlo Marsuppini, Poggio Bracciolini, and Benedetto Accolti, of whom more hereafter.] What Salutato accomplished for the style of public documents, Gasparino da Barzizza effected for familiar correspondence. After teaching during several years at Venice and Padua, he was summoned to Milan in 1418 by Filippo Maria Visconti, who ordered him to open a school in that capital. Gasparino made a special study of Cicero's Letters, and caused his pupils to imitate them as closely as possible, forming in this way an art of fluent letter-writing known afterwards as the _ars familiariter scribendi_. Epistolography in general, considered as a branch of elegant literature, occupied all the scholars of the Renaissance, and had the advantage of establishing a link of union between learned men in different parts of Italy. We therefore recognise in Gasparino the initiator, after Petrarch, of a highly important branch of Italian culture. This, when it reached maturity, culminated in the affectations of the Ciceronian purists. It must be understood that neither Salutato nor Gasparino attained to real polish or freedom of style. Compared even with the Latinity of Poggio, theirs is heavy and uncouth; while that of Poggio seems barbarous by the side of Poliziano's, and Poliziano in turn yields the palm of mere correctness to Bembo. It was only by degrees that the taste of the Italians formed itself, and that facility was acquired in writing a lost language. The fact that mediæval Latin was still used in legal documents, in conversation, in the offices of the Church, and in the theological works which formed the staple of all libraries, impeded the recovery of a classic style. When the Italians had finally learned how to polish prose, it was easy to hand on the art to other nations; while to sneer at their pedantry, as Erasmus did, was no matter of great difficulty. By that time their scrupulous and anxious preoccupation with purity of phrase threatened danger to the interests of liberal learning. Hitherto, with the exception only of Boccaccio's Greek studies, I have had to trace the rise of Latin letters and to call particular attention to the cult of Cicero in Italy. It is now necessary to mention the advent of a man who played a part in the revival of learning only second to that of Petrarch. Manuel Chrysoloras, a Byzantine of noble birth, came to Italy during the Pontificate of Boniface IX., charged by the Emperor Palæologus with the mission of attempting to arm the states of Christendom against the Turk. Like all the Greeks who visited Western Europe, Chrysoloras first alighted in Venice; but the Republic of the Lagoons neither understood the secret nor felt the need of retaining these birds of passage. After a few months they almost invariably passed on to Florence--the real centre of the intellectual life of Italy. As soon as it was known that Chrysoloras, who enjoyed the fame of being the most accomplished and eloquent Hellenist of his age, had arrived with his companion, Demetrios Kydonios, in Venice, two noble Florentines, Roberto de' Rossi and Giacomo d'Angelo da Scarparia, set forth to visit him. The residence of the Greek ambassadors in Italy on this occasion was but brief; they found that, politically, they could effect nothing. But Giacomo da Scarparia journeyed in their society to Byzantium; while Roberto de' Rossi returned to Florence, full of the impression which the erudite philosophers had left upon him. The report he made to his fellow-citizens awoke a passionate desire in Palla degli Strozzi and Niccolo de' Niccoli to bring Chrysoloras in person to Florence. Their urgent appeals to the Signory resulted in an invitation whereby Chrysoloras in 1396 was induced to fill the Greek chair in the university. A yearly stipend of 150 golden florins, raised afterwards to 250, was voted for his maintenance. This engagement secured the future of Greek erudition in Europe. The merit of having brought the affair to a successful issue belongs principally to Palla degli Strozzi, of whom Vespasiano wrote: 'There being in Florence exceeding good knowledge of Latin letters, but of Greek none, he resolved that this defect should be remedied, and therefore did all he could to make Manuel Grisolora visit Italy, using all his influence thereto and paying a large portion of the expense incurred.'[70] We must not, however, omit the share which Coluccio Salutato,[71] by his influence with the Signory, and Niccolo de' Niccoli, by the interest he exerted with the Uffiziali dello Studio, may also claim. Among the audience of this the first true teacher of Greek at Florence were numbered Palla degli Strozzi, Roberto de' Rossi, Poggio Bracciolini, Lionardo Bruni, Francesco Barbaro, Giannozzo Manetti, Carlo Marsuppini, and Ambrogio Traversari--some of them young men of eighteen, others old and grey-haired, nearly all of them the scholars in Latinity of Giovanni da Ravenna. Nor was Florence the only town to receive the learning of Chrysoloras. He opened schools at Rome, at Padua, at Milan, and at Venice; so that his influence as a wandering professor was at least equal to that exercised by Giovanni da Ravenna. [Footnote 70: _Vite d'Uomini Illustri_, p. 271.] [Footnote 71: Cf. the letter quoted by Voigt (p. 130) to Giacomo da Scarparia, which shows Coluccio's enthusiasm for Greek.] The impulse communicated to the study of antiquity by Chrysoloras, and the noble enthusiasm of his scholars for pure literature, may best be understood from a passage in the 'Commentaries' of Lionardo Bruni, whereof the following is a compressed translation:[72]--'Letters at this period grew mightily in Italy, seeing that the knowledge of Greek, intermitted for seven centuries, revived. Chrysoloras of Byzantium, a man of noble birth and well skilled in Greek literature, brought to us Greek learning. I at that time was following the civil law, though not ill-versed in other studies; for by nature I loved learning with ardour, nor had I given slight pains to dialectic and to rhetoric. Therefore, at the coming of Chrysoloras, I was made to halt in my choice of lives, seeing that I held it wrong to desert law, and yet I reckoned it a crime to omit so great an occasion of learning the Greek literature; and oftentimes I reasoned with myself after this manner:--Can it be that thou, when thou mayest gaze on Homer, Plato, and Demosthenes, together with other poets, philosophers, and orators, concerning whom so great and so wonderful things are said, and mayest converse with them, and receive their admirable doctrine--can it be that thou wilt desert thyself and neglect the opportunity divinely offered thee? Through seven hundred years no one in all Italy has been master of Greek letters; and yet we acknowledge that all science is derived from them. Of civil law, indeed, there are in every city scores of doctors; but should this single and unique teacher of Greek be removed, thou wilt find no one to instruct thee. Conquered at last by these reasonings, I delivered myself over to Chrysoloras with such passion that what I had received from him by day in hours of waking, occupied my mind at night in hours of sleep.' [Footnote 72: Mur. xix. 920.] The earnestness of this paragraph is characteristic of the whole period. The scholars who assembled in the lecture-rooms of Chrysoloras, felt that the Greek texts, whereof he alone supplied the key, contained those elements of spiritual freedom and intellectual culture without which the civilisation of the modern world would be impossible. Nor were they mistaken in what was then a guess rather than a certainty. The study of Greek implied the birth of criticism, comparison, research. Systems based on ignorance and superstition were destined to give way before it. The study of Greek opened philosophical horizons far beyond the dream-world of the churchmen and the monks; it stimulated the germs of science, suggested new astronomical hypotheses, and indirectly led to the discovery of America. The study of Greek resuscitated a sense of the beautiful in art and literature. It subjected the creeds of Christianity, the language of the Gospels, the doctrine of S. Paul, to analysis, and commenced a new era for Biblical inquiry. If it be true, as a writer no less sober in his philosophy than eloquent in his language has lately asserted, that, 'except the blind forces of nature, nothing moves in this world which is not Greek in its origin,' we are justified in regarding the point of contact between the Greek teacher Chrysoloras and his Florentine pupils as one of the most momentous crises in the history of civilisation. Indirectly, the Italian intellect had hitherto felt Hellenic influence through Latin literature. It was now about to receive that influence immediately from actual study of the masterpieces of the Attic authors. The world was no longer to be kept in ignorance of those 'eternal consolations' of the human race. No longer could the scribe omit Greek quotations from his Latin text with the dogged snarl of obtuse self-satisfaction--_Græca sunt, ergo non legenda_. The motto had rather to be changed into a cry of warning for ecclesiastical authority upon the verge of dissolution--_Græca sunt, ergo periculosa_: since the reawakening faith in human reason, the reawakening belief in the dignity of man, the desire for beauty, the liberty, audacity, and passion of the Renaissance, received from Greek studies their strongest and most vital impulse. CHAPTER III FIRST PERIOD OF HUMANISM Condition of the Universities in Italy -- Bologna -- High Schools founded from it -- Naples under Frederick II. -- Under the House of Anjou -- Ferrara -- Piacenza -- Perugia -- Rome -- Pisa -- Florence -- Imperial and Papal Charters -- Foreign Students -- Professorial Staff -- Subjects taught in the High Schools -- Place assigned to Humanism -- Pay of the Professors of Eloquence -- Francesco Filelfo -- The Humanists less powerful at the Universities -- Method of Humanistic Teaching -- The Book Market before Printing -- Mediæval Libraries -- Cost of Manuscripts -- _Stationarii_ and _Peciarii_ -- Negligence of Copyists -- Discovery of Classical Codices -- Boccaccio at Monte Cassino -- Poggio at Constance -- Convent of S. Gallen -- Bruni's Letter to Poggio -- Manuscripts discovered by Poggio -- Nicholas of Treves -- Collection of Greek Manuscripts -- Aurispa, Filelfo, and Guarino -- The Ruins of Rome -- Their Influence on Humanism -- Dante and Villani -- Rienzi -- His Idealistic Patriotism -- Vanity -- Political Incompetence -- Petrarch's Relations with Rienzi -- Injury to Monuments in Rome -- Poggio's Roman Topography -- Sentimental Feeling for the Ruins of Antiquity -- Ciriac of Ancona. Having so far traced the quickening of a new sense for antiquity among the Italians, it will be well at this point to consider the external resources of Humanism before continuing the history of the Revival in the fifteenth century. The condition of the universities, the state of the book trade before the invention of printing, and the discovery of manuscripts claim separate attention; nor may it be out of place to inquire what stimulus the enthusiasm for classical studies received from the ruins of Rome. A review of these topics will help to explain the circumstances under which the pioneers of culture had to labour, and the nature of the crusade they instituted against ignorance in every part of Europe. The oldest and most frequented university in Italy, that of Bologna, is represented as having flourished in the twelfth century.[73] Its prosperity in early times depended greatly on the personal conduct of the principal professors, who, when they were not satisfied with their entertainment, were in the habit of seceding with their pupils to other cities. Thus high schools were opened from time to time in Modena, Reggio, and elsewhere by teachers who broke the oaths that bound them to reside in Bologna, and fixed their centre of education in a rival town. To make such temporary changes was not difficult in an age when what we have to call an university, consisted of masters and scholars, without college buildings, without libraries, without endowments, and without scientific apparatus. The technical name for such institutions seems to have been _studium scholarium_, Italianised into _studio_ or _studio pubblico_.[74] Among the more permanent results of these secessions may be mentioned the establishment of the high school at Vicenza by translation from Bologna in 1204, and the opening of a school at Arezzo under similar circumstances in 1215; the great University of Padua first saw the light in consequence of political discords forcing the professors to quit Bologna for a season.[75] [Footnote 73: Tiraboschi, _Storia della Letteratura Italiana_, vol. iv. p. 42 _et seq._, vol. v. p. 60 _et seq._ Large quarto, Modena, 1787.] [Footnote 74: See Muratori, vol. viii. 15, 75, 372. Matteo Villani, lib. i. cap. 8.] [Footnote 75: 'Hoc anno translatum est Studium Scholarium de Bononiâ Paduam.' Mur. viii. 372.] The first half of the thirteenth century witnessed the foundation of these _studi_ in considerable numbers. That of Vercelli was opened in 1228, the municipality providing two certified copyists for the convenience of students who might wish to purchase text-books.[76] In 1224 the Emperor Frederick II., to whom the south of Italy owed a precocious eminence in literature, established the University of Naples by an Imperial diploma.[77] With a view to rendering it the chief seat of learning in his dominions, he forbade the subjects of the Regno to frequent other schools, and suppressed the University of Bologna by letters general. Thereupon Bologna joined the Lombard League, defied the emperor, and refused to close the schools, which numbered at that period about ten thousand students of various nationalities. In 1227 Frederick revoked his edict, and Bologna remained thenceforward unmolested. Political and internal vicissitudes, affecting all the Italian universities at this period, interrupted the prosperity of that of Naples. In the middle of the thirteenth century Salerno proved a dangerous rival; but when the House of Anjou was established in the kingdom of the Sicilies, special privileges were granted, restoring the high school of the capital to the first rank. Charles I. created a separate court of jurisdiction for its management. This consisted of a judge and three assessors, one for the control of foreigners, another for the subjects of the Regno, and the third for Italians from other states. [Footnote 76: They were called 'Exemplatores.' See Tiraboschi, vol. iv. lib. i cap. 2.] [Footnote 77: Muratori, vii. p. 997. Amari, _Storia dei Mussulmani di Sicilia_, vol. iii. p. 706.] In 1264 we find a public school in operation at Ferrara. By its charter the professors were exempt from military service. The University of Piacenza came into existence a little earlier. Innocent IV. established it in 1248, with privileges similar to those of Paris and Bologna. An important group of _studi pubblici_ owed their origin to Papal or Imperial charters in the first half of the fourteenth century. That of Perugia was founded in 1307 by a Bull of Clement V. That of Rome dated from 1303, in which year Boniface VIII. gave it a constitution by a special edict; but the translation of the Papal See to Avignon caused it to fall into premature decadence. The University of Pisa had already existed for some years, when it received a charter in 1343 from Clement VI. That of Florence was first founded in 1321.[78] In 1348 a place for its public buildings was assigned between the Duomo and the Palazzo Pubblico, on the site of what was afterwards known as the Collegium Eugenianum. A council of eight burghers was appointed for its management, and a yearly sum was set apart for its maintenance. In 1349 Clement VI. gave it the same privileges as the University of Bologna, while in 1364 it received an Imperial diploma from Charles IV. The same emperor granted charters to Siena in 1357, to Arezzo in 1356, and to Lucca in 1369. In 1362 Galeazzo Visconti obtained a charter for his University of Pavia from Charles IV., with the privileges of Paris, Oxford, and Bologna. [Footnote 78: See Von Reumont, _Lorenzo de' Medici_, vol. i. p. 521.] It will be observed that the majority of the _studi pubblici_ obtained charters either from the Pope or the emperor, or from both, less for the sake of any immediate benefit to be derived from Papal or Imperial patronage, than because supreme authority in Italy was still referred to one or other of these heads. It was a great object with each city to increase its wealth by attracting foreigners as residents, and to retain the native youth within its precincts. The municipalities, therefore, accorded immunities from taxation and military service to _bona fide_ students, prohibited their burghers from seeking rival places of learning, and in some cases allowed the university authorities to exercise a special jurisdiction over the motley multitude of scholars from all countries. How miscellaneous the concourse in some of the high schools used to be, may be gathered from the reports extracted by Tiraboschi from their registers. At Vicenza, for example, in 1209 we find the names of Bohemians, Poles, Frenchmen, Burgundians, Germans, and Spaniards, as well as of Italians of divers towns. The rectors of this _studio_ in 1205 included an Englishman, a Provençal, a German, and a Cremonese. The list of illustrious students at Bologna between 1265 and 1294 show men of all the European nationalities, proving that the foreigners attracted by the university must have formed no inconsiderable element in the whole population.[79] This will account for the prominent part played by the students from time to time in the political history of Bologna.[80] [Footnote 79: In 1320 there were at least 15,000 students in Bologna.] [Footnote 80: See Sismondi, vol. iii. p. 349.] The importance attached by great cities to their universities as a source of strength, may be gathered from the chapter in Matteo Villani's Chronicle describing the foundation of the _studio pubblico_ in Florence.[81] He expressly mentions that the Signory were induced to take this step in consequence of the depopulation inflicted by the Black Death of 1348. By drawing residents to Florence from other States, they hoped to increase the number of the inhabitants, and to restore the decayed fame and splendour of the commonwealth.[82] At the same time they thought that serious studies might put an end to the demoralisation produced in all classes by the plague. With this object in view, they engaged the best teachers, and did not hesitate to devote a yearly sum of 2,500 golden florins to the maintenance of their high school. Bologna, which owed even more than Florence to its university, is said to have lavished as much as half of its revenue, about 20,000 ducats, on the pay of professors and other incidental expenses. The actual cost incurred by cities through their schools cannot, however, be accurately estimated, since it varied from year to year according to the engagements made with special teachers. At Pavia, for example, in 1400, the university supported in Canon Law several eminent doctors, in Civil Law thirteen, in Medicine five, in Philosophy three, in Astrology one, in Greek one, and in Eloquence one.[83] Whether this staff was maintained after the lapse of another twenty years we do not know for certain. [Footnote 81: Lib. i. cap. 8.] [Footnote 82: 'Volendo attrarre gente alla nostra città, e dilatarla in onore, e dare materia a' suoi cittadini d'essere scienziati e virtudiosi.'] [Footnote 83: Cf. Corio, p. 290. He gives the names of the professors who attended at the funeral of Gian Galeazzo Visconti.] The subjects taught in the high schools were Canon and Civil Law, Medicine, and Theology. These faculties, important for the professional education of the public, formed the staple of the academical curriculum. Chairs of Rhetoric, Philosophy, and Astronomy were added according to occasion, the last sometimes including the study of judicial astrology. If we inquire how the humanists or professors of classic literature were related to the universities, we find that, at first at any rate, they always occupied a second rank. The permanent teaching remained in the hands of jurists, who enjoyed life engagements at a high rate of pay, while the Latinists and Grecians could only aspire to the temporary occupation of the Chair of Rhetoric, with salaries considerably lower than those of lawyers or physicians. The cause of this inferiority is easily explained. It was natural that important and remunerative branches of learning like law and medicine should attract a greater number of students than pure literature, and that their professors should be better paid than the teachers of eloquence. Padua, Bologna, and Pavia in particular retained their legal speciality throughout the period of the Renaissance, and remained but little open to humanistic influences. At Padua we find from Sanudo's Diary[84] that an eminent jurist received a stipend of 1,000 ducats. A Doctor of Medicine at the same university, in 1491, received a similar stipend, together with the right of private practice. At Bologna the famous jurist Abbas Siculus (Niccolo de' Tudeschi) drew 800 scudi yearly; at Padua Giovanni da Imola in 1406, and Paolo da Castro in 1430, drew a sum of 600 ducats.[85] About the same time (1453) Lauro Quirino, who professed rhetoric at Padua, was paid at the rate of only forty ducats yearly, while Lorenzo Valla, at Pavia, filled the Chair of Eloquence with an annual stipend of fifty sequins. The disparity between the remuneration of jurists and that of humanists was not so great at all the universities. Florence in especial formed a notable exception. From the date of its commencement the Florentine _studio_ was partial to literature; and it is worth remarking that when Lorenzo de' Medici transferred the high school to Pisa, he retained at Florence the professors of the liberal sciences and _belles-lettres_. The great reputation of eminent rhetoricians, again, often secured for them temporary engagements at a high rate. Thus we gather from Rosmini's 'Life of Filelfo' that this humanist received from Venice the offer of 500 sequins yearly as remuneration for his professorial services. Bologna proposed an annual stipend of 450 sequins when he undertook to lecture upon eloquence and moral philosophy. At Florence his income amounted to 350 golden florins, secured for three years, and subsequently raised to 450. With Siena he stipulated for 350 golden florins for two years. At Milan his Chair of Eloquence was endowed with 500 golden florins, and this salary was afterwards increased to 700. Nicholas V. offered him an annual income of 600 ducats if he would devote himself to the translation of Greek books into Latin, while Sixtus IV. tried to bring him to Rome by proposing 600 Roman florins as the stipend of the Chair of Rhetoric. [Footnote 84: Mur. xxii. 990.] [Footnote 85: See Voigt, p. 447.] The fact, however, remains that while the special study of antiquity preoccupied the minds of the Italians, and attracted all the finer intellects among the youth ambitious of distinction, its professors never succeeded in taking complete possession of the universities. Their position there was always that of wandering stars and resident aliens. This accounts in some measure for the bitter hostility and scorn which they displayed against the teachers of theology and law and medicine. The real home of the humanists was in the Courts of princes, the palaces of the cultivated burghers, the Roman Curia, and the chanceries of the republics. As secretaries, house tutors, readers, Court poets, historiographers, public orators, and companions they were indispensable. We shall therefore find that the private academies formed by the literati and their patrons, the schools of princes established at Mantua and Ferrara, and the residences of great nobles play a more important part in the history of humanism than do the universities. At the same time the spirit of the new culture diffused by the humanists so thoroughly permeated the whole intellectual activity of the Italians, that in course of time the special studies of the high schools assumed a more literary and liberal form. The classics then supplied the starting-point for juristic and medical disquisitions. Poliziano was seen lecturing upon the Pandects of Justinian, while Pomponazzi made the Chair of Philosophy at Padua subservient to the exposition of materialism. This triumph of humanism, like its triumph in the Church, was effected less by immediate working on the universities than by a gradual and indirect determination of the whole race towards the study of antiquity. In picturing to ourselves the method pursued by the humanists in the instruction of their classes, we must divest our minds of all associations with the practice of modern professors. Very few of the students whom the master saw before him, possessed more than meagre portions of the text of Virgil or of Cicero; they had no notes, grammars, lexicons, or dictionaries of antiquities and mythology, to help them. It was therefore necessary for the lecturer to dictate quotations, to repeat parallel passages at full length, to explain geographical and historical allusions, to analyse the structure of sentences in detail, to provide copious illustrations of grammatical usage, to trace the stages by which a word acquired its meaning in a special context, to command a full vocabulary of synonyms, to give rules for orthography, and to have the whole Pantheon at his fingers' ends. In addition to this he was expected to comment upon the meaning of his author, to interpret his philosophy, to point out the beauties of his style, to introduce appropriate moral disquisition on his doctrine, to sketch his biography, and to give some account of his relation to the history of his country and to his predecessors in the field of letters. In short, the professor of rhetoric had to be a grammarian, a philologer, an historian, a stylist, and a sage in one. He was obliged to pretend at least to an encyclopædic knowledge of the classics, and to retain whole volumes in his memory. All these requirements, which seem to have been satisfied by such men as Filelfo and Poliziano, made the profession of eloquence--for so the varied subject matter of humanism was often called--a very different business from that which occupies a lecturer of the present century. Scores of students, old and young, with nothing but pen and paper on the desks before them, sat patiently recording what the lecturer said. At the end of his discourses on the 'Georgics' or the 'Verrines,' each of them carried away a compendious volume, containing a transcript of the author's text, together with a miscellaneous mass of notes, critical, explanatory, ethical, æsthetical, historical, and biographical. In other words, a book had been dictated, and as many scores of copies as there were attentive pupils had been made.[86] The language used was Latin. No dialect of Italian could have been intelligible to the students of different nationalities who crowded the lecture-rooms. The elementary education in grammar requisite for following a professorial course of lectures had been previously provided by the teachers of the Latin schools, which depended for maintenance partly on the State[87] and partly on private enterprise. The Church does not seem to have undertaken the management of these primary boys' schools. [Footnote 86: Many of the earliest printed editions of the Latin poets give an exact notion of what such lectures must have been. The text is embedded in an all-embracing commentary.] [Footnote 87: Cf. Villani's Statistics of Florence, and Corio's of Milan.] Since this was the nature of academical instruction in the humanities before the age of printing, it followed that the professor had a direct interest in frequently shifting his scene of operations. More than a certain number of such books as I have just attempted to describe could not be carried in his head. After he had dictated his work on the 'Georgics' at Florence, he was naturally anxious to move to Milan and to do the same. A new audience gave new value to his lectures, and another edition, as it were, of his book was put in circulation. In the correspondence which passed between professors and the rectors of the high schools previously to an engagement, we sometimes find that the former undertake to explain particular authors during their proposed residence. On these authors they had no doubt bestowed the best years of their lives, making them the vehicle for all the miscellaneous learning they possessed, and grounding their fame upon the beauty, clearness, and copiousness of their exposition.[88] [Footnote 88: For humorous but vivid pictures of a professor's lecture-room, see the macaronic poems of Odassi and Fossa quoted by me in vol. v. of this work.] Having described the conditions under which professorial teaching was conducted in the fifteenth century, it is now of some importance to form a notion of the state of the book market and the diffusion of MSS. before the invention of printing. Difficult as it is to speak with accuracy on these topics some facts must be collected, seeing that the high price and comparative rarity of books contributed in a very important degree to determine the character of the instruction provided by the humanists. Scarcity of books was at first a chief impediment to the study of antiquity. Popes and princes and even great religious institutions possessed far fewer books than many farmers of the present age. The library belonging to the Cathedral Church of S. Martino at Lucca in the ninth century contained only nineteen volumes of abridgments from ecclesiastical commentaries. The Cathedral of Novara in 1212 could boast copies of Boethius, Priscian, the 'Code of Justinian,' the 'Decretals,' and the 'Etymology' of Isidorus, besides a Bible and some devotional treatises.[89] This slender stock passed for great riches. Each of the precious volumes in such a collection was an epitome of mediæval art. Its pages were composed of fine vellum adorned with pictures.[90] The initial letters displayed elaborate flourishes and exquisitely illuminated groups of figures. The scribe took pains to render his caligraphy perfect, and to ornament the margins with crimson, gold, and blue. Then he handed the parchment sheets to the binder, who encased them in rich settings of velvet or carved ivory and wood, embossed with gold and precious stones. The edges were gilt and stamped with patterns. The clasps were of wrought silver, chased with niello. The price of such masterpieces was enormous. Borso d'Este, in 1464, gave eight gold ducats to Gherardo Ghislieri of Bologna for an illuminated Lancellotto, and in 1469 he bought a Josephus and Quintus Curtius for forty ducats.[91] His great Bible in two volumes is said to have cost 1,375 sequins. Rinaldo degli Albizzi notes in his Memoirs that he paid eleven golden florins for a Bible at Arezzo in 1406. Of these MSS. the greater part were manufactured in the cloisters, and it was here too that the martyrdom of ancient authors took place. Lucretius and Livy gave place to chronicles, antiphonaries, and homilies. Parchment was extremely dear, and the scrolls which nobody could read might be scraped and washed. Accordingly, the copyist erased the learning of the ancients, and filled the fair blank space he gained with litanies. At the same time it is but just to the monks to add that palimpsests have occasionally been found in which ecclesiastical works have yielded place to copies of the Latin poets used in elementary education.[92] [Footnote 89: See Cantù, _Storia della Letteratura Italiana_, p. 105, note.] [Footnote 90: 'Hodie Scriptores non sunt Scriptores sed Pictores,' quoted by Tiraboschi, vol. iv. lib. i. cap. 4.] [Footnote 91: See Cantù, loc. cit. p. 104.] [Footnote 92: See Comparetti, vol. i. p. 114.] Another obstacle to the diffusion of learning was the incompetence of the copyists. It is true that at the great universities _stationarii_, who supplied the text-books in use to students, were certified and subjected to the control of special censors called _peciarii_. Yet their number was not large, and when they quitted the routine to which they were accustomed their incapacity betrayed itself by numerous errors.[93] Petrarch's invective against the professional copyists shows the depth to which the art had sunk. 'Who,' he exclaims, 'will discover a cure for the ignorance and vile sloth of these copyists, who spoil everything and turn it to nonsense? If Cicero, Livy, and other illustrious ancients were to return to life, do you think they would understand their own works? There is no check upon these copyists, selected without examination or test of their capacity. Workmen, husbandmen, weavers, artisans, are not indulged in the same liberty.'[94] Coluccio Salutato repeats the same complaint, averring that the copies of Dante and Petrarch no more correspond to the originals than bad statues to the men they pretend to represent. At the same time the copyists formed a necessary and flourishing class of craftsmen. They were well paid. Ambrogio Traversari told his friend Giustiniani in 1430 that he could recommend him a good scribe at the pay of thirty golden florins a year and his keep. Under these circumstances it was usual for even the most eminent scholars, like Petrarch, Boccaccio, and Poggio, to make their own copies of MSS. Niccolo de' Niccoli transcribed nearly the whole of the codices that formed the nucleus of the Library of the Mark. Sometimes they sold them or made advantageous changes. Poggio, for example, sold two volumes of S. Jerome's 'Letters' to Lionello d'Este for 100 golden florins. Beccadelli bought a Livy from him for 120 golden florins, having parted with a farm to defray the expense. It is clear that the first step toward the revival of learning implied three things: first, the collection of MSS. wherever they could be saved from the indolence of the monks; secondly, the formation of libraries for their preservation; and, thirdly, the invention of an art whereby they might be multiplied cheaply, conveniently, and accurately. [Footnote 93: In Milan, in the fourteenth century, when the population was estimated at about 200,000, the town could boast of only fifty copyists. Tirab. loc. cit. cap. 4.] [Footnote 94: _De Remediis utriusque Fortunæ_, lib. i. dial. 43, p. 42. The passage condensed above is so valuable for a right understanding of the humanistic feeling about manuscripts that I shall transcribe portions of the original:--'Libri innumerabiles sunt mihi. Et errores innumeri, quidam ab impiis, alii ab indoctis editi. Illi quidem religioni ac pietati et divinis literis, hi naturæ ac justitiæ moribusque et liberalibus disciplinis seu historiæ rerumque gestarum fidei, omnes autem vero adversi; inque omnibus, et præsertim primis ubi majoribus agitur de rebus, et vera falsis immixta sunt, perdifficilis ac periculosa discretio est ... scriptorum inscitiæ inertiæque, corrumpenti omnia miscentique ... ignavissima ætas hæc culinæ solicita, literarum negligens, et coquos examinans non scriptores. Quisquis itaque pingere aliquid in membranis, manuque calamum versare didicerit, scriptor habebitur, doctrinæ omnis ignarus, expers ingenii, artis egens ... nunc confusis exemplaribus et exemplis, unum scribere polliciti, sic aliud scribunt ut quod ipse dictaveris, non agnoscas ... accedunt et scriptores nullâ frenati lege, nullo probati examine, nullo judicio electi; non fabris, non agricolis, non textoribus, non ulli fere artium tanta licentia est, cum sit in aliis leve periculum, in hâc grave; sine delectu tamen scribendum ruunt omnes, et cuncta vastantibus certa sunt pretia.'] The labour involved in the collection of classical manuscripts had to be performed by a few enthusiastic scholars, who received no help from the universities and their academical scribes, and who met with no sympathy in the monasteries they were bent on ransacking. The new culture demanded wholly new machinery; and new runners in the torch-race of civilisation sprang into existence. The high schools were contented with their summaries and glosses. The monks performed at best the work of earthworms, who unwittingly preserve fragments of Greek architecture from corrosion by heaping mounds of mould and rubbish round them. Meanwhile the humanists went forth with the instinct of explorers to release the captives and awake the dead. From the convent libraries of Italy, from the museums of Constantinople, from the abbeys of Germany and Switzerland and France, the slumbering spirits of the ancients had to be evoked. The chivalry of learning, banded together for this service, might be likened to Crusaders. As the Franks deemed themselves thrice blest if they returned with relics from Jerusalem, so these new Knights of the Holy Ghost, seeking not the sepulchre of a risen God, but the tombs wherein the genius of the ancient world awaited resurrection, felt holy transports when a brown, begrimed, and crabbed copy of some Greek or Latin author rewarded their patient quest. Days and nights they spent in carefully transcribing it, comparing their own MS. with the original, multiplying facsimiles, and sending them abroad with free hands to students who in their turn took copies, till the treasure-trove became the common property of all who could appreciate its value. This work of discovery began with Petrarch. I have already alluded to the journeys he undertook in the hope of collecting the lost MSS. of Cicero. It was carried on by Boccaccio. The account given by Benvenuto da Imola of Boccaccio's visit to Monte Cassino brings vividly before us both the ardour of these first explorers and the apathy of the Benedictines (who have sometimes been called the saviours of learning) with regard to the treasures of their own libraries:[95]--'With a view to the clearer understanding of this text ('Paradiso,' xxii. 74), I will relate what my revered teacher, Boccaccio of Certaldo, humorously told me. He said that when he was in Apulia, attracted by the celebrity of the convent, he paid a visit to Monte Cassino, whereof Dante speaks. Desirous of seeing the collection of books, which he understood to be a very choice one, he modestly asked a monk--for he was always most courteous in manners--to open the library, as a favour, for him. The monk answered stiffly, pointing to a steep staircase, "Go up; it is open." Boccaccio went up gladly; but he found that the place which held so great a treasure, was without or [Transcriber's Note: should be 'a'] door or key. He entered, and saw grass sprouting on the windows, and all the books and benches thick with dust. In his astonishment he began to open and turn the leaves of first one tome and then another, and found many and divers volumes of ancient and foreign works. Some of them had lost several sheets; others were snipped and pared all round the text, and mutilated in various ways. At length, lamenting that the toil and study of so many illustrious men should have passed into the hands of most abandoned wretches, he departed with tears and sighs. Coming to the cloister, he asked a monk whom he met, why those valuable books had been so disgracefully mangled. He answered that the monks, seeking to gain a few _soldi_, were in the habit of cutting off sheets and making psalters, which they sold to boys. The margins too they manufactured into charms, and sold to women. So then, O man of study, go to and rack your brains; make books that you may come to this!' [Footnote 95: 'Commentary on the _Divine Comedy_,' ap. Muratori, _Antiq. Ital._ vol. i. p. 1296.] What Italy contained of ancient codices soon saw the light. The visit of Poggio Bracciolini to Constance (1414) opened up for Italian scholars the stores that lay neglected in transalpine monasteries. Poggio's office of Apostolic Secretary obliged him to attend the Council of Constance for the purpose of framing reports and composing diplomatic documents. At the same time he had ample leisure on his hands, and this he spent in exploring the libraries of Swiss and Suabian convents. The treasures he unearthed at Reichenau, Weingarten, and above all S. Gallen, restored to Italy many lost masterpieces of Latin literature, and supplied students with full texts of authors who had hitherto been known in mutilated copies. The account he gave of his visit to S. Gallen in a Latin letter to a friend is justly celebrated.[96] After describing the wretched state in which the 'Institutions' of Quintilian had previously existed,[97] he proceeds as follows:--'I verily believe that, if we had not come to the rescue, he [Quintilian] must speedily have perished; for it cannot be imagined that a man magnificent, polished, elegant, urbane, and witty could much longer have endured the squalor of the prison-house in which I found him, the savagery of his jailers, the forlorn filth of the place. He was indeed right sad to look upon, and ragged, like a condemned criminal, with rough beard and matted hair, protesting by his countenance and garb against the injustice of his sentence. He seemed to be stretching out his hands, calling upon the Romans, demanding to be saved from so unmerited a doom. Hard indeed it was for him to bear, that he who had preserved the lives of many by his eloquence and aid, should now find no redresser of his wrongs, no saviour from the unjust punishment awaiting him. But as it often happens, to quote Terence, that what you dare not wish for comes to you by chance, so a good fortune for him, but far more for ourselves, led us, while wasting our time in idleness at Constance, to take a fancy for visiting the place where he was held in prison. The monastery of S. Gallen lies at the distance of some twenty miles from that city. Thither, then, partly for the sake of amusement and partly of finding books, whereof we heard there was a large collection in the convent, we directed our steps. In the middle of a well-stocked library, too large to catalogue at present, we discovered Quintilian, safe as yet and sound, though covered with dust and filthy with neglect and age. The books, you must know, were not housed according to their worth, but were lying in a most foul and obscure dungeon at the very bottom of a tower, a place into which condemned criminals would hardly have been thrust; and I am firmly persuaded that if anyone would but explore those _ergastula_ of the barbarians wherein they incarcerate such men, we should meet with like good fortune in the case of many whose funeral orations have long ago been pronounced. Besides Quintilian, we exhumed the three first books and a half of the fourth book of the "Argonautica" of Flaccus, and the "Commentaries" of Asconius Pedianus upon eight orations of Cicero.' Poggio, immediately after this discovery, set himself to work at transcribing the Quintilian, a labour accomplished in the brief space of thirty-two days. The MS. was then despatched to Lionardo Bruni, who received it with ecstatic welcome, as appears from this congratulatory epistle addressed to Poggio:-- 'The republic of letters has reason to rejoice not only in the works you have discovered, but also in those you have still to find. What a glory for you it is to have brought to light by your exertions the writings of the most distinguished authors! Posterity will not forget that MSS. which were bewailed as lost beyond the possibility of restoration, have been recovered, thanks to you. As Camillus was called the second founder of Rome, so may you receive the title of the second author of the works you have restored to the world. Through you we now possess Quintilian entire; before we only boasted of the half of him, and that defective and corrupt in text. O precious acquisition! O unexpected joy! And shall I, then, in truth be able to read the whole of that Quintilian which, mutilated and deformed as it has hitherto appeared, has formed my solace? I conjure you send it me at once, that at least I may set eyes on it before I die.' [Footnote 96: Mur. xx. 160.] [Footnote 97: Petrarch in 1350 found a bad copy at Florence. Poggio describes it thus:--'Is vero apud nos antea, Italos dico, ita laceratus erat, ita circumcisus culpâ, ut opinor, temporum, ut nulla forma, nullus habitus hominis in eo recognosceretur.'] In addition to the authors named above, Poggio discovered and copied with his own hand MSS. of Lucretius and Columella. Silius Italicus, Manillas, and Vitruvius owed their resurrection to his industry. At Langres he found a copy of Cicero's oration for Cæcina; at Monte Cassino a MS. of Frontinus. Ammianus Marcellinus, Nonius Marcellus, Probus, Flavius Caper, and Eutyches are also to be ranked among the captives freed by him from slavery. In exploring foreign convents where he suspected that ancient authors might lie buried, he spared neither trouble nor expense. 'No severity of winter cold, no snow, no length of journey, no roughness of roads, prevented him from bringing the monuments of literature to light,' wrote Francesco Barbaro.[98] Nor did he recoil from theft, if theft seemed necessary to secure a precious codex. In a letter to Ambrogio Traversari he relates his negotiations with a monk for the fraudulent abduction of an Ammianus and a Livy from a convent library in Hersfeld.[99] Not unfrequently his most golden anticipations with regard to literary treasures were deceived, as when a Dane appeared at the Court of Martin V. bragging of a complete Livy to be found in a Cistercian convent near Röskilde. This man protested he had seen the MS., and described the characters in which it was written with some minuteness. At Poggio's instance the Cardinal Orsini sent off a special messenger to seek for this, which would have been the very phoenix of MSS. to the Latinists of that period, while Cosimo de' Medici put his agents at Lübeck to work for the same purpose. All their efforts were in vain, however. The Livy could not be discovered, and the Dane passed for a liar, in spite of the corroboration his story received from another traveller.[100] Poggio himself, who would willingly have ransacked Europe for a MS., was jealous of money spent on any other object. In his treatise 'De Infelicitate Principum' he complains that 'these exalted personages [popes and princes] spend their days and their wealth in pleasure, in unworthy pursuits, in pestiferous and destructive wars. So great is their mental torpor that nothing can rouse them to search after the works of excellent writers, by whose wisdom and learning mankind are taught the way to true happiness.' This lamentation, written probably under the unfavourable impression produced upon his mind by the Papal Court, where as yet the spirit of humanism had hardly penetrated, must not be taken in any strict sense. Never was there a time in the world's history when money was spent more freely upon the collection and preservation of MSS., and when a more complete machinery was put in motion for the sake of securing literary treasures. Prince vied with prince, and eminent burgher with burgher, in buying books. The commercial correspondents of the Medici and other great Florentine houses, whose banks and discount offices extended over Europe and the Levant, were instructed to purchase relics of antiquity without regard for cost, and to forward them to Florence. The most acceptable present that could be sent to a king was a copy of a Roman historian. The best credentials which a young Greek arriving from Byzantium could use to gain the patronage of men like Palla degli Strozzi was a fragment of some ancient; the merchandise ensuring the largest profit to a speculator who had special knowledge in such matters was old parchment covered with crabbed characters. [Footnote 98: Mur. xx. 169. Cf. the Elegy of Landino quoted in the notes to Roscoe's _Lorenzo_, p. 388.] [Footnote 99: Voigt, p. 138.] [Footnote 100: See Voigt, p. 139, for this story.] The history of the foundation of libraries will form part of the next chapter. For the present it is requisite to mention some of Poggio's fellow-workmen in the labour of collection. Among these a certain Nicholas of Treves, employed to receive monies due to the Papal Curia in Germany, deserves a place, seeing that in 1429 he sent the most complete extant copy of Plautus to Rome. Bartolommeo da Montepulciano, following the lead of Poggio, pursued investigations while at Constance, and discovered the lost writings of Vegetius and Pompeius Festus. In 1409 Lionardo Bruni chanced upon a good MS. of Cicero's letters at Pistoja, and about the year 1425 a magnificent capture of Cicero's rhetorical treatises was made at Lodi in the Duomo by Gherardo Landriani. The extant works of Tacitus, so ardently desired, were not collected earlier than the reign of Leo. While Poggio was releasing the Latin authors from their northern prisons, and sending them to walk like princes through the Courts and capitals of Italy, three other scholars devoted no less energy to the collection of Greek MSS. Giovanni Aurispa, on his return from Byzantium in 1423, brought with him 238 codices, while Guarino of Verona and Francesco Filelfo both arrived in Italy heavily laden. There is an old story that Guarino lost a part of his cargo at sea, and landed with hair whitened by the grief this misfortune cost him. Considering the special advantages enjoyed by these three scholars, who were pupils of the learned Manuel Chrysoloras, and before whose eager curiosity the libraries of Byzantium remained open through nearly half a century previous to the fall of the Greek Empire, we have good reason to believe that the greater part of Attic and Alexandrian literature known to the later Greeks was transferred to Italy. The avidity shown by the Florentines for codices and copies, the opportunities afforded by their mercantile connection with Constantinople, and the obvious interest which the Court of Byzantium at that crisis had in gratifying their taste for such acquisitions, contribute to render it unlikely that any of the more important and illustrious authors were destroyed in the taking of the city by the Turk.[101] It is probable that causes similar to those which slowly wrought the ruin of Latin literature in the West--the apathy of an uncultured public, the rancorous animosity of a superstitious clergy, and the decay of students as a class--had long before the age of the Renaissance ruined beyond the possibility of recovery those masterpieces whereof we still deplore the loss.[102] The preservation of Neoplatonic and Patristic literature in comparative completeness, while so much that was more valuable perished, may be ascribed to the theological content of these writings. [Footnote 101: See the emphatic language about Palla degli Strozzi, Cosimo de' Medici, and Niccolo de' Niccoli, in Vespasiano's _Lives_. Islam, moreover, as is proved by Pletho's Life, was at that period more erudite than Hellas.] [Footnote 102: I have touched upon this subject elsewhere. See _Studies of Greek Poets_, second series, pp. 304-307. In order to form a conception of the utter decline of Byzantine learning after Photius, it is needful to read the passages in Petrarch's letters, where even Calabria is compared favourably with Constantinople. In a state of ignorance so absolute as he describes, it is possible that treasures existed unknown to professed students, and therefore undiscovered by Filelfo and his fellow-workers. The testimony of Demetrius Chalcondylas, quoted by Didot, _Alde Manuce_, p. xiv., goes to show that the Greeks attributed their losses in large measure to the malice of the priests.] Not to render some account of the effect produced upon the minds of scholars in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries by the sight of Roman ruins in decay, would be to omit an important branch of the subject I have undertaken. Yet this part of the inquiry leads us into a region somewhat different from that hitherto traversed in the present chapter, since it properly belongs to the history of enthusiasm. No small portion of the motive impulse that determined the Revival was derived from the admiration, curiosity, and awe excited by the very stones of ancient Rome. During the Middle Ages the right point of view for studying the architectural works of the Romans had been lost. History yielded ever more and more to legend, until at last it was believed that demons and magicians had suspended those gigantic vaults in air. Telesmatic virtues were attributed to figures carved on temple-fronts and friezes, while the great name of Virgil attached itself to what remained unhurt of Latin art in Rome and Naples.[103] The Rome of the _Mirabilia_ was supposed to be the handiwork of fiends constrained by poets of the bygone age with spells of power to move hell from its centre. This transference of interest from the real to the fanciful, from the substantial to the visionary, was characteristic of the whole attitude assumed by the mind in the Middle Ages. History, literature, and art alike submitted to the alchemy of the imagination.[104] At the same time the very grossness of these fables testified to the profound impression produced by the ruins of the Eternal City, and to the haunting magic of a memory surviving degradation and decay. When the Anglo-Saxon pilgrims returned from Rome in the eighth century, the fascination of the great works they had seen expressed itself in a memorable prophecy.[105] 'As long as the Coliseum stands, Rome shall stand; when the Coliseum falls, Rome will fall; when Rome falls, the world will fall.' [Footnote 103: The details of Virgil's romance occupy the first half of Comparetti's second volume on _Virgil in the Middle Ages_. For the English version of this legend see Thoms.] [Footnote 104: See above, pp. 38-49.] [Footnote 105: Gibbon, ch. lxxi.] About the year 1300 a new historic sense appears to have arisen in Italy. Instead of dreams and legends, the positive facts of the past began to have once more their value. This change might be compared to the discovery we make upon the borderland of sleep and waking, when what we fancied was a figure draped in white by our bedside turns out to be the wall with moonlight shining on it. Giovanni Villani, when he gazed upon the baths and amphitheatres of Rome, was not moved to think of the fiends who raised them, but of the buried grandeur of the Roman commonwealth.[106] What Rome once was, Florence may one day become, was the reflection that impelled him to write the chronicle of his native town. Dante, who with Villani witnessed the Jubilee of 1300, cried that the very stones of Rome were sacred. 'Whoso robs her, or despoils her, with blasphemy of act offendeth God, who only for His own use made her holy.'[107] The city was to him the outward symbol and terrestrial station of that God-appointed Monarchy for ruling all the peoples of the earth in peace. His most enthusiastic speculations, as well as the practical policy set forth in his epistles, attached themselves to Rome as a reality; nor did he ever tire of bidding German emperors return and fix their throne upon the bank of Tiber. We know now that this idealism was a delusion, no less incapable of realisation than it was pernicious to the liberties of the Italians. It haunted the imagination of the race, however, until at last, as I have said above, the proper vent was found in humanism. [Footnote 106: Vol. I., _Age of the Despots_, p. 200.] [Footnote 107: _Purg._ xxxiii. 58.] The same passion for Rome took different form in the mind of another and less noble patriot. It impelled Rienzi to conceive the plan of rehabilitating the Republic. The Popes were far away at Avignon. The emperors seemed to have forgotten Italy. Yet Rome remained, and the mere name of Rome was Empire. Why should not the _Senatus Populusque Romanus_, whose initials still survived in uncial letters upon blocks of travertine and marble, be restored to place and power? Wandering among those spacious vaults, and lingering beneath the triumphal arches, where the marks of chariot-wheels were traced upon the massive paved work of the Roman ways, the young enthusiast conceived that even he might live to be the Tribune of that people, born invincible, and called by destiny to rule the world. With what energy he devoted himself to studying the histories of Livy, Sallust, and Valerius Maximus; how he strove to master the meaning of inscriptions found among the wrecks of Rome; with what eloquence he moved his fellow-citizens to sympathy--are familiar matters not only to scholars, but to readers of romance. His vision of the restored Republic seemed for a moment destined to become reality. The Romans placed the power of life and death, of revenues and armies, in the hands of the seer, who had stirred them by his rhetoric. Rienzi took rank among the potentates of Italy. Even the Papal Court acknowledged him. What followed proved the political incapacity of the new dictator, his want of critical insight into the ideal he had set before himself. There is something both pathetic and ridiculous in the vanity displayed by this barber's son exalted to a place among the princes. Not satisfied with calling himself Tribune and Knight, the style he affected in his correspondence with Clement VI. ran as follows:--'Candidatus, Spiritus Sancti Miles, Nicolaus Severus et Clemens, Liberator Urbis, Zelator Italiæ, Amator Orbis, et Tribunus Augustus.' Like Icarus, he spread these waxen wings to the sun's noontide blaze. The same extravagant confusion of things sacred and profane, classical and mediæval, marked the pageantry of his State ceremonials in Rome. On August 15, 1347, in celebration of his election to the Tribunate, he assumed six crowns--of ivy, myrtle, laurel, oak, olive, and gilt silver. His arms were blazoned with the keys of Peter and the letters S.P.Q.R. His senatorial sceptre was surmounted, not with the eagle or the wolf of Romulus, but with a golden ball and cross enclosing the relic of a saint. The poetic fancy could not have suggested a more striking allegory to illustrate an undiscriminating reverence for the Imperial and Pontifical prestige of Rome, than was presented in this tragic farce of actual history. Not in this way, by a mixture of Christian and Pagan titles, by emblematic pomp, by heraldry and declamation, could the old Republic be brought to life again. The very attempt to do so proved how far the mind of man, awaking from the long sleep of the Middle Ages, was removed from the severe simplicity that gave its strength to ancient Rome. Along those giddy parapets of fame we watch Rienzi walking through his months of glory like a somnambule sustained by an internal dream. That he should fall was inevitable. With him expired the Utopia of a Roman commonwealth, to be from time to time revived as an ineffectual fancy in the brains of a few visionaries.[108] [Footnote 108: Stefano Porcari, for example. See Vol. I., _Age of the Despots_, pp. 296, 302.] The relations of Petrarch to Rienzi offer matter for curious reflection, while they illustrate the part played by the enthusiasm for ancient Rome in the early history of humanism. Petrarch and Rienzi had been friends and correspondents before the emergence of the latter into public notice; and when the Tribune seemed about to satisfy the dearest desire of the poet's heart by re-establishing the Roman commonwealth, Petrarch addressed him with an animated letter of congratulation and encouragement.[109] In his charmed eyes he seemed a hero, _vir magnanimus_, worthy of the ancient world, a new Romulus, a third Brutus, a Camillus. The Roman burghers, that scum and sediment of countless races, barbarised by the lingering miseries of the Middle Ages, needed nothing, it appeared, but words and wishes to make them once again _cives Romani_, no longer clamorous for bread and games, but ready to reconquer all their ancestors had lost.[110] 'Where,' cried Petrarch, 'can the empire of the world be found, except in Rome? Who can dispute the Roman right? What force can stand against the name of Romans?' Neither the patriot nor the scholar discerned that the revival they were destined to inaugurate was intellectual. Though the spirit of the times refused a political Renaissance, refused to Italy the maintenance of even such freedom as she then possessed, far more refused a resuscitation of ancient Rome's imperial sway, yet both Rienzi and Petrarch persisted in believing that, because they glowed with fervour for the past, because they could read inscriptions, because they expressed their desires eloquently, the world's great age was certain to begin anew. It was a capital fault of the Renaissance to imagine that words could work wonders, that a rhetorician's _stylus_ might become the wand of Prospero. Seeming passed for being in morals, politics, and all affairs of life. I have already touched on this as a capital defect in Petrarch's character; but it was a weakness inherent not only in him and in the age he inaugurated, but one, moreover, that has influenced the whole history of the Italians for evil. Sounding phrases like the _barbaros expellere_ of Julius II., like the _va fuori d'Italia_ of Garibaldian hymns, from time to time have roused the nation to feverish enthusiasm, too soon succeeded by dejected apathy. When the inefficiency of Rienzi was proved, all that remained for Petrarch was to warn and scold. [Footnote 109: _De Capessendâ Libertate_, _Hortatoria_, p. 535.] [Footnote 110: See Petrarch's _Epistle to the Roman People_, p. 712.] The interest excited in Petrarch by the sight of Rome's ruins was important for his humanistic ideal. They stirred him as a moralist, an antiquarian, and a man who owed his mental vigour to the past. He tells how often he used to climb above the huge vaults of the Baths of Diocletian in company with his friend Giovanni Colonna.[111] Seated there among the flowering shrubs and scented herbs that clothed decay with loveliness, they held discourse concerning the great men of old, and deplored the mutability of all things human. Whatever the poet had read of Roman grandeur was brought back to his mind with vivid meaning during his long solitary walks. He never doubted that he knew for certain where Evander's palace stood, and where the cave of Cacus opened on the Tiber. The difficulties of modern antiquarian research had not been yet suggested, and his fancy was free to map out the topography of the seven hills as pleased him best. Yet he complained that nowhere was less known about Rome than in Rome itself.[112] This ignorance he judged the most fatal obstacle to the resurrection of the city.[113] The palaces where dwelt those heroes of the past, had fallen into ruins; the temples of the gods were desecrated; the triumphal arches were crumbling; the very walls had yielded to decay. None of the Romans cared to arrest destruction; they even robbed the marble columns and entablatures in order to deck Naples with the spoils.[114] The last remnants of the city would soon, he exclaimed, be levelled with the ground. Time has been unable to destroy them; but man was ruining what Time had spared.[115] [Footnote 111: _Epist. Fam._ lib. ii. 14, p. 605; lib. vi. 2, p. 657.] [Footnote 112: 'Qui enim hodie magis ignari rerum Romanarum sunt, quam Romani Cives? Invitus dico, nusquam minus Roma cognoscitur quam Romæ.' _Epist. Fam._ lib. ii. 14, p. 658.] [Footnote 113: 'Quis enim dubitare potest, quin illico surrectura sit si coeperit se Roma cognoscere?' _Ibid._] [Footnote 114: 'Vi vel senio collapsa palatia, quæ quondam ingentes tenuere viri, diruptos arcus triumphales ... indignum de vestris marmoreis columnis, de liminibus templorum, ad quæ nuper ex toto orbe concursus devotissimus fiebat, de imaginibus sepulchrorum, sub quibus patrum vestrorum venerabilis cinis erat, ut reliquas sileam, desidiosa Neapolis adornatur.' _Ibid._ p. 536.] [Footnote 115: 'Quanta quod integræ fuit olim gloria Romæ, Reliquiæ testantur adhuc, quas longior ætas Frangere non valuit, non vis, aut ira cruenti Hostis, ab egregiis franguntur civibus heu, heu.' Petr. _Epist. Metr._ lib. ii. p. 98.] There is no doubt that, shortly before the date of Petrarch's visits to Rome, the city had suffered grievously in its monuments. We know, for instance, that the best preserved of the theatres, baths, and tombs formed the residences and fortresses of nobles in the Middle Ages; and when we read that in 1258 the senator Brancaleone found it necessary to destroy one hundred and forty of these fortified dwellings, we obtain a standard for measuring the injury that must have ensued to precious works of classic architecture. The ruins, moreover, as Petrarch hinted, had been used as quarries. What was worse, the burghers burned the marbles, rich, perhaps, with inscriptions and carved bas-reliefs, for lime. We shall shortly see what Poggio relates upon this topic. For the present it will suffice to quote an epigram of Pius II., written some time after the revival of enthusiasm for antiquity:-- Oblectat me, Roma, tuas spectare ruinas, Ex cujus lapsu gloria prisca patet. Sed tuus hic populus muris defossa vetustis Calcis in obsequium marmora dura coquit. Impia ter centum si sic gens egerit annos, Nullum hic indicium nobilitatis erit.[116] [Footnote 116: It delights me to contemplate thy ruins, Rome, the witness amid desolation to thy pristine grandeur. But thy people burn thy marbles for lime, and three centuries of this sacrilege will destroy all sign of thy nobleness.' Compare a letter from Alberto degli Alberti to Giovanni de' Medici, quoted by Fabroni, _Cosmi Vita_, Adnot. 86. The real pride of Rome was still her ruins. Nicolo and Ugo da Este journeyed in 1396 to Rome, 'per vedere quelle magnificenze antiche che al presente si possono vedere in Roma.' Murat. xxiv. 845.] Poggio Bracciolini opens a new epoch in Roman topography. The ruins that had moved the superstitious wonder of the Middle Ages, that had excited Rienzi to patriotic enthusiasm, and Petrarch to reflections on the instability of human things, were now for the first time studied in a truly antiquarian spirit. Poggio read them like a book, comparing the testimony they rendered with that of Livy, Vitruvius, and Frontinus, and seeking to compile a catalogue of the existing fragments of old Rome. The first section of his treatise 'De Varietate Fortunæ,' forms by far the most important source of information we possess relating to the state of Rome in the fifteenth century.[117] It appears that the Baths of Caracalla and Diocletian could still boast of columns and marble incrustations, but that within Poggio's own recollection the marbles had been stripped from Cæcilia Metella's tomb, and the so-called Temple of Concord had been pillaged.[118] Among the ruins ascribed to the period of the Republic are mentioned a bridge, an arch, a tomb, a temple, a building on the Capitol, and the pyramid of Cestius.[119] Besides these, Poggio enumerates, as referable chiefly to the Imperial age, eleven temples, seven _thermæ_, the Arches of Titus, Severus, and Constantine, parts of the Arches of Trajan, Faustina, and Gallienus, the Coliseum, the Theatres of Pompey and Marcellus, the Circus Agonalis and Circus Maximus, the Columns of Trajan and Antonine, the two horses ascribed to Pheidias and Praxiteles, together with other marble statues, one bronze equestrian statue, and the mausoleums of Augustus and Hadrian. [Footnote 117: My references are made to the Paris edition of 1723. The first book is sometimes cited under the title of _Urbis Romæ Descriptio_.] [Footnote 118: 'Juxta viam Appiam, ad secundum lapidem, integrum vidi sepulchrum L. Cæciliæ Metellæ, opus egregium, et id ipsum tot sæculis intactum, ad calcem postea majori ex parte exterminatum' (p. 19). 'Capitolio contigua forum versus superest porticus ædis Concordiæ, quam, cum primum ad urbem accessi, vidi fere integram, opere marmoreo admodum specioso; Romani postmodum, ad calcem ædem totam et porticûs partem, disjectis columnis, sunt demoliti.' _Ibid._] [Footnote 119: Pp. 8, 9.] We have to regret that Poggio's description was subservient and introductory to a rhetorical dissertation. Had he applied himself to the task of tabulating more minutely what he had observed, his work would have been infinitely precious to the archæologist. No one knew more about the Roman buildings than he did. No one felt the impression of their majesty in desolation more profoundly. The mighty city appeared to him, he said, like the corpse of a giant, like a queen in slavery. The sight of her magnificence, despoiled and shorn of ornaments as she had been, moved him daily to deeper admiration. It was his custom to lead strangers from point to point among the ruins, in order to enjoy the effect produced upon fresh minds by their stupendous evidence of strength and greatness in decay. The pathos of this former empress of the world exposed to insult and indignity had not been first felt by Poggio. Petrarch described her as an aged matron with grey hair and pale cheeks, whose torn and sordid raiment ill accorded with the nobleness of her demeanour.[120] Fazio degli Uberti personified her as a majestic woman, wrapped around with rags, who pointed out to him the ruins of her city, 'to the end that he might understand how fair she was in years of old.'[121] [Footnote 120: _De Pacificandâ Italiâ, Ad Carolum Quartum_, p. 531.] [Footnote 121: In the _Dittamondo_, about 1360.] In this way a sentimental feeling for the relics of the past grew up and flourished side by side with the archæological interest they excited. The literature of the Renaissance abounds in matter that might be used in illustration of this remark,[122] while nothing was commoner in art than to paint for backgrounds broken arches and decayed buildings, 'whose ruins are even pitied.' The double impulse of romantic sentiment and antiquarian curiosity, set going in this age of the Revival, contributed no little to the development of architecture, sculpture, and painting. In the section of my work which deals with the fine arts in Italy will be found the proper sequel to this subject. Meanwhile the history of antiquarian research in Rome itself will be resumed in another chapter of this volume. [Footnote 122: Such, for example, as Boccaccio's description of the ruins of Baiæ in the _Fiammetta_, Sannazzaro's lines on the ruins of Cumæ, Æneas Sylvius Piccolomini's notes on ancient sites in Italy.] Among the representative men of the first period of the Revival must be mentioned an enthusiast who devoted his whole life to topographical studies and to the copying of classical inscriptions. Ciriaco de' Pizzicolli was born about 1404 at Ancona, and from this town he took the name he bears among the learned. Like many other pioneers of erudition, he was educated for commerce, and had slender opportunities for acquiring the dead languages in his youth. His manhood was spent in restless journeying, at first undertaken for the purposes of trade, but afterwards for the sole object of discovery. Smitten with the zeal for classical antiquity, he made himself a tolerable Latin scholar, and gained a fair knowledge of Greek. In the course of his long wanderings he ransacked every part of Italy, Greece, and the Greek islands, collecting medals, gems, and fragments of sculpture, buying manuscripts, transcribing records, and amassing a miscellaneous store of archæological information. The enthusiasm that possessed him was so untempered by sobriety that it excited the suspicion of contemporaries. Some regarded him as a man of genuine learning; others spoke of him as a flighty, boastful, and untrustworthy fanatic.[123] The mistakes he made in copying inscriptions depreciated the general value of his labours, while he was even accused of having passed off fabrications on the credulity of the public. The question of his alleged forgeries has been discussed at length by Tiraboschi.[124] To settle it at this distance of time is both unimportant and impossible. While we may well believe that Ciriac was a conceited enthusiast, accepting as genuine what he ought to have rejected, and interpreting according to his fancy rather than the letter of his text, his life retains real value for the student of the Revival. In him the curiosity of the new age reached its acme of expansiveness. The passion for discovery pursued him from shore to shore, and the vision of the past, to be reconquered by the energy of the present, haunted his imagination till the moment of his death. When asked what object he had set his heart upon in those perpetual journeyings, he answered, 'I go to awake the dead.' That word, the motto for the first age of the Revival, explains the fanaticism of Ciriac, and is a sufficient title to fame. [Footnote 123: Filippo Maria Visconti is said to have denounced him as an impostor. Ambrogio Traversari mentions his coins and gems with mistrust. Poggio describes him as a conceited fellow with no claim to erudition. On the other hand, he gained the confidence of Eugenius IV., and received the panegyrics of Filelfo, Barbaro, Bruni, and others. See Tiraboschi, vol. vi. lib. i. cap. 5.] [Footnote 124: In the place just cited. The temptation, at this epoch of discovery, when criticism was at a low ebb, and curiosity was frantic, to pass off forgeries upon the learned world must have been very great. The most curious example of this literary deception is afforded by Annius of Viterbo, who, in 1498, published seventeen books of spurious histories, pretending to be the lost works of Manetho, Berosus, Fabius Pictor, Archilochus, Cato, &c. Whether he was himself an impostor or a dupe is doubtful. A few of his contemporaries denounced the histories as patent fabrications. The majority accepted them as genuine. Their worthlessness has long been undisputed. See Tiraboschi, vol. vi. lib. iii. cap. 1.] CHAPTER IV SECOND PERIOD OF HUMANISM Intricacy of the Subject -- Division into Four Periods -- Place of Florence -- Social Conditions favourable to Culture -- Palla degli Strozzi -- His Encouragement of Greek Studies -- Plan of a Public Library -- His Exile -- Cosimo de' Medici -- His Patronage of Learning -- Political Character -- Love of Building -- Generosity to Students -- Foundation of Libraries -- Vespasiano and Thomas of Sarzana -- Niccolo de' Niccoli -- His Collection of Codices -- Description of his Mode of Life -- His Fame as a Latinist -- Lionardo Bruni -- His Biography -- Translations from the Greek -- Latin Treatises and Histories -- His Burial in Santa Croce -- Carlo Aretino -- Fame as a Lecturer -- The Florentine Chancery -- Matteo Palmieri -- Giannozzo Manetti -- His Hebrew Studies -- His Public Career -- His Eloquence -- Manetti ruined by the Medici -- His Life in Exile at Naples -- Estimate of his Talents -- Ambrogio Traversari -- Study of Greek Fathers -- General of the Camaldolese Order -- Humanism and Monasticism -- The Council of Florence -- Florentine Opinion about the Greeks -- Gemistus Pletho -- His Life -- His Philosophy -- His Influence at Florence -- Cosimo de' Medici and the Florentine Academy -- Study of Plato -- Pletho's Writings -- Platonists and Aristotelians in Italy and Greece -- Bessarion -- His Patronage of Greek Refugees in Rome -- Humanism in the Smaller Republics -- In Venice. The great difficulty with which a critic desirous of rendering a succinct account of this phase of Italian culture has to deal, is the variety and complexity of the subject. It is easy to perceive the unity of the humanistic movement, and to regard the scholars of the fifteenth century as a literary community with well-defined relations to each other. Yet when we attempt to trace the growth of scholarship in all its branches, the peculiar conditions of political and social life in Italy present almost insuperable obstacles to any continuity of treatment. The republics, the principalities, and the Church have each their separate existence. Venice, Florence, Naples, Milan, Rome, Ferrara, form distinct and independent centres, imposing their own specialities upon the intellectual activity of citizens and aliens. The humanists, meanwhile, to some extent efface these local differences, spreading a network of common culture over cities and societies divided by all else but interest in learning. To these combinations and permutations, arising from the contact of the scholars with their patrons in the several States of Italy, is due the intricacy of the history of the Revival. The same men of eminence appear by turns in each of the chief Courts and commonwealths, passing with bewildering rapidity from north to south and back again, in one place demanding attention under one head of the subject, in another presenting new yet not less important topics for investigation. What Filippo Maria Visconti, for instance, required from Filelfo had but little in common with the claims made on him by Nicholas V., while his activity as a satirist and partisan at Florence differed from his labour as a lecturer at Siena. Again, the biography of each humanist to some extent involves that of all his contemporaries. The coteries of Rome are influenced by the cliques of Naples; the quarrels of Lorenzo Valla ramify into the squabbles of Guarino; political animosity combines with literary jealousy in the disputes of Poggio with Filelfo. While some of the most eminent professors remain stationary in their native or adopted towns, others move to and fro with the speed of comets. From time to time, at Rome or elsewhere, a patron rises, who assembles all the wandering stars around himself. His death disperses the group; or accidents rouse jealousy among them, and cause secessions from the circle. Then fresh combinations have to be considered. In no one city can we trace firm chronological progression, or discover the fixed local character which justifies our dividing the history of Italian painting by its schools. To avoid repetition, and to preserve an even current of narration amid so much that is shifting, is almost impossible. Some method may be introduced by sketching briefly at the outset the principal periods through which the humanistic movement passed. Though to a certain extent arbitrary, these periods mark distinct moments in an evolution uniform in spite of its complexity. The first, starting with Petrarch, and including the lives and labours of those men he personally influenced, has been traced in a preceding chapter. This was the age of inspiration and discovery, when the enthusiasm for antiquity was generated and the remnants of the classics were accumulated. The second may be described as the age of arrangement and translation. The first great libraries were founded in this period; the study of Greek was pursued in earnest, and the Greek authors were rendered into Latin. Round Cosimo de' Medici at Florence, Alfonso the Magnanimous at Naples, and Nicholas V. in Rome the leaders of the Renaissance at this time converge. The third is the age of academies. The literary republic, formed during the first and second periods, now gathers into coteries, whereof the Platonic Academy at Florence, that of Pontanus at Naples, that of Pomponius Lætus in Rome, and that of Aldus Manutius at Venice are the most important. Scholarship begins to exhibit a marked improvement in all that concerns style and taste. At the same time Italian erudition reaches its maximum in Poliziano. Externally this third period is distinguished by the rapid spread of printing and the consequent downfall of the humanists as a class. In the fourth period we notice a gradual decline of learning; æsthetic and stylistic scholarship begins to claim exclusive attention. This is the age of the purists, over whom Bembo exercises the sway of a dictator, while the Court of Leo X. furnishes the most brilliant assemblage of literati in Europe. Erudition, properly so called, is now upon the point of being transplanted beyond the Alps, and the Revival of Learning closes for the historian of Italy. Although the essential feature of this subject is variety, and though each city of Italy contributed its quota to the sum of culture, attention has now to be directed in a special sense on Florence. Nothing is more obvious to the student who has mastered the first difficulties caused by the intricacy of Italian history, than the fact that all the mental force of the nation was generated in Tuscany, and radiated thence, as from a centre of vital heat and light, over the rest of the peninsula. This is true of the fine arts no less than of Italian poetry, of the revival of learning as well as of the origin of science. From the republics of Tuscany, and from Florence in particular, proceeded the impulse and the energy which led to fruitful results in all of these departments. In proportion as Florence continued to absorb the neighbouring free States into herself, her intellectual pre-eminence became the more unquestionable. Arezzo, Volterra, Cortona, Montepulciano, Prato, and Pistoja were but rivulets feeding the stream of Florentine industry. What caused this superiority of the Tuscans is a problem as difficult to solve as the similar problem with respect to Athens among the states of Greece. Something may no doubt be attributed to ethnology, and something to climate. Much, again, was due to the purity of a dialect which retained more of native energy and literary capacity, and which had suffered less from barbarian admixtures than the dialects of northern or of southern Italy. The conquest of the Lombards passed the Tuscans by, nor did feudal institutions take the same root in the valley of the Arno which they struck in the kingdom of Naples. The cities of Tuscany were therefore less exposed to foreign influences than the rest of Italy. While they pursued their course of internal growth in comparative tranquillity, they were better fitted for reviving the past glories of Latin civilisation upon its native soil. The free institutions of the Florentine commonwealth must also be taken into account. In Florence, if anywhere in Italy, existed the conditions under which a republic of letters and of culture could be formed. The aristocracy of Naples indulged the semi-savage tastes of territorial _seigneurs_; the nobles of Rome delighted in feats of arms and shared their wealth with retinues of _bravi_; the great families of Umbria, Romagna, and the March followed the profession of _condottieri_; the Lombards were downtrodden by their Despots and deprived of individual freedom; the Genoese developed into little better than traders and sea-robbers; the Sienese, divided by the factions of their _Monti_, had small leisure or common public feeling left for study. Florence meanwhile could boast a population of burghers noble by taste and culture, owing less to ancestry than to personal eminence, devoting their energies to civic ambition worthy of the Romans, and to mental activity which reminds us of the ancient Greeks. Between the people and this aristocracy of wealth and intellect there was at Florence no division like that which separated the Venetian _gentiluomini_ from the _cittadini_. The so-called _nobili_ and _popolani_ did not, as in Venice, form a caste apart, bound to the service of a tyrannous state-system. The very mobility which proved the ultimate source of disruption and of ruin to the commonwealth, aided the intellectual development of Florence. Stagnation and oppression were alike unknown. Here, therefore, and here alone, was created a public capable instinctively of comprehending what is beautiful in art and humane in letters, a race of craftsmen and of scholars who knew that their labours could not fail to be appreciated, and a class of patrons who sought no better bestowal of their wealth than on those arts and sciences which dignify the life of man. The Florentines, moreover, as a nation, were animated with the strongest sense of the greatness and the splendour of Florence. Like the Athenians of old, they had no warmer passion than their love for their city. However much we may deplore the rancorous dissensions which from time to time split up the commonwealth into parties, the remorseless foreign policy which destroyed Pisa, the political meanness of the Medici, and the base egotism of the _ottimati_, the fact remains that, æsthetically and intellectually, Florence was 'a city glorious,' a realised ideal of culture and humanity for all the rest of Italy, and, through Italian influence in general, for modern Europe and for us. What makes the part played by Florence in the history of learning the more remarkable is, that the chiefs of the political factions were at the same time the leaders of intellectual progress. Rinaldo degli Albizzi and Cosimo de' Medici, while opposed as antagonists in a duel to the death upon the stage of the republic, vied with each other in the patronage they extended to men of letters. Rinaldo was himself no mean scholar; and he chose one of the greatest men of the age, Tommaso da Sarzana, to be tutor to his children. Of Palla degli Strozzi's services in the cause of Greek learning I have already spoken in the second chapter of this volume. Beside the invitation which he caused to be sent to Manuel Chrysoloras, he employed his wealth and influence in providing books necessary for the prosecution of Hellenic studies. 'Messer Palla,' says Vespasiano, 'sent to Greece for countless volumes, all at his own cost. The "Cosmography" of Ptolemy, together with the picture made to illustrate it, the "Lives" of Plutarch, the works of Plato, and very many other writings of philosophers, he got from Constantinople. The "Politics" of Aristotle were not in Italy until Messer Palla sent for them; and when Messer Lionardo of Arezzo translated them, he had the copy from his hands.'[125] In the same spirit of practical generosity Palla degli Strozzi devoted his leisure and his energies to the improvement of the _studio pubblico_ at Florence, giving it that character of humane culture which it retained throughout the age of the Renaissance.[126] To him, again, belongs the glory of having first collected books for the express purpose of founding a public library. This project had occupied the mind of Petrarch, and its utility had been recognised by Coluccio de' Salutati,[127] but no one had as yet arisen to accomplish it. 'Being passionately fond of literature, Messer Palla always kept copyists in his own house and outside it, of the best who were in Florence, both for Greek and Latin books; and all the books he could find he purchased, on all subjects, being minded to found a most noble library in Santa Trinità, and to erect there a most beautiful building for the purpose. He wished that it should be open to the public, and he chose Santa Trinità because it was in the centre of Florence, a site of great convenience to everybody. His disasters supervened, and what he had designed he could not execute.'[128] [Footnote 125: Vespasiano, p. 272.] [Footnote 126: Vespasiano, p. 273.] [Footnote 127: See Voigt, p. 202.] [Footnote 128: Vespasiano, p. 275.] The calamities alluded to by Vespasiano may be briefly told. Palla degli Strozzi, better fitted by nature for study than for party warfare, was one of the richest of the merchant princes of Florence. In the _catasto_ of 1427 his property was valued at one-fifth more than that returned by Giovanni, then the chief of the Medicean family; and the extraordinary tax (_gravezza_) imposed upon it reached the sum of 800 florins.[129] During the conflict for power carried on between the Albizzi and the Medici he strove to preserve a neutral attitude; but after Cosimo's return from exile, in 1434, the presence of so powerful and rich a leader in the State seemed dangerous to the Medicean party. It was their policy to annihilate all greatness but their own, and to reduce the Florentines to slavery by creating a body of dependents and allies whose interests should be bound up with their own supremacy.[130] Palla degli Strozzi was accordingly banished to Padua for ten years, nor, at the expiration of this period, was he suffered to return to Florence. He died in exile, separated from his children, who shared the same fate in other parts of Italy, while Florence lost the services of the most enlightened of her sons.[131] Amid the many tribulations of his latter years Palla continued to derive comfort from study. John Argyropoulos was his guest at Padua, where the collection of books and the cultivation of Greek learning went on with no less vigour than at Florence. [Footnote 129: _Ibid._ p. 276.] [Footnote 130: See Von Reumont, vol. i. pp. 147-153, for the cruel treatment of the Albizzi and other leading citizens.] [Footnote 131: See Vespasiano, pp. 283-287.] The work begun by Palla degli Strozzi at Florence was ably continued by his enemy Cosimo de' Medici. Though the historian cannot respect this man, whose mean and selfish ambition undermined the liberties of his native city, there is no doubt that he deserves the credit of a prudent and munificent Mæcenas. No Italian of his epoch combined zeal for learning and generosity in all that could advance the interests of arts and letters, more characteristically, with political corruption and cynical egotism. Early in life Cosimo entered his father's house of business, and developed a rare faculty for finance. This faculty he afterwards employed in the administration of the State, as well as in the augmentation of the riches of his family by trade. As he gained political importance, he made it his prime object to place out monies in the hands of needy citizens, and to involve the public affairs of Florence with his own commerce by means of loans and other expedients. He not only attached individuals by debts and obligations to his person, but he also rendered it difficult to control the State expenditure without regard to his private bank. Few men have better understood the value of money in the acquisition of power, or the advantage of so using it that jealousy should not be roused by personal display. 'Envy,' he remarked, 'is a plant you must not water.' Accordingly, while he spent large sums on public works, he declined Brunelleschi's sumptuous project for a palace, on the score that such a dwelling was more fitted for a prince than a citizen. In his habits he was temperate and simple. Games of hazard he abhorred, and found his recreation in the company of learned men. Sometimes, but rarely, he played at chess. Contemporaries recorded how, like an ancient Roman, he rose early in the morning to prune his own pear trees and to plant his vines. In all things he preferred the reality to the display of power and riches. While wielding the supreme authority of Florence, he seemed intent upon the dull work of the counting-house. Other men were put forward in the execution of designs that he had planned; and this policy of ruling the State by cat's-paws was followed so consistently, that at the end of his life his influence was threatened by the very instruments he had created. At the same time he exercised virtual despotism with a pitiless tenacity unsurpassed by the Visconti. The cruelty with which he pushed the Albizzi to their ruin, prolonged the exile of Palla degli Strozzi, reduced Giannozzo Manetti to beggary, and oppressed his rivals in general with forced loans--using taxation like a poignard, to quote a phrase from Guicciardini--is enough to show that only prudence caused him to refrain from violence.[132] A cold and calculating policy, far-sighted, covert, and secretive, governed all the measures he took for fastening his family on Florence. The result was that the roots of the Medici, while they seemed to take hold slowly, struck deep; you might fancy they were nowhere, just because they had left no part unpenetrated. The Republic, like Gulliver in Liliput, was tied down by a thousand threads, each almost imperceptible, but so varied in quality and so subtly interwoven that to escape from the network was impossible. [Footnote 132: Manetti's obligations to the commune were raised by arbitrary impositions to the enormous sum of 135,000 golden florins. He was broken in his trade and forced to live on charity in exile.] Much of the influence acquired by Cosimo, and transmitted to his descendants, was due to sympathy with the intellectual movement of the age. He had received a solid education; and though he was not a Greek scholar, his mind was open to the interests which in the fifteenth century absorbed the Florentines. He collected manuscripts, gems, coins, and inscriptions, employing the resources of his banking house and engaging his commercial agents in this work. Painters and sculptors, no less than scholars and copyists, found in him a liberal patron. At the death of his son Piero the treasures of the Casa Medici, not counting plate and costly furniture, were valued at 30,000 golden florins.[133] The sums of money spent by him in building were enormous. It was reckoned that, one year with another, he disbursed from 15,000 to 18,000 golden florins annually in edifices for the public use.[134] Of these the most important were the Convent of S. Marco, which altogether cost about 70,000 florins; S. Lorenzo, which cost another 40,000; and the Abbey of Fiesole. On his own palace he expended 60,000 florins, while the building of his villas at Careggi and Cafaggiuolo implied a further large expenditure. Not a shilling of this money was wasted; for while Cosimo avoided the reproach of personal extravagance, he gave work to multitudes of labourers, who received their wages regularly every Saturday at his office. To this free use of wealth in the employment of artisans may be ascribed the popularity of the Medici with the lower classes, which was more than once so useful to them at a perilous turn of fortune. [Footnote 133: See Von Reumont, vol. ii. p. 175.] [Footnote 134: Vespasiano, p. 257.] Comprehending the conditions under which tyranny might be successfully practised in the fifteenth century, Cosimo attached great value to this generosity. He used, in later life, to regret that 'he had not begun to spend money upon public works ten years earlier than he did.'[135] Every costly building that bore his name, each library he opened to the public, and all the donations lavished upon scholars served the double purpose of cementing the despotism of his house and of gratifying his personal enthusiasm for culture. Superstition mingled with these motives of the tyrant and the dilettante. Knowing that much of his wealth had been ill-gotten, he besought the Pope, Eugenius, to indicate a proper way of restitution. Eugenius advised him to spend 10,000 florins on the Convent of S. Marco. Thereupon Cosimo laid out considerably more than four times that sum, adding the famous Marcian Library, and treating the new foundation of the Osservanza, one of the Pope's favourite crotchets, with more than princely liberality.[136] [Footnote 135: Vespasiano, p. 257.] [Footnote 136: _Ibid._ p. 252. Cosimo ordered his clerks to honour all drafts presented with the signature of one of the chief brethren of the convent. 'Aveva ordinato al banco, che tutti i danari, che gli fussino tratti per polizza d'uno religioso de primi del convento, gli pagasse, e mettessegli a suo conto, e fussino che somma si volessino.'] Of his generosity to men of letters the most striking details are recorded. When Niccolo de' Niccoli ruined himself by buying books, Cosimo opened for him an unlimited credit with the Medicean bank. The cashiers received orders to honour the old scholar's drafts; and in this way Niccolo drew 500 ducats for his private needs.[137] Tommaso Parentucelli was treated with no less magnificence. As Bishop of Bologna, soon after his patron Albergati's death, he found himself with very meagre revenues and no immediate prospect of preferment. Yet the expenses of his station were considerable, and he had occasion to request a loan from the Medici. Cosimo issued a circular letter to his correspondents, engaging them to supply Tommaso with what sums of money he might want.[138] When the Bishop of Bologna assumed the tiara, with the name of Nicholas V., he rewarded Cosimo by making him his banker; and the Jubilee bringing 100,000 ducats into the Papal treasury, the obligation was repaid a hundredfold.[139] [Footnote 137: Vespasiano, pp. 264, 475.] [Footnote 138: Vespasiano, pp. 29, 264.] [Footnote 139: _Ibid._ pp. 34, 265.] The chief benefit conferred by Cosimo de' Medici on learning was the accumulation and the housing of large public libraries. During his exile (Oct. 3, 1433--Oct. 1, 1434) he built the Library of S. Giorgio Maggiore at Venice, and after his return to Florence he formed three separate collections of MSS. While the hall of the Library of S. Marco was in process of construction, Niccolo de' Niccoli died, in 1437, bequeathing his 800 MSS., valued at 6,000 golden florins, to sixteen trustees. Among these were Cosimo and Lorenzo de' Medici, Ambrogio Traversari, Lionardo Bruni, Carlo Marsuppini, Poggio Bracciolini, Giannozzo Manetti, and Franco Sacchetti. At the same time the estate of Niccolo was compromised by heavy debts. These debts Cosimo cancelled, obtaining in exchange the right to dispose of the library. In 1441 the hall of the convent was finished. Four hundred of Niccolo's MSS. were placed there, with this inscription upon each: _Ex hereditate doctissimi viri Nicolai de Nicolis de Florentiâ._ Tommaso Parentucelli made a catalogue at Cosimo's request, in which he not only noted the titles of Niccoli's books, but also marked the names of others wanting to complete the collection. This catalogue afterwards served as a guide to the founders of the libraries of Fiesole, Urbino, and Pesaro, and was, says Vespasiano, indispensable to book-collectors.[140] Of the remaining 400 volumes Cosimo kept some for his own (the Medicean) library, and some he gave to friends. At the same time he spared no pains in adding to the Marcian collection. His agents received instructions to buy codices, while Vespasiano and Fra Giuliano Lapaccini were employed in copying rare MSS. As soon as Cosimo had finished building the Abbey of Fiesole, he set about providing this also with a library suited to the wants of learned ecclesiastics. Of the method he pursued, Vespasiano, who acted as his agent, has transmitted the following account:[141]--'One day, when I was in his room, he said to me, "What plan can you recommend for the formation of this library?" I answered that to buy the books would be impossible, since they could not be purchased. "What, then, do you propose?" he added. I told him that they must be copied. He then asked if I would undertake the business. I replied that I was willing. He bade me begin at my leisure, saying that he left all to me; and for the monies wanted day by day, he ordered that Don Arcangelo, at that time prior of the monastery, should draw cheques upon his bank, which should be honoured. After beginning the collection, since it was his will that it should be finished with all speed possible, and money was not lacking, I soon engaged forty-five copyists, and in twenty-two months provided two hundred volumes, following the admirable list furnished by Pope Nicholas V.' The two libraries thus formed by Cosimo for the Convents of S. Marco and Fiesole, together with his own private collections, constitute the oldest portion of the present Laurentian Library. On the title-pages of many venerable MSS. may still be read inscriptions, testifying to the munificence of the Medici, and calling upon pious students to remember the souls of their benefactors in their prayers[142]--_Orato itaque lector ut gloria et divitiæ sint in domo ejus justitia ejus et maneat in sæculum sæculi._ [Footnote 140: See Vespasiano's _Life of Nicholas V._ p. 26.] [Footnote 141: _Vita di Cosimo_, p. 254.] [Footnote 142: See Von Reumont, vol. i. p. 578.] Cosimo's zeal for learning was not confined to the building of libraries or to book-collecting. His palace formed the centre of a literary and philosophical society, which united all the wits of Florence and the visitors who crowded to the capital of culture. Vespasiano expressly states that 'he was always the father and benefactor of those who showed any excellence.'[143] Distinguished by versatility of tastes and comprehensive intellect, he formed his own opinion of the men of eminence with whom he came in contact, and conversed with each upon his special subject. 'When giving audience to a scholar, he discoursed concerning letters; in the company of theologians he showed his acquaintance with theology, a branch of learning always studied by him with delight. So also with regard to philosophy. Astrologers found him well versed in their science, for he somewhat lent faith to astrology and employed it on certain private occasions. Musicians in like manner perceived his mastery of music, wherein he much delighted. The same was true about sculpture and painting; both of these arts he understood completely, and showed great favour to all worthy craftsmen. In architecture he was a consummate judge, for without his opinion and advice no building was begun or carried to completion.'[144] [Footnote 143: _Vita di Cosimo_, p. 266.] [Footnote 144: Condensed from Vespasiano, p. 258.] The discernment of character, possessed by Cosimo in a very high degree, not only enabled him to extend enlightened patronage to arts and letters, but also to provide for the future needs of erudition. Stimulated by the presence of the Greeks who crowded Florence during the sitting of the Council in 1438, he formed a plan for encouraging Hellenic studies. It was he who founded the Platonic Academy, and educated Marsilio Ficino, the son of his physician, for the special purpose of interpreting Greek philosophy. Ficino, in a letter to Lorenzo de' Medici, observes that during twelve years he had conversed with Cosimo on matters of philosophy, and always found him as acute in reasoning as he was prudent and powerful in action. 'I owe to Plato much, to Cosimo no less. He realised for me the virtues of which Plato gave me the conception.' Thus the man whose political cynicism is enshrined in such apophthegms as these:--'A few ells of scarlet would fill Florence with citizens;' 'You cannot govern a State with paternosters;' 'Better the city ruined than the city lost to us'--must, by his relations to scholars and his enthusiasm for culture, still command our admiration and respect. Among the friends of Cosimo, to whose personal influence at Florence the Revival of Learning owed a vigorous impulse, Niccolo de' Niccoli claims our earliest attention.[145] The part he took in promoting Greek studies has been already noticed, and we have seen that his private library formed the nucleus of the Marcian collection. Of the eight hundred volumes bequeathed to his executors, the majority had been transcribed by his own hand; for he was assiduous in this labour, and plumed himself upon his skill in cursive as well as printed character.[146] His whole fortune was expended long before his death in buying manuscripts or procuring copies from a distance. 'If he heard of any book in Greek or Latin not to be had in Florence, he spared no cost in getting it; the number of the Latin books which Florence owes entirely to his generosity cannot be reckoned.'[147] Great, therefore, must have been the transports of delight with which he welcomed on one occasion a manuscript containing seven tragedies of Sophocles, six of Æschylus, and the 'Argonautica' of Apollonius Rhodius.[148] Nor was he only eager in collecting for his own use. He lent his books so freely that, at the moment of his death, two hundred volumes were out on loan;[149] and, when it seemed that Boccaccio's library would perish from neglect, at his own cost he provided substantial wooden cases for it in the Convent of S. Spirito. We must not, however, conclude that Niccolo was a mere copyist and collector. On the contrary, he made a point of collating the several MSS. of an author on whose text he was engaged, removed obvious errors, and suggested emendations, helping thus to lay the foundations of modern criticism. His judgment in matters of style was so highly valued that it was usual for scholars to submit their essays to his eyes before they ventured upon publication. Thus Lionardo Bruni sent him his 'Life of Cicero,' calling him 'the censor of the Latin tongue.'[150] Notwithstanding his fine sense of language, Niccolo never appeared before the world of letters as an author. His enemies made the most of this reluctance, averring that he knew his own ineptitude, while his friends referred his silence to an exquisite fastidiousness of taste.[151] It may have been that he remembered the Tacitean epigram on Galba--_omnium consensu capax imperii nisi imperâsset_--and applied it to himself. Certainly his reserve, in an age noteworthy for arrogant display, has tended to confer on him distinction. The position he occupied at Florence was that of a literary dictator. All who needed his assistance and advice were received with urbanity. He threw his house open to young men of parts, engaged in disputations with the curious, and provided the ill-educated with teachers. Foreigners from all parts of Italy and Europe paid him visits: 'the strangers who came to Florence at that time, if they missed the opportunity of seeing him at home, thought they had not been in Florence.'[152] The house where he lived was worthy of his refined taste and cultivated judgment; for he had formed a museum of antiquities--inscriptions, marbles, coins, vases, and engraved gems. There he not only received students and strangers, but conversed with sculptors and painters, discussing their inventions as freely as he criticised the essays of the scholars. It is probable that the classicism of Brunelleschi and Donatello, both of whom were among his intimate friends, may be due in part at least to his discourses on the manner of the ancients.[153] Pliny, we know, was one of his favourite authors; for, having heard that a complete codex of the 'Natural Histories' existed at Lübeck, he left no stone unturned till it had been transferred to Florence.[154] [Footnote 145: What follows I have based on Vespasiano's Life of Niccolo. Poggio's Funeral Oration, and his letter to Carlo Aretino on the death of his friend Niccolo, are to the same effect. _Poggii Opera_, pp. 270, 342.] [Footnote 146: Vespasiano, p. 471. 'Le scriveva di sua mano o di lettera corsiva o formata, che dell'una lettera e dell'altra era bellissimo scrittore.'] [Footnote 147: _Ibid._ p. 473.] [Footnote 148: See a letter of Ambrogio Traversari, quoted by Voigt, p. 155.] [Footnote 149: Vespasiano, p. 476. Poggio, p. 271.] [Footnote 150: Vespasiano, pp. 473, 478.] [Footnote 151: _Ibid._ p. 478. Poggio, p. 343.] [Footnote 152: Vespasiano, p. 477.] [Footnote 153: _Ibid._ p. 479.] [Footnote 154: _Ibid._ p. 474.] Vespasiano's account of his personal habits presents so vivid a picture that I cannot refrain from translating it at length:--'First of all, he was of a most fair presence; lively, for a smile was ever on his lips; and very pleasant in his talk. He wore clothes of the fairest crimson cloth, down to the ground. He never married, in order that he might not be impeded in his studies. A housekeeper provided for his daily needs. He was above all men the most cleanly in eating, as also in all other things. When he sat at table, he ate from fair antique vases; and, in like manner, all his table was covered with porcelain and other vessels of great beauty. The cup from which he drank was of crystal or of some other precious stone. To see him at table--a perfect model of the men of old--was of a truth a charming sight. He always willed that the napkins set before him should be of the whitest, as well as all the linen. Some might wonder at the many vases he possessed, to whom I answer that things of that sort were neither so highly valued then, nor so much regarded, as they have since become; and Niccolo having friends everywhere, anyone who wished to do him a pleasure would send him marble statues, or antique vases, carvings, inscriptions, pictures from the hands of distinguished masters, and mosaic tablets. He had a most beautiful map, on which all the parts and cities of the world were marked; others of Italy and Spain, all painted. Florence could not show a house more full of ornaments than his, or one that had in it a greater number of graceful objects; so that all who went there found innumerable things of worth to please varieties of taste.' What distinguished Niccolo was the combination of refinement and humane breeding with open-handed generosity and devotion to the cause of culture. He knew how to bring forward men of promise, and to place them in positions of eminence. Yet, in return for benefits conferred, he exacted more compliance than could be expected from the haughty and unbending temper of distinguished scholars. Opposition and contradiction roused his jealousy and barbed his caustic speech with sarcasm. Chrysoloras and Guarino, Aurispa and Filelfo, after visiting Florence at his invitation, found the city unendurable through the opposition raised by Niccolo against them. Among the men of ability who adorned Florence at this period, no one stands forth with a more distinguished personality than Lionardo Bruni. In his boyhood at Arezzo, where his parents occupied a humble position, he used, as he tells us in his 'Commentaries,'[155] to gaze on Petrarch's portrait, fervently desiring that he might win like laurels in the field of scholarship. At first, however, being poor and of no reputation, he was forced to apply his talents to the study of the law. From these uncongenial labours the patronage of Salutato and the influence of Chrysoloras[156] saved him. Having begun to write for the public, his fame as a Latinist soon spread so wide that he was appointed Apostolic Secretary to the Roman Curia. After sharing the ill fortunes of John XXIII. at Constance, and serving under Martin V. at Florence, he was appointed to the Chancery of the Republic in 1427, a post which he occupied until his death in 1443. His biography, therefore, illustrates all that has been said concerning the employment of humanists in high offices of Church and State. His diplomatic letters were regarded as models in that kind of composition, and his public speeches, carefully prepared beforehand, were compared with those of Pericles. Florence was crowded with the copyists who multiplied his MSS., dispersing them all over Europe; and when he walked abroad, a numerous train of scholars and of foreigners attended him.[157] He moved with gravity and majesty of person, wearing the red robes of a Florentine burgher, using few words, but paying marked courtesy to men of wealth. Among the compositions which secured his reputation should first be mentioned the Latin 'History of Florence,' a work unique in its kind at that time in Italy.[158] The grateful Republic rewarded their chancellor by bestowing upon him the citizenship of Florence, and by exempting the author and his children from taxation. The high value at which Bruni rated his own Latin scholarship is proved by his daring to restore the second Decade of Livy in a compilation entitled 'De Primo Bello Punico.' His mediæval erudition was exercised in the history of the Gothic invasion of Italy, while his more elegant style found ample scope in Latin Lives of Cicero and Aristotle, in a book of Commentaries on his own times, and in ten volumes of Collected Letters. These original works were possibly of less importance than Bruni's translations from the Greek, which passed in his own age for models of sound scholarship as well as pure Latinity. The erudition of the fifteenth century had to thank his industry for critical renderings of Aristotle's 'Ethics,' 'Politics,' and 'Economics.'[159] The 'Politics' were dedicated to the Earl of Worcester, and the autograph was sent to England. Some delay in the acknowledgment of so magnificent a tribute of respect caused the haughty scholar to transfer the honour of his dedication to Eugenius IV. He cancelled his first preface, substituted a new one, and received the praise and thanks he sought, in plenty from his Holiness.[160] Of Plato Bruni translated the 'Phædo,' 'Crito,' and 'Apology,' the 'Phædrus' and the 'Gorgias,' together with the 'Epistles.' To these versions must be added six Lives of Plutarch and two Orations of Demosthenes. Nor have we thus by any means exhausted the list of Bruni's Latin compositions, which included controversial writings, invectives, moral essays, orations, and tracts on literary or antiquarian topics. If we consider that, in the midst of these severe labours, and under the pressure of his public engagements, he still found time to compose Italian Lives of Dante and Petrarch, we shall understand the admiration universally expressed by his contemporaries for his comprehensive talents, and share their gratitude for services so numerous in the cause of learning. When Messer Lionardo died in 1443, the priors decreed him a public funeral, 'after the manner of the ancients.' His corpse was clothed in dark silk, and on his breast was laid a copy of the Florentine History. Thus attired, he passed in state to S. Croce, where Giannozzo Manetti, in the presence of the Signory, the foreign ambassadors, and the Court of Pope Eugenius, pronounced a funeral oration, and placed the laurel crown upon his head.[161] The monument beneath which Messer Lionardo's bones repose is an excellent specimen of Florentine sepulchral statuary, executed by Bernardo Rossellino. [Footnote 155: Muratori, xix. p. 917. 'Erat in ipso cubiculo picta Francisci Petrarchæ imago, quam ego quotidie aspiciens, incredibili ardore studiorum ejus incendebar.'] [Footnote 156: See above, pp. 77, 80.] [Footnote 157: See Vespasiano, p. 436.] [Footnote 158: See Vol. I., _Age of Despots_, pp. 216-218.] [Footnote 159: These last were then thought genuine.] [Footnote 160: Vespasiano, p. 436.] [Footnote 161: _Ibid._ _Vita di Manetti_, p. 452. Manetti was himself a prior at this time.] Facing Bruni's tomb in S. Croce is that of Carlo Aretino, wrought with subtler art and in a richer style by Desiderio da Settignano. Messer Carlo, who succeeded Bruni in the Chancery of the Republic, shared during his lifetime, as well as in the public honours paid him at his death, very similar fortunes. His family name was Marsuppini, and he was born of a good family in Arezzo. Having come to Florence while a youth to study Greek, he fell under the notice of Niccolo de' Niccoli, who introduced him to the Medicean family, and procured him an engagement at a high salary from the Uffiziali dello Studio. At the time when he began to lecture, Eugenius was holding his Court at Florence. The cardinals and nephews of the Pope, attended by foreign ambassadors, and followed by the apostolic secretaries, mingled with burghers of Florence and students from a distance round the desk of the young scholar. Carlo's reading was known to be extensive, and his memory was celebrated as prodigious. Yet on the occasion of this first lecture he far surpassed all that was expected of him. 'Before a crowd of learned men,' says Vespasiano, 'he gave a great proof of his memory, for neither Greeks nor Romans had an author from whom he did not quote.'[162] Filelfo, who was also lecturing in Florence at the time, had the mortification of seeing the larger portion of his audience transfer themselves to Marsuppini. This wound to his vanity he never forgave. Through the influence of Lorenzo de' Medici (Cosimo's younger brother), Carlo Marsuppini was first made Apostolic Secretary, and then promoted to the Chancery of Florence. He was grave in manner, taciturn in speech, and much given to melancholy. His contemporaries regarded him as a man of no religion, and he was said to have died without confession or communion.[163] This did not prevent his being buried in S. Croce with ceremonies similar to those decreed for Messer Lionardo. Matteo Palmieri pronounced the funeral oration, and placed the laurel on his brows. Marsuppini's contributions to scholarship were chiefly in verse; among these his translations of the 'Batrachomyomachia' and the first book of the 'Iliad' were highly valued. [Footnote 162: _Vita di Carlo d'Arezzo_, p. 440.] [Footnote 163: See Tiraboschi, tom. vi. p. 1094.] Matteo Palmieri, who pronounced the funeral oration of Messer Carlo Aretino, sprang from an honourable Florentine stock, and by his own abilities rose to a station of considerable public influence. He is principally famous as the author of a mystical poem called 'Città di Vita,' which, though it was condemned for its heretical opinions, obtained from Ficinus for its author the title of _Poeta Theologicus_. To discuss the circumstances under which this allegory in the style of Dante was composed, the secresy in which it was involved until the poet's death, and the relation of Palmieri's views to heresies in vogue at Florence, belongs to a future section of my work.[164] He claims a passing notice here among the humanists who acquired high place and honour by the credit of his eloquence and style. [Footnote 164: See Vespasiano, p. 500. Tiraboschi, vol. vi. p. 678. App. iii. to vol. v. of this work.] Giannozzo Manetti belonged to an illustrious house, and in his youth, like other well-born Florentines, was trained for mercantile affairs.[165] At the age of five-and-twenty he threw off the parental control, and gave himself entirely to letters. So obstinate was his industry in the acquisition of knowledge, that he allowed himself only five hours of sleep, and spent the rest of his life in study. During nine whole years he never crossed the Arno, but remained within the walls of his house and garden, which communicated with the Convent of S. Spirito. Being passionately fond of disputation, he sought his chief amusement there in the debating society founded by Marsigli. Ambrogio Traversari was his master in Greek. Latin he had no difficulty in acquiring, and soon gained such facility in its exercise that even Lionardo Bruni is said to have envied his fluency. He was not, however, contented with these languages, and in order to perfect himself in Hebrew he kept a Jew in his own house.[166] When he had acquired sufficient familiarity with Hebrew, he turned the arms supplied him by his tutors against their heresies, basing his arguments upon such interpretations of texts as his superior philology suggested to him. The great work of his literary leisure was a polemical discourse 'Contra Judæos et Gentes,' for, unlike Marsuppini, he placed his erudition solely at the service of the Christian faith. Another fruit of his Hebrew studies was a new translation of the Psalms from the original. [Footnote 165: The sources for Manetti's Life are Vespasiano and an anonymous Latin biography in Muratori. Besides the small Life of Vespasiano in his _Vite d'Uomini Illustri_, I have had recourse to his _Comentario della Vita di Gianozo Manetti_, Turin, 1862.] [Footnote 166: 'Tenne in casa dua Greci et uno Ebreo che s'era fatto Cristiano, et non voleva che il Greco parlasse con lui se non in greco, et il simile il Ebreo in ebreo.'--_Comentario_, p. 11.] Manetti was far from being a mere student. During the best years of his life he was continually employed as ambassador to the Republic at Venice, Naples, Rome, and other Courts of Italy. He administered the government of Pescia, Pistoja, and Scarparia in times of great difficulty, winning a singular reputation for probity and justice. On all occasions of state his eloquence made him indispensable to the Signory, while the lists of his writings include numerous speeches upon varied topics addressed to potentates and princes throughout Italy.[167] There is a curious story related in his Life, which illustrates the importance attached at this time to public speaking. After the coronation of the Emperor Frederick III., the Florentines sent fifteen ambassadors, including Manetti, attended by the Chancellor Carlo Aretino, to congratulate him. Manetti was a Colleague of the Signory, and on him would therefore have naturally fallen the fulfilment of the task, had not this honour been conferred, by private machinations of the Medicean family, on Carlo. The Chancellor duly delivered a prepared oration, which was answered by Æneas Sylvius in the name of the Emperor. Some topics raised in this reply required rejoinder from the Florentines; but Messer Carlo declared himself unable to speak without previous study. To be forced to hold their tongues before the Emperor and all his suite was a bitter humiliation to the men of Florence. How could they return home and confess that the rhetoric of their Chancellor had been silenced by a witty secretary? In their sore distress they besought Manetti to help them; whereupon he rose and delivered an extempore oration. 'When it was finished,' says Vespasiano,[168] 'all competent judges who understood Latin, and could follow it, declared that Messer Giannozzi's extempore speech was superior to that which Messer Carlo had prepared.' [Footnote 167: 'Se ignuna cosa difficile o cura disperata, la davano a Messer Gianozo.'--_Ibid._ p. 22.] [Footnote 168: _Vita di Gianozo Manetti_, p. 462. Compare Burckhardt, p. 182. There is another story, told in the _Comentario_, of Manetti's speaking before Alfonso at Naples. The King remained so quiet that he did not even brush the flies from his face. P. 30.] The Latin Life of Manetti contains innumerable instances of the miracles wrought by his rhetoric.[169] Yet we should err if we imagined that the speeches pronounced upon solemn occasions, by even such illustrious orators as Manetti or Pius II., were marked by any of the nobler qualities of eloquence.[170] They consist of commonplaces freely interspersed with historical examples and voluminous quotations. Without charm, without originality, they survive as monuments of the enthusiasm of that age for classic erudition, and of the patience with which popes and princes lent their ears for two or three hours at a stretch to the self-complacent mouthings of a pompous pedant. [Footnote 169: Muratori, vol. xx.] [Footnote 170: For Pius II.'s reputation see Burckhardt, p. 182.] Giannozzo Manetti became at last so great a power in Florence that he excited the jealousy of the Medicean party. They ruined him by the imposition of extravagant taxes, and he was obliged to end his life an exile from his native land.[171] Florence never behaved worse to a more blameless citizen; for Manetti, by his cheerful acceptance of public burdens, by his prudence in the discharge of weighty offices, by the piety and sobriety of his private life, by his vast acquirements, and by the single-hearted zeal with which he burned for learning, had proved himself the model of such men as might have saved the State, if safety had been possible. He retired to the Court of Nicholas V., who had previously named him Apostolic Secretary; and on the death of that Pope he sought a final refuge with Alfonso at Naples.[172] There he devoted himself entirely to literature, translating the whole of the New Testament and the ethical treatises of Aristotle into Latin, and carrying his great controversial work against the Jews and Gentiles onwards to completion. [Footnote 171: Vespasiano, p. 465. Muratori, xx. 600.] [Footnote 172: Alfonso gave him a pension of 900 scudi. He wrote a history of his life and deeds.] Few men deserve a higher place on the muster-roll of Italian worthies than Manetti. He was free from many vices of the Renaissance; his piety and morality remaining untainted by the contact with antiquity. Nor did he sink the citizen in the student. His learning was varied and profound. Instead of applying himself to Greek and Latin scholarship alone, he mastered Hebrew, and sought to acquire a comprehensive grasp of all the knowledge of the ancient world. At the same time he lived in constant sympathy with his age, sharing its delight in rhetorical displays and wordy disputations, and furthering the diffusion of knowledge by his toil as a translator. It may well be wondered how it happens that a man in many points akin to Pico should have fallen so far short of him in fame. The explanation lies in this: Manetti was deficient in all that elevates mere learning to the rank of art. His Latin style was tedious; his thoughts were commonplace. When the influence of his voice and person passed away, nothing remained to prove his eloquence but ill-digested facts and ill-applied citations. Still the work which he effected in his day was good, and the place he held was honourable. Posterity may be grateful to him as one of the most active pioneers of modern culture. A man of different stamp and calling claims attention next. Ambrogio Traversari was far from sharing the neopagan impulse of the classical revival; yet he owed political influence and a high place among the leaders of his age to humanistic enthusiasm. Born in Romagna, and admitted while yet a child into the Convent degli Angeli at Florence, he gave early signs of his capacity for literature. At a time when knowledge of Greek was still a rare title to distinction,[173] Ambrogio mastered the elements of the language and studied the Greek Fathers in the original. His cell became the meeting-place of learned men, where Cosimo and Lorenzo de' Medici, the stately Bruni and the sombre Marsuppini, joined with caustic Niccoli and lively Poggio in earnest conversation. His voluminous correspondence connected him with students in all parts of Italy; nor was there any important discovery of MSS. or plan for library or university in which he did not take his part among the first. [Footnote 173: Niccolo de' Niccoli, it must be remembered, was not a Grecian. Ambrogio used to insert the Greek words into his transcripts of Latin codices.] It seemed as though he were destined to pursue a peaceful student's life among his books; and for this career nature had marked out the little, meagre, lively, and laborious man. To be eminent in scholarship, however, and to avoid the burdens of celebrity, was impossible in that age. Eugenius IV., while resident in Florence, was so impressed with his literary eminence and strength of character that he made him General of the Camaldolese Order in 1431; and from this time forward Traversari's life was divided between public duties, for which he was scarcely fitted, and private studies that absorbed his deepest interests. He presented the curious spectacle of a monk distracted between the scruples of the cloister and the wider claims of humanism, who showed one mind to his Order and another to his literary friends. He made a point of never citing heathen poets in his writings, as though the verses of Homer or of Virgil were inconsistent with the sobriety of a Christian; yet his anxiety to round his style with Ciceronian phrases, and to bequeath models of pure Latinity in his epistles to posterity, proved how much he valued literary graces. Having vowed to consecrate his talents to the services of ecclesiastical learning, he undertook the translation of Diogenes Laertius, at Cosimo's request, with reluctance, and performed the task with bitter self-bemoaning. In his person we witness the conflict of the humanistic spirit with ecclesiastical tradition--a conflict in which the former was destined to achieve a complete and memorable victory. These men--Niccoli, Bruni, Marsuppini, Manetti, and Traversari--formed the literary oligarchy who surrounded Cosimo de' Medici, and through their industry and influence restored the studies of antiquity at Florence. While they were carrying on the work of revival, each in his own sphere, with impassioned energy, a combination of external circumstances gave fresh impulse to their activity. Eugenius IV., having been expelled from Rome in 1434, had fixed his headquarters in Florence, whither in 1438 he transferred the Council which had first been opened at Ferrara for negotiating the union of the Greek and Latin Churches. The Emperor of the East, John Palæologus, surrounded by his theologians and scribes, together with the Pope of Rome, on whom a train of cardinals and secretaries attended, now took up their quarters in the city of the Medici. A temporary building at Santa Maria Novella was erected for the sessions of the Council, and for several months Florence entertained as guests the chiefs of the two great sections of Christendom. Unimportant as were the results, both political and ecclesiastical, of this Council, the meeting of the Eastern and the Western powers in conclave vividly impressed the imagination of the Florentines, and communicated a more than transient impulse to their intellectual energies. Italy was on the eve of becoming not only the depositary of Greek learning, but also the sole interpreter of the Greek spirit to the modern world. Fifteen years after the closing of the Council, the thread which had connected Byzantium with Athens through an unbroken series of historical traditions, was snapped; already it was beginning to be felt in Europe that nothing but the ghost of Greek culture survived upon the shores of the Bosphorus, and that if the genius of antiquity was to illuminate the modern world, the light must dawn in Italy.[174] [Footnote 174: See the emphatic words of Poliziano, quoted by Voigt, p. 189, on the revival of extinct Hellenism by the Florentines, and on their fluent command of the Attic idiom.] The feelings with which the Florentines regarded their Greek guests were strangely mingled. While honouring them as the last scions of the noblest nation of the past, as the authentic teachers of Hellenic learning and the masters of the Attic tongue, they despised their empty vanity, their facile apostasy, their trivial pedantry, their personal absurdities. The long beards, trailing mantles, painted eyebrows, and fantastic headgear of the Byzantine sophists moved the laughter of the common folk, accustomed to the grave and simple _lucco_ of their own burghers. In vain did Vespasiano tell them that this costume descended from august antiquity through fifteen centuries of unchanged fashion.[175] The more educated citizens, again, soon discovered that the erudition of these strangers was but shallow, and that their magnificent pretensions reduced themselves to the power of speaking the emasculated Greek, which formed their mother tongue, with fluency. The truth is that, however necessary the Byzantines were at the very outset of the Revival of Learning, Greek studies owed less to their traditional lore than to the curiosity of Italian scholars. The beggarly elements of grammar, caligraphy, and bibliographical knowledge were supplied by the Greeks; but it was not Chrysoloras even, nor yet Argyropoulos, so much as Ficino and Aldo, Palla degli Strozzi and Cosimo de' Medici, who opened the literature of Athens to the comprehension of the modern world. [Footnote 175: See the curious passage in the _Vita di Eugenio IV., Papa_, p. 14.] Some exceptions must be made to these remarks; for it is not certain that, without guidance, the Florentines would have made that rapid progress in philosophical studies which contrasts so singularly with their comparative neglect of the Attic dramatists. Gemistos Plethon in particular stands forth as a man who combined real knowledge with natural eloquence, and who materially affected the whole course of the Renaissance by directing the intelligence of the Florentines to Plato. Inasmuch as Plethon's residence in Italy during the session of the Council formed a decisive epoch in the Revival of Learning, to pass him by without some detailed notice would be to omit one of the most interesting episodes in the history of the fifteenth century. At the same time, his biography so well illustrates the state of thought in the Greek Empire at the moment of its fall, as well as the speculations which interested philosophic intellects at that period in Italy, that I trust the following digression will be judged excusable. Georgios Gemistos was born of noble parents at Byzantium about the year 1355.[176] During a long lifetime, chiefly spent in the Morea, he witnessed all the miseries that racked his country through its lingering agony of a hundred years, and died at last in 1450, just before the final downfall of the Greek Empire. Of his early life little is known beyond the fact that he left Constantinople as a young man in order to study philosophy at Brusa. Brusa and Adrianopolis, at that time the two Western seats of the Mahommedan power, out-rivalled Byzantium in culture, while the mental vigour of the Mussulmans was far in advance of that of their effete neighbours. The young Greek, who seems already to have lost his faith in Christianity, was attracted to the Moslem Court by Elissaios, a sage of Jewish birth. From this teacher he learned what then passed for the doctrines of Zoroaster. After quitting Brusa, Gemistos settled at Mistra in the Peloponnese, upon the site of ancient Sparta, where with some interruptions he continued to reside until his death. The Greek Emperor was still nominally lord of the Morea, though the conquests of Frankish Crusaders and the incursions of the Turks had rendered his rule feeble. Gemistos, who enjoyed the confidence of the Imperial House, was made a judge at Mistra, and thus obtained clear insight into the causes of the decadence of the Hellenic race upon its ancient soil. The picture he draws of the anarchy and immorality of the peninsula is frightful. He also professed philosophy, and at the age of thirty-three became a teacher of repute. The views he formed concerning the corruption of the Greek Church and the degradation of the Greek people, combined with his philosophical opinions, inspired him with the visionary ambition of reforming the creed, the ethics, and the political conditions of Hellas on a Pagan basis. There is something ludicrous as well as sad in the spectacle of this sophist, nourishing the vain fancy that he might coin a complete religious system, which should supersede Christianity and restore vigour to the decayed body of the Greek Empire. In the dotage of Hellenism Gemistos discovered no new principle of vitality, but returned to the speculative mysticism of the Neoplatonists. Their attempt at a Pagan revival had failed long ago in Alexandria, while force still remained to the Greek race, and while the Christian Church was still comparatively ill-assured. To propose it as a panacea in the year 1400 for the evils of the Empire threatened by the Turks was mere childishness. Perhaps it is doing the sage injustice to treat his system seriously. Charity prompts us to regard it as a plaything invented for the amusement of his leisure hours. Yet nothing can be graver than his own language and that of his disciples. [Footnote 176: I owe the greater part of the facts presented in this sketch of Gemistos to Fritz Schultze's _Geschichte der Philosophie der Renaissance_, vol. i.] The work in which he embodied his doctrine was called 'The Laws'--[Greek: hê tôn nomôn syngraphê], or simply [Greek: nomoi]. It comprised a metaphysical system, the outlines of a new religion, an elaborate psychology and theory of ethics, and a scheme of political administration. According to his notions, there is one Supreme God, Zeus, the absolute and eternal reality, existing as homogeneous and undiscriminated Being, Will, Activity, and Power. Zeus begets everlasting Ideas, or Gods of the second order; and these gods, to whom Gemistos gave the name of Greek divinities, constitute a hierarchy corresponding to the abstract notions of his logic. With the object of harmonising the double series of immortal and mortal existences they are subdivided, by a singularly clumsy contrivance, into genuine and spurious children of Zeus. First among the genuine sons stands Poseidon, the idea of ideas, the logical _summum genus_, who includes within himself the intellectual universe potentially. Next in rank is Hera, the female deity, created immediately by Zeus, but by a second act, and therefore inferior to Poseidon. These two are the primordial authors of the world as it exists. After them come three series, each of five deities, whereof the first set, including Apollo, Artemis, Hephæstus, Dionysus, and Athena, represent the most general categories. The second set, among whom we find Atlas and Pluto, are the ideas of immortal substance existing for ever in the world of living beings. The third, which reckons among others Hecate and Hestia, are the ideas of immortal substance existing for ever in the inanimate world. Next in the descending order come the spurious offspring of Zeus, or Titans, two of whom, Cronos and Aphrodite, are the ideas respectively of form and matter in things subject to decay and dissolution; while Koré, Pan, and Demeter are the specific ideas of men, beasts, and plants. Hitherto we have been recording the genealogy of divine beings subject to no laws of time or change, who are, in fact, pure thoughts or logical entities. We arrive in the last place at deities of the third degree, the genuine and the spurious children, no longer of Zeus, but of Poseidon, chieftain of the second order of the hierarchy. The planets and the fixed stars constitute the higher of these inferior powers, while the dæmons fill the lowest class of all. At the very bottom of the scale, below the gods of every quality, stand men, beasts, plants, and the inorganic world. It will be perceived that this scheme is bastard Neoplatonism--a mystical fusion of Greek mythology and Greek logic, whereby the products of speculative analysis are hypostasised as divine persons. Of many difficulties patent in his doctrine Gemistos offered no solution. How, for example, can we ascribe to Zeus the procreation of spurious as well as genuine offspring? It is possible that the philosopher, if questioned on such topics, would have fallen back on the convenient theory of progressively diminished efficacy in the creative act; for though he guards against adopting the hypothesis of emanation, it is clear, from the simile of multiplied reflections in a series of mirrors, which he uses to explain the genealogy of gods, that some such conception modified his views. To point out the insults offered to the ancient myths, whereof he made such liberal and arbitrary use, or to insist upon the folly of the whole conceit, considered as the substance of a creed which should regenerate the world, would be superfluous; nothing can be more grotesque, for instance, than the personification of identity and self-determining motion under the titles of Apollo and Dionysus, nor any confusion more fatal than the attribution of sex to categories of the understanding. The sole merit of the system consists in the classification of notions, the conception of an intellectual hierarchy, descending by interdependent stages from the primordial cause through pure ideas to their copies and material manifestations in the world of things. Dreams of this kind have always haunted the metaphysical imagination, giving rise to hybrids between poetry and logic; and the system of Gemistos may fairly take rank among a hundred similar attempts between the days of Plato and of Hegel. Such as it was, his metaphysic supplied Gemistos with the basis of a cult, a psychology, a theory of ethics, and a political programme. He founded a sect, and was called by his esoteric followers 'the mystagogue of sublime and celestial dogmas.'[177] They believed that the soul of Plato had been reincarnated in their master, and that the new creed, professed by him, would supersede the faiths existing in the world. Among the most distinguished of these neophytes was the famous Bessarion, who adopted so much at any rate of his teacher's doctrine as rendered him indifferent to the points at issue between the Greek and Latin Churches, when a cardinal's hat was offered as the price of his apostasy. Bessarion, however, was too much a man of the world to dream that Gemistos would triumph over Christ and Mahomet.[178] While using the language of the mystic, and recording his conviction that Plato's soul, released from the body of Gemistos, had joined the choir of the Olympian deities,[179] it is probable that he was only playing, after the fashion of his age, with speculations that amused his fancy though they took no serious hold upon his life. It was a period, we must remember, when scholars affected the manners of the antique world, Latinised their names, and adopted fantastic titles in their academies and learned clubs. At no time of the world's history has this kind of masquerading attained to so much earnestness of rather more than half-belief. The attitude assumed by Gemistos and his disciples is, therefore, not without its value for illustrating the intellectual conditions of the earlier Renaissance. Practical religion had but little energy among the educated classes. The interests of the Church were more political than spiritual. Science had not yet asserted her real rights in any sphere of thought. Art and literature, invigorated by the passion for antiquity, meanwhile absorbed the genius of the Italians; and through a dim æsthetic haze the waning lights of Hellas mingled with the dayspring of the modern world. [Footnote 177: See Schultze, p. 53.] [Footnote 178: See Schultze, p. 77, note.] [Footnote 179: _Ibid._ p. 107.] The most important event of Gemistos's life was the journey which he took to Italy in the train of John Palæologus in 1438. Secretly disliking Christianity in general, and the Latin form of it in particular, he had endeavoured to dissuade the emperor from attending the Council. Now he found himself elected as one of the six champions of the cause of the Greek Church. For the subtle Greek intellect in that dotage of a doomed civilisation, no greater interest survived than could be found in dialectic; and to dispute about the _filioque_ of the Christian creed was fair sport, when no chance offered itself of forcing rationalistic Paganism down the throat of popes and cardinals. Therefore it is probable that Gemistos did not find his position at the Council peculiarly irksome, even though he had to listen to reasonings about purgatory and the procession of the Holy Ghost, and to suggest arguments in favour of the Eastern dogma, while in his inmost soul he equally despised the combatants on either side. The effect he produced outside the Council was far more flattering than the part he had to play within the walls of Santa Maria Novella. Instead of power-loving ecclesiastics and pig-headed theologians, anxious only to extend their privileges and establish their supremacy, he found a multitude of sympathetic and enthusiastic listeners. The Florentines were just then in the first flush of their passion for Greek study. Plato, worshipped as an unknown god, whose rising would dispel the mists of scholastic theology, was upon the lips of every student. Men were thirsting for the philosophy that had the charm of poetry, that delighted the imagination while it fortified the understanding, and that lent its glamour to the dreams and yearnings of a youthful age. What they wanted, Gemistos possessed in abundance. From the treasures of a memory stored with Platonic, Pythagorean, and Alexandrian mysticism he poured forth copious streams of indiscriminate erudition. The ears of his audience were open; their intellects were far from critical. They accepted the gold and dross of his discourse alike as purest metal. Hanging upon the lips of the eloquent, grave, beautiful old man, who knew so much that they desired to learn, they called him Socrates and Plato in their ecstasy. It was during this visit to Florence that he adopted the name of Plethon, which, while it played upon Gemistos, had in it the ring of his great master's surname.[180] The devotion of his Greek disciples bore no comparison with the popularity he acquired among Italians; and he had the satisfaction of being sure that the seed of Platonic philosophy sown by him would spring up in the rich soil of those powerful and eager minds. Cosimo de' Medici, convinced of the importance of Platonic studies by his conversations with Gemistos, founded the famous Florentine Academy, and designated the young Marsilio Ficino for the special task of translating and explaining the Platonic writings.[181] When we call to mind the influence which the Platonic Academy of Florence, through Ficino and Pico della Mirandola, exerted over the whole thought of Italy, and, through Reuchlin and his pupil Melanchthon, over that of Germany, we are able to estimate the impulse given by Gemistos to the movement of the fifteenth century. It may be added that Platonic studies in Italy never recovered from the impress of Neoplatonic mysticism which proceeded from his mind. [Footnote 180: [Greek: Gemistos] and [Greek: gemizô], [Greek: Plêthôn] and [Greek: plêthô]. Both mean to be full. Plato, however, is said to have been called [Greek: Platôn], because of his broad shoulders or his breadth of eloquence.] [Footnote 181: See the translation of Plotinus by Ficino, quoted by Schultze, p. 76: 'Magnus Cosmus, Senatûs consulto patriæ pater, quo tempore concilium inter Græcos atque Latinos sub Eugenio pontifice Florentiæ tractabatur, philosophum Græcum nomine Gemistum, cognomine Plethonem quasi Platonem alterum, de mysteriis Platonicis disputantem frequenter audivit. E cujus ore ferventi sic afflatus est protinus, sic animatus, ut inde Academiam quandam altâ mente conceperit, hanc opportuno primum tempore pariturus.'] While resident in Florence he published two treatises on Fate and on the differences between Plato and Aristotle. The former was an anti-Christian work, in so far as it denied the freedom of arbitrary activity to God as well as men. The latter raised a controversy in Italy and Greece, which long survived its author, exercising the scholars of the Renaissance to some purpose on the texts and doctrines of the chief great thinkers of antiquity. Gemistos attacked Aristotle in general for atheism and irreligious morality, while he proved that the Platonic system, as interpreted by him, was deeply theological. Without entering into the details of a dispute that continued to rage for many years, and aroused the bitterest feelings on both sides, it is enough to observe that Aristotle had for centuries been regarded as the pillar of orthodoxy in the Latin Church, while Plato supplied eclectic thinkers with a fair cloak for rationalistic speculations and theistic heresies. The opponents of Aristotle were undermining the foundations of the time-honoured scholastic fabric. The opponents of Plato accused his votaries of drowning the Christianity they pretended to maintain, in a vague ocean of heretical mysticism. It is indeed difficult to understand how Ficino, who worshipped Plato no less fervently than Christ, could avoid reducing Christianity to the level of Paganism, while he attempted to demonstrate that the Platonic system contained the essence of the Christian faith. This was, in fact, nothing less than abandoning the exclusive pretensions of revealed religion and the authority of the Church. Before the year 1441 Gemistos had returned to Mistra, where he continued to exercise his magistracy. His old age was embittered by the fierce attacks directed by Gennadios,[182] afterwards Patriarch of Constantinople, against the esoteric doctrines of the [Greek: Nomoi]. Gennadios accused him roundly of Paganism, continuing his polemic against the book long after the death of its author. That event happened in 1450. Gemistos was buried at Mistra; but five years later Sigismondo Pandolfo Malatesta, moved by ardent love of learning and by veneration for the philosopher, exhumed his bones, and transferred them to the Church of S. Francesco at Rimini, which Leo Alberti had but recently built for him.[183] [Footnote 182: Schultze, p. 92. His secular name was Georgios Scholarios.] [Footnote 183: See Vol. I., _Age of the Despots_, pp. 134, 135, and _Sketches in Italy and Greece_, article 'Rimini.'] Of Bessarion I shall have to speak elsewhere; but, in order to complete the review of Greek studies in Florence at this epoch, mention must now be made of two Greeks who filled the chair of the University with distinguished success. That John Argyropoulos, a native of Byzantium, visited Italy before the fall of the Greek Empire, appears from Vespasiano's account of his residence with Palla Strozzi at Padua during the first years of his exile.[184] In 1456 Cosimo called him to Florence, secured him good appointments from the _studio pubblico_, and installed him as public and private teacher of Greek language and philosophy. Argyropoulos laboured at Florence for a space of fifteen years, counting the most distinguished citizens among his pupils. From Florence he removed to Rome, where Reuchlin heard him lecture upon Thucydides in the pontificate of Sixtus IV. Reuchlin's scholarship, if we may trust Melanchthon, was rated at so high a value by this master that, on his departure from Rome, he exclaimed, 'Now hath Greece flown beyond the Alps!' A more commanding personage than Argyropoulos was Georgios Trapezuntios, who came to Italy as early as 1420, and professed Greek at Venice, Florence, Rome, and other cities. His temper was proud, choleric, and quarrelsome; but the history of his disputes belongs to the next chapter, which will treat of Rome. I may here mention that, during the residence of the Papal Court at Florence, he gave instruction both public and private,[185] without, however, entering into intimacy with the Medicean circle. After Manuel Chrysoloras, it can be said with certainty that the revival of Hellenism in the fifteenth century at Florence was due to the three men of whom I have been speaking--Georgios Gemistos, Joannes Argyropoulos, and Georgios Trapezuntios. Of the labours of the last in Rome, as well as of Theodoros Gaza, Demetrius Chalcondylas, Andronicus Callistus and the Lascari, is not yet time to speak in detail. Each deserves a separate commemoration, since to their joint activity in teaching, Europe owes Greek scholarship.[186] [Footnote 184: _Vita di Palla di Noferi Strozzi_, p. 284.] [Footnote 185: See Vespasiano, p. 486.] [Footnote 186: See long lists in Tiraboschi, vol. vi. pp. 812, 822-837, of foreign and Italian Grecians.] Before passing from Florence to Rome, which at this time formed the second centre of Italian humanism, something should be said about the state of learning in the other republics. The causes that decided the pre-eminence of Florence have been already touched upon. It is enough to observe here that, while the Universities of Bologna, Siena, and Perugia engaged professors of eloquence at high salaries, the literary enthusiasm of those cities was in no way comparable to that of Florence. Their culture depended on the illustrious visitors who fixed their residence from time to time within their walls. Genoa remained almost dead to learning. At Venice the study of the classics engaged the attention of a few nobles, without permeating the upper classes or giving a decided tone to society at large. Though the illustrious Greek refugees made it their custom to halt for a season at Venice, while nearly all Italian teachers of note lectured there on short engagements, it is none the less true that the Venetians were backward to encourage literature. They opened no public libraries, made no efforts to retain the services of scholars for the State, and regarded the pretensions of the humanists with cold contempt. In letters, as in the fine arts, Venice waited till the rest of Italy had blossomed. Bembo succeeded to Poliziano, as Titian to Raphael. Much good, however, was done by men like the Giustiniani and Paolo Zane, who furnished young students with the means of visiting Constantinople, and who provided them with professorial chairs on their return. The _gentiluomini_ could also count among their number Francesco Barbaro, no less distinguished by his knowledge of both learned languages than by the correspondence he maintained with all the scholars of his time. While yet a young man, he had imbibed the Florentine spirit in the house of Cosimo de' Medici. On his return to Venice he studied under the best masters, and soon attained such excellence of style that Poggio compared his treatise on marriage to the 'De Officiis' of Cicero. The Republic of Venice, however, demanded more of patriotic service from her high-born citizens than the commonwealth of Florence; and Barbaro had to spend his life in the discharge of grave State duties, finding little leisure for the cultivation of his literary talents. It remained for him to win the fame of a Mæcenas, who, had he chosen, might have disputed laurels with the ablest of the scholars he protected. CHAPTER V SECOND PERIOD OF HUMANISM Transition from Florence to Rome -- Vicissitudes of Learning at the Papal Court -- Diplomatic Humanists -- Protonotaries -- Apostolic Scribes -- Ecclesiastical Sophists -- Immorality and Artificiality of Scholarship in Rome -- Poggio and Bruni, Secretaries -- Eugenius IV. -- His Patronage of Scholars -- Flavio Biondo -- Solid Erudition -- Nicholas V. -- His Private History -- Nature of his Talents -- His unexpected Elevation to the Roman See -- Jubilation of the Humanists -- His Protection of Learned Men in Rome -- A Workshop of Erudition -- A Factory of Translations -- High Sums paid for Literary Labour -- Poggio Fiorentino -- His Early Life -- His Journeys -- His Eminence as a Man of Letters -- His Attitude toward Ecclesiastics -- His Invectives -- Humanistic Gladiators -- Poggio and Filelfo -- Poggio and Guarino -- Poggio and Valla -- Poggio and Perotti -- Poggio and Georgius Trapezuntios -- Literary Scandals -- Poggio's Collections of Antiquities -- Chancellor of Florence -- Cardinal Bessarion -- His Library -- Theological Studies -- Apology for Plato -- The Greeks in Italy -- Humanism at Naples -- Want of Culture in Southern Italy -- Learning an Exotic -- Alfonso the Magnificent -- Scholars in the Camp -- Literary Dialogues at Naples -- Antonio Beccadelli -- 'The Hermaphroditus' -- Lorenzo Valla -- The Epicurean -- The Critic -- The Opponent of the Church -- Bartolommeo Fazio -- Giannantonio Porcello -- Court of Milan -- Filippo Maria Visconti -- Decembrio's Description of his Master -- Francesco Filelfo -- His Early Life -- Visit to Constantinople -- Place at Court -- Marriage -- Return to Italy -- Venice -- Bologna -- His Pretensions as a Professor -- Florence -- Feuds with the Florentines -- Immersion in Politics -- Siena -- Settles at Milan -- His Fame -- Private Life and Public Interests -- Overtures to Rome -- Filelfo under the Sforza Tyranny -- Literary Brigandage -- Death at Florence -- Filelfo as the Representative of a Class -- Vittorino da Feltre -- Early Education -- Scheme of Training Youths as Scholars -- Residence at Padua -- Residence at Mantua -- His School of Princes -- Liberality to Poor Students -- Details of his Life and System -- Court of Ferrara -- Guarino da Verona -- House Tutor of Lionello d'Este -- Giovanni Aurispa -- Smaller Courts -- Carpi -- Mirandola -- Rimini and the Malatesta Tyrants -- Cesena -- Pesaro -- Urbino and Duke Frederick -- Vespasiano da Bisticci. In passing from Florence to Rome, we are struck with the fact that neither in letters nor in art had the Papal city any real life of her own. Her intellectual enthusiasms were imported; her activity varied with the personal interests of successive Popes. Stimulated by the munificence of one Holy Father, starved by the niggardliness of another; petted and caressed by Nicholas V., watched with jealous mistrust by Paul II.; thrust into the background by Alexander, and brought into the light by Leo--learning was subjected to rude vicissitudes at Rome. Very few of the scholars who shed lustre on the reigns of liberal Pontiffs were Romans, nor did the nobles of the Papal States affect the fame of patrons. We have, therefore, in dealing with humanism at Rome, to bear in mind that it flourished fitfully, precariously, as an exotic, its growth being alternately checked and encouraged at the pleasure of the priest in office. In spite of these variable conditions, one class of humanists never failed at Rome. During the period of schisms and councils, when Pope and Antipope were waging wordy warfare in the Courts of congregated Christendom, it was impossible to dispense with the services of practised writers and accomplished orators. As composers of diplomatic despatches, letters, bulls, and protocols; as disseminators of squibs and invectives; as redactors of state papers; as pleaders, legates, ambassadors, and private secretaries--scholars swarmed around the person of the Pontiff. Their official titles varied, some being called Secretaries to the Chancery, others Apostolic Scriptors, others again Protonotaries; while their duties were divided between the regular business of the Curia and the miscellaneous transactions that arose from special emergencies of the Papal See. Their services were well rewarded. In addition to about 700 florins of pay and perquisites, they, for the most part, entered into minor orders and held benefices. Men of acute intellect and finished style, who had absorbed the culture of their age, and could by rhetoric enforce what arguments they chose to wield, found, therefore, a good market for their talents at the Court of Rome. They soon became a separate and influential class, divided from the nobility by their birth and foreign connections, and from the churchmen by their secular status and avowed impiety, yet mingling in society with both and trusting to their talents to support their dignity. At the Council of Basle the protonotaries even claimed to take precedence of the bishops on occasions of high ceremony, arguing, from the nature of their office and the rarity of their acquirements, that they had a better right than priests to approach the person of the Sovereign Pontiff. Poggio and Bruni, Losco, Aurispa, and Biondo raised their voices in this quarrel, which proved how indispensable the mundane needs of the Papacy had rendered these free-lances of literature. Through them the spirit of humanism, antagonistic to the spirit of the Church, possessed itself of the Eternal City; and much of the flagrant immorality which marked Rome during the Renaissance may be ascribed to the influence of paganising scholars, freed from the restrictions of family and local opinion, indifferent to religion, and less absorbed in study for its own sake than in the profits to be gained by the exercise of a practised pen. There was a real discord between the principles which the Church professed, and the new culture that flourished on a heathen soil. While merely secular interests blinded the Popes to the perils which might spring from fostering this discord, humanistic enthusiasm had so thoroughly penetrated Italy that to exclude it from Rome was impossible. Neopagan scholarship added, therefore, lustre to the Papal Court, as one among the many splendours of that worldly period which raised the See of Rome to eminence above the States of Italy. The light it shed, however, had no vital heat. Learning was always an article of artificial luxury at Rome, not, as at Florence, part of the nation's life; and when the gilded pomp of Leo dwindled down to Clement's abject misery and utter ruin, it was found that such encouragement as Popes had given to literature had been a source of weakness and decay. We may still be sincerely thankful that the Pontiffs took the line they did; for had they placed themselves in a position of antagonism to the humanistic movement, instead of utilising and approving of it, the free development of Italian scholarship might have sustained a dangerous check. It was from Florence that Rome received her intellectual stimulus. The connection began in 1402, when Boniface IX. appointed Poggio to the post of Apostolic Secretary, which he held for fifty years. In 1405 Lionardo Bruni obtained the same office from Innocent VII. The powerful personality of these men, in whom the energies of the humanistic revival were concentrated, impressed the Roman Curia with a stamp it never lost. Good Latinity became a _sine qua non_ in the Papal Chancery; and when Gregory XII. named Antonio Losco of Verona one of his secretaries, it was natural that this distinguished scholar, following the Florentine example of Coluccio Salutato, should compose a book of forms in Ciceronian style for the use of his office.[187] During the insignificant pontificate of Martin V., while the Curia resided in exile at Florence, the chain which was binding Rome to the city of Italian culture continued to gain strength. The result of all the discords which rent the Church in the first half of the fifteenth century was to Italianise the Papal See; nor did anything contribute to this end more powerfully than the Florentine traditions of three successive Popes--Martin V., Eugenius IV., and Nicholas V. [Footnote 187: See Facius, _De Viris Illustribus_, p. 3, quoted by Voigt, p. 278.] Eugenius was a Venetian of good family, who inherited considerable wealth from his father. Having realised his fortune, he bestowed 20,000 ducats on charitable institutions and took orders in the Church.[188] In 1431 he was raised to the Papacy; but the disturbed state of Rome obliged him to quit the Vatican in mean disguise, and to seek safety by flight from Ostia. He spent the greater portion of his life in Tuscany, occupied less with humanistic interests than with the reformation of monastic orders and the conduct of ecclesiastical affairs in the Councils of Basle and Florence. Though he did not share the passion of his age for learning, the patronage which he extended to scholars was substantial and important. Giovanni Aurispa received from him the title of Apostolic Secretary, and was appointed interpreter between the Greeks and Italians at the Council of the two Churches. Even the paganising Carlo Marsuppini was enrolled upon the list of Papal secretaries, while Filelfo and Piero Candido Decembrio, who added lustre at this epoch to the Court of Milan, were invited by Eugenius with highly flattering promises. The value of these meagre statements consists in this, that even a Pope, whose personal proclivities were monastic rather than humanistic, felt the necessity of borrowing all the strength he could obtain from men of letters in an age when learning itself was power. More closely attached to his Court than those who have been mentioned, were Maffeo Begio, the poet, and Flavio Biondo, one of the soundest and most conscientious students of the time.[189] [Footnote 188: See Vespasiano, p. 6.] [Footnote 189: He was born at Forli in 1388, and died in 1463, the father of five sons.] Though Biondo had but little Greek, and could boast of no beauty of style, his immense erudition raised him to high rank among Italian scholars. The work he undertook was to illustrate the antiquities of Italy in a series of historical, topographical, and archæological studies. His 'Roma Instaurata,' 'Roma Triumphans,' and 'Italia Illustrata,' three bulky encyclopædias of information concerning ancient manners, laws, sites, monuments, and races, may justly be said to have formed the basis of all subsequent dictionaries of Roman antiquities. Another product of his industry was entitled 'Historiarum ab Inclinatione Romanorum.' Three decades and a portion of the fourth were written, when death put a stop to the completion of this gigantic task. In estimating the value of Biondo's contributions to history, we must remember that he had no previous compilations whereon to base his own researches. The vast stores of knowledge he collected and digested were derived from original sources. He grasped the whole of Latin literature, both classical and mediæval, arranged the results of his comprehensive reading into sections, and furnished the learned world with tabulated materials for the study of Roman institutions in the State, the camp, the law courts, private life, and religious ceremonial. Obstinate indeed must have been the industry of the scholar, who, in addition to these classical researches, undertook to narrate the dissolution of antique society and to present a faithful picture of Italy in the dark ages. Biondo's 'History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire,' conceived in an age devoted to stylistic niceties and absorbed by the attractions of renascent Hellenism, inspires our strongest admiration. Yet its author failed in his lifetime to win the distinction he deserved. Though he held the office of Apostolic Secretary under four Popes, his marriage stopped the way to ecclesiastical preferment, while his incapacity to use the arts of the stylist, the sophist, the flatterer, and the translator, lost him the favour his more solid qualities had at first procured. Eugenius could appreciate a man of his stamp better than Nicholas V., whose special tastes inclined to elegant humanism rather than to ponderous erudition. The lives of all the humanists illustrate the honours and the wealth secured by learning for her votaries in the Renaissance. No example, however, is so striking as that furnished by the biography of Nicholas V. Tommaso Parentucelli was born at Pisa in 1398. While he was still an infant his parents, in spite of their poverty and humble station, which might have been expected to shield them from political tyranny, were exiled to Sarzana;[190] and at the age of nine he lost his father at that place. Sarzana has consequently gained the credit of giving birth to the first great Pope of the Renaissance period. The young Tommaso found means, though extremely poor, to visit the University of Bologna, where he studied theology and made himself a master in the seven liberal arts. After six years' residence at Bologna, his total destitution, combined, perhaps, with a desire for more instruction in elegant scholarship than the university afforded, led him to seek work in Florence. He must have already acquired some reputation, since Rinaldo degli Albizzi received him as house-tutor to his children for one year, at the expiration of which time he entered the service of Palla degli Strozzi in a similar capacity. The money thus obtained enabled him to return to Bologna, and to take his degree as Doctor of Theology at the age of twenty-two. He was now fully launched in life. The education he had received at Bologna qualified him for office in the church, while his two years' residence at Florence had rendered him familiar with men of polite learning and of gentle breeding. Niccolo degli Albergati, Archbishop of Bologna, became his patron, and appointed him controller of his household. Albergati was one of the cardinals of Eugenius IV., a man of considerable capacity, and alive to the intellectual interests of his age. When he followed the Papal Court to Florence, Tommaso attended him, and here began the period which was destined to influence his subsequent career. Inspired with a passionate devotion to books for their own sake, and gifted with ardent curiosity and all-embracing receptivity of intellect, the young scholar found himself plunged into a society of which literature formed the most absorbing occupation. He soon became familiar with Cosimo de' Medici, and no meetings of the learned were complete without him. A glimpse may be obtained of the literary circle he frequented at this time from a picturesque passage in Vespasiano.[191] 'It was the wont of Messer Lionardo d'Arezzo, Messer Giannozzo Manetti, Messer Poggio, Messer Carlo d'Arezzo, Messer Giovanni Aurispa, Maestro Gasparo da Bologna, and many other men of learning to congregate every morning and evening at the side of the Palazzo, where they entered into discussions and disputes on various subjects. As soon, then, as Maestro Tommaso had attended the Cardinal to the Palazzo, he joined them, mounted on a mule, with two servants on foot; and generally he was attired in blue, and his servants in long dresses of a darker colour. At that time the pomp of the Court of Rome was not by any means what it is nowadays. In the place I have named he was always to be found, conversing and disputing, since he was a most impassioned debater.' [Footnote 190: So Vespasiano relates the cause of their removal from Pisa. P. 20.] [Footnote 191: P. 23.] Tommaso was not a man of genius; his talents were better suited for collecting and digesting what he read, than for original research and composition. He had a vast memory, and was an indefatigable student, not only perusing but annotating all the books he purchased. Pius II. used to say of him that what he did not know, must lie outside the sphere of human knowledge. In speech he was fluent, and in disputation eager; but he never ranked among the ornate orators and stylists of the age. His wide acquaintance with all branches of literature, and his faculty for classification, rendered him useful to Cosimo de' Medici, who employed him on the catalogue of the Marcian Library. From Cosimo in return, Tommaso caught the spirit which sustained him in his coming days of greatness. Already, at this early period, while living almost on the bounty of the Medici, he never lost an opportunity of accumulating books, and would even borrow money to secure a precious MS.[192] He used to say that, if ever he acquired wealth, he would expend it in book-buying and building--a resolution to which he adhered when he rose to the Pontificate. [Footnote 192: Vespasiano, p. 27.] Soon after the death of Albergati in 1443, Eugenius promoted Tommaso to the see of Bologna; a cardinal's hat followed within a few months; and in 1447 he was elected Pope of Rome. So sudden an elevation from obscurity and poverty to the highest place in Christendom has rarely happened; nor is it even now easy to understand what combinations of unsuccessful intrigues among the princes of the Church enabled this little, ugly, bright-eyed, restless-minded scholar to creep into S. Peter's seat. Perhaps the simplest explanation is the best. The times were somewhat adverse to the Papacy, nor was the tiara quite as much an object of secular ambition as it afterwards became. Humanism meanwhile exercised strong fascination over every class in Italy, and it would seem that Tommaso Parentucelli had nothing but his reputation for learning to thank for his advancement. 'Who in Florence would have thought that a poor bell-ringer of a priest would be made Pope, to the confusion of the proud?' This was his own complacent exclamation to Vespasiano, who had gone to kiss his old friend's feet, and found him seated on a throne with twenty torches blazing round him.[193] [Footnote 193: _Ibid._ p. 33.] The rejoicings with which the humanists hailed the elevation of one of their own number to the Papal throne may be readily imagined; nor were their golden expectations, founded on a previous knowledge of his liberality in all things that pertained to learning, destined to be disappointed. Nicholas V., to quote the words of Vespasiano, who knew him well, 'was a foe to ceremonies and vain flatteries, open and candid, without knowing how to feign; avarice he never harboured, for he was always spending beyond his means.'[194] His revenues were devoted to maintaining a splendid Court, rebuilding the fortifications and palaces of Rome, and showering wealth on men of letters. In the protection extended by this Pope to literature we may notice that he did not attempt to restore the _studio pubblico_ of Rome, and that he showed a decided preference for works of solid learning and translations. His tastes led him to delight in critical and grammatical treatises, and his curiosity impelled him to get Latin versions made of the Greek authors. It is possible that he did nothing for the Roman university because he considered Florence sufficient for the humanistic needs of Italy, and his own Alma Mater for the graver studies of the three professions. Still this neglect is noticeable in the case of a Pontiff whose one public aim was to restore Rome to the rank of a metropolis, and whose chief private interest was study. [Footnote 194: Vespasiano, pp. 25, 27.] The most permanent benefit conferred by him on Roman studies was the foundation of the Vatican Library, on which he spent about 40,000 scudi forming a collection of some 5,000 volumes.[195] He employed the best scribes, and obtained the rarest books; nor was there anyone in Italy better qualified than himself to superintend the choice and arrangement of such a library. It had been his intention to place it in S. Peter's and to throw it open to the public; but he died before this plan was matured. It remained for Sixtus IV. to carry out his project. [Footnote 195: _Ibid._ p. 38.] During the pontificate of Nicholas Rome became a vast workshop of erudition, a factory of translations from Greek into Latin. These were done for the most part by Greeks who had an imperfect knowledge of Latin, and by Italians who had not complete mastery of Greek. The work achieved was unequal and of no great permanent value; yet for the time being it served a purpose of utility, nor could the requirements of the age have been so fully satisfied by any other method. Nearly all the eminent scholars at that time in Italy were engaged in this labour. How liberally they were rewarded may be gathered from the following details. Lorenzo Valla obtained 500 scudi for his version of Thucydides; Guarino received the larger sum of 1,500 scudi for Strabo; Perotti 500 ducats for Polybius; while Manetti was pensioned at the rate of 600 scudi per annum to enable him to carry on his sacred studies. Nicholas delighted in Greek history. Accordingly, Appian was translated by Piero Candido Decembrio, Diodorus Siculus and the 'Cyropædia' of Xenophon by Poggio,[196] Herodotus by Valla. Valla and Decembrio were both engaged upon the 'Iliad' in Latin prose; but the dearest wish of Nicholas in his last years was to see the poems of Homer in the verse of Filelfo. Nor were the Greeks then resident in Italy neglected. To Georgios Trapezuntios the Pope entrusted the 'Physics,' 'Problems,' and 'Metaphysics' of Aristotle. The same scholar tried his hand at the 'Laws' of Plato, and, in concert with Decembrio, produced a version of the 'Republic.' Gregorios Tifernas undertook the 'Ethics' of Aristotle, and Theodorus Gaza the 'History of Animals.' To this list should be added the Greek Fathers, Theophrastus, Ptolemy, and minor works which it would be tedious to enumerate.[197] [Footnote 196: The latter was intended for Alfonso of Naples.] [Footnote 197: Tiraboschi is the authority for these details.] The profuse liberality of Nicholas brought him thus into relation with the whole learned world of Italy. Among the humanists who resided at his Court in Rome, mention must be made of Lorenzo Valla, who was appointed Apostolic Scriptor in 1447, and who opened a school of eloquence in 1450. Piero Candido Decembrio obtained the post of secretary and overseer of the Abbreviators.[198] Giovanni Tortello, of Arezzo, the author of a useful book on the orthography of Greek words, superintended the Pope's library. Piero da Noceto, whose tomb in the cathedral at Lucca is one of Matteo da Civitale's masterpieces, was private secretary and comptroller of the Pope's affairs. Of the circle gathered round Bessarion I shall have occasion to speak later on. Our present attention must be concentrated on a man who, more even than Nicholas himself, might claim the right to give his own name to this age of learning. [Footnote 198: The more complete notices which Valla and Decembrio deserve will be given in the history of scholarship at Naples and at Milan.] Gian Francesco Poggio Bracciolini is better known in the annals of literature as Poggio Fiorentino, though he was not made a burgher of Florence until late in life. Born in 1380 at Terranova, a village of the Florentine _contado_, he owed his education to Florence. In Latin he was the pupil of John of Ravenna, and in Greek of Manuel Chrysoloras. During his youth he supported himself by copying MSS. for the Florentine market. Coluccio Salutato and Niccolo de' Niccoli befriended the young student, who entered as early as the year 1402 or 1403 into the Papal Chancery.[199] Though Poggio's life for the following half-century was spent in the service of the Roman Curia, he refused to take orders in the Church, and remained at heart a humanist. With the Florentine circle of scholars he maintained an unremitting correspondence, sending them notices of his discoveries in the convents of Switzerland and Germany, receiving from them literary gossip in return, joining in their disputes, and more than once engaging in fierce verbal duels to befriend his Medicean allies. His duties and his tastes alike made him a frequent traveller, and not the least of the benefits conferred by him upon posterity are his pictures of foreign manners. At the Council of Constance, for example, he saw and heard Jerome of Prague, in whom he admired the firmness and intrepid spirit of a Cato.[200] At Baden in Switzerland he noticed the custom, strange to Italian eyes, of men and women bathing together, eating, drinking, and playing at chess or cards upon floating tables in the water, while visitors looked down upon them from galleries above, as they now do at Leukerbad.[201] In England he observed that the gentry preferred residence in their country houses and secluded parks to the town life then, as now, fashionable in Italy, and commented upon the vast wealth and boorish habits of the great ecclesiastics.[202] Concerning his discoveries of MSS. I have had already occasion to write; nor need I here repeat what I have said about his antiquarian researches among the ruins of ancient Rome. Poggio was a man of wide sympathies, active curiosity, and varied interests--no mere bookworm, but one whose eyes and mind were open to the world around him. [Footnote 199: Of his debt to Niccolo de' Niccoli Poggio speaks with great warmth of feeling in a letter on his death addressed to Carlo Aretino: 'Quem enim patrem habui cui plus debuerim quam Nicolao? Hic mihi parens ab adolescentiâ, hic postmodum amicus, hic studiorum meorum adjutor atque hortator fuit, hic consilio, libris, opibus semper me ut filium et amicum fovit atque adjuvit.'--_Poggii Opera, Basileæ, ex ædibus Henrici Petri_, MDXXXVIII. p. 342. To this edition of Poggio's works my future references are made.] [Footnote 200: 'Stabat impavidus, intrepidus, mortem non contemnens solum sed appetens ut alterum Catonem dixeris.'--_Opp. Omnia_, p. 301. This most interesting letter, addressed to Lionardo Bruni, is translated by Shepherd, _Life of Poggio Bracciolini_, pp. 78-88.] [Footnote 201: _Opera Omnia_, p. 297. See Shepherd, pp. 67-76, for a translation of this letter to Niccolo de' Niccoli.] [Footnote 202: Cardinal Beaufort had invited him to England.] In literature he embraced the whole range of contemporary studies, making his mark as a public orator, a writer of rhetorical treatises and dialogues, a panegyrist of the dead, a violent impeacher and impugner of the living, a translator from the Greek, an elegant epistolographer, a grave historian, and a facetious compiler of anecdotes and epigrams. He possessed a style at once easy and pointed, correct in diction and varied in cadence, equally adapted for serious discourse and witty trifling, and not less formidable in abuse than delicate in flattery. This at least was the impression which his copious and facile Latin, always fluent and yet always full of sense, produced on his contemporaries. For us its finest flights of rhetoric have lost their charm, and its best turns of phrase their point. So impossible is it that the fashionable style of one age should retain its magic for posterity, unless it be truly classical in form, or weighted with sound thought, or animated with high inspiration. Just these qualities were missed by Poggio and his compeers. Setting no more serious aim before them than the imitation of Livy and Cicero, Seneca and Cæsar, they fell far short of their originals; nor had they matter to make up for their defect of elegance. Poggio's treatises 'De Nobilitate,' 'De Varietate Fortunæ,' 'De Miseriâ Humanæ Conditionis,' 'De Infelicitate Principum,' 'An Seni sit Uxor ducenda,' 'Historia Disceptiva Convivialis,' and so forth, were as interesting to Italy in the fifteenth century as Voltaire's occasional essays to our more immediate ancestors. His controversial writings passed for models of destructive eloquence, his satires on the clergy for masterpieces of sarcastic humour, his Florentine history for a supreme achievement in the noblest Latin manner. Yet the whole of this miscellaneous literature seems coarse and ineffective to the modern taste. We read it, not without repugnance, in order to obtain an insight into the spirit of the author's age. Two important points in Poggio's biography will serve to illustrate the social circumstances of the humanists. The first is the attitude adopted by him toward the churchmen, with whom he passed the best years of his life in close intimacy; the second, his fierce warfare waged with rivals and opponents in the field of scholarship. Though Poggio served the Church for half a century, no one exposed the vices of the clergy with more ruthless sarcasm, or turned the follies of the monks to ridicule with more relentless scorn. After reading his 'Dialogue against the Hypocrites,' his 'Invective against Felix the Antipope,' and his 'Facetiæ,' it is difficult to understand how a satirist who knew the weak points of the Church so intimately, and exposed them so freely, could have held high station and been honoured in the Papal Curia. They confirm in the highest degree all that has been written in the previous volume about the division between religion and morality in Italy, the cynical self-satisfaction of the clergy, and the secular indifference of the Papacy, proving at the same time the proudly independent position which the talents of the humanists had won for them at Rome. At the end of the 'Facetiæ'--a collection of grossly indecent and not always very witty stories--Poggio refers to the meetings with which he and his comrades entertained themselves after the serious business of the day was over.[203] Their place of resort was in the precincts of the Lateran, where they had established a club which took the name of 'Bugiale,' or Lie Factory.[204] Apostolic secretaries, writers to the Chancery, protonotaries, and Papal scribes here met together after laying down the pens they had employed in drafting Bulls and dispensations, encyclical letters and diplomatic missives. To make puns, tell scandalous stories, and invent amusing plots for novelettes was the chief amusement of these Roman wits. Their most stinging shafts of satire were reserved for monks and priests; but they spared no class or profession, and made free with the names of living persons.[205] Against the higher clergy it might not have been safe to utter even the truth, except in strictest privacy, seeing that preferment had to be expected from the Sacred College and the Holy Father. The mendicant orders and the country parsons, therefore, bore the brunt of their attack, while the whole tone of their discourse made it clear how little they respected the religion and the institutions of the Church. Such fragments of these conversations as Poggio thought fit to preserve, together with anecdotes borrowed from the 'Cent Nouvelles nouvelles' and other sources, he committed to Latin, and printed in the later years of his life. The title given to the book was 'Facetiarum Liber.' It ran speedily through numerous editions, and was read all over Europe with the same eagerness that the 'Epistolæ Obscurorum Virorum' afterwards excited. Underneath its ribaldry and nonsense, however, there lay no serious intention. The satires on the clergy were contemptuous and flippant, arguing more liking on the part of their author for scurrilous jests than any earnest wish to prove the degradation of monasticism. Not a word of censure from the Vatican can I find recorded against this marvellous production of a Papal secretary's pen. Here, by way of illustration, it may be mentioned that Filelfo, on his way through Rome to Naples, placed his satires--the most nauseous compositions that coarse spite and filthy fancy ever spawned--in the hands of Nicholas V. The Pope retained them for nine days, read them, returned them with thanks, and rewarded their author with a purse of 500 ducats. [Footnote 203: _Poggi Florentini Facetiarum Libellus Unicus_, Londini, 1798, vol. i. p. 282.] [Footnote 204: 'Mendaciorum veluti officina' is Poggio's own explanation of the phrase.] [Footnote 205: 'Ibi parcebatur nemini, in lacessendo ea quæ non probabantur a nobis.'] The 'Dialogue against the Hypocrites' contains less of mere scurrility and more that bears with real weight on the vices of the clergy. Begging friars, preachers, confessors, and aspirants to the fame of holiness are cited by name and scourged with pitiless impartiality, while the worldly ambition of the Roman churchmen is unmasked. The 'Fratres Observantiæ,' who flourished under Pope Eugenius, receive stern castigation at the hands of Carlo Aretino. Shepherd remarks, not without justice, on this dialogue that, had the author 'ventured to advance the sentiments which it contains in the days of Eugenius, he would in all probability have expiated his temerity by the forfeit of his life.[206] Nicholas V., who appreciated the pungency of its satiric style, instead of resenting its free speech, directed his friend Poggio's pen against his rival Felix. Raised to the Papacy by the Council of Basle in 1439, Amadeus, the ex-Duke of Savoy, still persisted in his Papal title after the election of Nicholas; and though the Sovereign of the Vatican could well afford to scorn the hermit of Ripaille, he thought it prudent to discharge the heavy guns of humanistic eloquence against the Antipope. A ponderous invective was the result, wherein Poggio described the unfortunate Felix as 'another Cerberus,' 'a rapacious wolf,' 'a golden calf,' 'a perverter of the faith and foe to true religion,' 'a high priest of malignity,' 'a roaring lion'--stigmatising the Council to whom he owed his election as 'that sink of iniquity the Synagogue of Basle,' 'a monstrous birth,' 'conventicle of reprobates,' 'tumultuary band of debauched men,' 'apostates, fornicators, ravishers, deserters, men convicted of most shameful crimes, blasphemers, rebels against God.'[207] To such amenities of controversial rhetoric did even Popes descend, substituting sound and fury for sense, and trusting to vituperation in the absence of more valid arguments. [Footnote 206: _Life of Poggio_, p. 423.] [Footnote 207: _Opera Omnia_, pp. 155-164.] Poggio, next to Filelfo, was the most formidable gladiator in that age of literary duellists. 'In his invectives he displayed such vehemence,' writes Vespasiano,[208] 'that the whole world was afraid of him.' Even Alfonso of Naples found it prudent to avert his anger by a timely present of 600 ducats, when Poggio complained of his remissness in acknowledging the version of Xenophon's 'Cyropædia,'[209] and hinted at the same time that a scholar's pen was powerful enough to punish kings for their ingratitude. The overtures, again, made to Poggio by Filippo Maria Visconti, and the consideration he received from Cosimo de' Medici, testified to the desire of princes for the goodwill of a spiteful and unscrupulous pamphleteer.[210] The most celebrated of Poggio's feuds with men of letters began when Filelfo assailed the character of Cosimo, and satirised the whole society of Florence in 1433. The full history of Filelfo's animosity against the Florentines belongs to the biography of that famous scholar. It is enough here to mention that he ridiculed Cosimo under the name of Mundus, described Poggio as Bambalio, Carlo Aretino as Codrus, and Niccolo de' Niccoli as Outis,[211] accusing them of literary imbecility, and ascribing to them all the crimes and vices that disgrace humanity. Poggio girded up his loins for the combat, and, in reply to Filelfo's ponderous hexameters, discharged a bulky invective in prose against the common adversary. This was answered by more satires, Poggio replying with new invectives. The quarrel lasted over many years; when, having heaped upon each other all the insults it is possible for the most corrupt imagination to conceive, they joined hands and rested from the contest.[212] To sully these pages with translations of Poggio's rank abuse would be impossible. I must content myself with referring readers, who are anxious to gain a more detailed acquaintance with the literary warfare of that age, to the excerpts preserved by Shepherd and Rosmini.[213] Suffice it to say that he poured a torrent of the filthiest calumnies upon Filelfo's wife and mother, that he accused Filelfo himself of the basest vice in youth and the most flagrant debauchery in manhood, that he represented him as a public thief, a professed cut-purse, a blasphemous atheist, soiled with sordid immoralities of every kind, and driven by his exposed felonies from town to town in search of shelter for his hated head. Filelfo replied in the same strain. All the resources of the Latin language were exhausted by the combatants in their endeavours to befoul each other's character, and the lowest depths of human nature were explored to find fresh accusations. The learned world of Italy stood by applauding, while the valiant antagonists, like gladiators of the Roman arena, plied their diverse weapons, the one discharging darts of verse, the other wielding a heavy club of prose.[214] Unhappily, there was enough of scandalous material in both their lives to give some colour to their accusations. Yet the virulence with which they lied against each other defeated its own object. Raking that literary dunghill, it is now impossible to distinguish the true from the false; all proportion is lost in the mass of overcharged and indiscriminate scurrility. That such encounters should have been enjoyed and applauded by polite society is one of the strangest signs of the times; and that the duellists themselves should have imagined they were treading in the steps of Cicero and Demosthenes is even more astounding. [Footnote 208: P. 422.] [Footnote 209: _Ibid._ p. 423.] [Footnote 210: See the correspondence between Filippo Maria and Poggio, _Opp._ pp. 333-358. Letter to Cosimo, p. 339.] [Footnote 211: 'The World, the Stammering Simpleton, the Execrable Poet, and the Nobody.' See _Auree Francisci Philelphi Poete Oratorisque Celeberrimi Satyre_. Paris, 1508. Passim.] [Footnote 212: _Opp. Omn._ pp. 164-187. The first invective is the most venomous, and deserves to be read in the original. The last, entitled 'Invectiva Excusatoria et Reconciliatoria,' is amusing from its tone of sulky and sated exhaustion.] [Footnote 213: _Life of Poggio_, pp. 263-272, 354. _Vita di Filelfo._] [Footnote 214: The language of the arena was used by these literary combatants. Thus Valla, in the exordium of his _Antidote_, describes his weapon of attack in this sentence:--'Hæc est mea fusana, quandoquidem gladiator a gladiatore fieri cogor, et ea duplex et utraque tridens,' p. 9.] The dispute with Filelfo was rather personal than literary. Another duel into which Poggio entered with Guarino turned upon the respective merits of Scipio and Julius Cæsar. Poggio had occasion to explain, in correspondence with a certain Scipione Ferrarese, his reasons for preferring the character of Scipio Africanus. Guarino, with a view to pleasing his pupil Lionello d'Este, a professed admirer of Cæsar, took up the cudgels in defence of the dictator,[215] and treated Poggio, whom he called Cæsaromastix, with supreme contempt. Poggio replied in a letter to the noble Venetian scholar Francesco Barbaro.[216] Hard words were exchanged on both sides, and the antagonists were only reconciled on the occasion of Poggio's marriage in 1435. Rome, however, was the theatre of his most celebrated exploits as a disputant. It chanced one day that he discovered a copy of his own epistles annotated by a Spanish nobleman who was a pupil of Lorenzo Valla.[217] Poggio's Latinity was not spared in the marginal strictures penned by the young student; and the fiery scholar, flying to the conclusion that the master, not the pupil, had dictated them, discharged his usual missile, a furious invective, against Valla. Thus attacked, the author of the 'Elegantiæ' responded in a similar composition, entitled 'Antidotum in Poggium,' and dedicated to Nicholas V.[218] Poggio followed with another invective; nor did the quarrel end till he had added five of these disgusting compositions to his previous achievements in the same style, and had drawn a young Latinist of promise, Niccolo Perotti, into the disgraceful fray.[219] What makes the termination of the squabble truly comic is that Filelfo, himself the worst offender in this way, was moved at last to write a serious letter of admonishment to the contending parties, exhorting them to consult their own dignity and to lay down arms.[220] Concerning the invectives and antidotes by which this war was carried on Tiraboschi writes, 'Perhaps they are the most infamous libels that have ever seen the light; there is no sort of vituperation which the antagonists do not vomit forth against each other, no obscenity and roguery of which they are not mutually accused.' [Footnote 215: See Rosmini, _Vita di Guarino da Verona_, vol. ii. p. 96.] [Footnote 216: _Poggii Opera_, p. 365.] [Footnote 217: 'Adolescens quidam auditor meus,' says Valla in the _Antidotum_, p. 2. The story is told at length, p. 151. I quote from the Cologne edition of 1527: 'Laurentii Vallæ viri clarissimi in Pogium Florentinum antidoti libri quatuor: in eundem alii duo libelli in dialogo conscripti.'] [Footnote 218: See Shepherd's _Poggio_, pp. 470, 471, for specimens of the scurrility on both sides.] [Footnote 219: The invectives against Valla fill from p. 188 to p. 251 of Poggio's collected works. Part of them is devoted to a defence of his own Latinity, and to a critique of Valla's _Elegantiæ_. But by far the larger part consists of vehement incriminations. Heresy, theft, lying, forgery, cowardice, filthy living of the most odious description, drunkenness, and insane vanity--such are the accusations, supported with a terrible array of apparent evidence. As in the case of Filelfo, Poggio does not spare his antagonist's father and mother, but heaps the vilest abuse upon everyone connected with him. Valla's _Antidote_ is written in a more tempered spirit and a purer Latin style.] [Footnote 220: Shepherd, _Life of Poggio_, p. 474.] The inconceivably slight occasions upon which these learned men rushed into the arena, and flung dirt upon one another, may be imagined when we find Lorenzo Valla at feud on the one side with Georgios Trapezuntios because the one preferred Cicero and the other Quintilian, and on the other with Benedetto Morando because that scholar doubted whether Lucius and Aruns were the grandsons of Tarquinius Priscus. Sometimes private incidents aroused their wrath, as in the curious rupture between Lionardo Bruni and Niccolo de' Niccoli at Florence. The story, since it is characteristic of the time, may be briefly told. Niccolo had stolen his brother's mistress Benvenuta, and made her his concubine.[221] His relatives, indignant at the domestic scandal, insulted Benvenuta in the street, and Niccolo bemoaned himself to all his friends. Lionardo, to whom he applied for sympathy, very properly observed that a student ought to be better occupied than with the misfortunes of a kitchen wench. This tart reply roused Niccolo's bile, and set his caustic tongue wagging against his old friend; whereupon Lionardo Bruni launched a fierce invective _in nebulonem maledicum_ against him, and the learned society of Florence indulged in a free fight on both sides. [Footnote 221: Ambrogio Traversari, General of the Camaldolese Order, called her 'fidelissima foemina.'] Such quarrels were not always confined to words. There is no doubt that the dagger was employed against Filelfo by the Medicean party, while it now and then happened that the literary gladiators came to actual fisticuffs. A scene of this sort occurred at Rome in public. Georgios Trapezuntios complained that the credit of Poggio's translations from Diodorus and Xenophon really belonged to him, since he had done the work of them. Poggio shrieked out, 'You lie in your throat!' Georgios retorted with a box on Poggio's ears. Then Poggio came to close quarters, catching his adversary by the hair; and the two professors pommelled each other till their respective pupils parted them.[222] Such anecdotes might be multiplied indefinitely. Nor would it be unprofitable to give some account of the vehement warfare waged in Italy between the Platonists and Aristotelians, were it not that enough has already been said to illustrate the acrimonious temper of the times. [Footnote 222: Tiraboschi, vol. vi. lib. ii. cap. 2, sect. 15.] The animosity displayed by scholars in these disputes may be taken as a proof of their enthusiasm for their studies. Men have always quarrelled about politics, because politics furnish matter of profound interest to everyone. Theology, for a similar reason, never fails to rouse the deepest rancours, hatreds, and hostilities of which the human breast is capable. Science, as we know from the annals of our days, sets the upholders of antagonistic theories by the ears; and at times when politics have been dull, theology dormant, and science undemonstrative, even music has been found sufficient to excite a nation. In the fifteenth century scholarship was all-absorbing. It corresponded to science in our age, since it engaged the talents of the strongest workers and supplied the sources of progressive intellectual discovery. Moreover, it included both philosophy and theology, and formed the most attractive topic in all conversation. No wonder, therefore, that the limpid fountains of classical erudition were troubled by the piques and jealousies of students. It is pleasant to turn from Poggio's wrangling to more honourable passages in his biography. Since the year 1434 he had owned a farm not far from Florence. Here he built a country residence, vying, if not in splendour, at least in elegance, with the villas of the Florentine burghers. He called it his Valdarniana, and adorned it with the fragments of antique sculpture, inscriptions, and coins, collected by him partly in person on the Roman Campagna and partly by purchase from Greece. In the following year (1435) Poggio, then a man of fifty-five, married a girl of eighteen, named Vaggia, of the noble Buondelmonte blood. In forming this connection he had to separate from a mistress who had borne him fourteen children, four of them then living. His biographer, Shepherd, indulges in some sentimental reflections upon the pain this leave-taking must have cost him. Yet the impartial critic will hardly be brought to pity Poggio, seeing that he cancelled the brief whereby he had previously legitimised his natural children, and responded with raptures to the congratulations of friends upon his new engagement. He had already been admitted to the burghership of Florence, and exempted from its taxes in consideration of his literary services; so that, on the death of his friend Carlo Aretino, in 1453, no one was found more fitting for the post of Chancellor to the Republic. As an increase of dignity, Poggio fulfilled the office of Prior, and sat among the Signory. The 'History of the Florentine Republic,' written in continuation of Lionardo Aretino's, occupied the closing years of his life. He left it still unfinished in the year 1459, when he died, and was buried in the Church of Santa Croce. I cannot find that his funeral was accompanied by the peculiar honours voted in the case of his two predecessors. The Florentines, however, erected his statue on the façade of Santa Maria del Fiore, and placed his picture by Antonio dal Pollajuolo in the hall of the Proconsolo. The fate of this statue, a work of Donatello's, was not a little curious. On the occasion of some alterations in 1560, it was removed from its first station, and set up as one among the Twelve Apostles in another part of the cathedral. Any survey of the Court of Nicholas V. would be incomplete without some notice of the Cardinal Bessarion. Early in life he rose to high station in the Greek Church, and attended the Council of Florence as Archbishop of Nicea. Eugenius IV., by making him a cardinal in 1439, converted him to the Latin faith; and, as it so happened, he missed the Papacy almost by an accident thirty-two years later.[223] His palace at Rome became the meeting-place of scholars of all nations,[224] where refugee Greeks in particular were sure of finding hearty welcome. In obedience to the reigning passion for book-collecting, he got together a considerable library of Greek and Latin authors, the number of which Vespasiano estimated at 600 volumes, while Platina reckoned their total cost at 30,000 scudi. In 1468 he offered this collection to the Church of S. Mark at Venice. The Republic accepted his gift, but showed no alacrity to build the library. It was not until the next century that Bessarion's books were finally housed according to their dignity.[225] The Cardinal's own studies lay in the direction of theological philosophy. We have already seen that in his youth he was a pupil of Gemistos, and he now appears as the defender of Plato. Georgios Trapezuntios had published a treatise in the year 1458, in which, on the pretence of upholding Aristotle, he vilified Plato's moral character, accused him of having ruined Greece, and maintained that Mahomet was a far better legislator. Bessarion replied by the oration 'In Calumniatorem Platonis,' vindicating the morality of the philosopher and supporting him against Aristotle. This book was printed by Sweynheim and Pannartz in the infancy of the Roman press. Theodoros Gaza,[226] who, on his settlement in Rome in 1450, had been received into Bessarion's household, entered the lists with a critique of Gemistos; to which Bessarion replied: and so the warfare begun by Gennadios at Byzantium was continued by the Greek exiles at Rome. The titles of the works issued in this contest, among which we find 'De Naturâ et Arte,' 'Utrum Natura Consilio Agat,' 'Comparationes Philosophorum Aristotelis et Platonis,' sufficiently indicate the extent of ground traversed. The chief result was the rousing of Italian scholars to weightier points of issue in philosophy than had at first been raised by mystical Neoplatonists and pedantic Peripatetics. [Footnote 223: Vespasiano, p. 146.] [Footnote 224: See Platina's panegyric, quoted by Tiraboschi, vol. vi. lib. i. cap. 3, 22. Platina and Perotti were among his Italian _protégés_.] [Footnote 225: A striking instance of the want of literary enthusiasm at Venice.] [Footnote 226: He first came to Italy in 1430, professed Greek at Ferrara from 1441 to 1450, and died in Campania about 1478. He translated many works of Aristotle. His own book on Grammar was printed by Aldus in 1495.] Among the Greeks protected by Bessarion, passing notice may be made of Andronicus Callistus, whose lectures found less favour at Rome than they afterwards obtained at Florence, where he had the great Poliziano for his pupil. He was one of the first of the Greeks to seek fortune in France.[227] Nor must Demetrius Chalcondylas be omitted, who fled from Byzantium to Rome about the year 1447, and afterwards professed Greek in the University of Perugia. A letter written by one of his pupils, Gian Antonio Campano,[228] gives such an agreeable impression of the effect he produced in the city of the Baglioni, that I will translate a portion of it. 'A Greek has just arrived, who has begun to teach me with great pains, and I to listen to his precepts with incredible pleasure, because he is a Greek, because he is Athenian, and because he is Demetrius. It seems to me that in him is figured all the wisdom, the civility, and the elegance of those so famous and illustrious ancients. Merely seeing him, you fancy you are looking on Plato; far more when you hear him speak.' It was a young man of twenty-three who wrote this, the companion, probably, of such magnificent youths as Signorelli loved to paint and Matarazzo to describe.[229] It is interesting to compare this letter with the panegyric passed upon Ognibene da Lonigo five years after his death by Bartolommeo Pagello in an oration delivered at Vicenza. The young men of Vicenza, said the rhetorician, left their dice, their duels, their wine cups, and their loves to listen to this humanist; his learning wrought a reformation in the morals of the town.[230] Such were the fascinations of scholarship in the fifteenth century. [Footnote 227: Raffaello Volaterrano, quoted by Tiraboschi, vol. vi. lib. iii. cap. 2, 16.] [Footnote 228: See Tiraboschi, vol. vi. lib. iii. cap. 2, 17.] [Footnote 229: See my _Sketches in Italy and Greece_, article 'Perugia.'] [Footnote 230: Tiraboschi, vol. vi. lib. iii. cap. 5, 46.] The Greeks hitherto mentioned quitted their country before the capture of Constantinople. It is, therefore, wrong to ascribe to that event the importation of Hellenic studies into Italy. Their Italian pupils carried on the work they had begun, with wider powers and nobler energy. All the great Grecians of the third age of humanism are Italians. Florence received learning from Byzantium at the very moment when the Greek Empire was about to be extinguished, and spread it far and wide through Europe, herself achieving by far the largest and most arduous portion of the task. In passing down to Naples, we find a marked change in the external conditions under which literature flourished. Men of learning at the Courts of Italy occupied a position different from that of their brethren in the Papal Chancery. They had to suit their habits to the customs of the Court and camp, to place their talents at the service of their patron's pleasure, to entertain him in his hours of idleness, to frame compliments and panegyrics, and to repay his bounty by the celebration of his deeds in histories and poems. Their footing was less official, more subject to the temper and caprices of the reigning sovereign, than at Rome; while the peculiar advantages, both political and social, which, even under the sway of the Medicean family, made Florence a real republic of letters, existed in no other town of Italy. At Naples there was no such thing as native culture. The semi-feudal nobility of the South were addicted to field sports, feats of arms, and idleness. The people of the country were sunk in barbarism. In the cities there was no middle class analogous to that of the more northerly republics. Nevertheless, the kingdom of the Two Sicilies played an important part in the development of Italian literature. While the Mussulmans held sway at Palermo, Sicily was the most refined and enlightened state of Southern Europe. Under the Norman dynasty this Arabic civilisation began to influence North Italy, and during the reign of Frederick II. Naples bade fair to become the city of illumination for the modern world. The failure of Frederick's attempt to restore life to arts and letters in the thirteenth century belongs to the history of his warfare with the Church. What his courtiers effected for the earliest poetry of the Italians is told by Dante in the treatise 'De Vulgari Eloquio.' For our present purpose it is enough to notice that the zeal for knowledge planted by the Arabs, tolerated by the Normans, and fostered by the House of Hohenstauffen in the south of Italy, was an exotic which took no deep root in the people. No national poem was produced in the golden age of Frederick's brief supremacy; no stories are told of Neapolitan carters and boatmen reciting the sonnets of his courtiers. As culture began, so it continued to exist at Naples--flourishing at intervals in close connection with the sovereign's taste, and owing to local influences not life and vigour, but colour and complexion, suavity and softness, caught from the surrounding beauties of the sea and shore. Each of the dynasties which held the throne of the Two Sicilies could boast a patron of literature. Robert of Anjou was proud to call himself the friend of Petrarch, and Boccaccio found the flame of inspiration at his Court.[231] In the second age of humanism, with which we are now occupied, Alfonso of Aragon deserved the praise bestowed on him by Vespasiano of being, next to Nicholas V., the most munificent promoter of learning.[232] His love of letters was genuine. After making all deductions for the flattery of official historiographers, it is clear that Alfonso found his most enduring satisfaction in the company of students, listening to their debates on points of scholarship, attending their public lectures, employing them in the perusal of ancient poets and historians, insisting on their presence in his camp, and freely supplying them with money for the purchase of books and for their maintenance while engaged in works of erudition. Vespasiano relates that Beccadelli's daily readings to his master were not interrupted during the campaign of 1443, when Alfonso took the field against Francesco Sforza's armies in the March.[233] The Neapolitan captains might be seen gathered round their monarch, listening to the scholar's exposition of Livy, instead of wasting their leisure at games of hazard. Beccadelli himself professes to have cured an illness of Alfonso's in three days by reading aloud to him Curtius's Life of Alexander, while Lorenzo Valla describes the concourse of students to his table during the recitations of Virgil or of Terence.[234] Courtiers with no taste for scholarship were excluded from these literary meetings; but free access was given to poor youths who sought to profit by the learning of the lecturers. The king, meantime, sat at meat, now and then handing fruits or confectionery to refresh the reader when his voice seemed failing. His passion for the antique assumed the romantic character common in that age. When the Venetians sent him one of the recently discovered bones of Livy, he received it like the relic of a saint; nor could the fears of his physicians prevent him from opening and reading the MS. of Livy forwarded from Florence by Cosimo de' Medici, who was then suspected of wishing to poison him. On his military excursions he never neglected the famous sites of antiquity, saluting the _genius loci_ with pious thanks at Ovid's birthplace, and expressly forbidding his engineers to trespass on the site of Cicero's villa at Gaeta.[235] Alfonso was no less assiduous than his contemporaries in the collection of books. The Palace library at Naples was his favourite place of recreation; here Giannozzo Manetti found him among his scholars on the famous occasion when the king sat through a long congratulatory oration like a brazen statue, without so much as brushing away the flies that settled on his face. His MSS. were dispersed when Charles VIII. occupied Naples, and what became of them is doubtful.[236] [Footnote 231: I may refer to Petrarch's Letters passim, and to the solemn peroration of the _Africa_.] [Footnote 232: See Vol. I., _Age of the Despots_, pp. 445, 446.] [Footnote 233: _Vita di Alfonso_, p. 59. _Vita di Manetti_, p. 451.] [Footnote 234: See Tiraboschi, vol. vi. lib. i. cap. 2, 17.] [Footnote 235: Pontano, _De Principe_, and Panormita, _De Dictis et Factis Alphonsi Regis_, furnish these anecdotes.] [Footnote 236: The MS. of Livy referred to above is now in the library at Holkham; see Roscoe's _Lorenzo_, p. 389.] Among the humanists who stood nearest to the person of this monarch, Antonio Beccadelli, called from his birthplace Il Panormita, deserves the first place. Born at Palermo in 1394, he received his education at Siena, where he was a fellow-student with Æneas Sylvius Piccolomini. The city of Siena, _molles Senæ_, as the poet himself called it, was notorious throughout Italy for luxury of living. Here, therefore, it may be presumed that Beccadelli in his youth enjoyed the experiences which he afterwards celebrated in 'Hermaphroditus.'[237] Nothing is more striking in that amazing collection of elegies than the frankness of their author, the free and liberal delight with which he dwells on shameless sensualities, and the pride with which he publishes his own name to the world. Dedicated to Cosimo de' Medici, welcomed with applause by the grey-headed Guarino da Verona,[238] extolled to the skies by Antonio Losco, eagerly sought after by Bartolommeo, Bishop of Milan--this book, which Strato and Martial might have blushed to own, passed from copyist to copyist, from hand to hand. Among the learned it found no serious adversaries. Poggio, indeed, gently reminded the poet that even the elegance of its Latinity and the heat of its author's youth were hardly sufficient excuses for its wantonness.[239] Yet the almost unanimous verdict of students was favourable. Its open animalism, as free from satire as from concealment, took the world by storm; while the facile elegance of fluent verse with which the sins of Sodom and Gomorrha were described placed it, in the opinion of scholars, on a level with Catullus.[240] When the Emperor Sigismund crowned Beccadelli poet at Siena in 1433, he only added the weight of Imperial approval to the verdict of the lettered public. [Footnote 237: Published at Paris in 1791 among _Quinque illustrium Poetarum Lusus in Venerem_, and again at Coburg in 1824, with annotations by F.G. Forberg.] [Footnote 238: A man of about sixty-three, and father of twelve legitimate children.] [Footnote 239: _Poggii Opera_, pp. 349-354.] [Footnote 240: Poggio, while professing to condemn the scandals of these poems, writes thus:--'Delectatus sum mehercle varietate rerum et elegantiâ versuum, simulque admiratus sum res adeo impudicas, adeo ineptas, tam venuste, tam composite, a te dici, atque ita multa exprimi turpiuscula ut non enarrari sed agi videantur, nec ficta a te jocandi causâ, ut existimo, sed acta existimari possint.'--_Poggii Opera_, p. 349.] The Church could not, however, tolerate the scandal. Ever since the days of Petrarch and Boccaccio, monks had regarded the study of antique poetry with suspicion. Now their worst fears were realised. Beccadelli had proved that the vices of renascent Paganism were not only corrupting Italian society in secret, but that a young scholar of genius could openly proclaim his participation in the shame, abjure the first principles of Christian morality, and appeal with confidence to princes and humanists for sympathy. The Minorite Friars denounced the 'Hermaphroditus' from their pulpits, and burned it, together with portraits of the poet, on the public squares of Bologna, Milan, and Ferrara.[241] Eugenius IV. proscribed the reading of it under penalty of excommunication. Dignitaries of the Church, who found it in the hands of their secretaries, did not scruple to tear it to pieces, as a book forbidden by the Pope and contrary to sound morality.[242] Yet all this made but little difference to Beccadelli's reputation.[243] He lectured with honour at Bologna and Pavia, received a stipend of 800 scudi from the Visconti, and in 1435 was summoned to the Court of Naples. Alfonso raised him to the rank of noble, and continually employed him near his person, enjoying his wit, and taking special delight in his readings of classic authors. As official historiographer, Beccadelli committed to writing the memorable deeds and sayings of his royal master.[244] As ambassador and orator, he represented the King at foreign Courts. As tutor to the Crown Prince, Ferdinand, he prepared a sovereign for the State of Naples. This favour lasted till the year 1471, when he died, old, rich, and respected, in his lovely villa by the Bay of Naples. A more signal instance of the value attached in this age to pure scholarship, irrespective of moral considerations, and apart from profound learning--since Beccadelli was, after all, only an elegant Latinist--cannot be adduced. The 'Hermaphroditus,' therefore, deserves a prominent place in the history of Renaissance manners. [Footnote 241: Especially Bernardino da Siena, Roberto da Lecce, and Alberto da Sarteano. See the note to p. 353 of Vol. I., _Age of the Despots_.] [Footnote 242: See Vespasiano, _Vita di Giuliano Cesarini_, p. 134.] [Footnote 243: A curious letter from Guarino to Beccadelli (Rosmini's _Vita di Guarino_, vol. ii. p. 44, and notes, p. 171) describes the enthusiastic reception given in public to an impostor who pretended to be the author of _Hermaphroditus_.] [Footnote 244: _De Dictis et Factis Alphonsi Regis Memorabilibus._ Æneas Sylvius wrote a commentary on this work, in the preface to which he says, 'Legere potui, quod feci, corrigere vero non potui; nam quid est quod manu tuâ emissum correctione indigeat?'--_Opp. Omnia_, p. 472. This proves Beccadelli's reputation as a stylist.] Those among us who have had the curiosity to study Beccadelli's 'Hermaphroditus' will find sufficient food for reflection upon his post of confidence and honour at the Court of Alfonso.[245] Yet the position of Lorenzo Valla at the same Court is even more remarkable. While Beccadelli urged the levity of youth in extenuation of his heathenism, and spoke with late regret of his past follies,[246] Valla showed the steady front of a deliberate critic, hostile at all points to the traditions and the morals of the Church. The parents of this remarkable man were natives of Piacenza, though, having probably been born at Rome, he assumed to himself the attribute of Roman.[247] Before he fixed his residence at Naples, he had already won distinction by a 'Dialogue on Pleasure,' in which he contrasted the principles of the Stoics and Epicureans, making it clear, in spite of cautious reservation, that he upheld the rights of the flesh in opposition to the teaching of philosophies and Churches. The virtue of virginity, so strongly prized by Christian saints, was treated by him as a violence to nature's laws, an intolerable torment inflicted upon man as God has made him.[248] [Footnote 245: What the biographers, especially Vespasiano, relate of Alfonso's ceremonious piety and love of theological reading makes the contrast between him and his Court poet truly astounding.] [Footnote 246: 'Hic fæces varias Veneris moresque profanos, Quos natura fugit, me docuisse pudet.'] [Footnote 247: 'Romam, in quâ natus sum ... ego sum ortus Romæ oriundus a Placentiâ.'] [Footnote 248: The naïve surprise with which Vespasiano records the fact of virginity (see especially the Lives of Ambrogio Traversari and the Cardinal Portogallo) shows how rare the virtue was, and what mysterious honour it conferred upon men who were reputed to be chaste.] The attack opened by Valla upon the hypocrisies and false doctrines of monasticism was both powerful and novel. Humanistic freedom of thought, after assuming the form of witty persiflage in Poggio's anecdotes and appearing as pure Paganism in Beccadelli's poems, now put on the sterner mask of common sense and criticism in Lorenzo Valla. The arms which he assumed in his first encounter with Church doctrine, he never laid aside. To the end of his life Valla remained the steady champion of unbiassed criticism, the living incarnation of that 'verneinender Geist' to which the reason of the modern world has owed its motive force. Before leaving Rome at the age of twenty-four, Valla tried to get the post of Apostolic Secretary, but without success. It is probable that his youth told less against him than his reputation for plain speech and fearlessness. In 1431 we hear of him at Pavia, where, according to the slanders of his enemies,[249] he forged a will and underwent public penance at the order of the Bishop. This, however, is just one of those stories on which the general character of the invectives that contain it, throws uncertainty. Far more to our purpose is the fact that at this period he became the supreme authority on points of Latin style in Italy by the publication of his 'Elegantiæ.' True to his own genius, Valla displayed in this masterly treatise the qualities that gave him a place unique among the scholars of his day. The forms of correct Latinity which other men had picked out as they best could by close adherence to antique models, he subjected to critical analysis, establishing the art of style on scientific principles. [Footnote 249: Poggio and Fazio are the authorities for this incident.] When Alfonso invited Valla to Naples in 1437, giving him the post of private secretary, together with the poet's crown, he must have known the nature of the man who was to play so prominent a part in the history of free thought. It is not improbable that the feud between the House of Aragon and the Papal See, which arose from Alfonso's imperfect title to the throne of Naples, and was embittered by the intrigues of the Church, disposed the King to look with favour on the uncompromising antagonist of Papacy. At all events, Valla's treatise on 'Constantine's Donation,' which appeared in 1440, assumed the character of a political pamphlet.[250] The exordium contained fierce personal abuse of Eugenius IV. and Cardinal Vitelleschi. The body of the tract destroyed the fabric of lies which had imposed upon the Christian world for centuries. The peroration ended with a menace. Worse chastisement was in store for a worldly and simoniacal priesthood, if the Popes refused to forego their usurped temporalities, and to confess the sham that criticism had unmasked. War to the death was thus declared between Valla and Rome. The storm his treatise excited, raged at first so wildly that Valla thought it prudent to take flight. He crossed the sea to Barcelona, and remained there a short while, until, being assured of Alfonso's protection, he once more returned to Naples. From beneath the shield of his royal patron, he now continued to shoot arrow after arrow at his enemies, affirming that the letter of Christ to Abgarus, reported by Eusebius, was a palpable forgery, exposing the bad Latin style of the Vulgate, accusing S. Augustine of heresy on the subject of predestination, and denying the authenticity of the Apostles' Creed. That a simple humanist, trusting only to his learning, should have dared to attack the strong places of orthodoxy--its temporalities, its favourite code of ethics, its creed, and its patristic authorities--may well excite our admiration. With the stones of criticism and the sling of rhetoric, this David went up against the Goliath of the Church; and though he could not slay the Philistine, he planted in his forehead the first of those many missiles with which the battery of the reason has assailed tyrannical tradition in the modern world. [Footnote 250: _De falso Creditâ et Ementitâ Constantini Donatione._] The friars, whom Valla attacked with frigid scorn, and whose empire over the minds of men he was engaged in undermining, could not be expected to leave him quiet. Sermons from all the pulpits of Italy were launched at the heretic and heathen; the people were taught to loathe him as a monster of iniquity; and finally a Court of Inquisition was opened, at the bar of which he was summoned to attend. To the interrogatories of the inquisitors Valla replied that 'he believed as Mother Church believed: it was quite true that she _knew_ nothing: yet he believed as she believed.' That was all they could extract from the disdainful scholar, who, after openly defying them, walked away to the king and besought him to suspend the sitting of the Court. Alfonso told the monks that they must leave his secretary alone, and the process was dropped. On the death of Eugenius, Nicholas V. summoned Valla to Rome, not to answer for his heresies and insults at the Papal bar, but to receive the post of Apostolic Writer, with magnificent appointments. The entry of Valla into the Roman Curia, though marked by no external ceremony, was the triumph of humanism over orthodoxy and tradition. We need not suppose that Nicholas was seeking to bribe a dangerous antagonist to silence. He simply wanted to attach an illustrious scholar to his Court, and to engage him in the labour of translation from the Greek. To heresy and scepticism he showed the indifference of a tolerant and enlightened spirit; with the friars who hated Valla the Pope in Rome had nothing whatsoever in common. The attitude assumed by Nicholas on this occasion illustrates the benefit which learning in the Renaissance derived from the worldliness of the Papacy. It was not until the schism of the Teutonic Churches, and the intrusion of the Spaniards into Italy, that the Court of Rome consistently adopted a policy of persecution and repression. A large portion of Valla's biography is absorbed by the history of his quarrels with Poggio, Georgios Trapezuntios, and other men of mark. Enough has already been said about these literary feuds; nor need I allude to them again, except for the purpose of bringing a third Court-scholar of Alfonso's into notice. Bartolommeo Fazio, a native of La Spezzia, occupied the position of historiographer at Naples. In addition to his annals of the life of Alfonso, he compiled a book on celebrated men, and won the reputation of being the neatest Latinist in prose of his age. Fazio ventured to criticise the style of Valla, in whose works he professed to have detected five hundred faults of language. Eight books of invectives and recriminations were exchanged between them; and when both died in 1457, this epigram was composed in celebration of their animosity:-- Ne vel in Elysiis sine vindice Valla susurret, Facius haud multos post obit ipse dies. The amusement afforded to Roman emperors by fights in the arena, and to feudal nobles by the squabbles of their fools, seems to have been extracted by Italian patrons from the duels of well-matched humanists. What personal jealousies, what anxious competition for the princely favour, such warfare concealed may be readily imagined; nor is it improbable that Fazio's attack on Valli was prompted by the covert spite of Beccadelli. Scarcely less close to the person of Alfonso than the students with whom we have been occupied, stood Giannantonio Porcello, a native of Naples. He was distinguished by his command of versification: the fluency with which he poured fourth Latin elegiacs and hexameters approached that of an improvisatore of the Molo. Alfonso sent him to the camp of the Venetians during the war waged by their general Piccinino in 1452-3 with Sforza. Porcello, who shared the tent of Piccinino on this occasion, wrote a Latin history of the campaign in the style of Livy, with moral reflections, speeches, and all the apparatus of Roman rhetoric. Piccinino figured as Scipio Æmilianus; Sforza as Hannibal. The work was dedicated to Alfonso.[251] [Footnote 251: It is printed in Muratori, vol. xx.] With the exception of Lorenzo Valla,[252] the scholars of the Court of Naples were stylists and poets rather than men of erudition. Freedom both of speculation and of morals marked society in Southern Italy, where the protection of a powerful monarch at war with the Church, and the license of a luxurious capital, released the humanists from such slight restraints as public opinion and conventional decorum placed on them in Rome and Florence. [Footnote 252: The protection extended to Manetti and to Filelfo ought, however, to be here mentioned. Nearly all the contemporary scholars of Italy dedicated works to Alfonso.] Owing to the marked diversity exhibited by the different states of Italy, the forms assumed by art and literature are never exactly the same in any two cities. If the natives of the Two Sicilies were not themselves addicted to severe scholarship, the lighter kinds of writing flourished there abundantly, and Naples gave her own peculiar character to literature. This was not the case with Milan. Yet Milan, during the reigns of the last Visconti and the first Sforza, claims attention, owing to the accident of Filelfo's residence at the Ducal Court. Filippo Maria Visconti was one of the most repulsive tyrants who have ever disgraced a civilised country. Shut up within his palace walls among astrologers, minions, and monks, carefully protected from the public eye, and watched by double sets of mutually suspicious bodyguards, it was impossible that he should extend the free encouragement to learned men which we admire at Naples. Around despots of the stamp of the Visconti there must of necessity reign the solitude and silence of a desert, where arts and letters cannot flourish, though Pactolus be poured forth to feed their roots. The history of humanism at Milan has, therefore, less to do with the city or the Ducal circle than with the private labours of students allured to Lombardy by promise of high pay. Piero Candido Decembrio began life as Filippo Maria's secretary. To his vigorous pen the student of Italian history owes the minutest and most vivid sketch now extant of the habits and the vices of a tyrant. This remains the best title of Decembrio to recollection, though his works, original and translated, if we may trust his epitaph in S. Ambrogio, amounted to 127 books when he died in 1447. Contemporary with Decembrio, Gasparino da Barzizza, of whom mention has already been made,[253] occupied the place of Court orator and letter-writer. This office he transmitted to his son, Guiniforte, who was also employed in the education of Francesco Sforza's children. None of these men, however, shed much splendour upon Milan; they were simply the instruments of ducal luxury, part of a prince's parade, at an epoch when even warlike sovereigns sought to crowd their Courts with pedagogues and rhetoricians. [Footnote 253: Above, p. 78.] With Filelfo the case was different. His singular abilities rendered him independent of local patronage, and drew universal attention to any place where he might choose to fix his residence. Of all the humanists he was the most restless in his humour and erratic in his movements. Still Milan, during a long period of his life, formed his headquarters; to Milan he returned when fortune frowned on him elsewhere; and with Milan his name will always be connected. Francesco Filelfo was born in 1398 at Tolentino, in the March of Ancona. He studied grammar, rhetoric, and Latin literature at Padua, where he was appointed professor at the early age of eighteen. In 1417 he received an invitation to teach eloquence and moral philosophy at Venice. Here he remained two years, deriving much advantage from the society of Guarino da Verona and Vittorino da Feltre, and forming useful connections with the Venetian nobility. Young as he was, Filelfo had already made his mark, and won the consideration which attaches to men of decided character and extraordinary powers. The proof of this is that, after being admitted citizen of Venice by public decree, he was appointed Secretary to the Baily (_Bailo_, or Consul-General) of Constantinople through the interest of his friend Lionardo Giustiniani. Giustiniani having also provided him with money for his voyage, Filelfo set off in 1419 for the capital of Greek learning. Of the three Italian teachers--Guarino, Aurispa, and Filelfo--who made this journey for the express purpose of acquiring the Greek language and collecting Greek books, Filelfo was by far the most distinguished. The history, therefore, of his adventures may be taken as a specimen of what befell them all. The time spent at sea between Venice and Byzantium was five months; Filelfo did not arrive till the year 1420 was already well advanced. He put himself at once under the tuition of John Chrysoloras, the brother of Manuel, whose influence at the Imperial Court brought Filelfo into favour with John Palæologus. The young Italian student, having speedily acquired familiarity with the Greek tongue, received the titles of Secretary and Counsellor, and executed some important diplomatic missions for his Imperial master. We hear, for instance, of his being sent to Sigismund, the German Emperor, at Buda, and of his reciting an Epithalamial Oration at Cracow on the marriage of King Ladislaus. The Venetian Baily, again, despatched him to the Court of Amurath II., in order to negotiate terms of treaty between the Republic and the Turk. The confidence extended alike by his Venetian and Greek patrons to Filelfo may well have inclined Chrysoloras to look with favour on the affection which now sprang up between the Italian stranger and his daughter Theodora. Theodora was but fourteen years of age; yet her youth probably suggested no impediment to marriage in the semi-Oriental society of the Greek capital. That she was connected by blood with the Imperial family made the alliance honourable to Filelfo; still there is no sufficient reason to conclude for certain that the match was so unequal as to justify the malignant suggestions thrown out at a later date by Poggio.[254] Of ancient blood there was enough and to spare at Constantinople; but wealth was wanting, while the talent which rendered Filelfo serviceable to great states and empires was itself sufficient guarantee for Theodora's maintenance in a becoming station. [Footnote 254: 'Itaque Chrysoloras, moerore confectus, compulsus precibus, malo coactus, filiam tibi nuptui dedit a te corruptam, quæ si extitisset integra, ne pilum quidem tibi abrasum ab illius natibus ostendisset. An tu illam unquam duxisses uxorem si virginitatem per te servare potuisset? Tibi pater illam dedisset profugo, ignobili, impuro? Primariis suæ civitatis viris servabatur virgo, non tibi, insulsæ pecudi et asello bipedali, quem ille domi alebat tanquam canem aliquem solent senio et ætate confectum.'--_Poggii Opp._ p. 167. This is just one of the tales with which the invectives of that day abound, and with which it is almost impossible to deal. It may be true; for certainly Filelfo, by his immorality and grossness in after-life, justified the worst calumnies that his enemies could invent. Yet there is little but Poggio's word to prove it, while Rosmini has shown that Filelfo's position at Byzantium was very different from what his foe suggests. Tiraboschi accepts the charge as 'not proven;' but he clearly leans in private against Filelfo, moved by the following passage from a letter of Ambrogio Traversari:--'Nuper a Guarino accepi litteras, quibus vehementer in fortunam invehitur quod filiam Joannis Chrysoloræ clarissimi viri is acceperit, exterus, qui quantum libet homo bono ingenio, longe tamen illis nuptiis impar esset, queriturque substomachans uxorem Chrysoloræ venalem habuisse pudicitiam, moechumque ante habuisse quam socerum.' Vol. vi. lib. iii. cap. v. 21. All that can be said now is that Filelfo's own morality and the corruption of Byzantine society render a story believed by Guarino and Traversari, and openly told by Poggio, not improbable.] Not long after their marriage Filelfo received an offer of the Chair of Eloquence at Venice, with a stipend of 500 sequins. In 1427, tempted by the prospect of good pay and growing fame, he landed with his wife, their infant son, four female slaves, and two men servants on the quay before S. Mark's.[255] The object of his journey to Constantinople had been amply attained. After an absence of seven and a half years, he returned to his native country with Greek learning, increased reputation, and a large supply of Greek books.[256] His proud boast, frequently repeated in after-life, that no man living but himself had mastered the whole literature of the ancients in both languages, that no one else could wield the prose of Cicero, the verse of Horace and of Virgil, and the Greek of Homer and of Xenophon with equal versatility, was not altogether an empty vaunt.[257] We may indeed smile at his pretension to have surpassed Virgil because he was an orator, and Cicero because he was a poet, and both of them together because he could write Greek as well as Latin.[258] We know that his Latin hexameters are such as not only Virgil but Cicero would have scorned to own, that his Latin orations would have been hissed before the Roman rostra, and that his Greek style is at the same time tame and tumid. Neither he nor his contemporaries were sufficiently critical to comprehend the force of these objections. They only saw that he possessed the keys to all the learning of the ancient world, and that, besides unlocking those treasures for modern students, he was also competent to give to current thoughts a form that aped the classic masterpieces each in its own kind. Taken at their lowest valuation, the claims of Filelfo, well founded in fact, mark him out as the most universal scholar of his age. A genius he was not: for while his perceptions were coarse, his intellect was receptive rather than originative. Of deep thought, true taste, penetrative criticism, or delicate fancy he knew nothing. The unimaginable bloom of style is nowhere to be found upon his work. Yet a man of his stamp was needed at that epoch to act as a focus for the streams of light which flooded Italy from divers sources, to collect them in himself, and to bequeath to students of a happier age the ideal of comprehensive scholarship which Poliziano and Erasmus realised. [Footnote 255: This retinue shows that Filelfo was at least able to support a large household.] [Footnote 256: The catalogue of his library, communicated by him in a letter to Ambrogio Traversari, shows so clearly what the most indefatigable student and omnivorous reader of the age, to whom all the museums and bookshops of Byzantium must have been open, could then collect, that I will transcribe it:--'Qui mihi nostri in Italiam libri gesti sunt, horum nomina ad te scribo: alios autem nonnullos per primas ex Byzantio Venetorum naves opperior. Hi autem sunt Plotinus, Ælianus, Aristides, Dionysius Halicarnasseus, Strabo Geographus, Hermogenes, Aristotelis Rhetorice, Dionysius Halicarnasseus de Numeris et Characteribus, Herodotus, Dio Chrysostomus, Appollonius Pergæus, Thucydides, Plutarchi Moralia, Proclus in Platonem, Philo Judæus, Ethica Aristotelis, Ejus magna Moralia et Eudemia, et Oeconomica et Politica, quædam Theophrasti Opuscula, Homeri Ilias, Odyssea, Philostrati de Vitâ Appollonii, Orationes Libanii, et aliqui Sermones Luciani, Pindarus, Aratus, Euripidis Tragoediæ Septem, Theocritus, Hesiodus, Suidas, Phalaridis, Hippocratis, Platonis et multorum ex veteribus Philosophis Epistolæ, Demosthenes, Æschinis Orationes et Epistolæ, Pleraque Xenophontis Opera, Una Lysiæ Oratio, Orphei Argonautica et Hymni, Callimachus, Aristoteles de Historiis Animalium, Physica, et Metaphysica, et de Animâ, de Partibus Animalium, et alia quædam, Polybius, Nonnulli Sermones Chrysostomi, Dionysiaca, et alii Poetæ plurimi. Habes qui mihi sint, et his utere æque ac tuis.'] [Footnote 257: 'Unum Philelphus audet affirmare, vel insaniente Candido, neminem esse hâc tempestate, nec fuisse unquam apud Latinos, quantum constat ex omni hominum memoriâ, qui præter se unum idem unus tenuerit exercuitque et Græcam pariter et Latinam orationem in omni dicendi genere et prosâ et versu. Tu si quidem habeas alterum, memora. Quid taces, homo miserrime?' Letter to Piero Candido Decembrio. Cf. what P.C. Decembrio wrote to Poggio in 1453:--'Dixit (_i.e._ Philelphus) enim neminem litteras scire præter ipsum, alios semilatinos et semigræcos esse, se autem principatum inter stultos obtinere.' Rosmini, vol. iii. p. 150.] [Footnote 258: 'Quod si Virgilius superat me carminis ullis Laudibus, orator ille ego sum melior. Sin Tulli eloquio præstat facundia nostro, Versibus ille meis cedit ubique minor. Adde quod et linguâ possum hæc præstare Pelasgâ Et Latiâ. Talem quem mihi des alium?' Lib. ix., _De Jocis et Seriis_. _Elegy to Alessandro Sforza._ Reported by Rosmini, vol. iii. p. 149. One specimen of these boasts may stand for thousands.] Filelfo's reception at Venice by no means corresponded to the promises by which he had been tempted, or to the value which he set on his own services. The plague was in the city; the nobles had taken flight to their country houses; and there was no one to attend his lectures. He therefore very readily accepted an offer sent him from Bologna, and early in the year 1428 we find him settled in that city as professor of eloquence and moral philosophy, with a stipend of 450 sequins. He was not destined to remain there long, however, for the disturbed state of the town rendered teaching impossible; and when flattering proposals arrived from the Florentines, he set off in haste and transferred his whole family across the Apennines from Imola.[259] The delight which he experienced in viewing the architectural monuments of Florence, and the enthusiasm he aroused by his stupendous learning in an audience of unprecedented variety and multitude, are expressed with almost childish emphasis in his correspondence. 'The whole State,' he writes,[260] 'is turned to look at me. All men love and honour me, and praise me to the skies. My name is on every lip. Not only the leaders of the city, but women also of the noblest birth make way for me, paying me so much respect that I am ashamed of their worship. My audience numbers every day four hundred persons, mostly men advanced in years and of the dignity of senators.' These were the halcyon days of Filelfo's residence at Florence,[261] when he was still enjoying the friendship of learned men, receiving new engagements from the University with augmentations of pay,[262] and when as yet he had not won the hatred of the Medicean faction. His industry at this epoch was amazing. He began the day by reading and explaining the 'Tusculans' and rhetorical treatises of Cicero; then he proceeded to Livy or Homer; after a brief rest at midday he resumed his labours with Terence and a Greek author, Thucydides or Xenophon. On holidays he read Dante to an audience assembled in the Duomo, bestowing these lectures as a free gift on the people of Florence. Amid these public labours, the weight of which may be estimated by remembering what was required of professors in the fifteenth century,[263] Filelfo still found leisure for private work. He translated two speeches of Lysias, the 'Rhetoric' of Aristotle, two Lives of Plutarch, and Xenophon's panegyrics of Agesilaus and the Spartan institutions. [Footnote 259: The invitation came from Niccoli, Lionardo Bruni, Ambrogio Traversari, and Palla Strozzi.] [Footnote 260: Quoted by Cantù, p. 128.] [Footnote 261: He stayed there from 1429 till the autumn of 1434.] [Footnote 262: Engagement renewed October 17, 1431, for two years, with stipend of 350 sequins; again, in 1433, with stipend of 450 sequins.] [Footnote 263: See above, pp. 90, 91.] At the same time he had abundant energy for the prosecution of the feuds in which he soon found himself engaged with the Florentine scholars. So great was the arrogance displayed by Filelfo, his meanness in private life, and his imprudence in public,[264] that even the men who had invited him became his bitter foes. Niccolo de' Niccoli, always jealous of superiority, and apt to take offence, was the first with whom he quarrelled; then followed Carlo Marsuppini and Ambrogio Traversari, until at last the whole of the Medicean party were inflamed against him. Filelfo on his side spared neither satires nor slanders; and when the political crisis, which for a time depressed the Medicean faction, was impending, he declared himself the public opponent of Cosimo. Already in the spring of 1433 he had been stabbed in the face while walking to the University one morning by Filippo, a cut-throat from Casale; nor does there seem any reason to doubt that, as Filelfo himself firmly believed, the man was paid to kill him by the Medici. When the same bravo afterwards followed him to Siena,[265] Filelfo hired a Greek, by name Antonio Maria, to retaliate upon his foes in Florence. It is not probable that a merely literary quarrel would have run to these extremities. Even the foulness of Poggio's invectives and the fury of Filelfo's satires fail to account for the intervention of assassins. We know, however, that Filelfo had not confined himself to calumnies and criticisms of his literary rivals. During Cosimo's imprisonment he urged the Signory in open terms to take his life; when he was living in exile at Venice, he pursued him with abominable slanders; and now, on Cosimo's return, though himself expelled from the city as a rebel and a proscript, he kept stirring up the burghers of Florence and the Courts of Italy against the tyrant.[266] [Footnote 264: See Rosmini, vol. i. pp. 43, 48.] [Footnote 265: _Ibid._ vol. i. p. 83, for the trial, torture, and confession of this bravo.] [Footnote 266: The original source of information concerning Filelfo's quarrels with the Florentines is his Satires, divided into ten books or decades, each consisting of ten satires or hecatostichæ of one hundred verses each. In the copy of this book, printed at Paris, 1508, by Robert and John Gourmont, these virulent libels are called 'Divinum Francisci Philelphi Poetæ Christiani Satyrarum Opus.' As their motto the publishers give these sentences:--'Finis laus Deo, Spes mea Jesus.' For the abuse of the Medicean circle see Dec. i. Hec. 5; Dec. i. Hec. 6; Dec. ii. Hec. 1, 3, 7; Dec. iii. Hec. 10; Dec. vi. 10; Dec. viii. 5. For Filelfo's attack on Cosimo during his imprisonment, see Dec. iv. Hec. 1. For his invective against Cosimo on his return from exile, see Dec. iv. Hec. 9. For an appeal to Filippo Maria Visconti against Cosimo, see Dec. v. Hec. 1. For a similar appeal to Eugenius IV., see Dec. v. Hec. 2. For the episode of the assassin Filippo, see Dec. v. Hec. 6. A political attack on Cosimo addressed to Rinaldo Albizzi is contained in Dec. v. Hec. 8. A furious denunciation of Cosimo's tyranny, in Dec. v. Hec. 9. Palla degli Strozzi, as an opponent of Cosimo, is praised in Dec. iii. 1; Dec. vi. 4. In Dec. vii. 8, Filelfo promises to moderate his fury. In addition to these sources see the MS. invectives mentioned in Rosmini, vol. i. p. 47.] The occasion of Filelfo's removal to Siena was this:--When his position at Florence had become untenable, he received an invitation from Antonio Petrucci to lecture for two years, with a stipend of 350 florins. Filelfo replied that he preferred small pay and quiet to a larger income among the swords and poisons of his envious rivals. Accordingly he took up his abode at Siena for four years in the Piccolomini Palace. Like many greater and more admirable men, he had a restless disposition, always pleased with what is new, yet always grumbling when the taste of bitter mounted to his lips. The most honourable invitations now began to shower upon him. The Council of Basle, the Venetian Senate, the Emperor of the East, Eugenius IV., the Universities of Perugia and Bologna, and the Duke of Milan applied for his services. It was not, however, until the year 1439 that his love of change, combined with the allurements of higher pay, induced him to close with the offers of the Senate of Bologna. Once more, then, he crossed the Apennines, and once more, after a brief sojourn of a few months, he again quitted Bologna, and transferred himself to Milan. His reception by Filippo Maria Visconti was most flattering. Placing a diamond ring upon his finger, the Duke welcomed him among the nobles of his Court on New Year's Day in 1440. Thus began Filelfo's connection with the Lombard capital, which, though often interrupted, was never wholly broken till his death. The munificence of the Visconti exceeded that of any of Filelfo's patrons,[267] while the mode of life at Milan exactly suited his vainglorious temperament. He loved to throw his money about among lords, to appear at high Court festivals, and to take the lead on ceremonial occasions in his rank of orator. There was, moreover, no rival strong enough to threaten the blasting of his popularity.[268] We find him, during his residence at Milan, continually engaged in the exercise of rhetoric. Public and private incidents of the most various character employed his skill, nor is there any doubt that his large professorial income was considerably increased by presents received from patrons and employers.[269] In addition to the labours of his chair, he engaged in various literary works. His Satires and Odes were gradually growing into ponderous volumes.[270] Other fugitive pieces in prose he put together under the title of 'Convivia Mediolanensia.' Meanwhile he carried on an active correspondence, both familiar and hortatory, with the scholars and the princes of his day.[271] There was no branch of letters with which, sustained by sublime self-approval, he was not willing and eager to meddle. As he had professed Dante at Florence, so here at Milan, by ducal command, he undertook to comment upon Petrarch, and actually composed a poem on S. John the Baptist in _terza rima_. There is something ludicrous in the thought of this Visconti, would-be Herod as in truth he was, commissioning Filelfo, the outrageous Pagan, to versify the life of Christ's forerunner. If Filelfo despised anything more than sacred history, it was the Italian language; and if there was a task for which he was unfitted, it was the composition of poetry. [Footnote 267: His professorial stipend was soon raised from 500 to 700 golden florins.] [Footnote 268: Vespasiano says that the concourse of people to Carlo Aretino's lectures was the first cause of Filelfo's feuds at Florence.] [Footnote 269: Here are the dates of some of these displays:-- 1440. Funeral oration on Stefano Federigo Todeschini. 1441. Epithalamial on the Marriage of Giovanni Marliani. 1442. Discourse on Duties of a Magistrate. 1446. Panegyric of Filippo Maria Visconti, and oration on the Election of Jacopo Borromeo to the See of Pavia. 1450. Oration of Welcome to Francesco Sforza. 1455. Epithalamial on the Marriage of Tristano Sforza to Beatrice d'Este. 1458. Epithalamials for Antonio Crivelli and Teodoro Piatti. 1459. Oration to Pius II. on his Crusade. 1460. Oration on the Election of the Bishop of Como. 1464. Funeral oration for the Senator Filippo Borromeo. 1466. Ditto for Francesco Sforza. It is probable that all of these were not recited; but all were conceived in the lumbering and pedantic style that passed for eloquence at that period. With regard to rewards received on these occasions, note the gift of a silver basin from Jacopo Antonio Marcello in return for a consolatory epistle. Rosmini, vol. ii. p. 127. Cf. p. 197.] [Footnote 270: The Satires, collected into ten decades, each satire consisting of 100 lines, were dedicated to Alfonso of Naples in 1451. Printed at Milan, 1446. The Odes, entitled _De Seriis et Jocis_, were finished in 1465, and dedicated partly to Malatesta Novello of Cesena, partly to Alessandro Sforza. There were ten books, each book containing 1,000 lines. Never printed. Rosmini, who inspected the MSS., reports that their obscenity exceeds description, and is only equalled by the vulgarity of the author's fancy and the coarseness of his style. In addition to these unpublished Latin poems, Filelfo collected three books of Greek elegies and epigrams, amounting to 2,400 verses. It is significant that he measured his poetry by lines, and trained his jog-trot muse to paces of 100 verses.] [Footnote 271: The Epistle to Ladislaus of Hungary on his victories over the Turks, for instance.] During the second year of his Milanese residence Filelfo lost his wife Theodora. He speedily married again, choosing for his bride a beautiful young lady of good family in Milan. Her name was Orsina Osnaga. Since I have touched upon this matter of Filelfo's private life, it may be well to add that when he lost his second wife, he took in wedlock for the third time Laura Magiolini. By each of his marriages he acquired no inconsiderable property, and all his brides belonged to highly distinguished families. The best thing that can be said about Filelfo as a man is, that he was undoubtedly attached to his wives and to the numerous children they bore him.[272] This feeling did not, however, protect him from numerous infidelities, or save his fortune from the burden of illegitimate children.[273] It is even doubtful whether credence should not be accorded to suggestions of worse debauchery, repeated with every appearance of belief by his enemies, and on his side but imperfectly refuted. Filelfo was, in truth, a man of great physical vigour, whose energies the mere labour of the student was insufficient to exhaust. Loves and hatreds, domestic sympathies and turbulent passions, absorbed a portion of his superfluous force; nor was he at any time restrained by scruples of religion or morality. What was good for Greeks and Romans was good for him. It is also to be noted that the innate sense of delicacy which sometimes forms the safeguard of excessive temperaments was altogether alien to his nature. [Footnote 272: He had twelve sons and twelve daughters. They did not all live.] [Footnote 273: A curious sign of current feeling is that Filelfo frequently boasted of being [Greek: triorchês]. See Rosmini, i. p. 15, and the verse quoted, _ib._ p. 113. He mentioned two natural children in his will and had many more. Rosmini, vol. iii. p. 78.] During the disasters that befell the State of Milan on the death of Filippo Maria, Filelfo at first espoused the cause of the burghers. A letter to the Florentines is extant, in which he exhorts them to aid their sister commonwealth at the extreme hour of her peril. It was not natural, however, that a humanist, who had no zeal for freedom, and whose personal interests led him to desire a settled government at any price, should continue staunch to a republic so unnerved as that of Milan. When Carlo Gonzaga played the Milanese false by admitting the troops of Francesco Sforza, Filelfo was the first to welcome the new monarch with a set oration. He professed great admiration for the general who, by careful management and double-dealing, had placed himself at the head of the third state in the peninsula. Yet his correspondence at this period proves that his mind was uneasy, and that he desired a change. In an impudent letter addressed to Nicholas V., he solicited ecclesiastical preferment, suggesting that the promise of a bishop's mitre would secure his splendid talents for the service of the Papacy.[274] However desirous the Pope might be to engage Filelfo for his translation factory at Rome, the price demanded was too great. He could not recognise a vocation so clearly inspired by mercenary motives; and to receive into the high places of the Church, at his own request, a man accused of many vices, who had twice been married, would have established a dangerous precedent. Filelfo, receiving neither substantial encouragement nor a flat refusal, turned his thoughts to matrimony for the third time, and addressed a prayer on this occasion to Dame Venus, in which he besought the mother of Priapus to befriend her votary. The intelligent student of the Renaissance will not fail to notice the state of mind implied by the juxtaposition of this letter to the Holy Father and this ode to Venus. [Footnote 274: Rosmini, vol. ii. p. 54. It may be remembered that Pietro Aretino hinted he should like to be a cardinal.] Filelfo was now fain to content himself with the patronage of Francesco Sforza, a prince who had no natural turn for literature, but who was wise enough to know that a _parvenu_ could least of all afford to neglect the ruling fashions of his age. The letters he wrote at this period abound in impudent demands for money, querulous outcries over the poverty to which the first scholar of the century was condemned, and violent menaces of retaliation if his salary remained in arrears.[275] Not only Francesco Sforza, but all the patrons upon whom Filelfo thought he had a claim, were assailed with reptile lamentations and more reptile menaces. Alessandro Sforza, Lodovico Gonzaga, and three Popes in succession may be mentioned among the more distinguished princes who suffered from this literary brigandage.[276] Not without strict justice did a contemporary describe him in the following severe terms:--'He is calumnious, envious, vain, and so greedy of gold that he metes out praise or blame according to the gifts he gets, both despicable as proceeding from a tainted source.'[277] Filelfo's rapacity is truly disgusting when we remember that he received far more than any equally distinguished student of his age. Not the illiberality of patrons, but his own luxurious habits, reduced him to beggary. All the while that he was screaming in bad Latin verse, he lived expensively, indulging ostentatious tastes, and finding money for unclean indulgences. In order to confirm his claim on the Duke of Milan's generosity, he began a gigantic Latin epic upon the life of Sforza. Without plan, a mere versified chronicle, encumbered with foolish mythological machinery, and loaded with fulsome flatteries, this leaden Sforziad crawled on until 12,800 lines had been written. Only the first eight books of it were published in MS., nor were these ever printed.[278] [Footnote 275: As a specimen of Filelfo's Grub Street style of begging, I transcribe the following elegy (Rosmini, vol. ii. p. 285):-- 'Hæc autem altisone dum carmina celsius effert Defecisse suo sentit ab ore tubam, Nam quia magnifici data non est copia nummi Cogitur huic uti carmine raucidulo. Quod neque mireris; vocem pretiosa canoram Esca dat, et potus excitat ingenium. Ingenium spurco suevit languescere vino, Humida mugitum reddere rapa solet.' Francesco Sforza's anxiety to retain Filelfo in his service is expressed in a letter to his treasurer (_ib._ p. 295):--'Noi per niuno modo el vogliamo perdere, la qual cosa seguirebbe quando gli paresse essere deluso, e non potesse seguitare per manchamento delli dicti 250 fiorini la nobilissima opera per lui in nostra gloria comenzata nè suplire agli altri suoi bisogni.' The _tuba_ and the _nobilissima opera_ both refer to Filelfo's Sforziad.] [Footnote 276: I may call particular attention to Filelfo's behaviour with regard to Pius II.--the free pension of 200 florins granted (Rosmini, vol. ii. p. 106), the menaces because it is not paid (_ib._ p. 115), the scurrilous epigrams on the Pope's death (_ib._ p. 321), the abusive letter addressed to Paul II. (_ib._ p. 136), the sentence of imprisonment for calumny issued against him and his son Mario (_ib._ p. 140), the final palinode in which he basely praises the Pope whom he had basely abused (_ib._ p. 146). The whole series of transactions is disgraceful.] [Footnote 277: Letter of Gregorio Lollio to the Cardinal of Pavia, reported by Rosmini (vol. ii. p. 147).] [Footnote 278: The whole poem ran to sixteen books. Therefore, according to Filelfo's art of poetry, the first eight contained 6,400 verses.] By fair means and by foul, Filelfo had managed to secure a splendid reputation throughout Italy. His journey to Naples in 1453 resembled a triumphal progress. Nicholas V. entertained him with distinction, read his infamous satires, presented him with a purse of 500 ducats, and offered him a yearly stipend of 600 if he would dedicate his talents to translation. Alfonso dubbed him knight, and placed the poet's laurel on his brow with his own royal hands. As he passed through their capitals, the princes received him like an equal. At Ferrara he enjoyed the hospitalities of Duke Borso, at Mantua the friendship of the Marchese Lodovico Gonzaga; the terrible Gismondo Pandolfo Malatesta welcomed him in Rimini, and the General Jacopo Piccinino in his camp at Fossombrone. Nor was this fame confined to Italy. On the fall of Constantinople he addressed a letter to the Sultan, beseeching him to release his mother-in-law and her two daughters from captivity; the humanist's eloquence obtained this favour from the Turkish conqueror, who refused to accept a ransom for the relatives of so illustrious an orator.[279] [Footnote 279: See Rosmini, vol. ii. p. 90. The Greek epistle which he sent is printed, _ib._ p. 305.] Until the death of Francesco Sforza Milan continued to be the city of Filelfo's choice. After that event he turned his thoughts to Rome. Pius II., Paul II., and Sixtus IV., in succession, had testified their regard for him, either by moderate presents, sufficient to excite his cupidity and check his slanderous temper, or by negotiations which came to nothing. At last, in 1474, he received from Rome the offer of a professorial chair, with a stipend of 600 florins, and the promise of the first vacant post in the Apostolic Chancery. The old man of seventy-seven years once more journeyed across the plains of Lombardy, ascended the Apennines, passed through Florence,[280] and began his lectures with the 'Tusculans' of Cicero, on the twelfth day of January, 1475, in Rome. The marks of favour with which Sixtus had received him were highly honourable. Filelfo was permitted to sit in the Pope's presence, and on Christmas Day he stood among the ambassadors while Sixtus celebrated mass. The vigorous old scholar at first felt that all his previous life had been a tedious prologue to this blissful play. Soon, however, a cloud arose on the horizon. The Pope's treasurer, Milliardo Cicala, was remiss in payments. Filelfo retaliated by describing Cicala's vices in the most lurid colours to Sixtus.[281] Though his style and eloquence were always vulgar, the concentrated fury and impassioned hatred of these invectives cannot fail to impress the imagination. Such a picture of the dissolute and grasping treasurer, painted by Filelfo and sent to Sixtus, has a sinister humour which might recommend itself to the audience of an infernal comedy. It is only necessary to have some knowledge of the three men in order to perceive its force. Nor did Sixtus himself long continue in Filelfo's graces. Frequent journeys prove how unsettled he became; at last he left Rome in 1476, never to return. When the Pazzi Conjuration failed at Florence, Filelfo wrote to congratulate Lorenzo de' Medici on his escape, and undertook the task of composing a history of the whole intrigue. Two long and violent letters addressed to Sixtus, accusing him of participation in the conspiracy, and heaping on him charges of vice, were the result of this determination.[282] These epistles were dated from Milan, whither Filelfo had retired in 1476, to find his third wife dead of the plague, and buried on the eve of his arrival. His sorrow on this occasion was genuine; nor is it likely that he derived much comfort from a curious epistle addressed to him by Paolo Morosini, who, himself a husband and father, attempted to console the septuagenarian professor by elaborate abuse of matrimony.[283] To such ridiculous vagaries did the rhetorical spirit of humanism lead its votaries. [Footnote 280: He had long since made peace with the Medici.] [Footnote 281: See the original letters in Rosmini, vol. ii. pp. 411-419.] [Footnote 282: Rosmini, vol. ii. p. 261, note.] [Footnote 283: _Ib._ p. 248.] Filelfo's last journey was undertaken in 1481. Ill at ease, and sore of heart, the veteran of scholarship still longed for further triumphs. All his wishes for some time past had been set on ending his days at Florence, near the person of Lorenzo de' Medici; and when an invitation to the Chair of Greek Literature arrived, it found him eager to set forth. He was so poor, however, that the Duke's secretary, Jacopo Antiquari, had to lend him money for the journey.[284] He just managed to reach Florence, where he died of dysentery a fortnight after his arrival, at the age of eighty-three. The Florentines buried him in the Church of the Annunziata. [Footnote 284: I cannot allow this mention of Antiquari's name to pass without a note upon his life and services to letters. He was born and educated at Perugia, entered the service of the Papal Legate Battista Savelli as secretary at Bologna, and afterwards received the post of secretary and diplomatic writer to the Sforza family at Milan. The Duke Galeazzo Maria was his first master. At Milan he played the part of an amiable and refined Mæcenas, while he carried on a correspondence in Latin--still delightful to read--with Poliziano and all the greatest scholars of his age. His biography, written at some length, with valuable miscellaneous appendices by Vermiglioli, was published at Perugia in 1819.] The sketch which I have given of Filelfo's life, abounds in details beyond the just proportions of the present chapter. This is due partly to the copiousness and the excellence of the authorities collected by Rosmini in his exhaustive biography, but more to the undoubted fact that Filelfo ranks as the typical humanist of his age. The universality of his acquirements and the impression they made upon contemporaries, his enormous physical vigour and incessant mental activity, the vehemence with which he prosecuted his literary warfares and the restlessness that drove him from capital to capital in Italy, are themselves enough to mark him out as the representative hero of the second period of humanism. Not less characteristic were the quality and the form of his literary work--ridiculously over-valued then, and now perhaps too readily depreciated. There is something pathetic in the certainty of everlasting fame that sustained the student through so many years of unremitting labour. It makes us wonder whether the achievements of the human intellect, in science and discovery, acceptable as these may be to their own time, are not, equally with Filelfo's triumph of scholarship, foredoomed to speedy obscuration. Nothing is imperishable but high thought, to which art has communicated the indestructible form of beauty. The 'Age of the Despots'[285] contains a promise of further details concerning Vittorino da Feltre, to redeem which the time has now come. His father's name was Bruto de' Rambaldoni; but having been born at Feltre in the year 1378, he took from his birthplace the surname by which he is best known. [Footnote 285: Pp. 138, 139.] Like the majority of his contemporaries, Vittorino studied Latin under John of Ravenna and rhetoric under Gasparino da Barzizza. His poverty compelled him at the same time to support himself by taking pupils; this drudgery, however, was so unremunerative that, when he wanted to attend the mathematical lectures of Biagio Pelacane, he had to pay that avaricious and eccentric teacher by personal service. As Haydn got his much-desired instruction from Porpora by playing the part of valet,[286] so Vittorino became the scullery boy of Pelacane,[287] in order that he might acquire geometry. These early studies were carried on at Padua, from which town he appears to have moved about the year 1417 to Venice. Here he entered into friendship with Guarino da Verona, and having learned Greek, returned to his old university as professor of rhetoric.[288] The bias of Vittorino's genius inclined toward private teaching, and it is this by which he is distinguished among contemporary humanists. Accordingly we find that, as soon as he was settled in Padua, he opened a school for a fixed number of young men, selected without regard to rank or wealth. From the richer pupils he required fees proportioned to their means; from the poor he exacted nothing: thus the wealthy were made to support the needy, while the teacher obtained for himself the noble satisfaction of relieving aspirants after knowledge from the pressure of want and privation. Other gain than this he never thought of. Only genuine students were allowed to remain in Vittorino's school; the moral rule was strict, and high thinking and plain living were expected from all his pupils. This generous devotion to the cause of learning for its own sake contrasts strongly with the self-seeking and vainglory of other humanists. When Filelfo was urged on one occasion to open a school for promising young men, of noble birth, he asked disdainfully whether his friends expected him to take rank as a licensed victualler.[289] He was unable to comprehend the possibility of doing anything that would not reflect lustre on himself or place him in the light of popular applause. [Footnote 286: Grove's _Dictionary of Music and Musicians_, vol. i. p. 704 b.] [Footnote 287: 'Usque ad mundandam supellectilem quæ sumpto cibo lavare consuerit.'--Rosmini, _Vita di Vittorino_, p. 38, note.] [Footnote 288: In 1422 apparently.] [Footnote 289: _Locandiere._ Rosmini, vol. i. p. 67.] Vittorino found it difficult to govern his school at Padua as strictly as he wished. The public Gymnasium was ill-ordered, and great license of life was permitted to its students. He therefore removed to Venice in 1423, where he continued his work as private tutor. By this time, however, he had acquired considerable reputation as an educator, to whose care the youth of both sexes might be entrusted with implicit confidence--no small testimony to his goodness in that age of ungoverned passions and indescribable vices. The Marchese Gian Francesco Gonzaga was looking out for a master for his children, and his choice fell on Vittorino. The admiration of antiquity was no mere matter of fashion with this prince. He loved history for its own sake, and professed a special reverence for the Roman Camillus. His practical good sense made him understand that, if he wished his sons and daughters to become thoroughly educated, not only in the humanities and mathematics, but also in the republican virtues of the ancients, which then formed the ideal of life in Italy, he must be willing to commit them wholly to the charge of their appointed governor. Vittorino, who would have undertaken the duty on no other condition, obtained full control of the young princes and their servants. An appointment of twenty sequins per month was assigned to him, together with a general order on the treasury of Mantua. A villa, called Casa Zojosa, which we may translate Joyous Gard, was allotted to the new household, and there Vittorino established himself as master in 1425. He had much to do before this dwelling could be converted from the pleasure house of a mediæval sovereign into the semi-monastic resort of earnest students. Through its open galleries and painted banquet chambers the young Gonzaghi lounged with favourite friends selected from the Mantuan nobility. The tables groaned under gold and silver plate, while perfumed lacqueys handed round rich wines and highly seasoned dishes, and the garden alleys echoed to the sound of lute and viol. Without making any brusque or sudden reformation, Vittorino managed, by degrees, and on various pretexts, to dismiss the more dangerous friends and servants of his pupils. A strict house-porter was engaged, with orders to exclude suspicious visitors. Plain clothes, simple habits, and frugal meals became the rule of the household, Vittorino contriving to render these changes no less agreeable than salutary to his pupils. When complaints arose from the former companions of the princes and their parents, he laid his plan of training clearly before the Marquis, who had the good sense to approve of all that he had done. The eldest of Gian Francesco's children, Lodovico, was a youth of lazy habits, inclined to gluttony, and already too fat for his age. The next, Carlo, had outgrown his strength, and needed more substantial food. Vittorino devised systems of diet and physical training suited to their several temperaments, making it his one object to increase their vigour, and by multiplying sources of rational enjoyment to dispose them to the energetic exercise of their faculties. He by no means neglected what we call athletics. Indeed, it was a fundamental axiom of his method that a robust body could alone harbour a healthy mind. Boys who sat poring over books, or haunted solitary places, lost in dreaming, found no favour in his eyes. To exercises in the gymnasium or the riding-school he preferred games in the open air; hunting and fishing, wrestling and fencing, running and jumping, were practised by his pupils in the park outside their palace. To harden them against severities of heat and cold, to render them temperate in food and drink, to train their voices, and to improve their carriage was his first care. Since he could not himself superintend their education in all its branches, he engaged a subordinate staff of tutors; grammarians, logicians, mathematicians, painters, and masters of riding, dancing, singing, swimming, fencing, began to crowd the halls of Joyous Gard. Each had his own allotted task to perform, while Vittorino surveyed the whole scheme. 'Perhaps,' says Rosmini,[290] 'the only sciences that were not taught in this academy were civil and canon law and natural physics.' [Footnote 290: P. 111.] It must not be imagined that so extensive an apparatus existed solely for the young Gonzaghi. Noble youths from all the Courts of Italy, and students from remote parts of Europe, sought admittance to Vittorino's school. The more promising of these pupils, who were fitted by their rank and disposition to associate with his princely charges, the master housed under his own roof; while for the rest he provided suitable lodgings near at hand. Many were the poor students who thus owed to his generosity participation in the most refined and scientific culture their century afforded.[291] While paying this tribute to Vittorino da Feltre, we must remember the honour that is also due to Gian Francesco Gonzaga. Had this prince not been endowed with true liberality of soul and freedom from petty prejudice, Vittorino could never have developed a system based upon pure democratic principles, which even now may rank as an unrivalled educational ideal. If the master, again, was able to provide for sixty poor scholars at a time--teaching, feeding, clothing, and furnishing them with costly books, his friend the Marquis must, we feel sure, have supplied his purse with extra funds for charitable purposes.[292] [Footnote 291: Sixty poor scholars were taught, fed, clothed, and provided with implements of study at his cost. He also subsidised their families in distress. Rosmini, _Vita di Vittorino_, pp. 165, 166.] [Footnote 292: Rosmini, _Vita di Vittorino_, p. 165. Vespasiano, p. 492, tells a story which illustrates these relations between Vittorino and the Marquis. Cf., too, p. 494.] The numerous biographers of Vittorino have transmitted many details in illustration of his method of teaching. He used to read the classic authors aloud, prefixing biographical notices by way of introduction, and explaining the matter, as well as the language of his text, as he proceeded. Sometimes he made his pupils read, correcting their pronunciation, and obliging them to mark the meaning by emphasis. He relied much on learning by heart and repetition, as the surest means of forming a good style. Gifted with a finer instinct for language than the majority of his contemporaries, he was careful that his pupils should distinguish between different types of literary excellence, not confounding Cicero with Seneca or Virgil with Lucan, but striving to appreciate the special qualities of each. With a view to the acquisition of pure principles of taste, he confined them at first to Virgil and Homer, Cicero and Demosthenes. These four authors he regarded as the supreme masters of expression. Ovid was too luxuriant, Juvenal too coarse, to serve as guides for tiros. Horace and Persius among the satirists, Terence among the comic poets, might be safely studied. In spite of Seneca's weight as a philosophic essayist, Vittorino censured the affectations of his rhetoric; and while he praised the beauty of the Latin elegists, he judged them ill-suited for the training of the young. Criticism of this kind, though it may sound to us obvious and superficial, was extremely rare in the fifteenth century, when scholars were too apt to neglect differences of style in ancient authors, and to ignore the ethics of their works. The refinement which distinguished Vittorino, made him prefer the graces of a chastened manner to the sounding phrases of emphatic declamation. His pupils were taught to see that they had something to say first, and then to say it with simplicity and elegance. This purity of taste was no mere matter of æsthetic sensibility with Vittorino. Habits which brutalise the mind or debase the body, however sanctioned by the usage of the times, met with little toleration in his presence. Swearing, obscene language, vulgar joking, and angry altercation were severely punished. Personal morality and the observance of religious exercises he exacted from his pupils. Lying was a heinous offence. Those who proved intractable upon these points were excluded from his school. Of the rest Vespasiano writes with emphasis that 'his house was a sanctuary of manners, deeds, and words.'[293] [Footnote 293: P. 492.] Concerning the noble Italian youths who were educated with the Gonzaga family at Mantua, enough has been said in another place.[294] Appended to Rosmini's copious biography will be found, by those who are curious to read such details, the notices of forty more or less distinguished pupils.[295] Beside the two sons of Gian Francesco Gonzaga already mentioned, Vittorino educated three other children of his master--Gianlucido, Alessandro, and Cecilia.[296] Wholly dedicated to the cares of teaching, and more anxious to survive in the good fame of his scholars than to secure the immortality of literature, Vittorino bequeathed no writings to posterity. He lived to a hale and hearty old age; and when he died, in 1446, it was found that the illustrious scholar, after enjoying for so many years the liberality of his princely patron, had not accumulated enough money to pay for his own funeral. Whatever he possessed, he spent in charity during his lifetime, trusting to the kindness of his friends to bury him when dead. Few lives of which there is any record in history, are so perfectly praiseworthy as Vittorino's; few men have more nobly realised the idea of living for the highest objects of their age; few have succeeded in keeping themselves so wholly unspotted by the vices of the world around them. [Footnote 294: Vol. I., _Age of the Despots_, p. 138.] [Footnote 295: Pp. 249-476.] [Footnote 296: See Rosmini, p. 183, and Vespasiano, p. 493, for the record of her virtues, her learning, and her refusal to wed the infamous Oddo da Montefeltro.] By the patronage extended to Vittorino da Feltre the Court of Mantua took rank among the high schools of humanism in Italy. Ferrara won a similar distinction through the liberality of the House of Este. What has already been said about Milan applies, however, in a less degree to Ferrara. The arts and letters, though they flourished with exceeding brilliance beneath the patrons of Boiardo, Ariosto, and Tasso, were but accessories to a splendid and voluptuous Court life. Literature was little better than an exotic, cultivated for its rarity and beauty by the princes of the Este family. The golden age of culture at Ferrara began in 1402, when Niccolo III. reopened the university. Twenty-seven years later Guarino da Verona made it one of the five chief seats of Southern learning. The life of this eminent scholar in many points resembles that of Filelfo, though their characters were very different. Guarino was born of respectable parents at Verona in 1370. He studied Latin in the school of Giovanni da Ravenna, and while still a lad of eighteen travelled to Constantinople at the cost of a noble Venetian, Paolo Zane, in order to learn Greek. After a residence of five years in Greece he returned to Venice, and began to lecture to crowded audiences.[297] Like all the humanists, he seems to have preferred temporary to permanent engagements--passing from Venice to Verona, from Trent to Padua, from Bologna to Florence, and everywhere acquiring that substantial reputation as a teacher to which he owed the invitation of Niccolo d'Este in 1429. He was now a man of nearly sixty, master of the two languages, and well acquainted with the method of instruction. The Marquis of Ferrara engaged him as tutor to his illegitimate son Lionello, heir apparent to his throne. For seven years Guarino devoted himself wholly to the education of this youth, who passed for one of the best scholars of his age. Granting that the reputation for learning was lightly conferred on princes by their literary parasites, it seems certain that Lionello derived more than a mere smattering in culture from his tutor. Amid the pleasures of the chase, to which he was passionately devoted, and the distractions of the gayest Court in Italy, he found time to correspond on topics of scholarship with Poggio, Filelfo, Decembrio, and Francesco Barbaro. His conversation turned habitually upon the fashionable themes of antique ethics, and his favourite companions were men of polite education. It is no wonder that the humanists, who saw in him a future Augustus, deplored his early death with unfeigned sorrow, though we, who can only judge him by the general standard of his family, may be permitted to reserve our opinion. The profile portrait of Lionello, now preserved in the National Gallery, does not, at any rate, prepossess us very strongly in his favour. [Footnote 297: See his Life by Rosmini, p. 11, for his brilliant reception at Venice.] Guarino, like his friend Vittorino, was celebrated for the method of his teaching and for the exact order of his discipline.[298] Students flocked from all the cities of Italy to his lecture-room; for, as soon as his tutorial engagements with the prince permitted, he received a public appointment as professor of eloquence from the Ferrarese Consiglio de' Savi. In this post he laboured for many years, maintaining his reputation as a student and filling the universities of Italy with his pupils. A sentence describing his manner of life in extreme old age might be used to illustrate the enthusiasm which sustained the vital energy of scholars in that generation:--'His memory is marvellous, and his habit of reading is so indefatigable, that he scarcely takes the time to eat, to sleep, or to go abroad; and yet his limbs and senses have the vigour of youth.[299] Guarino was one of the few humanists whose moral character won equal respect with his learning. When he died at the age of ninety, the father of six boys and seven girls by his wife Taddea Cendrata of Verona, it was possible to say with truth that he had realised the ideal of a temperate scholar's life. Yet this incomparable teacher of youth undertook the defence of Beccadelli's obscene verses: this anchorite of humanism penned virulent invectives with the worst of his contemporaries.[300] Such contrasts were common enough in the fifteenth century. [Footnote 298: See the details collected by Rosmini, _Vita di Guarino_, pp. 79-87.] [Footnote 299: Timoteo Maffei, quoted by Tiraboschi, vol. vi. lib. iii. cap. 5, 8.] [Footnote 300: He carried on literary feuds with Niccolo de' Niccoli, Poggio, Filelfo, and Georgios Trapezuntios.] The name of Giovanni Aurispa must not be omitted in connection with Ferrara. Born in 1369 at Noto in Sicily, he lived to a great age, and died in 1459. He too travelled in early youth to Constantinople, and returned, laden with MSS. and learning, to profess the humanities in Italy. His life forms, therefore, a close parallel with that of both Guarino and Filelfo. Aurispa, however, was gifted with a less unresting temper than Filelfo; nor did he achieve the same professorial success as Guarino. In his school at Ferrara he enjoyed the calmer pleasures of a student's life, 'devoted,' as Filelfo phrased it, 'to the placid Muses.'[301] [Footnote 301: 'Placidis Aurispa Camoenis Deditus,' _Sat._, dec. i. hec. 5. Valla, _Antid. in Pogium_, p. 7, describes him as 'virum suavissimum et ab omni contentione remotissimum.'] To give an account of all the minor Courts, where humanism flourished under the patronage of petty princes, would be tedious and unprofitable. It is enough to notice that the universities, in this age of indefatigable energy, kept forming scholars, eager to make their way as secretaries and tutors, while the nobles competed for the honour and the profit to be derived from the service of illustrious wits and ready pens. The seeds of classic culture were thus sown in every little city that could boast its castle. Carpi, for example, was preparing the ground where Aldus and Musurus flourished. At Forli the Ordelaffi, doomed to extinction at no distant period, gave protection to Codrus Urceus.[302] Mirandola was growing fit to be the birthplace of the mighty Pico. Alessandro and Costanzo Sforza were adorning their lordship of Pesaro with a library that rivalled those of Rome and Florence.[303] In the fortress of Rimini, Sigismondo Pandolfo Malatesta conversed with men of learning whenever his intrigues and his military duties gave him leisure. The desperate and godless tyrant, whose passions bordered upon madness, and whose name was a byeword for all the vices that disgrace humanity, curbed his temper before petty witlings like Porcellio, and carved a record of his burning love for learning on the temple raised to celebrate his fame in Rimini. To the same passion for scholarship in his brother, Malatesta Novello, the tiny burgh of Cesena owed the foundation of a library, not only well supplied with books, but endowed with a yearly income of 300 golden florins for its maintenance. The money spent on scholarship at these minor Courts was gained, for the most part, in military service--the wealth of Florentine and Venetian citizens, of Milanese despots, and ambitious Popes flowing through the hands of professional war-captains into the pockets of booksellers and students. It consequently happened that the impulse given at this time to learning in the lesser cities was but temporary. With the fall of the Malatesti and the Sforza family, for instance, erudition died at Rimini and Pesaro. [Footnote 302: Cf. Tiraboschi, vi. lib. iii. cap. 5, 58.] [Footnote 303: Vespasiano, pp. 113-117, gives an interesting account of these lettered and warlike princes.] This might have been the case at Urbino also, if the House of Montefeltro had not succeeded, by wise conduct and prudent marriages, in resisting the encroachments of the Church, and transmitting its duchy to the Della Rovere family. As it was, Urbino retained for three generations the stamp of culture and refinement impressed upon it by the good Duke Frederick. Of his famous library, Vespasiano, who was employed in its formation, has given us minute and interesting details.[304] During more than fourteen years the Duke kept thirty or forty copyists continually employed in transcribing Greek and Latin MSS. Not only the classics in both languages, but the ecclesiastical and mediæval authors, the Italian poets, and the works of contemporary humanists found a place in his collection. The cost of the whole was estimated at considerably over 30,000 ducats. Each volume was bound in crimson, with silver clasps; the leaves were of vellum, exquisitely adorned with miniatures; nor could you find a printed book in the whole library, for the Duke would have been ashamed to own one. Vespasiano's admiration for these delicately finished MSS. and the contempt he expresses for the new art of printing are highly characteristic.[305] Enough has been already said by me elsewhere about Federigo da Montefeltro and his patronage of learning.[306] The Queen's collection at Windsor contains a curious picture, attributed to Melozza da Forli, of which I may be allowed to speak in this place, since it possesses more than usual interest for the student of humanism at the Italian Courts. In a large rectangular hall, lighted from above by windows in a dome, the Duke of Urbino is seated, wearing the robes and badges of the Garter, and resting his left hand on a folio. His son Guidobaldo, a boy of about eleven years of age, or little more, stands at the Duke's knee, dressed in yellow damask trimmed with pearls. Behind them, on a raised bench with a desk before it, sit three men, one attired in the red suit of a prelate, the second in black ecclesiastical attire, and the third in secular costume. At a door, opening on a passage, stand servants and lesser courtiers. The whole company are listening attentively to a grey-haired, black-robed humanist, seated in a sort of pulpit opposite to the Duke and his son. A large book, bound in crimson, with silver clasps is open on the desk before him; and by the movement of his mouth it is clear that he is reading aloud passages from some classical or ecclesiastical author, and explaining them for the benefit of his illustrious audience. To identify the scholar and the three men behind Federigo would not be impossible, if the exact date of this curious work could be ascertained; for they are clearly portraits. I like to fancy that in the layman we may perhaps recognise the excellent Vespasiano. Such conjectures are, however, hazardous; meanwhile the picture has intrinsic value as the unique representation, so far as I know, of a scene of frequent occurrence in the Courts of Italy, where listening to lectures formed a part of every day's occupation. [Footnote 304: See pp. 94-99.] [Footnote 305: P. 99.] [Footnote 306: Vol. I., _Age of the Despots_, pp. 136-142.] This is the proper place to speak of Vespasiano da Bisticci, on whose 'Lives of Illustrious Men' I have had occasion to draw so copiously. Peculiar interest attaches to him as the last of mediæval scribes, and at the same time the first of modern booksellers.[307] Besides being the agent of Cosimo de' Medici, Nicholas V., and Frederick of Urbino, Vespasiano supplied the foreign markets, sending MSS. by order to Hungary, Portugal, Germany, and England. The extent of his trade rendered him the largest employer of copyists in Europe at the moment when this industry was about to be superseded, and when scholars were already inquiring for news about the art that saved expense and shortened the labour of the student.[308] Vespasiano, who was born in 1421 at Florence, lived until 1498; so that after having helped to form the three greatest collections of MSS. in Italy, he witnessed the triumph of printing, and might have even handled the Musæus issued from the Aldine Press in 1493. Vespasiano was no mere tradesman. His knowledge of the books he sold was accurate; continual study enabled him to overlook the copyists, and to vouch for the exactitude of their transcripts.[309] At the same time his occupation brought him into close intimacy with the chief scholars of the age, so that the new culture reached him by conversation and familiar correspondence. As a biographer Vespasiano possessed rare merit. Personally acquainted with the men of whom he wrote, he drew their characters with praiseworthy succinctness and simplicity. There is no panegyrical emphasis, no calumnious innuendo, in his sketches. It may even be said that they suffer from reservation of opinion and suppression of facts. Vespasiano's hatred of vice and love of virtue were so genuine that, in his eagerness to honour men of letters and their patrons, he softened down harsh outlines and passed over all that is condemnable in silence. He was less anxious to paint character in the style of Tacitus or Guicciardini, than to relate what he knew about the progress of learning in his age. The ethical intention in his work is obvious. The qualities he loves to celebrate are piety, chastity, generosity, devotion to the cause of liberal culture, and high-souled patriotism. Of the vices that added a lurid lustre to the age in which he lived, of the political rancours that divided the cities into hostile parties, and of the imperfections in the characters of eminent men, we hear nothing from Vespasiano. It is pleasant to conclude this chapter with an expression of gratitude to a man so blameless in his life, so charitable in his judgments, and so trustworthy in his record of contemporary history. [Footnote 307: In the register of his death he is described as Vespasiano, Cartolaro.] [Footnote 308: See Rosmini, _Vita di Filelfo_, vol. ii. p. 201. 'I have made up my mind to buy some of those codices they are now making without any trouble, and without the pen, but with certain so-called types, and which seem to be the work of a skilled and exact scribe. Tell me, then, at what price are sold the _Natural History_ of Pliny, the three Decades of Livy, and Aulus Gellius.' Letter to Nicodemo Tranchedino, sent from Siena to Rome, dated July 25, 1470.] [Footnote 309: See this passage from a panegyric quoted by Angelo Mai:--'Tu profecto in hoc nostro deteriori sæculo hebraicæ, græcæ atque latinæ linguarum, omnium voluminum dignorum memoratu notitiam, eorumque auctores memoriæ tradidisti.'--_Vite di Uomini Illustri_, preface, p. xxiii.] CHAPTER VI THIRD PERIOD OF HUMANISM Improvement in Taste and Criticism -- Coteries and Academies -- Revival of Italian Literature -- Printing -- Florence, the Capital of Learning -- Lorenzo de' Medici and his Circle -- Public Policy of Lorenzo -- Literary Patronage -- Variety of his Gifts -- Meetings of the Platonic Society -- Marsilio Ficino -- His Education for Platonic Studies -- Translations of Plato and the Neoplatonists -- Harmony between Plato and Christianity -- Giovanni Pico -- His First Appearance in Florence -- His Theses proposed at Rome -- Censure of the Church -- His Study of the Cabbala -- Large Conception of Learning -- Occult Science -- Cristoforo Landino -- Professor of Fine Literature -- Virgilian Studies -- Camaldolese Disputations -- Leo Battista Alberti -- His Versatility -- Bartolommeo Scala -- Obscure Origin -- Chancellor of Florence -- Angelo Poliziano -- Early Life -- Translation of Homer -- The 'Homericus Juvenis' -- True Genius in Poliziano -- Command of Latin and Greek -- Resuscitation of Antiquity in his own Person -- His Professorial Work -- The 'Miscellanea' -- Relation to Medici -- Roman Scholarship in this Period -- Pius II. -- Pomponius Lætus -- His Academy and Mode of Life -- Persecution under Paul II. -- Humanism at Naples -- Pontanus -- His Academy -- His Writings -- Academies established in all Towns of Italy -- Introduction of Printing -- Sweynheim and Pannartz -- The Early Venetian Press -- Florence -- Cennini -- Alopa's Homer -- Change in Scholarship effected by Printing -- The Life of Aldo Manuzio -- The Princely House of Pio at Carpi -- Greek Books before Aldo -- The Aldine Press at Venice -- History of its Activity -- Aldo and Erasmus -- Aldo and the Greek Refugees -- Aldo's Death -- His family and Successors -- The Neacademia -- The Salvation of Greek Literature. In the four preceding chapters I have sketched the rise and progress of Italian humanism with more minuteness than need be now employed upon the history of its further development. By the scholars of the first and second period the whole domain of ancient literature was reconquered; the classics were restored in their integrity to the modern world. Petrarch first inflamed the enthusiasm without which so great a work could not have been accomplished, his immediate successors mastered the Greek language, and explored every province of antiquity. Much still remained, however, to be achieved by a new generation of students: for as yet criticism was but in its cradle; the graces of style were but little understood; indiscriminate erudition passed for scholarship, and crude verbiage for eloquence. The humanists of the third age, still burning with the zeal that animated Petrarch, and profiting by the labours of their predecessors, ascended to a higher level of culture. It is their glory to have purified the coarse and tumid style of mediæval Latinists, to have introduced the methods of comparative and æsthetic criticism, and to have distinguished the characteristics of the authors and the periods they studied. The salient features of this third age of humanism may be briefly stated. Having done their work by sowing the seeds of culture broadcast, the vagrant professors of the second period begin to disappear, and the republic of letters tends to crystallise round men of eminence in coteries and learned circles. This, therefore, is the age of the academies. Secondly, it is noticeable that Italian literature, almost totally abandoned in the first fervour of enthusiasm for antiquity, now receives nearly as much attention as the classics. Since the revival of Italian in the golden age of the Renaissance will form the subject of my final volume, the names of Lorenzo de' Medici and Poliziano at Florence, of Boiardo at Ferrara, and of Sannazzaro at Naples may here suffice to indicate the points of contact between scholarship and the national literature. A century had been employed in the acquisition of humanistic culture; when acquired, it bore fruit, not only in more elegant scholarship, but also in new forms of poetry and prose for the people. A third marked feature of the period is the establishment of the printing press. The energy wherewith in little more than fifty years the texts of the classic authors were rendered indestructible by accident or time, and placed within the reach of students throughout Europe, demands particular attention in this chapter. Florence is still the capital of learning. The most brilliant humanists, gathered round the person of Lorenzo de' Medici, give laws to the rest of Italy, determining by their tastes and studies the tone of intellectual society. Lorenzo is himself in so deep and true a sense the master spirit of this circle, that to describe his position in the republic will hardly be considered a digression. Before his death in 1464 Cosimo de' Medici had succeeded in rendering his family necessary to the State of Florence. Though thwarted by ambitious rivals and hampered by the intrigues of the party he had formed to rule the commonwealth, Cosimo contrived so to complicate the public finances with his own banking business, and so to bind the leading burghers to himself by various obligations, that, while he in no way affected the style of a despot, Florence belonged to his house more surely than Bologna to the Bentivogli. For the continuation of this authority, based on intrigue and cemented by corruption, it was absolutely needful that the spirit of Cosimo should survive in his successors. A single false move, by unmasking the tyranny so carefully veiled, by offending the republican vanities of the Florentines, or by employing force where everything had hitherto been gained by craft, would at this epoch have destroyed the prospects of the Medicean family. So true it is that the history of this age in Italy is not the history of commonwealths so much as the history of individualities, of men. The principles reduced to rule by Machiavelli in his essay on the Prince may be studied in the lives of fifteenth-century adventurers, who, like Cesare Borgia, discerned the necessity of using violence for special ends, or, like the Medici, perceived that sovereignty could be better grasped by a hand gloved with velvet than mailed in steel. The Medici of both branches displayed through eight successive generations, in their general line of policy, in the disasters that attended their divergence from it, and in the means they used to rehabilitate their influence, the action of what Balzac calls _l'homme politique_, with striking clearness to the philosophic student. Both the son and grandson of Cosimo well understood the part they had to play, and played it so ably that even the errors of the younger Piero, the genius of Savonarola, and the failure of the elder Medicean line were insufficient to check the gradual subjugation of the commonwealth he had initiated. Lorenzo's father, Piero, called by the Florentines _Il Gottoso_, suffered much from ill-health, and was unable to take the lead in politics.[310] Yet the powers entrusted to his father were confirmed for him. The elections remained in the hands of the Medicean party, and the _balia_ appointed in their favour continued to control the State. The dangerous conspiracy against Piero's life, engaged in by Luca Pitti and Diotisalvi Neroni, proved that his enemies regarded the chief of the Medici as the leader of the republic. It was due to the prudent action of the young Lorenzo that this conspiracy failed; and the Medici were even strengthened by the downfall of their foes. From the tone of the congratulations addressed on this occasion by the ruling powers of Italy to Piero and Lorenzo, we may conclude that they were already reckoned as princes outside Florence, though they still maintained a burgherlike simplicity of life within the city walls. [Footnote 310: It may be useful to add a skeleton pedigree of the Medici in this place:-- Cosimo, Pater Patriæ | Piero, Il Gottoso | +-------------------+ | | Lorenzo Giuliano | | +------------+ Giulio, Clement VII. | | Piero, Giovanni, the exile Leo X.] In the marriage of his son Lorenzo to Clarice degli Orsini, of the princely Roman house, Piero gave signs of a departure from the cautious policy of Cosimo. Foreign alliances were regarded with suspicion by the Florentines, and Pandolfini's advice to his sons, that they should avoid familiarity with territorial magnates, exactly represented the spirit of the republic.[311] In like manner, the education of both Lorenzo and Giuliano, their intercourse with royal guests, and the prominent places assigned them on occasions of ceremony, indicated an advance toward despotism. It was concordant with the manners of the age that one family should play the part of host for the republic. The discharge of this duty by the Medici aroused no jealousy among the burghers; yet it enabled the ambitious house to place themselves in an unique position, and, while seeming to remain mere citizens, to take a step in the direction of sovereignty. [Footnote 311: See Vol. I., _Age of the Despots_, p. 190.] On the death of Piero, in 1469, the chief men of the Medicean party waited upon Lorenzo, and, after offering their condolences, besought him to succeed his father in the presidency of the State. The feeling prevailed among the leaders of the city that it was impossible, under the existing conditions of Italian politics, to carry on the commonwealth without a titular head. Lorenzo, then in his twenty-second year, entered thus upon the political career in the course of which he not only maintained a balance of power in Italy, but also remodelled the internal government of Florence in the interests of his family, and further strengthened their position by establishing connections with the Papal See. While bending all the faculties of his powerful and subtle intellect to the one end of consolidating a tyranny, Lorenzo was far too wise to assume the bearing of a despot. He conversed familiarly with the citizens, encouraged artists and scholars to address him on terms of equality, and was careful to adopt no titles. His personal temperament made the task of being in effect a sovereign, while he acted like a citizen, comparatively easy, his chief difficulties arose from the necessity under which he laboured, like his grandfather Cosimo, of governing through a party composed of men distinguished by birth and ability, and powerful by wealth and connections. To keep this party in good temper, to flatter its members with the show of influence, and to gain their concurrence for the alterations he introduced into the State machinery of Florence, was the problem of his life. By creating a body of clients, bound to himself by diverse interests and obligations, he succeeded in bridling the Medicean party and excluding from offices of trust all dangerous and disaffected persons. The goodwill of the city at large was secured by the prosperity at home and peace abroad which marked the last fourteen years of his administration, while the splendour of his foreign alliances contributed in no small measure to his popularity. The Florentines were proud of a citizen who brought them into the first rank of Italian Powers, and who refrained from assuming the style of sovereign. Thus Lorenzo solved the most difficult of political problems--that of using a close oligarchy for the maintenance of despotism in a free and jealous commonwealth. None of his rivals retained power enough to withhold the sceptre from his sons when they should seek to grasp it. The roots of the Medici clung to no one part of Florence in particular. They seemed superficial; yet they crept beneath the ground in all directions. Intertwined as they were with every interest both public and private in the city, to cut them out implied the excision of some vital member. This was the secret of their power in the next generation, when, banished and reduced to bastards, the Medici returned from two exiles, survived the perils of the siege and Alessandro's murder, and finally assumed the Ducal crown in the person of the last scion of their younger branch. The policy, so persistently pursued for generations, so powerfully applied by Lorenzo, might be compared to the attack of an octopus, which fastens on its victim by a multitude of tiny tentacles, and waits till he is drained of strength before it shoots its beak into a vital spot. In one point Lorenzo was inferior to his grandfather. He had no commercial talent. After suffering the banking business of the Medici to fall into disorder, he became virtually bankrupt, while his personal expenditure kept continually increasing. In order to retrieve his fortunes it was necessary for him to gain complete disposal of the public purse. This was the real object of the constitutional revolution of 1480, whereby his Privy Council assumed the active functions of the State. Had Lorenzo been as great in finance as in the management of men, the way might have been smoothed for his son Piero in the disastrous year of 1494. If Lorenzo neglected the pursuit of wealth, whereby Cosimo had raised himself from insignificance to the dictatorship of Florence, he surpassed his grandfather in the use he made of literary patronage. It is not paradoxical to affirm that in his policy we can trace the subordination of a genuine love of arts and letters to statecraft. The new culture was one of the instruments that helped to build his despotism. Through his thorough and enthusiastic participation in the intellectual interests of his age, he put himself into close sympathy with the Florentines, who were glad to acknowledge for their leader by far the ablest of the men of parts in Italy. According as we choose our point of view, we may regard him either as a tyrant, involving his country in debt and dangerous wars, corrupting the morals and enfeebling the spirit of the people, and systematically enslaving the Athens of the modern world for the sake of founding a petty principality; or else as the most liberal-minded noble of his epoch, born to play the first part in the Florentine republic, and careful to use his wealth and influence for the advancement of his fellow-citizens in culture, learning, arts, amenities of life. Savonarola and the Florentine historians adopt the former of these two opinions. Sismondi, in his passion for liberty, arrays against Lorenzo the political assassinations he permitted, the enervation of Florence, the national debt incurred by the republic, the exhausting wars with Sixtus carried on in his defence. His panegyrists, on the contrary, love to paint him as the pacificator of Italy, the restorer of Florentine poetry, the profound critic, and the generous patron. The truth lies in the combination of these two apparently contradictory judgments. Lorenzo was the representative man of his nation at a moment when political institutions were everywhere inclining to despotism, and when the spiritual life of the Italians found its noblest expression in art and literature. The principality of Florence was thrust upon him by the policy of Cosimo, by the vote of the chief citizens, and by the example of the sister republics, all of whom, with the exception of Venice, submitted to the sway of rulers. Had he wished, he might have found it difficult to preserve the commonwealth in its integrity. Few but doctrinaires believed in a _governo misto_; only aristocrats desired a _governo stretto_; all but democrats dreaded a _governo largo_. And yet a new constitution must have been framed after one of these types, and the Florentines must have been educated to use it with discretion, before Lorenzo could have resigned his office of dictator with any prospect of freedom for the city in his charge. Such unselfish patriotism, in the face of such overwhelming difficulties, and in antagonism to the whole tendency of the age, was not to be expected from an oligarch of the Renaissance, born in the purple, and used from infancy to intrigue. Lorenzo was a man of marvellous variety and range of mental power. He possessed one of those rare natures, fitted to comprehend all knowledge and to sympathise with the most diverse forms of life. While he never for one moment relaxed his grasp on politics, among philosophers he passed for a sage, among men of letters for an original and graceful poet, among scholars for a Grecian sensitive to every nicety of Attic idiom, among artists for an amateur gifted with refined discernment and consummate taste. Pleasure-seekers knew in him the libertine, who jousted with the boldest, danced and masqueraded with the merriest, sought adventures in the streets at night, and joined the people in their May-day games and Carnival festivities. The pious extolled him as an author of devotional lauds and mystery plays, a profound theologian, a critic of sermons. He was no less famous for his jokes and repartees than for his pithy apophthegms and maxims, as good a judge of cattle as of statues, as much at home in the bosom of his family as in the riot of an orgy, as ready to discourse on Plato as to plan a campaign or to plot the death of a dangerous citizen. An apologist may always plead that Lorenzo was the epitome of his nation's most distinguished qualities, that the versatility of the Renaissance found in him its fullest incarnation. It was the duty of Italy in the fifteenth century not to establish religious or constitutional liberty, but to resuscitate culture. Before the disastrous wars of invasion had begun, it might well have seemed even to patriots as though Florence needed a Mæcenas more than a Camillus. Therefore the prince who in his own person combined all accomplishments, who knew by sympathy and counsel how to stimulate the genius of men superior to himself in special arts and sciences, who spent his fortune lavishly on works of public usefulness, whose palace formed the rallying-point of wit and learning, whose council chamber was the school of statesmen, who expressed his age in every word and every act, in his vices and his virtues, his crimes and generous deeds, cannot be fairly judged by an abstract standard of republican morality. It is nevertheless true that Lorenzo enfeebled and enslaved Florence. At his death he left her socially more dissolute, politically weaker, intellectually more like himself, than he had found her. He had not the greatness to rise above the spirit of his century, or to make himself the Pericles instead of the Pisistratus of his republic. In other words, he was adequate, not superior, to Renaissance Italy. This, then, was the man round whom the greatest scholars of the third period assembled, at whose table sat Angelo Poliziano, Cristoforo Landino, Marsilio Ficino, Giovanni Pico della Mirandola, Leo Battista Alberti, Michael Angelo Buonarroti, Luigi Pulci. The mere enumeration of these names suffices to awake a crowd of memories in the mind of those to whom Italian art and poetry are dear. Lorenzo's villas, where this brilliant circle met for grave discourse or social converse, heightening the sober pleasures of Italian country life with all that wit and learning could produce of delicate and rare, have been so often sung by poets and celebrated by historians that Careggi, Caffagiolo, and Poggio a Cajano are no less familiar to us than the studious shades of Academe. 'In a villa overhanging the towers of Florence,' writes the austere Hallam, moved to more than usual eloquence by the spirit-stirring beauty of his theme, 'on the steep slope of that lofty hill crowned by the mother city, the ancient Fiesole, in gardens which Tully might have envied, with Ficino, Landino, and Politian at his side, he delighted his hours of leisure with the beautiful visions of Platonic philosophy, for which the summer stillness of an Italian sky appears the most congenial accompaniment.' As we climb the steep slope of Fiesole, or linger beneath the rose-trees that shed their petals from Careggi's garden walls, once more in our imagination 'the world's great age begins anew;' once more the blossoms of that marvellous spring unclose. While the sun goes down beneath the mountains of Carrara, and the Apennines grow purple-golden, and Florence sleeps beside the silvery Arno, and the large Italian stars come forth above, we remember how those mighty master spirits watched the sphering of new planets in the spiritual skies. Savonarola in his cell below once more sits brooding over the servility of Florence, the corruption of a godless Church. Michael Angelo, seated between Ficino and Poliziano, with the voices of the prophets vibrating in his memory, and with the music of Plato sounding in his ears, rests chin on hand and elbow upon knee, like his own Jeremiah, lost in contemplation, whereof the after-fruit shall be the Sistine Chapel and the Medicean tombs. Then, when the strain of thought, 'unsphering Plato from his skies,' begins to weary, Pulci breaks the silence with a brand-new canto of Morgante, or a singing boy is bidden to tune his mandoline to Messer Angelo's last-made _ballata_. There is no difficulty in explaining Plato's power upon the thinkers of the fifteenth century. Among philosophers Plato shines like a morning star--[Greek: outh' hesperos oute eôos ontô thaumastos]--an auroral luminary, charming and compelling the attention of the world when man is on the verge of new discoveries. That he should have enslaved the finest intellects at a time when the sense of beauty was so keenly stimulated, and when the stirrings of fresh life were so intense, is nothing more than natural. To philosophise and humanise the religious sentiments that had become the property of monks and pardon-mongers; to establish a concordat between the Paganism that entranced the world, and the Catholic faith whereof the world was not yet weary; to satisfy the new-born sense of a divine and hitherto unapprehended mystery in heaven and earth; to dignify with a semblance of truth the dreams of magic and astrology that passed for science--all this the men of the Renaissance passionately craved. Who could render better help than Plato and the Neoplatonists, whose charm of style and high-flown mysticism suited the ambitious immaturity of undeveloped thought? For the interpretation of Platonic doctrine a hierophant was needed. Marsilio Ficino had been set apart from earliest youth for this purpose--selected in the wisdom of Cosimo de' Medici, prepared by special processes of study, and consecrated to the service of the one philosopher.[312] [Footnote 312: Marsilio Ficino, the son of Cosimo's physician, was born at Figline in 1433.] When Marsilio was a youth of eighteen, he entered the Medicean household, and began to learn Greek, in order that he might qualify himself for translating Plato into Latin. His health was delicate, his sensibilities acute; the temper of his intellect, inclined to mysticism and theology, fitted him for the arduous task of unifying religion with philosophy. It would be unfair to class him with the paganising humanists, who sought to justify their unbelief or want of morals by the authority of the classics. Ficino remained throughout his life an earnest Christian. At the age of forty, not without serious reflection and mature resolve, he took orders, and faithfully performed the duties of his cure. Antiquity he judged by the standard of the Christian creed. If he asserted that Socrates and Plato witnessed, together with the evangelists, to the truth of revelation, or that the same spirit inspired the laws of Moses and the Greek philosopher--this, as he conceived it, was in effect little else than extending the catena of authority backward from the Christian fathers to the sages of the ancient world. The Church, by admitting the sibyls into the company of the prophets, virtually sanctioned the canonisation of Plato; while the comprehensive survey of history as an uninterrupted whole, which since the days of Petrarch had distinguished the nobler type of humanism, rendered Ficino's philosophical religion not unacceptable even to the orthodox. The speculative mystics of the fifteenth century failed, however, to perceive that by recognising inspiration in the classic authors, they were silently denying the unique value of revelation; and that by seeking the religious tradition far and wide, they called in question the peculiar divinity of Christ. Savonarola saw this clearly; therefore he denounced the Platonists as heretics, who vainly babbled about things they did not understand. The permanent value of their speculations, crude and uncritical as they may now appear, consists in the large claim made for human reason as against bibliolatry and Church authority. Ficino was forty-four years of age when he finished the translation of Plato's works into Latin. Five more years elapsed before the first edition was printed in 1482 at Filippo Valori's expense. It may here be mentioned incidentally that, by this help, the aristocracy of Florence materially contributed to the diffusion of culture. A genuine philosopher in his lack of ambition and his freedom from avarice, Ficino was too poor to publish his own works; and what is true of him, applies to many most distinguished authors of the age. Great literary undertakings involved in that century the substantial assistance of wealthy men, whose liberality was rewarded by a notice in the colophon or on the title-page.[313] When, for instance, the first edition of Homer was issued from the press by Lorenzo Alopa in 1488, two brothers of the Nerli family, Bernardo and Neri, defrayed the expense.[314] The Plato was soon followed by a Life of the philosopher, and a treatise on the 'Platonic Doctrine of Immortality.' The latter work is interesting as a repertory of the theories discussed by the Medicean circle at their festivals in honour of Plato's birthday. It has, however, no intrinsic value for the critic or philosopher, being in effect nothing better than a jumble of citations culled from antique mystics and combined with cruder modern guesses. In 1486 the translation of Plotinus was accomplished, and in 1491 a voluminous commentary had been added; both were published one month after Lorenzo's death in 1492. A version of Dionysius the Areopagite, whose treatise on the 'Hierarchies,' though rejected by Lorenzo Valla, was accepted as genuine by Ficino, closed the long list of his translations from the Greek. The importance of Ficino's contributions to philosophy consists in the impulse he communicated to Platonic studies. That he did not comprehend Plato, or distinguish his philosophy from that of the Alexandrian mystics, is clear in every sentence of his writings. The age was uncritical, nor had scholars learned the necessity of understanding an author's relation to the history of thought in general before they attempted to explain him. Thus they were satisfied to read Plato by the reflected light of Plotinus and Gemistos Plethon, and to assimilate such portions only of his teaching as accorded with their own theology. The doctrine of planetary influences, and the myths invented to express the nature of the soul--in other words, the consciously poetic thoughts of Plato--seemed of more value to Ficino than the theory of ideas, wherein the deepest problems are presented in a logical shape to the understanding. The Middle Ages had plied dialectic to satiety; the Renaissance dwelt with passion upon vague and misty thoughts that gave a scope to its imagination. No dreams of poet or of mystic could surpass reality in the age of Lionardo da Vinci and Christopher Columbus. [Footnote 313: Thus Ficino's edition of Plotinus, printed at Lorenzo de' Medici's expense, and published one month after his death, bears this notice:--'Magnifici sumptu Laurentii patriæ servatoris.'] [Footnote 314: See, however, Didot's _Alde Manuce_, p. 4, where Giovanni Acciaiuoli is credited with this generosity.] If Plato has been studied more exactly of late years, he has never been loved better or more devotedly worshipped than by the Florentine Academy. Who builds a shrine and burns a lamp before his statue now? Who crowns his bust with laurels, or celebrates his birthday and his deathday with solemn festivals and pompous panegyrics? Who meet at stated intervals to read his words, and probe his hidden meaning, feeding his altar-flame with frankincense of their most precious thoughts? It was by outward signs like these, then full of fair significance, now puerile and void of import, that the pageant-loving men of the Renaissance testified their debt of gratitude to Plato. Of one of these birthday feasts Ficino has given a lively picture in his letter to Jacopo Bracciolini ('Prolegomena ad Platonis Symposium'). After partaking of a banquet, the text of the 'Symposium' was delivered over to discussion. Giovanni Cavalcanti interpreted the speeches of Phædrus and Pausanias, Landino that of Aristophanes; Carlo Marsuppini undertook the part of Agathon, while Tommaso Benci explained the esoteric meaning of Diotima. Was there anyone, we wonder, to act Alcibiades; or did Lorenzo, perhaps, sit drinking till day flooded the meadows of Valdarno, passing round a two-handled goblet, and raising subtle questions about comedy and tragedy? Among the academicians who frequented Lorenzo's palace at Florence there appeared, in 1484, a young man of princely birth and fascinating beauty. 'Nature,' wrote Poliziano, 'seemed to have showered on this man, or hero, all her gifts. He was tall and finely moulded; from his face a something of divinity shone forth. Acute, and gifted with prodigious memory, in his studies he was indefatigable, in his style perspicuous and eloquent. You could not say whether his talents or his moral qualities conferred on him the greater lustre. Familiar with all branches of philosophy, and the master of many languages, he stood on high above the reach of praise.' This was Giovanni Pico della Mirandola, whose portrait in the Uffizzi Gallery, with its long brown hair and penetrating grey eyes, compels attention even from those who know not whom it is supposed to figure. He was little more than twenty when he came to Florence. His personal attractions, noble manners, splendid style of life, and varied accomplishments made him the idol of Florentine society; and for a time he gave himself, in part at least, to love and the amusements of his age.[315] But Pico was not born for pleasure. By no man was the sublime ideal of humanity, superior to physical enjoyments and dignified by intellectual energy, that triumph of the thought of the Renaissance, more completely realised.[316] There is even reason to regret that, together with the follies of youth, he put aside the collection of his Latin poems, which Poliziano praised, and took no pains to preserve those Italian verses, the loss whereof we deplore no less than that of Lionardo's. While Pico continued to live as became a Count of Mirandola, he personally inclined each year to graver and more abstruse studies and to greater austerity, until at last the prince was merged in the philosopher, the man of letters in the mystic. [Footnote 315: See Von Reumont, vol. ii. p. 108.] [Footnote 316: Fine expression was given to this conception of life by Aldus in the dedication to Alberto Pio of vols. ii., iii., iv. of Aristotle:--'Es nam tu mihi optimus testis an potiores Herculis ærumnas credam, sævosque labores, et Venere, et coenis et plumis Sardanapali. Natus nam homo est ad laborem et ad agendum semper aliquid viro dignum, non ad voluptatem quæ belluarum est et pecudum.' The last sentence is a translation of Ulysses' speech in the _Inferno_-- 'Considerate la vostra semenza, Fatti non foste a viver come bruti, Ma per seguir virtude e conoscenza.' Cf. Aldus's preface to Lascaris' Grammar; Renouard, vol. i. p. 7; and again _Alde Manuce_, p. 143, for similar passages.] Pico's abilities displayed themselves in earliest boyhood. His mother, a niece of the great Boiardo, noticed his rare aptitude for study, and sent him at the age of fourteen to Bologna. There he mastered not only the humanities, but also what was taught of mathematics, logic, philosophy, and Oriental languages. He afterwards continued his education at Paris, the headquarters of scholastic theology. Pico's powerful memory must have served him in good stead: it is recorded that a single reading fixed the language and the matter of the texts he studied, on his mind for ever. Nor was this faculty for retaining knowledge accompanied by any sluggishness of mental power. To what extent he relied upon his powers of debate as well as on his vast stores of erudition, was proved by the publication of the famous nine hundred theses at Rome in 1486. These questions seem to have been constructed in defence of the Platonic mysticism, which already had begun to absorb his attention. The philosophers and theologians who were challenged to contend with him in argument had the whole list offered to their choice. Pico was prepared to maintain each and all of his positions without further preparation. Ecclesiastical prudence, however, prevented the champions of orthodoxy from descending into the arena. They found it safer to prefer a charge of heresy against Pico, whose theses were condemned in a brief of Innocent VIII., dated August 5, 1486. It was not until June 18, 1493, that he was finally purged from the ban of heterodoxy by a brief of Alexander VI. During that long interval he suffered much uneasiness of mind, for even his robust intelligence quailed before the thought of dying under Papal interdiction. That a man so pure in his life and so earnest in his piety should have been stigmatised as a heretic, and then pardoned, by two such Popes, is one of the curious anomalies of that age. To harmonise the Christian and classical tradition was a problem which Manetti had crudely attempted. Pico approached it in a more philosophical spirit, and resolved to devote his whole life to the task. The antagonism between sacred and profane literature appeared more glaring to Renaissance scholars than to us, inasmuch as they attached more serious value to the teaching of the latter as a rule of life. Yet Pico was not intent so much on merely reconciling hostile systems of thought, or on confuting the errors of the Jews and Gentiles. He had conceived the great idea of the unity of knowledge; and having acquired the _omne scibile_ of his century, he sought to seize the soul of truth that animates all systems. Not the classics nor the Scriptures alone, but the writings of the schoolmen, the glosses of Arabic philosophers, and the more obscure products of Hebrew erudition had for him their solid value. Estimating authors at the worth of their matter, and despising the trivial questions raised by shallow wits among style-mongering students, he freed himself from the worst fault of humanism, and conceived of learning in a liberal spirit. The best proof of this wide acceptance of all literature conducive to sound thinking, is given in a letter to Ermolao Barbaro.[317] After courteously adverting to the Ciceronian elegance of his correspondent's style he continues, 'And that I meantime should have lost in the studies of Thomas Aquinas, John Scotus, Albertus Magnus, and Averrhoes the best years of my life--those long, laborious vigils wherein I might perchance have made myself of some avail in polite scholarship! The thought occurred to me, by way of consolation, if some of them could come to life again, whether men so powerful in argument might not find sound pleas for their own cause; whether one among them, more eloquent than Paul, might not defend, in terms as free as possible from barbarism, their barbarous style, speaking perchance after this fashion: We have lived illustrious, friend Ermolao, and to posterity shall live, not in the schools of the grammarians and teaching-places of young minds, but in the company of the philosophers, conclaves of sages, where the questions for debate are not concerning the mother of Andromache or the sons of Niobe and such light trifles, but of things human and divine; in the contemplation, investigation, and analysis whereof we have been so subtle, searching, and eager that we may sometimes have seemed to be too scrupulous and captious, if indeed it be possible to be too curious or fastidious in seeking after truth. Let him who accuses us of dulness, prove by experience whether we barbarians have not the god of eloquence in our hearts rather than on our lips; whether, if the faculty of ornamented speech be lacking, we have wanted wisdom: and to trick out wisdom with ornaments may be more a crime than to show it in uncultured rudeness.' [Footnote 317: Dated Florence, 1485; in the Aldine edition of Poliziano's Letters, book ix.] During the period of his Platonic studies at Florence chance brought Pico into contact with a Jew who had a copy of the Cabbala for sale. Into this jungle of abstruse learning Pico plunged with all the ardour of his powerful intellect. Asiatic fancies, Alexandrian myths, Christian doctrines, Hebrew traditions, are so wonderfully blended in that labyrinthine commentary that Pico believed he had discovered the key to his great problem, the quintessence of all truth. It seemed to him that the science of the Greek and the faith of the Christian could only be understood in the light of the Cabbala. He purchased the MS., devoted his whole attention to its study, and projected a mighty work to prove the harmony of philosophies in Christianity, and to explain the Christian doctrine by the esoteric teaching of the Jews.[318] Pico's view of the connection between philosophy, theology, and religion is plainly stated in the following sentence from a letter to Aldus Manutius (February 11, 1491):--'Philosophia veritatem quærit, theologia invenit, religio possidet' ('Philosophy seeks truth, theology discovers it, religion hath it'). Death overtook him before the book intended to demonstrate these positions, and by so doing to establish the concord of all earnest and truth-seeking systems, could be written. He died at the age of thirty-one, on the very day when Charles VIII. made his entry into Florence. [Footnote 318: In the introduction to Pico's _Apologia_ may be read the account he gives of the codex of the pseudo-Esdras purchased by him.] While accepting the Cabbala it was impossible for Pico to reject magic. He showed his good sense, however, by an energetic attack upon the so-called science of judicial astrology. Strictly speaking, the spirit of humanism was opposed to this folly. Petrarch had long ago condemned it, together with the charlatans who used its jargon to impose upon the world; yet, in spite of humanism, the folly not only persisted, but seemed to increase with the spread of rational knowledge. The universities founded Chairs of Astrology, Popes consulted the stars on occasions of importance, nor did the Despots dare to act without the advice of their soothsayers. These men not unfrequently accompanied the greatest generals on their campaigns. Their services were bought by the republics; citizens employed them for the casting of horoscopes, the building of houses, the position of shops, the fit moment for journeys, the reception of guests into their families, and the date of weddings. To take a serious step in life without the approval of an astrologer had come to be regarded as perilous. Even Ficino believed in horoscopes and planetary influences; so did Cardan at a later date. It may be remembered that Catherine de' Medici allowed the Florentine Ruggieri to share her secret counsels during the reigns of three kings, and that Paul III. always obtained the sanction of his star-gazer before he held a consistory. In proportion as religion grew less real, and the complex dangers of a corrupt society increased, astrology gained in importance. It was not, therefore, a waste of eloquence, as Poliziano complained, when Pico directed his attack against this delusion, accusing it of debasing the intellect and opening the way for immorality of all kinds.[319] [Footnote 319: Poliziano's Greek epigram addressed to Pico on this matter may be quoted from the _Carmina Quinque Poetarum_, p. 412:-- [Greek: kai tout' astrologois epimemphomai êeroleschais, hotti sophous Pikou moi phthoneous' oarous. kai gar ho endykeôs toutôn ton lêron elenchôn mounaxei en agrô dêron hekas poleôs. Pike ti soi kai toutois? ou s' epeoiken agyrtais antarai tên sên eutychea graphida].] Since Pico's keen intellect discerned the shallowness of astrological pretensions, it is the more to be deplored that he fell a victim to the hybrid mysticism and magical nonsense of the Cabbala. We have here another proof that criticism was as yet in its infancy. It was easier for men of genius in the Renaissance to win lofty vantage-ground for contemplation, to divine the unity of human achievements, and to comprehend the greatness of the destiny of man, than to accept the learning of the past at a simple historical valuation. What fascinated their imagination passed with them too easily for true and proved. Yet all they needed was time for the digestion and assimilation of the stores of knowledge they had gained. If the Counter-Reformation had not checked the further growth of Italian science, the spirit that lived in Pico would certainly have produced a school of philosophy second to none that Europe has brought forth. Of this Pico's own short treatise on the 'Dignity of Man,' as I have said already, is sufficient warrant. As Pico was the youngest so was Cristoforo Landino the oldest member of the Medicean circle. He was born at Florence in 1424, nine years before Ficino, with whom he shared the duties of instructing Lorenzo in his boyhood. Landino obtained the Chair of Rhetoric and Poetry in 1457, and continued till his death in 1504 to profess Latin literature at Florence. While Ficino and Pico represented the study of philosophy, he devoted himself exclusively to scholarship, annotating Horace and Virgil, and translating Pliny's 'Natural Histories.' A marked feature in Landino's professorial labours was the attention he paid to the Italian poets. In 1460 he began to lecture on Petrarch, and in 1481 he published an edition of Dante with voluminous commentaries. The copy of this work, printed upon parchment, splendidly bound, and fastened with niello clasps, which Landino presented with a set oration to the Signory of Florence, may still be seen in the Magliabecchian library. The author was rewarded with a house in Borgo alla Collina, the ancient residence of his family. Though the name of Cristoforo Landino is now best known in connection with his Dantesque studies, one of his Latin works, the 'Camaldolese Discussions,'[320] will always retain peculiar interest for the student of Florentine humanism. This treatise is composed in imitation of the Ciceronian rather than the Platonic dialogues; the 'Tusculans' may be said to have furnished Landino with his model. He begins by telling how he left his villa in the Casentino, accompanied by his brother, to pay a visit to the hill-set sanctuary of S. Romualdo.[321] There he met with Lorenzo and Giuliano de' Medici, attended by noble youths of Florence--Piero and Donato Acciaiuoli, Alamanno Rinuccini, Marco Parenti, and Antonio Canigiani--all of whom had quitted Florence to enjoy the rest of summer coolness among the firs and chestnuts of the Apennines. The party thus formed was completed by the arrival of Leo Battista Alberti and Marsilio Ficino. The conversation maintained from day to day by these close friends and ardent scholars forms the substance of the dialogue. Seated on the turf beside a fountain, near the spot where Romualdo was bidden in his trance to exchange the black robes of the Benedictine Order for the snow-white livery of angels, they not unnaturally began to compare the active life that they had left at Florence with the contemplative life of philosophers and saints. Alberti led the conversation by a panegyric of the [Greek: bios theôrêtikos], maintaining the Platonic thesis with a wealth of illustration and a charm of eloquence peculiar to himself. Lorenzo took up the argument in favour of the [Greek: bios praktikos]. If Alberti proved that solitude and meditation are the nurses of great spirits, that man by communing with nature enters into full possession of his mental kingdom, Lorenzo pointed out that this completion of self-culture only finds its use and value in the commerce of the world. The philosopher must descend from his altitude and mix with men, in order to exercise the faculties matured by contemplation. Thus far the artist and the statesman are supposed to hold debate on Goethe's celebrated distich-- Es bildet ein Talent sich in der Stille, Sich ein Charakter in dem Strom der Welt. [Footnote 320: _Disputationum Camaldulensium_ lib. iv., dedicated to Frederick of Urbino.] [Footnote 321: The legend of the foundation of this Order is well known through Sacchi's picture in the Vatican.] The audience decided, in the spirit of the German poet, that a fully-formed man, the possessor of both character and talent, must submit himself to each method of training. Thus ended the first day's discussion. During the three following days Alberti led the conversation to Virgil's poetry, demonstrating its allegorical significance, and connecting its hidden philosophy with that of Plato. It is clear that in this part of his work Landino was presenting the substance of his own Virgilian studies. The whole book, like Castiglione's 'Courtier,' supplies a fair sample of the topics on which social conversation turned among refined and cultivated men. The tincture of Platonism is specially characteristic of the Medicean circle. The distinguished place allotted in this dialogue to Leo Battista Alberti proves the singular regard in which this most remarkable man was held at Florence, where, however, he but seldom resided. His name will always be coupled with that of Lionardo da Vinci; for though Lionardo, arriving at a happier moment, has eclipsed Alberti's fame, yet both of them were cast in the same mould. Alberti, indeed, might serve as the very type of those many-sided, precocious, and comprehensive men of genius who only existed in the age of the Renaissance. Physical strength and dexterity were given to him at birth in measure equal to his mental faculties. It is recorded that he could jump standing over an upright man, pierce the strongest armour with his arrows, and so deftly fling a coin that it touched the highest point of a church or palace roof. The wildest horses are said to have trembled under him, as though brutes felt, like men, the magnetism of his personality. His insight into every branch of knowledge seemed intuitive, and his command of the arts was innate. At the age of twenty he composed the comedy of 'Philodoxius,' which passed for an antique, and was published by the Aldi as the work of Lepidus Comicus in 1588. Of music, though he had not made it a special study, he was a thorough master, composing melodies that gave delight to scientific judges. He painted pictures, and wrote three books on painting; practised architecture and compiled ten books on building. Of his books, chiefly portraits, nothing remains; but the Church of S. Andrea at Mantua, the Palazzo Rucellai at Florence, and the remodelled Church of S. Francesco at Rimini attest his greatness as an architect. The façade of the latter building is more thoroughly classical than any other monument of the earlier Renaissance. As a transcript from Roman antiquity it ranks with the Palazzo della Ragione of Palladio at Vincenza. While still a young man, Alberti, overtaxed, in all probability, by the prodigious activity of his mental and bodily forces, suffered from an illness that resulted in a partial loss of memory. The humanistic and legal studies on which he was engaged had to be abandoned; yet, nothing daunted, he now turned his plastic genius to philosophy and mathematics, rightly judging that they make less demand upon the passive than the active vigour of the mind. It is believed that he anticipated some modern discoveries in optics, and he certainly advanced the science of perspective. Like his compeer Lionardo, he devoted attention to mechanics, and devised machinery for raising sunken ships. Like Lionardo, again, he was never tired of interrogating nature, conducting curious experiments, and watching her more secret operations. As a physiognomist and diviner, he acquired a reputation bordering on wizardry. It was as though his exquisite sensibilities and keenness of attention had gifted him with second sight. The depth of his sympathy with the outer world is proved by an assertion of his anonymous biographer that, when he saw the cornfields and vineyards of autumn, tears gathered to his eyes. All living creatures that had beauty won his love, and even in old persons he discovered a charm appropriate to old age. Foreigners, travellers, and workmen skilled in various crafts formed his favourite company, for in the acquisition of varied knowledge he was indefatigable. In general society his wisdom and his wit, the eloquence of his discourse and the brilliance of his improvisation, rendered him most fascinating. Collections of maxims culled from his table talk were made, whereof the anonymous biography contains a fair selection. At the same time we are told that, in the midst of sparkling sallies or close arguments, he would suddenly subside into reverie, and sit at table lost in silent contemplation. Alberti was one of the earliest writers of pure Italian prose at the period of its revival; but this part of his intellectual activity belongs to the history of Italian literature, and need not be touched on here. It is enough to have glanced thus briefly at one of the most attractive, sympathy-compelling figures of the fifteenth century. In order to complete the picture of the Florentine circle, we have in the last place to notice two men raised by the Medici from the ranks of the people. 'I came to the republic, bare of all things, a mere beggar, of the lowest birth, without money, rank, connections, or kindred. Cosimo, the father of his country, raised me up, by receiving me into his family.' So wrote Bartolommeo Scala,[322] the miller's son, who lived to be the Chancellor of Florence. The splendour of that office had been considerably diminished since the days when Bruni, Marsuppini, and Poggio held it; nor could Scala, as a student, bear comparison with those men. His Latin history of the first crusade was rather a large than a great work, of which no notice would be taken if Tasso had not used it in the composition of his epic. Honours and riches, however, were accumulated on the Chancellor in such profusion that he grew arrogant, and taunted the great Poliziano with inferiority. The feud between these men was not confined to literature. Scala's daughter, a far better scholar than himself, attracted Poliziano's notice, and Greek epigrams were exchanged between them. The dictator of Italian letters now sought the hand of the fair Alessandra, who was rich not only in learning but in world's gear also. When she gave herself to Michael Marullus Tarcagnota, a Greek, his anger knew no bounds; instead of penning amatory he now composed satiric epigrams, abusing Marullus in Latin no less than he had praised Alessandra in Greek.[323] [Footnote 322: Born at Colle in 1430.] [Footnote 323: The following verses on Alessandra are so curious a specimen of Poliziano's Greek style that I transcribe them here (_Carmina Quinque Illustrium Poetarum_, p. 304):-- [Greek: heurêch' heurêch' hên thelon, hên ezêteon aiei, hên êtoun ton erôth', hên kai oneiropoloun; parthenikên hês kallos akêraton, hês hoge kosmos ouk eiê technês all' aphelous physeôs; parthenikên glôttêsin ep' amphoterêsi komôsan, exochon ente chorois exochon ente lyra; hês peri sôphrosynê t' eiê charitessi th' hamilla, tê kai tê tautên antimethelkomenais. heurêk' oud' ophelos, kai gar molis eis eniauton oistrounti phlogerôs estin hapax ideein]. The satires on Mabilius (so he called Marullus) are too filthy to be quoted. They may be read in the collection cited above, pp. 275-280.] Angelo Poliziano was born in 1454. His name, so famous in Italian literature, is a Latinised version of his birthplace, Montepulciano. His father, Benedetto Ambrogini, was a man of some consequence, but of small means, who fell a victim to the enmity of private foes among his fellow-citizens, leaving his widow and five young children almost wholly unprovided for.[324] This accounts for the obscurity that long enveloped the history of Poliziano's childhood, and also for the doubts expressed about the surname of his family. At the age of ten he came to study in the University of Florence, where he profited by the teaching of Landino, Argyropoulos, Andronicos Kallistos, and Ficino. The precocity of his genius displayed itself in Latin poems and Greek epigrams composed while he was yet a boy. At thirteen years of age he published Latin letters; at seventeen he distributed Greek poems among the learned men of Florence; at eighteen he edited Catullus, with the boast that he had shown more zeal than any other student in the correction and illustration of the ancients. As early as the year 1470 he had not only conceived the ambitious determination to translate Homer into Latin verse, but had already begun upon the second Iliad. The first book was known to scholars in Marsuppini's Latin version. Poliziano carried his own translation as far as the end of the fifth book, gaining for himself the proud title of _Homericus juvenis_; further than this, for reasons unexplained, he never advanced, so that the last wish of Nicholas V., the chief desire of fifteenth-century scholarship--a Latin Iliad in hexameters--remained still unaccomplished. [Footnote 324: See Carducci, preface to _Le Stanze_, Florence, 1863, and Isidoro del Lungo in _Arch. Stor._ series iii. vol. ii.] The fame of this great undertaking attracted universal attention to Poliziano. It is probable that Ficino first introduced him to Lorenzo de' Medici, who received the young student into his own household, and made himself responsible for his future fortunes. 'The liberality of Lorenzo de' Medici, that great and wise man,' wrote Poliziano in after years, 'raised me from the obscure and humble station where my birth had placed me, to that degree of dignity and distinction I now enjoy, with no other recommendation than my literary abilities.' Before he had reached the age of thirty, Poliziano professed the Greek and Latin literatures in the University of Florence, and received the care of Lorenzo's children. If Lorenzo represents the statecraft of his age, Poliziano is no less emphatically the representative of its highest achievements in scholarship. He was the first Italian to combine perfect mastery over Latin and a correct sense of Greek with a splendid genius for his native literature. Filelfo boasted that he could write both classic languages with equal ease, and exercised his prosy muse in _terza rima_. But Filelfo had no fire of poetry, no sense of style. Poliziano, on the contrary, was a born poet, a _sacer vates_ in the truest sense of the word. I shall have to speak elsewhere of his Italian verses: those who have studied them know that the 'Orfeo,' the 'Stanze,' and the 'Rime' justify Poliziano's claim to the middle place of honour between Petrarch and Ariosto. Italian poetry took a new direction from his genius, and everything he penned was fruitful of results for the succeeding generation. Of his Latin poetry, in like manner, I propose to treat at greater length in the following chapter. The spirit of Roman literature lived again in Poliziano. If he cannot be compared with the Augustan authors, he will pass muster at least with the poets of the silver age. Neither Statius nor Ausonius produced more musical hexameters, or expressed their feeling for natural beauty in phrases marked with more spontaneous grace. Of his Greek elegiacs only a few specimens survive. These, in spite of certain licenses not justified by pure Greek prosody, might claim a place in the 'Anthology,' among the epigrams of Agathias and Paulus Silentiarius.[325] The Doric couplets on two beautiful boys, and the love sonnet to the youth Chrysocomus, read like extracts from the [Greek: Mousa paidikê].[326] What is remarkable about the Greek and Latin poetry of Poliziano is that the flavour of the author's Italian style transpires in them. They are no mere imitations of the classics. The 'roseate fluency' of the 'Rime' reappears in these _prolusiones_, making it manifest that the three languages were used with equal facility, and that on each of them the poet set the seal of his own genius. [Footnote 325: Julius Cæsar Scaliger wrote thus about them in the _Hypercriticus_:--'Græcis vero, quæ puerum se conscripsisse dicit, ætatem minus prudenter apposuit suam; tam enim bona sunt ut ne virum quidem Latina æque bene scripsisse putem.'] [Footnote 326: _Quinque Illustrium Poetarum Carmina_, pp. 299, 301. These epigrams, as well as two on pp. 303, 307, are significant in their illustration of the poet's morality. Giovio's account of Poliziano's death was certainly accepted by contemporaries:--'_Ferunt eum ingenui adolescentis insano amore percitum facile in letalem morbum incidisse._' The whole _Elogium_, however, is a covert libel, like many of Giovio's sketches.] What has been said about his verse, applies with no less force to his prose composition. Poliziano wrote Latin, as though it were a living language, not culling phrases from Cicero or reproducing the periods of Livy, but trusting to his instinct and his ear, with the facility of conscious power. The humanism of the first and second periods attained to the freedom of fine art in Poliziano. Through him, as through a lens, the rays of previous culture were transmitted in a column of pure light. He realised what the Italians had been striving after--the new birth of antiquity in a living man of the modern world. By way of modifying this high panegyric, it may be conceded that Poliziano had the defects of his qualities. Using Latin with the freedom of a master, he was not careful to purge his style of obsolete words and far-fetched phrases, or to maintain the diction of one period in each composition. His fluency betrayed him into verbiage, and his descriptions are often more diffuse than vigorous. Nor will he bear comparison with some more modern scholars on the point of accuracy. The merit, however, remains to him of having been the most copious and least slavish interpreter of the ancient to the modern world. His very imperfections, when judged by the standard of Bembo, place him above the purists, inasmuch as he possessed the power and courage to express himself in his own idiom, instead of treading cautiously in none but Ciceronian or Virgilian footprints. As a professor, none of the humanists achieved more brilliant successes than Poliziano. Among his pupils could be numbered the chief students of Europe. Not to mention Italians, it will suffice to record the names of Reuchlin, Grocin, Linacre, and the Portuguese Tessiras, who carried each to his own country the culture they had gained in Florence. The first appearance of Poliziano in the lecture-room was not calculated to win admiration. Ill-formed, with eyes that had something of a squint in them, and a nose of disproportionate size, he seemed more fit to be a solitary scholar than the Orpheus of the classic literature.[327] Yet no sooner had he opened his lips and begun to speak, with the exquisite and varied intonations of a singularly beautiful voice, than his listeners were chained to their seats. The ungainliness of the teacher was forgotten; charmed through their ears and their intellect, they eagerly drank in his eloquence, applauding the improvisations wherewith he illustrated the spirit and intention of his authors, and silently absorbing the vast and well-ordered stores of knowledge he so prodigally scattered. It would not be profitable to narrate here at any length what is known about the topics of these lectures. Poliziano not only covered the whole ground of classic literature during the years of his professorship, but also published the notes of courses upon Ovid, Suetonius, Statius, the younger Pliny, the writers of Augustan histories, and Quintilian. Some of his best Latin poems were written by way of preface to the authors he explained in public. Virgil was celebrated in the 'Manto,' and Homer in the 'Ambra;' the 'Rusticus' served as prelude to the 'Georgics,' while the 'Nutricia' formed an introduction to the study of ancient and modern poetry. Nor did he confine his attention to fine literature. The curious prælection in prose called 'Lamia' was intended as a prelude to the prior 'Analytics' of Aristotle. Among his translations must be mentioned Epictetus, Herodian, Hippocrates, Galen, Plutarch's 'Eroticus,' and the 'Charmides' of Plato. His greatest achievement, however, was the edition of the 'Pandects' of Justinian from the famous MS. of which Florence had robbed Pisa, as the Pisans had previously taken it from Amalfi. It must not be forgotten that all these undertakings involved severe labours of correction and criticism. MSS. had to be compared and texts settled, when as yet the apparatus for this higher form of scholarship was miserably scanty. Though students before Poliziano had understood the necessity of collating codices, determining their relative ages, and tracing them, if possible, to their authoritative sources, he was the first to do this systematically and with judgment. To emendation he only had recourse when the text seemed hopeless. His work upon the 'Pandects' alone implies the expenditure of enormous toil. [Footnote 327: 'Erat distortis sæpe moribus, uti facie nequaquam ingenuâ et liberali ab enormi præsertim naso, subluscoque oculo perabsurdâ.' Giovio, _Elogia_. Cf. Poliziano's own verses to Mabilius, beginning:-- Quod nasum mihi, quod reflexa colla Demens objicis. _Carmina Quinque Poetarum_, p. 277.] The results of Poliziano's more fugitive studies, and some notes of conversations on literary topics with Lorenzo, were published in 1489 under the title of 'Miscellanea.'[328] The form was borrowed from the 'Noctes Atticæ' of Aulus Gellius; in matter this collection anticipated the genial criticisms of Erasmus. The excitement caused by its appearance is vividly depicted in the following letter of Jacopus Antiquarius, secretary to the Duke of Milan:[329]--'Going lately, according to my custom, into one of the public offices, I found a number of the young clerks neglecting their prince's business, and lost in the study of a book which had been distributed in sheets among them. When I asked what new book had appeared, they answered, Politian's "Miscellanies." I mounted their desk, sat down among them, and began to read with equal eagerness. But, as I could not spend much time there, I sent at once to the bookseller's stall for a copy of the work.' By this time Poliziano's fame had eclipsed that of all his contemporaries. He corresponded familiarly with native and foreign princes, and held a kind of court at Florence among men of learning who came from all parts of Italy to converse with him. This popularity grew even burdensome, or at any rate he affected to find it so. 'Does a man want a motto for his sword's hilt or a posy for a ring,' he writes,[330] 'an inscription for his bedroom or a device for his plate, or even for his pots and pans, he runs like all the world to Politian. There is hardly a wall I have not besmeared, like a snail, with the effusions of my brain. One teazes me for catches and drinking-songs, another for a grave discourse, a third for a serenade, a fourth for a Carnival ballad.' In executing these commissions he is said to have shown great courtesy; nor did they probably cost him much trouble, for in all his work he was no less rapid than elegant. He boasted that he had dictated the translation of Herodian while walking up and down his room, within the space of a day or two; and the chief fault of his verses is their fluency. [Footnote 328: The first words of the dedication run as follows:--'Cum tibi superioribus diebus Laurenti Medices, nostra hæc Miscellanea _inter equitandum_ recitaremus.'] [Footnote 329: _Angeli Politiani Epistolæ_, lib. iii. ed. Ald. 1498. The letter is dated Nov. 1488.] [Footnote 330: In a letter to Hieronymus Donatus, dated Florence, May 1480, _Angeli Politiani Epistolæ_, lib. ii.] It still remains to speak of Poliziano's personal relations to the Medicean family. When he first entered the household of Lorenzo, he undertook the tuition of his patron's sons, and continued to superintend their education until their mother Clarice saw reason to mistrust his personal influence. There were, no doubt, many points in the great scholar's character that justified her thinking him unfit to be the constant companion of young men. Whatever may be the truth about the cause of his last illness, enough remains of his Greek and Italian verses to prove that his morality was lax, and his conception of life rather Pagan than Christian.[331] Clarice contrived that he should not remain under the same roof with her children; and though his friendly intercourse with the Medicean family continued uninterrupted, it would seem that after 1480 he only gave lessons in the classics to his former pupils. [Footnote 331: The well-known scandal about Poliziano's death is traceable to the _Elogia_ of Paulus Jovius--very suspicious authority. See above, p. 252, note 2.] Poliziano, proud as he was of his attainments, lacked the nobler quality of self-respect. He condescended to flatter Lorenzo, and to beg for presents, in phrases that remind us of Filelfo's prosiest epigrams.[332] That a scholar should vaunt his own achievements[333] and extol his patron to the skies, that he should ask for money and set off his panegyrics against payment, seemed not derogatory to a man of genius in the fifteenth century. Yet these habits of literary mendicancy and toad-eating proved a most pernicious influence. Italian literature never lost the superlatives and exaggerations imported by the humanists, and Pietro Aretino may be called the lineal descendant of Filelfo and Poliziano. [Footnote 332: The most curious of these elegiac poems are given in _Carmina Quinque Illustrium Poetarum_, p. 234. It is possible that their language ought not to be taken literally, and that they concealed a joke now lost.] [Footnote 333: Poliziano's letter to Matthias Corvinus is a good example of his self-laudation.] It must be allowed that to overpraise Lorenzo from a scholar's point of view would have been difficult, while the affection that bound the student to his patron was genuine. Poliziano, who watched Lorenzo in his last moments, described the scene of his death in a letter marked by touching sorrow which he addressed to Antiquari, and proved by the Latin monody which he composed and left unfinished, that grief for his dead master could inspire his muse with loftier strains than any expectation of future favours while he lived had done. Two years after Lorenzo's death Poliziano died himself, dishonoured and suspected by the Piagnoni. Savonarola had swept the Carnival chariots and masks and gimcracks of Lorenzo's holiday reign into the dust-heap. Instead of _rispetti_ and _ballate_, the refrain of Misereres filled the city, and the Dominican's prophecy of blood and ruin drowned with its thundrous reverberations the scholarlike disquisitions of Greek professors. Poliziano's lament for Lorenzo was therefore, as it were, a prophecy of his own fate: Quis dabit capiti meo Aquam? quis oculis meis Fontem lachrymarum dabit? Ut nocte fleam, Ut luce fleam. Sic turtur viduus solet, Sic cygnus moriens solet, Sic luscinia conqueri. 'Oh that my head were waters and mine eyes a fountain of tears, that I might weep day and night! So mourns the widowed turtle dove; so mourns the dying swan; so mourns the nightingale.' Into these passionate words of wailing, unique in the literature of humanism by their form alike and feeling, breaks the threnody of the abandoned scholar. 'Ah, woe! Ah, woe is me! O grief! O grief! Lightning hath struck our laurel tree, our laurel dear to all the Muses and the dances of the Nymphs, beneath whose spreading boughs the God of Song himself more sweetly harped and sang. Now all around is dumb; now all is mute, and there is none to hear. Oh that my head were waters, and mine eyes a fountain of tears!' This at least of grace the gods allowed Poliziano, that he should die in the same year as his friend Pico della Mirandola, a few weeks before the deluge prophesied by Savonarola burst over Italy. Upon his tomb in S. Marco a burlesque epitaph was inscribed-- Politianus in hoc tumulo jacet Angelus unum qui caput et linguas res nova tres habuit. Obiit an. MCCCCLXXXXIV Sep. XXIV. Ætatis XL.[334] [Footnote 334: 'Poliziano lies in this grave, the angel who had one head and, what is new, three tongues. He died September 24, 1494, aged 40.'] Bembo, who succeeded him in the dictatorship of Italian letters, composed a not unworthy elegy upon the man whom he justly apostrophised as 'Poliziano, master of the Ausonian lyre.' The fortunes of Roman scholarship kept varying with the personal tastes of each successive Pope. Calixtus III. differed wholly from his predecessor, Nicholas V. Learned in theology and mediæval science, he was dead to the interests of humanistic literature. Vespasiano assures us that, when he entered the Vatican library and saw its Greek and Latin authors in their red and silver bindings, instead of praising the munificence of Nicholas, he exclaimed, 'Vedi in che egli ha consumato la robba della Chiesa di Dio!'[335] Æneas Sylvius Piccolomini ranked high among the humanists. As an orator, courtier, state secretary, and man of letters, he shared the general qualities of the class to which he belonged. While a fellow-student of Beccadelli at Siena, he freely enjoyed the pleasures of youth, and thought it no harm to compose novels in the style of Longus and Achilles Tatius. These stories, together with his familiar letters, histories, cosmographical treatises, rhetorical disquisitions, apophthegms, and commentaries, written in a fluent and picturesque Latin style, distinguished him for wit and talent from the merely laborious students of his age.[336] A change, however, came over him when he assumed the title of Pius II. with the tiara.[337] Learning in Italy owed but little to his patronage, and though he strengthened the position of the humanists at Rome by founding the College of Abbreviators, he was more eager to defend Christendom against the Turk than to make his See the capital of culture. For this it would be narrow-minded to blame Pius. The experience of European politics had extended his view beyond the narrower circle of Italian interests; and there is something noble as well as piteous in his attempt to lead the forlorn hope of a cosmopolitan cause. Paul II. was chiefly famous for his persecution of the Roman Platonists;[338] and Sixtus IV., though he deserves to be remembered as the Pontiff who opened the Vatican library to the public, plays no prominent part in the history of scholarship. Tiraboschi may be consulted for his refusal to pay the professors of the Roman Sapienza. Of Innocent VIII. nothing need be said; nor will any student of history expect to find it recorded that Alexander VI. wasted money on the patronage of learning. To the Borgia, indeed, the world owes that curse of Catholicism, that continued crime of high treason against truth and liberal culture, the subjection of the press to ecclesiastical control. [Footnote 335: 'Behold whereon he spent the substance of the Church of God!' Vespasiano adds that he gave away several hundred volumes to one of the cardinals, whose servants sold them for an old song. Vesp. p. 216. Assemani, the historian of the Vatican Library, on the contrary, asserts that Calixtus spent 40,000 ducats on books. It is not likely, however, that Vespasiano was wholly in error about a matter he understood so well, and had so much at heart.] [Footnote 336: See the Basle edition of his collected works, 1571.] [Footnote 337: See Vol. I., _Age of the Despots_, p. 299.] [Footnote 338: Vol. I., _Age of the Despots_, pp. 302-303.] Under these Popes humanism had to flourish, as it best could, in the society of private individuals. Accordingly, we find the Roman scholars forming among themselves academies and learned circles. Of these the most eminent took its name from its founder, Julius Pomponius Lætus. He was a bastard of the princely House of the Sanseverini, to whom, when he became famous and they were anxious for his friendship, he penned the celebrated epistle: '_Pomponius Lætus cognatis et propinquis suis salutem. Quod petitis fieri non potest. Valete._'[339] Pomponius derived his scholarship from Valla, and devoted all his energies to Latin literature, refusing, it is even said, to learn Greek, lest it should distract him from his favourite studies. He made it the object of his most serious endeavours not only to restore a knowledge of the ancients, but also to assimilate his life and manners to their standard. Men praised in him a second Cato for sobriety of conduct, frugal diet, and rural industry. He tilled his own ground after the methods of Varro and Columella, went a-fishing and a-fowling on holidays, and ate his sparing meal like a Roman Stoic beneath the spreading branches of an oak on the Campagna. The grand mansions of the prelates had no attractions for him. He preferred his own modest house upon the Esquiline, his garden on the Quirinal. It was here that his favourite scholars conversed with him at leisure; and to these retreats of the philosopher came strangers of importance, eager to behold a Roman living in all points like an antique sage. The high school of Rome owed much to his indefatigable industry. Through a long series of years he lectured upon the chief Latin authors, examining their text with critical accuracy, and preparing new editions of their works. Before daybreak he would light his lantern, take his staff, and wend his way from the Esquiline to the lecture-room, where, however early the hour and however inclement the season, he was sure to find an overflowing audience. Yet it was not as a professor that Pomponius Lætus acquired his great celebrity, and left a lasting impress on the society of Rome. This he did by forming an academy for the avowed purpose of prosecuting the study of Latin antiquities and promoting the adoption of antique customs into modern life. The members assumed classical names, exchanging their Italian patronymics for fancy titles like Callimachus Experiens, Asclepiades, Glaucus, Volscus, and Petrejus. They yearly kept the birthday feast of Rome, celebrating the Palilia with Pagan solemnities, playing comedies of Plautus, and striving to revive the humours of the old Atellan farces. Of this circle Pontanus and Sannazzaro, Platina, Sabellicus and Molza, Janus Parrhasius, and the future Paul III. were proud to call themselves the members. It is only from the language in which such men refer to Lætus that we gain a due notion of his influence; for he left but little behind him as an author, and used himself to boast that, like Socrates and Christ, he hoped to be remembered through his pupils. In the year 1468 this Roman academy acquired fresh celebrity by the persecution of Paul II., who partly suspected a political object in its meetings, and partly resented the open heathenism of its leaders. I need not here repeat the tale of his crusade against the scholars. It is enough to mention that Lætus was imprisoned for a short while, and that in prison he wrote an apology for his life, defending himself against a charge of misplaced passion for a young Venetian pupil, and professing the sincerity of his belief in Christianity. After his release from the Castle of S. Angelo he was obliged to discontinue the meetings of his academy, which were not resumed until the reign of Sixtus. Pomponius Lætus lived on into the Papacy of Alexander, and died in 1498 at the age of seventy. His corpse was crowned with a laurel wreath in the Church of Araceli. Forty bishops, together with the foreign ambassadors in Rome and the representatives of the Borgia, who were specially deputed for that purpose, witnessed the ceremony and listened to the funeral oration. Lætus had desired that his body should be placed in a sarcophagus upon the Appian Way. This wish was not complied with. He was conveyed from Araceli to S. Salvatore in Lauro, and there buried like a Christian. [Footnote 339: 'P.L. to his kinsmen and relatives, greeting. What you ask cannot be. Farewell.'] While the academy of Pomponius Lætus flourished at Rome, that of Naples was no less active under the presidency of Jovianus Pontanus. It appears to have originated in social gatherings assembled by Beccadelli, and to have held its meetings in a building called after its founder the _Porticus Antonianus_. When death had broken up the brilliant circle surrounding Alfonso the Magnanimous, Pontanus assumed the leadership of learned men in Naples, and gave the formality of a club to what had previously been a mere reunion of cultivated scholars. The members Latinised their names; many of them became better known by their assumed titles than by their Italian cognomens. Sannazzaro, for instance, acquired a wide celebrity as Accius Syncerus. Pontanus was himself a native of Cereto in the Spoletano. Born in 1426, he settled in his early manhood at Naples, where Beccadelli introduced him to his royal patrons. During the reigns of Ferdinand I., Alfonso II., and Ferdinand II. Pontanus held the post of secretary, tutor, and ambassador, accompanying his masters on their military expeditions and negotiating their affairs at the Papal Court. When Charles VIII. entered Naples as a conqueror, Pontanus greeted him with a panegyrical oration, proving himself more courtly and self-seeking than loyal to the princes he had served so long. Guicciardini observes that this act of ingratitude stained the fair fame of Pontanus. Yet it may be pleaded in his defence that no moralist of the period had more boldly denounced the crimes and vices of Italian princes; and it is possible that Pontanus really hoped Charles might inaugurate a better age for Naples. He was distinguished among the scholars of his time for the purity of his Latin style; to him belongs the merit of having written verse that might compete with good models of antiquity. His hexameters on stars and meteors, called 'Urania,' won the enthusiastic praise of his own generation, and subsequently served as model to Fracastoro for his own didactic poem. His amatory elegiacs have an exuberance of colouring and sensuous force of phrase that seem peculiarly appropriate to the Bay of Naples, where they were inspired. As a prose-writer it is particularly by his moral treatises that Pontanus deserves to be remembered. Unlike the mass of contemporary dialogues on ethical subjects, they abound in illustrations drawn from recent history, so that even now they may be advantageously consulted by students anxious to gather characteristic details and to form a just opinion of Renaissance morality. Throughout his writings Pontanus shows himself to have been an original and vigorous thinker, a complete master of Latin scholarship, unwilling to abide contented with bare imitation, and bent upon expressing the facts of modern life, the actualities of personal emotion, in a style of accurate Latinity. When he died in 1503, he left at Naples one of the most flourishing schools of neopagan poets to be found in Italy; Lilius Gyraldus employs the old metaphor of the Trojan horse to describe the number and the vigour of the scholars who issued from it. In the Church of Monte Oliveto at Naples there may be seen a group in terra cotta painted to imitate life. Alfonso II., Pontanus, and Sannazzaro are kneeling in adoration before the body of the dead Christ. Pontanus, who represents Nicodemus, is a stern, hard-featured, long-faced man, of powerful bone and fibrous sinews, built for serious labour in the study or the field. Sannazzaro, who stands for Joseph of Arimathea, is bald, fat-faced, with bushy eyebrows and a heavy cast of countenance. The physical characteristics of these men and their act of faith are in curious contradiction with the conception we form of them after reading the 'Elegies' and the 'Arcadia.' The Roman Academy of Pomponius Læetus and the Neapolitan Academy of Pontanus continued to exist after the death of their founders, while similar institutions sprang up in every town of Italy. To speak of these in detail would be quite impossible. With the commencement of the sixteenth century they lost their classical character, and assumed fantastic Italian titles. Thus the Roman coterie of wits and scholars called itself _I Vignaiuoli_. The members, among whom were Berni, La Casa, Firenzuola, Mauro, Molza, assumed titles like _L'Agreste_, _Il Mosto_, _Il Cotogno_, and so forth. The Cardinal Ippolito de' Medici founded a club in Rome for the study of Vitruvius. It met twice in the week, and was known as _Le Virtù_. At Bologna the _Viridario_ devoted its energies to the correction of printed texts; the _Sitibondi_ studied law, the _Desti_ cultivated extinct chivalry. Besides these, the one town of Bologna produced _Sonnacchiosi_, _Oziosi_, _Desiosi_, _Storditi_, _Confusi_, _Politici_, _Instabili_, _Gelati_, _Umorosi_. As the century advanced, academies multiplied in Italy, and their titles became more absurd. Ravenna had its _Informi_, Faenza its _Smarriti_, Macerata its _Catenati_, Fabriano its _Disuniti_, Perugia its _Insensati_, Urbino its _Assorditi_, Naples its _Sereni_, _Ardenti_, and _Incogniti_--and so on _ad infinitum_. At Florence the Platonic Academy continued to flourish under the auspices of the Rucellai family, in whose gardens assembled the company described by Filippo de' Nerli,[340] until the year 1522, when it was suppressed on the occasion of the conspiracy against Giulio de' Medici. Duke Cosimo revived it under the name of the Florentine Academy in 1540, when its labours were wholly devoted to Petrarch and the Italian language. In 1572 appeared the famous academy called _Della Crusca_, the only one among these later societies which acquired an European reputation. [Footnote 340: See Vol. I., _Age of the Despots_, p. 220, note.] Those who are curious to follow the history of the academies, may be referred to the comprehensive notices of Tiraboschi. From the date of their Italianisation they cease to belong to the history of humanism; what justifies the mention of them here is the fact that they owed their first existence to the scholars of the third period. The worst faults of Italian erudition--pedantry and stylistic affectations--were perpetuated by coteries worshipping Petrarch and peddling with the idlest of all literary problems, where so great a writer as Annibale Caro thought it in good taste to write a dissertation on the nose of a president, and where the industry of sensible men was absorbed in the concoction of sonnets by the myriad and childish puns on their own titles. During the following age of political stagnation and ecclesiastical oppression the academies were the playthings of a nation fast degenerating into intellectual hebetude. Not without amazement do we read the eulogies pronounced by Milton on the 'learned and affable meeting of frequent academies, and the procurement of wise and artful recitations, sweetened with eloquent and graceful incitements to the love and practice of justice, temperance, and fortitude.' What he had observed with admiration in Italy, he would fain have seen imitated in England, undeterred apparently by the impotence and sterility of academic dissertations.[341] [Footnote 341: See the _Reason of Church Government urged against Prelaty_, and the _Ready and Easy Way to Establish a Free Commonwealth_.] It remains to speak of the establishment of printing in Italy, an event no less important for the preservation and diffusion of classical learning than the previous discovery of MSS. had been indispensable for its revival. What has to be said about the erudite society of Venice may appropriately be introduced in this connection; while the final honours of the third period will be seen to belong of right to one of Italy's most noble-minded scholars, Aldus Manutius. In 1462 Adolph of Nassau pillaged Maintz and dispersed its printers over Europe. Three years later two Germans, by name Sweynheim and Pannartz, who had worked under Fust, set up a press in Subbiaco, a little village of the Sabine mountains. Here, in October 1465, the first edition of Lactantius saw the light. The German printers soon afterwards removed from Subbiaco, and settled, under the protection of the Massimi, in Rome, where they continued to issue Latin authors from their press.[342] In 1646 John of Spires established himself at Venice. He was soon afterwards joined by his brother Vindelino (so the Italians write the name) and by Nicholas Jenson, the Frenchman. Florence had no press till 1471, when Bernardo Cennini printed the commentary of Servius on Virgil's 'Bucolics.' The 'Georgics' and 'Æneid' appeared in the following year. To Cennini, however, belongs the honour of having been the first Italian to cast his own type. Like many other illustrious artificers, he was by trade a goldsmith; in his address to the reader he styles himself _aurifex omnium judicio præstantissimus_, adding, with reference to the typography, _expressis ante calide caracteribus ac deinde fusis literis volumen hoc primum impresserunt_. The last sentence of the address should also be quoted: _Florentinis ingeniis nil ardui est_. Other printers opened workshops in Florence within the course of a few years--John of Maintz in 1472, Nicholas of Breslau in 1477, Antonio Miscomini in 1481, and Lorenzo Alopa of Venice, who gave Homer with Greek type to the world in 1488. Still, Florence had been anticipated by many other cities; for when once the new art took root in Italy, it spread like wild fire. Omitting smaller places from the calculation, it has been reckoned that, before the year 1500, 4,987 books were printed in Italy, of which 298 are claimed by Bologna, 300 by Florence, 629 by Milan, 929 by Rome, and 2,835 by Venice. The disproportion between the activity of Florence and of Venice in the book trade deserves to be noticed, though how it should be explained I hardly know. Fifty towns and numbers of insignificant burghs--Pinerolo, Savona, Pieve di Sacco, Cividale, Soncino, Chivasso, Scandiano, for example--could boast of local presses. Ambulant printers established their machinery for half a year or so in a remote village, printed what came to hand there, and moved on. [Footnote 342: From a memorial presented by these printers to Sixtus IV. in 1472 we ascertain some facts about their industry. They had at that date printed in all 12,495 volumes. It was their custom to issue 265 copies each edition; the double of that number for Virgil, Cicero's separate works, and theological books in request. Cantù, _Lett. It._ p. 112. See Cantù, p. 110, for details of the earliest Latin books.] While scholars rejoiced in the art that, to quote the word of one of them, 'had saved the labour of their aching joints,' the copyists complained that their occupation would be taken from them. The whistle of the locomotive at the beginning of this century was not more afflicting to stage-coachmen than the creaking of the wooden printing press to those poor scribes. Yet, however quickly a labour-saving invention may spread, there is generally time for the superseded industry to die an easy death, and for artisans to find employment in the new trade. Vespasiano, who during twenty-six years survived the first book printed in Florence, could even afford to despise the press.[343] The great nobles, on whose patronage he depended, did not suddenly transfer their custom from the scribe to the compositor; nor was it to be expected that so essentially a democratic art as printing should find immediate favour with the aristocracy. A prince with a library of MSS. worth 40,000 ducats hated the machine that put an equal number of more readable volumes within the reach of moderate competency. Moreover, a certain suspicion of subversiveness and license clung about the press. This was to some extent justified by fact, since the press was destined to be the most formidable engine of the modern reason. Ecclesiastics, again, questioned whether the promiscuous multiplication of books were pious; and Alexander VI. stretched his hand out to coerce the printer's devil. To check the spread of printing would, however, have overtaxed the powers of any human tyranny. All that the Church could do was to place its productions under episcopal control. [Footnote 343: See above, p. 220.] Though the copyists of MSS. were thrown out of work by the printing press, it gave important stimulus to other industries in Italy. The paper mills of Fabriano and of Colle in the Val d'Elsa became valuable properties;[344] compositors and readers began to form a separate class of artisans, while needy scholars found a market for their talents in the houses of the publishers. When we consider the amount of literary work that had to be performed before Greek, Latin, and Hebrew texts could be prepared for the press, the difficulty of procuring correct copies of authoritative codices, and the scrupulous attention expended upon proof sheets, we are able to understand that men who lived by learning found the new art profitable. [Footnote 344: It is supposed that the earliest paper factory established in Italy was at Fabriano. Colle, a little town near Volterra, made paper from a remote period; by a deed, dated March 6, 1377, now preserved in the Florentine Archivio Diplomatico, one Colo da Colle rented a fall of water there _et gualcheriam ad faciendas cartas_ for twenty years. Both places are still celebrated for their paper mills.] Instead of having previous editions to work upon, the publishers were obliged, in the first instance, to collect MSS. For this purpose they either travelled themselves from city to city, or employed competent amanuenses. Next, it was necessary to study the philosophers, poets, historians, mathematicians, and mystics, whose works they intended to print, in order that no mistake in the sense of the words should be made. Orthography and punctuation had to be fixed; and between many readings only one could be adopted. Giving a first edition to the world involved far more anxiety on these points than the reproduction of a book already often printed. No one man could accomplish such tasks alone. Therefore we find that scores of learned men were associated together for the purpose, living under the same roof, revising the copy for the compositor, overlooking the men at work, reading the text aloud, and correcting the proofs with a vigilance that is but little needed nowadays. All this labour, moreover, was accomplished without the aid of grammars, lexicons, and other aids. Truly we may say without exaggeration that the Aldi of Venice and the Stephani of Paris are more worthy of commemoration for services rendered through scholarship to humanity than those modern castigators of ancient texts, the Porsons and the Lachmanns, whose names are on every lip. The enthusiasm of discovery, and the rich field for original industry offered to those early editors, may be reckoned as compensation for their otherwise overwhelming toil. Teobaldo Mannucci, better known as Aldo Manuzio, was born in 1450 at Sermoneta, near Velletri. After residing as a client in the princely house of Carpi, he added the name Pio to his patronymic, and signed his publications with the full description, _Aldus Pius Manutius Romanus et Philhellen_, [Greek: Aldos ho Manoutios Rômaios kai Philellên]. He studied Latin at Rome under Gasparino da Verona, and Greek at Ferrara under Guarino da Verona, to whom he dedicated his Theocritus in 1495. Having qualified himself for undertaking the work of tutor or professor, according to the custom of the century, and having made friends with many of the principal Italian scholars, he went in 1482 to reside at Mirandola with his old friend and fellow student, Giovanni Pico. There he stayed two years, enjoying the society of the Phoenix of his age, and continuing his Greek studies in concert with Emmanuel Adramyttenos, a learned Cretan. Before Pico removed to Florence he procured for Aldo the post of tutor to his nephews Alberto and Lionello Pio. Carpi had owned the family of Pio for its masters since the thirteenth century, when they rose to power, like many of the Lombard nobles, by adroit use of Imperial privileges.[345] This little city, placed midway between Correggio, Mirandola, and Modena, is so insignificant that its name has been omitted from the index to Murray's handbook; nor is there indeed much but the memory of Aldo and Alberto Pio, and a church built by Baldassare Peruzzi, to recommend it to the notice of a traveller. Under the tuition of Aldo the two young princes became excellent scholars. Alberto in particular proved, by his aptitude for philosophical studies, that he had inherited from his mother, the sister of Giovanni Pico, something of the spirit of Mirandola. When Aldus published his great edition of Aristotle, he inscribed it to his former pupil with a Greek dedication, in which he styled him [Greek: tô tôn ontôn erastê]. There can be no doubt that Alberto's knowledge of Greek language and philosophy was far more thorough than that of many more belauded princes of the age. Yet he had but little opportunity for the quiet prosecution of classical studies, or for the patronage of learned men at Carpi. Driven from his patrimony by the Imperialists, he died at Paris in 1530, after a life spent in foreign service and diplomatic offices of trust. The bronze monument for his tomb may still be seen[346] in the Gallery of the Louvre. The princely scholar, clad in rich Renaissance armour, is reclining with his head supported by his right hand; the left holds an open book. The attitude of melancholy meditation, the ornamental but useless cuirass, and the volume open while the scabbard of the sword is shut, add to the portrait of this prince in exile the value of an allegory. Such symbols suited the genius of Italy during the age of foreign invaders. [Footnote 345: Sansovino, in his _Famiglie Illustri_, after giving a fabulous pedigree of the Pio family, dates their signorial importance from the reign of Frederick II.] [Footnote 346: Executed for the Church of the Cordeliers by Paulus Pontius.] To Alberto Pio the world owes a debt of gratitude, inasmuch as he supplied Aldo with the funds necessary for starting his printing press, and gave him lands at Carpi, where his family were educated. When Aldo conceived the ambitious project of printing the whole literature of Greece, four Italian towns could already claim the honours of Greek publications. Milan takes the lead. In 1476 the Grammar of Lascaris was printed there by Dionysius Paravisini, with the aid of Demetrius of Crete.[347] In 1480 Esop and Theocritus appeared, with no publisher's name. In 1486 two Cretans, Alexander and Laonicenus, edited a Greek psalter. In 1493 Isocrates, prepared by Demetrius Chalcondylas, was issued by Henry the German and Sebastian of Pontremolo. Next comes Venice, where, as early as 1484, the 'Erotemata' of Chrysoloras had been produced by a certain Peregrinus Bononiensis. Vicenza followed in 1488 with a reprint of Lascaris's Grammar due to Leonard Achates of Basle, and in 1490 with a reprint of the 'Erotemata.' Florence, as we have already seen, gave Homer to the world in 1488. Demetrius Chalcondylas revised the text; Demetrius the Cretan supplied the models for the types; Alopa of Venice was the publisher. It will be remarked that, with the exception of Homer and Theocritus, no true classic of the first magnitude had appeared before the foundation of the Aldine Press. I may also add that the Milanese Isocrates was really contemporaneous with the Musæus, Galeomyomachia, and Psalter issued by Aldo as precursors of his Greek library--[Greek: Prodromoi tês Hellênikês bibliothêkês]. This fact makes his thirty-three first editions of all the greatest and most voluminous Greek authors between 1494 and 1515 all the more remarkable. [Footnote 347: Poliziano's epigram addressed to these earliest Greek printers may be quoted here: Qui colis Aonidas, Grajos quoque volve libellos; Namque illas genuit Græcia, non Latium. En Paravisinus quantâ hos Dionysius arte Imprimit, en quanto cernitis ingenio! Te quoque, Demetri, ponto circumsona Crete Tanti operis nobis edidit artificem. Turce, quid insultas? tu Græca volumina perdis; Hi pariunt: hydræ nunc age colla seca!] It was at Carpi in 1490 that Aldo finally matured his project of establishing a Greek press. His patrons desired him to found it in their castle of Novi; but Aldo judged rightly that at Venice he would be more secure from the disturbances of warfare, as well as more conveniently situated for engaging the assistance of Greek scholars and compositors. Accordingly, he took a house, and settled near S. Agostino. This house speedily became a Greek colony. It may be inferred from Aldo's directions to the printers that his trade was carried on almost entirely by Greeks, and that Greek was the language of his household. The instructions to the binders as to the order of the sheets and mode of stitching were given in Greek; and many curious Greek phrases appear to have sprung up to meet the exigencies of the new industry. Thus we find [Greek: hina hellênisti syndethêsetai] for 'Greek stitching,' and [Greek: kattiterinê cheiri] for 'the type;' while Aldo himself is described as [Greek: epheuretê toutôn grammatôn charaktêros hôs eirêtai]. The prefaces, almost always composed in Greek, prove that this language was read currently in Italy, since Aldo relied on numerous purchasers of his large and costly issues. The Greek type, for the casting of which he provided machinery in his own house, was formed upon the model supplied by Marcus Musurus, a Cretan, who had taken Latin orders and settled at Carpi, and from whom Aldo received important assistance in the preparation of editions for the press. The compositors, in like manner, were mostly Cretans. We hear of one of them, by name Aristoboulos Apostolios, while John Gregoropoulos, another Cretan, the brother-in-law of Musurus, performed the part of reader. The ink used by Aldo was made in his own house, where he had, besides, a subordinate establishment for binding. The paper, excelled by none that has been since produced, came from the mills of Fabriano. It may easily be imagined that this beehive of Greek industry often numbered over thirty persons, not including the craftsmen employed in lesser offices by the day. The superintendence of this large establishment, added to the anxieties attending the production of so many books as yet not edited, sorely taxed the health and powers of Aldo. For years together he seems to have had no minute he could call his own. Continual demands were made by visitors and strangers upon his hours of leisure; and in order to secure time for the conduct of his business, he was forced to placard his door with a prohibitory notice.[348] Besides the more ordinary interruptions, to which every man of eminence is subjected, he had to struggle with peculiar difficulties due to the novelty of his undertaking. The prefaces to many of his publications contain allusions to strikes among his workmen,[349] to the piracies of rival booksellers,[350] to the difficulty of procuring authentic MSS.,[351] and to the interruptions caused by war. Twice was the work of printing suspended, first in 1506, and then again in 1510. For two whole years at the latter period the industries of Venice were paralysed by the allied forces of the League of Cambray. The dedication of the first edition of Plato, 1513, to Leo X. concludes with a prayer, splendid in the earnestness and simplicity of its eloquence, wherein Aldo compares the miseries of warfare and the woes of Italy with the sublime and peaceful objects of the student. All the terrible experiences of that wasteful campaign, from the effects of which the Republic of Venice never wholly recovered, seem to find expression in the passionate but reverent, address of the great printer to the scholar Pope. For two years previously the press of Aldo had been idle, while the French were deluging Brescia with blood, and the plains of Ravenna were heaped with dead Italians, Spaniards, Gauls, and Germans, met in passionate but fruitless conflict by the Ronco. Now, from the midst of her desolated palaces and silenced lagoons, Venice stretched forth to Europe the peace-gift of Plato. The student who had toiled to make it perfect, appealed before Christ and His vicar, from the arms that brutalise to the arts that humanise the nations. [Footnote 348: See Didot's _Alde Manuce_, p. 417, the passage beginning 'Vix credas.' In the Latin preface to the _Thesaurus Cornucopiæ et Horti Adonidis_, 1495, Aldo complains that he has not been able to rest for one hour during seven years.] [Footnote 349: 'Tot illico oborta sunt impedimenta malorumque invidiâ et domesticorum [Greek: kai tais tôn kataratôn kai drapeteuontôn doulôn epiboulais].' Preface to the _Poetæ Christiani Veteres_, 1501. Again in the 'monitum' of the same, 'quater jam in ædibus nostris ab operariis et stipendiariis in me conspiratum et duce malorum omnium matre avaritiâ quos Deo adjuvante sic fregi ut valde omnes poeniteat suæ perfidiæ.'] [Footnote 350: The French publishers of Lyons, the Giunti of Rome, and Soncino of Fano, were particularly troublesome. Didot has extracted some curious information about their tricks as well as Aldo's exposure of them. Pp. 167, 482-486.] [Footnote 351: See especially the preface to Aristotle, vol. i. 1495; vol. v. 1498.] In the midst of these occupations, disappointments, and distractions, Aldo, sustained by the enthusiasm of his great undertaking, never flagged. Some of his prefaces, after setting forth the impediments he had to combat, burst into a cry of triumph. What joy, he exclaims, it is to see these volumes of the ancients rescued from book-buriers ([Greek: bibliotaphoi]) and given freely to the world![352] No man could have been more generously anxious than he was to serve the cause of scholarship by the widest possible diffusion of books at a moderate price. No artist was ever more scrupulously bent on giving the best possible form, the utmost accuracy, to every detail of his work. When we consider the beauty of the Aldine volumes, and the critical excellence of their texts, we may fairly be astonished at their prices. The Musæus was sold for something under one shilling of our money, the Theocritus for something under two shillings. The five volumes which contained the whole of Aristotle, might be purchased for a sum not certainly exceeding 8_l._ Each volume of the pocket series, headed in 1501 by the 8vo. Virgil, and comprising Greek, Latin, and Italian authors, fetched about two shillings. For this library the celebrated Italic type, known as Aldine, was adapted from the handwriting of Petrarch, and cut by Francesco da Bologna.[353] It appears that, as his trade increased, Aldo formed a company, who shared the risks and profits of the business.[354] Yet the expenses of publishing were so heavy, the insecurity of the book market so great, and the privileges of copyright granted by the Pope or the Venetian Senate so imperfect,[355] that Aldo, after giving his life to this work, and bequeathing to the world Greek literature, died comparatively poor. Erasmus, always somewhat snarling, accused him of avarice; yet it was his liberality to his collaborators, his openhandedness in buying the expensive apparatus for critical editions, that forced him to be economical. [Footnote 352: See Preface to _Thesaurus Cornucopiæ_, quoted by Didot, p. 80; and cf. pp. 210, 221, 521, for further hints about selfish bibliomaniacs, who tried to hoard their treasures from the public and refused them to the press. Aldo, as a genuine lover of free learning, and also as a publisher, detests this class of men.] [Footnote 353: See Pannizzi's tract on 'Francesco da Bologna,' published by Pickering, 1873. He was probably Francia the painter.] [Footnote 354: In a letter to Marcello Virgilio Adriani, the teacher of Machiavelli, he mentions some books 'Cum aliis quibusdam communes,' as distinguished from others which were his private property. Didot, p. 233.] [Footnote 355: On the subject of patents, privileges, and monopolies see Didot, pp. 79, 166, 189, 371, 479-481.] The first editions of Greek books published by Aldo deserve to be separately noticed. In 1493, or earlier, appeared the 'Hero and Leander' of Musæus, a poem that passed, in that uncritical age, for the work of Homer's mythical predecessor.[356] In 1495 the first volume of Aristotle saw the light, accompanied by numerous Greek epigrams and a Greek letter of Scipione Fortiguerra, who deplores in it the deaths of Pico, Poliziano, and Ermolao Barbaro. The remaining four volumes followed in 1497 and 1498. In the latter of these years Aldo, aided by his friend Musurus, produced nine comedies of Aristophanes; the MSS. of the 'Lysistrata' and 'Thesmophoriazusæ' were afterwards discovered at Urbino, and published by Giunta in 1515. In 1502, Thucydides, Sophocles, and Herodotus appeared, followed in 1503 by Xenophon's 'Hellenics' and Euripides,[357] and in 1504 by Demosthenes. After this occurs a lull, occasioned in part by the disturbances ensuing on the League of Blois. In 1508 the list is recontinued with the Greek orators; while 1509 has to show the minor works of Plutarch. Then follows another stoppage due to war. In 1513 Plato was published, and in 1514 Pindar, Hesychius, and Athenæus. [Footnote 356: [Greek: Mousaion ton palaiotaton poiêtên êthelêsa prooimiazein tô te Aristotelei kai tôn sophôn tois heterois autika di' emou entypêsomenois]. This [Greek: prodromos], or precursor, appeared without a date; but it must have come out earlier than 1494.] [Footnote 357: John Lascaris had edited four plays of Euripides for Alopa in 1496. This Aldine edition contained eighteen, one of which, the _Hercules Furens_, turned up while vol. ii. was in the press. The _Electra_, not discovered till later on, was printed at Rome, 1545.] From the preceding account I have omitted the notice of minor editions as well as reprints. In order to complete the history of the Aldine issue of Greek books, it should be mentioned that Aldo's successors continued his work by giving Pausanias, Strabo, Æschylus, Galen, Hippocrates, and Longinus to the world; so that when the Estiennes of Paris came to glean in the field of the Italian publishers, they only found Anacreon, Maximus Tyrius, and Diodorus Siculus as yet unedited. We must not forget that, while the Greek authors were being printed thus assiduously by Aldo, he continued to send forth Latin and Italian publications from his press. Thus we find that the 'Etna' and the 'Asolani' of Bembo, the collected writings of Poliziano, the 'Hypnerotomachia Poliphili,' the 'Divine Comedy,' the 'Cose Volgari' of Petrarch, the 'Poetæ Christiani Veteres,' including Prudentius, the poems of Pontanus, the letters of the younger Pliny, the 'Arcadia' of Sannazzaro, Quintilian, Valerius Maximus, and the 'Adagia' of Erasmus were printed, either in first editions or with a beauty of type and paper never reached before, between the years 1495 and 1514. The great Dutch scholar who made an epoch in the history of learning, and transferred the sovereignty of letters to the north of Europe, paid a visit in 1508 to the house of Aldo, where he personally superintended the re-impression of his 'Proverbs.'[358] We have a lively picture of the printing of this celebrated book in Aldo's workshop. 'Together we attacked the work,' says Erasmus, 'I writing, while Aldo gave my copy to the press.' In one corner of the room sat the scholar at his desk, with the thin keen face so well portrayed by Holbein, improvising new paragraphs, and making additions to his previous collections in the brilliant Latin style that no one else could write. Aldo took the MS. from his hand, and passed it on to the compositors, revising the proofs as they came fresh from the press, or conferring with his reader Seraphinus.[359] Erasmus had already gained the reputation of a dangerous freethinker and opponent to the Church. As years advanced, and the Reformation spread in Northern Europe, he became more and more odious to ecclesiastical authority. The spirit of revolt was incarnate in this Voltaire of the sixteenth century, nor could the clergy raise other arms than those of persecution against so radiant a champion of pure reason. All reprints of the 'Adagia' were therefore forbidden by the bishops. Paulus Manutius had to quote it on his catalogues as the work of _Batavus quidam homo_. To such an extent were liberal studies now gagged and downtrodden by the tyrants of the Counter-Reformation in that Italy which for two previous centuries had been the champion of free culture for Europe. [Footnote 358: The _Adagia_ were first printed in 1500 at Paris by John Philippi. After the Aldine edition eleven were issued between 1509 and 1520 by Matthew Schürer, ten by Froben between 1513 and 1539, while seven or eight others appeared in various parts of Germany.] [Footnote 359: See the passage quoted by Didot, pp. 297-299.] Before concluding the biography of Aldo Manuzio it may be well to give some account of the more illustrious assistants and collaborators whom he gathered around him in his academy at Venice.[360] The New Academy, or Aldine Academy of Hellenists, was founded in 1500 for the special purpose of promoting Greek studies and furthering the publication of Greek authors. Its rules were written in Greek; the members were obliged to speak Greek; their official titles were Greek; and their names were Grecised. Thus Scipione Fortiguerra, of Pistoja, who prepared the text of Demosthenes for Aldo, styled himself Carteromachos: and Alessandro Bondini, the Venetian physician who worked upon the edition of Aristotle, bore the name of Agathemeros.[361] The most distinguished Greeks at that time resident in Italy could be counted among the Neacademicians. John Lascaris, of Imperial blood, the teacher of Hellenism in France under three kings, was an honorary member. To this great scholar Aldo dedicated his first edition of Sophocles. Marcus Musurus occupied a post of more practical importance.[362] We have seen that his handwriting formed the model of Aldo's Greek type. To his scholarship the editions of Aristophanes, Plato, Pindar, Hesychius, Athenæus, and Pausanias owed their critical accuracy; while, in concert with Nicolaos Blastos and Zacharias Calliergi, two Cretan printers settled in Venice, he published the first Latin and Greek lexicon.[363] It will be observed that the Cretans play a prominent part in this Venetian revival of Greek learning. Aristoboulos Apostolios, Joannes Gregoropoulos, Joannes Rhosos, and Demetrius Doucas, all of them natives of Crete, were members of the Neacademy. The first as a compositor, the second as a reader, the third as a scribe, the fourth as editor of the Greek Orators, rendered Aldo effective assistance. Among Italians, Pietro Bembo, Aleander, and Alberto Pio occupied positions of honorary distinction rather than of active industry. Those who worked in earnest for the Aldine press were chiefly Venetians. Girolamo Avanzi, professor of philosophy at Padua, revised the texts of Catullus, Seneca, and Ausonius. Andrea Navagero, the noble Venetian poet, corrected Lucretius, Ovid, Terence, Quintilian, Horace, and Virgil. Giambattista Egnazio performed the same service for Valerius Maximus, the Letters of Pliny, Lactantius, Tertullian, Aulus Gellius, and other Latin authors. To mention all the eminent Venetians who played their part in this Academy would be tedious; yet the two names of Marino Sanudo, the famous diarist, and of Marco Antonio Coccio, called Sabellicus, the historian of the Republic, cannot be omitted. Of northern foreigners the most illustrious was Erasmus; to Englishmen the most interesting is Thomas Linacre. Born in 1460 at Canterbury, he travelled into Italy, and studied at Florence under Poliziano and Chalcondylas. On his return to England he founded the Greek Chair at Oxford, and died in London in the year 1524. His translation into Latin of the 'Sphere' of Proclus was published by Aldus in 1499. To him and to Grocin belongs the credit of having sought to plant the culture of Italy in the universities of England. [Footnote 360: Didot, pp. 147-151, 436-470, gives ample details concerning the foundation, constitution, and members of the Aldine Academy.] [Footnote 361: We may compare the name of Melanchthon.] [Footnote 362: A native of Rotino, in Crete (b. 1470, d. at Rome 1517). He acquired Latin so thoroughly that Erasmus wrote of him: 'Latinæ linguæ usque ad miraculum doctus, quod vix ulli Græco contigit præter Theodorum Gazam et Joannem Lascarem.' John Lascaris was his master.] [Footnote 363: _Etymologicon Magnum_, 1499. Didot, pp. 544-578, may be consulted for information about this Greek press. Musurus boasts in his encomiastic verses that the work was accomplished entirely by Cretans. [Greek: analômasi Blastou ponô kai dexiotêti Kalliergou] in the colophon.] During a severe illness in the year 1498 Aldo vowed to take holy orders if he should recover. From this obligation he subsequently obtained release by a brief of Alexander VI., and in the following year he married Maria, daughter of Andrea Torresano, of Asola. Andrea, some years earlier, had bought the press established by Nicholas Jenson in Venice, so that Aldo's marriage to his daughter combined the interests of two important firms. Henceforth the names of Aldus and of Asolanus were associated on the title-pages of the Aldine publications. When Aldo died in 1514 (1515 new style), he left three sons--Manutio, in orders at Asola; Antonio, a bookseller at Bologna;[364] and Paolo Manuzio. The last of these sons, born at Venice in 1512, was educated by his grandfather Andrea till the year of the old man's death (1529). He carried on the press at Venice and at Rome, separating in the year 1540 from his uncles the Asolani, and bequeathing his business to his son named Aldo. This grandson of Aldo Manuzio, called by Scaliger a 'wretched and slow wit, the mimic of his father,' began his career by printing, at the age of eleven, a treatise on the 'Eleganze della Lingua Toscana e Latina.' He married Francesca Lucrezia Giunta, of the famous house of printers, and died, without surviving issue, at Rome in 1597. Thus the industry of Aldo was continued through two generations till the close of the sixteenth century. The device of the dolphin and the anchor, intended to symbolise quickness of execution combined with firmness of deliberation, and the motto _Festina lente_, which Sir Thomas Browne has rendered by 'Celerity contempered with cunctation,' though changed to suit varieties of taste from time to time, were never altogether abandoned by the Aldines.[365] As years went on, however, their publications became of less importance, and the beauty of their books degenerated. [Footnote 364: There is some discrepancy about this Antonio between Renouard and Didot.] [Footnote 365: 'Sum ipse mihi optimus testis me semper habere comites, ut oportere aiunt, delphinum et anchoram; nam et dedimus multa cunctando, et damus assidue.' Preface to the _Astronomici_, dedicated to Duke Guidobaldo of Urbino, 1499. The observations of Erasmus on the motto deserve to be read with attention. See Didot, p. 299.] In tracing the history of Aldo's enterprise, I have been carried beyond the limits of the period included in this chapter. Yet I knew not how to describe the activity of the press in Italy better than by concentrating attention upon the greatest publisher who ever lived. Aldo Manuzio was no mere bookseller or printer. His learning won the hearty praises of ripe scholars, nor did any student of the age express more nobly and with fuller conviction his deep sense of the dignity conferred by learning on the soul of man.[366] That he was amiable in private life is proved by the intimate relations he maintained with humanists, than whom even poets are not a more irritable race of men.[367] To his fellow-workers he was uniformly generous in pecuniary matters, free from jealousy, and prodigal of praise. Seeking even less than his due share of credit, he desired that the great work of his life should pass for the common achievement of himself and his learned associates. Therefore he called his Greek library the fruits of the Neacademia, though no man could have known better than he did that his own genius was the life and spirit of the undertaking. His stores of MSS. were as open to the instruction of scholars as his printed books were given liberally to the public.[368] 'Aldo,' writes Erasmus, 'had nothing in his treasury but what he readily communicated.' Those who read the estimate of his services to learning made by eminent contemporaries, will find the language of Nicholas Leonicenus, Erasmus, and Anton Francesco Doni not exaggerated.[369] But, in order to comprehend their true value, we must bear in mind that until the year 1516, when Froben printed the Greek Testament at Basle, none but insignificant Greek reprints had appeared in Northern Europe.[370] Finally, what makes the place of Aldus in the history of Italian humanism all-important is the fact that, after about 1520, Greek studies began to decline in Italy all together. As though exhausted by the enormous energy wherewith Florence had acquired and Venice had disseminated Greek culture, the Italians relapsed into apathy. Posterity may be thankful that their pupils, Grocin and Linacre, Reuchlin and Erasmus, the Stephani and Budæus, had by this time transplanted erudition beyond the Alps, while Aldo had secured the literature of ancient Greece against the possibility of destruction. [Footnote 366: See the passages from his letters and prefaces quoted and referred to on p. 239, above, note 2.] [Footnote 367: The prospect of his visit to Milan in 1509 called forth these pretty April verses from Antiquari:-- Aldus venit en, Aldus ecce venit! Nunc, O nunc, juvenes, ubique in urbe Flores spargite. Vere namque primo Aldus venit en, Aldus ecce venit.] [Footnote 368: See above, p. 275, for his hatred of the [Greek: bibliotaphoi]. He was the very opposite of Henri Estienne the younger, who closed his library against his son-in-law Casaubon.] [Footnote 369: Didot, pp. 89, 299, 423.] [Footnote 370: _Priscian_, at Erfurt, 1501; _Alphabet_, _Batrachomyomachia_, Musæus, Theocritus, Grammar of Chrysoloras, Hesiod's _Works and Days_, Paris, 1507; Aristotle on _Divination by Dreams_, Cracow, 1529; Lucian, [Greek: peri dipsadôn], Oxford, 1521, are among the earliest Greek books printed out of Italy. The grammars of the Greek humanists were frequently reprinted in the first quarter of the sixteenth century in Germany.] CHAPTER VII FOURTH PERIOD OF HUMANISM Fall of the Humanists -- Scholarship permeates Society -- A New Ideal of Life and Manners -- Latinisation of Names -- Classical Periphrases -- Latin Epics on Christian Themes -- Paganism -- The Court of Leo X. -- Honours of the Church given to Scholars -- Ecclesiastical Men of the World -- Mæcenases at Rome -- Papal and Imperial Rome -- Moral Corruption -- Social Refinement -- The Roman Academy -- Pietro Bembo -- His Life at Ferrara -- At Urbino -- Comes to Rome -- Employed by Leo -- Retirement to Padua -- His Dictatorship of Letters -- Jacopo Sadoleto -- A Graver Genius than Bembo -- Paulus Jovius -- Latin Stylist -- His Histories -- Baldassare Castiglione -- Life at Urbino and Rome -- The Courtly Scholar -- His Diplomatic Missions -- Alberto Pio -- Gian Francesco Pico della Mirandola -- The Vicissitudes of his Life -- Jerome Aleander -- Oriental Studies -- The Library of the Vatican -- His Mission to Germany -- Inghirami, Beroaldo, and Acciaiuoli -- The Roman University -- John Lascaris -- Study of Antiquities -- Origin of the 'Corpus Inscriptionum' -- Topographical Studies -- Formation of the Vatican Sculpture Gallery -- Discovery of the Laocoon -- Feeling for Statues in Renaissance Italy -- Venetian Envoys in the Belvedere -- Raphael's Plan for excavating Ancient Rome -- His Letter to Leo -- Effect of Antiquarian Researches on the Arts -- Intellectual Supremacy of Rome in this Period -- The Fall -- Adrian VI. -- The Sack of Rome -- Valeriano's Description of the Sufferings of Scholars. What is known as the Revival of Learning was accomplished before the close of the fifteenth century, and about this time humanism began to lose credit. The professional scholars who had domineered in Italy during the last hundred years, were now regarded with suspicion as pretentious sophists, or as empty-pated pedants. Their place was taken by men of the world, refined courtiers, and polite stylists who piqued themselves on general culture. This revolution in public opinion was the result of various causes which I shall attempt to set forth in another chapter. It is enough for my present purpose to observe that the learning possessed at first by a few teachers, acquired with effort, and communicated with condescension, had now become the common property of cultivated men. In proportion as a knowledge of the classic authors diffused itself over a wider area, the mere reputation of sound scholarship ceased to form a valid title to celebrity. It was necessary that the man of letters, educated by antiquity, should give proof of his genius by some originality of mind. The age of acquisition had ended; the age of application had begun. To this result the revived interest in Italian literature powerfully contributed. Writers were no longer, like Bruni and Poggio, ashamed of their _cose volgari_. On the contrary, the most splendid productions of the first half of the sixteenth century, the Histories of Guicciardini and Machiavelli, the Epic of Ariosto, the 'Cortegiano' of Castiglione, and the burlesque poems of Berni were penned in powerful and delicate Italian. To what extent the influence of Lorenzo de' Medici, who was always more partial to vernacular literature than to scholarship, determined the change in question, is a matter for opinion. That Florence led the way by her great writers of Italian poetry and prose admits of no doubt. At the same time the erudition of the fifteenth century had steeped the whole Italian nation. Humanism penetrated every sphere of intellectual activity, and gave a colour to all social customs. The arts of painting and of sculpture felt its influence. A new style of architecture, formed upon the model of Roman monuments, sprang up. Science took a special bias from the classics, and philosophy was so strongly permeated by antique doctrines that the Revival of Learning may be justly said to have checked the spontaneity of the Italian intellect. There was not enough time for students to absorb antiquity and pass beyond it, before the mortmain of the Church and the Spaniard was laid upon the fairest provinces of thought. To trace the course of Italian philosophy, is, however, no part of my scheme in this volume. The Aristotelian and Platonic controversies on the nature of the soul, the materialism of Pietro Pomponazzo, the gradual emergence of powerful thinkers like Bruno and Campanella, the theological rationalism of Aonio Paleario, and the final suppression of free thought by the Church, belong to the history of the Counter-Reformation. To the same sad chapter of Italian history must be relegated the labours of the earliest mathematicians, astronomers, and cosmographers, who, poring over the texts of Ptolemy and Euclid, anticipated Copernicus, impelled Columbus to his enterprise, and led the way for Galileo. The infamy of having rendered science and philosophy abortive in Italy, when its early show of blossom was so promising, falls upon the Popes and princes of the last half of the sixteenth century. The narrative of their emergence from the studies of the humanists must form the prelude to a future work treating of Farnesi and Caraffas, Inquisitors and Jesuits. Only by showing the growth which might have been, can we demonstrate the atrophy that was. It remains in this chapter to describe the fourth period of humanism, when Italy, still permeated with the spirit of the classical revival, laid down laws of social breeding for the nations of the North. Few things are more difficult than to set forth without exaggeration, and yet with sufficient force, the so-called Paganism of Renaissance Italy. At first sight, and from certain points of view, it seems as though the exclusive study of the classics had wrought a thorough metamorphosis of morality and manners. When, on reflection, this appearance is seen to be illusory, we incline, perhaps, to the contrary conclusion that scholarship only set a kind of fashion without taking deep hold even on the imagination of the people. A more complete acquaintance with the period makes it clear that the imitation of the ancients in thought, sentiment, and language was no mere affectation, and that, however partial its influences may have been, they were not superficial. In the first volume of this work I tried to show to what extent the patriotism of tyrannicides and the profligacy of courtiers were alike related to the prevailing study of the ancient world. It was no small matter that the vices and the virtues, the worldliness and the enthusiasm, of that many-featured age, together with its supreme achievements in art, its ripest productions in literature, should have gradually assumed a classic form. The standards of moral and æsthetic taste were paganised, though the nation at large remained unchanged in Catholicity. It was precisely this discord between the professed religion of the people and the heathenism of its ideal that inspired Savonarola with his prophecy. Classical style being the requirement of the age, it followed that everything was sacrificed to this. In christening their children the great families abandoned the saints of the calendar and chose names from mythology. Ettorre, Achille, Atalanta, Pentesilea, Lucrezia, Porzia, Alessandro, Annibale, Laomedonte, Fedro, Ippolito, and many other antique titles became fashionable. Those who were able to do so turned their baptismal names into Latin or Greek equivalents. Janus or Jovianus passed for Giovanni, Pierius for Pietro, Aonius for Antonio, Lucius Grassus for Luca Grasso; the German prelate John Goritz was known as Corycius,[371] and the Roman professor Gianpaolo Parisio as Janus Parrhasius. Writers who undertook to treat of modern or religious themes, were driven by their zeal for purism to the strangest expedients of language. God, in the Latin of the sixteenth century, is _Jupiter Optimus Maximus_; Providence becomes _Fatum_; the saints are _Divi_, and their statues _simulacra sancta Deorum_. Our Lady of Loreto is changed into _Dea Lauretana_, Peter and Paul into _Dii tutelares Romæ_, the souls of the just into _Manes pii_, and the Pope's excommunication into _Diræ_. The Holy Father himself takes the style of _Pontifex Maximus_; his tiara, by a wild confusion of ideas, is described as _infula Romulea_. Nuns are Vestals, and cardinals Augurs. For the festivals of the Church periphrases were found, whereof the following may be cited as a fair specimen:[372] '_Verum accidit ut eo ipso die, quo domum ejus accesseram, ipse piæ rei caussâ septem sacrosancta Divûm pulvinaria supplicaturus inviserit; erant enim lustrici dies, quos unoquoque anno quadragenos purificatione consecravit nostra pietas._' [Footnote 371: Namque sub Oebaliæ memini me turribus altis Qua niger humectat flaventia culta Galesus _Corycium_ vidisse _senem_.--Virg. _Georg._ lib. iv. 125.] [Footnote 372: From the exordium to Valeriano's treatise _De Infelicitate Literatorum_.] It need hardly be added that, when the obligations of Latinity had reached this point, to read Cicero was of far more importance than to study the Fathers of the Church. Bembo, it is well known, advised Sadoleto to 'avoid the Epistles of S. Paul, lest his barbarous style should spoil your taste: _Omitte has nugas, non enim decent gravem virum tales ineptiæ_.' The extent, however, to which formal purism in Latinity was carried, may be best observed in the 'Christiad' of Vida, and the poem 'De Partu Virginis' of Sannazzaro.[373] Sannazzaro not only invokes the muses of Helicon to sing the birth of Christ, but he also makes Proteus prophesy his advent to the river-god of Jordan. The archangel discovers Mary--described by the poet as _spes fida Deorum_--intent on reading nothing less humanistic than the Sibyls; and after she has received his message, the spirits of the patriarchs are said to shout because they will escape from Tartarus and Acheron and the hideous baying of the triple-throated hound. [Footnote 373: Lilius Gyraldus, in his dialogue 'De Poetis Nostri Temporis,' _Opp._ vol. ii. p. 384, mentions a critic who was so stupid as to _desiderare in Pontano et si deis placet in Sanazario Christianam elocutionem, hoc est barbaram_!] It might be reasonably urged against Milton that in the 'Paradise Regained' he somewhat impairs the religious grandeur of his subject by investing it with the forms of the classical epic. If he has erred in this direction, it is as nothing compared with the pseudo-Pagan travesty of Vida. God the Father in the 'Christiad' is spoken of as _Superum Pater nimbipotens_ and _Regnator Olympi_--titles which had their real significance in Latin mythology, being transferred with frigid formalism to a Deity whose essence is spiritual, and whose cult has no admixture of nature worship. Jesus is invariably described as _Heros_; this absurdity reaches its climax in the following phrase about the bad thief on the cross:-- Ipse etiam verbis morientem heroa superbis Stringebat. The machinery whereby the Jews are brought to will the death of Christ is no less ridiculous. Instead of attempting to set religious or ethical motives into play, Vida introduces a gang of Gorgons, Harpies, Centaurs, Hydras, and the like. The bread of the Last Supper appears under the disguise of _sinceram Cererem_. The wine mingled with gall, offered to our Lord upon the cross, is _corrupti pocula Bacchi_. The only excuse for these grotesque compromises between the Biblical subject-matter and its mythological expression is, that in any other way it would have been impossible to give the form of pure Latinity to the verse. The poet failed to comprehend that he was producing a masterpiece of _barocco_ mannerism, spoiling at once the style he sought to use and the theme he undertook to illustrate. It was enough for him to fit the Roman toga to his saints and Pharisees, and to tickle the taste of a learned audience by allusions that reminded them of Virgil. The same bathos was reached by Bembo when he invented the paraphrase of 'heavenly zephyr' for the Holy Ghost, and described the Venetian Council bidding a Pope _uti fidat diis immortalibus, quorum vices in terrâ gerit_. It is not the profanity of these phrases so much as their æsthetic emptiness, the discord between the meaning intended to be conveyed and the literary form, that strikes a modern critic. When the same poets break out into honest Paganism, in the frank verses written by Bembo for Priapus, in Beccadelli's epigrams, or in the elegies of Acon and Iolas, we feel that they are more artistically justified. The following lines, for instance, from Vida's 'Poetics,' have a true ring and beauty of their own. He is addressing Virgil as a saint:-- Te colimus, tibi serta damus, tibi thura, tibi aras, Et tibi rite sacrum semper dicemus honorem. Or again-- Nos aspice præsens, Pectoribusque tuos castis infunde calores Adveniens pater, atque animis te te insere nostris. There is no confusion here between the feeling and the language chosen to express it. The sentiment, if somewhat artificial and unreal, is at least adequate to the form. I have entered at some length into the illustration of puristic Latinisms, because they seem to represent the culminating point of classic studies, in so far as these affected taste in general, and also because they are specially characteristic of the period of which I have now to treat. It was at Rome, among the great ecclesiastics, that these Pagan fashions principally flourished. Eminence of all kinds found a home with Leo X., assuming the purple of the prelate and the scarlet of the cardinal at his indulgent hands. The genius of the Renaissance seemed to have followed this first Medicean Pope from Florence. Though Leo was a man of merely pleasure-loving and receptive temperament, who left no lasting impress on his age, he knew at least how to appreciate ability, and found the height of his enjoyment in the arts and letters he enthusiastically patronised. This sybarite of intellectual and sensual luxury gave his name to what is called the golden age of Italian literature, chiefly because he attracted the best wits to Rome and received the flatteries of men whose work survived them. History presents few spectacles more striking than that of Rome in the pontificate of Leo. While the Papacy has become a secular sovereignty, learning and arts have assumed the sacerdotal habit, and the boldest immoralities of a society comparable to that of the ancient Empire flourish in the petty Courts of ecclesiastical princes. The capital of Christendom is full of priests; but the priests are men of pleasure and the world--elegant Latinists and florid rhetoricians, raised to posts of eminence by reason of their brilliant gifts. We have seen already how the humanists made their way into the Roman Curia as writers and abbreviators, and how liberally Nicholas V. rewarded learning. Yet, however indispensable the scholars of the fifteenth century became, they rarely rose above the rank of Apostolic secretaries; while few of the professional humanists cared to take orders in the Church. They were satisfied with official emoluments and semi-secular benefices. All this was now altered. The most distinguished men of letters made the Church their profession. Sadoleto, Bembo, and Aleander, who began their career under Leo, received the hats of cardinals from Paul III. Paulus Jovius was consecrated Bishop of Nocera by Clement VII., and retired to Como in disgust because he failed to get the scarlet in 1549. Marcus Musurus, created Bishop of Malvasia, is said to have died of disappointment when he saw the same dignity beyond his reach. Vida, the Latin poet, obtained the see of Alba in Piedmont, and Giberti, the accomplished stylist, that of Verona, from Clement VII. All these men had made their mark at Leo's Court, who set the example, followed by his Medicean successor, of rewarding mundane talents and accomplishments with ecclesiastical distinctions. The question, seriously entertained, of admitting Raphael to the Sacred College proves to what extent the highest honours of the Church had come to be esteemed as prizes, and justifies to some extent Pietro Aretino's arrogant offer to sell his services to the Papacy in exchange for a cardinal's hat. The biographies of these favourites of fortune offer strong points of similarity. Whether born of noble families, like Bembo, or raised from comparative obscurity, like Bibbiena, they early in life attached themselves to some distinguished prince,[374] or entered the service of a great ecclesiastic. Their literary talents, social accomplishments, successes with women, and diplomatic service at the centres of Italian politics brought them still further into notice. Thus Sadoleto's Latin poem on the Laocoon, Bibbiena's 'Calandra,' Inghirami's acting of the part of Phædra in Seneca's 'Hippolytus,' and Bembo's friendship with Lucrezia Borgia might be cited as turning-points in the early history of these illustrious prelates. Having thus acquired position by their personal gifts, they travelled to Rome in the suite of their respective patrons, and obtained office at the hands of Leo. Sadoleto and Bembo became his secretaries. Inghirami superintended the Vatican Library.[375] Bibbiena's versatile abilities were divided between the duties of State minister and master of the revels. As they had built their fortunes by the help of eminent protectors, they now in their turn took the rank of patrons. In addition to the Vatican, Rome displayed a multitude of petty Courts and minor circles. Each cardinal and each ambassador held a jurisdiction independent of the Pope, and not unfrequently in opposition to the ruling power. To found academies, to gather clever men around them, and to play the part of Mæcenas was the ambition of these subordinate princes. During the pontificate of Leo the Cardinals Riario, Giulio de' Medici, Bibbiena, Petrucci, Farnese, Alidosi, and Gonzaga, not to mention others, entertained their own following of flatterers and poets, who danced attendance at their levees, accompanied them in public, and earned a meagre pittance by compliments and dedications. Some of these priestly patrons affected the arts, others the sciences; others again, and these the majority, bestowed their favours upon literature. Ippolito de' Medici is said to have maintained a retinue of three hundred poets, among whom are mentioned the elegant Molza and the learned Valeriano. The fashion thus set by Leo and the Sacred College was followed by all the eminent men in Rome. The banker Agostino Chigi made himself a name not only by his patronage of painters, but also by the private Greek press founded in his house.[376] Baldassare Turini devoted himself to the arts of building and of decoration. Baldassare Castiglione, as ambassador from Mantua and Ferrara, and Alberto Pio, as prince of Carpi and ambassador from France, dispensed the hospitality of their palaces to scholars, among whom they held no inconsiderable rank on their own merits. [Footnote 374: See Vol. I., _Age of the Despots_, p. 145.] [Footnote 375: He held this post under Julius II.] [Footnote 376: The first Greek book printed in Rome, an edition of Pindar by Cornelius Benignius, 1515, issued from Chigi's press under the superintendence of Zacharias Kalliergos of Crete. Concerning this printer see Didot, _Alde Manuce_, pp. 544-578.] Libraries, collections of statues and of pictures, frescoes painted from mythological subjects, garden-houses planned upon the antique model, Latin inscriptions, busts of the emperors, baths and banquet chambers decorated in the manner of the Roman ruins--on such objects the wealth of the Church was being prodigally spent. Posterity has reason to deplore the non-appearance of a satirist in this Papal society, so curiously similar to that of Imperial Rome. Horace would, indeed, have found ample materials for humorous delineation, whether he had chosen to deride the needy clients leaving their lodgings before daybreak to crowd a prelate's antechamber, or the parasites on whom coarse practical jokes were played in the Pope's presence, or the flatterers who praised their master's mock virtues in hour-long declamations. Fouler vices than vanity, hypocrisy, and servility supplied fit subjects for invectives no less fiery than the second and the sixth of Juvenal. At Rome virtuous women had no place; but Phryne lived again in the person of Imperia, and dignitaries of the Church thought it no shame to parade their preference for Giton.[377] In the absence of a Horace or a Juvenal, we have to content ourselves with Bandello and other novelists, and with one precious epistle of Ariosto describing the difficulty of conducting business at the Papal Court except by way of backstairs influence and antechamber intrigue. [Footnote 377: The epitaph of Bella Imperia proves that the title of Hetæra was thought honourable: 'Imperia, Cortisana Romana, quæ digna tanto nomine, raræ inter homines formæ specimen dedit. Vixit a. xxvi. d. xii. Obiit MDXI., die XV. Aug.' Berni's _Capitolo sopra un Garzone_ may be referred to for the second half of the sentence.] To over-estimate the moral corruption of Rome at the beginning of the sixteenth century is almost impossible. To over-rate the real value of a literature that culminated in the subtleties of rhetoric and style is easy. Nor is it difficult to mistake, as many critics have done, the sunset of the fine arts for their meridian splendour. Yet, while we recognise the enervation of society in worse than heathen vices, and justly regard Rome as the hostelry of alien arts and letters rather than the mother city of great men, we cannot blind our eyes to the varied lights and colours of that Court, unique in modern history. The culture toward which Italian society had long been tending, was here completed. The stamp of universality had been given to the fine arts and to literature by the only potentate who at that moment claimed allegiance from united Christendom. As the eloquent historian of the town of Rome observes, 'the richest intellectual life here blossomed in a swamp of vices.' It was not the life of great poetry: that had perished long ago with Dante. It was not the life of genuine science: that was destined to be born with Galileo. It was not the life of comprehensive scholarship: that slept in the grave of Poliziano. It was not even the life of progressive art; for Raphael died in this age, and though Michael Angelo survived it, his genius had no successors. But it was the life of culture, rendering the rudest and most vicious sensitive to softening influences, and preparing for more powerful nations the possibilities of great achievements. Amid political debility and moral corruption an ideal of refinement, adopted from antiquity, and assimilated to modern modes of living, had been formed. This was the most perfect bloom of the Renaissance, destined to survive the decay of humanism, and to be for subsequent civilisation what chivalry was for the Middle Ages. Through the continued effort of patricians and of scholars to acquire the tone of classic culture, something like antique urbanity had reappeared at Florence and in Rome; while several general tions [Transcriber's Note: likely 'generations'] devoted to polite studies had produced a race distinguished above all things for its intellectual delicacy. The effect of this æsthetic atmosphere upon visitors from the North was singularly varied. Luther, who came to see the City of the Saints, found in Rome the sink of all abominations, the very lair of Antichrist. The _comitas_ and the _facetiæ_ of the prelates were to him the object of unmitigated loathing. Erasmus, on the contrary, wrote from London that nothing but Lethe could efface his memory of that radiant city--its freedom of discourse, its light, its libraries, its honeyed converse of most learned scholars, its large style of life, and all those works of art that made of Rome the theatre of nations. The Italians themselves, lessoned by the tragedy of 1527, looked back with no less mingled feelings upon Leo's Rome. La Casa mentions the _nimia humanitatis suavitas_--the excess of sweetness in all that makes society humane--as a characteristic of the past age. That excessive sweetness of civility, the final product of the arts and scholarship of Italy, when diffused through Europe and tempered to the taste of sterner nationalities, became the politeness of France under Louis XIV., the _bel air_ of Queen Anne's courtiers. The Roman Academy still continued to be active, meeting at the palaces of more than one great prelate. The gardens of Angelo Colocci, Leo's secretary, a friend of John Lascaris, and himself no inconsiderable stylist, formed its headquarters. Sometimes the poet Blosius Palladius received the associates in his villa by the Tiber; sometimes they enjoyed the hospitality of Egidius Canisius, General of the Augustine Order; at one time they sought the house of Sadoleto on the Quirinal; at another they feasted in the vineyard of John Goritz, the Corycius Senex. The festivals of this learned society, to judge by the descriptions of its members, were distinguished by antique simplicity and good taste, contrasting powerfully with the banquets of mere mundane prelates.[378] When Agostino Chigi entertained the Academicians in the Villa Farnesina, he chastened his magnificence to suit the spirit of their founder, Lætus, and omitted those displays of vulgar pomp that marked his wedding banquet.[379] [Footnote 378: See Tiraboschi, vii. 1, lib. i. c. 2.] [Footnote 379: See Vol. I., _Age of the Despots_, p. 342.] The muster-roll of the Academy brings the most eminent wits of Rome before us. First and foremost stands Pietro Bembo, the man of letters, who, like Petrarch, Poggio, and Poliziano, may be chosen as the fullest representative of his own age of culture. His father, Bernardo Bembo, was a Venetian of noble birth and education. To his generous enthusiasm for Italian literature Ravenna owes the tomb of Dante. Pietro was born at Florence in 1470, and received his early education in that city. Therefore the Tuscans claim his much-praised purity of diction for their gift. He afterwards studied Greek at Messina under Constantine Lascaris, and learned philosophy from Pomponazzo at Padua. When his master's treatise on the 'Immortality of the Soul' was condemned by the Lateran Council, Bembo used his influence successfully in his behalf. Though he denied the demonstrability of the doctrine, and maintained that Aristotle gave it no support, Pomponazzo was only censured, instead of being burned like Bruno. This good fortune was due, however, less to his pupil's advocacy than to the nonchalance of Leo. Having completed his academical studies in 1498, Bembo joined his father at the brilliant Court of the Estensi. When Lucrezia Borgia entered Ferrara in 1502 she was still in the zenith of her beauty. Her father, Alexander, grew daily more powerful in Rome; while her brother held the central States of Italy within his grasp. The greatness of the Borgias reflected honour on the bride of Alfonso d'Este; and though the princes of Ferrara at first received her with reluctance, they were soon won over by her grace. Between the princess and the courtly scholar a friendship speedily sprang up, which strengthened with years and was maintained by correspondence at a distance. To Lucrezia Bembo dedicated 'Gli Asolani,' a dialogue in the Italian tongue upon Platonic love,[380] by far the freest and most genial of his writings. The collection of his Latin poems contains an epigram upon a golden serpent clasped above her wrist, and an elegy in which he praises her singing, dancing, playing, and recitation:-- Quicquid agis, quicquid loqueris, delectat: et omnes Præcedunt Charites, subsequiturque decor. [Footnote 380: Written 1504. First printed by Aldo, 1505.] This liaison, famous in the annals of Italian literature, gave Bembo a distinguished place in the great world. A touching memento of it--Lucrezia's letters and a tress of her long yellow hair--is still preserved at Milan in the Ambrosian Library. From Ferrara Bembo passed to Urbino in 1506, where Guidobaldo da Montefeltre had gathered round him the brilliant group described in the 'Cortegiano.' The climax of that treatise, our most precious source of information on Court life in Italy, makes it clear that Bembo played the first part in a circle distinguished above all others at that time for refinement and wit. Many cities might boast of a larger and more splendid concourse of noble visitors; but none competed with Urbino for the polish of its manners and the breeding of its courtiers. In his dialogue in praise of Guidobaldo, Bembo paid a magnificent tribute to the prince from whose society he learned so much, and in whose service he remained till the Duke's death.[381] Giuliano de' Medici, with whom he lived on terms of intimacy at Urbino, took him to Rome in 1512. The reign of Leo was about to shed new lustre on the Medicean exiles. His victorious exclamation to his brother,'_Godiamoci il Papato poichè Dio ce l'ha dato_,' had a ring of promise in it for their numerous friends and clients. Even without the recommendation of Giuliano, it is not likely that Leo would have overlooked a man so wholly after his own heart as Bembo. The qualities he most admired--smooth manners, a handsome person, wit in conversation, and thorough mastery of Latin style, without pretension to deep learning or much earnestness of purpose--were incarnate in the courtly Venetian. Bembo was precisely the man to make Leo's life agreeable by flattering his superficial tastes and subordinating the faculties of a highly cultivated mind to frivolous, if intellectual, amusements. The churchman who warned Sadoleto against spoiling his style by study of the Bible, the prosaist who passed his compositions through sixteen portfolios, revising them at each remove, the versifier who penned a hymn to S. Stephen and a monologue for Priapus with equal elegance, was cast in the same mould as the pleasure-loving Pontiff. For eight years he lived at Rome, honoured by the Medici and loved by all who knew him. His duties as secretary to Leo, shared by his old friend and fellow-student Sadoleto, were not onerous; while the society of the capital afforded opportunity for the display of his most brilliant gifts. In 1520, wearied by nearly thirty years of continual Court life, and broken down in health by severe sickness, Bembo retired to Padua. The collection of a library and museum, horticulture, correspondence, and the cultivation of his studied Ciceronian style now occupied his leisure through nineteen most disastrous years for Italy. The learned courtiers of that age liked thus to play the Roman in their villas, quoting Horace and Virgil on the charms of rustic life, and fancying they caught the spirit of Cincinnatus while they strolled about the farm. Bembo's Paduan retreat became the rendezvous of all the ablest men in Italy, the centre of a fluctuating society of highest culture. Paul III. recalled him to Rome, and made him cardinal in 1539. When he died in 1547 he was buried not far from Leo in the Church of the Minerva. A fair slab of marble marks his grave. [Footnote 381: 'De Guido Ubaldo Feretrio deque Elisabetha Gonzaga Urbini Ducibus.'] Bembo succeeded Poliziano in the dictatorship of Italian letters. Like Poliziano, he was both a scholar and a writer of Italian; but he was far from possessing the comprehensive understanding or the genius of his predecessor. Of all the 'apes of Cicero' scoffed at by Erasmus, he stood first and foremost. His exclusive devotion to one favourite author made his Latin stiff and mannered. Tuscan critics again have complained that his Italian style lacks nerve and idiom. He wrote like an alien, not one to the manner born. In his dread of not writing correctly, he ended by expressing tame thoughts with frigid formality. Even a foreigner can see that he used Italian, as he used Latin, without yielding to natural impulse, and with the constant effort to attain a fixed ideal. The mark of the file may be observed on every period. Raciness and spontaneity are words that have no meaning when applied to him. The decadence of Italian prose composition into laboured mannerism and meticulous propriety should be traced in a great measure to his influence. Yet Bembo deserves credit for having braved the opinion of the learned by his cultivation of the vulgar tongue; and on this point some verses from a Latin poem to Ercole Strozzi deserve quotation in a note.[382] [Footnote 382: Nam pol quâ proavusque avusque linguâ Sunt olim meus et tuus loquuti, Nostræ quâque loquuntur et sorores Et matertera nunc et ipsa mater, Nos nescire loqui magis pudendum est, Qui Graiæ damus et damus Latinæ Studi tempora duplicemque curam, Quam Graiâ simul et simul Latinâ. Hac uti ut valeas tibi videndum est, Ne dum marmoreas remotâ in orâ Sumtu construis et labore villas, Domi te calamo tegas palustri. _Carmina Quinque Illustrium Poetarum_, p. 25.] Jacopo Sadoleto's career was not dissimilar to that of his friend Bembo, though the two men offer many points of difference in character and turn of mind. Born at Modena in 1477, he studied Latin at Ferrara, and Greek at Rome, where he settled in the reign of Alexander VI. His copy of hexameters on the newly-discovered statue of Laocoon made him famous. Frigid and laboured as these verses may appear to us, who read them like a prize exercise, they had the merit of originality when first produced. Leo made the poet his secretary and Bishop of Carpentras. Sadoleto passed a good portion of his life in the duties of his see, composing moral treatises, annotating the Psalms, and publishing a 'Commentary on the Epistle to the Romans.'[383] Though strongly tinctured with Ciceronian purism, his taste was more austere than Bembo's. Nature had given him an intellect adapted to grave studies, sincerity of purpose, and true piety. Living in the dawn of the Reformation, Sadoleto was deeply conscious of the perils of the Church; nor did he escape the suspicion of sharing the new heresy.[384] His celebrated letter to Clement VII., after the sack of Rome in 1527, shows that he viewed this disaster as a punishment inflicted on the godless capital of Christendom. In 1536 Paul III. recalled him to Rome, and made him cardinal. He died in 1547, and was buried in S. Pietro in Vincoli. Sadoleto's correspondence may be reckoned among the most valuable materials for the literary annals of this period. [Footnote 383: His most famous essays bore these titles: _De Liberis Instituendis_ and _De Laudibus Philosophiæ_.] [Footnote 384: His _Commentary on the Romans_ was placed upon the Index.] Next to Sadoleto a place must be found for the grave and studious Egidio Canisio. He was born at Viterbo in 1470, and was therefore an exact contemporary of Bembo. His powers of Latin oratory gained him the fame of a great speaker, and the address with which he opened the Lateran Council in 1512 was committed to the press in that year. Egidius was already General of the Augustine Order. Five years later he received the red hat of a cardinal, and in 1518 he represented the Holy See as Legate at the Court of Spain. He died in 1532, leaving a vast mass of miscellaneous works on theology, philosophy, Biblical criticism, and universal history. Few of these have been printed. It is said that, besides Greek and Latin, he was a master of Hebrew and Chaldee, Turkish, Persian, and Arabic. A more brilliant figure is presented by the witty but unscrupulous historian Paulus Jovius. He was born at Como in 1483, and came at the age of thirty-three to Rome, with the beginning of his comprehensive History already written.[385] Leo, who delighted in listening to recitations of new literary works, declared that nothing had been penned more perfect since the days of Livy. This high praise induced Jovius to fix his residence at Rome, where Clement VII. made him Bishop of Nocera in 1528. After spending twenty-one years in the expectation, continually frustrated, of being received in the Sacred College, he retired to Como, and died at Florence in 1552. Jovius was the cleverest of all the Latinists produced by the Italians. His style is fluent, sparkling with anecdote, highly picturesque in its descriptive passages, and adorned by characteristic details. In addition to the histories, he produced a series of biographies of great and varied value, some of which are libels, others panegyrics, while all are marked by acute observation and mastery of the matter in hand. He was wont to say that he could use a golden or a silver pen at will: the golden was exercised upon the Life of Leo; the silver, dipped in ironic gall, upon the Life of Hadrian. The sketches of eminent men, known by the name of 'Elogia,' were composed in illustration of a picture gallery of portraits collected in his villa. They include not only Italians, but Greeks, Germans, French and English worthies, dead and living notabilities of every kind.[386] If Brantôme had chosen Latin instead of French, he would have made a book not altogether unlike this of Jovius. The versatility of the author was further illustrated by a Latin treatise on Roman fishes, and by an Italian essay on mottoes and devices.[387] [Footnote 385: Like the History of Guicciardini, it opens with the year 1494. It is carried down to 1547. A portion of the first decade was lost in the sack of Rome, and never rewritten by the author. Printed at Florence, 1550.] [Footnote 386: _Elogia Virorum literis illustrium, quotquot vel nostrâ, vel avorum memoriâ vixere_, and _Elogia Virorum bellicâ virtute illustrium_, Basel, 1557.] [Footnote 387: _De Piscibus Romanis_, Rome, 1524. _Ragionamento sopra i Motti e Disegni d'Arme e d'Amore._] Among the celebrities of the Roman Academy a place apart must be reserved for Baldassare Castiglione; for though his biography belongs to the political even more than to the literary annals of the period, few men represent the age of Leo in its culture with more dignity and grace combined. He was born in 1478 at Casatico, in the Duchy of Mantua; his father's family held the county of Castiglione, and his mother was a Gonzaga. In his youth he received an education framed upon the system set in vogue by Vittorino and Guarino, and became the living illustration of those varied accomplishments which he described in the 'Cortegiano.' His scholarship was sound and elegant; as a writer of Latin verse he distinguished himself among the best men of his generation. Sensitive to the beauty of the arts, he proved an excellent critic of modern painting and of antique sculpture, and assisted Raphael in the composition of his famous letter to Leo on the exploration of old Rome. At the same time he did not neglect the athletic exercises which formed an indispensable branch of an Italian nobleman's training. Cultivated at all points, he early devoted his abilities to the service of princes; for at this period in Italy there was no sphere for such a character outside the Courts. After spending some time at Milan and Naples, Castiglione removed to Rome, where Julius II. discerned the use that might be made of him in furthering the interests of his nephew Francesco Maria della Rovere. Federigo da Montefeltre, Duke of Urbino, had died in 1482, leaving his son Guidobaldo in possession of his fiefs and titles; but it was known that this prince could have no heirs. In him the male line of the Montefeltri ended. His sister Giovanna had been married to Giovanni della Rovere, a brother of the Pope, and Julius hoped that their son Francesco Maria might be declared successor to the Duchy of Urbino. Castiglione therefore attached himself to the person of Guidobaldo, with the special purpose of making himself necessary to the princes of Urbino and furthering the claims of Francesco, then a boy of about fifteen. Of his residence at Urbino, and of the polished splendour of Guidobaldo's Court, he has left an ever-memorable record in his 'Cortegiano,' that mirror of gentle breeding for the sixteenth century in Europe. Guidobaldo received the Count of Castiglione with marked favour, made him captain of fifty men at arms, and employed him in several offices of trust. Not the least important of these was the mission to England, undertaken in 1506 by Castiglione as Guidobaldo's proxy for receiving from Henry VII. the investiture of the Garter. After the death of Guidobaldo, Francesco Maria della Rovere was proclaimed Duke of Urbino, and Castiglione continued to enjoy his confidence until the year 1517, when Leo succeeded in placing his nephew Lorenzo de' Medici upon the Ducal throne. Castiglione was now deprived of what had become the necessity of his life, a post of honour in the Court of a reigning sovereign. He therefore transferred his allegiance to his natural lord, the Marquis of Mantua, who appointed him ambassador at Rome. The first and most brilliant period of the courtier's life was passed at Urbino; the second, less fruitful in literary achievements, embraced his residence among the wits of Leo's circle. At Rome Castiglione adapted himself to the customs of the papal society, penning Latin elegiacs, consorting with artists, and exercising the pleasant patronage of a refined Mæcenas. His friendship with Raphael is not the least interesting episode in this chapter of his biography. Substantial records of it still remain in the epitaph composed by the courtly scholar on the painter, and in Castiglione's portrait now preserved in the Louvre collection. That picture represents the very model of an Italian nobleman as culture and Court life had made him--tranquil, with grave open eyes, and a mouth as well suited for urbane discourse as gentle merriment. The owner of this face was not born to lead armies or to control unruly multitudes, but to pass his time in the _loggie_ of princes--self-contained and qualified to win favour without the sacrifice of personal dignity. It forms a strong contrast to earlier and later portraits--to that of Sigismondo Pandolfo Malatesta, for example, and to the Spanish grandees of the next century. Castiglione was still in Rome during the pontificate of Clement VII., who, recognizing his great ability as a diplomatist, sent him to Charles V. At Madrid the Pope's nuncio was unable to avert the disaster of 1527, and Castiglione had the bitter mortification of hearing at a distance how the Rome he knew and loved so well, had been ravaged by the brigands of Germany and Spain. It is clear, however, from the diplomatic correspondence of that memorable moment, and from the letter addressed by Clement to Castiglione's mother in 1529, that he never lost the confidence of his master; in spite of his failure to negotiate between them, he was respected alike by the Pope and the Emperor. He died at Toledo two years after the sack of Rome, worn out, it is said, by disappointment and regret. Not only in his book of the 'Courtier,' but also in his life, Castiglione illustrated the best qualities of an Italian gentleman, moulded by the political and social conditions of the sixteenth century into a refined scholar and a courtly diplomatist. Of Alberto Pio, whose life in some respects may be compared with Castiglione's, I have had occasion to speak in the last chapter. His first cousin, Gian Francesco Pico della Mirandola, demands more than passing notice. By no prince of that troubled period were the cruel vicissitudes of Italian politics more painfully experienced. Few of the scholars could boast of wider learning and a nobler spirit. He was born in 1470, and succeeded his father, Galeotto, in the lordship of Mirandola. In 1502 his brother Lodovico expelled him from his capital. Julius II. restored him. After being dispossessed a second time by Trivulzi, general of the French forces, he was once more reinstated, but only for a brief period. His nephew, Galeazzo, murdered him in 1533 before the crucifix, together with his heir, Alberto. In the intervals of his unquiet and unhappy life, Gian Francesco Pico devoted himself to studies not unlike those of his more famous uncle.[388] Early in his youth he had conceived the strongest admiration for Savonarola; and the work by which he is best known to posterity is a Life of his great master. Savonarola's principles continued to rule his thought and conduct through life. During the pontificate of Leo he composed a long address to the Lateran Council upon the reformation of the Church,[389] and dared to entertain the friendship of Reuchlin and Willibad Pirkheimer. His residence in Rome, and the dedication of his treatise on 'Divine Love' to Leo, justify our ranking him with the Roman scholars. [Footnote 388: The titles of his philosophical works--_De Studio divinæ et humanæ philosophiæ_, _De amore Divino_, _Examen vanitatis doctrinæ gentium et veritatis Christianæ disciplinæ_, _De rerum prænotione_--show how closely he followed in the footsteps of Giovanni Pico.] [Footnote 389: _Joannis Francisci Pici Mirandolæ et Concordiæ Comitis Oratio ad Leon X. et Concilium Lateranense de reformandis Ecclesiæ moribus._] If Gian Francesco Pico and Sadoleto bring us close upon the threshold of the German Reformation, we cross it in the company of Aleander. Jerome Aleander was born at Motta, in the Marches of Treviso, in the year 1480. His studies, more comprehensive than those of the stylists, included theology, philosophy, and science, together with the Oriental languages, in addition to the indispensable Greek and Latin culture. Before he reached the age of thirty he travelled to Paris, and professed Hebrew and the humanities at the University. French scholarship may be said to date from the impulse given to these subjects by Aleander, who rose to such fame that he was made Rector of the University. After leaving Paris, he spent some time in Germany, and came first to Rome in 1516 in the train of Erard van der Mark, Bishop of Lüttich. Here Leo appointed him librarian of the Vatican. The rest of Aleander's life was spent in the service of the Church. Despatched as _nuntius_ to Germany by Leo in 1520, he vainly attempted, as all students of the Reformation know, to quench the fire of Luther's kindling. When he returned to Italy, Clement VII. gave him the archbishopric of Brindisi, and Paul III. raised him to the scarlet in 1538. He died in 1542, leaving in France the memory of his unrivalled learning, in Germany the fame of an intolerant persecutor, in Italy the reputation of a stanch though unsuccessful champion of the Church. Aleander's three predecessors in the Vatican Library--Tommaso Inghirami of Siena, Filippo Beroaldo of Bologna, and Zanobio Acciaiuoli of Florence--made their mark in Roman society by erudition rather than by authorship.[390] Inghirami's eloquence won the admiration of contemporaries, who called him the second Cicero; as a writer he had no celebrity.[391] A fortunate find of MSS. at Bobbio earned for him the post of Vatican librarian. Leo, like all the members of the Medicean family, was bent upon the rediscovery of buried classics. But the world had been already ransacked, and, though he employed agents for this purpose in the East as well as Europe, only one great treasure came to light. Gian Angelo Arcimboldi disinterred the first five books of Tacitus's 'Annals' at Corvey, and sold them to the Pope for 500 golden florins. Filippo Beroaldo, who was entrusted with the task of editing this precious codex, received the librarianship as his reward. Leo's privilege granted to the printers of Beroaldo's edition expresses in truly noble language the highest ideal of humanism, and reflects real credit on his patronage of letters.[392] Of Acciaiuoli there is not much to say. His knowledge of Hebrew and the classic languages gained for him a reputation for singular learning. In his capacity as librarian he began to catalogue the documents of the 'Secreta Bibliotheca,' founded by Sixtus IV. It is worthy of notice that Acciaiuoli is the only Florentine whom we have had occasion to mention among the learned courtiers of Leo. Florence, always foremost in the van of culture, had shaken off at this period the traditions of strict humanism. Her greatest writers, Guicciardini, Machiavelli, Varchi, Segni, and Giannotti, exchanged the Latin language for their mother speech, and sought for honour in fields removed from verbal scholarship or Ciceronian niceties of phrase. [Footnote 390: Inghirami, made librarian 1510, died 1516. Beroaldo held the office two years, and died 1518. Acciaiuoli held it only for a few months. Aleander succeeded him in 1519.] [Footnote 391: '_Linguâ verius quam calamo celebrem ... dictus sui seculi Cicero_,' says Erasmus. '_Affluentissimum eloquentiæ flumen_' is Valeriano's phrase.] [Footnote 392: See Burckhardt, p. 174. Roscoe's _Life of Leo X._ vol. i. p. 357.] The Roman Sapienza never held the same rank as the Universities of Padua or Bologna; nor could it compete as an academy of culture with the High Schools of Florence and Ferrara. The Popes of the Renaissance, occupied with nepotism and political aggrandisement, had but small care for the interests of education. Nor did Rome, always overcrowded by foreigners, require the students who brought custom and prestige to minor cities.[393] Leo X. resolved, as far as he was able, to raise the studies of his capital from the decadence into which they had fallen. In 1513 he reformed the statutes of the University, increased the appointments of the professors, and founded several new chairs. Yet, though scholars no less respectable than Janus Parrhasius of Cosenza, Tommaso Inghirami, and Filippo Beroaldo were numbered among the teachers, the Sapienza failed to take firm root in Rome:--the most flourishing school of humanism at this period was Ferrara, governed by Leoniceno, Celio Calcagnini, and Lilius Gyraldus. To Hellenistic studies, just now upon the point of decadence in Italy, Leo gave encouragement by the establishment of a Greek press, and by the foundation of the Gymnasium Caballini Montis, where Joannes Lascaris and Marcus Musurus lectured. Musurus we have already learned to know as the inmate of Alberto Pio's palace at Carpi, and as Aldo's most efficient helper. Soon after his elevation to the Papacy, Leo invited the venerable Lascaris to Rome; but he did not long retain the services of so illustrious a Hellenist. Lascaris, who had taught Greek in Paris during the reign of Charles VIII., and who had long served Louis XII. as ambassador at Venice, was induced by Francis I. to superintend the library at Fontainebleau in 1518. He once more visited Rome during the pontificate of Clement, and died there at the age of ninety--the last of the Greek exiles who transplanted Hellas into Latium. Between the visit of Manuel Chrysoloras in 1398 and the death of John Lascaris in 1535 more than a century had elapsed, in the course of which Italy,[394] after acquiring Greek literature and committing its chief treasures to the press, had seen her learning pass beyond the Alps and flourish with new vigour on a northern soil. The epitaph composed by Lascaris for his own tomb in Santa Agata touchingly expresses the grief of an exile for his country's servitude, together with the gratitude of one who found a new home in an alien land:-- [Greek: Laskaris allodapê gaiê enikattheto, gaiên outi liên xeinên ô xene memphomenos. eureto meilichiên, all' achthetai eiper Achaiois oud' eti choun cheuei patris eleutherion]. [Footnote 393: See above, p. 86.] [Footnote 394: Cf. Giovio, close of the _Elogia_.] Any account of erudite society in Rome would be incomplete without some notice of its antiquaries. While the Pope and his cardinals were bent on collecting statues, coins, vases, and inscriptions, it was natural that the scholars should devote themselves to their illustration. Much of this industry was carried on by the academicians, who discussed difficult readings and exchanged opinions at their meetings. Treatises on Roman antiquities, topographical essays, and commentaries on Vitruvius and Frontinus abounded. Amid a multitude of minor works it will be enough to mention the cyclopædias of Andrea Fulvio and Bartolommeo Marliano, the comprehensive collection of inscriptions by Mazochi, and Valeriano's dissertation on the hieroglyphics of the Roman obelisks.[395] The greater number of these compositions were published by Jacopo Mazochi, bookseller to the Roman Academy, and himself no mean scholar. Together with his coadjutor, Francesco Albertini, he undertook what he describes as 'the Herculean labour' of saving inscribed tablets from the lime-kiln and the mason's hammer. Built into the walls of houses, embedded in church pavements, mingled with the rubbish of the Forum, unearthed by the mattock or the plough in vineyard and cornfield, these records of old history encumbered Rome. To decipher them as best he could, arrange them by the regions where they had been found, and incorporate his own readings with the previous collections of Ciriaco and Fra Giocondo,[396] was the object of Mazochi. His work formed the nucleus of the ponderous collection known as the _Corpus Inscriptionum_. [Footnote 395: _Andreas Fulvius Sabinus Antiquarius, Antiquitates Urbis Romæ_, 1527. _Bartholomæus Marlianus, Eques D. Petri, Urbis Romæ Topographia_, 1534. _Jacobus Mazochius, Epigrammata antiquæ urbis Romæ_, 1521. _Johannis Pierii Valeriani Hieroglyphica seu de Sacris Ægyptiorum_, &c., in his collected works, Ven. 1604.] [Footnote 396: The architect of Verona who first edited Vitruvius, and was employed by Lorenzo de' Medici in collecting inscriptions for him at Rome.] This is the proper occasion for resuming what has to be said about the Roman ruins, and the feeling for them shown in the Renaissance period. We have already listened to Poggio's lamentations over their gradual decay through wanton injury and lapse of time.[397] Pius II., who had a strong taste for topographical studies, endeavoured to protect the Roman monuments from depredation by a Bull in 1462. But his successors were less scrupulous. Even the scholarly Nicholas V. had shown more zeal for building modern Rome afresh than true regard for the imperial city. He levelled large portions of the wall of Servius Tullius, and quarried the Temple of Peace for his own edifices. In his days Blondus wrote that his life was embittered by the wholesale waste of ancient reliques. That Paul II. should have used the stone wall of the Coliseum for the Palace of S. Marco; that Sixtus IV. should have pulled down the circular Temple of Hercules, and destroyed the oldest bridge across the Tiber to make cannon balls; that Innocent VIII. should have empowered his architects to take what antique masonry they pleased--excites in us no wonder; these Popes were acting according to the spirit that was in them. Nor can it be denied that for some of their acts of Vandalism the excuse of utility or even of necessity might have been pleaded. It is, however, singular that no steps were taken to preserve in Rome the bas-reliefs and sculptures of the monuments thus overthrown. Everyone who chose laid hands upon them. Poggio scraped together what he could; Pomponius Lætus formed a museum; Lorenzo de' Medici and the Rucellai employed agents to select and ship to Florence choicer fragments. At last the impulse to collect possessed the Popes themselves. The Capitol Museum dates from 1471. The pretty statue of the boy pulling a thorn from his foot, the group of the lion clinging to a horse, the urn of Agrippina, and the bronze Hercules from the Forum Boarium formed the nucleus of this collection. Soon afterwards the equestrian statue of Marcus Aurelius was unearthed and placed where it now stands. The Vatican Museum was founded in 1523, when Julius II. erected the Apollo on a marble basis near the entrance to the gardens of the Belvedere. It had been discovered some years earlier at Porto d'Anzo, and was bought by Giuliano della Rovere before he was made Pope. The Laocoon came to light in 1506 among the ruins of the Baths of Titus in the vineyard of Felix de Fredis. How Giuliano di San Gallo and Michael Angelo heard of it, and walked abroad to see it disinterred, may still be read in the letter of Francesco, nephew of the former. Julius bought this group for six hundred golden crowns, and placed it in the Vatican. He also purchased the statue of the sleeping Ariadne, which then passed for Cleopatra,[398] together with the torso of Hercules, found near the Palazzo Pio, and the statue of Commodus dug up in the Campo Fiore. Leo X. further enriched the collection by the reclining statues of the Nile and Tiber, found among the ruins of the Iseum near S. Stefano in Caco, and the so-called Antinous discovered in the Baths of Trajan. [Footnote 397: See above, p. 111.] [Footnote 398: See Castiglione's verses.] The feeling of professed scholars for these masterpieces of classic art appears in Sadoleto's and Castiglione's poems, while a passage of Ghiberti's Commentary expresses the enthusiasm of technical sculptors. After describing an Hermaphrodite he saw in Rome, the Florentine sculptor adds: 'To express the perfection of learning, mastery, and art displayed in it is beyond the power of language. Its more exquisite beauties could not be discovered by the sight, but only by the touch of the hand passed over it.' Of another classic marble at Padua he says: 'This statue, when the Christian faith triumphed, was hidden in that place by some gentle soul, who, seeing it so perfect, fashioned with art so wonderful, and with such power of genius, and being moved to reverent pity, caused a sepulchre of bricks to be built, and there within buried the statue, and covered it with a broad slab of stone, that it might not in any way be injured. It has very many sweet beauties, which the eyes alone can comprehend not, either by strong or tempered light; only the hand by touching finds them out.'[399] Meanwhile a genuine sentiment for the truth and beauty of antique art passed downwards from the educated classes to the people. Like all powerful emotions that affect the popular imagination at epochs of imperfect knowledge and high sensibility, it took the form of fable. The beautiful myth of Julia's Corpse is our most precious witness to this moment in the history of the Revival.[400] At the same time the real intention of classic statuary was better understood. Donatello had not worked in vain for a public, finely tempered to receive æsthetic influences, and cultivated by two centuries of native art. The horsemen of Monte Cavallo ceased to be philosophers. Menander and Poseidippus were no longer reckoned among the saints. In the age of Leo, Carlo Malatesta could not have thrown Virgil's statue into the Mincio;[401] nor would the republic of Siena have buried their antique Venus by stealth in the Florentine territory, hoping thereby to transfer to their foes the curse of heathenism.[402] The effect produced on less impressionable natures by the Belvedere statues transpires in a curious document penned by a Venetian ambassador to Rome in 1523.[403] It is so valuable for illustrating the average culture of the Italians at that epoch, that I may allow myself the pleasure of rendering a full account of it. [Footnote 399: _Terzo Commentario del Ghiberti, Frammenti Inediti_, in Le Monnier's Vasari, vol. i. pp. xi.-xiii. I have paraphrased rather than translated the original, which is touching by reason of its naïveté.] [Footnote 400: See Vol. I., _Age of the Despots_, p. 17.] [Footnote 401: See Rosmini's _Vittorino da Feltre_, p. 63, note.] [Footnote 402: See Ghiberti's _Commentario_, in Le Monnier's Vasari, vol. i. p. xiv.] [Footnote 403: Alberi, _Relazioni Venete_, serie ii. vol. iii. p. 114, &c.] Adrian VI., soon after his accession, had walled up eleven of the twelve doors, leading to the Belvedere. The Venetian envoys, however, received permission to visit this portion of the Vatican palace, and the single entrance was unlocked for them. After describing the beauty of the gardens, their cypresses and orangeries, the greenness of their lawns and the stately order of their paved avenues, the writer of the report arrives at the statues. 'In the midst of the garden are two very large men of marble, facing one another, twice the size of life, who lie in the attitude of sleep. One of these is the Tiber, the other the Nile, figures of vast antiquity; and from beneath them issue two fair fountains. On the first entrance into the garden, on the left hand, there is a kind of little chapel let into the wall, where, on a pedestal of marble, stands the Apollo, famous throughout the world, a statue of incomparable beauty and dignity, of life size and of finest marble. Somewhat farther on, in a similar alcove and raised on a like pedestal to the height of an altar from the ground, opposite a well of most perfect fashion, is the Laocoon, celebrated throughout the world, a statue of the highest excellence, of size like a natural man, with hairy beard, all naked. The sinews, veins, and proper muscles in each part are seen as well as in a living body; breath alone is wanting. He is in a posture between sitting and standing, with his two sons, one on either hand, both, together with himself, twined by the serpents, as Virgil says. And herein is seen so great merit of the artist, that better could not be; the languishing and dying are manifest to sight, and one of the boys on the right side is most tightly clipped by the snake twice girdled round him; one of the coils crossing his breasts and squeezing his heart, so that he is on the point of dying. The other boy on the left side is also girdled round by another serpent. While he seeks to drag the raging worm from his leg with his little arm, and cannot help himself at all, he raises his face, all tearful, crying to his father, and holding him with his other hand by the left arm. And seeing his unhappy father more deadly struck than he is, the double grief of this child is clear to view, the one for his own coming death, the other for his father's helplessness; and he so faints withal, that nothing remains for him but to breathe his last. It is impossible that human art can arrive at producing so great and so natural a masterpiece. Every part is perfect, except that Laocoon's right arm is wanting. He seems about forty years of age, and resembles Messer Girolamo Marcello of S. Tommaso; the two boys look eight and nine respectively. Not far distant, and similarly placed, is a very beautiful Venus of natural size, naked, with a little drapery on her shoulder, that covers a portion of the waist; as very fair a figure as can be imagined by the mind; but the excellence of the Laocoon makes one forget this and the Apollo, who before was so famous.' A systematic plan for exploring the monuments of old Rome, excavating its ruins, and bringing its buried treasures of statuary to light was furnished by Raphael in 1518. Leo had made him master of the works at S. Peter's and general superintendent of antiquities.[404] For some time previously he had been studying Vitruvius in the Italian translation prepared for his use by Fabio Calvi of Ravenna. How enthusiastically he followed in the traces of the ancients, the arabesques of the Loggie, imitated from the frescoes of the Baths of Titus, amply prove. He now, not long before his death, laid down a ground-plan of the city, divided into fourteen regions, and set forth his project in a memorable letter to the Pope. This epistle, written in choice old Italian, has more than once been printed: it will be found in Passavant's Life of the painter. Raphael begins by describing the abandonment and desolation of the city, and by characterising its several styles of architecture--classical, Lombard, Gothic, and modern.[405] Some phrases that occur in this exordium deserve to be cited for the light they cast upon the passion which inspired those early excavators. 'Considerando la divinitate di quelli animi antichi ... vedendo quasi il cadavere di quest'alma nobile cittate, che è stata regia del mondo, così miseramente lacerato ... quanti pontefici hanno permesso le ruine et disfacimenti delli templi antichi, delle statue, delli archi et altri edificii, gloria delli lor fondatori! Quanti hanno comportato che solamente per pigliare terra pozzolana si siano scavati i fondamenti! Onde in poco tempo li edificii sono venuti a terra. Quanta calcina si è fatta di statue e d'altri ornamenti antichi! che ardirei dire che tutta questa nova Roma, che hor si vede, quanto grande ch'ella vi sia, quanto bella, quanto ornata di pallazzi, di chiese et di altri edificii, sia fabricata di calcina fatta di marmi antichi.'[406] He then observes that during his twelve years' residence in Rome the Meta in the Via Alexandrina, the arches at the entrance to the Baths of Diocletian and the Temple of Ceres in the Via Sacra, part of the Foro Transitorio, and the larger portion of the Basilica del Foro have been destroyed. Therefore he prays Leo to arrest this work of the new Vandals, and, by pursuing a well-considered scheme of operations, to lay bare and to protect what still remains of antique monuments in the Eternal City. [Footnote 404: By a brief dated Aug. 27, 1515.] [Footnote 405: It may be observed that he calls the round-arched buildings of the Middle Ages Gothic; the pointed style German.] [Footnote 406: 'When we reflect upon the divinity of those intellects of the old world ... when we see the corpse of this noble city, mother and queen of the world, so piteously mangled ... how many Pontiffs have allowed the ruin and defacement of ancient temples, statues, arches, and other buildings, the glory of their founders! How many have suffered their foundations to be undermined for the mere sake of quarrying _pozzolana_, whereby in a short time the buildings themselves have fallen to earth! How much lime has been made of statues and other antique decorations! I should not hesitate to say that the whole of this new Rome which now meets the eye, great as it is, and fair, and beautified with palaces and churches and other buildings, has been cemented with lime made from antique marbles.'] Raphael's own death followed close upon the execution of the first part of a Roman map designed by him. Great interest had been excited in the world of letters by his undertaking; and its failure through his untimely end aroused the keenest disappointment. The epigrams quoted below in a footnote express these feelings with more depth of emotion than scholarly elegance.[407] How Raphael's design would have been carried out it is impossible to guess. Archæological zeal is impotent to stay the march of time, except by sacrifice of much that neglect alone makes venerable; and it may fairly be questioned whether it is wise to lay the hand of the restorer on these relics of the past. We at least, who during the last few years have seen the Coliseum and the Baths of Caracalla stripped of their romantic vegetation, the Palatine ruins fortified with modern masonry, and the dubious guesses of antiquaries placarded upon sign-posts for the instruction of Sunday visitors, may feel, perhaps, that a worse fate than slow decay or ruthless mutilation was still in store for the majestic corpse of ancient Rome. Nothing, in truth, is less sublime or more pitiful than a dismantled brick wall, robbed of its marbles and mosaics, naked of the covering of herbs that nature gave it, patched with plaster, propped with stonework, bound by girders, and smeared over with the trail of worse than snails or blindworms--pedants bent on restoration. [Footnote 407: Tot proceres Romam, tam longa struxerat ætas, Totque hostes et tot sæcula diruerant; Nunc Romam in Româ quærit reperitque Raphael; Quærere magni hominis, sed reperire Dei est. Celio Calcagnini. Quod lacerum corpus medicâ sanaverit arte, Hippolytum Stygiis et revocarit aquis, Ad Stygias ipse est raptus Epidaurius undas; Sic pretium vitæ mors fuit artifici. Tu quoque dum toto laniatam corpore Romam Componis miro, Raphael, ingenio, Atque urbis lacerum ferro, igne, armisque cadaver Ad vitam antiquum jam revocasque decus, Movisti Superum invidiam; indignataque mors est Te dudum extinctis reddere posse animam, Et quod longa dies paullatim aboleverat, hoc te Mortali spretâ lege parare iterum. Sic miser heu primâ cadis intercepte juventâ: Debere et morti nostraque nosque mones. Baldassare Castiglione.] The immediate and most important consequence of these antiquarian pursuits was the adoption of classic forms by architects and artists. Fresco-painters imitated the newly-discovered _grotteschi_ in their arabesques.[408] Sculptors abandoned Christian subjects for antique mythology, or gave the attributes of heroes to the saints of the Catholic Church. The principles of Vitruvius were applied as strictly as possible to modern buildings, and the free decoration of the earlier Renaissance yielded to what passed for purely classic ornaments. It would be incorrect to maintain that this reproduction of antiquity in art only dated from the age of Leo. Alberti and Brunelleschi, Bramante and Michellozzo, had, each in his own way, striven to assimilate to modern use the style of Roman architecture. Donatello and Michael Angelo at Florence had carved statues in the classic manner; nor are the arabesques of Signorelli at Orvieto, of Perugino at Perugia, less fanciful than those of Raphael in the Loggie. What really happened was that the imitation of the ancients grew more puristic and precise through the formation of a common taste that imposed itself with the weight of authority on artists. Giulio Romano's Palazzo del Te at Mantua may be cited as the most perfect production of this epoch, combining, as it does, all forms of antique decoration and construction with the vivid individuality of genius. Giulio Romano comprehended the antique, and followed it with the enthusiasm of a neophyte. But his very defects prevented him from falling into the frigid formalism of Palladio. [Footnote 408: See Benvenuto Cellini, i. 31.] The causes of Roman pre-eminence in this last age of humanism are not far to seek. By the policy of Alexander and Julius the Papal See had become the chief power in Italy. Venice never publicly encouraged literature, nor was the ambition of her nobles fixed on anything so much as the aggrandisement of the Republic. In the beginning of the sixteenth century their energy was needed no longer for the extension of Venetian rule, but for its preservation under the attack of Europe leagued against the city of the sea. Florence, divided between the parties of the Piagnoni and the Ottimati, reserved her failing vigour for the great struggle of 1529. The Medici, after absorbing what remained of mental force into their own circle, had transferred the Florentine traditions of culture with Giovanni and Giulio to Rome. At Naples the Aragonese dynasty had been already shaken to its foundation by the conspiracy of the Barons and by the conquest of Charles VIII. Ferdinand the Catholic and Louis XII. were now intent upon dividing the southern provinces of Italy between them. Little opportunity was left, if inclination had remained, for patronising men of letters at a Court suspicious of its aristocracy and terrified by foreign interference. Milan, first among the towns of Lombardy, was doomed to bear the brunt of French, and Swiss, and German armies. To maintain the semblance of their dukedom taxed the weakness of the Sforzas to the utmost, while the people groaned beneath the fiendish cruelty of Spanish governors. The smaller principalities had been destroyed by Cesare Borgia and Julius. Ferrara, Mantua and Urbino, at the beginning of the century, alone continued the traditions of the previous age. Rome, meanwhile, however insecure the Papal rule might be, still ranked among the Powers of Europe, pursuing a policy on equal terms with France and Spain. In Rome money abounded; nor had the sacred city of Christendom felt as yet the scourge of war, that broke the spirit of the Northern capitals. It was but natural, therefore, that the political and intellectual energies of the Italians should find their centre here. Sad times, however, were in store for Rome. When Leo's successor read the Latin letters of the Apostolic secretaries, he cried, '_Sunt litteræ unius poetæ_;' and after walking through the Belvedere Gallery, he gave vent to his feelings in the famous exclamation, '_Sunt idola antiquorum_.' The humanists had nothing to expect from such a master. The election of Giulio de' Medici restored the hope that Rome might once more be as it had been beneath the sway of Leo. Yet for Clement VII. was reserved the final bitterness of utter ruin. In the fourth year of his papacy happened the catastrophe that closed one period of Italian history, and opened a new era for Rome and for the nation. The tale of the sack has been already told.[409] A fitting conclusion for this chapter may be found in Valeriano's discourse upon its consequences to the literary society assembled by the Medici at the Papal Court. [Footnote 409: Vol. I., _Age of Despots_, App. V.] Valeriano's dialogue 'De Literatorum Infelicitate' opens with a description of Rome in the pontificate of Leo.[410] Never since the downfall of the Empire, he says, had letters flourished so freely or had men of learning found more generous patronage. Of that brilliant company Valeriano was himself an ornament. The friend of Egidius and the favourite of Leo, he spent his time in the composition of Latin poems, panegyrical and satiric, and in the exploration of antiquities. Afterwards he became the protonotary of Clement, and supervised the education of the Medicean bastards Alessandro and Ippolito. His good fortune carried him to Piacenza in the fatal year of 1527. On his return to Rome after the siege, he looked in vain for his old comrades and associates. 'Good God!' he exclaims in the dialogue before us, 'when first I began to inquire for the philosophers, orators, poets, and professors of Greek and Latin literature, whose names were written on my tablets, how great, how horrible a tragedy was offered to me! Of all those lettered men whom I had hoped to see, how many had perished miserably, carried off by the most cruel of all fates, overwhelmed by undeserved calamities: some dead of plague, some brought to a slow end by penury in exile, others slaughtered by a foeman's sword, others worn out by daily tortures; some, again, and these of all the most unhappy, driven by anguish to self-murder.' John Goritz, captured by his countrymen, had ransomed himself with the sacrifice of all his wealth, and now was dying of despair at Verona. Colocci had seen his house, with its museums and MSS., burned before his eyes. Angelo Cesi, maltreated by the Spanish soldiers on a sick bed, died of his injuries before the year was out. Marone, the brilliant improvisatore, stripped of everything and deprived of his poems, the accumulated compositions of years spent in Leo's service, breathed his last in a miserable tavern. Marco Fabio Calvi, Raphael's friend and teacher, succumbed to sickness in a hospital. Julianus Camers, maddened by the sight of the torments inflicted on his servants, had thrown himself from a window in his house, and was killed. Baldus, the professor, after watching his commentary upon Pliny used to light the camp fires of the soldiery, had died himself of hunger. Casanova, the poet, fell a victim to the plague. Paolo Bombasi, another poet, was murdered in the streets of Rome. Cristoforo Marcello had been tortured by the Spaniards. Exposed naked on a tree, his nails were daily drawn from his fingers by these human fiends; he only escaped their clutches to die of his injuries at Gaeta. Laomedon Tardolus and John Bonifacius Victor suffered similar indignities and torments. Francesco Fortunio and John Valdes slew themselves. To enumerate all the scholars who succumbed to fear, plague, famine, torture, and imprisonment in this fatal year; to relate how numbers left Rome, robbed of everything, to wander over Italy, and die of hunger by the wayside, or of fever in low hovels; to describe the losses of their MSS., their madness, beggary, mysterious disappearances, and deaths by hands of servants or of brigands on the high roads, would occupy more space than I have left at my command. The ghastly muster roll is told with terrible concision by Valeriano, who adds divers examples, unconnected with the sack, of early deaths by over-study, lingering illnesses, murders by poison or the knife, and accidents of every kind, attributable more or less directly to the shifting career of students at that time in Italy. [Footnote 410: Printed at Venice, 1620.] Though the wars in Lombardy proved scarcely less fatal to men of letters than the siege of Rome, those disasters fell singly and at intervals. The ever-memorable stage of the Eternal City was reserved for the crowning tragedy of arts and letters. Whatever vicious seeds had been sown in Italy by the humanists had blossomed and borne fruit in Rome; and there the Nemesis of pride and insolence, and godlessness of evil living, fell upon them like a bolt from heaven. In essays, epistles, and funeral orations they amply recognised the justice of their punishment. A phrase of Hieronymus Niger's in a letter to Sadoleto--'Rome, that is the sink of all things shameful and abominable'--might serve as the epitome of their conscience-stricken Jeremiads.[411] All Italy re-echoed with these lamentations; and though Clement VII. and Paul III. did their best to repiece the ruins of Leo's golden house of fame, the note of despair and anguish uttered by the scholars in 1527 was never destined to be drowned by chorus hymeneal or triumphal chant again. What remained of humanism among the Italians assumed a different form, adapted to the new rule of the Spaniards and the new attitude of the Church. To the age of the Humanists succeeded the age of the Inquisitors and Jesuits. [Footnote 411: 'Quod Romæ, hoc est in sentinâ omnium rerum atrocium et pudendarum deprehensi fuerimus.' Quoted by Gregorovius, _Stadt Rom_, vol. viii. p. 598, note 3.] CHAPTER VIII LATIN POETRY Special Causes for the Practice of Latin Versification in Italy -- The Want of an Italian Language -- Multitudes of Poetasters -- Beccadelli -- Alberti's 'Philodoxus' -- Poliziano -- The 'Sylvæ' -- 'Nutricia', 'Rusticus', 'Manto', 'Ambra' -- Minor Poems -- Pontano -- Sannazzaro -- Elegies and Epigrams -- Christian Epics -- Vida's 'Christiad' -- Vida's 'Poetica' -- Fracastoro -- The 'Syphilis' -- _Barocco_ Flatteries -- Bembo -- Immoral Elegies -- Imitations of Ovid and Tibullus -- The 'Benacus' -- Epitaphs -- Navagero -- Epigrams and Eclogues -- Molsa -- Poem on his own Death -- Castiglione -- 'Alcon' and 'Lycidas' -- Verses of Society -- The Apotheosis of the Popes -- Poem on the Ariadne of the Vatican -- Sadoleto's Verses on the Laocoon -- Flaminio -- His Life -- Love of the Country -- Learned Friends -- Scholar-Poets of Lombardy -- Extinction of Learning in Florence -- Decay of Italian Erudition. The history of this last period of the Revival would be incomplete without a survey of its Latin poetry. I shall have failed to convey a right notion of the tendencies of humanism, if I have not shown that the Italians were seeking not merely to acquire a knowledge of ancient literature, but also to effect a resuscitation of antiquity in their own writings. Regarding themselves as the heirs of Rome, separated from the brilliant period of Latin civilisation by ten centuries of ignorance, they strove with all their might to seize the thread of culture at the very point where the poets of the Silver Age had dropped it. In the opinion of Northern races it might seem unnatural or unpatriotic to woo the Muses in a dead language; but for Italians the Camoenæ had not died; on the hills of Latium, where they fell asleep, they might awake again. Every familiar sight and sound recalled 'the rich Virgilian rustic measure' of the 'Georgics' and 'Bucolics.' Nature had not changed, nor did the poets feel the influence of Christianity so deeply as to find no meaning in the mythic phraseology of Fauns and Nymphs. Latin, again, was far less a language of the past for the Italians than for other European nations. What risk the Tuscan dialect ran, when Dante wrote the first lines of the 'Divine Comedy' in Latin, and when Petrarch assumed the laurel crown by right of his 'Africa', is known to every student. The serious efforts of the greatest writers were for centuries devoted to Latin composition, because they believed that the nation, in the modern as in the ancient world, might freely use the speech of Cicero and Virgil. Their _volgari cose_ they despised as trifles, not having calculated the impotence of scholars or of kings to turn the streams of language from their natural courses. Nor was this blindness so inexplicable as it seems to us at first sight. Italy possessed no common dialect; Dante's 'Italiano Illustre,' or 'Cortegiano', was even less native to the race at large, less universal in its use, than Latin.[412] Fashioned from the Tuscan for literary purposes, selected from the vocabulary of cultivated persons, stripped of vernacular idioms, and studied in the works of a few standard authors, it was itself, upon the soil that gave it birth, a product of high art and conscious culture. The necessity felt soon after Dante's death for translating the 'Divine Comedy' into Latin, sufficiently proves that a Latin poem gained a larger audience than the masterpiece of Italian literature. While the singer of a dialect, however noble, appealed to his own fellow-citizens, the Latin poet gave his verses _urbi et orbi_. If another proof of the artificiality of Italian were needed, we should find it in the fact that the phrases of Petrarch are not less obsolete now than in the fourteenth century. The English require a glossary for Chaucer, and even Elizabethan usages are out of date; in other words, the language of the people has outgrown the style of its first poets. But Italian has undergone no process of transformation and regeneration according to the laws of organic growth, since it first started. The different districts still use different dialects, while writers in all parts of the peninsula have conformed their style as far as possible to early Tuscan models. It may be questioned whether united Italy, having for the first time gained the necessary conditions of national concentration, is not now at last about to enter on a new phase of growth in literature, which, after many years, will make the style of the first authors more archaic than it seems at present. [Footnote 412: Cf. Filelfo, quoted in a note to the next chapter, who says,'Tuscan is hardly known to all Italians, while Latin is spread far and wide throughout the whole world.'] The foregoing observations were requisite in order to explain why the cultivation of Latin poetry was no mere play-work to Italian scholars. The peculiar direction given by Petrarch to classical studies at the outset must also be taken into account. We have seen that he regarded rhetoric and poetry as the two chief aims of humanism. To be either a poet or an orator was the object of all students who had slaked their thirst at the Castalian springs of ancient learning. Philology and poetry, accordingly, went hand in hand through the periods of the Revival; and to this first impulse we are perhaps justified in tracing back the prominence assigned to Latin verse in our own school studies. Poetry being thus regarded as a necessary branch of scholarship, it followed that few men distinguished for their learning abstained from versification. Pedants who could do no more than make prosaic elegiacs scan, and scholars respectable for their acquirements, but destitute of inspiration, were reckoned among the _sacri vates_. It would be a weariful--nay, hopeless--task to pass all the Latin versifiers of the Renaissance in review. Their name is legion; even to count them would be the same as to number the stars--_ad una ad una annoverar le stelle_. It may be considered fortunate that perhaps the larger masses of their productions still remain in manuscript, partly because they preceded the age of printing, and partly, no doubt, because the good sense of the age rejected them. What has been printed, however, exceeds in bulk the 'Corpus Poetarum Latinorum,' and presents so many varieties that to deal with more than a selection is impossible.[413] [Footnote 413: I purpose in this chapter to use the _Delitiæ Poetarum Italorum_, two parts divided into 4 vols., 1608; _Carmina Quinque Illustrium Poetarum_, Bergomi, 1753; _Poemata Selecta Italorum_, Oxonii, 1808; and _Selecta Poemata Italorum_, accurante A. Pope, Londini, 1740.] The poetasters of the first two periods need not be taken into account. Struggling with a language imperfectly assimilated, and with the rules of a prosody as yet but little understood, it was as much as they could do to express themselves at all in metre. Elegance of composition was out of the question when a writer could neither set forth modern thoughts with ease nor imitate the classic style with accuracy. What he lost in force by the use of a dead language, he did not gain in polish; nor was the taste of the age schooled to appreciate the niceties of antique diction. Beccadelli alone, by a certain limpid fluency, attained to a degree of moderate excellence; and how much he owed to his choice of subject may be questioned. The obscenity of his themes, and the impudence required for their expression, may have acted as a stimulus to his not otherwise distinguished genius. There is, moreover, no stern conflict to be fought with phrases when the author's topic is mere animalism. The rest of his contemporaries, Filelfo included, did no more than smooth the way for their successors by practising the technicalities of verse and exciting emulation. To surpass their rude achievements was not difficult, while the fame they enjoyed aroused the ambition of younger rivals. Exception to this sweeping verdict may be made in favour of Alberti, whose Latin play, called 'Philodoxus,' was a brilliant piece of literary workmanship.[414] Not only did it impose on contemporaries as a genuine classic, but, even when judged by modern standards, it shows real familiarity with the language of Latin comedy and rare skill in its employment. [Footnote 414: Bonucci's edition of Alberti's works, vol. i. Alberti's own preface, in the form of a dedicatory letter to Lionello d'Este, describes how he came to write this comedy, and how it was passed off upon contemporaries as an original play by Lepidus Comicus. _Ib._ pp. cxxi.-cxxiii.] Poliziano is the first Latin poet who compels attention in the fifteenth century; nor was he surpassed, in fertility of conception and mastery of metre, by any of his numerous successors. With all his faults of style and crudities of diction, Poliziano, in my opinion, deserves the chief place among original poets of revived Latin literature. Bembo wrote more elegantly, Navagero more classically, Amalteo with a grace more winning. Yet these versifiers owe their celebrity to excellence of imitation. Poliziano possessed a manner of his own, and made a dead language utter thoughts familiar to the age in which he lived. He did not merely traverse the old ground of the elegy, the epigram, the satire, and the idyll. Striking out a new path for himself, and aiming at instruction, he poured forth torrents of hexameters, rough perhaps and over-fluent, yet marked by intellectual energy and copious fancy, in illustration of a modern student's learning. This freedom of handling is shown to best advantage in his 'Sylvæ.'[415] [Footnote 415: See above, p. 254, for the purpose fulfilled by the _Sylvæ_.] The 'Nutricia' forms an introduction to the history of poetry in general, and carries on its vigorous stream the weight of universal erudition. From it we learn how the most accomplished scholar of his century judged and distinguished the whole body of fine literature possessed by his contemporaries. On the emergence of humanity from barbarism, writes Poliziano, poetry was given to men as a consolation for the miseries of life and as an instrument of culture; their first nurse in the cradle of civilisation was the Muse:-- Musa quies hominum, divomque æterna voluptas.[416] [Footnote 416: 'Of men the solace, and of gods the everlasting joy.'] After characterising the Pagan oracles, the mythical bards of Hellas, and the poet-prophets of the Jewish race, with brief but telling touches, Poliziano addresses himself in the following lines to the delineation of the two chief epic-singers:-- ... etenim ut stellas fugere undique cælo, Aurea cum radios Hyperionis exeruit fax, Cernimus, et tenuem velut evanescere lunam; Sic veterum illustres flagranti obscurat honores Lampade Mæonides: unum quem dia canentem Facta virum, et sævas æquantem pectine pugnas, Obstupuit, prorsusque parem confessus Apollo est. Proximus huic autem, vel ni veneranda senectus Obstiterit, fortasse prior, canit arma virumque Vergilius, cui rure sacro, cui gramine pastor Ascræus, Siculusque simul cessere volentes.[417] [Footnote 417: 'As from the heavens we see the stars on all sides fleeing, when the golden torch of the sun-god rises, and the diminished moon appears to fade; so with his burning lamp Mæonides obscures the honours of the earlier bards. Him alone, while he sang the divine deeds of heroes, and with his lyre arrayed fierce wars, Apollo, wonder-struck, confessed his equal. Close at his side, or higher even, but for the veneration due to age, Vergil entones the song of arms and the hero--Vergil, to whom from holy tilth and pasture land both Ascra's and Sicilia's shepherds yield their sway with willing homage.'--_Quinque Illustrium Poetarum Carmina_, p. 167.] Then follows the enumeration of lesser Greek and Roman epopoeists. After them the lyrists and elegiac poets, among whom Pindar is celebrated in the following magniloquent paragraph:-- Aërios procul in tractus, et nubila supra Pindarus it Dircæus olor, cui nectare blandæ Os tenerum libâstis apes, dum fessa levaret Membra quiete puer mollem spirantia somnum; Sed Tanagræa suo mox jure poetria risit, Irrita qui toto sereret figmenta canistro; Tum certare auso palmam intercepit opimam Æoliis prælata modis atque illice formâ. Ille Agathocleâ subnisus voce coronas Dixit Olympiacas, et quâ victoribus Isthmos Fronde comam, Delphique tegant, Nemeæaque tesqua Lunigenam mentita feram; tum numina divum Virtutesque, virosque undanti pectore torrens Provexit, sparsitque pios ad funera questus. Frugibus hunc libisque virum Cirrhæus ab arâ Phoebus, et accubitu mensæ dignatus honoro est: Panaque pastores solis videre sub antris Pindarico tacitas mulcentem carmine silvas. Inde senem pueri gremio cervice repostâ Infusum, et dulci laxantem corda sopore, Protinus ad manes, et odoro gramine pictum Elysium tacitâ rapuit Proserpina dextrâ. Quin etiam hostiles longo post tempore flammæ, Quæ septemgeminas populabant undique Thebas, Expavere domum tanti tamen urere vatis, Et sua posteritas medios quoque tuta per enses Sensit inexhaustâ cinerem juvenescere famâ.[418] [Footnote 418: 'Far off into the tracts of air and high above the clouds soars Pindar, the Dircæan swan, whose tender mouth ye gentle bees with nectar fed, while the boy gave rest to weary limbs that breathed soft slumber. But him the maid of Tanagra derided, what time she told him that he sowed his myths from the whole sack to waste; and when he dared contend with her in song, she bore away the victor's palm, triumphant by Æolian moods, and by her seductive beauty too. He with his mighty voice, trained in the school of Agathocles, sang the crowns of Olympia and the garlands wherewith the Isthmus and Delphi, and the Nemean wastes that falsely claimed the moon-born monster, shade the athlete's brows. Then, like a torrent, with swelling soul, he passed to celebrate the powers and virtues of the gods and heroes, and poured forth pious lamentations for the dead. Him Phoebus, lord of Cirrha, honoured with food and drink from his altar, and made him guest-fellow at his own board: shepherds too saw Pan in lonely caverns charming the woods with a Pindaric song. At last, when he was old, and lay with his neck reclined upon the bosom of the boy he loved, soothing his soul in sleep, Proserpina with still right hand approached and took him straight to join the shades and pace Elysium's fragrant meads. Nay, more: long afterwards, the foeman's flames, which laid seven-gated Thebes in ruins far and wide, these names dared not to burn so great a poet's house; and his descendants, safe 'mid a thousand swords, learned that his ashes still were young through fame that lives for aye.'--_Carmina_, &c. p. 173.] Sappho is described in the following lines:-- lyricis jam nona poetis Æolis accedit Sappho, quæ flumina propter Pierias legit ungue rosas, unde implicet audax Serta Cupido sibi, niveam quæ pectine blando Cyrinnem, Megaramque simul, cumque Atthide pulchram Cantat Anactorien, et crinigeram Telesippen; Et te conspicuum recidivo flore juventæ Miratur revocatque, Phaon, seu munera vectæ Puppe tuâ Veneris, seu sic facit herba potentem: Sed tandem Ambracias temeraria saltat in undas.[419] [Footnote 419: 'Ninth among lyric bards, Æolian Sappho joins the crew; she who by flowing water plucks Pieria's rose for venturous Love to twine in wreaths for his own brow; who with her dulcet lyre sings fair Cyrinna's charms, and Megara, and Atthis and sweet Anactoria, and Telesippa of the flowing hair. And thee, too, Phaon, beautiful in youth's rathe flower, on thee she gazes, thee she calls again; such power to thee gave Venus for her freightage in thy skiff, or else the herb of love. Yet at the last, not wisely bold, she leaps into the Ambracian waves.' _Ib._ &c. p. 175.] Having disposed of the lyrists, Poliziano proceeds to the dramatic poets. His brief notice of the three Attic tragedians is worthy of quotation, if only because it proves what we should suspect from other indications, that the best scholars of the earlier Renaissance paid them little attention. The facts mentioned in the following lines seem to be derived from the gossip of Athenæus:-- Æschylus aëriæ casu testudinis ictus, Quemque senem meritæ rapuerunt gaudia palmæ, Quemque tegit rabidis lacerum pia Pella molossis.[420] [Footnote 420: 'Æschylus, smitten by a tortoise falling from the air above his head, and he whose triumph, justly won in old age, killed him with excess of joy, and he whose body, torn by raging hounds, the reverent earth of Pella hides.'--_Carmina_, &c. p. 176.] Nor are his observations on the comic dramatists less meagre.[421] The Roman poets having been passed in the same rapid review, Poliziano salutes the founders of Italian literature in the following fine passage:-- Nec tamen aligerum fraudarim hoc munere Dantem, Per Styga, per stellas, mediique per ardua montis Pulchra Beatricis sub virginis ora volantem: Quique Cupidineum repetit Petrarcha triumphum: Et qui bis quinis centum argumenta diebus Pingit, et obscuri qui semina monstrat amoris: Unde tibi immensæ veniunt præconia laudis, Ingeniis opibusque potens Florentia mater.[422] [Footnote 421: _Ib._ p. 177.] [Footnote 422: 'Nor yet of this meed of honour would I cheat wing-bearing Dante, who flew through hell, through the starry heavens, and o'er the intermediate hill of purgatory beneath the beauteous brows of Beatrice; and Petrarch too, who tells again the tale of Cupid's triumph; or him who in ten days portrays a hundred stories, and lays bare the seeds of hidden love: from whom unmeasured fame and name are thine, by wit and wealth twice potent, Florence, mother of great sons!'--_Ib._ p. 178.] The transition to Lorenzo at this point is natural. A solemn peroration in praise of the Medicean prince, himself a poet, whose studies formed the recreation of severer labours, ends the composition. This is written in Poliziano's best style, and, though it is too long to quote, six lines may be selected as indicating the theme of the argument:-- Quodque alii studiumque vocant durumque laborem, Hic tibi ludus erit; fessus civilibus actis Huc is emeritas acuens ad carmina vires: Felix ingenio, felix cui pectore tantas Instaurare vices, cui fas tam magna capaci Alternare animo, et varias ita nectere curas.[423] [Footnote 423: 'What other men call study and hard toil, that for thee shall be pastime; wearied with deeds of state, to this thou hast recourse, and dost address the vigour of thy well-worn powers to song: blest in thy mental gifts, blest to be able thus to play so many parts, to vary thus the great cares of thy all-embracing mind, and weave so many divers duties into one.'--_Carmina_, &c. p. 179.] We possess the whole of Poliziano in the 'Nutricia.' It displays the energy of intellect that carried him on bounding verse through the intricacies of a subject difficult by reason of its scope and magnitude. All his haste is here, his inability to polish or select, his lava-stream of language hurrying the dross of prose and scoriæ of erudition along a burning tide of song. His memory held, as it were, in solution all the matter of antique literature; and when he wrote, he poured details forth in torrents, combining them with critical remarks, for the double purpose of instruction and panegyric. Taken at the lowest valuation by students to whom his copious stores of knowledge are familiar, the vivid and continuous melody of his leaping hexameters places the 'Nutricia' above the lucubrations of more fastidious Latinists. We must also remember that, when it was recited from the professorial Chair of Rhetoric at Florence, the magnetism of Poliziano's voice and manner supplied just that touch of charm the poem lacks for modern readers; nor was the matter so hackneyed at the end of the fifteenth century as it is now. Lilius Gyraldus, subjecting the 'Sylvæ' to criticism at a time when Latin poetry had been artistically polished by the best wits of the age of Leo, passed upon them a judgment which may even now be quoted as final.[424] 'Poliziano's learning was marvellous, his genius fervent and well-trained, his reading extensive and uninterrupted; yet he appears to have composed his verses with more heat than art, using too little judgment both in the selection of his materials and in the correction of his style. When, however, you read his 'Sylvæ,' the impression left upon your mind will be such that for the moment you will lack nothing.' [Footnote 424: 'Dialogus de Poetis nostri Temporis.' _Opp._ vol. ii. p. 388. Edition of Basle, 1580.] The second poem of the 'Sylvæ,' entitled 'Rusticus,' forms an induction to the study of bucolic poets, principally Hesiod and Virgil. It is distinguished by more originality and play of fancy than the 'Nutricia;' some of its delineations of landscape and sketches of country life compete not unfavourably with similar passages in the author's 'Stanze.' To dwell upon these beauties in detail, and to compare Poliziano, the Latin poet, with Poliziano, the Italian, would be a pleasant task. Yet I must confine myself to quoting the last, and in some respects the least imaginative, lines, for the sake of their historical interest. Careggi and Florence, Lorenzo and his circle of literary friends, rise before us in these verses:-- Talia Fesuleo lentus meditabar in antro, Rure suburbano Medicum, quâ mons sacer urbem Mæoniam, longique volumina despicit Arni: Quâ bonus hospitium felix placidamque quietem Indulget Laurens, Laurens haud ultima Phoebi Gloria, jactatis Laurens fida anchora Musis; Qui si certa magis permiserit otia nobis, Afflabor majore Deo, nec jam ardua tantum Silva meas voces, montanaque saxa loquentur, Sed tu, si qua fides, tu nostrum forsitan olim, O mea blanda altrix, non aspernabere carmen, Quamvis magnorum genitrix Florentia vatum, Doctaque me triplici recinet facundia linguâ.[425] [Footnote 425: 'On themes like these I spent my hours of leisure in the grottoes of Fiesole, at the Medicean villa, where the holy hill looks down upon the Mæonian city, and surveys the windings of the distant Arno. There good Lorenzo gives his friends a happy home and rest from cares; Lorenzo, not the last of Phoebus' glorious band; Lorenzo, the firm anchor of the Muses tempest-tost. If only he but grant me greater ease, the inspiration of a mightier god will raise my soul; nor shall the lofty woods alone and mountain rocks resound my words; but thou--such faith have I--thou too shalt sometime hear, kind nurse of mine, nor haply scorn my song, thou, Florence, mother of imperial bards, and learned eloquence in three great tongues shall give me fame.' _Carmina_, &c. p. 196.] The third canto of the 'Sylvæ' is called 'Manto.' It relates the birth of Virgil, to whom the Muses gave their several gifts, while the Sibyl of Mantua foretold his future course of life and all the glories he should gain by song. The poem concludes with a rhetorical eulogy of Rome's chief bard, so characteristic of Renaissance enthusiasm for Virgil that to omit a portion of it from these pages would be to sacrifice one of the most striking examples of Italian taste in scholarship:-- At manet æternum, et seros excurrit in annos Vatis opus, dumque in tacito vaga sidera mundo Fulgebunt, dum sol nigris orietur ab Indis, Prævia luciferis aderit dum curribus Eos, Dum ver tristis hiems, autumnum proferet æstas, Dumque fluet spirans refluetque reciproca Tethys, Dum mixta alternas capient elementa figuras, Semper erit magni decus immortale Maronis, Semper inexhaustis ibunt hæc flumina venis, Semper ab his docti ducentur fontibus haustus, Semper odoratos fundent hæc gramina flores, Unde piæ libetis apes, unde inclyta nectat Serta comis triplici juvenalis Gratia dextrâ.[426] [Footnote 426: 'Nay, but for everlasting lives our poet's work, abides, and goes forth toward the ages late in time. So long as in the silent firmament the stars shall shine; so long as day shall rise from sun-burned Ind; so long as Phosphor runs before the wheels of light; so long as gloomy winter leads to spring, and summer to autumn; while breathing ocean ebbs and flows by turns, and the mixed elements put on their changing shapes--so long, for ever, shall endure great Maro's fame, for ever shall flow these rivers from his unexhausted fount, for ever shall draughts of learning be drawn from these rills, for ever shall these meadows yield their perfumed flowers, to pasture holy bees, and give the youthful Graces garlands for their hair.'--_Carmina_, &c. p. 207.] Not less ingenious than the poem itself is the elegiac introduction. Poliziano feigns that when the Minyæ came to Cheiron's cave on Pelion, and supped with him, Orpheus sang a divine melody, and then the young Achilles took the lyre, and with rude fingers praised the poet's song. The Minyæ smiled, but Orpheus was touched by the boy-hero's praises. Even so will Maro haply take delight in mine:-- Finis erat dapibus; citharam pius excitat Orpheus, Et movet ad doctas verba canora manus. Conticuere viri, tenuere silentia venti, Vosque retro cursum mox tenuistis aquæ. Jam volucres fessis pendere sub æthera pennis, Jamque truces videas ora tenere feras. Decurrunt scopulis auritæ ad carmina quercus, Nudaque Peliacus culmina motat apex. Et jam materno permulserat omnia cantu, Cum tacuit, querulam deposuitque fidem. Occupat hanc audax, digitosque affringit Achilles, Indoctumque rudi personat ore puer. Materiam quæris? laudabat carmina blandi Hospitis, et tantæ murmura magna lyræ. Riserunt Minyæ: sed enim tibi dicitur, Orpheu, Hæc pueri pietas grata fuisse nimis. Me quoque nunc magni nomen celebrare Maronis, Si qua fides vero est, gaudet et ipse Maro.[427] [Footnote 427: 'Supper was over; Orpheus awakes the lyre, and sings a melody to suit the tune he plays. The men were silent; the winds hushed; the rivers held their waters back to hear; the birds hung motionless in air; and the wild beasts grew calm. From the cliffs the oaks run down with listening ears, and the top of Pelion nods his barren head. And now the bard had soothed the whole world with his mother's song; when he ceased from singing and put down the thrilling lyre. This bold Achilles seizes; he runs his fingers o'er the strings, and chaunts an untaught lay, the simple boy. What was his theme? you ask. He praised the singing of the gentle guest, the mighty murmurs of that lyre divine. The Minyæ laughed; but yet, so runs the tale, even all too sweet, Orpheus, to thee was the boy's homage. Just so my praise of mighty Maro's name, if faith be not a dream, gives joy to Maro's self.'--_Carmina_, &c. p. 197.] The fourth poem, bearing the name of 'Ambra,' forms a similar induction to the study of Homer. The youth of Homer is narrated, and how Achilles appeared to him, blinding him with the vision of his heroic beauty, and giving him the wand of Teiresias. Then follow descriptions of both 'Iliad' and 'Odyssey,' and a passage of high-flown panegyric; the whole ending with these lines on Lorenzo's villa of Cajano:-- Et nos ergo illi gratâ pietate dicamus Hanc de Pierio contextam flore coronam, Quam mihi Cajanas inter pulcherrima nymphas Ambra dedit patriæ lectam de gramine ripæ; Ambra mei Laurentis amor, quem corniger Umbro, Umbro senex genuit domino gratissimus Arno, Umbro suo tandem non erepturus ab alveo.[428] [Footnote 428: 'We also, therefore, with glad homage dedicate to him this garland twined of Pieria's flowers, which Ambra, loveliest of Cajano's nymphs, gave to me, culled from meadows on her father's shores; Ambra, the love of my Lorenzo, whom Umbrone, the horned stream, begat--Umbrone, dearest to his master Arno, Umbrone, who now henceforth will never break his banks again.'--_Carmina_, &c. p. 224.] Taking into consideration the purpose fulfilled by Poliziano's 'Sylvæ' in his professorial career, it is impossible to deny their merit. The erudition is borne with ease; it does not clog or overload the poet's impulse. The flattery of Lorenzo is neither fulsome nor unmerited. The verse flows strongly and majestically, though more variety of cadence in the hexameter may be desired. The language, in spite of repetitions and ill-chosen archaisms, is rich and varied; it has at least the charm of being the poet's own, not culled with scrupulous anxiety from one or two illustrious sources. Some of the pictures are delicately sketched, while the whole style produces the effect of eloquent and fervid improvisation. For fulness and rapidity of utterance, copious fancy, and wealth of illustration, these four poems will bear comparison with Roman work of the Silver Age. The Florentines who crowded Poliziano's lecture-room must have felt as in the days of the Empire, when Statius declaimed his periods to a Roman audience, and the patrician critics clapped applause.[429] [Footnote 429: Cf. Juvenal, _Satire_, i. 9-14; vii. 81-87. Persius, _Satire_, i. 79-82. And cf. Petronius Arbiter for a detailed picture of these Roman recitations.] Among Poliziano's minor poems it is enough to mention the elegiac couplets on some violets sent him by his mistress, the verses descriptive of a beautiful girl, and the lamentation for the wife of Sismondo della Stufa.[430] They illustrate the delicacy of his style and the freedom of his fancy in the treatment of occasional themes, and are far superior to his epigrams and epitaphs.[431] The numerous encomiastic elegies addressed to Lorenzo de' Medici and other patrons are wholly without value. Poliziano was a genuine poet. He needed the inspiration of true feeling or of lively fancy; on a tame occasion he degenerated into frigid baldness. Yet the satires on Mabilius, where spite and jealousy have stirred his genius, are striking for their volubility and pungency. A Roman imitator of Catullus in his brutal mood could not have produced abuse more flexible and nauseous. Taken altogether, Poliziano's Latin compositions display the qualities of fluency and abundance that characterise his Italian verses, though they have not the exquisite polish of the 'Giostra.' Their final merit consists in their spontaneity. No stylist of the age of Leo knew how to use the language of classic Rome with so much ease. [Footnote 430: _Carmina Quinque_, &c. pp. 250, 272, 276.] [Footnote 431: The epitaphs on Giotto, Lippo Lippi, the fair Simonetta, and others, are only valuable for their historic interest, such as that is.] Jovianus Pontanus deserves a high place among the writers of Latin verse, whether we regard his didactic poems on astronomy and the cultivation of the orange, his epigrams, or the amorous elegies that, for their grace, may be compared almost with Ovid.[432] Even during his lifetime Pontanus became a classic, and after his death he was imitated by the most ambitious versifiers of the late Renaissance.[433] The beauty of South Italian landscape--Sorrento's orange gardens and Baiæ's waters--passed into the fancy of the Neapolitan poets, and gave colour to their language. Nor was Pontanus, in spite of his severe studies and gravely-tempered mind, dead to the seductions of this siren. What we admire in Sannazzaro's 'Arcadia' assumes the form of pure Latinity in his love poems.[434] Their style is penetrated with the feeling for physical beauty, Pagan and untempered by an afterthought of Christianity. Their vigorous and glowing sensuality finds no just analogue except in some Venetian paintings. It was not, however, by his lighter verses so much as by the five books called 'De Stellis' or 'Urania' that Pontanus won the admiration of Italian scholars. In this long series of hexameters he contrived to set forth the whole astronomical science of his age, touching upon the mythology of the celestial signs, describing the zodiac, discussing the motion of the heavens, raising the question of planetary influences, and characterising the different regions of the globe by their relation to the sun's path across the sky. He seems to have taken the 'Metamorphoses' of Ovid for his model of versification; and though we miss the variety of Ovid's treatment, great ingenuity is displayed in adorning so difficult a subject with poetical episodes.[435] Personal interest is added to the conclusion of 'Urania' by the lamentation poured forth for his daughter Lucia by the poet:-- Ornabam tibi serta domi; Syriumque liquorem Ad thalamos geminæ, geminæ, tua cura, sorores Fundebant. Quid pro sertis Syrioque liquore Liquisti? Sine sole dies, sine sidere noctes, Insomnes noctes.[436] [Footnote 432: I shall quote from his _Collected Poems_, Aldus, 1513.] [Footnote 433: See the Elegy of Sannazzaro on the writings of Pontanus, _Poemata Selecta_, pp. 1-4, and Fracastoro's _Syphilis_, ib. p. 72.] [Footnote 434: _Delitiæ Poetarum Italorum_, pt. ii. pp. 668-712. Specimens may also be read in the _Poemata Selecta Italorum_, pp. 1-24.] [Footnote 435: See, for instance, the tale of Hylas, lib. v. p. 103; the tale of Cola Pesce, lib. iv. p. 79; the council of the gods, lib. i. p. 18; the planet Venus, lib. i. p. 5.] [Footnote 436: Lib. v. pp. 105-108. 'For thee I hung the house with wreaths; and thy twin sisters poured forth Syrian perfumes at the marriage chamber. What for our garlands and our perfumes hast thou left? Days without light, nights without a star, long sleepless nights.'] Lucia died before her marriage-day, and her grey-headed father went mourning for her, fooled by memory, vainly seeking the joy that could not come again. Had she become, he asks, a star in heaven, and did the blessed gods and heroines enjoy her splendour? No voice replied when he called into the darkness, nor did new constellations beam on him with brightness from his daughter's eyes. All through the wakeful night he mourned, but when dawn went forth he marked a novel lustre on the sea and in the sky. Lucia had been added to the nymphs of morning. She smiled upon her father as she fled before the wheels of day; and now the sun himself arose, and in his light her light was swallowed: Hyperion scaled the heights of heaven with more than his own glory. With this apotheosis of his daughter, so curiously Pagan in feeling, and yet so far from classical in taste, the poem might have ended, had not Pontano reserved its final honours for himself. To Lucia, now made a goddess, he addresses his prayers that she should keep his name and fame alive on earth when he is dead:-- Fama ipsa assistens tumulo cum vestibus aureis, Ore ingens, ac voce ingens, ingentibus alis, Per populos late ingenti mea nomina plausu Vulgabit, titulosque feret per sæcula nostros; Plaudentesque meis resonabunt laudibus auræ, Vivet et extento celeber Jovianus in ævo.[437] [Footnote 437: 'Fame herself, seated by my tomb with golden raiment, mighty-mouthed, mighty-voiced, with mighty wings, shall spread abroad among the people my names with mighty sound of praise, and carry through the centuries my titles, and with my glory shall resound applauding airs of heaven; renowned through everlasting ages Jovian shall live.'] Sannazzaro's own elegies on the joys of love and country life, the descriptions of his boyhood at Salerno, the praises of his Villa Mergillina, and his meditations among the ruins of Cumæ, are marked by the same characteristics. Nothing quite so full of sensual enjoyment, so soft, and so voluptuous can be found in the poems of the Florentine and Roman scholars. They deserve study, if only as illustrating the luxurious tone of literature at Naples. It was not by these lighter effusions, however, that Sannazzaro won his fame. The epic on the birth of Christ cost him twenty years of labour; and when it was finished, the learned world of Italy welcomed it as a model of correct and polished writing. At the same time the critics seem to have felt, what cannot fail to strike a modern reader, that the difficulties of treating such a theme in the Virgilian manner, and the patience of the stylist, had rendered it a masterpiece of ingenuity rather than a work of genius.[438] Sannazzaro's epigrams, composed in the spirit of bitterest hostility towards the Borgia family, were not less famous than his epic. Alfonso of Aragon took the poet with him during his campaign against the Papal force in the Abruzzi; and these satires, hastily written in the tent and by the camp-fire, formed the amusement of his officers. From the soldiers of Alfonso they speedily passed, on the lips of courtiers and scholars, through all the cities of Italy; nor is it easy to say how much of Lucrezia Borgia's legend may not be traceable to their brief but envenomed couplets. What had been the scandal of the camp acquired consistency in lines too pungent to be forgotten and too witty to remain unquoted.[439] As a specimen of Sannazzaro's style, the epigram on Venice may here be cited:-- Viderat Hadriacis Venetam Neptunus in undis Stare urbem, et toto ponere jura mari: Nunc mihi Tarpeias quantumvis, Jupiter, arces Objice, et illa tui moenia Martis, ait: Si Pelago Tybrim præfers, urbem aspice utramque; Illam homines dices, hanc posuisse deos.[440] [Footnote 438: 'Lilius Gyraldus,' loc. cit. p. 384, writes about this epic, 'in quibus, ut sic dicam, statarius poeta videri potest. Non enim verborum volubilitate fertur, sed limatius quoddam scribendi genus consectatur, et limâ indies atterit, ut de illo non ineleganter dictum illud Apellis de Protogene Pontanus usurpare solitus esset, eum manum de tabulâ tollere nescire.'] [Footnote 439: See _Delitiæ Poetarum Italorum_, second part, pp. 713-761. The following couplet on the death of Cesare Borgia is celebrated:-- Aut nihil aut Cæsar vult dici Borgia; quidni? Cum simul et Cæsar possit et esse nihil.] [Footnote 440: 'When Neptune beheld Venice stationed in the Adriatic waters, and giving laws to all the ocean, "Now taunt me, Jupiter, with the Tarpeian rock and those walls of thy son Mars!" he cried. "If thou preferrest Tiber to the sea, look on both cities; thou wilt say the one was built by men, the other by gods."'] I have already touched upon the Virgilianism of Sannazzaro's 'Partus Virginis.'[441] What the cold churches of Palladio are to Christian architecture, this frigid epic is to Christian poetry. Leo X. delighted to recognise the Gospel narrative beneath a fancy dress of mythological inventions, and to witness the triumph of classical scholarship in the holy places of the mediæval faith. To fuse the traditions of Biblical and secular antiquity was, as I have often said, the dream of the Renaissance. What Pico and Ficino attempted in philosophical treatises, the poets sought to effect by form. Religion, attiring herself in classic drapery, threw off the cobwebs of the Catacombs, and acquired the right of _petites entrées_ at the Vatican. It did not signify that she had sacrificed her majesty to fashion, or that her tunic _à la mode antique_ was badly made. Her rouge and spangles enchanted the scholarly Pontiff, who forthwith ordered Vida to compose the 'Christiad,' and gave him a benefice at Frascati in order that he might enjoy a poet's ease. Vida's epic, like Sannazzaro's, was not finished during the lifetime of Leo. Both the 'Christiad' and the 'Partus Virginis' reflected lustre on the age of Clement. [Footnote 441: See above, p. 288.] Vida won his first laurels in the field of didactic poetry. Virgilian exercises on the breeding of silkworms and the game of chess displayed his faculty for investing familiar subjects with the graces of a polished style.[442] Such poems, whether written in Latin, or, like the 'Api' of Rucellai, in Italian, gratified the taste of the Renaissance, always appreciative of form independent of the matter it invested. For a modern student Vida's metrical treatise in three books on the 'Art of Poetry' has greater interest; since it illustrates the final outcome of classic studies in the age of Leo. The 'Poetica' is addressed to Francis, Dauphin of France, in his Spanish prison:[443]-- Primus ades, Francisce; sacras ne despice Musas, Regia progenies, cui regum debita sceptra Gallorum, cum firma annis accesserit ætas. Hæc tibi parva ferunt jam nunc solatia dulces; Dum procul a patriâ raptum, amplexuque tuorum, Ah dolor! Hispanis sors impia detinet oris, Henrico cum fratre; patris sic fata tulerunt Magnanimi, dum fortunâ luctatur iniquâ. Parce tamen, puer, o lacrymis; fata aspera forsan Mitescent, aderitque dies lætissima tandem Post triste exilium patriis cum redditus oris Lætitiam ingentem populorum, omnesque per urbes Accipies plausus, et lætas undique voces; Votaque pro reditu persolvent debita matres. Interea te Pierides comitentur; in altos Jam te Parnassi mecum aude attollere lucos.[444] [Footnote 442: _Bombycum; Libri duo. Scacchia, Ludus; Liber unus._ Pope's _Poemata Italorum_, vol. i. pp. 103-130; pp. 190-210. The former poem is addressed to Isabella Gonzaga, née d'Este.] [Footnote 443: _Poemata Selecta_, pp. 207-266. It will be remembered that Francis I., after Pavia, gave his two sons as hostages to Charles V.] [Footnote 444: 'Thou, Francis, art the first to answer to my call. Scorn not the sacred Muses, scion of a royal line, to whom the sceptre of the kings of Gallia in due season of maturity will pass. Their sweetness even now shall yield thee some slight solace, exiled from home and fatherland by fate impiteous on the Spanish shore, thee and thy brother Henry. So the fortunes of thy mighty-hearted father willed, condemned to strive against unequal doom. Yet spare thy tears: perchance hard fate will soften, and a day of supreme joy will come at last, when, after thy sad exile, once more given to thy nation, thou shalt behold thy country's gladness, and hear the shouts of all her cities and the ringing songs of happiness, and mothers shall perform their vows for thy return. Meanwhile let the maidens of Pieria attend thee; and, with me for guide, ascend into the groves of high Parnassus.'] After this dedication Vida describes the solace to be found in poetry, and adds some precepts on the preparation of the student's mind.[445] A rapid review of the history of poetry--the decline of Greek inspiration after Homer, and of Latin after Virgil; the qualities of the Silver Age, and the Revival of letters under the Medici at Florence--serves to show how narrow the standard of Italian culture had become between the period of Poliziano, who embraced so much in his sketch of literature, and that of Vida, who confined himself to so little. The criticism is not unjust; but it proves that the refinement of taste by scholarship had resulted in restricting students to one or two models, whom they followed with servility.[446] Having thus established his general view of the poetic art, Vida proceeds to sketch a plan of education. The qualities and duties of a tutor are described; and here we may notice how far Vittorino's and Guarino's methods had created an ideal of training for Italy. The preceptor must above all things avoid violence, and aim at winning the affections of his pupil; it would be well for him to associate several youths in the same course of study, so as to arouse their emulation. He must not neglect their games, and must always be careful to suit his method to the different talents of his charges. When the special studies to be followed are discussed, Vida points out that Cicero is the best school of Latin style. He recommends the early practice of bucolic verse, and inculcates the necessity of treating youthful essays with indulgence. These topics are touched with more or less felicity of phrase and illustration; and though the subject-matter is sufficiently trite, the good sense and kindly feeling of the writer win respect. The first book concludes with a peroration on the dignity and sanctity of poets, a theme the humanists were never weary of embroidering.[447] The second describes the qualities of a good poem, as these were conceived by the refined but formal taste of the sixteenth century. It should begin quietly, and manage to excite without satisfying the curiosity of the reader. Vain displays of learning are to be avoided. Episodes and similes must occur at proper intervals; and a frugal seasoning of humour will be found agreeable. All repetitions should be shunned, and great care should be taken to vary the narrative with picturesque descriptions. Rhetoric, again, is not unworthy of attention, when the poet seeks to place convenient and specious arguments in the mouths of his personages. [Footnote 445: tibi digna supellex Verborum rerumque paranda est, proque videnda Instant multa prius, quorum vatum indiget usus. _Poemata Selecta_, p. 209.] [Footnote 446: After mentioning the glories of Virgil, Vida adds:-- Sperare nefas sit vatibus ultra. Nulla mora, ex illo in pejus ruere omnia visa, Degenerare animi, atque retro res lapsa referri. Hic namque ingenio confisus posthabet artem; Ille furit strepitu, tenditque æquare tubarum Voce sonos, versusque tonat sine more per omnes; Dant alii cantus vacuos, et inania verba Incassum, solâ capti dulcedine vocis. _Poemata Selecta_, p. 213. Cf. the advice (p. 214) to follow none but Virgil:-- Ergo ipsum ante alios animo venerare Maronem, Atque unum sequere, utque potes, vestigia serva.] [Footnote 447: Dona deûm Musæ: vulgus procul este profanum. _Poemata Selecta_, p. 224; and again, _ib._ p. 226:-- Tu Jovis ambrosiis das nos accumbere mensis; Tu nos diis æquas superis, &c.] It is difficult in a summary to do justice to this portion of Vida's poem. His description of the ideal epic is indeed nothing more or less than a refined analysis of the 'Æneid;' and students desirous of learning what the Italians of the sixteenth century admired in Virgil will do well to study its acute and sober criticism. A panegyric of Leo closes the second book. From this peroration some lines upon the woes of Italy may be read with profit, as proving that the nation, conscious of its own decline, was contented to accept the primacy of culture in exchange for independence:-- Dii Romæ indigetes, Trojæ tuque auctor, Apollo Unde genus nostrum coeli se tollit ad astra, Hanc saltem auferri laudem prohibete Latinis: Artibus emineat semper, studiisque Minervæ, Italia, et gentes doceat pulcherrima Roma; Quandoguidem armorum penitus fortuna recessit, Tanta Italos inter crevit discordia reges; Ipsi nos inter sacros distringimus enses, Nec patriam pudet externis aperire tyrannis.[448] [Footnote 448: 'Ye native gods of Rome! and thou, Apollo, Troy's founder! by whom our race is raised to heaven! let not at least this glory be withdrawn from Latium's children: may Italy for ever hold the heights of art and learning, and most beauteous Rome instruct the nations; albeit all success in arms be lost, so great hath grown the discord of Italia's princes. Yea, one against the other, we draw bloody swords, nor feel we any shame in calling foreign tyrants into our own land.'--_Poemata Selecta_, p. 245.] The third book treats of style and diction. To be clear and varied, to command metaphor and allusion, to choose phrases coloured by mythology and fancy, to suit the language to the subject, to vary the metrical cadence with the thought and feeling, and to be assiduous in the use of the file are mentioned as indispensable to excellence. A peroration on Virgil, sonorous and impassioned, closes the whole poem, which, rightly understood, is a monument erected to the fame of the Roman bard by the piety of his Italian pupil. The final lines are justly famous:-- O decus Italiæ! lux o clarissima vatum! Te colimus, tibi serta damus, tibi thura, tibi aras; Et tibi rite sacrum semper dicemus honorem Carminibus memores. Salve, sanctissime vates! Laudibus augeri tua gloria nil potis ultra, Et nostræ nil vocis eget; nos aspice præsens, Pectoribusque tuos castis infunde calores Adveniens, pater, atque animis te te insere nostris.[449] [Footnote 449: 'Hail, light of Italy, thou brightest of the bards! Thee we worship, thee we adore with wreaths, with frankincense, with altars; to thee, as duty bids, for everlasting will we chaunt our holy hymns. Hail, consecrated bard! No increase to thy glory flows from praise, nor needs it voice of ours. Be near, and look upon thy votaries; come, father, and infuse thy fervour into our chaste hearts, and plant thyself within our souls.'--_Poemata Selecta_, p. 266.] Vida's own intellect was clear, and his style perspicuous; but his genius was mediocre. His power lay in the disposition of materials and in illustration. A precise taste, formed on Cicero and Virgil, and exercised with judgment in a narrow sphere, satisfied his critical requirements. Virgil with him was first and last, and midst and without end. In a word, he shows what a scholar of sound parts and rhetorical aptitude could achieve by the study and imitation of a single author. Since I have begun to speak of didactic poems, I may take this opportunity of noticing Fracastoro, who seems to have chosen Pontanus for his model, and, while emulating both Lucretius and Virgil, to have fallen short of Vida's elegance. His work is less remarkable for purity of diction than for massiveness of intellect, gravity of matter, and constructive ability. Jeronimo Fracastoro was born in 1483 at Verona, where he spent the greater portion of his life, enjoying high reputation as a physician, philosopher, astronomer, and poet. During his youth he studied under Pomponazzo at Padua. The strong tincture of materialistic science he there received, continued through life to colour his thought. Among modern Pagans none is more completely bare of Christianity than Fracastoro. As is well known, he chose the new and terrible disease of the Renaissance for his theme, and gave a name to it that still is current. To speak of Fracastoro's 'Syphilis,' dedicated to Bembo, hailed with acclamation by all Italy, preferred by Sannazzaro to his own epic, and praised by Julius Cæsar Scaliger as a 'divine poem,' is not easy now. The plague it celebrates appeared at Naples in 1495, and spread like wildfire over Europe, assuming at first the form of an epidemic sparing neither Pope nor king, and stirring less disgust than dread among its victims.[450] Whether the laws of its propagation were rightly understood in the sixteenth century is a question for physicians to decide. No one appears to have suspected that it differed in specific character from other pestilent disorders; and it is clear, both from contemporary chronicles and from Fracastoro's poem, that the _mal franzese_, as it was popularly called, suggested to the people of that age associations different from those that have since gathered round it. At the same time more formidable and less loathsome, it was a not more unworthy subject for verse than the plague at Athens described by Lucretius. Treating the disease, therefore, as a curse common to his generation, the scientific poet dared to set forth its symptoms, to prescribe remedies, to discuss the question of its origin, and to use it as an illustration of antagonistic forces, pernicious and beneficent, in the economy of nature. To philosophise his repulsive subject-matter was the author's ambition. His contemporaries admired the poetic graces with which he had contrived to adorn it. [Footnote 450: See Vol. I., _Age of the Despots_, p. 433, note.] The exordium of the first book states the problem. Whence came this new scourge of humanity? Not, surely, from America, though it is there indigenous. Its diffusion after the disasters of 1494 was too rapid to admit of this hypothesis.[451] To the corruption of the atmosphere must be referred the general invasion of the plague.[452] The theory of infected and putrescent air is stated in a long Lucretian passage, followed by a scientific account of the symptoms of syphilis. At this point the poet diversifies his argument by an episode, narrating the sad death of a young man born on the banks of the Oglio, and leading by gradual transitions to a peroration on the wars and woes of Italy.[453] Over all the poets of this age the miseries of their country hung like a cloud, and, touch the lyre as they may at the beginning of their song, it is certain ere the ending to give forth a dolorous groan. In the second book Fracastoro enters on the subject of remedies. He lays stress on choice of air, abundant exercise, avoidance of wine and heating diet, blood-letting, abstinence from sensual pleasures, fomentations, herbs, and divers minute rules of health. By attention to these matters the disease may be, if not shunned, at least mitigated. The sovereign remedy of quicksilver demanded fuller illustration; therefore the poet introduces the legendary episode of the shepherd Ilceus, conducted by the nymph Liparë to the sulphur founts and lakes of mercury beneath Mount Etna. Ilceus bathed, and was renewed in health. The rigorously didactic intention of Fracastoro is proved by the recipe for a mercurial ointment and the description of salivation that wind up this book.[454] The third opens with an allusion to the discovery of America, and a celebration of the tree Hyacus (Guaiacum). It is noticeable that, with such an opportunity for singing the praises of Columbus, Fracastoro passed him by, nor cared to claim for Italy a share in the greatest achievement of the century. Mingling myth with history, he next proceeds to tell how the Spaniards arrived in the West Indies, and shot birds sacred to the Sun,[455] one of which spoke with human voice, predicting the evils that would fall upon the crew for their impiety. Not the least of these was to be a strange and terrible disease. The natives of the islands flocked to meet the strangers, and some of them were tettered with a ghastly eruption. This leads to the episodical legend of the shepherd Syphilus, who dared to deride the Sun-god, and of the king Alcithous, who accepted divine honours in his stead. The Sun, to requite the insolence of Syphilus, afflicted him with a dreadful sickness. It yielded to no cure until the nymph Ammericë initiated him in the proper lustral rites, and led him to the tree Hyacus. The poem ends with a panegyric of Guaiacum. [Footnote 451: quoniam in primis ostendere multos Possumus, attactu qui nullius hanc tamen ipsam Sponte suâ sensere luem, primique tulere. _Poemata Selecta_, p. 67.] [Footnote 452: Quumque animadvertas, tam vastæ semina labis Esse nec in terræ gremio, nec in æquore posse, Haud dubie tecum statuas reputesque necesse est, Principium sedemque mali consistere in ipso Aëre, qui terras circum diffunditur omnes. _Ibid._ p. 69.] [Footnote 453: _Ibid._ pp. 79, 80.] [Footnote 454: _Ibid._ pp. 95, 96.] [Footnote 455: These phrases he finds for a fowling-piece:-- Cava terrificis horrentia bombis Aera, et flammiferum tormenta imitantia fulmen. _Poemata Selecta_, p. 101.] I have sketched the subject of the 'Syphilis' in outline because of its importance not only for the neo-Latin literature of the Renaissance, but also for the history of medical opinion. As a didactic poem, it is constructed with considerable art; the style, though prosaic, is forcible, and the meaning is always precise. Falling short of classic elegance, Fracastoro may still be said to have fulfilled the requirements of Vida, and to have added something male and vigorous peculiar to himself. His adulatory verses to Alessandro Farnese, Paul III., and Julius III. might be quoted as curious examples of fulsome flattery conveyed in a _barocco_ style. They combine Papal cant with Pagan mannerism, Virgilian and Biblical phraseology, masculine gravity of diction and far-fetched conceits, in a strange amalgam, as awkward as it is ridiculous.[456] [Footnote 456: Cf. the passage about Alessandro Farnese's journeys-- Matre deâ comitante et iter monstrante nepoti-- and the reformation in Germany. _Poemata Selecta_, p. 125. The whole idyll addressed to Julius III., _ib._ pp. 130-135, is inconceivably uncouth.] Another group of Latin versifiers, with Bembo at their head, cultivated the elegy, the idyll, and the ode. The authors of their predilection were Catullus, Propertius, and Tibullus. Abandoning the attempt to mould Christian or modern material into classic form, they frankly selected Pagan motives, and adhered in spirit as well as style to their models. Two elegiac poems of Bembo's, the 'Priapus' and the 'Faunus ad Nympeum Flumen,' may be cited as flagrant specimens of sixteenth-century licentiousness.[457] Polished language and almost faultless versification are wasted upon themes of rank obscenity. The 'Priapus,' translated and amplified in Italian _ottava rima_, gained a popular celebrity beyond the learned circles for whom it was originally written. We may trace its influence in many infamous Capitoli of the burlesque poets. Bembo excelled in elegiac verse. In a poem entitled 'De Amicâ a Viro Servatâ,' he treated a characteristically Italian subject with something of Ovid's graceful humour.[458] A lover complains of living near his mistress, closely watched by her jealous husband. Here, as elsewhere, the morality is less to be admired than the versification; and that the latter, in spite of Bembo's scrupulous attention to metre, is not perfect, may be gathered from this line:-- Tunc quos nunc habeo et quos sum olim habiturus amicos. [Footnote 457: _Carmina Quinque Illustrium Poetarum_, pp. 4 and 9-11.] [Footnote 458: _Ib._ pp. 18-23.] After reading hexameters so constructed we are tempted to shut the book with a groan, wondering how it was that a Pope's secretary and a prince of the Church should have thought it worth his while to compose a poem so injurious to his reputation as a moralist, or to preserve in it a verse so little favourable to his fame as a Latinist. More beautiful, because more true to classic inspiration, is the elegy of 'Galatea.'[459] The idyllic incidents suggest a series of pretty pictures for bas-reliefs or decorative frescoes in the manner of Albano. Bembo's masterpiece, however, in the elegiac metre, is a poem with 'De Galeso et Maximo' for its title.[460] It was composed, as the epigraph informs us, at the command of a great man at Rome; but whether that great man was also the greatest in Rome, and whether Maximus was another name for Leo, is matter of conjecture. The boy Galesus had wronged Maximus, his master. When reproved, he offered no excuses, called no witnesses, uttered no prayers to Heaven, indulged in no asseverations of innocence, shed no tears:-- Nil horum aggreditur; sed tantum ingrata loquentis Implicitus collo dulce pependit onus. Nec mora, cunctanti roseis tot pressa labellis Oscula coelitibus invidiosa dedit, Arida quot levibus florescit messis aristis, Excita quot vernis floribus halat humus. Maxime, quid dubitas? Si te piget, ipse tuo me Pone loco: hæc dubitem non ego ferre mala.[461] [Footnote 459: _Carmina Quinque Illustrium Poetarum_, p. 7.] [Footnote 460: _Ib._ p. 23.] [Footnote 461: None of these things he tried; but only ran, And clasped with his sweet arms the angry man; Hung on his neck, rained kisses forth that Heaven Envied from those red lips to mortals given; In number like ripe ears of ruddy corn, Or flowers beneath the breath of April born. Still doubting, Maximus? Change place with me: Gladly I'd bear such infidelity.] Bembo's talent lay in compositions of this kind. His verses, to quote the phrase of Gyraldus, were uniformly 'sweet, soft, and delicate.' When he attempted work involving more sustained effort of the intellect and greater variety of treatment, he was not so successful. His hexameter poem 'Benacus,' a description of the Lago di Garda, dedicated to Gian Matteo Giberti, reads like an imitation of Catullus without the Roman poet's grace of style or wealth of fancy.[462] Among Bembo's most perfect compositions may be reckoned his epitaphs on celebrated contemporaries. The following written for Poliziano, deserves quotation.[463] Not only is the death of the scholar, following close upon that of his patron, happily touched, but the last line pays a proper tribute to Poliziano as an Italian poet:-- Duceret extincto cum mors Laurente triumphum, Lætaque pullatis inveheretur equis, Respicit insano ferientem pollice chordas, Viscera singultu concutiente, virum. Mirata est, tenuitque jugum; furit ipse, pioque Laurentem cunctos flagitat ore Deos: Miscebat precibus lacrymas, lacrymisque dolorem; Verba ministrabat liberiora dolor. Risit, et antiquæ non immemor illa querelæ, Orphei Tartareæ cum patuere viæ, Hic etiam infernas tentat rescindere leges, Fertque suas, dixit, in mea jura manus. Protinus et flentem percussit dura poetam, Rupit et in medio pectora docta sono. Heu sic tu raptus, sic te mala fata tulerunt, Arbiter Ausoniæ, Politiane, lyræ.[464] [Footnote 462: _Carmina Quinque Illustrium Poetarum_, pp. 26-34.] [Footnote 463: _Ib._ p. 38.] [Footnote 464: 'When Lorenzo was dead, and Death went by in triumph, drawn by her black horses, her eyes fell on one who madly struck the chords, while sighs convulsed his breast. She turned, and stayed the car; he storms and calls on all the gods for Lorenzo, mixing tears with prayers, and sorrow with his tears, while sorrow suggests words of wilder freedom. Death laughed; remembering her old grudge, when Orpheus made his way to hell, she cried, "Lo, he too seeks to abrogate our laws, and lays his hand upon my rights!" Nor more delay; she struck the poet while he wept, and broke his heart-strings in the middle of his sighs. Alas! thus wast thou taken from us, ravished by harsh fate, Politian, master of the Italian lyre!'] More richly endowed for poetry than Bembo was his fellow-countryman Andrea Navagero. Few Latin versifiers of the Renaissance combined so much true feeling and fancy with a style more pure and natural. Some of his little compositions, half elegy, half idyll, have the grace and freedom of the Greek Anthology.[465] There is a simple beauty in their motives, while the workmanship reminds us of chiselling in smooth waxy marble; unlike the Roman epigrammatists, Navagero avoided pointed terminations.[466] The picture of Narcissus dead and transformed to a flower, in the elegy of 'Acon,' might be quoted as a fair specimen of his manner:-- Magna Parens, quæ cuncta leves producis in auras, Totaque diverso germine picta nites; Quæ passim arboribus, passim surgentibus herbis, Sufficis omnifero larga alimenta sinu; Excipe languentem puerum, moribundaque membra, Æternumque tuâ fac, Dea, vivat ope. Vivet, et ille vetus Zephyro redeunte quotannis In niveo candor flore perennis erit.[467] [Footnote 465: Notice especially 'Thyrsidis vota Veneri,' 'Invitatio ad amoenum fontem,' 'Leucippem amicam spe præmiorum invitat,' 'Vota Veneri ut amantibus faveat,' and 'In Almonem.'--_Carmina_, &c. pp. 52, 53, 54, 55.] [Footnote 466: Paolo Giovio noticed this; in his _Elogia_ he writes, '_Epigrammata non falsis aculeatisque finibus, sed tenerâ illâ et prædulci priscâ suavitate claudebat._'] [Footnote 467: 'Mighty mother, thou who bringest all things forth to breathe the liquid air, who shinest in thy painted robe of diverse budding lives, thou who from thy teeming bosom givest nourishment to trees and sprouting herbs in every region of the earth, take to thyself the fainting boy, cherish his dying limbs, and make him live for ever by thy aid. Yes, he shall live; and that white loveliness of his, each year as spring returns, shall blossom in a snowy flower.'--_Carmina_, &c. p. 57.] The warnings addressed to his mistress in her country rambles, to beware of rustic gods, and the whole eclogue of 'Iolas,' are written in a rich and facile style, that makes us wonder whether some poet of the Græco-Roman period did not live again in Navagero.[468] Only here and there, as in the case of all this neo-Latin writing, an awkward word or a defective cadence breaks the spell, and reminds us that it was an artificial thing. A few lines forming the exordium to an unfinished poem on Italy may be inserted here for their intrinsic interest:-- Salve, cura Deûm, mundi felicior ora, Formosæ Veneris dulces salvete recessus: Ut vos post tantos animi mentisque labores Aspicio, lustroque libens! ut munere vestro Sollicitas toto depello e pectore curas![469] [Footnote 468: 'Ad Gelliam rusticantem,' _Carmina_, &c. pp. 64-66. 'Iolas,' _ib._ pp. 66-68.] [Footnote 469: 'Hail, darling of the gods, thou happiest spot of earth! hail chosen haunt of beauty's queen! What joy I feel to see you thus again, and tread your shores after so many toils endured in mind and soul! How from my heart by your free gift I cast all anxious cares!'--_Carmina_, &c. p. 84.] Navagero, we are told, composed these verses on his return from a legation to Spain. Born in 1483, he spent his youth and early manhood in assiduous study. Excessive application undermined his health, and Giovio relates that he began to suffer from _atra bilis_, or the melancholy of scholars. The Venetian Senate had engaged him to compose the history of the Republic in Latin; this work was already begun when illness forced him to abandon it. He was afterwards employed in an unsuccessful mission to Charles V. and in diplomatic business at the Court of France. He died at Blois of fever, contracted in one of his hurried journeys. He was only forty-six when he perished, bequeathing to immediate posterity the fame of a poet at least equal to the ancients. In that age of affectation and effort the natural flow of Navagero's verse, sensuous without coarseness and highly coloured without abuse of epithets, raised a chorus of applause that may strike the modern student as excessive. The memorial poems written on his death praise the purity of sentiment and taste which made him burn a copy of Martial yearly to the chaste Muses.[470] One friend calls upon the Nereids to build his tomb by the silent waters of the lagoons, and bids the Faun of Italy lament with broken reeds.[471] Another prophesies that his golden poems will last as many years as there are flowers in spring, or grapes in autumn, or storms upon the sea, or stars in heaven, or kisses in Catullus, or atoms in the universe of Lucretius.[472] [Footnote 470: See the Hendecasyllabics of Johannes Matthæus, _Carmina_, &c. p. 86.] [Footnote 471: Basilius Zanchius, _Carmina_, &c. p. 85.] [Footnote 472: M. Antonius Flaminius, _ib._ p. 85.] A place very close to Navagero might be claimed for Francesco Maria Molsa, a nobleman of Modena, who enjoyed great fame at Rome for his Latin and Italian poetry. After a wild life of pleasure he died at the age of forty-one, worn out with love and smitten by the plague of the Renaissance. The sweetest of his elegies celebrate the charms of Faustina Mancini, his favourite mistress. In spite of what Italians would call their _morbidezza_, it is impossible not to feel some contempt for the polished fluency, the sensual relaxation, of these soulless verses. A poem addressed to his friends upon his sick bed, within sight of certain death, combines the author's melody of cadence with a certain sobriety of thought and tender dignity of feeling.[473] It is, perhaps, of all his compositions the worthiest to live. The following couplets describe the place which he would choose for his sepulchre:-- Non operosa peto titulos mihi marmora ponant, Nostra sed accipiat fictilis ossa cadus; Exceptet gremio quæ mox placidissima tellus, Immites possint ne nocuisse feræ. Rivulus hæc circum dissectus obambulet, unda Clivoso qualis tramite ducta sonat; Exiguis stet cæsa notis super ossa sepulta, Nomen et his servet parva tabella meum: Hic jacet ante annos crudeli tabe peremptus Molsa; ter injecto pulvere, pastor, abi. Forsitan in putrem longo post tempore glebam Vertar, et hæc flores induet urna novos; Populus aut potius abruptis artubus alba Formosâ exsurgam conspicienda comâ. Scilicet huc diti pecoris comitata magistro Conveniet festo pulchra puella die; Quæ molles ductet choreas, et veste recinctâ Ad certos nôrit membra movere modos.[474] [Footnote 473: _Poemata Selecta_, pp. 203-206. An elegy written by Janus Etruscus, Pope's _Poemata Italorum_, vol. ii. p. 25, on a similar theme, though very inferior to Molsa's, may be compared with it.] [Footnote 474: 'I ask for no monument of wrought marble to proclaim my titles: let a vase of baked clay receive these bones. Let earth, quietest of resting-places, take them to herself, and save them from the injury of ravening wolves. And let a running stream divide its waters round my grave, drawn with the sound of music from a mountain-flank. A little tablet carved with simple letters will be enough to mark the spot, and to preserve my name: "Here lies Molsa, slain before his day by wasting sickness: cast dust upon him thrice, and go thy way, gentle shepherd." It may be that after many years I shall turn to yielding clay, and my tomb shall deck herself with flowers; or, better, from my limbs shall spring a white poplar, and in its beauteous foliage I shall rise into the light of heaven. To this place will come, I hope, some lovely maid attended by the master of the flock; and she shall dance above my bones and move her feet to rhythmic music.'] The Paganism of the Renaissance, exchanging Christian rites for old mythologies, and classic in the very tomb, has rarely found sweeter expression than in this death song. We trace in it besides a note of modern feeling, the romantic sense of community with nature in the immortality of trees and flowers.[475] [Footnote 475: For the picture of the girl dancing on the lover's grave, cf. Omar Khayyam. Cf. too Walt Whitman's metaphor for grass--'the beautiful uncut hair of graves.'] Castiglione cannot claim comparison with Navagero for sensuous charm and easy flow of verse. Nor has he those touches of genuine poetry which raise Molsa above the level of a fluent versifier. His Latin exercises, however, offer much that is interesting to a student of Renaissance literature; while the depth of feeling and the earnestness of thought in his clear and powerful hexameters surpass the best efforts of Bembo's artificial muse. When we read the idyll entitled 'Alcon,' a lamentation for the friend whom he had loved in youth-- Alcon deliciæ Musarum et Apollinis, Alcon Pars animæ, cordis pars Alcon maxima nostri--[476] we are impelled to question how far Milton owed the form of 'Lycidas' to these Italian imitations of the Græco-Roman style. What seemed false in tone to Johnson, what still renders that elegy the stumbling-block of taste to immature and unsympathetic students, is the highly artificial form given to natural feeling. Grief clothes herself in metaphors, and, abstaining from the direct expression of poignant emotion, dwells on thoughts and images that have a beauty of their own for solace. Nor is it in this quality of art alone that 'Lycidas' reminds us of Renaissance Latin verse. The curious blending of allusions to Church and State with pastoral images is no less characteristic of the Italian manner. As in 'Lycidas,' so also in these lines from Castiglione's 'Alcon,' the truth of sorrow transpires through a thin veil of bucolic romance:-- Heu miserande puer, fatis surrepte malignis! Non ego te posthac, pastorum adstante coronâ, Victorem aspiciam volucri certare sagittâ; Aut jaculo, aut durâ socios superare palæstrâ. Non tecum posthac molli resupinus in umbrâ Effugiam longos æstivo tempore soles: Non tua vicinos mulcebit fistula montes, Docta nec umbrosæ resonabunt carmina valles: Non tua corticibus toties inscripta Lycoris, Atque ignis Galatea meus nos jam simul ambos Audierint ambæ nostros cantare furores. Nos etenim a teneris simul usque huc viximus annis, Frigora pertulimusque æstus noctesque diesque, Communique simul sunt parta armenta labore. Rura mea hæc tecum communia; viximus una: Te moriente igitur curnam mihi vita relicta est? Heu male me ira Deûm patriis abduxit ab oris, Ne manibus premerem morientia lumina amicis.[477] [Footnote 476: 'Alcon, the darling of Phoebus and the Muses; Alcon, a part of my own soul; Alcon, the greatest part of my own heart.'--_Carmina Quinque Poetarum_, p. 89.] [Footnote 477: 'Alas! poor youth, withdrawn from us by fate malign. Never again shall I behold thee, while the shepherds stand around, win prizes with thy flying shafts or spear, or wrestle for the crown; never again with thee reclining in the shade shall I all through a summer's day avoid the sun. No more shall thy pipe soothe the neighbouring hills, the vales repeat thy artful songs. No more shall thy Lycoris, whose name inscribed by thee the woods remember, and my Galatea hear us both together chaunt our loves. For we like brothers lived our lives till now from infancy: heat and cold, days and nights, we bore; our herds were reared with toil and care together. These fields of mine were also thine: we lived one common life. Why, then, when thou must die, am I still left to live? Alas! in evil hour the wrath of Heaven withdrew me from my native land, nor suffered me to close thy lids with a friend's hands!'--_Carmina_, &c. p. 91.] Castiglione's most polished exercises are written on fictitious subjects in elegiac metre. Thus he feigns a letter from his wife, in the style of the 'Heroidum Epistolæ,' praying him to beware of Rome's temptations, and to keep his heart for her.[478] Again he warns his mistress to avoid the perils of the sea-beach, where the Tritons roam:-- Os informe illis, rictus, oculique minaces, Asperaque anguineo cortice membra rigent: Barba impexa, ingens, algâ limoque virenti Oblita, oletque gravi lurida odore coma.[479] [Footnote 478: _Ib._ p. 100.] [Footnote 479: 'Hideous is their face, their grinning mouth, their threatening eyes, and their rough limbs are stiff with snaky scales; their beard hangs long and wide, uncombed, tangled with sea-weed and green ooze, and their dusky hair smells rank of brine.'--_Ib._ p. 103.] In these couplets we seem to read a transcript from some fresco of Mantegna or Julio Romano. Two long elegies are devoted to the theme of marine monsters, and the tale of Hippolytus is introduced to clinch the poet's argument. Among Castiglione's poems of compliment, forming a pleasant illustration to his book of the 'Courtier,' may be mentioned the lines on 'Elisabetta Gonzaga singing.'[480] Nor can I omit the most original of his elegies, written, or at least conceived, in the camp of Julius before Mirandola.[481] Walking by night in the trenches under the beleaguered walls, Castiglione meets the ghost of Lodovico Pico, who utters a lamentation over the wrongs inflicted on his city and his race. The roar of cannon cuts short this monologue, and the spectre vanishes into darkness with a groan. During his long threnody the prince of Mirandola apostrophises the warlike Pope in these couplets:-- O Pater, O Pastor populorum, O maxime mundi Arbiter, humanum qui genus omne regis; Justitiæ pacisque dator placidæque quietis, Credita cui soli est vita salusque hominum; Quem Deus ipse Erebi fecit Coelique potentem, Ut nutu pateant utraque regna tuo![482] [Footnote 480: 'De Elisabetta Gonzaga canente,' _Carmina_, &c. p. 97. Cf. Bembo's 'Ad Lucretiam Borgiam,' _ib._ p. 14, on a similar theme.] [Footnote 481: _Ib._ p. 95.] [Footnote 482: 'O father, O shepherd of the nations, O great master of the world who rulest all the human race, giver of justice, peace, and tranquil ease; thou to whom alone is committed the life and salvation of men, whom God Himself made lord of hell and heaven, that either realm might open at thy nod.'] When the spiritual authority of the Popes came thus to be expressed in Latin verse, it was impossible not to treat them as deities. The temptation to apply to them the language of Roman religion was too great; the double opportunity of flattering their vanity as Pontiffs, and their ears as scholars, was too attractive to be missed. In another place Castiglione used the following phrases about Leo:-- Nec culpanda tua est mora, nam præcepta Deorum Non fas, nec tutum est spernere velle homini: Esse tamen fertur clementia tanta Leonis Ut facili humanas audiat ore preces.[483] [Footnote 483: 'I do not blame thee for delaying thy return, since neither is it safe nor right for man to set at naught a God's command; and yet so great is Leo's kindness said to be that he inclines a ready ear to human prayers.'--_Ib._ p. 102.] Navagero called Julius II. _novus ex alto demissus Olympo Deus_ (a new God sent down from heaven to earth), and declared that the people of Italy, in thanksgiving for his liberation of their country from the barbarians, would pay him yearly honours with prayer and praise:-- Ergo omnes, veluti et Phoebo Panique, quotannis Pastores certis statuent tibi sacra diebus, Magne Pater; nostrisque diu cantabere silvis. Te rupes, te saxa, cavæ te, Maxime Juli, Convalles, nemorumque frequens iterabit imago. At vero nostris quæcumque in saltibus usquam Quercus erit, ut quæque suos dant tempora flores, Semper erit variis ramos innexa coronis; Inscriptumque geret felici nomine truncum. Tum quoties pastum expellet, pastasve reducet Nostrum aliquis pecudes; toties id mente revolvens Ut liceat, factum esse tuo, Pater optime, ductu; Nullus erit, qui non libet tibi lacte recenti, Nullus erit qui non teneros tibi nutriat agnos. Quin audire preces nisi dedignabere agrestes, Tu nostra ante Deos in vota vocaberis omnes. Ipse ego bina tibi solenni altaria ritu, Et geminos sacrâ e quercu lauroque virenti Vicino lucos Nanceli in litore ponam.[484] [Footnote 484: 'Therefore shall all our shepherds pay thee divine honours, as to Pan or Phoebus, on fixed days, great Father; and long shalt thou be celebrated in our forests. Thy praise, Julius the Great, the cliffs, the rocks, the hollow valleys, and the woodland echoes shall repeat. Wherever in our groves an oak tree stands, as spring and summer bring the flowers, its branches shall be hung with wreaths, its trunk shall be inscribed with thy auspicious name. As often as our shepherds drive the flocks afield, or bring them pastured home, each one, remembering that he does this under thy protection, shall pour libations of new milk forth to thee, and rear thee tender lambs for sacrifice. Nay, if thou spurn not rustic prayers, before all gods shall we invoke thee in our supplications. I myself will build and dedicate to thee two altars, and will plant twin groves of sacred oak and laurel evergreen for thee.'--_Carmina_, &c. pp. 58, 59.] It will be remembered that the oak was the ensign of the Della Rovere family, so that when the poets exalted Julius to Olympus, they were not in want of a tree sacred to the new deity. To trace this Pagan flattery of the Popes through all its forms would be a tedious business. It will be enough to quote Poliziano's 'Sapphics' to Innocent VIII.:-- Roma cui paret dominusque Tibris, Qui vicem summi geris hic Tonantis, Qui potes magnum reserare et idem Claudere coelum.[485] [Footnote 485: 'Thou whom Rome obeys, and royal Tiber, who wieldest upon earth the Thunderer's power, whose it is to lock and open the gates of heaven.'--_Ib._ p. 260.] A more quaint confusion of Latin mythology and mediæval superstition, more glibly and trippingly conveyed in flimsy verse, can hardly be imagined; and yet even this, I think, is beaten by the ponderous conceits of Fracastoro, who, through the mouth of the goat-footed Pan, saluted Julius III. as the mountain of salvation, playing on his name Del Monte:-- Hoc in Monte Dei pecudes pascentur et agni, Graminis æterni pingues et velleris aurei; Exsilient et aquæ vivæ, quibus ubera capræ Grandia distendant, distendant ubera vaccæ.[486] [Footnote 486: 'In this mountain of the Lord shall flocks and herds feed, fat with eternal pastures and golden-fleeced. Living waters too shall leap forth, wherewith the goats shall swell their udders, and the kine likewise.'--_Poemata Selecta_, p. 132.] The mountain soon becomes a shepherd, and the shepherd not only rules the people, and feeds the sheep of God, but chains the monsters of the Reformation to a rock in Caucasus, and gives peace and plenty to Italy:-- Æternis illum numeris ad sidera tollent, Heroemque, deumque, salutiferumque vocabunt.[487] [Footnote 487: 'Him with immortal verse the poets shall exalt to heaven, and call him hero, god, and saviour.'--_Ib._ p. 133.] Returning to Castiglione: I have already spoken of his epitaph on Raphael and his description of the newly-discovered 'Ariadne.'[488] The latter exercise in rhetoric competes with Sadoleto's laboured hexameters on the Laocoon. These verses, frigid as a prize poem in our estimation, moved Bembo to enthusiasm. When they appeared he wrote to Sadoleto, 'I have read your poem on Laocoon a hundred times. O wonder-working bard! Not only have you made for us, as it were, a second statue to match that masterpiece; but you have engraved upon my mind the very statue itself.' This panegyric stirs a smile when we compare it with Sadoleto's own prolusion, the fruit of a grave intellect and cultivated taste rather than of genius and inspiration.[489] [Footnote 488: See above, pp. 312, 317.] [Footnote 489: See _Carmina Quinque Poetarum_, pp. 318-336.] Time would fail to tell of all the later Latin poets--of La Casa's polished lyrics in the style of Horace, of Amalteo's waxen eclogues, of Aonio Paleario's fantastic hexameters upon the 'Immortality of the Soul,'[490] of Strozzi's elegies, of Ariosto's epigrams, and Calcagnini's learned muse. When I repeat that every educated man wrote Latin verses in that century, and that all who could committed their productions to the press, enough has been said to prove the impossibility of dealing more than superficially with so vast a mass of meritorious mediocrity. [Footnote 490: A didactic poem in three books; Pope's _Poemata Italorum_, vol. i. pp. 211-270. The description of the Resurrection, the Last Judgment, and the entrance of the blessed into Paradise, forming the conclusion of the last book, is an excellent specimen of _barocco_ style and bathos. Virgil had written, '_Ite domum pasti, si quis pudor, ite juvenci!_' Paleario makes the Judge address the damned souls thus: '_Ite domum in tristem, si quis pudor, ite ruentes_,' &c. How close Milton's path lay to the worst faults in poetry, and how wonderfully he escaped, may well be calculated by the study of such verse as this.] One name remains to be rescued from the decent obscurity of the 'Delitiæ Poetarum Italorum.' Marcantonio Flaminio was born at Seravalle in 1498. He came, while yet a young man, to the Court of Leo armed with Latin poetry for his credentials. No better claim on patronage from Pope or cardinal could be preferred in that age of twanging lyres. At Rome Flaminio lived in the service of Alessandro Farnese, whose hospitality he afterwards repaid with verses honourable alike to poet and patron by their freedom from vulgar flattery. The atmosphere of a Court, however, was uncongenial to Flaminio. Fond of country life, addicted to serious studies, sober in his tastes, and cheerful in his spirits, pious, and unaffectedly unambitious, he avoided the stream of the great world and lived retired. Community of interests brought him into close connection with the Cardinals Pole and Contarini, from whom he caught so much of the Reformation spirit as a philosophical Italian could assimilate; but it was not in his modest and quiet nature to raise the cry of revolt against authority.[491] The most distinguished wits and scholars of the age were among his intimate friends. Both his poems and his correspondence reflect an agreeable light upon the literary society of the late Renaissance. The Latin verses, with which we are at present occupied, breathe genuine piety, healthful simplicity, and moral purity, in strong contrast with the neopaganism of the Roman circle. These qualities suit the robust style, clear, terse, and nervous, he knew how to use. It is pleasant to close the series of Italian Latinists with one who combined the best art of his century with the temper of a republican and the spirit of a Christian. [Footnote 491: This epigram on Savonarola shows Flaminio's sympathy with the preachers of pure doctrine:-- Dum fera flamma tuos, Hieronyme, pascitur artus, Relligio, sacras dilaniata comas, Flevit, et o, dixit, crudeles parcite flammæ, Parcite, sunt isto viscera nostra rogo.] The most prominent quality of Flaminio as a poet is love of the country. Three little compositions describing his own farm are animated with the enthusiasm of genuine affection.[492] We feel that no mere reminiscence of Catullus makes him write-- Jam vos revisam, jam juvabit arbores Manu paternâ consitas Videre, jam libebit in cubiculo Molles inire somnulos.[493] [Footnote 492: 'Ad Agellum suum.'--_Poemata Selecta_, pp. 155, 156, 177.] [Footnote 493: 'Now shall I see you once again; now shall I have the joy of gazing on the trees my father planted, and falling into gentle slumber in his little room.'] Nor is it an idle prayer he addresses to the Muses in these lines:-- At vos, o Heliconiæ puellæ, Queis fontes et amoena rura cordi, Si carâ mihi luce cariores Estis, jam miserescite obsecrantis, Meque, urbis strepitu tumultuosæ Ereptum, in placido locate agello.[494] [Footnote 494: 'Maidens of Helicon, who love the fountains and the pleasant fields, as you are dearer to me than the dear light, have pity now upon your suppliant, take me from the tumult of the noisy town, and place me in my tranquil farm.'] He is never tired of contrasting the pleasures of the country with the noise and weariness of Rome:-- Ipse miser tumultuosâ Urbe detinear; tibi benignus Dedit Jupiter in remoto agello Latentem placidâ frui quiete, Inter Socraticos libros, et inter Nymphas et Satyros, nihil profani Curantem populi leves honores.[495] [Footnote 495: 'I, poor wretch, am prisoned in the noisy town. Kind Jupiter allows you, secluded in your distant farm, to take the joys of peace among Socratic books, among the nymphs and satyrs, unheeding the light honours of the vulgar crowd.'--'Ad Honoratum Fascitellum,' _Poemata Selecta_, p. 178.] Flaminio's thought of the country is always connected with the thought of study. The picture of a tranquil scholar's life among the fields, diversified by sport and simple pleasures of the rustic folk, gives freshness to his hendecasyllables, whether addressed to his patron Alessandro Farnese, or to his friends Galeazzo Florimonte and Francesco Torriani:[496]-- Inde ocellos Ut primum sopor incubans gravabit, Jucundissime amice, te sub antrum Ducam, quod croceis tegunt corymbis Serpentes hederæ, imminensque laurus Suaviter foliis susurrat: at tu Ne febrim metuas gravedinemve; Est enim locus innocens: ubi ergo Hic satis requieveris, legentur Lusus Virgilii, et Syracusani Vatis, quo nihil est magis venustum, Nihil dulcius, ut mihi videtur. Cum se fregerit æstus, in virenti Convalle spatiabimur; sequetur Brevis coena; redibis inde ad urbem.[497] [Footnote 496: _Poemata Selecta_, pp. 153, 169, 173.] [Footnote 497: 'Then, when sleep descends upon your eyes, best friend of mine, I'll lead you to a cave o'ercurtained by the wandering ivy's yellow bunches, whereby the sheltering laurel murmurs with her gently waving leaves. Fear no fever or dull headache. The place is safe. So when you are rested, we will read the rustic songs of Virgil or Theocritus; sweet and more charming verse I know not; and after the day's heat is past, we will stroll in some green valley. A light supper follows, and then you shall return to town.'--_Ib._ p. 174.] One of Flaminio's best poems is written from his friend Stefano Sauli's villa near Genoa.[498] It describes how he spends his time between the philosophy of Aristotle and the verses of Catullus, while Sauli at his side devotes himself to Cicero. The fall of evening lures them from their study to the sea-beach: perched upon a water-girded rock, they angle with long reeds for fishes, or watch the white sails on the purple waves. The same theme is repeated in a copy of hexameters addressed to Sauli.[499] Flaminio had fallen ill of fever at Rome. To quit the city was his cure:-- Scilicet ut Romæ corruptas fugimus auras, Et riguos patriæ montes saltusque salubres Venimus, effoetos venit quoque robur in artus: Diffugit macies, diffugit corpore pallor; Et somnus vigiles irrepsit blandus ocellos, Quem neque desiliens crepitanti rivulus undâ, Nec Lethea mihi duxere papavera quondam.[500] [Footnote 498: 'Ad Christophorum Longolium,' _Ib._] [Footnote 499: _Poemata Selecta_, p. 163.] [Footnote 500: 'No sooner had I left Rome's tainted air for the clear streams and healthful forests of my native land, than strength returned into my wasted limbs; my body lost the pallor and emaciation of disease, and sweet sleep crept upon my wakeful eyes, such as no waters falling with a tinkling sound or Lethe's poppies had induced before.'] Sauli, for his part, is congratulated on having exchanged the cares of Church and State for Ciceronian studies among his laurel groves and gleaming orange gardens. Flaminio's intimate relations with the ablest men of the century, those especially who were engaged in grave and Christian studies, add extrinsic interest to his fugitive pieces. In one poem he alludes to the weak health of Cardinal Pole;[501] in another he compares Plato's description of the ideal republic with Contarini's work upon the magistrates and commonwealth of Venice:-- Descripsit ille maximus quondam Plato Longis suorum ambagibus voluminum, Quis civitatis optimus foret status: Sed hunc ab ipsâ sæculorum origine Nec ulla vidit, nec videbit civitas. At Contarenus optimam rempublicam Parvi libelli disputationibus Illam probavit esse, plus millesima Quam cernit æstas Adriatico in mari Florere pace, litteris, pecuniâ.[502] [Footnote 501: _Poemata Selecta_, p. 162.] [Footnote 502: 'Plato, the greatest of sages, once described in his long volumes the best form of a State; but this from the beginning of the world till now hath never yet been seen, nor will it afterwards be seen in any city. Contarini in his little book has proved that the best commonwealth is that which now for more than a thousand years has flourished in the Adriatic with peace, letters, and wealth.'--_Poemata Selecta_, p. 162.] When Vittoria Colonna died, Flaminio wrote a lamentation on the loss he had sustained, and on the extinction of so great a light for Italy. These verses are remarkable for their sobriety and strength:-- Cui mens candida, candidique mores, Virtus vivida, comitasque sancta, Coeleste ingenium, eruditioque Rara, nectare dulciora verba, Summa nobilitas, decora vultûs Majestas, opulenta sed bonorum Et res et domus usque aperta ad usus.[503] [Footnote 503: 'Ad Hieronymum Turrianum,' _ib._ p. 168. 'Her mind was pure, her manners pure; her virtue lively, her courtesy without a taint of earth; her intellect was heavenly, her learning rare; her words sweeter than nectar; her nobility the highest; her features beautiful in their majesty; her wealth liberally open to the use of good men.'] The same firm and delicate touch in the delineation of character gives value to the lines written on his father's death:-- Vixisti, genitor, bene ac beate, Nec pauper, neque dives, eruditus Satis, et satis eloquens, valente Semper corpore, mente sanâ, amicis Jucundus, pietate singulari. Nunc lustris bene sexdecim peractis Ad divûm proficisceris beatas Oras; i, genitor, tuumque natum Olympi cito siste tecum in arce.[504] [Footnote 504: 'Well and happily hast thou lived, my father; neither poor nor rich; learned enough and eloquent enough; of vigorous body and of healthy mind; pleasant to thy friends, and in thy piety unrivalled. Now, after sixteen lustres finished, thou goest to the regions of the blest. Go, father, and soon greet thy son, to stay with thee in heaven's high seat.'--'Ad Patrem morientem,' _Poemata Selecta_, p. 157.] At the risk of extending this notice of Flaminio's poetry beyond due limits, I must quote from a copy of verses sent to Alessandro Farnese, together with a volume containing the Latin _prolusiones_ of the North Italian scholars:-- Hos tibi lepidissimos poetas Dono, tempora quos tulere nostra, Fortunata nimis, nimis beata Nostra tempora, quæ suos Catullos, Tibullos, et Horatios, suosque Marones genuere. Quis putasset, Post tot sæcula tam tenebricosa, Et tot Ausoniæ graves ruinas, Tanta lumina tempore uno in una Tam brevi regione Transpadanâ Oriri potuisse? quæ vel ipsa Sola barbarie queant fugatâ Suum reddere litteris Latinis Splendorem, veteremque dignitatem.[505] [Footnote 505: _Poemata Selecta_, p. 166. 'These most graceful poets I give you, the offspring of our too, too happy times, which have produced their Catullus and their Horace, their Tibullus and their Maro. Who could have thought, after so many ages of such darkness, and all the ruin that has weighed on Italy, that so many lights could have arisen at one epoch in one little region of the land above the Po? They alone are enough to put to flight the gloom of barbarism, and to restore its antique glory and own splendour to Latin literature.' After this he goes on to add that these poets will confer eternal lustre on Italy. Not only the northern nations of Europe, but America also has begun to study Latin; and races in another hemisphere will take their culture from these pages. The Cardinal is finally reminded that immortality of fame awaits him in their praises.] There is the whole of humanism in this passage--the belief in the unity of Italian civilisation, the conviction that the Middle Ages were but an interruption of historic continuity, the confidence in the restoration of classic literature, and the firm hope that Latin would never cease to be the language of culture. Flaminio says nothing, unless parenthetically, about the real woes of his country. The tyranny of the Spaniard and the violence of the German are reckoned with the old wrongs of the Goth and the Vandal in one phrase--'_tot graves ruinas_.' He does not touch upon the dismemberment of Italy into mutually jealous and suspicious States: for him the Italian nation, even in a dream, has no existence. He is satisfied with a literary ideal. Too fortunate, too blessed, are these days of ours, in spite of Florence extinguished, Rome sacked, Milan devastated, Venice curbed, because, forsooth, Bembo and Fracastoro have made a pinchbeck age of poetry. Here lay the incurable weakness of the humanistic movement. The vanity of the scholar, determined to seek the present in the past, building the walls of Troy anew with borrowed music, and singing in falsetto while Rome was burning--this blindness to the actual situation of Italy was scarcely less pernicious, scarcely less a sign of incapacity for civil life than the selfishness of the Despots or the egotism of the Papacy. Italy was foredoomed to lose her place among the nations at the very moment when she was recovering culture for the modern world; and when that culture was recovered through her industry and genius, not she, but the races of the North, began to profit by the acquisition--not her imitations of the Latin Muse, but the new languages of Europe were destined to prevail and lead the age. Another point for observation is that the centre of humanistic studies has shifted.[506] Florence, disillusioned, drained of strength, and sucked dry by the tyrants, holds her tongue. The schools of Naples and of Rome are silent. Lombardy is now the mother of poets, who draw their inspiration no longer from Valdarno or the myrtle groves of Posilippo, but from the blue waves of Garda.[507] The university where science still flourishes is Padua. The best professors of the classics, Celio Calcagnini and Lilius Gyraldus, teach at Ferrara. Bembo, the dictator of letters for his century, Navagero, the sweetest versifier, Contarini, the most sober student, are Venetians. Stefano Sauli, the author of a Ciceronian treatise on the Christian hero, is a patrician of Genoa. Sadoleto and Molsa are Modenese. Verona claims Fracastoro and the Torriani. Imola is the mother city of Flaminio. Castiglione and Capilupo are natives of Mantua; Amalteo and Vida of Forli and Cremona; Bonfadio and Archio of Lake Garda. If we seek the causes of this change, we find them partly in the circumstance that Venice at this period was free, while Ferrara still retained her independence under native princes; partly also in the fact that Florence had already overtaxed her intellectual energies. Like a creeping paralysis, the extinction of liberty and spiritual force was gradually invading all the members of the Italian community. The Revival of Learning came to an end, as far as Italy was concerned, in these Transpadane poets. [Footnote 506: 'Tam brevi regione Transpadanâ.'] [Footnote 507: Cf. Bembo's _Benacus_, Bonfadio's _Gazani Vici Descriptio_, Fracastoro's _Ad Franciscum Turrianum Veronensem_, &c.] To trace the history of philosophic thought, set in motion by the Renaissance and stamped out by the Counter-Reformation, and to describe the aftergrowth of art and literature encouraged by the Catholic reaction, must form the subject of a separate inquiry. I hope, if I have time and strength, after the completion of my work on the Renaissance, to trace this sequel in a volume on 'Italy and the Council of Trent.' To this chapter of Italian history will also belong the philosophy of the sixteenth century, the poetry of Tasso, the painting of the Bolognese masters, and the new music of Palestrina. CHAPTER IX CONCLUSION General Survey -- The Part played in the Revival by the Chief Cities -- Preoccupation with Scholarship in spite of War and Conquest -- Place of the Humanists in Society -- Distributors of Praise and Blame -- Flattery and Libels -- Comparison with the Sophists -- The Form preferred to the Matter of Literature -- Ideal of Culture as an end in itself -- Suspicion of Zealous Churchmen -- Intrusion of Humanism into the Church -- Irreligion of the Humanists -- Gyraldi's 'Progymnasma' -- Ariosto -- Bohemian Life -- Personal Immorality -- Want of Fixed Principles -- Professional Vanity -- Literary Pride -- Estimate of Humanistic Literature -- Study of Style -- Influence of Cicero -- Valla's 'Elegantiæ' -- Stylistic Puerilities -- Value attached to Rhetoric -- 'Oratore' -- Moral Essays -- Epistolography -- Historics -- Critical and Antiquarian Studies -- Large Appreciation of Antiquity -- Liberal Spirit -- Poggio and Jerome of Prague -- Humanistic Type of Education -- Its Diffusion through Europe -- Future Prospects -- Decay of Learning in Italy. In tracing the history of the Revival, we have seen how the impulse, first communicated by Petrarch, was continued by Boccaccio and his immediate successors. We have watched the enthusiasm for antiquity strike root in Florence, spread to Rome, and penetrate the Courts of Italy. One city after another receives the light and hands it on, until the whole cycle of study has been traversed and the vigour of the nation is exhausted. Florence discovers manuscripts, founds libraries, learns Greek, and leads the movement of the fifteenth century. Naples criticises; Rome translates; Mantua and Ferrara form a system of education; Venice commits the literature of the classics to the press. By the combined and successive activity of the chief Italian centres, not only is the culture of antiquity regained; it is also appropriated in all its various branches, discussed and illustrated, placed beyond the reach of accident, and delivered over in its integrity to Europe. The work thus performed by the Italians was begun in peace; but it had to be continued under the pressure of wars and national disasters unparalleled in the history of any other modern people. Not for a single moment did the students relax their energy. In the midst of foreign armies, deafened by the roar of cannon and the tumult of sacked towns, exiled from their homes, robbed of their books, deprived of their subsistence, they advanced to their end with the irresistible obstinacy of insects. The drums and tramplings of successive conquests and invasions by four warlike nations--Frenchmen, Spaniards, Germans, Swiss--could not disturb them. Drop by drop, Italy was being drained of blood; from the first the only question was which of her assailants should possess the beauty of her corpse. Yet the student, intent upon his manuscripts, paid but little heed. So non-existent was the sense of nationality in Italy that the Italians did not know they were being slowly murdered. When the agony was over, and the ruin was accomplished, they congratulated themselves on being still the depositaries of polite literature. Nations that are nations, seek to inspire fear, or at least respect. The Italians were contented with admiration, and looked confidently to the world for gratitude. The task of two toilsome, glorious centuries had been accomplished. The chasm between Rome and the Renaissance was bridged over, and a plain way was built for the progressive human spirit. Italy, downtrodden in the mire of blood and ruins, should still lead the van and teach the peoples. It was a sublime delusion, the last phase of an impulse so powerful in its origin that to prophesy an ending was impossible. Yet how delusive was the expectation is proved by the immediate history of Italy, enslaved and decadent, outstripped by the nations she had taught, and scorned by the world that owed her veneration. The humanists, who were the organ of this intellectual movement, formed, as we have seen, a literary commonwealth, diffused through all the Courts and cities of Italy. As the secretaries of Popes and princes, as the chancellors of republics, as orators on all occasions of public and private ceremony, they occupied important posts of influence, and had the opportunity of leavening society with their opinions. Furthermore, we have learned to know them in their capacity of professors at the universities, of house-tutors in the service of noblemen, and of authors. Closely connected among themselves by their feuds no less than by their friendships, and working to one common end of scholarship, it was inevitable that these men, after the enthusiasm for antiquity had once become the fashion, should take the lead and mould the genius of the nation. Their epistles, invectives, treatises, and panegyrics, formed the study of an audience that embraced all cultivated minds in Italy. Thus the current literature of humanism played the same part in the fifteenth century as journalism in the nineteenth, and the humanists had the same kind of coherence in relation to the public as the _quatrième état_ of modern times. The respect they inspired as the arbiters of praise and blame, was only equalled by their vast pretensions. Eugenius IV., living at the period of their highest influence, is reported to have said that they were as much to be feared for their malice as to be loved for their learning. While they claimed the power of conferring an immortality of honour or dishonour, no one dared to call their credit with posterity in question. Nothing seemed more dreadful than the fate reserved for Paul II. in the pages of Platina; and even so robust a ruler as Francesco Sforza sought to buy the praises of Filelfo. Flattery in all its branches, fulsome and delicate, wholesale and allusive, was developed by them as an art whereby to gain their living. The official history of this period is rendered almost worthless by its sustained note of panegyrical laudation. Our ears are deafened with the eulogies of petty patrons transformed into Mæcenases, of carpet knights compared to Leonidas, of tyrants equalled with Augustus, and of generals who never looked on bloodshed tricked out as Hannibals or Scipios. As a pendant to panegyric, the art of abuse reached its climax in the invectives whereby the scholars sought to hand their comrades down to all time 'immortally immerded,' or to vilify the public enemies of their employers. As in the case of praise, so also in the case of blame, it is impossible to attach importance to the writings of the humanists. Their vaulting ambition to depreciate each other overleaped itself. All their literature of defamation serves now only to throw light on the general impurity of an age in which such monstrous charges carried weight. Unluckily, this double vice of humanism struck deep roots into Italian literature. Without the scholars of the fifteenth century, it is hardly possible that such a brigand as Pietro Aretino, who levied black mail from princes at the point of his venomous quill, or such an unprincipled biographer as Paolo Giovio, who boasted that he wrote with a golden or a silver pen, as pleased him best, could have existed. Bullying and fawning tainted the very source of history, and a false ideal of the writer's function was established by the practice of men like Poggio. It is obvious and easy to compare the humanists of the Renaissance with the sophists of antiquity. Whether we think of the rivals of Socrates at Athens, or of the Greek rhetoricians of the Roman period,[508] the parallel is tolerably close. From certain points of view the Italian scholars remind us of the former class; from others, again, they recall the latter. The essence of sophism is the substitution of semblance for reality, indifference to truth provided a fair show be made, combined with verbal ingenuity and practice in the art of exposition. The sophist feels no need of forming opinions on a sound basis, or of adhering to principles. Regarding thought as the subject-matter of literary treatment, he is chiefly concerned with giving it a fair and plausible investiture in language. Instead of recognising that he must live up to the standard he professes, he takes delight in expressing with force the contrary of what he acts. The discord between his philosophy and his conduct awakes no shame in him, because it is the highest triumph of his art to persuade by eloquence and to dazzle by rhetoric. Phrases and sentences supply the place of feelings and convictions. Sonorous cadences and harmonies of language are always ready to conceal the want of substance in his matter or the flimsiness of his argument. At the same time the sophist's enthusiasm for a certain form of culture, and his belief in the sophistic method, may be genuine. [Footnote 508: 'Græculi esurientes.' Lives written by Philostratus.] The literature of the Revival is full of such sophism. Men who lived loose lives, were never tired of repeating the commonplaces of the Ciceronian ethics, praising simplicity and self-control with the pen they used for reproducing the scandals of Martial, mingling impudent demands for money and flatteries of debauched despots with panegyrics of Pætus Thrasea and eulogies of Cincinnatus. Conversely, students of eminent sobriety, like Guarino da Verona, thought it no harm to welcome Beccadelli's 'Hermaphroditus' with admiration; while the excellent Nicholas V. spent nine days in perusing the filthy satires of Filelfo. It was enough that the form was elegant, according to their standards of taste, the Latinity copious and sound:--the subject-matter raised no scruples. This vice of regarding only the exterior of literature produced a fatal weakness in the dissertations of the age. If a humanist wanted to moralise the mutability of fortune or the disadvantages of matrimony, he did not take the trouble to think, or the pains to borrow illustrations from his own experience. He strung together quotations and classical instances, expending his labour on the polish of the style, and fancying he had proved something by piquancy displayed in handling old material. When he undertook history, the same fault was apparent. Instead of seeking to set forth the real conditions of his native city, to describe its political vicissitudes and constitutional development, or to paint the characters of its great men, he prepared imaginary speeches and avoided topics incapable of expression in pure Latin. The result was that whole libraries of ethical disquisitions and historical treatises, bequeathed with proud confidence by their authors to the admiration of posterity, are now reposing in unhonoured dust, ransacked at rare intervals by weary students with restless fingers in search of such meagre scraps of information as even a humanist could not succeed in excluding. The humanists resembled the sophists again in their profession to teach wisdom for pay. What philosophy was for the early Greeks, classic culture was for Italy in the Renaissance; and this the scholars sold. Antiquity lay before them like an open book. From their seat among the learned they doled out the new lore of life to eager pupils. And as the more sober-minded of the Athenians regarded the educational practice of the sophists with suspicion, so the humanists came to be dreaded as the corrupters of youth. The peculiar turn they gave to mental training, by diverting attention from patriotic duties to literary pleasures, by denationalising the interests of students, and by distracting serious thought from affairs of the present to interests of the past, tended to confirm the political debility of the Italians; nor can it be doubted that the substitution of Pagan for Christian ideals intensified the demoralisation of the age. Many arguments used by Aristophanes and Xenophon might be repeated against these sophists of the Renaissance.[509] [Footnote 509: Aristoph., _Clouds_, Speeches of Dikaios Logos; Xen., _On Hunting_, chap. xiii.] On this point it is worth observing that, though humanism took the Papal Court by storm and installed itself in pomp and pride within the Vatican, the lower clergy and the leaders of religious revivals, in no mere spirit of blind prejudice, but with solid force of argument, denounced it. S. Bernardino and Savonarola were only two among many who preached against the humanists from the pulpit. And yet, while we admit that the influences of the Revival injured morality, and gave a cosmopolitan direction to energies that ought to have been concentrated on the preservation of national existence, we are unable to join with these ecclesiastical antagonists in their crusade. Humanism was a necessary moment in the evolution of the modern world; and whatever were its errors, however weakening it may have been to Italy, this phase had to be passed through, this nation had to suffer for the general good. The intrusion of the humanists into the Papal Curia was a victory of the purely secular spirit. It is remarkable how very few scholars took orders except with a view of holding minor benefices. They remained virtual laymen, drawing the emoluments of their cures at a distance. If Filelfo, after the death of his second wife, proposed to enter the Church, he did so because in his enormous vanity he hoped to gain the scarlet hat, and thought this worth the sacrifice of independence. The only great monastic _litteratus_ was Ambrogio, General of the Camaldolese Order. Maffeo Vegio is the single instance I can remember of a poet-philologer who assumed the cowl. These statements, it will be understood, refer chiefly to the second or aggressive period of the Revival. Classic erudition was so common in the fourth that to be without a humanistic tincture was, even among churchmen, the exception rather than the rule. In the age of Leo, moreover, the humanists as a class had ceased to exist, merged in the general culture of the nation. Their successors were for the most part cardinals and bishops, elevated to high rank for literary merit. This change, however, really indicated the complete triumph of an ideal that for a moment had succeeded in paganising the Papacy, and substituting its own standard of excellence for ecclesiastical tradition. This external separation between the humanists and the Church corresponded to their deep internal irreligiousness. If contemporary testimony be needed to support this assertion, I may quote freely from Lilius Gyraldus, Battista Mantovano, and Ariosto, not to mention the invectives that record so vast a mass of almost incredible licentiousness. A rhetorical treatise, addressed to Gian Francesco Pico by Lilius Gyraldus, himself an eminent professor at Ferrara, acquaints us with the opinion formed in Italy, after a century's experience, of the vices and discordant lives of scholars.[510] 'I call God and men to witness,' he writes, 'whether it be possible to find men more affected by immoderate disturbances of soul, by such emotions as the Greeks called [Greek: pathê], or by such desires as they named [Greek: hormai], more easily influenced, driven about, and drawn in all directions. No class of human beings are more subject to anger, more puffed up with vanity, more arrogant, more insolent, more proud, conceited, idle-minded, inconsequent, opinionated, changeable, obstinate; some of them ready to believe the most incredible nonsense, others sceptical about notorious truths, some full of doubt and suspicion, others void of reasonable circumspection. None are of a less free spirit, and that for the very reason I have touched before, because they think themselves so far more powerful. They all of them, indeed, pretend to omniscience, fancy themselves superior to everything, and rate themselves as gods, while we unlearned little men are made of clay and mud, as they maintain.' Having for some space discoursed concerning their mad ways of life, Gyraldus proceeds to arraign the humanists in detail for vicious passions, want of economy, impiety, gluttony, intemperance, sloth, and incontinence.[511] This invective reads like a paradoxical thesis supported for the sake of novelty by a clever rhetorician; and, indeed, it might pass for such were it not for the confirmation it receives in Ariosto's seventh satire addressed to Pietro Bembo.[512] The poet, anxious to find a tutor for his son, dares not commit the young man to the care of a humanist. His picture of their personal immorality, impiety, pride, and gluttony acquires weight from the well-known tolerance of the satirist, and from his genial parsimony of expression. To cite further testimony from the personal confessions of Pacificus Maximus would hardly strengthen the argument, though students may be referred to his poems for details.[513] [Footnote 510: _Progymnasma adversus Literatos._ _Op. Omn._, Basle, 1582, vol. ii.] [Footnote 511: 'Pudet me, Pice, pigetque id de literatis afferre quod omnium tamen est in ore, nullos esse cum omnium vitiorum etiam nefandissimorum genere inquinatos magis, tum iis præcipue, quæ præter naturam dicuntur,' &c.--_Progymnasma adversus Literatos_, p. 431.] [Footnote 512: Lines 22-129.] [Footnote 513: _Quinque Illustrium Poetarum Lusus in Venerem_, Parisiis, 1791, p. 107.] The alternations of fortune to which the humanists were exposed--living at one time in the lap of luxury, caressed and petted; then cast forth to wander in almost total indigence, neglected and derided--encouraged a Bohemian recklessness injurious to good manners. Their frequent change of place told upon their character in the same way, by exposing them to fresh temptations and withdrawing them from censure. They had no country but the dreamland of antiquity, no laws beyond the law of taste and inclination. They acknowledged no authority superior to their own exalted judgment; they bowed to no tribunal but that of posterity and the past. Thus they lived within their own conceits, outside of custom and opinion; nor was the world, at any rate before the period of their downfall, scrupulous to count their errors or correct their vices. Far more important, however, than these circumstances was their passion for a Pagan ideal. The study of the classics and the effort to assimilate the spirit of the ancients, undermined their Christianity without substituting the religion or the ethics of the old world. They ceased to fear God; but they did not acquire either the self-restraint of the Greek or the patriotic virtues of the Roman. Thus exposed without defence or safeguard, they adopted the perilous attitude of men whose regulative principle was literary taste, who had left the ground of faith and popular convention for the shoals and shallows of an irrecoverable past. On this sea they wandered, with no guidance but the promptings of undisciplined self. It is not, therefore, a marvel that, while professing Stoicism, they wallowed in sensuality, openly affected the worst habits of Pagan society, and devoted their ingenuity to the explanation of foulness that might have been passed by in silence. Licentiousness became a special branch of humanistic literature. Under the thin mask of humane refinement leered the untamed savage; and an age that boasted not unreasonably of its mental progress, was at the same time notorious for the vices that disgrace mankind. These disorders of the scholars, hidden for a time beneath a learned language, ended by contaminating the genius of the nation. The vernacular _Capitoli_ of Florence say plainly what Beccadelli, Poggio, and Bembo piqued themselves on veiling. Another notable defect of the humanists, equally inseparable from the position they assumed in Italy, was their personal and professional vanity. Battista Mantovano, writing on the calamities of the age in which he lived, reckons them among the most eminent examples of pride in his catalogue of the deadly sins. Regarding themselves as resuscitators of a glorious past and founders of a new civility, they were not satisfied with asserting their real merits in the sphere of scholarship. They went further, and claimed to rank as sages, political philosophers, writers of deathless histories, and singers of immortal verse. The most miserable poetasters got crowned with laurels. The most trivial thinkers passed verdict upon statecraft. Mistaking mere cultivation for genius, they believed that, because they had perused the authors of antiquity and could imitate Ovid at a respectful distance, their fame would endure for all ages. On the strength of this confidence they gave themselves inconceivable airs, looking down from the height of their attainment on the profane crowd. To understand that, after all, antiquity was a school wherein to train the modern intellect for genuine production, was not given to this epoch of discovery. Posterity has sadly belied their expectations. Of all their treatises and commentaries, poems and translations, how few are now remembered; how rarely are their names upon the lips of even professed students! The debt of gratitude we owe them is indeed great, and should be amply paid by our respectful memory of all they wrought for us with labour in the field of learning. Yet Filelfo would turn with passionate disappointment in his grave, if he could know that men of wider scope and sounder erudition appreciate his writings solely as shed leaves that fertilised the soil of literature. Before turning, as is natural at this point, to form an estimate of the humanists in their capacity of authors, it will be right briefly to qualify the condemnation passed upon their characters. Taken as a class, they deserve the hardest words that have been said of them. Yet it must not be forgotten that they numbered in their ranks such men as Ambrogio Traversari, Tommaso da Sarzana, Guarino, Jacopo Antiquari, Vittorino da Feltre, Pomponius Lætus, Ficino, Pico, Fabio Calvi, and Aldus Manutius. The bare enumeration of these names will suffice for those who have read the preceding chapters. Piety, sobriety of morals, self-devotion to public interests, the purest literary enthusiasm, the most lofty aspirations, fairness of judgment, and generosity of feeling distinguish these men, and some others who might be mentioned, from the majority of their fellows. Nor, again, is it fair to charge the humanists alone with vices common to their age. The picture I ventured to draw of Papal and despotic manners in a previous volume, shows that a too strict standard cannot be applied to scholars, holding less responsible positions than their patrons, and professing a far looser code of conduct. Much, too, of their inordinate vanity may be ascribed to the infatuation of the people. Such scenes as the reception of the supposed author of 'Hermaphroditus' in Vicenza were enough to turn the heads of even stronger men.[514] [Footnote 514: See above, p. 185, note 4.] It is difficult to appraise humanistic literature at a just value, seeing that by far the larger mass of it, after serving a purpose of temporary utility, is now forgotten. Not itself, but its effect, is what we have to estimate; and the ultimate product of the whole movement was the creation of a new capacity for cultivation. To have restored to Europe the knowledge of the classics, and to have recovered the style of the ancients, so as to use Latin prose and verse with freedom at a time when Latin formed an universal medium of culture, is the first real merit of the humanists. Nothing can rob them of this glory; however much we may be forced to feel that their critical labours have been superseded, that their dissertations are dull, that their poems at the worst fall far below the level of an Oxford prize exercise, and at the best supply a decent appendix to the 'Corpus Poetarum.' Nor can we defraud them of the fame of having striven to realise Petrarch's ideal.[515] That ideal, only partially attained at any single point, developed in one direction by Milton, in another by Goethe, still guides, and will long guide, the efforts of the modern intellect. [Footnote 515: See above, Chapter II.] The most salient characteristic of this literature was study of style. The beginners of the humanistic movement were conscious that what separated them more than anything else from their Roman ancestors, was want of elegance in diction. They used the same language; but they used it clumsily. They could think the same thoughts, but they had lost the art of expressing them with propriety. To restore style was therefore a prime object. Exaggerating its importance, they neglected the matter for the form, and ended by producing a literature of imitation. The ideal they proposed in composition included limpidity of language, simplicity in the structure of sentences however lengthy, choiceness of phrase, and a copious vocabulary. To be intelligible was the first requisite; to be attractive the second. Having mastered elementary difficulties, they proceeded to fix the rules for decorative writing. Cicero had said that nothing was so ugly or so common but that rhetoric could lend it charm. This unfortunate dictum, implying that style, as separate from matter, is valuable in and for itself, led the Italians astray. To form commonplace books of phrases culled from the 'Tusculans' and the 'Orations,' to choose some trivial theme for treatment, and to make it the occasion for verbal display, became their business. In the coteries of Rome and Florence scholars measured one another by their ingenuity--in other words, by their aptness for producing Ciceronian and Virgilian centos. Few indeed, like Pico, raised their voices against such trifling, or protested that what a man thought and felt was at least as important as his power of clothing it in rhetoric. The appearance of Valla's 'Elegantiæ' marked an epoch in the evolution of this stylistic art. It reached its climax in the work of Bembo. What the humanists intended, they achieved. Purity and perspicuity of language were made conditions of all literature that claimed attention; nor is it, perhaps, too much to say that Racine, Pascal, and Voltaire owe something of their magic to the training of these worn-out pedagogues. Yet the immediate effect in Italy, when Machiavelli's vigour had passed out of the nation, and the stylistic tradition survived, was deplorable. Nothing strikes a northern student of the post-Renaissance authors more than the empty smoothness of their writing, their faculty of saying nothing with a vast expenditure of phrase, their dread of homely details, and the triviality of the subjects they chose for illustration. When a man of wit like Annibale Caro could rise to praise the nose of the president before a learned academy in periods of this ineptitude--'Naso perfetto, naso principale, naso divino, naso che benedetto sia fra tutti i nasi; e benedetta sia quella mamma che vi fece così nasuto, e benedette tutte quelle cose che voi annusate!'[516]--we trace no more than a burlesque of humanistic seeking after style. It must, however, be admitted that it is not easy for a less artistic nation to do the Italians justice in this respect. They derived an æsthetic pleasure from refinements of speech and subtle flavours of expression, while they remained no less conscious than we are that the workmanship surpassed the matter. The proper analogue to their rhetoric may be found in the exquisite but too unmeaning arabesques in marble and in wood, which belong to Cinque Cento architecture. Viewed as the playthings of skilled artists, these are not without their value; and we are apt, perhaps, unduly to depreciate them, because we lack the sense for their particular form of beauty. [Footnote 516: 'Perfect nose, imperial nose, divine nose, nose to be blessed among all noses; and blessed be the breasts that made you with a nose so lordly, and blessed be all those things you put your nose to!' The above is quoted from Cantù's _Storia della Letteratura Italiana_. I have not seen the actual address.] If the most marked feature of humanistic literature was the creation of a Latin style, the supreme dictators were Cicero in prose and Virgil in verse. That Cicero should have fascinated the Italians in an age when art was dominant, when richness of decoration, rhetorical fluency, and pomp of phrase appealed to the liveliest instincts of a splendour-loving, sensitive, declamatory race, is natural. The Renaissance found exactly what it wanted in the manner of the most obviously eloquent of Latin authors, himself a rhetorician among philosophers, an orator among statesmen, the weakness of whose character was akin to that which lay at the root of fifteenth-century society. To be the 'apes of Cicero,' in all the branches of literature he had cultivated, was regarded by the humanists as a religious duty.[517] Though they had no place in the senate, the pulpit, or the law court, they were fain to imitate his oratory. Therefore public addresses to ambassadors, to magistrates on assuming office, and to Popes on their election; epithalamial and funeral discourses; panegyrics and congratulations--sounded far and wide through Italy. The fifteenth century was the golden age of speechification. A man was measured by the amount of fluent Latinity he could pour forth; copiousness of quotations secured applause; and readiness to answer on the spur of the moment in smooth Ciceronian phrases, was reckoned among the qualities that led to posts of trust in Church and State. On the other hand, a failure of words on any ceremonial occasion passed for one of the great calamities of life. The common name for an envoy, _oratore_, sufficiently indicates the public importance attached to rhetoric. It formed a necessary part of the parade which the Renaissance loved, and, more than that, a part of its diplomatic machinery. To compose orations that could never be recited was a fashionable exercise; and since the 'Verrines' and the 'Philippics' existed, no occasion was lost for reproducing something of their spirit in the invectives whereof so much has been already said. The emptiness of all this oratory, separated from the solid concerns of life, and void of actual value, tended to increase the sophistic character of literature. Eloquence, which ought to owe its force to passionate emotion or to gravity of meaning, degenerated into a mere play of words; and to such an extent was verbal cleverness over-estimated, that a scholar could ascribe the fame of Julius Cæsar to his 'Commentaries' rather than his victories.[518] It does not seem to have occurred to him that Pompey would have been glad if Cæsar had always wielded his pen, and that Brutus would hardly have stabbed a friendly man of letters. When we read a genuine humanistic speech, we find that it is principally composed of trite tales and citations. To play upon the texts of antiquity, as a pianist upon the keys of his instrument, was no small part of eloquence; and the music sounded pleasant in ears greedy of the very titles of old writings. Vespasiano mentions that Carlo Aretino owed his early fame at Florence to one lecture, introducing references to all the classic authors. [Footnote 517: The phrase is eulogistically used by F. Villani in his _Life of Coluccio Salutato_.] [Footnote 518: See Muratori, vol. xx. 442, 453.] The style affected for moral dissertation was in like manner Ciceronian. The dialogue in particular became fashionable; and since it was dangerous to introduce matter unsuited to Tully's phrases, these disquisitions are usually devoid of local colouring and contemporary interest. Few have such value as attaches to the opening of Poggio's essay on Fortune, to Valeriano's treatise on the misfortunes of the learned, or to Gyraldi's attack upon the humanists. Another important branch of literature, modelled upon Ciceronian masterpieces, was letter-writing. The epistolography of the humanists might form a separate branch of study, if we cared to trace its history through several stages, and to sift the stores at our disposal. Petrarch, after discovering the familiar letters of the Roman orator, first gave an impulse to this kind of composition. In his old age he tells how he was laughed at in his youth for assuming the Latin style of _thou_ together with the Roman form of superscription.[519] I have already touched upon the currency it gained through the practice of Coluccio Salutato and the teaching of Gasparino da Barzizza.[520] In course of time books of formulæ and polite letter-writers were compiled, enabling novices to adopt the Ciceronian mannerism with safety.[521] The Papal Curia sanctioned a set of precedents for the guidance of its secretaries, while the epistles of eminent chancellors served as models for the despatches of republican governments. [Footnote 519: _Epist. Rer. Senil._ xv. 1. 'Styli hujus per Italiam non auctor quidem, sed instaurator ipse mihi videor, quo cum uti inciperem, adolescens a coætaneis irridebar, qui in hoc ipso certatim me postea sunt secuti.'] [Footnote 520: See above, pp. 76-78.] [Footnote 521: Gian Maria Filelfo, son of the celebrated professor, published an _Epistolarium_ of this kind.] The private letters of scholars were useful in keeping up communication between the several centres of culture in Italy. From these sources too we now derive much interesting information respecting the social life of the humanists. They seem to have avoided political, theological, and practical topics, cultivating a style of urbane compliment, exchanging opinions about books, asking small favours, acknowledging obligations, recommending friends to favourable notice, occasionally describing their mode of life, discussing the qualities of their patrons with cautious reserve, but seeking above all things to display grace of diction and elegant humour rather than erudition. The fact that these Latin epistles were invariably intended for circulation and ultimate publication, renders it useless to seek for insight from them into strictly private matters.[522] For the historian the most valuable collections of Renaissance letters are composed in Italian, and are not usually the work of scholars, but of agents, spies, and envoys. Compared with the reports of the Venetian ambassadors, the correspondence of the humanists is unimportant. In addition to familiar letters, it not unfrequently happened, however, that epistles upon topics of public interest were indited by students. Intended by their diffusion to affect opinion, and addressed to influential friends or patrons, these compositions assumed the form of pamphlets. Of this kind were the letters on the Eastern question sent by Filelfo to Charles VII. of France, to the Emperor, to Matthias Corvinus, to the Dukes of Burgundy and Urbino, and to the Doge of Venice. The immortality expected by the humanists from their epistles, has hardly fallen to their lot; though much of Poliziano's, Pico's, Antiquari's, and Piccolomini's correspondence is still delightful and instructive reading. The masses extant in MS. exceed what has been printed; while the printed volumes, with some rare exceptions, among which may be mentioned Poliziano's letter to Antiquari on the death of Lorenzo, are only used by students.[523] [Footnote 522: Francesco Filelfo, quoted in Rosmini's Life, vol. ii. pp. 304, 282, 448, writes, 'Le cose che non voglio sieno copiate, le scrivo sempre alla grossolana.' 'Hoc autem scribendi more utimur iis in rebus quarum memoriam nolumus transferre ad posteros. Et ethrusca quidem lingua vix toti Italiæ nota est, at latina oratio longe ac late per universum orbem est diffusa.' ('Matters I do not wish to have copied I always write off in the vulgar. This style I use for such things as I do not care to transmit to posterity. Tuscan, to be sure, is hardly known to all Italians, while Latin is spread far and wide through the whole world.')] [Footnote 523: See Voigt, pp. 421, 422, for an account of Filelfo's, Traversari's, Barbaro's, and Bruni's letters.] Since Cicero had left no specimen of history, the humanists were driven to follow other masters in this branch of literature. Livy was the author of their predilection. Cæsar supplied them with a model for the composition of commentaries, and Sallust for concise monographs. Suetonius was followed in such minute studies of character as Decembrio's 'Life of Filippo Maria Visconti.' I do not find that Tacitus had any thoroughgoing imitators; the magniloquence of rhetoric, rather than the pungency of sarcasm, suited the taste of the age. The faults of the humanistic histories have been already pointed out.[524] [Footnote 524: See Vol. I., _Age of the Despots_, pp. 216, 217, and above, p. 377.] The services of the humanists, as commentators, translators, critics of texts, compilers of grammars and dictionaries of all kinds, collectors of miscellaneous information, and writers on antiquities, still remain to be remembered. Their industry in this field was quite different from the labour they devoted to the perfecting of style. Whatever we may think of them as men of letters, we are bound to give their erudition almost unqualified praise. Not, indeed, that their learning any more than their literature was final. It too has been superseded; but it formed the basis of a sounder method, and rendered the attainment of more certain knowledge possible. It is not too much to say that modern culture, so far as it is derived from antiquity, owes everything to the indefatigable energy of the humanists. Before the age of printing, scholars had to store their memories with encyclopædic information, while the very want of a critical method, by preventing them from exactly discerning the good and the bad, enabled them to take a broader and more comprehensive view of classical literature than is now at any rate common. Antiquity as a whole--not the authors merely of the Attic age or the Augustan--claimed their admiration; and though they devoted special study to Cicero and Virgil for the purposes of style, they eagerly accepted every Greek or Latin composition from the earliest to the latest. To this omnivorous appetite of the elder scholars we are perhaps indebted for the preservation of many fragments which a more delicate taste would have rejected. Certainly we owe to them the conception of the classics in their totality, as forming the proper source of culture for the human race. The purism of Vida and Bembo, though it sprang from more refined perceptions, was in some respects a retrogression from the wide and liberal erudition of their predecessors. Discipleship under Virgil may make a versifier; but he who would fain comprehend the Latin genius must know the poets of Rome from Ennius to Claudian. Finally we have to render the tribute due to the humanists for their diffusion of a liberal spirit. Sustained by the enthusiasm of antiquity, they first ventured to take a standpoint outside catholicity; and though they made but bad use of this spiritual freedom, inclining to levity and godlessness instead of fighting the battle of the reason, yet their large and human survey of the world was in itself invigorating. Poggio at the Council of Constance regarded Jerome of Prague not as a heretic, not as a fanatic, but as a Stoic. In other words, he was capable of divesting his mind of temporary associations and conventional prejudices, and of discerning the true character of the man who suffered heroically for his opinions. This instance illustrates the general tone and temper of the humanists. Their study of antiquity freed them from the scholastic pedantries of theologians, and from the professional conceits of jurists and physicians. There is nothing great and noble in human nature that might not, we fancy, have grown and thriven under their direction, if the circumstances of Italy had been more favourable to high aspirations. As it was, the light was early quenched and clouded by base vapours of a sensual, enslaved, and priest-corrupted society. The vital force of the Revival passed into the Reformation; the humanists, degraded and demoralised, were superseded. Still it was they who created the new atmosphere of culture, wherein whatever is luminous in art, literature, science, criticism, and religion has since flourished. Though we may perceive that they obeyed a false authority--that of the classics, and worshipped a false idol--style, yet modern liberty must render them the meed of thanks for this. When we consider that before the sixteenth century had closed, they had imbued the whole Italian nation with their views, forming a new literature, directing every kind of mental activity, and producing a new social tone, and furthermore that Italy in the sixteenth century impressed her spirit on the rest of Europe, we have a right to hail the humanists as the schoolmasters of modern civilisation. As schoolmasters in a stricter sense of the term, it is not easy to exaggerate the influence exercised by Italian students. They first conceived and framed the education that has now prevailed through Europe for four centuries, moulding the youth of divers nations by one common discipline, and establishing an intellectual concord for all peoples. In spite of changes in government and creed, in spite of differences caused by race and language, we have maintained an uniformity of culture through the simultaneous prosecution of classic studies on the lines laid down for teachers by the scholars of the fifteenth century. The system of our universities and public schools is in truth no other than that devised by Vittorino and Guarino. Thus humanism in modern Europe has continued the work performed during the Middle Ages by the Church, uniting in one confederation of spiritual activity nations widely separated by all that tends to keep the human families apart. Until quite recently in England, the _litteræ humaniores_ were accepted as the soundest training for careers in Church and State, for the learned professions, and for the private duties of gentlemen. If the old ideal is yielding at last to theories of a wider education based on science and on modern languages, that is due partly to the extension of useful knowledge, and partly to the absorption of classic literature into the modern consciousness. The sum of what a cultivated man should know, in order to maintain a place among the pioneers of progress, is so vast, that learners, distracted by a variety of subjects, resent the expenditure of precious time on Greek and Latin. Teachers, on the other hand, through long familiarity with humane studies, have fallen into the languor of routine. Besides, as knowledge in each new department increases, the necessity of specialising with a view to adopting a professional career, makes itself continually felt with greater urgency. It may therefore be plausibly argued that we have outgrown the conditions of humanism, and that a new stage in the history of education has been reached. Have not the ancients done as much for us as they can do? Are not our minds permeated with their thoughts? Do not the masterpieces of modern literature hold in solution the best that can be got from them for future uses? These questions can perhaps be met by the counter-question whether the arts and letters of the Greeks and Romans will not always hold their own, not only in the formation of pure taste, but also in the discipline of character and the training of the intelligence. Just as well might we cease to study the sacred books of the Jews, because we have incorporated their ethics into our conscience, and possess their religion in our liturgy. No transmission of a spirit at second or third hand can be the same as its immediate contact; nor can we afford, however full our mental life may be, to lose the vivid sense of what men were and what they wrought in ages far removed from us, especially when those men were our superiors in certain spheres. Again, it may be doubted whether we should understand the masterpieces of modern literature, when we came to be separated from the sources of their inspiration. If Olympus connoted less than Asgard, or Hercules were no more familiar to our minds than Rustem, or the horses of the Sun stood at the same distance from us as the cows of Indra--if, in fact, we abandoned Greek as much as we have abandoned Scandinavian, Persian, and Sanskrit mythology, would not some of the most brilliant images of our own poets fade into leaden greyness, like clouds that have lost the flush of living light upon them? It is therefore not improbable that for many years to come the higher culture of the race will still be grounded upon humanism: true though it be that the first enthusiasm for antiquity shall never be restored, nor the classics yield that vital nourishment they offered in the spring-time of the modern era. For average students, who have no special vocation for literature and no æesthetic tastes, it may well happen that new methods of teaching the classics will have to be invented. Why should they not be read in English versions, and the time expended upon Greek and Latin grammar be thus saved? The practice of Greek and Latin versification has been virtually doomed already; nor is there any reason why Latin prose should form a necessary part of education in an age that has ceased to publish its thoughts in a now completely dead language. Our actual relation to the ancients, again, justifies some change. We know far more about them now than in the period of the Renaissance; but they are no longer all in all for civilised humanity, eager to reconstitute the realm of thought, and find its nobler self anew in the image of a glorious past, reconquered and inalienable. The very culture created by the study of antiquity through the last four centuries stands between them and our apprehension, so that they seem at the same moment more distinct from us and more a part of our familiar selves. When we seek the causes which produced the decay of learning in Italy about the middle of the sixteenth century, we are first led to observe that the type of scholarship inaugurated by Petrarch had been fully developed. Nothing new remained to be worked out upon the lines laid down by him. Meanwhile the forces of the nation, both creative and receptive, were exhausted in the old fields of humanism. The reading public had been glutted with epistles, invectives, poems, orations, histories of antiquities, and disquisitions of all kinds. The matter of the ancient literatures had been absorbed, if superficially, at least entirely, and their forms had been reproduced with wearisome reiteration. The Paganism that had so long ruled as a fashion, was now passing out of vogue, because of its inadequacy to meet the deeper wants and satisfy the aspirations of the modern world. The humanists, moreover, as a class, had fallen into disrepute through faults and vices whereof enough has been already said. Nothing short of the new impulse which a new genius, equal at least in power to Petrarch, might have communicated, could have given a fresh direction to the declining enthusiasm for antiquity. But for this display of energy the Italians were not prepared. As in the ascent of some high peak, the traveller, after surmounting pine woods and Alpine pastures, comes upon bare grassy slopes that form an intermediate region between the basements of the mountain and the snowfields overhead, so the humanists had accomplished the first stage of learning. But it requires a fresh start and the employment of other faculties to scale the final heights; and for this the force was wanting. Erasmus, at the opening of the century, had, indeed, initiated a second age of scholarship. The more exact methods of criticism and comparison were already about to be instituted by the French, the Germans, and the Dutch. It was too much, however, to expect that the Italians, who had expended their vigour in recovering the classics and reviving a passion for knowledge, should compete upon the ground of modern erudition with these fresh and untried races. What they might have done, if circumstances had been less unfavourable, and if the way of progress had been free before them, cannot be conjectured. As it was, all things contributed to the decline of intellectual energy in Italy. The distracting wars of half a century told more heavily upon the literati, who depended for their very existence upon the liberality of patrons, than on any other section of the people. What miseries they endured in Lombardy may be gathered from the prefaces and epistles of Aldus Manutius; while the blow inflicted on them by the sack of Rome is vividly described by Valeriano.[525] When comparative peace was restored, liberty had been extinguished. Florence, the stronghold of liberal learning, was enslaved. Scholarship no less than art suffered from the loss of political independence. Rome, terror-stricken by the Reformation, turned with rage against the very studies she had helped to stimulate. The engines of the Inquisition, wielded with all the mercilessness of panic by men who had the sombre cruelty of Spain to back them up, destroyed the germs of life in science and philosophy. [Footnote 525: See above, p. 321.] To some extent, again, the Italian scholars had prepared their own suicide by tending more and more to subtleties of taste and affectations of refinement. The purism of the sixteenth century was itself a sort of etiolation, and the puerilities of the academies distracted even able men from serious studies. It was one of the inevitable drawbacks of humanism that the new culture separated men of letters from the nation. Dante and the wool-carders of the fourteenth century understood each other; there was then no thick veil of erudition between the teacher and the taught. But neither Bembo nor Pomponazzi had anything to say that could be comprehended by the common folk. Therefore scholarship was left in mournful isolation; suspected, when it passed from trifles to grave speculations, by the Church; viewed with indifference by the people; unsustained by any sympathy, and, what was worse, without a programme or a watchword. The thinkers, whose biography belongs to the history of the Counter-Reformation in Italy, were all solitary men, voices crying in the wilderness with none to listen, bound together by no common bond, unnoticed by the nation, extinguished singly on the scaffold by an ever-watchful league of tyrants spiritual and political. Before the end of the sixteenth century Greek had almost ceased to be studied in Italy. This was the sign of intellectual death. All that was virile in humanism fled beyond the Alps. This transference of intellectual supremacy from Italy to Germany was speedily accomplished. 'When I was a boy,' said Erasmus,[526] 'sound letters had begun to revive among the Italians; but by reason of the printer's art being as yet undiscovered or known to few, no books had reached us, and in the deep tranquillity of dulness there reigned a set of men who taught in all our towns the most illiterate learning. Rodolph Agricola was the first to bring to us from Italy some breath of a superior culture.' Again, he says of Italy, 'In that land, where even the very walls are both more learned and more eloquent than men with us; so that what here seems beautifully said, and elegant and full of charm, cannot be held for aught but clumsy, stupid, and uncultivated there.' Less than half a century after Erasmus had gained the right to hold the balance thus between the nations of the North and South--that is, in 1540 or thereabouts--Paolo Giovio, at the close of his 'Elogia Literaria,' while speaking of the Germans, felt obliged to confess that 'not only Latin letters, to our disgrace, but Greek and Hebrew also have passed into their territory by a fatal simultaneous migration.' [Footnote 526: See the passages quoted by Tiraboschi, vol. vi. lib. iii. cap. v. 71.] Thus Italy, after receiving the lamp of learning from the dying hands of Hellas, in the days of her own freedom, now, in the time of her adversity and ruin, gave it to the nations of the North. Her work was ended. Three centuries of increasing decrepitude, within our recent memory at length most happily surmounted, were before her. Can history, we wonder, furnish a spectacle more pathetic than that of the protagonist of spiritual liberty falling uneasily asleep beneath the footstool of the Spaniard and the churchman, while the races who had trampled her to death went on rejoicing in the light and culture she had won by centuries of toil? This is the tragic aspect of the subject which has occupied us through the present volume. At the conclusion of the whole matter it is, however, more profitable to remember, not the intellectual death of Italy, but what she wrought in that bright period of her vigour. She was the divinely appointed birthplace of the modern spirit, the workshop of knowledge for all Europe, our mistress in the arts and sciences, the Alma Mater of our student years, the well-spring of mental freedom and activity after ages of stagnation. If greater philosophers have since been produced by Germany and France and England, greater scholars, greater men of science, greater poets even, and greater pioneers of progress in the lands divined by Christopher Columbus beyond the seas--this must not blind us to the truth that at the very outset of the era in which we live and play our parts, Italy embraced all philosophy, all scholarship, all science, all art, all discovery, alone. Such is the Lampadephoria, or torch-race, of the nations. Greece stretches forth her hand to Italy; Italy consigns the sacred fire to Northern Europe; the people of the North pass on the flame to America, to India, and the Australasian isles. 
44235	----	https://archive.org/details/memoirsofdukeso02dennuoft Transcriber's note: This work was originally published in 1851. As noted below, footnotes marked by an asterisk were added by the editor of the 1909 edition, from which this e-book was prepared. Obvious printer errors have been corrected without note. Other errors are indicated by a [Transcriber's Note]. Certain spelling inconsistencies have been made consistent; for example, variants of Michelangelo's last name have been changed to Buonarroti. Archaic spellings in English and Italian have been retained as they appear in the original. The original contains several letters with non-standard tildes. These are represented in brackets, e.g., [~v]. Full-page illustrations have been moved so as not to break up the flow of the text. MEMOIRS OF THE DUKES OF URBINO Illustrating the Arms, Arts & Literature of Italy, 1440-1630 by JAMES DENNISTOUN OF DENNISTOUN A New Edition with Notes by Edward Hutton & Over a Hundred Illustrations In Three Volumes. VOLUME TWO [Illustration] London John Lane The Bodley Head New York John Lane Company MCMIX William Brendon and Son, Ltd., Printers, Plymouth [Illustration: _Alinari_ ELISABETTA DI MONTEFELTRO, DUCHESS OF URBINO _After the picture by Andrea Mantegna in the Uffizi Gallery, Florence_] CONTENTS PAGE LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS OF VOLUME II. ix CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE OF CONTENTS OF VOLUME II. xi BOOK THIRD (_continued_) OF GUIDOBALDO DI MONTEFELTRO, THIRD DUKE OF URBINO CHAPTER XIX The massacre of Sinigaglia--Death of Alexander VI.--Narrow escape of Cesare Borgia 3 CHAPTER XX Duke Guidobaldo restored--The Election of Julius II.--The fall of Cesare Borgia--The Duke's fortunate position--Is made Knight of the Garter--The Pope visits Urbino 23 CHAPTER XXI The Court of Urbino, its manners and its stars 43 CHAPTER XXII Emilia Pia--The _Cortegiano_--Death of Duke Guidobaldo, succeeded by Francesco Maria della Rovere 72 BOOK FOURTH OF LITERATURE AND ART UNDER THE DUKES DI MONTEFELTRO AT URBINO CHAPTER XXIII The revival of letters in Italy--Influence of the princes--Classical tastes tending to pedantry and paganism--Greek philosophy and its effects--Influence of the Dukes of Urbino 93 CHAPTER XXIV Count Guidantonio a patron of learned men--Duke Federigo--The _Assorditi_ Academy--Dedications to him--Prose writers of Urbino--Gentile Becci, Bishop of Arezzo--Francesco Venturini--Berni of Gubbio--Polydoro di Vergilio--Vespasiano Filippi--Castiglione--Bembo--Learned ladies 109 CHAPTER XXV Poetry under the Montefeltri--Sonnets--The Filelfi--Giovanni Sanzi--Porcellio Pandonio--Angelo Galli--Federigo Veterani--Urbani Urbinate--Antonio Rustico--Naldio--Improvisatori--Bernardo Accolti--Serafino d'Aquila--Agostino Staccoli--Early comedies--_La Calandra_--Corruption of morals--Social position of women 130 CHAPTER XXVI Mediæval art chiefly religious--Innovations of Naturalism, Classicism, and Paganism--Character and tendencies of Christian painting ill-understood in England--Influence of St. Francis 157 CHAPTER XXVII The Umbrian School of Painting, its scholars and influence--Fra Angelico da Fiesole--Gentile da Fabriano--Pietro Perugino--Artists at Urbino--Piero della Francesca--Fra Carnevale--Francesco di Giorgio 184 CHAPTER XXVIII Giovanni Sanzi of Urbino--His son, the immortal Raffaele--Early influences on his mind--Paints at Perugia, Città di Castello, Siena, and Florence--His visits to Urbino, and works there 216 CHAPTER XXIX Raffaele is called to Rome, and employed upon the Stanze--His frescoes there--His other works--Change in his manner--Compared with Michael Angelo--His death, character, and style 235 CHAPTER XXX Timoteo Viti--Bramante--Andrea Mantegna--Gian Bellini--Justus of Ghent--Medals of Urbino 254 BOOK FIFTH OF THE DELLA ROVERE FAMILY CHAPTER XXXI Birth and elevation of Sixtus IV.--Genealogy of the della Rovere family--Nepotism of that pontiff--His improvements in Rome--His patronage of letters and arts--His brother Giovanni becomes Lord of Sinigaglia and Prefect of Rome--His beneficent sway--He pillages a papal envoy--Remarkable story of Zizim or Gem--Portrait of Giovanni--The early character and difficulties of Julius II.--Estimate of his pontificate 277 BOOK SIXTH OF FRANCESCO MARIA DELLA ROVERE, FOURTH DUKE OF URBINO CHAPTER XXXII Youth of Duke Francesco Maria I.--The League of Cambray--His marriage--His first military service--The Cardinal of Pavia's treachery--Julius II. takes the field 313 CHAPTER XXXIII The Duke routed at Bologna from the Cardinal of Pavia's treason, whom he assassinates--He is prosecuted, but finally absolved and reconciled to the Pope--He reduces Bologna--Is invested with Pesaro--Death of Julius II. 334 CHAPTER XXXIV Election of Leo X.--His ambitious projects--Birth of Prince Guidobaldo of Urbino--The Pontiff's designs upon that state, which he gives to his nephew--The Duke retires to Mantua 351 CHAPTER XXXV The Duke returns to his state--His struggle with the usurper--His victory at Montebartolo 372 CHAPTER XXXVI Continuation of the ruinous contest--The Duke finally abandons it--Death of Lorenzo de' Medici--Charles V. elected Emperor 391 CHAPTER XXXVII Death of Leo X.--Restoration of Francesco Maria--He enters the Venetian service--Louis XII. invades the Milanese--Death of Bayard--The Duke's honourable reception at Venice--Battle of Pavia 411 CHAPTER XXXVIII New league against Charles V.--The Duke's campaign in Lombardy--His quarrels with Guicciardini--Rome pillaged by the Colonna--The Constable Bourbon advances into Central Italy--The Duke quells an insurrection at Florence 433 APPENDICES I. Portraits of Cesare Borgia 459 II. Duke Guidobaldo I. of Urbino, a Knight of the Garter 462 III. Giovanni Sanzi's MS. Chronicle of Federigo, Duke of Urbino 471 IV. Epitaph of Giovanni della Rovere 480 V. Remission and rehabilitation of Duke Francesco Maria I. in 1512-13 481 VI. Letter from Cardinal Wolsey to Lorenzo de' Medici 484 GENEALOGICAL TABLES _At end of book_ ILLUSTRATIONS Elisabetta di Montefeltro, Duchess of Urbino. After the picture by Andrea Mantegna in the Uffizi Gallery, Florence. (Photo Alinari) _Frontispiece_ FACING PAGE Il Castello di Sinigaglia. (Photo Alinari) 10 Pope Julius II. From the picture by Raphael in the Pitti Gallery, Florence. (Photo Anderson) 40 Portrait of a lady, her hair dressed in the manner of the fifteenth century. From the picture by ? Verrocchio in Poldo-Pezzoli Collection, Milan. (Photo Alinari) 44 A lady of the fifteenth century with jewels of the period. (Photo Alinari) 48 Count Baldassare Castiglione. From a picture in the Torlonia Gallery, Rome 50 Hair dressing in the fifteenth century. Detail from the fresco by Pisanello in S. Anastasia of Verona. (Photo Alinari) 54 Cardinal Bembo. From a drawing once in the possession of Cavaliere Agricola in Rome 62 Elisabetta Gonzaga, Duchess of Urbino. From a lead medal by Adriano Fiorentino in the British Museum. By the courtesy of G.F. Hill, Esq. 72 Emilia Pia. From a medal by Adriano Fiorentino in the Vienna Museum. By the courtesy of G.F. Hill, Esq. 72 Hair dressing in the sixteenth century. After a picture by Bissolo. (Photo Alinari) 76 Portrait of a lady in mourning. After the picture by Pordenone in the Dresden Gallery. (Photo R. Tammé) 84 S. Martin and S. Thomas with Guidobaldo, Duke of Urbino, and Bishop Arrivabeni. After the picture by Timoteo Viti in the Duomo of Urbino. (Photo Alinari) 88 Baldassare Castiglione. After the picture by Raphael in the Louvre. 120 Madonna del Belvedere. After the fresco by Ottaviano Nelli in S. Maria Nuova, Gubbio 190 Madonna del Soccorso. After the gonfalone by a pupil of Fiorenzo di Lorenzo in S. Francesco, Montone 196 Raphael, aged six years. From a picture once in the possession of James Dennistoun 216 Raphael. After the portrait by himself in the Uffizi Gallery, Florence. (Photo Anderson) 220 Madonna and child. After the picture by Giovanni Santi, in the Pinacoteca of Urbino. (Photo Alinari) 224 Ecce Homo. From the picture by Giovanni Santi in the Palazzo Ducale, Urbino. (Photo Alinari) 226 S. Sebastian. After the picture by Timoteo Viti in the Palazzo Ducale, Urbino. (Photo Alinari) 228 Margherita "La Fornarina." After the picture by Raphael called La Donna Velata in the Pitti Gallery, Florence. (Photo Alinari) 230 Margherita "La Fornarina." After the spoiled picture by Raphael in the Galleria Barberini in Rome. (Photo Anderson) 232 The Sposalizio. After the picture by Raphael, once in the Ducal Collection at Urbino, now in the Brera, Milan. (Photo Alinari) 240 Isabella of Aragon. After the picture by Raphael in the Louvre 246 St. Sebastian. From the picture by Timoteo Viti in the Palazzo Ducale, Urbino. (Photo Alinari) 254 Francesco Maria I. della Rovere. After the picture by Titian in the Uffizi Gallery, Florence. (From the Ducal Collection.) (Photo Alinari) 314 Venetian wedding-dress in the sixteenth century. After the picture called "La Flora" by Titian in the Uffizi Gallery, Florence. (Photo Anderson) 316 Detail of the Urbino Venus. Supposed portrait of Duchess Leonora, from the picture by Titian in the Uffizi Gallery, Florence. (Photo Anderson) 320 The girl in the fur-cloak. Possibly a portrait of Duchess Leonora of Urbino. After the picture by Titian in the Imperial Gallery, Vienna. (Photo Franz Hanfstaengl) 324 Duchess of Urbino, either Eleonora or Giulia Varana. After the picture by Titian in the Uffizi Gallery, Florence. Painted _ca._ 1538. (Photo Brogi) 328 Leo X. After the picture by Raphael in the Pitti Gallery, Florence. (Photo Anderson) 352 Lorenzo di Piero de' Medici, Duke of Urbino. After the picture by Bronzino in the Uffizi Gallery, Florence. (Photo Alinari) 366 CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE CHAPTER XIX A.D. PAGE 1502. Dec. Valentino marches against Sinigaglia 3 " " 28. Which surrenders 4 " " 31. Cesare massacres the confederate chiefs 4 1503. Jan. 2. His letter to the authorities at Perugia 6 " Feb. 22. Cardinal Orsini poisoned at Rome 8 " Jan. Machiavelli's indifference to the massacre 8 " " General extinction of moral feeling 10 " " 18. Further murders of the chiefs 11 " " Valentino in the Val di Chiana 11 " " Jealousy of Louis XII. 11 " " State of affairs at Urbino 12 " June. Siege of San Leo 13 " " Relieved by a dexterous stroke 13 " The Pontiff's wholesale poisonings 15 " Aug. 18. To which he fell himself a victim 16 " " The various accounts of this examined 17 " " His character 19 " " Valentino's narrow escape from the same fate 19 " " His policy 20 " " Results of the Pope's death at Rome 21 " Sep. 22. Election of Pius III. 22 CHAPTER XX 1503. Aug. 22. Urbino resumes its allegiance 23 " " Guidobaldo returns from Venice 23 " " 28. And is welcomed enthusiastically 24 " He joins the other princes in a defensive confederacy 24 " The fortunes of Valentino rally 25 " His wavering conduct 25 " Election of Julius II. 27 " Fatal to Valentino's prospects 27 " Nov. Guidobaldo's difficult position 28 " " The Pope's negotiation with Borgia 29 1504. April. Who escapes to Naples 30 " But is sent prisoner to Spain 30 1507. Mar. 10. His death 31 1503. Guidobaldo's fortunate position 31 " Nov. 20. Summoned to Rome 32 " " His favour with the Pope 32 " " 15. The Duchess returns home from Venice 33 " " His interview with Valentino 33 " " Represented in a fresco 33 1504. He is named Gonfaloniere of the Church 34 " And invested with the Garter of England 34 " June 1. Returns home, accompanied by Count Castiglione 34 " Feb. Strange pastimes there 34 " His brief campaign 35 " And happy residence at Urbino 35 " His installation as generalissimo of the papal forces 36 " Sep. His nephew, the young Prefect, invested as his heir-apparent 37 " Claims of Venice upon Romagna 38 1505. Guidobaldo summoned to visit the Pope 38 1506. July. Returns home 39 " Aug. 26. Julius sets out for Romagna 39 " Sep. 25. His magnificent reception at Urbino 39 " " Tariff of provisions there 40 " Reaches Bologna 41 " His statue there, and its fate 42 1507. Mar. 3. Revisits Urbino on his return to Rome 42 CHAPTER XXI 1507. The cultivated tastes of the princes in Romagna 43 " The Court of Urbino described by Count Castiglione, in his _Cortegiano_ 44 " The requisites of a lady of that court 45 " State of female refinement and morals 46 " Coarseness of language and wit 47 " Poetical and social pastimes 49 " Sketch of the prominent personages there 50 " Count Baldassare Castiglione 51 " He goes to England 52 " His marriage, and conjugal affection 53 " His portraits 53 " His death and character 55 " Giuliano de' Medici 56 " Cesare Gonzaga 58 " Ottaviano Fregoso 58 " Cardinal Federigo Fregoso 59 " Bembo's letter on his death 61 " Cardinal Bembo 62 " His attachment to Lucrezia Borgia 63 " His promotion under Leo X. 64 " His lax morals 64 " Bernardo Dovizii, Cardinal Bibbiena 65 " His ingratitude and ambition 67 " His beauty and worldly character 68 " Bernardo Accolti, l'Unico Aretino 69 " Count Ludovico Canossa 70 " Alessandro Trivulzio 71 CHAPTER XXII 1507. The Duke's declining health 72 " The court enlivened by female society 72 " Emilia Pio, surnamed Pia 75 " Her decorum and wit 76 " Her management of the social resources of the palace 77 " The origin of Castiglione's _Cortegiano_ 78 " Guidobaldo a martyr to gout 79 1506-1508. Extraordinary derangement of the seasons 79 1508. April. He is carried to Fossombrone 80 " " 11. His great sufferings and resigned end 80 " " The paganism of his biographers 81 " " Precautions of the Duchess against a revolution 82 " " And of the Pontiff 83 " " His body taken to Urbino 84 " " 13. The Prefect Francesco Maria proclaimed Duke of Urbino 85 " " His visit to the Duchess 85 " " Funeral of Guidobaldo 85 " May 2. His obsequies and funeral oration 85 " His portraits 86 " His accomplishments and excellent character 86 " His patronage of Paolo Cortesio 87 " Enduring influence of his reign 88 " His widow 89 CHAPTER XXIII 1443-1508. The golden age of Italian letters and arts 93 " " Rich in scholars but poor in genius 94 " " Its prosaic tendency 94 " " The revival of learning 95 " " Promoted by the multiplicity of independent communities 97 " " Especially by the petty sovereigns 98 " " Adulatory tendency of such literature 99 " " A narrow patriotism generated 100 " " Taste for classical erudition, philology and grammar 101 " " The study of Latin induced pedantry and languid conventionality 102 " " The prosaic scholarism of this period 103 " " Tending to pagan ideas 103 " " The rival philosophies of Aristotle and Plato 105 " " Leading to fierce quarrels 106 " " Superseding Christian revelation 106 " " And eventually shaking Catholic unity 107 " " Influence of the Dukes of Urbino on letters 107 " " Mediocrity of many authors of local fame 108 CHAPTER XXIV 1412-1441. Letters of Count Guidantonio in favour of various learned men 109 1444-1482. Duke Federigo's love for literary converse 111 " " The academies 112 " " Fulsome dedications 112 1473. Gentile de' Becci 113 1480. Ludovico Odasio 114 Francesco Venturini 114 Guarniero Berni of Gubbio 115 1470-1555. Polydoro di Vergilio 115 " " His preferments in England 115 " " His English history 117 Vespasiano Filippi 118 1478-1529. Count Baldassare Castiglione 119 " " His _Cortegiano_ 119 " " Compared with Machiavelli's _Principe_ 120 " " His letter to Henry VIII. regarding Duke Guidobaldo 121 " " His poetry 121 1528. His letter to his children 122 1470-1547. Cardinal Bembo 123 " " His pedantry and affected imitation of Cicero 123 " " His history of Venice 124 " " His Essay on Duke Guidobaldo 124 " " His other works 125 Learned ladies 128 CHAPTER XXV 1443-1508. Poetry under the Montefeltrian Dukes 130 " " Defects of the sonnet 131 Francesco Filelfo 131 1480. Gian Maria Filelfo, his son 132 His Martiados in praise of Duke Federigo 132 His minor poems 133 Specimen of the dedication 134 His sonnet to Gentile Bellini the painter 135 His life of Duke Federigo 136 Pandonio of Naples 136 His Feltria on Duke Federigo's campaigns 137 Specimen of it 137 Giovanni Sanzi of Urbino, father of Raffaele Sanzio 138 His metrical chronicle of Duke Federigo 138 Various specimens of it translated 140 1428-1457. Angelo Galli from Urbino 143 Specimen of his poetry 143 Federigo Veterani, his beautiful transcripts 144 His tribute in verse to Duke Federigo 145 Urbani of Urbino 146 Antonio Rustico of Florence 146 Naldio of Florence 146 Bernardo Accolti of Arezzo 146 His improvisation 146 Serafino di Aquila 147 Agostino Staccoli of Urbino 147 Early Italian comedies 147 La Calandra of Bibbiena 147 1513. Its performance at Urbino 148 Description of the scenery and accompanying interludes 148 Origin of the ballet 152 Nature of the plot in La Calandra 152 Low standard of morals at that time 153 Obscene jest books 154 CHAPTER XXVI Mediæval art almost exclusively religious 157 The introduction of types and traditionary forms 157 A picture by Botticelli denounced as heretical (note) 158 The choice and treatment of sacred themes 159 Modified by the personal character of artists 160 Instances of this 161 Devotional feeling of early painters 161 Shown in the rules of their guilds at Siena and Florence 162 Case of Giorgio Vasari 163 The gloomy character of Spanish art 163 The subject to be considered apart from sectarian views 164 Christian art modified in the fifteenth century 166 Gradual innovation of naturalism 167 Followed by paganism and classicism 168 Rise of the "new manner" 169 Religious prudery in Spain fatal to art 170 Von Rumohr's definition of Christian art 170 Opinions prevailing in England 171 Hogarth and Savonarola 172 Burnet and Barry 172 Reynolds and Raffaele 172 Obstacles to a due appreciation of this subject among us 173 Mr. Ruskin and Lord Lindsay 174 Sir David Wilkie 175 It does not necessarily lead to popery 175 Nor is it a desirable "groundwork for a new style of art" 176 St. Francis of Assisi, his legends and shrine 177 Their influence renders Umbria the cradle of sacred art 178 Opinions of Rio, Boni, and Herbert Seymour 179 CHAPTER XXVII The Umbrian school hitherto overlooked 184 The cathedral of Orvieto and the sanctuary of Assisi attract many artists 185 The dramatic or Dantesque character of Florentine painting 186 Sentimental devotion of the Sienese school 187 Influence of these on Umbrian painters 187 -1299. Oderigi da Gubbio 188 Notice of him by Dante 188 Guido Palmerucci of Gubbio 189 Angioletto, a glass-painter of Gubbio 190 1375-1444. Ottaviano Nelli of Gubbio and his pupils 190 1434. June 30. His letter to Caterina, Countess of Urbino 192 Allegretto Nuzi of Fabriano 193 1370-14. Gentile da Fabriano; he studies under 193 1383-14. Fra Giovanni da Fiesole, the Beato Angelico 194 " " A friar of holy life and pencil 194 " " Gentile called "master of the masters" 196 1370-14. His works studied by Raffaele 196 " " Goes to Venice 197 " " His taste for gaudy trappings 197 Benedetto Bonfigli of Perugia 199 1446-1524. Pietro Perugino 199 Painters in Urbino 200 -1478. Piero della Francesca of Borgo San Sepolcro 201 " " His history obscure 201 " " His two distinct manners 202 " " His knowledge of geometry 203 " " His claims to the introduction of perspective 203 " " These examined, and those of Luca Pacioli 203 " " His unedited writings (note) 204 " " His frescoes at Arezzo and their influence on Raffaele 206 " " His portrait of Sigismondo Pandolfo Malatesta 208 " " His portraits of the Montefeltrian princes 209 -1484. Bartolomeo Coradino, the Fra Carnevale 210 Beautiful altar-picture near Pesaro 211 1423-1502. Francesco di Giorgio of Siena 211 His works in painting, architecture, and engineering 212 Letter of Duke Federigo on his behalf 214 His writings 215 CHAPTER XXVIII -1494. Giovanni Sanzi of Urbino 216 Till lately unjustly depreciated 216 His own account of himself 217 His style and works 218 His portrait of his son, the divine Raffaele 218 1483. Apr. 6. Birth of Raffaele Sanzio of Urbino, surnamed "the Divine" 220 Notice of his biographers 220 His appearance happily timed 221 First pictorial influences on his mind 222 1495. He goes to the school of Perugino 223 1500-1504. His earliest independent works at Città di Castello 225 " " Returns to paint at Perugia 226 " " Visits Siena and Florence 226 " " Returns to paint at Urbino 227 " " His second visit to Florence 227 " " With a recommendation from Joanna della Rovere 228 1504-1505. His works, patrons, and associates there 228 1505-1507. Again painting at Perugia 230 1505-1507. His intercourse with Francia 231 1503-1508. And with the polished court of Urbino 231 " " Works commissioned of him there 232 " " His recently discovered fresco at Florence 234 CHAPTER XXIX 1508. He is called to Rome by Julius II. 235 " And employed to paint in the Stanze 236 1508-1513. His plan for the frescoes there detailed and examined 236 1513. Feb. 21. Death of Julius II. 239 1513-1520. Raffaele's powers overtaxed 240 " " He gradually falls into "the new manner" 241 " " The charge against him of a vicious life unfounded 241 " " Question how far he imitated others 242 " " Especially Michael Angelo 243 " " No parallel between them 244 " " His diminished intercourse with Urbino 246 1520. Apr. 6. His sudden death and funeral 247 " His intended marriage and cardinal's hat 249 " His varied gifts 250 " Testimonies to his merits 250 " His sense of beauty 251 " Purity of his taste 252 CHAPTER XXX 1470-1523. Timoteo Viti 254 His picture of questioned orthodoxy 256 1444-1514. Donato Bramante 259 Confusion regarding him 259 His works at Urbino 261 Commences St. Peter's, at Rome 262 Builds at the Vatican 263 Fra Bernardo Catelani 264 Crocchia of Urbino 265 1450-1517. Francesco Francia 265 1430-1506. Andrea Mantegna 265 1424-1514. Giovanni Bellini 266 1446-1523. Pietro Perugino 266 1386-1445. Jean van Eyck 266 1474. Justus of Ghent 267 Italian portrait medallions 269 1468. Clemente of Urbino 270 Medals of Duke Federigo 270 Medal of Duchess Elisabetta 272 Medal of Emilia Pia 273 CHAPTER XXXI 1414. July 21. Birth of Sixtus IV. 277 " Origin of his family 277 1414. Omens attending his birth 278 1471. Aug. 9. His education and elevation to the papacy 278 Children of his father, and their descendants 279 His partiality to his nephews 283 Extravagance of Cardinal Pietro Riario 284 Hospitalities of Sixtus 285 His improvements in Rome 286 Scandals regarding him 287 His patronage of art 287 And of the Vatican Library 289 Portrait there of himself and nephews 289 Painted by Melozzo da Forlì 290 His brother Giovanni della Rovere 291 1474. Oct. 12. Made vicar of Sinigaglia 291 " " 28. His marriage with Princess Giovanna of Urbino 291 1475. Made Lord Prefect of Rome 291 His beneficial reign 292 His favour at the papal court 293 1474. The story of Zizim or Gem 293 " His ransom is seized by the Prefect 294 " Curious correspondence of the Sultan with Alexander VI. 295 " Description of Gem by Mantegna the painter 297 1501. Nov. 6. Death of the Prefect 299 His portrait 299 His widow 300 Cardinal Giuliano della Rovere 301 His persecutions by the Borgias 301 1503. Nov. 1. His election to the Tiara 303 His character and policy 304 His patronage of art 306 His improvements in Rome 306 Parallel of him with Leo X. 307 CHAPTER XXXII 1490. Mar. 25. Birth of Duke Francesco Maria I. 313 1501. Nov. 6. He succeeds to his father's state of Sinigaglia 313 " " He is carried to Urbino 313 1502. Apr. 24. Is made Prefect of Rome 313 " His early education and tastes 314 " His military propensities 314 " June 20. His escape from Cesare Borgia 315 1502. He is received at the court of France 315 1504. March. His return to Italy 315 " June 17. Restored at Sinigaglia 316 " Sep. 18. Invested as heir-apparent of Urbino 316 1505. Jan. Contracted in marriage to Leonora Gonzaga 316 1506. His first military service 316 1507. Oct. 6. Assassinates the paramour of his sister 317 1508. Apr. 14. He succeeds to the dukedom of Urbino 318 " " His constitutional concessions 319 " " 25. His summons to his new subjects to swear allegiance 319 " His judicious and conciliatory measures 320 " Origin of the League of Cambray 321 " Dec. 10. It is signed 322 " " The objects of this unnatural combination 322 " Oct. 4. Francesco Maria made captain-general of the ecclesiastical forces 323 1509. May. Elected a Knight of the Garter, but not confirmed by Henry VIII. 324 " Dec. 24. His marriage celebrated 324 The Duchess Leonora's psalter 324 " April. He takes the field against Venice 325 " May 4. Takes Brisghella 325 " Remarkable incident in his camp 325 " The Pope's partiality for the Cardinal of Pavia 326 " His character and intrigues against Francesco Maria 327 " His treachery 327 " May 14. The Venetians beaten at Vaila 328 " June 11. Rimini capitulates, and the campaign closes 329 " The Duke carries his bride to Rome 329 " He reconciles the Pope to Giuliano de' Medici 329 " The Pope changes sides 330 " Further treachery of the Cardinal of Pavia 330 1510. July. The Duke marches against Ferrara 331 " Sep. Julius II. takes the field 331 " His suspicions of the Cardinal 332 " The council of Pisa threatened 332 " His indomitable resolution 333 CHAPTER XXXIII 1510. Dec. His ill-judged appearance at the siege of Mirandola 334 1511. May 21. The Duke's miscarriage before Bologna by the Cardinal's treachery 336 " " The Cardinal prepossesses the Pope against his nephew 338 " " 24. And falls by his hand 339 " Ill-timed badinage of Cardinal Bembo (note) 339 " The Duke retires to Urbino 340 " June. And the Pontiff returns to Rome 340 " His indignation against the Duke 340 " Who is arrested, and subjected to a complicated prosecution 341 " Defended by Beroaldo the younger 341 " Dangerous illness of Julius 342 " He is reconciled to Francesco Maria 343 " Dec. 9. And absolves him 343 " " New league against the French 343 1512. Hesitation of Francesco Maria 344 " Consequent disgust of Julius 344 " Apr. 11. The field of Ravenna 344 " Francesco Maria is reconciled to the Pope 345 " June 22. He retakes Bologna 345 " Aug. And reduces Reggio 345 " The French abandoned by their Italian allies 346 " The Duke's fruitless attempt on Ferrara 347 " Restoration of the Medici at Florence 347 " The Duke's feeling towards them examined 347 " New projects of the Pope 348 " Lapse of Pesaro to the Holy See 349 " Oct. 23. The town reduced by Francesco Maria 349 1513. Feb. 16. He is invested with that state 350 " " 21. Death of Julius II. 350 " Mar. 16. The Duke's reception at Pesaro 350 CHAPTER XXXIV 1513. Influence of Francesco Maria in the conclave favourable to the Medici 351 " Mar. 11. Election of Leo. X. 351 " " His singular good fortune 352 " " His character contrasted with that of Julius by Sismondi 352 " " 19. Francesco Maria attends his coronation 353 " " And is confirmed in all his dignities 354 " Sep. His favour for Baldassare Castiglione 355 " Notice of the fief of Novilara 357 1514. Ambitious projects and intrigues of Leo X., involving Urbino 358 " Apr. 2. Birth of Prince Guidobaldo of Urbino 359 1515. Jan. 1. Bembo's visit to that court 359 " June The Duke superseded by Leo X. in his command 360 " Friendship of Giuliano de' Medici for him 361 " Jan. 1. Death of Louis XII., succeeded by Francis I. 362 " The Pontiff's undecided policy 362 " Sep. 13. Battle of Marignano 364 1516. Jan. Death of Ferdinand of Spain 364 " Mar. 17. And of Giuliano de' Medici 365 " " Character of Lorenzo de' Medici 365 " " Francesco Maria exposed to the fury of Leo 366 " Apr. 27. Sentence of deprivation against him 367 " Aug. 18. And his dignities conferred upon Lorenzo 367 " April Ingratitude of Bembo 367 Lashed by Porrino 368 " May. The duchy of Urbino invaded 368 " " 31. Francesco Maria withdraws to Lombardy with his family 369 " " The duchy surrenders to Lorenzo 369 " Sep. S. Leo surprised 370 CHAPTER XXXV 1516. Aug. 13. The peace of Noyon 372 " Attempt on his state by the Duke 372 1517. Jan. 17. His manifesto 373 " " His address to the soldiery 376 " " Alarm of the Pontiff 377 " " Gradara is sacked 377 " Feb. Partial rising in his favour 377 " " 5. Remarkable adventure of Benedetto Giraldi 378 " " " Francesco Maria enters Urbino 380 " Measures adopted by Leo 380 " The Duke challenges Lorenzo to a personal encounter, which is declined 382 " Mar. 25. Sack of Montebaroccio 383 " " Siege of Mondolfo, where Lorenzo is wounded 384 " Its sack, with many excesses 385 " Cardinal Bibbiena appointed to the command as legate 387 " Disorganisation of his army 388 " May 6. It is routed on Montebartolo 388 " " " The Duke's letter to his consort detailing the battle 389 CHAPTER XXXVI 1517. Conspiracy against Leo 391 " Fate of Cardinal Adrian of Corneto 392 " June 20. Leo applies to Henry VIII. 392 " His unscrupulous measures 392 " May. Francesco Maria's expedition against Perugia 393 " " Treason in his camp 393 " " His energetic proceedings 394 " June. Makes a foray into La Marca 395 " " A conversation with the Pope 396 " " His apprehensions 397 " July. The Duke's advantage over the Swiss at Rimini, and march upon Tuscany 398 " Aug. Progress of negotiations 398 " Conditions granted to Francesco Maria 402 " Vile conduct of his Spaniards 402 " Curious votive inscription 403 " The Duke again withdraws from his state 403 " Immense cost of the campaign 404 " Its remote consequences upon the Reformation 404 " The fortunes of Lorenzo de' Medici 405 1519. Apr. 28. His death 405 " Partition of the duchy of Urbino 406 1520. Mar. Fate of Gian Paolo Baglioni 406 1519. The singular good fortune of Charles V. 407 " June 28. He is elected Emperor 408 1521. Combinations for new wars in Italy 408 " Francesco Maria in the French interest 409 " He retires to Lonno 409 " Milan restored to the Sforza family 410 CHAPTER XXXVII 1521. Dec. 1. Disgust and death of Leo 411 " " Opinions as to his being poisoned 411 " " Francesco Maria returns to his state 412 " " 22. And is readily welcomed 413 1522. Jan. 5. He restores the Varana and Baglioni 413 " " And invades Tuscany 414 " " 15. His letter to the Priors of Siena 414 " Urbino invaded by the Medici 415 " Their reconciliation with the Duke 415 " His condotta by them 416 " Election of Adrian VI 416 " May 18. The Duke is reinstated in his dignities 418 " Feb. 18. His bond to the Sacred College 418 " Pretensions of Ascanio Colonna upon Urbino 418 " June 22. Murder of Sigismondo Varana 419 " The Duke refuses service with the French 420 " Aug. But aids the Pope against Rimini 420 1523. The ladies of his court return home 421 " He establishes his residence at Pesaro 421 " Hospitality of the Duchesses 421 " He goes to Rome, to wait upon Adrian 422 " New league for the defence of Sforza 423 " Francesco Maria retained by Venice as general-in-chief 423 " French invasion of the Milanese 423 " Sep. 24. Death of Adrian succeeded by Clement VII. 423 " Death of Prospero Colonna, and his influence on the tactics of Francesco Maria 423 " Venetian _proveditori_ and their evils 424 1524. Lanoy commander-in-chief of the allies 426 " The Duke of Urbino hampered by the Proveditore 426 " His tactics 427 1523. The French admiral, Bonnivet, wounded 427 " Is succeeded by the Chevalier Bayard 427 1524. Apr. 30. His heroic death 427 " The French driven out of Italy 428 " June 25. His honourable reception at Venice 429 " " 27. Made captain-general by the Signory 429 " July 3. Received into the company della Calza 430 " " 5. Returns home 431 " Oct. New invasion of Italy by Francis I. 431 1525. Feb. 25. The battle of Pavia 431 CHAPTER XXXVIII 1525. Altered policy of Clement 433 " Treason and death of the Marquis of Pescara 434 1526. Feb. 14. Letter from the Duke of Urbino to Cardinal Wolsey 434 " May. New League against Charles V. 435 " " The Duke marches to relieve Milan 435 " June. And obtains Lodi 435 " His embarrassment from the number of leaders in the army 436 " Sketch of Francesco Guicciardini 436 " His differences with Francesco Maria 436 " Opinions divided as to the advance on Milan 437 " The Duke's policy explained 438 " July 6. Miscarriage and retreat of the army 439 " " The prejudices of Guicciardini 439 " " 24. Milan is surrendered by Sforza 441 " " The Duke's quarrels with Guicciardini 441 " Opinions of Sismondi 442 " The Duke's illness from vexation 443 " Sep. He carries Cremona 443 " The Colonna rebel against the Pope 443 " Sep. 20. They surprise Rome, and pillage the Borgo 444 " " Francesco Maria visits his Duchess 445 " Nov. Fründesberg brings the lansquenets into Lombardy 445 " The Duke's plans of defence considered 446 " Nov. 30. Battle of Borgoforte, and death of Giovanni de' Medici _delle bande nere_ 446 1527. Tortuous policy of Clement 447 " Mar. 15. His truce with Lanoy 448 " " Inertness of the allies 449 " " The Constable Bourbon 449 " " His policy in this war 449 " " Inactivity of the Duke 451 " " Bourbon's advance into Central Italy 452 " " He repudiates Lanoy's truce 452 " " His progress through Romagna 453 " " Vain attempt of Lanoy to interrupt him 453 " " Feeble and selfish views of all the allies 454 " " Secret motives of the Duke 454 " Apr. 22. Bourbon crosses into Tuscany 455 " The Duke quells an insurrection at Florence 456 " May 1. His fortresses of S. Leo and Maiuola restored 456 " Apr. 26. Bourbon hurries onward to Rome 456 APPENDICES Cesare Borgia's personal appearance and portraits 459 1504. Feb. 20. Letter of Henry VIII. to Duke Guidobaldo with the insignia of the Garter 462 " Instructions for his investiture 463 " Polydoro di Vergilio's account of it 466 1506. July 24. The Duke sends Count Castiglione to England as his proxy 469 " Oct. 20. His reception and installation 469 1507. He is knighted, and returns to Urbino 470 Giovanni Sanzi's metrical Chronicle of Duke Federigo 471 Fac-simile of the autograph 472 Table of the contents 472 Epitaph upon Giovanni della Rovere 480 Remission and rehabilitation of Duke Francesco Maria I. 481 Letter from Cardinal Wolsey to Lorenzo de' Medici 484 MEMOIRS OF THE DUKES OF URBINO--II NOTE.--The Editor's notes are marked with an asterisk. BOOK THIRD (_continued_) OF GUIDOBALDO DI MONTEFELTRO, THIRD DUKE OF URBINO MEMOIRS OF THE DUKES OF URBINO CHAPTER XIX The massacre of Sinigaglia--Death of Alexander VI.--Narrow escape of Cesare Borgia. The principal object of the new combination having been attained by the submission of Urbino, followed by that of Camerino, Borgia hastened to anticipate the suspicions of his allies by sending the French succours back to Milan. He however retained a body of troops, and proposed that the chiefs should co-operate with him in reducing Sinigaglia, which was held by the late Prefect's widow. Accordingly, Paolo Orsini, his relation the Duke of Gravina, Vitellozzo, and Liverotto advanced upon that town, the garrison of which was commanded by the celebrated Andrea Doria. This remarkable man, finding himself excluded by the state of parties at Genoa from all prospect of preferment, had in youth adopted the career of a condottiere. He took service with Giovanni della Rovere, distinguishing himself greatly in the campaign of Charles VIII. at Naples; after which he continued attached to the Prefect and his widow, with a hundred light horse. Seeing the case of Sinigaglia desperate, and dreading Liverotto's bitter hatred of the Rovere race, he retired, having first sent off the Prefectess on horseback to Florence, disguised as a friar. On the 28th of December, the assailants took undisputed possession of the city, and sacked it. His prey now in his toils, Valentino, who had lulled their suspicion by keeping aloof with his troops in Romagna, flew to the spot on the pretext of reducing the citadel, and on the 31st arrived at the town with a handful of cavalry. He was met three miles outside of the gate by the chiefs, and immediately requested their attendance in the house of one Bernardino di Parma, to receive his congratulations and thanks on their success. At the same time he desired quarters to be provided for their respective followings outside of the city, in order to admit his own army, amounting to two thousand cavalry and ten thousand infantry. Startled at the appearance of a force so disproportioned to the service in hand, they would gladly have demurred to this distribution of the troops, but Cesare had contrived that there should be no opportunity for remonstrance, and resistance would have obviously been too late. Affecting a confidence they were far from feeling, the leaders accepted the invitation, and were received with cordiality and distinction. After an interchange of compliments, Borgia withdrew upon some pretext, when there immediately entered his chosen agent of iniquity, Don Michelotto, with several armed followers, who, after some resistance, arrested the Duke of Gravina, Paolo Orsini, Vitellozzo, and Liverotto, with some ten others. Before morning the two last were strangled with a Pisan cord, or violin-string, and a wrench-pin, by the hands of that monster, in his master's presence. Their death, according to Machiavelli, was cowardly, especially that of the blood-stained Liverotto; and their bodies, after being dragged round the piazza, were exposed for three days before burial. That night Valentino, at the head of his Gascons, attacked six thousand of these captains' troops, which had not dispersed on hearing the capture of their leaders, slaughtering and plundering them with the same barbarity they had themselves used towards the citizens. The greater portion were cut to pieces, and those who escaped reached their homes naked, having only straw tied round their legs. Fabio Orsini was saved by his accidental absence from Borgia's levee; Petrucci and Baglioni, suspicious of treachery, had avoided their fate by previously retiring home. Against the last of these, Borgia marched in a few days, carrying with him the remaining chiefs, of whom he reserved the Orsini until he should hear his father's intentions; but each night after supper he is said to have had one of the others brought out, and put to a cruel death before him. Thus did he, by a dexterous stroke of the most refined duplicity, turn the tools of his ambition into victims of his vengeance, and at the same time ridded himself of faithless adherents, whom any change in his fortune would have again converted into overt and implacable foes.[1] [Footnote 1: Our chief authorities for this tragic scene are Machiavelli's despatches and separate narrative, with the Diaries of Burchard, Buonaccorsi, and Sanuto. Some details are taken from the Ricordi of Padre Gratio, guardian of the Monastery delle Grazie at Sinigaglia, a contemporary, and probably an eye-witness to many of them. Vat. Urb. MSS. 1023, art. 17.[*A]] [Footnote *A: Cf. MADIAI, _Diario delle Cose di Urbino_, in _Arch. St. per le Marche e per l'Umbria_, tom. III., p. 437. Machiavelli, who was with Cesare at the time, describes the massacre of Sinigaglia as "il bellissimo inganno di Sinigaglia." Cesare wrote an account of it to Isabella d'Este. Cf. her letter to her husband (D'ARCO, _Notizie di Isabella Estense_, in _Arch. St. Ital._, ser. i., App., vol. I., No. II. (1845), p. 262).] Vermiglioli, in his life of Malatesta Baglioni, has printed, from the archives of Perugia, a letter from Borgia to the magistrates of that city, which, in consideration of the comparative obscurity of that interesting volume, we shall here translate. It is, perhaps, the only known document fully stating the case of the writer, and so may be regarded as his defence from the charges we have brought against him: the style and orthography are remarkably rude; and the matter abounds in that common expedient, whereby bold and bad men seek to evade merited accusations, by throwing them upon those they have outraged.[2] [Footnote 2: Our version is from the original letter. Nearly similar in purport, but much shorter, is a despatch written by him to the Doge of Venice on the very night of the raid, so anxious was he to conciliate the Signory.] "Magnificent and potent Lords, my special Friends and Brothers; "Superfluous were it to narrate from their outset the perfidious rebellion and atrocious treason, so known to yourselves and to all the world, and so detestable, which your [lords, the Baglioni,] and their accomplices have committed against his Holiness the Pope and ourselves. And although all were our vassals, and most of them in our pay, received and caressed by us as sons or brothers, and favoured with high promotion, they nevertheless, regardless of the kindness of his Holiness and our own, as of their individual honour, banded in schemes of overweening ambition, and blinded by greed of tyranny, have failed us at the moment of our utmost need, turning his Holiness' arms and ours against him and ourselves, for the overthrow of our sovereignty and person. They commenced their aggressions upon us by raising our states of Urbino, Camerino, and Montefeltro, throwing all Romagna into confusion by force and by seditious plots, and proceeding under the mask of reconciliation to fresh offences, until our new levies were brought up in irresistible force. And so atrocious was their baseness, that neither the beneficent clemency of his [Holiness] aforesaid, nor our renewed indulgence to them, weaned them from the slough of their first vile designs, in which they still persisted. And as soon as they learned the departure of the French troops on their return towards Lombardy, whereby they deemed us weakened and left with no effective force, they, feigning an urgent desire to aid in our attack upon Sinigaglia, mustered a third only of their infantry, and concealed the remainder in the houses about, with instructions to draw together at nightfall, and unite with the men-at-arms, whom they had posted in the neighbourhood, meaning, at a given moment, to throw the infantry, through the garrison (with whom they had an understanding), upon the new town, in the narrow space whereof they calculated upon our being lodged with few attendants, and so to complete their long-nourished plans by crushing us at unawares. But we, distinctly forewarned of all, so effectively and quickly anticipated them, that we at once made prisoners of the Duke of Gravina, Paolo Orsini, Vitellozzo of Castello, and Liverotto of Fermo, and discovered, sacked, and overthrew their foot and horse, whether concealed or not; whereupon the castellan, seeing the plot defeated, quickly surrendered the fortress at discretion. And this we have done, under pressure of necessity imposed by the measures of these persons aforesaid, and in order to make an end of the unmeasured perfidy and villanies of them and their coadjutors, thereby restraining their boundless ambition and insensate cupidity, which were truly a public nuisance to the nations of Italy. Thus your highnesses have good cause for great rejoicing at your deliverance from these dangers. And on your highnesses' account, I am now, by his Holiness's commands, to march with my army, for the purpose of rescuing you from the rapacious and sanguinary oppression whereby you have been vexed, and to restore you to free and salutary obedience to his Holiness and the Apostolic See, with the maintenance of your wonted privileges. For the which causes, We, as Gonfaloniere and Captain of his Holiness and the aforesaid See, exhort, recommend, and command you, on receipt hereof, to free yourselves from all other yoke, and to send ambassadors to lay before his Holiness your dutiful and unreserved obedience: which failing, we are commanded to reduce you by force to that duty,--an event that would distress us on account of the serious injuries which must thereby result to your people, for whom we have, from our boyhood, borne and still bear singular favour. From Corinaldo, the 2d of January, 1503. "CESARE BORGIA OF FRANCE, DUKE OF ROMAGNA AND VALENTINO, PRINCE OF ADRIA AND VENAFRA, LORD OF PIOMBINO, Gonfaloniere and Captain-General of the Holy Roman Church." News of the Sinigaglia tragedy reached the Pope late in the evening, and he instantly communicated to Cardinal Orsini that Cesare had taken that city, assured that an early visit of congratulation from his Eminence would follow. The Cardinal was perhaps the richest and most influential of his house. He chiefly had organised the league of La Magione, but having always contrived to keep on good terms with Alexander, he believed in the professions of regard with which his Holiness subsequently seduced him from that policy, and thence reposed in him a fatal confidence. Next morning he rode in state to pay his respects at the Vatican, where his own person and those of his principal relations were instantly seized, whilst his magnificent palace at Monte Giordano was pillaged by orders and for the benefit of the Pontiff. After an imprisonment of some weeks, he was cut off by slow poison, prescribed from the same quarter, and died on the 22d of February. Thus did the Pope set his seal of approval on his son's atrocities, which he justified by a poor and pointless jest, avowing that as the confederates of La Magione, after stipulating that they should not be required to re-enter the service of Valentino unless singly, had thought fit to place themselves within his power _en masse_, they merited their fate as forsworn. [Illustration: FACSIMILE OF SIGNATURES [1. 1480] [2. 1494] [3. 1501] [4. 1504] [5. 1501] [6. 1510] [7. 1522] [8. 1540] [9. 1517]] The massacre of Sinigaglia has been condemned by every writer except Machiavelli, and posterity has in severe retribution suspected him of abetting it. This charge possesses a twofold interest, as inculpating the character of the historian, and as affecting the morality of the age.[*3] In the latter view alone does it fall under our consideration: yet however horrible these wholesale murders, they are more remarkable in Italian history as the crowning crime of an ambitious career, and as widely influencing the political aspect of Romagna and La Marca, than from their relative enormity. The fates of the young Astorre Manfredi of Faenza, of Fogliano of Fermo, of the Lord of Camerino and his three sons, have all been mentioned in these pages as occurring within a year or two of this event. It would be easy to swell the catalogue of slaughter; and we find Baglioni and Vitellozzo both classed with Cesare himself in the category of murder, by a chronicler of Alexander VI., who also quotes from the mouth of Giovanni Bentivoglio, at the diet of La Magione, this bravado, "I shall assassinate Duke Valentino should I be so lucky as to have opportunity."[4] The spirit of the age is further illustrated by its unnumbered poisonings: and the fact that Machiavelli should neither have used his influence with Valentino to avert the massacre of the confederates, nor his pen to brand the treachery of that foul deed, is but another link in the evidence from which we may deduce the total extinction of moral feeling, which, anticipating the worst doctrines of Loyola, carried them out with a selfishness, falsehood, and cruelty unparalleled in the annals of human civilisation.[*5] [Footnote *3: It is unlikely that Machiavelli abetted the massacre, though he certainly approved it dispassionately enough. By it the Papacy was rid at last of the houses of Colonna and Orsini. Cesare met Machiavelli after the affair "with the best cheer in the world," reminding him that he had given him a hint of his intentions, but adding, "I did not tell you all." He urged on Machiavelli his desire for a firm alliance with Florence. Cf. MACHIAVELLI, _Legazione al Valentino_, Lett. 86, and the _Modo tenuto dal Duca Valentino nel ammazzare Vitellozzo_. See also CREIGHTON, _op. cit._, vol V., p. 40.] [Footnote 4: VERMIGLIOLI: _Vita di Malatesta Baglioni_.] [Footnote *5: The schemes of Cesare were in his age no more unscrupulously carried out than Bismarck's in his. "It is well," said Cesare, "to beguile those who have shown themselves to be masters of treachery."] [Illustration: _Alinari_ IL CASTELLO DI SINIGAGLIA] Gianpaolo Baglioni having fled to Siena, Valentino followed him in that direction, after taking possession of Perugia, and learning that Città di Castello, abandoned by the adherents of the Vitelli, had been plundered by his own partizans. On the 18th of January, hearing at Città della Pieve of the blow struck by his father against the Orsini, and that Fabio, who escaped the snare at Sinigaglia, was ravaging the Campagna, he handed over Paolo and the Duke of Gravina to the tender mercies of Michelotto, whose noose quickly encircled their necks. Invading the Sienese, he carried fire and sword by Chiusi as far as Pienza and San Quirico, massacring even the aged and infirm with horrible tortures. His real object, besides revenging himself upon Petrucci and Baglioni, was to add Siena to his territory, but his position being then a delicate one with France, he accepted the proposal of that republic to purchase safety, by exiling Petrucci their seigneur, and dismissing Baglioni their guest.[*6] [Footnote *6: Cf. LISINI, _Cesare Borgia e la repubblica di Siena_, in the _Boll. Senese di Stor. Pat._, ann. VII. (fasc. I.), pp. 114, 115, and 144 _et seq._ for all the documents. And for a short but excellent account in English of the whole Sienese affair, LANGTON DOUGLAS, _A History of Siena_ (Murray, 1902), p. 206 _et seq._] This series of rapid successes is ascribed by Machiavelli to the policy of Valentino in ridding himself of his French auxiliaries and his mercenary confederates, and so being enabled, during the brief remainder of his career, to give his talents and energy full scope in the conduct of an army entirely devoted to his views. His conquests had now extended along the eastern fall of the Apennines, from Imola to Camerino, and included the upper vale of the Tiber and the principality of Piombino. He had but to add to them Siena, and the best part of Central Italy from sea to sea would be his own. The eyes of Louis, at length opened to a danger which he had so long fostered, were not blinded by Cesare's affected moderation in claiming his recent acquisitions rather for the Church than for himself, and that monarch hastened to caution him from further hostilities against Tuscany. The successes of Fabio Orsini around Rome at the same time called for his presence, so he changed his route to make a foray upon the holdings of that family about the Lake of Bracciano, with whom the Colonna and Savelli had united against their common enemies the Borgia. This opportunity was greedily seized by the Pontiff to carry out his long cherished policy of breaking the power of the great barons, and the castles of the Orsini having one after another been reduced, their influence ceased for the future to be formidable either to their sovereign or their neighbours. * * * * * But it is time we should return to Urbino, where we left the citizens bewailing the departure of their Duke. As soon as he was gone, Antonio di S. Savino took possession of the place in name of Valentino, and issued a proclamation enjoining the townsfolk to disarm, the peasantry to return home, and all to surrender whatever they had stolen the day before from the palace. In the afternoon, after a conciliatory harangue to the people, he took his lodging in the palace. Next morning, after mass, the Bishop published a general amnesty, and oaths of allegiance to the new sovereign were administered. Towards evening the bells were rung, and a bonfire was lit in the piazza; but these were heartless and forced rejoicings, and no bribes could induce even the children to raise the cry of "Valenza." Nor was this sadness without cause, for the soldiery of Orsini and Vitellozzo, who still quartered in the town, treated all with such outrage, that many of the inhabitants prayed for death to close their sufferings, envying those who were summoned from such scenes of misery. But when the troops were withdrawn, the mild character and popular manners of Antonio the governor, skilfully seconding the conciliatory policy which Borgia had resolved upon, gave matters another aspect, and occasioned surprise to those who knew the cruel perfidy of their new master. Various notorious abuses were put down under severe penalties, especially the acceptance of presents by judges, and the following up of private vengeance. The deputy governor, Giovanni da Forlì, was however a man of quite opposite temperament, whose harshness soon counteracted these gentler influences, and occasioned general disgust. But the people heard with satisfaction the tragedy of Sinigaglia; for to the perfidy of the chiefs and the brutality of their army, the loss of their independence and the whole of their late misfortunes were unanimously ascribed; and a permission to ravage the territory of the Vitelli, now publicly proclaimed throughout the duchy, was by many greedily seized. Borgia, having secured fourteen distinguished inhabitants of Urbino as hostages, ordered that the fortresses left by agreement in the hands of Guidobaldo should be attempted: that of Maiuolo was accordingly surprised about the beginning of May, and easily reduced. S. Leo being better provided, as well as considered impregnable, its siege was more methodically undertaken, and levies were ordered to reinforce the assailants. The amount of public sympathy with the cause may be estimated from Baldi's assertion that, in the city of Urbino, the utmost difficulty was experienced in raising eight foot soldiers with one month's pay. Eight hundred Gascons in the French service were obtained from De la Tremouille; but these, having turned the siege into a sort of blockade, were dispersed among the neighbouring villages, where, on the 5th of June, their revels were suddenly interrupted by unknown assailants, who disappeared as mysteriously as they had issued from the mountain defiles, leaving many of the besiegers slain or wounded. The surrounding peasantry, catching the enthusiasm, rushed to arms, and, but for extraordinary exertions, the whole duchy would have once more been out for their legitimate lord. News of this movement having reached the Duke early in July, he obtained from Florence free passage through her territory, and from the Venetians a promise of passive support, and thereupon put himself into communication with his principal adherents, by means of letters carried by persons of low condition, many of which were unfortunately intercepted by the lieutenant-governor of Urbino. His people were thus kept in a fever of expectation; but, finally, this plan of an invasion was abandoned, whereupon he repaired to Mantua, to his brother-in-law the Marquis, who had been taken into the French service under De la Tremouille, and engaged him to represent to Louis the hardships of his case, and the danger of Borgia's excessive ambition. Disgusted with their ignominious overthrow at S. Leo, the Gascons assumed the habitual licence of such mercenaries, by soon taking their departure from "The tentless rest beneath the humid sky, The stubborn wall that mocks the leaguer's art, And palls the patience of his baffled heart." The siege was nevertheless maintained by the commandant of Romagna; but the place was ably and spiritedly defended by Ottaviano Fregoso, who will soon attract our notice in other scenes. Marini has recorded another act of romantic daring by the same Brizio who, in the preceding year, had surprised the place. Fregoso's tiny garrison being greatly exhausted by the long blockade, he, with one Marzio, made his way, during a violent storm of rain, over the rocks, and through the beleaguering force, and reached a castle near Mantua where Guidobaldo then was. In vain these emissaries besought him for a reinforcement of two hundred men; for, thinking it would only waste their gallantry by prolonging a hopeless struggle, he thankfully declined their proposal. At length their urgency obtained twenty-five men who happened to be at hand, and with these they returned to the leaguer. Marzio, boldly presenting himself to the commandant, volunteered to join the besiegers with his little party, which being accepted, he advanced them under the walls, whence, having been recognised by the garrison, they made a rush to the upper gate, and were received into the fortress ere the trick was discovered. By this timely succour, S. Leo was enabled to hold out until the restoration of its rightful sovereign; and its brave defenders did not even falter at the threat of summary vengeance upon their wives and families, who had been brought to the palace of Urbino to answer for their obstinacy. * * * * * Christendom was now to be appalled by a fearful catastrophe, which fitly closed the career of the Borgias, diverting their wonted weapons to their own destruction, for-- "'Tis sure a law of retribution just That turns the plotters' arts against themselves."[7] [Footnote 7: "Neque enim lex æquior ulla Quam necis artifices arte perire sua." OVID. _Ar. Amat._ i. 655.] Alexander and his son perceiving that they could no longer turn to good account the co-operation of Louis for their grasping schemes, began to look round for new combinations: having squeezed the orange they were ready to throw aside the rind. But to such projects their exhausted treasury offered serious obstacles. To supply it they had recourse, on an extended scale, to an expedient which they had invented, and already occasionally employed,--that of poisoning the richest cardinals, seizing on their treasures, and selling their vacant hats to the highest bidders. Among the most recent and wealthy of the sacred college was Adrian of Corneto, and he was therefore selected as next victim. On the 12th of August, the Pope and Cesare invited him to sup in the Belvidere casino of the Vatican, and the latter sent forward a supply of poisoned wine, in charge of his butler, with strict injunctions not to serve it until specially desired by himself. Several other cardinals were to partake of the banquet, and, probably, were intended to share the drugged potion. Alexander had been assured by an astrologer that, so long as he had about him the sacramental wafer, he should not die; and, accordingly, he constantly carried it in a little golden box; but, having on that evening forgotten it upon his toilet, he sent Monsignor Caraffa, afterwards Paul IV., to fetch it. Meanwhile, overcome by the dog-day heat, he called for wine. The butler was gone to fetch a salver of peaches, which had been presented to his Holiness, and his deputy, having received no instructions as to the medicated bottles, offered a draught from them to the Pope. He greedily swallowed it, and his example was more moderately followed by Cesare; thus, "Even-handed justice Commends the ingredients of the poisoned chalice To their own lips." Scarcely had they taken their seats at the table, when the two victims successively fell down insensible, from the virulence of the poison, and were carried to bed. The Pontiff rallied so far as to recover consciousness, and to linger for about a week, but at length sank under the shock and the fever which supervened, his age being seventy-one, and his constitution enervated by long debauchery. The last sacraments were duly administered, and it was remarked that, during his illness, he never alluded to his children Cesare and Lucrezia, through life the objects of an overweening, if not criminal fondness, in whose behalf most of his outrages upon the peace and the rights of mankind had been committed. His death occurred on the 18th of August.[*8] [Footnote *8: There is no authentic basis for this story. Rome was in a pestilential condition in August, and the Pope, Cesare, and the Cardinal Hadrian were all stricken with fever, which a supper in the open air was surely not unlikely to produce. Alexander was so detested that the strangeness of his death suggested poison at once to his enemies. Cf. CREIGHTON, _op. cit._, vol. V., p. 49. An excellent essay on _The Poisonings attributed to the Borgia_ will be found in CREIGHTON, _op. cit._, vol. V., p. 301 _et seq._] Such is the account of this awful retribution given by Tommasi, from which most other narratives but slightly deviate as to dates or immaterial details. Another version, however, occurs in Sanuto's Diaries, which, being contemporary, and probably supplied from the diplomatic correspondence of the Signory, merits notice, and has not been hitherto published. The Cardinal of Corneto, who figures prominently in this narrative, was made collector for Peter's pence in England, and Bishop of Hereford, from whence he was translated to Bath and Wells. We shall find him compromised in Petrucci's conspiracy against Leo X., but the following charge of pope-poisoning is new. "The Lord Adrian Castillense of Corneto, Cardinal Datary, having been desired by the Pope to receive him and Duke Valentino at supper in his vineyard, his Holiness supplying the eatables, this Cardinal presumed the invitation to be planned for his death by poison, so that the Duke might obtain his money and benefices, which were considerable. In order to save himself there seemed but one course, so, watching his opportunity, he summoned the Pontiff's steward, whom he knew intimately, and on his arrival received him alone in a private chamber, where 10,000 ducats were laid out: these he desired him to accept for love of him, offering him also more of his property, which he declared he could continue to enjoy only through his assistance, and adding, 'You certainly are aware of the Pope's disposition, and I know that he and the Duke have designed my death by poison through you; wherefore I pray you have pity on me and spare my life.' The steward, moved with compassion on hearing this, at length avowed the plan concerted for administering the poison; that, after the supper, he was to serve three boxes of confections, one for the Pope, another for the Duke, and a third for the Cardinal, the last being poisoned; so they arranged that the service of the table should be contrived in such a way that the Pontiff might eat of the Cardinal's poisoned box, and die. On the appointed day, the Pope having arrived at the vineyard with the Duke, the Cardinal threw himself at his Holiness' feet and kissed them, saying he had a boon to request, and would not rise until it were granted. The Pope assuring him of his consent, he continued, 'Holy Father! on the lord's coming to his servant's house, it is not meet that the servant should sit with his lord; and the just and proper favour I ask is permission for the servant to wait at the table of your Holiness.' The supper being thus served, and the moment arrived for giving the confections, the box having been poisoned by the steward as directed by the Pope, the Cardinal placed it before his Holiness, who, relying on his steward, and convinced of the Cardinal's sincerity by his service, ate joyfully of this box, as did the Cardinal of the other, which the Pontiff believed the poisoned one. Thereafter, at the hour when from its nature the poison took effect, his Holiness began to feel it, and thus he died: the Cardinal being still alarmed, took medicine and an emetic, and was easily cured." The death of Alexander by poison is generally credited, although Raynaldus and Muratori, willing to mitigate so heinous a scandal, incline to the few and obscure authorities who attribute it to tertian fever. It was natural that the truth should be glossed over, especially in despatches addressed to the court of his daughter Lucrezia, to which the latter annalist probably had access. But though the earliest intelligence of the event forwarded by the Venetian envoy alludes to the Pope's seizure as fever, his subsequent letters, quoted by Sanuto, thus loathsomely confirm the current suspicion of poison having been administered. "On this day [19th] I saw the Pontiff's corpse, whose apparel was not worth two ducats. He was swollen beyond the size of one of our large wine-skins. Never since the Christian era was a more horrible and terrible sight witnessed. The blood flowed from ears, mouth, and nose faster than it could be wiped away; his lips were larger than a man's fist, and in his open mouth the blood boiled as in a caldron on the fire, and kept incessantly flowing as from a spout; all which I report from observation."[9] [Footnote 9: This passage appears conclusive as to the fact of poison having been taken by the Pontiff; and it will be observed that Sanuto's story of the confection-boxes in no way accounts for the illness of Valentino, which is equally passed over in another totally different statement of this affair, given in the Appendix to Ranke's _History of the Popes_, section i. No. 4,--omissions to be kept in view in testing the probability of these conflicting accounts. Roscoe seems to have subsequently abandoned the doubts thrown upon the poisoning in his first edition, although ever prone to extenuate vices of the Borgia: witness his elaborate defence of Lucrezia, or his views as to the Duke of Gandia's murder and the massacre of Sinigaglia. Voltaire treats the question like a habitual doubter, with the ingenuity of a critic rather than the matured judgment of a historian. He is answered, with perhaps unnecessary detail, by Masse, to whom Sanuto was unknown.] The character of Alexander VI. as a man and as a sovereign admits of no question, and is thus forcibly summed up by Sismondi. "He was the most notoriously immoral man in Christendom; one whose debauchery no shame restrained, whose treaties no good faith sanctioned, whose policy was never guarded by justice, to whose vengeance pity was unknown."[*10] As a pontiff he must be tried by a different test, and those ecclesiastical writers, who attempt not to defend his morals or example, assert the orthodoxy of his faith and doctrine, and commend the wisdom of his provisions for maintenance of that religion which regarded him as its head. He was the first to establish the censorship of books,[*11] an important bulwark of the Roman Church; and among the orders which he instituted or protected was that of S. Francesco di Paolo. Nor can it be doubted that his ambitious nepotism eventually aggrandised the temporal possessions of the papacy, by quelling the mutinous barons of the Campagna, and by so crushing the more distant seigneurs as to render their states a speedy and easy prey to Julius II. On the other hand, the openly simoniacal practices which prevailed during his reign, the strong measures adopted to raise money for his private ends by a lavish scale of indulgences, and, generally, the unscrupulous employment of the power of the keys and the treasures of the Church for unworthy purposes, all tended to alienate men's minds, and to stir those doubts which the different, but not less injudicious, policy of his immediate successors ripened into schism. [Footnote *10: This is probably an exaggeration. Alexander VI. was without reticence in his sins, and so has not escaped whipping. I append a brief list of authorities for the Borgia:-- CERRI, _Borgia ossia Alessandro VI._ (1858). ANTONETTI, _Lucrezia Borgia in Ferrara_ (1867). SCHUBERT-SOLDERN, _Die Borgias und ihre Zeit_ (Dresden, 1902). CITADELLA, _Saggio di Albero Genealogico della Famiglia Borgia_ (1872). GREGOROVIUS, _Lucrezia Borgia_ (1874). ---- _Geschichte der Stadt Rom._, tom. VII. (1880). ALVISI, _Cesare Borgia_ (Imola, 1878). NEMEC, _Papst Alexander VI. eine Rechtfertigung_ (1879). LEONETTI, _Papa Alessandro VI._ (1880). D'EPINOIS, in _Revue des Questions Historiques_ (April, 1881). VEHON, _Les Borgia_ (1882). MARICOURT, _Le Procès des Borgia_ (1883). YRIARTE, _César Borgia_ (1887). ---- _Autour des Borgias_ (1891).] [Footnote *11: I am not quite clear what this means. The Inquisition was introduced into Italy in 1542, and the _Index Librorum Prohibitorum_ was established. But the congregation of the Index was not established till the Council of Trent. Magical books were prohibited as early as the Council of Nice, 325.] Favoured by youth, constitution, and energy of mind, Cesare Borgia wrestled successfully with the deadly ingredients which he had inadvertently swallowed. He is said to have been saved by being frequently placed in the carcass of a newly-killed bullock or mule, and, whether in consequence of this treatment, or of the inflammatory nature of the potion, to have lost the whole skin of his body. He had flattered himself that, foreseeing every possible contingency which his father's death could develop, he had so planned his measures as to secure, in any event, his own safety, and the maintenance of his authority. But, never having anticipated being disabled from action at that very juncture, his well-laid schemes fell to the ground, a signal illustration of the proverb, "Man proposes, God disposes." By means of Don Michelotto, he was, however, able to draw round the Vatican a body of twelve thousand devoted troops, and that unscrupulous agent executed his instructions by seizing about 500,000 ducats in money, jewels, and valuables, from the Pope's apartment, before his death was published. The Diaries of Sanuto give a lively description of the immediate effects of Alexander's death on Lower Italy,--the exultations of the people, the prompt movements of the Campagna barons, the hesitation of Valentino, the intrigues of the cardinals. As soon as the good news transpired, Rome rose in arms against the Spaniards; and the Colonna and the Orsini, entering at the head of their troops, willingly aided in spoiling and slaughtering these countrymen of the Borgia, who "could nowhere find holes to hide in." Even their cardinals narrowly escaped a general massacre; and on the 8th of September, a proclamation by the College cleared the city of these foreigners on pain of the gibbet. Duke Valentino, although prostrated in strength, and "seeming as if burnt from the middle downwards," was not without formidable resources. His hope was, that in the distracted state of Rome, the cardinals would provide for their personal safety by holding the conclave in St. Angelo, where the election would be in his own hands. This calculation was, however, defeated by their assembling at the Minerva convent, guarded by the barons of Bracciano and Palestrina, with the bravest of the citizens, and protected by barricades which withstood an assault by the redoubted Michelotto. Still his troops were staunch, the Vatican and St. Angelo were his, and he had secured the treasure of the Holy See. But his nerve gave way, and after turning the castle guns against the Orsini palace on Monte Giordano, he fled in a litter to the French camp without the gates, on the 1st of September, and thence made his way to the stronghold of Nepi. This vacillation brought its fitting recompense, and lost him the advantages of his position. Hesitating betwixt the Colonna and Orsini factions, wavering between Spanish and French interests, his friends dropped off, his forces melted away, and he lost the favourable moment for swaying the papal election. The rival parties in the conclave, having had no time to mature their plans, in consequence of the late Pontiff's sudden decease, trusted to strengthen their respective interests by delay, and so were unanimous in choosing, on the 22nd of September, the most feeble of their body, the respected Piccolomini, who survived his exaltation as Pius III. but twenty-six days. The state of matters at Naples added to the general embarrassment. The ceaseless struggles for that crown had of late taken a new turn, the contest being now between Louis of France and Ferdinand of Spain. The Borgia, long adherents of the former, had recently inclined to the Spanish side; but their influence was now irretrievably gone. *NOTE.--The following is a list of the chief conquests of Cesare:-- City. Family. Date. Campaign. Imola Riarii Nov. 27, 1499 First. Forlì Riarii Jan. 12, 1500 First. Rimini Malatesta Oct. 10, 1500 Second. Pesaro Sforza Oct. 21, 1500 Second. Faenza Manfredi April 25, 1501 Second. Piombino Appiani Sept. 3, 1501 Second. Urbino Montefeltri June 21, 1502 Third. Camerino Varani July 29, 1502 Third. Sinigaglia Roveri Dec. 28, 1502 Third. Città di Castello Vitelli Jan. 2, 1503 Third. Perugia Baglioni Jan. 6, 1503 Third. Siena Petrucci Jan. (end), 1503 Third. Cf. BURD, ed. _Il Principe_ (Oxford, 1891), p. 218, note 15. CHAPTER XX Duke Guidobaldo restored--The election of Julius II.--The fall of Cesare Borgia--The Duke's fortunate position--Is made Knight of the Garter--The Pope visits Urbino. Whilst Valentino and his partizans thus had their hands full at Rome, Romagna and his recent conquests threw off his rule. His officers had concealed the first news of the tragedy at the Vatican, but, on the 22nd of August, authentic intelligence of the death of Alexander and the illness of his son having reached Urbino, through some emissaries of Guidobaldo who announced that the moment for action had arrived, the people ran to arms. The governor fled to Cesena; his lieutenant was slain in the tumult; the siege of S. Leo was raised; and in one day the entire duchy, except one unimportant castle, returned to its lawful sovereign.[*12] [Footnote *12: During the Duke's absence an interesting correspondence passed between Isabella d'Este and Cardinal Ippolito d'Este in Rome concerning a Venus and a Cupid of the Duke's. The Venus was a torso and antique, but the Cupid was the work of Michelangelo. Cf. GAYE, _Carteggio d'Artisti_, vol. II., p. 53; ALVISI, _Cesare Borgia_, p. 537; LUZIO, in _Arch. St. Lombardo_ (1886), and JULIA CARTWRIGHT, _Isabella d'Este_ (Murray, 1903), vol. I., p. 230 _et seq._] On hearing that the Pope and Cesare were both ill, the Duke of Urbino hastily quitted Venice, his honourable and secure retreat, leaving behind, in the words of Bembo, "a high reputation for superhuman genius, for admirable acquirements, for singular discretion." As a parting favour, that republic advanced him 3000 or 4000 ducats, towards the expenses of his restoration. He wrote desiring his nephew Fregoso to send over a detachment from S. Leo, to maintain order in his capital, and himself following upon the steps of his messenger, reached that fortress on the 27th of August. Next day he proceeded to Urbino, where, Castiglione tells us, "he was met by swarms of children bearing olive-boughs, and hailing his auspicious arrival; by aged sires tottering under their years, and weeping for joy; by men and women; by mothers with their babes; by crowds of every age and sex; nay, the very stones seemed to exult and leap." Women of all ranks flocked in from the adjacent townships, with tambourines played before them, to see their sovereign, and touch his hand; whilst popular fury spent itself upon the usurper's armorial ensigns, which had been painted in fresco over the city gates a few months before by Timoteo Vite, at the rate of from one to four ducats each.[*13] [Footnote *13: Cf. MADIAI, _Diario delle Cose di Urbino_, in _Arch. St. per le Marche e per l'Umbria_, vol. III., p. 444.] The example of Urbino was quickly followed by Sinigaglia, Pesaro, and the other principalities; and by October, a confederacy for their common maintenance and defence, under oaths and a mutual bond of 10,000 ducats, was organised by these three states, along with Camerino, Perugia, Piombino, Città di Castello, and Rimini, in all which the exiled seigneurs had resumed their ascendancy. It was a condition of this league, that no step or engagement should be taken by any of the parties without the sanction of Guidobaldo, who a month before had strengthened his position by accepting service from the Venetians. The Signory engaged to protect him during life in his state, against all attacks, and to pay him annually 20,000 scudi, he maintaining for them a hundred men-at-arms, and a hundred and fifty light cavalry, besides placing at their disposal, for instant service, two thousand foot. These were forthwith sent to ravage the neighbourhood of Cesena, which remained faithful to Valentino, and thereafter, co-operating with other forces of the new league under Ottaviano Fregoso, they attacked in succession such citadels and castles as were held for the usurper. The star of Borgia seemed once more in the ascendant. Early in October Cesare, now able to bestride a mule, returned to Rome, attended by a hundred and fifty men-at-arms and a hundred halberdiers, where he patched up a reconciliation with the Orsini faction, then dominant. From motives which it would now be difficult to trace, the new Pontiff received him with favour, and named him captain-general of the Church. But in this crisis of his destiny he displayed no elevation of character. Disconcerted by the embarrassment of his position, perhaps by the admonitions of conscience, uncertain where to repose confidence or look for support, he quickly repented having trusted himself in the city, and longed to escape from its incensed populace and exasperated factions to the shelter of his strongholds in Romagna. Humbling himself before Gian-Giordano Orsini, the enemy of his race, he obtained a promise of his escort across the Campagna; but perceiving, ere he had cleared the gate, that he was in the hands of men by whom old grudges were not forgotten, he fled in panic to the Vatican. There he crouched beneath the doubtful favour of Pius, and the waning influence of the Spanish cardinals, who vainly sought to protect his property from pillage, and to expedite his escape in disguise, until the Holy See was again vacated by its short-lived occupant.[14] [Footnote 14: In the communal archives of Perugia, there is a brief addressed to the authorities of that town by Pius III., dated 17th of October, 1503, "before his coronation," but in fact the day preceding his death, which must have been obtained by the influence of Cesare, and which speaks a language very different from what his Holiness would probably have adopted had his life been spared. Its object was to prohibit certain "conventicles" which Gianpaolo Baglioni was reported to be holding in Perugia, for the purpose of plotting against the person of the Duke of Valenza and Romagna, and to desire that he be charged to avoid all courses tending to the prejudice of Borgia.] Thus was that make-shift policy defeated by which the late conclave had sought time for strengthening their interests and maturing their intrigues: a new election was at hand ere its elements had subsided from their recent turmoil. The Orsini were paramount in the city, the Spaniards in the Sacred College. A struggle ensued whether the former should obtain an order for Valentino's departure, or should themselves withdraw from Rome before the conclave was closed. Victory declared for the Iberian cardinals, by aid of Ascanio Sforza, who sought to conciliate their suffrages for himself. Once again the bantling of fortune had the game in his hand, again to play it away. Holding, as was supposed, at his absolute disposal the votes of the Borgian cardinals, he was courted by all who aspired to the tiara; and in hopes of retrieving his affairs by the election of a friendly pope, he took measures for throwing his whole influence into the scale of Amboise, Cardinal of Rouen, as organ of the French party. But that strong will and indomitable resolution which had triumphantly carried him through many crimes were now wanting. From day to day his plans faltered and his policy wavered; finally his efforts failed. Men were wearied of the feeble counsels, the selfish epicureanism, the public scandals of recent pontiffs. To rescue the Church from utter degradation, a very different category of qualifications was required, and even the electors felt that they must find a pope in all respects the reverse of Alexander. There was no member of the Sacred College whom Valentino had such reason to fear and hate, none of whose domineering ambition the Consistory stood in such awe, as Giulio della Rovere. Yet did his master-spirit overcome all opposition. On the day preceding the conclave he effected a reconciliation with the Spaniards, and his ancient rival Ascanio Sforza sought his friendship. As he rode to enter upon its duties, the cortège of attendant prelates equalled that which usually swelled the train of an elected pope. Before the door was closed, bets of eighty-two to a hundred were made on his success, one hundred to six being offered against any other candidate. It was, therefore, scarcely matter of surprise that within an hour or two thereafter Julius II. was chosen by acclamation, without a scrutiny.[15] [Footnote 15: Our information is in many respects deficient regarding the numerous and complicated events occurring at Rome between the poisoning of Alexander and the final departure of his son Cesare, and authorities are frequently irreconcileable. We are indebted to Sanuto's Diary for many unedited particulars, especially of the papal elections, but the most distinct account of these transactions, and on the whole trustworthy, which we have met with, is given by Masse.] At the last moment, Borgia's adherents, finding opposition vain, thought it best to lay the new occupant of St. Peter's chair under the obligation of their suffrages, a policy which Machiavelli had justly condemned as the greatest blunder ever committed by their leader. Some historians allege that their support was gained by an offer of Julius to maintain him in his dignities and investitures, betrothing his infant daughter to his own nephew the young Lord Prefect. Unlikely as this may seem, there is much apparent inconsistency in the Pontiff's treatment of him, which, if our authorities are to be trusted, showed nothing of that choleric temperament and energetic firmness which habitually characterised him. Within two days of his election, when speaking of Valentino to the Venetian envoy, he said, "We shall let him get off with all he has robbed from the Church in his evil hour, but would that the towns of Romagna were taken from him." Yet a change appears to have supervened, induced perhaps by Cesare's representations, which had formerly been successful with Pius III., that, under his sway, the influence of the Church in that province of her patrimony would be far better maintained than by handing it again to the old dynasties, whom he had with difficulty eradicated, and who had ever been turbulent vassals of the Apostolic Chamber. The now manifest intention of the Venetians to obtain a footing in that quarter, upon various pretexts founded on claims of the Manfredi and others of the dispossessed lords, gave cogency to this reasoning in the eyes of Julius, whose paramount policy of at all hazards aggrandising the keys, rendered Valentino's sovereignty preferable to such extension of their dominion, and may have somewhat extenuated the Borgian policy in his eyes. He therefore brought the usurper from St. Angelo to lodge in the Vatican, and entered with seeming cordiality into his views. But the lapse of a few days found his Holiness in another mood, declaring that his guest should not hold a single battlement throughout Italy, but might be thankful if spared his life and the treasures he had plundered, most of which were however already dissipated. From that moment the prestige of his position was at an end, and he remained at the palace "in small repute." The crisis soon became urgent, for the Venetian troops were pouring upon Romagna, whilst the few fortresses that still owned Borgia as their master were gradually falling to the confederate chiefs, led by Guidobaldo. On the 9th of November, letters, demanding these captured castles in the name of the Signory, found the latter ill of gout; but in reply he expressed surprise at the summons, seeing that he had wrested them from the usurper, and hoped to hold them for the pope elect, and in security for the valuables of which he had been pillaged. In consideration, perhaps, of his being then actually in pay of the Republic, he agreed to deliver up Verucchio and Cesenatico, whereupon the messenger reported him to the Doge as "a good Christian, but in want of some one to counsel him." In this exigency, Cesare proposed to surrender to the Pope the citadels of Cesena, Bertinoro, Forlì, and Forlimpopoli, as a means of immediately arresting the progress of their assailants, and of cutting short the schemes of Venice, offering to serve the Church during the rest of his life in any capacity that was thought expedient. This offer Julius declined, but gave him liberty to repair to the scene of action, and act for the best with what troops he could raise. He accordingly went to Ostia on the 19th of November, meaning to take shipping for Upper Italy; but on the 21st the Pontiff, alarmed at the progress of the Venetians, and influenced by Guidobaldo, who, arriving on that day, had demanded justice upon Borgia, thought better of it, and sent to get from him the countersigns of his citadels. These Valentino refusing, he was brought back to Rome under arrest on the 29th, and, after much temporising, ultimately gave the necessary passwords for the surrender of his last hold upon his recent dominions. Such seem the admitted facts of the Pope's treatment of Borgia. His change of conduct may have been dictated by new circumstances coming to his knowledge, or it may have been part of a systematic deception, in order to turn Valentino's influence to his own purposes. The opinions of Giovio and De Thou show that such treachery as Guicciardini charges upon Julius, and as Cesare met soon after from Gonsalvo di Cordova, was regarded by the lax public and private morality of the age as justified by his own infamous perfidies. On the other hand, it is admitted that the Cardinal della Rovere's high reputation for good faith was one of his recommendations to the conclave. Bossi, in an additional note to vol. IV. of his translation of _Leo X._, considers this dark passage of history to be cleared up by the narrative of Baldi, regarding Guidobaldo's generous treatment of the enemy of his house, to which he attributes the moderation of his Holiness; but this view does not seem borne out either by dates or by Baldi's words.[*16] [Footnote *16: Cf. the latter, in which an account of the interview between Cesare and Guidobaldo is given, UGOLINI, _op. cit._, vol. II., p. 523. It does not bear out Giustiniani's account (q.v. ii., 326) of what Guidobaldo said to him, and is probably mere rhetoric.] Thus terminated Duke Valentino's connection with the immediate subject of this narrative. A few words will suffice to trace the remainder of his fluctuating fortunes. Having been again transmitted to Ostia, he remained there a sort of prisoner at large until April, 1504, when his escape to Naples was connived at. There he was received with distinction by Gonsalvo di Cordova, viceroy of Ferdinand II.; but soon after, an order arrived from that king to send him prisoner to Spain. With this command, suggested probably by a brief from Julius, which Raynaldus has printed, the Great Captain at once complied, although Borgia held his safe-conduct,--a breach of faith which the Spanish historians justify by the alleged detection of schemes and intrigues, originated by Cesare and perilous to the ascendancy of his Catholic Majesty. Yet we learn that the Viceroy's last hour seemed troubled by repentance for this stain upon his conscience, which even in his day of pride one chivalrous spirit had dared thus to question. Baldassare Scipio of Siena, a free captain long in Cesare's service, publicly placarded a challenge to any Spaniard who should venture to maintain "that the Duke Valentino had not been arrested at Naples, in direct violation of a safe-conduct granted in the names of Ferdinand and Isabella, to the great infamy and infinite faithlessness of all their crowns." On reaching the land of his fathers, this incarnate spirit of a blood-stained age was confined in the castle of Medina del Campo, and the interest used for his release by the Spanish cardinals, and by his brothers-in-law the King of Navarre and the Duke of Ferrara, who offered their guarantee for his good behaviour, was, during three years, unavailing on the ground of his dangerous character. At length he made his escape by a rope-ladder or cord, under circumstances so fool-hardy as to be ascribed by the country people to supernatural aid, and reached the King of Navarre, who gave him the command of an expedition against the Count de Lérin. On the 10th of March, 1507, he fell into an ambuscade near Viane, and was cut to pieces fighting desperately. By a singular coincidence, his stripped and plundered body, having been recognised by a servant, was interred in the church of Pampeluna, the archbishopric of which had been his earliest promotion. Short as was his life (for he seems to have died under thirty) he had survived all his dignities and distinctions, realising the distich of Sannazaro, "CÆSAR, he aimed at all, he vanquished all; In all he fails, a CYPHER in his fall."[17] [Footnote 17: "Omnia vincebas, sperabas omnia Cæsar; Omnia deficiunt, incipis esse nihil."] Valentino's was a character peculiar to Spain, with which Pizarro alone seems to have matched. His boundless ambition was profoundly selfish and utterly unscrupulous; his energy of purpose owned no impulse but egotism; his capacity was marred by meanness; his splendid tastes served but as incentives to spoliation. The demands of honour, the compunctions of conscience, the value of human life availed nothing in his eyes. In him foresight became fraud, calculation cunning, prudence perfidy, courage cruelty. His daring, his constancy, his talent were devoted to murder, rapine, and treachery. His campaigns were massacres, his justice vengeance, his diplomacy a trick. Generosity was a stranger to his impulses, remorse to his crimes. * * * * * Fortune, so long adverse to Guidobaldo, at length smiled upon him. The election to the tiara of his relative and confidential friend, Cardinal della Rovere, freed him from anxiety as to the restoration of his duchy, and promised him a long career of prosperity and honour. His policy of supporting the Venetians in their views upon Romagna thus not only became superfluous as a check upon Borgia, but seemed not unlikely to place him in a dilemma with the Camera. The new Pontiff, therefore, lost no time in removing him from a position of such delicacy, by summoning him to Rome. The invitation found him encamped before Verucchio, whence he immediately set out; and, after devoting two days at Urbino to public thanksgivings and festivities for his own restoration and for the election of Julius, he performed the journey in a litter, his gout preventing him from riding. On the eleventh day, being the 20th of November, he was met at the Ponte Molle by a superbly caparisoned mule, and on it was painfully but honourably escorted by an imposing cortège to his apartment in the Vatican, under a salute from the artillery of St. Angelo. Notwithstanding his fatigue, he was bidden by the impatient Pontiff to supper that evening, and was received by his Holiness on the landing-place with equal favour and distinction. In the explanations which followed, their mutual views were frankly stated. The claim which the Venetians had upon Guidobaldo, from extending to him their hospitality and support in almost desperate circumstances, was fully allowed by the Pope, and his avowal that, in co-operating with them in an invasion of Romagna, he conceived they were thwarting Borgia, not the Church, was accepted as satisfactory. But his Holiness intimated, with reference to the future, that the vassal of the Apostolic See had duties paramount to all foreign ties; and that, since the rights of the Camera over that province admitted of no compromise, he would do well to resign the service of the Republic, and recall his consort to administer his affairs at home, whilst he remained in Rome for the winter. To these suggestions the Duke agreed, and wrote in most grateful terms to the government of Venice, explaining the obstacles which had unexpectedly arisen to his repaying at that moment the obligations he had incurred. We learn from Sanuto that on the 10th of October the Duchess with her ladies went into college, and being seated near the Doge, thanked the Signory in her lord's name for the favour, command, and protection granted to him, to which the Doge replied blandly, asserting the love borne him by the Republic. Again, on the 15th of November, there came into the cabinet of the Signory "the Duchess of Urbino with Madonna Emilia and her company of damsels to take leave, for she is departing early to-morrow morning for her duchy; she goes in a barge by the Po as far as Ravenna, and from thence on horseback: and the Doge spake her fair, and having taken leave, we sages of the orders accompanied her as far as the palace-gates, and she proceeded along the Mercery, reaching home on the 2d of December." Borgia took the opportunity of Guidobaldo's visit to make advances for a reconciliation, having reason to dread his influence with the Pope. These were received with courtesy; but, in the words of the Venetian chronicler just quoted, "the Duke was resolved to have his own again, especially the library, which was promised him without damage, with the tapestries, although the Cardinal of Rouen had already got a good share of them." According to Baldi's elaborate and somewhat too dramatic description of their interview, he magnanimously forgave the extraordinary injuries he had received from his now humbled adversary. On the authority of private letters, an anonymous diary, already noticed, states that the usurper threw himself, cap-in-hand, at the Duke's feet, beseeching mercy and pardon, and excusing his conduct on the plea of youth, the brutality of his father, and the persuasions of others. This incident was represented in a fresco by Taddeo Zucchero, which I saw at Cagli in 1843, and which had been cut from the villa built at S. Angelo in Vado, by Duke Guidobaldo II. Cesare is a slight figure handsomely dressed, with long sharp features, a high nose and reddish hair. He kneels before the Duke of Urbino, raising his cap, whilst one notary appears to read aloud an act of surrender, and another makes an instrument upon the transaction.[18] [Footnote 18: Considering that Borgia was probably dead half a century before this painting was commissioned, little reliance can be placed upon the likeness. *This is the account alluded to in note *1, page 29.] Even after Valentino had given authority for a surrender of the citadels in Romagna, they were held by his officers upon the plea that he was not a free agent, and the bearer of his missive was hanged by the castellan of Cesena. At length the Pope ordered Guidobaldo to reduce them by force. For this purpose he named him gonfaloniere of the Church, retaining him and four hundred men-at-arms, with a year's pay of 7000 ducats in advance. It was about this time that he was invested with the insignia of the Garter, to which illustrious order he had been elected in February. His acquisition of this dignity, and Count Baldassare Castiglione's mission to London as proxy at his installation, form an episode of so much interest to an English reader that we have gleaned every possible notice of these events, and have arranged them in II. of the Appendix. The Duke left Rome for his command, accompanied by his nephew the Prefettino, as he was then usually called from his youth, who had returned from France three months before to wait upon his Holiness. They were attended by Castiglione, who, after charming Julius by his polished society, was permitted by him to transfer his services to the court of Guidobaldo, of which he became the ornament and commentator. On the 1st of June they reached Urbino, and found the Duchess re-established among an attached people, who, to drive away sad recollections of their recent sufferings, had amused her during the preceding carnival with scenic imitations of the principal events of the usurpation! One of these was the comedy (so called rather in a Dantesque than a comic sense) of the Duke Valentino and Pope Alexander VI. In it were successively represented their plotting the seizure of the state, their sending the Lady Lucrezia to Ferrara, their inviting the Duchess to her wedding, the invasion of the duchy, the duke's first return, and his redeparture, the massacre of the confederates, the death of the Pope, and the Duke's restoration to his rights. The garrisons of Cesena and Bertinoro had surrendered ere Guidobaldo took the field, that of Forlì came to terms as soon as his troops appeared. With it passed the last wreck of the Borgian substantial power and vast ambition, within a year from the death of Alexander, leaving to future times no memorial but a name doomed to lasting execration. Guidobaldo had at the same time the satisfaction of recovering most of the valuables that had been pillaged from his palace, estimated by him at not less than 100,000 ducats, especially a large proportion of his father's celebrated library. On the 6th of September the Duke retraced his steps to Urbino, and there at length renewed the long-suspended joys of his secure and tranquil residence. Few, perhaps, of their rank and age, less needed such rough discipline to inculcate moderation, than this exemplary couple. Yet must the lessons of adversity have been ordained for some purifying purpose, and we may indulge the hope that they were not sent in vain. The Duke devoted his earliest leisure to signalise his gratitude for the unflinching loyalty of his subjects by conferring upon their several municipalities various privileges and immunities, and remitting their fiscal arrears. The Duchess expressed her thankfulness by many works of piety, by liberal charities, and by instituting a three days' fair on the anniversary of her lord's restoration. Their domestic circle was agreeably enlarged by the arrival of the Lady Prefectess, as the widow of Giovanni delle Rovere was entitled, who, on returning from a similar exile, and after paying her reverence to her brother-in-law the Pope, hastened to join her son at her brother's court. We have noticed the services which when assailed by Valentino, she received from Andrea Doria; they were now acknowledged by Guidobaldo with the castle of Sassocorbaro, and other holdings. Another guest at Urbino was Sigismondo Varana, the young heir of Camerino, who arrived with his mother Maria, sister of the Prefettino, and with his uncle and guardian Giovanni Maria, who afterwards supplanted him in that state. Urbino was now enlivened by an event which proved of paramount interest to its sovereign, and was destined by providence to carry forward its independence and glories under a new dynasty. We have seen how it had been proposed between the Cardinal della Rovere and Guidobaldo, in 1498, that the latter should adopt the young Prefect as his heir, and procure from the Pope a renewal of the Dukedom and investitures to his favour.[19] The simulated sanction of Alexander to this arrangement led to no result; but, as soon as Julius was fixed in the seat of St. Peter, he took measures for placing his nephew's prospects beyond question. In the natural course of events the state of Urbino would lapse to the Holy See on the Duke's death, and, as the uniform policy of this Pontiff was to unite to it as many such fiefs as the failure of their seigneurs or the force of his arms brought within his grasp, his making an exception of the most valuable of them all in favour of his own nephew gave rise to not a few strictures. It is, however, the only instance in which nepotism can be laid to his charge, and the precedents left him by recent Popes may be pleaded in justification of a comparatively trifling abuse. [Footnote 19: See vol. I., p. 371.] On the 14th of September the Archbishop of Ragusa arrived at Urbino as papal nuncio, charged with brieves for the completion of this affair, and also with the ensigns of command for the Duke as generalissimo of the ecclesiastical troops. The ceremonials consequent upon the implement of his mission have been detailed by Baldi, and are characteristic of the times we are endeavouring to depict. The nuncio and his splendid suite were received with distinction, and next day, being Sunday, was fixed for Guidobaldo's installation. The whole court and principal inhabitants being assembled in the cathedral, high mass was performed by him, after which, standing in front of the altar, he laid aside his mitre, and pronounced a solemn benediction on the two standards of the Church, which were held furled by a canon, whilst he waved incense over them, and sprinkled them with holy water. This ended, he desired them to be mounted on their staves, and having sat down and resumed his mitre, he presented them to the Duke, who received them, devoutly kneeling on the altar-steps, and handed one to Ottaviano Fregoso, the other to Morello d'Ortona. He then received the baton, with the like ceremonies, and rose, after kissing hands; whereupon the audience dispersed amid strains of martial music and popular acclamations. Upon the 18th, there assembled in the Duomo a still more numerous and distinguished auditory; when, after celebration of mass by the nuncio, he seated himself before the altar, with the Prefect on his right, and the Duke on his left, and in an elegant Latin discourse, set forth the desire of the latter to make sure the succession by adopting his nephew, and the approval of the Pope and college of cardinals to that substitution, in evidence of which the brieves and other formal documents were read. A magnificent missal,--perhaps that painted for Matthew Corvinus King of Hungary, which adorns the Vatican Urbino Library,--was then placed in the hands of Francesco Maria, opened at a miniature of the holy sacrament, and upon it deputies from the communities of the duchy took the oath of fidelity and homage to him as their future sovereign; all which having been regularly attested in notorial instruments, the solemnity ended.[*20] [Footnote *20: Cf. MADIAI, _op. cit._, in _Arch. cit._, vol. _cit._, p. 451-2.] These events served to aggravate the jealousy of the Venetians against the claims of Julius upon their recent acquisitions of Romagna, which they regarded as fairly conquered from Borgia. They possessed in this way the states of Ravenna, Faenza, and Rimini, and had gained footing upon the territories of Imola, Forlì, and Cesena, the inhabitants of which loudly complained of their aggressions. Of all these places the Church was the acknowledged superior, and the old investitures held under her by their respective princely families had been annulled by Alexander, in order to make way for his son. Some of these dynasties had died out, and Julius showed no disposition to restore the others, his leading object being the temporal aggrandisement of the papacy. At this juncture his Holiness sent for Guidobaldo, to consult with him; and in order to facilitate his arrival, presented him with a commodious litter swung between two beautifully dappled horses. The winter journey was, however, disastrous to his dilapidated frame, and he was laid up for nine days at Narni with gout, complicated by fever and dysentery, and consequently did not reach Rome with his nephew and Castiglione until the 2nd of January, when they slept outside of the gate, and next morning made a solemn entrance. It was the great object of the Republic to be received as vicar or vassal of the Holy See in the three first-mentioned states, and for this end they were willing to abandon all claims and attempts upon the remaining three. Guidobaldo, interposing as a mediator to prevent an open breach between parties so mutually deserving of his friendship, persuaded the Signory to abandon the latter places, and trust to the justice of Julius for the fulfilment of their desires. To procure this, they sent, in April, a splendid embassy to Rome of eight commissioners, with two hundred attendants, headed by Bembo, who, passing by Urbino, received from the Duchess a princely welcome. But no benefit accrued from this measure, for the Pontiff's ultimatum was announced to the senate through Louis XII., giving them Rimini and Faenza, during his life only, a result highly unsatisfactory to the Republic. The Duke's prolonged residence in Rome, where his company became greatly prized by the Pope, was little relished by his consort or his people; so, to maintain them in good humour, his Holiness announced a plenary indulgence for all their broken vows and deeds of violence during the late usurpation, to such as should devoutly observe the Easter ceremonies. The alms collected at this jubilee, amounting to 2265 florins, were expended upon the duomo of Urbino. At length, in the end of July, 1506, he obtained leave to return home, on the plea that change of air was advisable for his health.[*21] [Footnote *21: Cf. MADIAI, _op. cit._, in _Arch. cit._, vol. _cit._, p. 455. This Diary says that the Duke returned at the end of February, 1506.] Julius, having announced to the consistory his intention of extending the temporal sovereignty of the Church over such portions of the ecclesiastical territory as were possessed by tyrants (for so he called the vicars and other lords who ruled their petty states as feudatories of the Holy See), carried his design into effect with characteristic energy. He set out for Perugia on the 26th of August, after having directed the Duke of Urbino and his nephew to march thither, each with two hundred men-at-arms, and expel its seigneur Gianpaolo Baglioni. Here Guidobaldo again appeared as mediator, and, persuaded by him to submit with good grace to a fate that he could not avert, the Lord of Perugia gave up his fortresses, and was taken into the pay of Julius for his expedition against Bologna. The Pope, elated by the ease with which so formidable an opponent had been disposed of, pressed on preparations for attacking the Bentivoglii. He reached Urbino on the 25th of September, accompanied by twenty-two cardinals, with a suitable cortège, and a guard of four hundred men. Beyond the walls he was received by forty-five noble youths, dressed in doublets and hose of white silk, who, on his alighting, seized as their perquisite his richly caparisoned mule, which was afterwards redeemed from them for sixty golden ducats. The gates were thrown down to receive him, and he was there met by the Duke, disabled from dismounting; by the magistracy, who presented the keys; and by the court and clergy. A rich canopy shaded him, as the holy sacrament was borne before him to the cathedral; and after devotion there, he entered the palace, which next evening was illuminated, along with the citadel, fireworks being displayed in the piazza. Some singular usages of hospitality were adopted on this occasion. The Duke presented to his Holiness a hundred sacks of flour, as much barley and corn, with a proportionate quantity of live stock and poultry, to the value in all of 800 ducats.[*22] This donative was accepted, and part of it was handed over to the hospital of the Misericordia. In anticipation of the Pope's advent, the roads were repaired and smoothed, triumphal arches and statues were erected, flowers and evergreens were strewn before him, the streets were adorned with gay hangings and shaded by linen awnings, the palace was arrayed in those rich tapestries, pictures, and furniture, which the taste of Federigo and his son had accumulated. Next evening, the palace roofs and the citadel were illuminated, and over the latter was hung a brilliant cross of fire. Deputations arrived from Pesaro, and the principal places in the duchy, with gifts of provisions; but large supplies had been previously laid in by the Duke for so vast an influx; and in order to regulate prices, the following tariff, calculated at about half the current value, was proclaimed. Wheat, per staio or bush 45 bolognini. Barley " " 36 " Oats " " 24 " Wine, per somma 54 " Ditto, new " 27 " Mutton, per lb. 1 " Veal, per lb. 10 " Ox flesh " 8 " Salt meat " 1 to 7 " Capons, per pair 9 " Fowls " 4 to 7 " Pigeons " 4 to 7 " Wood pigeons, per pair 1 to 7 " Eggs, seven for 1 " Cheese, per lb. 1 to 7 " Hay, per cwt. 4 to 7 " Wood, per somma 1/2 carlino.[23] [Footnote *22: Cf. MADIAI, _op. cit._, _Arch. cit._, vol. _cit._, p. 456-7.] [Footnote 23: These, and many other particulars interwoven with our narrative, are taken from the anonymous Diary, Vat. Urb. MSS. No. 904. During the preceding year of scarcity, wheat had varied in different parts of Italy from four to twelve golden ducats, each of forty bolognini, a price scarcely credible. Riposati quotes a document proving that in 1450 a florin contained forty bolognini of Gubbio, of which twenty-nine and a half were coined from an ounce of silver, with 9/48 of alloy. Although it seems right to insert the above tariff, most of the prices appear enormous, beyond all belief. See the Preface to this work, for the comparative value of money. *This diary is the one quoted under MADIAI.] [Illustration: _Anderson_ POPE JULIUS II _From the picture by Raphael in the Pitti Gallery, Florence_] On the 29th of the month, his Holiness set out for Bologna, and, avoiding the territory held by the Venetians, reached Cesena on the 2nd of October by mountain tracks through Macerata and S. Leo. Thence he summoned the Bentivoglii to surrender their city to him as its lawful sovereign, and ordered the people on pain of interdict to abandon their cause, and open the gates. These chiefs had made great preparations for defence, but subsequently, on finding themselves deserted by Louis XII., offered terms, to which Julius, elated at the prospect of French succours, would not listen. The war, which promised to be obstinate, passed off in a revolution; for the Bentivoglii, losing heart, made their escape, to the delight of the citizens, who, thus saved from a siege, threw open their gates, and hailed the Pope as their liberator. He made his entry on Martinmas-day, and at once confirmed this favourable impression by abolishing various grievances, and by scattering in the streets 4000 golden scudi bearing the legend "Bologna freed from its tyrant by Julius."[24] The mob showed their zeal by demolishing the palace of their late rulers, one of the most beautiful in Italy, wherein miserably perished many treasures of art; and its ill-fated master and mistress soon after died of broken hearts in Lombardy. But fortune is fickle, and the breath of popular favour still more changeful. Four years and a half from this date the war-cry of "Bentivoglio" again rang through these streets; the same mob strained their brawny sinews to level the citadel which Julius had erected to curb them, and to shatter the colossal statue of him with which Michael Angelo had adorned their piazza; the same Pontiff saved himself from capture, and his legate escaped from the popular fury to fall by the dagger of a friend. Such are the retributions of HIM "whose ways are unsearchable, and whose thoughts are past finding out."[25] [Footnote 24: In the same feeling, though of later date, a copy of Raffaele's speaking portrait of his Holiness, now in the Torlonia Gallery, and attributed to Giulio Romano, is inscribed, "The author of freedom, for the citizens he saved." This conquest became a triumph of art as well as of arms; the colossal statue of Julius, begun by Michael Angelo in Nov. 1506, was erected in February, 1508. It weighed 17,500 lb. of bronze, and cost about 12,000 golden ducats, of which 1000 went to the artist.] [Footnote 25: See ch. xxxiii. of this work.] The Pope remained until late in February to settle his new conquest, keeping the Duke near him as a friend and counsellor, and on the 3rd of March, in defiance of the inclement season, repeated his visit to Urbino for one day, with a smaller company, while on his return to Rome. His host, after conveying him as far as Cagli on the 5th, pleaded his constitutional malady, and returned home with the Prefect. As this was the period selected by Count Castiglione for portraying the ducal court, it will be well to pause for a little, and consider the representation he has left us of it. CHAPTER XXI The Court of Urbino, its manners and its stars. The taste for philosophy, letters, and arts, and the patronage of their professors which Cosimo de' Medici and his son Lorenzo the Magnificent had introduced among the merchant-rulers of Florence, were, as we have already seen, adopted by several petty sovereigns of the Peninsula, but chiefly by those in the district of Romagna.[26] Sigismondo Pandolfo Malatesta was the first to engraft these fruits of peace upon a military despotism, which his restless ambition and fierce temper ever rendered the torment of his neighbours, and the scourge of his people. The d'Este of Ferrara, the Sforza of Pesaro, but, above all, Duke Federigo of Urbino, improving upon his example, had shown how mental cultivation might be brought to modify, or, as the Latin idiom has it, to humanise, without enervating, a martial character. The reign of Guidobaldo was peculiarly favourable to the development of this new and attractive principle; for though enabled partially to sustain the fame in arms which his father had bequeathed him, his feeble health gave him greater opportunity for the cultivation of letters, and for the society of the learned, to which he was naturally partial. Seconded by the sympathies of his estimable Duchess, his palace became a resort of the first literary and political celebrities of the day, who during the few years that succeeded his restoration, diffused over it a tone of refinement elsewhere unrivalled. To fix for the contemplation of posterity those graceful but transient images which flitted across this gay and brilliant society was the pleasing task undertaken by Castiglione,[*27] one of its most polished ornaments. [Footnote 26: See above, ch. viii., ix., x.] [Footnote *27: The following is a short bibliography of _Il Cortegiano_, and of works relating to it:-- SALVADORI, _Il Cortegiano_ (Firenze, 1884). CIAN, _Il Cortegiano_ (Firenze, 1894). OPDYCKE, _The Book of the Courtier_ (New York, 1901). BOTTARI, _Studio su B.C. e il suo Libro_ (Pisa, 1874). LUZIO E RENIER, _Mantova e Urbino_ (Torino, 1893). CIAN, in _Giornale Stor. d. Lett. It._, vol. XV. fasc. 43 e 44. CIAN, _Un Codice ignoto di Rime volgari app. a B.C._ in _Giornale cit._, vol. XXXIV., p. 297, XXXV., p. 53. SERASSI, _Lettere_, 2 vols. (Padova, 1769-71). RENIER, _Notizia di Lettere ined. di B.C._ (Torino, 1889). MARIELLO, _La Cronologia del Cortegiano_ (Pisa, 1895). JOLY, _De B.C. opere cui titulus Il Cortegiano_ (Cadomi, 1856). TOBLER, _C. und sein Hofmann_, in Schweizer Museum, 1884. VALMAGGI, _Per le fonti del Corteg._, in _Giornale cit._, XIV., 72. GERINI, _Gli scrittori pedagog. ital. d. Sec. XVI._ (Torino, 1897), p. 43.] The title _Il Cortegiano_,[*28] literally the Courtier, may be appropriately translated, "the mirror of a perfect courtier." The author intended it, to use the words of his preface, "as a portraiture of the court of Urbino, not by the hand of Raffaele or Michael Angelo, but by an inferior artist, whose capacity attains no further than a general outline, without decking truth in attractive colours, or flattering it by skilful perspective."[*29] But laying aside metaphor, he thus accounts for the origin of his undertaking. "After the death of the Lord Guidobaldo of Montefeltro Duke of Urbino, I, with several other knights who had been in his household, remained in the service of Duke Francesco Maria della Rovere, his heir and successor in that state. And as the fragrant influence continued fresh upon my mind of the deceased Duke's virtues, and of the pleasure I had for some years enjoyed in the amiable society of the excellent persons who then frequented his court, I was induced from these reflections to write a treatise of THE COURTIER. This I accomplished in a few days, with the intention of subsequently correcting the errors incidental to so hasty a composition." [Footnote *28: In the _Lettera Dedicatoria_. Cf. Ed. Cian, _op. cit._, p. 4.] [Footnote *29: This is the opening of the _Lettera Dedicatoria_ to Don Michel de Silva, Bishop of Viseo.] [Illustration: _Alinari_ PORTRAIT OF A LADY, HER HAIR DRESSED IN THE MANNER OF THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY _From the picture by ? Verrocchio [Transcriber's Note: now attributed to Piero del Pollaiolo] in Poldo-Pezzoli Collection, Milan_] The point which he undertakes is "to state what I consider the courtiership most befitting a gentleman in attendance on princes, whereby he may best be taught and enabled to perform towards them all seemly service, so as to obtain their favour and general applause; to explain, in short, what a courtier in all respects perfect ought to be."[*30] [Footnote *30: Opening paragraph of first book. Ed. Cian, p. 11.] We cannot here follow the Count into the wide field which he thus indicates, nor is it necessary, since his own work is accessible in several languages. But from various passages we may offer a sketch of the manners approved at the pattern court of Urbino, which will not be deemed misplaced in these pages. The men who figured there were chiefly distinguished in arms or letters. Whilst the former spent their leisure in recollections of war and love, or in the congenial pastimes of the field and the chase, the conversation of the latter was often warped towards scholastic disputation, or tainted by classic pedantry. Such manners have often been described, and their interest has long passed away; but in a society where female influence prevailed, and in an age when female intellect was fruitful in prodigies, it may be well to see what were the graces expected from a palace-dame.[*31] [Footnote *31: Concerning Elisabetta Gonzaga. Cf. LUZIO E RENIER, _Mantova e Urbino, Isabella d'Este, ed Elisabetta Gonzaga_ (Torino, 1893).] At the head of a string of common-place endowments we find a noble bearing, an avoidance of affectation, a natural grace in every action. Beauty is considered as most desirable, not indispensable; and its improvement by such artificial means as painting and enamelling the face, extirpating hairs on the eyebrows or forehead, is derided. White teeth and hands are fully appreciated, but their frequent display is censured. A neat _chaussure_ is lauded, especially when veiled by long draperies. In short, natural elegance and the absence of artifice are primary qualifications. A high-born lady must be circumspect even beyond suspicion, avoiding ill-timed familiarity, and all freedom of language verging upon licence; but when casually exposed to discussions tending to pruriency, a modest blush would be becoming, whilst shrinking or prudery might expose her to sneers. Willingly to listen to or repeat slander of her own sex is a fatal error, which will always be harshly construed by men. Her accomplishments and amusements should ever be selected with feminine delicacy, verging upon timidity; her dress chosen in tasteful reference to what is most becoming, but with apparent absence of study. In conversing with men she should be frank, affable, and lively; but modest, staid, and self-possessed, with a nice observance of tact and decorum. Noisy hilarity, a hoyden address, egotism, prolixity, and the unseasonable combination of serious with ludicrous topics are equally objectionable, but most of all affectation. Yet she ought to be witty, capable of varied conversation in literature, music, and painting, skilled in dancing and festive games. Nor should that of a good housewife be wanting to her other qualities. In short, the theory of a paragon lady of the 1500 might equally suit for one of the present day. We should come to a very different conclusion as to her real character, were we to test it by some passages of the _Cortegiano_, wherein the Duchess Elisabetta, in chastity the mirror of her age, listens approvingly with her courtly dames to long passages of prurient twaddle, ever skirting and often overstepping the limits of decency. Nor were the morals around her conformable to her own pure example, and that of the immaculate Emilia Pia.[*32] One sad instance in the ducal family we shall have to note, while narrating the early life of Duke Francesco Maria I.; another, remarkable from the subsequent status of the personage to whose birth the scandal attaches, will immediately be mentioned in connection with Giuliano de' Medici.[33] [Footnote *32: This lady was the inseparable companion of the Duchess Elisabetta. She was the daughter of Mario Pio, of the Lords of Carpi. Early the widow of Antonio of Montefeltro, natural brother of Guidobaldo, she remained at Urbino. She died, as it seems, a true lady of the Renaissance. "Senza alcun sacramento di la chiesa, disputando una parte del Cortegiano col Conte Ludovico da Canosso." Cf. Rossi, _Appunti per la storia della musica alla Corte d'Urbino_, in Rassegna Emiliana, Ann. I. (fasc. VIII.), p. 456, n. 1.] [Footnote 33: See below, p. 57.] But it would not be just, after adorning our narrative with flattering sketches from Castiglione's pencil, to exclude one or two anecdotes of the manners actually permitted among the polished society he professes to portray, although their coarseness and vulgarity, scarcely redeemed by their humour, may be considered as staining our pages. They occur in some memorials of the conversation of Francesco Maria, noted by a contemporary from personal observation.[34] [Footnote 34: Vat. Urb. MSS. No. 1023, art. 21. There is a copy of this MS. in the library of Newbattle Abbey, Scotland.] The subject of discussion happening to be Mark Antony's weakness in permitting Cleopatra to accompany him to the fight of Actium, the Duke said, "My father-in-law, the Marquis of Mantua, being at Mortara, in the service of France, Ludovico il Moro was in the camp with his Duchess, and one day, seeing the Marquis suffering from violent pain in the shoulder, said to him, 'Sir, I have the Duchess here, what shall I do with her?' The Marquis, being otherwise occupied, and suffering great pain, replied, 'How can I tell? send her to a brothel!' an answer quite off-hand, and truly appropriate"--from the brother of our paragon Duchess Elisabetta. Niccolo de' Pii, a condottiere in the service of the Duke's father, was very fat and overgrown. Dining one day with some Spanish officers, after finishing a trout, he sent the head and back-bone to one of them called Pedrada, who thereupon caustically retorted, "It is yourself that has more want of head than of stomach," a reply applauded as most cutting, for, "having more size than sense, he needed the brains rather than the belly." The same Spaniard one day, at a cardinal's reception, began to eat a candle, which, though apparently of wax, was in the centre of tallow; finding it greasy between his teeth, he seized the candlestick, and dashed it on the floor, muttering, "I swear to God it is not silver:" the candle being counterfeit, he fancied the candlestick must needs be so too. When talking of absent men, the Duke told these anecdotes of Ottaviano Fregoso, a star of the Urbino circle. As he conversed with his aunt Duchess Elisabetta, holding her hand, his mind wandered to other matters, and he began to twist about her fingers as he would have done a switch, finally thrusting one of them into his nose, when a burst of laughter from the bystanders recalled his thoughts. Dining one day at the table of Julius II., he sheathed and unsheathed his poignard, jingling the handle, until the Pope, losing all temper, exclaimed, "Begone to a brothel, pox take you! Be off, and the devil go with you!" Whereupon Signor Ottaviano began to make humble excuses for his natural defect of recollection, to the infinite glee of many church dignitaries who witnessed the scene. Yet only two days thereafter, chancing to converse in the papal antechamber with an ambassador who wore a massive gold chain, he, in a fit of abstraction, thrust his finger into one of the links. Just then, his Holiness appearing, the courtiers drew aside to make way, and Fregoso was dragged along, throwing them all into confusion; nor could he get free until he had well "salivated" his finger. Yet when his wits were not a wool-gathering, this was considered the most finished gentleman in Italy, and the most ready in reply. Thus, his uncle, Duke Guidobaldo appearing one day in a violet satin jerkin of unexceptionable fit, Ottaviano exclaimed, "My Lord Duke, you really are _the_ handsome Signor!" "How disgusting are dull flatterers who thus openly display their adulation," was the stinging reply. "My Lord Duke," rejoined the courtier, "I meant not to say that you are a man of worth, though I pronounced you a fine man and a handsome nobleman;" an answer which made the Duke wince, and brought credit to its author. [Illustration: _Alinari_ A LADY OF THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY] But enough of this gossip: the reader of the _Cortegiano_, and its author's charming letters, will find there many more attractive and not less veracious touches of the Montefeltrian court, where learning and accomplishment were often called upon to give dignity and grace to social pastimes. Thus, the Duchess is represented as singing to her lute those verses from the fourth _Æneid_, in which, at the moment of self-immolation, Dido apostrophised the garments forgotten by her faithless lover when he fled from her charms, until, Orpheus-like, she had wiled the savage animals from their lairs, and set the stones in sympathetic movement. At her court there were no lack of pens to clothe in verse the passing fancies of the hour, and adapt them to the musical or melodramatic tastes which gave a tone of refinement to its amusements. Thus, for the carnival of 1506, Castiglione and his messmate Cesare Gonzaga composed the pastoral eclogue of _Tirsis_, which was acted by them before the court, with choruses and a brilliant moresque dance. The personages of the dialogue are Iola (Castiglione) and Dameta (Gonzaga), who describe to Tirsi, a stranger shepherd, the ducal circle of Urbino, with the Duchess at its head as goddess of the river Metauro. The Moresca, so named from its supposed Moorish origin, was perhaps borrowed from the ancient Pyrrhic dance, and consisted in a sort of mock fight, performed to the sound of music with measured tread, and blunted poignards. Next spring a somewhat similar pastoral, from the pen of Bembo, was recited by him and Ottaviano Fregoso to the same audience. Such and such-like were the favourite court diversions of Urbino. Their stately conceits and solemn pedantry suited the spirit of that classic age and the genius of a pomp-loving people; but it would be scarcely fair to regard them as fully embodying the tone of manners prevalent in the palace of Guidobaldo. In it were harmoniously mingled the opposite qualities which then predominated at the various Italian courts. Scholastic pretensions, still esteemed in many of them, here thawed before the easier address of the new school. Those abstruse studies which the Medici had brought into vogue were eclipsed by a galaxy of brilliant wits. Even the ruthless bearing of the old condottieri princes mellowed under the charm of female tact, while the sensual splendour indulged by recent pontiffs was chastened by the exemplary demeanour of the ducal pair. Our appreciation of this picture would, however, scarcely be correct or complete, did we not bear in mind the inner life of contemporary sovereigns. We need not dwell on the contrasts afforded in other Peninsular capitals, for these were rather of degree than character, and would only show us the prevalence here of a gentler courtesy and more pervading refinement. But we may fairly compare the palace-pastimes of Urbino with those held in acceptance by the princes and peerage of northern states, where deep potations dulled the senses, or brutalised the temper; where intellect rarely sought a more refined gratification than the monotonous recital of legendary adulation; and where wit was monopolised by dwarfs and professional jesters. In order better to preserve the form and fashion of this pattern for princes, we shall transfer to our pages, from Castiglione's groupings, some outlines of its chief ornaments, beginning with himself.[35] [Footnote 35: Castiglione was related through his mother to several of the Urbino stars,--the Fregosi, Trivulzio, and Emilia Pia.] * * * * * [Illustration: COUNT BALDASSARE CASTIGLIONE. _Raffaele pinx._ _L. Ceroni sculp._ _From a picture in the Torlonia Gallery, Rome_] From CASTIGLIONE, in Lombardy, sprang the ancestry of COUNT BALDASSARE, and among them were numbered not a few names of note in church and state. His father was no mean soldier, in times when the captains of Italy bore a European reputation; his mother, a Gonzaga of the Mantuan house, was descended from the haughty Farinato degli Uberti, who, when accosted by Dante in _The Vision_,-- "His heart and forehead there Erecting, seemed as in high scorn he held E'en hell." The Count was born at Casatico, in the Mantuese, on the 6th of December, 1478.[*36] His education, besides including the various studies and accomplishments usual to an Italian gentleman of the fifteenth century, was specially directed to those classical attainments which entered into the literary pursuits of the age. The death of his father left him early master of a handsome patrimony, and he at once embraced that courtier-life for which he was peculiarly fitted,--a life, which in a land subdivided into petty sovereignties, constituted the only profession open to civilians of noble birth and distinguished endowments, and on which his pen was destined to confer perpetual illustration. After a brief visit to Milan,[*37] and a short campaign in Naples with his relative the Marquis Francesco of Mantua, he repaired to Rome in 1503, where, by discretion and winning address, he quickly gained the new Pontiff's favour. In Count Castiglione, the penetration of Julius recognised a fit instrument for promoting his favourite scheme of securing Urbino to his nephew Francesco Maria della Rovere; and by attaching him to Guidobaldo, he fixed at that court a friend whose influence was certain to extend itself, and whose example would benefit his youthful relation. [Footnote *36: For the biography of Castiglione, see MARLIANI in the Cominana edition of the _Opere Volgari_ (Padua, 1733), and SERASSI, in _Poesie volgari e latine del Castiglione_ (Roma, 1760), as well as the following works:-- MAZZUCHELLI, _Baldassare Castiglione_ (Narducci, Roma). MARTINATI, _Notizie Stor. bibliogr. intorno al Conte B.C._ (Firenze, 1890). Cf. on this CIAN, in _Giorn. St. della Lett. It._, XVII., 113. BUFARDECI, _La vita letter. del c. B.C._ (Ragusa, 1900). Cf. on this _Giorn. St. della Lett. It._, XXXVIII., 203. CIAN, _Candidature nuziali di B.C._ (Venezia, 1892, per nozze Salvioni-Taveggia).] [Footnote *37: He was educated at Milan, where he probably learned Latin from Giorgio Merula, and Greek from Demetrio Calcondila, and cultivated at the same time the _poesia volgare_ (see CIAN, _Un Cod. ignoto_, cited on p. 44, note *1). While he was still very young he was attached to the Court of Il Moro. His father died in 1499 from a wound got at the battle of the Taro. He returned to Casatico on the fall of Sforza, and then joined Marchese Francesco.] The court of Urbino had already been for half a century the brightest star in the constellation of Italian principalities, and under its fostering influence were fully developed those fine qualities which nature and early training had formed in Castiglione. His first essay was as captain of fifty men-at-arms, with 400 ducats of nominal pay, besides allowances; and his earliest exploit in this new service was the reduction of Forlì, in 1504. The finances of Guidobaldo were necessarily at a low ebb, and it is amusing to find Baldassare's frequent lamentations to his mother, over the arrears of his pay:--"Our doings are jolly but inconsiderable, that is, on small means; we have never yet seen a farthing, but daily and most devoutly look for some cash." It was not, however, till nearly a year later that he received twenty-five ducats to account, having often in the interval asked her aid, representing himself as penniless, and living upon credit. In 1509,[*38] after returning from his mission to England, which peculiarly required the graces of a finished cavalier, and of which some account will be found in II. of the Appendix, he attached himself to the Duke's immediate person during the brief remainder of his life, and when it closed, was sent to Gubbio, to maintain the interests of the succession, in event of any popular outbreak. The favour which he had enjoyed from Guidobaldo was amply continued under his nephew, whose fortunes he followed during several years, sharing his successes in the field, and sustaining him under his disgrace at the pontifical court. These events must, however, be here touched with a flying pen, that we may not anticipate details on which we shall afterwards have to dwell. His reward was a grant of Novillara, near Pesaro; and when Francesco Maria had exchanged sovereignty for exile, he returned to the service of his natural lord, the Marquis of Mantua, whom he long represented at the court of Leo X. To this Pontiff, Baldassare had nearly become related, by a marriage with his niece Clarice de' Medici, which was greatly promoted by Giuliano, during their residence at Urbino. The negotiation was, however, broken off in January, 1509, by the intrigues of her aunt, Lucrezia Salviati, who persuaded her uncle, the Cardinal Giovanni, that, by bestowing her hand upon Filippo Strozzi, he would strengthen the interest of his family at Florence. The match having been, according to Italian usage, an interested arrangement, its dissolution was borne with great philosophy by the intended bridegroom; who some seven years later married Ippolita, daughter of Count Guido Torelli, a celebrated condottiere, by Francesca, daughter of Giovanni Bentivoglio, Lord of Bologna.[*39] The ceremony was performed at Mantua, and was celebrated with tournaments and pompous shows, in which the court and people took a lively interest. But their happy union was of brief duration. The Countess died four years after, in childbed of a daughter. Her name has been embalmed in a beautiful Latin ode, wherein her husband embodied those laments for his absence which he doubtless had often heard from her lips, expressing all the tenderness of nuptial love, and adorning a woman's pathos with a poet's fire. Nothing can be more beautiful than the allusion to her husband's portrait:-- "Your features portrayed by Raffaele's art Alone my longings can solace in part: On them I lavish jests and winning wiles, As if their words could echo back my smiles; At times they seem by gestures to respond, And answer in your wonted accents fond: Our boy his sire salutes with babbling phrase. Such are the thoughts deceive my lingering days." [Footnote *38: He was in England in 1506. Guidobaldo died in 1508. It was to Duke Francesco he attached himself on his return.] [Footnote *39: On the various designs for Castiglione's marriage, see CIAN, _op. cit._, p. 46, note 1.] In her epitaph, the Count summed up his wife's character and endowments, with a doubt whether her beauty or her virtue were more remarkable; to which her eulogist, Steffano Guazzo, has added a third grace--her learning. During the first anguish of widowhood he was supposed to have turned his thoughts to ecclesiastical orders; but whatever views of that nature he may have entertained were speedily abandoned; and in 1523 we find him again in Lombardy, with his gallant company, under the banner of the Gonzagas. On the accession of Clement VII., the Marquis of Mantua again sent him to represent his interests at Rome, where he was not long in obtaining from the new Pope the same favour which he had enjoyed under his uncle, Leo X. His diplomatic talents were now acknowledged as of the first order; and Clement, foreseeing, perhaps, the impending difficulties of his position with the Emperor, prevailed upon Castiglione to accept the nomination of nuncio to Madrid. His courtly qualities were not less agreeable to Charles V. and the grandees of Spain than they had been in Italy; and in the romantic project by which the Emperor proposed to decide in single combat his unquenchable rivalry with Francis I., the Count was selected as his second,--an honour which his diplomatic functions prevented his accepting. Even while the troops and name of Charles were used by Bourbon to inflict upon the Apostolic See the greatest blow which its capital had suffered since the temporal power of the Church rose on the ruins of the Roman empire, the Nuncio was receiving new honours at Madrid, and was only prevented by his own scruples from obtaining the temporalities of the bishopric of Avila, one of the richest in Spain. In this most delicate position he retained the confidence of his master, who seems to have been satisfied that to no remissness on his part were owing the horrors of the sack of Rome. But these miserable results of jealousies between the Pope and the Emperor, which all his tact and influence were powerless to remove, rendered his position anything but enviable, and appear to have preyed alike upon mind and body. He sank under a short illness at Toledo, on the 2nd of February, 1529,[*40] and was lamented by Charles as "one of the best knights in the world." A letter of condolence, written to his mother by Clement, affords ample evidence that the fruitless results of his diplomacy in Spain had nowise diminished the Pope's confidence in his good service and attachment to his person. [Footnote *40: He died on February 7th, not 2nd.] [Illustration: _Alinari_ HAIR DRESSING IN THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY _Detail from the fresco by Pisanello in S. Anastasia of Verona_] In the _Cortegiano_ of Castiglione we are furnished with an elaborate, and in the main faithful, delineation of the men, the manners, and the accomplishments which rendered the court of Urbino a model for his age, and also with an interesting picture of the immediate circle which Guidobaldo and his estimable Duchess formed around them. We have drawn upon it amply for this portion of our volumes, but the notices which it affords of the Duke are of the most vague and disappointing character. This deficiency would be of little consequence, did the accounts which the same author has left in a Latin letter to Henry VIII. do full justice to his early patron. But from one whose opportunities of collecting ample and authentic particulars were unusual, the passing allusions to many momentous incidents are truly unsatisfactory. His details of scholarship and accomplishments would be more valuable, if divested of an air of exaggeration which even solemn asseverations of veracity scarcely remove. With all their faults, these are preferable to the compilation of Bembo, to which we shall in due time more particularly advert. Those who wade through its laboured and redundant expletives will probably come to the conclusion that Castiglione has preserved whatever they contain worthy of notice. The Count was a finished gentleman, in an age when that character included a variety of mental acquirements, as well as many personal accomplishments. His verses in Latin and Italian breathe a fine spirit of poetry; his letters merit a distinguished place as models of correspondence; his diplomatic address was highly approved by the sovereigns whom he served, as well as by those to whom he was accredited; he has been complimented as the delight of his contemporaries, the admiration of posterity. * * * * * GIULIANO DE' MEDICI was third son of Lorenzo the Magnificent, and was known in the circle of Urbino by the same appellation. Born in 1478, he passed at that court several years of his family's exile from Florence; nor was he ungrateful for the splendid hospitality he there enjoyed, for, while he lived, his influence with his brother, Leo X., averted those designs against the dukedom, which were directed to his own aggrandisement. After the restoration of the Medici, Leo confided to him the government of Florence, which he endeavoured to administer in the spirit of his father, and succeeded in gaining the good will of the people. But the Pope was not satisfied with the re-establishment of his race as sovereigns of that republic; and the fine qualities and vast ideas of Giuliano suggested him as a fit instrument of further grasping schemes. To realise these, Leo coquetted between France and Spain, and, like his predecessors, sacrificed the peace of Italy. The prizes which he successively proposed for Giuliano, who, by resigning Florence into the hands of his nephew Lorenzo, the heir-male of his house, was free to accept whatever sovereignty might be had, were the duchy of Milan, a state in Eastern Lombardy and Ferrara, or the crown of Naples. In June, 1515, the Pontiff conferred on him the insignia of gonfaloniere and captain-general of the Church; but he was prevented from active service by a fever which cut him off in the following March, when only thirty-eight, not without suspicion of poison at the hands of his nephew Lorenzo. His name is enshrined in Bembo's prose and Ariosto's verse, whilst his tomb by Michael Angelo in the Medicean Chapel, which Rogers, with a quaint but happy antithesis, calls "the most real and unreal thing which ever came from the chisel," is one of the glories of art.[*41] Shortly before his death he had married Filiberta of Savoy, whose nephew, Francis I., created him Duke of Nemours, and, had his life been prolonged, would probably have aided him to further aggrandisement. [Footnote *41: Giuliano was not so bad a poet himself. Cf. on this subject SERASSI, in the Annotazioni to the _Tirsi_ of Castiglione at stanza 43, and the five sonnets contained in _Cod. Palat._, 206 (_I Cod. Palat. della Nazionale Centrale di Firenze_, vol. I., fasc. 4), and the six of _Cod. Magliabech._ II., I., 60 (BARTOLI, _I manoscritti della Bib. Nazionale di Firenze_, tom. I., p. 38).] During his residence at Urbino, from an intrigue with Pacifica Brandani, a person of high rank or base condition, for both extremes have been conjectured to account for the mystery, there was born to him a son, who, after being exposed in the streets in 1511, was sent to the foundling hospital, and baptized Pasqualino. Removed to Rome and acknowledged in 1513, the child received an excellent education; and under the munificent patronage of the Medici became Cardinal Ippolito, whose tastes were more for arms than mass-books, and whose handsome features and gallant bearing, expressive of his splendid character, are preserved to us in the Pitti Gallery by the gorgeous tints of Titian, alone worthy of such a subject. * * * * * The next personage of this goodly company was CESARE GONZAGA, descended from a younger branch of the Mantuan house, and cousin-german of Count Baldassare, whose quarters he shared in 1504, when they returned together from the reduction of Valentino's strongholds in Romagna, where he had the command of fifty men-at-arms. We know little of him beyond his having been a knight of St. John of Jerusalem, and ambassador from Leo X. to Charles V.[*42] Baldi describes him as not less distinguished by merit than blood, and Castiglione assigns him a prominent place in the lively circle whose amusements he depicts. He was no unsuccessful devotee of the muses: a graceful canzonet by him is preserved in the Rime Scelte of Atanagi, and he shares the credit of the eclogue of _Tirsis_ already alluded to, and printed among the works of Castiglione. Recommended by military talent, as well as by diplomatic dexterity and business habits, he remained in the service of Duke Francesco Maria during his early campaigns; and in September, 1512, after reducing Bologna to obedience of the Pope, died there of an acute fever in the flower of his age. [Footnote *42: SERASSI, in _Poesie volgari e latine del B.C. aggiunti alcune Rime e Lettere di Cesare Gonzaga_ (Roma, 1760), gives a full notice of his life, and CASTIGLIONE, in the Fourth Book of the _Cortegiano_, speaks affectionately of him.] * * * * * The brothers OTTAVIANO and FEDERIGO FREGOSO were of a Genoese family, who for above a century had distinguished themselves in the military, naval, and civil service of their country, and had given several doges to that republic. Their father, Agostino Fregoso, had married Gentile, natural daughter of Duke Federigo, and the young men were consequently much brought up at the court of Urbino, where their sisters Margherita and Costanza were long in attendance on Duchess Elisabetta. In 1502, Ottaviano accompanied his uncle on his first return from Venice, and we have seen him then defending S. Leo during a lengthened siege, sustained with great gallantry and skill. For that good service he had from the Duke the countship of Sta. Agatha in the Apennines, afterwards confirmed to him by an honourable brief of Leo X., and continued to his descendants, with the title of Vicar, until their extinction in the third generation. The latter period of Ottaviano's life was actively passed in his native city. From 1512 his endeavours were directed to abolish the French domination maintained at that time by aid of the Adorni, long hereditary rivals of his family. In this he finally succeeded, and next year was elected doge, the only one, in Litta's opinion, "who gloriously manifested a desire for the public weal." He held that dignity during two years of tranquillity to his country, over which the benign influence of his mild and impartial sway diffused a temporary calm, long unknown to its factious inhabitants. So obvious were these beneficial results, that Francis I., on becoming master of Genoa in 1515, continued to him a delegated authority as its governor. But, seven years later, the restless Adorni, having adhered to the Emperor, aided the Marquis of Pescara to carry the city, with an army of imperialists, who mercilessly sacked it. Ottaviano remained a prisoner in the enemy's hands, and died soon after. He is called in the _Cortegiano_ "a man the most singularly magnanimous and religious of our day, full of goodness, genius, prudence, and courtesy; a true friend to honour and virtue, and so worthy of praise that even his enemies are constrained to extend it to him." The revolution effected by Andrea Doria, in 1528, forcibly closed the feuds of these rival families, which, during a century and a half, had outraged public order, and, both being compelled to change their name, the Fregosi adopted that of Fornaro. * * * * * FEDERIGO FREGOSO, the younger brother of Ottaviano, born in 1480, was educated for holy orders under the eye of his maternal uncle Guidobaldo. In the lettered society of Urbino he perfected himself in various accomplishments, as well as in a thorough knowledge of the world, which enabled him afterwards to acquit himself usefully and creditably in many diversified spheres of action. It was to the great satisfaction of that court that in April, 1507, Julius II. conferred upon him the archbishopric of Salerno, a benefice which the opposition of Ferdinand II., founded on his leaning to French interests, apparently prevented him from enjoying. His life of literary ease remained uninterrupted until his brother's elevation as doge of Genoa in 1513, when he hastened to support him by his counsels and influence. During the next nine years he alternately commanded the army of the republic, led her fleet against the Barbary pirates, whom he annihilated in their own harbours, and represented her as ambassador at the papal court. The revolution of 1522 compelled him to fly from his native city, and, taking refuge in France, he received protection and preferment from Francis I. He returned to Italy in 1529, and was appointed to the see of Gubbio, where his piety, and devotion to the spiritual and temporal welfare of his flock, were equally commendable, and gained him the appellation of father of the poor and refuge of the distressed. A posthumous imputation of heretical error cast upon his name had no better foundation than the accident of his discourse upon prayer happening to be reprinted along with a work of Luther, which occasioned their being both consigned to the Index. In 1539 he was made cardinal by Paul III., and died at Gubbio two years after. His attainments in philology were eminent, including a profound knowledge of Hebrew, with the study of which he is said to have consoled his exile in France. Equal cultivation might have gained him much fame as a poet, but the works he has left are chiefly of a doctrinal character, and his eminence in the literary circle of his day rests more upon the correspondence of Bembo, Sadoleto, and Cortesio than upon his own writings.[*43] By the first of these, the sparkle of his measured wit, the general moderation and suavity of his manners, his gentle consideration for other men's habits, his personal accomplishments, and the zeal displayed in his studies, are all spoken of with warm admiration. The following letter of sympathy, addressed to the dowager Duchess by that rhetorician is an interesting though mannered tribute to his long friendship:-- "My most illustrious and worshipful Lady, "I had somewhat dried the tears elicited by the death of our very reverend Monseigneur Fregoso, so suddenly and inopportunely taken from us, when your Excellency's autograph letters recalled them to my eyes, and still more abundantly to my heart, on finding that you condoled with me so sensibly, and with so much unction. Not only, indeed, has your Ladyship been bereaved of a rare friend and relative, a most wise and religious gentleman, but, as you observe, all Christendom has thus sustained a loss incomparably great in times so evil and convulsed. Of myself I shall say little, having already written a few days ago to your Excellency; and, knowing the affection and respect mutually existing between you, I appreciate the weight of your grief from my own. Nor can I doubt that your Ladyship is aware of my emotion consequent upon his long kindness towards me, and my respectful but warm affection for him, sentiments never interrupted by a single word on either side, from his early youth and my manly age down to this day. I am further pained to observe that your Ladyship, lamenting for long years your Lord's death of happy memory, and now that of the Cardinal, entertains an impression your life will be short. This is no fruit of that good sense I have ever noticed in you, and which the Cardinal himself inculcated; for the more your Ladyship is left alone to promote the welfare and advantage of the tender plants by your side, you should be more anxious to live on; for, while life is given you, you may benefit their souls by prayers and good deeds, as well as promote the interests of many who look to your pious spirit for the prosperity of their lot. Let not, therefore, your Ladyship speak thus, but bless (_si conforti_) the Heavenly King that he has so willed it, and conform yourself to his infallible will and judgment. As to your observation that I am left to you, in place of this good gentleman, as a protector, father, and brother, be assured that the day shall never come when it will not be my desire to dispose of myself in all respects according to your Excellency's pleasure, yielding therein not even to your [late] most reverend brother. Your Ladyship will consider me as truly, really, and justly your own, to use and dispose of me unreservedly; and for this end I give, grant, and give over to you full leave and power, not to be reclaimed by any change of fortune so long as life remains to me. In return I shall now pray you to attend to your health, and not only to live on, but live as happily as you can, thus avenging yourself of fate, which has done so much to vex you.... From Rome, the 2nd of August, 1541." [Footnote *43: Cf. TIRABOSCHI, _Storia della Lett. Ital._ (ed. Class. It.), vol. VIII., p. 3.] * * * * * PIETRO BEMBO[*44] was born at Venice in 1470, and had the first rudiments of education at Florence, whither his father Bernardo was sent as ambassador from the Signory. Having learned Greek at Messina under Constantin Lascaris, and studied philosophy at Padua and Ferrara, he devoted himself to literary pursuits. At the court of the d'Este princes, where he was introduced by his father then resident as envoy from Venice, he met with the consideration due to his acquirements, and found a brilliant society, including Sadoleto, the Strozzi, and Tibaldeo. There he was residing when the arrival of Lucrezia Borgia threatened to establish for it a very different character; but the dissolute beauty seems to have left in the Vatican her abandoned tastes, and adopting those of her new sovereignty she became distinguished as a patroness of letters. The intimacy which sprang up between this princess and Bembo has given rise to some controversy as to the purity of its platonism, a discussion into which we need not enter. The life of the lady, the writings of the Abbé, and the morals of their time combine to justify suspicion, where proofs can hardly be looked for.[*45] "But if their solemn love were crime, Pity the beauty and the sage,-- Their crime was in their darkened age!" [Footnote *44: For a splendid account of Bembo, cf. GASPARY, _Storia della Lett. Ital._ (Torino, 1891), vol. II., part II., pp. 60-7, and the _Appendice Bibliographica_ there, pp. 284-5.] [Footnote *45: This is altogether unfair, uncalled for, and untrue. Dennistoun is not to be trusted where a Borgia is concerned; like Sigismondo Malatesta they hurt the Urbino dukes too much.] [Illustration: _Anon. des._ _L. Ceroni sculp._ CARDINAL BEMBO _From a drawing once in the possession of Cavaliere Agricola in Rome_] Their correspondence lasted from 1503 to 1516, and many of his letters are published.[*46] The prevailing tone of these is rhetorical rather than passionate, and is quite as complimentary to her virtues as to her beauty. The Ambrosian Library at Milan possesses nine autograph epistles in Italian and Latin from Lucrezia, addressed "to my dearest M. Pietro Bembo," with the dates supplied in his hand. A tress of fair auburn hair, originally tied up with them, and doubtless that of the Princess, is now shown in the adjoining museum. That her tastes and accomplishments were not unworthy of such a friendship appears from many dedications of works to her while Duchess of Ferrara, including the Asolani of her admirer. [Footnote *46: Cf. MORSOLIN, _P. Bembo e Lucrezia Borgia_, in the _Nuova Antologia_ (Roma, 1885), and BEMBO, _Opere_ (Venice, 1729), vol. III., pp. 307-17; also CIAN, in _Giorn. Stor. della Lett. Ital._, XXIX., 425.] In 1505 Bembo repaired to Urbino, and sojourned chiefly at that court during the next six years, where his varied attainments were highly prized, and where his philological pedantry was probably regarded as ornamental. Besides enjoying the converse of many congenial spirits, he there formed a friendship with Giuliano de' Medici, to which he owed many subsequent honours. Accompanying him to Rome in 1512, he was recommended by him to his brother, the Cardinal, whose first act on being chosen Pope in the following year, was to name Bembo his secretary, jointly with his friend Sadoleto. For this situation he was in many respects well fitted, by the happy union of great learning with an extensive knowledge of men and manners, which his residence at Ferrara and Urbino had not failed to impart. The laxity of his morals, and the paganism of his ideas, were unfortunately no disqualifications under Leo X. He continued to earn his master's confidence in the discharge of his regular duties, as well as in occasional diplomatic missions, but, as Roscoe truly observes, his success as a negotiator did not equal his ability in official correspondence. The pensions and benefices which rewarded his services enriched him for life, and even before that Pontiff's death he sought at Padua an elegant literary retirement, refusing from Clement VII., and from the Signory of Venice, all offers of public employment. He surrounded himself with a most select library, including many invaluable manuscripts, and a precious collection of medals and other antiquities, which, with the society of the learned whom he attracted to his board, gave to his house a wide celebrity. It was not regarded as at all degraded by the presence of an avowed mistress at its head, with whom he openly lived for many years, and had several children; and neither this scandal, nor the gross indecency of some of his writings, prevented Paul III. from conferring upon him a scarlet hat in 1539. He is said to have accepted this dignity unwillingly, but having done so, he had the good sense at all events to "cleanse the outside of the cup and platter." His mistress was now dead; he laid aside poetry, literature, and pagan idioms, and, devoting himself to theological studies, at which he had formerly sneered in the habit of an abbé, he entered holy orders at the mature age of sixty-nine. In 1541 he succeeded Fregoso, his early companion at Urbino, in the bishopric of Gubbio, to which was added that of Bergamo. How little these preferments contributed to his comfort appears from a letter to Veronica Gambara in December, 1543. "Often," he there says, "do I desire to be the unfettered Bembo of other days, rather than as I now am. But what better can one make of it? Man's existence, abounding more in crosses than in gratifying incidents, will have it so; and wiser he who least desponds and best puts up to necessity, than one that less conforms to it. Yet I own myself unable to do this amid these privations, and exiled in a manner from myself. For verily I am neither at Venice nor Padua, as your Ladyship supposes, but at my church of Gubbio, a very wild place to say the truth, and offering few conveniences." He died at Rome six years after, in his seventy-seventh year, and was buried in the church of the Minerva, between his patrons Leo X. and Clement VII., where a modest flag-stone is all the memorial that his natural son and heir, Torquato, bestowed on one of the most famous men of his age. * * * * * At the town of Bibbiena, in the upper Val d'Arno, there were born about 1470, of humble parentage, two brothers, whose business talents procured them remarkable advancement. The elder, Pietro Dovizi, became a secretary of Lorenzo de' Medici, into whose family he introduced his brother BERNARDO. There this youth gained for himself so good a reputation, that he was allowed to share the instructions bestowed upon his patron's younger son Giovanni. A close intimacy gradually sprang up between these fellow students, which the similarity of their talents, their tastes, and their pursuits ripened into lasting friendship. Identifying himself with the Medici, he followed their fortunes into exile, and attended Giuliano to Urbino, where he was received with the welcome there extended to all who, like him, combined the scholar and the gentleman. But this hospitality met with a very different return from these two guests. Of Giuliano's generous forbearance to second the evil designs of his brother, the Pope, against the state which had sheltered him, we have lately spoken. When we come to narrate the usurpation of the duchy by the Medici in 1516-17, we shall find in command of their invading army "That courteous Sir, who honours and adorns Bibbiena, spreading far and high its fame," and who had adopted that town as a substitute for his own undistinguished patronymic. This ingratitude was the more odious if, as it was probable, he owed to Guidobaldo, or his nephew, the favour of Julius II., who first brought him forward in the public service. At that Pontiff's death he was acting as secretary to his early friend, the Cardinal de' Medici, and in that capacity was admitted to the conclave. The intrigues which there effected his patron's election have given rise to various anecdotes and controversies, which we pass by with the single remark that, by all accounts, the address of Dovizi was not unimportant to the success of Leo X. In return, he was included in the first distribution of scarlet hats as CARDINAL BIBBIENA. In this enlarged sphere his talents and tastes had full room for exercise. He was selected for various important diplomatic trusts, besides filling the offices of treasurer and legate in the war of Urbino. With his now ample means, his patronage of letters and arts had ample scope, and he was regarded as the Maecenas of a court rivalling that of Augustus. Raffaele enjoyed his particular regard, which he would willingly have proved by bestowing on him the hand of his niece. His ambition is alleged to have exceeded even the rise of his fortunes, and to have prompted him to contemplate, and possibly to intrigue for, his own elevation to the chair of St. Peter, in the event of a vacancy. His sudden death in 1520, soon after a residence of above a year as legate to Francis I. (who had conferred upon him the see of Constance), when coupled with such reports, was construed as the effect of poison administered by Leo. Indeed, his friend, Ludovico Canossa, observed that it was a received dogma among the French at that very time that every man of station who died in Italy was poisoned. But such vague conjectures, however specious under Alexander VI., are less credible in other pontificates; and if the Cardinal were poisoned, that practice was then by no means limited to popes. He was an accomplished dilettante when the standards of beauty were of pagan origin; and his intimacy with Raffaele dated after the painter's Umbrian inspirations had faded before a gradual homage to the "new manner." Like his friend Bembo, his morals were epicurean to the full licence of a dissolute age. His famed comedy of the _Calandra_,[*47] which was brought out at Urbino in 1508, and which gave full play to his exquisite sense of the ridiculous, justifies this charge, and all that we have so often to repeat of the laxity then prevalent in the most refined Italian circles. A notice of this, the only important production of his pen, and an account of its being magnificently performed before Guidobaldo, will be found in our twenty-fifth chapter. Those who regard the pontificate of Leo X. as the classic period of Italian letters must feel grateful to Cardinal Bibbiena for developing a portion of its lustre; the sterner moralist, who brands its vices, will charge him with pandering freely to the licence of a court of which he was a notable ornament. Castiglione tells us that an acute and ready genius rendered him the delight of all his acquaintance; and Baldi adds, that by practice in the papal court he so improved that gift, that his tact in business was unrivalled, to which his mild address, and happy talent of seasoning the dullest topics with graceful pleasantry, greatly contributed. [Footnote *47: For all concerning this play and its performance at Urbino in 1513, see VERNARECCI, _Di Alcune Rappresentazioni Drammatiche alla Corte d'Urbino nel 1513_ in _Archivio Storico per le Marche e per l'Umbria_, vol. III., p. 181 _et seq._ The original prologue, by Bibbiena, was only recently made known by DEL LUNGO, _La Recitazione dei Menaechmi in Firenze e il doppio prologo della Calandria_, in the _Arch. Stor. Ital._, series III., vol. XXII., pp. 346-51. Machiavelli's estimate of Bibbiena will be found in _Lettere Famil. di N. Machiavelli_, Firenze, 1883, p. 304, "Bibbiena, hora cardinale, in verità ha gentile ingegno, ed è homo faceto et discreto, et ha durato a' suoi di gran fatica."] His personal beauty obtained for him the adjunct of _bel_ Bernardo, and he is represented in the _Cortegiano_ as saying, in reference to the amount of good looks desirable for a gentleman, "Such grace and beauty of feature are, I doubt not, mine, in consequence whereof, as you know, so many women are in love with me; but I have some misgivings as to my figure, especially these legs of mine, which, to say the truth, don't seem to me quite what I should like, though I am well enough satisfied with my bust, and all the rest." This, however, having been introduced as a jest, may perhaps be understood rather as complimentary to his person, than as a sarcasm on his vanity. A contemporary and unsparing pen thus sketches his qualities, in a manuscript printed by Roscoe, from the Vatican archives:--"He was a facetious character, with no mean powers of ridicule, and much tact in promoting jocular conversation by his wit and well-timed jests. He was a great favourite with certain cardinals, whose chief pursuit was pleasure and the chase, for he thoroughly knew all their habits and fancies, and was even aware of whatever vicious propensities they had. He likewise possessed a singular pliancy for flattery, and for obsequiously accommodating himself to their whims, stooping patiently to be the butt of insulting and abusive jokes, and shrinking from nothing which could render him acceptable to them. He also had much readiness in council, and was perfectly able seasonably to qualify his wit with wisdom, or to dissemble with singular cunning." Bembo, with more partial pen, says in a letter to Federigo Fregoso, "The days seem years until I see him, and enjoy the pleasing society, the charming conversation, the wit, the jests, the features, and the affection of that man." * * * * * Among the distinguished literary names which have issued from Arezzo, several members of the ACCOLTI family were conspicuous in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. BERNARDO,[*48] of whom we are now to speak, had a father noted as a historian, a brother and a nephew who reached the dignity of cardinal, and were remarkable in politics and letters. He obtained from Leo X. the fief of Nepi, as well as various offices of trust and emolument; of these, however, his wealth rendered him independent, enabling him to indulge in a life of literary ease. His poetical celebrity exceeded that of his contemporaries, and seems to have been his chief recommendation at the court of Guidobaldo. There, and at Rome, he was in the habit of reciting his verses in public to vast audiences, composed of all that was brilliant in these cultivated capitals. Nor was his popularity limited to a lettered circle. When an exhibition was announced, the shops were closed, the streets emptied, and guards restrained the crowds who rushed to secure places among his audience. This extraordinary enthusiasm appears the more unaccountable, when we find his printed poetry characterised by a bald and stilted style, which leaves no pleasing impression on the reader. The mystery seems explained by a supposition that his talent lay in extemporary declamation. [Footnote *48: On the Unico Aretino Bernardo Accolti, see especially D'ANCONA, _Studi sulla Lett. Ital. de' primi secoli_ (Ancona, 1884), in the essay, _Del Seicentismo nella poesia cortigiana del Secolo XV._, pp. 217-18. He professed an extraordinary devotion for the Duchess of Urbino.] Instances are far from uncommon in Italy, of similar effects produced by the _improvisatori_, whose torrent of melodious words, directed to a popular theme, and accompanied by music and impassioned gesticulation, hurries the feelings of a sympathising auditory to bursts of tumultuous applause, whilst on cool perusal, the same compositions fall utterly vapid on the reader. Be this as it may, the success of Accolti had the common result of superficial powers, and so egregiously inflated his vanity, that he assumed as his usual designation "the unique Aretine," by which he is always accosted in the _Cortegiano_. Nine years later we find him devoting to Duchess Elisabetta attentions which were attributed to a passion more powerful than gratitude, but which, knowing as he well did, her immaculate modesty, could only have been prompted by despicable vanity, and hence exposed him to keen ridicule. * * * * * To few of the pedigrees illustrated by Sansovino is there attributed a more remote origin, or a brighter illustration, than to that of CANOSSA.[*49] A younger son of the family was COUNT LUDOVICO, who, being cousin-german of Castiglione's mother, was perhaps by this means brought to Urbino, and thence recommended to Julius II., under whose patronage he entered upon an ecclesiastical career. From Leo X. he obtained the see of Tricarico, and was sent by him as nuncio to England and France, a service which earned him promotion to the bishopric of Bajus. Adrian VI. and Clement VII. continued him in this post; and during a long residence at the French court, he entirely gained the confidence and favour of Francis I. Many of his diplomatic letters are printed in various collections; and to him is addressed Count Baldassare's curious description of the performance of the _Calandra_, at Urbino. [Footnote *49: For Canossa, cf. LUZIO E RENIER, _op. cit._, p. 87, and especially ORTI-MANARA, _Intorno alla vita ed alle gesta del Co. Lodovico di Canossa_ (Verona, 1845), and CAVATTONI, _Lettere scelte di Mons. L. di Canossa_ (Verona, 1862).] * * * * * ALESSANDRO TRIVULZIO was nephew of Gian Giacomo, the distinguished Milanese general of that name, and himself a famous captain in the service of Florence, and of Francis I. Sigismondo Riccardi, surnamed the Black, Gasparo Pallavicini, Pietro da Napoli, and Roberto da Bari,--the last of whom died in the camp of Duke Francesco Maria, in 1510,--are mentioned among the military notorieties of the Feltrian court. Giovanni Cristoforo, the sculptor, may be added to the list of its literary dilettanti; and among its musical ornaments were Pietro Monti and Terpandro, with Niccolo Frisio, a German, long resident in the land of song, whose exertions were often in request by Monti and Barletta, both dancers of note. CHAPTER XXII Emilia Pia--The _Cortegiano_--Death of Duke Guidobaldo, succeeded by Francesco Maria della Rovere. Such were the eminent men, with whom Guidobaldo is described in the _Cortegiano_ as living in easy but dignified familiarity, joining their improving and amusing conversation, or admiring their dexterity in exercises which his broken constitution no longer permitted him to share. Thus passed the days in the palace; and, when the Duke was constrained by his infirmities to seek early repose, the evenings were spent in social amusements, over which the Duchess gracefully presided, with her ladies Margherita and Costanza Fregoso, the Duke's nieces, Margherita and Ippolita Gonzaga, the Signor Raffaella, and Maria Emilia Pia. [Illustration: ELISABETTA GONZAGA, DUCHESS OF URBINO _From a lead medal by Adriano Fiorentino in the British Museum_] [Illustration: EMILIA PIA _From a medal by Adriano Fiorentino in the Vienna Museum_] Of the social position of Italian women in this century[*50] we may gather many particulars from Ludovico Dolce's _Instituto delle Donne_: for although, like most writers on similar themes, he represents them "not as they are, but as they ought to be," still, knowing the then received standard of female perfection, we can form a pretty accurate estimate of their actual qualities. His views as to education are exceedingly orthodox. The Holy Scriptures, with the commentaries of the fathers, Ambrose, Augustin, and Jerome, ought to be day and night before a girl, and suffice for her religious and moral discipline. She should be familiar with her own language and with Latin, but Greek is an unnecessary burden. For mental occupation, Plato, Seneca, and such other philosophers as supply sound moral training are excellent, as well as Cicero for bright examples and wholesome counsels. History being the teacher of life, all classical historians are commended, but the Latin poets are vetoed as unfit for honest women, except most of Virgil and a few selections from Horace. Many modern Latin writers are commended, especially the _Christeida_ of Sannazaro and Vida, but all such prurient productions in Italian as Boccaccio's novels are to be shunned like venomous reptiles. On the other hand, the poetry of Petrarch and Dante is extolled beyond measure, the former as embodying with singular beauty an instance of the purest and most honourable love, the latter as an admirable portraiture of all Christian philosophy. Yet such literary occupations should never intrude upon more important matters, such as prayer, nor upon the domestic duties of married women. [Footnote *50: The books, pamphlets, poems, and stories, both contemporary and subsequent, dealing with the position, beauty, learning, dress, etc., of women would fill a library. I shall content myself by naming a very few among them under a few headings for the entertainment of the reader. The list of works I give is, of course, in no sense a bibliography. The best source is _Castiglione_ himself--for the sixteenth century and for court life, at any rate. But the picture he paints, remarkable as it is, was by no means altogether realistic, as a consultation with the following works will show. I have included a few dealing with earlier times, and have only quoted works with which I am familiar. GENERAL LIFE. CECCHI, _La Donna e la famiglia Italiana del Secolo XIII. al sec. XVI._, in _Nuova Antologia_ (new series), vol. XI., fasc. 19-20. FRATI, _La Donna Italiana secondo i più recenti studi_ (Torino, 1889). VARCONI, _La Donna Italiana descritta da Scrittrici Italiane in una serie di Conferenze_ (Firenze, 1890). VELLUTI, _Cronica Domestica_ (Firenze, 1887). DAZZI, _Alcune lettere familiari del sec. XIV._ in _Curiosità Letterarie_, fasc. XC. (Bologna, 1868). ANON., _Difesa delle Donne_ (Bologna, 1876). BIAGI, _La vita Italiana nel Rinascimento_ (Milano, 1897). BIAGI, _La vita privata dei Fiorentini_ (Milan, 1893). DEL LUNGO, _La Donna Fiorentina del buon tempo antico_ (Firenze, 1906). GUASTI, _Lettere di una gentildonna Fiorentina del sec. XV._ (Firenze, 1877). LIBORIO AZZOLINI, _La Compiuta Donzella di Firenze_ (Palermo, 1902). ZDEKAUER, _La vita privata dei Senese_ (Conf. d. Com. Sen. di St. Pat.), (Siena, 1897). CASANOVA, _La Donna Senese del Quattrocento nella vita privata_ (Siena, 1895). FRATI, _La vita privata in Bologna_ (Bologna, 1900). BELGRANO, _La vita privata Genovese_ (Genoa, 1866). BRAGGIO, _La donna Genovese del sec. XV._, in _Giornale Linguistico_, Ann. XII. (1885). MOLMENTI, _St. di Venezia nella Vita Privata_ (Torino, 1885). CECCHETTI, _La donna nel Medio Evo a Venezia_ in Arch. Ven. Ann., XVI. (1886). THEIR BEAUTY AND ADORNMENT. In Florence, Siena, and Venice certainly there were regulations of the fashions; but not in Naples. FIRENZUOLA, The two discourses, _Delle bellezze delle donne_ and _Della perfetta bellezza d'una donna_, in ed. Bianchi, _Le Opere_ (Firenze, 1848). MORPURGO, _El costume de le donne con un capitolo de le XXXIII. bellezze_ (Firenze, 1889). ZANELLI, in _Bolletino di St. Pistoiese_, vol. I., fasc. II., p. 50 _et seq._ ARETINO, _Il Mareschaio_, atto ii., sc. 5, and _I Ragionamenti_. CENNINO CENNINI, _Trattato della Pittura_, cap. clxi. Warning against the general use of cosmetics. L.B. ALBERTI, _Opere Volgari_ (Firenze, 1849) (Del Governo della Famiglia), vol. V., pp. 52, 75, 77. How a wife ought and ought not to adorn herself. FRANCO SACCHETTI, _Novelle_, 99, 136, 137, 177. "Formerly the women wore their bodices cut so open that they were uncovered to beneath their armpits! Then with one jump, they wore their collars up to their ears! And these are all outrageous fashions. I, the writer, could recite as many more of the customs and fashions which have changed in my days as would fill a book as large as this whole volume," etc. etc., with a long description of the dress of the women of his time. Consult all the novelists. DANTE, in _Il Paradiso_, XV. GIO. VILLANI, _Cronaca_, lib. X., caps. x., xi., and cl. MATT. VILLANI, _Cronaca_, lib. I., cap. iv. BOCCACCIO, _De Casibus virorum illustrium_, lib. I., cap. xviii. He gives a list of the arts of the toilet of women. BIAGI, _Due corredi nuziali fiorentini_ (1320-1493). (Per nozze Corazzini-Benzini, Firenze, 1899.) CARNESECCHI, _Donne e lusso a Firenze nel secolo XVI._ (Firenze, 1903). ALLEGRETTO, in _Muratori R.I.S._, XXIII., col. 823. _Diario Ferrarese_, in _Muratori R.I.S._, XXIV., cols. 297, 320, 376 _et seq._, speaks of the German fashions--"Che pareno buffoni tali portatori." GENTILE SERMINI, _Le Novelle_ (Livorno, 1874), Nov. XXI. MARCHESINI, _Quello si convenga a una donna che abbia marito_ (Firenze, 1890, per nozze). And _Dialogo della bella creanza delle donne_ (Milano, 1862), pp. 30, 31. ON WATERS FOR THE FACE, AND PERFUMES. FALLETTI FOSSATTI, _Costumi Senesi_ (Siena, 1882), p. 133 _et seq._ PELISSIER, _Le Trousseau d'une Siennoise en 1450_, in _Boll. Senese_, vol. VI., fasc. 1. SANSOVINO, _Venetia città nobilissima e singolare_ (1663), fol. 150 _et seq._ YRIARTE, _La vie d'un Patricien de Venise au 16me siècle_ (Les femmes à Venise) (Paris, 1874), and see rare authorities there quoted. In Venice, the prescribed bridal dress seems to have been that of Titian's Flora--the hair fell free on the shoulders. The _Proveditori alle Pompe_ were established in Venice in 1514. On the whole subject see, for earlier time, HEYWOOD, _The Ensamples of Fra Filippo_ (Siena, 1901), cap. iii.; and for later time, BURCKHARDT, _op. cit._, vol. II., part V., caps., ii., iv., v., vii.] It is unnecessary to follow our author into abstract qualities and common-place graces, but the emphasis with which certain things are decried affords a fair presumption of their prevalence. Thus, excessive luxury of dress, and, above all, painting the face and tinging the hair, are attacked as impious attempts to improve upon God's own handiwork. In like manner, the assiduity with which modesty and purity of mind and person are inculcated confirms what we otherwise know of the unbridled licentiousness then widely diffused over society. Gaming of every sort is scouted; music and dancing are set down as matters of indifference. In regard to marriage, the selection of a husband is left as matter of course to the parents, since a girl is necessarily too ignorant of the world to choose judiciously for herself; a reason resulting from the education and social circumstances of young women in Italy, which sufficiently accounts for this apparent solecism continuing in the present day. A prolix exposition of the principles which ought to guide fathers in their discharge of this delicate duty may be summed up in the very pertinent remark, that few prudent damsels would rather weep in brocaded silks than smile in homely stuffs. But it is time to return from this digression to the LADY EMILIA PIA, who merits more special notice in a sketch of the Montefeltrian court. She was sister of Giberto Pio, Lord of Carpi in Lombardy, and wife of Antonio, natural brother of Duke Guidobaldo. After losing her husband in the flower of youth, she remained at Urbino, and became one of its prime ornaments, not only by her personal attractions, but by a variety of more lasting qualities. The part she sustains in the conversation of the _Cortegiano_ amply evinces the charm which attached to her winning manners, as well as the ready tact wherewith she played off an extent of knowledge and graceful accomplishment rare even in that age of female genius. She was at all times ready and willing to lead or second the learned or sportive pastimes by which the gay circle gave zest to their intercourse and polish to their wit, and thus was of infinite use to the Duchess, whose acquirements were of a less sparkling quality, and of whom she was the inseparable companion. Still more singular and proportionately admired were the decorum that marked her conduct in circumstances of singular difficulty and the virtue which maintained a spotless reputation amid temptations and lapses regarded as venial in the habits of a lax age. Her death occurred about 1530,[*51] and an appropriate posthumous tribute was paid to such graces and virtues in this medallion bearing her portrait, with the Latin motto, "To her chaste ashes," on the reverse. Even the luscious verses in which Bembo and Castiglione sang the seductions of the Feltrian court assumed a loftier tone in their tribute to her heart of adamant, which, "pious by name[52] and cruel by nature," and spurning the designs of Venus upon its wild freedom, would impart its own severity generally to the slaves of the goddess. Yet it was under the guidance of this able mistress of the revels, that joy and merriment supplanted rigorous etiquette in the palace of Urbino, where frankness was restrained from excess by the Duchess' example, and where all were free to promote the common entertainment as their wit or fancy might suggest. Among the sports of these after-supper hours, Castiglione enumerates questions and answers, playful arguments seasoned with smart rejoinders, the invention of allegories and devices, repartees, mottoes, and puns, varied by music and dancing. [Footnote *51: She died in 1528, not as Serassi, whom Dennistoun follows, says, in 1530.] [Footnote 52: Her maiden surname, Pio, was habitually punned into Pia.] [Illustration: _Alinari_ HAIR DRESSING IN THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY _After a picture by Bissolo_] Such was the mode of life described in the _Cortegiano_, with ample details, which we shall attempt slightly to sketch. The scene is laid in the evenings immediately succeeding the visit of Julius II. The usual circle being assembled in her drawing-room, the Duchess desired Lady Emilia to set some game a-going.[*53] She proposed that every person in turn should name a new amusement, and that the one most generally approved should be adopted.[54] This fancy was sanctioned by her mistress, who delegated to her full authority to enforce it upon all the gentlemen, but exempted the ladies from competition. The courtiers so called upon thus acquitted themselves of their task. Gaspar Pallavicino suggested that each should state the peculiar excellence and special defect which he would prefer finding in the lady of his love. Cesare Gonzaga, assuming that all had some undeveloped tendency to folly, desired that every one should state on what subject he would rather play the fool. Fra Serafino sneeringly proposed that they should successively say why most women hate rats and like snakes. The Unico Aretino, whose turn came next, thought that the party might try one by one to guess at the occult meaning of an ornament, in the form of an S, worn by the Duchess on her forehead. The flattery with which this odd suggestion was spiced, gave a clue to the Lady Emilia, who exclaimed that, none but himself being competent, he ought to solve the mystery; on which, after a pause of apparent abstraction, he recited a sonnet on that conceit, giving an air of impromptu to what was, in fact, a studied composition clumsily introduced. Ottaviano Fregoso wished to know on what point each would be most willing to undergo a lover's quarrel. Bembo, refining on this idea, was of opinion that the question ought to be whether the cause of quarrel had best originate with oneself or with one's sweetheart--whether it was most vexatious to give or receive the offence. Federigo Fregoso, premising his conviction that nowhere else in Italy were there found such excellent ingredients of a court, from the sovereign downwards, proposed that one chosen from the party should state the qualities and conditions required to form A PERFECT COURTIER, it being allowed to the others to object and redargue in the manner of a scholastic disputation. [Footnote *53: Cf. _Il Cortegiano_, lib. I., cap. vi.] [Footnote 54: DOLCE, in the _Instituto delle Donne_, mentions a lady who, being asked to name some pastime at a party, sent for a basin and towel, that all of her sex might wash their faces, she being the only one present without paint.] This idea being approved by the Duchess and her deputy, the latter called upon Count Ludovico Canossa to begin the theme. Its discussion (our observations upon which must be reserved for a future portion of these pages) is represented by Castiglione as having been prolonged during successive evenings; Federigo Fregoso, Giuliano the Magnificent, Cesare Gonzaga, Ottaviano Fregoso, and Pietro Bembo, following the cue with which Canossa had opened. At the close of the fourth sitting, an argument on love was interrupted by daylight. "Throwing open the eastern windows of the palace, they saw the summit of Monte Catri already tipped with rosy tints of the radiant Aurora, and all the stars vanished except Venus, the mild pilot of the sky, who steers along the limits of night and day. From these far-off peaks there seemed to breathe a gentle breeze, that tempered the air with bracing freshness, and, from the rustling groves of the adjacent hills, began to awaken sweet notes of wandering birds." The same golden sun continues to dawn upon Urbino, but, ere many months had passed, the bright galaxy of satellites that circled round Duke Guidobaldo was scattered, for their guiding star had gone to another sphere. * * * * * During fifteen years his fine form and robust constitution had been wasted by gout, for such was the name given to a disease hereditary in his family. Physiologists may decide upon the accuracy of this term, and say why, in an age of incessant exposure to severe exercise under all weather, and when luxuries of the table were little known or appreciated, the ravages of that malady should have been more virulent than in our days of comparative indulgence and effeminacy.[55] At first he struggled against the symptoms, continuing his athletic sports; but in a few years he was reduced to a gentle pace on horseback, or to a litter. At length, about the time of which we are now speaking, his intervals of ease rarely extended to a month, during which he was carried about in a chair; but, when under a fit, was confined to bed in great agony. Yet, ever tended by his wife, his fortitude never forsook him, and his mind, gathering strength in the decay of nature, sought occupation in the converse of those able men who made his palace their home, or, in the moments of most acute suffering, fell back for distraction upon the vast stores of his prodigious memory, whiling away long hours of agony by repeating passages from his favourite authors. The palliations of medicine lost their effects; his enfeebled frame became more and more sensitive to acute pain; in his emaciated figure few could recognise the manly beauty of his youthful person; life had prematurely become to him an irksome burden. [Footnote 55: Sanuto strangely ascribes his death to _mal Francese_, an example of the way in which that ill-understood scourge was then assumed as the origin of many fatal maladies.] There occurred in Italy at this period a very unnatural change of the seasons. On the 7th of April, 1505, snow fell at Urbino to the depth of a foot, and scarcity prevailed, followed in June by a murrain among cattle. From September, 1506, until January, 1508, it is said that no rain or snow fell, except during a few days of violent torrents in April. The fountains failed, the springs became exhausted, the rivers dried up, grain was hand-ground for want of water. The crops were scarcely worth reaping, the pastures were scorched, and the fruitless vines shrivelled under an ardent sun.[56] [Footnote 56: "Una stagion fu già, che sì il terreno Arse, che 'l sol di nuovo a Faetonte De' suoi corsier parea aver dato il freno: Secco ogni pozzo, secco era ogni fonte, Gli stagni, i rivi, e i fiumi più famosi, Tutti passar si potean senza ponte." ARIOSTO, _Satira_ iii. *Cf. MADIAI, _Diario_, in _Arch. cit._, vol. _cit._, p. 455.] On the other hand, December was turned into July; the orchards bore a second crop of apples, pears, plums, and mulberries, from which were prepared substitutes for wine, then worth a ducat the _soma_; strawberries and blackberries ripened in the wood-lands, and luxuriant roses were distilled in vast quantities at Christmas. With the new year things underwent a sudden revolution, and January set in with unwonted rigour. The delicacy of the Duke's now reduced frame rendered him peculiarly sensitive to the atmospheric phenomena. The long drought had especially affected all gouty patients, and the severe weather so aggravated his sufferings that, on the 1st of February, he was, by his own desire, removed in a litter to Fossombrone. That town is situated on the north side of the Metauro, lying well to the sun, and little above the sea level, from which it is distant about fifteen miles, and has thus the most genial spring climate in the duchy. At first the change was in all respects beneficial, and revived the hopes of an attached circle who had accompanied the Duchess. But in April winter returned, and with it a relapse into the worst symptoms, which soon carried him off. Although his great sufferings were borne with extraordinary fortitude, he looked forward to death as an enviable release; and when his last hour approached, he regarded it with calm resignation. To his chaplain he confessed, as one whose worldly account was closed; and he acquitted himself of those testamentary duties to his church and to the poor, which his creed considers saving works; directing at the same time the disposal of his body. Then calling to his bedside (where the Duchess and Amelia were in unwearied attendance) his nephew the Lord Prefect, Castiglione, Ottaviano Fregoso, and other dear friends, he addressed to them words of consolation. Their hopes for his recovery he mildly reproved, adapting to himself the lines of Virgil:-- "Me now Cocytus bounds with squalid reeds, With muddy ditches, and with deadly weeds, And baleful Styx encompasses around With nine slow-circling streams the unhappy ground."[57] [Footnote 57: "Me circum limus niger et deformis arundo Cocyti, tardaque palus, inamabilis unda, Alligat, et novies Styx interfusa coercet." VIRG. _Georg._ iv. 478.] To the Duchess and to his nephew were chiefly addressed his parting injunctions, the object of which was to recommend them to each other's affection and confidence, to comfort them under their approaching bereavement, and to counsel implicit obedience on the part of Francesco Maria towards his uncle the Pope. It seems enough to allude thus generally to his closing scene, for the accounts which we have from Castiglione and Federigo Fregoso, one a spectator, the other a dear friend, who quickly reached the spot, are unfortunately disguised in Ciceronianisms, necessarily inappropriate to a Christian death-bed, and in which the spirit of his words has probably evaporated.[58] We may, however, trust that "They show The calm decay of nature, when the mind Retains its strength, and in the languid eye Religious holy hope kindles a joy;" for we have seen him neither indifferent nor neglectful of the observances dictated by his Church, and, ere the vital spark fled, he received its rites and besought the prayers of the bystanders. His passage from mortality was peaceful, and death, which he considered desirable, spread like a gentle slumber over his stiffening limbs and composed features. At midnight of the 11th of April his spirit was released from its shattered tenement.[*59] Over the agonised and uncontrolled lamentations of the Duchess we draw a veil; the description of such scenes must ever degenerate into common-place generalities. She felt and suffered as was natural to the best wives prematurely severed from the most attached of husbands. [Footnote 58: What are we to make of the words of Fregoso (as preserved by Bembo)--an archbishop who, in describing to the Pope his uncle's death, mentions his partaking of the last sacraments from the Bishop of Fossombrone, in these terms, "Quiquidem Deos illi superos atque manes placavit"? Such idioms will not bear retranslation. The expression employed by Castiglione, though tinged with the cold formality of classicism, is less startling: "Ut ungeretur more sanctæ matris ecclesiæ rogavit." But a pagan taint may often be sadly traced upon the devotion of this age. In the first volume of Vaissieux's _Archivio Storico d'Italia_, the last hours of a convict, condemned at Florence in 1500, are thus narrated by an eye-witness:--Pietro Paolo Boscoli, a political reformer of the school of Savonarola, thirsted in his dying moments after the living waters of evangelical truth, and sought some better solace than the cold formalities of an ordinary _viaticum_. Refusing to be shriven by any but a friar of St. Mark's, he adjured an attendant friend to aid in getting Brutus out of his head, in order that he might make a Christian end. Nor was this heterodoxy exclusively Italian. Cervantes, in a recently recovered fragment, _El Buscapié_, says, "I dislike to see the graceful and pious language befitting the Christian muse mingled with the profane phraseology of heathenism. Who can be otherwise than displeased to find the name of God, of the Holy Virgin, and of the Prophets, in conjunction with those of Apollo and Daphne, Pan and Syrinx, Jupiter and Europa, Vulcan, Cupid, Venus, and Mars?"--_Bentley's Mag._, XXIV., p. 203.] [Footnote *59: He died, says the anonymous author of the _Diario_ cited above (note *, p. 80), between the fourth and fifth hour of the night, that is, between 10.30 and 11.30 p.m., and it was Tuesday. The news came to Urbino on the 10th, so, according to the Anonimo, he died on the 9th.] Since the Duke's departure to Fossombrone, his state had been administered by the Duchess and Francesco Maria. The former, alive to the duties committed to her, wrote thus to the priors of Urbino, when the danger became imminent. "Worthy and well-beloved, "The illness of the most illustrious Duke our consort having so increased that the physicians, though not despairing, doubt of his recovery, we have thought fit, by these presents, to exhort and charge you that you be watchful and diligent in regard to whatever may occur, so as to maintain the tranquillity of your citizens; who having, in the recent unhappy times, ever maintained their faith unshaken towards us and our said consort the Duke, we desire that they shall, at the present juncture, persevere in the like mind, whereby we may ascertain the worth of those really deserving. At the same time, if, as we do not believe, any riotous and ill-conducted persons should attempt or plot any disorders, we have taken such steps and means as must put down and chastise their insolence, and leave them a signal example to others. And, as it is necessary to provide against such a contingency, we desire that you forthwith let this be understood in the most fitting manner, it being our intention to maintain the peace in this our well-beloved city. "From Fossombrone, 1508. "ELISABETTA GONZAGA, DUCISSA URBINI." Upon hearing from Ludovico Canossa that the Duke's illness approached a fatal termination, Julius had, on the 13th, instructed Federigo Fregoso to repair to Fossombrone with his own physician, Archangelo of Siena, and, after administering such aid and consolation as the case might require, to take fit measures for insuring the quiet succession of Francesco Maria della Rovere in the dukedom, and for the interim administration of affairs by the Duchess. But, ere they arrived, mourning had succeeded to suspense, and their sympathies were demanded for the widowed Duchess, who had passed two days since her bereavement in utter despair, refusing food and sleep. So entirely, indeed, were the functions of life suspended, that for some time it was feared the vital spark had followed its better half, and it was very long ere her ghastly and spectral form gradually resumed the aspect of an existence in which all interest was for her gone by, and which, but for the representations of her friends, she would have wished to quit.[*60] [Footnote *60: Capilupi, whom Isabella d'Este had sent to Urbino, describes in a long letter the mourning and grief he found there. It is too long to quote. Cf. LUZIO and RENIER, _Mantova e Urbino_ (Torino, 1893), p. 185.] The body was borne on shoulders to Urbino during the following night, surrounded by multitudes carrying torches, their numbers swollen, as they advanced, by influx of the country population through which the funeral cortège passed. Castiglione, who accompanied it, describes the night as one of mysterious dread, in which the wailing of the people ever and anon was broken upon by piercing shrieks echoed from the mountains, and repeated by the distant howling of alarmed watch-dogs. The inhabitants of the capital issued forth to meet the melancholy procession, headed by their clergy, the monastic orders, and the confraternities. In the great hall of the palace the Duke lay in state, during two days, upon a magnificent catafalque with its usual but incongruous decorations of sable velvet, gold damask, and blazing lights. His dress is minutely described by the anonymous diarist as consisting of a doublet of black damask over crimson hose, a black velvet hat over a skull-cap of black taffetas fringed with gold, and black velvet slippers; to which was added the mantle of the Garter, in dark Alexandrine velvet, with a hood of crimson velvet, lined with white silk damask. [Illustration: _R. Tammé_ PORTRAIT OF A LADY IN MOURNING _After the picture by Pordenone in the Dresden Gallery_] But, with that strange blending of opposite feelings which marks the visits of death to regal halls, the mourners were soon summoned from this vision of departed greatness to contribute far other honours to its living representative. One day having been devoted to lament the general loss, the Lord Prefect, Francesco Maria, repaired, with the principal authorities, to the cathedral, and, after solemn mass, published the will, by which his uncle named him heir and successor to his states and dignities, nominating his widow to the regency during the nonage of his heir, and leaving her Castel Durante, with a provision of 14,000 ducats, besides her own dowry of 18,000. During the afternoon succeeding the proclamation of Francesco Maria, he visited the Duchess, who was "transfixed with grief." He was accompanied by a small deputation of citizens, to offer their duty and condolence, and receive her tearful thanks for the happy accomplishment of her husband's testamentary intentions, with entreaties that they would transfer to his successor the loyal affection they had borne to their late sovereign. About four o'clock a funeral service was performed in the great hall, from whence, at eight, the body was conducted by an again mournful host, to remain for the night in the church of Sta. Chiara. Next day it was transported, during continual rain, to the Zoccolantine church, in the groves around which he had been surprised by the first aggression of Cesare Borgia. In its small nave his remains were entombed opposite those of his father; and over both there were subsequently placed two modest monuments in black and white marble, surmounted by busts of the Dukes. The inscription to Guidobaldo is to this effect: "To Guidobaldo, son of Federigo, third Duke of Urbino, who, emulating even in minority his father's fame, maintained his authority with manly energy and success. In youth he triumphed over adverse fortune. Vigorous in mind, although enfeebled by disease, he cultivated letters instead of arms; he protected men of general eminence instead of mere military adventurers; and he ameliorated the commonwealth by the arts of peace, until his court became a model to all others. He died in the year of God MDVIII., of his age XXXVI." The solemn obsequies befitting sovereign personages, including six hundred masses, were performed on the 2nd of May in the cathedral, which was hung and carpeted with black, and illuminated with five hundred wax-lights. In the nave was an immense cenotaph, decorated with representations of the most important events of the Duke's life, his standards and insignia, with suitable legends, and on the bier, in place of the body, lay his robes of the Garter. The function was attended by the court, five bishops, the clerical dignitaries, with deputies from all parts of the duchy, and most of the Italian states, as well as the principal inhabitants. Before the elevation of the host, a funeral oration was recited by his former preceptor Odasio, in which the wonted wordiness of such compositions is redeemed by a certain fire of eloquence, mellowed by occasional touches of fine sentiment, rendering it the best part of Bembo's compilation regarding Guidobaldo. Its excellence, and the vast concourse of spectators, estimated at ten thousand, contributed to make this the most notable ceremony of the sort then remembered in Italy. On the following day, the oaths of allegiance to the new Duke were taken, and his predecessor was consigned over to history. * * * * * The character of the last Montefeltrian Duke need scarcely be told to those who have followed this sketch of his life. Gifted by nature with talents of a very high order, he cultivated them in early youth with an application rare indeed in his exalted rank, and a success which his marvellous memory tended alike to facilitate and to render permanent. In times singularly productive of military heroes and men of letters, he emulated the celebrity of both, and, had health permitted him a prolonged and active career, he might, in the ever-recurring battle-fields of Italy, have equalled the renown left by his father and earned by his successor. When disabled from the profession of arms, he fell back with fresh zest upon his youthful studies, and drew around him men whose converse harmonised with these tastes. To say that his learning was unequalled among the princes of his day is no mean compliment. His palace became the asylum of letters and arts, over which he gracefully presided. Aldus Manutius, in dedicating to him editions of Thucydides and Xenophon, addressed him in Greek, of which he was so perfect a master as to converse in it with ease. To the latter of these historians the Duke was very partial, calling him the siren of Attica. Among his other favourite classics, Castiglione names Lucian, Demosthenes, and Plutarch; Livy, Tacitus, Quintus Curtius, Pliny, and the Orations of Cicero. Most of these he knew intimately, and recited entire passages without reference to the book. But besides these selected authors, he is said to have made himself acquainted with almost every branch of human knowledge then explored. Nor were religious studies omitted. The history, rites, and dogmas of the Church are mentioned among the topics familiar to his versatile genius; St. Chrysostom and St. Basil were among his chosen books. To enumerate all the contemporary authors who shared his patronage might be irksome, but we shall introduce one letter addressed by him to Paolo Cortesio. "Most reverend and well-beloved Father in Christ: "I have received your letter, with your Treatise on the dignity of Cardinal, which, being full of noble matter gracefully and eloquently handled, has been most acceptable, and I have looked over it with much pleasure. I therefore offer you my best thanks for it, and for having mentioned me in that work; and if I can do anything for you, let me know it, that I may have an opportunity of showing my gratitude for your merits and your services in my behalf. In October next I mean, God willing, to return to Rome, and I shall hold myself prompt to forward your interests there, or wherever else I may chance to be. Urbino, 18th of June, 1506. "GUIDO UBALDO, DUKE OF URBINO, and Captain-General of the Holy Roman Church."[61] [Footnote 61: Bibl. Magliab. Class. viii., No. 68, p. 132.] The great endowments he thus admirably developed were united with a disposition represented as nearly perfect, at all events as exempted from the failings most perilous to princes. The bad passions which opportunity and indulgence have, in all ages, rendered peculiarly fatal to those whose will is law, were almost strangers to his breast. Prone to no vicious indulgences, he was ever kind and considerate, as well as just and clement. He may, in short, be regarded as that rarest of all characters, an unselfish despot,--despot as regarded the possession of absolute power, but not so in its use. The nobility had nothing to dread from his jealousy or his licentiousness; the citizens were spared oppressive imposts; the poor looked up to him as a sympathising protector. In short, we may pronounce him a magnanimous, a most accomplished, and, so far as erring man is permitted to judge, a blameless prince. Nor was the impression left upon the public mind by the glories of Urbino under Guidobaldo of a transient character. Mocenigo, Venetian envoy at the court of his grand-nephew, thus speaks of him above sixty years after his death:--"Disabled by broken health from active pursuits, he fell upon the project of forming a most brilliant court, filled with eminent men of every profession; and by rendering himself generally popular, with the co-operation of his Duchess, who emulated him in welcoming and entertaining persons of talent, he brought around him a greater number of fine spirits than any sovereign had hitherto been able to attract, and, indeed, gave to all other princes in the world the model and example of an admirably regulated court." [Illustration: _Alinari_ S. MARTIN AND S. THOMAS WITH GUIDOBALDO, DUKE OF URBINO, AND BISHOP ARRIVABENI _After the picture by Timoteo Viti in the Duomo of Urbino_] * * * * * The remaining years of the widowed Duchess were in strict accordance with a picture sketched of her by Bernardo Tasso, in the _Amadigi_:-- "She too, whose pensive aspect speaks a heart By grievous cares molested and surcharged, An anxious lot shall live; Elizabeth, Of maiden worth, in whom no blandishment Or foolish passion ere with virtue strives; Spouse of our first Duke's son, whose span cut short By cruel death, his scornful mate bereft No after tie shall bind." The circumstances of her wedded life had not been such as to render new ties distasteful to a lady of thirty-seven, described by Bembo as still elegant in figure and dress, beautifully regular in features, and with eyes and countenance of singularly winning expression. The compliment paid to her character, in that author's sketch of the Urbino sovereigns, bears upon it a stamp of truthful earnestness rarely found in his rhetorical periods.[62] [Footnote 62: "Itaque multas sæpè feminas vidi, audivi etiàm esse plures, quæ certarum omninò virtutum, optimarum quidem illarum atque clarissimarum, sed tamèn perpaucarum splendore illustrarentur: in quâ verò omnes collectæ conjunctæque virtutes conspicerentur, hæc una extitit, cujus omninò parem atque similem aut etiam inferiorem paulò, non modò non vidi ullam, sed ea ubi esset etiàm ne audivi quidem."--Bembo de Guidobaldo.] An anonymous and now lost complimentary poem, written about 1512, and formerly in the library of S. Salvadore at Bologna, celebrated Elisabetta's charitable aid in the establishment of a _monte di pietà_,[63] at Fabriano, and alluded to her prudent government of the state in the Duke's absence. The terms of affection with which she regarded her husband's adopted heir underwent no change after her bereavement; and his marriage to her niece Leonora Gonzaga strengthened the tie. We shall find her making great personal exertions to modify the measures of Leo X. against Francesco Maria; and she shared his confiscation and exile, which she could not avert. She lived, however, to return with him to the house she had twice been compelled to relinquish, and saw his dynasty securely established in the state which had owned her as its mistress. [Footnote 63: The Italian name for those public establishments, at which small sums are lent on pledges under government superintendence. The Duchess is said to have introduced them at Urbino, and to have founded there an academy, which rose to considerable celebrity among similar weeds of literature that long flourished and still vegetate in Italy.] Her trials were closed on the 28th of January, 1526, by an easy death. She left the residue of her property to Duchess Leonora, after payment of numerous pious bequests to various churches, with liberal legacies to her household; and she was interred by the side of her beloved husband in the church of S. Bernardino. BOOK FOURTH OF LITERATURE AND ART UNDER THE DUKES DI MONTEFELTRO AT URBINO CHAPTER XXIII The revival of letters in Italy--Influence of the princes--Classical tastes tending to pedantry and paganism--Greek philosophy and its effects--Influence of the Dukes of Urbino. When writing upon Italy of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, a prominent place must be allotted to letters and arts. At Urbino in particular, their progress was then great, their influence proverbial; and our next eight chapters will contain notices of them which would have interrupted the continuity of our previous narrative. The reigns of Dukes Federigo and Guidobaldo I. extended over a period which general consent has regarded as the most brilliant in Italian history, and which we have repeatedly named its golden age. High expectations are naturally entertained of literature, arts, and general refinement in a cycle of such pretension. We look for a rapid advance of thought in paths of learning and science whence during long centuries it had been excluded. We anticipate a widely disseminated zeal for classic writers, an eager rivalry to outstrip them in branches of speculative knowledge, which they especially cultivated. We imagine the imitative arts revived under the influence of new and more exquisite standards. And we reckon upon the diffusion of a taste and capacity for enjoying those things among classes hitherto excluded from such intellectual enjoyments. In each of these expectations the student of literary history will be gratified; yet there are several sorts of composition which, if separately examined, offer disappointing results, and scarcely a single work written during the fifteenth century has maintained universal popularity. The explanation is easy. This age was one of unprecedented intellectual activity, when men's minds were devoted to the acquisition of knowledge which they had laboriously to hunt out, and doubtingly to decipher. They had to cut for themselves tracks through an unexplored region, without grammars or commentaries to serve them as guides and landmarks. The toilsome habits thus formed were forthwith exercised for the benefit of subsequent investigators, and were applied to smoothing the path which they had themselves penetrated. Thus was it that the first successful scholars became grammarians and commentators. Surrounded by ample stores of intelligence, they had no occasion to cultivate new germs of thought. Their first object was to secure and render accessible the treasures which antiquity had unfolded to them; their next, to elaborate them in varied forms, to reproduce them in the manner most congenial to their intellectual wants. Thus they became more industrious than original, laborious rather than creative. Again, those who, on entering the garden of knowledge, thought of its fruits rather than of its approaches, instead of seeking the reward of their toils among the fair mazes of poetry and belles lettres, aimed at more arduous rewards, and climbed the loftiest and most slippery branches in search of golden apples. The harvest of scholastic philosophy which they thus gathered in may seem scarcely worthy of the fatigues given to its acquisition; but from the seeds so obtained, cultivated and matured as they have been by many after labourers, a copious and healthful store of intellectual food has been secured for subsequent generations. The work performed by these pioneers of learning and truth was, however, more calculated to crush than to inspire that more elastic fancy which preferred the flowery mead to the tree of knowledge. The spirit of the age was ponderous and prosaic, and the few who attempted to rise above its denser atmosphere into poetic regions were clogged by the trammels of a dead language, and by obsolete associations which they dared not shake off. The fifteenth century was consequently rich in scholars, copious in pedants, but poor in genius, and barren of strong thinkers. These circumstances necessarily detract from the popular interest of Italian literary history at this important period, all influential to its after destinies, and we mention them in the conviction that general readers must feel disappointed with this portion of our work. The vast mass of materials then created now reposes in the principal storehouses of learning, much of it unpublished, and but a small part rendered accessible in recent editions. As it would be an unprofitable task to labour upon these materials for merely critical purposes, we have for the most part satisfied ourselves with an examination of the authors immediately connected with Urbino; nor shall we be tempted much beyond that narrow limit, by the facility of borrowing from those copious and intelligent writers who have successfully investigated the intellectual progress of Italy. The revival of civilisation, and its handmaid arts, is a problem so inexplicable on the ordinary principles which regulate human progress,[64]--its causes were so complex, and many of them so remote, and singly so little striking,--that it were, perhaps, vain to hope for a satisfactory explanation of the phenomenon. It may be, that the ever revolving cycle of human affairs had brought round a period predestined to intellectual development, or that mind, awakening from the slumber of centuries, possessed the energies of renewed youth. But in a season of universal and sudden progress it is difficult to distinguish between cause and effect,--to decide whether mind aroused liberty, or if freedom was the nurse of intelligence. [Footnote *64: The secret is not far to seek, but it was inexplicably hidden from men in Dennistoun's day. The continuity of life and of art the most sensitive expression of life, is understood and acknowledged by too few among us; but that there is an historical continuity in art as in life would be easy to prove, since no part can be adequately grasped or explained save in relation to the whole. Of course, as Renan admitted, history has its sad days, but all are, as it were, a part of the year which would be incomplete and inexplicable without them. Thus there is no gulf fixed between the art of Greece and the art of the Middle Age or the Renaissance; each is an inevitable part of the whole, and the later was what it was because of the old. Burckhardt, one of the greatest students of our time, seems to have understood this also with his usual happiness. M. Auguste Gerard tells us in his notice of the life of its author, which serves as a Preface to the French edition of _Le Cicerone_, that "Burckhardt en vrai disciple de la Renaissance considérait l'Italie comme un tout continu; et dans l'histoire de l'art de même que dans l'énumération des oeuvres, il ne séparait pas l'Italie antique de l'Italie moderne. La section du _Cicerone_ qui était dédiée à l'architecture commençait aux temples de Paestum pour finir aux villas Napolitaines et Génoises des XVIIe et XVIIIe siècles." In that idea lies the future of all criticism.] The feeble hold which the popes retained over their temporal power during their residence at Avignon, and during the great schism, promoted the independence of the ecclesiastical cities, many of which then passed under the dominion of domestic tyrants, or assumed the privileges of self-government. In either case the result was favourable to an expansion of the human mind. The sway of the seigneurs, being based on no such aristocratic machinery as supported the fabric of feudalism, threw fewer obstructions in the way of individual merit. The popular communities could only exist by a diffusion of political and legislative capacity, and the commercial enterprises to which they in general devoted their energies increased at once the demand for public spirit and its production. Even those intestine revolutions to which democracies were especially subject contributed largely to the same end; for, although in such convulsions the dregs of the populace often rise to the surface, talent, when backed by energy and daring, there finds extraordinary opportunities for display. Indeed, the multiplication of commonwealths, under whatever form of government, tended, in a country situated as the Italian Peninsula then was, to the development of intellect. Defended by the Alps and the sea from invasion, their physical and intellectual advantages constituted an influence which supplied the want of union and nationality. They thus could safely pursue their individual aims, and even indulge in rivalry and contests which, though perilous to a less favoured people, were for them incentives to a praiseworthy and patriotic exertion. Whilst the separate existence of these petty states was calculated to promote both political science and mental culture, it rendered the one subservient to the advantage of the other, and, in the multitude of official and diplomatic employments, literary men found at once useful occupation and honourable independence. Nor was this result limited to one form of government. If the tempest-tossed democracy of Florence shone the brightest star in the Italian galaxy, the stern oligarchy of Venice shed an almost equal lustre in some branches of letters and art; and, on the other hand, the not less popular institutions of Pisa, Siena, and Lucca emitted but feeble and irregular coruscations. So also in the despotic states, whilst literature was ever cherished under the ducal dynasty of Urbino, and whilst it was favoured at intervals by the Sforza and Malatesta, the d'Este and Gonzaga, and by the Aragonese sovereigns of Naples, its genial influence was unknown in some other petty courts. Again, if we turn to the papal throne, we shall find the accomplished Nicolas, Pius, Sixtus, Julius, and Leo, sitting alternately with the Boeotian Calixtus, Paul, Innocent, and Alexander. From an impartial review of Italian mediæval history it appears that democratic institutions were by no means indispensable to the expansion of genius, since the progress of letters and arts was upon the whole nearly equal in the republics and the seigneuries, under the tyranny of a condottiere or the domination of a faction.[*65] [Footnote *65: Far from being indispensable, the democratic institutions had very little to do with the progress of the arts which were fostered by individuals, whether in a tyranny such as Urbino or in a so-called republic such as Florence.] But, before entering upon the proper subject of this chapter, it may be well briefly to consider the influence which the petty princes of Italy exercised upon the revival and cultivation of letters and arts. The dominion of these chiefs, though hereditary in name, was in general maintained, as it had been gained, by the sword. To them, as to the savage, arms were an instinctive pursuit, warfare a primary occupation. For their frequent intervals of truce (and in no other sense was peace known to them), their circumscribed sovereignty gave little occupation. Domestic polity was still an undeveloped science, and their leisure fell to be spent upon intellectual objects, or in grovelling debaucheries. The number who preferred the nobler alternative is very remarkable, when compared with the like class in other parts of Europe. During the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries literature was cultivated and art was encouraged by a large proportion of the sovereigns and feudatories of Italy, when the bravest condottieri were often their most liberal patrons. Such were the impetuous Sigismondo Pandolfo Malatesta, the gallant Francesco Sforza, the treacherous Ludovico il Moro; whilst the Gonzaga of Mantua, and the d'Este of Ferrara, but most especially the ducal houses of Urbino, extended, during successive generations, an enlightened and almost regal protection to genius of every shade. Nothing akin to this is to be found in the republics. Siena, Pisa, and Lucca produced many great artists, but literature found in them neither a cradle nor an asylum. The commercial communities of Venice and Genoa belonged to an entirely different category of circumstances; and Florence, though an exception to our remark, owed its pre-eminence not less perhaps to the patronage of the Medici than to an unparalleled prevalence of talent and public spirit among its citizens. In times when the popular will, if not the source of power, was its best support, it became the interest of the dominant prince or party so to use authority as to please and flatter the masses; to cloak their own usurpations by throwing a lustre around their administration, and to preserve the confidence of their subjects by institutions calculated to promote the national glory. In this way individual talent might be stimulated, and public civilisation might advance, even whilst freedom was on the decline; and, as the means commanded by the seigneurs were ample, they could patronise genius, and surround their courts with literary retainers, who in democratic communities were left to their own resources. Thus the Sforza and the d'Este, even the savage Malatesta of Rimini, befriended genius, which found no haven in the republics of Genoa and Lucca, and, the fashion having once been established among their princely houses, letters were cultivated by not a few of these soldiers of fortune, but more especially by the ladies of their families. These unquestionable facts are met by an allegation that the fountains of princely patronage were so tainted, their streams so generally corrupt, as to blight the fruits which they seemed to foster, and that their influence thus from a blessing became a curse. Let us examine a little the grounds for this assertion, for surely it is not by such sweeping and prejudiced denunciations that we shall arrive at truth. As to the ornamental arts, there cannot be a doubt that these received, throughout Italy, from governments of every form, as well as from numberless corporations and individuals, a hearty encouragement which might well shame our degenerate age. Yet the ducal palace at Urbino, the Palazzo del T at Mantua, the tombs of the Scaligers, and the medallions of Malatesta, yield the palm to no republican works of the same class. It was by Cosimo and Lorenzo de' Medici, and by Duke Federigo di Montefeltro, that the undeveloped energies of new-born science, and the long neglected classics of Greece and Rome were nursed and tended through their years of infancy, which storms of faction, in most of the free states, condemned to neglect. The enlightened liberality of these princes, and of Malatesta Novello, founded libraries for the preservation of works composed under their own beneficent encouragement, as well as of manuscripts collected by them from all quarters at immense cost, and this when no republic but Venice aspired to such literary distinctions. Nor were the troubled waters of democratic strife safe for the poet's gay bark and light canvas. Even Dante, though made of sternest stuff, sought shelter in a courtly harbour from the hurricanes of Florentine faction. It is true that, in many compositions of minstrels trained in princely halls, the themes are ephemeral and the epithets overstrained, savouring, to a purer taste and more severe idiom, of unworthy subserviency; nor is the other polite literature, emanating from the same atmosphere, exempt from similar blemishes. But allowance must be made for the seducing fecundity of the language in superlatives, more redolent of dulcet sounds than of definite signification, a quality which has ever tempted Italian mediocrity to assume the borrowed plumes of poesy, and to conceal its native barrenness under magniloquent but flimsy common-places. The well earned gratitude of authors is fittingly paid in compliments, eulogies, or dedications, and as such coin is at the unlimited command of the debtor, and useful only to the receiver, its over-issue is fairly excusable. This results from principles inherent in human nature, and it matters little whether the obligations have been incurred from sovereigns or from subjects, under an autocrat or a democracy. Even among ourselves, in times when talent had more to hope from private patronage than from extended popularity, a similar currency was scarcely less in vogue, and it was only the poverty of our idiom that kept its circulation within bounds. Hence, were the independence of the best English writers of a century or two ago to be estimated from their dedicatory addresses, or their occasional odes, a condemnation as unreasonable as sweeping would go forth against names long inscribed in our temple of fame. This argument might easily be extended; but enough has been said to show that more was done for the support of letters under princely than under popular institutions, and that the adulatory epithets natural to the language, and inherent in the usages of Italy, are no certain index of base subserviency. But, on the other hand, independent sovereignty, irrespective of political forms, was of primary importance to the encouragement of mental cultivation. The separation of Italy into a multitude of petty states converted almost every town into a capital, which its rulers and its citizens took equal pride in decorating. The patriotism thus generated was intense in proportion to the narrow field on which it was exercised, and an expenditure, restrained by severe sumptuary restrictions, found scope on monuments honourable to the public. Thus there ensued, between hostile communities and emulous factions, a rivalry in arts as in arms, whereby public institutions prospered, and individual genius was encouraged. Fanes, whose glories seem to defy the waste of time, were thus raised for the devotional requirements of the people; palaces grew up the bulwark of their liberties; citadels were fortified to rivet their chains; and even when the ultimate results were fatal to freedom, the talent and activity thus stimulated were sure to eventuate in industrial progress, as well as in the restoration of letters and the improvement of art. * * * * * The human mind, when aroused from its long and leaden slumbers, at first instinctively leaned for support upon such vestiges of ancient learning as had survived the wreck of ages. To excavate and examine these was the laborious task assumed by early students, in which Petrarch and Boccaccio sedulously joined. But, justly appreciating them as materials on which to found a new fabric, rather than as the substitutes for original thought, "the all-Etruscan three" happily combined enthusiasm for classic models with the power to rival them in a language simultaneously matured by themselves for the daring undertaking. The fifteenth century arrived; it was an epoch of reaction; one of other tendencies and tastes, when genius, as Ginguené has happily observed, was superseded by erudition. Entering the path which Petrarch had partially explored, its pioneers neglected the better portion of his example. They spent their energies in rummaging obscure recesses of monastic libraries, and wasted time and learning in transcribing, collating, and annotating the various manuscripts which thus fell within their grasp. In exhuming and renovating these monuments of a long-buried literature, they were forgetful of the fact that their dealings were with dead corpses; and whilst submitting the recovered fragments to philological analysis, they perversely sought to embody their own souls in these decayed members. As such materials were incapable of being reanimated, or even remodelled into more apt forms, this unnatural union was seldom effected without violence to the sentiment. Even the ablest writers devoted themselves to the arid task of scholia and translations, composing in the dead tongues such original works as they attempted. The result was a monstrous metempsychosis, whereby thought, enchained in uncongenial bodies, lost its due influence, and appeared in, at best, an unseemly masquerade. Hence the language of the century was Latin, its manner pedantic, its spirit coldly artificial. But whilst the historian of that age laments the shackles thus imposed upon its literature, it were unjust to withhold from it the merit of preserving those treasures of ancient history and philosophy, eloquence and poetry, which, under happier auspices and more judicious treatment, have elevated thought, enlarged intellect, and enriched the style of later times. Although unable to refine the true metal from its dross, the pedants of "fourteen hundred" were miners who discovered the precious ore, and ascertained its component ingredients. The fashionable ardour for collecting early MSS. of ancient authors was very generally accompanied with untiring perseverance in mastering their intricacies. Philology and grammar thus grew into sciences, and their professors held the keys of human erudition. Deep ought to be our gratitude for the contingent of classical literature rescued from a rapid destruction by such arduous and self-denying labours; and a history of these discoveries, and of the zeal and enterprise volunteered by the early commentators and publishers of the ancient authors, would form an interesting monument of undaunted and generally successful diligence. Yet, in a comprehensive view of the results springing from these new tendencies, it is impossible to blind ourselves to the evils that emanated from them. From the nerve, grandeur, and elegance of Greek and Roman writers, there was much to learn with advantage; but their influence was directly antagonist to the highest sentiments of a Christian, and, in the main, a devotional people. When tried by such a test, their philosophy was hollow, their heroism selfish, their refinement corrupted. Nor was it only by reproducing the themes and the philosophy of distant ages that classicism clogged the elasticity of reviving literature. By inculcating extinct languages as the only means fitted for expressing their ideas, Italian literati checked the progress of their vernacular tongue,--that best bulwark of nationality,--and at the same time impeded the free expansion of thought, which, thus conducted into artificial channels, could but stagnate or freeze. The mind, habituated to find in literature a restraint, came to regard natural feeling as a solecism, living images as incongruous anomalies, warmth of sentiment as a blemish sedulously to be avoided. Under such false training, knowledge received the impress of a languid conventionality; and even those who condescended to write in Italian, chilled their compositions with the pedantry of antique idioms. The classic style thus introduced had many inherent defects. Borrowed plumage is seldom becoming, and servile imitations are always bad. Besides, the ancient type had been originally modelled by a people, and in an age, little sympathetic with those for whom it was now reproduced, and whose sentiments were cramped equally by the conventionalisms of an obsolete manner, or by the adoption of a dead tongue. Hence is it that the fifteenth century, so signalised by the diffusion of knowledge, and the advance of the fine arts, has bequeathed to us fewer eminent writers than those which immediately preceded and followed it, and that during its course Italian literature was unquestionably retrograde. This is especially true of poetry, in an age of erudition when learning was essentially prosaic. The collation of manuscripts, the construction of grammars, the mastering of idioms, the revived subtleties of Greek dialectics, were ponderous studies with which the taste for literature of a lighter and more elastic tendency could ill assimilate. The chords whence Dante had evoked majestic notes, that seemed to swell from higher spheres, lay silent and unstrung; the lyre of Petrarch was left in feebler hands. Nor was this the only evil resulting from an excess of the classical mania. Languages in which Christianity had not been naturalised were ill adapted for the expression of revealed truth; and the new scholarship, discarding the barbarisms of monastic Latin, imported into theological as well as profane compositions, the phrases of a pagan age. To find the personages of the Trinity, or even the hagiology of Rome, familiarly discussed under mythological names, is to us merely absurd and revolting;[*66] but when men, already imbued with classical predilections, were accustomed to mix up in words the objects of their worship with the demigods of their admiration, the natural consequence was a confusion of ideas nowise favourable to the maintenance of their faith or the purity of their morals. [Footnote *66: Neither absurd nor revolting, I think, since, a little fantastically certainly, but very truly none the less, it expresses that continuity of the religious sense in Europe which is perhaps the one eternal thing to be found in it. If the saints are not in a very real sense the gods in exile, they are excellent imitations of them.] A not less prejudicial element emanated from the revived philosophies of Greece, which now arrested attention and divided the speculations of learned men. That derived from Aristotle, and known to Europe through the sages of Arabia, had long occupied the cloisters, where alone mind was then exercised, or its operations studied. The rival system of Plato came directly from its native soil; and was first publicly taught in Italy early in the fifteenth century, by Gemistus Plato,[*67] of Constantinople. It attracted the notice of Cosimo PATER PATRIÆ, who after having Marsilio Ficino, son of his physician, grounded in its mysteries by Greeks of learning, placed him at the head of an academy in Florence, instituted by himself for the dissemination of its doctrines. From thence these radiated, absorbing the attention of literary men, and enlisting many converts from the Stagirite faith. Aristotle and Plato became the watchwords of contending sects,[*68] and the usual jarring results of such logomachy were not long wanting. The merits of a question, at first exaggerated by its respective zealots, were lost sight of in the torrent of abuse which gradually superseded argument, and inflamed every evil passion. Far overleaping the legitimate limits or literary warfare, disputant logicians advanced from replies to libels, from words to blows, and, after exhausting the armoury of invective, had recourse to the dagger. But on a subject so painful we are not called to enter. Backed by the authority of Nicholas V., the zeal of Cardinal Bessarion, and the example of the Medici, the sublime and imaginative speculations of Platonism for a time prevailed over the more material system of the Stagirite, and Florence became their head-quarters. The human mind, unaided by revelation, has never invented any system so abstractly beautiful, so pure in its morals, so elevating in its conceptions, so harmonious in its conclusions. Its lofty ethics rank next to the doctrines of inspiration, for it taught that happiness is the natural result of virtue, and that the mischiefs entailed by the passions are ill repaid by their transient pleasures. Yet, though thus intrinsically calculated to ennoble and refine the heart of fallen man, the Platonic theories indirectly led to lamentable results, both to the religion and the morality of the age. The divine revelation was by them virtually superseded, and paganism, from an affectation, became a conviction, or, at the least, a prevailing fashion, warping the manners and phrases, the faith and spirit of the age. Men lived for the present world by the light of human reason, until they forgot or denied a future existence, and a holier wisdom. The first blow struck at this practical heathenism came from Paul II., a Venetian, who was behind the age in its knowledge, as well as in its extravagances, and who relentlessly persecuted what he had not the capacity to redargue. Mind was, however, no longer to be silenced by papal bulls, or trammelled by penal fetters: it regarded the use of such weapons as proof that the spiritual armoury contained none more serviceable, and learned to demur to an ecclesiastical despotism it already loathed. Succeeding pontiffs disavowed the policy of Paul: but the old respect for the papacy was shaken; doubts arrayed themselves against dogmas, cavilling superseded blind faith, until the dissolute example set by the courts of Innocent, Alexander, and Leo, converted scepticism into infidelity, apathy into open aggression. It is impossible to contemplate the great talents, the unwearied application, absorbed by these rival systems of philosophy, without a sigh that they should have been wasted on inquiries so purely speculative; yet, it cannot be denied that the controversy prepared weapons that have since done good service in many a better cause; that it developed mental energies, and matured intellectual discipline, from which the world continues largely to benefit. [Footnote *67: Not Plato, but Plethon. He refused the name of Plato with which he was hailed by Cosimo de' Medici. Cf. Ficino in preface to his _Plotini Epitome_ (Firenze, 1492). "Magnus Cosimus, quo tempore concilium inter Graecos et Latinos, sub Eugenio pontefice Florentinæ tractabatur, philosophum Graecum, nomine Gemistum cognomine Plethonem, quasi Platonem alterum de mysteriis Platonicis disputantem frequenter audivit; e cujus ore ferventi sic afflatus est protinus, sic animatus, ut inde Academiam quandam alta mente conceperit, hanc opportuno primum tempore pariturus." Marsilio Ficino had a poor understanding of Plato.] [Footnote *68: Cf. GEORGIOS TRAPEZUNTIOS, _Comparatio Platonis et Aristotelis_.] * * * * * Although the revival of letters had been advancing during several generations ere the chiefs of Montefeltro sought other laurels than those of the battle-field, it was reserved for these princes to contribute no mean aids towards their full development in that golden harvest which the fifteenth century saw gathered in. Indeed, the concurrent testimony of all writers has claimed for the sovereigns of Urbino a foremost place among the friends of literature. In the words of the general motto of this work, which well condense the prevailing opinion, "it is notorious beyond question even of the malignant, that the house of Montefeltro and della Rovere has for a long time past been that which [most] shed a lustre upon Italy by letters, arms, and every sort of rare worth, and that the court of Urbino may be termed a Pegasean spring, in the language of historic truth rather than of poetic hyperbole." It was to the successive reigns of Dukes Federigo and Guidobaldo I. that such expressions were generally applied, and to them our attention will now be directed; but in a future portion of this work we shall endeavour to maintain for their della Rovere successors a similar reputation. Were we to estimate the celebrities of Urbino by the encomiums of their partial countrymen, and measure their claims upon mundane immortality by the standard set up by Baldi Lazzari, Grossi, Cimarelli, and Olivieri, it would become our indispensable duty to add at least a volume to the present work. But these authors were deeply imbued with that peculiarly Italian patriotism which, narrowing its sympathies within the limits of a township or a petty state, enshrined provincial mediocrity in a temple of fame modelled upon a scale of national splendour. Believing that the dignity of their little fatherland depended upon the notices of its existence which they could worm out of antique memorials, however doubtful in authority, and upon the number of notable names they could connect with its localities, they tasked themselves to this investigation with industry worthy of a nobler and more useful object. Many folio volumes, ponderous in their contents as in their material, were the result; but they preserve only laborious trifling, a harvest of wordy conclusions gleaned from a soil barren of tangible facts, dissertations which may be summed up in the axiom _ex nihilo nihil fit_, "nothing comes of nought." Like those of the northern senachies, their themes were often legendary or invented, and it would have been scarcely a loss to literature had these productions been equally fugitive. Should the worthies mentioned in the following chapters seem scarcely to maintain the literary renown of Urbino, our readers ought in justice to remember that scarcely a tithe has found place in our pages of those whom zealous eulogists have placed upon the roll of Italian literati, but "Whose obscurer name No proud historian's page will chronicle." CHAPTER XXIV Count Guidantonio a patron of learned men--Duke Federigo--The _Assorditi_ Academy--Dedications to him--Prose writers of Urbino--Gentile Becci, Bishop of Arezzo--Francesco Venturini--Berni of Gubbio--Polydoro di Vergilio--Vespasiano Filippi--Castiglione--Bembo--Learned ladies. The reputation long enjoyed by the house of Montefeltro as patrons of letters and arts can scarcely be traced further back than Federigo, second Duke of Urbino. Yet the few memorials that remain of his father, Count Guidantonio, throw some scattered lights upon congenial tastes, and from these we select three letters to the magistracy of Siena, which are preserved in the Archivio Diplomatico of that city. The first of them is written in Latin, the others in Italian. "To the mighty and potent Lords the well beloved Fathers, the Lords Priors, Governors, and Captain of the people of the city of Siena. "Mighty and potent Lords, my especial Fathers, "After the expression of my sincere affection: I understand that your Magnificences are about to agree upon a commendable work, that of endeavouring to amend the course of legal and other educational studies in your city: what is really laudable needs no verbose exposition, the fact being of itself clear and manifest. I have here my compeer the excellent Doctor Benedetto di Bresis of Perugia, a man of great integrity, who, without gainsaying any one, sets forth the law in that city more amply than any of the other judges who expound it there, and whom his sacred Majesty lately invited to undertake the office of captain of Aquila, on the recommendation of his own merits, a charge which he has hitherto declined only from an unwillingness to interrupt those studies to which he is primarily devoted. I, however, hesitate not to propose him as well qualified for your Magnificences, induced by a twofold motive; first, that he may be able to continue his studies; secondly, that he may escape from the contagion of a home now struck by the pestilence; thirdly, that through me you may have the honour of securing for your course of study so able a doctor. I therefore heartily entreat your Magnificences, and again pray and beseech you, to appoint him to your lectureship of civil law with an adequate salary, as a singular pleasure to myself, and as a compliment to him, whose ample qualifications must be satisfactory to the free wishes of your community and the judges. And should he now or in future fall short of these recommendations, which I cannot suppose (for I am not so stupid), I shall consider your Magnificences to have received at my hands a disgrace and injury, entitling you in reason and justice to complain of me, after having so received him into your service; and I shall always continue beyond measure obnoxious to you and your city. Ever ready to do you all service; from Urbino, 1st of August, 1412. "COUNT GUIDANTONIO OF MONTEFELTRO AND URBINO." "Mighty and potent Lords, dearest Fathers: "The worthy and skilful Messer Piero di Pergolotti of Verona is repairing to your magnificent Lordships, who for a good while has been at Pesaro, where he practised surgery, conducting himself with propriety and diligence, so that the lords of that place and myself feel much obliged to him, and consider ourselves bound to promote his knowledge by providing him with the means of study. He earnestly desires to enter into your establishment of the Sapienza, where he hopes to do credit to this recommendation, as well as to advance his own honour and advantage. And knowing how much I am devoted to your Magnificences, he has had recourse to me, hoping through me to effect his wish. I, therefore, in consideration of his capacity, science, and worth, pray that on my account you will consider him fully recommended, and will grant him admission into the Sapienza, whereby your Magnificences will greatly gratify me, to whom I ever commend myself. From Durante, the 2nd of May, 1440. "GUIDANTONIO, COUNT OF MONTEFELTRO, URBINO, AND DURANTE." "Mighty and potent Lords, most honoured Fathers, "There is in your Sapienza one Messer Zucha da Cagli, my intimate friend, who, as I am informed, is very able in civil rights, and who, for his advancement in reputation and skill, wishes to have a lectureship, either the one read after the first doctors come forth in the morning, or that in the afternoon an hour before the ordinary doctors enter. I hereby pray your magnificent Lordships, that the said Messer Zucha be at my sight recommended to you, and whatever honour or benefit your Lordships grant him I shall consider as bestowed on myself, and shall remain constantly grateful. From Cagli, the 24th of December, 1441. "GUIDANTONIO, COUNT OF MONTEFELTRO, URBINO, AND DURANTE." Among the traits of literary taste displayed by Duke Federigo, we learn from his biographer Muzio, that it was his custom to repair weekly to the Franciscan convent, and to encourage among its learned society debates and discussions on subjects analogous to their studies. Upon this somewhat loose foundation, he has been claimed as founder of the _Assorditi_, and it has been ranked among the earliest academies in Italy. We need not pause to investigate their respective titles to honours so questionable, now that such associations are generally recognised as prolific of two enormous literary nuisances, pedantry and puerility. From their antipathic contact genius long has fled, leaving the field open to triumphant mediocrity. Pretending to no original efforts, it was their narrow aim to imitate standard productions, or to ring the changes upon them in prosing and pointless commentaries. To indite two tomes of scholia on a sonnet of Petrarch was the dreary task that qualified for admission into the Florentine Academy; to string Platonic nothings into rhyme was the high ambition which numbered votaries by hundreds. The _Assorditi_ were no exception from the usual category of mediocrity; and whether they were first associated under Federigo's protection, or, as Tiraboschi alleges, sprang into existence under Guidobaldo II., is of little moment to the literary history of Urbino. In times when letters flourished chiefly at courts, patronage was the grand end of authorship, every work being inscribed to at least one high personage. The character and position of Federigo subjected him to a large share of such incense; but among the many dedications laid at his feet none perhaps was more fulsome, and at the same time more ingenious, than that prefixed by Marsilio Ficino to his Latin version of Plato's _Essay on Monarchy_. It narrates that Jupiter, willing to found on earth a model sovereignty, resolved to send down the beau-ideal of a ruler for its guidance. He, therefore, summoned the gods in full convocation, and presented to them his new creation, under the title _Fideregum Orbinatem Ducem_, which may be literally interpreted "Royal faith, ruler of the world," but which was corrupted by human idiom into _Federigo Urbinate Duce_. Pallas and Mercury thereupon, in presence of Truth, endowed the new prince with crown and sceptre; and the Academy, as a humble handmaid of these deities, inscribed to him Plato's work upon mundane sovereignty. Although we have had occasion to notice in our tenth chapter this Duke's taste for the graver studies of theology, philosophy, history, and Grecian literature, and to commemorate the fruit it produced in a variety of other dedications, yet few who distinguished themselves in these pursuits are sufficiently identified with Urbino to authorise our dwelling at any length upon their names. Guarino of Verona, Poggio Bracciolini, Donato Acciaiolo, Poliziano, and others of mark, may therefore be omitted; and we shall thus have very few prose authors to bring before our readers. * * * * * GENTILE DE' BECCI was probably a native of Urbino, but the interest attaching to his name is owing rather to the distinction attained by his pupils than to his own. He was selected by Pietro de' Medici to train up his son Lorenzo the Magnificent; and to have educated such a mind is an unexceptionable title to fame. Yet the Christian philanthropist who sighs over the dross which mingled with its ore, the impure uses to which its bright metal was in some respects misdirected, by a master who might have moulded it to holier purposes, and might have enriched by its talents the treasury of truth and the triumphs of religion, may well hesitate ere he grants to the preceptor of Lorenzo a reflected share of his glory, without also holding him responsible for that pagan epicureanism which spread like a pestilence from the Medicean court throughout Italy. Nor do the notices remaining of Becci tend to nullify such an inference. The favour of his patrons naturally obtaining for him rapid promotion, he was raised to the see of Arezzo in 1473. But his life was that of a statesman rather than that of a good pastor. We read of his tact as a diplomatist, his skill in public affairs, his dexterous civil administration of his diocese, by directing towards commercial industry energies which had wasted themselves on faction; we are assured that his popularity was confirmed by his encouragement of liberal arts, by his mild and courteous character; we are told that in political science his pen was ably employed. But regarding his theological attainments, the purity of his morals, the zeal of his clerical ministrations, his eulogists are silent. We may add that to him Guicciardini in some degree imputes the miscarriage of the proposed league of Italy against the French invasion in 1492, in consequence of his personal ambition, when sent to conduct the negotiations at Rome on the part of the Medici, whilst his thoughtless extravagance there wasted resources of the Florentines which might have been better spent on military preparations. * * * * * Of LUDOVICO ODASIO it is unnecessary to add anything to what we have already had occasion to say.[69] FRANCESCO VENTURINI of Urbino is reputed the first after the revival who wrote a complete Latin grammar. It was dedicated to Count Ottaviano Ubaldini, and was printed at Florence in 1482, and again in his native town by Henry of Cologne, in 1493-4.[70] Among his pupils he is said to have numbered both Raffaele and Michael Angelo.[*71] Besides BERNI DA GUBBIO, whose Diary has been edited in the Scriptores of Muratori, there were several annotators of events in their native duchy, whose prose writings remain in the Vatican Library, and have supplied us with useful information; but they were not historians, and it is unnecessary to bring them forth from their obscurity. Of one name, however, we may make an exception. [Footnote 69: See vol. I., p. 297. His oration on the death of Federigo is No. 1233 of the Vat. Urb. MSS.] [Footnote 70: Maestro Arrigo, of Cologne, _alias_ Heinrich v. Coln, had then a press at Urbino. The typographic art had been introduced there about 1481, and at Cagli five years earlier by Roberto da Fano and Bernardino da Bergamo.] [Footnote *71: Francesco da Urbino, who was certainly Michelangelo's schoolmaster, does not seem to be the same as his friend Francesco Urbino, so touchingly spoken of in the following letter from Michelangelo to Vasari:-- "Messer Giorgio, Dear Friend,--Although I write but badly, yet will I say a few words in reply to yours. You know that Urbino is dead, for which I owe the greatest thanks to God; at the same time my loss is heavy and sorrow infinite. The grace is this, that while Urbino living kept me alive, in dying he has taught me to die not unwillingly but rather with a desire for death. I had him with me twenty-six years, and always found him faithful and true. Now that I had made him rich and thought to keep him on the staff and rest of my old age he has departed, and the only hope left me is that of seeing him again in Paradise, and of this God has given a sign in his most happy death. Even more than dying, it grieved him to leave me alive in this treacherous world, with so many troubles; the better part of me went with him, nothing is left to me but endless sorrow. I commend myself to you.... "Your MICHAEL ANGELO BUONARROTI, in Rome. "The 23 day of February, 1556." See Le Lettere, No. CDLXXV., p. 539, in Brit. Museum, and HOLROYD, _Michael Angelo_ (Duckworth, 1903), p. 255. It was this Urbino's brother who was Raphael's well-known pupil, _Il Fattore_. Cf. also HOLROYD, _op. cit._, pp. 273 and 314.] * * * * * POLYDORO DI VERGILIO was born at Urbino about 1470, and studied at Bologna. His relation, Adrian Castellesi, who, when Cardinal of Corneto, was well known both in England and at Rome,[72] had been sent by Innocent VIII. as legate to Scotland, but remained at London in consequence of the death of James III. at the battle of Stirling. There he was joined by Polydoro, who, on taking priest's orders, had, through his influence, obtained from Alexander VI. the collectorship of an old house-tax in England called _Romescot_, or Peter's pence, originally imposed in Saxon times for the maintenance of English pilgrims to Rome. Aliens being there frequently objects of church preferment, he, in 1503, obtained the rectory of Church Langton in Leicestershire; and, on his patron's appointment in the following year to the see of Bath and Wells, the path of further promotion was opened to him. In 1507 he became prebendary of Lincoln and of Hereford, and archdeacon of Wells, on which he resigned his collectorship. In 1515 he shared an imprisonment in the Tower, brought upon Adrian by the jealousy of Wolsey, whose haughty spirit, disappointed of the purple, attributed the delayed honours to the Bishop's influence. Letters were consequently written by Sadoleto in Leo's name to the English court on behalf of Polydoro, and Wolsey having received the much coveted scarlet hat, there was no further pretext for his detention. The date of his return home is variously stated at 1534 or 1550, and he carried from Henry VIII. a recommendation which procured him letters of nobility from his own sovereign. His literary talents being probably somewhat overrated in Italy, the long residence he made in the hotbed of heresy, without exercising his pen in defence of his Church, appears to have brought the purity of his faith under suspicion. That there was no tangible ground for the imputation may be presumed from his spending the rest of his life unquestioned at Urbino, where he died in 1555, and was buried in the Duomo. [Footnote 72: Many curious unedited particulars regarding him, with reference to the conspiracy against Leo X. in 1517, of which he was suspected, are contained in Sanuto's Diaries, but we have not space to notice them.] The favour which Vergilio obtained in Adrian's eyes was partly owing to his success in cultivating the niceties of the Latin tongue, to restore which in its purity was a favourite project of the Cardinal. Before quitting Italy he had dedicated to Guidobaldo I. his _Proverbiorum Libellus_, a volume scarcely meriting the controversy upon which he entered with Erasmus as to the priority of suggesting such a collection. In 1499 he finished his treatise _De Inventoribus Rerum_, which was placed in the index of prohibited works, in consequence of tracing certain liturgical observances back to pagan superstitions; Grossi, however, vindicates his orthodoxy by ascribing the obnoxious passages to heretical interpolation. His essay _De Prodigiis_ is an attempt to explain upon natural principles all omens, auguries, and other superstitious observances. As it is inscribed to Duke Francesco Maria I., he probably returned to Italy before 1538. But what chiefly interests us is a Latin _History of England_, which he is said to have undertaken at the suggestion of Henry VII., or more probably of Richard Fox, Bishop of Winchester, who procured him access to certain archives. This work, from being the first general compilation of the sort given to the public, obtained more consideration than its superficial and inaccurate matter deserved; and Mr. Roscoe well observes that it has not gained the suffrages of posterity, either by ability or freedom from bias. Among the impugners of its veracity are Whear, Humphrey Lloyd, Henry Savile, and Bishop Bale. Some of these excuse his blunders on the questionable plea of his ignorance of English government, dialects, and manners, while Leland regrets that a writer so little trustworthy should have cast over his deceptions the graces of style. Anticipating perhaps such an aspersion, he, in his dedication of the work to Henry VIII., dated from London in 1530, compared the chronicles of Bede and Gildas, crude in form and phraseology, to meat served without the salt which it was his object to supply. Yet while the English blame him for misrepresentations,--avenged in the stinging Latin epigram, "Maro and Polydore bore Virgil's name; One reaps a poet's, one a liar's fame,"-- Giovio cites the testimony of French and Scotch authors to his partiality for the land of his adoption. More serious, but unestablished, is a charge greatly resented by his countrymen, that, after garbling records and ancient muniments thrown open to his examination, he consummated the outrage by destroying the evidence of his villainy. It may, however, be well to keep in view that, although Bale claims him as a willing reformer of certain Romish abuses, his adherence to that Church brought on him distrust of the Protestants, in an age when theological disputes were matter affecting life and limb. In the Vatican is preserved a MS. of this history in two volumes folio, of 1210 pages, in twenty-five books, ending with the death of James IV. of Scotland in 1512. The narrative is preceded by a dedication in Latin to Francesco Maria II., from Antonio Vergilio Battiferri, grand-nephew of the author, which is dated in 1613, and mentions the MS. as autograph. Yet on the last leaf is this colophon, apparently in the same hand: "Rogo ut bene conserventur, simul cum aliis in cenobio venerand. monalium Sce. Clare de Urbino, quousque bella, Deo favente, cessabunt. Ego Federicus Ludovici Veterani Urbinus scripsi totum opus." But though not the original, that transcriber's name guarantees the accuracy of this copy. An extract from it in II. of the Appendix proves that the Leyden edition of 1651 is in fact a loose paraphrase of the work.[73] [Footnote 73: The MS. is No. 497-8 of the Vat. Urb. MSS. An edition in folio was published at Bâle in 1546.] * * * * * VESPASIANO FILIPPI[*74] was a Florentine bibliopole, in an age when that commerce was carried on by persons of learning, whose business it was to transcribe, collate, and critically master the MSS. which formed its staple. He was thus in familiar intercourse not only with the literary men of the age, but with such princes and prelates as turned their attention to the promotion of reviving letters by multiplication and preservation of books. Of many such he has left us biographical notices, recently given to the world by Cardinal Mai from three MSS. in the Vatican library,[75] and in the Riccardiana of Florence. His collection of lives of illustrious ladies remains unedited. In the former work no memoir is so fully extended as that of Duke Federigo of Urbino, upon which we have in part drawn in our Second Book. It was inscribed to Duke Guidobaldo I., in a dedication which not only testifies to his father's martial skill, and a prowess that never knew defeat, but also to the prudence of his sway, and assures us that the great powers of Italy had frequent recourse to his judicious counsels. Unlike the pedantic writers among whom he lived, Vespasiano composed these memoirs in the language of the people for whose information he intended them; but the long interval that elapsed before they saw the light has necessarily prevented them from becoming in any degree popular. Muratori, though unable to give an account of their author, has printed his lives of Eugene IV. and Nicholas V., and characterises his style as possessing a simplicity more precious than eloquence. [Footnote *74: For Vespasiano da Bisticci, consult (1) his own charming and exquisite work, _Vite degli uomini Illustri_ (Firenze, 1859), with an excellent preface by Bartoli; FRATI, _Lettere_ (Bologna, 1892-93). ROSSI writes of these in _Giornale Stor. d. Lett. Ital._ (1892), vol. XX., p. 258, and vol. XXIV., p. 276. (2) FRIZZI, _Di Vespasiano da Bisticci e delle sue biografie_ (Pisa, 1887).] [Footnote 75: _Spicilegium Romanum_, tom. I. (Romæ, 1839). Vat. Urb. MSS. 941.] * * * * * Two members only of the brilliant and lettered court of Guidobaldo have gained enduring celebrity from their writings--CASTIGLIONE and BEMBO.[*76] The former may be considered a pattern of gentlemanly writing, the latter of scholarlike composition. We have already said what is necessary of both, and have introduced into our narrative an idea of Count Baldassare's _Cortegiano_, its objects and style. It is said to have been suggested by Louis XII., and written about 1516, but the author's preface seems to point at an earlier date. Two of his published letters to Bembo show how anxiously he awaited the suffrage of his friends, among whom it was handed about; but it was sent to press in 1528, only in consequence of the alarm of a pirated edition being in preparation, from a MS. which had been submitted to the famed Vittoria Colonna, Marchioness of Pescara. The number of reprints which issued during the next fifty years was at least forty-two. A variety of circumstances conduced to this extensive and continued popularity. Books professing to initiate the many into habits and mysteries of refined society ever have claims on public curiosity, but the attraction was here increased by the dazzling reputation of the palace-circle at Urbino, as well as by the charms of erudition, wit, elegance, and worldly wisdom which sparkle in every page. It has, however, been remarked that most translations of the _Cortegiano_ have failed to obtain the applause bestowed upon the original. The observation may be taken as a compliment to the polish of its diction, and to those delicacies of expression that bear no transplanting into another idiom. It also proves that the celebrity of this work rests much upon its style. The subject could scarcely be treated at such length without falling into that diffuseness and repetition, which, though clothed in beauty by the rich fluency of the Italian language, must always degenerate into monotony when rendered by the bold expletives of a less copious tongue. [Footnote *76: For Castiglione, see works mentioned in note *2, p. 51 _supra_. I understand Mrs. Ady has written a biography of Castiglione, which is shortly to appear. For Bembo, I cite here a few works more especially relating to Urbino or to his general life: MORSOLIN, _Pietro Bembo e Lucrezia Borgia_, in _Nuova Autologia_, August, 1885. Cf. CIAN, in _Giornale Stor. d. Lett. Ital._, XXIX., p. 425. CIAN, _Un decennio della vita di P. Bembo_ (1521-31) (Torino, 1885), and LUZIO, in _Giornale St. d. Lett. Ital._, VI., p. 270, and D'ANCONA, _Studi sulla Letteratura de' primi secoli_ (Ancona, 1884), p. 151 _et seq._] [Illustration: CASTIGLIONE _After the picture by Raphael in the Louvre_] In a period when princes and courts little resembled what they have since become, we possess from the pens of Machiavelli and Castiglione generalised portraits of both; and they may be relied on as genuine, although the Tuscan, like the _tenebristi_ painters, overloaded his darker shadows, whilst the Mantuan Count employed the roseate tinting of licensed flattery. Roscoe considers the _Cortegiano_ an ethical treatise, yet it belongs as much to belles-lettres as to moral philosophy. Its author has been called the Chesterfield of Italy, and the parallel is singularly apt. The Count and the Earl have each supplied "a glass of fashion and a mould of form" for the guidance of their courtly contemporaries, and the posthumous reputation of both with the world at large rests more upon their dicta as arbiters of politeness, than upon their rare diplomatic address and statesmanlike attainments. With all its interest as a picture of manners and a test of civilisation in that proverbially refined age, with every charm which elegance of style can impart, it is impossible to dwell on the _Cortegiano_ without feeling that its influence was then fraught with evil. In the pages of that essay were first systematically embodied precepts of tact, lessons of adulation, all repugnant to the stern manners and wholesome independence of antecedent generations. The homely bearing of honest burghers, the rough and ready speech of men who lived in harness, were there put out of fashion by studied phrase and cringing flattery, too easy preparations for the effeminate euphuism and fulsome servility which Spanish thraldom soon after imposed upon Italy. Another work of Castiglione, to which we have already had occasion to refer, is his letter, written in Latin, to Henry VIII., containing an account of Guidobaldo's death, with a somewhat meagre sketch of his character. But there is in its composition an air of effort, a straining at rhetorical effect, which leave upon us the inevitable conclusion that he thought more of his style than his hero. These faults and deficiencies belong, however, in a still greater degree to that more ambitious disquisition, wherein Bembo has sought to honour the memory of the Duke and Duchess, whose favour he had amply enjoyed. His few fugitive poems well merit the preference accorded to them by Tiraboschi over most contemporary effusions, from force of sentiment not less than felicitous expression. It would be difficult to rival in the literature of any age the pathos of that ode wherein his beloved wife is supposed to sigh over his prolonged absence, and send him the sympathetic yearnings of her long-suppressed affection. Of this, however, and his Tirsis, we have already said enough.[77] [Footnote 77: See above, pp. 49-50, 53-4, 58.] The courtly qualities of Count Baldassare are acknowledged wherever his native literature is known; that they were not inconsistent with his observance of parental feelings is proved by an interesting Latin letter addressed to his children the year before his death, which has been preserved by Negrini in his _Elogii Historici_ of the Castiglione family. "To my beloved children, Camillo, Anna, and Ippolita. "It is my belief, dearest son Camillo, that you, above all things, desire my return home, for nature and the laws equally inculcate veneration for our parents next to God; and in your case there may be a special duty, since I, content with but one boy, would not have another to share with you my property and parental affection. That I may not have to repent of such a resolution, I shall own myself free of doubt as to yourself; yet would I have you aware that I look for such duty at your hands rather as a debt, than with the indifference of most parents. It will be easily paid, if you regard in the light of a father that excellent preceptor obtained by your friends, and implicitly follow his advice. From my prolonged absence, I have nothing to inculcate upon you beyond this line of Virgil, which I may without ostentation quote: "From me, my son, learn worth and honest toil; Fortune from others take."[78] "And do you, Anna, who first endeared to me a daughter's name, so perfect yourself in moral graces, that whatever beauty your person may develop, shall be the handmaid of your virtues, and shall figure last in the compliments paid you. And you, Ippolita, reflect on my love for her whose name you bear; and how charming it would be for your merits to surpass your sister's as much as her years do yours. Go on both, as you are doing, and, having lost the mother who bore you before you could know her to be so, do you imitate her qualities, that all may remark how greatly you resemble her. Adieu. "From Monzoni, the 13th July, 1528. "Your father, "BALTHASSAR CASTILION." [Footnote 78: "Disce, puer, virtutem ex me, verumque laborem; Fortunam ex aliis." _Æneid_ XII., 345. Dryden has missed the point of this passage.] * * * * * The position which BEMBO holds in the literature of Italy's golden age is not less singular than prominent. As an historian and poet, a philologist and rhetorician, and as a voluminous writer of official and private letters, he challenges criticism and has gained applause. It is, however, as a reformer of style that his claims have been most freely accorded, and his example held up to general imitation. Following the fashion of his day, he regarded classical, and especially Latin, attainments, as the attribute most needful for an accomplished man. But he went further; and, aware of the coarse and rugged manner into which literature had fallen, sought to correct Latin composition, and to perfect his own tongue, after the purest ancient standards. On this object he spared no pains, till by long and laborious practice he wrote in both with equal precision. He is said to have subjected each of his works to forty separate critical revisions, and no one can read a page without feeling that, as with too many of his countrymen, the manner has occupied quite as much thought as the matter. This naturally tended to an opposite extreme, for the studied structure of his sentences, and the fatiguing recurrence of mythological allusion, are blemishes greatly detracting from the pleasure afforded by his works.[79] Scaliger, accordingly, has scourged his pagan misnomers of divine things, while his "childish heresy" of abject Ciceronian imitation is ridiculed by Lansius and Lipsius. Yet there is justice in the test applied to them by Tiraboschi; for great and wide-spread evils require extreme remedies, and the prevailing laxity of style having been once brought into discredit by his example, those who followed were able to avail themselves of his guidance and taste, without falling into the rigidity and constraint which blemish his compositions. Indeed, notwithstanding these obvious blots, which hero-worship has mistaken for beauties, his History of Venice, his Essay on Imitation, his diplomatic and familiar correspondence, and even his poetry, must, when tried by then-received standards, be allowed a merit entitling them to the general suffrage of contemporaries. It is to his Latin prose that our strictures are most applicable. Forgetting, in his zealous imitation of Cicero, the allowance due to modern themes, principles, and feelings, he so slavishly followed that heathen philosopher's idioms, as to clothe what he meant for Christianity in the words of paganism. Even his letters, running in name of the successor of St. Peter, transmuted the Almighty into a pantheistic generality, our Saviour into a hero, and the Madonna into a goddess of Loreto. It may be feared that this latitudinarianism was not limited to manner, for an anecdote alleges him to have seriously recommended a young divine to avoid reading St. Paul's Epistles, lest they might mar his style. [Footnote 79: "Quid autem ineptius quam, toto seculo renovato, religione, imperiis, magistratibus, locorum vocabulis, ædificiis, cultu, moribus, non aliter audire, loqui, quam locutus est Cicero? Si revivisceret ipse Cicero, rideret hoc Ciceronianorum genus."--ERASMUS.] Compositions conceived and executed in so eclectic a spirit could scarcely avoid falling into coldness and pedantry; and such are prominent faults in his Venetian history, and his tribute to Duke Guidobaldo,--two works especially connected with the subject of these pages. The former is the most important production of his pen, and was begun in 1529, by desire of the Signory, in continuation of Sabellico's narrative, It is comprised in twelve books, extending from 1487 to 1513, where it remained unfinished at his death, but was continued by Paruta. From a contemporary possessing talent, industry, leisure, and high literary reputation, as well as many opportunities of personal observation, very large expectations might be legitimately entertained. But as a churchman, he is said to have been jealously excluded from the Venetian archives, a condition which, in the judgment of Tiraboschi, ought to have disqualified him from the task, and which may account for, if it cannot excuse, the superficial character of the narrative, the poverty of graphic details, and the teasing absence of dates. On the composition, too, his classic mania has left its withering traces. It was his ambition here to rival the Commentaries of Cæsar; and, in perfecting the idiom of a dead language, he has constrained freedom of thought, and polished away the life and spirit of his theme. We have examined his pages, as an indispensable authority upon events which occupy several chapters of our work; but those who read Italian history for pleasure will generally prefer to do so either in the Italian tongue or their own. Conscious probably of this, the author himself translated the work into his vernacular language, and both versions were published soon after his death. His dissertation on the characters of the Duke and Duchess of Urbino is written in Latin, and exhibits all those blemishes of style to which we have just referred, and which so strangely jar upon the fulsome flattery and elaborate verbiage which he labours to reduce into Ciceronian terseness. Though entitled a "Book," the whole occupies but a hundred pages in the octavo edition of his works (1567), whereof scarcely one third is original matter. It is addressed to Nicolò Tiepolo, a literary gentleman of Venice, and professes to have been committed to writing for the satisfaction of some Venetians who, feeling an interest in Guidobaldo as their former guest, had applied to the father of Bembo for some account of his death. It is thrown into a dialogue between himself, Sadoleto, Filippo Beroaldo the younger, and Sigismondo [Conti?] of Foligno. The last-named personage supplies to their inquiries a narrative of the Duke's closing hours, addressed to Julius II., by Federigo Fregoso, along with the funeral oration pronounced at his obsequies by his preceptor Odasio. The former of these is written in a strain beseeming a heathen philosopher, rather than a Christian dignitary; the latter, which Tiraboschi has detected as very different from the printed oration, is to the full as turgid and tiresome as are most such efforts of Italian adulation; neither of them tell anything of importance that Castiglione has not better given us. The whole discourse is, as I have had occasion to mention,[80] of but trifling value to the biographer of these personages. Facts are generalised until no substance remains; incidents and traits of character are lost in the multiplicity of epithets; and thus we have, instead of a speaking likeness, a vague and showy picture, overladen with ornaments until individuality is gone. The warmer emotions of the heart could scarcely, perhaps, be happily clothed in the abstractions of a dead tongue, unadapted to the times, and to circumstances which required the outpourings of unaffected grief; at all events, these measured periods and studied phrases give no real pleasure. Bembo was an elegant Latinist, but in such a work the language of nature could alone afford satisfaction. When we seek to know the true characters of his distinguished patrons, we are dismissed with an inflated rhetorical exercise; we are offered bread, and find it a stone. These strictures apply to the long funeral oration, but still more to the dull didactic discourse of the four friends, which wants the fire and feeling of the eulogy, and is soiled by gross details gratuitously introduced on a point at which good taste would have barely glanced. In all respects, the most interesting portion of the work is Fregoso's letter, upon which we have drawn in describing the death-bed of Guidobaldo. On the whole, this production may be dismissed with a doubt whether its prosiness or its pruriency is most offensive. Nor will the perusal of those papal brieves, extended by the same writer, which despoiled of his inheritance the Duke's adopted child, blasphemously ejecting him from the pale of Christendom, give a higher opinion of the sincerity of this ungrateful sycophant. [Footnote 80: Vol. I., p. 298, 392; II., 114.] His other works, having no immediate reference to our subject, may be dismissed with few words. _The Prose_, a treatise upon rhetoric, intended to fix the standard of pure Italian composition, is a dialogue, to which Giuliano de' Medici and Federigo Fregoso are parties. _Gli Asolani_, a more juvenile production, was named from the castle of Asolo, at which some youths are represented as discussing the tender passion in all its moods and modifications. This theme, notwithstanding the tedious manner in which it is treated, gave it great popularity over western Europe in the sixteenth century, but the style and substance alike render it unpalatable to modern amateurs of light reading. His Latin treatise _De Imitatione_ is a dull defence of his Ciceronian mannerisms; his essay in the same language upon Virgil and Terence a laboured philological critique; his _De Ætna Liber_ a report of physical observations during an early residence near that volcano. His poetry, both Latin and Italian, enjoyed high reputation at a period when imitations of Petrarch had degenerated into common-place; for he succeeded in brushing away the rust of ages, and restoring much of the bright polish peculiar to the bard of Arqua. Lastly, his very numerous private and official letters have preserved to us a valuable store of facts, and much curious illustration of coeval manners and individual character. * * * * * The share of laborious learning voluntarily borne by ladies of the highest birth in the fifteenth century is a singular problem. There was scarcely a sovereign family that could not boast among its daughters some votary of intellectual pursuits, in an age when mental cultivation was of a sort more calculated to overburden genius, than to give wings to fancy in her flight after knowledge. A familiar acquaintance with Latin was then requisite, being the key to modern as well as classic and biblical literature, and also the current language of diplomacy or courtly intercourse.[*81] The abstruse distinctions of ancient philosophy, the complex tenets of dogmatic theology, the fatiguing jargon of scholastic disputation, were all included in the circle of female accomplishments. Such were the graces for which Bianca d'Este, Isotta Nogarolo, and Veronica Gambara were famed; while another Isotta, paramour of the truculent Lord of Rimini, divided contemporary adulation between the beauties of her person and her mind. The vagueness of such eulogies might well justify scepticism as to the profundity of that lore they were intended to vaunt; but in the case of Ippolita Maria Sforza, daughter of Francesco Duke of Milan, and wife of Alfonso King of Naples, chance has afforded us a standard of the knowledge mastered by these learned ladies. It was for this princess that Constantine Lascaris composed the earliest Greek Grammar; and in the convent library of Sta. Croce at Rome there is a transcript by her of Cicero De Senectute, followed by a juvenile collection of Latin apophthegms curiously indicative of her character and studies. The house of Montefeltro could boast a full share of such distinction, in Princess Battista, wife of the wretched Galeazzo Lord of Pesaro, to whose literary celebrity we have elsewhere paid our tribute, and whose progeny we have seen maintaining the prestige of her accomplishments to the third generation. Her great-granddaughter Battista Sforza rivalled her accomplishments, and those of her cousin Ippolita Maria, and, when placed by her marriage at the head of the court at Urbino, contributed much to the literary reputation which it then first obtained. Its two succeeding duchesses of the Gonzaga race, although women of remarkable talent, did not carry so far the cultivation of their natural powers; but we have found, in their relative and associate Emilia Pia, one whose learning was scarcely less notable than her wit. [Footnote *81: On the whole subject of women, see note *1, p. 72. Their education was the same as that of their brothers. Cf. SYMONDS, _The Renaissance in Italy_ (1904), vol. V., p. 250, note 1, and BURCKHARDT, _The Civilisation of the Renaissance_ (1878), vol. II., p. 161.] Such were the examples of female genius which emanated from the courts of Italy, and, spreading to her universities, installed feminine erudition in professorial chairs. Nor was this questionable practice limited within the Italian peninsula. Many Spanish dames were conspicuous in scholarship, and, at the close of the century, Salamanca and Alcala saw their professorships held with applause by ladies equally distinguished for birth and accomplishments. CHAPTER XXV Poetry under the Montefeltri--Sonnets--The Filelfi--Giovanni Sanzi--Porcellio Pandonio--Angelo Galli--Federigo Veterani--Urbani Urbinate--Antonio Rustico--Naldio--Improvisatori--Bernardo Accolti--Serafino d'Aquila--Agostino Staccoli--Early comedies--_La Calandra_--Corruption of morals--Social position of women. Were the lettered court of Duke Federigo to be judged by its minstrels, a harsh sentence might perhaps be awarded. Nor would this be quite fair. Their cold and common-place ideas, their rude and vapid verses, are indeed far beneath the standard of our fastidious age, and scarcely repay those who decipher them in venerable parchments. Yet have we ample evidence of their superiority to many poetasters of Italy, who then emulated Virgil's hexameters, or abused the facilities of their vernacular versification; and it is just the fact of these laureates of Urbino so long surviving the countless rhymers of other principalities, that proves the discriminating patronage of a sovereign, who attached to his court the best writers of his time. Nor must we fail to remember that the now prominent blemishes of their works were then their most admired qualities. The classical sympathies which we usually leave in schools and colleges, or which, when carried prominently about us in the busy world are stigmatised as a pedantic and ungraceful encumbrance, were then in high fashion. They were indispensable to the man of liberal education as his sword and buckler to the soldier; they were adopted among the conventional elements of all literature, poetry, and taste. A standard being thus set up so antipathic to the ideas of our practical age, we are called upon, before proceeding to judgment, to divest ourselves of prejudices which may in their turn become the marvel and ridicule of our posterity. The inherent defects of that minstrelsy, "Whose melody gave ease to Petrarch's wounds," have been aptly set forth by Roscoe, but he appears to overlook its special adaptation for the Italian tongue. Limited to one theme, which it is required to exhaust in a fixed number of lines, and fettered by the frequent and stated recurrence of a few rhymes, no language less copious and pliant can be woven into a sonnet, without occasionally betraying, in bald, formal, or rugged versification, the torture to which it has been subjected. Again, the constraint and mannerism which often deform this metrical composition in other idioms are here its safeguard from a mellifluous but insipid verbiage, so often fatal to the lyrics of Italy: on a poetry habitually turgid and redundant, terseness is thus absolutely imposed. With these few words of apology for doggerel hexameters and indifferent sonnets, we shall shortly pass in review some of those who thus wooed the muses in the Montefeltrian court. * * * * * Among the most widely known names of this age was FRANCESCO FILELFO, whose venal pen often wantoned in biting lampoons, whose sickening vanity was obtruded in the most repulsive egotism, and whose vagrant habits strangely combined assiduous study with lax morals. In most respects he anticipated the bad notoriety acquired a century later by Pietro Aretino, and like him alternately fawned upon and flagellated princely patrons of literature. Were his life to be written, it would be difficult to extract truth by balancing his own self-vaunting letters against the scurrilous philippics of his untiring enemy Poggio Bracciolini. But we are fortunately spared this task, and may refer to Tiraboschi, Roscoe, and Shepherd for illustrations of his restless existence and fractious temper.[82] In both these respects GIAN MARIA,[*83] the son, seems to have resembled Francesco the father, whilst he even exceeded him in the number and variety of his compositions. He sought audiences in many cities of Italy and Provence for his prelections in grammar and philosophy, as well as for his improvisations of Latin or Italian verse; and among the numerous patrons he thus courted was the good King René, who bestowed on him the laurel crown, a guerdon which his rude numbers ill-deserved at the hands of that graceful troubadour. Tiraboschi makes no allusion to his intercourse with Duke Federigo, whereof we know little beyond two works which he inscribed to that Prince, and which remain unedited in the Vatican Urbino Library. The former of these, dated at Modena in 1464, was corrected by the author, "doctor in arts and both faculties of law, knight, and poet laureat," he being then in his thirty-eighth year. It is numbered 702, and contains about two thousand five hundred Latin hexameters and pentameters, entitled _Martiados_, an obvious imitation of his father's _Sfortiados_. The theme is thus set forth in a dedication to the Duke of Urbino:-- "Primus et in Martem quæ sint pia fata Tonantis, Et manibus nati monstra parenta refert; At liber et bellis laudatque et honore secundus, Et gestis magnum rebus in orbe Ducem." [Footnote 82: TIRABOSCHI, _Storia della Letteratura Italiana_, VI., ii., p. 317-30; SHEPHERD'S _Life of Poggio Bracciolini_, _passim_; ROSCOE'S _Lorenzo de' Medici_, ch. i.] [Footnote *83: Cf. FLAMINI, _Versi inediti da G.M. Filelfo_ (Livorno, 1892, per nozze).] The very moderate anticipations raised by this proemium, which we leave in its rugged original, are not surpassed in the context, dull and common-place as it is in sentiment, prosaic and unpolished in style. Losing sight of his avowed object of keeping apart the deeds of Mars, the ancient divinity, from those of Federigo, his living type, in order to illustrate the parallel which it is his plan to draw between them, he strangely jumbles both; and, following the new-born classicism of the day, he has crammed his rough verses with nearly every name that heathen mythology, history, or geography can muster, in senseless and jarring confusion. With a view to exalt his hero as a second Hercules, he enumerates a series of labours and achievements from his childhood, when he sprang from bed and strangled a snake that had frightened all his attendants. This is followed by a farrago of allegorical struggles, combats, and triumphs over temptations or evil principles, anticipating somewhat the idea of the _Pilgrim's Progress_, but with this important difference, that the motives, arms, and aids are all borrowed from pagan mythology. So entirely is Federigo lost among the gods and demigods who crowd the stage, that his character or actions are seldom brought on the foreground at all, and never with sufficient idiosyncracy to avail for the development of either. Finally, we find him deified in Olympus, and the epic closes with an empty bravado that none ever more worthily emulated Alcides. The other MS. of Gian Maria Filelfo which demands a passing note is No. 804 of the same library, and is dated seven years later than the _Martiados_. It contains some six thousand Italian verses, consisting for the most part of minor poems on a variety of subjects; the volume is dedicated to Federigo, but many of the _Canzoni morali_ are inscribed to distinguished personages, not omitting the Duke's rancorous foe Sigismondo Pandolfo Malatesta, to whose vanity such incense could not have been unpalatable. In treating of religious topics, the author, for the time, and by an effort, lays aside the pagan strain which prevails in his other lays, and though generally selecting the sonnet or _terza rima_, he thus affects to disclaim all rivalry with their mighty masters:-- "To these rude rhymes, alas, nor Petrarch's style Is given, nor the good Dante's pungent file." Yet there is considerable ambition in the rhythm, and although prolix, like other contemporary compositions, and inflated by superabundant episodes, it is not devoid of occasional poetic feeling. In the dedicatory address he thus speaks of his volume:-- "De! dunque Signor mio, per tua merciede Con lieta fronte schorri esto libretto, Il qual sotto il tuo titolo honor chiede. Forse leggiendol' ne fia alcun dilecto, Per esser di molte herbe uno orticciuolo, Quantunque el vi sia dentro erro e diffecto: Pur che 'l non sia di tutto il vano orciuolo Col qual l'aqua si tira, da le donne Che feciono ai mariti si gran duolo. Ogni casa non è posta in colonne; Ognuno esser non può Dante o Patrarcha; Ognun non porta pretiose gonne. Ma spesse volte piccoletta barcha Arriva in luoco, ove andando s'anniegha Tal grossa nave che molto è men charcha. De! s'al huom val quanto il Signor più priegha, China la fronte altiera a questa scorza, Ch'in questo mio arbor del pieta non niegha. Et come il navichare hor poggia, hor orza, Hor pope avvien, secondo i venti e l'onde Cosi convien ch'in vario error mi torza. Hor la mia voglia la ragion confonde, Hor l'appetito impera, hor vivo in doglia, Hor lieto, hor desioso, et non so donde. Qual l'autunno ogni verde arbor spoglia, Inverno asciugha, e primavera inverde, Tal varia e nostra externa et mental voglia. Ma tristo chiunque indarno il tempo perde, Ch'è peggio ch'esser rozzo e senza lima, Però che chi non è mai non riverde. De! leggi, Signor mio, la vulghar ryma, Et sia ti un modo da cacciar la noia, Quando di gran facciende hai maggior stima." As we shall give a place in our Appendix to Giovanni Sanzi's judgment upon the painters of his day, we may here insert Filelfo's sonnet to Gentile Bellini. "Bellin! s'io t'hebbi mai fitto nel cuore, Se mai chognobbi it tuo preclaro ingiegno, Hor confess'io che sei fra gli altri degno, D'haver qual hebbe Apelle ogni alto honore. Veduta ho l'opra tua col suo cholore, La venustà col suo sguardo benegno, Ogni suo movimento et nobil segno Che ben demonstri il tuo gientil valore. Gientile! io t'ero affectionato assai, Parendomi la tua virtu più rara Che soglia esser l'ucciel che è solo al mondo; Ne pingier sa chi da te non impara, Che gloria a quegli antiqui hormai tolta hai, In chi questa arte postha ogni suo pondo. Forsse che troppo habondo A te che non ti churi di tue lode, Ma diciendone assai l'alma mia ghode." When compared with contemporary efforts, these specimens, and others which it would be easy to add, deserve a better fate than the neglect to which, in common with most of their author's works, they have been consigned; nor do they bear out the imputation of careless haste, alleged by Tiraboschi as the prevailing error of his very numerous and various productions. The paucity of these which have issued from the press may, however, be taken as confirming that judgment, as well as the suppression of his narrative of the campaign of Finale in 1447, after it had been printed by Muratori for his Scriptores. But poetry may be accounted his forte,--a somewhat remarkable circumstance, considering the unrivalled reputation he established as an _improvisatore_ of verses on any number not exceeding one hundred themes suddenly proposed, as such facility has rarely been conjoined with true poetic fire. It were to be desired that we knew more of his intercourse with Duke Federigo. In one of his dedicatory epistles, after alluding to the likelihood of that prince reading the work, he, in a vein of fulsome compliment and impudent conceit, complains of neglect from friends, and hints at a visit to Urbino. It is difficult to glean facts from the vague common-places of such letters; but in 1468 he thanks his patron for retaining at his court Demetrio Castreno, a learned Greek fugitive from Constantinople. Equally mannered and cold are his flattery and his condolence, on the death of Countess Battista in 1472. Next year he writes that, having begun a commentary on Federigo's life, and completed two books, he had been induced to submit them to the Duke of Milan, from whom he never could recover the manuscript. * * * * * Another _protégé_ of Duke Federigo was PORCELLIO PANDONIO, of Naples,[*84] whose pen was ever at command of the readiest patron, as historiographer or laureate. From his partiality to the designations of bard and secretary to Alfonso of Naples, it would seem that he chiefly rested his fame on his poetical compositions. From this judgment Muratori differs, protesting that in historical narrative none excelled his ease and elegance of diction.[85] Abject classicism, in thought and style, was then a common weakness of the learned; and however correctly Porcellio may have caught the Latin phraseology, it is difficult to get over the jarring effect of an idiom and nomenclature foreign to the times and incidents which it is his object vividly to portray. In his printed work, on the campaigns of 1451-2, between Venice and Milan, he uniformly disguises Sforza and Piccinino, their respective commanders, as Scipio and Hannibal, under which _noms de guerre_ it requires a constant effort to recognise mediæval warriors, or to recollect that we are considering events dating some two thousand years after those who really bore them had been committed to the dust. The same affectation, common to many authors of his day, mars his unpublished writings which we have had occasion to examine in the Vatican Urbino Library, and their authority is greatly impaired by what Muratori well calls "prodigality of praise" to his heroes, that is, to his generous patrons. In a beautifully elaborated MS. (No. 373) he has collected, under the title of Epigrams, nearly fifty effusions in honour of our Duke and Duchess, and of members of their family or court, a favourite theme being the love-inspired longings of Battista for her lord's return from the wars. In the same volume is his Feltria, an epic composed at Rome about 1472, and narrating Federigo's campaigns, from that of 1460-1, under the banner of Pius II., by whose command Porcellio undertook to sing his general's prowess in three thousand Virgilian verses. Its merits may be fairly appreciated from extracts already given,[86] and from this allusion to the state of Italy at the outbreak of the war:-- "Jamque erat Ausoniæ populos pax alta per omnes, Et tranquilla quies: jam nulli Martis ad aras Collucent ignes; jam victima nulla cadebat. Dantur thura Jovi; fumabat oliva Minervæ: Sus erat in pretio, Cereris aptissima sacris, Pampineique dei caper, et qui vitibus amens Officit, atque merum ante aras cum sanguine fundit." [Footnote *84: Porcellio Napolitano was the laureate and secretary of Alphonso I. of Aragon and of Naples, and later the secretary and familiar of Sigismondo Malatesta. Porcellio seems to have hated Basinio, another court poet, whose works, with a long commentary, have been published (BATTAGLINI, _Basinii, Parmensis Poetæ Opera Præstantiora_ (Rimini, 1794)). Basinio seems to have proved before the Court of Rimini that Porcellio was ignorant of Greek. "One can be a fine Latin poet without knowing Greek," he answered in a rage, but truly enough. Basinio, however, asserted that not only Virgil and all the great poets and prose writers knew Greek, but showed that while that language was forgotten Italy was plunged in darkness. But enough of such absurdities, which have besides nothing to do with Urbino or even Dennistoun's history of it.] [Footnote 85: Nearly all we know of him will be found in the Scriptores, XX., 67, and XXV., 1.] [Footnote 86: See vol. I., pp. 209-11. Portions of the same poem are contained in Nos. 709 and 710 of the Urbino Library, the former corrected by the author, the latter in his autograph. Some of his minor lyrics were published at Paris in 1549, along with those of two other minstrels who sang the praises of the Malatesta.] Such were the foreign poets who frequented Duke Federigo's court. Its native bards left few works meriting particular notice, with one interesting exception. We have elsewhere to discuss Giovanni Sanzi or Santi,[*87] of Urbino, his merits as a painter, and the celebrity reflected on him from the eminence of his son, the unequalled Raffaele. Here we shall speak of his epic on that Duke's life, of which we have made frequent use in our first volume, and which demands attention on account of its excellence, as well as from the intimate connection with our subject of its author and theme. [Footnote *87: On Giovanni Santi, see CAMPORI, _Notizie e docum. per la vita di Giov. Santi e di Raffaello Santi da Urbino_ (Modena, 1870); GUERRINI, _Elogio Stor. di Giov. Santi_ (Urbino, 1822); SCHMARZOW, _Giovanni Santi der Vater Raffaels_, in _Kunstchronik_ (Leipsig), An. XXIII., No. 27; SCHMARZOW, _Giovanni Santi_ in _Vierteljahrsschrift für Kultur und Lett. der Renaissance_ (Leipsig), vol. II., Nos. 2-4. Cf. also CROWE & CAVALCASELLE, _History of Painting in Italy_, vol. III.] This poem, having remained unedited in the Vatican arcana, long escaped the literary historians of the Peninsula, but it has been recently quoted by two writers, Pungileone and Passavant, the former of whom had not seen it.[88] Although, in his dedication to Duke Guidobaldo, composed after 1490, the author accounts for his becoming a painter, as we shall see in chapter xxviii., he gives no further explanation of the motives which inspired the labour of a poem, containing some twenty-four thousand lines, than "that after anxious thought and consideration of such new ideas as offered themselves, I wished to sing in this little used style of _terza rima_, the story of your most excellent and most renowned father's glorious deeds," whose "brilliant reputation not only was and is well known throughout Italy, but is, if I may say so, the subject of discourse beyond the Caucasus," "not without a conscious blush at the idea of dipping so mean a vessel in the water of this limpid and sparkling spring." With equal modesty, he deprecates all rivalry with the learned commentators who had celebrated the same theme in Latin, limiting the ambition of his "rude and brief compend" to rendering its interest accessible to more ordinary readers; but, looking back upon his twenty-three ample cantos, he fervently thanks the Almighty that an undertaking of so extended time and toil had at length attained its termination, and concludes by "humbly beseeching that you will regard the hero's far-famed actions, rather than the baseness of my style, whose only grace is the sincere devotion of a faithful servant to his lord." A similar tone marks the outset of his Chronicle:-- "If e'er in by-gone times a shallow mind Shrank from the essay of a grand design, So quake I in the labour-pangs of fear." [Footnote 88: _Elogio Storico di Giovanni Santi_, pp. 14 and 69, etc.; Rafael von Urbino. The original and only MS. is described in III. of our Appendix.] Compared with contemporary epics, the rhythm is smooth and flowing, and the style dignified, interspersed with highly poetical episodes and finely expressed moral reflections as well as apt illustrations from ancient history and mythology. The epithets, though abundant, are more than usually appropriate, and many terse maxims are happily introduced. Yet, in his object of placing his poem and his hero among the popular literature of the day, Giovanni must have failed, the Vatican MS. being the only known copy. Readers it, however, doubtless had, one of whom has curiously commemorated his admiration by jotting on the margin, "Were you but as good a painter as a poet, who knows!" Modern critics, contrasting his fresco at Cagli with the rhyming Chronicle, would probably arrive at an inverse conclusion, especially were they to pronounce upon the latter from the preamble which called forth that exclamation--an allegorical vision, told in nine weary chapters, wherein figure a motley crowd of mythological and heroic personages belonging to ancient and contemporary times. It would occasion much useless repetition to enter here into any detailed analysis of the work, as we have formerly drawn upon its most valuable portions for the history of Duke Federigo. When considering the state of the fine arts, we shall have to notice a very important part of the poem touching upon that subject--an æsthetic episode on the art and artists of his day, which is introduced on occasion of the Duke's visit to Federigo I., Marquis of Mantua. In regard to the merit of this epic, due allowance must be made for the taste of the age. Its great length necessarily infers a tediousness of detail much more adapted to prose than verse, indeed inherently prosaic. Yet it contains not a few continuous passages of sustained beauty, and it would not be difficult to cull many a sparkling thought and bright simile, while from time to time the dull narrative is enlivened by lyric touches and strokes of poetic fancy, adorning sentiments creditable to the genius and the heart of its author, who, with much sweetness of disposition, appears to have possessed endowments beyond his humble sphere. His patriotic indignation at the ceaseless broils and strifes which convulsed his fatherland may supply us with an example or two:-- "Ma non potendo Italia in pace stare Sotto lunga quiete, o mai, parendo Putrida vile e maricia diventare." No long repose Ausonia e'er can brook, For peace to her brings languor, and she deems It loathsome to lie fallow. "Cum qual costum, che Italia devora, Del sempre stare in gran confusione, Disjunta et seperata, e disiare L'un stato al altro sua destructione." Sad is the usage that Italia wastes In ceaseless struggles, aye for separate ends; Sever'd her states, and each on others' ills Intent. "O mischinella Italia! in te, acecata e disunita Hor per dollor, te batte ogni mascella." Ah, poor and wretched Italy! all blind And disunited, chattering thy jaws In torments sad. "O instabil fortuna! che fai secco Ogni arbor verde, quando te impiacere, In un momento." Ah fickle fortune! which the greenest tree Mayst in a moment wither at thy will. The following sentiments were likely to find little sympathy among his contemporaries:-- "Il sfrenato desio che nel cor tiene Di nuova signoria e altrui dominio L'huom mai si satia; e pur morir conviene." Man ne'er his soul's unbridled lust can slake Of further sovereignty, and wider sway; Yet 'tis appointed him to die. "Che el facto d'arme se devea fare Sol per due cose, e l'altre lassar gire: L'uno è per lo avantagio singolare E grande oltra misura; e in caso extremo Si deve l'huomo a la fortuna dare." Twain are the pleas that justly may be urged For armed aggression,--aggrandisement great Beyond all calculation, or extreme Necessity: nought else can justify Such hazard of men's fortunes. A long and somewhat tedious chapter of moralities on the uncertain tenure of life among princes, introduced after describing the assassination of Galeazzo Maria Duke of Milan, in 1476, opens finely:-- "Vedendo il breve e vil peregrinare Che noi facciam per questo falso mondo, Anzi un pugno di terra al ver narrare, Dove, con tanto afanno e tanto pondo, De dì e nocte, e inextimabil cure, Cerchiam sallire in alto e andamo al fondo. Qual e quel si potente che asicure Ogi la vita sua per l'altro giorno, Tante son spesse et orende le sciagure?" Seeing how brief the pilgrimage and vile, Whereby through this false world we wend our way, A little earth our only heritage, Where day and night, with pain and load of care Incalculable, still we seek to soar, Yet ever downward sink: where is the man Potent to day, to-morrow's life to count, So frequent its mishaps and horrible? The bland transition from a rigorous winter to balmy Italian spring is thus apostrophised:-- "Intanto el verno El mondo gia copria col fredo smalto; E raro volte fu che el tempo iberno Tanto terribile fusse, onde asvernarsi Tucti ne andar, per fin che del inferno Proserpina torno, per adornarsi De vaghi fiori e de novelle fronde, Cum lauree chiome al vento dolce sparsi." Winter meanwhile the far-spread world had clad In cold enamel; rarely was it known More rigid: gladly all the troops retired To quarters, waiting Proserpine's return On earth, with beauteous flowers bedecked, and leaves Of freshest green, when in the gentle breeze Should stream her laurel tresses. The poet's eloquent tribute to Florentine freedom, and its value to the cause of liberty, must close our sparing extracts.[89] "Perche privato el popul Fiorentino Della sua libertade, era cavare Un occhio a Italia, e metterla al declino." For to curtail fair Florence of her freedom Were to pluck forth an eye from Italy, And cause her orb to wane. [Footnote 89: See others in vol. I., and _passim_ in Book II.; also in IV. of the Appendix below.] In Sanzi's Chronicle we seek in vain for the riper beauties of succeeding epics; but the flashes of poetry which it embodies are not the less effective from their simple diction, nor from the comparatively unpolished narrative which they adorn. * * * * * No. 699 of the Urbino MSS. contains the collected minor poems and songs of ANGELO GALLI of Urbino, knight, and secretary to Duke Federigo. They are three hundred and seventy-six in number, all in Italian, and unedited, but beautifully transcribed on vellum by Federigo Veterani. Although varied by the introduction of sacred subjects, most of them are occasional amorous effusions, wherein names of the Montefeltri, Malatesta, Sforza, and other Umbrian families frequently occur. The dates affixed to them extend from 1428 to 1457. It appears that the author attended the Council of Basle in 1442, and he is said by Crescimbeni to have survived until 1496. His mellowed versification is in general superior to that of the age, while his trite and limited matter is pleasingly relieved by many happy turns of thought and graces of language. Though unable to supply any particulars of one who has almost escaped notice, we give place to two specimens of his muse. His canzonet addressed to Caterina, "the noble, beautiful, discreet, charming, gentle, and generous Countess of Urbino," runs thus: "El mirabil splendor del tuo bel viso Pusilanimo famme, a tanta parte Che l'ingegno in tal carte Non tangeria, s'il ver ch'io non errasse. Forsa che la natura in paradiso Per aiuto sali ad informarte, E poi per divin arte A gloria de se eterna giù te trasse. Qual oro si micante s'aguagliasse Cum sua chiareza a tui biondi capegli! E gli occhi, ch'a vede gli L'invidia affreccia el sol a ricolcarse. Qual perle, qual coragli, al riso breve! Le guance han sangue, spirto in bianca neve!" The other is upon Costanza Varana, wife of Alessandro Sforza, and mother of Battista Countess of Urbino. "Che la sua faccia bella Mostro d'inverno sempre primavera, Real costume, aspetto di signora, Viso di dea e d'angioli a favella. Ma questa donna, ch'a la mente diva, Depinge di honestà omne suo gesto: Non pur suo guardo honesto, Ma li suo panni, gridan' pudicitia. Questa madonna è el mar' de tutto el senno Renchiuso, e posto dentro da bel ciglio, Chi vuol vecchio consiglio Recinga ai teneri anni di costei. Mille viole e fiore Sparge sopra la neve el suo bel viso; E dolce del suo riso Faria piatoso Silla a la vendetta, E spontaria de Giove omne saetta." FEDERIGO VETERANI has been repeatedly mentioned as a transcriber of MSS. for Duke Federigo, whom he also served as librarian and secretary, besides being one of the judges at Urbino. Those who have had occasion to examine the library formed by that prince, are well acquainted with his beautiful autograph, and might imagine his whole life to have been spent upon its fair volumes. One of them, containing the Triumphs of Petrarch, No. 351, is subscribed by him, with a memorandum that it was the last of about sixty volumes he had written out before the death of Federigo, which he thus deplores:-- "Fedrico Veterano fui, che scripse Questo e molti altri, cum justa mercede, Usando diligentia, amore et fede Al Duca Federigo in sin ch'el vixe: Le cui memorie sempre al mondo fixe Sonno e seranno; e ben certo si crede, Mentre sta el mondo e la natura in pede Ch'ogni virtù dal cielo in lui venisse. Quello mi piango, e mai ho 'l viso asciutto; Quel chiamo, quel mi sogno, e quel mi stringo Ai labri, sculpto in cara tavletta; La qual, così machiata del mio lucto, Adoro, honoro in verso, e vivo el fingo, Per lenimento di mia vita abiecta."[90] [Footnote 90: See a translation of these lines, vol. I., p. 269.] But, in addition to his miscellaneous avocations, Veterani was a copious versifier. Besides an epic, De Progenie Domus Feretranæ, there are other volumes of poetry, apparently his, remaining unedited in the library,[91] of which he continued custodian until the reign of Francesco Maria I. One of those beautiful manuscripts, the fair vellum and gem-like illuminations of which have been the theme of many a eulogy, contains the collected verses of Cristoforo Landini and six other less-known poets of the fifteenth century. On the concluding page, in a trembling and blotted hand, we read these touching lines, the tribute of its lettered scribe to the temporary eclipse of his sovereign's dynasty:[92]-- "1517. "FEDERICUS VETERANUS, URBINAS BIBLIOTHECARIUS, AD REI MEMORIAM. "Ne careat lacrymis liber hic, post fata Feretri, Hic me subscripsi, cumque dolore gravi. Hunc ego jamdudum Federicus, stante Feretro, Transcripsi, (gratus vel fuit ille mihi Quem modo vel semper fas est lugere parentem, Et dominum qui me nutriit,) atque diu Pagina testis erit, lacrymis interlita multis, Hæc tibi, qui moesta hæc carmina pauca legis. Et si dissimilis conclusit littera librum, Scriptorem ignarum me dolor ipse facit." [Footnote 91: Vat. Urb. MSS. No. 1293, 303, 699.] [Footnote 92: _Ibid._, No. 368, f. 188.] Among the minor fry slumbering unknown in the Vatican Library is URBANI of Urbino, who left a few rude elegiac and complimentary ditties in Latin or Italian upon members of the Montefeltrian line, and compiled a confused account of their pedigree. We may also name ANTONIO RUSTICO of Florence, whose _Panegiricon Comitis Federici_, dedicated to him in 1472, contains above seven hundred Italian lines of _terza rima_, unpolished in style, and in matter a mere tissue of fatiguing verbiage. Scarcely more valuable is NALDIO'S account of the Volterran campaign of 1572 in Latin verse, to which we have vainly had recourse for new information on that obscure passage of our memoirs.[93] [Footnote 93: These three works are Nos. 736, 743, and 373.] * * * * * While enumerating in our twenty-first chapter the celebrities of Duke Guidobaldo's court, we mentioned Bernardo Accolti, and endeavoured to explain the inadequacy of his published works to sustain his contemporary reputation, by supposing that his strength lay in extemporé recitation. The high place which his vanity claimed, in assuming "the Unique" as a surname, appears to have been freely accorded by the most able of his contemporaries. Ariosto says of him, not perhaps without a sneer at his notorious conceit,-- "The cavalier amid that band, whom they So honour, unless dazzled in mine eye By those fair faces, is the shining light Of his Arezzo, and Accolti hight."[94] [Footnote 94: STEWART ROSE'S Translation, XLVI., 10.] Castiglione assigns him a prominent rank among the Urbino stars, whilst Bembo and Pietro Aretino testify to his merits. We, however, would try these by his surviving works, which, as Roscoe observes, are fatal to his reputation, and which are indeed rather a beacon than a model to succeeding genius. It is, therefore, unnecessary to pause upon them, or to add here to our previous notice of their author and his position at the Montefeltrian court. Nor was Accolti the only poetaster who attained in that polished circle, or in other Italian courtlets, a celebrity from which posterity has withheld its seal. A solution of this success may perhaps be found in the circumstance that many of these owed it either to personal popularity or to their musical accomplishments. Thus SERAFINO D'AQUILA, who either improviséed his verses, or chanted them to his own accompaniment on the lute, was generally preferred to Petrarch. He died at thirty-four, in 1500, after being sought by all the petty sovereigns from Milan to Naples, and ere two generations had passed away his poetry was utterly forgotten. So, too, AGOSTINO STACCOLI of Urbino, whose sonnets delighted Duke Federigo, and obtained for him a diplomatic mission to Rome in 1485, has been long consigned to oblivion. * * * * * The older comedies of Italy become a subject of interest to us, for one of the earliest was written by Bernardo Bibbiena, a friend of Guidobaldo I.,[95] and was first performed in the palace of Urbino. The revival of the comic drama may be traced to Ferrara; and, though the pieces originally represented there before Duke Ercole I. were translations from Plautus and Terence,[96] Ariosto made several boyish attempts to vary the entertainment by dramatic compositions of his own. This was just before 1500, and to about the same time Tiraboschi ascribes the comedies of Machiavelli. There is thus much probability that these attempts preceded the _Calandra_ of Bibbiena, which has, however, been generally considered the oldest regular comedy in the language. It seems also to have been the first that attracted the notice of his patron Leo X., whose delight in comic performances was excessive; and, although now superseded by pieces more in accordance with the age, it long enjoyed a continued popularity. Giovo celebrates its easy and acute wit, and the talent of its mobile and merry author for scenic representation, which must have greatly tended to ensure its success. It is doubtful in what year it was played at the Vatican in presence of his Holiness, on the visit of Isabella, Marchioness of Mantua, when the decorations painted by Baldassar Peruzzi obtained unbounded applause. But this probably happened after its performance at Urbino, which collateral evidence discovered by Pungileone, has fixed as taking place in the spring of 1513.[*97] This gorgeous entertainment, and the scenery executed for it by Timoteo della Vite and Girolamo Genga, are commemorated in a letter of Castiglione, which throws light upon the manner of such festivities in that mountain metropolis. [Footnote 95: See above, pp. 65-69.] [Footnote 96: See these described, vol. I., App. xiii.] [Footnote *97: Cf. VERNARECCI, _Di Alcune Rappresentazioni Drammatiche alla Corte d'Urbino nel 1513_ in the _Arch. St. per le Marche e per l'Umbria_, vol. III., p. 181 _et seq._] "The scene was laid in an open space between a city-wall and its farthest houses. From the stage downwards, there was most naturally represented the wall, with two great towers descending from the upper part of the hall, on one of which were bagpipers, on the other trumpeters, with another wall of fine proportion flanking them; thus the hall figured as the town-ditch, and was traversed by two walls to support the water. The side next the seats was ornamented with Trojan cloth, over which there projected a large cornice, with this Latin inscription, in great white letters upon an azure ground, extending across that part of the theatre:-- "'BOTH WARS ABROAD AND SPORTS AT HOME GREAT CÆSAR PATRONISED; LIKE DOUBLE CARE BY MIGHTY MINDS 'MONGST US SHOULD STILL BE PRIZED.' "To the roof were attached large bunches of evergreens, almost hiding the ceiling; and from the centres of the rosettes there descended wires, in a double row along the room, each supporting a candelabrum in the form of a letter, with eight or ten lighted torches, the whole diffusing a brilliant light, and forming the words POPULAR SPORTS. Another scene represented a beautiful city, with streets, palaces, churches, towers, all in relief, but aided by excellent painting and scientific perspective. There was, among other things, an octagon temple in half-relief, so perfectly finished that the whole workmen of the duchy scarcely seemed equal to produce it in four months; it was all covered with compositions in stucco: the windows were of imitation alabaster, the architraves and cornices of fine gold and ultramarine, with here and there gems admirably imitated in glass; besides fluted columns, figures standing out with the roundness of sculpture, and much more that it would be long to speak of. This was about in the middle; and at one end there was a triumphal arch, projecting a couple of yards from the wall, and as well done as possible, with a capital representation of the Horatii, between the architrave and the vault, painted to imitate marble. In two small niches, above the pilasters that supported the arch, there were tiny figures of Victory in stucco, holding trophies, whilst over it an admirable equestrian statue in full armour was spearing a naked man at his feet. On either side of this group was a little altar, whereon there blazed a vase of fire during the comedy. I need not recapitulate all, as your Lordship will have heard of it; nor how one of the comedies was composed by a child and recited by children, shaming mayhap their seniors, for they really played it astonishingly; and it was quite a novelty to see tiny odd men a foot high maintaining all the gravity and solemnity of a Menander. Nor shall I say aught of the odd music of this piece, all hidden here and there, but shall come to the _Calandra_ of our friend Bernardo, which afforded the utmost satisfaction. As its prologue arrived very late, and the person who should have spoken failed to learn it, one by me was recited, which pleased much: but little else was changed, except some scenes of no consequence, which perhaps they could not repeat. The interludes were as follows. First, a _moresca_ of Jason, who came dancing on the stage in fine antique armour, with a splendid sword and shield, whilst there suddenly appeared on the other side two bulls vomiting forth fire, so natural as to deceive some of the spectators. These the good Jason approached, and yoking them to the plough, made them draw it. He then sowed the dragon's teeth, and forthwith there sprang up from the stage antique warriors inimitably managed, who danced a fierce _moresca_, trying to slay him; and having again come on, the each killed the other, but were not seen to die. After them, Jason again appeared, with the golden fleece on his shoulders, dancing admirably. And this was the first interlude. In the second there was a lovely car, wherein sat Venus with a lighted taper in her hand; it was drawn by two doves, which seemed absolutely alive, and on which rode a couple of Cupids with bows and quivers, and holding lighted tapers; and it was preceded and followed by eight more Cupids, dancing a _moresca_ and beating about with their blazing lights. Having reached the extremity of the stage, they set fire to a door, out of which there suddenly leaped nine gallant fellows all in flames, and danced another _moresca_ to perfection. The third interlude showed Neptune on a chariot drawn by two demi-horses with fish-scales and fins, so well executed. Neptune sat on the top with his trident, and eight monsters after him (or rather four of them before and four behind) performing a sword-dance, the car all the while full of fire. The whole was capitally done, and the monsters were the oddest in the world, of which no description can afford an idea. The fourth showed Juno's car, also full of fire, and herself upon it, with a crown on her head and a sceptre in her hand, seated on a cloud, which spread around the car, full of mouths of the winds. The chariot was drawn by two peacocks, so beautiful and well managed that even I, who had seen how they were made, was puzzled. Two eagles and as many ostriches preceded it; two sea-birds followed, with a pair of parti-coloured parrots. All these were so admirably executed that I verily believe, my dear Monsignore, no imitation was ever so like the truth; and they, too, went through a sword-dance with indescribable, nay incredible, grace. The comedy ended, one of the Cupids, whom we had already seen, suddenly appeared on the stage, and in a few stanzas explained the meaning of the interludes, which had a continued plot apart from the comedy, as follows. There was, in the first place, the battle of these earth-born brothers, showing, under the fabulous allegory of Jason, how wars prevail among neighbours who ought to maintain peace. Then came Love, successively kindling with a holy flame men and earth, sea and air, to chase away war and discord, and to unite the world in harmony: the union is but a hope for the future; the discord is, to our misfortune, a present fact. I had not meant to send you the stanzas recited by the little Love, but I do so; your Lordship will do with them what you like. They were hastily composed whilst struggling with painters, carpenters, actors, musicians, and ballet dancers. When they had been spoken, and the Cupid was gone, there was heard the invisible music of four viols, accompanying as many voices, who sang, to a beautiful air, a stanza of invocation to Love; and so the entertainment ended, to the immense delight of all present. Had I not so bepraised it in describing its progress, I might now tell you the part I had in it, but I should not wish your Lordship to fancy me an egotist. It were too good fortune to be able to attend to such matters, to the exclusion of more annoying ones: may God vouchsafe it me." Though much of this detail regards the accompanying entertainment more than the comedy, it cannot be deemed out of place, as illustrative of the way in which these were managed in a court where we have frequent occasion to allude to such pastimes: the preceding description fully explains the often-mentioned _moresca_, and almost entitles us to translate that word by the better known French _ballet_. The _Calandra_ continued to be played on select occasions in Italy, and we hear of its being produced at Lyons in 1548, before Catherine de' Medici and her husband, whose largess to the actors exceeded 2500 crowns. This piece, though improved in incidents, is avowedly indebted for its plot to the _Menecmo_ of Plautus, a comedy already popular through a translation performed at Ferrara, in 1486-7, by the children and courtiers of Ercole I., in a theatre built on purpose within the palace-yard, and costing with its decorations 1000 ducats. In regard to its proper merits, no one can deny the amusing complexity of the plot, the constant succession of absurd mistakes among the personages, the ingenious contrivances by which these are alternately occasioned and extricated, the bustle of the entertainment, and the racy humour of the dialogue. In order to let these be appreciated, an analysis larger than our space can permit would be necessary, and neither the character nor the wit of the piece could be preserved without introducing intrigues and language repugnant to modern decency. Ginguené has conveyed a tolerable idea of the comedy without greatly shocking the reader, but has consequently suppressed much of its fun, and to his pages we must refer for detail.[98] The story turns upon the adventures of twins, a brother and sister, who, perfectly resembling in person, but unknown to each other, are simultaneously parties to love intrigues, carried on through the agency of a clever valet, and at the cost of a drivelling husband (Calandro) in the course of which they frequently interchange the dress and character of their respective sexes, a magician being ever at hand to bear the blame of what appear physical transmutations, and a double marriage of course happily solving all embarrassments. Although unquestionably rich in the materials of broad farce, it is evident that such a plot is but indifferently adapted for embodying manners sketched from life. [Footnote 98: See also Panizzi's London edition of the _Orlando Innamorato_ and the _Furioso_, vol. VI., p. 59.] * * * * * The corruption of morals in Italy during the golden age of her literature and civilisation is a painful topic, but one naturally suggested by these remarks, and which cannot with truth be entirely thrown into the shade.[*99] It was especially developed in the free gratification of passions to which an enervating climate is considered peculiarly incentive, and which induce to amorous indulgence. The due restraint of these was reckoned neither among the virtues nor the decencies of life, nor was their licentious exercise limited to persons of exalted station. The sad example set in luxurious courts spread to classes whose sacred calling and vows of continence rendered their lapses doubly disgraceful; and those whose tastes and cultivated understandings were fitted for purer and nobler pursuits wallowed without discredit in the slough of sensuality. With such instances, even among the finest characters, these pages render us unfortunately too familiar. Instead of multiplying or repeating them, let us hear the calm admissions of a late writer, whose evidence cannot be deemed partial on such a topic. In talking of Bembo, the Italian translator of Roscoe's _Leo X._ thus touches upon this delicate subject: "It must be observed that most of the poets and writers of that age, although resident at Rome, and dignified by prelacies, preferments, and offices of the Church, were infected with the like vices, or, as some would express it, tarred with the same pitch. The spirit of that court, the manners of these times, the licence of ideas among literary men, their constant reading of ancient poets not always commendable for modesty, the long established and uniform intercourse of the Muses with Bacchus and Venus, the fatal example afforded by certain cardinals, and even by several of the papal predecessors of Leo, whose children were publicly acknowledged ... all these considerations show how difficult it was at such an epoch, and especially in the capital of Christendom, to continue exempt from corruption and licentiousness." [Footnote *99: This hardly needs comment: it has become universally accepted as the truth. The _Prediche Volgari_ of Fra Bernardino afford ample evidence, as do the _Novelle_ generally. I shall therefore confine myself to referring to two English writers who have treated of this subject: WILLIAM HEYWOOD, _The Ensamples of Fra Filippo_ (Siena, 1902), pp. 118, 122 _et seq._ and 295 _et seq._, who gives an infinite number of authorities and is exhaustive in his evidence; VERNON LEE, _Euphorion_ (Fisher Unwin, 1899), pp. 25-109, who treats of it in two essays, _The Sacrifice_ and _The Italy of the Elizabethan Dramatist_, with exquisite understanding and the wide tolerance of a poet. Nothing is to be gained by going into this subject so casually as Dennistoun does. He speaks of the Italian genius without understanding either its strength or its weakness. He judges Machiavelli, for instance, or Cesare Borgia, as one might have judged an Englishman of the depressing age he himself lived in, and thus his judgment is at fault in regard to nearly every great man of whom he writes.] In no language, perhaps, does there exist a jest-book more disgustingly prurient or so full of sacrilegious ribaldry as the _Facetiæ_ of Poggio Bracciolini. Were such a work published now-a-days, the author would be hooted from society, and the printer laid hold of as a common nuisance. Though the parties to above half its obscene anecdotes are from the clergy or the monastic orders, there occurs throughout the foul volume no word of blame nor burst of indignation. Yet it was compiled for publication by a priest, the confidential secretary of pontiffs, and one of the stars of a literary age. If more direct evidence of dissolute habits among the clergy be required, it will be found in the reports of P. Ambrogio Traversari on his disciplinarian circuits among the Camaldolese convents, of which he was general from 1431 to 1434.[100] It would be loathsome to enter upon the details, but a generally lax morality among those specially devoted to religious profession must be considered as at once the occasion and the effect of much social perversion. The poison disseminated from such a quarter was sure to pervade all ranks, and the standard of public decency must have sunk low indeed ere monastic debauchery ceased to create universal scandal. When churchmen had become very generally latitudinarians in theology and libertines in morals, the corruption of their flocks need be no matter of surprise. It was in the beginning of the sixteenth century that these evils had reached their height, and the miseries of foreign invasion under the Medicean popes were even then regarded by many as judicial inflictions from Heaven. Hence was it, that, although Italy was supereminent among nations, although illustrated by the triumphs of mind, adorned by the productions of genius, and enriched by the gains of intelligent enterprise, she was nevertheless deficient in moral power, and when tried in the furnace of adversity was found wanting. With institutions whose freedom had no longer vitality, with rulers intent only on selfish ends, and with citizens relaxed in principle and knit by no common political ties, the very advantages lavished upon her by nature and civilisation proved her bane, attracting spoilers whom she was powerless to resist. Melancholy is the thought that all her mental superiority was ineffectual for her defence; but yet more humiliating the fact that those on whom nature's best gifts were showered, and who were foremost as protectors of literature and the arts, were often, by their fatal example, chief promoters of the general demoralisation. No wonder then that she fell, and in her fall presented a signal lesson to future times "of the impotence of human genius and of the instability of human institutions, however excellent in themselves, when unsustained by public and private virtue."[101] [Footnote 100: Hodoeporicon and Epistola, _passim_.] [Footnote 101: PRESCOTT'S _Ferdinand and Isabella_.] CHAPTER XXVI Mediæval art chiefly religious--Innovations of Naturalism, Classicism, and Paganism--character and tendencies of Christian painting ill understood in England--influence of St. Francis--Mariolatry. In order to comprehend the peculiar tendency which painting assumed in Umbria, it will be necessary briefly to examine the principles and history of what is now generally known under the denomination of CHRISTIAN ART.[*102] Until after the revival of European civilisation, painting had scarcely any other direction than religious purposes. For household furniture and decoration, its luxuries were unheard of; the delineation of nature in portraits and landscapes was unknown. But pictorial representations had been employed for embellishment of churches from the recognition of Christianity by the Emperors of the West, and they had assumed a conventional character, derived chiefly from rude tracings in which the uncultivated limners of an outcast sect had long before depicted Christ, his Mother, and his apostles, for the solace of those whose proscribed creed drove them to worship in the catacombs. When these delineations, originally cherished as emblems of faith, had been employed as the adjuncts, and eventually perverted into the objects of devotion, they acquired a sacred character which it was the tendency of ever-spreading superstition continually to exaggerate. They became, in fact, the originals of those pictures which in subsequent ages were adopted as part and portion of the Roman worship; and forms, which they derived perhaps from the fancy or caprice of their inventors, came to be the received types to which all orthodox painters were bound to adhere.[*103] The means adopted for repeating them were enlarged or narrowed by various circumstances; the success with which they were imitated fluctuated with the advance or decline of taste. But whether traced upon the tablets of ivory diptychs, or blazoned in the pages of illuminated missals; whether depicted on perishable ceilings, or fixed in unfading mosaics; whether degraded by the unskilful daubing and spiritless mechanism of Byzantine artists,[*104] or refined by the holier feeling and improved handling of the Sienese and Umbrian schools,--the original types might still be traced. Indeed, those traditionary forms were as little subjected to modification by painters as the dogmas of faith were open to the doubts of commentators. Heterodoxy on either point was liable to severe denunciation, and pictorial novelties were interdicted by the Church, not as absolutely wrong, but as liable to abuse from the eccentricities of human fancy.[105] It was in Spain, the land of suspicion and priestcraft, that such jealousy was chiefly entertained, and the censorship of the fine arts there became in the sixteenth century a special duty of the Holy Office. [Footnote *102: I have not deleted these pages partly because it has been thought better to give the whole text as nearly as possible as Dennistoun wrote it, and partly too because they serve to show that Dennistoun was in advance of the general taste of his day in England. But, of course, the whole of our knowledge about Italian art has been revolutionized since he wrote. It is almost hopeless to try to annotate these pages. To begin with, the author is dealing with a subject of which even to-day we know very little. And then Urbino seems to have had almost nothing to do with the rise of the Umbrian school of painting. The reader must therefore accept with care every statement which follows.] [Footnote *103: This is true in a sense, but the work in the catacombs and the mosaics (III. cent.) in S. Maria Maggiore, for instance, are based on classic models, and are often very excellent and beautiful.] [Footnote *104: The Byzantine work was not always "unskilful," only its intention seems to have been rather decorative than realistic, yet in _S. Maria Antigua_, for instance, we can see the models were classical.] [Footnote 105: A large picture of the Glorification of the Madonna, long placed in the Belle Arti at Florence, was painted by Sandro Botticelli for Matteo Palmieri, who, in his Dantesque poem entitled _La Città della Vita_, has advanced a theory that, in Lucifer's rebellion, a certain number of angels assumed a neutral attitude, as a punishment for which they were doomed to a term of trial in the quality of human souls. Although never printed, this work was solemnly condemned by the Inquisition after the author's death, and the picture, which had been composed under his own direction, fell under similar suspicion of heresy. On a rigid examination, the censors having discovered a sort of fullness in the draped bosoms of some angels, pronounced them females, and for this breach of orthodoxy denounced the painting. It was accordingly covered up, and the chapel where it hung in S. Pietro Maggiore was for a time interdicted; but, having escaped destruction, it was offered for sale a few years ago by the heirs of Palmieri. The opportunity for procuring for our national collection a most interesting and characteristic example of early art was as usual lost; but it was brought to England by Mr. Samuel Woodburn in 1846, and has now found a resting-place at Hamilton Palace, in one of the few collections of art which contain nothing common-place or displeasing.[*B]] [Footnote *B: This picture, now in the National Gallery [No. 1126] is by Botticini, not Botticelli.] With the aid of authorities thus deduced through an unbroken chain from primitive times,--to conceive and embody abstractions "which eye hath not seen nor ear heard," was reckoned no rash meddling with sacred mysteries. On the contrary, the subjects almost exclusively selected for the exercise of Christian art, belonged to the fundamental doctrines of Christian faith, to the traditional dogmas of the Church, to the legendary lives of the Saviour and of saints, or to the dramatic sufferings of early martyrs. Such were the transfiguration, the passion, the ascension of our Lord; the conception, the coronation, and the _cintola_ of the Madonna[106]; the birth and marriage of the Blessed Virgin; the miracles performed by popular saints, the martyrdoms in which they sealed their testimony. The choice, and occasionally the treatment, of these topics was modified to meet the spiritual exigences of the period, or the circumstances of the place, but ever in subservience to conventional standards derived from remote tradition. Thus we detect, in works of the Byzantine period, rigid forms, harsh outlines, soulless faces; in the schools of Siena and Umbria, pure figures lit up by angelic expressions; in the followers of Giotto, a tendency to varied movement and dramatic composition. [Footnote 106: The Gospel account of St. Thomas's doubtings finds a counterpart in the Roman legend of the Madonna, after her interment, being seen by him during her corporeal transit to heaven; whereupon, his wonted caution having led him to "ask for a sign," she dropped him her girdle or _cintola_, which he carried to the other apostles in proof of his marvellous tale; and the fact of her assumption was verified by their opening her tomb and finding it empty.] There is yet another reason for what to the uninitiated may seem monstrosities. The old masters had not generally to represent men and women in human form, but either prophets, saints, and martyrs, whom it was their business to embody, not in their "mortal coil," but in the purer substance of those who had put on immortality; or the Mother of Christ, exalted by mariolatry almost to a parity with her Son; or the "Ancient of Days,"--the personages of the Triune Divinity with their attendant heavenly host, whom to figure at all was a questionable licence, and who, if impersonated, ought surely to seem other than the sons and daughters of men. Of such themes no conception could be adequate, no approximation otherwise than disappointing; and those who were called upon to deal with them usually preferred painting images suggested by their own earnest devotional thoughts, to the more difficult task of idealising human models. Addressing themselves to the spirit rather than to the eye, they sought to delineate features with nought of "the earth, earthy," expressions purified from grovelling interests and mundane ties. How much this religious art depended for its due maintenance upon the personal character of those whose business it was to embody and transmit to a new generation its lofty inspirations, can scarcely require demonstration. That they were men of holy minds is apparent from their works. Some, by long poring over the mystic incarnations which they sought to represent; others, by deep study of the pious narratives selected for their pencils; many, by the abstraction of monastic seclusion, brought their souls to that pitch of devotional enthusiasm, which their pictures portray far better than words can describe. The biographies that remain of the early painters of Italy fully bear out this fact; and of many instances that might be given we shall select three from various places and periods. Of the early Bolognese school, Vitale and his pupil Lippo di Dalmasio were each designed _delle Madonne_, from their formally devoting themselves to the exclusive representation of her "Who so above all mothers shone, The mother of the Blessed One." So far indeed did the latter of these carry enthusiastic mysticism, that he never resumed his labours without purifying his imagination and sanctifying his thoughts by a vigil of austere fasting, and by taking the blessed sacrament in the morning. In like manner did one of his comrades gain the appellation of Simon of the crucifixes. A century later, Gentile Bellini painted three of his noblest works for a confraternity in Venice, who possessed a relic of the True Cross, and chose for his subject various miracles ascribed to its influence. Refusing all remuneration, he affixed this touching record of his pious motives: "The work of Gentile Bellini, a knight of Venice, instigated by affection for the Cross, 1496." Similar anecdotes might be quoted of Giovanni da Fiesole, better known in Italy as Beato Angelico, whose life and pencil may well be termed seraphic, and to whom we shall again have occasion to allude; while parallel cases of a later date are found in Spain, where religion, and religious fervour, influenced by the self-mortification of dark fanatics and dismal ascetics, generally assumed less attractive forms. A Christian ideal was thus the aim of the early masters; and most surviving works of the Umbrian and Sienese schools carry in themselves ample evidence of intensely serious sentiment animating their authors. But to those who have not enjoyed opportunities of observing this peculiar characteristic of a style of art almost unknown in England, it may be acceptable to trace the same spirit in a language legible by eyes unaccustomed to the delicacies of pictorial expression. This confirmation is found in the rules adopted by guilds of painters, incorporated in different towns of Italy, which are upon this point more important, as proving how entirely devotional feeling was systematised, instead of being left to the accident of individual inspiration. The statutes of the Sienese fraternity, confirmed in 1357, are thus prefaced: "Let the beginning, middle, and end of our words and actions be in the name of God Almighty, and of his Mother, our Lady the Virgin Mary! Whereas we, by the grace of God, being those who make manifest to rude and unlettered men the marvellous things effected by, and in virtue of, our holy faith; and our creed consisting chiefly in the worship and belief of one God in Trinity, and of God omnipotent, omniscient, and infinite in love and compassion; and as nothing, however unimportant, can have beginning or end without these three necessary ingredients, power, knowledge, and right good-will; and as in God only consists all high perfection; let us therefore anxiously invoke the aid of divine grace, in order that we may attain to a good beginning and ending of all our undertakings, whether of word or work, prefacing all in the name and to the honour of the MOST HOLY TRINITY. And since spiritual things are, and should be, far preferable and more precious than temporal, let us commence by regulating the fête of our patron, the venerable and glorious St Luke," &c. Several subsequent rules relate to the observance of other festivals, whereof fifty-seven are enjoined to be strictly kept without working, a number which, added to Sundays and Easter holidays, monopolises for sacred purposes nearly a third of the year.[107] The Florentine statutes, dated about twenty years earlier, direct that all who come to enrol themselves in the Company of painters, whether men or women, shall be penitent and confessed, or at least shall purpose to confess themselves at the earliest opportunity; that they shall daily repeat five paternosters, and as many aves, and shall take the sacrament at least once a year.[108] Nor let these be regarded as mere unmeaning phrases, or as the vapid lip-service of a formalist faith. The ceremonial observances of an age in which the Roman Church was indeed Catholic cannot fairly be judged by a Protestant standard, yet few, who have seen with intelligence the productions of those painters, will doubt that they were men of piety and prayer. A vestige of the same holy feeling hung over artists, even after it had ceased to animate their efforts; the forms survived, when the spirit had fled. Thus, "On Tuesday morning, the 11th of June 1573, at eleven in the forenoon, Giorgio Vasari began to paint the cupola of the cathedral at Florence; and, before commencing, he had a Mass of the Holy Spirit celebrated at the altar of the sacrament, after hearing which he entered upon the work."[109] Vasari was a religious man; but the favourite painter of a dissolute court could scarcely be a religious artist, nor could the pupil of Michael Angelo appreciate the quiet pathos or feel the gentle fervour of earlier and more spiritualised times. [Footnote 107: _Carteggio d'Artisti_, II., p. 1.] [Footnote 108: _Carteggio d'Artisti_, II., p. 33.] [Footnote 109: _Ibid._, III., p. 352.] In Spain, where art was always in the especial service of the priesthood, and not unfrequently subservient to priestcraft, religion was a requisite of painters to a much later date. The rules of the academy established at Seville by Murillo, in 1658, imposed upon each pupil an ejaculatory testimony of his faith in, and devotion for, the blessed sacrament and immaculate conception.[110] But whilst the piety of the Sienese and Florentine guilds was an inherent sentiment of their age, willingly adopted by professional etiquette, that of the Iberian artists in the sixteenth century was regulated by the Inquisition, and savoured of its origin. The former was joyous as the bright thoughts of youthful enthusiasm springing in a land of beauty; the latter shadowed the grave and sombre temperament of the nation by austerities congenial to the Holy Office. Hence the religious paintings of Spain, appealing to the spectator's terrors rather than to his sympathies, revelled in the horrible, eschewing as a snare those lovely forms which in Italy were encouraged as conducive to devotion. [Footnote 110: STIRLING'S _Annals of the Artists of Spain_, p. 848.] Yet, if the genius of early painters was hampered, and the effect of their creations impaired, by prescribed symbols and conventional rules, they were not without countervailing advantages. A limited range of forms did not always imply poverty of ideas, nor was simplicity inconsistent with sublimity. Those, accordingly, who look with intelligence upon pictures, which, to the casual glance of an uninformed spectator, are mere rude and monstrous representations, will often recognise in them a grandeur of sentiment, and a majesty of expression, altogether wanting in more matured productions, wherein truth to nature is manifested through unimportant accessories, or combined with trivial details. Familiarity is notoriously conducive to contempt; and to associate the grander themes and dogmas of holy writ with multiplied adjuncts skilfully borrowed from ordinary life, is to detract from the awe and mystery whereof they ought to be especially suggestive. But here it may be well to premise that, our observations upon Christian art being purely æsthetical, it forms no part of our plan to analyse its influences in a doctrinal view, or to discuss the Roman system of teaching religion to the laity, by attracting them to devotional observances through pictures and sculpture, to the exclusion of the holy scriptures; still less to raise any controversy regarding the incidents or tenets thus usually inculcated. We, therefore, pause not to inquire how far the Roman legends--often beautifully suggestive of truth, but how frequently redolent of fatal error!--have originated in art, or been corrupted by its creations. One danger of teaching by pictures is obvious; for where the eye is offered but a few detached scenes, without full explanation of their attendant circumstances and connecting links, very imperfect impressions and false conclusions may result. Under such a system, figurative representation will often be literally interpreted, symbols will be mistaken for facts, dreams for realities; and thus have the fertile imaginations of artists and commentators mutually reacted upon each other, until historical and spiritual truth is lost in a maze of allegory and fable, and error has been indelibly ingrafted upon popular faith. The dim allegories of early art have accordingly been overlaid by crude inventions, or obscured by gross ignorance and enthusiastic mysticism. Religious truth being thus misstated, or its symbols misread, those who thirsted for the waters of life were repelled by tainted streams, and hungry souls were mocked by stones for bread. It ought, however, to be constantly borne in mind that we are dealing with times when the authority of Rome was absolute throughout Europe; and that, whatever may now be alleged against the dogmas or legends embodied by early artists, they were then universally received. For our purpose they ought, therefore, to be examined by the light then enjoyed, not by that shed upon them in after times of gospel freedom. Neither ought we to forget the impressionable qualities of a southern people, when disposed to question the tendencies of religious instruction through the senses and the imagination. And, granting that it is well to employ such means, the mute eloquence of an altar-picture, or a reliquary, though less startling than impassioned pulpit appeals, less thrilling than choral voices sustained by the organ's impressive diapason, had the advantages of being accessible at all hours to devout visitors, and of demanding from them no sustained attention. * * * * * Such was Christian art in Italy during the fourteenth century, when it was destined to undergo very considerable modifications. As yet it had been exercised almost exclusively for decorating churches and monastic buildings with extensive works intended to nourish or revive devotion in the masses who resorted to them. In ages when the intelligence capable of ordering these works was almost limited to convents, and when it was only from such representations that the unlettered eye could convey impressions to the mind of the laity, Christian paintings were an effective adjunct to Christian preaching and devotional exercises. But, as the dark cloud began to roll away before the dawn of modern cultivation, mankind awoke to new wants. No longer content with the pittance of religious knowledge which their spiritual guides doled out to them, they sought to secure a store for their own uncontrolled use. Those who could vanquish the difficulties of reading, found in their office-books a continuation of the church services; the less educated placed by their bed, or in their domestic chapel, a small devotional picture, as a substitute for the larger representations which invoked them to holy feelings in the house of God. Thus there arose a general desire for objects of sacred art. The privilege assumed by all who wished for such, of ordering them in conformity with their individual feelings or superstitions, quickly introduced greater latitudinarianism as to the selection and treatment of the subjects. The demand so created exceeded the productive powers of such painters as had been regularly initiated into the language of form, according to the settled conventionalities of their sanctified profession. The chain of pictorial tradition was snapped, when a host of new competitors entered the field, free from its trammels. But the public taste had been too long and thoroughly imbued with a uniform class of religious compositions to relish any great innovations; and although historical painting began to find a place in the palace-halls of the princes and republics of Italy, works commissioned by private persons continued almost exclusively of a sacred cast. Thus for a time was the new path little frequented. Artists felt their way with caution, unaware of the direction whither it might lead them; timid of their own powers, doubtful of their influence on the public. They contented themselves at first with enlarging the range of subjects, or with varying the pose of the actors. Fearing to abandon traditional types, they ventured not beyond the addition of accessories, such as architecture, landscape, animals, fruits, and flowers, or a disposal of the draperies with greater freedom and attention to truth. But, the further they departed from received forms, the more willingly did their genius pluck by the way those graceful aids and appliances which spontaneous nature offered in a land of beauty; and every new combination which that awakened genius inspired, induced, and to a certain extent authorised, fresh novelties. The modifications thus introduced have been distinguished in modern phrase by the term naturalism, in contradistinction to those traditional forms and spiritualised countenances which constitute the mysticism of mediæval art. It would lead us too far from our subject to trace the progress of naturalism from such early symptoms as we have indicated, until portraits, at first interponed as donors of the picture, or as spectators of its incident, were habitually selected as models for the most sacred personages. That the adaptation of nature to the highest purposes of art, by skilful selection and by judicious idealisation, is the noblest object which pictorial genius can keep in view for its inventions will scarcely be contested. But another consideration, inherent in the axioms of the mystic school, was too often lost sight of by the naturalists. The portraiture of criminal or even vulgar life, in deeply religious works, is an outrage upon all holy feeling, whether in the example of Alexander VI., who commanded Pinturicchio to introduce into one of the Vatican frescoes his own portrait, kneeling before the ascending Redeemer;[111] or in the case of those painters in Rome whose favourite model for the Saviour has of late years been a cobbler, hence known in the streets by the blasphemous name of Jesus Christ. [Footnote 111: Roscoe, who wrote without an opportunity of seeing these paintings, describes this Pope as kneeling in his pontificals before the Madonna, in whom is portrayed his mistress, Julia Farnese. In this palpable blunder he has been followed by Rio and others. It would be curious to discover on what authority Gordon, in his life of Borgia, states that a likeness of La Vanosia, another of his mistresses, hung for Madonna-worship in the church of the Popolo at Rome. The circumstance coming from such a quarter is questionable; at all events, it is no longer true. Alexander kneels before the Risen, not the Ascending Christ. *Roscoe followed Vasari.] To the naturalism which became gradually prevalent in most Italian schools after the beginning of the fourteenth century, there was, in the fifteenth, added another principle of antagonism to mystic feeling. In purist nomenclature it has been denominated paganism, but it seems to consist of paganism and classicism. By the former is to be understood that fashion for the philosophy, morality, literature, and mythology of ancient Greece and Rome, which, introduced from the recovered authors of antiquity, was assiduously cultivated by the Medici in their lettered but sceptical court, until it left a stamp on the literature and art of Italy not yet effaced. Under its influence, the vernacular language was neglected, or cramped into obsolete models; dead tongues monopolised students; the doctrines of Aristotle and Plato divided men, clouding their faith, and warping their morals from Christian standards; the beauty of holiness yielded before an ideal of form; and that unction which had purified the conceptions and guided the pencils of devotional painters, evaporated as they strove to master the technical excellences of the new manner. To the maxims and principles of revived pagan antiquity, the philosophic Schlegel has traced the selfish policy and morals of Italian tyrants and communities; but it seems easier to detect their fatal tendency in painting and sculpture than upon statecraft and manners. Classicism, as here used, means that innovation of antique taste in art which arose out of renewed interest in the picturesque ruins of Rome, in her mighty recollections, in the excavation of her precious sculptures, and which imparted to pictorial representations sometimes a hard and plastic treatment, sometimes ornamental architecture, bas-reliefs, or grotesques. By paganism a blighting poison was infused through the spirit of art, while classicism has often ennobled the work and enriched its details, without injury to its sentiment. To schools such as those of Florence and Padua, wherein nature or classic imitation prevailed, there belonged the materialism of facts, the severity of definite forms.[*112] These qualities obtained favour from men of mundane pursuits and literary tastes; from citizens greedy after gainful commerce and devoted to political intrigue; or from princes who patronised, and pedants who deciphered, long forgotten, but at length reviving lore. The "new manner," as it was called, had, in Michael Angelo, a supporter whose mighty genius lent to its solecisms an irresistible charm. Yet against such innovations protests were long occasionally recorded. An anonymous writer, in 1549, mentions a _Pietà_, said to have been designed by "Michael Angelo Buonarroti, that inventor of filthy trash, who adheres to art without devotion. Indeed, all the modern painters and sculptors, following the like Lutheran [that is, impious] caprices now-a-days, neither paint nor model for consecrated churches anything but figures that distract one's faith and devotion; but I hope that God will one day send his saints to cast down such idolatries."[113] In a land where mythology had slowly been supplanted by revelation, especially in a city successively the capital of paganism and Christianity, these influences were necessarily in frequent antagonism, or in forced and unseemly juxtaposition. Whilst art thus lost in sentiment, it gained in vigour; and although classic taste and the study of antique sculpture unquestionably tarnished its mystical purity, may they not have preserved it from the fate of religious painting in Spain, which, debarred by the Inquisition from access to nude models, and elevated by no refined standard, oscillated between the extremes of gloomy asceticism and grovelling vulgarity? The paganism of the Medici and Michael Angelo scared away the seraphic visions of monastic limners, but it also rescued Italy from religious prudery, and saved men from addressing their orisons to squalid beggars.[*114] [Footnote *112: For instance, in the work of Botticelli, I suppose, or Verrocchio, or Mantegna?] [Footnote 113: GAYE, _Carteggio_, II., 500.] [Footnote *114: Can this be an allusion to S. Francesco of Assisi?] The brief sketch which we have thus introduced of the progress and tendency of Christian art, may be fittingly concluded by the definition of it supplied by Baron v. Rumohr, one of the laborious, learned, and felicitous expositors of mediæval art whom the reviving taste of later times produced. "It is consecrated to religion alone; its object is sometimes to induce the mind to the contemplation of sacred subjects, sometimes to regulate the passions, by awakening those sentiments of peace and benevolence which are peculiar to practical Christianity." To narrate its extinction in the sixteenth century, speedily followed by the decline of all that was noblest in artistic genius, is a task on which we are not now called to enter. We approached the subject because, in the mountains of Umbria, that mystic school long maintained its chief seat; because there its types sank deepest into the popular mind; and because it reached its culminating point of perfection and glory in RAFFAELE of URBINO. We are fully and painfully aware how opposed some of these views are to the received criticism and popular practice of art in England; but it were beyond our purpose to inquire into the many causes which combine to render our countrymen averse from the impartial study, as well as to the even partial adoption of them. Hogarth, the incarnation of our national taste in painting, saw in those spiritualised cherubim which usually minister to the holiest compositions of the Umbrian school, only "an infant's head with a pair of duck's wings under its chin, supposed always to be flying about and singing psalms."[115] The form conveyed by the eye, and the description of it traced by the pen, are here in accurate unison. Alas! how hopelessly blinded the writer's mental vision. As directly opposed to such grovelling views, and contrasting spiritual with material perceptions of art, it may not be out of place here to cite a passage from Savonarola, whose stern genius gladly invoked the muse of painting to aid his moral and political reformations. "Creatures are beautiful in proportion as they participate in and approximate the beauty of their creator; and perfection of bodily form is relative to beauty of mind. Bring hither two women equally perfect in person; let one be a saint, the other a sinner. You shall find that the saint will be more generally loved than the sinner, and that on her all eyes will be directed." [Footnote 115: Our reference to this quotation (made long ago) has been mislaid, but it appears perfectly consistent with Hogarth's habitual train of ideas, and quaint rendering of them. See IRELAND'S _Hogarth Illustrated_, I., p. lxix.; II., p. 194, 195; III., p. 226-40. NICHOL'S _Anecdotes of Hogarth_, p. 137. In his plate of Enthusiasm Delineated, he has actually appended a pair of duck's legs to a cherub.] These quotations illustrate two extremes,--ribald vulgarity on the one hand, and transcendental mysticism on the other, between which the standard of sound criticism may be sought. It would be as unreasonable to suppose Hogarth capable of comprehending or appreciating the fervid conceptions of Christian art, as to look for sympathy from Savonarola, with his pot-house personifications. Each of those styles has its peculiar merit, which cannot fairly be considered with reference to the other: they differ in this among many respects,--that whilst English caricatures and Dutch familiar scenes are addressed to the most uncultivated minds, Umbrian or Sienese paintings can be understood only after long examination and elevated thought. The former, therefore, gratify the unintelligent many, the latter delight an enlightened few. The difficulty of justly appreciating this branch of æsthetics is greater among ourselves than is generally imagined, as our best authorities have entirely misled us, from themselves overlooking its true bent. More alive to the naturalism and technical merits of painting than to subtleties of feeling and expression, they are neither conscious of the aims nor aware of the principles of purist art. They look for perfection where only pathos should be sought. Burnet, a recent and valuable writer, considers Barry "one of those noble minds ruined by a close adherence to the dry manner of the early masters," an analogy which cannot but surprise those who compare the respective works of those thus brought unconsciously into contrast. Even Sir Joshua Reynolds was not exempt from prejudice on this point, for he sneers at the first manner of Raffaele as "dry and insipid," and avers that until Masaccio, art was so barbarous, "that every figure appeared to stand upon his toes." There is but one explanation applicable to assertions thus inconsistent at once with fact and with sound criticism, in a writer so candid and generally so careful. Living in an age devoid of Catholic feeling (we employ the phrase in an æsthetic sense), which classed in the same category of contempt all painting before Michael Angelo, and speaking of "an excellence addressed to a faculty which he did not possess," he assumed, without observation or inquiry, that "the simplicity of the early masters would be better named penury, as it proceeds from mere want,--from want of knowledge, want of resources, want of abilities to be otherwise; that it was the offspring, not of choice, but of necessity." No argument is required to convince those who have impartially studied these masters, that a condemnation so sweeping is erroneous. In our day, the number of such persons is happily increasing, but there are still many impediments to a candid appreciation of the subject. So long as art was the handmaid of religion, its professors were ranked almost with those who ministered in the temple, and interpreted the records of inspiration. In absence of priests, their works became guides to popular devotion, and consequently were addressed to spectators who came to worship, not to criticise; whose credulous enthusiasm was nourished by yearnings of the heart, not by the cold judgment of the eye. How different the test applied by men who look upon such paintings as popish dogmas which it is a duty to repudiate, it may be to ridicule! How futile the perhaps more common error of trying them by the matured rules of pictorial execution, apart from their object and intention! Connoisseurship in painting, especially in England, has indeed too long consisted in a mere appreciation of its technical difficulties, and perception of their successful treatment. For it was not until Raffaele had attained grace, and Michael Angelo had mastered design,--until Correggio had blended light and shade into happy effect, and Titian had taught the gorgeous hues of his palette to mingle in harmony, that such perfections were looked for, or reduced to a standard. Why, then, apply such standard to works already old ere it had been adopted? The very imperfections of general treatment, the absence of linear perspective and anatomical detail, tended to develop what should be chiefly sought and most valued in these early productions; for the artist's time was thus free to elaborate the heads and extremities, until he gave them that grace and expression which constitutes their interest and their charm. There are, however, no longer wanting writers in England, as well as in Germany, France, and Italy, to appreciate their lofty motives, and solemn feelings, and gentle forms. In the words of Ruskin, whose earnest and true thoughts are often most happily expressed, "the early efforts of Cimabue and Giotto are the burning messages of prophecy, delivered by the stammering lips of infants," but they are unintelligible to "the multitude, always awake to the lowest pleasures which art can bestow, and dead to the highest," for their beauties "can only be studied or accepted in the particular feeling that produced them." Under the modest title of _Sketches_ Lord Lindsay has enriched our literature with the best history of Christian art as yet produced. He has brought to his task that sincerity of purpose, veneration for sacred things, and lively sense of beauty, which impart a charm to all he puts forth; and he has peculiarly qualified himself for its successful performance, by an anxious study of preceding writers, by a faithful, often toilsome, examination of monuments, even in the more obscure sites of Italy, and by a candour and accuracy of criticism seldom attained on topics singularly liable to prejudice. Public intelligence and taste must improve under such direction, notwithstanding passing sneers at "his narrow notions of admiring the faded and soulless attempts at painting of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries," or sapient conclusions that "the antiquities and curiosities of the early Italian painters would only infect our school with a retrograding mania of disfiguring art, and returning to the decrepit littleness of a period warped and tortured by monkish legends and prejudices."[116] In order to be comprehended, such "curiosities" must not only be seen, but studied maturely: both are in this country alike impracticable. When Wilkie first entered Italy, he found nothing to rank them above Chinese or Hindoo paintings,[*117] and could not discern the majestic simplicity ascribed to the primitive masters. Yet, ere six weeks had passed, he recorded the conviction "that the only art pure and unsophisticated, and that is worth study and consideration by an artist, or that has the true object of art in view, is to be found in the works of those masters who revived and improved the art, and those who ultimately brought it to perfection. These alone seem to have addressed themselves to the common sense of mankind. From Giotto to Michael Angelo, expression and sentiment seem the first thing thought of, whilst those who followed seem to have allowed technicalities to get the better of them, until, simplicity giving way to intricacy, they seem to have painted more for the artist and the connoisseur than for the untutored apprehensions of ordinary men." So, too, in writing to Mr. Phillips, R.A., he says, "respect for primitive simplicity and expression is perhaps the best advice for any school."[118] [Footnote 116: _Art Union_, January and April, 1847. We have read with regret, in a periodical justly entitled to great weight, criticisms so at variance with its wonted candour and good sense.] [Footnote *117: Evidently Chinese and Japanese art were not understood in England in 1859.] [Footnote 118: CUNNINGHAM'S _Life of Wilkie_, II., pp. 197, 506.] Neither are religious innovations a necessary accompaniment of such tastes among ourselves, as is too generally supposed. The present reaction in favour of Romanist views, prevalent in England among a class of persons, many of whom are distinguished by high and cultivated intellect, as well as by youthful enthusiasm, takes naturally an æsthetic as well as theological direction. The faith and discipline, which they labour to revive, having borrowed some winning illustrations and much imposing pageantry from painting, sculpture, and architecture, their neophytes gladly avail themselves of accessories so attractive. Nor can it be doubted that the same qualities which render such persons impressionable to popish observances, predispose them to admire or imitate works of devotional art. Yet there is no compulsory connection between these tendencies. Conversion to pantheism is not a requisite for appreciating the Belvidere Apollo or the Medicean Venus; and a serious Christian may surely appreciate the feeling of the early masters, without bowing the knee to their Madonnas,--may admire the "Prelibations, foretastes high," of Fra Angelico's pencil, whilst demurring to the miracles he has so charmingly portrayed. There is another observation of Wilkie's which merits our notice: "Could their system serve, which I think it may, as the border minstrelsy did Sir Walter Scott, it would be to any student a most admirable groundwork for a new style of art." This somewhat hasty hint must be cautiously received. The very absence of technical excellence interests us in the formal compositions and flat surfaces of the early masters. We feel that movement and distance, foreshortening and relief, symmetry and contrast, tone and effect, are scarcely wanted, where "a truth of actuality is fearlessly sacrificed to a truth of feeling." We are forced to admit that men who regarded form but as the vehicle of expression, attained a severe grandeur, a noble repose, very different from exaggerated action. Archaisms of style are, however, ill suited to our times. Originally significant, they are now an affectation--the offspring of penury or perverted taste, rather than of spiritual purity. So must they seem in modern productions, affectedly divested of the artificial means and improved methods which centuries of progress have developed, by artists who forget their academic studies and neglect the contour of the living model, without attaining the old inspiration. The spirit which animated devotional limners being long dead, any imitation of their style must be mechanical--a reproduction of its mannerism after its motives are extinct. Whilst, therefore, I endeavour to point out the merits of the old religious limners, it is with no wish to see their manner revived. Among a generation whose faith has been remodelled, whose social and intellectual habits have been entirely revolutionised, the restoration of purist painting would be a mockery. But it should not, therefore, be forbidden us to study and sympathise with forms which, though rigid and monotonous, were sufficient to express the simple faith of early times, and in which earnestness compensates the absence of skill, and fervour the lack of power. During the early years of the thirteenth century, there appeared on the lofty Apennines of Central Italy, one of those mysterious beings who, with few gifts of nature, are born to sway mankind; whose brief and eccentric career has left behind a brilliant halo, that no lapse of time is likely to dim. Giovanni Bernardoni, better known as St. Francis of Assisi, by his eloquence, his austerities, and all the appliances of religious enthusiasm, quickly gathered among the fervid spirits of his native mountains a numerous following of devoted disciples. In a less judicious church, he might, as a field-preacher, have become a most dangerous schismatic; but, with that foresight and knowledge of human nature which have generally distinguished the Romish hierarchy, the sectarian leader was welcomed as a missionary, "seraphic all in fervency," and in due time canonised into a saint, whilst his poverty-professing sect was recognised as an order, and became one of the most influential pillars of the Papacy. It was "On the hard rock 'Twixt Arno and the Tiber, he from Christ Took the last signet." From the desolate fastnesses of Lavernia, which witnessed his ascetic life and ecstatic visions, to the fertile slopes of Assisi, where his bones found repose from self-inflicted hardships, the people rallied round him while alive, and revered him when dead. Nor did the religious revival which his preaching and example there effected pass away. Acknowledged by popes, favoured by princes, his order rapidly spread. In every considerable town convents of begging friars were established and endowed. Still, it was in his mountain-land that his doctrines took deepest root, among a race of simple men, reared amid the sublime combinations of Alpine and forest scenery, familiar from their days of dreamy youth with hills and glades, caverns and precipices, shady grottoes and solitary cells. The visionary tales of his marvellous life, penetrating the devotional character of the inhabitants, became favourite themes of popular superstition. "A spirit hung, Beautiful region! o'er thy towns and farms; And emanations were perceived, and acts Of immortality, in nature's course Exemplified by mysteries, that were felt As bonds on grave philosopher imposed, And armed warrior; and in every grove A gay or pensive tenderness prevailed."[119] [Footnote 119: WORDSWORTH'S _Excursion_.] Assisi in particular was the focus of the new faith. To its shrine flocked pilgrims laden with riches, which the saint taught them to despise. This influx of treasure had the usual destination of monastic wealth, being chiefly dedicated to the decoration of its sanctuary. During the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries the best artists in Italy competed for its embellishment, and even now it is there that the student of mediæval art ought most to seek for enlightenment. With the legends of St. Francis thus indelibly stamped on the inhabitants, and with the finest specimens of religious painting preserved at Assisi, it need scarcely be matter of surprise that devotional art, which we have endeavoured to describe, should have found in Umbria a fostering soil, even after it had been elsewhere supplanted by naturalist and pagan novelties; for the feelings which it breathed were those of mystery and sentiment--its beauty was sanctified and impalpable. By a people so trained, its traditional types were received with the fervour of faith; while to the limited range of its themes the miraculous adventures of the saint were a welcome supplement. The romantic character of these incidents borrowed from the picturesque features of the country a new but fitting element of pictorial effect, and for the first time nature was introduced to embellish without demeaning religious painting. But let us hear Rio, the eloquent elucidator of sacred art, upon this subject. "To the Umbrian school belongs the glory of having followed out the leading aim of Christian art without pause, and without yielding to the seductions of example or the distractions of clamour. It would seem that a peculiar blessing belongs to the spots rendered specially holy by the sainted Francis of Assisi, and that the odour of his sanctity has preserved the fine arts from degradation in that mountain district, where so many pious painters have successively contributed to ornament his tomb. From thence rose to heaven, like a sweet incense, prayers whose fervour and purity ensured their efficacy: from thence, too, in other times, there descended, like beneficent dew upon the more corrupt cities of the plain, penitential inspirations that spread into almost every part of Italy." Since these pages were written I have met with a passage in the introduction of Boni's Italian translation of the work just quoted, which I subjoin, at the risk of some repetition, as a fair specimen of the ideas on Christian art now entertained by many on the Continent, but as yet little known to English literature. "On the Umbrian mountains, by Assisi, slept, in the peace of Heaven, St. Francis, who left such sweet odour of sanctity in the middle ages. Round his tomb assembled, from every part of Christendom, pilgrims to pay their vows. With their offertories there was erected over his grave a magnificent temple, which became the point of concourse to all painters animated by Christian feeling, who thus displayed their gratitude to the Almighty for their endowment of genius, who in that solitude laid in a new store of inspiration, and who, after leaving on these walls a testimony of their powers, returned home joyful and enriched. Cimabue, among the first that raised a holy war against the Byzantine mannerism,[*120] there painted the most beautiful of his Madonnas; his pupil, the shepherd of Bondone, there traced those simple histories which established his superiority; thither sped the artists of Siena, Perugia, Arezzo, and the best of the Florentines,--the beatified Fiesole, of angelic life and works, Benozzo Gozzoli, Orcagna, Perugino, and, finally, Raffaele, the greatest of painters. [Footnote *120: Cimabue raising a holy war against Byzantine mannerism is an amusing spectacle. All we know of him was that his pupil was a great painter. Whether or no he painted at Assisi it is impossible to say.] "Thus was there formed in the shadow of that sanctuary a truly Christian school, which sought its types of beauty in the heavens; or, when it laid the scene of its compositions here below, selected their subjects from the sainted ones of the earth. Its delight was to represent, now the Virgin-Mother kneeling before her Son, or seated caressing or holding him up for the veneration of patriarchs and saints; now the life of Christ, his preaching, his sufferings, his triumph; or, again, to embody the touching legends told in these simple times, or the martyrs crucified by early tyrants, or an anchorite's devotion in a lonely cave, or some beatified soul borne away on seraph's wings; or a religious procession, the miracle of a preacher, the solemnity of a sacrament: but ever, images of solace and of hope, cherubs singing and making melody, maidens contemplating with smiles the opening heavens, the scenes begun on earth but continued far beyond the clouds, where the Madonna and the Saviour are seen, radiant with serene exultation, beholding the concourse of suppliant faithful beneath." But lest, in quoting from writers zealously devoted to the Roman Creed, we may seem to admit that such sympathies belong not to Protestant breasts, it will be well to appeal to one whose pen has, with no common success, combated the usages wherein popery most startles those whose faith is based on the Reformation. "I never looked at the pictures of one of these men that it did not instantaneously affect me, alluring me into a sort of dream or reverie, while my imagination was called into very lively activity. It is not that their drawing is good; for, on the other hand, it is often stiff, awkward, and unnatural. Nor is it that their imagination, as exhibited in grouping their figures or embodying the story to be represented, was correct or natural; for often it is most absurd and grotesque. But still there is palpably the embodiment of an idea; an idea pure, holy, exquisite, and too much so to seem capable of expression by the ordinary powers either of language or of the pencil. Yet the idea is there. And it must have had a mysterious and wondrous power on the imagination of these men, it must have thoroughly mastered and possessed them, or they never could have developed such an exquisite ideal of calm, peaceful, meek, heavenly holiness, as stands out so constantly and so pre-eminently in their paintings." In noticing the cavils of connoisseurs upon these paintings this author happily observes, that they were "looking for earthly creatures and found heavenly ones; and, expecting unholy expressions, were disappointed at finding none but the holy."[121] [Footnote 121: REV. M.H. SEYMOUR'S _Pilgrimage to Rome_, a work remarkable for accurate observation of facts, and the candid tone of its strictures.] We may here remark, in passing, the nearly coeval introduction of a class of themes which, though innovating upon the purity of Catholic faith, were admirably adapted to develop the mystic tendencies of devotional painting. It was about the thirteenth century that the Madonna acquired the unfortunately paramount place in the Romish worship she has since been permitted to hold. Her history became a favourite topic of Franciscan and other popular preachers, at once facile and fascinating. Not content with describing the scriptural events of her life, they adopted traditions regarding her birth, marriage, and death; or the more abstruse and questionable legends of her miraculous conception, her assumption, exaltation, and her coronation as queen of heaven, and the _cintola_ or girdle by which she drew up souls from limbo. It would be quite foreign to the matter in hand were we to examine the orthodoxy of these devotional novelties, or their influence upon the social estimate of the female character. Enough to observe that they speedily enriched Christian art in all its branches, but chiefly in Umbria, where, in accordance with the prevailing popular taste, such of them as partook of dogmatic mystery gained a preference over more real or scenic incidents. The early Giottists were wont to close their dramatic delineations of her earthly history with a peaceful death, its only artistic licence being the transit of her soul in the shape of a swaddled babe. But the Madonna-worship of this more spiritual school was satisfied with nothing short of her translation in the body, direct to realms of bliss from amid a concourse of adoring disciples. In like manner, the old Byzantine painters inscribed over her image one uniform epigraph, "the Mother of God"; whilst the devotional masters delighted to seat her beyond the skies, where her blessed Son placed a diadem upon her brows as the queen of heaven. It hence became an established practice of the latter to depict her charms, not after the mould in which nature cast fair but frail humanity, but to clothe them in abstract and purer beauty appropriate to one whom, though incarnate, they were taught to regard as divine. CHAPTER XXVII The Umbrian school of painting, its scholars and influence--Fra Angelico da Fiesole--Gentile da Fabriano--Pietro Perugino--Artists at Urbino--Piero della Francesca--Fra Carnevale--Francesco di Giorgio. The Umbrian art, of which we have attempted to trace the origin, has not hitherto met with the notice which it merits. Lanzi allowed it no separate place among the fourteen schools under which he has arranged Italian painting, and, by scattering its most important names, has lost sight of certain characteristics which, rather than any common education, link its masters together. Nor was this omission wonderful, for the Umbrian painters and their works were dispersed over many towns and villages, none of which could be considered the head-quarters of a school, and to visit these distant localities would have been a task of difficulty and disappointment. The patronage of princes and communities seems to have been sparingly bestowed in that mountain-land. Assisi, adorned by many Florentine strangers, was mother rather than nurse of its native art, and other religious houses wanted the means or the spirit to follow her brilliant example. Hence the comparatively few opportunities afforded to the Christian painters of Umbria of executing great works in fresco, the peculiar vehicle of pictorial grandeur; and alas! of these few, a considerable proportion has been lost to us under the barbarism of whitewash.[122] The revival of feeling for religious art, of late commenced by the Germans, and their persevering zeal in illustrating its neglected monuments, have established the existence of an Umbrian school in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries; but its history remains to be written.[*123] The task would carry us too far from the leading subject of these volumes, yet we shall endeavour in a few pages to sketch its development, from the dreamy anchorites whose rude pencils embodied the visions of their favourite St. Francis, to Raffaele, whose high mission it was to perfect devotional painting,[*124] apart from the alloy of human passions, and to withstand for a time that influx of pagan and naturalist corruptions, which after his premature death overwhelmed it. [Footnote 122: In 1843, I saw fragments of fine frescoes in two churches at Cagli which had just been cleared of this abomination; and I was assured that the small church of Monte l'Abbate near Pesaro has but recently been subjected to it, by order of its ignorant curate. The abbey church of Pietra Pertusa at the Furlo is another of many similar instances.] [Footnote *123: It still remains to be written; but see the Essay of BERENSON, _Central Italian Painting_ (Putnams, 1904), and the valuable list of pictures appended to it.] [Footnote *124: This is an example of the taste of our fathers, almost inexplicable to-day. To consider Raffaele as a greater "devotional" painter than Duccio, Simone Martini, Fra Angelico, Sassetta, or Perugino might almost seem impossible.] Two fanes were commenced in the thirteenth century near the Tiber, which became conspicuous as shrines equally of Christian devotion and Christian art. The cathedral of Orvieto for two hundred years attracted from all parts of Italy many of the best artificers in sculpture and painting, some of whom, arriving from Umbria, carried back new inspirations to their homes. The sanctuary of St. Francis, at Assisi, coeval with the dawn of Italian art, borrowed its earliest embellishments from Tuscany,[*125] where Giotto and his followers were ingrafting on design two novel ingredients--dramatic composition and allegorical allusion. The former of these elements distinguished the Florentine from contemporary schools, and carried it beyond them in variety and effect, preparing a way for the pictorial power which Raffaele and Michael Angelo perfected. To the inspirations of Dante it owed the latter element, and to the enthusiastic though tardy admiration which his fellow-citizens indulged for his wildly poetical mysticism, may be ascribed the abiding impress of a tendency which not only authorised but encouraged new and varied combinations. The rigid outlines, monotonous conventional movements, and soulless countenances of Byzantium gradually were mellowed into life and beauty; but it is curious to observe how much sooner genius caught the spirit than the form,--how it succeeded in embodying expression long before it could master the more technical difficulties of design, action, and shadow. The credit claimed for Giotto of introducing physiognomical expression is, however, only partially true. Compared with the Greek works, or even with those of his immediate antecedents, Cimabue, Guido, and Margaritone, his heads, indeed, beam with animated intelligence, and feel the movement which he first communicated to his groups. Yet not less was the still and unimpassioned, but deep-seated emotion which the Umbrian painters embodied in their miniatures and panels, an improvement upon the lifeless and angular mechanism of the Byzantine artificers, although these very opposite qualities are generally condemned to the same category of contemptible feebleness by our pretended connoisseurs, glibly discussing masters whose real works they never saw, or are unable from ignorance and prejudice to appreciate. Such a state of art could not, however, remain wedded to a few fixed types. It was inherently one of transition, and necessarily led to a gradual abandonment of the Giottist manner of representation, while it enlarged the principles of composition introduced by Giotto. Beato Angelico, the first Florentine who successfully departed from that style, reawakening the old religious spirit, and embodying in it forms of purity never before or since attained, forsook not wholly the Dantesque spirit. His passing influence yielded to a manner more in unison with the times, which was formed and nearly perfected by Masaccio; but still Dante was not left behind. Luca Signorelli, issuing from his Umbrian mountains and his Umbrian master, imbibed at Florence the lofty images of "the bard of hell," and energetically reproduced them in the duomo of Orvieto, in startling contrast with the works of Angelico, and other devoted masters, who had previously decorated that museum of art. [Footnote *125: The Roman school was painting at Assisi in the Upper Church before Giotto. Cf. CROWE & CAVALCASELLE, _op. cit._, vol. II., p. 4.] There, too, had been wrought some choice productions of the Pisan sculptors,[*126] but their tendency to clothe nature in the forms of antique design met with little sympathy, and no imitation, from students whose minds were preoccupied by tales of St. Francis, and thus it is unnecessary here to notice them further. The Sienese school is in an entirely different category. Without encumbering ourselves at present by the definitions and distinctions of German æsthetic criticism, we shall merely remark that the painters of Siena, from Guido until late in the fifteenth century, never lost sight of that sentimental devotion which we have already described as the soul of Christian art, and which so curiously pervades the statutes of their guild formerly quoted. The cathedral of Orvieto was founded in 1290 by a Sienese architect, who, as we may well suppose, brought some of his countrymen to assist in its embellishment, and to infuse these principles among the native students, who, from assistants, became master-artificers of its decorations. Nor was this the only link which connected Sienese art with the confines of Umbria. The scattered townships in the Val di Chiana preserve in their remaining early altar-panels clear evidence that these were supplied from Siena; and Taddeo Bartolo, repairing thence in 1403 to Perugia, and perhaps to Assisi, left proofs that the bland sentimentalism of his native school might be united with a tranquil majesty, to which the Giottists had scarcely attained.[*127] [Footnote *126: The Pisan sculptors were for the most part Maitani, the Sienese. Cf. L. DOUGLAS, in _Architectural Review_, June, 1903.] [Footnote *127: Dennistoun says nothing of the magnificent work of Simone Martini, the Sienese, in S. Francesco, at Assisi.] Having thus briefly touched upon foreign influences which told on the pictorial character of Umbria, we are prepared to consider the most remarkable artificers whom it has produced, especially in the duchy of Urbino. Of these the first place is due on many accounts to ODERIGI DA GUBBIO,[*128] for, besides his claim to be founder of the schools of Gubbio and Bologna, he is celebrated among the most excellent miniaturists of his time by Dante, who has placed him in purgatory, a sentence justly deemed by Ticozzi somewhat severe for "the head and front of his offending," that of over-zeal in his art. "'Art thou not Oderigi? Art not thou Agobbio's glory, glory of that art Which they of Paris call the limner's skill?' 'Brother,' said he, 'with tints that gayer smile, Bolognian Franco's pencil lines the leaves: His all the honour now, my light obscured. In truth I had not been thus courteous to him The whilst I lived, though eagerness of zeal For that pre-eminence my heart was bent on. Here of such pride the forfeiture is paid; Nor were I even here, if, able still To sin, I had not turned me unto God. O powers of man! how vain your glory, nipt E'en in its height of verdure, if an age Less bright succeed not. Cimabue thought To lord it over painting's field, and now The cry is Giotto's, and his name eclipsed.'"[129] [Footnote *128: Cf. VENTURI, _Storia dell'Arte Italiana_ (Milano, 1907), vol. V., 837, 1003-4, 1014, 1022.] [Footnote 129: CAREY'S _Dante_, Purg. XI., 76.] Baldinucci has written a life of this master, chiefly in confirmation of his theory that all modern painting was produced from the personal influence of Cimabue, a dogma combated by Lanzi. His death is placed in 1299, which would make him contemporary with that Florentine artificer, and Vasari calls him the friend of Giotto, who was much his junior. The preservation of his name is perhaps chiefly owing to Dante's notice, though the antiquaries of Gubbio now reject the lapidary inscription which claims for the latter a residence in their town. There is in truth a sad deficiency of facts regarding Oderigi, and no work from his hand being now known, speculation as to his style would be useless.[130] That the painters connected with Gubbio in the following generation may have been formed under his instructions, is however a conjecture fairly admissible. [Footnote 130: The Ordo Officiorum Senensis Ecclesiæ, a MS. of 1215, in the library of Siena, has been ascribed to him, by confusion with another Oderico, a canon there; it possesses no artistic merit whatever.] Of these Cecco and Puccio were employed, probably as mosaicists, in 1321, upon the cathedral of Orvieto, whence they may have brought back to Umbria enlarged principles of art. But, abandoning conjectural grounds, let us notice the earliest Eugubinean painter whose works have survived to our own time. GUIDO PALMERUCCI is said to have been born about the time of Oderigi's death, while others consider him as his pupil. Assuredly the observation of Lanzi, which appears to rank him with the Giottists, is not borne out by the frescoes in his native town attributed to him, for these have nothing of the dramatic action which Giotto introduced, and their details, as well as their general manner, resemble colossal miniatures. This is especially the case in a figure of S. Antonio, the only remains of some mural paintings which covered the exterior of a chapel[*131] belonging to the college of painters, founded at Gubbio in the thirteenth century. The character of the saint is grand, the attitude solemn, the expression spiritualised; and an Ecce Homo still in the Church of S. Maria Nuova there, exhibits a similar style. Among the few fragments of mouldering frescoes to be seen at Gubbio, I have found no others ascribed to Palmerucci, but Passavant tells us he wrought in the town-hall about 1345. At Cagli two interesting frescoes in the church of S. Francesco have been lately brought to light from behind a great altar picture, and successfully moved to the adjoining wall. They represent two miracles of St. Anthony of Padua, and I am inclined to ascribe them to Palmerucci, or some able contemporary. The actors and bystanders are equally remarkable for heads of staid devout composure, which under Giottesque treatment would have been in a far higher degree animated and dramatic. In the beautiful art of pictorial glass, Gubbio has also a notable name in ANGIOLETTO, who embellished the chapel-window of St. Louis at Assisi, and enriched the cathedrals of Orvieto and Siena with his gem-like decorations. [Footnote *131: He refers to S. Antonio Abate, I suppose. There is nothing by Palmerucci in S. Maria Nuova, but a Madonna and Saints and Gonfaloniere kneeling are attributed to him in the Prefettura.] To the same city belongs the little we know of the Nelli family,[*132] yet that little is well calculated to call forth our regrets for their lost works. MARTINO NELLI was a junior contemporary of Palmerucci. In his fresco over the gate of S. Antonio, representing the Madonna enthroned, with elaborate architectural accessories, there may be traced an approach to the mild devotional abstraction with which the purist Christian artists tempered the "Maternal lady with the virgin grace." But in a smaller work of his son OTTAVIANO, the church of S. Maria Nuova possesses the very finest existing specimen of the Umbrian school, exempt from injury or restoration. The lovely and saint-like Madonna, the seraphic choir that forms a glory around her, the Almighty crowning the "highly favoured among women," have perhaps never been equalled among the happiest embodyings of devotional genius; nor are the rich colouring, the accessory saints, and the portraits of the Peroli family, who, in 1403, commissioned this grand work, inferior in merit. He is supposed to have been born about 1375, and, after executing in Assisi, Urbino, and other circumjacent towns, works long perished, to have died in 1444. Of the mural paintings by his brother Tomaso, in S. Domenico and under the Piazzone of his native town, it is impossible to say more than that whatever of the family inspiration may have guided his pencil has been nearly obscured by cruel restorations. [Footnote *132: Cf. MAZZATINTI, _Documenti per la storia delle Arti a Gubbio_, in _Arch. St. per le Marche e per l'Umbria_, vol. III., p. 1-48. Ottaviano was living certainly after 1444.] [Illustration: _Alinari_ MADONNA DEL BELVEDERE _After the fresco by Ottaviano Nelli in S. Maria Nuova, Gubbio_] Among the pupils of Ottaviano, "Who on high niche or cloister wall, Inscribed their bright-lined lays," about Gubbio, are PITALI, DOMENICO DI CECCHI, and BERNARDINO DI NANNI: to these may be added GIACOMO BEDI, a name that has escaped the historians of Italian art, by whom were painted in the church of S. Agostino four scenes in the life of the saint, which retain a freshness and force of colour equal to any productions of the age. With these the influence of Oderigi seems to have become extinct in his native town, before the close of the fifteenth century, long ere which it had, however, been transported elsewhere by Gentile da Fabriano, who, emerging from his Apennine home, reproduced in Florence and in Rome the characteristics of that master, amid universal applause, and, carrying them to Venice, founded there the religious feeling which the Bellini, Vivarini, and Cima di Conegliano sustained, imparting at the same time that taste for luxuriant colouring which Titian brought to perfection. But, ere we turn to the school of Fabriano, we may here translate from the original quaint Italian a letter from Ottaviano, illustrative of the early patronage of art by the Montefeltrian family. No trace of the works there mentioned now remains.[133] [Footnote 133: _Carteggio d'Artisti_, I., p. 131. Countess Caterina, to whom it is addressed, was wife of Count Guidantonio, mentioned in vol. I., p. 42. For some notices of Ottaviano, I am indebted to a short account of him by Signor Luigi Bonfatti of Gubbio, whose zealous researches will, it is to be hoped, soon enable him to illustrate as it deserves the hitherto neglected art of Umbria. His theory that Gentile was a pupil of Ottaviano may be redargued by their ages being nearly equal, but an examination of the surviving frescoes at Gubbio has inclined me to believe that the former drew from the same school of Oderigi, as represented by the Nelli, some of those inspirations of holy pathos, and something of that playful brilliancy of tints, which he subsequently combined with new principles.] "To the illustrious and lofty Lady, the Lady Caterina, Countess of Montefeltro, and my special Lady. "My special Lady, illustrious and lofty Madam, after due commendation, &c. I have received your benign letter, reminding me of the figures which I promised to make for your Ladyship. When your servant Pietro found me, I was on horseback, going upon certain business of my own, and so could not well tell him all my reasons, which I now expose to your Ladyship. When your Ladyship left Gubbio, I was, as you know, to furnish the _palliotto_;[134] after I had done it, I went from Gubbio to execute a small job which I had promised above a year past; for they would wait no longer, and I should have lost it had I not forthwith commenced. But I trusted that your Ladyship's kindness would hold me excused, for I counted that your commission, and that of my Lord, your son, would be completed against your Ladyship's return to Gubbio. In order, however, that your piety may be satisfied, I shall set myself warmly and fervently to do it quickly, and thus your intention will take effect. There is no one at S. Erasimo, so I must cause lime and sand be carried thither, and get them ground down, and also wood for the framework. If your Ladyship would but write to the friars of S. Ambrogio, or indeed to your factor, to prepare these things for me: but if not, I shall do my best; for you, my special Lady, never had servant more willing to do your Ladyship's commands than myself, and so you may count upon me as a faithful servant to the utmost of my power. I believe I have instructions for the work you wish in S. Erasimo [representing] your son, my Lord, kneeling with his servant and horse before that patron saint. Thus I recollect everything your Ladyship wishes of me, and God grant me grace to perform it all. Prepared for whatever your Ladyship wills; your most faithful, "OTAVIANO, painter of Gubbio. "From Urbino, the last of June, 1434." [Footnote 134: Palliotto was the painting or wood-carving occasionally placed on the altar-front in early times, for which a hanging of brocade or muslin was afterwards substituted.] In a sketch having no pretensions to a history, we need not pause upon names now known only from old records, and must keep strictly to those whose genius has left a decided impress upon the development of art in Umbria. We therefore pass over artificers belonging to various communities along the Apennines who appear on the rolls of Orvieto, including several from Fabriano. About the middle of the fourteenth century, the latter town boasted an ALLEGRETTO NUZIO, some of whose altar-panels may still be traced in La Marca, embodying a sentimentalism of expression, combined with a richness in the accessories, which remind one strongly of the finest productions of Memmi, and lead us to suspect an infusion of the Sienese style.[*135] But the renown of Allegretto rests more on that of his pupil Gentile, whom we have already named as the first who carried the characteristics and fame of the Umbrian manner beyond the seclusion of its highland cradle. [Footnote *135: Some magnificent works by Allegretto Nuzi of a most surprising loveliness may be seen in Fabriano.] FRANCESCO DI GENTILE was born at Fabriano about 1370, and, after maturely studying all that was best there and at Gubbio, he set forth to enlarge his field of observation. Florence was perhaps his first point of attraction, for nowhere else could he see such beautiful art. But resisting those seductions which the vast compositions of the Gaddi, Orcagna, and other Giottists held out to an ardent and youthful ambition, he preserved in their purity the holy inspirations of the fatherland, and meeting little sympathy for these among the fraternity of St. Luke, he sought for himself a more suitable companionship in the cloister of S. Domenico. There it was his good fortune to discover a man whose rare character realised those transcendental qualities, of which we read in the saintly legends of pristine times, without regarding them as real ingredients in human character. FRA GIOVANNI DA FIESOLE had spent the years which other youths wasted on stormy pleasures in acquiring the art of miniature painting, and its sacred representations took such hold of his feelings, that, abjuring the world, he assumed the habit of St. Dominic. But finding that his art, far from interfering with the holy sentiments which a tender conscience considered as inseparable from his new profession, tended directly to spiritualise them, the neophyte continued to exercise it; and upon settling himself in the convent of S. Marco, he extended his style to fresco, ever adhering to those pure forms of celestial bliss which no one before or since has equalled. It is related of him that, regarding his painting in the light of a God-gift, he never sat down to exercise it without offering up orisons for divine influence, nor did he assume his palette until he felt these answered by a glow of holy inspiration. His pencil thus literally embodied the language of prayer; his compositions were the result of long contemplation on mystic revelations; his Madonnas borrowed their sweet and sinless expression from ecstatic visions; the passion of our Saviour was conceived by him in tearful penitence, and executed with sobs and sighs. Deeming the forms he thus predicted to proceed from supernatural dictation, he never would alter or retouch them; and though his works are generally brought to the highest attainable finish, the impress of their first conception remains unchanged. To the unimaginative materialism of the present day, these sentences may seem idle absurdities, but they illustrate the character of Fra Giovanni, and no painter ever so thoroughly instilled his character into his works. Those who have not had the good fortune to see any of these cannot form an idea of the infantine simplicity, the immaculate countenances, the unimpassioned pathos apparent in his figures, nor of the transparent delicacy of his flesh-tints, and the gay and cheerful colouring which he introduces into the details, without injury to the angelic grace of the whole. These qualities procured for their author the epithet of Angelico; his personal virtues were acknowledged by an offer of the see of Fiesole, which his humility declined and by the posthumous honour of beatification; his paintings, to borrow the words of Vasari, elevated the utmost perfection to the ideal of art, by improving without abandoning its original type; and, in the characteristic language of Michael Angelo, he must have studied in heaven the faces which he depicted on earth.[136] [Footnote 136: Such testimony, from artists so antipathic to his practice, is a curious tribute at once to his merit and influence.] Such was the instructor with whom, although his junior, Gentile thought it no disparagement to place himself,[*137] and his works testify to his having caught much of the spirit as well as the elaborate finish of his master. But whilst Angelico passed his time in decorating the cells of his convent with frescoes, whose holy beauties have confirmed the faith and purified the secret contemplations of many a recluse, his pupil returned to the world, to follow up a successful career. Called to Orvieto about 1423, he there painted two altars, which, though not his best works, are peculiarly interesting in contrast with the grand productions which at a later period his master executed for that cathedral.[*138] In the registers of the fabric, he is, in 1425, designated as "master of the masters"; and the fame which he thus acquired brought him successive commissions at Florence and Siena, after which he was extensively employed in enriching the cities of Umbria and La Marca with works of which no trace now exists.[*139] Among these towns were Gubbio and Urbino; but still more interesting to our immediate subject,--the development of art under the Feltrian dukes,--is the altar-piece executed by him at Romita, near Fabriano, and now plundered and scattered by the French, part of which adorns the Brera Gallery at Milan. The Madonna is crowned by her Son, the Dove fluttering between them, the Father rising pyramidally behind, amid a choir of cherubim; below, in the empyrean void, is an arch spanning the sun and moon, on which stand eight angels, making melody of praise on various instruments. So extended was the reputation of this work, that Raffaele is believed to have been attracted thither in his youth, to imbibe that devotional sentiment which he was destined to advance to its culminating point of excellence. Another fountain of his early inspiration was the famous, but now defaced, Madonna of Forano, near Osimo, whose angelic beauty is described as well-fitted to have left an indelible charm upon minds less pure and enthusiastic than his. On the mere evidence of its ecstatic loveliness, it was generally ascribed to Beato Angelico; but as there is no account of the Frate having visited La Marca, it may probably have been produced by Gentile, when his return to his native mountains had freed him for a season from mundane impressions, and had restored him to the sanctifying influence of its legendary abstractions. [Footnote *137: Gentile da Fabriano was the pupil of Allegretto Nuzi, not of Fra Angelico.] [Footnote *138: There is only one fragment of Gentile's work in the Duomo of Orvieto: a Madonna, painted in 1425.] [Footnote *139: A fine work still remains at Perugia, No. 39, in Sala V., Pinacoteca.] [Illustration: _Alinari_ MADONNA DEL SOCCORSO _After the gonfalone by a pupil of Fiorenzo di Lorenzo in S. Francesco Montone_] From thence he proceeded to Venice, where many of his most brilliant performances were achieved; but these, too, are nearly all lost to us. There, in contact with the busy world, and sharing its honours, distracted, it may be, by the bright tints and smiling landscapes just then imported from northern lands, his devotional inspirations were gradually tinged by naturalism. His principal commission was a fresco of the naval victories of the Republic; and I have seen a small picture by him of the rape of the Sabines, whose feeble paganism belongs, no doubt, to his later years, and sadly proves how essential were these inspirations to his success. At Venice he opened a school, which enjoyed high reputation, and which probably numbered among its pupils Pisanello, the Vivarini, and Bellini, although chronology throws a doubt upon some of Vasari's assertions as to this point. A new field of glory opened before Gentile, when invited by Eugene IV. to decorate with mural paintings the since rebuilt church of the Lateran, where he painted four prophets in chiaroscuro, and placed below them the life of the Baptist,--works unfinished at his death in 1450, and now destroyed, but which Michael Angelo, little qualified as he was to appreciate the delicacies of religious art, characterised as worthy the _gentle_ name of their author. On quitting the cloister of S. Marco, Gentile had carried with him a portion of the devotional feeling which hung around the studio of Fra Giovanni, and along with it much of the taste for rich ornaments, for gold and brocades, for fruit and flowers, in which both of his instructors delighted. But whilst Allegretto and Angelico kept such foreign aids in subservience to the predominating sentiment of their works, their pupil caught from the great world, in which he freely mingled with credit and applause, an admiration of mundane grandeur which, in his later compositions, is singularly combined with the spirit of religious art. His immaculate Madonnas are worshipped less by angelic choirs of cherubim and seraphim, than by the great ones of the earth in their trappings of dignity; and of all sacred themes, the Epiphany, or adoration of the Magi kings at the stable of Bethlehem, was his choice. Such is the magnificent altar-panel which he wrought in 1423, for the church of the S. Trinità at Florence, now one of the most precious monuments in the Belle Arti there. Still more gorgeous is his crowded composition painted for the Zeni of Venice; but there he has contaminated the purist spirit of Christian painting, for in the suite of the eastern kings is portrayed the patron of the picture, with all the gallant company who attended his embassy from the Republic to Usamkassan, sovereign of Persia. The unequalled variety of groups, the elaborate splendour of oriental costumes, the crowd of horsemen in contrasted attitudes, the lavish adoption of gold, form a dazzling but harmonious whole, which has scarcely any parallel in painting. It is not improbable that this and similar works, besides introducing a new element into the semi-Byzantine practice of the Venetian school, may have spread to Albert Durer and other Germans, who long after visited that "Ruler of the waters and their powers," an influence carried by them to Nuremberg and Cologne, to enrich the already gaudy tendencies of ultramontane taste. But Gentile da Fabriano possesses another claim upon the student of early painting, hitherto inadequately noticed. To the lessons of his father, a learned mathematician, he may have owed the linear perspective which, in many of his productions, anticipated the improvements of Piero della Francesca. This is observable in the Zeno picture, and still more in a small predella in my possession, where his favourite theme, the Epiphany, is completed by a background accurately laid out in lines and compartments, such as we see in the Dutch gardens of the seventeenth century. But to this question we must return. Among the artists who maintained in Umbria the influences left by Ottaviano and Gentile, two were of special merit, NICOLÒ ALUNNO, of Foligno, and BENEDETTO BONFIGLI, of Perugia. Their works have been often confounded, but with the latter only have we to do, for, besides being nearer to Gentile both in age and in manner, he is generally considered as the master of PIETRO PERUGINO,[*140] and thus forms a link in the artistic chain which we are endeavouring to establish, through the best Umbrian painters, from ODERIGI OF GUBBIO to RAFFAELE OF URBINO. Of Bonfigli there are several interesting and well-preserved specimens in his native town, dated about 1466, but it must be owned that none of the earliest known works of Perugino exhibit much trace of his style. These, however, are all supposed posterior to Pietro's first visit to Florence, where his ideas must have undergone vast development from the examples of Masaccio and other masters, who there formed a galaxy of talent about the middle of the fifteenth century.[*141] In that city he formed his early friendship with Leonardo da Vinci, which Sanzi says was cemented by parity of age as of affection; and it is singular how little such sympathy can be traced in their genius or works. When, on the other hand, we contrast the placid features which Vannucci uniformly limned, rarely ruffled by sorrow, never clouded by sin, with the furious mien and restless energy of Michael Angelo's creations, we may well credit Vasari's story of their quarrel, and can account for the scrimp justice accorded to the painter of Città della Pieve by his Florentine biographer. They pretend not, indeed, to the bold character of Signorelli, nor even to the severity of Mantegna, or Piero della Francesca; but those who criticise them as stiff, timid, and monotonous, in contrast with the performances of the next generation, would arrive at more just conclusions did they include in the comparison those painters who had preceded him, and whose example was his early guide. [Footnote *140: We do not know who Perugino's Perugian master was; but it was more likely to be Fiorenzo di Lorenzo than Bonfigli.] [Footnote *141: There is no trace of Masaccio's influence in Perugino's work. He was influenced by Signorelli, and slightly by Verrocchio.] * * * * * Let us turn to Urbino. Lanzi tells us that Giotto, Gentile da Fabriano, and their respective followers, left works in that little capital; where Pungileone has shown that Ottaviano Nelli exercised his profession from 1428 to 1433, and Paolo Uccello of Florence in 1468, with other artists detected by the same zealous antiquary. Of such works, however, nothing can now be traced. The oldest paintings I could discover there were those in the oratory of St. John Baptist by Lorenzo and Giacomo di San Severino, Lanzi's blunders regarding whom have been corrected by the Marchese Ricci. The principal composition is the Crucifixion, with a dramatic action influenced by Giottesque feeling: the three other walls seem to have been occupied by a history of the titular saint, two passages of which are almost destroyed. Those remaining, though not exempt from retouching, are sufficiently preserved to enable us to detect a masterly and novel arrangement, and a character of devotion more consistent with the Umbrian manner, though marred by hard colouring. The date 1416 is added to the painter's epigraph. We learn from an old chronicle that Antonio da Ferrara painted the Montefeltro chapel in the church of S. Francesco in 1430, a fact scarcely reconcileable with Vasari's assertion that he was a pupil of Angelo Gaddi. He is also said to have executed an _ancona_ for the church of S. Bernardino, portions of which may probably be recognised in some figures still in the sacristy. In that of S. Francesco at Mercatello, among several memorials of a similar period, are {1843} two frescoes characterised by grand design, ample draperies, and full colouring, but deficient in delicacy. The _lunette_ of the marriage of St. Catherine outside the door is somewhat later, and very superior, and may be from the pencil of Pietro della Francesca. Of none of these works, nor of two good panel pictures in the same church, have I been able to find any account. In the hospital of S. Angelo in Vado is a panel altar picture in utter ruin, which has possessed surpassing beauty. The martyrdom of St. Sebastian is there powerfully conceived, and executed with the finest feeling. The inscription seems to have been, _Hieronymus Nardia Vicentis fecit_; the date probably towards the close of the fifteenth century. Such is the beggarly account we have to offer of early art in the country of Raffaele, and thus might we dismiss the speculations of those who would fondly trace its primary influences on his dawning genius. But though time and whitewash have combined to narrow this branch of our inquiry, we must not overlook an artist who ranks high among the reformers of painting, and upon whom the patronage of Duke Federigo was specially lavished. His family name has not come down to us, but he is generally known by the matronymic of Piero della Francesca, from the Christian name of his mother, though sometimes designed Pietro del Borgo, or Il Borghese, from Borgo S. Sepolcro, his native town. His life has unfortunately been left in much obscurity by his only biographer Vasari, who might have well bestowed somewhat more pains upon the career of one born in a neighbouring town, who left his finest works at Arezzo, and whose merits he is more inclined to magnify than to slight. The loose assertions of this author have been adopted by most succeeding writers, without addition and with little investigation; but of the school in which Pietro acquired the rudiments of his art, and of the earlier period of his career, we remain still uninformed, though his age and Apennine origin favour the conjecture that he may have imbibed his first lessons from works of Ottaviano Nelli the contemporary Umbrian master.[*142] Beyond question two very different manners appear in the productions of his pencil; the first, crudely composed and laboriously frittered into detail, with much of the contracted ideas and bright tinting of the old miniaturists; the second, broad and masterly in conception, and executed with a flowing pencil, though retaining an elaborate finish. Both styles are united in a little picture at Urbino, which we shall presently describe, the Flagellation being in the earlier, the three portraits in the larger manner. If born, as Vasari incorrectly states, in the last years of the fourteenth century,[*143] Piero, instead of being patronised by Guidobaldo I., must have reached at least eighty-four in that Duke's time; indeed, he would have been past middle life ere Federigo, whom, as we shall presently see, he calls his chief patron, succeeded to that state in 1443. "Guidobaldo Feltro" may, however, probably be a mistake of Vasari for Count Guidantonio, in which case a solution would be afforded for several of his manifold contradictions; and at that court, if not in earlier life, our artist might have been the associate or pupil of Nelli. Passing over works now lost which del Borgo is stated on the same authority to have executed at Pesaro, Ferrara, Ancona, and Loreto, we find him called by Nicholas V. to Rome, where his frescoes appear to have been destroyed in the many alterations made on the Vatican Palace before that century closed. [Footnote *142: Piero della Francesca was the pupil of Domenico Veneziano.] [Footnote *143: Piero was born in 1416.] Piero della Francesca is also asserted by Vasari to have been one of the most profound mathematicians of his day, and to have improved perspective and the management of light by an adaptation of geometrical principles to painting. The latter of these opinions has been received, and constitutes the highest claim of this master upon the historians of art. The point has not as yet been illustrated by any writer competent to pronounce with accuracy upon such pretensions,[*144] but the merit of having shown how to ameliorate perspective, especially in architectural design, is generally granted to Piero. Pascoli and others have regarded him as its father. Lanzi thinks him the first who revived the ancient Greek notion of rendering geometry subject to painting in general, although Brunelleschi, Paolo Uccelli, and others had already applied the same principles with less science to architectural details; and he combats the priority in these respects asserted by Lomazzo for Foppa of Brescia. The claims of Leon Battista Alberti,[*145] the architect, seem to have been settled by Vasari's opinion that distance was better described by his pen than delineated by his pencil. The same author enlists our sympathy in favour of Il Borghese, representing him as defrauded of his fame by an unscrupulous scholar, Fra Luca Pacioli, a Franciscan, who, after learning from him mathematics, availed himself of his instructor's after blindness to plagiarise his manuscripts, and eventually published them as his own.[*146] Into this controverted matter we need not enter, further than to pronounce with Tiraboschi, Rosini, and Gaye a verdict of _not proven_, and to observe that the celebrity attained by the friar's scientific works ought to reflect some merit upon his instructor. Yet justice to both parties requires us to extract the generous testimony volunteered to the painter by his pupil, in dedicating to Duke Guidobaldo his Summa de Arithmetica, Geometria, &c.: "Perspective, if closely looked into, would certainly be nothing without the aid of geometry, as has been fully demonstrated by Pietro di Franceschi, our contemporary, and the prince of modern painting. During his assiduous service in your Excellency's family, he composed his short treatise on the art of painting and the power of linear perspective, which is now deservedly placed in your library, rich with books in every branch." These, surely, are not the words of a literary pirate; indeed, Vasari's whole account is vague and confused. After telling us that Pacioli had appropriated the matter of Piero's many MSS., then existing at Borgo San Sepolcro, he adds that most of his writings were deposited in the Urbino library, where it is obvious that neither he nor those who have repeated his assertions ever sought them. After every possible search, I have reason to believe that that library now contains but two treatises by Il Borghese, nor have I found any evidence of others having ever been there. Both are in Latin, and are fairly transcribed on vellum in contemporary hands, with diagrams upon the margin.[147] The former is entitled _De Perspectiva_, but the subject is, in fact, Light,[*148] and its effect upon objects and colours. In place of a general title, it sets out with a dictum that "light is to philosophical inquiry what demonstrative certainty is to mathematics." The volume, bearing the arms and initials of Duke Federigo, must have been written for his library: though anonymous, it is clearly the work referred to in a dedication which we shall presently quote, the only other MS. upon perspective in the collection being that by Vitellioni (No. 265). [Footnote *144: Cf. PICHI, _La Vita e le Opere di Piero della Francesca_ (Borgo S. Sepolcro, 1893); WITTING, _Piero dei Franceschi_ (Strassburg, 1898); CROWE & CAVALCASELLE, _op. cit._, vol. III. BERENSON, _op. cit._, p. 69, says: "The pupil of Domenico Veneziano in characterisation, of Paolo Uccello in perspective, himself an eager student of this science, as an artist he [Piero] was more gifted than either of his teachers." Fra Luca Pacioli, one of the finest mathematicians of his day, praises Piero, and speaks of his renowned treatise on perspective, "now in the library of our illustrious Duke of Urbino."] [Footnote *145: Cf. on this point MUNTZ, _Precursori e propugnatori del Rinascimento_ (Firenze, 1902), p. 59 _et seq._ For his life _Vita Leonis Baptistae de Albertis_, by an anonymous author, believed to be Alberti himself, in MURATORI _R.I.S._, vol. XXV., partly translated in EDWARD HUTTON, _Sigismondo Malatesta_ (Dent, 1906), pp. 163-9. Cf. also MANCINI, _Vita di L.B.A._ (Firenze, 1882), and _Nuovi documenti e notizie sulla vita e gli scritti di L.B.A._, in _Arch. St. It._, Series IV., vol. XIX.; also SCIPIONI, in _Giornale St. d. Lett. Ital._, vol. II., p. 156 _et seq._, and vol. X., p. 255 _et seq._] [Footnote *146: This is a tale like so much in Vasari. Piero was never blind at all it seems. BOSSI, in his work on Leonardo's _Cenacolo_ (Milan, 1810), deals minutely with this libel.] [Footnote 147: Vat. Urb. MSS. No. 1374 and 632. The manuscripts by him, mentioned in No. 131 of the _Quarterly Review_, as in the possession of his descendant, Count Marini, of Borgo S. Sepolcro, no longer exist; and a small portrait there of himself does not appear to be by his hand. As a further specimen of the Friar's ideas on this matter, we may offer an extract from his _De Divina Proportione Epistola_ (Venice, 1509), wherein he compares perspective to music, ranking both with the geometrical sciences, since just as "the former refreshes the mind with harmony, the latter delights it greatly by correct distance and variety of colours." "Who, indeed, is there that, seeing an elegant figure with its exact outlines well defined, and seeming to want nothing but breath, would not pronounce it something rather divine than human? And painting imitates nature as nearly as can be told, which is proved to our eyes in the exquisite representation, so worthily composed by the graceful hand of our Leonardo, of the ardent desire after our salvation; wherein it is impossible to imagine greater attention than that of the apostles, aroused on hearing, in the words of infallible truth, 'One of you shall betray me,'--when, interchanging with each other attitudes and gestures, they seem to converse in startled and sad astonishment."] [Footnote *148: "He was perhaps the first," says Mr. Berenson, "to use effects of light for their direct tonic or subduing or soothing qualities." He uses light as the "plein air" school of France uses it. See a chapter devoted to his work in my _Cities of Umbria_ (Methuen, 1904).] The other volume has for title _Petri Pictoris Burgensis de Quinque Corporibus Regularibus_. The five bodies discussed in it are, the triangle of four bases, the cube with six faces, the octagon with eight faces and as many triangles, the duodecahedron with twelve faces and as many pentagons, the icosahedron with twenty faces and as many triangles. We shall extract from the dedication to Guidobaldo I. a passage relating to the essay and its author: "And as my works owe whatever illustration they possess solely to the brilliant star of your excellent father, the most bright and dazzling orb of our age, it seemed not unbecoming that I should dedicate to your Majesty this little work, on the five regular bodies in mathematics, which I have composed, that, in this extreme fraction of my age, my mind might not become torpidly inactive. Thus may your splendour reflect a light upon its obscurity: and your Highness will not spurn these feeble and worthless fruits, gathered from a field now left fallow, and nearly exhausted by age, from which your distinguished father has drawn its better produce; but will place this in some corner, as a humble handmaid to the numberless books of your own and his copious library, near our other treatise on Perspective, which we wrote in former years. For it is usual to admit, at the most luxurious and festive banquets, fruits culled by a rude and unpolished peasant. Indeed, its novelty may ensure its proving not unpleasing; for though the subject was known from Euclid and other geometers, it is now [first] applied by me to arithmetical science. At all events, it will be a token and memorial of my long-cherished attachment and continual devotion to yourself and your illustrious house." This must have been written after 1482, when, if Vasari's dates be accurate, Piero was at least eighty-four years old, and had been blind during five lustres; a circumstance which, though not entirely inconsistent with his cultivation of the exact sciences, would occasion an impediment not likely to be passed over by him, when pleading as an apology the disabilities of age. The researches of Abbé Pungeleoni have, however, established that no such calamity had befallen our painter in 1469, when he was the guest of Giovanni Sanzi, at Urbino; and it is no way referred to in Pacioli's dedication, written in 1494, while he was still alive. Altogether, it may be questioned whether that alleged bereavement was not one of Vasari's many inaccuracies, the most valuable portion of whose account of this master is a notice of the frescoes executed by him in the choir of S. Francesco, at Arezzo, wherein are depicted the Discovery and Exaltation of the true Cross, and the Vision and Victory of Constantine. These noble works, uniting a happy application of his favourite studies on perspective and light, with a grandeur and movement unknown to most of his compositions, are now mere wrecks,[*149] in which, however, may be traced not a few ideas subsequently appropriated by more celebrated artists. The most remarkable of them is the Vision, the original drawing for which has been published by Mr. Young Ottley. In the play of light and the management of chiaroscuro, there is far more profound study than was usual among his contemporaries, and in no other work of so early a date have these been as successfully treated. By a not very intelligible juxtaposition, the companion compartment is occupied by an Annunciation, grave, solemn, almost severe, as are most of his later paintings. The lowest and largest space on either side of the choir, is filled by the Battle, whilst Constantine prays in a corner, surrounded by his courtiers. These may have suggested to Raffaele the same subject for the Stanze, but they afford no details calculated to animate his pencil. Soldiers, horses, and banners are, indeed, mingled together with a bustle and energy of action hitherto unattempted; but the effect is neutralised by an all-prevailing confusion, and by a want of groups or episodes to concentrate the spectator's scattered interest or admiration. The design is generally good; the modelling and character of the heads are, as usual, excellent; the costumes are richly varied; and the horses remind us, by their action, of Pisano's pictures and medals. If it be true that Raffaele has repeated some of the noble ideas here freely lavished, it seems more probable that, in his Liberation of St. Peter, he wished to excel the tent scene, than that he bore in mind the crowded men-at-arms when composing the Victory of Constantine. The elements have conspired against this _chef-d'oeuvre_ of Pietro del Borgo. Its walls were frightfully riven during last century by an earthquake, and its menacing cracks have since been shaken by thunderbolts. Although the repairs have been judiciously limited to securing the plaster, without attempting any restoration of the frescoes, several compartments are almost wholly defaced. Some female groups, however, remain, which yield to nothing that Masaccio has left for the plaudits of posterity. [Footnote *149: They are in quite fair preservation as things go.] In much better preservation is a hitherto unnoticed painting on the wall of a chapel in the cathedral of Rimini, dated 1448. It represents Sigismondo Pandolfo Malatesta, whom we have so often named in the first volume of this work, kneeling in prayer before his patron saint, Sigismondo, king of Hungary. The wide and once beautifully graduated landscape has unfortunately suffered; but the favourite dog,[*150] crouching behind, is evidently as striking a likeness as his master, whose dignified character and serious pose give to what is but a laboriously accurate portrait, the spiritualised grandeur of a noble devotional composition. It embodies the verity of nature, exempt from the vulgarity of naturalism. [Footnote *150: There are two greyhounds lying side by side facing opposite ways.] We have to lament the disappearance of whatever works in fresco Pietro del Borgo may have executed for Urbino, unless we attribute to him, on an already noticed lunette over the outer doorway of S. Francesco, at Mercatello, a beautiful half-length Marriage of St. Catherine. Of the small pictures, which he is said by Vasari to have painted for that court, one only remains; it is in the sacristy of the Urbino cathedral, and is a monument of great interest as regards the master and his patrons. On one side is the Flagellation of Christ before Pilate, in an open court enriched with a beautiful perspective of colonnades and architectural ornament. On the other is introduced a detached group of three figures in conversation, magnificently attired, who are generally called at Urbino the successive sovereigns Oddantonio, Federigo, and Guidobaldo I.; but their ages, compared with that of the painter, are irreconcileable with such a supposition. The Abbé Pungeleoni, in his _Life of Sanzi_, considers them to represent Count Guidantonio and his successors, Oddantonio and Federigo; or they may more probably be portraits of Oddantonio and the two evil counsellors who led him and themselves to destruction, as narrated in our third chapter.[151] In the graphic character and fine modelling of their features is displayed one of those peculiar excellences which Il Borghese was able, from his knowledge of perspective and light, to introduce into the practice of pictorial art, and which he is said to have carried out by making finished figures of clay, and draping them with various materials. This precious little picture is signed _Opus Petri de Borgo Sci. Sepulcri_, and we have already quoted it as illustrative of both his first and second manner. I have been so fortunate as to trace three more of the Urbino pictures of this master, hitherto unnoticed. At the devolution of the duchy to the Holy See, they found their way into the possession of Urban VIII., and now adorn the private apartment of his successor, Prince Barberini, at Rome, where they pass under the name of Mantegna. The first, a portrait of Duke Federigo and his son, has been already described. Having been executed about 1478, when Guidobaldo was five or six years old, and when the painter, according to Vasari, was above eighty, it would afford conclusive evidence against the hitherto received date of Pietro's birth.[152] The other two are companion pictures, and though hung too high, appear in excellent preservation. Both are architectural designs on panel, one representing the court of a palace, the other a basilicon-like interior, with elaborate plastic decorations and very clever perspective; a variety of figures are introduced, but the subjects are not known.[*153] To these, and still more to some of his earlier productions, may be applied the observation of Fra Castiglione, that "the works of Pietro, and those of his contemporary, Melozzo da Forlì, with their perspective effects and intricacies of art, are appreciated by connoisseurs rather than admired by the uninitiated."[*154] [Footnote 151: Passavant conjectures this group to be a satire upon three neighbouring princes who were Duke Federigo's enemies, and seems to consider the picture influenced by some Flemish master. If painted after the visit of Justis of Ghent, it can hardly represent Oddantonio. See below, ch. xxx.] [Footnote 152: It is very unsatisfactorily engraved in BONNARD'S _Costumes du Treizième au Quinzième Siècle_.] [Footnote *153: None of these three belongs to Piero.] [Footnote *154: It is a curious comment on this that a man like Mr. E.V. Lucas, certainly not "a connoisseur," tells us in his book, _A Wanderer in London_ (Methuen, 1906), that he "once startled and embarrassed a dinner table of artists and art critics by asking which was the best picture in the National Gallery. On my modifying this terrible question to the more human form--Which picture would you choose if you might have one? and limiting the choice to the Italian masters, the most distinguished mind present named at once Tintoretto's _Origin of the Milky Way_.... After very long consideration," he continues, "I have come to the conclusion that mine would be Francesca's _Nativity_. Take it for all in all, I am disposed to think that Francesca's _Nativity_ appeals to me as a work of compassionate beauty and charm before any Italian picture in the National Collection."] The important influence of Pietro del Borgo upon Umbrian art is confirmed by Vasari, in naming among his scholars Perugino and Signorelli, the latter of whom worked at Urbino in 1484, and again, ten years later. But were our information as to his pupils more ample, we might probably find among them Melozzo da Forlì, to whom, and to other names connected with the duchy we shall return in our thirty-first chapter. Prominently among its painters, Lanzi has enumerated Bartolomeo Corradi, who became a predicant friar by the title of FRA CARNEVALE. Nothing is known of this talented limner beyond the fact that he combined his art with the duties of parish priest, at Castel Cavellino, and died soon after 1488. His best known work was executed for the great altar of S. Bernardino, near Urbino, as an _ex voto_ commemoration of Federigo's piety on the birth of his son in 1472. In it the Duke's portrait, and those of several of his children, are said to be introduced. Indeed, there are not wanting old authorities who regard the Madonna and Child as likenesses of Countess Battista and her infant Guidobaldo. I receive with caution a conjecture which, repugnant to the ideas of Umbrian art at that period, would fasten a charge of profane naturalism upon one whom I should gladly consider as a purely Christian painter. Pungeleoni ascribes to him a small devotional picture preserved in the church of the Zoccolantines at Sinigaglia, in which two accessory figures probably represent the Prefect Giovanni della Rovere and his wife, the sister of Duke Guidobaldo I.; but their marriage only took place about the supposed time of this painter's death; and, at all events, had the Abbé ever seen it, he could not have mistaken it for a sketch of the altar-piece of S. Bernardino. The latter remains in the Brera, at Milan, among the unrestored French plunder; and I have sought in vain for other identified works of Carnevale in the duchy, although inclined to attribute to him more than one fine but nameless altar-picture which I have found there.[155] [Footnote 155: Such is the magnificent Annunciation in a small chapel three miles west from Pesaro, known as the Madonna del Monte, but properly the oratory dedicated in 1505 to the Madonna dell'Annunziata di Calibano, by Ludovico del Molino, _alias_ degli Agostini. Its pure and beautiful countenances are less beatified in expression than earlier Umbrian works, but in composition and draperies it yields to none, and excels all others in gorgeous effect. The gilding is freely laid on in broad masses, and a scintillation in solid gold streams from the Almighty upon the Madonna's bosom, while the angels' wings are starred with peacock's plumage. Yet, as in Gentile da Fabriano's best works, all this glitter is subdued by an earnest and solemn feeling becoming the theme. The panel is inscribed "_Ludovicho di Jachomo Aghostini merchatanti da Pesaro a fato [fare] deta tavola a di xxiv. di Decienbre, mdx._" How unfortunate that the pious donor had not recorded the artist's name as well as his own! I was unable to visit an altar-piece at Montebaroccio ascribed to Fra Carnevale's pencil.] Our description of Duke Federigo's palaces has made us acquainted with the name of FRANCESCO DI GIORGIO, a painter and sculptor, as well as an architect and engineer. In the two former of these capacities he can be appreciated only in his native Siena, where two of his very rare pictures remain in the Belle Arti.[*156] His tendency to Umbrian feeling is obvious, and had Padre della Valle been acquainted with the productions of Fabriano and della Francesca, he would have detected in him a nearer approach to their manner than to that of Signorelli. But his fame depends on his numerous creations in architecture and fortification; whilst his inventions in military engineering were important additions to the art of war, as then conducted. Vasari's brief and blundering notice of him was supplemented by the researches of Padre della Valle, whose greedy patriotism maintained for him the merit of the Urbino palace, a claim of which we have formerly disposed.[157] Gaye, and the editor of the Florentine edition of Vasari {1838}, have added many new and interesting notices;[*158] but his name has of late received still more ample illustration at the hands of Carlo Promis, of Turin, by whom his life and principal writings have been edited, at the expense of the Chevalier Saluzzi. Francesco, son of Giorgio, son of Martino of Siena, was born in a humble rank about 1423; and, our earliest notice of his professional labours is in 1447, when we find he was one of the architects of the Orvieto cathedral. In 1447, we find him in Duke Federigo's service, which Promis supposes him to have entered shortly before; and there he appears to have remained until the death of that prince in 1482. The palace of Urbino having been already many years in progress, and not being mentioned by him, there is no reason to suppose he was much occupied upon it; and we find his own pen attesting the onerous duty imposed upon him by Federigo, as his military engineer. In July 1478 he was attached to the allied army, which the Duke commanded; and, in his autograph MS. speaks of having a hundred and thirty-six "edifices" on hand at once by his order. Among these, doubtless, there were many strongholds in the duchy; and he has left descriptive plans of Cagli, Sasso Feretro, Tavoletta, and Serra di S. Abondio. From various authorities cited by Promis, we may add, as probably of his construction, Castel Durante, S. Angelo in Vado, Orciano, S. Costanzo, S. Agata, Pietragutola, Montecirignone, S. Ippolito, Montalto, La Pergola, Cantiano, Fossombrone, Sassocorbaro, Mercatello, Costaccioro, Mondavio, and Mondolfo, besides numerous churches which he certainly planned for Federigo. The fortresses of Urbino have been estimated at nearly three hundred, a number which must seem at once superfluous and incredible, but for the entire change which the arts of war and defence were then undergoing, consequent on a general introduction of artillery.[*159] Federigo, perceiving the importance of strengthening his castles and citadels against "The cannon-ball, opening with murderous crash The way to blast and ruin," not only kept in active employment the most able engineer whom Italy then possessed, but, according to that artist's testimony, by his own experience and judicious suggestions, greatly facilitated the tasks which he imposed upon Francesco di Giorgio. [Footnote *156: There is a predella picture by him at S. Domenico, in Siena, and another in the Uffizi Gallery. He was the pupil of Vecchietta.] [Footnote 157: See vol. I., pp. 147-50, 161-3; _Lettere Sanesi_, III., p. 79; _Carteggio d'Artisti_, _passim_, I., pp. 255-316.] [Footnote *158: Cf. also BORGHESE & BANCHI, _Nuovi Documenti per la Storia dell'Arte Senese_ (Siena, 1898).] [Footnote *159: On the fortresses of the Marche generally, see GASPARI, _Fortezze Marchigiane e Umbre_, in _Arch. St. per le Marche e per l'Umbria_, vol. III., p. 80 _et seq._] Nor was it his professional services alone which the Sienese artist placed at his patron's disposal. The documents published by Gaye and Promis show him accredited on various occasions as the Duke's envoy to the government of his native city; and his _Liber de Architectura_ is dedicated to Federigo, at whose request, probably, it was composed. Vasari adds that he portrayed him both in painting and on a medal; and, in return perhaps for these diversified labours, that prince thus interceded for his admission into the magistracy of Siena. "Mighty and potent Lords and beloved Brethren; "I have here in my service Francesco di Giorgio, your fellow-citizen and my most favourite architect, who desires to be placed in your magnificent magistracy, as the ambition of his genius, excellence, prudence, and worth. I therefore pray your Highnesses that you will be pleased to elect him thereto, and to admit him into the number of your public men, which I shall regard as a special boon, as will be more fully stated to you on my behalf by your mighty ambassador. And your Lordships may be assured that were I not convinced that only good, faithful, and useful service is to be looked for from him, I should not propose him, nor intercede in his favour. And nothing more gratifying could I ever receive from your Lordships, to whom I offer and commend myself. "From Durante, the 26th July, 1480. "FEDERICUS DUX URBINI AC DURANTIS COMES, et Regius Capit. Gener., et S. Ro. Ecclesie Gonfalonierus."[160] [Footnote 160: MSS. in Public Library at Siena; printed in Bottari, Lettere Pittoriche I. App. No. 36, and in Gualandi, Memorie Artistiche.] Although this request was unsuccessful, so well was Francesco appreciated at home, that on several occasions Duke Guidobaldo vainly applied to the magistracy for his services. Yet he was frequently employed in the duchy from 1484 to 1489, the palace at Gubbio affording him partial employment. His military reputation being now widely spread, he had commissions from various princes, especially the sovereigns of Milan and Naples; but through these labours we need not follow him. The time of his death is not known; he, however, outlived most of the fortresses he had raised for Federigo, which were dismantled by order of his son, on abandoning his state in 1502, a policy suggested by confident reliance on his subjects' attachment, as the best guarantee of his eventual restoration. Francesco's MSS., dispersed in various libraries, are described in Promis's first volume. One of them, on architecture, transcribed for Guidobaldo II., was presented by him to Emanuel Filibert, Duke of Savoy, in 1568, and now ornaments the Royal Library at Turin. The invention of that variety of bastion called in Italy _baluardo_, and in Germany _bollwerk_, has been claimed for several engineers, among whom are three names belonging to Urbino,--Duke Francesco Maria I., Centogatti the painter, and Commandino the mathematician. Promis, in the second volume of his work already quoted, disposes of all these pretensions in favour of Francesco di Giorgio. His learned discussion may be allowed to decide this point, to which little interest now attaches, as well as the question of explosive mines for the destruction of military defences. Such an application of gunpowder had already been partially resorted to, but the Sienese engineer first established its importance and methodised its application. CHAPTER XXVIII Giovanni Sanzi of Urbino--His son the immortal Raffaele--Early influences on his mind--Paints at Perugia, Città di Castello, Siena, and Florence--His visits to Urbino, and works there. With GIOVANNI SANZI[*161] we have already made acquaintance as an epic poet. The patient labour of the Abbé Pungeleoni, and the critical acumen of Passavant, have amply refuted Malvasia's spiteful, and Lanzi's careless but often quoted assertions, that the father of Raffaele was an obscure potter, or, at best, an indifferent artist, from whom his son could learn little.[162] Those only who have traced out his pictures in the remote townships and villages of his native duchy, and who estimate his works by coeval productions, can appreciate his real merits. Giovanni Sanzi was of a humble family in the village of Colbordolo, a few miles east of Urbino, for whose fictitious ancestry of artists there has been substituted by his painstaking but most puzzle-headed eulogist, a pedigree of peasantry from the middle of the fourteenth century. The son of one Sante, he assumed the patronymic Santi or Sanzi, which was subsequently euphonised by Bembo for his son into Sanzio. His grandfather Peruzuolo, after his losses by the Malatesta forays already alluded to,[163] had sold the petty holdings he possessed at Colbordolo, and removed his family to Urbino, where Sante became a retail dealer in various wares, and where he seems to have died in easy circumstances in 1485, nine years before his son. The inquiries of Pungeleoni have failed to ascertain the time of Giovanni's birth, but it was probably to these losses that the poet thus touchingly alludes, in his dedication,[164] as the impulse under which he became a painter:--"It would be tedious to relate the many straits and headlong precipices through which I have steered my life since fate devoured in flames my paternal nest, wherein was consumed all our substance; but arriving at the age when perhaps inclination would have led me to some more useful exercise of talent, of the many lines by which I might have gained a living, I devoted myself to the marvellous art of painting, which indeed (in addition to the round of domestic cares, of all human concerns the most ceaseless torment) imposes a burden heavy even to the shoulders of Atlas, and in which distinguished profession I blush not to be enrolled." Neither are we enabled to throw any light upon the lessons to which Giovanni resorted for instruction in the calling which he thus, at some sacrifice of material interests, had adopted. The catalogue of contemporary artificers introduced into his Chronicle, including all that was eminent from Gentile da Fabriano to Leonardo da Vinci, shows a most extensive acquaintance with their respective styles, as well as their names.[165] Mantegna is one of them whom he specially extols; there is, however, no similarity between their productions. Yet, though we know nothing of Sanzi's artistic education, the works which Nelli, Gentile da Fabriano, and Piero della Francesca left in Urbino must have influenced his early impressions; and it is singular that nothing is said by them of these, and others who painted in the duchy, beyond the passing notice bestowed with little discrimination on all his contemporaries. The marked exclusion from this list of Justus of Ghent is plausibly conjectured by Passavant to indicate a professional jealousy of one who treasured as his secret the so-called oil painting brought by him from Flanders, and certainly never attained by Giovanni. Sanzi's manner partakes generally of the Umbrian character,--grave, reflective, self-possessed, without aiming at dramatic effect or artificial embellishment, yet not deficient in variety, or graceful expression. More severe than Perugino, he approaches the serious figures of Melozzo da Forlì, but subdues their naturalism by an infusion of devotional sincerity and simple feeling. He is partial to slender forms and delicately drawn feet and hands, but the contours are dark and hard, the flesh-tints dull and heavy, tending to cold gray in the shadows, and generally deficient in middle tints and reflections. His female faces are oval, often of a dusky complexion, and their foreheads singularly full. In the nude, he was in advance of his age, and in landscape he attained great proficiency. Pungileone enumerates about twenty of his pictures, many of them still in their original sites, and exhibiting considerable inequality of merit. But his _capo-d'opera_, and one of the most important monuments of Umbrian art, is the fresco in the Tiranni chapel, at S. Domenico of Cagli. In the recess over the altar is the Madonna, enthroned between two angels, in one of whom is understood to be portrayed the young Raffaele, then a child of eight or nine years old. At the sides stand Saints Peter, Francis of Assisi, Thomas Aquinas, and John Baptist. On the lunette above, Christ has just emerged from his tomb in the mountain rock: a glorious Deity, the conqueror of death, he bears in his left hand the banner of salvation, while his right is raised to bless a redeemed world, and scattered around lie six guards asleep, foreshortened in various and difficult attitudes. The vaulted roof displays a choir of angelic children, sounding their instruments and chanting songs of glory to the Saviour, who occupies its centre, holding the book of life: and on the external angles are small medallions of the Annunciation. There is, perhaps, no contemporary painting superior to this in grandeur of composition and stately pose of the figures; nor is it less admirable for novelty of composition and variety and ease of movement. The design is at once correct and flowing, and the expression, though fervid, oversteps not truth and nature. Passavant well observes that the breadth, vigour, and dexterous treatment of this painting proved its author to have been well practised in fresco, although but one other such work of his has escaped destruction or whitewash. In his house at Urbino, there is a small mural painting, removed many years since from the ground-floor to the first story, which tradition fondly claims as a boyish production of Raffaele, but which Passavant ascribes to Sanzi, conjecturing it to represent his wife and child. It is impossible to pronounce a satisfactory judgment as to the master, from the load of over-painting in oil. Though called a Madonna and Child, it seems rather a gentle mother, who, having hushed her babe to sleep upon her knee, reads from the breviary on a stand by her seat, and the composition and attitudes present a charming naïveté and natural expression. Connoisseurs agree in rejecting its claims as a work of Raffaele; nor does it quite resemble his father's usual type, though it is difficult to substitute any more plausible theory for the conclusion of Passavant. The reader may form his own judgment from the accompanying outline, bearing in mind that much of the drapery belongs to the pencil of a merciless restorer. [Footnote *161: See works quoted p. 138, note *1 _supra_.] [Footnote 162: _Elogio Storico di Giovanni Santi_; Rafael von Urbino. The few facts of importance which the Abbé's microscopic researches have ascertained are scarcely extricable from the confusion that prevails in his eulogy and its accompanying, or rather darkening, notes. The catalogue of Sanzi's works is useful to travellers, though sadly deficient in judicious criticism. The good Padre was more able to appreciate a mouldering MS. than a fine painting.] [Footnote 163: See vol. I., p. 94.] [Footnote 164: See it already described at p. 138.] [Footnote 165: See Appendix III.] [Illustration: Rafaello Sanzi di Anni Sei nato il dì 6 apr. 1483 Sanzi Padre dipinse _Gio. Sanzi pinx._ _L. Ceroni sculp._ RAPHAEL, AGED SIX YEARS _From a picture once in the possession of James Dennistoun_] * * * * * Such was the father to whom there was born at Urbino, on the 6th of April, 1483,[*166] a son RAFFAELE[167]; the superiority of whose qualities to those of preceding artists, and to ordinary men, has been acknowledged in several languages by the epithet "divine." Although ever the object of pride and popularity to all Italy, the incidents of his life have, until of late years, been comparatively neglected, and more ample justice has been rendered to his fame by ultramontane than by native biographers. Vasari's narrative, though compiled with more than his usual pains, and lavish in laudatory epithets, is far from satisfactory. Its author was the partial historian of a rival school, the favourite pupil of its jealous head. As a Florentine, moreover, he was bound by Italian usage to keep in shadow the merits of all "foreign" competitors and teachers. Raffaele he never saw, whose best pupils had left Rome ere Vasari visited the eternal city: with his Apennine home, its records and memorials, the latter had probably no personal acquaintance. While, therefore, we own our obligations to the writer of Arezzo for many important facts and valuable criticisms, we feel surprised that during above two centuries no attempt was made to supplement his obvious deficiencies. [Footnote *166: The works on Raphael would fill a library. In addition to the usual sources of information, see-- BRANCA, _L'ingegno l'arte e l'amore di R. e la nevrosi del suo genio_ (Firenze, 1895). CAMPORI, _Notizie ined. di R. tratte da docum. dell. archivio palatino di Modena_ (Modena, 1862). CAMPORI, _Notizie e docum. per la vita di Giov. Santi e di R._ (Modena, 1870). CROWE & CAVALCASELLE, _Raphael: His Life and Works_ (London, 1882-1885). FUA, _Raffaello e la Corte di Urbino_, in _Italia Artistica_, An. IV., p. 178 _et seq._ MUNTZ, _R. sa vie, son oeuvre et son temps_ (Paris, 1881). MUNTZ, _Raphael: His Life, Works, and Times_. Edited by Sir W. Armstrong (London, 1896). ALIPPI, _Un nuovo documento int. a R._ (Urbino, 1880). ROSSI, _La casa e lo stemma di R._, in _Arch. St. dell'arte_ (Roma), An. I., fasc. I. ANON., _La Casa di R. in Roma_, in _Arte e Storia_ (Firenze), An. VI., No. 17. RICCI, _La Gloria d'Urbino_ (Bologna, 1898). ANON., Notice of a portrait of R. in the collection of James Dennistoun (Edinburgh, 1842).] [Footnote 167: We have already accounted for the change of his surname to Sanzio, at p. 216. His Christian name, in modern Italian Raffaello, seems to have been spelt by himself Raphællo and Raffaele. *Raphael was born on Good Friday, 28 March, 1483.] [Illustration: _Anderson_ RAPHAEL _After the portrait by himself in the Uffizi Gallery, Florence_] Another meagre life of Raffaele, composed soon after his death, and upon which Vasari seems to have drawn largely, was published by Comolli in 1790, from an anonymous MS. It may be well to preface these observations by borrowing a passage of equal aptness and eloquence from an able review of Passavant's work.[168] [Footnote 168: _British and Foreign Review_, vol. XIII., p. 248.] "We may doubt whether in the whole range of modern history, or within the compass of modern Europe, one moment or one spot could be found more singularly propitious than those which glory in Raffaele's birth. He was happy in his parentage and in his patrons, in his master and in his pupils, in his friends and in his rivals: the first misfortune of his life was its rapid and untimely close. He was late enough to profit by the example, early enough to feel the living influence of four of the greatest masters of his art, of Leonardo da Vinci, Michael Angelo, Giorgione, and Fra Bartolomeo. The art of painting in oil had been introduced into Italy barely half a century before his birth; its technical difficulties were already mastered, but it still awaited a master's hand to develop its latent capabilities. His short life included the Augustan age of papal Rome, the age of its splendour and magnificence, if not of its power, and he died almost before the far-off sound of the rising storm had broken the religious calm, or foretold the coming miseries of Italy. The two pontiffs whom he served out-shone the most illustrious of their predecessors in their luxurious tastes and lavish patronage of the fine arts; and these arts still served the Church, not only with the grateful zeal of favoured children, but with the earnest devotion of undoubting faith.... In the age of Raffaele, while the rich and often graceful legends of the Catholic mythology still retained their ancient hold on the popular belief, the growing taste among the learned of the day for the literature and philosophy of ancient Greece had done much, by softening their early rudeness ere it chilled their early feeling, to mould them to the higher purposes of art. Christian art too, relinquishing at last her long attachment to traditional types and conventional treatment, was willing to exchange a fruitless opposition to the graces and beauties of ancient art, for a bold attempt to enlist them in her service." In truth, when we examine the character and the times of those men who have left the stamp of their genius most deeply on the mind or destinies of mankind, we generally find a providential adaptation of the one to the other. So was it with the greatest masters of art. Had Michael Angelo appeared a century sooner, he would have found the public unprepared, by a gradual advance of naturalism, for the revolution which he was destined to bring about. They would have seen in him the terrible, without perceiving how much truth accompanied it. Deprived of the sympathy and encouragement which no wayward spirit ever more demanded, he would have failed to achieve the marvellous, and might have perhaps scarcely risen above the monstrous. Leonardo da Vinci could, in any epoch, have given sweet or intellectual qualities to beautifully moulded features, but instead of enlightening the world upon the theory and practice of his art, and developing the infant powers of mathematical engineering, he might in an earlier age have been an alchymist, in a later one the improver of spinning-jennies. Titian, who would have been cramped by the lessons of a Crivelli, grew to manhood ere the league of Cambray had curbed the golden coursers of St. Mark's; and thus he formed his beau-ideal of noble bearing ere the subjects for his pencil had ceased to be the arbiters of Italy, the merchant-princes of the world. A mind such as Raffaele's, would in all circumstances have found or created materials of beauty. He might have been the purest of devotional painters in the days of Giotto, a reformer of corrupted taste in those of Bernini; but, placed on the confines of the old manner and the new, it was his proud distinction to perfect them both. Our antecedent remarks on the Umbrian masters have afforded us data for ascertaining the state of painting in the duchy at the advent of Raffaele. There were, indeed, few pictures within its bounds upon which the youthful aspirant might form an exalted style, but in his father he possessed an instructor competent to point out all that was worthy of study among contemporary limners, as well as to initiate him in the mechanism of his profession.[169] Too early was he deprived of this advantage,[*170] but not before he had been the companion of his parent's labours. Whilst we refuse to even his precocious genius the credit of working upon the fresco at Cagli,[171] the introduction of his portrait into it proves that he witnessed its progress. It was perhaps on similar opportunities that he imbibed, before the beautiful Madonnas of Romita and Forano, those purely devotional inspirations which are believed to have influenced his earlier and happier creations.[172] [Footnote 169: See Appendix IV.] [Footnote *170: Giovanni died when Raphael was eleven, in 1494.] [Footnote 171: See above, p. 218.] [Footnote 172: See above, p. 195-6.] With a mind thus prepared, and with the encouraging example of the Feltrian court, where talent and genius were sure passports to patronage and distinction, he was sent to study at Perugia soon after his father's death. This bereavement, which clouded his domestic peace not less than his artistic prospects, occurred in 1494, and was immediately followed by the loss of his maternal grandfather and grandmother, leaving him in the hands of a selfish and litigious stepmother. At this juncture, his guardian and paternal uncle Bartolomeo judiciously selected as a master for him Pietro Vannucci, called Perugino,[*173] the tender melancholy of whose candid and unimpassioned countenances contradict Vasari's wanton libels on his fair name, not less than a motto on his self-limned portrait, first noted by Mr. Ruskin, which indicates his belief that the fear of God is the foundation of artistic excellence.[*174] Whatever difference of opinion regarding the merits of that painter may have originated in the occasional inequality of the works attributed to him, no contemporary sent forth more scholars of excellence, or so faithfully maintained the integrity of Christian sentiment against ever increasing innovations. Unfortunately we are possessed of no authentic particulars regarding the interval which young Sanzio spent in a studio so congenial to his nature, or the paintings in which he had a hand; and thus those years most important to the formation of his character and style are a blank in his biography.[*175] At Perugia and elsewhere there are a few devotional pictures ascribed to him, by tradition or as signed with his initials; but even were their authenticity less doubtful, their insignificance and entire conformity to the type of Perugino would almost remove them from criticism. The admitted fact that Pinturicchio, a man of high genius, and about thirty years his senior, had recourse to the beardless Raffaele for designs, when employed to paint the cathedral-library at Siena, establishes thus early the two leading features of his after life, supereminent ability and conciliatory manners; and two of these drawings remain to prove how superior were the conceptions of the boy, to the execution of his matured comrade, excellent as that beyond all question is. He probably attended Perugino to Fano in 1497, when painting those lovely altar-pieces in S. Maria Nuova, which yield to no other production of his placid and expressive pencil, although we can scarcely accept a tradition which ascribes to the pupil some Madonna groups in the predella, upon the ground of their excelling his master's capacity. [Footnote *173: This is not so. The first master of Raphael was Timoteo Viti, who, having left home in 1490 to enter Francia's workshop, returned to Urbino in April, 1495. Timoteo was then twenty-six years old. There is a beautiful portrait of him by himself in the British Museum. The first undoubted work of Raphael, probably painted while he was a pupil of Timoteo, is the _Vision of a Knight_, in the National Gallery. Having served his apprenticeship to Timoteo, Raphael entered the most famous workshop in Umbria--one of a crowd of pupils--that of Perugino.] [Footnote *174: The suggestion that Perugino was an atheist, and died without the Sacraments of the Church, rests on no good foundation.] [Footnote *175: The first independent picture which he painted after coming to Perugia was the _Crucifixion_, now in the possession of Mr. Ludwig Mond. This was painted in 1501 or early in 1502, because the Vitelli for whom it was painted were driven out of Città di Castello in the latter year. I know nothing of any return to Urbino in 1499. He went back in 1504.] [Illustration: _Alinari_ MADONNA AND CHILD _After the picture by Giovanni Santi, in the Pinacoteca of Urbino_] Raffaele is supposed to have returned in 1499 to a home where he found few attractions. The moment was unpropitious for attracting the ducal patronage. Guidobaldo had retired from the Bibbiena campaign invalided and dispirited; the descent of French armies upon Italy banished from his thoughts the congenial pursuits of peace, and he repaired to Venice to take part in the coming strife. There was little inducement for the young Sanzio to establish himself at the board of an ungracious stepmother, so he set forth to try his fortunes at the neighbouring capital of Vitelli, and Città di Castello was enriched by the first works undertaken on his own account. One of these, S. Nicolò di Tolentino crowned by the Madonna, has disappeared in the rapine of the French revolutionary invasion; but another altar-picture of the Crucifixion, lately obtained from the Fesch Gallery by Lord Ward, enables us to appreciate this artist's extraordinary promise. But for the name RAPHAEL URBINAS, this would probably be ranked with the works of Perugino in which he was assisted by his pupil; and such as best know the paintings of that master at his happiest moment, can most appreciate the compliment of classing with them the unaided though imitative efforts of a lad of seventeen. The Sposalizio of the Madonna, abstracted from Città di Castello by the French, and now at Milan, is of four years later date, being marked 1504; but it was little more than a repetition of a similar work of his master, which, during the same havoc, was carried across the Alps, and remains at Caen in Normandy.[*176] The only specimen of his pencil still in the city which was the cradle of his fame, is a processional standard of the _confraternita de' giustiziati_ in Trinity Church, representing on its two sides the Trinity with Christ on the Cross, and the Creation of Eve.[*177] Though a mere wreck, it shows a novelty of composition and a delicacy of execution already distinguishing him from the manner of Perugino. [Footnote *176: This work is a copy of Raphael's picture by Lo Spagna. Cf. BERENSON, _The Study and Criticism of Italian Art_, vol. II., p. 1-22.] [Footnote *177: The only work of Raphael's left in Perugia is the fresco of Christ and Saints, in St. Severo, 1505.] The fame of these maiden efforts spread along the valley of the Tiber, and the novice was soon recalled to Perugia, to paint for the Oddi family an altar-piece of the Coronation of the Madonna, now with its predella in the Vatican Gallery. In rich and varied composition, it excels all antecedent representations of this favourite Umbrian theme, and establishes a decided advance beyond the standard of beauty adopted by Perugino. Now, too, he began his wonderful series of small devotional pictures, embodying the Madonna in conceptions of beauty which none other but the sainted limner of Fiesole has ever approached. On this his first emancipation from Umbria, he became acquainted with the classicism and naturalism then revolutionising art. At Siena, his perception of beauty was gratified by an exquisite Grecian statuary group of the Graces, which he transferred to his tablets, and afterwards reproduced in a picture. Tempted by the proximity of Florence, he seems to have then glanced at, rather than examined, those new elements which Masaccio and Verocchio had introduced, and which a host of able masters were enthusiastically developing.[178] [Footnote 178: The frequent contradictions of the many writers upon Raffaele throw a doubt upon most of his movements. Our rapid sketch has been compiled after a careful comparison of authorities, which we cannot stay to criticise or reconcile. *In 1504 Raphael went to Florence. The assertion that he accompanied Pinturicchio to Siena seems a mere invention of Sienese municipal vanity.] [Illustration: _Alinari_ ECCE HOMO _From the picture by Giovanni Santi in the Palazzo Ducale, Urbino_] The miserable state of his native duchy, as well as his many professional engagements, fully accounts for his prolonged absence from it; but a better state of things was now restored, of which he hastened to avail himself. He reached Urbino in 1504, before midsummer of which year, the Duke had returned to enjoy a tranquil home, for the first time during above two years. The visit was well timed, and fraught with important results to the young painter, for, besides sharing his sovereign's patronage, he became known to his sister, widow of the Lord Prefect, and to her son, who was about that time formally adopted as the future Lord of Urbino. The accession of Julius II., uncle to this youth, and his partiality to art, opened up a wide field of promise to one thus favourably introduced to the Pope's nearest relatives. But these dazzling prospects, and the charms of a cultivated court, were postponed to that professional improvement for which he thirsted; and, after executing some minor commissions for Guidobaldo, the young Sanzio hastened back to the banks of the Arno, where the muse of painting was rewarding the worship of her ardent and talented votaries with revelations of high art rarely before or since vouchsafed. The favour he had already earned from the Prefectress is testified by the following recommendation, which he received from her on setting out. "To the magnificent and lofty Lord, regarded with filial respect, the Lord Gonfaloniere of Justice of the distinguished republic of Florence.[179] "Magnificent and lofty Lord, respected as a father! The bearer hereof will be Raffaele, painter of Urbino, who, having a fine genius for his profession, has resolved to stay some time at Florence for study. And knowing his father to be very talented, and to possess my particular regard, and the son to be a judicious and amiable youth, I in every way love him greatly, and desire his attainment in good proficiency. I therefore recommend him to your Lordship, in the strongest manner possible, praying you, as you love me, that you will please to afford him every assistance and favour that he may chance to require; and whatever such aids and obligations he may receive from your Lordship, I shall esteem as bestowed on myself, and as meriting my special gratitude. I commend myself to your Lordship. "From Urbino, 1st October, 1504. "JOANNA FELTRIA DE RUVERE, Ducissa Soræ et Urbis Prefectissa." [Footnote 179: Pietro Sodarini, Gonfaloniere for life. The original in Latin is printed in BOTTARI'S _Lettere sulla Pittura_, I., 1. A loose expression might lead to the conclusion that Giovanni Sanzi was still alive, though he died in 1494; and on the strength of it, Rosini raises doubts as to the authenticity of the letter, or the identity of the painter, in which we cannot join.] This letter probably obtained him more civility than substantial benefit; as his various Florentine works attributed to this period were commissioned by private parties. Among these was Taddeo Taddei, correspondent of Bembo, and a well known friend of letters, for whom he painted the Madonna del Cardellino and another Holy Family, and of whose hospitalities and many favours he expresses a deep sense, in recommending him to his uncle's good offices at Urbino, whither the Florentine probably repaired to visit its famed court. Other kind friends and patrons were Lorenzo Nasi and Angelo Doni; but his chief object seems to have been the society and instructions of the best painters, which the acquaintance of his early master Perugino with Florence, as well as his own winning manners, must have facilitated. Leonardo da Vinci, whom Giovanni Sanzi couples with Perugino, as "Two youths of equal years and equal love," was then at the height of his fame, and in direct competition with Michael Angelo, the eventual rival of Raffaele, whose energetic genius was already striding forward on his ambitious career. Fra Bartolomeo was adapting their new and advanced style to the devotional feeling which hung around his cloister in the frescoes of Beato Angelico. Domenico Ghirlandaio was dead, but his mantle had fallen on a son Ridolfo, whom the young Sanzio selected as his favourite associate, to the mutual advantage of both. In such companionship did Raffaele study the grand creations of preceding painters; borrowing from them, or from living artists, ideas and expedients which his fertile genius reproduced with original embellishments. The influence of Da Vinci may be distinctly detected on some of his Madonnas and portraits of this period,--that of the Dominican monk on others, and on his general colouring; but the fresco of the former at S. Onofrio, and many works of the latter, prove that they reciprocated the obligation, by freely adopting his design. Early prepossessions as yet kept him exempt from the contagion of mythological compositions; but in portraiture he found a new and interesting field, and several admirable heads, produced at Florence, attest his great success, as a naturalist of the most elevated caste. [Illustration: _Alinari_ S. SEBASTIAN _After the picture by Timoteo Viti in the Palazzo Ducale, Urbino_] In an æsthetic view, the paintings and drawings executed by Raffaele at Florence are of infinite importance, but it would lead us much too far to examine the progressive development and naturalist tendencies which they display. We have not attempted to separate his various residences there from 1504 to 1508; for during these three years and a half, that city may be regarded as his head-quarters, varied by visits to Perugia, Bologna, and Urbino, which we shall now notice. In 1505, he was summoned to the first of these cities to execute three altar-pictures; one of which, at Blenheim, has been beautifully engraved by Gruner[*180]; another adorns the Museo Borbonico; the third, representing the coronation of the Madonna, is in the Vatican. Of the last commission some curious particulars are preserved. The nuns of Monte Luce having selected the young Sanzio, on the report of several citizens and reverend fathers, who had seen his performances, agreed to give him for the picture 120 golden ducats, and to another artist, Berto, 80 more for the carved framework and cornice, including three predella subjects; 30 ducats of the price being paid in advance. Raffaele's impatience to return to his studies soon carried him again to Florence, and a new contract for execution of the work was made in 1516; but death had removed both the abbess and the artist ere it was fulfilled, and ten years more elapsed before the picture was terminated by his pupils. The earliest attempt of Raffaele upon fresco, in the church of S. Severo, at Perugia, is dated 1505; its chief interest arises from being a first and incompleted idea of the grand composition which, originating with Orcagna and Fra Angelico, he developed in the Disputa of the Vatican Stanze. Two years later he revisited Perugia, to paint for the Baglioni one of his noblest and most elaborate altar-pictures, which, indeed, may be regarded as his first important dramatic composition. Its subject was the Entombment; the many extant sketches for which, prove the care exercised upon the cartoon, which he prepared at Florence. It is now the chef-d'oeuvre of the Borghese Gallery, and its beautifully pure predella is preserved in the Vatican. The same subject was treated by Perugino, in, perhaps, the finest of his panel pictures, which now ornaments the Pitti Gallery. [Footnote *180: Now in the National Gallery.] [Illustration: _Alinari_ MARGHERITA "LA FORNARINA" _After the picture by Raphael called La Donna Velata in the Pitti Gallery, Florence_] We shall not discuss whether Raffaele's acquaintance with Francia was formed by correspondence, or during a visit to Bologna, but one letter addressed by him to that charming artist is preserved, referring to much previous intercourse, and to a friendly interchange of drawings, and of their respective portraits. Their works, at all events, were mutually well known to each other, partly no doubt through Timoteo Viti, the pupil of both. It is worthy of note that Sanzio, writing to this friend after quitting Florence, the hotbed of classicism and naturalism, commends his Madonnas as "unsurpassed in beauty, in devotion, or in execution," thus showing the comparative value he attached to these respective excellences, among which "truth to nature," the favourite test of Vasari and later critics, has no place; and it is only when he comes to speak of the artist's own portrait, that he lauds it as "most beautiful, and life-like even to deception." It was this common sentiment that linked these master-minds: Raffaele was in the main a devotional painter, Francia was almost exclusively so. The year 1506 was momentous to Urbino. In the spring Guidobaldo returned, after a long absence from his capital, occasioned by pressing solicitations of his brother-in-law the Pope, that he would remain near him. The following autumn brought the Pontiff in person to visit his relation, at whose court his Holiness spent four days. During part of this year, Raffaele is supposed by Passavant to have resided in his native city, and possibly he may there have been presented to Julius; at all events he must have become known to several members of the polished circle at Urbino, whose acquaintance ere long proved useful and honourable to him at Rome, and who were able to forward his interests, both with that Pope and his successor. Such were Giuliano de' Medici, Castiglione, Bembo, and the Cardinal Bibbiena, while the high tone of intellect and taste, which prevailed in that select society, was calculated to improve as well as gratify his noble nature. Nor was his pencil idle in the Duke's service. Our information does not enable us absolutely to decide what of his Urbino works were produced on this occasion, and which of them are referable to his former visit, but we willingly adopt Passavant's classification of the pictures he is supposed to have painted for Guidobaldo, the first three being ascribed by that author to the year 1504. 1. Christ in the Garden, with three disciples sleeping in the distance, No. VIII. of Passavant's Engravings, a Peruginesque picture, "of miniature finish" as described by Vasari, before whose time it had passed to the Camaldolese Convent at Urbino, having been gifted by Duchess Leonora to two members of that fraternity at her son's baptism. Long subsequently, a prior of the Gabrielli is said to have alienated it to his own family; and in 1844 it was purchased from the Roman prince of that name by Mr. William Coninghame, at the sale of whose interesting collection in 1849, it was acquired by Mr. Fuller Maitland of Stansted in Essex. 2. and 3. Two small pictures which, unless commissioned as _ex voto_ offerings, belong rather to the class of romantic than devotional compositions. They represent St. George and St. Michael subduing their respective monsters, allegories of their triumphs over sin. The former of these is supposed to have been executed for Guidobaldo, and presented by him to the French King, by whom the latter was ordered as its companion. Both remain in the Louvre. 4. Another St. George slaying the Dragon with a lance, while the former one uses a sword. This picture, signed on the horse trappings RAPHELLO V., is of especial interest to our countrymen, the Knight's knee being encircled by the Garter of England, as patron of that order: it was painted by the Duke's command in commemoration of his receiving this distinction; and in all probability was carried as a present to Henry VII. by Castiglione, in 1506, when he went to London as proxy at his master's installation. There it graced the palace of the Tudors and Stuarts until sold for £150 by the Commonwealth to Lord Pembroke. It was subsequently purchased by Catherine of Russia from the Crozat Collection, in which it is engraved. [Illustration: _Anderson_ MARGHERITA LA FORNARINA _After the spoiled picture by Raphael in the Galleria Barberini in Rome_] 5. and 6. Two easel pictures of the Madonna, stated by Vasari to have been commissioned for the Duke of Urbino, are traced by Passavant to the Imperial Gallery at St. Petersburg, and to M. Nieuwenhuys of Brussels. 7. The portrait of Raffaele by himself, now in the Florence Gallery, is understood to have been executed at Urbino in 1506, whence it was carried to Rome by Federigo Zucchero, and placed in the academy of St. Luke, until obtained thence by the influence and gold of Cardinal Lorenzo de' Medici. Passavant considers that the hair and eyes have been darkened by restorations, and corrects a mistake of the Canonico Crespi, who has occasioned some confusion by mistaking an old copy of it still in the Albani Palace at Urbino for a fresco, and by writing to Bottari in 1760 as if he had there discovered an original likeness of Sanzio.[*181] [Footnote *181: None of these pictures save the last seems to be from Raphael's hand.] The Holy Family and St. John in the Ellesmere Collection, called the Madonna del Passeggio, is alleged to have been presented by a duke of Urbino to Philip II., and by him to the Emperor. Thence it is traced through Queen Christina to the Odescalchi and Orleans Galleries. Passavant appears to consider the Penshanger Madonna to have also been painted in the duchy. To the same period are ascribed missing portraits by Sanzio of Duke Guidobaldo I. and his Duchess, as well as of Bembo, Giuliano de' Medici, and others of their court. Though somewhat out of chronological order, we may here mention the portrait of a duke of Urbino, with those of Julius II., and a Magdalene, all said to have been from his easel, and to have belonged to the ducal family, particulars of which will be found in the list of Urbino pictures in the Appendix to our third volume. It, however, seems doubtful if he ever did portray either of his successive legitimate sovereigns; but a half-length of Lorenzo de' Medici, the usurping Duke, was purchased in Florence by the late M. Fabre about twenty-five years ago, and is now in the museum bequeathed by him to Montpellier. It is ascribed to Raffaele, and there is a good copy of it in the hall of Baroccio at the Uffizi of Florence. We have not connected any other works of his with Urbino, which, after the visit of 1506, he was not destined again to see. Writing from Florence to his maternal uncle, on the 21st of April, 1508, he expresses his regrets for the recent death of Guidobaldo, in brief and somewhat common-place terms; and, passing to other matters, begs that the Duke's nephew and heir may be requested to recommend by letter his services to the Gonfaloniere, for employment on some frescoes then in contemplation at Florence. He desires that the favour may be asked in his own name, as essentially advantageous to his views, specially commending himself to the young Prefect as an old servant and follower. Yet it would seem that he had already made for himself a better title to such patronage, in a mural painting of the Last Supper in the refectory of S. Onofrio. The recent discovery of this precious work, after centuries of oblivion, restores to him the credit of his most important Tuscan production, and adds another to the many attractions of Florence.[*182] [Footnote *182: This is not by Raphael.] CHAPTER XXIX Raffaele is called to Rome, and employed upon the Stanze--His frescoes there--His other works--Change in his manner--Compared with Michael Angelo--His death, character, and style. The letter alluded to at the close of our preceding chapter may be regarded as the matured result of Raffaele's careful study of the Tuscan masters, and an index of his resolution to rival the admired cartoons which had recently placed Da Vinci and Buonarroti at the head of living artists. Another scene was, however, reserved for his triumphs. Julius II. had begun to construct the metropolitan church and palace of Christendom with an energy befitting his character and the undertaking. Michael Angelo and Bramante were already in his service, and he sought to enlist talent and genius from all quarters for this object. The friendly influence of the ducal family, the recommendations of Bramante, or his own extending fame, possibly an acquaintance formed with him at Urbino in 1506, may have suggested Raffaele as a worthy associate in the work. On the Pope's summons he abandoned his projects at Florence early in the autumn of 1508, and, leaving several pictures to be finished by his worthy follower Ridolfo Ghirlandaio, "Repaired To the great city, an emporium then Of golden expectations, and receiving Freights every day from a new world of hope." The tower of Borgia, named from Alexander VI., was at that period the pontifical residence, and on its decoration the best artists had been successfully employed. The lower story was terminated under Alexander by Pinturicchio and his pupils; the upper had already engaged the hands of Piero della Francesca, Signorelli, and Perugino, but several of its compartments remained unpainted. One of these was assigned to Raffaele, and so gratifying was his success that the Pope, with headlong and unhappy haste, ordered all the finished frescoes of the upper suite to be demolished, and the four rooms of which it consisted to be delivered over to his unfettered discretion. This lamentable precipitancy effaced many works of inestimable importance to art, and condemned the noblest productions of pictorial genius to walls in every respect ill-adapted for their reception. The frescoes now occupying these _stanze_ are to Italian painting what the Divina Commedia of Dante is to Italian poetry: the lovers of both, in despair of imitating their excellences, have expended their enthusiastic admiration in volumes of illustrative criticism. These compositions of Raffaele form a magnificent epic in which are strikingly interwoven the endowments of human intellect, the doctrines of Catholic faith, and the incidents of ecclesiastical history, all as conducing to the triumphs of the Christian church. The four rooms may be regarded as four books, each subdivided into as many themes or cantos. In the Camera della Segnatura, the ceiling presents allegorical figures of Poetry, Jurisprudence, Philosophy, and Theology, with a large composition on the side walls corresponding to each. For Poetry we have Mount Parnassus, with Apollo and the Muses on its laurel-clustered summit, surrounded by the most famous bards and minstrels. Jurisprudence is a severely simple group, consisting of Prudence, Temperance, and Fortitude, the virtues by which justice is promoted on earth; while the text-books of Roman and Canon law are issued by Justinian and Gregory IX., in subsidiary panels. Philosophy is embodied in the famous School of Athens, as it has been incorrectly named, where fifty figures, attending a scholastic disputation between Plato and Aristotle, include the noblest names of ancient science, the selection of whom displays extraordinary knowledge of the history of mind. Theology, generally called the Disputa del Sacramento, is divided into two scenes. Seated in the heavens amid an angelic choir, the Holy Trinity is surrounded by the Madonna, the Precursor, and a glorified assemblage of patriarchs, prophets, and warriors of the Old Testament; apostles, evangelists, and martyrs of the New Dispensation. Below, the fathers of the Church and its most eminent divines expound to an audience of distinguished personages the mysteries of faith, which are symbolised by the Eucharist exposed upon an elevated altar in token of man's redemption. The stanza called that of Heliodorus has on the roof four signal manifestations of himself by the Almighty to the patriarchs. The first mural compartment represents the holiest mystery of the Romish faith established in the Miracle of Bolsena, whereby a doubting priest was supernaturally convinced of the divine presence in transubstantiation. Opposite is the miraculous deliverance from prison of St. Peter, the founder of the Romish Church; and the two corresponding subjects illustrate the power committed to his successors for arresting the invasion of pagan force personified in Attila, and for cleansing from the temple of Christ its sacrilegious plunderers, with Heliodorus at their head. Having thus illustrated the divine origin of man's chief faculties, and of ecclesiastical authority, Raffaele in the two remaining rooms exchanged allegory for historical delineation. That called the Stanza del Incendio shows us the Coronation of Charlemagne by Leo III., and the justification of that Pontiff on oath in presence of the same Emperor; the Victory of Leo IV. over the Saracens at Ostia, and his supernaturally staying a conflagration which threatened the basilicon of St. Peter,--a theme belonging rather to the category of the second room. The ceiling here, having been executed by Perugino, and reverently spared by Raffaele from the sweeping sentence of Julius, has no immediate bearing upon these subjects, though full of fervid feeling. The last and largest of the suite is called the Hall of Constantine, whose religious history is there delineated in four leading scenes: his Baptism, by St. Silvester; his Vision of the Cross before Battle; his Victory over Maxentius at the Ponte Milvio; and his Donation of Rome and its temporalities to the successors of St. Peter. The roof, of posterior date and far inferior merit, has nothing to do with Raffaele's creations. This meagre outline may indicate the leading theme of these the grandest compositions of modern art; but to form an idea of their difficulties, of the varied and profound knowledge they display, of the many noble episodes they embrace, and of all the interesting portraits they embody, demands no brief or light study, no ordinary learning or accomplishment. Nor is it easy to appreciate their technical merits or artistic beauties, vast as is their extent, with baffling and insufficient cross-lights, and a surface considerably impaired. Hence the general disappointment felt by casual and superficial visitors, and the superior gratification afforded by good engravings of the series. In these, and in the not less perfect tapestry-cartoons which it is the privilege of our country to possess, may be appreciated Raffaele's unity of composition, his symmetrical and unostentatious design, his full contours and flowing lines, and the earnest but unaffected sensibility which distinguishes his transcendent works. That the whole sixteen mural paintings and two of the ceilings were designed by Raffaele is beyond question; the portions executed by himself, and those assigned to his pupils, are matter of keen controversy, upon which we need not enter. It is, however, agreed that the Camera della Segnatura, and half that of Heliodorus, belong to the reign of Julius, whilst the Stanza del Incendio was painted under Leo X., when Sanzio's manifold employments and commissions obliged him to entrust too much to his scholars. Of the Sala di Costantino only two figures, painted in oil as an experiment, had been finished when premature death closed his career of glory. The price allowed for each fresco seems to have been about 1200 ducats of gold.[183] Theology, the earliest of the series, painted immediately on his arrival at Rome, has most of the freshness and devotional sentiment of his early genius and Umbrian education. It and the Philosophy are most pregnant with abstruse scholarship, drawn in part from the learned companionship of Duke Guidobaldo's court. The glowing and harmonious colouring of the Heliodorus, and Miracle of Bolsena fully equals any known production of Venetian art; and in the Incendio, the Heliodorus, and the Battle of Maxentius, we have the energy and vigour of Michael Angelo, without his exaggerations. In all may be seen the vast stride he had made from the timid Cenacolo at Florence, while his transition from Peruginesque hatching to a full and free streak, and a bold handling, is particularly traceable in the Disputa, which Passavant justly characterises as surpassing every antecedent effort of pictorial art. [Footnote 183: FEA, _Notizie_, p. 9. Raffaele's own letter of 1514 mentions that sum for each Stanza.] The death of Julius II. in 1513, eventually proved nowise detrimental to Raffaele's advancement; for the new Pope not only followed out those decorations which he found in progress at the Vatican, but soon made new calls upon their artist, whose labours during the remaining seven years of his short span appear almost beyond belief. Of the Stanze, ten new subjects were composed, and several of them in part executed by him in that time, besides the architecture and all the elaborate decoration of the Loggie, the finished cartoons for twelve or thirteen large tapestries, the decorations of the Farnesina, Bibbiena, Lante, Madama, and Magliana villas, the frescoes of Sta. Maria della Pace, the Chigi Chapel in Sta. Maria del Popolo, a variety of altar and cabinet pictures, including his Madonnas of San Sisto and del Pesce, the Sta. Cecilia, and, last but most glorious of all, the Transfiguration; besides numerous portraits, and many drawings for the burin of Marcantonio. Add to this a journey to Florence in 1514, his architectural designs for several palaces there and at Rome, a general superintendence of the antiquities in and around the Eternal City, and the principal charge of the building of St. Peter's, at a yearly salary of 300 scudi. The necessary results of thus over-taxing mind and body was prejudicial to the quality of the works, and to the constitution of their author. His paintings, left in a great measure to pupils, often showed a hurried and inferior execution, ill compensated by the broader treatment which he was forced to adopt. The metropolitan fabric, itself an ample occupation for the highest genius and constant industry of one man, languished under inadequate superintendence. The delicate frame of Raffaele, exhausted by mental fatigue, was incapable of resisting the first attack of disease. But brief and utterly imperfect as this sketch has hitherto been, we must now greatly curtail it, and pass by many of his most glorious undertakings, to touch upon one or two general views. [Illustration: _Alinari_ THE SPOSALIZIO _After the picture by Raphael, once in the Ducal Collection at Urbino, now in the Brera, Milan_] The devotional influences of the Umbrian school, from which Raffaele must have imbibed his youthful impressions, were reproduced in his juvenile works under forms of loveliness new to that mountain land. His visits to Florence offered fresh inspirations, and taught him to ingraft upon the conventionalities of Christian art, whatever his keen sense of beauty could cull from the creations of beneficent Nature. But he painted her and all her works, "Not as they are, but as they ought to be;" nothing mean or debasing found a place in his inventions, and homely accessories were either refined or thrown into shade. On the banks of the Arno he became acquainted with another class of elegant forms, wherein the ancients had developed a beau-ideal, faultless in its external qualities, but alien to religious sentiment. The reaction against paganism, which Savonarola's eloquence had effected in the Tuscan capital, contributed perhaps to save Raffaele from this snare; but at the court of Rome, and more especially under the Medicean Leo, the temptation became too strong. Before the twofold seduction of incarnate beauty and classic forms, the types of his pristine admiration were gradually effaced, and his fidelity to them waxed faint. After elevating Christian painting to its culminating point, he lent himself unwittingly to its degradation, by selecting depraved loveliness equally for a Madonna or a Venus, by designing from it indiscriminately a Galatea or a saint. True, that what he lost in purity is, in the opinion of many, more than counterbalanced by his progress towards breadth and vigour; but without entering upon so wide an element of controversy, we may note the fact that, though all his pupils boldly followed that "new manner," their career was one of rapid descent, and that those who departed most widely from their master's purest conceptions have obtained least admiration from posterity. Yet we must in a great measure acquit Raffaele of participating in the corruption which he shrank from combating. No work of depraved taste or immoral tendency has been brought home to his pencil, though the dissolute habits of his age readily applauded such libertinism in Giulio Romano, Titian, and Correggio. As to the long current statement, that his premature death was a well-earned result of vicious indulgences, the evidence, when sifted by recent research, entitles him to at least a negative verdict. No contemporary testimony gives the slightest countenance to the charge. It originated in a vague and random sentence of a commentator upon Ariosto, wherein four assertions out of six are palpably unfounded, and its gossiping character procured it a too ready admission from Vasari. The pure character of his works meets it with an effectual contradiction, on which those who best understand physiological conformation will most implicitly rely:-- "Love is too earthly, sensual for his dream; He looks beyond it with his spirit eyes." Another allegation remains to be examined, more detrimental to the artist, though less so to the man. During his progress through various styles, and in the composition of many works, Raffaele is said to have freely appropriated the ideas of others. There can scarcely be a doubt that his Graces were suggested by the antique marble at Siena; that several noble conceptions were transferred by him from the Carmine to the Vatican; that a group in the Incendio del Borgo was borrowed from Virgil's Trojan epic; that the arabesques of the Loggie were partly taken from the thermal corridors of Titus; and that other still more curious resemblances have been detected by an acute writer to whom we have already referred.[184] But such appropriations were established by authoritative precedents, from the conventionalities of Christian painting to the plagiarisms of Michael Angelo. The right to repeat themselves or others was recognised, though men of high genius rarely stooped to its absolute exercise. Raffaele,--"always imitating, always original," if we follow Sir Joshua's not unbiased strictures,--will accordingly be found, on closer examination, to have adapted rather than adopted the thoughts of others. Like the busy bee, culling sweets from every flower, he separated the honey from the wax, and reproduced, in new shapes and varied combinations, whatever of beauty he met with in nature or art. We may add another dictum of Sir Joshua,--"his known wealth was so great, that he might borrow where he pleased without loss of credit." These considerations seem fairly applicable to the influence exercised by Michael Angelo upon a few works of Sanzio. But if not the canon of criticism must be impartially administered. When the vigour of Buonarroti is adjudged to have been filched from Signorelli, his stalwart anatomy acknowledged as the legacy of Pollaiuolo; when Domenichino stands arraigned for transferring to his chef-d'oeuvre, the communion of St. Jerome, the exact motive and theme of his master, Ludovico Caracci's canvas in the Pinacoteca at Bologna, it will be time to admit Reynolds's proposition, that "it is to Michael Angelo we owe even the existence of Raffaele, and that to him Raffaele owes the grandeur of his style." Sanzio, in truth, shrank not from competing with whatever he deemed worthy of emulation. But his was a fair and friendly rivalry, however little its spirit was understood or reciprocated by the wayward and overbearing Florentine, whose charge against Raffaele and Bramante of undermining him with Julius II., adduced in an idle letter, is not only contradicted by the character of these great men, but it is palpably improbable. To their influence, Buonarroti ascribes the suspension of that Pontiff's tomb, regarding which we shall have much to say in our fifty-third chapter. But as neither of them were sculptors, and as the Florentine was not yet known to the Pope, either as an architect or a painter, such jealousy would have been absurd; whilst the taunt of Sanzio's owing all he knew of art to Michael Angelo can only be regarded as the petty ebullition of a notoriously wayward temper. The employment of the latter upon the huge bronze statue of his Holiness at Bologna, was the real reason for the interruption of the monument, which it was reserved for Duke Francesco Maria I. to have completed. [Footnote 184: _Quarterly Review_, No. cxxxi. pp. 20, 25, 32, 42.] Between these great masters no parallel can be fairly drawn, and had they wrought in the same town they would seldom have been placed in rivalry. But belonging to different states, and heading the antagonist schools of Rome and Florence, the sectional spirit of Italy has placed them in contrast, and has adopted their names as watchwords of local jealousy. In truth, Raffaele's advancement in anatomical accuracy was a necessary consequence of the growing naturalism of his time; and the improvement could not fail to develop the breadth of his pencil, as well as to enlarge the sphere of his compositions. The absolute amelioration of his works, after he settled at Rome, was therefore inevitable from the spirit of the age acting upon a genius not yet matured. That spirit Michael Angelo exaggerated rather than embodied; and to the purer taste of his rival many of his productions must have been beacons rather than models. There is, indeed, some truth, with much malice, in the sarcasm of Pietro Aretino, that the former painted porters, the latter gentlemen. Induced, perhaps, by some such idle sneer, Raffaele executed his Isaiah, to prove that the new manner was not beyond his grasp; but this, his first, and fortunately his last work, in which a direct imitation of the terrible Florentine is discernible, is now the least admired of his mural paintings; and some portion of its Michael Angelesque character has even been attributed to the after-restorations of Daniele di Volterra. The Poetry in the Stanze and the frescoes in the church of La Pace, which he has been supposed to have borrowed from the same source, are traced by more recent critics to works of Andrea l'Ingegno at Perugia and Assisi. After these observations, it is scarcely requisite to notice the remark of Vasari regarding the opportunity stealthily afforded to Raffaele by Bramante for plagiarising from his rival's gigantic creations on the roof of the Cappella Sistina. The casual manner in which the allusion is made does not warrant its being taken up, as it has been, in the light of a charge against the honour both of Sanzio and his friend; and even had it been so intended by the Florentine, various circumstances, besides the high character of those inculpated, are sufficient to negative the charge. If Raffaele followed Buonarroti's manner, it must be admitted that he alone did so without thereby deteriorating his own. Nor ought we to forget that most critics by whom this question is handled have merely repeated the loose views of the biographer of Arezzo, whose great aim it was to prove that the excellences of Sanzio were all borrowed from his Florentine contemporaries. The parallel which suggests itself between these gifted competitors[*185] has been thus stated with equal eloquence and truth: "The genius of Michael Angelo differed from that of Raffaele even more in kind than in degree; limited in its object, but intense in its energy, it gloried in the exhibition of its own colossal strength, and looked with contempt on those gentler graces that waited unbidden on the pencil of their favourite worshipper. When the rivals approached, it was by no common movement; Michael Angelo stood aloof on the lofty eminence he had chosen; it was Raffaele alone who dared at times to traverse the wide space that divided them. So great were the difficulties, so bold the attempt, that all his success, rapid and wonderful as it was, would have seemed almost necessary to rescue a character less modest and unassuming than his, from the charge of hardihood and presumption. With a noble candour he could scarcely have learned from his haughty antagonist, Raffaele was among the first to see, the most prompt to acknowledge, the new grandeur he had given to art.... Even when he rises to the very confines of sublimity, it is still the sublimity of the beautiful; and when Michael Angelo stoops for a brief space to court the aid of beauty, it serves like a transparent veil to soften rather than conceal the native sublimity of his genius.... Michael Angelo, the painter of the old covenant, has embodied his genius in the stern and gigantic forms of Moses and the Prophets; but he failed where Raffaele has shown as signally his skill, in the gentle dignity of the Saviour and the heavenly purity of a mother's love.... In his paintings, as in his character, there appears an unconsciousness of excellence, a consummation of art carried up to the simplicity of nature, that anticipates criticism, and allows us to indulge undisturbed in a fulness of admiration, which grows on the reason long after it has satisfied the heart. In Michael Angelo's best works there is often, on the contrary, somewhat so strange and so studied in gesture and attitude, so evident a design upon our wonder, as almost to provoke us to resistance, and impair the pure magic of the effect by attracting our attention to the cause."[186] [Footnote *185: Far from the parallel "suggesting itself," only a disorderly mind would make it. No comparison is thinkable between work that is absolutely different. One might as well compare a valley with the sea.] [Footnote 186: _British and Foreign Quarterly_, vol. XIII.] Honoured by the Pontiff and his brilliant court, idolised by a band of enthusiastic pupils, engrossed by distinguished commissions, Raffaele had few thoughts to bestow on his early home. His ties there had become few and feeble. His father's house had entirely failed; his only near relation was a maternal uncle, who retained his warm affection, and scarcely survived him. In writing to that uncle in 1514, to acquaint him with his signal success and augmenting wealth, he desires special commendations to the Duke and Duchess, modestly suggesting that they might be pleased to hear how one of their servants was doing himself honour. Gratifying as his extending reputation must have been to them, we find no trace of special exertions on their part to promote it. Indeed, they had ample occupation on their own concerns, in the revolution which soon after exiled them during the rest of Leo's pontificate. [Illustration: ISABELLA OF ARAGON _After the picture by Raphael in the Louvre_] One of Raffaele's best patrons was Agostino Chigi, a Sienese banker, who, after a most successful career at Rome, became in the prime of life the millionaire of his day, and who employed his great wealth, and the preponderating influence it gave him with the papal government, in a judicious promotion of art. His commissions to Raffaele include the mural paintings of his chapel in the Madonna della Pace, the architecture, sculpture, and mosaics of his other chapel in the Madonna del Popolo, and the architecture and internal decorations of his urban villa, now the Farnesina. The last has a melancholy interest, from being the latest work which exercised the cares of the illustrious artist. Whilst superintending its frescoes in March, 1520,[187] a summons from the Pope brought him with hurried steps to the Vatican, where, arriving overheated, he was detained in a large and chilly saloon until perspiration was checked. An attack of fever naturally followed, which, advancing to the stage called pernicious, proved too much for his delicate and over-excited frame, especially when still further exhausted by injudicious bleeding, in a belief that the attack was pleurisy. Aware of his danger, he sought support in his hour of need from the ministrations of religion and the rites of his Church. Such is the now received account. The most authentic particulars are contained in a letter, dated from Rome five days after his death. [Footnote 187: Yet this casino, begun in 1511, is by some said to have been completed several years before.] "About ten o'clock on Good Friday night [April 6th] died Raffaele of Urbino, the most gentle and most eminent painter, to the universal regret of all, but especially of the learned.... Envious death, cutting short his beautiful and laudable undertakings, has torn from us this master, still young, upon his very natal day. The Pope himself indulges in uncontrolled grief, and, during the fifteen days of his illness, sent at least six times to visit and console him.... We have, indeed, been bereaved of one of rare excellence, whose loss every noble spirit ought to bewail and lament, not simply with passing words, but in studied and lasting elegies. He is said to have left 16,000 ducats, including 5000 in cash, to be divided for the most part among his friends and household; the house of Bramante,[188] which he purchased for 3000 ducats, he has given to the Cardinal [Bibbiena] of S. Maria in Portico. He was buried at the Rotonda, whither he was borne by a distinguished cortège. His soul is beyond a doubt gone to contemplate those heavenly mansions where no trouble enters, but his memory and his name will linger long on earth, in his works and in the minds of virtuous men.--Much less loss, in my opinion, though the populace may think otherwise, has the world sustained in the death of Agostino Chigi last night, as to which I say little, not yet having heard of his affairs. I have only learned that, between cash, debts owing to him, securities, alum-mines, real estate, bank capital, appointments, bullion, and jewels, he has left eight millions of golden ducats." [Footnote 188: It stood in front of St. Peter's, and was removed when the piazza was extended.] It may be that Raffaele was timeously taken from the evil to come; since death exempted him from witnessing like Michael Angelo, a deluge of mediocrity he would have been powerless to withstand. But the blow was deadened by no such calculation, and seldom have obsequies so pompous been accompanied by grief as universal. By the bier, around which his funeral rites were celebrated, there was hung his great picture of the Transfiguration: the inspired beauty of its upper portion, and the unfinished state of the remainder, most touchingly testified his almost superhuman powers, and their untimely extinction. The place of his sepulture was behind an altar in the Pantheon Church, for the erection and endowment of which he provided by testamentary bequest, and where his bones have of late been reverently but unwarrantably disturbed. This selection appears to have been dictated by the recent interment near the spot of Maria Bibbiena, the grand-niece of his friend the Cardinal, to whom he had been betrothed, and who had lately predeceased him. The little that we know of this engagement is from the painter's own letter to his uncle in 1514; and it would seem to have been sought by the Cardinal rather than by the bridegroom, who appears to have abandoned his matrimonial arrangements to friendly match-makers with more than Italian indifference. The idle tale of his looking to a Cardinal's hat is now set at rest, as well as nearly all the gossip that had long circulated as to his supposed dissolute habits, and his liason with that Roman matron whose ample contours and rich flesh-tints have come down to us on his canvasses, and who, whether his mistress or not (examples of such licence being then almost universal), seems to have been a favourite model in his school.[189] [Footnote 189: Passavant treats the usual legends regarding the Fornarina as after inventions, and ascribes the earliest notice of her to PUCCINI'S _Real Galleria di Firenze_, I., p. 6.] The same pure taste and feeling for beauty, which characterise the frescoes and pictures of Sanzio, would have raised him to equal excellence in other branches of art. They are visible in his architectural compositions, and in his numerous drawings. The statue of Jonah in the Sta. Maria del Popolo, supposed to have been modelled, if not wrought, by his hand, proves what he might have attained in sculpture. He had no time for literary undertakings, but some sonnets, casually preserved on the back of his sketches, exhibit him as a cultivator of letters. An interesting result of his official charge of the antique monuments remains in an eloquent report to the Pope, in which, "Rome's ancient genius, o'er its ruins spread, Shakes off the dust, and rears its reverend head." Its authorship has given rise to some controversy, and it seems not unlikely that the materials supplied by Raffaele were thrown into shape by his friend Castiglione. It would be interesting as well as easy to adduce from contemporary pens proofs of the general admiration for his talents, and popularity of his manners. But we close this notice, too brief for the subject, though already exceeding our due limits, with the testimony of his earliest biographer, and of one of his most recent critics. Vasari thus commences his life of Sanzio: "The great bounty which Providence occasionally displays, in heaping upon a single individual an unlimited measure of favours, and all the rare gifts and graces which generally are distributed over a long interval and many characters, may well be seen in Raffaele Sanzio of Urbino. Equally worthy and engaging, he was endowed with a modesty and goodness sometimes united in those who, adding to a certain noble refinement of disposition the attraction of amiable manners, are gracious and pleasing at all times and with all persons. Nature presented him to the world when, already vanquished in art by the hand of Michael Angelo, she wished to be outdone by Raffaele, alike in art and in courtesy. In him she luminously displayed the most singular excellences, conjoined with such diligence, discretion, grace, comeliness, and good breeding, as might have concealed even the greatest blemish, or the most hideous vice. Hence it may safely be asserted, that those who possess such rare qualities as were united in Raffaele of Urbino are not mere human creatures, but rather, if such language be allowable, mortal divinities." Still more eloquent is the passage lamenting his untimely death: "Oh, happy and blessed spirit, every one delights to talk of you, to dwell upon your actions, and to admire every design which you have left. Well might the art of painting die when this her noble child was called away; for when his eyes were closed she was left all but blind. To us, his survivors, it now remains to follow the example of his excellent manner, cherishing in our memory, and testifying by our words, the remembrance due to his worth and our own gratitude. For in truth we have colouring, invention, indeed the whole art brought by him to a perfection hardly to have been looked for; nor need any genius ever think to surpass him." In the words of a writer upon whom we have already drawn:--"Cut down in the flower of his age, and,--like a favoured tree of his own most favoured land, while laden with golden fruit, bearing in still unopened blossoms the promise of a yet brighter future,--he was mourned widely as he was admired, deeply and truly as he had been loved. Young as he was in years, and modest in his bearing, there is a feeling of reverence blended in the fond regret with which even strangers dwell upon his memory, recount his virtues, and seek to read their impress and reflection in his works."[190] [Footnote 190: _British and Foreign Review_, vol. XIII., p. 274.] A critical examination of the peculiar merits of Raffaele's pencil, and of the benefits which he brought to art, would lead us further than this sketch will permit: yet there are certain points so apparent even to superficial observers, some qualities so unanimously dwelt upon by his eulogists, that it would be incomplete without a passing notice of them. To him the perception of beauty was a sixth sense, ever in exercise, and applied to the creations of his genius, as well as to his studies from nature. To its test were submitted those traditional forms of devotional art which influenced his early training; it imparted life and movement to Perugino's so-called monotonous poverty; it modified the dramatic action of the Florentine manner; it caught the full tones of Fra Bartolomeo, and gave dignity to the simper of Leonardo; it showed that anatomical accuracy required no muscular contortions; it realised the grand without verging upon the monstrous; it separated grace from grimace. This was an innate and personal gift, that could neither be taught nor imitated. The elevated character, harmonious composition, correct design, and just colouring which Raffaele stamped upon his school, were manifested in various degrees by his pupils, but the spirit of their master was a boon from nature, which none of them could seize or inherit. There are impetuous and daring minds who delight more in the energy of Michael Angelo's terrible forms; others luxuriate with greater fondness on the mellowed depth of Titian's magic tints; whilst to some the artificial contrasts of Correggio's brilliant lights, and Leonardo's unfathomable _chiaroscuri_ have irresistible charm. These eminent qualities are, however, the separate endowments of four individual minds; but Raffaele, deficient in none of them, possessed, in no less perfection, other more important requisites which we have noticed. It was this happy union that rendered him the unquestioned prince of painters, while the ready obedience of his unerring hand enabled him to realise the pure conceptions of his refined mind with a delicacy and truth which seem to defy imitation. Yet his sterling merit was undeviating propriety in the conception and execution of his works. Nothing ever emanated from his pencil offensive to religion, morals, or refinement; all that bears his name would honour the most fastidious reputation. To him accordingly there was granted a purity of taste, in none other united to equal genius. It was this that maintained the elevation of his style amid the conflicting difficulties and temptations of that "new manner" which it was his mission to perfect. Thus, although it is in the productions of his second period that we find the beau-ideal most perfectly realised, yet, even his later works, which descend to a closer imitation of nature, seldom fail to invest her with a dignity rare in the external world. In proportion, therefore, as he discovered or adopted the more elaborate resources and processes of his art, his ripening mind supplied him with themes and conceptions worthy of them, and of immortality. The various series of subjects which he invented for the Stanze, the Tapestries, and the Loggie, indicate a grasp of intelligence, a variety of acquirement, never before or since brought into the service of art, and establish beyond question that the intellect of Raffaele fully equalled his taste.[*191] [Footnote *191: Raphael seems to us to-day to have been a supreme portrait painter. His other easel pictures, splendid as they often are in "space composition," seem to lack sincerity. His frescoes have a perfect decorative value, but little force or real contact with life. If they sum up the Renaissance, they do so only in part, with much sacrifice of truth and of that virility and assured contact of life which were its most precious possessions.] CHAPTER XXX Timoteo Viti--Bramante--Andrea Mantegna--Gian Bellini--Justus of Ghent--Medals of Urbino. Having thus traced the advance of painting in the duchy of Urbino, from Oderigi da Gubbio, the friend of Dante, to Raffaele Sanzio, its _facile princeps_, it might be well to pause, and leave its rapid descent under a new dynasty of dukes to be followed in a future portion of our work. Yet there are still some native names, belonging to the better period both by date and by merit. Of these the principal was TIMOTEO VITI, who was born of reputable parentage in Urbino about 1470, and whose mother Calliope was daughter of Antonio Alberti of Ferrara, by whom the Giottesque manner had been brought to that city. Timoteo was sent to Bologna to profit by the instructions of Francesco Francia, and remained there from 1490 to 1495. The Christian painters of that city had chosen for their Madonnas a peculiar type, which, after being transmitted through several artists, attained its perfection from Francia's pencil. It may be distinctly traced in the best remaining specimen of Lippo Dalmasio, of whom we have already spoken,[192] a lunette in fresco, representing the Madonna and Child between two saints, which is over the door of S. Procul at Bologna. There we find a pensive cast of head gently bent on one side in dreamy contemplation,--the sweetly naïve features, with less indeed of a divine or seraphic expression than we see in those imagined by the Florentine and Sienese masters, but whose look seems to indicate that, though of earth, their owner was not earthy,--though a child of fallen humanity, she had not tasted of actual guilt. Those who know the Madonnas of Francia need not be told that they resemble sinless women more than beautiful beings. Somewhat of the same sentiment may be traced in the earlier productions of Timoteo Viti. Thus his Magdalen, which, though now in the Pinacoteca of Bologna, was painted for Urbino, is a grand figure in red drapery largely cast, standing in front of a wide cavern. Her girlish countenance appears too pure and gentle to have felt carnal passion, too placid to have wept over human sin; her reverential attitude aspires heavenward, without, like most of her class, appearing to loathe the earth. The mild character of Timoteo, as well as his promising talents, established him in the friendship of his master, whose diary touchingly records the affection with which he bade god-speed to his pupil, on quitting his studio.[193] [Footnote 192: See above, p. 161.] [Footnote 193: "On the 4th April, 1495, my dear Timoteo went away, to whom may God grant all good and success." He seems to have been received at first into Francia's "workshop" as a goldsmith, to work for the first year without pay, the second at sixteen florins a quarter, the last to be free, working by the piece. This indenture was, however, broken by mutual consent after fourteen months, on his wish to pass into the painters' studio.] [Illustration: _Alinari_ ST. SEBASTIAN _From the picture by Timoteo Viti in the Palazzo Ducale, Urbino_] Few of this painter's early works are identified, and no frescoes from his designs appear to survive; but his altar-picture painted for the Bonaventura chapel in the church of S. Bernardino at Urbino, and now by the hazards of war in the Brera at Milan, offers one of the most remarkable compositions of the age. The Annunciation, that graceful theme of Christian art, had hitherto been treated upon one uniform type, and though ever attractive was generally trite. The Virgin surprised by her heavenly visitor was a subject requiring, in contrast, the purest earthly and celestial beauty which the painter could invent. The early masters sought not to introduce any other character than that of hallowed loveliness, refined from worldly sentiment; their successors added what was meant for grace of manner, which in their hands generally fell into affected mannerism. Timoteo held a middle course, giving play to his fancy, but restraining its flight by the spell of holy reverence. Amid a fine and far-stretching landscape stands the Virgin, nobly beautiful, gazing with prayerful aspect upon an angel, whose demi-figure issues from a cloud. Far above her head the infant Saviour, supported by a dove in a triangular halo of dazzling splendour, descends from the skies to become incarnate in the womb of Mary; his foot poised upon a globe, and the cross resting in his left hand, whilst his right is raised in benediction. The archangel with out-stretched arms indicates the mother to the child, and the child to the mother, thus beautifully executing his mission by an expressive sign. In front of her, but on a lower level, so as to appear of less majestic presence, stand the Precursor and St. Sebastian; the former points to the principal group as the fulfilment of a cycle of prophecy which in his person was complete; the latter is a graceful prototype of that long series of martyrs who were destined to seal with blood their testimony to the atonement thus initiated. One portion of this novel theme had been anticipated by Giovanni Sanzi, in whose representation of the same subject at the Brera, though composed after old conventional ideas, the divine Infant is seen descending from the Almighty upon the Virgin, instead of the dove, which usually figures as the Holy Spirit. But such innovations were looked upon with watchful jealousy by a Church wedded to traditional conventionalities. Doubts were raised as to the orthodoxy of this representation of the Trinity, and an unfortunate ruddy tint suffused over the plumage of the snowy dove was construed into a stain on the immaculate character of the conception, which is usually represented as coincident with the Annunciation. The altar-piece was removed to undergo along with its author a searching examination, which resulted in its restoration as an object of devotion, and in his escape from the rigours of the Holy Office. Two altar-pictures by Timoteo remain in the cathedral-sacristy of his native city,[*194] besides a St. Apollonia in the church of the Trinità. These exhibit much soft expression and devotional feeling, combined with considerable breadth of execution; yet they scarcely possess the simple sentiment of the earlier Umbrian artificers, the noble character of Sanzi, or the fervour and finish of Francia. During his residence at Urbino, he may not improbably have influenced the young Raffaele's opening genius; but, ere long, fame's many-tongued trumpet told him how much he had to learn of his countryman, from whom he soon received an invitation to assist in executing the commissions which were crowding upon him at Rome; and, like many other gifted artists, Timoteo deemed it no degradation to work under his younger but more matured genius. Although one of the latest painters who retained that devotional spirit which we have endeavoured to trace from the Umbrian sanctuaries, his manner, at an after period of his life, changed with the influences to which he was exposed in the atmosphere of the Vatican; and some of those works produced under the superintendence of Raffaele which are generally ascribed to his hand, such as the Sybils in the S. Maria della Pace,[*195] display a very decided tendency to "the new manner." Few paintings have given occasion to greater variety of opinion and conjecture than this fresco, both as to the share in it which belongs to Timoteo, and as to the source from which the conception was derived. The theme is unquestionably referable to an authority older than that of Michael Angelo; and it is remarkable that, instead of the charge of plagiarism from his great rival being brought home to Raffaele, as has been frequently asserted, the former must have owed to Perugino, Pinturicchio, and Andrea d'Assisi the idea of rendering the sybils of mythological fable subservient to religious representation.[*196] By all these artists, pagan pythonesses had been grouped with scriptural prophets, as foreshadowing the mysterious plan of human salvation, and the fresco of the Pace must be regarded as a felicitous adaptation of Umbrian feeling to the tastes of such a patron as Agostino Chigi, deeply imbued with the classic tendencies of the Roman court.[197] The repeated restorations to which this fine work has been subjected render criticism of its merits in a degree nugatory, but the inferiority of the Prophets to the Sibyls is generally admitted. [Footnote *194: In the Cathedral sacristy is the St. Martin and St. Thomas of 1504, with the founders beside them. In the Pinacoteca there is a half figure of S. Sebastian, the figures of S. Roch and of Tobias with the Angel. The S. Apollonia, once in S. Trinità is now in the Gallery. Of these, the S. Sebastian, S. Roch, and Tobias show the influence of Giovanni Santi, the other two the influence of Raphael.] [Footnote *195: Timoteo painted the Prophets above the Sibyls in S. Maria della Pace, in Rome.] [Footnote *196: The Sibyl was not exclusively Pagan. Consider the first verse of the _Dies Irae_, which ends-- "Teste David cum Sibylla."] [Footnote 197: See the learned observations of PUNGILEONE, in the _Elogio Storico di Timoteo Vite_, pp. 23-38.] Vasari, after communication with our painter's family, represents him as pining for his native air in the capital of Christendom, where his stay cannot have been of very long duration, as we find him in 1513 one of the magistracy of Urbino. Here he shared his time between the sister arts of poetry, music, and painting, "delighting to play upon various instruments, but especially the lyre, to which he sang improviso with uncommon success." On Vasari's authority, we are also told that he "was a cheerful person, naturally gay and jovial, handsome, facetious in conversation, and happy in his jokes." One of the most remarkable productions of his Raffaelesque period is a _Noli me tangere_ (the appearance of Christ to the Magdalen after his resurrection), in the chapel of the Artieri, at Cagli, executed about 1518, which has been, perhaps, over-praised by Lanzi and others: the difficulty of the subject may in some degree disarm our criticism of its rather crowded and ungainly composition. On the whole, the merit and beauty of the few known productions of his pencil may well make us regret those which have disappeared, or which pass under other names; and, although Passavant accuses him of affectation and mannerism, the constraint apparent in some of his earlier productions may possibly be more justly ascribed to awkwardness. Pungileone supposes him to have returned to Rome in 1521, two years before his death, and there to have acquired a number of the cartoons and drawings of his friend Raffaele. Of these, and his own designs, a considerable portion passed a few years ago into the Lawrence collection, which the vacillation and ill-timed economy of our rulers allowed to be in a great measure dispersed. * * * * * Few artists have been the subject of more controversy than BRAMANTE. His architectural works procured him high reputation, for he is associated with the genius of Julius II., and the vast piles of the Vatican: but his name and family have been disputed, as well as the place and province which gave him birth; while his biographers, besides confounding him with an entirely different person, Bramantino of Milan, have aggravated the confusion by conjuring out of these two a third artist, who exists only by their blundering. Bartolomeo Suardi, instead of being master of Bramante, as Orlandi and others have supposed, was a pupil who, from attachment to his instructor, added to his own name the diminutive Bramantino. He chanced, however, to have a scholar, Agostino, who, by also adopting that designation, has further perplexed matters; three persons being thus almost inextricably mixed up. For our purpose it is enough thus to supply a key to these masters, and to observe that their relative merits coincide with their chronology; the first being a bright light of the golden age, the last an obscure painter of the _decadence_, who has left us little beyond the reflected lustre of a borrowed surname. But although the minute diligence of Lazzari and Pungileone seems to have set this matter at rest, their tedious disquisitions supply few important facts or useful criticisms, and a brief notice will suffice for our present purpose. Donato Bramante appears to have been born at Monte Asdrualdo, near Fermignano, in 1444, of parents in comfortable circumstances. As his first efforts were devoted to painting, he would naturally find instructors among the Umbrian artists already noticed; but for his education we have no particulars, beyond a conjecture that he studied under Fra Carnevale.[*198] At his father's death, in 1484, he was already abroad, probably in Lombardy, where most of his pictorial works were produced, and where some frescoes may still be seen, meriting no ordinary meed of approbation, and particularly distinguished by fidelity in portraits and accuracy of architectural perspective; qualities learned, doubtless, from the productions of Melozzo da Forlì and Piero della Francesca. Of these mural paintings, the most interesting remains in the church of the Canepa, at Pavia, and exhibits the artist presenting a model for that building to its founder, Duke Gian Galeazzo Sforza, his Duchess, and his mother. Rosini ascribes to him freedom of design, ease in movement and draperies, grand conceptions, and much ability in perspective. Indeed, whilst the colder genius of ultramontane nations has seldom occupied itself with more than one branch of art, many Italian masters attained to excellence in several; and Bramante's reputation as an architect being established, his engineering talents were called into exercise by Ludovico il Moro, upon the fortifications of Milan. There too he built several churches, and constructed as a sacristy for S. Satiro, one of those small round Grecian fanes which have been considered so peculiarly his own, that various churches of that type are ascribed to him on no better grounds than their form. The conception is, however, of earlier origin, for it appears in not a few miniatures and small devotional panels of the preceding century. He had adopted it in a little chapel of the Madonna di Riscatto, on the banks of the Metauro, opposite Castel Durante, said to have been his earliest work, and the idea was freely used by Perugino and his pupils, Raffaele included. It takes the form of a round building cased by Corinthian pilasters, in an easel picture preserved at Urbino, in the sacristy of Sta. Chiara, which is interesting as an architectural study, and has been attributed to Bramante, or to Giorgio Andreoli, the porcelain enameller of Gubbio. A symmetrically elegant Doric chapel, at S. Pietro in Montorio at Rome, is the chef-d'oeuvre of this classic style, and it was reproduced by della Genga in scenic decorations prepared at Urbino for the representation of Bibbiena's _Calandra_. [Footnote *198: He was probably the pupil of Luciano da Laurana and Piero della Francesca.] As the flower of Bramante's life went by during his long stay in Upper Italy, it is there that his pictorial talents must be appreciated, and that his most numerous, if not his most famous fabrics, may be found. But when Lombardy became the battle-field of Italian independence, when art was there neglected and personal safety compromised, he bethought him of the monuments of antique genius still scattered over the capital of her classic times, and came to Rome in quest of improvement as well as employment. The moment was not propitious, for Alexander VI. was no Maecenas. Yet in the public works, both of fresco-painting and architecture, Donato had a share; and he supplied designs for several private churches and palaces, varying the scene of his labours by prolonged visits to Naples and Tivoli. On the accession of Julius II. his star rapidly rose to the zenith of his reputation. His Urbino extraction was a recommendation to the new Pontiff, which his talents fully justified, while the vast conceptions and daring energy of his Holiness found in Bramante a willing and apt minister. To raise a temple wherein the Christian world might worship the living God, was a project worthy of their united genius, and it was entertained in a manner befitting the enterprise. There, grandeur of design was seconded by resolute purpose; nor were means and will deficient for levying from the piety or fears of mankind contributions apparently inexhaustible. But in a struggle with time, man is seldom victorious. The shadows of age, falling upon the Pontiff and his architect, warned them that their day was far spent. Anticipating the night that approached to arrest their labours, they worked with a zeal which knew no repose, but which proved fatal to the stability of their fabric. Death overtook them both ere any part of St. Peter's approached to completion, yet not before the too hurried masonry had begun to yield under its own weight. The inadequate foundations occasioned much supplementary trouble and outlay to those who conducted the edifice towards a conclusion, which it did not reach until 1626, a hundred and twenty years after it had been begun by Bramante. By some who witnessed the rapid and indiscriminate destruction of old St. Peter's,--that ancient basilicon, which early art had done its best to decorate, which Christian devotion had sanctified by cherished traditions, and over which time had cast a solemn halo,--Bramante has been blamed as a reckless innovator; and the charge meets a ready response from those who, in their search for primeval monuments of Catholic faith, pass from the glare and magnificence of the modern fane to mourn over broken sculptures and shattered mosaics buried in its rayless crypt. It would be easy to defend the architect at the expense of his master; but upon looking more closely into the charge, we shall find that the original fabric having become ruinous, its reconstruction was begun half a century before the accession of Julius, and that its last remains were not removed until a hundred years later. Thus it would seem that the demolition of so much that is ill replaced to the churchman and scholar of art, even by the gorgeous temple which commands our wondering admiration, must have proceeded from other reasons than haste. The slippery foundations that from time to time have occasioned infinite anxiety and expense, both for the church and adjoining buildings, were doubtless the original cause which lost us the basilicon of Constantine. But Julius was not the man to devote himself exclusively to one idea, even though a favourite one. Wishing to provide a palace for his successors worthy of the neighbouring fane which he had founded, he put the Vatican into Donato's hands. That pontifical residence, after being enlarged by Nicolas V. and Sixtus IV. was in a great measure reconstructed by Alexander VI., whose predecessor, Innocent VIII., had erected a casino in the adjoining gardens of the Belvidere. In order to unite this casino to the palace, Bramante contrived a double corridor, the vast intervening area of which he designed for festive spectacles. This fine idea, left by him unfinished, was marred by succeeding architects, who broke up the extensive court by cross galleries and unseemly appendages. We may, however, pardon the transmutation, as it has afforded admirable accommodation for the treasures of art, ever since accumulating in these almost boundless museums. In that handsome street to which Julius bequeathed his name, there may be seen near the church of S. Biagio, straggling vestiges of vast substructions, with rustic basements resembling the gigantic masses of fabulous ages, on which have been reared some mean and modern dwellings. These are the sole remains of a vast undertaking, nobly conceived by the Pontiff, and ably commenced by his architect, in order to unite under one palace the scattered law-courts and public offices of Rome. But it was Bramante's misfortune to serve a restless spirit, which attempting more than the span of human life could overtake, left its finest conceptions abortive. The merits of Bramante were appreciated by his contemporaries as well as by posterity, and gained him a substantial meed of honour and wealth. At the pontifical court he moved in a circle where refinement perfected the emanations of genius, and which included the choicest spirits of a brilliant age. Enriched by papal favour, magnificent in his expenditure, frank and joyous in his nature, he lived up to the advantages of his position, and made his palace the resort of many celebrities: there his Umbrian countrymen, Perugino, Pinturicchio, and Luca Signorelli, frequented his board; and after his death the house was bought by his friend Raffaele. He was a poet, for in Italy all sentiment readily falls into rhyme; but he was likewise a man of the world, whose natural tact and ready fluency compensated for a defective education. Dying in March, 1514, he was buried beneath that splendid fane which he had founded, but which many successive architects failed to raise. No monument testifies the gratitude of his countrymen, yet his name is entwined with garlands of undying verdure, and some of the noblest Italian piles bear the impress of his solid and enduring style. * * * * * FRA BERNARDO CATELANI was a Capuchin monk of Urbino, whose devotion sought scope in the exercise of Christian art, and who is generally considered a follower of Raffaele, although this is doubted by Grossi. Nor does it much matter, for the only work now identified with his name is an altar-piece of the Pietà with two attendant saints, in the church of his order at Cagli. Still less is known of one CROCCHIA of Urbino, named by Baldinucci as a pupil of Raffaele. His countryman, Centogatti, is said to have exercised the arts of architecture, sculpture, and painting, and to have instructed Duke Francesco Maria I., and also Gian Battista Comandino, in engineering. To him Lomazzo ascribes the invention of _baluardi_, and the erection of walls round his native town; but in both respects he appears mistaken, as we have had occasion to show in speaking of Francesco di Giorgio.[199] [Footnote 199: See p. 214 above. In an old MS. chronicle I find, besides most of the names here enumerated, the following now-forgotten painters of Urbino, at the close of the fifteenth century:--Bartolomeo di Maestro Gentile, Bernardino di Pierantonio, Ricci Manara, Francesco di Mercatello, and in 1528 Ottaviano della Prassede.] * * * * * The patronage extended to Francia by Duke Guidobaldo seems, from Vasari's authority, to have been of a very undiscriminating character, for his commissions to that painter of sweet Madonnas consisted of a Lucrezia, and a set of horse-trappings, whereon was depicted a blazing forest, with various animals escaping from it. Gaye has recovered some facts as to the favour bestowed by this dynasty upon Andrea Mantegna. In 1511, Duchess Elisabetta wrote to interest her brother, the Marquis of Mantua, in favour of his son Francesco, expressing herself as mindful of the regard she had borne his father, on account both of his own merits and his devotion to her family. Andrea's acquaintance with Giovanni Sanzi, already referred to, may have been formed on his journey to Rome in 1488, or on his return thence in 1490; but his fame had ere then reached Umbria, for in 1484 Ludovico Gonzaga, bishop of Mantua, wrote to the Prefect della Rovere, pleading his excuse for declining an order for a Madonna, his time being engrossed in the palace of Mantua. Vasari further tells us that Marco Zoppo, another Lombard painter, took a portrait of Guidobaldo when in the Florentine service. To his reign probably belongs a very grand specimen of Giovanni Bellini in the church of S. Francesco at Pesaro. We have already noticed him as a pupil of Gentile di Fabriano; and his visit to the duchy may have enabled him to confirm his early devotional impressions, by there depicting that favourite theme of the mystic school, the Coronation of the Madonna, surrounded by witnessing saints. The countenances, though without the unearthly inspiration belonging to the Umbrian art, have great beauty softened by reverential sentiment, and a colour which glows even through the dirt of centuries. In the Sta. Maria Nuova of Fano are preserved two of Perugino's finest works, the Annunciation, and the Madonna enthroned between six saints, exhibiting all the qualities of his best time, with less timidity than belongs to his manner. The latter was executed in 1490, and the predella had been considered equal to Raffaele, who of course was then too young for such an undertaking. Such are some of the remaining pictures which must have influenced taste and art in the duchy. The catalogue is far from complete, for in the obscure villages may still be discovered altar-panels of scarcely inferior importance, besides not a few transported thence to Milan, Berlin, and other galleries. We owe to Lord Lindsay some very interesting views on the influence of early Teutonic art beyond the Alps, a subject long overlooked and still far from exhausted.[200] Among its masters no celebrity equals that of Jean Van Eyck. He was not only _capo-scuola_ in the Low Countries and inventor of a new method and vehicle of painting, but was the first to introduce that "feeling for nature and domestic sentiment" which, subordinate at the outset to religious delineation, has continued, through many phases, and for the most part with strictly naturalist aims, to characterise the Flemish pencil. The fame of his mechanism spread into Italy, and Vasari speaks of a bath scene being sent by him to Duke Federigo of Urbino. This was, however, probably the same work described as belonging to Cardinal Ottaviani by Facio, who wrote about 1456. In a room lighted by a single lamp, a group of nude females issued from the bath, an aged beldame, their attendant, bathed in perspiration, their thirsty dog lapping water. A mirror accurately gave back the scene, reflecting the profile of the one whose figure was turned from the spectator. Without, was elaborate and far-spreading scenery, with men, horses, castles, hamlets, groves, plains, and mountains, dexterously graduating away as the evening shadows fell. Keeping in view the state of art at that time, this painting, of which all further trace mysteriously vanishes, must have exercised an important influence. The borrowed illumination, the mirror reflections, the nude forms, the heated atmosphere detected by its physical effects on animal life, the minutely pencilled landscape, the delicately receding perspective, were all more or less innovations in Italy, apart from the colour and surface produced by the new process. [Footnote 200: _Sketches of the History of Christian Art_, Letter VIII., especially part II., §§ 1, 2, 4, and part III., § 6.] Among the followers of Van Eyck who first made their way to the Mediterranean shores was JOSSE or JUSTUS OF GHENT, who, under the signature of Justus de Alemania, appears to have executed an Annunciation in fresco, at the convent of Sta. Maria di Castello at Genoa in 1451.[*201] Admiration for Van Eyck's bath scene may probably have obtained for him an invitation to Urbino, where, however, he does not seem to have shared the ducal patronage, but was employed by the fraternity of Corpus Christi to paint for them an altar-piece, which, after nine years of labour, was completed in 1474, and is still preserved in the church of Sta. Agata.[*202] It was executed in oil, about ten feet square without the now missing predella, and seems to have cost 500 florins, besides materials. Its subject was appropriately the Institution of the Eucharist, in contradistinction from the Last Supper, and it is treated after the manner of the Romish mass,--Christ distributes the sacramental wafer to his Apostles kneeling round a table, over whom hover two white-draped angels of the Van Eyck type. Four personages stand apart, spectators of the sacred mystery, and these, by the legitimate rules of sacred art, might be portraits. Among them may be easily recognised the Duke; and a turbaned figure is said by Baldi to be the ambassador from Usum-cassan, King of Persia, while visiting the court in 1470-1, on a mission to unite the Italian princes in a league against the Turk,--a fact garbled by Michiels, whose commendations of the picture are greater than its distance above the eye allows me to confirm or challenge, as, without scaffolding or a very strong glass, all detailed criticism must be in a great measure conjectural. Neither have I discovered that influence upon art at Urbino which he and Passavant impute to this Fleming, whose only other known work in Umbria was a now lost church standard. [Footnote *201: But Justus de Alemania, who painted at Genoa, and Justus of Ghent, are different persons.] [Footnote *202: Now in the Pinacoteca.] * * * * * Art has in many instances been able largely to compensate the liberality of its early patrons. Besides preserving to after times the person of those "Whose barks have left no traces on the tide," it has frequently transmitted to us the form and comeliness of men whose characters, actions, or talents have left an impress on their age. Although the pencil and the chisel were at first rarely dedicated to portraiture, a mode of representation arose in Italy during the fifteenth century which supplied this want with singular success. Reviving classical taste found few more attractive relics than the coins and medals of Greece and her colonies; but their imitators, struck with the inferiority of those under the Roman empire, adopted, and even surpassed, the bold style and high relief of the former. When almost every principality in the Peninsula possessed a mint, and die-cutting was a usual branch of the goldsmith's craft, there were great facilities for the new art. The circulation of precious metals being very limited, trade was then conducted chiefly by barter, or by the transmission of coin in sealed bags, stamped with the value they contained, whilst small transactions were made almost solely in copper money.[203] Heroic medals, which soon became the established meed of egotism and incense of flattery, were at first cast,--and, when machinery became more perfect, were struck,--in an alloy of copper, under the name of bronze. Those of the fifteenth century were of great size, varying from one to four and a half inches in diameter; many bear the names of well-known sculptors and painters as their artists, and exhibit a grandeur of conception unequalled in other numismatic productions.[*204] About three hundred and seventy-five such medals have been published in the Trésor de Numismatique et de Glyptique, and although the _procédé Collas_ there adopted in general fails to preserve the sharpness and finish given to the originals by careful retouching, no work of art is so delightful a companion to Italian mediæval history. Zannetti's elaborate collections on Italian coinages, and the fifth volume of Cicognara's great work upon sculpture, may also be consulted with pleasure and advantage. [Footnote 203: The coinage of Duke Federigo consisted of Bolognini and Piccioli. The former were small thin silver pieces, weighing 19-1/2 grains, of which 3-1/2 were copper alloy, and forty of them made a florin. The florin, a nominal coin, thus contained 634-34/59 grains of pure silver, and 146-1/2 grains of copper; and supposing pure silver worth, as now, 5s. 6d. an ounce, it would be worth 7s. 3-1/4d. sterling, making a bolognini 7-1/3 farthings. The piccioli (3-3/5 to a farthing) were about the size of bolognini (52 or 56 to the ounce); but were of copper alloyed with about three per cent. of silver. All this Duke's coinage seems to have been minted at Gubbio, and it is described at great length by Reposati, in his _Zecca di Gubbio_. See p. 41 above, and Author's Preface.] [Footnote *204: See on this subject the most excellent book by G.F. HILL, _Pisanello_ (London, 1905); a good bibliography is there given.] The only medallist of Urbino now known was called Clemente, and, besides the portrait by him to be immediately noticed (No. I.), he is said to have ornamented the great hall of the palace with six round bas-reliefs of Duke Federigo's exploits. Seven medals of that prince have come to my knowledge, all of extreme rarity: the first five are described and engraved in the _Zecca di Gubbio_; the first, second, and fourth in the Trésor de Numismatique; the sixth is probably unnoticed elsewhere. The heads of all are in profile. No. I. A medallion of 3-5/8 inches diameter. The Duke's bust is in armour, on which are chased a Lapitha reducing a Centaur, and other emblematic devices; his cap, called by the French a _mortier_, is of the usual cinque-cento form, exactly resembling a round Highland bonnet. The legend is a Latin couplet, signifying, "HE COMES, ANOTHER CÆSAR AND ANOTHER ROMAN SCIPIO, WHETHER HE GIVES TO THE NATIONS PEACE OR FIERCE WARS." The reverse is redundant in allegory. In base, the eagle of Jove supports with extended wings a stage whereon are three devices,--the globe of command, with on one side a cuirass, buckler, and sword, and on the other a clothes-brush[205] and olive-branch; overhead are the planetary signs of Jupiter between Mars and Venus. On the vacant spaces are the names of the hero, "FEDERIGO THE INVINCIBLE, COUNT OF URBINO, A.D. MCCCCLXVIII.," and of the artist, "THE WORK OF CLEMENTE OF URBINO." The surrounding astrological legend runs thus:-- "THE FIERCE MARS AND VENUS, IN CONJUNCTION WITH THE MIGHTY THUNDERER, UNITE TO GIVE YOU KINGDOMS, AND INFLUENCE YOUR DESTINY." [Footnote 205: Riposati mistakes this for a metal weight. The French work does not venture on any conjecture as to the object represented.] The date indicates this medal to have commemorated his campaign in Romagna against Colleone, in 1467, and notwithstanding the questionable taste of crowding in so many symbolical appendages, its merit is ranked high by Cicognara (see his eighty-sixth plate). No. II. A medal 1-6/8 inches across, which was probably cast at Naples in 1474, by order of Ferdinand, in honour of Federigo's visit and installation as a knight of the Ermine. Being no doubt prepared before his arrival, the likeness is not striking. Round the bust is "FEDERICO COUNT OF MONTEFELTRO, URBINO, AND DURANTE"; on the reverse, over a collared ermine, "ROYAL CAPTAIN-GENERAL. THE WORK OF PAULO DI RAGUSA." No. III. A similar but smaller medal, executed after he had been elevated to the dukedom. His head is bald, and the legend is "FEDERIGO THE MONTEFELTRIAN, URBINO'S DUKE;" over the ermine, "NEVER," the motto of the Order. No. IV. A medal 3-3/8 inches across, commemorating his dignities of Duke and Gonfaloniere of the Church. Round his bust in armour, with the mortier cap, we read, "OF THE DIVINE FEDERIGO DUKE OF URBINO, COUNT OF MONTEFELTRO AND DURANTE, ROYAL CAPTAIN-GENERAL, AND UNCONQUERED GONFALONIERE OF THE HOLY ROMAN CHURCH." On the reverse he is represented in a cuirass, mail-coat, jack-boots, and the mortier cap, mounted on a heavy war-horse in housings of mail. He moves forward, stretching forth his truncheon in the attitude of anxious command, a two-handed sword on his side. Legend, "THE WORK OF SPERANDEI," who was a native of Mantua, greatly patronised by the sovereigns of Ferrara. No. V. is a magnificent production, and of peculiarly English interest. On a medal 4-3/4 inches across, clasped round by the badge and gothic motto of the Garter, is a noble bust of Federigo in armour, his massive bald head uncovered. The reverse has five winged loves supporting an ample basin, from whence issue two grape-laden cornucopiæ; between them the crowned eagle of Montefeltro sits on a globe of command, gazing sunward, and supporting the armorial shield of that house, with the papal arms in pale as borne by the Gonfaloniere: the contracted inscription "DUKE FE." appears on the ground. Riposati conjectures that in this device may be preserved the design of a fountain for serving wine to the populace during the festivities on his investiture with the English order; at all events, this piece, in size and style, perhaps the grandest medallion of the age, bears interesting testimony to the honour in which that decoration was held. No. VI. Among the Vatican Urbino MSS. (No. 1418) is a case containing two impressions, stamped on leather, of another medallion, which we have nowhere else met with. It is 3-1/2 inches in diameter, and round the head is "FEDERIGO DUKE OF URBINO, COUNT OF MONTEFELTRO, ROYAL CAPTAIN-GENERAL AND GONFALONIERE OF THE HOLY ROMAN CHURCH." The reverse gives us a mounted knight cap-a-pie, who tramples down an armed soldier, while charging others who fly; in the distance are seen cities, and a martial host. Legend, "MARS GIVES HIM A WORSTED FOE, VICTORY SECURES HIM FAME. MCCCCLXXVIII. THE WORK OF GIAN FRANCESCO, OF PARMA." This alludes to his successes against the Florentines when general of Sixtus IV. No. VII. A medal of Federigo by Francesco di Giorgio, has neither been described nor preserved, unless it may have been No. V. above. We have no medal of Duke Guidobaldo I.; but two have come down to us, representing his consort and her favourite Emilia Pia, so similar in character as to indicate probably the same artist and period, which Riposati presumes to have been in the Duchess's widowhood. I. Elisabetta's bust on a medallion 3-1/2 inches in diameter; her hair braided under her cap, and gathered behind into a long pendant tail or fillet plaited with ribbon; her forehead, neck, and shoulders ornamented with chains; legend, "ELISABET GONZAGA, THE FELTRIAN, DUCHESS OF URBINO": which we give. The mystic science of emblematic devices was often used by medallists without proper discrimination; and Riposati avows himself unable to interpret its allegorical reverse: the French editor describes it as a nearly nude female reclining on the ground, her head supported against a wicket, grasping in both hands a fillet from which a wig flies away, with the motto, "THIS TELL TO FUGITIVE FORTUNE"; he interprets her attitude as contemptuous towards a passing opportunity, in allusion to her recent widowhood spurning fresh ties. II. The medal of Emilia was evidently a posthumous memorial; we reproduce it also. It is 3-1/4 inches broad, the bust in the costume of the Duchess, and is inscribed "EMILIA PIA THE FELTRIAN": on the reverse, a tapered pyramid crowned by a cinerary urn, with "TO HER CHASTE ASHES." The whole is studiously classical, and pagan in feeling. Her name Pio, turned into the adjective _pia_, becomes a complimentary epithet. In order to dismiss this branch of our subject, we may here mention, that, although a few smaller medals were struck for the second dynasty of Urbino, none of them are worthy of special notice; indeed, this art was entirely degenerate after 1500. BOOK FIFTH OF THE DELLA ROVERE FAMILY CHAPTER XXXI Birth and elevation of Sixtus IV.--Genealogy of the Della Rovere family--Nepotism of that pontiff--His improvements in Rome--His patronage of letters and arts--His brother Giovanni becomes Lord of Sinigaglia and Prefect of Rome--His beneficent sway--He pillages a papal envoy--Remarkable story of Zizim or Gem--Portrait of Giovanni--The early character and difficulties of Julius II.--Estimate of his pontificate. On the 21st of July, 1414, in the village of Celle, upon the Ligurian coast, near Savona, there was born to Leonardo della Rovere and Luchina Muglione, a male child, who, fifty-seven years thereafter, was called to fill the chair of St. Peter, from whence he showered upon his numerous relations temporal and ecclesiastical dignities. That Pontiff was Sixtus IV.; of these relatives many have already found a place in our pages; and from their stock sprang the second ducal dynasty of Urbino. Upon the origin of this family a mystery has been thrown, by writers devoted to adulation rather than to truth. There was established near Turin a race of della Rovere, lords of Vinovo, whose nobility is traced from the eighth century, and from whom it was the pride of Sixtus to claim a descent, which his flatterers readily humoured, and which the annalists of Urbino adopted as an article of their political creed. Posterity has repudiated the allegation, for "in Italy, at least, it is vain for heraldry to tell a tale that history will not substantiate."[206] The seigneurs of Vinovo were not, however, loath to admit a blood connection with two Popes, who, in return for such aggregation to the old stock, conferred cardinals' hats upon their cousins of Piedmont. Although the tombstone of Leonardo was said to exhibit the Vinovo bearings, with a suitable difference, his humble birth is universally admitted. The burgess of Savona plied a fisher's trade, and even his son is supposed to have followed in boyhood the same apostolical calling; an occupation singular rather than inappropriate, for one destined to wear "the fisher's ring," and to wield the authority of him who was divinely called to be a netter of men. The superstition or policy of Sixtus stamped with unmerited importance certain quasi-supernatural incidents attending his birth. Whilst pregnant, his mother dreamt that a boy was born to her, whom two Franciscan friars forthwith clad in the tunic, cowl, and cord of their order. The name Francesco was accordingly bestowed on the child, whose gestures seemed to confirm its sacred vocation, the first motions of its little hands being those of benediction. Whilst undergoing the usual ablutions, the infant appeared faint and dying, whereupon its mother vowed that, if preserved to her, it should wear the Franciscan dress for the next six months. The removal of this habit having on two occasions been followed by dangerous illness, the boy's destination to a monastic life was confirmed, and his training conducted accordingly.[*207] [Footnote 206: MARIOTTI'S _Italy_.] [Footnote *207: For birth of Sixtus IV., cf. CREIGHTON, _op. cit._, vol. IV., p. 65, and authorities there quoted. "His father was a poor peasant in a little village near Savona, and at the age of nine Francesco was handed over to the Franciscans to be educated. He acted for a time as tutor with the family of Rovere, in Piedmont, and from them he took the name by which he was afterwards known."] After rapid progress in classical and dialectic studies, he went to the university of Bologna, and in his twentieth year maintained various public disputations before a general chapter of his order at Genoa, with erudition and success which astonished his audience, and gained him the marked commendation of his superiors. He then graduated in philosophy and theology at Pavia, and in his public displays distinguished himself by a simple and perspicuous style of argument comparatively exempt from the jingle of words that usually characterised these exercises. His celebrity extending in all directions, he was engaged by the authorities of many large towns to deliver lectures, which were attended by the most learned ecclesiastics, his preaching being not less acceptable to the people of all ranks. His friendship and counsel were sought by the distinguished men of his time, including Cardinal Bessarion; and he employed his pen in various religious controversies, especially in one, carried by other disputants to blows, between two branches of Franciscans, the Minims and Predicant Friars, as to "whether the blood of Christ shed in his passion partook of his divinity." Having attained the rank of General, he proved most zealous in the inspection and reform of the convents under his jurisdiction, personally visiting them in all quarters. At length, in 1467, he was made Cardinal by Paul II., whom he was chosen to succeed on the 9th of August, 1471. We have had occasion, in a previous portion of this work, to notice the policy of Sixtus as it affected the duchy of Urbino, and it forms no part of our plan to enter further into the events of his pontificate. Neither need we detail those in that of his nephew Julius II., except in so far as they fall to be narrated in our Third and Sixth Books. Our present purpose is to offer a condensed view of the della Rovere family, preceding its establishment in the sovereignty of Urbino, and to enliven what would otherwise be a dry genealogical sketch, by a few passing observations on the character of its two Pontiffs, and on the influence of their reigns. The children of Ludovico Leonardo della Rovere by Luchina Stella Muglione were these:-- 1. FRANCESCO, afterwards Sixtus IV. 2. RAFFAELE, whose line will presently occupy our attention. 3. A sister, whose husband Giovanni Basso and children were adopted into the family of della Rovere and bore that name. They were:-- 1. GIROLAMO of Recanate, made Cardinal of S. Chrisogono in 1477, and died in 1507. 2. ANTONIO, who married in 1479 Caterina Marciana, niece of Ferdinand of Naples, and died soon after. 3. GUGLIELMO, who died in 1482. 4. FRANCESCO, Prior of Pisa. 5. BARTOLOMEO.[208] 4. IOLANDA, who married Girolamo Riario, and, dying in 1471, left:-- 1. CARDINAL PIETRO RIARIO, the favourite of his Uncle Sixtus IV., who died in 1474. 2. GIROLAMO, Lord of Forlì, and, in right of his wife, Caterina Sforza, sovereign of Imola, whose name is familiar to those who have followed our narrative, and who was assassinated in 1488. Among their children were Ottaviano, dispossessed of his states by Cesare Borgia in 1500; Orazio, Bishop of Lucca; Galeazzo; and Cesare, Patriarch of Constantinople. Their line still subsists in the Riario Sforza of Naples, one of whom was in 1846 Cardinal Camerlingo at Rome. 3. OTTAVIANO, Bishop of Viterbo. 4. A daughter, married to one Sansonio, whose son Raffaele, made Cardinal of S. Giorgio in 1477, has been mentioned as an accomplice in the Pazzi conspiracy. [Footnote 208: Most of these were buried in the church of Sta. Maria del Popolo, at Rome, where their funeral inscriptions may be found.] RAFFAELE DELLA ROVERE, younger brother of Sixtus, had, by Teodora Manerola-- 1. BARTOLOMEO, Bishop of Ferrara and Patriarch of Antioch. 2. GIULIANO, who became Pope Julius II., and whose natural children were-- 1. RAFFAELE, who married Niccolosa Fogliano of Fermo, and was murdered in 1502. 2. FELICE, famed for her beauty and talents, who married Gian-Giordano Orsini, not Marc Antonio Colonna, as stated by Roscoe. 3. LEONARDO, created Prefect of Rome in 1472. He died 1475, leaving no issue by Giovanna, natural daughter of Ferdinand King of Naples. According to Giannone, she was Catarina, daughter of the Prince of Rossano, by Dionora, sister of Ferdinand, and she brought him the duchy of Sora, which descended to his heirs. 4. GIOVANNI, Duke of Sora, Prefect of Rome, and Seigneur of Sinigaglia, to whom we shall return. 5. LUCHINA, whose children were adopted as of the della Rovere name. By her first husband Gabriele Gara, a gentleman of Savona, she had-- 1. RAFFAELE. 2. SISTO, Cardinal of S. Pietro in Vinculis, who died in 1517, aged forty-four. His death is said to have been occasioned by terror for the menaces of Leo X., who suspected him of aiding his cousin the Duke of Urbino in recovering his state, by advancing money out of vast benefices, estimated at 30,000 to 40,000 ducats a year. De Grasses describes his frame as exhausted by shameless debaucheries, and adds, that he could neither read nor write. The latter assertion is so incredible as to throw doubt upon the former; yet such an accusation in the diary of a papal master of ceremonies seems to infer that similar immoralities were then scarcely regarded as scandalous in the sacred college. The taint left by Alexander VI. had not yet been effaced by blood and tears in the sack of Rome. 3. SISTA, whose first husband, Geraud d'Ancezun, died in 1503, after which she married Galeazzo, son of Count Girolamo Riario. By her second husband, Gian-Francesco Franciotti Lucca, a merchant in Rome, who was her junior by eleven years, Luchina had-- 4. GALEOTTO, Cardinal of S. Pietro in Vinculis, and Archbishop of Benevento, who died in 1508, aged twenty-eight. In 1505 he was appointed to the Cancelleria, and his public revenues, amounting to 40,000 ducats a year, were liberally administered in the patronage of letters. 5. NICOLÒ, who left a son Giulio. 6. LUCREZIA, wife of Marc Antonio Colonna, who fell at the siege of Milan, in 1522.[209] [Footnote 209: Cristoforo and Domenico della Rovere, brothers, and successively cardinals of San Vitale, were of the Vinovo family. The former has a tomb in the Church del Popolo, the latter was distinguished for his intelligent patronage of art. I have failed to affiliate Clemente, Bishop of Mende, surnamed _il Grasso_, made cardinal 1503, and died next year; and Stefano, who was nephew of Julius II., and had a son, Gian Francesco, Archbishop of Turin, who died in 1517.] GIOVANNI DELLA ROVERE, Prefect of Rome and Seigneur of Sinigaglia, died in 1501, having married in 1474 Giovanna di Montefeltro, who, dying in 1514, had issue-- 1. FEDERIGO, who died young. 2. FRANCESCO MARIA, who, as Duke of Urbino, will occupy attention in our next Book. 3. MARIA, married in 1497 to Venanzio Varana, Lord of Camerino, who was slain in 1503, with three of his sons, by order of Cesare Borgia. Another son, Sigismondo, shared the campaigns of his maternal uncle the Duke of Urbino, and failing to recover his patrimonial state from the usurpation of his uncle Giulio Cesare Varana, was assassinated at his instigation in 1522: his wife was Ottavia, daughter of Giulio Colonna. A scandalous intrigue of Maria in her widowhood will be mentioned in the life of her brother,[210] but it did not prevent her finding a second husband in Galeazzo, son of Girolamo Riario, Lord of Forlì. 4. COSTANZA, who died unmarried at Rome in November, 1507. 5. DEODATA, a nun of Sta. Chiara at Urbino. [Footnote 210: See below, ch. xxxii.] On the accession of Sixtus, the papal treasury was supposed to be full of money and jewels, which it had been the passion of Paul II. to accumulate. Yet he declared that but 5000 crowns were found in bullion, and the few precious stones that were forthcoming appeared not to have been paid for. Notwithstanding this seeming disappointment, which was very generally discredited, and the outlay of 20,000 crowns for the funeral of Paul, and for his own coronation, he discharged the debts of several antecedent pontiffs, and particularly those due by Paul for St. Mark's palace. But these heavy expenses, with the alleged simony attending his election, and the enormous sums lavished by his nephews, gave colour to an allegation that he had seized and misapplied large hoardings of his predecessor. The favour bestowed by him upon his nephews was excessive, even in days when nepotism was at its height, and his fondness for the two Riarii originated suspicions casting a dark shadow upon his moral character; while gossip, with its usual inconsistency, lent currency to the surmise that they owed to him their paternity as well as the advancement of their fortunes.[211] One of his early acts was to confer upon Pietro, the elder of them, and upon Giuliano della Rovere, cardinal's hats on the same day. These cousins were, however, of very opposite habits, and so long as Pietro lived, Giuliano's influence with his uncle was small. The former, known as Cardinal of S. Sisto, "Whom the wild wave of pleasure ever drove Before the sprightly tempest, tossing light," was magnificent beyond example, lavish in his tastes for silver and gold stuffs, splendid dresses, spirited horses. He was surrounded by troops of retainers, and filled his house with rising poets and celebrated painters. He was munificent to the learned, generous to the poor, and frequently celebrated public banquets and games at prodigious expense. Though he lived but two years and a half after his elevation to the purple, he had in that brief space completed a rarely equalled career of civil and ecclesiastical preferment, of public extravagance, and personal debauchery. Taddeo Manfredi, Lord of Imola, having been expelled by domestic intrigues, was bribed by the Cardinal with 40,000 crowns to assign that fief to his brother Girolamo Riario, an arrangement sanctioned willingly by Sixtus, reluctantly by the consistory. After making a progress to Lombardy and Venice as papal legate, with a pomp unequalled even in an age of splendour, Pietro returned to Rome, and died in January 1474, of fever aggravated by previous excesses. Panvinio says he seemed born to waste money, and estimates his expenditure whilst cardinal at the enormous sum of 270,000 golden scudi.[212] [Footnote 211: Muratori has not scrupled to adopt this opinion, for which I can discover no adequate ground, and which is inconsistent with the accepted genealogy of the Riarii.] [Footnote 212: The sumptuous and lavish festivities of the age, and the extent to which art was combined with classical associations in public displays, may be estimated from Corio's elaborate description of the reception at Rome, in 1473, of Duchess Leonora of Ferrara, with her suite, including 60,000 horses. *Cf. _Annalisti di Tisi_, quoted by CORVISIERI, q.v. in _Archivio Romano_, vol. I.; _Il Trionfo Romano di Eleanora d'Aragona_. CREIGHTON, _op. cit._, vol. IV., pp. 75-77, gives a splendid sketch of his life.] The wars into which the Pontiff recklessly plunged, from rage against the Medici and anxiety to consolidate a sovereignty for Count Girolamo, occasioned vast expense, and the deficiency of his exchequer led him to adopt expedients of an eventually dangerous tendency. Panvinio asserts for him a disreputable priority in the creation of places and offices, in order to raise a revenue by their sale. The simony thus systematised tended at once to taint the morals and degrade the reputation of the Roman court. Under Borgia's pontificate we have seen it carried to a frightful height, and attended by scandals the most heinous; in that of Leo X. it became a mainspring of the Reformation. Yet it was not by wars alone that the papal treasury was embarrassed, nor were the bounties of Sixtus limited to claims of nepotism, for he reaped from many the praises due to a liberality large rather than discriminating. The whirlwind of Turkish invasion had lately swept over the ruins of the Eastern Empire, and for the Christian princes who fled before it, abandoning their states to seek a precarious hospitality, Rome formed the natural refuge. Thither came the expelled despots of Albania and the Morea, the crownless queens of Cyprus and Bosnia, all of whom received from the Pontiff a welcome and honourable entertainment due to their misfortunes and to their virtual martyrdom. To such European princes as visited the Eternal City, in performance of their religious duties, he accorded a splendid reception. But there were other outlays still more creditable to him, as adorning the city and ameliorating the condition of its inhabitants. He was the first pope who earnestly set about rescuing from degradation the monuments of ancient Rome, and improving the modern city. Among numerous public buildings erected, restored, or decorated by him were the Ponte Sisto, the great hospital of Santo Spirito, the old Vatican Library, the aqueduct of Trevi, the churches of La Pace, il Popolo, S. Vitale, S. Sisto, S. Pietro in Vinculis, and many others. To the Riarii, by his encouragement, we owe the Cancelleria Palace and the adjoining church of S. Lorenzo in Damaso. The restoration of that of the SS. Apostoli, begun on a grand scale by his nephew Pietro, was interrupted by the early death of that dissolute minion, whose tomb remains in the choir, finely conceived and beautifully executed. Nor was public convenience overlooked amid such magnificent creations. As Augustus was said to have replaced his capital of brick with one of marble, it became proverbial that Sixtus rebuilt in brick what he found of mud. He paved the streets, re-opened the sewers, conveyed the _aqua vergine_ to the heart of the city. By proclaiming the jubilee at the end of twenty-five years, instead of each half-century, he doubled the influx of pilgrim revenues; and, warned by the catastrophe of its preceding celebration, when crowds had been trodden down on the Ponte S. Angelo, he provided for the devout multitude a new access to S. Peter's by the bridge which bears his name. His beneficial undertakings, however, extended far beyond the Eternal City: he cleared out the choked harbour of Ostia, thoroughly repaired the crumbling church of St. Francis at Assisi,[*213] and began, in honour of the Santa Casa at Loreto, that gorgeous fane which was unworthily finished by the next Pontiff of his name. Neither was he indifferent to the social disorganisation of his metropolis. He curbed its lawless state by a rigorous police. Public begging was strictly suppressed; and all who could not prove some legitimate means of livelihood were banished. Malefactors of every sort, after summary conviction, were whipped through the streets, and consigned to the galleys or the gallows. Daily executions took place for a time, and though the measures adopted were both sanguinary and oppressive, order and security were in a great degree restored to the thoroughfares. [Footnote *213: Cf. FRATINI, _St. della Basilica e del Convento di S. Francesco in Assisi_ (Prato, 1882), p. 260 _et seq._] There is reason to fear that the stern discipline, whereby he vindicated public manners, was not applied to his personal habits. Yet the character given of him by Infessura, whereon depends most of the scandal by which his memory has been blackened, appears so grossly exaggerated as to defeat its own end, and to establish a charge of prejudice, if not of malevolence, against its author. To transcribe it would be to stain our pages; but its purport is summed up in some ribald Latin verses, borrowed, probably, from Pasquin, which impute to the Pope every imaginable iniquity and disgraceful indulgence, and congratulate Nero in being at length exceeded in crime.[*214] [Footnote *214: "Sixtus," says CREIGHTON, "changed the course of life in Rome because his own recklessness was heedless of decorum. Hitherto the Roman court had worn a semblance of ecclesiastical gravity.... Rome became more famous for pleasure than for piety.... The Rovere stock was hard to civilise.... Hitherto the Papacy had on the whole maintained a moral standard; for some time to come it tended to sink even below the ordinary level. The loss that was thus inflicted upon Europe was incalculable" (_op. cit._, vol. IV., p. 132-3).] Although the name of Sixtus, as a friend of letters and arts, has been dimmed by the more glorious ones of Nicolas V. and Leo X., which at no long intervals preceded and followed him, the memorials remaining of his judicious patronage are interesting and important. Innocent III., in building the Hospital of S. Spirito, had embellished it with six frescoes illustrative of its destination. To these Sixtus added twenty-seven others, forming a cycle of the personal and public incidents of his life, from his mother's miraculous vision, to his anticipated introduction into Paradise by St. Paul, in recompense of his piety. These paintings are no longer visible; nor do we know from whose pencils the vast series emanated, but in the Sistine Chapel, which perpetuates his name, and was his most important artistic undertaking, his choice was unexceptionable. Apart from the celebrity conferred upon it by the subsequent impress of Buonarroti's stupendous inventions, the series wherein the lives of our Saviour and of Moses are contrasted constitutes a chapter of scarcely equalled importance in the progress of Christian painting. Who can view the mighty themes of that oratory,--the types and antitypes of scriptural history on its walls, the creations of Omnipotence on its roof, the final Judgment over its altar,--without gratitude to the della Rovere pontiffs, by whom these triumphs were commissioned, and for the most part carried out? This may, indeed, be called the foundation of the Roman pictorial school. Giotto, Fra Angelico, Gentile da Fabriano, and Masaccio had, indeed, visited the metropolis of Christendom, but no pontiff before Sixtus had summoned hither, and at once employed, all the most distinguished artists of Central Italy. The glorious band, though headed by Perugino,[*215] consisted of Florentines,--Signorelli, Botticelli, Rosselli, della Gatta, and Ghirlandaio; but these soon returned to the art-loving and art-inspiring Arno, leaving on the plain of the Tiber few other works, and a most transient influence, in exchange for the classical ideas which they had imbibed in "august, imperial Rome," and which quickly supplanted the sacred traditions of their native school. Although Pinturicchio was not associated in their labours upon the Sistine, he was busy upon other not less important mural decorations, which still adorn the churches of Aracoeli, Sta. Croce in Gerusalemme, and S. Onofrio. But Sta. Maria del Popolo was especially the scene of his triumphs, under the auspices of various Cardinals della Rovere, and other members of the consistory, who were instigated by example of his Holiness to such laudable employment of their exorbitant incomes. [Footnote *215: Pinturicchio was also among them; neither can Signorelli be called a Florentine. Dennistoun is (_infra_) mistaken in thinking that Pinturicchio did not work in the Sixtine Chapel. The Baptism of Christ and the Journey of Moses are both from his hand.] Panvinio speaks of this Pope's solicitude to gather from all Europe additions to the library founded by Nicolas V., and attest his having first put it upon a satisfactory footing, by appointing qualified persons to superintend it, and by assigning it an adequate endowment. Though the rooms in which he placed books have been devoted to other purposes, ever since Sixtus V. removed the augmented collection to its present site, a most interesting memorial of the Pontiff's family and court remains, and has till lately adorned its original locality. It is a fresco, now transported to the Vatican Picture-gallery, wherein Sixtus sits in a noble hall of imposing architecture, with his librarian Bartolomeo Sacchi, surnamed Platina, kneeling at his feet, and pointing to an inscription, which enumerates in rough Latin verses, those ameliorations for which Rome was indebted to his Holiness. In attendance stand his two favourite cardinal nephews; Pietro, with features expressive of unrefined sensualism, wearing the russet habit of the mendicant fraternity, from whose discipline he emerged to lavish ill-gotten gold with rarely equalled prodigality; whilst in the cold and unimpassioned countenance of Giuliano, we vainly seek for those massive features, and that angry scowl, which the pencil of Raffaele subsequently immortalised. The group is completed by the two younger nephews, Girolamo, Lord of Forlì, gawky and common-place in figure, with the Prefect Giovanni, of blunt and burly aspect. It would be difficult satisfactorily to render so large a group in these pages, but we give an unedited and speaking likeness of the Pontiff from a miniature of the same size prefixed to the MS. of Platina's _Lives of the Popes_, dedicated to him and now in the Vatican Library. Besides the claims of this fresco upon our notice, from representing the important members of the della Rovere family, it would be still more interesting to us, were it, as formerly supposed, from the pencil of Pietro della Francesca, court-painter of Urbino. It is now, however, ascribed, almost beyond question, to a pupil of his, sung by Giovanni Sanzi, as "Melozzo, dear to me, Who to perspective farther limits gave." His accurate study of geometrical principles taught him the most difficult art of foreshortening, which he particularly adapted to ceilings and vaulted roofs with a magical effect heretofore unattempted. Applying a like treatment to the human form, he succeeded in giving to the features a relief not inferior to that attained by the plastic manner of Squarcione and his followers, but infinitely excelling them in natural and noble character; and thus, for the first time since the revival, as in the picture just described, he gave to simple portraiture the stamp of historical delineation. Melozzo, by birth a Forlian, had probably attracted the notice of Girolamo Riario, on taking possession of his new state, and the patronage bestowed upon him by the Count and his brother the Cardinal, reflects credit upon their discrimination. In 1473, he was employed by the latter to paint, in the apsis of SS. Apostoli at Rome, our Lord's Ascension in presence of the apostles, one of the grandest works of the time, miserably sacrificed by the destructive alterations of last century. Some much over-daubed fragments of this wonderful composition are built into the great stair at the Quirinal Palace, and single heads are preserved in the sacristy of St. Peter's. The favour of this Pontiff, whom the prejudiced Infessura has libelled as "the enemy of literary and reputable men," included merit from every quarter. Baccio Pintelli, of Florence, was his chief architect; Antonio Venezianello was conjoined by him with the Umbrian della Francesca and Signorelli to decorate the sacristy at Loreto; he pensioned Andrea d'Assisi, when early blindness had clouded those great gifts ascribed to him by Vasari; the Tuscan Verrocchio, who had come to Rome as a goldsmith, became, by his encouragement, a sculptor of eminence, and the inventor of that charming style which da Vinci brought to perfection in Lombard painting. * * * * * Deferring our notice of Giuliano, the favourite nephew of Sixtus IV., we shall now mention his younger brother GIOVANNI, immediate ancestor of the della Rovere Dukes of Urbino. He was born in 1458, but we have no information as to his life before his uncle's elevation. The ancient and honourable dignity of Prefect of the favoured [_alma_] city of Rome was held by the Colonna, from the time of Martin V., until the death of Antonio, Prince of Salerno, in 1472. His son, Pier-Antonio, had been named to that office in reversion by Pius II., but, upon the ground of nonage, Sixtus set aside his claim and appointed his own nephew Leonardo della Rovere. He, too, having died in 1475, the Pontiff conferred the prefecture, (with remainder to his eldest son), on his next brother, Giovanni, to whom, on the 12th of the preceding October, he had given an investiture, in full consistory, of Sinigaglia, Mondavio, Mondolfo, and Sta. Costanza. At the same time, his marriage with Giovanna, second daughter of Federigo, the newly-created Duke of Urbino, was celebrated with becoming pomp, her dowry being 12,000 ducats; and on the 28th the almost childish couple made a festive entry into their tiny state. The Duke's presence and influence, though gladly given, were probably not required to secure them a rapturous welcome, for elevation from obscure provincialism to petty independence was ever a welcome boon to an Italian community. To signalise and commemorate the auspicious event, a young oak tree was planted in the piazza, with the motto in Latin, "Long may it last," and was inaugurated amid boundless and universal joy. A tournament was next day celebrated, succeeded by a ball, in which the sovereigns and their new subjects freely mingled. From the narrative of Fra Graziano[216] we learn the immense benefit which the new order of things brought to that hitherto obscure town. Though boasting a certain importance under imperial Rome, it had become so decayed as hardly to afford stabling for twenty horses. The Prefect lost not a moment in meeting the exigencies of his position; and though but a boy in years, proved himself possessed of matured wisdom. Summoning from all quarters the best architects and engineers, he opened new streets, and paved them; built palaces, churches, convents, and a large hospital; constructed a harbour, erected a citadel, and fortified his capital. But his most happy expedient was the encouragement of an annual fair, which, gradually extending in importance, rendered Sinigaglia a mart of commerce, and continues to this day the most important in Italy.[*217] Nor were his exertions confined within the city. Mondaino and other places of minor note shared these improvements; and he brought from Lombardy and Romagna a population of skilful agriculturists, to clear and cultivate the forest lands which spread far around, until his state became a fertile and corn-exporting district. [Footnote 216: Vat. Urb. MSS. No. 1023.] [Footnote *217: Cf. L. SIENA, _Storia di Sinigaglia_ (Sinigaglia, 1764), p. 277 _et seq._; ANSELMI e MANCINI, _Bibliografia Sinigagliese_ (Sinigaglia, 1905); and MARCUCCI, _Francesco Maria I. della Rovere_, Parte I. (1490-1527) (Sinigaglia, 1903).] The moral welfare of his people was meanwhile not overlooked; and the strict propriety which he exerted himself to maintain, was enforced by example as well as by precept. In his own practice, and in the circle of his sanctimonious court, the decencies of life were enforced with an almost monastic discipline, strangely at variance with the usages of his age, and the temperament of his near relations. Fra Graziano sums up his character as moderate in his tastes, prudent in his counsels, mild, liberal, and just in his administration, devoutly religious in his observances. His consort possessed virtues, graces, and accomplishments worthy of her husband's merits and her own beauty. The Prefect does not, however, seem to have been able in person to superintend the beneficent administration which he had the good sense to institute, for the Pontiff's doating nepotism required much of his presence after the loss of Pietro Riario. The youthful couple accordingly spent several years at the Vatican; and on their return home, in 1479, Giovanni was presented by the city of Sinigaglia with twelve silver cups weighing eighteen pounds. In 1482, they were again sent for by Sixtus, who gave his nephew a palace on the Lago di Vico. Even after his uncle's death, the Prefect enjoyed a large share of papal favour, having from Innocent VIII., the baton as captain-general of the Church. But, on the accession of Alexander VI., the star of the della Rovere waned. In Cardinal Giuliano his Holiness saw a powerful and talented rival; in the Prefect an obstacle to his ambitious views for his bastard progeny. The former prudently retired to France; the latter lived quietly in his vicariat. * * * * * In 1494, the Lord of Sinigaglia signalised himself by a feat worthy the freebooting practice of his times. Zizim, or Gem, son of Mahomet II., had right by his father's will to half the Turkish empire, but was expelled by his brother Bajazet, in 1482.[*218] Having fled to Rhodes, and placed himself under the protection of the Grand Master, Bajazet offered the latter a pension of 40,000 (or as some say 450,000) golden ducats, on condition of his being retained in safe custody. From Rhodes he was removed to France, and, in 1489, was brought to Rome, where, though received with much distinction by Innocent VIII., he found himself virtually a prisoner, or hostage. Bajazet, after failure of an attempt to have him assassinated, agreed to pay that Pontiff and his successor, the same yearly subsidy of 40,000 ducats for his custody and entertainment, besides supplying the Holy See with various important Christian relics from Palestine. In 1494, the Sultan's usual annual pension having been remitted to Rome through one Giorgio Bucciardo, accompanied by costly presents for Alexander VI., the envoy, on leaving Ancona, where he had disembarked, was set upon and plundered by Giovanni della Rovere. After appropriating most of the treasure, to extinguish alleged arrears of pay from the Holy See to himself and his troops, the Prefect sanctified the deed by dedicating the residue to pious works, employing the rich oriental stuffs for church ornaments. Soon after, there were circulated in Rome, certified copies of a correspondence between Alexander and the Sultan, with the oral instructions of his Holiness, which Bucciardo had been induced to divulge, and which throws a curious colour on this chapter of diplomacy.[219] [Footnote *218: The best contemporary account of Djem is that of GUGLIELMO CAOURSIN, _Obsidimis Rhodii Urbis Descriptio_ (Ulm, 1496). Cf. BURCHARD (ed. Thuasne), I., p. 528. The amount seems to have been 45,000 ducats. See especially HEIDENHEIMER, _Korrespondenz Bajazet II.'s mit Alexander VI._, in _Zeitschrift für Kirchengeschichte_, vol. V., p. 511 _et seq._ As usual, Creighton's account, _op. cit._, vol. IV., is most excellent, written with the pen of a statesman. Heidenheimer maintains the authenticity of the letters, and Creighton agrees with him. "If the letters were forged, the forgery was the work of Giovanni della Rovere," but there is no good ground for questioning their genuineness.] [Footnote 219: These papers have been printed in Bossi's Italian translation of ROSCOE'S _Leo X._, vol. IV., p. 220; but our extracts were made from a MS. in Vat. Ottobon, Lib. No. 2206, f. 17.] The envoy, on being accredited to the Sultan, had to state to his Highness, that the King of France was advancing upon Rome and Naples, in order to dispossess Alfonso, the Pope's vassal and ally, and to carry off Gem, with the project of providing him with a fleet, and supporting him in an invasion of Turkey. That as his Holiness had incurred great expenses in military preparations against a danger thus affecting the Sultan as well as himself, he prayed from him an advance of the 40,000 ducats due in November, to be remitted by the bearer. And he was further to induce his Highness to adopt every means likely to alienate his Venetian allies from French interests in the approaching struggle, and to attach them to the party of Naples. The Sultan's answer is contained in a letter addressed to the Pontiff, wherein this passage occurs:--"For these reasons, we began, with Giorgio Bucciardo, to consider that for your Potency's peace, convenience, and honour, and for my satisfaction, it would be well you should make the said Gem, my brother, die, who is deserving of death, and detained in your hands; which would be most useful to himself and your Potency, most conducive to tranquillity, and further, very agreeable to myself! And if your Mightiness is content to oblige me in this matter, as in your discretion we trust you will do, it is desirable, for maintenance of your own authority, and for our full satisfaction, that your Mightiness will, in the manner that seems best to you, have the said Gem removed from the straits of this world, transferring his soul to another life, where it will enjoy more quiet. And if your Potency will do this, and will send us his body to any place on this side of our channel, we, the foresaid Sultan Bajazet Chan, promise to pay 300,000 ducats at any place your Mightiness may stipulate, that your Potency may therewith buy some sovereignties for your sons." To this cold-blooded offer are added many general professions of eternal amity towards his Holiness, and promises that his subjects will everywhere forbear from aggression upon Christians; and after stating that he had in the envoy's presence taken his oath for the performance of all these obligations, he concludes thus:--"And further I, the aforesaid Sultan Bajazet Chan, swear by the true God, who created the heaven, the earth, and all things therein, in whom we believe, and whom we adore, that I shall make performance of every thing contained above, and shall never in any respect countermine or oppose your Mightiness. From our palace at Constantinople, the 15th of September, in the year of Christ's advent, 1494." Although discredit was thrown upon these documents by the Roman court, and the whole affair was alleged to be a device of Cardinals della Rovere and Gurk, to screen the Prefect at the Pontiff's expense,[220] it appears clear that a bribe was offered by Bajazet for the destruction of his brother, who did not long survive this incident. Alexander accepted 20,000 ducats from Charles VIII. to put Gem into his hands during six months, as a tool for his ambitious design upon the East; and in the treaty between his Holiness and the French monarch, dated 15th January, 1495, there is a special article that the former should consign "the Turk" to his Majesty as a hostage, to be kept in the castle of Terracina, or elsewhere, in the ecclesiastical territories, from whence Charles came under a promise not to remove him "unless in case of need, in order to prevent an invasion of the other Turks, or to make war upon them." He also bound himself to defend the Pope from any descent of the Infidel upon the Adriatic coast, and, on quitting Italy, to restore Gem to his custody, his Holiness meanwhile continuing to draw the Sultan's pension, and for due observance of these conditions, Charles bound himself in a penalty of 800,000 ducats. By another article he undertook to arbitrate in the complaint brought against the Prefect, in the affair of Bucciardo and the captured subsidy. It is further stipulated that the Cardinal della Rovere should be restored to favour, and replaced as legate at Avignon; and that, on termination of the Neapolitan enterprise, Ostia should be again surrendered into his hands.[221] [Footnote 220: _Lettere de' Principi_, II., 4.] [Footnote 221: _Molini Documenti di Storia Italiana_, I., 23.] This oriental Prince's sudden demise, which soon followed, was attributed to various causes, but a general belief imputed it to poison, in implement of the Pope's engagement to Bajazet. Zizim is represented as far superior to his countrymen in mind and attainments; and we shall by and by find him honoured as a Maecenas of literature. A very different impression is, however, left by the amusing, but obviously caricatured, description of him transmitted from Rome in 1489, by Andrea Mantegna, the painter, to his patron the Marquis of Mantua:[222]--"The Turk's brother is here, strictly guarded in the palace of his Holiness, who allows him all sorts of diversion, such as hunting, music, and the like. He often comes to eat in this new palace where I am painting,[223] and for a barbarian, his manners are not amiss. There is a sort of majestic bearing about him, and he never doffs his cap to the Pope, having in fact none; for which reason they don't raise the cowl to him either.[224] He eats five times a-day, and sleeps as often; before meals he drinks sugared water like a monkey. He has the gait of an elephant, but his people praise him much, especially for his horsemanship; it may be so, but I have never seen him take his feet out of the stirrups, or give any other proof of skill. He is a most savage man, and has stabbed, at least, four persons, who are said not to have survived four hours. A few days ago, he gave such a cuffing to one of his interpreters that they had to carry him to the river, in order to bring him round. It is believed that Bacchus pays him many a visit. On the whole he is dreaded by those about him. He takes little heed of any thing, like one who does not understand, or has no reason. His way of life is quite peculiar; he sleeps without undressing, and gives audience sitting cross-legged, in the Parthian fashion. He carries on his head sixty thousand yards of linen, and wears so long a pair of trowsers that he is lost in them, and astonishes all beholders. Once I have well seen him, I shall forward your Excellency a sketch of him, which I should send you with this, but that I have not yet fairly got near him; for when he gives now one sort of look and then another, in the true inamorato style, I cannot impress his features on my memory. Altogether he has a fearful face, especially when Bacchus has been with him. I shall no longer tire your Excellency with this familiar joking style; to whom I again and again commend myself, and pray your pardon if too much at home." Homely it is in good earnest, being written in the Lombardo-Venetian dialect, some passages of which baffle translation.[225] [Footnote 222: _Lettere Pittoriche_, VIII., p. 23.] [Footnote 223: In the Belvidere, where his frescoes have unfortunately perished.] [Footnote 224: Panvinio tells us that, being received in full consistory on his arrival in Rome, he refused to kiss the Pope's toe, but only his knee.] [Footnote 225: The reverse of this caricatured portrait may be found in a curious account of this unfortunate prince's romantic adventures, given by the Turkish historian, Saadeddin-effendi, and printed by Masse in his _Histoire du Pape Alexander VI._, pp. 382-408.] * * * * * It is, however, time to return from the digression into which this singular and romantic history of the Turkish Prince has tempted us. Alexander, greatly exasperated by the insults put upon his envoy, and by the loss of a most opportune remittance, threatened the Prefect with deprivation of his state; but finding his people, and the neighbouring communities prepared to stand by him, deferred his vengeance. Notwithstanding a reference of the whole affair to the French monarch, by the treaty of 1495, nearly six years elapsed ere Giovanni della Rovere was formally absolved from the daring exploit. He was not spared to witness the revival and aggrandisement of his family's fortunes by his elder brother's election to the papal throne. On the 6th of November, 1501, death found him already attired in a winding-sheet appropriate to the devotional habits of the age, the cowl formerly worn by the beatified Fra Giacomo della Marca. Two miles west from Sinigaglia, on a rising ground which overlooks the city, commanding the fertile vale of the Misa, from its Apennine rampart to the bright waves of the blue Adriatic, there stands a convent of Zoccolantine Franciscans. It was founded by the piety of the Prefect and his consort; it was the chosen retreat of their devotional hours, and was selected by them as the spot for their last repose. There he was laid, agreeably to his dying wish, in the Franciscan habit; and a plain marble slab in the pavement commemorates his titles, and her worth, "in prosperity and adversity comparable, nay preferable, to the best and noblest of her sex." There, too, was composed by Father di Francia, guardian of the convent, that brief record of the merits of his sovereign and patron from which the preceding sketch has in part been compiled. The original MS. has disappeared in the general havoc of ecclesiastical treasures; but in the adjoining church there has been marvellously preserved from the sacrilegious rapine of French invaders, from the selfish gripe of unscrupulous collectors, and from the merciless ignorance of modern restorers, an interesting memorial of the persons, piety, and artistic tastes of this princely pair. Into a small picture of the Madonna and Child are introduced, on either side, portraits of Giovanni della Rovere and his wife, their arms devoutly crossed, their dress displaying no royal gauds except her simple string of pearls, and a large crystal bead suspended from his neck by a double gold chain. Their regular and unimpassioned features are, probably, somewhat idealised by the pencil of one more happy, as well as more habituated, to embody inspirations of religious mysticism, than to portray the indexes of human passion. Nothing is known of the artist, but he must have been among the foremost in the Umbrian school. By his will, the Prefect left his only son under the joint guardianship of the Venetian senate, his widow, his brother the Cardinal, and the gallant Andrea Doria, whose faithful services we have formerly mentioned. To his consort he bequeathed 20,000 ducats, and 7000 to each of his daughters. On the 18th of November, Francesco Maria rode through Sinigaglia, to receive the allegiance of his subjects; but being only eleven years of age, his mother continued to govern for his behoof, whilst his education was chiefly conducted at the court of her brother, the Duke of Urbino. For a time she was spared the fate of the Romagnese princes; and it was not until Guidobaldo's second flight that the arms of Borgia reached her frontier. Aware how deeply her personal safety was perilled by the approach of so sanguinary a foe, her friend Doria, who commanded the garrison, sent her off disguised in male apparel; and, after a fatiguing flight through mountain-paths, she reached Florence, accompanied only by one confidential servant and a female attendant. The defence of her citadel against an overwhelming force being utterly vain, Doria retired just before the massacre of his allies by Cesare Borgia, which we have recounted in our nineteenth chapter of this work. There, too, we have narrated the young Prefect's escape to France, where he remained under his uncle's auspices, until the latter was called to assume the triple tiara. Giovanna lived until 1514, and passed from worldly trials just before adverse fortune had again exiled her son from his rightful states. Ere we proceed to consider his eventful life, we shall close this chapter with a few brief notices of his uncle Giuliano, the greatest of the della Rovere race. * * * * * An account of JULIUS II. should be, in a great degree, a history of Italy during the crisis of its fate; but as we have in other portions of this work to glance at those events of his life and pontificate most connected with the politics of Urbino, and with the succession of his nephew to that duchy, we shall here, as in the case of his uncle Sixtus, limit ourselves to a few notices of his character and personal history, including his exertions in behalf of art. Giuliano della Rovere[*226] was in most respects the reverse of Pietro Riario, his cousin and rival in the affections of Sixtus IV. Moderate in his tastes and habits, his attendants were chosen for their orderly lives; his equipages were as scanty as the exigencies of rank would permit; his table was economical as his apparel, unless when called upon to show fitting hospitality to persons of distinction. Among the virtues with which he adorned the dignity of cardinal, Panvinio enumerates the modesty of his demeanour, the gravity of his address, the elegance of his winning manners. The less partial Volterrano characterises him as somewhat severe in disposition, and of a genius ordinary as his learning. Dignities were conferred upon him in rapid succession by his uncle, including the sees of Albano, Sabina, Ostia, Velletri, and Avignon, with the more important offices of Grand Penitentiary and Legate of Picene and Avignon. The latter appointment occasioned his prolonged residence out of Italy during the reign of Innocent VIII., and afforded him a convenient escape from the snares of his inveterate enemy Alexander VI. Their mutual disgusts, arising from opposite characters and rival interests, were, according to Infessura, brought to a climax by the Cardinal's adherence to Neapolitan interests, in December, 1492, on the question of Leonora Queen of Hungary's divorce. He then retired to his citadel-see at Ostia, where, at the abbey of Grotta Ferrata, his moats and battlements remain, witnesses to his warlike spirit, as well as to the perils of those troubled times. But, considering himself even there insecure, he ere long withdrew to Naples, whence, after narrowly escaping seizure by the Pope's emissaries, he again reached Ostia in an open boat. On the approach of an army under Nicolò Count of Pittigliano, he fled thence to France, leaving the garrison in charge of the Prefect, who soon capitulated, on condition that neither he nor his brother should incur ecclesiastical censures. Grotto Ferrata was about the same time seized and delivered over to Fabrizio Colonna, on payment of 10,000 ducats. [Footnote *226: For authorities for Pope Julius II., cf. CREIGHTON, vol. V., pp. 305-6, where an excellent _résumé_ is given.] The outrages which the Cardinal had thus received at the hands of the Borgian Pontiff, in unworthy vengeance for his honest opposition to the nepotism and other scandals which then disgraced the Vatican, galled his pride, tending to rouse that fierce spirit which, although alien to the character ascribed to his earlier years, became the bane of his pontificate. This was, indeed, the turning point of his life, and it developed a policy utterly at variance with his ultimate views. Having attended Charles in his march across the Alps, his ardent temperament often aided to sustain that weak monarch's wavering resolutions. Had he then considered more his country's interests, and less his private wrongs, the storm might yet have been averted, and Italy might have been spared, for a time, from those ultramontane armaments which he now conducted into her bosom, but which it was the aim of his after-life to eject. The French King, having achieved his rapid acquisition of Naples, instigated the Colonna to seize upon Ostia, and, as he passed northward, restored it to its cardinal-bishop, who there once more sought security from the Pope. But Giuliano found in his stronghold no adequate protection against so bitter and unscrupulous a foe. Alexander, on the retirement of the French army, entered into an alliance with the reinstated King of Naples, and in 1497 employed Gonsalvo di Cordova to reduce Ostia, whose garrison had embarrassed the navigation of the Tiber, and intercepted supplies from his capital. Eschewing the risks of an unavailing resistance, the Cardinal once more escaped by sea, and rejoined Charles at Lyons, whilst the Great Captain was rewarded for his easy conquest with the Golden Rose. Cardinal della Rovere, having in 1597 been declared enemy of the Holy See, and deprived of his benefices by the Pontiff, against the will of the consistory, withdrew for security to his native shores, and awaited at Savona the conclusion of what was to many of his order a reign of terror. At the moment of Cesare Borgia's invasion of Urbino, he narrowly escaped the fate destined for his brother-in-law Guidobaldo, and his nephew, the young Prefect. On pretence of a complimentary mission to Louis XII., the papal fleet had sailed towards Provence, with orders to visit Savona, where, if the Cardinal did not voluntarily pay his respects to the envoys, he was to be inveigled on board, and carried off. But warned by past experience against civilities emanating from such a quarter, he escaped the danger by cautiously evading the perilous invitation. The sudden and unanimous election of Giuliano to succeed Pius III.--which we have elsewhere narrated--may well be deemed marvellous, considering the various interests that distracted the conclave, and the influence still ostensibly possessed in it by Valentino, the arch-foe of the Rovere race. There could be no more convincing proof that all parties were tired of the recent system, nor of their resolution to put an end to similar enormities. His morals, though hitherto far from immaculate, were pure in comparison with those which prevailed around him; above all, his lapses were neither matter of bravado, nor of open scandal.[227] His errors were of a loftier range, and if more directly perilous to the public, they belonged to a nobler category, and sprang from generous and praiseworthy impulses, and tended to public objects and the elevation of the papacy. Ascending a throne shaken by complicated convulsions, succeeding to a treasury drained for selfish ends, and to an authority waning under long-established abuses, it was his bounden duty to beware _ne aliquid detrimenti respublica capiat_. But, not content with resisting such further "detriment to the commonwealth," and with recovering the ground recently lost, his conscience, more perhaps than his ambition, urged him to new triumphs. He was a great pontiff after the mediæval estimate of the papacy. Little occupying himself with the bulwarks of a faith which he presumed impregnable, or the dogmas of a church still paramount over Christendom, he considered the temporal sovereignty and aggrandisement of the Keys to be his special vocation. Like the early Guelphs, he regarded Italy as St. Peter's patrimony, to be vindicated from all intruders: to establish her nationality, and extirpate the barbarian invaders, were merely steps to that end. Italian unity, though not as yet proposed for political aspirations or utopian dreams, was the result towards which this policy would probably have led both Julius and his successor, had the former been longer spared, and had the narrow views with which the latter pursued it not involved him in continual difficulties, and accelerated the decline of papal ascendancy. [Footnote 227: He had certainly two natural children, and Bernardo Capello alludes to the inroads upon his constitution, occasioned by gout and _morbus Gallicus_ (Ranke, App., sect. i., No. 6); the latter term seems, however, to have been often in that age completely misapplied.] But no personal ambition ever dictated the schemes of Julius, nor did a thought for the nations whose destinies he hazarded ever cross his mind. In the spirit of a crusader he marched against Perugia and Bologna; he personally superintended the siege of Mirandula; and when he donned the casque and cuirass, it was because they were to him more familiar than the wiles of diplomacy. A stranger to those dilatory tactics which we shall find marring the reputation of his nephew, the Duke of Urbino, success crowned his aggressive measures and impetuous movements, when greater circumspection might have been attended with less advantageous results; and it was his good fortune not to outlive those reverses which his precipitation almost necessarily incurred. He was, in truth, gifted with qualities and talents befitting the camp rather than the consistory, and Francis I. pronounced him a better general of division than a pope. Had he been bred a condottiere, the political aspect of Italy might have been convulsed by him, and the papacy might have suffered still more from his sword than it did from his policy. Yet if his militant tastes occasioned greater scandal than the less blustering turbulence of Alexander and Leo, and have proved equally detrimental to popery, they are hallowed in the eyes of its champions in consideration of his purer motives. By them accordingly he is upheld as one of its pillars, while by most historians he has been mentioned as a favourable exception to the prevailing bad faith of his times. Yet, though greedy of conquest, he was far from indifferent to those internal reforms requisite for the stability of his government. According to Capello, the Venetian envoy, he possessed great practical sagacity, and was led by no one, though willing to hear all opinions. His judicious measures added two-thirds to the revenue of the Holy See, chiefly by correcting the depreciated currency in which it was paid. In personal expenses he was penuriously sparing, contracting with his house-steward, to whom he allowed but 1500 ducats for the monthly bills of the palace.[228] [Footnote 228: Ranke, Appendix, sect. i. No. 6.] But this picture has its reverse. In the two following chapters of these memoirs we shall find the head of the universal Church harassing his flock by perpetual warfare--the high-priest of the Christian hierarchy seemingly indifferent to the purity of Catholic rites, and utterly oblivious of peace and charity. By lovers of art the memory of Julius II. will ever be embalmed among the foremost of its princely patrons, and his appreciation of literature may be learned from his remark, that letters are silver to the people, gold to the nobles, diamonds to princes. We have elsewhere to speak of his vast undertakings in architecture, sculpture, and painting, which earned from Vasari the reputation of a spirited pontiff, bent upon leaving memorials of a zealous and liberal encouragement of art. His lavish outlay on St. Peter's strikingly contrasts with his habitual economy. To meet it he authorised a general collection, towards which the Franciscans gathered 27,000 ducats, and in 1507 he proclaimed a sale of jubilee indulgences. This device laid all Christendom under contribution, and proved so productive that he and Leo were tempted almost annually to repeat it, little aware what weapons they were thus forging for future schismatics. The example of his uncle Sixtus, in summoning for the decoration of his capital whatever talent merited such patronage, was followed up by him with the energy belonging to his nature. Besides commencing the metropolitan fane, the immense _cortile_, corridors, and _loggie_ of the Vatican, and the unequalled frescoes of the _stanze_, he was truly the founder of a museum of ancient art. He rescued the Laocoon and rewarded its discoverer; the Apollo and the Torso took their epithet of Belvidere from the pavilion in which he placed them. Rome owes to him, among other improvements, one of its longest and finest streets, bearing his name, where he began a series of palaces for public offices and the courts of justice, unfortunately never completed. The churches which he re-founded or decorated include S. Pietro in Montorio, Sta. Agnese, SS. Apostoli, and the Madonna del Popolo. In the last of these are the beautiful windows which he brought two famous glass-painters from Marseilles to execute; and beneath them those purest specimens of the revival, in which he invited Sansovino's exquisite chisel to commemorate his talented rival Ascanio Sforza, and his cousin the Cardinal of Recanati. For objects so laudable the moment was propitious, and fortune seconded his efforts; but it was more than chance which enabled him to select at once the greatest painter, the most gifted sculptor, and the first architect whom the modern world has seen,--to give simultaneous employment worthy of their genius to Raffaele, Michael Angelo, and Bramante. His successor has found among ourselves a biographer[*229] who brought the enthusiasm of a eulogist to grace the more solid qualifications of a historian, whose eloquence has thrown around the era of Leo a brilliancy leaving in comparative obscurity the pontificate of Julius, whence many of its rays were virtually borrowed. But the progress of our narrative will lead us to introduce some less flattered sketches of the Medicean pontiff. In stimulating the search for choice fragments of antique sculpture, the son of Lorenzo de' Medici but followed the course which his father had indicated, and which Julius had zealously pursued. St. Peter's, perverted under him into a crowning abuse destined to wean men from their old faith, had been founded by his predecessor as the mighty temple of a church, Catholic in fact as well as in name. Michael Angelo, summoned by Julius to decorate his capital with the grandest of his efforts in architecture, sculpture, and painting, was banished by his successor to waste his energies in engineering the marble quarries of Pietra Santa. Raphael was diverted by Leo from that cycle of religious frescoes which the genius of Julius had commissioned, in order to distract his powers upon multifarious, less important, and less congenial occupations. [Footnote *229: WILLIAM ROSCOE, _Life of Leo X._, 4 vols. (3rd ed.), 1847.] Nor need we fear a comparison between these pontiffs on more important points of their respective policy. The wars of Julius were undertaken for the aggrandisement of the papacy, and his nephew was used as an instrument to that end. Those of Leo were waged for the interests of his family at the expense of the Holy See. The former is reported to have left five millions of golden ducats in the treasury; the latter unquestionably burdened it with heavy debts. The measures of Julius may have encouraged divisive courses and a schismatic council; but those of Leo matured the Reformation, and permitted a small cloud, which he might have dispersed while forming upon the horizon, to spread unheeded over the heavens, until Central Europe was withdrawn from the light and influence of the Roman church. In fine, during the pontificates of Sixtus and of Julius more was done for the encouragement of literature and arts, for the temporal extension of the papacy, and for the embellishment of its metropolis, than has ever been effected in any similar period. The combined reigns of the two Medicean popes have left no equal memorials. It cannot be doubted that the patronage bestowed by his ancestors on men of science and letters was liberally continued by Leo; yet it is as much to the zeal of partial historians, as to his own policy of success, that he stands indebted for the halo of glory which marks his as a golden age. In many instances he but followed out the aims of Julius, reaping their undivided glory; in others he fell sadly short of his predecessor in energy and comprehensive views. The bad seed which he freely scattered ripened into irreparable mischiefs under his vacillating nephew, and the sack of Rome, which we shall by and by describe, was their crowning calamity. After that event the proud city was once again left desolate and impoverished, the prey of barbarian spoilers; its population thinned, its court outraged, its glories gone. When the judgment of posterity has passed into a proverb it is too late to question its equity, or to appeal from its fiat, and the name of Leo the Tenth will thus remain identified with his age as the star whence its lustre was derived, although Italy was then brightened by not a few orbs of scarcely inferior brilliancy or less genial influence. BOOK SIXTH OF FRANCESCO MARIA DELLA ROVERE FOURTH DUKE OF URBINO CHAPTER XXXII Youth of Duke Francesco Maria I.--The League of Cambray--His marriage--His first military service--The Cardinal of Pavia's treachery--Julius II. takes the field. To the family della Rovere, whom we have traced in the preceding chapter, an heir was born on the 25th of March, 1490. His father, the Lord Prefect, acknowledged his arrival to be a divine blessing, and, as then usual, testified gratitude by the selection of his baptismal names. St. Francis was the established tutelary saint of the family, under whose guidance Sixtus IV. believed himself to have obtained the tiara, and to whom his brother the Prefect addressed his orisons for a male child. It came into the world on the fête of the Annunciation, and was immediately christened Francesco Maria,[*230] in honour of the saint and of the Madonna. In this, his only male offspring, centred the hopes and interests of the Lord of Sinigaglia; and after his death, in 1501, the boy was carried to the court of Urbino, where his progress was watched with almost paternal anxiety by Duke Guidobaldo. His mother occasionally visited there after her widowhood, although from motives of perhaps misplaced delicacy, she resided chiefly on her husband's fiefs of Sora and Arci in the Neapolitan territory. [Footnote *230: See MARCUCCI: _Francesco Maria I. della Rovere_ (Sinigaglia, 1903).] The first care of his uncle Guidobaldo was to obtain for him a renewal of the prefecture of Rome, which his father had held; and as that appointment was in the hands of Alexander VI., an enemy of the della Rovere, the Duke of Urbino had recourse to the influence of Louis XII. with the Pontiff. This application was warmly seconded in the same quarter by the Cardinal of S. Pietro in Vinculis, paternal uncle of Francesco Maria, and an adherent of the French interests. The readiness wherewith his Holiness accorded this dignity, and even held out hopes of marrying his niece, Angela Borgia, to the young Prefect, induced his uncles to hint at their project of adopting him as heir to the dukedom, a step which required the papal sanction. But they were met by temporising answers, and found, ere long, that the apparent frankness of Alexander was but a cover to that deep-laid plot of destruction, involving both Guidobaldo and his nephew, which we have already developed. Meanwhile, Francesco Maria's education advanced in letters and arms, with every aid which books, talented preceptors, and distinguished society could afford. His earliest instructor had been Antonio Crastini of Sassoferrato, a man of excellent judgment, and well skilled in theology and philosophy, to whom his father had entrusted the command of Sinigaglia, and whose services were eventually rewarded by Julius II. with the sees of Cagli and Montefeltro. Ludovico Odasio still resided at the court of his former pupil Duke Guidobaldo, who placed under his superintendence his youthful relation. The lad, though small in stature for his years, was remarkable for strength and activity, as well as for an active temperament and lively talents. He was liberal, and even careless, of money; but all his pleasure was in the military art, all his ambition centred in martial glory, for Nicolò of Fossombrone, and another famous astrologer, had predicted from his horoscope high deeds of arms. After passing hours in the study of history and classical literature, and of those sciences wherein princes then sought pre-eminence, he found relaxation in horsemanship and martial exercises, under the eye of such honoured veterans of Duke Federigo as still wore their well-won laurels in the palace of his son. Thus was his youthful mind moulded to the noblest forms of chivalry, without those idle appendages which the affectation of other times has exaggerated into caricature. [Illustration: _Alinari_ FRANCESCO MARIA I DELLA ROVERE _After the picture by Titian in the Uffizi Gallery, Florence_ _(From the Ducal Collection)_] The whirlwind that broke in upon this calm, and sent the Lords of Urbino and Sinigaglia into houseless exile, has been described in the eighteenth chapter of these memoirs. Francesco Maria, after accompanying his uncle's midnight flight as far as Sta. Agata, reached Bologna through mountain paths; and, having by great prudence escaped the attempts of Giovanni Bentivoglio to apprehend him, in compliance with Valentino's orders, he made his way by Genoa to Savona, where his uncle, the Cardinal della Rovere, resided. But the latter, not satisfied of his security, and anxious to place him where he would have better means of improvement, sent him to his see of Avignon, and thence recommended him to Louis XII., who received him with high favour. In the court then established at Lyons he resumed his education, especially in those military and personal accomplishments for which it was distinguished, and quickly acquired great proficiency in the French language. There he attached himself much to the youthful Gaston de Foix, acting as his page of honour, and gained some notice from the King, who bore testimony to his precocious attainments in chivalry, by bestowing upon him the order of St. Michael ere he had completed his thirteenth year. The events already recorded in connection with the death of Alexander VI., restored Francesco Maria to his rights unquestioned; but his first care was to obey a summons of his cardinal uncle, who had been elected to the tiara. Travelling from France with his cousin-german Galeotto Franciotti, whom Julius had named to the hat just vacated by himself, he reached Rome amid public rejoicings on the 2nd of March, 1504. He immediately received the command of a hundred men-at-arms, and steps were promptly taken for his public recognition as heir-apparent of Urbino. Accompanying Guidobaldo into the Marca, he was welcomed at Sinigaglia, on the 17th of June, by the unanimous voice of his people. On the 18th of September he was invested with the dukedom of Urbino in reversion, when he received the homage of his future subjects with a ceremonial which we have described at p. 37, and which was attended by delegates from all parts of the state, to adhibit the consent of their constituents. As a finishing stroke to these measures for consolidating the della Rovere sovereignty, a marriage was about the same time contracted between the Prefect and Leonora Gonzaga, daughter of Francesco Marquis of Mantua. To this arrangement, which turned out in all respects fortunate, the wishes of her aunt, the Duchess Elisabetta of Urbino,[*231] were mainly conducive; and preliminaries were negotiated by Count Castiglione, whose high favour with both contracting parties, as well as his diplomatic address, well qualified him for the mission. It was announced in January, 1505, but the ceremony was postponed for four years, on account of their youth. To the charms of the bride, Castiglione bears this tribute: "If ever there were united wisdom, grace, beauty, genius, courtesy, gentleness, and refined manners, it was in her person, where these combined qualities form a chain adorning her every movement." [Footnote *231: She was betrothed in the same month in which her father died. The marriage had long been desired by Elisabetta. Giustiniani mentions a report of it in his Despatches (_Dispacci_, vol. II., p. 359) even in 1503. Mrs. ADY (_Isabella d'Este_, vol. I., p. 267) says the Marquis of Mantua desired it "as a means of obtaining the Cardinalate which he had been striving to obtain for his brother during the last fifteen years."] [Illustration: _Anderson_ VENETIAN WEDDING-DRESS IN SIXTEENTH CENTURY _After the picture called "La Flora" by Titian in the Uffizi Gallery, Florence_] But although too young for matrimony, the Prefettino was allowed to flesh his maiden sword under his future father-in-law's command, in the expedition undertaken by Julius against the lords of Perugia and Bologna. In a military view the campaign was totally uninteresting; but in some skirmishes before Castel S. Pietro, Francesco Maria gained his general's approbation, and thus favourably entered upon the career wherein he was destined to high distinction. The greater part of his time was spent at Urbino, acquainting himself with the people over whom he was to reign, and with the duties that awaited him. Its limited court was rich in merit, and beneath an exterior of elegance and high polish, learning and accomplishments of every sort were cultivated and honoured to a degree elsewhere unknown. The laxity of morals which, notwithstanding the example of both sovereigns, accompanied that refinement, may be estimated from an anecdote sadly instancing the failing in Francesco Maria's character, which proved the bane of his whole life. We shall narrate it in the words of an anonymous diary, already largely drawn upon for the reign of Guidobaldo I.[232] "The Duke, [Guidobaldo] having brought up about his person one Giovanni Andrea, a bravo of Verona, he made him his favourite, and conferred upon him the order of the Golden Spur, as well as the fief of Sasso-Corbaro, and some mills on the Foglia. He was extremely handsome and generally liked; and it happened that Madama Maria, daughter of the late Prefect Giovanna of Sinigaglia, and widow of Venanzio of Camerino, who had been slain by Cesare Borgia, was residing in Urbino with her son. Being still young, she fell in love with this Giovanni Andrea, and was reported to have borne him a son. Whereupon her brother, the Prefect, sent for him one Saturday evening, and in the ducal chamber beset him with his people, and assassinated him with twenty-four blows. At the same moment, one of his attendants went out and slew a servant of Madama Maria, who was said to have delivered their messages. On the following evening, being Sunday, the body was carried to the cathedral with distinguished honours, accompanied by all the gentlemen of the ducal household, and by a concourse of the citizens, for he was generally lamented by persons of every rank, and no one had died for a length of time more regretted. And this occurred on the 6th of October, 1507." [Footnote 232: Vat. Urb. MSS. No. 904, f. 89.] * * * * * We have elsewhere endeavoured to sketch the brilliant society in which the Prefect's youthful mind was developed; in due time we shall find several of its prominent members crossing him in the tangled weft of human destiny, as friends or foes, according to their several interests. We have also noticed the affectionate duty he continued to interchange with the Duke and Duchess, and the circumstances in which he succeeded to their state. Guidobaldo closed his life of suffering on the 11th of April, 1508, and on the 14th Francesco Maria, after high mass in the cathedral, produced the will naming him heir of the duchy and dignities.[*233] The gonfaloniere of Urbino then presented to him the city keys in a great silver basin, and also its standard, accompanied with a complimentary address. He next was arrayed in the ducal mantle of white satin doubled with gold brocade, and a cap faced with ermine, over which was placed the coronet; then mounting a superb charger richly housed, he was escorted through the principal streets by an enthusiastic multitude shouting "ROVERE and FELTRO, DUKE and PREFECT!" in whose joyous hurrahs it would have been difficult to identify the disconsolate populace who not many hours before had raised their coronach over Guidobaldo's mortal remains. On returning, his horse was seized as their perquisite, and his mantle torn into shreds, which were scrambled for as relics to be treasured in memory of the day. [Footnote *233: Cf. LUZIO E RENIER, _Mantova ed Urbino_ (Torino, 1893), p. 182.] This spontaneous loyalty, and their satisfaction at the maintenance of their national independence, did not, however, prevent the citizens from recollecting their interests. On the new Duke's first appearance at Urbino the authorities had gathered round his horse to kiss his hands and knees, and to beseech attention to their wishes. Pleading recent fatigues, he declined entering then upon business, and the gonfaloniere, readily accepting the excuse, summoned a sort of parliament of the principal inhabitants to decide what favours and privileges should be asked as a preliminary to their homage. Estimating this movement at its actual value, rather than by its bearing upon any theories of self-government, Baldi has entered into no details of these demands: their object may, however, be guessed at from the municipal concessions made by Francesco Maria on the 31st of May, whereby precedence was granted to the gonfaloniere over the podestà; and the salaries of the city physician, lawyer, and schoolmaster were undertaken by the sovereign, who also consented to a modification of the imposts on agricultural produce.[*234] [Footnote *234: The document is printed by LUZZATTO, _Comune e principato in Urbino nei secc. xv. e xvi._, in _Le Marche_ (1905), An. v., p. 196 _et seq._] Although the popularity both of the extinguished dynasty and of the youth who was destined to replace it, together with an absence of all conflicting claims, rendered the succession safe and certain, every measure which prudence could suggest had been taken by the Pope to secure its being peacefully effected. A few excitable spirits having assumed arms, in apprehension of some revolutionary movement, a proclamation was issued on the morning subsequent to the Duke's decease, commanding all to lay them down. On the 17th a papal brief was addressed to the people, condoling with them on their bereavement, and applauding their dutiful and orderly reception of Francesco Maria. An envoy, deputed by the community to present their answer, returned on the 30th, delighted with the gracious reception he had met with, and with the Pontiff's flattering assurances. The ceremony of swearing allegiance was out of delicacy postponed until the 3rd of May, the day subsequent to his respected predecessor's funeral. Summonses for both solemnities were issued to the various communities in the following terms:-- "Right well-beloved, "On the second of the ensuing month will be celebrated the obsequies of the illustrious Lord Duke, our father of happy memory, for which it behoves you to send here in good time as many as possible of your well-qualified fellow-citizens, suitably dressed for the occasion. And to such of them as you shall please to choose, you shall give a special mandate for adhibiting the oath of fidelity to us in name of your community, taking care that it be in regular form as a public instrument. From Urbino, this 25th of April, 1508. "FRANCISCUS MARIA DUX URBINI, ALMÆ URBIS PRÆFECTUS." The deputations willingly rendered the required homage, for they considered this perpetuation of their independence as a boon doubly grateful in the person of a sovereign representing their old and loved dynasty, whose opening character promised no unworthy successor to his esteemed uncle and father. During some days the Duke attended to various demands and representations of the commissioners, and, by well-timed favours to their different cities, quickly established himself in the good graces of his new subjects. The Duchess Regent proved a kind and prudent counsellor until he came of age, and long continued her assistance in his affairs of state, residing at his court while he had a home to share with her. The great discretion and good feeling he now manifested towards her, and the scrupulous anxiety he testified to retain around him all Guidobaldo's tried friends and servants, quickly ripened the popularity which his fortunate position had sown, and which eventually enabled him to recover and maintain his sovereignty in circumstances nearly desperate. [Illustration: _Anderson_ DETAIL OF THE URBINO VENUS _Supposed portrait of Duchess Leonora, from the picture by Titian in the Uffizi Gallery, Florence_] The restless spirit of Julius fretted against the resistance still offered by the Venetians to his incorporating with the papal states those places in Romagna which they had seized, upon the fall of Valentino, nor would he accept the compromise which they proposed, of surrendering Rimini, on receiving from him a formal investiture of Faenza. They were also suspected of irritating by their intrigues the feverish state of that district, and of undermining the preponderating influence which it was his policy there to establish. On pretext of crowning Maximilian, whose title to the imperial dignity had not been completed by that formality, the Pontiff invited him to march into Italy, and support his views. The Emperor, in accepting the proposal, demanded free passage through the Venetian territories, with a threat of forcing his way, if obstructed. Assured of support from their ally of France, the Signory offered compliance, on condition of his going unarmed: but, spurning such terms, he, in February, moved with an army upon the valley of Trent. He was, however, effectually held in check by the Venetian generals, Nicolò da Petigliano and Bartolomeo d'Alviano; whilst Louis, besides sending Gian Giacomo Trivulzio to their support, instigated the Duke of Gueldres to carry fire and sword into Lower Germany. Maximilian, finding his hands full, made a hasty truce with the Venetians in May, and turned to punish Gueldres. The Venetian and French armies being thereupon disbanded, the moment seemed to Julius favourable for renewing his designs upon Romagna, and in the following November he sent the Cardinal of Sta. Croce to take part in negotiations, which had been opened at Cambray, for reconciliation of the Emperor and the French monarch. Maximilian readily lent himself to any measures calculated to efface his recent disgrace in the Alpine valleys, and to recover some places in Friuli which had remained in the enemy's hands; Louis was induced to accede, in order to wrest from Venice such portions of the old Visconti duchy as owned her sway; and Ferdinand joined the coalition in hopes of regaining several Neapolitan sea-ports, over which the Lion of St. Mark still waved in security of certain advances by the Republic for the wars of Lower Italy. Out of these elements there was concluded, on the 10th of December, a famous treaty, which denounced the Venetians as ambitious perturbators of Italy and all Christian lands, and declared war against them as the common enemies of the allies, who pledged themselves to take the field before April, for recovery of Ravenna, Cervia, Rimini, and Faenza to the Holy See, and of the territories respectively claimed by the other contracting powers in Austria, Lombardy, and Calabria. A subsidiary article took Francesco Maria under their special protection, and guaranteed his states; whilst by another the Duke of Ferrara was left free to become a party, on payment to the Emperor of a sum of money in dispute between them. Such was the notable League of Cambray, misnamed holy, on the vague pretext that the maritime Republic, by retaining Ravenna and Cervia, impeded the pacification of Christendom, and a general armament against the Turks. Not only was it an innovation upon the established custom of pitting the German and French interests against each other, and settling their differences on the blood-stained plains of Lombardy, but, as the first great coalition of European powers for one common political object, it may be regarded as founding the modern system of diplomacy. Yet, though this formidable confederation was the child of his own brain, matured by the address of his legate, Julius shrank before the Promethean monster, and paused ere he animated it by his ratification. Well might it startle him to find that his labours for the ulterior emancipation of Italy from foreign yoke were about to divide one of her finest states among her most formidable ultramontane foes. Had Duke Guidobaldo been spared a little longer, his cool head and pacific disposition, as well as his friendship for the Signory and his influence with the Pope, might have counteracted the unnatural combination; but the die was cast, and the Pontiff had only to await the course of events for an opportunity of undoing his present work.[*235] [Footnote *235: The league of Cambrai is one of the great crimes of history. The man who devised it and urged it upon Europe was the head of European Christianity, Pope Julius II. Beside this, the sensualities and murders of the Borgia go for nothing. His policy, created by hate, succeeded in so far as it established the States of the Church and murdered Italy. Yet looking back now, we may judge of the price that has been required of the Church for that treason. Beggared of her possessions, at the mercy of the new Italian kingdom, he who sits in the seat of Julius is a prisoner in the Vatican--the prisoner of history.] Unable to hold a military command, which would have better suited his talents and tastes than the duties of Christ's vicegerent upon earth, Julius gratified his family predilections by appointing his nephew Francesco Maria to be captain-general of the ecclesiastical troops. His investiture took place in the church of S. Petronio, at Bologna, on the 4th of October, 1508, when he received the pontifical baton from the Cardinal of Pavia, a prelate whose destiny we shall find, ere long, fatally bound up in his own. But the time for active service not being yet arrived, he contented himself with a review of the forces thus placed under his charge. Being considered equal to such a command, it is not surprising he should think it time to celebrate his long-projected nuptials.[*236] On the 5th of November, Julius wrote to the Duchess Elisabetta, to send a _lettiga_ or litter, with three horses, in order to bring his bride on a visit to Urbino, where the ceremony took place on Christmas Eve, 1508.[*237] The letters, addressed to Federigo Fregoso by Bembo, who arrived on the 19th, unveil some proofs of the bridegroom's felicity which it were more decorous to pass over; but its revelations throw light upon the contrasted feelings of the still mourning court. "Our reception was truly chilling: no joy or hilarity in the palace; even in the city its wonted aspect; our happy youth himself quite frigid; but there is hope that he will become more ardent...." Writing a week after the marriage, he says that as soon as it was over, the Duke manifested the most unbounded affection, which became daily more passionate; and declares that he had never met with a more comely, merry, or sweet girl, who, to a most amiable disposition, added a surprisingly precocious judgment, which gained for her general admiration.[238] This event was hailed at Urbino with great public rejoicings and sumptuous fêtes, and the triumphal arches, theatres, and other architectural and pictorial works required for the occasion, were executed under the direction of Timoteo Vite and Girolamo Genga. In 1843 I saw, in the hands of Padre Cellani, at the Augustine convent in Pesaro, an interesting memorial of this marriage. It is a small MS. psalter, with a frontispiece illuminated in the manner of the Veronese limners, representing Nathan rebuking David, whose crown and sceptre are fallen to the ground--a singular theme for a bridal present, which, from the legend "LIONOR GOZAGA URBINI DUCISSA," with the impaled arms of the two families, it may have been. The Lady Leonora was about his own age, and, although neither her beauty nor accomplishments have met with the same celebration as those of her aunt the Duchess Elisabetta, we shall have ample opportunity of observing in her character much energy and good sense, with undeviating affection to her husband; whilst the pencil of Titian has preserved to us a person which in a sovereign must have been lauded as handsome. [Footnote *236: On the 25th of August, Francesco Maria had paid a visit to Mantua to see his betrothed. "Come," said Leonora's uncle to him, "and when you have seen Madonna Leonora and the Marchese's horses you will have seen the two finest things in the world." Francesco Maria spent two days there travelling incognito with but four persons. Cf. JULIA CARTWRIGHT, _op. cit._, vol. I., p. 310. An amusing letter from Federico Cattaneo to Isabella d'Este, who was absent, describes the meeting of Francesco Maria and his future bride. Leonora was fourteen, and they were married at Christmas.] [Footnote *237: Cf. LUZIO E RENIER, _op. cit._; p. 195, for the entry of the Duchess into Urbino.] [Footnote 238: It is difficult to reconcile with these details of an eye-witness the statement of Leoni, followed by Riposati and others, that the marriage was privately performed at Mantua in February, 1509. In May of that year the Duke was unanimously chosen a Knight of the Garter at a chapter of that order, but for reasons which it is now too late to investigate, the nomination was not confirmed by Henry VIII. At next election he had but one vote out of ten, and his name does not again occur in the record preserved by Anstis.] [Illustration: _Franz Hanfstaengl_ THE GIRL IN THE FUR-CLOAK _Possibly a portrait of Duchess Leonora of Urbino. After the picture by Titian in the Imperial Gallery, Vienna_] From his honeymoon happiness the boy-bridegroom was speedily summoned to the field. After issuing a preparatory apostolic admonition to the Signory, on the 27th of April, 1509, Julius ordered his nephew to assume offensive operations against Romagna, supported by the Baglioni, Vitelli, and other vassals of the Church. The Duke was already on foot, and after some skirmishes before Rimini, he attacked Brisghella on the 4th of May; the place speedily surrendering, he occupied himself in saving its inhabitants, so far as possible, from the miseries of a sack, which Muratori denounces as worthy of the Turks, and which Roscoe unwarrantably imputes to him as an act of wanton cruelty. Following up this success, he, with youthful enthusiasm, adopted various expedients for harassing the enemy, but obtained still more credit for the judgment displayed in a singular dilemma, which might have disconcerted a more experienced commander. There existed between some bands of Spanish and Italian soldiery in his camp, various heart-burnings ready to kindle at a spark. Ramocciotto, an Italian captain, having been sent upon secret duty, as evening approached his men were seized with a vague impression that he had met with foul play from the Spaniards. Just then, during a wrangle among some camp-followers about a baggage-mule, one of them called out in stentorian voice, "_Taglia! taglia!_" meaning that the packing-cords should be cut. These words, which rang through the stilly air, were mistaken for "_Italia! Italia!_" and were caught up by the feverish followers of Ramocciotto as a watchword, which they loudly echoed, and rushed to arms. Their cry and action were repeated by most of the troops, who had just finished their evening meal, and in a moment the camp was a scene of inexplicable confusion, the fury of some and the consternation of others combining to produce a general panic. Francesco Maria and his officers were taken by surprise, but with great presence of mind he ordered an advance upon Faenza as the readiest means of restoring order. The gloom of twilight now settled down upon the camp, augmenting the embarrassment, and ere the troops evacuated it, a good many Spaniards had been cut down in the _mêlée_. Military discipline at length prevailed, and the Duke, finding the town on its guard, returned to quarters. Ramocciotto's reappearance appeased the originators of the tumult, but it was not till next day that a stern inquiry detected its casual origin. Thus did the promptitude and prudence of the juvenile general save his character from compromise, and his little army from disaster.[239] [Footnote 239: Vat. Urb. MSS. No. 489. This is but a fragment of the life of Francesco Maria by Urbano Urbani, who was his secretary at this time. Our account of the League of Cambray has been taken from it, collated with many published authorities. Urbani's full work, which I have not discovered, has been largely drawn upon by Leoni, Baldi, and other biographers.] The ecclesiastical army consisted of eight thousand infantry and one thousand six hundred horse, a force by no means adequate for the service it was called upon to perform. The Pontiff, with fatal partiality, had entrusted the entire control of the commissariat and stores for the campaign to the Cardinal of Pavia, of whom the remark passed into a proverb, that whoever would make up a jerkin of every colour should employ the words and actions of the Legate of Bologna. Francesco Alidosio was second son of the Lord of Castel del Rio, an inconsiderable mountain fief adjoining the state of Imola, which latter, after being long held in sovereignty by his family, had been bought or wrested from his grandfather by Sixtus IV. and the Sforza. Having been educated for the Church, he attached himself on the death of that Pontiff to Cardinal Giuliano della Rovere, whose entire favour and confidence he won, not only by long personal service, but by firmly withstanding various offers made him by the Borgia to dispose of his master by poison. As soon as his patron was placed in the chair of St. Peter, his services were rewarded by a scarlet hat, followed by the see of Pavia, the rich office of Datario, and other valuable preferments. But his character had been regarded as so questionable, in the scandalous pontificate of Alexander, that many objections were raised in the consistory to his promotion, and even the silver-tongued Jovius attributes his rapid advancement to the advantages of a fine person and an unscrupulous pliancy of principle. The influence he had obtained over the open-hearted Julius was maintained by his facility in accommodating himself to the outbreaks of his patron's impetuous temper; and it entirely blinded the Pope to the danger of reposing implicit confidence in such a counsellor. But the Cardinal, not satisfied to share these favours with another, did all in his power to obtain an undivided mastery over his affections, and especially to supplant his nephew in his regards. The means which he adopted to effect this were, as we shall soon see, to thwart all the Duke's plans, and throw upon him the blame of their failure. But the mainspring of his hopes and intrigues was the restoration of Imola to himself or his brother; and as the policy of Julius rendered him deaf to such a request, even from a favourite, the latter scrupled not to purchase his object from the French, by betraying to them those interests with which as legate of Bologna he was entrusted. Francesco Maria accordingly found his movements hampered at every turn by the scarcity of supplies, and, in answer to unceasing remonstrances, had from the Legate abundance of fair words and sounding promises leading to no result whatever. This was the more provoking, as sound policy required a speedy conclusion to operations carried on in a province that, though in hostile hands for the time, was eventually destined to remain under the papal sway, towards which it was therefore of importance to conciliate the population, rather than to oppress them by military exactions. Notwithstanding these difficulties, the Duke reduced the castles of Granaruolo and Roscio, Faenza surrendered, and the siege of Ravenna seemed approaching a favourable conclusion, when the Venetians, panic-stricken by the French successes in Lombardy, and especially by the rout they had sustained on the 14th of May, at Vaila in the Ghiaradadda, sued for peace. They hoped, by offering to the Pope, the Emperor, and the Spaniard, all the places occupied on their respective territories, to conciliate these powers, and so be enabled to maintain themselves against French aggression. Their envoy addressed himself to arrange with the Legate a suspension of arms, whilst he should forward to the Pope a formal renunciation of the disputed towns in Romagna; but the wily Cardinal, who, whether from inherent dishonesty, or with some selfish end in view, seems to have acted with invariable bad faith, urged him to resign these places directly into his own hands, and, when the agent persisted in adhering to his instructions, he was thrown into irons and threatened with a halter. Nor was this the only manifest instance of the Legate's treachery; for besides thwarting the Duke on every occasion, and keeping him in the dark as to most important arrangements, he sent some of his own adherents to attack and pillage the garrison of Faenza, as it quitted the city upon a capitulation accorded by himself. Francesco Maria, disgusted with his duplicity, of his own authority liberated the envoy, and so was brought into angry collision with the Cardinal, thus aggravating a quarrel ere long to end in blood. [Illustration: _Brogi_ DUCHESS OF URBINO, EITHER ELEONORA OR GIULIA VARANA _After the picture by Titian in the Uffizi Gallery, Florence_] The difficulties of the youthful commander were increased by the inopportune arrival of four thousand Swiss mercenaries, who, finding matters in train for a pacification which would dash their hopes of booty, could scarcely be restrained from an immediate assault upon Ravenna. Their ruffianly intentions being insidiously encouraged by the Legate, it was only by great prudence and decision that the Duke prevented them from sacking that city, when evacuated on honourable terms by the Venetian authorities. This conciliatory policy was rewarded by a speedy surrender of Cervia, followed on the 11th of June by that of Rimini, the last of the towns claimed by Julius, upon which Francesco Maria lost no time in disbanding his army and returning home. As soon as he was gone, the Cardinal, steady only to his duplicity, imprisoned the Venetian officers who had imprudently lingered within his reach. Although this campaign lasted but six weeks, and produced no considerable engagement, it afforded to the young Duke an insight into mankind, as well as a lesson in military affairs, which enabled him to pass at once from boyhood to the experience, as well as the reputation, of an able commander. As soon as Francesco Maria was liberated from camp duties, he sent to Mantua for his bride, and at his uncle's desire carried her to visit Rome. The Roman citizens, ever devoted to festivity, received him with distinction, due not less to his personal merit than to his high rank and near relationship to the Pope. Among the pageants exhibited in honour of his marriage were tilting in the Piazza Navona, and a masque celebrating his successes in Romagna, after the manner of those triumphs which that capital used to witness some fifteen centuries before. He carried Giuliano de' Medici with him to the papal court, and effected his reconciliation with Julius, who, suspecting him of some intrigues at Bologna, had given orders for his imprisonment; thus swelling that debt of the Medici to his family, which Leo X. subsequently and most ungratefully expunged. The Duke also used his influence for removal of the interdict from Venice, the tried ally of his house; and this the Pontiff more readily granted, having now gained all he hoped from the compact of Cambray, and being ready for any new coalition that might tend either to aggrandise the Holy See or to liberate Italy from foreign yoke. He therefore cared not for the remonstrances of his late coadjutors against his abrupt secession from their common policy; and, aware how little signified Maximilian's languid operations, he only sought an apology for putting himself in direct opposition to the French, whose successes in Lombardy were assuming a serious aspect. This was soon afforded by the hollow counsels of the Cardinal of Pavia, whom he had despatched to the camp of Louis on pretence of congratulating him upon his victory at Vaila, but in fact to watch his intentions. In this monarch the Legate found one as ambitious as his master, and not more scrupulous than himself; he therefore with characteristic treason encouraged the projects he had shrewdly penetrated, stipulating in return for the sovereignty of Imola, as soon as Louis should, by his secret aid, add Bologna and Romagna to his Milanese possessions. As an underplot in this drama of ingratitude and treachery, the Cardinal of Rouen proposed that Julius should be deposed by a general council, with a view to securing for himself the tiara. Such at least were the ends which the French King soon after openly pursued; and those historians who seek to establish a case against the Cardinal of Pavia, explanatory of his subsequent conduct, charge him with thus early selling himself to Louis, and betraying his partial and confiding patron the Pope. The Legate, therefore, on his return to Rome, warmly seconded the Pontiff's views. A rupture with France was the preliminary move in the game he had arranged with Louis, and his zeal in promoting it seemed the surest disguise of his ulterior designs. Florence and Ferrara were bound to the French interests, while Venice was their determined foe; so it only remained for the Pope to join stakes with the Signory, and the party was made up. His intrigues to secure the support of Spain, Austria, and England, and to retain the Swiss in his service, do not require our particular notice. Unwarned by recent events in Romagna, and blinded by affection for his nephew, and for the Cardinal of Pavia, to the character of the latter, and to the insuperable antipathy which had grown up between them, the Pope, unfortunately, again delegated to them the joint conduct of the war. The first advance was made against Ferrara, with the view, doubtless, of restoring the Polesine to Venice, and extending the temporal sway of the Keys to the banks of the Po. Francesco Maria, who, after wintering in Rome, had returned home with his Duchess in May, entered the Ferrarese ere July was over, at the head of six thousand infantry, and one thousand five hundred horse, and quickly became master of a great part of that duchy. But this army was unequal to operations against the city of Ferrara, strong in its surrounding marshes; and an expected contingent of ten thousand Swiss were intercepted by Chaumont, the French general (called Ciamonte by Guicciardini,) and sent back to their mountains by the combined means of force and gold. The naval armament against Genoa, then in the hands of Louis, proving also a failure, and the Cardinal Legate conducting his department as unsatisfactorily as before, the Duke of Urbino heard with joy that the Pontiff was on his way to the scene of operations. On the 15th of September he passed through Pesaro, leaving the Apostolic benediction, and various indulgences, in acknowledgment of his enthusiastic reception. When he reached Bologna, he found Modena, which had lately surrendered to his army, threatened by Chaumont in person, and a strong feeling abroad among the ecclesiastical officers, that they had been deluded by the Legate, who prevented them from clenching their success by the capture of Reggio, and had wiled them to a fruitless demonstration before Ferrara, thereby not only wasting precious time, but exposing the army to great hazard, and leaving Modena and Bologna uncovered. The Pope immediately directed his nephew to send the Cardinal, under arrest, to Bologna, which he did, with every mark of consideration; but the extraordinary influence which that sneaking spirit exercised over the frank and open-hearted Julius, diverted his suspicions, and was rewarded with new favours. The unpromising aspect of his affairs, which brought the Pontiff in person to Bologna, did not improve. Disappointed of the assistance he looked for from Switzerland and Naples, feebly supported by his allies of Venice and Mantua, his troops were reduced to a defensive position, fatal to the prestige which had attended their first successes. Encouraged by this state of matters, and by the approach of Chaumont's powerful army, the friends of the exiled Bentivoglii began to agitate for their restoration to the sovereignty of Bologna. Nor were these the worst mortifications awaiting the proud spirit of Julius. The clergy of France had met at Lyons, and decided upon convoking a general council at Pisa, to sit in judgment upon his conduct, a movement already openly supported by Louis, the Emperor, and Florence, and by five members of the Sacred College. These anxieties fretted his fractious temperament into an illness, so serious at his advanced age, as to threaten a fatal termination; and in the prospect of thus losing the mainspring of the war, his confederates were little inclined to compromise themselves by fresh exertions. His courtiers, too, alarmed at the prospect of clinging to a falling cause, beset him with persuasions to obtain a truce on any terms. But they mistook the character with whom they had to deal. In deference to their representations, he opened a negotiation with the French general, wherein, far from assuming a suppliant air, he prescribed as a preliminary stipulation, the sacrifice of the Duke of Ferrara to his vengeance, as a rebellious vassal. Thus passing "Out of the speech of peace that bears such grace Into the harsh and boisterous tongue of war," he sent a summary threat to his Venetian allies, and to the Marquis of Mantua, that unless their promised contingents instantly marched to his support, he would arrange matters with the French King for their extermination. The moral influence of this indomitable courage retrieved his affairs. The Venetian, Mantuan, and Neapolitan succours successfully and quickly arrived; many small free companies flocked to his standard; and the Bolognese factions postponed their movement till a fitter moment. Breaking off all negotiations, he thundered censures against Chaumont and the Duke of Ferrara, and ordered his now ample army to assume offensive operations. His physical energy was at the same time restored, and the threatened eclipse proved but a passing cloud, from which his indomitable genius burst forth with renewed brilliancy. CHAPTER XXXIII The Duke routed at Bologna from the Cardinal of Pavia's treason, whom he assassinates--He is prosecuted, but finally absolved and reconciled to the Pope--He reduces Bologna--Is invested with Pesaro--Death of Julius II. In December the Duke of Urbino returned the challenge to a general engagement, which Chaumont had boastfully given him a few months before, and, after carrying some places of minor importance, encamped before Mirandola. To the surprise and no small scandal of all, the Pontiff, scarcely recovered from a dangerous malady, and braving the unusual rigours of the season, repaired to head-quarters. In reply to representations of his advisers against a step hazardous to his health, and unusual, if not unbecoming, in the head of the Christian Church, he urged the necessity of vigorously, and at any personal risks, meeting the disgraceful and schismatic proposal for a council at Pisa,[*240] by proving himself both able and willing to perform the duties of his high office, in wielding its temporal and spiritual arms against all enemies and perturbators of the Church, as well as in maintaining its doctrines, and supporting its friends. This ill-judged decision is said to have been strongly prompted by his evil genius the Cardinal of Pavia, who, speculating upon the chance of its cutting short his master's life, made sure of, at all events, turning to the advantage of his French friends the command at Bologna, which upon the Pope's departure would once more devolve upon him as legate. Guicciardini further charges him with promoting the bootless demonstration against Mirandola, in order to divert the army from Ferrara, whose inadequate defences might have rendered it an easy as well as important conquest. In the first days of the year, Julius reached the camp, attended by three cardinals, and took up his quarters in a cottage exposed to the fire of the walls. It is stated in an old chronicle, that a cannon ball having fallen close to his pavilion, the enraged Pontiff ordered it to be sent to Loreto as an _ex voto_ offering, and threatened to deliver over the place to a sack. Severe cold and deep snow in nowise daunted him, and his presence alarming the garrison, whilst the besiegers were stimulated to exertion by his persuasions, the town was soon reduced, but, by extraordinary exertions on the part of Francesco Maria, was saved from pillage.[*241] Its garrison had been commanded by a natural daughter of Gian Giacomo Trivulzio,[*242] who, on being rudely asked by the Legate, in presence of Julius, if she were the woman who would hold the place against the Pontiff, replied, "Against you I could easily have defended it, but not against him." [Footnote *240: Little is known of the steps which led to the Council of Pisa. See some interesting letters printed in CREIGHTON, _op. cit._, vol. V., p. 329 _et seq._] [Footnote *241: Cf. SANUTO, _Diario_, vol. XI., p. 721 _et seq._ It was the Pope who threatened pillage. CREIGHTON, _op. cit._, vol. V., p. 143.] [Footnote *242: She was the widow of the Count Ludovico of Mirandola.] Julius, satisfied with this success, retired to Ravenna: whilst his nephew, who about this time was warned by the Doge of Venice of a plan concerted by the Cardinal of Rouen for poisoning him, led the army towards Ferrara. As the best means of relieving that town, and perhaps in concert with the treacherous Legate, Trivulzio, who since Chaumont's death, commanded the French troops, amounting to fifteen thousand lances, and seven thousand infantry, now marched upon Bologna, avoiding a battle, which the Duke of Urbino would gladly have hazarded. The latter, however, by forced marches arrived there before him, and encamped at Casalecchio, three miles south of the city. The French army was by this time at Ponte Laino, about five miles north-west from the gate; and the Duke lost no time in advising the Legate of the position of affairs, offering to throw two or three thousand men and some artillery into Bologna. After losing much valuable time in consultation with some of the citizens, the Cardinal declined these as unnecessary. This answer appears to have converted into certainty the suspicions which Francesco Maria had long entertained of his coadjutor's good faith. He knew the garrison, consisting of about twelve hundred troops, to be utterly inadequate to resist the French; he was also aware that the exiled Bentivoglii, then hovering about at the head of a strong band of adherents, were eagerly looked for by their numerous partisans within the walls, to whom the Cardinal had rendered his ecclesiastical authority doubly odious, by a series of oppressive measures totally inconsistent with its usual mild sway, and intended, no doubt, to promote his own treasonable ends, by alienating the inhabitants from the established order of things. Strongly impressed with the urgency of the crisis, the young Duke persisted in his intention of reinforcing the garrison, but some older officers, persuaded by renewed assurances from the Cardinal, overruled him in council, and their march was postponed until morning,--a delay fatal to the cause, and pregnant with complicated evils. So little was the Duke of Urbino satisfied with this resolution, that he posted videttes under the walls, and spent the night in reconnoitring with his staff. Midnight had just passed when a confused murmur from the city attracted his attention. The word _Chiesa!_ or church, seeming to prevail amid the din, he had hope that the Legate's authority was maintained; but presently the watchword being heard more distinctly, it proved to be _Sega! Sega!_ signifying "The saw! the saw!" a badge and war-cry of the Bentivoglii. After some time lost in painful suspense, it was ascertained from the sentinels that the French and the Bentivoglii were masters of the place. Aware of his critical situation, but retaining his presence of mind, Francesco Maria gave instant orders for a retreat, fixing a point of rendezvous five miles on the road towards Romagna. Thither he marched his cavalry in perfect order, by the level country, and was followed by the Venetian and other infantry along the high ground. The latter, being set upon at once by the enemy and the country people, fell into confusion, and, but for the Duke's strenuous persuasions, and a successful charge which he made with his cavalry upon their assailants, their officers would have given way to a general panic, and the army must have been annihilated. The coolness of their juvenile commander so far reassured them that the retiring army encamped on the morrow between Forlì and Cesena, without much further loss than their artillery and baggage.[243] The vast quantity of booty obtained for this misconducted affair the nick-name of "donkey-day." [Footnote 243: So say the Urbino writers. Guicciardini characterises the escape of the army as a panic-rout, in which the whole camp-equipage and colours, including the ducal standard, fell into the enemy's hands. Sanuto says that 200 men-at-arms were slain.] Bologna was lost on the night of the 21st of May, and, beyond all question, it fell from the Legate's fool-hardiness or treason. The catastrophe which followed it called forth a bitterness of feeling fatal to impartial judgment, and the historians whom we have chiefly followed were friendly to the Duke of Urbino, and consequently prejudiced against the Cardinal.[244] Yet, after full allowance for this circumstance, there seems no reasonable doubt that the latter secretly favoured the French interests, and neutralised those measures by which Francesco Maria would have saved the city. He placed the gates in charge of noted partisans of the exiled family, by whom they were opened after nightfall to receive the Bentivoglii, followed by the main body of the French army. It was even alleged that he had previously sent away his most valuable effects; at all events, he wanted courage to share the success which had crowned his treason, and, in real or pretended panic, escaped upon a mule, disguised in a lay habit, and attended by only two followers. Nothing could palliate his flight without an attempt to warn the Duke of his danger, or to concert measures for the preservation of his army; and his whole behaviour lays him open to the suspicion of an intention to sacrifice both. Against such a combination of untoward events the friends of the Church could not struggle, and the mass of the Bolognese, smarting under recent oppression, welcomed their former rulers with joy, and vented their insensate fury in smashing the bronze statue of the Pope, which Michael Angelo had executed in the short period of fifteen months, and which was afterwards cast into a cannon bearing the Pontiff's name. [Footnote 244: Not only Leoni and Reposati, but the MSS. in the Urbino library, which refer to these transactions, must be so regarded. We have compared all of these, especially Baldi's life of this Duke, and the defence of him against Guicciardini, which he left prepared for the press in No. 906 of the Vat. Urb. MSS. No. 924 contains the pleading of the younger Beroaldo in favour of the Duke, when charged with the Cardinal of Pavia's murder. No. 1023, art. v., and No. 819, fol. 335, the former by Monsignor Paolo Maria Bishop of Cagli, the latter anonymous, have supplied us with some new facts. Guicciardini, admitting in other passages the Legate's bad faith and his antipathy to Francesco Maria, blames his deficiency of courage or judgment in the Bologna affair, and lashes the aggravated vices of his character. Roscoe has not here exercised his usual acumen.] From Castel del Rio, a petty fief which his family had retained after losing the seigneury of Imola, the Cardinal on the 22nd sent courier after courier to Julius at Ravenna, preoccupying his ears with representations against his nephew, upon whose cowardice he cast the whole blame of the recent disaster. The latter, having sought an audience of the Pope, found him alike prepossessed against him, and deaf to his self-justifications; indeed, his attempts to unmask the traitor were denounced as suggestions of envy and malice, and he was superseded in his command. A temper less forbearing might well be incensed by this climax of injury, at the hands of one whose bad faith and malignity had long rankled in his fiery bosom. To see his uncle at once sacrificed and cajoled, to be himself made the scapegoat, while the true criminal was trusted and honoured, were trials beyond endurance, even apart from the taunt by which they were aggravated. As he quitted the presence-chamber, towering with just indignation, and accompanied by two officers and as many orderlies, he unluckily met the Legate on his mule, attended by a hundred light-horse. Regardless of his escort, the Duke rushed upon him and plunged a poignard into his entrails, which passed through to his saddle.[*245] The blow was repeated by the officers, his guard attempting neither redress nor vengeance, and in a few minutes the Cardinal had gone to his dread account, exclaiming repeatedly in Latin, "From crime comes mischief." This deplorable event happened on the 24th of May.[246] Its details are variously stated, and one account says that the rencontre occurred ere the Duke had seen his Holiness, while the Legate was returning from an audience; on the whole, we have preferred that of Giraldi, whose uncle was an eye-witness. [Footnote *245: The account of Paris de Granis (given by CREIGHTON, _op. cit._, vol. V., pp. 305-19) somewhat differs from that given here.] [Footnote 246: Several letters, quoted by Sanuto, MS. Diary, XII., 158-161, say the 23rd, being Saturday; but Saturday fell on the 24th. See Filippo Giraldi, Vat. Ottob. MSS. No. 3153, f. 90.] Francesco Maria was quickly aware of the horror of this outrage, and immediately after arranging matters in the camp, retired to his state, to repent, it is hoped, as well as to abide its results.[247] The sacrilegious nature of the offence might indeed be palliated in the letter, by the lay dress which the Cardinal chanced to wear, but his episcopal dignity and holy character as vicegerent of the papal authority were notorious, and the blind partiality of Julius seemed to have increased as his misconduct became more palpable. The situation of that old man was indeed calculated to bend even his stern nature. He had committed an enterprise of doubtful policy, and against which a large portion of the Church was openly declared, to his most trusted friend and to his favourite nephew. The design had utterly miscarried; Bologna, acquired by him so happily, was lost; a victorious enemy was within a few leagues of him; and his friend had been murdered by his nephew, after mutual recriminations of treachery. The attendant cardinals and prelates, jealous of a more favoured brother, exulted in the deed while condemning its manner; but their master is described by Paris de Grassis as giving way to the most exaggerated demonstrations of excessive grief, renouncing food and shutting himself out from converse. After hastily authorising negotiations with Trivulzio, he set out for his capital in a litter. At Rimini he was startled by a formal citation to appear before the Council of Pisa, and passed through Pesaro on the 11th of June. But on reaching Rome his spirit had rallied. On the 18th of July he summoned a general council at the Lateran, and declared that of Pisa schismatic and null; he thundered excommunications against Louis, the Florentines, and all its adherents; he deprived the cardinals who attended it; and declared war anew against France, as an enemy of the Church and of Italy. About the same time he suspended his nephew from all his dignities, and summoned him to answer at Rome for the assassination of the Cardinal of Pavia. [Footnote 247: We obtain a curious glimpse of his home-circle at this critical moment from the correspondence of Bembo, who, having just quitted Urbino on his way to Venice, wrote thus to Fregoso from Cesena, where he was waiting a passage by sea. "But what, I say, are you and your ladies, and the Duke, and the rest of you grandees about? What is my Ippolita doing? Is she entangled in the toils of Secundio or Trivulzio? Oh dull and drivelling me, who, abandoning my loves to the rapine and plunder of men of war, am here sitting on a sandy shore more pluckless and besotted than the very shells! Many salutations in my name to both their Highnesses, and to Emilia, and the lively Margherita, and to Ippolita of many admirers, and to my rival Alessandro Trivulzio." This badinage was surely ill-timed, within a month of the defeat of Francesco Maria and the Cardinal's assassination.] The accounts we have of the proceedings against the Duke of Urbino upon this charge are somewhat contradictory. Baldi says that his impetuous temper, ill-brooking the severity of one whom he was conscious of having honestly served, tempted him to throw off his uncle and seek an engagement under Louis; and the monitory issued against him by Leo X. in 1516 charges him with employing Count Castiglione on such a mission: but this foolish idea quickly passing, he obeyed the citation. On his arrival, attended by Castiglione, he was put under arrest, and obliged to give bail in 100,000 scudi to await the sentence of a commission of enquiry, consisting of six cardinals, one of whom was Giovanni de' Medici, afterwards Leo X. The process was long and complicated, for the Duke had many proofs, oral and documentary, to adduce of the Legate's secret intelligence with the French and the Bentivoglii. The pleading in his defence, by Filippo Beroaldo the younger, has already been referred to as in the Vatican library, and is a very remarkable declamation. Instead of urging the hot blood of one-and-twenty in extenuation of a sudden outbreak of fury under strong provocation, it justifies the assassination as merited by the Cardinal's notorious and nefarious treasons. Representing his life and morals in the darkest colours, it brands his boyhood as base; his puberty as passed in flagitious intercourse with bawds and gamblers; his youth as debauched by bribery, peculation and sacrilege; his mature age as degraded by the sacrifice of friends, the plunder of provinces, the open sale of sacred offices. It charges him with having had the throats cut of four eminent citizens of Bologna, against whom no accusation was brought, and leaving their bodies in the piazza; and further alleges that, having heard of the beautiful daughter-in-law of one of these victims, he sent for her to his presence, when his attendants, alarmed by fearful cries, broke open the doors and discovered him in the act of violating her person. After narrating his manifold treacheries towards the Pontiff and the Duke, the advocate, far from palliating the homicide, boasts of it as a public service, and, declaring that Francesco Maria was an instrument in the Almighty's hand for the great and benevolent purpose of ridding mankind of such a monster, only laments, for the public weal, that the holy inspiration which dictated it had not been sooner vouchsafed to this "liberator of the commonwealth." Lowering his tone, however, towards the close of this inflated oration, he appeals to the judges to spare a hero whose promise of future usefulness was precious to Italy, and in whose acquittal many princely personages were interested. The fierce philippic of Beroaldo was reproduced under a poetic garb in the satirical ode of Giovio, which Roscoe has printed. Neither authority can be deemed unprejudiced, but public feeling seems to have confirmed these invectives, and even Guicciardini attempts not to answer for the Cardinal's good faith. Whilst this investigation was experiencing the law's delay, Julius was attacked by a quartan ague of a dangerous character. With wonted wilfulness, he refused all proper nourishment, eating only fruit, until his constitution was nearly exhausted. A fainting fit having occasioned rumours of his death, tumults arose, but were vigorously suppressed by the Duke of Urbino, who by a happy device got the Cardinal of S. Giorgio to carry him the viaticum. The apparition by his bedside of the person supposed likely to succeed him at once recalled his energies, and induced him to adopt the most likely means of disappointing such expectations. He therefore no longer hesitated to eat an egg, into which two yolks had been introduced by the Duke's order, that he might take twice as much sustenance as he was aware of; and from that hour his strength rallied. A deep-rooted affection for his nephew, rekindled by this double service, prompted him to a reconciliation, and in his first burst of gratitude he granted him absolution for his crime, and sent him home with a donative of 12,000 scudi. But as his Holiness had been induced to this reconciliation by personal favour, and perhaps by at length perceiving the Legate's faithlessness, Francesco Maria declined availing himself of such an acquittal; and the process for murder, resumed at its own instance, hung over him until, on the 9th of December, a consistorial bull issued, fully absolving him of the charge. * * * * * But to return to the seat of war, whence this untoward incident had removed the Duke of Urbino at a moment of peculiar interest. The King of Spain having contributed a powerful contingent, the new armament against Louis was placed under command of Raimondo di Cardona, viceroy of Naples, with the Cardinal de' Medici as legate. The Venetians, as before, were parties to this league, as well as Henry VIII.; Florence, still in the hands of its republican faction, and the now restored Bentivoglii, supported the French; whilst Maximilian, though its nominal adherent, was as usual equally inefficient in war or peace. Romagna again became the destined scene of the new struggle, and there, as in Lombardy, its chances proved adverse to Louis. The Duke of Urbino, apparently from an unworthy jealousy, refused to act under the Viceroy's command, but he gave free passage to the army on its route through his state, supplying it with provisions, and permitting his troops to march under its banner. He even repaired to Fossombrone, to testify respect and hospitality to the general, but, suddenly taking alarm, and suspecting sinister intentions, he withdrew to Urbino in a somewhat ungracious manner. Light may be thrown upon these eccentric movements from the correspondence of Castiglione, by which it would seem that Julius, relapsing into suspicion, had about this time spoken of his nephew as a traitor, who deserved to be quartered for maintaining, through Count Baldassare, a secret understanding with France and Ferrara; indeed, that he even diminished his company by sixty men-at-arms, and threatened to place the Duc de Termes over his head. It is not unlikely that, disgusted by this new insult, he may have intrigued with the French party in a moment of weakness. At all events, so deeply was the Pope mortified, that, in an access of renewed irritation, he declared him rebel, and absolved his subjects from their allegiance. Francesco Maria was consequently absent from the bloody field of Ravenna, where his early friend the chivalrous Gaston de Foix met a heroic but premature death. The French army which he commanded paid dearly, by his loss and that of their best troops, for a nominal victory which eventually proved a ruinous reverse. It was gained by the Duke of Ferrara's well-timed charge, and of forty thousand left dead in the field, above half had fought under the lilies of France. Indeed, but for the Viceroy's disgraceful flight, in a panic by some attributed to his suspicion of the Duke of Urbino, it might have been considered a drawn battle. So great was his terror that he passed through Pesaro with but two attendants, leaving his Spaniards to regain the Neapolitan frontier as they might. This remarkable engagement took place on Easter Day, the 11th of April, but four days after the Pontiff had issued the bull against his nephew.[*248] Notwithstanding this fresh provocation, the latter afforded every support to Cardona's troops, who, "Masterless, without a banner fled"; and, after placing his family out of harm's way, in S. Leo, hastened to Rome to console the Pope. But his Holiness was in no melting or wavering mood. With the brief remark, "At all events, I have united our enemies," he quickly repaired the recent breach by recalling the bull against Francesco Maria, and presented him with the baton of command. The Duke, remedying past misunderstandings by new exertions, hurried to Romagna to rally the broken battalions of the league, and to raise fresh levies. Ere the French could recover from the paralysing effects of their dearly bought success, he had regained that country, and, on the 21st of June, took possession of Bologna without a blow. Following up his advantage, he mastered with equal ease Modena, Parma, and Piacenza; but Reggio offered a resistance worthy of the heroic ages. It was held for the Duke of Ferrara by Count Alessandro Ferrofino, who, having detected some of his soldiers attempting to spike the guns, set them astride upon a mortar, and blew them into the air, assuring the bystanders that he most willingly would serve his Holiness in the same way. When ecclesiastical censures were thundered against the garrison, he made its chaplain return a pop-gun excommunication of the Pontiff. After two months had passed in this bootless struggle, Alfonso sent his countersign to the commandant as an authority to surrender; but, aware that his master was then at Rome, in the Pope's power, the Count returned it, vowing that he would not yield till hunger had driven him to eat off his right hand; adding, however, that, if his Highness had a fancy to give away the fortress, he was ready to consign it, with all its contents, by inventory, to whoever might be commissioned to relieve him of the command. This proposal was complied with, and the indomitable captain marched out his little garrison, with a safe conduct from the Pope whom he had defied.[249] [Footnote *248: The battle of Ravenna is fully described by GUICCIARDINI, _Opere Inedite_ (Firenze, 1857), vol. VI., p. 36 _et seq._, in letters from his father and brother. The French had everything in their hands, the route was complete. They should have pressed on to Rome and Naples, and have reduced the Pope to terms and annihilated the Spanish power in Italy. But Gaston was in his grave. Cf. CREIGHTON, _op. cit._, vol. V., p. 168.] [Footnote 249: Giraldi Dialogo, Vat. Ottob. MSS. No. 3153.] The Emperor, ever ready to abandon a falling cause, withdrew his contingent from the French service, and acknowledged the authority of the Lateran council, which had been opened on the 3rd of May. The Duke of Ferrara, too, thought it full time to make his peace with the Pope; while Louis, thus abandoned, could no longer maintain a footing in Italy, where but a few strongholds remained in his possession; and Milan was restored to Maximiliano Sforza, son of Ludovico il Moro. The overtures of Alfonso were, however, unavailing, being met in no generous spirit by his ecclesiastical overlord. On proceeding to Rome to plead his own cause, he was called upon to surrender his fief to the Holy See, and was treated as a prisoner. By the energetic aid of the Colonna chiefs, he escaped to his impenetrable swamps, and hastened to accredit Ariosto as his minister to appease the Pontiff, a mission which totally failed, the poet's silver tongue having barely obtained grace for himself as envoy of a rebel. Francesco Maria marched, by order of Julius, towards the Polesine, but malaria prevailing there after recent inundations, fever ravaged his army, and their leader averted the fate of his grandfather in these fens, by a timely retreat to his mountain air. We are gravely told by Giraldi that "the house of Ferrara mysteriously bears the name of the Deity" [_Est_], an idea which their repeated escapes by similar apparently special interpositions of Providence may have suggested. It was during the Ferrarese expedition, and avowedly at the Pope's urgent desire, that the Medici were re-established at Florence by the league. The Duke of Urbino's absence from that enterprise has been accounted for by Guicciardini and Giovio, as the result of personal feeling against the Cardinal Giovanni, and as contrary to his uncle's instructions. This innuendo becomes important from being the first symptom of misunderstanding between the dynasties of Urbino and Florence, and as apparently the origin of Guicciardini's prepossessions against Francesco Maria, which, adopted by subsequent writers, especially by Roscoe and Sismondi, have led to very general misrepresentations of his after policy and motives. The whole intercourse of that Duke with the Medici, down to 1515, affords a virtual contradiction of latent enmity at this juncture, and the special charge in question is inconsistent with the facts stated by Leoni, who avers that, had Francesco Maria not been then engaged in operations against Ferrara, he would gladly have accompanied the combined forces to Florence, and that he actually connived at their carrying with them a portion of his artillery, contrary to private instructions from his Holiness, who, when the moment for action arrived, is alleged to have favoured the independence of Florence, perhaps under some vague apprehension of eventual dangers from Medicean ambition. Italy, now freed from ultramontane oppressors, saw Milan restored to its native princes, and Florence again in the hands of her most influential family. Thus far had the favourite aims of Julius been attained; but, instead of hailing these events as the basis of a general pacification befitting his advanced years, he fretted in the recollection that Naples yet owned a foreign yoke, and that Louis was still intent upon vindicating his title to a Cisalpine dominion. The convulsive throes of a stranded leviathan were no unfit parallel to the versatile efforts wherein the old man consumed his waning powers. But, in the multifarious projects which agitated his yet elastic mind, the interests of his again favourite nephew were not forgotten. A brief of the 10th of January, 1513, granted to the latter plenary remission for all his undutiful errors against the Church, as a prelude to new favours, which must now be detailed.[250] [Footnote 250: The preceding account of the judicial process, and of the Duke's conduct in regard to the campaign of Ravenna, has been chiefly taken from Baldi, as his narrative is more intelligible and consistent with the best historical authorities, than the indistinct and garbled statements of Leoni and Riposati, who gloss over such facts as they cannot satisfactorily clear up. Guicciardini asserts that Francesco Maria set his peasantry upon the troops of Cardona as they fled through the duchy from the rout of Ravenna, a statement more reconcileable with that author's prejudice than with probability. The legal evidence of both the Duke's absolutions will be found in No. V. of the Appendix, and Giraldi is our authority for some minor details. We have purposely avoided mixing up with this personal narrative the more general events of the French war. They are succinctly given by Roscoe, _Leo X._, ch. viii. and ix.] His uncle had entertained a scheme of purchasing for him the vague rights over Siena which the Emperors had long, though ineffectually, asserted; but a more hopeful expedient for his aggrandisement opportunely presented itself. We have, in a former chapter, narrated the circumstances under which Alessandro Sforza became invested with Pesaro in 1445. His grandson Giovanni, the outraged husband of Lucrezia Borgia, died in 1510, leaving, by his second marriage, an only son Costanzo, about a year old. Galeazzo, natural brother of Giovanni, who was himself of illegitimate birth, governed the state, as tutor of this nephew, until the child's death, in August, 1512, and so entirely acquired the good will of the people, that they proclaimed him their seigneur. The odious tyranny exercised by all petty princes of Italy is a fertile theme for dreamy poets and philosophising liberals; but, whilst the relative oppression was much the same under all forms of government in the Peninsula, personal safety was perhaps best maintained in those least exposed to internal convulsion. From such shocks the minor sovereignties were more exempt than the republics, and the residence of a court was beneficial as well as flattering to the community; hence the fall of an hereditary dynasty was, in almost every instance, lamented by its subjects. These are not, indeed, necessarily the best judges of their own welfare; yet their deliberate and repeated convictions, when free from the influence of demagogues, and tested by impartial history, can hardly be remote from truth. The investiture of Pesaro had legally lapsed by the young Costanzo's death, and although, in many instances, the assumption of similar rights by illegitimate claimants had been passively permitted by the Church, Galeazzo would have gladly shrunk from a contest which the avowed policy of the reigning Pope rendered inevitable and hopeless. Tempted, however, by the unanimous support of the people, he assumed on his own account the authority he till now had held in behalf of his nephew. Julius instantly recalled the Duke of Urbino from Lugo, to commence operations for the reduction of Pesaro, with Cardinal Sigismondo Gonzaga as legate. After a brief resistance, Galeazzo surrendered the citadel, on the 30th of October, by a capitulation which insured him an annuity of 1000 scudi of gold, and the allodial holdings of his family. These he conveyed to the Duke for 20,000 ducats, including the Villa Imperiale, and on the 9th of November he quitted Pesaro, attended by nearly the whole population, who bewailed with bitter tears the extinction of a dynasty to whom they were fondly attached. The melancholy procession accompanied their lord as far as La Cattolica, from whence he retired to Milan, and there met a violent death in the following year. The Cardinal Legate remained at Pesaro to administer the government in behalf of the Holy See, and the Duke returned home. Julius had already made one exception to his policy of bringing the minor fiefs under direct sway of the Church, by renewing the investiture of Urbino in favour of his nephew, and the opportunity was too tempting for repeating a measure recommended by the ties of natural affection. The unmerited suspicions and hasty severity which he had manifested towards Francesco Maria seemed to warrant some consideration; there was also an arrear of about 10,000 scudi of pay and advances, by the late and present Dukes, in the wars of the Church, which her exhausted treasury was unable to discharge, but for which it was desirable to secure compensation ere the tiara should encircle a less friendly brow.[251] Accordingly, one of the Pontiff's latest acts was to gain the consent of the consistory of his nephew's investiture in Pesaro, to be held in vicariat for the annual payment of a silver vase, a pound in weight. The bull to this effect is dated the 16th of February, 1513, and on the 21st his busy spirit was at rest. Three weeks later, the Duke and Duchess of Urbino took possession of Pesaro, and were flatteringly welcomed. Indeed, the people, finding the fate of the Sforza sealed, appeared to have looked about for any means of emancipation from ecclesiastical rule; and, ere Galeazzo had quitted the capital, the council entertained a proposal to petition the Sacred College in favour of Francesco Maria as his successor. This step, whether suggested by Julius or not, greatly strengthened his hands in carrying through the arrangement which he had at heart, and it enabled the citizens to receive their new lord with peculiarly good grace. [Footnote 251: Yet Julius was reported to have left in St. Angelo, 400,000 ducats of gold, besides jewels, and no state debts. Vat. Urb. MSS., No. 1023, f. 297.] CHAPTER XXXIV Election of Leo X.--His ambitious projects--Birth of Prince Guidobaldo of Urbino--The Pontiff's designs upon that state, which he gives to his nephew--The Duke retires to Mantua. The Duke's influence, as head of the della Rovere family, was paramount in the conclave, composed as it was of relations, friends, and creatures of the late Pope in overwhelming majority. The election was therefore to a great degree in his hands, and when it fell upon the Cardinal de' Medici, he rejoiced in the elevation of a personal friend. He and his brother Giuliano, their nephew Lorenzo, and their cousin Giulio, afterwards Clement VII., had been welcome guests at Urbino, during their family's long exile from Florence. Indeed, we have noticed Giuliano as one of the most brilliant ornaments of Guidobaldo's court, where he resided so long that the apartment devoted to his use still bears his name in the palace. The restoration of the Medici to supremacy in their native city had been the doing of Julius; the choice of their cardinal as his successor was the act of his nephew.[*252] Thus was the bond of friendship confirmed by ties of gratitude. But from such fetters princes are often prone to assume an exemption, and Francesco Maria was destined to experience that they are not more binding upon pontiffs.[253] [Footnote *252: This is rather vague. We are not told what Francesco Maria did that justifies Dennistoun in saying that the election of Leo X. was his act. I can find no evidence of Francesco Maria's personal influence in the conclave. If the election of Leo was an arrangement, it was Cardinal Riario to whom it was due. The charge of ingratitude therefore falls to the ground.] [Footnote 253: To inaugurate the new pontificate, and mark the contrast of Alexander and Julius with their successor,--its Maecenas, Agostino Chigi, erected a triumphal arch, inscribed,-- "Olim habuit Cypris sua tempora; tempora Mavors Olim habuit; sua nunc tempora Pallas habet." Venus here reigned supreme, by Mars displaced; Our happier age by Pallas' sway is graced. To this doggerel there quickly appeared the rejoinder,-- "Mars fuit, est Pallas, Cypria semper ero." Once Mars, Minerva now, but Venus still.] Leo X. has been one of the most fortunate of men. His all but sovereign birth was still more distinguished by the merit of his family, to which history has done the amplest justice. His natural talents and tastes were not only of a high order, but were perfectly adapted to the golden age in which he lived, and to the high career for which he was destined. His rapid and premature advancement to the first dignities of the Church stimulated instead of relaxing his mental discipline. He obtained the triple tiara at the unprecedented age of thirty-seven, and wore it during the brightest period of the papacy. Though cut short in the flower of manhood, he lived long enough to link his name with the most splendid era of modern history, and although his measures accelerated the crisis of the Reformation, he died ere their seed had borne that dreaded fruit. In fine, his eventful life has been celebrated by at least one biographer worthy of the theme. On the wide field which such a character opens we shall have little opportunity to expatiate. Our narrative has to do with its darker shadows, and to hold up this Pontiff as the implacable foe of a dynasty which had singular claims upon his favour and consideration. [Illustration: _Anderson_ LEO X _After the picture by Raphael in the Pitti Gallery, Florence_] The general estimate of Julius and of his successor has been shrewdly conceived and tersely expressed by Sismondi. "The projects of the former had prospered beyond the ordinary calculations of policy; his impetuosity, by surprising his enemies and throwing all their plans into confusion, had often availed him more than prudence could have done; he had also extended the temporal possessions of the Church beyond what any of his predecessors had effected. Yet he had caused so many mischiefs, he had occasioned such vast bloodshed, he had so swamped Italy with foreign armies, even while he pretended to rid her of the barbarians, that his death was hailed as a public blessing, and the cardinals responded to the feeling of Rome, Italy, and all Christendom in desiring that his successor should in no respect resemble him. As he had been old, restless, impatient, and passionate, they sought to replace him with one less aged, and whose tastes were for literature, pleasure, and epicurean indulgences.... Leo was quite the opposite of his predecessor; his temperament was far less stern, irascible, or unforgiving. Towards intimate associates his manners were singularly cheerful and gracious. The protection he extended to letters and arts, the favours which he lavished upon savants, poets, and artists, drew from all Europe a chorus of commendation. But, on the other hand, his character fell very short of that of Julius in frankness and elevation; all his negotiations were stained by deceit and perfidy. Whilst he talked of peace he fanned the flame of war; no pity for the inhabitants of Italy, crushed by barbarian hosts, ever influenced his conduct. His ambition, nowise inferior to that of his predecessor, was not veiled, even to himself, by motives equally respectable. His object was not the independence of Italy, nor the aggrandisement of the Church, but the advancement of his own family." The Cardinal Giovanni de' Medici, second son of Lorenzo the Magnificent, was elected Pope on the 11th of March, 1513, and was crowned on the 19th. The Duke of Urbino had repaired to Rome to offer his congratulations in person, and attended the solemn installation at the Lateran, with twenty-four mounted gentlemen and as many footmen; but mingling regard for the dead with respect for the living, he and all his suite appeared in black velvet and satin, as mourning for his uncle. The device worn on the Pontiff's liveries at this pageant, was in harmony with his previous character and present professions: under a golden "yoke" was inscribed the word _suave_, meaning something more winning than the scriptural phrase "easy," from which it was borrowed. When two more years had gone by, Francesco Maria was an outlaw, crushed under that gentle yoke, and stripped of his all; whilst the Duke of Ferrara, the next great feudatory of the Church who followed in the procession, could scarcely maintain himself by French aid, until the death of his pontifical oppressor enabled him to parody on his medals another and more appropriate text, in memory of his escape, "Out of the LION'S mouth." At this coronation there was witnessed an unwonted spectacle, the fruit of Alexander's aggressions on the Campagna barons. The humbled chiefs of Colonna and Orsini walked side by side, and their reconciliation was commemorated by a rare medal, on which the crowned column of Colonna is fondly hugged by the Orsini bear, with the motto, "For their country's safety." Francesco Maria's reception was as cordial as distinguished, for the promptings of ambition had not yet transformed Leo's naturally bland and gracious nature into unrelenting and bitter hate. He was accordingly confirmed in his dignities, and retained for a year as Captain-General of the Church, with 13,844 ducats of pay, besides 30,000 of allowances for his company of two hundred men-at-arms, and a hundred light cavalry; nor could words exceed the kindness of the letter in which Bembo intimated this to him on behalf of the Pope.[254] [Footnote 254: Papal brieves of Aug. 4 and April 17, 1513, in Archivio Diplomatico at Florence, and Bembo's public despatches, ii. No. 8. Roscoe has no authority whatever for representing the Duke as at this period the Pope's "formidable rival."] When the coronation fêtes were over, he returned home to enjoy one of those brief intervals of repose which rarely fell to his lot. His almost continual absence on military service had indeed been greatly felt in his capital, and most of the distinguished men who frequented it under Duke Guidobaldo were now dispersed. Some of them, however, had continued towards his nephew their friendship and services, either under his own banner or in diplomacy. Among these was Baldassare Castiglione, to whose good offices the reconciliation of Francesco Maria with Julius has been partly attributed. In the affair of the Cardinal of Pavia, the Count warmly espoused his part, and invented for him, as a deprecatory device, a lion rampant proper on a field gules, holding a rapier, and a scroll inscribed, _Non deest generoso in pectore virtus_, "Worth is never wanting in a generous breast"; but this emblem was seldom used, being odious to the college of cardinals, as approving a sacrilegious precedent. Castiglione's elegant endowments were especially qualified to gain him the ear of a prince whose pride it was to emulate his predecessors, as much in the grace of their court as in the fame of their arms; and the preference for so small a state shown by him whom monarchs would have delighted to honour, was fit subject for gratitude, independent of the real services which the Duke derived from the friendship of one so well versed in business. It is stated, although on doubtful authority, that he went upon a mission from Urbino, to urge on Henry VIII. a descent upon Calais,[*255] in the hope of such a diversion recalling Louis from Italy. If so, it was probably in arranging the treaty of Malines on the 5th of April of this year. In the prospect of adding Pesaro to his dominions, Francesco Maria had promised to Castiglione a fief in his dependencies, and in September, 1513, a charter was granted to him of Novillara, erected into a countship. The letter of donation specially mentions the faithful, sincere, and acceptable services of Baldassare; his elegance in the Latin and Italian languages; his skill in military and civil affairs; and confers upon him this favour rather in earnest of future and more ample benefits, than as a reward of the fatigues, perils, and anxieties which he had already undergone for the Duke.[*256] Of this grant he received a willing confirmation from Leo X., to whom, on his elevation, he had borne Francesco Maria's first congratulations. The brief to this effect dwells on the peculiar satisfaction with which the Pope thus testified, from long acquaintance, his high merits, his distinguished birth, his literary acquirements, his military fame, and his exemplary devotion to the Holy See. [Footnote *255: Henry landed at Calais August 1st, 1513; it was then in English hands, as it remained till Mary Tudor lost it in 1558. From Calais Henry advanced to the siege of Terouenne. Castiglione was, of course, in London in 1506 to receive the Garter for Guidobaldo from Henry VII.; a second journey seems apocryphal. On Castiglione at Urbino and elsewhere, cf. LUZIO e RENIER, _Mantova e Urbino_ (Torino, 1893), pp. 174, 234, 242 _et seq._] [Footnote *256: Yet he seems to have suffered in the war. His long residence at Urbino may well have been due to the Duchess, who loved him sincerely.] The estate thus associated with Castiglione is generally said to owe its name to its "noble air"; and certainly upon the Italian principle that a healthful atmosphere must be sought in high places, that of Novillara ought to possess unusual virtues. But the learned Olivieri has corrected this vulgar error, and has derived its denomination from the Latin _nubilare_, which he renders as an open shed for the housing of grain,--a grange, as it might be called. He has traced it back to the twelfth century, and to the fourteenth ascribes an imposing tower of three commodious stories built here by the Malatesta. Hither was conducted, on her first arrival, Camilla of Aragon, bride of Costanzo Sforza Lord of Pesaro; and its inaccessible situation did not prevent a splendid manifestation of the general joy, in fêtes and pageants, commemorated in a volume of excessive rarity, which seem more proportioned to the affectionate gallantry of her husband and subjects, than to the resources of their state, or to the conveniences of this palace. Representations of the community of Pesaro induced Francesco Maria to obtain from Castiglione a restitution to them of this Castle, in 1522, under promise of replacing it by an equivalent, which was never redeemed. Years passed away, notwithstanding repeated remonstrances on the part of Camillo, son of the Count, in which he even induced the Emperor to join. At length, in 1573, Guidobaldo II. conferred a tardy compensation, by granting to Count Camillo the Castel del Isola del Piano. This Duke had previously built an addition to the palace of Novillara, with elaborate decorations never completed. At his son's marriage with Lucretia d'Este, this fief, then worth 500 scudi a year, was settled upon her, but rarely occupied. It subsequently caught the young prince Federigo's fancy, who had planned for its beautiful gardens and frescoes, when untimely death cut short his schemes, and brought the nationality of Urbino and Pesaro to a close. In the present day Novillara consists of about a hundred houses, huddled together, threaded by narrow alleys, and walled in by terraces. It overlooks Pesaro and Fano, the valleys of the Isauro and Metauro, with the hilly land which separates them. Northward the eye rests on Monte Bartolo, but southward it roams as far as Loreto, and in clear weather the Dalmatian coast may be discerned. The tower of the Malatesta, which formed a landmark to the whole surrounding country, fell in 1723, and the dilapidated fabric of the della Rovere now harbours a few squalid families, adding another to the melancholy wrecks of departed grandeur too frequent in this fair land. Yet Novillara will pass down the stream of Italian literary history as the title of its courtly lord, and its magnificent panorama may well repay the traveller who has leisure and strength to scramble to its summit. The early policy of Leo was entirely pacific. The leading aim of his diplomacy was to soothe those irritations which his predecessors had fomented throughout Europe, and to heal the wounds thence resulting to Italy. His only aggressive measures during 1513 had been directed against the French, with the patriotic view of thwarting renewed attempts upon the Peninsula, in which they were seconded by Spain and Venice. In this object he was successful, but as the various and complicated transactions by which it was effected are foreign to our immediate purpose, we refer the reader for details to the tenth, twelfth, and thirteenth chapters of Roscoe's delightful work, although naturally representing them in the lights more favourable to the Pontiff's motives than we are prepared fully to approve. Power is, however, a dangerous draught, often exciting the thirst it seeks to slake. Before the Keys had been many months in Leo's possession, the establishment of his own family in the two fairest sovereignties of Italy became the object for which he was to "Cry havock, and let slip the dogs of war." Anticipating changes which might occur upon the death of Ferdinand II. of Spain, he conceived hopes of throwing off foreign domination in Naples, and providing for it a king of Italian birth, in his own brother Giuliano the Magnificent. With this ulterior advancement in fancied perspective, he removed him from the management of affairs at Florence, and substituted his nephew Lorenzo, intending ere long to assert for the latter a titular as well as a virtual sovereignty, and to extend his sway over all Tuscany, Urbino, and Ferrara. These ambitious and revolutionary projects required powerful aid, which could be most readily secured by finding a sharer in the adventure. Such a one readily occurred in Louis XII., whose consent to copartnery could scarcely be doubted, when his long-cherished acquisition of the Milanese was offered as his share of its gains. It was no serious objection to this scheme that it inferred a total subversion of Leo's anti-gallican policy; and, intent only upon his new views, he secretly negotiated with the French King to bring once more into Lombardy those troops which, but the year before, he had been the chief means of ignominiously chasing beyond the Alps. Should this move place the great powers in general collision, there was all the fairer chance for papal ambition in the scramble; and it mattered little that Italy should again be laid in ashes, and saturated with blood, so that the Medici became arbiters of her destiny. With a view to these arrangements, Giuliano was betrothed in the following year to Filiberta of Savoy, maternal aunt of Francis, heir to the French crown. But a fatality seems to have attended most papal diplomacy: based upon nepotism or personal ambition, it was generally thwarted by its own fickleness or imbecility. Doubtful of the success of his scheme upon the crown of Naples (which Louis was little disposed to gratify, although prepared to concede to Giuliano the principality of Tarento), or impatient perhaps of waiting for its becoming vacant, the Pontiff turned his views upon Parma and Piacenza, as a convenient interim state for his brother, to be aggrandised by the purchase of Modena from the Emperor for 40,000 golden ducats. But here he was met by a difficulty of his own recent creation, for the establishment of Louis at Milan must have proved dangerous to the proposed principality of Giuliano; so, once more shuffling the cards, he prepared some new combinations for preventing the French expedition into Italy. One of these was an intrigue to detach the Venetian republic from the party of Louis, for which purpose he sent thither his adroit secretary Bembo, whose memorial to the senate has been printed by Roscoe. This attempt, however, entirely failed, and the King's death, on the 1st of January, alone prevented the detection of his faithless ally.[257] [Footnote 257: One of the shrewd agents of the maritime republic supplied a key to the policy of Leo, by observing that it consisted in immediately opening a secret understanding with the avowed enemy of whatever prince he leagued with. His intrigues in behalf of his brother and nephew are illustrated by some documents in the _Archivio Storico Italiano_, Appendix I., 306.] In returning from Venice, Bembo paid one more visit to the Feltrian court, now at Pesaro, rejoicing in the recent birth of an heir to the Dukedom. There he found many changes. The gay and accomplished circle, in whose lighter or more pedantic pastimes he had borne a willing part, was scattered, many of its members like himself to hold appointments of trust and dignity. But it was a sincere satisfaction to him again to meet the Duchess Elisabetta, now recovered from the deep despondency he has so touchingly described, and enjoying the society of her accomplished niece and successor, as well as of her former mistress of the revels, the merry Emilia Pia. In company of these ladies, the diplomatist forgot during a brief interval the cares of state, and lingered for two days on the excuse of indisposition, until he thought it necessary to explain his delay in a letter to Cardinal Bibbiena of the 1st of January, 1515.[258] The fatigues of riding post a hundred and forty miles from Chioggia in two days and a half required this repose, and induced him to continue his journey in less hot haste. Yet Bembo, with all his accomplishments, was but a sunshine courtier, as we shall see some fifteen months later. [Footnote 258: See below, p. 368.] It would seem that, at the time of Giuliano's marriage, the idea of providing for him large additions in Romagna to his Lombard principality was the leading motive of his brother's policy, and that the Dukes of Urbino and Ferrara were already viewed as stepping-stones to his exaltation. The command of the pontifical troops was accordingly bestowed upon him as Gonfaloniere, on the 24th of June, 1515, at once an injustice and an insult to Francesco Maria, in whose hands its baton remained unsullied.[*259] The fair professions with which the Duke was superseded were vague and unsatisfactory, and he received warning from various quarters of the sinister designs whereof he was the destined victim. These, however, being as yet immature, the Pontiff maintained professions of unwavering favour, and, in a brief dated on the 16th of August, he assures the Duke that he will readily regard certain services as entitled to the largest and most liberal remuneration in his power. [Footnote *259: However, Francesco's record was not a very brilliant one. He failed to take Mirandola without Julius II., and the affair of Ravenna would, one might think, have ruined any soldier.] Yet Giuliano must be acquitted of the ingratitude and perfidy shown to his former friend by the Pope and his nephew Lorenzo. The hospitalities of Duke Guidobaldo had in his case fallen upon no arid soil. His fondest recollections of lettered intercourse and of youthful love were centred in Urbino. He remembered that it was Francesco Maria who, six years before, had interposed to screen him from the jealousies of the late Pontiff, and who had warmly urged the restoration of his family in Florence. He therefore firmly refused to acquiesce in any projects which would aggrandise himself at the Duke's cost; and, in token of good will, while on his way to France, made a detour to visit him at Gubbio, where he thus addressed him: "I have heard, my Lord, that it has been represented to you how the Pope has a mind to take your state from you, in order to give it me; but this is not true, for, on account of the kindness, favour, and benefits I ever have received from your Excellency and your house, I should never consent to it, however much desired by his Holiness, lest other princes of your rank should resolve, in consequence, never again to give such refuge at their courts as was granted to me and mine. Be assured, therefore, that, whilst I live, you not only will receive no molestation on my account, but will be ever regarded by me as an elder brother."[260] Upon these assurances, Francesco Maria not only suspended the defences of his duchy, which he had begun to put in order, but accepted an engagement for himself, with two hundred men-at-arms and a hundred light horse, under Giuliano, the pontifical captain-general. To secure himself, however, against all contingencies, he applied to the Pontiff for leave to bring into the field a thousand infantry, in addition to his usual following. The scruples of Giuliano did not in any way soften his brother, whose intrigues against Urbino are prominent in the curious despatch of his secretary Bibbiena, which Roscoe has printed under date the 16th of February. [Footnote 260: Dialogo Giraldi, Vat. Ottob. MSS. No. 3153.] Louis XII. died on the 1st of January, 1515, and was succeeded by his second and third cousin, Francis I. This event changed not the projects of Leo in behalf of his brother, whose marriage to the Princess of Savoy was solemnised in February, and who was received by the French monarch with kindness and distinction. To render his position fully worthy of the match, the Pope invested him with Parma, Piacenza, and Modena, yielding a revenue approaching to 48,000 ducats. He likewise settled a large pension upon the princess, and provided for the pair a magnificent palace in Rome, to which they were welcomed with a pomp unusual even in these days of pageantry. Leo's position with reference to Francis I. was in many respects embarrassing, and the defence of his policy, elaborately undertaken by Roscoe, has established the writer's bias rather than the Pontiff's rectitude. That monarch was steadily pursuing those schemes upon the Milanese which Leo had the year before suggested to his predecessor; and the amicable relations established with the Medici by Giuliano's marriage gave him additional reason to rely upon the Pontiff's support in the struggle which must follow his descent upon Italy. But to restrain the French beyond their Alpine barrier was the favourite, as well as the natural policy of his Holiness, and it was that which tended most to the security of his brother's newly-acquired Lombard sovereignty. He therefore, in July, after some months of anxious vacillation, avowed his adherence to the league of the Emperor with the Kings of England and of Spain, to which Florence, Milan, and the Swiss were parties. Yet he was far from hearty in the cause, and, during the brief campaign which succeeded the arrival of a French army in Lombardy, the ecclesiastical contingent limited their efforts to watching the safety of Parma and Piacenza. Nor did the other allies show much more zeal, excepting the Swiss, whose impetuous valour brought on the pitched battle of Marignano on the 13th of September, and lost them the prestige which had stamped their infantry as invincible. The costly victory there gained by the French was speedily followed by a surrender of his claims upon Milan by Duke Maximiliano Sforza, who was content to enjoy for the remainder of his life a home and pension provided by his conqueror.[*261] [Footnote *261: The defeat of the Swiss at Marignano opened the way for the long fight between Francis I. and Charles V. It decided many things--the future of monarchy in Europe, for instance, as well as the fate of the republican army "so long invincible in Italy." Cf. CREIGHTON, _op. cit._, vol. V., p. 243. "What will become of us," said Leo to Giorgi, the Venetian Ambassador, who brought him the news of the defeat--"and of you?" "We will put ourselves in the hands of the Most Christian King," he added, "and will implore his mercy." Cf. the _Relazioni Venete_, 2nd series, vol. III., p. 44, quoted by Creighton, who, as always, takes the view of a statesman, and not merely that of a scholar. Sforza surrendered Milan on October 4th. The Pope signed terms with Francis October 13th, 1515. The Pope was then in Viterbo, which he left for Bologna in November, coming to Florence on the last day of that month. In December he was back in Bologna to meet Francis. He returned to Florence and left for Rome on February 19th, 1516.] The principal object of Francis being thus effected, he was not indisposed to reconciliation with the Holy See, for which Leo had sedulously retained an opening by keeping Ludovico Canossa throughout the contest as an accredited agent at the French head-quarters. But the Pontiff met the usual reward of trimmers. The tardy accommodation offered by his envoy came too late to save Parma and Piacenza, for which alone he had become a party to the war. The French monarch would not hear of renouncing what he insisted were intrinsic portions of the Milanese, but offered to meet with the Pontiff and arrange in person a lasting amity, Bologna being named for the interview. Upon the diplomatic arrangements which there occupied these potentates in the end of the year we need not touch, further than to notice that the intercession of Francis in favour of the Duke of Urbino, which the latter had hastened, after the battle of Marignano, to bespeak by means of a special envoy, proved quite ineffectual. It obviously was dictated less by any interest in the Duke's welfare than by the wish to thwart a favourite project of his fickle ally, and it at once was met by reference to an article which the Pope had adroitly inserted in the treaty, that Francis should in no way interfere for the protection of any undutiful vassal of the Holy See. From Bologna Leo proceeded to Florence, where he remained most of the winter, maturing his schemes for the ruin of Francesco Maria. The death of Ferdinand of Spain in January, 1516, soon reawoke the ambitious hopes of Francis, by reminding him of his predecessor's dormant claims upon the Neapolitan crown. But a new combination of circumstances gave another turn to his thoughts. The efforts of the Venetians to recover Verona and Brescia from Maximilian brought the latter into Lombardy at the head of fifteen thousand Swiss troops, by whom Lautrec, the French general, was for a time hard pressed, and Leo, ever anxious to conciliate a conqueror, hastily sent Cardinal Bibbiena with reinforcements to the Emperor's camp. Yet the storm, passing off suddenly and harmlessly, left few traces besides jealousy, which the prudence of that wily legate scarcely prevented from arising in the mind of Francis towards his slippery ally. These vacillations on the part of Leo have been slightly touched upon, in order to clear the ground for displaying his ambitious nepotism in its proper field,--the duchy of Urbino. This, his prevailing weakness, had met with many disappointments. No opening occurred for its exercise in the direction of Naples. Parma and Piacenza had passed from his grasp, by reluctant surrender to a professing ally. But, worst of all, his favourite brother Giuliano, the object in whom centred most of his schemes, had been removed by death on the 17th of March, not without surmise of poison from the jealousy of his nephew Lorenzo.[*262] Although his great popularity favoured the ambitious views which were thrust upon him by the Pontiff, his mind lay rather towards elegant pursuits and splendid tastes, than to such high aspirations. Indeed, the Venetian ambassador, Capello, represents his dying request to Leo as in favour of Urbino[*263]; but the Pope waived the discussion of a point upon which his resolution was taken. Lorenzo, his successor in the papal favour, was a much more willing, though less conciliatory, instrument of his Holiness's designs. [Footnote *262: Giuliano had certainly been ailing for months. His death did not seem to have been unexpected.] [Footnote *263: So does Giorgi. Cf. _Relazioni Venete_, 2nd series, vol. II., p. 51.] Lorenzo de' Medici was eldest son of Pietro, the first-born of Lorenzo the Magnificent.[*264] He was born on the 13th of September, 1492, and his youth was passed amid many trials. His father, after ten years of exile from Florence, had been drowned in the Garigliano, in 1504, and, four years thereafter, his sister Clarissa's marriage with Filippo Strozzi involved him in a second banishment. He was of good person and gallant presence, endowed with a stirring spirit, but destitute of generous or heroic qualities. Giorgi, another Venetian envoy, even considered him scarcely inferior in cunning and capacity to the redoubted Valentino. The government of Florence was committed to him by Leo, on his uncle Giuliano being called to a higher destiny, and feeling his advancement restrained by the prior claims, as well as by the moderation of the latter, he is believed to have removed him by poison; at all events he was immediately named to succeed him as gonfaloniere of the Church. [Footnote *264: Cf. VERDI: _Gli ultimi anni di Lorenzo de' Medici duca d'Urbino, 1515-1519_ (Pietrogrande, 1905).] This renewed outrage upon Francesco Maria's military rank,[*265] and the death of the only individual of the Medici upon whom he had any reliance, warned him of the approaching crisis in his fate. The influence of Alfonsina degli Orsini in favour of her son Lorenzo stimulated the Pontiff's projects, unwarned by a prediction of Giuliano that, by following the courses of the Borgia, he would probably suffer their fate. The immediate pretext, adopted for outpouring the accumulated vials of papal wrath, was the Duke's declining to march his troops into Lombardy under Lorenzo as gonfaloniere, in consequence, as Giraldi informs us, of information that his death was resolved upon should he trust his person within his rival's power. Accordingly, Leo was no sooner returned to Rome, than, affecting to consider this refusal, as the act of overt rebellion by a subject against his sovereign, he issued a severe monitory against his feudatory, summoning him thither to answer various vague or irrelevant charges, one of these being the Cardinal of Pavia's slaughter, of which he had already received no "Ragged and forestalled remission," on a report subscribed by Leo himself. Various diplomatic functionaries at the papal court vainly interceded that he should appear by attorney, instead of surrendering in person; and he meanwhile garrisoned Urbino, Pesaro, and S. Leo. The Duchess Dowager, whose arms had frequently received and fondled the infant Lorenzo, while her husband's court sheltered the elder members of his house, hastened to Rome as a mediatrix; but it was with difficulty she made her way to the Pope's presence, and she obtained no mercy for her nephew, nor protection for her own alimentary provisions out of the duchy, his Holiness refusing to listen to any propositions until the Duke had obeyed the monitory by appearing at Rome before the 2nd of April. In consequence of his failure to do so, a bull of excommunication went forth on the 27th, depriving him of his state, and all dignities held of the Holy See, and absolving his subjects from allegiance, on pain of ecclesiastical censures. By a gratuitous exercise of malevolence, the papal influence was employed with the King of Spain for confiscation of Sora, and his other patrimonial holdings in Naples, thus visiting him with instant beggary. On the 18th of August, his dukedom and ecclesiastical baton were conferred upon the unworthy Lorenzo, who, in the following month, was also invested with the prefecture of Rome. [Footnote *265: I do not see how this was an outrage. Francesco had been already dismissed: see _supra_ 360. Besides, he had certainly made overtures to the French. Cf. GUICCIARDINI, _Storia d'Italia_, vol. XII.] [Illustration: _Alinari_ LORENZO DI PIERO DE' MEDICI, DUKE OF URBINO _After the picture by Bronzino in the Uffizi Gallery, Florence_] The value of political gratitude is strikingly illustrated in the fact, that these outrageous measures were adopted, in a consistory composed for the most part of creatures of the della Rovere family, with the single dissentient voice of Cardinal Grimani, of Venice, Bishop of Urbino, whose independence earned him an exile from Rome. Nor was this the only painful lesson of the worth of courtier fidelity now taught to that illustrious house. Even the civilities of Bembo to the Duchess Dowager sank to a low grade, as he thus acknowledges in a letter to Bibbiena of the 19th of April:--"The Lady Duchess of Urbino, whom I visited yesterday (a duty which I, however, very rarely perform), commends herself to you, as does also the Lady Emilia. On these dames the Signor Unico [Accolti] dances attendance. He is more than ever in the heat of his old passion, which he declares now numbers five lustres and a half; and he has better hopes than heretofore of at length obtaining the consummation of his desires, having been asked by the Lady Duchess to _improvisare_, by which means he trusts to move that stony heart to tears--at the least. He is to rehearse in two or three days, and as soon as he does so, I shall report to you: would that you could be here, as he is sure to do it right well." It can scarcely be doubted that this innuendo was meant to apply to the more exalted of these ladies. Whether as a caustic sneer, or a current scandal, it comes ill from such a quarter, and only adds a new proof of the poet's inordinate conceit. Nor did it go unpunished, for we find such vain effrontery thus lashed by Gandolfo Porrino, a contemporary satirist:-- "In such affairs the palm he gives to one beyond all gold, Urbino's Duchess dowager, your cousin scarce yet old. Long at that court Lord Unico had paragoned her face, With words and pen, in wondrous phrase, to angels' matchless grace. Till, gazing on those saint-like eyes, while tears bedimmed his own, The secret of his passion thus he breathed to her alone: 'All goddess fair! my love for thee all other loves exceeds, No Launcelot, no errant knight, its lightning course outspeeds! Prithee with me participate the boon that cannot cloy, And share in mutual confidence a bliss without alloy.' Unlike those artful hypocrites who evil speeches spurn, But wink at acts, the prudent dame thus answer did return: 'Remember that we hapless wives must each their lord obey, Tyrant or kind, his dread behests we never may gainsay; Mine is the Duke, to whom your wish propose, should he assent, As well I wot, right readily your whim shall I content.' Confounded by her sarcasm the carpet-knight was left Poor victim of his vanity, of self-respect bereft." The now inevitable war was opened by a simultaneous movement upon the duchy from three several quarters. Renzo, that is, Lorenzo da Ceri, accompanied by Lorenzo de' Medici and a powerful army, advanced from Romagna; Vitello Vitelli marched upon Massa Trabaria; and, on the 12th of May, Gianpaolo Baglioni seized on Gubbio.[*266] The force thus poured upon the state amounted to seventeen thousand foot, above a thousand men-at-arms, and near two thousand light horse. That which Francesco Maria could bring into the field numbered about nine thousand men, and being averse to entail upon his subjects the miseries of an unavailing struggle, he authorised their surrender, excepting the citadels of Pesaro, Urbino, S. Leo, and Maiuolo, which he garrisoned for resistance. His attempts to obtain the mediation or support of foreign powers entirely failed. Their sympathy and condolence were freely doled out to him, but none gave hope of efficient aid, except Maximilian, whose promises, on this as on all other occasions, proved quite worthless. It only remained to bow, as his uncle Guidobaldo had done, before the storm, and await happier times. On the 31st he sent off from Pesaro his consort, in an ailing state, his infant son, and the dowager Duchess to their relations at Mantua, with such valuables as they could transport in six or eight vessels, and, speedily following them, he embarked at midnight and reached that city in disguise. [Footnote *266: Cf. PELLEGRINI, _Gubbio sotto i conti e Duchi d'Urbino_, in _Boll. per l'Umbria_, vol. XI., p. 221. Gianpaolo Baglioni da Perugia entered the Eugubine territory with 100 knights, 500 horse, and 3000 foot. The Duke wrote that he could not defend Gubbio. On the 31st May the Consiglio was called together, and it decided: "redire ad Romanam ecclesiam et sub regimine s. D.N."] Pesaro, after an eight days' siege, capitulated on honourable terms, in breach of which Tranquillo Giraldi, the commandant, was hanged upon a vague accusation of bad faith. Urbino having, by order of its sovereign, been surrendered without a blow on the 30th of May,[*267] the community, on the 16th of June, sent deputies to kiss the Pope's feet on taking possession of the state, in hopes of obtaining relaxation of the interdict; but his Holiness raised it only for such as adhered to the existing order of things. He committed the government of the town to its new bishop, Giulio Vitelli, who intrigued at all hands to induce the magistracy to follow the example set them in other places, of petitioning his Holiness to give them an independent sovereign, in order that the exaltation of his nephew to the dukedom might seem a popular measure. On the 16th of June the interdict was removed from all the duchy except S. Leo, which alone held out; but, faithful to the proverb of hating him whom he had injured, the Pontiff was deaf to all entreaties for restoration to church privileges of his victim, who consequently remained in hiding at Goito near Mantua, apart from his family, that he might not involve them in excommunication, and giving out that he had fled across the Alps, in order to baffle those who sought his life. [Footnote *267: ZACCAGNINI has published an unknown poem on this taking of Urbino. See _Un poemetto sconosciuto sulla presa d'Urbino del 1516_, in _Le Marche_ (1906), An. VI., p. 145.] The example of Guidobaldo kept alive his hopes of regaining his sovereignty, as that Duke had done, by means of S. Leo. But ere he could organise measures for a descent, he had the grief of learning its fall. As there is always something of romantic adventure in the surprise of a place impregnable by ordinary expedients, we may dwell for a moment on the third and last successful leaguer of this fortress. The garrison consisted of a hundred and twenty men, one tenth of whom had fallen in its defence. After three months spent in hopeless assaults, a Florentine carpenter, named Antonio, observing from the opposite heights the absence of sentinels over one of the most precipitous parts of the rock, attempted to make his way up the face of it, sometimes aided by plants and bushes in the clefts, but generally driving iron spikes into their crevices, and fastening ropes, ladders, or beams, as he advanced. After four nights of this perilous toil he reached the wall, which he found, as expected, without defenders. Having reported the way accessible, a number of light infantry were entrusted to his guidance, whom he ordered to strip their headgear and shoes, and to strap upon their backs their shields, swords, and hatchets. On the 30th of September, under cover of a wet and foggy night, he conducted these safely to the summit, accompanied by a drummer and four pair of colours. At daybreak, an alarm was given from the watch-tower of an assault upon the gate, towards which the besiegers had sent a party; and, whilst the defenders hurried in that direction, Antonio, with some fifty men, cleared the walls, displayed their colours, and beat to arms. Ere the garrison had recovered their presence of mind, the gate was opened by the escalading party to their comrades, and the place was carried. The citadel was held for twenty-five days longer by a handful of desperate men, but they at length surrendered to one Antonio Riccasoli of Florence, who placed upon the castle a vainglorious inscription, claiming for himself the genius of another Dedalus. The fortress had been commanded by Sigismondo Varana, Count of Camerino, the Duke's young nephew, assisted by an experienced captain of the Ubaldini; and the good treatment experienced by the garrison gave rise to a suspicion of treachery on their part, Sigismondo alone being sent to Volterra as prisoner of war. Much of the Duke's treasure was taken, and the loss of S. Leo proved a serious blow to his interests.[268] [Footnote 268: Vat. Urb. MSS. No. 906, 907, 928; Vat. Ottob. MSS. No. 3153.] CHAPTER XXXV The Duke returns to his state--His struggle with the usurper--His victory at Montebartolo. Meanwhile the fatal wars originating in the League of Cambray were finally concluded, by a treaty offensive and defensive, between the young monarchs of France and Spain, guaranteeing their respective Italian possessions, which was signed at Nogon on the 13th of August, and was followed by that of London on the 29th of October, to which the Pope, the Emperor, Charles V., and Henry VIII., were parties. A general pacification having been thus obtained, Francesco Maria was further than ever from assistance in recovering his rights, yet the moment seemed not unfavourable for a single-handed attempt at asserting them. The numerous condottieri of all nations, thus thrown loose without prospect of new occupation, offered him their services on very easy terms, preferring employment on the credit of eventual pay, with the chance of interim pillage, to a life of listless beggary. The French and Venetians secretly favoured any adventure which should rid their territories of such odious inmates, and the Duke found no great difficulty in mustering, by the beginning of the year, three thousand eight hundred infantry and six hundred light horse. He placed the latter under his wife's cousin, Federigo Gonzaga, Marquis of Bozzolo, a young man who singularly mingled the staid wisdom of a veteran commander with the jovial manners of a free companion, and was thus equally the confidential adviser of his general, and the idol of his men. He had also become a personal enemy of Lorenzo, from having been deprived by him of the command committed to him by Giuliano de' Medici. This motley army was composed of tried soldiers, but was deficient in the material for a sustained campaign, notwithstanding the Duke's great exertions and sacrifices, by borrowing money at all hands, and by selling his wife's valuables, to provide for it the most necessary munitions. Before taking the field, he, on the 17th of January, addressed to the Sacred College, and publicly placarded, this earnest protest and vindication of his measures, which, although prolix, is an important manifesto. "Most reverend and respected Lords: I have ever flattered myself that the long persecutions, which exposed me to so many perils, have not lost me your Reverences' favour, nor rendered you personally hostile to me; indeed, I feel assured that you have always looked upon me with compassion, and pitied my misfortunes. Nor did I enjoy, amid such adversities, any consolation more efficacious than my conviction that your Sacred College considers me in nowise worthy of such persecutions. But, as I always have been, am, and shall through life continue, your most humble and obedient servant, I hold myself bound to account to you for every action, and to defend myself from whatever imputations my enemies may have made to your very reverend Lordships, in whom repose all my hopes of protection. "I presume that you have heard of my new enterprise against my own state, dictated, not by any desire to disturb, embarrass, or molest the interests of the Church, but rather by a wish to commit my life upon the hazard of the war, trusting that God will so direct its issue as that my innocence, so known to his divine providence, may be equally manifested to all the world. And in this assurance I proceed, not rashly or presumptuously, but aware that neither my resources, which are at present next to nothing, nor those of the most potent monarch, would suffice to resist the might of his Holiness, supported as he is by all the sovereigns and powers of Christendom; relying, moreover, on Almighty God, the King of kings, who can, and, as I hope, will, aid and defend me in this calamity, since He, to whom the hearts of men are open, knows that I have no other expedient left for my peace or life itself. After having betaken myself to the illustrious Lord Marquis, my father-in-law, at Mantua, and placed myself in a sort of voluntary imprisonment; after having lost my fortresses, and nearly all my worldly possessions; and having even made up my mind to promise his Holiness not to make any attempt upon my state, or disturb his nephew, to whom he had given it,--my sole wish being to live; still, so far from obtaining a relaxation of the censures, other and harsher interdicts were constantly issued against me, with positive injunctions to my distinguished father-in-law not to harbour me in his territory. Nay, I daily discover plots against my life by poison or the dagger; which, however, I attribute not to my Lord his Holiness, convinced that his clemency and goodness are irreconcilable with so ardent a thirst for my blood, and such perfidious ingratitude for the numberless benefits which, setting aside more remote recollections, he and all his house received from myself, when in straits similar to what I now endure, but rather to my enemies, who, in effecting my ruin, bring infamy upon his Holiness, and think thus to force me to flee for my life into Turkey. "Compelled, then, by these considerations, I have set forward towards my own home, in the belief that, even should my death ensue, infamy never can; and in the conviction that, if it was right for his Holiness, whilst living as a cardinal in honour and dignity, to occasion the cruel sack of Prato, in order to regain those rights of citizenship from which he had been outlawed, it will be far more justifiable in me, an outlaw, not from one city, but from all Christendom, and deprived, not merely of my temporal dignities, but almost of the means of subsistence, the sacraments of the Church, and the intercourse of mankind, by a persecution which directs at once temporal and spiritual weapons against my station, life, and soul;--it will, I say, be justifiable for me to attempt my restoration to the state, of which, in the opinion of my own people, and of all men except his Holiness, I am the legitimate sovereign. I therefore supplicate your most reverend Lordships, by the pity due to such as have blamelessly fallen into misfortune, that you will deign to afford me protection, falling upon some means or expedient for mitigating the Pontiff's feelings; seeing I cannot but think that your influence, his own natural goodness, and my innocence must break down that obduracy which the unjust lips and guileful tongues of my adversaries have raised towards me in the mind of his Holiness; for, to regain his favour, there is no submission or endurable penance that I would refuse. And, should I not be deemed worthy of such compassion, you, my very reverend Lords, may at least condescend in silence to favour my cause with your best wishes and thoughts, and efficiently to recommend me to the unfailing bounty and justice of God. If my success be as signal as I hope, I shall stand indebted to your most reverend Lordships, believing that the Almighty has heard your reasonable desires, and extended his protection to me through your merits. Or, on the other hand, should my puny force not be overborne by the weight of the papal power, backed by spiritual weapons, it will be a palpable miracle, and proof sufficient that my innocence, though on earth condemned by men, will be cleared in Heaven by a higher and more equitable Judge. And so, ever kissing humbly your Reverences' hands, I commend myself to your favour. From Sermene, the 17th of January, 1517." The narrative of Giraldi[269] is a safe authority as to many details of this enterprise, his uncle Benedetto having been an officer much in the Duke's confidence. We, therefore, venture to extract the harangue which he puts into the mouth of Francesco Maria, before marching from Sermene, not, of course, as his verbatim address to his followers, but as containing the understanding on both sides of their respective obligations. [Footnote 269: Vat. Ottob. MSS. No. 3153, f. 115.] "'Soldiers and Comrades, I have assembled you here, in order that you may fully learn my mind and intentions, and that I may know yours. I therefore acquaint you that I have arranged with your leaders, who have promised, and bound themselves by articles, to accompany me into my state of Urbino, and to re-establish me in my home, and to maintain me there during life, indifferent to pay or remuneration beyond such as I may be able to give,--I confiding to them my state and person, in reliance upon your good faith. I now wish to know if you are all agreed to follow me in this enterprise; and, should this be your pleasure, I desire from you an oath never to abandon me on any contingency that may occur, and that, in case of being forced to quit me by the pressure of events without completing our undertaking, you will oblige yourselves to return to this place as a rendezvous, and, further, that you shall not desert me for any offers or bribes of the enemy. Avowing to you at the same time that, at this moment, I have not above a ducat a-piece to give you, I nevertheless feel confident our gains will be great, unless fortune be more than adverse; and I promise that all the booty will be yours, and that I shall be your comrade, never sparing my life while it lasts. If you accept these my terms, you must all swear to observe them; otherwise I shall not move from this territory of my brother-in-law.' Whereupon they all, with extended hands, took an oath never to abandon him during life; and so they set forth in the name of God, on the 17th of January, led by Federigo di Bozzolo." The Pontiff was taken at unawares, for, believing his enemy utterly crushed, he made light of such warnings as had reached him of a contemplated movement against the duchy; but now that the expedition was matured, he knew well the slight hold which the usurper had upon the affections of his nominal subjects. Nor was he more at ease as to the inclinations of his new allies in Lombardy, whose stipendiaries had thus suddenly turned their arms against him. His anxiety was in no way diminished by the representations of his confidential friend Bibbiena, who, actuated perhaps by some lurking kindness for the house of Urbino, urged him to abandon the Borgian policy he had in hand, until such persuasions were silenced by the threatened poignard of Lorenzo. Ere effectual precautions could be adopted in Romagna, Francesco Maria had rallied round him eight thousand infantry and fifteen hundred horse, most of them veterans, and with these he marched about the middle of January. Passing Rimini, where his rival lay "sorely perplexed and bewildered" (to use the phrase of Minio, the Venetian envoy), he advanced under every discouragement of an inclement season, his men wading through snow to the middle, and swimming frequent-swollen torrents. From the secrecy of his preparations and the poverty of his resources, his commissariat was altogether inadequate; but, on reaching his frontier, the refusal of Gradara to submit afforded his men an excuse for compensating their privations by its sack. His subjects had been prepared by emissaries for a general revolt. On the 1st of February, Count Carlo Gabrielli raised the cry of "Feltro! Feltro!" at Gubbio, and it was enthusiastically responded to through the smaller towns. On the 5th, the Duke was within a few miles of Urbino, then held by Bishop Vitelli, with a garrison of two thousand men, who, distrusting the inhabitants, summoned their militia to muster at S. Bernardino, and closed the gates as soon as the city had thus been cleared of its able-bodied men, refusing to readmit them on pain of instant death. The excluded citizens vented their indignation at this trick, in threats and abuse of the garrison from under the very walls, which at length provoked a sortie of four hundred infantry in order to disperse them. At this juncture, a squadron of one hundred cavalry, sent on by Francesco Maria under Benedetto Giraldi of Mondolfo, for the purpose of supporting the expected rising in his favour, arrived three miles below Urbino, and, whilst breathing their horses, heard that the enemy were abroad. Benedetto immediately left his little force in charge of his brother Annibale, and rode on with but five officers to reconnoitre. The adventure which followed, equally worthy of a bold knight-errant and a Christian soldier, must be told as in the Dialogue of his nephew Tranquillo. "Coming suddenly upon the detachment, about half a mile from the town, Benedetto exclaimed, 'Look there! as these are the first of our master's foes we have fallen in with, it would surely be a shame to let them get back to the city without a taste of us: I am therefore resolved to make a dash at them, and if you will follow me, by God's grace we shall have the first victory.' This said, he rushed into the midst of them, with vizor up and lance in rest, overthrowing many by the shock. His weapon having broken, he performed prodigies with his sword, and, aided by his followers, who had not shrunk from his summons, the enemy's leaders were slain, and their whole battalion dispersed in panic through the fields, where most of them were put to death by the excluded townsfolk, who had mustered at the first alarm. I, too, came up with our squadron, in time to cut off a good many of them; but I had little cause to congratulate myself upon that success, for, passing near my brother [Benedetto], he said to me, 'Annibale, I am killed.' Whereupon, looking towards him, I observed a cut in his face, and told him to fear nothing, as face wounds were not mortal; but he replied, 'It's worse than that, for I am run through the body by a pike.' At these words my heart seemed riven asunder; yet, in order not to alarm him, I desired him to cheer up, and commend himself to God Almighty, and to the most glorious Mother of the Saviour, and to vow his armour and horse to Loreto, adding that I too would offer a housing worth twenty-five ducats. 'I am content,' answered he, 'to give this horse, a gallant Turkish charger bestowed upon me by the Marquis of Mantua, along with these arms; but I have only one favour to ask of the Saviour of mankind, which is, that he will permit me to live long enough to confess myself.' As he said this an Observantine friar, who had on former occasions confessed him, came up, and, after thanking God for having heard his prayer, he summoned the monk, and returning to Cavallino confessed himself. There being no surgeon at hand, a gentleman of Mantua named Stigino cleansed the wound by suction, and ascertained that the bowels were not pierced, which afforded me much hope. I sent for many surgeons. The first that arrived was Maccione of Fossombrone, who dressed the wound with charmed bandages, a thing that much displeased my brother; and for conscience-sake he refused to be doctored in that way, until persuaded by a friar, who assured him there was no sin, seeing that there had been no diabolical incantation used; and, being told of numerous miracles effected by these cloths, he submitted to them, and ere long was restored to health." The sally-party from the garrison having been repulsed by Giraldi's squadron, aided by a considerable force from Gubbio, Fossombrone, and Sinigaglia, which just then most opportunely appeared, they found little safety by returning to quarters. The citizens still within the walls rushed to arms, even the women and children showered missiles on the retreating soldiery, and the Bishop, dispirited by the disaster, capitulated next day. But being seized with a panic, his garrison withdrew ere their safe-conduct was signed, and were beset by the infuriated troops and inhabitants, who attacked them on every side with arms, bludgeons, and stones, slaying or capturing them to a man. The Duke thus entered his capital, and was welcomed with demonstrations of joy, only equalled by those which, fourteen years before, had hailed his uncle's return in similar circumstances. As it was no easy task to restrain an army so composed from reaping the spoils of victory in a way opposite to wishes and the interests of Francesco Maria, he lost no time in employing them against Fano, a town which, not belonging to his state, might with less scruple be abandoned to plunder. The assault, however, miscarried through Maldonato, a Spanish captain, whose treasonable correspondence with Rome began already to be intercepted, and was ere long exposed. After this check, the troops were dispersed among the villages, until the inclement weather should pass; their head-quarters were at Montebaroccio, a very strong position midway between the upper part of the duchy, which acknowledged its legitimate sovereign, and the cities of Pesaro, Fano, and Sinigaglia, which were garrisoned by the ecclesiastical troops. Meanwhile the Pope, trusting to time more than the sword for ridding him of an enemy destitute of all resources, had directed his nephew to leave them an open field, until his preparations for their destruction should be complete. He hastily called upon the Emperor and the Kings of France and Spain for assistance, whilst Lorenzo was mustering the ecclesiastical and Florentine militia, under Guido Rangone of Modena, Renzo da Ceri, and Vitello Vitelli. No expense was spared from the papal treasury to raise an overwhelming force, and Lorenzo borrowed 50,000 golden florins from his fellow-citizens. Charles contributed four hundred Neapolitan lances, and Francis promised three hundred more, on condition of the surrender by Leo of Modena to his ally the Duke of Ferrara. By these means was levied an army of fifteen to eighteen thousand infantry, a thousand men-at-arms, and at least as many light cavalry, with fourteen pieces of artillery. The Lord of Urbino appears to have looked without reason for reinforcements from Venice,[*270] but Minio mentions that his army now consisted of twelve thousand foot, and that he had received a money subsidy from an unknown quarter, probably his father-in-law, the Marquis of Mantua. Yet his position was in all respects critical. In an enterprise depending on prompt success, each hour lost was the enemy's gain. His present life of bootless and bootyless inaction disgusted his Spaniards, who not only murmured, but, unmindful of their vow of service, began to desert to the ecclesiastical camp, attracted by superior pay. Worst of all, the enthusiasm that had enabled Guidobaldo to win back his state for a brief interval, now languished in the cause of his nephew, whose coup-de-main had failed, and whose resources were inadequate to a prolonged struggle, the burden whereof must fall upon his loyal subjects. In these circumstances, he resorted to an expedient which relieved the dull incidents of a petty campaign by one of a novel and romantic character. Hoping to bring the war to a speedy issue, he sent Suares de Lione, a Spanish officer, and his own Secretary, Orazio Florido, with the following instructions, and message to his adversary:-- "As it is creditable to a prince warring for any cause, to endeavour that his object should be effected with the least bloodshed and injury to the country, especially if it be his intention to become its sovereign, and as I conceive that the Lord Lorenzo must share in this sentiment, I have devised an expedient most convenient to both of us. For if he desire the acquisition of this state as ardently as appears from the late and present campaign, he will be delighted to satisfy that longing promptly, and without further burden to its inhabitants, by putting to the test his own bravery and that of his troops. I therefore empower you, Captain Suares and Orazio, to challenge him forthwith to combat in any place he likes; four thousand men against four thousand, or three, two, or one thousand, or five hundred, or one hundred, or twenty, or four, or any smaller number he may choose, provided he and I are included,--all to be on foot, with the usual arms of infantry; or lastly, if he will fight me alone with the readiest arms, so much the better, that thus, by the death or imprisonment of one of us, the victor may obtain the most satisfactory solution of his wishes, and relieve the lingering suspense of not a few. "Relying on the courage of his Lordship, and many about him of not less honourable pretensions, that these so reasonable proposals will be received with pleasure, I shall await your return, promptly to prepare for whatever alternative he may accede to. I limit the answer to three days; adding that, if he prefer fighting in considerable numbers, he may do so with three hundred picked men of the light cavalry, armed with lance, sword poignard, and mace. Or, if none of the aforesaid conditions please him, which I cannot believe possible, remember to offer that, if he will engage with these three hundred light horse, and all my infantry, he may have the advantage of five hundred or a thousand foot beyond what I can bring into the field, equally armed. And the present memorandum you will deliver into his Lordship's hands."[271] [Footnote *270: It was against Venice that Leo had first, in March, 1517, tried to get help.] [Footnote 271: Vat. Urb. MSS. No. 1023, f. 141. It has been printed by Leone, p. 222.] This step, natural to a gallant soldier of almost desperate fortunes, with neither means nor inducement for a prolonged struggle, could have no recommendation for his opponent, now at the head of an overwhelming force, backed by the papal treasury and the united arms of most European powers. Lorenzo felt nettled at a proposal which it would have been folly to accept, but which could scarcely be declined without incurring a slur; and, after answering that he could entertain no such cartel until his challenger had evacuated those places which he had forcibly seized, his temper showed itself by arresting its bearers, notwithstanding their safe-conduct. The Spaniard was speedily released; but the secretary was sent to Volterra or Rome, to be disposed of by the Pope, where, with revolting treachery and meanness, he was subjected to imprisonment and torture, in the hope of drawing from him the secrets of his master, whose vigorous resistance Leo strongly suspected to be backed by the French monarch. The war was now carried on by manoeuvres and skirmishes, which have no interest beyond the light they throw on the spirit of this unequal contest. Among the reinforcements that flocked to the papal standard was an undisciplined band which crossed the Apennines from Tuscany, carrying fire and sword through the highlands of Montefeltro. The Duke was unable to leave the low country exposed by marching in person to the relief of his faithful mountaineers, but sent into these defiles a squadron of light horse, who, falling upon the rabble at unawares, amply avenged their excesses. On the 25th of March, the inhabitants of Montebaroccio, having voluntarily admitted a body of papal troops, were visited by severe retribution as a warning to others; the place was sacked and burned by the Spaniards, seven hundred men and fifty old women being put to the sword,--a repulsive comment upon the Duke's boast, that though the walls of his towns were held for others, the hearts they contained were all his own. These partial successes turned the tide of feeling somewhat more favourably for the della Rovere cause, and we learn from the Minio despatches, that the war, unpopular at Rome from the first, now occasioned great anxiety to the government, from the difficulty in raising funds to continue it. The Pope retired frequently to his villa at La Magliana, less from the love of field sports, than to indulge his chagrin.[*272] Such were his straits for money, that he deposited jewels in pawn with the Cardinal Riario, for a loan of 7000 ducats. This sum, with 5000 more, having been despatched to Pesaro in a convoy of waggons, was captured by the Duke, and along with it were found certain letters, written in name of his Holiness, advising Lorenzo, in the event of any suspicion attaching to the Gascons in his service, either to ship them at once for Lombardy, or to have them summarily massacred. These missives, having been circulated in the ecclesiastical camp, occasioned a prodigious ferment, and it was with the utmost difficulty that Lorenzo, by denying their authenticity, induced the French troops to remain under his command, until an opportunity offered of conciliating them by the plunder of Sta. Costanza. [Footnote *272: "Gli pareva gran vergogna della Chiesa che ad un duchetto basti l'animo di fare questa novità; e il papa tremeva, ed era quasi fuor di sè." Cf. GIORGI, _Relazioni Venete_, 2nd series, vol. III., p. 47.] After many complicated movements in the lower valley of the Metauro, attended with no decided advantage, and important only as having enabled the youthful Giovanni de' Medici to flesh that sword which soon after won him the laurels of a bright but brief career, the papal army sat down before Mondolfo. The resistance of that small town was encouraged by the state of the besiegers, and embittered by their savage reputation. The Minio despatches of this date represent them as suffering from a scarcity of provisions and a dearth of bread and wine, adding that "the captured castles envy the dead, by reason of the cruelties practised on the survivors." Its garrison consisted of two hundred Spaniards and three hundred militia, so determinedly supported by the inhabitants, that breaches opened during the day were made up before morning, mines were met by counter-excavations, and subterranean galleries were often scenes of death-struggles. Provoked by this obstinacy, Lorenzo swore never to raise the siege until he had razed the place to its foundations, put the males to the sword, and handed over the women to the Devil's service. But in the end of March, a few days after he had uttered this savage bravado, his own career was arrested. Whilst, with more bravery than prudence, he served a battery in the dress of a common soldier, a Spaniard, to whom his person was known, marked him from the walls, and shot him as he leaned upon a cannon to take aim. The ball took effect above the left ear; and the wound extended down his neck to the shoulder.[273] He was removed to Ancona, and for above a week continued in extreme danger, refusing to be trepanned; but by the end of the month his convalescence was complete. [Footnote 273: This account is adopted by Leone, p. 230, by Sismondi, and by Centenelle, Vat. Urb. MSS. No. 907. Baldi (Vat. Urb. MSS. No. 906) and Guicciardini say that Lorenzo, having undergone much personal fatigue at the battery, was walking away to repose himself in a sheltered spot, when a bullet from the walls hit him on the head, grazing his skull to the nape of the neck.] The Pontiff "evinced extreme grief" at so untoward an accession to the mishaps of this ill-advised and unlucky campaign. It had hitherto been conducted by Renzo da Ceri and Vitellozzo Vitelli, who were supposed to thwart the usurper from an apprehension that he might become another Cesare Borgia. The Cardinal de' Medici, however, attributed these successive miscarriages to the incapacity of Renzi, and seriously complained to the Venetian envoy that, in consequence of his reputation in the Signory's service, "we engaged him for this undertaking, and don't perceive that he has effected anything. While he commanded a small infantry force, he appeared never to be idle for a day, yet, since he has been at the head of an entire army, he has contrived to demean himself very ill, and to show that he is not a man of great exploits." It will be curious to find this very officer afterwards employed by the Cardinal when Pope, and fully bearing out the mean opinion here expressed of him, when his present impugner had the folly to instruct him with the defence of Rome itself. Neither the dissatisfaction of his subjects nor the coldness of his allies inclined Leo to abandon an enterprise which exhausted his resources and bathed Italy in civil blood. Thundering forth a new and more severe excommunication against Francesco Maria and his abettors, he, on the 30th of March, despatched a cardinal legate to the camp, under whose command things went from bad to worse. The defence of Mondolfo was protracted with extraordinary resolution. Even after a large space of wall had been thrown down by two mines, the besiegers were kept at bay during ten hours of hard fighting, whilst the women supplied missiles and coppers of boiling water, and the priests, waving aloft their crucifixes, mingled absolution of the dying with prayers for the survivors. This vain struggle against fearful odds ended in an ill-observed capitulation, in defiance of which the town was sacked and set on fire. Two incidents may illustrate the undisciplined state of the troops. Before entering the place, two Spanish and a Ferrarese soldier agreed to share equally their respective booty. Whilst the Italian fought, his comrades were plundering, and eventually refused to divide the spoil according to stipulation, an evasion in which they were backed by their countrymen. The Ferrarese, with permission of his officers, challenged his faithless partners, and a ring, or rather square, having been cleared, by tying together eight pikes, he sprang into it, armed but with sword and half-shield, offering to fight them both at once, a proposal which they prudently evaded by surrendering a just portion of their plunder. After the town had capitulated, "a wrangle arose between an Italian and a German about a flagon of wine, the former raising the shout of 'Italy! Italy!' the latter responding 'Germany! Germany!' Whereupon the infantry came to blows, and many were killed on either side; and when, at the peril of his life, the right reverend Cardinal had well nigh quelled the fray, an Italian struck a German captain on the head with his musket and killed him. This made the fight rage fiercer than ever, and the Spaniards having sided with the Germans, the Italians were routed, and all their quarters pillaged, including those of Signor Troilo Savello. The army remains divided and dispersed; most of the Italians are departed, whilst the infantry have betaken themselves towards Fano, and continue thus separated." It is curious to detect in these and similar incidents[274] an undercurrent of national feeling, during that dreary age when the Peninsula was torn into sections by communal policy and dynastic ambition. Had that cry of _Italia! Italia!_ been then raised by her leading spirits, with earnest good faith, apart from individual ends, how different had been her after fate and present attitude! [Footnote 274: See above, p. 325.] The legate, who thus, with difficulty and personal danger, averted a general massacre, was the Cardinal Bibbiena, not de' Medici, as accidentally misstated by Roscoe. After long employing his diplomatic talents against his former friend, the Lord of Urbino, he now compassed his final ruin by exertions of the camp, for which he was less qualified. The mutinous _mêlée_ which he had witnessed prepared him for the discovery, that moneys raised by extraordinary exertions were ill-spent upon an army "thrice as numerous on pay-day as in action." It was, therefore, to the commissariat and finance that his chief attention was given; but, warned by the recent explosion of national antipathies, he separated the quarrelsome soldiery in various cantonments around Pesaro. The Italians garrisoned the city and Rimini, the Spaniards were encamped on the adjoining Monte Bartolo, the Germans lay on the middle of that hill around the Imperiale palace, the Corsi (Dalmatians) occupied the foot of it, and the Gascons bivouacked on the adjacent plain. The last of these were in very bad repute at Rome; and finding themselves kept for several weeks in that exposed situation, many deserted to the della Rovere camp at Ginestreto, near Montebaroccio. After letting slip an apparently favourable opportunity for striking a blow at these disorganised troops, Francesco Maria subsequently did so by a surprise, which we shall narrate in his own words, addressed next morning to the Duchess. "To the most illustrious Lady, my Consort, my lady Eleonora di Gonzaga, Duchess of Urbino, &c. "Most illustrious Lady, my Consort, "Since the enemy took the field I have often wished to come to action, and have used my ingenuity for this object, little heeding their superiority to my brave band, both in men-at-arms and in infantry, but all to no purpose. At length, finding that his Reverence the Legate, Renzo di Ceri, Vitelli, and their other principal leaders had retired into Pesaro, with a host of men-at-arms, whilst about three thousand foot, with the light horse and the Gascon wings, lay on the road to Fano, the Spanish lansquenets and the Corsi, to the number of at least six thousand, being quartered in the Imperiale, there seemed a chance of having at them. Accordingly, at half-past eleven o'clock last night, on ascertaining their position, and the most effective mode of attacking it, I advanced at the head of my infantry and a detachment of cavalry. After passing the Foglia, I sent the latter to a certain spot in the plain, and, leading the rest by the hill-side to the summit of the Imperiale, I charged the enemy about two hours after daybreak, and, by God's grace and the gallantry of my men, routed them ere they could form, killing, and taking many. So sudden and vigorous was our onset over the rocks on the seashore, that they were unable to gain their houses; and, as we drove them with great loss over the hill, they were intercepted below by my cavalry, so that between the two few escaped. Some of the officers made their way into the church of S. Bartolo, and into the palace of the Imperiale, where they attempted to fortify themselves, but with a few of my people I soon captured them all. We followed the fugitives with great slaughter to the very gates of Pesaro, the garrison of which, at least five thousand strong, would neither support nor admit them, whilst the Gascons, though witnessing the rout and drawn up in battle array, equally withheld succour. Thus, without loss, we remained masters of their camp, their colours, many prisoners, and all their officers but two who were killed; and I, having taken up my quarters here, hasten to inform your Excellency of these particulars. "But I must not omit to tell your Ladyship how, three days since, as Signor Troilo Savello, on his march from Rome with fifteen hundred foot and some horse, was avoiding the outpost at Sassoferrato, and attacking my castle of Sta. Abonda, he was routed and rifled by a couple of hundred infantry and a few cavalry from my garrison at Pergola, and scarcely escaped being himself taken. In Montefeltro, too, several incursions of the Florentines have been repulsed; and between Massa and Lamole seven hundred of them, who had taken post on a hill and in a very strong pass, were well beaten and driven out of it by a hundred of my people. "I wished to give your Ladyship all these particulars, that you may share with me the encouragement they afford us. The favour which God has this morning vouchsafed us, and for which our gratitude is due, gives me hope that the justice of my cause will be daily advanced by new successes; and so to your Ladyship do I commend myself: from my joyous camp near Genestreto, 6 May, 1517. "_Consors_, FRANCISCUS MARIA DUX URBINI, &c. _ac Alme Urbis Prefectus._"[275] [Footnote 275: Vat. Urb. MSS., No. 1023, art. vi.] To this spirited despatch little remains to be added. The assailants ascended from the Rimini side, leaving below a strong body of horse to cut off the fugitives. The troops being discouraged by the absence of Maldonato's Spaniards, who had straggled behind, and by the late hour at which, owing to blunders of their guides, they reached the mountain, the Duke encouraged them with assurances that the chances of success were greatest after daybreak, as the sentinels would be less on the alert; and for an omen of victory, and a badge to distinguish them from the enemy, he desired them to twine oak twigs, emblematic of his name, round their headgear. He led their file in person; and after a complete victory was left with eight hundred prisoners on his hands, besides the entire camp equipage and much booty. Next day the Gascons, who had not shared in the rout, came over in a body to Francesco Maria, headed by Monsieur d'Ambras, who returned to the court of Francis I., after publicly declaring that he would no longer permit his men to be sacrificed by officers that could neither protect them nor annoy their enemy, but would leave them under a prince whose tactics and discipline were a pattern even to his foes. This secession did not, however, prevent his master bolstering up the papal policy by loans of 100,000 livres Tournois to Lorenzo, and half that sum to the Pontiff, a course condemned by Sismondi in his French history. CHAPTER XXXVI Continuation of the ruinous contest--The Duke finally abandons it--Death of Lorenzo de' Medici--Charles V. elected Emperor. About this time a serious conspiracy against Leo was discovered. The prime mover in it was Alfonso Petrucci, Cardinal of Siena, whose property having been confiscated, and his family ruined by the Pontiff, he burned for revenge, and induced one Battista, a famous surgeon of Vercelli, along with the Pope's valet, to enter into his views. Leo being ill of fistula, it was arranged that Battista, who had procured recommendations as a skilful operator, should introduce poison into the dressings. The plot was revealed in time, and the Pontiff used every art, with promises of reconciliation and renewed favour, to entice the principal culprit to Rome. Having with difficulty effected this, he imprisoned him, along with his brother-cardinals Raffaello Riario and Bandinello Bishop of Sauli, along with the captain of the Sienese troops. Cardinal Alfonso was secretly put to death; the surgeon and the valet were publicly hanged and quartered; Sauli, condemned to perpetual imprisonment, was liberated but to die; while Riario, after purchasing at a high rate restoration to his escheated dignities, spent the brief remainder of his life in voluntary exile. Cardinals Soderini and Adriano of Corneto (the latter of whom held the sees of Hereford and Bath, and was papal collector in England), having confessed in open consistory their privacy to the plot, escaped from Rome. The former was saved by chancing to ride out to the chase on a mule, instead of going as usual in his litter, which followed at some distance, and was seized by the guard in consequence of his scarlet robe being left in it, whilst the culprit, in a simple chaplain's dress, fled to the Colonna strongholds. A mystery which hung over the fate of Adriano has been partially cleared up by my friend Mr. Rawdon Brown from the Sanuto Diaries, wherein it appears that he safely reached Venice through Calabria, and that the occasion of his unaccountable disappearance was a journey to the conclave on Leo's death, not his flight from Rome in the present year, as stated by Guicciardini, Valeriano, and Roscoe.[276] [Footnote 276: Vat. Urb. MSS., No. 907, f. 28, 30. The Minio despatches are full of details of this conspiracy unknown to Roscoe.] Thus baffled in the field, and betrayed in the consistory, Leo found a great effort necessary. On the 20th of June he wrote a letter to Henry VIII., which has been published by Rymer, representing, in vague generalities, and abusive terms, the outrages committed against the dignity and temporal dominion of the Church by relentless robbers and adversaries, and enjoining him to contribute assistance, in the way to be orally explained by the bearer, a predicant friar named Nicholas.[277] He also made renewed instances with his other allies for more efficient aid against his contumacious vassal in Umbria, and sent to levy six thousand Swiss. In order to raise money for these new expenses, he, on the 26th of June, created thirty-one cardinals, thus at once filling his treasury with the price of their hats, and surrounding himself by chosen adherents. Nor did he omit still more profligate expedients. He had repeatedly profited by Maldonato's perfidy in the Urbino war, and now offered him 10,000 ducats, with the dignity of cardinal to his son, if he would deliver up Francesco Maria alive or dead.[278] [Footnote 277: Rymer, vol. IV., p. 135. On the 21st of December Lorenzo de' Medici had written to thank the King of England for his good wishes conveyed through the Bishop of Worcester, then resident at Rome. See a curious letter of the following June, from Wolsey to the usurping Duke, Appendix VI.] [Footnote 278: Centenelle, Vat. Urb. MSS. No. 907.] After the affair at Imperiale, the Papal troops keeping close in their garrisons, Francesco Maria had recourse to a partisan warfare of sallies and surprises, which greatly harassed them, but did not give sufficient employment to his own somewhat unmanageable levies. He had now ascertained from intercepted letters the full extent of Maldonato's treason; but, ere he ventured upon making an example, he thought it well to put his troops into good humour by a foraging expedition, which should also free his own state from their burdensome presence. Gian Paolo Baglioni, Lord of Perugia, had, during the whole campaign, been in the field against the Duke with three thousand men, and his relation and rival Carlo, exiled by his intrigues from that city, besought Francesco Maria's aid for his re-establishment. No proposal could have been more opportune, and the Duke drew all his forces towards the vale of Tiber. But his army, disorganised by the intrigues of Maldonato and one Suares (not the bearer of his cartel), broke out into tumult at Cantiano, clamouring for pay or pillage, and both of these officers, heading the mutiny, insulted and threatened their general. In this predicament, his adherents quickly collected from the neighbouring villages some money, church plate, and other valuables, which brought the refractory troops into better humour; and the opportune news of considerable booty having been obtained beyond the frontier, by the advanced guard of Gascons, induced them to move upon the Pianello di Perugia. The Spanish troops whom the Duke had brought from Lombardy consisted of two battalions, that of San Marco under Maldonato, and that of Verona under Alverado. The disaffection was confined to a portion of the former, and had for some time been detected through intercepted correspondence of their officers. On the march through the Apennines, Francesco Maria gradually prepared their comrades of Verona for the vengeance he had in store for the traitors. When all was ready, he halted on a small plain, and, whilst the surrounding defiles were being occupied by his staunchest adherents, he formed the Spaniards into a square, with their officers in the middle, whom he thus addressed: "Gentlemen and Captains! You are aware how I entered this country under your protection, and how, in committing myself into your hands, on your promise never in life or in death to abandon me, I relied upon your long-established reputation that you never had betrayed any of your leaders. I now, however, find that some among you seek miserably to sell me, and so for ever stain your honourable name; and this I presently shall prove, if you think fit, with the double object of saving myself from assassination and you from disgrace, but on condition that you shall at once take such steps as you deem best adapted to rescue me from pressing peril, and yourselves from lasting contumely." This harangue, falling upon well tutored ears, was answered by shouts of "Death to the traitors! reveal them at once!" Proofs were then read that Maldonato had engaged to slaughter the Duke and Federigo del Bozzolo, for the bribe of a life-pension to himself of 600 ducats, an episcopal see to his son, and double pay during the whole campaign to his troops. There is said to be a standard of honour among thieves; that of the Spaniards was piqued by this melodramatic impeachment of their truth, and the opportune discovery of further treasonable documents in the baggage of Maldonato's mistress exasperated them to fury. That craven captain threw himself at the feet of Francesco Maria, whom he had recently insulted, and prayed for mercy; but the latter withdrew from the square, saying that he left the affair to the soldiery. A cry then arose, "Let the faithful officers come out!" They did so, leaving eight whose names had been denounced, and who were instantly massacred by the troops. Thus was the army saved from destruction by the coolness and decision of its leader, and the companies of San Marco and Verona, purged from the imputation of perfidy, were from that day embodied in a single battalion. Having so happily scotched the vipers that endangered his safety, the Duke of Urbino made his descent upon Perugia. After a short siege, during which he extended his forays as far as Spoleto and Orvieto, spreading alarm to the gates of Rome, that city capitulated on the 26th of May, receiving Carlo Baglioni as its master, and paying a ransom of 10,000 scudi, which Vermiglioli, the biographer of Gian Paolo, alleges the latter, with the bad faith usual in that age, to have shared, although the money had been raised from his own adherents. The same authority now estimates the Duke's army at twelve thousand men, with which it was his intention to make a diversion into the Florentine territory. But hearing that the Legate had taken the field, he hurried back across the Apennines, though too late to save Fossombrone and La Pergola. His wish of engaging the enemy having been foiled by their retreat into Pesaro, he had recourse to his former tactics of removing the seat of war from his own state, and turned his arms against the more wealthy towns of the Marca. Many of these, including Fabriano, Ancona, and Recanati, compounded for exemption from military violence, by paying seven or eight thousand ducats each. Corinaldo was saved by a well-timed sally, but Jesi, contrary to the wish of Francesco Maria, was sacked by his Spaniards, to whom his orderly and methodical way of laying the country under contributions, and pillaging only the refractory, was far from acceptable. The lesson he had given to these free lances appears for a time to have borne fruit, and the following report by Minio, of a conversation with the Pontiff, affords honourable testimony to their steadiness, whilst it exhibits very graphically the character of the contest at this juncture. "I afterwards inquired of his Holiness if he had any news? He told me Francesco Maria was encamped under a castle named Corinaldo, situated in the Marca, and that infantry had been detached from his Holiness's army for its defence, so he hoped not to be disappointed; a trust wherein I think the Pontiff will be deceived, as he was regarding the other places. I said to him, 'It is a good sign, his inability to make any further progress, and merely laying siege to a few inconsiderable castles;' and to this his Holiness rejoined, 'He does it to raise money, as he did by the other places.' He then told me that Don Ugo de Moncada had been with the Spaniards, but was unable to make any settlement; adding, with an air of surprise, 'I was willing to give them three arrears of pay, yet they did not choose to come away, but despatched a friar to say that should I undertake an expedition against the infidels, they are willing to accept this offer, and serve.' I answered, that if so, they were willing to fight against the infidels on the same terms for which they now served Francesco Maria against the Holy See! The Pope evinced little hope of an agreement with these Spaniards. On my observing, 'The Viceroy [Don Ugo] has quitted Naples, we know not wherefore, unless it be to come to your Holiness's assistance,' he replied, 'They do say they are coming to aid me;' and then continued, with a smile on his lips, 'See what a mess this is! The French suspect these Spaniards of playing them some trick, and the Spaniards fear lest the French, through Francesco Maria, should attack them in the kingdom of Naples.' In order to elicit something more, I said that I deemed it mere suspicion on either side; and he replied, 'It is so.' I next asked how his Holiness stood with the Swiss? and he answered, 'We shall have the Grisons, but the Cantons have not yet decided, though they were to do so in a diet; at all events, I shall have some, and I have sent them the pensions they required of me.'" On the 14th of July, two days after this despatch, Minio reports that Don Ugo had been dismissed by the Spanish troops, drawn up in three fine battalions, with the following reply: "That they did not intend to desert Francesco Maria, unless war were waged [by him] against their most Catholic King, or some attempt made to occupy the kingdom of Naples, or unless his Holiness shall commence hostilities against his most Christian Majesty; in any other event they meant to keep their faith to Francesco Maria, and would in no respect fail him." From various passages in the same envoy's despatches, it is clear that these jealousies, though here ridiculed by Leo, were shared by himself in a high degree: his own policy being generally hollow and Machiavellian, he looked for no longer measure of good faith from his allies. Ever since interest had been made at Bologna by Francis I. in behalf of the Duke of Urbino, the Pontiff regarded him as at heart adverse to all nepotic schemes upon that principality; and, at this particular juncture, suspicion was strengthened by a variety of circumstances, singly of little moment. Among these, were the retention by his Holiness of Modena and Reggio; the apparent slight of passing, in the late wholesale distribution of cardinal's hats, over Ludovico Canossa, who, while legate in France, had gained the King's affections, more perhaps than was approved at the Vatican; the dilatory advance of those French lances long since promised to Lorenzo de' Medici; but most of all the adherence to the della Rovere banner of the Gascons, who owed at least a nominal allegiance to the French crown. Influenced by these doubts, and the apparently interminable expenses of this miserable and mismanaged contest, the Pope so far lost heart, about the end of July, as to hint at an accommodation. The Duke of Urbino's next move was to repeat at Fermo his Perugian policy of restoring an exiled faction, by expelling Ludovico Freducci, then head of the government, who after a gallant struggle suffered a complete rout, with the loss of six hundred slain. The Duke then directed his march upon Ascoli, but was recalled by learning the approach of two thousand Swiss to reinforce the papal troops. Hurrying to intercept them, he by forced marches suddenly appeared near Rimini, where he found that, simultaneously with their arrival, M. de l'Escu had at length brought up his three hundred French gens-d'-arms, with instructions from Francis to arrange, if possible, some issue to this unhappy war. Nor was the Legate disinclined to the proposal, for the Pontiff had been playing a ruinous game, which disgusted his allies, alienated his subjects, and drained his treasury. An interview was, therefore, held at the monastery of La Colonella, between the Duke, Cardinal Bibbiena, and the French captain. A guarantee of 10,000 ducats of income in any residence he should select was offered to Francesco Maria, if he would resign his state. But he declared himself ready to die rather than so to sell it and his honour, avowing, however, that if the Pope were resolved to deprive him of his sovereignty on account of the Cardinal's slaughter, he would abdicate in favour of his infant son, and carry his army to Greece, to fight for the recovery of Constantinople. When negotiations had been thus broken off, as described by Giraldi, the smooth-tongued churchman, nothing abashed by the contrast of their early familiarity with their present circumstances, invited him to partake of a splendid collation. This he courteously declined, and retired to breakfast with l'Escu, answering the Cardinal's remonstrances by a jesting but pungent remark, that "priests kill with wine-cups, soldiers with the sword." The Duke making somewhat minute inquiries as to the Swiss reinforcements, the Legate laughingly asked, "if he destined for them such a supper as he provided for the Germans and Spaniards at the Imperiale"; to which he rejoined, "And why not, if they are my foes?"[279] Nor was the taunt lost upon him. Next night he led his men through the Marecchia, and surprised the Swiss levies who were quartered in S. Giuliano, a suburb of Rimini beyond that river. Notwithstanding a gallant resistance, they were driven into the stream, with severe loss on both sides, whilst Francesco Maria, after receiving a ball in his cuirass, dexterously withdrew from his perilous position, under cover of the smoke raised by a vast funeral pile, on which he left the bodies of four hundred slain, amid a mass of combustibles. He now resumed his projects of carrying fire and sword into Tuscany, and reached the Upper Vale of the Tiber at Borgo S. Sepolcro, but, for want of artillery, was unable to do anything against the fortified places. The Duke's whole policy in this protracted and inconclusive warfare has been severely blamed by Roscoe, and there can be no doubt that, in his circumstances, rapid and aggressive tactics were most likely to succeed. Had he, by a series of uninterrupted advantages, maintained the impression made at his first onset, or had he risked all in one engagement when his enemies had been daunted by Lorenzo's severe wound, it is clear, from the Minio despatches, that Leo might have been frightened into fair terms, at a moment when treason was rife even within the Sacred College. The like result would, perhaps, have been attained with greater certainty, had he, instead of harassing his own territory and La Marca with an exhausting civil war, carried his arms at once across the Apennines, and, by threatening Siena or Florence, made it a question whether the Medici were to lose Tuscany or gain Urbino. But we shall have ample reason, in other instances, to perceive that procrastination was more natural to him than energy, and, in the present case, delays for a time appeared injurious to his enemies rather than to himself. It is, however, fair to admit that, whilst his biographers continually claim for him anxiety to bring on a decisive action, even the prejudiced Guicciardini never accuses him of having evaded one. [Footnote 279: These anecdotes are preserved by Baldi, to whom, and to Minio Centenelle and Giraldi, we owe many new details of this campaign. Vat. Urb. MSS. No. 906, 907; Ottob. 3153.] A general feeling gained ground that this weary and wasteful strife was approaching its close. The Duke's mercenaries, seeing no prospect of their pay, which was contingent on complete success, and dissatisfied with their limited opportunities for pillage, began to look out for some more profitable engagement. Their most Christian and most Catholic majesties had also combined to bring the struggle to a conclusion, by recalling their respective subjects from the army of Francesco Maria; nor did the Spaniards think it a disgrace to entertain tempting offers for their secession from a cheerless enterprise. Three of their captains accordingly went to Rome, on the 6th of August, apparently with his sanction, and offered for 60,000 ducats to place the whole state of Urbino in the hands of these two monarchs, for their award as to which competitor should be preferred. The Pontiff at first made a show of entertaining this proposition, in so far at least as regarded the duchy proper; but this was probably a pretext for gaining time until the arrival of four thousand lansquenets, whom he expected from the Emperor. Accordingly, on the 14th, in an audience with Minio, he denounced these terms as "the most brutal possible, nor could Francesco Maria send to demand of me what he does, were he the Grand Turk, and encamped at Tivoli! He wants us to give him up the places we hold, namely, Pesaro and Sinigaglia: see, by your faith, what notions he has! We really desired this agreement, that we might attend to the Turkish affairs, but these people are indeed elated and brutal." The like opinion prevailed at Rome, and the imperial ambassador deprecated the arrangement to his Holiness as disgraceful. It was therefore rejected after some delay; nor was it until the papal court had taken new alarm, on the Duke's movement into Tuscany, that the Spaniards were bought off by the auditor of the treasury, who had been sent for the purpose to their camp near Anghiari. He was met by the Duke, with his faithful partisan di Bozzolo, and the Spanish captains. After a protracted discussion, the former went forth, moved almost to tears, exclaiming, "It is impossible for me to accept these terms." In his absence it was agreed that the duchy should be given up to Lorenzo, and that the Spaniards should accompany Don Ugo de Moncada towards Naples, after receiving 50,000 ducats, under an obligation to serve in reinstating Lorenzo in Urbino, if called upon to do so. On hearing these stipulations, Francesco Maria had an altercation with the Spanish captains, which ended in his riding over to the quarters of his other adherents, who yet remained faithful, and who were with difficulty dissuaded from falling upon the renegades. An idea now entertained, of making a last stand in the highlands with that residue, was soon abandoned, for similar influences were at work on them. But, mindful of their solemn obligation not to quit the field until victory had crowned their enterprise, they resolved to retire with honour intact. The Gascons, accordingly, by the mediation of l'Escu and Guise, obtained from the Pontiff not only an exemption from their engagement, but such a capitulation for the Duke of Urbino as he might, with due regard to his dignity, accept. In order to persuade the latter to such a course as circumstances rendered necessary, the entreaties of his friends were added to the pressing instances of Don Ugo and the French generals. The French and German troops, after receiving 25,000 ducats, were to fall back upon Milan, leaving him safely at Mantua; but the Italian soldiery appear to have shared no part of this golden harvest. The conditions obtained for Francesco Maria were as follows: Plenary absolution for himself, his family, and adherents, from ecclesiastical censures; permission to him and them to retire where they pleased, and to take any service except against his Holiness; leave to remove all his private property in arms, artillery, and furniture, especially his MS. library; the enjoyment of their usufructuary rights to the dowager and reigning Duchesses; a general amnesty and exchange of prisoners, including Sigismondo Varana. This convention was accepted by his Holiness on the 16th of September, and it fell to Bembo's lot, as papal secretary, to affix his signature to what he, perhaps, persuaded himself were favourable terms for his former friend and benefactor. The conduct of the Spaniards was regarded with universal contempt and disgust. As they withdrew towards the Neapolitan territory, a formidable band four or five thousand strong, the men of Gubbio stood on their defence, but those of Fabriano, less alert, were surprised and pillaged to the value of 2000 scudi. "But if the wretches sinned at Fabriano, they did penance at Ripatrasone; for, in trying to sack it also, many of them were slain, and the survivors were taken to Gerbe, in Africa, where they nearly all died,--some from drinking too much, some from drinking too little. The former by great good luck were drowned, and the latter, marching through that country in the parching summer heats, with water scarce, and no wine, perished of thirst; so that they had better have followed the Duke to marvellous enterprises and mighty gains, rather than have left to the world a degraded name." There is something quaint in the concentrated rancour wherewith Giraldi thus dismisses these selfish adventurers; and not less so in the following rustic memorial. Grateful for their escape, comparatively scathless, from perils which nearly menaced them, the people of Maciola, a village two miles from Urbino, placed in their church a votive picture to the Madonna, which is still inscribed with these simple verses:-- "A horrible war [raged] in the state of Urbino, In fifteen hundred and seventeen, [With] many troops brave and chosen Led by the Duke Lorenzino, When Francesco Maria into his duchy Was returned, with capital troops, Spaniards, Mantuans, and other clans, Each one a paladin in arms; Urbino then, and all the district, Being in great peril and dread. Oh, Virgin Mother! ever kind to us, Often did the host approach our walls, And God alone it was who defended them: Therefore has been dedicated to thee this image by thy worshippers Of Maciola, with their grateful vows." In the war thus concluded, Francesco Maria struggled for eight months, single-handed and penniless, against the temporal and spiritual influence of the Holy See, backed by all the continental powers. Unable to carry his object by a coup-de-main, he was in the end vanquished by the superior resources of his oppressor. In a parting address to his subjects, he assumed the tone of victory, asserting that he withdrew, not under compulsion, but from consideration of their interests, which a prolonged struggle must have deeply compromised. Thus retiring with honour, he promised to return to them with glory, when he could do so without detriment to their welfare. He was escorted by l'Escu as far as Cento, whence he rejoined his family at Mantua, presenting his consort with sixty-four standards, taken during this brief and unequal campaign, wherein his talents had been developed, his character strengthened, his fame extended. We have dwelt somewhat minutely--it may be tediously--upon these events, for the contest was one of vital moment to Francesco Maria, his duchy being at once the theatre of operations and the guerdon of victory. Yet this petty war was pregnant with results of wider interest; for the enormous drain of money it occasioned so aggravated the financial difficulties of the papacy, as to bring to a crisis those abuses which finally matured the Reformation. The Minio despatches abound in proofs of the desperate state to which the treasury was reduced, and of the simoniacal expedients resorted to for ready money. One of these may be noted as compromising Bembo, who so often re-appears in these pages. He and Sadoleto had, since Leo's accession, monopolised his private brieves, which afforded them a handsome return, from gratuities and bribes, to the exclusion of the other papal secretaries. Now, however, the latter offered to their needy master a purse of 25,000 ducats, if admitted to share the spoils, which was greedily accepted, without regard to vested interests; and his Holiness was delighted to find the purchase-money of his ordinary secretaryships thereby raised at once from 6000 to 7000 ducats each. The imposition of one tenth laid on the clergy, avowedly for the proposed Turkish crusade, was absorbed by this Urbino campaign, which was thought to have cost the Holy See thirty thousand men, and a million of scudi. Even Henry VIII. was applied to for a loan of 200,000 ducats, which he characteristically evaded by offering 100,000, on condition of levying for himself the clergy tenths. But let us take the Pontiff's own statement, volunteered to Minio:--"See, by your troth, what a business this is! The war costs us 700,000 ducats; and we have been so ill served by these ministers, that worse cannot be imagined: this very month we had to disburse 120,000. When we commenced the war we had some few funds, which we had not chosen to touch, but the Lord God has aided us. We should never have thought it possible to raise 100,000 ducats, and we have obtained 700,000; see how astonishing this is! Had we deemed it possible to obtain 700,000 ducats, we would have undertaken the expedition against the Turks single-handed." * * * * * But where was the minion for whom all this crime and misery had been perpetrated? From Ancona he paid a brief visit to the Vatican, on his way to Florence, where he slowly recovered from his severe wound, only to plunge deeper in debaucheries more congenial to his degraded character than the privations of military life. He was never named during the rest of the contest, but as soon as it was over he met his uncle at Viterbo, where, and in the neighbouring country, the papal court passed most of October in field sports. His hard-won sovereignty seems to have afforded him little satisfaction or interest; but in the following year he became an instrument for the further promotion of his uncle's ambition. His marriage having been negotiated through Cardinal Bibbiena to Madelaine de la Tour, daughter of Jean Count of Boulogne and Auvergne, a relation of the French monarch, the titular Duke of Urbino proceeded to Paris in the spring of 1518, for the double ceremonial of his own nuptials, and the Dauphin's baptism, at which he stood sponsor on the 25th of April, as proxy for the Pontiff. Both these events were celebrated with much festive merriment in the gay capital of France, and the young couple were overwhelmed by splendid dowries and wedding-gifts by the Pope and the Monarch. But their bridal joy was of brief duration. The Duchess died in childbed on the 23rd of April following, and was followed to the grave five days after by her husband, who expiated with his life the dissolute vices in which he had continuously indulged. Their child survived to be a scourge of the Huguenots, in the person of Catherine de' Medici, wife of Henry II. of France, mother of Francis II., Charles IX., and Henry III.,--in the last of whom the line of Valois and the descendants of Duke Lorenzo became extinct. Hearing of Lorenzo's desperate state, the Pope despatched Cardinal Giulio de' Medici to maintain at Florence the supremacy of his house. The titular dukedom of Urbino passed, in terms of the new investiture, to the infant Catherine; but the territory was unceremoniously seized by his Holiness, notwithstanding the wish of its inhabitants for restoration of their legitimate sovereign. Montefeltro, with S. Leo and Maiuolo, was assigned to Florence, in security or compensation for 150,000 scudi said to have been advanced in the late war, and the remainder of the duchy was annexed to the Church. The walls of its capital, whose loyalty to its native princes amid all their reverses is finely commemorated in the current appellation of _Urbino fidelissimo_, were thrown down, and its metropolitan privileges transferred to Gubbio, which had shown itself less devoted to the della Rovere interests. * * * * * We may here mention the fate of Gian Paolo Baglioni, known to us, in 1502, as one of the confederates of La Magione, who, in the quaint words of an unpublished chronicle, escaped the violin-string of Michelotto at Sinigaglia "to fall into the pit which he had digged." We have more lately seen him, in 1517, buying off Francesco Maria from the city of Perugia, with a bribe shared by himself, and have at the same time alluded to the broils there raging between various members of his family. These it would be beyond our purpose to follow; but they were attended by a series of bad faith on his part, and of suffering on that of the people, which gained for him the merited title of tyrant of Perugia. Less, perhaps, with the intention of vindicating the latter, than of liberating himself from a talented and unscrupulous vassal, who, long accustomed to rule supreme in that city, ill brooked and scarcely yielded that obedience to the Holy See which Julius II. had imposed on him in 1506, Leo summoned Gian Paolo to Rome in 1520, with amicable professions. There he arrived on the 16th of March, and next day sought an audience of the Pontiff in S. Angelo, the gates of which were immediately closed upon him as a state prisoner. After he had lingered for some months in mysterious durance, unconscious of the charge brought against him, a plan was formed to liberate him, disguised as a woman who visited the castellan; but at that juncture the Pope, who, according to the gossip of a contemporary diarist, had dreamt at La Magliana of a mouse escaping from a trap, sent a summary order for his execution, which took place secretly on the 11th of June. The singular good fortune which accumulated coronets and crowns on the brows of Charles V., until he found himself sovereign by inheritance of a large portion of Europe, here demands our notice. The Emperor Maximilian had, by Mary, daughter and heiress of Charles the Bold, Duke of Burgundy, a son Philip, who predeceased him in 1506, after marrying Joanna, daughter and heiress of Ferdinand and Isabella of Aragon and Castile. Joanna being disqualified by mental imbecility, the united crowns of Spain devolved, on the death of Ferdinand in 1516, to her son Charles, who already held the Netherlands through his grandmother, Mary of Burgundy. As representative of the house of Aragon, he was also sovereign of Naples and Sicily; but the former crown required the papal investiture, which Leo was loath to bestow, partly with a vague hope of reserving it for one of his own race, partly from aversion to the establishment of a new line of foreign rulers in the Italian peninsula. On the death of Maximilian in January 1519, without having formerly received the imperial crown, his grandson, Charles, stepped into Austria, as his natural heritage, and sought still further aggrandisement by offering himself candidate for the throne of Germany. Little as the balance of power was then comprehended in European policy, this young monarch's rapid acquisitions called forth many jealousies. Francis had a double motive for standing forward as a competitor for the empire;--the dignity was flattering to his gallant character and ambitious views, and he grudged it to a younger rival, whose overgrown territory already hemmed him in on every side. Leo, at heart disliking them equally, as ultramontane sovereigns formidable to Italy, on the ruins of whose freedom were based the successes of either, sought to play them off against each other, so as to weaken and embarrass both. But in spite of these intrigues, Charles was elected emperor on the 28th of June, 1519, when but nineteen years of age. The Pope had covertly supported the claims of Francis, with whom he intended some ulterior combination for expelling the Spaniards from Lower Italy. But the accession of strength which their sovereign thus acquired gave Leo an excuse for changing sides, an evolution grateful to his faithless nature. The struggle was once more to be made in Lombardy, and, as Charles was bent upon wresting the Milanese from his rival, the opportunity seemed tempting of recovering Parma and Piacenza for the Church by his means. To men in the Duke of Urbino's desperate position, any convulsion would be welcome, as offering the chance of better things. The impression left by his biographers, that he maintained a cautious neutrality in the contest thus opening, is disproved by some documents in the Bibliothèque du Roi, which establish him as a retained adherent of the French monarch.[280] One of them is an undated draft of articles proposed by him, his nephew Sigismondo Varana, Camillo Orsini, the Baglioni, and the Petrucci, as conditions of their entering the service of Francis, with the usual pay and allowances. They stipulated for his constant protection and support in the recovery of their respective states, and for the restoration of various allodial fiefs claimed by them in Naples, as soon as Francis should, with their aid, regain that kingdom. Francesco Maria, finding it necessary to quit the territory of his brother-in-law Federigo, now Duke of Mantua, who had been named captain-general of the ecclesiastical forces, and to surrender the allowance of 3000 scudi, hitherto made by him for the Duchess's maintenance, asked a pension of equal amount from his new ally, together with 1500 scudi in hand, to meet the expense of removing his family to a place of security, probably Goito. He accompanied these overtures with a plan for very extended operations upon Central Italy, whereby, with the assistance of Venice and Genoa, armaments by sea and land were to be directed in overwhelming force, at once against Tuscany and the Papal States. The result of this negotiation does not appear, but the only one of its provisions which seems to have taken effect was the Duke's pension, for which he writes thanks to the French Monarch from the camp of Lautrec on the Taro, the 27th of September, 1521. Giraldi mentions that he suddenly quitted the French service in consequence of a slight from Lautrec at a council of war, and he appears then to have retired to Lonno on the Lago di Guarda. From that lovely spot he watched the course of events, until the wheel of fortune should bring round his turn. The ladies of his family meanwhile lived in great seclusion at Mantua, and on the 19th of July, 1521, the dowager Duchess writes him, that she and his consort frequented the convents, soliciting from the nuns their prayers that God would direct his counsels, and vouchsafe the fulfilment of his wishes.[281] As the strife approached, these distinguished ladies withdrew to Verona. Upon its progress we need not dwell. By his oppressive sway Lautrec had rendered the French name odious at Milan, and when the confederate army approached its walls, bringing with them Francesco Sforza, second son of Ludovico il Moro, and brother of Maximiliano their last native sovereign, the people hailed them as liberators, and expelled their foreign masters. [Footnote 280: MOLINI, _Documenti di Storia Italiana_, I., pp. 122, 135.] [Footnote 281: Oliveriana MSS. No. 375; I., pp. 51, 75.] CHAPTER XXXVII Death of Leo X.--Restoration of Francesco Maria--He enters the Venetian service--Louis XII. invades the Milanese--Death of Bayard--The Duke's honourable reception at Venice--Battle of Pavia. News of the evacuation of Milan by the French reached Leo X. at his hunting-seat of La Magliana, five miles down the Tiber from Rome. Though not quite well, he hurried to his capital on the 24th of November, to witness the bonfires and rejoicings at their discomfiture, and on the morning of the 1st of December was found dead in bed.[*282] The mystery attending this sudden death of one in the prime of life has never been cleared up. Suspicions of poison were rife at the time, and have not been removed; they point at the Duke of Urbino or of Ferrara, whom he had grievously outraged, or at Francis I., whom he recently disgusted, as its probable but undetected author. In absence of tangible accusation or tittle of evidence, it seems needless to repel such a charge from Francesco Maria, especially as other accounts impute the Pontiff's dissolution to malaria fever, to a severe catarrh,[283] to debauchery, or even to excessive exultation at the joyful news. So unexpected was the event that there was not time to administer the last sacrament, a circumstance which gave occasion to this bitter epigram, in allusion to the notorious venality of church privileges during his reign:-- "Why were not Leo's latest hours consoled By holy rites? such rites he long had sold."[284] [Footnote *282: He seems to have received the news at La Magliana on November 25th. He returned to Rome at once. The illness was not considered serious till November 30th. He died on the evening of December 1st. Cf. PARIS DE GRASSIS, in ROSCOE, _Leo X._, App. CCXII.-IV., and clerk's letters of December 1st and 2nd, in BREWER, _Calendar_ (1824-5).] [Footnote 283: Such is the opinion of a monkish chronicler who wrote in 1522. Vat. Urb. MSS. No. 1023, f. 297. Even in 1517 the Venetian envoy Giorgi reported him as afflicted by an internal plethoric disease, a catarrh, and fistula. Vettori discredits the rumours of poison, and Guicciardini says they were hushed up by his cousin the Cardinal, lest they should give umbrage to the French monarch, with whom it was his interest to stand well at the approaching conclave. On the whole, the opinion of most weight is that of the Master of ceremonies, who distinctly asserts that poison was detected on a _post-mortem_ examination. Roscoe's innuendo inculpating Francesco Maria is a glaring proof of his aptitude to do scanty justice to that Duke, whose admitted hastiness of temper cannot, in absence of one contemporary or serious imputation, be considered any relevant ground for suspecting him of slow and stealthy vengeance. Another Venetian ambassador mentions, in proof of the utter exhaustion of the papal treasury, from the profusion of Leo and the greed of his Florentine retainers, that the wax lights used at his funeral had previously served for the obsequies of a cardinal.] [Footnote 284: "Sacra sub extrema si forte requiritis hora Cur Leo non potuit sumere? vendiderat." _Bibl. Magliabech. MSS._, cl. vii., No. 345.] Tidings so momentous to Francesco Maria reached him when on a visit to the Benedictine monastery at Magusano, on the Lago di Garda. He had audience on the same day with Lautrec and Gritti, the French and Venetian commanders, who bade him God-speed. Hurrying to his consort at Verona, he there spent two days in consulting with such friends as were at hand, and despatching courtiers to others, his resolution being taken to strike a speedy blow for recovery of his state. The impoverished finances of the papacy encouraged the attempt, and he was quickly in communication with Malatesta and Orazio Baglioni, who had been in like manner despoiled of Perugia. But before assuming offensive operations, he commissioned a special envoy to lay before the conclave a statement of his grievances, and a justification of the measures he was about to pursue.[285] In two days more he reached Ferrara, with the Baglioni, at the head of three thousand foot and above five hundred horse. On the 16th he was at Lugo, where, and all along his route by Cesena, numerous reinforcements poured in. "His subjects," to borrow the words of Muratori, "desired and expected him with clasped hands, because they loved him beyond measure for his gracious government." Anticipating a renewal of his "Saturnian reign," they, on his approach, flew to arms, threw the lieutenant of Urbino out of the palace window, and welcomed him with the well-known cry of "Feltro! Feltro! the Duke! the Duke!" [Footnote 285: Vat. Urb. MSS. No. 921.] Pesaro received him on the 22nd, after a slight hesitation as to their relations with the Church; but the citadel was held by eighty men, there being no artillery at hand to bring against it. In absence of cannon-balls, it was carried by paper pellets thrown in from cross-bows, on which were written offers of a thousand scudi to the castellan, and twenty-five to each soldier. The terms were accepted, and the money advanced by Alfonso of Ferrara. On the day of the Duke's arrival there, a deputation from Urbino laid its homage at his feet, and, being thus secure of his own subjects, he turned to succour his friends. Taught by the lesson of three successive pontificates, whose policy it had been to crush the feudatories of Umbria, he saw the necessity of making common cause with such of these as still maintained a precarious independence. He therefore undertook the re-establishment of his nephew, Sigismondo Varana, and of the Baglioni, ere he devoted himself to the consolidation of his own authority. After two days' repose in Pesaro, he marched by La Pergola to Fabriano, where, hearing that Sigismondo had been cordially received at Camerino, he, on the 28th, turned towards Perugia, and, by the 5th of January, had reinstated the Baglioni, notwithstanding a spiritless resistance by their uncle Gentile, and by the vacillating Vitelli. Contrary to his own judgment,--but, as we shall presently see, by a happy chance,--he was induced to accompany his Perugian allies with seven thousand men in a foray upon Tuscany, for the double purpose of annoying the Medici, by whom Gentile was supported, and of re-establishing Pandolfo Petrucci as tyrant of Siena.[*286] When, however, he found no responding movement from within, and that the army of Giovanni delle Bande Nere was hovering in the neighbourhood, he withdrew to Bonconvento, and endeavoured to gain credit for his forbearance by despatching to the magistracy of that city the following oily missive:-- "Most illustrious and most excellent Lords, much honoured Fathers: "The true, ancient, and cordial friendship which has ever existed between your lofty republic and my most illustrious house, and the recollection I retain how invariably my distinguished predecessors have been united in special good-will with your city of Siena, induce me, being of the same sentiments, to follow in the steps of my said most eminent ancestors, resolving that there shall never be any failure on my part towards your noble commonwealth. And in order that your Excellencies may at present have some proof of this, I have, for the peace and order of your town, adopted the resolution which your envoys will comprehend from the tenor hereof, and which I feel assured cannot be otherwise than welcome and acceptable to you. I therefore pray you not only readily to give the like credence to what these envoys will tell you on my part, as you would to myself, but also to bear in mind the close and affectionate amity wherein I am most ready to persevere, nor on your side restrain or fall short of our wonted and long-established kindliness, increasing, and, if possible, extending it by an ampler interchange of charity; for you will assuredly ever find me prepared and ready to benefit and uphold your republic as much as your Excellencies could ever desire, to whom I offer and commend myself. From Bonconvento, the 15th of January, 1522. "FRANCISCUS MARIA DUX URBINI."[287] [Footnote *286: Fabio, not Pandolfo Petrucci. The latter died at S. Quirico, in Osenna, in May, 1512. Borghese Petrucci, his son, soon became the "best hated man in Siena." Four years after his father's death both he and Fabio were declared rebels. Leo X. put Raffaello Petrucci in Borghese's place. Raffaello died in 1522, and then some of the _Nove_ brought back Fabio, who had married Caterina de' Medici, niece of the Pope. But after a rule of less than two years he was again an exile. "Thus," says Ferrari, "the Petrucci returned to their primitive obscurity." Cf. LANGTON DOUGLAS, _A History of Siena_ (Murray, 1902), p. 212.] [Footnote 287: From the Italian original in the Archivio Diplomatico at Siena.] In truth, the Duke's own affairs required his full attention, for the power of the Medici, though shaken, was still formidable, and its natural representative, the Cardinal Giulio, was influential in the Sacred College, and almost sovereign at Florence. Francesco Maria therefore observed a prudent neutrality, when the Bande Nere advanced to support the claims of Gentile Baglioni upon Perugia. These, being warned off the ecclesiastical territory by the consistory, turned up the valley of the Tiber, and, passing the Apennines, made a descent upon Montefeltro, where they plundered until the end of February,--an outrage for which the Cardinal was greatly blamed, as a convention had already been signed between him and the Duke for their respective states of Florence and Urbino. Much light is thrown upon these very complicated transactions by a careful examination of Castiglione's letters. To his dexterous diplomacy that convention seems to have been chiefly owing. He endeavoured to clench the reconciliation by an engagement for Francesco Maria in the Florentine service, and a marriage between Prince Guidobaldo of Urbino and Caterina de' Medici, daughter of Lorenzo, and heiress of his pretensions. The failure of this plan, from backwardness on the part of the Cardinal rather than of the Duke, was, perhaps, fortunate for the intended bridegroom's domestic peace; and the contending claims which it was meant to solve never ripened into importance. The condotta had a better issue: avowedly for but one year, it seems to have been intended rather to neutralise a troublesome foe than with the idea of calling the Duke's service into actual requisition. Indeed, although he was nominally captain-general, with 9000 ducats of pay, besides 100 broad scudi for each of his two hundred men-at-arms in white uniform (three mounted soldiers counting as one man-at-arms), this was expressly their peace establishment and pay, to be increased in case of war.[288] Castiglione's success in these arrangements was facilitated by his having confided to Cardinal Giulio a refusal at this time, by Francesco Maria, of very flattering proposals from the French court, and the same good offices extended to disabusing the Duke in the eyes of Emanuel, the imperial ambassador, who, believing him committed to Francis, was countermining his interests in the consistory, and with the Cardinal. [Footnote 288: Archivio Diplomatico of Florence, May 25, 1522.] Whilst immersed in these transactions, the election in which he was so deeply interested came suddenly to a conclusion, brought about indirectly by his means. The choice of the conclave astonished Italy, for it fell upon an ultramontane cardinal, unknowing and unknown in Rome. Adrian Florent,[*289] a Fleming of humble birth, was a man of mild temper, peaceful habits, and literary tastes. He had been preceptor of Charles V., and held the see of Tortosa. This selection so curiously illustrates the haphazard results, which have not unfrequently baffled both policy and intrigue in papal elections, that we may pause for a moment on the circumstances alleged by Guicciardini to have brought it about. The Medicean party had not strength, at once, to carry their Cardinal, in the face of the old members of the College, who were adverse from introducing the hereditary principle into their selection, yet hoped in time to exhaust the patience or the strength of their seniors. But whilst Medici and Petrucci were thus ingeniously devising delays, news reached them of the Duke of Urbino's descent upon Tuscany, causing them respectively to tremble for their supremacy in Florence and Siena, and to question the policy of procrastinating at the Quirinal, whilst interests so momentous were elsewhere in peril. In this state of matters the Cardinal of Tortosa "was proposed, without any intention of choosing him, but that the morning might be wasted; whereupon his eminence of San Sisto, in an endless oration, enlarged upon his virtues and learning, until some of the members beginning to accede, the others successively followed with more impetuosity than deliberation, whereby he was unanimously then chosen Pope. The very electors could allege no reason why, at a crisis of such convulsions and perils for the papacy, they had selected a barbarian pontiff, so long absent, and recommended neither by previous deserts, nor by intimacy with any of the conclave, to whom he was scarcely known by name, having never visited Italy, nor had he any wish or hope to do so."[290] The Roman populace resented a choice which they felt as an insult, and as the cardinals emerged from durance, they were assailed by execrations of the mob.[*291] [Footnote *289: Adrian Floriszoon, the son of a ship's carpenter named Floris. His education was chiefly theological; humanism had not penetrated Louvain.] [Footnote 290: Guicciardini, lib. xiv.] [Footnote *291: This account of Adrian VI.'s conclave is inaccurate and confused. Cf. CREIGHTON, _op. cit._, vol. VI., pp. 216-222. The Duke of Urbino seems to have had no influence in the conclave.] Francesco Maria had every reason to be gratified by an election he had most unwittingly influenced, for the exclusion of Cardinal Giulio was of vast importance to his interests, which must have been seriously compromised by the nomination of a hostile pontiff, at a moment when his affairs were in so precarious a juncture. He accordingly lost no time in accrediting to Adrian VI. in Spain, an envoy who pleaded his cause to such good purpose, that a bull was issued on the 18th of May, reinstating him in all his honours, including the prefecture of Rome, which, on the death of Lorenzo, had been conferred upon Giovanni Maria Varana, uncle of Sigismondo, whose state he had usurped under the sanction of Leo. Meanwhile his respectful and judicious demeanour had obtained from the Sacred College, before the Pope's arrival, an acknowledgment of his rights, upon the following conditions, dated at Rome, the 18th of February. "The Lord Duke of Urbino promises to accept neither pay, engagement, nor rank from any prince or power, and to take service only with the Apostolic See, should he be required; but if not called upon by it, to attach himself to no party without leave and sanction from the Pope, and the Holy See, as represented _ad interim_ by the Sacred College. Also, he renews his obligation in future never to oppose the papal state; and further, for due observance of these terms, and more ample assurance of his Holiness and the Apostolic See, he binds himself within one month to deposit his only son as a hostage, in the hands of the Marquis of Mantua, captain-general of the ecclesiastical troops. On the other hand, the Sacred College undertakes to defend and protect the Lord Duke's person, as well as to maintain him in peaceful possession of the castles, fortresses, cities, and towns, held by him now or before his deprivation; and further, to use influence with our Lord the Pope for his reinvestment in the same, on the terms of his former tenure."[292] [Footnote 292: These articles are to be found in the Archivio Diplomatico at Florence.] Nor was it only from the Medicean faction that the Duke's tranquillity was threatened. Whilst his fortunes were yet in suspense, he was warned by Castiglione, then diplomatic resident at Rome for his brother-in-law the Duke of Mantua, that Ascanio Colonna was agitating certain vague pretensions on the duchy of Urbino, through his mother Agnesina di Montefeltro. The nature of these claims, which were from time to time revived, is not very intelligible. All authorities make Giovanna, wife of the Prefect, older than Agnesina, wife of Fabrizio Colonna, both being daughters of Duke Federigo. Thus, even supposing Francesco Maria's title irretrievably annulled, by the deprivations he had successively sustained from Julius II. and Leo X., if the old investitures did confer any rights upon females, his nephew Sigismondo Varana, grandson of Giovanna, would have excluded the Colonna. Ascanio's intrigues were, however, neutralised by the dexterity of Castiglione, and the influence of the Duke of Mantua, until Francesco Maria's cordial reconciliation with the Church and the Emperor had rendered his position secure.[293] Even the Medici thereupon refused to promote the pretender's views, and his only adherent was Gian Maria Varana, who, having within a few weeks succeeded in recovering possession of Camerino, sought so to occupy the Duke of Urbino as to prevent his espousing the cause of Sigismondo, its rightful lord. The latter also looked for support to his wife's uncle, Cardinal Prospero Colonna, whilst the interests of his competitor were backed by Cardinal Innocenzo Cibò, his brother-in-law. But ere these respective claims could be tested, they were sadly set at rest by the death of "poor dear but ill-starred Sigismondo," as he is called by Castiglione, who was set upon and slain on the 24th of June by a band of assassins, whilst riding with five attendants near La Storta. This foul deed, in accordance with the wild habits of that age, and the fratricidal tendencies of the Varana family, was imputed to Ascanio Colonna at the instigation of Giovanni Maria, uncle of the victim. [Footnote 293: However these pretensions may have originated, they derived a _quasi_ warrant in 1525, from a conditional investiture of the duchy for three generations, granted by Clement VII. to Ascanio "in case it should happen to lapse to the Holy See," Agnesina being there mentioned as eldest sister. Charles V. was vainly solicited by Ascanio to render this condition eventual, or by some other means to make good his possession, and the claim did not drop until 1530. Nor was it the only one vamped up on account of Duke Guidobaldo's unfruitful marriage. In 1505 the Prince of Salerno seems to have made similar pretensions through his mother, a sister still younger than Agnesina; and in order to dispose of these, Julius II. is said to have offered him his own daughter Felice, a union which however did not take place.] When reassured of pacific and equitable measures, Francesco Maria dissolved a defensive league for mutual maintenance, which he had formed on the 4th of March with the Baglioni, Sigismondo, and the Orsini, to which the Cardinal de' Medici was a party. The strongholds of S. Leo and Maiuolo, however, remained till 1527 in the hands of the Florentines, mortgaged for their advances to Leo in the late war. During these complex negotiations, an offer from Lautrec of service under the lilies of France was declined by the Duke, on a plea of reserving himself for the disposal of his ecclesiastical overlord. Nor was the opportunity he looked for long delayed. Pandolfo Malatesta, on ceding to Venice his pretensions upon Rimini, after being expelled therefrom by Duke Valentino, had accepted from that republic the castle of Cittadella near Padua, with large pay in their service. His son Sigismondo availed himself of the Pope's absence, and the unsettled ecclesiastical policy, to surprise Rimini and its fortress towards the end of May. The consistory hastily mustered all their means to meet the emergency, and called upon the Duke of Urbino as their vassal to take the field. His answer was that without money he could do nothing. About the beginning of August the _rocca_ was retaken by Giovanni Gonzaga for the Church; but the place was not finally recovered till Adrian sent thither some Spanish troops, when the people at length rose, and drove out the interloper, whose cruelties had alienated all his supporters. In this paltry fray the Duke appears to have lent some trifling aid, which the Pontiff gratefully acknowledged in writing to Leonora on the 24th of December. When it was over, he turned to the internal affairs of his duchy, disorganised by the long and severe struggle of which it had been the scene. In the spring of 1523 he brought home the ladies of his family "Into their wished haven"; but of their once lively court we have little to record. Much had occurred to chasten the naturally staid temperament of Duchess Leonora. Retrenchment was imperatively imposed by accumulated debts and dilapidated finances: the brilliant assemblage which had frequented the saloons of Urbino seventeen years before was thinned by death, scattered by dire events, alienated by ingratitude, or seduced by newer attractions. It was at this time that Pesaro seems to have become the permanent residence of the ducal establishment, although the original capital was frequently visited by its successive princes. Sanuto's Diaries afford us glimpses of life at that court, in detailing the journey to Rome of four Venetian envoys in March of this year. They arrived on Good Friday, half dead of fatigue, fear, and hunger, having ridden one hundred and twelve miles in two days, through wretched weather and a plague-stricken country. The two Duchesses of Urbino immediately sent them a pressing invitation to transfer their quarters from the inn to better lodgings. This was about sunset, and twilight had scarcely set in when both these ladies arrived in a fine gilt coach, lined with white cloth and trimmings of black velvet, drawn by four beautiful black and grey horses. They were suffering from fever, the younger Duchess having risen from bed expressly to visit the envoys, and apologise for a reception which, but for so unlooked-for an arrival, would have been more conformable to their wishes. Yet the apartment was tapestried from roof to floor, the beds with gold brocade coverlets, and the curtains very handsome. Next morning, after breakfast, the guests went to the palace to wait upon the Duchesses, who met them in the fourth ante-room, whence, after sundry ceremonies, they handed the ladies and their attendants into the presence-chamber, newly done up with arrases, gilding, and a daïs of silk. After conversing in an under-tone for three-quarters of an hour, they retired with the like formalities. On Easter Sunday, after vespers, they had an audience of leave, when the younger Duchess, being very seriously indisposed, received them familiarly in a bed-chamber so small that they could not all enter it, renewing many excuses for their indifferent entertainment, in consequence of the religious observances, and the recent arrival of the household at Pesaro. On their return from congratulating the new Pontiff, the envoys passed by Gubbio, where the Duchesses again surprised them by a visit ere breakfast was over, attended by several lovely maidens. The engagement which Francesco Maria had accepted, to command the Florentine armies for a year, did not call him from this retirement; it was important only as indicating an apparent reconciliation with the Cardinal de' Medici, to which the latter was induced by apprehension that he might have otherwise proved a formidable opponent to his interest in a future conclave. After a somewhat serious illness, the Duke repaired to Rome, to offer his homage on the arrival of Adrian in Italy, and was honourably received and formally invested with his restored dignities. He rode there escorted by two hundred lances, and was lodged by the Venetian ambassador in the palace of S. Marco. His late eventful history rendered him an object of general interest, and he was universally admitted to have borne his reverses with firmness, his successes with moderation. To commemorate these, he adopted this device, invented for him by Giovio,--a palm-tree, whose crest was weighed downwards by a block of marble, with the motto, "Though depressed, it recoils." This emblem of valour and constancy, which adversity could bend but could not break, he bore upon his banner and trumpets, and frequently introduced it in his coinage. The repose of Italy was, as usual, of brief duration. Wearied of those contests in which the ambition of France had for thirty years involved the Peninsula, the leading powers began to regard Francesco Sforza's maintenance in the duchy of Milan as their best guarantee of peace. This policy was warmly adopted by the Emperor, interested alike in the welfare of the Neapolitan territory, and in humbling his rival Francis I. The result was a new confederation, to which the Pope, the Emperor, Henry VIII., Venice, Milan, and Florence were parties, but which brought on a general war, the very evil it was intended to avert. Francesco Maria's condotta with the Florentines being expired, he was named to succeed Teodoro Trivulzio, whose supposed French tendencies occasioned his removal from command of the Venetian troops. Those of the Church were committed to the Marquis of Mantua, and Prospero Colonna was general-in-chief of the League Lautrec and l'Escu[294] having been recalled, the Admiral Gouffier de Bonnivet was sent into Lombardy to make good the title of his master to the Milanese, whose daring spirit looked not beyond the glory of encountering single-handed the armies of Europe. This struggle, eventually so ruinous to Italy, so fatal to Rome, had scarcely commenced ere Adrian was called from events which he was in no respect fitted to direct. He died on the 24th of September, 1523,[*295] and was succeeded on the 19th of November by the Cardinal de' Medici, as Clement VII., whose first act was an adherence to the League. [Footnote 294: Odet de Foix, Seigneur de Lautrec, and the Seigneur de l'Escu were both brothers of the chivalrous Gaston de Foix.] [Footnote *295: He died on the 14th September. For details, cf. Duke of Sessa's letters in _Bergenroth_, pp. 597, 599.] Prospero Colonna did not long survive the Pontiff. From him, perhaps, Francesco Maria adopted the over-cautious policy which marked his military manoeuvres during the remainder of his life, and which contrasts strongly with the dashing valour of his early career. For this he has been severely blamed by Sismondi, and we shall see it attended with very miserable results. Fortunately for the Duke's fame, his reputation in arms had been firmly established before the later and more important years of his military prowess arrived. Ere the allies had completed their preparations, the French poured into Lombardy, carried Lodi, and laid siege to Cremona. The Venetian troops occupied the banks of the Oglio, where they were joined by the Duke of Urbino, as soon as he had received credentials and instructions from the senate; his own stipulated contingent, under his lieutenant-general Landriano, having already effected a junction. Machiavelli, ever prone to cast reflections on mercenary troops, has remarked that the Republic lost her superiority from the time that she extensively employed them. This, however, is but a partial view of the case. By their means, backed by their maritime supremacy, and by her matchless diplomatic system, she gradually extended her mainland territory, in spite of the unmilitary genius of her people, until jealousy combined nearly all Europe against her in the League of Cambray. But there was another fault inherent in the organisation of her armies. Dark suspicion was the permeating principle of her policy. Each branch of the executive jealously watched the others. Magistrates distrusted their colleagues; fathers set spies upon their sons, husbands upon their wives; governors and governed doubted their paid troops, or countermined their selected generals. The senate accordingly sent with their stipendiary forces commissioners instructed to watch, and empowered to control, the leaders--a check necessarily inducing dissension, for, as Macaulay has happily remarked, what army commanded by a debating club ever escaped discomfiture and disgrace? Under the title of _proveditori_, these official spies performed some of the duties belonging to commissaries-general; and although this plan for controlling soldiers of fortune, who owed little fidelity to the cause, and whose ruling principle was usually self-interest, might seem the result of wise precaution, it practically occasioned perpetual embarrassments, and fomented personal quarrels, paralysing operations in the field. Such an _imperium in imperio_ had in this instance its usual results. Distracted councils and divided responsibility hampered free action, and rendered abortive the best-laid plans.[*296] Throughout the long war now opening, the system was pregnant with peculiar mischief, and it ought to bear much of the blame of that dilatory inefficiency which is charged against Francesco Maria. Thus the Proveditore Emo, at the very outset of this campaign, prevented him from crossing the Oglio to harass the retreat of Renzo da Ceri, who, after loitering away two months before Cremona, was recalled to the siege of Milan. The Duke, however, soon after advanced to the Adda, and during the rigour of winter occupied his troops in fortifying themselves at Martinengo, from whence they were enabled to annoy the enemy by continual forays towards Lodi.[297] [Footnote *296: As usual, Machiavelli is right. If the _proveditori_ had so bad an influence (and it was doubtless bad) the results should have been earlier seen, for it was an old custom with that Republic. Francesco Maria, whom Dennistoun rates so highly as a soldier, as we have seen, was not more harassed by these spies than his forerunners, Carmagnuola Colleoni and Sigismondo Malatesta. The custom rose out of the decision to employ no citizen as a captain-general. Nor was Venice alone in this practice; Siena and Florence followed it too on occasions.] [Footnote 297: Sismondi's strictures curtly express the judgment pronounced upon Francesco Maria by those who follow, without examination, the prejudiced narrative of Guicciardini. Yet, as they are founded upon admitted defects in his generalship, it may be well to lay them before the reader. "He was not deficient in military talent, nor probably in personal courage, but, taking Prospero Colonna as his prototype, he exaggerated his method. His only tactics consisted in the selection and occupation of impregnable positions; whatever his numerical superiority, he evaded fighting; no circumstance, however urgent, could bring him to a general action; and by his obstinacy in refusing to risk anything, he made certain of losing all." But in estimating the commander we should not put out of view the discouraging nature of the cause, which this author elsewhere happily describes as a war without an object. *This applies better to the petty wars of Central Italy at this time and in the fifteenth century. Waged by paid captains, they may be said to have been without an object, or rather with but one object--war itself. One and all they ended in nothing, though here and there, as with the Sforza, the condottiere managed to establish himself. There was not, save in Florence, Milan, and Venice, a sufficiently strong economic reason to cause a real war. Such as they were, these wars were due to the greed of petty princes, in which the professional armies enjoyed themselves (few being killed) in sacking towns and cities whose inhabitants, altogether at their mercy, were the only victims. To drag out the war and to avoid serious fighting as much as possible were naturally the first objects of the average condottiere.] The command vacated by the death of Prospero Colonna was conferred upon Don Carlos de Lanoy, Viceroy of Naples, who arrived at head-quarters in the spring, and, upon drawing together the confederates from their winter quarters, found himself at the head of about twenty thousand foot, and four thousand lances and light cavalry. Among their leaders were the Constable de Bourbon, the Prince of Orange, and Don Ugo de Moncada, with all of whom we shall often meet during the next few years. In the confederate army there were too many conflicting interests, too many rival leaders; but it was the peculiar misfortune of the Duke of Urbino to serve a power whose jealousy exceeded all rational bounds. It was not without considerable persuasion that he obtained of the Signory sanction to cross the Adda, and unite their troops, amounting to twelve hundred horse and six thousand foot, with the forces of the League. The first combined operation was directed against Gherlasco, which Francesco Maria, though in command of the rear-guard, was permitted to carry by assault with his own division, being greatly aided by using explosive shells. From thence they advanced to Vercelli, taking Trumello, Sartirana, and other places by the way. This movement was intended at once to cut off supplies from the French army posted at Novara, and to intercept a strong body of Swiss, for whom they were anxiously waiting. The allies having reached Vercelli, it became a race which army should first gain the bridge of Romagnano, to the west whereof lay the Swiss subsidy. The French had almost passed, when Lanoy fell upon their rear, which suffered immensely in men, baggage, and artillery; and their commander, Bonnivet, was wounded. The credit of all these arrangements is claimed by Leone for the Duke of Urbino, whose annoyance may be imagined when he found himself arrested from reaping the full benefit of their success, by interference of Pietro da Pesaro, the Proveditore. That officer, standing upon the engagement of the Venetian contingent to serve only within the confines of the Milanese, objected to their passing the Sesia, which here formed its limit, and thus nullified the resolution of the confederates to follow up their partial victory by such a well-timed attack as might drive the enemy across the Alps. The indignant army appealed to Francesco Maria to break through this official obstruction, but the commissioner was right to the letter, and the stern Signory sanctioned no latitude of construction on the part of its servants. The Duke, however, gained his consent by private remonstrances, at once temperate and energetic, but especially by threatening to throw up his commission from the senate, and as a free captain to pass with his own company into the allies' service, leaving the Proveditore, with a disorganised contingent, to bear the whole responsibility of losing so admirable an opportunity of cutting short a struggle, which it was in every view the interest of his republic to close.[298] [Footnote 298: The details given by Paruta appear to bear out this statement of the Duke's policy, but establish that, in the eyes of his employers, his prudence and caution availed more than dashing gallantry, an admission important in estimating his conduct throughout the campaign of Lombardy, and throwing light upon the hesitation which marked his subsequent career. Indeed, according to this author, the orders of the Signory were to avoid fighting as much as possible.] The conduct of the French troops devolved, in consequence of the Admiral's wound, upon Piere de Terrail, Chevalier de Bayard, who was not long spared in a command which the blunders of his predecessor had rendered hopeless. On the 30th of April, whilst drawing off the rear-guard under the enemy's fire, a shot fractured his spine. Refusing to be carried from the spot, he had himself supported against a tree, with his face to the foe, and continued to give his orders with composure: at length, feeling the hand of death upon him, he confessed himself to his faithful squire, kissing the hand-guard of his sword as a substitute for the cross. The imperialists remaining masters of the field, he was approached by the Constable Bourbon, to whose words of sympathy and regret he sternly replied, "Grieve not for me, but for yourself, fighting against your king and country." His fall was reported to Charles V. by the imperial envoy, Adrian de Croy, in these touching terms:--"Sire, although the said M. Bayard was in the service of your enemy, his death is certainly a pity; for he was a gentle knight beloved of all, whose life had been as well spent as ever was that of any of his condition, as, indeed, he fully testified at its close, which was the most beautiful I ever heard tell of." Thus fell, in his forty-ninth year, the flower of French chivalry, "the fearless and irreproachable knight." His army evacuated Italy before the end of May, and the Duke of Urbino being entrusted with the recovery of Lodi, found it defended by his relation and attached comrade-in-arms, Count Francesco del Bozzolo, who, perceiving his position hopeless, soon capitulated upon honourable terms. After the ample details we had given of the comparatively unimportant Urbino war, our rapid glance at the events in Upper Italy, from 1521 to 1526, may seem superficial. But as these Lombard campaigns, although momentous to Europe, told very slightly upon the general policy of the Peninsula, and as Francesco Maria bore no prominent part in their varying results, we must be content to pass over them thus cursorily, rather than to carry the reader too far from the more especial object of these volumes. We may, however, pause for a moment upon the reception accorded to the Duke at Venice, when summoned thither to receive public thanks for his services, graphic details of which are supplied by the unedited Diaries of Sanuto. After he had, in compliance with orders from the Signory, disbanded their infantry, and disposed of their cavalry in the mainland garrisons, he proceeded to the maritime capital. At Padua, the rectors had been premonished to pay him every attention; at the mouth of the Brenta, and on the outskirts of the city, he was met by two deputations, each consisting of thirty young men of distinction, and was addressed in a Latin oration, "which he did not understand." He was then escorted to the Rialto; and, after being welcomed by the Doge, and all the foreign ambassadors, except the French, he was led on board the Bucentaur, an honour paid only to highest rank or rarest merit; and thus, amid a flotilla of state galleys and gondolas, crowded with a lively population in gala attire, their princely guest was conducted along the grand canal, its palaces glittering with brocades and arrases, its windows radiant with sparkling eyes and rich carnations, such as Titian and Pordenone loved to commemorate in glowing tints. The Duke wore a suit of black velvet, with frock and cap of scarlet, and was housed in an apartment prepared at the Casa di San Marco, near San Giorgio Maggiore, with fifty ducats a day for his expenses. This festive welcome took place on the 25th of June. Next day being Sunday, the Duke presented himself at the Collegio, dressed in black damask over a white doublet, with a rose-coloured cap; a small person, of indifferent presence [_poca presentia_]. He was received outside of the audience-hall by the Doge and Signory; when admitted, he spoke in a few words, and with low voice, of his constant readiness to serve their state with life and limb. To which the Doge replied, that he had acquitted himself well, but it was their trust that he would do still better in future, and that, being fully assured of his fidelity, they had selected him for captain-general. The privileges of citizenship had been given him many years before, in compliment to his uncle Guidobaldo, but the general's baton was to be conferred upon him on the 2nd of July. In deference, however, to the predictions of an astrologer, he requested that his investiture might take place on the 29th of June, being St. Peter's day. Accordingly, the magnates and diplomatic functionaries of the most luxurious city in Christendom being assembled within its picturesque and time-honoured cathedral, Francesco Maria, was led in, magnificently arrayed in gold lama and damask, amid the din of trumpets and bagpipes. After celebration of high mass, during which he was seated on the Doge's left, the insignia, consisting of a silver baton, and crimson standard with the lion in gold, were blessed at the high altar, and consigned to his hands by the Doge, as badges of authority, which he then swore to employ for the glory of God, and for maintenance and defence of the Republic. This solemnity was hailed by the spectators' shouts, the clang of bells, the crash of martial music, the roar of artillery, and, as the Duke was conducted to his gondola by a long procession of military and civil dignitaries, the gorgeous piazza and gay canals displayed a splendour unwonted even in Venice. Unfavourable rumours of the Duchess's health rendered him impatient to be done with these honours, and were probably the true reason for his desiring that the installation might be accelerated. But the fashionable club or company della Calza so urged his remaining for their festival, which had been fixed for the 3rd in compliment to him, that he could not well refuse a short delay in order to be present.[299] The sports were enacted on that usual scene of Venetian magnificence, the grand canal, decked out in many-tinted draperies, and thronged by gay parties. The club, with the Duke of Urbino and other honoured guests, were conveyed in two large flat barges, lashed together and beautifully curtained, wherein assembled the most distinguished youths of both sexes, who revelled in music and dancing as they glided along the glassy surface. At length they stopped at the massive, but now crumbling, Foscari palace, to witness a race of four-oared gondolas, and concluded the entertainment with a supper on the Rialto. Next day their sports were renewed, with addition of a déjeuner, where fancy confections were presented to the principal guests--a triumphal chariot to Francesco Maria, an eagle to the imperial ambassador, and so forth. [Footnote 299: See vol. I., p. 68, for a notice of this association, so often mentioned in Venetian history.] On the 5th of July, after ten days spent in these monotonous gaieties, the Duke returned to Pesaro in his twelve-oared barge; but his repose there was brief, for the second act soon opened of that bloody drama wherein the ambition of Charles and Francis involved Italy. An incursion of imperialists into Provence under the renegade Bourbon had shifted the scene to France; but the French monarch, by a sudden movement across the Alps, transferred it once more into Lombardy, and took possession of Milan. The Signory hastily summoned their general from his duchy, to guard their frontier. The established order of Italian policy, however, rendering it probable that new and contradictory combinations would speedily arise, his instructions were to act upon the defensive; and a like temporising spirit prevailed in the councils of his Holiness, who secretly lent an ear to proposals of Francis for a combined effort to shake off the Spanish domination in Naples. The Duke's undecided tactics, so condemned by Sismondi, were therefore in accordance with orders, which the ever-present Proveditore took care were complied with. He thus had no share in the great battle of Pavia, which crushed the chivalry of France, accelerated the climax of Italian subjugation, and rendered Spanish influence fatally paramount in Southern Europe. It was fought on the 25th of February, 1525, and left Francis prisoner in his rival's hands. Francesco Maria thereafter retired to Casali, suffering from a combined attack of gout and tertian fever, in which he was attended by his Duchess, who had hastened to see him.[*300] [Footnote *300: The battle was fought on the 24th February.] CHAPTER XXXVIII New league against Charles V.--The Duke's campaign in Lombardy--His quarrels with Guicciardini--Rome pillaged by the Colonna--The Constable Bourbon advances into Central Italy--The Duke quells an insurrection at Florence. The papal policy since the accession of Julius had been directed to two leading objects. The first was to prevent any ultramontane power from attaining a decided preponderance in Europe; the second, to recover Italy from the barbarians, and restore its Neapolitan and Milanese states to native dynasties.[*301] The only effective check upon the unprecedented dominion of the Emperor having been annihilated by the overthrow and imprisonment of his sole rival, it became necessary for the Pontiff, in conformity with the former of these purposes, to support the cause of France. The other object was more than ever important, now that Milan was virtually at the conqueror's mercy; and a proposition for confirming the sovereignty of Sforza in that duchy, and placing the Marquis of Pescara on the throne of Naples, appeared to His Holiness happily to meet the exigencies of the case. Clement, possessing neither the discernment of Julius nor the finesse of Leo, saw no difficulty in effecting this convenient scheme, by simply uniting the independent states in a conspiracy to expel Charles beyond the Alps. But he reckoned without his host. The Marquis of Pescara, who was high in the imperial service, betrayed the plot in time to frustrate its execution. His death occurred soon after, from wounds received at Pavia, or possibly from poison, and the year was spent in intrigues and counterplots, which concern our present subject only as giving occasion to this letter, addressed by Francesco Maria to Cardinal Wolsey:-- "Most illustrious and most worshipful Lord, "Having learned that his serene Majesty [Henry VIII.] has named me his adherent in the league lately made with his most Christian Majesty, it becomes a duty, which I by these letters discharge, to tender my respects, and humbly to kiss his hand, having no other proof at present to offer of the extreme obligation which, in addition to numberless others, I owe to his Majesty, for this affectionate and honourable recollection of me. And knowing the love which your most illustrious and reverend Lordship has ever exhibited towards my house, and especially for myself, I am satisfied (as, indeed, I have heard from the reverend Lord Protonotary Casale) that you have always borne in mind the services towards that crown of my most famous progenitors and myself. Whence, in addition to the boundless obligation I lie under to his most serene Majesty for naming me his adherent, I hold myself therein indebted to your most reverend and illustrious Lordship, considering it in a great measure owing to you. I have therefore written these presents, not as mere thanks, for I would not so commence what I cannot complete by words alone, but that you may know the great obligation I feel and have expressed, and how intensely I desire an opportunity of effectively demonstrating my natural and deserved anxiety to do you service; the which will be clearly made patent to your most reverend and illustrious Lordship, so often as I have it in my power to act upon my intentions. And, recommending myself to your good favour, I pray that you still keep in mind my services to his majesty. From Verona the 14th February, 1526. "_Servitor_, "EL DUCA D'URBINO."[302] [Footnote *301: So far as Julius is concerned, his one object was the absolute temporal dominion of the Church in Italy. He made the coming of an ultramontane power into Italy a certainty. His successors struggled in vain to save themselves and incidentally Italy from the consequence of his crime. But the policy of the Papacy was wise, if selfish. The only road to Italian unity lay through predominance of one power--Venice or Milan, for instance, or the Church herself. The popes successfully prevented this unity for more than a thousand years, really in self-defence--the defence of their temporal power at any rate; their international claims were destroyed by an eager and passionate nationalism. We have seen in our day how Piedmont united Italy, first destroying the Papacy, which remains merely as a spiritual power that seems in Italy to be slowly passing away.] [Footnote 302: Brit. Mus. Cotton. MSS. Vit. B. VIII., f. 16, b. In f. 49, of B.V. there is a mutilated letter of compliment from the Duke to Henry VIII., in Latin, dated at Urbino 19 March, 1522.] At length, in May 1526, a new confederacy was announced, in which the Pope, Francis I. (who had regained his liberty in March), Henry VIII., Venice, and Florence, were marshalled against Charles V., nominally to wrest from him the Milanese, which remained in his hands after the battle of Pavia. The citadel of Milan, however, was still held by Francesco Sforza; and the Duke of Urbino, by the senate's orders, led the Venetian troops from Verona to his relief, but under protest that he considered them unequal to the service. On his march, he received offers from an adherent of the Sforza to admit him into Lodi, and immediately detaching Malatesta Baglione to avail himself of the proposal, hastened onwards with the army to his support. The attempt was completely successful, and after a gallant resistance the imperialists evacuated the place on the 24th of June. This acquisition was of the utmost importance to the allies. It secured them command of the Adda, and gave them a strong position in the enemy's country, from whence they could operate with equal facility against Milan, Cremona, or Pavia. The army of the League which now mustered at Lodi is estimated by Guicciardini and Muratori at sixteen thousand foot and four thousand horse. The Duke of Urbino was commander-in-chief of the Venetians; Count Guido Rangone held the same rank in the ecclesiastical forces, which included, however, the papal and Florentine contingents, led by their respective captains-general, Giovanni de' Medici and Vitello Vitelli. The embarrassment occasioned by so many commanders, under no common head, was especially felt by Francesco Maria, who, although admitted by Guicciardini to have been pre-eminent in rank, authority, and reputation, as well as actually leader of the combined army, was controlled by Pesaro, the Venetian Proveditore, and thwarted by the Pope's anomalous appointment of that historian himself as lieutenant-general, with ample indeed almost absolute powers in the army and throughout the states of the Church. Francesco Guicciardini was a Florentine gentleman, born in 1482, and educated for the law, who, profiting by the partiality of Leo X. for his fellow-citizens, had held several important civil appointments, and had been successively named governor of Modena, Reggio, and Parma, to which Clement added, in 1523, a jurisdiction over all pontifical Romagna. He was gifted with considerable talents and great command of language, but these promotions had rendered him vain and overbearing. The accounts given us by the Urbino writers, of one whom they had good reason to regard with prejudice, should be received with caution; yet some anecdotes have come down which confirm the allegation of Leoni, that his dogmatical pretensions were neither authorised by etiquette, nor supported by his judgment or military experience.[303] No defect of character was less likely to meet with toleration from the blunt and hasty Francesco Maria, and in consequence of their being opposed to each other at the council-board, alike in momentous and trifling matters, scenes of insult and violence ripened aversion into rancour. In this contest the Florentine had the worst, but he amply availed himself of his pen as a means of vengeance; and in his History, which has become a standard authority, he studiously and throughout misrepresented the Duke of Urbino. Lipsius, while bearing strong testimony to his general truth and impartiality, admits that he on no occasion concealed his detestation of that prince. Later writers, especially Sismondi, have adopted his strictures with little modification, and an ingenious defence of the Duke, prepared by Baldi after his death, having never seen the light, the portraits of him hitherto passing current in history are exaggerations of a malevolent pencil. Yet it appears beyond question that an over-dilatory and cautious system increased upon Francesco Maria, and, in conjunction with other circumstances, greatly hampered his tactics and impaired their success, during his service under the lion of St. Mark. [Footnote 303: Leonardi's recollections of Francesco Maria, Vat. Urb. MSS., No. 1023, f. 85, and Baldi's defence of him from Guicciardini's charges, _Ibid._, No. 906, f. 214.] The allied forces very considerably outnumbered those of Charles, who were scattered among several garrisons and detached positions. The moment, therefore, seemed propitious for following up their recent success, and effecting the main object of the campaign by a decided blow against Milan. That capital was occupied by about nine thousand imperialist troops, who blockaded Sforza in the citadel, and who, in letters casually intercepted, represented the citizens, though disarmed by their conquerors, as mature for a rising. A prompt movement for the relief of the hard-pressed fortress was therefore urged by Guicciardini, and seconded by the Proveditore, whose ear he had gained. The reasons by which Francesco Maria combated this proposal savoured unquestionably, even by Leoni's admission, rather of hollow excuses than of sound judgment, for whilst he awaited the Swiss auxiliaries, he allowed reinforcements to reach the imperial garrison. Some light is, however, thrown upon this seeming inconsistency by an argument in his Discorsi Militari, wherein the Duke illustrates, from this very passage in his life, two axioms he broadly lays down,--that to rely mainly for the success of a war upon the support of a people, however gallant, is a great risk, if not inevitable ruin; and that no popular rising ever succeeded of itself, or without an overpowering force to second it. Considering that his uncle and himself had thrice regained their state by a popular emeute, this doctrine may seem ungracious from his mouth. Without, however, entering upon a question which the recent experience of Europe has greatly affected, or examining instances adduced by the Duke in support of his views, it seems likely that his reasoning was adopted to cloak some unavowed motive. Perhaps the alternative suggestion which he offered may afford some clue to the truth, keeping in view the relationship and confidential intercourse which had ever been maintained between the princes of Urbino and Ottaviano Fregoso. His proposition was that, instead of opposing their new and ill-disciplined levies to the veteran and lately victorious occupants of Milan, the allies should draw off towards Genoa, and there restore the supremacy of the Fregosi, thus giving time for the arrival of Swiss subsidies, and enabling them perhaps to intercept the reinforcements which Bourbon was bringing by sea from Spain. The motive alleged by Sismondi for this policy rests upon the broader ground of the Duke's desire to humble Clement, in revenge for all he had suffered, rather from the Pontiff's family than from himself; and it must be admitted that much of his conduct during this lamentable and inglorious war, until it ended in the sack of Rome, could scarcely have been different if actuated by that ungenerous calculation. Yet in the instance now under our consideration, it is but fair to notice Leoni's assertion, that his opinions were supported by Giovanni de' Medici _delle Bande Nere_, whilst those of Guicciardini, obtaining the suffrages of the other leaders, carried the day. With such diversity of opinion prevailing among commanders of nearly equal authority, it is not surprising that the advance upon Milan should have been most sluggish. After spending nine days in marching about twenty miles, the army, on the 6th of July, drew round that city, which the enemy, notwithstanding Bourbon's arrival the preceding night with the Spanish succours, are supposed by Sismondi to have been on the point of evacuating. The artillery having next morning begun to play upon the walls, a sally was made, and the allied troops, finding themselves under fire, behaved most scandalously, so that, had not Francesco Maria with the cavalry promptly supported the panic-stricken infantry of his own and the papal brigades, they must have suffered a total rout. Alarmed at these symptoms of unsteadiness, and unseconded by the expected insurrection within, the Venetian Proveditore and Guicciardini insisted upon a general retreat, as the only means by which their forces could escape destruction. In despair, they besought the Duke to take the retiring army under his command, a charge which he did not accept without taunting them on a result that so fully bore out his predictions, and proved their rashness in exposing an unorganised host of raw Italians to fight the veterans of Germany and Spain. But the moment was too critical for recrimination. Two hours before dawn the camp was silently raised, and the army withdrew in good order about twelve miles to Marignano. Their rear was effectually guarded by Giovanni de' Medici against any sally of the imperialists, but no less than four thousand of the foot were missing, having ignominiously deserted their colours. Such is the account of Leoni and Baldi. Guicciardini, on the other hand, takes to himself credit for using every argument with the Duke against a retreat, which he designates as uncalled for and infamous. Upon his despatches were, no doubt, formed the opinions expressed in the following letter of the Bishop of Worcester to Cardinal Wolsey:-- "Most Illustrious and Reverend Lord," &c. "I have hitherto daily informed you of what was going on, by longer or shorter letters, as time permitted. At present nothing new has transpired, except that, on the night of the 7th inst., the Duke of Urbino, captain-general of the ecclesiastical and Venetian forces, after most strenuous and gallant operations against the enemy, from which a successful issue was expected, suddenly changing his intention, notwithstanding numerous protests, drew off his army to Marignano, a town ten miles from Milan. Which, though the Duke, as usual, entangles it with numerous reasons, has exposed him to no slight disparagement from the public. I have only further humbly to commend myself to your most illustrious Lordship. From Rome, 11th July, 1526. "Your most illustrious and reverend Lordship's _Humillimum manicipium_, "HI[~C]. EP[~S]. WIGORNIEÑ."[304] [Footnote 304: Brit. Mus. Cotton. MSS., Vit. B. VIII., f. 93 b. In this volume are many despatches regarding the Lombard campaign, and the assault on Rome in 1526.] The prejudices of Guicciardini are admitted by the Venetian Paruta, who tells us that the Signory were satisfied with their general's explanations, but cautioned him for the future, to communicate his views more frankly to the papal commissioner. It is a passage of history hard to clear up, and in every view redounding little to the credit of its actors, whether we most blame the Duke's policy or the unsteadiness of his troops. Exposures so disgraceful well merited the sneer, that the swords in that army had no edge; and Sismondi admits that its spiritless conduct goes far to justify its leader's dispiriting tactics.[*305] [Footnote *305: See Guicciardini's despairing letters to Giberti, _Opere Inedite_ (1857-67, Firenze), vol. IV., pp. 73-146. Francesco Maria was to blame; he lost time in crossing the Adda, from whatever cause; he delayed again while the generals of the Emperor strengthened their lines round Milan--even when the allies arrived and their army numbered 20,000 against the 11,000 of the besiegers. He waited the arrival of the Swiss, he said, and went off meanwhile at the heels of the Venetian Proveditore to besiege Cremona. The Rocca of Milan fell on July 24th.] On the 22nd of July, the confederates, having been joined by five thousand Swiss levies, again approached the city, and were met by about three hundred women and children, whom Sforza had dismissed as embarrassing his defence. Shamed by their representations, the leaders, in a council of war, decided upon a new attempt to relieve the citadel, which, however, Giovanni de' Medici, after inspecting the works of the besiegers, opposed as too perilous. Whilst they lost time in these discussions, Sforza was fairly starved out, and surrendered the fortress on the 24th. Leoni and Baldi agree in charging these dilatory and unsatisfactory proceedings upon the other generals, and the total inefficiency of the army, rather than upon Francesco Maria's tactics. They may be considered as biased, but the following anecdotes will show how far the Florentine historian had reason to be impartial. At one of the war councils held in the Certosa of Pavia, Guicciardini having cast some doubt upon an opinion expressed by the Duke, was thus answered: "Your business is to confer with pedants." These rude words were accompanied by a knock-down blow on the face, followed by an order to get up and begone! Leonardi, who preserves this incident, adds, "Such pugilistic sport was habitual to my Lord Duke; and it was well for those who could command their temper in reasoning with him, as he was ever ready to strike any one who argued against his views with disrespect." The historian's original prepossession against Francesco Maria, is ascribed by Baldi to a vain ambition of precedence. While lieutenant-general of the papal forces he displayed it towards Guido Rangone, his superior officer, and insisted on taking rank at the council-board of the Marquis of Saluzzo, when he arrived in command of the French contingents. These absurd pretensions were at first treated with indifference, but finally brought him into a wrangle with the Duke, over whom he also claimed a similar right, from the fact of being in the papal service, waiving it only out of consideration for his sovereign rank. In that instance, also, he is said to have been struck by the choleric prince; at all events he was expelled from the council-chamber, and a strong representation of his misconduct was made to the Pope, who consequently cancelled his anomalous commission, and appointed him governor of Modena. Sismondi, embodying Guicciardini's one-sided narrative,[*306] has thrown upon Francesco Maria the entire odium of the ludicrously slow movements of the army, averaging about four miles on each alternate day, and of their double miscarriage before Milan. The fatal tendency of such measures, however they might have originated, admits of no question, and the responsibility of their failure must fall upon the most influential leader. It is always difficult in a heterogeneous confederacy to maintain that unity of purpose which may compensate for diversity of interests, and which can only be insured by prompt action and brilliant success. But the sentiment "that reputation was neither to be gained by risks nor lost by delays," which Bernardo Tasso puts into the Duke's mouth, in describing a council of war whereat he assisted,[307] not only advocates quite a different policy, but too well confirms the charge brought against him as one of those "Generals who will not conquer when they may." [Footnote *306: See his despairing letters cited above, p. 441, note *1. He was a true patriot and thought for Italy. The Duke's dilatory and inconclusive actions while Italy was slowly dying, and might have been saved, as he thought, disgusted and enraged him.] [Footnote 307: _Lettere_, I., p. 28, edit. 1733.] When, however, he perceived victory to be hopeless, in an army distracted by the jealousies of rival leaders, he had proposed the nomination of a commander-in-chief, avowing himself ready to accord him implicit obedience. In this he was again thwarted by Guicciardini, who represented his suggestion to the allied powers as dictated by personal ambition of the post. The plan fell to the ground, and its author, fretted by the difficulties of his position, was attacked by severe illness. Of this the Proveditore availed himself to lead Malatesta Baglione, with three thousand troops, to Cremona. Like Milan, it was occupied by an imperialist brigade, who besieged in the citadel a handful of Sforza's adherents. The Duke's warnings as to its military difficulties having been received with indifference, this enterprise was on the point of miscarriage, on learning which he rose from a sick bed, and hurried with fresh forces to the scene of action. His presence infused new energy into the operations, and on the 23rd of September the town was evacuated by the imperialists upon capitulation. This success was scarcely within his grasp when a courier arrived from Rome, with tidings which gave a new aspect to affairs. Clement, who had succeeded to the turbulence of his predecessors, without the energy of Julius, or the address of Leo, made himself a dangerous domestic foe in the Colonna,--broken, but not crushed by the rancour of Alexander VI. Cardinal Pompeo Colonna, a man indifferent to religion, whose unbounded ambition aimed directly at the tiara, and whose brows better became a condottiere's casque than a mitre, forgetting his duty as one of the Sacred College, entered into treasonable correspondence with the imperialist leaders; and his brother Marcello, having been driven from his fiefs by the Pope, threw himself at the feet of Charles V., offering to support his views upon Italy if reponed by his assistance. They also used their influence at Venice in preventing his Holiness from raising a loan to recruit his crippled resources, and, in concert with Don Ugo Moncada, commander of the Neapolitan army, strove to alienate him from the League. Don Ugo, a Spaniard by birth, was the worthy pupil of Cesare Borgia, without his reputation for success. In every important engagement his sword had been tarnished by defeat; his character and personal adventures combined each brutal attribute of a condottiere, with scarcely a redeeming trait of honour. The plan of these confederates was by a coup-de-main to dictate terms to the Pontiff; or, failing success in this, to give occupation at home for the contingent he then maintained with the allied army of Lombardy. Accordingly, the Colonna troops, who had assumed a threatening attitude in the Campagna, were suddenly withdrawn beyond the frontier; and a son of Prospero Colonna hastened to the capital to throw himself at Clement's feet, assuring him of the pacific disposition of his house, and that their levies were destined for the imperial service at Naples. The Pope, being deceived into a belief so conformable to his wishes, turned a deaf ear to the warning of more clear-sighted men, and, disappointed of his loan, thought only of reducing a war establishment he could no longer pay. But so soon as his soldiery were dismissed, the Colonna recalled their army of two thousand men, which, led by Pompeo with equal celerity and success, reached the Lateran gate ere treachery was suspected. Resistance being hopeless, they, on the 20th of September, marched through the city into the Trastevere, where they were welcomed to refreshments provided by the Cardinal's order. Thence they passed into the Borgo S. Spirito, where are situated the Vatican, St. Peter's, and the castle of St. Angelo, and within three hours had pillaged that rich quarter, sparing neither the palace nor the metropolitan church. The Pope, who had at first resolved to await death in his pontifical chair, scarcely escaped with a few valuables into the fortress, which, from unpardonable negligence, was entirely unprovisioned. To arrest these horrors, the Pontiff next day made a hasty four-months' truce, stipulating for the immediate evacuation of Rome, as the condition on which he should recall Guicciardini with the ecclesiastical troops from Upper Italy; three days, however, elapsed ere the troops withdrew, laden with a booty estimated at 300,000 ducats.[308] [Footnote 308: This treaty is printed by Molini, in the _Documenti di Storia Italiana_, I., 229. At p. 204 of the same volume is a despatch throwing valuable light on the tangled diplomacy of these times. The details of this event are often mixed up with those of the far more atrocious sack of Rome perpetrated by Bourbon a few months later; the best account of it is by Negri, an eye-witness, in the _Lettere de' Principi_.] Upon the capitulation of Cremona, Francesco Maria stole a few days for the society of his Duchess, and the affairs of his state, but was speedily recalled to his post by the unsatisfactory aspect of matters in Lombardy. The papal troops had been withdrawn; the garrison of Cremona, whose services the Venetians would not retain at his suggestion, had entered into new engagements with the enemy; fourteen thousand _lanznechts_, alias _lansquenet_ infantry, under Georg v. Fründesberg, were marching from Germany by the Val di Sabbia to support the imperial cause. His first care was to check the pillage of Cremona, a service which the citizens acknowledged by presenting to him a golden vase weighing twenty pounds, and beautifully chased with appropriate devices. He found the Marquis of Saluzzo arrived with about five thousand levies from France, and that the _bande nere_, amounting to almost as many, had been engaged by that power, on Guicciardini's departure, whose absence proved a vast relief to him. The army is now estimated at twenty-five thousand men by Sismondi, who, echoing the charges of that writer, severely blames the Duke for not supporting the naval attack made by the French upon Genoa, a scheme for which we have seen him contending at an earlier period. But a passage in his own _Discorsi Militari_ expressly states the Venetian force at four thousand infantry and five thousand cavalry, to keep in check both Fründesberg's lansquenets and ten thousand men at Milan; and it explains his tactics to consist in making Cremona the centre of a line of defence, embracing Bergamo on the right, and Genoa on the left, which, being vastly too extended for his force, necessitated his keeping his men together, in order to move upon any exposed point. Accordingly, considering it most incumbent to intercept the battalions of Fründesberg, he, after throwing garrisons into some important places on his right flank, pushed towards Mantua with about ten thousand men. Although sadly impeded by dreadful weather, and by difficulties of transport, the Proveditore having secured all the cattle to carry his own baggage to Venice, he came up with the enemy at Borgoforte, on the Po, and, interrupting their passage, drove their main body down the course of that river. Deep snow and mud embarrassing his evolutions, he could only hang upon their rear as far as the Mincio, where they were met by a reinforcement with artillery from Ferrara. Thereupon the Duke recalled his skirmishers, and left the Germans to pass the Po unobstructed, on the 30th of November. In this affair fell Giovanni de' Medici, whose birth we have formerly noticed.[309] His name is consecrated to military renown by a halo which his lion-heart well merited, and which has gained no additional brilliancy from the attempts of some writers to elevate his fame at Francesco Maria's expense. In this unworthy effort--as on too many like occasions--Guicciardini has been followed by the historian of the Italian republics. The charges of misconduct adduced against the Duke of Urbino, in his movement against Fründesberg, are by no means borne out by the more detailed accounts supplied by Leoni and Baldi. He seems to have done everything that the state of the elements would allow; and even accused himself of occasioning the death of his faithful captain Benedetto Giraldi of Mondolfo, by answering his plea, that his charger was completely knocked up, with the sarcasm,--"What! you to whom I give a hundred scudi of yearly pay, have not a fresh pair of horses at such a moment!" Stung by this reproach, the gallant officer urged his steed to new efforts, and shared the fate of Giovanni de' Medici. The brigade of the latter, out of respect for their leader, assumed those mourning scarfs which procured them the name _delle bande nere_; and most of them soon after passed to Rome in the papal service. [Footnote 309: See above, p. 385.] The German lansquenets, whom Fründesberg had brought into Italy, were in fact a free company, levied by himself on a mere plundering adventure, without the pretext of pay. Alarmed at a reinforcement of so obnoxious a character, the confederates bethought themselves of renewed efforts. But disgusted with a drawling campaign, wherein no party had exhibited either good heart or doughty deeds, they had recourse to diplomacy, which, ever fluctuating between an inactive war and a solid peace, failed to create any general interest. The truce with Moncada being expired they had no difficulty in enrolling the unstable Pontiff once more on their side; but intent on his private quarrel with the Colonna, and burning to avenge the outrage lately received at their hands, he gave no co-operation to the League. His tortuous and feeble policy preferred rousing, by small intrigues, the old Angevine party at Naples against the imperial government, and sought the more sympathetic attractions of a petty strife with his refractory vassals. Having engaged the _bande nere_, he let them loose to carry fire and sword into the Colonna holdings, depriving, at the same time, Cardinal Pompeo of his hat, and thundering excommunication against his whole race. As the spring advanced, he extended this inglorious warfare, with "a worse than Turkish" virulence, into the Neapolitan territory. Meanwhile, the Viceroy Lanoy, after narrowly escaping the fleet of Andrea Doria, landed ten thousand fresh troops at Gaeta, and advanced upon Rome, supported by Moncada and the Colonna. But the vengeance of God against the Holy City was reserved for other hands. After a slight check from the _bande nere_, at Frosinone, the Viceroy most opportunely received letters from his master, disavowing the Colonna, and breathing affectionate duty to the Pontiff. He thereupon made overtures of reconciliation, and after various demurs, prompted by the Pontiff's vacillating hopes and fears, but which, in the exhausted state of his treasury, appear the dictates of insanity, an eight months' truce was signed on the 15th of March, between the Pope and the Emperor. It provided for a mutual restitution of all conquests in Lower Italy, a restoration of the Colonna to their estates and honours, and a payment by his Holiness of 60,000 ducats towards the costs of the war. Should the French and Venetians accept of this truce, the lansquenets were to be withdrawn from Italy; at all events they and the Constable Bourbon's army were forthwith to quit the ecclesiastical and Florentine territories. Whilst intimating this arrangement to the Duke of Urbino, by a brief of the 16th of March, Clement represents it as dictated by stern necessity, the whole weight of the war having fallen upon himself, and as the sole means of saving his own existence, and preserving "all Italy from destruction." Whilst these events were in progress in Lower Italy, the negotiations for a general peace had produced no fruits, conducted, as they were, with little good faith or honesty of purpose. The only one really interested in prolonging the struggle was Francis I., whose children were still in his rival's hands. The Italian states, weary of a bootless contest, and disgusted by the feeble egotism of Clement, fell into inertness akin, perhaps, to the fascination under which the feathered tribes are said to become victims of their reptile-foe. That foe was Charles Duke of Bourbon, son of Gilbert Count de Montpensier, who died at Pozzuoli, in 1495, by Chiara Gonzaga, sister of Elisabetta Duchess of Urbino. He was next heir to the crown of France, after Francis Duke of Angoulême, who succeeded to it as Francis I., and Charles Duke d'Alençon, whose blood had been attainted for treason. Louis XII., having removed this attainder, and restored the d'Alençon branch to their rights, incurred the deep displeasure of Bourbon, who was, however, pacified by receiving, at the age of twenty-six, the office of grand constable,--the highest dignity of the realm. He greatly distinguished himself in Francis's early Italian campaigns, but was recalled from the command at Milan in 1516, in consequence of his overbearing conduct and ambitious views. By Anna, sister of Charles VIII., whom he married in spite of a hideously deformed person, he had the dukedom of Bourbon, with an immense fortune; but his extravagant prodigality plunged him into great embarrassments, and a suit brought after his wife's death by the mother of Francis I.--whose love he was alleged to have slighted--threatened him with utter ruin, by evicting him from his wife's estates. In these circumstances, his jealous and fiery temper was ready to seize upon any pretext for entering into treasonable correspondence with the Emperor and King of England; and, on a promise of the crown of Provence, he undertook to head an insurrection in France as soon as Francis should cross the Alps. That monarch having discovered the plot, at once sought the Constable in one of his own castles, and frankly told him what he had learned. The hypocrite had recourse to abject asseverations of innocence and fidelity, and was ordered to attend his sovereign into Italy; but, perceiving that his protestations had not removed suspicion, he fled in disguise to the territory of Charles, and was declared rebel. His perfidy and rancour now knew no bounds; he was ever after prominent and indefatigable in the wars against his country, and mainly instigated the descent upon Provence in 1524. He next entertained a hope of the dukedom of Milan, by Clement's sanction; but he had played away his honour in a losing game: despised by himself and his employers, the prestige of success passed from his arms. Yet his peculiar talent for courting popularity ensured him the zealous support of his troops, who knew also that a bankrupt in character and purse was the best leader for men intent upon pillage. To the single merit of a winning manner, he united many odious qualities. His unmeasured ambition was restrained by no principle, either as to its objects, or the means of attaining them. His pride was vain-glory, venting itself in capricious and ill-directed schemes, and stimulating into fury a wayward and sanguinary temper, which, when exasperated by exile and outlawry, became ungovernable. During the war of Lombardy, the imperial generals were in a great measure left to their own resources, both as to its conduct and its supplies. Bourbon had for about a year maintained his army in Milan without pay, by merciless plunder of the townspeople, upon whom insult and outrage were unsparingly heaped. But their patience and their means were nearly exhausted, and the difficulty of recruiting his commissariat was greatly aggravated by judicious dispositions of the allied army, directed by the Duke of Urbino. A forward movement was therefore resolved upon, and as occupation and pillage were the only chances of keeping together such disorganised troops, he led them in search of both. Indifferent whether the spoils of Florence or Romagna should prove the more convenient prey, he effected a junction with Fründesberg's new levies, whose circumstances and objects exactly corresponded with those of his own forces, and on the 30th of January their united divisions passed the Po. Our authorities are in many respects contradictory regarding these operations, and especially as to the part which Francesco Maria took in them. He seems to have been laid up at Parma, with an attack of gout and fever, from the 3rd to the 14th of January, and to have spent most of the next two months with his Duchess at Gazzuolo in the Mantuese, for recovery of his health. It is insinuated by Sismondi that this was but an excuse for abandoning the field, at a moment when it would have been scarcely possible to pursue the policy, which that author ascribes to him, of never risking in a general action the prestige of invincibility. On the other hand, Leoni asserts that, at a council of war held in Parma on the 11th of February, plans for the campaign were proposed in writing by the different confederate leaders, when that sent by the Duke was treacherously suppressed by Guicciardini. Judging from the results of the campaign, there can be no doubt that the imperialists ought to have been attacked at this juncture; and if a general onset had been ordered on the 13th of March, when they broke out into open mutiny, Bourbon being obliged to fly for his life, or, a few days after, when Fründesberg, a monster of sacrilege and blasphemy, according to the Italian historians, died of apoplexy, they would in all probability have been totally exterminated. But they were the reserved instrument of divine judgments; and it signifies little now to speculate whether the immediate motives which paralysed the League were the Duke's ill-timed caution, his anticipation that the starving band would ere long of itself dissolve, or his personal enmity to the Pope. It is, however, important to keep in view the cold and selfish character of Venetian policy, and the hampering influence which their system of _proveditori_ necessarily had upon the measures of their generals. When Francesco Maria returned to the camp, the imperialists, who had passed the Trebbia on the 20th of February, were slowly advancing through the ecclesiastical state of Modena upon Bologna. His tactic was to place them between two hostile armies; so the Marquis of Saluzzo, with the French, ecclesiastical, and Swiss troops, preceded them, leaving garrisons in the principal places, the Duke following with the Venetians, some thirty miles in their rear. Against this plan, which Guicciardini designates a strange proceeding, and which even Baldi most justly criticises, the other leaders vainly protested, alleging, among other reasons, that whilst the army in advance must be speedily weakened by detaching garrisons, the Venetians would probably hang back when their own frontier was freed from danger. News of the truce between the Pope and the Viceroy now arrived, and the Duke, disgusted at this new proof of Clement's fickleness, and indifference to his allies' interests, withdrew his army across the Po. But the courier who brought the treaty to Bourbon at Ponte-Reno, with an order to obey its provisions, was nearly cut to pieces by his troops, infuriated at this interference with their hopes of booty, and the Constable refused to abide by it. The fresh jealousy of their unstable ally, thus suggested to the Venetians, afforded their leader a new apology for not exposing their troops in a general action for the preservation of Bologna. But when Bourbon had passed by that city towards Romagna and Urbino, somewhat more spirit was infused into his movements, as the danger seemed to approach his own frontier. He immediately sent forward two thousand men to protect the duchy, and desired his family to be removed for safety to Venice. On the 5th of March he had struck his camp at Casal-Maggiore, and proceeded in pursuit of the enemy. On that day they passed under Imola, which, with the other cities, was garrisoned by detachments of Saluzzo, in accordance with tactics already explained. Bourbon now scoured the plains of Romagna in search of plunder, skirmishing occasionally with the French division. When at Meldola on the 14th he bethought him of a descent upon Siena, whose old Ghibelline and anti-Florentine preferences promised him a welcome. He, therefore, penetrated the Apennines by forced marches up the passes of the Bidente, and on the 18th reached S. Pietro in Bagno, burning and pillaging as he went. When the Constable's refusal to accept the treaty was known at Rome, Clement, more perplexed than ever, besought Lanoy to hurry on and induce him to a halt, or at all events to withdraw the Spaniards and men-at-arms from his command. To this the Viceroy with much apparent zeal consented; but doubts have been thrown on his sincerity, for both he and Moncada, whilst professing cordial co-operation with the Pope, are suspected of having secretly stimulated Bourbon's advance upon Rome, as the only means of appeasing the troops, trusting that the grandeur of the enterprise would, in their master's eyes, readily excuse its criminality. It seems doubtful whether Lanoy actually met the Constable; and his mission was understood to have exposed him to great personal risk from the lawless and ungovernable troops. He at all events conveyed to Bourbon a proposition for the immediate payment to his army of 80,000 ducats, with 60,000 more during May, on condition of their retreat within five days; these sums to be advanced by Florence, on the Viceroy's guarantee for repayment of one-half by the Emperor. The direct object of this proposal was to divert the impending storm from Tuscany; and it was fully sanctioned by Clement, true to the policy of Medicean pontiffs, who ever regarded Florence as their patrimony, Rome as their life-interest. In the negotiations to which it gave rise there was a double difficulty. Whilst the demands of a mutinous and starving army were paramount to all other considerations, each party of the confederates struggled to throw upon another the burden of meeting them. The same selfishness sought individual security against the future movements of the general foe, by turning him upon some friendly frontier. The wealthy Florentines lavished their gold to send him back upon Upper Italy, which the timely distribution of a few thousand men in the Apennine gorges might have prevented him from ever quitting. The game of the Proveditore Pisani was to leave no obstacle in the way of his advance in any direction save that of the Venetian terra-firma domain, and to detain the Duke of Urbino with his army of observation as long as possible near that frontier. The French strove at all hazards to keep him clear of their Lombard conquests. The Pontiff, little dreaming of an attack upon his capital, was distracted between the care of Romagna and Tuscany, whilst his fickle imbecility deprived him of all sympathy at his allies' hands; indeed, in this conflict of interests, his pusillanimous tergiversations rendered him the weaker vessel, and he consequently became the chief sufferer. Nor did the Duke of Urbino escape suspicions of bad faith, for he is accused of a secret understanding not to impede Bourbon's descent upon Tuscany, which would naturally liberate his own duchy from danger. Guicciardini, indeed, not only considers revenge for former injuries of the Medici as the key to Francesco Maria's dilatory and inefficient proceedings against the imperialists, but regards his conduct as justified by the provocations received. These sentiments were at all events cherished by the soldiery of Urbino, who wrote "FOR VENGEANCE" upon the houses which they fired on their march through the Florentine territory. Nor were these provocations light, for the grudge which Leo had bequeathed was aggravated by a continued retention of the fortresses in Montefeltro, and still more by an investiture of the entire duchy, granted in 1525 by Clement, in total defiance of the della Rovere rights, to Ascanio Colonna, whose claims we have already considered.[310] This grant, though virtually annulled by the same Pope's subsequent confirmation of the reinvestiture given to Francesco Maria by Adrian VI., gave rise to renewed anxieties on his part about two years later, and it was not until 1530 that we shall see them finally extinguished by the Duke's generous hospitality to his rival. [Footnote 310: Above, p. 420.] On the 22nd of April the Constable, finding the mountain peasantry exasperated to a dangerous pitch by the merciless rigours of his lawless soldiery, and his own sanguinary nature being goaded by their ribald taunts, cut short these miserable intrigues by advancing into Tuscany.[*311] The confederate leaders, having at length decided on saving Florence, united their divisions, and on the 25th passed the Apennines near the present Bologna road. The Duke now received an offer of his fortresses of S. Leo and Maiuolo, which still remained pledged to that commonwealth. This he answered by general professions, and next day, sending on the army to Incisa to intercept the approach of Bourbon, he proceeded with a band of faithful followers to the Tuscan capital. The republican faction, calculating upon his support, flew to arms and seized the Palazzo Vecchio, while once more the unpopular sway of the Medici trembled in the balance. But the Duke, with a nobility of purpose that goes far to absolve him from suspicion as to his good faith with the Pope throughout this campaign, rejected the temptation of avenging his many wrongs, and, by extraordinary personal exertions, succeeded in quelling the insurrection, and maintaining the established government. Thus, for the first time, the city saw its Palazzo taken without a revolution following. In gratitude for this service his fortresses were immediately given up to Francesco Maria, who in due time received also the thanks of his Holiness. The act for their restitution was signed on the 1st of May, and on the 14th S. Leo was surrendered to his lieutenant Orazio Florido. [Footnote *311: He halted at S. Giovanni in Val d'Arno, where, though he ought never to have been allowed to come so far, he might have been easily crushed in that narrow pass. But if the Duke of Urbino showed now a certain activity, it was not of the sort to crush this adventure. Bourbon wheeled into the Via Francigena and marched down to Rome and death. "To Rome! to Rome!" were his dying words.] Bourbon's head-quarters were meanwhile at Montevarchi, near Arezzo, where, seeing his approach to Florence foiled, and the dissatisfaction of his followers on the increase, he decided upon making a dash at Rome; his only alternative being to lead them to pillage, or perish at their hands. As a blind to the Pope, he sent forward a courier to demand free passage to Naples; and, after receiving some supplies from Siena, he abandoned his artillery and heavy baggage in order to lighten his march. He began it on the 26th, and, notwithstanding incessant rains and an entirely disorganised commissariat, he passed without halt or question by Acquapendente and Viterbo to Rome.[312] [Footnote 312: Many facts regarding the war in Lombardy and the march to Rome are given by Baldi (Vat. Urb. MSS. No. 906) with a minuteness and impartiality not found in other writers. The feeble views of Clement are illustrated by his brieves to the Duke of Urbino, noticed in I. of the Appendix to our next volume.] APPENDICES APPENDIX I (Pages 33, 34) PORTRAITS OF CESARE BORGIA The same extremes of reprobation and flattery which alternate in notices of the Duke Valentino puzzle us as to his personal appearance. Giovio, the ardent collector of historical portraits, while describing those which he had brought together, thus comments upon that of Borgia:--"He is said to come of a plague-stricken stock and of corrupted blood; for a livid rush overspread his face, which was full of pimples shedding matter. His eyes, too, were deeply sunk, and their fierce snake-like glance seemed to flash fire, so that even his friends and comrades could not bear to look upon them; yet, while flirting with the ladies, he had a wonderful knack of playing the agreeable." The pen which inscribed these sentences was evidently charged with even more than its wonted gall; but, after every allowance, they cannot well be reconciled with a report of the Venetian envoy Capello, dated in 1500, and bearing that "the Pope loves and greatly fears his son the Duke, who is aged twenty-seven years; his head is most beautiful; he is tall and well made, and handsomer than King Ferdinand." Nor can we attain to any more satisfactory conclusion from such pictures as are alleged to transmit his features. We have no key to identify as his any of the heads introduced by Pinturicchio into those fine but little noticed frescoes commissioned by Alexander VI. for the Torre di Borgia, now a wing of the Vatican Library. The exquisite medallists of Romagna do not appear to have exercised their skill upon his bust. Of easel portraits I am aware of six, which I mention for the curious in such matters, although not prepared to consider any of them genuine. 1. The elegant effeminate-looking Spaniard in the Borghese Gallery, attributed to Raffaele, is now admitted to be a misnomer both of subject and artist. 2. A mean head, in the manner of Federigo Zuccaro, was purchased a few years ago at Rome by my late friend Monsignor Laureani, librarian of the Vatican, as that of Valentino, and passed from him, in 1844, to my friend the Cavaliere Campana. Its sinister and spiteful expression is not unworthy of such a monster; and allowing an artist's licence in disguising a complexion which no one would willingly represent, it might tally with Giovio's too graphic details. The figure is, however, short, while Capello describes Cesare as tall. 3. A letter from Giuseppe Vallardi to Count Cesare di Castelbarco Visconti was privately printed at Milan in 1843, in which he claims to have discovered in the Count's palace a portrait of Borgia by Raffaele, the original chalk study of which belonged to himself. From the mass of verbiage usual in similar Italian effusions of "municipal fanaticism," there may be extracted an allegation that the picture had been painted from that earlier drawing about 1508, and a bold inference is hazarded from their style that both were the handiwork of Sanzio. The lithograph, however, would entitle us to ascribe them rather to the Milanese school, and such is admitted to be the opinion of various connoisseurs. No fact is adduced to authenticate the head, or to show that Raffaele ever saw Valentino; indeed, the name seems to libel a countenance so gentle, refined, and unimpassioned. 4. Vallardi mentions in the same letter another Borgian head, by Giorgione, as in the Lochis Gallery at Bergamo, of which I cannot speak, not having seen it. 5. A handsome over-dressed youth was engraved for Gordon's _Life of Alexander VI._, in 1729, from a picture said to belong to D. Giuseppe Valetta of Naples, which I entirely failed in tracing while in Italy. Neither have I discovered any authority for supposing that soulless epicurean to be Cesare Borgia. Finally, we may include Fuseli's notice of a picture by Titian, no longer, however, in the Borghese collection, representing a conference between the Usurper of Romagna and Machiavelli. A finer subject for the pencil of that intellectual limner could hardly be found, but Valentino's prodigality was apparently never lavished on art.[313] In his eleventh lecture, Fuseli also mentions a portrait of Cesare by Giorgione, as hanging for study in the Royal Academy. [Footnote 313: In Leonardo da Vinci he saw only a military engineer. His commission, desiring that great genius to survey and report upon all his fortresses, in the summer of 1502, is quoted in BROWN'S _Life of Leonardo_, p. 118, and accordingly Urbino was visited by him on the 30th of July.] APPENDIX II (Page 34) DUKE GUIDOBALDO I. OF URBINO A KNIGHT OF THE GARTER The loss of all early records of the Order, in consequence of their having long been entrusted to the private and insecure custody of its successive officers, has already placed us at disadvantage in noticing the admission of Duke Federigo, but from various sources we are enabled to glean much more satisfactory notices as to the election and installation of his son to this honourable knighthood. The chapter at which he was chosen is not preserved by Anstis, but its date is known from the following letter, the original of which, in Latin, I had the good fortune to discover in the Oliveriana Library at Pesaro.[314] [Footnote 314: MSS. No. 374, vol. I., p. 55.] "Henry, by the grace of God, King of England and France, Lord of Ireland, to the most illustrious and potent Prince the Lord Guido Ubaldo, Duke of Urbino, our most dear friend, health and augmented prosperity. We wrote lately to inform your Highness that we had resolved upon forthwith summoning a chapter of our military Order of the Garter, for the purpose of creating your Sublimity a knight thereof, and by the same letters gave you tidings of such creation. We have now to signify how, in fulfilment of that our promise, we have made your Highness a Knight of that Order; and this we have done most cordially, not only on account of our old necessity, which formerly occurred to us with your father the illustrious Duke of happy memory, but also in consideration of your singular merit and virtues. Indeed we are assured that henceforward your Highness will ever be regarded as our most attached cousin and intimate friend, which you will more fully learn from our distinguished cousin the Lord Talbot, a knight of that Order, as also from the Reverend [Richard Bere] Lord Abbot of Glastonbury, and the Venerable Sir Robert Shirbourn, Dean of St. Paul's Cathedral in London, our counsellors and ambassadors, whom we have sent to offer our catholic and filial obedience to our supreme Lord [Julius II.]. To these our envoys we have committed all the knightly insignia of the Garter, to be made over to your Highness, and our anxious desire is that you will accept them in the same spirit of cordial affection in which they are sent. We pray you further to receive these our ambassadors as accredited in our behalf, and that you will please to aid them with your favour and counsels, which will be to us peculiarly agreeable. Finally, as the Venerable Mr. Robert Shirbourn, one of these our envoys, is by our command to remain for some time as our minister at the Roman Court to transact certain affairs of ours with our Lord his Holiness, we therefore beseech your Sublimity that you will vouchsafe to assist him, as our agent, with your gracious influence, which has great and just weight with our Holy Father, and that you will extend to him such favours as he may request; by all which you will do us a singular pleasure. Further, if it be in our power any way to oblige you, freely make use of us and ours. From our palace near Westminster, the 20th of February, 1503-4.[315] "HENRICUS REX." [Footnote 315: It is pleasant to find the arts from time to time becoming handmaids of history as well as of religion; and the friendly feeling for England then cherished at Urbino is curiously illustrated by a bequest of Bishop Arrivabene, who, in 1504, left 400 golden scudi to be expended in decorating a chapel, dedicated to St. Martin and St. Thomas of Canterbury: the Duchess Elisabetta was one of the trustees, and the fresco ordered by them from Girolamo Genga included a representation of the English saint, and a portrait of Duke Guidobaldo.] The instructions to these ambassadors, dated the 20th of February, and printed by Anstis, run thus:-- "And after due recommendacions, and presentaciones of the Kinge's lettres [to Duke Guidobaldo], firste the saide Abbot of Glastonburye shall make a brefe oracion, wherein he shall not onlye touche the laudes of the noble Order of the Garter, and of the Kinges Highnes as sovereigne of the same, but also declare the great vertues and notable deades of the saide Duke, and how his progenitors and auncestors have been accepted thereunto, and to theyr greate honor have used the same, with the desyrous mynde that the sayde Duke is to be honored therwithal; for the which consideracions and causes the Kinge's Highness, by the assent of the Companions of that Order, have been the rather moved and induced to name and elect him thereunto, trustinge verelie that, his greate noblenesse with other of his valiant actes and singuler vertues consydered, he shall not onlye greatlye honor the saide Order, but also take greate honor by the same. Shewinge fynallye that the Kinge's Highnes, for the singular zeale, love, and affection which his Grace beareth unto hym, hath sent hym them ornaments belonginge to the sayd Order, and with as good and hartye mynde wylleth hyme to be honored therewith as anye other prince lyvinge, desyring him therefore thankfullye to accept the same, and to use and weare it in a memoriall of his Grace, and of the saide notable and auncyant Order. "And, after the proposition so sayde, they shall present theyr commyssyon unto the sayde Duke, and cause the same openlye to be read, and so followinge, the Abbot of Glastonburye shall in good and reverent manner requyre him to make his corporall othe for the inviolable observaunce of the same, lyke as, bye the tenure of the saide estatuts, every Knight of that Order is bownde to do, in form followinge:-- "Ego Guido Ubaldus, Dei Gratia Dux Urbinatis, honorificentissimi atque approbatissimi Ordinis Garterii Miles et Confrater electus, juro ad hæc sancta Dei evangelia per me corporaliter tacta, quod omnia et singula statuta leges et ordinationes ipsius dignissimi Ordinis bene sincere et inviolabiliter observabo. Ita me Deus adjuvet, et hæc sancta Dei evangelia! "Which othe geven, Sir Gybert Talbot shall deliver the Garter to hym, and cause the same in good and honorable manner to be put about his legge, the saide Abbott of Glastonburye sayinge audablye thes wordes followinge:-- "Ad laudem et honorem summi atque omnipotentis Dei, intemeratæ Virginis et Matris suæ Mariæ, ac gloriosissimi martiris Georgii, hujus Ordinis Patroni, circumcingo tibiam tuam hoc Garterio, ut possis in isto bello firmiter stare et fortiter vincere, in signum Ordinis et augmentum tui honoris. "Which thinge so don, the saide Sir Gylbert shall deliver unto the saide Duke the gowne of purple couler, and cause hym to apparrell hymself with the same, the saide Abbot of Glastonburye sayinge thes wordes followinge, at the doinge on of the same:-- "Accipe vestem hanc purpuream, quâ semper munitus non verearis pro fide Christi, libertate ecclesiæ et oppressorum tuitione fortiter dimicare, et sanguinem effundere, in signum Ordinis et augmentum tui honoris. "And then followinge, the sayd Sir Gilbert shall cause the sayde Duke to do upon hym the mantle of blew velvett, garnyshed with the scute and crosse of Saint George, and the said Abbot of Glastonburye sayinge thes wordes:-- "Accipe clamidem coelestis coloris clypeo crucis Christi insignitam, cujus virtute atque vigore semper protectus, hostes superare, et pro clarissimis tuis meritis gaudia tandem coelestia promereri valeas, in signum Ordinis et augmentum tui honoris. "And when the saide Duke shall be so apperrylled with the ornaments aforesaide, the saide Sir Gylbert shall put the image of Seinte George abowt his necke, the saide Abbott saying thes wordes:-- "Imaginem gloriosissimi martiris Georgii, hujus Ordinis patroni, in collo tuo deferes, cujus fultus presidio hujus mundi prospera et adversa sic pertranseas, ut hostibus corporis et animi devictis, non modo temporalis militiæ gloriam, sed perennis victoriæ palmam accipere valeas, in signum Ordinis et augmentum tui honoris." Hollinshed, following Hall, informs us that "Sir Gilbert Talbot, Knight, Richard Bere, Abbot of Glastonburie, and Doctor Robert Sherborne, Deane of St. Paules, were sent as ambassadors from the King to Rome, to declare to Pius the third of that name, newlie elected pope in place of Alexander the Sixt, deceased, what joy and gladnesse had entered the King's heart for his preferment. But he taried not the comming of those ambassadors, for within a moneth after that he was installed, he rendered his debt to nature, and so had short pleasure of his promotion.... The King caused Guidebald, Duke of Urbine, to be elected Knight of the Order of the Garter, in like manner as his father Duke Frederike had been before him, which was chosen and admitted into the Order by King Edward the Fourth. Sir Gilbert Talbot, and the other two ambassadors, being appointed to keepe on their journey unto Pope Julius the Second, elected after the death of the said Pius the Third, bare the habit, and collar also, unto the said Duke Guidebald."[316] It must, however, be observed that letters of safe conduct for these ambassadors are stated to have been issued under the Privy Seal on the 22nd of February, 1504, as if but then beginning their journey. This mission was in accordance with the statutes of the Order, which provided that, within four months of the election, special messengers should be despatched to invest each foreign knight with the insignia, and that, within eight months after the investiture, he should send a proctor to England to receive installation in his name. [Footnote 316: Hall quaintly says that the King intended "to stop two gappes with one bushe."] We learn from Burchard that the three envoys reached Rome the 12th of May, 1504. They were met by Sylvester Gigli, Bishop of Worcester, Anglican resident at the papal court, and had a splendid reception. On the 20th they had an audience, when, the minister of Louis XII. having protested against Henry taking the style of France, they were admitted as the ambassadors of England only. No details have reached us of the investiture. The authority to which we naturally turn for the circumstances attending this interesting episode of our narrative is Polydoro di Vergilio, a native of Urbino, and historian of England; but a fact, which to the writer ought to have been of peculiar importance, is passed over without details. As, however, the supposed autograph copy of his History varies considerably from printed editions, we shall here quote from it the entire passage, proving the incorrect manner in which this work is given to the public. "Alexandro Sexto mortuo, creatus est Pontifex Franciscus, Senensis antistes, qui Pii fuit Secundi ex sorore nepos, voluitque et ipse Pius Tertius in memoria avunculi vocari. Hic amicissimus erat regis Henrici [VII.], qui, ut primus omnium Christianorum principum bono patri de adepto pontificatu congratularetur, confestim Gilbertum Talbott equitem, Ricardum Beer Abbatem Glasconiensem, et Robertum Scherburn decanum divi Pauli Londinensis oratores designavit ad ipsum pontificatum. Sed Pius non expectavit gratulationem, qui obiit sexto et vigesimo die quam sedere coeperat. Creatur in ejus locum Julianus, Cardinalis Sti. Petri ad Vincula, patria Ligur, dictusque est Julius Secundus. Huic postea illi tres regis oratores congratulatum inerunt, quos Hadrianus Castellensis episcopus Herefordensis, quem paulo ante Alexander Cardinalem fecerat, Romæ hospitio excepit. Hunc rex Henricus sub idem tempus ab Herefordensi sede ad Bathoniensem ac Wellensem transferri curavit. At Hadrianus, ut præter sua quotidiana obsequia, quæ tam regi quam Anglis omnibus libens præstabat, aliquo diuturniori memoriæ monumento relinqueret, apud omnes testatum se memorem fuisse acceptorum beneficiorum ab Henrico, atque nomen Anglicum amasse, donavit regi palatium magnificum quod ipse Romæ in Vaticano ædificaverat, ornavitque regis insignibus, ut in ea luce hominum aliquod egregium opus nomini Anglico dedicatum conspiceretur.[317] Item, iidem oratores detulerunt habitum Garterii ordinis Guidoni Duci Urbini, principi seculo nostro Latinæ Linguæ simul ac Græcæ ac militaris disciplinæ peritissimo, quem Rex paulo ante in Collegium ipsius Ordinis asciverat. Dux postea destinavit in Angliam Baldasarem Castilliorum, natione Mantuanum, equitem tam doctrinâ quam bellicâ virtute præstantem, ut suo nomine ejus Ordinis cerimonias exequeret. Fuit Baldaser ab Henrico perbenigne exceptus, atque comiter habitus; qui, finitis ceremoniis, non indonatus, postmodum ad suum Decem redivit."[318] [Footnote 317: The palace thus gifted to Henry is believed to have been that in Borgo, called Palazzo Giraud, in which many of our countrymen have of late received the splendid hospitalities of Prince Torlonia.] [Footnote 318: Vat. Urb. MSS. No. 498, f. 273. For Polydoro di Vergilio, see above, pp. 115-18.] There is thus no authority for a statement in the printed version of this History, adopted by Hall, Baldi, and others, that the decoration was conferred in consequence of Guidobaldo's own wish to belong to an Order, of whose illustration he had become cognisant from its having been borne by his father. Perhaps the requests which conclude the letter of Henry VII. may give the most satisfactory key to the royal policy. Informed, as he no doubt was, of the state of affairs at the Papal court, he must have been aware that to conciliate the Duke was the wisest course for those who had favours to gain from the Pontiff. Be this as it may, the Garter was received by Guidobaldo at Rome in June, as became so singular an honour, and was proudly worn next St. George's day in compliance with the rules of the Order. Having resolved suitably so to acknowledge the dignity by a special envoy to London, he selected as his proctor Castiglione, the choicest spirit of his elegant court. The first we hear of this intention is from the Count's letter of 2nd March, 1505, confidently informing his mother that he would probably be sent to represent his master at his installation in England. The plan, however, remained long in abeyance. Castiglione spent the autumn at the baths of S. Casciano in Tuscany, for an old injury or wound in his foot, and, in the end of the year, went on a mission to Ferrara.[319] At length he set out, on the 24th of July, 1506, accompanied by Francesco di Battista di Ricece, and Giulio da Cagli, with their respective suites. Among the presents he was charged to deliver to the King were some falcons, three of the finest racers of the Urbino breed, and a precious little picture, by Raffaele, of St. George as patron of the English Order, which we have already mentioned at p. 233. He was at Lyons in September, and this notice of his arrival at Dover is preserved by Anstis:-- "The 20th of Octobre, the twenty-second year of our soverain lord, King Henry VII., there landed at Dover a noble ambassadeur, sent from the Duc of Urbin, called Sir Balthasar de Castilione, whiche came to be installed in his lorde's name; whiche Duc had receyved before by the Abbot of Glastonbury and Sir Gilbert Talbott, being the King's commissionaris, the Garetier, &c., to the Ordre apperteyning. And, to mete with the said ambassadeur, was sent Sir Thomas Brandon, havyng a goodly companye with hym of his owne servants, all verely well horsed, unto the see-seyde; whiche, after they met togedre, kept contynnually compagnie with hym, and, when they approched nere to Deptford, ther met with the forsaid ambassadeur by the King's commandement, the Lord Thomas Dokara, lord of St. John's, and Thomas Writhesley, alias Gartier princypall king of Armes. Whiche lord of St. John's had in his compaignie thirty of his servaunts, all in a lyvery new, well horsed, every [one] of his gentlemen beryng a javelayn in his hand, and every yeman havying his bowe and a sheffe of arrowes, and soe convoyed hym to his lodging, and on the morrow unto London. And by the waye ther met with the said ambassadeur dyvers Italyens, as the Pope's Vicecollector, Paulus de Gygeles [Giliis], with dyvers [others]; and soe convoyed hym to the Pope's Vicecollector's hows, wher he was lodged." [Footnote 319: I can find nothing in support of Roscoe's assertion that he was wounded while aiding Guidobaldo to recover his duchy, and the whole facts seem to contradict it. _Leo X._, ch. vii., § 7, note. That usually accurate writer has fallen into the mistake of ascribing to the Count's _sister_ his interment and monumental inscription in the church of the Minims, near Mantua, while the epitaph which he has printed, bears that Aloysia Gonzaga placed it over a worthy _son_, whom she unwillingly survived. Several dates in our text are supplied from Vat. Urb. MSS. No. 904, p. 43.] Two days after Castiglione reached London he was sent for by the King, whose marked favour, whilst he stated the objects of his mission in an eloquent Latin address, is recorded in his own letters. The installation took place on the 10th of November, upon the following commission, printed by Ashmole:-- "Henry, by the grace of God, &c. Forasmuch as we understand that the right noble prince Gwe de Ubaldis, Duke of Urbin, who was heretofore elected to be one of the companions of the said noble Order, cannot conveniently repair into this our realm, personally to be installed in the collegiate church of that Order, and to perform other ceremonies whereunto by the statutes of the said Order he is bound, but for that intent and purpose hath sent a right honourable personage, Balthasar de Castilione, Knight, sufficiently authorised as his proctor, to be installed in his name, and to perform all other things for him, to the statutes and ordinances of the said Order requisite and appertaining. We, therefore, in consideration of the premises, will, and by these presents, give unto you licence, full power, and authority, not only to accept and admit the said Balthasar as proctor for the same Duke, and to receive his oath and instal him in the lieu and place and for the said Duke, but also farther, to do therein as to the statutes and laudable usages of the said Order it appertaineth; and this our writing shall be to you and every of you sufficient discharge in that behalf. Given under the seale of our said noble Order of the Garter, at our mannor of Grenewiche, the 7th day of November, the twenty-second year of our reign." After the ceremonial was concluded, the Count visited the other knights in the name of his master. This installation by proxy has given rise to a confusion that he was himself honoured with the Garter, which Roscoe first exposed. It is probable, however, that he was knighted by Henry, a dignity he had vainly looked for at the hand of Julius II. before his departure; at all events he received from him, besides gifts of horses and dogs, a gold chain or collar of SS links, from which depended two portcullises and a golden rose with its centre of silver. This chain, long peculiar to English chief justices, is traced by Dugdale from the initials of Saint Simplicius, a primitive Christian judge and martyr; and the badge was adopted by that monarch as heir of the Plantagenets through both rival roses. The decoration, mistaken by Marliani for the collar of the Garter, was destined by the Count as an heirloom, and it accordingly surrounded his armorial coat in that dedication copy of his letter to Henry, narrating the life of Guidobaldo, which he described by Anstis. On the 9th of February, 1507, he was at Milan on his return to Urbino, where he arrived about the end of the month, charged with affectionate letters and messages from Henry, and with rich presents. His conversation, of all that he had seen in a country so imperfectly known, was greatly relished by the Duke, and his anecdotes of its court, its wealth, and its wonders long continued to enliven the palace-circle of Montefeltro. APPENDIX III (Page 138) GIOVANNI SANZI'S MS. CHRONICLE OF FEDERIGO DUKE OF URBINO Considering the importance of Sanzi's Rhyming Chronicle of Duke Federigo to the literary history of Urbino, and the almost total neglect in which it has hitherto lain, we shall here describe with some minuteness the only copy of it known to exist. It is a large and thick folio volume, No. 1305 of the Ottoboniana MSS. in the Vatican Library, written on paper in a firm Italian hand of the fifteenth century, expressly for the Duke Guidobaldo I., to whom it is dedicated. Some passages have been interpolated on the margin, and others are altered by pasting a new version over the cancelled lines, in a character slightly different from that of the text, of which, being probably autograph, a fac-simile is given on the following page.[320] [Footnote 320: This marginal interpolation, occurring in the dedication, runs thus:--"Pregandoti humilmente ryguardi ly gloriosi fatti del tuo famoso padre, e non la basseza del myo style [not "srypt," as Passavant reads it], ornato solo da me dy quella sincer fede che deue vn fydeli servo al suo signore."] The general title, supplied in a much later hand, runs thus:--"Historia della Guerra d'Italia nel tempo de' PP. Pio e Paolo II., del 1478, in versi di Gio[~v]. Sati al Duca di Urbino"; but the Chronicle itself is thus headed, "Principio del opera composta da Giohanni Santi, pictore, nelaquale se contiene la vita e gesti de lo illustrissimo et invictissimo Principe Federico Feretrano, Duca di Urbino." A prose dedication occupies four pages, and is followed by a prologue of nine chapters in verse; the poem itself is divided into a hundred and four chapters, arranged in twenty-three books, the whole work consisting of about twenty-four thousand lines.[321] It may be not uninteresting to print the contents of these chapters, supplying the omitted titles of the two first. [Footnote 321: Several errors in the numeration, both of the folios and chapters, might readily deceive a superficial observer, and have misled even Passavant.] [Illustration: [Transcriber's Note: handwritten text; see footnote 320 above]] LIBRO PRIMO. CAP. I. [Of the race of Montefeltro preceding Duke Federico, and of his birth and betrothal.] CAP. II. [Of the boyish embassies of Count Federico; of his education and marriage.] CAP. III. Nel quale se tracta de la prima militia sua cum Nicolo Picinino. CAP. IV. Nel quale si tratta la rocta di Monte Locho. CAP. V. De la predicta rocta di Monte Locho. LIBRO SECONDO. CAP. VI. Nel quale se tratta el rincondurse del C. Federico cum Nicolo Piccino e el guerre de la Marca. CAP. VII. Nel quale se tratta la morte del Duca Oddantonio el diventare el Conte Signore de Urbino. CAP. VIII. Nel quale poi uarie cose, se tratta le rebillione de la Marca contra el Conte Francesco Sforza. CAP. IX. Nel quale se tratta l'aspera guerra per Papa Eugenio al Conte Federico. CAP. X. De varie cose e del tradimento de Fossambrone contra del Conte Federico. CAP. XI. De la rotta del Signore Sigismondo ha Fossambrone. LIBRO TERZO. CAP. XII. Nel quale se contiene la guerra de Toscana per il Re Alfonso contra Fiorentini, et la condutta del Conte Federico cum loro. CAP. XIII. Nel quale se tratta de lo assedio di Pionbino per el Re Alfonso. CAP. XIV. De la morte del Duca Phillippo, et diverse guerre de Lombardia. LIBRO QUARTO. CAP. XV. Nel quale se contiene la condutta del Conte cum el Re Alfonso, et la guerra di Toscana al tempo di Ferrante Duca de Calabria. CAP. XVI. De uarie cose de Lombardia, et la lega quasi de tutta Italia, e l'andata del Conte a Napoli. CAP. XVII. Parlamento insieme del S. Sigismondo et de Conte a Ferrara, per el mezo del Duca Borso. CAP. XVIII. Resposta del Conte al S. Sigismondo nel predicto parlamento. LIBRO QUINTO. CAP. XIX. Nel quale se contiene la guerra fra el S. Sigismondo el Conte de Urbino, et la uenuta del Conte Jacomo Piccinino contra del S. Sigismondo. CAP. XX. De la preditta guerra. LIBRO SESTO. CAP. XXI. Nel quale se contiene el principio et uarie guerre del Reame di Napoli al tempo del Duca Giohanni contra de el Re Ferrante. CAP. XXII. Del andata del Conte Jacomo nel Reame contra de el Re Ferrante. CAP. XXIII. De la rotta del Re a Sarno, et el correre scontro de dui Braceschi cum dui Feltreschi. CAP. XXIV. Del fatto e l'arme de Santo Fabiano. CAP. XXV. Del preditto fatto d'arme de Santo Fabiano. CAP. XXVI. Del predicto fatto d'arme. LIBRO SETTIMO. CAP. XXVII. Nel quale se contiene uarie e diuerse ribellione de cipta e castelli de la predicta guerra del Reame. CAP. XXVIII. De la correria del Aquila a la citta, et la expugnatione de Albi. LIBRO OTTAVO. CAP. XXIX. Nel quale se contiene le predicte guerre del Reame, et molti expugnatione de castelli, et lo assedio famossissimo de Casteluccio, et la uenuta del Signori chi erano in Abruzo per la sua liberatione. CAP. XXX. De la oratione fatta a li militi del Conte, et la expugnatione di Castellucio. CAP. XXXI. Dele preditte guerre del Reame e dela rotta del S. Napolione inela la Marca. LIBRO NONO. CAP. XXXII. Nel quale se contiene la rotta che dette el Conte al S. Sigismondo ha Senegaglia. CAP. XXXIII. Del preditto fatto d'arme. CAP. XXXIV. De la preditta guerra contra el S. Sigismondo, et lo aquisto de diverse sue terre. CAP. XXXV. De la preditta guerra contra el S. Sigismondo, et la industriosa expugnatione de la Rocha de Veruchio, et la assedio di Fano. CAP. XXXVI. Del medesimo assedio di Fano, et la uictoria di quello. LIBRO DECIMO. CAP. XXXVII. Nel quale se contiene l'ultima ruina del S. Sigismondo, landata del Papa Pio in Ancona et la sua morte, la creatione de Paulo II., la ruina del stato de Deifobo da l'Auguilara, et la guerra de Cesena, da poi la morte del S Malatesta. CAP. XXXVIII. De la uictoria de Cesena la morte del Duca Francesco [Sforza] et l'andata del Conte ha Milano. LIBRO UNDECIMO. CAP. XXXIX. Nel quale se contiene la nouita de Fiorenza nel sesanta sei, et la guerra de Romagna per Bartholomeo da Bergamo. CAP. XL. De la preditta guerra de Romagna. CAP. XLI. Oratione del Conte a li suoi militi nante el fatto d'arme de la Mulinella. CAP. XLII. Del bellissimo fatto d'arme fra Bartholomeo, el Conte a la Mulinella. CAP. XLIII. Del preditto fatto d'arme de la Mulinella. CAP. XLIV. De la preditta guerra, e 'l sachegiare el Conte alle del Amone. LIBRO DUODECIMO. CAP. XLV. Nel quale se contiene la guerra et lo assedio de Arimino per Papa Paulo. CAP. XLVI. Del preditto assedio de Arimino, et una proua mirabile del S. Roberto. CAP. XLVII. De la preditta guerra, e una alto pensiero del Conte per la liberatione de Arimino.[322] [Footnote 322: This chapter being numbered XLVI. by mistake in the original, the subsequent numbers here given are always in advance by _one_ until Cap. LXXIII.] CAP. XLVIII. De la preditta guerra, e locutione del Conte ali militi nante el fatto, d'arme da Ceresuolo. CAP. XLIX. De la uenuta de le gente de la Chiesa a trouare el Conte. CAP. L. Del bellissimo fatto d'arme da Cerisuolo. CAP. LI. Del preditto fatto d'arme de Cerisuolo. CAP. LII. Dela rotta dele gente de la Chiesa a Cerisuolo. CAP. LIII. Del fine de la guerra di Arimino. LIBRO DECIMO TERZO. CAP. LIV. Nel quale se tratta la rebellione de Volterra contra Fiorentini, et l'andata del Conte per campegiarla. CAP. LV. Del campegiare de Volterra. CAP. LVI. Del sacho de Volterra. CAP. LVII. Dela tornata del Conte a casa, et dela morte dela excellentissima donna sua, Madonna Baptista Sforza. LIBRO DECIMO QUARTO. CAP. LVIII. Nel quale se contiene le fabriche et magni hedificii che fea murare el Conte, et inparte la sua uita altempo di pace. CAP. LIX. Delo istudio del Conte, et dela venuta del Cardinale de Samsixto ad Ogobio. LIBRO DECIMO QUINTO. CAP. LX. In questo se contiene l'andata del Conte ha Napoli, et molti honori et dignita quale habbe in quella andata. CAP. LXI. Et quale tratta como el Conte fu fatto Duca de Urbino, et delo assedio dela cipta de Castello. CAP. LXII. De varie turbulentie, et precipue de Romagna. LIBRO DECIMO SESTO. CAP. XLIII. Nel quale se contiene la venuta delo Re Ferrante a Roma, l'andata del Duca, et la dignita de la Galatera. CAP. LXIV. Como el Duca receue la Galatea, et de la morte del Duca Galeazo Duca de Milano. CAP. LXV. Del luoco, et como, el di che fu morto el preditto Duca Galeazo Maria. CAP. LXVI. Discurso de la dubia uita de Signori et de grani ciptadini. LIBRO DECIMO SETTIMO. CAP. LXVII. Nel quale se contiene la tornata del Conte Carlo [Braccio] a Montone, le nouita de Penisia per la sua uenuta, et landata che lui fea contra Senesi. CAP. LXVIII. Del andare el Conte a campo a Montone, et la expugnatione de esso Montone. LIBRO DECIMO OCTAVO. CAP. LXIX. Nel qual se contiene como el Signor Carlo Manfredi fu chaciato de Faenza da el fratello chiamato el Signor Galeotto; la mossa che fece el Conte in suo favore, et como nel tornare adrieto essendo a Sanmarino se ruppe uno piede. CAP. LXX. Del modo et conmo el Duca se ruppe el piede, et de la grauissima sua egritudine et de la conjuratione contra li Medici in Fiorenza. CAP. LXXI. De lo insulto contra de Laurentio de Medici, et de la morte del suo fratello Giuliano. CAP. LXXII. De la destrutione de la casa de Pazzi, et del principio de la guerra de Toscano nel MCCCLXXVIII. LIBRO DECIMO NONO. CAP. LXXIII.[323] Nel quale se tratta el primo anno dela guerra di Toscana. [Footnote 323: This chapter, being omitted in the original numeration, the subsequent five numbers are in advance by _two_.] CAP. LXXIV. Dela unione che fece insieme el Duca Alfonso Duca di Calabria, el Duca de Urbino. CAP. LXXV. Delo assedio del Monte Samsavino, et dele dificulta che il Duca ui sostinne. CAP. LXXVI. Oratione lunga del Duca ali militi al Monte Samsavino. CAP. LXXVII. Dela preditta oratione. CAP. LXXVIII. Del astutia che uso el Duca per hauere la triegua al Monte Samsavino. CAP. LXXIX. Dela proposta del Duca dela triegua ali Signori del Campo, et dela expugnatione del Monte.[324] [Footnote 324: This chapter being omitted in the original numeration, the subsequent numbers are in advance by _three_ until No. XCVII.] LIBRO VIGESIMO. CAP. LXXX. Nel quale se contiene el secondo anno dela guerra de Toscana. CAP. LXXXI. De diuersi danni de Perusini, et dela morte del Conte Carlo, e altre cose. CAP. LXXXII. Dela ruina de Casole, luoco de Senesi, et dela uitoria del Signor Roberto ala Magione. CAP. LXXXIII. De molti danni de Perusini per el Signor Roberto, et l'aquisto per el Duca del Monte Inperiale. CAP. LXXXIV. De liberarse li Perusini dali danni de Signor Roberto et delo assedio di Colle. CAP. LXXXV. Del predicto assedio di Colle. CAP. LXXXVI. Dela battaglia prima data ha Colle. CAP. LXXXVII. De poi piu baptaglie data ha Colle, et la uictoria hauta di lui. CAP. LXXXVIII. De l'andata di Lorenzo di Medici a Napoli, et la pace cum Fiorentini del Papa et del Re. LIBRO VIGESIMO PRIMO. CAP. LXXXIX. Dela stantia del Duca a Viterbo, et dela dignita del Capello et dela Spada. CAP. XC. Delo aquisto de Furli per et Conte Geronimo Riario, et prima del andata del Duca. CAP. XCI. Dela uictoria di Furli, et la possessione de esso per el preditto Conte, et la uenuta de Turchi a Otranto. CAP. XCII. De la guerra de Turchi in Puglia. LIBRO VIGESIMO SECONDO. CAP. XCIII. Nel quale se contiene la guerra de Ferrara per li Venetiani contra del Duca Ercule di Este, et prima dela practica de essa guerra, l'andata del Conte Geronimo a Vinesa. CAP. XCIV. Dela preditta guerra de Ferara, et landata del Signor Roberto da Santo Seuerino a Vinesa. CAP. XCV. Dela partita del Duca da Urbino per andare a Milano, e una disputa dela pictura. CAP. XCVI. Dela ditta guerra de Ferrara, et dello assedio de Figaruolo. CAP. XCVII.[325] Del preditto assedio de Figaruolo, le turbulentie de Roma, l'andata del Signor Roberto Malatesta. [Footnote 325: This number being repeated by mistake in the original, the subsequent numbers are in advance by _two_.] CAP. XCVIII. Del ditto assedio de Figaruolo, e de la morte de Messer Pier deli Ubaldini al bastione dala Punta. CAP. XCIX. Dela aspre battaglie quale deva el Signor Roberto da Santo Seuerino a Figaruolo. CAP. C. Como el Signor Roberto da poi molte baptaglie vinse Figaruolo. LIBRO VIGESIMO TERZO. CAP. CI. Nel quale se contiene el ponte che fece el Signore Roberto per passare el Po, la rotta del Duca di Callabria a Campomorto. CAP. CII. Como se parti da Castello le gente Feltresche, et andaro a Furli. CAP. CIII. Dela egritudine del Duca, et la uenuta sua in Ferrara. CAP. CIV. Dela morte del Duca, et del Signore Roberto Malatesta. APPENDIX IV (Page 138) EPITAPH OF GIOVANNI DELLA ROVERE The inscription upon the humble headstone of the sovereigns of Sinigaglia in the nave of Sta. Maria delle Grazie, runs thus:-- D.O.M. JOHANNES DE RUVERE, Senogalliæ vetustissimæ civitatis Dominus, Almæ urbis Prefectus, Sori Arcanæque Dux, exercituum Sixti Quarti, Innocentii Octavi, summus Imperator, Maximorum Pontificium Sixti nepos, Julii Secundi frater, cum uxore suâ Joannâ Monfeltriâ, Federici Urbini Ducis filiâ, præstantioribus Et nobilioribus feminis, adversis Secundisque rebus, conferendâ et Preferendâ, magnum hoc templum Affundamentis erexit; et multis Egregiis tam bello quam pace actis, Procaci abreptus morte, Anno Domini MDI., Ætatisque suæ quadragesimo quarto, Hic tumulatur. APPENDIX V (Page 348) REMISSION AND REHABILITATION OF DUKE FRANCESCO MARIA I. IN 1511-13. Having no wish to overload these pages with a papal bull, either in its barbarous Latinity or in a crabbed translation, we shall content ourselves with abbreviating the formal record of the investigation and sentence of absolution, dated the 9th of December, 1511, by which the Duke of Urbino was acquitted of the slaughter of the Cardinal of Pavia. Julius, in that document, sets forth that, after reducing Bologna to obedience of the Church, he placed over it the Cardinal as legate, who ungratefully betrayed his duty to the Pope and the Church by secretly plotting for restoration of the Bentivoglii, and for defeat of the army under command of the Duke, as well as by withdrawing to Ravenna on pretext of terror, but in fact to conceal his treason. That having, by these and many other enormities, incurred the guilt of treason and lèse-majesty, he was slain by Francesco Maria; and that, on a complaint of this outrage being preferred, his Holiness, judging from the first aspect of the affair that this crime against the dignity of the purple afforded so pernicious an example, and such general horror and scandal abroad, as to require an impartial inquiry, had remitted it to six cardinals, in order to make sifting inquest into the matter, receiving secret oral testimony, without reference to the ties of blood, but with ample powers, judicial and extra-judicial, to carry out the process to its conclusion, and to pronounce sentence therein. And the apostolic procurator-fiscal having appeared to support the charges, required the Duke's committal to prison ere he should be allowed to plead, in order to secure the due course of justice against any elusory proceedings; whereupon he was put under arrest in his own house, and bound over to appear in the sum of 100,000 golden ducats. Thereafter, the judges having taken evidence and published it, the Pope advocated the cause and pronounced an acquittal, which the Duke refused to accept, insisting that the prosecution should take its course, and returning under arrest until it should do so. This having been proceeded with, the cardinals gave sentence, acquitting him "of the said charge of homicide, and the punishment it legally inferred," and debarring all future action thereanent at the public prosecutor's instance. Whereupon Julius embodied this narrative in a bull subscribed by eighteen cardinals, and formally guaranteed by the amplest authority, as a protection to Francesco Maria against any future question affecting his tranquillity and status.[326] [Footnote 326: The notorial transumpt of this bull, verified in 1516 by three notaries in presence of the municipality of Urbino, is preserved in the Archivio Diplomatico at Florence, and the preceding abridgment was made from an authenticated extract obtained by me there in 1845. In the same archives there is another formal acquittal to the like purpose, which it is needless to quote.] The remission of the Duke's subsequent misconduct was contained in a papal brief of the 10th of January, 1513, addressed to himself, wherein it was stated that he had been accused by many of maintaining intelligence with the King of France before the battle of Ravenna, and of other intrigues against the Roman Government, as well as of various crimes, including slaughter of cardinals and lèse-majesty, and that he had in consequence been deprived of his dukedom and dignities; but that having experienced his zeal and good faith in the like matters, the Pontiff could not persuade himself of his guilt, for which reason he, _ex motu proprio_, granted to him and his adherents plenary remission from all spiritual and temporal censures and sentences incurred therein, and restored him to all his honours and dignities. The entire wording of this document, the original of which is preserved along with the bull just quoted, shows a studious exactitude and elaboration of terms, so as to guard it against future question; but, considering its importance with reference to the prosecution subsequently mooted against the Duke by Leo X., it may be well here to give the _ipsissima verba_ of the remission clauses. The brief is addressed, but has no counter-signature; a transumpt of it in the same archive has the name "Baldassar Tuerdus" as a counter-signature. "Motu proprio, et ex certâ nostrâ scientiâ ac maturâ deliberatione, et apostolice potestatis plenitudine, apostolicâ auctoritate, tenore presentium, tibi et illis plenarie remittimus pariter et indulgemus, teque ac illos, et illorum singulos, ab omnibus sententiis censuris et penis quibuslibet, spiritualibus et temporalibus, a jure vel ab homine quomodolibet promulgatis, auctoritate scientiâ et potestate predictis, absolvimus et liberamus, ac te tuosque filios, natos et nascituros ac heredes quoscunque, ad Vicariatum, Ducatum, Comitatus, teque ac subditos, adherentes, complices ac sequaces, ac singulorum eorundem heredes, ad feuda, dominia, honores et dignitates, offitia, privelegia, bona ac jura, ac ad actus legitimos, quibus forsan premissorum, et aliâ quâcunque occasione, etiam de necessitate experimendâ privati, censeri possetis, auctoritate scientiâ et potestate premissis restituimus, et etiam reintegramus, et ad eundem statum reducimus et reponimus, in quo tu et illi eratis ante tempus quo premissa commisissetis; districtius inhibentes quibuscunque officialibus nostris, et dicte Ecclesie, qui sunt et pro tempore erunt, ne contra te et subditos, adherentes, complices et sequaces, aut aliquem vestrum, occasione hujusmodi criminum possint procedere, aut occasione premissorum te vel illos, aut aliquem eorum, molestare quoquo modo presumant; ac decernentes ex nunc irritum et inane quicquid ac quoscunque processus et sententias, quos seu quas contra inhibitionem nostram hujusmodi haberi contigerit, seu etiam promulgari." APPENDIX VI (Page 392) LETTER FROM CARDINAL WOLSEY TO LORENZO DE' MEDICI The following letter has been lately printed by the Marchese Caponi, in the _Archivio Storico Italiano_, vol. I., p. 472, from the original in his possession:-- To the most illustrious and most excellent Prince our Lord Lorenzo de' Medici, Duke of Urbino, dear to us as a brother. Most illustrious and most excellent Lord Duke, dear to us as a brother, The Signor Adriano, your Excellency's servant, has delivered your most courteous and kind letters addressed to us, on eagerly perusing which we recognised with great satisfaction your Excellency's friendly dispositions in our behalf. We have in consequence received the said Signor Adriano with the greatest possible civility, and have freely offered and promised him our every favour and support in all places and circumstances. Having learned that your Excellency takes no small pleasure in dogs, we now send you by your said servant some blood-hounds [_odorissequos_], and also several stag-hounds of uncommon fleetness, and of singular strength in pulling down their game. And we farther specially beg of you to let us know if there be anything else in this famed kingdom that you would wish; and should you in future boldly make use in your affairs of my assistance, good-will, and influence, such as it is, whether with his Majesty my sovereign, who is most favourably disposed towards you, or with any other person whatsoever, you will find me willing and ready to oblige you. May you be preserved in happiness. From our palace in London, the 28th of June, 1518. As your Excellency's brother, T. CARDINAL OF YORK. END OF THE SECOND VOLUME. GENEALOGICAL TABLES [Transcriber's Note: In the original genealogical tables, natural children are denoted by a wavy line, here represented by the ! symbol.] DESCENT OF THE DELLA ROVERE DUKES OF URBINO. LUDOVICO LEONARDO = LUCHINA STELLA MUGLIONE. DELLA ROVERE. | | _____________|________________________________________________ | | | | FRANCESCO DELLA ROVERE, RAFFAELE = TEODORA ---- = GIOVANNI JOLANDA | GIROLAMO POPE SIXTUS IV., | MENEROLA. | BASSO, RIARIO. b. 1414, d. 1484. | | d. 1483. | | _______________________________| | | | | __________________________________________|________ | | | | | | 1476. | GIROLAMO, FRANCESCO, BARTOLOMEO. GUGLIELMO, ANTONIO = CATERINA | Cardinal, of Prior of d. 1482. MARCIANA, | S. Chrisogono, Pisa. niece of | d. 1507. Ferdinand | of Naples. |_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ | | | | 1474. | BARTOLOMEO, GIULIANO DELLA ROVERE, LEONARDO, Duke = GIOVANNA, GIOVANNI, Prefect = GIOVANNA DI GABRIELE GARA = LUCHINA = G. FRANCESCO Patriarch POPE JULIUS II., of Sora, | nat. daughter of Rome, Lord of | MONTEFELTRO, DELLA ROVERE. | | FRANCIOTTI, of Antioch. b. 1453, d. 1513. Prefect of | of Ferdinand Sinigaglia, | of Urbino, | | DELLA ROVERE, ! Rome, d. 1475. | of Naples, b. 1458, d. 1501. | d. 1514. | | of Lucca. ! | Duchess of | | | ! | Sora. | | | ! | | | | ! S.P. | | | __________________! _____________________________________________________________| | | ! | | | ! | _____________________________________________________________________________________| | ! | | | | | ! | RAFFAELE. SISTO, Cardinal GERAUD | SISTA = GALEAZZO _______________________________________| ! | of S. Pietro D'ANCEZUN, RIARIO. | | | ! | in Vincula, d. 1503. | | | ! | d. 1577. GALEOTTO, Cardinal NICOLÒ = ---- LUCREZIA = MARCANTONIO ! |______________________________________________________ of S. Pietro in | COLONNA. ! | Vincula. | !_______________________________________________________________________ | | | 1 2 | | | | ___________________| RAFFAELE, = NICOLOSA = ANTONIO FELICE = GIAN-GIORDANO GIULIA. CLARICE. | | | 1541. d. 1502. FOGLIANO, DELLA ROVERE. ORSINI, of | GUIDO. LAVINIA = PAOLO ORSINI. of Fermo. Bracciano. | _____________________________________________________________________________|__________________ | | 1509. 1497. | 2 | | FEDERIGO, FRANCESCO MARIA I., = LEONORA IPPOLITA, VENANZIO = MARIA = GALEAZZO COSTANZA, DEODATA. died young. DUKE OF URBINO, | d. of Francesco VARANA, R. SFORZA. d. 1507. b. 1490, d. 1538. | Marquis of Mantua, d. 1503. | d. 1543. | _____________________________|_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ | 1534. | 1548. | 1547. | 1548. | 1552. | FEDERIGO, GIULIA VARANA, = GUIDOBALDO II. = VITTORIA FARNESE, IPPOLITA = DON ANTONIO GIULIA = ALFONSO D'ESTE, ELISABETTA, = ALBERICO CIBÒ, GIULIO, Cardinal died young. d. of Giovanni | DUKE OF URBINO, | d. of Pier-Luigi, D'ARAGONA § Marq. of d. 1561. § Marquis of Archbishop of Maria, Duke of | b. 1514, | Duke of Parma, DI MONTALTO. Montecchio, of Massa. Urbino, 1533, Camerino, | d. 1574. | d. 1602. whom the Dukes d. 1578. b. 1523, | ! | of Modena. ! d. 1547. | ! |_______________________________________________________________________________________________________ ! | !____________________ | | | !______________ _________________________| ! | | | ! | 1560. | ! 1570. | 1599. | 1565. | 1583. ! A son. COUNT FEDERIGO = VIRGINIA = FERDINANDO ORSINI, ! LUCREZIA D'ESTE, = FRANCESCO MARIA II., = LIVIA DELLA ROVERE, ISABELLA = BERN. DI S. LAVINIA = ALFONSO ! BORROMEO, S.P. Duke of Gravina. ! d. of Ercole II., | DUKE OF URBINO, | d. of Marquis of S. SEVERINO, d. 1632. D'AVALOS, ! brother of ! Duke of Ferrara, | b. 1549 + 1631. | Lorenzo, b. 1585. Prince of Marq. of ! S. Carlo. ! b. 1536, | | Basignano. Pescara. ! ! d. 1598. S.P. | ! _________________________________________________! | _________________________________________! | | | | | | { 1. COUNT ANTONIO A daughter = SIGNOR GUIDOBALDO | IPPOLITO, Marq. = ISABELLA VITELLI GIULIANO, A daughter = { LANDRIANO. RENIER. | of S. Lorenzo. | DELL'AMATRICE. Abbot of { 2. SIGNOR P. ANTONIO | | S. Lorenzo. { DA LUNA. | ______________________________|__________ | | | 1599. | _______________________________________________| GIULIO. LIVIA, = FRANCESCO MARIA II., LUCREZIA = MARCANTONIO, | 1621. b. 1585. DUKE OF URBINO. Marq. Lante. FEDERIGO-UBALDO, = CLAUDIA DE' MEDICI, = ARCHDUKE LEOPOLD b. 1605, d. 1623. | b. 1606, d. of of Austria. | Ferdinand I., | Grand Duke of | of Florence. | | 1637. VITTORIA, = FERDINAND II., Grand b. 1622, § Duke of Florence, d. 1694. b. 1630, d. 1670. DESCENT OF THE MEDICI, as connected with URBINO. _From Les Généaologies Souveraines._ GIOVANNI DE' MEDICI 5th from Lippo de' M. of Florence who d. 1258, d. 1428. | _____|_____________________ | | COSIMO DE' M., = CONTESINA LORENZO DE' M., = GINEVRA _Pater Patriæ_, | DE' BARDI. d. 1440. | CAVALCANTI. d. 1464. | | | | PIETRO DE' M., = LUCREZIA PIER-FRANCESCO = LAUDAMIA d. 1472. | TORNABONI. DE' M., | ACCIAJOLI. | d. 1477. |__________________________________________________ ______________________|__________________________ | | | | | LORENZO DE' M., = CLARICE BIANCA = GUGLIELMO GIULIANO | _the Magnificent_, | ORSINI. DE' PAZZI. DE' M., | d. 1492. | d. 1478. | | ! | | GIULIO DE' M., | | CLEMENT VII., | | d. 1535. | _______________|_____________________________________________________________ | | | | | | PIETRO DE' M., = ALFONSINA GIOVANNI DE' M., GIULIANO DE' M., = FILIBERTA, MADDALENA = FRANCESCO CIBÒ, | d. 1504. | ORSINI. LEO X., d. 1521. _the Magnificent_, of Savoy. Count of | | Duke de Nemours, Anguillara. | | d. 1516. | LORENZO DE' M., = MADELEINE ! _________________________________________| Duke of Urbino, | DE LA TOUR. ! | d. 1519. | IPPOLITO DE' M., | ! | Cardinal, | ! | d. 1535. | ! | | ! CATERINA DE' M., = HENRY II. | ! d. 1589. of France. | ! | ALESSANDRO DE' M., = MARGARETTA OF AUSTRIA, | Duke of Florence, bastard of Charles V. | d. 1537. | ____________________________________________________________| | GIOVANNI GIORDANO = CATERINA RIARIO SFORZA, DE' M. | of Imola. | GIOVANNI DE' M., = MARIA SALVIATI. _delle bande nere_, | d. 1526. | | COSIMO I. DE' M., = ELEONORA DI TOLEDO. GRAND DUKE | OF FLORENCE, | d. 1574. | | _____________________|_____________ | | JOANNA, of = FRANCESCO MARIA DE' M., = BIANCA FERDINAND II. DE' M., = CHRISTINE Austria. GRAND DUKE OF FLORENCE, CAPELLO. GRAND DUKE OF FLORENCE, | DE LORAINE. d. 1587. d. 1608. | _______________________________________________________________| | 1 | 2 COSIMO II. DE' M., = MARIA MADDALENA, FEDERIGO, Prince = CLAUDIA = ARCHDUKE LEOPOLD, GRAND DUKE OF of Austria. of Urbino, | of Austria. FLORENCE, d. 1621. d. 1623. | | FERDINAND II. DE' MEDICI, = VITTORIA DELLA ROVERE, GRAND DUKE OF FLORENCE, § Princess of Urbino. d. 1670. DESCENT OF THE COLONNA, as connected with URBINO. AGAPITO, eleventh in descent = CATERINA CONTI. from Pietro Colonna, | who lived in 1100. | ____________________|_________ | | ODDO, elected MARTIN V. LORENZO ONOFRIO = SUEVA GAETANI in 1407, d. 1431. | DA FONDI. ____________________________________________|_________________ | | | ODOARDO, Duke = FILIPPA CONTI. ANTONIO, Duke of = IMPERIALE CATERINA = GUIDANTONIO, of Marsi. | Paliano, d. 1471. | COLONNA. d. 1438. § Count of | | Urbino. __________|______ | | | | LORENZO ODDONE, FABRIZIO, Grand = AGNESE DI | d. 1484. Constable of | MONTEFELTRO, | | Naples, d. 1520. | d. 1522. | | ! | | MUZIO, ! | | d. 1516. SCIARRA. | | | | ______________________________| |_______ | | | ASCANIO, Grand = GIOVANNA VITTORIA, = FERDINANDO, | Constable of § D'ARAGONA, b. 1490, Fr. Marquis | Naples, claimant natural d. 1548. of Pescara, | of Urbino, branch of d. 1525. | d. 1557. the Crown | of Naples. | ______________________________________________________| | | | | GIROLAMO = VITTORIA CARDINAL PIER = BERNARDINA PROSPERO, | CONTI. GIOVANNI, ANTONIO. | CONTI. d. 1523. | d. 1508. |____ _____|_________________________ | | | | | | CARDINAL OTTAVIANO. MARCELLO. GIULIO. MARC ANTONIO = LUCREZIA POMPEO, | | GARA DELLA d. 1532. | | ROVERE. | | MARZIO, OTTAVIA = SIGISMONDO d. 1546. VARANA, d. 1522. 
31304	----	EUPHORION: BEING STUDIES OF THE ANTIQUE AND THE MEDIEVAL IN THE RENAISSANCE BY VERNON LEE _Author of "Studies of the 18th Century in Italy," "Belcaro," etc._ _VOL. II._ TABLE OF CONTENTS. THE PORTRAIT ART THE SCHOOL OF BOIARDO MEDIÆVAL LOVE EPILOGUE APPENDIX * * * * * THE PORTRAIT ART I. Real and Ideal--these are the handy terms, admiring or disapproving, which criticism claps with random facility on to every imaginable school. This artist or group of artists goes in for the real--the upright, noble, trumpery, filthy real; that other artist or group of artists seeks after the ideal--the ideal which may mean sublimity or platitude. We summon every living artist to state whether he is a realist or an idealist; we classify all dead artists as realists or idealists; we treat the matter as if it were one of almost moral importance. Now the fact of the case is that the question of realism and idealism, which we calmly assume as already settled or easy to settle by our own sense of right and wrong, is one of the tangled questions of art-philosophy; and one, moreover, which no amount of theory, but only historic fact, can ever set right. For, to begin with, we find realism and idealism coming before us in different ways and with different meaning and importance. All art which is not addressing (as decrepit art is forced to do) faculties to which it does not spontaneously and properly appeal--all art is decorative, ornamental, idealistic therefore, since it consciously or unconsciously aims, not merely at reproducing the already existing, but at producing something which shall repay the looking at it, something which shall ornament, if not a place, at least our lives; and such making of the ornamental, of the worth looking at, necessarily implies selection and arrangement--that is to say idealism. At the same time, while art aims definitely at being in this sense decorative, art may very possibly aim more immediately at merely reproducing, without, selection or arrangement, the actually existing things of the world; and this in order to obtain the mere power of representation. In short, art which is idealistic as a master will yet be realistic as a scholar: it decorates when it achieves, it copies when it studies. But this is only half the question. Certain whole schools may be described as idealistic, others as realistic, in tendency; and this, not in their study, but in their achievement. One school will obviously be contented with forms the most unselected and vulgar; others will go but little out of their way in search of form-superiority; while yet others, and these we must emphatically call idealistic, are squeamish to the last degree in the choice and adaptation of form, anxious, to get the very best, and make the very best of it. Yet, on thinking over it, we shall find that realistic and idealistic schools are all, in their achievements, equally striving after something which is not the mere reproduction of the already existing as such--striving, in short, after decoration. The pupil of Perugino will, indeed, wait patiently to begin his work until he can find a model fit for a god or goddess; while the fellow-craftsman of Rembrandt will be satisfied with the first dirty old Jew or besotten barmaid that comes to hand. But the realistic Dutchman is not, therefore, any the less smitten with beauty, any the less eager to be ornamental, than the idealistic Italian: his man and woman he takes indeed with off-hand indifference, but he places them in that of which the Italian shall perhaps never have dreamed, in that on which he has expended all his science, his skill, his fancy, in that which he gives as his addition to the beautiful things of art--in atmosphere, in light, which are to the everyday atmosphere and light what the patiently sought for, carefully perfected god or goddess model of Raphael is to the everyday Jew, to the everyday barmaid, of Rembrandt. The ideal, for the man who is quite coarsely realistic in his figures, exists in the air, light, colour; and in saying this I have, so to speak, turned over the page too quickly, forestalled the expression of what I can prove only later: the disconnection of such comparative realism and idealism as this (the only kind of realism, let us remember, which can exist in great art) with any personal bias of the artist, its intimate dependence upon the constitution and tendency of art, upon its preoccupations about form, or colour, or light, in a given country and at a given moment. And now I should wish to resume the more orderly treatment of the subject, which will lead us in time to the second half of the question respecting realism and idealism. These considerations have come to me in connection with the portrait art of the Renaissance; and this very simply. For portrait is a curious bastard of art, sprung on the one side from a desire which is not artistic, nay, if anything, opposed to the whole nature and function of art: the desire for the mere likeness of an individual. The union with this interloping tendency, so foreign to the whole aristocratic temper of art, has produced portrait; and by the position of this hybrid, or at least far from regularly bred creature; by the amount of the real artistic quality of beauty which it is permitted to retain by the various schools of art, we can, even as by the treatment of similar social interlopers we can estimate the necessities and tendencies of various states of society, judge what are the conditions in which the various schools of art struggle for the object of their lives, which is the beautiful. I have said that art is realistic in its periods or moments of study; and this is essentially the case even with the school which in many respects was the most unmistakably decorative and idealistic in intention: the school of Giotto. The Giottesques are more than decorative artists, they are decorators in the most literal sense. Painting with them is merely one of the several arts and crafts enslaved by mediæval architecture and subservient to architectural effects. Their art is the only one which is really and successfully architecturally decorative; and to appreciate this we must contrast their fresco-work with that of the fifteenth century and all subsequent times. Masaccio, Ghirlandajo, Signorelli, turn the wall into a mere badly made frame; a gigantic piece of cardboard would do as well, and better; the colours melt into one another, the figures detach themselves at various degrees of relief; those upon the ceiling and pendentives are frequently upside down; yet these figures, which are so difficult to see, are worth seeing only in themselves, and not in relation to their position. The masonry is no longer covered, but carved, rendered uneven with the cavities and protrusions of perspective. In Mantegna's frescoes the wall becomes a slanting theatre scene, cunningly perspectived like Palladio's Teatro Olimpico; with Correggio, wall, masonry, everything, is dissolved, the side or cupola of a church becomes a rent in the clouds, streaming with light. Not so with the Giottesque frescoes: the wall, the vault, the triumphant masonry is always present and felt, beneath the straight, flat bands of uniform colour; the symmetrical compartments, the pentacles, triangles, and segments, and borders of histories, whose figures never project, whose colours are separate as those in a mosaic. The Giottesque frescoes, with their tiers and compartments of dark blue, their vague figures dressed in simple ultramarines, greens, dull reds, and purples; their geometrical borders and pearlings and dog-tooths; cover the walls, the ribbed and arched ceilings, the pointed raftering almost like some beautiful brown, blue, and tarnished gold leather-hangings; the figures, outlined in dark paint, have almost the appearance of being stencilled, or even stamped on the wall. Such is Giottesque painting: an art which is not merely essentially decorative, but which is, moreover, what painting and sculpture remained throughout the Gothic period, subservient to the decorative effect of another art; an art in which all is subordinated to architectural effect, in which form, colour, figures, houses, the most dramatic scenes of the most awful of all dramas, everything is turned into a kind of colossal and sublime wall-paper; and such an art as this would lead us to expect but little realism, little deliberate and slavish imitation of the existing. Yet wherever there is life in this Gothic art (which has a horrible tendency, piously unobserved by critics, to stagnate into blundering repetition of the same thing), wherever there is progress, there is, in the details of that grandiose, idealistic decoration, realism of the crudest kind. Those Giottesque workers, who were not content with a kind of Gothic Byzantinism; those who really handed over something vital to their successors of the fifteenth century, while repeating the old idealistical decorations; were studying with extraordinary crudeness of realism. Everything that was not conventional ornament or type was portrait; and portrait in which the scanty technical means of the artist, every meagre line and thin dab of colour, every timid stroke of brush or of pencil, went towards the merciless delineation not merely of a body but of a soul. And the greater the artist, the more cruel the portrait: cruellest in representation of utter spiritual baseness in the two greatest of these idealistic decorators; Giotto, and his latest disciple, Fra Angelico. Of this I should like to give a couple of examples. In Giotto's frescoes at Santa Croce--one of the most lovely pieces of mere architectural decoration conceivable--there are around the dying and the dead St. Francis two groups of monks, which are astoundingly realistic. The solemn ending of the ideally beautiful life of sanctity which was so fresh in the memory of Giotto's contemporaries, is nothing beyond a set of portraits of the most absolutely mediocre creatures, moral and intellectual, of creatures the most utterly incapable of religious enthusiasm that ever made religion a livelihood. They gather round the dying and the dead St. Francis, a noble figure, not at all ecstatic or seraphic, but pure, strong, worn out with wise and righteous labour, a man of thought and action, upon whose hands and feet the stigmata of supernatural rapture are a mere absurdity. The monks are presumably his immediate disciples, those fervent and delicate poetic natures of whom we read in the "Fioretti di San Francesco." To represent them Giotto has painted the likeness of the first half-dozen friars he may have met in the streets near Santa Croce: not caricatures, nor ideals, but portraits Giotto has attempted neither to exalt nor to degrade them into any sort of bodily or spiritual interestingness. They are not low nor bestial nor extremely stupid. They are in various degrees dull, sly, routinist, prosaic, pedantic; their most noteworthy characteristic is that they are certainly the men who are not called by God. They are no scandal to the Church, but no honour; they are sloth, stupidity, sensualism, and cunning not yet risen to the dignity of a vice. They look upon the dying and the dead saint with indifference, want of understanding, at most a gape or a bright look of stupid miscomprehension at the stigmata: they do not even perceive that a saint is a different being from themselves. With these frescoes of Giotto I should wish to compare Fra Angelico's great ceremonial crucifixion in the cloister chapel of San Marco of Florence; for it displays to an extraordinary degree that juxtaposition of the most conventionally idealistic, pious decorativeness with the realism straightforward, unreflecting, and heartless to the point of becoming perfectly grotesque. The fresco is divided into two scenes: on the one side the crucifixion, the mystic actors of the drama, on the other the holy men admitted to its contemplation. A sense that holy things ought to be old-fashioned, a respect for Byzantine inanity which invariable haunted the Giottesques in their capacity of idealistic decorators, of men who replaced with frescoes the solemn lifeless splendours of mosaic; this kind of artistico-religious prudery has made Angelico, who was able to foreshorten powerfully the brawny crucified thieves, represent the Saviour dangling from the cross bleached, boneless, and shapeless, a thing that is not dead because it has never been alive. The holy persons around stand rigid, vacant, against their blue nowhere of background, with vague expanses of pink face looking neither one way nor the other; mere modernized copies of the strange, goggle-eyed, vapid beings on the old Italian mosaics. This is not a representation of the actual reality of the crucifixion, like Tintoret's superb picture at S. Rocco, or Dürer's print, or so many others, which show the hill, the people, the hangman, the ladders and ropes and hammers and tweezers: it is a sort of mystic repetition of it; subjective, if I may say so; existing only in the contemplation of the saints on the opposite side, who are spectators only in the sense that a contemplative Christian may be said to be the mystic spectator of the Passion. The thing for the painter to represent is fervent contemplation, ecstatic realization of the past by the force of ardent love and belief; the condition of mind of St. Francis, St. Catherine of Siena, Madame Guyon: it is the revelation of the great tragedy of heaven to the soul of the mystic. Now, how does Fra Angelico represent this? A row of saints, founders of orders, kneel one behind the other, and by their side stand apostles and doctors of the Church; admitting them to the sight of the super-human, with the gesture, the bland, indifferent vacuity of the Cameriere Segreto or Monsignore who introduces a troop of pilgrims to the Pope; they are privileged persons, they respect, they keep up decorum, they raise their eyes and compress their lips with ceremonious reverence; but, Lord! they have gone through it all so often, they are so familiar with it, they don't look at it any longer; they gaze about listlessly, they would yawn if they were not too well bred for that. The others, meanwhile, the sainted pilgrims, the men whose journey over the sharp stones and among the pricking brambles of life's wilderness finds its final reward in this admission into the presence of the Holiest, kneel one by one, with various expressions: one with the stupid delight of a religious sightseer; his vanity is satisfied, he will next draw a rosary from his pocket and get it blessed by Christ Himself; he will recount it all to his friends at home. Another is dull and gaping, a clown who has walked barefoot from Valencia to Rome, and got imbecile by the way; yet another, prim and dapper; the rest indifferent looking restlessly about them, at each other, at their feet and hands, perhaps exchanging mute remarks about the length of time they are kept waiting; those at the end of the kneeling procession, St. Peter Martyr and St. Giovanni Gualberto especially, have the bored, listless, devout look of the priestlets in the train of a bishop. All these figures, the standing ones who introduce and the kneeling ones who are being introduced, are the most perfect types of various states of dull, commonplace, mediocre routinist superstition; so many Camerlenghi on the one hand, so many Passionist or Propagandists on the other: the first aristocratic, bland and bored; the second, dull, listless, mumbling, chewing Latin Prayers which never meant much to their minds, and now mean nothing; both perfectly reverential and proper in behaviour, with no more possibility of individual fervour of belief than of individual levity of disbelief: the Church, as it exists in well-regulated decrepitude. And thus does the last of the Giottesques, the painter of glorified Madonnas and dancing angels, the saint, represent the saints admitted to behold the supreme tragedy of the Redemption. Thus much for the Giottesques. The Tuscans of the early Renaissance developed up to the utmost, assisted by the goldsmiths and sculptors, who taught them modelling and anatomy, that realistic element of Giottesque painting. Its ideal decorative part had become impossible. Painting could no longer be a decoration of architecture, and it had not yet the means of being ornamental in itself; it was an art which did not achieve, but merely studied. Among its exercises in anatomy, modelling, perspective, and so forth, always laborious and frequently abortive, its only spontaneous, satisfactory, mature production was its portrait work, Portraits of burghers in black robes and hoods; of square-jawed youths with red caps stuck on to their fuzzy heads, of bald and wrinkled scholars and magnificoes; of thinly bearded artizans; people who stand round the preaching Baptist or crucified Saviour, look on at miracle or martyrdom, stolid, self-complacent, heedless, against their background of towered, walled, and cypressed city--of buttressed square and street; ugly but real, interesting, powerful among the grotesque agglomerations of bag-of-bones nudities, bunched and taped-up draperies and out-of-joint architecture of the early Renaissance frescoes; at best among its picture-book and Noah's-ark prettinesses of toy-box cypresses, vine trellises, inlaid house fronts, rabbits in the grass, and peacocks on the roofs; for the early Renaissance, with the one exception of Masaccio, is in reality a childish time of art, giving us the horrors of school-hour blunders and abortions varied with the delights of nursery wonderland: maturity, the power of achieving, the perception of something worthy of perception, comes only with the later generation, the one immediately preceding the age of Raphael and Michael Angelo; with Ghirlandajo, Signorelli, Filippino, Botticelli, Perugino, and their contemporaries. But this period is not childish, is not immature in everything. Or, rather, the various arts which exist together at this period are not all in the same stage of development. While painting is in this immature ugliness, and ideal sculpture, in works like Verrocchio's and Donatello's David, only a cleverer, more experienced, but less legitimate kind of painting, painting more successful in the present, but with no possible future; the almost separate art of portrait-sculpture arises again where it was left by Græco-Roman masters, and, developing to yet greater perfection, gives in marble the equivalent of what painting will be able to produce only much later: realistic art which is decorative; beautiful works made out of ugly materials. The vicissitudes of Renaissance sculpture are strange: its life, its power, depend upon death; it is an art developed in the burying vault and cloister cemetery. During the Middle Ages sculpture had had its reason, its vital possibility, its something to influence, nay, to keep it alive, in architecture; but with the disappearance of Gothic building disappears also the possibility of the sculpture which covers the portals of Chartres and the belfry of Florence. The pseudo-classic colonnades, entablatures, all the thin bastard Ionic and Corinthian of Aberti and Bramante, did not require sculpture, or had their own little supply of unfleshed ox-skulls, greengrocer's garlands, scallopings and wave-linings, which, with a stray siren and one or two bloated emperors' heads, amply sufficed. On the other hand, mediæval civilization and Christian dogma did not encourage the production of naked of draped ideal statues like those which Antiquity stuck on countless temple fronts, and erected at every corner of square, street, or garden. The people of the Middle Ages were too grievously ill grown, distorted, hideous, to be otherwise than indecent in nudity; they may have had an instinct of the kind, and, ugly as they knew themselves to be, they must yet have found in forms like those of Verrocchio's David insufficient beauty to give much pleasure. Besides, if the Middle Ages had left no moral room for ideal sculpture once freed from the service of architecture; they had still less provided it with a physical place. Such things could not be set up in churches, and only a very moderate number of statues could be wanted as open-air monuments in the narrow space of a still Gothic city; and, in fact, ideal heroic statues of the early Renaissance are fortunately not only ugly, but comparatively few in number. There remained, therefore, for sculpture, unless contented to dwindle down into brass and gold miniature work, no regular employment save that connected with sepulchral monuments. During the real Middle Ages, and in the still Gothic north, the ornamentation of a tomb belonged to architecture: from the superb miniature minsters, pillared and pinnacled and sculptured, cathedrals within the cathedral, to the humbler foliated arched canopy, protecting a simple sarcophagus at the corner of many a street in Lombardy. The sculptor's work was but the low relief on the church flags, the timidly carved, outlined, cross-legged knight or praying priest, flattened down on his pillow as if ashamed even of that amount of prominence, and in a hurry to be trodden down and obliterated into a few ghostly outlines. But to this humiliated prostrate image, to this flat thing doomed to obliteration, came the sculptor of the Renaissance, and bade the wafer-like simulacrum fill up, expand, raise itself, lift itself on its elbow, arise and take possession of the bed of state, the catafalque raised high above the crowd, draped with brocade, carved with rich devices of leaves and beasts of heraldry, roofed over with a daïs, which is almost a triumphal arch, garlanded with fruits and flowers, upon which the illustrious dead were shown to the people; but made eternal, and of eternal magnificence, by the stone-cutter, and guarded, not for an hour by the liveried pages or chaunting monks, but by winged genii for all eternity. Some people, I know, call this a degradation, and say that it was the result of corrupt pride, this refusal to have the dear or illustrious dead scraped out any longer by the shoe-nails of every ruffian, rubbed out by the knees of every kitchen wench; but to me it seems that it was due merely to the fact that sculpture had lost its former employment, and that a great art cannot (thank Heaven!) be pietistically self-humiliating. Be this as it may, the sculpture of the Renaissance had found a new and singularly noble line of work, the one in which it was great, unique, unsurpassed, because untutored. It worked here without models, to suit modern requirements, with modern spirit; it was emphatically-modern sculpture; the only modern sculpture which can be talked of as something original, genuine, valuable, by the side of antique sculpture. Greek Antiquity had evaded death, and neglected the dead; a garland of mænads and fauns among ivy leaves, a battle of amazons or centaurs; in the late semi-Christian, platonic days, some Orphic emblem, or genius; at most, as in the exquisite tombs of the Keramikos of Athens, a figure, a youth on a prancing steed, like the Phidian monument of Dexileus; a maiden, draped and bearing an urn; but neither the youth nor the maiden is the inmate of the tomb: they are types, living types, no portraits. Nay, even where Antiquity shows us Death or Hermes, gently leading away the beloved; the spirit, the ghost, the dead one, is unindividual. "Sarkophagen und Urnen bekränzte der Heide mit Leben," said Goethe; but it was the life which was everlasting because it was typical: the life not which had been relinquished by the one buried there, but the life which the world danced on, forgetful, round his ashes. The Romans, on the contrary, graver and more retentive folk than the Greeks, as well as more domestic, less coffee-house living, appear to have inherited from the Etruscans a desire to preserve the effigy of the dead, a desire unknown to the Greeks. But the Etrusco-Roman monuments, where husband and wife stare forth togaed and stolaed, half reduced to a conventional crop-headedness, grim and stiff as if sitting unwillingly for their portrait; or reclining on the sarcophagus-lid, neither dead, nor asleep, nor yet alive and awake, but with a hieratic mummy stare, have little of æsthetic or sympathetic value. The early Renaissance, then, first bethought it of representing the real individual in the real death slumber. And I question whether anything more fitting could be placed on a tomb than the effigy of the dead as we saw them just before the coffin-lid closed down; as we would give our all to see them but one little moment longer; as they continue to exist for our fancy within the grave; for to any but morbid feelings the beloved can never suffer decay. Whereas a portrait of the man in life, as the throning popes in St. Peter's, seems heartless and derisive; such monuments striking us as conceived and ordered by their inmates while alive, like Michael Angelo's Pope Julius, and Browning's Bishop, who was so preoccupied about his tomb in St. Praxed's Church. The Renaissance, the late Middle Ages, felt better than this: on the extreme pinnacle, high on the roof, they might indeed place against the russet brick or the blue sky, amid the hum of life and the movement of the air, the living man, like the Scaligers, the mailed knight on his charger, lance in rest: but in the church below, under the funereal pall, they could place only the body such as it may have lain on the bier. And that figure on the bier was the great work of Renaissance sculpture. Inanimate and vulgar when in heroic figures they tried to emulate the ancients, the sculptors of the fifteenth century have found their own line. The modesty, the simplicity, the awful and beautiful repose of the dead; the individual character cleared of all its conflicting meannesses by death, simplified, idealized as it is in the memory of the survivors--all these are things which belong to the Renaissance. As the Greeks gave the strong, smooth life-current circulating through their heroes; so did these men of the fifteenth century give the gentle and harmonious ebbing after-life of death in their sepulchral monuments. Things difficult to describe, and which must be seen and remembered. There is the monument, now in the museum at Ravenna, by a sculptor whose name, were it known, would surely be among the greatest, of the condottiere, Braccioforte: the body prone in its heavy case of armour, not yet laid out in state, but such as he may have been found in the evening, when the battle was over, under a tree where they had carried him to die while they themselves went back to fight; the head has fallen back, side-ways, weighed down by the helmet, which has not even been unbuckled, only the face, the clear-cut, austere features, visible beneath the withdrawn vizor; the eyes have not been closed; and there are few things more exquisite and solemn at once in all sculpture, than the indication of those no longer seeing eyes, of that broken glance, beneath the half-closed lids. There is Rossellino's Cardinal of Portugal at S. Miniato a Monte: the slight body, draped in episcopal robes, lying with delicate folded hands, in gracious decorum of youthful sanctity; the strong delicate head, of clear feature and gentle furrow of suffering and thought, a face of infinite purity of strength, strength still ungnarled by action: a young priest, who in his virginal dignity is almost a noble woman. And there is the Ilaria Guinigi of Jacopo della Quercia (the man who had most natural affinity with the antique of all these sculptors, as one may see from the shattered remains of the Fonte Gaia of Siena), the lady stretched out on the rose-garlanded bed of state in a corner of Lucca Cathedral, her feet upon her sleeping dog, her sweet, girlish head, with wavy plaits of hair encircled by a rose-wreathed, turban-like diadem, lying low on round cushions; the bed gently giving way beneath the beautiful, ample-bosomed body, round which the soft robe is chastely gathered, and across which the long-sleeved arms are demurely folded; the most beautiful lady (whose majestic tread through the palace rooms we can well imagine) that the art of the fifteenth century has recorded. There is, above all, the Carlo Marsuppini of Desiderio da Settignano, the humanist Secretary of the Commonwealth, lying on the sarcophagus, superb with shell fretwork and curling acanthus, in Santa Croce of Florence. For the youthful beauty of the Cardinal of Portugal and of the Lady Ilaria are commonplace compared with the refinement of this worn old face, with scant wavy hair and thin, gently furrowed, but by no means ploughed-up features. The slight figure looks as if in life it must have seemed almost transparent; and the hands are very pathetic: noble, firm hands, subtle of vein and wrist, crossed simply, neither in prayer nor in agony, but in gentle weariness, over the book on his breast. That book is certainly no prayer-book; rather a volume of Plato or Cicero: in his last moments the noble old man has longed for a glance over the familiar pages; they have placed the book on his breast, but it has been too late; the drowsiness of death has overtaken him, and with his last sigh he has gently folded his hands over the volume, with the faint, last clinging to the things beloved in this world. Such is that portrait sculpture of the early Renaissance, its only sculpture, if we except the exquisite work in babies and angels just out of the nursery of the Robbias, which is a real achievement. But how achieved? This art is great just by the things which Antiquity did not. And what are those things? Shall we say that it is sentiment? But all fine art has tact, antique art most certainly; and as to pathos, why, any quiet figure of a dead man or woman, however rudely carved, has pathos; nay, there is pathos in the poor puling hysterical art which makes angels draw the curtains of fine ladies' bedchambers, and fine ladies, in hoop or limp Grecian dress, faint (the smelling bottle, Betty!) over their lord's coffin; there is pathos, to a decently constituted human being, wherever (despite all absurdities) we can imagine that there lies some one whom it was bitter to see departing, to whom it was bitter to depart. Pathos, therefore, is not the question; and, if you choose to call it sentiment, it is in reality a sentiment for line and curve, for stone and light. The great question is, How did these men of the Renaissance make their dead people look beautiful? For they were not all beautiful in life, and ugly folk do not grow beautiful merely because they are dead. The Cardinal of Portugal, the beautiful Ilaria herself, were you to sketch their profile and place it by the side of no matter what ordinary antique, would greatly fall short of what we call sculpturesque beauty; and many of the others, old humanists and priests and lawyers, are emphatically ugly: snub or absurdly hooked noses, retreating or deformedly overhanging foreheads, fleshy noses, and flabby cheeks, blear eyes and sunk-in mouths; and a perfect network of wrinkles and creases, which, hard as it is to say, have been scooped out not merely by age, but by low mind, fretting and triumphant animalism. Now, by what means did the sculptor--the sculptor, too unacquainted with sculptural beauty (witness his ugly ideal statues), to be able, like the man who turned the successors of Alexander into a race of leonine though crazy demi-gods--to insidiously idealize these ugly and insignificant features; by what means did he turn these dead men into things beautiful to see? I have said that he took up art where Græco-Roman Antiquity had left it. Remark that I say Græco-Roman, and I ought to add much more Roman than Greek. For Greek sculpture, nurtured in the habit of perfect form, art to whom beauty was a cheap necessity, invariably idealized portrait, idealized it into beauty or inanity. But when Greek art had run its course; when beauty of form had well-nigh been exhausted or begun to pall; certain artists, presumably Greeks, but working for Romans, began to produce portrait work of quite a new and wonderful sort: the beautiful portraits of ugly old men, of snub little boys, work which was clearly before its right time, and was swamped by idealized portraits, insipid, nay, inane, from the elegant revivalist busts of Hadrian and Marcus Aurelius down to the bonnet blocks of the lower empire. Of this Roman portrait art, of certain heads of half-idiotic little Cæsar brats, of sly and wrinkled old men, things which ought to be so ugly and yet are so beautiful, we say, at least, perhaps unformulated, we think, "How Renaissance!" And the secret of the beauty of these few Græco-Roman busts, which is also that of Renaissance portrait sculpture, is that the beauty is quite different in kind from the beauty of Greek ideal sculpture, and obtained by quite different means. It is, essentially, that kind of beauty which I began by saying belonged to realistic art, to the art which is not squeamish about the object which it represents, but is squeamish about the manner and medium in which that indifferent object is represented; it is a kind of beauty, therefore, more akin to that of Rembrandt and Velasquez than to that of Michael Angelo or Raphael. It is the beauty, not of large lines and harmonies, beauty residing in the real model's forms, beauty real, wholesale, which would be the same if the man were not marble but flesh, not in a given position but moving; but it is a beauty of combinations of light and surface, a beauty of texture opposed to texture, which would probably be unperceived in the presence of the more regal beauty of line and colour harmonies, and which those who could obtain this latter would employ only as much as they were conducive to such larger beauties. And this beauty of texture opposed to texture and light combined with surface is a very real thing; it is the great reality of Renaissance sculpture: this beauty, resulting from the combination, for instance, in a commonplace face, of the roughness and coarser pore of the close shaven lips and chin with the smoothness of the waxy hanging cheeks; the one catching the light, the other breaking it into a ribbed and forked penumbra. The very perfection of this kind of work is Benedetto da Maiano's bust of Pietro Mellini in the Bargello at Florence. The elderly head is of strongly marked osseous structure, yet fleshed with abundant and flaccid flesh, hanging in folds or creases round the mouth and chin, yet not flobbery and floppy, but solid, though yielding, creased, wrinkled, crevassed rather as a sandy hillside is crevassed by the trickling waters; semi-solid, promising slight resistance, waxy, yielding to the touch. But all the flesh has, as it were, gravitated to the lower part of the face, conglomerated, or rather draped itself, about the mouth, firmer for sunken teeth and shaving; and the skin has remained alone across the head, wrinkled, yet drawn in tight folds across the dome-shaped skull, as if, while the flesh disappeared, the bone also had enlarged. And on the temples the flesh has once been thick, the bone (seemingly) slight; and now the skin is being drawn, recently, and we feel more and more every day, into a radiation of minute creases, as if the bone and flesh were having a last struggle. Now in this head there is little beauty of line (the man has never been good-looking), and there is not much character in the sense of strongly marked mental or moral personality. I do not know, nor care, what manner of man this may have been. The individuality is one, not of the mind but of the flesh. What interests, attaches, is not the character or temperament, but the bone and skin, the creases and folds of flesh. And herein also lies the beauty of the work. I do not mean its interest or mere technical skill, I mean distinctly visible and artistic beauty. Thus does the sculptor of the Renaissance get beauty, visible beauty, not psychologic interest, out of a plain human being; but the beauty (and this is the distinguishing point of what I must call realistic decorative art) does not exist necessarily in the plain human being: he merely affords the beginning of a pattern which the artist may be able to carry out. A person may have in him the making of a really beautiful bust and yet be ugly; just as the same person may afford a subject for a splendid painting and for an execrable piece of sculpture. The wrinkles and creases in a face like that of Benedetto da Maiano's Mellini would probably be ugly and perhaps disgusting in the real reddish, flaccid, discoloured flesh; while they are admirable in the solid and supple-looking marble, in its warm and delicate bistre and yellow. Material has an extraordinary effect upon form; colour, though not a positive element in sculpture, has immense negative power in accentuating or obliterating the mere line. All form becomes vague and soft in the dairy flaccidness of modern ivory; and clear and powerful in the dark terra cotta, which can ennoble even the fattest and flattest faces with its wonderful faculty for making mere surface markings, mere crowsfeet, interesting. Thus also with bronze: the polished, worked bronze, of fine chocolate burnish and reddish reflections, mars all beauty of line; how different the unchased, merely rough cast, greenish, with infinite delicate greys and browns, making, for instance, the head of an old woman like an exquisite withered, shrivelled, veined autumnal leaf. It is moreover, as I have said, a question of combination of surface and light, this art which makes beautiful busts of ugly men. The ideal statue of the Greeks intended for the open air; fit to be looked at under any light, high or low, brilliant or veiled, had indeed to be prepared to look well under any light; but to look well under any light means not to use any one particular relation of light as an ally; the surface was kept modestly subordinated to the features, the features which must needs look well at all moments and from all points of view. But the Renaissance sculptor knew where his work would be placed; he could calculate the effect of the light falling invariably through this or that window; he could make a fellow-workman of that light, present for it to draw or to obliterate what features he liked, bid it sweep away such or such surfaces with a broad stream, cut them with a deep shadow, caress their smooth chiselling or their rough grainings, mark as with a nail the few large strokes of the point which gave the firmness to the strained muscle or stretched skin. Out of this model of his, this plain old burgess, he and his docile friend the light, could make quite a new thing; a new pattern of bosses and cavities, of smooth sweeps and tracked lines, of creases and folds of flesh, of pliable linen and rough brocade of dress: something new, something which, without a single feature being straightened or shortened, yet changed completely the value of the whole assemblage of features; something undreamed of by nature in moulding that ugly old merchant or humanist. With this art which produced works like Desiderio da Settignano's Carlo Marsuppini and Benedetto da Maiano's Pietro Mellini, is intimately connected the art of the great medallists of the Renaissance--Pasti, Guacialotti, Niccolò Fiorentino, and, greatest of all, Pisanello. Its excellence depends precisely upon its independence of the ideal work of Antiquity; nay, even upon the fact that, while the ancients, striking their coins in chased metal dies, obtained an astonishing minuteness and clearness of every separate little stroke and dint, and were therefore forced into an almost more than sculptural perfection of mere line, of mere profile and throat and elaborately composed hair, a sort of sublime abstraction of the possible beauty of a human face, as in the coins of Syracuse and also of Alexander; the men of the fifteenth century employed the process of casting the bronze in a concave mould obtained by the melting away of a medallion in wax; in wax, which taking the living impress of the artist's finger, and recalling in its firm and yet soft texture the real substance of the human face, insensibly led the medallist to seek, not sharp and abstract lines, but simple, strongly moulded bosses; not ideal beauty, but the real appearance of life. It is, moreover, a significant fact that while the men who, half a century or so later, made fine, characterless die-stamped medals in imitation of the antique, Caradossi and Benvenuto for instance, were goldsmiths and sculptors, workers with the chisel, artists seeking essentially for abstract elegance of line; the two greatest medallists of the early Renaissance, Vittore Pisano and Matteo di Pasti, were both of them painters; and painters of the Northern Italian school, to whom colour and texture were all important, and linear form a matter of indifference. And indeed, if we look at the best work of what I may call the wax mould medallists of the fifteenth century, even at the magnificent marble medallions of the laurel-wreathed head of Sigismund Malatesta on the pillars of his church at Rimini, modelled by Pasti, we shall see that these men were preoccupied almost exclusively with the almost pictorial effect of the flesh in its various degrees of boss and of reaction of the light; and that the character, the beauty even, which they attained, is essentially due to a skilful manipulation of texture, and surface, and light--one might almost say of colour. We all know Pisanello's famous heads of the Malatesti of Rimini: the saturnine Sigismund, the delicate dapper Novello, the powerful yet beautiful Isotta; but there are other Renaissance medals which illustrate my meaning even better, and connect my feelings on the subject of this branch of art more clearly with my feelings towards such work as Benedetto's Pietro Mellini. Foremost among these is the perhaps somewhat imperfect and decidedly grotesque, but astonishingly powerful, naïf and characteristic Lorenzo dei Medici by Niccolò real grandeur of whose conception of this coarse yet imaginative head may be profitably contrasted with the classicizing efforts after the demi-god or successor of Alexander in Pollaiolo's famous medal of the Pazzi conspiracy. Next to this I would place a medal by Guacialotti of Bishop Niccolò Palmieri, with the motto, "Nudus egressus sic redibo"--singularly appropriate to the shameless fleshliness of the personage, with his naked fat chest and shoulders, his fat, pig-like cheeks and greasy-looking bald head; a hideous beast, yet magnificent in his bestiality like some huge fattened porker. These medals give us, as does the bust of Pietro Mellini, beauty of the portrait despite ugliness of the original. But there are two other medals, this time by Pisanello, and, as it seems to me, perhaps his masterpieces, which show the quite peculiar way in which this homely charm of portraiture amalgamates, so as to form a homogeneous and most seemingly simple whole, with the homely charm of certain kinds of pure and simple youthful types. One of these (the reverse of which fantastically represents the four elements, the wooded earth, the starry sky, the rippled sea, the sun, all in one sphere) is the portrait of Don Inigo d'Avalos; the other that of Cecilia Gonzaga. This slender beardless boy in the Spanish shovel hat and wisp of scarf twisted round the throat; and this tall, long-necked girl, with sloping shoulders and still half-developed bosom; are, so to speak, brother and sister in art, in Pisanello's wonderful genius. The relief of the two medals is extremely low, so that in certain lights the effigies vanish almost completely, sink into the pale green surface of the bronze; the portraits are a mere film, a sort of haze which has arisen on the bronze and gathered into human likeness; but in this film, this scarce perceptible relief, we are made to perceive the slender osseous structure, the smooth, sleek, childish blond flesh and hair, the delicate, undecided pallor of extreme youth and purity, even as we might in some elaborate portrait by Velasquez, but with a spring-like healthiness which Velasquez, painting his lymphatic Hapsburgs, rarely has. Such is this Renaissance art of medals, this side branch of the great realistic portraiture in stone of the Benedettos, Desiderios, and Rossellinos; a perfect thing in itself; and one which, if we muse over it in connection with the more important works of fifteenth century sculpture, will perhaps lead us to think that, as the sculpture of Antiquity, in its superb idealism, its devotion to the perfect line and curve of beauty, achieved the highest that mere colourless art can achieve--thanks to the very purity, sternness, and narrowness of its sculpturesque feeling--so also, perhaps, modern sculpture, should it ever re-arise, must be a continuation of the tendencies of the Renaissance, must be the humbler sister of painting, must seek for the realistic portrait and begin, perhaps, with the realistic medal. II. This kind of realism, where only the model is ugly, while the portrait is beautiful; which seeks decorative value by other means than the intrinsic excellence of form in the object represented, this kind of realism is quite different in sort from the realisms of immature art, which, aiming at nothing beyond a faithful copy, is content with producing an ugly picture of an ugly thing. Now this latter kind of realism endured in painting some time after decorative realism such as I have described had reached perfection in sculpture. Nor was it till later, and when the crude scholastic realism had completely come to an end, that there became even partially possible in painting decorative realism analogous to what we have noticed in sculpture; while it was not till after the close of the Italian Renaissance period that the painters arose in Spain and the Netherlands who were able to treat their subjects with the uncompromising decorative realism of Desiderio or Rosellino or Benedetto da Maiano. For the purely imitative realism of the painters of the early Renaissance was succeeded in Italy by idealism, which matured in the great art of intrinsically beautiful linear form of Michael Angelo and Raphael, and the great art of intrinsically beautiful colour form of Giorgione and Titian. These two schools were bound to be, each in its degree, idealistic. Complete power of mere representation in tint and colour having been obtained through the realistic drudgery of the early Renaissance, selection in the objects thus to be represented had naturally arisen; and the study of the antique had further hastened and directed this movement of art no longer to study but to achieve, to be decorative once more, decorative no longer in subservience to architecture, but as the separate and self-sufficing art of painting. Selection, therefore, which is the only practical kind of idealism, had begun as soon as painting was possessed of the power of representing objects in their relations of line and colour, with that amount of light and shadow requisite to the just appreciation of the relations of form and the just relations of colour. Now art which stops short at this point of representation must inevitably be, if decorative at all, idealistically decorative; it must be squeamish respecting the objects represented, respecting their real structure, colour, position, and grouping. For, of the visible impressions received from an object, some are far more intrinsic than others. Suppose we see a woman, beautiful in the structure of her body, and beautiful in the colour of her person and her draperies, standing under a light which is such as we should call beautiful and interesting: of these three qualities one will be intrinsic in the woman, the second very considerably so, the third not at all. For, let us call that woman away and replace her immediately by another woman chosen at random. We shall immediately perceive that we have lost one pleasurable impression, that of beautiful bodily structure: the woman has taken away her well-shapen body. Next we shall perceive a notable diminution in the second pleasurable impression: the woman has taken with her, not indeed her well-tinted garments, which we may have bestowed on her successor, but her beautifully coloured skin and hair, so that of the pleasing colour-impression will remain only as much as was due to, and may have been retained with, the original woman's clothes. But if we look for our third pleasurable impression, our beautiful light, we shall find that unchanged, whether it fall upon a magnificently arrayed goddess or upon a sordid slut And, conversely, the beautiful woman, when withdrawn from that light and placed in any other, will be equally lovely in form, even if we cast her in plaster, and lose the colour of her skin and hair; or if we leave her not only the beautiful tints of her flesh and hair, but her own splendidly coloured garments, we shall still have, in whatsoever light, a magnificent piece of colour. But if we recall the poor ugly creature who has succeeded her from out of that fine effect of light, we shall have nothing but a hideous form invested in hideous colour. This rough diagram will be sufficient to explain my thought respecting the relative degree to which the art dealing with linear form, that dealing with colour and that dealing with light, with the medium in which form and colour are perceived; is each respectively bound to be idealistically or realistically decorative. Now painting was æsthetically mature, possessed the means to achieve great beauty, at a time when of the three modes of representation there had as yet developed only those of linear form and colour; and the very possibility and necessity of immediately achieving all that could be achieved by these means delayed for a long time the development of the third mode of representation: the representation of objects as they appear with reference to the light through which they are seen. A beginning had indeed been made. Certain of Correggio's effects of light, even more an occasional manner of treating the flesh and hair, reducing both form and colour to a kind of vague boss and vague sheen, such as they really present in given effects of light, a something which we define roughly as eminently modern in the painting of his clustered cherubs; all this is certainly a beginning of the school of Velasquez. Still more so is it the case with Andrea del Sarto, the man of genius whom critics love to despatch as a mediocrity, because his art, which is art altogether for the eyes, and in which he innovated more than any of his contemporaries, does not afford any excuse for the irrelevancies of ornamental criticism; with him the appearance of form and colour, acted upon by light, the relative values of which flesh and draperies consist with reference to the surrounding medium, all this becomes so evident a preoccupation and a basis for decorative effects, as to give certain of his works an almost startling air of being modern. But this tendency comes to nothing: the men of the sixteenth century appear scarcely to have perceived wherein lay the true excellence of this "Andrea senza errori," deeming him essentially the artist of linear perfection; while the innovations of Correggio in the way of showing the relations of flesh tones and light ended in the mere coarse gala illuminations in which his successors made their seraphs plunge and sprawl. There was too much to be done, good and bad, in the way of mere linear form and mere colour; and as art of mere linear form and colour, indifferent of all else, did the art of the Italian Renaissance run to seed. I said at the beginning of this paper that the degree to which any art is strictly idealistic, can be measured by the terms which it will make with portrait. For as portrait is due to the desire to represent a person quite apart from that person affording material for decoration, it is evident that only the art which can call in the assistance of decorative materials, independent of the represented individual, can possibly make a beautiful picture out of an ugly man; while the art which deals only with such visible peculiarities as are inherent in the individual, has no kind of outlet, is cornered, and can make of a repulsive original only a repulsive picture. The analogy to this we have already noticed in sculpture: antique sculpture, considering only the linear bosses which existed equally in the living man and in the statue, could not afford to represent plain people; while Renaissance sculpture, extracting a large amount of beauty out of combinations of surface and light, was able, as long as it could arrange such an artificial combination, to dispense with great perfection in the model. Nay, if we except Renaissance statuary as a kind of separate art, we may say that this independence of the object portrayed is a kind of analytic test, enabling us to judge at a glance, and by the degree of independence from the model, the degree to which any art is removed from the mere line and boss of antique sculpture. In the statue standing free in any light that may chance to come, every form must be beautiful from every point; but in proportion as the new elements of painting enter, in proportion as the actual linear form and boss is marked and helped out by grouping, colour, and light and shade, does the actual perfection of the model become less important; until, under the reign of light as the chief factor, it becomes altogether indifferent. In this fact lies the only rational foundation for the notion, made popular by Hegel, that painting is an art in which beauty is of much less account than in sculpture; failing to understand that the sum total of beauty remained the same, whether dependent upon the concentration of a single element or obtained by the co-operation of several consequently less singly important elements. But to return to the question of portrait art. From what we have seen, it is clear that art which requires perfection of form will be reduced to ugliness if cramped in the obtaining of such perfection, whereas art which can obtain beauty by other means will still have a chance when reduced to imitate ugly object? Hence it is that while the realistically decorative art of the seventeenth century can make actually beautiful things of the portraits of ugly people, the idealistically decorative art of the Renaissance produces portraits which are cruelly ugly in proportion as the art is purely idealistic. Yet even in idealism there are degrees: the more the art is confined to mere linear form, to the exclusion of colour, the uglier will be the portraits. With Michael Angelo the difficulty was simplified to impossibility: he could not paint portrait at all; and in his sculptured portraits of the two Medicean dukes at S. Lorenzo he evaded all attempt at likeness, making those two men into scarcely more than two architectural monsters, half-human cousins of the fantastic creatures who keep watch on the belfries and gurgoyles of a Gothic cathedral. It is almost impossible to think of Michael Angelo attempting portrait: the man's genius cannot be constrained to it, and what ought to be mere ugliness would come out idealized into grandiose monstrosity. Men like Titian and Tintoret are at the other end of the scale of ideal decoration: they are bordering upon the domain of realism. Hence they can raise into interest, by the mere power of colour, many an insignificant type; yet even they are incapable of dealing with absolute ugliness, with absence of fine colour, or, if they do deal with it, there is an immediate improvement upon the model, and the appearance of truthfulness goes. Between the absolute incapacity for dealing with ugliness of Michael Angelo, and the power of compromising with it of Titian and Tintoret, Raphael stands half-way: he can call in the assistance of colour just sufficiently to create a setting of carefully harmonized draperies and accessories, beautiful enough to allow of his filling it up with the most cruelly ugly likeness which any painter ever painted. Far too much has been written about Raphael in general, but not half enough about Raphael as a portrait-painter; for by the side of the eclectic idealist, who combined and balanced beauty almost into insipidity, is the most terribly, inflexibly veracious portrait-painter that ever was. Compared with those sternly straightforward portraits of his Florentine and Roman time, where ugliness and baseness are never attenuated by one tittle, and alloyed nobility or amiability, as with his finer models, like the two Donis, husband and wife, and Bibbiena, is never purified of its troubling element; compared with them the Venetian portraits are mere insincere, enormously idealized pieces of colour-harmony; nay, the portraits of Velasquez are mere hints--given rapidly by a sickened painter striving to make those scrofulous Hapsburgs no longer mere men, but keynotes of harmonies of light--of what the people really are. For Velasquez seems to show us the temperament, the potentiality of his people, and to leave us, with a kind of dignified and melancholy silence as to all further, to find out what life, what feelings and actions, such a temperament implies. But Raphael shows us all: the temperament and the character, the real active creature, with all the marks of his present temper and habits, with all the indications of his immediate actions upon him: completely without humour or bitterness, without the smallest tendency to twist the reality into caricature or monstrosity, nay, perhaps without much psychologic analysis to tell him the exact meaning of what he is painting, going straight to the point, and utterly ruthless from sheer absence of all alternative of doing otherwise than he does. There is nothing more cruelly realistic in the world, cruel not only to the base originals but to the feelings of the spectator, than the harmony of villainies, of various combinations of black and hog-like bestiality, and fox and wolf-like cunning and ferocity with wicked human thought and self-command, which Raphael has enshrined in that splendid harmony of scarlet silk and crimson satin, and purple velvet and dull white brocade, as the portraits of Leo X. and his cardinals Rossi and Dei Medici. The idealistic painter, accustomed to rely upon the intrinsic beauty which he has hitherto been able to select or create; accustomed also to think of form as something quite independent of the medium through which it is seen, scarcely conscious of the existence of light and air in his habit of concentrating all attention upon a figure placed, as it were, in a sort of vacuum of indifference;--this idealistic artist is left without any resources when bid to paint an ugly man or woman. With the realistic artist, to whom the man or woman is utterly indifferent, to whom the medium in which they are seen is everything, the case Is just reversed: let him arrange his light, his atmospheric effect, and he will work into their pattern no matter what plain or repulsive wretch. To Velasquez the flaccid yellowish fair flesh, with its grey downy shadows, the limp pale drab hair, which is grey in the light and scarcely perceptibly blond in the shade, all this unhealthy, bloodless, feebly living, effete mass of humanity called Philip IV. of Spain, shivering in moral anæmia like some dog thorough bred into nothingness, becomes merely the foundation for a splendid harmony of pale tints. Again, the poor little baby princess, with scarce visible features, seemingly kneaded (but not sufficiently pinched and modelled) out of the wet ashes of an _auto da fè_, in her black-and-white frock (how different from the dresses painted by Raphael and Titian!), dingy and gloomy enough for an abbess or a cameriera major, this childish personification of courtly dreariness, certainly born on an Ash Wednesday, becomes the principal strands for a marvellous tissue of silvery and ashy light, tinged yellowish in the hair, bluish in the eyes and downy cheeks, pale red in the lips and the rose in the hair; something to match which in beauty you must think of some rarely seen veined and jaspered rainy twilight, or opal-tinted hazy winter morning. Ugliness, nay, repulsiveness, vanish, subdued into beauty, even as noxious gases may be subdued into health-giving substances by some cunning chemist. The difference between such portraits as these and the portraits by Raphael does not however consist merely in the beauty: there is also the fact that if you take one of Velasquez's portraits out of their frame, reconstitute the living individual, and bid him walk forth in whatsoever light may fall upon him, you will have something infinitely different from the portrait, and of which your only distinct feeling will be that a fine portrait might be made of the creature; whereas it is a matter of complete indifference whether you see Raphael's Leo X. in the flesh or in his gilded frame. Whatever may fairly be said respecting the relative value of idealistic and realistic decorative art is really also connected with this latter point. Considering that realistic art is merely obtaining beauty by attention to other factors than those which preoccupy idealistic art, that the one fulfils what the other neglects--taking the matter from this point of view, it would seem as if the two kinds of arts were, so to speak, morally equal; and that any vague sense of mysterious superior dignity clinging to idealistic art was a mere shred of long discarded pedantry. But it is not so. For realistic art does more than merely bring into play powers unknown to idealistic art: it becomes, by the possession of these powers, utterly indifferent to the intrinsic value of the forms represented: it is so certain of making everything lovely by its harmonies of light and atmosphere that it almost prefers to choose inferior things for this purpose. I am thinking at present of a picture by I forget what Dutchman in our National Gallery, representing in separate compartments five besotten-looking creatures, symbolical of the five senses: they are ugly, brutish, with I know not what suggestion of detestable temperament in their bloodshot flesh and vermilion lips, as if the whole man were saturated with his appetite. Yet the Dutchman has found the means of making these degraded types into something which we care to look at, and to look at on account of its beauty; even as, in lesser degree, Rubens has always managed to make us feel towards his flaccid, veal-complexioned, fish-eyed women, something of what we feel towards the goddesses of the Parthenon; towards the white-robed, long-gloved ladies, with meditative face beneath their crimped auburn hair, of Titian. Viewed in one way, there is a kind of nobility in the very fact that such realistic art can make us pardon, can redeem, nay almost sanctify, so much. But is it right thus to pardon, redeem, and sanctify; thus to bring the inferior on to the level of the superior? Nay, is it not rather wrong to teach us to endure so much meanness and ugliness in creatures, on account of the nobility with which they are represented? Is this not vitiating our feelings, blunting our desire for the better, our repugnance for the worse? A great and charitable art, this realistic art of the seventeenth century, and to be respected for its very tenderness towards the scorned and castaway things of reality; but accustoming us, perhaps too much, like all charitable and reclaiming impulses, to certain unworthy contacts: in strange contrast herein with that narrow but ascetic and aristocratic art of idealism, which, isolated and impoverished though it may be, has always the dignity of its immaculate purity, of its unswerving judgment, of its obstinate determination to deal only with the best. A hard task to judge between them. But be this as it may, it is one of the singular richnesses of the Italian Renaissance that it knew of both tendencies; that while in painting it gave the equivalent of that rigid idealism of the Greeks which can make no compromise with ugliness; in sculpture it possessed the equivalent of the realism of Velasquez, which can make beauty out of ugly things, even as the chemist can make sugar out of vitriol. * * * * * THE SCHOOL OF BOIARDO. "Le donne, i cavalieri, l' armi, gli amori." I. Throughout the tales of Charlemagne and his warriors, overtopping by far the crowd of paladins and knights, move two colossal mailed and vizored figures--Roland, whom the Italians call Orlando and the Spaniards Roldan, the son of Milon d'Angers and of Charlemagne's sister; and Renaud or Rinaldo, the lord of Montauban, and eldest of the famous four sons of Aymon. These are the two representative heroes, equal but opposed, the Achilles and Odysseus, the Siegfried and Dietrich, of the Carolingian epic; and in each is personified, by the unconscious genius of the early Middle Ages, one of the great political movements, of the heroic struggles, of feudalism. For there existed in feudalism two forces, a centripetal and a centrifugal--a force which made for the supremacy of the kingly overlordship, and a force which made for the independence of the great vassals. Hence, in the poetry which is the poetry of feudalism, two distinct currents of feeling, two distinct epics---the epic of the devoted loyalty of all the heroes of France to their wise and mighty emperor Charlemagne, triumphant even in misfortune; and the epic of the hopeless resistance against a craven and capricious despot Charles of the most righteous and whole-hearted among his feudatories: the epic of Roland, and the epic of Renaud. Of the first there remains to us, in its inflexible and iron solemnity, an original rhymed narrative, "The Chanson de Roland," which we may read perhaps almost in the self-same words in which it was sung by the Normans of William in their night watch before the great battle. The centripetal force of feudalism gained the upper hand, and the song of the great empire, of the great deeds of loyal prowess, was consecrated in the feudal monarchy. The case was different with the tale of resistance and rebellion. The story of Renaud soon became a dangerous lesson for the great barons; it fell from the hands of the nobles to those of humbler folk; and it is preserved to us no longer in mediæval verse, but in a prose version, doubtless of the fifteenth century, under the name, familiar on the stalls of village fairs, of "The Quatre Fils Aymon." But, as Renaud is the equal of Roland, so is this humble prose tale nevertheless the equal of the great song of Roncevaux; and even now, it would be a difficult task to decide which were the grander, the tale of loyalty or the tale of resistance. In each of these tales,"The Chanson de Roland" and "The Quatre Fils Aymon," there is contained a picture of its respective hero, which sums up, as it were, the whole noble character of the book; and which, the picture of the dying Roland and the picture of the dying Renaud, I would fain bring before you before speaking of the other Roland and the other Renaud, the Orlando of Ariosto and the Rinaldo of Boiardo. The traitor Ganelon has enabled King Marsile to overtake with all his heathenness the rear-guard of Charlemagne between the granite walls of Roncevaux; the Franks have been massacred, but the Saracens have been routed; Roland has at last ceded to the prayers of Oliver and of Archbishop Turpin; three times has he put to his mouth his oliphant and blown a blast to call back Charlemagne to vengeance, till the blood has foamed round his lips and his temple has burst. Oliver is dead, the archbishop is dying, Roland himself is slowly bleeding to death. He goes down into the defile, heaped with corpses, and seeks for the bodies of the principal paladins, Ivon and Ivaire, the Gascon Engelier, Gérier and Gérin, Bérenger and Otho, Anseis and Salamon, and the old Gerard of Rousillon; and one by one drags them to where the archbishop lies dying. And then, when to these knights Roland has at last added his own beloved comrade Oliver, he bids the archbishop bless all the dead, before he die himself. Then, when he has reverently crossed Turpin's beautiful priestly hands over his breast, he goes forth to shatter his sword Durendal against the rocks; but the good sword has cut the rock without shivering; and the coldness of death steals, over Roland. He stretches himself upon a hillock looking towards Spain, and prays for the forgiveness of his sins; then, with Durendal and his ivory horn by his side, he stretches out the glove of his right hand to God. "He has stretched forth to God the glove of his right hand; St. Gabriel has received it... Then his head has sunk on his arm; he has gone, with clasped hands, to his end. God sends him one of his cherubim and St. Michael of Peril. St. Gabriel has come with them. They carry the soul of the Count: up to paradise." More solitary, and solemn and sad even, is the end of the other hero, of the great rebel Renaud of Montauban. At length, after a lifetime wasted in fruitless, attempts to resist the iniquity of the emperor, to baffle his power, to shame him by magnanimity into, justice, the four sons of Aymon, who have given up their youth, their manhood, the dearest things to their heart, respect to their father and loyalty to their sovereign, rather than countenance the injustice of Charlemagne to their kinsman, have at last obtained to be pardoned; to be pardoned, they, heroes, by this, dastardly tyrant, and to quietly sink, broken-hearted into nothingness. The eldest, Renaud, returning from his exile and the Holy Land, finds that his wife Clarisse has pined for him and died; and then, putting away his armour from him, and dressing in a pilgrim's frock made of the purple serge of the dead lady's robe, he goes forth to wander through the world; not very old in years, but broken-spirited; at peace, but in solitude of heart. And one evening he arrives at Cologne. We can imagine the old knight, only half aware of the sunshine of the evening, the noise of the streets, the looks of the crowd, the great minster rising half-finished in the midst of the town by the Rhine, the cries and noise and chipping of the masons; unconscious of all this, half away: with his brothers hiding in the Ardennes, living on roots and berries, at bay before Charlemagne; or wandering ragged and famishing through France; with King Yon brilliant at Toulouse, seeing perhaps for the first time his bride Clarisse, or the towers of Montauban rising under the workmen's hands; thinking perhaps of the frightful siege, when all, all had been eaten in the fortress, and his children Aymonnet and Yonnet, all thin and white, knelt down and begged him to slaughter his horse Bayard that they might eat; perhaps of that journey, when he and his brothers, all in red-furred robes with roses in their hands, rode prisoners of King Charles across the plain of Vaucouleurs; perhaps of when he galloped up to the gallows at Montfaucon, and cut loose his brother Richard; or of that daring ride to Paris, where he and his horse won the race, snatched the prize from before Charlemagne and sped off crying out that the winner was Renaud of Montauban; or, perhaps, seeing once more the sad, sweet face of the Lady Clarisse, when she had burned all her precious stuffs and tires in the castle-yard, and lay dead without him to kiss her cold mouth; of seeing once more his good horse Bayard, when he kissed him in his stall before giving him to be killed by Charlemagne. Thinking of all that past, seeing it all within his mind, and seeing but little of the present; as, in the low yellow light, he helped, for his bread, the workmen to heave the great beams, to carry the great stones of the cathedral, to split the huge marble masses while they stared in astonished envy; as he sat, unconscious of their mutterings, eating his dry bread and porridge in the building docks by the river. And then, when wearied, he had sunk to sleep in the hay-loft, dreaming perchance that all this evil life was but a dream and the awakening therefrom to happiness and strength; the jealous workmen came and killed him with their base tools, and cast him into the Rhine. They say that the huge body floated on the water, surrounded by a great halo; and that when the men of the banks, seeing this, reverently fished it out, they found that the noble corpse was untouched by decay, and still surrounded by a light of glory. And thus, it seems to me, this Renaud, this rebel baron of whose reality we know nothing, has floated surrounded by a halo of poetry down the black flood of the Middle Ages (in which so much has sunk); and when we look upon his face, and see its beauty and strength and solemness, we feel, like the people of the Rhine bank, inclined to weep, and to say of this mysterious corpse, "Surely this is some great saint." Of each of these heroes thus shown us by the Middle Ages, the Italian Renaissance also, by the hand of two of her greatest poets, has given us a picture. And first, of Roland. Of him, of Count Orlando, we are told by Messer Lodovico Ariosto, that in consequence of his having discovered, in a certain pleasant grotto among the ferns and maidenhair, words graven on the rock (interrupted, doubtless, by the lover's kisses) which revealed that the Princess Angelica of Cathay had disdained him for Medoro, the fair-haired page of the King of the Moors; Count Orlando went straightway out of his mind, and hanging up his armour and stripping off his clothes, galloped about on his bare-backed horse, slaughtering cows and sheep instead of Saracens; until it pleased God, moved by the danger of Christendom and the prayers of Charlemagne, to permit Astolfo to ride on the hippogriffs back up to the moon, and bring back thence the wits of the great paladin contained in a small phial. We all know that merry tale. What the Renaissance has to say of Renaud of Montauban is even stranger and more fantastic. One day, says Matteo Boiardo, in the fifteenth canto of the second part of his "Orlando Innamorato," as Rinaldo of Montalbano, the contemner of love, was riding in the Ardennes, he came to a clearing in the forest, where, close to the fountain of Merlin, a wonderful sight met his eyes. On a flowery meadow were dancing three naked damsels, and singing with them danced also a naked youth, dark of eyes and fair of hair, the first down on his lips, so that some might have said it was and others that it was not there. On Rinaldo's approach they broke through their singing and dancing, and rushed upon him, pelting him with roses and hyacinths and violets from their baskets, and beating him with great sheaves of lilies, which burnt like flames through the plates of his armour to the very marrow of his bones. Then when they had dragged him, tied with garlands, by the feet round and round the meadow; wings, eyed not with the eyes of a peacock but with the eyes of lovely damsels, suddenly sprouted out of their shoulders, and they flew off, leaving the poor baron, bruised on the grass, to meditate upon the vanity of all future resistance to love. Such are the things which the Middle Ages and the Renaissance found to tell us of the two great heroes of Carolingian poetry. And the explanation of how it came to pass, that for the Roland of the song of Roncevaux was substituted the Orlando of Ariosto, and for the Renaud of "The Quatre Fils Aymon" the Rinaldo of Matteo Boiardo--means simply that which I desire here to study: the metamorphoses of mediæval romance stuffs, and, more especially, the vicissitudes of the cycle of Charlemagne. II. We are apt to think of the Middle Ages as if they were the companion-piece to Antiquity; but no such ideal correspondence exists between the two periods. Antiquity is all of a piece, and the Middle Ages, on the contrary, are heterogeneous and chaotic. For Antiquity is the steady and uniform development of civilization in one direction and with one meaning; there are great differences between its various epochs, but they are as the differences between the budding, the blossoming, and the fading stages of one plant: life varies, but is one. The Middle Ages, on the other hand, are a series of false starts, of interruptions and of new departures; a perpetual confusion. For, if we think over them, we shall see that these centuries called mediæval are occupied by the effort of one people, or one generation, to put to rights and settle down among as much as it can save of the civilization of Antiquity. And the sudden overwhelming of this people or this generation by another, which puts all the elaborate arrangements into disarray, adds to the ruins of Antiquity the ruins of more recent times; and then this destroying generation tries to put things straight, to settle down, and is in its turn interrupted by the advent of some new comer who begins the game afresh. As it is with peoples, so also is it with ideas; scarcely has a scheme of life or of philosophy or of art taken shape and consistence before, from out of the inexhaustible chaos of mediæval thought and feeling, there issue new necessities, new aspirations, which put into confusion all previous ones. The Middle Ages were like some financial crisis: a little time, a little credit, money will fructify, wealth will reappear, the difficult moment will be tided over; and so with civilization. But unfortunately the wealth of ideas began to accumulate in the storehouse only just long enough to bring down a rout of creditors, people who rifled the bank, and went home to consume or invest their money in order to be succeeded by others. Hence, in the matter of civilization, the Middle Ages ended in an extraordinary slow ruin, a bankruptcy like that which overtook France before '89, and from which, as France was restored by the bold seizure and breaking up of property of the revolution, the world was restored by the bold breaking of feudal and spiritual mortmain, the restoring of wasted energies to utility, of that great double revolution, the Renaissance and the Reformation. Be this as it may, mankind throughout the Middle Ages appears to have been in a chronic condition of packing up and unpacking, and packing up again; one after another a nation, a race, a philosophy, a political system came to the front and was pushed back again into limbo: Germans and Kelts and Latins, French civilization of the day of Abélard, Provençal civilization of the days of the Raymonds, brilliant and evanescent Hohenstauffen supremacy, papacy at Canossa and at Avignon, Templars triumphant and Templars persecuted; scholasticism, mysticism, feudalism, democracy, communism: influences all these perpetually rising up and being trodden down, till they all rotted away in the great stagnation of the fifteenth century; and only in one part of the world, where the conflict was more speedily ended, where one set of tendencies early triumphed, where stability was temporarily obtained, in Italy alone did civilization continue to be nurtured and developed for the benefit of all mankind. In such a state of affairs only such things could flourish and mature as were safe from what I have called, for want of a better expression, the perpetual unpacking and repacking, the perpetual being on the move, of the Middle Ages; and among such things foremost was art, the essential art of the times, architecture, which, belonging to the small towns, to the infinite minority of the democracy, who worked and made money and let the great changes pass over their heads, thrived almost as something too insignificant for notice. But it was different with literature. Cathedrals once built cannot so easily be changed; new peoples, new ideas, must accept them. But poetry--the thing which every nation insists upon having to suit its own taste, the thing which every nation and every generation carries about with it hither and thither, the thing which can be altered to suit every passing whim--poetry was, of all the fluctuating things of the Middle Ages, perhaps the most fluctuating. And fluctuating also because, as none of these various nations, tendencies, aspirations, dominated sufficiently long to produce any highly organized art, there remained no standard works, nothing recognizedly perfect, which would be kept for its perfection and gather round it imitations, so as to form the nucleus of any homogeneous tradition. The Middle Ages, so full of fashions in literary matters, possessed no classics; the minnesingers knew nothing of the stern old Teutonic war songs; the meistersängers had forgotten the minnesingers; the trouvères and troubadours knew nothing of "The Chanson de Roland," and Villon knew nothing of them; only in Italy, where the Middle Ages came to an end and the Renaissance began with the Lombard league, was there established a tradition of excellence, with men like Dante, Petrarch, and Boccaccio, handed down from generation to generation; even as, while in the north there came about the strange modification which substituted the French of Rabelais for the French of Chrestien de Troyes, the German of Luther for the German of Wolfram von Eschenbach, the Italian language, from Ciullo d'Alcamo almost to Boiardo and Lorenzo dei Medici, remained virtually identical. The result of this, which I may call the heterogeneousness and instability of the Middle Ages was that not merely literary forms were for ever arising and being superseded, but literary subject matter was continually undergoing a process of transformation. While in Antiquity the great epic and tragic stuffs remained well-nigh unaltered, and the stories of Valerius Flaccus and Apollonius Rhodius were merely the stories which had been current since the days of Homer, during the course of the Middle Ages every epic cycle, and every tale belonging thereunto, was gradually adulterated, mingled with, swamped by, some other cycle or tale; nay, rather, every other, cycle and every other tale, the older ones trying to save their popularity by admixture with the more recent, till at last all mythical significance, all historical meaning, all national character, all psychological reality, were lost in the chaotic result. And meanwhile, in the absence of any stable language, of any durable literary fashion, the Middle Ages were unable to give to these epic stuffs, at any one period of their life of metamorphose, a form sufficiently artistically valuable to secure anything beyond momentary vogue, to secure for them the immortality of the great Greek tales of adventure and warfare and love. Thus it came about that the epic cycle of Charlemagne, after supplanting in men's minds the grand sagas of the pagan North, was itself supplanted by the Arthurian cycle; that the Frankish stories absorbed the wholly discrepant elements of their more fortunate Keltic rivals; that both cycles, having lost all character through fusion and through obliteration by time, became more meaningless generation by generation and year by year, until when the Middle Ages had come to an end, and the great poets of the Renaissance were ready to give this old mediæval epic stuff a definitive and durable artistic shape, there came to the hands of Boiardo and Ariosto, of Tasso and Spenser, only a strange, trumpery material, muddled by jongleurs and romance writers, and reduced to mere fairy stuff, taken seriously only by Don Quixote, and by the authors of the volumes of insane twaddle called after Amadis of Gaul and all his kinsmen. Such a condition of perpetual change as explains, in my belief, why the mediæval epic subjects were wanted, can be made clear only by examples. I shall therefore try to show the transformations which were undergone by one or two principal mediæval epic subjects as a result of a mixture with other epic cycles; of a gradual adaptation to a new state of civilization; and finally of their gradual separation from all kind of reality and real interests. First of all, let us look at the epic cycle, which, although known to us only in poems no older than those of the trouvères and minnesingers who sang of Charlemagne and Arthur, is in reality far more ancient, and on account of its antiquity and its consequent disconnection with mediæval religious and political interests, was thrown aside even by the nations to which it belonged, by the Scandinavians who took to writing sagas about the wars of Charlemagne against Saracens, and by the Germans who preferred to hear the adventures of Welsh and Briton, Launcelots and Tristrams. I am alluding to the stories connected with the family and life of the hero called Sigurd by the Scandinavians, and Siegfried by the Germans. Of these we possess a Norse version called the Volsunga Saga, magnificently done into English by Mr. William Morris; which, although written down at the end of the twelfth century, in the very time therefore of Chrestien de Troyes, Wolfram von Eschenbach, and Gottfried von Strassburg, and subsequently to the presumed writing of "The Chanson de Roland" and the Nibelungenlied, shows us in reality the product of a people, the distant Scandinavians of Iceland, who were five or six hundred years behind the French, Germans, and English of the twelfth century. In the Volsunga Saga, neither Christianity nor feudalism is yet dreamed of; and it is for this reason that I wish to compare it with the Nibelungenlied, in order to show how enormously the old epic stuff was altered by the new civilization. The whole social and moral condition of the two versions is different. In the old Scandinavian civilization, where the Viking is surrounded and served by clansmen, the feeling of blood relationship is the strongest in people's hearts; strangely and fearfully shown in the introductory tale of Signy, who, in order to avenge her father Volsung, killed by her husband, murders her children by the latter, and then, altered in face by magic arts, goes forth to the woods to her brother Sigmund, that, un-wittingly, he may beget with her the only man fit to avenge the Volsungs. And then she sends the boy Sinfjotli to the man he has hitherto considered merely as his uncle, bidding the latter kill him if he prove unworthy of his incestuous birth, or train him to vengeance. The three together murder the husband and legitimate children of Signy, and set the palace on fire; which, being done, the queen, having accomplished her duty to her kin, accomplishes that towards her husband, and calmly returns to die in the burning hall. Here (and apparently again in the case of the children of Sigurd and Brynhilt) incest becomes a family virtue. This being the frightful preponderance of the feeling of blood relationship, it is quite natural that the Scandinavian Chriemhilt (called in the Volsunga Saga, Gudrun) should not resent the murder of her husband Siegfried or Sigurd by her brothers at the instigation of the jealous Brynhilt (who has in a manner been Sigurd's wife before he made her over to Chriemhilt's eldest brother); and that, so far from seeking any revenge against them, she should, when her second husband Atli sends for her brothers in order to rob and murder them, first vainly warn them of the plot, and then, when they have been massacred, kill Atli and her children by him in order to avenge her brothers. The slackening of the tribal feeling, the idea of fidelity in love and sanctity of marriage belonging to Christianity and feudalism, rendered such a story unintelligible to the Germans of the Othos and Henrys. In the Nibelungenlied, the whole story of the massacre of the brothers is changed. Chriemhilt never forgives the murder of Siegfried, and it is not Etzel--Atli for the sake of plunder, but she herself for the sake of revenge, who decoys her brothers and murders them; it is she who with her own hand cuts off the head of Gunther to expiate his murder of Siegfried. To our feelings, more akin to those of the feudal Christians of Franconia than to those of the tribal Scandinavians of the Edda, the second version is far more intelligible and interesting--the story of this once gentle and loving Chriemhilt, turned by the murder of her beloved into a fury, and plotting to avenge his death by the death of all his kinsfolk, must be much grander and more pathetic than the story of this strange Gudrun, who sits down patiently beneath the injury done to her by her brothers, but savagely avenges them on her new husband, and her own and his innocent children; to us this persistence of tribal feeling, destroying all indignation and love, is merely unnatural, confusing, and repulsive. But this alteration for the better in one of the incidents of the tale is a mere fluke; and the whole main plot of the originally central figures are completely obliterated by the new state of civilization, and rendered merely trivial and grotesque. In the Volsunga Saga Sigurd, overcome by enchantments, has forgotten his wife (or mistress, a vague mythical relationship); and, with all sense of the past obliterated, has made her over to the brother of his new wife Gudrun; and Brynhilt kills her faithless love to dissolve the second marriage and be reunited with him in death. In the Nibelungenlied Siegfried, although the flower of knighthood, conquers by foul play the Amazon Brunhilt to reward Gunther for the hand of his sister; nay, in a comic and loathsome scene he forces her into the embraces of the craven Gunther; and then he gets killed by Brunhilt's machinations; when, after most unqueenly bickerings, the proud Amazon is brutally told by Siegfried's wife of the dirty trick which has given her to Gunther. After this, it is impossible to realize, when Siegfried is murdered and all our sympathies called on to his side, the utterly out-of-character, blackguardly behaviour which has brought the hero to his death. Similarly the conception of the character and position of Brynhilt is entirely disfigured and rendered inane in the Nibelungenlied: of that superb demi-goddess of the Scandinavians, burnt on the pyre with her falcons and dogs and horses and slaves, by the side of the demi-god Sigurd, whom she has loved and killed, lest the door of Valhalla, swinging after him, should shut her out from his presence; of her there remains in the German mediæval poem only a virago (more like the giantesses of the Amadis romances) enraged at having been defeated and grotesquely and grossly pummelled into wedlock by a man not her husband, and then slanged like a fishwife by her envious sister-in-law. The old, consistent, grandly tragic tale of the mysterious incests and revenges of a race of demi-gods has lost its sense, its point in the attempt to arrange it to suit Christian and feudal ideas. The really fine portions of the Nibelungenlied are exactly those which have no real connection with the original story, gratuitous additions by mediæval poets. The delicately indicated falling in love of Siegfried and Chriemhilt, the struggles of Markgraf Rüdger between obedience to his feudal superior and fidelity towards his friends and guests; and, above all, the canto of the death of Siegfried. This last is different, intensely different, from the rugged and dreary monotony of the rest; this most poetical, almost Spenserian or Ariostesque realization of the scene; this beautiful picture (though worked with the needle of the arras-worker rather than with pencil or brush) of the wood, the hunt, the solitary fountain in the Odenwald, where, with his spear leaned against the lime-tree, Siegfried was struck down into the clover and flowers, and writhed with Hagen's steel through his back. This canto is certainly interpolated by some first-rate poet, at least a Gottfried or a Walther, to whom that passage of the savage old droning song of death had suggested a piece of new art; it is like the fragments of exquisitely chiselled leafage and figures which you sometimes find encrusted--by whom? wherefore?--quite isolated in the midst of the rough and lichen-stained stones of some rude Lombard church. All the rest of the Nibelungenlied gives an impression of effeteness; there is no definiteness of idea such as that of the Volsunga Saga; the battles are mere vague slaughter, no action, no realized movement, or (excepting Rüdger) no realized motive of conduct. Shape and colour would seem to have been obliterated by repetition and alteration. Yet even these alterations could not make the tale of Siegfried survive among the Germans of the Middle Ages; nay, the more the alterations the less the interest; the want of consistency and colour due to rearrangement merely accelerated the throwing aside of a subject which, dating from pagan and tribal times, had become repugnant to the new generations. All the mutilations in the world could not make the old Scandinavian tales of betrayed trust, of revenge and triumphant bloodshed, at all sympathetic to men whose religious and social ideals were those of forgiveness and fidelity; even stripped of its incestuous mysteries and of its fearful tribal love, the tale of Sigurd and Brynhilt, reduced to the tale of Chriemhilt's revenge, was unpalatable: no more attempts were made at re-writing it, and the poems of Walther, of Gottfried, of Wolfram, of Ulrich, and of Tannhäuser, full as they are of references to stories of the Carolingian and Arthurian cycles, nay, to Antique and Oriental tales, contain no allusion to the personages of the Nibelungenlied. The old epic of the Gothic races had been pushed aside by the triumphant epic of the obscure and conquered Kelts. There are few phenomena in the history of ideas and forms more singular than that of the sudden conquest of the poetry of dominant or distant nations by the poetic subjects of a comparatively small race, sheared of all political importance, restricted to a trifling territory, and well-nigh deprived of their language; and of this there can be found no more striking example than the sudden ousting of the Carolingian epic by the cycle of Arthur. The Kelts of Britain and Ireland possessed an epic cycle of their own, which came to notice only when they were dispossessed of their last strongholds by Saxons and Normans, and which immediately spread with astounding rapidity all over Europe. The vanquished race became fashionable; themselves, their art and their poetry, began to be sought for as a precious and war-enhanced loot. The heroic tales of the Kelts were transcribed in Welsh, and translated into Latin, by order of the Norman and Angevine kings, glad, it would seem, to oppose the Old Briton to the Saxon element. The Keltic songs were carried all over France by Breton bards, to whose music and rhymes, with only a general idea of the subjects, the neo-Latin-speaking Franks listened with the sort of stolid satisfaction with which English or Germans of a hundred years ago listened to Italians singing Metastasio's verses. But soon the songs and tales were translated; and French poets imitated in their language, northern and southern, the graceful metres of the Keltic lays, and altered and arranged their subjects. So that, in a very short time, France, and through it Germany, was inundated with Keltic stories. This triumph of the vanquished race was not without reason. The Kelts, early civilized by Rome and Christianity, had a set of stories and a set of heroes extremely in accordance with mediæval ideas, and requiring but very little alteration. The considerable age of their civilization had long obliterated all traces of pagan and tribal feeling in their tales. Their heroes, originally, like those of all other people, divinities intimately connected with natural phenomena, had long lost all cosmic characteristics, long ceased to be gods, and, manipulated by the fancy of a race whose greatness was quite a thing of the past, had become a sort of golden age ideals--the men of a distant period of glory, which was adorned with every kind of perfection, till it became as unreal as fairyland. Fairyland, in good sooth, was this country of the Keltic tales; and there is a sort of symbolical significance in the fact of its lawgiver Merlin, and its emperor Arthur, being both of them not dead, like Sigurd, like Dietrich, like Charlemagne and Roland, but lying in enchanted sleep. Long inaction and the day-dreaming of idleness had refined and idealized the heroes of this Keltic race--a race of brilliant fancy and almost southern mobility, and softened for a long time by contact with Roman colonists and Christian priests. They were not the brutal combatants of an active fighting age, like the heroes of the Edda and of the Carolingian cycles; nor had they any particular military work to do, belonging as they did to a people huddled away into inactivity. Their sole occupation was to extend abroad that ideal happiness which reigned in the ideal court of Arthur; to go forth on the loose and see what ill-conditioned folk there might yet be who required being subdued or taught manners in the happy kingdom, which the poor insignificant Kelts connected with some princelet of theirs who centuries before may have momentarily repelled the pagan Saxons. Hence in the Keltic stories, such as they exist in the versions previous to the conquest by the Norman kings, and previous also to any communications with other peoples, the distinct beginning of what was later to be called knight-errantry; of heroes, creations of an inactive nation, having no special military duties, going forth to do what good they may at random, unforced by any necessity, and following a mere æsthetico-romantic plan of perfecting themselves by deeds of valour to become more worthy of their God, their King, and their Lady: religion, loyalty, and love, all three of them mere æsthetic abstractions, becoming the goal of an essentially æsthetic, unpractical system of self-improvement, such as was utterly incompatible with any real and serious business in life. Idle poetic fancies of an inert people, the Knights of the Round Table have no mission save that of being poetically perfect. Such was the spirit of Keltic poetry; and, as it happened, this spirit satisfied the imaginative wants of mediæval society just at the moment when political events diffused in other countries the knowledge of the Arthurian legends. The old Teutonic tales of Sigurd, Gudrun, and Dietrich, had long ceased to appeal, in their mutilated and obliterated condition, to a society to whom tribal feeling and pagan heroism were odious, and whose religion distinctly reproved revenge. These semi-mythological tales had been replaced by another cycle: the purely realistic epic, which had arisen during the struggles between the Christian west against the pagan north-east and the Mohammedan south, and which, originating in the short battle-songs narrating the exploits of the predecessors and help-mates of Charlemagne, had constituted itself into large narratives of which the "Song of Roland" represents artistic culmination. These narratives of mere military exploits, of the battles of a strong feudal aristocracy animated by feudal loyalty and half-religious, half-patriotic fury against invading heathenness, had perfectly satisfied the men of the earliest Middle Ages, of the times when feudalism was being established and the church being reformed; when the strong military princelets of the North were embarking with their barons to conquer new kingdoms in England and in Italy and Greece; when the whole of feudal Europe hurled itself against Asia in the first Crusades. But the condition of things soon altered: the feudal hierarchy was broken up into a number of semi-independent little kingdoms or principalities, struggling, with the assistance of industrial and mercantile classes, to become absolute monarchies; princes who had been mere generals became stay-at-home diplomatists, studious of taxation and intrigue, surrounded no longer by armed vassals, but by an essentially urban court, in constant communication with the money-making burghers. Religion, also, instead of being a matter of fighting with infidel invaders, turned to fantastic sectarianism and emotional mysticism. With the sense of futility, of disappointment, attendant on the later Crusades, came also a habit of roaming in strange countries, of isolated adventure in search of wealth or information, a love of the distant, the half-understood, the equivocal; perhaps even a hankering after a mysterious compromise between the religion of Europe and the religions of the East, such as appears to have existed among the Templars and other Franks settled in Asia. There was, throughout feudal society, a sort of enervated languor, a morbid longing for something new, now that the old had ceased to be possible or had proved futile; after the great excitement of the Crusades it was impossible to be either sedately idle or quietly active, even as it is with all of us during the days of weariness and restlessness after some long journey. To such a society the strongly realistic Carolingian epic had ceased to appeal: the tales of the Welsh and Breton bards, repeated by trouvère and jongleur, troubadour and minnesinger, came as a revelation. The fatigued, disappointed, morbid, imaginative society of the later Crusades recognized in this fairyland epic of a long refined, long idle, nay, effete race, the realization of their own ideal: of activity unhampered by aim or organization, of sentiment and emotion and action quite useless and unnecessary, purely subservient to imaginative gratification. These Arthurs, Launcelots, Tristrams, Kays, and Gawains, fantastic phantoms, were also far more artistically malleable than the iron Rolands, Olivers, and Renauds of earlier days; that unknown kingdom of Britain could much more easily be made the impossible ideal, in longing for which squeamish and lazy minds might refuse all coarser reality. Moreover, those who listened to the tales of chivalry were different from those who had listened to the Carolingian stories; and, therefore, required something different. They were courtiers, and one half of them were women. Now the Carolingian tales, originally battle-songs, sung in camps and castles to mere soldiers, had at first possessed no female characters at all; and when gradually they were introduced, it was in the coarsest barrack or tap-room style. The Keltic tales, on the contrary, whether from national tradition, or rather from longer familiarity with Christian culture and greater idleness of life, naturally made women and women's love the goal of a great many adventures which an effete nation could no longer ascribe to patriotic movements. But this was not all. The religious feeling of the day was extremely inclined to mysticism, in which æsthetic, erotic, and all kinds of morbid and ill-defined tendencies were united, which was more than anything else tinged with a semi-Asiatic quietism, a longing for the passive ecstasy of Nirvâna. This religious side of mediæval life was also gratified by the Arthurian romances. Oddly enough, there existed an old Welsh or Breton tale about the boy Peredur, who from a complete simpleton became the prince of chivalry, and his many adventures connected with a certain mysterious blood-dripping lance, and a still more mysterious basin or _grail_ (an allusion to which is said by M. de la Villemarqué to be contained in the originally Keltic name of Percival), which possessed magic properties akin to those of the purse of Fortunatus, or the pipkin in the story of "Little pot, boil!" The story, whose original mythical meaning had been lost in the several centuries of Christianity, was very decayed and obscure; and the fact of the blood on the lance being that of a murdered kinsman of Peredur, and of the basin containing the head of the same person cut off by Gloucester witches, was evidently insufficient to account for all the mystery with which these objects were surrounded. The French poets of the Middle Ages, strongly imbued with Oriental legends brought back by the Crusaders, saw at a glance the meaning of the whole story: the lance was the lance with which Longinus had pierced the Saviour's side; the Grail was the cup which had received His blood, nay, it was the cup of the Last Supper. A tale about the preservation of these precious relics by Joseph of Arimathæa, was immediately connected therewith; a theory was set up (doubtless with the aid of quite unchristian, Oriental legends) of a kind of kingdom of the keepers of the Grail, of a vague half-material, half-spiritual state of bliss connected with the service of the Grail, which fed its knights (and here the Templars and their semi-oriental mysteries, for which they were later so frightfully misused, certainly come into play) with food which is at once of the body and of the soul. Thus the Keltic Peredur, bent upon massacring the Gloucester witches to avenge his uncle, was turned into a saintly knight, seeking throughout a more and more perfect life for the kingdom of the Grail: the Perceval of Chrestien de Troyes, the Parzifal of Wolfram von Eschenbach, whom later romance writers (wishing to connect everything more closely with Arthur's court) replaced by the Sir Galahad of the "Morte d'Arthur," while the guest of the Grail became a sort of general mission of several knights, a sort of spiritual crusade to whose successful champions Percival, Bors, and Galahad, the Middle Ages did not hesitate to add the arch-adulterer Launcelot. Thus did the Arthurian tales answer the requirements of the languid, dreamy, courtly, lady-serving and religiously mystic sons and grandsons of those earlier Crusaders whose aspirations had been expressed by the rough and solemn heroes of Carolingian tales. The Carolingian tales were thrown aside, or were kept by the noble mediæval poets only on condition of their original meaning being completely defaced by wholesale admixture of the manners and adventures belonging to the Arthurian cycles. The paladins were forced to disport themselves in the same fairyland as the Knights of the Round Table; and many mediæval poems the heroes of which, like Ogier of Denmark and Huon of Bordeaux, already existed in the Carolingian tales, are in reality, with their romantic loves, their useless adventures, their Morgana's castles and Oberon's horns, offshoots of the Keltic stories, which were as rich in every kind of supernatural (being, in fact, pagan myths turned into fairy tales) as the genuine Carolingian subjects, whose origin was entirely historical, were completely devoid of such things. Arthur and his ladies and knights: Guenevere, Elaine, Enid, Yseult, Launcelot, Geraint, Kay, Gawain, Tristram, and Percival-Galahad, were the real heroes and heroines of the courtly nobles and the courtly poets of this second phase of mediæval life. The Teuton Charlemagne, Roland and Oliver were as completely forgotten of the poets who met in that memorable combat of the Wartburg, as were the Teuton Sigurd and Dietrich. And if the Carolingian cycle survived, however much altered, I think it must have been thanks to the burghers and artizans of the Netherlands and of Provence, to whom the bluff, matter-of-fact heroism, the simple, gross, but not illegitimate amours of Carolingian heroes, were more satisfactory than any mystic quest of the Grail, any refined adultery of Guenevere or Yseult. But the inevitable fate of all mediæval epics awaited this triumphant Arthurian cycle: the fate of being obliterated by passing from one nation and civilization to another, long before the existence of any poetic art adequate to its treatment. Of this I will take as an example one of the mediæval poems which has the greatest reputation the masterpiece (according to most critics, with whom I find it difficult, in the presence of a poet like Gottfried von Strassburg, to agree) of probably the most really poetical and earnest school of poetry which the pre-Dantesque Middle Ages possessed--the "Parzifal" of Wolfram von Eschenbach. The paramount impression (I cannot say the strongest, for strong impressions are incompatible with such work as this) left by the masterpiece of Wolfram von Eschenbach, is that of the most astonishing vagueness, fluidity, haziness, vaporousness. In reading it one looks back to that rudely hewn and extremely obliterated Nibelungenlied, as to something quite astonishingly clear, detailed and strongly marked as to something distinctly artistic. Indeed by the side of "Parzifal" everything seems artistic; Hartmann von Aue reads like Chaucer, "Aucassin et Nicolette" is as living as "Cymbeline," "Chevy Chase" seems as good as the battles of Homer. It is not a narrative, but a vague mooning; a knight illiterate, not merely like his fellow minnesingers, in the way of reading and writing, but in the sense of complete absence of all habit of literary form; extremely noble and pure of mind, chaste, gentle, with a funny, puzzled sense of humour, reminding one distantly of Jean Paul in his drowsy moments; a hanger-on of courts, but perfectly simple-hearted and childlike; very poor and easily pleased: such is, for good and for bad, Herr Wolfram von Eschenbach, the only real personality in his poem. And he narrates, in a mooning, digressive, good-natured, drowsy tone, with only a rare awaking of interest, a story which he has heard from some one else, and that some one else from a series of other some one elses (Chrestien de Troyes, a legendary Provençal Chiot or Guyot, perhaps even the original Welsh bard); all muddled, monotonous, and droning; events and persons ill-defined, without any sense of the relative importance of anything, without clear perception of what it is all about, or at least without the power of keeping the matter straight before the reader. A story, in point of fact, which is no story at all, but a mere series of rambling adventures (adventures which are scarcely adventures, having no point or plot) of various people with not much connection and no individuality--Gachmuret, Parzifal, Gawain, Loherangrein, Anfortas, Feirefis--pale ghosts of beings, moving in a country of Kennaqwhere, Aquitaine, Anjou, Brittany, Wales, Spain, and heaven knows what wondrous Oriental places; a misty country with woods and towns and castles which are infinitely far apart and yet quite near each other; which seem to sail about like cloud castles round the only solid place in the book, Plimizöl, where Arthur's court, with round table constantly spread, is for ever established. A no place, nowhere; yet full of details; minute inventories of the splendid furniture of castles (castles where? how reached?); infinitely inferior in this matter even to the Nibelungenlied, where you are made to feel so vividly (one of the few modern and therefore clear things therein) the long, dreary road from Worms to Bechlarn, and thence to Etzelburg, though of none of them is there anything beyond a name. For the Nibelungen story had been localized in what to narrator and audience was a reality, the country in which themselves lived, where themselves might seek out the abbey in which Siegfried was buried, the well in the Odenwald near which he was stabbed; where they knew from merchant and pilgrim the road taken by the Nibelungs from Santen to Worms, by the Burgundians from Worms to Hungary. But here in "Parzifal" we are in a mere vague world of anywhere, the world of Keltic and Oriental romance become mere cloudland to the Thuringian knight. And similarly have the heroes of other nations, the Arthurs, Gawains, Gachmurets, of Wales and Anjou, become mere vague names; they have become liquified, lost all shape and local habitation. They are mere names, these ladies and knights of Herr Wolfram, names with fair pink and white faces, names magnificently draped in bejewelled Oriental stuffs and embossed armour; they have no home, no work, nothing to do. This is the most remarkable characteristic of "Parzifal," and what makes it so typical of the process of growing inane through overmuch alteration, which prevented the mediæval epics ever turning into an Iliad or an Odyssey; this that it is essentially idle and all about nothing. The feudal relations strongly marked in the German Nibelungenlied have melted away like the distinctions of race: every knight is independent, not a vassal nor a captain, a Volker or Hagen, or Roland or Renaud followed by his men; but an isolated individual, without even a squire, wandering about alone through this hazy land of nowhere. Knight-errantry, in the time of the great Guelph and Ghibelline struggles, every bit as ideal as that of Spenser or Cervantes; and with the difference that Sir Calidore and Sir Artegal have an appointed task, some Blatant Beast or other nuisance to overcome; and that Don Quixote has the general rescuing of all the oppressed Princesse Micomiconas, and the destruction of all windmills, and the capturing of all helmets of Mambrino, and the establishing all over the world of the worship of Dulcinea. But these knights of Wolfram von Eschenbach have no more this mission than they have the politico-military missions, missions of a Rüdger or a Roland. They are all riding about at random, without any particular pagans, necromancers, or dragons to pursue. The very service of the Holy Grail, which is the main interest of the poem, consists in nothing apparently except living virtuously at the Castle of Montselväsche, and virtuously eating and drinking the victuals provided miraculously. To be admitted to this service, no initiation, no mission, nothing preliminary seems required. Parzifal himself merely wanders about vaguely, without doing any specified thing. The fact is that in this poem all has become purely ideal; ideal to the point of utter vacuity: there is no connection with any human business. Of all the heroes and heroines we hear that they are perfectly chaste, truthful, upright; and they are never put into any situation to test these qualities: they are never placed in the way of temptation, never made to fight with evil, or to decide between it and good. The very religion of the Holy Grail consists in doing nothing: not a word about relieving the poor or oppressed, of tending the sick, of delivering the Holy Sepulchre, of defending that great injured One, Christ. To be Grail Knight or even Grail King means to be exactly the same as before. Where in this vague dreamland of passive purity and heroism, of untempted chastity and untried honour, where are the earthly trials of Tristram, of Guenevere, of Rüdger, of Renaud? Where the moral struggles of the Middle Ages? Where is Godfrey, or Francis, or Dominick? Nowhere. All has disappeared, melted away; Christianity and Paganism themselves have melted away or into each other, as in the easy meeting of the Pagan Feirefis and the Christian Parzifal, and in the double marriage of Gachmuret with the Indian Belakane and the Welsh Herzeloid; there remains only a kind of Buddhistic Nirvâna of vague passive perfection, but without any renunciation; and in a world devoid of evil and full of excellent brocade and armour and eatables, and lovely maidens who dress and undress you, and chastely kiss you on the mouth; a world without desire, aspiration, or combat, vacantly happy and virtuous. A world purely ideal, divorced from all reality, unsubstantial like the kingdom of Gloriana, but, unlike Spenser's, quite unshadowed by any puritan sadness, by any sense of evil, untroubled by allegorical vices; cheerful, serene, filled with flowers and song of birds, but as unreal as the illuminated arabesques of a missal. In truth, perhaps more to be compared with an eighteenth century pastoral, an ideal created almost in opposition to reality; a dream of passiveness and liberty (as of light leaves blown about) as the ideal of the fiercely troubled, struggling, tightly fettered feudal world. The ideal, perhaps, of only one moment, scarcely of a whole civilization; or rather (how express my feeling?) an accidental combination of an instant, as of spectre vapour arisen from the mixture of Kelt and Teuton, of Frank and Moslem. Is it Christian, Pagan, Mohammedan? None of all these. A simple-looking vaporous chaos of incongruous, but not conflicting, elements: a poem of virtue without object, of knighthood without work, of religion without belief; in this like its central interest, the Grail: a mystery, a cup, a stone; a thing which heals, feeds, speaks; animate or inanimate? Stone of the Caaba or chalice of the Sacrament? Merely a mysterious holy of holies and good of goods, which does everything and nothings means nothing and requires nothing--is nothing. III. Thus was obliterated, in all its national and traditional meaning, the heroic cycle of Arthur; and by the same process of slow adaptation to new intellectual requirements which had completely wiped out of men's memory the heroic tales of Siegfried, which had entirely altered the originally realistic character of the epic of Charlemagne. But unreal and ideal as had become the tales of the Round Table, and disconnected with any national tradition, the time came when even these were not sufficiently independent of reality to satisfy the capricious imagination of the later Middle Ages. At the end of the fourteenth century was written, most probably in Portuguese by Vasco de Lobeira, the tale of "Amadis de Gaula," which was followed by some forty or fifty similar books telling the adventures of all the brothers, nephews, sons, grandsons sons, and great-grandsons, an infinite succession, of the original Amadis; which, translated into all languages and presently multiplied by the press, seem to have usurped the place of the Arthurian stories in feudal countries until well-nigh the middle of the sixteenth century; and which were succeeded by no more stories of heroes, but by the realistic comic novels of the type of "Lazarillo de Tormes," and the buffoon philosophic extravaganzas of "Gargantua." Further indeed it was impossible to go than did mediæval idealism in the Amadises. Compared with them the most fairy-tale-like Arthurian stories are perfect historical documents. There remains no longer any connection whatsoever with reality, historical or geographical: the whole world seems to have been expeditiously emptied of all its contents, to make room for kingdoms of Gaul, of Rome, of the Firm Island, of Sobradisa, etc., which are less like the Land West of the Moon and East of the Sun than they are like Sancho Panza's island. All real mankind, past, present, and future, has similarly been swept away and replaced by a miraculous race of Amadises, Lisvarts, Galaors, Gradasilias, Orianas, Pintiquinestras, Fradalons, and so forth, who flit across our vision, in company with the indispensable necromancers, fairies, dwarfs, giants, and duennas, like some huge ballet: things without character, passions, pathos; knights who are never wounded or killed, princesses who always end with marrying the right man, enchanters whose heads are always chopped off, foundlings who are always reinstated in their kingdom, inane paper puppets bespangled with impossible sentiment, tinsel and rags which are driven about like chaff by the wind-puffs of romance. The advent of the Amadises is the coming of the Kingdom of Nonsense, the sign that the last days of chivalric romance have come; a little more, and the Licentiate Alonzo Perez will take his seat in Don Quixote's library, and Nicholas the Barber light his faggots in the yard. But, as if in compensation of the usurpation of which they had been the victims, the Carolingian tales, pushed out of the way by the Arthurian cycle, were not destined to perish. Thrown aside with contempt by the upper classes, engrossed with the Round Table and the Holy Grail, the tales of Charlemagne and his paladins, largely adulterated with Arthurian elements, were apparently cherished by a lower class of society: burgesses, artizans, and such-like, for whom that Arthurian world was far too etherial and too delicately immoral; and to this circumstance is due the fact that the humiliated Carolingian tales eventually received an artistic embodiment which was not given to the Arthurian stories. While troubadours and minnesingers were busy with the court of Arthur, and grave Latinists like Rusticiano of Pisa wrote of Launcelot and Guenevere; the Carolingian epics seem to have been mainly sung about by illiterate jongleurs, and to have busied the pens of prose hackwriters for the benefit of townsfolk. The free towns of the Netherlands and of Germany appear to have been full of this unfashionable literature: the Carolingian cycle had become democratic. And, inasmuch as it was literature no longer for knights and courtiers, but for artizans and shopkeepers, it went, of course, to the pre-eminently democratic country of the Middle Ages--Italy. This was at a time when Italian was not yet a recognized language, and when the men and women who talked in Tuscan, Lombard, or Venetian dialects, wrote in Latin and in French; and while Francesca and Paolo read the story of Launcelot most probably in good mediæval _langue d'oil_, as befitted people of high birth; the jongleurs, who collected crowds so large as to bar the streets and require the interference of the Bolognese magistrates, sang of Roland and Oliver in a sort of _lingua Franca_ of French Lombard. French jongleurs singing in impossible French-Italian; Italian jongleurs singing in impossible French; Paduan penny-a-liners writing Carolingian cyclical novels in French, not of Paris, assuredly, but of Padua--a comical and most hideous jabber of hybrid languages--this was how the Carolingian stories became popular in Italy. Meanwhile, the day came when the romantic Arthurian tales had to dislodge in Italy before the invasion of the classic epic. Troy, Rome, and Thebes had replaced Tintagil and Cærleon in the interest of the cultured classes long before the beginning of the fifteenth century; when Poggio, in the very midst of the classic revival, still told of the comically engrossed audience which surrounded the vagabonds singing of Orlando and Rinaldo. The effete Arthurian cycle, superseded in Spain and France by the Amadis romances, was speedily forgotten in Italy; but the Carolingian stories remained; and when Italian poetry arose once more after the long interregnum between Petrarch and Lorenzo dei Medici, and looked about for subjects, it laid its hand upon them. But when, in the second half of the fifteenth century, those old tales of Charlemagne received, after so many centuries of alterations and ephemeral embodiments, that artistic form which the Middle Ages had been unable to give them, the stories themselves, and the way in which they were regarded, were totally different from what they had been in the time of Theroulde, or of the anonymous author of "The Quatre Fils Aymon;" the Renaissance, with its keen artistic sense, made out of the Carolingian tales real works of art, but works of art which were playthings. To begin with, the Carolingian stories had been saturated with Arthurian colour: they had been furnished with all the knight-rrantry, all the gallantry, all the enchantments, the fairies, giants, and necromancers of the Keltic legends; and, moreover, they had lost, by infinite repetition, all the political realism and meaning so striking in "The Chanson de Roland" and "The Quatre Fils Aymon;" a confusion and unreality further increased by the fact that the Italians had no original connection with those tales, that to them real men and plans were no better than imaginary ones, and that the minstrels who sang in the market-place, and the laborious prose-writers who compiled such collections as that called of the "Reali di Francia," were equally free in their alterations and adaptations, creating unknown relationships, inventing new adventures, suppressing essential historical points, with no object save amusing their audience or readers with new stories about familiar heroes. Such was the condition of the stories themselves. The attitude of the public towards them was, by the middle of the fifteenth century, one of complete incredulity and frivolous amusement; the paladins were as unreal as the heroes of any granny's fairy tale. The people wanted to hear of wonderful battles and adventures, of enchantments and love-makings; but they wanted also to laugh; and, sceptical, practical, democratic, the artizans and shopkeepers of Florence--to whom, paying, as they did, expensive mercenaries who stole poultry and never got wounded on any account, all chivalry or real military honour was the veriest nursery rubbish--such people as crowded round the _cantastoria_ of _mercato vecchio_, must indeed have found much to amuse them in these tales of so different an age. And into such crowds there penetrated to listen and watch (even as the Magnificent Lorenzo had elbowed among the carnival ragamuffins of Florence, and had slid in among the holiday-making peasants of Poggio a Caiano) a learned man, a poet, an intimate of the Medicis, of Politian, Ficino, and Pico della Mirandola, Messer Luigi Pulci, the same who had written the semi-allegorical, semi-realistic poem about Lorenzo dei Medici's gala tournament. There was a taste in the house of the Medici, together with those for platonic philosophy, classical erudition, religious hymns, and Hebrew kabbala, for a certain kind of realism, for the language and mode of thinking of the lower classes, as a reaction from Petrarchesque conventionality. As the Magnificent Lorenzo had had the fancy to string together in more artistic shape the quaint and graceful love poems, hyperbolical, realistic, tender, and abusive, of the Tuscan peasantry; so also Messer Luigi Pulci appears to have been smitten with the notion of trying his hand at a chivalric poem like those to which he and his friends had listened among the butchers and pork-shops, the fishmongers and frying booths of the market, and giving an impression, in its ideas and language, of the people to whom such strains were sung. But Luigi Pulci was vastly less gifted as a poet than Lorenzo dei Medici; Florentine prentices are less æsthetically pleasing than Tuscan peasants, and the "Morgante Maggiore" is a piece of work of a sort utterly inferior to the "Nencia da Barberino." Still the "Morgante Maggiore" remains, and will remain, as a very remarkable production of grotesque art. Just as Lorenzo dei Medici was certainly not without a deliberate purpose of selecting the quaintness and gracefulness of peasant life; even so, and perhaps more, Luigi Pulci must have had a deliberate intention of producing a ludicrous effect; in both cases the deliberate attempt is very little perceptible, in the "Nencia da Barberino" from the genius of Lorenzo, in the "Morgante Maggiore" from the stolidity of Pulci. The "Morgante," of which parts were probably written as a mere sample to amuse a supper party, became interesting to Pulci, in the mere matter of inventing and stringing together new incidents; and despite its ludicrous passages, it must have been more seriously written by him, and more seriously listened to by his friends, than would a similar production now-a-days. For the men of the Renaissance, no matter how philosophized and cultured, retained the pleasure in mere incident, which we moderns seem to have given over to children and savages; and Lorenzo, Ficino, and Politian probably listened to the adventures of Luigi Pulci's paladins and giants with much the same interest, and only a little more conscious sense of grotesqueness, with which the crowd in the market listened to Cristofano dell' Altissimo and similar story-tellers. The "Morgante Maggiore," therefore, is neither really comic nor really serious. It is not a piece of realistic grotesqueness like "Gargantua" or "Pantagruel," any more than it is a serious ideal work like "Amadis de Gaula:" the proportion of deliberately sought effects is small; the great bulk, serious or comic, seems to have come quite at random. It is not a caricatured reproduction of the poems of chivalry sung in the market, for they were probably serious, stately, and bald, with at most an occasional joke; it is the reproduction of the joint impression received from the absurd, harum-scarum, unpractical world of chivalry of the poet, and the real world of prose, of good-humoured buffoonish coarseness with which the itinerant poet was surrounded. The paladins are no Don Quixotes, the princesses no Dulcineas, the battles are real battles; but the language is that of Florentine wool-workers, housewives, cheese-sellers, and ragamuffins, crammed with the slang of the market-place, its heavy jokes and perpetual sententious aphorism. Moreover the prominence given to food and eating is unrivalled except by Rabelais: the poet must have lounged with delight through the narrow mediæval lanes, crowded with booths and barrows, sniffing with rapture the mingled scents of cheese, pork, fish, spices, and a hundred strange concomitant market smells. And the market, that classic _mercato vecchio_ (alas, finally condemned and destroyed by modern sanitary prudishness, and which only those who have seen can conceive in its full barbarous, nay, barbaric Pantagruelian splendour of food, blood, and stenches) of Florence, is what we think of throughout the poem. And, when Messer Luigi comes to narrate, with real gravity and after the due invocation of the Virgin, the Trinity, and the saints, the tremendous disaster of Roncevaux, he uses such words and such similes, that above the neighing of horses and the clash of hurtling armour and the yells of the combatants we suddenly hear the nasal sing-song of Florentine tripe-vendors and pumpkin-pod-sellers, the chaffer and oaths and laughter of the gluttonous crowd pouring through the lanes of Calimala and Pellicceria; nay (horrible and grotesque miracle), there seems to rise out of the confused darkness of the battle-filled valley, there seems to disengage itself (as out of a mist) from the chaos of heaped bodies, and the flash of steel among the whirlwinds of dust, a vision, more and more distinct and familiar, of the crowded square with its black rough-hewn, smoke-stained houses, ornamented with Robbia-ware angels and lilies or painted madonnas; of its black butchers dens, outside which hang the ghastly disembowelled sheep with blood-stained fleeces, the huge red-veined hearts and livers; of the piles of cabbage and cauli-flowers, the rows of tin ware and copper saucepans, the heaps of maccaroni and pastes, of spices and drugs; the garlands of onions and red peppers and piles of apples; the fetid sliminess of the fish tressels; the rough pavement oozy and black, slippery with cabbage-stalks, puddled with bullock's blood, strewn with plucked feathers--all under the bright blue sky, with Giotto's dove-coloured belfry soaring high above; a vision, finally, of one of those deep dens, with walls, all covered with majolica plates and dishes and flashing brass-embossed trenchers, in the dark depths of which crackles perennially a ruddy fire, while a huge spit revolves, offering to the flames now one now the other side of scores of legs of mutton, rounds of beef, and larded chickens, trickling with the butter unceasingly ladled by the white-dressed cooks. Roncisvalle, Charlemagne, the paladins, paganism, Christendom--what of them? "I believe in capon, roast or boiled, and sometimes done in butter; in mead and in must; and I believe in the pasty and the pastykins, mother and children; but above all things I believe in good wine "--as Margutte snuffles out in his catechism; and as to Saracens and paladins, past, present, and future, a fig for them! But meanwhile, for all that Florentine burgesses, artizans, and humorists may think, there is in this Italy of the Renaissance something besides Florence; there is a school of poetry, disconnected with the realisms of Lorenzo and Pulci, with the Ovidian Petrarchisms of Politian. There is Ferrara. Lying, as they do, between the Northern Apennine slopes of Modena and the Euganean hills, the dominions of the House of Este appear at first sight merely as part and parcel of Lombardy, and we should expect from them nothing very different from that which we expect from Milan or Bologna or Padua. But the truth is different; all round Ferrara, indeed, stretches the fertile flatness of Lombard cornfields, and they produce, as infallibly as they produce their sacks of grain and tuns of wine and heaps of silk cocoon, the intellectual and social equivalents of such things in Renaissance Italy: industry, wealth, comfort, scepticism, art. But on either side, into the defiles of the Euganean hills to the north, into the widening torrent valleys of the Modenese Apennines to the south, the Marquisate of Este stretches up into feudalism, into chivalry, into the imaginative kingdom of the Middle Ages. Mediævalism, feudalism, chivalry, indeed, of a very modified sort; and as different from that of France and Germany as differ from the poverty-stricken plains and forests and and moors of the north these Italian mountain slopes, along which the vines crawl in long trellises, and the chestnuts rise in endlessly superposed tiers of terraces, cultivated by a peasant who is not the serf, but the equal sharer in profits with the master of the soil. And on one of those fertile hill-sides, looking down upon a narrow valley all a green-blue shimmer with corn and vine-bearing elms, was born, in the year 1434, Matteo Maria Boiardo, in the village which gave him the title, one of the highest in the Estensian dominions, of Count of Scandiano. Here, in the Apennines, Scandiano is a fortified village, also a castle, doubtless half turned into a Renaissance villa, but mediæval and feudal nevertheless; but the name of Scandiano belongs also, I know not for what reason, to a certain little red-brick palace on the outskirts of Ferrara, beautifully painted with half-allegorical, half-realistic pageant frescoes by Cosimo Tura, and enclosing a sweet tangled orchard-garden; to all of which, being the place to which Duke Borso and Duke Ercole were wont to retire for amusement, the Ferrarese have given the further name of Schifanoia, which means, "fly from cares." This little coincidence of Scandiano the feudal castle in the Apennines, and Scandiano the little pleasure palace at Ferrara, seems to give, by accidental allegory, a fair idea of the double nature of Matteo Boiardo, of the Ferrarese court to which he belonged, and of the school of poetry (including the more notable but less original work of Ariosto) which the genius of the man and the character of the court succeeded together in producing. To understand Boiardo we must compare him with Ariosto; and to understand Ariosto we must compare him with Boiardo; both belong to the same school, and are men of very similar genius, and where the one leaves off the other begins. But first, in order to understand the character of this poetry which, in the main, is identical in Boiardo and in his more successful but less fascinating pupil Ariosto, let us understand Ferrara. It was, in the late fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries, a chivalric town of Ariostesque chivalry: feudalism turned courtly and elegant, and moreover, very liberal and comfortable by preponderance of democratic and industrial habits; a military court, of brave mercenary captains full of dash and adventure, not mere brigands and marauders having studied strategy, like the little Umbrian chieftains; a court orderly, elegant, and brilliant: a prince not risen from behind a counter like Medicis and Petruccis, nor out of blood like Baglionis and Sforzas, but of a noble old house whose beginnings are lost in the mist of real chivalry and real paladinism; a duke with a pretence of feudal honour and decorum, at whose court men were all brave and ladies all chaste--with the little licenses of baseness and gallantry admitted by Renaissance chivalry. A bright, brilliant court at the close of the fifteenth century; and more stable than the only one which might have rivalled it, the Feltrian court of Urbino, too small and lost among the Umbrian bandits. A bright, brilliant town, also, this Ferrara: not mercantile like Florence, not mere barracks like Perugia; a capital, essentially, in its rich green plain by the widened Po, with its broad handsome streets (so different from the mediæval exchanges of Bologna, and the feudal alleys of Perugia), its well-built houses, so safe and modern, needing neither _bravi_ nor iron window bars, protected (except against some stray murder by one of the Estensi themselves), by the duke's well-organized police; houses with well-trimmed gardens, like so many Paris hôtels; and with the grand russet brick castle, military with its moat and towers, urban with its belvederes and balconies, in the middle, well placed to sweep away with its guns (the wonderful guns of the duke's own making) any riot, tidily, cleanly, without a nasty heap of bodies and slop of blood as in the narrow streets of other towns Imagine this bright capital, placed, moreover, in the richest centre of Lombardy, with glitter of chivalry from the Euganean hills and Apennines (castellated with Este, Monselice, Canossa, and Boiardo's own Scandiano); with gorgeous rarities of commerce from Venice and Milan--a central, unique spot. It is the natural home of the chivalrous poets of the Renaissance, Boiardo, Ariosto, Tasso; as Florence is of the Politians and Pulcis (Hellenism and back-shopery); and Venice of the literature of lust, jests, cynicism, and adventure, Aretine, Beolco, Calmo, and Poliphilo-Colonna. In that garden, where the white butterflies crowd among the fruit trees bowed down to the tall grass of the palace of Schifanoia--a garden neither grand nor classic, but elegiac and charming--we can imagine Boiardo or Ariosto reading their poems to just such a goodly company as Giraldi Cinthio (a Ferrarese, and fond of romance, too) describes in the prologue of his "Ecatomiti:" gentle and sprightful ladies, with the splendid brocaded robes, and the gold-filleted golden hair of Dosso Dossi's wonderful Alcina Circe; graceful youths like the princely St. John of Benvenuto Garofalo; jesters like Dosso's at Modena; brilliant captains like his St. George and St. Michael; and a little crowd of pages with doublets and sleeves laced with gold tags, of sedate magistrates in fur robes and scarlet caps, of white-dressed maids with instruments of music and embroidery frames and hand looms, like those which Cosimo Tura painted for Duke Borso on the walls of this same Schifanoia palace. Such is the audience; now for the poems. The stuff of Boiardo and Ariosto is the same: that old mediæval stuff of the Carolingian poems, coloured, scented with Arthurian chivalry and wonder. The knight-errantry of the Keltic tales is cleverly blended with the pseudo-historical military organization of the Carolingian cycle. Paladins and Saracens are ingeniously manoeuvred about, now scattered in little groups of twos and threes, to encounter adventures in the style of Sir Launcelot or Amadis; now gathered into a compact army to crash upon each other as at Roncevaux; or else wildly flung up by the poet to alight in fairyland, to find themselves in the caverns of Jamschid, in the isles where Oberon's mother kept Cæsar, and Morgana kept Ogier, in the boats, entering subterranean channels, of Sindbad and Huon of Bordeaux; a constant alternation of individual adventure and wholesale organized campaigns, conceived and carried out with admirable ingenuity. So much for the deeds of arms. The deeds of love are also compounded of Carolingian and Arthurian, but flavoured with special Renaissance feeling. There is a great deal of rapid love-making between too gallant knights and too impressionable ladies; licentious amours which we moderns lay at the door of Boiardo and Ariosto, not knowing that the licentiousness of the Olivers and Ogiers and Guerins and Huons of mediæval poetry, of the sentimental Amadises, Galaors, and Lisvarts of the fourteenth century, whom the Renaissance has toned down in Rogers and Rinaldos and Ricciardettos, is by many degrees worse. A moral improvement also (for all the immorality of the Renaissance) in the eschewing of the never-failing adultery of the Arthurian romances, and the appropriation to legitimately faithful love of the poetical devotion which Tristram and Launcelot bear to other men's wives. To this are added, and more by Ariosto than by Boiardo, two essentially Italian elements: something of the nobility of passion of the Platonic sonneteers; and a good dose of the ironical, scurrilous, moralizing immoral anecdote gossiping of Boccaccio and Sacchetti. Such is the stuff. The conception, though rarely comic, and sometimes _bond fide_ serious, is never earnest. All this is a purely artistic world, a world of decorative arabesque incident, intended to please, scarcely ever to move, or to move, at most, like some Decameronian tale of Isabella and the Basil Plant, or Constance and Martuccio. On the other hand, there is none of the grotesque irreverence of Pulci. Boiardo and Ariosto are not in earnest; they are well aware that their heroes and heroines are mere modern men and women tricked out in pretty chivalric trappings, driven wildly about from Paris to Cathay, and from Spain to the Orkneys--on Tony Lumpkin's principle of driving his mother round and round the garden plot till she thought herself on a heath six miles off--without ever really changing place. But they do not, like Pulci, make fun of their characters. They write chivalry romances not for Florentine pork-butchers and wool-carders, but for gallant ladies and gentlemen, to whom, with duels, tournaments, serenades, and fine speeches, chivalry is an admired name, though no longer a respected reality. The heroes of Boiardo and of Ariosto are always bold and gallant and glittering, the spirit of romance is in them; a giant Sancho Panza like Morgante, redolent of sausage and cheese, would never be admitted into the society of a Ferrarese Orlando. The art of Boiardo and of Ariosto is eminently pageant art, in which sentiment and heroism are but as one element among many; there is no pretence at reality (although there is a good deal of incidental realism), and no thought of the interest in subject and persons which goes with reality. It is a masquerade, and one whose men and women must, I think, be imagined in a kind of artistic fancy costume: a mixture of the Renaissance dress and of the antique, as we see it in the prints of contemporary pageants, and in Venetian and Ferrarese pictures; that Circe of Dosso's, in the Borghese gallery of Rome, seated in her stately wine-lees and gold half-heraldically and half-cabalistically patterned brocade, before the rose-bushes of the little mysterious wood, is the very ideal of the Falerinas and Alcinas, of the enchantresses of Boiardo and Ariosto. Pageant people, these of the Ferrarese poets; they only play at being in forests and deserts, as children play at being on volcanoes or in Green-land by the nursery fire. It is a kind of dressing up, a masquerading of the fancy; not disguising in order to deceive, but rather laying hold of any pretty or brilliant impressive garb that comes to hand, and putting that on in conjunction with many odds and ends, as an artist's guests might do with the silks and velvets and Oriental properties of a studio. These knights and ladies, for ever tearing about from Scotland to India, never, in point of fact, get any further than the Apennine slopes where Boiardo was born, where Ariosto governed the Garfagnana. They ride for ever (while supposed to be in the Ardennes or in Egypt) across the velvet moss turf, all patterned with minute starry clovers and the fallen white ropy chestnut blossom, amidst the bracken beneath the slender chestnut trees, the pale blue sky looking in between their spreading branches; at most they lose their way in the intricacies of some seaside pineta, where the feet slip on the fallen needles, and the sun slants along the vistas of serried, red, scaly trunks, among the juniper and gorse and dry grass and flowers growing in the sea sand. Into the vast mediæval forests of Germany and France, Boiardo and Ariosto's fancy never penetrated. Such is the school: a school represented in its typical character only by Boiardo and Ariosto, but to which belong, nevertheless, with whatever differences, Tasso, Spenser, Camoens, all the poets of Renaissance romance. Now of the two leaders thereof. Here I feel that I can speak only personally; tell only of my own personal impressions and preferences. Comparing together Boiardo and Ariosto, I am, of course, aware of the infinite advantages of the latter. Ariosto is a man of far more varied genius; he is an artist, while Boiardo is an amateur; he is learned in arranging and ornamenting; he knows how to alternate various styles, how to begin and how to end. Moreover, he is a scholarly person of a more scholarly time: he is familiar with the classics, and, what is more important, he is familiar with the language in which he is writing. He writes exquisitely harmonious, supple, and brilliant Tuscan verse, with an infinite richness of diction; while poor Boiardo jogs along in a language which is not the Lombard dialect in which he speaks, and which is very uncouth and awkward, as is every pure language for a provincial; indeed, so much so, that the pedantic Tuscans require Berni to make Tuscan, elegant, to _ingentilire_, with infinite loss to quaintness and charm, the "Orlando Innamorato" of poor Ferrarese Boiardo. Moreover, Ariosto has many qualities unknown to Boiardo; wit, malice, stateliness, decided eloquence and power of simile and apostrophe; he is a symphony for full orchestra, and Boiardo a mere melody played on a single fiddle, which good authorities (and no one dare contest with Italians when they condemn anything not Tuscan as jargon) pronounce to be no Cremona. All these advantages Ariosto certainly has; and I do not quarrel with those who prefer him for them. But many of them distinctly take away from my pleasure. I confess that I am bored by the beautifully written moral and allegorical preludes of Ariosto's cantos; I would willingly give all his aphorism and all his mythology to get quickly to the story. Also, I resent his admirable rhetorical flourishes about his patrons, his Ercoles, Ippolitos, and Isabellas they ring false, dreadfully false and studied; and Boiardo's quickly despatched friendly greeting of his friends, his courteous knights and gentle ladies, pleases me much better. Moreover, the all-pervading consciousness of the existence of Homer, Virgil, nay, Statius and Lucan, every trumpery antique epic-monger, annoys me, giving an uncomfortable doubt as to whether Ariosto did not try to make all this nonsense serious, and this romance into an epic; all this occasional Virgilian stateliness, alternated with a kind of polished Decameronian gossipy cynicism, diverts my attention, turns paladins and princesses too much into tutor-educated gentlemen, into Bandello and Cinthio-reading ladies of the sixteenth century. The picture painted by Ariosto is finer, but you see too much of the painter; he and his patrons take up nearly the whole foreground, and they have affected, idealized faces and would-be dignified and senatorial poses. For these and many other reasons, I personally prefer Boiardo; and perhaps the best reason for my preference is the irrational one that he gives me more pleasure. My preferences, my impressions, I have said, are in this matter, much less critical than personal. Hence I can speak of Boiardo only as he affects me. When first I read Boiardo, I was conscious of a curious phenomenon in myself. I must confess to reading books usually in a very ardent or rather weary manner, either way in a hurry to finish them. As it happened, when I borrowed Boiardo, I had a great many other things on hand which required my time and attention; yet I could not make up my mind to return the book until I had finished it, though my intention had been merely to satisfy my curiosity by a dip into it. I went on, without that eager desire to know what follows which one has in a novel; drowsily with absolute reluctance to leave off, like the reluctance to rise from the grass beneath the trees with only butterflies and shadows to watch, or the reluctance to put aside some fairy book of Walter Crane's. It was like strolling in some quaint, ill-trimmed, old garden, finding fresh flowers, fresh bits of lichened walls, fresh fragments of broken earthenware ornaments; or, rather, more like a morning in the Cathedral Library at Siena, the place where the gorgeous choir books are kept, itself illuminated like missal pages by Pinturicchio: amused, delighted, not moved nor fascinated; finding every moment something new, some charming piece of gilding, some sweet plumed head, some quaint little tree or town; making a journey of lazy discovery in a sort of world of Prince Charmings, the real realm of the "Färy Queen," quite different in enchantment from the country of Spenser's Gloriana, with its pale allegoric ladies and knights, half-human, half-metaphysical, and its make-believe allegorical ogres and giants. This is the real Fairyland, this of Boiardo: no mere outskirts of Ferrara, with real, playfully cynical Ferrarese men and women tricked out as paladins and Amazons, and making fun of their disguise, as in Ariosto; no wonderland of Tasso, with enchanted gardens copied out of Bolognese pictures and miraculous forests learned from theatre mechanicians, wonders imitated by a great poet from the cardboard and firework wonders of Bianca Cappello's wedding feasts. This is the real fairyland, the wonderland of mediæval romance and of Persian and Arabian tales, no longer solemn or awful, but brilliant, sunny, only half believed in; the fairyland of the Renaissance, superficially artistic, with its lightest, brightest fancies, and its charming realities; its cloistered and painted courts with plashing fountains, its tapestried and inlaid rooms, its towered and belvedered villas, its quaint clipped gardens full of strange Oriental plants and beasts; and all this transported into a country of wonders, where are the gardens of the Hesperides, the fountain of Merlin, the tomb of Narcissus, the castle of Morgan-le-Fay; every quaint and beautiful fancy, antique and mediæval, mixed up together, as in some Renaissance picture of Botticelli or Rosselli or Filippino, where knights in armour descend from Pegasus before Roman temples, where swarthy white-turbaned Turks, with oddly bunched-up trousers and jewelled caftans, and half-naked, oak-crowned youths, like genii descended, pensive and wondering, from some antique sarcophagus, and dapper princelets and stalwart knights, and citizens and monks, all crowd round the altar of some wonder-working Macone or Apolline or Trevigante; some comic, dreadful, apish figure, mummed up in half-antique, half-oriental garb. Or else we are led into some dainty, pale-tinted panel of Botticelli, where the maidens dance in white clinging clothes, strewing flowers on to the flower-freaked turf; or into some of Poliphilo's vignettes, where the gentle ladies, seated with lute and viol under vine-trellises, welcome the young gallant, or poet, or knight. Such is the world of Boiardo. Spenser has once or twice peeped in, painted it, and given us exquisite little pictures, as that of Malecasta's castle, all hung with mythological tapestries, that of the enchanted chamber of Britomart, and those of Sir Calidore meeting the Graces and of Hellenore dancing with the Satyrs; but Spenser has done it rarely, trembling to return to his dreary allegories. Equal to these single pictures by Spenser, Boiardo has only one or two, but he keeps us permanently in the world where such pictures are painted. Boiardo is not a great artist like Spenser: but he is a wizard, which is better. He leads us, unceasingly, through the little dreamy laurelwoods, where we meet crisp-haired damsels tied to pine-trees, or terrible dragons, or enchanted wells, through whose translucent green waters we see brocaded rooms full of fair ladies; he ferries us ever and anon across shallow streams, to the castles where _gentil donzelle_ wave their kerchiefs from the pillared belvedere; he slips us unseen into the camps and council-rooms of the splendidly trapped Saracens, like so many figures out of Filippino's frescoes; he conducts us across the bridges where giants stand warders, to the mysterious carved tombs whence issue green and crested snakes, who, kissed by a paladin, turn into lovely enchantresses; he takes us beneath the beds of rivers and through the bowels of the earth where kings and knights turned into statues of gold, sit round tables covered with jewels, illumined by carbuncles more wonderful than that of Jamschid; or through the mazes of fairy gardens, where every ear of corn, cut off, turns into a wild beast, and every fallen leaf into a bird, where hydras watch in the waters and lamias rear themselves in the grass, where Orlando must fill his helmet with roses lest he hear the voice of the sirens; where all the wonders of Antiquity--the snake-women, the Circes, the sirens, the hydras and fauns live, strangely changed into something infinitely quaint and graceful, still half-antique, yet already half-Arabian or Keltic, in the midst of the fairyland of Merlin and of Oberon--live, move, transform themselves afresh; where the golden-haired damsels and the stripling knights, delicate like Pinturicchio's Prince Charmings, gallop for ever on their enchanted coursers, within enchanted armour, invincible, invulnerable, under a sky always blue, and through an unceasing spring, ever onwards to new adventures. Adventures which the noble, gentle Castellan of Scandiano, poet and knight and humorist, philanthropical philosopher almost from sheer goodness of heart, yet a little crazy, and capable of setting all the church bells ringing in honour of the invention of the name of Rodomonte relates not to some dully ungrateful Alfonso or Ippolito, but to his own guests, his own brilliant knights and ladies, with ever and anon an effort to make them feel, through his verse, some of those joyous spring-tide feelings which bubble up in himself; as when he remembers how, "Once did I wander on a May morning in a fair flower-adorned field on a hillside overlooking the sea, which was all tremulous with light; and there, among the roses of a green thorn-brake, a damsel was singing of love; singing so sweetly that the sweetness still touches my heart; touches my heart, and makes me think of the great delight it was to listen;" and how he would fain repeat that song, and indeed an echo of its sweetness runs through his verse. Meanwhile, stanza pours out after stanza, adventure grows out of adventure, each more wonderful, more gorgeous than its predecessor. To which listen the ladies, with their white, girdled dresses and crimped golden locks; the youths, with their soft beardless faces framed in combed-out hair, with their daggers on their hips and their plumed hats between their fingers; and the serious bearded men, in silken robes; drawing nearer the poet, letting go lute or violin or music-book as they listen on the villa terrace or in some darkened room, where the sunset sky turns green-blue behind the pillared window, and the roses hang over the trellise of the cloister. And as they did four hundred years ago, so do we now, rejoice. The great stalwart naked forms of Greece no longer leap and wrestle or carry their well-poised baskets of washed linen before us; the mailed and vizored knights of the Nibelungen no longer clash their armour to the sound of Volker's red fiddle-bow; the glorified souls of Dante no longer move in mystic mazes of light before the eyes of our fancy. All that is gone. But here is the fairyland of the Renaissance. And thus Matteo Boiardo, Count of Scandiano, goes on, adding adventure to adventure, stanza to stanza, in his castle villa, or his palace at Ferrara. But suddenly he stops and his bright fiddle and lute music jars and ends: "While I am singing, O Redeeming God, I see all Italy set on fire by these Gauls, coming to ravage I know not what fresh place." And thus, with the earlier and more hopeful Renaissance of the fifteenth century, Matteo Boiardo broke off with his "Orlando Innamorato." The perfect light-heartedness, the delight in play of a gentle, serious, eminently kindly nature, which gives half the charm to Boiardo's work, seems to have become impossible after the ruin of Italian liberty and prosperity the frightful showing up of Italy's moral and social and political insignificance at the beginning of the sixteenth century. Lombardy especially became a permanent battle-field, and its towns mere garrison places of French, German, Spanish, and Swiss barbarians, whose presence meant slaughter and pillage and every foulest outrage; and then, between the horrors of the unresisted invasions and the unresisted exactions, came plague and famine, and industry and commerce gradually died out. A few princes, subsidised and guarded by French or Imperialists, kept up an appearance of cheerfulness, but the courts even grew more gloomy as the people grew more miserable. There is more joking, more resonant laughter in Ariosto than in Boiardo, but there is very much less serenity and cheerfulness; ever and anon a sort of bitterness, a dreary moralizing tendency, a still more dreary fit of prophesying future good in which he has no belief, comes over Ariosto. Berni, who rewrote the "Orlando Innamorato" in choice Tuscan, and who underlined every faintly marked jest of Boiardo's, with evident preoccupation of the ludicrous effects of the "Morgante Maggiore"--Berni even could not keep up his spirits; into the middle of Boiardo's serene fairyland adventures he inserted a description of the sack of Rome which is simply harrowing. All real cheerfulness departed from the people, to be replaced only by pleasure in the debaucheries of the buffoonish obscenity of Aretino, Bandello, and so forth, to which the men of the dying Italy of the Renaissance listened as the roysterers of the plague of Florence, with the mortal sickness almost upon them, may have listened to the filthy songs which they trolled out in their drunkenness. Or at best, the poor starved, bruised, battered, humiliated nation may have tried to be cheerful on the principle of its harlequin playwright Beolco, who, more honest than the Ariostos and Bibbienas, and Aretines, came forward on his stage of planks at Padua, and after describing the ruin and wretchedness of the country, the sense of dreariness and desolation, which made young folk careless of marriage, and the very nightingales (he thought) careless of song, recommended his audience, since they could not even cry thoroughly and to feel any the better for it, to laugh, if they still were able. Boiardo was forgotten; his spirit was unsuited to the depression, gloomy brutality, gloomy sentimentality, which grew every day as Italy settled down after its Renaissance-Shrovetide in the cinders and fasting of the long Lent of Spanish and Jesuit rule. Still the style of Boiardo was not yet exhausted; the peculiar kind of fairy epic, the peculiar combination of chivalric and classic elements of which the "Orlando Innamorato" and the "Orlando Furioso," had been the great examples, still fascinated poets and public. The Renaissance, or what remained of it, was now no longer confined to Italy; it had spread, paler, more diluted, shallower, over the rest of Europe. To follow the filiation of schools, to understand the intellectual relationships of individuals, of the latter half of the sixteenth century, it becomes necessary to move from one country to another. And thus the two brother poets of the family of Boiardo, its two last and much saddened representatives, came to write in very different languages and under very different circumstances. These two are Tasso and our own Spenser. They are both poets of the school of the "Orlando Innamorato," both poets of a reaction, of a kind of purified Renaissance: the one of the late Italian Renaissance emasculated by the Council of Trent and by Spain; the other of the English Renaissance, in its youth truly, but, in the individual case of Spenser, timidly drawn aside from the excesses of buoyant life around. In the days of the semi-atheist dramatists, all flesh and blood and democracy, Spenser steeps himself in Christianity and chivalry, even as Tasso does, following on the fleshly levity and scepticism of Boiardo, Berni, and Ariosto. There is in both poets a paleness, a certain diaphanous weakness, an absence of strong tint or fibre or perfume; in Tasso the pallor of autumn, in Spenser the paleness of spring: autumn left sad and leafless by the too voluptuous heat and fruitfulness of summer; spring still pale and pinched by winter, with timid nipped grass and unripe stiff buds and catkins, which never suggest the tangle of bush, grasses, and magnificent flowers and fruits, sweet, splendid, or poisonous, which the sun will make out of them. The Renaissance, in the past for Tasso, in the proximate and very visible future for Spenser, has frightened both; the cynicism and bestiality of men like Machiavelli and Aretino; the godless, muscular lustiness of Marlowe, Greene, and Peele, seen in a glimpse by Tasso and Spenser, have given a shock to their sensitive nature, have made them turn away and hide themselves from a second sight of it. They both take refuge in a land of fiction, of romance, from the realities into which they dread to splash; a world unsubstantial, diaphanous, faint-hued, almost passionless, which they make out of beauty and heroism and purity, which they alembicize and refine, but into which there never enters any vital element, anything to give it flesh and bone and pulsing life: it is a mere soap bubble. And beautiful as is this world of their own making, it is too negative even for them; they move in it only in imagination, calm, serene, vacant, almost sad. There is in it, and in themselves, a something wanting; and the remembrance of that unholy-life of reality which jostled and splashed their delicate souls, comes back and haunts them with its evil thought. There is no laugh--what is worse, no smile --in these men. Incipient puritanism, not yet the terrible brawny reality of Bunyan, but a vague, grey spectre, haunts Spenser; and the puritanism of Don Quixote, the vague, melancholy, fantastic reverting from the evil world of to-day to an impossible world of chivalry, is troubling the sight of Tasso. He cannot go crazy like Don Quixote, and instead he grows melancholy; he cannot believe in his own ideals; he cannot give them life, any more than can Spenser give life to his allegoric knights and ladies, because the life would have to be fetched by Tasso out of the flesh of Ariosto, and by Spenser out of the blood of Marlowe; and both Tasso and Spenser shrink at the thought of what might with it be inoculated or transfused; and they rest satisfied with phantoms. The phantoms of Spenser are more shadowy much more utterly devoid of human character; they are almost metaphysical abstractions, and they do not therefore sadden us: they are too unlike living things to seem very lifeless. But the phantoms of Tasso, he would fain make realities; he works at every detail of character, history, or geography, which may make his people real; they are not, as with Spenser, elves and wizards flitting about in a nameless fairyland, characterless and passionless; they are historical creatures, captains and soldiers in a country mapped out by the geographer; but they are phantoms all the more melancholy, these beautiful and heroic Clorindas and Erminias and Tancreds and Godfreys--why? because the real world around Tasso is peopled with Brachianos and Corombonas, and Annabellas and Giovannis, creatures for Webster and Ford; and because this world of chivalry is, in his Italy, as false as the world of Amadis and Esplandian in Toboso and Barcelona for poor Don Quixote. Melancholy therefore, and dreamy, both Tasso and Spenser, with nothing they can fully love in reality, because they see it tainted with reality and evil; without the cheerful falling back upon everyday life of Ariosto and Shakespeare, and with a strange fancy for fairyland, for the distant, for the Happy Islands, the St. Brandan's Isles, the country of the fountain of youth, the country of which vague reports have come back with the ships of Raleigh and Ponce de Leon. Tasso and Spenser are happiest, in their calm, melancholy way, when they can let themselves go in day-dreams, and talk of things in which they do not believe, of diamond shields which stun monsters of ointments which cure all ills of body and of soul of enchanted groves whose trees sound with voices, and lutes, of boats in which, steered by fairies, we can glide across the scarcely rippled summer sea, and watching the ruins of the past, time and reality left behind, set sail for some strange land of bliss. And there is in the very sensuousness and love of beauty-of these men a vagueness and melancholy, a constant: sense of the fleeting and of the eternal, as in that passage, translated from the languidly sweet Italian perfection of Tasso into the timid, almost scentless, English of Spenser--"Cosi trapassa al trapassar d'un giorno." So passeth, in the passing of a day, Of mortall life the leafe, the bud, the flowre No more doth florish after first decay, That earst was sought to deck both bed and bowre Of many a lady, and many a Paramowre. Gather therefore the Rose whilest yet is prime, For soone comes age that will her pride deflowre; Gather the Rose of love whitest yet is time, Whitest loving thou mayest loved be withe equall crime. A sense of evanescence, of dreamlikeness, quite different from the thoughtless enjoyment of Boiardo, from the bold and manly facing of the future, the solemn, strong sense of life and death as of waking realities, of the Elizabethan dramatists, even of weaklings like Massinger and Beaumont. In Tasso and in Spenser there is no such joyousness, no such solemnity; only a dreamy watching, a regret which is scarcely a regret, at the evanescence of pale beauty and pale life, of joys feebly felt and evils meekly borne. With Tasso and Spenser comes to a close the school of Boiardo, the small number of real artists who finally gave an enduring and beautiful shape to that strangely mixed and altered material of romantic epic left behind by the Middle Ages; comes to an end at least till our own day of appreciative and deliberate imitation and selection and rearrangement of the artistic forms of the past. Until the revival (after much study and criticism) by our own poets of Arthur and Gudrun and the Fortunate Isles, the world had had enough of mediæval romance. Chivalry had avowedly ended in chamberlainry; the devotion to women in the official routine of the _cicisbeo_; the last romance to which the late Renaissance had clung, which made it sympathize with Huon, Ogier, Orlando, and Rinaldo, which had made it take delight still in the fairyland of Oberon, of Fallerina, of Alcina, of Armida, of Acrasia, the romance of the new world, had also turned into prose, prose of blood-stained filth. The humanistic and rationalistic men of the Renaissance had doubtless early begun to turn up their noses in dainty dilettantism or scientific contempt, at what were later to be called by Montaigne, "Ces Lancelots du Lac, ces Amadis, ces Huons et tels fatras di livres à quoy l'enfance s'amuse;" and by Ben Jonson: Public nothings, Abortives of the fabulous dark cloister, Sent out to poison courts, and infect manners-- the public at large was more constant, and still retained a love for mediæval romance. But more than humanities, more than scientific scepticism and religious puritanism, did the slow dispelling of the illusion of Eldorado and the Fortunate Isles. Mankind set sail for America in brilliant and knightly gear, believing in fountains of youth and St. Brandan's Isles, with Ariosto, Tasso, and Spenser still in its pockets. It returns from America either as the tattered fever-stricken ruffian, or as the vulgar, fat upstart of Spanish comedy, returns without honour or shame, holding money (and next to money, negroes) of greater account than any insignia of paladinship or the Round Table; it is brutal, vulgar, cynical; at best very sad, and it gets written for its delectation the comic-tragic novels of rapscallions, panders, prostitutes, and card-sharpers, which from "Lazarillo de Tormes" to "Gil Blas," and from "Gil Blas" to "Tom Jones," finally replace the romances of the Launcelots, Galahads, Rinaldos, and Orlandos. Thus did the mediæval romantic-epic stuffs suffer alteration, adulteration, and loss of character, throughout the long period of the Middle Ages, without ever receiving an artistic shape, such as should make all men preserve and cherish them for the only thing which makes men preserve and cherish such things--that never to be wasted quality, beauty. The Middle Ages were powerless to endow therewith their own subjects; so the subjects had to wait, altering more and more with every passing day, till the coming of the Renaissance. And by that time these subjects had ceased to have any serious meaning whatever; the Roland of the song of Roncevaux had become the crazy Orlando of Ariosto; the Renaud of "The Quatre Fils Aymon," had become the Rinaldo, thrashed with sheaves of lilies by Cupid, of Matteo Boiardo. The Renaissance took up the old epic-romantic materials and made out of them works of art; but works of art which, as I said before, were playthings gets written for its delectation the comic-tragic novels of rapscallions, panders, prostitutes, and card-sharpers, which, from "Lazarillo de Tormes" to "Gil Bias," and from "Gil Bias" to "Tom Jones," finally replace the romances of the Launcelots, Galahads, Rinaldos, and Orlandos. * * * * * MEDIEVAL LOVE. On laying down the "Vita Nuova" our soul is at first filled and resounding with the love of Beatrice. Whatever habits or capacities of noble loving may lurk within ourselves, have been awakened by the solemn music of this book, and have sung in unison with Dante's love till we have ceased to hear the voice of his passion and have heard only the voice of our own. When the excitement has diminished, when we have grown able to separate from our own feelings the feelings of the man dead these five centuries and a half, and to realize the strangeness, the obsoleteness of this love which for a moment had seemed our love; then a new phase of impressions has set in, and the "Vita Nuova" inspires us with mere passionate awe: awe before this passion which we feel to be no longer our own, but far above and distant from us, as in some rarer stratum of atmosphere; awe before this woman who creates it, or rather who is its creation. Even as Dante fancied that the people of Florence did when the bodily presence of this lady came across their path, so do we cast down our glance as the image of Beatrice passes across our mind. Nay, the glory of her, felt so really while reading the few, meagre words in the book, is stored away in our heart, and clothes with a faint aureole the lady--if ever in our life we chance to meet her--in whom, though Dante tells us nothing of stature, features, eyes or hair, we seem to recognize a likeness to her on whose passage "ogni lingua divien tremando muta, e gli occhi non ardiscon di guardare." Passion like this, to paraphrase a line of Rossetti's, is genius; and it arouses in such as look upon it the peculiar sense of wonder and love, of awe-stricken raising up of him who contemplates, which accompanies the contemplation of genius. But it may be that one day we feel, instead of this, wonder indeed, but wonder mingled with doubt. This ideal love, which craves for no union with its object; which seeks merely to see, nay, which is satisfied with mere thinking on the beloved one, will strike us with the cold and barren glitter of the miraculous. This Beatrice, as we gaze on her, will prove to be no reality of flesh and blood like ourselves; she is a form modelled in the semblance of that real, living woman who died six centuries ago, but the substance of which is the white fire of Dante's love. And the thought will arise that this purely intellectual love of a scarce-noticed youth for a scarce-known woman is a thing which does not belong to life, neither sweetening nor ennobling any of its real relations; that it is, in its dazzling purity and whiteness, in fact a mere strange and sterile death light, such as could not and should not, in this world of ours, exist twice over. And, lest we should ever be tempted to think of this ideal love for Beatrice as of a wonderful and beautiful, but scarcely natural or useful phenomenon, I would wish to study the story of its origin and its influence. I would wish to show that had it not burned thus strangely concentrated and pure, the poets of succeeding ages could not have taken from that white flame of love which Dante set alight upon the grave of Beatrice, the spark of ideal passion which has, in the noblest of our literature, made the desire of man for woman and of woman for man burn clear towards heaven, leaving behind the noisome ashes and soul-enervating vapours of earthly lust. I. The centuries have made us; forcing us into new practices, teaching us new habits, creating for us new capacities and wants; adding, ever and anon, to the soul organism of mankind features which at first were but accidental peculiarities, which became little by little qualities deliberately sought for and at lengths inborn and hereditary characteristics. And thus, in, what we call the Middle Ages, there was invented by the stress of circumstances, elaborated by half-conscious effort and bequeathed as an unalienable habit, a new manner of loving. The women of classical Antiquity appear to us in poetry and imaginative literature as one of two things: the wife or the mistress. The wife, Penelope, Andromache, Alkestis, nay, even the charming young bride in Xenophon's "Oeconomics," is, while excluded from many concerns, distinctly reverenced and loved in her own household capacity; but the reverence is of the sort which the man feels for his parents and his household gods, and the affection is calm and gently rebuking like that for his children. The mistress, on the other hand, is the object of passion which is often very vehement, but which is always either simply fleshly or merely fancifully æsthetic or both, and which entirely precludes any save a degrading influence upon the sensual and suspicious lover. Even Tibullus, in love matters one of the most modern among the ancients, and capable of painting many charming and delicate little domestic idyls even in connection with a mere bought mistress, is perpetually accusing his Delia of selling herself to a higher bidder, and sighing at the high probability of her abandoning him for the Illyrian prætor or some other rich amateur of pretty women. The barbarous North--whose songs have come down to us either, like the Volsunga Saga translated by Mr. Morris, in an original pagan version, or else, as the Nibelungenlied, recast during the early Middle Ages--the North tells us nothing of the venal paramour, but knows nothing also beyond the wedded wife; more independent and mighty perhaps than her counterpart of classical Antiquity, but although often bought, like Brynhilt or Gudrun, at the expense of tremendous adventures, cherished scarcely more passionately than the wives of Odysseus and Hector. Thus, before the Middle Ages, there existed as a rule only a holy, but indifferent and utterly unlyrical, love for the women, the equals of their husbands, wooed usually of the family and solemnly given in marriage without much consultation of their wishes; and a highly passionate and singing, but completely profligate and debasing, desire for mercenary though cultivated creatures like the Delias and Cynthlas of Tibullus and Propertius, or highborn women, descended, like Catullus' Lesbia, in brazen dishonour to their level, women towards whom there could not possibly exist on the part of their lovers any sense of equality, much less of inferiority. To these two kinds of love, chaste but cold, and passionate but unchaste, the Middle Ages added, or rather opposed, a new manner of loving, which, although a mere passing phenomenon, has left the clearest traces throughout our whole mode of feeling and writing. To describe mediæval love is a difficult matter, and to describe it except in negations is next to impossibility. I conceive it to consist in a certain sentimental, romantic, idealistic attitude towards women, not by any means incompatible however with the grossest animalism; an attitude presupposing a complete moral, æsthetical, and social superiority on the part of the whole sex, inspiring the very highest respect and admiration independently of the individual's qualities; and reaching the point of actual worship, varying from the adoration of a queen by a courtier to the adoration of a shrine by a pilgrim, in the case of the one particular lady who happens to be the beloved; an attitude in the relations of the sexes which results in love becoming an indispensable part of a noble life, and the devoted attachment to one individual woman, a necessary requisite of a gentlemanly training. Mediæval love is not merely a passion, a desire, an affection, a habit; it is a perfect occupation. It absorbs, or is supposed to absorb, the Individual; it permeates his life like a religion. It is not one of the interests of life, or, rather, one of life's phases; it is the whole of life, all other interests and actions either sinking into an unsingable region below it, or merely embroidering a variegated pattern upon its golden background. Mediæval love, therefore, never obtains its object, however much it may obtain the woman; for the object of mediæval love, as of mediæval religious mysticism, is not one particular act or series of acts, but is its own exercise, of which the various incidents of the drama between man and woman are merely so many results. It has not its definite stages, like the love of the men of classical Antiquity or the heroic time of the North: its stages of seeking, obtaining, cherishing, guarding; it is always at the same point, always in the same condition of half-religious, half-courtier-like adoration, whether it be triumphantly successful or sighingly despairing. The man and the woman--or rather, I should say, the knight and the lady, for mediæval love is an aristocratic privilege, and the love of lower folk is not a theme for song--the knight and the lady, therefore, seem always, however knit together by habit, nay, by inextricable meshes of guilt, somehow at the same distance from one another. Once they have seen and loved each other, their passion burns on always evenly, burns on (at least theoretically) to all eternity. It seems almost as if the woman were a mere shrine, a mysterious receptacle of the ineffable, a grail cup, a consecrated wafer, but not the ineffable itself. For there is always in mediæval love, however fleshly the incidents which it produces, a certain Platonic element; that is to say, a craving for, a pursuit of, something which is an abstraction; an abstraction impossible to define in its constant shifting and shimmering, and which seems at one moment a social standard, a religious ideal, or both, and which merges for ever in the dazzling, vague sheen of the Eternal Feminine. Hence, one of the most distinctive features of mediæval love, an extraordinary sameness of intonation, making it difficult to distinguish between the _bonâ fide_ passion for which a man risks life and honour, and the mere conventional gallantry of the knight who sticks a lady's glove on his helmet as a compliment to her rank; nay, between the impure adoration of an adulterous lamia like Yseult, and the mystical adoration of a glorified Mother of God; for both are women, both are ladies, and therefore the greatest poet of the early Middle Ages, Gottfried von Strassburg, sings them both with the same religious respect, and the same hysterical rapture. This mediæval love is furthermore a deliberately expected, sought-for, and received necessity in a man's life; it is not an accident, much less an incidental occurrence to be lightly taken or possibly avoided: it is absolutely indispensable to man's social training, to his moral and æsthetical self-improvement; it is part and parcel of manhood and knighthood. Hence, where it does not arise of itself (and where a man is full of the notion of such love, it is rare that it does not come but too soon) it has to be sought for. Ulrich von Liechtenstein, in his curious autobiography written late in the twelfth century, relates how ever since his childhood he had been aware of the necessity of the loyal love service of a lady for the accomplishment of knightly duties; and how, as soon as he was old enough to love, he looked around him for a lady whom he might serve; a proceeding renewed in more prosaic days and with a curious pedantic smack, by Lorenzo dei Medici; and then again, perhaps for the last time, by the Knight of La Mancha, in that memorable discussion which ended in the enthronement as his heart's queen of the unrivalled Dulcinea of Toboso. _Frowendienst,_ "lady's service," is the name given by Ulrich von Liechtenstein, a mediæval Quixote, outshining by far the mad Provençals Rudel and Vidal, to the memoirs very delightfully done into modern German by Ludwig Tieck; and "lady's service" is the highest occupation of knightly leisure, the subject of the immense bulk of mediæval poetry. "Lady's service" in deeds of arms and song, in constant praise and defence of the beloved, in heroic enterprise and madcap mummery, in submission and terror to the wondrous creature whom the humble servant, the lover, never calls by her sacred name, speaking of her in words unknown to Antiquity, _dompna, dame, frowe, madonna_--words of which the original sense has almost been forgotten, although there cleave to them even now ideas higher than those associated with the _puella_ of the ancients, the _wib_ of the heroic days--lady, mistress--the titles of the Mother of God, who is, after all, only the mystical Soul's Paramour of the mediæval world. "Lady's service"--the almost technical word, expressing the position, half-serf-like, half-religious, the bonds of complete humility and never-ending faithfulness, the hopes of reward, the patience under displeasure, the pride in the livery of servitude, the utter absorption of the life of one individual in the life of another; which constitute in Provence, in France, in Germany, in England, in Italy, in the fabulous kingdoms of Arthur and Charlemagne, the strange new thing which I have named Mediæval Love. Has such a thing really existed? Are not these mediæval poets leagued together in a huge conspiracy to deceive us? Is it possible that strong men have wept and fainted at a mere woman's name, like the Count of Nevers in "Flamenca," or that their mind has swooned away in months of reverie like that of Parzifal in Eschenbach's poem; that worldly wise and witty men have shipped off and died on sea for love of an unseen woman like Jaufre Rudel; or dressed in wolf's hide and lurked and fled before the huntsmen-like Peire Vidal; or mangled their face and cut off their finger, and, clothing themselves in rags more frightful than Nessus' robe, mixed in the untouchable band of lepers like Ulrich von Liechtenstein? Is it possible to believe that the insane enterprises of the Amadises, Lisvarts and Felixmartes of late mediæval romance, that the behaviour of Don Quixote in the Sierra Morena, ever had any serious models in reality? Nay, more difficult still to believe--because the whole madness of individuals is more credible than the half-madness of the whole world--is it possible to believe that, as the poems of innumerable trouvères and troubadours, minnesingers and Italian poets, as the legion of mediæval romances of the cycles of Charlemagne, Arthur, and Amadis would have it, that during so long a period of time society could have been enthralled by this hysterical, visionary, artificial, incredible religion of mediæval love? It is at once too grotesque and too beautiful, too high and too low, to be credible; and our first impulse, on closing the catechisms and breviaries, the legendaries and hymn-books of this strange new creed, is to protest that the love poems must be allegories, the love romances solar myths, the Courts of Love historical bungles; that all this mediæval world of love is a figment, a misinterpretation, a falsehood. But if we seek more than a mere casual impression; if, instead of feeling sceptical over one or two fragments of evidence, we attempt to collect the largest possible number of facts together; if we read not one mediæval love story, but twenty--not half a dozen mediæval love poems, but several scores; if we really investigate into the origin of the apparent myth, the case speedily alters. Little by little this which had been inconceivable becomes not merely intelligible, but inevitable; the myth becomes an historical phenomenon of the most obvious and necessary sort. Mediæval love, which had seemed to us a poetic fiction, is turned into a reality; and a reality, alas, which is prosaic. Let us look at it. Mediæval love is first revealed in the sudden and almost simultaneous burst of song which, like the twitter and trill so dear to trouvères, troubadours, and minnesingers, fills the woods that yesterday were silent and dead, and greeted the earliest sunshine, the earliest faint green after the long winter numbness of the dark ages, after the boisterous gales of the earliest Crusade. The French and Provençals sang first, the Germans later, the Sicilians last; but although we may say after deliberate analysis, such or such a form, or such or such a story, was known in this country before it appeared in that one, such imitation or suggestion was so rapid that with regard to the French, the Provençals, and the Germans at least, the impression is simultaneous; only the Sicilians beginning distinctly later, forerunners of the new love lyric, wholly different from that of trouvères, troubadours, and minnesingers, of the Italians of the latter thirteenth century. And this simultaneous revelation of mediæval love takes place in the last quarter of the twelfth century, when Northern France had already consolidated into a powerful monarchy, and Paris, after the teachings of Abélard, was recognized as the intellectual metropolis of Europe; when south of the Loire the brilliant Angevine kings held the overlordship of the cultured Raymonds of Toulouse and of the reviving Latin municipalities of Provence \ when Germany was welded as a compact feudal mass by the most powerful of the Stauffens; and the papacy had been built up by Gregory and Alexander into a political wall against which Frederick and Henry vainly battered; when the Italian commonwealths grew slowly but surely, as yet still far from guessing that the day would come when their democracy should produce a new civilization to supersede this triumphant mediæval civilization of the early Capetiens, the Angevines, and the Hohenstauffens. Europe was setting forth once more for the East; but no longer as the ignorant and enthusiastic hordes of Peter the Hermit: Asia was the great field for adventure, the great teacher of new luxuries, at once the Eldorado and the grand tour of all the brilliant and inquisitive and unscrupulous chivalry of the day. And, while into the West were insidiously entering habits and modes of thought of the East; throughout Germany and Provence, and throughout the still obscure free burghs of Italy, was spreading the first indication of that emotional mysticism which, twenty or thirty years later, was to burst out in the frenzy of spiritual love of St. Francis and his followers. The moment is one of the most remarkable in all history: the premature promise in the twelfth century of that intellectual revival which was delayed throughout Northern Europe until the sixteenth. It is the moment when society settled down, after the anarchy of eight hundred years, on its feudal basis; a basis fallaciously solid, and in whose presence no one might guess that the true and definitive Renaissance would arise out of the democratic civilization of Italy. Such is the moment when we first hear the almost universal song of mediæval love. This song comes from the triumphantly reorganized portion of society, not from the part which is slowly working its way to reorganization; not from the timidly encroaching burghers, but from the nobles. The reign of town poetry, of fabliaux and meistersang, comes later; the poets of the early Middle Ages, trouvères, troubadours, and minnesingers are, with barely one or two exceptions, all knights. And their song comes from the castle. Now, in order to understand mediæval love, we must reflect for a moment upon this feudal castle, and upon the kind of life which the love poets of the late twelfth and early thirteenth century--whether lords like Bertram de Born, and Guillaume de Poitiers, among the troubadours; the Vidame de Chartres, Meurisses de Craon, and the Duke of Brabant among the trouvères of Northern France; like Ulrich von Liechtenstein among the minnesingers; or retainers and hangers-on like Bernard de Ventadour and Armand de Mareulh, like Chrestiens de Troyes, Gaisses Brulez, or Quienes de Béthune, like Walther, Wolfram, and Tannhäuser--great or small, good or bad, saw before them and mixed with in that castle. The castle of a great feudatory of the early Middle Ages, whether north or south of the Loire, in Austria or in Franconia, is like a miniature copy of some garrison town in barbarous countries: there is an enormous numerical preponderance of men over women; for only the chiefs in command, the overlord, and perhaps one or two of his principal kinsmen or adjutants, are permitted the luxury of a wife; the rest of the gentlemen are subalterns, younger sons without means, youths sent to learn their military duty and the ways of the world: a whole pack of men without wives, without homes, and usually without fortune. High above all this deferential male crowd, moves the lady of the castle: highborn, proud, having brought her husband a dower of fiefs often equal to his own, and of vassals devoted to her race. About her she has no equals; her daughters, scarcely out of the nurse's hands, are given away in marriage; and her companions, if companions they may be called, are the waiting ladies, poor gentlewomen situated between the maid of honour and the ladies' maid, like that Brangwaine whom Yseult sacrifices to her intrigue with Tristram, or those damsels whom Flamenca gives over to the squires of her lover Guillems; at best, the wife of one of her husband's subalterns, or some sister or aunt or widow kept by charity. Round this lady--the stately, proud lady perpetually described by mediæval poets--flutters the swarm of young men, all day long, in her path: serving her at meals, guarding her apartments, nay, as pages, admitted even into her most secret chamber; meeting her for ever in the narrowness of that castle life, where every unnecessary woman is a burden usurping the place of a soldier, and, if possible, replaced by a man. Servants, lacqueys, and enjoying the privileges of ubiquity of lacqueys, yet, at the same time, men of good birth and high breeding, good at the sword and at the lute; bound to amuse this highborn woman, fading away in the monotony of feudal life, with few books to read or unable to read them, and far above all the household concerns which devolve on the butler, the cellarer, the steward, the gentleman, honourably employed as a servant. To them, to these young men, with few or no young women of their own age to associate, and absolutely no unmarried girls who could be a desirable match, the lady of the castle speedily becomes a goddess, the impersonation at once of that feudal superiority before which they bow, of that social perfection which they are commanded to seek, and of that womankind of which the castle affords so few examples. To please her, this lazy, bored, highbred woman, with all the squeamishness and caprice of high birth and laziness about her, becomes their ideal; to be favourably noticed, their highest glory; to be loved, these wretched mortals, by this divinity--that thought must often pass through their brain and terrify them with its delicious audacity; oh no, such a thing is not possible. But it is. The lady at first, perhaps most often, singles out as a pastime some young knight, some squire, some page; and, in a half-queenly, half-motherly way, corrects, rebukes his deficiencies, undertakes to teach him his duty as a servant. The romance of the "Petit Jehan de Saintre," written in the fifteenth century, but telling, with a delicacy of cynicism worthy of Balzac, what must have been the old, old story of the whole feudal Middle Ages, shows the manner in which, while feeling that he is being trained to knightly courtesy and honour, the young man in the service of a great feudal lady is gradually taught dissimulation, lying, intrigue; is initiated by the woman who looms above him like a saint into all the foulness of adultery. Adultery; a very ugly word, which must strike almost like a handful of mud in the face whosoever has approached this subject of mediæval love in admiration of its strange delicacy and enthusiasm. Yet it is a word which must be spoken, for in it is the explanation of the whole origin and character of this passion which burst into song in the early Middle Ages. This almost religious love, this love which conceives no higher honour than the service of the beloved, no higher virtue than eternal fidelity--this love is the love for another man's wife. Between unmarried young men and young women, kept carefully apart by the system which gives away a girl without her consent and only to a rich suitor, there is no possibility of love in these early feudal courts; the amours, however licentious, between kings' daughters and brave knights, of the Carolingian tales, belong to a different rank of society, to the prose romances made up in the fourteenth century for the burgesses of cities; the intrigues, ending in marriage, of the princes and princesses of the cycle of Amadis, belong to a different period, to the fifteenth century, and to courts where feudal society scarcely exists; the squires, the young knights who hang about a great baronial establishment of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, have still to make their fortune, and do not dream of marriage. The husband, on the other hand, the great lord or successful knightly adventurer, married late in life, and married from the necessity, for ever pressing upon the feudal proprietor, of adding on new fiefs and new immunities, of increasing his importance and independence in proportion to the hourly increasing strength and claims of the overlord, the king, who casts covetous eyes upon him--the husband has not married for love; he has had his love affairs with the wives of other men in his day, or may still have them; this lady is a mere feudal necessity, she is required to give him a dower and give him an heir, that is all. If the husband does not love, how much less can the wife; married, as she is, scarce knowing what marriage is, to a man much older than herself, whom most probably she has never seen, to whom she is a mere investment. Nay, there is not even the after-marriage love of the ancients: this wife is not the housekeeper, the woman who works that the man's house may be rich and decorous; not even the nurse of his children, for the children are speedily given over to the squires and duennas; she is the woman of another family who has come into his, the stranger who must be respected (as that most typical mediæval wife, Eleanor of Guienne, was respected by her husbands) on account of her fiefs, her vassals, her kinsfolk; but who cannot be loved. Can there be love between man and wife? There cannot be love between man and wife. This is no answer of mine, fantastically deduced from mediæval poetry. It is the answer solemnly made to the solemnly asked question by the Court of Love held by the Countess of Champagne in 1174, and registered by Master Andrew the King of France's chaplain: "Dicimus enim et stabilito tenore firmamus amorem non posse inter duos jugales suas extendere vires." And the reason alleged for this judgment brings us back to the whole conception of mediæval love as a respectful service humbly waiting for a reward: "For," pursues the decision published by André le Chapelain, "whereas lovers grant to each other favours freely and from no legal necessity, married people have the duty of obeying each other's wishes and of refusing nothing to one another." "No love is possible between man and wife," repeat the Courts of Love which, consisting of all the highborn ladies of the province and presided by some mighty queen or princess, represent the social opinions of the day. "But this lady," says a knight (Miles) before the love tribunal of Queen Eleanor, "promised to me that if ever she should lose the love of her lover, she would take me in his place. She has wedded the man who was her lover, and I have come to claim fulfilment of her promise." The court discusses for awhile. "We cannot," answers Queen Eleanor, "go against the Countess of Champagne's decision that love cannot exist between man and wife. We therefore desire this lady to fulfil her promise and give you her love." Again, there come to the Court of Love of the Viscountess of Narbonne a knight and a lady, who desire to know whether, having been once married, but since divorced, a love engagement between them would be honourable. The viscountess decides that "Love between those who have been married together, but who have since been divorced from one another, is not to be deemed reprehensible; nay, that it is to be considered as honourable." And these Courts of Love, be it remarked, were frequently held on occasion of the marriage of great personages; as, for instance, of that between Louis VII. and Eleanor of Poitiers in 1137. The poetry of the early Middle Ages follows implicitly the decisions of these tribunals, which reveal a state of society to which the nearest modern approach is that of Italy in the eighteenth century, when, as Goldoni and Parini show us, as Stendhal (whose "De l'Amour" may be taken as the modern "Breviari d'Amor") expounds, there was no impropriety possible as long as a lady was beloved by any one except her own husband. No love, therefore, between unmarried people (the cyclical romances, as before stated, and the Amadises, belong to another time of social condition, and the only real exception to my rule of which I can think is the lovely French tale of "Aucassin et Nicolette"); and no love between man and wife. But love there must be; and love there consequently is; love for the married woman from the man who is not her husband. The feudal lady, married without being consulted and without having had a chance of knowing what love is, yet lives to know love; lives to be taught it by one of these many bachelors bound to flutter about her in military service or social duty; lives to teach it herself. And she is too powerful in her fiefs and kinsmen, too powerful in the public opinion which approves and supports her, to be hampered by her husband. The husband, indeed, has grown up in the same habits, has known, before marrying, the customs sanctioned by the Courts of Love; he has been the knight of some other man's wife in his day, what right has he to object? As in the days of Italian _cecisbei_, the early mediæval lover might say with Goldoni's Don Alfonso or Don Roberto, "I _serve_ your wife--such or such another serves mine, what harm can there be in it?" ("Io servo vostra moglie, Don Eugenio favorisce la mia; che male c' e?" I am quoting from memory.) And as a fact, we hear little of jealousy; the amusement of En Barral when Peire Vidal came in and kissed his sleeping wife; and the indignation of all Provence for the murder of Guillems de Cabestanh (buried in the same tomb with the lady who had been made to eat of his heart)--showing from opposite sides how the society accustomed to Courts of Love looked upon the duties of husbands. Such was the social life in those feudal courts whence first arises the song of mediæval love, and that this is the case is proved by the whole huge body of early mediæval poetry. We must not judge, as I have said, either by poems of much earlier date, like the Nibelungen and the Carolingian _chansons de geste_, which merely received a new form in the early Middle Ages; still less from the prose romances of Mélusine, Milles et Amys, Palemon and Arcite, and a host of others which were elaborated only later and under the influence of the quite unfeudal habits of the great cities; and least of all from that strange late southern cycle of the Amadises, from which, odd as it seems, many of our notions of chivalric love have, through our ancestors, through the satirists or burlesque poets of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, been inherited. We must look at the tales which, as we are constantly being told by trouvères, troubadours, and minnesingers, were the fashionable reading of the feudal classes of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries: the tales best known to us in the colourless respectability of the collection made in the reign of Edward IV. by Sir Thomas Malory, and called by him the "Morte d'Arthur"--of the ladies and knights of Arthur's court; of the quest of the Grail by spotless knights who were bastards and fathers of bastards; of the intrigues of Tristram of Lyoness and Queen Yseult; of Launcelot and Guenevere; the tales which Francesca and Paolo read together. We must look, above all, at the lyric poetry of France, Provence, Germany, and Sicily in the early Middle Ages. Vos qui très bien ameis i petit mentendeis Por l'amor de Ihesu les pucelles ameis. Nos trouvons en escris de sainte auctoriteis Ke pucelle est la fleur de loyaulment ameir. This strange entreaty to love the maidens for the sake of Christ's love, this protest of a nameless northern French poet (Wackernagel, Altfranzösische Lieder and Leiche IX.) against the adulterous passion of his contemporaries, comes to us, pathetically enough, solitary, faint, unnoticed in the vast chorus, boundless like the spring song of birds or the sound of the waves, of poets singing the love of other men's wives. But, it may be objected--how can we tell that these love songs, so carefully avoiding all mention of names, are not addressed to the desired bride, to the legitimate wife of the poet? For several reasons; and mainly, for the crushing evidence of an undefinable something which tells us that they are not. The other reasons are easily stated. We know that feudal habits would never have allowed to unmarried women (and women were married when scarcely out of their childhood) the opportunities for the relations which obviously exist between the poet and his lady; and that, if by some accident a young knight might fall in love with a girl, he would address not her but her parents, since the Middle Ages, who were indifferent to adultery, were, like the southern nations among whom the married woman is not expected to be virtuous, extreme sticklers for the purity of their unmarried womankind. Further, we have no instance of an unmarried woman being ever addressed during the early Middle Ages, in those terms of social respect--_madame, domna, frowe, madonna_--which essentially belong to the mistress of a household; nor do these stately names fit in with any theory which would make us believe that the lady addressed by the poet is the jealously guarded daughter of the house with whom he is plotting a secret marriage, or an elopement to end off in marriage. This is not the way that Romeo speaks to Juliet, nor even that the princesses in the cyclical romances and in the Amadises are wooed by their bridegrooms. This is not the language of a lover who is broaching his love, and who hopes, however timidly, to consummate it before all the world by marriage. It is obviously the language of a man either towards a woman who is taking a pleasure in keeping him dangling without favours which she has implicitly or explicitly promised; or towards a woman who is momentarily withholding favours which her lover has habitually enjoyed. And in a large proportion of cases the poems of trouvères, troubadours, and minnesingers are the expression of fortunate love, the fond recollection or eager expectation of meetings with the beloved. All this can evidently not be connected with the wooing, however stealthy, however Romeo-and-Juliet-like of a bride; still less can it be explained in reference to love within wedlock. A man does not, however loving, worship his wife as his social superior; he does not address her in titles of stiff respect; he does not sigh and weep and supplicate for love which is his due, and remind his wife that she owes it him in return for loyal, humble, discreet service. Above all, a man (except in some absurd comedy perhaps, where the husband, in an age of _cicisbeos_, is in love with his own wife and dares not admit it before the society which holds "that there can be no love between married folk ")--a husband, I repeat, does not beg for, arrange, look forward to, and recall with triumph or sadness, secret meetings with his own wife. Now the secret meeting is, in nearly every aristocratic poet of the early poetry, the inevitable result of the humble praises and humble requests for kindness; it is, most obviously, _the_ reward for which the poet is always importuning. Mediæval love poetry, compared with the love poetry of Antiquity and the love poetry of the revival of letters, is, in its lyric form, decidedly chaste; but it is perfectly explicit; and, for all its metaphysical tendencies and its absence of clearly painted pictures, the furthest possible removed from being Platonic. One of the most important, characteristic, and artistically charming categories of mediæval love lyrics is that comprising the Provençal _serena_ and _alba,_ with their counterparts in the _langue d'oil_, and the so-called _Wachtlieder_ of the minnesingers; and this category of love poetry may be defined as the drama, in four acts, of illicit love. The faithful lover has received from his lady an answer to his love, the place and hour are appointed; all the day of which the evening is to bring him this honour, he goes heavy hearted and sighing: "Day, much do you grow for my grief, and the evening, the evening and the long hope kills me." Thus far the _serena_, the evening song, of Guiraut Riquier. A lovely anonymous _alba,_ whose refrain, "Oi deus, oi deus; de l' alba, tan tost ve!" is familiar to every smatterer of Provençal, shows us the lady and her knight in an orchard beneath the hawthorn, giving and taking the last kisses while the birds sing and the sky whitens with dawn. "The lady is gracious and pleasant, and many look upon her for her beauty, and her heart Is all in loving loyally; alas, alas, the dawn! how soon it: comes!--" "Oi deus, oi deus; de l'alba, tan tost ve!" The real _alba_ is the same as the German _Wachtlieder,_ the song of the squire or friend posted at the garden gate or outside the castle wall, warning the lovers to separate. "Fair comrade (Bel Companho), I call to you singing. 'Sleep no more, for I hear the birds announcing the day in the trees, and I fear that the jealous one may find you;' and in a moment it will be day, 'Bel Companho, come to the window and look at the signs in the sky! you will know me a faithful messenger; if you do it not, it will be to your harm" and in a moment it will be dawn (et ades sera l' alba)... Bel Companho, since I left you I have not slept nor raised myself from my knees; for I have prayed to God the Son of Saint Mary, that he should send me: back my faithful comrade, and in a moment it will be dawn In this _alba_ of Guiraut de Borneulh, the lover comes at last to the window, and cries to his watching comrade that he is too happy to care either for the dawn or for the jealous one. The German _Wachtlieder_ are even more explicit. "He must away at once and without delay," sings the watchman in a poem of Wolfram, the austere singer of Parzifal and the Grail Quest; "let him go, sweet lady; let him away from thy love so that he keep his honour and life. He trusted himself to me that I should bring him safely hence; it is day ..." "Sing what thou wilt, watchman," answers the lady, "but leave him here." In a far superior, but also far less chaste poem of Heinrich von Morungen, the lady, alone and melancholy, wakes up remembering the sad white light of morning, the sad cry of the watchman, which separated her from her knight. Still more frankly, and in a poem which is one of the few real masterpieces of Minnesang, the lady in Walther von der Vogelweide's "Under der linden an der Heide" narrates a meeting in the wood. "What passed between us shall never be known by any! never by any, save him and me--yes, and by the little nightingale that sang _Tandaradei_! The little bird will surely be discreet." The songs of light love for another's wife of troubadour, trouvère, and minnesinger, seem to have been squeezed together, so that all their sweet and acrid perfume is, so to speak, sublimated, in the recently discovered early Provençal narrative poem called "Flamenca." Like the "Tristram" of Gottfried von Strassburg, like all these light mediæval love _lyrics,_ of which I have been speaking, the rhymed story of "Flamenca," a pale and simple, but perfect petalled daisy, has come up in a sort of moral and intellectual dell in the winter of the Middle Ages--a dell such as you meet in hollows of even the most wind-swept southern hills, where, while all round the earth is frozen and the short grass nibbled away by the frost, may be found even at Christmas a bright sheen of budding wheat beneath the olives on the slope, a yellow haze of sun upon the grass in which the little aromatic shoots of fennel and mint and marigold pattern with greenness the sere brown, the frost-burnt; where the very leafless fruit trees have a spring-like rosy tinge against the blue sky, and the tufted little osiers flame a joyous orange against the greenness of the hill. Such spots there are--and many--in the winter of the Middle Ages; though it is not in them, but where the rain beats, and the snow and the wind tugs, that grow, struggling with bitterness, the great things of the day: the philosophy of Abélard, the love of man of St. Francis, the patriotism of the Lombard communes; nor that lie dormant, fertilized in the cold earth, the great things of art and thought, the great things to come. But in them arise the delicate winter flowers which we prize: tender, pale things, without much life, things either come too soon or stayed too late, among which is "Flamenca;" one of those roses, nipped and wrinkled, but stained a brighter red by the frost, which we pluck in December or in March; beautiful, bright, scentless roses, which, scarce in bud, already fall to pieces in our hand. "Flamenca" is simply the narrative of the loves of the beautiful wife of the bearish and jealous Count Archambautz, and of Guillems de Nevers, a brilliant young knight who hears of the lady's sore captivity, is enamoured before he sees her, dresses up as the priest's clerk, and speaks one word with her while presenting the mass book to be kissed, every holiday; and finally deceives the vigilance of the husband by means of a subterranean corridor, which he gets built between his inn and the bath-room of the lady at the famous waters of Bourbon-les-Bains. In this world of "Flamenca," which is in truth the same world as that of the "Romaunt of the Rose," the "Morte d'Arthur," and of the love poets of early France and Germany, conjugal morality and responsibility simply do not exist. It seems an unreal pleasure-garden, with a shadowy guardian--impalpable to us gross moderns--called Honour, but where, as it seems, Love only reigns. Love, not the mystic and melancholy god of the "Vita Nuova," but a foppish young deity, sentimental at once and sensual, of fashionable feudal life: the god of people with no apparent duties towards others, unconscious of any restraints save those of this vague thing called honour; whose highest mission for the knight, as put in our English "Romaunt of the Rose" is to-- Set thy might and alle thy witte Wymmen and ladies for to plese, And to do thyng that may hem ese; while, for the lady, it is expressed with perfect simplicity of shamelessness by Flamenca herself to her damsels, teaching them that the woman must yield to the pleasure of her lover. Now love, when young, when, so to speak, but just born and able to feed (as a newborn child on milk, without hungering for more solid food) on looks and words and sighs; love thus young, is a fair-seeming godhead, and the devotion to him a pretty and delicate piece of æstheticism. And such it is here in "Flamenca," where there certainly exists neither God nor Christ, both complete absentees, whose priest becomes a courteous lover's valet, whose church the place for amorous rendezvous, whose sacrifice of mass and prayer becomes a means of amorous correspondence: Cupid, in the shape of his slave Guillems de Nevers--become _patarin_(zealot) for love--peeping with shaven golden head from behind the missal, touching the lady's hand and whispering with the words of spiritual peace the declaration of love, the appointment for meeting. God and Christ, I repeat, are absentees. Where they are I know not; perhaps over the Rhine with the Lollards in their weavers' dens, or over the Alps in the cell of St. Francis; not here, certainly, or if here, themselves become the mere slaves of love. But this King Love, as long as a mere infant, is a sweet and gracious divinity, surrounded by somewhat of the freshness and hawthorn sweetness of spring which seem to accompany his favourite Guillems. Guillems de Nevers, "who could still grow," this brilliant knight and troubadour, in his white silken and crimson and purple garments and soundless shoes embroidered with flowers, this prince of tournaments and _tensos_, who hearing the sorrows of the beautiful Flamenca, loves her unseen, sits sighing in sight of her prison bower, and faints like a hero of the Arabian Nights at her name, and has visions of her as St. Francis has of Christ; this younger and brighter Sir Launcelot, is an ideal little figure, whom you might mistake for Love himself as described in the "Romaunt of the Rose;" Love's avatar or incarnation, on whose appearance the year blooms into spring, the fruit trees blossom, the birds sing, the girls dance at eve round the maypoles; behind whom, while reading this poem, we seem to see the corn shine green beneath the olives, the white-blossomed branches slant across the blue sky. For is he not the very incarnation of chivalry, of beauty, and of love? So much for this King Love while but quite young. Unfortunately he is speedily weaned of his baby food of mere blushing glances and sighed-out names; and then his aspect, his kingdom's aspect, the aspect of his votaries, undergoes a change. The profane but charming game of the loving clerk and the missal is exchanged for the more coarse hide-and-seek of hidden causeways and tightened bolts, with jealous husbands guarding the useless door; Guillems becomes but an ordinary Don Juan or Lovelace, Flamenca but a sorry, sneaking adulteress, and the gracious damsels mere common sluts, curtseying at the loan (during the interview of nobler folk) of the gallant's squires. For the scent of May, of fresh leaves and fallen blossoms, we get the nauseous vapours of the bath-room; and, alas, King Love has lost his aureole and his wings and turned keeper of the hot springs, sought out by the gouty and lepers, of Bourbon-les-Bains; and in closing this book, so delightfully begun, we sicken at the whiff of hot and fetid moral air as we should sicken in passing over the outlet of the polluted hot water. "But where is the use of telling us all this?" the reader will ask; "every one knows that illicit passion existed and exists, and has its chroniclers, its singers in prose and in verse. But what has all this poetry of common adultery to do with a book like the 'Vita Nuova,' with that strange new thing, that lifelong worship of a woman, which you call mediæval love?" This much: that out of this illicit love, and out of it, gross as it looks, alone arises the possibility of the "Vita Nuova;" arises the possibility of the romantic and semi-religious love of the Middle Ages. Or, rather, let us say that this mere loose love of the _albas_ and _Wachtlieder_ and "Flamenca," is the substratum, nay, is the very flesh and blood, of the spiritual passion to which, in later days, we owe the book of Beatrice. It is a harsh thing to say, but one which all sociology teaches us, that as there exists no sensual relation which cannot produce for its ennoblement a certain amount of passion, so also does there exist no passion (and Phædrus is there to prove it) so vile and loathsome as to be unable to weave about itself a glamour of ideal sentiment. The poets of the Middle Ages strove after the criminal possession of another man's wife. This, however veiled with fine and delicate poetic expressions, is the thing for which they wait and sigh and implore; this is the reward, the supremely honouring and almost sanctifying reward which the lady cannot refuse to the knight who has faithfully and humbly served her. The whole bulk of the love lyrics of the early Middle Ages are there to prove it; and if the allusions in them are not sufficiently clear, those who would be enlightened may study the discussions of the allegorical persons even in the English (and later) version of Guillaume de Lorris' "Roman de la Rose;" and turn to what, were it in _langue d'oc_, we should call a _tenso_ of Guillaume li Viniers among Mätzner's "Altfranzösische Lieder-dichter." The catastrophe of Ulrich von Liechtenstein's "Frowendienst," where the lady, the "virtuous," the "pure," as he is pleased to call her, after making him cut off his finger, dress in leper's clothes, chop off part of his upper lip, and go through the most marvellous Quixotic antics dressed in satin and pearls and false hair as Queen Venus, and jousting in this costume with every knight between Venice and Styria, all for her honour and glory; pulls the gallant in a basket up to her window, and then lets him drop down into the moat which is no better than a sewer; this grotesque and tragically resented end of Ulrich's first _love service_ speaks volumes on the point. The stones in Nostradamus' "Lives of the Troubadours," the incidents in Gottfried's "Tristan und Isolde," nay, the adventures even in our expunged English "Morte d'Arthur," relating to the birth of Sir Galahad, are as explicit as anything in Brantôme or the Queen of Navarre; the most delicate love songs of Provence and Germany are cobwebs spun round Decameronian situations. And all this is permitted, admitted, sanctioned by feudal society even as the _cecisbeos_ of the noble Italian ladies were sanctioned by the society of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. In the mediæval castle, where, as we have seen, the lady, separated from her own sex, is surrounded by a swarm of young men without a chance of marriage, and bound to make themselves agreeable to the wife of a military superior; the woman soon ceases to be the exclusive property of her husband, and the husband speedily discovers that the majority, hence public ridicule, are against any attempt at monopolizing her. Thus adultery becomes, as we have seen, accepted as an institution under the name of _service_; and, like all other social institutions, developes a morality of its own--a morality within immorality, of faithfulness within infidelity. The lady must be true to her knight, and the knight must be true to his lady: the Courts of Love solemnly banish from society any woman who is known to have more than one lover. Faithfulness is the first and most essential virtue of mediæval love; a virtue unknown to the erotic poets of Antiquity, and which modern times have inherited from the Middle Ages as a requisite, even (as the reproaches of poets of the Alfred de Musset school teach us) in the most completely illicit love. Tristram and Launcelot, the two paragons of knighthood, are inviolably constant to their mistress: the husband may and must be deceived, but not the wife who helps to deceive him. Yseult of Brittany and Elaine, the mother of Galahad, do not succeed in breaking the vows made to Yseult the Fair and to Queen Guenevere. The beautiful lady in the hawthorn _alba_ "a son cor en amar lejalmens." But this loyal loving is for the knight who is warned to depart, certainly not for the husband, the _gilos_, in whose despite ("Bels dous amios, baizem nos eu e vos--Aval els pratzon chantols auzellos--_Tot O fassam en despeit del gilos_") they are meeting. The ladies of the minnesingers are "pure," "good," "faithful" (and each and all are pure, good, and faithful, as long as they do not resist) from the point of view of the lover, not of the husband, if indeed a husband be permitted to have any point of view at all. And as fidelity is the essential virtue in these adulterous connections, so infidelity is the greatest crime that a woman (and even a man) can commit, the greatest misfortune which fate can send to an unhappy knight. That he leaves a faithful mistress behind him is the one hope of the knight who, taking the cross, departs to meet the scimitars of Saladin's followers, the fevers, the plagues, the many miserable deaths of the unknown East. "If any lady be unfaithful," says Quienes de Béthune, "she will have to be unfaithful with some base wretch." Et les dames ki castement vivront Se loiauté font a ceus qui iront; Et seles font par mal conseil folaje, A lasques gens et mauvais le feront, Car tout li bon iront en cest voiage. "I have taken the cross on account of my sins," sings Albrecht von Johansdorf, one of the most earnest of the minnesingers; "now let God help, till my return, the woman who has great sorrow on my account, in order that I may find her possessed of her honour; let Him grant me this prayer. But if she change her life (_i.e_., take to bad courses), then may God forbid my ever returning." The lady is bound (the Courts of Love decide this point of honour) to reward her faithful lover. "A knight," says a lady, in an anonymous German song published by Bartsch, "has served me according to my will. Before too much time elapse, I must reward him; nay, if all the world were to object, he must have his way with me" ("und waerez al der Werlte leit, so muoz sîn wille an mir ergän"). But, on the other hand, the favoured knight is bound to protect his lady's good fame. Se jai mamie en tel point mis, Que tout motroit (m'octroit) sans esformer, Tant doi je miex sonnor gaiter-- thus one of the interlocutors in a French _jeu-parti_, published by Mätzner; a rule which, if we may judge from the behaviour of Tristram and Launcelot, and from the last remnants of mediæval love lore in modern French novels, means simply that the more completely a man has induced a woman to deceive her husband, the more stoutly is he bound to deny, with lies, rows, and blows, that she has ever done anything of the sort. Here, then, we find established, as a very fundamental necessity of this socially recognized adultery, a reciprocity of fidelity between lover and mistress which Antiquity never dreamed of even between husband and wife (Agamemnon has a perfect right to Briseis or Chryseis, but Clytæmnestra has no right to Aegisthus); and which indeed could scarcely arise as a moral obligation except where the woman was not bound to love the man (which the wife is) and where her behaviour towards him depended wholly upon her pleasure, that is to say, upon her satisfaction with his behaviour towards her. This, which seems to us so obvious, and of which every day furnishes us an example in the relations of the modern suitor and his hoped-for wife, could not, at a time when women were married by family arrangement, arise except as a result of illegitimate love. Horrible as it seems, the more we examine into this subject of mediæval love, the more shall we see that our whole code of Grandisonian chivalry between lovers who intend marriage is derived from the practice of the Launcelots and Gueneveres, not from that of the married people (we may remember the manner in which Gunther woos his wife Brunhilt in the Nibelungenlied) of former ages; nay, the more we shall have to recognize that the very feeling which constitutes the virtuous love of modern poets is derived from the illegitimate loves of the Middle Ages. Let us examine what are the habits of feeling and thinking which grow out of this reciprocal fidelity due to the absence of all one-sided legal pressure in this illegitimate, but socially legitimated, love of the early Middle Ages; which are added on to it by the very necessities of illicit connection. The lover, having no right to the favours of his mistress, is obliged, in order to win and to keep them, to please her by humility, fidelity, and such knightly qualities as are the ideal plumage of a man: he must bring home to her, by showing the world her colours victorious in serious warfare, in the scarcely less dangerous play of tournaments, and by making her beauty and virtues more illustrious in his song than are those of other women in the songs of their lovers--he must bring home to her that she has a more worthy servant than her rivals; he must determine her to select him and to adhere to her selection. Now mediæval husbands select their wives, instead of being selected; and once the woman and the dowry are in their hands, trouble themselves but little whether they are approved of or not. On the other hand, the mistress appears to her lover invested with imaginative, ideal advantages such as cannot surround her in the eyes of her husband: she is, in nearly every case, his superior in station and the desired of many beholders; she is bound to him by no tie which may grow prosaic and wearisome; she appears to him in no domestic capacity, can never descend to be the female drudge; her possession is prevented from growing stale, her personality from becoming commonplace, by the difficulty, rareness, mystery, adventure, danger, which even in the days of Courts of Love attach to illicit amours; above all, being for this man neither the housewife nor the mother, she remains essentially and continually the mistress, the beloved. Similarly the relations between the knight and the lady, untroubled by domestic worries, pecuniary difficulties, and squabbles about children, remain, exist merely as love relations, relations of people whose highest and sole desire is to please one another. Moreover, and this is an important consideration, the lady, who is a mere inexperienced, immature girl when she first meets her husband, is a mature woman, with character and passions developed by the independence of conjugal and social life. When she meets her lover, whatever power or dignity of character she may possess is ripe; whatever intensity of aspiration and passion may be latent is ready to come forth; for the first time there is equality in love. Equality? Ah, no. This woman who is the wife of his feudal superior, this woman surrounded by all the state of feudal sovereignty, this woman who, however young, has already known so much of life, this woman whose love is a free, gift of grace to the obscure, trembling vassal who has a right not even to be noticed; this lady of mediæval love must always remain immeasurably above her lover. And, in the long day-dreams while watching her, as he thinks unseen, while singing of her, as he thinks unheard, there cluster round her figure, mistily seen in his fancy, those vague and-mystic splendours which surround the new sovereign of the Middle Ages, the Queen of Heaven; there mingles in the half-terrified raptures of the first kind glance, the first encouraging word, the ineffable passion stored up in the Christian's heart for the immortal beings who, in the days of Bernard and Francis, descend cloud-like on earth and fill the cells of the saints with unendurable glory. And thus, out of the baseness of habitual adultery, arises incense-like, in the early mediæval poetry, a new kind of love--subtler, more imaginative, more passionate, a love of the fancy and the heart, a love stimulating to the perfection of the individual as is any religion; nay, a religion, and one appealing more completely to the complete man, flesh and soul, than even the mystical beliefs of the Middle Ages. And as, in the fantastic song of Ritter Tannhäuser, whose liege lady, so legend tells, was Dame Venus herself, the lady bids the knight go forth and fetch her green water which has washed the setting sun, salamanders snatched from the flame, the stars out of heaven; so would it seem as if this new power in the world, this poetically worshipped woman, had sent forth mankind to seek wonderful new virtues, never before seen on earth. Nay, rather, as the snowflakes became green leaves, the frost blossoms red and blue flowers, the winter wind a spring-scented breeze, when Bernard de Ventadorn was greeted by his mistress; so also does it seem as if, at the first greeting of the world by this new love, the mediæval winter had turned to summer, and there had budded forth and flowered a new ideal of manly virtue, a new ideal of womanly grace. But evil is evil, and evil is its fruit. Out of circumstances hitherto unknown, circumstances come about for the first time owing to the necessities of illegitimate passion, have arisen certain new and nobler characters of sexual love, certain new and beautiful conceptions of manly and womanly nature. The circumstances to which these are owed are pure in themselves, they are circumstances which in more modern times have characterized the perfectly legitimate passion of lovers held asunder by no social law, but by mere accidental barriers--from Romeo and Juliet to the Master of Ravenswood and Lucy Ashton; and pure so far have been the spiritual results. But these circumstances were due, in the early Middle Ages, to the fact of adultery; and to the new ideal of love has clung, even in its purity, in its superior nobility, an element of corruption as unknown to gross and corrupt Antiquity as was the delicacy and nobility of mediæval love. The most poetical and pathetic of all mediæval love stories, the very incarnation of all that is most lyric at once and most tragic in the new kind of passion, is the story, told and retold by a score of poets and prose writers, of the loves of Yseult of Ireland and of Sir Tristram who, as the knight was bringing the princess to his uncle and her affianced, King Mark of Cornwall drank together by a fatal mistake a philter which made all such as partook of it in common inseparable lovers even unto death. Every one knows the result r: how Yseult came to her husband already the paramour of Tristram; how Brangwaine, her damsel, feeling that this unhallowed passion was due to her having left-within reach the potion intended for the King and Queen of Cornwall, devoted herself, at the price of her maidenhood, to connive in the amours of the lovers whom she had made; how King Mark was deceived, and doubted, and was deceived again; how Tristram fled to Brittany, but how, despite his seeming marriage with another and equally lovely Yseult, he remained faithful to the Queen of Cornwall. One version tells that Mark slew his nephew while he sat harping to Queen Yseult; another that Tristram died of grief because his scorned though wedded wife told him that the white-sailed ship, bearing his mistress to meet him, bore the black sail which meant that she was not on board; but all versions, I think, agree in ending with the fact, that the briar-rose growing on the tomb of the one, slowly trailed its flowers and thorns along till it had reached also the grave of the other, and knit together, as love had knit together with its sweet blossoms and sharp spines, the two fated lovers. The Middle Ages were enthralled by this tale; but they were also, occasionally, a little shocked by it. Poets and prose writers tampered every now and then with incidents and characters, seeking to make it appear that, owing to the substitution of the waiting-maid, and the neglect of the wedded princess of Brittany, Yseult had never belonged to any man save Tristram, nor Tristram to any woman save Yseult; or that King Mark had sent his nephew to woo the Irish queen's daughter merely in hopes of his perishing in the attempt, and that his whole subsequent conduct was due to a mere unnatural hatred of a better knight than himself; touching up here and there with a view to justifying and excusing to some degree the long series of deceits which constituted the whole story. Thus the more timid and less gifted. But when, in the very first years (1210) of the thirteenth century, the greatest mediæval poet that preceded Dante, the greatest German poet that preceded Goethe, Meister Gottfried von Strassburg, took in hand the old threadbare story of "Tristan und Isolde," he despised all alterations of this sort, and accepted the original tale in its complete crudeness. For, consciously or unconsciously, Gottfried had conceived this story as a thing wholly unknown in his time, and no longer subject to any of those necessities of constant rearrangement which tormented mediæval poets: he had conceived it not as a tale, but as a novel. Gottfried himself was probably but little aware of what he was doing; the poem that he was writing probably fell for him into the very same category as the poems of other men; but to us, with our experience of so many different forms of narrative, it must be evident that "Tristan und Isolde" is a new departure, inasmuch as it is not the story of deeds and the people who did them, like the true epic from Homer to the Nibelungen; nor the story of people and the adventures which happened to them, like all romance poetry from "Palemon and Arcite," to the "Orlando Furioso;" but, on the contrary, the story of the psychological relations, the gradual metamorphosis of soul by soul, between two persons. The long introductory story of Tristram's youth must not mislead us, nor all the minute narrations of the killing of dragons and the drinking of love philters: Gottfried, we must remember, was certainly no deliberate innovator, and these thing's are the mere inevitable externalities of mediæval poetry, preserved with dull slavish care by the re-writer of a well-known tale, but enclosing in reality something essentially and startlingly modern: the history of a passion and of the spiritual changes which it brings about in those who are its victims. To meet again this purely psychological interest we must skip the whole rest of the Middle Ages, nay, skip even the great period of dramatic literature, not stopping till we come to the end of the seventeenth and beginning of the eighteenth century, to the "Princesse de Clèves," to "Clarissa Harlowe," nay, really, to "The Nouvelle Heloise." For even in Shakespeare there is always interest and importance in the action and reaction of subsidiary characters, in the event, in the accidental; there is intrigue, chance, misunderstanding, fate--active agencies of which Othello and Hamlet, King Lear and Romeo, are helpless victims; there is, even in this psychological English drama of the Elizabethans, fate in the shape of Iago, in the shape of the Ghost, in the shape of the brothers of Webster's duchess; fate in the shape of a ring, a letter, a drug, but fate always. And in this "Tristan und Isolde" of Gottfried von Strassburg is there not fate also in the love potion intended for King Mark, and given by the mistake of Brangwaine to Mark's bride and his nephew? To this objection, which will naturally occur to any reader who is not acquainted with the poem of Gottfried, I simply answer, there is not. The love potion there is, but it does not play the same part as do, for instance, the drugs of Friar Laurence and his intercepted letter. Suppose the friar's narcotic to have been less enduring in its action, or his message to have reached in safety, why then Juliet would have been awake instead of asleep, or Romeo would not have supposed her to be dead, and instead of the suicide of the two lovers, we should have had the successful carying off of Juliet by Romeo. Not so with Gottfried. The philter is there, and a great deal is talked about it; but it is merely one of the old, threadbare trappings of the original story, which he has been too lazy to suppress; it is merely, for the reader, the allegorical signal for an outburst of passion which all our subsequent knowledge of Tristram and Yseult shows us to be absolutely inevitable. In Gottfried's poem, the drinking of the potion signifies merely that all the rambling, mediæval prelude, not to be distinguished from the stories of "Morte d'Arthur," and of half the romances of the Middle Ages, has come to a close and may be forgotten; and that the real work of the great poet, the real, matchless tragedy of the four actors--Tristram, Yseult, Mark, and Brangwaine--has begun. Yet if we seek again to account to ourselves for this astonishing impression of modernness which we receive from Gottfried's poem, we recognize that it is due to something far more important than the mere precocious psychological interest; nay, rather, that this psychological interest is itself dependent upon the fact which makes "Tristan und Isolde," so modern to our feelings. This fact is simply that the poem of Gottfried is the earliest, and yet perhaps almost the completest, example of a literary anomaly which Antiquity, for all its abominations, did not know: the glorification of fidelity in adultery, the glorification of excellence within the compass of guilt. Older times --more distant from our own in spirit, though not necessarily in years--have presented us with many themes of guilt: the guilt which exists according to our own moral standard, but not according to that of the narrator, as the magnificently tragic Icelandic incest story of Sigmund and Signy; the guilt which has come about no one well knows how, an unfortunate circumstance leaving the sinner virtually stainless, in his or her own eyes and the eyes of others, like the Homeric Helen; the heroic guilt, where the very heroism seems due to the self-sacrifice of the sinner's innocence, of Judith; the struggling, remorseful guilt, hopelessly overcome by fate and nature, of Phædra; the dull and dogged guilt, making the sinner scarce more than a mere physical stumbling-block for others, of the murderer Hagen in the Nibelungenlied; and, finally, the perverse guilt, delighting in the consciousness of itself, of demons like Richard and Iago, of libidinous furies like the heroines of Tourneur and Marston. The guilt theme of "Tristan und Isolde" falls into none of these special categories. This theme, unguessed even by Shakespeare, is that of the virtuous behaviour towards one another of two individuals united in sinning against every one else. Gottfried von Strassburg narrates with the greatest detail how Tristram leads to the unsuspecting king the unblushing, unremorseful woman polluted by his own embraces; how Yseult substitutes on the wedding night her spotless damsel Brangwaine for her own sullied self; then, terrified lest the poor victim of her dishonour should ever reveal it, attempts to have her barbarously murdered, and, finally, seeing that nothing can shake the heroic creature's faith, admits her once more to be the remorseful go-between in her amours. He narrates how Tristram dresses as a pilgrim and carries the queen from a ship to the shore, in order that Yseult may call on Christ to bear witness by a miracle that she is innocent of adultery, never having been touched save by that pilgrim and her own husband; and how, when the followers of King Mark have surrounded the grotto in the wood, Tristram places the drawn sword between himself and the sleeping queen, as a symbol of their chastity which the king is too honest to suspect. He draws, with a psychological power truly extraordinary in the beginning of the thirteenth century, the two other figures in this love drama: King Mark, cheated, dishonoured, oscillating between horrible doubt, ignominious suspicion and more ignominious credulity, his love for his wife, his trust in his nephew, his incapacity for conceiving ill-faith and fraud, the very gentleness and generosity of his nature, made the pander of guilt in which he cannot believe; and, on the other side, Brangwaine, the melancholy, mute victim of her fidelity to Yseult, the weak, heroic soul, rewarded only with cruel ingratitude, and condemned to screen and help the sin which she loathes and for which she assumes the awful responsibility. All this does Gottfried do, yet without ever seeming to perceive the baseness and wickedness of this tissue of lies, equivocations, and perjuries in which his lovers hide their passion; without ever seeming to guess at the pathos and nobility of the man and the woman who are the mere trumpery obstacles or trumpery aids to their amours. He heaps upon Tristram and Yseult the most extravagant praises: he is the flower of all knighthood, and she, the kindest, gentlest, purest, and noblest of women; he insists upon the wickedness of the world which is for ever waging war upon their passion, and holds up to execration all those who seek to spy out their secret. Gottfried is most genuinely overcome by the ideal beauty of this inextinguishable devotion, by the sublimity of this love which holds the whole world as dross; the crimes of the lovers are for him the mere culminating point of their moral grandeur, which has ceased to know any guilt save absence of love, any virtue save loving. And so serene is the old minnesinger's persuasion, that it obscures the judgment and troubles the heart even of his reader; and we are tempted to ask ourselves, on laying down the book, whether indeed this could have been sinful, this love of Tristram and Yseult which triumphed over everything in the world, and could be quenched only by death. That circle of hell where all those who had sinfully loved were whirled incessantly in the perse, dark, stormy air, appeared in the eyes even of Dante as a place less of punishment than of glory; and, especially since the Middle Ages, all mankind looks upon that particular hell-pit with admiration rather than with loathing. And herein consists, more even than in any deceptions practised upon King Mark or any ingratitude manifested towards Brangwaine, the sinfulness of Tristram and Yseult: sinfulness which is not finite like the individual lives which it offends, but infinite and immortal as the heart and the judgment which it perverts. For such a tale, and so told, as the tale of Gottfried von Strassburg, makes us sympathize with this fidelity and devotion of a man and woman who care for nothing in the world save for each other, who are dragged and glued together by the desire and habit of mutual pleasure; it makes us admire their readiness to die rather than be parted, when their whole life is concentrated in their reciprocal sin, when their miserable natures enjoy, care for, know, only this miserable love. It makes us wink with leniency at the dishonour, the baseness, the cruelty, to which all this easy virtue is due. And such sympathy, such admiration, such leniency, for howsoever short a time they may remain in our soul, leave it, if they ever leave it completely and utterly less strong, less clean than it was before. We have all of us a lazy tendency to approve of the virtue which costs no trouble; to contemplate in ourselves or others, with a spurious moral satisfaction, the development of this or that virtuous quality in souls which are deteriorating in undoubted criminal self-indulgence. We have all of us, at the bottom of our hearts, a fellow feeling for all human affection; and the sinfulness of sinners like Tristram and Yseult lies largely in the fact that they pervert this legitimate and holy sympathy into a dangerous leniency for any strong and consistent love, into a morbid admiration for any irresistible mutual passion, making us forget that love has in itself no moral value, and that while self-indulgence may often be innocent, only self-abnegation can ever be holy. The great mediæval German poem of Tristram and Yseult remained for centuries a unique phenomenon; only John Ford perhaps, that grander and darker twin spirit of Gottfried von Strassburg, reviving, even among the morbidly psychological and crime-fascinated followers of Shakespeare, that new theme of evil--the heroism of unlawful love. But Gottfried had merely manipulated with precocious analytical power a mode of feeling and thinking which was universal in the feudal Middle Ages; the great epic of adultery was forgotten, but the sympathetic and admiring interest in illegitimate passion remained; and was transmitted, wherever the Renaissance or the Reformation did not break through such transmission of mediæval habits, as an almost inborn instinct from father to son, from mother to daughter. And we may doubt whether the important class of men and women who write and read the novels of illicit love, could ever have existed, had not the psychological artists of modern times, from Rousseau to George Sand, and from Stendhal to Octave Feuillet, found ready prepared for them in the countries not re-tempered by Protestantism, an assoiation of romance, heroism, and ideality with mere adulterous passion, which was unknown to the corruption of Antiquity and to the lawlessness of the Dark Ages, and which remained as a fatal alloy to that legacy of mere spiritual love which was left to the world by the love poets of early feudalism. II. The love of the troubadours and minnesingers, of the Arthurian tales, which show that love in narrative form, was, as we have seen, polluted by the selfishness, the deceitfulness, the many unclean necessities of adulterous passion. Elevated and exquisite though it was, it could not really purify the relations of man and woman, since it was impure. Nay, we see that through its influence the grave and simple married love of the earlier tales of chivalry, the love of Siegfried for Chriemhilt, of Roland for his bride Belle Aude, of Renaud for his wife Clarisse, is gradually replaced in later fiction by the irregular love-makings of Huon of Bordeaux, Ogier the Dane, and Artus of Brittany; until we come at last to the extraordinary series of the Amadis romances, where every hero without exception is the bastard of virtuous parents, who subsequently marry and discover their foundling: a state of things which, even in the corrupt Renaissance, Boiardo and Ariosto found it necessary to reform in their romantic poems. With idealizing refinement, the chivalric love of the French, Provençal, and German poets brings also a kind of demoralization which, from one point of view, makes the spotless songs of Bernard de Ventadour and Armaud de Mareulh, of Ulrich von Liechtenstein and Frauenlob, less pure than the licentious poems addressed by the Greeks and Romans to women who, at least, were not the wives of other men. Shall all this idealizing refinement, this almost religious fervour, this new poetic element of chivalric love remain useless; or serve only to subtly pollute while pretending to purify the great singing passion? Not so. But to prevent such waste of what in itself is pure and precious, is the mission of another country, of another civilization; of a wholly different cycle of poets who, receiving the new element of mediæval love after it has passed through and been sifted by a number of hands, shall cleanse and recreate it in the fire of intellectual and almost abstract passion, producing that wonderful essence of love which, as the juices squeezed by alchemists out of jewels purified the body from all its ills, shall purify away all the diseases of the human soul. While the troubadours and minnesingers had been singing at the courts of Angevine kings and Hohenstauffen emperors, of counts of Toulouse and dukes of Austria; a new civilization, a new political and social system, had gradually been developing in the free burghs of Italy; a new life entirely the reverse of the life of feudal countries. The Italian cities were communities of manufacturers and merchants, into which only gradually, and at the sacrifice of every aristocratic privilege and habit, a certain number of originally foreign feudatories were gradually absorbed. Each community consisted of a number of mercantile families, equal before the law, and illustrious or obscure according to their talents or riches, whose members, instead of being scattered over a wide area like the members of the feudal nobility, were most often gathered together under one roof--sons, brothers, nephews, daughters, sisters and daughters-in-law, forming a hierarchy attending to the business of factory or counting-house under the orders of the father of the family, and to the economy of the house-under the superintendence of the mother; a manner of living at once business-like and patriarchal, expounded pounded by the interlocutors in Alberti's "Governo della Famiglia," and which lasted until the dissolution of the commonwealths and almost to our own times. Such habits imply a social organization, an intercourse between men and women, and a code of domestic morality the exact opposite to those of feudal countries. Here, in the Italian cities, there are no young men bound to loiter, far from their homes, round the wife of a military superior, to whom her rank and her isolation from all neighbours give idleness and solitude. The young men are all of them in business, usually with their own kinsfolk; not in their employer's house, but in his office; they have no opportunity of seeing a woman from dawn till sunset. The women, on their side, are mainly employed at home: the whole domestic arrangement depends upon them, and keeps their hands constantly full; working, and working in the company of their female relatives and friends. Men and women are free comparatively little, and then they are free all together in the same places; hence no opportunities for _tête-à-tête_. Early Italian poetry is fond of showing us the young poet reading his verses or explaining his passion to those gentle, compassionate women learned in love, of whom we meet a troop, beautiful, vague, half-arch, half-melancholy faces, consoling Dante in the "Vita Nuova," and reminding Guido Cavalcanti of his lady far off at Toulouse. But such women almost invariably form a group; they cannot be approached singly. Such a state of society inevitably produces a high and strict morality. In these early Italian cities a case of in' fidelity is punished ruthlessly; the lover banished or killed; the wife for ever lost to the world, perhaps condemned to solitude and a lingering death in the fever tracts, like Pia dei Tolomei. A complacent deceived husband is even more ridiculous (the deceived husband is notoriously the chief laughing stock of all mediæval free towns) than is a jealous husband among the authorized and recognized _cicisbeos_ of a feudal court. Indeed the respect for marriage vows inevitable in this busy democratic mediæval life is so strong, that long after the commonwealths have turned into despotisms, and every social tie has been dissolved in the Renaissance, the wives and daughters of men stained with every libidinous vice, nay, of the very despots themselves --Tiberiuses and Neros on a smaller scale--remain spotless in the midst of evil; and authorized adultery begins in Italy only under the Spanish rule in the late sixteenth century. Such were the manners and morals of the Italian commonwealths when, about the middle of the thirteenth century, the men of Tuscany, now free and prosperous, suddenly awoke to the consciousness that they had a soul which desired song, and a language which was spontaneously singing. It was the moment when painting was beginning to claim for the figures of real men and women the walls and vaulted spaces whence had hitherto glowered, with vacant faces and huge ghostlike eyes, mosaic figures, from their shimmering golden ground; the moment when the Pisan artists had sculptured solemnly draped madonnas and kings not quite unworthy of the carved sarcophagi which stood around them; the moment when, merging together old Byzantine traditions and Northern examples, the architects of Florence, Siena, and Orvieto conceived a style which made cathedrals into marvellous and huge reliquaries of marble, jasper, alabaster, and mosaics. The mediæval flowering time had come late, very late, in Italy; but the atmosphere was only the warmer, the soil the richer, and Italy put forth a succession of exquisite and superb immortal flowers of art when the artistic sap of other countries had begun to be exhausted. But the Italians, the Tuscans, audacious in the other arts, were diffident of themselves with regard to poetry. Architecture, painting, sculpture, had been the undisputed field for plebeian craftsmen, belonging exclusively to the free burghs and disdained by the feudal castles; but poetry was essentially the aristocratic, the feudal art, cultivated by knights and cultivated for kings and barons. It was probably an unspoken sense of this fact which caused the early Tuscan poets to misgive their own powers and to turn wistfully and shyly towards the poets of Provence and of Sicily. There, beyond the seas, under the last lords of Toulouse and the brilliant mongrel Hohenstauffen princes, were courts, knights, and ladies; there was the tradition of this courtly art of poetry; and there only could the sons of Florentine or Sienese merchants, clodhoppers in gallantry and song, hope to learn the correct style of thing. Hence the history of the Italian lyric before Dante is the history of a series of transformations which connect a style of poetry absolutely feudal and feudally immoral, with the hitherto unheard-of platonic love subtleties of the "Vita Nuova." And it is curious, in looking over the collections of early Italian lyrists, to note the alteration in tone as Sicily and the feudal courts are left further and further behind. Ciullo d' Alcamo, flourishing about 1190, is the only Italian-writing poet absolutely contemporaneous with the earlier and better trouvères, troubadours, and minnesingers; and he is also the only one who resembles them very closely. His famous _tenso_, beginning "Rosa fresca aulentissima" (a tolerably faithful translation heads the beautiful collection of the late Mr. D.G. Rossetti), is indeed more explicitly gross and immoral than the majority of Provençal and German love-songs: loose as are many of the _albas, serenas, wachtlieder_, and even many of the less special forms of German and Provençal poetry, I am acquainted with none of them which comes up to this singular dialogue, in which a man, refusing to marry a woman, little by little wins her over to his wishes and makes her brazenly invite him to her dishonour. Between Ciullo d' Alcamo and his successors there is some gap of time, and a corresponding want of gradation. Yet the Sicilian poets of the courts of Hohenstauffen and Anjou, recognizable by their name or the name of their town, Inghilfredi, Manfredi, Ranieri and Ruggierone da Palermo, Tommaso and Matteo da Messina, Guglielmotto d' Otranto, Rinaldo d'Aquino, Peir delle Vigne, either maintain altogether unchanged the tone of the troubadours, or only gradually, as in the remarkable case of the Notary of Lentino, approximate to the platonic poets of Tuscany. The songs of the archetype of Sicilian singers, the Emperor Frederick II., are completely Provençal in feeling as in form, though infinitely inferior in execution. With him it is always the pleasure which he hopes from his lady, or the pleasure which he has had--"Quando ambidue stavamo in allegranza alla dolce fera;" "Pregovi donna mia--Per vostra cortesia--E pregovi che sia--Quello che lo core disia." Again: "Sospiro e sto in rancura--Ch' io son si disioso--E pauroso--Mi fate penare--Ma tanto m' assicura--Lo suo viso amoroso--E lo gioioso--Riso e lo sguardare--E lo parlare--Di questa criatura--Che per paura--Mi fate penare--E di morare--Tant' è fina e pura--Tanto è saggia e cortese--Non credo che pensasse--Nè distornasse--Di ciò he m' impromise." It is, this earliest Italian poetry, like the more refined poetry of troubadours and minnesingers, eminently an importuning of highborn but loosely living women. From Sicily and Apulia poetry goes first, as might be expected (and as probably sculpture went) to the seaport Pisa, thence to the neighbouring Lucca, considerably before reaching Florence. And as it becomes more Italian and urban, it becomes also, under the strict vigilance of burgher husbands, considerably more platonic. In Bologna, the city of jurists, it acquires (the remark is not mine merely, but belongs also to Carducci) the very strong flavour of legal quibbling which distinguishes the otherwise charming Guido Guinicelli; and once in Florence, among the most subtle of all subtle Tuscans, it becomes at once what it remained even for Dante, saturated with metaphysics: the woman is no longer paramount, she is subordinated to Love himself; to that personified abstraction Amor, the serious and melancholy son of pagan philosophy and Christian mysticism. The Tuscans had imported from Provence and Sicily the new element of mediæval love, of life devotion, soul absorption in loving; if they would sing, they must sing of this; any other kind of love, at a time when Italy still read and relished her would-be Provençals, Lanfranc Cicala and Sordel of Mantua, would have been unfashionable and unendurable. But in these Italian commonwealths, as we have seen, poets are forced, nilly-willy, to be platonic; an importuning poem found in her work-basket may send a Tuscan lady into a convent, or, like Pia, into the Maremma; an _alba_ or a _serena_ interrupted by a wool-weaver of Calimara or a silk spinner of Lucca, may mean that the imprudent poet be found weltering in blood under some archway the next morning. The chivalric sentimentality of feudalism must be restrained; and little by little, under the pressure of such very different social habits, it grows into a veritable platonic passion. Poets must sing, and in order that they sing, they must adore; so men actually begin to seek out, and adore and make themselves happy and wretched about women from whom they can hope only social distinctions; and this purely æsthetic passion goes on by the side nay, rather on the top, of their humdrum, conjugal life or loosest libertinage. Petrarch's bastards were born during the reign of Madonna Laura; and that they should have been, was no more a slight or infidelity to her than to the other Madonna, the one in heaven. Laura had a right to only ideal sentiments ideal relations; the poet was at liberty to carry more material preferences elsewhere. But could such love as this exist, could it be genuine? To my mind, indubitably. For there is, in all our perceptions and desires of physical and moral beauty, an element of passion which is akin to love; and there is, in all love that is not mere lust, a perception of, a craving for, beauty, real or imaginary which is identical with our merely æsthetic perceptions and cravings; hence the possibility, once the wish for such a passion present, of a kind of love which is mainly æsthetic, which views the beloved as gratifying merely to the wish for physical or spiritual loveliness, and concentrates upon one exquisite reality all dreams of ideal perfection. Moreover there comes, to all nobler natures, a love dawning: a brightening and delicate flushing of the soul before the actual appearance of the beloved one above the horizon, which is as beautiful and fascinating in its very clearness, pallor, and coldness, as the unearthly purity of the pale amber and green and ashy rose which streaks the heavens before sunrise. The love of the early Tuscan poets (for we must count Guinicelli, in virtue of his language, as a Tuscan) had been restrained, by social necessities first, then by habit and deliberate æsthetic choice, within the limits of this dawning state; and in this state, it had fed itself off mere spiritual food, and acquired the strange intensity of mere intellectual passions. We give excessive weight, in our days, to spontaneity in all things, apt to think that only the accidental, the unsought, can be vital; but it is true in many things, and truest in all matters of the imagination and the heart, that the desire to experience any sentiment will powerfully conduce to its production, and even give it a strength due to the long incubation of the wish. Thus the ideal love of the Tuscan poets was probably none the weaker, but rather the stronger, for the desire which they felt to sing such passion; nay, rather to hear it singing in themselves. The love of man and wife, of bride and bridegroom, was still of the domain of prose; adulterous love forbidden; and the tradition of, the fervent wish for, the romantic passion of the troubadours consumed them as a strong artistic craving. Platonic love was possible, doubly possible in souls tense with poetic wants; it became a reality through the strength of the wish for it. Nor was this all. In all imaginative passions, intellectual motives are so much fuel; and in this case the necessity of logically explaining the bodiless passion for a platonic lady, of understanding why they felt in a manner so hitherto unknown to gross mankind, tended greatly to increase the love of these Tuscans, and to bring it in its chastity to the pitch of fervour of more fleshly passions, by mingling with the æsthetic emotions already in their souls the mystical theorizings of transcendental metaphysics, and the half-human, half-supernatural ecstasy of mediæval religion. For we must remember that Italy was a country not merely of manufacturers and bankers, but of philosophers also and of saints. Among the Italians of the thirteenth century the revival of antique literature was already in full swing; while in France, Germany, and Provence there had been, in lyric poetry at least, no trace of classic lore. Whereas the trouvères and troubadours had possessed but the light intellectual luggage of a military aristocracy; and the minnesingers had, for the most part, been absolutely ignorant of reading and writing (Wolfram says so of himself, and Ulrich von Liechtenstein relates how he carried about his lady's letter for days unread until the return of his secretary); the poets of Italy, from Brunetto Latini to Petrarch, were eminently scholars; men to whom, however much they might be politicians and ringleaders, like Cavalcanti, Donati, and Dante, whatever existed of antique learning was thoroughly well known. Such men were familiar with whatever yet survived of the transcendental theories of Plato and Plotinus; and they seized at once upon the mythic metaphysics of an antenatal condition, of typical ideas, of the divine essence of beauty, on all the mystic discussions on love and on the soul, as a philosophical explanation of their seemingly inexplicable passion for an unapproachable woman. The lady upon whom the poetic fervour, the mediæval love, inherited from Provence and France, was now expended, and whom social reasons placed quite beyond the reach of anything save the poet's soul and words, was evidently beloved for the sake of that much of the divine essence contained in her nature; she was loved for purely spiritual reasons, loved as a visible and living embodiment of virtue and beauty, as a human piece of the godhead. So far, therefore, from such an attachment being absurd, as absurd it would have seemed to troubadours and minnesingers, who never served a lady save for what they called a reward; it became, in the eyes of these platonizing Italians, the triumph of the well-bred soul; and as such, soon after, a necessary complement to dignities, talents, and wealth, the very highest occupation of a liberal mind. Thus did their smattering of platonic and neo-platonic philosophy supply the Tuscan poets with a logical reality for this otherwise unreal passion. But there was something more. In this democratic and philosophizing Italy, there was not the gulf which separated the chivalric poets, men of the sword and not of books, from the great world of religious mysticism; for, though the minnesingers especially were extremely devout and sang many a strange love-song to the Virgin; they knew, they could know, nothing of the contemplative religion of Eckhardt and his disciples--humble and transcendental spirits, whose words were treasured by the sedentary, dreamy townsfolk of the Rhine, but would have conveyed no meaning even to the poet of the Grail epic, with its battles and feasts, its booted and spurred slapdash morality, Wolfram von Eschenbach. In the great manufacturing cities of Italy, such religious mysticism spread as it could never spread in feudal courts; it became familiar, both in the mere passionate sermons and songs of the wandering friars, and in the subtle dialectics of the divines; above all, it became familiar to the poets. Now the essence of this contemplative theology of the Middle Ages, which triumphantly held its own against the cut-and-dry argumentation of scholastic rationalism, was love. Love which assuredly meant different things to different minds; a passionate benevolence towards man and beast to godlike simpletons like Francis of Assisi; a mere creative and impassive activity of the divinity to deep-seeing (so deep as to see only their own strange passionate eyes and lips reflected in the dark well of knowledge) and almost pantheistic thinkers like Master Eckhardt; but love nevertheless, love. "Amor, amore, ardo d' amore," St. Francis had sung in a wild rhapsody, a sort of mystic dance, a kind of furious _malagueña_ of divine love; and that he who would wish to know God, let him love--"Qui vult habere notitiam Dei, amet," had been written by Hugo of St. Victor, one of the subtlest of all the mystics. "Amor oculus est," said Master Eckhardt; love, love--was not love then the highest of all human faculties, and must not the act of loving, of perceiving God's essence in some creature which had virtue, the soul's beauty, and beauty, the body's virtue, be the noblest business of a noble life? Thus argued the poets; and their argument, half-passionate, half-scholastic, mixing Phædrus and Bonaventura, the Schools of Alexandria and the Courts of Love of Provence, resulted in adding all the fervid reality of philosophical and religious aspiration to their clear and cold phantom of disembodied love of woman. Little by little therefore, together with the carnal desires of Provençals and Sicilians, the Tuscan poets put behind them those little coquetries of style and manner, complications of metre and rhythm learned and fantastic as a woman's plaited and braided hair; those metaphors and similes, like bright flowers or shining golden ribbons dropped from the lady's bosom and head and eagerly snatched by the lover, which we still find, curiously transformed and scented with the rosemary and thyme of country lanes, in the peasant poetry of modern Tuscany. Little by little does the love poetry of the Italians reject such ornaments; and cloth itself in that pale garment, pale and stately in heavy folds like a nun's or friar's weeds, but pure and radiant and solemn as the garment of some painted angel, which we have all learned to know from the "Vita Nuova." To describe this poetry of the immediate precursors and contemporaries of Dante is to the last degree difficult: it can be described only by symbols, and symbols can but mislead us. Dante Rossetti himself, after translating with exquisite beauty the finest poems of this school, showed how he had read into them his own spirit, when he drew the beautiful design for the frontispiece of his collection. These two lovers--the youth kneeling in his cloth of silver robe, lifting his long throbbing neck towards the beloved; the lady stooping down towards him, raising him up and kissing him; the mingled cloud of waving hair, the four tight-clasped hands, the four tightly glued lips, the profile hidden by the profile, the passion and the pathos, the eager, wistful faces, nay, the very splendour of brocade robes and jewels, the very sweetness of blooming rose spaliers; all this is suitable to illustrate this group of sonnets or that of the "House of Life;" but it is false, false in efflorescence and luxuriance of passion, splendour and colour of accessory, to the poetry of these early Tuscans. Imaginative their poetry certainly is, and passionate; indeed the very concentration of imaginative passion; but imagination and passion unlike those of all other poets; perhaps because more rigorously reduced to their elements: imagination purely of the heart, passion purely of the intellect, neither of the senses: love in its most essential condition, but, just because an essence, purged of earthly alloys, rarefied, sublimated into a cultus or a philosophy. These poems might nearly all have been written by one man, were it possible for one man to vary from absolute platitude to something like genius, so homogeneous is their tone: everywhere do we meet the same simplicity of diction struggling with the same complication and subtlety of thought, the same abstract speculation strangely mingled with most individual and personal pathos. The mode of thinking and feeling, the conception of all the large characteristics of love, and of all its small incidents are, in this _cycle_ of poets, constantly the same; and they are the same in the "Vita Nuova;" Dante having, it would seem, invented and felt nothing unknown to his immediate predecessors and contemporaries, but merely concentrated their thoughts and feelings by the greater intenseness of his genius. This platonic love of Dante's days is, as I have said, a passion sublimated into a philosophy and a cultus. The philosophy of love engages much of these poets' attention; all have treated of it, but Guido Cavalcanti, Dante's elder brother in poetry, is love's chief theologian. He explains, as Eckhardt or Bonaventura might explain the mysteries of God's being and will, the nature and operation of love. "Love, which enamours us of excellence, arises out of pure virtue of the soul, and equals us to God," he tells us; and subtly developes his theme. This being the case, nothing can be more mistaken than to suppose, as do those of little sense, that Love is blind, and goes blindly about ("Da sentir poco, e da credenza vana--Si move il dir di cotal grossa gente--Ch' amor fa cieco andar per lo suo regno"). Love is omniscient, since love is born of the knowledge and recognition of excellence. Such love as this is the only true source of happiness, since it alone raises man to the level of the divinity. Cavalcanti has in him not merely the subtlety but the scornfulness of a great divine. His wrath against all those who worship or defend a different god of Love knows no bounds. "I know not what to say of him who adores the goddess born of Saturn and sea-foam. His love is fire: it seems sweet, but its result is bitter and evil. He may indeed call himself happy; but in such delights he mingles himself with much baseness." Such is this god of Love, who, when he descended into Dante's heart, caused the spirit of life to tremble terribly in his secret chamber, and trembling to cry, "Lo, here is a god stronger than myself, who coming will rule over me. Ecce Deus fortior me, qui veniens dominabitur mihi!" The god, this chaste and formidable archangel Amor, is the true subject of these poets' adoration; the woman into whom he descends by a mystic miracle of beauty and of virtue becomes henceforward invested with somewhat of his awful radiance. She is a gentle, gracious lady; a lovable and loving woman, in describing whose grey-green eyes and colour as of snow tinted with pomegranate, the older Tuscans would fain linger, comparing her to the new-budded rose, to the morning star, to the golden summer air, to the purity of snowflakes falling silently in a serene sky; but the sense of the divinity residing within her becomes too strong. From her eyes dart spirits who strike awe into the heart; from her lips come words which make men sigh; on her passage the poet casts down his eyes; notions, all these, with which we are familiar from the "Vita Nuova;" but which belong to Cavalcanti, Lapo Gianni, nay, even to Guinicelli, quite as much as to Dante. The poet bids his verse go forth to her, but softly; and stand before her with bended head, as before the Mother of God. She is a miracle herself, a thing sent from heaven, a spirit, as Dante says in that most beautiful of all his sonnets, the summing up of all that the poets of his circle had said of their lady--"Tanto gentile e tanto onesta pare." "She passes along the street so beautiful and gracious," says Guinicelli, "that she humbles pride in all whom she greets, and makes him of our faith if he does not yet believe. And no base man can come into her presence. And I will tell you another virtue of her: no man can think ought of evil as long as he looks upon her." "The noble mind which I feel, on account of this youthful lady who has appeared, makes me despise baseness and vileness," says Lapo Gianni. The women who surround her are glorified in her glory, glorified in their womanhood and companionship with her. "The ladies around you," says Cavalcanti, "are dear to me for the sake of your love; and I pray them as they are courteous, that they should do you all honour." She is, indeed, scarcely a woman, and something more than a saint: an avatar, an incarnation of that Amor who is born of virtue and beauty, and raises men's minds to heaven; and when Cavalcanti speaks of his lady's portrait behind the blazing tapers of Orsanmichele, it seems but natural that she should be on an altar, in the Madonna's place. The idea of a mysterious incarnation of love in the lady, or of a mystic relationship between her and love, returns to these poets. Lapo Gianni tells us first that she is Amor's sister, then speaks of her as Amor's bride; nay, in this love theology of the thirteenth century, arises the same kind of confusion as in the mystic disputes of the nature of the Godhead. A Sienese poet, Ugo da Massa, goes so far as to say, "Amor and I are all one thing; and we have one will and one heart; and if I were not, Amor were not; mind you, do not think I am saying these things from subtlety ('e non pensate ch' io 'l dica per arte'); for certainly it is true that I am love, and he who should slay me would slay love." Together with the knowledge of public life and of scholastic theories, together with the love of occult and cabalistic science, and the craft of Provençal poetry, Dante received from his Florence of the thirteenth century the knowledge of this new, this exotic and esoteric intellectual love. And, as it is the mission of genius to gather into an undying whole, to model into a perfect form, the thoughts and feelings and perceptions of the less highly endowed men who surround it, so Dante moulded out of the love passion and love philosophy of his day the "Vita Nuova." Whether the story narrated in this book is fact; whether a real woman whom he called Beatrice ever existed; some of those praiseworthy persons, who prowl in the charnel-house of the past, and put its poor fleshless bones into the acids and sublimates of their laboratory, have gravely doubted. But such doubts cannot affect us. For if the story of the "Vita Nuova" be a romance, and if Beatrice be a mere romance heroine, the real meaning and value of the book does not change in our eyes; since, to concoct such a tale, Dante must have had a number of real experiences which are fully the tale's equivalent; and to conceive and create such a figure as Beatrice, and such a passion as she inspires her poet, he must have felt as a poignant reality the desire for such a lady, the capacity for such a love. A tale merely of the soul, and of the soul's movements and actions, this "Vita Nuova;" so why should it matter if that which could never exist save in the spirit, should have been but the spirit's creation? It is, in its very intensity, a vision of love; what if it be a vision merely conceived and never realized? Hence the futility of all those who wish to destroy our faith and pleasure by saying "all this never took place." Fools, can you tell what did or did not take place in a poet's mind? Be this as it may, the "Vita Nuova," thank heaven, exists; and, thank heaven, exists as a reality to our feelings. The longed-for ideal, the perfection whose love, said Cavalcanti, raises us up to God, has seemed to gather itself into a human shape; and a real being has been surrounded by the halo of perfection emanated from the poet's own soul. The vague visions of glory have suddenly taken body in this woman, seen rarely, at a distance; the woman whom, as a child, the poet, himself a child, had already looked at with the strange, ideal fascination which we sometimes experience in our childhood. People are apt to smile at this opening of the "Vita Nuova;" to put aside this narrative of childish love together with the pathetic little pedantries of learned poetry and Kabbala, of the long gloses to each poem, and the elaborate calculations of the recurrence and combination of the number nine (and that curious little bit of encyclopædic display about the Syrian month _Tismin_) as so much pretty local colouring or obsolete silliness. But there is nothing at which to laugh in such childish fascinations; the wonderful, the perfect, is more open to us as children than it is afterwards: a word, a picture, a snatch of music will have for us an ineffable, mysterious meaning; and how much more so some human being, often some other, more brilliant child from whose immediate contact we are severed by some circumstance, perhaps by our own consciousness of inferiority, which makes that other appear strangely distant, above us, moving in a world of glory which we scarcely hope to approach; a child sometimes, or sometimes some grown person, beautiful, brilliant, who sings or talks or looks at us, the child, with ways which we do not understand, like some fairy or goddess. No indeed, there is nothing to laugh at in this, in this first blossoming of that love for higher and more beautiful things, which in most of us is trodden down, left to wither, by our maturer selves; nothing to make us laugh; nay, rather to make us sigh that later on we see too well, see others too much on their real level, scrutinize too much; too much, alas, for what at best is but an imperfect creature. And in this state of fascination does the child Dante see the child Beatrice, as a strange, glorious little vision from a childish sphere quite above him; treasuring up that vision, till with his growth it expands and grows more beautiful and noble, but none the less fascinating and full of awfulness. When, therefore, the grave young poet, full of the yearning for Paradise (but Paradise vaguer, sweeter, less metaphysic and theological than the Paradise of his manhood); as yet but a gracious, learned youth, his terrible moral muscle still undeveloped by struggle, the noble and delicate dreamer of Giotto's fresco, with the long, thin, almost womanish face, marked only by dreamy eyes and lips, wandering through this young Florence of the Middle Ages--when, I say, he meets after long years, the noble and gentle woman, serious and cheerful and candid; and is told that she is that same child who was the queen and goddess of his childish fancies; then the vague glory with which his soul is filled expands and enwraps the beloved figure, so familiar and yet so new. And the blood retreats from his veins, and he trembles; and a vague god within him, half allegory, half reality, cries out to him that a new life for him has begun. Beatrice has become the ideal; Beatrice, the real woman, has ceased to exist; the Beatrice of his imagination only remains, a piece of his own soul embodied in a gracious and beautiful reality, which he follows, seeks, but never tries to approach. Of the real woman he asks nothing; no word throughout the "Vita Nuova" of entreaty or complaint, no shadow of desire, not a syllable of those reproaches of cruelty which Petrarch is for ever showering upon Laura. He desires nothing of Beatrice, and Beatrice cannot act wrongly; she is perfection, and perfection makes him who contemplates humble at once and proud, glorifying his spirit. Once, indeed, he would wish that she might listen to him; he has reason to think that he has fallen in her esteem, has seemed base and uncourteous in her eyes, and he would explain. But he does not wish to address her; it never occurs to him that she can ever feel in any way towards him; it is enough that he feels towards her. Let her go by and smile and graciously salute her friends: the sight of her grave and pure regalness, nay, rather divinity, of womanhood, suffices for his joy; nay, later the consciousness comes upon him that it is sufficient to know of her existence and of his love even without seeing her. And, as must be the case in such ideal passion, where the action is wholly in the mind of the lover, he is at first ashamed, afraid; he feels a terror lest his love, if known to her, should excite her scorn; a horror lest it be misunderstood and befouled by the jests of those around him, even of those same gentle women to whom he afterwards addresses his praise of Beatrice. He is afraid of exposing to the air of reality this ideal flower of passion. But the moment comes when he can hide it no longer; and, behold, the passion flower of his soul opens out more gloriously in the sunlight of the world. He is proud of his passion, of his worship; he feels the dignity and glory of being the priest of such a love. The women all round, the beautiful, courteous women, of whom, only just now, he was so dreadfully afraid, become his friends and confidants; they are quite astonished (half in love, perhaps, with the young poet) at this strange way of loving; they sympathize, admire, are in love with his love for Beatrice. And to them he speaks of her rather than to men, for the womanhood which they share with his lady consecrates them in his eyes; and they, without jealousy towards this ideal woman, though perhaps not without longing for this ideal love, listen as they might listen to some new and unaccountably sweet music, touched and honoured, and feeling towards Dante as towards some beautiful, half-mad thing. He talks of her, sings of her, and is happy; the strangest thing in this intensely real narrative of real love is this complete satisfaction of the passion in its own existence, this complete absence of all desire or hope. But this happiness is interrupted by the sudden, terrible thought that one day all this must cease; the horrible, logical necessity coming straight home to him, that one day she must die--"Di necessità conviene che la gentilissima Beatrice alcuna volta si muoia." There is nothing truer, more intensely pathetic, in all literature, than this frightful pang of evil, not real, but first imagined; this frightful nightmare vision of the end coming when reality is still happy. Have we not all of us at one time felt the horrible shudder of that sudden perception that happiness must end; that the beloved, the living, must die; that this thing the present, which we clasp tight with our arms, which throbs against our breast, will in but few moments be gone, vanished, leaving us to grasp mere phantom recollections? Compared with this the blow of the actual death of Beatrice is gentle. And then, the truthfulness of his narration how, with yearning, empty heart, hungering after those poor lost realities of happiness, after that occasional glimpse of his lady, that rare catching of her voice, that blessed consciousness of her existence, he little by little lets himself be consoled, cradled to sleep like a child which has sobbed itself out, in the sympathy, the vague love, of another--the Donna della Finestra--with whom he speaks of Beatrice; and the sudden, terrified, starting up and shaking off of any such base consolation, the wrath at any such mental infidelity to the dead one, the indignant impatience with his own weakness, with his baseness in not understanding that it is enough that Beatrice has lived and that he has loved her, in not feeling that the glory and joy of the ineffaceable past is sufficient for all present and future. A revolution in himself which gradually merges in that grave final resolve, that sudden seeing how Beatrice can be glorified by him, that solemn, quiet, brief determination not to say any more of her as yet; not till he can show her transfigured in Paradise. "After this sonnet there appeared unto me a marvellous vision, in which I beheld things that made me propose unto myself to speak no more of this blessed one, until the time when I might more worthily treat of her. And that this may come to pass, I strive with all my endeavour, even as she truly knows it. Thus, if it should please Him, through whom all things do live, that my life continue for several more years, I hope to say of her such things as have never been said of any lady. And then may it please Him, who is the lord of all courtesy, that my soul shall go forth to see the glory of its lady, that is to say, of that blessed Beatrice, who gloriously looks up into the face of Him, _qui est per omnia sæcula benedictus_" Thus ends the "Vita Nuova;" a book, to find any equivalent for whose reality and completeness of passion, though it is passion for a woman whom the poet scarcely knows and of whom he desires nothing, we must go back to the merest fleshly love of Antiquity, of Sappho or Catullus; for modern times are too hesitating and weak. So at least it seems; but in fact, if we only think over the matter, we shall find that in no earthly love can we find this reality and completeness: it is possible only in love like Dante's. For there can be no unreality in it: it is a reality of the imagination, and leaves, with all its mysticism and idealism, no room for falsehood. Any other kind of love may be set aside, silenced, by the activity of the mind; this love of Dante's constitutes that very activity. And, after reading that last page which I have above transcribed, as those closing Latin words echo through our mind like the benediction from an altar, we feel as if we were rising from our knees in some secret chapel, bright with tapers and dim with incense; among a crowd kneeling like ourselves; yet solitary, conscious of only the glory we have seen and tasted, of that love _qui est per omnia scecula benedictus._ III. But is it right that we should feel thus? Is it right that love, containing within itself the potentialities of so many things so sadly needed in this cold real world, as patience, tenderness, devotion, and loving-kindness--is it right that love should thus be carried away out of ordinary life and enclosed, a sacred thing for contemplation, in the shrine or chapel of an imaginary Beatrice? And, on the other hand, is it right that into the holy places of our soul, the places where we should come face to face with the unattainable ideal of our own conduct that we may strive after something nobler than mere present pleasure and profit--is it right that into such holy places, destined but for an abstract perfection, there should be placed a mere half-unknown, vaguely seen woman? In short, is not this "Vita Nuova" a mere false ideal, one of those works of art which, because they are beautiful, get worshipped as holy? This question is a grave one, and worthy to make us pause. The world is full of instances of the fatal waste of feelings misapplied: of human affections, human sympathy and compassion, so terribly necessary to man, wasted in various religious systems, upon Christ and God: of religious aspirations, contemplation, worship, and absorption, necessary to the improvement of the soul, wasted in various artistic or poetic crazes upon mere pleasant works, or pleasant fancies, of man; wastefulness of emotions, wastefulness of time, which constitute two-thirds of mankind's history and explain the vast amount of evil in past and present. The present question therefore becomes, is not this "Vita Nuova" merely another instance of this lamentable carrying off of precious feelings in channels where they result no longer in fertilization, but in corruption? The Middle Ages, especially, in its religion, its philosophy, nay, in that very love of which I am writing, are one succession of such acts of wastefulness. This question has come to me many a time, and has left me in much doubt and trouble. But on reflection I am prepared to answer that such doubts as these may safely be cast behind us, and that we may trust that instinct which, whenever we lay down the "Vita Nuova," tells us that to have felt and loved this book is one of those spiritual gains in our life which, come what may, can never be lost entirely. The "Vita Nuova" represents the most exceptional of exceptional moral and intellectual conditions. Dante's love for Beatrice is, in great measure, to be regarded as an extraordinary and exquisite work of art, produced not by the volition of man, but by the accidental combination of circumstances. It is no more suited to ordinary life than would a golden and ivory goddess of Phidias be suited to be the wife of a mortal man. But it may not therefore be useless; nay, it may be of the highest utility. It may serve that high utilitarian mission of all art, to correct the real by the ideal, to mould the thing as it is in the semblance of the thing as it should be. Herein, let it be remembered, consists the value, the necessity of the abstract and the ideal. In the long history of evolution we have now reached the stage where selection is no longer in the mere hands of unconscious nature, but of conscious or half-conscious man; who makes himself, or is made by mankind, according to not merely physical necessities, but to the intellectual necessity of realizing the ideal, of pursuing the object, of imitating the model, before him. No man will ever find the living counterpart of that chryselephantine goddess of the Greeks; ivory and gold, nay, marble, fashioned by an artist, are one thing; flesh is another, and flesh fashioned by mere blind accident. But the man who should have beheld that Phidian goddess, who should have felt her full perfection, would not have been as easily satisfied as any other with a mere commonplace living woman; he would have sought--and seeking, would have had more likelihood of finding--the woman of flesh and blood who nearest approached to that ivory and gold perfection. The case is similar with the "Vita Nuova." No earthly affection, no natural love of man for woman, of an entire human being, body and soul, for another entire human being, can ever be the counterpart of this passion for Beatrice, the passion of a mere mind for a mere mental ideal. But if the old lust-fattened evil of the world is to diminish rather than to increase, why then every love of man for woman and of woman for man should tend, to the utmost possibility, to resemble that love of the "Vita Nuova." For mankind has gradually separated from brute kind merely by the development of those possibilities of intellectual and moral passion which the animal has not got; an animal man will never cease to be, but a man he can daily more and more become, until from the obscene goat-legged and goat-faced creature which we commonly see, he has turned into something like certain antique fauns: a beautiful creature, not noticeably a beast, a beast in only the smallest portion of his nature. In order that this may come to pass--and its coming to pass means, let us remember, the enormous increase of happiness and diminution of misery upon earth--it is necessary that day by day and year by year there should enter into man's feelings, emotions, and habits, into his whole life, a greater proportion of that which is his own, and is not shared by the animal; that his actions, preferences, the great bulk of his conscious existence, should be busied with things of the soul, truth, good, and beauty, and not with things of the body. Hence the love of such a gradually improving and humanizing man for a gradually improving and humanizing woman, should become, as much as is possible, a connection of the higher and more human, rather than of the lower and more bestial, portions of their nature; it should tend, in its reciprocal stimulation, to make the man more a man, the woman more a woman, to make both less of the mere male and female animals that they were. In brief, love should increase, instead, like that which oftenest profanes love's name, of diminishing, the power of aspiration, of self-direction, of self-restraint, which may exist within us. Now to tend to this is to tend towards the love of the "Vita Nuova;" to tend towards the love of the "Vita Nuova" is to tend towards this. Say what you will of the irresistible force of original constitution, it remains certain, and all history is there as witness, that mankind--that is to say, the only mankind in whom lies the initiative of good, mankind which can judge and select--possesses the faculty of feeling and acting in accordance with its standard of feeling and action; the faculty in great measure of becoming that which it thinks desirable to become. Now to have perceived the even imaginary existence of such a passion as that of Dante for Beatrice, must be, for all who can perceive it, the first step towards attempting to bring into reality a something of that passion: the real passion conceived while the remembrance of that ideal passion be still in the mind will bear to it a certain resemblance, even as, according to the ancients, the children born of mothers whose rooms contained some image of Apollo or Adonis would have in them a reflex, however faint, of that beauty in whose presence they came into existence. In short, it seems to me, that as the "Vita Nuova" embodies the utmost ideal of absolutely spiritual love, and as to spiritualize love must long remain one of the chief moral necessities of the world, there exists in this book a moral force, a moral value, a power in its unearthly passion and purity, which, as much as anything more deliberately unselfish, more self-consciously ethical, we must acknowledge and honour as holy. As the love of him who has read and felt the "Vita Nuova" cannot but strive towards a purer nature, so also the love of which poets sang became also nobler as the influence of the strange Tuscan school of platonic lyrists spread throughout literature, bringing to men the knowledge of a kind of love born of that idealizing and worshipping passion of the Middle Ages; but of mediæval love chastened by the manners of stern democracy and passed through the sieve of Christian mysticism and pagan philosophy. Of this influence of the "Vita Nuova"--for the "Vita Nuova" had concentrated in itself all the intensest characteristics of Dante's immediate predecessors and contemporaries, causing them to become useless and forgotten--of this influence of the "Vita Nuova," there is perhaps no more striking example than that of the poet who, constituted by nature to be the mere continuator of the romantically gallant tradition of the troubadours, became, and hence his importance and glory, the mediator between Dante and the centuries which followed him; the man who gave to mankind, incapable as yet of appreciating or enduring the spiritual essence of the "Vita Nuova," that self-same essence of intellectual love in an immortal dilution. I speak, of course, of Petrarch. His passion is neither ideal nor strong. The man is in love, or has been in love, existing on a borderland of loving and not loving, with the beautiful woman. His elegant, refined, half-knightly, half-scholarly, and altogether courtly mind is delighted with her; with her curly yellow hair, her good red and white beauty (we are never even told that Dante's Beatrice is beautiful, yet how much lovelier is she not than this Laura, descended from all the golden-haired bright-eyed ladies of the troubadours!), with her manner, her amiability, her purity and dignity in this ecclesiastical Babylon called Avignon. He maintains a semi-artificial love; frequenting her house, writing sonnet after sonnet, rhetorical exercises, studies from the antique and the Provençal, for the most part; he, who was born to be a mere troubadour like Ventadour or Folquet, becomes, through the influence of Dante, the type of the poet Abate, of the poetic _cavaliere servente_; a good, weak man with aspirations, who, failing to get the better of Laura's virtue, doubtless consoles himself elsewhere, but returns to an habitual contemplation of it. He is, being constitutionally a troubadour, an Italian priest turned partly Provençal, vexed at her not becoming his mistress; then (having made up his mind, which was but little set upon her), quite pleased at her refusal: it turns her into a kind of Beatrice, and him, poor man, heaven help him! into a kind of Dante--a Dante for the use of the world at large. He goes on visiting Laura, and writing to her a sonnet regularly so many times a week, and the best, carefully selected, we feel distinctly persuaded, at regular intervals. It is a determined cultus, a sort of half-real affectation, something equivalent to lighting a lamp before a very well-painted and very conspicuous shrine. All his humanities, all his Provençal lore go into these poems--written for whom? For her? Decidedly; for she has no reason not to read the effusions of this amiable, weak priestlet; she feels nothing for him. For her; but doubtless also to be handed round in society; a new sonnet or canzone by that charming and learned man, the Abate Petrarch. There is considerable emptiness in all this: he praises Laura's chastity, then grows impatient, then praises her again; adores her, calls her cruel, his goddess, his joy, his torment; he does not really want her, but in the vacuity of his feeling, thinks he does; calls her alternately the flat, abusive, and eulogistic names which mean nothing. He plays loud and soft with this absence of desire; he fiddle faddles in descriptions of her, not passionate or burning, but delicately undressed: he sees her (but with chaste eyes) in her bath; he envies her veil, &c.; he neither violently intellectually embraces, nor humbly bows down in imagination before her; he trifles gracefully, modestly, half-familiarly, with her finger tips, with the locks of her hair, and so forth. Fancy Dante abusing Beatrice; fancy Dante talking of Beatrice in her bath; the mere idea of his indignation and shame makes one shameful and indignant at the thought. But this perfect Laura is no Beatrice, or only a half-and-half sham one. She is no ideal figure, merely a figure idealized; this is no imaginative passion, merely an unreal one. Compare, for instance, the suggestion of Laura's possible death with the suggestion of the possible death of Beatrice. Petrarch does not love sufficiently to guess what such a loss would be. Then Laura does die. Here Petrarch rises. The severing of the dear old habits, the absence of the sweet reality, the terrible sense that all is over, Death, the great poetizer and giver of love philters, all this makes him love Laura as he never loved her before. The poor weak creature, who cannot, like a troubadour, go seek a new mistress when the old one fails him, feels dreadfully alone, the world dreadfully dreary around him; he sits down and cries, and his crying is genuine, making the tears come also into our eyes. And Laura, as she becomes a more distant ideal, becomes nobler, though noble with only a faint earthly graciousness not comparable to the glory of the living Beatrice. And, as he goes on, growing older and weaker and more desolate, the thought of a glorified Laura (as all are glorified, even in the eyes of the weakest, by death) begins to haunt him as Dante was haunted by the thought of Beatrice alive. Yet, even at this very time, come doubts of the lawfulness of having thus adored (or thought he had adored) a mortal woman; he does not know whether all this may not have been vanity and folly; he tries to turn his thoughts away from Laura and up to God. Perhaps he may be called on to account for having given too much of his life to a mere earthly love. Then, again, Laura reappears beautified in his memory, and is again tremblingly half-conjured away. He is weak, and sad, and helpless, and alone; and his heart is empty; he knows not what to think nor how to feel; he sobs, and we cry with him. Nowhere could there be found a stranger contrast than this nostalgic craving after the dead Laura, vacillating and troubled by fear of sin and doubt of unworthiness of object, with that solemn ending of the "Vita Nuova," where the name of Beatrice is pronounced for the last time before it be glorified in Paradise, where Dante devotes his life to becoming worthy of saying "such words as have never been said of any lady." The ideal woman is one and unchangeable in glory, and unchangeable is the passion of her lover; but of this sweet dead Laura, whose purity and beauty and cruelty he had sung, without a tremor of self-unworthiness all her life, of her the poor weak Petrarch begins to doubt, of her and her worthiness of all this love; and when? when she is dead and himself is dying. Such a man is Petrarch; and yet, by the irresistible purifying and elevating power of the "Vita Nuova,'" this man came to write not other _albas_ and _serenas,_ not other love-songs to be added to the love-songs of Provence, but those sonnets and canzoni which for four centuries taught the world, too coarse as yet to receive Dante's passion at first hand, a nobler and more spiritual love. After Petrarch a gradual change takes place in the poetic conception of love: except in learned revivalisms or in loose buffooneries, the mere fleshly love of Antiquity disappears out of literature; and equally so, though by a slower process of gradual transformation, vanishes also the adoring, but undisguisedly adulterous love of the troubadours and minnesingers. Into the love Instincts of mankind have been mingled, however much diluted, some drops of the more spiritual passion of Dante. The _puella_ of Antiquity, the noble dame of feudal days, is succeeded in Latin countries, in Italy, and France, and Spain, and Portugal, by the _gloriosa donna_ imitated from. Petrarch, and imitated by Petrarch from Dante; a long-line of shadowy figures, veiled in the veil of Madonna Laura, ladies beloved of Lorenzo and Michael Angelo, of Ariosto, and Tasso, and Camoens, and Cervantes, passes through the world; nay, even the sprightly-mistress of Ronsard, half-bred pagan and troubadour has airs of dignity and mystery which make us almost think that in this dainty coquettish French body, of Marie or Helene or Cassandrette, there really may be an immortal soul. But with the Renaissance--that movement half of mediæval democratic progress, and half of antique revivalism, and to which in reality belongs not merely Petrarch, but Dante, and every one of the Tuscan poets, Guinicelli, Lapo Gianni, Cavalcanti, who broke with the feudal poetry of Provence and Sicily--with the Renaissance, or rather with its long-drawn-out end, comes the close, for the moment, of the really creative activity of the Latin peoples in the domain of poetry. All the things for two centuries which Italy and France and Spain and Portugal (which we must remember for the sake of Camoens) continue to produce, are but developments of parts left untouched; or refinements of extreme detail, as in the case, particularly, of the French poets of the sixteenth century; but poetry receives from these races nothing new or vital, no fresh ideal or fruitful marriage of ideals. And here begins, uniting in itself all the scattered and long-dormant powers of Northern poetry, the great and unexpected action of England. It had slept through the singing period of the Middle Ages, and was awakened, not by Germany or Provence, but by Italy: Boccaccio and Petrarch spoke, and, as through dreams, England in Chaucer's voice, made answer. Again, when the Renaissance had drawn to a close, far on in the sixteenth century, English poetry was reawakened; and again by Italy. This time it was completely wakened, and arose and slept no more. And one of the great and fruitful things achieved by English poetry in this its final awakening was to give to the world the new, the modern, perhaps the definitive, the final ideal of love. England drank a deep draught--how deep we see from Sidney's and Spenser's sonnets--of Petrarch; and in this pleasant dilution, tasted and felt the burning essence of the "Vita Nuova;" for though Dante remained as the poet, the poet of heaven and hell, this happy half-and-half Petrarch had for full two centuries completely driven into oblivion the young Dante who had loved Beatrice. For England, for this magnificent and marvellous outburst of all the manifold poetic energy stored up and quintupled during that long period of inertness, there could however be no foreign imported ideal of love; there was no possibility of a new series of spectral Lauras, shadows projected by a shadow. Already, long ago, at the first call of Petrarch, Chaucer, by the side of the merely mediæval love types--of brutish lust and doglike devotion--of the Wife of Bath and of Griseldis, had rough-sketched a kind of modern love, the love which is to become that of Romeo and Hamlet, in his story of Palemon and Arcite. Among the poetic material which existed in England at the close of the sixteenth century was the old, long-neglected, domestic love, quiet, undemonstrative, essentially unsinging, of the early Northern (as indeed also of the Greek and Hindoo) epics; a domestic love which, in a social condition more closely resembling our own than any other, even than that of the Italian democracies, which had preceded it; among a people who permitted a woman to choose her own husband, and forbade a man wooing another man's wife, had already, in ballads and folk poetry, begun a faint-twitter of song. To this love of the man and the woman who hope to marry, strong and tender, but still (as Coleridge remarked of several of the lesser Elizabethan playwrights) most outspokenly carnal, was united by the pure spirit of Spenser, by the unerring genius of Shakespeare, that vivifying drop of burning, spiritual love taken from out of the "Vita Nuova," which had floated, like some sovereign essential oil, on the top of Petrarch's rose-water. Henceforward the world possesses a new kind of love: the love of Romeo, of Hamlet, of Bassanio, of Viola, and of Juliet; the love of the love poems of Shelley, of Tennyson, of Browning and Browning's wife. A love whose blindness, exaggeration of passion, all that might have made it foolish and impracticable, leads no longer to folly and sin, but to an intenser activity of mankind's imagination of the good and beautiful, to a momentary realization in our fancy of all our vague dreams of perfection; a love which, though it may cool down imperceptibly and pale in its intenseness, like the sunrise fires into a serene sky, has left some glory round the head of the wife, some glory in the heart of the husband, has been, however fleeting, a vision of beauty which has made beauty more real. And all this owing to the creation, the storing up, the purification by the Platonic poets of Tuscany, of that strange and seemingly so artificial and unreal thing, mediæval love; the very forms and themes of whose poetry, the _serena_ and the _alba_, which had been indignantly put aside by the early Italian lyrists, being unconsciously revived, and purified and consecrated in the two loveliest love poems of Elizabethan poetry: the _serena_, the evening song of impatient expectation in Spenser's Epithalamium; the _alba_, the dawn song of hurried parting, in the balcony scene of "Romeo and Juliet." Let us recapitulate. The feudal Middle Ages gave to mankind a more refined and spiritual love, a love all chivalry, fidelity, and adoration, but a love steeped in the poison of adultery; and to save the pure and noble portions of this mediæval love became the mission of the Tuscan poets of that strange school of Platonic love which in its very loveliness may sometimes seem so unnatural and sterile. For, by reducing this mediæval love to a mere intellectual passion, seeking in woman merely a self-made embodiment of cravings after perfection, they cleansed away that deep stain of adultery; they quadrupled the intensity of the ideal element; they distilled the very essential spirit of poetic passion, of which but a few drops, even as diluted by Petrarch, precipitated, when mingled with the earthly passion of future poets, to the bottom, no longer to be seen or tasted, all baser ingredients. And, while the poems of minnesingers and troubadours have ceased to appeal to us, and remain merely for their charm of verse and of graceful conceit; the poetry written by the Italians of the thirteenth century for women, whose love was but an imaginative fervour, remains concentrated in the "Vita Nuova;" and will remain for all time the sovereign purifier to which the world must have recourse whenever that precipitate of baser instincts, which thickened like slime the love poetry of Antiquity, shall rise again and sully the purity of the love poetry of to-day. EPILOGUE. More than a year has elapsed since the moment when, fancying that this series of studies must be well-nigh complete, I attempted to explain in an introductory chapter what the nature of this book of mine is, or would fain be. I had hoped that each of these studies would complete its companions; and that, without need for explicit explanation, my whole idea would have become more plain to others than it was at that time even to myself. But instead, it has become obvious that the more carefully I had sought to reduce each question to unity, the more that question-subdivided and connected itself with other questions; and that, with the solution of each separate problem, had arisen a new set of problems which infinitely complicated the main lessons to be deduced from a study of that many-sided civilization to which, remembering the brilliant and mysterious offspring of Faustus and Helena, I have given the name of Euphorion. Hence, as it seems, the necessity for a few further words of explanation. In those introductory pages written some fifteen months ago, I tried to bring home to the reader a sense which has haunted me throughout the writing of this volume; namely, that instead of having deliberately made up my mind to study the Renaissance, as one makes up one's mind to visit Greece or Egypt or the Holy Land; I have, on the contrary, quite accidentally and unconsciously, found myself wandering about in spirit among the monuments of this particular historic region, even as I might wander about in the streets of Siena where I wrote last year, of Florence whence I write at present; wandering about among these things, and little by little feeling a particular interest in one, then in another, according as each happened to catch my fancy or to recall some already known thing. Now these, which for want of a better word I have just called monuments, and just now, less clearly, but also less foolishly, merely _things_--these things were in reality not merely individual and really existing buildings, books, pictures, or statues, individual and really registered men, women, and events; they were the mental conceptions which I had extracted out of these realities; the intellectual types made up (as the mediæval symbols of justice are made up of the visible paraphernalia, robe, scales and sword, for judging and weighing and punishing) of the impressions left on the mind by all those buildings, or books, or pictures, or statues, or men, women, and events. They were not the iniquities of this particular despot nor the scandalous sayings of that particular humanist, but the general moral chaos of the Italian fifteenth and sixteenth centuries; not the poem of Pulci, of Boiardo, of Ariosto in especial, but a vast imaginary poem made up of them all; not the mediæval saints of Angelico and the pagan demi-gods of Michael Angelo, but the two tremendous abstractions: the spirit of Mediævalism in art, and the spirit of Antiquity; the interest in the distressed soul, and the interest in the flourishing body. And, as my thoughts have gone back to Antiquity and onwards to our own times, their starting-point has nevertheless been the Tuscan art of the fifteenth century, their nucleus some notes on busts by Benedetto da Maiano and portraits by Raphael. My _dramatis persona_ have been modes of feeling and forms of art. I have tried to explain the life and character, not of any man or woman, but of the moral scepticism of Italy, of the tragic spirit of our Elizabethan dramatists; I have tried to write the biography of the romance poetry of the Middle Ages, of the realism of the great portrait painters and sculptors of the Renaissance. But these, my _dramatis persona,_ are, let me repeat it, abstractions: they exist only in my mind and in the minds of those who think like myself. Hence, like all abstractions, they represent the essence of a question, but not its completeness, its many-sidedness as we may see it in reality. Hence it is that I have frequently passed over exceptions to the rule which I was stating, because the explanation of these exceptions would have involved the formulating of a number of apparently irrelevant propositions; so that any one who please may accuse me of inexactness; and, to give an instance, cover the margins of my essay on Mediæval Love with a whole list of virtuous love stories of the Middle Ages; or else ferret out of Raynouard and Von der Hagen a dozen pages of mediæval poems in praise of rustic life. These objections will be perfectly correct, and (so far as my knowledge permitted me) I might have puzzled the reader with them myself; but it remains none the less certain that, in the main, mediæval love was not virtuous, and mediæval peasantry not admired by poets; and none the less certain, I think, also, that in describing the characteristics and origin of an abstract thing, such as mediæval love, or mediæval feeling towards the country and country folk, it was my business to state the rule and let alone the exceptions. There is another matter which gives me far greater concern. In creating and dealing with an abstraction, one is frequently forced, if I may use the expression, to cut a subject in two, to bring one of its sides into full light and leave the other in darkness; nay, to speak harshly of one side of an art or of a man without being able to speak admiringly of another side. This one-sidedness, this apparent injustice of judgment, has in some cases been remedied by the fact that I have treated in one study those things which I was forced to omit in another study; as, in two separate essays, I have pointed out first the extreme inferiority of Renaissance sculpture to the sculpture of Antiquity with regard to absolute beauty of form; and then the immeasurable superiority of Renaissance over antique sculpture in the matter of that beauty and interest dependent upon mere arrangement and handling, wherein lies the beauty-creating power of realistic schools. But most often I have shown one side, not merely of an artist or an art, but of my own feeling, without showing the other; and in one case this inevitable one-sidedness has weighed upon me almost like personal guilt, and has almost made me postpone the publication of this book to the Greek Kalends, in hopes of being able to explain and to atone. I am alluding to Fra Angelico. I spoke of him in a study of the progress of mere beautiful form, the naked human form moreover, in the art of the Renaissance; I looked at his work with my mind full of the unapproachable superiority of antique form; I judged and condemned the artist with reference to that superb movement towards nature and form and bodily beauty which was the universal movement of the fifteenth century; I lost patience with this saint because he would not turn pagan; I pushed aside, because he did not seek for a classic Olympus, his exquisite dreams of a mediæval Paradise. I had taken part, as its chronicler, with the art which seeks mere plastic perfection, the art to which Angelico said, "Retro me Sathana." It was my intention to close even this volume with a study of the poetical conception of early Renaissance painting, of that strange kind of painting in which a thing but imperfect in itself, a mere symbol of lovely ideas, brings home to our mind, with a rush of associations, a sense of beauty and wonder greater perhaps than any which we receive from the sober reality of perfect form. Again, there are the German masters--the great engravers, Kranach, Altdorfer, Aldegrever, especially; of whom, for their absolute pleasure in ugly women, for their filthy delight in horrors, I have said an immense amount of ill; and of whom, for their wonderful intuition of dramatic situation, their instinct of the poetry of common things, and their magnificently imaginative rendering of landscape, I hope some day to say an equal amount of good. I have spoken of the lesson which may be derived from studies even as humble as these studies of mine; since, in my opinion, we cannot treat history as a mere art--though history alone can gives us now-a-days tragedy which has ceased to exist on our stage, and wonder which has ceased to exist in our poetry--we cannot seek in it mere selfish enjoyment of imagination and emotion, without doing our soul the great injury of cheating it of some of those great indignations, some of those great lessons which make it stronger and more supple in the practical affairs of life. Each of these studies of mine brings its own lesson, artistic or ethical, important or unimportant; its lesson of seeking certainty in our moral opinions, beauty in all and whatever our forms of art, spirituality in our love. But besides these I seem to perceive another deduction, an historical fact with a practical application; to see it as the result not merely perhaps of the studies of which this book is the fruit, but of those further studies, of the subtler sides of Mediæval and Renaissance life and art which at present occupy my mind and may some day add another series of essays to this: a lesson still vague to myself, but which, satisfactorily or unsatisfactorily, I shall nevertheless attempt to explain; if indeed it requires to be brought home to the reader. Of the few forms of feeling and imagination which I have treated--things so different from one another as the feeling for nature and the chivalric poem, as modern art, with its idealism and realism, and modern love--of these forms, emotional and artistic, which Antiquity did not know, or knew but little, the reader may have observed that I have almost invariably traced the origin deep into that fruitful cosmopolitan chaos, due to the mingling of all that was still unused of the remains of Antiquity with all that was untouched of the intellectual and moral riches of the barbarous nations, to which we give the name of Middle Ages; and that I have, as invariably, followed the development of these precious forms, and their definitive efflorescence and fruit-bearing, into that particular country where certain mediæval conditions had ceased to exist, namely Italy. In other words, it has seemed to me that the things which I have studied were originally produced during the Middle Ages, and consequently in the mediæval countries, France, Germany, Provence; but did not attain maturity except in that portion of the Middle Ages which is mediæval no longer, but already more than half modern, the Renaissance, which began in Italy not with the establishment of despotisms and the coming of Greek humanists, but with the independence of the free towns and with the revival of Roman tradition. Why so? Because, it appears to me, after watching the lines of my thought converging to this point, because, with a few exceptions, the Middle Ages were rich in great beginnings (indeed a good half of all that makes up our present civilization seems to issue from them): but they were poor in complete achievements; full of the seeds of modern institutions, arts, thoughts, and feelings, they yet show us but rarely the complete growth of any one of them: a fruitful Nile flood, but which must cease to drown and to wash away, which must subside before the germs that it has brought can shoot forth and mature. The sense of this comes home to me most powerfully whenever I think of mediæval poetry and mediæval painting. The songs of the troubadours and minnesingers, what are they to our feelings? They are pleasant, even occasionally beautiful, but they are empty, lamentably empty, charming arrangements of words; poetry which fills our mind or touches our heart comes only with the Tuscan lyrists of the thirteenth century. The same applies to mediæval narrative-verse: it is, with one or two exceptions or half exceptions, such as "The Chanson de Roland" and Gottfried's "Tristan und Isolde," decidedly wearisome; a thing to study, but scarcely a thing to delight in. I do not mean to say that the old legends of Wales and Scandinavia, subsequently embodied by the French and German poets of the Middle Ages, are without imaginative or emotional interest; nothing can be further from my thoughts. The Nibelung story possesses, both in the Norse and in the Middle High German version, a tragic fascination; and a quaint fairy-tale interest, every now and then rising to the charm of a Decameronian _novella_, is possessed by many of the Keltic tales, whether briefly told in the Mabinogion or lengthily detailed by Chrestien de Troyes and Wolfram von Eschenbach. But all this is the interest of the mere story, and you would enjoy it almost as much if that story were related not by a poet but by a peasant; it is the fascination of the mere theme, with the added fascination of our own unconscious filling up and colouring of details. And the poem itself, whence we extract this theme, remains, for the most part, uninteresting. The figures are vague, almost shapeless and colourless; they have no well-understood mental and moral anatomy, so that when they speak and act the writer seems to have no clear conception of the motives or tempers which make them do so; even as in a child's pictures, the horses gallop, the men run, the houses stand, but without any indication of the muscles which move the horse, of the muscles which hold up the man, of the solid ground upon which is built, nay rather, into which is planted, the house. Hatred of Hagen, devotion of Rüdger, passionate piety of Parzival--all these are things of which we do not particularly see the how or why; we do not follow the reasons, in event or character, which make these men sacrifice themselves or others, weep, storm, and so forth; nay, even when these reasons are clear from the circumstances, we are not shown the action of the mechanism, we do not see how Brunhilt is wroth, how Chriemhilt is revengeful, how Herzeloid is devoted to Parzival. There is, in the vast majority of this mediæval poetry, no clear conception of the construction and functions of people's character, and hence no conception either of those actions and reactions of various moral organs which, after all, are at the bottom of the events related. Herein lies the difference between the forms of the Middle Ages and those of Antiquity; for how perfectly felt, understood, is not every feeling and every action of the Homeric heroes, how perfectly indicated! We can see the manner and reason of the conflict of Achilles and Agamemnon, of the behaviour of the returned Odysseus, as clearly as we see the manner and reason of the movements of the fighting Centaurs and Lapithæ, or the Amazons; nay, even the minute mood of comparatively unimportant figures, as Helen, Brisei's, and Nausicaa, is indicated in its moral anatomy and attitude as distinctly as is the manner in which the maidens of the Parthenon frieze slowly restrain their steps, the boys curb their steeds, or the old men balance their oil jars. Nothing of this in mediæval literature, except perhaps in "Flamenca" and "Tristan," where the motive of action, mere imaginative desire, is all-permeating and explains everything. These people clearly had no interest, no perception, connected with character: a valorous woman, a chivalrous knight, an insolent steward, a jealous husband, a faithful retainer; things recognized only in outline, made to speak and act only according to a fixed tradition, without knowledge of the internal mechanism of motive; these sufficed. Hence it is that mediæval poetry is always like mediæval painting (for painting continued to be mediæval with Giotto's pupils long after poetry had ceased to be mediæval with Dante and his school), where the Virgin sits and holds the child without body wherewith to sit or arms wherewith to hold; where angels flutter forward and kneel in conventional greeting, with obviously no bended knees beneath their robes, nay, with knees, waist, armpits, all anywhere; where men ride upon horses without flat to their back; where processions of the blessed come forth, guided by fiddling seraphs, vague, faint faces, sweet or grand, heads which might wave like pieces of cut-out paper upon their necks, arms and legs here and there, not clearly belonging to any one; creatures marching, soaring, flying, singing, fiddling, without a bone or a muscle wherewith to do it all. And meanwhile, in this mediæval poetry, as in this mediæval painting, there are yards and yards of elaborate preciousness: all the embossed velvets, all the white-and-gold-shot brocades, all the silks and satins, and jewel-embroidered stuffs of the universe cast stiffly about these phantom men and women, these phantom horses and horsemen. It is not until we turn to Italy, and to the Northern man, Chaucer, entirely under Italian influence, that we obtain an approach to the antique clearness of perception and comprehension; that we obtain not only in Dante something akin to the muscularities of Signorelli and Michael Angelo; but in Boccaccio and Chaucer, in Cavalca and Petrarch, the equivalent of the well-understood movement, the well-indicated situation of the simple, realistic or poetic, sketches of Filippino and Botticelli. This, you will say, is a mere impression; it is no explanation, still less such an explanation as may afford a lesson. Not so. This strange inconclusiveness in all mediæval things, till the moment comes when they cease to be mediæval; this richness in germs and poverty in mature fruit, cannot be without its reason. And this reason, to my mind, lies in one word, the most terrible word of any, since it means suffering and hopelessness; a word which has haunted my mind ever since I have looked into mediæval things: the word Wastefulness. Wastefulness; the frightful characteristic of times at once so rich and so poor, the explanation of the long starvation and sickness that mankind, that all mankind's concerns--art, poetry, science, life--endured while the very things which would have fed and revived and nurtured, existed close at hand, and in profusion. Wastefulness, in this great period of confusion, of the most precious things that we possess: time, thought, and feeling refused to the realities of the world, and lavished on the figments of the imagination. Why this vagueness, this imperfection in all mediæval representations of life? Because even as men's eyes were withdrawn, by the temporal institutions of those days, from the sight of the fields and meadows which were left to the blind and dumb thing called serf; so also the thoughts of mankind, its sympathy and intentions, were withdrawn from the mere earthly souls, the mere earthly wrongs and woes of men by the great self-organized institution of mediæval religion. Pity of the body of Christ held in bondage by the Infidel; love of God; study of the unknowable things of Heaven: such are the noblest employments of the mediæval soul; how much of pity, of love, may remain for man; how much of study for the knowable? To Wastefulness like this--to misapplication of mind ending almost in palsy--must we ascribe, I think, the strange sterility of such mediæval art as deals not merely with pattern, but with the reality of man's body and soul. And we might be thankful, if, during our wanderings among mediæval things, we had seen the starving of only art and artistic instincts; but the soul of man has lain starving also; starving for the knowledge which was sought only of Divine things, starving for the love which was given only to God. The explanation, therefore, and its lesson, may thus be summed up in the one word Wastefulness. And the fruitfulness of the Renaissance, all that it has given to us of art, of thought, of feeling (for the "Vita Nuova" is its fruit), is due, as it seems to me, to the fact that the Renaissance is simply the condition of civilization when, thanks to the civil liberty and the spiritual liberty inherited from Rome and inherited from Greece, man's energies of thought and feeling were withdrawn from the unknowable to the knowable, from Heaven to Earth; and were devoted to the developing of those marvellous new things which Antiquity had not known, and which had lain neglected and wasted during the Middle Ages. FLORENCE, _January_,1884. APPENDIX. I have seen the pictures and statues and towns which I have described, and I have read the books of which I attempt to give an impression; but here my original research, if such it may be called, comes to an end. I have trusted only to myself for my impressions; but I have taken from others everything that may be called historical fact, as distinguished from the history of this or that form of thought or of art which I have tried to elaborate. My references are therefore only to standard historical works, and to such editions of poets and prose writers as have come into my hands. How much I am endebted to the genius of Michelet; nay, rather, how much I am, however unimportant, the thing made by him, every one will see and judge. With regard to positive information I must express my great obligations to the works of Jacob Burckhardt, of Prof. Villari, and of Mr. J.A. Symonds in everything that concerns the political history and social condition of the Renaissance. Mr. Symonds' name I have placed last, although this is by no means the order of importance in which the three writers appear in my mind, because vanity compels me to state that I have deprived myself of the pleasure and profit of reading his volumes on Italian literature, from a fear that finding myself doubtless forestalled by him in various appreciations, I might deprive my essays of what I feel to be their principal merit, namely, the spontaneity and wholeness of personal impression. With regard to philological lore, I may refer, among a number of other works, to M. Gaston Paris' work on the Cycle of Charlemagne, M. de la Villemarqué's companion volume on Keltic romances, and Professor Rajna's "Fonti dell' Ariosto." My knowledge of troubadours, trouvères, and minnesingers is obtained mainly from the great collections of Raynouard, Wackernagel, Mätzner, Bartsch, and Von der Hagen, and from Bartsch's and Simrock's editions and versions of Gottfried von Strassburg, Hartmann von Aue, and Wolfram von Eschenbach. "Flamenca" I have read in Professor Paul Meyer's beautiful edition, text and translation; "Aucassin et Nicolette," in an edition published, if I remember rightly, by Janet; and also in a very happy translation contained in Delvau's huge collection of "Romans de Chevalerie," which contains, unfortunately sometimes garbled, as many of the prose stories of the Carolingian and Amadis cycle as I, at all events, could endure to read. For the early Italian poets, excepting Carducci's "Cino da Pistoia," my references are the same as those in Rossetti's "Dante and his Cycle," especially the "Rime Antiche" and the "Poeti del Primo Secolo." Professor d'Ancona's pleasant volume has greatly helped me in the history of the transformation of the courtly poetry of the early Middle Ages into the folk poetry of Tuscany. I owe a good deal also, with regard to this same essay "The Outdoor Poetry," to Roskoff's famous "Geschichte des Teufels," and to Signor Novati's recently published "Carmina Medii _Ævi_." The Italian _novellieri,_ Bandello, Cinthio, and their set, I have used in the Florentine editions of 1820 or 1825; Masuccio edited by De Sanctis. For the essay on the Italian Renaissance on the Elizabethan Stage, I have had recourse, chiefly, to the fifteenth century chronicles in the "Archivio Storico Italiano," and to Dyce's Webster, Hartley Coleridge's Massinger and Ford, Churton Collins' Cyril Tourneur, and J.O. Halliwell's Marston. The essays on art have naturally profited by the now inevitable Crowe and Cavalcaselle; but in this part of my work, while I have relied very little on books, I have received more than the equivalent of the information to be obtained from any writers in the suggestions and explanations of my friend Mr. T. Nelson MacLean, who has made it possible for a mere creature of pens and ink to follow the differences of _technique_ of the sculptors and medallists of the fifteenth century; a word of thanks also, for various such suggestions as can come only from a painter, to my old friend Mr. John S. Sargent, of Paris. I must conclude these acknowledgments by thanking the Editors of the _Contemporary, British Quarterly_, and _National Reviews_, and of the _Cornhill Magazine_, for permission to republish such of the essays or fragments of essays as have already appeared in those periodicals. THE END. 
35095	----	[Transcriber's note] This is derived from a copy on the Internet Archive: http://www.archive.org/details/centurycolumbus01walsgoog Page numbers in this book are indicated by numbers enclosed in curly braces, e.g. {99}. They have been located where page breaks occurred in the original book. Obvious spelling errors have been corrected but "inventive" and inconsistent spelling is left unchanged. Extended quotations and citations are indented. Footnotes have been renumbered to avoid ambiguity, and relocated to the end of the enclosing paragraph. [End Transcriber's note] BY THE SAME AUTHOR FORDHAM UNIVERSITY PRESS SERIES MAKERS OF MODERN MEDICINE Lives of the men to whom nineteenth century medical science owes most. Second Edition. New York, 1910. $2.00 net. THE POPES AND SCIENCE The story of Papal patronage of the sciences and especially medicine. 45th thousand. New York, 1911. $2.00 net. MAKERS OF ELECTRICITY Lives of the men to whom important advances in electricity are due. In collaboration with Brother Potamian, F.S.C., Sc.D. (London), Professor of Physics at Manhattan College. New York, 1909. $2.00 net. EDUCATION, HOW OLD THE NEW Addresses in the history of education on various occasions. 3rd thousand. New York, 1911. $2.00 net. OLD-TIME MAKERS OF MEDICINE The story of the students and teachers of the sciences related to medicine during the Middle Ages. New York 1911. $2.00 net. MODERN PROGRESS AND HISTORY Academic addresses on How Old the New. New York, 1911. $2.00 net. THE THIRTEENTH GREATEST OF CENTURIES 5th edition (50,000). 116 illustrations, 600 pages Catholic Summer School Press, 1911. Postpaid $3.50. _IN PREPARATION_ MAKERS OF ASTRONOMY THE DOLPHIN PRESS SERIES CATHOLIC CHURCHMEN IN SCIENCE First and second series, each $1.00 net. PSYCHOTHERAPY Lectures on The Influence of the Mind on the Body delivered at Fordham University School of Medicine. Appletons, New York, 1912, $6.00 net. [Illustration: SEBASTIANO DEL PIOMBO, CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS (METROPOLITAN MUSEUM. NEW YORK)] The Century of Columbus BY JAMES J. WALSH, K.C.St.G., M.D., Ph.D., LL.D. LITT.D. (Georgetown), Sc.D. (Notre Dame) PROFESSOR OP PHYSIOLOGICAL PSYCHOLOGY AT THE CATHEDRAL COLLEGE; LIFE MEMBER OF THE NEW YORK HISTORICAL SOCIETY, MEMBER OF THE NEW YORK ACADEMY OF MEDICINE. OF THE GERMAN AND FRENCH SOCIETIES OF THE HISTORY OF MEDICINE. OF THE ITALIAN SOCIETY FOR THE HISTORY OF THE NATURAL AND THE MEDICAL SCIENCES, OF THE ST. LOUIS MEDICAL HISTORY CLUB, THE NEW ORLEANS PARISH MEDICAL SOCIETY, A.M.A., A.A.A.S., ETC. WITH EIGHTY-SIX ILLUSTRATIONS CATHOLIC SUMMER SCHOOL PRESS New York, 1914 Copyright, 1914 James J. Walsh THE QUINN & BODEN CO. PRESS RAMWAY, N. J. To The Knights of Columbus for whom the material here presented in book form was originally gathered for lectures in many parts of the country and whose hearty interest in the dissemination of historical truth has encouraged its completion, this book is fraternally and respectfully dedicated by the author. "There come from time to time, eras of more favorable conditions, in which the thoughts of men draw nearer together than is their wont, and the many interests of the intellectual world combine in one complete type of general culture. The fifteenth century ... is one of these happier eras; and what is sometimes said of the age of Pericles is true of that of Lorenzo--it is an age productive of personalities, many-sided, centralized, complete. Here, artists and philosophers and those whom the action of the world has elevated and made keen, do not live in isolation, but breathe a common air, and catch light and heat from each other's thoughts. There is a spirit of general elevation and enlightenment in which all alike communicate. ... That solemn fifteenth century can hardly be studied too much, not merely for its positive results in the things of the intellect and the imagination, its concrete works of art, its special and prominent personalities, with their profound aesthetic charm, but for its general spirit and character, for the ethical qualities of which it is a consummate type." Walter Pater, _The Renaissance._ {vii} PREFACE In a previous book, "The Thirteenth Greatest of Centuries," I described the period of human activity in which, as it appears to me, more was accomplished that is of significance in the expression of what is best in man and for the development of humanity than during any corresponding period of the world's history. To many people it may now seem that I am setting up a rival to the Thirteenth Century in what is here called The Century of Columbus, the period from 1450 to 1550. I may as a foreword say, then, that there is no thought of that and that I still feel quite sure that the Thirteenth is the Greatest of Centuries, though it must be admitted that probably more supremely great men were at work in Columbus' Century than in the preceding period. The Thirteenth Century is greatest, however, because its achievements were more widely diffused in their influence and because more of mankind had the opportunity and the incentive to bring out the highest that was in them, than at any other period in the world's history. As a consequence a greater proportion of mankind was happy than ever before or since, for happiness comes only with the consciousness of good work done and the satisfaction of personal achievement. And that is the greatest period of human history when man is the happiest. The Renaissance, however, for it is practically the period in history usually known by that name which is here called the Century of Columbus, achieved results in every mode of human endeavor that have been inspiring models for all succeeding generations, most of all our own. Just why greatness in human achievement should thus occur in periods long separated from each other is hard to understand. I have sometimes suggested that there is probably a biological law in the matter, the factors of which are not well understood as yet. Every third or fourth year the farmer expects to have an apple or fruit year, as it is called--that is, to reap a fine fruit harvest, the {viii} fruit product of the intervening years having often been quite indifferent. Man is much more complex than the fruits and so it takes a longer interval to prepare a great human harvest, hence humanity has its supreme fruitage only every third or fourth century. Undoubtedly Columbus' Century is one of the finest fruit periods of human history. There was nothing that the men of the time did not do supremely well, and a great many of them did nearly everything that they took in hand better than any of their successors. As a curious contrast to our time, very few of them limited themselves to any one mode of expression. Because of its very contradiction of a great many of our prevalent impressions, as for instance the universal persuasion of constant human evolution and the supposed progress of mankind from year to year but surely from century to century, and the thought so common, that after all we must now be far ahead of the past,--though there is abundant evidence of the vanity of this self-complacency--the story of Columbus' Century should be interesting to our generation. Since it furnishes the background of history on which alone the real significance of the discovery of our continent just after the end of the Middle Ages can be properly seen, it should have a special appeal to Americans. These are the reasons for writing the book. Owing to the large field that is covered, the author can scarcely hope to have escaped errors of detail. His only thought is that the broad view of the whole range of achievement may be sufficiently helpful to those interested in the history of human culture to compensate for faults that were almost inevitable. Its comprehensiveness may give the book a suggestive and retrospective value. It is addressed not to the special student but to the general reader interested in all phases of human accomplishment who wishes to fill in the outlines of political history with the story of the intellectual and ethical life of a great epoch. Thanks are due to Mr. Stephen Horgan for material aid in the selection of illustrations, no easy task because of the immense material to choose from. A definite effort has been made to avoid the well-known masterpieces and have the illustrations add to the knowledge of the time. {ix} CONTENTS INTRODUCTION xxv The discovery of America but one of a series of notable achievements in Columbus' time. His century, 1450 to 1550, had more great men than any other in human history. In the arts it is unsurpassed. In its deeds it rivals every other century, above all in social work, in scholarship, in education and in its achievements in the sciences, physical as well as biological, and in medicine and surgery. Its literature is behind that of certain other periods of history, but this is the age of Leo X and one of the most interesting epochs of world literature in every European country. BOOK I. THE BOOK OF THE ARTS CHAPTER I GREAT PAINTERS; RAPHAEL 1 Raphael, Leonardo da Vinci and Michelangelo the world's greatest painters. Raphael, greatest of religious painters. Born at Urbino. Duke Frederick patron of art. Studies with Timotheo Viti and Perugino. Influence of Fra Bartolommeo. Work at Rome. Stanze of the Vatican. Camera della Segnatura. Cartoons for Sistine tapestries. Sistine Madonna. Raphael, art director and archaeologist. CHAPTER II LEONARDO DA VINCI 15 "Mona Lisa." Walter Pater's tribute. The "Last Supper" disclosed genius and methods of artist. The "Madonna of the Rocks." Sculptor, engineer, geologist, anatomist, zoologist, botanist and biologist. Dissections and proposed text-book of anatomy. Career as artist. Surpasses his master Verrocchio. Scientific interests. Inventor. Personality, philosophy of life. Burckhardt's summary--"colossal genius" {x} CHAPTER III MICHELANGELO 32 Humble origin of world's greatest genius. Little interest in books. Studio of Ghirlandajo. Academy of Lorenzo de' Medici. Dissections. Early works. Pietà, reason for youthfulness of mother. David. Tomb of Pope Julius. Galley Slaves. Decoration of the Sistine Chapel. Moses. Sacristy of San Lorenzo. "Four-souled" Michelangelo's sonnets. Practical genius. Family cares. Advice on marriage. Friendship with Vittoria Colonna. Attitude toward religion. Influence waxes with time CHAPTER IV SECONDARY ITALIAN PAINTERS OF THE CENTURY: FRA ANGELICO, PERUGINO, FRA BARTOLOMMEO, BOTTICELLI, BELLINI, TITIAN, CORREGGIO, TINTORETTO, VERONESE AND OTHERS 53 A century rich in painters. Fra Angelico the mystic. Perugino the teacher of Raphael; at the Sistine Chapel; pictures mistaken for Raphael's. Fra Bartolommeo's greatest works. Botticelli's mythology and psychology; Madonnas; illustrations of Dante. Bellini's portraits; Madonnas. Titian's wonderful color; religious pictures; portraits; mythological scenes. Piero dei Franceschi. Luca Signorelli. Melozzo da Forli. Correggio a middle-term between the various Italian schools; "Most skilful artist since the ancient Greeks." Tintoretto master of drawing and world artist. "The composition of Michelangelo and the coloring of Titian." Veronese's magnificent large pictures. CHAPTER V PAINTING OUTSIDE OF ITALY 71 The Netherlands: The brothers Van Eyck forerunners; Roger van der Weyden; Memling's paintings at the Hospital of St. John, Bruges; Dirk Bouts; Quentin Matsys; Lucas van Leyden; Gerard David; Justus of Ghent; Jan van Mabuse; Bernard van Orley; Blondeel. Nuremberg rival of Bruges; Dürer; the Holbeins. France: The Clouets; Cousin; Fouquet Spain: Navarrete; Juan de Borgona; Luis de Vargas; Pablo de Cespedes. Women painters in Spain CHAPTER VI SCULPTURE IN ITALY 85 Ghiberti's doors for the Baptistery at Florence. Donatello. The great equestrian statues of Gatamelata and Colleoni. Donatello's St. George, St. Francis, Bambino Gesu, St. John the Baptist Donatello's personality. His paralysis. {xi} Luca della Robbia, sculptor, worker in terra-cotta. Andrea del Verrocchio, goldsmith, painter, sculptor: "The Incredulity of St. Thomas," "The Colleoni." Benvenuto Cellini, sculptor, goldsmith, writer. John of Bologna: Neptune, Mercury. The sculpture in the Certosa at Pavia. Decadence in sculpture CHAPTER VII SCULPTURE AND MINOR ARTS AND CRAFTS OUTSIDE OF ITALY 97 Names of sculptors of Low Countries often unknown. Tombs of Mary of Burgundy and Charles the Bold. Wood-carving, Bruges, Leyden, Haarlem. Germany: Nuremberg, Veit Stoss, Dürer, Adam Kraft, the Vischers. St. Sebald's shrine; Maximilian's Tomb at Innsbrück. France: Colombe. Tours a great centre of art: Jean Fouchet and the Tomb of Agnes Sorel: Jean Goujon and Germain Pilon. Flemish and French tapestry. Golden Age of tapestry. Recent appreciation. Beautiful altar vessels, enamels, furniture, locks and keys, jewel boxes, armor, clocks CHAPTER VIII THE ARCHITECTURE OF THE CENTURY 114 Brunelleschi's dome. Alberti's _"De re aedificatoria":_ Church of San Francesco. Florence, Rucellai, Ricardi and Pitti Palace. Venice; Library of St Mark; Palace of the Doge and of the Grimani. Palladio at Vicenza. Genoa, the city of palaces. Vignola, Villa of Pope Julius, Palace of Caprarola. Façade of the Certosa. Sistine Chapel and King's College, Cambridge. Louvain, Hotel de Ville. Brussels the _grande place._ Spain: University of Alcalá. Cloister of Lupiana. Alcazar, Toledo. Giralda tower. France: Louvre, Pavillon de l'Horloge; the Chateaux. Architecture of the Renaissance a living force 114 CHAPTER IX MUSIC 134 Renaissance music as original as art and literature. Beginning in Netherlands, Ockenheim, Josquin, Arcadelt. Degrees in music, England. German music, Hans Sachs. Roman music, Claude Goudimel, the brothers Animuccia, the brothers Nanini, Orlando di Lasso. Church reform of music. Palestrina, career, achievement, recent restoration as Catholic standard. Oratorio. Dominant seventh. Development of musical instruments--organ, violin CHAPTER X BOOKS AND PRINTS: WOOD AND METAL ENGRAVING 146 Renaissance appreciation of beautiful books. Artistic manuscripts. Invention of printing. Most beautiful printed books in the world {xii} Our imitation. Books of Hours. Illustrations. Type-cutting. William Caxton: his place in English prose. Aldus Manutius: _Editiones principes_ of all the classics; career; business troubles; achievements. Geoffrey Tory. Simon de Collines. Champ Fleury. Tory, King's printer. The dream of Poliphilo. Fra Giocondo's illustrations. Dürer and German wood-engraving. Burgkmaier. Holbein. French wood-engraving. German metal-engraving. Italian illustrations. Vesalius' anatomy. Artistic bookbinding. Grolier. Decadence in bookmaking arts BOOK II. THE BOOK OF THE DEEDS CHAPTER I SOCIAL WORK AND WORKERS 169 Criterion of period; solution of social problems. The climax of guild social influence. Insurance features. No poorhouses, no orphan asylums. Care of ne'er-do-well. Guild of Holy Cross, Stratford; almshouses; grammar school. Thirty thousand guilds in England. Philanthropy. Sir Hugh Clopton's guild chapel and bridge. "Tag day." Beguines' care for dependents: their place in history. Lending institutions for the poor. St. Catherine of Genoa. Organization of charity. St. Philip Neri; modern appreciation. St. Ignatius. Savonarola. Political complications. Savonarola's fate. Las Casas' care for the Indians. St. Francis Borgia. Torture later in history. Witchcraft delusion post-reformation. Decadence of charity CHAPTER II HOSPITALS, NURSING AND CARE FOR THE INSANE 192 The humanity that cares for the ailing. Neglect in more recent times; jail-like hospitals without trained attendants. Beautiful Renaissance hospitals. Florence's Home of the Innocents. _Ospedale Maggiore_, Milan. _Santo Spirito Hospital_, Rome. Hospitals of the Beguines, Netherlands. St. John's Hospital, Bruges. Ample water supplies. Religious uniform and cleanliness. Sir Thomas More on hospitals. Brothers of Mercy in Spain. The Do-good Little Brothers. Care of the insane. Spain the leader. The "open door." Subsequent abuses. Italian asylums. Subsequent decadence CHAPTER III ST. IGNATIUS LOYOLA AND THE JESUITS 206 A great genius in organization. Career. Political and religious situation in Europe. A new knighthood. {xiii} The "Little Company of Jesus." The Spiritual Exercises. Jesuit Missions: India, Japan, China, South America, Reductions of Paraguay, North America. Jesuit Relations, gathering and transmitting knowledge. Education of the Jesuits; great pupils; bibliography. Activity in the sciences. Jesuit astronomers. In other fields. All things to all men. Ignatius' legacy of persecution and contumely CHAPTER IV SIR THOMAS MORE AND SOME CONTEMPORARIES 223 An artist in human will. England at More's birth. Youth. Marriage. Opposes the King. Studies, Louvain, Paris. Busy barrister, care for the poor. Friendship with Erasmus. Family life. Margaret More. Linacre. Dean Colet. Lyly. John Caius. More's English writings. Utopia. Controversial writings. Lord Chancellor,--clears the docket. Honors and wealth or duty and death. More's choice. Trying situation. Humor on the scaffold. Lord Campbell on his execution; on the Lord Chancellors who succeeded him CHAPTER V THE REFORMERS 243 Reformation or religious revolt. Change in education and its effect on men's minds. Janssen on intellectual movement of the Renaissance. Reformers, Luther, Calvin, Henry VIII. False impressions as to reformation, Hallam. Political corruption. Luther, Denifle, Grisar. Luther on indulgences. Luther and Zwingli. Judgments of God. Luther and Melanchthon condone bigamy. McGiffert's comment. Luther's discouragement. Calvin the austere. Life without relaxation. Calvin's discouragement. Execution of Servetus. Henry VIII's conscience. How the English people were robbed of their religion. Cobbett, Macaulay, Frederic Harrison and Professor Powell on the English and Scottish reformers. Professor Briggs on Saints of the Reformation. The counter-reformation. Effects of the reformation CHAPTER VI GREAT EXPLORERS AND EMPIRE BUILDERS 262 Prince Henry the navigator. John II of Portugal. Bartholomew Dias. Vasco da Gama. Columbus. Amerigo Vespucci. The Cabots. Magellan. Circumnavigation of the globe. South Sea discoveries. Australia. Verazzano in New York. French explorers. Empire builders old and new. Cortés. Pizarro. Spanish treatment of Indians. Contrast with ours. Explorers of Columbus Century and of present day {xiv} CHAPTER VII AMERICA IN COLUMBUS' CENTURY 275 A glorious chapter of American history before 1550. Sidney Lee contrasts Spanish and English influence in America. Professor Bourne on early American culture. Mexican education. Universities of Mexico and Lima. Scholarship. Educational standards. Dr. Chanca on America. Garcilaso de la Vega. Professor Bourne contrasts Spanish and English education. Printing press. Early printed books. First American hospital. Champlain on Mexico. Remains at Panama. CHAPTER VIII SOME GREAT WOMEN 290 Renaissance women. Isabella of Castile. Genius for peace and war. Power of administration. Education. Housewifely virtues. Care for Indians. Prescott's contrast of Isabella and Elizabeth. Vittoria Colonna. Letter to her husband on honesty. Poems. Influence on men of Renaissance. The Gonzagas. St. Catherine of Genoa. Battistina Vernazza. Lucretia Borgia. Historical traditions and facts. Gregorovius' vindication. Garnett on Borgia poisonings. Aldus' praise. Lucretia as a ruler. Her protection of the Jews. Her husband's love. Victor Hugo and the Lucretian myth. Marguerite of Navarre. Personal character. Care for the poor. Mary of Burgundy. St. Teresa. _Mater Spiritualium_. French, German and English tributes. Greatest of intellectual women. Some of her maxims. CHAPTER IX FEMININE EDUCATION 313 Phases of feminine education before our time. Italian universities. Benedictine convents. Charlemagne's time. St. Brigid of Ireland. Vittorino da Feltre and his pupils. Guarino. Physical training. Lucretia, the mother of Lorenzo the Magnificent. Isabella and Beatrice D'Este. Abundant opportunities of feminine education. Influence on their homes. Renaissance gardens. _Camerini_ of Isabella D'Este. Lucretia Borgia's apartments. Feminine devotion to social problems. Comparison with our own time. Public appearances. Olympia Morata. Angela Merici, founder in education. The Ursulines and the Jesuits. Their continued activity all over the world. Anne of Bretagne. Marguerite of Navarre. Sex. Feminine education in Spain. Prescott's tribute. Feminine education in England: Margaret of Anjou, Margaret Beaufort, the Countess of Arundel, Lady Jane Grey, Mary Queen of Scots, Queen Elizabeth, Margaret More. Charitas Pirkheimer. Feminine education and religion. "Beauty, disposition, education, virtue, piety combined to make them harmonious human beings" (Burckhardt) {xv} CHAPTER X PHYSICAL SCIENCE OF THE CENTURY 343 Science developed as wonderfully as art and literature. Translations of the classics of science. Cardinal Nicholas of Cusa. Puerbach. Regiomontanus. Cardinal Bessarion. Scientific scholars in Italy from all over the world. Linacre, Vesalius, Caius. Toscanelli and Columbus. Copernicus and a new universe. His attitude toward the reformation. Leonardo da Vinci, scientist and inventor. The scientific spirit. Telesio and the inductive method. Chemistry in medicine. Basil Valentine and Paracelsus. Columbus and the declination of the magnetic needle CHAPTER XI BIOLOGICAL SCIENCES 360 Nature study in the Middle Ages. Anatomists of the Renaissance. Acute Italian observation. Leonardo da Vinci. Supposed Church opposition to dissection. All the artists dissectors. Vesalius, father of modern anatomy. Columbus, Fallopius, Eustachius, Aranzi, Servetus. Caesalpinus. Circulation of the blood. Harvey's indebtedness to the Italian anatomists. Botany. Leonardo da Vinci, Brunfels, Fuchs, Tragus, Euricius and Valerius Cordus. Tributes to Valerius Cordus. Caesalpinus as a botanist. Ruellius and Pierre Belon in France. Spanish and Portuguese studies of American and Indian plants CHAPTER XII MEDICINE 381 Standards of education. Clinical teaching. Rabelais' principles. Early printed medical books. Leonicenus. Linacre. Caius. Montanus. Paracelsus, chemistry and medicine, physical factors, in therapy, occupation diseases. Rejection of pretensions to knowledge. Paracelsus' contributions to surgery. Animal magnetism. Absurdities. Basil Valentine. Theories of auto-toxaemia. Cornelius Agrippa. Influence of mind on body. Pathological anatomy. Benivieni. Joost van Lom. Schenck von Graffenberg. Petrus Forestus. Fracastorius. Paré on gout. Drugs from the new world. Botanical gardens. Theory and observation. Mental diseases, differentiation. Balneotherapy. Jerome Cardan, absurdities. Cornaro's longevity. Sanitary regulations. Pure food laws. Popular hygiene. Alcoholic beverages. Health boards in Italy. Tuberculosis contagion. Sir Thomas More on the place of the physician {xvi} CHAPTER XIII SURGERY 409 Printing of old surgical text-books. Magnificent hospitals. Study of gunshot wounds. Ambroise Paré. Experiments with bullets. Surgical specialties. Orthopedics. Bone surgery. Blood transfusion. Tracheotomy tube. Magnet in surgery. Cesarean operation. Gynaecology and obstetrics. Heart surgery. Cosmetic surgery. Artificial noses, lips and eyelids. Aseptic surgery. Pyemia as an infectious disease. Paracelsus against meddlesome surgery. German surgeons. Pfolspeundt, tubes in intestinal surgery. Brunschwig on the necessity of anatomy. Stiffened bandages. Gerssdorff, surgery of anchyloses. Hall on experience in surgery. Gurlt's four hundred pages on Renaissance surgery BOOK III. THE BOOK OF THE WORDS CHAPTER I LATIN LITERATURE 427 Latin the universal language of scholars. Three great books: The "Imitation of Christ," "Utopia" and the "Spiritual Exercises" of St Ignatius. The "Imitation" the most influential of human books. Other works by à Kempis. Tributes to the "Imitation"; saints, jurists, soldiers, scholars agree in lauding it. One of the world's supremely great books. Illustrative passages. The Ode on Love. "Utopia" and Plato's "Republic" and St. Augustine's "City of God." A vivid piece of fiction. A profound social study. Translation by Bishop Burnet. The "Spiritual Exercises" a book of things, not words. Erasmus' _"Colloquia"_ and the _"Encomium Moriae"_ CHAPTER II ITALIAN LITERATURE 442 Age of Leo X. Ariosto "very nearly if not quite supreme" (Saintsbury). Orlando Furioso. Ariosto's similes, sonnet. Italian Mystery and Miracle plays. Ballads. Carnival songs. Lorenzo de' Medici as a poet. Italian prose. Machiavelli, history, plays, poems, fiction, "a universal genius" (Garnett). Guicciardini, history, reminiscences. Vasari--Lives of the Painters. Italian fiction, Ariente, Luigi da Porto, Illicini, Machiavelli's "Belphagor." Cinthio. Bandello. Licentious stories intended to lessen license. Autobiography of Benevenuto Cellini, Castiglione's "Cortigiano" not the "Autobiography," the symbol of the century's thought and philosophy of life {xvii} CHAPTER III FRENCH LITERATURE 462 Villon. Prince Charles of Orleans. Clement Marot. Francis I as an author. Margaret of Navarre. "The Marguerites" of Marguerite. A French poetess of passion. Melin de Saint Gelais' epigrams. The Pleiades. Ronsard's "Prince and Peasant." Joachim du Bellay. French prose, Comines, Amyot's translations. Rabelais' misunderstood genius, his life, evidence for tolerance of time, modern studies and influence. Embodiment of French Renaissance CHAPTER IV SPANISH AND PORTUGUESE LITERATURE 476 Queen Isabella's letters. St. Teresa's mystical writings. The Tales of Chivalry. Amadis de Gaul. Tales of Roguery, Celestina, Lazarillo de Tormes. Mystical writers, John of Avila, Luis de Granada and Luis de Leon. Spanish poetry--Boscan and Garcilaso de la Vega. Camöens "greatest of modern epic poets" (Schlegel). Shorter poems. Love sonnets. CHAPTER V ENGLISH LITERATURE 485 English dramatic literature-- "Everyman," Passion and Nativity Plays, Interludes. "Marriage of Witte and Science" first play marked off into acts and scenes. Dramatic quality of the Morality Plays. John Skelton's work. John Heywood's Interludes, "The Four P's," illustrative passage. Social and religious satire, "Ralph Royster Doyster." Percy's "Reliques," "Ancient Ballad of Chevy Chase." Malory's "Morte d' Arthur," Caxton's Translations. Scotch poetry. James I. "The King's Quair." Blind Harry, Robert Henryson, Gawin Douglas and William Dunbar. English poetry, Howard Earl of Surrey and Sir Thomas Wyeth. More's place in English prose. Life of Edward V. Berner's translation of Froissart. Collects of the English prayer-book. Tyndale and Coverdale's Translations of the Scriptures. CHAPTER VI SCHOLARSHIP IN ITALY 501 Italy Alma Mater Studiorum. The New Learning. AEneas Sylvius (Pope Pius II). Cardinal Bessarion. {xviii} Greek teachers, Chalcondyles, Gaza, Trebizond and Argyropulos. Pope Nicholas V. Academy of Florence. Landino, Ficino and Politian. Italian academies. Pomponius Laetus, Platina, Roman Academy, Vitruvian Academy, Academy of Naples, Venice, Calepinus. Pico della Mirandola. CHAPTER VII THE SCHOLARSHIP OF THE TEUTONIC COUNTRIES 513 Nowhere scholarship deeper than in Germany. Brothers of the Common Life, founders, purpose. Great pupils. Nicholas of Cusa. Rudolph Agricola. John of Dalberg. Jacob Wimpheling. Alexander Hegius. Erasmus. Melanchthon. Reuchlin. Ulrich von Hutten. Conrad Muth (Mutianus). Conrad Celtes, edition of Hroswitha's plays. Dürer and Wilibald Pirkheimer. Sandys on the German Humanists. Janssen on classic culture and Christian scholarship. Critical studies. CHAPTER VIII SCHOLARSHIP OUTSIDE OF ITALY AND GERMANY 531 Every country in Europe interested in the New Learning. The first teacher of the French, Aleander, an Italian. Budé (Budaeus), devotion to study. Foundation of College de France. Toussain, Turnebus, Rabelais, Montaigne. Rabelais "science without conscience is the ruination of the soul." The Scaligers. Spanish scholars: Guzman, Antonio of Lebriza, Barbosa, all three students in Italy. Cardinal Ximenes, the University of Alcalá, Complutensian Polyglot. Grammar under the domination of Spanish minds. Portugal, the University of Coimbra. England early shared enthusiasm for New Learning. Linacre, John Free and Caius were teachers at Italian universities. Lord Grey of Codnor; John Tiptoft, Earl of Worcester. Erasmus on English scholarship. Greek students: Selling, Grocyn, William Latimer, Lily, John Fisher. Critical scholarship. APPENDIX I SIR THOMAS MORE AND MAN'S SOCIAL PROBLEMS 545 Religious toleration and More's practice. Standing armies and their evils. "Balanced fear" and the balance of power. Over-estimation of gold and precious stones. A living wage. Not pleasure but virtue the end of life. Forest conservation. Scientific books. Division of time. More's own home. {xix} APPENDIX II AFTER THE REFORMATION 553 Decadence in the arts, education, scholarship and humanitarianism begins immediately after the Reformation and culminates at the end of the eighteenth century. Education not freer; academic liberty less (Prof. Paulsen). The New Learning and the Reform doctrines. Bishop Bale on the neglect of books. Wanton destruction of libraries. Decadence in art, "King Whitewash and Queen Ugliness supreme." Gerhard Hauptmann on decay in art as the exorbitant price of personal freedom of conscience. Decline of charity. Jail-like hospitals. Dissolution of social organization. Superstition and torture rampant after the Reformation. The Witchcraft delusion. Political decadence. The pre-Reformation House of Lords. Popular holidays obliterated. Internationalism overshadowed. Modern social progress a reversion to mediaeval notions. {xx} {xxi} LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 1. Sebastiano del Piombo, Christopher Columbus (Metropolitan Museum, New York) _Frontispiece_ 2. Carpaccio, Meeting of Sts. Joachim and Anna. Opposite page xxix 3. Titian, Emperor Charles V xxxiv 4. Raphael, Drawing of Slaughter of Innocents. On page 3 5. Raphael, Dream of the Knight Opposite page 4 6. Raphael, School of Athens Opposite page 8 7. Raphael, Poetry (Mosaic, Vatican) Opposite page 14 8. Leonardo da Vinci, Madonna of the Rocks Opposite page 20 9. Raphael, Pope Julius II Opposite page 37 10. Fra Angelico, St Francis Opposite page 53 11. Perugino, Entombment (Pitti) Opposite page 56 12. Borgognone, St. Catharine of Alexandria Opposite page 57 13. Botticelli, Illustration for Dante On page 61 14. Bellini, Doge Loredano Opposite page 62 15. Correggio, Marriage of St. Catherine (Louvre) Opposite page 66 16. Gossaert, Virgin and Child Jesus (Italian Influence over Flemish) Opposite page 69 17. Van der Weyden, Mater Dolorosa Opposite page 71 18. Quentin Matsys, Legend of St. Ann (Centre) Opposite page 73 19. Van Oriey, Dr. Zelle Opposite page 74 20. Dürer, Title Page of Life of Blessed Virgin On page 76 21. Clouet, François, Elizabeth of Austria On page 79 22. Navarrete, St. Peter and St. Paul (Escurial) On page 81 23. Cespedes, The Last Supper (Cathedral, Cordova) On page 83 24. Bertoldo di Giovanni, Battle (Bargello) Opposite page 85 25. Rosselino, Antonio, Madonna Opposite page 87 26. Donatello, Gatamelata Opposite page 91 27. Benedetto Rovezzano, Chimney Piece Opposite page 95 28. Pulpit, Leyden Opposite page 98 29. Dürer, St John Baptist Preaching (Bas-relief in carved wood) On page 100 30. King Arthur (Innsbruck) On page 103 31. Henry VIII on Field of Cloth of Gold (Bas-relief, Rouen) On page 104 32. Goujon, Jewel Cabinet On page 106 33. Armor (fifteenth century, Paris) On page 108 34. Scent Box, chased gold On page 111 {xxii} 35. Seats (fifteenth century miniatures) On page 112 36. Clock (Paris) On page 113 37. Alberti, San Francesco (Rimini) On page 115 38. Michelangelo, St. Peter's (Rome) On page 116 39. Alberti, Rucellai Palace (Florence) On page 119 40. Court, Doge's Palace (Venice) On page 121 41. Palladio, Barbarano Palace (Vicenza) On page 123 42. Hotel de Ville (Louvain) Opposite page 124 43. Alcalá, Paranimfo On page 125 44. Alcalá, Archiepiscopal Palace Court On page 126 45. Cloister (Lupiana, Spain) On page 128 46. Toledo, Alcazar On page 130 47. Melozzo da Forli, Angel with Lute (Rome) Opposite page 141 48. Violin and Bass Viol, Germany On page 144 49. Verard, "Book of Hours" Border On page 147 50. Fouquet, Miniature Livy MSS. (Paris) On page 150 51. Tory, Border from "Book of Hours" On page 157 52. Tory, Page of Collines' "Book of Hours" On page 160 53. Dürer, Marriage of Blessed Virgin On page 163 54. Black Letter bordered page On page 165 55. Playing Card On page 167 56. Stratford Guild Chapel On page 175 57. Stratford, Sir Hugh Clopton's Bridge On page 176 58. Bramante, Court of Hospital (Milan) On page 195 59. Memling, Martyrdom of St. Ursula (Bruges, Hospital of St. Jean) Opposite page 197 60. Holbein, Sir Thomas More Opposite page 223 61. Matteo Civitale, Faith (Bargello) Opposite page 243 62. Holbein, Henry VIII (London) Opposite page 255 63. Filippino Lippi, Madonna with Four Saints Opposite page 260 64. Stradan, Columbus on First Voyage (niello, ivory) On page 276 65. Columbus' Title of Letter On page 282 66. Columbus' Page from Letter (1494-) On page 283 67. Hospital, Mexico (founded before 1524) Opposite page 287 68. Hospital, (another view) Opposite page 287 69. Crivelli, Madonna Enthroned Opposite page 290 70. Holbein, Queen Catherine of Aragon Opposite page 293 71. Titian, Presentation of Virgin Opposite page 296 72. Palma Vecchio, St. Barbara Opposite page 304 73. Mostaert, Virgo Deipara (Antwerp) Opposite page 312 74. Bellini, Madonna, St. Catherine and Mary Magdalen (Venice) Opposite page 318 75. Pinturicchio, Holy Family (Siena) Opposite page 326 76. Dürer, Nativity On On page 339 77. Vivarini, St. Clare Opposite page 341 78. Titian, Paracelsus On page 386 {xxiii} 79. Holbein, Dr. William Butts Opposite page 413 80. Cima da Conegliano, Christ (Dresden) Opposite page 431 81. Titian, Ariosto Opposite page 443 82. Palma Vecchio, Poet (sometimes called Ariosto) Opposite page 449 83. Francia, Virgin Weeping over Body of Christ (London) Opposite page 477 84. Page from early printed book, with woodcut On page 487 85. Theatre, Title Page of Terence On page 491 86. Mantegna, St. George Opposite page 501 87. Correggio, Blessed Virgin and St Sebastian Opposite page 508 88. Cima da Conegliano, Incredulity of St Thomas (Venice) Opposite page 519 89. Tory, Francis I's Court On page 534 {xxiv} {xxv} INTRODUCTION To many people the date of the discovery of America must seem somewhat out of place. At least it must be hard for them to understand just how it came about that before the fifteenth century closed so great a discovery as this of a new continent could be made. The Middle Ages are usually said to end with the Fall of Constantinople (1453), though a number of historians in recent years have begun to date the close of mediaeval history with the discovery of America itself. It scarcely seems consonant with the usually accepted ideas of widespread ignorance, lack of scientific curiosity with dearth of initiative and absence of great human interests during the Middle Ages, that so important an achievement as the discovery of America should have come at this time. In spite of the growing knowledge that has revealed the wonderful achievements of the mediaeval period, there are still a great many people who think themselves well informed, for whom the thousand years from about 500 to 1500 seem almost a series of blank pages and it cannot but be very surprising to them that anyone should have been able to rise out of the slough of despond so far as regards human knowledge and enterprise which these times are often declared to represent, to the climax of energy and daring and conscious successful purpose required for the discovery of the Western Hemisphere. Apparently only a special dispensation of Providence preparing the modern time could possibly have brought this important discovery out of the Nazareth of the so-called "Dark Ages." All sorts of explanations have been deemed necessary to account for Columbus' great discovery at this time. To some it has seemed to be the result of a happy accident by which one of the deeply original spirits among mankind, with the _wanderlust_ in his soul, succeeded finally in having someone provide him with the opportunity for a long vague voyage on which fortunately the discovery of the Western Hemisphere was made. We hear much of happy accidents in scientific {xxvi} discoveries and they are supposed to represent the fortunate chances of humanity. It must not be forgotten, however, that only to genius do these happy accidents occur. Newton discovered the laws of gravitation after having seen the apple fall, but many billions of men had seen apples fall before his time without being led to the faintest hint of gravitation. Galvani touched the legs of a frog by accident with his metal implements while making electrical experiments, and so became "the frogs' dancing master" in the contemptuous phrase of many of his scientific colleagues and the father of biological electricity for us, but doubtless many others lacking his scientific insight had seen this phenomenon without having their attention particularly caught by it. It has been suggested that not a little of the good fortune that resulted in the discovery of the American Continent was due to Columbus' obstinacy of character. He was a man who, having conceived an idea, was bound to carry it out, cost what it might. These are, of course, the men as a rule who make advances and discoveries and obtain privileges for us. They are not satisfied to be as others, and the world usually denominates them cranks. They insist on doing things differently and their vision of great achievement does not fade or become dim even under the clouds of objections that men are prone to rouse against anything, and, above all, any purpose that they themselves cannot understand. Columbus is said to have been one of those mortals who are actually urged on by obstacles and who cannot be made to back down from their purpose by rebuffs and refusals, or even by the disappointments after preliminary encouragement which are so much harder to bear. Columbus' steadfastness of character during the voyage, which enabled him to overcome the murmurings of his men and keep his ships to their course in spite of almost mutiny, is a reflex of this trait of his character, and yet there have been no end of obstinate men who have never succeeded in accomplishing anything worth while. Once engaged on the expedition, or in the preliminaries for it, Columbus' obstinacy of character in the better sense of that expression was simply invaluable, but the question is. How did he become engaged on the expedition at this time? {xxvii} It takes only a little consideration of the history of the time in which Columbus was educated and the story of the accomplishment of the men who lived around him during the half century that preceded the discovery of America to realize exactly why the discovery was made at this particular time. There has probably never been a period when so many supremely great things were done or when so many men whose enduring accomplishment has influenced all the after generations were alive, as during the nearly seventy years of Columbus' lifetime. In order to illustrate, then, the background of the history of the discovery of America, it has seemed worth while to take what may be called Columbus' Century, from 1450 to 1550, and show what was accomplished during it. The discovery of America came just about the middle of it and represents one of a series of great achievements made by the men of the time which are destined never to lose in interest for mankind. To know the other great events and great men of the period is to appreciate better just what the discovery of America meant and the place that Columbus' work in this regard should have in the history of human accomplishment. The present volume can be at best only a very brief review of the great achievements and the story of the lives of the men of this time. John Ruskin once said that the only proper way to know the true significance of a period of human history was to study the book of its arts, the book of its deeds and the book of its words, that is, to weigh the significance of its artistic accomplishment, the meaning of what its men did for their fellowmen and the worth of its literature in terms of world achievement. Judged by this standard, Columbus' Century must be placed among the greatest periods of human accomplishment in the world's history. It is the Renaissance period and, as everyone knows, this is a famous epoch in modern times. It has been a favorite study of a great many scholars in a great many generations since. It introduced many of the ideas, indeed most of the important thoughts and inventions on which our modern progress is founded. It is true that its great impetus came from the impulse given by the reintroduction of Greek ideas and Greek ideals into the modern world, but only that {xxviii} there were men of talent and genius, capable of being stirred to achievement by Greek incentive, nothing great would have been accomplished. Besides, while it owes much to Greece, it is great in its own right, and its men added much to what came to them out of Greece and adopted and adapted classic ideas and ideals so as to make them of great significance in the modern world. As regards The Book of the Arts of Columbus' Century, scarcely more need be said in this introductory chapter than what has already been suggested, that this is the Renaissance period. All the world now knows of the art of the Renaissance and of all that was accomplished by men who lived during the century after the Fall of Constantinople in 1453. Every form of art, painting, sculpture, architecture, music, as well as the arts and crafts, achieved a supreme expression at this time. Everywhere, particularly in Italy, men started up as if a new life had come into the world and proceeded to the accomplishment of artistic results which had apparently been impossible to preceding generations, and, alas for the notion of human progress! have often been the despair of succeeding generations. If imitation is the sincerest flattery, then these artists of the Renaissance period have indeed been flattered, for it has almost been the rule in the after time to imitate them and even the greatest of the artists of succeeding generations have been deeply influenced by the work of these men and usually have been quite willing to confess how much they owe to them. In Italy the list of names of painters who were at this time doing work which the world will never willingly let die, is long and glorious. There has never been a period of equal influence and achievement in this mode of art in the history of the race. Almost every city in Italy produced a group of painters during this century who would make a whole nation famous in any other period. The Florentine School surpasses all the others in importance, and such names as Fra Angelico, Benozzo Gozzoli, Fra Bartolommeo, Lippo Lippi and Filippino Lippi, Botticelli, Ghirlandaio, Leonardo da Vinci, Andrea del Sarto, Masaccio and Michelangelo, occur in its history. Venice produced in the first half of our period such men as the Vivarinis, the Bellinis, Titian, Carpaccio, Palma Vecchio, Giorgione and Lorenzo Lotti, worthy predecessors of the great names that were to come in the second half--Tintoretto and Paolo Veronese. [Illustration: CARPACCIO, MEETING OF STS. JOACHIM AND ANNA] {xxix} The Umbrian School of painters includes a group of men born in the hill towns of Umbria, to be credited, therefore, to more than a single city, but their greatness is sufficient for the glory of any number of cities,--Gentile da Fabriano, Bonfigli, Perugino and his pupils, Pinturicchio, Lo Spagna, and many others, above all Raphael. Bologna possessed the three Caracci, Guido, Domenichino and Guercino. Parma had Correggio, Ferrara, Dosso Dossi and Garofalo; Padua, Andrea Mantegna and his master, Squarcione, and Rome, the pupils of Raphael, Giulio Romano, Sassoferato and Carlo Maratta and Da Imola. These schools of Italian painting embrace all the modes of expression with the brush in their scope. The other countries of Europe, however, were not without distinguished representatives of the wondrous art spirit of the time. In Germany, there were Albrecht Dürer and the Holbeins, in the Lowlands the Van Eycks' greatest work came just before the opening of the century and inspired Memling, Van der Weyden, Quentin Matsys and others. In Spain, such men as Zurbaran and Ribalta were worthy forerunners of the great geniuses Velasquez and Murillo, who represent the aftermath of the glorious harvest of the workers in the field of art during this Renaissance period. They were all willing to confess their obligations to the great painters of the preceding age and their work is really a continuation of that Renaissance spirit. The accomplishment of the painters of Columbus' period proved as copious in stimulus for subsequent painters as the great navigators' discovery of America proved the stimulus to explorers, discoverers and empire makers during the subsequent century. A great wind of the spirit was blowing abroad and men were deeply affected by it, and accomplished results almost undreamt of before, and even when the wind of the spirit was dying down it still moved men to achievements that had only been surpassed during the immediately preceding period and that were to be looked up to with admiration and {xxx} envy and given that sincerest of praise, imitation, during all the succeeding centuries. The artists of Columbus Century, this great Renaissance period, were never merely artists. Some of them, like Michelangelo and Leonardo da Vinci, though among the greatest painters in the world, preferred to think of themselves as something else than painters. Leonardo has painted the greatest of portraits, but was a great engineer, an architect, an inventor, a scientist, and anything else that he cared to turn his hand to. Michelangelo was undoubtedly a great painter, yet this was the least of his accomplishments, for he was greater as an architect, a sculptor, and perhaps even as a poet, than he was as a painter. Raphael, besides being a painter, was an architect and above all an archaeologist. It was a sad loss to classic archaeology that he did not live to accomplish his plan of making a model of old Rome. He was a great student of the technics of his art and if he had not died at the early age of thirty-seven would surely have accomplished much besides painting. Many of the painters and sculptors of the time had been goldsmiths or workers in metal, and nearly all of them were handicraftsmen, handy with their hands and capable of doing things. Practically all of them were architects and many of them proved their powers in this regard. A man of the Renaissance always thought that he could do anything well, and specialism was the last thing in the world thought of. Their confidence in their own powers gave them a wonderful breadth of ability to accomplish. In sculpture the roll of great names is scarcely less wonderful than that of the great painters. It includes such men as Verrocchio and Leopardi, Donatello, Leonardo da Vinci, Michelangelo, the Della Robbias, Benvenuto Cellini and many others of less fame in this great period, but who would have been looked up to as wonder workers in the art at any other time. The sculpture work, for instance, that was accomplished in connection with Certosa at Pavia, though out of harmony with some of the true aims of sculpture, shows how beautifully Renaissance men worked out artistic ideas of any kind. Glorious as is the list of sculptors in Italy, other countries are by no means eclipsed by Italian pre-eminence. The work of {xxxi} the great sculptors of Nuremberg, Adam Kraft and Peter Vischer, as well as of the coterie of sculptors who did the wonderful group of heroes at Innsbruck, show how the wind of the spirit of genius in art was blowing abroad everywhere. In the Low Countries, while we do not always know the names of the sculptors, their beautiful monuments are with us. Such beautiful work as the Tomb of Mary of Burgundy, made by Peter Beckere of Brussels, is an enduring memorial of artistic excellence. There are wood carvings everywhere through the Low Countries that display the artistic genius of the time, In France, Colombe, trained in Flanders, did beautiful work, and Jean Juste and his son have left a monument of their sculptural genius in the Cathedral at Tours. Jean Fouchet made the lovely tomb of Agnes Sorel at Loches, and after the spirit of the Renaissance had come to France, Jean Goujon and Germain Pilon achieved their masterpieces. The reliefs of Jean Goujon for the "Fountain of the Innocents" are very well known and often to be seen in copies. The "Three Graces" of Germain Pilon, though already there is perhaps some sign of decadence, is a charming work of art that has never been excelled in the more modern time. In architecture, Columbus' Century is, if anything, more famous than for its accomplishment in other arts. Almost every city in Italy has a distinguished architect who has left behind him a monument of genius. Brunelleschi died just before the century; Bramante, Alberti, Leonardo da Vinci, and above all, Michelangelo, are the great names of the time. Such other names as Palladio, Sangallo, della Porta, Sansovino and San Michele come after these, and the work of this group of men has more influenced succeeding generations than any other. The monuments of this time include the Cathedral of Santa Croce at Florence, St. Peter's at Rome and many of the great palaces and hospitals that now are the subject of so much admiration and attention from scholarly visitors to Italy. In our own time the reproduction of Renaissance architectural types and the careful study of what the Italian Renaissance did in modifying for modern use classic types of architecture has done more to give us handsome monumental buildings than any other inspiration that men have had. {xxxii} Unfortunately, the Renaissance in its adoration of classic types and ideals developed a contempt for the older Gothic architecture that had many sad effects on taste in art, but the people of the period succeeded in building a glorious monument to themselves for all time. This same century saw the rise and marvellous development of music in nearly every department of that art and in a way that strikingly illustrates how the genius of this time gave to men a power of lofty expression in every aesthetic mode. In this form of art Italy was not as in other departments of aesthetics the leader, though she proved the apt pupil, excelling before the close of the period even her masters. It is to the Flemings that we owe the great beginnings of music at this time, as we also owe to them and to their brethren of Holland so much in all the arts. Ockenheim of Hainault and his pupils, above all Josquin, developed the technique of polyphonic music, and Flanders furnished music masters for every important capital in Europe. Claude Goudimel, born at Avignon, but educated in Flanders, opened his famous school of music in Rome in the first half of the sixteenth century, and while not perhaps, as has often been said, the teacher of Palestrina, he helped to create the Roman school in which developed the brothers Animuccia and the brothers Nanini. Orlando de Lasso did his work at this time, and Stefano Vanneo of Recanati published his treatise on counterpoint in 1531. The use of the chord of the dominant seventh was invented and St. Philip Neri encouraged those religious musical exercises which culminated first in the Oratorio and subsequently in what we know as opera. As always happens in a really great artistic period, there was a magnificent development of the crafts as well as of the arts. When such men as Verrocchio, probably even Leonardo da Vinci himself, Pollaiuolo and Benvenuto Cellini were looked upon as goldsmiths as well as sculptors, it is easy to understand how thoroughly artistic was the goldsmithery of the time. As a matter of fact, most of the artists of the Renaissance were trained in workshops. These were not only technical schools, but art schools of the finest kind. As a consequence not only in gold and metal work, but in every {xxxiii} other craft, art impulses of lofty achievement are noted. The stained glass of the time is among the most beautiful ever made. All glass-making and porcelain reached a high plane of perfection. It is interesting to note the decadence of fine glass-making that begins toward the end of our period. Gem-cutting reached a climax of perfection at this time that has ranked Renaissance gems among the most precious in the world. The art of the medal and the medallion was another artistic specialty of this time in which it has probably never been excelled and very seldom equalled. In book-making artistic craftsmanship surpassed itself. Before the development of printing as the exclusive mode of making books there was a marvellous evolution of illuminated hand-made books. Many specimens still extant are among the most beautiful in the world. With these as models the printed books came to be just as wonderful artistic products and so we have during Columbus' period the finest book-making that the world has ever known. Every portion of the book, the print, the spacing, the paper, the binding was artistically done. What seemed a mere handicraft was lifted to the plane of art and whenever in the aftertime--and never more so than in our own period--men have wanted models for beautiful book-making they have gone back to those produced during this period. THE BOOK OF THE DEEDS of the century will be best appreciated from the names of the doers, the men of action, of this wonderful time. History was indeed making. What came with the rise of the Portuguese empire mainly through the influence of Prince Henry and of the Spanish Empire in America under Ferdinand and Isabella were only the great beginnings of the wealth and power Europe was to draw from over-sea colonies. Unfortunately the century was a period of political unrest. The seething spirit that led to great achievement in every department gave rise to many wars and disturbances. The Wars of The Roses in England and the many wars in Italy, with the political disaffection in Germany and the disturbed state of France, made human life very cheap just when it was capable of most enduring accomplishment. Great monarchs like the Emperor Charles V, Francis I, king of France, and Henry VIII of England worked good and harm {xxxiv} in proportions very hard to estimate properly. There was never a more tyrannical king than Henry VIII and probably never a less just one than Francis I. Bishop Stubbs, the English constitutional historian, has claimed for Charles V the right to the title great, yet there is so much that is at least questionable about his career as a ruler that history will probably never willingly accord it. The military exploits, the courtly intrigues, the corrupt diplomacy, the exhibition of the ugliest traits of mankind were all emphasized in this period because great men are great also in the ill they do, but fortunately there is another side to the book of the deeds of the century worth while reading. Among the events of the century are the great Battle of Pavia at which Francis I of France was defeated so thoroughly that afterwards, while confined in the Certosa, he sent the famous despatch to his mother, "All is lost save honor." This century saw also the famous meeting of the Field of the Cloth of Gold at which both English and French nobles went so gaily attired and with so many handsome changes of raiment that literally not a few of them "carried their castles on their backs." Their subsequent bankruptcy strengthened the hands of the crown in both countries. This unfortunately did more than anything else to lay the foundations of that absolutism which needed the French Revolution and its successors in other countries of the past century to break up. It was the time of the famous Diet of Worms and of all the political and religious disturbances which have been called the Reformation, though in recent years historians have come to recognize the movement not as a great epoch-making reform in religion, of which it brought about the disintegration by its doctrine of individual judgment, but as a religious revolt affecting the Northern nations of Europe, disturbing the continuity of the traditions of culture and education and art which had been so completely under the influence of the old Church and which among these Northern nations were not caught up again for several centuries after this unfortunate division in Christianity. [Illustration: TITIAN, EMPEROR CHARLES V. ] The greatest accomplishment of this period, however, was its scholarship. In every country in Europe men devoted {xxxv} themselves to the study of the Latin and Greek classics and opportunities for education of the highest import were accorded everywhere. They were no merely dry-as-dust scholars, and the names of such men as AEneas Sylvius Piccolomini, who was afterwards Pope Pius II; of Aldus Manutius, the great Venetian printer; of Leon Battista Alberti, famous not only as a scholar, but as an architect and an artist in every mode, and Lorenzo de' Medici himself, are only brilliant examples in a single country of a scholarship that was eminently productive and influential. In every country in Europe the story is the same. At the beginning of this book it seemed that the scholarship of the century might be summed up in a single chapter. I found that even a single chapter for Italy was quite inadequate and that the Teutonic countries of themselves required another chapter even for a quite incomplete record of their scholarly achievements. Rudolph Agricola; Reuchlin, who was known as "the three-tongued wonder" of Germany; Desiderius Erasmus, the most influential scholar of Europe in this intellectual period; Jacob Wimpfeling, the schoolmaster of Germany; Melanchthon, the gentle _praeceptor Germaniae_, and all the products of the schools of the Brethren of the Common Life serve to demonstrate the greatness of the German scholarship of this period. In England there are such men as Bishop Selling, Cardinal Morton, Archbishop Warham, Dean Colet, Thomas Linacre, Dr. John Caius, Roger Ascham, Thomas More and many others who in any other period would be reckoned among the distinguished scholars. And yet the other Latin countries did not lag much behind Italy and were fair rivals of the Teutonic countries in scholarship at this time. Queen Isabella herself learned Latin when she was already a queen on the throne. Court fashions are sure to spread and this did. Besides the queen encouraged Cardinal Ximenes in the production of that magnificent monument of scholarship the Complutensian Polyglot Bible. The development of the universities in Spain only parallels the corresponding movement in the rest of Europe, but there were probably more higher institutions of learning founded and above all more refounded and re-established on a broader {xxxvi} basis at this time than at any other corresponding period of history. In France the index of scholarly accomplishment is the foundation of the Collège de France, which was to mean so much for French intellectual life. It made it possible for scholars to pursue their work unhampered by the fossilized University of Paris, which had become cramped in old-fashioned ways and for the time being was incapable of doing great intellectual work itself and yet, owing to the charters and privileges granted it in its flourishing period, was still capable of crushing out the true spirit of knowledge and preventing real development. There was never a time in the world's history when scholarship, in so far as that term means knowledge of the great books of the past, occupied so prominent a place in men's minds or had so much influence. Nor has there ever been a time when so many of those in power felt that the very best thing that they could do for their people as well as for their own fame was the encouragement of learning. Scholars were more highly honored than at any period in the world's history. Even ruling princes and the higher nobility felt that they owed it to themselves to be acquainted with the great works of literature or pretend at least to a knowledge of them and that a portion of their policy must be to patronize teachers and scholars of the New Learning. To be a patron of scholars was considered quite as important as to act in a similar capacity for painters, sculptors and architects, though there might be more personal fame attached to securing the works of the great masters in art. Fortunately these scholars were encouraged in their labors, and we have a whole series of wonderful editions of the old classics accomplished at a cost of time and labor and patience that only a few of those who have labored at such work under ever so much more favorable circumstances can properly appreciate. Their editions were issued as beautiful books in this wonderful time, and so they have remained as precious treasures for us down to our own day. The achievements in art and scholarship in this century are well known and universally recognized. It is seldom appreciated, however, that the century is almost as great in its {xxxvii} wonderful progress in science as it is in any other intellectual department. The foundations of our modern sciences were laid broad and deep at this time, and achievements of scientific generalization as well as accurate and detailed observation were made, that may be placed with confidence in comparison with those of any other time in the world's history, even our own. Copernicus' theory probably revolutionized men's thinking more with regard to the earth and the universe of which it forms a part than the thought of any man has ever done during the whole history of mankind. The great medical scientists of this period almost as effectually revolutionized men's thinking with regard to the constitution of men and animals as Copernicus had done with regard to the universe. Vesalius, called the father of modern anatomy, has left us a monument of genius in his work on the structure of the human body, and his famous contemporaries, Eustachius, another Columbus, the anatomist, and Caesalpinus as well as Servetus added to the knowledge of anatomy and physiology which Vesalius had so well begun. Servetus and Columbus described the circulation of the blood in the lungs about the same time; and shortly after the close of our period Caesalpinus, trained in the schools of this time, described the circulation of the blood in the body. In every department of biological science, in anatomy and physiology, in pathology, in botany, in zoology, in palaeontology, in ethnology and linguistics, in anthropology, noteworthy advances were made. Magnificent applications of the knowledge acquired were made for the benefit of man and animals, new plants for medicine were sought in distant countries and a great new development of medicine took place. None of the anatomists and physiologists of the time failed to use their knowledge for the increase of information with regard to disease and its treatment. Vesalius besides being a great anatomist was almost as great a pathologist and one of the epoch-making diagnosticians of medical history. He was the first since the Greeks to describe an aneurism, that is the pathological dilatation of an artery through disease or accident, and the first in the history of medicine to demonstrate the presence of such a condition on the living subject. Paracelsus, {xxxviii} Ambroise Paré, Linacre, John Caius and a whole host of great teachers in Italy are names to conjure with in the history of medicine and of surgery. There is probably no period in the world's history that has so many names famous in medicine that the world will never willingly let die. The supremely great accomplishments of this time however, the true, good and great deeds of the century, were what it did for men. This is the period when there was more organization for social help and uplift than at any other period that we know. Every social need was responded to by the guilds. There were old-age pensions, disability wages, insurance against fire, accident at sea, burglary, highway robbery, the destruction of crops, the death of animals and all the other developments of mutual protection against the unexpected which we have been inclined to think were developments of our time. There were 30,000 guilds in England, it is said, when they were suppressed by Henry VIII, and the money in the treasuries, many millions of pounds, confiscated on the plea that they were religious organizations. They maintained grammar schools, had burses at the universities, arranged for technical training and apprenticeships, cared for orphans, provided entertainments for the people of the town, brought the membership together in friendly meetings and banquets several times each year, held athletic contests, encouraged social life and innocent amusements in every way and represented an ever vital nucleus of fraternal interest among men. Our chapter on this shows too how seriously the moneyed men of the time took their duty of philanthropic care for their townsmen by various institutions. A period that did so much for social needs could scarcely be expected to have neglected its hospitals and as a matter of fact some of the most beautiful hospitals in the world were built in this period, and everywhere that a hospital was built it was worthy of its purpose. The hospitals of a later time, especially the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, were little better than jails and were eminently unsuitable. At this time citizens, instead of thinking that anything was good enough for the ailing poor, felt that the honor of the city was concerned, and the hospital, being a municipal building, was {xxxix} constructed with as much care for its beauty externally and its utility internally as the famous town halls or churches of the time. We know how well patients were cared for, since we have abundant evidence of the clinical teaching of medicine at the bedside. Whenever hospitals are well built and the attendant physician takes students with him on his rounds, the best possible treatment of patients is assured. They cared finely for the insane also and for the weak-minded. The awful abuses in this regard that came in the eighteenth century, and from which our own happier though far from satisfactory conditions represent a reaction, were a lamentable, almost incomprehensible degeneration from the magnificent work of the earlier time. The women of Columbus' Century are worthy in every way of a place beside the men of their time. Those who in recent years have talked of the nineteenth century as the first period in the world's history when women secured an opportunity for the higher education forget amazingly many phases of feminine education of the long ago. The University of Salerno had its department of women's diseases in the charge of women professors in the twelfth century. There were feminine professors at the University of Bologna in the thirteenth century, and as a matter of fact in no century since the twelfth has Italy been without distinguished women professors at one or more of the Italian universities. Above all those who talk of feminine education as a recent evolution must be strangely forgetful of the women of the Renaissance. In Italy, in France, in Spain, in Germany, in England, there were long series of distinguished women, some noted for their scholarship, some for their artistic taste, some for their literary power, all of them for a fine influence on the men of the time and an inspiration to what was best. Much of the wonderful social history of the time is due to them, but there is no department of intellectual or moral uplift in which their names are not prominent. Vittoria Colonna, the D'Estes, the women of the House of Medici, the Gonzagas in Italy, Queen Anne of Bretagne and Marguerite of Navarre in France, Queen Isabella of Castile, Queen Catherine of England, Margaret More, Mary Queen of Scots, Margaret of Bourgogne, {xl} Lady Jane Grey, Queen Elizabeth--when was there ever such a galaxy of learned women alive during the same hundred years? Besides these known in secular literature there was St. Angela of Merici, the great founder of the Ursulines; St. Catherine of Genoa, the wonderful organizer of charity; St. Teresa, probably the greatest intellectual woman who ever lived, and other women distinguished for supreme qualities of mind and heart almost too numerous to mention. The hardest chapters of the book to compress have been those on Feminine Education and The Women of the Century. What they did to make their homes beautiful and their home surroundings charming, how they inspired the artists of the time, what they did to bring out the best that was in them, this indeed makes a difficult story to tell in a few pages. Their contributions to the intellectual treasure of mankind were not very large and only two or three of them have a name that will endure in literature and none of them in art, but what they accomplished for the ethical progress of the race at a particularly dangerous time when the study of pagan authors and of Grecian art had relaxed the fibre of Christian morality, represents a triumph of feminine accomplishment of which too much cannot be said in praise. THE BOOK OF THE WORDS of the century forms the least important chapter of the accomplishment of the time, and as compared with the arts and the deeds its literature seems almost disappointing, yet it must not be forgotten that this was the Age of Leo X, of which Saintsbury in "The Earlier Renaissance," in his series of Periods of European Literature, says, "Of few epochs is it more difficult to speak in brief space than of this century." He adds that "the age of Leo X was for no small length of time and under many changes of prevailing literary taste extolled as one of the greatest ages of literature, as perhaps the greatest age of modern literature." It fell from this high estate about a century ago, but the reaction against it was, as always is the case with reactions, exaggerated, and we are gradually growing in the appreciation of the greatness of the literature of the time again. We now know that there are very few periods that have contributed so much that is really of enduring value to world literature as this age of Leo X. {xli} The Latin literature alone of this century would be enough to assure it a place as one of the wonderful productive periods in world letters. The "Imitation of Christ" was not written during the century, though its author seems to have put it into the ultimate form in which we now know it about the beginning of our period. It was during this time that it came to be recognized as a great source of consolation, a marvellous study of the human heart in time of trial and of triumph and the most influential book that had ever come from the hand of man. We have gathered together a small sheaf of the tributes that have been paid to it by some of the serious thinkers in all generations since, but it would be easy to fill a volume with words of highest commendation. In the Latin literature of this period also must be counted Sir Thomas More's "Utopia," which has been read in every generation that has taken its social problems seriously ever since, and never more so than in our own time. It deserves a place in world literature beside Plato's "Republic," and it is far ahead of any of the attempts at the description of a socialized state made in our time. For scholars at least Erasmus' writings represent an enduring contribution to Latin literature of the classic type, a storehouse of information with regard to the scholarship and also lack of scholarship of the time. For those interested in mystical subjects St. Ignatius' "Spiritual Exercises" is another of the Latin works of the period which, though it can scarcely be classed as literature, for, as we have said, Ignatius like Michelangelo wrote things rather than words, must take its place amid Columbian letters of lasting value since it is more used now than ever before. There are not many surpassing works of vernacular literature from this time, and yet Machiavelli's history represents the only contribution to historical literature that takes a place in human interests beside the immortal trio of classical historians, Herodotus, Thucydides and Tacitus. Ariosto represents one of the favorite works of Italian scholars, and as the Italians have been the most cultured people in the world ever since, their critical judgment must be accepted as of great value. In popular literature the Tales of Chivalry, the Picaresque romances or tales of roguery and the almost endless {xlii} number of Italian novels show how wide must have been the popular reading of the time. In France Villon has always been a favorite for all classes, and with Charles of Orleans he has been known by scholars at least outside of France and thoroughly appreciated. French modes of verse following the Italian came to influence the other countries of Europe at this time and have never ceased to supply ideas for the form of the less serious modes of poetry at least for all the generations down to our own. The influence of Clément Marot, of Brantôme and the Pleiades was felt in every literature of Europe, and has not completely disappeared even after the nearly four centuries that have elapsed since their time. The literature of the century contains besides the names of Rabelais as well as Calvin in France, Baldassare Castiglione, Michelangelo, Vasari, Politian, Bembo, Lorenzo de' Medici, Pico della Mirandola and the learned ladies Vittoria Colonna, Margaret of Navarre, Lucretia Tornabuoni, the mother of Lorenzo de Medici, as well as the great scholars of the period in Italy. In Spain St. Teresa and the great mystical writers were compensating for the triviality and worse of the picaresque romances and the tales of chivalry. In Portugal the young genius of Camöens was nurtured, while in England Sir Thomas More was laying the foundations of modern English prose, the great Morality Plays, "Everyman" and the "Castle of Perseverance," were written, and the first fruits of English dramatic literature in its more modern form came in "Ralph Royster Doyster" and "Gammer Gurton's Needle." In Germany the literary product of the vernacular was less significant, but Luther's great popular hymns and his vernacular translation of the Scriptures gave a vigorous birth to modern German verse and prose, while Hans Sachs and the Minnesingers did as much for popular poetry. Few periods can present a literature so rich in every country, so varied, with so many enduring elements and with so much that remains as the constant possession of scholars ever since. The literature of the time may not equal its art or even its science, but no apologies are needed for it. In a word, then, the books of the arts, the deeds and the words of Columbus' Century when read even a little carefully {xliii} show us a marvellous period in which man's power of achievement was at its very highest. Its art in every department has never been excelled and has only been equalled by that of the Greeks, from whom, however, we possess no painting worthy of the name. Its intellectual achievements in scholarship and in science give it the leadership in education in the modern world at least. What it accomplished for men in great works of humanity represent a triumph of humanitarianism in the best sense of that word, and present achievements worthy to be emulated by the modern time. The book of its words is of less import, and yet there are not more than two or three periods in the world's history that have surpassed it and there are some modes of literature in which it is unexcelled. In the midst of this century the discovery of America instead of being a surprise cannot but seem the most natural thing in the world. Everywhere men were doing things that for many centuries men had been unable to do and they were achieving triumphs in every form of human effort. Given the fact that there was a large undiscovered portion of the world, it was more likely to be discovered at this time than at any other time in the world's history. That is the background of Columbus' Discovery of America, which anyone who wants to understand its place must know. {1} BOOK I THE BOOK OF THE ARTS CHAPTER I GREAT PAINTERS: RAPHAEL Any attempt at proper consideration of the book of the arts of Columbus' Century must begin with the three great names of Raphael, Leonardo da Vinci and Michelangelo. They are the greatest trio in the history of art--all their names associated with a single city at the beginning of their lives but deeply influencing the world of art before the end of them. Of the three as a painter Raphael is undoubtedly the greatest, though surely here, if anywhere in the history of art, comparisons are odious. Each of these geniuses in his own department of painting was supreme,--as a religious painter Raphael, as a portrait painter Leonardo, as a great decorative artist Michelangelo. Raphael rivals Leonardo, however, in the painting of portraits and some of Leonardo's religious paintings are almost the only ones worthy to be placed besides Raphael's great religious visions. Michelangelo, however, could on occasion, as he showed in the Sistine, prove a rival of either of them in this mode. As is so true of the men of this time as a rule, all three of these men were much more than painters. Raphael died at the early age of thirty-seven, yet he reached distinction as an architect and as an archaeologist, besides accomplishing his great painting. Leonardo insisted on not being thought of as a painter, but as an engineer and architect, though he has painted the greatest portrait ever made and beat Michelangelo once in a competition in sculpture. Michelangelo reached supremacy in all four of the greatest modes of art. He is a painter second to none in all that he attempted, he is the {2} greatest sculptor since the time of the Greeks, he is one of the greatest architects of all time, yet with all this, by what might seem almost an impossible achievement, he was one of the greatest of poets and has written sonnets that only Dante and Shakespeare have equalled. These men of Columbus' Century not only were never narrow specialists but quite the contrary; they were extremely varied in their interests and felt in contradiction to what seems the prevalent impression in our time that such breadth of interest only increased their powers of expression in anything that they attempted. Of the three probably Raphael has had the widest popular influence. His paintings have all unconsciously to most people colored and visualized for them the Biblical scenes, especially of the New Testament, and since his time painters have been greatly influenced by his compositions. He has deeply affected all the world of art and as for several centuries now some of his greatest works have been held outside of Italy, they have been producing their effect and giving artists the thought of how well deepest vision could be expressed. This man, who by universal consent was the greatest painter that ever lived, was about nine years old when Columbus discovered America. According to tradition he died on his birthday at the age of thirty-seven in 1520. In less than two decades of active artist life he had painted a series of pictures that were a triumph even in that glorious period of marvellous artistic accomplishment. They have been the subject of loving study and affectionate admiration ever since. Many of them have been the despair of the artists who came after him. But Raphael is not an artists' artist in any exclusive sense of the word. He is as popular an idol with those who confess to having no critical knowledge of art as he is the hopeless model of those whose lives are devoted to art. {3} [Illustration: RAPHAEL, DRAWING OF SLAUGHTER OF INNOCENTS (tapestry, VATICAN)] Unlike many a genius, though his family was poor his early years were surrounded by conditions all favorable for the development of his talents. Raphael is his baptismal name and his family name was Santi. (The name Sanzio often attributed to him has no warrant in history.) His father Giovanni Santi filled the post of art expert, so far as that office was formally constituted at that time, to Duke Frederick, {4} reigning Prince of Urbino, and it was here that Raphael was born. The Duke was one of the most distinguished and perhaps the most discriminating of the great Renaissance patrons of art as well as of letters, and a series of well-known painters, among them Piero della Francesca, Melozzo da Forli and Justus of Ghent, were in his service at this time. Duke Frederick's interest in everything artistic had made the capital of his little principality one of the most important art centres of this time and his palace is still the Mecca for visitors to Italy who are interested in the development of art, for it possesses some of the great masterpieces of the Renaissance painters. Raphael in his boyhood had in a more limited way almost as favorable surroundings as Michelangelo enjoyed in Florence, but with his father's favor of his studies instead of the opposition that this Florentine contemporary encountered. Urbino was indeed almost as much of a centre of intellectual influence and progress at this time as the court of Lorenzo the Magnificent, at which Michelangelo was brought up. It was at Urbino that Baldassare Castiglione wrote _"Il Cortigiano,"_ the book of The Gentleman, the elegant setting forth of what was represented by that term in the Renaissance period. When Raphael was about eleven his father died, but fortunately the maternal uncle under whose guardianship he passed was quite as favorable to art as his father had been. Yielding to the wishes of the boy he permitted him to enter the studio of Timoteo Viti, a pupil of the artist Francia, who had lately returned from his studies in other portions of Italy to take up his residence in his native country. During the next few years Raphael devoted himself to that training in drawing which was to mean so much for him. Just about a century ago a sketchbook was found, now in the Academy of Venice, having been purchased for the city, in which there are over a hundred pen-and-ink drawings of various pictures copied by Raphael, and competent critics declare that the masterly genius of the artist can already be recognized in them. Besides these he painted a series of pictures in Timoteo's studio. Some of these have been preserved. Probably the best known is "St. George and St. Michael," now in the Louvre, though the "Dream of the Knight" in the National Gallery, {5} London, has been the admiration of young folk particularly for many generations. There are some who claim that the most charming of these early pictures painted at Urbino is the "Three Graces of the Tribune of Chantilly." [Illustration: RAPHAEL, DREAM OF THE KNIGHT] After this Raphael studied for a time, probably for some four years, with Perugino at Perugia. This period of his life is mainly interesting from the fact that while he acquired Perugino's technique, Raphael went far beyond his master, though for a time his development was probably hindered rather than helped by that master's influence. Only one of the paintings made at Perugia, "The Coronation of the Virgin," painted for the Franciscans of that city, and now to be seen in the Vatican, reveals as art critics declare the real genius of Raphael shining through and above the qualities that he had borrowed from his Perugian master. After Raphael's years of fruitful student work in the Hill Country so dear to students of Italian culture for its four periods of great art, there came his Florentine period, which represents a new and wonderful evolution of his artistic genius. Here, when he arrived in 1504, Leonardo da Vinci in his productive forties and the young Michelangelo in his revealing later twenties were at work at their famous historical cartoons, and the atmosphere of the city was deeply imbued with the Renaissance spirit. It is a little difficult now to think of Raphael as merely a young struggling artist, making his living by painting portraits for rather commonplace people, and executing his earlier Madonnas for private oratories, partly from love of his work but mainly because he needed the money, yet this constituted his occupation. [Footnote 1] [Footnote 1: As pointed out by Grimm in his "Life of Michelangelo" the patrons of the Renaissance painters at the beginning of that period, and indeed until after the climax of its development had been reached, were either of the middle class or consisted of the religious orders and ecclesiastical authorities intent on the decoration of churches. The town folk ordered pictures for their homes or for the decoration of churches. The artist was a craftsman, like the goldsmith or any other. When artists became the favorites of princes and kings and rulers, when they came to occupy positions at courts, it was not long before decadence began. Lives at court were not calculated to bring out what was best nor to encourage profound thinking nor provide the leisure which is necessary for great art, and truth lost its attraction in jealous rivalry and the desire to please a patron.] His Madonnas soon made him famous. At the end of his first year in Florence came one of his masterpieces, the "Madonna of the Grand Duke," still to be seen at the Pitti. At this {6} time Raphael was under the influence of the great Dominican painter Fra Bartolommeo, though undoubtedly the specimens of Fra Angelico's work so frequent in Florence had their power over him. The sweetness and mystical beauty which, added to the human tenderness of his lovely mothers, make his Madonnas so charming are the fruit of Raphael's studies in Florence. Under the influence of the two Dominican painters such great pictures as "La Belle Jardinière," of the Louvre, the "Madonna of the Goldfinch" now in the Uffizi, Florence, and the "Madonna of the Meadow," one of the treasures of the Vienna collection, were produced. Just before he left Florence he painted for Atlanta Baglioni an "Entombment" which is his first attempt at an historic picture. The critics declare that it was spoiled somewhat by overwork at it and overanxiety to rival some of the great paintings of this kind from Leonardo and Michelangelo which Raphael had so much admired. However that may be, it is undoubtedly one of the world's greatest pictures, especially when the age of the artist, twenty-five, is taken into account. Just after he finished it he was summoned to Rome by that discerning patron of genius Pope Julius II. His great opportunity had arrived. Only a little more than ten years of life lay ahead of him, but in that ten years the art of the world was to receive almost its greatest treasures. In their "Italian Cities" the Blashfields have told the story of his Roman career:-- "Raphael's conquest of his surroundings was almost magical: he arrived a youth, well spoken of as to skill, yet by reputation hardly even _par inter pares;_ in ten short years--how long if we count them in art history--he died, having painted the Vatican, the Farnesina, world-famous altar-pieces, having planned the restoration of the entire _urbs_, having reconciled enemies and stimulated friends, and having succeeded without being hated. {7} "He achieved this success by his great and manifold capacity, but, most of all, because in art he was the greatest assimilator and composer who ever lived. The two words are each other's complements; he received impressions, and he put them together; his temperament was exactly suited to this marvellous forcing house of Rome, for a Roman school never really existed, it was simply the Tusco-Umbrian school throned upon seven hills and growing grander and freer in the contemplation of Antiquity. "To this contemplation, Raphael brought not only a brilliant endowment but an astonishing mental accumulation; the mild eyes of the Uffizi portrait were piercing when they looked upon nature or upon art, and behind them was an alembic in which the things that entered through those eyes fused, precipitated, or crystallized as he willed." Pope Julius II, himself one of the great geniuses of history, with a dream of a united Italy long before there was any possibility of its accomplishment, and with an appreciation of genius that alone would have given him a commanding place among the world's great rulers, had summoned to Rome for the decoration of the apartments of the Vatican some of the greatest painters of the time. Even from distant Flanders came Reuisch and then there were Perugino, Raphael's old master, now advanced in years, and Signorelli, quite as old, and Lotto and Sodoma and Peruzzi and others. It was beside these that Raphael had to do his work. Within a year of Raphael's coming he, the youngest of them all, not yet twenty-six years of age, was selected by the Pope--how well advised he was--as the one to whom all the important decorations should be entrusted. Then came the opportunity to do the Camera della Segnatura, that triumph of decorative art. "This chamber of the Vatican" became, as Raphael's biographer in the Catholic Encyclopaedia says, "a sort of mirror of the tendencies of the human mind, a summary of all its ideal history, a sort of pantheon of spiritual grandeurs. Thereby the representation of ideas acquired a dramatic value, being no longer as in the Middle Ages the immovable exposition of an unchangeable truth but the impassioned search for knowledge in all its branches, the moral life of humanity." {8} His decorations of the Camera de la Segnatura are probably among the greatest contributions to decorative art ever made. They are certainly among the most interesting. Only Michelangelo's wonderful decorations in the Sistine Chapel rival them and there are some critics who would concede the palm to Raphael. Here we have the index not only of his power to paint marvellously but also of his intellectual genius and his judgment of values in the history of literature and philosophy. Such pictures as the "Disputa" and the "School of Athens" are real contributions to the history of human thought. Only a man who was himself of profound intellectuality on a plane of equality with the great intellectual geniuses whom he was painting could have conceived and completed these magnificent groups of the world's greatest men successfully. It has been well said that to appreciate properly the pictures of the Segnatura is of itself an education. To be able to take them in their full significance as essays in art and in the history of literature and philosophy is to have gone far on the road to culture. Raphael's achievement here is that of a great mind gifted with a wonderful power of comprehension as well as an almost unrivalled faculty of expression. No decorative pictures of the modern time, however great, can be placed beside them. It has often been a source of wonder how Raphael was able to paint so appropriately the figures of Plato, Socrates, Aristotle and others in his great picture of the "School of Athens." Only the genius that gives men intuition, that enabled Shakespeare to portray wonderfully the character of the men of all times and the blind Homer to give us an enduring picture of man could have enabled him to do it. It was the time of the New Learning and the recently aroused interest in the classics, but no mere accumulation of information would ever have made him capable of such a representation. As Gladstone once said of Homer, a whole encyclopaedia of information with regard to the Greeks of Homer's time would not have told us as much about them as Homer has given us. At the time when he did the painting Raphael was not much more than thirty and his life had been occupied with painting and not with the accumulation of erudition. Henry Strachey in {9} his sketch of Raphael calls attention to the fact that none of the great contemporary Italian humanists were in Rome at this time. Neither Bembo nor Bibbiena nor Castiglione were where they might be readily consulted, and it was only Raphael's genius insight that enabled him to accomplish so wonderfully the task he had been set. For while the subjects were probably chosen for him he had to work out the details for himself, and indeed these wonderful compositions show this very clearly. [Illustration: Raphael, School of Athens] Raphael revealed for us in the "Camera della Segnatura," as almost no one else has done, the attitude of mind of his period with regard to the meaning of life. Years of scholarly devotion to the study of pagan antiquity and especially the great Greek philosophers and poets, as well as the remains of its sculpture, had awakened in men's minds a broader view of life and its significance than had been possible for centuries. Raphael has summed this up in the wonderful documents that he has left in the Vatican and put on canvas what the great scholars of the time tried to express in words. The late Professor Kraus of Munich in his chapter on Medicean Rome in the second volume of the Cambridge modern History has told the story of this: "The four pictures of the camera represent the aspirations of the soul of man in each of its faculties; the striving of all humanity towards God by means of aesthetic perception (Parnassus), the explanation of reason in philosophical inquiry and all scientific research (the _School of Athens_), order in Church and State (_Gift of Ecclesiastical and Secular Laws_) and finally Theology. The whole may be summed up as a pictorial representation of Pico della Mirandola's celebrated phrase, _philosophia veritatem quaerit, theologia invenit, religio possidet;_ and it corresponds with what Marsilio says in his _Academy of Noble Minds_ when he characterized our life's work as an ascent to the angels and to God." Artists and poets and writers have vied with each other in saying strong words of high praise with regard to these decorations. The Blashfields in their "Italian Cities" have told the story of the limitations under which he worked, those of the room, lighted from two sides with two walls pierced by {10} windows, and then the fact that to a great extent probably his subjects were dictated, yet he must needs body them forth in concrete form and clearly. How well the young artist not only overcame these difficulties but out of the very difficulties created the most marvellous portions of his masterpieces the Blashfields have also told. In one paragraph they have detailed the story of Raphael's associations with the artists of Rome at that period. Because it gives some idea of the wealth of artistic genius existent in this time it concerns us deeply here. They say: "The Urbinate (Raphael) strong as he was, had felt the need of strengthening himself still further by acquiring the friendship of other artists, and creating a kind of little court. We are told that almost nightly at his table there met, Luca Signorelli, Pietro Perugino, Baldassare Peruzzi, Giovanantonio Bazzi and Lorenzo Lotto. What an age! when a single supper party could furnish such an assemblage of world-famous artists, who in turn, as they went from their quarters in the Borgo Vecchio, might meet Michelangelo returning from the Vatican with the contingent of Florentines, Bugiardini, Granacci, Aristotile da Sangallo, and l'Indaco, who were helping him in the Sistine Chapel." So much has been said of the Camera della Segnatura that it is sometimes forgotten that there are other rooms at the Vatican decorated by Raphael, only less wonderful than this. If they existed anywhere else they would be prized very highly, and if they were by any other artist would place him among the great artists of all time. The Camera del Incendio, so called because of the representation of "The Fire in the Borgo," has in this scene one of the most dramatic pictures ever painted. There are other great dramatic subjects finely treated here, as "The Oath of Leo III" and the "Coronation of Charlemagne." In this work Raphael was probably assisted to a noteworthy extent by pupils and associates, yet all of it is stamped with his genius. There are in the Camera del Eliodoro such pictures as "Jacob's Dream," the "Sacrifice of Isaac" and the "Burning Bush," which show Raphael's wonderful power of composition and at the same time the readiness of genius which enabled him to turn from one subject to another, accomplishing {11} so much that one is astounded to think of how ideas must have crowded on him and yet how well all is done considering that the artist so often needs above all the element of time to perfect his work. Had Raphael been spared to the ordinary length of life or to such years as Michelangelo's four score and ten or Titian's almost five score, what an abundance of his art there would be in the world. One of Raphael's greatest works at Rome is comparatively little appreciated except by those whose attention has been particularly called to it. This was his making of the cartoons for the series of tapestries to be hung in the Sistine Chapel. These tapestries were to be manufactured in the Low Countries, but the Pope wanted the subjects that were to be represented to come from Raphael. Raphael consented to make the cartoons for them, though he knew that they would be cut into rolls some two inches wide to be handed over to the weavers. He had no idea that they would ever be exhibited except in the imperfect way in which tapestry can represent painting. Most artists of high rank would probably refuse such a commission. Certainly it seemed rather derogatory to his dignity as an artist to think that he should furnish only copies that were themselves to have no place among his collected works and prove at most a dubious addition to his fame. Under these circumstances it would not have been surprising if the composition and the manner of execution of the cartoons had been far below that of his works in painting and fresco. He gave himself to the commission, however, whole-heartedly and executed a series of designs that are among the greatest compositions that have ever come from an artist's hand. These cartoons, after having been copied in tapestry, lay in the narrow rolls into which they had been slit in the tapestry factory in the Low Countries until, resurrected almost in our own time, they became the most precious treasures of the South Kensington Museum in London. Here they have been the favorite study of artists from all countries and have added laurels to Raphael's crown of artistic glory. He had the artist's true sense of joy in work and the artistic conscience to satisfy the canons of his own judgment and taste, even in a task that was to represent him only at second hand. Almost {12} never in history has the great artist consented thus to make himself subsidiary to the artisan, and that Raphael, the greatest of artists, should have done it shows the genuine spirit of true art as developed at this time. Some of these cartoons, as "St. Paul Preaching to the Athenians," are considered among Raphael's greatest works. Raphael has well been called the greatest decorator who ever lived, yet he consented to add his mite to the decoration of the Sistine Chapel, in which Michelangelo's triumphant work stood out so grandly above, in order that the hangings on the walls might be worthy of that wonderful chapel that a great Pope had planned and had had the happy faculty of securing the greatest men of all time as collaborators in finishing. Perhaps nothing shows the wonderful artistic power and influence of Raphael more than the fact that his compositions have dictated practically all the interpretation of Bible scenes for the after time. Quite unconsciously men have adopted his way of looking at things. He did not costume Biblical characters in the clothes of his own time, but on the other hand, in spite of his wide knowledge as an archaeologist, he did not attempt to make his pictures true to the genuine life of the times and the costuming of the older period. The set of cartoons particularly illustrate how well he visualized the scenes and yet the Apostles are dressed in garments that they never wore. As I write there is before me an engraving of Paul preaching to the Athenians. That Unknown God whom they had worshipped he is come to preach to them. It is a wonderful composition. Probably nothing has ever excelled it. There is probably not a single feature in it, however, that in any way represents what is true to history in the scene or the people. After his time for centuries his visualization satisfied people's minds, so much is genius able to impose itself on humanity. The Sistine Madonna, the only picture of Raphael's painted on canvas, is usually considered to be the greatest religious painting that ever was executed and one of the most wonderful realizations of vivid poetic imagination that the world possesses. Everything in it is full of sublime suggestion. The majestic attitude of the Madonna posed upon the clouds, her face of perfect beauty, her far-away gaze of rapt veneration {13} and absorption in her motherhood, but motherhood of the Divine, proclaim her a vision from Heaven. No more wonderful conception of the human mother of the Divinity has ever been reached and yet critics and artists are a unit in proclaiming that the Virgin Mother is surpassed in wondrous realization of profound imagination by the Divine Child Whom she holds so tenderly in her arms. He looks out into the world from those arms with solemn sacred eyes that somehow give the idea of His profound interest in all that He sees and of an all-embracing vision. Then there is the rugged, bearded Pope Sixtus gazing upward with rapt devotion and the graceful, beautiful Saint Barbara adequately representative of the modest virgins who all over the world, for all the time since the coming of Christ, modestly cast their eyes down before the Virgin Mother and her child. Below are the two exquisite boy angels, whose charming childish attitudes of rapture have always roused so much interest. It is said that these were the portraits of two little boys who came to gaze, boy fashion, curiously into the window of the studio while Raphael was painting. His transformation of the mischievous, inquisitive, supremely boyish faces into the look of angelic rapture is one of the triumphs of the picture that have always made it of the greatest interest. Painted originally for an Italian Church it is now the treasure of the gallery of Dresden, where it occupies a room by itself that is more like a shrine to which devout worshippers come from all over the world and in which as in some sacred place the visitor distinctly lowers his voice and walks on tiptoe. Nothing tells more of what the picture means than to watch the crowds that come from all over the world to see it and the way in which it is almost worshipped by those whose opinion is worth the most. After the Sistine Madonna, unfortunately for art, Raphael's attention was drawn more and more from its special sphere of work as a painter and his time was taken up and his attention absorbed by the larger, wider pursuits of art director and archaeologist. This would not have been so sad perhaps only for the brevity of the life destined to be his. Had he lived to three score and ten the ten years devoted to these {14} phases of art work, as they may well be called, would probably have proved beneficial to his development. As it was we are likely to think of it as time wasted by a great genius painter. His art directorship proves the genius of the man. His workshop at Rome gradually took on the character of a school of art. In this designs were prepared not only for fresco but for mosaic work, for tapestry, for the carving of wood and stone and even for engraving and other phases of art. Vasari mentions fifty scholars who were employed as pupils and assistants in this workshop. In the meantime Raphael's interest in art history and his passion for classical art led him to dispatch artists to Naples and Athens, to make drawings of noteworthy antiquities that had been discovered. His manifold interests serve to show how broad were his own sympathies with everything artistic. Towards the end of his life, though Raphael at thirty-five had no idea that death was impending, he devoted himself to the study of Roman antiquities and to the direction of the archaeological excavations which were then being carried on in Rome. He had conceived the design of reconstructing an entire plan of ancient Rome, based partly on the discoveries of the excavators and partly on the descriptions of classical writers. For this he made numerous plans and sketches with his own hand, and though these have unfortunately perished, there is in the Library at Munich a copy of the report which he drew up on this subject. It is in the form of a Latin letter to Pope Leo X, showing how deeply the Pope was interested in the scheme and that very probably it was due to his urging that Raphael took it up. This letter has been declared a monument to the industry and the archaeological learning of the artist. Ordinarily in the modern time we are likely to think that the artist devotes himself to his painting and leaves to the professional scholar such work as this. We do not look for many-sidedness in the artist. Raphael, however, like Leonardo da Vinci and Michelangelo, evidently had a magnificent breadth of intellect that would have given the most precious fruits of the spirit in many lines besides painting, had he only lived to anything like the years of so many of his great contemporaries. [Illustration: RAPHAEL, POETRY (MOSAIC, VATICAN)] {15} CHAPTER II LEONARDO DA VINCI When it was announced that the "Mona Lisa" had been stolen from the Louvre a thrill of solicitude that was almost dismay went through the civilized world. Its recovery has been a triumph. It is only a woman's portrait, herself of no importance, with what some might call a conventional landscape behind it, all on a comparatively small canvas, with its colors rather dimmed by time and by unfortunate surroundings during its somewhat over four hundred years of existence, yet it was looked upon as one of the most precious art treasures of the race. Critics with a right to an opinion have often declared that it was probably the greatest portrait of a human being that had ever been painted. When we recall how magnificently Rembrandt portrayed the Dutch burghers of his time, with what marvellous expression Raphael painted some of the personages he knew and how wondrously Velasquez painted some of his contemporaries; the placing of Leonardo's "Mona Lisa" above them by good critics shows what a supreme place must be accorded to it in the history of art. Art critics have expressed themselves in almost unmeasured terms as to the significance of the expression on the face of the "Mona Lisa." They do not hesitate to proclaim that Leonardo painted the very soul and not merely the bodily features of a woman. Walter Pater in his "The Renaissance" has written an almost dithyrambic description of it that is well known and yet deserves to be quoted again if only to show how a really great critic can be carried away by a favorite work of art:-- "'La Gioconda' is, in the truest sense, Leonardo's masterpiece, the revealing instance of his mode of thought and work. In suggestiveness, only the 'Melancholia' of Dürer is comparable to it; and no crude symbolism disturbs the effect of its subdued and graceful mystery. We all know the face {16} and hands of the figure, set in its marble chair, in that cirque of fantastic rocks, as in some faint light under sea. Perhaps of all ancient pictures time has chilled it least. "The presence that thus rose so strangely beside the waters, is expressive of what in the ways of a thousand years man had come to desire. Here is the head upon which all 'the ends of the world are come,' and the eyelids are a little weary. It is a beauty wrought out from within upon the flesh, the deposit, little cell by cell, of strange thoughts and fantastic reveries and exquisite passions. Set it for a moment beside one of those white Greek goddesses or beautiful women of antiquity, and how would they be troubled by this beauty, into which the soul with all its maladies has passed? All the thoughts and experience of the world have etched and moulded there, in that which they have of power to refine and make expressive the outward form, the animalism of Greece, the lust of Rome, the reverie of the middle age with its spiritual ambition and imaginative loves, the return of the Pagan world, the sins of the Borgias. She is older than the rocks among which she sits; like the vampire, she has been dead many times, and learned the secrets of the grave; and has been a diver in deep seas, and keeps their fallen day about her; and trafficked for strange webs with Eastern merchants; and, as Leda, was the mother of Helen of Troy, and, as Saint Anne, the mother of Mary; and all this has been to her but as the sound of lyres and flutes, and lives only in the delicacy with which it has moulded the changing lineaments, and tinged the eyelids and the hands." While the "Mona Lisa" was undoubtedly the greatest of Leonardo's portraits, perhaps the best possible idea of Leonardo's power as an artist is to be found in the "Last Supper." Instead of making a placid group he has chosen the moment just after the Lord had said that one of the Twelve will betray Him and when all are asking "Is it I, Lord?" He represents not only the individual shock but also the natural grouping that occurred as a consequence of the announcement There are four groups of three each, separate and with very distinct interest and yet they are so arranged as not to break the unity of the picture. On the left side the outer three {17} are all intently gazing on the Lord while the external group on the other side are gazing away from Him, but their hands all point towards Him. The inner three on the right are talking directly to Him while the corresponding three on the left are occupied among themselves and yet evidently intent on Him. There was probably never put together a more expressive set of faces. Each one is eminently individual, and each one shows marvellously the character of the Apostle represented. It has been said that it is as if the painter had made a condensed biography of each one of them with his brush. All the special characteristics of the different Apostles that we know are here to be seen in their faces. He has painted the souls and characters of the men in the imaginary portraits that he makes. There is an old tradition mentioned by Vasari, that charming gatherer of legends with regard to the old painters, that Leonardo, unable to satisfy himself with the head and face of Jesus, left it unfinished. This would indeed have been a sad loss to art. Leonardo hesitated for long, wondering above all whether he should follow a model, but finally made his peace with tradition, accepted the type of head for the Lord that had been created by Giotto, and refining it still more succeeded in giving a look of mystic superhumanity to it that would evoke the idea of divinity. It is easy to see how much he borrowed but it is harder to realize how much he added, yet artists who have studied it have felt that here indeed was a triumph and that, as far as possible, Leonardo had represented the human face divine. He followed his model strictly in the case of the Apostles' heads and none knew better than he how to select models, but in the head of Christ he turns from the model and works out his design from ideals of the human face of which so many existed in his well-stored fancy. The face of Christ was left somewhat vague, trembling, undissolved like faces seen in cloud or in the fire. Leonardo himself once counselled his students to look for suggestions in curious cloud and fire shapes and even to study the vague forms that occur in imitation of human faces on cracked and stained surfaces of ruined walls, and some of his own devotion to this seems to have been of help to him in this marvellous face. {18} Much has been said about the head of Judas in this picture. According to Vasari, Leonardo fairly outdid himself on this face and head and he talks about "the force and truth with which the master has exhibited the imperious determination, hatred and treachery of Judas." According to another legend he had haunted the purlieus of Florence for months, searching for a head and face expressive enough in its malignity for his Judas. Possibly one might expect to find a human monster then in the Apostle traitor. In spite of Vasari's traditions, who here seems to have indulged his fancy for the sensational, Judas has a very interesting human face, rather weak than strong, but with redeeming qualities in it. After all it must not be forgotten that the face had to recall or at least not negative the fact that this man had been for three years in the company of the Lord, chosen as one of the Twelve, with possibilities of as great accomplishment for good as the others if he had not turned aside. Judas was not foreordained to be a traitor, but he made himself such. It was not his nature that compelled him to the crime, but his failure to control certain elemental passions, above all the craving for money, that led him into it. Many a good man since has been led off the same way. We have the face of a man who might have been one of the honored Apostles. That he was not is his own fault. It is said that the same model was used by Leonardo for Peter and Judas. If so, surely it was a stroke of genius. Peter too was weak. He even denied the Master, but had it in him to realize his weakness and repent. Peter's face is in the light, Judas' face in the shadow of Leonardo's picture. If Leonardo had not given Judas the bag to carry, thrown his face out of the line of the Apostles near him who are in the light, and made him ominously upset the salt while reaching for a better quality of bread than that near him, it would have been rather difficult to pick him out from among the others. One thing is absolutely true in this great work of art. All the faces of the Apostles, with the possible exception of John's, are rudely strong. The men who were to carry on the work of the Master and convert the world to Christianity were not effeminate in any sense, and above all they had been the rough {19} fishermen of Galilee. Their costumes are modernized, their beards are probably less unkempt than if they were really Judeans, but here is a group of men whose very strength of feature makes them striking. As has been well said, Leonardo broke up the old formality and immobility of the earlier painters and brought life and action into the scene. For the first time the personages are deprived of their halos and there is nothing to make the group of men anything more than human beings deeply interested in a great purpose and disturbed to the depths of their beings by the suggestion from the Master Himself that now that purpose was to be thwarted by the treason of one of their number. This conception seems all the more natural when we recall that none of them had as yet been confirmed in grace, that one was to deny, another betray and all were to be hesitant and cowardly in a great moment of trial. With all this of thought in Leonardo's picture it might be expected that all of his attention would be given to the faces and little to the composition itself and to the setting of the picture. The exact contrary is what happens. The composition is probably the most wonderful ever done. The room itself is so arranged that everything leads the eye toward the centre of the picture where the Master sits, while behind Him the middle one of three windows, with an arched casement, frames Him apart from the Apostles. Through these three windows at the back can be seen one of the varied mountainous landscapes that Leonardo delighted in. The extent of the landscape which can be seen shows that the supper was held in an "upper room." The bare beams of the ceiling in that coffered arrangement common in Italy, the walls ornamented with large panel spaces filled in with a damasked pattern are all worked over with artistic completeness of detail. It is details of this kind one might expect the painter of the Last Supper to have overlooked in his intentness on the sublime moment and the characters. The tablecloth, moreover, is beautifully worked and the linen and the pattern of it and the folds are done with as meticulous care as one might expect from a _genre_ painter of tissues. The glasses and table service are very carefully drawn and every detail was executed with {20} an artistic conscience and eye to perfection, even of trifles, that reveals the thoroughness and all-embracing skill of the artist. The more one knows of Leonardo's power to paint detail and of his devoted study of nature, the less surprise is there at the traditions with regard to his head of Medusa. It was much for an artist to attempt to make a picture of this hideous head on which were the writhing serpents, the sight of which, according to tradition, turned beholders to stone, but he has succeeded in accomplishing a presentation of the horrible as far as it is possible. The writhing serpents are done with a devotion to detail and a lifelike naturalness that only a great observer of nature could have reached. Besides the serpents in all their varieties there are bats and lizards and vermin of many kinds in the picture, while the cloudy mephitic breath which can be seen issuing from the mouth completes the picture. The intense realism of these details of low animal life is a surprise at that period, but above all a surprise that it should have been done by a man who had such wonderful power of idealization when he wished to use it. It is this combination of qualities so opposite in themselves and often thought mutually exclusive that makes the never-ending surprise of Leonardo's genius. That the painter of the "Last Supper" and the charming "Madonna of the Rocks" should have also made this "Head of Medusa" is indeed difficult to understand, and yet not more than might be expected from one of the greatest of the artists of the Renaissance who is at the same time almost the world's most manifold genius. [Illustration: LEONARDO DA VINCI, MADONNA OF THE ROCKS (LONDON)] With all this of magnificent accomplishment in painting, which sets him on a pinnacle by himself in this great department of art, it might be thought that Leonardo's main claim to recognition was because of his painting. He himself, however, would have been the first to object to estimation of him on any such grounds. He probably scarcely considered himself to be a painter at all, or at least occupied himself with painting only in his leisure moments. He beat Michelangelo once in a competition in sculpture, but doubtless thought less of himself as a sculptor than as a painter. He made what his generation declared to be the greatest equestrian statue {21} ever modelled and his generation knew what they meant by that, for they had before them two such triumphs of equestrian statuary as Donatello's "Gatamelata" and Verrocchio's "Colleoni." Just as in painting, when he wanted to do sculpture he could do it with a supreme perfection that is unrivalled. Strange as it may seem, Leonardo thought of himself as an engineer. He actually took on himself the contract for extending the canal system around Milan and accomplished it so well that his work still remains in use. During the course of this he invented the wheelbarrow, the movable derrick, the self-dumping derrick, various modes of moving rock, locks for canals and a system for maintaining a navigable level of water in rivers which were usually nearly dry in the summer time. Leonardo had the thorough appreciation of himself that genius is so likely to have and that in smaller men seems conceit. He knew that there was practically nothing to which he cared to turn his hand in which he could not work out original ideas. He was only in his middle twenties when he wrote the letter to Ludovico Sforza in which he tells his future patron very calmly all the things he might be expected to do if the Duke should have need of them. "MOST ILLUSTRIOUS LORD.--Having studied and estimated the works of the present inventors of warlike engines, I have found that in them there is nothing novel to distinguish them. I therefore force myself to address your Excellency that I may disclose to you the secrets of my art. 1. I have a method of bridges, very light and very strong; easy of transport and incombustible. 2. New means of destroying any fortress or castle (which hath not foundations hewn of solid rock) without the employment of bombards. 3. Of making mines and passages, immediately and noiselessly, under ditches and streams. 4. I have designed irresistible protected chariots for the carrying of artillery against the enemy. 5. I can construct bombards, cannon, mortars, passavolanti; all new and very beautiful. 6. Likewise battering rams, machines for the casting of projectiles, and other astounding engines. 7. For sea combats I have contrivances both offensive and defensive; ships whose sides would repel stone and iron balls, and explosives, unknown to any soul. 8. In {22} days of peace, I should hope to satisfy your Excellency in architecture, in the erection of public and private buildings, in the construction of canals and aqueducts. I am acquainted with the arts of sculpture and painting, and can execute orders in marble, metal, clay or in painting with oil, as well as any artist. And I can undertake that equestrian statue cast in bronze, which shall eternally glorify the blessed memory of your lordship's father and of the illustrious house of Sforza. "And if any of the above seem extravagant or beyond the reach of possibility, I offer myself prepared to make experiment in your park; or in whatsoever place it may please your Excellency to appoint; to whose gracious attention I most humbly recommend myself." Was there ever a more confident genius? There was never a man who fulfilled all his promises better. What Leonardo was able to accomplish as an engineer can be seen in the canal some 200 miles in length still in existence by which he conducted the waters of the Adda over the arduous passes of the Valtellina to the gates of Milan. In its own way and considering the conditions under which he had to work and the obstacles that he had to overcome, this was as great an engineering feat as the digging of the Panama Canal, certainly a much greater engineering project than the completion of the Suez Canal, though until Panama came to shroud the glory of that our generation was inclined to be rather proud of that achievement. So far from being merely an artistic mind Leonardo da Vinci had typically the scientific and inquiring mind. Whenever a scientific problem came up to him, no matter how others had solved it before him and above all no matter how his contemporaries were solving it, he solved it for himself and almost inevitably in the true light of science. For instance while he was engineer, in charge, to use our modern term, of the canals of central Italy, the cuttings necessary for them brought to light a series of fossils. These were mainly shells resembling the seashells of his time, though not exactly like them. Before this a number of such finds had been made and man had found it very hard to explain them. They were usually {23} uncovered beneath a rather thick layer of earth. They looked like shells that belonged to creatures that had lived on a seashore. How could their presence be explained far from the sea and completely covered up? Occasionally, when found near the surface on the tops of rather high mountains a distance from the sea, the explanation had been offered and generally accepted that they had been deposited there by the Deluge. The buried shells and especially those deeply buried could not be thus explained. Scientists, and let us not forget that it was scientists in the true sense of the term who were especially concerned with such objects, men who knew their mathematics and principles of science very well and who had made valuable observations in other departments of science, evolved a learned theory of their presence. These were incomplete beings occurring in the earth because of a surplusage of creative power that had not quite finished its work. Their development had been arrested as it were before they actually became living creatures. When Leonardo da Vinci ran across the shells in the cuttings for his canals, he suggested another and a simpler explanation as it seemed to him. These were actually marine shellfish, which had been deposited where they now were at a time when this portion of land was submerged by the sea. They had become covered during the process of sedimentation and transformation of the land which had gradually pushed the sea far away. It always requires a genius to offer so simple an explanation as that, and as a rule it seems quite out of the question to most of his contemporaries, because of its very simplicity. They usually express their disdain for such simple-mindedness or wrong-headedness rather forcibly, though after a time they come to accept the explanation of it, but usually refuse to give the inventor any credit for his idea, because it now seems so obvious that they cannot think of it as so very new, after all. We know that Leonardo had made a series of studies of the shells of the seashore, though ordinarily it was presumed that his studies had been directed rather to their artistic beauty than to scientific knowledge with regard to them. Apparently his very familiarity with them, however, led him to lay the foundation stone of the science of palaeontology. There are {24} sketches of a number of the spiral shells to be found in his notebooks. These are all charming in their pretty curves, and they caught his artistic eye. Nature never makes anything merely useful. This strong outwardly rude cover of shell for the amorphous ugly shellfish--that is, ugly according to most human standards--is very pretty in its forms and its color. The fine use that Leonardo made of his study in seashells was pointed out by someone who studied some of the spiral staircases for the corners of palaces in Northern Italy which Leonardo is said to have planned. These were only private stairways leading usually from the ladies' apartments to the gardens of the castles and were probably designed to be useful as fire escapes. They projected sometimes from the angles of the building. We know what hideous things fire escapes can be. These were very pretty and effectively decorative. They were planned in imitation of the spirals of some of the whorl seashells that Leonardo had been studying. Everywhere we find that mixture of the devotion to the useful and the practical as well as the aesthetic, to the scientific as well as the artistic. He made a series of dissections. These dissections were made at a time when, if we would believe certain of our modern historians of science in its relation to religion, the Church had absolutely forbidden dissection. Such declarations are all the more incomprehensible because not only did all the anatomists and surgeons of this century do dissection quite freely, and the greatest dissections were done in Rome by the Papal Physicians in the Papal Medical School, but every artist of the time studied anatomy for art purposes through dissections. We have dissections from Raphael and from Michelangelo and from many others as well as from Leonardo da Vinci. Leonardo proposed after making a large number of dissections to write a text-book of anatomy. Ordinarily it might seem that such a text-book from an artist's hands would be eminently superficial and not at all likely to further the science of anatomy, though it might be helpful for students of art, especially in their dissection work. During the past twenty years, however, a series of Leonardo's sketches made from his dissections have been republished from a number of {25} collections of the originals in important libraries in Europe. The collection at Windsor Castle in England is particularly valuable and the sketches are very complete. Anyone who looks over these republications will realize at once that had Leonardo written his text-book of anatomy and illustrated it with his own drawings, it would have been an epoch-making landmark in the history of anatomy and of medicine. It was not until a quarter of a century after the artist's death that Vesalius, but five years old when Leonardo died, published his great anatomical text-book. At the time Vesalius was only twenty-seven years of age, but his work revolutionized anatomy and he is rightly greeted as the father of modern anatomy. Had Vesalius had the opportunity to consult Leonardo's work, his own would have been greatly facilitated. It was not merely anatomy for art purposes but for all purposes, scientific as well as artistic, that Leonardo with characteristic thoroughness had studied. There are studies of his in zoology, made evidently for the sake of his work in sculpture, that represent important additions to this scientific department. The same thing is true with regard to botany. Flowers caught his artistic eye, but they appealed quite as much to the scientific sense and so we find sketches of many varieties of them that are very interesting but also very startling from a scientific standpoint because they show a knowledge of the parts of the flowers in detail not usually supposed to exist at that time. One is not surprised to hear that he did distinguished work in mathematics. Somehow the exact scientific bent of his mind and its literalness in all matters pertaining to science would lead us to expect that. There probably never has been a mind so thoroughly rounded out as his. Aristotle had greater scientific precision and wider knowledge, but lacked something at least of Leonardo's power to execute his artistic ideas, or we would surely have some great art from him or traditions of it. It is even not startling, with this knowledge of the scientific side of Leonardo's mind, to find that he advanced a theory of evolution. That generalization far from being new, as is often imagined, has appealed to many great investigating minds down the centuries, according to the title of a modern {26} scientist's history of the theory all the way "From the Greeks to Darwin." One of the most interesting anticipations of a set of ideas that are definitely considered quite modern, and indeed have developed so recently that we are not quite sure of all their significance as yet, is Leonardo da Vinci's occupation with muscular movements and the saving of time and labor by carefully regulating these movements. He suggested that each different kind of work done by human muscular labor should be carefully studied, with the idea of simplifying and reducing the number of movements necessary for its accomplishment in order to save both time and effort. In a word he anticipated practically the modern ideas of the efficiency engineer of the present time though, as I have said, we are rather prone to think these ideas quite new and recent. The personality of this universal genius is one of the most interesting that mankind has to study. Every detail is of special import. Leonardo da Vinci was born of the noble Florentine house of Vinci in the Val d'Arno. He was a precocious child, attracting attention by his beauty of feature and by his winning ways. There are stories of his improvising music and songs even when he was very young. A little later we hear of him pitying the caged songbirds and buying them and setting them free. As a growing boy he liked colors; indeed, they may almost be said to have had a fascination for him, and the bright dresses of the Florentine girls and of the peasants from the vicinity caught his eye. Tradition also connects him with a fancy for spirited horses. As if these were not enough to show an artistic temperament, while still scarcely more than a boy he began to design and sketch and even mould objects that he was interested in. Vasari's stories of him show that even at this early date, when he was only a boy, his sketches and plastic work had for subjects smiling women. His vocation seemed clear and his father took him for education to the workshop of Andrea del Verrocchio, then the greatest artist in Florence and one whose work has always maintained an influence over succeeding generations. Those of us who have seen his "Colleoni" in Venice are likely to think {27} of him as a great sculptor. Undoubtedly he was one of the great sculptors of the world, but he had the broad artistic spirit of the men of the Renaissance, and there was no form of art in which he was not interested and in which he did not accomplish things worthy of his great time to be the admiration of succeeding generations. Verrocchio was a great painter as well as a sculptor, but he was also a worker in metals and, as so many of these artists of the Renaissance, quite ready to design household objects for even ordinary use, provided only he was allowed to put beauty in them. Drinking vessels, instruments of music, gates, wooden doors and above all any objects that were meant for sacred uses he was glad to take commissions for. It was just the place to train such a many-sided genius as Leonardo, though rather let us say it was just the place for such a many-sided genius to find and train himself. Certainly the young Leonardo must have owed very little except suggestion and some minor directions in technics to anyone else. He very soon came to surpass his master in painting at least, and the master recognized that fact apparently without any jealousy. According to the story as we have it, Verrocchio was employed by the Brethren of Vallombrosa to paint the "Baptism of Christ." Leonardo was given by the master permission to paint an angel in the left-hand corner. There was such a striking contrast between the fresh youthful work of the pupil and the labored work of the master that Verrocchio is said to have painted no more, or at least made no more ambitious attempts at great pictures. Sculpture was always the favorite of the old master, however, so that it was not so much of a tragedy. It was after this, in his early manhood, that Leonardo became interested in the things of nature around him and made many investigations into their meaning. He took up astronomy for a time and anticipated some of the thoughts that Copernicus was to put in order in his great theory. Such ideas in astronomy were in the air at that time. Cardinal Nicholas of Cusa had more than hinted at them when, about the middle of the fifteenth century, he declared that the earth moved in the heavens like the other stars. Astronomical subjects were {28} favorite speculations for intellectual genius. Regiomontanus, who died before he was forty, was alive in Leonardo's boyhood, and after having begun that series of astronomical leaflets which later were to influence so deeply Columbus and the Portuguese navigators, was invited down to Rome to reform the calendar. Toscanelli made the observations on comets, out of which later their orbits were confirmed. Every form of natural observation caught the inquiring Leonardo's eye, and he studied the plants around him and meditated on crystal formation and occupied himself with all the forms of living things. Somehow his feeling seemed to be that such broadening of his intelligence would help him to breadth of expression in art, though probably it was only his native curiosity occupying itself in the insatiable youthful years with everything that came to hand. His achievements in science are sketched hurriedly in the chapter on Physical Science. Leonardo seems to have occupied himself much with mechanical toys. He made mechanical birds that flew, mechanical lions that walked and a lizard which crawled and whose horns and eyes moved while the oscillating wings were constantly in motion. Every one of these contrivances, however, was the result of serious study. He took up with great assiduity the problem of flying and was quite sure that he would be able to make a machine by which men would accomplish locomotion through the air. He studied the wings of birds very carefully, and anticipated the knowledge of most of the principles of flight as they developed in later years. He used his mechanical lion as a bait to catch the attention of Francis I. The beast is said to have walked across the audience chamber towards the monarch until, when close to him, it stood up and disclosed the fact that the "Lily of France" was stamped upon its heart. Leonardo's own name is derived from lion and this was supposed to be his declaration of patriotic affection and loyalty to the French King. Something of the _busyness_ of his mind can be understood from the gossip that one hears about him in the letters of the time or even from what may be concluded from his own diary. It is said, for instance, that in the midst of the painting of the "Last Supper" there was quite an interruption in the work {29} because Leonardo became very much interested in the invention of a new machine for mincing meat and making sausages. The head of one of the Apostles was left unfinished for a time because Leonardo could not get the blades of the new machine fixed so as to make them more to his satisfaction. Unfriendly critics said that he would do anything so as to get away from his painting. Those who least understood declared that this was because he was trivial of mind and incapable of concentrating his attention. Anyone who has done artistic work of any kind, or indeed has devoted himself to literary work of any description, is likely to understand Leonardo's ways in such matters. The time comes when the particular vein of thought is exhausted for the moment and new ideas come slowly and with difficulty. The serious self-critical writer or artist recognizes that what he does at such times has not the significance he would like it to have and that he is likely to have to erase or greatly modify most of it afterwards or to regret it if he does not. If he is wise, then, he turns aside and gives his mind a complete rest by devoting it to something quite different from that in which he has been engaged before. If he insists on continuing his work after inspiration ceases or his particular vein of thought runs out, it becomes more and more difficult and more and more of a drudgery. Finally, unless he is almost entirely without proper self-appreciation, he literally has to give up the work that has become so difficult. Leonardo did not wait for this, but after a certain set of ideas had run out devoted himself to other and quite different things. He had had trouble with cleaning his brushes, and had found that a rather strong lye could be extracted from fowls' droppings. He at once devoted considerable time to finding out whether the material thus obtained could not also be used for the washing of linen. Indeed, his attention to inventions for the relief of domestic difficulties stamps him as quite modern in his notions. Besides his sausage-making machine he invented a spit for the roasting of pigs and designed various forms of utensils that would be handier than those commonly in use at that time. Some of Leonardo's expressions are well worth chronicling {30} because they show us so well the character of the man. He did not write any moral essays, but a number of expressions of his that have been preserved show that he had decided and very definite opinions with regard to many important human interests. His greatest picture was probably the "Battle of the Standards," in which, according to the descriptions preserved for us, he pictured all the horrors of war. He depicted the frenzy of contest at its fiercest. In one of his famous expressions he disposes of war in two words as _pazzia bestialissima_. I find it a little hard to translate that in the force of the original, but I suppose it would be something like "the climax of animal frenzy." Even that is not as strong as that superlative _bestialissima_ in Italian. The ease with which he transferred his services from one distinguished noble master to another has led some to suggest that he was lacking in loyalty, or at least was quite satisfied with life so long as he found someone to pay him for his work. As a matter of fact he often spent much more in experiments of various kinds than he was paid for the results of his labors, and money seems to have meant very little to him. He was known to be generous to his friends, and he once said "the poor are those who have many wants." He realized very well that poverty is entirely relative, and if a man is dissatisfied with what he has he is poor, no matter how much he has. As might be expected, above all Leonardo realized the preciousness of work. For him indeed blessed was the man who had found his work. His expression was "as a day well spent gives joyful sleep, so does a life well spent give joyful death." With the disturbed conditions in Italy in his time he probably had to suffer many injustices, frequently had his labors interrupted, his work often undone, and it is easy to understand how much the jealousy of smaller men around him must have irritated him. He realized, however, that happiness depends on not permitting one's self to be bothered by such trifles. The only satisfaction is to go on with one's works. As he said, "The best shield against injustice is to double the cloak of longsuffering." His philosophy of life was in many ways ideal, then. Something of a stoic one needs must be to follow {31} it, but why should the petty trivialities of foolish human squabbling disturb a man who has all of art and science spread out before him and who knows so much more than others of his generation, but whose knowledge surely must have made it very clear to him how little after all he knew of all that was to be known? Like his Italian contemporaries, generally, Leonardo remained faithful in his adhesion to the old Church. His charming "Madonna" and his "Last Supper" could scarcely have come from one who was not a believer. If these things were mere matters of imagination for the artists of the Renaissance, they would not have been expressed with such marvellous reality. We do not know much about his life, though we know so much about his work and thought. When he came to die, however, he left a legacy for masses for his soul. This was the custom of the time and might very well be considered only a conventional acknowledgment of his adhesion to the customs of his contemporaries. Besides, however, he left a sum of money for candles to be burnt at the shrine of the Blessed Virgin in the little village where he had been raised as a boy and where he had often prayed. This would seem to indicate that the faith of his childhood was still precious to him or had come back in its boyish tenderness at the end of his life. His whole career is that of a wonderfully-rounded man who could scarcely fail to recognize the place of the spiritual in life and its significance for man's understanding of the universe. Burckhardt concludes one of the chapters of his work on "The Renaissance in Italy" with words that probably sum up better than any others Leonardo's character. No one was better fitted to know whereof he spoke than the great German historian of the Renaissance. "The colossal outlines of Leonardo's nature can never be more than dimly and distantly conceived." {32} CHAPTER III MICHELANGELO Probably the greatest artistic genius that the world has ever known, certainly the man who was best able to express his thoughts most perfectly in every mode of art, with chisel, pencil, brush and pen, was the son of Lodovico de Leonardo Buonarroti-Simoni, whom succeeding generations have known as Michelangelo. He was a member of a noble Italian family much reduced in the world. They claimed to be related to the celebrated Counts of Canossa in Northern Italy, and when Angelo became famous there was a recognition of the relationship by the head of the Canossa family of that day. Nobility is usually willing to be related to great genius, but genealogists have not been able to trace the relationship. When Michelangelo was born (March 6, 1475), his father was the governor of the Castle of Caprese, which stood on the crest of a bold and rocky ridge of the Catenaian Alps, overlooking the wild and rugged hills in which the Tiber and Arno rise. He died two months before Shakespeare's birth in 1564, when another month of life would have brought him to his ninetieth year. He is another typical example of the fact that genius usually inhabits long-lived bodies. Great men may be short-lived by accident, but as a rule the over-abounding vitality, which enables a great mind to express itself greatly, also enables the personality with which it is associated to reach longevity. It is fortunate for us, seeing that Angelo was such a great genius, that as Lilly said: [Footnote 2] "There are few great men of whom we possess so many and such authentic documents." His works are the living monuments of his genius, but we have, besides even minute details of all his long life, his struggles, {33} his triumphs, his friendships, his patrons and above all the fire of trial through which his genius passed in order to secure its expression of itself. [Footnote 2: W. S. Lilly: "Renaissance Types." Macmillan, 1904.] Michelangelo's mother died when he was very young, her only place in his life being that she gave him his name because she saw something divine in him, though perhaps that is not rare. When his father's term of office expired he returned to Florence, but left his infant son at Caprese in the care of a wet nurse, the daughter of a stone mason and the wife of another stone mason. Michelangelo often said that he imbibed a love for marble and stone-cutting with his first nourishment. The chisel and mallet were his early play-toys, and though he was but six when taken to Florence, there is a tradition of rude charcoal sketches made on the walls by him in his country home. In Florence he was sent to the school of the famous grammarian, Francesco Venturino of Urbino, the teacher of the New Learning, who was also some years later a teacher of Raphael. Michelangelo, according to tradition, paid little attention to his books, however, but was constantly to be found with a pencil in his hand, making sketches of all kinds. He became associated with some art pupils and artists, and before long most of his time was given up to drawing and sketching. While Michelangelo lived in the Renaissance time, and was undoubtedly influenced very deeply by the humanistic movement, this influence was exerted in very different fashion from what is usually supposed by those who think of the Renaissance as the time when the re-discovery of the Greek classics made for book-knowledge and a consequent deepening and sharpening of the intellectuality of man. Michelangelo had very little interest in books at any time, probably despised scholarship, had little Latin, though it would have been so easy for him to have learned it, seeing that his native tongue was Italian, and had probably no Greek. He died, as I have said, the year that Shakespeare was born, and much has been made of the supposed impossibility of Shakespeare's wonderful conception of the universe of man without more knowledge in the sense of scholarship. Shakespeare had little Latin and less Greek, but undoubtedly the man who best deserves place beside him is Michelangelo, who was similarly situated. {34} Condivi tells us that books were to Michelangelo "a dull and endless strife." He was very often dreadfully beaten--as the artist tells it himself, _bene spesso stranamente battuto_--for wandering in the workshops of artists instead of going to school, or sketching for himself instead of studying his books. His father had intended that his son should go into the silk and woollen business. When he discovered his artistic proclivities, of course he forbade such foolish waste of time and punished the lad severely. It seemed a disgrace that a member of the respectable Buonarroti family should take up so non-lucrative and little-considered occupation as that of a painter on canvas and worker in marble. There was the usual result. Michelangelo could not overcome his native genius, and after some trying scenes his father finally consented to permit him to enter the studio of Domenico Ghirlandajo, who was at the moment the most distinguished painter in Italy. It was not long, moreover, before Angelo was correcting his master's drawing. At first Ghirlandajo was disturbed by this, but he was won inevitably by the distinction of Angelo's work until one day he declared, though altogether Angelo was only a year in his studio, "this young man knows more of art than I do myself." Then he was given a place in the Academy of Lorenzo de' Medici, Ghirlandajo having been asked to nominate two of his best pupils for the Academy and selecting as one Angelo. Surely this selection proved that the teacher was not, as some have said, jealous of the pupil. At Lorenzo's academy Michelangelo came in contact with some of the most distinguished men of Italy of that day. There were Lorenzo's two sons, Giovanni and Giulio, who afterwards became Popes Leo X and Clement VII; Pico della Mirandola, the poet and scholar; Politian, the poet, classicist and philosopher; Ficino, the head of the Platonic academy at Florence of that day, and Bibbiena and Castiglione, the latter subsequently the author of the famous book _"Il Cortigiano."_ The two last-named were Raphael's great friends when a few years later he was studying in Florence. It is not surprising that under these circumstances Angelo became very much interested in antique sculpture, nor that his first independent work was a bas-relief, representing a battle between Hercules {35} and the Centaurs. This is still preserved in the Casa Buonarroti, and with its crowded figures reveals the genius and the assured artistic grasp of the future great sculptor who executed it. Angelo, however, soon realized that if he was to do sculpture successfully he must study not only the outside of the human body and the antique sculptures, but he must know all the structures of the body. Accordingly he had dead bodies conveyed from the hospital to a special room provided for him in the convent of Santo Spirito, and dissected them carefully. It has often been said in the modern time that at this period dissection was forbidden by the Church, but there is absolutely no trace of any such legislation, and every artist of the latter part of the fifteenth century did dissection. Michelangelo rewarded the prior of the monastery for his help in these studies by carving for him a crucifix out of wood, which revealed the benefit derived from his dissections. With such zeal for art it is not surprising that the young man soon found himself capable of doing sculpture of great artistic significance. We have traditions of a statue of "Hercules," a high relief of the "Madonna" and a "Sleeping Cupid," which had an eventful history. A dealer buried it in the earth for a time and then sold it as an antique. Cardinal Riario, who purchased it, finding out the trick, invited the sculptor, who knew nothing of the deception, to Rome, and some of his first important work was done there. His earliest Roman work was of antique subjects, a "Cupid," which has been lost, and a "Bacchus," now in the Bargello. His first great commission, however, came from the Cardinal de St. Denis, the French Ambassador at Rome. This was of a "Madonna" with the dead Saviour on her knees, just after His taking down from the Cross. The group is now in St. Peter's at Rome, and though executed when Michelangelo was less than twenty-five years of age, has come to be looked upon as one of the great sculptures of the world. Copies of it are now to be seen in most of the important museums, so that a good idea of his youthful genius can be readily obtained by anyone desirous of knowing it. Some critics have objected that the "Madonna" in the {36} group is entirely too young to be the mother of the dead son, who lies across her knees. Michelangelo's own answer to that objection is, of course, the only one that will interest those who love the group and would like to know just his meaning. We have it from Condivi, to whom Michelangelo confided it: "Don't you know," he said, "that chaste women keep their youthful looks much longer than others? Isn't this much more true in the case of a Virgin who had never known a wanton desire to leave its shade upon her beauty! ... It is quite the contrary with the form of the 'Son of God,' because I wanted to show that He really took upon Him human flesh, and that He bore all the miseries of man, yet without sin." The "Pietà" is probably one of the supreme sculptures of all time, but Michelangelo's next important work was to place him beyond all doubt in the rank of world sculptors. This was his "David." It is all the more interesting because of the difficulties under which he executed it. A huge block of marble of the finest vein lay in the works at Santa Maria del Fiore, Florence, which several sculptors had designed to make use of and at least two or three had begun work on, but then had given up. Michelangelo saw it and saw in it the possibilities of a heroic statue. He offered his design, it was accepted by the authorities, and he set to work. He built a workshop on the spot and shut himself up for eighteen months, absolutely refusing to let anyone see his work. The result was the "David" so well known. A copy of it was afterwards made in bronze and may be seen on the hill above Florence. It has often been said that the difference in impressiveness between the bronze and marble statues shows how much better adapted marble is for the expression of the human figure. The triumph of the artist, not only in the execution of this triumphant expression of youth, but also over the strict limitations of his materials, shows the eminently practical genius of the man who, at the age of thirty, was able to accomplish such a work. [Illustration: RAPHAEL, POPE JULIUS II] After these great sculptures, Michelangelo entered into a competition in painting and was chosen as a rival of Leonardo to decorate one side of the Council Hall of the Signory. Leonardo was already at work when Michelangelo received his {37} commission. Unfortunately neither of the paintings was ever completed. Only a portion of Leonardo's cartoon remains for us, though Michelangelo's, representing some Pisan soldiers surprised by Florentines while bathing in the Arno, is now at Holkham Hall in England and has been well engraved by Schiavonetti. This cartoon was the subject of much study by contemporaries, and Raphael particularly was greatly influenced by it. After this work Michelangelo was summoned to Rome by Pope Julius II and commissioned to make that great tomb which occupied so much of Angelo's attention for the next quarter of a century, caused him so many difficulties and disturbances of mind and was destined eventually to remain unfinished or at least to be of nothing like the significance that was originally planned. If one looks a little into Michelangelo's life at this time, surrounded as he was by the jealousies of his colleagues, disturbed at his work by political animosities of various kinds, by the slights of those who failed to appreciate and the open envy of those who favored his rivals, some idea of the difficulties of his artistic soul will be understood. In the midst of his preparations for the making of the great tomb of Pope Julius, for which he spent nearly a year in the quarries up at Carrara obtaining the proper kind of marble and working out three or four statues while the men of the quarries were getting out the other marble that he wished, the execution of the tomb was put off. Fortunately the work done at this time was not entirely lost. The two galley slaves at the Louvre, which are among the greatest sculptures of their kind ever made, attest Michelangelo's industry, as well as genius, and they have been favorite studies of artists of all kinds ever since. When the execution of the tomb was put off Michelangelo was summoned to paint the vault of the Sistine Chapel. It is said that he owed this commission to the jealousy of rivals who hoped to discredit him. The Sistine Chapel is a most difficult room for effective decoration, since it is simply an oblong box with a low-vaulted ceiling. It was this ceiling that Michelangelo was supposed to decorate in fresco. He {38} refused at first to accept the commission, saying that he was no fresco painter, but the Pope insisted. For over three years, except when eating and sleeping, he was hidden behind the scaffolding, lying on his back most of the time painting above him, so that he could not read without placing his book above his head after a while. When the scaffold was taken down, the triumphant manifestation of his genius revealed one of the most superb monuments of art that the world possesses. As Grimm says, "If a man wants to get an idea of the art of Giotto and his pupils, architecture and painting together, he must go to the Campo Santo at Pisa; if he wants the masterpiece of the following art period, the extensive development that lies between Masaccio and Michelangelo, he must go to the Sistine Chapel." Fortunately for the after-time it is one of the few great decorative works of this time that can be studied as the artist left it, or at least without having to make allowance for the well-meant additions of restorers. The ceiling of the Sistine Chapel has been sadly injured by smoke and by water percolation from the roof and it has faded somewhat with time under the conditions of use of the chapel, but it has been spared from the misguided efforts of men by its position. A great Pope is said to have said, "There are two ways of ruining a work of art, by destruction and by restoration." He might well have added, especially in the light of what has happened even in the Vatican to Raphael and others, "and of the two the latter is the worse." From this Michelangelo's great work has happily been saved, and as a result it remains even in its damaged condition one of the acknowledged triumphs of human art, undoubtedly the greatest decorative work that has ever been done since the time of the Greeks. Some of Michelangelo's greatest work was done for the Julian tomb, and the triumph of his genius at this time is the "Moses," which was to have been one of four prophets that were to have found a place on the monument. It would not be difficult to collect some of the most effusive expressions of artistic enthusiasm over the "Moses." Men who are themselves great sculptors have declared that it is the triumph of man's power over marble. It is extremely difficult, artists have {39} declared, to give a work in marble a decided facial expression, yet Michelangelo succeeded in doing it in the "Moses," but, as has also been said, every portion of the statue partakes of this wonderful power that he had of making it profoundly expressive. Men whose opinions are valuable because of their own significant work have been unstinted in their praise of the now famous knee of the statue and the wonderful way in which the foot of the right leg rests upon the ground. All these are but details, however. One must have seen the statue many times and have had its meaning in every part grow by repetition of impression, and then something of the wonderful genius of its sculptor comes home to the beholder. We cannot but regret that Michelangelo was not permitted in peace to finish the great tomb as he had planned it, for with the "Moses" as an example we would surely have had in it the greatest triumph of modern genius in sculpture, if not indeed of all time. This is probably one of the most striking figures ever made. It has made the Church of San Pietro in Vincoli, in which it is, a place of pilgrimage for artists from all over the world, and for all those interested in art ever since. Michelangelo has taken the moment when Moses, descending from the Mount with the tables of the law in his hands, sees before him the procession of the Golden Calf. In Exodus it is said, "he waxed hot with wrath." Moses has just come from communion with the Most High, and his wrath is tempered and sublimated by religious enthusiasm and by the majesty which the consciousness of his high mission imparts to him. Every portion of the statue breathes with the wrath of justice, yet with the sublime feeling of the awfulness of the crime that has just been committed against the Most High and that His servant must pitilessly condemn. And yet, had the artist been allowed to work on uninterrupted at the Julian tomb, we might have missed some or all of the great work that he accomplished under the direction of the Medici Popes in Florence. While the "Moses" is looked upon as the finest expression of his powers in mature years, as the "David" is of his younger life, there are good critics who have not hesitated to say that Michelangelo's most {40} interesting work is to be found in the series of statues the very consummation of the sculptor's skill which are in the sacristy of San Lorenzo. There are four allegorical figures, "Dawn and Twilight," "Day and Night," which recall the principal phases and the rapid course of man's destiny, in which Michelangelo has expressed in imperishable marble his thoughts with regard to life and its significance. There are, besides, two statues of the "Medici," one, that of "Lorenzo"--not the great Lorenzo, but his son--and the other, "Giuliano," the younger son of il Magnifico. So little are these considered, however, now as portrait statues of the Medici that one of them is known as _il pensiero_, the thinker, and its fellow is likewise thought of as expressing an ideal rather than a person. Michelangelo himself had said that in a hundred years no one would care whom these statues represented, so looking through the temporal with a great artist's vision they became in his hands symbols of immortal moods of humanity. Michelangelo's crowning work of a great lifetime came in his later years when he devoted himself to architecture. In this department of art he was as great as in any other and probably greater than anyone who had ever preceded him. Some of his smaller works, as the "Porta del Popolo" and the twin churches near it, are admirable in themselves, yet simple and admirably suited to their surroundings. Millet once said that the essence of beauty in art consists in the adaptation of truth so as to suit the conditions. The triumph of Michelangelo's architecture came in the great dome of St. Peter's. As the great basilica was unfortunately finished in the after-time, no proper conception of this can be obtained from the plaza of St. Peter's. Close up only from the roof of the great Church itself does one get a true idea of its marvellous beauty and stupendous size. It was intended, of course, to be seen from a long distance, and when thus seen it stands out with wondrous effectiveness. In the old days, when men came in carriages over the mountains to Rome, the Dome of St. Peter's was the first thing to be seen from twenty miles away, and, thus seen, profoundly impressed the beholder. From Tivoli, for instance, when nothing else is visible above the horizon except Michelangelo's mighty dome, and all of Rome, {41} even on her seven hills, is lost to sight, its stupendous size and wondrous charm can be properly appreciated. It then appeals to the beholder not as a work of man, but seems more like some great natural wonder from the hand of the Creator Himself. How Michelangelo succeeded in building it with the materials that he had at hand, with the assistance--material and personal--that he could command, and in spite of all the obstacles that were placed in his path, the misunderstandings, the jealousies, the petty rivalries of smaller artists, is indeed a wonder. Some of his biographers have been astonished that he should have known enough of mathematics to be able to plan and construct it properly. They frankly confess that he had no opportunity as a young man to make the mathematical studies necessary for such work and apparently forget that whenever Michelangelo would do anything he somehow found in himself the power to accomplish his purpose with absolute thoroughness. He had set out to put the Pantheon above St. Peter's tomb, and he succeeded in his ambition, for the great dome, though it does not begin to curve into a dome until it is more than a hundred feet above the pavement, is somewhat larger in diameter than the great vault of the Pantheon, the triumph of Roman power to build, which had been hailed as one of the wonders of the world. One further phase of Michelangelo's accomplishment must be mentioned. This greatest of sculptors, boldest and most successful of architects and finest of decorative painters, was also one of the greatest of poets. "Four-souled" is the apt epithet that has been coined to express this versatility. It has been said that only Dante and Shakespeare have equalled him in the writing of sonnets, and there is no doubt at all that he is one of the most important contributors to Italian literature, even in the glorious Age of Leo X. Addington Symonds declared his sonnets to be the rough-hewn blocking out of poems rather than finished works of art, and the great Italian critic, Bembo, declared "he says _things_, while other poets say words." His friend and biographer, Condivi, said, "he devoted himself to poetry rather for his own delight than because he made a profession of it, always depreciating himself and accusing his {42} ignorance." His poems were scribbled on the backs of old letters or drawings or other papers that chanced to be around, and only occasionally copied and sent off to his friends. Although often urged by his friends, he would never consent to make any collection of his poems during his lifetime. Many of them were faithfully preserved, however, and of some of them the various readings and corrections show that his artistic sense would not allow him to let things go from him without, to some extent at least, giving them a form worthy of the thought. Nowhere can one find the character of Michelangelo better expressed than in his sonnets, and there is a deep religious vein in them which reveals the profound belief of this greatest of men in all the great truths of Christianity and his sense of personal devotion to the Creator and his dependence on Him and the necessity for doing everything for Him that is extremely refreshing. For Michelangelo this was the solution of the mystery of life. Perhaps the best idea of his sonnets can be obtained from his lines on Dante. It had come to be the custom during the Renaissance to think that the only literature worth while thinking about was the classical, and above all Greek, and that the Middle Ages had produced nothing of significance in art or letters. Even Dante was not thought to be a great exception to this rule, though it was admitted that he stood far above his contemporaries. The word Gothic, as applied to the architecture, the art and the literature of these rude ancestors, the descendants of the Gothic barbarians, was invented by the critics of the Renaissance to express to the full their contempt for the products of the earlier period. Michelangelo had no illusions with regard to comparative values. Above all he recognized the surpassing character of Dante's poetry. His sonnet tells the rest and sympathetically insists that he would have been willing to have borne even Dante's years of suffering and exile to produce such marvellous poetry. "Into the dark abyss he made his way; Both nether worlds he saw, and in the might Of his great soul beheld God's splendor bright, And gave to us on earth true light of day: Star of supremest worth with his clear ray, Heaven's secrets he revealed to our dim sight, And had for guerdon what the base world's spite Oft gives to souls that noblest grace display, Full ill was Dante's life work understood, His purpose high by that ungrateful state. That welcomed all with kindness but the good. Would I were such, to bear like evil fate. To taste his exile, share his lofty mood! For this I'd gladly give all earth calls great." {43} The bitter rivalries and jealousies that surrounded him have sometimes produced the impression that Michelangelo must himself have been of a carping disposition, not ready to acknowledge the merits of other artists, though it is felt in extenuation, as it were, that in this he only shared the spirit of the time. Any such impression would be quite unjustified by what we know of Michelangelo. His admiration for the ancients was unbounded. It was he who, when they were first excavated, stepped up to the horses that are now on the Capitoline in Rome, and patting one of them on the back said "get up," as if they seemed to him so true to life that they ought to walk off. A single paragraph from the sketch of Michelangelo in the Artists' Biographies [Footnote 3] will show how thoroughly he appreciated some of his immediate predecessors: [Footnote 3: Houghton Mifflin, Boston, 1878.] "Angelo was a great admirer of the three famous Florentine artists who had preceded him. Of Ghiberti's 'Gates to the Baptistry,' he said, 'They are so beautiful that they are worthy of being the gates of Paradise.' Standing before Donatello's statue of St. Mark, he cried out, 'Mark, why don't you speak to me?' and on another occasion he said, 'If St. Mark looked thus we may safely believe what he has written.' When he was advised to vary the lantern on the Medici Chapel from that which Brunelleschi had built on the old sacristy of San Lorenzo, he remarked, 'It may be varied, but not improved.' Of other artists he spoke no less pleasantly, saying of Gentile da Fabriano that his name corresponded with the grace of his {44} style; and of Cesari's medals, that 'art has reached its last hour, for beyond this it cannot go.'" If there ever was a man who had a right to pride himself a little on his powers and his achievements, surely it was Michelangelo. He had succeeded in bodying forth thoughts too deep for words in every mode of human expression, even making words serve his purpose greatly though inadequately; men of genius had so admired his work and been influenced by it that all during life he had that sincerest of flattery, imitation, from men who themselves were among the notable geniuses of his generation, yet it was he who, in his sonnet towards the end of his life, begged pardon of his God if he had ever used his powers as if they were his own and not for the glory of the Creator who had given them. We have any number of stories of his patient study of art and architecture, even until the end of his life. Once Cardinal Farnese met him, when he was past sixty, in solitary contemplation amid the ruins of the Coliseum. To his question as to why he was there and alone, Angelo replied, "I am still at school taking my lessons so that I may continue to learn." He once drew a picture of an old man, somewhat resembling himself, seated in a child's carriage with the motto, "I still learn." His anatomical studies begun in his early youth at Florence were never given up, and when other subjects were lacking he dissected domestic animals and above all welcomed the opportunity to dissect several horses. Dürer in Germany and Da Vinci in Italy had been faithful dissectors, and Michelangelo kept up the tradition. The personality of this greatest of geniuses that the world has ever known can scarcely fail to be interesting. Michelangelo is the true type of one of the greatest periods of human history, and as such every detail of his life appeals to men. Like many great geniuses, Michelangelo was what is called a handy man, that is, one who could fashion implements and objects skilfully with his hands. It is said that all through his life he preferred not to entrust the making of the implements of his art to any other hand. He used to make his own chisels, files, and piercers and to mix his own colors. Even to an advanced age he continued to use the chisel for himself and was {45}ever famous for his audacious skilfulness with it. At the age of sixty he is described as bringing down more scales from a very high block of marble in a short time than three young marble-cutters could in three or four times that space. With a single blow, Vigenero described him as bringing down scales of marble three or four inches in breadth and with such precision to the line that if he had broken away, even a very little more, he risked the ruin of his work. How lonely he was in the midst of all his great work, and how many material difficulties there were to weigh on his spirit and keep him from intoxication with that joy of the artist in accomplishment, which might even have hurt the work or at least the striving of even so great an artist as he, can be very well understood through quotations from some letters to his father, in which, not querulously, but as if needing someone as a confidant, he pours out his inmost feelings: "I stand here in intense anxiety and with the greatest fatigue of body. I have no friends of any sort, nor do I wish any; and I have not time enough to eat what is needful. Let no more annoyances be added to me, for I cannot bear another ounce." In the summer of 1508 he wrote, "I am sick at heart, ill, and worn out with fatigue, helpless and penniless." A year later he wrote again: "The Pope has not given me a groat for a year; and I do not ask for it, for I feel that I have not merited it, and this because painting is not the sort of work which is my profession. And yet I waste my time without fruits--God help me!" Michelangelo's views with regard to matrimony are well known. To a priest who asked him one day why he never married he said, "I have a wife who is too much for me already; one who unceasingly persecutes me. It is my art; and my works are my children." And yet his tenderness of soul and his affection for children was not eclipsed by his absorption in his art, for Grimm tells the story of a child stopping him on the street and asking him to make a drawing, and the artist took the sheet of paper offered him and fulfilled the wish. When Michelangelo was an old man of seventy-five, however, he was ready to give advice to his grandnephew Leonardo in the matter of marriage. That advice is interesting {46} from a good many standpoints, but especially because Michelangelo thought that the choice of a wife was something to pray and ask for special aid from on High about: "Leonardo, I wrote thee about taking a wife, and told thee of three girls which have been here mentioned to me. ... I do not know any of them, and cannot say either good or evil of them, nor advise you about one more than the other. ... Giov. Francesco might give you good advice; he is old and knows the world. [Michelangelo himself was seventy-five years young at this time.] Remember me to him. Above all, seek the counsel of God, for it is a great step. Remember that the husband should be at least ten years older than the wife, and that she should be healthy." Again he wrote, "Leonardo, I sent thee in my last a note as to marriageable girls, which had been sent me from Florence. ... Thou needst a wife to associate with, and whom thou canst rule, and who will not care about pomps, and run about every day to parties and marriages. It is easy for a woman to go wrong who does these things. Nor is it to be said by anyone that thou wishest to ennoble thyself by marriage, for it is well known that we are as ancient and noble citizens of Florence as those of any other house. Recommend thyself to God and He may aid thee." [Footnote 4] [Footnote 4: It may be interesting to know that the grand-nephew did take a wife, one of those recommended by his grand-uncle, and that Michelangelo dictated the names of the children, often went to see them, loaded them with presents and was their mother's best friend and confidant.] The great artist did not escape the disturbing cares of family life by his bachelorhood, however, for it became the custom of his brothers to turn to him for aid whenever there was trouble. His family had objected to his becoming a sculptor because it was beneath the dignity of their nobility, but now that he was successful they were quite willing to use his money freely. He had a scapegrace younger brother who was particularly a thorn in his side, ever getting into trouble and being helped out, above all constantly demanding money. Michelangelo once wrote to him while he was at work on the great ceiling of the Sistine. "If you take care to do well, and to honor and revere your {47} father, I will aid you like the others, and will soon establish you in a good shop. ... I have gone about throughout all Italy for twelve years, leading a dog's life, bearing all manner of insults, enduring all sorts of drudgery, lacerating my body with many toils, placing my life itself under a thousand perils solely to aid my family, and now that I have commenced to raise it up a little, thou alone wishest to do that which shall confound and ruin in an hour everything that I have done in so many years and with so many fatigues." Michelangelo's letters of consolation to his brother's (Leonardo's) daughter, who was delicate and ailing, show how tender were his family affections. He has sometimes been pictured as the self-centred bachelor, occupied only with his art. Any such picture of him is but one of the many one-sided false impressions of these geniuses of the Renaissance, all of whom, when known intimately, prove to be whole-hearted human beings with all the human interests deeply developed. One of the most interesting incidents in Michelangelo's life is his association with Vittoria Colonna. This is one of the most charming episodes of platonic friendship with wonderful mutual influence for good chronicled in history. Vittoria was an inspiration to Michelangelo in his work, and his tributes to her are full of the loftiest admiration and almost saintlike worship. On the other hand, no one could have held a higher place in the esteem of Vittoria than Michelangelo. She had suggested the subjects for certain pictures and Michelangelo painted them. She wrote in thankfulness and said with regard to one of them: "I had the greatest faith in God, that He would give you a supernatural grace to paint this 'Christ'; then I saw it, so wonderful that it surpassed in every way my expectations. Being emboldened by your miracles, I desired that which I now see marvellously fulfilled--that is, that it should stand in every part in the highest perfection, and that one could not desire more nor reach forward to desire so much. And I tell you that it gave me joy that the angel on the right hand is so beautiful; for the Archangel Michael will place you, Michelangelo, on the right hand of the Lord at the Judgment Day. And, meanwhile, I know not how to serve you otherwise than to {48} pray to this sweet 'Christ,' Whom you have so well and perfectly painted, and to entreat you to command me as altogether yours in all and through all." This friendship of Michelangelo and Vittoria has become so celebrated that to many it may seem that time has woven a romantic halo around it, far transcending the reality. Only a little study of contemporary documents, however, is needed to show that the facts are interesting beyond even the stories that are told. Modern biographers have enriched the tradition with many details, and Grimm has given a most beautiful picture of this most famous of friendships between man and woman which reflects so much honor on both the participants. Nothing that I know contradicts so many false notions as to the Renaissance that are widely disseminated and that are only too often taken as a criterion of modes of thinking and of conduct in this period. All the so-called Pagan tendencies of the Renaissance are contradicted by it. Condivi, Angelo's pupil, who wrote about his master during his master's lifetime and who was intimately associated with him for many years, pays an affectionate tribute to Michelangelo's purity of mind and speech. The great master was a model of magnanimity, and Condivi says: "I have often heard him speak about love; and others who have listened to him on this subject will bear me out in saying that the only love of which he spoke was the kind which is spoken of in Plato's works. For my part I do not know what Plato says, but one thing I, who have lived with him so long and so intimately, can assert, that I have never heard any but the purest words issue from his mouth." He was one of the most abstemious of men. He literally thought nothing about creature comforts. Often he would take a piece of bread in his hand while at his work and that would be all during the course of a long day. His meals were likely to be irregular, and he paid very little attention to them. As for his sleep, he was noted even among the strenuous livers of his time for his ability to work without sleep and for the small amount that he took. When he was deeply interested in some work he would lie down in his clothes, and after a few hours get up to work again. The surprise is that he should {49} have lived to the age of nearly ninety under such living conditions, but work never kills, and if the original vitality is extensive men live on to the limit of existence much better by consuming their energy than by allowing it to react within them, as it so often does. Some repentant expressions of his had been taken to indicate, be it said by modern writers, never by his contemporaries, that he was of a passionate nature and had given rein to his impulses in youth. Except these words of repentance, however, which are rather conventional in his time and indicate a falling below ideals rather than actual serious faults, we have absolutely no evidence. On the other hand, we have some expressions of his which indicate how much difficulty he found in curbing his passions in youth and how glad he is that he used the effort, since it saved him from regrets in after life. The thought of death was a favorite one with him, and he seems frequently to have dwelt on it and to have considered that there was no thought that was better for a man. Not only did it prove chastening, but above all it helped a man to eliminate the quest of the trivial and the merely selfish in life. He held the thought of death as the only consideration that makes us know ourselves and saves us from becoming a prey to kindred, friends or masters, to ambition, and to the other vices and sins which rob a man of himself. That was his main purpose in life, to live it for accomplishment and not merely for the trifles which easily satisfy so many men. Whenever he was tempted to permit himself to derogate from his highest aims in life for the sake of the distinction of the moment, the thought of death was sobering, and the time when the darkness cometh and no man can labor brought him back to his best work, no matter what the difficulties might be in doing it. Angelo's relation to religion is all the more interesting because it is often said that the great men of the Renaissance, because of their profound study of pagan antiquity, had become touched with paganism. There is not a trace of this in Michelangelo, however, and surely he must be considered as the typical great man of the Renaissance. All his life he had thought of his relation to his Creator and of the necessity for accomplishing work, not for himself alone nor for selfish {50} purposes, but with great aims that would be worthy of the talents that had been given him. Once, when he was having great difficulties because of opposition to his plans and interference with designs that he felt must be carried out, he said to Pope Paul III, "Holy Father, you see what I gain; if these fatigues which I endure do not benefit my soul I lose both time and labor." The Pope, with whom Michelangelo was a great favorite and who loved above all his sincere, straightforward simplicity and his deep feeling of religion, laid his hands paternally on the great artist's shoulders and said, "Have no doubt. You are benefiting both soul and body." Toward the end of his life his mind became more and more occupied with religious thoughts, and there was a charmingly simple piety that he cultivated. This had been expressed often before in his great works of art, both paintings and sculptures, and still more clearly in his sonnets. Some seem to think that an artist, because of his occupation, may express beautiful thoughts on religious subjects, even though he does not feel them. Somehow it is supposed to be the artist's business to work himself into such moods and then express them, as if it were possible to express greatly in art, what one does not really feel. Most people, however, seem to think that formal expression in _words_ must mean more in such matters, and for them Michelangelo's sonnets will doubtless be proofs of his absolute sincerity in religious matters. Towards the end of his life most of his poetry is deeply religious in character. He sent two sonnets to Vasari when he was about seventy-five, as he told the biographer "that you may see where I keep my thoughts." A more lofty expression of Christian humility and the spirit of prayerfulness has perhaps never been made. One of them, because it expresses his recognition of the fact that the trifles of the world had carried even him away, that _fascinatio nugacitatis quae obscurat bona_ of the Scriptures, is worth quoting as a summation of his religious life and feelings: {51} "The fables of the world have filched away The time I had for thinking upon God; His grace lies buried 'neath oblivion's sod, Whence springs an evil crop of sins alway. What makes another wise, leads me astray, Slow to discern the bad path I have trod: Hope fades, but still desire ascends that God May free from self-love, my sure decay. Shorten half-way my road to heaven from earth! Dear Lord, I cannot even half-way rise Unless Thou help me on this pilgrimage. Teach me to hate the world so little worth. And all the lovely things I clasp and prize. That endless life, ere death, may be my wage." Angelo's last work in sculpture was a group very like his first great religious group, the "Pietà." It consisted of the Blessed Virgin with the dead Christ and two other figures. Only the "Christ" was ever finished. His intention was that this group should be placed on an altar over his tomb, but his wish was never fulfilled. The circumstances of his work at it are interesting. Like many an old man, he often found himself wakeful at night and needed something to occupy his thoughts. When he arose this way he used to work in solitude and silence at these figures with loving recollection and care and with the thought that it would be his monument after death. He had come to look upon death rather as a friend than an enemy, saying once that "life, which had been given to us without our asking, had wonderful possibilities of good in it, and death, which came unsummoned from the same Providential hand, could surely not prove less full of blessing." Towards sunset on the eighteenth of February, 1564, Michelangelo turned to his friends and said, "I give my soul to God, my body to the earth and my worldly possessions to my nearest of kin, charging them through life to remember the sufferings of Jesus Christ." In making a will some years before, he left as alternative heir the Church, on condition that the "income was to be given for the love of God to the modest poor." While Leonardo da Vinci was indeed a universal genius well deserving of the high title, it must not be forgotten that the age in which he lived was the age of Michelangelo. The "divine master," his compatriot artists have loved to call him ever since his own day. It is probable that he must be {52} conceded to have carried human nature as far in its power of expression of the beauty and truth of life as any man that ever lived. The divine in human nature nowhere shines out so conspicuously as in Michelangelo's achievements. There was no form of art, no mode of expression, no field of thought in which he did not excel. It must be confessed that his thoughts were often too high and too deep for human nature's limitations, and that he did not always succeed in completing his work in such a way as he himself would have wished, and above all such as would have made it thoroughly comprehensible to ordinary mortals. His works give us a better idea of human nature's possibilities, yet Vittoria Colonna, who knew him so well, declared that those who admire Michelangelo's works admire but the smallest part of him. She had come to realize how much more there was in him than even his works made manifest. Often the artist is a disappointment after his works. Michelangelo's personality made one disappointed with his works as if there should be much more in them. As his contemporaries knew him then, he was, if possible, greater than he is revealed to us in his works. Probably no larger man in all the best sense of that term has ever lived, painter, sculptor, architect, poet, simple, humble, devout, in friendship a model, as a teacher deeply beloved--this man, who succeeded so marvellously in everything that he attempted, is one of human nature's proudest boasts, yet himself realized poignantly how little he could really accomplish of all that surged up in his soul. No career in history so makes it clear that the breath of the Creator is in His creatures to inspire and exalt. How deeply a creature may influence his kind, Michelangelo illustrates as perhaps no other. There are certainly not more than a few chosen spirits to be numerated on the fingers of one hand whom we think of in the same breath with him when we count up man's beneficent geniuses, and we can scarcely foresee an end to that influence apart from the complete destruction of our modern civilization. As Grimm said at the end of his sixth edition of Michelangelo's life, "It is not thinkable that the influence on the artistic work of mankind which has proceeded from him should not continue to wax with the course of time." [Illustration: FRA ANGELICO, ST. FRANCIS] {53} CHAPTER IV SECONDARY ITALIAN PAINTERS OF THE CENTURY. FRA ANGELICO, PERUGINO, FRA BARTOLOMMEO, BOTTICELLI, BELLINI, TITIAN, CORREGGIO, TINTORETTO, VERONESE AND OTHERS Perhaps nothing illustrates better the wealth of genius in what we have called Columbus' Century than the fact that after detailed accounts of the lives of Raphael, Michelangelo and Leonardo da Vinci, many painters of the first rank still remain to be treated of in the second place, as it were, a number of them exhibiting some quality that has given them an almost unique distinction in the history of art. Some of these great painters are acknowledged to be among the most distinguished artists of all time. When it is realized that men like Fra Angelico, Perugino, Botticelli, Titian, Correggio, Tintoretto and Veronese have to be grouped together in a single chapter, the necessities of compression in our account of the century will begin to be appreciated. Each of them deserves, for any adequate presentation of his work, not a few paragraphs, but a large volume, and about each of them indeed not one but many volumes have been written even centuries after their deaths. It must not be forgotten that almost the same abbreviation of the story must be made for any other phase of the century's achievements. When Columbus' Century opened, Fra Angelico had just been summoned to Rome to set about what has usually been considered the crowning labor of his life. This was the painting in fresco of the walls of the small oratory in the Vatican, since known as the chapel of Nicholas V, because the decoration of it was ordered by that great pontiff, a man of deep scholarship and an enlightened patron of the fine arts, whose aim to make Rome not only the centre of the religious life, but also of the best influences for art and science for all the world, {54} has come to be well recognized. Artists and art critics have been almost fulsome in their praise of these decorations of Fra Angelico. The walls were covered on three sides with two series of paintings, the upper portion illustrating the life of St. Stephen, the lower that of St. Lawrence. That two sets of subjects so similar should have been treated in close juxtaposition without any repetition in design or composition is in itself the best possible evidence of the artist's power and his constructive imagination. The designs show a freshness of conception very remarkable in a man of advanced years, yet withal there is absolutely no falling off in the power and sincerity of his art, and if anything a deepening of the religious feeling so characteristic of him. When he did this work he was probably past sixty-five years of age. Fortunately in our day, when it is so easy to obtain cheap reproductions of the works of all the great painters, and when copies in color of Fra Angelico's paintings may readily be secured, anyone may know for himself something at least of the sweetness and power of this charming painter of the early Renaissance. His Madonnas have a most taking motherly expression and yet are full of the mystic saintliness that becomes the Mother of God. His angels are a constantly-repeated argument and impelling appeal for the existence of these invisible creatures, which have been well declared to look so real as to be convincing. His pictures of Christ as man and boy are replete with humanity, and yet have the Divinity shining through the veils of flesh. No one but a man who believed firmly, completely and entirely in what he was painting could ever have given us these marvellous representations. It is easy to understand, then, that when it comes to his pictures of the saints Fra Angelico has given us, absolutely true to life, representations of them in various actions as their activities appeal to him. Among them he has introduced some portraits of his friends, thus laying the foundation of that portrait painting which was to develop so finely in the next generation and which was fortunately to preserve for us the features of so many whom we would like to have known. In the meantime, in the background of his pictures he has given us the beginning of modern landscape painting in all the beauty and {55} charm of his own, simple, single-hearted way of looking at the beauties of nature. One of the most important of the Italian painters of the first half of Columbus' Century, all the more interesting because he was young Raphael's master, was Pietro Vannucci, whom, from the name of his adopted town Perugia, the world of art knows as Perugino. He was born just before the century began in 1447. His parents were poor, though not of low condition, and as a boy Pietro worked as a shop drudge with a painter in Perugia. There has been much discussion as to who this painter was, and probably the best determination is Niccolo da Foligno, who is sometimes considered the originator of the school of Umbrian painters, in which Perugino thereafter took so important a place. Niccolo was himself a pupil of Benozzo Gozzoli, who owed his training to Fra Angelico. There were other artists at Perugia under whose influence young Perugino came, and their names, when taken in connection with those already mentioned, will show the wondrous art influences abroad in the period. Vasari mentions also Bonfigli, known also as Benedetto Buonfiglio, whose work can be seen at its best only in Perugia and is well deserving of study, and Fiorenzo di Lorenzo, in whom the typical Umbrian landscapes, which are so important a feature in Perugino's pictures, first make their appearance. A still more important influence in Perugino's life was Piero della Francesca, who was perhaps at Perugia for a while, though Perugino may have met him elsewhere. After his apprentice work in art at Perugia, Perugino travelled and was influenced by such men as Luca Signorelli, Lorenzo and the group of great painters then at Florence, including Ghirlandajo, Cosi, Moroselli and Botticelli, as well as the master Verrocchio, in whose studio, or rather workshop, Perugino probably came in contact with Leonardo da Vinci and also Lorenzo di Credi. There are two oft-quoted lines from Giovanni Santi, "two youths alike in age and love, Leonardo da Vinci and the Perugian Peter of Pieve." It was Perugino's merit to have reached distinction, even amongst these, and his religious pictures have a value all their own. After his years of training and journeying, Perugino had his {56} opportunity at Rome, especially in the Sistine Chapel. Of his work there, Berenson said in his "Central Italian Painters of the Renaissance," "It is the golden joyous color and the fine rhythm of the groups and above all the buoyant spaciousness of this fresco that win and hold us." He has spoken of "the golden dreamy summerings" of his pictures in the Louvre, and especially "the round containing the Madonna with the guardian saints and angels, all dipped in the color of Heaven, dreaming away in bliss the glowing summer afternoon." Perugino's power to paint man "not as a mite against infinity, but as man should be in Eden, dominant and towering high over the horizon," has given him a place all his own. "It is this exaltation of human being over the landscape that not only justifies but renders paintings great." Grimm, in his "Life of Michelangelo," goes out of his way to say that "Perugino's work in the Sistine Chapel far surpasses the others, though they include such great men as Botticelli, Signorelli and Ghirlandajo. His simplicity, his symmetry, his thoughtful composition and finishing of individual figures, though in the others these are often in masses, scarcely to be distinguished, all these give a surpassing distinction to his painting." Perhaps the greatest tribute to Perugino that has been paid by subsequent generations is the attribution to Raphael of some of the works that have since been determined to be Perugino's. "Apollo and Marsyas" of the Louvre, Paris, which has had its place in the Salon Carré for thirty years, is a typical example and is still called a Raphael in the Louvre catalogue, though now it has been almost definitely assigned to Perugino. Most of the important galleries of Europe have pictures that they value very highly that were done by Perugino, and mistakes with regard to his work have always been such as indicated the highest appreciation of Perugino, for they have been attributed to great masters. [Illustration: PERUGINO, ENTOMBMENT (PITTI)] [Illustration: BORGOGNONE, ST. CATHARINE OF ALEXANDRIA] One of the great painters of this time who, if he had done nothing else but influence Raphael deeply, would deserve a place in any account of the art of this century is Fra Bartolommeo. He was the intimate personal friend of Savonarola and painted the well-known portrait of the great preacher after {57} the unfortunate execution of the friar. At a time when the Order of St. Dominic was very unpopular, Bartolommeo entered it in 1500, and for a time gave up painting. [Footnote 5] He returned to his art, however, "for the profit of the Convent and the glory of God." Quite naturally he was very much influenced by the works of Fra Angelico, his brother, in religion, which were all round him in the monastery of San Marco, and also came under the influence of Leonardo da Vinci, who worked at Florence during the first decade of the sixteenth century. Bartolommeo had charge of the studio San Marco, and it was here that Raphael came in contact with him to the mutual benefit of both the painters, though Raphael was much the younger man. In 1508 Bartolommeo visited Venice and came under the spell of the rich coloring of Bellini and Titian. [Footnote 5: It is often said that it was fortunate that Savonarola's preaching did not continue to influence the Florentines deeply, for if it had it would surely have seriously disturbed art, and as it is, it is often declared that there must have been many beautiful works of art sacrificed in the bonfires built in the streets of Florence under Savonarola's inspiration. In the sketch of Fra Bartolommeo (M. E. James, London, 1902), the answer to this is contained in a single paragraph: "The artists of Italy had no quarrel with the friar; some of the best of them were his devoted friends, while many entered his Order. Fra Filippo Lappacini in 1492, Fra Agostino di Paulo, Fra Ambrogio and Fra Luca della Robbia, Fra Benedetto (miniature painter), 1495, Fra Eustachio, 1496. Michael Angelo read the friar's sermons constantly; Cronaca, the great architect, 'could talk of nothing else.' Raphael painted him among the doctors of the Church. Baldini, Lorenzo di Credi and Botticelli loved him."] Fra Bartolommeo's greatest works are probably the "Marriage of St. Catherine," "The Last Judgment," now in the Church of Santa Maria Nuova, Florence, the picture which is said to have attracted the attention of Raphael, and the well-known "Descent from the Cross," or as it is often called, "Lamentation over Christ," "in which the expression of suffering on the faces is charmingly differentiated for the various characters of St. John, the Magdalen and the Blessed Virgin, and so subdued that a heavenly peace illumines the group." It has been declared that Bartolommeo united the spirituality {58} of Fra Angelico to the perfect treatment in form and color of Raphael, combined with a gentle gravity that was all his own and a devotion that was part of his life. The "Descent from the Cross" is one of his last works and, far from showing any sign of failing power, is masterly and firm. In anatomy and composition and color it is unsurpassed; in delicacy of feeling and religious devotion it is considered one of the great pictures of the world. His portrait of "Savonarola," a work of love on the part of an ardent disciple, is deservedly his best-known work and is one of the great portraits of all time, worthy to be placed beside those of such masters of portraiture as Bellini, Titian, Raphael and even Leonardo. Among the other secondary painters of Columbus' time one of the greatest, an artist who would have stood out above all his contemporaries in almost any other period of art, is Sandro Botticelli. He is the only contemporary whom Leonardo mentions in his "Treatise on Painting." A quarter of a century ago Walter Pater, in his Renaissance essays, said of him in regard to this distinction of being mentioned by Leonardo: "This pre-eminence may be due to chance only, but to some it will rather appear a result of deliberate judgment, for people have begun to find out the charm of Botticelli's work; and his name, little known in the last century, is quietly becoming important. In the middle of the fifteenth century he had already anticipated much of that meditative subtlety, which is sometimes supposed peculiar to the great imaginative workmen of its close. Leaving the simple religion which had occupied the followers of Giotto for a century, and the simple naturalism which had grown out of it, a thing of birds and flowers only, he sought inspiration in what to him were works of the modern world, the writings of Dante and Boccaccio, and in new readings of his own of classical stories; or if he painted religious incidents, painted them with an undercurrent of original sentiment, which touches you as the real matter of the picture through the veil of its ostensible subject." In his pictures of "Spring" and the "Birth of Venus," Botticelli has shown his power to paint great imaginative pictures, and the "Venus" particularly shows his faculty of expressing the intimate, elusive psychology of his subject. In {59} his little sketch of Botticelli, Streeter (Catholic Truth Society, London, 1900) says: "Perhaps the most striking thing in this dainty discerned vision of antiquity is the conscious emphasis laid on the distance from which the vision is beheld. The sorrow Botticelli had learned to restrain in his recent 'Madonnas' breaks out afresh in the wistful plaintiveness of the goddess of pleasure, separated from her true home by 'the travail of the world through twenty centuries,' by a 'yawning sepulchre wherein the old faiths of the world lay buried and whence Christ had arisen.' It would seem, not as some critics have asserted, that Botticelli strove, and strove in vain, to achieve the true embodiment of a pagan ideal, but rather that he sought in this strange mingling of pagan and mediaeval sentiment to express his own profound instinct of the impossibility, to a later age, of ever reaching it." Botticelli is famous above all for his round pictures. Somehow these _tondi_, as they are called, became fashionable in Florence about the middle of the latter half of the fifteenth century, and when he was about thirty Botticelli painted a series. One need only see the charming reproductions that are now so often used for decorative purposes to realize how beautiful they are. The "Madonna of the Magnificat," so-called because the Blessed Virgin is represented with pen in hand, as writing her song of praise, though also known as the "Coronation of the Blessed Virgin" because the angels are represented as placing the crown on her head, is the most perfect of these. The lines of the composition, which have been exquisitely arranged so as to fit into the round frame, have been very aptly compared with those of the corolla of an open rose. Botticelli was able not only to conquer the difficulties of this round form of painting, but actually to elaborate out of the difficulties involved in this form of composition new beauties, just as a poet may choose a particularly difficult metre, and actually add to the quality or at least the charm of his poetry by the exquisite form in which he puts it. One of Botticelli's forms of artistic activity that has attracted the attention of artists and literati very much in the modern {60} time is his execution of a series of illustrations for Dante. With his profound sympathy with the mediaeval spirit it might well be anticipated that he would make as nearly adequate illustrations of Dante as may be possible. It requires a deep knowledge of Dante to appreciate these illustrations. They are not at all like modern attempts to illustrate Dante and are separated as far as Heaven from earth from Doré's illustrations. They are extremely naive and simple, and at first are likely to strike a modern as being caricatures rather than illustrations. The grotesque element in Dante is not minimized to the slightest extent. It requires much study to appreciate Ruskin's profound expression that a noble grotesque is one of the most sublime achievements of art. The illustrations have to be studied in connection with the text and with a thorough spirit of devotion to Dante before proper appreciation comes. Great authorities in art and in the older literature, however, have united in declaring these the most wonderfully illuminating illustrations of Dante that were ever made. It is an index of the genius of Botticelli that he should have achieved so marvellously in a mode of art unfamiliar to him personally and then quite new in the world. His illustrations were made as copies for the illustration of a printed book. Until Botticelli has been studied faithfully and seriously, most people are likely to think of him as a painter of what he saw with a certain poetic charm and a naivete which makes him by contrast particularly interesting to the modern world. Few realize how much appreciative students of Botticelli, who are at the same time art critics, have learned to think of his high seriousness, his lofty purpose and his marvellous execution in his paintings. It is above all for his psychology that he has come to be admired in the modern time, and as our own interest in psychology has deepened, the appreciation for Botticelli has grown. He was gifted with a profound psychological insight into character, which he knew how to express with almost incredible simplicity and directness. Talking of his St. Augustine, St. Jerome, St. Eligius and St. John, a well-known German critic. Prof. Steinman, recently said: {61} [Illustration: BOTTICELLI, ILLUSTRATION FOR DANTE] {62} "It would seem that in these four strongly contrasting figures Botticelli aimed at portraying the four human temperaments in their separate and distinctive modes of response to the same spiritual appeal: the fiery enthusiasm of the impulsive St. John, looking upwards, rapt in wonder; the studious concentration with which St. Augustine, who here represents the phlegmatic temperament, unmoved, continues his writing; the nerve-strained longing of St. Jerome, worn and wasted with many fastings and watchings; and the benignity of the sanguine St. Eligius, who, gazing before him, raises his hand in blessing. With consummate skill, Botticelli has distinguished between the reality of these living figures and the ideal quality of the celestial vision. And a special artistic interest is given to this picture, making it a typical instance of the rare versatility of the painter's genius, by the fact that in the vigorous, massive, realistic portraiture of the saints, in the fantastic, poetical delicacy of the angelic choirs, in the stiff, severe traditionalism of the central figures of the mystery, it shows three separate modes of imaginative conception, three separate methods in the manipulation of line and colour, so distinct and individualized that it would seem almost that they must be the work of three separate artists." A very great painter, who is not often appreciated as he should be outside of Italy, though in recent years he is much better known, is Giovanni Bellini, the distinguished Venetian painter. His portrait of the "Doge Loredano" is now recognized as one of the world's great portraits, and copies of it are to be seen everywhere. His masterpieces, however, are his altar pictures, which are noted for their beauty and devotional quality. His Madonnas particularly are famous. His well-known painting at Berlin of the "Angels Mourning over Christ" is probably one of the most humanly touching of mystical pictures. The "Presentation of the Infant Christ" in the Temple, in which Mary is shown presenting the child to the High Priest over a table, while the striking expression of worship on the faces of old Simeon and Joseph completes the meaning of the picture in wondrous fashion, is another typical example of Bellini's power to express the loftiest devotional sentiments. [Illustration: BELLINI, DOGE LOREDANO ] Among those in second rank in this great period of art, one {63} of the greatest was surely Titian. In any other period he would quite easily have been the greatest painter of his time. His painting was done in Venice, and his early training was in glass work and mosaic work, to which apparently must be attributed his marvellous development of color in painting. At the age of about fifteen he entered the studio of Giovanni Bellini, at that time the greatest of Venetian painters and one of the important contributors to the art of this period. In this studio a group of young men, including Giorgione, with whom Titian came to be on terms of intimate friendship, Giovanni Palma, Lorenzo Lotto and Sebastiano Luciani, all destined to fame, were brought together. Especially Titian and Giorgione broke away from the older traditions of painting and became founders in modern art. All of his long productive life of nearly 100 years, except for very short visits elsewhere, Titian lived in Venice and did his marvellous painting there. There are masterpieces by him that are acknowledged by artists and critics to be among the greatest paintings we have. No one has been more faithfully studied by art students in all the generations since his time. Some of his Madonnas are among the most beautiful in the world and bear comparison even with all but the very finest of Raphael's. His "Entombment of Christ" in the Louvre is a surpassing representation of this scene which so often appealed to artists. The "Assumption" at the Academy in Venice is probably one of the most visited of pictures in Italy and shows all the best qualities, though some also of the defects, of the great Venetian. Such pictures as the "Presentation of the Blessed Virgin," in the Vatican at Rome, show how Titian faithfully developed his best powers until he arrived at the very climax of artistic expression. No more thoroughly satisfying representations of religious themes were probably ever made. While he could make wonderful pictures on a large scale, and his compositions have always been the subject of loving study, some of his smaller pictures are almost more beautiful than any he has made, and his series of small Madonnas are only equalled and very few of them surpassed even by Raphael's treatment of the same theme. As a portrait painter, however, Titian almost excelled his {64} work as a religious painter. His series of portraits of the Emperor Charles V are among the world's greatest portraits. His portrayals of Philip II are thought by some even to surpass those of his father. Titian's portraits of himself and his daughter are wonderful "counterfeit presentments" of the real individuals. Indeed, the portraits of his contemporaries left us by Titian have an eternal interest, and besides being great works of art they are marvellously illuminating of the human personalities depicted. They represent not merely a reproduction of the features of the individual, but preserve for posterity the character and the very soul. Leonardo da Vinci and Raphael have surpassed him when they set themselves the same task. Van Dyke is his equal in some respects, but much less satisfying. Rembrandt and Velasquez are his peers, but there are those who think that he combines the best qualities of both these great successors in the same field to a noteworthy degree. Besides his religious pictures and portraits, however, Titian succeeded in painting some of the greatest representations of ancient mythological lore that have ever been done. His much-admired picture of the "Bacchanals" in Madrid and the still more famous "Bacchus and Ariadne," so often now seen in copies, show how well he could enter into the spirit of the old Olympian mythology. It was typical of the Renaissance time in which he lived that he should thus be inspired by Greek culture and religion. If we did not have from his hands so many beautiful Christian devotional pictures, which never could have been painted except by a man who was himself a believer in the religious scenes and mysteries that he portrays, it would have been almost impossible to believe, after a study of these pagan pictures, that he could have retained a devout Christian piety and faith with such a sympathetic appreciation and an intimate understanding of the psychology of the old pagan myths. It was this combination, however, that was perfectly possible to the great minds of the Renaissance period. The greater they were like Titian, Michelangelo and Raphael, the deeper was their faith, though the higher their power to portray phases of religious feeling that might be considered so foreign to their religious experience as to be quite out of {65} the range of their sympathetic expression. Smaller men, influenced by Greek mythology, became merely pagan, but the greater men retained their faith in its completeness. The smaller men are so much more numerous that we have the tradition of the Renaissance making men pagan, but this is not true with regard to the geniuses of the time. Titian, as Delacroix said in the article in his _"Dictionnaire des Beaux Arts,"_ is one of those who came closest to the spirit of antiquity. The great modern artist and art connoisseur did not hesitate to declare that nowhere, unless perhaps in such great monuments of antiquity as the sculptures of the Pantheon, can antiquity be so well understood as in the pictures of Titian. Yet this is the painter whom the bishops and ecclesiastics, the monks and friars and the people of his time, desirous of expressing what was deepest in their sense of devotion and piety, sought after most eagerly, because of his wonderful ability to express all the charm of religious personages and all the power of religious feelings. He has all the many-sidedness of the Renaissance, yet without any loss of the mediaeval power to inspire profound Christian feeling. A very great school of art of the Renaissance was that which took its rise in Southern Tuscany and the Romagna, of whom the three best-known representatives are Piero dei Franceschi, Luca Signorelli and Melozzo da Forli. Piero's influence on Perugino has already been spoken of. Berenson declares him "hardly inferior to Giotto and Masaccio in feeling for tactile values; in communicating values of force he is the rival of Donatello; he was perhaps the first to use effects of light for their direct tonic or subduing and soothing qualities; and, finally judged as an illustrator, it may be questioned whether another painter has ever presented a world more complete and convincing, has ever had an ideal more majestic, or ever endowed things with more heroic significance." Piero's two pupils, Melozzo and Signorelli, each of them starting, as Berenson says, with the heritage Piero left him, yet following the promptings of his own temperament and the guidance of his own genius, touched excellence in his own splendid way. Melozzo was the grander temperament, {66} Signorelli the subtler and deeper mind. Visitors to Loretto, who see the music-making angels in a cupola there, are likely to be surprised into an appreciation of the power of the painter to express something of the witchery of music. Berenson says of them: [Footnote 6] "Almost they are French Gothic in their witchery, and they listen to their own playing as if to charm out the most secret spirit of their instruments. And you can see what a sense Signorelli had for refined beauty, if, when seated with Guido's 'Aurora,' you will rest your eyes on a Madonna by him in the same pavilion of the Rospigliosi Palace." [Footnote 6: _Op. cit_, p. 81.] One of the very great artists of the Renaissance, who has come into his own of appreciation in recent years again, is Antonio Allegri, generally known as Correggio, from the small town near Mantua in which he was born. He is one of the most surprising figures in the history of art. So far as we know, he had no teachers and no pupils. He seems never to have visited any of the cities in which in his time (1494-1524) so many great pictures might have been seen, nor did he seek to make the acquaintance of any of his great contemporaries. All that we know of him was that he had "an uncle who painted, but was no artist." He influenced the artists of the after-time in Italy almost more than any of his contemporaries. By some he is placed among the decadent or "sweet" school of Italian painting, and undoubtedly such painters as Guido Reni and Carlo Dolci, who were for many centuries more popular than the greater masters, were deeply influenced by him. While so negligent of others' achievements in life he was destined to form a school that attracted more attention from subsequent generations than almost any of his contemporaries. His pictures represent a climax of Italian religious art, and his painting of angels and celestial beings, together with that of Fra Angelico two generations before, serves to show how wonderfully the Italian painters of this time were able to visualize spiritual conceptions. [Illustration: CORREGGIO, MARRIAGE OF ST. CATHERINE (LOUVRE)] Grimm, in his "Life of Michelangelo," says of Correggio: "As Parma, where he (Correggio) painted, lies between Milan, Florence and Venice, so does Correggio's painting represent a middle term between the schools of these cities. Greater {67} than all who came after Michelangelo, Leonardo and Raphael there are many qualities of his art in which Correggio excels even these. Unlike the Venetians, he did not neglect drawing; he embraced the whole of his art and made a distinct advance." Grimm goes as far as to say, "If we could think of streams flowing together out of the genius of Raphael, Leonardo, Titian and Michelangelo to form a new spirit, that spirit would be Correggio's. He has the dreamy smiling sweetness of Leonardo, and to add an external detail, his fate as to our absolute ignorance of his inner and outer life; he has the joyous, radiant, uncreated quality of Raphael with his brief life and its interruption in the very bloom of it; he has the boldness of Michelangelo, his liking for unprecedented attitudes and his power to reproduce them in marvellous foreshortening; he has Titian's soft coloring and the gift to picture the palpitating naked flesh as if the pulse was beating in it." It is one of the world's greatest losses in art that he was cut off in his prime at the early age of thirty, yet what we have from him shows the supreme artist, and though we might have had further precious art treasures, we could scarcely have had a completer revelation of his genius. Leigh Hunt, in his article on him in the "Catholic Encyclopaedia," emphasizes the far-reaching influence which Correggio's work had over artists after his time and how deeply the principles of his art prevailed in painting and sculpture in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries over all Italy and France. "Correggio is the most skilful artist since the ancient Greeks in the art of foreshortening; and, indeed, he was master of every technical device in painting, being the first to introduce the rules of aerial perspective. Radiant light floods his pictures and is so delicately graded that it passes subtly into shade with that play of reflections among the shadows which gives transparency in every modulation. This is _chiaroscuro_. Even in Allegri's earliest works it was prominent, and later he became the acknowledged master of it. His refined feeling made Correggio paint the nude as though from a vision of ideal beauty; the sensuous in life he made pure and beautiful; earthly pleasures he spiritualized, and gave expression of mental beauty, the very culmination of true art. His angel pictures {68} are a cry of _Sursum Corda_. The age in which he lived and worked was partly responsible for this; but his modesty, his retiring disposition, his fondness for solitude, his ideal homelife, his piety and the fellowship of the Benedictine monks contributed far more to it." A very great painter of Columbus' Century, though he is usually thought of as of a later period, was Jacopo Robusti, whom we know as Tintoretto. According to Ridolfi, himself born almost on the date of Tintoretto's death, the artist was born in 1512, though later dates up to 1520 have been assumed for him. Like many of the other great workers of the Renaissance, he too lived to be at least seventy-five and probably well beyond eighty. The same store of energy that enabled him to accomplish his work gave him length of days. He was the son of a dyer, and, as a boy, was fond of drawing, finding the colors used by his father valuable for practice in painting. While he lived at a time when many of the great painters of the Renaissance were at work, he was not deeply influenced by them, but fortunately for himself developed his own genius. He is famous for his drawing, his power over which he owed to dissection, drawing from life and from models draped and lighted in various ways, some of them suspended from the ceiling so as to get the correct prospective of flying figures. He invented an ingenious device, a rectangular framework with strings across it which, held before the eye, taught how to measure the proportions accurately. While Venetian painters generally are famous for their coloring, Tintoretto is the master of them all in drawing and one of the world's greatest artists in Italy. [Illustration: GOSSAERT, VIRGIN AND CHILD JESUS (ITALIAN INFLUENCE OVER FLEMISH)] Like every other great worker of the Renaissance, almost without exception, he had a passion for work and has left us an enormous amount of finished painting. Some of his paintings, as, for instance, the "Bacchus and Ariadne," are looked upon as the greatest of their kind. Some of his great paintings in the palace of the doges at Venice have been a favorite study of artists ever since his time. Ruskin considered him one of the greatest painters who ever lived and has made his name and work familiar to English-speaking peoples. Probably no one has ever dared to attempt the solution of so many {69} problems in painting as Tintoretto, and no one has solved them better. He deeply influenced his own generation and has influenced every generation since that has had true critical spirit and appreciation for art. It has been well said of him, and without exaggeration, that he mastered every detail of his art. Ridolfi tells us his two favorite subjects of study were the works of Titian and the reliefs of Michelangelo. He wrote on the wall of his studio these words, _Il disegno di Michelangelo é il colorito di Titiano_ (the drawing and composition of Michelangelo and the coloring of Titian). These were his ambitions. He as nearly accomplished this transcendent purpose as perhaps it is possible to be done. An eminent painter of the Venetian school at this time, who is usually thought of as belonging to a later period, is Paolo Cagliari, better known as Veronese. He was twenty-two years of age, however, before Columbus' Century closed, and as he began his work very early in life he had received some important commissions before he was twenty-five years of age. He owes all his training to the great period at least. His greatest picture, the "Marriage at Cana," was painted practically within the decade after the close of our period. He was very fond of huge compositions, and Tintoretto alone outdid him in the conception of large pictures and the filling of large canvases. Like most of the painters of the Renaissance, he was a man of tireless energy, as well as sharing the facility that so many of them possessed; his very large pictures did not serve to limit the number of his paintings to the extent that might otherwise be expected. He was a master of decoration and of the use of the sumptuous color that the Venetians had invented because of their familiarity with pigments and the making of glass, and no great decorative painter has equalled him in the effect produced by this wealth of color. Already the decadence is beginning and his great paintings lack feeling, and above all exhibit no trace of religious feeling, though many of them are on religious subjects, but they are splendid, unexcelled, cold triumphs of composition. These great painters of the Renaissance, touched by the humanistic spirit abroad in the world of their time and with the old Greek ideas of the place of man as the very centre of {70} the universe, created a new way of looking at men in their relation to the world around them. They Hellenized their vision of men and stamped it upon the culture and civilization of their time. Berenson has suggested in his "The Central Italian Painters of the Renaissance" that they thus influenced not only men's way of looking at men, but actually to some degree transformed men themselves by the mirror they held before them. He said: [Footnote 7] [Footnote 7: Op. cit, p. 67.] "The way of visualizing, affected by the artists, the humanists and the ruling classes, could not help becoming universal. Who had the power to break through this new standard of vision and, out of the chaos of things, to select shapes more definitely expressive of reality than those fixed by men of genius? No one had such power. People had perforce to see things in that way and in no other, to see only the shapes depicted, to love only the ideals presented. Nor was this all. Owing to this subtle and most irresistible of all forces, the unconscious habits of imitation, people soon ended either by actually resembling the new ideals or, at all events, earnestly endeavoring to be like them. The result has been that, after five centuries of constant imitation of a type first presented by Donatello and Masaccio, we have, as a race, come to be more like that type than we ever were before. For there is no more curious truth than the trite statement that nature imitates art. Art teaches us not only what to see, but what to be." [Illustration: VAN DER WEYDEN, MATER DOLOROSA] {71} CHAPTER V PAINTING OUTSIDE OF ITALY While it is the custom to think of our period, Columbus' Century, as the time of the Renaissance, owing its inspiration to the rebirth of Greek ideas into the modern world, it must not be forgotten that quite apart from this there was a "great wind of the spirit" of art blowing abroad at this epoch. The Renaissance is thought of as Italian, but the Teutonic countries exhibit in Columbus' Century a great artistic development at the beginning quite uninfluenced by the New Learning that came from the Greek rebirth. Painting, sculpture, architecture and the arts and crafts, all reached a climax of expression in the Teutonic countries, especially in the latter half of the fifteenth century, the evidence for which is to be seen in the monuments preserved for us particularly in the Low Countries and in Southern Germany. Flemish art above all others reached a high level of perfection at this time that has scarcely ever or anywhere been surpassed. The work of the brothers Van Eyck, accomplished just before the opening of Columbus' Century, paved the way for a great new development of art and made their invention of painting in oil the favorite medium of pictorial expression. After such a work as "The Adoration of the Lamb," at Ghent, no one could doubt either of their genius as artists or the future of the new mode in painting. Their pupil, Roger Van der Weyden, did not excel his masters, but carried on worthily the tradition which they had established, and passed on the torch which they had lighted to successors whose fame was to be undying. Memling is indeed a great master in painting, almost never excelled, seldom equalled and representing a phase of art development quite independent of the humanistic side of the Renaissance. {72} The wonderful decorations of the casket of St. Ursula in the Hospital of St. John at Bruges, done just about the time of the discovery of America, are not unworthy to be placed beside the greatest art of Europe from any period. The almost more beautiful "Adoration of the Magi" in the same place shows a minute finish in detail, a marvellous power of composition, a charm of expression and a wonderful application of colors which have not faded during all these four and a half centuries, which deservedly place it among the world's supreme artistic triumphs. What Giotto is at Padua in the Arena, and Fra Angelico in San Marco at Florence, Memling is in the Hospital of St. John at Bruges. The pictures must be seen in all the glory of their unfading colors to be properly appreciated or to enable those who are less familiar with the great work of the Netherlands painters to understand the encomiums of critics; but even uncolored reproductions give some idea of the charm of the originals. Strange to say, because of the neglect of the biographical details of their painters' lives by the Teutonic nations, even Memling's name has not been quite certain until comparatively recent years. Bruges was one of the great merchant towns of this time, wealthy, populous, busy, enterprising, ambitious, the home of merchant princes who were as generous in their patronage of art as the ecclesiastics or nobility of Italy, or as our own millionaires, though they believed in the creation of new works of art especially adapted to their surroundings rather than the collection of those that had an established reputation. During the first half of the fifteenth century Brabant had produced the group of famous artists whom we have mentioned, most of whom worked at some time or other in Bruges. As Weale, himself an associate of the Royal Academy of Belgium, says in his "Hans Memlinc": [Footnote 8] "Of none of all the many celebrated men who made this town their home has Bruges more reason to be proud than of Hans Memlinc." While his works remained, however, the personal memory of him was lost, and hence it is only in our time that it has been quite sure that the initial letter of his name should be "M" and not "H," though the other form is often used by writers about art, and that the final letter should probably be "c" and not "g" though in English the latter terminal has been most frequent. [Footnote 8: London: George Bell & Sons, 1907.] [Illustration: QUENTIN MATSYS, LEGEND OF ST. ANN (CENTRE)] {73} It was only in 1889 that Father Dussart, S.J., discovered in the Public Library of St. Omer in a manuscript by the historian, James De Meyere, an extract from a diary, in which the death of John Memmelinc, the painter, is placed on the 11th of August, 1494. He was probably born about 1435, or a little before, so that his accomplishment as a painter was all in the first half of Columbus' Century. Memling is the greatest of all these early painters of the Netherlands in his portraits, and yet there are many religious pictures which are full of the devotion of the best of the Italians and wonderful in their composition, in their solution of the technical problems of painting and their marvellous power of expression which show him to be one of the great painters of the world. His great picture, which has been called "Christ the Light of the World," is a triumph in every mode of the painter's expression. His shrine of St. Ursula, an oblong tabernacle of carved oak with gabled ends, for which Memling did a series of miniatures, is one of the most beautiful accomplishments of this kind in the world. In very contracted panels, Memling has placed hundreds of beautiful faces and details of architecture, shipping and water scenes that must be seen to be appreciated. "It has been said that Van Eyck, even when painting religious subjects, only awakes earthly ideas, whilst Memling, even when painting earthly scenes, kindles thoughts of heavenly things. It is easy to see by his paintings that he was indeed a man humble and pure of heart, who, when the arts were beginning to abdicate their position as handmaids of the Church in order to minister to the pleasures of men, preserved his love for Christian tradition, and in earnest simplicity painted what he believed and venerated as he conceived and saw it in his meditations. There is no affectation, no seeking after novelties, no mixture of pagan ideas in his works." Memling's contemporary, Dirk Bouts, deserves scarcely less praise, and Quentin Matsys is another of the genius painters of the time. The story of his rise from blacksmith to painter is only a good illustration, whether legendary or not, of the {74} closeness of the mechanical arts, those of the goldsmith and the silversmith particularly, but of all the smiths, to the liberal arts of painting and sculpture. The divorce of these higher and lower arts from each other always leads to decadence, not alone in the mechanical, but also in the liberal arts. The goldsmith or silversmith in the Low Countries, in Italy, in Nuremberg, easily became a sculptor in the highest sense of the term, and not infrequently turned his attention successfully to other arts. It was an ideal condition, showing how deeply culture had penetrated, and whenever something of it at least does not exist the liberal arts are sure to be artificial and borrowed, not native and genuine. Memling's successors in the Flemish tradition of painting maintained their master's distinction, and even when lacking in that genius which alone enables men to do great work did painting that is far above the mediocre, and that served to spread the spirit of culture among the people. Lucas van Leyden, in a short life of less than forty years, did some beautiful things that shall always keep his memory alive. Gerard David falls only short of the work of such great contemporaries as Memling himself. David's pupil, Moestart, nobly continues the tradition of his master. Michiel Coxcie and others do good work before the end of Columbus' Century, which, in a country less dowered with great artists than Flanders, would have secured them places of highest distinction in the history of national art. The generation of Flemish painters after Memling who studied in Italy represent among them some great artists worthy to be mentioned even beside their Italian masters, though these are confessedly the great Renaissance artists. Justus of Ghent is the first of these, an actual contemporary of Memling and a man who not only learned from but also in turn deeply influenced the Italians with whom he was brought in contact. Jan van Mabuse-Gossaert, Bernard van Orley, Blondeel and Gerard David were touched by the spirit of the Italian Renaissance and its great painters, yet preserved the native fire of their genius and displayed national characteristics which have deservedly given them a place quite apart from the Italian schools. Some of their paintings are among those the world knows best and values most highly, and they have gained in prestige in later years as the knowledge and appreciation of Teutonic art has spread. [Illustration: VAN ORLEY, DR. ZELLE] {75} Great as was the distinction and achievement of the Low Countries, at this time it was not so far superior to Southern Germany as to eclipse its brilliancy. What Bruges was to the Low Countries, and especially Flanders as an art capital at the beginning of Columbus' Century, Nuremberg was to Southern Germany. The city well deserves the name of Northern Florence, for all the arts flourished luxuriantly and the monuments attest, even better than any traditions, how much was accomplished here for art. Her greatest artist in this, very like so many of his Italian contemporaries, was not limited in his powers of expression to any one narrow mode, for Albert Dürer was painter, designer, engraver, but also like Leonardo a mathematician, and like Michelangelo a writer. Dürer's place as a painter is too well known to need special description here. He is now acknowledged to be one of the world's greatest artists, worthy to be mentioned in the same breath even with his supremely great contemporaries, Raphael, Leonardo, Titian, Botticelli and Correggio. In recent years he has come to be more generally known. His pious pictures have a certain Teutonic literalness added to their mystical quality that gives them distinction. He is one of the great group of cultured intellectual people who made Nuremberg so famous at this time. While his art has many essential German characteristics, it is much more than national, though it shows very well the high standard of excellence that the German painters of this time had attained. His visits to Italy and the Netherlands broadened his views, developed his artistic sense, refined his taste and did much for him, yet the essential German character of his painting and his absolute individuality as an artist remained. Some of his Madonnas are quite as charming in their way, though very different from the Italian, as those of the great Renaissance painters in the peninsula. His "Adoration of the Magi" will bear comparison with the masterpieces even of Italy and the Netherlands, and his Madonnas, though of German type, have a sweetness all their own. In his second period some of his {76} painting at Venice shows how deeply he was influenced by the Venetian colorists and yet was never merely an imitator. [Illustration: DÜRER, TITLE PAGE OF LIFE OF BLESSED VIRGIN (WOODCUT, 1511)] Dürer did fine work of real artistic quality, not only in painting, but also in wood engraving, and afterwards in engraving on copper. Prints from his woodcuts or copperplates still command high prices, and indeed it is probable that only those of Rembrandt are valued more highly. He brought these two modes of art to great perfection. He was a fine craftsman, as well as an artist, and both etching and wood {77} engraving owe much to his inventive ability and handicraftsmanship. As might be expected of this intimate friend of Wilibald Pirkheimer, he was a scholar as well as an artist, and we have from him three books, one on the proportions of the human figure, which shows how carefully he studied the essentials of his art; one on geometry and one on the art of fortification. Like Leonardo he felt his ability as an engineer, and like Raphael and Michelangelo was widely interested not only in every mode of art, but all the intellectual interests of his time. No more than the Italians he was not a narrow specialist in any sense of the word, and nothing shows so clearly as his career and achievements how much the spirit of genius was abroad at this time in Europe everywhere, lifting men up to heights of accomplishment that had scarcely been possible before. Besides Dürer, the great painters of South Germany were the Holbeins, father and son. Hans Holbein the elder first came into prominence at Augsburg as a partner to his brother Sigmund, a painter, none of whose works have come down to us. His early works are nearly all on the Passion and show the influence of his studies of the Passion Plays, so frequently given all over South Germany at this time. Early in the sixteenth century he came under Italian influence and painted some pictures that, while naive and primitive, exhibit evidence of high artistic ability. His fame was eclipsed entirely by his son, Hans Holbein, known as the younger, though there is no doubt at all of the influence exerted by Holbein the father on the art of his period, and his sketchbooks are precious material for the biography and customs of his contemporaries. His son left Augsburg about 1515 to become an illustrator of books at Basel. The first patron of the younger Holbein is said to have been Erasmus, for whom, shortly after his arrival, he illustrated an edition of the _"Encomium Moriae"_ by pen-and-ink sketches, which are now in the Museum at Basel. After some five years of work as an illustrator, Hans began to attract attention by his portrait drawings. Some of these, as J. A. Crowe in his article on Holbein in the ninth edition of {78} the "Encyclopaedia Britannica" says, are "finished with German delicacy and with a power and subtlety of hand seldom rivalled in any school." That he could paint with almost equal distinction his portrait of Boniface Amerbach, painted in 1519, furnishes ample evidence, for it is "acknowledged to be one of the most complete examples of smooth and transparent handling that Holbein ever executed" (Crowe). Art was gradually being pushed out in the German countries, however, and above all there was no opportunity for religious painting, which used to form the chief source of income and of inspiration, as well as the principal resource of painters before this, as it continued to be in the Latin countries. Besides, the religious revolution had come to occupy men's minds with disputes about religious subjects, and interest in art further declined. How well Holbein could have painted religious pictures is very well illustrated by the famous altar-piece of the Burgomaster Meyer, with his wives and children, in prayer before the Blessed Virgin. Few Madonnas are more impressive than this, but now the beautiful Mother of God was no longer an object of reverence. Holbein could get no further commissions of this kind, and was pitifully reduced, it is said, even to the painting of escutcheons for a living. Erasmus, whose portrait he had so often made in many different positions, compassionated his poverty and lack of occupation and sent him with a note of introduction to Sir Thomas More. More appreciated him at once, had him paint his own portrait and those of his family and engaged the interest of the nobility in him. [Illustration: CLOUET, FRANÇOIS, ELIZABETH OF AUSTRIA, WIFE OF CHARLES IX (LOUVRE) ] Holbein executed portraits of many of the prominent nobility of England, and after two happy years returned to Basel, taking to Erasmus the sketch of More's family, which is still to be seen in the gallery of that city, being indeed one of the precious treasures of it. With the money made in London, Holbein purchased a house and made the charming portraits of his wife and children for it, but the next year witnessed the fury of the Iconoclasts, who, in their so-called reforming zeal, destroyed in one day almost all the religious pictures at Basel. It is not surprising to find him two years later back in England, where the merchants of the Steel Yard gave him a series {79} of commissions to paint portraits and he was employed also by the Court to provide the famous series of portraits of prospective Queens for Henry VIII. Some of these make it very dear that he could do portraits absolutely without flattery. {80} The series of drawings by him at Windsor form one of the most precious treasures of the English Crown. He was busy painting a picture of Henry VIII, "Confirming the Privileges of the Barber Surgeons," still to be seen in their building in London, when he sickened of the plague and died in 1543. Crowe says, "Had he lived his last years in Germany he would not have changed the current which decided the fate of painting in that country; he would but have shared the fate of Dürer and others, who merely prolonged the agony of art amidst the troubles of the Reformation." Everywhere a great spirit entered into art and produced a series of artists with an originality and a power of expression that has given them a place in the history of art. The first important development of the modern period in France came among the illuminators of books and is well illustrated by the work of Jean Fouquet of Tours, the Court Painter of Louis XI. I have mentioned some of the books illuminated by him in the chapter on Books and Prints, and a copy of one of his illuminations from the famous Livy manuscript will be found there. He did a series of larger works which entitles him to the name of painter, and his portraits are worthy of the time. Bourdischon and Perreal, the first a painter of historical subjects and portraits in the reign of Louis XI, and the second, attached to the army of Charles VIII in his Italian expedition, painted many battle scenes. These first French artists were little influenced by Italian art, and then come a group, Jean Cousin and the Clouets, especially François, who is often called Janet, who, though under Italian influence to some extent, yet showed, especially taken in connection with the sculptors Colombe and Jean Goujon, that France possessed artists capable of forming a native school. Clouet's portrait of Elizabeth of Austria, wife of Charles IX, is worthy of the great portrait painters of this time. {81} [Illustration: NAVARRETE, ST. PETER AND ST. PAUL (ESCURIAL)] In Spain, as in France, there was a development of art in Columbus' Century that owes nothing to external influence and shows the originality of the time. As early as 1454 one Sanchez de Castro, "the Morning Star" of Andalusia, painted a _retablo_ in the Cathedral of Seville and a fresco of St. Julian in the Church of the same city. He was still painting in 1516, so {82} that he must have enjoyed as long a life as many of the great Italian artists of the time. Juan de Borgona was working at Toledo in 1495 at a series of paintings which recall Perugino, yet have an originality of their own. It is not surprising, then, to find Luis de Morales, born about the beginning of the sixteenth century, called "the Divine" and hailed as the first Spaniard whose genius and good fortune have obtained him a place among the great painters of Europe. One of the master painters of this time is Juan Fernandez Navarrete, most of whose pictures were painted after the close of our century, but who had passed some twenty-five years of his life in it and been subjected to its influence and received his education from it. He is extremely interesting, because his nickname _el Mudo_, the Dumb, recalls the fact that he was one of the unfortunate deaf who, for lack of hearing, cannot speak, and yet succeeded in developing a great mode of expression for himself. Such opportunities for the defective are supposed to be quite modern, but as a matter of fact, in spite of difficulties and obstacles, genius usually finds a mode of expression. Like Italy, Spain has its schools of painting, and the school of Andalusia came into prominence under Luis de Vargas, "the best painter of the Sevillan line from Sanchez de Castro to Velasquez" (Sterling, "The Artists of Spain"). His earliest known work was completed just about the end of Columbus' Century. It is the altar-piece of the Chapel of the Nativity in the Cathedral at Seville, so often admired. Vargas is famous for his portraits, "for the grandeur and simplicity of his design, his correct drawing and fresh coloring and the great purity and grace in his female heads." [Footnote 9] Pablo de Cespedes, born toward the end of our period, doing his work afterwards, is very well known. [Footnote 9: Painting, Spanish and French, Gerard W. Smith, among the Art Handbooks.] {83} [Illustration: CESPEDES, THE LAST SUPPER (CATHEDRAL, CORDOVA)] In the School of Valentia, Juan de Juanes is famous for his religious pictures. His vigor and variety of invention are wonderful and his coloring is splendid. His numerous faces of Christ were unrivalled, the best perhaps being that with the Sacred Cup. His pencil was wholly dedicated to religion, and, {84} according to the tradition, he habitually communicated and confessed before taking a sacred picture. He had two daughters, Dorothea and Marguerita, who are famous in the history of Spanish art, typical, illustrious women of the Spanish Renaissance. [Illustration: BERTOLDO DI GIOVANNI, BATTLE (BARGELLO)] {85} CHAPTER VI SCULPTURE IN ITALY Columbus' Century was destined to see the creation of some of the finest sculpture since the time of the Greeks. Probably in no department of art does this period stand out as so surely surpassing any other period of modern times, or indeed any time except the Periclean, as in its power to furnish great examples of plastic art. Triumphs of sculpture were accomplished in every medium--stone, bronze, terra-cotta, wood and the precious metals. The eve of the century saw the making of some very great sculptures, which portended the wonderful development that was to come. It was in 1447 that Ghiberti completed the second pair of doors for the Baptistery at Florence, which have been the admiration of the world ever since. After this it was easy to understand that there was no development of artistic expression in plastic work that might not be expected. All the expectations possible were realized in the succeeding hundred years. Columbus' Century was ushered in with as great a triumph in sculpture and by the work of a master as great in his maturity, which came just then, as Fra Angelico was in painting. Fra Angelico, however, had been but little touched by the Renaissance spirit of classicism, while Donatello, the familiar name for Donato di Niccolo di Betti Pardi, whom the classic impulse was to carry ahead of all contemporary artists and indeed to make a model and a subject of study for all succeeding students of sculpture, was born even before the close of the fourteenth century, but like so many of the distinguished artists of the Renaissance period, lived a long life of persistent work and great achievement, and the most important part of that work came after 1450. His greatest triumph, the monument to Gatamelata, was set up in Padua in 1453. There are two equestrian statues {86} that are conceded by all the world to be supreme works of art, and copies of which are to be found in many museums throughout our civilization. One of these is Donatello's "Gatamelata" and the other the "Colleoni," by Verrocchio, who was a disciple of Donatello. The earlier sculptor had seen some of the equestrian monuments of the Roman times and had wondered whether he could not imitate them, or at least accomplish the same purpose. Undaunted by the difficulties as men seem ever to have been at this time, he faced not only the problem of making the model that would express his ideas, but of putting it into the bronze form that would make it imperishable. He had to master all the problems of equine anatomy, but above all he had to make himself familiar with the details of the technique of the founders' art so as to master the process of casting so large a work absolutely in the round. Practically he had to discover a great many of these technical points for himself, and he had to invent methods of accomplishing his purpose. To most men at any time this would have seemed an almost impossible achievement. They would have been discouraged from attempting it. There were many simpler forms of his art that he might practise, and not take on his shoulders all the technics of the bronze foundry, but Donatello undisturbedly went on his way and accomplished his purpose. There is nothing more interesting and at the same time nothing more characteristic of this period of discovery and a achievement--indeed, it is a worthy prelude to Columbus' Century--than the fact that the very first equestrian statue, made in the modern times when all the difficulties, material as well as artistic, were heaped up before the sculptor, is one of the greatest monuments of that kind in the world's history. Only the "Colleoni," made a half a century later, surpasses, if indeed that is to be conceded, yet this was the very first attempt. This is not so surprising, however, if one realizes the significance of other work of this time. Within a half a century of the invention of oil painting some of the greatest masterpieces of that mode came into existence; within less than half a century of the invention of printing, some of the most beautiful books that have ever been made were printed. There has been a {87} tendency in our time, as a result of much discussion of evolution, to think that such triumphs of achievement come only after long evolution and as the climax of a prolonged process of development. On the contrary genius at any time in the world's history takes hold of a mode of expression for the first time and secures a triumph in it that will be the envy and admiration of all succeeding generations. [Illustration: ROSSELINO, ANTONIO, MADONNA] While Donatello's success in this huge equestrian work might be expected to stamp his genius as much more fitted for monumental sculpture than any other mode of his favorite art, there is scarcely any phase of sculpture which he has not illustrated beautifully. The very spirit of youth is caught and fixed in imperishable bronze in his "St. George." There is probably no more successful attempt at the artistic rendering of the "little poor man of God" than Donatello's sculptured expression of him in his statue of "St. Francis" in the Church of St. Antony of Padua. It was Donatello who, according to M. Muntz, the German authority on the history of sculpture, recovered the child from antiquity and gave it back to art. Some of his baby faces are among the most beautiful ever made, and yet without any of the sickly sentimentality that would make them pall. Their bodies are alive, their draperies cling or float as they touch their wearers, or are caught up by the air. Only his great contemporary, Luca della Robbia, has rivalled him in this regard, and it is doubtful whether even he has excelled him, though the world as a rule knows della Robbia for his baby faces and thinks of Donatello as having accomplished more monumental work. Donatello's "Bambino Gesu," infinitely human, and his boyish "St. John the Baptist," precociously serious, in the Church of the Vanchetoni, Florence, where they are seldom seen unless particularly looked for, are charming examples of Donatello's power of expression in child faces. In Donatello, as in so many of these artists of Columbus' Century, the man is almost more interesting than his work. While at Padua doing the "Gatamelata," Vasari tells us that his works were held to be miracles, and they were praised so much that finally the master resolved characteristically to return to Florence. He naively remarked one day, "If I stayed {88} here any longer I should forget all I have ever known through being so much praised. I shall willingly return home, where I get censured continually; for such censure gives occasion for study and brings as a consequence greater glory." His end was very sad. He, whose hands had accomplished so much, was stricken with paralysis and yet lived on for years. His pupils, with whom the great master was a favorite, took care of him, and even to the end took his suggestions, worked out his ideas and brought their work to him for criticism. Galileo, a century later unable to see after having seen farther into the heavens than any other; Beethoven, unable to hear after having written some of the most divinely beautiful music ever conceived, may be compared to Donatello, with his useless skilful hands. Even this sad fate did not sour him, however, but only made him tenderer to those who needed help. He had no near relatives, and some distant connections, hearing that his end was near, and as Hope Rea tells in his "Donatello" (London: George Bell & Sons), to which I am indebted for most of the details of this sketch, reminded him of their existence and begged him to leave them a small property which he possessed near Prato. "I cannot consent to that, relations mine," he answered them, "because I wish, as indeed seems to me to be reasonable, to leave it to the peasant who has labored so long upon it, and not to you who have never done anything in connection with it and indeed wish for it as some recompense for your visit to me. Go, I give you my blessing." The epigram, with which old Giorgio Vasari ends his all too short appreciation of the great master, seems the most fitting close that could be made to any notice of his life, "O lo spirito di Donato opera nel Buonarroto, ó quello del Buonarroto anticipo di operare in Donato" ("Either the spirit of Donatello wrought again in Buonarotti, or the genius of Buonarotti had pre-existence in Donatello.") Among the great artists, in the highest sense of that word, and one of the great sculptors of this period must be reckoned Luca della Robbia, with whose name there are naturally associated the names of others of this family, and particularly Andrea. Luca was chosen as one of the sculptors to execute {89} portions of the decorative work of the Duomo at Florence. He did one of the famous _cantorias_, the two sculptured marble singing galleries which are unfortunately no longer in the Duomo itself, but in the museum at the Eastern end of the great church. This was finished in 1438, when Luca, whose years run coincident with the century, was thirty-eight years of age. Among the artists from whom the Florentine officials might have chosen for the execution of these singing galleries was also Donatello, who actually modelled the other of the pair, and Ghiberti, since famous for the great doors of the Baptistery. It is sufficient to say that when Luca della Robbia's singing gallery was finished, the Florentines realized very well that no mistake had been made in giving him the execution of it, even though he had such great rivals. This is almost the only great work in marble that we have from Luca della Robbia. He was a scientist, as well as an artist, and he was very much interested in artistic glazed work. He devoted himself to making this as perfect as possible and succeeded in adding this as a wonderful new medium to sculpture. Like so many other of the artists, painters and sculptors of this time, he was originally a goldsmith, but became ambitious of doing higher things than those usually committed to the craftsmen. Vasari tells us that he carved all day and drew all night, keeping his feet warm through the long winter evenings by covering them up in a basketful of carpenter shavings. He worked at the glazing of terra-cotta with the idea at first apparently of preserving his clay models by baking them. Working in this new medium he brought to the execution of the models for it all his genius as a sculptor and succeeded in accomplishing some of the most beautiful results. He developed the medium so as to secure charming color, creamy white figures that stand out from a cloudy blue background, with a glaze that is perfect and joints that are almost invisible. It is only in comparatively recent years that a due meed of appreciation has been accorded to della Robbia's work once more, though his contemporaries valued him at his true worth, but in compensation for the neglect his pieces are now among the most costly works of art whenever they turn up at public {90} sales. While devoting himself to the new artistic modes, he accepted commissions in both bronze and marble for the embellishment of Florence, and the bronze doors of the sacristy of the Duomo are his, as well as certain reliefs in marble on the Campanile. "In fact," as Hope Rea says in his "Tuscan and Venetian Artists," [Footnote 10] "the total amount of work produced by him in the middle twenty years of his life shows him to have been one of those strenuous laborers in art, the like of whom have hardly been seen before or since the years of the Renaissance." Luca never married, but he gave every opportunity to his nephew, Andrea della Robbia, who was an apt pupil, but who confined himself practically entirely to the new style invented by his uncle. In spite of what might be expected, the young man, with the advantage of his uncle's training and the possession of his uncle's secrets, did not do better work, though the amount of it that he turned out made the della Robbia terra-cotta an important part of Florentine art. In his hands, and those of his son Giovanni, what had been as pure an art as any form of sculpture came to be merely a decorative craft. Andrea's many beautiful pieces, however, and especially the well-known "Bambine," the swaddled infant medallions of the Hospital of the Innocents, have been very popular at all times and have entered into renewed popularity in our day. The great series of incidents of St. Francis' life, executed by Andrea for the Franciscan monastery of La Verna, represents the climax of his art work. He was thoroughly sympathetic with the early Franciscan traditions and he expressed the details of them beautifully. [Footnote 10: "The Tuscan and Venetian Artists: Their Thought and Work," by Hope Rea. London: J. M. Dent & Co., 1904.] [Illustration: DONATELLO. GATAMELATA] One of the greatest of the sculptors of the Renaissance, who must indeed be reckoned among the greatest artists of all times, is Leonardo da Vinci's teacher, Andrea del Verrocchio. He was one of the wonderful Florentine artists whose genius was recognized by Lorenzo the Magnificent and was given the opportunity to express his artistic conceptions worthily by this liberal patron of the arts and literature. Three of his great {91} works, the tomb of Piero and Giovanni de Medici in the Church of San Lorenzo; his "David," which is in the National Museum, the Bargello in Florence and the "Child Holding a Dolphin," now in the courtyard of the Palazzo Vecchio, were all three executed for Lorenzo. These are all in bronze, but with the versatility of the men of his time, Verrocchio could express himself in other media just as charmingly. Michel has said of the terra-cotta "Madonna" made for the Hospital of Santa Maria Novella that in it "supreme distinction of thought is combined with the most scrupulous observation of nature." The famous marble bust of a "Flower Girl" is in the Bargello. A silver _basso-rilievo_, the "Beheading of John the Baptist," is now in the Cathedral Museum at Florence. His two masterpieces are "The Incredulity of St. Thomas" and the statue of Colleoni, the celebrated _condottiere_ who had commanded the Venetian troops. Both of these are in bronze. Little as the deep feeling of the scene between Christ and the doubting Thomas might seem apt to lend itself to expression in sculpture, Verrocchio has succeeded in making an extremely beautiful and touching work of art. The Divine Humanity, urging Thomas the doubter to put his hand into His pierced side, is a wonderful realization of one of the most pathetic of incidents. The triumph of Verrocchio's genius, however, is the "Colleoni." It is probably the greatest equestrian statue ever made. His contemporaries declared that Leonardo da Vinci's figure of the Duke of Milan on horseback surpassed it. Sometimes doubt is expressed as to whether Donatello's "Gatamelata" does not rival it. That question must be left for great artists and sculptors to decide, and in the meantime there is no doubt at all that Verrocchio was one of the greatest sculptors who ever lived. Burckhardt declared that "we have a right to call this equestrian statue the finest in the world." Unfortunately Verrocchio was seized with a chill while casting it and died at the early age of forty-three, or we might have had some still more wonderful work from him. He is a typical many-sided genius of the Renaissance, though in sculpture particularly only two, perhaps three, of his greatest contemporaries ever equalled him; it is even doubtful if they {92} have excelled his "Colleoni," yet everything that he ever did was an advance on his previous accomplishment. His disciple, Leopardi, who finished the casting of the "Colleoni," is another great sculptor of the time who, in any other period, would be looked upon as a supreme artist. He has shone with reflected glory, besides, for his part in the "Colleoni," though it is very doubtful whether any but very small credit is due to him for the completion of this work which Verrocchio had left in such a state that but little was required to make it what it had been ever since, one of the world's greatest monuments of sculpture. A great sculptor of the Renaissance, whose career presents many other features of interest, however, which have made him famous, is Benvenuto Cellini. He was born in 1500 and, like many of the artists and most of the sculptors of the time, began his life work as an apprentice to a goldsmith. After a troubled early manhood in Rome and other Italian cities, during which he executed some medals that are among the best of their kind ever made, and various ornamental pieces in the precious metals, he was for a time at the court of Francis I. Afterwards he worked in Florence, lending his genius to the fortification of the city during the war with Siena. While his career is entirely exceptional among the great artists of the time it is often taken for a type of the restless, rather unmoral than immoral, character that was supposed to be produced by the paganizing influence of the New Learning. The true types of Columbus' Century among the artists, however, are such men as Raphael, Leonardo and Michelangelo, deeply intent on their work, anxious only for the opportunity to accomplish high artistic purpose and without any of that restless unmorality that is at least supposed to have characterized Cellini. It would be much nearer the truth to point to the lives of such men as Fra Angelico or Fra Bartolommeo, happy in their monastery homes, or Correggio, who spent his time so peacefully with the religious of the little town in which he lived, than to appeal to Benvenuto's chequered stormy career as typical of the Renaissance. Cellini's autobiography, as great a work of imaginative art, very probably, as any that he ever executed in plastic materials, has attracted as much attention in literature as his great {93} sculptures have in art. His name, then, has become familiar to many who know nothing about the intimate personal careers of the great artists of the time and who will in all good faith continue to draw their conclusions as to the character of the men of the Renaissance from Cellini's rather boastful proclamation of his successful vices, though this exactly represents the exception which proves the rule to be the opposite. In spite of his forbidding picture of himself he had moments of intense religious feeling and highest inspiration. Anyone who has seen his famous "Christ" in marble in the Escurial will not be likely to think that he was entirely lacking in deep religious feeling. His famous bronze group of "Perseus holding the Head of Medusa," to which deservedly the Florentines have given a distinguished place in front of the old ducal palace at Florence, is one of the masterpieces of modern sculpture. W. M. Rossetti spoke of it in his article in the "Encyclopaedia Britannica" as "a work full of the fire of genius and the grandeur of a terrible beauty. One of the most typical and unforgettable monuments of the Italian Renaissance." His story of the casting of this great monument shows the difficulties under which the sculptors of the time labored, and yet how triumphantly they overcame technical obstacles and made great works of art. While so great as a sculptor in monumental work, Cellini never thought art objects of small size beneath his attention, and like Raphael, willing to make the cartoons for the tapestries of the Sistine Chapel and composing great pictorial scenes as their subjects, so Cellini, with a true Renaissance artistic spirit, modelled beautifully any and every form of work in metal. He modelled flagons, bells and even rings and jewels, designed coins and medals for the Papal mint and for the Medici at Florence. It has been said that everything minted under his direction attained the highest excellence. His work in _alto-rilievo_ was as fine as that in _basso-rilievo_. All over Europe there are well-authenticated specimens of smaller pieces from his hands, a bell in the Rothschild collection, a gold salt-cellar in Vienna, a shield elaborately wrought in Windsor Castle and even beautifully chased armor, such as he made for Charles IX of Sweden, which may be seen at Stockholm. {94} Of course, for any proper estimation of the Italian sculpture of this period, the work of Leonardo da Vinci and Michelangelo must bulk very large. They have been treated in separate chapters, and there is room here only to say that, while unfortunately we have almost none of Leonardo's sculpture, we have from his own great artistically critical generation traditions of magnificent accomplishment. As for Michelangelo, his own generation admired him only too much, and the almost inevitable imitation of his genius brought on decadence in plastic art much sooner than it would otherwise have come. His faults were imitated without any of the genius in power of expression that condones them in the great originals. If Michelangelo's sculpture had been the only contribution of this period to plastic art, that would have been sufficient to place it high among the periods of greatest productivity in this department of art. As it is, there were men who preceded Michelangelo whose genius is unquestioned and whose achievements have been recognized by the world ever since. The roll of sculptors of the century worthily closes with the name of John of Bologna, who was born at Douai in Flanders, but passed all his life in Italy, and it is hard to know whether to group him with the Italian or extra-Italian sculptors. Most of his great work was done after the end of our century, but as he was probably more than twenty-five years of age when the century closed, and received all his training and inspiration from the men of our time, he deserves a place here. John, who owes his name of Bologna to the fact that one of his greatest works, the bronze "Neptune," was prepared for the fountain of Bologna, was often called by his contemporaries _Il Fiammingo_, in reference to the place of his birth. Probably no sculptor of his time has been more popular all down the centuries than he, and there are very few with any claim to education and culture who do not know his wonderful figure of "Mercury," with winged feet borne aloft upon the breezes blowing out of the mouth of Aeolus, the god of the winds. There has probably never been a more masterly expression of light, easy, graceful movements in statuary than this. It is for his power to express movement {95} within the limitations of plastic art that John is famous. His "Rape of the Sabines" in the Bargello in Florence is declared "to have come nearer to expressing swift-flashing motion and airy lightness than has ever been accomplished before or since." He lacked the faults of exaggeration of the later Renaissance and had many of its best qualities. [Illustration: BENEDETTO ROVEZZANO, CHIMNEY PIECE] The sculptured work on and in the Certosa at Pavia belongs mainly to Columbus' period. It remains one of the great architectural and sculptural monuments of the world. It has its defects, which are mainly due to over-luxuriousness of decoration and failure to make the decoration and the structure itself harmonize, but it remains a beautiful example of the art of the time. It has continued to be ever since a place of pilgrimage for art lovers, and it will doubtless continue to be so for as long as this present phase of our civilization lasts. It contains some most effective work, and while not all of its sculpture is conceived in the true spirit of what belongs to plastic art, there is much of it that has never been surpassed except by supremely great sculptors, the men who are looked upon as the world's geniuses in this department. When the Certosa is compared with some of the churches which in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries were thought to be the highest expressions of artistic excellence, the taste and the ability of the sculptors and architects of the Renaissance become manifest. Perhaps nothing brings out in greater relief the accomplishment of the sculptors of this period than the deep decadence of the art in the succeeding century. The only name that stands out with any prominence during the seventeenth century is that of Bernini, a man of undoubted talent, who, in a better period of art, might have been a sculptor of the first rank. Much of his monumental work, however, is thoroughly inartistic and has been declared "a series of perfect models of what is worst in plastic art." It is still more illuminating to learn that this work was looked upon in his time with the loftiest admiration. No sculptor in any period had quite so much fulsome praise. The eighteenth century sank, if possible, still lower in all that pertained to true sculpture, and sculptors often of great technical skill occupied themselves in making such {96} trivialities as statues covered with filmy veils, through which forms and features could be seen, and other tricks of art. It was not until Canova came at the end of the eighteenth century that there was any gleam of hope for sculpture, and even this was eclipsed to some extent by the classic formalism which came in with it. {97} CHAPTER VII SCULPTURE AND MINOR ARTS AND CRAFTS OUTSIDE OF ITALY While Italy excelled in sculpture at this time, as indeed in every department of art, the other countries of Europe practically all enjoyed a magnificent period of development in plastic art, not a little of it thoroughly national in character and some of the most precious of it quite apart from Italian influence. Besides, there was a marvellous accomplishment in the subsidiary arts and artistic crafts well deserving of mention which confirms the place of this period among the greatest of productive eras. A very noteworthy development of sculpture took place in the Netherlands, where in the midst of the rising democracies and the commercial prosperity there was a great outburst of artistic genius. Wealthy patrons had the good taste to recognize artistic genius and encourage it. There has never been a period or country when tradesmen proved more discriminatingly beneficent. It would be indeed surprising if the country that produced the Van Eycks and the first great evolution of oil painting with the work of Van der Weyden, Memling, Quentin Matsys, Gerard David and so many others on canvas, should not have given us sculpture worthy of this fine artistic development. We do not, as a rule, know the names of the individual sculptors in the Netherlands, because apparently they looked upon themselves as artist artisans, whose duty it was to do their work faithfully and thoroughly, looking for no reward of fame and no special recognition beyond their own consciousness of having done good work. Their sculptures are to be seen in many places, in the cathedrals, the town halls and the other beautiful buildings erected at this time. Louvain, Brussels and many of the other towns of what is now Belgium {98} particularly must have had many artistic workers in stone who well deserved the name of sculptors. They executed not only beautifully decorative work, but also full-length statues, busts, medallions in high and low relief, and plastic ornaments of all kinds. The high quality of their accomplishment can scarcely be disputed, and yet the lack of their names has often left the impression that there were no great sculptors at this time; the fine sculpture that has come down to us is, however, an emphatic contradiction of any such notion. Some of the work done in the humble medium of wood is particularly interesting. The charmingly artistic wood-carving of the consecration of St. Eloi in the Church of Notre Dame at Bruges is a striking example. The choir seats of the Church at Louvain are quite as worthy of high praise, and the wood-carvings in the choir at Harlem so often admired come from this same period. Perhaps one of the best examples of the wood-carving of the time is the pulpit of the Cathedral at Leyden, which was made in this century. The tombs of Mary of Burgundy and of Charles the Bold in the Church of Notre Dame, Bruges, still further emphasize the sculptural capacity of these generations, though, from the rarity of large masterpieces, there were apparently but few opportunities to display it on a monumental scale. These monuments, especially the older one, are supremely great works of art. A comparison of them is very illuminating for the history of sculpture in our period. Though constructed scarcely half a century apart, they are executed under the influence of the two typical but very different art impulses of this century. The tomb of Mary, made by Peter Beckere of Brussels in 1502, is mediaeval and Gothic in spirit. That of Charles, made by order of Philip II just before 1560, is a distinctly Renaissance work. The later is much more modern and obvious in the meaning of all its symbolism, but one need not be an artist to see how much more genuinely artistic is the earlier tomb. At first glance one seems almost a replica of the other, except, of course, for the figure of the deceased and the subjects of the decorations of the sarcophaguses, but it takes but little study to discover what a descent there is in the art quality of the Renaissance work. Nowhere can one see the {99} value of the old and the new nor compare Gothic and Renaissance so easily as here. [Illustration: PULPIT, LEYDEN] Sculpture developed very wonderfully in Germany during the first half of Columbus' Century. The commercial prosperity of the time, the development of industries and the increase of trade caused an inflow of wealth into many of the cities of Southern Germany particularly, and not a little of this wealth found its way through the generosity of donors into the decoration of their churches. The people's faith was deep and full. Reform had not yet come to disturb it. Germany devoted itself especially to sculptured decoration in wood. An immense number of carved altars, pulpits, choir screens, stalls, tabernacles and other church fittings of very great elaborateness and usually fine artistic quality were produced. One of the first of the great German wood-carvers was Jörg Syrlin, who executed the famous choir stalls of Ulm cathedral, so richly decorated and ornamented with statuettes and canopies. His son of the same name did the great pulpit in the same cathedral and was given the commission for the elaborate stalls in Blaubeuren church. These were finished within a year of the discovery of America. At Nuremberg wood-carving also reached a high degree of excellence, and Veit Stoss of Nuremberg, though notorious for his escapades, was looked upon as the most skilful of artists for church woodwork. He was invited to Cracow to do the high altar, the tabernacle and the stalls of the Frauenkirchen. His masterpiece is the great wooden panel nearly six feet square, carved toward the end of the fifteenth century, with an immense number of scenes from Bible history, which is now among the treasures of the Nuremberg town hall. Albrecht Dürer himself with Renaissance versatility took up sculpture and did not despise even the humble medium of wood. He was a clever wood-carver and executed a tabernacle with an exquisitely carved relief of Christ on the Cross between His mother and St. John, which still may be seen in the chapel of the monastery at Landau. The British Museum possesses a number of miniature reliefs in boxwood which were also made by Dürer, though he early abandoned wood-carving for art work in materials that might be expected {100} to be more enduring. The influence of the wood-carving of this period can be noted in the work of the sculptors of the time, even after they abandoned it for stone and bronze. {101} Adam Kraft's great Schreyer monument in St. Sebald's Church at Nuremberg, for instance, shows very clearly the influence of wood-carving. There is no doubt, however, about his high place among the sculptors, even of this glorious period, in the art. [Illustration: DÜRER, ST. JOHN BAPTIST PREACHING (BAS-RELIEF IN CARVED WOOD)] The Vischer family for three generations executed a series of very great monuments in bronze, especially during the second half of Columbus' Century. The genius of the family was Peter Vischer of the second generation, who was admitted as a master sculptor into the sculptors' guild of Nuremberg in 1489. Perhaps the most interesting thing about his work is his absolute mastery of the technique of his art. Few men have ever succeeded in casting in bronze to such good effect. After having finished the magnificent tomb of Archbishop Ernest in Magdeburg Cathedral, in which some traces of Gothic influence still linger, Vischer obtained the opportunity for his masterpiece in the beautiful canopy for the shrine of St. Sebald at Nuremberg, a veritable triumph of plastic art. Modern, critical appreciation of it has very well corroborated contemporary admiration. Its details are a never-ending source of interest and study. Some of the statuettes of saints attached to the slender columns of the canopy are among the most charming examples of their kind that we have. They have grace and dignity, as well as great expressiveness. Near the base there is a small, evidently portrait, figure of a rather stout, bearded man wearing a large leathern apron and holding some of the sculptor's tools with which he usually worked that is considered to be a figure of Peter himself. It is a marvel of clever realism. The story of the execution of this monumental masterpiece is of itself a lesson in the art work of the time. Peter was assisted by his sons, and they worked at it almost continuously for more than ten years, between 1508 and 1519. It was often extremely difficult for them to secure money enough for their work from the authorities who had agreed to pay, though stingily enough, yet they devoted themselves to it as whole-heartedly as if it was a munificently rewarded work. The smaller figures are executed with marvellous attention to detail, and every feature of the work, the graceful scroll {102} foliage so abundantly used, the dragons and even the grotesques, all the details which crowd every possible part of the canopy, were executed evidently without the slightest regard for the time and labor which were required for them and with the good workman's delight in his work. It has sometimes been said that these Teutonic sculptors of Nuremberg were mere workers in bronze who reproduced in that material the ideas and drawings of others. As pointed out by Cecil Headlam in his little book on "The Bronze Founders of Nuremberg," [Footnote 11] "The evidence of our eyes, which enable us to trace the development of their style, would be enough to refute that opinion even if we were without the documentary evidence which shows that father and sons alike were patient and painstaking draughtsmen as well as craftsmen all their lives." There is no doubt at all that they adopted and adapted many ideas from the great Italian sculptors of their own and the preceding time. They were deeply influenced by Sansovino, Donatello, Leonardo da Vinci, but they were not mere imitators and they were not plagiarists in any sense of the word. To quote Mr. Headlam again (page 131): [Footnote 11: "The Bronze Founders of Nuremberg: Peter Vischer and His Family," by Cecil Headlam, B. A., formerly Demi of Magdalen College, Oxford. London: George Bell & Sons, 1906.] "They could apply the lessons they had learnt from their careful study of the Italian Masters, and apply them with successful originality. It is in the energy which lives in the King Arthur, the simple yet vigorous composition and execution of bas-reliefs, such as the Healing of the Blind Man of St. Sebald's tomb, or the Tucher Memorial, with their wholly admirable treatment of lines and planes; it is in the tender and spiritual feeling infused into the greatest of their bronze portraits that the unanswerable vindication lies of an imitation proved not too slavish and of a study that has not deadened but inspired." Other cities in Southern Germany, as Augsburg and Innsbrück, and at least one city in Northern Germany, Lübeck, are in possession of bronze sculptures which show how thoroughly alive was the spirit of plastic art all over Germany at this time. [Illustration: KING ARTHUR (INNSBRUCK)] Innsbrück possesses a series of bronze statues, all of them {103} executed in the first half of the sixteenth century, which has always attracted the attention of the world artists ever since. There are twenty-eight colossal bronze figures around the tomb of the Emperor Maximilian which stands in the centre of the nave of the Cathedral. They are designed to represent the heroes of the olden time and one of them, usually looked upon as the finest, is an ideal statue of King Arthur of the Briton legends, famous for the nobility of the face and pose. He is represented in the plate armor of the early fifteenth century. The statue of Theodoric is also considered to be not only a very fine example of the work of the period, but also one of the world's great bronze statues. The difficulties encountered {104} in the accomplishment of the casting of the bronze for these were so great that the Emperor invited Peter Vischer from Nuremberg to superintend at least this portion of the work and it is probable that his influence was felt also on the modeling. The designs are usually attributed to local artists at Innsbruck, however, of whose names we are not sure. In nothing are these older periods so different from ours as in the utter neglect of artists to make any effort to secure their personal fame. [Illustration: HENRY VIII ON FIELD OF CLOTH OF GOLD (FROM THE BAS-RELIEFS OF THE HÔTEL BOURG HÉRALDE, ROUEN)] In France even before the time of the Renaissance, or at least before the effect of Greek ideas was felt, there was a magnificent development of sculpture, an inheritance from the older period of the thirteenth and early fourteenth centuries which had left such magnificent monuments as the tombs in St. Denis, Le Beau Dieu at Amiens and the statues in the porch of the cathedral at Chartres. The first of these French Gothic sculptors of Columbus' Century is Colombe, trained in Flanders, who founded a school of sculpture at Tours. He {105} executed the tomb of Margaret of Austria and her husband Duke Philibert of Savoy in the Marble Church of Brou. Tours became a great centre of art in the latter half of the fifteenth century. Its name, the town of spires, indicates that there had always been aspirations after effect in their ecclesiastical architecture and this reached a culmination in statuary at this time. With Colombe his nephews worked while Jean Juste and his son collaborated in the poetic tomb built in honor of the son and daughter of Charles VIII in the Cathedral of Tours. Here also they erected the famous tomb of Louis XII and Anne of Bretagne, which has since been carried to St. Denis. The Justes had a power of putting touching human qualities into marble that has always given a special interest to their work. Jean Fouchet probably made at this time the lovely tomb of Agnes Sorel at Loches which has been so famous and has helped to make Loches a favorite pilgrimage place ever since. French sculpture touched by the Renaissance reached a further triumph of artistic development in the first half of the sixteenth century. Two names particularly stand out, those of Jean Goujon and Germain Pilon. Though the first signs of that affectation and mannerism which developed as the Renaissance progressed are to be already noted in their styles, they combined great technical skill with refinement in modelling. Undoubtedly the greatest of the French sculptors of the time was Jean Goujon, whose most pleasing work is the marble group of Diana reclining beside a stag, which exhibits a power beyond that of any except the greatest Italian sculptors. He executed a series of sculptures for the older part of the Louvre which beautifully harmonizes with the architecture. His reliefs for the Fountain of the Innocents are one of the best known of his works and have a charm all their own. The other great sculptor, Germain Pilon, trained under the influence of the Renaissance, did his best work just after the close of Columbus' Century. His group of the Three Graces bearing on their heads an urn containing the heart of Henry II, executed for Catherine de Medici, has been deservedly very much praised. Other men, Maitre Ponce and Barthélemy Prieur, did work that has attracted much attention about this same time. A fine portrait effigy of a recumbent figure in full {106} armor of the duke of Montmorency, which has always attracted the attention of those of critical artistic taste and is one of the treasures of the Louvre, is the work of Prieur. [Illustration: GOUJON, JEAN, JEWEL CABINET ] The story of subsequent decadence is as striking in France as in other countries. No sculpture of any significance appeared during the seventeenth century, though some of the artists of the time exhibited great technical skill. Indeed it was not until the coming of Hudon, at the end of the eighteenth and the beginning of the nineteenth century, that there is any relief from the story of mediocrity or worse, and {107} in his time the plastic arts had reached a very low ebb. Modern French sculpture is the result of the movement begun by Hudon, but it is separated from the Renaissance by nearly two centuries of debasement. A very interesting and valuable development of the arts and crafts that came in the Netherlands at this time was in the execution of art tapestries. This is the period when weaving of all kinds came to its highest perfection all over the world. The fifteenth and sixteenth century Oriental rugs command the highest prices and are among the most beautiful examples of carpet weaving that we have. In the Netherlands and in France tapestry reached its highest perfection and the examples executed at this time are now the precious treasures of governmental museums and similar public institutions almost without exception and probably will not change hands again because they are looked upon as too valuable for educational purposes and the uplifting of popular taste for public authorities ever to part with them. In the Netherlands particularly, tapestry-making reached a climax of perfection. After Michelangelo had been asked to decorate the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, Raphael was requested to do a series of cartoons for the tapestries to be hung around the walls of it, which were to be executed in Flanders. After their completion they were the admiration of Rome, and we have many expressions of praise for them from the great men of the time whose critical ability in all matters relating to art cannot be doubted. Vasari has an enthusiastic tribute, which even discounting his well-known tendency to praise overmuch under certain circumstances, still serves to show how thoroughly satisfied this period of great art was with these masterpieces. He said: "One is astonished at the sight of this series. The execution is marvellous. One can hardly imagine how it was possible, with simple threads, to procure such delicacy in the hair and beards and to express the suppleness of flesh. It is a work more Godlike than human; the waters, the animals and the habitations are so perfectly represented that they appear painted with the brush, not woven." [Illustration: ARMOR (FIFTEENTH CENTURY MUSEUM OF ARTILLERY, PARIS)] The tapestries were first shown the day after Christmas, {108} 1519, in the Sistine Chapel for which they had been designed. Some of the greatest of the Renaissance scholars and artists and literary men were present on the occasion. It was the custom at that time to send as Ambassadors to Rome from foreign countries, distinguished scholars and amateurs. Many of these were present. All were enthusiastic in their admiration. Rumor said that they were quite unable to express all that they felt for these new works of art. Everyone present, one of the guests said in a letter to his sovereign, was speechless at the sight of these hangings and it is the unanimous opinion that nothing more beautiful exists in the universe. Another of those present wrote: {109} "After the Christmas celebrations were over, the Pope exposed in his chapel seven tapestries (the eighth not being finished) executed in the West (in Flanders). They were considered by every one the most beautiful specimens of the weaver's art ever executed. And this in spite of the celebrity attained by other tapestries--those in the antechamber of Pope Julius II, those made for the Marchese of Mantua after the cartoons of Mantegna, and those made for the King of Naples. They were designed by Raphael of Urbino, an excellent painter, who received from the Pope 100 ducats for each cartoon. They contain much gold, silver and silk, and the weaving cost 1,500 ducats apiece--a total of 16,000 ducats ($160,000) for the set--as the Pope himself says, though rumor would put the cost at 20,000 golden ducats." Even this account gives evidence that it was not because of their rarity, but on account of their unique quality that the Sistine tapestries were so much admired. As a matter of fact, most of the ruling court families of Italy ordered tapestries for themselves that have since become famous and most of these were made in France and in the Netherlands. There is absolutely no doubt left now that this is the period when the best tapestries ever made were woven. George Leland Hunter in his "Tapestries, Their Origin, History and Renaissance" [Footnote 12] says that the Golden Age of tapestries was the Gothic Renaissance Transition--the last half of the fifteenth century and the first half of the sixteenth century--the hundred years during which Renaissance tapestries began and Gothic tapestries ceased to be woven, while many of the greatest tapestries were of mixed style like the story of the Virgin at Rheims. There are sets woven at various times during this period which are among the greatest tapestry treasures of the world. The largest of all these sets is the story of St. Rémi in the church of the same name at Rheims--sixteen feet high with a combined width of 165 feet. When exhibited at the Paris Exhibition in 1900, one of them, wrong side out in order to display the richness and solidity of the ancient unfaded colors, attracted the attention of amateurs from all over the world. The story of St. Étienne in nine pieces at the Cluny Museum {110} at Paris was presented to the Cathedral of Auxerre in 1502. [Footnote 12: John Lane Co., New York, 1912. pp. 33.] As a matter of fact there was scarcely a cathedral or monastery in France at this time that did not come into the possession of beautiful tapestries that are now very precious treasures. During recent years the value of such tapestries have increased very much and our millionaires have been willing to spend almost fabulous sums in order to get possession of them. We have had the opportunity here in America through the munificence of the late Mr. Pierpont Morgan to see some of them in the Metropolitan Museum and have learned to realize that the praise of them is well deserved. Mr. Hunter says that "the most famous tapestries in the world are the Renaissance tapestries, though the only distinction in most cases between the Gothic tapestries of the end of the fifteenth and the Renaissance tapestries at the beginning of the sixteenth, is that in one, whatever architecture or ornamentation or decoration is used has Gothic motives, while the models for these same details in the later tapestries is drawn from the Renaissance." The Brussels tapestries of the early sixteenth century are particularly beautiful and are the despair of the modern tapestry makers. Other Flemish cities, however, Arras, Tournai, Bruges, Lille, Antwerp became famous for their tapestries and Delft, in Holland, was a worthy rival. The art seems to require too much patience for our modern artisans to compete with their brethren of the old time, but doubtless with the rise and appreciation of artistic handicraftsmanship and the demand for charming decoration of homes and public buildings regardless of cost, we may look confidently for a development even in this line. The other phases of the arts and crafts also developed very wonderfully outside of Italy as well as in the peninsula. Beautiful vessels for altar use, chalices, candlesticks, crucifixes and the like were made, and indeed this is the supreme period of their manufacture. Some of the chalices of this time were made by distinguished sculptors who felt that they could not devote themselves to more suitable art work than this for Church purposes. Under the inspiration of deep religious feeling some even of the smaller pieces are among the world's {111} great works of art. Benvenuto Cellino made morses, chalices and crucifixes that are famous. Many of these were executed for patrons outside of Italy. His well-known crucifix in the Escurial near Madrid, made for Philip II, is a typical example. Processional crosses lent themselves to decorative effect very well, and some of them from this time are indeed very beautiful works of art. The same application of artistic craftsmanship was to be noted with regard to nearly everything meant for the service of the Church or for use in municipal building for the decoration of municipal property. The well-known iron well railing executed, it is said, by Quentin Matsys (or Massys), when the artist was but a blacksmith and had not yet taken up painting, is a typical sample of the combination of the beautiful and useful which characterizes so much of the work of this time and carries away every point of admiration. [Illustration: SCENT BOX (CHASED GOLD, FRENCH, FIFTEENTH CENTURY)] There was scarcely any form of decorative work that did not receive high artistic development at this time nearly everywhere throughout Europe. In recent years enamels have attracted much attention, and the recent presentation of the Barwell collection to the British Museum brought the Limoges work into prominence again. The London _Illustrated News_ reproduced a series of Limoges enamels in the Barwell collection that are marvellous in color and artistic excellence. {112} The Courtois, the younger of whom, Jean, died in 1586, are probably the greatest artistic craftsmen in this mode. Pierre Courtois (or Courteys) made just about the end of our century the largest enamels which ever came out of Limoges with life-size figures of the Virtues. Pierre Reymond (Raymond or Rexmont), who was the Mayor of Limoges in 1567, did some work that attracted attention as early as 1532. The stream of artistic influence at this time can be studied very well in his work, for he was influenced by the Germans in his early maturity, later came under the influence of the Italian school, though he had been a pupil of Nardon Pénicaud, who himself came of a famous French family of fifteenth and sixteenth century artists, whose work always possesses distinction. Some of the plaques and salvers of this time in enamel are among the most precious treasures of national collections throughout the world. [Illustration: SEATS (fifteenth CENTURY MINIATURES)] Some of the locks and keys and latches and hinges for doors made during this period are among the most beautiful examples of iron work in the world. The Cluny Museum in Paris possesses a number of these as well as other iron work of Columbus' Century which show that the men of this time had the true artistic spirit in their work. The armorers of the period made probably the most beautiful armor that has ever been made, and the finest pieces in collections, especially {113} in national armories, are nearly all from this time. Scent boxes and jewel boxes of various kinds in the precious or semi-precious metals were always executed with fine artistic taste, or at least some of the best examples of these in the world come from this time. Clocks were made with a perfection of mechanism and at the same time an ornateness that give them a place in the art world instead of merely in the industrial domain. The furniture of the time is noted for its artistic quality, and some of the smaller pieces made by well-known sculptors or under their direction were works of art that now are thought of as world treasures for all time. [Illustration: CLOCK (FIFTEENTH CENTURY, PARIS)] {114} CHAPTER VIII THE ARCHITECTURE OF THE CENTURY Just as the introduction of Greek ideas gave a new impetus to literature and art and sculpture and painting, so it did also, and perhaps to an even greater degree, to architecture. The effect of classic thought had begun to be felt before 1450. It was noted first in ecclesiastical architecture and its influence can be traced throughout Europe. Brunelleschi, who built the great dome of the Cathedral in Florence, died in 1444, but not until he had shown the world of his time how beautiful such a conception was and how it could be accomplished. He had gone to Rome and studied the Pantheon, as well as all the other great buildings which the Romans had left in that city, and during his studies, becoming enamored of the subject, he mastered every detail of their style and became familiar with every form of Roman art. He first completed the Church of San Lorenzo in Florence and then was entrusted with a larger work, the completion of the Santo Spirito, which Arnolfo and Giotto had left unfinished and apparently, according to the practice of the Middle Ages, without even a drawing to show how they intended to complete it. They would have given it a Gothic roof. Brunelleschi conceived the dome and then, in the course of his studies and designing, definitely initiated the development of Renaissance architecture. The first important influence in the architecture of our century is Leon Battista Alberti, who was led to the study of architecture because of his interest in classical literature and his desire to restore a classical style in building as well as in letters. In order to accomplish this, he wrote a text-book of architecture, _"De re aedificatoria."_ Besides the theory of classic architecture, he also devoted himself to its practical exemplification, and there are some models of his work that are well {115} known. The charming little classic Church of San Francesco at Rimini and the much more important Church of San Andrea at Mantua were erected under his direction. The latter Church is noted, according to Fergusson in his "History of Modern Architecture," [Footnote 13] for "the beauty of its proportions, the extreme elegance of every part and the appropriateness of the modes in which classical details are used without the least violence or straining." All the details of the classical architecture as applied to Churches are to be found in this in their simplest and most sincere form. They were to become so familiar afterwards as to represent a standard of Church architecture. [Footnote 13: Dodd, Mead & Co., 1899.] [Illustration: ALBERTI, SAN FRANCESCO (RIMINI)] [Illustration: MICHELANGELO, ST. PETER's (ROME)] The great development of this new style came under {116} Bramante of Urbino, who was born the year that Brunelleschi died. His most remarkable monument in ecclesiastical architecture is the Church at Lodi. Alberti's work had been mainly {117} the restoration of the Basilican form. Bramante emphasized the domical or Byzantine type. After these two the change from the mediaeval to the modern style of architecture may be said to have been completed and under the most favorable auspices. The dome of Santa Maria delle Grazie, which Fergusson pronounces "both externally and internally one of the most pleasing specimens of its class found anywhere," is another monument to Bramante's genius. Bramante is most famous, however, for his bold design and magnificent foundations for St Peter's at Rome. He did not live to complete this, but had his original plan been carried out, the finished building would have been in many ways more satisfactory than it is and would have exhibited many less serious architectural faults. An excellent type of the ornate architecture of the Renaissance period is the facade of the famous Certosa near Pavia. The designs for it were prepared by Borgognone, a distinguished Milanese artist of that time, one of whose pictures will be found reproduced in the chapter on Secondary Italian Painters. He was much more essentially a painter than an architect, and this the Certosa demonstrates. Many an architect, with no ambition outside of his own department, would be eminently well pleased, however, to have succeeded in producing so beautiful and harmonious a design as may be seen in the façade of the great Church of the Italian Carthusians. The architectural monument of the century is St. Peter's at Rome, designed originally by Bramante, whose design was developed and harmonized very beautifully by Sangallo, but only after Raphael had carried on Bramante's work for some six years and Baldassare Peruzzi had succeeded him for an equal term, though without accomplishing much. The defects so often noted come from this succession of architects. Sangallo's design has been preserved for us and shows what a magnificent conception he had. Michelangelo's dome might well have taken its place in this design without any of the overpowering effect that it has on the structure as completed. In spite of all the criticism that may be made of St. Peter's, because, as the editor of the recent edition of Fergusson's "History of Architecture" (Dodd, Mead & Co., 1899) says, "the {118} big pulls away from the beautiful and there must be a compromise," it is one of the most wonderful of churches and one of the most marvellous structures that ever came from the hand of man. Fergusson himself is severe in criticism, and yet he says, "in spite of all its faults of detail, the interior of St. Peter's approaches more nearly to the sublime in architectural effect than any other which the hand of man has executed." In England Renaissance architecture, that is the influence of the classical, had very little, indeed almost no effect during Columbus' Century. The genius, as well as the taste of the builders and architects of the time, however, is well illustrated by the development of Gothic architecture which took place in this period. The Italians of the Renaissance decided that the interior of buildings should be decorated by paintings. The English builders were yet in the period in which they considered that the interior decoration, just as the exterior decoration, should flow naturally from the construction of the building. These two styles are very well illustrated in two famous structures which were built within the same generation, though separated by half the width of the European continent, and which are triumphs of the respective styles of architecture. These are the Sistine Chapel at Rome and King's College Chapel of Cambridge, the plans of which, because of the inevitable contrast they suggest and the supreme effectiveness of both of them, deserve study. Each has a beauty of its own that advocates of either style cannot help but admire, and both give magnificent testimony to the power of the men of this time to express themselves nobly and beautifully in structural work under the influence of religious ideas. In Spain the architecture of the time is noteworthy, though it is mainly of ecclesiastical character. All of the buildings erected by Ferdinand and Isabella are in the Gothic style, and the famous Church of St. John of the Kings at Toledo is as Gothic as the chapel of Henry VII at Westminster. The Cathedral at Salamanca commenced in 1513 and that of Segovia in 1525 are both thoroughly Gothic. These buildings are so well known that the accomplishment of this period in architecture need scarcely be emphasized. The first distinctively Renaissance work in Spain is the Cathedral at {119} Granada, which, though Gothic in certain ways, contains Renaissance suggestions and modifications of form that have been adopted for many modern Churches. [Illustration: ALBERTI, RUCELLAI PALACE (FLORENCE)] The secular architecture of this period made as great progress as the ecclesiastical architecture, and it is of even greater interest because nearly all the ideas in common use among architects for monumental public buildings or ambitious private structures in our time are adopted and adapted from the architecture of Columbus' Century. As in ecclesiastical {120} architecture, the Renaissance begins in Florence. The erection of two of the magnificent palaces of the city, still well known and admired, the Riccardi, formerly called the Medicean, and the Pitti, were the initial steps. The Riccardi was designed by Michelozzi and has a splendid façade 500 feet in length and 90 feet in height. The Pitti is 490 feet in length, three stories high in the centre, each story 40 feet in height, with immense windows 24 feet apart from centre to centre. They show very well what the architects of this time could accomplish on this grand scale. Both were completed just about the beginning of Columbus' Century. After this, the Florentine buildings became more ornate, and yet with the ornament properly adapted to the structure and producing an effect of beauty that has deservedly won modern admiration and study. Probably the two most famous buildings of the first half of Columbus' Century are the Rucellai and the Guadagni palaces of Florence, the façades of which have been much admired. The Rucellai Palace was designed by Alberti, the Guadagni by Bramante. As their ideas dominated ecclesiastical architecture, so now they were to dominate secular architecture. After Florence comes Venice, and here the wealth of the city, its Oriental affiliations and the light and air of its surroundings gave rise to a series of marvellously beautiful ornate Renaissance buildings, famous throughout the world and especially known to English-speaking people through Ruskin's "Stones of Venice." The most famous of these is the Palazzo Vendramini, which may be permitted to speak for itself. One of the most beautiful buildings in Venice is the Library of St. Mark, situated exactly opposite the Doge's Palace and built by Sansovino. Scarcely less beautiful is San Micheli's masterpiece, the Palace of the Grimani, which is now the post-office. These buildings are familiar to all. To know them is to admire them, and the architects of every progressive structural period since have devoted much study to them. [Illustration: COURT DOGE'S PALACE (VENICE)] A very interesting development of Renaissance architecture took place in the little city of Vicenza, the birthplace of Palladio and the scene of some of his best work. Palladio was not so perfect in his achievements, as some of his admirers have suggested, but he applied most of the Renaissance ideas to {121} architecture very successfully, and his influence upon the after-time, as some of the illustrations which we have selected from his work will show, has been felt at all times and nearly everywhere. The Thiene Palace, which has been very much praised {122} and is generally quoted as one of his most successful designs, has been criticized rather severely by Fergusson, and yet its effectiveness cannot be gainsaid. The Chiericate Palace, another one of Palladio's designs reckoned among his best, has the objection that it is open and weak at the angles and solid in the centre and the centre is full above and weak below, and yet, after mentioning these faults, Fergusson says that there is "an exquisite proportion of parts which redeems this façade and an undefinable elegance of detail which disarms the critic of Palladio's work so that in spite of the worst possible arrangements they still leave a pleasing impression on the mind of the spectator." This is, perhaps, damning by faint praise, but it is praise indeed from Fergusson. Many others have been most enthusiastic about this and other of Palladio's works, and one has only to look around at our modern ambitious structures to realize how much of influence Palladio still has. In Genoa there are some very beautiful buildings of this time, though as their material, despite the name "the city of palaces," was mainly rubble masonry covered with stucco, the windows without dressings, the intention being to paint the architectural mouldings on the stucco and also to paint frescoes between them, the unsatisfactoriness of much of the architecture for modern study can be realized. In spite of these limitations, Galeazzo Alessi (1500 to 1572) succeeded in making some very beautiful buildings. Probably the most admired example is the building now known as the Municipalata in the Strada Nuova, formerly known as the Tursi-Doria Palace. Vignola (1507 to 1573) occupies the place in Rome that Palladio holds in Vicenza towards the end of Columbus' Century. A charming example of his construction is the Villa of Pope Julius near Rome, the façade of which is certainly his and which, without being ambitious, represents his power to express simplicity and dignity even in a summer house. His great work is the Palace of Caprarola, built some thirty miles outside of Rome for the Cardinal Alessandro Farnese. The building is all the more interesting because it has furnished ideas for some of the larger public buildings of our time and contains more than a suggestion for some recent architectural plans of somewhat startling character for New York City. {123} [Illustration: PALLADIO, BARBARANO PALACE (VICENZA)] {124} The plan of the Palace of Caprarola is a pentagon enclosing a circular court, each of the five sides measures 130 feet and the court is 65 feet in diameter, while the three stories are each about 30 feet in height. It is usually considered one of the finest palaces in Italy. In spite of the difficulty of the task and the singularly unfavorable nature of pentagonal form for architectural effect externally and commodious arrangements internally, the architect succeeded admirably. As the picture of it shows very well, the approach was managed beautifully and the effect of castellation very well secured. The story of architecture, secular as well as religious, outside of Italy is quite as interesting as that in Italy itself at this time. Everywhere throughout Europe beautiful buildings were erected in charming taste and with fine effectiveness. This is particularly true as regards the municipal buildings of various kinds, the town halls, the hospitals, the asylums for foundling children, and all the other structures due to civic munificence at this time. Just as in regard to painting and sculpture, the Netherlands was the seat of some extremely beautiful artistic work of great originality and perfection of detail during this period. There is scarcely an important town of Belgium, and even a number of those that have become quite unimportant in our time, which does not present some architectural monument of cardinal importance in the history of architecture. While Italy is much better known, Belgium deserves, and in recent years has very properly received, devoted attention from students and amateurs in all the arts, and not least has its architecture come into its due meed of praise and appreciation. [Illustration: HOTEL DE VILLE, LOUVAIN] One of the most beautiful architectural monuments of the later fifteenth century is the town hall of Louvain. Indeed, it is one of the most beautiful architectural monuments of its kind in the world. Schayes, in his "History of Architecture," says, "Not only is the Hôtel de Ville of Louvain the most remarkable municipal edifice in Belgium, but one may seek in vain its equal in Europe." Its architect, whose name was unknown until well on in the nineteenth century, was only a master mason of this capital of Brabant when he was entrusted {125} with the task of making for the burghers of one of the most important towns of the time a town hall such as they would consider worthy of them, but above all surpassing those erected by any of the neighboring towns. He succeeded eminently in fulfilling the commission, and fortunately the town hall remains almost in its original condition as a monument to the wonderful artistic workmanship of the time. [Illustration: ALCALÁ, PARANIMFO (STATE APARTMENT OF UNIVERSITY)] George Wharton James, in his book on "Some Old Flemish Towns," says, "The exquisite Hôtel de Ville reminds one of the caskets or reliquaries which Kings and Queens used to give to be placed upon the high altars of Cathedrals. There is the same simplicity of design, the same beauty of line, the {126} rectangle with gables, emphasized by a graceful tower at each pinnacle, and another at each angle, the whole finished with a crown spire tipped with a golden flèche." The decorations are most delicate, reminding one of the lace work of the country, but it seems almost incredible that this effect should have been produced so marvellously in stone. [Illustration: ALCALÁ, ARCHIEPISCOPAL PALACE COURT] In spite of the multitude of decorations, the structure does not strike one, as do so many of the buildings of the seventeenth century, as over-decorated, but somehow all the charming sculptured ornament seems as {127} suitably in place here as it is in the exquisite patterns of the lace of the town. The beautiful Hôtel de Ville of Brussels is almost as interesting as that at Louvain and represents the early part of the Columbus' Century. At the opposite side of the Grande Place is what is now known as the Maison du Roi, formerly known as the Broodhuis or House of Bread, which is scarcely less interesting, though very much restored, than the Hôtel de Ville. The one is a monument of the Gothic of the middle of the fifteenth century, the other shows the influence of the Renaissance in the early sixteenth century. The whole of the Grand Place gives an excellent idea of the devotion of these municipalities to civic beauty and monumental construction and represents an anticipation of ideas that are usually considered modern but that were very thoroughly developed and applied in making the "City Beautiful" in Columbus' Century. Were there space, much might be said here about the magnificent town halls of Bruges, Ghent and other cities of the Netherlands. The architecture of Spain, practically always connected with the names of ecclesiastics and usually built for ecclesiastical or educational or charitable purposes, shows very well the profound intellectual genius of the people for whom Columbus' discovery was made and who were beginning to reap the material benefits of his extension of the Spanish realms in the Western continent. One of the most important of the buildings of the time is that of the University of Alcalá, under the direction of the celebrated Cardinal Ximenes, or Cisneros. The rebuilding commenced about 1510 and continued nearly to the end of Columbus' Century. It is an extremely beautiful building. The Archiepiscopal Palace is quite equal to it, and its court has been very highly praised. Fergusson has spoken highly of the bracket capitals in the upper story of this court, of which we give a sketch, and he thinks this invention of the Spanish architect a distinctly new and valuable idea in architecture which unfortunately has not been commonly adopted. Some of the internal arrangements have been very much admired, and the Paranimfo, a state apartment in the University, deserves attention not only for its intrinsic beauty, but {128} from its being so essentially Spanish in style. The roof is of richly-carved woodwork in panels in a style borrowed from the Moors. Fergusson says that there is another and more beautiful specimen of this sort of work in the chapel of the University above the Cenotaph of the great Cardinal. [Illustration: CLOISTER, (LUPIANA, SPAIN)] Elsewhere in Spain some of these beautiful courts and interiors were ornamented very highly as became a Southern {129} people, and yet with an effectiveness and taste that have caused them to be very much admired in after-times. In the Monastery of Lupiana there is a cloistered court similar in design to that at Alcalá, but even grander, four stories in height, each gallery being lighter than the one below it and so arranged as to give the appearance of sufficient strength, combined with the lightness and elegance peculiarly appropriate to domestic architecture, especially when employed internally as it is here. Fergusson, from whom the opinion just expressed is quoted, thinks that the Spanish architects were far more happy than their Italian brethren in this regard and mainly because they borrowed ideas from their own Spanish art rather than kept too insistently to classic ideas. Two royal buildings in Spain, the Palace of Charles V at Granada and the Alcazar of Toledo, deserve to be mentioned. The Alcazar was begun before the end of Columbus' Century, but not finished until later. The sketch of it here presented gives an excellent idea of how simple and yet properly ornate for monumental purposes the Spanish architects were making their buildings at this time. The truly Spanish features of solidity below, with the increasing richness and openness above, is very effective and is all the more interesting because historians of architecture declare that this effect was little understood outside of the Spanish peninsula. The upper portion of the famous tower of the Giralda at Seville, which has always attracted so much attention for its beauty, was being built just at the close of the century. We in modern America have given it the tribute of sincerest flattery by imitating it in the tower of Madison Square Garden. It is interesting to realize that the Spaniards put a figure of Faith at the summit of the beautiful tower, pointing strikingly heavenward. Is it significant that we in our time have found nothing better to put there than the outworn symbol of a statue to Diana? French secular architecture at this time made some fine achievements which are very well known and have been very much admired. The Louvre in Paris is a succession of monuments to the architectural spirit of the French for centuries. I think that there is very general agreement that the portion {130} of this building erected in Columbus' Century is not only the most interesting, but the most beautiful. The Pavilion de I'Horloge is quite charming in its effectiveness. The ornamental portions are said to have been sculptured from designs furnished by Jean Goujon. This is enough of itself to make us sure that they would be beautiful, but they were besides very artistically designed to heighten the effect of the architecture. [Illustration: ALCAZAR (TOLEDO, EXTERNAL FAÇADE)] The best-known contributions to architecture by the French in this time are their famous châteaux. The typical example of these is the Château of Chambord, commenced by Francis I immediately after his return from his Spanish captivity. While the design is classical in detail, it is eminently French in character, and it has been a favorite study of architects ever since. Its repute shows how well architects at this time {131} accomplished their purpose of making an impressively beautiful building. At this same time the Château of Madrid, situated in the Bois de Boulogne at Paris and which was unfortunately destroyed during the Revolution, was built, and the sketches that are left to us show us its beauty and effectiveness secured through comparative simplicity. All the famous châteaux of France were either built or received their most famous additions under the influence of the new spirit that came into architecture under the influence of Francis I. Those of Bury and Blois and Amboise and Chenonceaux were products of this period. The staircase and the wing in the centre of which it stands at Blois are among the most admired, or at least the most frequently drawn, of the works of this age. All the other departments of architecture, besides the ecclesiastical and municipal, were affected by the enterprising spirit which entered into architecture at this time. Leonardo da Vinci offered to build fortifications under any and all circumstances, the more difficult the better, and succeeded in doing some excellent work. According to tradition he laid firm foundations, even under water, for certain French fortifications, and these still remain. In bridge building particularly this period did some excellent work. In the chapter on Social Work and Workers will be found an illustration of the bridge built across the Avon at Stratford by Sir Hugh Clopton about the time of the discovery of America, which shows that they could build beautifully as well as enduringly at this time. There are many private houses in the towns of Europe erected at this time, some of them even by families without any pretension to wealth or nobility, which illustrate very well how sincere and thorough was their domestic architecture, how beautiful because of its honest straightforwardness and how eminently enduring. Fra Giocondo, who edited the Aldine edition of Vitruvius in 1511 and who edited Caesar in 1513, introduced illustrations into these works, and particularly a plan of Caesar's bridge across the Rhine. He used his classical knowledge to good purpose, however, for in the service of the king of France he probably built two of the noble bridges that still span the Seine. These were finished early in the {132} sixteenth century. It would not be difficult to note other examples of this same kind in many parts of Europe at this time. Fergusson summed up the place of this century in architecture very well in his advice to Italy as to what must be done in order to restore to that country the precedence that she won in architecture in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. He said (p. 169): "Italy has only to go back to the inspirations which characterize the end of the fifteenth and the dawn of the sixteenth century, to base upon them a style which will be as beautiful as it would be appropriate to her wants and her climate. If she will only attempt to revive the traditions of the great age which is hallowed by the memories of Leonardo da Vinci and Raphael, of Bramante, Sangallo, and even of Michelangelo, she cannot go wrong. These men erred occasionally from inexperience, and because the system under which the art was conducted in their days was such as to render success impossible; but their aspirations were right, and there was an impress of nobleness on their works _which has not since been surpassed._ "Since their time the history of Italian art may be summed up in a few words. During the fifteenth century it was original, appropriate and grand; during the sixteenth it became correct and elegant, though too often also tinctured with pedantry; and in the seventeenth it broke out into caprice and affectation, till it became as bizarre as it was tasteless. During the eighteenth it sank down to a uniform level of timid mediocrity, as devoid of life as it is of art." It is as true for all the countries of Europe as for Italy that what is needed for the redemption of architecture from the unfortunate sordid influences which have crept over it is a return to the ideas of Columbus' Century. Fortunately, since Fergusson wrote his paragraph of advice for Italy, a great change has come over the attitude of men generally toward architecture, and beautiful buildings are being erected nearly everywhere, most of them with Renaissance ideas prominent in them, but above all with the lessons drawn from this fruitful period of beautiful construction guiding the minds and hands of architects and builders. All around us handsome Renaissance buildings are rising. Inasmuch as they are mere {133} imitations, they are unfortunate evidence of our lack of originality. If, somehow, using the same high standards of taste and the inspiration of the classic authors as did the men of Columbus' Century, we can succeed in evolving an architecture suited to our conditions and our environment and appropriate for the uses of our day, then we shall accomplish the solution of the problem which they solved so well. What they did above all was to accomplish in building Horace's dictum that "he who mingles the useful and the beautiful takes every point." The merely useful is hideous. The merely beautiful is monstrous. Success lies in that combination of use and beauty, of which Columbus' contemporaries so ingeniously found the key. {134} CHAPTER IX MUSIC Everyone concedes the supreme accomplishment of Italy in the arts of painting, sculpture, architecture, and even in the lesser arts and crafts during the Renaissance period, which we have called Columbus' Century. It is not always realized, however, that her place in music is almost equally important and that her accomplishment in this art came also during this same period. While musical development into modern forms came as a rule after the close of our century, the great foundations of modern music were laid at this time. These are not so deep beneath the surface of developed music, however, as to be hidden from us entirely at the present time. On the contrary, there are many composers and musical measures of this period which still have an interest quite apart from their antiquity and which music-lovers know very well in spite of the time that has elapsed since their composition. We know nothing of ancient music, and indeed are scarcely able to conceive just how Grecian music was composed or written and expressed. It might be thought, then, that the Renaissance, representing the influence upon the modern world of the rebirth of Greek ideas, would be lacking in any important development of music. In every other department, even in that of science, indeed it might well be said, especially in that of science, the influence of contact with ancient Greek ideas can be readily seen. They formed the stimulus for study and often supplied the fundamental information on which modern, that is Renaissance, developments were built up. Without this aid from the ancients, then, it might reasonably be expected that music would be neglected or would certainly be in abeyance, but this is not the case. There is a great period of musical history, not perhaps so significant as the progress in other departments of aesthetics, but containing within itself {135} a magnificent achievement and the germ of all our modern music. Perhaps there is nothing that demonstrates so well the fact that the Renaissance was not, as it is so often considered, a rebirth out of nothingness after some 1500 years of darkness and lack of accomplishment than the history of music. Only that there had been a great period of advance in Europe before the Renaissance, the stimulus of Greek would have had very little effect. The old philosophers said that things are received according to the capacity of the receiver, and in the modern time a favorite maxim of teachers is that students take away from a lecture what is of value to them just in proportion to what they brought to it. It was the height of the culture of the preceding period that enabled the generations of the Renaissance to take such good advantage of the New Learning. In music, there being no New Learning, they had to depend on their own efforts, and the magnificent fruits of their musical progress show how the genius of the time was capable of accomplishment for itself. As a result of the lack of any stimulus from Greek sources for music, the first development of it at this time is noted not in Italy, as is true for other modes of aesthetic evolution because of contiguity to Greece, but, on the contrary, in the distant West of Europe and especially in the Netherlands. Henderson, in his "The Story of Music," declares that "all the countries at this time took Netherlandish masters," and one finds the names of distinguished teachers of music, who were from the Low Countries, in centres so far apart as Naples, Venice, Munich and Madrid. The first of these, who was an extremely important factor in the music of the time, was Ockeghem, or Ockenheim, of Hainault, who, in the latter half of the fifteenth century, came to be looked upon as probably the greatest teacher of the time. He is surpassed in fame by his pupil, Josse Despres, usually known by the name, familiarly used among his friends, Josquin, who is also a native of Hainault. Henderson declares that "in technical skill no master has ever surpassed Ockeghem; and all that he knew he taught Josquin, who made it the outlet for his real musical genius." Luther said of him, "They sing {136} only Josquin in Italy; Josquin alone in France; only Josquin in Germany; in Flanders, in Hungary, in Bohemia, in Spain, it is always only Josquin." From this testimony, and the otherwise well-known popularity of this composer's music, it is probable that there has never been a great European musician who, in his own time, has gained more universal acclaim among music-lovers than Josquin. There is no doubt at all of the merit of his work. Arcadelt, who was Palestrina's teacher at Rome and himself a distinguished musician of this time, said of him: "Other composers make their music where their notes take them, but Josquin takes his music where he wills." Arcadelt's musical ability is recognized; an Ave Maria by him is still often sung. Other countries were not without an important development in music at this time. England had been the leader in musical composition and evolution before Flanders had her turn. In the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries England had developed part singing and also laid the foundations of counterpoint. In the fifteenth century musical composition and erudition came to be considered of so much importance that academic honors were conferred on musicians. John Hamboys, the author of some treatises on the art of music, is said to be the first on whom the degree of Doctor of Music was ever conferred. In 1463, according to the records, the University of Cambridge conferred the degree of Doctor of Music on Thomas Seynt Just and the degree of Bachelor of Music on Henry Habyngton. During the following century it was required that candidates for the degree of Musical Doctor should present an original musical composition. America has followed England in the granting of academic degrees for music, though I believe no other country has done so except Ireland. In the latter half of Columbus' Century there was a vigorous native school of music in Germany which devoted itself, however, almost entirely to the composition of songs for the people. The best known of the composers of this time is the famous Hans Sachs of Nuremberg, who, in the first half of the sixteenth century, wrote so many ballads for the people and set them to his own music. He was by trade a shoemaker, and all the musical composers in this particular mode {137} seem to have been craftsmen who took to musical composition and the writing of ballads for their music as a recreation after their daily labor. They organized themselves into guilds, which, in imitation of the old knightly songsters of the days of chivalry, they called Meistersingers. In its vigorous originality this movement produced at the beginning some striking folk music with a wonderful influence on the life of the people. After a time, however, the spirit of exclusiveness asserted itself and seriously hurt their work. They enacted rigid and pedantic laws, refused to admit to mastership in the guild those who did not follow these laws, and the letter killed the spirit, and true music disappeared, while men who prided themselves on their musical ability and taste were trying to uplift it, but were really regulating it out of existence. The decline in music is, however, only commensurate with the decline in the other arts and due to many of the same causes. The latter half of Columbus' Century saw the rise of the great Roman school of music which, at the end of this period, was to bring about a culmination of musical achievements that places this among the greatest musical epochs of the world. As was true everywhere in Italy, Rome owed its musical incentive and teaching to a Fleming. The great master was Claude Goudimel, who is said to have been born at Avignon, but who was educated in Flanders and is known as a Fleming. Among his pupils at Rome, where he opened a school, are the most famous musicians of the sixteenth century and some of the most famous of all time. Among others, probably, were Palestrina, the supreme master of modern church music, though the old tradition of Goudimel's great influence over him is now denied; the brothers Animuccia, one of whom was the penitent and intimate friend of St. Philip Neri, the founder of the Oratory, after which the Oratorio is named, and the brothers Nanini, who contributed so much to Italian music before the end of the sixteenth century. Another of his pupils was Orlando di Lasso, known as Lassus or Latres of Mons, who was one of the greatest and most popular of the musicians of this time. He was known in many countries and popular in all of them. To him we owe the definite attempt to make words and music run along in such harmony as would {138} emphasize and thoroughly co-ordinate the meaning of both. An abuse had been growing for a considerable period by which prolix florid passages of music were written for single syllables. Even Josquin had indulged much in this vicious mode. After Orlando di Lasso's reformation, the practice was to come back again in the fiorituri of the opera composers, especially the Italians of the early nineteenth century, and had to be combated by Wagner. There is little in the revolution effected in music by the modern German composer in this regard at least that was not anticipated by his great predecessor, Orlando, full three centuries before. Orlando di Lasso was known, moreover, for the sweetness, beauty, as well as the great number and variety of his works. One of his songs, "Matona! Lovely Maiden!" has been pronounced one of the most charming part songs in existence. Lassus (di Lasso) tried every form of music at this time, but devoted himself chiefly to musical compositions for church purposes. We have from him psalms, hymns, litanies, magnificats, motets, as well as more lengthy musical settings for religious services. Bonavia Hunt, the Warden of Trinity College, London, and lecturer on musical history, in his "History of Music" declares that Lassus' settings of the Seven Penitential Psalms for five voices are among his best works. They contain elements that have made them a favorite study for students of music even in our time. Lassus introduced such musical terms as _Allegro_ and _Adagio_ into music and brought chromatic elements into musical composition. He was very greatly appreciated in his own day and was called _Princeps Musicae_, the prince of music. He received as much honor from statesmen as Palestrina did from churchmen, and the story of the honor paid to both of them by their own generation is the best possible tribute to the musical taste of the time. Lassus was made a Knight of the Order of the Golden Spur. The greatest musician of this time, however, probably indeed the greatest of all times, is Palestrina, who in 1551 was appointed the musical director of the Julian Chapel in the Vatican with the definite hope that he would reform the evils that had crept into music and were making the art in its most recent {139} development so unsuitable for religious purposes. The Council of Trent, whose sessions were being held with interruptions at this time, had to legislate so as to secure suitable music for the mass. Ornamental passages of all kinds, or at least what were supposed to be such, had been introduced into church music, until finally it was quite impossible to follow the words of the service. As Cardinal Borromeo said, "These singers counted for their principal glory that when one says _Sanctus_ another says _Sabaoth_ and a third _gloria tua_ and the whole effect of the music is little more than a confused whirling and snarling, more resembling the performance of cats in January than the beautiful flowers of May." He was one of the committee who insisted at various sessions of the Council of Trent on musical reform, and while their work has sometimes been falsely represented as derogatory of music itself, all that the Council wished to accomplish was to secure intelligibility of the words, and as a matter of fact their insistence on the simplification of music led to a magnificent new development in the art. It has sometimes been said that Palestrina's work represented a revolution in the music of his time. This is not true, however, for his great mass music was only an evolution in the hands of the great master of the musical movement that had preceded his time. The story of his having been asked to write music very different from that which had immediately preceded, in order that church music might be preserved and figured music be thus still used in ecclesiastical services, has been discredited by recent historical research. At the end of Columbus' Century a climax in musical expression had been reached which Palestrina represents and which marked an epoch in the history of music. The abuses that had crept in were quite apart from the genuine evolution of music. Henderson, in his "How Music Developed" (New York: Stokes, 1898, page 73), has told the story: "The mass of Marcellus was not written to order, and there was nothing new in its style. The mass is simply a model of all that was best in Palestrina's day. It embodied all that was noblest in the polyphonic style developed by the Netherlands school. Its melody is pure, sweet and fluent, and its {140} expressive capacity perfectly adapted to the devotional spirit of the text. Palestrina's contemporaries, such as Lasso and some of his predecessors, wrote in the same style. Lasso's 'Penitential Psalms' are much simpler in style than this mass. Its apparent simplicity lies in the fact that its profound mastery of technical resources conceals its superb art. The polyphonic writing is matchless in its evenness; every part is as good as every other part. The harmonies are beautiful, yet there is apparently no direct attempt to produce them. They seem just to happen. But above all other qualities stands the innate power of expression in this music. It is, as Ambrose has hinted, as if the composer had brought the angelic host to earth." Mees, in his "Choirs and Choral Music," has outlined what the place of Palestrina's music in church services is, and made it very clear how helpful it is for devotion instead of suggesting distractions, as modern music is so sure to do. Dickenson, in his "Study of the History of Music," says that in "Comparing a mass by Palestrina with one of Schubert or Gounod he (the hearer) will perceive not only a difference of style and form, but also one of purpose and ideal. The modern work strives to depict the moods suggested by the words according to the general methods that prevail in modern lyric and dramatic music; while the aim of the older music is to render a universal sentiment of devotion that is impersonal and general. Music here conforms to the idea of prayer. There is no thought of definite portrayal; the music strives merely to deepen the mystical impression of the ceremony as a whole." Mees had said in his work, p. 61: "Palestrina's conception of what the music of the Roman church should be was in perfect accord with the principle held by the early church: that music should form an integral part of the liturgy and add to its impressiveness. ... No sensuous melodies, no dissonant tension-creating harmonies, no abrupt rhythms distract the thoughts and excite the sensibilities. Chains of consonant chords growing out of the combination of smoothly-flowing, closely-interwoven parts, the contours of which are all but lost in the maze of tones, lull the mind into that state of submission to indefinite impressions which makes it susceptible to the mystic influence of the ceremonial and turns it away from worldly things." [Illustration: MELOZZO DA FORLI. ANGEL WITH LUTE (ROME)] {141} Perhaps the best proof of the enduring value of Palestrina's work is to be found in the fact that some of his compositions are still to be heard in the Sistine Chapel, and that even in our own time [Footnote 14] a definite movement to restore his music to its proper high place in the service of the Church has been initiated. Whenever, since his death, music has been really on a high plane, Palestrina has been thoroughly appreciated. Whenever musical taste has been debased and men have gone seeking after novelty and bizarre effects and over-decoration, Palestrina has been neglected. For music, he is what Dante is to literature and art, the touchstone by which it is easiest to estimate properly the value of a generation's critical faculty and spirit of appreciation. Henderson, in his "How Music Developed," already quoted from, has summed up Palestrina's accomplishment in a few words: [Footnote 14: The decree of Pope Pius X, requiring the restoration of the Gregorian Chant to the place of honor in the Liturgic Services and making Palestrina's music the standard to which choir music should properly conform, seemed to many music-lovers distinctly reactionary and perhaps old-fogyish. As a matter of fact, it was a well-judged restoration of such criteria in church music as would preclude the possibility of modern unsuitable developments of music finding their way further into church services. It was open to the same objections on the part of those who knew no better as the decree of Pope Leo XIII that St. Thomas Aquinas' Philosophy should be the standard in Catholic schools of Philosophy and Theology. The two decrees will be set beside each other in history as examples of the ability of great Popes so to direct church policy as to preserve the faithful from human degeneracies of taste and thought. Palestrina's music is as firm a standard of church music as Aquinas' thought is a safe criterion in philosophy.] "Before leaving the subject of Palestrina, let me endeavor to make clear to the reader wherein his style is so fine. Composers before him had begun to aim at the simplification of church music. They sought to accomplish their purpose by breaking the shackles of canonic law. The canon had demanded the most exact imitation in the different voice parts. The new style allowed the greatest freedom. The result was that free polyphony took the place of rigid canon. {142} Consequently composers were able to devote more attention to the development of fluent, beautiful and expressive melody. The merit of Palestrina's work was that it carried this style to perfection. His compositions became the models for succeeding composers, and indeed they remain to this day unequalled as examples of pure church music." Palestrina's career furnishes another striking example of the opportunities for genius to express itself provided by this period. According to a contemporary manuscript authority, so that the story is probably much more authentic than such stories usually are, young Pierluigi of Palestrina, the ancient Praeneste, while peddling in the streets of Rome the products of his father's farm, used to sing songs, one of which was heard by the choirmaster of Santa Maria Maggiore. He found that the boy had not only a beautiful voice, but a taste for music, so he gave him the opportunity for a musical education. Palestrina lived to be over eighty years of age, with manifold opportunities afforded him for the display of his genius. The latter half of his life was spent as one of the most honored men of his generation. His most brilliant period began when he was nearly seventy and when he was apparently thinking his career at an end. His complete works in thirty-three volumes have just been published, the last volume of the completed edition being presented to Pius X in 1908, who was most interested in this great modern monument to the Catholic genius of music. The great composer is worthy to stand beside St. Teresa, St. Philip Neri and St. Ignatius Loyola as one of the protagonists of the counter reformation. He did for music and the Church what others did for education, mysticism and social reform. One of the most interesting chapters in the history of music began just about the end of Columbus' Century. St. Philip Neri, of whom we have spoken in the chapter on Social Work and Workers of the period, was himself devoted to music and recognized how much it might mean for occupation of mind with higher things that would be a source at once of pleasure and social relaxation. He appreciated also how much of value music might lend to the proper expression of religious feeling, and even how much it might add to genuine religious {143} sentiment. The Miracle Plays of the latter half of the fifteenth century had always been accompanied by certain songs and glees with words relating to the sacred subjects often set to popular music. St. Philip recognized that these performances might be raised to a higher plane by introducing more music and using the best possible music for their illustration. Accordingly, in the course of services held in his oratory, he introduced historical scenes and sacred allegories with a musical setting, calling as a rule on his musical friends in Rome, and especially Animuccia, to supply him with compositions. Hence the term oratorio, the Italian word for oratory, for this class of music. It was not to reach its highest form of expression, the dramatic, until the end of the sixteenth century, but it is an invention of Columbus' period. An extremely important invention of this time was the introduction of the chord of the dominant seventh. The discovery is usually said to have been due to Claudio Monteverde of the seventeenth century, but the earliest extant musical works, in which examples of the phenomenal chord of the dominant seventh with the full freedom of present-day practice are found, are those of Jean Mouton of Holling in Lorraine, who died about 1522. For nearly a century after this time this great discovery, like so many others in every department of science, struggled for a place. It was finally acknowledged. This discovery brought music into close relation with science, and demonstrated its foundation in the natural laws of acoustics. In his article on the History of Music in "The Encyclopaedia Britannica," Sir George A. MacFarren, Professor of Music at the University of Cambridge, declared "that the discovery of the dominant seventh lays open the principle for which pagan philosophers and Christians had been vainly groping through centuries while a veil of mathematical calculation hung between them and the truth." The curious feature of the history of its introduction lies in the fact that it failed of appreciation from orthodox musicians for a considerable period and actually met with organized opposition. Even this brief sketch will suffice to show how greatly music developed during Columbus' Century. There is probably no corresponding period in the world's history that can show as {144} much real advance that is lasting progress. Perhaps in no department of aesthetics does supposed progress come and go from generation to generation more easily than in music. What certain generations of musical critics have very highly praised is often judged by their successors quite worthless. The musical achievements of this period have, on the contrary, been beacon lights for succeeding generations. Whenever the principles that came to be accepted at this time have been much departed from, musical taste has proved false and musical accomplishment trivial. It is this sort of achievement, absolutely enduring in its quality, which above all counts for humanity, and it is nowhere so well illustrated in every department of intellectual effort as during this century of Columbus. [Illustration: GERMAN MUSICIANS PLAYING ON THE VIOLIN AND BASS VIOL (LATE FIFTEENTH CENTURY)] The organ, as we have it at the present time, practically came into its modern shape during Columbus' Century. In the latter part of the fifteenth century the pedals and their {145} application were developed by the organ-builders of the time, and in the first half of the sixteenth century pipes in large numbers came to be used, and the stops were arranged as in the modern organ. There are records of organ-building, particularly in France about the end of the first quarter of the sixteenth century, which show that the instrument had reached a very modern phase and that it was only a question of the adaptation of such mechanical aids as would enable the organist to control a greater number of pipes that was now needed to bring about the further development of this instrument. A good idea of the perfection of the organ at this time may be obtained from the description of one built at St. Maurice, Angers, France, in 1511, of which we have a detailed account in a legal process some years later. This contained two towers of thirty-five-foot pipe, forty-eight stops and a separate pedal. The independent pedal came into general use at this time. About this same time the violin began to develop and came very nearly into its modern form by the end of Columbus' Century, so that it was ready for the perfecting process which was to take place in the following hundred years. {146} CHAPTER X BOOKS AND PRINTS: WOOD AND METAL ENGRAVING The scholarship of this century is well known to all the world, and the Renaissance is looked upon as the time when the deep knowledge of the classics, the New Learning or Humanism as it was called, awoke the modern spirit. The men of the time learned much from books. It is interesting to note, then, how much they did for books. The generations amply repaid the debt they owed to the past by what they accomplished for the preservation of the ancient writings, and above all by putting them in a worthy dress for the use and the admiration of future generations. The Renaissance must probably be considered to have appreciated books more than any other period in the world's history and to have done more to give dignity, beauty and permanence to the objects of their devotion. It was no mere accident that just at the beginning of this period, about 1450, the invention of printing was perfected. Books had been rising in value and in price, though the demand had been constantly increasing, until it was only to be expected that some method of making them available for a much larger number of people must come. Necessity is the mother of invention, and the need for a thing sets men's minds at work until they have obtained it. Caxton's experience, detailed further on in this chapter, is illuminating in this regard. Great, however, as is the invention, the credit for which apparently must be shared by the Germans Gutenberg, Fust and Schoeffer, the use that was made of that invention during the century that followed is deserving of still higher appreciation. It had indeed come to a worthy time, but not by accident, for any time receives its deserts and wins the rewards of its own interests and efforts. {147} [Illustration: BORDER FROM THE "BOOK OF HOURS" OF ANTHONY VERARD (1488)] If ordinary impressions were to be accepted, it might well be expected that printing having been invented about the middle of the fifteenth century, the first century would see industrious, but rather crude applications of the invention, until men became accustomed to its employment, and then gradually, by that progress which is so often assumed to be inevitable in mankind, printing would rise to be an art more and more beautiful as time went on, until in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries we would have the most beautiful examples of book-making. As a matter of fact, however, during the first half century, immediately after the preliminary tentative application of the art, printing rose to a perfection that has never been excelled since and only equalled in few periods. Between 1475 and 1525 some of the most beautiful printed books ever made were completed and {148} worthily bound. Columbus' Century can boast the production of the most beautiful books in the world. Succeeding centuries saw a decadence in the arts of book-making which was progressive until the latter half of the nineteenth century. At that time some of the worst books ever made, with poorly designed, cheap type, still cheaper but fortunately perishable paper, sadly inartistic illustrations and ugly bindings, were made (_perpetrated_ is the expression one book-lover has used). It must not be forgotten that this same decadence affected everything else, and that painting and sculpture and architecture reached their lowest ebb also in the nineteenth century, though the book continued to be in the depths for longer than any of the other products of the arts. Fortunately, William Morris came to call attention to the utter ugliness of commercialized book-making and to arouse his generation to a noble effort for the recovery of the lost art. He demonstrated how artistically books might be made by taking as models the printed books of Columbus' time. He imitated as far as possible their beautiful hand-made paper without reflecting surface, of a tint that made the ink stand out on printed pages with wide margins and judicious spacing, with type faces eminently suited for easy reading, and made with an eye to real artistic quality and with ink that has not faded all these 400 years. All these were book qualities well worthy of emulation. The work has been taken up in many places since, and now beautiful books are not so rare as they were, though it is doubtful whether, even with all our mechanical appliances, our ability to sell reasonably large editions, the prosperity of the time and the interest of publishers and bibliophiles, we have succeeded in making any books that we would dare to set in comparison with a number of the volumes that were printed in Columbus' Century. The perfection which book-making by hand had reached at the time when printing was invented and began to come into general use made it comparatively easy for excellent printed books to be made--excellent in the sense both of good printing and fine illustration. The "Books of Hours" of the later fifteenth century are among the most beautiful volumes that were ever made. They were finely written in a dear hand, {149} beautifully decorated, handsomely illuminated and very suitably bound. Even the best painters did not hesitate to devote themselves to the making of illuminated illustrations for favorite volumes. The French were, as Dante suggests in Canto XI of the "Purgatorio," the best illuminators in his time, and they continued to maintain this superiority during the fifteenth century. Gerard W. Smith in his "Painting, Spanish and French" (Illustrated Handbooks of Art History), says that "the French school of miniature, though surpassed in seriousness and originality by those of Flanders and Italy, was yet skilful in appropriating many of the excellences of both. They surpassed the former in the general composition of their subjects and the latter in their perspective." The best known of their artist illustrators of this time was Jean Fouquet, the Court painter of Louis XI, whose work as painter is discussed in the chapter, Painting Outside of Italy. The pictures by him in the illuminated Josephus in the Paris Library are especially well known and often praised for their freedom of invention, their variety and the perfection of detail in their accessories. The compositions made for the illustration of Titus Livius, Livy the Latin historian, have been pronounced admirable for their naturalness and life. Fouquet is particularly happy in the landscapes which he introduces into his pictures and the architectural details which he adds. The miniature, which we have copied from the Livy manuscript in the Bibliothèque Nationale, illustrates all of these qualities very well and makes it clear that no element of artistic beauty or picturesque values was lacking in the books that were being made by hand when printing came to revolutionize the arts of book-making. Some of the extra-illuminated books of this period are among the most beautiful printed books ever issued in their ornateness. Not long since Tregaskis advertised a little Book of Hours, printed by _Simon duBois pour maistre geofroy tori de bourges 1527,_ at sixty guineas. He describes it as extremely rare and the first in which occurs the Arabesque border so frequently used by Tory and his successors in subsequent editions. Dibden, reproducing some of the borders in his "Bibliographical Decameron," said that he had seen {150} nothing more beautiful of this kind. Each page is printed within a varying woodcut border of birds, fish, flowers and insects, with the initials of the Queen Mother and of the King and Queen crowned, in combination with the arms of France and Savoy. [Illustration: FOUQUET, JEHAN, MINIATURE PAINTING, FROM THE LIVY MSS. (BIBLIOTHÈQUE NATIONALE, PARIS)] This is, of course, the period when these books were most beautifully done. There are a number of examples of them that have appeared in the sales in recent years and have {151} commanded high prices not alone because of their antiquity, but because of the exquisite charm of their decorations. It was in competition with such exquisite books that the early printers found themselves. No wonder, then, that they were stimulated to do beautiful work and that their best efforts were aroused. The fine, broad enterprise of the printers of the time can be very well appreciated from the rapid development of their art and craft by the making of fonts of letters for all the different alphabets. Greek type was made as early as 1465. The first book wholly printed in Greek minuscules was Lascaris' Grammar at Milan in 1476. The first Hebrew types appeared as early as 1475. Aldus' famous Italic type, said to be an imitation of the handwriting of Petrarch, was introduced by Aldus Manutius of Venice for his projected small edition of the classics. The cutting of it was probably done by the painter Francia (Raibolini). It was first used in the Virgil of 1500. Arabic types were first used for the printing of a book in 1514 at Fano in Italy. Syriac was used for printing as early as 1538, and just after the end of Columbus' Century excellent types of this language were in use. A Psalter was printed in Russian at Cracow as early as 1491, and the Russian types were used at Prague in 1517. Anglo-Saxon and Irish types were used shortly after the end of Columbus' Century. Music printing began early, the earliest specimen of music type occurring in Higden's "Polychronicon," printed by Wynken de Worde at Westminster in 1495. Notes had been printed from wooden blocks twenty-five years earlier, though some books had spaces left to be filled in by hand. About 1500 a musical press was established at Venice. Toward the end of the century special types and presses of many kinds for music were invented. The great English printer of this time, William Caxton, is a characteristic type of the scholarly printers of the period. We know almost nothing about his life. He records his thanks to his parents for having given him an education that fitted him to earn a living, though he does not say where or how he was educated. Just about the beginning of Columbus' Century he settled at Bruges, going into business on his own {152} account, and soon became prosperous. He had been an apprentice to Robert Large, a wealthy London mercer of the time, who was one of the influential men of the period. In 1453 Caxton returned to England for his formal admittance as a member of the Mercers' Company. His story after this is not unlike that of Schliemann, the discoverer of Troy in our own time. He retired from business apparently with a competency, entered the service of Margaret Duchess of Burgundy, probably in order to have more time for his literary work, and the next year he finished his translation from the French of the "Recuyell of the Historyes of Troye," which was dedicated to Margaret. His book was very much sought after and circulated in manuscript. The task of copying it was too great and entirely too slow for the demand. With true business instinct, Caxton then "practysed & lerned at grete charge and dispense to ordeyne this said book in prynte." His book was printed at Bruges in 1474. The next year his second book, the "Game & Pleye of Chess," which he had also translated from the French, was printed. The following year, 1476, Caxton returned to England and set up his own printing press at Westminster. The first issue from his press was the "Dictes and Sayings of the Philosophers," which bears the date 1477. Though he died fourteen years later, in 1491, he is said to have issued ninety-six books from the Westminster Press in the intervening brief period. His publications include the works of Chaucer and Gower, Sir Thomas Malory's _"Morte d'Arthur"_ and a number of translations from French, Latin and Dutch, most of them probably made by himself and all of them under his editorial direction. He issued a number of smaller pious books which show his deep religious interest. Though brought up to a trade which he pursued successfully until he had made money, he was a scholarly man who wrote excellent vigorous English and had an ardent enthusiasm for literature. He is one of the greatest forces in English prose before the sixteenth century, and with Sir Thomas More helped to fix it in the form in which it was to pass to the Elizabethans and be given our modern shape. His life is the best possible evidence of the opportunities for education that abounded at the beginning of Columbus' {153} Century, and which even those quite outside of what would ordinarily be thought the possible chances for the higher education might readily secure. The story of the great printers of the Renaissance might well be summed up in the work of the Venetian, Aldus Manutius, who was a distinguished scholar as well as publisher. Born 1450, he was a pupil of Guarino of Verona, and having studied Greek very faithfully, resolved to print all the Greek classics. He adopted the handwriting of Musurus as the model on which his Greek type was cast and then proceeded to make arrangements for worthy publication. The ink was made in the publishing house and only the best materials employed. He had special paper from the mills of Fabriano, and the bookbinding was done in a separate department of his own establishment. [Footnote 15] The result was the magnificent set of Editiones Principes issued by his house. The first of these was Musaeus, printed in 1493. Altogether twenty-eight _editiones principes_ of the {154} Greek and Latin classics were issued in some twenty-two years. His trade symbol, the Dolphin and the Anchor, signifies speed and tenacity. In reference to it, Aldus himself once said, "I have achieved much by patience (the word he used was _cunctando_, literally by taking my time) and I work without pause." As we have said, Aldus invented the form of type called Italic, for which he received a patent from Pope Leo X. In 1500 Aldus printed the first leaf of a proposed Bible in Hebrew, Greek and Latin--a Polyglot Bible which was never completed. His work was carried on after his death in 1515 by the Asolani, his brothers-in-law, and later by Paolo Manuzio, his son, and afterwards by another Aldus, his grandson. In 1518 the Aeschylus was printed, and there was then no extant Greek classic of the first rank unprinted. [Footnote 15: The lofty motives that impelled men to take up the art of printing can be very well appreciated from some expressions of Aldus in this matter. As a boy he had been shy, awkward and retiring, and although receiving his education in the best schools of Ferrara and Rome, he had not shown any marked ability. For a time he seems to have studied for the priesthood, but instead became a tutor for princely houses. This gave him sufficient for his modest tastes and a quiet, scholarly life. At the age of forty he gave up this career, and with little money began to edit and prepare for printing the works of almost forgotten Greek authors. This was about the time that Columbus launched his vessels to sail to America. Early as this date might seem to be in the history of the art, printing had already been overdone. When Aldus reached Venice there were or had been 160 printers or publishers in that city. Most of them were poor, some of them were bankrupt and none of them were making any money that might be expected to tempt a man of forty without experience to take up a business career. The state of the trade at Rome was scarcely better. Italy was disturbed by rumors of impending war. It was under these conditions that Aldus declared in the preface of one of his early books: "I have made a vow to devote my life to the public good. God is my witness that this is my most earnest desire. ... I leave a peaceable life, preferring this which is laborious and exacting. ... Man was not born for pleasure unworthy of an elevated spirit, but for duties which dignify him. Let us leave to the vile the lower life of animals."] Aldus devoted himself to the printing of the classics and quite neglected the theological works which were so popular, at least among the printers of the time. After seven years of the hardest kind of work he said, "In this seventh year of my self-imposed task I can truly say--yes, under oath--that I have not during these long years had one hour of peaceful rest." In 1498, perhaps from overwork, but more likely from neglect of the ordinary care of nature in regular eating and sleeping, he came down with a severe illness. During his illness his thoughts went back to his student days and he vowed that he would become a priest if he recovered. After his recovery, however, he asked and obtained a release from this obligation. The next year he married the daughter of an eminent brother printer, Torresano of Asola, and though there was great difference in their ages, Aldus being fifty and his wife scarcely twenty, it seems to have proved a happy marriage. Aldus health was better cared for after this, and then his thrifty father-in-law, who was a successful publisher, probably helped him with many suggestions, as a consequence of which Aldus made his books cheaper and more widely salable, and henceforth we have less querulousness over the neglect of the public to buy. Aldus was one of the busiest of men. His motto was _festina lente_ (make haste slowly). He says in one of his books, "You do not know how busy I am; the care I have to give to {155} my publications does not allow me proper time to eat or sleep." In self-defence against bores, and it is easy to understand how many there might be in this period of reawakened interest in scholarship who would think that they could occupy a few hours pleasantly and profitably for themselves in Aldus' establishment, he put this warning on his door: "Whoever you are, Aldus entreats you to be brief. When you have spoken, leave him, unless you come like Hercules to help Atlas, weary of his burden. Know that there is work here for everyone who enters the door." Practically every important printer and publicist ever since has had to try to protect himself and his time in some similar way. Human nature, or at least the human nature of bores, has not changed any in these five centuries. In spite of all that he did for his generation, he met with little of gratitude and almost less of personal appreciation. There were many distinguished scholars who were dear personal friends, there were many high ecclesiastics who admired and helped him, there were many noble patrons and clients of his house who must have brought him much consolation. But he had his critics as well: Erasmus could not refrain from some biting witticisms with regard to the frugality of his table, being himself somewhat of a glutton. Scaliger indeed said of him that he drank like three, but did only half the work of one man, while Aldus was very abstemious. Besides, Aldus complained that his books were fraudulently reprinted, that his workmen were tempted away from him after he had trained them, and that he even had to defend himself against the treachery of his own employees at times. Already at that time they were beginning to complain of the injustice done the author by lack of copyright. Erasmus complained: "Our lawmakers do not concern themselves about the matter. He who sells English cloth for Venetian cloth is punished, but he who sells corrupt texts in place of good ones goes free. Innumerable are the books that are corrupted, especially in Germany. There are restraints on bad bakers, but none on bad printers, and there is no corner of the earth where bad books do not go." A writer in the old _Scribner's Magazine_ for October, 1881, summed up what Aldus had accomplished for his profession {156} in a paragraph that evidently comes from a man who knows his subject well and probably in the modern time has faced some of the problems that Aldus had to meet, though with the advantage of the experience of over four centuries since to help him in solving them. "Considering the difficulties he had to encounter, not the least of them the difficulty of getting compositors who could read Greek MSS. and compose Greek types, it is a wonder that they are as correct as they are. Some of them are above reproach. When he offered to the reader of his edition of Plato, as he did in the preface of that book, a gold crown for every discovered error, he must have had a confidence in its accuracy which comes only from the consciousness of thorough editorial work. Aldus' taste as editor went beyond the text. Not content with an accurate version, he had that version presented in pleasing types. Everybody admits the value of his invention of Italic, even if his use of it as a text-letter be not approved. But few persons consider that we are indebted to Aldus for the present forms that he introduced. How great this obligation is will be readily acknowledged after an examination of the uncouth characters and the discordant styles of Greek copyists before the sixteenth century. Aldus' invention of small capitals has already been noticed. Here, then, are three distinct styles of book-printing types which he introduced, and which have been adopted everywhere almost without dissent. Other printers have done work of high merit; other type-founders have made pleasing ornamental or fancy types; but no printer or founder since Aldus has invented even one original style of printing types which has been adopted and kept in use as a text-letter for books." [Footnote 16] [Footnote 16: It was after Grolier's visit to Aldus in Italy that he took up the making of that collection of beautifully bound and printed books which have since made him famous; he evidently owed the inspiration not a little to the great Italian printer.] The other most distinguished printer of Columbus' Century whose career deserves to be sketched at some length was the Frenchman, Geoffrey Tory or Trinus, who is not so well known as Aldus, coming a little later in history, but whose work was of the highest artistic character. {157} [Illustration: BORDER FROM "BOOK OF HOURS," GEOFFREY TORY (1525)] Like Aldus, he was of poor parents, but attended the best schools in the Province of Berry toward the end of the fifteenth century and then travelled in Italy. He afterwards became instructor in Paris in the College de Plessis, edited an edition of Pomponius Mela, which was published by Jean Petit, and prepared "AEneas Sylvius" and other works for Estienne the Elder. Fond of art, Tory began to practise wood-engraving and gave up his teaching to study wood-engraving in Italy. He supported himself while studying by painting miniatures for the adornment of manuscripts and printed books and became a great master of his chosen art. He engraved initials, characters and borders for Simon de Collines in Paris, and his work shows the fullest acquaintance with all the resources of his art. His plates marked with the Cross of {158} Lorraine are now considered worthy of a very high place in every choice collection. His principal contribution to book-making was his remarkable original work called "Champ Fleury." This book was divided into three parts for the instruction of printers. The first of these parts contained a treatise upon the proper use of letters. The second treated of the origin of the capital letter and its proper place. The third contained accurate drawings of letters and a large number of alphabets of various kinds, so that proper selection of type might be made for various kinds of books and varying sizes according to space and page. This work had a far-reaching influence. One result was an immediate and complete revolution in French typography and orthography--the abandonment of the Gothic and the adoption of the new cutting of antique type. After having been used for several centuries, the faces of the type thus produced were abandoned for a time and are now being revived. In this book also Tory laid down the rules for the proper use in French of the accents, apostrophe and marks of punctuation. He did more than anyone else to settle these vexed problems of usage for the world. The publication of the book won from Francis I, himself a scholar and patron of learning and an author to whom so much is owed in the French Renaissance, the title of King's Printer. Some of Tory's borders are illustrated on these pages. They have been fruitful models full of suggestion for such work ever since. With the development of printing, the need of methods of multiplying illustrations for printed books soon made itself felt and was finely responded to by the genius of the century. Wood-engraving in the service of book-illustration came in very early in the history of printing and was, after all, only a development of the wooden blocks, out of which the first idea of movable types had originally sprung. It was very crude at the beginning, and yet often with an artistic expression that gives it great interest. Its possibilities for printing in company with movable types soon began to be realized, and as printed books became more beautiful and type faces more artistic, the necessity for supplying artistic illustrations was felt, and then it was not long before the need was supplied. Probably the {159} first wood-engraving designed for book-illustration which exhibits a marked artistic quality was "The Dream of Poliphilo," in which, as Woodberry says in his "History of Wood-Engraving," "Italian wood-engraving, quickened by the spirit of the Renaissance, displayed its most beautiful creation." It was written by a Venetian monk, Francesco Colombo, in 1467, and was first printed by Aldus in 1499. The subject was a worthy one, for though the book is a strange mingling of Greek, Latin, Hebrew and Arabic traditions and poetic symbolism, it typifies the spirit of the Renaissance. It represents the search of youth for the loveliness of universal nature and the perfection of ancient art under the title of Polia, the charming maiden who combines all the qualities. Altogether there are 192 designs. They have been attributed to many illustrious masters, even John Bellini and Raphael, among others, but were probably due to Benedetto Montagna. How soon illustration came to aid in the understanding of the text in books is very well illustrated by Fra Giocondo's work. When, in 1508, he published the letters of the younger Pliny in the Aldine edition, he not only described but illustrated the villas of the ancients. In 1511 he edited the Aldine edition of Vitruvius, with its rude woodcuts that are yet much more thoroughly illustrative than many a more ambitious modern book and which include the first modern plan of a Roman house. When he issued his Aldine edition of Caesar in 1513 this was illustrated with the earliest of all modern drawings of Caesar's bridge across the Rhine. Fra Giocondo is in fact the true father of the illustrated classic, as Sandys suggested in his Harvard Lectures on the "Revival of Learning" (Cambridge University Press, 1905). It may be well to add that the good friar was no mere student for erudition's sake, since, as is noted in the chapter on architecture, he entered the royal service in France, and in 1497 designed one at least, if not two, of the noble bridges that still span the Seine. The great improvement which came in book-illustration and the making of prints we owe to Albrecht Dürer, who not only was the first to discover the capacities of wood-engraving as a mode of artistic expression, but who saw immediately that it could not equal the rival art of copperplate-engraving in that delicacy of line and depth of tone on which the metal-engraving depends for its excellence, but appreciating the limitations, Dürer prescribed the materials and processes of wood-engraving. {160} [Illustration: PAGE OF "BOOK OF HOURS" MADE FOR SIMON DE COLLINES (TORY)] {161} He increased the size of the cuts, gave breadth and boldness to the lines and obtained new and pleasing effects from strong contrasts of black and white. As Woodberry in his "History of Wood-Engraving" (Harper's, New York, 1883) says: "He thus showed the true method of wood-engraving; but the art owes to him much more than this: he brought to the practice of it the hand and brain of a great master, lifted it, a mechanic's trade, into the service of high imagination and vigorous interest and placed it among the fine arts--a deed of far more importance than any improvements in processes or methods." In so doing, may we add that he only accomplished what so many of his contemporaries did in other arts. The goldsmiths became sculptors and painters, the decorators became true artists and the scholars learned from their classical books to execute what they had studied in the ancients. It would be hard to say enough of Dürer's wood-engravings. His prints must be allowed to talk for themselves. Unfortunately, owing to limit of space, we are only able to give one of them, but that will furnish an excellent example of the marvellous qualities Dürer succeeded in expressing, in what might have seemed before this time a hopelessly coarse medium. The first of the four famous series of designs by which his skill in wood-engraving is first shown was published in 1498, but it was probably finished before that time. It consisted of fifteen large woodcuts in illustration of the Apocalypse of St. John, to which a vignette of wonderful nobility and simplicity was prefixed. Other men did wonderful work in this new medium, after Dürer had shown them the way, though none of them surpassed or perhaps even equalled their master. Portions of the triumphal procession of Maximilian by Hans Burgkmaier show that his disciples were thoroughly capable of following in his footsteps. Such men as Hans Schaeuffelin and Hans Springinklee, as well as Hans Baldung, far surpassed most of their successors in the artistic quality of their wood-engraving. Lucas van Leyden and the Cranachs show how artists took to {162} this new mode of expression, and a series of men working in this century prove the wonderful power of the time to stimulate men's genius. Besides Dürer and the group who were largely influenced by him, one man, Hans Holbein, deserves special mention because he illustrates especially the connection of the new art with book-making. Holbein commenced to practise wood-engraving as soon as he settled in Basel at about the age of twenty. He began by designing the title page, initial letters and woodcuts for the publishers of that period. He illustrated the books of the humanists, especially the "Utopia" of Sir Thomas More, then a new and popular work, and afterwards designed the woodcuts for the Biblical translation of Luther, and he did some excellent caricature work. He is a realist and has illustrated particularly humble life, incidents of the daily doings of peasants and children, and these scenes are sometimes introduced as the background of initial letters, some twenty alphabets of which are ascribed to him. Geoffrey Tory in France introduced a classical spirit into wood-engraving, and the sculptors, Jean Cousin and Bernard Salomon and especially Jean Goujon, who made some excellent cuts for Vitruvius (1547), and a group of other illustrators in France, serve to show how the art spread and was used all over the world. Another interesting development both in prints and in book-illustration came in the gradual evolution of metal-engraving, which, like wood-engraving, reached some of its highest perfection in Germany. Martin Schongauer, who died in 1488, is the first important name, though he was preceded by an unknown German engraver usually spoken of as "The Master of 1466." Schongauer used curved shading and greatly developed the technique. After him came Dürer, who lifted metal-engraving, especially copperplate-engraving, into the realm of art. Probably nothing illustrates so well his power of minute observation as some of his copperplates. His animals are reproduced with fidelity and charm, and in the early days of landscape painting he studied every leaf and branch and tree trunk and knew how to picture just what he saw. The climax of artistic quality was reached by Marcantonio in Italy, who worked under the direction of Raphael. After the work of these masters there was very little left to be added by subsequent engravers. {163} [Illustration: DÜRER, MARRIAGE OF THE BLESSED VIRGIN (WOODCUT, 1511)] {164} How much the illustration of books was helped by this new development of art can be very readily appreciated by those who know some of the old books. Even technical books, such as text-books of anatomy, were beautifully illustrated from copperplates that are not merely conventional pictures, but often real works of art. The plates for Vesalius' anatomy were probably prepared under the direction of Titian by one of his best students, Kalkar, and Eustachius' anatomical plates probably also had the counsel of a great artist. [Footnote 17] [Footnote 17: How much the book-making and bookbinding of this period is appreciated in our time will perhaps be best and most easily realized from the following item: "At the sale of Lady Brooke's Library at Sotheby's, Mr. Quaritch bought for $1,500 the well-preserved copy of Livy, dated 1543, in a fine contemporary morocco binding, and paid $1,475 for a copy, dated 1533. of Petrus Martyr's _'De Rebus Oceanicis, et Orbe Novo'"_ (New York _Herald_, Nov. 26, 1913).] While the inside of the book was cared for so thoroughly and thoughtfully the outside of it was not neglected. This is the period when the most beautiful bindings in the world were made. The name of the Grolier Club in New York is testimony to this, for when our American bibliophiles wanted to name their association worthily they took their title from the great book-lover of Columbus' Century, Jean Grolier, the Treasurer of France, who did so much to encourage the beautiful book-making of the time. The collection of books made by Grolier is probably the most famous ever brought together. They were beautifully printed on the best of paper as a rule and most fittingly and artistically bound. The life history of practically every one of them has been traced, and many a book-lover has purchased immortality at a comparatively cheap price by having at some time or other been in possession of one of Grolier's books, for the name of every possessor is chronicled as a rule. Many a book-owner of our time has his only chance for being known in the time to come from the fact that he has one of Grolier's books in his library. {165} [Illustration: BLACK-LETTER WITH BORDERED PAGE (1520)] {166} The beautiful bindings need to be seen to be appreciated, but every phase of artistic adornment in books was exhausted. While leather was the favorite material for binding, silk and tapestry and plush were used, and ornamentation of all kinds, metal, tortoise shell and precious stones, was employed. There probably was never more taste displayed than at this time, and though subsequent workmen learned to finish much better, the best bindings of the modern time scarcely compare with those of Columbus' period in artistic quality. Brander Matthews in his "Bookbindings, Old and New," said: "We must confess that there are very few finishers (of books) of our time who have originality of invention, freshness of composition or individuality of taste." He proceeds to say that in our time we have a more certain handicraft, but less artistic quality. The handicraft has improved, the art has declined. The hand has gained skill, but the head has lost its force. In our time we are again coming to appreciate properly the value of beautiful books. There have been periods between ours and Columbus' Century when only the most sordid ideas obtained in the book world, or when bad taste ruled and book-binding, like printing and the other arts, had a period of decadence after the sixteenth century, that is hard to explain, though it is easy to find reasons for it, and which continued to sink books into ever greater and greater lack of artistic qualities until almost the twentieth century. Out of that pit dug by neglect of interest in the beautiful as well as the useful we are now climbing, but unfortunately many of our time are inclined to think that this is the first time there has been that emergence, though we are only beginning, as yet distantly, to imitate the beauties of book-making in the mediaeval and Renaissance periods. Even more interesting for the modern time is the attitude of these great collectors of books of Columbus' time toward their precious treasures. They did not consider that they belonged to themselves alone, but to all those capable of using them. The distinguished Italian collector who preceded Grolier, Maioli, had the motto printed on his books, _Tho. Maioli et amicorum_--that is, "the property of Thomas Maioli and his friends." A number of other book-collectors, including Grolier, imitated this. Maioli is said to have had the true amateur spirit and to have taken up the making of beautiful bindings for himself. Geoffrey Tory also devoted himself to {167} bookbinding as well as to wood-engraving and his work for the printers. In a word it was a time when men were intent on making the book just as beautiful as possible, while all the time bearing in mind that its utility must be its principal characteristic. [Illustration: PLAYING CARD, FRANCE, FIFTEENTH CENTURY] {168} {169} BOOK II THE BOOK OF THE DEEDS CHAPTER I SOCIAL WORK AND WORKERS Any century that does not display an important evolution of works for the benefit of the poor whom we have "always with us," of organized effort for the ailing who are inevitable in the present state of man's existence, as well as some general recognition of social duty towards the great body of men and women who must always be helped to make something out of their lives, because they lack initiative and power of accomplishment for themselves, does not deserve a place among the great centuries of human existence. Columbus' Century is in this regard one of the notable periods of human history. It saw the building of magnificent hospitals in many countries, a phase of its history so full of importance that we have had to reserve its treatment for a special chapter on hospitals. It saw the organization of many means of helping the poor, and particularly of definite methods for the care of the old and the young, for the disabled and unfortunate, and the origin of the institutions through which the poor for their little pledges might secure loans to tide them over the recurring crises of existence. Besides there were many asylums, in the best sense of the word, founded for the care of the insane and chronic sufferers of other kinds, and many other institutions of charity were organized and established in such forms as to do the greatest possible amount of good. Above all, this century saw the establishment of a number of religious orders which were to accomplish social reforms of many kinds, and the founders of which were to provide by their example and {170} advice the proper encouragement for many charitable foundations. The most interesting development of helpfulness at this time came in connection with the many guilds which reached their highest development at the end of the fifteenth century. These guilds took care of the disabled, supported the old, took charge of orphans, gave technical training to the children, founded schools in many places and often sent the more intelligent boys even to the university, and provided various entertainments during the year for the members of the guilds and their neighbors and townsfolk. How universal was their effect upon the life for instance of the English people will be best appreciated from the calculation of Toulmin Smith, whose authority in all that relates to the history of the English guilds is unquestioned, that there were some thirty thousand of these brotherhood institutions in existence in England about the beginning of the sixteenth century. They touched every phase of the social life of the time and helped in the solution of many of the social problems. They provided insurance for their members against loss by fire, by robbery, at sea, by the fall of a house, by imprisonment and even against loss from flood. There was insurance against the loss of sight, against the loss of limb or any other form of crippling. The deaf and dumb might be insured so as to secure an income for them and corresponding relief for leprosy might be obtained, so that if one were set apart from the community by the law requiring segregation of lepers there might be provision for food and lodging even though productive work had become impossible. [Footnote 18] There was also insurance for the farmer against the loss of cattle and farm products. [Footnote 18: Walsh, "The Thirteenth Greatest of Centuries," Catholic Summer School Press Appendix, fifth edition, New York, 1912.] There were no poorhouses and no orphan asylums. We have just come to recognize once more that the best possible guardian, as a rule, for children is their mother, if she is alive. It is cheaper in the end to help her to keep the family together than to put them into institutions, and the home training is almost infinitely better. They recognized this fact very {171} clearly in the later Middle Ages and in Columbus' Century, and if mother were dead, and father could not keep the children, which was very rarely the case, or if both parents were dead, the children were distributed in families which adopted them with the specific agreement that they should be looked upon as members of the family. The guild officials looked after these children and saw that they were not abused and obtained special opportunities for their training, and supplied a dowry very often for the girls when they married. Indeed, there was a tradition that "the children of the guild," as these orphans were called, were likely to have better opportunities in life than those whose parents were still living. In spite of all their care for the poor, the time had, as every time has had, the problem of the ne'er-do-well, the man with the _wanderlust,_ who will not settle down anywhere and cannot be expected to keep steadily at work. They dealt with what we have come to call the tramp rather well. Above all, they avoided many of the abuses of public begging. The method is worth while noting. When a member of the guild died every member was expected to attend his funeral. Those that did not were fined a small sum, but yet sufficient to deter them from neglecting this obligation unless compelled by some necessity. These fines went into the common fund for the benefit of the poor and were given as alms for the intention of the dead brother's soul. Besides, every member was expected to give a small coin as further alms for the dead, and this sum of money was deposited with the treasurer of the guild for this special purpose. Each one who gave an alms was handed a token, which he might use as he saw fit. When a member of a guild met someone who looked as though he needed help, instead of giving him money he handed him this token and then the beggar might obtain whatever he needed most--food, lodging or clothing--by presenting the token to the treasurer of the guild, the sexton of the church or any of the church wardens or the clergy. This prevented the abuse of charity, gave immediate relief where it was needed and did not pauperize, because the person benefited knew that the intention in what was given him was the benefit of a dead brother's soul and not merely pity for him. {172} The number and efficiency of the activities of the guild can be best understood from a study of the history of the Guild of the Holy Cross at Stratford. Owing to the fact that interest in Shakespeare has led to a very careful study of every possible scrap of information with regard to the life of the town during the century before his time, we are in possession of many details with regard to it. The Guild of the Holy Cross at Stratford came to represent nearly every form of initiative for the good of the townspeople. They had their periodic banquets, provided pageants, took care of the poor, built almshouses that were very different from poorhouses, cared for the orphans and disabled and supported the grammar school as well as helping some of their members to the higher education. The guild became so famous for its benefactions to the life of the town that distinguished members of the nobility and judges, members of the professions and prominent merchants from all the surrounding neighborhood asked and obtained the privilege of becoming members. The guild acquired property and had a definite income. We know that in 1481 it acquired the rectory of Little Wilmcote, where the Ardens, the ancestors of Shakespeare's mother, had property, with all its profits. One very interesting development in Stratford shows the difference between the poorhouses of subsequent centuries and the almshouses of Columbus' Century. Just next to the Guild School and Chapel in Stratford there is a row of little houses rather strange looking now, but not so unlike the houses of the time in which they were erected as to be noticeable. There are a dozen or more of these in which the aged poor were to live, husband and wife occupying the ground floor of a little house by themselves. Places were also provided in the upper stories of these houses for the widowers, spinsters and old bachelors who had become too old for work. They are neat little quarters, in which the old folks still live contented and which the visitor to Stratford finds of very great interest. The guild chapel not being far away, a few hundred feet from the farthest of them, even the feeblest of the old people who were not actually bedridden could have the consolation of going to church and special services at convenient hours {173} were held for them. As a matter of fact, after the rebuilding of the chapel by Sir Hugh Clopton, a great many of the townspeople, except on high festival days, used to go to the guild chapel because of its convenience rather than to Trinity Church outside the town. The boys at the guild school hard by played in their yard, where the old folk could see them, thus providing the best possible pastime for their elders, while during the day the busy traffic of a main travelled road went by them, furnishing further distraction. The grammar school which was founded and supported by the guild deserves particular mention. It was free to the children of the members of the guild, and the schoolmaster was forbidden to take anything from his pupils. The master of the guild paid him an annual salary. The date of its origin used to be set down as 1453, but it is now known to have been in existence much earlier, though a thorough reorganization took place at this time, giving rise to the idea of its actual foundation. How successful it was in its work may be gathered from the number of Stratford men who came to hold high positions in England--there being no less than three Lord Chancellors in one century--and from what we know of it in Shakespeare's time. It was suppressed under Henry VIII, but owing to the disaffection among the people it, as well as a number of other institutions of the kind, were reestablished under Edward VI and have come to be known as Edward VI Grammar Schools. As Gairdner has emphasized, there is very little reason for this designation. The new foundations were made most grudgingly and economically, considering the vast funds that had been confiscated. The grammar school was so effective in its teaching, however, that even the merchants' sons in Stratford wrote to one another in rather good Latin. Some of the letters are extant. Some of these details serve to show very well the character of the social work accomplished by the guild, especially in its school and its almhouses. Sir Sidney Lee continues: "But in 1547 all these advantages ceased: The guild was dissolved and all the property came into the royal treasure." The account of what happened to some of these long-established funds for the benefit of the poor and of education is to be {174} found in his chapter. They were transferred to favorites of the King, who used them for various unworthy purposes and, above all, merely to keep up with the pampered luxury of the time. Rev. Augustus Jessop, the Anglican rector of Seaming, in his volume of essays, "Before the Great Pillage," tells of other parts of England and that "the almshouses in which old men and women were fed and clothed were robbed to the last pound, the poor almsfolk being turned out in the cold at an hour's warning to beg their bread. Hospitals for the sick and needy, sometimes magnificently provided with nurses and chaplains, whose very _raison d'être_ was that they were to look after the care for those who were past caring for themselves, these were stripped of all their belongings, the inmates sent out to hobble into some convenient dry ditch to lie down and die, or to crawl into some barn or hovel, there to be tended, nor without fear of consequences, by some kindly man or woman who could not bear to see a suffering fellow-creature drop down and die at their own door-posts." How all this fine organization of social work ended has often been a mystery to students of the social history of this time. It is not difficult to understand, however, when the happenings of the latter part of Columbus' Century are recalled. Sir Sidney Lee, in his "Stratford-on-Avon," has told the story of the end of things so far as Stratford is concerned. I prefer to let him tell the story (page 101): "The politicians who surrounded Henry VIII and Edward VI found the destruction of religious corporations not more satisfactory to their consciences than to their purses. In 1545 and in 1547 commissioners came to Stratford to report upon the possessions and constitution of the Guild of the Holy Cross. The income was estimated at fifty pounds, one shilling, eleven pence halfpenny, of which twenty-one pounds, six shillings and eight pence was paid as salary to four chaplains. There was a clerk, who received four shillings a year; and Oliver Baker, who saw to the clock (outside the chapel), received thirteen shillings and four pence. 'Upon the {175} premises was a free school, and William Dalam, the schoolmaster, had yearly for teaching ten pounds. 'There is also given yearly,' the report runs, 'to xxiiij poor men, brethren of the said guild, lxiijs:iijd; vz. xs. to be bestowed in coals, and the rest given in ready money; besides one house there called the Almshouse; and besides v. or vjli. given them of the good provision of the master of the same guild.'" [Illustration: CHAPEL OF GUILD AT STRATFORD AND ALMHOUSES (RESTORED BY SIR HUGH CLOPTON, 1500)] A typical instance of the way that wealthy men looked at their social duties during Columbus' Century is to be found in the case of Sir Hugh Clopton of Stratford-on-Avon. He was the Lord Mayor in 1492 and, having never married, he devoted his leisure and his wealth to philanthropy. Earlier in life he had made his fortune as a merchant in London. It was he who built New Place, which afterwards became Shakespeare's property. Just across the street stood the chapel of the guild and, as Sir Hugh was a prominent member when this edifice sadly needed restoration at the end of the fifteenth century, he provided for this. The chancel was left untouched, but the nave and tower as we have it were rebuilt by him. He died before the work was finished, but left enough money to secure its completion. It is a charming example of the perpendicular Gothic of the time and was decorated by elaborate paintings illustrating the history of the Holy Cross. {176} These paintings were afterwards covered with whitewash, because the "reforming" spirit could not tolerate such representations, but in recent years some of them have been partly uncovered, disclosing how interestingly the work was done. [Illustration: SIR HUGH CLOPTON'S BRIDGE AT STRATFORD-ON-AVON] Still more interesting, and perhaps the present generation will consider it more practical, was Sir Hugh's rebuilding in solid stone of the old wooden bridge over the Avon at Stratford. It was constructed of free stone, with fourteen arches, and a long causeway also of Stone, well walled on each side, was added to it. How much this was needed can be judged from what Leland the antiquary, who visited Stratford about 1530 on a tour through England, noted in his account of his journey as to the great value of this gift. "Afore the time of Hugh Clopton," he wrote, "there was but a poor bridge of timber, and no causeway to come to it, whereby many poor folks either refused to come to Stratford when the river was up, or coming thither stood in jeopardy of life." The bridge is still standing to convince us of the workmanlike thoroughness with which its foundations were laid. {177} When Sir Hugh Clopton came to make his will, Stratford largely benefited in other ways, as Mr. Sidney Lee, to whom we owe most of these details, has noted in his "Stratford-on-Avon" (London: Seeley & Co., 1907, page 94): "He bequeathed also C. marks to be given to xx. poor maidens of good name and fame dwelling in Stratford, i.e., to each of them five marks apiece at their marriage; and likewise CI. to the poor householders in Stratford; as also Lli. to the new building, 'the cross aisle in the Parish Church there' (Dugdale). The testator did not, at the same time, forget the needs of the poor of London, or their hospitals; and on behalf of poor scholars at the Universities, he established six exhibitions at Cambridge and Oxford, each of the annual value of four pounds for five years." [Footnote 19] [Footnote 19: It might possibly be thought that there were few opportunities for the making of fortunes of any significance in England at this time, and that therefore Sir Hugh Clopton's example would mean very little. As a matter of fact, however, this was the time when above all, fortunes were made rapidly and money flowed into England more than ever before. Taine in his "History of English Literature" quotes Acts of Parliament, the "Compendious Examination," by William Strafford, and other government documents which make this clear. He sums the situation up by saying: "Towards the close of the fifteenth century, the impetus was given commerce and the woollen trade made a sudden advance, and such an enormous one that cornfields were changed into pasture lands, 'whereby the inhabitants of the said town (Manchester) have gotten and come into riches and wealthy livings' so that in 1553, forty thousand pieces of cloth were exported in English ships. It was already the England which we see to-day a land of meadows, green, intersected by hedgerows, crowded with cattle, abounding in ships, a manufacturing, opulent land, with a people of beef-eating toilers, who enrich it while they enrich themselves. They improved agriculture to such an extent, that in half a century the produce of an acre was doubled."] Sir Hugh Clopton's many benefactions illustrate very thoroughly the feeling of many of those who had made money at this time, that they were stewards of their wealth for the benefit of the community. Civic philanthropy is sometimes supposed to be a much more modern idea than this century, and what was given for charity is sometimes thought to have been but poorly directed. As a matter of fact, wealthy men were {178} at least as thoughtful of their benefactions in that time as in our own. If Sir Hugh Clopton's varied works for his towns-people are to be considered as typical, and everything points to such a conclusion, they were even more likely to do enduring good. He did not specialize, but where he found a good work to do he did it. Indeed, the whole story of doing good for others in this time deserves the study of the modern time, because of its solution of many problems that we are facing now. An interesting phase of their collections for charity was the continuance of the old custom which had existed for several centuries, of having a special day on which everyone who was approached by certain solicitors for charity was expected to give something. This was usually the day after Whit-Sunday. Sometimes in the English villages, at the entrance to a bridge, or across a market place or the main street of the town, a rope was stretched and everyone who passed had to pay a toll for charity. Our modern "tag day" was a revival of this custom, though in the mediaeval towns, where everybody knew everybody else, there were less social dangers in the custom. The Low Countries were very prosperous at this time and took up seriously the problem of helping the poor. As we have told more in detail in the chapter on "Hospitals and Care for the Insane," the order of Beguines took up the nursing and the visiting of the poor, and in many places the Beguinages assumed the character to some extent of institutions for the care of the poor. The word poorhouses has becomes so unfortunate in its connotations that one would scarcely think of using it in connection with these almost separate village-like communities, with abundance of air and light, in which the young women of the better classes took up their own life in small, neat, attractive houses and cared for the aged poor and children in little houses not far from their own. A great number of dependents were maintained mainly out of the revenues derived from the incomes which these young women of the better classes brought with them into the institution and from the funds contributed by friends who were interested in their good work. Our modern settlements are like them in certain {179} ways, but there are so many differences in favor of the older institutions, which represent indeed an almost ideal way of exercising charity, that the contrast is striking. Many of the religious orders that were doing such good work in Columbus' time have gone through many vicissitudes. Governments have often turned to enrich their favorites at the expense of charitable foundations in their hands, and it has been an easy way for politicians to get money. In spite of all this, some of them continue to do their work even at the present time. Among these the Beguines are particularly worthy of note. After the union of Holland and Belgium, at the beginning of the nineteenth century, William of Holland attempted to abrogate many of the rights of the Beguines and confiscate much of their property. The municipality of Ghent, in which the largest Beguinage was situated, sent a protest, in which they catalogued the great services of the order in times of war and epidemics, and the unfriendly purpose of the Holland Government was changed. In the nineteenth century the list of good works accomplished by the Beguines is very striking and some of them have been listed by Miss Nutting and Miss Dock in their "History of Nursing": "In 1809-10 the Beguines of Belgium had devoted their whole strength to the service of the army during an epidemic of fever. During the war of 1813 their buildings were turned into hospitals, and after Waterloo they literally gave all they had to relieve the overwhelming distress. In 1832, 1849, and 1853 they again served nobly in cholera epidemics. Besides their readiness as nurses, they have likewise not been wanting as good citizens. In 1821 they contributed a generous sum toward the establishment of municipal industrial workshops, and have often acted as an aid society in dispensing contributions to sufferers from natural disasters, such as inundations and fires." That is a brief nineteenth-century chronicle of a charitable organization that was at an acme of its usefulness in Columbus' Century. Such functions of helpfulness for those in need are now exercised by various organizations which are of comparatively {180} recent date. Because these organizations are new, it is often supposed that the duties which they now fulfil were either quite unknown or almost entirely overlooked in the older time. It only requires a little study of the details of the social life and the organization of charity before the Reformation to appreciate how much was accomplished by the various religious orders. It has been so much the custom in English-speaking countries particularly to think that the religious were mainly occupied in their own little concerns, selfishly intent on the accumulation of means to enable them to live in idleness, that their real place in the life of the olden time has been almost entirely lost sight of. They represented the charitable organizations of all kinds that have come into prominence during this last few generations and that were so sadly needed. Their duties were accomplished by men and women who resigned all hope of profit for themselves and gave themselves entirely to these good works, thus obviating many of the abuses that are now beginning to be so manifest in charity organization. The story of the establishment of the Monti di Pietà, lending institutions for the poor in Italy, is one of the most interesting chapters not alone in the social work of this period, but of all periods. The original suggestion for them came from that great scholar, preacher and worker for the good of the people, St. Bernardine of Siena, who died just before the opening of Columbus' Century. Their organization, however, we owe to Blessed Bernardine of Feltre, that worthy son of St. Francis of Assisi, who is generally represented in his pictures with that symbol of a Monte di Pietà, a little green hill composed of three mounds and on the top either a cross or a standard, with the inscription, _"Curam illius habe"_ (Have the care of it). As thus established these institutions, the Monti di Pietà, were charitable lending houses, where the poor could obtain money readily for pledges and usually with very little cost to them beyond the repayment of the loan. At that time it was felt that charity might well care for the poor to this extent, and it was the custom for wealthy people who died to leave legacies by which unredeemed pledges of household necessaries might be restored to the poor without {181} the repayment of the loan. Such legacies, by the way, are not unusual even yet in the Latin countries, and at least two have been chronicled within the year. The spirit of these institutions was excellent and they accomplished great good, spreading all over Italy and finding their way in some form into the Latin countries at least during Columbus' period. St. Catherine of Genoa, whose work was done just about the beginning of Columbus' Century, is a typical example of the organizer of charity of this time. As a young widow she began to visit the patients in the hospital, and finally came to spend all of her time there, except such as was devoted to the visiting of the sick in their homes and the bringing of them into the hospitals. Soon she organized a number of others, or at least they gathered round her until a great work for charity was being done. Many of the noblewomen of the time devoted some hours at least every week to visiting the sick in the hospitals. There is a touching story told of Frances, Duchess of Brittany, who nursed through a severe illness her husband's successor on the ducal throne, who had treated her with great injustice. She afterwards retired to a Carmelite convent, where during an epidemic she nursed the stricken nuns through its whole course, and at the end of it laid down her own life. In the next century Evelyn, in his "Diary," tells of his surprise on visiting the hospitals in Paris to see how many noble persons, men and women, were waiting on them and "how decently and Christianly the sick in Charité [one of the great hospitals] were attended even to delicacy." This was only a continuation of the fine traditions of the older time, surprising to Evelyn because they had gone out entirely in Protestant England. The period was particularly rich in social workers, especially those who used Christianity as the basis by which to enable men to help themselves. One of the greatest of these, whose influence so lives on even in our own time that Cardinal Newman loved to speak of him as his beloved Father Philip, was Philip Romolo Neri (1515-1595), better known as St. Philip Neri, the Apostle of Rome. He proved a rather brilliant scholar as a young man, but when a successful {182} business career was opening up for him he gave it all up and in 1533 arrived in Rome without any money, without having informed his father of the step that he was taking and after having deliberately cut himself off from the patronage of an uncle who had resolved to make him his heir. For a while he tutored and wrote poetry and Latin and Italian, and then studied philosophy at the Sapienza and theology in the school of the Augustinians. When he was about thirty he became the close friend of St. Ignatius Loyola, and many of the young men that gathered round him, because of his attractive, amiable character, found a vocation for the intellectual and spiritual life in the infant Society of Jesus. In 1548, together with his confessor, he founded the confraternity of the Most Holy Trinity for the care of pilgrims and convalescents in Rome. Its members met for communion once a month and there was exposition of the Blessed Sacrament, a practice which was introduced by Philip. He sometimes preached even as a layman, and in 1551, at the command of his confessor, for nothing short of this would have overcome his humility, he entered the priesthood. He devoted his attention particularly to men and boys and succeeded in making them close personal friends. In the midst of this work priests gathered round him, and finally Gregory XIII recognized the little community as the Congregation of the Oratory. Pope Gregory XIV, who had previously been a great personal friend of Philip's, would have made him a cardinal only for the saint's great reluctance. His little band of oratorians, among whom the most conspicuous was Baronius, the Church historian, did wonderful work in Rome and many other houses of this congregation came into existence. Few men that ever lived had so much influence over all those who came in contact with him as St. Philip Neri, and it is this personal influence that characterized the work of his congregation in the after-time. Newman and Faber and many of the distinguished converts of the Tractarian movement in England became members of the Oratory, and St. Philip's work has come down to our generation through them with very wonderful success. His career represents another example of the marvellous power of the {183} men of this time to create things of all kinds which influence all succeeding generations. St. Philip Neri's contemporary and intimate friend, St. Ignatius Loyola, the founder of the Jesuits, is always thought of as a great organizer in education, seldom as a social worker. There was no phase of social need in Rome, however, to which he did not give his personal attention in spite of the many calls that there were on his time. He taught little children catechism and insisted that this should be a special feature of the work of his order in spite of its devotion to the higher education. He organized various institutions for the poor and secured by his efforts the foundation of a home for fallen women in Rome and himself personally conducted through the streets to it some of those who were to enter. His example in this matter must be taken as a type of what many thoughtful persons of this time were ready to do in the accomplishment of what they saw as their social duties. One of the great social reformers of the time whose unfortunate death has made him the subject of wide attention ever since was Savonarola, the Dominican monk, whose fate has been a sad stumbling-block of misunderstanding of the time. He used his great powers of oratory to bring about a social reform. It was sadly needed. Contact with the old pagan ideas through the new learning had made many of the people of the time even more selfish than usual. In the midst of the luxury and worldly interests of the time there had come a neglect of the old fellow-feeling of kindness and of charity that had characterized the Middle Ages. This affected mainly the so-called better classes. It was this, above all, that Savonarola tried to reform. He succeeded in stirring up the people wonderfully, and it is probable that no one has ever succeeded in working such a revolution in the social feelings of a whole city as Savonarola did. As a consequence of his ardent appeals people began a great reformation of city life by reforming themselves. The confessionals were thronged with penitents, the audiences outgrew the capacity of the largest church in Florence, that city of ample churches, and the very streets that had listened to nothing but pagan poetry for years resounded to the music {184} of hymns and psalms. A really important step in reform, however, was the great change in the attitude of mind of men towards others, and especially those needy or in suffering. Men sold their goods and gave the proceeds to the poor. Women gathered together their vanities of all kinds, burned them in the market place and devoted themselves to the care of the ailing. Old feuds were made up, and thoughts of revenge put aside, though they had been the dearest traditions in families for generations. For some time there was probably never a happier community than Florence. No one was in want, selfishness was almost at an end and lawlessness quite unknown. The conditions were too good to last among ordinary humanity. Political bickering began and political factors of all kinds obtruded themselves on the movement. The citizens formed themselves into a Christian commonwealth, over which they wished Savonarola to rule. After a time, intoxicated by the apparent success of the movement, not a few hoped to raise themselves to power in the midst of the rather quixotic political conditions that had developed, and almost needless to say they were urged on by certain of the ruling princes of Italy, who hoped themselves to benefit by conditions in Florence. Long ago Horace said, "You may put away nature as with a fork, but she will come back." The supernatural ruled for a time in Florence, but the natural reasserted itself and then the trouble began. Savonarola was its victim, but not before he had shown clearly what the evils of the time were and pointed out the path along which they might be reformed, though the sudden reformation of them could not be hoped for. Savonarola was a social, and not a religious, reformer. He has often been proclaimed a pre-Reformation reformer, but there was no doctrine of the old Church that Savonarola did not accept, and it was for political and not theological reasons that he was put to death, though ecclesiastics had so much to do with it. All the characteristic doctrines of the Church--devotion to the Saints and to the Blessed Virgin, the Blessed Sacrament, Transubstantiation--are dwelt on in his writings, and he is even the author of a hymn to the Blessed Virgin {185} and of a treatise on devotion to her. Nor was he at all carried away with the idea of self-judgment and independence in religion. No one teaches more emphatically than he the power of the Pope and the necessity for obedience to Rome. Nothing stronger or more explicit in this regard has ever been written than some passages that have been found in his writings. It is too bad that his great social influence for good was not allowed to work itself out into important social reforms. Great churchmen of the after-time have recognized the sad misfortune of his death, and Pope Benedict XIV, whose authority in the matter of the canonization of Saints and the honor to be paid them is the highest, made use of an expression which shows in what lofty veneration Savonarola was held by one of the greatest of the popes. As Cardinal Lambertini, Pope Benedict said: "If God gives me the grace to get to Heaven, as soon as I shall have consoled myself with the Beatific Vision my curiosity will lead me to look for Savonarola." Half a century later a parallel expression, which is almost more striking, was reported to have been used by Pope Pius VII, who said: "In Heaven three serious questions will be solved: The Immaculate Conception, the suppression of the Society of Jesus and the death of Savonarola." [Footnote 20] [Footnote 20: How soon this vindication of Savonarola began to be felt in the minds of high ecclesiastics will perhaps be best realized from the fact that when, some ten years after the friar's death, Raphael was asked to decorate the stanze of the Vatican, he introduced Savonarola beside St. Thomas Aquinas, among the great doctors of the Church in the very first fresco that he painted. This fresco was seen and studied carefully by the Pope and greatly praised by him. Almost needless to say Raphael's action in the matter would never have been permitted, only that the reaction in favor of Savonarola had set in very strongly.] As a matter of fact, all the sentiment of the great Catholic scholars and historians of modern times has been intent on vindicating Savonarola's character. It is not the Church but churchmen who condemned him and not for religious but political reasons. Unfortunately in English the general impression with regard to him is derived from George Eliot's "Romola," and that distinguished English novelist, in spite of her erudition, was least of all fitted by temperament or {186} intellectual training and eminently unfitted because of her religious ideas to write the life of Savonarola and his relation to his time. No one saw the social abuses so well as he and no one called attention to them so effectively. He recognized them as abuses, however, and not in any sense as consequences of the religious system. He would have been the last one in the world to have wished for serious disturbance of the Church. He had for years held high positions in the Dominican order and was in the most complete sympathy with the religious orders and the hierarchy of his time. One of the greatest of the social workers of this century is undoubtedly Bartolomé de Las Casas, who did so much to moderate the abuses in the treatment of the Indians, which had unfortunately crept in under the Spanish sovereignty in the early days. He was the son of Francisco Casas, who had accompanied Columbus on his second voyage and brought back an Indian boy, whom he left to his son as a servant. Bartolomé studied law at Salamanca, secured a high reputation as a lawyer and then became the counsel to the Spanish governors of the Antilles and later of the Island of Hispaniola. After some years of successful legal practice Las Casas became a priest and devoted himself to the alleviation of the condition of the Indians. In becoming a priest his position as a reformer became assured. Strange as that may seem to some who do not understand the period, he gained almost complete freedom of speech and, having no solicitude for his material needs, could devote all his time and energy untrammelled to his chosen life work. He made mistakes, he was eminently unpractical, but there is no doubt at all about his absolute devotion to the cause of humanity and his untiring activity and zeal in the cause of proper Christian treatment of the Indians. He aroused the attention of the men of his time and, above all, of the sovereigns of Spain and the most influential men and women of that country. His crusade had much to do with the promulgation of the "New Laws" in 1542 and their amendments in 1543 and 1544. These did not abolish serfdom, but they greatly limited it, so that it was even said that a native enjoyed more privileges than a Creole. He refused the bishopric of Cuzco in Peru {187} declaring that he would never accept any Church dignity, and it was only after much urging that he consented to become bishop of Chiapas in Southern Mexico. His powers of administration did not prove as great as his humanitarian ideals and, while he talked much of abuses, he was not able to correct them as well as many others who did not set out to be so radical as he. He has written much and his books have appeared in many editions. His was a great soul that found a supreme purpose and devoted to it a long life of ninety years. A less ardent advocate than he would almost surely have failed of accomplishing the great reform that was needed. Like our own Abolitionists, he was too radical in many of his views, and yet his very enthusiasm carried others along into the execution of great good. His writings have been a storehouse of information with regard to conditions in the colonies and, while they have to be discounted from the standpoint of his tendency to exaggeration of interest in the Indian questions, that exaggeration is justified to a great extent by the great humanitarian purpose that dictated it. Las Casas must undoubtedly be considered one of the world's great philanthropists. An important social influence, if the name of social reformer does not quite suit him, was the Duke of Gandia, who is better known as St. Francis Borgia. He was a great-grandson of Pope Alexander VI, and his grandfather, Juan Borgia, who had acquired the hereditary Duchy of Gandia in the kingdom of Valentia in Spain, was assassinated by an unknown hand, possibly that of his brother, Caesar Borgia. On the maternal side the Duke of Gandia was the great-grandson of Ferdinand the Catholic. His grandfather had been the Archbishop of Saragossa. He himself became a brilliant courtier at the Court of Charles V, and in the absence of the Emperor was considered the head of the Imperial household. He and his wife were the favorites of the Empress. After the death of the Empress he was commissioned to convey her remains to Granada and, having to identify them formally there before burial, was shocked on the opening of the coffin at the change which a few days of death had brought in the sovereign whom he had served so zealously. He turned {188} to make his life mean something, not for passing honor but for the good of others. In fulfilment of this purpose he joined the Jesuits and eventually became the third General of the order. His change of life attracted wide attention and did almost more than anything else to lessen many selfish tendencies among the nobility of the time due to the pagan spirit of the Renaissance. It was a social reform that made the Borgian name as much of an inspiration for good as it had been for ill. Perhaps even more important for this period is what may be called the negative side of its social history. Apparently a great many people are quite convinced that the later Middle Ages and the Renaissance were witnesses of many severe cruelties and torturing practices, some of them legal, which reveal, if not an actual barbarity, a sad, almost inhuman, lack of kindliness and fellow-feeling on the part of the men and women of this time. Most people who have heard of cruelties and torture are quite sure that in general these reached their climax of bitterness in the later Middle Ages and that even the Renaissance time was not free from them. In the more recent centuries, particularly the seventeenth, eighteenth and nineteenth, men are supposed to be climbing out of the slough of despond in this matter into which humanity unfortunately had sunk during the mediaeval period. We rather pride ourselves on this evolution of humanity, quite forgetting for the moment how much greater than all the old-time barbarity is the suffering incident to our industrial development. This is, however, set down to inadvertence at most, while mediaeval and Renaissance cruelty is thought of as deliberate. There are not many impressions more false than this in history, and it is entirely due to the ignorance of the date of a number of historical events which are sometimes massed together as mediaeval or at least not modern, modern history being supposed to begin as a rule with the discovery of America. As a matter of fact, the refinements of torture all came after Columbus' Century. The Virgin of Nuremberg, the iron boots into which wedges were driven for torture purposes, the iron gauntlets in which the hands of living {189} people were roasted and many other of the hideous contrivances that rightly find a prominent place in history were made in the later sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, and not in Columbus' time nor during the mediaeval period. The worst refinements of legal torture nearly all were devised in the course of the witchcraft delusion which swept over Europe in the later sixteenth and during the seventeenth century. There was comparatively little witch baiting and witch hunting and very few witches put to death during the earlier centuries. Witchcraft was a post-Reformation delusion. The Encyclopedia Britannica (Ninth Edition), in its article on torture, emphasizes particularly the fact that: "It is the boast of the common law of England that it never recognized torture as legal. Instances of torture as a means of obtaining evidence were invariably ordered by the Crown or Council, or by some tribunal of extraordinary authority such as the Star Chamber, not professing to be bound by the rules of the common law." "The infliction of torture became more common under the Tudor monarchs," this article continues. "Under Henry VIII it appears to have been in frequent use." May I add that its frequency is an incident of the end of his reign after the religious difficulties began. "Only two cases are recorded under Edward VI and eight under Mary. The reign of Elizabeth was its culminating point. In the words of Hallam, 'the rack stood seldom idle in the tower for all the latter part of Elizabeth's reign.' The varieties of torture used at this period are fully described by Lingard, and consisted of the rack, the scavenger's daughter, the iron gauntlets or bilboes, and the cell called 'little ease.' The registers of the council during the Tudor and early Stuart reigns are full of entries as to the use of torture, both for state and for ordinary offences." Under Elizabeth and the Stuarts, and even later, there were cases fully recognized by the English common law which differed from torture only in name. To quote the Encyclopedia Britannica again: "The _peine forte et dure_ was a notable example of this. If a prisoner stood mute of malice instead of pleading, he was {190} condemned to the peine, that is, to be stretched upon his back and to have iron laid upon him as much as he could bear, and more, and so to continue, fed upon bad bread and stagnant water through alternate days until he pleaded or died. It was abolished by George III, and George IV enacted that a plea of 'not guilty' should be entered for a prisoner so standing mute. A case of _peine_ occurred as lately as 1726. At times tying the thumbs with whipcords was used instead of the _peine_. This was said to be a common practice at the Old Bailey up to the last century. In trials for witchcraft the legal proceedings often partook of the nature of the torture, as in the throwing of the reputed witch into a pond to see whether she would sink or swim, in drawing her blood, and in thrusting pins into the body to try to find the insensible spot. Confessions, too, appear to have been often extorted by actual torture, and torture of an unusual nature, as the devil was supposed to protect his votaries from the effects of ordinary torture." The seventeenth century particularly witnessed the deaths of many thousands of poor people who were thought to be witches. Persecutions for witchcraft took place more particularly in the countries most affected by the Reformation. Germany as well as England had many of them. Even the crudest forms of torture were invented with almost devilish ingenuity at this time. It was under the influence of this delusional psychic contagion and the dread of possession by the devil that the insane and sufferers from nervous diseases of all kinds came to be treated more inhumanly than ever before. A climax of inhumanity in their regard was reached in the eighteenth century, when manacles and chains and dungeons were employed, until at last the exaggeration of ill-treatment brought with it reaction and reform. Humanitarianism shows a decline, marked and definite and progressive from the end of the sixteenth until the end of the eighteenth century. Interest in religion sank as in England until John Wesley came to put a new spirit into it. The rights of men were less and less respected and the poor were oppressed by those above them until the awful conditions that developed in the _ancien régime_ came in France, and {191} nearly similar conditions in other countries. The French Revolution had to come. Men could stand no more. As Hilaire Belloc, one of the best of the modern historians of the French Revolution, says, "That movement was really an attempt to restore to men the rights which they had enjoyed during the Middle Ages." {192} CHAPTER II HOSPITALS, NURSING AND CARE FOR THE INSANE An excellent criterion of the social status of any period in history is the genuine humanitarian purpose that animates it, and how seriously it takes the duty of caring for those who most need care is to be found in the character of its hospital buildings and their maintenance. Tried by this standard, Columbus' Century proves to be one of the greatest of the centuries of history. This will seem very surprising to most people, because the general impression has been that until our generation hospitals were rather ugly buildings of institutional type, with small windows, sordid surroundings and very unsuitable internal arrangements for the ailing. There is no doubt at all that hospital buildings just before our generation--and some of them unfortunately remain over as living witnesses--were all that has been thus suggested and if possible worse. Indeed, some of the hospital buildings of two generations ago were about as unsuitable for their purpose as could well be imagined. The general feeling with regard to this fact, however, is not so much one of blame as of pity. Most people assume that the older generations did not know how to build good hospitals. They did as well as they could, but until the development of modern knowledge of hygiene and sanitation, as well as the demand made on hospital administration by modern surgery, hospitals could scarcely be expected to be anything but the sordid piles of buildings they usually were, thought proper if they but furnished a protection from the weather and sustenance for the sick poor. Anyone who will consult the real history of hospitals, however, will be surprised to find that the worst hospitals in the world's history were built in the first half of the nineteenth century. The usual impression is that, if the hospitals of a {193} century ago were so bad, those of the century preceding that must have been much worse and so on progressively more unsuitable until in the Middle Ages they must have been unspeakable. As a matter of fact, the hospitals of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries were beautiful buildings as a rule, quite as charming structures for their purposes as all the other architecture of that time--churches, monasteries, abbeys, castles, town halls and the rest. They had at this time a period of wonderful surgical practice, of which we have learned from the republication of their text-books of surgery only in recent years, and there is a definite, direct ratio between surgery and proper hospital organization. Whenever there is good surgery there are good hospitals, and whenever there are good hospitals, surgery will be found occupying a prominent, progressive place in the history of medicine. It is hard to understand the periods of decadence in hospital construction and maintenance and in nursing care and training, but not more difficult than to understand the ups and downs of surgery. That anaesthesia and antiseptic practice should obtain for a while and then gradually be lost is no harder to understand than that hospitals should gradually "sink to an almost indescribable level of degradation." Miss Nutting and Miss Dock, in their "History of Nursing," have described the century from 1750 to 1850 as "The Dark Period of Nursing." They quote Jacobsohn, the well-known German writer about care for the ailing, who says "that it is a remarkable fact that attention to the well-being of the sick, improvements in hospitals and institutions generally and to details of nursing care, had a period of complete and lasting stagnation after the middle of the seventeenth century, or from the close of the Thirty Years' War. Neither officials nor physicians took any interest in the elevation of the nursing or in improving the conditions of hospitals. During the first two-thirds of the eighteenth century he proceeds to say nothing was done to bring either construction or nursing to a better state. Solely among the religious orders did nursing remain an interest and some remnants of technique survive. The result was that in this period the general level of nursing fell far below that of earlier {194} periods. The hospitals of cities were like prisons, with bare, undecorated walls and little dark rooms, small windows where no sun could enter, and dismal wards where fifty or one hundred patients were crowded together, deprived of all comforts and even of necessities. In the municipal and state institutions of this period, the beautiful gardens, roomy halls and springs of water of the old cloister hospital of the Middle Ages were not heard of, still less the comforts of their friendly interiors." It so happens that just about the beginning of Columbus' Century there was a great new development of hospital building. This was only what might have been expected, for a wonderful new period of architecture was just beginning and buildings of all kinds were being erected with a magnificence that has made them the admiration of the world ever since. Handsome basilicas, Renaissance palaces, town halls were being executed by the architects of the time so as to make them precious monuments for future generations. Hospitals came in for their share of this renewal of architectural interest, and a series of really beautiful hospital buildings were erected which we have come to admire very much since we ourselves have wakened up to the duty of building fine hospitals. The old municipalities felt that buildings erected for the poorer citizens must not be planned with the idea that anything was good enough for the poor, but must be suitable to the dignity of the city. One of the most beautiful hospitals of this time is the famous _Ospedale Santa Maria degli Innocenti,_ which has been called the finest and most interesting foundling asylum in the world. It was built under the patronage of the guild of silk merchants in the early part of the fifteenth century, being completed in 1451, and is a model of charming architecture, decorated with fine paintings and adorned with the well-known della Robbia blue medallions. The Italians did not, however, call it--as in our ruder Northern ways is our custom--a foundling asylum, thus stamping the tragedy of their existence on the children, but the Home of Innocents. Surely they were the innocent victims of the conditions which had brought about their abandonment by their parents. The {195} children were kept until the age of seven, and then they were placed about with families who promised to treat them as their own children. The boys were taught trades; the girls, trained in all domestic occupations, were, when married, given dowries by the hospital or the foster parents, or received into convents if they so wished. As showing how the spirit that organized it in Columbus' Century lives on, we may quote what Miss Nutting and Miss Dock say with regard to the hospital in their "History of Nursing" (p. 243): [Illustration: BRAMANTE, GREAT COURT OF HOSPITAL (MILAN)] {196} "To-day this richly historic house is in charge of the Sisters of St. Vincent de Paul, under the direction of a highly scientific and progressive council chiefly consisting of medical men, and is one of the most perfectly kept and well managed institutions of the kind in existence, its union of mediaeval charm with modern science being a congenial and happy one." Other hospitals in Florence are scarcely less interesting. The hospital where Romola went to nurse her patients is still in existence, but is no longer a hospital. It is now the very interesting Accademia dei Belli Arti. One of the beautiful hospitals erected at this time which may serve as a type of the buildings erected for hospital purposes is the great Ospedale Maggiore of Milan. Important portions of this were finished during Columbus' Century. One of its courts is so beautiful that it has been attributed to Michelangelo, though it seems more probable that it was due to that almost equally great architectural genius, Bramante. The famous Santo Spirito Hospital in the Borgo at Rome was rebuilt by Sixtus IV in the first half of Columbus' Century and had many of the characteristics of the best architecture of the time. Practically every city in Italy did some really fine hospital building at this time. Naples and Venice added to their beautiful mediaeval hospitals and everywhere there was high development of humanitarian purpose in this regard. Italy, however, was not the only country of Europe to have fine hospitals. Indeed, every country had a share in this, and wherever there was a flourishing period of architectural evolution hospitals came in for their share of the development. In the Low Countries and Northeastern France, where a series of beautiful cathedrals and churches were being rebuilt or newly erected, and above all where the magnificent town halls that have been such a subject for admiration ever since were being erected, hospitals received great attention. Not only were fine buildings erected, but a magnificent organization of nursing and care for the ailing occurred. There was great prosperity among the people, they were doing the trade of the world, they were democratic in their ideas and they felt that the dignity of the municipalities required worthy care for the citizens no matter how poor they might be. [Illustration: MEMLING, MARTYRDOM OF ST. URSULA (BRUGES. HOSPITAL OF ST. JEAN)] {197} Above all, some of our own ideas in hospitals developed among them and many of the wealthy came to realize that they could be better cared for in the efficient hands of trained attendants in properly arranged hospital quarters than in their own homes. There was not that dread of hospitals which develops whenever they are exclusively for the poor--and deservedly, because the patients are inevitably the subject of many abuses. That picturesque Belgian community, the Beguines, had charge of a number of hospitals at this time which became famous for their thorough organization and maintenance on a high level of efficiency. One of these was founded at Beaune by Nicolas Rolin, chancellor of the Duke of Burgundy, just about the beginning of Columbus' Century. Miss Nutting and Miss Dock, in their "History of Nursing," have given a description (p. 269) of this, as well as some of the details of the nursing and management mainly taken from Helyot's "History of the Religious Orders": "It was built with much magnificence, with long wards extending into a chapel, so that the sick could hear the services, and opening into square courts with galleries above and below. Patients of both sexes and of all ranks and degrees were received, both rich and poor. There was one ward for those most seriously ill, and back of all a building for the dead, with 'many lavatories and stone tables.' In the upper galleries were suites of apartments for wealthy patients, and the gentlefolk came from leagues around. The suites consisted of a bedroom, dressing-room, anteroom and cabinet. They were richly furnished, and each patient had three beds, that he might move from one to another. Each apartment had its own linen, utensils and furniture, 'and borrowed nothing from any other.' The suites and wards were named after the King, royal family, dukes of Burgundy, and other prominent personages. In the middle wards patients of the middle class were received, and in the lower galleries the poor. The rich patients had their own food and wine sent to them, and paid for their medicines, but the rooms and the sisters' services were free. Few, however, left without bestowing a gift. The poor were cared for without any cost, but if they wanted {198} anything special they had to buy it. A little river ran through the court and was carried in canals past the different departments for drainage. It was noted that the hospital had no bad odors, such as were found in so many others, but was sweet and clean." The conditions in these hospitals of Columbus' Century were so much better than we have had any idea of until recent historical studies revealed them to us, and so many people have somehow become persuaded that hospitals of the olden time were without proper provision for the care of the sick, such as we have elaborated again in our time, that descriptions of other hospitals seem necessary to make the hospital organization of the time clear. Miss Nutting and Miss Dock declare that "the hospital at Châlons sur Saône was also very magnificent, and there, too, there were no bad odors, but in winter delicate perfumes and in summer baskets of growing plants hung from the ceiling. It had a large garden with a stream running through it with little bridges over it." It is easy to understand what a charming place for convalescents and what a pleasant view for patients could be made out of such surroundings. There is no doubt that they were well taken advantage of, for this is the time of the beautiful Renaissance gardens, when everywhere natural beauty was cultivated to a good purpose. Helyot, in his _"Les Ordres Monastiques."_ describes the beautiful drug rooms in these hospitals, where the various medicaments were prepared, many of them being grown in the hospital garden, and also the other rooms of the hospital, the quarters for the nursing sisters, and says that "the patients were nursed with all the skill and goodness of heart and refinement that might be expected from the conditions surrounding them." He appreciated very well that proper quarters for patients and nurses make strongly for such nursing conditions as are sure to be of the greatest possible help in the care of diseases. A special nursing order of Beguines was formed at this time, and as these religious women were recruited as a rule from the better classes of the population, bringing in with them such dowries as would enable them to support {199} themselves in whatever work they might undertake, it is easy to understand on what a high plane the nursing must have been. It would remind one of the conditions in the early days of the trained nurse in modern times, when so many of the applicants for nursing positions were prepared by their family life at home for devotion to a liberal profession rather than merely the taking up of an occupation necessary for livelihood. How their efforts were appreciated by patients will be very well understood from what may still be seen at the hospital of St. Jean at Bruges. The great painter Memling was for a time a patient in the hospital. He felt that he owed his life to the good sisters who had done so much for him, and so he painted a great altar-piece for them and decorated the famous Shrine of St. Ursula. The pictures were painted just about the time that Columbus discovered America. They are among the most beautiful examples of religious painting ever made. The decorations of the shrine particularly are among the world's great works of art. They are almost miniatures and contain large numbers of faces, beautifully executed, but every detail has been worked out by the great painter, evidently as a labor of love. The texture of some of the garments as he reproduces them has proved a source of wonder to artist visitors ever since. Many thousands of visitors find their way to the hospital every year, and even the small sum of money (twenty cents) which is charged for admission to see them constitutes in the annual aggregate an income of thousands of dollars. The hospital, which is very spacious and has large gardens with the canal winding alongside of it, is enabled to carry on its work much better as a consequence of this notable addition to its revenues due to the gratitude of a patient of over four hundred years ago. Many of these hospitals had beautiful decorations. They understood very well at that time that patients' minds must be occupied if they are to be saved from the depressing effect of too much thinking about themselves, and they felt that staring at bare walls was not conducive to diversion of mind. In many of these hospitals then there were beautifully {200} decorated walls and great pictures in the corridors. As these were painted directly on the wall, as a rule they did not collect dust nor present opportunities for dirt to gather. Helyot has insisted on the ample water supply that they made it a rule to secure for these old-time hospitals. It was felt that the plentiful use of water was absolutely essential for maintaining healthy conditions in hospital work. In our modern time we have come more and more to realize that, while antiseptics are of great value once infection has taken place and dirt has found an entrance, soap and hot water are the best possible materials, especially when frequently applied, to maintain sanitary conditions. Many of the habits worn by the religious who were devoted to nursing had certain features that made them much more hygienic for patients than ordinary feminine dress. As a rule, they were very simple, often made of washable materials, the head was always covered and spotless white was worn around the shoulders and at the wrist. This was sufficient of itself to keep constantly in mind the necessity for scrupulous cleanliness. Dirt showed very readily. When the nurses, or at least those who had the main duties to perform, came of refined families and wore these habits there could have been no neglect of cleanliness. The best possible evidence for the proper appreciation of the place of hospitals in life at this time is to be found in Sir Thomas More's account of the hospitals in Utopia. It must not be forgotten that he was travelling in Flanders when he wrote it. He pictures the people of his ideal republic as possessed of fine large hospital buildings, providing ample accommodations so that even in times of epidemic there need be no danger of contagion and abundantly supplied with all that is necessary for the care of the ailing. The standard was not what was good enough for the ailing poor, but what was worthy of the dignity of the city caring for its citizens. The proof of the completeness of their arrangements for the care of patients is to be found in the added declaration that practically everyone who was sick preferred to go to the hospital rather than to be cared for at home. This is the condition of affairs which is now developing among us again, {201} after a long interval, during which hospitals were the dread of the poor and the detestation of those who had to go to them. The whole passage is extremely interesting for this reason: "But they take more care of their sick than of any others; these are lodged and provided for in public hospitals. They have belonging to every town four hospitals, that are built without their walls and are so large that they may pass for little towns; by this means, if they had ever such a number of sick persons, they could lodge them conveniently, and at such a distance that such of them as are sick from infectious diseases may be kept so far from the rest that there can be no danger of contagion. The hospitals are furnished and stored with all things that are convenient for the ease and recovery of the sick; and those that are put in them are looked after with such tender and watchful care, and are so constantly attended by their skilful physicians, that as none is sent to them against their will, so there is scarce one in a whole town that, if he should fall ill, would not choose rather to go thither than lie sick at home." The spirit of the century and its power of organization of charity and good works is well expressed by the foundation of the Brothers of Mercy in Spain, in 1538, by a Portuguese soldier who had been wounded in battle, as was not infrequent in those days, and vowed to devote his life to God if he recovered. He rented a small house in Granada, where he gathered together a number of sick people and nursed them with the greatest care. In order to support them he went through the streets in the evening with a basket begging for his patients. After a time others came and joined him in his good work. Alms boxes were placed here and there through the city to remind people of the help that was needed. Gradually the scope of their work increased, they were given charge of hospitals, they visited the sick at their homes and the order spread not only over Europe but throughout the Spanish-American countries on this continent. Within a hundred years after the foundation the annual number of patients under their care was said to have been some two hundred thousand. A number of houses of the order was {202} founded in Italy, and over their alms boxes down there the sign was, _Fate bene, fratelli_, (Do good, little brothers). From this sign they came to be known as the _Fate Bene Fratelli_, the Do Good Little Brothers. The proper care of the insane is usually looked upon as a very modern phase of humanitarian evolution. Most people think that until the last hundred years the insane have been hideously neglected, when not treated with absolute barbarity, and that the rule has been simply to put them away so that they could not injure themselves or others, confining, manacling, and otherwise hampering their activities, regardless of their health or the mental effect on them. In this once more, as in most of the historical ideas with regard to humanitarian development, the erroneous notions are due to the fact that the care for the insane was at its lowest point during the eighteenth and the early part of the nineteenth century, and that there has been a magnificent improvement since, though it must not be forgotten that there has not been a single generation since when there have not been very serious complaints deservedly uttered of awful neglect of the insane in some part of the civilized world. We have had revelations with regard to the care of the insane in the country districts of even our Eastern States which have been almost incredible. The conditions that we have come to learn as existing in the South in the care of the insane, which have been brought to light by the recent investigation of pellagra, have been of a similar character. The epithet mediaeval which is applied so often to these conditions is absolutely unwarranted by our present knowledge of old-time care of the insane. It has been concluded that, since care for the insane was so neglected in the eighteenth century, it must have been almost infinitely worse in preceding centuries. The same fallacy lies at the root of a great many false impressions with regard to mediaeval and Renaissance history. The eighteenth was the lowest of centuries in art, literature, education, and humanitarian purpose. The preceding centuries exhibit some very interesting developments of care for the insane, some of which anticipate our most modern ideas. At Gheel in {203} Belgium, from the earlier Middle Ages, they cared for defectives on the village plan. Similar institutions were not infrequent. They developed the "open door" system of caring for the insane and insane institutions were mainly in connection with monasteries, well out in the country, and under good conditions, since they were never crowded. It is always crowding that brings serious abuses with it and leads to what seems to be barbarity, but is really an inability to cope with the large problem with inadequate means. It so happened that just before the beginning of Columbus' Century there was a special development of care for the insane and the opening of a series of hospitals that represent an epoch in the history of care for these poor people. The most important part of this development of the fifteenth century occurred in Spain. Asylums were founded at Valencia, Saragossa, Seville, Valladolid and Toledo. This movement has sometimes been attributed to Moorish or Mohammedan influence, but even Lecky, in his "History of European Morals," has rejected these assertions which are absolutely without proof. Spain continued to be the country in which lunatics were best cared for in Europe down to the beginning of the nineteenth century. Pinel, the great French psychiatrist who struck the manacles from the insane of France, declared Spain to be the country in which lunatics were treated with most wisdom and most humanity. In his book on "Mental Alienation" he gives some details of the treatment which show a very modern recognition of the need to be gentle and careful of the insane rather than harsh and forceful. In England a rather important development of care for the insane occurred during this century in connection with Bedlam Hospital, London. This, originally founded as a home for the suffering poor, as its name Bethlehem (house of bread) implies, whether they had any specific ailment or not, came after a time to be a hospital, and then as a further development confined its care to the insane. Tyndale is the first to use the word Bedlam as meaning a madhouse or a madman, so that the conversion had evidently taken place in his time. One very interesting custom developed which serves to show the mode of treatment practised. A "bedlam" came to {204} signify one who had been discharged from this hospital with the license to beg. After recovery from their acute conditions the insane were allowed to go out on condition, if there was no one to care for them, that they wore a tin plate on their arms as a badge to indicate that they had been for a time in the asylum. This tin plate aroused the sympathy of those they met and they were helped in various ways by the people of the time. Besides, it served as a warning that, since such people had been for a time in the asylum, they were not to be irritated nor treated quite as other folk, but on the contrary to be cared for. They were known as bedlamers, bedlamites or bedlam beggars. They were treated so well that tramps and other beggars of various descriptions obtained possession of badges and abused the confidence of the public. After Henry VIII's time Bedlam, which had been a religious institution, passed under the care of the state, and from this time on the story of abuses of all kinds is repeated at successive investigations in every other generation. Evelyn, in his "Diary of 1656," notes that he saw several poor creatures in Bedlam in chains. In the eighteenth century it became the custom for those seeking diversion and entertainment to visit Bedlam and observe the antics of the insane patients as a mode of amusement. This was done particularly by the nobility and their friends. A penny was charged for admission into the hospital, and there is a tradition that at one time an annual income of £400 accrued from this source. This would mean that one hundred thousand people had visited the hospital in the course of a year. Some of Hogarth's pictures show the hospital being visited in this way by fashionable ladies. In Rome the Popes, recognizing the superiority of the care for the insane as practised in Spain and in Navarre, opened a Pazzarella at Rome in the sixteenth century under the care of three Navarrese. This hospital for the insane "received crazed persons of whatever nation they be and care is taken to restore them to their right mind; but if the madness prove incurable they are kept during life and have food and raiment necessary to the condition they are in." Evidently they {205} looked for improvement in many cases and expected to allow the patients to leave the asylum at least for a time, though if their alienation continued they were kept. Just about the end of Columbus' Century a Venetian lady of wealth, evidently attracted by the kind of care given the insane, "was moved to such great pity of these poor creatures upon sight of them that she left them heirs to her whole estate. This enabled the management with the approbation of Pope Pius IV to open a new house." It is after the sixteenth century that decadence in the care of the insane becomes very marked. This reached its climax, as might well be expected, just about the same time that hospitals and care for the ailing reached their lowest ebb of efficiency. Burdett, in his "Hospitals and Asylums of the World," London, 1901, gives his third chapter the title, "The Period of Brutal Suppression in Treatment and Cruelty, 1750 to 1850." This decadence was largely due to the fact that institutions for the care of the insane became State asylums, with hired attendants, whose only interest after a time was the drawing of their salary and having as little trouble as possible with the care of the insane. In the previous centuries they had been under the care of the religious orders. {206} CHAPTER III ST. IGNATIUS LOYOLA AND THE JESUITS While painters and sculptors and architects and poets during the Renaissance period were creating masterpieces that were to influence all succeeding generations, a Spanish soldier, using men as his material, created a human masterpiece for the accomplishment of great purposes that was destined to be as vital and enduring as any of the supreme achievements of the time. As Raphael used color and Michelangelo marble, and Leonardo da Vinci the original ideas of an inventive genius of first rank, Ignatius Loyola formed men's wills to a great creative end that was destined to influence not only Europe but every continent on the globe perhaps more than any other creation of the time. The Company of Jesus, as he called it--and he liked to add the epithet little--the band of trained soldiers whose motto was to be "For the Greater Glory of God" (_Ad Major em Dei Gloriam_) and whose purposes were to be as various as all the activities that can be included under such a standard, came to be within half a century after his death the most powerful body of intellectual men in their influence over mankind that the world has ever seen. It was not so much a deliberate creation as a Providential formation, gradually finding its place in the world under the guiding genius of a great soul living on after the death of the body it had informed. Born in Spain in the Castle of Loyola the year before Columbus discovered America, the youngest of eleven children, Ignatius until his thirtieth year was a venturous chivalric soldier. Wounded at the siege of Pamplona by the French in 1521, when his leg healed in bad position, he had it rebroken, bearing the awful pain in those pre-anaesthetic days rather than have his pride annoyed by deformity. During the enforced idleness he read, after exhausting all the other reading {207} of the place, especially the romances of chivalry, a life of Christ and lives of various saints, particularly that of St. Francis of Assisi, and came to the conclusion that life was only worth living when lived in imitation of the God Man. Amidst many almost incredible difficulties, for more than a dozen of years, he formed his character by spiritual exercises, took up the study of grammar in a class with little boys, supported himself by begging as one of the beggar students of the time, and gathered around him at the University of Paris a group of seven men, who in 1534 took their vows with him as members of the Company of Jesus. With true Spanish chivalry, their first object was to win over the Holy Land from the infidels by going to Jerusalem and converting it. Prevented by war from doing this, they became teachers and missionaries in Italy. Their zeal was so great and yet so directed by reason, they were so absolutely unselfish and had a charm that attracted so much attention, that they accomplished wonders. The Pope received them with kindness and gave them provisional confirmation of their rule. Pope Paul III had insisted on limiting the number of religious orders because of abuses that had arisen in them, but after reading Ignatius' rule he declared "the finger of God is here," gave them the fullest confirmation and in 1543 they were acknowledged as one of the religious orders of the Church. Francis Thompson has summed up very strikingly, with a poet's eye for effect, the situation in Europe when Loyola was born. That will give the best idea what a confusion there was all around him at the moment when this son of an obscure nobleman began the work that was finally destined to bring order out of much of the religious and educational chaos of the time at least: "It was a great, a brilliant, a corrupt epoch, fraught with possibilities of glory and peril to a youth of Spain. The old order was yielding. Throughout Europe the nations were loud with the falling ruins of feudalism, and the consolidation of absolute monarchies was ushering in the new political creation. In a mighty dust of war and revolt Christendom itself was vanishing, leaving in its stead an adjustment of States {208} on a secular basis, to be known as 'the balance of European Power.' "In the year after little Loyola's birth Columbus sailed to begin the New World. When the boy passed to the Court the day of Ferdinand and Isabella was done; Charles V was waiting to ascend the Spanish throne. Before he began the campaign which ended in the breach of Pamplona, Charles had inherited the sceptre of Spain and been elected to the Empire of Germany. The great captain, Gonsalvo de Cordova, was dead; Francis I was King of France, singing _'Souvent femme varie,_ and preparing to tilt with Charles for the supremacy of Europe. English Harry was still bluff Hal, no gospel light yet dawned from Boleyn's eyes and many an English Queen, little dreaming of that perilous dignity to come, still bore her head on her shoulders. But a thick-necked young German friar, with the Reformation in his cowl, was about to cut the tow-rope between the Teuton nations and the boat of Peter. There was a constable Bourbon who should presently halloo those revolting Teutons to the sack of Rome, there was Cellini, a goldsmith, who should brag to have killed him there: a young Gaston de Foix was to flame athwart Italy, and leave like a modern Epaminondas--the victors weeping at Ravenna: a Bayard, last of chivalry in an unchivalric age, was to leave a name _sans peur et sans reproche._ And there was a young Loyola: what of him? Why, before Cervantes came to laugh Spain's chivalry away, should he not be a Spanish Bayard, a Spanish Gaston de Foix, or indeed both in one?" A knight he dreamed to be and a knight he was to be, but very different from his dreams. Cervantes did not laugh Spain's nor Europe's chivalry away. Any such thought was farthest from him. Ignatius Loyola was to demonstrate the chivalry still in many hearts and was to form and lead men who should accomplish knight-errant tasks all over the world, thinking not of themselves, but lifting men up, an army, as I have said he preferred to call it "a little company," of leaders of others to what seemed less quixotic in his time than in ours, the greater glory of God, but was not without its visionary quality even then. A knight undaunted, _sans peur et sans reproche,_ {209} he surely was, but when he fell his purpose actively survived him, his own great soul had passed into it and it was destined to survive him apparently forever. After nearly four centuries the Jesuits, as Ignatius' "little company of Jesus" came to be called, are still at their work--teachers, missionaries, writers, scientists, editors; anywhere and everywhere accomplishing the purpose of their founder, doing anything and everything that seems best fitted to advance according to their motto, "The Greater Glory of God." When they were suppressed in 1773 there were about twenty thousand of them. After a full generation of formal non-existence they rose from the dead, as it were, and now there are some sixteen thousand of them in the world, with some twenty-five thousand pupils in their schools in this country alone, and probably two hundred thousand in their schools all over the world. No body of men have more influence, nor is that influence used more for good, than is true of the Jesuits. They are human, and individual members have their faults. Ignatius was named as the first General, and to him is due the Constitutions of the Order. His only other writing is the little book of the "Spiritual Exercises," a compendium of the thoughts with which men were to exercise their souls and hearts during the thirty days of retreat which they made in order to strip themselves as far as possible of earthly motives and of all selfishness, so as to take up seriously the following of Christ. It has been said, and probably with justice, that this little book has influenced the conduct of men more since it was written than any that ever came from the hands of man. It was composed within the same quarter of a century while Machiavelli was writing "The Prince." The Jesuit constitutions have been the admiration of all those who have given them deep study and they are the model of those of most of the religious orders, both of men and women, founded since his time. They were not written with ideals alone in mind, but they were a growth in the mind of Ignatius during the years of his generalate and represent the condensed practical experience of the Jesuits during the first ten years of their existence as it passed through the alembic of a genius {210} for government, directed by a saint's absolute desire only to secure the greater glory of God. The only purpose of Ignatius was to influence men to imitate the life that the God Man had lived on earth, which had become the absorbing motive of his own life. He gave himself as a result to all forms of work for social betterment that would conduce to this. The teaching of catechism to children was considered most important by him, and he took it on himself as a personal obligation. The social evil and the reform of erring women were his special care in Rome, and he did not hesitate to be seen conducting these women to a house of refuge that he had had established for them in the city. His work for them accomplished great and lasting good. He realized that education was the most important means of influencing men, so to this his order was particularly devoted. Ignatius' supreme quality was his marvellous ability to select the men who would be of service in great undertakings. St. Francis Xavier, who became the great Apostle of the Indies, acknowledged that he owed under Providence his call to this sublime work entirely to Ignatius, who had turned his ambition from the pursuit of scholarly distinction to a life directed to the extension of Christianity. The brilliant young professor at the University of Paris who at first rather despised the elderly student, apparently slow-witted because of unaccustomedness to the task of study, came to look upon Ignatius almost as a second father, and his expression "What doth it profit a man to gain the whole world and lose his own soul?" became for him the keynote of existence. Once he had given himself to the new purpose in life, Francis Xavier took nothing back, and when Ignatius obtained for him the privilege of going to the Indies as an apostle he succeeded in the ten years between 1542 and 1552 in planting Christianity firmly among the natives in both India and Japan, and was only prevented from accomplishing as much for China by his premature death in 1552. As it was, he left the inspiration of his example to be the spirit of the greatest missionary work in the East that has ever been known. This work of the missions was to be one of the principal {211} features of Jesuit accomplishment during the after-time. While they conducted some of the most important colleges in Europe and came to have more than one hundred thousand students under their care within a hundred years, their missionaries were soon to be found in every land. The century of Jesuit missions in Japan after St. Francis Xavier's time is one of the most glorious, edifying and romantic chapters in Church history. They succeeded in converting many thousands of Japanese and organizing them into Christian communities. Unfortunately political troubles within, commercial rivalries of various kinds from without eventually led to the persecution of the Christians. The Japanese Christians showed then that they knew how to die with the firmness of the early martyrs. All the priests were put to death or banished, and yet so thorough had been the training of the native catechists that even in our own time, with the opening up of Japan to missionary work again, village communities have been found in which the Christian faith was preserved. In India their success was not less remarkable and they succeeded in solving the caste problem, which had been up to this time a hopeless obstacle in the path of Christianity. Robert de Nobili, the nephew of Bellarmine, the great theological writer and historian of the Church, adopted the dress and the extremely difficult habits of life of the high-caste Brahmin. In a few years he succeeded in converting over one hundred thousand of this hitherto impossibly exclusive class. He had many worthy companions as his colleagues and successors. Among others Andrada, the first Apostle of Thibet, succeeded in penetrating into the forbidden sacred land of the Lamas and in making many conversions. All the castes of India were taken care of and there were great missionary centres at Goa, Mangalore, Madura, Calcutta and Bombay. The Chinese missions of the Jesuits were in their own good time not less successful and in certain ways gave the order even greater prestige. Distinguished scholars like Father Ricci impressed themselves upon even the contemptuous Chinese mandarins, established astronomical observatories and succeeded in gaining the favor of the Court. As a consequence, their brethren received permission to evangelize the people, {212} and proceeded to make many thousands of converts. Unfortunately, here as in Japan, political disturbances in China itself and Western commercial jealousies, with the fear that the Jesuits might favor certain nations rather than others in trade, led eventually to their banishment and the destruction of their missions. It is on the American continent, however, that the story of the Jesuit missions is particularly interesting for Americans. Ignatius himself founded the missions in South America, opening up the missions of Brazil through Father De Nobreza in 1549. Later in Chili, in Peru and in Mexico the Jesuits labored with unexampled success among the Indians. At the beginning of the seventeenth century they established the famous Reductions of Paraguay. These were communities of Christian Indians living in peaceful ways in the most happy community life. The story of the life led by the Indians in these Reductions reads more like some ideal commonwealth than an actual chapter of the history of a savage people gradually being brought to a happy civilization. Students of social order have often gone back to study the ways and means by which this great work was accomplished and have been enthusiastic in their praise of the marvels accomplished. In 1717 these Reductions in Paraguay counted over one hundred thousand Christian Indians. With the suppression of the Society in the Portuguese dominions after the middle of the eighteenth century they fell into decay, and an accomplished ideal of human life that made men happier than has perhaps ever before been the case disappeared from existence. In North America the labors of the Jesuits were quite as wonderful as elsewhere, perhaps even more marvellous in the heroism displayed than in any other part of the globe. Their labors among the Indians, though they risked and often incurred torture and death and though their lives involved the most difficult kind of labors under the most trying conditions of hardship, lack of food and suffering from the inclemencies of the climate, and the still more uncertain temper of the savages, form a chapter in the history of humanity that is among the most stirring tales of human bravery for a high, unselfish purpose. The lives of such men as Fathers Daniel, Lallemant, {213} Bréboeuf, Jogues and Marquette are monuments of supreme human devotion to the great cause of humanity and Christianity. They preceded the pioneers, and their stories of life among the Indians as told in the "Jesuit Relations" are the most precious documents in the early history of exploration on this continent, making important contributions to the sciences of Indian ethnology and of American geography, as well as other departments of knowledge. Bancroft said of them: "The history of their labors is connected with the origin of every celebrated town in the annals of French America; not a cape was turned, nor a river entered but a Jesuit led the way." Parkman has paid a fine tribute to their work as missionaries and pioneers, though it is sad to see how ill he appreciated the motive of their work and how he failed almost completely to realize the sublime humanity of their intentions. Everywhere they went they devoted themselves not only to the spread of Christianity, but also to the gathering of precious scientific information, which they transmitted to Europe. They brought about the introduction into Europe of valuable botanical specimens, especially of medicinal plants and various substances that they found in use among the Indians. The name Jesuits' bark for quinine is only a testimony to the fact that it was a missionary of the order in Brazil who first learned how valuable this substance was in the treatment of malarial fevers and brought about its introduction into Europe. They compiled dictionaries of the Indian languages, which are now the only remains of some of these native American languages, important contributions to philology. Often these language studies are the only significant evidence of the relationships among the Indian tribes and of their real place of origin in the country. The geographical knowledge that they gathered and transmitted was most precious. All this was done in the midst of a self-sacrificing life among the Indians that a modern reads with ever-increasing astonishment. It seems almost incredible when it is recalled that the men who bore these sufferings so heroically were always highly educated, scholarly graduates of European colleges and often the descendants of gently nurtured families. Not infrequently the missionaries could see but very little fruit {214} from their labors for long periods and they had to be satisfied if they could make even a few converts among the old and the women and children as the result of years of labor. The contribution to civilization of these men, formed after the mighty saintly mind of Columbus' great contemporary Ignatius Loyola, is one of the greatest things that we owe to Columbus' Century. The most important function of the Jesuits, however, as planned by Ignatius himself, was not missionary work, but education. Ignatius contemplated that his little Company of Jesus should be, first of all, teachers. His constitutions arranged the training and outlined the methods. Before a generation had passed after his death they had some of the best schools in Europe. Everywhere the Jesuit schools were attended by the better classes, and the first century of the history of the Jesuits had not closed before there were more than one hundred thousand students in attendance in their classrooms. The reason for this was that their system of teaching and of intellectual discipline turned out scholars better than any other. What they taught as the basis of education was the classics. The humanities had come in as a great feature of education with the Renaissance. When the order was founded the Renaissance spirit was at its height and the schools of the New Learning had multiplied all over Europe. The Jesuits adopted it as the best means of training the mind, and how well they used it history shows. At once, with that careful attention to details so characteristic of the order, they began to systematize education, and the great _ratio studiorum_, probably the most significant contribution to the literature of methods of education ever made, was the result. It emphasized particularly the necessity for the prelection, that is, of preliminary discussion and explanation of the lesson which the students were expected to study for the next day, careful methods of recitation and demonstration and then finally insisted on the need of frequent repetitions. Competition was looked upon as a most precious element for the arousing of student interest. After a period of neglect, we are coming back to this thought once more. Themes, that is, written exercises, and especially those {215} in which the language to be learned was directly employed, were set down as a most important factor in linguistic education. The actual use of the language to be learned in class was dwelt on. After the classics the student was expected to take a course in philosophy, that is, in logic and general metaphysics and psychology, before graduation. Above all, moral as well as intellectual training was insisted on. In his "Essays on Educational Reformers," Quick summed up in the first paragraph of his book the place of the Jesuits in education rather strikingly: "Since the revival of learning, no body of men has played so prominent a part in education as the Jesuits. With characteristic sagacity and energy, they soon seized on education as a stepping-stone to power and influence; and with their talent for organization, they framed a system of schools which drove all important competitors from the field, and made Jesuits the instructors of Catholic, and even, to some extent, of Protestant Europe. Their skill in this capacity is attested by the highest authorities, by Bacon and Descartes, the latter of whom had himself been their pupil; and it naturally met with its reward: for more than one hundred years nearly all the foremost men throughout Christendom, both among the clergy and laity, had received the Jesuit training, and for life regarded their old masters with reverence and affection." If the estimation of any body of teachers is to be rightly adjudged, surely there can be no better source of evidence with regard to them than what is to be obtained from their students. Almost without exception pupils of the Jesuits are most ardent in their praise. Only those who do not know them personally have been bitter in denunciation of them. To know them well enough is to love and honor them. A few of the names of the great pupils of the Jesuit schools will serve to exemplify the sort of men that they were influencing by their education. Among them were: Bossuet, Corneille, Molière, Bourdaloue, Tasso, Fontenelle, Diderot, Voltaire, Bourdelais, Descartes, Buffon, Justus Lipsius, Muratori, Calderon, Vico the jurisconsult, Richelieu, Tilly, Malesherbes, Don John of Austria, Luxemburg, Esterhazy, Choiseul, St. Francis de Sales, Lambertini, one of the great scholars of his {216} time, afterwards the most learned of Popes under the name of Benedict XIV, and the late Pope Leo XIII, one of the greatest of the moderns. Some idea of the productiveness of the Jesuits as scientific, philosophic and literary writers may be obtained from the catalogue of their works issued by the Fathers de Backer and which has been brought up to date by Father Sommervogel. Hughes, in "Loyola and the Educational System of the Jesuits" in the Great Educators Series (Scribner's, 1902), has summed up the significance of these works: "But at length the two Fathers de Backer published a series of seven quarto volumes, in the years 1853-1861; and the first step they followed up, in the years 1869-1876, with a new edition in three immense folios, containing the names of 11,100 authors. This number does not include the supplements, with the names of writers in the present century, and of the anonymous and pseudonymous authors. Of this last category. Father Sommervogel's researches, up to 1884, enabled him to publish a catalogue, which fills a full octavo volume of 600 pages, with double columns. The writers of this century, whom the De Backers catalogued in their supplement, filled 647 columns, folio, very small print. Altogether the three folios contain 7,086 columns, compressed with every art of typographical condensation. "Suarez of course is to be seen there, and Cornelius à Lapide, Petau, and the Bollandists. A single name like that of Zaccaria has 117 works recorded under it--whereof the 116th is in thirteen volumes quarto, and the 117th in twenty-two volumes octavo. The catechism of Canisius fills nearly eleven columns with the notices of its principal editions, translations, abridgments; the commentaries upon it, and critiques. Rossignol has 66 works to his name. The list of productions about Edmund Campion, for or against him, chiefly in English, fills in De Backers' folio, two and a half columns of minutest print. Bellarmine, in Father Sommervogel's new edition, fills fifty pages, double column. "Under each work are recorded the editions, translations, sometimes made into every language, including Arabic, {217} Chinese, Indian; also the critiques, and the works published in refutation--a controversial enterprise which largely built up the Protestant theological literature of the times, and, in Bellarmine's case alone, meant the theological Protestant literature for 40 or 50 years afterwards. Oxford founded an anti-Bellarmine chair. The editions of one of this great man's works are catalogued by Sommervogel under the distinct heads of 54 languages. "In the methodical or synoptic table, at the end of the De Backers' work, not only are the subjects well-nigh innumerable, which have their catalogues of authors' names attached to them, but such subjects too are here as might not be expected. Thus "Military Art" has 32 authors' names under it; Agriculture 11; Navy 12; Music 45; Medicine 28. "To conclude then this history of our Educational Order, we have one synoptical view of it in these twelve or thirteen thousand authors, all of one family. We have much more. This one work 'attesting,' as De Backer says in his Preface, 'at one and the same time a prodigious activity and often an indisputable merit, whereof three and a half centuries have been the course in time, and the whole world the place and theatre, is a general record of religion, letters, science and education in every country, civilized or barbarous, where the Society of Jesus labored and travelled.'" Very often it seems to be thought that, since the basis of Jesuit education was the classics, therefore little or no attention was paid to the sciences and consequently an important phase of human intellectual development was neglected and an essential set of interests of humanity were set back or at least failed of their evolution. Those who think that, however, fail entirely to know the history of the Jesuits and their educational efforts and achievements. As a matter of fact, the Jesuits have always had distinguished scientists among them, and many of the great discoverers and teachers in science for the last three centuries and a half have been members of the order. Very early in their history the Jesuits turned their attention to astronomy, then the one of the physical sciences most developed, and nearly every important Jesuit College soon had an observatory in which good work {218} was done. When Gregory XIII, scarcely more than a quarter of a century after Ignatius' death, wanted to bring about the reformation of the calendar, it was to a Jesuit, Father Clavius, that he turned. Ever since that time there have been distinguished Jesuit astronomers. In our own time, Father Secchi, the Jesuit, probably did more important work than any other single astronomer of the third quarter of the nineteenth century. Among the names of the Jesuit astronomers are: Father Scheiner, who made observations particularly on the sun; Father Cysatus, whose papers on comets are justly numbered among the most important concerning this subject; Father Zupi, who first described the dark stripes or bands on Jupiter and first saw the phases of Mercury which Galileo surmised rather than saw; Father Grimaldi, who studied Saturn and drew up one of the first maps of the moon worthy of the name; Father Riccioli, who introduced the lunar nomenclature; Father Maximilian Hell, whose memory our own Newcomb vindicated, and many others. They were noted for their intimate relations with scholars who were devoting themselves to similar subjects, and they were close correspondents of Kepler and succeeded in helping him to keep his professorship at the University of Gratz when the Emperor of Austria issued a decree banishing all Protestant professors from Austrian Universities. [Footnote 21] [Footnote 21: About this same time when Harvey on a trip through Europe went to visit the Jesuits in their colleges in a number of towns, the fact was noted by the men who accompanied him, and they jested with him as regards the possibility of his either converting the Jesuits or being converted by them. He said, however, that he found nowhere more sympathetic friends and interested scholars than among these religious. His friendship for them has even given some ground for the declaration that he may have been a Catholic.] It must not be thought, however, that the Jesuits were interested only in astronomy. They had a large number of mathematicians and of teachers of all the physical sciences. The famous Roman College, founded in St. Ignatius' time, was always looked up to as the type of what a Jesuit College should be. It was here that the great scholarly Father Kircher taught for nearly half of the seventeenth century. He was invited to Rome to begin his teaching there just {219} before the condemnation of Galileo. He would not have received the invitation had there been the slightest feeling of opposition on the part of the Church or his order to the teaching of science. While teaching at the Roman College he wrote a series of text-books on all phases of physical science. There are several text-books on magnetism, one on light, a second on sound, a third on astronomy, a fourth on the subterranean world and many others. It would be easy to think that these books are mere compilations and that they were probably scarcely more than small hand-books of the imperfect knowledge of the time. On the contrary, they are magnificent large volumes beautifully printed, finely illustrated, bibliographic treasures full of original observation. They are some of the best text-books ever issued. Father Kircher's originality is demonstrated by the fact that he is the perfecter of the projecting stereoscope or magic lantern, which he was led to invent in his desire to be able to make demonstrations to his classes. He also founded the Kircherian Museum, by which the teaching of anthropology and ethnology were greatly furthered through the curiosities sent to Rome by the Jesuit missionaries all over the world. His book, "On the Pest," is full of observations of great value and contains the first suggestions that infectious diseases are carried by insects. There was no subject that he touched that he did not illuminate. Since that time there have been many distinguished Jesuit scientists, and they have continued their work down to our own day. At the present time, one of the best known of biologists in the special field of entomology is Father Wasmann, S.J., who has published some seven hundred papers on ants, their hosts and guests, and who, taking advantage of the help of his brethren all over the world, has described many hundreds of new species. How successful the Jesuits have been in their pursuit of science will perhaps be best realized from the fact that, while in Poggendorff's "Biographical Dictionary of Science" out of something less than nine thousand names nearly one thousand are Catholic clergymen, about five hundred of these are Jesuits. Their occupations first of all as priests often left them but little leisure {220} for scientific investigations, and yet they succeeded in stamping their names upon the history of science. Two departments of modern science owe much to them. Father Secchi's wonderful inventions of instruments for meteorology were awarded prizes by the French Academy of Sciences, and other members of the order made successful investigations in the science. The Jesuits in the Philippines and the West Indies have done more to study out the conditions which precede cyclones and hurricanes so as to give warning with regard to them than any others. Their work was fully recognized by the United States Government. Many of the Jesuit colleges and universities throughout the world now have seismological observatories for the study of earthquakes, and undoubtedly their intimate connection and wide distribution will bring important details of information into this department of knowledge from which significant conclusions may be reached. The work of the Jesuits has come to be better appreciated in English-speaking countries, where old religious prejudices hampered its proper recognition, until comparatively recent times. Macaulay, in his essay on Ranke's "History of the Popes," has summed up the achievements of the Jesuits in his own striking way. When he wrote the Jesuits were unknown personally in England, and so it is not surprising that there are passages in his panegyric that are full of the old prejudices which had accumulated in English history and by which the term Jesuitic has become a word of the worst reproach. Macaulay's wide reading, however, had brought to him a very extensive knowledge of the wonderful work accomplished by Loyola and his sons during the two centuries after their foundation. The passage is too well known to be more than referred to here. His tribute to their successful work as missionaries all over the world, which undoubtedly set the fashion after which Protestant historians in English-speaking countries have come to acknowledge the marvellous work of the Jesuits among the savages, is not so well known: "The old world was not wide enough for this strange activity. The Jesuits invaded all the countries which the great marine discoveries of the preceding {221} age had laid open to European enterprise. In the depths of the Peruvian mines, at the marts of the African slave-caravans, on the shores of the Spice Islands, in the observatories of China, they were to be found. They made converts in regions which neither avarice nor curiosity had tempted any of their countrymen to enter, and preached and disputed in tongues of which no other native of the West understood a word." No wonder that Parkman, who in some ways has helped to make us Americans understand them better but who in many ways is utterly lacking in proper sympathy for them probably because he failed to know them well personally, said of them: "The Jesuit was, and is, everywhere--in the schoolroom, in the library, in the cabinets of princes and ministers, in the huts of savages, in the tropics, in the frozen north, in India, in China, in Japan, in Africa, in America; now as a Christian priest, now as a soldier, a mathematician, an astrologer, a Brahmin, a mandarin, under countless disguises, by a thousand arts, luring, persuading, or compelling souls into the fold of Rome." He feels sure that there must be much to condemn in them, since they have been the subject of so much criticism and persecution. Like many another, he cannot bring himself to think that their founder's last wish for them, that they should be persecuted even as their Lord and Master was, should be the symbol of their fate. Where he knows them best, however, as in Canada, he has unmixed praise for them, though he declares that it is not for him to eulogize them, but to portray them as they were. At once the keynote for the proper appreciation of the Jesuits and the summary of what Loyola accomplished through them is to be found in the closing paragraphs of Francis Thompson's "Life of St. Ignatius" (Benzigers': New York, 1909, pp. 318): "Issuing from this Manresan cave, forgotten by the world which he had forgotten, and rejected in the land which bore him, single and unaided he constructed and set in motion a force that stemmed and rolled back the reformation which had engulfed the North and threatened to conquer {222} Christendom. He cast the foundations of his Order deep; and, satisfied that his work was good, died--leaving it for legacy only the God-required gift that all men should speak ill of it. "Most singular bequest that Founder ever transmitted, it has singularly been fulfilled. The union of energy and patience, sagacity and a self-devotion which held nothing impossible that was bidden it, were the leading qualities of St. Ignatius; and so far as his Order has prospered, it has been because it incarnated the qualities of its Founder. The administrative genius which, among the princes of Europe or the 'untutored minds' of Paraguay, is perhaps its most striking secular feature, comes to it direct from the man who might have ruled provinces in the greatest empire of the sixteenth century; but chose rather to rule, from the altars of the Church, an army which has outlasted the armies of Spain, and made conquests more perdurable than the vast empire which drifted to its fall in the wake of the broken galleons of the Armada." The Jesuits are literally one of the greatest creations of this great period. Not to know them as such is to miss the significance of their order and not a little of the true spirit of the epoch from which they sprang. The arts and literature of the Renaissance produced no work destined to live so vividly, nor to influence men in all succeeding generations so deeply, as "the little company of Jesus," as Ignatius of Loyola conceived and organized it. {223} [Illustration: HOLBEIN, SIR THOMAS MORE] CHAPTER IV SIR THOMAS MORE AND SOME CONTEMPORARIES While in this great period of the Renaissance, Raphael, Leonardo da Vinci and Michelangelo, and so many others, were demonstrating the power of the human mind to express itself in aesthetic modes of all kinds, and Copernicus and Regiomontanus and Vesalius and Paracelsus were showing how man's intellect might penetrate the mysteries of the universe without him and that smaller universe the microcosm that he is himself, and Erasmus and Pico della Mirandola and Linacre were exhibiting human scholarship at its highest, a great contemporary in England expressed human life at its best in strong terms of the human will. This was Sir Thomas More, Lord Chancellor of England, put to death by Henry VIII, but not until he had succeeded in making out of his life a wonderful work of living art of the profoundest significance, to which men of all classes have been attracted ever since. He was a great scholar, a great lawyer, a great judge--the only man who ever cleared the docket of the English Court of Chancery,--a writer of distinguished ability not only in his own language but in Latin, a philosopher who so far as the consideration of social problems was concerned deserves a place beside Plato: yet not for any of these attainments is he famous, but for his unflinching following of what he saw to be his duty even though it cost him everything that men usually hold dear--life, reputation, property and even the possibility of poverty and suffering for those he held dear after his death. Sir Thomas More was born in London, February 7, 1478. We are likely to think of the Wars of the Roses as farther away from us, but they were not yet over. Edward the Fourth was now firmly fixed on the throne, but there had been stormy times for the monarchy in his reign. Edward {224} originally ascended the throne in March, 1461, but the revolt of the Kingmaker Earl of Warwick had led to the restoration of poor Henry VI in 1470, and Edward had to flee the country. He returned in 1471, defeated Warwick at Barnet, April 14, 1471, and Margaret of Anjou at Tewkesbury, May 4, 1471. There was tranquillity for a dozen of years after this, but it was not until Henry VII defeated Richard III at Bosworth in 1485, and then married the Yorkist Princess Elizabeth, that peace was assured to England. It was into a very disturbed England, then, that Sir Thomas More was born. As a boy he had as teacher Nicholas Holt, who seems, with the true Renaissance spirit, to have been thoroughly able to arouse the youth's interest. At the age of twelve he entered the household of Cardinal Morton, the Archbishop of Canterbury. It was the good old custom at that time to have boys brought up in the households of distinguished nobles or high ecclesiastical dignitaries, with the idea that association with men of parts represented the best stimulus for that development of the intellectual faculties which constitutes real education. It was not long before young More attracted the attention of the distinguished old Cardinal, who prophesied his future greatness. Roper, who married More's daughter Margaret, tells an incident of the boy's life at this time and adds that, as a consequence of the Cardinal's appreciation of him. More was sent to the university. He says in a famous paragraph that shows us More's precocity and that sense of humor that was to characterize him all his life: "Though More were young of years, yet would he at Christmas suddenly sometimes step in among the players, and never studying for the matter, make a part of his own there presently among them which made the lookers on more sport than all the players beside. In whose wit and towardness the Cardinal much delighting, would often say of him to the nobles that divers times dine with him: 'This child here waiting at the table, whoever shall live to see it, will prove a marvellous man.' Whereupon for his better furtherance in learning, he placed him at Oxford." After some four years in the Cardinal's household, More {225} went to the university on the bounty of his patron, and afterwards took up the study of law and was admitted to the bar. When he was twenty-six More became a member of Parliament, and the next year, in 1505, he married. The story of his marriage has an interest rather unique of its kind. He had gone down to the home of John Colt of Newhall, in Essex, with the avowed purpose of getting him a wife. He had been told that John's elder daughter was just the person for him. When he got down there he liked the second daughter better, but married her elder sister so as not to subject her to the discredit of being passed over. There are those who have said that his sanctity began right there. It is to be hoped that his wife knew nothing of it until much later. The year of his marriage, when he might reasonably have been expected to be circumspect as to his political future, More strenuously opposed in Parliament King Henry's (VII) proposal for a very large subsidy as the marriage portion of his daughter Margaret. In spite of his youth, his arguments in the matter were so forcible and in accord with old-time custom and law in England that the House of Commons reduced the subsidy to scarcely more than a quarter of the amount demanded. When his favorite courtiers brought to Henry VII the news that a man whom he would deem scarcely more than a beardless boy had brought about the disappointment of his hopes and schemes and deprived him of an opportunity to fill his coffers, than which nothing was dearer to the miserly King's heart, it is easy to understand that More was not a favorite at Court. More seems to have considered it advisable to absent himself from England for a while at this time, because of the king's displeasure. This provided an opportunity to spend some time at Paris, and also at Louvain. At Louvain he began that acquaintance with Erasmus which ripened into the enduring intimacy of later life. No opportunity seems to have been missed by him to develop his intellect and broaden his intellectual interests. While he was a lawyer, the Greek authors became a favorite subject of study and philosophy and science his diversions. Literally, it might be said of {226} him, that there was nothing that was human that did not interest him. After some time, More returned to London and took up the practice of law. After the death of Henry VII, in 1509, he became the most popular barrister of the day and very soon obtained an immensely lucrative practice. He refused to receive fees from the poor, and especially from widows and orphans who seemed to him to be oppressed in any way. Tradition shows him as a sort of legal aid society for the city of London at that time. He absolutely refused to plead in cases which he thought unjust. Such punctilious practice of the law is sometimes said to hamper a successful career and, above all, lead to the loss of the opportunities that bring a lawyer into prominence. The very opposite happened with More, and he became the best known of his profession before he was forty. The pleasantest part of More's life was these years of his professional career. He then had the opportunity to associate frequently in the most charming of friendly and literary intercourse with the group of men whose names are famous in the English Renaissance. He and Erasmus were life-long friends, and perhaps there is no greater tribute to Erasmus' character than More's devoted affection for him, and his sympathetic devotion to More. Erasmus himself, though a much greater scholar, had nothing like the depth and strength of character possessed by More. The men were in many ways almost exact opposites of each other, and perhaps they felt how complementary their qualities were. More was eminently practical, Erasmus was rather impractical; More was humorous, Erasmus was witty. More sympathized with all humanity, even when he found something to criticise; Erasmus' criticism was likely to be bitter and he laughed at rather than with people, so that he did not make himself generally loved, but quite the contrary, except for a few close friends, while the most typical characteristic of More's life is the love and affection it aroused. More's family life is one of the most interesting features of his career. Erasmus has spoken of it with enthusiastic admiration and, as he had personal experience of it for rather {227} long periods at several different times and was himself a highly sensitive, readily irritable individual, his testimony in the matter is all the more significant. It may be due to Erasmus' enthusiastic admiration for More, but in any case it shows us how thoroughly he appreciated and was ready to place on record his enjoyment of the privilege of being received as a friend into the household: "Does my friend regulate his household, where misunderstandings and quarrels are altogether unknown! Indeed, he is looked up to as a general healer of all differences, and he was never known to part from any on terms of unkindness. His house seems to enjoy the peculiar happiness that all who dwell under its roof go forth into the world bettered in their morals as well as improved in their condition; and no spot was ever known to fall on the reputation of any of its fortunate inhabitants. Here you might imagine yourself in the academy of Plato. But, indeed, I should do injustice to his house by comparing it with the school of that philosopher where nothing but abstract questions, and occasional moral virtues, were the subjects of discussion; it would be truer to call it a school of religion, and an arena for the exercise of all Christian virtues. All its inmates apply themselves to liberal studies, though piety is their first care. No wrangling or angry word is ever heard within the walls. No one is idle; everyone does his duty with alacrity, and regularity and good order are prescribed by the mere force of kindness and courtesy. Everyone performs his allotted task, and yet all are as cheerful as if mirth were their only employment. Surely such a household deserves to be called a school of the Christian religion." Some who have found a lack in the chancellor's life of what may be called romance, for both his courtships were eminently matter-of-fact, may find adequate compensation for this and material for the proper appreciation of More's affectionate nature in the contemplation of the intense affection which he displayed for his children, and especially for his daughter Margaret. Margaret More richly deserved all this affection of her father, but there is probably not a case in history where such affection has been so charmingly expressed. {228} Fortunately for us, the extensive correspondence that passed between father and daughter is largely preserved for us. The letters are charming expressions of paternal and daughterly affection. Perhaps the one that may interest the young folks of this generation the most is that in which Sir Thomas replies to a letter of his daughter's asking for money. Probably there would be rather ready agreement that, in the great majority of cases, paternal answers to filial requests for money in our time are couched in somewhat different terms. The father wrote with classic references that are meant to make her studies seem all the more valuable: "You ask me, my dear Margaret, for money with too much bashfulness and timidity, since you are asking from a father that is eager to give, and since you have written to me a letter such that I would not only repay each line of it with a golden philippine, as Alexander did the verses of Cherilos, but, if my means were as great as my desire, I would reward each syllable with two gold ounces. As it is, I send you only what you have asked, but would have added more, only that as I am eager to give, so am I desirous to be asked and coaxed by my daughter, especially by you, whom virtue and learning have made so dear to my soul. So the sooner you spend this money well, as you are wont to do, and the sooner you ask for more, the more you will be sure of pleasing your father." Linacre, the second of the group with whom More was associated to a considerable extent, is one of the great characters of the England of that time. Like More, he had attracted the attention of a great Churchman, Bishop Selling; when young, he had gone to Italy in his train and there had had the advantage of intimate association with the family of the Medici when Lorenzo the Magnificent was training his boys to be rulers of Italy, political and ecclesiastical. Linacre stayed some ten years in Italy, mainly during the pontificate of Pope Alexander VI, of whom so much that is derogatory has been said, but, instead of having his devotion to the Church lessened by the abuses that are said to have existed in Italy at this time, he came back to England as a fervent Catholic. Years afterwards, when toward the end of life {229} he felt its emptiness, he distributed his property for educational purposes and became a priest. His foundations in both Cambridge and Oxford, and especially his foundation of the Royal College of Physicians, were very valuable contributions to the intellectual life of England. The College of Physicians lives on under the constitutions that he provided. His chairs founded at Oxford and Cambridge were not so fortunate, because the disturbances of the end of Henry VIII's reign and the time of Edward VI led to the confiscation of many of these educational foundations, or at least of their diversion to the King's private purposes. Erasmus was the greatest scholar of the time, Linacre was looked up to as perhaps the best Greek scholar of the period, and, while in Italy, Manutius in Venice had taken advantage of his knowledge for the editing of certain of the Greek classics. He himself translated a number of volumes of Galen into Latin, and the translation was proclaimed, in Erasmus's words, to be better than the original Greek. The third of this group of friends of More was scarcely less distinguished than the other two. It was Dean Colet of St. Paul's. He, too, had been touched by the spirit of the Renaissance, but like all the others of this group, instead of being attracted towards Paganism or away from Christianity, his devotion to the Church and his faith had been broadened and deepened by his knowledge. His sermons at St. Paul's attracted widespread attention. But his personal influence was perhaps even more telling. According to tradition, these men and certain others, as Lyly and at some times probably John Caius, who afterwards founded Caius College at Cambridge, used to meet for an afternoon's discussion of things literary, social and philosophic at the home of Colet's mother in Stepney. There we have a picture of them arguing over literary questions with that intense seriousness which characterized the Renaissance, and in the midst of which Colet had sometimes to restrain the ardent enthusiasm of the others lest argument should run into strife. Here, according to tradition, Dame Colet, mother of the Dean, used sometimes to bring them for a collation some of the strawberries that had been introduced into England {230} from Holland, probably by Erasmus himself or through his influence, and some of which were grown in the Colet garden. With English milk and the sweet cakes of the time, they made a pleasant interlude in the afternoon or served as a fitting smoothing apparatus for the end of a discussion that had waxed hot. Such a group of men make an Academy in the best sense of the word. When Plato led his scholars through the groves of Academus and discussed high thoughts with them, the first Academy came into existence and the English Renaissance furnished another striking example of how the friction of various many-sided minds may serve to bring out what is best in all of them. The pleasure of such intercourse only those who have had opportunities of sharing it can properly appreciate. The meetings must, indeed, have been events in the lives of the men, and More, who had not had the opportunity to go to Italy, must have drunk in with special enthusiasm all that their long years of Italian experience had given to the others. These interludes from his more serious practical duties at the bar must have been most happy and marvellously broadening in their effects. A good idea of More's interests as a young man between twenty-five and thirty can be obtained from his setting himself to make a translation of Pico della Mirandola's "Life, Letters and Works." While Pico was one of the most learned men of the Renaissance, he was also one of the most pious. And more than any other he showed the possibility of being profoundly acquainted with Greek culture, and yet retaining a deep devotion to religion. More's praise of him in the life that he wrote shows better than anything else the drift of his own thoughts. The passage affords a good idea of More's prose style in English, with the spelling somewhat but not entirely modernized: "Oh very happy mind," he writes, "which none adversity might oppress, which no prosperity might enhance: Not the cunning of all philosophy was able to make him proud, not the knowledge of the hebrewe chaldey and arabie language besides greke and latin could make him vain gloriuse, not his great substance, not his noble blood coulde blow up his heart, {231} not the beauty of his body, not the great occasions of sin were able to pull him back into the voluptous broad way that lead us to hell: what thing was there of so marvelous strength that might overturn that mind of him which now: as Seneca saith was gotten above fortune as he which as well her favor as her malice hath, saitheth nought, that he might be coupled with a spiritual knot unto Christ and his heavenly citizens." More also wrote some verses on the vicissitudes of fortune, in which he describes her as distributing brittle gifts among men only to amuse herself by suddenly taking them back again. It was the literal expression of his own career, and his advice as to how to defy her is best illustrated by his own life: "This is her sport, thus proveth she her might; Great boast she mak'th if one be by her power Wealthy and wretched both within an hour. Wherefore if thou in surety lust to stand. Take poverty's part and let proud fortune go. Receive nothing that cometh from her hand. Love, manner and virtue: they be only tho, Which double Fortune may not take thee fro': Then may'st thou boldly defy her turning chance. She can thee neither hinder nor advance.'" The young King Henry VIII became deeply interested in More because of his brilliancy of intellect, his successful conduct of affairs, his sterling character and, above all, for his wit and humor. He wanted to have him as a member of his Court, but this More long resisted. He preferred independence to a courtier's life, and in spite of the urging of Wolsey, who had been made a Cardinal by Leo X in 1515, and alleged how dear his service would be to his majesty, continued to refuse. After an embassy to Flanders, however, on which he went with Cuthbert Tunstal to confer with the ambassadors of Charles V, who was then, however, only Archduke of Austria, upon a renewal of the alliance with the English Monarch and a further embassy of the same kind in 1516, {232} More consented to enter the Royal Court. On his embassy in Flanders he had probably taken the leisure to write out his "Utopia" in Latin, and it was published on the Continent, though not published in England until nearly twenty years after his death. The contact with Erasmus woke More's literary spirit, and Erasmus felt that there were magnificent possibilities for literature in More's intellect. Erasmus bewailed his becoming a courtier and says in his letters "the King really dragged him to his Court. No one ever strove more eagerly to gain admission there than More did to avoid it." More's literary reputation rests more particularly on his "Utopia," written when he was thirty-seven years of age, during his absence from England on the commission in the Low Countries with Cuthbert Tunstal. That absence was but for six months, and this will give some idea of More's industry. At home he was deep in his law practice, and now when he had leisure from social and ambassadorial demands he found time to write one of the most interesting contributions to the science of government from the social side that probably has ever been written. It was written in Latin and was first printed at Louvain late in 1516 under the editorship of Erasmus, Peter Giles, sometimes known under his Latin name as AEgidius, and others of More's literary friends in Flanders. It was subsequently revised by More and printed by Frobinius at Basel in November, 1518. The book became popular on the Continent and was reprinted at Paris and Vienna, but was not published in England during More's lifetime. More evidently feared that it might be misunderstood there, though he had been very careful in the course of the book to make whatever might seem to reflect upon England appear to be directly referred to some other country. An English translation was not published in England until Edward the VI's reign in 1551. The standard translation, however, is that made by Bishop Burnet. It can scarcely but seem strange that the author of the history of "The Protestant Reformation," who more than any other almost kept England from relaxing any of her antipopery feeling or governmental regulations, should translate the last great Papal {233} Catholic's book for his countrymen, but it is a tribute the significance of which cannot be missed. Burnet is said to have been induced to make the translation from the same feelings of protest against arbitrary government that led to More's writing of it. The passages quoted here are always taken from Burnet's translation. Unfortunately, "Utopia" is mainly known to ordinary readers from the adjective Utopian, derived from it and which has come to mean a hopelessly ideal or infeasibly impractical scheme. Doubtless many have been deterred from even the thought of reading it, because of the feeling produced that a book of Utopian character could not be of any serious import. Utopia from the Greek simply means nowhere. More himself often calls it by the Latin name Nusquama, with the same meaning. It was simply a country which unfortunately existed nowhere as yet, in which things were done very differently from anywhere in civilized Europe at least, but where the people had reasoned out what ought to be their attitude of mind towards many things which in Europe following tradition and convention were liable to many abuses and social wrongs. Sir Thomas recognized all the danger there was from the so-called Reformation and did not hesitate to take his part in the controversies that inevitably came. As early as 1523 he published the answer to Luther, in 1525 a pamphlet letter against Pomeranus, in 1528 the dialogue "Quoth He and Quoth I," in 1529 the "Supplication of Souls," in 1531 the "Confutation of Tindale," in 1532 his "Apology," in 1533 "The Deballation of Salem and Bizance" and in 1533 the "Answer to the Supper of the Lord," probably written by either William Tindale or George Jay. [Footnote 22] [Footnote 22: A good idea of how the spelling of the English language has changed in four centuries may be gathered from the title of one of these controversial works of More's, as it appeared recently in the catalogue of a bookseller. The frequent use of _y_ where we now use _i_ would almost make one think that the _i_'s have been exhausted in the particular font of type, or else that this typesetter had a special fondness for _y_. This latter idea is probably true, for, as a matter of fact, in books printed about this same time so many _y_'s were not ordinarily used. "Sir Thomas More A dyaloge . . . whereyn he treatyed dyvers maters as of the veneracyon and worshyp of ymagys and relyques, prayng to sayntis, and goynge on pylgrymage. Wyth many other thyngys touchyng the pestylent secte of Luther and Tyndale, etc. Newly oversene. Sm. folio black letter, with the leaf of "fawtes escaped in the pryntynge."] When Cardinal Wolsey, Lord Chancellor, fell after the failure of the divorce proceedings, the King insisted on Sir Thomas More accepting the position. More must have known how {234} difficult, indeed almost impossible, the post would be for him. It was dangerous, however, to oppose Henry VIII's will, and so within a week after the deposition of Wolsey, Sir Thomas More was installed as Lord Chancellor, an office that had very seldom before this been held by a layman, though it has been held by laymen ever since, almost without exception. His installation is said to have taken place with the joy and applause of the whole kingdom. There are some who have said that More was glad to triumph over Wolsey, and that indeed he took advantage of the opportunity afforded him by the new dignity to abuse his predecessor and to show that he had schemed to succeed him. There are no grounds for such expressions, however, and even Wolsey himself had declared that More was the man who should have the post, the only one fitted to succeed him. Erasmus, writing on the matter, is quite sure that More himself does not deserve to be congratulated, for he foresaw the difficulties ahead, but the kingdom deserves congratulation. He felt, too, that it would be a loss to literature. As he said: "I do not at all congratulate More or literature, but I do indeed congratulate England, for a better or holier judge could not be appointed." The most characteristic feature of More's Chancellorship was his prompt disposing of cases. He realized very well that not only must justice be done, but as far as possible it must be done promptly, and the tedious drawing out of cases to great length works injustice, even though they are justly decided after many years. The Court of Chancery in England has become a byword for slowness of procedure and has been satirized on many occasions during the nineteenth {235} century, but already in the sixteenth century there were many cases before the Court that had been dragging on for twenty years, and even more. Delays were mainly due to the fact that Lord Chancellors were occupied with many other duties and did not always feel equal to the task of trying cases and weighing evidence. Undoubtedly some delays had been occasioned by the fact that presents were received, if not by the Lord Chancellor himself at least by court officials, and the longer cases were allowed to drag on the more opportunity was there in them for such irregularities. The clearing up of the calendar of the Court of Chancery marked an epoch in English legal history and is one of our best evidences of More's thoroughly practical character. It is by his death more than anything else that More is admirable. Here was a man of marvellous breadth of interests, to whom life must have meant very much. As a young man he had been brought in intimate contact with the pick of the intellectual men of his time. In early manhood he had been the chosen friend of the best scholars in Europe--men like Colet, Erasmus and Linacre, with international reputations. He had represented his King abroad in important missions before he was forty. He had shown himself a great lawyer in spite of a scrupulosity of conscience that would ordinarily be supposed to make the successful practice of the law extremely difficult. Notwithstanding the most thorough honesty in every activity of life and the absence of every hint even of truckling of any kind to popular or royal opinion, he had been the favorite of all classes. As an author he wrote books that the world will not willingly let die. They are occupied with things that men often push away from them, serious, high-minded, purposeful, yet they are more read now than they were in his own time. He was a philosopher worthy to be placed beside the greatest practical philosopher, and his ideal republic, written in his own profound vein of humor, is a distinct contribution to that form of literature. To this man there came, about the age of fifty, the highest office that he could possibly hope to attain in England. He was the favorite of his King and of the Court. He used his high office for the benefit of the commonwealth in every way, {236} and above all for the benefit of the people. He revolutionized methods in chancery and succeeded in bringing Justice back to haunts of the law, where her presence had been so rare as almost to be doubted. He had a great future before him in the possibilities of good for others. Unselfish as he had always shown himself to be, surely he could have had no greater satisfaction for his ambition than this. In the midst of his efficient duties there came a decision to be made with regard to himself. The Lord High Chancellor of England is often spoken of as the keeper of the King's conscience. Such More evidently deemed himself to be in reality. Anyhow, he was the keeper of his own conscience. The King, unable to obtain a divorce from the wife whom he had married twenty years before in order to marry a younger, handsomer woman, had resolved to grant one to himself and for that purpose assumed the supremacy in Church as well as in State. The great nobles, knowing his headstrong character, submitted to this usurpation of authority, which was besides baited with the possibility of enrichment through the confiscation of monastic property and its transfer to king's favorites. Even the bishops of England hesitated but for a time, and then almost to a man took the oath of supremacy which declared Henry to be supreme head of the Church as well as the State. There were only one or two notable exceptions to this. It would seem as though after this there ought to be no difficulty for More. If the bishops and the clergy of the country were willing to accept the King as the head of the Church, why should a layman hesitate? And yet More hesitated. He refused to take the oath of supremacy. It was represented to him that to refuse was dangerous. On the other hand, it was shown to him, and it must have been very clear to himself, that if he took it he would obtain great favor with the King, and that indeed there was almost nothing that he might not aspire to. Lord Chancellor he was, but ennoblement and enrichment would surely come to him. The King had always thought much of him, was now particularly irritated by his refusal, but would be won to him completely if he yielded. It seemed not unlikely that a peerage would be his at once, and {237} that higher degrees of nobility were only a question of time. Times were disturbed, and he might be able to do much good, certainly he could not expect that other advisers near the King would do anything but yield to the monarch's whims. Here was a dilemma. On the one hand, honor, power, wealth and the favor of his King, as well as the esteem of his generation; on the other hand, disgrace, impoverishment of his family by attainder, imprisonment, probably death. More calmly weighed it all and decided in favor of following his conscience, no matter what it might cost him. He did so entirely on his own strength of character and without any encouragement from others. On the contrary, there was every discouragement. Having made his decision he did not proceed to think that everyone else ought to have seen it the same way, but on the contrary he felt for the others, realized all the difficulties and calmly recognized that they might well be in good faith. When the decision of his judges that he must die was announced to him, he told them very calmly that he thanked them for their decision and said that he hoped to meet them in heaven. The passage is well worth reading in More's own quaint, simple, forcible language. It is probable that there has never been an occasion in the world's history when the obligation of following conscience has been more clearly seen and more devotedly acknowledged than when More went to death for what was called treason, because he refused to take the oath that the King of England was the head of the Church as well as of the State. Every human motive was urgent against his following of conscience in the matter. He stood almost entirely alone. Bishop Fisher of Rochester, it is true, was with him, but More stated in one of his letters that even had the bishop found some way to compound with his conscience and take the oath as so many other upright and conscientious men, as they thought themselves and others thought them, had done, he did not feel that he could take it. It was urged upon him that the very fact that he stood alone showed that there must be something wrong about his {238} method of reasoning and his mode of coming to a decision in the matter. All the bishops of England had consented to take the oath. Some of them, it is true, had solaced their conscience by putting in an additional phrase, "as far as the law of God allowed," or something of that kind, but most of them had taken it without any such modification, and indeed, as a rule, the Commissioners who had administered the oath refused to accept it unless taken literally and without additions. Perhaps the hardest trial for More's constancy of purpose came from his own family. When he was imprisoned they were allowed to see him frequently, with the deliberate idea that they would surely break down his scruples. His wife absolutely refused to see why anyone should set himself up in opposition to all the rest of the kingdom and think that his conscience should be followed no matter what happened, though so many other people's consciences were apparently at ease in the matter. As she said to him over and over again, did he think that he was better than the Bishops of England and the priests who had taken the oath, and did he set himself up as the only one who properly understood and could see the right in the question? Some of her expressions are typical of women in her position and show us how little human nature has changed in these four hundred years. More simply laughed at her quietly and gently and, after explaining his position a few times from varying standpoints, refused to argue with her, but occupied the time of her visits with talk about other matters as far as possible. It was not hard to divert her mind, as a rule, to any other subject, for she did not see very deeply into anything and, above all, had no hint at all of the serious condition of affairs in England. His daughter Margaret, of whom he thought so much, was a much more dangerous temptress than Mistress More, though of course she did not think of herself in any such role. She has told the story in a letter to the Lady Allington, More's step-daughter, for his second wife had been previously married. Lady Allington had written to Margaret a long letter, in which she related an interview that she had had with Audley, the Lord Chancellor, who had promised to help {239} More, though he declared that the remedy was in More's own hands, if he would put aside his foolish scruples. Audley had said to Lady Allington that "he marvelled that More was so obstinate in his own conceit in matter that no one scrupled save the blind Bishop [Fisher] and he." Always, when wife or daughter came to see him, they first prayed together, and I may say that the prayers were not short, for they included the Seven Penitential Psalms as well as other formal prayers. When Margaret approached the subject of Lady Allington's letter and how More's obstinacy was alienating his friends, smiling, he called her mistress Eve, the temptress, and asked if his daughter Allington had played the serpent with her "and with a letter set you at work to come tempt your father again and for the favor that you bear him labor to make him swear against his conscience and so send him to the devil." It was at this time that he emphasized very much the fact that everyone must make up his conscience for himself. We have the verbatim report of one of his conversations with his daughter that emphasized this position very strongly: "Verily, daughter, I never intend to pin my soul at another man's back, not even the best man that I know this day living. For I know not whither he may hap to carry it. There is no man living of whom, while he liveth, I may make myself sure. Some may do for favor, and some may do for fear, and so might they carry my soul a wrong way. And some might hap to frame himself a conscience, and think that if he did it for fear God would forgive it. And some may peradventure think that they will repent and be shriven thereof, and that so shall God remit it to them. And some may be, peradventure, of the mind that, if they say one thing and think the while contrary, God more regardeth the heart than the tongue; and that, therefore, their oath goeth upon what they think and not upon what they say. But in good faith, Margaret, I can use no such ways in so great a matter." In spite of this, Margaret still urged that he was not asked to swear against his conscience in order to keep others company, but instructed to reform his conscience by the {240} considerations that such and so many men consider the oath lawful, and even a duty since Parliament required it. Bridgett, in his "Life of Sir Thomas More," gives some details of the conclusion of the discussion that have a very human interest: "When he saw his daughter, after this discussion, sitting very sadly, not from any fear she had about his soul, but at the temporal consequences she foresaw, he smiled again and exclaimed: 'How now, daughter Margaret? What now, Mother Eve? Where is your mind now? Sit not musing with some serpent in your breast, upon some new persuasion to offer Father Adam the apple yet once again.' "'In good faith, father,' replied Margaret, 'I can no further go. For since the example of so many wise men cannot move you, I see not what to say more, unless I should look to persuade you with the reason that Master Harry Pattenson made.' (It will be remembered that Pattenson was More's fool, now in the service of the Lord Mayor.) 'For,' continued Margaret, 'he met one day one of our men, and when he had asked where you were, and heard that you were in the Tower still, he waxed angry with you and said: "Why, what aileth him that he will not swear? Wherefore should he stick to swear? I have sworn the oath myself." And so,' says Margaret, 'have I sworn.' At this More laughed and said 'that word was like Eve too, for she offered Adam no worse fruit than she had eaten herself.'" All the details of the scenes of his death have a deep interest of their own. He was ready to obey the King in everything, except where he felt his conscience was involved. When they came to ask him not to make a speech at his execution, because the King wished him not to, he thanked them very simply and said he was glad to have had the King's wishes conveyed to him and that he would surely obey them. He added that he had had in mind to say something, but that now he would refrain. When it was called to his attention that the clothes that he wore would fall as a perquisite to the executioner, and that therefore the worse he wore the less his loss, he asked if there was anyone who could do him a greater favor than the headsman was going to perform and {241} that he would prefer to wear his best. He had actually donned them when it was represented to him by the Governor that this was a bad precedent to set, and then he changed them for others. He was the same, meek gentleman in everything, though it might be expected that his insistence on his conscience against that of all the others would mark him as an obstinate man absolutely immovable in his own opinions. The humor that characterized all his life and that had so endeared him to his friends did not abandon him even to the very end. Twenty years before Erasmus had written about it, punning on the name, _Encomium Moriae_, using the Greek word Moria for folly. Years and high office, serious persecution, bitter imprisonment, lofty decisions involving death all had not obliterated it. When he was about to ascend the scaffold the steps of that structure proved to be rather shaky, and he asked that he should be given a hand going up, though as for coming down he said he felt that he might be left to shift for himself. On the scaffold he commended himself to the headsman, gave him a present and then, as he was placing his head on the block, his beard, which he had been unused to wearing before he went to prison, coming on it he pushed it out of the way, saying "This at least has committed no treason." All the rest was silent communion with his God. Thus died one of the greatest men of his race--great in intellect, in sympathy, in practical philosophy, great above all in character. _Totus teres atque rotundus_. Of his execution Lord Campbell, in his "Lives of the Lord Chancellors of England," said: "Considering the splendor of his talent, the greatness of his acquirements, and the innocence of his life, we must still regard his murder as the blackest crime that has ever been perpetrated in England under the forms of law." In closing his life of him in "The Lives of the Lord Chancellors," Lord Campbell, who had no sympathy at all with More's religious views and who is quite sure that the Reformation was a very wonderful benefit to England, declared: {242} "I am indeed reluctant to take leave of Sir Thomas More not only from his agreeable qualities and extraordinary merits, but from my abhorrence of the mean, sordid, unprincipled chancellors who succeeded him and made the latter half of the reign of Henry VIII the most disgraceful period in our annals." [Illustration: MATTEO CIVITALE, FAITH (BARGELLO)] {243} CHAPTER V THE REFORMERS During the last quarter of Columbus' Century, Europe was very seriously disturbed and the minds of men very much occupied with the movement which has come to be called in English-speaking countries at least the "reformation," though many historians now prefer to speak of it as the religious revolt in Germany during the sixteenth century. There is no doubt that this movement was due to the unrest--political, social and religious--which came over men at this time. The conquests in scholarship through the study of the Greek and Latin classics had awakened men's minds. The great achievements in art and architecture had still further aroused them to a sense of their own power. The introduction of Greek ideas into the modern world had brought about great developments in science. Columbus, largely influenced by classical studies, had initiated a movement that revolutionized men's thinking with regard to the earth on which they live. Copernicus, taught by men who were making commentaries on Ptolemy, saw farther than his masters and gave the world a new universe at this time. Physical science was developing and biological science, especially in all that relates to anatomy and physiology, was receiving a marvellous impetus. No wonder men felt ready for change. Above all, a complete change in the basis of education influenced men deeply. For centuries education had occupied itself with science, and particularly the ethical sciences. Philosophy in its various aspects constituted the curriculum of the old universities. Metaphysics, logic, rhetoric, grammar, the ethical philosophies or, as we would say, sciences of the world, of thought, of speech, and of political and moral science, though of course also mathematics, music and astronomy, had been the subjects of special attention. Now men {244} were trained by means of the classics, the New Learning, as it was called. Quite naturally they came to know so much more about these than their fathers had ever had the opportunity to learn and, above all, they had come to think these so much more important than anything that had been taught their fathers, that the rising generation were quite sure that they knew ever so much more than preceding generations had known. A corresponding state of mind developed in our own time when, as a consequence of the gradual replacement of the classics in university curricula by science, another generation arose educated very differently from its forefathers. What has come to be called modernism, which may be best defined as the feeling that we in the modern time know so much more than our forefathers did that we can scarcely be expected to accept complacently the philosophy and religion that satisfied them, is really an intellectual movement very similar to that which can be noted nearly everywhere during Columbus' Century. The picture of it as drawn by Janssen, in his "History of the German People" (Vol. III, p. 17), can scarcely fail to attract attention, because of its anticipation of what are usually considered to be quite modern ideas. There was the same lack of respect for the older time, the same feeling that until their precious time men really did not know enough to be able to take any serious thought about the Church and Christianity, and the same tendency to make fun of practices of the older time simply because of failure to understand the spirit behind them. The passage is all the more interesting when it is recalled that nearly every one of the men who thus in his younger years was so sure of the failure of the Church in its mission came back in later life and recognized that without Christian unity, and even the dogmatism which earlier he had so contemned, there could be no real church. Janssen said: "Erasmus did, however, seriously propose a revision of the doctrines laid down by the early Church. He was inclined to look upon the transactions, the controversies, and the doctrinal decisions of the christological period as the first step in the continuous deterioration of the Church. The Church {245} had since then, he considered, departed from her 'ancient evangelical simplicity'; theology had become subservient to a casuistical philosophy, which in its turn had degenerated into the scholastic methods by which the actual ruin of Christian doctrine and Christian life had been brought about. During the whole of his literary career he waged war against this barren scholasticism with an acrimony that had no parallel, and its representatives were a butt for his ridicule and contempt. Ever since the domination of this scholasticism had set in, the whole Western world, he declared, had been subject to a spirit of Judaism and Pharisaism which had crushed the true life of Christianity and theology and perverted it to mere monastic sanctity and empty ceremonialism. "The contempt for the Middle Ages as for a period of darkness and spiritual bondage, of sophistry in learning, and mere _outwardness_ in life and conduct, originated with Erasmus and his school, and was transmitted by them to the later so-called reformers. Thanks to the high esteem in which Erasmus was held for his culture and scholarship, his ironical and calumnious writings against the mediaeval culture, and against the influence of the Church and the traditions of Christian schools, passed for a long time unchallenged." No wonder that a great many people felt that the religion and philosophy of life that had been quite good enough for their forefathers was not good enough for them, because they thought that they were so far above their forbears in all intellectual attainments. As a consequence, a great religious revolution that has disturbed Western Christianity ever since took place. Writers have viewed it from many and varying standpoints and have agreed to differ about its significance. The place accorded this revolutionary movement in history depends entirely on the writer about it. For some historians it was a great movement in human freedom and the origin of practically all the blessings of modern civilization. For others it was mainly a political reaction brought about by ambitious monarchs tempted by the idea of ruling Church as well as State and, above all, of enriching themselves by the confiscation of Church property. These two contradictory views are gradually being brought into some harmony. It has taken {246} all the power of modern scientific and critical history, with the consultation of original and contemporary documents and the critical appreciation of these, to bring us a little nearer the truth. We are not yet in a position to see this clearly. But we are much nearer than ever before, and the future is most promising. In the meantime, the only way that the reform movement can be treated concretely and objectively in its place in Columbus' Century is to consider it, as we have every other important phase of the period's activity, through the lives of the men who are the acknowledged leaders and prime movers in it. There are three who, though utterly out of sympathy with each other, are more responsible for the division of Western Christianity than any others. These are Luther in Germany, Calvin in France and Switzerland, and through Knox in Scotland, and finally Henry VIII in England. Undoubtedly all three of these men were of great force of character, possessed of a personality that enabled them to dominate others. Luther and Calvin were besides the masters of a vigorous style in the vernacular when that mode of expression was rare enough to make them a power over the masses of the people in their respective countries. Scholars had always used Latin for learned discussions of religious subjects up to this time, but now these were brought into the forum of popular debate through the use of the vernacular. Above all, every man was told that all he needed to do was read the Scriptures, interpret them for himself and make out his own religion without the necessity for submitting to any authority. Hallam declares that "it cannot be denied that the reform was brought about by stimulating the most ignorant to reject the authority of their Church," though he adds in comment that "it instantly withdrew this liberty of judgment and devoted all who presumed to swerve from the line drawn by law to virulent obloquy and sometimes to bonds and death." Lord Acton once declared that the most difficult problem in historical writing would be to have a confirmed Catholic and a confirmed Protestant agree in the writing of the lives of the reformers, and especially of Luther. Very many lives of the three men we have mentioned have been written, and Lord {247} Acton's suggestion might well be repeated with regard to nearly all of them. In recent years, however, owing to the publication of contemporary documents consequent upon the opening of archives and the scientific development of history, it has been possible to get actual facts rather than opinions with regard to them and we are now probably in a better position to judge them and the movement with which their names and activities are so intimately connected than any generation since their time. As the editors of the "Cambridge Modern History" declared in their preface, "the long conspiracy against the revelation of truth has gradually given way." "In view of changes and of gains such as these (the printing of archives), it has become impossible for the historical writer of the present age to trust without reserve even to the most respected secondary authorities. While we cannot obtain ultimate history in this generation, conventional history can be discarded and the point can be shown that has been reached on the road from one to the other." These expressions are more true with regard to the history of the Reformation and the reformers than any other period and men. All the generalized explanations of Luther's movement that used to be accepted as accounting for the Reformation and its progress have now been definitely rejected by the almost universal consensus of historians. The reaction began at least a generation ago. Hallam, in his "Introduction to the History of Literature," said: "Whatever be the bias of our minds as to the truth of Luther's doctrines, we should be careful, in considering the Reformation as a part of the history of mankind, not to be misled by the superficial and ungrounded representations which we sometimes find in modern writers. Such as this, that Luther, struck by the absurdity of the prevailing superstitions, was desirous of introducing a more rational system of religion; or that he contended for freedom of inquiry, and the boundless privileges of individual judgment; or what others have pleased to suggest, that his zeal for learning and ancient philosophy led him to attack the ignorance of the monks and the crafty policy of the Church, which withstood all liberal {248} studies. These notions are merely fallacious refinements, as every man of plain understanding, who is acquainted with the early reformers, or has considered their history, must acknowledge." Recent historical investigation emphasizes more and more that the movement was not religious in any sense, except superficially, and that the forces that gathered behind Luther were political. There was the opportunity for reigning princes to become both the head of the Church and the State in their dominions and, above all, to get possession of the property of the Church and share it with the nobility or creatures of their own, thus strengthening their hold upon the government and securing extension of power. We know in our day the all-persuasive power of political graft and how it saps honesty and corrupts character. Everywhere the track of it can be followed readily in the Reformation period. Luther was not only the first but the most important of these reformers. There has been more controversy over the true import of his work than that of any of the others. He was undoubtedly the leader through whom the religious revolution of this period was brought about. He had had predecessors, but the work of none of them had anything like the significance of his. Within the past ten years his history has been revolutionized. Denifle, the great historian of the mediaeval universities, by publishing all the documents that show the worse side of Luther's character created a great commotion in Germany. Grisar's later life of the reformer is, in accordance with the traditions of his order, much more irenic, yet makes it very clear how many of the very generally accepted favorable impressions with regard to Luther are contradicted by the many lately unearthed materials with regard to his life now available. Only those who have read these books can have any pretence to know the realities of the history of the religious revolt in Germany, though even these probably must not be considered as representing ultimate truth. With regard to Luther and the other reformers, as well as the significance of the whole movement, I have preferred to quote only Protestant authorities in order to avoid the almost inevitable bias of my own educational training and {249} environment. Even thus I can only hope to give an approximately impartial discussion of these men whose work as I see it did more to hurt human development in every line of thought than anything else in modern history. The story of Luther's early life, of the unhappiness of his home, of the sudden death of his friend which made him turn from a career at the bar to enter the monastery, all tend to show him by heredity and personal character as a man of strong impulses ruled by them. There is no doubt at all that during the early years of his career as a monk Luther was happy and that the stories of his unhappiness are founded on inconsiderate expressions of his own in later life, which are contradicted by documents written in his earlier years. The doctrine of indulgences, against which he inveighed so vigorously, is as eminently open to abuse as religion itself--and had undoubtedly been abused in his time, but the teaching of the Church on the subject remains exactly what it was in Luther's day and before it, yet has been accepted by the intelligent members of the Church ever since. Converts like Newman or Manning, not to mention many others of our time, find no difficulty at all in accepting it, once they understand it. The Protestant arguments founded on it are due entirely to misunderstanding of the true significance of the Church's position in the matter. Only those who _will_ not cannot understand it. Luther's declaration that he found the doctrine of indulgences too hard to comprehend is shown to be one of those interesting ideas as to his earlier career that developed in his mind in all sincerity in later life, but which are contradicted by his own writings, for there is from him an admirable sermon on the subject of indulgences which contains an excellent exposition of the Church's teaching. Luther gradually developed into one of the men so common in the world's history who are quite sure that the world is wrong in nearly everything and that they are born to set it right. They believe thoroughly in themselves, they have a great fund of energy to draw on, they usually have strong powers of expression and there are a large number of people waiting to be led by them and not a few quite willing to take {250} advantage for their own purposes of the movement that the restless create. It is well understood now that the great majority of men do not think for themselves, but stand ready to accept other people's thoughts, and often are more willing to carry out such thoughts to their logical conclusions, or at least to try to fit them to practical life, than are the original thinkers. The fate of a generation depends on whom it chooses as its leaders. Unfortunately, the choice is not often quite voluntary, but is forced on men by conditions, or they are imposed upon by the genius appeal of the leader, and sometimes even more by those who gather round him at the beginning of a movement and help to give it momentum. Luther's relations with Zwingli, the Swiss reformer, show more clearly than anything else the character of the reformer, his assurance of his divine mission and his absolute confidence that he has a Heaven-directed mission. Zwingli would not agree with Luther's interpretation of the doctrine of the Last Supper. They proceeded to anathematize each other, and when induced by friends they met at a conference, each claimed the victory in the argument. The Zwinglians seem, indeed, to have recognized the force of Luther's contentions, but dared not yield entirely, and when they returned to their homes Zwingli spoke very contemptuously of his antagonist's arguments and loudly claimed that he had completely vanquished him. This drew from Luther some bitter denunciations, and among other things Luther wrote to Jacob Probst of Bremen as follows: "In boasting that I was vanquished at Marburg the sacramentarians act as is their wont. For they are not only liars, but falsehood, deceit, and hypocrisy itself, as Carlstadt and Zwingli show both in deeds and words. They revoked at Marburg, as you can see from the articles drawn up there, the things hitherto taught in their pestilential books concerning baptism, the use of the sacraments, and the preaching of the word. We revoked nothing. But when they were conquered also in the matter of the Lord's Supper they were unwilling to renounce their position even though they could see it was untenable, for they feared their people, to whom they could not have returned if they had recanted." {251} He never forgave Zwingli, and when some time later the Swiss reformer, acting as a chaplain to the Swiss Protestant Army in a battle with the Swiss Catholic cantons, was killed, Luther pronounced this event a special dispensation of Providence. He was fully persuaded that the special spirit of prophecy had come down over him and that he had been inspired to denounce Zwingli and to declare that his doom was not far off. After the news of Zwingli's sad, untimely end, he wrote to his friend Link: "We see the judgment of God a second time--first in the case of Münzer, and now of Zwingli. I was a prophet when I said, God will not long endure these mad and furious blasphemies with which they overflow, laughing at our God-made bread, and calling us carnivora, savages, drinkers of blood, and other horrible names." This exaggeration of his own importance and conviction of his intimate relations with the Deity became more and more manifest as time goes on. The spectacle is not at all unfamiliar, though it is usually pathological, and the surprise always is how many followers such characters are able to gather around them at any time in the history of the race. It is this aspect of Luther's life and the psychic development of his career that have attracted the special attention of historians in recent years and received ample illustration from hitherto unused original documents. Some of the recent studies of Luther, written by those who are making out just as good a case as possible with all the contemporary information that now is available, have some very illuminating passages as to the character of the reformer, who has been traditionally set up as a great religious leader. For instance, the explanation of how Luther came to permit the Landgrave Philip of Hesse to take a second wife is very disturbing to those who think of him as a reformer of religion. McGiffert, in his "Martin Luther, the Man and His Work" (New York, 1912), has much to say with regard to the permit undoubtedly granted not only by Luther, but also by Melanchthon for this bigamy, and then the proposed denial of the marriage, which is, if possible, more disturbing to the modern world than the permit itself. McGiffert said (p. 364): {252} "The proposed denial of the marriage, which seems to throw so sinister a light upon the whole affair, Luther justified somewhat sophistically by an appeal to the traditional maxim of the inviolability of the confessional, requiring the priest, if necessary, to tell an untruth rather than divulge its secrets. He justified it also by the more fundamental principle that the supreme ethical motive is regard for our neighbor's good, and it is better to lie than to do him harm. To this principle, taught not by a few ethical teachers of our own as well as other ages, he gave frequent expression." McGiffert, with all his obvious effort to defend Luther, frankly finds this whole incident too much. He said (p. 366): "Regarded from any point of view, the landgrave's bigamy was a disgraceful affair, and Luther's consent the gravest blunder [!] of his career. He acted conscientiously [!], but with a lamentable want of moral discernment and a singular lack of penetration and foresight. To approve a relationship so derogatory to the women involved, and so subversive to one of the most sacred safeguards of society, showed too little fineness of moral feeling and sureness of moral conviction; while to be so easily duped by the dissolute prince was no more creditable to his perspicacity than thinking such an affair could be kept secret to his sagacity." The same biographer has summed up the closing years of Luther's life, from which we have so many records in the shape of letters and documents of various kinds. As McGiffert says: "There is little sign of flagging powers in his later writings. The same Luther still speaks in them with all the racy humor, biting satire and coarse vituperation of his best days." He continues (p. 373): "Despite the multiplicity of his occupations, his closing years were far from happy. As time passed, he became more censorious, impatient and bitter. He seems to have been troubled less frequently than in earlier life with doubts as to his own spiritual condition and divine mission, but he grew correspondingly despondent over the results of his labors and the unworthiness of his followers. Instead of finding the world transformed into a paradise by his gospel, he saw things continuing much as before, and his heart grew sick with {253} disappointment. The first flush of enthusiasm passed, and the joy of battle gone, he had time to observe the results of his work, and they were by no means to his liking. "Conditions even in Wittenberg itself were little to his liking. In this centre of gospel light he felt there should be a devotion and purity seen nowhere else. Instead, as the town grew in size and importance, and manners lost somewhat of their earlier simplicity, it seemed to his exaggerated sensibilities that everything was going rapidly to the bad." Calvin, like Luther, was another of these vigorous active spirits so common in this time of the Renaissance who felt that he had a special call from on High to teach the world doctrines very different from those received before. Like Luther, he too used his native tongue in speech and writing with a forcefulness and originality that makes him one of the founders of the prose of his language. From his earliest youth of a very serious disposition, caring nothing for the games and sports in which his fellow-scholars indulged, shunning society and its pleasures, and prone to censure anything that was not deeply serious and to condemn everything that smacked of frivolity, he found abundant opportunity for reform. Severe to himself in the highest degree, relaxation seemed almost sinful. He insisted that others should follow the same regime and imputed even the ordinary amusements of life to sin. He was lacking entirely in that disposition for healthy, happy and hearty amusement which is a sign of good health of mind and body and the best possible proof of absolute sanity. The old Church had encouraged the recreations and amusements of the people. Calvin made it a cardinal principle of religion that there were to be none of them. He is probably no more to be held responsible for this, since it was due to the lack of something in him, than is the color-blind person for failure to perceive colors. Poor Calvin, with no faculty for relaxation, insisted that others should not indulge theirs, and made it the basis of his religion that any such indulgence was sinful. From this to the doctrine of predestination to eternal punishment was not difficult. A God who meant life to be passed without recreation would surely not scruple to condemn most of His creatures {254} quite without their own fault to an eternity of punishment. Why is it when men make their gods they make them worse than themselves? Even the wise Greeks did not escape this pitfall. There are always a number of people who are ready to follow anyone who announces any doctrine, no matter how unreasonable it may seem to be, if only he insists emphatically on his belief and if he evidently is a sincere believer in it himself. Calvin was one of the dominant spirits who readily gain control over others, and his severity to himself won many of the sombre people around him to a devotion to his cause that partook of worship. They even permitted themselves to be ruled by his rigid hand, and there probably never has been a place where less allowance was made for human nature than at Geneva during the days when Calvin ruled there with a rod of iron and when his particular mode of the reformation of religion was so completely accepted. To the dour Scots this austere doctrine appealed particularly, and Calvin's disciple, Knox, secured almost as much authority in Edinburgh as did his master down at Geneva. Like Luther, Calvin before the end of his life was profoundly disillusioned with regard to the Reformation and its effect upon mankind. The unfortunate divisions of the Protestants among themselves, their readiness to persecute each other, their refusal to permit anything like religious toleration, above all their rejection, except for very limited numbers, of his own doctrines, made him foresee nothing but evil for the future. He knew that he had stirred mankind deeply in the West of Europe, but he could not foretell anything but unfortunate results from the conditions that he saw around him. He once said: "The future appals me. I dare not think of it. Unless the Lord descends from heaven, barbarism will engulf us." [Illustration: HOLBEIN, HENRY VIII (LONDON)] The blot on Calvin's name through the execution of Servetus has been extenuated by his adherents, but the certainty of his complete hostility to the unfortunate physiologist, who insisted in dabbling in theology at a dangerous time, is now settled. Long before Servetus' execution at Geneva, Calvin actually secured through his well-developed system of {255} espionage and delation, extending even into Catholic countries, the persecution of Servetus by the Catholic ecclesiastical authorities in France. The details of this have now been traced very clearly. When Servetus, thinking to find protection where freedom of interpretation of Scriptures was preached, came to Geneva his fate was sealed. Calvin himself made it a personal matter to secure his conviction and bring about his execution. A number of the reformers are on record agreeing that Calvin's action in this case was eminently right, and even the gentle Melanchthon would not condemn it. Nothing makes so perfectly clear as this that the claim made for the Reformation of fostering or encouraging liberty of thought is founded entirely on a misconception of what the reformers were trying to do. The reformers wanted liberty of religious thinking for themselves, but they were not ready to grant it to others. After all, we in America do not need to appeal to foreign history in order to understand that very well, for the Puritan disciples of Calvin, driven out of England by Anglican religious persecution and intolerance, made a home for themselves in New England, where they practised the bitterest intolerance and absolutely refused to allow anyone to live in their communities unless he or she, as Ann Hutchinson learned to her cost, conformed unquestioningly to their religious tenets and practices. The history of Henry VIII has less in it to make historians disagree. His uxoriousness represents the explanation of the revolutionary changes that took place in the government and the religion of England. He fell in love with a younger, handsomer woman than the elderly wife, who for more than twenty years had been, as he confessed himself, his faithful, loving spouse, and then his first marriage got on his conscience. The succeeding marriages are the best commentary on this explanation. His father, Henry VII, had left him a full treasury, and the son had spent liberally during the early years of his reign, and finally the famous Field of the Cloth of Gold had almost exhausted the crown's resources. Many a nobleman had literally carried his estates on his back and returned from France so heavily mortgaged that the power of the nobles was broken. This made most of them thoroughly {256} dependent on the King. When the trouble with the Church came then, the King himself and most of the nobles were rather glad of the opportunity to obtain possession of the Church properties, the estates of the great monasteries, and the many foundations for charitable and social purposes that existed in connection with Church societies. All of these might well be brought under the law of the confiscation so as to fatten the Royal treasury, or at least fall to an expectant sycophantic nobility. The question that many have been unable to answer satisfactorily for themselves is how could the religion of a whole people be taken from them under such sordid circumstances if they really held it. It has been supposed that the change was made possible only by the fact that for centuries there had been a growing feeling in England of opposition to a foreign spiritual ruler, the Pope, and that this culminated in Henry VIII's time and enabled him to assume the headship of the English Church. James Gairdner has, however, dispelled this idea completely, though himself an Anglican, and like Augustus Jessop continuing in his adherence to the English Church. He shows in his book on Lollardism that there was no widespread growing feeling of opposition to Rome, and that while of course occasionally, when there were difficulties between the crown and the Pope, mutterings of spiritual insubordination were heard, which took the form expressed by Shakespeare through the mouth of King John in his play, these were but temporary and individual and not at all a growing sentiment of wide diffusion. England up to Henry's time had been one of the most faithful countries of Europe in the support of the Papacy, and continued to be so until the change actually came. As a matter of fact, the people of England were deprived of their religion by fraud at first, and then by violence. They did not change it voluntarily. They were deeply attached to their church and clergy. Augustus Jessop, in his book "Before the Great Pillage," has told the story of the clergy before the reformation. He said: "Take them all in all I cannot resist the impression which has become deeper and deeper upon me the more I have read {257} and pondered, that the parochial clergy in England during the centuries between the Conquest and the Reformation numbered amongst them at all times some of the best men of their generation." He reechoes Chaucer's picture of the village parson who "did as well as taught." Jessop adds: "Not once, nor twice in our history these parish priests are to be found siding with the people against those in power and chosen by the people to be their spokesmen when their grievances were becoming unbearable." As to the pretended corruption of the monasteries, that has been disproved by all the careful investigation of recent years, until it has become perfectly clear that the abuses were no greater than may be expected at any time, since men are only human. The evidence for corruption was very slight, and what there is was manifestly gathered in such a way as to enable the government authorities to justify their settled purpose to confiscate the property. It was the need of money that was important. Nearly a century ago Cobbett, in his "History of the English Reformation," had found it almost impossible to select words quite strong enough to express his feeling with regard to the people who brought about the English reformation. His expressions were considered at that time as grossly exaggerated and the result of his tendency to use strong language. In our time they still remain radical in mode, but most writers now agree as to the essential truth of the facts on which they are based. When it is recalled that millions of people have for centuries thought of the Reformation as one of the greatest blessings to mankind and the source of nearly every good that we have in the modern time, it is indeed startling to read Cobbett's words, yet Cobbett had made a special study of his subject, he was a great practical-minded investigator, who knew his historical sources well, who had gone directly to them and who had been shocked by the difference between ordinary impressions as fostered for religious and political purposes by historians and the realities that he found. No wonder that he burst forth in his strong way: "The Reformation, as it is called, was (in England) engendered in beastly lust, brought forth in hypocrisy and {258} perfidy, and cherished and fed by plunder, devastation and rivers of innocent English and Irish blood." Macaulay described the character of those who were most responsible for the change of religion, the so-called reformation in England, in words that are passing strange, considering that he himself would never think of submitting to "the yoke of Rome" and seems even to have felt that a great good had been accomplished, though by such vile means. He says, in his "Essay on Hallam's Constitutional History," that the reformers were: "A king whose character may be described best by saying that he was despotism itself personified; unprincipled ministers; a rapacious aristocracy; a servile parliament. Such were the instruments by which England was delivered from the yoke of Rome. The work which had been begun by Henry, the murderer of his wives, was continued by Somerset, the murderer of his brother, and completed by Elizabeth, the murderer of her guest." Some of the most unworthy motives and adjuvants were mixed up in the reform movement. Indeed, it is possible to collect from non-Catholic sources more bitter excoriations of the men who made the Reformation possible than with regard to almost any group of men who accomplished any other purpose in history. Frederic Harrison, for instance, said: "It is not to be denied that the origin of the (English) Establishment is mixed up with plunder, jobbery and intrigue, that stands out even in the tortuous annals of the sixteenth century; that the annals run black with red, along some of the blackest and reddest pages of royal tyranny and government corruption." Andrew Lang quotes Professor F. York Powell in a description of how the reformation in Scotland was brought about in language that is, if possible, stronger than this of Frederic Harrison: "The whole story of Scottish Reformation, hatched in purchased treason and outrageous intolerance, carried on in open rebellion and ruthless persecution, justified only in its indirect results, is perhaps as sordid and disgusting a story as the annals of any European country can show." Almost needless to say, though the Reformation was a {259} religious movement and therefore might be expected to be intimately associated with personal holiness on the part of its leaders, probably no one would think for a moment of suggesting the title of saint for any of those whose names are most prominent in the movement. To John Wesley, who came two centuries and a half later, the name saint might readily be attributed. He was one of those kindly characters, thoughtful for others, thoughtless of himself, thoughtful especially of the poor, whose personal winningness meant much for his cause. The reformers of the sixteenth century, however, were egoistic leaders of men, with the self-consciousness of a great purpose and determination to put that through regardless of the suffering of others involved in it. There was little that was sympathetic about them, though all of them had certain compelling qualities of mind but not of heart which won men to them. Saintliness of character, in the ordinary acceptation of the word, would scarcely be thought of even distantly in connection with them. All of them were fighters, and if others suffered in the conflict they cared little, for they felt that they were in the right and must do the work of the Lord cost what it might. It is no wonder that in our own time Professor Briggs of the Union Theological Seminary, New York, whose own religious experience must have been so illuminating for him, reviewing the Reformation period, has suggested that there were other and more saintly reformers alive at this time whose influence unfortunately was not strong enough to turn the tide of revolution once it had begun. In an article in the _Independent_ (New York) entitled "How May We Become More Truly Catholic," Professor Briggs said: "There were other and in some respects greater reformers in the sixteenth century than the more popular heroes Luther, Zwingli and Calvin. Sir Thomas More, the greatest jurist of his time, Lord Chancellor of England, a chief leader of reform before Cranmer, resigned his exalted position and went to the block rather than recognize the supremacy of the King in ecclesiastical affairs; a true knight, a martyr to the separation of civil and ecclesiastical jurisdiction. Erasmus, {260} the greatest scholar of his age, regarded by many as the real father of the Reformation, the teacher of the Swiss reformers, was unwilling to submerge learning and morals in an ocean of human blood. He urged reformation, not revolution. He has been crucified for centuries in popular Protestant opinion as a political time-server, but undoubtedly he was the most comprehensive reformer of them all. "John von Staupitz, doctor of theology, and Vicar-General of the German Augustinians, the teacher of Luther and his counsellor in the early stages of his reform, a man without a stain and above reproach, a Saint in the common estimation of Protestant and Catholic alike, the best exponent of the piety of his age, was an Apostle of Holy Love and good works, which he would not sacrifice in the interests of the Protestant dogma of justification by faith only. These three immortals who did not separate themselves from the Roman Catholic Church, who remained in the Church to patiently carry on the work of reform therein--these three were the irenic spirits, the heroic representatives of all that was truly Catholic, the beacons of the greater reformation that was impending." [Illustration: FILIPPINO LIPPI, MADONNA WITH FOUR SAINTS] This position taken by Professor Briggs has come to be more and more recognized as the true one from the historical standpoint in recent years. What has been called the Reformation had in it so many unfortunate political elements that its force for good was frittered away by the abuses inevitably connected with political associations. The counter-reformation, which represented the reaction from the religious revolt of the early sixteenth century, carried with it the truer spirit of Christianity and gradually gathered round it those forces for culture, social uplift and political liberty which mean most for the benefit of mankind and which thrived so well under the fostering care of Christianity. It is only with the breaking up of the ideas and institutions fostered by the reformers that modern progress along these lines has come. Protestantism hurt art, sadly hampered education, ruined architecture, shackled philosophy, discouraged scholarship and, above all, destroyed educational and humanitarian foundations for mere personal profit, and took away the incentive for true charity, its doctrine of salvation by faith only obliterating {261} the divine significance of good works. In the Appendix, some of these points are emphasized by quotations from well-known authorities, who have summed up various phases of Reformation influence. These writers, though themselves in sympathy with the reform movement in its ideals, see its evil effects and lament them. {262} CHAPTER VI GREAT EXPLORERS AND EMPIRE BUILDERS Columbus was not the first great successful explorer of this century that we have called by his name. Many daring navigators, particularly during the half century preceding the discovery of America, had braved the perils of the ocean, so literally trackless for them, in order to add to man's knowledge. A great stimulus to the spirit of navigation and exploration came with the rediscovery of the Cape Verde Islands by the Portuguese in 1447. Men dared after this to sail with the definite purpose of finding hitherto unknown land, and their bravery was rewarded in 1460 by the discovery of Sierra Leone. Prince Henry of Portugal then realized that the future of his country, hemmed in as it was in Europe, would largely depend upon the success of her navigators. He gathered together and systematized all the knowledge obtainable in nautical matters, and well deserves the name of Henry the Navigator. It was under his inspiration that the coast of Africa and the Senegal and the Gambia were explored. Probably no one more than he helped to remove the imagined terrors of the deep and gave men courage to venture ever farther and farther in exploration. His great purpose was the spread of Christianity, and to this he brought every incentive from patriotism and every possible help that could be obtained from science in any way. His name gloriously opened Columbus' Century. It is possible that the old tradition that Henry established a college of navigation and even, as some have declared, an astronomical observatory at Sagres, near Cape St. Vincent, with the special purpose of making observations on the declination of the sun so as to secure more accurate nautical tables, may be a pious exaggeration of ardent admirers. Undoubtedly, however, he did a great deal for the scientific {263} development of navigation and established a tradition that was well followed in Portugal. John II of Portugal appointed a commission on navigation consisting of Roderick and Joseph, his physicians, and Martin of Bohemia. They invented the astrolabe, though the cross staff continued to be used for some time by navigators and was one of the few instruments possessed by Columbus and Vasco da Gama. Martin Cortez described the astrolabe and shows how much more convenient it is than the cross staff for taking altitudes. During the latter part of Columbus' Century, the Portuguese made a series of magnificent discoveries. In 1486 King John II appointed Bartholomew Dias as the head of an expedition whose purpose was to sail around the southern end of Africa. Henry the Navigator had been attracted by the story of Prester John, the legendary Christian king of Abyssinia, who was said to rule over a large part of Africa. The Christian monarchs of the West hoped to get in touch with him. Recent reports had arrived apparently confirmatory of the tradition, and the Portuguese under King John wanted to enter into friendly relations with them. Dias sailed in 1487, reached the mouth of the Congo, which had been discovered the year before, followed the African coast, entered Walfisch Bay and erected a column near the present Angra Pequeña. He was driven by a storm then far to the south, but after the storm sailed easterly and, turning northward, he landed in Mossel Bay. He followed the coast as far as Algoa Bay and the Great Fish River. On his return he discovered the cape and gave it the name of _Cabo Tormentoso_ (Stormy, Dangerous Cape), but on his arrival home King John proposed the name it still bears--the Cape of Good Hope--with the desire apparently of dissipating, if not its dangers, at least the dread of them that so filled men's minds. After this it was a comparatively easy matter to reach India, at least Dias had shown the way, and the problem which had occupied Prince Henry of joining the East and the West, so that the peoples might learn to exchange their riches, the costly materials of the East and the religious treasures of the West, was solved. The great Portuguese Empire in India is an example of {264} empire building under the most difficult circumstances, which shows the energy and the enterprise, the courage and the successful achievement of the men of this period. India was a very long distance from Portugal in those days. To think of sending out a colony, the men for which had to make the long voyage around the Cape of Good Hope with all its dangers, was a daring thought reaching almost to hardihood. In the course of a single generation, however, that empire became a wonderful source of added power and income to the mother country. Bartholomew Dias more than any other accomplished this for Portugal, but there were a large number of men of bravery and high administrative ability who helped in the work. Portugal had the advantage at this time of producing a supremely great poet, Camöens, who could celebrate the work of his fellow-countrymen and immortalize the story of their achievement. Nearly always the poet comes when a work worthy of his genius has been accomplished. India proved to be a school of courage and enterprise for the Portuguese of that generation, which lifted a little country (the smallest of Europe) to almost the highest plane of influence and greatness. While Columbus' great discovery has overshadowed the work of all the other explorers and navigators in the Western Ocean at this time, it must not be forgotten that during this century a large number of hardy, heroic men, with a determination not due to ignorance or to mere foolhardiness, but with purposes as sincere and courage as high as our Arctic explorers, accomplished wonderful results in the enlargement of human knowledge of the Western Continent and its inhabitants and varied products. Even before Columbus himself had reached the American continent, Amerigo Vespucci as well as the two Cabots had already touched it. Vespucci's biographers insist that his first voyage to America was made in 1497 and that he coasted along the northern shore of South America and into the Gulf of Mexico, returning to Spain November 15, 1498. It was in this latter year that Columbus first touched the mainland. In 1499 Vespucci went out with a second fleet and, keeping his former course, he succeeded in reaching the mouth of the Orinoco River, and returned {265} to Cadiz in 1500. He made a third voyage in 1501 and reached as far south as 52° of latitude, having coasted the South American shore from 5° south latitude to within 4° of Cape Horn. The fourth voyage was undertaken the next year, and on this Vespucci explored portions of the coast of Brazil. While it is usually said, and it must be confessed with some justification, that Columbus was deprived of what may be considered his proper privilege as first discoverer in not having the continent of America named after him, there is no doubt that Vespucci deserved highly of mankind for his daring explorations and his expert seamanship and hardy navigation. The scientific world owes him still more for the publication of his maps and detailed description of the American coast. These served to spread widely definite knowledge with regard to the new continent. Above all others, with the single exception of Columbus, even if that exception must be made, he deserved to have the Continent named after him. [Footnote 23] [Footnote 23: The news of Amerigo Vespucci's discovery seems to have spread rapidly throughout Europe and his writings became familiar within a few years to a much greater number of people than we would think possible in the limited means of communication at the time. In discussing "The Four Elements," the Morality Play, in the chapter on English Literature lines are quoted to show that the play was written within twenty years of the discovery of America. Ordinarily it would be assumed that this would mean Columbus' discovery in 1492, but the whole passage shows that the reference was to Amerigo's, in Latin Americus', discovery of the Continent. The complete passage is: "Till now, within this twenty years. Westward he found new lands. That we never heard tell of before this By writing nor other means. But this new lands found lately Been called America, because only Americus did first them find."] While we are not likely to think of the Italians as a seafaring people, Columbus himself is an Italian, so was Amerigo Vespucci, but still more remarkable the other greatest navigators of the first half of Columbus' Century, the Cabots, were also of Italian origin. John and Sebastian Cabot were Venetians, settled at Bristol, and they reached the continent of {266} North America in 1498 and sailed for a considerable distance along it. It was on their discoveries that England based its claims to the North American portion of the hemisphere. Their merits as bold and fearless, yet intelligent, navigators have rightly been given the highest recognition. Owing to their connection with North America, we have known much more about them than about many of the others who ventured to make long, perilous voyages of discovery about this time. The great Portuguese discoverers after Bartholomew Dias are Vasco da Gama (c. 1460-1524) and Magellan (1470-1521), almost exactly his contemporary. Vasco da Gama, who had proved his intrepidity as a mariner often before, was entrusted with the fleet of four vessels sent out by the Portuguese in July, 1497, in order to determine whether the story of Bartholomew Dias, that it was possible to sail around the continent of Africa and thus reach India, was true or not. He touched at St. Helena Bay, rounded the Cape of Good Hope and on the 20th of May, 1498, arrived at Calcutta on the Malabar coast. On his return he was magnificently received by the King, and three years later he was sent out with a larger expedition which took possession of India and created the Portuguese Indian Empire. At this time, in spite of rich rewards, he was evidently distrusted by the King, who apparently feared his ambition, and for twenty years he lived in retirement. After that he was called from his seclusion and created Viceroy of India. Unfortunately, his career as Viceroy lasted but a few months, yet even in that short time he had succeeded in correcting many abuses and reestablishing firmly Portuguese authority in India. Da Gama had the good fortune to be celebrated in an immortal epic by Camöens, and it is the tribute of the great poet almost more than his own achievement that has given him high distinction among the many great navigators of his time. One of the greatest of the explorers of this time was undoubtedly Da Gama's compatriot and contemporary, Ferdinand Magellan. He had been in the service of the king of Portugal, but as his services were unappreciated he went over to the king of Spain and succeeded in persuading the Spanish Government that the Spice Islands could be reached by {267} sailing to the West. The Portuguese had previously reached them by sailing East. Magellan's idea was to find some mode of getting through or around the American continent so as to sail into the great South Sea. He reached the land to which he gave the name of Patagonia, where he noted the presence of men of huge size. South of this he succeeded in finding a passage which he called San Vittoria Strait, but which has come much more properly to be known since as the Straits of Magellan. He shed tears of joy, as Pigafetti who was with him on the expedition tells, when he beheld the immense expanse of the new ocean. He found it so placid that he gave it the name it has borne ever since, the Pacific Ocean. For nearly four months he sailed on the Pacific without seeing any inhabited land. His sailors were compelled to eat even the skin and leather wherewith their rigging was bound and to drink water which had become putrid. It required super-human courage and perseverance to continue the expedition, but Magellan did so. He touched at the Ladrone Islands, but unfortunately he was killed shortly after his vessels reached the Spice Islands, it is presumed by the natives, though perhaps by his own men, who dreaded his intensity of purpose to circumnavigate the globe and feared that it would carry them once more through similar awful sufferings to those which they had experienced in the voyage through the Pacific Ocean. His lieutenant, Sebastian de Elcano, directed his course from the Moluccas to the Cape of Good Hope, but did not reach it until he had gone through hardships almost as severe as those suffered in the Pacific. He lost twenty-one of his men, but succeeded in getting back to Seville just about three years and one month after they had sailed from that port. They had accomplished, however, one of the greatest achievements in the history of the race. They had circumnavigated the globe and proved beyond all doubt that by sailing westward one might come round to where one started. It is interesting to know that Magellan's lieutenant, Sebastian, received high honors and armorial bearings, with the globe of the world belted by the inscription, "You were the first to go round me" (_Primus circumdedisti me_). Spain made many claims {268} to lands discovered on this expedition and it added notably to the extent of the Spanish Empire. The French scarcely more than the Italians are thought of as great navigators. We are likely to reserve that designation for the Spaniards, Portuguese and English, yet next in point of priority at this time there are records of some magnificent French accomplishments in navigation. We have an account of a voyage by Paulmier de Gonneville, a French priest, the evidence for which rests on a judicial statement made before the Admiralty in France, July 19, 1505. De Gonneville called the large island that he discovered Terre Australe, so that for a long time it was thought that he was the first to touch Australia. The description that he gives, however, of the people and the products of the country evidently applies to some northern island of the Indian Ocean and not to the great southern continent. There is good reason to think, however, that in this voyage important discoveries were made. A little later in the century, Verrazano, an Italian in charge of a French expedition which sailed along the coast of North America, entered the harbor of New York, sailed up the Hudson River and landed an expedition on Manhattan Island, where in 1524 a religious service, probably the Mass as Rev. Dr. Morgan Dix suggested, was celebrated. Bennett's discussion of the matter in his "Catholic Footsteps in Old New York" (New York, 1910) leaves little doubt of the fact. Two Spanish expeditions probably reached Australia during the first half of the sixteenth century. The first of these was under Alvar de Saavedra, who was sent out by Cortez. Cortez, having settled himself in Mexico, wished to get in touch with the East, and especially the Spice Islands, and it was he who despatched Saavedra, who was a relative. There is some doubt as to whether this navigator did not touch New Guinea rather than Australia, but there is no question but that he navigated across the Pacific Ocean as early as 1528. In 1542 Bernard della Torre is reported to have landed on the Australian continent, and critical analysis of his description of the natives and of the conditions that he found there puts his discovery beyond all doubt. {269} The men who were leaders of expeditions to the newly discovered countries at this time were all of them distinguished for bravery, and most of them for high administrative ability and a talent for government and the management of men which stamp them as among the world's geniuses. In our time much has been said of the ability of such a man as Cecil Rhodes and what he accomplished as an empire builder in South Africa. Considering the difference of circumstances, the lack of means of communication, the immense distances that had to be traversed and the dangers encountered, there are at least three men of Columbus' Century who have gained a place in history such as Cecil Rhodes will never have. The qualities exercised were of the same kind, but of much higher order, because requiring more independent activity and the most absolute self-reliance. What Vasco da Gama did in India for the Portuguese, Cortes in Mexico and Pizarro in Peru for the Spaniards represent achievements in empire building that have deservedly given these men an undying name in history. There were unfortunate abuses in the work. There always are whenever a savage race is brought under the dominance of what is at least supposed to be a more civilized people. There always are, even in the heart of our modern civilization, whenever one class of people can with impunity take advantage of another. The work of these men is perhaps best illustrated by short sketches of the careers of Cortes and Pizarro. Cortes, sent as a boy to the University of Salamanca, found that he had no liking for study and that his restless spirit could not be satisfied with an education and the career of law which his parents destined him for. He joined an expedition that brought him to the Antilles at the age of nineteen, and soon showed the qualities of daring and military aptitude that made him a favorite with his superiors in the service. As a consequence, he was named as commander in the expedition to Mexico. He had solved the Indian method of warfare by decoy and ambush and turned it against the Indians themselves. He soon became noted for the almost lightning-like celerity, as it seemed to his opponents, of his movements. When the Governor of the Antilles, suspecting Cortes of {270} personal ambitious designs, sent an expedition against him, he captured its commander by a surprise, though he himself had only one-quarter of the force that his opponent mustered. Against overwhelming odds he succeeded in conquering the Mexicans and establishing Spanish dominion throughout the country. While his conquest was disfigured by many of the unfortunate evils that so often have characterized such events in history, Cortes was not unkind to the Indians and he endeavored in every way to improve their condition and lift them up to a higher plane of civilization. Even Las Casas mentions him favorably and, while his kind treatment of the Indians is sometimes said to have been part of a deep-laid plan to use his power over them for selfish reasons and even for treason against the Spanish Crown, this explanation seems far-fetched. Cortes knew how easily his position could be undermined at court and, above all, he knew the fate of many of the men who had accomplished great things for Spain and of the readily comprehensible suspicions that were likely to attach to a man who had made so great a success as his. He was of an independent character and used expressions which indicated that he would not submit to the treatment that had been dealt out to others. It is not surprising, then, that after a time he was excluded from the government of Mexico and had to look elsewhere for further occupation for his restless ambition. He was allowed to join the great expedition against Algiers in 1541, but after its disastrous end did not long survive the failure. Cortes could write well, and has written the accounts of his own achievements, and these have been published in a number of editions, with translations into many languages. They show that he was a clear-headed man of great ability in an intellectual and literary sense, as well as for administration, and, while colored quite naturally in his own favor, they are valuable sources for history. Pizarro, _filius nullius_, with his fortune to make, everything to gain and nothing to lose, set sail at the age of twenty-eight with Alonzo de Ojeda from Spain. After many hardships he attached himself to Balboa, and accompanied him across the Isthmus of Panama in the expedition which discovered the {271} Pacific. After Balboa's death he followed the fortunes of Pedrarias, the governor of the region. Hearing of the achievements of Cortes in Mexico and the reports of the riches of the countries lying along the shore of the Pacific Ocean to the south, he organized an expedition to conquer them. Their project seemed so utterly rash and foolhardy, without any prospects of success, that the people of Panama called those who had joined the expedition "the company of lunatics." In spite of every discouragement, Pizarro continued his preparations, and after eighteen months returned to Panama with an abundance of gold and glowing accounts of the wealth of the countries he had visited. The Governor, jealous of his success, withdrew his support and refused to allow him to continue his explorations. Pizarro then crossed the ocean to Charles V, laid his information and plans before him and Charles, recognizing his ability and the probable success of his project, conferred on him the Order of the Knighthood of St. James and made him Governor and Captain-General, with absolute authority, in all the territories he might discover and subjugate. His orders could be reviewed only by the Royal Council in Spain. Armed with this authority, Pizarro proceeded to add the empire of Peru to that of Charles V, then ruling over more of Europe than anyone since the time of the Roman Emperors. The romantic story of this achievement and of Pizarro's assassination have often attracted the attention of dramatists, writers of fiction, as well as historians. There is no doubt at all of the magnificent daring, the political talent, nor the administrative ability of the man who succeeded in doing this in spite of obstacles that looked absolutely unsurmountable. This was accomplished by the free use of treachery, breaking of faith, as well as taking advantage in every way of the natives, but empire builders at all times have had such elements in them. Pizarro is no worse than modern conquerors, and in many respects is far better. The stories of India, Egypt and Africa will look quite as bad before the bar of history as that of Peru. Our own great task of exploration and of colonization and conquest during the past hundred years has been the opening {272} up of Africa and the finding of the North and South Poles. The opening up of Africa represents a really great extension of civilization, and doubtless will hold an important place in history. It is more than doubtful, however, if our colonizers and conquerors will be dealt with any more generously in history, or placed on a higher plane of fellow-feeling for the natives, than the colonizers and conquerors of Columbus' Century. The slave trade had been abolished early in the nineteenth century, and yet there has been the feeling many times during the past hundred years that the natives of South Africa were being abused almost as in the days of slavery, and that even the natives of South America under European influence in certain places were little better than slaves. Indeed, the whole attitude of mind of the modern time with regard to the early conquerors has had very interesting light thrown on it by investigations, which showed that in many states of our own country there was a system of employing ignorant labor that could only be characterized as slavery. After recalling the "spheres of influence" of the different nations and the mode in which South Africa has been parcelled out without any regard for the native inhabitants or their rights in the question, it becomes clear that the world, for all its complacent condemnation of the men of the older time, has not changed a particle since Columbus' Century. The two Latin nations, the Spaniards and the Portuguese, were the conquerors and colonizers in the early sixteenth century. The Teutonic nations, England and Germany, because they had replaced Spain and Portugal as the leading commercial countries, did the work in the later nineteenth. The differences between the modes of action and the general conduct of affairs at the two periods are very slight when compared to the close similarities of motive and purpose. Nations at both periods were looking for a region by which they could enrich themselves, and explorers and colonists and pioneers who went out were actuated by just the same motives at both times. Indeed, it is very doubtful whether we have point for point accomplished anything like so much good for the natives as the Spaniards tried to do, and as we have seen in the {273} chapter on Columbus' Century in America, often with striking success. After all, it must not be forgotten that there are more Indians alive in Mexico and in South America now than when Columbus landed. It has been impossible as yet to lift the natives up to the high plane of civilization of their European invaders, which has been reached only after many centuries of training, but undoubtedly much has been done. In many of these countries even the natives are nearly ready for self-government, and the countries with the handicap of their mixed races are, considering all the conditions, as prosperous as we are, and visitors often declare their upper classes possessed of a higher state of culture than ours. President Taft, after thorough practical experience in the Philippines, declared that the natives were on the high road to readiness for self-government and that they represent the only example of a people who, invaded by civilized conquerors and colonists, had been gradually lifted out of their barbarism on to a higher and higher plane. The beginning of this accomplishment came in Columbus' Century. It is only by comparing what our own and that century did in the solution of similar problems that we can get any idea of how admirable in many ways is the work of the earlier period. If at the end of the next century the natives of Africa shall fare as well as those of South America and the Philippines, the comparison will be more satisfactory. Our problem of adventurous navigation in the nineteenth century has been the discovery of the North and South Poles. We have succeeded in our purpose, but not without much sacrifice of treasure and men and much suffering. For many people in our time the finding of the Poles has seemed merely a quixotic undertaking, and, as a matter of fact, there has been no great practical purpose in it. The voyages of the navigators of the early sixteenth century must have seemed just as quixotic, though after any successful voyage the fruits of the expedition, in a commercial as well as a scientific and cultural way, could be readily appreciated. When we estimate the difference between the small sailing vessels of that time and the utter lack of facilities for the storage and {274} preservation of food as well as the dangers of the literally trackless ocean, some idea of the bravery of these hardy adventurers can be appreciated. Our steam vessels, with preserved foods and medicines usually available and the understanding of the dangers that they are to meet, has made our voyages comparatively simple, yet we have felt the inspiration of accomplishment. Columbus' Century is almost infinitely higher in the place that must be accorded to it for the spirit and the number of the men who ventured upon long voyages from which so many never returned and on which all trace was absolutely lost of many and many a vessel. In spite of the losses, there was never any dearth of men to take up the work of exploration and conquest, and their success revolutionized modern history. {275} CHAPTER VII AMERICA IN COLUMBUS' CENTURY Since our English colonization of America did not take place until the seventeenth century--Jamestown, 1607; Plymouth, 1620--it is ordinarily presumed, in English-speaking countries at least, that there is little or nothing worth while talking about in American history during Columbus' Century, ending as it does in 1550. As a matter of fact, however, though America was discovered only in 1492, there is an extremely interesting and significant chapter of American history between 1500 and 1550. This is, of course, all in the Spanish-American countries. It has unfortunately been the custom to think of the Spanish colonies as backward in all that relates to education and culture, but the history of even this half century here in America, when some magnificent progress was made, the landmarks of which still remain, is quite enough to show how far from the realities of things as they were some of our fondly cherished historic impressions are. There is not a single phase of civilization that did not receive diligent attention very early in the history of Spanish America, and the results achieved were such as to represent enduring progress in the intellectual life. In education, in printing and the distribution of books, in art and architecture, in the training of the Indians in the arts and crafts as well as in the principles of self-government, and even in science, though this department of human accomplishment is usually not supposed to be seriously taken at this time, there are many significant early American achievements. It is only in comparatively recent years that in English-speaking countries there has come anything like a proper recognition of the work done by the Spaniards in America in the early days of the history of this continent. It has been the custom to think that, while the English colonists came {276} to make a home here, the main purpose of the Spaniards in America was to exploit the inhabitants and the country and to do just as little as possible for either, provided only the members of the Spanish expeditions made money enough to enable them to live in comfort at home in Spain after a few years of stay here in America. Mr. Sidney Lee, the distinguished editor of the English Biographical Dictionary and an authority on Shakespeare and the Elizabethan period, as well as the sixteenth century generally, in a series of articles which appeared in _Scribner's_ for 1907 on "The Call of the West," contradicted most of these notions that are so prevalent with regard to the contrasted attitude of the English colonists and the Spanish colonizers during the early history of the continent. He said, for instance, not hesitating properly to characterize the principal reason for this historical deception: [Illustration: STRADAN (JAN VAN DER STRAET), NIELLO, IVORY COLUMBUS ON HIS FIRST VOYAGE ] "Especially has theological bias justified neglect or facilitated misconception of Spain's role in the sixteenth century drama of American history. Spain's initial adventures in the {277} New World are often consciously or unconsciously overlooked or underrated in order that she may figure on the stage of history as the benighted champion of a false and obsolete faith, which was vanquished under divine protecting providence by English defenders of the true religion. Many are the hostile critics who have painted sixteenth century Spain as the avaricious accumulator of American gold and silver, to which she had no right, as the monopolist of American trade, of which she robbed others, as the oppressor and exterminator of the weak and innocent aborigines of the new continent who deplored her presence among them. Cruelty in all its hideous forms is, indeed, commonly set forth as Spain's only instrument of rule in her sixteenth century empire. On the other hand, the English adventurer has been credited by the same pens with a touching humanity, with the purest religious aspirations, with a romantic courage which was always at the disposal of the oppressed native. "No such picture is recognized when we apply the touchstone of the oral traditions, printed books, maps and manuscripts concerning America which circulated in Shakespeare's England. There a predilection for romantic adventure is found to sway the Spaniards in even greater degree than it swayed the Elizabethan. Religious zeal is seen to inspirit the Spaniards more constantly and conspicuously than it stimulated his English contemporary. The motives of each nation are barely distinguishable one from another. Neither deserves to be credited with any monopoly of virtue or vice. Above all, the study of contemporary authorities brings into a dazzling light which illumes every corner of the picture _the commanding facts of the Spaniard's priority as explorer, as scientific navigator, as conqueror, as settler."_ (Italics ours.) In education particularly the Spaniards accomplished much for which they have been given almost no credit in English-speaking countries until the last few years. As a matter of fact, as the President of a great Eastern university said at a public dinner not long since, "We have only just discovered Spanish America." The lamented Professor Bourne of Yale, who wrote the third volume of "The American Nation" [Footnote 24] {278} on Spain in America, was one of the earliest American students of history to realize how much of injustice had been done by the ordinarily accepted notions of Spanish-American history that are common in English-speaking countries. In his chapter on "The Transmission of European Culture," which is a vindication of Spanish-American intellectual achievements, Professor Bourne proceeds to institute comparisons between what was done in Spanish and in English America in the early centuries for education and intellectual development, and constantly to the disadvantage of the English-speaking countries. He said: [Footnote 24: Harpers, New York.] "Not all the institutions of learning founded in Mexico in the _sixteenth century_ can be enumerated here, but it is not too much to say that in number, range of studies and standards of attainments by the officers they surpassed anything existing in English America _until the nineteenth century_. (Italics ours.) Mexican scholars made distinguished achievements in some branches of _science, particularly medicine_ and surgery, but pre-eminently linguistics, history and anthropology. Dictionaries and grammars of the native languages and histories of the Mexican institutions are an imposing proof of their scholarly devotion and intellectual activity. Conspicuous are Toribio de Motolinia's '_Historia de las Indias de Nueva España,'_ Duran's '_Historia de las Indias de Nueva España,'_ but most important of all Sahagun's great work on Mexican life and religion." Most of these works were written after the close of Columbus' Century, but the ground had been prepared for them and some of the actual accumulation of facts for them begun in our period. They followed as a natural development out of the scholarly interests already displayed in the first half of the sixteenth century. Perhaps the most interesting feature of Spanish-American development of education is the fact that its first landmark is a school for the education of Indians. Not a few of the Spaniards who came to Mexico in the first half of the sixteenth century had enjoyed the advantage of a university education. As their children grew up they felt like sending them back to Spain for university education, and many were {279} so sent. The need for the education of the Indians was recognized early, however, and in 1535 the College of Santa Cruz in Tlaltelolco, the quarter of the City of Mexico reserved for the Indians, was founded under the patronage of Bishop Zumarata. Among the faculty were, as might be expected, graduates not only of Salamanca, the great Spanish university of the time, but also of the University of Paris, which was at this period the leading university of the world. It is interesting to realize that these professors did not consider that they were fulfilling their whole duty by teaching alone, but also devoted themselves faithfully to what many have come to look upon apparently as a modern development of university life, the duty of investigating and writing. This is the real index of the vitality of a university and the sincerity of its professors. Among the teachers of Santa Cruz were such eminent scholars as Bernardino de Sahagun, the founder of American anthropology, and Juan de Torquemada, himself a graduate of a Mexican college, whose _"Monarquia Indiana"_ is a great storehouse of facts concerning Mexico before the coming of the whites, containing many precious details with regard to Mexican antiquity. Just as Columbus' Century was closing, arrangements were made for the organization of two universities in Spanish America--the one in Mexico City and the other in Lima, Peru. They received their royal charters the same year, 1551, but besides the granting of their charters a definite amount of the Spanish revenues was set aside by the Crown as a government contribution to their support. It seems worth while to note that such encouragement on the part of the English Government for an institution of learning in the American colonies a full century, or even two, later than this would have been quite out of the question. Whatever the English colonists did for education they had to do for themselves. There was no aid and not even sympathy with their efforts. English universities for several centuries refused to recognize American universities as on a par with them, and rightly, for their standards were too low, though it is an extremely interesting commentary on the educational situation in America, and especially on the usually accepted {280} notions as to the relative significance of Spanish and English education here, that both the University of Lima and of Mexico came to be recognized during the sixteenth century as sister institutions of learning not only by Salamanca and the other Spanish universities, at this time among the best institutions of learning in Europe, but also by the other university of Europe, whose prestige was the highest, that of Paris. There was a certain interchange of professors among them, though this was not formally organized, and graduates of Salamanca and Paris taught at both Mexico and Lima. Students from these American universities were accorded their American ratings and allowed to proceed with their work on an equality with European university men, a privilege scarcely accorded to English-American university students even yet. The scholars of the Old World were quite well aware that the New Learning was penetrating into the Western Hemisphere and were proud to think that the humanities were being cultivated beyond the Western ocean. Before the end of Columbus' Century, Marcantonio Flaminio, whom Sandys in his "Harvard Lectures on the Revival of Learning" calls the purest of the Latin poets of the age, a man who was a great friend of Vittoria Colonna, in sending to Cardinal Alessandro Farnese a volume of Latin poems by the scholars of Northern Italy, assures the Cardinal that France and Spain and Germany and distant Brittany would do honor to those Latin muses, and that even the New World would share in admiration for them. As he puts it: "Those on whom the light of dawn arises when the skies of Italy are wrapped in darkness will devote their nights and days to the study of the Latin poets of Italy." "For strange to tell, e'en on that far-off shore Doth flourish now the love of Latin lore." The newly created Universities of Mexico and Lima developed during the half century following Columbus' Century into full-fledged institutions of learning amply deserving the name university. Lectures in medicine were delivered in {281} Mexico in 1578, and a full medical faculty was organized before the close of the century. Our first school of medicine in English America did not come into existence for fully two centuries later. More than half a century before this, however, special care had been exercised by the Spanish authorities to prevent the exploitation of the Spanish colonists or the Indians by pretenders to knowledge in medicine. As early as 1527 strict medical regulations were drawn up by the municipal council of the City of Mexico, granting the license to practise medicine only to those who showed the possession of a university degree in medicine. Even earlier than this arrangements had been made for the regular training of barber surgeons, so that injuries and wounds of various kinds might be treated promptly as well as properly, so that even the poorer classes might have the benefit of some regular training in those whose ministrations they could afford to pay for. A pure-drug ordinance, regulating the practice of the apothecaries, was issued as early as 1529. It was practically only in our own time that similar regulations were adopted in this country. Standards in university teaching were well maintained. Post-graduate work was literally post-graduate work, and students might take up the study of medicine or of law or of divinity only after having made proper preliminary studies in the undergraduate departments of the university. The Spanish-American universities received a charter not only from the Spanish crown, but also from the Pope. The formal title of the University of Mexico was the Pontifical University of the city. The Papal charter was sought because it was the only way to secure an international value for academic degrees, for the Papacy was the international authority of the time. Papal charters for the universities, however, were granted only on condition that standards should be maintained. There are any number of these Papal university charters extant which emphasize this necessity. On the establishment of a new university the professors had to be graduates of well-recognized, authoritative universities, in which the examinations were held in oath-bound secrecy, in order {282} to assure as far as possible absolute fairness and the maintenance of standards. The course of studies and the length of time for them had to be arranged in accordance with the standards of older universities. [Illustration: TITLE PAGE OF LETTER OF COLUMBUS (BASEL, 1494)] {283} [Illustration: PAGE FROM THE LETTER OF COLUMBUS (BASEL, 1494)] {284} The Spanish-American universities had the advantage of being closely in touch with the European universities, and as a consequence had taken their traditions direct from them. Papal university charters, as a rule, required explicitly that there should be three years of university work before medicine or other graduate work might be taken up, and then four years of medicine before the degree of doctor would be granted. Even after this, according to the Italian laws of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, the practice of medicine must not be begun by the graduate until he had spent a year in practice with an experienced physician. This is the year of hospital work that we are now trying to introduce into the medical schools as a requirement and which is taken, but voluntarily, by most of those who are seriously interested in their professional studies. The preliminary requirements, that is, such formal academic preparation for the study of medicine as makes it possible for a young man to take up the subject and properly benefit by it, have only become obligatory by law in very recent years here in America, and that to a very limited degree. The letter written to the Municipal Council of his native city, Seville, by Dr. Chanca, who accompanied Columbus on his second expedition, shows the thoroughly scientific interest and the acute powers of observation of the Spanish physicians of this time. This is unquestionably the first written document about the flora, the fauna, the ethnology and the anthropology of America. Dr. Fernandez de Ybarra published in the _Journal_ of the American Medical Association, September 29, 1906, some abstracts from this letter which show that these expressions are justified by its contents and are not mere enthusiastic terms for rather commonplace observations. Chanca described in detail woods of various kinds, fruit, spices, plants such as cotton, the birds and animals, and above all the customs, appearance and mode of living of the inhabitants. He gives in detail their slave-making and cannibalistic tendencies. There was nothing that escaped Chanca's observation. He found turpentine, tar, nutmegs, ginger, aloes, though he noted that the aloes were not the same kind as those in Spain (Barbadoes aloes are still {285} considered inferior), cinnamon, cloves, mastic and many other things. He notes the food of the inhabitants, their mode of working, the absence of iron, yet the well-made implements, the presence of gold in many places, describes the climate of the country and gives important details with regard to its meteorology. Dr. Chanca had been the physician to their majesties, and he gave up not only this position, but a large and lucrative practice in order to become the physician of the colonies. It is principally through him that we have any account of Columbus' second voyage. This second voyage was, of course, very different from the first and carried a thousand five hundred persons, among them many of the nobility who had recently been in the wars with the Moors and who were looking for new conquests in America. They were restless and hard to manage, negligent and rash, they tasted many things without due care and succeeded in poisoning themselves on a number of occasions, they caught the fevers of the country and only for the presence of Dr. Chanca it is very probable that most of them would have perished. Columbus, who thought that he owed him his life, praises him highly in a letter to the Sovereigns, asking permission to pay him special fees in addition to the salary and rations which he was allowed as _scrivener_ in the Indies. His letter and the estimation in which he was held at the time is the best possible evidence of the standard of attainments of the Spanish physicians of Columbus' Century. One of the memorable products of American scholarship during Columbus' Century, that must not be passed over without mention here, is Garcilaso de la Vega, the historian of Peru, born in our period, though he did his work afterwards. He was the son of a daughter of the Incas, the reigning family in Peru when the Spaniards came, and owed to his mother the suggestion of writing a history of his ancestors and their land. He travelled over the country consulting the old inhabitants, the principal among whom were relatives through his mother and his father was the Spanish Governor of Cuzco, one of the few Spanish governors, be it said, who did not die a violent death. Garcilaso was then in an {286} excellent position to gather all the details of the story, yet without prejudice against the Spaniards. As he spent his life after the age of twenty mainly in Europe, his opportunities for thorough understanding of all the conditions were complete. His work is of a great historic value, and indeed is the foundation of all that we know of old Peru. It has been translated into all the modern languages. Besides this attention to the higher education and to the education of the Indians, popular education was cared for sedulously and, above all, the Indians were instructed in the use of their hands, in the arts and crafts, and in every way that would make them useful, happy citizens. The contrast between English America and Spanish America in this matter is rather striking and has been emphasized by Professor Bourne in the chapter of his book to which we have already referred. He said: "Both the crown and the Church were solicitous for education in the colonies, and provisions were made for its promotion on a far greater scale than was possible or even attempted in the English colonies. The early Franciscan missionaries built a school beside each Church and in their teaching abundant use was made of signs, drawings and paintings. The native languages were reduced to writing, and in a few years Indians were learning to read and write. Pedro de Gante, a Flemish lay brother and a relative of Charles V, founded and conducted in the Indian quarter in Mexico a great school, attended by over a thousand Indian boys, which combined instruction in elementary and higher branches, the mechanical and fine arts. _In its workshops the boys were taught to be tailors, carpenters, blacksmiths, shoemakers and painters."_ (Italics ours.) Almost needless to say it is only in quite recent years that we have awakened to the necessity for such teaching for our Indians and, may it be added, for the poorer classes of our population generally. [Illustration: HOSPITAL, MEXICO (FOUNDED BEFORE 1524)] [Illustration: HOSPITAL, MEXICO (ANOTHER VIEW)] The printing press early found its home in America, and even during Columbus' Century quite a number of books were published in the Spanish-American countries. It is often said that the first book printed in America was the {287} Massachusetts Bay Psalm Book, issued, I believe, in 1638, but of course this was long anticipated in Mexico and in South America. In this, as in many other of the details of Spanish-American culture. Professor Bourne has given authoritative information. He said: "The early promoters of education and missions did not rely upon the distant European presses for the publication of their manuals. The printing press was introduced into the New World probably as early as 1536, and it seems likely that the first book, an elementary Christian doctrine called 'La Escala Espiritual' (the ladder of the spirit), was issued in 1537. No copy of it, however, is known to exist. Seven different printers plied their craft in New Spain in the sixteenth century. Among the notable issues of these presses, besides the religious works and church service works, were dictionaries and grammars of the Mexican languages, Pufa's 'Cedulario' in 1563, a compilation of royal ordinances, Farfan's 'Tractado de Medicina.'" An enduring and very striking monument of the humanitarian progress made in Spanish America at this time in medicine is a hospital that still stands in the City of Mexico. It was built originally by Cortes and endowed by him, and his descendants still appoint the superintendent and have much to do with the support of the hospital. It was erected in 1524, and it might well be thought that at any such early date as this it would be a very rude structure and the surprise would be that it is still standing. Miss Nutting and Miss Dock, however, in their "History of Nursing," have given two pictures of it, both of which we reproduce here, and which show that it was a beautiful hospital building and quite worthy of the great beginnings that were made in other ways in Mexican educational and humanitarian progress. The pretty courtyard and porticoes were eminently suitable for the changeable climate of Mexico, and the whole building is a monument of Spanish culture as well as Spanish charity. [Footnote 25] [Footnote 25: The surprise inevitable for many at finding that such a handsome hospital was erected at this time will be tempered by recalling that this is the period when some of the most beautiful hospitals in the world were erected. (See the chapter on Social Work and Workers.) Besides they began very early to erect beautiful buildings in Mexico City. The University Buildings, the Cathedral and other public buildings were worthy of the fine traditions of architecture prevalent in Europe and especially in Spain at this time.] {288} Champlain, the French navigator, having visited the City of Mexico before the end of the sixteenth century, said of it: "But all the contentment I felt at the sight of things so agreeable (the beautiful natural scenery) was but little in comparison with that which I experienced when I beheld the beautiful City of Mexico, which I did not suppose had such superb buildings with splendid ample palaces and fine houses and the streets well laid and where are seen the large and handsome shops of the merchants full of all sorts of every kind of merchandise." Nor must it be thought that Mexico was the only progressive part of Spanish America so early in our history. Indeed, so much had been accomplished in the Panama region by the end of Columbus' Century that, when Sir Francis Drake raided the place some twenty years later, the bank of the Chagres River was lined with warehouses, there was a handsome monastery and beautiful church, and there were many houses of stone decorated with carvings of many kinds, the residences of the Governor and the royal officials. When the flow of the Chagres was arrested in order to make the Gatun dam for the Panama Canal, all vestiges of this disappeared, though the church was practically the only building of any importance then standing. It showed by the charm of its architecture and its interesting carvings how high had been the culture and how good the taste of the builders almost a century before there was any permanent settlement in English America. The rise of the waters of the dam did not cover as important records of human progress as when the great irrigation dam at Assuan submerged the ruins of the ancient Temple of Philae in Egypt, nor cover up such interesting works of art, but it did obliterate some of the evidence for a stage of civilization in America that in English-speaking countries at least has been wantonly minimized or sadly misunderstood. There are many remains in Panama that give some idea {289} of how much the Spaniards did during Columbus' Century and how permanent were many of their constructions. There is an old bridge from the early part of the sixteenth century which, though built without a keystone, has its main arch still standing. There is the famous flat arch which demonstrates so clearly that this region must have been very little disturbed by earthquakes ever since, because it seems almost incredible that a structure should stand with so slight curvature for any length of time, even in an absolutely undisturbed country, yet this has been in place for nearly four centuries in Panama. There was a magnificent paved road across the isthmus, the King's Highway, remains of which are still to be found in excellent preservation. Some portions of it were used during the course of the construction of the Panama Canal and proved very serviceable. When we realize what would have happened to one of our roads in a century, much less four hundred years, a good idea of their permanency of construction is reached. The old tower of St. Jerome, still standing, shows how solidly and yet how ornately the Spaniards built, and there was evidently a magnificent set of monumental constructions for religious and civil purposes on the isthmus almost a century before the pilgrims landed on Plymouth Rock. The story of these early days in American history has not yet been told in its entirety, but even the details that are available show us how well the Spaniards labored for permanency of their foundations in America. {290} CHAPTER VIII SOME GREAT WOMEN Probably what must be considered the most interesting chapter in the history of Columbus' Century for our generation is that which tells the story of the women of the time who accomplished purposes that make their names forever memorable. Great as were the men, the women were in every way worthy of them, and these women of the Renaissance have attracted attention ever since, though never more so than now, when we are beginning to take seriously once more the problem of giving to women the amplest opportunities for intellectual development and achievement that they may desire. The Italian ladies of the Renaissance have been the subject of particular attention, sometimes indeed to the almost total eclipse of their equally as interesting sisters of the other nationalities, for in every country in Europe the Renaissance brought a magnificent development of feminine intellectual incentive and accomplishment and brought out a fine demonstration of women's powers. [Illustration: CRIVELLI, MADONNA ENTHRONED] It would be quite impossible to give any adequate idea of the large numbers of women who at this period manifested intellectual ability of a high order. All that can be done is to select from the various countries of Europe those women who at this time did work of such high order that their names will never willingly be let die and whose careers will have an enduring interest for mankind so long as our present form of civilization continues. They not only merit a place beside the men of the time, but some of them indeed must be classed as surpassing all but the very highest geniuses of the period. The variety of their achievement is quite as interesting as its quality. Above all, the women of Columbus' Century demonstrated their ability to administer government, to organize particularly charitable purposes, to secure the building of fine {291} hospitals and proper care for the ailing poor, and to direct the decoration of their homes and the beauty of home surroundings, so that Renaissance interior decoration and gardens have been the special subject of imitation whenever in the after-time the beautifying of the home has come to occupy the position that it should. The first woman to be considered in Columbus' Century should naturally be Isabella of Castile, to whom so much of the possibility of Columbus' achievement is due. Fortunately in recent years her life and career have come to be much better known and we have reached a more fitting appreciation of her wonderful administrative ability and profound influence on her time. There is probably no woman in history who so deeply influenced her own nation and generation as Isabella. In a time of very great women she was the greatest. Withal, she was charmingly feminine and did much to lift the position of her sex in Spain up to the height of Renaissance achievements. There is scarcely any mode of activity on which Isabella has not left traces of her genius. Her power of inspiring men was very great. She led her armies in person, and undoubtedly to her more than anyone else is due the success of the Spaniards against the Moors at this time. Her genius for peace as well as for war is evidenced by the formation of a constabulary force in Spain, the _Santa Hermandad_, intended for the protection of persons and property against injustice of any kind, though particularly against the violence of the nobles. She found Spain anarchic, without any power over disorders and with so many elements of disaffection that it seemed hopeless to think of making it a unified powerful country. She left it peaceful and prosperous, and when she died she was the ruler of a greater domain than the Roman Empire ever possessed. Some of this was undoubtedly her good fortune, but the happy accidents of history occur, as a rule, only to those who are able to take advantage of them. She encouraged education and, above all, obtained a fine education for herself. Her Castilian has been ranked as the standard of the language by the Spanish Royal Academy. When a mother, she took up the study of Latin so as to share her {292} children's education, and learned to know it well. She was extremely solicitous for the education of her children and, in order to secure the best possible mental training for them, she established a palace school, where some of the most scholarly men of the time were invited to teach. As a rule, all that most of us know about Isabella is that she recalled Columbus to her presence with the words: "I will assume the undertaking for my own crown of Castile and am ready to pawn my jewels to defray the expenses of it if the funds in the treasury should be found inadequate." It was a woman's intuition surpassing in its insight all the knowledge of those around her. There is perhaps one other fact that a great many people know, and that is, that during the siege of Granada she declared that she would not change her shift until the town had been taken. Told of her in praise at the beginning, the story has come in more refined times to seem a little ridiculous. But for anyone who knows the strenuous life, most of which was passed in the saddle, encouraging, cajoling, threatening, urging, leading, inspiring the men of her time until what was the most disturbed and unhappy country in Europe became a firmly consolidated nation, where prosperity and happiness went hand in hand, the spirit of the woman will be better revealed in that expression than in anything else. There is perhaps no greater woman ruler in all the history of the world. What she was capable of physically in her long rides on horseback would seem almost incredible, and yet with all that she was eminently womanly, a fond mother to her children, noted for her care of her household and, strangest of all perhaps, a great needlewoman. Many a church in Spain was proud to display an altar cloth that was worked by her hands, and the historical traditions that traced them to her actual hand labor are well authenticated. Her daughters as well as her sons received the benefit of the best education, though, with their mother's example and encouragement, they devoted themselves to needlework and even to the arts of spinning and weaving. It is said that Ferdinand the Catholic, her husband, could declare, as Charlemagne had done, that he used no article of clothing that {293} had not been made for him by his wife or his daughters. When she was married to Ferdinand they were so poor that they had to borrow the money to make the presents to the servants that were customary on such occasions. It is said that she mended one doublet for her husband, the King, as often as seven times. Her deep piety, her firm character, her habits of industry and thrift, and yet her ability to recognize what was likely to be good for her kingdom and her people and to spend money freely on it, made an admirable example for the time. Above all, she discouraged the idle extravagance of the nobility and succeeded in greatly lessening the immorality at court. She made a magnificent collection of books, fostered learning at the universities, encouraged it among the women of the time, and it is no wonder that historians have spoken so much in praise of her. With all this she was extremely unhappy in her children--she saw her son die in the promise of youth, her daughter went mad, other daughters, including Queen Catherine of England, were destined, in spite of felicitous auguries in early life, to the most poignant unhappiness--and mother had to be the source of consolation for them all. [Illustration: HOLBEIN, QUEEN CATHERINE OF ARAGON] The spirit of Isabella in the matter of the rights of her subjects will perhaps be best appreciated from the famous expression which she used on hearing that Columbus had offered some of the Indians whom he brought home with him to some of the Spanish nobility as gifts. The Queen indignantly demanded when she heard of it, "Who gave permission to Columbus to parcel out my vassals to anyone?" Having learned that some of the Indians were being held as slaves in Spain she issued a decree that they should be returned to their native country at the expense of the person in whose possession they were found. Prescott has drawn a striking contrast between the character of Isabella and of Elizabeth. The two names are in origin the same and there are many details of their careers that tempt to the making of a comparison. Because Elizabeth is really a product of Columbus' Century, seventeen years of age before the century closed, Prescott's comparison is a document of special value for us here, for it tells the {294} story of two great women of the time, though the work of one of them was accomplished after the close of our period. He says (p. 188, Vol. III): "Both succeeded in establishing themselves on the throne after the most precarious vicissitudes. Each conducted her kingdom, through a long and triumphant reign, to a height of glory to which it had never before reached. Both lived to see the vanity of all earthly grandeur, and to fall the victims of an inconsolable melancholy; and both left behind an illustrious name, unrivalled in the subsequent annals of their country. "But with these few circumstances of their history, the resemblance ceases. Their characters afford scarcely a point of contact. Elizabeth, inheriting a large share of the bold and bluff King Harry's temperament, was haughty, arrogant, coarse and irascible; while with these fiercer qualities she mingled deep dissimulation and strange irresolution. Isabella, on the other hand, tempered the dignity of royal station with the most bland and courteous manners. Once resolved, she was constant in her purposes, and her conduct in public and private life was characterized by candour and integrity. Both may be said to have shown that magnanimity which is implied by the accomplishment of great objects in the face of great obstacles. But Elizabeth was desperately selfish; she was incapable of forgiving, not merely a real injury, but the slightest affront to her vanity; and she was merciless in exacting retribution. Isabella, on the other hand, lived only for others,--was ready at all times to sacrifice self to considerations of public duty; and, far from personal resentments, showed the greatest condescension and kindness to those who had most sensibly injured her; while her benevolent heart sought every means to mitigate the authorized severities of the law, even towards the guilty. . . . "To estimate this (contrast) aright, we must contemplate the results of their respective reigns. Elizabeth found all the materials of prosperity at hand, and availed herself of them most ably to build up a solid fabric of national grandeur. Isabella created these materials. She saw the faculties of her people locked up in a death-like lethargy, and she breathed {295} into them the breath of life for those great and heroic enterprises which terminated in such glorious consequences to the monarchy. It is when viewed from the depressed position of her early days, that the achievements of her reign seem scarcely less than miraculous." Prescott has declared that her heart was filled with benevolence to all mankind. In the most fiery heat of war she was engaged in devising means for mitigating its horror. She is said to have been the first to introduce the benevolent institution of camp hospitals and her lively solicitude to spare the effusion of blood even of her enemies is often told. Her establishment of the Inquisition and the exile of the Jews are often set over against this, but Prescott did not hesitate to say, "It will be difficult to condemn her indeed without condemning her age; for these acts are not only excused, but extolled by her contemporaries as constituting her constant claims to renown and to the gratitude of her country." Spaniards of much more modern time have not scrupled to pronounce the Inquisition "the great evidence of her prudence and piety; whose uncommon utility not only Spain but all Christendom freely acknowledged." Undoubtedly it saved Spain from some of the troubles which devastated Germany during the Hundred Years' War after the Reformation, when religious divisions so embittered the struggle and made it impossible for national affairs to prosper or for men to be brought to any common understanding with regard to anything for the good of the commonwealth. The difference between the position of Spain and of Germany in this regard is highly instructive. There are so many distinguished women of this period in Italy that a choice indeed is embarrassing. Probably, however, the general consensus of opinion would be that the typical great intellectual woman of this time is Vittoria Colonna, the daughter of the great Roman family of that name, who became the wife of the Marquis of Pescara. The Colonnas were at this time in exile at Naples, where her father was the Grand Constable. Her mother was Agnesina de Montefeltro of the Ducal house of Urbino and she was brought up after the age of ten by her prospective sister-in-law, the Duchess {296} Costanza, in the Island of Ischia. She was intimately related, then, to many of the important noble families of Italy and her career may be taken as a type of the possibilities of education and intellectual influence in her class at this time. Her husband became distinguished as a military leader and finally at scarcely more than thirty years of age was made the General of the Imperial forces when the Pope and the Emperor Charles V made an alliance and drove the French from Milan in 1528. He had been the commander of the Imperial Army at the battle of Pavia in 1525, after which Francis I, badly beaten and taken prisoner, sent his mother the famous despatch from his captive cell in the Certosa near Pavia, "All is lost save honor." Francis was too important a prisoner to be left to the fortunes of war in Italy, so Charles V had him transferred by ship to Madrid. Emissaries of the French, who tried to win the Marquis of Pescara from his allegiance to the Emperor, represented this action to him as something of an insult or at least a lack of trust. They offered him the throne of Naples if he should abandon the Emperor and come over to the French. The Marquis had been wounded and was just recovering when these offers were made. He wrote to his wife, Vittoria, with whom he was on terms of the most charming affection, telling her of the offer and asking her advice. With a crown dangling before her and the added temptation, the subtlest there could be for a woman, of going back as Queen where she had been only a lady-in-waiting at Court, Vittoria wrote the famous letter which has deservedly so often been quoted: "Consider well what you are doing, mindful of the fame and estimation which you have always enjoyed; and in truth, for my part, I care not to be the wife of a king, but rather to be joined to a faithful and loyal man; for it is not riches, titles, and kingdoms which can give true glory, infinite praise, and perpetual renown to noble spirits desirous of eternal fame; but faith, sincerity, and other virtues of the soul; and with these man may rise higher than the highest kings, not only in war, but in peace." [Illustration: TITIAN, PRESENTATION OF VIRGIN] {297} Not long afterwards her husband died as a consequence of his wounds and Vittoria was broken-hearted. The letters which they had written to each other show how much of a love match this was and all the sixteen years of married life there seems to have been nothing to disturb it. Vittoria's only consolation now was in religion, and she thought of entering a convent, but it was felt that she could accomplish much more good in the world and a special Papal brief was issued permitting her to spend as much time as she wished in convents, but forbidding superiors to allow her to take the veil until the poignancy of her grief subsided and she might be able to make up her mind without being too much overborne by her sense of loss. Most of the rest of her life was spent in convents or in almost conventual seclusion. She wrote a series of poems, many of which are religious. A long series constitutes a sort of _In Memoriam_ for her dead husband. They are written in very charming Italian verse and a well-known critic and writer on Italian literature has described these poems "as penetrated with genuine feeling. They have that dignity and sweetness which belong to the spontaneous utterances of a noble heart." During the last fifteen years of her life she lived very retired in Rome and exercised her profound influence over many of the great men of the Renaissance and particularly over Michelangelo. Some idea of the place that she held in the cultured society of Italy at this time may be gathered from the fact that in 1528 Castiglione submitted his _"Il Cortigiano"_ to her in manuscript for her approval and criticism. She kept it for a considerable time, read portions of it to her friends, submitted others to them and then returned it with the highest praise. She declared that she was quite jealous of the persons that are quoted in the book, even though they were dead. A writer who knew this period very thoroughly and who had studied particularly the lives of the women of the Renaissance declared: "Vittoria Colonna was indeed a woman to be proud of: untouched by scandal, unspoiled by praise, incapable of any ungenerous action, unconvicted of one uncharitable word. Long in the midst of such religious and political dissensions {298} as divided and uprooted families, she yet preserved in all the relations of life that jewel of perfect loyalty which does not ask to be justified." Only too often it seems to be the impression that Vittoria Colonna stands almost alone in her supreme nobility of character, but that is only due to the fact that she has been deservedly much talked of. There are, however, many rivals in all that is best among the women of Italy at this time. The charm of certain of these women of the Renaissance can be best understood from the expressions of praise with regard to them that we have from the distinguished literary men of the time. One of them, Elizabeth Gonzaga, had some of the most beautiful things said with regard to her by men whose judgment and critical faculty commend them to the after world as great scholarly writers. In the prefatory epistle to his _"Cortigiano"_ Castiglione says in allusion to the death of this peerless lady, "but that which cannot be spoken without tears is that the Duchess, also, is dead. And if my mind be troubled also with the loss of so many friends that have left me in this life as it were in a wilderness full of sorrow, yet with how much more grief do I bear the affliction of my dear lady's death than of all the rest; since she was more worthy than all and I more bounden to her." Indeed Catiglione's great work was partly written as a memorial to her. Pietro Bembo, recalling the happy days he had spent at her court, says, "I have seen many excellent and noble women and have heard of some who are as illustrious for certain qualities, but in her alone among women all virtues were united and brought together. I have never seen nor heard of anyone who was her equal and know very few who have even come near her." Every city in Italy possessed some of these noble women at this time. Prominent among those who are not known as well as they deserve is Donna Catarina Fiesco or Adorno of Genoa, one of the saintly women of the time, who, in forgetfulness of self knew how to be so helpful to others in a wise and womanly way that she has been given the title of St. Catharine of Genoa. She was the daughter of one of the noble Genoese ruling families, the Fieschi, the daughter {299} of Conte Giacomo Fiesco, who was Viceroy of Naples and Papal Chamberlain during the first half of the fifteenth century. Catarina was born July 10, 1447, the third of seven daughters whose mother also came from an ancient house of Genoa enrolled in the first Libro d'Oro. Very early she chose to be a religious, but Giuliano Adorno, a son of Doge Antoniotto Adorno, fell in love with her and though his reputation was that of a young blade and sport, he was good-looking and handsome of figure, and Donna Catarina, having seen him several times at mass, fell in love with him. Political considerations helped on the match and indeed seemed to have been most powerful, for after Catarina had been told of Giuliano's wild ways she refused to marry him and finally was married in black, positively declining to don the customary red velvet robe and lavish ornaments of gold and jewels of Genoese brides. Their marriage, as Catarina evidently had dreaded, was not happy and after five years Catarina betook herself to a convent. After her departure her husband went from bad to worse, and finally, cast off by his indulgent father, was reduced to abject poverty and despair. His wife sought him out, lifted him up and together they took a house near the Spedale Maggiore where they received and cared for poor incurables. Five years later her husband died, "his death having paid all debts," and Catarina was elected prioress of the women's department of the hospital. She organized the nursing, reorganized the hospital service, especially as regards the poor, and took her official duties as prioress very seriously. She found time, however, to compose a number of little books for persons in distress of mind and of body, and some of them have been translated into French and Spanish. Her "Treatise on Purgatory," setting forth the strength of Christian piety in the face of death, was published in 1502 and had a wide popularity in the Latin countries of Europe. She wrote a series of dialogues that became very popular and were widely used by the parish clergy in dramatic form in the churches. The two characters in the dialogues were Good and Evil, and from rival pulpits these presented their various claims. The custom of having this dialogic form of church instruction is still extant in {300} Genoa. In 1509 she died, leaving all of her property and possessions to the hospital, and her body, miraculously preserved, reposes in a superb crystal casket within the chapel of the hospital. Of her, as Edgcumbe Staley says in his "Heroines of Genoa," the well-known Italian proverb has been quoted: _Vera felicitá senza Dio non si da_--True happiness without God there is none. Another of these distinguished intellectual women of the Renaissance in Italy was the venerable Battistina Vernazza, whose parents were famous for their benevolence and had a high place in the Libro d'Oro de' Benemeriti of Genoa. She was born in 1497. Early in life she showed remarkable talents as a student of Latin and a writer of verses in Latin and in the vernacular. She entered the Convento delle Grazie but declined to take the veil until both her parents gave their consent, and though her father was willing her mother refused to permit her to be separated from her. After her mother's early death she entered the convent and there became noted for her piety and learning. Her writings are mainly controversial and were very famous in her time. Letters of hers to well-known leaders of the Protestantizing party are extant. At the death of her father, her father's considerable fortune came to her. She applied it all to works of charity, and especially in the direction of the rescue of young girls from evil associations. She lived to be ninety years of age and her memory is still so green among the Genoese because of all that she did for the good of the people that in the quarter of the city where she was born the Municipal School for Girls bears her name of Battistina Vernazza. Even the smaller towns gave birth to great women, and one of the most distinguished women of the Century whose name is very little known, mainly because her modesty would have it so, is Angela of Merici, the distinguished founder of a religious order for the education of girls of all classes, whose work has endured down to our time and whose religious daughters are literally all over the world at the present day. It is probable that the work of no woman of the Renaissance has had so far-reaching an effect as that of this humble village maiden whose one asset in life was her thought for {301} others and for duty. An all too brief abstract of her story will be found in the chapter on Feminine Education. An important phase of the careers of the women of the Renaissance is the manliness and independence of spirit which became manifest. It was at this time that the word virago was first used but employed not as now as a mark of disrespect, but on the contrary as a high compliment. Catherine of Sforza, whose manly defence of her castle is well known and whose life exhibited a series of thoroughly courageous incidents, was known as the Virago of Forli, though at the same time she was hailed as "the best gentlewoman of Italy." Isabella Gonzaga manifests something of this same heroic vein and Clarice de Medici, the wife of Filippo Strozzi, is in the same group. These women stand out as remarkable, and yet many of the women of the Renaissance exhibited an independence of character which is usually thought to be of much later development. There are many educated people who are quite convinced that while the Renaissance possessed distinguished women deservedly famous for their unselfish character and their fine moral influence, it possessed an even greater proportion of women whose vices made them a scandal for all time and whose influence was far-reaching for evil. Indeed for many the name of Lucretia Borgia, which has become a byword for everything worst in human life, is supposed to be a better symbol of the Renaissance than that of Vittoria Colonna. Probably the best way--apart from the actual facts in the lives of women already cited--to show the absolute untruth of this very prevalent impression is to take the life of Lucretia Borgia herself, for it makes clear not only how absolutely lacking in historical confirmation are the ordinary traditions with regard to her, but on the contrary how well she deserves to be classed among the great good women of the Renaissance, all the scurrilous abuse of her that has accumulated to the contrary notwithstanding. There is probably nothing that shows how little of trust can be placed in contemporary documents unless these are critically considered, than the complete change of view with regard to the Borgia family, particularly Lucretia, which has taken place in the last few years, as a consequence {302} of the more careful scientific scholarly historical research of recent years. The facts in Lucretia's life are comparatively few and rather easy to understand. Its first part is shrouded in the calumnies so common with regard to the Borgias. They were Spaniards making their way in Italy and nothing was too bad to say of them. Her later life was all in the limelight of publicity and should be the basis of any judgment of her. When she was about twenty-four after two sad matrimonial experiences she was married by political arrangement to Alfonso, the son of Ercole, Duke of Ferrara. Before that marriage careful investigation as to her character was made and a special envoy sent for that purpose wrote that "there was nothing at all out of the way with Lucretia herself. She was sensible, discreet, of good and loving nature and her manners full of modesty and decorum; a good Christian filled with the fear of God. ... In truth such are her good qualities that I rest assured there is nothing to fear from her or rather everything to hope from her." After her marriage Lucretia lived for nearly twenty years at Ferrara. When she died in early middle life her funeral was followed to the tomb by all the people of the city, who revered her as a saint and looked up to her as one who had done everything that she could to make life happier for her people. She was buried in the Convent of the Sisters of the Corpus Christi, in the same tomb as the Mother of Alfonso, the Duchess Leonora, of whose goodness we have spoken, and her praises were on every tongue. Whatever there is defamatory that is said about Lucretia concerns the years before this marriage while she was living at Rome up to the age of twenty-three. A knowledge of that fact alone is quite sufficient to make the stories with regard to her unexampled viciousness very dubious. Gregorovius has recently re-examined all the documents and has completely vindicated her. She was merely the victim of the violent political hatreds of the time. To take the one item of poisoning with regard to which her name has been so infamous and her reputation so notorious, Garnett, in the "Cambridge Modern History," declares that there is only one case in which the Borgias are supposed to have used poison for which there is {303} any evidence, and that is very dubious. With that one Lucretia had nothing to do. In discussing her divorce from Sforza, he says: "The transaction also served to discredit in some measure the charges against the Borgias of secret poisoning, which would have been more easily and conveniently employed than the disagreeable and scandalous method of a legal process." Some of the tributes to Lucretia Borgia from her contemporaries are highly laudatory. Among her friends were some of the best people of the time. Aldus Manutius praises her to the skies, lauds her benevolence to the poor, her care for the afflicted and her ability as a ruler. There is no doubt at all that she was one of these wonderful women of the Renaissance whose administrative ability must be admired more than any other quality. During the absence of her husband she ruled the State with wonderful prudence, and yet with a justice tempered always with mercy. It was through her that a law was passed, protecting the Jews of Ferrara, that became a model for other similar legislation in the cities of Italy. It is interesting to trace the change of attitude of mind toward her on the part of those who either did not care for her or were actually bitterly opposed to her. Her sister-in-law, Isabella D'Este, became a real friend, as her letters attest, though at first she did not like at all the idea of the union of the house of D'Este with that of the Borgias, and it required all her father's force of will and all his political astuteness besides to secure her presence at the marriage. The letters of ten years later reveal a most intimate friendship between these two women. Within a year after her marriage she had completely won her husband, who was altogether indifferent at the beginning and who married her because of his father's insistence and entirely for political reasons. When her first baby died at birth her husband was most solicitous for her, anxious about her health and made a vow that he would go on a pilgrimage to Loretto for her recovery, a vow which he fulfilled just as soon as her convalescence was assured. The biographer of Bayard, the famous French Chevalier of the time, _sans peur et sans reproche_, declared apropos of the visit of Bayard to Madonna Lucretia at Ferrara: "I venture {304} to say that neither in her time nor for many years before has there been such a glorious princess. For she is beautiful and good, gentle and amiable to everyone." Gregorovius declares in his "Lucretia Borgia, According to Original Documents and Correspondence of Her Day": [Footnote 26] "Lucretia had won universal esteem and affection; she had become the mother of her people. She lent a ready ear to the suffering and helped all who were in need. She put aside, as Jovius, a contemporary, said, 'the pomps and vanities of the world to which she had been accustomed from childhood and gave herself up to pious works and founded and endowed convents and hospitals.'" She died at the early age of forty, so that the nearly twenty years of service for others represent not the aftermath of a long stormy life, when human passions had burnt themselves out, but the ripe years of maturity and highest vitality. [Footnote 26: Translated by Garner, Appleton, 1913, New York.] Caviceo even ventured when he wished to praise the famous Isabella Gonzaga to say that she approached the perfection of Lucretia. He adds, and Gregorovius has emphasized this opinion, "she redeemed the name of Borgia, which now was always mentioned with respect." Indeed there are few women who ever lived of whom such marvellous encomiums have been given by men who knew her well personally and who were themselves often among those in a period of great men and women whose memory the world will not willingly let die. Whatever of evil is said of her is said by writers of scandal and littleness in her own time, Italian enemies of the Spanish house of Borgia, which had come into Italy and had a great success. These vile traditions, the kitchen stories of the Renaissance, were gathered together and preserved because so many people are interested in what is evil rather than good. At a time when the greatness of the period in which she lived was ill appreciated and when religious motives tempted to credulity they came to be generally reported until Victor Hugo gathered them all together for his characterization of her and with Donizetti's opera popularized the idea that Lucretia was probably the worst woman who had ever lived. It has taken much writing of real history to modify this popular notion, which is not yet corrected, and nothing illustrates {305} better the fallibility of popular historical information than this Lucretia story. [Illustration: PALMA VECCHIO, ST. BARBARA] When she came to die her husband said of her, writing to his nephew in whose regard there was not the slightest question of hypocrisy or pretence: "I cannot write this without tears, knowing myself to be deprived of such a dear and sweet companion. For such her exemplary conduct and the tender love which existed between us made her to me." The greatest woman of the French Renaissance and probably the most influential of the women of the time, with the possible exception of Vittoria Colonna, was Marguerite of Angoulême. In English-speaking countries she is better known as Marguerite of Navarre, though in France she is sometimes spoken of also as Marguerite of Valois or of France. She was the sister of Francis I, King of France, and devoted in her affection towards him. Undoubtedly it was she more than any other who inspired her brother with the idea of founding the College of France, and it was she who was the patron and guardian of the French Renaissance. After Francis had been captured at the battle of Pavia and shipped as a prisoner to Spain she made the long, perilous, difficult journey that it was in those days from Paris to Madrid with sisterly devotion, and in spite of trying hardships stayed near her brother during his confinement. The world generally knows her as the author of the "Heptameron" and has condemned her rather severely because of its too great freedom of manners and morals. Our own generation, however, which from its youngest years reads in our daily newspapers much worse stories than Margaret ever wrote, should not be ready to condemn her. It is difficult to understand her writing of these stories unless one knows the conditions of the time. The license that had come in among the novelists led to the telling of many stories that even our age, accustomed to the greatest license in this matter, finds too frank. Margaret, whom her generation has agreed in calling a saint, hoped to undo the evil of such stories by telling them frankly and adding morals to them. The stories have been read and the morals neglected. Her idea was very much the same as the excuse made for the publication of many {306} criminal stories of all kinds in our time, that publicity makes for deterrence. The erroneous psychology of this attempt at justification for a serious breach of ethics is only too patent. Margaret's good intentions in the matter are undoubted. Good intentions, however, do not guarantee that acts will be without evil effects. Margaret was trying to correct the corruption of her time in very much the same way as many women have been aroused into activity in ours, only she made the sad mistake of using the wrong means by thinking that publicity or information would prove a safeguard against evil instead of an incentive to the very forms of vice that she was trying to correct--above all for the young. Her significance in literature is discussed in the chapter on French literature. Margaret's personal character is one of the most beautiful in history and it fully justifies the praise of her contemporaries and even Vittoria Colonna's words, which would seem fulsome. The most interesting phase of Marguerite's character is her devotion to the sick poor. Down at Alençon the large hospital owed its origin to her and her name was in benediction among the people because of all that she did. Hers was no mere distant service such as a queen might render because of the power she had to employ others, but she devoted herself to personal work for them that made them feel her saintly unselfishness. The king, her brother, gave her a grant for a foundling school in Paris. This was known as _La Maison des Enfants Rouges_, The House of the Red Children, because of the scarlet dresses which were the uniforms. Francis in his grant says that his sister had told him how these little children that had been picked up on the streets of Paris die when they are taken to the Hôtel Dieu and that they need the more special care of an institution for themselves and he is very glad to come to her assistance. When her own boy died at the age of a few months Marguerite, whose tender family affection can be very well appreciated from her relations with her brother, was stricken with grief. We have the naive description, however, of the strength of soul with which she bore it: "She went into her room, refusing the aid of any of the women attached to the Court, she thanked the Lord very humbly for all the good it had pleased {307} Him to do her." She went even farther than that, however, she forbade that there should be any public grief, had the Te Deum sung for joy in the church because the death meant the welcoming into Heaven of an angel and she had placards made to be posted throughout the city bearing the inscription, "The Lord hath given and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord." And yet she herself wore black after this and never changed it and after a time this became the formal color of ladies' dress at her court. One of the important women of the century whose administrative ability surpassed that of the men of the time is Mary of Burgundy, whose beautiful tomb is to be seen in Bruges. The monument is one of the gems of the old town, but is not more than befitting the character of the lady it was meant to commemorate. Her dealings with the proud burghers of the Netherlands were those of a sympathetic sovereign trying to assure prosperity to these thrifty towns whose trade made it possible for so many of their people to become wealthy and happy citizens. Had her mode of treating them descended to some of her successors we would have been spared that ugly record of nearly a hundred years of bloodshed and war and famine in the Low Countries, which makes one of the saddest blots on modern history. Her granting of privileges and conferring of rights with recognition of old customs in formal documents is now commemorated in many places in the modern art of the Low Countries, and these constitute her finest tribute and memorial. The last of the women of this century who deserves to be mentioned and without whom indeed any account of the century would be quite incomplete is probably the greatest of all the women of the period and perhaps the greatest intellectual woman who ever lived. The end of the chapter brings us back to Spain to Teresa de Cepeda y Ahumada, whom the world knows as St. Teresa. It is true that most of her work was accomplished after the close of the century, but as she was born in 1515 and was therefore thirty-five years of age before Columbus' Century closed, receiving all of her training and formation of mind in the great Renaissance period, her place is naturally in this epoch. She is the most important {308} of the women of the Renaissance, though this is seldom realized, and her reputation instead of decreasing with the years has rather increased. Even within the last twenty years a number of lives of her was written in every language in Europe and no less than a dozen of them have appeared in English. The feminists of the modern time have turned to her as one of the great representative women of all time. It is worth while recording some of the great tributes to her. Her own Spanish compatriots call her lovingly their Doctor of the Church. At Rome at the entrance of the Vatican Basilica where appear in marble the Fathers and the Doctors of the Church you will see one single statue raised to a woman and bearing this inscription, _"Mater Spiritualium"_--Mother of Things Spiritual. It is the statue of Teresa who has been gloriously proclaimed the Mother of Spirituality, the Mistress of Mystical Theology and practically a Doctor of the Church, in the principles of the spiritual life. The French and the Spanish are almost at opposite poles in their critical appreciations, yet Teresa has been honored almost as much in France as in her native country. Men so different as Bossuet and Fénelon have united in proclaiming her their teacher in the science of the saints and have declared her books, "The Way of Perfection," "The Castle of the Soul," "The Book of Foundations" and "Spiritual Advice," the most wonderful contributions to human knowledge that have ever been made. Nor was her appeal only to the Latin races in Europe. The German mystics have always found a special attraction in St. Teresa's work and this was true not only among the Catholic students in Germany, but also at nearly all times among the Protestants. In the modern time Teresa has been the subject of many monographs by German writers. In English, though national feeling and religious prejudice might be expected to make Teresa little known or even deliberately neglected, her works came to be very well known. In the middle of the seventeenth century Crashaw became enamored (no other word will express his lofty sentiments) of her writings and literally thought that no one had ever had so high a vision of things other-worldly. George Eliot paid {309} her tribute in the preface to "Middlemarch," and while her own dissatisfaction with life makes that tribute somewhat grudging and half-hearted, there is no doubt that our greatest woman novelist of the nineteenth century had been very deeply influenced by the writings of the calm light of the sixteenth. Scarcely any writer has had as wide a European influence as this cloistered saint, who wrote only because her confessor commanded her to and who had no thought of style or of anything other than getting the thoughts that would come to her as simply as possible before her Spanish religious brethren. Her Spanish prose is a marvel of simple dignity and correctness representing the best Spanish prose, even down to our time. When Echegaray, the well-known Spanish novelist of our time, received the Nobel Prize for literature a few years ago, he was asked what he did for the perfection of his Spanish style. He declared that almost the only book that he read for the sake of its style was "The Letters of St. Teresa." We have nothing quite like these letters in English, though Cowper's letters approach nearest to them. They are full of simplicity, are deeply interesting in their detail of ordinary life and above all are full of humor. This is the quality that most people would be quite sure was lacking in the great Spanish nun. Those who would explain her visions and her mortification on the ground of hysteria or psycho-neurotic conditions would be undeceived at once in their estimation of her character did they but read her letters. The hysterical are above all lacking in a sense of humor and take themselves very seriously. Dante is probably the only writer in European literature with whom St. Teresa can properly be compared. She has the same power to convey all the deep significance of other-worldliness, the same universality of interest, the same marvellous quality that draws to her particularly those who are themselves of deeply poetic or profoundly spiritual nature. Men who have spent long years in the study and the experience of the things with which her writings are concerned, find them most wondrously full of meaning and are most willing to devote time to them. The editions of her various works would fill a very large library, and there is no doubt at all that the {310} writings of no woman who ever lived occupy so large a place in libraries all over the world at the present time as those of St. Teresa. Beside St. Thomas and Dante as a worthy member of a glorious trinity of writers, with regard to the subjects that have been most elusive though most alluring for men, St. Teresa deserves a place. Anyone who would think, however, that she was merely a mystic would be sadly mistaken in the estimate of her career. She was above all a thoroughly practical woman. Her many foundations of the reform Carmelites under the most discouraging circumstances show the indomitable will of the woman and her power to live to accomplish. It was she who said when her poverty was urged as a reason for not making further foundations, "Teresa and five ducats can do nothing, but Teresa with God and five ducats can do everything." There is no doubt now that she more than any other in Spain turned back the tide of the Reformation. Her advice was eagerly sought on all sides. While carefully maintaining her cloistered life, she made many friends and influenced all of them for what was best in them. Her reform of the Carmelites brought many enemies, above all because other religious orders recognized that they too would have to share in the reform, yet all was carried out to a marvellously successful issue with gentleness and sweetness, but with a firmness and courage that nothing could daunt and a power of accomplishment that nothing could balk. Those who think that Teresa's books are mere essays in pietism or pleasant reading for moments of spiritual exaltation will be sadly mistaken. For depth of meaning and profundity of aspiration after the unknowable, yet approaching it nearer than any other has ever done, St. Teresa's books are unmatched. For analysis of the soul and for the manner of its unfolding in its strivings after higher things, Teresa has no equal. Her pictures of celestial things are a constant reminder of Dante. Most people think of the "Inferno" as Dante's masterpiece. Those who know him best think rather of the "Purgatorio," but a few lofty, poetic souls, steeped in the spiritual, have found his "Paradiso" the sublimest of human documents. While there are constant reminders of the {311} "Purgatorio" in many of Teresa's writings, it is the "Paradise," however, that most frequently recurs in comparison. What Cardinal Manning said of the "Paradiso" may well be repeated of Teresa's mystical works. It has been said, "After the _'Summa'_ of St. Thomas nothing remains but the vision of God." To this Cardinal Manning added, "after the 'Paradiso' of Dante there remains nothing but the beatific vision." Those whose life and studies have best fitted them as judges have felt thus about the Spanish Doctress of the Church. Teresa was eminently human in every regard, and though what might be considered harsh with herself, she was always kind to those who were around her, and especially any who were in real suffering. She came by these qualities very naturally, for her father is noted as an extremely good man and exceptionally good to his servants and charitable toward the poor of Avila. Indeed Teresa's biographers insist so much on these qualities as to make it very clear that the spirit of the time is represented by this member of the old Spanish nobility, who took his duties towards others so seriously. Teresa was not one of the exceptional souls who find convent life easy and even consoling from the beginning, but on the contrary she has told herself that she found the first eight days of her convent life terrible. It seemed to her a prison. She had a physical fear of austerities and pious books bored her. Perhaps the one very human thought that tempted her more than any other to enter the convent was her feeling of independence. The idea of marriage was quite distasteful. As she expressed it, it was one thing to obey God, but quite another thing to bind oneself to obey a man for a lifetime. As if in compensation for all that the neurologists and psychiatrists had to say of her, she herself had something to say of nervous patients. For her, nervousness so-called was largely selfishness. While sympathetic for feelings of depression, she had no sympathy for those who would not throw them off by occupation of mind, but yielded to them. She said, "What is called melancholy is at bottom only a desire to have one's own way." She believed firmly that one could not be made good by many rules, but goodness had to come from within and from the spirit. She was quite impatient with the {312} religious visitors, that is, special superiors sent to make inspections of houses of religious who gave a number of new rules for the communities. She said: "I am so tired with having to read all these rules that I do not know what would become of me if I were obliged to keep them." It is easy to understand then why Cardinal Manning should have said that St. Teresa furnishes an example that "spirituality perfects common sense." She herself was one of the most sensible, joyous and charming persons. Miss Field in the _Atlantic_ for March, 1903, says: "Her charm, her sweetness, the loveliness of her conversation were irresistible." It was Cardinal Manning, I believe, who declared that "she was one of those sovereign souls that are born from time to time as if to show what her race was created for at first and to what it is still destined." Teresa once said: "God preserve me from those great nobles who can do something, yet who are such strange cranks." She reminded her nuns on more than one occasion when she found in them a tendency to go to too great lengths in austerity that we have a body as well as a soul, and that this body when disregarded revenges itself upon the soul. There are few subjects of importance in life on which St. Teresa has not expressed herself wisely, and to know her writings is to be able to quote many marvellous summations of worldly experience that the cloister might seem to have precluded in her. On the subject of the relation of low wages and virtue, Miss Repplier in the article on "Our Loss of Nerve" _(Atlantic Monthly_, September, 1913) quoted St. Teresa's profound comment which sums up so well our whole social situation "where virtue is well rooted provocations matter little." [Illustration: MOSTAERT, VIRGO DEIPARA (ANTWERP)] {313} CHAPTER IX FEMININE EDUCATION There is probably no more interesting phase of Columbus' Century for our time than its feminine education, for the education of women had a period of important development in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries which affected a very large number of women of the time and afforded abundant opportunity to all those who wished to obtain the highest intellectual culture. This was not, in spite of the apparently very prevalent impression to that effect, the first time that women had been given a chance to secure the higher education, for on the contrary whenever there was a new awakening of educational interest, women asked and obtained the privilege of sharing in it and showed how thoroughly they could take advantage of such opportunities as were afforded them. In the early days of the universities women had been welcomed not only among the students but also the professors. They had full charge of the department of women's diseases down in the south of Italy where the most important part of the university was the medical school, and then later at Bologna they had been professors in every department,--in law, when the law school was the central university feature, in mathematics, in literature, even in anatomy. As a consequence of the tradition thus established there has never been a century since the twelfth in which there have not been distinguished women professors at some of the Italian universities. Earlier when Charlemagne was reorganizing education on the continent with the help of the Irish and English monks, the women of the court attended the palace school as well as the men, and we have many records of their interest. The women of the Benedictine monasteries shared the interest of the Benedictines generally in literature, made many copies of books, possessed large and important libraries and even {314} became distinguished as writers. Hroswitha, the nun dramatist of the tenth century, who came into prominence in Columbus' Century because of the issuance of an edition of her work by Celtes, the German Renaissance humanist, is but one example of the literary interest in the Benedictine convents which must have been ardent and widespread. Later we have the works of the great Abbess Hildegarde, who wrote on many subjects and who was probably the most important writer of her time. This is certainly true so far as physical sciences are concerned. St. Bernard, who was her contemporary, has enjoyed more reputation in subsequent generations than Hildegarde but she was almost as well known in her own as the great founder of the Cistercians. Earlier still than Charlemagne or the foundation of the convent schools St. Brigid had established a college for women at Kildare, in Ireland, to which there came many of the nobility not only of Ireland itself but also of England and of the neighboring shores of Europe, seeking the opportunity for higher education. We have learned more of the details of this Irish phase of feminine education in recent years, and it has grown ever more and more important in the history of education. At every new phase of educational development, then, the women had had their share in the movement, and it is not surprising that when the Renaissance brought with it that deep interest in the ancient classics, that was known as the New Learning, women also had their share in this. The very first of the great Italian teachers of the Renaissance Vittorino da Feltre insisted that there should be two conditions for his teaching. One was that the young women should be allowed to take advantage of it as well as the young men and the other that the poor who desired to study should not be denied access to his classes. The magnificent success that he made of education at Mantua was soon followed by similar movements in other Italian cities and everywhere the tradition of feminine education for those who desired to have it, came into existence. Guarino's influence for feminine education is only less than that of Vittorino. As a consequence there was not a city of any importance in Italy in which there were not some women {315} noted for their knowledge of the classics and their interest in the New Learning, and in many of the cities there were distinguished woman students who, even in their early years, exhibited scholarly qualifications that made them famous. Vittorino da Feltre, the great teacher of the beginning Renaissance, had during the first half of the fifteenth century a school at Mantua, where on the border of the lake he was teaching a group of noble youths and maidens according to the high ideals of education which he has so well laid down. Their course of study included Latin, Greek, philosophy, mathematics, grammar, logic, music, singing and dancing. Besides this, however, his scholars were taught "to live the simple life, to tell the truth and to remember that true scholarship was inseparable from virtue and a sense of lofty gratitude towards the Creator." As might have been expected from the Greek traditions of education, which were then attracting so much attention, the training of the body was not neglected and various outdoor games were insisted on so that there might be a healthy mind in a healthy body. Some of the traditions of that school at Mantua make very interesting reading and show how much some of the intervening periods in the history of education degenerated from those early days. For instance, we hear that not infrequently when Vittorino wanted to make a passage of Virgil impressive his scholars were taken out to Pietole, which has been identified as probably the village of Andes, in which, according to Donatus, Virgil was born, and here in the shady groves Virgil would be read and discussed and then there would be games and a return to the castle. While Vittorino was broad in his selections in the classic authors, and Virgil and Cicero and Homer and Demosthenes were read with explanations and then certain passages required to be learned by heart so as to form their style, he was no pedant and no friend of any exhibition of mere erudition. His most important bit of advice for his students was "First be sure that you have something to say, then say it simply." No wonder one of the D'Estes declared "that for virtue, learning and a rare and excellent way of teaching good manners, this master surpassed all others." {316} It would be easy to think that perhaps the young noblewomen of the time got but a very superficial knowledge of the classics, but we have a tradition of Cecilia Gonzaga, the daughter of the reigning house of Mantua and Vittorino's favorite pupil, that she could read Chrysostom at the age of eight and could write Greek with singular purity at the age of twelve. No wonder we hear of her later as the marvel of the age. Evidently all prejudice with regard to feminine education was at an end when Bembo said: "A girl ought to learn Latin, it puts the finishing touch to her charm." Sandys in his Harvard lectures on the Revival of Learning, has told the story of some of these young women scholars of Vittorino da Feltre and Guarino with some interesting details which show that success in scholarship did not prove an inflater of vanity in the young women of the time nor impair their religious spirit. "Women, as well as men, retained a grateful remembrance of the intellectual training, which they had received from Guarino and Vittorino. Vittorino's pupil, Cecilia Gonzaga, a daughter of the ruling house of Mantua, whose fresh and simple grace may be admired in the medallion of Pisanello, was already learning Greek at the age of seven; while, among the pupils of Guarino, Isotta Nogarola was skilled in Latin verse and prose, and quoted Greek and Latin authors in the course of those learned letters to her tutor, which were not entirely approved by the public opinion of Verona. In cases such as these, the studious temper was often associated with retiring habits and with strong religious feeling; and, like Baptista dei Malatesti, the former correspondent of Leonardo Bruni, both of these learned ladies ultimately took the veil." While so much attention was paid to the classics, the great Italian authors were not neglected and the Italian girls of the Renaissance were brought up to know the classic literature of the vernacular. It was the custom to have Dante and Petrarch and Ariosto read to them while they were doing embroidery, and these charming young women of the Renaissance in every country in Europe had the reputation for doing most wonderful embroidery. They also learned to play on {317} various musical instruments, and their voices were cultivated to the best possible advantage. It is often a source of wonder where they got the time to do all these things. Some of the letters from the French and Spanish ambassadors at these various Italian courts tell of the marvellous ability of these charming young women. As a rule the ambassador's idea in writing such descriptions was to suggest the possibility of marriages being arranged between the scions of the noble houses of their own countries with these women. It was rather important, therefore, that there should not be much exaggeration or the ambassador might well be discredited. It is easy to think that with all this of intellectual life the young women of the time must have had very little exercise, especially in the outer air, and above all must not have indulged in what we think of as sport. The story of Vittorino da Feltre's school is a contradiction of this, and besides the traditions that have come to us show that every young woman of the nobility learned to ride horseback at this time. All of them could ride boldly. They hunted and many of them went hawking. Riding was of course an absolutely necessary accomplishment at that time, for carriages were very rare, and such as there were were almost impossibly uncomfortable for long journeys. Good roads had not as yet been made outside of the towns, and the only way to go visiting friends at any distance was on horseback. Many of these young women had to travel long distances, especially at the time of their marriage, and later on they sometimes accompanied their husbands on rather long journeys. In spite of their reputation for scholarship, we have not any very serious remains of their intellectual efforts, and yet some of them wrote poetry and prose well above the average in merit, and at least in Italy their works are still read by students of Italian literature. For instance, we have the poems of Lucretia de Medici, the mother of Lorenzo the Magnificent, who had been one of the Tornabuoni family, merchant princes of Florence, with many of the solid virtues of the middle class from which she sprang. Tradition tells us that she was ever her great son's most trusted councillor, and he has left it on record that he thought her the wisest. She was {318} noted for her princely alms, her endowment of poor convents, her dowries to orphan girls, and though it has sometimes been said that these were all so many bids for popularity, any such discount of her good works wrongs her deeply, for she was profoundly religious, took particular care to bring up her children piously, and it is to the fact that she wrote hymns for them that we owe the poetic works that have come to us and which rank high among this form of poetry. The best known of these women of the Renaissance, that is, the most famous for their learning, were the sisters D'Este, Isabella and Beatrice, of whom we have so many interesting traditions. The famous Battista Guarino of Verona was chosen as teacher for the girls, and with him they learned to read Cicero and Virgil and study the history of Greece. They learned Italian literature from the many distinguished literary men, some of them themselves gifted poets, who came to the beautiful palace and its gardens at Ferrara, and were welcomed by the well-known patron of learning, the Duke of Ferrara. They learned to read French at least and to enjoy Provençal poetry. Their mother, Leonora of Aragon, the daughter of Ferdinand, or as he is sometimes called, Ferrante, King of Naples, was herself a scholarly woman. The traditions of scholarship at the Court of Naples were deep, and of long duration. As their father was the famous scholar and patron of learning, Duke Ercole I, there was a precious heritage of culture on both sides. Their mother, however, was more known for her piety even than for her learning, though this was so noteworthy as to be historical. Her charities made her looked up to by all of her people until it is not surprising that the chroniclers of her time speak of her as a saint. [Illustration: BELLINI, MADONNA, ST. CATHERINE AND MARY MAGDALEN (VENICE)] Often it is said that only a few of the daughters of the nobility had the opportunity for the higher education, and it is even the custom to declare that most of these were instances where fathers had expected sons instead of daughters and then raised the girls as companions and gave them the education that ordinarily was reserved for boys. George Eliot's picture of the times as given in "Romola," has sometimes emphasized this, and she herself seems not to have been quite able to persuade herself that there were liberal and abundant {319} opportunities for the education of women in Italy towards the end of the fifteenth century. It was so difficult in her (George Eliot's) time for a woman to obtain education that it was almost impossible to bring oneself to think of ample facilities existing nearly four centuries before. Anyone who reads Burckhardt, however, or indeed any of the modern writers on the Renaissance, will not be likely to think that education was reserved for single daughters of families, or that they indeed had any better opportunities than others except for the fact that family attention was centred on them as it is now. Burckhardt notes that it was especially the wives and daughters of the _condottieri,_ that is, of the hired leaders of armies, the self-made men of the time, who were lifting themselves up into positions of prominence, who were the most frequent among the educated women of the Renaissance. The records are complete enough to show that there was probably as much, if not more, feminine education in Italy at least than in our own time. This will probably be hard for many people to believe, but, as I have said, no important city was without it. What may be called the important cities of that time nearly all contained less than 100,000 inhabitants and many of them had not more than ten to twenty thousand. When one finds schools for the higher education of women in every one of these it is easy to understand how widely diffused the feminine movement was. Lest it should be thought that the education provided for or allowed the women of the time was narrow in its scope, with so many limitations that intellectual development in the true sense of the word was hampered, it may be as well to recall that women were even encouraged in the public display of their talents. We read of the young princesses and their court attendants taking part in Latin plays given before the Pope and other high ecclesiastics, as well as visiting rulers at this time. We have the story of Ippolita Sforza saluting Pope Pius II, who had been the scholarly AEneas Sylvius before his elevation to the pontificate, with a graceful Latin address when he came to the Congress at Mantua. Another of the oratorical princesses of the time was Battista Montefeltro, who is famous for addresses delivered on many important occasions. {320} While the D'Estes have been probably better known, historians declare that the women of the House of Gonzaga reached the highest excellence in this Renaissance period of feminine education. Everywhere, however, woman received the opportunity for whatever education she desired. Down in Naples the old Greek traditions had survived, and when the disturbance of the Grecian Empire by the Turks brought about a reawakening of Greek culture in the south of Italy, the women shared it as well as the men. At the Court of Joanna or Giovanna, whose career is of special interest as an anticipation of the ill-fated Mary, Queen of Scots, many of the women reached high intellectual distinction. It is to these lofty Neapolitan educational influences that we owe the intellectual development of Vittoria Colonna. Everywhere, however, the same story might be told. At Rome, at Florence, at Verona, at Padua, even at Forli and Ravenna and Rimini, as well as at Genoa, though Genoa was so much more intent on making money than developing its culture, the women took excellent advantage of the opportunities for learning, often proved to be more successful in their studies than their brothers, and though they did not accomplish much that was to endure in the intellectual life, they seem to have been thoroughly respected by their contemporaries and looked up to as cultured, scholarly personalities. In his "Heroines of Genoa and the Rivieras," Edgcumbe Staley [Footnote 27] has said something of the productivity of the literary women even of Genoa during this period. Genoa was known as probably more interested in mere luxury and less interested in the intellectual life for its own sake than any of the cities of Italy with which we are familiar. The Genoese were the merchant princes whose wives and children, like our own, were much more occupied with the display of their wealth than in the development of a taste for art and letters and the cultivation of a true critical faculty. I have already mentioned some of the products of the Genoese intellectual life among women, however, and this will add to the impression that I think is so true that in proportion to the population there were just as many women interested in education and in {321} literature, women writers and poets in that time as there are in our own. Mr. Staley said: [Footnote 27: Scribner & Sons, New York.] "Among the glittering bevies of intellectual and virtuous damsels, who delighted in the beauties and revelled in the romances of the Villetta di Negro and similar pleasures, were such _gentildonne_ as Peretta Scarpa-Negrone and Livia Spinola, who wrote poems of the heart and the home; Benedetta--Livia's sister--and Caterina Gastadenghi--she sang and played the folk songs of Liguria; Leonora Cibo and Pellegrina Lescara, sweet translators of the 'Aeneid' of Virgil and the 'Odes' of Horace." These educated women of the Renaissance were particularly noted for the application of their education to the concerns of their home. Their artistic taste was exercised, as we have already shown, in selecting various ornaments for it and in directing artists in its decoration. They did not have many art objects around them, but what few there were had been made as a rule by distinguished artists and represented something of the personality of the mistresses of the household. But it must not be thought that they devoted themselves exclusively to the cult of beauty in things. They realized their influence for good over the men of their time and exercised it. The example of Vittoria Colonna is often cited in this regard, but not because it is exceptional, rather what was characteristic. These educated women of the Renaissance were model wives and mothers. They were sedulous for the education of their children, and the poetry that we have from them, or the letters that have been preserved, and which show very clearly their high intellectual development, were meant for their children or for their relatives. Their homes were evidently always their first thought. They planned their own dresses, often executed some of the decoration for them, or had them designed or made under their direction, bought beautiful books for the home, encouraged the illuminators and the embroiderers and beautiful needleworkers of the time, and in general proved to be ready and able to help through their households to give opportunities for the artists, but also for the artisans and the arts and crafts workers of the time. We find a number of their names on the list of Aldus' {322} regular customers at Venice, his subscribers, who made it possible by assuring him at least the cost of his books to go on with his magnificent editions of the classics. We have letters in which they complain of the cost of these first editions because there were other household expenses to be met, but undoubtedly they were always greatly helpful in the educational cause. Most interesting perhaps of all that they did is the beautiful gardens, which, now that our generation through better transportation facilities is able to live out of town, are coming to be more properly appreciated than before. The Renaissance gardens have been the subject of much writing and illustration in our magazines and books in recent years, and it must not be forgotten that we owe them above all to the women of the Renaissance. They invited artists and architects, who designed them, and trained landscape gardeners to execute them, but it was their interest that was most important. Their gardens came to be an enlargement of their houses, and in the sunny land of Italy afforded many refuges for pleasant living, even in the warmest weather, and for the privacy of even their crowds of guests, which made their homes welcome repairs for the nobility of the time. Perhaps the best criterion of the thoroughness of the education given women at this time is the influence exerted by the women of the period on art and artists and literary men of the time, and above all the cultivated taste displayed in their homes. A typical example is afforded by Isabelle D'Este whose _camerini_, her private apartments, are reproduced at South Kensington and described in one of their manuals on Interior Decoration in Italy in the fifteenth century and the sixteenth century. As these decorations for the dowager Duchess D'Este were made just about the middle of Columbus' Century, the authoritative description of them will be the best document. The Museum of South Kensington has had one side of her painting room reconstructed, and it shows, as no mere description could, the beauty of the apartment and the taste of its owner. A quotation from the description of the three rooms as given in the South Kensington Art Handbook "Italian Wall Decorations of the Fifteenth and Sixteenth Centuries" will {323} serve better than any praise to give an idea of the charming retreat that Isabella made for herself when her position as Dowager Duchess gave her the leisure as well as the opportunity to devote herself to the construction of a retreat which should reflect her personality. "The 'Grotta,' on the ground floor of the old Palazzo Bonnacolsi, remained set apart for her collections of art and for receptions; princes on their travels, ambassadors on their missions, travellers of distinction and artists came to visit her. She accumulated in it statues and rare objects, and even added a 'Cortile,' with fountains playing during the summer. But the three new rooms at the top of the 'Paradiso' became the object of her predilection, and it is amidst such surroundings, the real 'paradise' of Isabella D'Este, that historians must place her portrait. "The first room was dedicated to music, the favorite pursuit of Isabella. The cupboards were filled with beautiful instruments: mandolines, lutes, clavichords inlaid with mother-of-pearl, and made specially for her by Lorenzo of Pavia; and here stood the famous organ by the same master, the description of which is to be found in the princess's correspondence. Round the walls of this first room were reproduced views of towns in 'intarsia' of rare woods, and on one of the panels figured a few bars of a 'Strambotto,' composed by Okenghem to words dictated by Isabella, and signed by that famous singing master. On the ceiling was the 'Stave,' which exists in the coat-of-arms of the House of Este, and along the cornices friezes were formed of musical instruments carved in the wood. "In the second room, devoted to painting and also to study, six masterpieces by the greatest painters of the time adorned the walls above the panelling. "The third room was reserved for receptions. Everywhere in the ceiling, in the compartments, in the friezes (delicately carved in gilded stucco upon an azure background) are found the devices commented on at length by the humanists of her court: 'Alpha and Omega' and the golden candlestick with seven branches, on which a single light has resisted the effects of the wind, with the motto, _'Unum sufficit in tenebris;'_ and {324} everywhere is to be read the mysterious motto of which she was so proud, _'Nec Spe nec Metu,'_ the highest resolution of a strong mind, which henceforth 'without hope, without fear,' ended in solitude a tormented life. In the recess of the thick wall slightly raised above the floor, Isabella placed her writing table within reach of the shelves containing her favorite books; while she read there or wrote those letters addressed to the poets and artists of Italy, overflowing with enthusiasm for arts and letters, when she lifted her eyes beyond the tranquil waters at the mouth of the Po, towards Governolo, she would see coming the gilded Bucentaur with the coat-of-arms of Ferrara, which brought her news of her family, D'Este, and that of Aragon." Lucretia Borgia at Ferrara not only continued the tradition of aesthetic good taste so characteristic of the D'Este family into which she had married, but even her years as mistress of the palace at Ferrara mark an epoch in its history. She succeeded in securing the services of some of the greatest of the artists of this wonderful period, who came and contributed to the decoration of her private apartments. Unfortunately her _camerini,_ private apartments, in the Castello Rosso of Ferrara were destroyed by fire in 1634. They had been adorned with paintings by Bellini, Titian and Dosso Dossi, fitted into recesses of white marble carved by Antonio Lombardi. These rooms as elsewhere were of small size, real living rooms, reflecting the character of the personal taste of the owner. They were sanctuaries of art and of literature with selected libraries of chosen volumes in fine bindings and of music with beautiful musical instruments. Many of these women of the Renaissance in Italy were famous for their devotion to works of charity. Indeed I know nothing that is more admirable than the story of their care for the ailing poor. It is often presumed that between their interest in education and literature and the artists of the time, and above all their devotion to the pleasures of dress and decoration, silks and jewels and perfumes, then coming in so rapidly from the East, these women must have had very little time for anything but selfish display of their personal beauty or intellectual talent. The rapid accumulation of wealth, {325} proportionally at least as great as in our time, might very readily be supposed to direct them as it has many other generations from the more serious side of life. The actual story of their lives is very different. There were exceptions, who have unfortunately attracted more attention than others, of whom little that is good can be said. The proportion, however, who devoted themselves with a nobility of soul that deserves to be commemorated to unselfish care for those who needed it was very large. Mr. Staley in his "Heroines of Genoa" (p. 225) has a paragraph on this subject which well deserves to be recalled, for it refers almost entirely to the women of Columbus' Century, and it must not be forgotten that Genoa was much more of a commercial city, with a more rapid rise in wealth, than any other in Italy except possibly Venice, and the beautiful spirit of personal service for the poor is therefore all the more admirable. "Women in every age and land are prone much more to works of mercy and religion; of such surely was 'the crown of daughters of Genoa'--so-called by many writers. Benedettina Grimaldi, 'chaste, self-denying, amiable, charitable, moderate in dress and personal pleasures,' a munificent patroness of the great Ospedale di Pammatone, nursed patients suffering from plague and leprosy and endowed beds for their treatment and alleviation; Argentina, daughter of Signore Opicio Spinola, and wife of the Marchese di Monferrato: Violanta, daughter of Signore Gianandrea Doria; and Isabella, daughter of Signore Luca Fiasco, and wife of Luchino, Prince of Milan, were contemporaries in the beneficent field of charity. Devoted to the offices of religion, they proved the sincerity of their faith by their eleemosynary services to sick and dying men and women in prison and to debased mariners in port. Benevolent institutions were founded and endowed, under the style of 'Le Donne di Misericordia,' in 1478 and in 1497, 'La Campagnia del Mantiletto'--'Wearers of the Veil,' by the munificence of noble-hearted women. All these threw open to the suffering objects of their regard the healthful pleasure grounds of their villas, and it was no rare sight to find a lady, fashionably attired, seated under the {326} colonnade of a temple, or beneath a shady tree, talking to and cheering poor and friendless sufferers." The names of the princesses who were prominent in the feminine education of this time have led many to conclude that only women of the higher classes were given the chance to be educated at this time. To a certain extent this is true, but at all times it must be true, for they alone have the leisure for the intellectual life. To recall what the nobility of Italy were at this time is to appreciate better the real situation. They were the successful merchant-bankers and their descendants (as the House of Medici), leaders of victorious armies, the scions of old families, who had made their influence felt in the politics of their cities for from three, sometimes even less, to ten, rarely more generations, the children of great navigators or admirals, even of successful traders and manufacturers--as the glass makers of Murano and the merchant princes of Genoa--in a word they represented exactly the same elements of the population as our better-to-do classes of to-day. It was the daughters of these who were accorded and took so well at this time the opportunity for education and culture. Besides these there were not a few of what may be called the lower classes who became famous for their scholarship. This had always been true in Italy particularly. Catherine of Siena was a dyer's daughter. Dante's inamorata and her companions, whom we think of as cultured because of the poems addressed to them, were the daughters of men in trade. But in the Renaissance the opportunities even for the comparatively poor to obtain education were greatly widened, and it is evident that any of the young women of the time who had the ambition for learning might obtain it and undoubtedly many of them did. The tradition created by Vittorino da Feltre, according to which women and those of less means might obtain education, maintained itself and proved the seed of further developments in the liberal provision of opportunities for education for all classes. [Illustration: PINTURICCHIO, HOLY FAMILY (SIENA)] The names of a number of women scholars have come down to us who did not belong to the higher nobility, and some of {327} their achievements have become a part of the great tradition of scholarship of the time. Alessandra Scala and Cassandra Fedele, for instance, were among the most learned correspondents of Politian and were looked upon as ladies with whom deep questions of scholarship might be discussed seriously. Domitilla Trivulzio delivered Latin orations before thronged assemblies and women orators were quite common. The tradition that women should not speak in public did not obtain at all at this time in Italy and we hear much of their eloquence. The impression so prevalent at the present moment, that this is the first time in history that women have dared to proclaim their rights publicly, is quite erroneous and is founded on a deep ignorance of realities, with a corresponding characteristic presumption of knowledge. Isotta of Verona took part in public controversies with regard to the relative value of men and women in life. It is strangely familiar to find that, for instance, one of the subjects which she discussed was whether man or woman was most to be blamed for what happened in the Garden of Eden, and still more familiar to find that her argument was that man was the responsible party. These learned women, however, were touched also by the tender passion, and one of the most distinguished of the feminine scholars, Veronica de Gambara, comes down to us in history as a pattern of conjugal faithfulness, while Gaspara Stampa, the distinguished poetess, according to tradition, died of love. One of the little known scholars among the Women of the Renaissance, who deserves a better fate than oblivion, is Olympia Morata, a veritable prodigy of learning. She received most of her education at the court of Duchess Renée at Ferrara. When she came, at the age of twelve, to be the companion of the Duchess's daughter, she was already familiar with Greek and Latin literature. This is surprising enough, but her subsequent progress is even more remarkable. "At fourteen she wrote Latin letters and essayed to imitate the dialogues of Cicero and Plato. At sixteen she lectured at the University of Ferrara on the Ciceronian Paradoxes" (Sandys). At twenty she married a good German, of whom almost the only thing we know is that he was her husband, and she {328} died at the early age of twenty-nine at Heidelberg. When her literary remains were collected they were dedicated to one who was reputed "the most learned lady of her age, Queen Elizabeth of England." The movement for the education of women of this time would have been quite incomplete, however, if the women themselves had not taken part in the organization of feminine education. In treating of "The Women of the Century" I have already suggested that this important element of feminine education was not lacking. There is abundant evidence of the presence and enduring work of at least one great woman educator, in the sense of an organizer of educational methods, whose influence has been continuously felt in many parts of the world ever since and whose work is not only alive in our time but has shown its power to adapt itself even to the needs and demands of the twentieth-century woman. This is, after all, only what might be expected of an educator of this time, since the other accomplishments of her contemporaries have proved so lasting in their effects. This very interesting woman of Columbus' Century, whose life is comparatively little known, though her work occupies a very important place in the history of education ever since, was Angela Merici, the foundress of the Ursulines. When twenty years of age this daughter of the lesser Italian nobility became convinced that the great need of that time was the better instruction of young girls in Christian doctrine and their training in a thoroughly Christian life. She converted her home into a school, where at certain hours of the day she gathered all the little girls of her native town of Desenzano, a small municipality on the southwestern shore of Lake Garda in Lombardy, and gave them lessons in the elements of Christianity. The work, thus humbly begun, proved to have so many factors of worth in it that it very soon attracted attention. Before long she was invited to the neighboring city of Brescia to establish a similar school, but on a much larger scale and more ambitious scope. She did so all the more willingly because one day during her earlier life in the small town of Desenzano she had had a vision in which it was revealed to her that she was to found an association of young women {329} who would take vows of chastity and devote their lives to the religious training of young girls. After years of patient waiting and thoughtful consideration of the subject of organizing the education of young women and providing for continuance of her work--the delay mainly due to the fact that Angela feared that she might not be capable of accomplishing it properly--she came to the establishment of a religious order that would take up this service. When the constitutions which she had written were presented to Paul III, the Pope, who in spite of his resolve not to increase the number of religious orders, had felt compelled to approve the Jesuits after reading their constitutions because, as he said, he perceived "the finger of God is here"; also found himself forced to approve of those written by Angela Merici, saying to St. Ignatius, the founder of the Jesuits, as he did so, "I have given you sisters." What the Jesuits did for the education of young men during the next two centuries, the Ursulines did for the young women. They spread rapidly until they had communities in all the Catholic countries of Europe, and then houses were established beyond the seas in the Latin-American countries and almost wherever missionaries succeeded in founding churches. Mother Incarnation came to Quebec and is one of the most wonderful women in the early history of the continent. That was before the end of the seventeenth century. At the beginning of the eighteenth (1726) they established a house in New Orleans. When persecutions came the Ursulines were, as a rule, picked out as an object of special enmity by those who sought to injure the Church. During the French Revolution they were the special butt of the intolerance of the French Republic and gave many martyrs to the cause of religion. When the Kulturkampf came in Germany they were as specifically selected for banishment as the Jesuits, and indeed they have nearly always shared the fate of the Jesuits in times of trial. They have not been without special distinction by persecution even here in America. Their convent was burned down at Charlestown in Massachusetts during the bitter wave of feelings against the religious orders that had been aroused among Protestants in 1835. Their house was the very centre of {330} danger in the "Know Nothing" riots in Philadelphia some twenty years later. To-day, four centuries after their foundation, the institute is still actively alive and doing its work in every part of the world. When the first sisters elected Angela as their superior they asked that the name of the institute should be the Angelines, after her own name. She was shocked and insisted that, as their superior, she would require them to take the name of Ursulines in honor of St. Ursula. With all this humility, her personality was so pervasive that it still lives in all her houses. There are schools for young women in many of the States of the Union and in many parts of Canada. They are to be found in distant Alaska, teaching within the Arctic Circle. There are Ursulines under the equator, both on this continent, in Brazil and in Africa. This is only another example of the sort of work that the wonderful characters of Columbus' Century accomplished. Whatever they did had a vital force in it that made it live and prove a stimulus and an example to the generations and the centuries down to our own time. Angela of Merici, though almost unknown outside of the Catholic Church, was one of the very great women of the Renaissance. Probably no woman of the time, not even St. Teresa, has had so wide and deep an influence over succeeding generations as the retiring Angela of Merici. As might well be expected, the movement for feminine education which was felt so strongly in Italy affected France to a scarcely less degree. Indeed, there were much more intimate relations between the nobility of the two countries and among the scholars of the time all over Europe than is usually supposed. As all the scholarly writing was done in Latin, the barrier of language was removed and educational interests readily became very widely diffused. Early in Columbus' Century, Queen Anne of Bretagne is famous for her insistence on education for the women of the French Court. There was a school of Latin at which they all attended, but besides they were expected to know Italian as well as French, and while doing their needlework books were read to them that were calculated to enrich their memories and enhance their literary taste. Queen Anne believed very thoroughly in the fullest of {331} intellectual development for women, and yet insisted also on their duties as managers of their households, and above all as home-makers in the best sense of the term. She knew the dangers of merely intellectual education, and expressions of hers on this subject are often quoted. The court of Queen Marguerite of Navarre was at least as intellectual as that of Queen Anne, and besides it had the advantage of the deeper knowledge of the classics that had come in the meantime. Marguerite encouraged literature, and herself contributed to it. She had the large tolerance of mind of the educated woman and used it to protect some of those who had fallen under the suspicion, so rife at the time because of the religious troubles in Germany, of favoring or attempting to teach heretical doctrines. As a consequence, she has herself fallen under the suspicion of leanings towards heresy and sympathy with the reformers. This was only, however, to the extent in which that sympathy was shared by Erasmus and others of the time, who saw the abuses that needed correction and hoped that the reform movement would correct them, but who broke with it at once when they realized that revolution and not true reformation was intended. The correspondence between Vittoria Colonna and Marguerite is evidence at once of the intimate relations of the learned women of different countries and also of the sympathy existing between these two scholarly women whose influence over their contemporaries meant so much for the intellectual life of the time. The education given Mary Queen of Scots, which is mentioned later in this chapter, shows how much intellectual development was appreciated for the ruling classes of the time in France. There are certain expressions from some of these educated women, especially those without much to do, that are wonderful anticipations of some of the things that are heard very commonly now as regards the attitude of educated women toward man's suppression of her in the preceding time. How strangely familiar are these words from Louise Labé, the French poetess of the middle class, one of whose poems of passion will be found in the chapter on French literature. "The hour has now struck," she declared, "when man can no {332} longer shackle the honest liberty which our sex has so long yearned for, when women are to prove how deeply men have hitherto wronged them." That expression is not, however, any more familiar than one of the comments of a masculine contemporary on this occupation of the educated women of the time with political ideas, which is quoted by Miss Sichel in her "Men and Women of the French Renaissance": "Political women go on chattering as if it were they who did everything." The women of the time, however, occupied themselves with practical work of many kinds, and not merely with book-learning or political scheming. There is a tradition of a feminine architect of the Tuileries--Mlle. Perron (Porch) being her not inappropriate name. Many Frenchwomen were particularly interested in the diffusion of education among the poorer classes, and we have the story of many school foundations. Mlle. Ste. Beuve, who founded a school and took up her residence opposite to it, became very much interested in the pupils, whom she called her "bees," and whom she encouraged by prizes and distinctions of various kinds. After her death, by the request of the scholars her place was set at table in their midst for the occasions on which she used to come to them, for they felt that her spirit was still with them. Mlle. Saintonge wanted to take up the work of education, but was opposed by her father. She was very much misunderstood, and at one time was stoned by the children on the street. She began with the teaching of five little girls in a garret. Ten years later she was brought in procession by all the people to the great new convent school erected for her, because they realized now how much her work was to mean and how thoroughly unselfish was her devotion to the cause of education and uplift for their children. In the course of the single century after the beginning of our period over three hundred Ursuline schools were opened in France for the education of girls, and the opportunities for education were greatly extended. Perhaps the greatest surprise for most people in our time is the fine development of feminine education that took place in Spain during this period. English-speaking people have, {333} as a rule, inherited English prejudices with regard to Spain and are likely to be somewhat in the position of asking, Has any good ever come out of Spain? As a matter of fact, the century just after Columbus' Century belongs to Spain for achievement in every department of intellectual and artistic culture. Her literature, her painting, her philosophy, her educators ruled the world of thought and aesthetics. For those who know something of the high worth of Spanish achievement it is no surprise to learn that education reached a high standard of development in the peninsula during Columbus' Century and that, above all, feminine education was magnificently organized, so that the intellectual achievements of the women of this time deserve a high place in the world's history. All this is mainly due to the influence of Isabella of Castile, and has been known for as long as the history of this period has been properly understood. In his "History of Ferdinand and Isabella" Prescott has told the story of the education and scholarship of Spain with words of high praise. With regard to the feminine education of the time he said in the chapter on "Castilian Literature" (Vol. II): "In this brilliant exhibition, those of the other sex must not be omitted who contributed by their intellectual endowments to the general illumination of the period. Among them the writers of that day lavish their panegyrics on the Marchioness of Monteagudo, and Doña Maria Pacheco, of the ancient house of Mendoza, sisters of the historian, Don Diego Hurtado, and daughters of the accomplished Count of Tendilla, who, while ambassador at Rome, induced Martyr to visit Spain and who was grandson of the famous Marquis of Santillana, and nephew of the Grand Cardinal. This illustrious family, rendered yet more illustrious by its merits than its birth, is worthy of specification, as affording altogether the most remarkable combination of literary talent in the enlightened court of Castile. The queen's instructor in the Latin language was a lady named Doña Beatriz de Galindo, called from her peculiar attainments _La Latina_. Another lady, Doña Lucia de Medrano, publicly lectured on the Latin classics in the University of Salamanca. And another, Doña Francisca de Lebrija, {334} daughter of the historian of that name, filled the chair of rhetoric with applause at Alcalá. But our limits will not allow a further enumeration of names which should never be permitted to sink into oblivion, were it only for the rare scholarship, peculiarly rare in the female sex, which they displayed in an age comparatively unenlightened. Female education in that day embraced a wider compass of erudition, in reference to the ancient languages, than is common at present; a circumstance attributable, probably, to the poverty of modern literature at that time, and the new and general appetite excited by the revival of classical learning in Italy. I am not aware, however, that it was usual for learned ladies, in any other country than Spain, to take part in the public exercises of the gymnasium, and deliver lectures from the chairs of the universities. This peculiarity, which may be referred in part to the queen's influence, who encouraged the love of study by her own example as well as by personal attendance on the academic examinations, may have been also suggested by a similar usage, already noticed among the Spanish Arabs." [Footnote 28] [Footnote 28: While Prescott's information with regard to the education of Spanish women is very interesting, certain parts of this passage are amusing because they represent mid-nineteenth century ideas with regard to the Renaissance period. Prescott talks of the age as "comparatively unenlightened," but then at that time we had not taken to imitating Renaissance architecture, studying Renaissance literature and art, copying Renaissance book-making and binding, admiring the marvellous workers of the Renaissance in every department and wondering how we could get some of the superabundant intellectual and artistic life of that time into ours. Prescott's complacency is typically American of two generations ago. Since his time we have learned much more of the old-time phases of feminine education as I have reviewed them briefly at the beginning of this chapter. We have learned that every country in Europe had a corresponding feministic movement to that of Spain, with learned ladies in profusion everywhere. His innuendo at the end of his paragraph on the subject that the Spanish development was probably due to similar Arabian customs is of a piece with that marked tendency in his time to find any source for good except Christianity. The Christian nations were supposed to have done nothing worth while till the Reformation. The Middle Ages were still the dark ages and men were supposed to have accomplished nothing. I need scarcely say that we have changed all that and that now the later Middle Ages are looked upon as one of the most productive periods of human history.] {335} The English ladies of the Renaissance are quite as distinguished as their sisters of Italy, France and Spain for their interest in education and the intellectual life. The first one who deserves mention was, though a Queen of England, a Frenchwoman by birth. This was Margaret of Anjou, the wife of the unfortunate Henry VI. If her husband had possessed half the spirit or administrative ability of his wife, the future history of England might have been very different. As it was, the failure of Margaret to secure the throne either for her husband or her children, left it to the Tudors with all that their tyranny meant for England and with the unfortunate religious disturbances which came as a consequence of the headstrong ways of the passionate descendants of the Welsh knight. Margaret founded Queen's College, Cambridge, just about the beginning of Columbus' Century and gave that example of enlightened patronage of learning which was to bear ample fruit among the Englishwomen of the Renaissance during the succeeding centuries. One of her successors, Queen Elizabeth Woodville, who refounded Queen's College when it was threatened with disaster because of the impairment of its endowment and efficiency by the Wars of the Roses, is another of the enlightened patronesses of learning at this time. About the middle of Columbus' Century, Margaret Beaufort founded the Divinity Lectureships of Oxford and Cambridge, since known as the Margaret Lectureships. She refounded Christ's College and St. John's College in Cambridge a few years later. She also founded a free school at Wymbourn in Dorsetshire. Her own intellectual abilities and education are attested by her translation of the "Imitation of Christ" at this time. Her wise counsellor in all of her efforts for the benefit of education was the martyred Bishop Fisher, who has left us a panegyric of her which enables us to appreciate her place as one of the distinguished learned women of the Renaissance. Like nearly all of these women, she was interested not only in books, but also in artistic work of many kinds and believed that an educated woman's first duty must be the decoration of the home. She excelled in ornamental needlework at a time {336} when a great many of the noble ladies were accustomed to do this sort of art work and when many beautiful examples of it were produced. Another member of the nobility who became well known for her intellectual attainments was Mary, Countess of Arundel, the compiler of "Certain Ingenious Sentences," a collection of proverbial expressions that had a wide popularity at this time. Toward the end of our Century came the women on whom the Renaissance had a more direct influence. A great many of the daughters of the nobility were given the opportunity for the highest education, and many of them took it very brilliantly. The names of the distinguished women scholars, or at least of women who were noted for their attainments, are numerous and include many even of royal blood. Evidently feminine education had become the fashion, and many others must have been interested in it since it affected the great ladies so deeply. It would be quite impossible to think that what occupied so much the attention of the daughters of the highest nobility would not also prove a great attraction for many others. Perhaps the best known of the "blue stockings" of the time is Lady Jane Grey, of whose attainments we have so sympathetic an account from Roger Ascham. He says that she was deeply read in philosophy, and that she knew Latin, Greek, Hebrew, Chaldaic, Arabic and French. We are told that she cared much more to read her Greek authors than to go to routs and parties, or even to go hunting, which was the most fashionable amusement of the time. Besides, she knew music well and was particularly skilled in needlework. Indeed, there is none of these distinguished scholarly women of England of whose devotion to needlework we do not hear. Mary Queen of Scots comes at the very end of the century, and French rather than English or Scotch influence was at work in her education, but the roll of her distinguished teachers shows how seriously the question of proper education for the future queen was taken at this period. George Buchanan was her professor of Latin, she studied rhetoric with Fauchet, history with Pasquier and poetry with Ronsard. We have at least one very interesting Latin poem that has been {337} attributed to her, and if the attribution be correct it is excellent evidence for her scholarliness. [Footnote 29] [Footnote 29: "O Domine Deus! Speravi in te; O care mi Iesu! Nunc libera me: In dura catena, In misera poena Desidero te; Languendo, gemendo, Et genuflectendo Adoro, imploro, Ut liberes me!" ] Her rival, Elizabeth, was only seventeen years of age when the century closed, but this was also the age of Lady Jane Grey, when she was put to death, yet we hear much of her attainments and Elizabeth was one of her great scholarly rivals. Like Lady Jane, Elizabeth is said to have known five languages and to have studied music, philosophy, rhetoric and history to such good purpose that her accomplishments were much more than mediocre or conventional. With these examples before us there can be no doubt at all of the fashionableness of the higher education for women, and whatever is fashionable attracts the attention of all classes of women. Probably the best example of the provision of opportunities for even the highest education for women is to be found in Sir Thomas More's household. He thought that his girls should share equally with his boys in their opportunities for the new learning. His daughter Margaret is quite famous for her attainments, Erasmus and others having praised her so highly. She had a thorough knowledge of Greek and Latin and much more than a passing or superficial acquaintance with philosophy, astronomy, physics, arithmetic, logic, rhetoric and music. The affection of her father for her, his encouragement of her studies and the intimate relations between them have made her illustrious not only in the history of feminine education, but in world history. While near the end of his life More was Lord Chancellor, his family was not of the higher nobility, and he himself, as practically a self-made man, belonged only to the professional classes of the time. It seems not far-fetched, then, to conclude that a good many of the daughters of lawyers and physicians at this time must have had abundant opportunities afforded them for as much education as they cared to have, though of course they would {338} not have the advantages of More's children, which were due, however, not to his political importance, but to his friendship for the great scholars of the time. While Margaret is so well known it must not be forgotten, though we hear so much less of them, that More's two other daughters were also very well educated. Leland, the antiquary, wrote of "the three learned nymphs, great More's fair progeny." If so little is known of More's other daughters, it is probable that there were not a few others who had similar advantages to theirs, though no record of it is in history. Among the many demonstrations that this intellectual movement among women was not confined to Italy, nor even to the Southern nations, is the career of Charitas Pirkheimer, the Abbess of the Convent of the Poor Clares in Nuremberg. She became famous as an educated woman with whom many of the distinguished scholars of the Renaissance were proud to be associated. Her brother Wilibald, who was her guide and teacher, appreciated her so much that he dedicated several of his books to her, and in the preface of one, "On the Delayed Vengeance of the Deity," a Latin translation of Plutarch's treatise, he praises her education and her successful devotion to study. More disturbed than astonished, she protested that she was only the friend of scholars, but not herself a scholar. When Conrad Celtes published his collection of the works of Roswitha, he presented one of the first copies of the book to Charity Pirkheimer, and in a eulogy written on that occasion lauds her as one of the glorious ornaments of the German Fatherland. He enclosed a volume of his poems at the same time, and the good abbess very candidly asked him to devote himself rather to the study of the sacred books and the contemplation of high things than to the study of the sensual and low in the ancients. She was a great friend of Johann Butzbach and of Albrecht Dürer. Christopher Scheurl dedicated to her his book on "The Uses of the Mass," In his article in the Catholic Encyclopedia, Klemens Loffler says of her: "But all the praise she received excited no pride in Charitas; she remained simple, affable, modest and independent, uniting in perfect harmony high education and deep piety. It was thus she resisted the severe temptations which hung over the last ten years of her life." {339} [Illustration: DÜRER NATIVITY ] {340} Some expressions of the women of the Renaissance are famous for their wit and aptness. The famous reply of one of them, the Princess Christina of Denmark, may be taken as evidence that witty power of expression was not confined to the women of the Southern countries. Her picture by Holbein, "The Lady with the Cloak," is so well known that we seem to be able to recreate her personality rather completely. She was approached by the ambassadors of Henry VIII after the death of Jane Seymour with a proposal of marriage. Indeed, Holbein's picture was made for the purpose of giving the uxorious Henry an idea of the charms of the young woman. She was only eighteen at the time, but she was already the widow of Francesco Sforza, and she is said to have replied she would be quite willing to be the Queen of England if she had two heads and could be sure of retaining one of them. As she had only one, however, she could not take any risks in the matter. Julia Cartwright's life of her, recently published, shows what a clever woman of the Renaissance she was. Her reply is quite worthy of the Italian ladies of the time, some of whom were noted for their rather biting wit. One of the nobility in Italy having said that man's duty was to fight and not to take part in social ceremonies, one of the Gonzagas said; "It is too bad, then, that he does not hang himself up in a closet with his armor whenever he is not actually engaged in warfare." It is often assumed that intellectual development, and especially the higher education, has a tendency to take women away from that devout attitude of mind which makes them religious. There are many examples in the Renaissance time, however, which serve to disprove this idea. The smaller and more superficial minds may be thus affected. It is not true for the larger, more profound intelligence. St. Teresa, in her directions to the Mothers of houses as regards the reception of postulants, said: "Where there is ignorance and piety do not forget that the piety may evaporate and the ignorance remain." Many of the best-known intellectual ladies of the Renaissance time were deeply pious, Vittoria Colonna is a typical example, so in spite of the apparent testimony of her famous book to the contrary is Marguerite of Navarre. [Illustration: VIVARINI, ST. CLARE] {341} Lucretia Tornabuoni, the mother of Lorenzo the Magnificent, wrote some charming religious verse. The difference of opinion between Clarice dei Orsini, the wife of Lorenzo, and Politian as regards the teaching of religion to her children, in which she came off victor, is well known. Above all, these women were all close to the religious women of the time. Many of them spent some days every year at least, often some weeks, in favorite convents. They took their rest by following the daily exercises of the monastic life in various convents. Vittoria Colonna was noted for this, and during her widowhood spent very much time in this way. Nothing that I know contradicts so completely the slanders as to convent life at this time as these intimate relations with the religious. It is noteworthy that in our country and time, just in proportion as education for women is widely diffused, the practice of more intimate relations with convents grows more common. Many women of the world, teachers, writers, take a few days each year now for a retreat in a convent. Not a few of those who enter religion are very well educated. A great many of those who belong to the teaching orders are thoroughly trained, and often fine experts in their specialties. In the Renaissance period the daughters of the great noble houses sometimes entered religious orders. Not infrequently they met with opposition, and especially parental and family influence was exerted to divert them from their purpose. Paola and Cecilia Gonzaga both became religious. There was considerable family opposition, especially on her father's part, against Cecilia's accomplishment of her purpose, but her great teacher, Vittorino da Feltre, one of whose favorite pupils Cecilia was, took her side. When her father insisted on finding a husband for her, Vittorino urged that women should be allowed to choose their careers for themselves, and above all, if they felt the call to the spiritual and intellectual life, should be given the opportunity for the self-development that the peace and ordered life of the cloister afforded. Burckhardt has summed up the qualities of the women of {342} the Renaissance in a single sentence, that is worth while recalling. So much is said about the influence of the study of the classics in producing pagan ideas and looseness of morals and relaxation of old ethical standards during the Renaissance that it is well to recall what this deep student of the time thought. His words will be found to corroborate and sum up the character that we have been trying to paint of the women of the Renaissance in these pages: "Their distinction consisted in the fact that their beauty, disposition, education, virtue and piety combined to make them harmonious human beings." {343} CHAPTER X PHYSICAL SCIENCE OF THE CENTURY While it is universally conceded that the Renaissance was a supremely great period in all the arts and literature, in education and scholarship, and that its geographical discoveries made it noteworthy from another standpoint, there is a very prevalent impression that it was distinctly lacking in scientific development and that indeed the proper attitude of mind for successful scientific investigation was a much later evolution. Most of the discoveries of even basic notions in science are almost universally thought to have been reserved for our time or at least for generations much nearer to us than Columbus' Century. Nothing could well be less consonant with the actual history of science than any such impression. At many times before ours man has made great scientific progress. The greatest mystery of human history is that often after great discoveries were made they were somehow lost sight of. Over and over again men forget their previous knowledge and have to begin once more. There was one of these magnificent developments of scientific thought in every department during Columbus' Century and discoveries were made and conclusions reached which revolutionized other modes of scientific thinking just as much as Columbus' discovery of America revolutionized geography, or the work of Raphael or Michelangelo and Leonardo revolutionized the artistic thought of the world. When we recall that it was at this time that Copernicus set forth the theory which has probably more influenced human thinking than any other and that this discovery developed directly from the mathematics of the time and while Vesalius revolutionized anatomy, the discovery of the circulation of the blood began a similar revolution in physiology and the foundations of botany and of modern chemistry in their relations to medicine were laid, some idea of the greatness of the {344} scientific advance of this period will be realized. Mathematics, particularly, developed marvellously and it is always when new horizons are opening out in mathematics that the exact sciences are sure to have a period of wonderful progress. Beautiful hospitals were erected and whenever there are good hospitals, surgery makes progress and that care for the patient which constitutes the essential part of medicine at all times, receives careful attention. Above all the men of the Renaissance took it on themselves to edit and translate and publish the ancient classics of science and make them available for the study of their own and subsequent generations. The debt which the modern world owes to the Renaissance in this matter is only coming to be properly realized as a consequence of our own development of scholarship in this generation. Only the profound scholar is likely to appreciate properly how much we are indebted to the patient, time-taking work of this period in making books available. Not only the ancient classics but also the works of the Middle Ages on scientific subjects were all published. The early Christian scholars, the Arabians, and above all, the great teachers of the later Middle Ages were edited and printed as an enduring heritage for mankind. The index of the feeling of the time toward physical science as well as the interest of the scholars of the period in nearly every phase of it is illustrated by the life of Cardinal Nicholas of Cusa, who is usually known as Cusanus. He was a distinguished German churchman who was made Bishop of Brixen and afterwards Cardinal and who had the confidence of the Popes to such a degree that he was sent out as Legate for the correction of abuses in Germany. He was particularly interested in mathematics and the great German historian of mathematics. Cantor, devotes a score of pages to the advances in mathematics which we owe to Cusanus. According to tradition during his journeys over the rough roads in the rude carriage of the time, he studied the curve described through the air by a fly as it was carried round the wheel after alighting on the top of it. He recognized this as a particular kind of curve which we know now as the cycloid and he studied many of its peculiarities and suggested its mathematical import. {345} He was particularly interested in astronomy and declared that the earth was round, was not the centre of the universe and that it could not be absolutely at rest. As he put it in Latin: _terra igitur, quae centrum esse nequit, motu omni carere non potest._ He described very clearly how the earth moved around its own axis, and then he added what cannot but seem a surprising declaration for those who in our time think such an idea of much later origin, that he considered that the earth itself cannot be fixed, but moves as do the other stars in the heavens, _Consideravi quod terra ista non potest esse fixa sed movetur ut aliae stellae._ More surprising still, he even seems to have reached by anticipation some idea of the constitution of the sun. He said: "To a spectator on the surface of the sun the splendor which appears to us would be invisible since it contains as it were an earth for its central mass with a circumferential envelope of light and heat and between the two an atmosphere of water and clouds and of ambient air." These expressions occur mainly in a book _"De Docta Ignorantia,"_ in which the Cardinal points out how many things which even educated people think they know are quite wrong. His other books are on mathematics, though there is a little treatise on the correction of the calendar which shows how thoroughly the men of the time recognized the error that had crept into the year and how capable they were of making the correction. In a book of his on "Static Experiments" he has a very original discussion of laboratory methods for the study of disease which is eminently scientific, and which is described in the chapter on Medicine. The life of George von Peuerbach, also Puerbach and Purbachius, the Austrian astronomer, one of Cardinal Nicholas' proteges who lived to be scarcely forty and whose greatest work was done just at the beginning of Columbus' Century, is an excellent index of the scientific spirit of the time. About 1440, when he was not yet twenty years of age, he received the degree of Master of Philosophy and of the Liberal Arts with the highest honors at the University of Vienna. After this he seemed to have spent some time at postgraduate work in Vienna, especially in mathematics under Johann von Gmünden. Just about the beginning of Columbus' Century he went to {346} Italy. Cardinal Nicholas of Cusa became interested in him and secured him a lectureship on Astronomy at the University of Ferrara. During the next few years he refused offers of professorships, at Bologna and Padua, because he wanted to go back to Vienna to teach in his alma mater. There, with the true Renaissance spirit of non-specialism, he lectured on philology and classical literature, giving special postgraduate courses in mathematics and astronomy. It was at this time that Johann Müller, Regiomontanus, as he is known, came under his tutelage. Purbach deserves the name that has been given him of the father of mathematical astronomy in modern times. He introduced the decimal system to replace the cumbersome duodecimal method of calculation, which up to his time had been used in mathematical astronomy. He took up the translation of Ptolemy's "Almagest," replaced chords by sines and calculated tables of sines for every minute of arc for a radius of 600,000 units. This wonderful work of simplification naturally attracted wide attention. Cardinal Bessarion was brought in touch with him during a visit to Vienna and was impressed with his genius as an observer and a teacher. He suggested that the work on Ptolemy should not be done on the faulty Latin translation which was the only one available in Vienna at the moment, but on some of the Greek manuscripts of the great Alexandrian astronomer. He offered to secure them and also to provide for Purbach's support during the stay in Rome necessary for the study. The invitation was accepted on condition that his pupil Regiomontanus should go with him. Unfortunately, however, Purbach died before his journey to Rome. His works were very popular in his own time and his commentary on the "Almagest of Ptolemy" as completed by Regiomontanus became one of the standard text-books of the time. Altogether there are some twenty of his works extant and his "New Theory of the Planets" remained a favorite book of reference for astronomers even long after the publication of Copernicus. His industry must have been enormous but was after all not different from that of many of his contemporaries. Astronomy was to be the great stimulating physical science of the early part of Columbus' Century and Purbach's successor {347} in the chain of scientific genius at this time was his pupil Johann Müller, or as he has come to be known from the Latinization of the name of the place of his birth, Königsberg (in Franconia, not far from Munich), Regiomontanus. As we have said, young Müller made his studies with Purbach at Vienna, became very much interested in astronomy and mathematics, at his master's suggestion accompanied Cardinal Bessarion to Italy and under his patronage took up the work of providing an abridgment of Ptolemy's great work, the "Almagest," in a Latin translation for those who might be deterred from the Greek. Cardinal Bessarion became very much interested in him and gave him a chance to study in Italy. Müller chose Padua and spent nearly ten years there. Whenever anybody in almost any country in Europe wanted to secure opportunities for study beyond those afforded by his native land at this time he went down to Padua. Linacre, Vesalius, John Caius went there for medicine, Copernicus, a little later than Regiomontanus, for mathematics and astronomy and it was the ardently desired goal of many a student's wishes. Müller spent nearly ten years in Italy, most of it at Padua and at the age of about thirty-five returned to Germany to take up his life work. He settled down in Nuremberg, where in connection with Bernard Walther he secured the erection of an observatory. Nuremberg, because of its fine work in the metals, was the best place to obtain mechanical contrivances of all kinds, and many of these were used for the first time for scientific purposes at this observatory. It became quite a show place for visitors and while Nuremberg was developing the literary and artistic circles in which the Pirkheimers, Albrecht Dürer and the Vischers and Adam Kraft shone conspicuously, scientific interest in the city was at a similar high level. Müller made a series of observations of great value in the astronomy of the time and substituted Venus for the moon as a connecting link between observations of the sun, the stars and the earth. He recognized the influence of refraction in altering the apparent places of the stars and he introduced the use of the tangent in mathematics. His most important work for the time, however, was the publication of a series of astronomical {348} leaflets, _"Ephemerides Astronomicae"_ in which his observations were published and also a series of calendars for popular information. These announced the eclipses, solar and lunar, for years before their recurrence and gave a high standing to astronomy as a science. Some of these leaflets even reached Spain and Portugal and encouraged Spanish and Portuguese navigators with the thought that they could depend on observations of the stars for their guidance at sea. In a way, then, Regiomontanus' work prepared the path along which Columbus' discovery was made. Regiomontanus' work attracted so much attention that he was invited to Rome to become the Papal Astronomer and to take up the practical work of correcting the Calendar. Unfortunately he died not long after his arrival in Rome, though not before he had been chosen as Bishop of Regensberg (Ratisbon) as a tribute to his scholarship and his piety. He thus became a successor of Albertus Magnus (in the bishopric), who had been in his time one of the profoundest of scholars and greatest of scientists. The tradition of appreciation of scholarship and original research had evidently been maintained for the three centuries that separate the two bishop scientists. A distinguished scientific student born at Nuremberg the same year as Regiomontanus was Martin Behem or Behaim, the well-known navigator and cartographer, who on his return to Nuremberg in 1493 made the famous terrestrial globe which was meant to illustrate for his townsmen the present state of geography as the Spaniards and Portuguese had been remaking it. Behem's work is a striking testimony to the excellence of geographic knowledge at this time, and only for the preservation of this globe we could scarcely have believed in the modern time how correct were the notions of the scholars of the period with regard to the older continent at least. One of the great physical scientists of this time is Toscanelli, the physician, mathematician, astronomer and cosmographer, over whose connection with Columbus such a controversy has raged in recent years. He and Cardinal Cusanus were fellow students at the University of Padua, where Toscanelli's course consisted of mathematics, philosophy and medicine. He settled down as a practising physician in Florence and took up {349} scientific studies of many kinds which brought him into connection not only with the students of science, but with the scholars and artists of the time. Brunelleschi and he were intimate friends, but he was well known outside of Italy, and Regiomontanus often consulted him. His services to astronomy consist in the painstaking and exact observations on the orbit of the comets of 1433, 1449-50 and especially of Halley's comet on its appearance in 1456 and of the comets of May, 1457, June, July and August of the same year. These show a most accurate power of astronomical observation and profound mathematical knowledge for that time. His famous chart indicated just how a navigator might reach the coast of India by sailing westward, and Columbus is said to have carried a copy of this chart with him on his first voyage. Whether this is true or not, there is no doubt of Toscanelli's place in the history of science because of original work in astronomy, geodesy and geography. The most important protagonist of physical science during Columbus' Century, however, was undoubtedly Copernicus. Columbus gave the men of his time a new world, but Copernicus gave them a new creation. When early in the sixteenth century he published a preliminary sketch of his theory, one of his ecclesiastical friends remarked to him that he was giving his generation a new universe. There has probably never been a theory advanced which has changed men's modes of thinking with regard to the world they live in and their relation to it as the Copernican hypothesis has done, though it must not be forgotten that there are some as yet insuperable difficulties which keep it still in the class of scientific hypotheses. The earth had up to this time been universally thought of as the centre of the universe, much more important than any of the other bodies, sun, moon or stars, and all the others were thought to move around it. Their apparent movement was due to the rotation of the earth, which was quite unrecognized. The immense distances of space were entirely undreamt of. In the new order of thinking the earth became a minor planet of small size in our solar system which was of inconspicuous magnitude when compared to the totality of the other bodies of the universe. The acceptance of the new theory sank man in his own estimation very considerably. The change of point of view of {350} the meaning of the universe necessitated by the Copernican theory was ever so much greater than that demanded by evolution in our time. It took two centuries for men to adjust their thinking to these new ideas. Francis Bacon, a full century after Copernicus' time, declared emphatically that the Copernican theory did not explain the known facts of astronomy as well as the Ptolemaic theory. In Bacon's time Galileo was the subject of persecution and the reason for the persecution was that he was advancing a doctrine which no other great astronomer of his time accepted, and advancing it for reasons which have not held in the after-time. The Copernican theory came eventually to be accepted for quite different reasons from those advanced by Galileo. How Copernicus succeeded in coming to this magnificent generalization is indeed hard to understand. It is easier to get some notion of it, however, when his achievement is taken in connection with what was being done all around him at this time. Living in a century when great men were accomplishing triumphs in painting, sculpture, architecture that have been the wonder of the world ever since, and when geography was being revolutionized, and nearly every science awakened, it is not surprising that he should have reached a height of mathematical and astronomical expression beyond any that men had ever conceived before and that he should have surpassed many of the generations to come after him, by the clearness of his intuition of the astronomical mystery of the universe. Copernicus had not made many observations nor were such observations as had been made by him worked out with that painstaking accuracy which might be thought necessary to reach a great new conception of the universe. He had the genius to see from even the few and imperfect data that he had at hand what the true explanation of the diverse phenomena of the heavens was. He had no demonstrations to advance. He argued merely from analogy. Even Galileo, a century later, admitted to Cardinal Bellarmine that he had no strict demonstration of his views to offer, but that "the system seems to be true." While the feeling of many scientists in the modern time is that great discoveries come from patient {351} accumulation of accurate observations in large numbers, the history of science shows that almost invariably the epochal steps in progress have come from men who were comparatively young as a rule and who were not overloaded with the information of their time. The great artists of the Renaissance could probably have given no better reasons for their artistic conceptions than Copernicus for his stroke of genius, but they were all working at a time when somehow men were capable as they never have been since of these far-reaching intellectual achievements. Copernicus was a Pole who, like other students of his time, gladly welcomed the opportunity to go down to Italy for post-graduate work, studied with Novara at Padua mathematics and astronomy and was quite willing to add the study of medicine, because by so doing he could secure an extension of the length of time he would be allowed to remain in Italy. He then returned to be a canon of the Cathedral of Frauenberg, and spent forty years in quiet patient observation and in the practice of his medical profession not for money, but for the benefit of the poor and such friends of the chapter of the Cathedral as he was under obligations to because of the years they had supported him in Italy. He probably reached his great astronomical theory when he was about thirty. He did not publish the preliminary sketch of it for twenty-five years. He did not publish his great book until just before his death, keeping it by him, making changes in it and while thoroughly convinced of its importance, quite sure that, owing to its lack of definite demonstration, it would not be generally accepted. Like so many of these geniuses of the Renaissance he was a simple kindly man who had many good friends among those around him and who had one of the very happy lives accorded to those who, having some great thought and great work to occupy themselves with, have daily duties that afford them diversion and bring them into contact with friends in many ordinary relations in life. His humility of heart and simplicity of character, as well as his deep religious faith, can be very well appreciated from the prayer which at his own request was the only inscription upon his tombstone: "I ask not the {352} grace accorded to Paul, not that given to Peter; give me only the favor Thou didst show to the thief on the Cross." His attitude toward the reform movement, twenty years of which he lived through in Germany, is interesting. He was an intimate friend of Bishop Maurice Ferber of Ermland, who kept his see loyal to Rome at an epoch when the secularization of the Teutonic Order and the falling away of many bishops all around him make his position and that of his diocese noteworthy in the history of that place and time. Copernicus continued loyal to the old Church and in 1541 his great book _"De Revolutionibus Orbium Celestium"_ was dedicated to Pope Paul III, who accepted the dedication and until the Galileo matter brought Copemicanism prominently into question there was never any thought of Copernicus' book as containing matters opposed to faith. It was then placed on the _Index_, but only until some minor passages should be corrected which set forth the new theory as if it were an astronomical doctrine founded on facts and demonstrations and not a hypothesis still to be discussed by scientists. The scientific spirit of this century is often scouted because in spite of their scientific knowledge many of the astronomers and mathematicians of this time as well as, of course, other educated men following their example, could not quite rid themselves of the idea that the stars were powerful influences over man's life and health. The history of this idea, however, minimizes the objection. All down the centuries men like Roger Bacon, Albertus Magnus, Nicholas of Cusa, Marsilio Ficino and Pico della Mirandola insisted that there could be nothing in what we now call astrology. Men parted with the older ideas very slowly, however. Almost a hundred years after Columbus' Century even Galileo made horoscopes and seems to have thoroughly believed in them, though some of his prophecies were sadly mistaken. Kepler drew up horoscopes, confessing that he had not much confidence in them but that they were paid for much better than other mathematical work and he sadly needed the money. Lord Bacon could not quite persuade himself that there was nothing in astrology. As late as after the middle of the eighteenth century Mesmer's thesis for graduation in medicine at the University of Vienna, which {353} at that time had one of the best medical schools of Europe, was on the influence of the stars on human constitutions. It was accepted by the faculty and he got his degree. Even in our time, though now the educated contemn, the mass of the people still have not entirely rejected astrology. The men of Columbus' Century can scarcely be thought less of for having accepted it, though many of the scientists of the time did not. The counterpart to the great scientific genius that Copernicus was, the generalizer who discloses a new horizon, was to be found in his contemporary, Leonardo da Vinci, who was an inventor, a practical genius applying discoveries to everyday life. He solved most of the mechanical problems, invented locks for canals, the wheelbarrow and special methods of excavation, a machine for making files by machinery, run by a weight, a machine for sawing marble blocks instead of separating them by natural cleavage, the model of those still employed at Carrara, as well as machines for planing iron, for making vices, saws and planes, for spinning, for shearing the nap of cloth, as well as an artist's sketching stool, a color grinder, a spring to keep doors shut, a roasting jack, a hood for chimneys, movable derricks quite similar to those in use among us to-day, with contrivances for setting up marble columns on their bases, one of which in principle was used to set up Cleopatra's Needle on the Embankment in London in our time. A favorite field of invention was that of all sorts of apparatus relating to war, military engines, devices for pushing scaling ladders away from walls and many others. He was probably the greatest inventive genius in the world's history. He had an eminently practical mind. He devoted himself to the problem of flying, studied the wings of birds and produced a series of mechanical devices, tending toward the solution of that problem. Taine said of him: "Leonardo da Vinci is the inventor by anticipation of all the modern ideas and of all the modern curiosities, a universal and refined genius, a solitary and inappeasable investigator, pushing his divinations beyond his century so as at some times to reach ours." There was scarcely anything that he touched that he did not illuminate wonderfully by his genius. In studying the muscles of animals he invented a {354} dynamometer, he improved spectacles and studied the laws of light, invented the camera obscura and in his steam experiments anticipated Watt. A very curious feature of his work is his series of experiments with the steam gun, with which he was sure that great destruction might be worked. A very interesting invention of a scientific instrument of some precision by Leonardo was what may be called a weather gauge. This was made of a copper ring with a small rod of wood, which acted as a balance. On it were two little balls, one covered with wax and the other with material that absorbed moisture readily. When the air was saturated with moisture this ball grew heavy and inclined the beam till it touched one of the divisions marked on the copper ring set behind it. The degree of moisture could thus be seen and the weather, or at least changes in it, could be predicted. We have a whole series of such arrangements mainly in the shape of toys in the modern time. The hygroscopic qualities of cord or the tendency of certain colors to change their tints when more moisture is present are used to indicate approaching changes in the weather. Leonardo seems to have been the first to make use of this practically and he deserves the credit of priority in the invention. His studies in optics might almost naturally be expected from a painter so much occupied with color and whose intense curiosity prompted him to know not merely the use of things but the causes of and the reasons for them. He evolved much of the science of color vision, suggested the principles of optics that came to be known only much later, analyzed and explained the construction of the eye, invented the camera obscura in imitation of it and gave us a theory of color vision which is as good as any other that we have down to the present day. These optical studies alone might well be considered as enough to occupy an ordinary lifetime, but they seem to have been only the results of a series of interludes of the nature of recreation for Leonardo. He made his notes on the subject, filed them away with others, made no attempt to print his conclusions, probably found very few with whom he could discuss the subject, but he had satisfied himself. That was what he wanted. {355} After knowing such facts as this we are not surprised to learn of his anticipating by some sort of divination the laws of gravitation, the molecular composition of water, the motion of waves, the undulatory theory of light and heat, the earth's rotation and rotundity before Columbus' time and many other surprising things. One finds in his diary that he was planning the construction of a harbor and studying the music of the waves on the beach at the same time. Poggendorff, in his great Biographical Dictionary of prominent men of science, quotes Libri's "History of Mathematics in Italy" as authority for the declaration that Leonardo discovered capillarity and diffraction, made use of the signs + and -, knew the camera obscura (without a lens), made observations on resistance, on density, on the weight of the air, on dust figures, on vibrating surfaces and on friction and its effects. All sorts of machines came from Leonardo's hands. He had a positive genius for practical invention that has probably never been equalled, surely not surpassed, even down to our own day. His inventive faculty worked itself out, in machines of such variety as have never come from the brain of a single individual before. Nor were these merely primitive mechanical devices that we would surely despise now. On the contrary, nearly all of them have endured in principle at least and some of them almost as they came from him. Leonardo also did distinguished work in the biological sciences, so that Duval, Professor of Anatomy at the University of Paris and himself well known both for his researches in biology and his knowledge of the history of science, entitles an article with regard to him in the French _Revue Scientifique_ (Dec. 7, 1889), "A Biologist of the Fifteenth Century." His biological discoveries are discussed in the chapter on the Biological Sciences. Sometimes it is asserted by those who are so little familiar with the history of science that they venture on such assertions rather easily, that the true scientific spirit had not yet awakened and that while men were making many observations and acquiring new information they had not as yet the proper scientific attitude of mind to make really great discoveries. It is {356} rather amusing to be told that of a century when Copernicus and Vesalius and so many other distinguished modern scientists were alive. Some writers suggest that the true rising of the modern spirit of scientific inquiry did not come until Francis Bacon's time. Francis Bacon is one of the idols of the marketplace, but surely no serious student of history accords him the place in science that our English forbears gave him when they were insular enough to know very little about continental work, and above all about Italian workers. Francis Bacon, of course, had been long anticipated in all that concerns the inductive method in science by his much greater namesake Roger Bacon. In Columbus' Century however, a hundred years before Bacon's time, Bernardino Telesio, the Italian philosopher, stated fully the inductive method and recognized all its possibilities. In _Science_ for December 19, 1913, Professor Carmichael said of him: "He abandoned completely the purely intellectual sphere of the ancient Greeks and other thinkers prior to his time and proposed an inquiry into the data given by the senses. He held that from these data all true knowledge really comes. The work of Telesio, therefore, marks the fundamental revolution in scientific thought by which we pass over from the ancient to the modern methods. He was successful in showing that from Aristotle the appeal lay to nature, and he made possible the day when men would no longer treat the _ipse dixit_ of the Stagirite philosopher as the final authority in matters of science." The tendency of this century to make scientific principles of value for practical purposes is well illustrated by the references to the sympathetic telegraph which began to be much talked of at this time. According to the story as told, friends at a distance might be able to communicate with each other by having two dials around which the letters of the alphabet were arranged with a magnetic needle swinging free as the indicator. When the needle on one of the dials was moved to a letter, the other by magnetic attraction was supposed to turn to the same letter. This ingenious conceit has been attributed to Cardinal Bembo, one of the great scholars of the Renaissance, who was private secretary to Pope Leo X. His friend {357} Porta, the versatile philosopher, made it widely known by the vivid description which he gave of it in his celebrated work on "Natural Magic," published just after the close of Columbus' Century. A very important development in science came in the application of chemistry to medicine, both as regards physiology and pathology. Basil Valentine at the beginning of Columbus' Century led the way and Paracelsus did much to indicate what the advantage of the application of chemistry to medicine would be. Paracelsus compared the processes in the human body with chemical phenomena and declared that alterations in the chemical conditions of organs were the causes of disease. He set himself up in opposition to the humoral theory of the ancients and denied that the heart was the seat of heat manufacture in the body, for every portion of the system had, he asserted, its source of heat. It was through Paracelsus that chemistry was added to the medical curriculum and George Korn in his chapter on Medical Chemistry in Puschmann's "Handbook" attributes the foundation of certain professorships for chemistry at the universities of this time to Paracelsus' influence. Andreas Libavius did much to advance chemical science in various directions by his study and preparation of sulphuric acid and his recognition of the identity of the substance made from sulphur and saltpeter with that obtained from vitriol and alum. Studies of this kind brought a broad realization of the possibilities of chemistry. The spirit of the period as regards science and the development of the faculty of observation at this time is very well illustrated by Columbus' own observations on the declination of the magnetic needle during his first voyage across the ocean. Brother Potamian has told the story in "Makers of Electricity" (Fordham University Press, New York, 1909), page 22: "It is one of the gems in the crown of Columbus, that he observed, measured and recorded this strange behavior of the magnetic needle in his narrative of the voyage. True, he did not notice it until he was far out on the trackless ocean. A week had elapsed since he left the lordly Teneriffe, and a few days since the mountainous outline of Gomera had disappeared {358} from sight. The memorable night was that of September 13th, 1492. There was no mistaking it; the needle of the Santa Maria pointed a little west of north instead of due north. Some days later on September 17th, the pilots, having taken the sun's amplitude, reported that the variation had reached a whole point of the compass, the alarming amount of 11 degrees. "The surprise and anxiety which Columbus manifested on those occasions may be taken as indications that the phenomenon was new to him. As a matter of fact, however, his needles were not true even at the outset of the voyage from the port of Palos, where, though no one was aware of it, they pointed about 3° east of north. This angle diminished from day to day as the Admiral kept the prow of his caravel directed to the West, until it vanished altogether, after which the needles veered to the West, and kept moving westward for a time as the flagship proceeded on her voyage. "Columbus thus determined a place on the Atlantic in which the magnetic meridian coincided with the geographical and in which the needle stood true to the pole. Six years later, in 1498, Sebastian Cabot found another place on the same ocean, a little further north, in which the compass lay exactly in the north-and-south line. These two observations, one by Columbus and the other by Cabot, sufficed to determine the position of the agonic line, or line of no variation, for that locality and epoch. "The _Columbian_ line acquired at once considerable importance in the geographical and the political world, because of the proposal that was made to discard the Island of Ferro and take it for the prime meridian from which longitude would be reckoned east and west, and also because it was selected by Pope Alexander VI to serve as a line of reference in settling the rival claims of the kingdoms of Portugal and Castile with regard to their respective discoveries. It was decided that all recently discovered lands lying to the east of that line should belong to Portugal; and those of the west to Castile." The first observation of magnetic declination on land appears to have been made about the year 1510 by {359} George Hartmann, Vicar of the Church of St. Sebald, Nuremberg, who found it to be 6° East in Rome, where he was living at the time. He observed it also in Nuremberg, where the needle pointed ten degrees East of North. Columbus' explanation of the declination to his sailors is interesting. He kept silence about it at first, but when they grew alarmed, believing that the laws of nature were changing as they advanced farther and farther into the unknown, he told them that the needle did not point to the North Star, which had been called the Cynosure, but to a fixed point in the celestial sphere and that Polaris itself was not stationary, but had a rotational movement of its own, like all other heavenly bodies. They trusted him and their fears were allayed and a mutiny averted. When on his return to Spain he reported the many and definite observations on the variation of the compass which he had made he was told by the scientists of the time that he, and not the needle, was in error, because the latter was everywhere true to the pole. Just why they were sure it was so they could not tell, but they refused to believe even observations which showed that it was not so; though these were reported by a man who had just overturned quite as strong convictions by sailing westward and reaching land. It is such contradictions of what seem to be obviously first principles of science that in all ages have constituted great discoveries and required genius to make them. {360} CHAPTER XI BIOLOGICAL SCIENCES It is usually assumed that the biological sciences have developed in comparatively recent years and that above all nearly 500 years ago in the fifteenth century there could be no question of any developments that would be of any serious significance in the history of science. The word biology itself is only about a hundred years old and very often it is assumed that human interest in departments of knowledge begins with the naming of them. A period, however, that saw such magnificent work in the physical sciences and especially such a revolution of thought by means of observation as came through Copernicus' theory, was not likely to neglect the biological sciences entirely. As a matter of fact, biology, taking the word in its broadest sense, made some magnificent strides at this time. Perhaps no period until our own witnessed such significant advances in every department of the biological sciences. It is often said that the people of the Middle Ages had very little interest in the world around them. Indeed, surprise is often expressed that they should not have occupied themselves more with the wonderful book of nature lying so invitingly open before them and given themselves more to nature study. Some have even ventured to seek the reason and have thought that they found in it an exaggeration of interest in another world than this, and mediaeval lack of interest in natural truth has been attributed to over-occupation with the supernatural. Those who dare to think, however, that the people of the Middle Ages were not interested in nature know nothing at all of the great writers of that time. They are profoundly ignorant of the broad interests of those whom they so lightly criticise. Dante is full of nature study. More than any modern poet, with perhaps one or two exceptions, he has used his {361} knowledge of nature and of science to illustrate his meaning in many passages of his poetry. One needs but turn to the "Divine Comedy" almost anywhere to prove this. In his "Treatment of Nature in Dante." Professor Oscar Kuhns of Wesleyan University has demonstrated this beyond all doubt. Three voluminous encyclopaedias of knowledge, including many of the wonderful facts of nature, were compiled in the thirteenth century. Such men as Albertus Magnus, who has many volumes of scientific writing on natural subjects and who made collections and observations of all kinds, Roger Bacon, who has so many almost incredible anticipations of modern knowledge, and Thomas Aquinas, who used the facts of nature as known in his time for the basis of his philosophy quite as Aristotle did long before, all were enthusiastic nature students. They did not know many things which the modern schoolboy can easily learn, for we have accumulated a great deal of information; since not a little that they thought they knew was wrong,--but that has been true in every period of the world's history of science and even our own will not escape that inevitable law, but they knew ever so much more than is usually thought and what they knew was much more significant for real scientific progress than any but special students of their works have any idea of. It will not be surprising, then, to find that there were magnificent foundations laid in the biological sciences in Columbus' Century, and that indeed the work of this period represents some of the most important fundamental truths in these sciences. Anatomy, for instance, received a development during the Renaissance period that made it an independent scientific department. Men began to think again for themselves and make their own observations in the first half of the century. It is rather interesting to see the details that were added to the previous knowledge of anatomy, for these demonstrate the fact that they were observing accurately; A few examples will suffice to make this clear. Achillini noticed the _ductus choledochus_, the duct leading from the liver into the duodenum, and described the ilio-caecal valves. Berengar of Carpi corrected a number of mistakes that had existed in Mondino's _Anathomia_, the text-book {362} which had been most used since the beginning of the fourteenth century, and he discovered the foramina in the sphenoid bone. He will have, perhaps, still more of interest for our time, because he was the first to describe the vermiform appendix. He was also the first apparently to call attention to the fact that the thorax in men and the pelvis in women are wider in each case proportionately than in the other sex, and that roughly, while the feminine form is conical, the masculine is an inverted cone. Canani added much to the description of the muscles and was the first to notice the presence of valves in veins, discovering them in the _vena azygos_. Gabriele Zerbi noted the oblique and the circular muscles of the stomach and described the puncta lachrymalia, the ligamenta uteri and other anatomical details which had escaped description previously. His book on anatomy divided the bones and muscles and blood vessels into different chapters, and order was beginning to come out of the confusion that had existed because of the too-generalized teaching before. It is of the anatomists of this time that Puschmann in his "History of Medical Education" says, "The Italian anatomists had the habit of making the dissections of bodies for themselves, and it is for this reason that all the great anatomical discoveries of the time come from Italy. The anatomical schools of that country were the best in the world. All the greatest anatomists of the sixteenth century received their education there, and among the masters of the Italian schools are to be found the greatest names of which the science of anatomy can boast." Neuberger in his "Handbook of the History of Medicine" [Footnote 30] says, "The Italian professors, incited by the brilliant example of 'Mondino,' surpassed all the other anatomists of the world because they did not disdain to take in their own hands the anatomical scalpel, and it is for that reason that at this time anatomy in Italy was cultivated with greater breadth of vision than elsewhere. The Italian anatomists initiated at the end of the fifteenth century the most famous period in the history of the art of dissection {363} and became the teachers to the physicians of the whole world." [Footnote 30: Neuberger u. Pagel: _"Handbuch der Geschichte der Medicin";_ Jena, 1903, Vol. II, p. 23.] Martinotti in his "The Teaching of Anatomy in Bologna Before the Nineteenth Century" [Footnote 31] gives a very good idea of the thoroughly scientific spirit of their investigations and their ardent curiosity with regard to anatomical details, as these may be gathered from the commentaries of Berengar of Carpi. He says, for instance, "Let no one think that by word of mouth alone or the study of books, this science of anatomy" [he calls it discipline] "can be learned. For this the sight and touch are absolutely necessary." "Nor can any real knowledge of the members of the human body be obtained from a single dissection, for this a number of dissections are required." He himself says in suggesting with true scholarly spirit how little he knows in spite of his opportunities, in order that others may be encouraged to take as many opportunities as possible, "how many hundreds of cadavers have I not dissected." This expression is sometimes said to be an exaggeration, but it is in accord with the whole trend of Berengar's method of study. A dissection in the old time did not mean a complete study of the anatomy of the body by anatomical methods, but any opening of the body, in order to determine a particular point or to study any special part, was called an anatomy or dissection. Berengar insists frequently that a number of preparations and sections of the same viscus should be studied. He confesses that he had sectioned more than 100 cadavers in order to determine a question in brain anatomy and yet was not satisfied. [Footnote 31: G. Martinotti: _L'Insegnamento dell' Anatomia in Bologna Prima del Secolo XIX;_ Bologna, 1911.] The interests of the artists of the Renaissance in painting not merely the surface of things, but giving an idea of what they actually were, led to a great development of curiosity as to the constitution of human beings. Not a single great artist of the Renaissance failed to make dissections for himself, and the greater the artist, the more dissections, as a rule, we know he made. Michelangelo dissected portions at least of more than 100 bodies, and Leonardo da Vinci probably did even much more than that. He proposed at one time to write a {364} textbook of anatomy. Ordinarily, it would be presumed that any such proposition from an artist could scarcely be taken seriously in the sense of a scientific text-book to represent real contributions to anatomy as a science, though it might, of course, be valuable for artists. In recent years, however, the republication of the sketches of his dissections shows that Leonardo da Vinci might have written a very wonderful textbook of anatomy and that his plates are still valuable for the study of professed anatomists. William Hunter declared that "Leonardo was the greatest anatomist of this period," and, as altogether we have some 750 separate sketches of dissections which he had actually studied, some idea of how much he accomplished can be obtained. These sketches represent not merely the muscles and the skeleton, though they give these very well and especially suggest their functions very completely, but they also contain sketches of all the viscera and even cross-sections of the brain at different planes. This book alone, without anything further, would give Leonardo a distinguished place in the history of physiology as well as of anatomy. With all this in mind, it is amusing to know the impression rather prevalent among even educated people that there was Church opposition to dissection at this time, and to have such books as President White's "Warfare of Science with Theology" represent Vesalius a generation after this as dissecting in fear and trembling because of the danger he was incurring from the violation of ecclesiastical laws against dissection. No such laws were ever in existence, and dissection for scientific and artistic purposes was apparently much better provided for than it is even in our time, and above all much better cared for by the ecclesiastical authorities who might have hampered it so much, than it was in the English-speaking countries two or three generations ago, when ardent students of anatomy had either to "resurrect" bodies themselves or buy them--as many of them did--from "resurrectionists," with all the abuses connected with this practice, in order to secure anatomical material. The supreme development of anatomy in Columbus' Century came with Vesalius. After exhibiting his trend of mind {365} towards scientific and especially biological studies as a boy by the dissection of small animals, the suggestion for which had come to him from the study of Albertus Magnus' books, Vesalius went to Paris in order to find opportunities for anatomical study; but while profiting not a little there, he was rather disappointed because of the lack of facilities. The jealousy of his teacher, Sylvius, which he aroused, made his work still more difficult, so he went down to Italy, where he knew that he could secure material for dissection and opportunities for study. There, before he was twenty-five, they made him professor of anatomy at the University of Padua, and he had the opportunity to write his great text-book on anatomy, the _"De Fabrica Humani Corporis,"_ which has remained a classic down to our day. It would be rather difficult to enumerate all the discoveries that we owe to Vesalius. He well deserves the name of the Father of Modern Anatomy. Practically all of his productive life comes in Columbus' Century, and he illustrates how thorough the scientific men of the time were in their modes of thinking and ways of observation. Details that might have been expected to escape him are described most clearly. He was the first to point out that nerves penetrated muscles and to suggest the physiological function that they performed of bringing about contraction. He discovered the little blood vessels that enter bones, the nutrient arteries, but still more definitely described the nutrition of bones through the periosteum and its rich blood supply. He added greatly to the knowledge of the time as regards the anatomy of the abdominal wall and of the large organs of the abdominal cavity, especially the stomach and the liver. His descriptions of the sex organs are far in advance of all that his predecessors had known, and here his anatomical knowledge also became of value for suggestions in physiology,--the two cognate sciences were, as might be expected, developing together. Vesalius described the heart completely and suggested its mechanism, and yet could not get away from Galen's declaration that the blood passes through the septum of the heart. His description of blood vessels and their inner and outer coat shows how carefully his observations were made. He declared {366} afterwards that he was led to make these investigations by the memory of his dissection of the bladders with which he used to play as a boy and which he found to consist of several coats. There is scarcely a department of anatomy on which Vesalius' name is not stamped deeply. He devoted great care, for instance, to the examination of the brain, emphasized the distinction between the gray and white matter, described the corpus callosum, the septum lucidum, the pineal gland and the corpora quadrigemina. Two at least of Vesalius' disciples and assistants in teaching deserve to be named in the great development of anatomy that came at this time. One of them is Realdus Columbus, to whom we owe the discovery of the circulation of the blood in the lungs, and the other, Fallopius, whose name is familiar from its attachment to important structures in the body which he first described. Columbus we shall have more to say of under physiology, for the circulation of the blood was an important contribution to that science. Columbus' work was done at Rome, whither he was invited by the Popes to teach at the Papal Medical School, and where his directions and demonstrations were attended by cardinals, archbishops, and distinguished ecclesiastics. He had been Vesalius' prosector at Padua and had succeeded him at Bologna, and then was invited to Rome. He wrote a great text-book of anatomy, which was dedicated to Pope Paul IV, and it was one of the treasures of the Renaissance both because of the development of anatomy which it represents, and its value as one of the early beautifully printed and illustrated books of the medicine of this time. Fallopius, the gifted pupil of Vesalius, of whom Haeser, the modern historian of medicine, has said that he was "one of the most important of the many-sided physicians of the sixteenth century," followed his master's work, corrected some details of it and added many new facts. We are not quite sure of the time of his birth, but he was probably less than thirty, perhaps only twenty-five, when he became professor of anatomy at Ferrara. He subsequently occupied the chair of anatomy at Pisa, and later of anatomy and surgery at Padua. He {367} added much to what was known before about the internal ear and described in detail the tympanum and its relations to the osseous ring in which it is situated. He also described minutely the circular and oval windows and their communication with the vestibule and cochlea. He was the first to point out the connection between the mastoid cells and the middle ear. His description of the lachrymal passages in the eye was a marked advance on those of his predecessors, and he also gave a detailed account of the ethmoid bone and its cells in the nose. His contributions to the anatomy of the bones and muscles were very valuable. It was in myology particularly that he corrected Vesalius. He studied the organs of generation in both sexes, and his description of the canal or tube which leads from the ovary to the uterus attached his name to the structure. Another discovery, the little canal through which the facial nerve passes after leaving the auditory, is also called after him the _aquaeductus Fallopii._ Puschmann in his "History of Medical Education" says of Fallopius (p. 297): "He furnished valuable information upon the development of the bones and teeth, described the petrous bone more accurately, enriched myology by admirable descriptions of the muscles of the external ear, of the face, of the palate and of the tongue, made explicit statements upon the anastomotic connections of certain blood-vessels--for instance, of the carotid and vertebral arteries--and discovered the nervus trochlearis. He instituted accurate investigations upon particular parts of the organ of hearing and of the eye, by which he was able to give fuller information upon the _ligamentum ciliare,_ the _tunica hyaloidea,_ the lens, and other anatomical points." As great, if not greater, than either as an anatomist was Eustachius, to whom we owe a series of important discoveries. He studied particularly the renal system and the head. His name is enshrined in the Eustachian tube named after him. It has been said that after Eustachius' time very little was added to our knowledge of the gross anatomy of the teeth. He also made important discoveries in brain anatomy. Unfortunately his text-book was never finished, and the beautiful illustrations, the first copperplates for an anatomical work ever made, were {368} not published in his lifetime. They were faithfully preserved, however, in the Library of the Vatican, for, like Columbus, he was a professor at the Papal Medical School in Rome, and were published at the beginning of the eighteenth century by Lancisi, himself, another Papal physician. Another of the distinguished anatomists of the time was Aranzius, who was the Professor of Anatomy in the Papal University of Bologna for some thirty-two years just after the close of our period, having received his training, however, in our century. He gave the first correct account of the anatomy of the foetus and was the first to show that the muscles of the eye do not arise from the dura mater but from the margin of the optic cavity. He confirmed Columbus' views with regard to the course of the blood in passing from the left to the right side of the heart, and made a number of discoveries in the anatomy of the brain. To him we owe the term _hippocampus_, and he described the fourth ventricle very accurately, calling it the cistern of the cerebellum. The scientific development of physiology followed immediately, as might be expected, on that of anatomy. Indeed, Vesalius deserves almost as much credit for what he did for physiology as for his researches in anatomy. The functions of bones, muscles and organs were, as we have said, carefully discussed in connection with the descriptions of their form, location and relations to other organs. Probably the best way to present the advance made in physiology at this time is to review the important steps of progress toward that greatest generalization in modern physiology, the circulation of the blood. Much more had been known of it before this time than is usually thought, and probably even the ancients, especially in Greece, had more than a hint of it. Before Columbus' Century closed, the discovery of the pulmonary circulation was an accomplished fact, and there was more than an inkling of the existence of the general circulation. The full description of this was not made until afterwards, but it was not long delayed, and it came from a man who belongs to our time. It did not receive that thorough scientific statement which was to make it a fundamental principle in the biological science of the time until Harvey's day, nor indeed for some {369} time after Harvey's thoroughly scientific description and demonstration. [Footnote 32] [Footnote 32: How clearly Rabelais understood the function of the circulation, though he did not properly appreciate its physiological anatomy, may be readily seen from his famous passage on the circulation, in which he talks about the blood as "the rivulet of gold which is received with such joy by all the organs because it is their sole restorative." A portion of the passage is worth while quoting because it represents a popularization of the scientific knowledge of the time. Rabelais was writing not for physicians nor even medical students, but for the educated general public of the time. He said: "The Spleen draweth from the _Blood_ its terrestrial parts, _viz._, the Grounds, Lees or thick Substance settled in the bottom thereof, which you term _Melancholy;_ the Bottle of the Gall subtracts from thence all the superfluous _Choler:_ whence it is brought to another Shop or Workhouse to be yet better purified and refined, that is the Heart, which by its agitation of Diastolick and Systolick Motions so neatly subtiliseth and inflames it, that in the _right-side_ Ventricle it is brought to Perfection and through the Veins is sent to all the Members; each Parcel of the Body draws it then into itself, and after it's own fashion, is cherished and alimented by it: Feet, Hands, Thighs, Arms, Eyes, Ears, Back, Breast, yea, all; and thus it is that who before were _Lenders,_ now become _Debtors,_ The Heart doth in its _left-side_ Ventricle so thinnify the Blood that it thereby obtains the name of Spiritual; which being sent through the Arteries to all the members of the Body, serveth to warm and winnow or fan the other Blood which runneth through the Veins; The Lights never cease with its Lappets and Bellows to cool and refresh it; in Acknowledgment of which good the Heart through the Arterial Vein imparts unto it the choicest of it's Blood: At last it is made so fine and subtle within the _Rete Mirabile,_ that thereafter those _Animal Spirits_ are framed and composed of it; by means whereof the Imagination, Discourse, Judgment, Resolution, Deliberation, Ratiocination, and Memory have their Rise, Actings and Operations."] Harvey himself indeed has acknowledged his indebtedness to these men of preceding generations, and any fair-minded review of the subject makes it clear that there was a gradual progress towards this all-important generalization for several generations, and not that sudden discovery which is sometimes thought to have taken place. In 1546 Servetus, who had been Professor of Anatomy at Paris, but who had a tendency to dabble in theology that subsequently proved unfortunate for him, for, as will be recalled, he was burnt to death by Calvin {370} at Geneva in 1553, sent to Curio, who was teaching anatomy at Padua, a manuscript copy of his _"Restitutio Christianismi,"_ "The Restoration of Christendom," in which he described completely the circulation of the blood in the lungs. Because Servetus' description first appeared in a theological work, it has sometimes seemed to commentators that his expressions were scarcely more than accidental and that it was only by chance that he reached such a generalization. To say this, however, is to ignore Servetus' career. He was an investigator of a thoroughly scientific spirit, living in a time when discoveries, particularly in the biological sciences, were being made all round him, and he had made many dissections, had taught anatomy at the University of Paris and was exactly in the most appropriate position to make such a new discovery. He had done some distinguished work in botany, he had suggested some modifications in pharmacology which met with violent opposition, but have since been approved, and like so many of the men of the Renaissance he had "taken all knowledge for his province" with a wonderful degree of success. Unfortunately he invaded theology and then got into trouble. He had to fly from Paris, though probably the prosecution of him was due not a little to the enemies created by his uncompromising spirit in the controversy over the use of syrups. He was protected by the Archbishop of Vienne, who had him as physician for a dozen of years, and it was Calvin who denounced him to the Roman authorities in such a way that even the friendly Archbishop could no longer protect him. He was allowed to escape from jail by connivance, went to Geneva and there met his sad fate. It may not be true, as has been said, that by putting him to death Calvin put back the development of physiology for three-quarters of a century until Harvey's time, but undoubtedly Servetus' death was a very unfortunate incident for science. Just about this same time a series of discoveries in Italy led up to the thought of the existence of a circulation of the blood in lungs and body. Already in the first edition of his great text-book of anatomy in 1543, Vesalius had expressed doubts {371} with regard to the Galenic doctrine that the blood passed through the septum of the heart from one ventricle to another, and these doubts he emphasized in the second edition. In 1547 Cananus, Professor of Anatomy at Ferrara, observed the valves in the veins, and these are said to have been described even before this, though the doctrine of their existence and function was not generally accepted in science until after the more complete description made by Fabricius of Aquapendente, who was born in our century but did his important work afterwards. Columbus, who was teaching anatomy at the Papal University of the Sapienza in Rome, was even more complete and explicit in his description of the pulmonary circulation than had been Servetus. The question as to whether he knew of Servetus' discovery has never been absolutely settled, though there seems very little likelihood of it. Apparently the one possibility is that a copy of the edition of the _"Restitutio Christianismi"_ which was burned with its unfortunate author, may have been spared and found its way to Rome. Rome is indeed the least likely place for such a book to have wandered, and only two copies of that first edition are definitely known to have escaped. Of these Columbus could have known nothing. Harvey himself, to quote Professor Foster in his "History of Physiology," spoke of Columbus with respect as of a great authority. Columbus' work has sometimes been minimized in Western Europe, especially by the English, apparently in the fear lest recognition for him should lessen Harvey's glory. Harvey himself, however, quotes Columbus as an authority in his work on the circulation, and the Italian anatomist, who had been Vesalius' assistant, was undoubtedly a great teacher, investigator, dissector, experimenter, observer and writer with regard to a number of phases of medical science. He was the first to insist on demonstrations of living animals as valuable in the teaching of medicine. He declared that one could learn more about the functions of the body from the dissection of a single dog than from feeling the pulse for hours and merely studying Galen. He made demonstrations on living animals and was constantly engaged in trying to find out function as well as anatomical details. A number of workers in the medical {372} sciences toward the end of Columbus' Century were making experiments of various kinds on living and dead animals in order to develop physiology. Eustachius studied the kidneys experimentally, and the sensory functions were investigated very carefully and with the true scientific spirit. The completion of the discovery of the circulation of the blood came in the person of Caesalpinus, who had received all of his education in Columbus' Century. Anyone who reads his description of the systemic circulation cannot fail to recognize that he really understood it. His discovery did not impress his generation as did that of Harvey in the next generation, nor did he understand so thoroughly the significance of his discovery. The Italians, however, have quite rightly insisted on vindicating for him the merit of having discovered the circulation of the blood, and some of them have even suggested that Harvey learned of it from him, but nothing can dim Harvey's glory as a great trained observer and original genius, who appreciated thoroughly the nature of the revolution that his discovery would work in the medical sciences. Harvey himself would have been the first to deprecate the lessening of the glory that was due to his predecessors or to his great teachers in Italy, one of whom, Fabricius da Aquapendente, belongs partly to our century. Indeed, in his book on the circulation, Harvey has given more credit to his predecessors than many of his ardent English advocates are prone to do in the modern time. Professor Foster in his "Lectures on the History of Physiology During the Sixteenth, Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries," which were delivered as the Lane Lectures in San Francisco, and some of them also at Johns Hopkins, concedes Caesalpinus' priority of description. He says (page 33): "He thus appears to have grasped the important truth, hidden, it would seem, from all before him, that the heart, at its systole, discharges its contents into the aorta (and pulmonary artery), and at its diastole receives blood from the vena cava (and pulmonary vein). "Again in his 'Medical Questions,' he seems to have grasped the facts of the flow from the arteries to the veins, and of flow along the veins to the heart" {373} On page 35 of the same work Professor Foster says: "We must, therefore, admit that Caesalpinus had not only clearly grasped the pulmonary circulation, but had also laid hold of the systemic circulation; he recognized that the flow of blood to the tissues took place by the arteries and by the arteries alone, and that the return of the blood from the tissues took place by the veins and not by the arteries." Foster is prone to make little of Caesalpinus as a man of book-learning rather than experimental or observational knowledge and as a scholarly writer rather than a scientific discoverer. It must not be forgotten, however, that Caesalpinus, besides being a great anatomist, is one of the most important contributors to the botany of this time. He was the director of the first botanical garden regularly established in Italy, that at Pisa, which still exists, and he is called by Linnaeus the first true systematic botanist. His work on plants distributed more than 1500 plants into fifteen classes distinguished by their fruits. Every detail of the circulation is thus seen to have been understood, and Professor Foster has quoted the passages from Caesalpinus' books which make the necessity for such an admission very clear. The Italians have always claimed the discovery of the circulation for Caesalpinus, and the Southern nations of Europe generally have been inclined to favor that claim, though the Germans and English have refused to admit that even Caesalpinus' description, with all its clearness of detail, can be taken to mean that he understood the new doctrine that he thus was teaching. Besides, it is pointed out that Caesalpinus' new doctrines met with very little response and indeed scarcely any notice from his contemporaries. It must not be forgotten, however, that Harvey himself hesitated for some dozen years to publish his demonstration of the circulation of the blood, and there is good reason to believe that while he presented his views to his class in 1616 and wrote his treatise in 1619, he delayed its publication until 1628 and was even then apprehensive lest its appearance make "mankind his enemy." It is not surprising, then, in the light of this recognized attitude of the scientific mind of the time that Caesalpinus' declarations of half a century before should have been passed {374} over by scientists without proper recognition of their significance. Any account of the development of the biological sciences at this time would be quite incomplete without the great story of the botanists who laid the broad, deep foundation of their favorite science during this century. The first distinguished name among them is that of Leonardo da Vinci, the story of whose work in botany seems almost incredible until the actual notes of his observations are before one. While Leonardo has been thought of always as a painter and only recently has the idea of his greatness as a scientist become generally known, he deserves eminently to be classed as one of the greatest of scientific geniuses. It was in the biological sciences that he did his most wonderful work. He knew the anatomy of men and animals very well and studied whole series of questions touching living beings. He did work in botany, palaeontology, zoology, physiology, so that Duval did not hesitate to speak of him in the _Revue Scientifique_ [Footnote 33] as A Biologist of the Fifteenth Century. He made special observations on flying, on swimming, on the saving of life in shipwreck, on the mechanics of joints, on horse movement, so that he anticipated what we have learned by the camera. His special contribution to physiology was that certain acts of the nervous system are reflex, that is, without requiring attention from the higher centres. [Footnote 33: December 7, 1889.] His studies in color are among the most interesting done up to his time. These were not merely taken up from the physical standpoint but especially from the physiological, and his theory of color vision still attracts attention. He studied sound and made many valuable observations once more physiological as well as physical. His most interesting scientific conclusion was doubtless that with regard to fossils. Having met with them deep below the surface of the earth, he declared that they were not there by accident nor by any incompleteness of creation, but that they represented living things which had been covered up. He even suggested that marine fossils pointed to the fact that the sea had at some time covered this spot where {375} the fossils were found, though this was now far from water and well above its level. Some of his information with regard to botany was far ahead of his time. He not only knew that the rings seen in the wood of the trunk of a tree represent its age, one ring for each year, but he also knew how to deduce from the differing thickness of the various rings the particular kind of season and how favorable it was for growth. In Italy moisture represents to a great extent the most important element in a favorable year for plant growth. Leonardo seems to have shown by the story of certain years in the past that when moisture was abundant the rings of the trees were thicker than they had been in other years. He pointed out, too, that the core of the trunk of a tree, the heart of the wood as we call it, was not in the centre of the tree as a rule, but always a little to one side because the tree had more sunlight and heat on one side and grew more in that direction. He pointed out too that when a tree is injured an abundance of sap is carried to that spot in order to bring about repair, and that these processes of repair always make a super-abundance of tissue, as if to overstrengthen a weaker part--hence the irregularities that are likely to exist on a tree where injuries have been inflicted. The sketches of dissections of flowers found in his notebooks show how well he anticipated many methods of study and details of knowledge in botany supposed to be much more modern. They have proved as great a surprise as his anatomical plates. The professional botanists of this period have been very thoroughly reviewed by Professor Edward Lee Greene, Professor of Botany at the Catholic University and Associate in Botany in the United States National Museum, in his "Landmarks of Botanical History," which forms part of Volume LIV in the Smithsonian Miscellaneous Collections. He has called attention particularly to the work of the great German Fathers of modern botany during the late fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries. There are five of them who deserve a prominent place in the history of botany. Otho Brunfelsius (1464-1534), Leonhardus Fuchsius (1506-1566), Hieronymus Tragus (1498-1554), Euricius Cordus (1486-1535) and Valerius Cordus (1515-1544). The four first named represent two distinct {376} kinds of botanical work. Brunfels and Fuchs busy themselves almost wholly with medical botany. Their one idea was to describe plants that could be used in medicine or make special additions to the diet. Most of their plant descriptions are copied from older authors, some of them even the Greeks, but for practical purposes they sought to render the identification of medical plants more easy and certain by supplying pictures of them. There had been botanical pictures before but they were miserable as a rule, and both Brunfels and Fuchs greatly improved the representations. As Greene says "these two might worthily have been styled Fathers of Plant Iconography." Books of botany must have been popular before this and indeed it was probably because of the ready sale of such works that Brunfels and Fuchs took up their elaboration of them. Their large picture books now made it possible for all sorts and conditions of men, lettered and illiterate, to identify some hundreds of useful plants; a thing which had never happened in the world before that day. They added little to scientific botany, however, but fortunately other men, Tragus and Valerius Cordus, laid serious scientific foundations for the true science of botany. Neither of these men wished to popularize botany so much as to make it possible for plants to be so described as to be readily identifiable by description. As Greene says "on Cordus' part it is unmistakable that there is a deliberate plan of creating a new phytography. Therefore and by study of the men and their books I think we shall perceive that in the Germany of the first half of the sixteenth century there were two fathers of plant iconography and two fathers of descriptive botany." Greene can scarcely say too much of the work of young Cordus. He says (page 272): "To understand the exalted character of this genius it is only necessary to canvass what the youth had also attained to along other and different lines at the same time. "In field work in Germany--for botany alone--not to speak of geology and mineralogy, in both of which he was, for his time, an expert--he had wrought out more results than had his older contemporaries, Brunfelsius, Tragus, and Fuchsius combined. In his repeated journeys to the great forests and {377} wildest mountain districts, it is estimated that he discovered several hundred new plants. Sprengel has given the Linnaean names of some twenty-five of these new discoveries of Cordus; and that is perhaps double or treble the number of novelties gathered in by the whole three above named; and they both were men of longer life and more or less extensive travel." Greene re-echoes the praise of a contemporary in terms which show us that this young man, who lived less than thirty years, had all the qualities of a modern successful scientific investigator. Indeed that contemporary description is worth while having near one as a catalogue of qualities of the men who in every age succeed in science as a rule. It comes from Riffius' Preface to Cordus' "Annotations on Dioscorides": "To the best possible education of an intellect naturally keen, there was united in him that happy temperament to which nothing is impossible, or even difficult of attainment. To these gifts he added a truly marvellous industry and assiduity in research; and above all, a most wonderfully retentive memory for everything he either saw in nature or read in books. In this he so greatly excelled as to be able to carry in mind in their entirety descriptions of things which he had not seen but was looking to find; thus having the descriptions always available whenever occasion called for the use of them." Conrad Gesner at Zurich declared that the four books of Cordus are "truly extraordinary because of the accuracy with which the plants are described. A century and a half later, Tournefort named Valerius Cordus as having been the first of all men to excel in plant description. Haller, the distinguished botanist and historian in Linnaeus' time, credited Valerius Cordus with having been "the first to teach independence of the poor descriptions of the ancients and to describe plants anew." Greene says of him: "One sees that in all his descriptions the same attention is given to the morphology and also to the life history of the plant in as far as this is known to him. In his practice of describing each species, both morphologically and biologically, he is a herald of our late nineteenth and early twentieth century writers who now that we have the microscope give life histories with minuteness of detail before impossible." {378} Evidently Columbus' period gave birth to men as great in the investigation of plants and as ardent in their desires to get the last details of truth as were the geographers and the navigators of the time to reach the ends of the earth and be able to map it out. There was a great wind of the spirit of investigation abroad and everywhere there were magnificent results from it. This school of botany in Germany with Valerius Cordus as the climax of it, whose untimely death before thirty was indeed an irremediable loss to science, illustrates this very well. While the most important contributions to the science of botany during that period came from the Germans, Italy did not lag far behind in this subject, and France, Spain and Portugal supplied their quota to the science. Above all, it is to the Italians that we owe editions of Theophrastus, Dioscorides and the elder Pliny, works which contained so much of information with regard to the science of botany in ancient times and the modern publication of which brought about a reawakening of interest in that subject corresponding to what was noted in connection with every other republication of classical thought in the various departments of the intellectual life. The most important of the botanists of Italy was Caesalpinus, professor of botany at Padua and director of the botanic garden there at the close of the Columbus' Century, but who was afterwards physician to Pope Clement VIII. To him, as we have seen in discussing the physiology of the time, we owe a complete description of the circulation of the blood in the century before Harvey. Caesalpinus is called by Linnaeus _primus verus systematicus,_ the first true systematic botanist. His work, _"De Plantis,"_ contains an immense amount of information and a complete classification of all the then known plants, some 1520 in number, into fifteen classes. The distinguishing characters of this classification are taken from the fruit and show careful observation and thoroughly scientific attention to details. Caesalpinus' place in the history of botany can be best appreciated from the praise of his colleagues in this department of science. John Ray, the English botanist of the end of the seventeenth century, in his history of plants declared that {379} Caesalpinus' book "On Plants" was indeed a work from which much might be learned. Fabrucci and Carl Fuchs declare Caesalpinus' treatise to be of first rank. Thomas Garzon, Pona of Verona and Balthazar and Michael Campi in the eighteenth century praised his work as thoroughly scientific. We have already quoted Linnaeus' opinion of him and the modern father of botany gladly accepted the suggestion of Plumier that a newly discovered plant should be given the name of Caesalpinus, in order that that name might be forever memorable in botany. Boerhaave, whom we think of much more as a physician than a botanist, but some of whose greatest work was done with regard to medical botany in the University garden of Leyden, advised a friend and disciple if he could buy any of Caesalpinus' works, to do so, for they were among the best on the subject. In France Ruellius, whose life is about equally divided between the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, was the physician to Francis I and a distinguished botanist. He wrote scientific descriptions of a large number of plants and put beside them the ordinary names which they were called in various countries as he had obtained them from peasants, farmers and country-people generally in his travels. His work was an important contribution to the science of botany. Toward the end of his life Ruellius, like his distinguished contemporary and colleague, Linacre in England, became a priest. Another important French contributor to the science is Pierre Belon of the first half of the sixteenth century, though he had an interest in many other biological sciences. He wrote a valuable treatise on coniferous plants and a monograph on birds. This has attracted particular attention, because in it "he compared the skeletons of birds and man in the same posture and nearly as possible, bone for bone." As Garrison in his "History of Medicine" (New York, 1913) says: "this was the first of these serial arrangements of homologies which Owen and Haeckel made famous." Belon travelled in Greece, Egypt and the Orient as well as widely in Europe, mainly in the interests of _materia medica,_ but everywhere picking up scientific information. In Spain and Portugal writers in botany are the medical {380} scientists and especially those who searched the Indies, West and East, for plants with medicinal virtues. They did much both for pure science and for medicine and some account of their work will be found in the chapter on "Medicine" and "America in Columbus' Century." As accumulators of information the biological scientists of all the countries of Europe during Columbus' Century probably contributed more to their various departments than their colleagues of any other corresponding period in the history of science, even our own. They had, of course, the advantage of fields ripe for the harvest, but they undoubtedly took full advantage of their opportunities. Of all of them might be said what Oliver Wendell Holmes said of the anatomists of the Renaissance. They gathered in the rich harvest of discovery like the harvesters in a grain field. After them in the next century came the gleaners, who found many scattered precious grains of knowledge that their predecessors with their rich harvest to care for had neglected. Finally, in the later time, came into the field the geese, who found here and there a grain of knowledge missed even by the gleaners and who made a great cackling whenever they found one. The kindly satirist was himself an anatomist, and we may take the exaggeration of his picture with proper discount, yet with a recognition that it has much more of truth than we always like to confess even to ourselves. {381} CHAPTER XII MEDICINE It is not surprising that there should have been a magnificent century of achievement in medicine at this time because their standards of medical education were at a high level and were well maintained. The medieval requirements for medical education had been three years of preliminary work at the university, four years in the medical schools, special courses in surgery if practice was to be in that department, and a year's experience with a physician before personal practice on one's own responsibility was allowed. The laws of the Emperor Frederick for the Two Sicilies in the thirteenth century were very strict in this matter and they constituted the standard which came to be very generally adopted. In the Italian universities the Papal charters explicitly demanded these requirements. [Footnote 34] [Footnote 34: For full details of this surprising, too little known formal development of medicine, see Walsh, "The Popes and Science," Fordham University Press, N. Y., 1907, where all the documents will be found.] We have a series of re-enactments on this subject just about the middle of the fifteenth century. Above all, clinical experience was required before the license to practise would be issued. In 1449 the medical Faculty of Paris required that graduates in medicine should diligently visit the hospitals or accompany a skilful practitioner in his visits to patients and refused to grant the license when this rule was not observed. In Ingolstadt graduates in medicine, according to the statutes of 1472, were obliged to take an oath that they would practise only as the representatives of their teacher, or of some other doctor of the faculty of that place, until they were considered skilful enough to receive the license for practice on their own responsibility. In the hospitals of this time, which were large and well arranged, thoroughly ventilated and capable of being well cleansed, {382} there was ample opportunity for clinical teaching and we know that it was taken. A manuscript of Galen of the fifteenth century which is preserved at Dresden has a number of initial miniatures, in which groups engaged in clinical instruction are noteworthy. In his "History of Medical Education," [Footnote 35] Puschmann notes the details of some of these. There is a picture of a patient suffering from some wasting disease, near whose bed stand a doctor and two nurses, while the doctor dictates a prescription to his pupils. There is a demonstration of leg ulcers by a physician to a pupil and a surgical operation on the leg performed by the pupil in the presence of his teacher, as well as the opening of an abscess in the axilla. There were hospitals in every town of 5,000 and this gave ample opportunities for clinical experience. When hospitals are numerous and well managed there must be physicians to attend on them and this provides opportunities for thorough study of patients. [Footnote 35: Translation by Hare, London, 1891.] The influences that were at work to lift medical education to a higher plane in practical efficiency may be judged from such expressions as those of Rabelais, who, in his letter on education in "Gargantua," suggests as preparatory studies for medicine, Greek and Latin with even a little Hebrew, for the sake of the Holy Scriptures, and natural science, especially zoology, botany and mineralogy, and "then carefully go over again the books of the Greek, Arabian and Latin physicians, not despising the Talmudists and Cabalists; and by frequent dissections acquire perfect knowledge of the outer world, the microcosm, which is man." He himself has shown in a number of passages that he had taken his own advice and even in his famous description of the anatomy of Lent in which his comparisons were formerly thought more or less fanciful, "they are extraordinarily apt and vivid and show deep knowledge of anatomy," while his descriptions of wounds show a competent familiarity with surgical anatomy. This might very well be expected, for Rabelais invented two surgical instruments, one for the reduction of fractures of the thigh bone and the other for operating in cases of strangulated hernia. He has at least one passage in which it is clear that he knew much more about the circulation of the blood than is usually supposed to have {383} been known in his time and which demonstrates that there had been a gradual accumulation of knowledge on this subject before Harvey's time. (See chapter on Biological Sciences.) The interest in medicine can be best realized from the large number of medical books that were printed almost immediately after the discovery of printing. After theology medicine was the subject most occupying the attention of printers. During Columbus' Century a whole series of the classics of medicine was reprinted and made available for wide reading. The patience and scholarship required for this can only be properly appreciated by those who know the labor of reading the crabbed handwriting of the old manuscripts and collating them and the time required to elucidate erroneous readings that had crept in through the negligence of copyists. The world owes an immense debt to the Renaissance for this work. To a great extent these books have been neglected for the last two centuries and we are only now coming to realize how much the scholarly interest of that time meant for subsequent generations. Many of these books are now being republished to the great benefit of medicine. Not only were Hippocrates and Galen and Celsus and the other classics republished, but also the writers of the intermediate time, Aëtius, Alexander of Tralles, the great Arabian writers and then the important contributors to medicine and surgery in the later Middle Ages. The value of the debt thus owed is growing in estimation every year. The publication of medical books, even during the score of years immediately after printing began to be employed, shows the intense interest in the subject. The first medical publication was a purgation calendar, that is, a list of the days of the year on which purgations should be practised. This was printed by Gutenberg, 1457. Heinrich von Pfolspeundt's "Treatise on Surgery" was printed in 1460; in 1470 medical treatises by Valescus de Tarenta, Jacopo de Dondis and Matthaeus Sylvaticus were printed. In 1471 treatises by Mesnë and Nicolaus Salernitanus were put in type. In 1472 the old _"Regimen Sanitatis"_ was printed and Bellegardo's monograph on "Pediatrics." In 1473 Simon of Genoa's "Medical Dictionary" was set up and in 1476 William of Salicet's "Cyrurgia" was given {384} to the press. In 1478 the first edition of Celsus was printed, and the first printed edition of Mondino's _"Anathomia"_ was ready for sale. In 1479 came the first edition of "Avicenna." In spite of the great losses of books that have taken place in the course of time because of fire, water, use and other enemies, we still possess many medical books printed practically in every year of the first quarter of a century after the discovery of printing. Unfortunately the neglect of these old classics during the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries did more than all the other inimical elements put together in reducing the number of medical incunabula that we might have had. The first great medical teacher of Columbus' period was Nicholas Leonicenus, born in 1428, who studied medicine at Padua, lived for some ninety-six years and was professor of medicine at Ferrara for over sixty years. He translated the "Aphorisms" of Hippocrates and some of Galen's works into Latin, and occupied himself with the application of the principles laid down in these great classics in his practice, and above all, in his teaching. He made it the business of his life to oppose the Arabian over-medication and especially the use of many drugs on general principles, and he insisted on natural modes of cure, diet, water, exercise, fresh air and the correction of any morbid habits that might have been formed. Probably more than anyone else he influenced the medicine of the first half of Columbus' Century and his work has come to be well recognized in recent years with the growth of interest in the history of medicine. After him, one of the most important of the physicians of the time was Thomas Linacre, who, after studying some ten years in Italy, returned to England to become the attending physician to Henry VIII. His translations of Galen's works attracted wide attention and Erasmus, Linacre's friend, once declared that after Linacre's translation Galen now spoke much better Latin than he had Greek before. Linacre was a type of the learned physicians of the time and was one of the greatest scholars of the period. That scholarship did not make men impractical, Linacre's organization of the College of Physicians of England is abundant evidence. He found the practice of medicine on his return to England sadly degenerate, {385} because there was no competent authority to maintain proper standards of medical education and prosecute those who attempted to practise medicine without any proper training and sometimes, indeed, without any knowledge of the subject. Through the charter from the King, at first for London and subsequently for England, the duty of caring for the protection of the public against the illegal practice of medicine was committed to the Royal College of Physicians. Linacre organized and endowed it, and it continues to exist and exert an excellent influence over medical practice in England under its original charter down to the present time. Another of the distinguished contributors to medical practice at this time was John Caius, who also translated some of Galen's works and especially the _"De Medendi Methodo,"_ his edition containing a series of annotations from his teacher Montanus, and from his own observations on patients. He is deservedly best known for his little book on the Sweating Sickness, in which he exhibited his power of observation and his ability to describe what he saw. Gesner, the great European biologist of the time, who was on terms of intimate relation by correspondence with Caius and knew his work on plants and animals very well, styled him, in the preface to his _"Icones Animalium,"_ "a man of consummate erudition, fidelity and diligence as well as judgment," and in an epistle to Queen Elizabeth bestows upon him the eulogium of "the most learned physician of his age." Caius has the merit of introducing the regular practice of dissection into the English teaching of medicine. As Linacre had done, Caius too, as he grew older, used the money which he had accumulated as Royal physician and in the lucrative practice of medicine in London for academic foundations. Linacre founded chairs in Greek and medicine at Oxford and Cambridge, as well as the College of Physicians, and Caius, after having been the first president of Linacre's Royal College, founded Caius College at Cambridge, where he died in 1572. His last year of life had been disturbed by the looting of his rooms of a number of pious articles connected with the old Church to which he faithfully adhered, and Mr. Andrew Lang suggests that only Dr. Caius' timely, though untimely, death (he was but 63 years of age) prevented {386} him from sharing the fate of the pious articles associated with the old faith which he had cherished as faithfully as the tenets of that faith itself. One of the important teachers of medicine at this time was Giovanni de Monte, according to the custom of the time known by the Latinized name of Montanus. He was distinguished for his application of the humanities to medicine and his direct translations of Greek medical books into Latin, so as to avoid the errors which had come from the roundabout translation in the previous times of Greek into Arabian and then into Latin. To him, almost more than any other, is due the reputation that the medical school of Padua obtained at this time, for he gave a series of clinical lectures on the patients in the Hospital of St. Francis which were written down. They show how thorough were his observations and how suggestive his teaching. No wonder that he had pupils from all over Europe. His pupils thought of him as the Americans did of Louis during the early part of the nineteenth century. Many Germans went to hear him. It was a Polish student who reported some of his lectures and Dr. John Caius was, as we have said, one of his most ardent students. Montanus insisted on making careful inspections of the dead bodies in order to control his diagnosis, and the teaching at Padua under him was thoroughly practical and such as we are likely to think of as modern. [Illustration: TITIAN, PARACELSUS ] Quite different from the line of learned physicians who drew their inspiration from the Greek classics of medicine, was another of the great physicians of Columbus' period who ran counter to all the old medical traditions and dared to think for himself. This was Paracelsus, whose motto _"qui suus esse potest, non sit alterius"_--he who can form an opinion of his own should not borrow that of others--shows the independent character of the man. He broke away from the teachings of medicine in Latin and sought far and wide for anything and everything that might help in the cure of disease. He has been an extremely hard man for historians to estimate and appreciations of him have differed very greatly. There is no doubt at all that he did much to introduce chemical remedies of many kinds into medicine, though he was a decided opponent of the polypharmacy of his day, a heritage from the Arabian {387} physicians, who delighted in giving a large number of drugs. There are expressions of his which show how carefully he had thought out the problems of the practice of medicine. He said: "to be a true alchemist is to understand the chemistry of life." "Medicine is not merely a science but an art. It does not consist in compounding pills and plasters and drugs of all kinds, but it deals with the processes of life, which must be understood before they can be guided." Above all Paracelsus recognized that success in medicine depends on the treatment of the patient rather than his disease, and he insisted on the idea that nature was, as a rule, eminently curative of diseases rather than prone to make the affection worse, as physicians at so many times in the history of medicine seem to have thought. Paracelsus declared that "the knowledge of nature is the foundation of the science of medicine and a physician should be the servant of nature, not her enemy; he should be able to guide and direct her in her struggle for life and not by his unreasonable drugging throw fresh obstacles in the way of recovery." He appreciated very clearly the influence of the mind on the body and said "the powerful will may cure where a doubt will end in failure. The character of the physician may act more powerfully upon the patient than all the drugs employed." He realized also the place of the conditions surrounding the patient as helpful towards his cure. He said: "the physical surroundings of the patient may have a great influence upon the cure of his disease. Diet is an extremely important element of cure and the physician should know how to regulate the diet of the patient." He called attention to the fact that trained attendants sympathetic with the patient are far better for him than relatives who may be over-solicitous and show it, or neglectful because they wish the death of the patient. Paracelsus was the first to write on occupation diseases and his monograph on _"Bergsucht,"_ "miner's disease," is a monument to his power of observation. His clinical acuity is further exemplified by his recognition of the relation between cretinism and endemic goitre. He also wrote a booklet on mineral baths and analyzed mineral waters for bathing and drinking purposes, getting at the iron content of chalybeate {388} waters by testing with gallic acid, and the resultant ink reaction, and also demonstrating the presence of other salts. He did more than anyone else to establish properly in medicine the use of opium (as laudanum), mercury, lead, arsenic, and his chemical experiments taught him much about copper sulphate and potassium sulphate and he recognized zinc as an elementary substance. He did quite as much for medicine by his negative conclusions and his opposition to medical practices that had been common up to his time as by his positive observations. Indeed it might possibly be thought that there was more to his credit from the negative side. He set himself up in strenuous opposition to the silly uroscopy and uromancy by which physicians had deceived others and very often deceived themselves. Something of the value of the urine in medical diagnosis had been recognized in the Middle Ages, and then, as practically always happens in medicine, little-minded men had pretended to be able to learn much more from it than could possibly be revealed by it. Every disease came to have its specific urine and diagnosis and prognosis came to be largely dependent on changes in the color and character of the urine that were in themselves quite insignificant. Paracelsus brushed all this ridiculous nonsense aside, but of course, in doing so, made a great many enemies. Men are much more disturbed, as a rule, by having their false knowledge corrected than their real knowledge amended. Paracelsus also refused to accept the practically universal persuasion that every disease was an indication for blood-letting. He was sure that in a great many cases this practice did more harm than good. He felt the same way with regard to the almost universal purgation that was being practised for every form of ill. No one recognized better than he that there were poisonous substances in the body which produced serious affections. He was quite willing to be persuaded, too, that these poisonous substances could be at least to some extent removed from the body by purgatives. He feared, however, lest purgation might carry off with it many materials more beneficial to the body than the poisons it would drain were harmful. The idea of an autotoxemia or an autointoxication {389} is constantly recurring in medicine, and the supposed remedies for its cure prove subsequently nearly always to have done more harm than good. Medicine owes much to Paracelsus for his firm stand in this matter. Shakespeare's genius in intuition was right when in "All's Well That Ends Well" he ranged the modern German with one of the greatest of the ancients. "So say I, both of Galen and Paracelsus." Meyer in his "History of Chemistry" has summed up what Paracelsus accomplished by the co-ordination of chemistry and medicine. As it is not the purpose of the great German historian of chemistry to give a panegyric of Paracelsus but simply to indicate his place in the history of chemical evolution, that opinion must have great weight. He said, page 71: [Footnote 36] [Footnote 36: "A History of Chemistry, from Earliest Times to the Present Day: Being also an Introduction to the Study of the Science," by Ernst von Meyer, Professor of Chemistry in the Technical High School, Dresden; translated, with the author's sanction, by George McGowan, Ph.D.; third edition; London: Macmillan and Co., 1906.] "Paracelsus was the man who, in the first half of the sixteenth century, opened out new paths for chemistry and medicine by joining them together. To him is undoubtedly due the merit of freeing chemistry from the restrictive fetters of alchemy, by a clear definition of scientific aims. He taught that 'the object of chemistry is not to make gold but to prepare medicines.' True chemical remedies had been used now and again before his time, but Paracelsus differed from his predecessors in the theoretical motives which led him to employ them. He regarded the healthy human body as a combination of certain chemical matters; when these underwent change in any way, illness resulted, and the latter could therefore only be cured by means of chemical medicines. The foregoing sentence contains the quintessence of Paracelsus' doctrine; the principles of the old school of Galen were quite incompatible with it, these having nothing to do with chemistry." His contributions to surgery are almost more important than those to medicine, for he insisted on keeping wounds clean and deprecated the meddlesome surgery of the time. Cutting loose from everything that had been taught before his time, he {390} almost necessarily made many mistakes. Besides, in spite of his insistence on scientific demonstration, he accepted many things for which there was no good reason. His works, most of which we owe not directly to himself but to his students, contain many absurdities. There is no doubt at all, however, that he was a great genius and that the medicine of this century and of succeeding generations owes much to him. He well deserves the name of the Father of Pharmaceutical Chemistry which has sometimes been given to him. He represents one of the important links in the tradition of medicine and is a man who is ever more appreciated the more we have learned about him through recent studies of his writings." [Footnote 37] [Footnote 37: Even Paracelsus' mistakes have had something of genius in them. Above all, his influence has lived on through the generations. His doctrine of signatures and his study of the effects of poisons on the human system had more to do than anything else with the establishment of the therapeutic systems of Hahnemann and Rademacher.] We have some two score of books attributed to him, but probably less than a score are really his. Probably no one has ever had a higher view of medicine. He bases it on the relationship which man bears to nature as a whole and anticipates the very modern idea that disease is not a negation, but itself a phase of life. Magnetism represents a great force for him and some form of it is supposed to emanate from all bodies and place them in relation with each other. The influence of the stars on human constitutions is only one phase of this magnetism which binds all the world together. The superabundance of vitality in certain men gave them a magnetic influence over other men and this magnetic influence might even persist after death. Hence mummies were supposed to contain a certain astral balsam and the consumption of mummy substance gave wonderful vitality to ailing persons. Like scientists at all times, Paracelsus had to have his explanation for miracles. He suggested that saints were people with an abundance of vitality and some of this remained in their bodies after their deaths just in the same way as it remained in the bodies of mummies. It was sufficient, then, to come within the sphere of the influence of these bodies to be affected by it. Miracles, then, were not exceptions to the laws of nature but merely {391} fulfilment of laws that men were only just getting to understand. That has been the favorite mode of explanation for miracles ever since, though a new set of facts has always been adduced as the basis of the explanation. Of course Paracelsus believed in many absurdities. He suggests, for instance, that it is possible to transplant toothache into a tree after the following fashion. Having taken away a portion of the bark, a piece of the wood is cut and with it the gum is pricked until the blood flows. Then the piece of wood stained with blood is set again in its place in the tree and the bark is also replaced. He believed also in the vulnerary ointment, which could cure wounds, not by application to the wound itself but to the weapon. It was important, however, that the weapon should be stained with the blood from the wound. He had the feeling that the morbid elements of an affection or a wound were contained in the blood and might be neutralized even outside the body. The vulnerary ointment was composed of moss from the head of a dead person, preferably one who had been put to death for murder, mummy, human fat and human blood. It all seems so absurd to us now, but behind such prescriptions was the theory that some of the vital force of these human beings could be made over to the diseased person in order to add to his vitality. Many absurd prescriptions have been made on theories not nearly so reasonable as this of Paracelsus. To this period also belongs the name of Basil Valentine, who has been called the last of the alchemists and the first of the chemists. Just now we are passing through a phase of historical criticism which throws doubt on his real existence, though we have a series of books under his name published at the end of the sixteenth century. Tradition declares that he was a Benedictine monk living about the middle of the fifteenth century, who tested many forms of drugs with the idea of securing materials for the cure of human diseases. To him is attributed the discovery of hydrochloric acid, which he called the spirit of salt, sugar of lead, and a method of preparing sulphuric acid and probably ammonia. He is best known for his work on antimony and his book, "The Triumphant Chariot of Antimony," put that metal and its salts into medical practice {392} for centuries. The indication for it was that disease was largely due to a toxaemia or accumulation of poisons in the system, the modern idea of auto-toxaemia, and that these could be best removed by brisk purgation. The use of calomel subsequently, the theory underlying venesection and a great many of our modern surgical fads for the improvement of man's condition by taking something out of him have the same notion for basis. Basil Valentine's works are precious because they insist that physicians must know the drugs they use and their effects, not merely by reading about them, but by studying them on patients and on animals. He himself is said to have tried the effect of antimony on the swine belonging to the monastery in which he did his work, and other materials are said to have been tested in the same way. He is thus really a father of experimental medicine. He cannot say too much in deprecation of physicians who give medicines which they know little about for diseases about which they know less. In my sketch of him in "Catholic Churchmen in Science" (Dolphin Press, Philadelphia, 1907) I quote a passage from his "Triumphant Chariot of Antimony," in which he bitterly condemns the practice of physicians who give remedies knowing practically nothing about them, only that they have been recommended by someone else. It read like a diatribe of the modern time against allowing the manufacturing chemist to suggest drugs for medical practice. The passage makes very clear what is the secret of the mystery by which remedies come and go in medicine because of insufficient testing. Valentine said: "And whensoever I shall have occasion to contend in the school with such a Doctor, who knows not how himself to prepare his own medicines, but commits that business to another, I am sure I shall obtain the palm from him; for indeed, that good man knows not what medicines he prescribes to the sick; whether the color of them be white, black, grey or blew, he cannot tell; nor doth this wretched man know whether the medicine he gives be dry or hot, cold or humid; but he only knows that he found it so written in his Books, and thence pretends knowledge (or as it were, Possession) by Prescription of a very long time; yet he desires to further information. {393} Here again let it be lawful to exclaim, Good God, to what a state is the matter brought! what goodness of minde is in these men! what care do they take of the sick! Wo, wo to them! in the day of judgment they will find the fruit of their ignorance and rashness, then they will see Him Whom they pierced, when they neglected their Neighbor, sought after money and nothing else; whereas, were they cordial in their profession, they would spend Nights and Days in Labour that they might become more learned in their Art, whence more certain health would accrew to the sick with their Estimation and greater Glory to themselves. But since Labour is tedious to them, they commit the matter to Chance, and being secure of their Honour and content with their Fame, they (like Brawlers) defend themselves with a certain Garrulity, without any respect to Confidence or Truth." Another of the great physicians of the time was Cornelius Agrippa, born in 1486, of the old family of Nettesheim. Cornelius was at first the secretary of the Emperor Maximilian, then a warrior and finally a student of both law and medicine, yet all was accomplished so expeditiously that when he was but twenty-four the Parliament of Dole came in a body to hear his lectures on the Cabalistic Books of Reuchlin. He practised for a while as a physician at Geneva after having been an advocate at Metz and, with the tendency to wander that so many of the men of this time had, we find him afterwards at Freiburg, at Lyons, then for a time the physician of Louise of Savoy, but jealousy drove him from the Court and a little later we find him starving in Antwerp, and then in prison at Brussels. He passed through Cologne, was at Bonn for a time and is heard from in prison at Lyons. He seems to have run the whole gamut of human suffering. It is hard to know what he was imprisoned for, but he seems to have been a man who easily made enemies, refused to think that anyone else knew much and probably his necessities led him into the doing of things that were suspicious at least, if not actually criminal. Agrippa was very much interested in magnetism, quite taken with the idea of human magnetism and above all very much persuaded of the influence of the mind on the body. He felt {394} the place that autosuggestion or strong persuasion has in enabling men to accomplish anything and he said: "We must therefore in every work and application of things affect vehemently, imagine, hope and believe strongly, for that will be a great help." He was quite sure that the mind could influence the body strongly for healing purposes and would doubtless have been looked upon as an advocate of New Thought or Psychic Healing or some of the other schools of mental therapeutics in our time, though he believed also in the use of medicines and remedial measures. Another phase of his anticipation of some modern ideas may be still more interesting for our generation, though it only shows how prone human thought is to run in cycles and how hard it is to find anything new under the sun: it may be rather surprising to many to learn that Agrippa seems to have had a definite persuasion that woman was superior to man. He was what the French would have called "a feminist of the most modern." A book of his on the subject recently appeared as a bibliographic treasure in the London bookseller, Tregaskis' catalogue (No. 736). The title was: "Female Pre-Eminence: or The Dignity and Excellence of that Sex Above the Male." An Ingenious Discourse: Written originally in Latine, by Henry Cornelius Agrippa, Knight, Doctor of Physick, Doctor of Both Laws, and Privy-Counsellor to the Emperour Charles V. Done into English with additional advantages. By H. (Enry) C. (are) Printed by T. R. and M. D. and are to be sold by Henry Milion, 1670. The catalogue contains the note: "Strong arguments in favor of women's superiority. It is rendered into English, well embroidered with poetic imagery and rich in furiously entertaining passages." The most important scientific development for medicine came from pathological anatomy. This science is supposed as a rule to be of much later origin than the period we are occupied with, but the interest in the history of medicine in recent years has shown us how much of attention there was given to pathology and how many observations were accumulating in the published books of the Renaissance time. There was much more of such scientific observation in the Middle Ages than is usually thought. Three men at the beginning of {395} Columbus' Century, Professor Montagnana of Padua, Professor Savonarola of Ferrara, the grandfather of the martyred Dominican, and Professor Arcolani of Bologna, described a number of different lesions which they had noted in the many bodies that were being dissected at this time. In the next few years these observations multiply. Benedetti, the Professor of Anatomy at Padua and the founder of the anatomical theatre at that university, made reports on gall-stones and apoplexies. Benivieni, a simple practising physician at Florence, was probably the first to describe gall-stones and he has a very large number of pathological observations. He is the first that we know who made a number of autopsies with the definite idea of finding out the cause of death and he has come deservedly to be called, as a consequence, the Father of Pathological Anatomy. Allbutt, the Regius Professor of Medicine at the University of Cambridge, says of him: "Before Vesalius, before Eustachius, he opened the bodies of the dead as deliberately and clear-sightedly as any pathologist in the spacious times of Baillie, Bright and Addison," and Malgaigne has described his book as "the only work on pathology which owes nothing to anyone." It became the custom then to collect observations of this kind and Berengar of Carpi, the discoverer of the appendix, who had dissected a great many bodies, described a number of pathological changes. Aranzi, the professor of medicine and of anatomy in Bologna, has many observations of pathological finds in his book and paid special attention to tumors. Ingrassias, professor of anatomy at Naples, was also interested in pathology and, as specializing had become the fashion, his observations were mainly with regard to bones. Eustachius, the professor of anatomy in Rome, declares in the preface to his anatomical tables that he was the first to make autopsies for pathological purposes in Rome, and that he had collected an abundant amount of material. The publication of Eustachius' anatomy was delayed until long after his death and his pathological observations were never published. Columbus in Rome made a series of autopsies even on high ecclesiastics for the purpose of determining the cause of death and evidently the science of pathology was gradually coming into existence. Vesalius made a large number of pathological observations {396} and promised in his book on normal anatomy to publish them. Unfortunately he never did so, and his notes seem lost, though it is not impossible that the manuscript or some portion of it may yet be found in Spain. In many other countries besides Italy, however, pathological anatomy attracted much attention. Joost van Lom, often known by his Latin name of Jodocus Lommius, a physician in Brussels, who was royal physician to King Philip II, published three books of medical observations at Antwerp just after the close of Columbus' Century (1560) in which notes of all diseases and problems of prognosis are set forth. Johann Kentmann, a physician of Torgau, devoted a great deal of attention to the study of the formation of all kinds of calculi in human beings, biliary, salivary and intestinal. Francisco Valles, Professor of Medicine at the University of Alcalá in Spain, published a volume of Galen's _"De Locis Affectis,"_ in which he incorporated many notes of his own pathological observations. Jacques Houillier (Hollerius) published about the same time at Paris, where he was professor of medicine, a book on "Internal Diseases" with many pathological notes. Johann Weyer (Wierus) also added valuable pathological annotations to his writings. At the end of the century pathological anatomy as a definite department of medicine had been firmly established. Dodoens (Dodonaeus), Royal physician to the Emperor Maximilian II and Rudolph II, made a large number of valuable observations at autopsies and described cases of pneumonia, ulcers of the stomach, inflammation of the abdominal organs, aneurisms of the coronary arteries and of the arteries of the stomach, stony concretions in the lungs, purulent conditions of the ureters and kidney, and ergotism. Even more important for the science was the work of Schenck von Graffenberg, official physician at Freiburg in Breisgau, who gathered together a larger collection of observations on the diseases of separate organs than had ever been made since Hippocrates' time. He paid special attention to the pathological anatomy of these cases and while many of the observations were his own, a great many of them had been collected from friends. His work was done after the close of Columbus' Century, but he {397} himself was over twenty before the century closed and he was only carrying out the inspiration that had been given by workers in that tune. Pieter van Foreest (Petrus Forestus), a practising physician in Delft, deserves almost as much credit as Schenck von Graffenberg and much more than many of the professors in medicine and anatomy of this tune. He made a special study of the pathological conditions of the ordinary diseases and was indefatigable in collecting information. His own observations include more than 100 cases with autopsies. With this spirit abroad the future of scientific medicine was assured. A good idea of the accomplishment of the medical teachers of the time may be judged very well from the life of Fracastorius. Prof. Osler in his sketch of him published in his book, "An Alabama Student," [Footnote 38] says: "The scientific reputation of Fracastorius rests upon the work _'De Contagione.'_ It contains among other things three contributions of the first importance--a clear statement of the problems of contagion and infection, a recognition of typhus fever and a remarkable pronouncement on the contagiousness of phthisis." In the same sketch Osler adds: "Fracastorius draws a remarkable parallel between the processes of contagion and the fermentation of wine. It is not the same as putrefaction, which differs in the absence of any new generation and is accompanied with an abominable smell. Certain poisons resemble contagion in their action, but they differ essentially in not producing in the individual the principle or germ capable of acting on another poison." This discussion is wonderfully complete and thorough, yet conservative. Later Boyle declared that a time would come when someone would discover the cause of fermentation and probably at the same time throw light on the origin of contagious disease. That prophecy was fulfilled when Pasteur made his studies in the fermentation of wine and beer and then went on to lay the foundation of bacteriology. Fracastorius' thoroughly scientific spirit will be appreciated from the fact that, like Leonardo, he saw fossils in their true light and has the first reference in the history of science to the magnetic poles of the earth. [Footnote 38: Oxford Press, 1908.] {398} Men whose names are usually associated with surgery often manifested successful interest, and above all, power of observation in pure medicine. A single example may be taken in illustration. Anyone who thinks that observation and theory and investigation of arthritism is new or that we have occupied ourselves much more with the study of its symptoms than they did in the olden time should read Paré's chapters on Gout. He says that the word gout, which appealed to him as French, was probably used because the humors distil drop by drop, _goutte à goutte_ over the joints. Or perhaps because sometimes a single drop (goutte) of the humor of this disease causes very great pain. He describes the deposits of gypsum-like material, or stony matter like chalk, which occur in the affection. The severe pains which occur in connection with the disease Paré does not hesitate to attribute to alteration of the humors by a poison which he calls _"virus arthritique"_ He notes that the pains are distinctly influenced by atmospheric fluctuations, so that one may well say of the gouty that they carry with them an almanac which may serve them as a weather indicator all their lives. Serious complications can arise in gout if the humors of the disease involve other organs than the joints. He attributed inflammations of the liver, of the pleura, colicky disturbances of the intestines, to this cause. Continuous fevers represented for him the effect of the gouty toxin upon the large vessels, while paralyses might occur if the gouty toxin involved the "porosities" of the nerves. He described a sanguineous gout frequent in the springtime, especially among young people with acutely inflamed joints, the pain being most severe in the mornings and the urine red and dense. This is evidently acute rheumatic arthritis. Bilious gout occurred more among the middle-aged and the involved joints were yellow rather than red and the pain attained its maximum intensity in the early afternoons. The urine was lemon yellow in color but often cloudy. The third form was pituitary gout which occurred particularly in the winter, having as a main symptom coryza, affecting the old rather than the young, but usually without acute pain. The affected area is cold rather than hot to the touch and the discomfort is most noted during the night. The urine was pale in color and thick. {399} Melancholy gout, the fourth form of the disease, was also an affection of old age, producing a livid color in the joints and making them cold to the touch. The patients' pains were worse at intervals of three or four days and the urine had a deep cloudy color. Sanguineous gout was the most curable of these four and usually lasted two to three weeks; bilious gout was much more serious and often ended in death. Pituitary and melancholy gout were chronic diseases of long duration. It is rather easy to see Paré's powers of observation in all this. He jumped to conclusions and over-generalized, as men have always done and thus made mistakes. Down even to the present day, however, physicians have never quite got away from the tendency to group these acute and chronic painful conditions of joints under a single word, and rheumatism for many represents the key to a puzzle that still exists. An important development in medicine was the publication early in the sixteenth century of regulations by the Bishop of Bamberg and the Elector of Brandenburg, by which physicians or midwives were authorized to be summoned as experts in medico-legal cases. Medico-legal autopsies are on record long before this, though there was always serious objection to their performance because of the natural feeling of deterrence men have toward the destruction of the human body. In general, however, the basis of our legal medicine and the status of the physician in court as an expert was determined at this time. Probably nothing shows so well the great interest of this time in the development of medicine and particularly therapeutics, as the number of drugs imported from America and the East Indies, the many experiments and careful observations made with them and the books written about them. As a matter of fact no century has given us more new drugs of enduring value. Schaer in the chapter on the history of pharmacology and toxicology in modern times in Puschmann's "Handbook of the History of Medicine" has summed up the work of this period. Three well-known books of the time containing interesting scientific material were written by Gonzalo Fernandez, a personal friend of Columbus who, from his birthplace, is often known as Oviedo, Nicolas Monardes and Francisco Hernandez. Fernandez was the superintendent of the {400} government gold mines in South America, but after his return he wrote his great work, _"Historia General y Natural de las Indias."_ The second of these, Monardes, deserves well of pharmacology and all that relates to drugs through his famous collection of the natural products of America which became widely known through his description of them. [Footnote 39] Hernandez wrote on Mexican and Central American plants and his _"Historia Plantarum Novae Hispaniae"_ is an important source of information. Besides these, Pasi and Conti, Italians who had travelled in the East Indies, wrote books containing valuable observations on Oriental drugs and plants, and the Frenchman Bellonius (Pierre Belon) (See chapter on Biological Sciences) described Arabian, Persian and Indian products, while the Spaniard, Christobel Acosta, and the Portuguese, Garcia da Orta and Duarte Barbosa, visited various parts of the East and East African Malabar and wrote books which, while not specifically medical, had much to say with regard to the indigenous plants, especially such as either had been used by the natives for medical purposes or promised to be of significance in this way. The Portuguese apothecary Pirez directed a special letter with regard to Hindustan and Farther India and what might be expected for pharmacology from these regions to the king of Portugal which is of great importance. [Footnote 39: Monardes proved of so much interest that he was translated into English before the end of the sixteenth century, and his book was widely read.] The Belgian, Charles de l'Esclus, better known as a rule under his Latin name of Carolus Clusius, as professor of botany, director of the botanical garden and superintendent of the Museum in Vienna and later in Leyden, gathered together an immense amount of information, was in correspondence with all who were interested in botany and in pharmacology. He succeeded in making an encyclopedia of information with regard to these subjects that has ever since been considered one of the most important fundamental works in the history of this department of science. The spirit of the physicians of the time as regards scientific methods in clinical medicine and their attitude towards {401} observation as by far the most important means of obtaining medical truth is very well brought out by some passages written by John Hall, a poet and medical writer who wrote a translation of Lanfranc's _"Chirurgia Parva"_ published shortly after the close of Columbus' Century. To this was appended "A very Frutefull and Necessary Briefe Worke of Anatomie" and "An Historiall Expostulation: against the beastlye Abusers, both of Chyrurgerie and Physyke in our Tyme: with a Goodlye Doctrine and Instruction Necessarye to be marked & folowed of all Chirurgiens." In the Expostulation, which may be found in the Percy Society's republication of old texts for 1844, Dr. Hall said: "Galen also hath freely admonished that we ought not if we will be perfectly cunning to trust only to doctrine written in books, but rather to our proper eyes which are to be trusted above all other authors, yea! before Hippocrates and Galen." It is this trusting to observation rather than books that is, of course, the key-note of clinical medicine and of medical progress. The men of this time are often blamed for not having trusted to their observation more and to their books too much. There is no doubt that some of them erred rather seriously in this matter. Yet at all times in the history of medicine the great majority of physicians have not observed for themselves, but have taken their observation at second hand from others. Hall has insisted over and over again that as regards surgery the necessity for observation was extremely important. In the chapter on Surgery a quotation from his Expostulation on this matter will be found. Even in the department of mental diseases there were distinct contributions to the problems of this intricate specialty of great value. This is not so surprising, for above all the men of the Renaissance could see things for themselves and describe what they saw. Shakespeare represents the Renaissance in England and no one has ever succeeded so well as he in describing forms of the milder mental diseases as they occur in characters like Ophelia or King Lear. Paracelsus even attempted what has not been achieved yet, a definition of the insane person. "The person is sick in mind in whom the reasonable and unreasonable spirit are not present in proper {402} proportion and strength." He distinguished fools "who are animals without any sense" from the imbeciles and idiots "who are deranged beasts." His contemporary, Montanus, who was professor at Padua, and has been called the second Galen, treated of melancholy in his medical consultations and ascribed its etiology to _intemperies cerebri._ He recommended treatment by water, by venesection and by hellebore. Jean Fernel divided melancholy into what we now know as melancholy in the proper sense of the word and mania. He considered that both affections were due to disturbances of the fluids of the brain. Jodocus Lommius differentiated between delirium, phrenitis, melancholia and mania and described a particular variety of this last form as hydrophobia. William Rondelet, Professor at Montpellier, frankly abandoned all metaphysics in this subject and considered that melancholia was due either to a defect of the brain or to some disturbance of the body which brought about a sympathetic derangement of the brain, the stomach particularly being likely to do this. He gave a rather striking picture of the fixed ideas that take possession of those suffering from melancholia. He differentiated mania from melancholia by saying that the melancholia was due to a frigid humor, while mania was due to the malignity of the thin and bilious humors of the body. His contemporary, Francis Varreliora, described cases in which insanity had occurred as a consequence of love troubles and in which the cure of melancholy came about through the successful treatment of an affection such as haemorrhoids that had been disturbing the patient for a good while. It was a good many generations before medicine advanced very far beyond the ideas that were put forward by these physicians of the Renaissance in discussing their mental cases. The extent to which balneotherapy was appreciated in this century may be realized very well from the fact that just after the close of it Winternach mentions some seventy-five places in Europe where there were bathing establishments. About the same time Dr. Ruland of Regensburg, published a monograph of twenty-eight pages containing an alphabetically arranged list of diseases with the indication of the particular watering place that would do them good. Indeed just after {403} the close of Columbus' Century there is abundant evidence of the very great revival of interest in the old hydrotherapeutic methods which had taken place during the Renaissance. One of the most interesting things about the medicine of this century, that is often not appreciated, is that it did not go to that excess in the employment of certain means of treatment to which some of the succeeding centuries unfortunately did. Columbus' medical contemporaries corrected the Arabian abuse of polypharmacy, which had a tendency to manifest itself over and over again during the later Middle Ages in spite of the well directed efforts of thoughtful physicians to suppress it. The diffusion of a knowledge of the classic authors in medicine did more than anything else to secure its eradication at this time. Physicians used bleeding, but not in every case, as came to be the custom later, and not to the excess in which it was employed at the end of the eighteenth and the beginning of the nineteenth century. Poor Mirabeau, the orator of the French Revolution, under the best French skilled care a century ago, was bled some eighty ounces in the course of forty-eight hours. Under the impetus given by Basil Valentine's "Triumphant Chariot of Antimony" they used antimony frequently, but not at all to the extent that it was employed in the eighteenth century. Purgatives were much more abused in the later seventeenth and eighteenth centuries than during Columbus' Century. Under the immediate influence of the Greeks the physicians of this time were thoroughly conservative, and there is as little of regrettable therapeutics to be chronicled as at any time in the world's history. Jerome Cardan of this time is one of the geniuses of the history of science whose career is extremely difficult to understand. His mixture of credulity with a genuine scientific temper of mind that tests everything by experiment, combined with his wonderful ability in mathematics, adds to the difficulty of understanding him. He was a great believer in dreams but then that was because he was sure that so many of his own dreams had come true. He was a serious student of all the borderland subjects between spirit and matter and constituted a Psychic Research Society in himself, but with the tendency to accept the marvellous on general principles. He {404} heard that instruments which had been magnetized could be used for surgical operations without producing pain and having tried some experiments in the matter he announced this as a great discovery. He was sure that he had the power to magnetize others in such a way as to prevent pain, but, after all, it must not be forgotten that in these he only imitated what has attracted much attention at many times in the history of medicine and electricity. As the publisher of the formula for cubic equations he has a distinguished place in mathematics, and he was looked upon as one of the great thinkers of his time. His contributions to medicine, and the estimation he secured for the profession by his popularity among the great ones of Europe at this time, have made his life most interesting to our generation. Cardan's almost infantile absurdities have sometimes been cited as indicating a lack of the critical scientific spirit at this time. Anyone who recalls, however, the attitude of mind of some of the most prominent scientists of our time towards certain questions, as, for instance, vaccination, spiritism, and even phrenology and other psychic subjects, will not be likely to accept any criterion of lack of the critical faculty that might be set up arbitrarily, because a scientist exhibited a tendency to accept some things without as absolute proof as other men demand. Nearly all the great scientists had certain peculiarities in this regard and Cardan is only an exaggeration of this tendency. His absurdities have sometimes been quoted as if they represented common opinions of the learned men of this time and exhibited their lack of critical judgment, but no one has scored Cardan's absurd opinions more severely, nor called attention more emphatically to the fact that this great scientific genius accepted some childish trivialities, than his contemporary, Scaliger, who so often entered into controversies with him. An instructive contrast to some of Cardan's absurdities is a little book that has been a classic ever since in popular medicine, Louis Cornaro's "Means of Obtaining a Long and Healthy Life," which was published at this time (Padua, 1558). Editions of it have been issued in nearly every generation since. Cornaro, to give a sentence or two from Addison's essay {405} on the volume "was of an infirm constitution till about forty, when by obstinately persisting in the Rules recommended in this Book, he recovered a perfect state of health, insomuch, that at four-score he published this Treatise. He lived to give a fourth edition of it, and after having passed his hundredth year, died without pain or agony, like one who falls asleep. This Book is highly extolled by many eminent authors, and is written with such a spirit of cheerfulness and good sense, as are the natural concomitants of temperance and virtue." The little book insists very much on temperance in eating and drinking and is quite as sensible in its way as any popular book on medicine ever written. It is a living proof that in spite of the popular medical delusions of many kinds so frequent in this period, though not more frequent than they are in our own, men of sense could view the question of right living from the proper standpoint and give good advice with regard to it. In the preface to the latest American edition (New York, 1912) the publisher said: "The methods followed by Cornaro and the recommendations and suggestions submitted by him can be compared to advantage with the teachings of authorities of the present day, such as Metchnikoff. The book is now presented to the American public, not only as a literary and scientific curiosity, but as a manual of practical instruction." [Footnote 40] [Footnote 40: The first American edition, annotated by Mason L. Weems (Philadelphia, 1809), had with what might be thought characteristic American enterprise Benjamin Franklin's "Way to Wealth" as an Appendix.] It is interesting to bring together some of the sanitary regulations of this period because it is often presumed that it is only in our time that public care of the health has come to be recognized as a duty of the civil authorities. Wickersheimer in his "Medicine and Physicians in France, at the Time of the Renaissance," [Footnote 41] has gathered a number of the details. It was forbidden butchers in Paris to keep meat for sale more than two days in winter or thirty-six hours in summer. Hotel keepers were not allowed to kill their own meat because, as {406} they could cook it before selling it, it was easy for them to "dissimulate bad meats." Restaurateurs were forbidden to serve meat which had been warmed over or warmed-over soup or vegetables. Fish was guarded particularly by detailed regulations and heavy fines were inflicted for its sale, except under conditions that must have assured its absolute freshness. Butter and fish could not be sold in the same shop. It was forbidden to put coloring matter in butter, no matter what the form of color material used, and also to mix old butter with new. The sellers of spices were required by Louis XII to watch over the absolute cleanness of their mustard mills and to employ as workmen only those who were clean and in good health. Similar regulations existed for the bakers. In a word, they anticipated in many ways the pure food laws of our time. Unfortunately these regulations were allowed to fall into abeyance during the neglect of social order that characterized the notable degeneration of the eighteenth and earlier nineteenth centuries. [Footnote 41: _"La Médicine et Les Médecins en France à l'Époque de la Renaissance,"_ Paris: Thesis 1905.] Some of the popular hygiene of the time is very interesting and distinctly foreshadows practices of our own time. Erasmus gave directions to students for cleanliness. The hands were to be washed after each meal; a practice rendered necessary by the absence of forks and the nails were to be cut and cleaned every week. Gums and teeth were to be rubbed with a rough towel every day according to Montaigne, and various tooth powders were commonly employed. The feet and the hair ought to be washed at least once a week. Among foods, sea-fish were preferred to river fish and the livelier the fish the better it was liked. Shellfish were recommended by some and deprecated by others. Lobsters were usually counted difficult of digestion, and oysters and other shellfish shared in this prejudice. Popular traditions as to food were quite like our own. Peas were very much praised as an article of diet, spinach was considered to be good for torpid liver, water cress was said to have a favorable action on the bowels and lettuce as well as most of the material for green salads was declared to be sedative in action. Cucumbers were indigestible unless cooked, melons must be ripe and soft and without any spots in them or they were dangerous, and cabbage and onions were {407} praised or blamed as articles of food according to the particular part of the country from which one came. Even in the matter of drinks opinions were not so different from those which are held at the present time, though there was just as much disagreement as regards their effects as we are accustomed to. In Normandy, where apples were common and cider a familiar drink, cider was considered to be much better for men than wine. In the middle and South of France, however, wine was considered of the greatest value for health, and white wine was considered to be diuretic while red wine was recommended for diarrheic conditions. Wine was declared to be much more wholesome as a drink than water and there is no doubt at all that in this our colleagues of that time were eminently justified by their observations. Any water in the neighborhood of cities or considerable centres of population was almost sure to be contaminated by sewage of some description and to be distinctly dangerous. Wine was ever so much less likely to be followed by disease than water. There were many who recognized how much of evil was done by the abuse of wine however, and Renou declared that in that century wine had killed many more people than the sword. He declared that the abuse of wine led to degenerations of the brain and the liver, disturbances of the nerves, brought on tremors, convulsions, even paralysis, and was active in the production of dyspnoea and other serious conditions. Dr. Cramer calls attention [Footnote 42] to the fact that in 1481 the republic of Lucca in Italy elected three citizens to serve as a board of health. They were given plenary powers to act in case of epidemics. Their main purpose was to prevent the spread of infectious diseases. For this purpose they kept in touch with other countries, so as to be forewarned of places where epidemics were raging, and they had the right to forbid entrance into Lucca of persons, animals or goods until after a sufficient delay to insure the absence of infection or thorough disinfection. The word quarantine of course is very old, though often the idea is supposed to be new, and there seems no doubt that in most of the Italian cities health boards and health regulations anticipating many supposedly modern developments were in existence. There is even question of {408} the contagiousness of tuberculosis having been recognized at this time, and measures taken to prevent its spread. We know that scarcely more than a century after Columbus' period every principality in Italy has laws declaring tuberculosis contagious and regulating it. [Footnote 42: _Revue Médicale de la Suisse Romaine._ 1914, XXIX, No. I.] Sir Thomas More in his "Utopia" has a very curiously interesting paragraph with regard to the status of physicians in his ideal Republic, which shows what his own idea of the place of medicine in the world is. His long friendship with Linacre might very well have been expected to give him such a high estimation of the physician. It is all the more interesting because he expresses depreciation of his own profession of the law in "Utopia." What is striking in this passage is his recognition of the lofty place that medicine deserves to hold in the intellectual world as a department of philosophy and science. He emphasizes the fact that the less people need physicians the more they appreciate them, thus anticipating the modern idea that prevention rather than cure is the great basis for prestige in medical science. His fine tribute to the honor that medicine should have in the estimation of men will make his words a fitting close to this chapter on medicine in Columbus' Century. "One of my companions, Thricius Apinatus, happened to carry with him some of Hippocrates' works and Galen's 'Microtechne,' which they hold in great estimation, for though there is no nation in the world that need physic so little as they do, yet there is not any that honors it so much; they reckon the knowledge of it one of the most pleasantest and profitable parts of philosophy, by which as they search into the secrets of nature, so they not only find this study highly agreeable, but think that such inquiries are very acceptable to the Author of nature; and imagine, that as He, like the inventors of curious engines amongst mankind, has exposed this great machine of the universe to the view of the only creatures capable of contemplating it, so an exact and curious observer, who admires His workmanship, is much more acceptable to Him than one of the herd, who, like a beast incapable of reason, looks on this glorious scene with the eyes of a dull and unconcerned spectator." {409} CHAPTER XIII SURGERY Ordinarily it is assumed that surgery has received almost its only and its greatest development in our time. Probably no development of knowledge that has come to us in the recent revival of interest in the history of medicine has been more surprising than the finding that surgery had several periods of great progress before our time. One of these and the most important came during the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. Another great phase of surgical advance, after a period of decline such as seems inevitable in all human affairs, occurred during the Renaissance. It had its origin in or at least was greatly influenced by the publication of the chapters on surgery in the Latin and Greek classics, though strange as that may sound to modern ears even more was probably accomplished for surgical development by the printing of the text-books of the later mediaeval surgeons. The new impetus thus given affected nearly every phase of surgery and accomplished ever so much more than we would be likely to think possible, only that the republication of old surgical text-books in recent years has proved such a revelation to us. As I have said in preceding chapters, one of the greatest debts of the modern time to the Renaissance is due for the printing of old books in the early days of printing. Scholars were willing to give liberally of their time and to devote patient labor to secure a good text for the printers, and somehow or other great printers succeeded in bringing out usually in magnificent editions, though of small size as regards the number of copies, not only the ancient but what we have now come to recognize as the mediaeval classics of medicine and surgery. The chapters on surgery in such writers as Aëtius, Alexander of Tralles and the Arab writers like Abulcassis are among the most important contributions to the medicine of {410} their time. The text-books on surgery of such men as Theodoric, Hugo of Lucca, the Four Masters, William of Salicet and Guy de Chauliac are landmarks in the history of a great surgical era. All of these were reprinted usually in magnificent editions during Columbus' Century. Without such reprinting at a cost of time and money that we can scarcely understand, many of these precious treasures of the history of medicine and surgery would almost surely have been lost. Certainly very few of them would have remained in the manuscript forms in which they then existed and at most, only in seriously mutilated conditions. There have been several centuries since when they would have been utterly neglected, for almost no hint of their value survived and there was an impression prevalent that no one knew anything either about medicine or surgery during the Middle Ages at all worthy of preservation. This publication of the old text-books gave an impetus to the surgeons of the time that brought about a great new era in surgery, though there were other important factors at work in producing this. Above all the development of anatomy made for a corresponding development in surgery and by increasing men's knowledge of the tissues through which operations had to be made, added to their confidence and decreased the mortality of surgical intervention. The magnificent hospitals of the time are of themselves the best possible evidence of proper care for patients, not alone in a medical, but also surgical way. It cannot be too often repeated that whenever hospitals are well built, properly cared for and suitably maintained, there is sure to be good medical practice and a fine development of surgery; whenever hospitals are neglected, medical and surgical practice both sink to a very low standard. Hospital construction reached a very high plane during the Renaissance period, only to sink afterwards, as did every other constructive effort for humanitarian purposes, to what Jacobsohn, the German historian of hospitals and care for the ailing, calls an indescribable level of degradation. Literally, the worst hospitals in the world's history were erected at the end of the eighteenth and the beginning of the nineteenth century. Hospital organization and maintenance inevitably sank in the same way. A corresponding decadence in medical and surgical practice could {411} not help but occur,--fortunately to be followed by the progress of our own time. There are many, however, who seem to think that because the twentieth century is so far ahead of the early nineteenth it must be correspondingly in advance of preceding centuries. This assumption constitutes the most important reason for the very common failure in our time to understand properly the history of medicine and surgery as well, indeed, as that of every phase of science. This was the period when gunpowder began to be used extensively in the operations of war and it is not surprising that a great deal of attention was given to gunshot surgery. We have four books, treatises in their way on gunshot wounds, that were written at this time by men of large experience. They made mistakes of course, there is no period in the world's history, even our own, when men have not made mistakes, but the surgeons of Columbus' Century accumulated an immense number of observations and gradually worked out a rather valuable set of suggestions with regard to the treatment of various kinds of wounds. At the beginning of the century they made the mistake of thinking that bullets caused both poisoned and burned wounds, and they were over-anxious to treat these imaginary consequences rather than the mechanical effects produced in their passage. They gradually worked out their problems however, even using experiment in order to show the effects of wounds. Braunschweig, Felix Würtz, De Vigo and Ferri are the classics of the time on gunshot wounds and their books have probably been more read in our generation than in any other since the end of the sixteenth century. Nothing is indeed more surprising than the recognition of the value of the observations made by these old-time surgeons which has come in the last twenty years. The greatest of the surgeons of Columbus' Century is the Frenchman, Ambroise Paré, who has come to be spoken of as the Father of Modern Surgery. He well deserves the title if we restrict it definitely to the modern time and do not conclude, as so many do, that there had been no surgery since the classical period, for, of course, there was a very great era of surgery during the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, but as is the way with humanity a period of decadence occurred, {412} followed by another upward phase in the curve of history of which in his time Paré is the apex. It is to him that we owe the treatment of gunshot wounds by simple water dressings, or at most by aromatics. When he began his work they were treating gunshot wounds as if they were poisoned and burned wounds by pouring boiling oil along the track of the bullet. Paré ran out of oil on an historical occasion but found that the wounded left untreated recovered with less pain and complications than those subjected to the heroic remedy. He recognized the mistake and had the genius to correct it properly. He reinvented the ligature, though, of course, it had been in use a number of times before and had gone out because of the tendency to produce sepsis involved in it, and because so often secondary hemorrhage occurred from the coming away of the ligature in the suppuration which ensued. He deserves, as do several others, the credit of real invention in its use. Paré himself speaks of this discovery, which he made just at the close of Columbus' Century, as an inspiration which came to him through Divine Grace. In nearly every department of surgery Paré left his mark. He was a thoroughly practical surgeon. He suggested, as did also Maggi, the Italian surgeon at this time, exarticulation as an important mode of amputation. This consisted of the removal of an injured limb or a gangrenous member at the joint just above, because in this way there was less danger of complications and a better stump could be obtained for subsequent use. In order to demonstrate that gunshots did not make a burned wound he demonstrated that when balls are fired even into a bag of gunpowder it does not explode. Maggi [Footnote 43] independently made this same observation but went further and showed also that shot do not melt when they strike a hard surface and that balls of wax that are fired do not spread out {413} as if the wax were melted. This series of experiments made to demonstrate certain valuable points in gunshot surgery is quite worthy of the most modern time and indicates well the thoroughly scientific spirit that was abroad at this period. Paré also suggested that cut tendons should be sewed, the ends being carefully brought together and that no portion of the tongue should be removed after injury, but the parts should be brought together, for there was great power of healing in this organ. He advised the cutting of the uvula with a ligature gradually made tighter and he, as well as Franco, devised an apparatus to fill up the cleft in the bone of a defective palate and other similar mechanical appliances. [Footnote 43: Anyone who doubts the ability of the men of this time to discuss a practical scientific question from a thoroughly scientific standpoint with experimental demonstrations and close reasoning, should read Gurlt's account of Maggi's experiments with gunshot, and the German surgeon's comparison of the conclusions of this colleague of the early sixteenth century with the facts brought out by the discussion of the same subject after the Franco-German War of 1871 and the experiments which were made just afterwards along the same line.] [Illustration: HOLBEIN, DR. WILLIAM BUTTS ] Indeed from the mechanical side of surgery Paré is the most interesting. Orthopedics, that is the treatment mechanical and surgical of deformed children, in order to bring about their cure or at least the lessening of their deformity, is generally supposed to be new, but there are many suggestions for it in the Renaissance period. Helferich in his _"Geschichte der Chirurgie"_ in Puschmann's _"Handbuch"_ says, for instance, that Paré's orthopedic armamentarium was rather extensive. He used various apparatus and specially designed shoes with bandages in order to bring on the over-correction of club foot. He treated flat foot in various ways and particularly by the use of special shoes. He invented a corset with holes in it for ventilation to be worn for various torsions of the spine and other spinal deformities. He and Fallopius taught the value of resections for joint troubles of various kinds and even for deformities. Paré declared that _genu valgum,_ that is knock-knees, were due to similar causes as those which produced club foot, or at least that the affections were related. A very interesting incident in his experience is related by Paré in his memoirs with regard to one of these surprising cases of deep injury to the brain which seem inevitably fatal, yet the patient survives. It is, as suggested by Dr. Mumford, a replica of the well-known Harvard crowbar case, the most famous in American surgery, in which a quarry man recovered from his injury in spite of the fact that a tamping iron had passed completely through his head from beneath the chin upwards, coming out through the top of the skull. {414} The specimens from the case, secured long afterwards at the time of the man's death, may still be seen in the Harvard Museum. Paré's case was very similar but concerns a very important individual. Francis of Lorraine, Duke of Guise, was wounded before Boulogne, "with a thrust of a lance, which entered above the right eye, towards the nose, and passed out on the other side between the ear and the back of the neck, with so great a violence that the head of the lance, with a piece of wood, was broken and remained fast; so that it could not be drawn out save with extreme force with smith's pincers. Yet, notwithstanding the violence of the blow, which was not without fracture of bones, nerves, veins and arteries, and other parts torn and broken, my lord, by the grace of God, was healed." Without the corroboration of the possibility of this by our modern case, it is probable that there would be serious doubts as to it. The bone surgery of the Renaissance period is particularly interesting. Fallopius declared for the preservation of the periosteum of the bone just as far as was possible whenever there was bone disease or injury. We know now that the periosteum in healthy condition will bring about regeneration of bone, and it was evidently because of clinical observation of the satisfactory improvement that occurred in cases when the periosteum was interfered with just as little as possible that brought Fallopius to this conclusion. Their treatment of fractures was excellent and they secured good results. It was during this time that the older methods of using force in the reduction of dislocations yielded to the maxim that joints should be restored along the same path through which the dislocation took place. A series of surgeons at this time, notably Massa, Ingrassias and Vigo, wrote about spinal disease, describing "penetrating corruption" of the spine, persistent suppuration and the subsequent deformity, using the term _"ventositas spinae,"_ and others that would indicate their interest in what we know as Pott's Disease. Vigo described fractures of the inner table of the skull when the outer table is unbroken, and Argelata described depression without fracture as occurring in young folks. Considerable valuable advance was made in the treatment of fractures of the skull and injuries of the brain. Vigo {415} brought back the use of the crown trephine and did much to make the instrument popular. A great many surgeons invented a variety of instruments for lifting up depressed bone, or for removing fragments, and each one was sure that his particular type of instrument was the best to use. It is interesting to read Helferich's "History of Surgery" in Puschmann's _"Handbuch"_ on these and other points, because they are arranged in the order in which the discoveries and rediscoveries and inventions and reinventions were made. The Renaissance is particularly full of interesting surgical history. The late effects of brain injury, dementia, deafness and various forms of paralyses were carefully studied by such men as Fallopius, Paré and Della Croce. Various phases of surgery were taken up and discussed that are often supposed to be much more modern. The whole question of the transfusion of blood, for instance, attracted wide attention at this time. Magnus Pegelius of Rostock suggested that the artery of one patient should be fastened directly to the artery of another patient in order to bring about transfusion. The use of this method of treatment, after large losses of blood or in case of anaemia, is mentioned by a number of men. At least as much was hoped for from it as in our time from opotherapy. Jerome Cardan went farther than any in what he looked for from the transfusion of blood. He always saw the possibility of mystical results and his suggestion was that the transfusion of blood might bring about a change in the morals of individuals. It was even said that the use of animal's blood in the same way might bring about an endowment of the human individual with certain animal qualities of disposition. This is quite as absurd yet quite as reasonable as many of our surgical attempts at the reform of criminals by operation on their brains. In 1539 Benedictus noted the occurrence of hemophilia or bleeders' disease. This had been noticed before in the Middle Ages, but had been lost sight of. With regard to varicose veins the Renaissance abandoned the older methods of operation and suggested the use of bandages. Savonarola, the grandfather of Savonarola the Dominican, who was burnt to death in Florence, described various forms of bandages and suggested rest in the prone position {416} with the feet higher than the head for the relief of discomfort. Savonarola was much interested in the correction of deformities and classifies rather carefully the different forms of gibbosity of the spine, forward, backward and to the side, and suggests their treatment with bandages that may be put on when soft and pliable, but which harden after their application. Paré at the end of the century used a corset made of very thin perforated iron plates which he insisted should be well padded. This should be changed every three months and its shape often altered so as to suit the growth of the body and the changes brought about by itself. Some of the developments of surgical technique at this time are extremely interesting because they illustrate that accurate attention to detail and inventive ability in surgery that is usually supposed to be reserved for a much later time. Paré, for instance, invented a whole series of special apparatus for nearly every phase of corrective surgery, many of which have been mentioned. Fallopius insisted on bringing the muscles of the neck together and retaining them in position by sutures whenever they were severed, because results were nearly always excellent and function was restored. Every important surgeon of the time emphasized the sewing of severed tendons. Vidus Vidius invented a gold or silver tube to be used after tracheotomy in order to permit breathing through it, and suggested the use of this instrument also after injuries of the larynx. Monteux devised a magnet to aid in the extraction of swallowed iron objects that were caught in the throat. All the specialties developed wonderfully at this time. The story of the Caesarean operation attests the evolution of obstetrics. In 1500 Jacob Nufer, a veterinarian, performed this operation successfully on his own wife, and a number of others followed the example until within twenty-five years after the close of our period, Rousset counts up his cases of the operation as 15. Gynaecology and obstetrics always develop together, and Weyer, the Dutch physician and surgeon, who did so much to rid the world of the witchcraft delusion and point out its connection with what we know as hysterical manifestations, wrote a text-book on gynaecology, and Caspar {417} Wolff laid the deep foundations of the science of gynaecology at this time. Würtz, who comes after our period, but was deeply influenced by it, and who must indeed be considered as a follower of Paracelsus, insisted very much on the simple treatment of wounds and emphatically opposed the common custom of "thrusting clouts and rags, balsam, oil and salve into them." Such teaching would have much to do with making advances in gynaecology and obstetrics possible. Cabrol advised the removal of the breast for cancer and insisted on its complete removal and also of a part of the pectoral muscle, if that seemed to the operator to be necessary, because of actual or apparent involvement. Cabrol also declared that wounds of the heart were not necessarily fatal and gives the details of one which he himself had treated and had afterwards seen at autopsy, death having taken place from another condition. He mentions the fact that stags' hearts had been found in which there were definite indications of healed wounds so that the long-time tradition as to the fatality of heart wounds is not absolute. Della Croce taught that blood or pus or other fluid should be emptied out of the thorax by aspiration. He suggested the use of a cupping glass or a syringe, or in case of necessity even of the mouth for this purpose. He advised the placing of a metal tube in the thorax for drainage purposes. Arculanus advised the opening of empyemata by a perforation of the thorax that would permit drainage. If one had opened spontaneously and become chronic, a lower opening for better drainage should be made. Nor were they less ingenious in their suggestions as to surgical intervention in conditions within the abdomen. Riolanus explained ileus as thoroughly as anyone has ever done it and recognized exactly what the condition was and the only way by which it could be treated. Paré advised the letting out of gas from over-distended intestines when these could not easily be returned to the abdomen. Fioravanti reported a case of splenectomy with the recovery of the patient. All sorts of bougies for strictures were invented, and many suggestions as to instrumental relief in difficult strictures made. Savonarola suggested the extirpation of _ranula,_ evidently {418} after having had the experience that the mere emptying of this cyst of the gland beneath the tongue is practically always followed by the refilling of it. He gave the technique of puncture for ascites and has some interesting details of cases, including one in which a fall led to the traumatic evacuation of the fluid with subsequent cure. He recommended the puncture of the pleural cavity for pleural effusion, and above all for empyema whenever the case was in serious condition. A little bit later, Berengar of Carpi, who is usually considered much more important in anatomy than in surgery, discussed the question of fracture of the skull by _contrecoup,_ evidently after considerable experience. He detailed some cases of _extirpatio uteri_ for procidentia and developed the technique of inunctions of mercury for lues. Whether he was the first to do this or not we are not sure. There is no doubt that his practice attracted wide attention. He was visited by patients from all over the world and was summoned on consultations even to great distances in order to see members of the nobility. There probably never has been a more important discovery in therapeutics than the use of mercury for specific disease, and the men of this time to whom must be attributed the development of this phase of therapeutics deserve the highest praise. It required the most careful, patient, prolonged observation, and this was successfully given. While gunshot wounds were becoming so frequent as to claim much attention, wounds from swords and other sharp instruments causing ugly disfigurements were rather common. Cosmetic surgery attracted attention. It might be thought that owing to their ignorance of aseptic surgery there would be no possibility of any great development of plastic surgery at this time. As a matter of fact, however, not a little was done that was of great significance for the correction of disfigurements due to injury and unsightly congenital defects or scars after disease. A number of procedures for the correction of harelip and of cleft palate have already been noted. Just at the beginning of Columbus' Century the technique of the Brancas, father and son, for the restoration of noses that had been lost by injury or disease attracted wide attention. Their method was to make the new nose from the skin of the arm, {419} lifting a flap from the inner portion of the upper arm, fastening it to the forehead and bandaging the hand firmly on top of the head so as to keep the flap in place, fed by the circulation of the arm until it had obtained a firm hold, when the attachment to the arm was cut and the nose fashioned from the living tissue thus obtained. Vianeo and Aranzi both described methods of forming the nose, and it was suggested that a portion of the skin of the forehead might be used for that purpose. Defects of the lips and eyelids were cured by slipping tissues over and by freshening the edges and bringing them together. An extremely interesting surgical writer of the beginning of the sixteenth century is Michele Angelo Biondo, sometimes known by his Latin name of Blondus. There are some passages in his writings with regard to the use of warm water as the only proper dressing for wounds that are rather startling. He tells of some physicians of his time who, in place of liniments and all the various applications that are made by the "wax-dealers," simply wash off their wounds with warm water. He adds that these physicians insist that a great many surgical patients are not killed by their disease so much as by the custom of allowing them only small amounts of food and the unfortunate effect produced on them by the applications to their wounds. He adds further that these men are not wont to treat patients suffering from fevers by keeping them on a light diet, but on the contrary they give them wine and nourishing food instead of slops (ptisans). His comment is that this sensible method of supporting treatment unfortunately does not make much headway in the profession. Apparently it was too simple and natural to appeal to the physician of the time. He adds with fine irony, "It is said to be preferable to die methodically than to live empirically." Gurlt in his _"Geschichte der Chirurgie"_ (Berlin, 1898), to whom I owe most of what is here said of the work of these old surgeons, gives some further details of Biondo's treatment of wounds. After the staunching of the bleeding, the wound was to be cleansed and then covered with _oleum abjetinum,_ very probably oil of turpentine, one part to two parts of oil of roses. With regard to the use of water in the treatment of {420} wounds, Biondo said: "The most experienced of the older physicians held water in such dread that they would scarcely use it in removing dirt from the neighborhood of wounds. I myself, however, having seen the wonderful effect of water in wounded parts, cannot help but be amazed at its super-celestial virtue." In spite of this strong declaration, Biondo in his book gives chapters on all the old methods of treating wounds and the various applications that were supposed to work wonders in bringing about healing. The consequence was that the water doctrine was pushed into the background and probably attracted very little attention. Here was the germ of a great discovery, the use of boiled water, evidently with some experience behind it, and yet it was to remain untried, its true value unappreciated until four centuries later. Paracelsus, who brought about the revolution in medicine at this time, worked almost as great a change with regard to surgery. At least the principles that he laid down were as startlingly different from much of those accepted in his time and strikingly like those we have come to accept in our time. He insisted that to as great an extent as possible wounds should be left to nature, for there was a definite tendency to cure. He inveighed strongly against meddlesome surgery and declared that not a little of the subsequent complications in wounds were due to misdirected efforts at cure of them. He talked about _pestilence_ due to wounds, and declared that he had seen it spread epidemically from one patient to another in hospital wards. He discussed pyaemia as _Wundsucht,_ that is, an infectious disease produced from a wound. Paracelsus described gangrene and proclaimed its epidemic character. He is the first from whom we have a careful study of the effects of lightning and almost the first who believed that it was possible for a man to be struck by lightning and yet not be killed or even fatally injured. In general, the ideas of this time were not nearly so distant from our own as some of the intermediate periods have been. Fallopius described union by first intention as resembling that which occurred between two waxed surfaces when they were brought together in parallel lines and adhered. {421} Würtz described a wound fever, evidently erysipelas, and warned about the possibility of its becoming epidemic. Arceo, known also by his Latin name of Francisco Arceus, a Spanish surgeon, born near the end of the fifteenth century, illustrates the vitality of surgery in Spain at this time. He has a number of interesting surgical suggestions and has this to say with regard to club foot. The foot should be soaked thoroughly for thirty days in warm water in which some cereal has been cooked. Then the surgeon, taking the lame foot, should exert all his force to put it back into its due position and the form that he desires. This can usually be accomplished without difficulty or delay, partly because of the preceding softening of the tissues, but above all because of the tender age and soft tissues of the child. Then a bandage should be used to maintain the foot in this position until the correction becomes permanent. Ambroise Paré, as I have said, accomplished similar results, but he also used a number of forms of apparatus for the cure of club foot and for the prevention of contractures in the joints as a consequence of paralysis. He is the first surgeon whom we know to have interested himself in artificial hands, arms and legs for those deprived by amputation of members and the first to employ artificial eyes. Fabricius of Aquapendente, born in Columbus' period, but doing his work afterwards, recommends massage and bandaging for _pes varus_ and an iron shoe with side pieces for _pes valgus._ He made the correction gradual. He said, "I talk from experience, as I have had much to do with crooked legs, feet and backs and have made them straight and proper." That Germany was not without the distinctive spirit of the time by thoughtful work in surgery is made clear through the writings of Hugo von Pfolspeundt, which were found only a few years ago. In what relates to the mechanics of surgery he made many practical suggestions and inventions. For harelip he suggested that stitches should be placed on the mucous surface as well as on the skin surface, after the edges of the cleft had been freshened in order to be brought closely together and held in coaptation. He also suggested the use of a permanent weight extension for fractures and for certain {422} injuries of the joints. Perhaps his most interesting surgical development for us is a description of a silver tube with flanges to be inserted in the intestines when there were large wounds, or when the intestines had been severed, the ends being brought together carefully over the tube which was allowed to remain in situ. Pfolspeundt said that he had often seen these tubes used and the patient live for many years afterwards. This is an early form of what is known as the Murphy button in our time, though it was not the first suggestion of a mechanical device to aid the repair of intestinal injuries. One of the latest mediaeval surgeons had employed the trachea of an animal as the tube over which the wounded intestines were brought together. This became disintegrated after a while in the secretions, but remained intact until after thorough agglutination of the intestines had occurred. Pfolspeundt was not an educated man and did not even write his own German tongue with correctness, not to say elegance. He was just a practical devotee of surgery, probably not even a regularly practising physician, and yet his writings show how much there was that he knew of technical details, extremely important for surgical practice, that are usually supposed to be of much later origin. After all, some of our own distinguished surgeons have not been educated men in any sense of the word, and there has sometimes been the feeling that a surplus of information of what had been accomplished just before his time, sometimes deterred the physician, as well as the surgeon, from thinking independently about problems connected with practice and reaching valuable practical conclusions. Besides Pfolspeundt there are at least two other German surgeons of this time whose writings have come down to us that deserve a place in a history of distinguished accomplishment in Columbus' Century. One of these is Jerome of Brunschwig, whose name is spelled in many different ways, and the other is Hans von Gerssdorff. Brunschwig, or Braunschweig, used to be considered the oldest writer on surgery in German until the comparatively recent discovery of Hugo von Pfolspeundt's manuscript. He published his surgery in 1497, and it went through nine editions in a few years. It {423} contains a number of woodcuts, and these probably helped to give it its popularity. Brunschwig was very proud of his calling as a surgeon, and quotes what Galen, Rhazes, Abulcassis, Lanfranc and Guy de Chauliac had declared should be the qualities possessed by a surgeon and insisted particularly that he "should have deep knowledge and trained observation of anatomy, so that whenever it may be necessary to cut or cauterize, he shall know exactly in what regions to do it, so as to do just as little damage as possible and that he shall be capable of diagnosing joint conditions and know what important organs may be injured by bullet or other wounds with weapons and be able to judge of the danger of cutting down for their removal." He recommends above all that the young surgeon should invariably call an older and more experienced colleague, or even two, in consultation, if the case is very difficult, and he has doubts about it. Some of his details of technique are very interesting as showing how carefully he thought out even minor problems connected with the practice of surgery. For instance, he says as to wounds of the face, that as "the beauty of the countenance is what above every other thing makes men beautiful, the surgeon must take the greatest care that no ill-looking or ugly union should take place in it, and just as far as possible the parts should be brought together and kept in apposition, with as delicate means as possible, until healing has taken place." On the other hand he does not hesitate to discuss even fractures of the breast-bone, and says that if the patient expectorates blood it is a bad sign, for almost surely some of the arteries lying under the bone have been ruptured. He suggests position to help in the correction of deformity and displacement of the bone, and mentions that some of the older surgeons sought to raise it up by means of large dry cups. In fractures of the ribs similar recommendations were made, but Brunschwig was of the opinion that they did more harm than good. He recommended bandages, thickened with albumen, or leather moulded to the part, and he covered the thorax with a large binder. {424} There is no doubt at all that he knew very well the books of his predecessors and that he had thoughtfully adapted them in the way that had been taught him by his forty years of experience. He begins his book with a dedication to the praise of God and His Mother, not forgetting the honorable magistrates of the city of Strassburg. He says in the preface that he is tempted to write his book because there are many young, inexpert masters of surgery in the care of wounds who do not understand it and consequently inflict much harm on mankind. He hopes to be able to instruct them and also others who, living in the smaller towns and villages, have not had the opportunity to see the practice of surgery and yet must be able to help the ailing and injured. The picture of the position of the surgeon of the time is rather interesting. The next of the German surgeons of this period was Hans von Gerssdorff, who practised in Strassburg. His well-known work is the "Field Book of Surgery," in which he gives some of the experiences of long years as a military and municipal physician. The book was issued with a series of woodcuts, some of them anatomical but most of them surgical in interest, which are very well executed. His illustration of an amputation is the first one of this subject ever made, and there are many pictures of his instruments. We have only room to note some of his discussions of subjects usually not supposed to be thought of in his time. He discusses wounds of the liver, especially such as occur from large wounds of the abdomen, and says that if the liver substance itself has been wounded the issue will surely be fatal. If the liver is not wounded, yet appears in the wound, it should be replaced and the external wounds sewed. His discussions of wounds of the deep organs are all in about this same conservative strain. Gerssdorff has much to say with regard to contractures and anchyloses. When these deformities are to be corrected, the tissues around the joints should be softened by means of embrocations and the rubbing in of old oil, and the contractures gradually overcome by manipulation or by instrumental means. He invented a number of apparatus for stretching such contractures, and four of the large pictures reproduce them. They are partly in the shape of armor or {425} splints so arranged that they can be bent or made straight by means of a screw. There is also a screw arrangement for bringing about extension in various directions. He did not believe very much in going too slowly about the correction, for he declares that most of the contractures and anchyloses can be overcome in a few hours. In discussing amputations he mentions the use of anaesthetics by the older surgeons, and quotes from Guy de Chauliac the method of anaesthesia employed by him, but he thinks that better results are obtained without the use of such material. He had never employed anaesthetics himself, though he had performed over 100 amputations. Perhaps his Teutonic people were able to stand pain better than the patients of the Latin countries. The refusal to use anaesthetics is very interesting at this time, for the practice gradually disappeared and was forgotten. Gerssdorff warns particularly against the use of opium alone as a means of preventing pain, and Chauliac had done the same thing earlier. The spirit that the surgeons of the time were expected to have is very well illustrated by a passage from John Hall, written shortly after the close of Columbus' Century in his "Historian Expostulation," which is referred to more at length in the chapter on Medicine. He said, "I would therefore that all Chirurgiens should be learned, so would I have no man think himself learned otherwise than chiefly by experience, for learning in Chirurgery consisteth not in speculation only, nor in practice only, but in speculation well practised by experience." Dr. Hall made a series of rhyming verses which were meant to be helpful to the young surgeon to enable him to recall his duties readily. He urged him above all never to treat a case unless he understood it, when in doubt to call in a consultant and advises him after consultation to console the patient, but to talk seriously to some of the patient's friends. Above all not to disturb the patient's feelings. Among other excellent bits of good advice he insists very much on the knowledge of anatomy, and two of his rhyming stanzas regarding it seem worth while quoting to show the spirit in which he wrote: {426} "He is no true chirurgien That cannot show by arte The nature of every member Each from other apart. For in that noble handy work There doth nothing excell The knowledge of anatomy If it be learned well." In a chapter of this kind, almost needless to say, it is impossible to give any formal account of the surgery of the time. All that I have been able to do is to point out that in every country in Europe surgeons were thinking for themselves and facing most of our modern surgical problems and finding not inept solutions. There is scarcely a phase of our modern surgery from antisepsis and anaesthesia to technical details of various kinds, through plastic surgery, the use of apparatus, manipulation and many forms of instruments, which cannot be found in the surgical text-books of this time. Gurlt in his great "History of Surgery" has taken some 400 pages of a large octavo volume, with the excerpts in rather small type, to tell the story of the surgery of Columbus' Century. Helferich occupies several hundred pages of Puschmann's "Handbook of the History of Medicine" with the details of what was done by the period's surgeons. The specialties developed, and in all of them important contributions were made. The great independent, seeking temper of the era is as noteworthy in surgery as it is in every other department of intellectual effort at this time. {427} BOOK III THE BOOK OF THE WORDS CHAPTER I LATIN LITERATURE The Latin literature produced during Columbus' period, or at least the books written in Latin, are literally legion. There has seldom been an age of greater literary productivity, and in every department men wrote in Latin. It was the universal language of scholars. Every educated man understood it; whenever he wrote for educated men he employed it. When scholars of different languages met it was a ready resource. This custom did not begin to lose its hold until after the end of Columbus' Century, though it received a severe shock from Paracelsus' refusal to use anything but the vernacular and was given its death blow by the popularization of even theological subjects in the vernacular during the reformation movement. Latin continued for two centuries after Luther's time to be the medium of communication between scholars, but its use gradually went out in the depths of the degradation of scholarship in the eighteenth century. There are many who apparently can see only unmixed good in the gradual supersession of Latin by the various vernacular languages, but a universal academic language had many advantages. As a rule, an educated man needed to know only one language besides his own at this time. Practical education for scientific purposes, and above all for law and medicine and philosophy and theology, was very much simplified. Now the student of science must know, as a rule, at least two languages besides his own. In recent years we have come to recognize the need of a universal language, and hence the {428} successive waves of interest in newly-invented languages. Latin, however, besides its practical usefulness as a common tongue, rewarded the student of it by opening up to him a precious literature which made it well worth his while to have devoted time and labor to its acquisition. The most fertile period of modern Latin was undoubtedly the era of the Renaissance from 1450 to 1550, yet of all this Latin writing of Columbus' Century very little endures in the sense of being read for its own sake in our time. The old books have many of them gone up in value, but that is mainly because of their special significance in the history of their particular science or in the development of printing. Books like Vesalius' _"Fabrica Humani Corporis"_ have become classics that every scholarly student of medicine must have seen, though in practical value they have been superseded by later books. Some of the philosophical and theological works of the period and a number of the mystical and spiritual works are still read for their own sake, but with certain exceptions, like Thomas à Kempis' works and others that we shall mention, these are rather curiosities that appeal to the erudition of the special student than real living books to be consulted. An immense amount of Latin verse was written at this time. Sannazaro, one of the ablest members of the Academy of Naples, wrote a poem comparable in size to Virgil's AEneid on "The Birth of Christ." This is only one instance. There were literally hundreds of scholars at this time who thought because they could write Latin verses in which the rules of grammar and prosody were not violated, and above all if they could use the words that had been employed by their favorite Latin authors and repeat felicitously the expressions of Virgil and Horace and the classic poets generally, that they were making literature at least if not poetry. Men have always had such illusions, have always written what was only of interest for their own time and have had the pleasure and satisfaction derived from the occupation of mind and the anticipations of reputation and glory. None of this Latin poetry has survived, and indeed it is only a very rare specialist in Latin literature, and usually one who has devoted himself to Renaissance Latin, who is likely to know anything about it. Undoubtedly some {429} of it was eminently scholarly. There is no doubt either that not a little of it was of fair poetic quality. It was all, however, of distinctly academic character, and it has gone into the limbo of forgotten writing, which now contains such an immense amount of material. There is probably nothing which shows so clearly that the writer, and above all the poet, is born and not made, that it is originality of thought and not mode of expression that makes for enduring literature, as the fate of so much of the product of these Renaissance writers. On the other hand, there is nothing that better illustrates the value of originality of thought apart from style than the preservation as enduring influences upon mankind of a series of books in which style was probably the last thing that the author thought about, and the mode of expression had almost no place in his mind compared to his desire to set forth his thought effectively. Three of the books that have lived from this time and will, so far as human judgment can foresee, always continue to live, are Thomas à Kempis' _"De Imitatione Christi"_ Sir Thomas More's "Utopia" and St. Ignatius of Loyola's _"Exercitia Spiritualia"_ All three of them were written in Latin because that was the language in which they would appeal to most readers at the time. All three of the authors probably thought nothing at all about the language that they were using except for its convenience for others, inasmuch as it could be read by the men of all nations whom they most wished to reach. All of them are direct, simple, even forcible in their modes of expression, but there was surely little filing done and probably very little rewriting. Thomas à Kempis' book, almost without a doubt, flowed from his pen just in the way that his words flowed out of his full heart in the spiritual conferences that he gave to his brethren. There was probably never a thought given to verbal nicety except to secure as simple an expression of his overflowing ideas as possible. The "Utopia" is written in correct, but not classical Latin, and it is very likely that Erasmus would have found many faults of usage in it, while the Ciceronians of that time would surely have been horrified at the very thought of having to read such Latin and would scarcely be able to understand how anyone could write {430} such unCiceronian phrases. As was said of Michelangelo, St Ignatius wrote things rather than words, and the "Spiritual Exercises" are a mine of thought, but not a model of style in any sense. There has been question as to whether the "Imitation of Christ" was really written by Thomas à Kempis, but that question has now, I think, been definitely settled. Everything points to the authorship by the brother of the Common Life, who was born in the little town of Kempen and lived some seventy years in the Monastery of St. Agnes, acting as spiritual adviser to his brethren, giving them consolation and advice in times of trial, directing their thoughts always to the higher life. There are many Flemicisms, that is, Latin usages which were common in the Netherlands of this time, in most of the manuscripts. It has been argued that since these do not exist in all the manuscripts, the argument founded on them is not absolute. The preponderance of evidence, however, is for the Flemish copies as being nearer the original, and the absence of these special modes of expression in other manuscripts only indicates that a great many copyists of the time, particularly in Italy and France, were quite aware of these imperfections of language and endeavored to correct them out of their better knowledge of Latin. This only serves to show how little the style of the book had to do with its popularity and that it was the thought that appealed to the world of the time and has continued ever since to give the work wide popularity. À Kempis himself was born in the fourteenth century, but as he lived to be past ninety, dying in 1471, more than twenty years of his life, during which he was active and in possession of his faculties, were passed in our period. The "Imitation of Christ" was probably written some twenty years before Columbus' Century began, but did not take the definitive form in which we know it until about the beginning of our period. It has a right to a place, therefore, among the great works of the time. I have sometimes suggested that three men, whose names begin with _k_ sounds, accomplished magnificent broadenings of human knowledge at this time. Columbus discovered a new continent, Copernicus revealed a new universe and à Kempis unveiled a wonderful new world in man's own soul. {431} He did as much for the microcosm man as Copernicus for the cosmos or Columbus for our earth. Hitherto unexplored regions were laid bare and the beginning of the mapping out of them was made. More than either of his great contemporaries, however, à Kempis finished his work. Very little has been added to what he was able to accomplish for man's self-revelation in his little book. [Illustration: CIMA DA CONEGLIANO, CHRIST (DRESDEN)] The work did not spring into popularity at once, though it gradually began to be known and used by chosen spirits in many places, and some of the greatest of the men of the time learned to appreciate it. It is a charming testimony to the fact that a Kempis himself first did and then taught that he cared so little for the reputation attached to his work, that his name was not directly associated with it, and in the course of time there came to be some doubt about its authorship. "If thou wilt profitably know and learn," he had said, "desire to be unknown." It is one of the most difficult of tasks, but the humble brother of the Common Life who had written a sublimely beautiful book had learned it. He had written other books, indeed there are probably at least a dozen attributed to him on reasonably good evidence, yet had said, "In general we all need to be silent more than to speak, indeed there are few who are too slow to speak." None of his other books are quite equal to the "Imitation," yet many of them, as "The Little Garden of Roses" and "The Valley of Lilies," are well worth reading and exhibit many of the traits of charming simplicity, marvellous insight and psychological power that have given his greatest work its reputation. All down the centuries since men have admired and praised the "Imitation." It has not been a classic in the sense of a book that everyone praises and very few read, but on the contrary it has been the familiar reading of a great many of the chosen spirits among mankind ever since. To have been the favorite book of Sir Thomas More, Bossuet and Massillon, of Loyola and Bellarmine, of John Wesley, Samuel Johnson, Lamartine, La Harpe, Michelet, Leibnitz and Villemain is indeed a distinction. Nor has it appealed only to Christians, for men like Renan and Comte almost in our own time have praised it very highly. Far from its reading being confined {432} to scholars by profession or those much occupied with the things of the spirit, we find that it was the favorite reading of General Chinese Gordon, General Wolseley, the late Emperor Frederick and Stanley the explorer. George Eliot shows her deep appreciation of it in "The Mill on the Floss," where she says that "It works miracles to this day, turning bitter waters into sweetness." Sir James Stephen speaks of it as a work "which could not fail to attract notice and which commended itself to all souls driven to despair." The late Lord Russell of Killowen always carried a copy of it with him and used to read a chapter in it every day quite as Ignatius of Loyola had done three centuries and a half before. The frequent surprise is the contrast of the men devoted to it. Pobiedonostseff, the head of the Holy Russian Synod, the power behind the Czar for so long, used to read in it every day. St. Francis de Sales said of "The Imitation," "Its author is the Holy Spirit." Pascal said of it, "One expects only a book and finds a man." De Quincey declared: "Next to the Bible in European publicity and currency this book came forward as an answer to the sighing of Christian Europe for light from heaven." Dr. Samuel Johnson declared that "Thomas à Kempis must be a good book, as the world has opened its arms to receive it." The sentence in it which he repeated most frequently and which evidently had come home to him is "Be not angry that you cannot make others as you wish them to be, since you cannot make yourself as you wish to be." Matthew Arnold, whose religious views might possibly be thought to bias his judgment with regard to it and whose feeling for style might be supposed to be deterred by its lack of finish in language, called the "Imitation" "The most exquisite document after those of the New Testament of all that the Christian spirit has ever inspired." What may be more surprising to some, he even did not hesitate to add that "Its moral precepts are equal to the best ever furnished by the great masters of morals--Epictetus or Marcus Aurelius." Some of the expressions used with regard to the "Imitation" are among the most laudatory that have ever been used of any book. They come from men of all kinds, in all generations, {433} in all nations since, and many of them among the most respected of their time. Fontenelle declared the "Imitation" "the finest book ever issued from the hand of man." Caro, the French philosopher, compares it with other books famous in the same ethical line, only to put it on a pinnacle by itself. "Open the 'Imitation,'" he says, "after having read the _'De Officiis'_ of Cicero or the _'Enchiridion'_ of Epictetus, and you will feel yourself transported into another world as in a moment." Lamennais declared that the "Imitation" "has made more saints than all the books of controversy. The more one reads, the more one marvels. There is something celestial in the simplicity of this wonderful book." Henri Martin, the French historian, declared, "This book has not grown old and never will grow old, because it is the expression of the eternal tenderness of the soul. It has been the consolation of thousands--one might say of millions--of souls." Lamartine in his "Jocelyn" (and it must not be forgotten that Lamartine was an historian and a critic as well as a poet) wrote: "Harassed by an inward strife, I find in the 'Imitation' a new life-- Book obscure, unhonored, like to potter's clay. Yet rich in Gospel truths as flowers in May. Where loftiest wisdom, human and Divine, Peace to the troubled soul to speak, combine." La Harpe, a dramatist as well as a critic, whose "Cours de Littérature" was a standard text-book for so long, was in prison and sadly in need of comfort and consolation when he began to appreciate the "Imitation." There is almost no limit to his praise of it, and praise under these circumstances must indeed be considered to come from the heart. He wrote: "Never before or since have I experienced emotion so violent and yet so unexpectedly sweet--the words, 'Behold I am here,' echoing unceasingly in my heart, awakening its faculties and moving it to the uttermost depths." It is not surprising then to find that Dean Church says of it, "No book of human composition has been the companion of {434} so many serious hours, has been prized in widely different religious communions, has nerved and comforted so many and such different minds--preacher and soldier and solitary thinker--Christians, or even it may be those unable to believe." Dean Milman in his "Latin Christianity" declared "that this book supplies some imperious want in the Christianity of mankind, that it supplied it with a fulness and felicity which left nothing to be desired, its boundless popularity is the one unanswerable testimony." He even has some words of praise for a Kempis' style: "The style is ecclesiastical Latin, but the perfection of ecclesiastical Latin of pure and of sound construction." Dean Plumptre, whose studies of Dante and the great Greek poets gave him so good a right to judge of the place of books in the world's literature, is one of the worshippers at the shrine of the "Imitation." The Rev. Dr. Liddon, the great Greek lexicographer, called it "the very choicest of devotional works, the product of the highest Christian genius and one of the books that have touched the heart of the world." More than this could scarcely be said of any book. Was there ever a chorus of praise quite so harmonious? Did praise ever come from men by whom one could more wish to be praised? Evidently, the "Imitation of Christ" is for all men at all times. It is the poem of our common human nature. When Sir John Lubbock included the "Imitation" in his list of the hundred best books some people expressed surprise. The editor of the _Pall Mall Gazette_ invited the opinions of his readers on the subject, and some of the most distinguished of English churchmen, as well as many English men of distinction, said their praise of it publicly. Archdeacon Farrar, whose sympathies with the fourth book of the "Imitation" would certainly be very slight and whose opposition to many Catholic doctrines that à Kempis received devoutly might possibly be expected to prejudice him somewhat against it, wrote that "If all the books in the world were in a blaze the first twelve I should snatch from the flames would be the Bible, 'The Imitation of Christ,' 'Homer,' 'AEschylus,' 'Thucydides,' 'Tacitus,' 'Virgil,' 'Marcus Aurelius,' 'Dante,' 'Shakespeare,' 'Milton' and 'Wordsworth.'" {435} The men with whom à Kempis is thus placed in association are among the accepted geniuses of literary history before as well as since his time. It would not be difficult to make a sheaf of quotations each one of them scarcely less laudatory than this of Archdeacon Farrar. They come from all manner of men, devout and undevout, bookish and practical, spiritual and worldly, men of wide experience in life, who have done things that the world will not soon forget, and who, if any, have the right to speak for the race as regards the significance of life and what any book can mean for direction and guidance in the living of it and consolation in its trials and difficulties. Lamartine in his "Entretiens Familiers" called it "the poem of the soul," and declared that it "condensed into a few pages the practical philosophy of men of all climates and of all countries who have sought, have suffered, have studied and prayed in their tears ever since flesh suffered and the mind reflected." To adopt his term, the "Imitation" is literally a great poem. It is a creation and it is a vision. The poet is the creator and the seer. The greater he is, the more capable he is of taking the ordinary materials of life and making great poetry of them. The greater the poet, the more of mankind he appeals to. It is the vision of the experiences of man and not of individual men that the poet sees. What all have seen and felt, but none so well expressed is the theme of poetry. The more one reads of the "Imitation," the more one realizes all the truth of this characterization of it as poetry. If one takes passages of it as they have been put into rhythmic sentences the feeling of the poetry in them is brought home very clearly. For instance, this from Chapter XXII of the third book: "Why one has less, another more; Not ours to question this, but Thine With Whom each man's deserts are strictly watched. Wherefore, Lord God, I think it a great blessing Not to have much which outwardly seems worth Praise or glory--as men judge of them." Or if the ode--for such it really is--on Love from the fifth chapter of the third book be read alongside one of the great {436} choruses from the Greek tragedians, as above all some of those of Sophocles in "Antigone" or the "Oedipus at Colonos," the lofty poetic quality will be easier to grasp: "A great thing is love, A great good every way. Making all burdens light, Bearing all that is unequal, Carrying a burden without feeling it. Turning all bitterness to a sweet savor. The noble love of Jesus Impelleth men to good deeds And exciteth them always To desire that which is better. Love will tend upwards Nor be detained By things of earth It would be free. Nothing is sweeter than love, Nothing stronger, nothing higher. Nothing fuller, nothing better Nor more pleasant in heaven or earth. For love is born of God Nor can it rest Except in Him Above all things created. Love is swift, sincere. Pious, pleasant and delightsome. Brave, patient, faithful, Careful, long suffering, manly. Never seeking its own good; For where a man looks for himself He falls away from love." The next most significant book of the Latin literature of the time is Sir Thomas More's "Utopia." Few books are more surprising in the midst of their environment. Probably no one {437} has ever so risen above the social atmosphere around him and breathed the rarefied air of ideal social conditions as More in the "Utopia." It was written under the influence of his first acquaintance with Plato's "Republic" and as a result of his talks with that great French scholar and friend of Erasmus, Peter Giles, or as he is known in the history of scholarship, Aegidius. More discussed not merely literary topics, but the application of the Greek literature that they were both interested in to the contemporary politics of Europe and the social conditions of their time. Not yet thirty years of age, More's powers of observation were at their highest, and his principles of life had not yet been hardened into conventional form by actual contact with too many difficulties. With no experience as yet of government and with the highest ideals of fellowship and unselfishness, he wrote out a wonderful scheme of ideal government by which the happiness of mankind would be attained. He saw clearly through all the social illusions and the social problems, and with almost youthful enthusiasm put forth his solution of all the difficulties he saw. Undoubtedly the "Utopia" is the main literary monument of Sir Thomas More's great genius. Sir Sidney Lee in his "Great Englishmen of the Sixteenth Century" (Scribner's, 1904) declares that "it is as admirable in literary form as it is original in thought. It displays a mind rebelling in the power of detachment from the sentiment and the prejudices which prevailed in his personal environment. To a large extent this power of detachment was bred of his study of Greek literature." There is, perhaps, no greater series of compliments for the significance of the classics in education than the fact that these men of the Renaissance found in the Greek books not only the source of their literature, but also their art and architecture and even their science, and above all were given the breadth of mind to follow the suggestions that they met with. It must not be forgotten, however, that More was also deeply influenced by St. Augustine's _"De Civitate Dei"_ Evident traces of this can be found. It is known that he had been reading the work of the great Latin father of the Church and that he admired him very deeply. Without any narrowness or bigotry, inspired by Augustine's great work, it was a {438} Christian Republic of Plato that the future Lord Chancellor of England sketched for his generation. "Utopia" was published at the end of 1516 in Louvain, then probably the most prominent and undoubtedly the most cosmopolitan centre of academic learning in Europe. There were perhaps 5,000 students at the University there at the moment, and it was one of the large universities of the world. A new edition was published only four months later from a famous press in Paris, and within the year the great scholar-printer, Froben of Basel, produced what we would now call an _édition de luxe_ at the suggestion and under the editorship of Erasmus, and with illustrations by Erasmus' friend, for whom More was to be such a beneficent patron later in England--Hans Holbein. It is not surprising to hear that the book was warmly welcomed by all the scholars of Europe. The epithets which the publishers bestowed on it in the title page, _aureus, saluiatis, festivus_--a golden, wholesome, optimistic book--were adopted from expressions of opinion uttered by some of the best scholars of Europe. Erasmus was loud in his praise of it, it was warmly welcomed in France, it found its way everywhere among the scholars of Italy, it was read, though not too openly, in England, where there was some suspicion of its critical quality as regards English government and where Tudor wilfulness did not brook critical review of its acts. The book was eminently interesting; there probably never has been a _social Tendens_ novel before or since that has been so full of interest. The preliminary chapter of the book is, as Sidney Lee says, "a vivid piece of fiction which Defoe could not have excelled." More relates how he accidentally came upon his scholarly friend, Peter Giles, in the streets of Antwerp in conversation with an old sailor named Raphael or Ralph Hythlodaye. This name means an observer of trifles. More takes advantage of the current interest in the discoveries of the Western Continent by making him a sailor lately returned from a voyage to the New World under the command of Amerigo Vespucci. The name America after Amerigo was just gaining currency at that time and this added to the interest. Ralph had been impressed by the beneficent forms of {439} government which prevailed in the New World. He had also visited England and had noticed social evils there which called for speedy redress. The poor were getting poorer, the rich were getting richer, the degradation of the masses was sapping the strength of the country, the wrong things were in honor and social reform must come, it was hinted, or there would be social revolution. The book contained a fearless exposure of the social evils very commonly witnessed in every country in Europe at that time, though tinged more by More's experience in England than anywhere else. Since its publication, the book has been read in every generation that has taken its social problems seriously. It was not published in England until 1551, but was translated into English again by Bishop Burnet in a form that has made it an English classic. It contains such a surprising anticipation of so many suggestions for the relief of social evils that are now discussed that I have preferred to put a series of quotations from it in the Appendix in order to show how little there is new in human thinking, and above all how a sympathetic genius at any time succeeds in seeing clearly and solving as well the problems of mankind as at any other time, in utter contradiction of the so much talked of evolution that is presumed to bring these problems gradually before the bar of human justice and secure their amelioration. The book is worthy to be placed beside Plato's "Republic," and it will be more read in the near future than probably any other work of similar nature. In our own generation editions of it have been issued in every modern language and a number of editions in English. It is one of the enduring books of mankind that a scholar of any nation cannot afford to confess not having read and in which the social reformer will ever find suggestions for human uplift and the greatest happiness for the greatest number. The third great book of the Latin literature of the century is St. Ignatius's _"Exercitia Spiritualia."_ This is not a book to be read, however, but to be lived. It is a book of material for thought rather than of words to be conned. It has deeply influenced every generation of men ever since. If it had done nothing else but form all the members of his own order ever {440} since, that would be enough of itself to stamp it as a very great human document. It has, however, deeply influenced all the religious orders both of men and women since it was written, and is now the basis of nearly all of the formative exercises on which the modern religious life is based. It is undoubtedly the work of a great spiritual and intellectual genius who above all knew how to suppress himself. There is not a word too much in it, and the one complaint has been of an abbreviation beyond what would make it readily intelligible. Those who have studied it most deeply, however, find no difficulty of understanding, though they recognize the impossibility, unless perhaps after many years of devotion to it, of comprehending all of its precious significance. It is the directions for the spiritual life in shorthand, and it is surprising that a man should have committed it to all the possibilities of misunderstanding in its present form, but its lack of too great detail makes it all the more precious and leaves that room for the expression of the individuality of the one who gives the exercises that is so necessary. The fourth book that deserves a place in any account of the Latin literature of this period is Erasmus' _"Colloquia"_ though doubtless some might plead for a place for the _"Encomium Moriae,"_ which has had an academic immortality at least. The _"Colloquia"_ is eminently a book for scholars written in the elegant Latin that Erasmus could employ so effectively, and it went through many editions in his lifetime and has had many reprints ever since. It was distinctly a book of style rather than of matter and of academic rather than popular interest. Scholars at all times have turned to its pages for refreshment and information and have been regaled by its charming style and its wit. It is entirely too bitter to be always admirable, but many of its satirical parts give an excellent idea, though undoubtedly exaggerated if taken as a picture of the times, of the conditions of education at the moment. It has not been often translated, and hence, in our generally complacent ignorance of Latin, is less known in our time than in any other since its publication. Its career in comparison with the three other volumes of Latin literature in this chapter, its contemporaries, emphasizes the difference between the place of {441} style and thought in the world literature. The scholars of the period doubtless looked upon Erasmus' book as a very triumph of scholarship, a great contribution to world literature. "The Imitation of Christ," "Utopia" and the "Spiritual Exercises" were read originally not for themselves, but for a purpose. These have maintained an active life, however, while at most the _"Colloquia"_ has enjoyed a rather inanimate academic existence. This does not detract from the merit of the book, however, nor from that of Erasmus' other contributions to the Latin literature of the time. Latin was at best an adopted language, however, and the expression of native genius in it could scarcely be expected. The prose has been eminently more fortunate than the verse, and it is to the former, not the latter, that we turn in order to find some of the great contributions of the period to world literature. {442} CHAPTER II ITALIAN LITERATURE As I have said in the Introduction, in spite of the supreme greatness of the artistic products of Columbus' Century, its paintings, sculpture and architecture, the literature of the time was not only not neglected, but occupies a place in the history of culture only second to that of the Periclean age of Athens. For a long time, indeed, the Age of Leo X, as it was called, was considered to be a serious rival in its literary treasures to that marvellous period of Greek thinking and writing. Subsequently the literary world passed through a period of exaggerated critical depreciation of it. There has been, however, a growing tendency in recent years, indeed during the last half century, to restore older appreciation of the literature of this period and to value it highly. In every country in Europe there were books written during this time which not only will never die, but which are part of the familiar reading of the scholars at least of all time. Not that there are not many popular elements in this literature, but its scholarliness has made it a special favorite, and there are not a few books written at this time which no one with any pretence to education would willingly confess to being ignorant of. Ariosto, Machiavelli, Rabelais, Villon, Sir Thomas More, Erasmus, St. Teresa, Marguerite of Navarre and the Pleiades, as well as the Collects of the English Prayer Book, all these have an enduring significance in the realm of world literature that has brought about the publication of editions and translations of them in every cultivated language even in our generation over four centuries after their original production. [Illustration: TITIAN, ARIOSTO ] The Italian literature of the century is especially rich. It would be quite impossible to give it any adequate treatment in a chapter, for this is the Renaissance period, and the literature {443} of the Italian Renaissance has been treated in many volumes. The most important of the writers is undoubtedly Ariosto, who has been much more appreciated by his own people than by other countries, though at times of deep interest in literature he has always had a profound influence on writers beyond the bounds of Italy. Saintsbury, in "The Earlier Renaissance," has summed up his best qualities in some sentences that, considering the distance in time and place and temperament which separate poet and critic, may very well be taken as highest praise. Ariosto, he says, "is very nearly if not quite supreme in more than one respect. It may also be said that he never fails and that this freedom from failure is not due to tame faultlessness or a cowardly absence from the most difficult attempts--that it will go hard--but we must rank him, at lowest, just below the very greatest of all. Such a place is, I believe, his right even on the calculus of those who refuse the historic estimate or at least admit it with grudging. It has been said that as Rabelais he represents the greatest literature of his time penetrated most fully by the extra literary as well as the literary characteristics of that time; and it may be added not merely that few times have been so thoroughly represented, but that few have ever so thoroughly lent themselves to representation." With what is perhaps almost pardonable compatriotic enthusiasm, considering his really great merits as a poet, he has been called the Italian Homer, and his great work, _"Orlando Furioso"_ has been called "the most beautiful and varied and wonderful romantic poem that the literature of the world can boast of." In it are woven together with charming art the two great romantic cycles of Charlemagne and Arthur. It is the poetic apotheosis of chivalry written in wonderful perfection of style and taking form and with marvellous variety of incident. While the great poem has been a favorite rather with the Italians than with foreigners, when one realizes how deeply cultured Italian readers have been as a rule for all the centuries since Ariosto's time, it is probable that no higher compliment than this devotion of his compatriots could be paid to him. The "Orlando" has not been without honor, however, in foreign countries, among those whose opinion is most {444} to be valued. It cast into the shade the numberless poetical romances that had been written during the preceding century. None of the many imitations that it evoked have approached it either in beauty of form or style or in deep underlying human interest. Ariosto knew above all the human heart and had excellent control of pathos. He is especially capable in making the impossible or the improbable seem reasonable. Now, after four centuries, we know that he is of all time and belongs to the culture of all centuries. Modern readers unacquainted with the writings of the older time are often inclined to think that the interests of the older writers were very different from those of humanity to-day and that, as a consequence, the reading of them would surely be a great bore. Even a little reading of Ariosto would show how eminently human and for all time a classic writer is and how literally it is true that he is often a commentary on the morning paper. One or two of Ariosto's comparisons which show his interest in humanity and in life around him will serve to illustrate this. His observation of children is as close as that of Dante: "Like to a child that puts a fruit away When ripe, and then forgets where it is stored, If it should chance that after many a day Thither his step returns where is his hoard. He wonders to behold it in decay. Rotten and spoiled, and richness all outpoured; And what he loved of old with keen delight He hates, spurns, loathes, and flings away in spite." Like Dante, too, he was an observer of animals and noted especially the ways of dogs. "And as we see two dogs the combat wage, Whether by envy moved, or other hate, Approaching whet the teeth, nor yet engage. With eyes askance, and red as coals in grate, Then to their biting come, on fire with rage. With bitter cries, and backs with spite elate, {445} So came with swords and cries and many a taunt Circassia's knight and he of Chiaramont." Ariosto's other poems, besides his Epic, are of minor significance. He wrote a series of satires that are rather chatty essays, on subjects literary and personal, in verse, than satires in our sense of the word. Above all, Ariosto took his own disappointments in life good-humoredly, and his optimism would remind one of Cervantes in certain ways. Garnett in his "History of Italian Literature" (page 151) says, "His lyrical pieces are not remarkable, except one impressive sonnet in which he appears to express compunction for the irregularities of his life: "How may I deem that Thou in heaven wilt hear, O Lord divine, my fruitless prayer to Thee, If for all clamor of the tongue Thou see That yet unto the heart the net is dear? Sunder it Thou, who all behold'st so clear, Nor heed the stubborn will's oppugnancy. And this do Thou perform, ere, fraught with me, Charon to Tartarus his pinnace steer. By habitude of ill that veils Thy light. And sensual lure, and paths in error trod. Evil from good no more I know aright. Ruth for frail soul submissive to the rod May move a mortal; in her own despite To drag her heavenward is work of God." In Italy the _sacre rappresentazioni,_ as the Miracle and Mystery plays were called, had a distinct period of development, though not equal to that of the English, and good specimens of them have not been preserved for us. We have evidence of the influence of them, however, in the fact that some of the scholarly poets of the time wrote plays founded on the myths of the old Olympian religion after the model of some of these mystery plays. Politian's _"Orfeo"_ is perhaps the best example of this. It was little better than an improvisation composed in the short space of two days at Mantua on the {446} occasion of Cardinal Francesco Gonzaga's visit to his native town in 1472, but it marks an epoch in the evolution of Italian poetry. Addington Symonds has even gone so far as to say that "it is the earliest example of the secular drama, containing within the compass of its brief scenes the germ of the opera, the tragedy and the pastoral play." It contained portions that were to be sung as well as to be spoken, and there are episodes of _terza rima,_ Madrigals, a Carnival song, a Ballata as well as the choral passages that are distinctly operatic. After Orpheus has violated the law that he must not look upon his wife until they have reached the upper world, his complaint is of lyric quality that has something of the Grecian choric ode in it. Addington Symonds in his "Sketches and Studies in Southern Europe" has translated the passages so as to give an excellent idea of the character of the play: "Who hath laid laws on Love? Will pity not be given For one short look so full thereof? Since I am robbed of heaven, Since all my joy so great is turned to pain, I will go back and plead with Death again! TISIPHONE Nay, seek not back to turn! Vain is thy weeping, all thy words are vain. Eurydice may not complain Of aught but thee--albeit her grief is great. Vain are thy verses 'gainst the voice of fate! How vain thy song! For death is stern! Try not the backward path: thy feet refrain! The laws of the abyss are fixed and firm remain." Addington Symonds has given a number of examples of the popular Italian poetry of the Renaissance [Footnote 44] which show the qualities of this mode of literature very well, and above all illustrate how like in its character it is to the lighter modes of {447} verse at all times and especially our own. Politian, the great scholar whose learning filled the lecture rooms of Florence with students of all nations and whose critical and rhetorical works marked an epoch in the history of scholarship, was able to unbend at times and write _ballate,_ as they were called, though they were very different from our ballads, which were to be sung during the dances in the piazzas on summer evenings. Stanzas from some of these will serve to show their character. The last stanza, for instance, of his May Ballad is on the world-old theme, "Gather ye rose-buds while ye may." "I went a-roaming, maidens, one bright day. In a green garden in mid month of May. For when the full rose quits her tender sheath. When she is sweetest and most fair to see. Then is the time to place her in thy wreath, Before her beauty and her freshness flee. Gather ye therefore roses with great glee. Sweet girls, or ere their perfume pass away. I went a-roaming, maidens, one bright day, In a green garden in mid month of May." [Footnote 44: "Sketches and Studies in Southern Europe," New York, 1880] Many of the Italian scholars of the period gave the time to the writing of ballads, and one which has been ascribed to Lorenzo dei Medici is often quoted. In it the word _signore,_ which means lord, is used instead of the name of the lady, because she is the lord of the singer's soul. "How can I sing light-souled and fancy-free When my loved lord no longer smiles on me? One only comfort soothes my heart's despair. And mid this sorrow lends my soul some cheer; Unto my lord I ever yielded fair Service of faith untainted pure and clear; If then I die thus guiltless, on my bier It may be she will shed one tear for me. {448} How can I sing light-souled and fancy-free When my loved lord no longer smiles on me?" These ballads were often on the pagan theme of snatching life's opportunities while one might, a popular expression of the Renaissance time, an echo of Horace's _Carpe diem,_ "snatch the day," which the Roman had taken from his Greek models. Every now and then, however, there is a more serious note in the Carnival songs written to be sung during the revels at the Carnival time, when it is surprising to find such a thought emphasized. One of the best known of these Carnival songs is attributed to Lorenzo de' Medici: "Fair is youth and void of sorrow; But it hourly flies away. Youths and maids, enjoy to-day; Naught ye know about to-morrow. Midas treads a wearier measure: All he touches turns to gold: If there be no taste of pleasure, What's the use of wealth untold? What's the joy his fingers hold, When he's forced to thirst for aye? Youths and maids, enjoy to-day; Naught ye know about to-morrow." [Illustration: PALMA VECCHIO, POET (SOMETIMES CALLED ARIOSTO)] After Lorenzo's death one of these Carnival songs, to express the grief of his people for him, written by Antonio Alamanni, was sung by maskers habited as skeletons who rode on a car of death, the music to it being that of a dead march. As a contrast to the less serious songs it is worth quoting: "Sorrow, tears, and penitence Are our doom of pain for aye: This dead concourse riding by Hath no cry but penitence! {449} E'en as you are, once were we: You shall be as now we are: We are dead men, as you see: We shall see you dead men, where Naught avails to take great care. After sins, of penitence. We too in the Carnival Sang our love-songs through the town Thus from sin to sin we all Headlong, heedless, tumbled down;-- Now we cry, the world around. Penitence! oh, penitence! Senseless, blind, and stubborn fools! Time steals all things as he rides: Honors, glories, states, and schools, Pass away, and naught abides; Till the tomb our carcass hides. And compels this penitence." Strange as it may seem, the Italian prose of Columbus' Century has had a wider vogue and influence than its poetry. Two literary springs in prose have flowed out of Italy--fiction and history. The greatest of modern historical writers is undoubtedly Machiavelli. His name has been so much deprecated because of the doctrines that he is thought to have suggested that very few people realize what a profound student of human nature he was and how deep was his philosophy. His famous book, _"Il Principe"_ (The Prince), was written within a decade of Columbus' death and at once attracted wide attention. This great political monograph is a calm analysis of the various methods whereby an ambitious conscienceless man may rise to sovereign power. It is usually supposed to be a setting forth of his own absolutely principleless philosophy. As a matter of fact, it is quite as much a lesson in politics for all the world, and while it might be studied faithfully by a man who wanted to usurp sovereign authority in a free state, it contains a series of lessons, which he who {450} runs may read, for all citizens to know just how the downfall of their liberties may be brought about. There probably was never a contribution to political philosophy that has attracted so much attention. It is one of the few books that the serious politicians of all countries and nearly every generation since Machiavelli's time have considered it worth while to read. As a matter of fact, it is esteemed so highly as a human document that it is almost considered a serious defect in scholarship for anyone who claims to be educated to confess ignorance of it. After a set of discourses on Livy, Machiavelli was commissioned to write the history of Florence. This is the first attempt in any literature to trace the political life of a people, showing all the forces at work upon them and the consequent effects. He places the portrait of Florence on the background of a very striking group of pictures drawn from Italian history. Necessarily, since he was employed at their suggestion for the purpose, the Medici are given a place of first rank and very great prominence. This was not mere subserviency, however, but was a very proper estimation of the role played by that house in the fortunes of Florence. He puts into the mouths of his historical characters speeches after the manner of Livy and Thucydides, and some of these speeches are masterpieces of Italian oratory. His style is vigorous and without any thought of ornamentation, informed only by the effort to express his meaning completely and forcibly. Later he wrote a play which John Addington Symonds, the English critic whose deep knowledge of Italian literature gives his opinion much weight, did not hesitate to call "the ripest and most powerful single play in the Italian language." There may be difference of opinion as to Machiavelli's place in philosophy, and above all in ethics, but there can be no doubt about his genius as an historian and a writer, as a profound student of men and their ways and one of the greatest contributors to political philosophy. We have come to discount all that has been said in derogation of Machiavelli's personal character, though it must not be forgotten that even in the older time there were men who realized that his book was an essay in political philosophy that {451} made a wonderful revelation and not in any sense a confession of personal opinions. It has been said that we owe the expression, "Old Nick," as used familiarly for the devil, to the fact that Machiavelli's first name Was Nicholas. Sam Butler long ago wrote: "Nick Machiavelli had ne'er a trick, Though he gave his name to our old Nick." In our own time some of the men whose wide knowledge and large experience have best fitted them to express an opinion on Machiavelli have been most emphatic in their high estimation of his character and influence. Above all, they have insisted on the enduring character of his work and the fact that it appeals to the essential in human nature, not to the passing fads of any single generation. Two such different men in intellectual training as John Morley and Lord Acton are agreed on this as they could not have agreed on most other things. Morley said that "Machiavelli was a contemporary of any age and a citizen of any country." Lord Acton said that he was "no vanishing type, but a constant and contemporary influence." Besides a novel, which we quote from later in this chapter, and his political and historical works, Machiavelli wrote a series of plays and poems which are of high literary value. Garnett in his "Italian Literature" says that "he came nearer than any contemporary, except Leonardo da Vinci, to approving himself a universal genius. No man of his time stands higher intellectually, and his want of moral elevation is largely redeemed by his ample endowment with the one virtue chiefly needful to an Italian of his day, but of which too many Italians were destitute--patriotism." Another of Columbus' great contemporaries among Italian writers was Guicciardini, the Italian historian (1483-1540). Unlike most of the great historians, he was a man of affairs. When less than twenty he was sent as Florentine Ambassador to the King of Spain, and in his early twenties, under Pope Leo X, governed Modena and Reggio with such talent as drew wide attention to him. He was the Lieutenant-General of the Anti-Imperial Army in 1527, later was one of the Eight at {452} Florence, and from 1531 to 1534 ruled Bologna as Papal Vice-Legate. He tells the story of Italy from 1492 to 1534 in great detail. He writes as an eye-witness who had himself been prominent in most of the scenes that he describes. The mass of matter is not allowed to obscure the picture as a whole, and the work has distinct literary value. Probably never in the world's history has such a description of events come from a man who was himself one of the most prominent actors in them. His work has been declared "the greatest historical work that had appeared since the beginning of the modern era" ("Encyclopaedia Britannica"). About the middle of the nineteenth century Guicciardini's hitherto unpublished works were given to the public in ten volumes and served to throw wonderful light on the historian himself. His _"Ricordi Politici"_ deserve to be placed beside Machiavelli's "Prince," and it is easy to understand, after reading them, that Guicciardini regarded his friend Machiavelli somewhat as "an amiable visionary or political enthusiast." There has probably never been a set of human documents that illuminated the heights and depths of humanity so well as these writings of the Renaissance. To read Machiavelli, Guicciardini's _"Ricordi,"_ Benvenuto Cellini's "Autobiography" and Rabelais is to see the contradictions that there are in this microcosm man better than is possible in any other way. If we but add Montaigne, who was educated in our century, the picture is complete. These men of the Renaissance saw clearly and deeply into humanity through the lens of themselves. Guicciardini, devoid of passion as well as of high moral standards in personal life, eminently loyal to his patrons at all times, just so far as administration of law went, and unquestionably able, possesses all that ordinarily is assumed to bring the admiration if not the respect of men, yet no one can read his "Reminiscences" without feeling the deepest repugnance for his cynicism, selfishness and distrust of men. Ranke has impugned his good faith as an historian, and his quondam repute is gone. It is this very contrast, as exhibited in his writings, that makes Guicciardini's works as valuable a contribution to the story of humanity as the many masterpieces of his contemporaries. {453} One of the writers of this time who must not be omitted, though his merit has not always been recognized, is Vasari, whose "Lives of the Painters" has interested every generation in every country who have occupied themselves much with the great artists. Himself an artist, living on intimate terms with many of the men whose lives he sketched and gathering anecdotes about them and rescuing many a personal trait from oblivion that otherwise would have been lost to posterity, Vasari succeeded in making an extremely valuable as well as interesting book. Some of his anecdotes have been discredited, and he has often been open to the criticism of lack of critical acumen in his compilations of materials, but his industry, his recognition of what was likely to be of interest and his untiring efforts to make his sketch as complete as possible, deserve the recognition which they have obtained. While his style is apparently most artless, he possesses, as Garnett has said, "either the science or the knack of felicitous composition to an extraordinary degree." It must not be forgotten that this apparent lack of art is often the highest art, and so it is not surprising to hear Vasari spoken of as the Herodotus of art. His good taste in art as well as in literature is demonstrated by his admiration for the first fruits of the early Tuscan school which were neglected in his day. He was one of the genial, lovable men of the time who made many friends. The most popularly interesting phase of the literature of the Renaissance and Columbus' Century for our time is doubtless the fiction that was written so plentifully and so widely read during the period. Whenever a large number of people become interested in reading, after a time more and more superficial reading is provided for them until finally the most trivial of story-telling becomes the vogue. This has happened at a number of times in the world's history. It can be traced in Rome with the decadence, in the Oriental countries, as Burton's edition of the "Thousand and One Nights" shows so clearly, and in our own time as well as during the fifteenth and sixteenth century. Another interesting development is the tendency for the fiction that is popular among the better and supposedly more educated classes, gradually {454} to be occupied more and more with sex problems and sexual questions of all kinds. Whenever many have leisure and a smattering of education, this occurs. It is quite noticeable during the Renaissance period, though a great many good stories were written of excellent literary quality without any tinge of this. The writing of novels in Italy had begun with Boccaccio in the fourteenth century, and continued with Sacchetti and Giovanni Il Fiorentino. About the middle of the fifteenth century, however, this mode of writing became all the fashion, and the number of novels, though of course by the word _novelle_ the Italians meant a short story, is almost without end. Very many of them have been lost, but a very large number have been preserved. The first of the writers of the time was Massuccio Salernitano, who flourished during the latter half of the fifteenth century and died towards its close. Doni has said of him, "Hail then to the name of Salernitano, who, scorning to borrow even a single word from Boccaccio, has produced a work which he may justly regard as his own." It is to him that we owe the first form of what afterwards became "Romeo and Juliet." Massuccio was a realist and called "Heaven to witness that the whole of his stories are a faithful narrative of events occurring during his own time." Fifty of his novels at least are extant. Often these novel writers did not attempt any other mode of literature, and indeed not infrequently were not scholarly in any sense of the word, but the next of the Italian novelists of the time, Savadino degli Arienti, was an accomplished scholar and historian. His history of his native city Bologna is still considered very valuable by his countrymen. He entitled his tales "Porretane" because he declared that they had been recited at the baths of Porreto, which was the favorite summer resort and place of public amusement for the Bolognese. The recital of these would be supposed to occupy somewhat the place that moving pictures do now. There is a variety of amusing adventures, witty stories, love tales, and sometimes tragic incidents for contrast. Besides his novels and his history, Ariente wrote an account of illustrious ladies, _Delle Donne Clare,_ dedicated to Giunipera Sforza Bentivoglio, {455} which shows very clearly how the women of the Renaissance, as we have come to know them, were appreciated by their masculine contemporaries very early in Columbus' Century. After Savadino comes Luigi da Porto. Crippled by a wound early in life, he turned from the army to literature and became the friend of many of the scholars of the time, especially Cardinal Bembo and members of the Gonzaga family. To him we owe "Juliet" in its best and purest form. It is the only story we have from him, but it secured world-wide reputation at the time and has never lost its interest for mankind. Porto was followed by Leonardo Illicini, another writer of a single novel which has been preserved and has gone through a number of editions. Illicini, or Licinio, as his name is sometimes given, was a physician, for a time the court physician to the Duke of Milan, afterwards professor of medicine at Ferrara and one of the distinguished philosophers of the time. Every man is said to have one good story in him, if he only has the time and energy to write it, and Illicini wrote his and attracted the attention of his distinguished friends and contemporaries by the nobleness and beauty of the sentiments which he incorporated into it and which make it a singular exception to the usual tenor of Italian novels. Like Illicini, Machiavelli, the historian and political philosopher, took it upon himself to write a novel which few people have read and yet which has a certain exaggeration of social satire which sets it rather closely in touch with our time. The story represents indeed a curious ever-recurring phase of the attitude that men are accustomed--for jest purposes only--to assume toward marriage. According to the story, the devils were very much disturbed over the fact that most of the married men who came to hell blamed their coming on their wives. Hell had been well enough so long as people were willing to admit that they were punished deservedly, but society there became very uncomfortable under this new dispensation. The devils resolved to send one of their number up to earth to find out about it. Belphagor, one of the fallen Archangels, having assumed the body of a handsome man of thirty and a large fortune, is commissioned {456} to marry and live with a wife for ten years. He finds no difficulty in getting a bride, having "soon attracted the notice of many noble citizens blessed with large families of daughters and small incomes. The former of these was soon offered to him, and Belphagor chose a very beautiful girl with the name of Onesta." The name, which signifies purity, is evidently chosen for a purpose by Machiavelli, for, while the wife is as pure as an angel, she has more than the pride of Lucifer. A good idea of the way the story develops can only be obtained by quoting a passage from the translation of the novel: "He had not long enjoyed the society of his beloved Onesta before he became tenderly attached to her, and was unable to behold her suffer the slightest inquietude or vexation. Now, along with her other gifts of beauty and nobility, the lady had brought into the house of Roderigo such an insufferable portion of pride that in this respect Lucifer himself could not equal her, for her husband, who had experienced the effects of both, was at no loss to decide which was the most intolerable of the two. Yet it became infinitely worse when she discovered the extent of Roderigo's attachment to her, of which she availed herself to obtain an ascendency over him and rule him with an iron rod. Not content with this, when she found he would bear it, she continued to annoy him with all kinds of insults and taunts, in such a way as to give him the most indescribable pain and uneasiness. For what with the influence of her father, her brothers, her friends and relatives, the duty of the matrimonial yoke, and the love he bore her, he suffered all for some time with the patience of a saint. It would be useless to recount the follies and extravagancies into which he ran in order to gratify her taste for dress and every article of the newest fashion, in which our city, ever so variable in its nature, according to its usual habits, so much abounds. Yet, to live upon easy terms with her, he was obliged to do more than this; he had to assist his father-in-law in portioning off his other daughters; and she next asked him to furnish one of her brothers with goods to sail for the Levant, another with silks for the West, while a third was to be set up in a goldbeater's establishment at Florence. In such objects the greatest part of his fortune was soon consumed. At length the carnival season was at hand; the festival of St. John was to be celebrated, and the whole city, as usual, was in a ferment. Numbers of the noblest families were about to vie with each other in the splendor of their parties, and the Lady Onesta, being resolved not to be outshone by her acquaintance, insisted that Roderigo should exceed them all in the richness of their feasts. For the reason above stated he submitted to her will; nor, indeed, would he have scrupled at doing much more, however difficult it {457} might have been, could he have flattered himself with a hope of preserving the peace and comfort of his household and of awaiting quietly the consummation of his ruin. But this was not the case, inasmuch as the arrogant temper of his wife had grown to such a height of asperity, by long indulgence, that he was at a loss in what way to act. His domestics, male and female, would no longer remain in the house, being unable to support for any length of time the intolerable life they led. The inconvenience which he suffered, in consequence of having no one to whom he could intrust his affairs, it is impossible to express. Even his own familiar devils, whom he had brought along with him, had already deserted him, choosing to return below rather than longer submit to the tyranny of his wife. Left, then, to himself, amidst his turbulent and unhappy life, and having dissipated all the ready money he possessed, he was compelled to live upon the hopes of the returns expected from his ventures in the East and the West. Being still in good credit, in order to support his rank, he resorted to bills of exchange; nor was it long before, accounts running against him, he found himself in the same situation as many other unhappy speculators in the market. Just as his case became extremely delicate, there arrived sudden tidings, both from the East and West, that one of his wife's brothers had dissipated the whole of Roderigo's profits in play, and that while the other was returning with a rich cargo uninsured, his ship had the misfortune to be wrecked, and he himself was lost." Belphagor fled and, having suffered much from his pursuers, finally escapes, and at the end of the novel is having a rather good time at the court of the King of France, where he has entered into possession of the daughter of the King and is attracting much appreciated attention from friends, relatives, courtiers, physicians and the clergy by the acts which he causes her to perform. An Italian to whom Belphagor had confided his secret comes to Court and recognizes the particular devil's activities. He tries to persuade Belphagor to leave his victim, but the demon refuses absolutely. Finally the Italian, catching Belphagor unawares, calls out that his wife is coming after him. With a shriek, the poor devil abandons his victim and is glad to find his way back to hell. During the first half of the sixteenth century there are a whole series of Italian novelists, each one of them the writer of many novels. One of the earliest of these is Firenzuola, who is said to have been a monk and who was a scholar, for among his collected works are a translation of "Apuleius' {458} Golden Ass," treatises on animals, two comedies, as well as critical and literary work of other kinds. After him came Cinthio, who wrote "Hecatomithi or Hundred Fables." He was a very prolific writer, perhaps the most popular in his own time, with recurring periods of popularity since. His praises were celebrated by nearly all the scholars of the period. His writing was vivid but daring, and the style shows the beginning of that degeneration, from over-consciousness of effort to make it scholarly, so often characteristic of a period when genius is giving place to mere talent. One of his stories furnished the incidents for Shakespeare's "Tragedy of Othello," and this has given Cinthio a place in the commentators on Shakespeare. Another of the Italian novelists whose memory has been frequently renewed for a similar reason was Matteo Bandello, who is often spoken of as the best from a literary standpoint, as he is the most voluminous of the Italian novelists of this period. He is almost the only one of them, besides Boccaccio, known beyond the confines of Italy, and though he was a priest and afterwards a bishop, his stories are as immoral as those of the other novelists of the time. Indeed, the most important characteristic of all this novel-writing in Italy is that most of the stories were quite without moral qualities, not a few of them were licentious and some of them made their appeal mainly through the liking for descriptions of cruelty to which mankind is apparently always attracted. In our time the corresponding reading is the daily newspaper. The stories of the crime and cruelty of the day before that are told each morning are about of the average length of these _novelle_ as written by the Italian novelists of the Renaissance. There is the same demand for them and they are just as much talked about. For literary quality the novels are infinitely higher than our modern newspaper stories. The interesting thing about these novels of indecency and cruelty is that the claim of their authors at least was that they were written in order to bring about reformation and the correction of evil by spreading the knowledge of it and so making people realize its hideousness. Whenever any excuse is given for our publication of the cruel and immoral details {459} of crime in our newspapers, it follows this same specious line of reasoning. Not a few of the writers of the popular novels were clergymen. Bandello was made a bishop, yet continued his writing of novels. It is perfectly possible for good, well-meaning men at any time to be mistaken in the accomplishment of a purpose, and popularity was as great a bait as the making of money is in our time. One of the most interesting contributions to Italian prose at this time is the "Autobiography" of Benvenuto Cellini, which finds its place very properly after the fiction of the period. The book has been famous in the modern time, particularly since Goethe translated it, and has gone through many editions in nearly every language in Europe. Long ago, Walpole pronounced it "more amusing than any novel," and it is probably rather as fiction than as genuine autobiography that it must be judged. The style is simple, direct, straightforward, and the wonderful romance has great historical value, for Cellini was in contact with most of the great men and many of the higher nobility of his time, and he has used his experiences as the groundwork of the story. It is hard to tell now how much of it may be true, for Cellini's great works of art would seem to contradict it, in so far as it represents him as a frequent brutal murderer, while the amount of labor that he must have given to the many works we have from him would seem to make impossible that he should have spent quite so much time as his life would hint in light living and idleness, while the affection of his contemporaries and their respect for him in his declining years would seem to be further contradiction. He was evidently one of those men who like to be thought worse than they really are and like so many of the artists of all times who are anxious to produce the impression that their works were flashes of genius and not the result of careful patient labor as well. One of the books that had a very wide influence at this period and which deserves much more than Benvenuto's romance to be thought typical of the time is Baldassare Castiglione's _"Cortigiano,"_ in which the author depicts the ideal courtier or gentleman of the time. The method of presentation is by a series of conversations held at the Court of {460} Urbino among the distinguished persons who frequented it in the time when most of the best-known characters of the Renaissance found their way occasionally up to the little hill town. Castiglione's standard for the gentleman is very high, not only in personal conduct, but especially in intellectual accomplishment. His purpose to draw the picture of a scholar-gentleman, the ideal of an accomplished knight, seemed to his contemporaries to have been successfully fulfilled. The book was widely read. It influenced not only Italy and France and the Latin-American countries, but above all affected the English deeply. Mr. Courthope says that, "Carried to the North of Europe and grafted on the still chivalrous manners of the English aristocracy, the ideal of Castiglione contributed to form the character of Sir Philip Sidney. Augustus Hare in his "Ladies of the Italian Renaissance" (New York, 1904) says: "Spenser declared that the aim of his book is the same: 'To fashion a gentleman in noble person, in virtuous and gentle discipline.' We might fill a volume with instances of the marvellous influence which the work of Castiglione had upon Elizabethan literature, as we hear it echoing through the sonnets of Shakespeare, Spenser's hymns 'Of Heavenly Love,' Ben Jonson, Marlowe, Burton, the poets and early dramatists, even the grave Ascham; and, amongst later writers, Shelley's 'Hymn to Intellectual Beauty' is steeped in the same Italian Platonism." As a rule, indeed, it may be said that what was best in the literature and art of the Italian Renaissance had a much wider influence than the worse elements in it. It is only in after-times that many of the unfortunately too human contributions to the intellectual life of this period have been revived among scholars and have come to be looked upon as expressive of the spirit of the time. In every movement there are always the lesser men whose notes are discordant and who exaggerate the significance of their own ideas and often exhibit the worst side of human nature. To conclude from them, however, as to the real temper of the time and its influence would be a sad mistake. Castiglione meant ever so much more in the Europe of his day than Cellini. The {461} "Courtier" sank deep into the minds of poets, artists and literary and educated folk of all classes and aroused what was best in those who were influencing their generation. The "Autobiography" was read much more widely, but mainly by people whose influence over others was to be slight, while the poets and writers and artists did not take it very seriously, but spent a leisure hour or two over it as over any other romance, and turned to their work again. {462} CHAPTER III FRENCH LITERATURE The French literature of Columbus' Century is but little, if at all, below that of Italy in world influence and interest. It was ushered in by that alluring character, the vagabond poet, Villon. He was twenty the first year of our century, and having, providentially for the world of literature, escaped hanging, wrote poetry that has always attracted the attention of poets of every land, and besides has had a popular vogue whenever men have looked beyond their own time and country for literary interests. Few poets of modern times have had among the educated of all countries so many ardent admirers--devotees they might well be called--as Villon. The power of expression of the Renaissance that was just opening was incarnate in him, and no one has ever said better what he sang, though his message was limited enough. His "Ladies of the Olden Time," probably addressed in its epilogue to Prince Charles of Orleans, his poetic contemporary, to whom it is said that he owed his being saved from hanging, is the best known, and is a typical example of his work which reveals the reason for its enduring qualities: "Say where--in what region be Flora that fair Roman dame, Hipparchia where, and Thais, she Who doth kindred beauty claim? Echo where? who back the same Voice from lake and river throws, Lovely beyond human frame: But--where are the last year's snows? * * * * * * Queen Blanche, white as lily is, Who used to sing with siren strain; {463} Bertha, Alice, Beatrice, Ermengarde who held the Maine, Joan, blessed maiden of Lorraine, At Rouen burnt by English foes. Where are they, O Virgin Queen? But--where are the last year's snows? Prince, nor in a week or year Bid me where they be disclose. Lest you still this burden hear. But--where are the last year's snows?" With Villon came Prince Charles of Orleans, of whom we would probably know very little except for the fact that twenty years of imprisonment in an English prison gave him the opportunity for devotion to poetry. His beautiful lines on the death of his wife are a _chef-d'oeuvre_ of mourning poetry and one of the gems of literature. The Prince's appeal to Death as to what has made Fate so bold as to take the noble Princess, who was his comfort, his life, his good, his pleasure, his richness, demanding why it had not rather taken himself, has been often translated. There is another of his little poems addressed to her which has often been quoted and yet cannot be quoted too often: "How God has made her good to see! So holy, full of grace, and fair; For the great gifts that in her be. All haste her praises to declare. Of her, what soul could weary be? Each day her beauty doth repair. How God has made her good to see! So holy, full of grace, and fair. So hither, nor beyond the sea. No damsel nor dame I know. Who can like her all graces show; Only in dreams such thought can be-- How God has made her good to see!" {464} One of Clement Marot's shorter poems contains his formula for what constitutes happiness in life. It is the same formula that has been in the mouths of all the poets at all times who have cared to express themselves on the subject, though some critics have been unkind enough to say that it was not always in their hearts--"Happy the man whose mind and care a few paternal acres share." Marot goes somewhat more into detail. His poem is an anticipation of the sonnet of the great master printer of Antwerp, Christopher Plantin, at the end of this century. Because of its many associations it deserves a place here: "This, Clement Marot! (if you wish to know) Can upon man a happy life bestow. Goods you don't earn, but by bequest acquire, A pleasant wholesome house and constant fire. Hated by none, yourself devoid of hate. And little meddling with affairs of state: A wise and simple life, true friends, and like A good plain fare, with nought the eyes to strike, With all in easy converse to combine: Pass careless nights, not careless made by wine; A wife to have--kind, joyous, chaste and bright; And well to sleep, which shorter makes the night: Contented with your rank, nor wish for higher; And neither death to fear, nor death desire This, Clement Marot! (if you wish to know) Can upon man a happy life bestow." Francis I was himself a poet, and his poems and letters were collected and published in the first half of the nineteenth century. "In default of a great talent, he had a real passion for poetry," says Imbert de Saint-Amand, and like the Trouvères he liked to make use of the lyre and sword by turns. Sainte-Beuve in his _"Portraits Littéraires"_ declared that "Francis I, from the day he ascended the throne, gave the signal for this puissant labor which was to aid in expanding and definitely polishing the French language. Thanks to the impulse given by him from above, there was soon a universal {465} clearing of the ground all around him." The verses in which he formulated one of the most melancholy and most striking judgments that ever monarch pronounced on the nothingness of the grandeurs of this lower world, deserve to be quoted: "The more my goods, the more my sorrow grows; The more my honors, less is my content; For one I gain, a hundred I desire. When nought I have, for nothing I lament; But having all, the fear doth me torment, Either to lose it or to make it worse. Tired, full well may I my misery mourn, Seeing I die of envy but to have a good. Which is my death and I esteem it life." The most important writer in France at this time, however, was undoubtedly Francis' sister, Margaret of Navarre or Angoulême. Her "Heptameron" has been widely read in practically every generation since her own, and though some doubt has been thrown on her authorship of it, it is probable that the age-long attribution to her must remain. The book is about as evil in its influence as any that was ever written. Its author was undoubtedly a saint. She had the best of intentions, and her work illustrates how easy it is for good intentions to go wrong. Hell was paved with good intentions then as now. As I have suggested in the chapter on Some Great Women of the Century, a corresponding mistake is being made by many good women now in the crusade of providing sex information as a protection for the young. Margaret's work is one of the best specimens of French prose of the time. Saintsbury, in his volume on "The Early Renaissance," calls it a very remarkable book which has, as a rule, been undervalued, "presenting almost equal attractions for those who read for mere amusement, to those who appreciate literature as literature, and to those who like extra literary puzzles of various kinds from authorship to allusion." Margaret's reputation has suffered more than was deserved from the condemnation of the "Heptameron." Her personality merits to be judged rather from the charming poetry of a {466} mystical character which she wrote. Her book, "Les Marguerites de la Marguerite des Princesses," is too well known to be much more than mentioned here. It has a charming grace and an exquisite delicacy. It is the true index to her character. As Imbert de Saint-Amand has said in his "Women of the Valois Court," "Poetry and religion were her two consolers." Her resolution when she looked at her crucifix and burst into poetry was: "It is my will and firm intent To be no more what I have been, Nor to amuse myself in this poor world. Seeing the griefs that reign there and abound. And which by day and night torment my heart." There are bursts of piety in her collection worthy of her great mystical contemporary, St. Teresa. The following would almost remind one of St. Teresa's cry, "I die that I may die." "Lord, when shall come the day I long to see, When by pure love I shall Be drawn to Thee? That nuptial day, O Lord, So long delays. That no content I find In wealth or praise. Wipe from these sorrowing eyes The tear that flows, And grant me Thy best gift, A sweet repose." The French poetess, Louise Labé, _la cordière,_ the cord-wainer's wife, as she was called, in reference to her husband's occupation, deserves a place because she represents at once the opportunities even of the lowly born of her sex for the higher education at this time, and her writings exhibit a natural grace and ardent passion that place them in a high rank of lyric poetry. Poetesses of passion there have been a-plenty since, {467} yet it is doubtful if many of them have surpassed much the French lady of the Renaissance from the middle classes. The sonnet form would seem highly unsuitable to us for such passionate expression, but it was the fashion to use it, and Louise Labé anticipates by some three hundred years Mrs. Browning's use of this form for a very similar purpose. One of her sonnets may very well be read beside some of those of Mrs. Browning. "As soon as ever I begin to take. In my soft bed, the rest which I desire, Forth from my frame does my sad soul retire, And hastes toward thee its eager way to make. Then in my tender heart, ere I awake. The bliss I gain to which I most aspire. The bliss for which to sigh I never tire. For which I weep as though my heart would break. A kindly sleep, O sleep to me so blest, Happy repose, full of tranquillity. Grant that each night I may renew my dream. And if my sad heart, by all love possest. Must ne'er be happy in reality. Yet while I sleep so let me falsely seem." The humor of the end of Columbus' Century is very well illustrated in some of the epigrams of Melin de Saint Gelais, like Marot, the son of a poet and brought up in poetic circles, who knew how to write elegant trivialities, or who was, as the French say, _maître en l'art de badiner avec élégance._ Curiously enough, it was he who imported the sonnet from Italy. It had been hitherto unknown to French poets, but was unfortunately, as it must seem to most of us, destined to eclipse the ballades, rondeaux, virelais and other poetic forms that had been for so long in vogue in France. I prefer to quote here two of his shorter epigramatic poems which serve to show how old the new is in wit and humor: "You find great fault with me, my friend. Because your neighbor I commend, And yet from you all praise withhold: {468} But say, why should I waste my time Praising your merits or your rhyme? You do it best a hundredfold." The second treats in vivid satire the eternal question of the honor due the scholar: "Friend! tell of these two things the just degree, Great learning or great wealth; the better which? I know not. But the learned still I see Paying great court and homage to the rich." The _"Défense et Illustration de la Langue Française,"_ which is the manifesto of the Pleiades, was written by Joachim du Bellay just at the end of Columbus' Century and published in February, 1550, according to the modern calendar, but 1549 in the old, which made the year begin on Lady Day (March 25). With that a group of men, most of them about twenty-five years of age, entered upon a new period of French literature. A sham middle age had been lingering on,--the mere remnants and echo of the Romance of the Rose, and now a new spirit was to enter into French literature. The genius of it had all been cradled in Columbus' Century. The poets of the Pleiades came to teach the modern note. Pierre Ronsard was the greatest of them, and in five years all Europe knew something of the new birth in French poetry. Two such very different minds as those of Queen Mary and Queen Elizabeth of England became ardent admirers and indeed almost patrons of the new poets, and particularly of Ronsard. Many of the poems had been conceived, and some of the best were issued within a year or two after the close of what we have called Columbus' Century. The little lyric _"Mignonne! Allons voir si la Rose,"_ which has always been a favorite in every generation with any poetry in its soul, was known throughout Europe within a year of its publication in 1552. There is another ode of Ronsard's of much more serious vein which serves to show that the poets of the older time could think of other things besides love and beauty and the rose, and face the sterner problems of their time and sing the {469} meaning of them with poetic depth. Because its subject is quite as eternal in its interest as that of the love poems and has perhaps more significance for our time, I prefer to quote it: "Why, poor peasant, should you dread Sceptered hand or crowned head? They shall soon--slight shades--be sent The number of the dead t' augment. To all mortals--dost not wis?-- Death's wide gate e'er open is. There th' imperial soul must wend, There as speedily descend, Charon's fatal boat to find, As the soul of serf or hind. Courage you who delvers are; These great thunderbolts of war No more than yourselves shall go Armed with breastplate there below, As though battling as of yore. Mail shall profit them no more-- Lance and shield and battle blade-- Than shall you your scythe and spade. Rhadamanthus, judge severe, Be you sure no more will fear Armor in his dread abode Than the peasant's wooden goad; Nor does more or less admire Richest robe or mean attire, Or the gorgeous pageantry Where the king in state doth lie." Joachim du Bellay, snatched away at the early age of thirty-five after having passed many years in illness, owed his inspiration to write poetry to his reading of the classics. It was he who wrote the proclamation of the Pleiades which I have already mentioned. Had his fate been happier, doubtless there {470} would have been many great poems from him and he would have been a serious rival of his friend Ronsard. As it is, there are from his pen some poems that will always have an interest for the French and for the educated in every country. One of the more serious deserves to be quoted. "If, then, our life is shorter than a day Lost in all time; if the revolving year Hurries our days past hope to reappear; If all things born must fail and pass away-- What, O my prisoned soul, dost dream of? say! Why so much love our days of darkness here. If to take flight to an abode more dear, Well-feathered wings you on your shoulders sway? There is the good which ever soul desires. There the repose to which the world aspires, And there is love and pleasure evermore. There, O my soul, rapt to the highest skies, You will in actual substance recognize Th' ideal beauty which I now adore." In the French prose of our century there is Comines at the beginning, a not unworthy fourth in that wonderful quartette of French historical writers which began with Villehardouin at the end of the twelfth century, gave us Joinville in the thirteenth, Froissart in the fourteenth and Comines in the latter half of the fifteenth. He is one of the historians who will ever be read; with a political sagacity and philosophic outlook on history that give him a place of his own. He was no mere chronicler, and the individuality of his work, that quality by which history is raised into literature, sets him far above many a modern writer of what is called history, though it is merely a collection of materials for some historian who will inform them with a soul. At the end of the century there was Michel de L'Hôpital, whose orations, numerous memoirs and special treatises mainly connected with explanations of {471} law have the defects of legal writing at all times, and yet exhibit a power of expression that has seldom been equalled at any time. After Rabelais, undoubtedly the greatest of the prose writers of the time was Amyot, whose first work, a translation of a Greek romance, "Théagène et Chariclé," was published in 1546, and who, in the subsequent years of a life that reached almost to ninety, published his translations of Plutarch, a work for which he received the designation of preceptor of the royal children and the Bishopric of Auxerre. He was the grand almoner. Amyot's translation of Plutarch has been declared practically a new and original work. Montaigne said of it: "I am grateful to Amyot above all things for having had the wit to select so worthy and so suitable a work to present his country. We ignorant folk had been lost, had not this lifted us out of the mire; thanks to it, we now dare speak and write, and ladies give lessons out of it to school-masters; 'tis our breviary." For English-speaking people its significance is greatly enhanced from the consideration that it was really Amyot's version which, in the English dress of Florio, became Shakespeare's Plutarch. Anyone who knows how closely Shakespeare followed his Plutarch will appreciate, then, what an important influence on world literature Amyot was destined to have. This translation of Plutarch has come to be looked upon as probably one of the best translations ever made. It has sometimes been said that "to translate is to betray" and that the best translations are at most tapestries seen from the wrong side, but Amyot's "Plutarch" must be considered an exception to this rule. Erasmus said of Linacre's translation into Latin of Galen that it was better than the original Greek. Amyot's "Plutarch" has become a French classic, though the Greek author was by no means classic in the limited sense of the word in the original. Racine would read no other because he thought there was nothing to equal it in French. Amyot's works are a treasure house of the French language, and modern French critics often regret that many of his expressions have been allowed to sink into desuetude. {472} France glories in the possession of another of these striking characters of the Renaissance period, Rabelais, about the estimation of whose character and place in history, just as with regard to Machiavelli, the world has not quite made up its mind. There is no doubt at all as to his genius, nor his breadth of view and comprehensive grasp of the knowledge of his time, nor of his ability as a vigorous writer, though his crudities of style and frequent indulgence in vulgarity, have made him a writer largely for men, and even many of these have been deterred from the study of his writings because of the glaringness of these faults. His defects were largely those of his time, for they were accustomed to call a spade a spade in the Renaissance. It was not because of looseness of his own life that his crudities of style are so manifest. Careful investigations and research in our time have made it very clear that there are many misunderstandings with regard to his personal character which should be removed. Rabelais ran the whole gamut of life in his time. He was first a friar, then a monk, took his medical degrees at Montpellier, a physician who gained considerable prestige for his knowledge of medicine, a writer of books that were widely read, a scholar whose journeys to Rome gave him a breadth of knowledge unusual even in his time, and the intimate friend of some of the great and good churchmen and literary men of his time. The old legend which represented him as a gluttonous and wine-bibbing buffoon, wandering in revels as an unfrocked priest, must now be abandoned. His transitions from friar to monk, to physician, were all accomplished with due ecclesiastical permission, and in spite of the freedom of speech and liberalizing tendencies to be found in his writings he never got into serious trouble with the ecclesiastical authorities. Evidently he was looked upon as a genius whose good will might be depended on to keep him from serious heretical divagations, though occasionally his superabundant vital spirit would lead him into expressions that were often indiscreet and sometimes needed correction. His relations with Guillaume and Jean du Bellay and with the bishops of Maillezais and Montpellier, as well as the distinguished jurist, Tiraqueau, furnish most convincing proof of the high regard in which he was held not {473} only by men of his own rank, but by those far above him in power and station--Princes of the Church and patrons of humanism. In spite of their deterring vulgarity, his works have been much read ever since and are still often in the hands of scholars and those who want to appreciate one phase at least of the true inwardness and all-comprehensiveness of the spirit of the Renaissance. The number of Greek and Latin writers from whom he quotes is very large, and his reading must have been very wide. He seems also to have known some Hebrew. Very few of his contemporaries realized at all that in his writings he had made an enduring contribution not only to French, but to world literature. So good a critic, however, as Joachim du Bellay in the "Defence and Illustration of the French Tongue" alludes to him as the man "who has brought back Aristophanes to life and who imitates so well the satirical wit of Lucian." The fact that his book should be published at this time without its author incurring serious censure, much less persecution, is a proof that the usual persuasion of many who write on the history of this time that heresy-baiting was a favorite occupation of the Churchmen is unfounded and shows how absurd is the impression entertained by not a few that the slightest imprudence might have even fatal consequences. Men like Étienne Dolet and Giordano Bruno lost their lives at this time on heretical charges, but that was because their writings seemed to the Church, and above all the civil authorities of the time, to undermine authority and to propagate anarchy. This has always been a dangerous suspicion for a philosophic writer to fall under at any time, and is not without its serious dangers, social rather than legal, even in our time. In other matters, however, as the example of Rabelais shows, there was, if not a modern liberty, at least a large tolerance of expression, provided the thoughts were tempered by humor and the character of the writer known to be such that genuine ill-will or anarchic tendencies towards civil and ecclesiastical authorities were not the manifest purpose of the writings. The interest of our own generation in Rabelais is best {474} illustrated by the foundation in 1902 of the Société des Études Rabelaisiennes at Paris. The organ of the Society, the _Revue des Études Rabelaisiennes,_ made its first appearance in January, 1903, and has already added much to our knowledge of Rabelais. It has now been thoroughly demonstrated that Gargantua was a popular and folk-lore character long before Rabelais' time, and that he assumed the character only in order to give popular vogue to his own ideas. In spite of the cruder side of his work he has so much to say that is valuable with regard to education, valuable even for our time, so much of correction of popular errors and emphatic restatement of the philosophy of life by which men may secure their happiness, not through selfishness, but love for their fellowmen, that whenever men think deeply for themselves and do not merely drift in the wake of other thinkers, Rabelais will always attract attention. It is always a good sign when Rabelais becomes popular in France, for men are usually thinking more deeply than before. Like Dante, he is a touchstone of sincerity and honesty of thought and purpose among his countrymen. Rabelais is a most difficult man to sum up for those who are not French. Saintsbury in his "Earlier Renaissance" has perhaps furnished the best brief appreciation when he said: "On the pure credit side his (Rabelais') assets are so great that one can only marvel at the undervaluation of them by any competent auditor. . . . You _may_ say some things against him, and some of these _some_ things truly. But three things will remain. He is (let the competent gainsay it if they dare) one of the greatest writers of the world; he is one of the great satirists of the world; and he is--as not all great writers and very few great satirists have been--one who sincerely and strenuously loved his fellowmen." In the first paragraph of his "François Rabelais" [Footnote 45] (written for the French Men of Letters Series), Arthur Tilley, whose "Literature of the French Renaissance" had shown how competent he was to judge, has summed up the character and place of Rabelais. It is to Tilley that I owe most of the {475} details that are given here, and his paragraph will serve as a fitting conclusion. [Footnote 45: Lippincott, Phila., 1907.] "It is a characteristic of the very greatest writers that they sum up, with more or less completeness, the thought, the aspirations, and the temper of their age, and this not only for their own country, but for the whole civilized world. Of this select band is Rabelais. He is the embodiment not only of the early French Renaissance, but of the whole Renaissance in its earlier and fresher manifestations, in its devotion to humanism, in its restless and many-sided curiosity, in its robust enthusiasm, in its belief in the future of the human race." {476} CHAPTER IV SPANISH AND PORTUGUESE LITERATURE The Spanish literature of the period contains some all-important material of great significance not only for Spanish literature itself, but also for the literature of the world. In the chapter on Women of the Renaissance, I have called attention to the interest of Queen Isabella in things literary, and while she did not produce any formal literary work, her letters have been pronounced by the Spanish Academy classic documents in the Spanish language. The most important contribution to Spanish literature during the century came also from a woman, though she doubtless had as little thought of making literature when she wrote as did the Queen. This was St. Teresa, to whose works serious writers on spiritual subjects in all countries and at all times, often in spite of differences of belief, have turned as classics of spirituality. Her literary work consists of the treatises which she wrote by order of her confessors on mystical subjects and then her many letters. It is these last, particularly, that have been widely read in the modern time and that are world classics in their order. Probably no one has been more misunderstood than St. Teresa. She has come to be considered by many, who, as a rule, know nothing at all of her at first hand, as one of the almost impossible saintly personages whose hours of concentration in prayer and fasting and other mortifications have driven them into states of mind bordering on the irrational, if not frankly hysterical. Indeed she is often considered to be the most striking type of these. [Illustration: FRANCIA, VIRGIN WEEPING OVER BODY OF CHRIST (LONDON)] David Hannay, in his "The Later Renaissance" in Professor Saintsbury's series, Periods of European Literature (New York: Scribner's, 1898), who has read her works with care, says: "Her letters, which are not only the most attractive part of her writing, but even the most valuable, show her {477} not only as a great saint, but as a great lady with a very acute mind, a fine wit and an abounding good sense. Her own great character is stamped on every line. Nobody ever showed less of the merely emotional saintly character 'meandering about, capricious, melodious, weak, at the will of devout whim mainly.'" To get the real charm of St. Teresa's writings, one must read her letters, and from those it is almost impossible to take such selections as might be included in the brief space allowed here. Fortunately they have come to us as she wrote them. Fray Luis de Leon was himself literary enough to save them from a worthy father-confessor, who would have "improved upon and polished her periods." The world came near losing the marvellous language of which Crashaw said, "Oh it is not Spanish, but it is Heaven she spoke." Some idea of her simplicity and power of expression can be appreciated from the "Hymn to Christ Crucified," familiar to English readers in Dryden's version, which has been attributed also to St. Ignatius Loyola and St. Francis Xavier, but which seems more appropriately ascribed to the Seraphic Mother of Crashaw's burning words, "sweet incendiary," "undaunted daughter of desires" and "fair sister of the seraphin." The poem is, no matter who may have been its author, at least a striking example of the style of the time. "O God, Thou art the object of my love, Not for the hopes of endless joys above. Nor for the fear of endless pain below Which those who love Thee not must undergo: For me, and such as me, Thou once didst bear The ignominious cross, the nails, the spear, A thorny crown transpierced Thy sacred brow. What bloody sweats from every member flow! For me, in torture Thou resign'st Thy breath, Nailed to the cross, and sav'st me by Thy death: Say, can these sufferings fail my heart to move? What but Thyself can now deserve my love? Such as then was and is Thy love to me. Such is, and shall be still, my love to Thee. {478} Thy love, O Jesus, may I ever sing, O God of love, kind Parent, dearest King." The most original contribution of Spain to pure literature were the Tales of Chivalry, which became so popular at the end of the fifteenth century. _"Amadis de Gaul"_ is claimed by the French, but the French original has been lost and the Spanish one is not only well known, but characteristically Spanish, partaking of the very temper of the people. The first known edition is early in the sixteenth century, and within fifty years Spain produced twelve editions of it. A whole series of books of similar kind followed it. Many of these were totally lacking in literary quality, but they achieved popularity. Our own first novelists were literary folk. They have been succeeded by hack writers, who watch the fashion of the moment and make ever so much more money and sell ever so many more copies than did the great novelists. Something like this happened in Spain. These tales of chivalry have sometimes been made a matter of reproach to the intelligence of the Spaniards of the time, but then what shall we say of our own much more widespread occupation with stories if possible more trivial and absurd? We are not without tributes from distinguished men to the interest they found in some of these stories. The _"Palmerin de Inglaterra"_ which Cervantes' priest "would have kept in such a casket as that which Alexander found among Darius' spoils intended to guard the works of Homer," attracted so much attention from Edmund Burke that he avowed in the House of Commons that he had spent much time over it. Dr. Johnson confessed to having spent the leisure hours of a summer upon _"Felixmarte de Hircania." "Amadis de Gaul"_ classed by Cervantes' barber as "the best in that kind," is perhaps the only one of the tales of chivalry that a man need read. The usual assumption that it is a story of France, because of the word Gaul, is quite mistaken. Amadis is a British Knight, Gaul stands for Wales, Vindilisora is Windsor, while Bristol becomes Bristoya. The action occurs "not many years after the Passion of our Redeemer." There are marvellous adventures, something happens on every page, {479} combats with giants, magical spells of all kinds, miracles, hair-breadth escapes, last-moment rescues, till fidelity is rewarded and Amadis marries Oriana, daughter of the King of Britain, and they all live happy ever after. After the Tales of Chivalry came the Novelas de Picaros, picaresque novels we have called these Tales of Roguery in English. The two modes of fiction represent the opposite extremes. The tales of chivalry were almost entirely imaginary. The picaresque novels were rather naturalistic studies from low life. The first of these was the _"Celestina"_ but the one that was most influential is the _"Lazarillo de Tormes,"_ which curiously enough has been attributed, though on dubious evidence, to the famous Diego Hurtado de Mendoza and also to Fray Juan de Ortega of the Order of St. Jerome. The stories represent the ever-recurring tendency of mankind to be interested in a rogue, to be ready to laugh at his rascalities and especially his capacity for cheating his betters that has been used so effectively by Plautus and was the germ of the idea in the plot of Gil Bias and Scarron and probably suggested Shakespeare's "Jack Falstaff." There are phases of our modern fiction that display the same tendency. Fitzmaurice Kelly in his "Spanish Literature" (Appleton's Literatures of the World Series, New York, 1898) said of the _"Lazarillo de Tormes"_: "After three hundred years, it survives all its rivals, and may be read with as much edification and amusement as on the day of its first appearance. It set a fashion, a fashion that spread to all countries, and finds a nineteenth century manifestation in the pages of 'Pickwick'; but few of its successors match it in satirical humor, and none approach it in pregnant concision, where no word is superfluous, and where every word tells with consummate effect. Whoever wrote the book, he fixed forever the type of the comic prose epic as rendered by the needy, and he did it in such wise as to defy all competition." By a very curious contrast, the literature of Spanish origin from this century which has most influenced the world, being translated into all the languages and read and studied deeply, is exactly the opposite pole of these prose epics. For the {480} world's best-known writers on spirituality and mysticism have been Spaniards, the greatest of them lived at this time and they are still being read everywhere, edition after edition appearing in many languages. The great names among the mystics whose writings were either completed during our century, or at least the foundation for whose work was laid because their authors came to their maturity during this time, were John of Avila, Luis de Granada and Luis de Leon. John of Avila is the best known of these and occupied something of the position of master to the others. His most famous book, "The Spiritual Treatise," is still widely read in religious institutions and is familiar to all those who have made any serious study of the religious life. As there are and have been ever since his time hundreds of thousands of religious in the world, many of them representing the highest culture and good taste, "the apostle of Andalusia," as he was called, has had a large circle of chosen readers for all these centuries. His book is written with an ardent eloquence in the deeply spiritual passages, and as Hannay has said, "has always a large share of the religious quality of unction." There are many profoundly intelligent and seriously thoughtful men of our time who consider it one of the most wonderful books ever written. Luis de Granada's book, "The Guide for Sinners," was translated into all the languages of Europe and read not only by the clergy, but by the people. His book of "Prayer and Meditation on the Principal Mysteries of Faith" was much more in the hands of the clergy and religious, but was scarcely less famous. Luis de Leon's "Perfecta Casada" gained a wide reputation, and his other books on "The Names of Christ" and "The Book of Job" had a place in every important religious community in Europe. Two names in the Spanish poetry of this period are immortal in Spain, and their writings are familiar to the students of literature the world over. They are Boscan and Garcilaso de la Vega. The younger man, Garcilaso, sent Castiglione's _"Il Cortigiano"_ to Boscan and suggested its translation into Spanish. Fitzmaurice Kelly, in his "Spanish Literature," has said, "Though Boscan himself held translation to be a thing {481} meet for 'men of small parts,' his rendering is an almost perfect performance." This led Boscan to put into Spanish form many other Italian pieces, not so much by translation as by imitation more suited to the genius of the Spanish language. Not a great genius, not a lordly versifier, endowed with not one supreme gift, Boscan ranks as an unique instance in the annals of literature by virtue of his enduring and irrevocable victory. Garcilaso, his young friend, is far ahead of him in poetic genius. He was a soldier-poet, "taking now the sword and now the pen," as he said himself, and he died at the early age of thirty-three. His death occurred as the leader of a storming party in romantic circumstances, under the eye of the Emperor and the army. The first to climb the breach, he fell mortally wounded into the arms of the future translator of Ariosto and of his more intimate friend, the Marques de Lombay, whom the world knows best as St. Francis Borgia. "His illustrious descent, his ostentatious valor, his splendid presence, his seductive charm, his untimely death: all these, joined to his gift of song, combined to make him the hero of legend and the idol of a nation. Like Sir Philip Sidney, Garcilaso personified all accomplishments and all graces." Curiously enough it is not the martial but the pastoral that Garcilaso sings and "the light that never was on land or sea," of peace with poetic melancholy, that may so easily be the subject of criticism, yet has always been the favorite retreat of a great many poets at many recurring times. At the Western end of the Spanish Peninsula the Portuguese, distinct in language, had a literature of their own which reached its perfection just after Columbus' Century, but the promise of which can be seen during our period. The greatest of their poets is Camöens, whom the German critic Schlegel did not hesitate to place above not only his two great contemporaries of the sixteenth century, Ariosto and Tasso, but above all the modern epic poets and even above Virgil. His poem has been read in translation in all the languages of Europe. While it was not written in what we have called Columbus' Century, the poet had given evidence of the greatness of his genius before 1550, and some of the sonnets of his {482} early years have deservedly been looked upon as worthy perhaps of a place among the greatest examples in that form. Mrs. Browning's reason for calling her "Sonnets from the Portuguese" by that name was that probably the most beautiful love sonnets in the world had been written in that language. The Portuguese language was given the form in which it was to survive at this time, and it is always when a language is being formed that somehow geniuses come to round out its powers of expression and at the same time give it the form which it is to maintain partly as a consequence of their genius having expressed itself in it in certain enduring modes. Some of the shorter poems written by Camöens when he was a young man between twenty and twenty-five, that is, before the close of Columbus' Century, are so characteristic of the _vers de société_ at all times, and yet are such delightful bits of versification with here and there a touch of charming poetic quality, that they have more than passing interest for the modern time. I venture to quote several of them to illustrate their variety, but at the same time because, though all are attributed to Camöens, it is doubtful whether some of them were not written by others and afterwards transferred to him because of his greater fame. They illustrate very well the poetic vein of the Portuguese of the time, though ordinarily it is not assumed that Portugal was touched by the spirit of the Renaissance to any great degree or that her literature is of any significance. Most of them are with regard to love, though not all of them are as serious as the rondeau so often quoted: "Just like Love is yonder rose, Heavenly fragrance round it throws. Yet tears its dewy leaves disclose, And in the midst of briars it blows, Just like Love. Cull'd to bloom upon the breast. Since rough thorns the stem invest. They must be gather'd with the rest. And with it, to the heart be press'd. Just like Love. {483} And when rude hands the twin-buds sever They die--and they shall blossom never, --Yet the thorns be sharp as ever, Just like Love." In lighter vein is the canzonet to the lady who swore by her eyes, a custom which was rather common according to the tales of chivalry so popular shortly before this time. The first and last stanza will give a good idea of it: "When the girl of my heart is on perjury bent, The sweetest of oaths hides the falsest intent. And Suspicion, abash'd, from her company flies, When she smiles like an angel--and swears by her eyes. Then, dear one, I'd rather, thrice rather believe Whate'er you assert, even though to deceive. Than that you 'by your eyes' should so wickedly swear, And sin against heaven--for heaven is there!" At times the Portuguese poet could be rather serious. The two stanzas from the beginning of a canzonet, which contrasts the making of money with the doing of good as the proper aim of life, has often been quoted: "Since in this dreary vale of tears No certainty but death appears. Why should we waste our vernal years In hoarding useless treasure? No--let the young and ardent mind Become the friend of humankind, And in the generous service find A source of purer pleasure!" The poet is said to have fallen in love with a maid of honor at the court far above him in rank. For this impudence, he was banished from court, and unable to live so near, yet so far, resolved to go as a soldier to Africa. Somehow or other a {484} last meeting with her (she died at the early age of twenty) was managed before his departure, and he discovered in her eyes, as she bade him good-bye, the secret that she was as deeply in love as he. He went where duty called, fought bravely, losing the sight of an eye in one of the battles, and, loaded with martial honor, was permitted to return to court. When he returned, his inamorata was no more. The sonnet written when he learned the sad news is more artificial perhaps than he would have written in his maturity, but it and others gave Portuguese literature the fame for love sonnets which suggested to Mrs. Browning the title "Sonnets from the Portuguese" for her love poems: "Those charming eyes, within whose starry sphere Love whilom sat, and smil'd the hours away. Those braids of light that sham'd the beams of day. That hand benignant, and that heart sincere; Those virgin cheeks, which did so late appear Like snow-banks scatter'd with the blooms of May, Turn'd to a little cold and worthless clay. Are gone--forever gone--and perish here, --But not unbath'd by Memory's warmest tear! --Death! thou hast torn, in one unpitying hour. That fragrant plant, to which, while scarce a flow'r. The mellower fruitage of its prime was given; Love saw the deed--and as he lingered near, Sigh'd o'er the ruin, and return'd to Heav'n!" The literature of the Spanish peninsula was to have its flourishing period in the century following that we have called after Columbus, but there is enough of enduring literary products to show that men's minds were deeply affected by the great spirit of the time and to lay broad and deep foundations for the Golden Age of Spanish literature that was to follow so soon. {485} CHAPTER V ENGLISH LITERATURE The English literature of Columbus' Century obtained some of its triumphs very early in the period in a literary department, that of dramatics, in which other nations achieved little success. England in the latter part of the fifteenth century produced a series of plays whose high place in literature was only recognized properly during the past two or three generations. Ordinarily it is assumed that dramatic literature of serious significance did not develop in any modern language until much later than this time. Indeed, as a rule, the English drama of Shakespeare's time is supposed to be the first development of any importance in this department. The Spanish drama developed almost immediately after our Shakespearean period, the French came half a century later, and curiously enough Italy and Germany did not develop a national drama until the nineteenth century. The mystery and morality plays of the latter half of the fifteenth century in England have been revived in recent years and have illustrated beyond all doubt the genius of their authors and the fine evolution of drama at this time. Specimens that have been played in many places, in public performances, have proved to possess a gripping power over audiences, surpassing the dramatic literature of our own time, and the dramatic ability and genius of the men who wrote them has now come to be generally recognized. "Everyman," for instance, has been played to crowded houses in many of the large cities of the country, audiences listening intently for the two hours without an intermission and then paying the highest possible tribute by going out always in silence. The story is only a dramatic rendition of the place in life of the "four last things to be remembered"--death, judgment, heaven and hell--of interest to every man. Such a subject would seem to be quite out of harmony {486} with the temper of our time and above all with the mood in which our people attend the theatre. The man who wrote it and was able to give it such enduring interest was a dramatic genius of the first order, for he was able to take the familiar things of life, even those to which men are not prone to give much attention, and make them compelling. Mystery plays have come to have much more significance for us since the wide popularity of the Passion Play at Oberammergau. Thousands of people go up to the little village of scarcely more than a thousand inhabitants every ten years to see and hear the simple villagers tell the old, old story of the Passion and Death of Him that died on the Cross for us. Some, perhaps, of the attendance is due to the fact that it has become a fad to go, yet most of it is a real act of devotion, but to a shrine that is literary and truly dramatic as well as religious. From all over the world people have flocked to it and have confessed the dramatic force of the story in its simple setting in such a way as to make us realize what a powerful appeal the old mystery plays must have had for the people of the later Middle Ages when they came to their perfection of presentation. The appeal that the Passion Play had to the older folk, the Nativity Plays had for the children, though also for their elders and especially the women. It is exactly during Columbus' Century that these mystery and morality plays reached their highest development and greatest perfection of expression and presentation. In England this development proved to be the fertile field out of which sprang the great Elizabethan dramatic literature. There are all the elements of a great dramatic literature in them. There is simplicity and directness with the presentation of subjects that have the highest appeal and yet very humanly done, so that wit, and above all, humor, has its role, and the problems concerned are those which interest all mankind. So little is known about this phase of dramatic literature, though it represents such a charmingly simple expression of dramatic poetry, containing a lesson of sincerity, naturalness and occupation with the higher things, which our generation needs above all in order to be lifted out of the rut of over-attention to problem plays, that some review of it seems necessary not {487} only for a complete picture of the literature of Columbus' time, but also for the sake of the enduring social significance of this early dramatic literature. [Illustration: Page from early popular printed religious book (woodcut)] While we have greater examples of this mode of literature from England, in nearly every country in Europe the Passion Plays had a wonderful development toward the end of the fifteenth century. They were particularly striking, both in their literary value and their presentation in the Teutonic {488} countries and in England. There was a whole series of plays in England, many of which have come down to us. There is question whether "Everyman" was originally of Dutch or of English origin. The first production of it was as a translation of the Dutch _"Elkerlijk."_ In Germany, the period in which the Passion Play reached its highest development was from about 1450 to 1550. The great Frankfurt Passion Play, the Alsfelder and the Friedburger plays came at this time. Many other towns, however, had their special Passion Plays written for them and presented in their own way. There was the Vienna Passion, the St. Gall Passion and the Maestricht Passion. But there were Passion Plays also at Eger, at Augsburg, Freising and Lucerne. From very early times Passion Plays were given in various parts of the Tyrol, always attracting the deep attention of the people, and it is here that the single example which has survived still serves to show us how genuinely dramatic and how powerful in their appeal were these plays. [Footnote 46] [Footnote 46: It is almost amusing to be told that knowledge of the Scriptures was kept from the people at this time, before the Reformation, when these popular plays to which all the countryside flocked, and in which so many took part, were making them thoroughly familiar with all the details of Christ's life. There was much more than this, however, for connected with many of the Passion Plays were cycles of tableaux or presentations of special scenes in which, beginning with the Creation, the whole story of the Bible, and particularly those portions which are related to the coming of Christ, were set clearly before them. No better way of impressing upon the people the great truths of Christianity or the life of Christ as the central fact of the world's history could possibly have been imagined. The people were not encouraged to read difficult passages, which even the profoundest theologians find it hard to understand, to take their own meaning out of them and to argue about them, convicting everyone of heresy who did not agree with their interpretations of them, but they were taught the deep moral and religious significance of all the Old and New Testament. They learned the value of the Scriptures as literature as well as their quality as the underlying document of religion, but above all they were taught their relation to life. All this was so put before them that it came as an amusement and not a task, and from their earliest years they became familiar with the great thoughts underlying religion so as to secure its influence over them.] Dodsley's collection of Old English Plays, which, in its {489} fourth edition as edited by W. Carew Hazlitt (London, 1874), contains a number of old plays little known, is particularly rich in material from this century of Columbus. The series of morality plays, "The Interlude of the Four Elements," "Everyman," "The Pardoner and the Friar," "The World and the Child," "Hick's Corner," "God's Promises," and the "Four P's," are typical examples. They all show the true dramatic spirit, and while lacking the theatrical technique of modern plays, are almost infinitely superior in their expression of the realities of human interest and their revelation of the depths of human sympathy to the presentation of superficialities which now pass for drama. It was towards the end of Columbus' Century that the "Marriage of Witte and Science," which was not published until 1570, was written. This was marked off into five acts and the scenes designated, being the first play in which such an arrangement had been made. The modern dramatic mould was thus created. It is easy to understand that on the deep foundations, literary and technical, thus laid in the century before 1550, the great structure of the Elizabethan drama could be built up. How much the appreciation for the morality plays has risen may be judged very well from some recent expressions with regard to them by students of the drama. Everyone is particularly loud in praise of "Everyman." In the introduction to "Everyman with other Interludes" in the Everyman series, the writer says that "to turn from Bayle's play (one of the later moralities, 'God's Promises') to the heart-breaking realities of 'Everyman' is like turning from a volume of law to the edifying sermons of one of the gospels." He adds: "It was written, no doubt, like most of the plays in this volume, by a churchman; and he must have been a man of profound imagination and of the tenderest human soul conceivable. His ecclesiastical habit becomes clear enough before the end of the play, where he bids every man go and confess his sins. Like many of the more poignant scenes and passages in the miracle plays that follow it, this morality too leaves one exclaiming on how good a thing was the plain English of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries." {490} It would be a mistake to think that only the serious side of life was portrayed in these old dramas. Quite the contrary, they were full of humor, and the writer of the Introduction to Everyman, already quoted, says in this regard: "In these religious and moral interludes, the dramatic colouring, however crude, is real and sincere. The humours of a broad folk-comedy break through the Scriptural web continually in the guild plays like those in which Noah the ship-builder, or the proverbial three shepherds, appear in the pageant. Noah's unwilling wife in the 'Chester Deluge,' and Mak's canny wife in the Wakefield's shepherd's play, where the sheep-stealing scenes reveal a born Yorkshire humorist, offer a pair of gossips not easy to match for rude comedy. Mak's wife, like the shepherd's in the same pastoral, utters proverbs with every other breath: 'A woman's avyse helpys at the last!' 'So long goys the pott to the water, at last comys it home broken!' "'Now in hot, now in cold, Full woeful is the household That wants a woman!' And her play upon the old north-country asseveration, 'I'll eat my bairn,' "'If ever I you beguiled, That I eat this child That lies in this cradle,' (the child being the stolen sheep), must have caused townsfolk and countryfolk outrageous laughter. Mak's wife is indeed as memorable in her way as the Wife of Bath, Dame Quickly, or Mrs. Gamp." Some idea of the extent to which the men of this time went in attempting spectacles on a large scale may be appreciated from "Mary Magdalen," which combines elements of all the various kinds of religious plays of the time. It was a miracle play because it treats of the life and death of St. Mary Magdalen. It is a mystery play inasmuch as it introduces scenes from the Life of Christ. {491} [Illustration: PICTURE OF THEATRE ON TITLE PAGE OF COMEDIES OF TERENCE, STRASBURG (1490)] {492} It is a morality play because abstract personages are introduced upon the stage in the presentation of the struggle between good and evil in human life. Dr. Furnivall has divided the play into two parts, with fifty-one scenes altogether, twenty in the first and thirty-one in the second part. There is some evidence that some of the scenes were inserted only to give time for a shift of scenes. Probably they had two pageants or movable trucks which would remind one somewhat of the movable stage that was attempted in the last generation. The burning of the temple and some of the incidents of the wanderings at sea may very well have provided opportunity for spectacular effects of ambitious character. We have no record of how far they went in this regard, though some hints of attempts in the direction of surprising scenic introductions are to be found in contemporary documents, and we know that in Italy they staged an earthquake very effectively. The play of "The Four Elements" was written just at the beginning of the sixteenth century. The date of its writing is designated by one of the speeches of Experience in this play, who says: "Till now, within this twenty years. Westward be found new lands, That we never heard tell of before this By writing nor other means." The passage illustrates the tendency to make these plays instructive as well as entertaining, and many similar passages might be quoted to show that a definite effort was made to convey information by means of them, though, as a rule, this had much more reference to religion and to social life than to things more distant from every-day living. One of the important dramatic writers of the first half of our Columbus' Century was John Skelton, born about 1460, and who was one of the most prominent of literary men of England of his time. He had a series of literary quarrels with many of the prominent writers, Alexander Barclay and William Lily, the grammarian, among others, and for a time he {493} enjoyed the patronage of Wolsey, but apparently could not restrain his tendency to satire and so fell into the Cardinal's bad graces. Alexander Dyce edited his works in two volumes in 1843 and called particular attention to the genuine worth of his four dramatic compositions, the "Interlude of Virtue," the comedy called "Achidemoios," the "Nigramansir" (necromancer) and "Magnyfycence." Only one of these, the last, now remains, though there are traditions with regard to the others, and the single one left shows what precious material was lost. An even more important contributor to this mode of dramatic literature and very significant predecessor of Shakespeare was John Heywood, a friend and neighbor of Sir Thomas More in Hertfordshire, who wrote a series of dramatic works, consisting of five interludes. Of these the "Four P's" is the best known and is the typical example of this form of dramatic literature. Its full title is "A Very Mery Enterlude of A Palmer, A Pardoner, A Pothecary and A Pedlar," and the story turns on the contest arranged between them, and especially the first three, as to which could tell the greatest lie. Palmers were real or supposed returned pilgrims from the Holy Land, bearing palms as a symbol of their pilgrimage, and were noted as a rule for their ability to tell strong stories. Pardoners were wandering merchants who sold printed prayers and various objects of devotion to which indulgences, pardons, in the language of the day were attached. They too were noted for drawing the long bow. The Pothecary and the Pedlar, because of their familiar gossip with the people, knew all the news of the neighborhood in which they lived, and had the reputation of being able to add to the vividness and sensational qualities of stories so that the Four P's might very well be expected to give some fine illustrations of the ability to lie. The Palmer takes the prize in the contest with the very first story. All are agreed at once that no one can even hope to surpass it. The passage in which he does so is worth while quoting because it gives an illustration at once of the language and style as well as of the kind of humor to be found in Heywood's interludes: {494} "And this I would ye should understand, I have seen women five hundred thousand; And oft with them have long time tarried. Yet in all places where I have been, Of all the women that I have seen, I never saw or knew in my conscience Any one woman out of patience." Thus, quietly, and with this force of earnest asseveration, does the largest and most palpable lie leap out of the Palmer's lips. The contestants themselves are at once unanimous in their decision. Pothecary: "By the mass, there is a great lie!" Pardoner: "I never heard a greater, by our Lady!" Pedlar: "A greater! Nay, know ye any so great?" In his account of the Pardoner, Heywood does not hesitate to satirize many of the pretensions of this class and especially their catering to the superstition of the ignorant by the sale of impossible relics of all kinds. Catholics realize very well that such frauds are practised at all times. Even in our day men go around selling prayers, the recital of which is supposed to give thousands of years of indulgence and other like absurdities. Besides, the trade in manufactured relics is well known, and the ecclesiastical authorities have tried to regulate it at all times. Heywood has his Pardoner offer for sale such relics as a bit of the thumb nail of the Holy Trinity and a feather from the wing of the Holy Ghost and like impossible absurdities. Impositions in the name of religion are still with us. It is interesting to know that before the religious revolution they were fought with that best of weapons, satire. Before the end of Columbus' Century the first English comedy in the modern sense had been written. It was by Nicholas Udall and was called, from its hero, "Ralph Royster Doyster." He was a swaggering simpleton, a conceited fop of the time who is played upon by one Matthew Merrygreek, a needy humorist who represents the parasite of the old Latin drama under the influence of which this first English comedy was written. For Nicholas Udall was the Headmaster of Eton School, and the play in lively rhyming couplets, {495} interspersed with merry songs, was written to be played by the Eton boys according to their custom of having several plays each year. The play partakes somewhat of the nature of farce and contains a number of situations of the kind that have always drawn a laugh and will doubtless always continue to do so. In one of the scenes in the play, Ralph and his man are beaten in a brisk battle by the women of the play armed with broomsticks. A lesson in the need for punctuation is introduced, showing how completely the sense of writing can be reversed by putting the stops in the wrong places. Udall wrote some other plays, notably one called "Ezekias," used for the entertainment of Queen Elizabeth on her visit to Cambridge. The other form of literature besides the drama which came to ripe fruition at this time in England is also of a popular character. It consists of the stirring English ballads which were gathered into a volume by Bishop Percy in his "Reliques" at the end of the eighteenth century. There probably has never been more stirring martial singing than is to be found in the "Ancient Ballad of Chevy Chase" or "Adam Bell" or "Clym of the Clough." It has been well said that "in graphic terseness, in poetic simplicity, in fiery fervor, in tenderness of pathos, our modern poetry does not approach these old ballads." Sir Philip Sidney said of "Chevy Chase," "I never heard the old song of Percy and Douglas that I found not my heart more moved than with a trumpet." While the language is simple, the verse rude, the thoughts rugged and the story over-full of sympathy for the outlaw, at all times, even the most refined, these ballads have stirred English hearts. The writers of them are unknown, but they had the genius of true poets, the power of vision and striking ability of expression. The ballads will live as long as our English tongue and will continue to be read even by the cultured, distant in every way from the rudeness of the time in which and the men for whom these ballads were written. After the Ballad Poetry of this period came quite naturally Sir Thomas Malory's _"Morte d'Arthur."_ There have been many and varying expressions of opinion with regard to the merit of this work, and it is at best a medley from many {496} sources. What Mr. Andrew Lang has called its "splendid patchwork" is harmonized and solemnized by the dignified conclusion "in tenderness and inexpiable sorrow." In spite of its many sources there is a unity of spirit and feeling, and Malory was an admirable narrator. Malory's vitality is attested by edition after edition in the nineteenth century. The book has an appeal to human nature that is eternal and that will always give it a distinguished place among the books of the educated at least. Of style in the literary sense of that term there is very little, and Malory's anomalous constructions have always puzzled grammarians, but as Garnett says in his English Literature, [Footnote 47] "These do not render him obscure for the readers of any period." Caxton laid English literature under an immense obligation by insuring the preservation of the work, through his selection of it to be one of his early-printed books. It has done credit to his taste in popular literature ever since. [Footnote 47: "English Literature: an Illustrated Record in Four Vols." Garnett and Gosse: New York, 1903.] In the latter part of the fifteenth and the first years of the sixteenth century a wonderful development of English poetry took place in Scotland. Just before Columbus' Century opened, James First of Scotland, who had been detained in an English prison for nineteen years, began the literature of Scotland in glorious fashion. The loneliness of these years prompted him to seek and gain that literary culture which has made his name famous in the world of letters. It is possible that the "King's Quair" (a quire or book), which is a poetical record of his sight of Jane Beaufort, granddaughter of John of Gaunt, from his prison window, and his winning her as his queen, may not be from his hand. There is no doubt at all, however, of his taste in literature, his patronage of it and of his establishment of the tradition which has made the English literature of Scotland so important during most of the centuries since. Four poets of the middle of Columbus' Century in Scotland deserve to be named, Blind Harry, Robert Henryson, Gawin Douglas and William Dunbar. All of them are still read affectionately by Scotchmen, but there are very few among the educated people of the English-speaking countries who would {497} care to confess ignorance of them, and to many they are favorite poets. Dunbar is the greatest of poets in English from Chaucer to Shakespeare, and Scottish critics at least have been loud in its praise. Mr. Craik says: "This admirable master, alike of serious and of comic song, may justly be styled the Chaucer of Scotland, whether we look to the wide range of his genius, or to his eminence in every style over all the poets of his country who preceded and all who for ages came after him. Burns is certainly the only name among the Scottish poets that can yet be placed on the same line with that of Dunbar; and even the inspired ploughman, though the equal of Dunbar in comic power and his superior in depth of passion, is not to be compared with the older poet either in strength or in general fertility of imagination." The two English poets of our period are Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey, and Sir Thomas Wyatt, who, in spite of inequality in merit, possess so much in common that their names are closely associated. How well they were appreciated in Elizabeth's time and how much their influence meant for Shakespeare's contemporaries may be judged from Puttenham's expression, who said in 1589: "Henry, Earl of Surrey, and Sir Thomas Wyatt, between whom I finde very little difference, I repute them for the two chief lanternes of light to all others that have since employed their pennes upon English Poesie; their conceits were loftie, their stiles stately, their conveyance cleanly, their termes proper, their metres sweete and well proportioned." To Surrey, English literature owes two important literary innovations--the introduction of the sonnet and the use of polished blank verse. The influence of Italy and of the classic authors can be seen very clearly, and his version of the second and fourth books of the AEneid, in what Milton called "English heroic verse without rhyme," was a fundamental influence in English poetry. His sonnets are mainly the amatory effusions which were becoming fashionable everywhere at this time and which Shakespeare indulged in in his turn a little later. Some of his biographers and editors have woven a series of fanciful theories over his relations to the {498} "fair Geraldine," in whose honor many of the best sonnets were written, but it is doubtful whether these love poems are anything more than the wandering poetic fancies of the time. Surrey's unmerited death on the scaffold at the early age of thirty has deepened the romantic interest that attaches to his name as a poet. Sir Thomas Wyatt, though more than a dozen years older than his friend Surrey, must be considered his disciple in poetry. He, too, wrote some of the new sonnets on the theme that occupied so many of the poets of the time--Love--but, as in the case of Surrey also, we have from him some satires and metrical versions of the psalms. Probably the greatest contribution to the English prose of the time is Sir Thomas More's "Life of Edward V." Mr. Hallam pronounced it "the first example of good English--pure and perspicuous, well chosen, without vulgarisms or pedantry." Many others have declared More the first great master of English prose and even the father of English prose. There have been dissentient voices among the critics from these high praises. There is no doubt, however, that More wrote a direct straightforward English that deeply influenced the course of English speech, and tradition has given him a high place among the great English orators. The language undoubtedly received a deep impress from him, and though his most important work in literature is "Utopia," written in Latin, his high place in English cannot be denied. Authorities on English have always recognized this, but owing to religious feelings, and the anti-Catholic tradition created during Elizabeth and James' time, More's work has been neglected, except by the deeper scholars. Samuel Johnson, in the "History of the English Language," prefixed to his dictionary, devotes nearly one-third of all the space that he takes for his purpose to More. He apologizes somewhat for his copiousness of quotation from the chancellor, but justifies it by saying that, "It is necessary to give a larger specimen both because the language was to a great degree formed and settled and because it appears from Ben Jonson that his works were considered as models of pure and elegant style." A recent writer, [Footnote 48] Prof. J. S. Phillimore, says of More's style: {499} "His usual prose has the easy elastic abundance of Boccaccio and a lawyer's love of proving a point exhaustively in controversy. But he has all the qualities of a great prose style: sonorous eloquence, less cumbersome than Milton; simplicity and lucidity of argument, with unfailing sense of the rhythms and harmonies of English sound. He is a master of Dialogue, the favorite vehicle of that age; neither too curiously dramatic in the ethopoia of the persons, nor yet allowing the form to become a hollow convention, the objector in his great Dialogue (the Quod he and Quod I) is anything but a man of straw. We can see that if Lucian was his early love he had not neglected Plato either. Elizabethan prose is tawdry and mannered compared with his: at his death Chaucer's thread is dropped, which none picked up till Clarendon and Dryden. With his colloquial, well-bred, unaffected ease, he is the ancestor of Swift. His style--so Erasmus tells us--was gained by long and careful studies and exercises; he took a discipline in Latin, of which the fruits were to appear in English, when the increasing gravity of the times warned him that it would be well to speak to a larger public than Latin could reach. Even where he is prolix--and that may seem prolix in black-letter folio which reads easy and pleasant enough in modern form--his merry humor is not long silent." [Footnote 48: _Dublin Review,_ July, 1913.] As in French, some of the translations into English at this period are almost as admirable prose as Amyot's "Plutarch." Even when the translations of the time have the quaintness of the English of that period, they are admirable in their closeness to the original and in a certain rhythm of their sentences. Of Berner's translation of Froissart's "Chronicles," Snell in "The Age of Transition" ("Handbooks of English Literature," Scribners) says: "The English is so thoroughly idiomatic that in reading it one loses all sensation of the book being merely an interpretation, and resigns one's self to its easy and familiar flow with the same joyful complacency as if it were an original work. On the other hand, if one insists on breaking the spell and comparing it with the French text, one is struck not only with the felicity, but also the fidelity of the rendering." The literary quality of the prose of the first half of the {500} sixteenth century in England is best revealed in the translations of the Scriptures done into the vernacular at this time and in the unequalled Collects of the English Prayerbook. Tyndale and Coverdale are responsible for the translations of the Scriptures, and to Cranmer is usually attributed the writing of the Collects, though, as has been said by Saintsbury, "this attribution derives but very faint corroboration from the Archbishop's known work." It was with these models of marvellously expressive, thoroughly idiomatic English, exquisite examples of style, that the translators of the King James version of the Bible were placed in a position to give us the wonderful fundamental literary work that was to come from their hand half a century later. It has been said that one argument of the most irresistible kind for the divine authorship of the Scriptures lies in the faculty which they have of making all the translations of them great literature. It was their influence that is felt in the English Prayerbook and in those parts of the Breviary which we owe to the first half of the sixteenth century. [Illustration: MANTEGNA. ST. GEORGE ] {501} CHAPTER VI SCHOLARSHIP IN ITALY One of the most important chapters in the great accomplishment of the men of this century is its scholarship--that is, the critical and appreciative knowledge of what men had written before their time and especially of the great classical works of antiquity. In this, almost needless to say, Italy is not only a pioneer, but was the _alma mater studiorum_--of whom Linacre was so proud--for those desirous of knowledge of the classics and true scholarship from all over the world. From every country, France, Spain, Germany, distant Poland and Denmark, as well as England, those looking for opportunities for study that could not be obtained at home flocked to Italy. Besides, Italian teachers are to be found teaching everywhere, though Italy herself proved no stepmother to those who came to be nurtured in good learning at her great institutions. Many a foreigner who had proved his ability was given a professorship and spent many years in teaching others in Italy as he had been taught himself. This is the age of printing, and it was of first importance that good editions of the classics should be printed as soon as possible in order to prevent any further degeneration of their texts and avoid all further risk of losing the precious treasures of antiquity. Scholars in Italy took up the making of good texts, and within a century after the invention of printing, all the important Greek and Latin authors had been published in scholarly editions, the texts of which still command respect. The amount of labor required for this, the judicious scholarship demanded, the patience that was needed and the unselfish devotion to a most trying task, only scholars can properly appreciate. No debt that we owe to the Renaissance is greater than this, what it accomplished for classical literature, and by far the greater part of this debt is owed to Italy. {502} Everywhere, that is, in every important city, there was a school of the New Learning, and usually some munificent patrons of what they came to call Humanism because it represented humanity's highest interests, supporting scholars who were writing and correcting manuscripts and afterwards forming libraries of the printed books and making it possible for the great printers to continue their work by subscribing for their first editions. Only that the Church was deeply interested in this new movement, it would have been quite impossible for it to have continued. Unfortunately, as always happens whenever men get new knowledge, many of them, that is, the restless and the smaller minds among them, who are always likely to be in a great majority in any new movement, were taken with the idea that they knew so much more than those who went before them that they could not be expected to accept old-fashioned ideas in religion and philosophy. Because of the disturbances produced by such restless characters, there sometimes seems at this time to be opposition between the Church and the New Learning. This false impression is partly due to the fact that in certain countries, notably Germany and England, the reform doctrines were, as pointed out by Gasquet, often called the New Learning, to which, of course, there was opposition. Most of the great classic scholars, however, were ecclesiastics, some of them of very high rank and influence in the councils of the Church, even Cardinals and Popes, and in general the vast majority of the prominent scholars were in the closest of sympathy with the ecclesiastical authorities. The exceptions are so few as to make the existence of this rule very clear, though so much of emphasis has been placed on the exceptions in the modern time that an entirely false impression with regard to Church opposition to education has been produced in a great many minds. The first name that deserves to be mentioned among the scholars of Italy is AEneas Sylvius of the family of Piccolomini, who is better known under the name of Pius II, which he bore as Pope. He is a typical example of the scholars of the Renaissance, in so far as that, as a younger man, his studies of classical antiquity led him to the expression of pagan ideas in life as well as in language. At the age of forty he {503} reformed and became as well known for his devotion as for his previous looseness of character. He was created Imperial Poet by the Emperor Frederick III, and his reputation for scholarship created a fashion in this regard that did great good for the rising movement of the New Learning. His influence as Pope continued this, though he made it the main business of his pontificate to organize Europe against the Turks so as to prevent the further increase of their power with all that would mean for the destruction of culture as well as religion. Indeed, his love for letters seems to have been at least as great an incentive for the organization of the crusade as his duty as an ecclesiastic. When he heard of the Fall of Constantinople, he exclaimed, "How many names of mighty men will perish! It is a second death to Homer and to Plato. The fount of the muses is dried up forevermore." How much he was thought of by his contemporaries and how much the example of his scholarship meant will be best appreciated from the Piccolomini Palace and other buildings of Pienza, but particularly the exquisitely beautiful Piccolomini Library at Siena. Pinturicchio's decorations for this library are only added testimony to the admiration of his generation. Sylvius' letter to Ladislas, the young king of Bohemia and Hungary who had sought his advice with regard to education, is one of the important documents in the history of education. It contains the oft-quoted passage with regard to the place of memory in education: "We must first insist upon the overwhelming importance of Memory, which is in truth the first condition of capacity for letters. A boy should learn without effort, retain with accuracy, and reproduce easily. Rightly is memory called 'the nursing mother of learning.' It needs cultivation, however, whether a boy be gifted with retentiveness or not. Therefore, let some passage from poet or moralist be committed to memory every day." One of the greatest scholars of the period and one of the leaders in the Renaissance movement towards the classics which brought about the reawakening of artistic and literary men at this time was Cardinal Bessarion, whose long life of over eighty years gave him nearly a quarter of a century in {504} Columbus' period. He came with the Emperor John Palaeologus to the Council of Ferrara in 1438, where his reputation for scholarship and vast erudition in all theological matters gave him great authority among the Greek Bishops. To him more than any other must be attributed the formal reunion with the Latin Church, which was the happy issue of that Council. To him, therefore, was committed the honor of reading the Greek formula of the Act of Union. Unfortunately, the union was but short-lived, but Bessarion changed to the Latin rite and in 1439 was created Cardinal. The Cardinal was high in favor with succeeding Popes and just at the beginning of Columbus' Century was sent as papal legate to Bologna, as "an angel of peace," in the hope that he would be able to quell the factional disturbances and pacify the divided interests. Cardinal Bessarion succeeded admirably in this difficult mission, calmed the internal dissensions and succeeded in introducing wise reforms into the city government and the administration of justice. His principal attention, however, was given to the University. He rebuilt the building and gathered there some of the most famous teachers of the world, encouraging particularly the study of the classics, and above all of Greek. He himself supplied out of his personal revenues whatever was lacking in the salaries, and he gathered around him a notable band of scholars, writers and poets, and began that magnificent outburst of interest in the intellectual life which was to make Bologna so famous. He continued to be active in his influence on the scholarship of Italy until well beyond eighty years of age, yet was always a factor in the practical life of his time. When he was eighty-one he wrote for Pope Paul II a letter on the organization of a new crusade against the Turks. When he was eighty-three he went on an embassy to Paris in order to bring about the union of the Western nations for a crusade. While at Rome during his later years, Bessarion gathered round him the scholars and writers in all departments. The scientists of the time particularly owe much to his patronage. He was a friend of Peurbach of Vienna, of Cardinal Nicholas of Cusa, of Regiomontanus and many others. In his house the first Accademia was founded, and he was known as the patron of {505} letters. He gathered an immense number of valuable manuscripts at very great expense, had copies of others made and gave his treasures at his death to found a library in Venice, his collection forming the nucleus of the famous library of St. Mark. After these two great Churchmen and patrons of learning and education, there are a series of scholars whose names deserve to be mentioned for the influence which they exerted on the learning of Europe at this time. At the beginning of our century came the Greeks, who were driven out of their native country by the conquest of the Turks. Demetrius Chalcondyles, Theodore Gaza, George Trebizond and Joannes Argyropulos, unable to pursue their studies in peace in the midst of the alarms produced by the Turks, reached Italy before the Fall of Constantinople. Gaza was lecturing on Demosthenes at Ferrara in 1448, where among his pupils was the subsequently distinguished German scholar Rudolph Agricola. The first year of our century Gaza was invited to Rome by Pope Nicholas V to fill the chair of philosophy and take a principal part in the plan which the Pope had conceived for the translation of the principal Greek classics. Gaza's translations were mainly concerned with scientific Greek works, Aristotle "On Mechanical Problems" and "On Animals" and Theophrastus' "Botany." For a time he withdrew to a monastery, but was recalled to Rome by Pope Paul II to take part in the _editio princeps_ of Gellius. After the death of Bessarion he retired once more to his monastery, where he died in 1475. His Greek grammar became famous and was used as a text-book by Budaeus in Paris and by Erasmus in Cambridge. He is described by Manutius as easily chief among the Latin and Greek scholars of his age, an age replete with scholarship be it said, and he is eulogized by Scaliger over a century later as _magnus vir et doctus,_ a great man and a learned. George Trebizond, after teaching for many years in Venice, was invited to Rome, where he became one of the Papal Secretaries. He also took part in the plan for translating the Greek classics, and his translations include the "Rhetoric and Problems of Aristotle" and "The Laws and Charmenides of Plato." Argyropulos taught first at Padua and then for {506} fifteen years under the patronage of the Medici at Florence. He, too, was invited to Rome by the Pope and was highly esteemed there. His part in the great plan of translation concerned mainly the works of Aristotle, whose "Ethics," "Politics," "Economics," "On the Soul" and "On Heaven" were all printed in his versions. He was the master of Politian, and his lectures were attended by Tiptoff, the Earl of Worcester, and by Reuchlin, the great German humanist. It was to Reuchlin that Argyropulos, after having heard him read and translate a passage of Thucydides, exclaimed with a sigh, "Lo! through our exile Greece has flown across the Alps." Chalcondyles, at the early age of twenty-six, made an immediate conquest of his Italian audience at Perugia in 1450. Subsequently he lectured at Padua, being the first teacher of Greek who received a salary at any of the Universities of Europe. For twenty years he lectured in Florence, and there prepared the _editio princeps_ of Homer, the first great Greek author to be printed. After the death of Lorenzo de Medici he withdrew to Milan and there edited "Isocrates" and "Suidas." His emendation of Greek texts is the best proof of his scholarship, and few men of his time equalled his power in this. He was noted for the gentleness of his disposition and his integrity of character, and he made many friends. There is a famous picture by Ghirlandajo in Santa Maria Novella at Florence which contains portraits of Ficino, Landino, Politian and Chalcondyles. The work of all of these men was greatly assisted by Pope Nicholas V, who was himself distinguished as a scholar in this scholarly time. During his pontificate in the first years of Columbus' Century he did more for the encouragement of learning than anyone else of the time. His wide knowledge of manuscripts made him personally an expert, and he gathered from all lands and is the founder of the Vatican collection of manuscripts. Besides the translations of Aristotle, Thucydides, Herodotus, Xenophon, Polybius and Epictetus, Diodorus Siculus, Strabo and Appian were translated under his direction. The catholicity of his taste, and above all the inclusion of the scientific books of the Greeks, is a tribute to the liberty of spirit of the Pope. On his death-bed he declared that his {507} greatest consolation was that he had been liberal in the rewarding of learned men. After the Papal influence, the most important factor for the encouragement of scholarship was the academies which were founded at this time. Lorenzo de Medici revived, after an interval of 1200 years, the ancient custom of celebrating the memory of Plato by an annual banquet. Out of this arose the _Accademia_ of Florence, nearly every one of the members of which were distinguished scholars. The best known among them are Landino and Ficino, both of whom had been Lorenzo's tutors, Pico della Mirandola and Politian. The first account that we have of the Academy is to be found in the introduction to Ficino's edition of Plato's "Symposium." He tells that his rendering of all the seven speeches in the "Symposium" was read aloud and discussed by five of the guests. Undoubtedly Ficino was the centre of the _Accademia_ and one of the greatest scholarly influences of the time. At the age of forty he took Holy Orders and was noted for the next twenty-five years, until his death, as a faithful priest whose scholarship was devoted to showing how Plato illuminated Christianity. In the latter part of his life he lectured on and translated Plotinus. The best known of these scholars in Florence was undoubtedly Politian, much more interested in Latin than in Greek, though Sandys, in his "History of Classical Scholarship" (Cambridge University Press, 1908), says that he was probably the first teacher in Italy whose mastery of Greek was equal to that of the Greek immigrants. Though he died at the early age of forty, we owe to him valuable textual criticisms of Lucretius, Propertius, Ovid, Statius, Ausonius, Celsus, Quintilian, Festus, and Catullus and Tibullus. His monograph on the chronology of Cicero's letters, his discussion of the use of the aspirate in Latin and Greek and of the differences between the aorist and the imperfect as illustrated by the signatures of Greek sculptors, as well as his power of solving textual difficulties, made him one of the great contributors to the magnificent work accomplished at this time for classical scientific grammar and erudition, as well as for the provision of proper texts of the classics for the world. Besides pure {508} literature, he was interested very much in law and made a special study of the "Pandects" of Justinian. He refused to follow those who slavishly imitated Cicero, and denounces the Ciceronians as the mere apes of Cicero. His expressions in the matter are famous. "To myself the face of a bull or a lion appears far more beautiful than that of an ape, although the ape has a closer resemblance to man. But, someone will say you do not express Cicero. I answer I am not Cicero, what I really express is myself." Academies were formed in other cities and accomplished excellent results for scholarship, though at times they fell under the suspicion of the authorities of dabbling in politics or of actually favoring political factions or even revolutionary ideas. Nearly always they owe their origin to the patronage of high ecclesiastics or those who were in very close sympathy with the Church and always they contained clergymen of distinction. After that of Florence the next in chronological order was that of Rome. There is even some question whether the Roman Academy was not the first in time, only it did not receive this name until after it had been adopted in Florence. The most important figure in the Roman Academy was the man who, for want of a better, assumed the old Roman name Pomponius Laetus. He was narrow enough of intellect to refuse to learn Greek, because he feared that it would spoil his Latin style. The members of the Roman Academy, under his ruling spirit, celebrated the foundation of Rome on the annual return of the festival of the Palilia, a custom which is still retained by many of the Roman academies. Pomponius did his gardening according to the precepts of Varro and Columella, the Latin writers on agriculture, and nothing pleased him better than to be regarded as a second Cato. It is to him that is due the revival of the regular performances of Plautus' plays. [Illustration: CORREGGIO, BLESSED VIRGIN AND ST. SEBASTIAN] Among the most important members of the Academy were Platina, who became the Librarian of the Vatican, and Sabellicus, who afterwards became the Prefect of the Library of San Marco in Venice. For a time, owing to suspicion of its political, perhaps also its religious, tendencies, the Roman Academy was suppressed and some of its members put in prison, but under Pope Sixtus IV it was revived and all its {509} old customs restored. Pomponius wrote commentaries on the whole of Virgil, on Sallust and Curtius, on Pliny's letters and Quintilian and on his agricultural favorites, Varro and Columella, and his equally great favorites, Festus and Nonius Marcellus, the grammarians. In order to complete his similarity with the old Romans, he had expressed the desire at one time in life that after death his body should simply be placed in an ancient Roman tomb on the Appian Way. When he died at the age of seventy he had changed the views of his earlier years and was given a magnificent Christian funeral. So great was the veneration for his scholarship that his obsequies in the Church of _Ara Coeli,_ in the midst of the Roman antiquities that he had loved so well, were attended, as Gregorovius tells us, by some forty bishops. This Roman Academy continued to exist, now flourishing, now occupied with trivialities, as is the way with such institutions, until the sack of Rome in 1527. As Sandys says ("Harvard Lectures on the Revival of Learning," Cambridge University Press, 1905), "Its palmy days were in the age of Leo X, when it included the most brilliant members of the literary society of Rome, men like the future Cardinals, Bembo and Sadoleto, as well as Paolo Giovio and Castiglione. It encouraged very much the study of Latin particularly, and its members wrote Latin poems and delivered Latin orations and above all encouraged the development of Roman Archaeology, the preservation of Roman remains of all kinds, the editing of books and the recovery of every possible phase of information with regard to Roman life." There were minor academies in Rome, one of which, the Vitruvian Academy, occupied itself mainly with architecture. But as was true also at Florence, where there were a number of minor academies, some at least of these were only cloaks for political discussions and organizations, and as a consequence brought other and more serious bodies of the same name under suspicion. The next academy of importance is that of Naples, which came into existence probably just about the beginning of Columbus' Century during the reign of Alfonso of Aragon, the magnanimous patron of learning. Its most prominent {510} members were Antonio of Palermo, whose Italian name of Beccadelli is often used; Pontano and Sannazzaro, the poets, and Laurentius Valla, the historian and professor of rhetoric. Valla subsequently became professor of rhetoric in Rome at the invitation of Pope Nicholas V, who wanted his assistance for the carrying out of the great plan of translations from Greek to Latin of all the great authors which he constantly cherished. Valla became Papal Secretary under Nicholas' successor, Pope Calixtus III, but unfortunately he died at the early age of fifty. He deserves extended notice because he is one of the founders of historical criticism, and he began that denunciation of exaggerated belief in Aristotle very proper in itself, but which unfortunately went too far and led to under-estimation of the medieval scholars who had studied Aristotle so sedulously, and even of Aristotle himself. His discussion of the Donation of Constantine attracted much attention and showed very clearly how scholarship might be used to good purpose for the correction of false notions even long after events had happened. The _Accademia_ at Venice deserves more than a passing mention because, though founded much later than the others, it set itself the very practical purpose of bringing about a systematic publication of the Greek classics. It was founded by Aldus in 1500, who called it the New Academy of Hellenists, and was as strongly Grecian as Pomponius' Academy was Roman. Its constitution was written in Greek, Greek was spoken at its meetings and Greek names were adopted by its Italian members. Fortiguerra of Pistoia, the Secretary of the Academy, thus became Carteromachus. The principal aim of the Academy was to produce in each month an edition of at least 1,000 copies of some good author. Among the honorary foreign members were Linacre, some of whose translations Aldus published, and Erasmus, who visited Venice in 1508 and who expressed himself as delighted with the opportunity to take part in the deliberations of the Academy. How successful the Academy was in its purpose of encouraging scholarly printing, all the world knows. Aldus produced no less than 27 _editiones principes_ of Greek authors and Greek works of reference. At the time of his death in 1515 all the {511} principal Greek classics had been printed. The Academy had been a large factor in helping him in this magnificent achievement, which meant more for scholarship throughout the whole of Europe than perhaps any other single movement occupying so short a time. There are many of the scholars of the Renaissance whose names are scarcely known outside of the narrow circle of modern specialists in their departments, though their influence was felt for many generations and their work is worthy of the highest praise. A typical example of these is Ambrogio Calepino, the Augustinian monk, to whom we owe the first great modern Latin dictionary. Under the title of "Cornucopia" it appeared first at Reggio in 1502 and was reprinted many times during the sixteenth century. The Alduses at Venice printed no less than eighteen editions of it. This lexicon came to be the groundwork on which subsequent lexicographers, recognizing its merit, built up their larger works. There was an edition of it in seven languages by Facciolati, printed at Pavia in 1718, which was reprinted many times. The name of Calepinus became a synonym for the word dictionary or lexicon and is frequently used, without capitalization as a common noun, in Italy during the subsequent generations. His magnificent work well deserved this recognition, for it is a monument of the classical scholarship of the first half of Columbus' Century. One of the greatest of the Italian scholars of the first half of, Columbus' Century was that distinguished member of the Florentine Academy whose books were the special favorites of Sir Thomas More, Giovanni Pico della Mirandola, who died at the early age of thirty-one after dreaming the dream of the unity of all knowledge and becoming absorbed in planning a vast work which was to form a complete system of knowledge. He had devoted himself to Greek and to Christian theology and philosophy and even rendered himself liable to suspicion by his delvings into Cabalistic lore and had deeply impressed the generation among whom he lived. His reputation as a marvellous precocious scholar, who died all untimely, still endures, and Sir Thomas More's study and discussion of his works gave him a reputation in England which added greatly {512} to his fame throughout the whole West of Europe. He was happy in his end, for he passed away on the very day in which the invader of Italy, Charles VIII of France, marched into Florence. Scholarship continued to hold the highest place in Italy until political troubles, and above all the sack of Rome in 1527, drew men's minds from peaceful pursuits, scattered libraries and made patronage of scholarship most difficult for rulers and ecclesiastics. {513} CHAPTER VII THE SCHOLARSHIP OF THE TEUTONIC COUNTRIES Germany and the closely-related Teutonic countries are the only part of Europe which did not create a distinct national literature during this Renaissance period. It is true that Hans Sachs' popular poetry comes from this time, and this has always been popular in Germany and has often been reprinted, but it has never had any influence on world literature and represents an almost solitary phenomenon in the history of German literature. The reformers wrote vigorous German prose, and in the controversial articles which were so frequent at the time, and above all in the translations of the Scriptures into the vernacular, laid the foundation of modern High German which must be traced to this period, but even Germans scarcely claim the existence of a German literature of the Renaissance. On the other hand, the scholarship of Germany at this time was as remarkable in its own way as Germany has ever been in subjects in which it was interested. Probably nowhere in Europe did scholarship penetrate more deeply among the people, and nowhere were freer opportunities for mastery in the classical languages afforded than along the Rhine, at Nüremberg and the neighboring cities and even in districts to the north of these. The German thought of the time was written in Latin and much of it was merely academic and passing in character. Some of it, however, as à Kempis' works, above all the "Imitation of Christ," were destined to an immortality of enduring influence. Not a little of the educational writings of Erasmus and those particularly of other students of the Brethren of the Common Life were to witness many revivals of interest down to our own day, when they are again attracting wide attention. Scholarship diverted the intellectual {514} energy that would have been devoted to the production of a national literature for the Germans, and must be studied deeply to appreciate the Germany of the time. For any proper understanding of scholarship outside of Italy during the Renaissance period, which corresponds with Columbus' Century, the most important preliminary is a knowledge of the institution and spirit and the work and pupils of the Brethren of the Common Life. The significance of their history has not been generally recognized, especially in English-speaking countries, until recent years, and even now many fail to appreciate its high import. Prejudice against religious orders, acquired through sympathy with the Reformation, obscured the value of this great factor in the education and scholarship of the Teutonic countries which can indeed scarcely be exaggerated. The order of the Common Life was, especially in the first half of what we have called Columbus' Century, the great foster mother of scholars whose reputations have deservedly lasted till our time and have now become imperishable landmarks in the history of scholarship. The mention of the names of such pupils of theirs as Agricola, Thomas à Kempis, Cardinal Nicholas of Cusa, Alexander Hegius and Wimpheling would be quite enough to afford ample proof of this. The members of this religious order took no vows, nor did they ask or receive alms. According to their constitution, they worked for their daily bread, though their first aim was to cultivate the life of the spirit, and they were required by their rules to devote themselves in connection with this purpose to their intellectual development, to education, the copying of classics and the writing of books. Their founder, Geert de Groote (1340-1384), belonged to a rather wealthy merchant family, and when he took orders he obtained ecclesiastical preferment as a canon at Utrecht and at Aachen. Somewhat like St. Francis of Assisi, in the midst of what might well seem a conventionally successful life, he fell ill and had the experience that Dean Stanley described when he said "things look different when viewed from the horizontal position." On his recovery, Geert de Groote resigned his canonries, gave his goods to the Carthusians and spent seven years in solitude. {515} thinking over the significance of life and what was man's true purpose in it. At the end of that time he came out to preach, and his preaching met with wonderful success. Thousands flocked to listen to him, and soon many young men wished to join with him in his simple mode of life, to be directed by him and to help him in his work. Almost without his wishing it, a religious community grew up around him, and when Geert de Groote died, near the end of the fourteenth century, his successor, Florence Radewyns, founded the famous monastery of Windesheim, the mother-house of the new religious life. These new religious taught especially the middle and lower classes, copied books and themselves wrote commentaries in language as simple as possible on all manner of spiritual subjects. Their schools became centres of the spiritual and intellectual life of the Low Countries and the Rhineland, and during the course of the fifteenth century they grew in numbers and in the attendance of scholars. Deventer, one of their most famous schools, counted over 2,000 students about the time of the discovery of America, and some of the greatest men of this first part of Columbus' Century had been students of the Brethren of the Common Life. Mr. Hamilton Mabie, in his collection of essays, "My Study Fire," has paid a worthy tribute to these dear old scholars and teachers which sums up succinctly and sympathetically their work and its significance. He said (page 92): "I confess that I can never read quite unmoved the story of the Brethren of the Common Life, those humble-minded, patient teachers and thinkers whose devotion and fire of soul for a century and a half made the choice treasures of Italian palaces and convents and universities a common possession along the low-lying shores of the Netherlands. The asceticism of this noble brotherhood was no morbid and divisive fanaticism; it was a denial of themselves that they might have the more to give. The visions which touched at times the bare walls of their cells with supernal beauty only made them the more eager to share their heaven of privilege with the sorely-burdened world without. Surely Virgil and Horace and the other masters of classic form were never more honored than {516} when these noble-minded lovers of learning and of their kind made their sounding lines familiar in peasant homes." Many people seem inclined to think that the education of the poor became possible only in our time. The guild schools of the Middle Ages are a contradiction of this, but the story of the Brethren of the Common Life shows how much organized effort was given to the educational care for poor students. In his "Life of Thomas à Kempis," Kettelwell has told what they did for the poor and also how broad and wide were the foundations of the education that they laid (p. 165): "But there was another safeguard which was of great service in preserving them (the Brethren) from being led away by fanaticism or wild enthusiasm, because it gave them a useful object and purpose in life to look after, and that was the encouragement they gave to intellectual pursuits and the interest they took in education. Much of the instruction given in schools at that time was often only within the reach of those who could pay for it, whilst there was no little defect in imparting it. . . . The Brothers of the Common Life, on the contrary, not only promoted the giving of instruction gratuitously, or assisted those unable to pay for it, and thus brought the arts of reading and writing within the reach of many that could not otherwise attain them; but, what was of more consequence, they infused into education quite a new life, and imparted to it a purer and nobler aim. "It is well known to the student of history that a great improvement in the character of education took place about this time, and that the advance of learning in the Northern parts of Germany is greatly indebted to the efforts of the Brothers of the Common Life. Though Gerard charged the members of the Brotherhood to look to Christ as the source of all light and truth, all life and peace, and without Whom all learning or gifts were but as vain shadows, yet he would not confine them to none but Christian authors. Among the ancient philosophers he would have his educated disciples to read the works of Plato and Aristotle, and valued the former for his excellent discourses in the person of Socrates. The morals of Seneca pleased him much, and he recommended them to the Brothers as a rich mine of wisdom. He himself {517} was versed in the art of medicine and knew something of law, and it is evident that some of his disciples were much esteemed for their knowledge of them. And from what Thomas à Kempis says of Gerard, he would have the clerics to study geometry, arithmetic, logic, grammar and other subjects. From which it will be perceived that the Brothers of the Common Life were urged to the pursuit of what at that time was a liberal and enlightened education, and consequently were the first in their generation, and in those parts, to promote and encourage it, and were thereby the less likely to be led away or inflated by an ignorant or foolish enthusiasm." They did copying, but under instructions made their copying of value for their own education. This was an important development (p. 167): "It had begun, as we have shown, in great simplicity under the blessing of God. To the young clerics he (their founder) had joined certain priests and laymen, thus making a mixed society. Idleness and accumulation of worldly goods had been the rock on which so many of the Monastic Orders had made shipwreck, and therefore, to the cultivation of the Interior life had been joined some useful employment and the pursuit of fine letters. And that the mind should not become enervated by the work of copying manuscripts being too long carried on as a mere manual operation, Gerard had prescribed to each of the clerics that he should make extracts of the finest sayings he met with, especially of the Fathers and of the Saints, and even make minutes of his own reflections, and inscribe them in a certain book called 'Rapiarium.' And, as the enthusiastic deacon of Deventer always joined example with precept, he himself transcribed and published many little works composed from the works of the Saints, most of which are now lost. It is doubtless from this custom, which Thomas à Kempis largely carried out in the early days of his connection with the Brotherhood, that we are mainly indebted for those many little devotional works which he afterwards wrote, at the head of which he places the books of the _'De Imitatione Christi.'"_ It would be easy to think that probably these good religious devoted themselves much more to the cultivation of piety than {518} of good literature, and that perhaps even their devotion to culture was rather superficial. As a matter of fact, however, their schools became famous for their thoroughness, and all along the Rhine the sons of "the butcher and the baker and the candlestick-maker" learned to read and write Latin fluently, corresponded in Latin letters and above all seem to have received very precious inspirations for the intellectual life that were not extinguished even by a merely money-making career. A good many of the graduates of their schools became famous in the German scholarship of this period. Not all of them became clergymen, though of course a great many did. Probably the most important of their students was Cardinal Nicholas of Cusa, the greatest and most original thinker of the fifteenth century. Strange as it may seem, his achievements in the intellectual life were nearly all made in mathematics and in science. His work is sketched in the chapter on Physical Science of the Century. Because of an important contribution to medicine, he has a chapter in my "Old-Time Makers of Medicine" (Fordham University Press, N. Y., 1911). The thoroughly practical character of Cusanus' mind and its education from books and experience can be readily appreciated from a paragraph of his with regard to the unification of his Fatherland, in which his far-seeing patriotism anticipated the most modern views. Cusanus was sent out as Papal Legate to Germany, just about the beginning of Columbus' Century, in order to correct abuses and bring Christendom into closer touch with the Holy See. During the course of his journeys in Germany he recognized all the weakness and the evils connected with the splitting up of the German people into many petty principalities. He saw clearly how much their union under one head would mean for the people themselves, their happiness and progress, and above all for the peace of mankind. Nearly four centuries before the actual accomplishment of the dream of the German Empire, he expressed himself very emphatically on this point, and curiously enough drew his main arguments from economic conditions and the failure of any assurance of lasting peace afforded by the existence of many petty governments. {519} It is characteristic of his very practical scientific bent of mind that he should have entered so far into the details of the accomplishment of his vision as to suggest the making of a budget and the giving of formal accounts of how the money was spent to the legislative body. [Illustration: CIMA DA CONEGLIANO, INCREDULITY OF ST. THOMAS (VENICE)] "The law and the kingdom should be placed under the protection of a single ruler or authority. The small separate governments of princes and counts consume a disproportionately large amount of revenue without furnishing any real security. For this reason we must have a single government, and for its support we must have a definite amount of the income from taxes and revenues yearly set aside by a representative parliament and before this parliament (_Reichstag_) must be given every year a definite account of the money that was spent during the preceding year." Some idea of the intellectual aspirations of the time and the attitude of men towards knowledge and truth may be gathered from a paragraph of Cardinal Cusanus, which is so comprehensive and so full of the love of wisdom in the best sense of the word as to be classical and to deserve a place in the notebook of every teacher. It may well be taken as the motto of the schools of the Brethren of the Common Life. "To know and to think, to see the truth with the eye of the mind, is always a joy. The older a man grows, the greater is the pleasure which it affords him, and the more he devotes himself to the search after truth, the stronger grows his desire of possessing it. As love is the life of the heart, so is the endeavor after knowledge and truth the life of the mind. In the midst of the movements of time, of the daily work of life, of its perplexities and contradictions, we should lift our gaze fearlessly to the clear vault of heaven, and seek ever to obtain a firmer grasp of and a keener insight into the origin of all goodness and beauty, the capacities of our own hearts and minds, the intellectual fruits of mankind throughout the centuries, and the wondrous works of nature around us, at the same time remembering always that in humility alone lies true greatness, and that knowledge and wisdom are alone profitable in so far as our lives are governed by them." One of the greatest of the students of the Brethren of the {520} Common Life is the famous Rudolph Agricola, who was educated at Deventer, but, with the intellectual curiosity characteristic of his time and the ardor for study and opportunities for intellectual development which was so often seen in Columbus' Century, wandered on to Erfurt, Louvain, and then Cologne and Paris in order to miss no possible educational opportunity. When he was twenty-five he went down to Italy, where he studied law and rhetoric at Pavia and then to Ferrara, where he studied Greek under Theodore Gaza. He held a political office for some time, but John of Dalberg, Bishop of Worms, recognizing his scholarship, secured for him the opportunity to teach at Heidelberg. He lectured on Aristotle and translated Lucian. Above all he was the great pioneer of humanism in Germany, and by his personal influence lighted a torch that was soon to illuminate the country. He wrote to Rudolph von Langen once when he was seeking a headmaster for the Cathedral School at Münster: "I entertain the highest hope that by your aid we shall one day wrest from proud Italy her vaunted glory of pre-eminence in education and literature." Jacob Wimpheling, who came later to be known as "the Schoolmaster of Germany," is another one of these students of the Brethren of the Common Life who reached distinction. He was educated at Schlettstadt in what is now Alsace. Like the others, he wandered far afield, however, for his scholarship. He studied at Freiburg and Erfurt and also at Heidelberg and was probably in Italy for a time. He returned to Heidelberg as professor, his lectures being mainly upon St. Jerome. In nearly every city in which he stayed for any length of time he founded literary societies and devoted himself to the reform of educational methods. He insisted above all on the importance of moral training in education, and has made it very clear that he felt that an educated man without high moral training was more dangerous for evil than one without education. His writings obtained a wide circulation and did much to determine the character of education for two centuries. His idea was that education should produce able and conscientious citizens rather than accomplished scholars. He was eminently practical in his way of looking at things and deprecated {521} the notion so common at many times in history that the storing of the memory with information, instead of the training of the mind by thoughtful work so as to make it capable of the best judgment when that is needed, is the true ideal in education. One of the pupils of Agricola in Greek, though he was an older man, was Alexander Hegius, who, during the last fifteen years of his life, which correspond almost exactly with the last fifteen years of the fifteenth century, made the school of Deventer the great educational centre of North Germany. Among his pupils at Deventer was Erasmus. Hegius did much to put an end to the older mediaeval ideas in education, which had become outworn, and to bring in the study of the classics. One of his great friends, Rudolph von Langen, was a student of Erfurt who visited Italy and came back full of enthusiasm for humanistic studies and finally succeeded in founding a school of the New Learning at Münster, where he was the Canon of the Cathedral Church. He tried to secure Hegius as the headmaster of this school, but had to be content with his pupil, Murmellius, who wrote a series of very useful textbooks at this time. The greatest of the pupils of the Brethren of the Common Life, who is also one of the greatest scholars of all time, is Desiderius Erasmus. Probably no better idea can be obtained of the high estimation in which scholarship was held at this time in Europe than from the career of Erasmus. He was welcomed everywhere. He was looked upon as one of the moving forces of the time. His opinions were eagerly sought, his books were read, he had the friendship not only of scholars, but of high ecclesiastics, the nobility and even royalty. He did an immense amount of work and exercised a deep influence over his time. His influence over England was especially deep, and he aided Dean Colet in his great design for the future school of St. Paul's by writing his treatise, _"De ratione Studii";_ he was a friend of Bishop Warham and of Sir Thomas More; through the influence of Bishop Fisher of Rochester he became Lady Margaret Professor of Divinity at Cambridge; in a word, he entered into all the intellectual life of the time everywhere. He was in Italy for years, helped Aldus, the printer, at Venice, drawing inspiration from the {522} libraries, the scholars and the classic remains. His many monographs and dialogues meant much for the diffusion of right views as to classical education. His editions of Latin authors comprise Seneca, Suetonius, certain works of Cicero, Pliny and Terence. His Greek texts include Aristotle and Ptolemy. He made recensions of St. Ambrose and St. Augustine and St. Chrysostom, with three editions of St. Jerome. His edition of the Greek Testament is probably more important than any of these. One of the important scholars and teachers of Germany at this time, though anyone who reviews his life work with some care will surely be inclined to think that his import has been exaggerated because of his connection with the reform movement, and that in comparison with many other scholars of the time he does not deserve that high pre-eminence of reputation which has been accorded him, was Philip Schwarzerd, who translated his family name of Black-earth into the Greek Melanchthon and is known by that name. He was but one of the many great German scholars at this time, though many people seem to think that he stands almost alone, a striking example of the supposed freedom of intellectual development that was ushered in by the Reformation. Melanchthon, through the influence of his uncle, Reuchlin, became Professor of Greek at Wittenberg. He had been a lecturer on Virgil, Terence and Cicero. During his teaching he wrote a Greek and Latin grammar and edited many editions of the classics and published a series of commentaries on Cicero, Terence, Sallust, Ovid, Quintilian, as well as selections from Aristotle's "Ethics" and "Politics." He was a gentle, kindly scholar, deeply Christian in his principles, without any sympathy at all with the paganizing spirit of many of the lesser humanists, above all outside of Germany. His gentler spirit was overborne by Luther's strong character. He is said to have told his mother on her death-bed that the old Church was a good one to die in, though the reformed might be well enough to live in. The spread of the Reformation in Germany led to the adoption of his text-books widely, hence his name _preceptor Germaniae._ Scholarship was not, however, confined to the Rhineland {523} and the Western part of Germany. Many of the cities of the Eastern portion had magnificent developments of education and classical scholarship at this time and shared in the art impulse of the period. Nuremberg, Augsburg, Innsbruck, Vienna, as well as Stuttgart, Ingoldstadt and Tübingen, shared in the movement. The great teacher in this part of Germany was Johann Reuchlin, who studied Greek at Paris and at Basel, as well as in Italy, taught at Basel, Orleans and Poitiers and then spent nearly twenty-five years in teaching at Stuttgart, Ingoldstadt and Tübingen, where he was Professor of Greek and of Hebrew. When he was but twenty he produced a Latin dictionary called _"Vocabularius Breviloquus,"_ noted for its brevity, conciseness and orderly arrangement, which passed through twenty editions in less than thirty years. He became so proficient in Latin, Greek and Hebrew that he was called "the three-tongued wonder of Germany." His Hebrew text-books gave a great impetus to the study of that language and literature in Germany. He was very highly thought of, was sent on various diplomatic missions to Italy, occupied important judicial positions under the government and wielded an immense influence over the men of his time. He died some five years after the beginning of the Lutheran movement, but had no sympathy with the Wittenberg professor's schismatic attitude. When he found that his nephew Melanchthon, for whom he had secured the chair of Greek at the University of Wittenberg, had attached himself to Luther, he expressed his disapproval and cancelled the bequest of his library, which had previously been destined for Melanchthon. Reuchlin was a representative of the widest culture of the time, a source of inspiration and incentive to scholarship for all who came in contact with him. A bitter controversy over some of his writings occupied the attention of all literary Germany during the early part of the sixteenth century, showing how widespread was interest in all intellectual questions at this time. The men who led in the defence of Reuchlin in this controversy were mainly Ulrich von Hutten, Johann Jaeger of Dornheim and Conrad Muth, or as he came to be known from his Latin name _Mutianus Rufas,_ another of the students of {524} the Brethren of the Common Life, a school-fellow of Erasmus at Deventer. He had subsequently studied in Italy, where he became an intimate of Pico della Mirandola and took the degree of Doctor in Law at Bologna. Sandys has told his story in his "History of Classical Scholarship" (page 257): "On his return he (Muth) settled at Gotha, where he placed, in golden letters, over the door of his canonical residence, the words BEATA TRANQUILLITAS, and thereafter devoted his thoughts to 'God and the Saints and the study of all Antiquity.' He took the keenest interest in his younger friends, the humianists of Erfurt, inspiring them with an eager desire for the spread of classical literature, a hatred for the pedantry and formalism of the old scholastic methods and a critical spirit which felt little reverence for the past. After organizing the victory of the humanists over the scholastic obscurantists of the day, their leader lived to see his 'tranquil' home ruthlessly plundered by a Protestant mob, at a time when the quiet waters of Humanism had been overwhelmed by the stronger stream of the Reformation." One of the great German scholars and editors of the Renaissance was Conrad Celtes, whose real name was Conrad Picket, but was changed with the typical classicizing tendency of the Renaissance to the antique form Celtes. He had received his education under such men as Bishop John of Dalberg and Rudolph Agricola, and then after travelling in Italy, where he was in intimate relations with Pomponius Laetus, Ficino and the famous printer Aldus Manutius, he was, on his return to Germany, crowned poet laureate at Nuremberg and there also received the doctor's degree. During his travels through the Northern countries, he founded, in imitation of the Roman Academy, literary societies in many of the cities. There was the _Societas Literarum Vistuliana,_ whose seat was at Cracow; the _Sodalitas Literarum Danubiana,_ founded originally in Hungary, but afterwards transferred to Vienna, and the _Sodalitas Literarum Rhenana,_ which had members along the Rhine. This last Academy was founded at Mainz the year before the discovery of America. Three of the most distinguished men of the time were among its members. {525} Johann von Dalberg, the Bishop of Worms, whose name occurs so often in the history of the scholars of the time because of his munificent patronage of learning, was its first president. The Abbot Trithemius of Trittenheim and Wilibald Pirkheimer of Nuremberg were among its prominent members. Trithemius spent much time and money in the collection of old manuscripts. Pirkheimer was eminent as a statesman and a patron of humanism and as a translator of Greek texts and a student of archaeology. Besides founding these academies, Celtes lectured in many universities and issued an edition of the writings of Hroswitha, the nun dramatist of the tenth century. It was such a surprise to his generation (it is scarcely less to ours, so little diffusion of true historical information is there) to find that there had been any literature in the convents along the Rhine in the tenth century, that for some time there was considerable discussion as to whether Celtes had not forged these writings, but it has been definitely settled on absolutely unimpeachable evidence that Celtes only edited manuscripts that he found. As Librarian of the Imperial Library, founded by Maximilian I of Vienna, Celtes gathered together many Greek and Latin manuscripts and generally exercised his influence to secure precious old documents from destruction by proper care for them. As a poet he attracted no little attention in his own time, though his poetry is not of a high order. He was the head of the Poets' Academy at Vienna, the first institution of its kind in Europe, and his influence as a scholar and a literary man was much more than his originality as a writer. He was an intimate friend of Charity Pirkheimer and many of the Nuremberg group of humanists, and some of the freedom of his poetry might seem to indicate a lack of religion, but these friendships apparently indicate carelessness in religious matters, but not rejection of religion. On a number of occasions Charity Pirkheimer reproved him for the freedom of his poetry. The careers of the Pirkheimers give a good idea of the interest in scholarship on the part of both men and women in Germany during this Renaissance period. Charity Pirkheimer, afterwards the Abbess of the Convent of the Poor Clares in Nuremberg, deserves mention in this regard as much as her {526} brother, but the sketch of her career properly finds a place among the Women of the Renaissance. Wilibald Pirkheimer deserves the immortality that his scholarship has secured for him. He translated Xenophon, Plato, Plutarch and Lucian into Latin, but the spirit of the time will be better understood when it is recalled that he also made translations of Euclid and Ptolemy. The ordinary assumption that interest in the old pagan authors lessened attachment to the Church is refuted by his translations of the Greek Fathers also into Latin. He was himself the author of a history of Germany which won for him the title of the German Xenophon. His interest in letters, however, was only one portion of his scholarship, for astronomy, mathematics and the natural sciences were not only favorite subjects of study, but fields in which he carried on successful investigation. Besides, he took up the study of numismatics with great assiduity, and helped to bring about a general recognition of its value as a distinct department of historical research. It was typical of the universality of the aesthetic interests of the men of the times in which he lived that Pirkheimer was also deeply attracted to art and that Albrecht Dürer was one of his closest friends. We owe to the great German artist a characteristic picture of the scholar. Like Erasmus, Wilibald Pirkheimer recognized the necessity for reform in the Church in Germany, and at the beginning of the reform movement he sided with Luther and wrote in defence of the German reformer and the doctrines that he was teaching. In the course of a few years, however, he came to see that the religious revolt, far from correcting the evils, was emphasizing them, and besides was so disturbing men's minds in Germany as to make the proper cultivation of the fine arts and literature impossible. In addition he soon learned that the so-called reformers were bent on disturbing the convent in Nuremberg in which so many of his feminine relatives found not only peace and happiness and the opportunity to cultivate the spiritual life, but also to live the intellectual life to the full measure of their desires. Charitas, his sister, was the Abbess of the Convent of St. Clare, and among the nuns there were another sister, Clare, and Wilibald's daughters, Catherine and Crescentia. {527} He wrote a defence of the monastic life for women, in which he pointed out the opportunities for peace, and joy in the cultivation of the intellectual life, as well as the spiritual life, enjoyed in these institutions. During the writing of this apologetic work he became himself entirely convinced of the necessity for adherence to the old Church. The relations of the humanists, the classical scholars and devotees of the New Learning in Germany, to the Church have been the subject of many and varying opinions. Sandys has summed this up very well in a paragraph which deserves to be quoted because of the importance of the subject, the authority of the writer and the probability that the position which he occupies as regards both Germany and the Church make him, as far as is possible in a subject so fraught with personal feelings, an impartial critic. He said (page 258): "The humanists of Germany may be divided into three successive schools distinguished from one another in their relation to the Church, (1) The Earlier or Scholastic Humanists, who were loyal supporters of the Church, while they were eager for a revival of classical learning and a new system of education. They are represented by the three great teachers of North Germany, Rudolfus Agricola, Rudolf von Langen and Alexander Hegius; also by Wimpheling, the restorer of education in South Germany; by Trithemius, one of the founders of the Rhenish Society of Literature, and by Eck, the famous opponent of Luther. They worked for the revival of learning in all branches of knowledge, while they hoped that the New Learning would remain subservient to the old theology. (2) The Intermediate or Rational Humanists, who took a rational view of Christianity and its creed, while they protested against the old scholasticism, and against the external abuses of the Church. 'They either did not support Luther, or soon deserted him, being conscious that his movement would lead to the destruction of all true culture.' Their leaders were Reuchlin and Erasmus, Conrad Muth, the Canon of Gotha. 'Their party and its true work of culture were shipwrecked by the tempest of the Reformation.' (3) The Later or Protestant Humanists, who were ready to 'protest' against {528} everything, young men of great talent, but of less learning, whose love of liberty sometimes lapsed into license. Their leading spirit was Ulrich von Hutten. In course of time, some of them became Rational Humanists; others, supporters of Luther. 'While Erasmus, Reuchlin and Muth viewed Luther's propaganda with distrust,' these younger Humanists 'flocked to the new standard of protest and revolt, and so doing brought culture into disgrace and shipwrecked the Revival of Learning in Germany.'" The earlier German humanists were not carried away by the idea that the only thing worth while studying was the New Learning, and that only the classics of Greece and Rome could form the proper substance of any right education. In the later period of German humanism this exaggeration was very common. In the earlier period, however, the place and the value of the German language itself is recognized, and due acknowledgments were made to the men of the later Middle Ages for all that they had accomplished for scholarship and for real progress in philosophy and theology. Janssen in the third volume of his "History of the German People" has sketched this very clearly (pages 1-3): "The earliest humanists had contemplated classical antiquity from the point of view of absolute faith in Christianity, and they had pressed the classics into the service of their creed. They valued the works of the ancient writers for the deeply religious nature of the ideas embodied in them; they regarded them as echoes of primaeval inspiration; but they were at the same time decided and active opponents of mere pagan systems of thought and life. They studied antiquity in a scientific spirit of exhaustive research, and they justified their incorporation of pagan materials into their systems of culture on the plea that these classic works were an indispensable groundwork of scholarship, a splendid means of mental gymnastic training for forming independent judgment and sharpening the intellect for the apprehension and presentation of truth. By the profounder knowledge they acquired of the intellectual life of the ancient world, they hoped to facilitate the understanding of the Scriptures and to put fresh life and reality into the contemporary systems of philosophical and theological {529} study. It was this motive that had inspired the unwearied labors of Nicholas of Cusa and his pupil Agricola in their efforts to graft the study of classic literature on the German University curriculum; that had led Alexander Hegius to make the classics the groundwork of education, and Jacob Wimpheling to write his epoch-making words. 'It is not the story of the heathen writers in itself which is dangerous to Christian culture,' said the latter, 'but the false apprehension and handling of them. It would undoubtedly be absolutely fatal if, as is often the case in Italy, by means of the classics, pagan ways of thought and life, prejudicial to pure Christian morality and the patriotic spirit of the rising generation, were spread abroad or were to creep into the teaching of our writers and poets. But, on the other hand, the legitimate use of the ancient writers might render the most invaluable services to Christianity and learning. Had not the Fathers of the Church themselves derived the greatest help in their explanations of Scripture from the study of these profane writers, and had they not in consequence recommended them to the veneration of Christian students? St. Gregory Nazienzen,' he went on to say, 'had described the opponents of classic study as the enemies of true learning, and Pope Gregory the Great had shown conclusively that classic study was a useful preparation and an indispensable aid to the understanding of theology.' "For the same reasons the leading theologians of the fifteenth century, Heynlin von Stein, Gregory Reisch, Geiler of Kaisersberg, Gabriel Viel, Johannes Trithemius, had been zealous advocates and promoters of the labors of the Christian humanists. "'With a good conscience,' says Trithemius, 'we can recommend the study of the ancient writers to all such as do not make use of them in a worldly spirit for mere intellectual sport, but for the serious cultivation of their mental powers, and who, after the example of the Fathers of the Church, seek to cull from them good fruit for the nourishment of Christian scholarship.'" These quotations will serve to show how clearly all the value of the classical studies to scholarship, yet all the danger to real education as well as to Christianity was recognized by {530} the scholars of this time. They represent a critical wisdom often presumed not to have been developed at this time. Critical judgment is supposed to be a much later evolution. Those who make such a presumption, however, are led by ignorance of the realities of the education and scholarship of this time which has only properly come into its own true appreciation in comparatively recent years. German scholarship during the Renaissance period, that is, in Columbus' Century before the Reformation came to disturb it, represented as fine an expression of German ability and intellectual genius as has ever come to that capable people. {531} CHAPTER VIII SCHOLARSHIP OUTSIDE OF ITALY AND GERMANY While Italy was literally the _alma mater studiorum_ during the Renaissance, and Germany probably accomplished more in scholarly education at this time that influenced succeeding generations than any other country except Italy, all the countries of Europe shared very largely in the New Learning and did much for classical scholarship before 1550. Indeed, it is probable that to a great many thoroughly educated students of this time the comparisons of achievement that I have suggested will seem invidious or at least uncalled for. Certainly no one appreciates more than I do the magnificent work of the scholarly humanists of France, Spain, Portugal and England during Columbus' Century. Each of them shared magnificently in the intellectual incentive that had been given by the reintroduction of classical studies and especially of Greek, and each of them, in fine compensation for the impetus lent them by the movement, gave back to it achievements in scholarship that swelled the tide and helped in the diffusion of Humanism throughout all of Western Europe at least. There are national accomplishments of all of these countries that are worthy of note, and each of them accomplished much at this time in education that will never be forgotten. Probably the easiest way to tell the extent of the scholarship of France during Columbus' Century is to say that many good authorities have declared that before the end of the century France had taken away from Italy the palm for classical scholarship. The first important teacher of the French was, however, an Italian, Jerome Aleander, who arrived in France shortly after the beginning of the sixteenth century with an introduction from Erasmus. He lectured on Greek as well as Latin, and probably also on Hebrew. He became Rector of {532} the University of Paris in 1512, but returned to Rome in 1517 and was appointed Librarian to the Vatican. His distinguished services for learning and the Church brought him a cardinal's hat, and he became one of the most prominent members of the Papal Court at this time. It was under his direction that the first Greek printing in France was done. Three of Plutarch's treatises on Morals were printed in Paris in 1509 in order to serve as text-books for his pupils. His successor as a teacher of the classics in Paris was the distinguished Frenchman Budaeus, who, before the end of his life, came to be looked upon as perhaps the most eminent of living scholars. He went on diplomatic missions to Popes Julius II and Leo X and thus became very much interested in the New Learning. He learned Greek for himself, and under Francis I and Henry II his fame as a Greek scholar, to quote Sandys, [Footnote 49] was "one of the glories of his country." "He opened a new era in the study of Roman Law by his annotations on the 'Pandects' of Justinian, and a little later he broke fresh ground as the first serious student of the Roman coinage in his treatise _'De Asse,'_ It was the ripe result of no less than nine years' research, and in twenty years passed through ten editions. Its abundant learning is said to have aroused the envy of Erasmus" (Sandys). [Footnote 49: "A History of Classical Scholarship," Cambridge University Press, 1908, p. 170.] His devotion to study became a proverb. It is said that even on his wedding day, by an exceptional act of self-denial, he limited his time of study to three hours only. It is interesting to learn that his wife shared his enthusiasm for study at least to the extent of aiding him in every possible way by devoted attention, which prevented him from being interrupted or harassed by any cares. Once, when he was busy reading in his library, one of the servants suddenly rushed in to inform him that the house was on fire. The scholar, without lifting up his eyes from his book, simply said: "Go and tell my wife; you know very well that I must not be bothered about household matters." He suffered greatly from headaches, which the best physicians of his day vainly endeavored to cure by the application of the actual cautery to his scalp. {533} After a time, however, it was suggested to him that what was needed was not a cure, but a better regulation of his life. He learned to take long walks, and spent some time each day cultivating his garden to the great alleviation of his headaches. His greatest contribution to the scholarship of the time was his successful urging of Francis I, helped as he was by that monarch's sister, Marguerite of Navarre, to establish the College de France, though for a time at the beginning it had no such ambitious title, but was called simply the Corporation of the Royal Readers. It had no official residences or even public lecture rooms. As was said at the time, "it was built on men." Budaeus' statue rightly stands before the College buildings now, for he was the real founder. The amount that was accomplished for genuine education and scholarship before the buildings were erected and the machinery of a college set going shows how much more men mean than an institution. This Corporation of the Royal Readers had at first teachers of Greek, Hebrew and Mathematics, five in number. The first two teachers in it were Pierre Danès, Danesius as he is known, who edited an important edition of Pliny and later of Justin Martyr and afterwards became Bishop of Lavaur and took an important part in the Council of Trent, and Jacques Toussain, an industrious scholar, the compiler of a Greek and Latin Dictionary. Three men are said to have attended Toussain's lectures for some time, whose influence on the after-time was to be very marked, and yet the contrast of whose characters is very striking. They were Ignatius Loyola, John Calvin and François Rabelais. Turnebus was also one of the students of Toussain, and himself later became a distinguished professor, first at Toulouse and afterwards as the successor of his master at Paris. Toussain had been famous for his erudition. He was a living library. Turnebus, though attracting great attention when a young man by his marvellous memory, became a specialist in Greek textual criticism. He published a series of Greek texts, including Aeschylus and Sophocles, just at the end of Columbus' Century, and edited Cicero's "Laws." He wrote commentaries on Varro and the elder Pliny. [Illustration: FRANCIS I LISTENING TO MACAULT's TRANSLATION OF DIODORUS SICULUS, TITLE PAGE OF WOOD-ENGRAVING (TORY)] We have from Montaigne, who was one of his pupils just as our century closes, a curiously interesting description of {534} Turnebus, which serves to show that the genus professor has been at all times about the same and that his pupils have loved him often just in proportion as they have found many things to laugh at in his dress and manners. It is, indeed, a distinction, {535} however, to have been the thus beloved master of Montaigne, himself no laggard in scholarliness. "I have seen Adrianus Turnebus, who, having never professed anything but studie and letters, wherein he was, in mine opinion, the worthiest man that lived these thousand years, . . . notwithstanding had no pedanticall thing about him but the wearing of his gowne, and some external fashions, that could not well be reduced and uncivilized to the courtiers' cut. For his inward parts, I deeme him to have been one of the most unspotted and truly honest minds that ever was. I have sundry times of purpose urged him to speake of matters farthest from his study, wherein he was so clear-sighted, and could with so quicke an apprehension conceive, and with so sound a judgment distinguish them, that he seemed never to have professed or studied other facultie than warre, and matters of state." The French educators of this time seem to have realized very well the true meaning of education. Rabelais is usually not taken seriously, except by students of his works who have given them much attention, but his books contain a number of most interesting contributions to this subject. His striking contrast between what education had been when he was a boy and in his old age, drawn by Gargantua, represents the great advance that took place in education at this time. The paragraphs may be taken as the testimony of a contemporary to the devotion to scholarship on the part of both men and women which then developed in France. He has the usual Renaissance contempt for Gothic culture, a contempt that exists even at the present time among those who know no better. "I had no supply of such teachers as thou hast had. The time was still dark, and savouring of the misery and calamity wrought by the Goths, who had entirely destroyed all good literature. But by Divine goodness its own light and dignity has been in my lifetime restored to letters, and I see such amendment therein that at present I should hardly be admitted into the first class of the little grammar-boys, although in my youthful days I was reputed, not without reason, as the most learned of that age. . . . {536} "But now all methods of teaching are restored, the study of the languages renewed--Greek, without which it is a disgrace for a man to style himself a scholar; Hebrew, Chaldean, Latin; impressions of books most elegant and correct are in use through printing, which has been invented in my time by Divine inspiration, as on the other side artillery has been invented by devilish suggestion. "All the world is full of knowing folk, of most learned preceptors, of most extensive libraries, so that I am of opinion that neither in the time of Plato, nor Cicero, nor Papinian was there ever such conveniency for study as is seen at this time. Nor must any hereafter adventure himself in public, or in any company, who shall not have been well polished in the workshop of Minerva. I do see robbers, hangmen, freebooters, grooms, of the present age, more learned than the doctors and preachers of my time. "What shall I say? Women and young girls have aspired to this praise and celestial manna of good learning. So much is this the case that at my present age I have been constrained to learn the Greek tongue which I had not contemned, like Cato, but which I had not had leisure to learn in my youth; and I do willingly delight myself in reading the Morals of Plutarch, the fine Dialogues of Plato, the Monuments of Pausanias, and the Antiquities of Athenaeus, whilst I wait for the hour when it shall please God my Creator to call me and command me to depart from this earth." With all his jesting, humorous spirit (some people would call it ludicrous buffoonery), Rabelais had no illusions with regard to the true meaning of education. The concluding sentences of Gargantua's letter to his son on Education may very well be taken as representing the serious side of Rabelais' views with regard to the place of religion in education and his profound recognition of the utter failure of any education which did not include moral training. His golden words, "science without conscience is the ruin of the soul," have often been quoted. It is doubtful, however, whether most people have realized how precious is the context in the midst of which these words occur. The whole passage is well worth while for educators at least to have near them: {537} "But because (according to the wise Solomon) wisdom entereth not into a malicious soul, and science without conscience is but the ruin of the soul, it behoveth thee to serve, love, and fear God, and in Him to put all thy thoughts and all thy hope, and to cleave to Him by faith formed of charity, so that thou mayest never be separated from Him by sin. "Hold in suspicion the deceits of the world. Set not thy heart on vanity; for this life passeth away, but the Word of the Lord endureth for ever. Be serviceable to all thy neighbors and love them as thyself. Revere thy preceptors. Flee from the company of those whom thou wouldst not resemble, and receive not in vain the graces which God hath given thee. "And when thou shalt perceive that thou hast attained unto all the knowledge that is acquired in those parts, return unto me, that I may see thee and give thee my blessing before I die. "My son, the peace and grace of our Lord be with thee. Amen." One of the important teachers at this time in France was Julius Caesar Scaliger, born in Italy, particularly famous for the part that he took in the controversy over Ciceronianism, and who defended Cicero from the attacks of Erasmus, maintaining that the Latin orator was absolutely perfect. Scaliger is notorious for having introduced the bitterest kind of personalities into classical controversy. Unfortunately, his example was widely followed. His son is the better known Scaliger, but was only ten years old at the time our century closes. His education gives an idea of the educational methods of the century. When he was but fourteen he was required to produce daily a short Latin declamation and to keep a written record of the perennial flow of his father's Latin verse. It was thus that he acquired his early mastery of Latin. But he was already conscious that "not to know Greek was to know nothing" (Sandys). In Spain there was a magnificent development of scholarship which began to make itself felt shortly after the discovery of America. Here, as elsewhere, contact with Italy gave the initiative. A Spanish nobleman, Guzman, who visited Italy during the Council of Florence, returned with translations of some of Cicero's works and of Quintilian, and interest was {538} awakened. Antonio of Lebrixa, commonly called Nebrisensis, after spending twenty years in Italy, returned in 1473 to lecture at Seville, Salamanca and Alcalá and to publish grammars of Latin and Greek as well as Hebrew. After this Barbosa, a pupil of Politian, taught Greek at Salamanca. Many of the Spanish bishops who visited Rome in the performance of their ecclesiastical obligations came back with manuscripts, and above all with awakened interest in classical studies to scatter the seeds of the New Learning. Indeed, this constituted a large factor in the great movement for humanism in all the Western countries at this time. The most important factor for Spanish culture and scholarship, however, was the famous Cardinal Ximenes, sometimes known by his family name of Cisneros. With a career of importance opening out before him in the ecclesiastical life, Ximenes, who had been the Grand Vicar to Cardinal Gonzales of Sigüenza, resigned that office to become a Franciscan of the Strict Observance. His administrative ability soon brought about his election as Guardian of his monastery, and he became known among his brethren for his devotion to the spiritual life. The year of the discovery of America he was selected as the confessor of Queen Isabella. He accepted with the condition that he should be allowed to live in his monastery and appear at Court only when sent for. He had much to do with the successful appeal of Columbus to her Majesty. Three years later he was chosen to succeed his friend Mendoza as Archbishop of Toledo. This post carried with it the Chancellorship of Castile at this time. Ximenes refused the dignity, and it was only after six months of delay, and then in obedience to the express command of the Pope, that he accepted it. As archbishop he continued to live as a simple Franciscan, devoting the greater part of the immense revenues attached to his see to the relief of the poor and particularly for the redemption of captives. Just at this time the activity of the Turks made this one of the burning social needs of the time. Ximenes was even reprimanded, it is said, by the Pope for neglecting the external splendor that belonged to his rank. He would not wear an episcopal dress, except in such a way {539} that his Franciscan habit might remain visible underneath. His fulfilment of his duties as Chancellor of Castile gave him ample opportunity for the exercise of his administrative ability and demonstrated his power and high sense of justice. He used his high office to the fullest extent to encourage culture and above all classical studies. In 1504 he founded the University of Alcalá, obtaining some of the most distinguished scholars from Bologna, Paris and the other Spanish universities to fill its chairs. Practically all the religious orders established houses at Alcalá in connection with the University. Among those who were attracted to Alcalá was Nuñez de Guzman, who brought out an edition of Seneca that earned the praise of Lipsius, and who besides suggested valuable emendations of Pliny's "Natural History." He also published, mainly at the suggestion of Cardinal Ximenes, it is said, an interlinear Latin rendering of Saint Basil's tract on the study of Greek literature. He is known as Pincianus from Pintia, the ancient name of Valladolid, his birthplace, and much of his enthusiasm for classical studies had been derived from visits to Italy during which he collected a number of manuscripts that he brought back with him as precious treasures. The great work of Cardinal Ximenes, however, was the publication under his patronage of the first Polyglot Bible, known as the Complutensian Polyglot from Complutum, the ancient name for Alcalá. This occupied fifteen years, cost an immense sum of money, considerably over a million of dollars in our values, occupied a great many scholars, attracted wide attention and above all created an interest in linguistic studies that spread all over the country and was felt even in other countries. This was completed only four months before the Cardinal's death and was dedicated to Leo X. Most of the revenues of his archbishopric, which had accumulated because of his careful use of them, he left to his beloved University of Alcalá. In spite of a self-denial in the matter of food and drink that had been carried to an extent which it was feared might injure his health, and what seemed to many even at that time, a serious deprivation of sleep for prayer and study, continued amid all his great administrative work,--for he was often regent of the kingdom and displayed great ability in {540} military organization--he lived to the age of eighty-one. He has been honored as a saint, though this honor has never been confirmed by any formal declaration. After this, the development of scholarship was comparatively easy. Men like Vives, Vergara, who published a Greek grammar, praised by many of the scholars of the time and thoroughly appreciated by Scaliger, and Sanchez, who was professor of Greek at Salamanca when he was but thirty-one, carried on the New Learning. Sanchez' text-book on Latin syntax called "The Minerva" came to be more used throughout Europe than almost any other. Haase declared that he had done more for Latin grammar than any of his predecessors, and Sir William Hamilton, the English philosopher, even held that the study of "Minerva" with the notes of the editors was more profitable than that of Newton's _"Principia."_ Sandys notes that "it is at any rate written in good Latin and the author shows a familiarity with the whole range of Latin literature as well as Aristotle and Plato." After this, indeed, grammar, the science of language, came to a great extent to be under the domination of Spanish minds. Nuñez, or as he is known by his Latin name Nunnesius of Valencia, who studied in Paris and was professor of Greek at Barcelona, was the author of an interesting little Greek grammar which, according to Sandys, differs little from those now used in schools. With the coming of the Jesuits, Emmanuel Alvarez produced the Latin grammar in which for the first time the principles of the language were formally laid down and the fancies of ancient grammarians laid aside. It became the text-book in all the Jesuit schools, has often been reprinted since, is the foundation of all our modern Latin grammars and is said by experienced teachers to surpass all its successors. Spain did not neglect other phases of scholarship, however. Agostino, after graduation at Salamanca, taught law at Padua and at Florence, became a member of the Papal Tribunal in Rome, studying the inscriptions and ancient monuments as well as the manuscripts of the old city. Later he became the Bishop of Lerida and then Archbishop of Taragona. He published a treatise on Roman Laws, often reprinted, but his masterpiece in classical archaeology was his {541} book on coins, inscriptions and other antiquities, published originally in Spanish and attracting wide, popular attention. Portugal follows in scholarship the rest of the peninsula and owed its initiative to contact with Italian sources. Resende taught Greek at Lisbon and Evora and counted among his pupils the famous Achilles Statius, whose career comes mainly after the conclusion of Columbus' Century, though he was twenty-six before the century closed and his scholarship is a product of our period. He won his high reputation in Rome by a work on ancient portraits and by commentaries on the _"Ars Poetica"_ of Horace, when he was not yet thirty, and confirmed this by subsequent fine work on Catullus and Tibullus. He was associated with Muretus in an edition of _Propertius,_ and his studies on the "Illustrious Men of Suetonius" attracted the attention of the learned world of his time and was highly praised by Casaubon. The Jesuit Father Alvarez, whose grammar I have already mentioned, though of Spanish extraction, lived in Portugal and was educated and taught there. The University of Coimbra took on renewed vigor just at the end of Columbus' Century and its classical school became famous especially under the Jesuits. The University became noted for its Teachers' College, for graduates who purposed to follow teaching as a vocation, and for its opportunities for the training of the teaching religious orders. England was often looked upon at the beginning of the Renaissance as so distant from the centres of culture on the Continent that very little was expected of her in scholarship. Of course, the same thing was more or less true with regard to Germany, not because of distance in space, but of speech. The peoples of the Latin languages felt a brotherhood to each other which they did not share with the Germans or English, whose speech it must be confessed, somewhat after the narrow fashion of the Greeks of the older times towards all nations not Greek in origin, they considered barbarous. It is always true that nations quite fail to understand each other, and our own attitude toward Italy at the present time, though the civilization and culture of the world owes more to Italy than to all the other nations of modern history put together, is typical of this constant tendency to national misunderstanding. {542} The Italians were very much surprised to have pupils from England rather early in Columbus' Century, and still more surprised apparently to have them succeed admirably. They soon came to appreciate them highly, and such men as Linacre, John Free and Caius were even made teachers at Italian universities. Over and over again, the Italians expressed their gratification at the spread of scholarship among the English and their congratulations on their success in the New Learning. The congratulations were amply deserved. Bishop Creighton, in his "Early Renaissance in England," [Footnote 50] says that the first English humanist was Lord Grey of Codnor, who went from Balliol College to Cologne, which was famous at the time for its general culture and education, but as he desired to get classical culture more particularly, he stole away to Florence at night lest his going should be hampered by the many friends that he had made at Cologne. He found much of interest at Florence, ordered a library there and then went to Padua, where he studied for a time. He was attracted to Ferrara, however, by the reputation of Guarino, and from there went to Rome, where the scholarly Nicholas V nominated him Bishop of Ely. One of the next of the great English scholars was John Free, a physician, whose expenses during his Italian trip were paid by Lord Grey, and who had no less success among the Italian scholars. The scholarly doctor was appointed Bishop of Bath in 1465, but died before his consecration. [Footnote 50: Cambridge University Press, 1895.] Perhaps the most interesting feature of Italy's welcome for these students from Britain, "which is situated outside the world," was the absolutely unprejudiced way in which they were chosen to important posts in the University in competition with the Italians. Reynold Chicheley, who studied at Ferrara under Guarino, became Rector of the universities there. John Tiptoft, Earl of Worcester, compelled to leave England by political conditions at the beginning of the latter half of the fifteenth century, went to Venice and to the Holy Land and studied Latin at Padua, visited the aged Guarino at Ferrara, as Sandys in his "History of Classical Scholarship" tells us, and heard Argyropulos lecture on Greek. The Latin oration {543} which he delivered in the presence of Pope Pius II (AEneas Sylvius) is said to have drawn tears of joy from the eyes of the Pope because of the feeling of satisfaction that classical scholarship was now a world possession. Erasmus, who was certainly in a position to judge both because of his own scholarship and his many years of residence in England, wrote a letter in December, 1499, to a friend in Italy in highest praise of English scholarship. It is a panegyric of his English friends, but it is a glorious tribute: "I have found in England . . . so much learning and culture, and that of no common kind, but recondite, exact and ancient, Latin and Greek, that I now hardly want to go to Italy, except to see it. When I listen to my friend Colet, I can fancy I am listening to Plato himself. Who can fail to admire Grocyn, with all his encyclopaedic erudition? Can anything be more acute, more profound, more refined, than the judgment of Linacre? Has nature ever moulded anything gentler, pleasanter, or happier, than the mind of Thomas More?" In England, as elsewhere, the Reformation worked sad havoc on education. The confiscation of educational endowments and the suppression of monasteries and the scattering of their libraries almost put an end to scholarship in England. The descent in education continued until the end of the eighteenth century. Only in the past hundred years has England begun to recover lost ground. At this time men mainly studied Latin, but towards the end of the fifteenth century they took up Greek, The first Englishman who studied Greek in the revival of learning was William Selling, a Benedictine monk. Sandys tells us that "Night and day he was haunted by the vision of Italy, that next to Greece was the nursing mother of men of genius." He was the uncle of Linacre, who had the privilege of accompanying him on his embassy to the Pope in 1485. Modern English classical scholarship in both Greek and Latin begins with Linacre and his two friends, William Grocyn and William Latimer. Latimer was a great friend of Sir Thomas More. The younger of the group of English Greek scholars was William Lily, who, while on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem, studied Greek in Rhodes. He was one of the poor scholars of history {544} who worked his way through school in the midst of all kinds of difficulties and privations. While earning his living in Venice he succeeded in keeping up his studies. Grocyn was one of the greatest of the Greek scholars of this generation in Europe. He proved that the book known as the "Ecclesiastical Hierarchy" was not by Dionysius the Areopagite, to whom it had been so long attributed, and thus gave the first proof of the critical scholarship of English students of Greek. Still another distinguished Greek scholar was John Fisher, afterwards Bishop Fisher, whose patron, Lady Margaret, under his direction did so much for education and particularly for classical scholarship in England. {545} APPENDIX I SIR THOMAS MORE AND MAN'S SOCIAL PROBLEMS There is a very general impression that this is the first time in history that the general social problems of humanity have been taken seriously and solutions of them deliberately sought. At least there is a very prevalent feeling that no generation before our time recognized all of these problems so well as we do and seriously tried to reach rational solutions in spite of vested interests of all kinds and old-time prejudices and traditions. Because Sir Thomas More's "Utopia" represents a complete contradiction of this complacent attitude of mind toward our sociological interests, it seems worth while to quote here a series of passages from his book which illustrate very well how as a young man of twenty-seven he faced all our social problems, which are of course those of humanity at all times when in a reasonably civilized condition, and saw as clearly as anyone has ever done, and expressed quite as thoroughly, the rational solutions of them. Perhaps the most surprising passage is that with regard to religious toleration, which in Utopia was complete. It has often been said that More himself afterwards, as Lord Chancellor, violated his own principles in the matter, but he has been ably defended from such imputations by some of the best lawyers of England. The supposed stain on his character is due to religious prejudices in those who write. After religion, the question of armament for nations is More's most important contribution to political science, and there is a full discussion of the evil of standing armies and of the foolish reasons for keeping the nations on a war footing. As might be expected, there is severe condemnation of the vulgar display of such objects as costly precious stones, and More has the children of the Utopians even make great fun of such childish barbaric tendencies. The over-value of gold is laughed to scorn. More's idea of a certificate of health before marriage anticipates many eugenic ideas of our day in a very simple way. The future Lord Chancellor had a fine appreciation for physicians, though surprisingly enough not so much for his own profession of lawyer, and his descriptions of the hospitals of Utopia shows how thoroughly they comprehended what a hospital should be and how little there is of any development in our modern plans for hospitals, though we are so inclined to think of these as a great evolution in hospital construction. {546} There are many other phases of thought that he introduces which are extremely interesting in our time. Indeed one can scarcely turn a page of the "Utopia" without finding that it fulfils what James Russell Lowell suggested as at least the accidental definition of a classic when he said that "to read a classic is to read a commentary on the morning paper." The books the Utopians were interested in show More's own breadth of interest in great literature, and the fact that the great scientific writers are included contradicts many modern notions as to the limitations of intellectual curiosity at this time. In Utopia they reject astrology, have music during meals, which are prepared in common, saving much time for the individuals, think that discipline is the watchword of education, have invented door springs, care for their forests, anticipating all our conservation ideas, and divided their time so that there is six hours of work and eight hours of sleep and the rest for culture and recreation. These are but examples chosen at random of the surprises that meet one constantly in the book. The passage with regard to religious toleration is all the more striking because, written in 1515, or at the latest 1516, it represents his opinion before the beginning of Luther's disturbance and just before that series of disturbances began in Europe which during the next three centuries was to prove of such serious detriment to art and literature and education, as well as the politics of Europe. It runs as follows: "At the first constitution of their government, Utopus having understood that before his coming among them the old inhabitants had been engaged in great quarrels concerning religion, by which they were so divided among themselves that he found it an easy thing to conquer them, since, instead of uniting their forces against him, every different party in religion fought by themselves. After he had subdued them he made a law that every man might be of what religion he pleased, and might endeavor to draw others to it by the force of argument and by amicable and modest ways, but without bitterness against those of other opinions; but that he ought to use no other force but that of persuasion, and was neither to mix with it reproaches nor violence; and such as did otherwise were to be condemned to banishment or slavery. "This law was made by Utopus, not only for preserving the public peace, which he saw suffered much by daily contentions and irreconcilable heats, but because he thought the interest of religion itself required it. He judged it not fit to determine anything rashly, and seemed to doubt whether those different forms of religion might not all come from God, who might inspire man in a different manner, and be pleased with this variety; he therefore thought it indecent and foolish for any man to threaten and terrify another to make him believe what did not appear to him true. And supposing that only one religion was really true, and the rest false, he imagined that the native force of truth would at last break forth and shine bright, if supported only by the strength of argument and attended to with a gentle and {547} unprejudiced mind; while, on the other hand, if debates were carried on with violence and tumults, as the most wicked are always the most obstinate, so the best and most holy religion might be choked with superstition, as corn is with briars and thorns; he therefore left men wholly to their liberty, that they might be free to believe as they should see cause; only he made a solemn and severe law against such as should so far degenerate from the dignity of human nature as to think that our souls died with our bodies, or that the world was governed by chance, without a wise over-ruling Providence: for they all formerly believed that there was a state of rewards and punishments to the good and bad after this life; and they now look on those that think otherwise as scarce fit to be counted men, since they degrade so noble a being as the soul, and reckon it no better than a beast's: thus they are far from looking on such men as fit for human society, or to be citizens of a well-ordered commonwealth; since a man of such principles must needs, as oft as he dares to do it, despise all their laws and customs: for there is no doubt to be made, that a man who is afraid of nothing but the law, and apprehends nothing after death, will not scruple to break through all the laws of his country, either by fraud or force, when by this means he may satisfy his appetites. They never raise any that hold these maxims, either to honors or to offices, nor employ them in any public trust, but despise them as men of base and sordid minds. Yet they do not punish them, because they lay this down as a maxim, that a man cannot make himself believe anything he pleases; nor do they drive any to dissemble their thoughts by threatenings, so that men are not tempted to lie or disguise their opinions; which being a sort of fraud, is abhorred by the Utopians: they take care indeed to prevent their disputing in defence of these opinions, especially before the common people: but they suffer, and even encourage them to dispute concerning them in private with their priest and other grave men, being confident that they will be cured of those mad opinions by having reason laid before them." Standing armies would seem to be a subject that would interest statesmen mainly in the present time. It would rather be expected that we had evolved the arguments we now use against them in comparatively recent years. Some of Sir Thomas More's remarks then are extremely interesting because they show the problem as we have it fairly stated and the reasons for and against armies set forth very simply, but very emphatically. Four hundred years has made no difference in the situation, though we are prone to think of evolution as having made great changes in that length of time. Only the evils have been emphasized. More said at the beginning almost of his "Utopia": "In France there is yet a more pestiferous sort of people, for the whole country is full of soldiers, still kept up in time of peace (if such a state of nation can be called a peace); and these are kept in pay upon the same account that you plead for those idle retainers upon noblemen: this being a maxim of those pretended statesmen, that it is necessary for public safety to have a good body of veteran soldiers ever in readiness. They think raw men {548} are not to be depended on, and they sometimes seek occasions for making war, that they may train up their soldiers in the art of cutting throats, or, as Sallust observed, 'for keeping their hands in use, that they may not grow dull by too long an intermission.' But France has learned to its cost how dangerous it is to feed such beasts. The fate of the Romans, Carthaginians and Syrians, and many other nations and cities, which were both overturned and quite ruined by those standing armies, should make others wiser." And still we can find no better reason for large armies than what Thucydides called [Greek text], "the balanced fear," which we have come to designate by the courtlier term, the balance of power. The passage in "Utopia" in which More discusses the wearing of fine clothes and of precious stones and jewels has often been quoted. After 400 years it will still come home with great force to all those who think seriously on the subject. Of course it is literal common sense, but then what has common sense ever availed against fashion? The mid-African wears brass rings and fancy calico because they are hard to get and expensive and therefore give distinction to their wearer. His cultured European brother--and sister--wears what is equally childish and barbaric because costly and distinctive and will doubtless continue to do so. Sir Thomas More's ideas on the subject are interesting, but will fall on quite as deaf ears in our generation as in all the others since his time. "I never saw a clearer instance of the opposite impressions that different customs make on people than I observed in the ambassadors of the Anemolians, who came to Amaurot when I was there. As they came to treat of affairs of great consequence, the deputies from several towns met together to wait for their coming. The ambassadors of the nations that lie near Utopia, knowing their customs and that fine clothes are in no esteem among them, that silk is despised, and gold is a badge of infamy, used to come very modestly clothed; but the Anemolians, lying more remote, and having had little commerce with them, understanding that they were coarsely clothed, and all in the same manner, took it for granted that they had none of these fine things among them of which they made no use; and they, being a vainglorious rather than a wise people, resolved to set themselves out with so much pomp that they should look like gods and strike the eyes of the poor Utopians with their splendor. Thus three ambassadors made their entry with a hundred attendants, all clad in garments of different colours, and the greater part in silk; the ambassadors themselves, who were of the nobility of their country, were in cloth of gold, and adorned with massy chains, earrings, and rings of gold; their caps were covered with bracelets set full of pearls and other gems--in a word, they were set out with all those things that among the Utopians were either the badges of slavery, the marks of infamy, or the playthings of children. It was not unpleasant to see, on the one side, how they looked big, when they compared their rich habits with the plain clothes of the {549} Utopians, who were come out in great numbers to see them make their entry; and, on the other, to observe how much they were mistaken in the impression which they hoped this pomp would have made on them. It appeared so ridiculous a show to all that they never stirred out of their country, and had not seen the customs of other nations, that though they paid some reverence to those that were the most meanly clad, as if they had been the ambassadors, yet when they saw the ambassadors themselves so full of gold and chains, they looked upon them as slaves and forbore to treat them with reverence. You might have seen the children who were grown big enough to despise their playthings, and who had thrown away their jewels, call to their mothers, push them gently, and cry out, 'See that great fool, that wears pearls and gems as if he were yet a child!' while their mothers very innocently replied, 'Hold your peace! this, I believe, is one of the ambassadors' fools.' Others censured the fashion of their chains, and observed, 'that they were of no use, for they were too slight to bind their slaves, who could easily break them; and, besides, hung so loose about them that they thought it easy to throw them away, and so get from them.' But after the ambassadors had stayed a day among them, and saw so vast a quantity of gold in their houses (which was as much despised by them as it was esteemed in other nations), and beheld more gold and silver in the chains and fetters of one slave than all their ornaments amounted to, their plumes fell, and they were ashamed of all that glory for which they had formerly valued themselves, and accordingly laid it aside--a resolution that they immediately took when, on their engaging in some free discourse with the Utopians, they discovered their sense of such things and their other customs. The Utopians wonder how any man should be so much taken with the glaring, doubtful lustre of a jewel or a stone, that can look up to a star or to the sun himself; or how any should value himself because his cloth is made of a finer thread; for, how fine soever that thread may be, it was once no better than the fleece of a sheep, and that sheep was a sheep still, for all its wearing it." (John G. Saxe told the last generation how great a difference it made whether one wore the product of an India plant or an India worm.) Immediately following this there is almost a more striking passage with regard to wealth and the changes that it makes in the attitude of the minds of men towards one another that would seem surely to have been written by a modern socialist. "They wonder much to hear that gold, which in itself is so useless a thing, should be everywhere so much esteemed that even man, for whom it was made, and by whom it has its value, should yet be thought of less value than this metal; that a man of lead, who has no more sense than a log of wood, and is as bad as he is foolish, should have many wise and good men to serve him, only because he has a great heap of that metal; and that if it should happen that by some accident or trick of law (which sometimes reduces as great changes as chance itself) all this wealth should pass from the master to the meanest varlet of his whole family, he himself would very soon become one of his servants, as if he were a thing that belonged to his wealth, and so were bound to follow {550} its fortune! But they much more admire and detest the folly of those who, when they see a rich man, though they neither owe him anything, nor are in any sort dependent on his bounty, yet, merely because he is rich, give him little less than divine honors, even though they know him to be so covetous and base-minded that, notwithstanding all his wealth, he will not part with one farthing of it to them as long as he lives!" Perhaps his greatest contribution to social ethics and the solution of social problems is to be found in his emphatic assertion of the right of the laborer to a living wage in the best sense of that much abused term and his insistent deprecation of the fact that laborers must not be exploited so as to enable men to accumulate great wealth that is sure to be abused. More believed in profit-sharing very heartily and had no hesitation in expressing himself. Above all, he deprecates the injustice worked by predatory wealth. It was the judicial mind of the greatest Lord Chancellor England has ever had, who, after speaking of the Utopian state as "that which alone of good right may claim and take upon it the name of commonwealth," continues: "Here now would I see, if any man dare be so bold as to compare with this equity, the justice of other nations; among whom, I forsake God, if I can find any sign or token of equity and justice. For what justice is this, that a rich goldsmith, or an usurer, or to be short, any of them which either do nothing at all, or else that which they do is such that it is not very necessary to the commonwealth, should have a pleasant and a wealthy living, either by idleness or unnecessary business, when in the meantime poor laborers, carters, ironsmiths, carpenters, and ploughmen, by so great and continual toil, as drawing and bearing beasts be scant able to sustain, and again so necessary toil, that without it no commonwealth were able to continue and endure one year, should get so hard and poor a living, and live so wretched and miserable a life, that the state and condition of the laboring beasts may seem much better and healthier? . . . And yet besides this the rich men, not only by private fraud but also by common laws, do every day pluck and snatch away from the poor some part of their daily living. . . . They invent and devise all means and manner of crafts, first how to keep safely without fear of losing that they have unjustly gathered together, and next how to hire and abuse the work and labor of the poor for as little money as may be. These devices when the rich men have decreed to be kept and observed under color of the commonalty, that is to say, also of the poor people, then they be made laws. . . . Therefore when I consider and weigh in my mind all these commonwealths which nowadays anywhere do flourish, so God help me, I can perceive nothing but a certain conspiracy of rich men procuring their own commodities under the name and title of commonwealth." Everywhere one finds supreme common sense. For instance, Sir Thomas More points out that while the Utopians "knew astronomy and were perfectly acquainted with the motions of the {551} heavenly bodies; and of many instruments, well contrived and divided, by which they very accurately compute the course and positions of the sun, moon and stars; but for the cheat of divining by the stars, by their oppositions or conjunctions, it has not so much as entered into their thoughts." This sentence was written about the time that Copernicus was working out his conclusions with regard to the Universe as we now know it. Most people might presume that astrology had by this time lost all its weight. More than a century later, however, Galileo and Kepler were drawing up horoscopes, and astrology was very commonly accepted during the seventeenth century. Even in the eighteenth century, Mesmer wrote a thesis for his doctorate at the University of Vienna on the influence of the stars on human constitutions. The really great thinkers in humanity had all of them refused to accept astrology, but it is a tribute to the genius of this man of thirty-seven who had been trained at the law to have reached so true a conclusion. Almost any page of "Utopia" furnishes a quotation that shows how penetrating was More's view of the significance of life not alone for his own time, but for all time. Literally I turned over the page from the quotation with regard to astrology and find this: "A life of pleasure is either a real evil, and in that case we ought not to assist others in their pursuit of it, but on the contrary to keep them from it all we can as from that which is most hurtful and deadly; or if it is a good thing, so that we not only may but ought to help others to it, why then ought not a man to begin with himself?" He has many sentences on that page with reference to the philosophy of what we now call learnedly hedonism. "They infer that if a man ought to advance the welfare and comfort of the rest of mankind, nature much more vigorously leads them to do this for themselves. They define virtue to be living according to nature, so they imagine that nature prompts all people on to seek after pleasure as the end of all they do." Ideas with regard to many modern questions are touched on only in passing and yet with sufficient detail to make us realize that problems that we are sometimes likely to think of as new were faced and solved in that older time. For instance, the question of afforestation and the necessity for keeping up a readily available supply of wood is touched on. "For one may there see reduced to practice not only all the art that the husbandman employs in manuring and improving an ill soil, but whole woods plucked up by the roots, and in other places new ones planted, where there were none before. Their principal motive for this is the convenience of carriage, that their timber may be either near their towns or growing on the banks of the sea, or of some rivers, so as to be floated to them; for it is a harder work to carry wood at a distance over land than corn." {552} One might think that perhaps so practical a man as More would not believe in the usefulness of books for his ideal republic and it might even be thought that, devoted to law and to politics, he would not be over-familiar with the classic authors. Here is his paragraph on the subject, however, that reveals at once his estimation and his tastes. "I happened to carry a great many books with me, instead of merchandise, when I sailed my fourth voyage; for I was so far from thinking of soon coming back that I rather thought never to have returned at all, and I gave them all my books, among which were many of Plato's and some of Aristotle's works: I had also Theophrastus on 'Plants,' which, to my great regret, was imperfect; for having laid it carelessly by, while we were at sea, a monkey had seized upon it, and in many places torn out the leaves. They have no books of grammar but Lascaris, for I did not carry Theodoras with me; nor have they any dictionaries but Hesichius and Dioscorides. They esteem Plutarch highly, and were much taken with Lucian's wit and with his pleasant way of writing. As for the poets, they have Aristophanes, Homer, Euripides, and Sophocles of Aldus's edition; and for historians, Thucydides, Herodotus and Herodian." His description of how the Utopians divide up their time is interesting from many standpoints. Six hours of work, eight hours of sleep and the rest to be employed in learned leisure with lectures, sports, games and various exercises is indeed an ideal that human nature would find hard to surpass at any period of the world's history. Such a division would probably make for human health and happiness better than anything that has ever been tried. "But they, dividing the day and the night into twenty-four hours, appoint six of these for work, three of which are before dinner and three after; they then sup, and at eight o'clock, counting from noon, go to bed and sleep eight hours: the rest of the time, besides that taken up in work, eating, and sleeping, is left to every man's discretion; yet they are not to abuse that interval to luxury and idleness, but must employ it in some proper exercise, according to their various inclinations, which is, for the most part, reading. It is ordinary to have public lectures every morning before daybreak, at which none are obliged to appear but those who are marked out for literature; yet a great many, both men and women, of all ranks, go to hear lectures of one sort or other, according to their inclinations: but if others that are not made for contemplation, choose rather to employ themselves at that time in their trades, as many of them do, they are not hindered, but are rather commended, as men that take care to serve their country. After supper they spend an hour in some diversion, in summer in their gardens, and in winter in the halls where they eat, where they entertain each other with music or discourse. They do not so much as know dice, or any such foolish or mischievous games. They have, however, two sorts of games not unlike our chess." {553} Probably the most striking testimony to the life and character of Sir Thomas More is to be found in the fact that writers who have studied his career most carefully are agreed that he exemplified all the great principles that he has laid down in his "Utopia" in his own environment and family life. Maurice Adams, in his Introduction to the Camelot edition of the "Utopia," says: "Utopia was but the author's home writ large. His beautiful house, on the river side at Chelsea, was, through his delight in social life and music, and through the wit and merriment of his nature, a dwelling of joy and mirth as well as of study and thought. It often rang with song, and was cheery with the laughter of children and grandchildren, he himself, in his own words, 'being merry, jocund and pleasant among them.' Erasmus, who was often his guest, has given us many delightful glimpses of his family life, of his children and their tasks, and the monkey and rabbits which amused their leisure. To the solitary and ever-wandering Erasmus, More's house was a haven of refuge from the discomforts and vexations of his bachelor existence. In one of his epistles he writes, 'More has built near London, upon the Thames, a modest yet commodious mansion. There he lives, surrounded by his numerous family, including his wife, his son and his son's wife, his three daughters and their husbands, with eleven grandchildren. There is not any man living so affectionate to his children as he, and he loveth his old wife as if she were a girl of fifteen. Such is the excellence of his disposition that whatever happeneth that could not be helped, he is as cheerful and as well pleased as though the best thing possible had been done. In More's house you would say that Plato's academy was revived again, only, whereas in the academy the discussion turned upon geometry and the power of numbers, the house at Chelsea is a veritable school of Christian religion. In it is none, man or woman, but readeth or studieth the liberal arts, yet is their chief care of piety. There is never any seen idle; the head of the house governs it: not only by a lofty carriage and oft rebukes, but by gentleness and amiable manners. Every member is busy in his place, performing his duty with alacrity; nor is sober mirth wanting." APPENDIX II AFTER THE REFORMATION It is such a commonplace of history as written in English, at least, that the beginnings of our modern progress are to be traced to the time when the movement called the Reformation freed men's minds from the domination of the Church, which had used every effort to keep men in darkness in order to secure their readier submission to Church teaching, that the tracing of all our modern developments to the century before the movement began may surprise many readers. Not only is it true, however, that for nearly a hundred years before the Reformation was there a climax of intellectual and artistic achievement in every department in every {554} country in Europe, but what is much more striking is that immediately after the "reform" movement set in, decadence made itself felt everywhere. Art in all its phases, painting, sculpture, architecture, education and scholarship, literature, and, above all, humanitarianism, reached magnificent expression during the first three quarters of Columbus' Century. In the fourth quarter, coincident with the spread of the reforming doctrines, decadence begins in nearly every phase of human activity and continues until the revolutions of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries gave a new stimulus to independent thinking. It has seemed necessary, owing to the position taken in the preceding pages, to illustrate these facts by quotations from well-known non-Catholic writers. No fallacy is cheaper than that of arguing because one set of events happens after another, therefore it is due to that other. It would take a much deeper and broader study of history than any that we have made here, or could make in our limited space, to trace the philosophy of the history of Columbus' Century and the succeeding centuries and to indicate the causes at work and their effects. All that can be pointed out here is that the facts of intellectual history represent an exact contradiction to the usually accepted impression that whatever is best in the modern time can be traced to the Reformation. On the contrary, immediately after the reform movement, human achievement declined for many generations, and the revival of the past hundred years represents a reversion to ideas and modes of thought current before the religious revolt and the evolution of which was interrupted by that movement. EDUCATION, BOOKS, INSTITUTIONS An historical opinion which is considered by a great many people who are sure that they are well informed to be quite above all question, is that the Reformation had a wonderfully beneficial effect on education. As a matter of fact, education, which had been at a very high degree of cultivation during the Renaissance period, began to decline immediately after the Reformation nearly everywhere in Europe, and only for the schools of the Jesuits, would have reached a serious depth of degradation. As it was, there is a steep descent in the Protestant countries, until in the eighteenth century Cardinal Newman thought that education at Oxford was at its lowest possible ebb, and when Winckelmann wanted to teach Greek in Germany he had to have his pupils write out copies of Plato, because no edition of the author had been issued in that country for two centuries. Authorities in the history of education have emphasized this, and no one more so than Professor Paulsen, who, after a wide academic experience throughout Germany, held at the end of his life the chair of philosophy at the University of Berlin. His book on the history of German education was {555} translated into English and published with an introduction by President Nicholas Murray Butler of Columbia University. One does not have to go very far in it before finding the great German authority's opinion with regard to the influence of the Reformation on education. He says: "After 1520, Humanism, an aristocratic and secular impulse, was overtaken and succeeded by a movement of vastly greater power and depth, the religious and popular movement of the Reformation. For a brief space the Reformation may well have seemed a reinforcement of Humanism, united as both these were in their hatred of scholastic philosophy and of Rome. Hutton and Luther are represented in pamphlets of the year 1520 as the two great champions of freedom. Inwardly, however, they were very different men, and very different were the goals to which they sought to lead the German people. Luther was a man of inward anti-rationalistic and anti-ecclesiastical religious feeling, and Hutton a man of rationalistic and libertinistic humanism. Hutton did not live to see the manifestation of this great contrast; but after 1522 or 1523, the eyes of the Humanists were open to the fact, and almost without exception they turned away from the Reformation as from something yet more hostile to learning than the old Church herself. In very truth, it appeared for the time as if the Reformation would be in its effects essentially hostile to culture. In the fearful tumults between 1520 and 1530 the universities and schools came to an almost complete standstill, and with the Church fell the institutions of learning which she had brought forth, so that Erasmus might well say, 'Where Lutheranism reigns, there is an end of letters.'" Those who hold a brief for the Reformation and its much vaunted beneficent influence on education may be tempted to retort that at least the German religious movement gave liberty of teaching to the German University. It is a constantly emphasized Protestant tradition that the incubus of the Church on teaching institutions before this time had been most serious in its consequences, and that developments in education had been prevented because of this. Those who assume that the reformers, so-called, introduced academic liberty into Germany will find very little support for any such claim in Professor Paulsen. Paulsen insists that exactly the opposite is true, and that far from bringing freedom of thought, the new religious movement still further shackled university and teaching freedom and the liberty of speech and writing, so that a sadly stilted period of educational development comes on the scene in Germany. He talks from the standpoint of his own department of philosophy, and evidently resents the shackles that were placed on freedom of speculation at this period. "During this period also a more determined effort was made to control instruction than at any period before or since. The fear of heresy, the extra anxiety to keep instruction well within orthodox lines, was not less intense at the Lutheran than at the Catholic institutions--perhaps it was even more so, because here doctrine {556} was not so well established, apostasy was possible in either of two directions, Catholicity or Calvinism. Even the philosophic faculty felt the pressure of this demand for correctness of doctrines. Thus came about these restrictions within the petty States and their narrow-minded established churches, which well-nigh stifled the intellectual life of the German people." A good deal of the misunderstanding of the effect of the reform movement on education is due to the fact that the novelty of the reformers' doctrines in religion and theology led to the use sometimes of the term, the New Learning, for their teaching. The same term, however, had come to be used for the study of the Latin and Greek classics, and the supposed opposition of the Church to the humanistic teachings is founded on the confusion of these two terms. Of course the ecclesiastics of the old Church opposed the New Learning in as far as it related to the reformers' doctrines with regard to free will, the lack of merit in good works and denials of other religious doctrines. They were, however, the most ardent patrons of the New Learning in as far as that term may be applied to the study of the classics. As a matter of fact, the Jesuits, founded at this time, based all their teaching on the classics and their schools spread all over Europe. As to the lack of interest in books, in education, in scholarship, even in the preservation of the great monuments of national literature after the change of religion in England, the easiest way to know it is to read Bishop Bale's account of what happened to the valuable books which had belonged to the old monastic and educational institutions at the Reformation. He approved of the suppression of the monasteries and was an ardent reformer, but he cannot help calling attention to the absolute neglect of the treasures of literature, not only on the part of the nobility and the common people, but on the part of the very universities themselves. It is easy to understand what an awful state of affairs there must have been to draw this indignant protest from so good a king's man and follower of the new order and protestant against everything Catholic. Bishop Bale said, in his preface to Leland's "New Year's Gift to Henry VIII," in 1549: "Never had we been offended for the loss of our libraries, being so many in number and in so desolate places, for the more part, if the chief monuments and most notable works of our excellent writers had been preserved. If there had been in every shire of England but one solemn library for the preservation of those noble works and preferment of good learning in our posterity, it had been yet somewhat. But to destroy all without consideration, a great number of them which purchased those superstitions mansions reserved of those library books . . . some to scour their candlesticks, and some to rub their boots. Some they sold to the grocers and soap-sellers, and some over sea to the book-binders, not in small number, but at times whole ships full to the wondering of {557} the foreign nations. Yea, the universities of this realm are not all clear in this detestable fact. But cursed is . . .(he) which seeketh to be fed with such ungodly gains and so deeply shameth his natural country. I know a merchant man, which shall at this time be nameless, that bought the contents of two noble libraries for forty shillings' price, a shame it is to be spoken. This stuff hath he occupied in the stead of gray paper by the space of more than these ten years, and yet he hath store enough for as many years to come. I judge this to be true, and utter it with heaviness, that neither the Britains under the Romans and Saxons, nor yet the English people under the Danes and Normans, had ever such damage of their learned monuments as we have seen in our time." It used to seem some condonation of these sad evils to say that the suppression of the monasteries was brought because of the evil lives of the monks. Protestant historians were wont to proclaim that they were plague-spots of immorality which had to be eradicated. The careful investigation of historians in our time has completely refuted any such conclusion as this. A few of the smaller monasteries were found not to be living up to their high ideals. A few, but a very few monks, were found to be unworthy of their calling. Even with all the desire that there was to discredit them, nothing could be found to say against the greater monasteries, and the governments had to employ other means in order to bring about their suppression with some shadow of legality. Creatures of the king were forced into the position of abbot and then by prearrangement surrendered the monasteries and their possessions to the crown. Every advance in critical history in modern times has tended more and more to the vindication of the monks. An American in our own time might well be expected to hold the balance straight without disturbance from old-time prejudices. Rev. Dr. George Hedges, Dean of the Episcopal Theological School, of Cambridge, Mass., in his "Fountains Abbey: The Story of a Medieval Monastery," said (p. 88): "The quiet judgment of the modern historian is in favor of the monks, and finds most of them to have been men of respectable and pious lives. The sober persons in white cassocks, who confessed faults in the chapter meeting and cheerfully suffered chastisement for them to which the man in the street gave not a moment's thought, had a passionate longing to be good. They were intent upon the living of a righteous life." He says, further quoting from Burke, "An enemy is a bad witness; a robber is a worse." EFFECT ON ART It is generally recognized now that the religious revolt ruined art. Religion had supplied the motives for great art, but most of these, and especially the tender feeling of reverence for the Mother of God and of the saints and the belief in angels, disappeared at {558} this time or were sadly hampered in their expression, and the whole tendency of the reform movement was iconoclastic. Image worship was one of the bitterest imputations against the old Church. It is curiously interesting to note that just in as much as art has developed in Protestant countries again, the churches have been raised from bare conventicles and meeting-houses to shrines of artistic beauty once more. It must not be forgotten, however, that this is quite contrary to the "protests" that were originally made against the old Church and that the ideas involved in this rejection of art in the Church, helped to lead many in artistic uncultured minds away from Catholicity in that time of storm and stress. In his chapter on Parish Life in England in his well-known book, "Before the Great Pillage," Rev. Augustus Jessop, who in spite of his bitter condemnation of what happened at and after the Reformation, has never, I believe, become a Catholic, tells of the marvellous beauty of the Church structures in the ages which used to be called dark and are now known to be full of light, and then tells what happened after the so-called Reformation. _"And we get fairly bewildered by the astonishing wealth of skill and artistic taste and aesthetic feeling which there must have been in this England of ours, in times which till lately we had assumed to be barbaric times._ Bewildered, I say, because we cannot understand how it all came to a dead stop in a single generation, not knowing that the frightful spoliation of our churches and other parish buildings, and the outrageous plunder of the parish guilds in the reign of Edward the Sixth by the horrible band of robbers that carried on their detestable work, effected such a hideous obliteration, such a clean sweep of the precious treasures that were dispersed in rich profusion over the whole land, that a dull despair of ever replacing what had been ruthlessly pillaged crushed the spirit of the whole nation, and _art died out in rural England, and King Whitewash and Queen Ugliness ruled supreme for centuries."_ (Italics ours.) Under art is, of course, included sculpture and architecture, as well as many of the artistic crafts. It is easy to understand that under the influence of the carping spirit of the Reformation all of these became decadent. Men gave up old-time faith for individual judgment of religious truth. The sterilizing influence of the controversial period which followed can be readily understood. Gerhard Hauptmann, the German dramatic poet, to whom the Nobel Prize for literature was recently awarded, characterized this decadence of art under the reformers in a very striking passage. "I, as a Protestant, have often had to regret that we purchased our freedom of conscience, our individual liberty, at entirely too high a price. In order to make room for a small, mean little plant of personal life we destroyed a whole garden of fancy, and hewed down a virgin forest of esthetic ideas. We went even so far {559} in the insanity of our weakness as to throw out of the garden of our souls the fruitful soil that had been accumulating for thousands of years, or else we ploughed it under sterile clay. "We have to-day, then, an intellectual culture that is well protected by a hedge of our personality, but within this hedge we have only delicate dwarf trees and unworthy plants, the poor progeny of great predecessors. We have telegraph lines, bridges and railroads, but there grow no churches and cathedrals, only sentry boxes and barracks. We need gardeners who will cause the present sterilizing process of the soil to stop and will enrich the surface by working up into it the rich layers beneath. In my workroom there is ever before me the photograph of St. Sebald's tomb. This rich German symbol arose from the invisible in the most luxurious developmental period of German art. As a formal product of that art, it is very difficult to appreciate it as it deserves. It seems to me as one of the most wonderful bits of work in the whole field of artistic accomplishment. The soul of all the great medieval period enwraps this silver coffin, giving to it a noble unity, and enthrones on the very summit of Death, Life as a growing child. Such a work could only have come to its perfection in the protected spaces of the old Mother Church." All the arts of decoration suffered similarly and no art failed to be affected unfavorably. Music, which had had one great period of development in the old Plain Chant in the later Middle Ages under ecclesiastical influence, was just entering on another and glorious development under the patronage of the Church when the reform movement began. Plain song had given such masterpieces as the Lamentations, of which Rockstro said that no sadder succession of single notes had ever been put together, and the Exultet sung in the Mass on Holy Saturday, which he declares represents a similarly high expression of joy. Now figured and harmonic music was about to have its place. Palestrina's Masses and St. Philip Neri's Oratorios were just beginning. The reformers, however, would have nothing to do with music. Congregational singing was adopted from the old Church, but for music as an art to uplift religion and add its tribute of devotion there was no place. Part song had originated in Church ceremonials, as dramatic literature originated in the ceremonies connected with the celebration of the various mysteries. Like every other human and natural aspiration, music was under suspicion in the new religion, and the consequence was a serious detriment to the development of the art. It was not until the gradual loosening of the bonds of the Puritanic elements in the Protestant religion that music began to come to her own again. DECLINE OF CHARITY In humanitarianism and the solution of social problems, the Reformation was particularly backward. The leaders in the new religions were so intent upon explaining their own doctrines and modes of thinking and gathering disciples and having other people {560} think as they did, that charitable works suffered severely. The destruction of the monasteries and convents left many needy, but there were but few to care for them. Above all, the new doctrine of justification by faith alone, which declared that good works were of no import so long as men believed in a particular way, took away the motive for much of the charitable work that had been done before. It is not surprising, then, that hospitals and the care of the ailing and the old reached a depth of degradation that is rather hard to understand. We in the twentieth century know how low hospital care and nursing had sunk in the early nineteenth century, and we have been inclined to think that it must have been much worse in the generations preceding. It is a surprise, then, to find that the first half of the nineteenth century represents what has been well called by Miss Nutting and Miss Dock, in their "History of Nursing," the Dark Period of Nursing, during which "the condition of the nursing art, the well-being of the patient and the status of the nurse all sank to an indescribable level of degradation." Jacobson, in his Essays on "The History of Care for the Ailing," [Footnote 51] traces just when this decadence began, not long after the reform movement succeeded in gaining a firm foothold, and he outlines in detail just how the descent came about. He says: [Footnote 51: Beiträge zur Geschichte des Krankencomforts, _Deutsche Krankenpflege Zeitung,_ 1898, in 4 parts.] "It is a remarkable fact that attention to the well-being of the sick, improvements in hospitals and institutions generally and to details of nursing care, had a period of complete and lasting stagnation after the middle of the seventeenth century, or from the close of the Thirty Years' War. Neither officials nor physicians took any interest in the elevation of nursing or in improving the condition of hospitals. During the first two-thirds of the eighteenth century, he proceeds to say, nothing was done to bring either construction or nursing to a better state. Solely among the religious orders did nursing remain an interest, and some remnants of technique survive. The result was that in this period the general level of nursing fell far below that of earlier periods. The hospitals of cities were like prisons, with bare, undecorated walls and little dark rooms, small rooms where no sun could enter, and dismal wards where fifty or one hundred patients were crowded together, deprived of all comforts and even of necessaries. In the municipal and state institutions of this period, the beautiful gardens, roomy halls, and springs of water of the old cloister hospital of the Middle Ages were not heard of, still less the comforts of their friendly interiors." The more careful study of the guilds, particularly, has served to show what an immense social wrong was done by this confiscation of what for the moment, strictly for government purposes, was called Church property. At the beginning of Henry VIII's reign, {561} it has been calculated by Toulmin Smith that there were some 30,000 guilds in England. These had very large sums in their treasuries. They responded to all the social needs that we are now only just waking up to once more. They provided old age and disability pensions, insurance against fire and flood, against loss by robbery, by imprisonment, and against the loss of cattle and farm products; there were forms of insurance against the loss of sight, against the loss of a limb or any other form of crippling. The amount of money confiscated from the treasuries of these guilds has been calculated at a value in our money of several hundred millions of dollars. When it is recalled that the census of England made in Elizabeth's time, just before the Great Armada was expected, showed a total population of less than five million, the amount of good that could be accomplished by this vast sum of money, not in the hands of a few, but distributed in 30,000 treasuries and used for social purposes, can be readily understood. After the reform in England, practically no more was heard of the guilds, and social wrongs began to be multiplied. SUPERSTITION AND TORTURE It is often said that with the Reformation came the end of superstition and of that exaggerated faith in religion which keeps people from using their reason and that over-attention to the things of the other world instead of this which keeps them from being practical and prosperous. The subsequent history, however, of the countries most affected by the German religious revolt, far from bearing out this declaration, shows how much harm came from the absence of a strong central religious authority and how much of loss to idealism there was in the diminution of the childlike faith which had meant so much, not only for religion, but for literature and for art in the preceding centuries. There was no obliteration of superstition, but superstition changed its object, and now, instead of being poetic, often became cruel and intolerant. The witchcraft delusion, for instance, which represented the worst manifestation of superstition which mankind has perhaps ever suffered from, affected the Protestant countries much more than the Catholic countries. Thousands and thousands of people were put to death as witches in Germany, and it was from the Protestant countries that the delusion spread, by psychic contagion, to the Catholic countries of Europe. Catholic countries not in intimate relations with Protestant countries, like Ireland, were not affected by it. Though Ireland has been the most Catholic of countries, not a witch has been put to death there, by any formal process of law, for over five hundred years. Here in America the witchcraft delusion is one of the sad blots on our history. Many other forms of superstition manifested themselves, and when there {562} were not religious motives there were other reasons. Men apparently cannot keep from being influenced by things they do not understand. Healers of all kinds take the place of the religious healing of the medieval period, and medical and scientific superstitions replace religious supercredulity. Electric belts and pads replace relics. Over-estimated remedies and utterly inefficient cures of all kinds are believed in much more now without reason than ever medieval folk allowed themselves to be carried away by religious superstitions. A similar historical error proclaims that torture and suffering for opinions and cruel punishment went out with the Reformation, or at least wherever that movement gained a firm foothold. This is absolutely untrue, for the trials of the witches everywhere were accompanied by torture, and cruel punishments were the rule, particularly in the Protestant countries. It is rather amusing sometimes to read, in newspaper and magazine articles, descriptions of the torture of the Inquisition and the heartlessness of medieval people, ecclesiastics in the same breath with the mention of the Iron Maiden and the famous torture boots of Nuremberg. These, however, were inventions not made for the Inquisition nor for the Middle Ages, but for the post-reformation period in Protestant Nuremberg. And it must not be forgotten that Nuremberg was one of the most cultivated cities of Germany and that its people were highly educated, and that it was exactly in such a reform city that torture and cruel punishments were invented and developed. Torture was one of the modes of getting at truth for legal purposes under the Roman law. It continued almost until our own time to be a legal mode of procedure. Even at the present time it has not entirely gone out, and while the means of physical torture are removed, the "third degree" and various phases of mental torment replace them. POLITICAL DECADENCE Above all, the political import of this movement, so often thought to be purely religious, must not be forgotten. The nobility lost at this time, to a great extent, their independence. The king became supreme, and the new nationalism which developed in Europe knit countries and peoples very close together which had only been very loosely connected before. Ferdinand was King of Aragon and Isabella Queen of Castile when their marriage brought these kingdoms together. Subsequent developments at this time made the Spanish peninsula a unit. Practically the same thing happened in France. Pope Julius II planned a united Italy. It was scarcely half a century after the close of Columbus' Century that the Scotch and English crowns became united. Many of the great nobles of these countries lost their prestige. The foolish extravagance of {563} the Field of the Cloth of Gold is said to have cost many a nobleman of France and England his estates, or at least made him absolutely independent in the favor of the king. In the midst of this political revolution a change in the prevailing religion made a very valuable asset for monarchs whose position was not over-secure or whose treasury was exhausted, for it handed over to them the care of the Church and its property as well as of the State and its revenues. This enabled them to confiscate large sums of money, to confer Church estates on noble favorites; but, above all, it left them without any strong organized ethical factor within the State to oppose any acts of injustice that they might do. Their Lord Chancellors had been bishops before, but now they were political favorites and often the veriest of time-servers. Lord Campbell's characterization of some of the English post-reformation chancellors is illuminating for this. The amount of political injustice that resulted is easy to understand, though it is not easy to comprehend how the people stood it. The constitution of the English House of Lords since the Reformation represents, by contrast, in a very striking way the difference between the old and the new in political matters. At the present time the House of Lords is almost exclusively hereditary. About one-seventh of its members are there by appointment or election, and a large part of even this moiety is chosen from the descendants of the hereditary nobility. Before the Reformation sixty per cent of the House of Lords consisted of the Lords Spiritual. Many of these were Bishops, but more of them were Abbots and Priors of Religious Houses, Masters and Generals of Religious Orders and other officials representing the monasteries as large landholders, who at the same time represented considerable bodies of peasantry, tillers of the soil of monasteries, who were so happy, as was often said, to be under the cross. Not a few of the bishops were the self-made sons of the middle class, or even the poor. A great many of the abbots and representatives of religious orders came from even the lower orders. They were men who had been chosen by their fellow-religious to rule over them because they were considered to have the best qualities of heart and soul for such positions. In the course of centuries a great many of these men were saints, that is, represented that character and disposition which made the men of the after-time declare that they had lived heroic lives of unselfishness and care for others. It is true that at times some of the Lords Spiritual were the sons of the nobility, favorites of kings, men who used political influence in order to secure Church preferment; but the proportion of these was never very large, and while many are known, it is because the history of many centuries is gone over for them. Probably no better second chamber for conservative legislation could {564} possibly be organized than this one of the House of Lords before the Reformation actually was. The majority of the men in it were representatives, not of one class, but of all the classes of England. There were always many peasants' sons and the sons of little tradesmen, and these men had often risen by merit and yet only under such circumstances as precluded family ambition at least, and usually their advancement was due to their known lack of personal ambition. As a rule, their unselfishness had been the principal trait by which they secured preferment. They had the best interests of the poor classes particularly at heart. Without any chance for ambition for themselves, without any desires for the enrichment of a family which did not exist for them, there were as many safeguards around their fulfilment of their duty as representatives of the people as can possibly be drawn. Even such safeguards will not prevent all abuses, but they come as near doing it as is possible. Nothing is more illuminating, as regards political conditions from a social standpoint, than this comparative study of the pre-reformation House of Lords with that of the present. In political freedom, the times after the Reformation represent decadence mainly because of the placing in the hands of the civil government the authority in both political and religious matters. As a consequence of the elimination of the Church authorities as independent factors in the life of the people instead of subservient to government officials, there was a serious inroad upon the rights as citizens that had been obtained by hard striving during preceding centuries. Modern political developments are not so much a new assertion of modern democracy as a reversion to the democratic principles of the Middle Ages. That will seem to many people profoundly paradoxical. It is only a paradox, however, to those who do not know the political life of the Middle Ages. Magna Charta was drawn up and signed, the fundamental laws of Spain and France adopted, the Golden Bull in Hungary promulgated, and the Swiss declaration of independence issued all in a single century of the preceding time--the thirteenth. Such principles as that there shall be no taxation without representation were then formulated, and the free cities acquired rights for their citizens and laid the foundation of that government of the people, by the people and for the people which is the basis of modern democracy. All this was seriously disturbed at the time of the reform movement, and a decadence similar to that which took place in humanitarianism and the hospital and nursing movement may be traced with regard to political liberty. It culminated at the end of the eighteenth century in that awful cataclysm of the French Revolution which tried to reassert all the old principles of political freedom and correct all the abuses at once and right the cumulated wrongs of centuries that was doomed to failure. The series of revolutions of the early {565} nineteenth century were needed to give people back something like the rights that they had had in the Middle Ages and to create a public sentiment once more favorable to democratic institutions. Hilaire Belloc, who probably knows the French Revolution as well as any in our generation, declared not long since that it represented an effort to bring the world back to those ideals of democracy which had developed in the Middle Ages. Our period represents exactly the end of the Middle Ages, and it is after the Reformation that the decadence of the fine old democratic spirit which had been fostered within the bounds of the old Church may be noted. Above all, popular happiness decreased and indeed almost disappeared throughout Europe as the result of the reform movement. Before that, the Church holy days, nearly twoscore in number in the year, provided ample opportunities for leisure and recreation, and the Church societies, by the giving of the mystery and morality plays, and the guilds by their banquets and outdoor meetings, the various "ales," as they were called, had furnished frequent occasions for hearty, healthy amusement. All this stopped with the Reformation. Puritanical conceptions of religion rubbed the holy days, that were also holidays, out of the year. We are now engaged in putting them back as anniversaries of national events and of the births of national heroes instead of the celebrations of Christian feasts and saints' days, as bank holidays and memorial days of various kinds. The sects became so much occupied with discussions of dogma that they took almost no interest in the amusements of the people. Now men met to dispute over doctrines that they could not understand, and instead of the beautiful ceremonies of the old religion, with their satisfying appeal to all the senses and their charm and teaching quality, even as mere spectacles, they listened to long-winded, dry-as-dust sermons as a matter of duty, and went home to sit gloomily in darkened rooms for the observance of what they called the Sabbath. Before the Reformation, the people, after the Church services, used to meet for games and recreation upon the green in front of the Church, and the young folks had had opportunities for their Sunday pleasures of all kinds. Only in recent years, with the breaking up of the bonds of Protestantism, have we gone back to revive medieval ways. The nations drew away from each other, and the internationalism that had been developing and that had been fostered by community of Church interest disappeared. National governments became more consolidated, but the peoples became more and more separated in sympathy. Until commerce developed in the modern time, that fine internationalism which had so often been exhibited in spirit, at least during the Middle Ages, was at an end. The Crusades had done much to break down the barriers of narrow nationalism. {566} The religious orders had still further fostered intercourse and increased sympathy among the nations. The universities, with their various nations among the students, had been nurturing grounds for better feeling among men. All this was now practically at an end. Not only that, but sectionalism in politics and sectarianism in religion drew men farther and farther apart and made them look upon those of other nations with less and less sympathy. The political change made for the concentration of power in the hands of rulers and the strengthening of the states for war, but it took away many of the rights of men and, above all, lessened their sympathies for their kind, except among their own people, and obliterated that spirit of good fellowship among the educated and cultured people of the world which had been so well nurtured in the time before. It is only during the later nineteenth century that there has come to be that spirit of friendly intercourse among nations once more which existed in the later medieval and earlier Renaissance periods. {567} INDEX Abbot Trithemius, 525 Academic liberty, 555 Academies, Italian, 508 Academy, of Naples, 509; of Noble Minds, 9; of Lorenzo de' Medici, 34; Roman, 509; Vitruvian, 509 Accademia at Venice, 510 Accademia dei Belli Arti, 196 Accidents, happy, xxv Achidemoios, 493 Achillini, 361 Acts and scenes division, 489 Adoration of the Lamb, Van Eyck, 71 Adoration of the Magi, Dürer, 72; Memling, 72 Advance of surgery, 414 AEgidius, 232, 437 AEneas Sylvius, 502, 543 AEschylus, 533 Age of Leo X, xl, 41 Agostino, 540 Agricola, Rudolph, xxxv, 505, 520, 524, 527 Agrippa, Cornelius, 393 Agrippa and New Thought, 394 Á Kempis, 517; and Marcus Aurelius, 432; and Epictetus, 432 Á Kempis' Imitation, 431; other books, 431 Alberti, Leon Battista, xxxi, xxxv, 114; De re aedificatoria, 114; San Francesco (Rimini), 115 Albertus Magnus, 348, 361 Alcalá, Paranimfo, 125; University of, 539 Aldus Manutius, 151, 303, 521; accomplishments, 154; advice to bores, 155; _editiones principes,_ 510 Aleander, Jerome, 531 Alessi, 122 Alexander VI, 228 Allegri, Antonio (Correggio), 66 Almagest of Ptolemy, 346 Almshouses at Stratford, 175 Amadis de Gaul, 478 Amerbach, Portrait of Boniface, 78 America, and Africa, colonized, 272; discovery of, xxv; first book printed in, 286-7; first printing press, 287; in Columbus' Century, 275 Amerigo Vespucci, 264 Amyot, translation of Plutarch, 471 Anaesthesia, 425 Anathemia, Mondino's, 361 Anatomy, pathological, 395; Renaissance and, 361; Teaching of, in Bologna, 363 Anchyloses, 424 Animuccia, xxxii, 143; brothers, 137 Anne of Bretagne, xxxix, 330 Annotations on Dioscorides Cordus, 337 Antimony, and auto-toxaemia, 392 Antonio Lebrixa, 538 Antonio of Palermo, 510 Antwerp, 110 Apollo and Marsyas, 56 Appendix, vermiform, 362 Apuleius, Golden Ass, 458 Aquinas, 361 Arabic types, 151 Arcadelt, 136 Archiepiscopal Palace Court, 126 Architecture, Michelangelo's, 40 Arcolani, 395 Arculanus, 417 Argelata, 414 Argyropulos, 506, 542 Ariosto, comparisons, 444; Italian humor, 445; Sonnet of, 445 Armor, 113 Arnold, Matthew, 432 Arras, 110 Art, and Savonarola, 57; after Reformation, 559 Art decadence, 98; Arthur, King-statue (Innsbrück): 103 Arts, deeds, and words, xxvii; The Book of the, xxviii Ascham, Roger, xxxv, 336 Asepsis, 418 Asse, De, 532 Astrology, 352 Asylums, 169; founded at Saragossa, Seville, Toledo, Valencia, and Valladolid, 203 Athenaeus, antiquities of, 536 Augsburg, 102 Australia, discovery of, 268 Autobiography of Benvenuto Cellini, 459 Auto-toxaemia always with us, 392 B Balboa, 271 Baldung, Hans, 161 Bale, on neglect of books, 556 Ballad, Lorenzo dei Medici, 447 Ballate, 447 Balneotherapy, 402 Bandages, moulded, 423 Bandello, 458 Baptism of Christ (Verrocchio). 27 Baptista dei Malatesti, 316 Barbosa, 538 Barclay, Alexander, 492 Baronius, 182 Basil Valentine, 391 Bath, Wife of, 490 Bayard, 208 Beaufort, Margaret, 335 Beccadelli, 510 {568} Beckere, Peter, of Brussels, xxxi Bedlam, at London, 203 Bedlam, Hogarth's, 204 Bedlamites, 204 Beethoven, 88 Beguines, 178 Behem, Martin, 348 Bellarmine, 216 Bellay, Joachim du, 468, 469 Bellini, Angels Mourning over Christ, 63 Bellini, Presentation of Infant Christ, 63 Bellinis, the, xxix Belloc, Hilaire, 191 Belon, Pierre, 379 Bembo, Pietro, xlii, 298 Benivieni, 395 Benozzo Gozzoli, xxviii, 55 Benvenuto Cellini, xxx, 92 Berengar of Carpi, 361, 418 Berenson, 70 Bernardine of Feltre, 180 Bernard van Orley, 74 Bernini, 95 Bessarion, Cardinal, 346, 503; and Cusanus, 504; and Purbach, 504; and Regiomontanus, 504 Bibbiena, 34 Bible, Complutensian Polyglot, xxxv Blashfields, Italian Cities, 6 Blaubeuren, Stalls in, 99 Blind Harry, 496 Blondeel, 74 Blood, circulation of, 371; transfusion, 415 Boerhaave, 379 Bollandists, 216 Bologna, xxix; Papal University of, 368 Bonfigli, xxix, 55 Book, appreciation, 146; bindings old and new, 166; first American, 287; Massachusetts Bay Psalm, 287; making, decadence in, 148; illustration, 159 Books, illuminated, xxxiii; reform and destruction of, 556; twelve best, 434 Borgia, Aldus Manutius (Garnett), 303 Borgia, Lucretia, 301; at Ferrara, 303 Borgias, the, 302 Borgo, the Fire in the, 10 Borgognone, 117 Boscan, 480 Botticelli, xxviii, 53, 55, 56, 58, 75 Botticelli's Birth of Venus, 58; illustrations for Dante, 60: Madonna of the Magnificat, 59; Mythology, 59; Psychology, 58; Spring, 58; Tondi, 59 Bourbon, 208 Bourdischon, 80 Bourne, Prof., 277, 286, 287 Bouts, Dirk, 73 Bramante, xxxi, 117, 196; Church at Lodi, 116; Great Court of Hospital (Milan), 195; Santa Maria delle Grazie, 117 Brancas, surgeons, 418 Brantôme, xlii Braunschweig, 411 Bréboeuf, 213 Brethren of The Common Life, xxxv, 517 Bridgett, Life of Sir Thomas More, 240 Briggs, Prof., 259 Brothers, Do-Good Little, 202; of Mercy, 201 Browning, Mrs., 484 Bruges, 110; tombs at, 98; town hall at, 127; sculpture of, 98 Brunelleschi, xxxi, 349 Brunfels, 376 Bruno, Giordano, 473 Brunschwig, 422 Brussels, Broodhuis at, 127; Hôtel de Ville, 127; Maison du Roi. 137 Budaeus, 505, 532; absorption in study, 532 Budé, 532 Bugiardini, 10 Burckhardt, 91, 319, 341; on Leonardo, 31 Burdett, Hospitals and Asylums of the World, 205 Burgkmaier, Hans, 161 Burke, Edmund, 478 Burnett, Bishop, 232 Burnett's Utopia, 233 Burning Bush, 10 Butzbach, Johann, 338 C Cabot, John and Sebastian, 265 Cabrol, 417 Caesalpinus, xxxvii, 372, 379 Caesarean operation, 416 Cagliari, Paolo, 69 Caius, John, xxxviii, 229, 347, 385, 542 Caius College, 229 Calepinus, 511 Calixtus III, 510 Calvin, xlii, 246; and intolerance, 254 and Servetus, 255, 370; Loyola, Rabelais, fellow students, 533 Calvin's austerity, 253 Cambridge Modern History, 302 Camera del Eliodoro, 10 Camera del Incendio, 10 Camerini of women of Renaissance, 322 Camöens, xlii, 264; and Da Gama, 266 sonnet by, 484 Campbell, Lord, Lives of the Lord Chancellors of England, 241 Canani, 362 Cancer, surgery in, 417 Canossa, Counts of, 32 Canova, 96 Cantor, 344 Cape Verde Islands, discovery of, 262 Caprarola, Palace of, 122 Caracci, xxix Cardan, Jerome, 403 Carlo Dolci, 66 Carlo Maratta, xxix Carnival songs, 448 Carpaccio, xxix Cartoons of Raphael, 11 Cartwright, Julia, 340 Castiglione, Baldassare, 4, 298 Catherine, of England, xxxix; of Genoa, xl; of Sforza, 301 Caviceo, 304 Caxton, William, 151 Caxton's experience, 146 Celestina, 479 {569} Cellini, Benvenuto, 92, 206; _alto_ and _basso rilievo,_ 93; autobiography, 459; Christ by, 93; Perseus and Head of Medusa, 93 Celsus, 507 Celtes, 338, 524 Certosa at Pavia, xxx; sculpture, 95 Cervantes, 208; and books of chivalry, 478 Cespedes, The Last Supper, 83 Chalcondyles, 506 Champ Fleury, 158 Champlain, on Mexico, 288 Chanca, Dr., 284 Chancery, calendar cleared, 235; Court of, 234 Charity, decline of, after Reformation, 559 Charlemagne, 313; Coronation of, 10 Charles V, xxxiii, 208 Charles, of Orleans, xlii, 463 Charles the Bold's tomb, 98 Chaucer, 152 Chess, Game & Pleye of, 152 Chevy Chase, 495 Chicheley, 542 Chiericate Palace, 122 Chivalry, Tales of, 478 Christ the Light of the World, 73 Christ, Imitation of, xli, 430 Christi, De Imitatione, 429 Christina, Princess of Denmark, 340 Church, Dean, 433 Cicero, 522 Ciceronianism, 508 Cinthio, Hecatomithi or Hundred Fables, 458 Circulation of Blood, Caesalpinus, 369; Columbus, 366; Harvey, 368; Rabelais, 369; Servetus, 369 Circulation, systemic, 372 Cisneros, 538 Claude Goudimel, xxxii, 137 Claudio Monteverde, 143 Clément Marot, xlii Clocks, 113 Clopton, Sir Hugh, 131. 173, 175 Clouet, Elizabeth of Austria, 79 Clouets, 80 Club-foot surgery, 421 Clusius, Carolus, 400 Clym of the Clough, 495 Cobbett's History of Reformation, 257 Coimbra, Teachers' College at, 541 Colet, Dean, xxxv, 229, 235, 543 Colet, Dame, 229 Collects of the English Prayerbook, 500 College de France, xxxvi, 533 College of Santa Cruz, 279 Colombe, xxxi, 80, 104 Colombo, Francesco, 159 Colonists, English and Spanish, 276 Colonization, ancient and modern, 272 Columbus, character, xxvi; letter, 283; lifetime, xxvii Columbus, Realdus, xxxvii, 366 Columella, 508 Common Life, Brethren of, 514 Company of Jesus, 222 Condivi, 41 Conrad, 338 Contagion of tuberculosis, 408 Convents and educated women, 341 Copernicus, 223, 243, 349; and Reformation, 352 Copperplate engraving, 160 Copyright, lack of, 155 Cordova, 208 Cordus, Valerius, 376 Cornaro, 404 Cornelius à Lapide, 216 Corporation of the Royal Readers, 533 Correggio, xxix, 53, 66, 75, 92; and Leonardo, 67; and Michelangelo, 67 and Raphael, 67 Corsets, surgical, 416 Cortes, 269 Cortez, Martin, 263 Cortigiano and Cellini's autobiography, 461 Courteys, Jean, 122; Pierre, 122 Cousin, Jean, 80 Coverdale, 500 Coxcie, Michiel, 74 Cranach, 161 Cranmer, 500 Cretinism and endemic goitre, 387 Culture, Transmission of European, 278 Cusanus, 344, 518; and Bessarion, 504: love of truth, 519 D Da Imola, xxix Dalberg, Johann von, 525 Dame Quickly, 490 Danès, Pierre, 533 Danesius, 533 Daniel, 212 Dante, 149; sonnet by Michelangelo, 42 David, Gerard, 74, 97 Da Vinci, 44 (see Leonardo) Dean Colet, 229 Decadence, political, after Reformation, 562 Deed, The Book of the, xxxiii Defectives, Village care for, 203 Delacroix on Titian, 65 Delft, 110 Delirium, 402 Della Croce, 415 Della Porta, xxxi Della Robbia, 89 Della Robbias, xxx Denifle and Luther, 248 De Quincey, 432 D'Este, Isabella, 303; Beatrice, 318 Deventer, 517 De Vigo, 411 Dias, Bartholomew, 263 Dibden, 149 Dickenson, Study of the History of Music, 140 Dictes and Sayings of the Philosophers, 152 Dietetics, popular, 406 Dionysius, the Areopagite, 544 Discoveries and drugs, 400 Diseases, occupation, 387; mental, 401 Disputa, 8 Dodsley's Old English Plays, 488 Doge's Palace, 120 Dolet, Etienne, 473 Dominant seventh, xxxii; chord of, 143 Donatello, xxx, 65, 70, 102 {570} Donatello's, Bambino Gesu, 87; St. Francis, 87; St. George, 87; St. John the Baptist, 87 Donizetti, Lucretia Borgia, 304 Dorothea de Juanes, 84 Dosso Dossi, xxix Douglas, Gawin, 496 Drake, Sir Francis, 288 Dream of the Knight, Raphael, 4 Drug abuses later, 403 Drugs, American and Oriental, 400 Dunbar, William, 496; Scotch Chaucer, 497 Dürer, Albert, xxix, 75, 99, 161. 378; Marriage of the Blessed Virgin, 163; Melancholia, 15; Nativity, 339; St. John the Baptist preaching, 100; wood-engravings, 161; writings, 77 Dussart, S. J., Father, on Memling, 73 E Echegaray on Teresa, 309 Educated women, number of, 320 Educated women's homes, 321 Education, feminine, xxxix; phases of feminine education, 313; physical training and feminine, 317; feminine, in Spain, 332; feminine, and Rabelais, 536; feminine, opportunities for, 320 Edward VI Grammar Schools, 173 Efficiency, Studies in (Leonardo), 26 Eliot's, George, Romola, 185 Elizabeth, 337; and Isabella, 293 Elizabeth, torture under, 189 Emperor Frederick, 432 Encomium Moriae, 77, 440 Englishmen of the Sixteenth Century, Sidney Lee, 437 English Prayerbook, Collects of the, 500 Engraving, copper, 162; wood, 162 Ephemerides Astronomicae, 348 Erasmus, xxxv, 223, 226, 259, 337, 521, 528; Colloquia, 440; on scholasticism, 245; on copyright, 155; and More, 226; Escala Espiritual, La, first American printed book, 287 Estienne the Elder, 157 Euclid, 526 Eustachius, xxxvii, 395; anatomical plates of, 164; discoveries, 367 Eustachian tube, 367 Evelyn, 181, 204 Everyman, 485 Exercitia Spiritualia, 429 Experts, medico-legal, 399 F Fabrica Humani Corporis, 365 Fabricius of Aquapendente, 421 Fallopius, 366, 415; discoveries, 367 Farnesina, 6 Farrar, Archdeacon, 434 Fathers of Church and Pagan Culture, 529 Fedele, Cassandra, 327 Felixmarte de Hircania, 478 Female pre-eminence, 394 Ferdinand and Isabella, xxxiii, 208, 292 Ferrara, xxix Ferri, 411 Festus, 507 Ficino, 34, 507, 524 Field, Miss, on St. Teresa, 312 Field of the Cloth of Gold, xxxiv, 255 Filippino Lippi, xxviii Fiorovanti, 417 Fisher, Bishop of Rochester, 237, 521 Florence, Academy at, 507; and social reforms, 184 Fontenelle, 433 Forli, Virago of, 301 Fortune, making a, 177 Foster, Professor, 372 Fouchet, Jean, 105 Fountain of the Innocents, xxxi Fouquet, Jehan, 80, 149; miniature painting from the Livy MSS., 150 Four Elements, the Interlude of, 489 Four P's, 489, 493 Fra Angelico, xxviii, 53, 92; angels of 54: Madonnas of, 54; paintings of, 54 Fra Bartolommeo, xxviii, 6, 56, 92; Descent from the Cross, 57; Lamentation over Christ, 57; Marriage of St. Catherine, 57; The Last Judgment, 57; Savonarola, 58 Fra Gioconda, 131, 159 Fracastorius, 397 Fracture of the skull by contrecoup, 418 Francia, 151 Francis I, xxxiii, 533; contempt of the world, 464-5 Frederick of Urbino, 2 Free, John, 542 Froissart translation, 470 Fuchs, 376 Furniture, 113 Fust, 146 G Gairdner, 256 Galileo and Copernicus, 350 Gammer Gurton's Needle, xlii Gamp, Mrs., 490 Garcilaso de la Vega, 285, 480 Garofalo, xxix Garnett, 302 Gaspara Stampa, 327 Gasquet, 502 Gaston de Foix, 208 Gaza, Theodore, 505, 520 Geert de Groote, 514 Geiler of Kaisersberg, 529 Genoa, Heroines of, 300 Gentile da Fabriano, xxix George Eliot on Teresa, 308 German People, History of the, 528 Germany, Preceptor of, 522; schoolmaster of, 520; the Humanists of, 527; three-tongued wonder of, 523: united, 519 Gerssdorff, Hans von, 422 Gesner, Conrad, 377, 385 Ghent, town hall of, 127 Ghirlandajo, 34, 55, 56, xxviii Giles, Peter, 232, 437 Giorgione, xxix, 63 Giotto, 65 Giulio Romano, xxix Glass-making, xxxiii God's promise, 494 {571} Goldsmiths sculptors, xxxii, 341 Gonzaga, Cecilia, 316; Elizabeth, 298; Isabella, 301, 304; Paola, 341; women of the house of, 320 Gonzagas, xxxix Good Hope, Cape of, 263 Gordon, General Chinese, 432 Goudimel, Claude, 137 Goujon, Jean, xxxi, 80, 105 Gounod, 140 Gout, bilious, 399; melancholy, 399; Paré on, 399; pituitary, 399; sanguine, 399 Gower, 152 Graft, political, 248 Grammar, Spanish specialty, 540 Granada, Cathedral at, 118-9 Greek, first book printed in, 151 Greene, Prof. Edward L., 375 Gregorovius, 302 Grey, Lady Jane, xl, 336; Lord, of Grimm, 5; Life of Michelangelo, 56; on Correggio, 66; on Michelangelo, 52 Grisar's Luther, 248 Grocyn, 543 Grolier, 156, 164, 166 Groote, Geert de, 514 Guarino, 542 Guercino, xxix Guicciardini, 451 Guido, xxiii Guilds, flourishing, xxxviii; insurance, 170; grammar schools of, 173; of the Holy Cross at Stratford, 172: social work of the, 170; the children of the, 171 Gunshot wounds, experiments in, 412 Gurlt, History of Surgery, 412 Gutenberg, 146 Guy de Chauliac, 410 Guzman, 537 Gynaecology and obstetrics, 416 H Hallam on Reformation, 246 Haller, 377 Hamboys, 136 Hannay, David, 476 Hans Holbein, 162 Hare, Augustus, 460 Harvey, 369 Headlam, Cecil, 102 Health, Board of, at Lucca, 407 Heart surgery, 417 Heathen writers and Christian culture, 529 Hebrew types, 151 Hellenists, new academy of, 510 Helyot, Lea Ordres Monastiques, 198 Hemophilia, 415 Henderson, The Story of Music, 135 Henry VIII, xxxiii, 246 Henry, the Navigator, xxxiii, 262 Henryson, Robert, 496 Heptameron, 305, 465 Hernandez, 399 Heynlin von Stein, 529 Heywood, John, 493 Higden, 151 Hildegarde, Abbess, 314 History of the English Reformation, 257 of the Popes, 220; of wood-engraving, 161 Hogarth's Bedlam, 204 Holbein, xxix, 77, 162; and the Iconoclasts, 78; religious pictures, 78 Hospital, first American, 287; of St. John at Bruges, 72, 199 Hospitals, 169; and surgery, 410; decline after Reformation, 560; decoration of, 199; gardens of, 199; in Spain, 201; medieval, 192; modern, 192; nursing, 198; of the Innocents, 90; old-time, 192; organization of, 197; private patients in, 197; Santo Spirito, 196; Sir Thomas More on, 200-201 Hôtel de Ville of Louvain, 124 Houillier (Holleris), Jacques, 396 Hours, Book of, 148 House of the Red Children, 306 Howard, Earl of Surrey, 497 Hroswitha, the nun dramatist, 314 Hugo von Pfolspeundt, 421 Hugo, Victor, on Lucretia Borgia, 304 Humanists, The, and antiquity, 528; and Christianity, 528; and England, 531; and France, 531; The Earlier or Scholastic, 527; The Intermediate or Rational, 527; The Later or Protestant, 527; Throughout all of Western Europe, 531; Portugal and, 531; Spain and, 531 Hunt, Bonavia, 138 Hunter, George Leland, on tapestries, 109 Hunter, William, 364 Hutchinson, Ann, 255 Hutten, Ulrich von, 523 Hydrophobia, 402 Hygiene, popular, 406 Hythlodaye, Raphael or Ralph, 438 I Ignatius Loyola, 208 (see St. Ignatius) Ignorantia, De Docta, 345 Illicini, 455 Incunabula, medical, 383 Indian manual training, 286 Indulgences, Luther and, 249; Manning and, 249; Newman and, 249 Ingrassias, 414 Innocents, Hospital of the, 90 Innsbrück, xxxi, 102 Inquisition in Spain, 295 Insane, Care for, in Spain, 203; Brutal suppression of in 1750, 205; Visiting, as entertainment, 204 Insanity, studies in, 401 Interlude of Virtue, 493 Isaac, Sacrifice of, 10 Isabella of Castile, xxxix; administration, 291; and Elizabeth, 293; children of, 292; benevolence of, 295; Indians and, 293; Inquisition and, 295; Letters of, 476; studies of, 291; style of, 292; unhappiness of, 293 Isabella D'Este's apartments, 323 Italian academies, 510; teachers everywhere, 501 Italy, best gentlewoman of, 301; graduate study of, 347, 501; medical world teaching in, 386 {572} J Jaeger, Johann, of Dornheim, 523 Janssen, 244, 528 Jan van Mabuse, 74 Jessop, Rev. Augustus, 174, 256; Before the Great Pillage, 257 Jesuit, astronomy, 218; bibliography, 216; competition, 214; constitution, 209 Missions in Brazil, Chile, China, India, Japan, North America, Mexico, Peru, 211; relations, 213; schools, 214; scientists, 217; students, 215; themes, 214 Jesuits, Bacon and, 215; bark, 213; Bancroft and, 213; Descartes and, 215 Harvey and, 218; instructors in Europe, 215; Kepler and, 218; meteorology and, 220: Parkman and, 215; philology and, 213; seismology, 220 Jewel boxes, 113 Jodocus Lommius, 396 Jogues, 213 John of Avila, 480 John of Bologna, Mercury, 94; Neptune, 94; Rape of Sabines, 95 John of Dalberg, 520, 524 John II of Portugal, 263 John, Prester, 263 Johnson, Samuel, 432; on More, 498 Joinville, 470 Joost van Lom, 396 Jörg, Syrlin, 99 Josquin, xxxii, 135; Ave Maria, 136 Juan de Borgona, 82 Juan de Juanes, 82 Julius II, Pope, 7; Tomb of, 37 Juste, Jean, xxxi, 105 Justinian, Pandects of, 532 Justin Martyr, 533 Justus of Ghent, 4, 74 K Kalkar, 164 Kelly, Fitz-Maurice, 479 Kettelwell, Life of Thomas à Kempis, 516 Kildare, 314 King's Highway, 289 King's Quair, 496 Kircher, 218 Kircherian Museum, 219 Kraft, xxxi; Adam, 101 Kraus, Professor, 9 L Labé, Louise (La Cordière), 331 Ladies of the Olden Time, 462 La Gioconda, 15 La Harpe, 433 Lallemant, 212 Lamartine, 433 Lamennais, 433 Lancisi, 368 Landino, 507 Lang, Mr. Andrew, 385 Langen, Rudolph von, 521, 527 Lapidé. 216 Lascaris' Grammar, 151 Las Casas, 186; 270; and Indian abuses, 187 Lasso, _princeps musicae,_ 138 Lassus, 138 Latimer, 543 Latin, universal academic language, 427 Latres of Mons, 137 Laws, pure food, 406 Lazarillo de Tormes, 479 Learning, New, 246; confusion of, 502 Lecky, 203 Lee, Mr. Sidney, 276, 437 Leland the antiquary, 176 Leonardo da Vinci, xxx, 1, 5, 55, 67, 75, 92, 102; and Michelangelo, 36; as biologist, 355; as engineer, 21; as scientist, 353; botany, 25; canals, 22; career, 26: dissection, 24; geology, 23; inventions, 21, 353; mechanical toys, 28; optics, 354; on war, 30; philosophy of life, 30; proposed text-books of anatomy, 364; studies in efficiency, 26; study of flying, 28; weather gauge, 354; zoölogy, 25 Leonardo's Christ, 17 Leonicenus, Nicholas, 384 Leopardi, xxx, 92 Leyden pulpit, 98 Liddon, 434 Lille, 110 Lilies, The Valley of, à Kempis, 431 Lily, William, 492, 543 Linacre, xxxv, xxxviii, 223, 228, 235; translations by, 471 L'Indaco, 10 Linnaeus, 378 Lippo Lippi, xxviii Literature, English Dramatic, 485; Latin, 428; mystical, 480; Portuguese, 481 Liver fatalities, 424 Livy, edition of, in 1543, 80; illuminations, 80 Lollardism, 256 Longevity, Cornaro on, 404 Lords, House of, before and after Reformation, 563 Lorenzo de' Medici, xxxv, xlii, 4, 40; poetry, 447; lament for, 448 Lorenzo di Credi, 55 Lorenzo Lotto, 63 Lo Spagna, xxix Lotti, Lorenzo, xxix Lotto, 7 Louvain university, 225; town hall of, 124 Low Countries, 307 Lubbock, Sir John, 434 Lübeck, 102 Luca delta Robbia, 89 Lucas van Leyden, 74, 161 Lucca health board, 407 Lucretia Borgia's apartments, 324; husband's grief, 305 (see Borgia) Lucretia Tornabuoni de' Medici, xlii, 317 Lucretius, 507 Luigi da Porto, 455 Luis de Granada, 480 Luis de Morales, 82 Luis de Vargas, 82 Luis de Leon, 480 Luther, 135, 246; and Denifle, 248; Grisar, 248; McGiffert, 251, 252; indulgences, 249; on divorce, 251; {573} permits bigamy, 251; relations to Zwingli, 250 M. Mabie, Mr. Hamilton, 515 Macaulay, 220; on the reformers, 258 MacFarren, Sir George A., 143 Machiavelli, 449: Acton on, 451; drama, 450; history, 450; Morley on, 451; novel, 455; place in literature, 450; style of, 450; "The Prince," 209 Madrigals, 446 Magellan, Ferdinand, 266; Straits of, 267 Maggi, 412 Magnet in surgery, 416 Magnetism, 390 _Maioli et amicorum,_ 166 Malory, Sir Thomas, 152, 495 Mania, 402 Mantegna, Andrea, xxix Manuzio, Paolo, 154 Marcantonio, 162 Marcellus, The Mass of, 139 Margaret of Anjou, 335 Margaret of Angoulême, or Navarre, or Valois, (See Marguerite.) Marguerita de Juanes, 84 Marguerite of Angoulême, (or Navarre, or Valois), xxxix; affection for brother, 305: charity, 306; grief, 306; Heptameron, 465; Marguerites de la Marguerite, 466; religious poetry, 466 Marguerite of Bourgogne, xxxix Marot's, Clement, sonnet on happiness, 464 Marquette, 213 Marriage of Witte and Science, 489 Martin of Bohemia, 263 Martinotti, 363 Martyr's _De Rebus Oceanicis, et Orbe Novo,_ 164 Mary of Burgundy's tomb, 98, 307 Mary, Queen of Scots, xxxix, 331, 336 Masaccio, xxviii, 65 Massa, 414 Massuccio Salernitano, 454 Masters, Four, of Salerno, 410 Matsys, Quentin, xxix, 73 Matthews, Brander, 166 Maximilian I, 525 McGiffert on Luther, 252 Medallion, xxxiii Medici, Clarice de', 301 Medici, Lorenzo de', (See Lorenzo.) Medicine and philosophy, 408; clinical, 382; incunabula of, 383; in Mexico, 281 legal, 408; medieval, 381; observation in, 401; printing and, 383; Rabelais on, 382; Renaissance in, 382 Meistersingers, 137 Melancholia, 402; Dürer, 15 Melancholy as self-will, 311 Melanchthon, 522; Servetus, 255 Melin de Saint Gelais, 467 Melozzo da Forli, 4, 65 Memling, xxix, 71, 97, 199 Memmelinc, 72 Memory, importance of, 503 Mercy, Brothers of, 201 Metal-engraving, 162 Method, inductive, 356 Mexico and Medicine, 281 Mexico's palaces, 288 Meyer, History of Chemistry, 389 Michelangelo, xxviii, xxx, xxxi, xlii, 1, 5, 6; admiration of, 43; age of, 51; and architecture, 40; and Dante, 41; and Leonardo, 36; and Vittoria Colonna, 47; as architect, painter, poet, sculptor, 52; dissection and, 44; early works, 35; handiness, 44; last words, 51; lack of jealousy, 43; little interest in books, 33; lonely, 45; modesty, 44; on matrimony, 45-6: personality, 47; Shakespeare and, 33, 41; the "divine master," 51 Michelangelo's David, 36; Moses, 38; religion, 49; St. Peter's (Rome), 116 Middle Ages, contempt for the, 245 Mignonne! Allons voir, 468 Milman, Dean, 434 Modernism, Renaissance, 244 Mona Lisa, 15 Monardes, 400 Monarquia Indiana, 279 Monasteries, evils of, 557; suppression of, 557 Montagnana, 395 Montaigne, 533 Montanus, 385, 386 Montefeltro, Battista, 319 Monte, Giovanni de, 386 Monti di Pietà, 180 More, Margaret, 337, 227 More, Sir Thomas, xxxv, xlii, 223, 259. 543; apology of, 233; as barrister, 226; as chancellor, 234; Confutation of Tindale and, 233: daughter of, 238; Deballation of Salem and Bizance, 233; Erasmus and, 226; family life, 226; household, 227; humor, 241; oath of supremacy, 236; obstinacy, 239; on hospitals, 200, 545; on marriage, 225; on physicians, 545; precocity, 224 Quoth He and Quoth I, 233; religious toleration, 545; sordid successors of, 242; standing armies and, 545; Supplication of Souls, 233 wealth display barbaric, 545 Moriae, Encomium, 241 Moroselli, 55 Morris, William, 148 Morte d' Arthur, 152, 495 Morton, Cardinal, xxxv; household of, 224 Moses, Michelangelo's, 38 Mouton, Jean, 143 Mummies, 390 Municipalata palace, 122 Muretus, 541 Murmellius, 521 Music, xxxii; Columbian, 134; Doctor of, 136; polyphonic, xxxii, 139 Musurus, handwriting of, 153 Muth, Conrad, Mutianus, Rufus, 523, 527 N. Nanini brothers, xxxii, 137 Nature imitates art, 70 Nature study, in Dante, 361; medieval, 360; Renaissance, 360 Nativity, Dürer, 339; Plays, 486 {574} Navarrete, 82 Navigation, French, 268 Neri, St. Philip, xxxii Nervousness, selfishness and, 311 Neuburger, 362 Newman, Cardinal, 181 Newton, xxvi New York, Discovery of, 268 Nicholas V, 510; chapel of, 53 Nicholas of Cusa, 27, 344, 518, 529; on truth, 519; on united Germany, 519 Nigramansir, 493 Novelas de Picaros, 479 Novelle, Italian, 454 Nuñez, 540 Nuremberg, xxxi, 75, 99; Bronze Founders of, 102; intellectual center, 347; Virgin of, 188 Nursing, Dark Period of, 193; decline after Reformation, 560; history of, 179; uniforms, 200 Nusquama, 233 Nutting and Dock History of Nursing, 179 O. Ockeghem, or Ockenheim, xxxii, 135 Olympia Morata, 327 Opera, xxxii Oratorio, xxxii Orlando Furioso, 443 Orthopedics, 413; Spain in, 421 Osler, Prof., 397 Ospedale Maggiore of Milan, 196 Oviedo, 399 P Padua, xxix Paganism and the New Learning, 529 Palace, Grimani, 120; Guadagni, 120; of Caprarola, 122; Pitti, 120; Riccardi, 120; Rucellai, 120; Thiene, 121; Tursi-Doria, 122; Vendramini, 120 Palestrina, xxxii, 136 Palilia, 508 Palladio, xxxi, 120 Palma Vecchio, xxix, 63 Palmerin de Inglaterra, 478 Pamplona, 206 Papal Physicians, Caesalpinus, 373; Columbus, 366; Eustachius, 367; Lancisi, 368 Papinian, 536 Paracelsus, xxxvii, 223, 386; Father of Pharmaceutical Chemistry, 390; medical chemistry and, 357; miracles and, 390; surgical hints, 419; wound epidemics and, 420 Paraguay Reductions, 212 Pardoner and the Friar, 489 Paré, xxxviii; Father of Modern Surgery, 411; on gout, 398; orthopedic armamentarium, 413 Pascal, 432 Passion Plays, 486, 488 Pater, Walter, 15, 58 Pathology, Aranzi, 395; Arcolani, 395; Benivieni, 395; Berengar, 395; Eustachius, 395; Montagnana, 395; Savonarola, 395; Vesalius, 395 Paul Preaching to the Athenians, 12 Pausanias, Monuments of, 536 Pavia, Battle of, xxxiv Peasant and Prince, 469 Perreal, 80 Perugino, xxix, 5, 7. 53, 55 Peruzzi, 7, 10, 17 Petau, or Petavius, 216 Peter of Pieve, 55 Pfolspeundt, Heinrich von, 383; advice to young surgeons, 423 Phillimore, Prof, J. S., 498 Phrenitis, 402 Physicians, Royal College of, 229; More's praise of, 408 Phytography, Cordus, 376 Picaresque novels, 479 Piccolomini, AEneas Sylvius, (See Pius II.) Pico della Mirandola, xlii, 9, 34, 223, 230, 507, 511, 524. Pierluigi of Palestrina, 142 Piero dei Franceschi, 65 Piero della Francesca, 4, 55 Pietà of Michelangelo, 36 Pillage, Before the Great, 174 Pilon, Germain, xxxi, 105 Pincianus, 539 Pinel, 203 Pinturicchio, xxix, 503 Pirkheimer, Charitas, or Charity, 330, 525; Conrad Celtes, 338; friend of scholars, 338 Pirkheimer, Wilibald, 338: Academy of Mainz, 524; friend of Dürer, 77; numismatics, mathematics, science, 526 Pius II, xxxv, 502, 543 Pizarro, 270 Placques, 112 Plant Iconography, 376 Plantin, Christopher, 464 Platina, 508 Plato, 8, 516, 526, 530 Platonic love, 48 Plays, Mystery and Miracle in England, 485; in Italy, 445; on the continent, 487; Morality, xlii; Nativity, 486; Passion, 488 Pledges, unredeemed, 180 Pleiades, xlii, 468 Pliny, 535; the Elder, 378 Plumptre, Dean, 434 Plutarch, 526, 536; morals of, 536 Poetry, Latin, 428; of passion, 467 Poggendorff, 219 Poliphilo, Dream of, 159 Politian, 34, 327, 507; Orfeo of, 445 Pollaiuolo, xxxii Polychronicon, 151 Polyglot, Complutensian, 539 Pomponius Laetus, 508, 524 Ponce, Maitre, 105 Pontano, 510 Portugal, scholarship in, 541 Porretane, 454 Portuguese, Sonnets from, 484 Pott's Disease, 414 Predestination, 254 Prescott, 293; on Ferdinand and Isabella, 333; on the Inquisition, 295; Isabella and Elizabeth contrasted, 293 Prieur, Barthélemy, 105 Prince, The, 449; and Peasant, 469 Printing, medical, 383 {575} Prohibitionist, early, 407 Propertius, 507 Ptolemy, 526; Almagest of, 346 Puerbach, or Purbachius, 345; and Bessarion, 504 Purgatory, Treatise on, 299 Puritan intolerance, 255 Puschmann, History of Medical Education, 362 Pyaemia, 420 Q Queen Elizabeth (see Elizabeth) Quentin Matsys, 97 Quintilian, 507 Quoth He and Quoth I, 233 R Rabelais, xlii; and feminine education, 536; and medicine, 382; circulation of blood and, 369; misunderstood, 472; place in literature, 474; Renaissance and, 475; tolerance of time, 473 Radewyns, Florence, 515 Ralph Royster Doyster, xlii, 494 Ranke, 220; on Guicciardini, 452 Raphael, 1, 67, 75, 92, 107; as archaeologist, 14; as art director, 14 Rapiarium, 517 Rea, Hope, 88 Recreation before Reformation, 565 Reductions of Paraguay, 212 Reformation, 243; and academic freedom, 555; and art, 554; and education, 554; and decadence, 554; and internationalism, 566; and House of Lords, 563; and political descent, 564; and popular happiness, 565; and progress, 553; and sectarianism, 566; Andrew Lang on, 258; Copernicus and, 352; Frederic Harrison on, 258; Macaulay on, 258; ruins art, 558; ruins scholarship, 555 Regiomontanus, 28, 223; and Bessarion, 504 Reisch, 529 Rembrandt, 15 Renaissance, xxvii; Italian, xxxi; ladies of the, 290; Science in, 343; The Later, 476 Repplier, Miss Agnes, "Our Loss of Nerve," 312 Reuchlin, xxxv, 523, 528; Cabalistic Books of, 393 Reuisch, 7 Revolt, Religious, in Germany, 243 Revolution, French Reactionary, 191 Rhodes, Cecil, and Cortes, 269; and Pizarro, 269; and Vasco da Gama, 269 Ribalta, xxix Ricci, Father, 211 Ricordi, 452 Robbia, Andrea della, Bambine of, 90 Robbia, Luca della, 89 Robusti, Jacopo, 68 Roman antiquities, 14 Rome, Ancient, Raphael's reconstruction, 14 Rome, Social Work at, 182 Romeo and Juliet, 454 Roses, Little Garden of, 431 Roses, Wars of the, 223 Rossetti, William, 93 Ronsard, 468 Rudolph von Langen, 520 Ruellius, 379 Rugs, Oriental, 107 Ruskin, xxvii; on Noble grotesque, 60; Stones of Venice, 60 Russell of Killowen, 432 S Sachs, Hans, 136 Sacristy of San Lorenzo, 40 Sahagun, 278 St. Ambrose, 522 St. Augustine, 522; De Civitate Dei, 437 St. Bernardine of Siena, 180 St. Brigid, 314 St. Catherine, of Genoa, 181, 298; Treatise on Purgatory, 299 St. Chrysostom, 522 St. Francis de Sales, 432 St. Francis Xavier, 210 St. George and St. Michael, 4 St. Gregory Nazienzen, 529 St. Ignatius Loyola, 182, 439; Spiritual Exercises of, xli, 439 St. Jerome, 522 St. Philip Neri, 137, 142; the Apostle of Rome, 181 St. Teresa, 307, 340, 476. (Sec also Teresa.) St. Sebald, shrine, 101 Saint-Amand, Imbert, 464 Sainte-Beuve, 464 Saintsbury, xl, 443 Salvers, 112 Sanchez, Minerva, 540 Sandys, 280, 524, 527, 532, 540 Sangallo, xxxi, 117 San Michele, xxxi, 120 Sannazaro, 510 Sansovino, xxxi, 102 Santa Croce Cathedral, xxxi Santi Raphael, 2 Sarto, Andrea del, xxviii Sassoferato, xxix Satire of Religious Abuses, 455 Savadino, degli Arienti, 454 Savonarola, 56, 183, 185; and art, 57; Benedict XIV, 185; Pius VII, 185; Raphael, 185; the reformer, 184; vindication of, 185 Scala, Alessandra, 327 Scaliger, 505. 537 Scent boxes, 113 Schoeffer, 146 Schaeuffelin, Hans, 161 Schenck von Graffenberg, 396 Schwarzerd (Melanchthon), 522 Scholarship, xxix; and wealth, 468; place of, xxxv; decadence in, 95; Teutonic, 513 Scholarship in Italy, decadence of, 512 Scholasticism, Erasmus and contempt, 245 Schongauer, Martin, 162 School of Athens, 8 Schubert, 140 Science, in Renaissance, 343; Jesuits and, 217; Progress of, xxxvii Sciences, Biological, 360 Scripture, knowledge of, 488 {576} Sculpture, Certosa, 95; decadence in, 95 Sebastiano Luciani, 63 Secchi, S. J.. Father, 218 Selling, William, 543 Seneca, 516, 522 Servetus, 369; and Calvin, 255 Seutonius, 522 Shakespeare and Michelangelo, 33 Sidney, Sir Philip, 481 Signorelli, 10, 56; and Melozzo, 65 Simon de Collines, 157; Book of Hours, 160 Sistine Chapel, 8; tapestries in, 111 Social Work and Workers, 169 Societas Literarum Danubiana, 524 Societas Literarum Vistuliana, 524 Socrates, 8, 516 Sodalitas Literarum Rhenana, 524 Sodoma, 7 Sophocles, 533 Sorel, Agnes, tomb of, 105 Spain, and care for insane, 203; architecture, 118; Feminine education, 333; in America, 278; scholarship, 537 Spanish America, 277; Literature, Golden age of, 484 Spiritual Life in shorthand, 440 Spirituality and common sense, 312 Splenectomy, 417 Springinklee, Hans, 161 Squarcione, xxix Staley, Edgcumbe, 300 Stanley, Dean, 514; the explorer, 432 Statius, 507 Staupitz, John von, 260 Stefano, Vanneo, xxxii Strachey, Henry, 8 Stratford, Chapel of Guild and Alms-houses at, 172, 176 Stratford-on-Avon, 131, 176 Suarez, 216 Superstition, Post-reformation, 561 Supper, Last, Leonardo's, 16 Supremacy oath, More and, 236 Surgeons, learned, 425 Surgery, and anatomy, 526; cosmetics in, 418; experience in, 425; hospitals and, 410 Sweating sickness, 383 Sylvaticus, 383 Sylvius, Matthaeus, 365, 383 Symonds, J. Addington, 41, 446 T Taft, President, on Philippines, 273 "Tag Day," 178 Taine, History of English Literature, 177, 353 Tales of Chivalry, 479; of Roguery, 479 Tapestries, Sistine, 11; art and, 107; Cluny, 111; Golden age of, 109; Morgan, 110; Rheims and, 109; Their Origin, History and Renaissance, 109 Tapestry, French and Flemish manufacture of, 110 Telegraph, sympathetic, 356 Telesio, Bernardino, 356 Terence, 522 Teresa de Cepeda y Ahumada, (St. Teresa), 307 Teresa, St., Crashaw on, 477; "Doctor of Church," 308; humor of, 310; hymn, 477 (see St. Teresa) Teresa, _mater spiritualium,_ 308; mystic, 310; power of, 310: style of, 309; writings, 477 (see St. Teresa) Terra Cottas, 89 Theater, Picture of, 491 Theophrastus Dioscorides, 378 Theodoric, 410 Thiene Palace, 121 Thompson, Francis, 207; Life of St. Ignatius, by, 221 Three Graces of the Tribune of Chantilly, 5 Tibullus, 508 Tilly, Arthur, on Rabelais, 474 Tindale, Confutation of, 233 Tintoretto, xxix, 53; Bacchus and Ariadne, 68 Tiptoft, Earl of Worcester, 542 Titian, xxix, 53, 75: Assumption by, 63; Bacchanals of, 64; Bacchus and Ariadne, 64; Entombment of Christ, 63; Presentation of Blessed Virgin, 63 Tolerance of Rabelais' time, 473 Torquemada, Juan de, 279 Torture, date of, 188; post-reformation, 561; under Tudors, 189 Tory, Geoffrey, 149, 156; Book of Hours, 157; King's printer, 158 Toscanelli, 28, 348 Tournai, 110 Tournefort, 377 Tours, xxxi Toussain, Jacques, 533 Tracheotomy tube, 416 Tragus, 376 Tramps, 171 Translations, Classic, 499 Trebizond, 505 Tregaskis, 149 Trithemius, 525, 527, 529; and Christian scholarship, 529 Trivulzio, Domitilla, 327 Troye, Recuyell, of the Historyes of, 152 Truth, Love of, Cusanus, 519 Turnebus, 533 Tursi-Doria Palace, 122 Tyndale, 500 Types, Arabian, 151; Anglo-Saxon, 151; Greek, 151; Hebrew, 151; Irish, 151; Italian, 151; Russian, 151; Syrian, 151 U Udall, Nicholas, 494 Ulm, Choir stalls of, 99 University of Lima, 279; of Mexico, 279 University, Papal charters, 281 Ursula, Shrine of St., 73 Ursulines, Charlestown fire, 329; foundation of, 329; in America, 329; New Orleans in 1726, 329 Utopia, xli, 232, 436; and Plato's Republic, 439; Astrology, 551; Author's home, 553; books in, 552; division of day in, 552; forest conservation, 551; life of pleasure in, 551; illustrations in, 162; More's, 429; Religious toleration in, 546; standing armies in, 547 {577} V Valentine, Basil, 357; works, 392 Valles, Francisco, 396 Valves in veins, 361 Van Eyck, brothers, xxix, 71, 97 Vanneo, Stefano, xxxii Vannucci, Pietro, 55 Van der Weyden, Roger, 71, 97 Varro, 508, 533 Vasari, xlii, 17, 87, 89, 107, 453; Herodotus of art, 453 Vasco da Gama, 263 Veit Stoss, 99 Velasquez, 15 Vendramini Palace, 120 Venturino, Francesco, 33 Vergara, 540 Vernacular, 246 Vernazza, Battistina, 300 Verona, Isotta of, 327 Veronese, xxix, 53; Marriage at Cana, 69 Veronica de Gambara, 327 Verrazano, 268 Verrocchio, xxx, 55, 90; Colleoni, 21 Vesalius, xxxvii, 25; Father of anatomy; 164, 365 Vespucci, Amerigo, 264 Vidus Vidius, 416 Viel, Gabriel, 529 Vignola, 122 Vigo, John de, 414 Villa of Pope Julius, 122 Villehardouin, 470 Villon, xxxvi, 462 Virago of Forli, 301 Virgil, study of, 315; birthplace of, 315 Virgins, youthful, 36 Vischer family, xxxi, 101, 104 Vischer, Peter, 101 Visualization, artistic, 70 Vittoria Colonna, xxxix; and Michelangelo, 47; character, 297; letter on honesty, 296; writings, 297 Vittorino da Feltre, 314 Vivarinis, xxix Vives, 540 W Warham, Archbishop; xxxv, 521 War, the climax of animal frenzy, (Leonardo), 30 Wars of the Roses, 223 Wasmann, S. J., Father, 219 Wealth and scholarship, 468 Wesley, John, 190, 259 West, The Call of the, 276 Weyden, Roger van der, xxix, 97 Weyer (Wierius), Johann, 396, 416 Wickersheimer, 405 William of Salicet, 410 Wimpheling, 520, 527, 529 Windesheim, 515 Wine, abuse of, 407 Winternach, 402 Witchcraft, 190 Wolff, Caspar, 417 Wolseley, General, 432 Wolsey, Cardinal, 234 Women, and Renaissance gardens, 322; chances of education for, 326; wrongs of, 332 Women's apartments, 322 Woodberry, 161 Wood-carving, Bruges, 98; German, 99 Wood-engraving, 161 Woodville, Elizabeth, 335 Worms, Diet of, xxxiv Wyatt, Sir Thomas, 497 Wynken de Worde, 151 Würtz, Felix, 411, 417 X Xenophon, German, 526 Ximenes, Cardinal, xxxv, 438 Z Zwingli, 250 
42560	----	https://archive.org/details/memoirsofdukesof01dennuoft Project Gutenberg has the other two volumes of this work. Volume II: see http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/44235 Volume III (including the index): see http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/50577 Transcriber's note: This work was originally published in 1851. As noted below, footnotes marked by an asterisk were added by the editor of the 1909 edition, from which this e-book was prepared. Obvious printer errors have been corrected without note. Other errors are indicated by a [Transcriber's Note]. Certain spelling inconsistencies have been made consistent; for example, Pietro della Francesca has been changed to Piero della Francesca; Rafaelle to Raffaele; and Pintoricchio to Pinturicchio. Full-page illustrations have been moved so as not to break up the flow of the text. MEMOIRS OF THE DUKES OF URBINO Illustrating the Arms, Arts & Literature of Italy, 1440-1630 by JAMES DENNISTOUN OF DENNISTOUN A New Edition with Notes by Edward Hutton & Over a Hundred Illustrations In Three Volumes. VOLUME ONE [Illustration] London John Lane The Bodley Head New York John Lane Company MCMIX William Brendon and Son, Ltd., Printers, Plymouth [Illustration: JAMES DENNISTOUN OF DENNISTOUN _From a medallion in the possession of his Nephew, James N. Dennistoun of Dennistoun_] TO EDMUND G. GARDNER IN AFFECTIONATE ADMIRATION THIS NEW EDITION OF A FAMOUS BOOK IS DEDICATED BY THE EDITOR INTRODUCTION It is surely unnecessary to make any apology for this second edition of the _Memoirs of the Dukes of Urbino_. Notwithstanding all that has been done in the last fifty years by historians on the one hand, and by imaginative writers on the other, with the object of elucidating the history of that part of Central Italy which lies within the ancient confines of Umbria, or of appreciating the humanism of that Court which was once a pattern for the world, this book of James Dennistoun's remains the standard authority to which every writer within or without Italy must go in dealing in any way with these subjects. This very honourable achievement has been won for the book by the eager and methodical research of the author, who made himself acquainted with all available original sources, and in the years of his sojourn in Italy must have read and turned over a vast number of MSS., of which some have since been printed in various _Bollettini_, but a great number still remain in those Italian libraries which, always without an efficient catalogue and often without an excuse for one, are at once the delight and the despair of the curious student. For this reason, if for no other, such a work as this was not easy to supersede, and so, though a later writer always has an advantage, it was not outmoded by the careful and loving work of Ugolini in his _Storia de' Conti e Duchi d'Urbino_, which was written, I think, in exile. But Dennistoun's _Dukes of Urbino_ is not merely a history of the houses of Montefeltro and Della Rovere, of their famous and most brilliant Court, and of that part of Italy over which they held dominion, but really a work in belles-lettres too, discursive and amusing, as well as instructive. It deals not merely with history, as it seems we have come to understand the word, a thing of politics--in this case the futile and childish politics of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries in Italy--but illustrates "the arms, arts, and literature of Italy from 1440 to 1630." And indeed this programme was carried out as well as it could be carried out at the time these volumes were written. The book, which has long been almost unprocurable, is full, as it were, of a great leisure, crammed with all sorts of out-of-the-way learning and curious tales and adventures. Sometimes failing in art, and often we may think in judgment, Dennistoun never fails in this, that he is always interested in the people he writes of, interested in their quarrels and love affairs, their hair-breadth escapes and good fortunes. How eagerly he sides with Duke Guidobaldo, chased out of his city of Urbino by Cesare Borgia! It is as though he were assisting at that sudden flight at midnight, and, whole-heartedly the Duke's man as he was, almost fails to understand what Cesare was aiming at, and quite fails to see what Cesare saw too well--the helplessness of Italy, at the mercy, really, of the unconscious nations of the modern world. Such failures as this make his work, indispensable as it is, less valuable than it might have been, but they by no means detract from the general interest of the story. That is a quarry from which much has been hewn, and a good many of those enduring blocks which go to make up so popular and charming a work as _John Inglesant_ came in the first instance from Dennistoun's volumes. A second edition then, of such a work, as it seems to me, needs no excuse. What must, perhaps, be excused is my part in it, the intrusion of another personality into what was so completely the author's own. Yet I can truly say that I have intruded myself as little as possible, and, indeed, so far as the text goes, it stands almost as Dennistoun left it, with the correction of such errata as were due partly to the printers and partly to the oversight of the author. The notes which have been my business, my only part in the work, have filled the leisure of three years. They are far from being complete, and are imperfect in a thousand ways, as I know perhaps better than any one else, but they are as good and as useful as I could make them, and represent in some sort the work not of three years, but of ten. As for my intention in republishing Dennistoun's book with notes from my hand, I can frankly say that I undertook it from a love of all that concerns Italy, and especially Umbria, and therefore I have worked at it with joy through the long winter evenings, and in summer I have often raised my eyes from my manuscript to watch the dawn rise over Urbino and the beautiful great hills among which she is throned. And you, too, had you watched her thus, would have been sure that no labour of love could be too great for her. And then Dennistoun's book is so fine a monument of the love England has always borne to Italy. And I would be concerned in that too. Yet sometimes I have thought that, in spite of all my labour--and, though I loved it, labour it was--rather than sitting down to annotate another man's work, I should have done better to write my own. Friends, such as one must hear, were neither slow nor without persistence in impressing this upon me. I heard them and shook my head. I am not an historian, but a man of letters. This book is, after all, the work of one who thought well of facts, while I cannot abide them. For one idea, as I know well, I would give all the facts in the world. So the writing of history is not for me; for history is become a sort of science, and is no longer an art. And therefore I gladly leave her to the friend to whom I humbly dedicate my edition of this book, and to the virile embraces of Mr. William Heywood, who first led me into this nightmare of facts from which I am but just escaped. Let them settle it between them. For me there remains all the uncertainties that, God be thanked, can never be decided or be proved merely to have happened. Thinking thus, I soon gave up any thought of writing the history of the Counts and Dukes of Urbino myself, and turned a deaf ear to those who would tempt me to it. I went on with my notes, however, partly from the joy one feels in playing with fire and all such mysterious and dangerous things, and partly from a hope that one day they might serve in some sort as finger-posts to an Englishman who should take up this subject and study it over again, from the beginning, more simply than Dennistoun was able to do. As for Dennistoun's book, it always had my love, and day by day as I have worked through and through it, it has won my respect. Full of digressions, a little long-drawn-out, sometimes short-sighted, sometimes pedantic, it is written with a whole-hearted devotion to the truth and to the country which he loved. The facts are wonderfully sound, and if that part of the book for which it was most highly praised when it was first published--the chapters that deal with the history of Art--is become that which we can praise least, we must remember that in art, in painting more than anything else, fashion is king, and that the thrones from which we have driven Guido Reni, and perhaps Raphael, setting up in their stead other masters, are as likely as not to be in the possession of usurpers to-morrow, and we in as bad a case as our fathers. Perhaps I may say a word about the illustrations. The book was one which lent itself very easily to illustration, and the great generosity of the publisher in this matter has been of the greatest satisfaction to me. I have sought in selecting my pictures to reflect the spirit of the book, which concerns itself with many a hundred things besides the Counts and Dukes of Urbino. As well as trying to give the reader all the portraits, or nearly all, that I could find, of the Montefeltro and Della Rovere Dukes, their Duchesses and courtiers, the men of letters, and the painters with whom they surrounded themselves, and the pictures of their gallery, I have made an attempt to illustrate the dress of the time--at a wedding, for instance, or in time of mourning; and seeing that this is for the most part a feminine business, I have chosen very many portraits of ladies, not only because they were beautiful, though there was that too, but also because they illustrated the manners of dressing the hair, or the wearing of jewels, and so forth; and I think this may be cause for entertainment as well as knowledge. With regard certainly to two of the portraits I reproduce, I should like to suggest that they are of more than a superficial importance. I refer to the portraits of "Giulia Diva" and "Cesare Borgia," reproduced on page 330 of Vol. I. from contemporary medals now in the British Museum, by the courtesy of Mr. G.F. Hill, who had casts made for me. The first, that of "Giulia Diva," I suggest is a portrait of Giulia Bella, Giulia Farnese, that is, mistress of Alexander VI. If it be so it is very precious, for no portrait of her is known to exist, and though in this medal, struck about 1482, she seems already middle-aged, we most probably see there the portrait of her whom the Pope would scarcely let out of his sight. Of the two reputed portraits, the nude figure, lying on the tomb in the apse of St. Peter's, was carved some thirty years after her death, and since the monument it adorns commemorates a Farnese Pope, it is little likely to be the beautiful Giulia who was in some sort the shame and not the boast of her house. Ruined now by the Puritanism that suddenly overwhelmed the Papacy after the Council of Trent, the body is almost completely hidden by the horrid chemise Canova made for her to reassure his master. The portrait of Giulia Farnese, which Vasari tells us is painted in the Borgia apartments, has never been identified. As to the medal of Cesare Borgia, we are, I think, on surer ground. It bears his name, and was struck, Mr. G.F. Hill tells me, about 1500. In the Borgia apartments, as we know, he was certainly represented, and though his portrait has never been surely identified, this medal agrees so perfectly with Pinturicchio's portrait of the Emperor there, before whom S. Catherine of Alexandria (always supposed to be a portrait of Lucrezia Borgia) pleads, that we may well believe we have in that figure a contemporary portrait of one of the greatest and most romantic personalities then living. My thanks are due to Mr. J.W. Dennistoun of Dennistoun for his courtesy in allowing me to reproduce the portrait of James Dennistoun, which forms the frontispiece to this work, and for his kindness in lending me the book from which I have drawn a good part of the Memoir which follows this preface. I have also to express my gratitude to Professor Zdekauer, Professor Anselmi, Mr. Edmund G. Gardner, Mr. William Heywood, Mr. G.F. Hill, Mr. William Boulting, and Mrs. Ross, for various assistance and kindness freely given whenever I sought it. I desire also to thank Mr. H.G. Jenkins for the infinite pains he has taken with the illustrations and the production generally of so large a book. EDWARD HUTTON. LONDON, _September_, 1908. MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR JAMES DENNISTOUN OF DENNISTOUN James Dennistoun of Dennistoun and Colgrain was descended from the ancient and noble Scots family of the Lords de Danzielstoun. The first of his house of which authentic records can be traced is Sir Hugh de Danzielstoun, witness to a charter from Malcolm Earl of Lennox, who lived during the reign of Alexander III of Scotland, who died in 1286. His son, Sir John de Danzielstoun, was the associate-in-arms of his patriotic brother-in-law, the Earl of Wigton, and of Sir Robert Erskine in the reigns of Bruce and David II. His son, Sir Robert, was one of the young men chosen from among the "magnates Scotiæ" in 1357 as hostages for the payment to Edward III of 100,000 marks of ransom for the release of David II. He seems to have been a prisoner in England for a long time. With him the direct line of the house of Danzielstoun failed, and the representation devolved upon his brother Sir William de Danzielstoun, the first of Colgrain. So we find that in 1828 James Dennistoun of Dennistoun, the father of the author of this work, having succeeded to his father 1816 in the estates of Colgrain, Camis-Eskan, and Kirkmichael, proved his descent as heir male of Sir John de Danzielstoun Lord of Danzielstoun, and obtained the authority of the Lord Lyon to bear the arms proper to the chief of his house[1] and thereupon assumed as his designation, Dennistoun of Dennistoun. He married in 1801 Mary Ramsay, fifth daughter of George Oswald of Auchencruive, in the county of Ayr, and of Scotston, in the county of Renfrew. By her he had thirteen children, and died on June 1st, 1834. [Footnote 1: The armorial bearings are: Argent, a bend sable. _Crest_, a dexter arm in pale proper clothed gules holding an antique shield sable charged with a mullet or. _Supporters_, dexter, a lion gules armed and langued azure; sinister, an antelope argent, unguled and horned or. _Motto: Adversa virtute repello._] James Dennistoun of Dennistoun, the author of this work, was born on the 17th March, 1803, in Dumbartonshire, and spent the greater part of his youth with his grandfather, George Oswald of Scotston, to whom he owed, as he said, his first impulse towards letters. About the year 1814 he and his brother George were placed under the care of a tutor, the Rev. Alexander Lochore, later minister of Drymen parish. He then proceeded to Glasgow College, and later read for the Bar, though with no intention of practising. He passed advocate in 1824, but seems by then and for long after to have been gathering information regarding the old families of Dumbartonshire, which he placed at the disposal of Mr. Irving, who acknowledges his indebtedness to him. It was in 1825 that he went to Italy, spending Christmas in Rome with a few friends, and meeting there Isabella Katherina, eldest daughter of James Wolfe Murray, Lord Cringletie, whom he married in 1835. In 1836 he sold the family estates, including Colgrain and Camis-Eskan, and purchased Dennistoun Mains in Renfrewshire, the property which gave name to his house. His visits to Italy then became frequent, their most important result being the _Memoirs of the Dukes of Urbino_, which he published in 1851. He died some four years later, on February 13th, 1855, and was buried at his own desire in the Greyfriars churchyard, Edinburgh, not in the family vault at Cardross.[2] [Footnote 2: The account given above of the life of James Dennistoun has been drawn from _Some Account of the Family of Dennistoun of Dennistoun and Colgrain_ (Glasgow: printed for private circulation by James MacLehose and Sons, 1906), kindly lent to the Editor by J.W. Dennistoun of Dennistoun, Esq.] The best contemporary account of his life appeared in the _Gentleman's Magazine_ for June, 1855, which he was so fond of quoting. "Mr. Dennistoun," we read there, "was born in Dumbartonshire in 1803, and was the representative of the knightly house of Danzielstoun in Renfrewshire, one of the oldest Scottish families. He was educated at the College of Glasgow and qualified himself for the Bar in Edinburgh; but his taste took a different direction, and being possessed of sufficient fortune, he turned aside from the legal profession and devoted his whole attention to literature, in connection chiefly with the Fine Arts. He was an amateur of Art according to the true and proper meaning of that designation--he loved and admired Art, and studied to appreciate the best examples that the world possesses. Though in following out these studies he devoted much of his time to the Italian school, as there painting first arose in strength, yet he was no bigoted admirer, and could appreciate the qualities of all kinds of Art, whether Italian or German, ancient or modern. He then aimed at giving to the public the ideas he had formed regarding its principles, and the facts he had collected as to its history. He could not unfold before all his friends and visitors portfolios filled with sketches, done by himself, of passes in the Alps, or of scenery in the Tyrol, or of views of the Temple of the Sibyl at Tivoli, of Mount Vesuvius, etc.; but to all who wished to learn, he could impart in a manner the most simple and unpretending, but with a clearness and elegance that impressed and charmed all who were privileged to hear him (and these were many), information and instruction on almost everything relating to Art: while he often explained and illustrated what he stated by reference to examples he had himself collected--many of them of great rarity and value. "He was a member of most of those societies formed for collecting materials for, and adding to and illustrating the literature of Scotland, and besides editing several important publications by the Bannatyne and Maitland Clubs, contributed many interesting papers on subjects connected with Art to most of the leading periodicals, particularly to the _Edinburgh_ and _Quarterly Reviews_. "His first work, we believe, was the edition of Moysie's _Memoirs of the Affairs of Scotland from 1577 to 1603_, which he contributed to the Bannatyne and Maitland Clubs in 1830. This was followed by the _Cartularium Comitatus de Levenax, ab initio seculi decimi tertii usque ad annum MCCCXCVIII_, edited by Mr. Dennistoun, and printed for the Maitland Club by Mr. Campbell of Barnhill. In 1834 another illustration of Lennox history proceeded from Mr. Dennistoun's pen, in a reprint of _The Lochlomond Expedition, with some Short Reflections on the Perth Manifesto, 1715_. He also edited the volume of _The Coltness Collections, 1608-1840_, for the Maitland Club, in 1842. _The Ranking of the Nobility, 1606_, was printed, along with some other papers, in _The Miscellany of the Maitland Club_. "A residence in Italy gave a new bent to his pursuits. One of the first-fruits of these Transalpine studies was a deeply interesting paper on _The Stuarts in Italy_, published in the _Quarterly Review_ for December, 1846. But by far the most considerable result of Mr. Dennistoun's Italian sojourn was his _Memoirs of the Dukes of Urbino_, published in three volumes in 1852. This work is of great value, as illustrating the state of Italy during the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, the portion devoted to the Arts of the period being particularly interesting; and it is to be regretted that from a delicacy carried perhaps too far, he has curtailed this important section--the one he could best handle--from fear, as he states in the preface, of trenching on ground entered on by his friend, Lord Lindsay. "Mr. Dennistoun was the writer of the article on Mr. Barton's 'History of Scotland' in the _Edinburgh Review_ for October, 1854; and also of the analysis lately given in the same periodical of the Report by the Commission on the National Gallery, which is very masterly, and, indeed, the only successful attempt yet made to grapple with that huge accumulation of facts and opinions of all kinds. "He had just lived to complete another very interesting work, consisting of the _Memoirs of Sir Robert Strange_, the excellent engraver, and of his brother-in-law, Andrew Lumisden, secretary to the Stuart princes, and author of the _Antiquities of Rome_. Sir Robert Strange was the maternal grandfather of Mrs. Dennistoun. To that lady, Isabella-Katharina, eldest daughter of the Hon. James Wolfe Murray, Lord Cringletie, a Lord of Session, Mr. Dennistoun was married in 1835." In the Report from the Select Committee on the National Gallery, published by order of the House of Commons in December, 1853, we find Dennistoun as one of the witnesses. His evidence appears to have been of some value, and the articles which he wrote for the _Edinburgh Review_, both before and after the Report was published, are excellent both in tone and substance. "You are the possessor," he was asked, "of a small and, I may say, very choice collection of Italian pictures, are you not?" "A collection of early Italian pictures," he answered. And, indeed, in his day such a collection must have been very rare in England, or, in fact, anywhere else. These pictures were sold with other works of art that had been in his possession, on Thursday, June 14, 1855, and by the courtesy of Messrs. Christie, Manson & Woods, of King Street, St. James's, I am able to print the catalogue they prepared for the sale, and the prices the pictures fetched. E.H. CATALOGUE OF THE HIGHLY INTERESTING COLLECTION OF PICTURES, AND OTHER WORKS OF ART, Of that distinguished Amateur, JAMES DENNISTOUN, OF DENNISTOUN, ESQ., DECEASED. The PICTURES comprise choice Examples of the Italian School, commencing with the Works of some of the earliest Masters; also of the Spanish, German, Flemish, French, and English Schools. The other WORKS OF ART include three very interesting early Paces, of Niello Work; Tryptics, of Ivory and Bone; a few Bronzes; Majolica Plates; Illuminated Miniatures; a Crucifix, in Boxwood, etc. WHICH Will be Sold by Auction, by MESSRS. CHRISTIE & MANSON, AT THEIR GREAT ROOM, 8 KING STREET, ST. JAMES'S SQUARE, On THURSDAY, JUNE 14, 1855, AT ONE O'CLOCK PRECISELY. May be viewed Three days preceding, and Catalogues had, at Messrs. CHRISTIE and MANSON'S Offices, 8, King Street, St. James's Square. NOTE: The figures in brackets are the prices at which the works they refer to were bought in. CATALOGUE ON THURSDAY, JUNE 14, 1855 AT ONE O'CLOCK PRECISELY Early Florentine 1 The Virgin, suckling the Infant £1 5s. Fra Angelico da Fiesole 2 The Madonna, and St. John £6 6s. Fra Angelico da Fiesole 3 The Resurrection, two soldiers sleeping beneath--very small. Pronounced by Dr. Waagen "a genuine picture." £44 2s. Fra Angelico da Fiesole 4 The Virgin enthroned, with two saints at her side. A very interesting small work. From the Gerini Gallery; on which Dr. Waagen says, "In this little picture all that earnestness and spirituality peculiar to that master is expressed" £56 14s. Berna di Siena 5 The Stoning of St. Stephen--painted on gold ground £2 10s. Giottino 6 The Crucifixion, on gold ground--small, with pointed top £5 10s. Giottino 7 The Crucifixion, with the Maries and the centurion and soldiers beneath--on gold ground, with pointed top £5 15s. Giottino 8 The Crucifixion, with the Virgin and St. John; the Magdalen kneeling at the foot of the cross--small square. £4 4s. Taddeo Gaddi 9 The Epiphany, and Visitation--parts of a predella £19 8s. 6d. Gentile da Fabriano 10 The Holy Family, seated before a building, the Magi in adoration, in the singular landscape background £21 School of Memmi 11 The Virgin and Child--a fragment £3 10s. S. Memmi 12 The Virgin and Child, with saints on gold ground--a fragment. From the collection of M. Lauriani of the Vatican--unframed £2 5s. Cos. Roselli 13 The Miracle of St. Augustine. An interesting composition of nine figures £15 15s. Don Lorenzo Monaco 14 The Nativity: the Virgin kneeling, St. Joseph seated on the ground, the Infant in a manger, the shepherds and angels above. From the collection of M. Lauriani, Librarian of the Vatican £9 19s. 6d. Giovanni Sanzi 15 The Madonna and Child £12 12s. Sano di Pietro di Siena 16 The death of Santa Monaca, who is being laid in the tomb by the Saviour and a bishop. An interesting specimen £9 9s. DUCCIO DI SIENA 17 A beautiful small tryptic, in five parts: in the centre the Virgin and Child enthroned; on the wings St. Nicholas, St. Peter, St. Paul, and St. Jerome, on gold ground; the Emperor Constantius and Empress Helena, and the Entombment on the outside of the wings. This interesting work is most perfectly preserved £22 11s. 6d. Greek School 18 St. Nicolas: a Byzantine painting--on gold ground [Transcriber's Note: price missing in original] Lorenzetti di Siena 19 A large tryptic: the Virgin and Child, with two angels in the centre; two saints presenting devotes on each wing--painted on gold ground, with pointed tops £30 9s. G. Schiavone 20 An altar-piece, on gold ground, described by Dr. Waagen as "an altar-piece by Gregorio Schiavone, in different compartments: in the centre the Virgin and Child; at the sides a sainted monk and John the Baptist; above, in the centre, the dead Christ, supported by two angels; at the sides, St. Anthony of Padua and St. Peter Martyr; below, on a predella of unusual height, two male and two female saints, inscribed 'Opus Sclavoni discipulus Squarcione S.' This is the best specimen known to me of this scholar of Squarcione; some of the heads are of good expression, the colouring of the flesh is less cold, the outlines of the forms less hard and cutting than usual" £46 4s. Giovanni Sanzi 21 Portrait of Raffaele, when a boy. The head is small, the neck long, the slight figure is clothed in a tunic tight to the throat, from which it hangs straight and loose, after the Italian fashion of the fifteenth century, and though ill adapted for elegance of drapery, its deep crimson colour and gold embroideries give a certain richness to the meagrely designed costume; on a white ledge under the figure is written in a hand much resembling that of Raffaele, "Raffaele Sanzi d'anni sei nato il di 6 Ap., 1483. Sanzi padre dipinse"; the back of the panel bears these words, also in old characters, "Rittratto del Piccolo Raffaele Sazi [Transcriber's Note: should be 'Sanzi'] d'anni sei nato in Urbino il di sei di Aprile 1483, Sanzi dipinse." A pamphlet addressed by Mr. Dennistoun to the Editor of the Art Union, proving the correctness of the day of Raffaele's birth as stated in the picture, accompanies it £55 13s. Bronzino 22 Portrait of Luigo Allemanno [Transcriber's Note: should be 'Luigi Alamanni'], the Florentine poet, in a black dress £5 5s. Baroccio 23 Portrait of the last Duke of Urbino, in a black dress, with a gold chain and badge of the Golden Fleece, his hand resting on a book £6 2s. 6d. Raffaellino del Colle 24 La Madonna del Garofalo--on copper. A beautiful copy from Raffaele--in frame carved with figures £13 2s. 6d. Al. Allori 25 Portrait of Torquato Tasso, in a black and crimson dress, holding a manuscript. Animated and delicate in conception, and carefully treated £26 5s. Titian 26 Portrait of Ariosto, in a blue dress. The very rare engraving by Persin accompanies it £85 1s. Paris Bordone 27 A Venetian Nobleman £5 5s. School of Fiesole 28 The Nativity, with landscape background £9 10s. Timoteo della Vite 29 The Magdalen, holding the vase and a book, in a landscape. Purchased from M. Lauriani, librarian of the Vatican £6 School of Perugino 30 The Epiphany: the Holy Family, seated before a building, the Magi presenting their offerings, their attendants in the background £29 8s. M. Albertinelli 31 The Virgin and Child, seated, in a landscape £7 7s. Gaudenzio Ferrari 32 The Nativity: The Virgin and St. Joseph kneeling over the Infant, who lies on the ground, three angels in adoration beyond, the angel appearing to the shepherds in the distance £18 7s. Cima di Conegliano 33 The Virgin, in a blue dress, her hands clasped, with the Infant seated before her on a window-ledge; a crimson drapery behind. Signed "Joannes Bta. Cone lanensis" £24 3s. Correggio 34 The Virgin, kneeling in adoration over the Infant, with architecture in the background--on copper £3 15s. Andrea d'Assisi 35 The Virgin and Child, on gold ground--panel--in architectural frame of the period £5 15s. 6d. Garofalo 36 The Nativity: The Virgin, St. Joseph, and a Shepherd, kneeling in adoration over the Infant, near a cavern; with beautiful landscape background £23 2s. Michele, of Florence 37 The Virgin and Child, with an Angel, surrounded by a border of bone carved with figures--circular £5 5s. P. Tibaldi 38 The Annunciation, with a choir of angels above £8 18s. 6d. Baroccio 39 Head of an Angel £9 L. da Vinci 40 The Virgin and Child, holding a pear. Purchased at Urbino, of the Vecciarelli Family £3 13s. 6d. Scarsellino di Ferrara 41 Christ in the garden £3 School of Perugino 42 St. Roch--a small figure £6 10s. Paduanino 43 Head of a duchess of Medicis--a fragment £1 15s. School of Giotto 44 Saints invoking Christ--two illuminated miniatures £4 10s. School of Titian 45 The Virgin and Child, on a grassy bank, gathering flowers £3 15s. School of Giotto 46 The Pentecost. A beautiful miniature, on vellum, with rich border £8 15s. School of Giotto 47 The Crucifixion, with Saints. A beautiful miniature, on vellum, with rich arabesque border £4 14s. 6d. School of Titian 48 Portrait of a Lady of the Medicis Family: Pellegrina, daughter of Bianca Capello, in a richly ornamented dress £4 14s. 6d. A. del Sarto 49 The Resurrection. An interesting small work in the Master's first manner. From the de Angelis Gallery, at Siena £4 14s. C. Maratti 50 The Holy Family £3 3s. Bronzino 51 The Virgin and Child, with St. Joseph and St. John. A very grand and beautiful design--circular, on panel [£21 0s. 0d.] G. da Carpi 52 The Virgin, in a crimson and blue dress, seated, with the Infant in her lap, before a sculptured portico; a green drapery suspended above--circle on panel. The Orsini Arms on the frame £141 15s. Luigi Agresti 53 The Last Supper. Very richly coloured, with the engraving £6 School of Brescia 54 The Virgin and Child, enthroned, with saints and angels in adoration £4 F. Vanni 55 The repose of the Holy Family--small £2 Schedone 56 The Virgin and Child £1 13s. School of Parma 57 A female saint, holding a salver of fruit--very elegant £4 4s. School of Ferrara 58 The Holy Family, with St. Francis and St. Jerome £9 9s. Guardi 59 A view on a canal, at Venice, with figures £11 0s. 6d. Guardi 60 A view on the grand canal--the companion £11 0s. 6d. Scorza, of Genoa 61 A pastoral landscape £1 6s. S. Rosa 62 A romantic bay scene, with figures--evening £4 10s. Serani 63 St. Cecilia, playing on the viol da gamba £5 7s. 6d. Testaferrata 64 A Roman piper £1 1s. Antonilez di Serabia 65 St. Raymond of Penaforte. From the Standish Gallery £3 13s. 6d. Montelinez di Serabia 66 St. Anthony, seated reading, near a chapel, with mountainous background. From the Standish Gallery £2 2s. Zurbaran 67 The Madonna of Mercy--four figures kneeling round her. From the Standish Gallery [£2 15s.] Murillo 68 The vision of St. Augustine of Canterbury: the saint is washing the feet of the Saviour, who appears in the likeness of a pilgrim; from his mouth proceed the words "Magne Pater Augustine tibi commendo Ecclesiam meam." This fine gallery picture was purchased from Don Julian Williams, by Mr. Standish, for £600, at Seville, in 1825; it was originally painted for the nuns of San Leandro Order of St. Austen, and sold by them during the troubles caused by the army of Soult, in 1810, to Dr. Manuel Real, from whom it passed to Don J. Williams. The picture is mentioned in the work of Herrera and d'Aviles Guia de Seville, 1832 £199 10s. Velazquez 69 Portrait of a Cardinal, seated, holding a book, the chair surmounted by shields of arms. Full of dignified character. From Cardinal Fesch's gallery £4 4s. School of Cologne 70 La Madonna Addolorata, in a crimson dress, a light-coloured robe. A very dignified figure. A fragment [£1 10s.] Wilhelm, of Cologne 71 The Marriage of St. Catherine with St. Agnes. They are in the foreground of a landscape, with buildings in the distance. From M. Wyer, of Cologne £14 3s. 6d. Van der Maire 72 St. Catherine, presenting a devotee. An interesting fragment £5 15s. 6d. Van Eyck 73 A fine dyptic, with the Annunciation: the Virgin kneeling, the Angel in a rich dress, holding a sceptre:--the portrait of the donor outside. From the Collection of M. Wyer, of Cologne £39 18s. Henri Blaes La Civetta 74 A tryptic, with the Virgin and Child in the centre, seated, in a landscape; St. Christopher and St. Anthony on the wings; an owl, the emblem of the Master. From the Collection of M. Wyer, of Cologne £17 6s. 6d. Dionysius Calcar 75 The Crucifixion: The Virgin and St. John weeping, with landscape background £8 8s. School of Hemmelinck 76 St. Natalitia, seated, holding a book, on which is a hand, cut off; with architectural background. From the same collection £12 1s. 6d. Matth. Guinendenwald 77 Portrait of Philip le Bel, in a crimson dress and black hat, wearing the collar of the Golden Fleece £6. Van der Goes 78 The Virgin and Child, enthroned; a damask drapery behind; landscape background seen on each side £22 1s. Lucas van Leyden 79 A very small female head--a fragment 18s. Martin Schoen 80 A tryptic: the Crucifixion, with the figures carved in wood, and painted background in the centre; the wings painted with the six stations; carved canopy work over the centre; the descent from the Cross painted on the outside £12 1s. 6d. Sustermans 81 Portrait of Galileo £4 10s. Sustermans 82 Portrait of a Florentine lady £2 4s. Van Dyck 83 The Adoration of the Magi--a sketch in grisaille £2 8s. Van Dyck 84 Portrait of the Earl of Strafford, in a black dress. Purchased from the Earl of Mar's collection, in 1805 £5 5s. Teniers 85 A landscape, with peasants and poultry near a cottage--upright--on copper £3 7s. 6d. Camphuyzen 86 A farm, with cattle, and a man milking a cow near a well. Very richly coloured £6 10s. Jan Steen 87 Portrait of a Burgomaster £5 15s. Poelemberg 88 The Riposo of the Holy Family, under a ruined building £2 10s. Wouvermans 89 Travellers, reposing under a sunny bank, near a pool of water £33 12s. Van Falens 90 Camp suttlers, with horsemen and numerous figures. From the Collection of Sir James Stuart £5 10s. Swaneveldt 91 A study of ruins--on paper £1 2s. Watteau 92 A fête champêtre £1 10s. Rigaud 93 Portrait of a French lady, holding a row of pearls £3 10s. Venetian 94 Portrait of the admirable Crichton, in black dress, seated holding a sword and a book; with long inscription. Dated 1581, with the engraving £13 2s. 6d. Roman School 95 Portrait of the Cardinal of York, in his robes. Purchased at his villa, at Frascati £1 10s. Sir P. Lely 96 Portrait of the Countess of Southesk, (la belle Hamilton) in a white satin dress, seated, holding a viol da gamba, in a landscape, from the collection of C.R. Sharpe, Esq. [£7 17s. 6d.] Sir Joshua Reynolds 97 A very small head of a lady 15s. Anthony 98 Henselope Burn 14s. Andrew Wilson 99 The Cascatelle, at Tivoli, with shepherds and goats in the foreground, admirably painted £33 12s. J.M.W. Turner, R.A. 100 A farm in the Highlands £2 8s. Rev. J. Thompson 101 The Trosacks. A beautiful finished study, given by the artist to Mr. Dennistoun in 1829 £3 J.M.W. Turner, R.A. 102 Fishing boats caught in a squall £8 15s. Millais, A.R.A. 103 A cottage barn, in Essex: a sketch of figures on the back £4 10s. WORKS OF MEDIÆVAL ART, AND CURIOSITIES 104 Eleven silver touch-pieces, for the King's Evil, of the Stuarts; and three bronze Papal coins £5 105 A pair of red silk stockings, worked with gold. Belonged to the last Duke of Urbino £6 106 A curious ivory die, representing a man seated; and four silver dice, in the form of men and women seated £1 107 A pair of brass church candlesticks £1 15s. 108 The Virgin and Child--a relief, in bronze £1 15s. 109 The Flagellation--a relief, in bronze £1 15s. 110 A miniature portrait of Queen Mary, mounted in silver, with slab of agate on the back £4 6s. 111 Raffaele School--Lo Spasimo di Sicilia--a drawing, in Indian ink and pen 6s. 112 A chalice, of silver, and copper gilt, with three busts of Niello work on the base £3 15s. 113 A female saint, in embroidery 5s. 114 Head of St. Peter, in tapestry. From the Cardinal of York's Villa £3 6s. 115 The Crucifixion, worked in ancient lace for an altar cloth £2 2s. 116 A very rare caterpillar's web, of unusual size [£2] 117 St. Mary, of Egypt, of pietra-dura, on lapis-lazuli ground £12 10s. 118 A Majolica plate, with St. Jerome, in a landscape: signed by Maestro Giorgio, 1521--imperfect £3 15s. 119 A fragment of a Majolica plate, with Mercury, with the initials of Maestro Giorgio, 1534 15s. 120 The agony in Gethsemane--a Limosine enamel £1 121 St. Dietburgha--painted on a caterpillar's web £1 6s. 122 A half dyptic, with two saints in relief in ivory, and Byzantine inscription £1 11s. 123 A crucifix, elaborately carved in boxwood, containing a rosary of silver thread £1 124 A large bronze Papal seal, with the Holy Family, and 8 smaller bronze seals--one of them, Johann Russell £2 5s. 125 Venus on a dolphin--a Venetian bronze, on oriental alabaster plinth £3 10s. 126 A bronze inkstand, supported on eagles, and surmounted by a figure £3 10s. 127 The Entombment--a relief, in bronze £10 10s. 128 A small ivory dyptic, with the Crucifixion, and the Virgin and Child, with two saints, in high relief, on gothic arches £10 10s. 129 A very interesting Pax, of Niello work, with Christ bearing his Cross, and appearing to Mary, inscribed above "Jacobus Suannes Cole"; the dead Christ, and emblems of the Crucifixion, in the lunette above £10 10s. 130 Another Pax, of niello, with the dead Christ and angels, inscribed beneath, "Pax tibi Pilastus," and frieze of arabesque; the Creation above--mounted in ivory £9 131 A curious bone tryptic, with the Crucifixion, attended by saints; St. Peter and St. Paul on the wings £8 18s. 6d. 132 A very interesting early Pax, of Niello, with the Virgin and Child enthroned, the latter holding a rosary; two saints kneeling on each side; a die on the ground in the centre [£2 15s.] The total amount realised at the sale was £1398 15s. 6d. AUTHOR'S PREFACE (1851) During nearly one hundred and ninety years, five Dukes of Urbino well and ably discharged the duties of their station, comparatively exempt from the personal immoralities of their age. The rugged frontier of their highland fief had, in that time, been extended far into the fertile March of Ancona, until it embraced a compact and influential state. Saving their subjects, by a gentle and judicious sway, from the wild ferments that distracted democratic communities, and from the yet more dire revolutions which from time to time convulsed adjoining principalities, they so cultivated the arts of war, and so encouraged the pursuits of peace, that their mountain-land gained a European reputation as the best nursery of arms, their capital as the favoured asylum of letters. That glory has now become faint; for the writers by whom it has been chiefly transmitted belong not to the existing generation, and command few sympathies in our times. But the echoes of its fame still linger around the mist-clad peaks of Umbria, and in the dilapidated palace-halls of the olden race. To gather its evanescent substance in a form not uninteresting to English readers, is the object of the present attempt. Should it be so far successful as to attract some of his countrymen to the history, literature, and arts of Italy, they will not, perhaps, be ungrateful to the humble pioneer who has indicated a path to literary treasures hitherto inadequately known to them. For such an undertaking he possesses no qualification, beyond a sincere interest in the past ages of that sunny land, and a warm admiration for her arts during their epoch of brilliancy. But a residence there of six years has afforded him considerable opportunities of collecting materials for this work, which he has been anxious not to neglect. A great portion of the duchy of Urbino, including its principal towns, has been thrice visited, and nearly every accessible library of Central Italy has been examined for unedited matter. To these researches, time and labour have been freely given; and in the few instances when his attempts were foiled by jealousy or accident, the author has generally had the satisfaction of believing that success would have been comparatively unproductive. To this, two exceptions should be mentioned. He was prevented by illness from recently visiting the libraries or archives at Venice; and the Barberini Library at Rome has been entirely closed for some years, in consequence of a disgraceful pillage of its treasures. Should the latter be again made accessible, the MSS. amassed by the Pontiff under whom Urbino devolved to the Church, and by his nephews, its two first Legates, can hardly fail to throw much light upon the duchy. The invaluable treasures of the Vatican archives have been to him, as to others, a sealed book; but the Urbino MSS. in the Vatican Library, those of the Oliveriana at Pesaro, and of the Magliabechiana at Florence, have afforded copious sources of original information, and have supplied means for rectifying omissions and errors of previous writers. Some of these materials had been freely drawn upon by Muzio, Leoni, and Baldi, biographers of the early dukes of Urbino, who have not, however, by any means exhausted the soil; the amount that remained for after inquirers may be estimated from the single instance of Sanzi's almost unnoticed rhyming Chronicle of Duke Federigo, in about 26,000 lines. The reigns of Dukes Federigo, Guidobaldo I., and Francesco Maria I., from 1443 to 1538, formed the brightest era of Urbino, and included the most stirring period of Italian history, the golden age of Italian art; but our regnal series would be incomplete without Dukes Guidobaldo II. and Francesco Maria II., who prolonged the independence of the duchy until 1631, when it lapsed to the Holy See. Its history thus naturally divides itself into five books, representing as many reigns; yet, as these sovereigns were of two different dynasties, it will be convenient to consider separately the origin of each, and the influence which they respectively exercised on literature and the fine arts, thus giving matter for four additional books. In Book First of these we shall briefly sketch the early condition of the duchy, with the establishment of the family of Montefeltro as Counts, and eventually as Dukes, of Urbino; but, regarding Duke Federigo as the earliest of them worthy of detailed illustration, we shall, in Book Second, with his succession, enter upon the immediate scope of our work. * * * * * Among many interesting publications upon Italy which have recently issued from the English press, is that of Signor Mariotti.[3] With a command of our language rarely attained by foreigners, he has clothed a vast mass of information in an exuberant style, savouring of the sweet South. As an episode to his sketch of Tasso, he dedicates to the two dynasties who ruled in Urbino a single page, in which there occur seven misstatements. John or Giovanni della Rovere was never sovereign of Camerino; his cousin, Girolamo Riario, held no ecclesiastical dignity; the "unrivalled splendour" of the Montefeltrian reign at Urbino did not extend over even one century; the wife of Giovanni della Rovere was neither daughter nor heiress of Guidobaldo I. of Urbino, nor had she any "just claim to his throne"; Duke Francesco Maria did not remove either his library or treasures of art to Mantua. These slips, by a writer generally painstaking and correct, surely indicate some deficiency in the accessible sources of information regarding a principality which has for centuries been proverbial, in the words of Tasso, as "the stay and refuge of gifted men." [Footnote 3: I speak of the first edition of his _Italy_; the reprint of 1848 is enlarged but not improved.] The truth is, that although the Dukes of Urbino figure everywhere as friends of learning and patrons of art, no work has yet appeared establishing their especial claim to such distinction, in a land where courts abounded and dilettanteship was a fashion. That of Riposati has indeed given us the series of these sovereigns, but his biographical sketches are meagre, and chiefly illustrative of their coinage. The lives of Dukes Federigo and Francesco Maria I., by Muzio and Leoni, are excessively rare; Baldi's crude biographies are either recently and obscurely published, or remain in manuscript. Out of Italy these authors are scarcely known. This paucity of illustration is not, however, the only cause why these princes have continued in unmerited obscurity. Whilst endeavouring to guard himself against undue hero-worship, and to subject the policy and character of those sovereigns to the tests within his reach, the author has been obliged in some instances to assume the functions of an advocate, and to defend them from charges unjustly or inadvisedly brought. This will be especially found in the life of Duke Francesco Maria I., who, as the victim of Leo X., and the opponent of Florence, has met with scanty justice from the three standard historians of that age in Italy, France, and England. The patriotism of Guicciardini, as a Florentine, was inherently provincial; as a partisan of the Medici, he had no sympathies with a prince whom they hated with the loathing of ingratitude; as an annalist he never forgot the day when he had cowered before the lofty spirit at the council-board. All that he has written of Francesco Maria is therefore tinged with gall, and his authority has been too implicitly followed by Sismondi, who, uniformly biassed against princes by his democratic prejudices, and seeing in Guicciardini an eminent denizen of a nominal republic, and in the Duke a petty autocrat, decided their respective merits accordingly. Again, Roscoe could save the consistency and justice of Leo only by misrepresenting the character of his early friend and eventual victim, and has not shrunk from the sacrifice. It has thus happened that, whilst ordinary readers have scanty access to details regarding Urbino and its dynasties, these names have been unduly excluded from many a page in Italian annals which they were well qualified to adorn.[4] [Footnote 4: Better evidence of the deficient information hitherto accessible could hardly be desired than the fact that ROSCOE, in his _Life of Lorenzo de' Medici_, ch. viii., entirely mistakes the family name of the first dynasty of Urbino.] To separate from the tangled web of Italian story threads of local and individual interest would be fatal to unity of texture and subject. It will, therefore, be necessary to treat Urbino and its Dukes as integral portions of the Ausonian community, and, while distinguishing every characteristic detail, to view them as subsidiary to the general current of events. But, since this course offers at every moment temptations to launch our tiny bark on a stream perilous to its pilot, prudence will keep us mostly among those eddies which, unheeded by more skilful mariners, may afford leisure for minute observation. If it be thought that the martial renown of Federigo and Francesco Maria I. merited more ample accounts of their campaigns, we may plead that arms are but a portion of our object. To mankind battle-fields are instructive chiefly from their results; while foreign and domestic policy, the progress of civilisation and manners, of letters and art, are in every respect themes of profitable inquiry. In a work undertaken with the hope of attracting general readers to the history and arts of Italy, controversial disquisitions would be misplaced. The student may detect occasional attempts to reconcile contradictory narratives and jarring conclusions; but religious discussion is excluded from these pages. The author is a Protestant by birth and by conviction, but it has been his endeavour to judge with candour, and speak with respect, of a Church which is the "parent of our religion," and which, during a great portion of his narrative, was catholic in the strict sense of that often misapplied term. He has mentioned without flattery, extenuation, or malice, such private virtues and vices of the various pontiffs as fell within the scope of his inquiry, leaving it to others to fix the delicate line which is supposed to divide personal errors from papal infallibility. * * * * * A considerable portion of these volumes was written in Italy, before the close of Pope Gregory's reign, and under impressions formed upon the existing state of the country. It has been their author's good fortune to know much of that attractive land during the last twenty years of the long peace, and to admire her substantial prosperity and steady progress. Between 1825 and 1846 he has seen in her cities new streets and squares rising, thoroughfares opened, gas-lights generally introduced, ruinous houses substantially rebuilt, crumbling churches and palaces renovated, shops enlarged and beautified, cafés, hotels, and baths multiplied and decorated, public drives and gardens created, equipages rivalling those of northern capitals, museums formed, galleries enriched, the dress and comforts of the population greatly improved, the street nuisances of Rome removed, the lazzaroni of Naples clothed. In the rural districts he has observed cultivation spreading, waste lands reclaimed, irrigation and drainage carried on, the great highways rendered excellent, whole provinces opened up by new roads, railways rapidly extending, rivers and torrents bridged, palatial villas springing up round the towns and watering-places, banditti suppressed, the peasantry ameliorated in aspect. He has learnt, from crowded ports and spreading factories, that capital was increasing and industry being developed. He has also noticed that, without organic changes, the political condition of the people was being modified; that Tuscany enjoyed the mildest of paternal governments; that in Lombardy, Piedmont, and Naples, many repressive statutes were in abeyance; that in Turin and Florence restraints upon the press were tacitly being relaxed; that scientific congresses were generally permitted, and political economy freely discussed; whilst, in regard to Rome, he ascertained the practical truth of a popular sarcasm, that prohibitory laws were usually binding but for three days. While conscious of all this progress, the author felt that much remained to be done. He knew that the advance of the country was only comparative, and rendered more apparent by her long previous stagnation. He daily had before him solecisms in policy, errors of administration, official indolence or corruption; above all, ample proofs that priests were no longer adapted for ministers of state. He believed that intellect was needlessly or unwisely shackled, and that, to ardent or speculative minds, the full blaze of knowledge might be less deceptive than a compulsory twilight. But, on the other hand, he was deeply convinced that, in material welfare, the Italian people were already far above the average; that any sudden change was more likely to endanger than to augment it; that, to a nation so listless yet so impressionable, so credulous but so suspicious, self-government was a questionable boon; at all events, that the mass of its present generation was infinitely too ignorant and unpractised, possibly too conceited and self-seeking, to comprehend the theory of a constitution, or to perform the duties it would necessarily impose. He knew further, that those who vaguely longed for change were usually blind to the benefits which their country already enjoyed, and had no definite or plausible plan for the removal of its grievances without perilling its advantages. He felt satisfied that, should an occasion ever present itself for testing their Utopian theories, native leaders, united in aims and worthy of their reliance, would be wanting. The movement party in Italy then scarcely numbered a man who had a considerable property to stake, a social position to lend him influence, or tried business habits to gain the confidence of his fellow-citizens. Those who stood prepared to pilot the vessel through revolutionary storms were, for the most part, persons whose detected intrigues, or rash outbreaks, had already driven them, with little credit, into exile, where, cut off from intercourse with home, and associating chiefly with kindred spirits expelled from other lands, they forgot much which it was important to keep in view, and learned little of that candour and moderation which are the true leaven of politics. Neglecting there those practical reforms of which Italy stood really in need, they devoted themselves to one idea. They set up the phantom of political unity as a new faith; they decreed that its worship should be the condition of their country's resurrection, and that all who demurred to it should be hunted down. Had they read Dante, or remembered what they hourly had seen, heard, and said in their native land, they would have known that their idol, like the image in Nebuchadnezzar's dream,[5] was of incongruous and incompatible materials; that their unitarian scheme was antipathic to every passion and prejudice of those upon whom they would thrust it. [Footnote 5: Daniel ii. 32.] * * * * * Under such impressions were written the very few allusions to the actual state of Italy which this work contains. The aspirations of her regenerators after nationality and constitutional freedom have since been fostered by her spiritual ruler, and prematurely fired by an explosion of French democracy. Subsequent events, under altered circumstances, may accordingly seem to have invalidated opinions therein expressed; but the end is not yet. The present continues overshadowed by gloom, and the torch of hope glimmers but dimly in the distance. A sincere interest in the country and its people dictates our prayer that the God of nations may grant an issue realising the fondest anticipations of genuine patriotism, and eventually crown these struggles with results compensating their recent evils. Yet when we recollect the condition of Italy as we left her shores four short years ago,--when we contrast the calm then around her institutions, the stillness of her every-day life, the careless ease of her nobles, the physical enjoyment of her middle classes, the simple well-being of the peasantry under their own vines and fig-trees,--we must sigh to see so much positive happiness perilled for contingent ameliorations which, if ever attained, may, like most political experiments, fail to realise the promised benefits. "Let him who sees mad war like deluge sweep Surrounding regions, learn his peace to prize; Let the poor bark with sides unripped, which tries In vain by helm and sail its course to keep, Make for the port. He lives perchance to weep, Who quits the genial air and smiling skies For depths unknown. O blind desire unwise Of mortals, spurning thus on earth to creep! O when, in this his mouldering garment frail, Did man, whose thread soon breaks and joins no more, Clear his own path, or by his power prevail?"[6] [Footnote 6: _Giovanni della Casa_, translated by JAMES GLASSFORD.] In a work of history, party politics ought to have no place; and when the nations are moved there is little inducement to assume a prophet's mantle. We, therefore, gladly leave a topic on which perhaps too much has been said. Possibly some Italians, to whom we have formerly represented that it were "Better to bear the ills we know, Than rush on others that we wot not of," may yet admit the truth of this suggestion. May they never personally realise the adage, that those who originate revolutions reap all their evils, without living to share their fruits! * * * * * A few words regarding the method adopted in these volumes. Of the names most conspicuous in Italian literature and art, a considerable proportion will there find a place; but readers who expect to see their productions enumerated, and their merits submitted to exhaustive criticism, will be disappointed. All that our limits permit, after rapidly sketching the revival of knowledge and the progress of that sacred painting which emanated from Umbria, is to mention those who have contributed to shed lustre over the duchy of Urbino, or who shared the patronage of its princes. The amount of notice allotted to each is therefore proportioned rather to its local importance than its absolute excellence; but, satisfied from experience how seldom a wide-spread interest attaches to individual details, our aim has ever been to generalise even those points demanding a more specific notice in connection with our immediate subject. As the recurrence of foot-notes in a popular narrative unpleasantly distracts the reader from its continuous course, these have been avoided, unless when especially called for; and the necessity for them in citing references has been in a great degree anticipated, by prefixing a list of the leading authorities consulted, which it is hoped will generally bear out views that have been honestly formed, after examining what seemed the best sources of information. Extracts have been introduced, where it appeared desirable to preserve the style or words of an author; but they are in most cases rendered (literally rather than with elegance) into English, except such specimens of poetry as could not be fairly estimated from a translation. Documents and episodical details, which would have encumbered the text, are appended to the respective volumes.[7] [Footnote 7: The most recent, and among the most interesting authorities for Urbino, is Passavant's _Life of Raffaele_, an admirable article upon which by Sir C.L. Eastlake, in vol. LXVI. of the _Quarterly Review_, suggested the present work. Had that biography been accessible to me at an earlier period, it might have assisted my labours, and perhaps modified some of my views; but I had no opportunity of consulting it until my own pages were nearly ready for press. It is the fruit of successful German industry, sweetened by candid and intelligent criticism, and its remaining still untranslated into any language is among the remarkable anomalies of literary history. I may be allowed here to mention that the accuracy and success with which Lord Lindsay and Mrs. Jameson have cultivated the field of Christian and legendary art, enable me to dispense with much regarding a subject which would otherwise have been more prominent in these volumes.] The majority of proper names being Italian, are written in that language, excepting such as, like those of places, and titles of popes and sovereigns, have long been familiar to English ears in a different orthography. In such matters uniformity of practice is the main object to be attended to, and having to choose between names as they were actually used and their English synonyms, we have preferred Giacomo Piccinino, Giulio Romano, and Lorenzo de' Medici, to James the Little Fellow, Julius the Roman, and Lawrence of the Medici.[8] There will often be mentioned districts and divisions of Italy which are defined by no exact political or geographical limits; it may therefore be well here to explain in what sense these somewhat convertible terms are employed. CENTRAL ITALY may be considered to contain the papal territory and the three Tuscan duchies; UPPER and LOWER ITALY include all the Peninsula, respectively to the north and the south of these states. Again, LOMBARDY is used as a generic term for the whole basin of the PO, the POLESINE being that portion of its delta, north of the river, which belonged to the Dukes of Ferrara. ROMAGNA stretches from the Po to the Metauro, from the Apennines to the Adriatic; LA MARCA, or the March of Ancona, continues the same sea-board to the Tronto: these two districts were long the cradle of Italian prowess, the allotment-land of petty princes; both were partially comprehended within the more ancient landmarks of UMBRIA, a mountain province lying east of the Tiber. The lower basin of this classic stream contained SABINA on the east, and the PATRIMONY of St. Peter on the west; the COMARCA lying south of the Teverone stream, and the whole wide plain around Rome being called the CAMPAGNA. TUSCANY, including the Sienese, ran northwards from the Patrimony, beginning below Orbetello; and Naples is familiarly called by Italians THE KINGDOM, having, until a recent date, been the only royal state in their fatherland. [Footnote 8: The case is stated by ROSCOE in his Preface to _Leo X._, and we approve of his decision, notwithstanding the objections taken to it in vol. VII., p. 356, of the _Edinburgh Review_.] Our chronology also requires the use of certain conventional terms, which ought to be defined. Assuming the close of the fifteenth century as the zenith of Italy's glory in letters and arts, in politics and arms, the only word specifically indicating that period is _cinque-cento_; but seeing that its lustre was attained under military and civil institutions, and was rendered permanent by studies and artistic creations, derived from the middle ages and breathing their spirit, the phrase _mediæval_ is extended to include that period. * * * * * Few things are more baffling to students of history than the true worth of money in different states and ages, and its relative value in reference to our own standards. It is impossible to over-estimate the convenience which tables, showing the fluctuations of currency and prices among different nations, would afford; but the difficulties of completing them may perhaps be insuperable. In order to supply this desideratum, however imperfectly, a few observations are here submitted. In considering the value of money at different periods, a variety of circumstances must be kept in view. There are, however, four elements to be embraced by all calculations for such a purpose: (1) the comparative weight of the coinage; (2) the respective amounts of alloy introduced into the standard of precious metals; (3) the effect produced on gold and silver value by the discovery of America; (4) the fluctuations in prices of commodities. The last of these elements includes and depends upon the others, so that a tariff of prices at various times might be practically sufficient for the object contemplated. The impediments, however, to obtaining such a tariff are apparently insurmountable. Statistical facts, incidentally mentioned by historians, or gleaned from original documents, must be received with large allowance. Articles of costly luxury in one age became abundant in another, and are at all times affected by local or temporary causes. Quality was also variable; horses, oxen, sheep, and poultry, reared or fed in rude times or uncultivated districts, cannot fairly be compared with those perfected by care and expense; the same may be said of wines, fruits, clothing; even land is saleable according to its condition, fertility, or situation. The test usually resorted to in such inquiries is corn; but weights and measures, seldom uniform, are with difficulty ascertained at remote periods, while exceptional prices are more frequently noted than average ones, by observers prone to record striking events rather than every-day facts. There are, however, some apparently admitted data not altogether unavailable for our immediate purpose. During the period embraced by our memoirs of Urbino, the standard of value prevalent in most parts of Italy was the golden florin or ducat. Of these probably equivalent terms, the former was generally employed in Central Italy, the latter in Lombardy. According to Villani, the florin of Florence, in 1340, weighed 72 grains of pure gold, 24 carats fine. Sismondi, in referring to a period about a century later, estimates its weight at 1/8 of an ounce, or 60 grains. Orsini reckons it, in 1533, at 70 grains, 22 carats fine. On the whole, it appears, from Cibrario and other authorities, that this coin, and its successor the zecchino, have maintained an almost uniform weight down to the present time. Assuming that gold in Italy had then the same _coinage-value_ as in England, it appears from calculations, founded upon Fleetwood's data, that the florin was, at these various periods, equivalent in contemporary English coin to 3_s._ 6_d._, 4_s._ 8_d._, and 5_s._ 10_d._ Again, the ducat of Venice is estimated by Daru at 4 franks in 1465, at 4-1/3 in 1490, and by Sanuto at 4_s._ English in 1500. Riposati, in a careful analysis of the coinage of Gubbio, proves that the conventional Urbino florin of 1450 should have contained 634-34/59 grains of silver, besides alloy, which would at that time have yielded 3_s._ 9_d._ English, or at our present pure silver value (5_s._ 6_d._ to the ounce) 7_s._ 3-1/4_d._ It would follow, from these several opinions, that the florin or ducat of Italy, in the fifteenth century, was equal to from 3_s._ 6_d._ to 4_s._ 6_d._ in _contemporary_ English circulation, which disposes of two elements for our calculation. The remaining two must have been inadequately kept in view by Cibrario, Ricotta, and Audin, who respectively value the florin of 1400 as _now_ worth 16-2/3 francs, that of 1490 at 14 francs, and that of 1500 at 12 francs; while in the _Library of Entertaining Knowledge_ it is set down at 10_s._ English in 1480. But if we assume the analogy of English prices as collected by Fleetwood, the result will be very different. From these it appears that an average cost of wheat and oats per quarter, in the fifteenth century, was about 5_s._ 2_d._ and 2_s._ 6_d._, while the wages of labourers and artisans were respectively 3-1/2_d._ and 4-1/2_d._ a day. Accordingly, if corn be taken as the test, money was then _ten times_ beyond its modern value; while, if we include labour and luxuries, the actual depreciation must appear much greater. We are greatly encouraged to find such an inference not very different from that adopted by three recent and important authorities. Prescott values the Spanish ducat of 1490 at 39_s._ 4_d._, and Macaulay states that of Florence in 1340 at 40_s._ sterling, while Sismondi calculates it at about 48 francs. On the whole, then, we venture to assume that the Italian ducat or florin of the fifteenth century was nearly equal to the present Spanish dollar, and that it would have purchased about twelve times the amount of necessaries and luxuries which that coin now represents in England--a discrepancy of course lessened in the next and each succeeding age, especially as the precious metals continued to flow in from the new hemisphere. This estimate is, however, offered with great deference, and only as a general approximation to the truth, by no means applicable to numerous exceptional cases.[9] [Footnote 9: By an elaborate process, founded upon very complex facts, Cibrario concludes that, with reference to the value of wheat in Piedmont, the florin is now worth only about double what it was in the fourteenth century; but this does not seem a fair test to the relative power of money even in Italy; and in a work intended for English readers, it appears necessary to bring out an estimate applicable to present prices in this country, not in Southern Europe, where money still goes much further than with us.] * * * * * In closing these preliminary observations, it is a pleasing duty to acknowledge the facilities obligingly placed at the author's disposal by kind friends in Italy and at home. The urbanity with which Monsignore Laureani afforded every assistance compatible with the stringent regulations of the Vatican Library, demands a tribute tempered by regret that death should have prematurely removed him from a trust which he usefully and gracefully discharged. To Don Pietro Raffaele, of the Oliveriana Library at Pesaro, and to the Abbé Francesco Raffaele Valenti, of the Albani Library at Urbino; to Signor Luigi Bonfatti, of Gubbio; to the archivists of many towns, and to the directors of not a few galleries in Italy, a large debt of gratitude has been incurred. The intimate acquaintance with the treasures of Italian art possessed by the Commendatore Kestner, minister from the Court of Hanover at the Holy See, was, with his wonted kindness and courtesy, freely rendered available. Mr. Rawdon Brown, whose profound knowledge of Venetian history and antiquities will, it is hoped, be ere long appreciated in England, as it already is in the Lagoons, has communicated most important documents, which the author was unable personally to inspect. Mr. F.C. Brooke, of Ufford Place, Suffolk, has likewise supplied some valuable notices. The embellishments of these volumes owe much to the friendly assistance of Mr. Lewis Gruner, an artist whose generous character and happy exemption from professional jealousies are not less remarkable than the success of his burin and the excellence of his taste. With a liberality unusual among English collectors, Dr. Wellesley, Principal of New College Hall, Oxford, threw open his stores of Italian historic art, and allowed the use of several rare medallions. To these, and to many whose good wishes have cheered him on, the author's thanks are thus heartily, though inadequately, offered. CONTENTS PAGE INTRODUCTION vii MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR xiii CATALOGUE OF THE PICTURE SALE OF THE AUTHOR xix AUTHOR'S PREFACE xxix LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS OF VOLUME I. xlix CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE OF CONTENTS OF VOLUME I. li BOOK FIRST OF URBINO AND ITS EARLY COUNTS CHAPTER I Topography of the Duchy of Urbino--Origin of the Italian communities--Their civil institutions and military system--Their principle of liberty--Political divisions of Romagna; opposed to modern speculations regarding centralization 3 CHAPTER II Origin of the Counts of Montefeltro, and of their sovereignty in Urbino and the surrounding country--Their early genealogy--Guido Count of Urbino--Antonio Count of Urbino 22 CHAPTER III Guidantonio Count of Urbino--The Ubaldini--Oddantonio Count of Urbino--Is made Duke--His dissolute habits and speedy assassination 42 BOOK SECOND OF FEDERIGO DI MONTEFELTRO, COUNT AND SECOND DUKE OF URBINO CHAPTER IV The birth of Count Federigo--Condition of Italy--His marriage and early military service--The Malatesta his inveterate foes--He takes S. Leo--Is invested with Mercatello 61 CHAPTER V Count Federigo succeeds to Urbino and acquires Fossombrone--His connection with the Sforza family, whereby he incurs excommunication--His campaign in the Maremma--Loses his eye in a tournament 85 CHAPTER VI Count Federigo enters the Neapolitan service--His two campaigns in Tuscany--Fall of Constantinople--Peace of Lodi--Nicholas V.--The Count's fruitless attempt at reconciliation with Sigismondo Pandolfo Malatesta, followed by new feuds with him--Death of his Countess Gentile 102 CHAPTER VII Count Federigo's domestic life--His second marriage--New war for the Angevine succession to Naples--Battle of San Fabbiano--Conclusion of the war--Humiliation of the Malatesta 120 CHAPTER VIII Count Federigo's home administration and court--Description of his palace and library at Urbino--His other palaces--The resources of his state 147 CHAPTER IX Count Federigo's varied engagements--Battle of La Molinella--Death and character of his enemy Malatesta--Affairs of Rimini 177 CHAPTER X Birth of Prince Guidobaldo--Count Federigo captures Volterra--Is again widowed--Receives the Garter and the Ermine--Is made Duke of Urbino--His patronage of learned men 207 CHAPTER XI The Duke of Milan assassinated--Count Girolamo Riario--The Pazzi conspiracy--Duke Federigo's campaigns in Tuscany--Progress of the Turks 233 CHAPTER XII The war of Ferrara, and the death of Duke Federigo--His character and portraits 258 BOOK THIRD OF GUIDOBALDO DI MONTEFELTRO, THIRD DUKE OF URBINO CHAPTER XIII The early promise of Duke Guidobaldo I.--Count Girolamo Riario assassinated--The Duke's marriage--Comparative quiet of Italy 295 CHAPTER XIV State of the papacy at the election of Alexander VI.--His election, character, and children--The aspect of Italy at the close of her golden age--The disputed succession of Naples reopened--Character and views of Charles VIII.--Proposed league to oppose him frustrated--State of the Roman Campagna--The old and new military systems in Italy 315 CHAPTER XV Italy ill prepared for the French invasion--Duke Guidobaldo sent against the Orsini--Lucrezia Borgia's second marriage--Descent of Charles VIII.--He reaches Naples and retreats--Battle of the Taro--The Duke engaged in the Pisan war--Is taken prisoner by the Orsini and ransomed 341 CHAPTER XVI The crimes and ambition of the Borgia--Murder of the Duke of Gandia--Duke Guidobaldo's expeditions against Perugia and Tuscany--He adopts Francesco Maria della Rovere as his heir--Louis XII. succeeds to Charles VIII., and to his views upon Italy--Cesare Borgia created Duke Valentino--Duke Guidobaldo at Venice 363 CHAPTER XVII The condition of Romagna--Cesare Borgia overruns and seizes upon it--The spirit of his government--Naples invaded by Louis, and handed over to Spain--Lucrezia Borgia's fourth marriage 379 CHAPTER XVIII Duke Guidobaldo's retired life--Cesare Borgia surprises and seizes Urbino--The Duke's flight--The diet of La Magione--Rising in the Duchy, and his return--He again retires 399 APPENDICES I. Poetry of the family of Montefeltro 427 II. Inventory of articles taken by Brigida Sueva di Montefeltro, _alias_ Sister Serafina, into the Convent of Corpus Domini 433 III. Poetry of Ottaviano degli Ubaldini 436 IV. Instrument containing the concessions demanded by the citizens and acceded to by Count Federigo, on being chosen as their Seigneur 438 V. Devices and mottoes of the Dukes of Urbino 443 VI. The illuminated MSS. in the Urbino Library 446 VII. Duke Federigo of Urbino a Knight of the Garter 450 VIII. The army of Charles VIII., in 1493 460 IX. The battle of the Taro, in 1495 463 X. The arrival of Duke Valentino at the French Court 468 XI. Ludovico Sforza's entry into Lyons, in 1500 470 XII. Sonnet to Italy by Marcello Filosseno 472 XIII. Marriage festivities of Lucrezia Borgia at Ferrara, in 1502 473 GENEALOGICAL TABLES _At end of book_ ILLUSTRATIONS James Dennistoun of Dennistoun. From a medallion in the possession of his nephew James W. Dennistoun of Dennistoun _Frontispiece_ TO FACE PAGE View of Urbino. (Photo Alinari) 22 The Battle of S. Egidio. After the picture by Paolo Uccello in the National Gallery. Portraits of Carlo Malatesta and his nephew Galeotto "il Beato" 44 Leonello d'Este. After the picture by Pisanello in the Morelli Gallery, Bergamo. (Photo Alinari) 54 Nicolò Piccinino. From a bronze medal by Pisanello. By the courtesy of G.F. Hill, Esq. 70 Vittorino da Feltre. From a medal by Pisanello in the British Museum. By the courtesy of G.F. Hill, Esq. 70 San Leo and Maiuolo. From a drawing by Agostino Nini 78 Federigo of Urbino. From the XV. Century relief in the Bargello, Florence. (Photo Alinari) 86 Francesco Sforza. From the XV. Century relief in the Bargello, Florence. (Photo Alinari) 98 Federigo, Duke of Urbino, and Battista, his wife. From the picture by Piero della Francesca in the Uffizi Gallery, Florence. (Photo Alinari) 120 Allegory. After the picture by Piero della Francesca in the Uffizi Gallery, Florence. (Photo Alinari) 122 Allegory. After the picture by Piero della Francesca in the Uffizi Gallery, Florence. (Photo Alinari) 124 Sigismondo Malatesta. Detail from the fresco by Piero della Francesca in the Tempio Malatestiano in Rimini. (Photo Alinari) 132 Urbino. From an original drawing by Agostino Nini of Bologna 148 The Flagellation. After the picture by Piero della Francesca in the Sacristy of the Duomo, Urbino. Supposed portraits of Duke Federigo and Caterino Zeno. (Photo Alinari) 152 Fifteenth-century Court of the Palazzo Ducale, Urbino. (Photo Alinari) 162 Pio II. at Ancona. After the fresco by Pinturicchio in the Cathedral Library, Siena. (Photo Brogi) 178 Portrait of Leon Battista Alberti. From the relief by Pisanello in the Dreyfus Collection 194 Pope Sixtus IV. From a miniature prefixed to the dedication copy of Platina's Lives of the Popes in the Vatican Library 202 Battista Sforza, Duchess of Urbino, second wife of Duke Federigo. From the bust by Francesco Laurana in the Bargello, Florence. (Photo Alinari) 214 Federigo of Urbino and his Family. Detail from the picture by Justus of Ghent, in the Palazzo Ducale, Urbino. (From the Ducal Collection.) (Photo Alinari) 216 Lorenzo de' Medici. From the fresco by Ghirlandaio in S. Trinità, Florence. (Photo Alinari) 238 Giuliano de' Medici. (Photo Alinari) 240 The Birth of Venus. Supposed portrait of Simonetta Cattaneo--mistress of Giuliano de' Medici. Detail from the picture by Sandro Botticelli in the Uffizi Gallery, Florence. (Photo Alinari) 242 Astorgio III. de' Manfredi. From the picture by Scaletti in the Pinacoteca of Faenza 258 Federigo di Montefeltro. After the picture by Justus of Ghent, once in the Ducal Collection at Urbino, now in the Palazzo Barberini in Rome. (Photo Anderson) 266 The Contessa Palma of Urbino. After the portrait by Piero della Francesca in the National Gallery 280 Guidobaldo I. From a picture in the Colonna Gallery in Rome 296 Caterina Sforza. After the picture by Marco Palmezzani in the Pinacoteca of Forlì. (Photo Alinari) 306 Isabella of Aragon. After the drawing by Beltraffio in the Biblioteca Ambrogiana, Milan. (Photo Anderson) 310 Pope Alexander VI. Detail from a fresco by Pinturicchio in the Borgia apartments of the Vatican, Rome 320 "Diva Julia." From a bronze medal _ca._ 1482 by L'Antico in the British Museum. By the courtesy of G.F. Hill, Esq. 330 Cesare Borgia. From a medal _ca._ 1500 in the British Museum. By the courtesy of G.F. Hill, Esq. 330 Julius II as Cardinal. From a medal in the British Museum. By the courtesy of G.F. Hill, Esq. 330 St. Catherine of Alexandria. Supposed portrait of Lucrezia Borgia by Pinturicchio. Detail from a fresco in the Borgia apartments of the Vatican, Rome. (Photo Anderson) 344 Bianca, daughter of Ludovico Sforza. After the picture by Ambrogio de' Predis in the Biblioteca Ambrogiana, Milan. (Photo Anderson) 352 Cesare Borgia as the Emperor. Detail from the fresco of the Disputa of S. Catherine in the Borgia apartments of the Vatican. (Photo Anderson) 364 CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE CHAPTER I A.D. PAGE The duchy of Urbino, how composed 3 Its characteristic features, and traditional topography 4 Origin of Italian communities 4 Rise of the Guelph and Ghibelline factions 5 Counts of the empire 6 Republics established in Italy 7 Opinions regarding their spirit 8 The seigneurs attain to sovereignty 10 Practical distinction of Guelph and Ghibelline 11 Early military system 12 Origin and influence of free companies 14 The term Republic misapplied 15 Their principle of liberty examined 16 Political divisions of Romagna and La Marca in the fifteenth century 18 Opposed to modern speculations and the aims of Young Italy 19 Mariotti's admissions regarding freedom 20 CHAPTER II Examples of these ideas in the dynasties of Urbino 22 1160. The early Counts of Montefeltro are invested with Urbino 22 1371. Invited to Cagli 22 1384. Received at Gubbio 22 1433. Acquired Casteldurante 23 1445. Purchased Fossombrone 23 1474. Sinigaglia given to the della Rovere 23 1513. They obtained Pesaro and Gradara 23 Statistics of the state so composed 23 1160-1631. Its dynastic changes 24 Early genealogy of the Montefeltri 24 1160-1815. The Counts of Carpegna 25 1154. Antonio, first Count of Montefeltro 25 1216. Buonconte, first Count of Urbino 25 1268. Count Guido the Elder, his prowess 26 1282. Takes Forlì by stratagem 27 1289. Excommunicated as a Ghibelline 27 1296. Abdicates and becomes a friar 28 1294. Abdication of Celestine V. 28 " Succeeded by Boniface VIII. 28 1296. His feuds with the Colonna 29 " He recalls Count Guido to the world 30 " Dante's confession of the Count 30 " How far consistent with fact 32 " The Count's piety attested by Boniface 33 1298. Sept. 27. His death at Assisi 34 1300. The struggles of his successors 35 1377. Antonio Count of Urbino 36 1384. Extends his sway over Gubbio, Cagli, and Cantiano 37 1390. His mild government and literary tastes 37 1404. His death announced to the authorities of Siena by May 9. his son 38 " His children 39 " His daughter Battista, wife of Galeazzo Malatesta, Lord of Pesaro 39 " Her literary acquirements 40 " Battista takes the veil 40 " Misfortunes of her daughter Elisabetta 41 CHAPTER III 1404. Guidantonio Count of Urbino 42 1408. Made Lord of Assisi 42 1413. And Vice-general of Romagna 43 " Braccio di Montone 43 1417. Nov. 11. Election of Pope Martin V. 44 1418. Dec. Count Guidantonio made Duke of Spoleto 44 1420. Braccio reconciled to the Pope 45 1424. March 4. The Count marries Caterina Colonna 45 " His disputes with the Brancaleoni 45 1430. Sept. 3. Made Captain-general of Florence 46 1431. March 3. Election of Pope Eugenius IV. 46 1438. Oct. 9. Death of Countess Caterina 47 1442. Feb. 20. Death of Count Guidantonio 47 " His children 47 " His daughter Brigida Sueva's singular history 48 " His natural children 49 " Origin of the Ubaldini della Carda 49 " Notice of Ottaviano Ubaldino 50 1424. Birth of Count Oddantonio of Urbino 51 1443. April 26. Made Duke of Urbino 51 " His vicious career 52 1444. July 22. His assassination 53 " His intended marriage 55 1439-1443. Two original letters from him to the magistrates of Siena 56 The dukedom lapsed on his death 58 CHAPTER IV Federigo Count of Urbino 61 1422. June 7. The mystery and misstatements regarding his birth 61 1424. Dec. 22. Set at rest by his legitimation 62 " The Brancaleoni of Mercatello 63 1430. Their heiress Gentile betrothed to Count Federigo 64 " The state of Italy at this time 64 " Rome and the Papacy 65 " Florence and Central Italy 66 " Lombardy and Venice 67 1433. Federigo sent to Venice as a hostage 68 1434. Made a companion of the Hose 68 " Becomes a pupil of Vittorino da Feltre at Mantua 69 " Character and system of Vittorino 70 1433. Federigo knighted by the Emperor 71 1437. Dec. 2. His marriage 72 " Nicolò Piccinino successor of Braccio di Montone 72 1438. Federigo serves under him in Lombardy 74 1439. Next, under his brother-in-law Guidaccio Manfredi, Lord of Faenza 74 " A midnight alarm 74 " The Malatesta hereditary rivals of the Montefeltri 75 " Sigismondo Pandolfo Lord of Rimini opposed by Federigo 75 1440. June 29. The battle of Anghiari 77 1442. Federigo recovers Montelocco 77 1441. Description of S. Leo 78 " Federigo takes it 80 " Position of Francesco Sforza 80 " Pedigree of the Sforza family 80 1443. Federigo after his father's death rejoins Piccinino 81 " Visits Naples with him 81 " Nov. 8. Sforza defeats Piccinino at Monteluro 82 " Sanzi's description of that battle 82 " Federigo invested with Mercatello 83 1444. He protects Galeazzo Malatesta's seigneury of Pesaro 83 1445. Feb. 21. Is challenged by Sigismondo Malatesta of Rimini 83 CHAPTER V 1444. Federigo accepted as successor of Duke Oddantonio July 22. in Urbino 85 " Conditions imposed by the people 86 " The state of Central Italy 87 " Contemporary sketch of Federigo 88 " Spite of Sigismondo Pandolfo 89 " Sale of Pesaro and Fossombrone 90 1445. Marriage of Alessandro Sforza, who becomes Lord March 16. of Pesaro 91 " Mistakes of Sismondi 91 " Francesco Sforza's breach with Filippo Maria Visconti and Sigismondo Malatesta 91 " June 22. He is supported by Federigo, and visits Urbino 92 1446. His position at La Marca, which he loses 92 " Federigo excommunicated by Eugenius for adhering April. to Sforza 93 " The fortune of war changes 93 1447. Sforza is reconciled with the Duke of Milan 94 " Sept. 3. Sigismondo attacks Fossombrone 95 " Feb. 23. Death and character of Eugenius IV. 95 " Death of the Duke of Milan 96 1450. Succeeded by Francesco Sforza 97 1447. Designs of Alfonso of Naples upon Tuscany 97 1448. March. Opposed by Federigo for the Florentines 98 " Sigismondo tricks Alfonso, and attacks Fossombrone 98 " Sept. Alfonso and Federigo return home 99 1449. Sigismondo attempts to dupe Federigo, but is foiled 99 1450. Federigo made Captain-general by the Duke of Milan 100 " June 29. Peace between Naples and Florence 100 " Loses his eye in a tournament 101 CHAPTER VI 1450. The peace of Italy threatened by new combinations 102 " Federigo quits the service of Milan for that of Naples 103 " The King employs him without exacting sureties 103 1451. The Emperor Frederick III. comes to Italy, and is crowned at Rome 103 1452. The Neapolitan campaign in Tuscany under Federigo and the Duke of Calabria 103 1452-1453. Federigo goes to Naples, and returns in the spring 104 1453. Attacked by malaria fever 104 " July 26. His letter to the Priors of Siena 104 " Uninteresting conclusion of the war 105 " Fall of the Greek empire, and taking of May 29. Constantinople 106 1454. Efforts of Nicholas V. for a general league against the Turks 107 " April 9. The peace of Lodi 107 1455. Mar. 24. The death and character of Nicholas V. 107 1454. Federigo's friendly visit to the King of Naples 108 1455. The King ratifies the league with an unfortunate Jan. 26. reservation 109 1457. Federigo takes measures for humbling Sigismondo 109 " April. Visits Florence, Bologna, Milan, and Mantua 109 " His fruitless interview with Sigismondo at Modena 110 " He goes to Naples for assistance; many intrigues June. there 110 " Death of his Countess Gentile 111 " Nov. 7. Asks a mortar-founder from Siena 111 " He attacks Sigismondo 112 1458. May 2. His despatch to the Priors of Siena 112 " July 1. Death of Alfonso of Naples 113 " Aug. 6. Death of Calixtus III. 113 " Ambitious intrigues of Giacomo Piccinino, who seizes on part of the ecclesiastical territory 114 " Federigo continued as Captain-general by Ferdinand of Naples 115 " New disputes for the crown of Naples 115 1459. May 27. Pius II. summons a European congress at Mantua 116 " His mediation between Malatesta and the Count of Urbino 116 " June 21. His letter to Federigo 117 " His award in favour of Federigo 119 CHAPTER VII Federigo's domestic life 120 1454. His sons Buonconte and Antonio legitimated 120 1458. Oct. Buonconte dies at Naples of plague 120 " Death of another son, Bernardino 120 1459. Count Federigo's marriage to Battista Sforza proposed 121 " Errors of Sismondi regarding her (note) 121 " Her education and accomplishments 121 " Nov. Her betrothal at Pesaro 122 1460. Feb. 10. Her marriage celebrated at Urbino 122 " Giovanni Sanzi's description of her 122 1459. New wars in Italy interrupt the long-proposed Turkish crusade 123 " Unpopularity of Ferdinand of Naples 123 " State of the Angevine claimants to that crown 123 1458. May 11. Jean Duke of Calabria made Seigneur of Genoa 123 1459. Supported in his designs upon Naples by France, Genoa, and Florence 124 " Opposed by Pius II. and the Duke of Milan, who adhere to the Italian league 124 " The Duke of Calabria sails from Genoa to invade Oct. 4. Naples 124 1460. Venice and Florence become neutral 124 " Giacopo Piccinino deserts to the Angevines 125 " Mar. 30. Evades Federigo and reaches the Abruzzi 125 " April. The confederates follow him thither 125 " July 7. Ferdinand is beaten at Sarno 125 " Armies of the League and of Piccinino meet at San Fabbiano 126 " Tournament before the battle 126 " Accident to the Count of Urbino 126 " July 22. Battle of San Fabbiano 127 " " " Mistakes as to the date of it (note) 127 " Aug. 2. The confederates retreat 128 " Anecdote of Count Federigo 129 " Ferdinand saved by his Queen's intercession 130 " Count Federigo re-engaged by Pius II. 130 " Oct. Rome threatened by Piccinino 130 " Dec. Count Federigo goes to Rome for Christmas 131 1461. Sigismondo Malatesta put on trial 131 1462. Apr. 14. Burned and excommunicated 132 1461. June. Count Federigo crosses the Apennines 132 " July. His conversation with Pius II. on ancient history 133 " Oct. He reduces Aquila and Sora 133 " " Is complimented by Pius II. 134 1461-1462. Visits Rome and Naples 134 1461. Angevine prepossessions of the Genoese changed by Mar. a revolution 135 " July 17. Total defeat of King René there 135 " George Scanderbeg supports Ferdinand 135 1462. Sigismondo Malatesta's force augmented 135 " Aug. Count Federigo hurries into La Marca to meet him 136 " " 12. Overthrows him at the Cesano, near Sinigaglia 137 " " " Rejects his offers of friendship 137 " Oct. 6. His conduct approved by Pius II. 138 " Nov. 3. Made lieutenant-general of the ecclesiastical forces 139 " Sept. 20. Mondavio capitulates to him; the miseries of war 139 " Giovanni Malatesta taken prisoner at Montefiori, and Oct. 22. liberated by him 140 " He obtains Verucchio by a dishonourable trick, and " 31. winters there 140 " Aug. 18. Piccinino defeated at Troia 141 " Sept. 13. The Prince of Tarento deserts the Angevines 141 1463. Aug. Piccinino follows his example 141 1464. The Duke of Calabria finally quits Italy 141 1463. July. Fano besieged by Count Federigo 142 " Sept. 28. It is surrendered by Roberto Malatesta 143 " " " His generosity to Sigismondo's family 143 " " " The satisfaction of Pius 143 " Oct. 5-25. Sinigaglia and Gradara surrender to Federigo 144 " " Venice mediates in behalf of Sigismondo 144 " " He humbles himself to the Pope, and is absolved 145 " Peace with the Malatesta, giving the Count an Nov. 1. accession of territory 146 CHAPTER VIII 1463-1464. The home administration of Federigo 147 " " Scantily illustrated by his biographers 147 " " His court and establishment 150 " " Its hospitalities 152 1454. A new palace begun at Urbino 154 1463-1464. Its appearance 154 " " Designed by Luziano Lauranna 155 " " Federigo's patent in his favour 156 " " And continued by Baccio Pontelli 157 " " Who makes a plan of it for Lorenzo de' Medici 157 " " Fallacy regarding Francesco di Giorgio 158 " " His frieze of trophies and pompous inscription 158 " " Description of the palace, and view from it 159 " " Its decorations in stone and _intarsia_ 160 " " Fallacy as to its museum of art 161 " " The saloons for books and manuscripts 162 " " State of bibliography at this period 163 " " Federigo a collector of manuscripts 164 " " Attested by Sanzi and Vespasiano 164 " " Regulations of his library 167 " " Notice of its librarians 168 " " Its extent and cost 168 " " The stable-range built by Francesco di Giorgio 169 " " Cost of the palace 170 " " Anecdote of its foundation 170 " " Churches founded by Federigo 171 " " Description of his palace at Gubbio 171 " " His other residences 174 " " The extent and resources of his state 175 CHAPTER IX 1464. Aug. The projected crusade abandoned 177 " " 14. Death of Pius II.; succeeded by Paul II. 177 " " Sanzi's lines on his death 178 " Sept. 28. Count Federigo made Gonfaloniere of the Church 179 " " Explanation of that title (note) 179 " Oct. 24. Returns to Urbino after visiting Naples 179 1465. July. His expedition against Anguillera 179 " Nov. 20. Death of Malatesta Novello of Cesena 180 1466. Jan. His state annexed to the Church by Count Federigo 180 " Mar. 8. Death of Francesco Sforza, Duke of Milan 180 " " Count Federigo goes to Milan 181 " Is reappointed captain-general by Duke Galeazzo June 6. Maria Sforza 181 " " Returns home 181 " The protracted tranquillity and glory of Italy 182 1465. July 12. Murder of Giacomo Piccinino at Naples 183 1464. Aug. 1. Death of Cosimo de' Medici, _Pater patriæ_ 184 1464-1466. State of parties in Florence 184 1466-1467. The exiles engage Colleoni to invade Tuscany 185 1467. May 15. Federigo's honourable condotta by the League 185 " Battle of La Molinella in the Bolognese, where field July 25. artillery was first used 187 " " Giovanni della Rovere distinguishes himself 187 1468. Federigo visits the Duke of Milan 190 " June. Sent by him to meet his bride at Genoa 190 " July. Returns home 190 " Sept. Recalled to Milan 190 " Oct. Presented by him with a palace in that city 190 " Nov. Reduces Brisella 190 1469. Jan. Commissioned by him to wait upon the Emperor 190 " March 1. Returns home 190 1468. Oct. 9. Death of Sigismondo Pandolfo Malatesta 191 " His character and tastes 191 " His service in the Morea 194 " Pretensions of his son Roberto on Rimini 195 " The Pontiff outwitted by him 195 1469. Rimini besieged by Alessandro Sforza 196 " Aug. 30. Great victory of Federigo near Rimini 199 " " His generosity 200 " Nov. Roberto regains his father's state 201 1470. Federigo in high favour with Galeazzo Maria 200 " Rupture of the League from foolish jealousies 200 1469. Dec. 3. Death of Pietro de' Medici 201 1470. Dec. 22. The League renewed 201 " July 7. Federigo's letters to the Signory of Siena 201 1471. " 28. Death of Paul II. 202 " Roberto Malatesta invested with Rimini 203 1472. Mar. 28. Marries Princess Elisabetta of Urbino 203 " April. Note as to his title of Magnificent 203 1471. Federigo attends the coronation of Sixtus IV. 203 " Entertains the Persian envoys at Urbino 204 1472. Entertains Cardinal Pietro Riario at Gubbio 205 CHAPTER X 1472. Jan. 24. His son Guidobaldo born at Gubbio 207 " June 18. Captures Volterra; its sack 211 " " Misstatements regarding his great MS. Hebrew Bible 212 " " His triumphant welcome at Florence 212 " " His fortunate position 213 " July 6. The death of his Countess Battista 214 " " His letters on that event 214 " " Notice of her life and character 216 " " Her portrait 218 " Aug. 17. Her obsequies 219 1472-1474. Federigo at home 219 1474. Aug. 20. He goes to Rome 220 " " 21. Is invested with the ducal dignity 220 " " " And is made Gonfaloniere of the Church 221 " " Obtains the Golden Rose 221 " " The marriage of his daughters Giovanna and Agnesina 222 " Sept. 11. Is invested with the order of the Ermine at Naples 223 " " And with that of the Garter at Grottoferrata 224 " Cardinal Giuliano della Rovere sent against Città di Castello 225 " Nov. 2. A new league 225 " Federigo's patronage of learned men 225 1475. Books dedicated to him 227 " Curious letter to him from the Priors of Arezzo 228 " Testimony of Vespasiano 231 " And of Giovanni Sanzi 231 CHAPTER XI 1476. Dec. 26. Assassination of Duke Galeazzo Maria Sforza 234 " His character by Sanzi 235 1477. Federigo prepares to march upon Milan, but attacks Jan. Montone 236 1473. Count Girolamo Riario invested with Forlì and Imola 236 " He is betrothed to Caterina Sforza 236 " Her education and character 237 1477. Their marriage 237 " The friendship of Sixtus for Lorenzo de' Medici soon interrupted 237 " Revolutions in Florence usually sprang from family feuds 239 " Origin of the Pazzi conspiracy 239 1478. April 26. It explodes; Giuliano assassinated 240 " Italian conspiracies and politics 241 " The Pope is compromised 242 " Lorenzo appeals to his fellow citizens 243 " The parties to a new war in Tuscany 243 " The Duke's letter to an astrologer 244 " The campaign narrated by Federigo 245 " He breaks his leg 247 " Dec. 23. He goes to the baths of Petriolo 247 1479. May 23. He leaves Petriolo 247 " Defection of Roberto Malatesta 247 " The Florentines successful at Thrasimene, but worsted in the Val d'Elsa 247 " Nov. 12. Colle surrenders 248 " " Its siege painted on a _bicherna_ (note) 248 " State of the Italian artillery 248 " Notices of it by Duke Federigo 249 " Nov. 20. He goes to Siena and receives a donative 251 " " 27. A truce for three months 251 " The unfortunate position of Florence, and disorganisation of its army 251 " Lorenzo de' Medici goes to Naples to negotiate a Dec. 6. treaty 252 1480. Mar. 25. Peace proclaimed 252 " Dec. Humiliation of the Florentines before Sixtus 253 1479-1480. Intrigues of the Duke of Calabria at Siena 253 " " Federigo winters at the baths of Viterbo 253 " " He receives the Sword and Hat 253 1480. May 19. His letter to the magistrates at Siena 254 " He returns home 254 " Count Girolamo takes possession of Forlì 254 " Description of his Countess 255 1474-1479. Progress of the Turks in Europe 256 1480. Aug. 11. They take Otranto by concert with the Venetians 257 " Consequent panic in Italy, and new combinations of its powers 257 " Federigo summoned by Ferdinand, but detained by Sixtus 257 1481. May 3. Death of Sultan Mahomet 257 " Aug. 10. Otranto recovered from the Turks 257 CHAPTER XII 1481. Sixtus combines with the Venetians against Ferrara 258 " Federigo declines their offers, and vainly inculcates peace 259 1482. He is engaged to command the League in defence of April 17. Ferrara 259 " " 23. His departure for the campaign 260 " Description of the seat of war 261 " May 3. War declared by Venice 262 " " 11. The Venetians besiege Ficheruolo 262 " " 4. Federigo's letter to Lorenzo de' Medici 262 " " He goes to Milan and Mantua for reinforcements 264 " " 20. Returns to La Stellata 264 " June. Fatal effects of malaria 264 " " 29. Ficheruolo taken 265 " Ferrara hard pressed, but obstinately defended by July. Federigo 265 " His appeal to the Pontiff, who perseveres in his " schemes of nepotism 265 " " Lawless condition of Rome 266 " " Federigo attacked by fever, and relapses 266 " " He resigns his command, and retires to Ferrara 267 " Sept. 10. Prepares for death and expires 267 " " Simultaneous death of Roberto Malatesta 269 " " Character of Duke Federigo, by Poggio Bracciolino 270 " " By Francesco di Giorgio 270 " " By Pirro Pirotti and Cyrneo 271 " " By Vespasiano 272 " " Anecdotes preserved by him 273 " " His military commands 282 " " His funeral 283 " " His body subsequently exposed 283 1482. Notice of his portrait, by Piero della Francesca, with his Countess 284 " By Mantegna, with his son 285 " By an unknown artist 286 " By Fra Carnevale 287 " By Justus of Ghent 288 " By an unknown artist 288 " His children and their marriages 289 CHAPTER XIII 1482. Retrospect for Duke Federigo's reign 295 1472. Birth of his son Guidobaldo, who is confirmed by Jan. 24. Cardinal Bessarion 296 " July 6. Death of Guidobaldo's mother 296 " His precocious genius and sweet temper 296 " Attested by his tutor Odasio 297 1482. Sept. 17. His father's death 299 " Position of the duchy 299 " Sept. 17. Investiture of Duke Guidobaldo I. 300 " He is continued in his father's command 301 1483. Jan. 6. Sixtus deserts the Venetians, and joins the League 301 " Guidobaldo in the service of Naples 303 " July 19. Death of Costanzo Sforza of Pesaro 303 1484. Aug. 13. Death of Sixtus IV. 304 " " 29. And election of Innocent VIII. 304 " " 11. Treaty of Bagnuolo 305 1485. The Pontiff attacks Naples. 305 " Guidobaldo retained by him 305 " Aug. 11. Peace restored 305 1486. Guidobaldo serves under Trivulzio 306 " The regency of Ottaviano Ubaldini terminates 306 1488. The assassination of Count Girolamo Riario, and April 14. revolution at Forlì 307 " Energetic measures of his widow 307 " The regulations and manners of the court of Urbino 309 " Duke Guidobaldo betrothed to Elisabetta Gonzaga of Mantua 311 1489. Oct. Their marriage and disappointment of children 312 1490. Comparative repose of Italy 313 1492. April 7. Death of Lorenzo de' Medici 314 " July 25, 29. And of the Pope 314 " Aug. 11. Succeeded by Alexander VI. 314 CHAPTER XIV 1492. Condition of the papacy on the accession of Alexander VI. 315 " His family descent and debauched life 316 " Circumstances of his election 317 " His children and their scandalous conduct 318 " Pedigree of the Borgia 320 " The aspect of Italy at the close of her golden age 321 " Described by Guicciardini 322 " Sketch of the disputed succession of Naples, and its results 322 " The condition of Milan and Venice 325 " And of Florence 326 " Character of Charles VIII. of France, and his views upon Italy 327 " Negotiations for an Italian League frustrated by Pietro de' Medici 328 " State of the Roman Campagna and its rival barons 329 " Their feuds fire the train 331 " Ludovico il Moro invites Charles into Italy 331 1493. Military circumstances of Italy 332 " The condottiere system gradually abandoned 333 " Condemned by Machiavelli 334 " A new system introduced 335 " Lances, stradiotes, and infantry 335 " The Swiss infantry 337 " The lansquenets and Spaniards 338 " Introduction of fire-arms and artillery 338 CHAPTER XV 1494. Jan. Alfonso II. succeeds to the crown of Naples 341 " Position of the Italian powers at the invasion of Charles VIII. 341 " Alfonso's efforts to conciliate the Pontiff and his children 342 " His son Cesare made Cardinal Valentino 343 " The Pope employs Guidobaldo against the Orsini 344 " His first attack of gout 344 " The marriage of Lucrezia Borgia to Giovanni Sforza of Pesaro 344 " Its scandalous orgies 345 " June. Her visit to Urbino 345 " Double-dealing of Alexander with Alfonso 345 " The calamities of the French invasion 346 " Description of Charles VIII. by Guicciardini 346 " And by Mantegna 347 " And by Ludovico il Moro 347 " The campaign opened by Sir Bernard Stuart of Aubigny 348 " Aug. 20. Charles leaves Vienne and reaches Milan 348 " Alfonso alone prepares to oppose him 348 " Sends the Duke of Calabria into Romagna 348 " He is supported by the Duke of Urbino, but without avail 348 " Nov. 9. Tuscany welcomes Charles, and expels the Medici 349 " This revolution graphically described 350 " Financial expedient proposed at Florence 351 " Dec. 31. Charles enters Rome 351 1495. Jan. 28. Leaves it for Naples 351 " " 23. Alfonso abdicates the crown, and dies soon after 351 " Succeeded by his son Ferdinand II., who retires to " Ischia 352 " " 22. Charles takes possession of Naples 352 " Mar. 31. A new League formed against the French 352 1494. Oct. Ludovico il Moro becomes Duke of Milan 353 1495. The demoralisation of the French army 353 " May 20. It leaves Naples 353 " July 6. Battle of the Taro, at Fornovo 354 " Oct. It re-enters France 354 " July. Ferdinand II. restored at Naples 354 1496. Whose French garrison surrenders 355 " Results to Italy of this invasion 355 1495. The Pisan war, in which Guidobaldo was engaged by the Florentines 356 " Their conduct leads to fresh discord 356 " And to an invasion by Maximilian 357 " Guidobaldo recalled by the Pope to aid in restoring Ferdinand II. 357 1496. Oct. Who dies soon after 358 " Peace again troubled by Alexander, who attacks the " Orsini 358 " " Aided by Guidobaldo 358 " His petty campaign against Bracciano 359 1497. Jan. 23. Is beaten, and taken prisoner 360 " The Venetian Signory interfere in his behalf 361 " A heavy ransom extorted from him with the Pope's connivance 361 CHAPTER XVI 1497. Ambitious nepotism of Alexander VI. 363 " Divorce of Lucrezia 363 " June 15. Murder of the Duke of Gandia 364 " " " Its mystery and scandals 364 " " " Its effect upon the public 366 " " " And on the Pope 366 " " 19. His oration, repentance, and relapse 366 " Followed by new favours to Cesare Borgia 369 " Who returns from his Neapolitan embassy a rejected Sept. 5. suitor 369 1498. Aug. Marriage of Lucrezia to the Duke of Bisceglia 369 " Guidobaldo's expedition against the Baglioni of Perugia 369 " He is engaged by the Medici to arm for their restoration to Florence 370 " Failure of the expedition 370 " His illness at Bibbiena 370 1499. He adopts his nephew Francesco Maria della Rovere, as heir of the dukedom 371 1498. April 7. Death of Charles VIII. 372 " " Succeeded by Louis XII. 372 " His views upon Italy 372 " State of parties there 372 " Ambition of Alexander to secure to Cesare a sovereignty 373 " His ecclesiastical orders annulled, and his embassy Sept. 17. to Paris with the King's divorce 373 " " 28. Letter of the Pope to Louis 374 " By whom Cesare is created Duke Valentino 375 " He aspires to the crown of Naples 375 " His magnificence 375 1499. Again rejected by a Neapolitan princess 375 " His intrigues as to Louis' divorce 375 " A new league against the French proposed 376 " The marriage of Duke Valentino 376 " Oct. 6. The French conquer Lombardy and enter Milan 377 " Guidobaldo's visit to Venice, and condotta by the June. Signory 377 CHAPTER XVII 1499. Valentino's schemes upon Romagna 379 " Its condition, as detailed by Sismondi 379 " Strictures upon his views 383 " Valentino marches upon Imola 384 " Our last notice of Caterina Riario Sforza 384 " Dec. 31. He takes that town, and goes to Rome 385 1500. Ludovico il Moro carried captive to France 385 " The prodigality of the Borgia 386 " Supplied by sacrilege and simony 387 " Oct. 27. Cesare, supported by the French, seizes Pesaro 388 1501. April 22. And Faenza; murder of its princes 389 " He is made Duke of Romagna 389 " Sismondi's eulogy on his administration 389 " Imitating Machiavelli and Filosseno 390 " But contradicted by Sanuto 391 " The true spirit of his government 392 " Arrested in his designs upon Bologna and Florence 392 " Sept. 3. Seizes upon Piombino 393 " Louis invades Naples 393 " Its partition betwixt France and Spain 394 " Abdication of Federigo of Naples; he retires to France, where he died in 1504 394 1503. His kingdom passes to Spain 394 1501. New crimes and intrigues of the Borgia 395 " Lucrezia's fourth marriage to the Prince of Ferraro 396 1502. Jan. 18. She visits Urbino on her way home 397 " Her reformed life 397 1519. June. Letter of condolence on her death 397 CHAPTER XVIII 1502. Guidobaldo's retired life 399 1500. Visits Rome for the Jubilee 399 1501. Nov. 6. Death of his brother-in-law the Prefect 399 1502. April 24. Succeeded by his son Francesco Maria 399 " The Duchess of Urbino at Venice 400 " New schemes of Valentino 400 " June 20. He surprises Urbino 401 " " 28. The Duke narrates his flight to Mantua 401 " " Further details 407 " He finds refuge in Venice 409 " Improbable rumour regarding him 409 " June 21. Cesare enters Urbino 410 " And seizes Camerino 411 1502. His brutal character 411 " He goes to Milan, and justifies himself with Louis XII 412 " His lust of further sway 412 " Sept. Diet at La Magione of the menaced princes 412 1502. Character of Liverotto da Fermo 412 " Oct. 5. S. Leo lost to Valentino and retaken 413 " " 8. Letter from him (note) 414 " " A general rising throughout Urbino 414 " " Cruelly checked by Don Michelotto 415 " " But supported by the confederates of Magione 415 " " Valentino retrieves himself, and recruits his forces 415 " " 18. Guidobaldo returns and is welcomed 416 " " 28. Valentino wins back the confederates 418 " Finding resistance vain, the Duke retires in broken Dec. 8. health 419 1503. Jan. 27. His despatch to the Doge of Venice 422 " " 31. And narrative of his escape to that city 423 APPENDICES Authors in the family of Montefeltro 427 Specimens of their compositions 428 Wardrobe inventory of Sister Serafina 433 Poetry of Ottaviano Ubaldini 436 Concessions of Duke Federigo to the citizens on his election in 1444 438 Devices and mottoes of the Dukes of Urbino 443 Illuminated MSS. in the Urbino Library 446 The MS. Hebrew Bible 446 The MS. Latin Bible 447 The MS. Dante 448 The MS. Lives of the Dukes of Urbino 449 Duke Federigo made a Knight of the Garter 450 His letters to Edward IV. and the English courtiers 450 Anstis' account of it 456 Sanzi's account of it 457 Porcellio's account of it 459 Army of Charles VIII. in 1493 460 Battle of the Taro in 1495 463 Duke Valentino's arrival at the French court in 1498 468 Ludovico il Moro's entry into Lyons in 1500 470 Marcello Filosseno's sonnet on Italy 472 Lucrezia d'Este's marriage festivities at Ferrara, 1502 473 NOTE.--The Editor's notes are marked with an asterisk. BOOK FIRST OF URBINO AND ITS EARLY COUNTS MEMOIRS OF THE DUKES OF URBINO CHAPTER I Topography of the Duchy of Urbino--Origin of the Italian communities--Their civil institutions and military system--Their principle of liberty--Political divisions of Romagna; opposed to modern speculations regarding centralization. The country which composed the DUCHY OF URBINO, and which nearly corresponds with the modern Legation of Urbino and Pesaro, is situated upon the eastern fall of Central Italy, between the 43rd and 44th parallels of north latitude. It stretches along the Adriatic, and extends about forty miles in length, and as many in breadth. From the Apennine ridge to the coast, it includes modifications of surface, climate, and soil, suited to a variety of natural productions, and admirably calculated for the development of the human frame. On the summit grew those magnificent pines which gave to the district of Massa the epithet of _Trabaria_, from the beams which were carried thence for the palaces of Rome, and which are noticed by Dante as "The living rafters on the back Of Italy." Below these stretched forests of chestnut and oak, succeeded by hardy orchard trees, and in the lower grounds by the olive and vine, to which its ever broken and undulating surface is peculiarly favourable. Through numberless ravines are conveyed copious streams, supplying abundant water-power for grinding rich harvests, grown in the alluvial valleys, and in the plains which open upon the sea. From its shores are drawn ample supplies of fish. Its mountains and manors abounded in game, so long as that was protected by resident princes. In its rugged Apennines, which around Cagli tower to the height of 5000 feet, no valuable minerals have been discovered; nor do its mountain torrents admit of navigation, but with two coast-harbours this was scarcely felt as a privation. For the topography of the duchy our chief authority is Cimarelli, who wrote about two centuries ago, and who begins it about forty years after the flood! It was an absurd whim of Italian mediæval authors, which has prevailed almost till the present day, to wander among the traditional or imaginary cycles of remote ages, extolling the antiquity of their theme at a sacrifice of truth and credibility. Into such extravagances we shall not be tempted. It is enough to say that this district formed part of ancient Umbria, and is in some degree identical with that known to Roman history as Gallia Senonia. When the Western Empire crumbled to pieces, it was broken up into many petty communities, some of which adopted for themselves republican institutions, while others fell into the hands of military adventurers, who transmitted their sway to their descendants in hereditary right, founded upon personal enterprise or the consent of their subjects. After the nominal regimen of the occidental empire had been transferred across the Alps, these new communities and counts often sought from its titular emperor a confirmation of their self-constituted rights. This demand, recognising in name a sovereignty already substantially theirs, was willingly accorded as the basis of a transaction flattering to one party, momentous to the other. But the gradually opening ambition of the Church, and the extension of her temporal rule into Romagna and La Marca by the donations of Pepin, Charlemagne, and the Countess Matilda, introduced another competitor for dominion in these provinces. Her claim was made good, in some cases by a voluntary surrender on the part of men whose piety prevailed over their love of power, in others by force of arms; but by most of the mountain chiefs, and by a few of the free towns, loyalty to the emperor's shadowy authority was used as a pretext for resisting a new element which threatened their own sway. The two rival parties which sprang out of these circumstances came to be distinguished as Guelph and Ghibelline, although their watchwords were often adopted by local or temporary factions. Many circumstances tended to an extensive establishment of political independence among the small states thus formed in Italy during the Middle Ages. Distance and the unsettled state of the Peninsula having reduced to little more than a name the direct imperial sovereignty of "That imperious bird, Whose double beak a double prey devours,"[10] the emperors endeavoured to render it still available to their political importance, through the intervention of military vicegerents. To each of these a certain territory was conveyed, generally with the title of count, which they were understood to govern for behoof of the empire. Practically, however, they were nearly secure against any strict accounting for their stewardship, and, provided they attended the imperial banner in the field with a befitting following, paid with tolerable regularity the annual _cense_, or contribution exigible under their tenure, and did homage as vassals at the imperial coronations, they were allowed to enjoy or abuse unquestioned what rights of sovereignty they thought fit to assume. Nor was there any effective check upon the marauding spirit of conquest, which in that age formed the natural outlet of personal ambition; and these feudatories were left to fight with their neighbours whenever their swords were not called into requisition by their common over-lord: still more were they allowed to deal undisturbed with the people submitted to their jurisdiction, who were of course presumed to endure and obey. [Footnote 10: "L'aquila grifagna Che per più divorar due becchi porta." LUIGI ALAMANNI.] At a period nearly coeval with the formation of these independent fiefs, and much antecedent to the aggregation of civic communities in other parts of Europe, we find the peninsular towns advancing into importance. Their establishment was favoured by the absence of a perfect feudal organisation,[*11] for men exempt from such fetters associated together more readily than those in transalpine lands. The fertility of the soil, and consequent density of population, admitted of cultivators congregating in homes of their own choice; and the malaria generated in that luxurious climate often rendered isolated dwellings insalubrious.[*12] The peasant-hamlets thus formed were quickly augmented by the influx of all who sought protection from external foes or tyrannical masters. The increase of population brought strength; strength gave security; security attracted wealth and numbers; and these united elements created intelligence and public spirit, the only sure basis of liberty. Their first necessity being self-defence, their dwellings were placed in sites of natural strength, and soon girt by walls. The enemies they most dreaded were the adjoining lords, to whose jurisdiction they nominally belonged, but whose claims they were not unfrequently able to meet, either by formidable resistance, or by a charter of privileges, which the emperors, ever willing to curb their barons, were seldom loath to accord. The independence thus wrung from the counts was cemented by the spirit of civic liberty, while the development of municipal strength and privileges gave to citizens a social and political pre-eminence over the rural population, beyond what they attained in countries where feudalism served to link the agricultural class with the central authority. Among men united for a common object, and thrown upon their own resources, the popular element early developed itself. Such communities finding themselves without a master, a position which, when real freedom was unknown, only exposed them to attacks from stronger neighbours, their instinct of self-preservation, ere long, induced attempts at self-government. Townships consequently multiplied, developed themselves into cities, and became republics. [Footnote *11: This may be, and indeed is so; but see LANZANI, _St. d. Comuni Italiani dal. Orig. al_ 1313 (Milano, 1882), lib. I., _passim_. Nevertheless, the relation of all the Dukes and Signori to the Empire or to the Church was absolutely feudal as I understand the term, as in essence was, in turn, the relation of a city to its contado. Cf. D. WINSPEARE, _St. d. Abusi Feudali_ (ed. 1883), to which is added as appendix an article by F. de Coulanges on the feudal régime. See also C. CANTÙ, _St. d. Italiani_ (Torino, 1854), tom. III., cap. LXXIV., pp. 224-39. C. CALISSE, _St. d. Diretto Italiano_ (Firenze, 1891), vol. II., parte II. e III.] [Footnote *12: For the malaria in Italy in the Middle Age, see AQUARONE, _Dante in Siena_ (Siena, 1889), p. 47-9.] Thus rose the Italian republics, not as is often superficially supposed, in the mercantile cities alone, but in almost every township of Upper Italy. Their constitutional forms not only varied from each other, but were constantly fluctuating, under a desire for novelty, the contests of rival factions, and the influence of external events. Republics they were, in so far as they owned no hereditary head. They believed themselves self-governed, because their ever-recurring revolutions were their own act, or at least were effected by their own instrumentality. But the democratic element seldom long existed in purity.[*13] After the _émeute_ was over, a self-constituted oligarchy, a rich and designing citizen, or an ambitious prelate, often stepped in, to enjoy that power for which the people had fought, until these, roused by some too undisguised tyranny, or by some new caprice, rushed to the piazza, and threw off their masters, leaving it to chance or intrigue to give them new ones. [Footnote *13: I doubt a true democratic element anywhere; perhaps for a few decades in Perugia.] Lamartine, the eloquent advocate and partially successful hero of popular rights, has admitted that there can be no progress unless "many interests are injured," and that "such transformations are not operated without great resistance, without an infinity of anguish and private misfortune." This, however, is no place to raise the question, how far the benefit of so much political liberty was balanced by the inadequate guarantee of person and property, inherent in such a state of things, or whether the security of domestic peace would have been too dearly purchased by a partial sacrifice of popular power. Yet few who argue these points will deny that whatever influence the republican constitutions of Italy may have had upon the individual happiness of their own citizens, they sowed the seeds of that intelligence, that freedom of thought, that ardent aspiration for the amelioration of mankind, which have ever since so beneficially acted upon European civilisation. The liberty of Italian republics has been frequently misapprehended, and will disappoint those who seek in it such safeguards of life and property as freedom in its modern sense is understood to afford. Under no form of civilised government were those guarantees more feeble or ineffective than where tyranny of the wayward and irresponsible many was substituted for domination by one. The philosophic Guizot has even condemned these republics as "utterly irreconcilable with security for life (that first ingredient in social existence) and with progress;" as "incapable of developing freedom or extending the scope of institutions;" as tending to "limit their range and concentrate authority in a few individuals." To these conclusions we must demur, and they appear inconsistent with the just tribute he gracefully pays to the intelligence, wealth, and brilliancy of Italian democracies; to the courage, activity, genius, and general prosperity of their denizens. But the argument and inferences of this French historian are easily reconcilable with a political creed largely prevailing among his countrymen, who find in centralisation the triumph of our age, the panacea for social anomalies. To that end has doubtless tended the progress of Europe during the last four centuries, and more especially the present rapid career of events, whether for ultimate weal or woe must be hereafter seen. Yet whilst we hesitate to paint the Ausonian republics in the utopian colours of Sismondi, we cannot adopt the narrow proportions ascribed to them by his less enthusiastic countryman. They filled the Peninsula with separate aims and paltry interests at a time when union was its sole security, yet they trained men to self-government, the first step towards that constitutional freedom without which nationality itself is a questionable boon. The growth of communities opposed by every interest to the domination of the imperial counts was viewed by these with natural jealousy. But in many instances their alarm proved groundless, as eventually some of them came to swell the very power which they were originally established to limit. Those towns which, from the fault of their site or other incidental circumstances, did not increase in population and wealth, found themselves defenceless in a land where might made right. They therefore often passed, after a more or less feeble resistance, under the sway of some powerful feudatory, or, by voluntary surrender of their unsubstantial independence, sought from his strong arm protection against the grasp of more dreaded neighbours, or redress from the ravages of rival factions which lacerated their internal repose. The title usually assumed with the authority thus acquired was that of _Signore_, which in the following pages is generally rendered by Lord or Seigneur, there being no term in our idiom adapted to express exactly a jurisdiction at no time known to our constitution, but resembling the "tyranny" of the old Greek commonwealths. The same word is used to designate those citizens or military adventurers who, by force or popular consent, acquired a temporary or enduring mastery in the free towns of the Peninsula. Widely different in its exercise as in its origin from feudal jurisdiction, the power which had thus been more or less derived from the people was for the most part temperately wielded. The territorial baron dwelt among his citizen subjects, conforming to their usages and encouraging their progressive civilisation. His authority was originally personal, but in many instances it was skilfully used as a foundation for family claims, which talent or influence enabled a series of persons of the same race to make good. But, as in Celtic chieftainship, rules of hereditary succession were less attended to than individual fitness for the change. Younger branches often excluded the elder ones, and in some cases, such as the Malatesta, "The bastard slips of old Romagna's line," illegitimacy seems to have been practically a recommendation.[*14] To those at all conversant with Italian history, it may be superfluous to add that, while some of these petty sovereigns "Did fret and strut their hour upon the stage, And then were heard no more," others, more able or more fortunate, founded dynasties to which, as promoters of commerce, literature, and the fine arts, modern civilisation is largely indebted, and from whom are descended several reigning families of Europe. [Footnote *14: So far as the Malatesti are concerned this is absolutely untrue. Carlo Malatesta went to infinite trouble to legitimise Galeotto and Sigismondo, his brother's illegitimate children. See EDWARD HUTTON, _Sigismondo Malatesta_ (Dent, 1906), p. 19.] No circumstance more generally affected all governments in Italy, or is of more importance to a comprehension of their history, than the contests of the Guelphs and Ghibellines. Upon this wide and complicated topic it is unnecessary now to enter, further than to state, as a general rule, that the feudatories adhered to the emperor, whilst the self-governed communities were more partial to the Guelphic or papal faction. This was natural, as the Ghibelline or imperial party was essentially opposed to democratic tendencies, while the Church had, from various causes, become almost identified with popular principles. But the distinction was often inapplicable; for these words underwent the usual fate of party epithets, changing and counterchanging their signification with time and place, until the original meaning was lost, though their fatal influence on human passions remained unmodified. For alas! in all ages, "Some watchword for the fight Must vindicate the wrong, and warp the right; Religion, freedom, vengeance, what you will, A word's enough to rouse mankind to kill." Thus, free cities which, like Florence, were regarded as strongholds of the Guelphs, were occasionally by a sudden revolution thrown into the hands of the opposite faction; even the Ghibelline nobles were sometimes induced, by ambition or pique, to make their peace with the Church; whilst more unprincipled holders of power sought to extend it by alternately selling their services to either party, and in turn betraying both. It also happened that counts of the empire, on obtaining the seigneury of towns, found these so much the most valuable portion of their dignities, that they were glad to strengthen their title to them by accepting papal investitures, instead of holding them by the sword, or by popular will. The pontiffs readily promoted a device, which converted into ostensible supremacy the vague and undefined claims they asserted to temporal domination, whether arising out of Countess Matilda's donation, or from other disputed titles; and they hesitated not to include even imperial countships in their charters. They thus transferred to the Holy See feudal presentations of money and military service which were legitimately due to the emperors, whose waning influence in Italy rendered such usurpations little hazardous; whilst the vassals, suiting themselves to the change of times, were content to hold their sovereignty as vicars of the Church, instead of as counts of the empire. Little did they deem that the rising sun, which they were thus prompt to worship, would eventually consume them, root and branch! Yet the tenures and investitures of these seigneuries constituted but a pseudo-feudalism, resting upon a basis entirely different from that of the barons of northern nations. Among the latter, land, as the only known element of political power, was monopolised by the sovereign, who doled it out, under such conditions as he deemed fit, to those whose good swords were best able to defend it and the donor. The principle thus diffused from the centre radiated through the mass. The nobles parcelled out their great estates in various portions among friends and dependents, military service being the consideration chiefly exacted, in times when a circulating medium was scanty, and the pecuniary wants much restricted. This system established two main results. The hardy and patriotic soldiery who peopled the rural territory were the nerve of the nation, whilst the landless population, being destitute of individual importance, gradually drew together for mutual support, and settled in communities under the protection of some powerful lord or influential monastery. But in the Ausonian peninsula natural causes induced gregarious habits and social influences, whereby the peaceful pursuits of trade and money-making were promoted. An efficient soldiery was, however, rendered requisite for the small states by the very circumstances which most contributed to their general prosperity,--their numbers and near neighbourhood, the competition of commercial communities, the struggles of political or family factions. Yet in proportion to the development of that prosperity, and the increase of wealth and refinement, the reluctance of substantial and sedentary citizens became more decided to the inconveniences and hardships of the field. For them the art of war was scarcely less a calamity than its miseries; the more they had to lose, the less willing or able were they to defend it. There are few evils in life which money may not remedy or alleviate, and when it was found that substitutes could be hired to relieve them from military service, the problem was satisfactorily solved. Fighting became a separate profession, and its duties no longer distracted those who had other occupations. Thus arose the _condottiere_ system, by which any bold baron or experienced captain, having formed round his banner a corps of tried and daring spirits, leased their services and his own for a stipulated term and price. Their whole arrangements being avowedly mercenary, they had no patriotism, no preference for standards or watchwords. The highest offer secured them, and when their engagement expired, or their pay fell into arrear, they were free to pass over to the enemy, or seek any other master. But besides their fixed stipend, they had perquisites from the hazards of war: the ransom of rich prisoners accrued to the leaders, while the soldiery were glutted by the occasional booty of a sacked city. The changes occasioned by this system influenced Italy in its military, political, and social relations. Formerly, a truce disarmed the combatants, and sent them to forget their discipline in their domestic duties. Now, one campaign followed another, teaching the same free companies new evolutions and more perfect lessons in martial science; or if a piping time of general peace ever arrived, their leaders scrupled not to keep them in practice by a private adventure of pillage against some feeble victim, until they should be required for the fresh contests which a few months were sure to develop. Their armour, accoutrement, and drill thus became more complicated; men-at-arms and lances were considered the only effective troops. But their efficiency was counteracted by another result of stipendiary warfare. Exempt from enthusiasm in any cause, their tactics became a money question. To close a campaign by a series of brilliant successes was to kill the goose that gave them the golden eggs: to carry havoc into the adverse ranks was damaging to those who might be their next paymasters or comrades. Sanguinary conflicts brought them danger without advantage, whilst the capture of an opponent or a camp ensured for them a rich prize. War was, in fact, a game which they were paid to play, with no interest in the stakes beyond their individual opportunities of plunder. Equally indifferent to past victories or future fame, they cared little for beating the enemy, could they but reach his baggage-waggons, or temporise until he could buy them off. Battles, thus deprived of their dangers and stirring incidents, became great prize-fights, in which the victors deserved no sympathy, and the conquered required no commiseration. Gain was substituted for glory, languor for gallantry, calculation for courage. Patriotism slumbered; honesty of purpose and energy of action fell into disuse; the parties in the match, careless of victory, manoeuvred only for stalemate. Hence the political results of Italian campaigns were inconsiderable, compared with the forces in the field, the time consumed, and the resources expended. Impoverished states were generally left without defenders and even wealthy belligerents were liable to a sudden and immediate desertion by their hireling bands. Still more fatal were the moral effects upon the people. The feudal system rendered every occupier of the soil a soldier, ready to stand by his king and country; and it transmitted to more peaceful times "a bold peasantry, their country's pride" and best defenders. But it was otherwise with the brave spirits of the Ausonian commonwealths; they were bound to the banner of some privileged bandit, who served the best bidder, whilst the mass of the community became indifferent to a native land for which they were never called upon to hazard life or limb. The stipendiaries fought for or against freedom, faith, country, and comrades; the citizens endured their outrage or purchased their mercy. In the end, the military were brutalised, whilst the civilians became enervated. The former were made venal, the latter cowardly. The master-mind of Machiavelli, after the French invasions of 1492-9, saw these mischiefs, and would have remedied them by his plan for a civic militia; but it was too late, and the degeneracy engrafted upon the national character of Italy by the condottiere system still cankers it to the core. * * * * * Although the states which grew up under these varying circumstances are universally known as the Italian Republics, this phrase is scarcely correct in our idiom. The leading peculiarity of mediæval Italy was the separate sovereignty of its petty principalities, and towns of minor rank, in which democratic constitutions were but incidental and transient distinctions, progressively disappearing as the dark ages were succeeded by a cycle of golden radiance. The Italian Republics might, therefore, be more aptly named the Italian Communes or Commonwealths. This misnomer has also given rise to somewhat confused views regarding the amount of liberty enjoyed in these states, especially since their history has become known to us from the pen of one whose democratic prepossessions, though clothed in eloquence, are so tempered by benevolent philosophy as those of Sismondi. Liberty is a word of vague signification, both as to quality and degree. In a political sense, it has at least three meanings: personal freedom, self-government, national independence. Let us test the application of each of these qualities to the Italian commonwealths. Neither in them nor in any contemporary state, was freedom of person known in name or in fact. Individuals had no guarantee against oppression by their rulers, nor security from their powerful neighbours; no great charter constituted for them a claim of right to personal protection. In this respect there was little difference between the subjects of a petty autocrat and those of a democratic faction,--between the tyranny of one or of many: but in Venice, that most prosperous and permanent of all the commonwealths, which Roscoe, by a happy antithesis, has described as a "republic of nobles with a populace of slaves," and which especially arrogated _the_ republic as its title, individual safety was at the lowest grade. In most of the communities, self-government, or the sovereignty of the people, had scarcely a reality as regarded the masses. Under the seigneurs, when the hereditary principle was weak, it was oftener supplemented or infringed by the sword than by the popular will. In the few commonwealths which, during the fifteenth century, preserved their democratic institutions, such as Florence and Siena, the guilds and companies constituted indeed a quasi-representative system; but these had generally fallen into the hands of privileged classes, and even the shadow of power which clung to them was constantly torn away by some ambitious burgher, or misused for the extermination of a rival faction. Indeed, the most liberal of their constitutions corresponded in the main to our own municipal machinery, limiting the privileges of self-government to certain classes in the cities, and entirely excluding from them the rural population. The value at which these privileges were held may be estimated by the indifference of immediately adjacent despotic states, whether languishing under the savage tyranny of a Malatesta,[*15] or enjoying the beneficent sway of a Montefeltro. Even when, outraged beyond endurance, they rose against their oppressors, it was much more frequently to set up a new autocrat, than to seize for themselves power which the example of their democratic neighbours appears to have invested with no charm. We may therefore fairly conclude that the self-governed citizens of Ancona, Assisi, and San Marino, enjoyed no envied advantages over those of the surrounding principalities, which unquestionably outshone them in historical and literary illustration. [Footnote *15: The Malatesti were, without doubt, just as great and beloved as the Montefeltri. Sigismondo was as great and enthusiastic a patron of the arts, and in contemporary opinion a greater soldier than Federigo di Montefeltro. See EDWARD HUTTON, _op. cit._, p. 86 note 1.] Since, then, the peculiar quality which infused extraordinary mental vigour into the Italian commonwealths, and imparted to them a social influence beyond their real importance, consisted neither in personal security nor in self-sovereignty, it must have chiefly depended upon the only remaining description of freedom, their nationality. By this phrase we mean not that mere independence of foreign and barbarian sway, which it was long the papal policy to vindicate by oceans of blood and treasure, but the maintenance in each community of a separate and supreme political status, frequently co-existent with municipal franchises and local administration, but always irresponsible to neighbours or to nominal over-lords, whether emperor or pope. The elevation of sentiment which such a position infused, both into communities and individuals, forms the noblest feature in Italian mediæval history. The honours, the privileges, and the responsibilities of citizenship were thus maintained in more immediate contact with those of the commonwealth, whereof the humblest might boast himself a participator. Besides this, there ensued many advantages of a more material description. By giving each small state its own capital, the wealth and patronage belonging to a seat of government, and in most instances to a court, were secured for it. The residence of its sovereign and officials retained in home circulation not only the revenues of the principality, but the income drawn by him from foreign fiefs and from military adventures. It kept up a permanent aristocracy of talent and genius as well as of rank and wealth, such as it was the pride of most of these courts to encourage and protect. The practical operation of these causes may be illustrated from the condition of Romagna and La Marca during the fifteenth century. About one half of the present papal territory there was then divided among the following independent states:-- Ferrara, held as a Marquisate by the d'Este. Bologna " Seigneury " Bentivoglii. Ravenna " " " Polenta. Imola " " " Alidosii and Sforza. Faenza " " " Manfredi. Forlì " " " Ordelaffi and Riarii. Cesena " " " Malatesta. Rimini " " " Malatesta. Pesaro " " " Malatesta and Sforza. Fano " " " Malatesta. Urbino " Dukedom " Montefeltro. S. Angelo, &c. " Seigneury " Brancaleoni. Città di Castello " " " Vitelli. Perugia " " " Baglioni. Assisi " Republic. Foligno " Republic. Spoleto " Dukedom, not hereditary. Camerino " Seigneury by the Varana. Fermo " " " Fogliani. Ancona " Republic. Sinigaglia " Seigneury by the della Rovere. Mercatello " Countship " Brancaleoni. It may seem strange that a territorial arrangement which, unless cemented by a confederacy, is condemned by the publicist as fatal to national strength, should have formerly ensured to Italy, as it had done to ancient Greece, no ordinary measure of those benefits which national independence is supposed to secure. But it is still more remarkable that the nationality prescribed by political empiricists nowadays as a remedy for all her woes should be directly opposed to the system under which she became the harbinger of European improvement and civilisation. This subject, if followed out, would lead to disquisitions, for which these pages are no place. Enough to observe, that the centralisation which united these twenty-two commonwealths under the papal sway, is still, after two centuries, their standing grievance. A spirit of discontent now broods over that district, although government is mildly administered, and taxation is moderate for a land so productive. But twenty-two capitals have been absorbed, and consequently humbled and empoverished. _Hinc illæ lacrymæ!_ Yet theorists, sweeping away ancient landmarks, and overstepping natural boundaries, would begin their speculative ameliorations of the Ausonian peninsula by provincialising nine of her ten remaining capitals; they would diffuse desolation, propagate discontent, and call them nationality. The projects of union and strength that tinge such day-dreams are met by a perhaps insurmountable barrier, in the abundant local jealousies which have survived the independence of multitudinous petty states, and which, as in Spain, often amusingly startle strangers in that country.[16] When an Italian talks with ardour of his _patria_, or devotes his energies to illustrate its history or its heroes, he means not Dante's land, "Circled by sea and Alps, parted by Apennine," but the village which gave him birth, or, at most, the province in which he dwells. Such is the boasted and burning patriotism of Young Italy, however her advocates may gloss over the fact. [Footnote 16: This was written under Gregory XVI. Time will show how far the more enlarged and generous policy essayed by his successor can abate long and deeply rooted prejudices on the one hand, without fostering undue expectations on the other. As yet (1850) the experiment has signally failed.[*A]] [Footnote *A: As we know, it succeeded ten years later.] These are, however, matters belonging rather to speculation than to history, and from which it is time to return. That we have not unreasonably questioned the tendency of the old Italian democracies to promote individual felicity, and the safety of personal rights, may be presumed from the dictum of one whose prepossessions are all in their favour. The views stated in the following passage in the main bear out those observations we have hazarded, and illustrate the tendency of republicanism, in its sternest forms, to pass under oligarchy or despotism. "Our ancient republicans loved their institutions, not so much in proportion to the amount of happiness and security which they afforded to the mass, as to the share that each individual was allowed to take in the sovereignty of the state. Liberty was for them rather an essential element of life than a source of enjoyment. Public spirit was the mainspring which determined all private exertion. Freedom they understood to be the identification of every citizen with the state. Hence patriotism gradually prevailed over liberty. Every one was vitally interested in the advancement of his country's greatness and power, endangered his life and property, sacrificed his domestic comforts, and even submitted to vexatious and arbitrary laws, whenever the safety of the republic seemed to require it. In their eagerness to assert the supremacy of their native state, they acceded to the concentration of power into one or a few hands, and gave rise to the establishment of oligarchy and despotism. But those patricians and tyrants still constituted the state, and although the sovereignty with which they had been provisionally invested became, in their hands, oppressive and permanent, yet those national governments were looked upon with devotion and pride, as the emanation of popular will and the depositaries of popular power."[17] [Footnote 17: MARIOTTI'S _Italy_, II., p. 298, first edition.] CHAPTER II Origin of the Counts of Montefeltro, and of their sovereignty in Urbino and the surrounding country--Their early genealogy--Guido, Count of Urbino--Antonio, Count of Urbino. The first princely dynasty of Urbino affords examples of most of the phases of mediæval jurisdiction on which we have briefly touched in our introductory remarks. [Illustration: _Alinari_ VIEW OF URBINO] From the mists of the dark ages which brooded over the mountains of Central Italy, there emerged a race who gradually spread their paltry highland holding over a broad and fair duchy. In the territories earned by their good swords, and their faithful services to the Church, it was their pride to foster the lessons of peace, until their state became the cradle of science, of letters, and of art. The Counts of Montefeltro, a fief long held by imperial grant, gradually established the seigneury over the neighbouring town of Urbino, which thenceforth gave them their title, and in the thirteenth century they received investiture of it from the popes. Invited in 1371 by the people of Cagli to supplant the usurping Ceccardi, and in 1384, by those of Gubbio,[*18] to expel the tyrannical race of the Gabrielli, they were soon recognised as Church-vassals in both. Casteldurante, partially conquered from the Brancaleoni by Count Guidantonio, was erected into a countship in his person by Martin V. in 1433; and his son Federigo obtained by marriage the remaining fiefs of that family, including S. Angelo in Vado, Mercatello, and Massa Trabaria. Fossombrone was bought by the same Federigo in 1445, from Malatesta of Pesaro. Mondaino, Tavoleta, Sassocorbaro, La Pergola, S. Leo, Sant'Agata, and other townships, were wrested at intervals by the Counts of Urbino from their hereditary foes the Malatesta. The ducal house della Rovere owed to papal nepotism the rich endowments of Sinigaglia and Mondavio in 1474, and those of Pesaro, Gradara, and Novilara in 1513. [Footnote *18: The story of the Counts and Dukes of Urbino in Gubbio, which begins in this year, is a long one, lasting to 1632. Some of the sources of information may perhaps here be given. _Croniche di Gubbio_ di Ser Guerriero, di Fra Gir. Maria da Venezia e di Don Francesco (per cura del Prof. Giuseppe Mazzatinti), _R.I.S._, tom. XXI., parte IV. (Città di Castello, 1902). V. ARMANNI, _Stor. della famiglia de' conti Bentivoglio da Gubbio_ (Bologna, 1682). B. TONDI, _I Fasti della Gloria_ (Venezia, 1684). M. SARTI, _De Episcopis Eugubinis_ (Pisauri, 1755). R. REPOSATI, _Della Zecca di Gubbio ecc._ (Bologna, 1772). SIMON PAOLO, _Diario detto di Marcello Cervino_ (Gubbio, 1848). G. MAZZATINTI, _Cronaca di ser Guerriero di Ser Silvestro Berni_, in _Arch. Stor. per le Marche e per l'Umbria_ (Foligno), vol. I., pp. 195 e 385. G. MAZZATINTI, _Di alcune leggi suntuarie eugubine_, in _Bollettino per l'Umbria_ (Perugia), vol. III., pp. 287-301. F. BALLERINI, _Le feste di Gubbio per la nascita di Federico Ubaldo, dei duchi d'Urbino_, in _Il Muratori_, vol. I., fasc. II. e segg. (1892, Roma). O. SCALVANTI, _Il Mons Pietatis di Perugia con qualche notizia di quello di Gubbio_ (Perugia, 1892). F. RANGHIASCI, _De' palazzi municipali ecc. di Gubbio_, in _Arch. St. It._, ser. VI., vol. VI., p. ii. A. PELLEGRINI, _Gubbio sotto i conti e Duchi d'Urbino_, in _Bollettino per l'Umbria_, vol. XI., pp. 135-246 e 483-535, e vol. XII., pp. 1-50.] The state which had thus been by degrees extended over much of Romagna and La Marca constituted the Duchy of Urbino, and received no further increment of territory. It contained seven episcopal cities, a number of smaller towns, and some three or four hundred "castles," by which must be understood fortified villages, for in that land of interminable contests, every hamlet became a stronghold. Penna da Billi was the original capital of Montefeltro. S. Leo, in the same wild and rugged district, was by nature one of the most impregnable fortresses in Italy; yet we shall have to detail its capture by surprise or treachery on three several occasions. Fano, with its small circumjacent territory, though nearly in the middle of the duchy, continued to hold directly of the Church. The early lords of Montefeltro were raised to the rank of counts of that fief by the Emperor Frederick Barbarossa about 1160, a favour which seems to have long borne fruits in their Ghibelline principles. Their first investiture as Church-vassals was from Honorius III., in 1216, but it was not till towards the close of that century, that we find them designated Counts of Urbino, a title which they used in common with Montefeltro, until the dukedom of Urbino was conferred upon Federigo in 1474.[19] On the death of his son, Duke Guidobaldo, in 1508, the ecclesiastical investitures fell by failure of heirs male; but the dynasty was revived in the person of Francesco Maria della Rovere, who happened to be nephew of Pope Julius II. as well as of the Duke, and who thus founded the second ducal line. With his grandson, Duke Francesco Maria II., the male investiture again ended in 1631; and the days of gross nepotism being past, Urban VIII., who then filled the chair of St. Peter, instead of presenting the lapsed sovereignty to his nephew Cardinal Barberini, incorporated it with the states of the Church, and discharged the claims of consanguinity in modified measure by appointing him the first legate of Urbino and Pesaro. [Footnote 19: It was first given to Oddantonio, in 1443, but lapsed a few months later by his death.] * * * * * It would be quite foreign to the object of this work were we to pause on a preliminary research into the remote antiquities of the house of MONTEFELTRO. Like many other distinguished Italian genealogical stems, it had attained vigour ere modern history dawned. Nor shall we follow tradition in its mazy attempts to trace the hardy plant from the feeble seedling, which, whether of indigenous growth, or transalpine origin, took root upon the Apennine cliffs of Carpegna. In the twelfth century it put forth three leading branches, distinguished as those of Carpegna, Pietra Robbia, and Monte Copiolo. Whilst the last of these gradually acquired an important sovereignty, and earned undying distinction in Italian history, the eldest, less favoured by energy, talent, or opportunity, forcibly recals the unprofitable servant in the parable. The Counts of Carpegna continued to hold their tiny mountain fief, with its sovereign jurisdiction, in such utter insignificance, that their names gained no note during the centuries of turmoil which passed over them. Their eagle nest sent forth no eagle spirits. After the peace of 1815, the Camera apostolica, anxious to abolish privileges no longer consonant to the altered policy of Europe, bribed the Count with 300,000 scudi (65,000_l._) to surrender the entire fief, with all its jurisdictions and immunities, and on the following day disposed of the allodial estates for one-fifteenth of that sum.[20] [Footnote 20: The Carpegna arms were azure, three bends argent. The Montefeltri of Urbino had their bends or, impaled with the eagle as feudatories of the empire.] It seems admitted that ANTONIO, the first Lord of Monte Copiolo, or his son MONTEFELTRANO, performed some important services[*21] to the Emperor Frederick Barbarossa, when he visited Italy for his coronation in 1154, and in return for these obtained, among other investitures, the countship of Montefeltro. From thence arose the distinctions, and the Ghibelline principles, which have preserved not a few names of this race in the picturesque pages of mediæval history; but we shall not attempt from these tattered leaves to disentangle their affiliation, or to distinguish their respective deeds of glory. Their extending influence took the direction usual in these days, and Urbino, the nearest township, tempting the ambition of Buonconte, he had the address to procure a double investiture of its sovereignty, from the Emperor Frederick II., and again, in 1216, from Pope Honorius III., by virtue whereof he became both count and vicar of that city. But parchments and bulls were then but imperfect title-deeds, and it was by the sword that they in general fell to be completed. The citizens of Urbino had hearts of oak and frames of iron wherewith to maintain their privilege of self-government, nor was it until after a struggle of nearly twenty years that they submitted to the seigneury of Buonconte. The succeeding century and a half found the Counts of Urbino occupied in ever-recurring struggles with the Church, originating from their Ghibelline policy, and occasionally complicated by the republican aspirations of their citizens. Upon these scenes of petty strife we need not dwell; but one of the race was far too striking a personage to be passed over in silence. [Footnote *21: This was the detection of a plot against Frederick. Cf. UGOLINI, _Storia dei Conti e Duchi d'Urbino_ (Firenze, 1859), vol. I., p. 12.] The earliest notice we have of COUNT GUIDO, the elder, is in 1268, when the youthful Corradino came into Italy to dispute the crown of Naples with Charles of Anjou. At Pisa he was met by the Ghibellines of Romagna and Tuscany: among them was the Count of Urbino, who obtained some laurels in the subsequent brief campaign, although spared from the crushing reverse at Tagliacozzo, having been left to maintain the imperial interests in Rome, with the title of Senator. In after years he acted as captain-general of the Ghibellines with such energy and judgment, that in 1281 all Romagna was subject to his sway, and he established Forlì as the capital of his new conquests. Martin IV. met the crisis by sending thither Giovanni di Appia, called in the old chronicles Gianni di Pa, one of the most esteemed condottieri of France, to sustain his interests as rector of the Church. The siege of Forlì ensued, where Guido had recourse to one of those stratagems which, to borrow the language of Villani, established his reputation as "a sagacious man, more cunning than any Italian of his time, masterly alike in war and in diplomacy." Gianni having carried Faenza by the treachery of Tribaldello, "Who op'ed Faenza when the people slept," he made similar overtures for the betrayal of Forlì, which were accepted by order of the Count. On a stipulated day, in May, 1282, one of the gates was abandoned to the besiegers, the garrison withdrawing by another port as these entered. Delighted with their bloodless conquest, and deceived by the apparent cordiality of the citizens, the advanced guard threw aside their arms, and committing their horses to the charge of the inhabitants, prepared to enjoy the spoil. Meanwhile Guido, whom they supposed in full retreat, fell upon and dispersed their reserve who were posted in the plain; he then formed his infantry in the position which the enemy had occupied, and reentering the town with a division of cavalry, surprised the captors, who, unprepared for resistance, fled to their rendezvous, where they fell an easy prey to the Ghibellines at the moment they looked for support from their friends. The success of this stratagem equalled its dexterity, and long was the fatal day remembered, which "Piled in bloody heap the host of France." The Guelphic party were roused to fresh efforts, though rather of gold than of steel: within a year, Forlì and Meldola had been surrendered to Gianni by their inhabitants, and in 1286, Guido, having made his peace with the Pope, was absolved from excommunication. But this reconciliation was short-lived. Within three years he merited new censures, by accepting from the Pisans the command of their troops against the Guelphs of Florence and Lucca, along with the seigneury of their republic. Whilst he held that authority, the fearful tragedy of Count Ugolino was perpetrated in the _Torre della fame_, but we may presume him guiltless of its horrors, since neither the naive narrative of Villani, nor the magnificent episode of Dante, alludes to his name, whilst impugning that cold-blooded murder. Meanwhile the people of Urbino had taken advantage of his absence and embarrassments to rally for their freedom round the papal banner. Wearied of these struggles, and fretting under their penal consequences, he once more humbled himself before his ecclesiastical superior, and obtained absolution in May, 1295.[*22] It was probably the cordial reception which his overtures met from Celestine V., that obtained for that pontiff, after his canonisation, a high degree of devotional repute among the people of Urbino. The romance of most men's lives goes by in youth; that of Count Guido was reserved for his declining years. Embued with the devotional enthusiasm which St. Francis evoked from the mountains of Umbria, he deemed the Pontiff's pardon an inadequate expiation of his accumulated rebellions. Casting aside the gauds of sovereignty, sheathing the sword which he had never drawn but to conquer, he assumed the cord and cowl of the new order, and in the holy cells of Assisi, sought that peace which it had been the aim of his previous life to trouble. [Footnote *22: He had been excommunicated for the third time in 1288 for defending the Pisani. He was finally reconciled to the Church, October 1, 1294. Cf. Ugolini, _op. cit._, vol. I., p. 81 _et seq._ MURATORI (_Annali_ ad ann. 1295) says: "Guido conte di Montefeltro rimesso in grazia del papa, venne in quest'anno a Forlì...."] This monastic seclusion, upon which he entered about the close of 1296, was, however, ere long, broken in upon by one of the most remarkable pontiffs that has occupied the chair of St. Peter, whom we must briefly introduce to the reader. Boniface VIII., of the ancient Roman house of Gaetani, was elected in the end of 1294, to supply the vacancy occasioned by the abdication of Celestine V., a visionary anchorite, whom six months' experience had convinced that the triple tiara was a load ill-suited to his brows. His resignation was chiefly brought about by the intrigues of Cardinal Gaetani, of whom Celestine is said to have predicted that he would attain to the papacy by the arts of a fox, rule it with the fury of a lion, and die the death of a dog. Chosen at an age already much exceeding the ordinary span of human life, Boniface wielded his sovereignty with a boldness of will and an energy of purpose rarely found even in the prime of manhood; and dying at eighty-six, he had in nine years shaken the thrones of many monarchs, by pretensions and intrigues untried by his predecessors. It would be foreign to our purpose to trace his career, and to reconcile the various and contradictory estimates of his character: those who wish to glance at the state of this controversy may consult the pages of two recent periodicals, in which the respective views of ultra Romanist and Protestant writers are ably developed.[23] [Footnote 23: _Dublin Review_, vol. XI., 1841, p. 505. _Brit. and Foreign Review_, vol. XIII., 1842, p. 415.] But to the point which more especially regards our subject, the feuds between Boniface and the house of Colonna. The validity of his election had been early questioned, and was long disputed, on the ground that the rights of his predecessor, as a legally chosen pope, were indefeasible by abdication. Such doubts, it may be well conceived, the fiery spirit of Boniface could ill brook, and upon a rumour that two cardinals, sons of Giovanni Colonna, had been heard to express them, he at once summoned them to his presence to state their opinion upon that delicate point. This was in 1296, after the Pontiff's fierce character had been amply developed by a reign of two years; and these cardinals instantly withdrew from Rome to the strongholds of their family, from whence they issued an answer, respectfully avowing their misgivings as to the matter in question, and offering to submit them to the decision of a general council. But their flight, and the delay of a few days, had been construed by the haughty Vicar of Christ as acts of contumacy; and even before their offensive manifesto reached him, he had directed the thunders of the Church against the two Colonna, visiting on their devoted heads the accumulated offences of all their line, without allowing them an opportunity of explanation or defence. The bull of excommunication proceeds, with more than wonted elaboration of abusive epithets, to designate the obnoxious race, as "detested by their dependants, troublesome to their neighbours, enemies to the community, rebels against the Church, turbulent in the city, fractious to their allies, thankless to their benefactors, unwilling to obey, incapable of command, devoid of humility, agitated by passion, fearless of God, regardless of man." A general proscription of their whole family and adherents, and a sequestration of their vast property, was followed up by the siege of Palestrina, their principal fief. Finding his exertions unequal to the reduction of that fortress, Boniface bethought him of the military experience of the old Ghibelline monk of Montefeltro, and demanded of him counsel, silencing his religious scruples by a preliminary absolution for the sin of reverting to worldly schemes. Thus pressed, Count Guido advised recourse to deceitful promises as the surest means of conquest; and "the bard of hell," who is an authority for this passage in his life, hence consigns him to the doom of an impenitent sinner. But let us hear the poet, through the version of Carey:-- "A man of arms at first; I clothed me then In good Saint Francis' girdle, hoping so To have made amends. And certainly my hope Had failed not, but that he whom curses light on, The high priest, again seduced me into sin; And how and wherefore listen while I tell. Long as the spirit moved the bones and pulp My mother gave me, less my deeds bespake The nature of the lion than the fox: All ways of winding subtlety I knew, And with such art conducted that the sound Reached the world's limit. Soon as to that part Of life I found me come, when each behoves To lower sails and gather in the lines, That which before had pleased me then I rued, And to repentance and confession turned; Wretch that I was, and well it had bested me! The chief of the new Pharisees meantime, Waging his warfare near the Lateran, Not with the Saracens or Jews (his foes All Christians were, nor against Acre one Had fought, nor trafficked in the Soldan's land), He his great charge nor sacred ministry In himself reverenced, nor in me that cord Which used to mark with leanness whom it girded. As in Soracte Constantine besought, To cure his leprosy, Silvester's aid; So me to cure the fever of his pride This man besought. My counsel to that end He asked, and I was silent, for his words Seemed drunken: but forthwith he thus resumed: 'From thy heart banish fear; of all offence I hitherto absolve thee. In return, Teach me my purpose so to execute, That Palestrina cumber earth no more. Heaven, as thou knowest, I have the power to shut And open, and the keys are therefore twain, The which my predecessor meanly prized.' Then yielding to these forceful arguments, And deeming silence yet more perilous, I answered, 'Father, since thou washest me Clear of that guilt wherein I now must fall,-- Large promise with performance scant right sure Shall make thee triumph in thy lofty seat.' When I was numbered with the dead, then came Saint Francis for me; but a cherub dark He met, who cried, 'Wrong me not! he is mine, And must below to join the wretched crew, For the deceitful counsel which he gave:' E'er since I've watched him, hovering at his hair. No power can the impenitent absolve, For to repent and will can ne'er consist, By contradiction absolute forbid. Oh misery! how I shook myself when he Seized me and cried, 'Thou haply thoughtst me not A disputant in logic so exact!' To Minos down he bore me, and the judge Twined eight times round his callous back the tail, Which, biting with excess of rage, he spake, 'This is a guilty soul that in the fire Must vanish!' Hence, perdition doomed, I rove, A prey to rankling sorrow in this garb." CAREY'S _Inferno_, xxvii. Such is the passage that has given a celebrity to Count Guido, which neither his prowess nor his alleged treachery could have conferred.[*24] Yet there are not wanting doubts as to the fidelity of this picture of his latter days; indeed, the whole charge against him in the affair of the Colonnas has been considered apocryphal by the apologists of Boniface VIII., and is rejected by Franciscan writers. Villani, whilst confirming the fact that the chiefs of that lawless race were cajoled by the Pontiff into a surrender of "their noble fortress" upon terms which were shamefully violated, drops no hint that Guido was a party to the fraud. Nor is there any reason to suppose his Holiness in want of a prompter, such faithlessness being then in usual practice for political ends, and the old chronicler expressly tells us that the conscience of Boniface was very readily stretched for gain to the Church, under cover of the axiom that the end justified the means. Against these authorities the vision can scarcely be deemed of historic weight, especially as such breach of good faith was, probably, in the eyes of Dante, a less heinous offence than his reconciliation with the Guelphs.[25] Indeed the poet in the Convito ranks him with those noble spirits, "who, when approaching the last haven, lowered the sails of their earthly career, and, laying aside worldly pleasures and wishes, devoted themselves to religion in their old age."[*26] Of the merit or efficacy of such sacrifices at the dread tribunal, it belongs not to erring man dogmatically to judge: for our purpose it is more appropriate to notice the following brief of Boniface to the Franciscan superintendent of La Marca, as remarkable evidence of the devotional zeal which actuated the Count in assuming the monastic vows, and which "When joy of war and pride of chivalry Languished beneath accumulated years, Had power to draw him from the world." [Footnote *24: The authorities for the life of Count Guido il Vecchio of Montefeltro are the _Cronaca Riminese_ and the _Cronaca Estense_, in MURATORI, _R.I.S._ Cf. also VILLANI, _Cronaca_, especially lib. VII., caps. 81, 128, and RODOLFO HONIG, _Conte Guido di Montefeltro_ (Bologna, 1901). Cf. also RIZZOLI, _I Sigilli nel Museo Bottacin di Padova_ (Padova, 1903), p. 51, tav. 6, where a seal of Guido is described and illustrated.] [Footnote 25: Yet the denial of this imputation by Muzio and Baldi may be ascribed rather to sycophancy than to historic research, especially as the latter, in his _Encomio della Patria_, has gravely maintained that Guido was placed in the Inferno, not for his misdeeds, but as the only modern warrior worthy to be the associate of Ulysses!] [Footnote *26: Convito, IV., 28, 61 _seq._ "Il nobilissimo nostro Latino Guido Montefeltro."] "Our beloved son, the noble Count Guido of Montefeltro, has repeatedly conveyed to us personally, and through credible informants, his wish, desire, and intention, after communing with his own heart, to end his days in God's service, under the monastic habit, as a means of effacing his sins against Him, and the mother Church of Rome; and this with the full assent of his wife, who is said to be willing to take upon herself the vows of perpetual chastity. We, therefore, commending in the Lord his devotional aspirations, which seemed disposed in all prudence to admit the spirit of counsel, and in order to the more free fulfilment of his vow,--will that his household be paid out of what movables he possesses, and that he assign to his wife from his real estate as much beyond the amount of her dowry as may give her a hundred pounds in Ravenna currency yearly, during her life, a divorce having been first duly pronounced between them, in the form customary and becoming when a vow of chastity has been undertaken. And we further desire that all such personal effects as may remain, after remunerating his attendants, shall be securely deposited, and lie in the hands of responsible persons in the meantime, until we shall come to further resolutions regarding the real and movable property which he now has. And further, as the advanced age of his consort places her beyond suspicion, it is our will that she have leave to remain in her present position, if she cannot be persuaded to a monastic retirement." After conferring on the Superintendent the authority requisite for carrying these resolutions into effect, the Pope concludes by desiring that it be left to the Count's unbiassed decision, whether he will enter one of the military orders, or adopt the more rigid rule of the friars minor of St. Francis. This letter is dated from Anagni the 23rd of August, 1296.[27] The option thus given him in no way shook his intention of conforming to the ascetic rule of "poverty and Francis:" and although his Countess Costanza did not follow his example by assuming the monastic vows, she passed the eight remaining years of her worldly pilgrimage in the not less strict seclusion of Santa Chiara at Urbino, a convent especially favoured by her posterity, and of such rigid discipline that the nuns went barefoot and wore no linen, rising habitually at midnight, and but once a year permitted to approach the grating in order to see their nearest relatives. Her lord's remaining life was of shorter span, as he died at Assisi on the 27th of September, 1298, and is said to have been interred in the church there. That his courage was not unmingled with cunning seems established rather by some incidents in his life than by the bitter lines of the Ghibelline bard; that his piety was shadowed by superstition is a conclusion suggested by the closing scenes of his life, and still more by his most stirring years having bent to the slavish control of astrological quackery to a degree exceeding even the darkness of his age. His zeal founded the family chapel, which may yet be seen in the lower church at Assisi,--its frescoes cruelly defaced; and the devotion of his family was long after specially directed to the service of St. Francis and Santa Chiara.[*28] [Footnote 27: RIPOSATI, _Zecca di Gubbio_, I., p. 408.] [Footnote *28: There was never a Montefeltro chapel in the Lower Church of S. Francesco at Assisi. Guido died in 1298, and the first two chapels were only founded about 1310 by "due prelati di Casa Orsina, cioè Gian Giordano e Napoleone ambedue cardinali. Fece il primo far la cappela di S. Giovanni Battista in capo al braccio meridionale, e il secondo quella di S. Niccolò rimpetto alla menzionata, cioè in testa al baccio settentrionale della croce del sotterraneo." P. GIUSEPPE FRATINI: _Storia della Basilica di S. Francesco in Assisi_ (Prato, 1882), p. 94. What Dennistoun possibly means, is that Guidantonio in the first half of the fifteenth century commissioned the painting of the Cappella dei Pellegrini in Via Principe di Napoli in Assisi from Mezzastris and Matteo da Gualdo. CRISTOFANI: _Storia d'Assisi_ (Assisi Tip. Metastasio), p. 198. Dennistoun errs again when he suggests that Guido was buried in S. Francesco. Cristofani (_op. cit._, p. 124) tells us he was buried "nel luogo degli Angeli. D'onde il figlio Federigo fe' poi trasportarne le ossa nella chiesa di S. Bernardino a picciola distanza dalla città d'Urbino." Cf. also UGOLINI, _op. cit._, vol. I., pp. 88-90.] During the next century, the pedigree of the Montefeltri, and their feats of arms against rival seigneurs, such as the Brancaleoni, the Malatesti, and the Ceccardi, are involved in confusion which we need not stay to extricate. Heroes they were, but in fields which the wide glance of history has overlooked: they found no Thucydides to depict their gallant deeds, no Froissart to chronicle their fame. Fighting under Ghibelline colours, their victories were followed by papal vengeance, affording a pretext for new risings of their urban subjects, in one of which Count Federigo and his son were torn to pieces about 1322. But though Guelph was then the ordinary watchword of freedom, and though all who desired self-government were wont to rally round the Church, they often found, like the frogs in the fable, that they had gained a worse master. As a specimen of the papal legates of his day, we may mention Guglielmo Durante,[*29] a predicant friar, who presided over the ecclesiastical territories in Romagna, about the beginning of that century, giving his name to a town in the duchy of Urbino which he rebuilt, and which long afterwards became Urbania. His tomb is in the church of the Minerva at Rome, one of those fine monuments where architecture and sculpture unite to perpetuate the dead, and over which mosaic throws the magic of rich colouring. The inscription, after enumerating his legal and liturgical works, thus celebrates the energetic qualities of this mitred warrior: "Savage as a lion against his foes, he tamed indomitable communities, he put church rebels to the sword, and reduced the vanquished to servitude." No wonder that the citizens of Urbino preferred to such pastors a return under their hereditary lords. Nor was Umbria the only theatre of Feltrian prowess. Among the republics, Pisa was as devotedly Ghibelline, as were these counts among the great feudatories. Intimate political relations were the natural result, and the Pisans were seldom without one of that race as their seigneur to maintain the common cause against their Guelphic rivals of Florence and Lucca. [Footnote *29: For Guglielmo Durante, see MAZZATINTI, _Il Card. Albornoz nell'Umbria ecc._, in _Arch. St. per le Marche e per l'Umbria_, vol. IV., p. 466 _et seq._, and FILIPPINI, _La riconquista dello Stato della Chiesa per opera di Egidio Albornoz_ 1353-57, in _Studi Storici_ (Pisa e Torino, 1897), vol. VI., fasc. I., _et seq._] ANTONIO COUNT OF MONTEFELTRO AND URBINO, eighth or ninth in descent from Antonio first Lord of Monte Copiolo. His family having for some years been expatriated, and their state a prey to intestine broils, the harassed citizens recalled him in 1377 as representative of their ancient chiefs; and from that time we can follow with tolerable certainty the generations and history of the Montefeltri. The imperial party in Italy was now reduced to a mere name, fitted rather for a cry of faction than to be the rallying point of international feud. The authority lost by the emperors in Central Italy had passed to the pontiffs, and Count Antonio, emancipating himself from the spell that had bound his race to a falling cause, gave to his posterity an example of loyalty to his over-lord the Pope. He is mentioned in a chronicle of 1384 as introducing certain reforms in the administration of justice, which before publication were submitted for approval by the municipal council of Urbino, and eight years thereafter he put forth various amended statutes and constitutions. His good sense was rewarded by peace at home and acquisitions abroad. Cagli and Gubbio drove out their domestic tyrants the Ceccardi and the Gabrielli, in order to welcome his sway,[*30] and he conquered Cantiano from the latter after a nine years' struggle. Benedict IX. welcomed him as an obedient son of the Church, and established him by new investitures in these towns, as well as in the former holdings of his family.[*31] His bitter strife with the Malatesti was with difficulty appeased by mediation of that Pontiff and of the Venetians. Allied with Florence, Siena, and Milan,[*32] he gained the fame of a gallant captain, whilst his exertions to govern his people with humanity and justice established his reputation as a mild, generous, and benignant prince. His prudence, high counsel, and lofty spirit are lauded in an old chronicle of Forlì;[*33] and a sonnet, inspired by religion rather than poetry, and ascribed to his pen, will be found in the Appendix I. [Footnote *30: According to GUERRIERO, _op. cit._ (see _supra_, note *1, p. 22), Antonio arrived on March 31, 1384, with 2000 foot and 400 horse--to the cry of "Viva el Conte Antonio"--"con più suoi gentiluomini e provisionati, e con ottocento some di vittuaglia e fece molto onore alli consoli. Ebbe le guardie della rocca della città, le chiavi delle porte.... Mandò alli nostri gentiluomini, e molti tornarono, e incominciò ad invilire il prezzo del grano a 20 ancone la mina." Cf. SIMON PAOLO, _op. cit._ (see _supra_, note *1, p. 22).] [Footnote *31: He went to Perugia in the latter part of 1392 while the Pope was there. Ghinolfo Conti, a Roman baron, administered justice in Perugia (without respect to the factions and with little satisfaction to the nobles greedy of privileges) in the name of the Pope "cui consigliava a trovar modo di rimettere i fuorusciti nella città. Allo stesso pietoso officio intendeva il conte Antonio da Urbino venuto a Perugia con 200 cavalli." _Arch. St. It._, ser. I., vol. XVI., part I., p. 254 and note 3.] [Footnote *32: The treaty was signed February 1, 1375. Cf. SOMMI PICENARDI, _Trattato fra Bernabò Visconti, ecc. ecc._, in _Miscellanea di Storia Italiana_, vol. XXIII. (Torino, 1885).] [Footnote *33: _Annal. Foroliviens_, in MURATORI, _R.I.S._, tom. XXII. See also _Sozomenus Chron._, in _R.I.S._, tom. XVI.] The death of Count Antonio was announced to the government of Siena by his son, in terms which, exceeding the formal expression of ceremonious regret, afford a pleasing specimen of official intercourse in early times. The original, in rude Latin, is preserved in the Archivio Diplomatico at Siena. "To the mighty and potent Lords and special Fathers, the Lords Priors, and Governors of the people and city of Siena. "Mighty and potent Lords, special Fathers; I should gladly communicate news more pleasant both to your magnificences, whose true and unwavering son I am, and to myself; but whatever they may be, they ought to be freely reciprocated where there exists true strength of affection, and intact purity of friendship, in order that such guileless amity may rejoice with a friend in prosperity, and may sustain, support, sympathise with, or even defend him in misfortune. And being made aware by information from others, as well as by personal experience, of the sincere affection and mutual interchange of favours continued between your progenitors and my own, I have decided, with tearful words, bitter sighs, and sad wailings, to inform your magnificences, to whom I faithfully commend myself and state, how, on the 29th of last April, the potent Lord my father, of unfading memory, yielded his noble spirit to the Almighty Creator of all, paying the timely but, alas, unavoidable debt, and separated from the flesh by force of fever, after disposing of his worldly affairs, and receiving the holy eucharist and other sacramental rites of our religion, with a mind distinct to his last hour. Ah me! wretched and afflicted, doomed to such distress! Dearest fathers, the loss of such and so great a parent torments and agitates me; what and how eminent a son have you and your community lost in him. It is indeed beyond the power of nature herself to replace to your magnificences one of greater or even equal affection, or to supply such a father to me who fain would imitate him. For he curtailed my cares, relieved my sighs, appeased my fears, cleared my entanglements. One only consideration soothes and mitigates my mental affliction, and the grief that envenoms my heart, that since fate has bereaved me of such a parent, it may find for me another in you, magnificent fathers, whom I heartily beseech to assume a paternal care of me your child, and of my state, and to counsel me in my affairs as a steady son, who will in no way abandon these recollections, and my paternal associations. Prepared for all compliance with your wishes, your magnificences' son, "GUIDO COUNT OF MONTEFELTRO AND URBINO. "Urbino, 9th May, 1404." Count Antonio died in April, 1404, and by his wife, a daughter of Ugolino Gonzaga, left, 1. COUNT GUIDANTONIO, his successor. 2. ANNA, who died unmarried in 1434.[*34] 3. BATTISTA. [Footnote *34: Anna married Francesco Brancaleoni. Cf. UGOLINI, _op. cit._, I., 191. Later she is said to have married a Malatesta.] Upon the last of these sisters we must dwell in some detail, for she was conspicuous among the ladies of high birth, whose acquirements gave illustration to her age. By contemporary authors, her talents and endowments are spoken of in most flattering terms, whilst her character is celebrated for piety and justice, benignity and clemency. She corresponded with many of these writers, and employed her pen in theology and poetry. Among other moral treatises, she is said to have written upon human frailty, and on the true faith. In such exercises she found a resource amid the large share of public and domestic calamities which shadowed her lot. Her marriage was celebrated in 1404, when about twenty-one years of age, with Galeazzo Malatesta, heir of the seigneury of Pesaro, a spiritless creature entirely devoid of the martial qualities of his race, and whose incapacity so disgusted his subjects that, after two years, he was driven out. He subsequently sold his birthright by a transaction which we shall describe in our fifth chapter, and, forsaking his wife, consoled himself in old age with another mate. Battista, with her only child, fled from her rebellious subjects to Urbino, and at the court of her brother found a ready welcome. When the Emperor Sigismund arrived there, on returning from his coronation at Rome in 1433, she was selected to pronounce, in his honour, a Latin harangue, which is published, but now possesses little interest. Her poetic vein had been encouraged by her father-in-law, who, anticipating the literary tastes which prevailed among the Italian princes later in this century, gained the surname of _Malatesta degli Sonetti_, from his success in that class of compositions. Several of the Italian sonnets and canzoni which passed between them are preserved in manuscript, as well as some of her letters in Latin.[35] Specimens of both are printed in the Appendix No. I., including a letter of Battista written for an interesting purpose. Cleofe, her husband's youngest sister, had married Teodoro, eldest son of an emperor of Constantinople, and despot of the Morea, but this splendid alliance was embittered by persecutions on account of her faith, which at length induced her thus to state the case to Martin V. The result of this appeal does not appear, but the subject of it is believed to have outlived his Holiness about two years.[36] [Footnote 35: Bibl. Oliveriana, MSS. No. 454. Vat. Urb. Lib., No. 3212, f. 128. Also a MS. in the Chigi Library. See, as to the writings both of Malatesta and his daughter-in-law, TIRABOSCHI, VI., part II., p. 164, and CRESCIMBENI, III., pp. 214, 265.] [Footnote 36: A very curious contract, preserved in Archivio Diplomatico at Florence, and dated 29th May, 1419, secures to her the exercise of her own religion and native usages during the marriage, and in case of widowhood, permits her return to Italy.] The ill-starred and virtually widowed lady of Pesaro eventually took the veil, by the name of Sister Gerolima, in the Franciscan convent of Santa Lucia at Foligno, where she died in 1450. Another monastery of the rigorous order of Sta. Chiara, dedicated by her at Pesaro to the Corpus Domini, had in 1443 received her daughter Elisabetta, whose lot was scarcely less unfortunate. Her husband, Pietro Gentile Lord of Camerino, fell a victim in 1433 to fraternal jealousy, leaving an only child Costanza, whom we shall subsequently notice as first wife of Alessandro Sforza, the supplanter of her grandfather in the seigneury of Pesaro, and as mother of Battista Countess of Urbino. CHAPTER III Guidantonio Count of Urbino--The Ubaldini--Oddantonio Count of Urbino--Is made Duke--His dissolute habits and speedy assassination. Count Guidantonio found himself, on his succession, hampered by debts incurred in purchasing another ample investiture in vicariate from Boniface IX., which cost him 12,000 golden florins. But prudence quickly retrieved these embarrassments, and not only enabled him to add materially to his territories and influence, but to raise his house to unprecedented distinction. In 1408, the mountain republic of Assisi sought protection from his sway; and this was approved by Gregory XII., to whom he adhered in opposition to the antipope Benedict XIII.[*37] The disgraceful schisms which at this time agitated Europe, and convulsed the Church, had their influence upon the Count of Urbino, who refused to desert Gregory when he and his rival Benedict were simultaneously deposed by the general council of Pisa, as a means of restoring union and peace to Christendom. Ladislaus of Naples, adopting the same policy, appointed the Count his grand constable, and leader of the war he was carrying on against John XXII., the _de facto_ pope, by whom he was consequently excommunicated. Guidantonio, however, made his peace with the Church in 1413, and was created its gonfaloniere, and vice-general of Romagna; thereafter he was for some time occupied against Braccio di Montone, who carried fire and sword into his territories, on his failing to make good part of the ransom of Carlo Malatesta, for which he had become security.[*38] This Braccio was a fair specimen of Italian captains of adventure. His ancestors were among the magnates of Perugia, which, under the guidance of an oligarchy, had stretched its sway over much of Umbria, extending almost from sea to sea. "But man's estate being ever unstable, when its citizens, indolent by inclination, had thus greatly augmented their dominion and wealth, their pride swelled with their means. They who had vanquished their neighbours, waxing savage in their very vitals, set to conquer each other; hence there arose fierce discords and cruel feuds. Verily the city of Perugia was in those days most liable to changes, for it was alternately governed by the nobles, or seized by the mob; in either case supremacy having been obtained by arms and violence, rather than by equity and moderation, the victors cruelly massacred or exiled their opponents." This quaint description, borrowed from Campano, the biographer of Braccio, was then applicable to almost every city and township of the Peninsula. It was his hero's fate to be expatriated in early life by some such convulsion, and nothing was left him but his good sword, to cut his way therewith as a condottiere, until he established a despotic authority in his birthplace, and won a high place in the martial annals of Italy. Even after his death at the Lake of Celano, his name was during half a century cherished by his followers as the prestige of victory, and we shall often find the Braccian bands, under Nicolò Piccinino, opposed to those of his constant rivals the Sforza. [Footnote *37: The Chronicle of Gubbio tells us that Cardinal Maramaldo, legate of the Pope in Umbria, had been promised the lordship of Assisi for his services, and that at this time he was in secret treaty with the Perugians to deliver Assisi to them. "Di che accortisi," says CRISTOFANI (_op. cit._, p. 213), "i cittadini di Gubbio poco mancò, che non lapidassero il legato. Certo poi egli ebbe in seguito Assisi e la resse con titolo di vicario della Chiesa. Difatti in una sentenza registrata in forma pubblica a dì 18 di agosto 1413 in favor del monastero di S. Apollinare contro l'altro di S. Paolo si legge: _nobilis ac potens comes Riccardus de ... gubernator Assisii pro illustri ac potenti domino Guidantonio comite montis feretri Assisii et Umbriæ pro S.R.E. Vicario_" (Archivio di S. Apollinare in Assisi). The domination of Guidantonio in Assisi is much better confirmed by a series of letters at various times directed by him to the public officials of Assisi that are given in the _Riformagioni_, lib. H, VII. One of these is given dated, 29 July, 1415, from Gubbio, by CRISTOFANI (_op. cit._, p. 214, note 1).] [Footnote *38: About 1416 the power of Braccio was very great. The Perugians had lost to him nearly all their fortified places; for this cause they hired Carlo Malatesta of Rimini, who was at the head of some 2000 horse and 800 infantry in Assisi; others, too, flocked to him. Towards the middle of July Carlo and his nephew Galeotto, half-brother to the famous Sigismondo, fell into the hands of Braccio, as some say, after the battle of S. Egidio, near Bastia, between Perugia and Assisi. The ransom was 120,000 ducats. See CRISTOFANI, _op. cit._, p. 215, and EDWARD HUTTON, _op. cit._, pp. 17-18.] [Illustration: THE BATTLE OF S. EGIDIO _After the picture by Paolo Uccello in the National Gallery. Portraits of Carlo Malatesta and his nephew Galeotto "il Beato"_] Cardinal Ottone Colonna, formerly bishop of Urbino, having been raised to the papacy in 1417, by the title of Martin V., Guidantonio lost no time in rendering him homage by an envoy, whom he next year followed in person, meeting the Pontiff at Mantua. His well-timed adhesion was repaid by a life-grant of the dukedom of Spoleto, after which he returned to defend his frontiers from his turbulent neighbour of Montone. On his arrival in Italy in 1419, Martin found his states greatly disorganised, and the temporal sway of the papacy deeply infringed by many seigneurs and communities, who had made themselves independent during the secession to Avignon, and in the prolonged schisms which had succeeded the return of Urban VI. to Rome. None of these had so much reason to dread the reckoning likely to follow the re-establishment of Christ's vicars in their ancient capital as the tyrant of Perugia, who was now at the height of his power. Unable to frustrate the impediments which Braccio threw in the way of his progress southward, the Pontiff paused at Florence, which he entered on the 26th of February; but even there he found a populace in the interest of his rebellious feudatory, and ever ready to outrage him with such taunts as "Martin Pope, not worth a plack."[39] Aware of the hazard of delay, and of the importance of gaining over a spirit so powerful for good or evil, Martin invited Montone to an interview, and found means to conciliate him by a compromise, recognising him as vicar of Perugia, Assisi, Todi, and Jesi, on his surrendering Orvieto, Terni, Narni, and Orte.[*40] He at the same time engaged his military services to reduce Bologna, then standing out for the deposed Pope John XXIII., who, on the fall of that his last stronghold, repaired to Florence to make submission to the reigning Pontiff, and died there in the end of that year.[*41] Martin's difficulties being thus overcome, he was enabled during the autumn to proceed in peace to Rome, and there to re-establish the metropolis of Christendom. [Footnote 39: "Papa Martino Non val' un quatrino!"] [Footnote *40: But see L. FUMI, _Guidantonio e la Città di Castello_, in _Bollettino per l'Umbria_, vol. VI., pp. 377-401.] [Footnote *41: Cf. L. BONAZZI, _St. di Perugia_ (Perugia, 1875), vol. II., p. 641.] The Pope had availed himself of Braccio's visit to Florence to call thither the Count of Urbino, in order to effect a reconciliation between these rivals. Guidantonio, on this occasion, had from the magistracy of that city, as well as from his own over-lord, a highly honourable welcome, and in March, 1420, received, at the hands of his Holiness, the Golden Rose, a compliment usually conferred upon royalty.[*42] Three years later, he found himself widowed by the death of Rengarda, daughter of Galeotto Malatesta, Lord of Rimini, whom he had married in 1397, and who left him childless. After an interval, he strengthened his intimate relations with the Pontiff, by marrying Caterina, daughter of his brother Lorenzo Colonna, an alliance which secured him a series of further favours, in addition to a dowry of 5200 florins of gold. The nuptials were celebrated at Rome with great rejoicings, in the spring of 1424.[*43] [Footnote *42: The Golden Rose was conferred not infrequently on others besides royalty. Sigismondo Malatesta had it later.] [Footnote *43: It was in January.] The house of Urbino had hereditary feuds of long standing with the Brancaleoni, a race of Guelphic principles, whose fiefs lay along the Apennines from Gubbio to Montefeltro, including all Massa Trabaria and the upper valley of the Metauro. Their recurring contests ended in a victory, or were compromised by a marriage, from which the former were usually the gainers. Upon pretences which it is needless amid conflicting statements to investigate, and assured of the Pontiff's support, Guidantonio had seized upon Castle Durante and other fortresses in 1424, and on the death of Bartolomeo Brancaleoni, leaving only a daughter,[*44] he arranged her marriage with his natural son Federico, whose fortunes we shall hereafter have to follow. The large territory thus absolutely or virtually placed under the Count continued with his posterity so long as the independence of Urbino was preserved. [Footnote *44: Her name was Elisabetta.] To the impression which Guidantonio had made on his visit to Florence some ten years before he probably owed the baton of captain-general, sent him in the autumn of 1430 by that republic in their campaign against Lucca. But there he reaped no laurels. In an engagement fought in the face of his protestations, he suffered from Nicolò Piccinino a total discomfiture, and, throwing up the command in disgust, he returned home early next year. About the same time his prosperity received a further check in the demise of his steady friend the Pontiff, who lived to see the schism that had perplexed the Church during half a century finally healed by the death of all his competitors for the chair of St. Peter. The triple tiara passed to the brows of Eugene IV., who visited Martin's undue partiality for his own family the Colonna, by escheats which they flew to arms to avenge. The Lord of Urbino, naturally leaning to the party of his wife's relations, lost the Pontiff's favour; but he gained a well-wisher in the Emperor Sigismund, who, while returning to Germany from his coronation at Rome, was magnificently entertained at that court, and conferred the honour of knighthood upon his host and the young Count Oddantonio. The death of Countess Caterina, on the 9th of October, 1438, seems to have in a great degree broken the fine spirit of her husband, who immediately retired to pass ten days in devotional exercises at Loretto, and thenceforward devolved all his military cares upon his natural son Federigo. His few remaining years were given to pious works, to which the cathedral of Urbino and the church of San Donato, both founded in 1439, bear witness; and he is said to have then habitually worn, under his ordinary dress, the habit of St. Francis, in which he was interred. His death took place on the 20th of February, 1442,[*45] and he was buried in San Donato, where his cowled effigy is still seen on the pavement, his spurs of knighthood hanging from his sheathed sword-hilt, with a barbarous inscription, which will be found in the Appendix to our third volume. [Footnote *45: Guidantonio died on February 21, 1443, according to the inscription on his tomb; but the Chronicle of Gubbio (BERNI, in MURATORI, _R.I.S._, tom. XXI., p. 981) gives the date as in the text. The library at Urbino was begun by him.] On the demise of this prince, who has been sometimes confused with Count Guido the elder, "the city of Urbino was," in the simple words of an old chronicle, "left widowed and desolate." Of his character and merits, whatever has reached us is favourable. The doggerel verses of his epitaph celebrate his clemency and justice; his religion was manifested by the tenor of his latter years, the general respect of his contemporaries honoured him through life, and he left behind him an extended frontier and a condensed state. His surviving children were-- 1. ODDANTONIO, his successor, born in 1426. 2. BIANCA, married to Guidantonio or Guidaccio Manfredi, Lord of Faenza and Imola, who had been brought up at her father's court. 3. VIOLANTE, who was born in 1430, and at twelve years of age, married Domenico Malatesta Novello, Lord of Cesena. She was remarkable alike for talent and beauty; and her husband, who died childless in 1465, left a fine monument of his literary tastes, in the public library which remains in that city. 4. AGNESINA, born in 1431, who in 1445 married Alessandro Gonzaga, Lord of Castiglione, a younger son of the first Marquis of Mantua. 5. BRIGIDA SUEVA.[46] [Footnote 46: Regarding this daughter, who was born in 1428, we have some curious particulars to offer. After her father's death, she was carried to Rome, to be educated by her uncles the Colonna. There she married Alessandro Sforza, Lord of Pesaro, in 1448, an alliance rather of policy than of affection, and was received in his capital with all demonstrations of joy by her new subjects. Her husband, fully occupied with war and business, soon after set off for Lombardy: and in sooth her charms are described, even by her enthusiastic eulogists, as very homely, and little adapted to fix the roving tastes of her lord, whose dissolute and brutal conduct exceeded even the licence of that age. After patient endurance of his outrages during twelve years, she fled to the convent of Corpus Domini, of the Franciscan order of Sta. Chiara, at Pesaro, which she enriched with 7500 ducats out of her dower. That she did not leave behind all mundane tastes may be concluded from a curious inventory of paraphernalia which she took into the cloister, printed by the Abbé Olivieri from the original in her own hand, and contained in II. of our Appendix.[*B] But even the sacred precincts of her cloister afforded to the unhappy Sueva no adequate sanctuary from her cruel husband, who, abandoning himself to a profligate connection with Pacifica, a fair damsel of Pesaro, sought by renewed persecutions to extort from his wife an entire release from his matrimonial tie. Her just complaints procured the interposition of the Colonna; but these were answered by false charges against her connubial fidelity, which, overawed by the menaces of Alessandro, that he would consign the monastery and its inmates to the flames, she tacitly admitted. Thus cut off from human succour, the afflicted lady had recourse to the support of religion, and whilst prostrated before a crucifix, her faith was reassured by the conviction that the figure upon it had turned towards her with compassionate words. For such woes the world had no asylum. The outraged wife became the spouse of Christ, by taking the final vows as Sister Serafina, and sent back to her oppressor the ring that had been the token of their ill-starred union. His restored liberty was immediately used to marry Pacifica, whom his cruelties within two years consigned to a premature tomb. Finally, repenting of his long criminal career, he sought forgiveness of Serafina, and richly endowed the convent, of which she had become abbess. After an age of peace, such as youth, and the world with its gauds, had failed to afford her, her body was deposited in the cathedral of Pesaro, where it is revered as a sacred relic, its spirit having, in 1754, received the honours of beatification, and been associated with Sta. Michelina and S. Terenzio, as a protectress of that city. I had the good fortune, in 1843, to discover in the Oliveriana Library there, and to rescue from neglect, a curious piece of furniture that had belonged to the Corpus Domini, on which were portraits of the Beata Felice who founded that monastery, and of the Abbess Serafina. They were executed in distemper, with much of the feeling of Pinturicchio, and the latter of them has been rudely but faithfully engraved for Olivieri's _Life of Alessandro Sforza_.] [Footnote *B: Cf. FELICIANGELI, _Sulla monacazione di Sueva Montefeltro-Sforza_ (Pistoia, 1903).] Count Guidantonio also left two natural children: 1. FEDERIGO, afterwards Duke of Urbino; 2. ANNA, AURA, or LAURA, married in 1420 to Bernardino Ubaldino della Carda, although by some authorities his wife is incorrectly called _sister_ of Count Guidantonio.[47] [Footnote 47: The remote origin of the Ubaldini is curiously illustrated by an inscription, which is among the earliest known records of armorial bearings. It was inscribed in Gothic characters upon a stone, originally placed on one of their Apennine castles, but brought to Florence by a branch of their race, where it was long regarded as an heirloom. It has been published in Borghini's _Discorsi Toscani_, II., p. 25, and the following literal translation from its barbarous Latino-Italian rhymes may be acceptable to our readers. It was intended to commemorate the erection of the castle, and exhibits, in rude carving, the Ubaldini arms, a stag's head antlered. "For this boon Thanks I render to Christ, Completed on the fête of the gentle St. Mary Magdalene; Ah! do Thou specially pray To God for me a sinner. In this my chant, From the most veritable narration I in nothing deviate. In the year one thousand Of Christ's salvation, and a hundred Eighty-four, Chased by hounds Furiously, I, hard by the Coppices in Mugello, a stag By the horns stopped,-- Of old the genius of the Ubaldini, Subjects of the holy Empire; Where, rushing on at speed, I grappled with my hands At his horns all the while. The mighty Sir Frederick, Who observed him thus cumbered, Having come up, slew him outright. Thereupon he gifted me with The forehead, beautifully horned, And honourably branched; And desired that it should be Of my race The accepted cognisance. My father was Ugicio, And my grand-sire Guarento, Son of Ugicio, son of Azo, Son of Ubaldino, Son of Gotichino, Son of Luconazo. Q.D.A.A.D.V." [_Thus read_] "Who shall sway the Apennines? The favoured house of Ubaldini." After many a conflict with their neighbours of Florence, the Ubaldini of Val di Mugello paid the penalty of their Ghibelline principles, by expulsion from their native fiefs, and were scattered throughout Central Italy. A branch of them retired to the more distant fortresses of Umbria, and after lording it for a time over Città di Castello, found an eventual home on the mountains north of Gubbio, which they are supposed to have had in dowry with a daughter of the Brancaleoni, about 1280. Her descendant, BERNARDINO UBALDINI DELLA CARDA, a gallant condottiere in the wars of Count Guidantonio, died in 1437, having married that Count's natural daughter Aura. Their son, OTTAVIANO UBALDINI DELLA CARDA, will figure in these pages, as the companion and counsellor of his uncle Count Federigo. In a lengthened sketch of his character, Giovanni Sanzi, the metrical chronicler of Federigo's reign, tells us that his native excellences were amply developed at the court of Filippo Visconti, where he was brought up under that Duke's immediate eye. During many years he was chief minister and treasurer of his uncle, to whose interests he devoted himself with unwearied zeal, discharging his duties with singular dignity and discretion. Nor did he, amid the cares of state, forget the improvement of his intellectual gifts. Francesco Filelfo dedicates a work to him, as a man of great weight and learning. Porcellio, who had probably shared his bounty, calls him an indefatigable reader of the poets; and Sanzi thus extends the catalogue of his acquirements:-- "Well versed he was in classic literature, And mastered readily theology, Whilst music's gentle art his pastimes shared: The secrets of astrology to him Seemed nature's lesson. Never man than he A heart more trusty or more leal could boast; A shrine of truth his bosom. Friend of peace And justice, merit's steady patron still, Painters and sculptors solace found in him, Their almost father." Berni, the chronicler of Gubbio, applies to Ottaviano and to his father the epithet Magnificent, a not unfrequent euphuism in Italy, although with us applied exclusively to Lorenzo de' Medici. In 1473 he had from Sixtus IV. in special guerdon the privilege of using at his devotions a portable altar, and authority to legitimise bastards. When Federigo set forth with sad forebodings on his last fatal campaign of Ferrara, he confided to Ottaviano the guardianship of his boyish heir Guidobaldo, and the government of his state, trusts which appear to have been faithfully and judiciously fulfilled. Yet Bembo has perpetuated what was probably a vile slander, or at best the suggestion of ignorant drivelling, that the alleged impotence of Duke Guidobaldo was occasioned by magical arts resorted to by his guardian, who had been named next heir of his state. Ottaviano breathed his last at Cagli in 1498, leaving by his wife Angela Orsini, an only son Bernardino, on whose early death the estates and townships of La Carda, Mercatello, Sassocorbaro, S. Marco, Rampugnano, Sta. Croce, La Merola, Lamola, Cargine, and Pecchio devolved upon Duke Guidobaldo. Two contemporaries of his name are mentioned, but I have not traced their relationship; Guidantonio Ubaldini, who in 1464 married Altadonna, daughter of Bartolomeo Contarini; and Pietro, whom Duke Federigo sent to England in 1475, as proxy at his installation as Knight of the Garter, and who was killed at La Stellata in 1482. In 1648 there remained to this ancient house but a wreck of their great estates, including Massa Vaccareccia, but in compliment to their descent and connection with the Montefeltri, they retained precedence over the nobles of Urbino. The Counts of Pecorari and Montefiori were branches of the same stock.] COUNT ODDANTONIO from infancy gave promise of a character combining the virtues of his immediate predecessors with talents rare in any rank. But prematurely "Lord of himself, that heritage of woe," the good seed was choked by tares springing from the too fertile soil; and a prince on whom nature and fortune, imperial and papal favour, concentrated their bounties, perished miserably and disgracefully ere he had attained to manhood. His birth occurred in 1424 or 1426,[*48] his youth being distinguished by remarkable progress in liberal studies, and by rapidly mastering those accomplishments befitting the spurs of knighthood, with which he had been decorated in childhood by the Emperor Sigismund. Soon after his father's death, he repaired to Siena, to obtain from Eugene IV. a confirmation of his hereditary states, and to supplicate a renewed investiture of the dukedom of Spoleto. But the pontifical jurisdiction over the long-abandoned Italian provinces was as yet imperfectly consolidated, and Braccio di Montone had but recently shown to what peril it might be exposed by the restlessness of an overgrown feudatory. Profiting by this experience, his Holiness evaded compliance with Oddantonio's second request, but softened the refusal by conferring upon him the title of Duke, along with his patrimonial territories. [Footnote *48: See page 47. The latter is correct.] We have from the pen of Pius II. a narrative of this ceremonial, which took place on the 26th of April, 1443. "He who was to be created duke by the Pope repaired to his residence, suitably dressed, and arrayed in a mantle of gold, open on the right side from the shoulder to the ground. Thence he followed the Pontiff, holding the lower extremity of his cope, as he descended to the [cathedral] church to hear mass, and when his Holiness took his seat, he placed himself on the first step at his feet. Next he was made a knight of St. Peter, by girding him with a sword (which after three lunges in the air he resheathed) and by receiving three strokes with it on the shoulders, whilst his spurs were buckled on. The Duke-elect then kneeling, swore and promised reverence and obedience in time to come to the holy Church and to the Pope, serving him in all its behests, and defending his jurisdiction, rights, and territories, and bound himself to pay yearly on St. Peter's day, for his new dignity, a white hackney suitably accoutred. The Pontiff then placed the ducal cap on his head, and the sceptre in his hand, and the new Duke, having therewith kissed his Holiness's foot, was led by the two youngest cardinal-deacons to his place between them. Finally, having taken off his cap, he returned to the Pope's feet, and presented him with an offering of gold coin at his discretion, and, on conclusion of the mass, departed between the two cardinals, decorated with the ducal dignity: this was the ceremony performed by Eugene IV. for Oddantonio." This Duke's brief life is shrouded in mystery; for contemporary authorities do not enable us to pronounce with certainty on the enormous vices wherewith tradition and innuendo have vaguely blackened his memory, whilst the narratives of Galli and Baldi, composed for his successors in a spirit of adulation rather than of truth, clearly overplead his defence. The testimony of Pius II. is so direct as to one atrocity, barbarous almost beyond belief, that it would be equally difficult to reject it, or crediting the tale, to limit the probable enormities of a wretch so inhuman. The accusations against him are that, intoxicated by good fortune, he cast off his early discipline, forgot the lessons of philosophy, and placing himself unreservedly in the guidance of dissolute favourites, dismayed his subjects by outrages the most licentious, and by cruelties the most revolting. The instance mentioned by Pius II. is that he had one of his pages, who had neglected to provide lights at the proper hour, enveloped in sear-cloth coated with combustibles, and then setting fire to his head, left him to the horrors of a lingering agony. The account transmitted to us by his apologists mingles pity with our blame. They say that, desirous of suitably regulating his government, he listened to the silver-toned suggestions of his crafty and covetous neighbour, the Lord of Rimini, by whose advice he employed, as confidential ministers, Manfredi Pio da Carpi, and Tomaso Agnello da Rimini, men selected by Sigismondo as fitting instruments for his ruin. That, acting upon the instructions of their principal, these agents by precept and example debased the mind and corrupted the morals of the young prince, with the view of rendering his person and rule odious, and of accelerating a popular revolution, which might peril his life, or, at least, place his territories within the grasp of Malatesta. That in prosecution of this diabolical plot, they promoted loathsome orgies and shameless debaucheries, until the leading citizens, indignant at the dishonour which daily violated their domestic circles, rose at the instigation of Serafius, a physician whose handsome wife had been seduced by Manfredi. In the riot which followed, the two favourites and their master met a tragical end, and their bodies were exposed to nameless atrocities; but whether the popular vengeance was equally merited by, and inflicted upon the three, or whether the Duke was accidentally slain without being involved in these disgraceful malpractices, is a point likely to remain at issue. It would seem probable, however, from this passage of an old chronicle transcribed in the Oliveriana Library, that political discontent had a part in the rising: "On the 22nd of July, 1444, at lauds [three o'clock a.m.], Oddantonio was slain in his own hall, and along with him his familiar servants Manfredo de' Pii and Tomaso da Rimini; and forthwith the people of Urbino in one voice called for Signor Federigo, who at once took possession of the state. On the 1st of August, public proclamation was made of the abolition of imposts and of the assize of salt, and all penalties were remitted."[*49] The same writer speaks vaguely of previous intestine broils, slaughters, and alarms, with other symptoms of feeble government, all indicating considerable disorganisation in the duchy, of which the Malatesta and Bartolomeo Colleone availed themselves to harass its frontiers.[50] [Footnote *49: The chronicle of Gubbio (MURATORI, _R.I.S._, XXI., 982) speaks of Oddantonio's death happening on 22 July, "ob violatum pudicitiam feminarum," as the author of the _Annali di Forlì_, _R.I.S._, XXII., 222, writes. It is recorded that he left debts of many thousands of ducats to the Count, his brother, "per soperchierie e trascurate spese, fatte in quel poco di tempo che egli aveva governato." GRAZIANI, however, the supposed author of the Perugian chronicle published under his name, who, as Prof. OSCAR SCALVANTI has demonstrated (_Boll. per l'Umbria_, vol. IV., p. 57 _et seq._), is not the author, but rather Antonio dei Guarneglie, followed by Pietro Angelo di Giovanni, says in his _Cronaca della Città di Perugia_ that Oddantonio was murdered on 21 July, on Tuesday evening, at the sixth hour of the night, which I take to be about two o'clock on the morning of 22 July. He gives a long and circumstantial account of his murder. The _Chronicle of Rimini_, _R.I.S._, XV., 948, names the protonotary and one of the three other friends whom "Graziani" says fell with him. They were Manfredo da Carpi and Tomasso di Ser Guidicino da Arimino. "Graziani," who doubtless wrote from hearsay, says he was killed because "non aveva rispetto a persona e che quando glie piaceva una giovane, o zitola o maritata che fusse, se ne voleva cavare la voglia. Et el conte Guido suo padre fo tutto el contrario." The usual cries rang through the city: "Morto è il signore! Viva la Chiesa e viva el populo!" See _Arch. St. Ital._, ser. I., tom. XVI., parte I., p. 552 _et seq._ While fully admitting Sigismondo Malatesta to be capable of any cunning, I do not think we have any evidence against him here. The Malatesti were the enemies of the Montefeltri, and the latter, with their subjects, were afraid of Sigismondo, already a very brilliant soldier. Cf. MARCOLINI, _St. d. Prov. di Pesaro e Urbino_ (Pesaro, 1885).] [Footnote 50: In another chronicle, the immediate provocation to this fell outrage is thus tersely stated: "The Duke was slain by the citizens because he had little respect for their wives by night or by day." Sanzi has deleted a portion of his poem, and the substituted passage gives the version we have adopted, passing lightly over the manner in which the victims met their death.] [Illustration: _Alinari_ LEONELLO D'ESTE _After the picture by Pisanello in the Morelli Gallery, Bergamo_] There were tinges of peculiar sadness in the gloomy fate which thus overtook this unhappy youth. In the preceding summer he had been betrothed to Isotta, daughter of Nicolò Marquis of Ferrara, and but three months before his death, had attended the nuptials of her brother Leonello. On that occasion he spent fifteen days in joyous excitement, preluding, as he hoped, similar festivities in his own honour. After the piazza of Ferrara had glittered with a gallant show of chivalrous exercises, and had witnessed the semi-religious pageant of St. George's triumph over the dragon, it was, as if by magic, converted into a forest-scene, studded with goodly oaks amid a thick jungle of underwood, the haunt of numerous wild animals. Upon these the sportsmen wrought their pleasure, until the place was strewed with bodies of bullocks, steers, wild boars, and goats. As a test of the attendant good cheer, we have a return of provender consumed, amounting to 2000 oxen, 40,000 pairs of fowls, pheasants and pigeons without number, 20,000 measures of wine, and 2000 _moggie_ of grain, besides 15,000 pounds of sweetmeats, and 12,000 of wax candles.[51] On the conclusion of festivities congenial to his tastes, but ill-suited to his impending fate, the young Duke lingered in dalliance with his bride, returning home only the eve of the fatal night which summoned him "From that unrest which men miscal delight." [Footnote 51: _Diario Ferrarese_, in _R.I.S._, XXIV., 194.] It remains doubtful whether his own marriage was ever completed, as supposed by Litta, but Isotta's cup was fully charged with bitters. During the festive celebration of her after nuptials with one of the Frangipani, the partner and lover of her maid of honour fell dead in the dance, an evil omen too fully realised in domestic dissensions which soon sent her back to her brother's court. The Duke was buried in the church of S. Francesco, but his remains are said to have been subsequently removed to the chapter-house of that convent. In a neglected cloister leading from the church, there may still be seen two monuments bearing the Montefeltro arms, one of which, canopied by light columns of spiral Gothic, has a stork, holding in its mouth a scroll.[*52] Here probably was the ill-fated Oddantonio's tomb; the nameless dead to whom the other was dedicated may have been his grandfather, Count Antonio, or the Countess Rengarda, both of whom were interred in these precincts, where their graves were opened and identified in 1634. [Footnote *52: The other in the sacristy is the _Flagellation_ with the Duke's portrait on the right; it is the work of Piero della Francesca.] There is little inducement to dwell on the few notices remaining of one whose character and fate merit no sympathy. Yet among a rich store of letters from the Montefeltrian princes to the government of Siena, we have selected two written by Oddantonio in Italian; one is characteristic, the other calculated to throw a more favourable light upon his disposition. "To our very noble and well beloved, the Podestà, Priors, and Vice-counts of Siena. "Mighty and potent Lords, dearest Fathers; After commendations: Having heard that, in your magnificent city, stakes will shortly be run for, I should have much pleasure in sending to it one of my racers;[*53] but understanding that there are reprisals between your magnificent community and the illustrious lord, my lord father, I beg you, for my protection and security, to let me have by the bearer, whom I send on purpose, a safe conduct in such ample form as your magnificences may think fit, on whose singular favour I rely, ever recommending myself to your lordships. From Urbino, the 10th of November, 1439. Your magnificences' son, "ODDANTONIO, COUNT OF MONTEFELTRO, URBINO, AND CASTELDURANTE." [Footnote *53: For all that concerns the races in Siena see WILLIAM HEYWOOD, _Palio and Ponte_ (Methuen, 1904), esp. p. 85 _et seq._] "Our noble and beloved; "Though we should wish to write you things pleasant and consolatory, we must lay before you what our Lord God has ordered; and although you ought to participate in all our circumstances, whether prosperous or adverse, yet it is with grief and much bitterness of heart that we inform you how it has been the will of our Lord God to call to himself the soul of our lord and father, who passed from this miserable life on the 20th instant, between nine and ten at night [_i.e._ about half-past three a.m. of the 21st], before Thursday morning. And his death occurred in the course of nature, from the violence of fever, the proper sacraments of the Church having first been received as became a faithful Christian, with the utmost humility, contrition, and devotion, and having disposed in due form of his own affairs, and those of his children and state, and all his other concerns. I feel assured that you will be as much vexed and grieved at this event in mind and heart as myself; and this with reason, for the misfortune and severe loss is yours as much as mine, and keeping in view his worth, excellence, and good conduct, and the affection he bore you, I may say it specially touches you. In whose steps we shall do our best to tread, by a conduct at once satisfactory to you, and beneficial to our state, as to this city and people, and the others that we have to govern, that so you may be satisfied with our future conduct, and constrain yourselves to conform to the will of our Lord God, and be comforted. And we pray you to do thus, and to regard the welfare of this city and of our state as recommended to you, to which effect we firmly rely upon you. And by help of God's grace and the good advices of our said lord and father, with the counsel and aid of worthy friends, and our own right intentions, matters will go on well and to your satisfaction. If we have been [tardy] in advising you of these things, do not be astonished, as this was done advisedly and for good purpose. "ODDANTONIO, COUNT OF MONTEFELTRO, URBINO, AND DURANTE. "Urbino, the 24th February, 1443." It does not distinctly appear whether the dignity of Duke was merely personal, or limited to the heirs male of Oddantonio's body. At all events it must have lapsed on his death, as it was not only dropped by his successor in the state, but Count Federigo, even after his new creation, called himself "first" Duke; in this he was followed by his descendants down to Francesco Maria II., the last of the race, who alone designated himself sixth Duke, counting from Oddantonio.[*54] [Footnote *54: Oddantonio seems to have strongly disliked Federigo, his father's natural son. He would not suffer him to live at Urbino. The Duke was to have married Cecilia Gonzaga, but preferred at the last moment Isotta d'Este, thinking she would be more likely to give him an heir and so exclude Federigo. See TARDUCCI, _Cecilia Gonzaga ed Oddantonio di Montefeltro_ (Mantova, 1897). Violante, Federigo's half-sister, renounced her part of the heritage of her father in documents preserved in Arch. Centrale di Firenze (Carte d'Urbino, Cartapecore Laiche, Nos. 180 and 209), printed by MADIAI in _Le Marche_, vol. III., pp. 125-32.] BOOK SECOND OF FEDERIGO DI MONTEFELTRO, COUNT AND SECOND DUKE OF URBINO CHAPTER IV The birth of Count Federigo--Condition of Italy--His marriage and only military service--The Malatesta, his inveterate foes--He takes S. Leo--Is invested with Mercatello. With Federigo, successor of Duke Oddantonio, commences the proper subject of these volumes, but we are met by a preliminary difficulty as to his birth and parentage, which has baffled many of his biographers. It would be useless, as well as tedious, to enumerate and examine the host of conflicting and often inconsistent authorities on this vexed question.[55] The amount of blundering and contradiction to which it has given rise is scarcely conceivable, considering that most of our authorities either frequented the court of Urbino during his own and his son's time, or had access to contemporary documents. Seven separate theories have found supporters:--1. That Federigo was son of Count Guidantonio, born in wedlock; 2. That he was his natural, but legitimated son; 3. That he was his natural son, passed off as the child of his first wife Rengarda, after a pretended pregnancy; 4. That he was son of Bernardino della Carda and his wife Anna, sister of Count Guidantonio, adopted by the latter whilst he had no son; 5. That he was their son, passed off as the child of Countess Rengarda; 6. That he was their son, passed off as a natural child of Guidantonio; 7. That being their son, and Anna or Aura being daughter of Guidantonio, he was adopted or passed off as son of the latter, though, in fact, his grandson.[56] It would follow that he might have been either nephew, brother-in-law, or son of Bernardino. All doubt on this subject is set at rest by a formal legitimation from Martin V., of 22nd December, 1424, which I discovered in the Archivio Diplomatico at Florence, in favour of Federigo, as son of Guidantonio by a maiden of Urbino. This document is alluded to by Galli, Reposati, and others; but its existence has been often denied, notwithstanding the almost equally valid evidence of that Count's testament quoted by Riposati, wherein, failing his lawful sons, he substitutes his "legitimate son" Federigo as his universal heir. [Footnote 55: LAZZERINI, in his _Memorie Storiche dei Conti di Urbino_, has discussed without exhausting them in fifty folio pages. The magnificent work by Count Pompeo Litta is marred by adopting the theory of an Ubaldini descent for Duke Federigo. See his notice of Emilia Pio da Carpi, wife of Count Antonio di Montefeltro.] [Footnote 56: The merit of another, and apparently an original conjecture, belongs to Sismondi, who makes him the adulterous son of Bernardino, by one of Guidantonio's wives. For this there is no authority whatever; indeed, this historian, by confounding Guidantonio with his son, and omitting Oddantonio entirely, has utterly confused the family and history of Urbino. We have formerly set down Aura as daughter of Guidantonio, on authority of a licence from Nicholas V. for Federigo, his wife, and his sister Aura, to choose a confessor, quoted by Gallo Galli, and also in the MS. of Muzio (Vat. Urb. MSS., No. 1011), which is much fuller than the printed edition. Thus also Giovanni Sanzi, father of the painter Raffaele, in his rhyming chronicle of Federigo's life, which we shall frequently have to quote (Vat. Ottobon. MSS., No. 1305), and shall examine in our twenty-fifth chapter, says of him,-- "But others call this admirable flower Grandson of Guidantonio, being child Of that count's daughter, whose exalted name Is dear to virtue, Bernardino's wife Of th' Ubaldini."] It is very remarkable that the filiation of Federigo to the Ubaldini is adopted by a majority of those writers who lived under him and his son, giving colour to a conjecture that it may have been encouraged at their court as masking the flaw in their pedigree. This, however, is but an unsatisfactory explanation. His character and brilliant distinctions could well dispense with the honours of birth; and in this century, bastardy, so far from inferring a blot on the princely escutcheons of Italy, or presenting a bar to sovereignty, seemed, as in the dynasties of Este and Scala, as well as in the Malatesta, already referred to, to constitute a preference. But in order to explain his special affection for the Ubaldini, it has been supposed that his mother was of that stock, and that he was at first brought up by them, in deference to the jealousy of Countess Rengarda. This motive soon ceased by her death, when the infant was received and cherished in his father's palace. * * * * * FEDERIGO DI MONTEFELTRO is generally said to have been born on the 7th of June, 1422, and the earliest incident of his childhood was his premature betrothal.[*57] The mountain-land from whence spring the Metauro and the Foglia, including some of the loftiest Apennine summits, was then called Massa Trabaria, and had been long held in fief by the Brancaleoni. Mercatello was the petty metropolis of some twenty townlets which obeyed Bartolomeo, the last male of that race. Art has given to his merits a record withheld by history, and the few travellers who visit the church of S. Francesco in that town, a very shrine of local æsthetics, will pause to admire his Gothic tomb, beautiful even through its disguise of recent whitewash, and to read this touching epitaph:--"Joanna Aledusia during her life erected this monument of affection to Bartolomeo Brancaleone, prince of this place, her most faithful husband, and to herself." This lady was born an Alidosio of Imola, and being left with an only daughter, Martin V., to whom the fief had lapsed, conferred its interim administration upon Count Guidantonio of Urbino, as rector, with promise of a new investiture to his son Federigo, on condition of his marriage with the orphaned Gentile. They were accordingly affianced ere the boy-bridegroom had completed his eighth year, and the spouses were brought up together under the fond and judicious tutelage of the Lady Joanna. [Footnote *57: Federigo was born in Gubbio, where he remained for two years, and on 2 December, 1437, was there solemnly betrothed to Gentile Brancaleoni. On the question of the birth of Federigo, see REPOSATI, _op. cit._, tom. I., p. 136, and UGOLINI, _op. cit._, tom. I., p. 221. I take this opportunity of referring the reader behind all the later lives of Federigo to what is probably the first, the codex Vatic. Urbin. 1010. It is a codex _cartaceo_ in folio bound in parchment measuring 0·32 × 0·21 of 107 pages. It is written by many hands, and is rich in marginal notes probably by Bernardino Baldi. It is entitled, _Commentarj della vita et gesti dell'invittessimo Federico duca d'Urbino raccolti et scritti da Pierantonio Paltroni da Urbino_. GUIDO ZACCAGNINI has written a commentary on this MS. in _Le Marche_, fasc. I., ann. IV., pp. 8-33 (Fano, 1904). Cf. also MADIAI, _F. da M. nella Relaz. coi Parenti_ in _Le Marche_ (Fano, 1903), vol. III., pp. 114 _et seq._; G. ZANNONI, _Federico II., di Montefeltro e G.A. Compano_, in _Atti della R. Accademia delle Scienze di Torino_. See also F. MADIAI, _Pierantonio Paltroni e B. Baldi biografi di Federico da Montefeltro_, in _Le Marche_, fasc. V.-VI., ann. II. (Fano, 1902).] * * * * * The return of the popes to Rome was the beginning of a new act in the great drama of Italian mediæval history. Deserting their proper capital, they had left it for above a century a prey to faction, strife, and rapine, which there was no authority to control, nor any holier influence to modify. The example of such disorganisation spread through the Peninsula, and aggravated dissension in all its cities. In absence of the papal court, the gloom of a dark age again brooded over the ecclesiastical states, for the few sparks of learning had been carried by emigrant churchmen to Provence. But, with its restoration, Rome became once more the metropolis of Christendom, and Italy began to feel that kindling glow, which, radiating from its centre, disseminated the cheering light and healthful flush of knowledge and civilisation over the globe. In one respect, however, and that a material one, was the position of the papacy altered. The protracted scandal of recent repeated schisms had shaken men's reliance on its infallibility; the fierce bickerings between popes and anti-popes, hurling anathemas and bandying abuse, had raised in the spectators a doubt if their cause could be more sacred than their weapons. The days when an emperor would hold the stirrup for a successor of St. Peter were passed away. Nor were affairs altogether satisfactory as regarded the domestic security of the latter. The dread of again losing their sovereign court formed a convenient check upon the factious citizens of Rome; but the barons of the Campagna were restless neighbours and turbulent vassals, and though the Gaetani and Frangipani were no longer formidable, the Savelli, the Orsini, and the Colonna by turns carried fire and sword into each other's holdings, or scoured the streets of Rome itself in their forays. To assert an effectual jurisdiction over the province immediately surrounding their capital, and to maintain their waning influence abroad, became the two great objects of successive pontiffs during the fifteenth century: one of these was perhaps a painful necessity, the other originated a policy ruinous to Italy; both occasioned frequent appeals to carnal weapons, pregnant with mischief to the Holy See. Among many anomalies in the papacy, was the inverse ratio of its foreign influence and its domestic strength. Even whilst Rome and its vicinity had been most lawless, whilst the authority of popes in preceding centuries had been most fettered by faction, or most exposed to seditious outrage, their spiritual sway attained its height, and was acknowledged over Christendom without question. The reason is obvious. The religious spirit of the age bowed to ecclesiastical domination, while the factious temperament of the Romans fretted under all restraints of order. After their long exemption from the personal control of the popes, it became more than ever requisite to curb these feverish citizens, and to break down their robber noblesse: we shall hereafter see by what unscrupulous means, and at how great a sacrifice of character, this was finally effected by Alexander VI. But the popedom, whose unity had been rudely shaken by schism and absence, began, after its return to Rome, to suffer manifest inroads from the extension of their political individualities by the chief states of Europe. In order to maintain itself against this new tendency, it had recourse to a like policy; it sought by temporal aggrandisement to compensate the decay of spiritual authority. During its antecedent struggles with the empire, the cause of the Church had been that of freedom, its rallying cry the watchword of liberty. In those days its successes were hailed as a boon by the communes of Italy. Even the feudatories, whose jurisdiction had grown up under shelter of the imperial name, were glad to confirm their title by enrolling themselves as vassals of the Holy See. But when the successors of St. Peter began to develop ulterior aims,--when they descended into the arena of mere political ambition, and sought to aggrandise their territorial dominion by intrigue and arms,--a marked reaction took place. The princes and republics of the Peninsula stood on their defence against a new power of discord, the most fickle in its policy, the most unscrupulous in its expedients, that they had yet been called to resist. The ultra-montane nations pressed on to cope with or to conquer those degenerate Vicars of Christ, who, abandoning their high calling as shepherds and pacificators of Christendom, became its perturbators. The rapid sketch which we have given in our first chapter of the seigneuries and communities of Central Italy may suffice to exhibit the general condition of Umbria, the March of Ancona, and Romagna as far as the Po. In Tuscany, democratic institutions had taken deeper root, among a population addicted rather to arts than to arms, and preferring wealth earned by industry and commercial enterprise to the precarious glory and profits of the sword. Their peaceful habits permitted capital to accumulate; its increase gave them a stake in its security; leisure and consequent intelligence enabled them to mature ideas of liberty beyond those of neighbouring states. It was in Florence especially that a more perfect system of municipal institutions established communal freedom upon a firmer basis, which, amid the ceaseless convulsions of domestic factions, and even through the long atrophy of later Medicean domination, has preserved for that city a political and intellectual pre-eminence, finely acknowledged by old Sanzi in his exclamation, "For to curtail fair Florence of her freedom, Were to pluck forth an eye from Italy, And cause her orb to wane." In the adjacent commonwealths of Pisa, Lucca, and Siena, similar results sprang from somewhat analogous causes, although they were from time to time, in the words of Dante, "O'erthronged With tyrants, and a great Marcellus made Of any petty factious villager," until, by degrees encroached on by their more powerful neighbour, they were finally absorbed in the state which owned the Arno's queen as its capital.[*58] [Footnote *58: Lucca was never absorbed. It is true she was sold to Florence, but the City of the Lily could never get her. Cf. Ammirato, Muratori, Sismondi.] Lombardy was no longer the emporium whence commercial wealth circulated over Europe, but her cities, surrounded by plains of unequalled fertility, gave no signs of decay, her universities were crowded by transalpine students. She had fully realised the stinging reproaches of Alighieri,-- "Thy living ones In thee abide not without war, and one Malicious gnaws another, ay, of those Whom the same wall and the same moat contain;" but her Ezzelino and Can della Scala were no more, and many of her petty principalities had been merged in the wide-spreading duchy of Milan, or the mainland conquests of Venice. The Lion of St. Mark was in the ascendant during the fifteenth century, and, though we have no occasion to follow the fleets of Venice as they spread terror among the Turks, we shall in due time find her terra-firma policy complicating the relations and hampering the diplomacy of Italy. Naples, long exposed to the calamities of a disputed succession, which we shall hereafter explain, endured the feeble sway of the notorious Joanna II., by whose death in February, 1435, the crown passed to Alfonso V.,--notwithstanding her death-bed recognition of the claims of the first Angevine dynasty, then represented by the good King René of Provence,--and the dynasty of Aragon was continued by his illegitimate descendants until the close of this century. Having thus endeavoured in a few pages to exhibit the condition of those Italian states with which our narrative will have to do during the life of Federigo, we must resume its interrupted thread. Martin V. was succeeded in 1431 by Eugene IV., a noble of Venice, who, eager to undo the favours bestowed by Martin on his own relations, sought a quarrel with the Colonna and their adherents, including the Count of Urbino. This misunderstanding was patched up by mediation of the Venetian signory, upon an interchange of hostages, among whom was included Federigo. It thus became necessary for him to repair to Venice, where he was received in the college or council, and acquitted himself so well that the Doge, Francesco Foscari, foretold his rise to great eminence in after life. The favourable opinion thus formed was daily confirmed by his engaging manners, and he conciliated the noble youths, who admitted him into their fashionable and very select club or fraternity of the _calze_, or hose, so called from their uniform.[59] The plague having appeared, he was permitted by the Doge, after a residence of fifteen months, to retire to the court of Mantua, then presided over by the Marquis Gian Francesco Gonzaga, whose marriage with a Malatesta connected him with both the wives of our Count Guidantonio. His welcome there was cordial and distinguished, and during two years he enjoyed advantages which beneficially influenced his after life. In the Marquis's children he found fellow-pupils as well as playmates, and, under their father's eye, was taught the theory of war and the practice of military exercises, until he became one of the most skilful swordsmen and equestrians of his day. [Footnote 59: It consisted of a tight pantaloon, fantastically party-coloured, and a device distinguishing it from similar clubs. The members associated together for festive and social purposes, which were freely indulged in at the election or marriage of a brother of the hose, and they wore mourning for four days on the death of any one of their number.] But it was to the tuition of Vittorino de' Rambaldoni da Feltre[*60] that we may ascribe his progress in those tastes and accomplishments, for which in his person and that of his son, Urbino became eminent. This Vittorino was excelled in learning by few of his contemporaries, and none of them equalled his reputation as an instructor of youth. He was born at Feltre in 1378, and sent to the university of Padua. After completing, under Giovanni da Ravenna, the training in grammar, dialectics, and philosophy which then constituted the basis of a liberal education, he learned Greek from the famous Guarino of Verona. His powerful mind being attracted to mathematics, and finding his means unable to command the instructions of Pelacane of Parma, he proffered the most menial services about his person, in hopes of picking up some crumbs of knowledge in his service. But the mercenary professor was not to be melted without gold, and the poor student was left to struggle unaided with the difficulties of exact science, until he thoroughly mastered its truths. It was in 1425 that the Marquis of Mantua induced him to move, with his already celebrated school, to that capital, for the purpose of teaching his children. The lessons of Vittorino were well bestowed on the young princes of Gonzaga, but especially on their sister Cecilia, whose name is not least remarkable among those prodigies of female learning produced in the Italian courts of that age. When but ten years old she wrote Greek with singular purity, and her life of celibacy was devoted to literature. [Footnote *60: On Vittorino da Feltre, see ROSMINI, _V. da Feltre_ (1845), and Prof. WOODWARD, _V. da Feltre_.] The peculiarity of Vittorino's system was its extending the field of his labours beyond the mere scholastic tuition of his time. Without neglecting the severer studies, he varied them by light accomplishments, and relaxations of person and mind which proved alike healthful to both, such as music and drawing, horsemanship, fencing, and all manly exercises. Its success was testified by an influx of pupils from transalpine and oriental lands, as well as from every state in Italy. These for the most part resided in his house, under the immediate influence of his training and example, which were not less admirably calculated for inculcating high moral excellence, than for the development and direction of genius. A man of more simple tastes, winning manners, and pure life was rarely found, and, by a happy blending of rigid discipline with mild temper, his influence was beneficially extended over even the least ductile of his flock. At his board, the rich acquired habits of frugality, the poor were welcomed with generous consideration. Careless of worldly gain, his earnings were freely spent in providing for their wants, and at his death in 1447, he left not enough for his funeral. No work remains from his pen, but he has given ample proof of his influence on the age, in the eminent names that issued from his academy, to illustrate Italian letters, either as sovereigns or savants. A beautiful and rare medal of him by Pisanello presents a fine allegory: the pelican baring its bosom to feed its little ones happily suggests the unwearying self-sacrifices of a conscientious instructor, whilst the legend designates him as father of all human studies. Sanzi's tribute to his character is at once happy and just:-- "Brilliant his powers of thought, unmatched his zeal, For science in her varied walks: his life And manners holy; yet on gentle crafts And joyous themes right heartily intent." [Illustration: NICCOLÒ PICCININO _From a bronze medal by Pisanello_] [Illustration: VITTORINO DA FELTRE _From a medal by Pisanello in the British Museum_] In the autumn of 1432, the Emperor Sigismund, while returning from his coronation at Rome, was entertained by Count Guidantonio with magnificent hospitalities at Gubbio[*61] and Urbino, and bestowed knighthood both on the Count and his son Oddantonio.[*62] On reaching Mantua, he conferred the like honour on the Gonzaga princes, and extended it to their guest the young Federigo, who was recalled home whenever his father had been restored to a good intelligence with the Pontiff. His marriage was celebrated on the 2nd of December, 1437, after he had completed his fifteenth year, and he at once entered upon the government of his wife's paternal fief. [Footnote *61: Guidantonio entertained many potentates in Gubbio, among them, on September 24, Pope Martin V., who was housed in the Palazzo Beni. Cf. LUCARELLI, _Memorie e Guida di Gubbio_ (Capi, 1888). The Emperor was received with great magnificence not in the autumn of 1432, but in August, 1433. Cf. GUERRIERO, _op. cit._ (_supra_, note 1, p. 22); R. REPOSATI, _op. cit._, vol. I., p. 141.] [Footnote *62: It is instructive to notice that the Emperor also conferred knighthood a few days later in Rimini on Sigismondo Malatesta and his brother Novello. Sigismondo was born in 1417, and was christened Gismondo. Cf. CLEMENTINI and BATTAGLINI. The Emperor, in knighting him, bade him take his own name. Thus Gismondo became Sigismondo. This becomes of great importance later to his history. The family badge of the Malatesti was the elephant (complete); the elephant's head _échancré_ was the family crest. Neither was ever a charge in the arms of the family. But for a century before Sigismondo's time the rulers of Rimini had been in the habit of placing an initial or monogram in the second and third quarters of the family arms. The first known date of this use by Sigismondo of SI is 1445, and this has caused it to be confused by all writers on the subject with the name of Isotta his mistress, later his third wife, whom he met about this time. The SI, say they, stands for Sigismondo-Isotta. It does not; it stands for Sigismondo, as I think I have shown. Of course, I am sure Sigismondo was only too delighted to find that his monogram embraced the initial letter of his Love. There is good evidence to show that this was the popular belief after Polissenas's death in 1449; but that is very different indeed from any assertion that he actually placed the "I" in the family coat for love of Isotta. If such a prince could do such a thing, I will believe with John Addington Symonds that he murdered a wife whom he never married. I may end this long note with a word or two on the use of the plural Malatesti. There are many excellent authorities for it, among them Clementini, Battaglini, and d'Annunzio, to say nothing of Villani and the chroniclers of Rimini. It is indeed a question for a pedant. However, the form, to be just, is Florentine, and arose in this manner, maybe. The Florentine family name was primarily a genitive. Rainiero, the son, called himself Rainiero Rainiero; Rainiero, son of Rainiero; Rainierus, Rainieri. The Latin genitive being the same as the nominative plural, all the family became Rainieri. This, however, presupposes a nominative singular in _us_. Were the nominative in _a_, the system would not work: Malatesta--Malatestae. In order to twist it into Florentine shape it was necessary to insert the preposition _de_, thus: Malatesta--de Malatestis, and then to drop the final _s_. This sounds excellent enough; but what if the plural is as natural after all as an English plural would be in its place: Smith--the Smiths; Rainiero--i Rainieri; Malatesta--i Malatesti?] In an age when society consisted of those who fought, those who wrought, and those who prayed, the young Count of Mercatello belonged to the first of these classes, and the duty now devolved upon him of carrying into practice those lessons of warfare which had varied the routine of his more abstruse studies. Under the military system which we have already explained, he had to choose what free captain he would serve with, until experience should qualify him to raise an independent banner. The condottieri then of greatest name were Nicolò Piccinino and Francesco Sforza, names which will soon be familiar to our pages. The first of these was of birth so humble as to own no other surname than that conferred on him in ridicule of his tiny stature, and appears to have been equally destitute of those varied talents and enlarged views which enabled several of his contemporaries to consolidate and transmit the power gained by their swords. But though unworthy of historic fame,[*63] his dwarfish body contained a daring and indomitable spirit, which, after considerable service under Braccio di Montone, the first general of his age, was rewarded with the hand of his niece; and, notwithstanding the blame of occasioning his defeat and death at the Lake of Celano in 1424, Nicolò kept together his veterans, obtaining, as leader of that gallant band, a reputation of which his own qualities were unworthy. Yet he was unable to cope with Francesco Sforza, whose first service had been under Joanna II. of Naples, but who after having, in 1441, won from Filippo Maria Visconti, rather by fear than favour, the hand of his natural daughter Bianca Maria,[*64] eventually established himself as his successor in the duchy of Milan. [Footnote *63: Which among the condottieri is worthy of what Dennistoun seems to regard as only to be bestowed on the best of men? However, he is wrong about Piccinino. Of all the Bracceschi, he alone was an honourable man. Gaspare Broglio, one of Sigismondo Malatesta's captains, gives him the fifth place among the soldiers of Italy; after Carmagnuolo, Francesco Sforza, Sigismondo himself, and Federigo of Urbino. A fine fighter, an excellent strategist, it was his weakness to be true to his master. And then he was what Sforza never was, nor could the dukedom of Milan make him--a gentleman. Cf. EDWARD HUTTON, _Sigismondo Malatesta_ (Dent, 1906), _passim_, and G. CAMPANO e G.B. POGGIO, _Vite di Braccio Fortebraccio e di Nic. Piccinino Perugini_ (Perugia, 1636).] [Footnote *64: Bianca Maria was promised and withheld from Sforza many times. At the beginning of the third war with Venice, which ended in 1432, the Emperor Sigismund came into Italy, and to Milan first, to receive the Iron Crown. It was on this occasion that Sforza was first betrothed to Bianca Maria Visconti, just then eight years old. At the date of their wedding--they had not met between--she was only seventeen, yet I suppose this to have been none too early for an Italian girl of the fifteenth century. Sforza was forty. A curious panegyric on the bride will be found in SABADINO G., _Gynevra de la clare donne_ (_Scelta di curiosità letterarie inedite o rare Dispensa_, 223, Bologna, 1888). And see C.M. ADY, _Milan under the Sforza_ (Methuen, 1907), pp. 18 and 24-5.] The Council of Basle, opened in July, 1431, to concert measures for extirpation of the Bohemian heresy, had occupied itself in reforming alleged abuses in the Church and the papal prerogatives. A collision with Eugene IV. was the natural result, when he fled to Florence, leaving his state a prey to Sforza, Piccinino, the Colonna, and other military adventurers. As the best means of bridling these bandits, he bribed the first of them to turn his arms against the others, by offering him the vicariate of La Marca, "That land Which lies between Romagna, and the realm Of Charles."[65] [Footnote 65: That is, Charles II., king of Naples, when Dante wrote. See _Purgatorio_, v.] But by degrees all Italy was involved in the struggle, Alfonso of Naples, the Florentines, Genoese, and eventually the Venetians, supporting the Pontiff, whilst Filippo Maria Visconti, the Angevine party at Naples, and the city of Bologna sided with the Council. In this war Piccinino led the Milanese army, and among his independent captains was Bernardino della Carda, who dying in 1437, his company of 800 men-at-arms was divided between his son Ottaviano and the young Federigo di Montefeltro. In the end of May, 1438, the latter set out for Piccinino's camp, assisting at the siege of Brescia, and in the opening of the Lombard war, where the rival generalship of Nicolò and Sforza was first brought to the test, with results more interesting in a military than an historical view. It is not to be supposed that services performed by so youthful a soldier could much influence the campaign, but they appear to have been approved by his commander. Guidantonio Manfredi, generally known by the contemptuous abbreviation of Guidaccio, had been brought up at the court of Urbino, during his father's temporary banishment from his hereditary fief of Faenza, and had married a daughter of Count Guidantonio di Montefeltro. In the division of parties which we have just explained, both these feudatories adhered to the Milanese, but as their neighbour, the Lord of Rimini, was at first a partisan of the league, and as Bologna had but recently thrown off the papal authority, Filippo Maria considered it advisable to strengthen his forces in Romagna. Federigo was accordingly ordered to join his brother-in-law Guidaccio, and acquitted himself creditably in various skirmishes with the Tuscan troops, under Gianpaolo Orsini. The only personal incident preserved of this petty war is one to which he was in the habit of alluding, with something of the superstitious dread that pervades the good Sanzi's account of it, although its character was rather grotesque than horrible. Having marched from Faenza in bright moonlight, with a party of 400 horse on a foraging expedition, a noise like the clashing of arms was suddenly heard at a distance, which immediately being repeated close at hand, the troops, with fierce and terrified aspect, rushed on each other, and for about ten minutes fought and struggled pell-mell, while their frightened horses, partaking in the panic, neighed and bolted in all directions. Dawn discovered a scene of strange confusion; the infantry mounted, the cavalry on foot, many lying wounded on the ground, not a few horses killed, others with broken or disordered harness. This senseless alarm was never accounted for, and was consequently ascribed to diabolical influence. But he was soon recalled by home interests from under the command of Guidaccio. The Malatesta, whose descent will be found in the annexed table, had for some generations held several fiefs in Romagna and the March of Ancona, and although a bold and warlike race, the usage in their family of separating its seigneuries among various sons, legitimate or natural, prevented any of them from acquiring more than a provincial reputation or influence, until Sigismondo Pandolfo made himself famous by his struggle with Count Federigo, and by the memorials of art which embalm his otherwise detested name. The youngest of three bastard brothers,[*66] he survived to unite their territories with his own, and although connected with the Montefeltrian princes by the marriages of his aunt and brother, he became a bitter enemy to the Count of Urbino. Indeed the latter of these alliances, which we have noticed at page 48, served to foster the family feud. Violante di Montefeltro had from Eugene IV. in 1431, when a mere infant, some form of grant of her native mountain-land in vicariate, in virtue whereof, and of her assumed rights as heiress of her nephew Duke Oddantonio, in default of his male issue, a pretended title was eventually trumped up, in competition with Federigo's succession,[67] at all events as regarded Montefeltro, some townships of which had already passed in various ways to the Malatesta, with whom she intermarried. An incursion upon the territory of Guidantonio, in the autumn of 1439, accordingly commenced a strife which, with occasional brief interludes, endured above twenty years, and which Sanzi thus deplores:-- "For e'en when fortune crowns the first essays Of reckless hardihood, a reckoning hour Of rapine, grief, and misery impend. Such the destruction which these rival powers Reaped from protracted broils and savage war, While neighbouring cities, castles, towns, were sacked, And high-born chiefs the double risk incurred Of death or exile. There, for twice twelve years, Italia's flower and might contended, till, in fine, To right, by prudence, constancy, and force upheld, Heaven gave success; the Eagle gnawed the heart Of the great Elephant."[68] [Footnote *66: I think Dennistoun is wrong here. Galeotto, called _Il beato_, was the son of Pandolfo Malatesta by Allegra di Mori, and was born 1411. Sigismondo was his son by Madonna Antonia, and was born in 1417. See BATTAGLINI, _Basini Parenensis Poetæ Opera_ (Arimini, 1744), vol. II., p. 274; CLEMENTINI, _Raccolto Istorico della Fondatione di Rimino_ (Rimini, 1617), vol. II., p. 299; and EDWARD HUTTON, _op. cit._, p. 16. Novello was his son also by Madonna Antonia, and was born in 1418. Neither of these ladies was Pandolfo's wife. Pandolfo died before his brother Carlo. On Carlo's death the Malatesta territory was held in trust for a time by women till Galeotto succeeded. On his death the same thing happened; but at last Sigismondo took Rimini when he was fifteen, and Novello had Cesena. It is true that Novello predeceased Sigismondo, though only by a few years, but by then Sigismondo was fighting for his life, having lost everything save Rimini itself. All that Dennistoun says of the Malatesti is inaccurate and clouded by prejudice.] [Footnote 67: Bib. Marucelli, MSS. G, No. 308.] [Footnote 68: The heraldic bearing of the Montefeltri was an imperial eagle; of the Malatesta an elephant, allusive, perhaps, to the bones of Hannibal's elephants, said to have been found at the Furlo Pass, near Fossombrone and Fano, of which they were seigneurs.[*C]] [Footnote *C: See note *2, page 71, _supra_.] Had Sigismondo Pandolfo possessed temper and judgment equal to his courage and ambition, he might have obtained and consolidated a powerful sovereignty, which his liberal and cultivated tastes would have rendered glorious in arts as well as arms. But deeply tainted with-- "That poison foule of bubbling pride," his lofty daring was sustained by no continuous impulse, his impetuous efforts were crowned by no success; the selfishness of his political aims was equalled by the vainglorious direction he gave to art; his energies were wasted in contests with Federigo, a rival against whom he had neither any just quarrel, nor any chance of success; his patronage was monopolised by poets who flattered, and medalists who portrayed himself and his favourite mistress Isotta. The first foray of Sigismondo into the wild valleys of Montefeltro was repaid by Federigo, in a successful descent upon the richer possessions of the Malatesta; but he was checked by a serious wound, before the petty fortress of Campi, and on his recovery rejoined Guidaccio. Piccinino, having again changed the seat of war from Lombardy to Romagna, crossed into Tuscany, and during the summer of 1440, carried on an active but unsuccessful campaign in the upper valley of the Tiber, till it was closed by his complete defeat at Anghiari, leaving his baggage and half his army in the hands of the Florentines. This battle has obtained a singular notoriety, and affords a valuable test of condottiere tactics, where combats were interested calculations, not internecine onsets. Machiavelli, the opponent of that system, asserts that only one man lost his life, out of some thirty or forty thousand combatants, and he by a fall from his horse; whilst the largest calculation of slaughter on both sides gives but seventy killed and six hundred wounded. Federigo was little interested in that campaign, but ere long found occupation in the defence of his wife's rights, disputed by Alberigo di Brancaleone. This pretender had seized on Santa Croce and Montelocco, both of which the Count recovered in the autumn of 1442, after a severe action, which first tested his military skill. Sigismondo Pandolfo, having secretly abetted this onset, was punished by an attack upon S. Leo. That small city was the capital of Montefeltro, although this honour has been claimed for Penna di Billi. Its situation is perhaps the most singular in Europe. In a country whose rugged mountains and precipitous ravines seem monuments of some tremendous primeval convulsion, there stand uptossed two isolated pinnacles, the very obelisks of nature, rising on three sides sheer from the valley. On the remaining side of each, a narrow and rapidly descending ridge connects the summit with the surrounding level, affording toilsome and precarious footing to mules and mountaineers. On either peak, a fortress commands a cluster of dwellings, nestled wherever the rocky crest afforded footing, and inhabited by men of iron hearts and stout sinews. The larger of these is S. Leo, the smaller Maiuolo, and we shall often have occasion to mention them as the chief strongholds of Montefeltro, to which they both originally belonged,[*69] though S. Leo had for some time been possessed by the Malatesta. Its loftiest pinnacle was crowned, in classic times, by a temple dedicated to Jupiter Feretrius, affording an easy etymology for Montefeltro: a later era found it sheltering a Christian hermit, whose ascetic virtues obtained canonisation, and who left his name to the township which rose around his cell. During the competition for her crown which ravaged Italy in the tenth century, and rendered that the most dismal as well as confused period of her dark ages, S. Leo became the refuge of King Berengarius, from whence he long defied the arms of his eventually successful rival Otho the Great: of its protracted siege, however, in 962-3, no incidents worthy of credit have come down to us. Its circuit is estimated at two miles, and not the least peculiar of its phenomena is a spring of excellent water near the summit, sufficient perennially to supply the mills. The accompanying engraving, from a sketch taken on the spot, will best convey an idea of this remarkable site, but we may quote Sanzi's description of it, and of its surprise by Federigo.[70] "A city yonder stands, San Leo hight, Whose crest the sky menaces; 'gainst its strength No force has e'er prevailed, with scathed cliffs And rocks environed, heavenward uprearing Its summit, by a single path approached, Trod singly by the citizens. Earth holds None other deemed impregnable. To it the Count his daring aims addressed; And, knowing that a rock, which few to scale Would venture, jutted midway from the ridge, At midnight's murky hour the spot he gained, With few but agile comrades, well prepared With ladders; then alone and stealthily The outposts reconnoitred, slumbering all, Like men who knew no fears save from on high. Next scaling one by one that arduous rock, And reaching thence the level space beyond, The town his soldiers entered silently. Sudden uprose their cry, with clash of arms, And furious blows and crackling flame, the work Befitting, whilst the startled garrison, Knowing nor whence nor what the sounds, No struggle made, but rushed in desperation Or here or there, whilst others stood transfixed To find themselves befooled. Not more surprised Was he who gained the golden fleece, to see From the plough's furrow armed men spring forth, Than were these luckless denizens to find Their stronghold carried in the sudden fray." [Footnote 69: See UGOLINI, _op. cit._, pp. 4 and 5. S. Leo seems to have been called at one time Monteferetro. Cf. MARINI, _Saggio di ragioni della città di S. Leo_ (Pesaro, 1758), and MAZIO, _Relazione a Urbano VIII., dello stato d'Urbino_ (Roma, 1858).] [Footnote 70: Views of S. Leo, from other points, will be found in Mr. GALLY KNIGHT'S _Ecclesiastical Architecture of Italy_, and in COMTE DE BYLANDT'S _Atlas de Volcans_, where it is rendered subsidiary to the phenomena developed in that remarkable district.] [Illustration: _A. Nini, del. A. Marchetti, sculp._ SAN LEO AND MAIUOLO _From a drawing by Agostino Nini_] A somewhat different account of the means by which S. Leo was taken, has been adopted by Baldi, from Volpelli's history of that place.[71] Matteo Grifone, who, from being a miller at S. Angelo in Vado, became a staunch follower of Count Federigo, and subsequently a general in the Venetian service, obtained permission to attempt a surprise. Accompanied by twenty picked men, he, in a dark and rainy night, gradually made his way to an outpost which he knew to be seldom occupied, and there left all but one comrade, with whom he effected an entrance by means of scaling-ladders. Silently and stealthily they two went from house to house, fastening each door with the chain which usually hung outside. At dawn, Federigo by concert led his troops to a feigned assault, to repel which the garrison sallied down the ridge. Grifone then, hastily admitting his men, closed the gates upon these skirmishers, and displaying in the piazza eight pair of colours which he had brought, raised the cry of Feltro! Feltro! The few defenders left in the citadel, conceiving the town to have been carried, and its inhabitants (who being barred into their dwellings could offer no resistance) to have sided with the enemy, surrendered without a blow. A temporary reconciliation with Sigismondo soon followed, by the interposition of Francesco Sforza, who gave to Malatesta his natural daughter Polissena in marriage, as a means of strengthening his hold on La Marca. [Footnote 71: Vat. Urb. MSS., No. 928.] The father of Sforza, whether by birth a peasant or a gentleman, had owed his fortunes to his sword, which won him wealth and honours in various Italian states, especially in Romagna and Naples.[*72] His son succeeded to these honours, as well as to the command of his veterans, and inherited talents and address of still higher quality. Availing himself of the enfeebled papacy, and the confusion into which the ecclesiastical states fell during the contest of Eugenius IV. with the Council of Basle, he overran La Marca, whilst Fortebraccio menaced Rome itself. In order to save the latter, Eugenius abandoned the former to Sforza, with the title of Marquis, and the authority of Vicar; this bribe was accepted, and the service rendered for it was the restoration of his supremacy over the rest of the papal territory. On the death of Joanna of Naples, Francesco Sforza, now the first soldier of his day, acknowledged René as her successor, and when that monarch, by withdrawing in 1442, left the kingdom to his rival Alfonso, Sforza lost his Neapolitan dignities and estates. The sacrifice was more than compensated by his marriage with the Duke of Milan's natural daughter; yet for a time this splendid alliance brought with it no good fruits. Filippo Maria had acceded to it with indifferent grace, and jealousy of his son-in-law led him, in 1443, to join Eugenius and Alfonso in a combination for wresting from Francesco the March of Ancona. [Footnote *72: Sforza's origin is now proved. The Attendoli were not peasants, but among the leading families of Cotignola. As early as 1226 an Attendolo was ambassador for the neighbouring town of Bertinoro in its submission to Bologna. They were a well-known race of soldiers, it seems. Cf. SOLIERI, _Le origini e la Dominazione degli Sforza a Cotignola_ (Bologna, 1897), and _ibid._, _L'Antica Casa degli Attendoli Sforza in Cotignola_ (Ravenna, 1899). Also C.M. ADY, _op. cit._, p. 3.] Nicolò Piccinino being again hired to serve against his old enemy, Count Federigo preferred, after his father's obsequies, joining him before Monteleone to remaining idle at home, Sanzi assuring us,-- "That martial practice was his sole desire, Ready his guard to mount by night or day, And deeming cowardly the love of quiet." He immediately attended his general to an interview with the King of Naples at Terracina, embarking at Civita Vecchia; and the impression made by him on that monarch is thus finely given by the same chronicler, in language splendid as his reception:-- "As its bright rays the comet's track precede, So the Count's virtues harbingered his way. And as Apollo scattering o'er the dawn His plumes of gold, along the orient sky, E'er he emerges calmly from his couch, Bears in his brilliant orb the blazing signs Of bounteous disposition: thus the youth Round the king's inmost heart himself entwined With hope's sweet fillet, and a lodgment made Firm as the solid nail in growing tree."[73] [Footnote 73: The original lines, notwithstanding their antiquated orthography, so much excel our version, that many readers will gladly refer to them:-- "Como a cometa enanze corre el ragio, Cusi nel giovin le vertude ancora Scorse il senthier del suo illustre viagio: E como quando Apollo insu l'Aurora Sparge le chiome d'or per l'oriente, Mentre tranquillo vien del onde fora, Mirava nel suo volto resplendente D'un almo invicto segni senza frodi. Onde a tal Re quel giovine excellente, Cum futura speranza, in dolci nodi El cor gli avinse, et poi dentro se fisse, Si como in verde pianta saldi chiodi."] After three days spent in concerting plans for an attack upon La Marca, Nicolò returned to Tuscany, but Federigo was invited by Alfonso to remain with him until the campaign should open. Ere long, however, he rejoined his troops at Viterbo, and, after a foraging march through the enemy's country, reached Fano just before Sforza, who had for some time remained there awaiting his Venetian and Florentine contingents, put Piccinino once more to the rout at Monteluro. Giovanni Sanzi, then a youth residing at Colbordolo, went forth to see the battle, which he describes with much spirit:-- "War's crash and clang were there; the horseman's charge With shock impetuous, and with ringing cheers That seemed the vaulted sky to scare. There, too, Men huddled lay on earth with dismal howls, Their drums and spears a booty: some the while Encouraging, some eager, some dismayed. The very air, with clouds surcharged and dim, Seemed wailing for the slaughter of that day, Its fierce assaults and sanguinary scenes." The Count shared not in this defeat, but lent opportune aid to rally the broken and disorganised troops, and was about this time rewarded by Eugenius with his promised investiture of the countship of Mercatello. In July he repaired to the baths of Campagnatico, in the Maremma, to recruit from an attack of fever, but on his return found new occupation from the Lord of Rimini. The grandfather of that seigneur was Galeotto Malatesta, whose patrimony included Rimini, Faenza, and Fossombrone, and whose elder brother, Malatesta Malatesta, had transmitted the fief of Pesaro to his great-grandson Galeazzo. This Galeazzo was a man of feeble parts and degraded character, altogether unable to maintain his authority over a disgusted people, or to cope with his bold and ambitious cousin Sigismondo of Rimini. After the defeat of Monteluro, he had reluctantly received into Pesaro some of Piccinino's stragglers, and Sigismondo availed himself of this pretext to persuade his father-in-law Sforza to seize and make over to him that city. But Francesco, intent on sustaining his interests in La Marca, soon left the affair in the hands of Sigismondo, who, although able to overrun the surrounding country, could make no impression upon the capital, held by Count Federigo, even after its poor-spirited lord had withdrawn to Forlì. Thus baffled for eighteen months, the impetuous Sigismondo, by way of cutting short the contest, sent to Federigo this insolent challenge:-- "To the Lord Federigo of Montefeltro, Captain-General of the illustrious Count Francesco Sforza. "Mighty Lord, "Your lordship knows the difference long existing between us, and, if you judge rightly, you will perceive the fault to lie on your side, not on mine. Patience is no virtue of mine, and so far from appearing disposed to amend them, you daily multiply your errors. Anew have you written calumnies against me to the Court of Rome, and caused ill to be spoken of me. I am determined to bear it no longer, but to show, with my person against yours, that I am a better man than you, for in sooth you are a bad one, and do amiss to affront me. I therefore send to you Signor Giovanni da Sassoferrato, my chancellor, with full authority to inquire as to the duel which by your letter you have already accepted. And although Signor Giovanni holds a public instrument of mandate, I wished to write this letter as of more ample authority, praying that you will accept it: which I feel assured you, as the brave man you avow yourself and ought to be, will do; and that you will thereupon please to send one of your people of weight, informed of your wishes as to the manner, time, and place of our fighting, so that all may be settled. I have said of weight, that he may be qualified to fix upon a place with him whom I shall send, so that we may understand each other. And that this your agent may repair hither in safety with four horses, this letter will be an ample and valid safe conduct for his freely coming, staying, and returning. And in case of your refusal, which I do not believe, I warn you that I shall proceed against you more or less, according to the usual practice, as I may see fit. "SIGISMONDO PODOLFO DI MALATESTA.[74] "Rimini, the 21st of February, 1445." [Footnote 74: _Carteggio inedito d'Artisti_, I., p. 179, from the Archivio di Urbino at Florence, Lettere, filza 104.] This cartel was answered as became a high-spirited knight; but, on reaching the rendezvous under the walls of Pesaro, Federigo was surprised to find his adversary absent. No explanation appears of this failure beyond Sanzi's expressive exclamation,-- "Ah! foul dishonour to the recreant lord!" and Sigismondo, covered with ridicule, was glad to patch up a truce with his cousin Galeazzo.[*75] [Footnote *75: This eloquence is a little stupid. If the _rendezvous_ was "under the walls of Pesaro," already held by Federigo, Sigismondo would have been indeed a fool to go.] CHAPTER V Count Federigo succeeds to Urbino and acquires Fossombrone--His connection with the Sforza family, whereby he incurs excommunication--His campaign in the Maremma--Loses his eye in a tournament. It was during the siege of Pesaro that Federigo heard of the horrible catastrophe, by which his brother Oddantonio, on the 22nd July, 1444, atoned the excesses of his brief sovereignty. But this assassination, the result of a sudden outbreak, indicated no general disloyalty to the race of Montefeltro. The virtues and moderation of Guidantonio were fresh in men's minds; Federigo was personally liked, and his recent feats of arms, under the eyes of his countrymen, were accepted as first fruits of a growing fame. The fief might indeed be held as lapsed by the close of the male line, but there were abundant precedents of reinvestitures to illegitimate successors, and the citizens of Urbino, shocked at their own outrage, sought to remedy the past by a prompt return to duty.[*76] Sanzi accordingly tells us that the factious and blood-thirsty populace wonderfully united in electing as their seigneur the heroic Federigo, who, meanwhile, informed by the bishop of the tumult and its results, had repaired to Urbino, where, on the following day, conditions were formally offered and accepted as the terms on which he was chosen. The instrument containing the demands of the people, and his replies to each, will be found in the Appendix IV., and throws some light upon the extent of popular rights, and the manner of enforcing them, in the despotic communities of Italy. Divested of the rude style in which they were expressed, these concessions were to the following purpose:-- 1. A general amnesty for the recent revolution.[77] 2. Bimonthly election of the priors of Urbino, with certain powers, and with a salary of fifteen ducats. 3. A new house for the priors. 4. A reduction of assessments from five and a half to four _soldi_ in the _lira_. 5. Revocation of all donations made posterior to Guidantonio. 6. Similar revocation of immunities and privileges granted to the nobility and communes. 7. Control by the citizens of the watching and warding fees. 8. Application of a tierce of all escheats to the use of public works. 9. Promise to impose no new taxes, except in urgent circumstances. 10. Trimestral elections of the chamberlain. 11. The notaries acting as clerks of military orders and of sentences to be boxed (_imbussolari_) with their salaries and perquisites. 12. Reform of the measures for salt. 13. Semestral change of the podestà and certain other officers, without intervention of the Count. 14. Appointment of two medical officers bound to attend to all ratepayers, their salaries to be charged on the community. 15. Similar appointment of a schoolmaster and assistant. 16. The camp-captains of Urbino to be citizens. 17. Abolition of recent oppressive tolls, which impede the passage of merchants. 18. Payment to creditors of the two last sovereigns. 19. Biennial election of two _appassati_[78] for Urbino. 20. An additional clerk for the priors. [Footnote *76: I do not quite see what is meant here by "duty." No such thing as loyalty in our sense, loyalty "to our liege-lord the king," was, of course, known or even understood in fifteenth-century Italy. And even if it had been, what "duty" did the Urbinati owe to a bastard? And again, as we see they "elected" Federigo as the Signore.] [Footnote 77: This, it is said, was exacted of him on oath, before he was admitted within the city gate.] [Footnote 78: _Passatojo_, in Italian, signifies a deduction or drawback from the pay of soldiers. I am ignorant of the duties of these functionaries, unless they were commissioners charged with the adjustment of such claims.] [Illustration: _Alinari_ FEDERIGO OF URBINO _From the XV. Century relief in the Bargello, Florence_] On the 1st of August proclamation was made of a reduction of imposts, the regulation of salt measures at thirty-three pounds to the quarter, and the remission of condemnations. Besides these conditions, Federigo granted or confirmed to his capital a constitution, which, however, was rather of a municipal than political character, and which consisted in two general councils, one composed of thirty-two, the other of twenty-four, citizens. These preliminaries arranged, deputations flocked from Gubbio and the other communities to offer their obedience, and were soon followed by congratulations from neighbouring powers. * * * * * The political aspect of Central Italy, and the condition of her princes, during this century, are thus sketched by a recent writer:--"Their feeble and unquiet domination was obtained sometimes by usurpations from rivals, from the people, or from the Church, sometimes by authority wrested originally from pope or emperor, and subsequently sanctioned, which was wielded now with more, now with less, rigour; but all of them were encompassed by a numerous following, were devoted to the profession of mercenary war, and were at once the abettors and dreaders of rebellions, ambushes, poisonings. Various were the vicissitudes of these chiefs. In order to oust a competitor, they would offer large concessions to the Church or the populace, and having attained to sovereignty would gradually curtail these until the community called in another master, to be in like manner supplanted by a third. In other cases they compromised their disputes by partitioning cities or principalities. Frequently the Pontiff would favour one faction in order to put down another, and to profit by their mutual strife; again, he would elevate a third over them both, under cloak of freedom. It was, in short, constant wavering between abuses and concessions, tyranny and licence; the seigneur intent upon extending his influence, although by dishonest means, the people prompt to diminish it even to anarchy."[79] [Footnote 79: CIBRARIO, _Economia Politica del Medio Evo_.] This description might be justly applied to the Montefeltrian holdings under most of their early counts, but a brighter day dawned upon the duchy with Federigo's accession, and Urbino had the singular fortune during the next hundred and ninety years, and under the sway of two dynasties numbering five sovereigns, to be equally exempt from oppression and disorder, from domestic broils and disputed successions; to be governed by princes not less beloved at home than respected abroad, whose brows might be graced by olive or laurel, according to the spirit or the exigencies of the time, but who ever entwined with it the myrtle wreath. The policy and manners of Federigo, equally prudent and conciliatory, confirmed the favourable anticipations previously formed, and are thus depicted by his contemporary Sanzi:-- "His flower of youth was bursting into bloom; Mild beyond measure, merciful and just, Fervent in piety, in counsel sage; Heedless of thirst or hunger, cold or heat; Unworn by watching, vigorous his frame, Gladsome his gentle mien; prompt to obey, Or play the master as the case may be, Or to persuade: rare gifts in warrior bold! Wary and watchful in his generalship, The hearts of e'en his foes he knew to win By kind forbearance in the battle field. From anger, pride, and avarice exempt, But courteous, liberal, eloquent, and true, In him each lofty grace spontaneous grew." If the accusation be well founded, which we have formerly stated against Sigismondo Pandolfo Malatesta, of corrupting Oddantonio's morals, in the hope of supplanting him in his seigneury, the easy succession of Federigo must have brought him bitter disappointment. His total failure before Pesaro aggravated this annoyance, and he vented his spite by simultaneous inroads on two opposite quarters of Urbino. A conspiracy against Federigo, discovered about this time, was also perhaps the fruit of his intrigues; but, being discovered, its authors were led to the block, whilst the adherents of Malatesta were repulsed from the frontier. In this state of matters, the Count of Urbino (for the dukedom had died with Oddantonio) was surprised by an offer from Galeazzo Malatesta to sell him the seigneuries of Pesaro and Fossombrone, nominally his, which he found himself incompetent to defend from his rapacious neighbour of Rimini. The proposal was tempting, for both these possessions lay admirably to Urbino, and would extend its frontier to the Adriatic. But Federigo's position was one of delicacy between Sigismondo Malatesta on one hand, and Francesco Sforza on the other, both anxious to acquire those fiefs, and both his personal enemies. The death at this very juncture of his old friend and commander Nicolò Piccinino, which appeared to complicate his embarrassment, proved the means of relieving it. Sforza, having watched his rising reputation, calculated more advantage from his friendship than his opposition, and availed himself of the opportunity presented by Piccinino's demise, to make conciliatory overtures. Before committing himself, Federigo offered his services to the Pope, which being declined, with full licence to dispose of them as he pleased, he at once closed with Sforza, accepting a command, with four hundred lances and as many infantry, for the common defence of their respective states. This arrangement transferred his banner from the Braccian to the Sforzan party, battalions originally embodied under the rival captains from whom they were respectively designated, but distinguished in name, and regarded as the type of opposite systems, long after their founders had passed away. The tactics of Braccio di Montone were rapid and decisive, the policy of Attendolo Sforza cautious to a proverb; extremes which the Count of Urbino's practice was considered happily to have combined. In order to complete the necessary stipulations, he repaired to Fermo on a visit to Francesco, and passed some weeks there, returning on the 10th of December. It remained to adjust the affair of Pesaro and Fossombrone. The despicable lord of these fiefs had a granddaughter, Costanza Varana, whose pedigree in relation to the Montefeltrian princes we have explained, and who had gained the affections of Alessandro, brother of Francesco Sforza. Federigo, unable to pay for both seigneuries, or unwilling to hazard the odium which so sudden an aggrandisement might incur, proceeded on the 9th of January to Jesi, and proposed to the two Sforza that Francesco should purchase Pesaro for Alessandro, who should marry Costanza, whilst Fossombrone should be united to Urbino.[*80] The suggestion being no less agreeable than beneficial to all parties, it was heartily acceded to, and, ere many weeks passed, an arrangement was completed, whereby Galeazzo, exchanging the alarms of insecure sovereignty for a contemptible retirement, made over Pesaro to Alessandro and Fossombrone to Federigo, for the respective sums of 20,000 and 13,000 ducats or florins of gold, reserving the mills and his other allodial property; and thereafter withdrew to Florence, where, on the death of his talented and neglected wife Battista di Montefeltro in a convent, he married a lady of the Medici, and is said to have ended his ignoble life in misery. On the 16th of March, the nuptials of Alessandro Sforza with Costanza Varana were happily accomplished; she inherited much of her grandmother's capacity, and transmitted it to her youngest daughter, Battista, who in due time became second wife of Count Federigo.[81] [Footnote *80: For all that concerns Sforza in the Marche, see A. GIANANDREA, _Della Signoria di Francesco Sforza nella Marca secondo le Memorie e i documenti dell'Archivio Fabrianese_, in _Archivio St. Ital._, series V., tom. I., disp. 4.] [Footnote 81: Sismondi's account of these facts is strangely inaccurate. One page of his seventy-first chapter contains these four misstatements: 1. That Federigo was son of Bernardino della Carda by the Countess of Urbino; 2. That he married, about 1444, a daughter of Francesco Sforza; 3. That 20,000 florins was the price of both fiefs; 4. That Fossombrone was gifted to Federigo by Sforza. I have not found an authority for any one of these assertions.] This partition, apparently so advantageous to Francesco Sforza, was but the beginning of mischief. His son-in-law Sigismondo, ever "On brawls and battle-fields intent," could ill brook the disappointment of his designs upon two fiefs long in his family, and admirably suited to consolidate his territory by incorporating Fano with Rimini; still less could he submit to be cut out of them by his especial enemy Federigo. Another circumstance had lately occurred to exasperate against Francesco his ever jealous father-in-law the Duke of Milan. Ciarpelion, one of his favourite captains, had been induced to accept from Visconti the command vacated by Piccinino's death, but his application for a furlough was answered by the provost-marshal, who hanged him after inflicting horrible tortures. Thus were his wife's father and his daughter's husband united against the Lord of La Marca, nor did they find it difficult to rekindle in the Pope and the King of Naples their dormant jealousies of a soldier of fortune, whose possessions were desirable spoil to them both. He was consequently assailed at once by three of the chief powers of Italy, and by several of the petty feudatories and independent captains, whilst, as Florence and Venice were but lukewarm allies, he had no efficient aid to look for, beyond that of his recent but faithful friend Federigo. With him accordingly he drew more closely the bonds of amity, and in the end of June paid him a visit of five days at Urbino, accompanied by his family, when Sanzi tells us they exchanged reciprocal pledges of a romantic brotherhood in arms, preparatory to the empty dignity of general-in-chief, conferred upon the Count by Sforza on the 15th of July. The province which accidental circumstances had subjected to Francesco gave him but a feeble tenure of sovereignty. It extended along the Adriatic sea-board from Sinigaglia to the Tronto, including the Marshes of Ancona and Fermo, lately the richest portion of the Papal States. But time was wanting to consolidate his dominion, and to give him that hold upon the affections and interests of his people which is ever wanting to upstart potentates. The very extent of his territory thus became an element of peril, and the danger was aggravated by the ill-timed accession to it of Upper Abruzzo as far as Pescara, which, throwing off the yoke of Alfonso, placed itself under his protection, giving another pretext to the confederates for accelerating their attack. This, however, the Marquis[82] anticipated by hurrying to the north, and attacking his son-in-law's possessions about Fano. Leaving there an army, under his brother Alessandro and the Count of Urbino, to intercept the Milanese forces, he proceeded to Florence, and by the aid of Cosimo de' Medici obtained a considerable sum of money. On his return he carried La Pergola after a gallant defence. But these exertions were all in vain. His subjects, proverbially fickle, bound to him by no hereditary attachment, and alarmed by the extensive preparations maturing for his destruction, prepared to abandon his cause, and seek for protection under their former ecclesiastical masters. Ascoli first raised the standard of insurrection, and slew Rinaldo, uterine brother of the Marquis; but the contagion quickly spread, and although, by forced marches and the most strenuous efforts, he for a time kept the country in obedience, and even recovered several revolted castles, the loss of Rocca Contrada, seduced by the intrigues of Sigismondo, closed the most available pass that remained to him. From that moment his cause seemed desperate, and it became his object to provide for the safety of his troops and few remaining strongholds during the approaching winter, in the hope that spring might bring him better fortune. The garrisons of Fermo and Jesi were succoured, and his cavalry were quartered in the valleys of Urbino, whilst he took up his quarters in Pesaro. But ere the year ended, Fermo his capital rose, and the garrison were starved into a capitulation. [Footnote 82: Sforza had this territorial title from Eugenius IV., when invested by him with La Marca in 1433, and we prefer it to using his more common designation of Count, in order to distinguish him from the Count of Urbino.] Federigo had shared in all the fatigues of this campaign, and had gained what distinction could be gathered from its skirmishes and petty sieges. He thus earned the special indignation of Eugenius, whose legate vainly represented to him the folly of adhering to a cause irretrievably lost. Even after Alessandro Sforza had been induced by these arguments to give his adhesion to the Pontiff, the Count of Urbino, deeming it disgraceful to swerve from his plighted troth, afforded shelter and protection at Gubbio to the Marquis's family, thus compelled to retire from Pesaro. His reward was papal excommunication, and a new inroad on his devoted state by the Perugian troops, at the instance of Filippo Maria Visconti. But the tide of adversity had nearly spent itself. The Venetians and Florentines, at length roused to exertions in behalf of their ally, brought their forces into the field. The former advanced to support Cremona, which belonged to Sforza, but was now assailed by his father-in-law; the latter marched three thousand cavalry and a thousand foot into Romagna. Francesco and Federigo, on the strength of this seasonable reinforcement, resumed the offensive, and challenged the ecclesiastical army to a trial of strength, the Count adding a special defiance to personal combat with Sigismondo. Both invitations were evaded or declined, and as the Sforza battalions marched round the camp of an enemy superior in numbers,--a clang of triumph echoing from their trumpets,--and assailed them with hisses and insulting cries, the moral effect was perhaps equal to a victory.[83] This was in October, and during the autumn many petty successes were gained over Malatesta about Pesaro, Alessandro Sforza having reunited his interests with those of his brother. The Venetians were meanwhile so pressing upon Visconti in Lombardy that he hastened to make overtures of reconciliation with his son-in-law, who, gladly profiting by the opportunity to retrieve his damaged position, found some paltry excuse to shake himself loose from the Republic, and, by one of those rapid tergiversations which free lances were privileged to perform, turned his arms against his defenders. Policy, if not honour, justified this course, for the declining health of Filippo Maria held out to Sforza new hopes of the Milanese succession, and gave him a strong inducement to defend that territory from neighbours so powerful and ambitious. The confederacy being thus broken up, peace was restored to Romagna by a treaty of the 11th March, 1447; but Sigismondo, deeply disgusted at the entire failure of his calculations, which, presuming on the utter ruin of Federigo, had made sure of acquiring Urbino, Montefeltro, Durante, Gubbio, Fossombrone, and Pesaro, impatiently awaited an opportunity for revenge. In the autumn of that year he was enabled by the cabal of a few discontented citizens to seize Fossombrone, but within three days it was recovered by Federigo, to the great joy of its inhabitants, who celebrated by thanksgivings and festivals their release from a tyrant's odious yoke. The misery of these intestine wars is illustrated by an anecdote mentioned of this assault, that the Count conceived it necessary to stimulate the ardour of his soldiery by promising them the pillage of this his own city; and he is stated to have earned the praise of a most just and lenient prince, by restraining their fury until he had placed the women in safety. [Footnote 83: Sanzi exults over the cowardly confederates in a triplet, whose sound ingeniously echoes the sense:-- "Cum pompa excelsa, al suon di molte trombe, Empiendo l'aria d'alte voci humane Par che ogni valle del remor ribombe." The ruin occasioned by this campaign is supposed to have overtaken the poet's family, and to have induced them to exchange their roof-tree at Colbordolo for the more secure shelter of Urbino, where Raffaele was born.] During the year 1447, there occurred two deaths of great moment to Italy, those of Pope Eugenius IV. and Filippo Maria Duke of Milan. Gabriele Condolmiere of Venice owed his promotion to his countryman Gregory XII., whose nephew he is said to have been, and received the triple tiara in March, 1431, when but forty-eight years of age. His reign was one of turbulence, for the convulsions consequent upon his policy disorganised Italy, and threatened Christendom with a new schism. Putting himself at once in hostility with the Colonna, whose power had grown formidable under their kinsman Martin V., he exposed Rome to be pillaged by their lawless bands. Soon after, he was glad to fly in disguise to Florence, leaving his capital in the hands of a republican faction, and oppressed by the partisans of Braccio. As the last hope of recovering a portion of his territory from the various condottieri who ravaged it, and "dreading a perilous contest more than an ignominious peace,"[84] he recognised Francesco Sforza, the most influential of them, as Lord or Marquis of La Marca, and created him Gonfaloniere of the Church. But with the bad faith which marked the age, he sought to rid himself of the instrument as soon as his purpose was served. Restless in his policy, headstrong in his counsels, to him in a great measure was owing that perturbed state of Italy, which, when once become normal, continued, until the descent of the French in 1492, to realise the graphic description of Machiavelli: "Peace it cannot be called, whilst the princes were frequently fighting; neither can such struggles well be regarded as warfare, where men were not slain, nor cities sacked, nor sovereignties sacrificed; for so feeble became these strifes, that they were commenced without alarm, were conducted without risk, and closed without damage."[85] Nor was his management of spiritual interests more commendable. His quarrel with the Council of Basle gave him a rival antipope, and might have cost him his tiara, but for an unexpected overture of the last Emperor of Constantinople to unite the Greek and Latin Churches. Such, however, was his good fortune, that the completion of that union, the cruel persecutions he directed against the Hussites, and his ascetic rejection of personal indulgences to which he was indifferent, have gained for him the reputation of a zealot in faith, a saint in morals, and withal a pillar of the papacy. [Footnote 84: MACHIAVELLI, _Istorie_, lib. V.] [Footnote 85: MACHIAVELLI, _Istorie_, lib. V.] The Pontiff's death was followed within six months by that of Filippo Maria, last of the Visconti, a race whose sway in Milan is alleged to date from the eleventh century, and whose twelve princes of that city have been commemorated by the flattering pen of Giovio. They owe their place in history rather to the importance of their duchy, and to the European marriages of their later generations, than to personal illustration. The immediate succession to Filippo Maria convulsed Upper Italy during nearly three years, and the dispute, when revived half a century later, brought upon the Peninsula those barbarian aggressions from which she has till now been a chronic sufferer. His only child, the illegitimate Bianca Maria, had been reluctantly bestowed by him on Francesco Sforza, whom his jealous temper regarded as a rival and enemy, instead of conciliating as a son and useful ally. The house of Orleans were heirs of line of his family, but their title derived little strength by their mother's legitimacy, where female descent could give no valid claim to inheritance. The late Duke's testamentary bequest of his sovereignty to Alfonso of Naples, was clearly beyond his legal powers, so that the best right seemed that of the Emperor, in virtue of the lapsed fief. But ere any one of these four competitors was aware that the succession had opened, the citizens of Milan possessed themselves of the vacant authority, and their example was partially followed in neighbouring towns, several of which attempted to establish a Lombard republican confederacy with Milan at its head. In the struggles which ensued, and to which Venice and Florence became parties, the Count of Urbino took no share. The fate of Milan was decided rather by famine than the sword, and in February, 1450, the populace escaped from their sufferings by accepting Sforza as successor of his father-in-law. The Milanese succession was not, however, without its influence on Central Italy, and upon the fortunes of Count Federigo of Urbino. In the late contest on the Lombard plains, Florence and Venice had, in observance of a long-established and obvious policy, opposed the ambitious projects of Filippo Maria, but had acceded to the new Pontiff's proposal for a congress at Ferrara, in order to arrange a general peace. To this Visconti lent himself in no good faith, having concerted with the King of Naples that they should each attack one of these republics, as soon as Francesco Sforza should be secured to their side. Even whilst the congress was sitting, Alfonso obtained a footing in the Upper Val d'Arno, and although the death of his confederate abrogated their secret understanding, the opportunity of pursuing his selfish designs upon Tuscany continued favourable; for Venice was occupied in a fresh struggle with Sforza, and his own pretensions upon Milan, under the late Duke's will, would be much enhanced could he bear the trophies of Florence to the banks of the Po. He, however, offered to abstain from hostilities, on condition that free passage and provisions were allowed to his army, and that the city, now ruled by Cosimo de' Medici, should renounce its Venetian alliance. It required but little consideration to reject terms which would have opened to him the Milanese, where his success must have destroyed the balance of power in the Peninsula. Disappointed of Siena, which refused his fair offers, Alfonso turned into the valley of the Cecina, and having possessed himself of Pomerance, Campigli, Castiglione,[*86] and other townships in the Maremma, proposed to winter there. But he was promptly checked by Count Federigo, whom the Florentine Council had taken into their service,[87] and the spring arrived without any considerable movement or advantage on either side. There now occurred an incident highly characteristic of his bitter foe Sigismondo, in which he showed to advantage by the contrast. The Lord of Rimini, having been engaged by Alfonso, received from him 30,000 ducats in advance of pay, but, more intent upon selfish ends than on his promised service, he misapplied the money, and availed himself of the Count's absence from Urbino to repeat his attack upon Fossombrone and some neighbouring castles. In order to palliate this breach of faith, he wrote to the King that it was in truth a well-laid scheme for his benefit, Federigo being sure to hasten from Tuscany for the defence of his own subjects. The calculation was however defeated, as the Count, with the fidelity seldom found or expected among free lances, refused to quit his post, resting the safety of his people upon their own gallantry and devotion. When Alfonso perceived this, he summoned Malatesta to join him, but, whether from innate treachery or apprehension, he preferred offering himself and his contingent of above two thousand men to the Florentines, against whom he was actually engaged to serve. Apart from the unpleasant position in which it placed himself, this tergiversation seemed to Federigo so outrageous a treason as to require from him a special protest; but his usual conscientious adherence to a temporary banner prevailing over honourable scruples and personal disgust, he kept the field, and even consented to adjourn all private quarrels with Sigismondo to the end of the campaign. It was marked by no circumstance of interest beyond the King's ineffectual attempt upon Piombino, the peninsular capital of a petty fief belonging to the Appiani, then confederates of the Republic. The marsh-fever of the Maremma, "Where the path Is lost in rank luxuriance, and to breathe Is to inhale distemper, if not death," seconded its brave resistance, and Alfonso was glad to return home in the autumn after sacrificing a portion of his army, while the Count of Urbino retired to his state. But during their joint service under the Florentine banner, Sigismondo had found opportunity for the exercise of his intriguing spirit. Demanding audience of Federigo, he remonstrated against his having aided in the establishment at Pesaro of a stranger, to the vast detriment of its hereditary seigneurs the Malatesta, so long neighbours and kindred of the Montefeltri; and in token of the thanklessness of that service he showed a bond, whereby Alessandro Sforza had allied himself with Sigismondo for the partition of Urbino and its dependencies. With such evidence before him, Federigo lent himself to an offer made by the false Lord of Rimini to turn the tables against Sforza, and to surrender all of the Montefeltrian territory that he had gained two years before, provided the Count would aid him in ousting the intruder from Pesaro. But with characteristic treachery he availed himself of a favourable moment to attack that town single-handed, and Federigo, satisfied of his utter faithlessness, rushed to the rescue, reclaiming by this new and noble-minded service the gratitude of Alessandro and of his brother. As soon as the latter was acknowledged Duke of Milan, he offered the Count of Urbino an engagement, in highly complimentary terms, stating that, after full consideration to whom he could worthily commit the conduct of his army, whereon depended the whole welfare of his state, he had fixed upon Federigo, having long known and clearly ascertained his extraordinary and unfailing fidelity, authority, gravity, prudence, promptitude, justice, wisdom, and diligence in the conduct of every great enterprise.[*88] The Tuscan war being over, this appointment was readily accepted by the Count, although suffering from a painful and dangerous accident. [Footnote *86: Pomarance (già Ripomarance) is in the Val di Cecina. Campiglia is in Val di Cornia. Castiglione is Castiglione della Pescaia. Cf. MALAVOLTI, _Historia, ad ann._, and REPETTI, _Dizionario della Toscana_.] [Footnote 87: I found this _condotta_ or engagement in the archives of the Albani Palace at Urbino. It is for six months from March, 1448, and stipulates for 3000 florins of monthly pay, for which the Count was to maintain 500 lances and 300 foot. Poggio says that his actual force was 1000 horse and 800 infantry.--MURATORI, _R.I.S._, XX., 420.] [Footnote *88: For Federigo's service under Sforza see ROSSI, _F. da Montefeltro condotto da F. Sforza_, in _Le Marche_ (Fano, 1905), an. V., p. 142. Rossi prints the Mandata.] [Illustration: _Alinari_ FRANCESCO SFORZA _From the XV. Century relief in the Bargello, Florence_] In honour of the Duke's exaltation, he had proclaimed a tournament at Urbino, which Sanzi assures us was preceded by omens of evil. In particular, his mother, influenced by a horrible dream, besought him on her knees to abandon the intention. Though a firm believer in astrology, his mind repudiated this superstition, which however diffused among all ranks a feeling of vague anxiety as the jousting day approached. Just then there arrived Guidangelo de' Ranieri, a gentleman of Urbino, who had gained the prize in a recent passage of arms at Florence; he was met at the city gates by the Count, who embraced him, placing on his neck the knightly guerdon of a golden chain. Being asked to run a course with him, Guidangelo would have excused himself, and is even said to have earned a sharp reproof for forbearing to touch him, in deference to the prevailing apprehension of some impending mishap. On repeating the course, the knight being mounted on a small charger, his lance, after striking Federigo's armour, glanced upwards, and was shivered against his vizor. He received the stunning blow between the eyebrows, where it shattered the bone of his nose and knocked out his right eye. Recovering himself, however, he kept his seat, and consoled those who flocked around in consternation, by assuring them of a speedy cure, and that one of his two good eyes remaining, he would still be able to see better than with a hundred ordinary ones. This courageous bearing was perhaps the best recipe, and his cure appears to have been rapid and easy; but the damage to his features may be presumed from subsequent portraits representing him in profile, which, whilst concealing the loss of his eye, exaggerated the prominence of his broken nose.[*89] [Footnote *89: For the war in Tuscany see ROSSI, _La Guerra in Toscana dell'anno 1447-8_ (Firenze, 1903).] CHAPTER VI Count Federigo enters the Neapolitan service--His two campaigns in Tuscany--Fall of Constantinople--Peace of Lodi--Nicholas V.--The Count's fruitless attempt at reconciliation with Sigismondo Pandolfo Malatesta; followed by new feuds with him--Death of his Countess Gentile. The establishment of Francesco Sforza as Duke of Milan had virtually settled the affairs of Lombardy, for although the Emperor and the French King refused to recognise his rights to the Visconti succession, they deferred their respective claims upon that duchy till a fitter season. The Angevine pretensions to the crown of Naples were also in temporary abeyance, and the triple tiara had passed from the turbulent Eugenius to Nicholas V., whose early habits of scholarship continued undisturbed by ambitious dreams. There thus seemed no element of contention left, and a prolonged peace was the natural as well as the true policy of Italy. But, in the words of Sanzi, "No long repose Ausonia e'er can brook, For peace to her brings languor, and she deems It loathsome to lie fallow." So paltry were the pretexts, so remote the motives for renewed hostilities, that Sismondi is content to ascribe these to diplomatic intrigue, seconded by a general irritability of temperaments, and avows that, ere they were resumed, a review of interests and reconstruction of alliances became absolutely necessary. Venice and Florence had hitherto co-operated to protect themselves, and maintain a balance against the ambitious dynasties of Visconti and Aragon; but jealousy of the terra-firma acquisitions of the former having induced her sister republic to league with Sforza, she consulted at once her safety and her vengeance by an intimate union with Alfonso. Sigismondo Malatesta being retained in her service, the Duke of Milan bought him over by an offer of better terms, and the Count of Urbino, finding himself thus exposed to the same contact with his personal enemy which had recently annoyed him in the Maremma campaign, renounced his engagement with Sforza, and as a natural consequence transferred it to the other side. The King of Naples, disgusted by the late treachery of Sigismondo, and by similar instances of light faith on the part of other Italian condottieri, had announced his determination to employ none of them without sureties for their fidelity. But he made an exception in favour of Federigo, declining his offer of the Venetian signory as his sponsors, on the ground that he knew his word to be sufficient guarantee. In consequence, however, of the coronation of Frederick III. at Rome, and his stay in Italy, it was not until 1452 that these arrangements were so far completed as to enable the Venetians to declare war upon Sforza in May of that year, and Alfonso to publish hostilities with Florence in the following month.[90] [Footnote 90: Berni dates the Tuscan campaign as in 1451, but Sismondi is correct.] The King being desirous of bringing into notice his natural son Ferdinando Duke of Calabria, the destined heir of his crown, now placed him at the head of 8000 cavalry, and half that number of foot soldiers, but bestowed on Federigo the rank and title of Captain-general. Entering Tuscany by Cortona, this army penetrated by the valleys of Chiana and Arno, carrying terror almost to the gates of Florence, and overrunning a vast extent of country. But no permanent impression was made, for, trusting to the artillery of Siena, which was refused him, Alfonso had not provided his troops with the means of taking any strong places. It accordingly cost them six weeks to reduce Foiano, and after spending as long before Castellina, the bursting of their only battering-gun rendered further perseverance useless. Thus when they betook themselves to winter quarters at Aquaviva on the Mediterranean coast, they could boast no important result of the campaign. A colourable pretext was thus afforded for murmurs from the captains, many of whom served reluctantly under a commander so much their junior. Although these complaints reached Alfonso, they no way diminished his confidence in Federigo, whom he encouraged to meet such jealousy by redoubled exertions. In order to arrange a plan of operations, the Count repaired to Naples, and received from him a cordial welcome. As spring advanced, the pestilent air of the Maremma, which had formerly compromised the Neapolitan army in "That sun-bright land of beauty," again proved their scourge. Many officers and men were attacked by fever, and among them the Captain-general, who was removed to Siena whilst his troops fell back upon Pitigliano. The following letter, written by him during an earlier stage of his malady, and probably in reply to pressing invitations from the priors of that city, proves his reluctance to leave his post:-- "Mighty and potent Lords, dearest Fathers; "Although I have experienced the singular goodwill, paternal affection, and love displayed by your lordships towards myself and my house, not only now and on this occasion, but in other times and circumstances, yet the renewed offers and cordial proposals so freely made me in your most courteous letters, in reference to this illness of mine, have imposed upon me further and greater obligations. Not that I admit these to render me more devoted to your lordships than before, seeing that I was already your son, and as such sincerely attached to your state and magnificent community: but I desire your lordships to be aware that I acknowledge my obligations to be ever and greatly on the increase, and that I am most anxious to acquit them, so far as in my power, for the advancement of your lordships' honour and advantage. More I cannot at present; nevertheless, being desirous to do my best, I give your lordships infinite thanks; and having nothing new to offer, I yet tender what has been yours a thousand years past,--my state and person; assuring your lordships that, in so far as consists with my honour, your lordships may dispose of me and mine, as a son faithful and devoted beyond all others. Notwithstanding a violent and serious attack of illness, I have not thought fit to come to Siena, nor to repair to any other part of your lordships' territory (though ready to go thither with the same confidence as to my own house), because from the first I resisted leaving my illustrious Lord Duke, however unimportant my remaining by him might be. Since then, thanks to God, I have gone on improving, and am now pretty well, so that I hope to be speedily quite restored; whereof I wished to inform you, convinced that it would be gratifying to your lordships, from whom I pray instructions, should anything occur that I can do. From his Majesty's successful army at Aquaviva, the 26th of July, 1453. "FEDERIGO COUNT OF MONTEFELTRO, URBINO, AND DURANTE, Captain-general of the Serene King of Aragon."[91] [Footnote 91: Though pruned of not a few redundant particles which obscure the original, this letter proves that even before Spanish fashion had elaborated feebly magniloquent expletives, the Italian style was justly chargeable with verbiage.] This campaign differed little in tactics, and no way in results, from that in which Federigo, under the Florentine standard, had lately contested much of the same ground with Alfonso. We pass rapidly over the events of both, for although minutely dwelt upon by his biographers, and tending to develop his military science and reputation, they were marked by no brilliant incidents, and involved no general interests. Machiavelli, ever willing to sneer at mercenary warfare, observes that places were then deemed impregnable which in his day were abandoned as untenable, and explains the policy of the invaded to consist in avoiding a general engagement; "for they deemed it impossible to be ultimately worsted, so long as they were not beaten in any pitched battle, the loss of petty castles being recovered with returning peace, while more important places were secure in the enemy's inability to assault them."[92] [Footnote 92: _Istorie_, lib. VI.] The Count's engagement was renewed by the King of Naples in autumn for another year on the same terms, which appear from the Oliveriana MSS. to have been 1500 ducats a month for his own pay, 8 ducats, of ten gigli, for each lance, and 2 for each foot-soldier; his company to consist of 700 lances and 600 infantry. No active service was, however, required; and the general pacification, to which Alfonso reluctantly acceded in January, 1455, restored matters to their former state,--the usual issue of such contests. Europe was now startled by an event which exposed Italy to peculiar peril. The Eastern Empire had long been falling into feeble senility, and in proportion as her vigour relaxed and her frontier receded, the Crescent extended its domination, and menaced the Bosphorus. The Greeks appealed for aid to Western Christendom; but men's enthusiasm had become selfishness; the crusading spirit was extinct, and the cry echoed unheeded along the Mediterranean shores. The siege of Constantinople by Mahomet II., a barbarian endowed with qualities which would have shone in any sphere, might have been prevented or raised by very moderate efforts of the Italian powers; and it was not until the loss of that great capital, that they perceived the folly of their neglect, which had sacrificed the best bulwark of Europe against Ottoman aggression. But besides this general consternation, the maritime republics staggered beneath the blow, for it annihilated that trade with the Archipelago and the Euxine which had crowded their ports and filled their coffers; and when Constantinople fell, many wealthy Christian merchants, there resident, were stripped of their property, and passed into menial slavery. It was in the moment of universal alarm, that Nicholas V. urged a general reconciliation and league of Italy, with a zeal which, notwithstanding the doubts of Simonetta adopted by Sismondi, we believe to have been sincere. The congress held for this purpose at Rome was, however, distracted by narrow views and shallow intrigues, and broke up without effecting its object. Yet, ere long, policy prevailed over petty ends, and the peace of Lodi, signed in April, 1454, to which at first only Venice and Milan were parties, was ratified within a few months by all the Peninsular states, and secured to them a long period of comparative repose. This pacification of Italy, which the Pontiff had ardently desired, he was not long spared to witness, for he closed his exemplary life on the 24th of March. Tommaso de' Parentucelli, though of Pisan parentage, was born and brought up at Sarzana, from whence he took his usual designation. He was early vowed to the Church in consequence of his mother's dream, and at the University of Bologna his progress attracted notice from the bishop, who took him into his family, where he remained for about twenty years. On the return of Eugenius to Rome, in 1443, he was elevated to the purple, as vice-camerlingo; and three years and a half later, was chosen to succeed that Pontiff. The tastes and habits of scholarship which Nicholas had formed in early youth preserved their ascendency after this remarkable advancement. The first object of his government was the maintenance of general peace; and when he had failed to effect this, his uniform policy was neutrality. His attention was thus left free to follow out, for the benefit of his subjects, and of mankind, those aspirations for justice, and those enlarged views of mental development which formed his character. The revenues which other pontiffs of that age misapplied to promote miserable contests, or lavished on schemes of nepotism and courtly vices, he directed into more wholesome channels. Magnificent in all that could lend dignity to the religion of whose faith and ritual he was the guardian, careful of whatever could promote the dignity of his sacred office, an economical management enabled him largely to gratify his literary longings. At his court, habits of study were an unfailing recommendation; mental acquirements were duly honoured, and men of letters were sure of finding a generous and enlightened friend. With him originated the Vatican library, which, under liberal popes, and by favourable opportunities, has since been gradually augmented into one of the brightest ornaments of the papacy. His mild and useful reign ended far too soon for the welfare of Italy and the interests of letters, but the light which it diffused scattered the last shadows of the dark ages, and still gilds the remainder of this century. It chanced that a few days before peace had been concluded, a subsidy of 36,000 ducats reached Federigo from the King of Naples, which he immediately offered to return, as no longer required. Regarding this as an act of unusual conscientiousness, Alfonso desired him to retain the money on account of future services; whereupon the Count, after sending home his company from the Tuscan war, attended the Duke of Calabria to Naples, to offer acknowledgments in person. To his suggestion, while there, has been ascribed by Muzio and Baldi a double matrimonial alliance, now proposed between the hitherto hostile houses of Aragon and Sforza, as a means of cementing the new league, but of which only that of Hippolita Maria Sforza took effect. On the same authority we must attribute to him a selfish and ill-timed counsel, which marred that measure and perilled the peace of Italy. Whilst a party to the losing game which Sforza played in La Marca during 1445-6, several of his townships were seized by the Lord of Rimini, in whose possession they had since remained. With the ultimate hope of reclaiming these on some fitting opportunity, he is alleged to have reminded Alfonso of the scurvy trick played upon him in 1448 by Sigismondo, in passing over to the service of Florence after receiving his pay, and to have suggested such treachery as sufficient ground for specially excluding the latter from the league, and for reserving a right to make reprisals. The King adopted this hint the more readily, that he had other wrongs to settle with the Genoese and with Astorre Manfredi, seigneur of Imola; he accordingly, on ratifying the treaty of Lodi in January, 1455, introduced an exceptional clause against these three states, the effect of which was not only to keep up petty warfare in Romagna and Liguria, but eventually to entail upon his son a disputed succession which well-nigh cost him his crown. It was the destiny of Urbino long to endure the full weight of Malatesta's troublesome qualities; to be in turn agitated by his intrigues, compromised by his instability, deluded by his duplicity, harassed anew by his inroads, and again cajoled by his hollow repentance. The Count, whose sense of honour was delicately susceptible, and who felt warmly for his people's welfare, could no longer brook such aggressions. Bent upon signally punishing them, he, however, before concerting measures with Alfonso, judged it prudent to visit Florence, Bologna, Milan, and Mantua, in order to justify to their governments the necessity of making an example of his inveterate foe. Nothing could exceed the honourable reception accorded him at these places; but he did not obtain anything beyond general assurances or cold civilities in regard to the matter he had in view. The proffered mediation of Borso d'Este, Duke of Modena and Marquis of Ferrara, held out one last hope of an arrangement; so he paid him a visit on his return homewards, in May, 1457, and found that Malatesta was already his guest. The interview of these rivals is described by Sanzi and Baldi with details probably more dramatic than historical. The Lord of Rimini came reluctantly, with arms at his side and implacable passions in his breast; he commenced the discussion with a long catalogue of grievances, and quickly wrought himself up to violent and insulting language, which Federigo met by mild but firm remonstrance, ending with a proposal to settle by single combat, "hand to hand, in field, or plain, or valley," whatever misunderstandings could not be amicably disposed of by their host. Sigismondo, for answer, drew his sword, and after the parties had exchanged ferocious defiance, the Duke separated them, grieved at the total failure of his intervention. Before leaving Ferrara, the Count offered to submit to his arbitration their differences, the chief of which was as to restoration of the places in Montefeltro retained by Malatesta; but the latter declined any reference of the sort. After provocations so aggravated, and in the certainty that opportunity alone was wanting to renew them in manner more perilous to his interests, Federigo no longer hesitated to act upon the reservations of the treaty of Lodi, and in June hastened to Naples, in order to obtain assistance. It happened that Giacopo, son of Nicolò Piccinino, was then in the Abruzzi with his company of adventure, retained by Alfonso, but waiting the chances of war. The Count, therefore, applied for permission to employ him against Malatesta, who, like a true braggart, lost courage on finding himself exposed to just vengeance, and virtually excluded from assistance by the terms of the league. Recurring as usual to intrigue, he sent his eldest son Roberto to Naples, that he might gain favour with the beautiful Lucrezia Allagno, or del Lagno, who, though said to have equalled her Roman namesake in propriety, held the elderly monarch by the silken chain of youthful passion. Her dragon-like virtue did not exempt her from womanly weakness, and in exchange for the most brilliant ruby which the jewellers of Venice could supply, backed by an offer of his hand for her niece, Roberto gained her influence in his father's behalf. Months were lost in the counteracting this back-stairs interposition; and meanwhile Federigo was widowed by the death of Gentile, of whom nothing is known beyond the excessive stoutness of her person. These delays enabled him to prepare the munitions of war, and he addressed to the magistrates of Siena this request for a person qualified to cast mortars:-- "Mighty and potent Lords, and Fathers honourable and beloved: "I have immediate want of a master mortar-founder, and being informed that there is in Siena one such, able and sufficiently qualified, who would well satisfy me, and whom I knew when detained there ill [in 1453], I urgently pray your lordships, as a particular favour, to give him leave of absence. And my need of him being urgent, I trust that he will come quickly along with the bearer hereof, and I shall so pay him his dues that he shall be well satisfied. I have reason to hope that your lordships will oblige me as to this artist, for in all that tends to the weal of your republic I would be most affectionate, and observant beyond any other ally you have in the world. As for the mortars, I want to use them against the Lord Sigismondo, the enemy of your lordships, to whom I commend myself. From Urbino, the 7th of November 1457."[93] [Footnote 93: _Carteggio d'Artisti_, I., p. 178. Promis, the recent editor of Francesco di Giorgio's works, conjectures this artillery-founder to have been Agostino da Piacenza, not Francesco, as had been supposed.] It was in this month of November that the Count and Piccinino at length took the field, although the season already warned them to winter-quarters in the inclement climate of the Apennines. After reducing several places near Fossombrone, Federigo, in order to save his own people, seized some townships of Carpegna, a tiny fief held by a branch of his family with whom he was at variance, and there left the troublesome troops of Giacopo until the spring. When it opened, notwithstanding the dilatory and heartless tactics of their leader, who, like a true condottiere, regarded decisive movements as fatal to his trade, this "war of petty sieges by petty armies," as it is aptly called by Sismondi, soon exhausted and humbled the refractory Sigismondo, whose unhappy condition is thus pitiably described in another interesting despatch to the Sienese authorities. "Mighty and potent Lords, dearest Fathers: "I have not cared to write sooner to your lordships, nothing further having been decided by the serene King regarding peace or war with the Lord Sigismondo; but I have at length determined to write this, in order that your lordships may not marvel at my silence, and that you may be informed how matters stand. And I hereby advise you how the Lord Sigismondo has sent many humble and respectful messages, through his son, to the serene King, supplicating that his Majesty would condescend to have mercy, and notwithstanding misconduct so gross as to merit no favour nor compassion, that his Majesty would take to himself his sons as his Majesty's slaves, and would deign to decide that they should not go begging their bread. And the son besought his Majesty to permit that his father should come and throw himself at his feet, with a halter round his neck, publicly to crave mercy, bringing with him as much money as possible, and the jewels formerly offered; and should this not suffice, that his Majesty might take whatever else of his he would, until satisfied. His Serene Majesty replied that the youth should remain at Naples whilst he went to Magione, and that he would cause an answer to be sent through his council. Thus passed many days without further incident. And although the ambassador of the Duke of Modena strongly interceded, no further reply was obtained, nor any other resolution come to, things remaining in suspense. And I am informed that the serene King is decided to exact the sum demanded, of 27,000 ducats of the highest value, and 70,000 for expenses; besides insisting on restitution of my territory, without restoring his own conquests. But the Lord Sigismondo's people declare it impossible for him to give such a sum in cash, though he might pay 20,000 down, with the jewels, and as far as 60,000 by instalments, so that I do not see how the matter can well be arranged. I, however, hourly look for further advices, and your lordships will be informed of what I hear, for things cannot now remain much longer in suspense, Gottefredo being gone to Naples with the Lord Sigismondo's ultimatum. From Urbino, 2nd of May, 1458. "FEDERIGO COUNT OF MONTEFELTRO, URBINO, AND DURANTE, Captain-general of the Serene King of Aragon."[94] [Footnote 94: From the Italian original, in the Archivio Diplomatico at Siena.] These sanguine anticipations were, however, premature, as fortune had still some trials in store for Federigo. Alfonso's death took place on the 1st of July, that of Pope Calixtus III. a few weeks later; both events materially affected the struggle which he had thus regarded as at an end. Indeed, the whole state of parties in that strife curiously illustrates the chances and changes on which depended success in the intestine broils of Italian feudatories and captains of adventure. The great ambition of the latter was to attain the sovereignty of some petty state, and Piccinino conceived himself, as representative of the Braccian influence, well entitled to watch an opportunity of turning it to such account. His calculation probably was that he might be able to possess himself of one at least of the seigneuries which Malatesta's ruin would vacate; but as the contest went on, that wily intriguer appears to have suggested to him Urbino as a richer guerdon, attainable by gradually wasting Federigo's resources, and finally at a fitting moment turning round to crush him. The Duke of Milan's sympathies were naturally with the Count, who had stood by him single-handed in adversity, and in his cause had incurred those losses he was now endeavouring to recover, whilst the Lord of Rimini had betrayed him again and again, and with his own hands had strangled his natural daughter, the third wife murdered by this Bluebeard of real life.[*95] Yet such was Sforza's detestation of Giacopo as head of the old Braccian faction, and fear lest his ambition of sovereignty should be gratified, that he actually advanced money to support Sigismondo, who also obtained similar assistance from the Duke of Modena, jealous perhaps of the growing Montefeltrian influence. The Pontiff's death opened a new hope to Piccinino, and on the speculation of possibly making good a footing in Perugia, he profited by this vacancy of the Holy See to seize upon Assisi, Nocera, and Gualdo. Thus, within three months after his letter to Siena, Federigo found himself deprived of his only ally Alfonso, deserted by his confederate Piccinino, and left to maintain the contest single-handed against an adversary suddenly enabled to rally under his standard some of the boldest adventurers of Romagna. [Footnote *95: There are here three mistakes in three lines. (1) Sigismondo had not betrayed Sforza; (2) he had not strangled his natural daughter; (3) his third wife Isotta outlived him. See EDWARD HUTTON, _op. cit._] But the reaction in his favour was not long postponed. Ferdinand continued his commission as captain-general, with a pension of 6000 ducats assigned to him by Alfonso three years before; and fully aware of the importance of conciliating papal sanction to his own questionable sovereignty, commanded Giacopo to quit the ecclesiastical territory and return to the banner of Montefeltro. A miserable contest of sacked villages and barbarous reprisals was continued during autumn and winter, and though the advantage preponderated on the Count's side, these successes were at his people's cost. Meanwhile the repose of Italy was exposed to more serious interruption. Alfonso V. of Aragon and Sicily had maintained his very doubtful title to the crown of Naples[96] by a happy union of energy and judgment. Devoting his life to Italy, he first established his reputation by a series of victories over his Angevine competitor, and then cemented his popularity by an easy and accessible address, by lavish profusion of treasure and honours, by a zealous pursuit and patronage of learning. The epithet of Magnanimous, which graces his name, was merited by his testamentary disposition as well as by his character. Having no legitimate issue, he left to his brother John his hereditary dominions in Spain and the islands, but conceived himself at liberty to bestow the crown of Naples, received at first as a gift and retained by the sword, upon his natural son Ferdinand, whose substitution to it had been sanctioned by two popes, recognised in various treaties, and formally voted by a native parliament. His chief confidant and agent in these arrangements had been his countryman Cardinal Alfonso Borgia, who at his death filled the papal throne with the title of Calixtus III., and who, anticipating that bad faith and unscrupulous nepotism which, under Alexander VI., consigned to enduring infamy their subsequently canonised name, used his authority to supplant Ferdinand by his own nephew Pierluigi Borgia. With this view he, as suzerain of Naples, declared its sovereignty lapsed on the King's death without a legitimate son, and although he published a notice calling upon all claimants to appear for their interests, his real object was divulged by an offer to Francesco Sforza of his father's fiefs in the Abruzzi and Apulia, on condition of his enabling him to place the crown on Pierluigi's head. These intrigues were, however, frustrated by this Pope's death on the 8th of August; and his successor Pius II., a man in all respects his opposite, hastened to recognise Ferdinand, maintenance of peace in the Peninsula being the first requisite towards his grand project of a crusade against the Turks. [Footnote 96: See above, p. 68, and afterwards ch. XIV.] Full of this scheme, he summoned a congress of European powers at Mantua, which proved one of the most interesting assemblages recorded in mediæval history, and offered to Christendom the rare spectacle of a pontiff engaged in reconciling his universal flock. From the British Isles no adequate response answered his summons, "England being hopelessly convulsed by civil broils, and Scotland hidden in the ocean depths." His self-imposed task including the arrangement of all disputes, those of the rival Lords of Urbino and Rimini attracted early notice. Sigismondo attended at Mantua in person to plead his cause: that of Federigo, who reluctantly consented to transact with one whom he well knew no award, no promise, could bind, was conducted by an envoy. The treachery of the former being made manifest, he was condemned by the Pope to a pecuniary mulct, and, failing payment, to the surrender of some fastnesses in security. Thereupon new difficulties arose, Malatesta avowing himself as yet unconquered, and ready to brave extremities rather than accept the proffered terms. His swaggering was thus checked by Pius:--"Hold your peace; our care is not for you, but for your house: our pity belongs to your subjects, not yourself, whose manner of life merits no commiseration. However you may defend it by a multitude of words, your whole life tells against you, and your sole plea is upon the deeds of an ancestry deserving well of the Romish Church. Hence is it that we seek to pacify your foes; and if you now resile from what is fair and equitable, we shall leave you in the slough wherein we found you: nor would it surprise us were the divine mercy to permit the poor to be afflicted for a season, that you may finally expiate your guilt by a bloody end, or by a wretched and impoverished exile." Daunted by these words, Sigismondo succumbed to terms approaching the award; but the other party, elated by success, would make no concession, though the Pontiff, indignant at such clinging to victory rather than conciliation, strove to settle the points still at issue.[*97] It was in this state of matters that he indited the following brief. [Footnote *97: Pius II. hated Sigismondo for his supposed treachery to Siena quite as much as Federigo did.] "To Federigo, Count of Montefeltro, &c. "Beloved son, we salute you. It is our urgent desire, in accordance with the charge committed to us, that harmony should be restored between the dissentient faithful; and to this we are the more urgently bound, when misunderstandings arise between our own friends and the subjects of the Holy Roman Church. Seeing, therefore, that quarrels have for some time past prevailed under our vicars, between you and our beloved son the noble Messer Sigismondo Pandolfo Malatesta of Rimini, occasioning bloodshed, fire-raising, rapine, and the like calamities, and that worse evils impend, unless timeously averted, we have thought fit specially to intimate to you our pleasure that a friendly adjustment should take place, rather than arbitrarily to employ our supreme authority to that end. Twice have we fully discussed this matter at Florence, and now again at Mantua, and in this good and pious work we have had the aid of the noble and our beloved son Francesco Sforza Duke of Milan. We entertained the hope of bringing the affair to a happy conclusion, and of ensuring you an honourable and lasting peace, in which your credit and advantage should be equally regarded; nor shall this hope be fallacious if you will at all accede to our mediation. But since you demand very rigid conditions, giving your ambassador no discretion as to modifying them, and limit us to merely ministerial interference, it is impossible for us to bring about a compromise; for rather than thus accept a compulsory dictation, Sigismondo is ready to try the chances of war, and expose himself to all impending risks. It is with equal grief and astonishment that we perceive another great explosion ready to burst forth. You despise the pacification we offer you, sure, enduring, advantageous, honourable though it be. You are victorious, and Sigismondo acknowledges you to be so; as worsted, he is ready to submit to terms, and if you consent to our arbitration the matter is settled. Better surely to accept a certain and favourable proposal than to hazard a doubtful hope. You are the conqueror; let not your rigour and obstinacy wrest from you your conquest. Often have we read and observed how mutable are the events of war, how rapid and various its reverses, how constantly in the end an over-confident victor is vanquished. We therefore exhort your Highness in the Lord to weigh well this matter, and if you deem an honourable peace advantageous to your affairs, to leave open for our mediation somewhat of the terms you have dictated to your envoy, in which case we repeat our assurance that you will best consult your own reputation and advantage. Given at Mantua, 21st June, in our first year [1459]."[98] [Footnote 98: Bibl. Laurentiana, plut. 90, cod. sup. 138, f. 4. We take these proceedings from the Pope's own narrative, _Commentaria_, pp. 52, 74.] The Pontiff's eventual decision was, that their conquests should be mutually restored, but that La Pergola, Pietrarobbia, and other townships should be given over to the Count, in compensation of damages; also that Malatesta should consign Sinigaglia and Mondavio as security for payment to Ferdinand of 50,000 ducats, in full of his debts to the crown of Naples; this money, or, failing it, these towns, to be given to Piccinino in lieu of all demands on account of services to Alfonso and Federigo. The only difficulty in carrying out these terms appears to have originated with that selfish adventurer, who, trusting to the terror with which his robber bands were regarded, and conceiving that he might extort still greater advantages from a Pontiff intent on promptly settling every divisive element in Italian politics, made several demonstrations against the ecclesiastical territory. But the temporising Nicholas had been succeeded by a practical and energetic statesman, who at once ordered the Count of Urbino to protect the interests of the Church.[99] In the following spring an interview between the rivals, in token of their perfect reconciliation, was brought about by the Duke of Milan. It took place in presence of a numerous and noble concourse, witnesses to studied displays of affectionate cordiality, which on one side were neither voluntary nor sincere. [Footnote 99: See letters to him from Pius II., of Nov. 11 and Dec. 12, 1459, in the Laurentian MS. just quoted.] CHAPTER VII Count Federigo's domestic life--His second marriage--New war for the Angevine succession to Naples--Battle of San Fabbiano--Conclusion of the war--Humiliation of the Malatesta. Those readers who have thus far followed our narrative of Count Federigo's military career may perhaps regret that its somewhat limited and monotonous interest should not have been varied by glimpses of his domestic life. A prince whose engagements were observed with rare fidelity, whose chivalrous honour was happily combined with practical good sense and unflinching justice, must have been almost necessarily a good husband and kind master. But, in accordance with the habits of his age and the calls of his condottiere profession, most of his time was passed in the field, and unfortunately in those times few bards and biographers considered any incense worth offering which did not savour of "The pomp and circumstance of glorious war." His marriage with Gentile being hopelessly barren, he had followed the example of his father by obtaining papal briefs of legitimation, in 1454, for his natural sons Buonconte and Antonio. With the latter we shall make acquaintance by and by; the former, a youth of remarkable promise, is supposed to have been his destined heir,[100] but having been sent on a mission to Alfonso at Naples, in October, 1458, he died there of the plague; and another brother, Bernardino, who had accompanied him on that journey, scarcely survived his return. Berni, speaking from personal knowledge of these two princes, applies to them Virgil's high-flown compliment to Marcellus:-- "Ah, couldst thou break through Fate's severe decree, A new Marcellus shall arise in thee! Full canisters of fragrant lilies bring, Mixed with the purple roses of the spring; Let me with funeral flowers his body strew."[101] [Footnote 100: BALDI, II., p. 48.] [Footnote 101: DRYDEN'S translation of _Æneid_, VI., p. 810.] [Illustration: _P. della Francesca, pinx. L. Ceroni, sculp._ _Alinari_ FEDERIGO, DUKE OF URBINO, AND BATTISTA, HIS WIFE _From the picture by Piero della Francesca in the Uffizi Gallery_] These bereavements probably predisposed their father to a proposal made to him at Mantua by the Duke of Milan, that he should marry his niece Battista Sforza, daughter of the Lord of Pesaro, whose descent we have already explained, and who was now about thirteen years of age.[102] Her mother's death, when she was but eighteen months old, had occasioned her being carried at an early age to the court of Milan, where those gifts and endowments were well cultivated for which her mother and great-grandmother had been renowned. Nearly of an age with her cousin Hippolita Maria, one of the paragon princesses of her age, whose marriage to the heir presumptive of the Neapolitan crown we have noticed, she shared her laborious education, and amply redeemed her own hereditary claim to the talents and classical acquirements then in vogue among the pedantic dames of Italy. With the like showy scholarship and precocious command of Latin rhetoric to which her female predecessors had been trained, she was put forward to welcome illustrious visitors at Milan and Pesaro, in harangues which we are assured were sometimes prepared, sometimes extempore, but always elegant and appropriate.[103] The same contemporary authority attributes her engagement with Federigo to the influence of King Alfonso immediately upon Gentile's death; but the dispensation is dated the 4th of October, 1459,[104] and in the following month the betrothal took place at Pesaro, where great satisfaction was displayed, and a donation of 3000 bolognini, or 75 florins, was voted by the council to Alessandro, of which he would accept but two-thirds. The marriage was celebrated at Urbino, on the 10th of February, 1460; and we turn to Sanzi's Chronicle, in the hope of finding some interesting details commemorated by an eye-witness. These pomps are, however, unfortunately curtailed by the poet, anxious to resume the dull recital of little wars. He describes the bride as "A maiden With every grace and virtue rare endowed, That heaven at intervals on earth vouchsafes, In earnest of the bliss reserved on high." [Footnote 102: See p. 41 above. The extreme inaccuracy of Frenchmen, in speaking or writing of names and persons, is proverbial; and Sismondi, a French writer, although no Frenchman, has fallen into manifest errors regarding the family of Urbino. We have already detected one as to the birth of Federigo. In chap. LXXI. he calls Battista daughter of Francesco Sforza, and in chap. LXXXI. falls into the still more gross blunder of making Sigismondo Malatesta father-in-law (_beaupère_) of Federigo. This may be a misprint for _beaufrère_, which he would have been had Battista been a daughter of Francesco, as well as Polissena, whom Malatesta had married; but this was not the case. See notes at p. 91 and above.] [Footnote 103: Urb. Vat. MSS., No. 1236, her funeral oration.] [Footnote 104: Archivio Diplomatico di Firenze, original dispensation.] Muzio most unaccountably omits all notice of the marriage; we, however, learn from Betussi that she was tiny in person, but inherited the gifts and eloquence of her grandmother, Battista di Montefeltro. These she publicly exercised at Mantua, in an oration addressed to Pius II., and answered in a compliment dictated either by his gallantry or critical acumen. Bernardo Tasso has pleasingly embodied the testimony of her contemporaries:-- "The first of them in equal favour holds Demosthenes and Plato; reading, too, Plotinus, while, in wisdom as in words, Arpino's orator she well shall match; Consort of one unconquered, Frederick, Urbino's Duke and long-tried champion."[105] [Footnote 105: _Amadigi_, canto XLIV., st. 57. Cicero was born at Arpino.] [Illustration: CLARVS INSIGNI VEHITVR TRIVMPHO QVEM PAREM SVMMIS DVCIBVS PERHENNIS FAMA VIRTVTVM CELEBRAT DECENTER SCEPTRA TENENTEM _Alinari_ ALLEGORY _After the picture by Piero della Francesca in the Uffizi Gallery, Florence_] [Illustration: QVEMODVM REBVS TENVIT SECVNDIS CONIVGIS MAGNI DECORATA RERVM LAVDE GESTARVM VOLITAT PER ORA CVNCTA VIRORVM _Alinari_ ALLEGORY _After the picture by Piero della Francesca in the Uffizi Gallery, Florence_] Yet much learning distracted her not from the practical affairs of life. During her husband's ever-recurring absences, she administered his state with singular propriety, besides bringing him many children. On the fourth day after the ceremony, Federigo left his capital to visit the Pope at Siena, where he was magnificently entertained, returning home to pass the carnival with his bride. New elements of discord were meanwhile fermenting, by which the Turkish crusade was indefinitely postponed. The popularity gained by the noble character of Alfonso of Naples, and confirmed by his residence in Italy, descended not to his successor. Ferdinand was already unfavourably known, from his sombre and revengeful temper, his falsehood and avarice; yet we look in vain for provocations or grievances adequate to justify the factious proceedings of his great barons. Resolved to supplant him, they made overtures to Jean, King of Navarre, the successor to Alfonso's hereditary dominions, whose eldest son, Count Viane, had already gathered golden opinions in Lower Italy. But Jean, more anxious to consolidate his kingdom than to augment it by outlying appendages, declined interfering, and the malcontents turned to the Angevine claimant of the Neapolitan crown. René the Good still reigned in Provence, occupied with his pen and pencil, and better fitted to be the bard of chivalry than its hero. His son, the titular Duke of Calabria, had established himself at Genoa in 1458, with almost sovereign authority, on the invitation of her citizens, who, finding themselves worsted in a contest, unwisely renewed by Alfonso, after the peace of Lodi, in order to avenge himself of the obstinately Angevine policy of that republic, naturally called to their aid his French rival. The Duke's winning qualities, and the sound judgment which he had manifested in their service, were well calculated to render him a competitor very formidable to the unprepossessing Ferdinand. The Genoese, whose hearts he had thus gained, were ready to back him with a naval armament, reinforced by some galleys originally fitted out at Marseilles for the Turkish expedition, but placed by Charles VII. at René's disposal. Florence, a tried partisan of the Angevine succession, was faithful to her prescriptive policy, and now urged upon Venice the recent grudge which both republics owed to Alfonso of Aragon. But it was in vain that the Duke sought support from Francesco Sforza and the Pope. The former, with comprehensive glance, calculated the risks of French domination in Italy, and took his stand on the treaty of Lodi, which, uniting all her powers in one solemn national league, guaranteed the succession of Naples. He therefore respectfully declined from the Angevine candidate the same bribe which Celestine had vainly offered him of his father's holdings in the Abruzzi, and during the Congress at Mantua confirmed the Pontiff's inclination for the Aragonese dynasty. In October, 1459, the Duke of Calabria made a descent on the Neapolitan coast, and his arrival gave the signal for an almost universal rising of the great barons of the kingdom. At this crisis of his fortunes, Ferdinand succeeded, through the Duke of Milan's strenuous exertions, in detaching from the Angevine party Venice and Florence, which assumed a neutral position. He also summoned Piccinino from schemes of personal aggrandisement in La Marca, to defend his crown; but that greedy freebooter, indignant at being called off his quarry, took the usual licence of condottieri, and opened a correspondence with his master's competitor. Warned of this by the Count of Urbino, the King and the Duke of Milan made every effort to retain Giacopo under the banner of Aragon, and we are assured that the Count, in their interest, went so far as to promise him a surrender of part of his newly recovered territory, should the adventurer not make good for himself any other seigneury.[106] But trusting little to that slippery soldier, they desired Federigo and the Lord of Pesaro to concert measures for preventing his march into the Abruzzi. Their precautions were, however, defeated, for Piccinino, who then lay in Romagna, sent his baggage and camp-followers to be embarked at the nearest ports, and partly by dexterously misleading them as to his route, chiefly by forced marches of extraordinary rapidity, in three days scoured the Adriatic coast, and reached the Tronto without impediment. On the last day he is said to have done fifty miles, with twenty squadrons of men-at-arms and two thousand infantry--a feat which cost him many horses, and which he was believed to have effected by aid of the Lady of Loretto, before whose shrine he found time to prefer a passing orison. Possibly more important to his success was the adhesion of Ercole d'Este, and of the Lords of Rimini and Camerino, to the cause of Anjou, as well as orders privately given by the papal legate to accelerate the passage of his formidable company through the ecclesiastical territory. [Footnote 106: BALDI, III., p. 79. Pius had arranged all this with Federigo at Siena, in February, 1460, and had advanced him money, in order, if necessary, to corrupt Piccinino's troops--_Commentaria_, p. 97. At p. 100 the Pontiff insinuates against Federigo the same charge which the Urbino writers have preferred against his own legate, of facilitating their transit into the enemy's country, which unquestionably could not have been effected without collusion or remissness in some quarter.] Although the army of the League, following closely on that of Piccinino, had crossed the Tronto early in April, it was unable to effect a junction with Ferdinand, in consequence of the eastern side of the kingdom having risen against him, and of the passes being all well guarded. In this state of affairs the King's defeat at Sarno rendered his prospects still more gloomy, and his only remaining hope seemed to rest on the confederate force in the Abruzzi. It consisted of a strong contingent from Lombardy, led by Bosio Sforza, and of a less important brigade of ecclesiastical troops, besides the hardy mountaineers of Montefeltro and the well-tried company of Alessandro Sforza, the whole commanded by the Count of Urbino. It was kept in check by Piccinino's army, superior especially in infantry and cross-bowmen, although of late considerably weeded of the Braccian veterans, many of whom had taken service under the Lords of Pesaro and Urbino. In July these contending armaments were in presence at San Fabbiano, on the Tordino, the Angevines encamped on the hill-side, the Aragonese in the plain, separated by a considerable extent of intervening level ground, on which marauding or exploring parties from each camp daily met. During one of these skirmishes, a defiance was given by Nardo da Marsciano to Francesco della Carda to break a lance, which was cheerfully accepted; and the challenge being repeated by Serafino da Montefalcone, it was taken up by one Fantaguzzo da S. Arcangelo. Two days were allowed for preparations, and, when the encounters took place, victory declared for the Aragonese knights, who, by order of Piccinino, were crowned with laurel, and escorted back to their camp by a pompous array of martial music. While aiding to keep the lists, Federigo, in making a dash at a straggler, spurred his charger, which suddenly bounding, so wrenched his back that he was rendered incapable of motion, and was lifted from his horse in exquisite pain. Being put to bed, with the prospect of a tedious cure, a council of war was held in his tent, when Alessandro Sforza, the next in command, advocated a general action; but the Count spoke long and strongly in favour of defensive tactics, and of saving the troops from continual skirmishes, exhausting to their strength and temper. The latter opinion was unanimously approved of; but Alessandro having exclaimed, with some show of mortified feeling, "You, however, have thrice had a tussle with the enemy," Federigo replied, "Well then, you may do the same, but with two or three squadrons only, not putting the whole encampment under arms." Accordingly, two days after,[107] a partial onset was made, which, as both sides were supported by repeated reinforcements, gradually brought on a general action. The battle, thus commenced without plan or object, became a disorderly pell-mell fight, and hence, probably, its results were far more fatal than the usually bloodless engagements of hired companies, more anxious about their own safety than the cause which they supported for the nonce. Little can be gathered from the confused accounts of the Urbino writers, and that of Simonetta is obviously incomplete. From the latter it would seem that the Braccians strove to cross a deep ditch in front of their quarters, whilst Ricotti makes them successful in breaking through the enemy's line, too much extended under an apprehension of being outflanked by superior numbers. Again, the biographers of Federigo tell us that, learning the impending loss of a battle brought on against his advice, he rose from bed, had himself swathed in bandages, and, though unable to don his armour, was lifted on horseback, heading a charge of the reserve, which, although not crowned by victory, averted a certain and signal defeat. The contest was prolonged when night had closed in, and, after seven hours of severe fighting, the combatants withdrew to their respective quarters. Baldi, who dwells very fully on the Count's gallantry, quoting contemporary manuscripts, mentions that two horses were killed under him: but his courage was shown in triumphing over the agony of his malady even more than by exposing himself in the brunt of a battle which had become almost desperate. His conduct in both respects was done justice to by his followers, and much of his military reputation dated from the disastrous fight of San Fabbiano. It is to be regretted that no return of its casualties has reached us, as it would have been curious to know the losses of the most bloody action of this age. Berni merely says that 400 horses and many men were slain. As to its immediate consequences, our authorities are again at issue. Simonetta, the historian of the Sforzas, and, consequently, a partisan of the League, admits that, though apparently a drawn battle, the disadvantage was greatly on the allies' side; that a portion of their troops fled from the field, and never drew bridle until they had crossed the Tronto, followed by the rest, during the stillness of the subsequent night. Sismondi also claims a victory for the Angevines, with the loss to their opponents of all their baggage and most of their horses. On the other hand, Baldi quotes two contemporary authorities, one of them a spectator, to prove that Federigo's army sacrificed scarcely more than four hundred horses, and that he did not break up his cantonments for at least ten days later, and even then only in consequence of progressive disaffection in the Abruzzi. He admits, however, that the confederate army exhibited a most pusillanimous spirit, and, but for their captain-general's exertions and authority, would have actually done what Simonetta lays to their charge, instead of eventually retiring beyond the Tronto rapidly, but in good order, with baggage and wounded, their retreat covered by a succession of ambuscades, which checked and severely punished the columns of Piccinino, while in disorderly pursuit. [Footnote 107: There is much discrepancy as to the date. Berni and Muzio say it was the 22nd of July; Baldi names the 29th; Muratori, followed by Sismondi and Ricotti, the 27th of that month; Simonetta the 22nd of June. Muzio and Baldi, however, agree that the battle was fought on a Tuesday, which must have been the 22nd of July, the Feast of the Magdalen.] The tournament which preluded this mortal strife proves that a spirit of chivalry still animated the Italian condottieri,[*108] who, in the words of Dante, "Hired to a hireling, still with hirelings fights, Ne'er asks the cause of quarrel nor its rights." [Footnote *108: As witness the almost comic challenge of Piccinino to Sforza. Cf. EDWARD HUTTON, _op. cit._, pp. 124-7.] An anecdote of Federigo which occurred a few days later illustrates the same feeling. Piccinino, informed by spies of the panic prevailing among the allies, sought by all means to aggravate it, in order to rid himself of them without further bloodshed. He, therefore, on various pretexts, sent into their camp bearers of bad news, and exaggerated rumours from the south. One of these emissaries, being taken before the Count and asked what tidings, represented himself as commissioned by Giacopo to request that their plate and valuables might not be sent away, as he wished to have them for his own special use. Federigo, though blessed with uncommon command of temper, was irritated by this boastful and ill-timed insult, and, starting to his feet, exclaimed, "Reply to Piccinino, or whoever else sent you on this mission, that he who would win my property will have enough to do, and must first stake his own." Then, looking towards the sun, he added, "It is now late, but to-morrow I shall inquire by what means he is to get them." In the morning he accordingly sent his secretary, Paltroni, to inform the General that, having received such a message in his name, he desired to know how he proposed to gain these things, by pitched battle or single combat; that he was welcome to choose what way he pleased, as they would be well defended against one or many. But Giacopo repudiated the bravado imputed to him, and sent back the envoy with many compliments, so that this intended discouragement was, by the Count's tact, converted into a sort of triumph, at the expense rather than to the advantage of his designing adversary. Ferdinand having lost every place of importance but his capital, the cause of Aragon was now most critically situated; and had the Duke of Calabria moved directly upon Naples, there can be little doubt that the French dynasty would have been seated, and probably established, upon the throne of one of the Sicilies. But he let slip the favourable moment, influenced it is said by Orsini, Prince of Tarento. Such was the predominance enjoyed by this overgrown feudatory, that Alfonso had conceived a marriage with his niece Isabella sufficient to secure the crown to Ferdinand; yet was he the first to disturb the succession, and his whole power had been directed against her husband. It is said that love or duty, ambition or pique, working on woman's wit, induced her to hazard an appeal to her uncle's mercy, and that, disguised as a Franciscan monk, she made her way to his tent, where her expostulations moved the stern baron to give breathing time to Ferdinand, by diverting the Angevine arms from the capital to less important places. Simonetta, omitting this little romance of history, ascribes Orsini's policy to the selfish motive of prolonging a civil war which augmented his individual importance. Under this pressing necessity all thoughts of the Turkish crusade were abandoned; and even Pius postponed to a more fitting season, what he regarded as the cause of Christendom, in favour of one which Sforza had satisfied him was that of Italy. Both these sovereigns promptly advanced subsidies, and a small contingent of troops from Lombardy arrived in the confederate camp. The Count of Urbino's service as captain-general expired in September, when he would gladly have quitted a cause forsaken apparently by fortune, in order to protect home interests, always in peril from his neighbour of Rimini. But he was persuaded to accept a renewed engagement from the Pontiff, who in the autumn was recalled from Siena by the exigency of his capital. Piccinino, consulting as much the advantage of his own company as that of the house of Anjou, made a descent upon the Sabine territory, and scoured the rich Campagna, until the Romans, tracing from their walls his path of fire, trembled for their insecure city. The army of the League was summoned in all haste for its defence, but their march was delayed by divided councils and private aims, the leaders being averse to leaving exposed their interests in Romagna; and had Giacopo ventured to attack the Eternal City, instead of intriguing with a few of her discontented inhabitants, he might have anticipated those scenes of plunder and outrage inflicted on her in the following century by the lawless host of the Constable Bourbon. But it was reserved for a French renegade, leading a horde of ultra-montane banditti, to strike a blow, from which the Italian condottiere may have recoiled as sacrilegious. Fortunately, Federigo was thus spared the disgrace which tarnishes his grandson Duke Francesco Maria I., of sacrificing the metropolis of Christendom to dilatory movements and selfish ends. After losing three months inactively on the Adriatic, the confederates advanced into the Sabine country, and recovered several places lately seized by the Angevines. November having arrived, both armies went into winter quarters; the Count of Urbino at Magliano, near Narni, where he learned that his departure from La Marca had encouraged Malatesta to seize upon Mondavio, which under the late arrangement had become his, Sinigaglia being re-annexed to the Church. Federigo and Alessandro Sforza repaired to Rome for the Christmas ceremonies, when there occurred a singular proceeding, commemorated by Pius in his _Commentaries_. An advocate of the papal courts brought before a full consistory the malpractices of Sigismondo Malatesta in a formal pleading, accusing him of rapine, wilful fire-raising, slaughter, rape, adultery, incest, parricide, sacrilege, treason, lese-majesty, and heresy, and praying his Holiness to listen to the suppliant voices of those who could no longer endure the tyrant's cruel yoke, and to avenge them by at length freeing Italy from a foul and abominable monster, in whose cities no good man's life was safe. None having replied to this oration, the Count of Urbino and his neighbour of Pesaro resumed the charges, alleging that many of the culprit's worst enormities had been passed over; that his treacheries equalled the number of his transactions, that none ever trusted him without being betrayed, that he scoffed not at one or another point of faith, but at the whole evangelical system, in utter ignorance of religion. The Pontiff then, in a long speech, took credit for leniency, in not summarily consigning the offender to eternal perdition, and remitted the cause to the Cardinal of S. Pietro-ad-vincula. The report by his Eminence pronounced him guilty of all these crimes, and of disbelief in the resurrection or the soul's immortality; whereupon sentence went forth, depriving him of his state and dignities, and condemning him to the punishment of heresy. On a vast pile of combustibles raised before the steps of St. Peter's, was placed an effigy of Sigismondo from the mouth of which issued a scroll inscribed, "Here am I, Sigismondo Malatesta, son of Pandolfo, king of traitors, foe of God and man, condemned to the flames by a sentence of the sacred college." Fire being applied, the figure was consumed amid the curses of thousands, and in Easter week of 1461, formal excommunication went out against the brothers Malatesta.[109] [Footnote 109: _Comment. Pii Papæ II._, pp. 129, 131, 184, 203.] [Illustration: _Alinari_ SIGISMONDO MALATESTA _Detail from the fresco by Piero della Francesca in the Tempio Malatestiano in Rimini_] When spring permitted new operations, the League, by a series of petty successes, restored the papal authority in the revolted townships, and punished Savelli, one of the great Campagna chiefs who had sided with the Angevine pretender. Then crossing the frontier into the Abruzzi, Alessandro Sforza encompassed Sulmona, whilst Federigo, by a most difficult march among the Apennine sierras, made a successful foray upon the enemy's unprotected country. From thence he suddenly returned, on hearing that Pius contemplated retiring from Rome to Tivoli during the dog-day heats, and warmly remonstrated with his Holiness on risking his person among a proverbially treacherous population, by whom Piccinino had been recently welcomed. To these entreaties, seconded by the cardinals, the Pope replied that a residence among them was the surest means of recovering the affections of these citizens, and confirming their attachment to the Holy See. Thither accordingly he was escorted by the Count of Urbino with ten troops of horse; and the Pontiff dwells in glowing terms on their splendid horses, arms, and accoutrements, their shields glittering in the morning sun, their crests and morions dazzling beholders, each troop a forest of spears. "As they rode along the Campagna, Federigo, whose reading was extensive, inquired of his Holiness whether the generals of antiquity were armed like those of our day? Pius replied that all the weapons in actual use, as well as many now obsolete, may be found in Homer and Virgil, for though poets sometimes invent, yet they generally describe pretty correctly what has at some period existed. The conversation turning upon the Trojan war, which the Count endeavoured to depreciate, the Pontiff demonstrated its importance, and that its great reputation was not unfounded. Such pleasant and spirited discourse upon ancient history was prolonged between them to the Lucano Bridge, where the guard was dismissed; but, thereafter, his Holiness availed himself of a leisure moment at Tivoli to detail from Ptolemy, Strabo, Pliny, Quintus Curtius, Julius Solinus, Pomponius Mela, and other old authors, many appropriate particulars regarding Asia Minor and its limits, which had by chance been mentioned." This interesting episode concluded, Federigo rejoined his army, and after accumulating vast booty from the villages, and carrying several fastnesses, dictated terms to the important city of Aquila. Thus passed the summer, and in October he was instructed to bring to obedience the Duke of Sora, who had thrown off allegiance to Ferdinand. Before attacking the town of that name he found it necessary to reduce the mountain fortress of Castelluccio, near the Garigliano; but its tiny garrison, availing themselves of a strong position, held out against the defective artillery of that day until a large force had assembled for its relief. These, however, met from him so warm a reception that they were glad to retire, and leave not only the place but all the duchy of Sora at his mercy. This service was most grateful to Pius, who gladly saw an enemy on his very frontier brought to terms. In the next consistory he remarked that "this captain of ours with his single eye sees everything," and addressed to him the following complimentary brief, which Muzio has preserved. "To our well-beloved son, health and apostolic benediction: We have been duly informed of the courage wherewith you have met the enemy, and in how short a time you have carried the stronghold you were beleaguering. These marvellous exploits content us much, and are worthy of your wonted prowess and magnanimity. Dear to us is your person, and we would cherish your worth and valour. Proceed as you have commenced, and daily add to your good offices in behalf of ourselves and of his Majesty: let it be your endeavour by every exertion to augment your reputation, and you shall always be the son of our benediction. From Rome, at St. Peter's, under the fisher's ring, this 1st of October, 1461, in the eighth year of our pontificate." During the dead season Federigo visited the Pope and Ferdinand, to concert measures for the ensuing campaign, and on its opening was again obliged to proceed against the Duke of Sora, who had evaded a submission extorted from him in the autumn. It was not, however, by such petty achievements that the Neapolitan succession was to be settled. Nominally a republic, Genoa was really an oligarchy, the sport of rival factions; but there had long been a leaning to the Angevine alliance, and no support could have been more useful to that house in its pretensions upon Naples. Without command of the sea, such pretensions were absolutely vain, and that commercial community, situated between Provence and Lower Italy, not only secured to these a mutual intercourse, but formed a most available entrepôt for reinforcements and military stores. The French, originally received within its walls as allies, had become virtually masters of the maritime state; but in the spring of 1461 a popular revolution, occasioned by financial burdens consequent upon the Neapolitan war, and promoted by the Duke of Milan, overthrew the Angevine party, and obliged the French to seek shelter in the fortress. An army chosen from the chivalry of Languedoc and France was embarked at Marseilles to succour the Duke of Calabria, but his father directed the fleet conveying it to stand into the bay of Genoa, in hopes of easily re-establishing there the Angevine interests. He was, however, repulsed thence in July by a defeat so bloody and complete that his army was annihilated and his influence entirely overthrown. The cause of René, hitherto almost uniformly successful, never recovered this check, by which he lost at once a highly important reinforcement and a most serviceable ally. Other discouragements followed in rapid succession: the death of Charles VII. deprived him of a powerful coadjutor, the unlooked for convalescence of Francesco Sforza restored energy to his most active adversary, and a sudden descent upon Apulia by George Scanderbeg, the hero of Greece, with a seasonable reinforcement of Castriot horse, cheered Ferdinand's drooping spirits, and enabled him during the campaign of 1462 to recover his lost advantages. Sigismondo Malatesta having recovered most of his territories in the previous year, Piccinino conceived the opportunity favourable for employing in the French interests his soldiery, no longer required for his own ends. He therefore dispatched an emissary with sufficient funds to retain some minor condottieri of Lombardy and Romagna, and to persuade Malatesta to march at their head into the Abruzzi. By this effort a force was raised which gave extreme uneasiness to the Pope for the safety of La Marca, and from which great expectations were raised by the Angevines, in the belief that it would promptly advance southward. There was thus little difficulty in allowing Federigo to hasten from the seat of war in order to meet this new danger; and although he hurried onwards with extraordinary rapidity, he reached Sinigaglia an hour after it had been treacherously surrendered to its former master, the Lord of Rimini. Sigismondo, alarmed at this unexpected descent, made overtures to his old rival in an altered tone, interlarding general professions of regard with many wily suggestions that their common interests would be far safer with Sinigaglia in his hands than in those of the Church. Without entering upon this view of the matter, Federigo replied that, being in the field not as Count of Urbino but as captain of his Holiness, such private considerations must be postponed to a more fitting moment. The rising sun was gilding the slumbering Adriatic on the 12th of August, when the Count appeared before Sinigaglia, after a forced march from the Chiento, thirty long miles distant, effected within as many hours.[110] During that day his army passed the Nevola, and sat down within a bow-shot of the enemy's camp. Had Malatesta at once charged these toil-worn troops, his victory might have been complete; had he occupied the city, or kept possession of his own well-fortified entrenchments, he might have waited another opportunity for striking a decisive blow. But from folly or cowardice irreconcilable with the fair reputation he held among contemporary free captains, he adopted the extraordinary resolution of a retreat upon Fano, and shortly before midnight silently quitted his camp. Federigo was, however, on the alert, and throwing himself on horseback, sped on with a few mounted squadrons, whilst he ordered all his troops to follow with their utmost diligence. As he hurried forward, some of his staff, unaware of the precautions taken against surprise, remonstrated at the risk of thus rushing into danger; but he cheered them on, saying it was in like manner, and the same hour, and through this very country, that Claudius Nero had advanced after Asdrubal, when he beat and utterly overthrew him. Thus pressing onward he overtook the enemy at the streamlet of the Cesano, and with trumpet and shouts raised the cry to battle. Sigismondo, deeming it impossible for the army to follow after its severe exertions of the preceding night, conceived his pursuers to be but a handful of skirmishers whom it were well at once to dispose of. He therefore formed his rear-guard to receive their attack, thus giving the main body of his adversaries time to arrive. A full moon enabled the Count to perceive his advantage, without exposing his weakness; and, waiting until he was sufficiently supported, he charged with an impetuosity which cleared the rivulet, and so thoroughly routed the enemy that even their van felt the shock and took to flight. Before dawn Malatesta's army, although said to have outnumbered Federigo's as five to two, was scattered to the winds, whilst he escaped into Fano, and his eldest son to Mondolfo. The victor, after a day to recruit his men, withdrew into his own state, having no artillery wherewith to reduce Sinigaglia. [Footnote 110: Muratori says that the battle of the Cesano was fought on the 26th; but we prefer the date given by Berni, who makes it commence on a Thursday night, being the 12th, not the 13th, which Sismondi has adopted for the combat.] Sigismondo, ever prepared to cloak defeat by hypocrisy, sent a confidential envoy to the Count, charged with the same arguments and professions he had a few days before proposed to him, and commissioned to offer the hand of his eldest son Roberto for one of Federigo's infant daughters, in guarantee of their perfect reconciliation. For reply, the latter taunted him with his ever-broken faith, and rejected propositions which it would be dishonourable in him to entertain, as an officer of the Pope, whose service he infinitely preferred to amity or relationship with Malatesta. This negotiation being reported to his Holiness by the legate, was approved in the following papal brief addressed to Federigo. "If it be as reported to us, that accomplished master of treason and wicked plotter of profanity, Sigismondo Malatesta, a true son of perdition, has attempted in many and various ways to undermine your still incorruptible faith; and this, as we have heard, and as you have in part informed us, since he was worsted and overthrown near Sinigaglia, nay, driven to a disgraceful flight, by your superior might and the bravery of your soldiers: and he has at the same time added that, if we reduce him to do our kitchen service and to set our meat in order, you too will end by becoming our muleteer; promising you, however, an alliance with his family, provided you will either reinstate him in our favour, or abstain from annoying him: but we are aware how wisely you replied to his folly, and how your good sense brought him to confusion. It is superfluous for us to advise you as to the most prudent course; we would but encourage you heartily to persevere and keep at him, letting slip no opportunity of oppressing and humbling the enemy, and that you do your utmost speedily to terminate this war, and to liberate us and yourself from a most rascally foe, with whom no terms of peace can ever be relied on. And do not imagine, however much our ally the King of France may desire a truce in the kingdom of Hither Sicily, including in it Sigismondo as his adherent, that we shall suffer any to interfere as arbiter or judge between us and our subjects, except the Holy See which we represent. Proceed then, conquer, destroy, and consume this accursed Sigismondo, and in him neutralise the poison of Italy. Which if you do, as we hope, you will be most dear not only to us, but to all our successors in time to come, and we shall acknowledge your deserts by such recompense as shall by all be considered adequate. It is not nobility that we hate, as is falsely asserted by him, but profligate and faithless nobles like himself, who has not hesitated to betray his mother and sovereign the Roman Church, and we shall not neglect to chastise him as God may give us opportunity. You, and all such as imitate your ways, we love right heartily, and shall honour and exalt to the utmost of our power while life endures, knowing well that authority is best maintained by punishments and rewards, and that in the opinion of all the world, Sigismondo has earned the former and you the latter. From Petriuolo with our own hand, this 6th of October, 1462."[111] [Footnote 111: Papal bulls and briefs, when abusive, are often more pungent than dignified, and their epithets sometimes baffle translation. In this instance, the meaning being filtered through the slovenly Italian version of Muzio, may have lost somewhat of its point. The obscure mention of menial offices in the Pope's service, is perhaps a clumsy allusion to some now forgotten proverb.] In implement of these promises, the Count, on the 3rd of November, received a commission as lieutenant-general of the ecclesiastical forces, which he had hitherto led as captain-general, and under his authority pursued with energy the invasion of his enemy's territory. On the 20th of September he obtained Mondavio, whose inhabitants averted a sack by paying 3000 ducats. This was followed by a surrender of the whole vicariat of Sinigaglia and territory of Fano, which he did his best to save from the miseries of war: but as it was necessary to keep his soldiery in good humour, he at Barchi allowed all the people to remove; then closing the gates, and disarming his men, he gave the word for a general assault upon the abandoned fortress, whose pillage was thus in some degree divested of the horrors usually attendant on such scenes, which are described by Sanzi in these feeling terms:-- "Alas, the wailing, the heart-rending woe! The modest mansions and proud palaces, The towers and petty castles, all o'erthrown; Their dwellers madly rushing here and there, Their women weeping in dishevelled garb, Imploring mercy for their little ones! Ah, cruel fates, ah, tendencies accursed! Such, Malatesta! the embittered fruits Of thy dissensions and audacious deeds. Unwearied foe to peace! How numerous The victims of thy countless crimes, who thus Their substance see in ashes or despoiled, Themselves imprisoned and impoverished." The Count now carried his victorious arms into the country of Rimini, and, after taking Mondaino, laid siege to Montefiori, which capitulated on the 22nd of October, when Giovanni, a son of Sigismondo, was made prisoner. Being demanded by the papal legate, it was not without considerable discussion that a preferable claim to his ransom was established for the lieutenant-general, who proved that the war was on his part one neither of selfishness nor vengeance, by freely restoring his liberty and personal effects, and escorting him in person from the camp with many kind and consolatory expressions. It is curious to contrast this chivalrous conduct with the unworthy trick by which Federigo dexterously, and apparently without any stain upon his good name, gained the citadel of Verucchio after the town had surrendered. He caused a letter, forged in the name of Sigismondo, and fastened with an old impression of his seal,[112] to be transmitted to the castellan, informing him that on a stated night a reinforcement of twenty men would arrive, whom he should be prepared to admit. At the indicated hour a detachment stealthily approached the gate, which was hastily opened to them on an alarm rising in the besieger's camp; rushing upon the guard, they were quickly supported by their confederates, and the place was carried ere the garrison were aware that they had admitted enemies in the guise of friends. The few remaining weeks of open weather sufficed to reduce all the territory of Rimini, with most of that around Cesena; and when the snow fell Federigo repaired to Verucchio, whence he blockaded the city of Rimini during the winter. [Footnote 112: So say Muzio and Baldi. Pius II. and Reposati print the letter as from his brother Malatesta Novello, lord of Cesena, brother-in-law of Federigo, a prince who shared, without deserving, his brother's fate, and whose love of literature, differing widely from that of the vainglorious Sigismondo, continues to benefit posterity in the fine old library which he founded at Cesena, where its ponderous tomes remain chained to their stalls as he left them four centuries ago. See his verses in I. of the Appendices.] The misfortunes thus heaped upon Malatesta were paralleled by those which befel the Angevine cause. Hastening to obtain succours from Piccinino, he found him paralysed by an almost equally decisive defeat received before Troia on the 18th of August. Within a month the Prince of Tarento gave his adherence to Ferdinand, a clear proof that the star of Aragon was in the ascendant; and although this example was not adopted by Giacopo until the following autumn, his intermediate exertions were directed to securing the means of dictating favourable terms for himself, rather than to saving the Duke of Calabria from reverses rapidly accumulating around him. In August, 1463, he made his peace, receiving Sulmona and many adjoining townships as a sovereign principality, and in spring the Duke, whose footing had during many months been limited to the island of Ischia, returned to Provence, finally abandoning his pretensions to Lower Italy. These evil tidings are said to have found his father René so absorbed in painting a partridge that the loss of a kingdom neither shook his hand nor ruffled its plumage. After his bootless visit to the Angevine camp Sigismondo turned for aid to Venice, and obtained the Signory's mediation with Pius in his behalf. But the Pontiff, by a long allocution recorded in his _Commentaries_, justified to their ambassador the strong measures required against so incorrigible an offender, who thereupon directed his energies to providing Fino and Rimini with means of resistance. In the reopening campaign his opponent's first measure was to bring Macerata and some other mountain fastnesses to terms, for which the noise of his guns sufficed. Thence he descended upon Fano, then held by Roberto Malatesta, and after the manner of the age preluded his attack by gathering in the harvest that awaited the townspeople's sickles. This delay allowed the languid ecclesiastical levies to arrive, and in July the siege was formed. Under a system of improved warfare few places would be more untenable, its position affording it no natural advantages, and lying open to assault by sea or land. It was otherwise in the infancy of artillery and military engineering. Much time and labour and some lives were expended before the besiegers' pieces could be brought to bear, or be protected from the heavy stones, weighing each 300 pounds, which were fired upon them from the ramparts. Sigismondo commanded the sea by means of vessels chartered at Venice, supplying the place with men, ammunition, and provisions; and although his fleet was seriously damaged by a flotilla of boats hastily manned by Federigo's orders, communications were quickly re-established under protection of some Venetian galleys: after these had been recalled, in consequence of urgent representations made to the Signory on behalf of the Pope, this service was performed by two Angevine galleys hired by Malatesta for the purpose. Neither perseverance nor courage in its proper sense were qualities of the Italian soldiery, even in their age of military reputation, and the discouragement resulting from this state of affairs was so aggravated by a terrific thunder-storm, under cover of which a sally captured their artillerymen and dismounted their guns, that it was with the utmost difficulty, and only by urgent representations to Pius himself, the lieutenant-general could keep his troops together. Aware that success constituted his best hold upon them, he redoubled his exertions, and in a short time had the satisfaction not only of remedying these reverses, but of seeing his operations put on a really satisfactory footing. The prospect of pillage now carried his army to the opposite extreme; they could not be restrained from an assault, which they gave with such impetuosity that the terrified citizens capitulated whilst Roberto with his mother and sisters retired into the castle. These ladies, remembering the Count's generous conduct to their Giovanni at Montefiori, and preferring his clemency to the risks of further resistance, induced Roberto to surrender it on the third day, before a shot had been fired in its defence. The conditions appear to have been a general assurance of protection to persons and property; and when the Malatesta family presented themselves before their conqueror, the ladies in convulsive grief, he was assailed by persuasions from the legate and most of his officers and advisers-- "To keep the word of promise to the ear, And break it to the sense." They urged upon him that, in dealing with an enemy who had again and again set good faith at defiance, it was weakness to adhere to a capitulation, and thus lose the opportunity at length offered by fortune of avenging past injuries on the son of his foe; at all events that, under provocations so aggravated, he would be amply justified in observing the terms rather to the letter than in their spirit, and in exacting an ample ransom for his prisoners, as Sigismondo would, in the like circumstances, have assuredly done. These suggestions, though entirely conformable to the morality and honour of the age, were rejected by Federigo, to whose candid and generous mind they seemed mere sophistry. He, therefore, not only liberated the Malatesta, but escorted them to the place of their embarkation for Rimini. Pius has himself recorded the feelings with which he learned the fall of Fano. Rising from table, he spread his hands towards heaven, and poured forth thanks to the Almighty, who thus loaded him with benefits. After which, he said apart, "There is now nothing to keep me at home; God calls me to his own war, and lays open the way; there is no reason for further delay." These, however, were projects destined to remain unfulfilled. The moral influence of the Count's moderation, as well as of his success, was proved in the speedy surrender of Mondolfo and Sinigaglia, by which the whole vicariat finally passed from the Malatesta, and lapsed to the Church. Fano has ever since been included in the ecclesiastical territory, but Sinigaglia, conferred by Sixtus IV. on his nephew, Giovanni della Rovere, son-in-law of Federigo, became the cradle of the second ducal dynasty of Urbino, and an integral portion of their duchy. In order to reduce what remained of the Rimini fiefs, the Count presented himself before the stronghold of Gradara, a mountain village, even now retaining some interesting memorials of the Malatesta, which quickly followed the example of Sinigaglia,[113] as did Maiuolo, Penna di Billi, and S. Agata, in Montefeltro. [Footnote 113: Muzio says in four days, Baldi in eighteen.] Accident now intervened to save Sigismondo from utter destruction. Some disputes between Venice and the Emperor, originating in commercial jealousies, exposed Trieste to an attack by the former. It happened that Pius, having been bishop of that place, interposed in his behalf. The Venetian Signory had observed with jealousy the progress of the Church along the Adriatic, which they looked upon as their own lake, and where their ascendancy was apparently secure, so long as its western sea-board continued to be partitioned among petty feudatories and communities. Their plan of indirectly thwarting the siege of Fano having failed, they seized this opportunity of making the recal of their armament against Trieste conditional upon an arrangement between his Holiness and Malatesta, urging that it ill became him to preach Christian union as a preliminary to the Turkish crusade, whilst he pertinaciously instigated a selfish contest. It was not easy to evade or answer a plea which appealed to the Pontiff's ruling passion, especially as apprehensions began to be entertained that Sigismondo might in desperation sell his services, or even his territory, to the Infidel. Availing himself of this favourable opening, the culprit sent envoys from Rimini to Rome, to sue for peace on any terms. Those dictated by Pius were abundantly stringent to gratify vengeance and disarm apprehension. In order to expiate his flagrant heresies, commissioners, formally authorised by him, were to appear in the church of the Santissimi Apostoli, on a festival, during celebration of mass, and there publicly confess and recant their master's atheistical tenets. As an atonement for his treasons and temporal misdeeds, his possessions were forfeited to the Church, except Rimini and a few miles of the surrounding country, his conquests from Federigo being at the same time restored. Conditions of nearly equal severity were imposed on Malatesta of Cesena, and the remnant of territory allowed to the brothers was continued to them only during life, under burden of a heavy annual tribute. But for the imperious Sigismondo there was reserved a deeper humiliation. As the bishop who was commissioned to raise the interdict approached his capital, he and his people met him in suppliant guise. Proceeding to the cathedral, the prelate set forth the sins of the sovereign, and imposed upon the community three days of fasting and penance, with suspension of Divine ministrations. At the end of that interval, Sigismondo appeared on his knees before the bishop at the high altar, to acknowledge his errors, implore their remission, and pledge his future obedience: whereupon he and his people, who crowded around in the same abject attitude, were absolved, and received the benediction. Thus ended twenty-four years of strife between Sigismondo and Federigo, which, necessarily occupying our narrative, may have unduly taxed the patience of our readers. When it began, the Malatesta owned the whole coast from Cervia and Cesena to the Fiumisino, near Ancona. Had their conduct equalled their daring ambition, they might, by acquiring the comparatively unimportant fiefs of Urbino, Durante, and Gubbio, and by absorbing the petty holdings which adjoined their northern frontier, have established a powerful state in the fairest and strongest provinces of Central Italy. But when the struggle closed, it left them but a precarious life-interest in mere fractions of that ample territory, the rest of which had gone to enrich the Church, or to aggrandise their especial enemies, the Montefeltri and the Sforza. The portion now accruing to Federigo, by authority of the Pope and the consistory, included about fifty townships between the Foglia and the Marecchia, which had been partly seized from himself and his predecessors, partly held as debatable land, subject to the strongest, but which henceforward continued incorporated with Urbino. CHAPTER VIII Count Federigo's home administration and court--Description of his palace and library at Urbino--His other palaces--The resources of his state. The three years and a half which had now passed since the Count's marriage had been spent by him almost entirely in active service. During his long absences, the state was in a great measure administered by Countess Battista, who, notwithstanding her youth, is said to have held the reins of government with admirable firmness and good sense, as well as with a leniency and gentleness which conciliated universal popularity.[114] The remainder of his life had a more peaceful destiny, for not only was his almost domestic foe Malatesta now reduced to harmless insignificance, but Italy enjoyed comparative respite from her normal condition of unceasing strife. We are assured that Federigo turned to excellent account the opportunities this afforded for attending to the internal affairs of the duchy, and ameliorating the position of his people. But his biographers, deeming these objects much less momentous than his military exploits, have unfortunately left us almost in the dark regarding occupations and measures so infinitely more important, as distinguishing his views from those of his age and order. Of the laws which he promulgated, the manner of enacting and administering them, the organisation and exercise of justice, the operation and limits of popular rights, the extent and value of municipal suffrages, the system of taxation and finance, the tendency and usage of trade, the statistics of the duchy, the internal condition and well-being of the people, we scarcely obtain a hint from those who prolixly dwell upon battle-fields, detail sieges, and trace countermarches, few of which offer variety of tactics or interesting results. Neither are manuscript authorities in this respect more useful than the published memoirs, for most of those we have seen are adulatory compositions, occupied only with matter calculated to enhance our appreciation of their hero as a successful general or patron of letters, but utterly neglecting the internal policy of his government. The peculiar quality of his mind unquestionably was that strict observance of good faith, a total absence of which is the fatal characteristic, the indelible stain of his age. There is thus every reason to believe that the conditions imposed upon him at his succession in 1443 would be rigidly fulfilled, and we have discovered no complaint ever made against him of their non-observance. They provide, according to the lights then enjoyed, for a popular election and control of magistrates, reduction of burdens, fiscal reforms, public education, and medical aid, restrictions on the prerogative in so far as it sheltered abuses,--and it is obvious that, if carried out in their true spirit, they must have offered no mean guarantees against such tyranny as the recent historian of the Ausonian Republics has sweepingly charged upon all mediæval dynasties. [Footnote 114: Urb. Vat. MSS. No. 1236, her funeral oration.] [Illustration: _A. Nini, del. A. Marchetti, sculp._ URBINO _From an original drawing by Agostino Nini of Bologna_] The few notices of his government wherewith Baldi has favoured us savour of those minute and paternal attentions which ensure to a prince great personal popularity. He tells us that the Count commissioned certain persons called revisors to perambulate the state, and investigate the condition of the people. Among the matters specially committed to them were these: To inquire into the requirements of the religious houses; to ascertain where maidens of good reputation were unable from poverty to obtain husbands; to inform themselves secretly as to modest paupers; to learn what traders or shopkeepers were distressed by large families, debts, or any particular misadventure. In order to secure efficiency to this charitable espionage, these officers were privileged to pass at all times into the sovereign's presence, and it is said that a porter or groom of the chambers, who had rudely denied one of them access, was summarily punished by a public whipping. Following up this system, the Count, in his daily walks or rides, used to call to him the citizens individually, questioning as to their welfare and circumstances, or encouraging them in any enterprise or building they had undertaken. "But," continues the Abbot of Guastalla, "to such details we do not descend, as do some writers, overscrupulous about trifles; nor shall we tell how, on daily recurring occasions, he interfered to maintain the poor, to arrest litigation, to secure a pure administration of justice, to protect the honour of families, and to recompense his diligent servants. Still less do we collect his witty jests and pleasant sayings, as these are things far too petty and unbecoming the gravity of history, besides which, they all or most of them live in the memory and mouths of the people. But since splendour is a virtue peculiar to great princes, we shall touch upon some circumstances regarding the nobleness, the numerical grandeur, and the magnificence of his court."[115] [Footnote 115: BALDI, _Vita e fatti di Federigo_, III., p. 59.] This passage fairly represents the pervading spirit of Italian biographies and local histories, though probably containing a latent sneer from Baldi at the earlier work of Muzio, whose "petty details," with those scantily supplied by Vespasiano, will be greedily gathered in a future page of this volume. Little deemed the reverend pedant how independent the historic muse would become of the stilts on which he, and many of his contemporaries, so unfortunately elevated her, or how infinitely posterity would have preferred his despised omissions to his solemn prosings! Nor is this our only complaint. His illustrations of the Urbino court, thus magniloquently ushered, consist of a dull catalogue of twelve or fifteen noble names, ending with an apology for such trespass on his reader's patience, and a reference to some unpublished manuscript for details. This excuse is offered after devoting six pages, out of eight hundred, to the home interests and adminstrations of his hero. In supplement to these unsatisfactory allusions, we have recourse to such MSS. as detail the establishment which gained for Federigo's court the high reputation it enjoyed as a model of princely taste and munificence. Its constitution may be seen at a glance, from this minute return of its members, by one of their number.[116] [Footnote 116: Vat Urb. MSS. No. 829, f. 55. Other nearly similar lists of his household are preserved in No. 1248 of that library, and in Vat. Ottob. MSS. No. 3141, f. 144, and Oliveriana MSS. No. 384, f. 1. There is no date affixed to any of these, but they were probably drawn up after he had attained the ducal dignity.] Counts of the duchy, and from other states 45 Knights of the Golden Spur 5 Gentlemen 17 Judges and councillors 2 Ambassadors and secretaries [at Naples, Rome, Florence, Milan, and Siena] 7 Secretaries of state 5 Clerks in chancery [or public offices] 14 Teachers of grammar, logic, and philosophy [including Maestro Paolo, astrologer, and Gian Maria Filelfo] 4 Architects and engineers [Luziano, Francesco di Giorgio, Pipo the Florentine, Fra Carnevale, and Sirro of Casteldurante] 5 Readers during meals 5 Transcribers of MSS. for library [besides many abroad] 4 Chaplains 2 Choristers of the chapel 3 Singing boys 5 Organists 2 Workers in tapestry 5 Dancing-masters for the pages 2 Dancing-masters 2 Apothecary 1 Master of the palace keys 1 Chamberlain 1 Master of the household 1 Treasurer 1 Chamber attendants 5 Pages 22 Carvers and sewers 3 Stewards of the buttery 4 Storekeepers 2 Purveyors 3 Grooms of the chamber 19 Table waiters 19 Footmen 31 Cooks 5 Various menial servants 8 Masters of horse and purveyors of the stable 5 Servants under them 50 Keeper of the bloodhounds 1 Keeper of the camel-leopard 1 ------ Total household of the Duke 317 Captains in constant pay 4 Colonels of infantry 3 Trumpeters 6 Drummers 2 Master-armourers 3 HOUSEHOLD OF COUNTESS BATTISTA AND HER CHILDREN. Ladies in waiting 7 [After the Duchess's death, Madonna Pantasilea Baglione, sister of Brozo Baglione of Perugia, was made governess to the Princesses.] A great many female attendants. Elderly and staid gentlemen 6 Servants of Prince Guidobaldo when a child 7 ------ Total establishment, so far as enumerated 355 In this list may be detected obvious omissions, such as almoner, librarians, heralds, &c., and it would be much increased by adding servants of the noblemen entertained at his court. Music appears only in the establishments of the chapel and of the guard, but in 1473, the Count was visited by Martino and Giorgio, two German lute-players, to whom he gave letters of recommendation on their departure for Siena. The contemporary notice by Vespasiano affords us some standard of the qualities of this court, which, not less than the martial prowess and intellectual superiority of its Montefeltrian princes, constituted the glory of Urbino. "His household was regulated much in the manner of a religious establishment, and the five hundred mouths which it contained lived with almost monastic regularity. There were no mess-table manners there, no gambling nor blasphemous language, and all expressed themselves with the utmost moderation. The Prince having been entrusted by several personages of high station with their sons, to be instructed in military service, he, with good regard also for their good breeding, placed them in charge of a gentleman from Lombardy of distinguished manners, long resident at his court [probably Odasio], who exercised over these youths a paternal sway, gaining their respectful deference, and correcting their little errors, until an exemplary carriage became habitual to them." Thus, too, Muzio: "Federigo maintained a suite so numerous and distinguished as to rival any royal household. For not only did the most distinguished chivalry resort to him as the first of Italian soldiers, but thither were sent youths of the highest rank, to be reared under his discipline, as to the most select of schools. And among the many personages who thus frequented his court were Giovanni della Rovere, Giulio and Francesco Orsini, Girolamo and Pier Antonio Colonna, Ranuccio and Angelo Farnese, Andrea Doria, and Gian Giacomo Trivulzio, with others of equal eminence. Attended by these, and by a concourse of gentlemen and servants, as well as by a crowd of citizens, he generally on festivals went to mass in procession, making a round of the great churches in their turn. And, on his return home, he would keep the burghers about him for a little in gracious conversation, or calling for his dispatches, communicated portions before kindly dismissing them." [Illustration: _Alinari_ THE FLAGELLATION _After the picture by Piero della Francesco, in the Sacristy of the Duomo, Urbino._ _Supposed portraits of Duke Federigo and Caterino Zeno_] One of the manuscripts just cited, which is entitled "Regulations and Offices for the Court of the most serene Lord Duke of Urbino," after insisting on a rigid observance of rules to be enforced by the master of the household, imposes upon that functionary an obligation to inform his lord privately of the arrival and quality of all strangers, that he might regulate the degree of hospitality to be extended to them. This was of three grades. Personages of the highest rank were received and lodged in the palace; those of less distinction in a separate building, attended on by the Prince's household; for a third class an inn was provided, where they were lodged at his cost, and at a fixed rate per head.[117] The liberal hospitalities of the court are thus mentioned by its chronicler Sanzi:-- "Nor ought we to omit the greetings kind And gracious, which with princely courtesy He gave to coming strangers, ne'er before Welcomed with gentler words, or phrase more cordial, His aspect cheerful and his carriage plain. Glorious was he in all things, but unmatched In hospitality; for never guest Arrived, such noble treatment hoping for, Or went his way without a lingering look Of friendly admiration." [Footnote 117: Ordine ed Officii della Corte del Serenissimo Signore il Duca de Urbino, Urb. Vat. MSS. No. 1248.] His wide-spreading military renown, and the honourable reception thus accorded them, attracted visitors from all quarters, until Urbino attained that reputation as the resort of numerous celebrities which in the next generation rendered its little court a model to Europe, and which it never entirely lost while its independence lasted. But this concourse of guests, and the additional importance conferred upon the principality by considerable territorial aggrandisements, rendered a new palace necessary. Baldi mentions it as commenced about this time: Sanzi tells us it was undertaken to divert Federigo's grief for the death of his Countess in 1472; whilst Lazzari and the anonymous author of the Memoir regarding the devolution of the duchy to the Church in 1631 note 1454 as the date of its foundation. In truth, it was, like many great edifices in Italy, slowly progressive, spreading over several generations, and finally left unfinished. The same may be said of several other buildings promoted by the Count during his intervals of leisure, such as the palaces of Gubbio and Fossombrone, and the cathedral of Urbino; and it may be convenient in this place to notice those creations which are prominently set forth among the glories of his reign. * * * * * Of the three roads by which Urbino is approached, that on the south-west, leading from Tuscany, gives the most favourable view of the city, which is faithfully rendered on our frontispiece. The central mass of building, beautifully relieved by a stately spire-capped tower on either side of the grand entrance, and stretching backwards to the domed cathedral, is the palace which we are now to describe. The numerous accounts of it, repeated from one copyist to another in somewhat over-strained panegyric, have spread its fame throughout Italy, and the folio volume printed in 1724, at the expense of Cardinal Annibale Albani, was got up with an elaboration unusual in that age, but with the tasteless dulness which then pervaded literary and artistic efforts in Italy. The Abbate Pungileone has added little of importance by his tediously told investigations, and other local antiquaries have scarcely been more successful.[118] [Footnote 118: _Memorie concernenti la Città d'Urbino._ It was edited by Monsignor Bianchini, and was meant to extend to four folio volumes, illustrating: (1) the city of Urbino; (2) the princes who ruled there; (3) its most famous citizens; (4) their works. Of these only the first volume saw the light, at the expense of Pope Clement XI., an Albani of Urbino. It contains, 1st, Baldi's prolix and fulsome Encomio della Patria; 2nd, his equally dull description of the ducal palace, with seventy-four engravings of its architecture and sculpture; 3rd, Bianchini's catalogue of the sculptured trophies, with seventy-two engravings; 4th, his geometrical survey of the province of Urbino in 1723. It is a curious example of a volume compiled from promising materials, but destitute of interest, and is dedicated to an English exile whose name, once a watchword ominous to our island, frequently meets us in Central Italy, and whose wanderings here found a brief repose. See an account of the Chevalier de St. George's residence at Urbino, in an article on the Stuarts in Italy, contributed by the author of these pages to the _Quarterly Review_ for December, 1847, vol. LXXX.] In absence of further evidence, we may accept the doubtful testimony already quoted, that the palace was begun in 1454,[*119] but we must briefly refute the misstatement of Vasari, that its architect was Francesco di Giorgio. In our twenty-seventh chapter, we shall have occasion to notice much new matter regarding that artist, which recent inquiries have detected, and to show the nature and extent of his engineering labours in the service of the Montefeltrian princes. It appears that the palace at Urbino, usually ascribed to his design, was commenced by an architect whose name, almost overlooked by Italian writers, is preserved by Giovanni Sanzi. The motive imputed by the poet to his master in this great work is as follows:-- "Knowing how admirable and how grand By every people, every age, are deemed Time-honoured fabrics, and that active life No higher aim can follow." [Footnote *119: Cf. BUDINICH, _Il Palazzo Ducale di Urbino_ (Trieste, 1904). Rich in documents and designs.] And he goes on to inform us that "The architect, set over all the rest, Was Lutian Lauranna, whose bright name Survives in excellence the knell of death. His apt and lofty genius ruled the work, With the Count's sanction, for no prince possessed A sounder judgment or a will more prompt." The name of this artist was Luziano, son of Martini of Lovranna and Jadia in Dalmatia, and we owe to Pungileone an interesting patent in his favour, granted by Count Federigo at Pavia, on the 10th of June, 1468, in these terms:-- "Whereas, we, deeming those men to be worthy of distinction and preference who are gifted with such genius and talent as have been in all ages esteemed, especially for architecture founded upon arithmetic and geometry, which, as foremost among the seven liberal arts, and as depending upon exact science, require profound knowledge and great ability, and are therefore highly appreciated by us; and whereas, we, having sought everywhere, but particularly in Tuscany, the fountain of architects, without finding any one really versant and skilful in that profession, and having lately heard by report, and since ascertained by full experience, the learning and attainments of the distinguished Messer Lutiano, bearer hereof; and, further, we, having resolved to erect in our city of Urbino a fair residence, in all respects befitting the rank and reputation of our predecessors and ourselves,--have, for these causes, selected the said Messer Lutiano as engineer and chief of all those employed upon that fabric, in building, hewing, woodwork," &c. &c. The deed goes on to enjoin upon all the workmen implicit obedience to his orders, and to authorise his entire control over them, and over the funds destined for the palace.[120] [Footnote 120: GAYE, _Carteggio d'Artisti_, I., p. 214, and PUNGILEONE, _Elogio di Bramante_, 63. The original is in Latin.] Although the date of this patent may appear inconsistent with that already adopted for the foundation of the _Corte_, as this residence was usually called, it is clear, from other documents printed along with it, that operations were already considerably advanced under the superintendence of Luziano. In the preceding year we find him designed the Count's engineer, acting as a sort of clerk of the works, and litigating with a builder from Como regarding measurements of masonry; indeed, he seems to have continued these duties until his death at Pesaro, soon after that of his patron, whose liberality enabled him to leave considerable property to his children. The edifice thus commenced was carried on by Baccio Pontelli, a Florentine artist, who, though designing himself a carpenter, was much employed by Sixtus IV. to erect important fabrics in Rome. It is impossible now to decide whether he was at first assistant to Lauranna, or what portion of the Corte we owe to him, the entire credit of which seems claimed in a presumptuous epitaph, apparently of his own composition, which is given by Gaye.[121] He was employed upon it in 1481, when applied to by Lorenzo de' Medici to furnish a design or plan of the already famous work, a request handsomely responded to by Federigo, in that almost oriental exaggeration of compliment still usual in Lower Italy, with the assurance that such a wish was a command, and that he only regretted being unable to send him the building itself, of which he might fully dispose. Baccio's letter mentions it as then at the fifth story, and that his drawing had been done from actual measurements, thus proving he had no access to the original plan,--circumstances strongly presumptive that the design was not his, but that of Luziano, who lived till the following year. The praise bestowed by him on the carved ornaments and decorations render it probable that they had been under his peculiar charge. There is no evidence as to the length of Baccio's stay at Urbino, but he is said to have obtained the privileges of citizenship, and to have built the church of S. Bernardino and the castle of Sinigaglia. [Footnote 121: _Carteggio_, I., pp. 274-6. The author has discussed the point in No. 86 of the _Kunstblatt_ for 1836.] Such are the architects whom recent investigations enable us to claim as authors of the palace at Urbino, which Vasari and many others have celebrated for the beauty and comfort of its internal arrangements, the magnificence of its saloons, the convenience of its imposing stairs; for its smiling chambers, its vast corridors, its airy porticoes and pleasant baths, its gilded doors and windows, its rich furniture, carpets, and brocades. The assertion of that writer, so often inaccurate as to Umbrian matters, ascribing its merit to Francesco di Giorgio, may now be considered as disposed of, notwithstanding the zeal with which his countrymen of Siena have reasserted his claims; but the lights lately thrown upon his performances by Promis of Turin, enable us to restore to him the credit of certain bellicose decorations, often imputed to Roberto Valturio, and which have attracted attention rather from their adaptation to the genius of Count Federigo than from their artistic value. They consist of a frieze of military machines, which Vasari mentions as painted in fresco, but which were carved in relief along the exterior basement of the palace: designs for most of these remain among the MSS. of Francesco, and they have been engraved and tediously explained in Bianchini's ponderous work. Their original object was no doubt to illustrate the pompous inscription which surrounds the great court in immense capitals.[122] After being injured and scattered, they were again collected about a century ago, and arranged by Cardinal Stoppani along the corridor of the principal story. They are each about three feet by two, rudely representing seventy-two engines long since disused in war, and interesting only to the antiquary. Among the sculptors employed upon them, and similar architectural ornaments in the Corte, was Ambrogio Baroccio of Milan, great-grandfather of a painter as to whom we shall have much to say in our fifty-third chapter. [Footnote 122: "Federicus Urbini Dux, Montisferetri ac Durantis Comes, sanctæ Ro. ecclesiæ Confalonerius, atque Italici Confederationis Imperator, hanc domum a fundamentis erectam, gloriæ et posteritati suæ exædificavit: Qui bello pluries depugnavit, sexies signa contulit, octies hostem profligavit, omniumque preliorum victor ditionem auxit. Ejusdem justitia, clementia, liberalitas, et religio pace victorias equarunt, ornaruntque."] We need not weary our readers by minute descriptions of the palace, which, upon near approach, hardly realises the imposing effect of its site. The rugged and broken ground on which it stands has, in a great degree, marred that unity of plan which is essential to architectural grandeur and harmony, augmenting at the same time the difficulties of construction. Notwithstanding this drawback, and the rambling character which a portion of the building has consequently taken, there is much beauty in the façade of the great court, and in the unfinished elevation towards the cathedral, although the brickwork is but partially cased with stone. Barbaro, in his commentary upon Vitruvius, cites the grand stair as a model of beauty and convenience, and the corridors of the principal story (enriched, since 1756, with the museum of antique sculpture and inscriptions collected by Raffaele Fabretti) are truly magnificent. From these open many splendid rooms, among which is the great hall, about one hundred and twenty feet in length, of noble proportions, and severe in a simplicity contrasting with the chromatic decorations usual in Italy. In its elevated niches were formerly placed the insignia of its lords and of their allies, but of these none remain save the winged lion of St. Mark, which still looks proudly down upon the deserted audience-chamber, where its envoys used to be deferentially received by those long-departed dukes who often bore its banner to victory. The next story, which from its ornaments and devices appears to have been finished by Duke Guidobaldo II., is the summer residence of the cardinal-legate of Urbino and Pesaro, and, consequently, is seldom shown. Each of the towers seen in the engraving, and considered by Passavant as antecedent to Duke Federigo, contains a spiral staircase of curious construction, leading to balconies whence may be enjoyed a most characteristic prospect of the surrounding country, wherein "Hills are not seen, but for the vales betwixt The deep indentings." Fatigued by its uptossed and almost barren undulations, the eye turns for repose to the magnificent sierra, which bounds the horizon. On the extreme left is Monte Catria, crowned by the convent of S. Albertino, 5600 feet above the sea. Then comes Monte del Cavallo, described by Cimarelli as the most beautiful of all the Apennine chain, and named from the horses of famous race bred by the later princes of Urbino, on the luxuriant pastures of its gentle slopes and verdant meadows. Monte Nerone, so called from an "Unwritten story fondly traced From sire to son," which tells that the blood-stained tyrant of Rome once dwelt there, is supposed to be a slumbering volcano. Its rich iron ore was once highly productive, and the herbs and simples grown on it were esteemed above all others in Italy. Far on the sky-line are discerned the Sassi di Simeone, twin rocks of singularly abrupt form, separated by the Tuscan frontier. Northward from these stands the massive Monte Carpegna, cradle of the Montefeltrian race, domineering over their original fief, and giving its local name to the wind which sweeps from its heights upon the Adriatic. The mountain view terminates with the triple peaks of San Marino, isolated, it would seem, by nature, as well as by the forms of its constitution and the accidents of its history. The merit specially dwelt upon in the old descriptions of this palace is the carved work in wood and stone, executed by sculptors brought from various places, and facilitated by the excellent quality of a close-grained grey limestone, imported from the Dalmatian coast. The most striking of its decorations are accordingly the elaborate tracery encircling the architraves, doorways, lintels, and chimneys, and running along the cornices. This consists of fine arabesque designs, mingled with dancing loves, and interlaced with military trophies and heraldic fancies, among which frequently occur the Garter of England, the Ermine of Naples, the Eagle of Montefeltro, with several monograms and devices usually worn by Count Federigo, the origin whereof is described in No. V. of the Appendices. A kindred art, here lavishly expended, is that of _tarsia_, or wood inlaying, which, unlike the more modern _marquetrie_, was enriched by pure arabesque designs, and even by historical or religious compositions. In this style, though now sadly defaced, were many of the doors, and especially the tiny chapel, with its adjoining sacristy, the latter elaborately panelled in varied scrolls, and bearing the titles of Federigo, with the date 1476. On the stone-work of this chapel occur the devices and initials of Duke Guidobaldo II., marking probably the alterations made by him.[123] [Footnote 123: Pungileone has found a payment of 7 florins, in 1473, to Maestro Giacomo, from Florence, on account of _intarsia_ for the audience-hall, which seems, from other entries there cited, to have been decorated during 1464 with paintings now lost. _Elogio_ di G. Santi, p. 47.] The following passage, often quoted from the commencement of Castiglione's _Cortegiano_, has given rise to considerable misapprehension:--"Among other laudable actions, Federigo erected, on the rugged heights of Urbino, a residence, by many regarded as the most beautiful in all Italy, and so amply provided with every convenience, that it appeared rather a palatial city than a palace. He furnished it not only with the usual plenishings of rich brocades in silk and gold, silver plate, and such like, but ornamented it with a vast quantity of ancient marble and bronze sculptures, of rare pictures, and musical instruments in every variety, excluding all but the choicest objects." Now, it so happens that, with every desire to verify what ought to be a valuable authority for a fact in itself most interesting, and especially probable of that prince, we have not been able to trace a single piece of sculpture, and hardly an easel picture, to his possession (a few portraits, of course, excepted), nor does one contemporary distinctly mention anything of the sort at Urbino. But whilst truth compels us to an admission calculated to impair his traditional reputation as an amateur of the fine arts, there was one branch of them which found in him a most zealous patron; and among the adornments of his palace was a treasure rivalling in beauty and excelling in importance all coeval museums of art. To the right and left of the carriage entrance into the great court-yard are two handsome saloons, each about forty-five feet by twenty-two, and twenty-three in height. That on the left contained the famous library of manuscripts collected by Count Federigo; the corresponding one received the printed books, which, gradually purchased by successive dukes, became, under the last sovereign, a copious collection. Baldi, in his description of the palace, printed in Bianchini's work, dwells on the judicious adaptation of the former, its windows set high against the northern sky, admitting a subdued and steady light which invited to study; its air cool in summer, temperate in winter; its walls conveniently shelved; the character and objects of the place fittingly set forth in a series of rude hexameters inscribed on the cornices.[124] Adjoining was a closet fitted up with inlaid and gilded panelling, beneath which Timoteo della Vite, a painter whose excellence we shall attest in our thirtieth chapter, depicted Minerva with her ægis, Apollo with his lyre, and the nine muses with their appropriate symbols. A similar small study was fitted up immediately over this one, set round with armchairs encircling a table, all mosaicked with _tarsia_, and carved by Maestro Giacomo of Florence, while on each compartment of the panelling was the portrait of some famous author, and an appropriate distich. One other article of furniture deserves special notice--a magnificent eagle of gilt bronze, serving as a lectern in the centre of the manuscript room. It was carried to Rome at the devolution of the duchy to the Holy See, but was rescued by Pope Clement XI. from the Vatican library, and restored to his native town, where it has long been used in the choir of the cathedral. [Footnote 124: "Sint tibi divitiæ; sint aurea vasa, talenta Plurima, servorum turbæ, gemmæque nitentes; Sint vestes variæ, pretiosa monilia, torques; Id totum hæc longe superat præclara supellex. Sint licet aurati niveo de marmore postes, Et variis placeant penetralia picta figuris; Sint quoque Trojanis circumdata moenia pannis, Et miro fragrent viridaria culta decore. Extra intusque domus regali fulgida luxu, Res equidem mutæ; sed BIBLIOTHECA parata est, Jussa loqui, facunda nimis, vel jussa tacere, Et prodesse potens, et delectare legentem. Tempora lapsa docet, venturaque plurima pandit, Explicat et cunctos coeli terræque labores."] [Illustration: _Alinari_ FIFTEENTH CENTURY COURT OF THE PALAZZO DUCALE, URBINO] Roscoe has well observed that "by no circumstance in the character of an individual is the love of literature so strongly evinced, as by the propensity for collecting together the writings of illustrious scholars, and compressing 'the soul of ages past' within the narrow limits of a library." But it is not easy now to appreciate the obstacles attending such a pursuit in the age of Federigo. The science of bibliography can scarcely be said to have existed before the invention of printing, in consequence of the extreme difficulty of becoming acquainted with works of which there were but few copies, and these widely scattered, perhaps scarcely known. Great outlay was required, either to search out or transcribe manuscripts, and even the laborious habits which then accompanied learning shrank from a task so beset by obstructions. Yet there was a bright exception in Thomas of Sarzana, whose learning supplied the knowledge, and whose elevation to the triple tiara as Nicholas V. procured him the opportunities, necessary for amassing a library. Not only did he found that of the Vatican, but he prepared for Cosimo _Pater patriæ_ a list of authors for the infant collection of S. Marco, at Florence, which, being recognised as a standard catalogue, was adopted by Count Federigo. The longer life allowed to the latter enabled him to outstrip these bibliomaniacs, and all contemporary accumulators, until the fame of his library stood unrivalled. Accordingly Ruscelli, in his _Imprese Illustri_, avers it to be "notorious that the earliest and most famous collection formed out of the ruins of antiquity was that of Urbino, from whence many excellent authors were edited, and copies supplied." Marsilio Ficino and Leandro Alberti, with others of equal weight, have borne similar testimony, the former from common report, the latter from ocular demonstration; but we shall content ourselves with quoting from two contemporaries, familiar with what they describe. To begin with old Sanzi:-- "No fitting outlay on the work he spared The eye to please; but more intent to feed The mind, he ardently began to build A library, so vast, and so select, As to supply each intellect and taste. With noble aim such books he there amassed, That every genius might its flight direct To kindred objects. Foremost in the band The works of holy churchmen, all adorned And bound with wond'rous beauty; Next what survives of ancient wisdom's thoughts In classic tongue contained; historians all; The sacred choir of charming poesy; In law and medicine many famous names, Symmetrically ranged; there, too, I note A wealth of books in divers languages,-- Arab and Greek, with Hebrew reverend; And sundry others whose rich ornaments Deserve detailed description, for I've seen Men of the finest taste in wonder lost Before them." No poet's licence need be suspected in this description, for it is thus fully borne out by Vespasiano, who was originally an agent in amassing these treasures, and subsequently their custodier.[125] "We have now to mention the high estimation in which he held all Greek and Latin authors, sacred or profane; and to him alone was given the enterprise to carry out what no one, for above a thousand years past, had done, by establishing a library superior to any formed during all that period. In no respect did he look to expense; and whenever he learned the existence of any desirable book in Italy, or abroad, he sent for it without heeding the cost. It is now above fourteen years since he began to make this collection, and he has ever since maintained at Urbino, Florence, and elsewhere, thirty-four transcribers, and has resorted to every means requisite for amassing a famous and excellent library,--which it now is. He has, in the first place, all the Latin poets, with their best commentaries; also the entire works of Cicero, with all the orators and grammarians in that language. In history, he commissioned every known work of that or the Greek tongue, as well as the orators of the latter. In moral and natural philosophy, no author of these languages is wanting. In the faculty of theology he has been most profuse, having, besides the four doctors of the Church, St. Bernard, Tertullian, Hilary, Remigius, Hugh of St. Victor, Isidore, Anselm, Rabanus, Dionysius the Areopagite, St. Basil, Cyril, Gregory Nazarene, John of Damascus, Eusebius, Origen, St. Thomas Aquinas, Albertus Magnus, Alexander de Alexandro, Duns Scotus, Bonaventura, Richard Mediavilla, Archbishop Antonio, with all the modern doctors. There are further all the best civilians, with the lectures of Bartolomeo Capretti. He had the Bible, that best of books, written in two volumes, with the richest and most beautiful illustrations, bound in brocade of gold, and lavishly ornamented with silver; and he made it be thus gorgeously adorned as the chief of all literature, and it has no equal in our time.[126] There are also all the Commentaries on the Bible in Greek and Latin, including Nicolò de Lira. He further has all the treatises on astrology, geometry, arithmetic, architecture, and military tactics, and a very curious volume with every ancient and modern military engine: also all books on painting, sculpture, and music; the standard writers on civil law; the _Speculum Innocentiæ_; in medicine, the works of Hippocrates, Galen, and Avicenna; the writings of Averröe on logic, ethics, and physics; a volume of early councils; the writings of Boethius on logic, philosophy, and music; and those of modern authors, with Pius II. at their head. There are all the works of Petrarch, Dante,[*127] Boccaccio, Colluccio, Leonardo d'Arezzo, Fra Ambrogio, Gianozzo Manetti, Guarino, Panhormita, Francesco Filelfo, Perotto, Campano, Mafeo Vegeo, Nicolò Secondino, Pontano, Bartolomeo Fazii, Gasparino, Paolo Vergaio, Giovanni Argiropolo, Francesco Barbaro, Leonardo Giustiniani, Donato Acciaiuolo, Alamanno Remicini, Christofero da Prato the elder, Poggio, Giovanni Tartellio, Francesco d'Arezzo, and Lorenzo Valla. It was his object to obtain every book in all branches of learning, ancient and modern, original or translated. He had also of Greek classics, with their commentaries, Aristotle, Plato, Homer, Sophocles, Pindar, Menander, Plutarch, Ptolemy, Herodotus, Pausanias, Thucydides, Polybius, Demosthenes, Æschines, Plotinus, Theophrastus, Hippocrates, Galen, and Xenophon; the New Testament, St. Basil and other fathers in Greek, with the Book of Paradise, lives of the Egyptian saints, lives of Balaam and Jehosaphat; and all works on geometry, arithmetic, and astrology, as well as every other attainable writer in that language. It was the same as to Hebrew books, beginning with the Bible, and including philosophy, medicine, and other faculties, with every known commentary; and there was a remarkable polyglot Psalter in Hebrew, Greek, and Latin. [Footnote 125: Commentary on Duke Federigo, Vat. Urb. MSS. No. 941, f. 43. See his _Life of Nicholas V._; MURATORI, _Script._, XXV., 268, 274; also below, ch. XXIV.] [Footnote 126: The Urbino Bible, noticed again in this extract, will be more particularly described in VI. of the Appendices.] [Footnote *127: On the "veltro" Dante, see Dennistoun's note in the Appendix to this vol., p. 448, and L. FRATI, _Federico Duca d'Urbino e il "Veltro" Dante_, in _Arch. St. per le Marche e per l'Umbria_, vol. II., pp. 360-67. Cf. also VESPASIANO, _Vite_ (Barbera, Firenze), p. 86.] "On all this the Duke spent upwards of 30,000 ducats; and he made a rule that every book should be bound in crimson, ornamented with silver, from the Bible already described down to the modern authors. It is thus a truly rich display to see all these books so adorned, all being manuscripts on vellum, with illuminations, and each a complete copy,--perfections not found in any other library. Indeed, shortly before he went to the siege of Ferrara, I compared the catalogue with lists of other libraries which he had procured, such as those of the Vatican, Florence, St. Mark, Pavia, down to that of the University of Oxford in England, and found that all but his own had deficiencies and duplicates." The book of regulations for the court and household of Guidobaldo I. contains these rules for the administration of the library[128]:--"The librarian should be learned, of good presence, temper, and manners; correct and ready of speech. He must get from the gardrobe an inventory of the books, and keep them arranged and easily accessible, whether Latin, Greek, Hebrew, or others, maintaining also the rooms in good condition. He must preserve the books from damp and vermin, as well as from the hands of trifling, ignorant, dirty, and tasteless persons. To those of authority and learning, he ought himself to exhibit them with all facility, courteously explaining their beauty and remarkable characteristics, the handwriting and miniatures, but observant that such abstract no leaves. When ignorant or merely curious persons wish to see them, a glance is sufficient, if it be not some one of considerable influence. When any lock or other requisite is needed, he must take care that it be promptly provided. He must let no book be taken away but by the Duke's orders, and if lent must get a written receipt, and see to its being returned. When a number of visitors come in, he must be specially watchful that none be stolen. All which is duly seen to by the present courteous and attentive librarian, Messer Agabito." [Footnote 128: Vat. Urb. MSS. No. 1248, f. 58.] Without attempting any enumeration of those who filled the office thus regulated, we may refer to Vespasiano, already mentioned in that capacity, and to Lorenzo Abstemio of Macerata, an eminent professor of literature about 1500. But the most useful of them was probably Veterano, who was spared to serve three Dukes of the two Urbino dynasties, and the fruits of whose laborious caligraphy may still be recognised in many a fair MS. at the Vatican. Among these is a Commentary on the Triumphs of Petrarch, a note on the colophon of which informs us that it was one of about sixty volumes copied by him on parchment for this collection. A gluttonous patriotism has led some encomiasts of the duchy into the glaring absurdity of imputing the authorship of these manifold works to their transcriber, whose original compositions, to be noticed in our twenty-fifth chapter, suggest few regrets that his long life should have been chiefly devoted to more mechanical occupations. We are fortunately able to test the reputation enjoyed by Count Federigo's library; for, although some of its treasures were lost in the revolutions of 1503 and 1517, and although the MSS. transported to the Vatican in 1658 included many additions subsequent to his death, still the volumes most important to literature, and most embellished by art, may, with few exceptions, be attributed to his liberality. The estimate of 30,000 ducats, already stated from Vespasiano as the cost of the collection in his time, is carried to 40,000 by Gallo Galli, who lived under Duke Guidobaldo II., thus affording a probable inference as to the augmentation it had received between 1482 and 1566. This increase, which went on until the devolution of the duchy in 1631, was chiefly by a mass of unpublished writings of local interest or authorship, without any pretence to artistic beauty. The numbers now catalogued are thus no evidence of its original extent; but we may mention that an inventory by Stefano Gradio, though by no means complete, includes 1361 entries; that Platner, in the _Beschreibung der Stadt Rom_, estimates the ducal MSS. at 1711; but that the catalogue compiled by Mauro Costa, in 1797, and now actually in use, exceeds four thousand articles. As some of the illuminated MSS. executed for Count Federigo are of the highest interest, we shall notice a few of them in VI. of the Appendices, and in our forty-eighth chapter shall mention the fate of this library, after the extinction of the ducal line. "Within this curious palace dwelt a soul Gave lustre to each part, and to the whole: This drest his face in courteous smiles, and so From comely gestures sweeter manners flow. This courage joyned to strength; so the hand, bent, Was valour's; opened, bounty's instrument; Which did the scale and sword of justice hold, Knew how to brandish steel and scatter gold." THOMAS CAREW. Before concluding our account of the Corte, we may mention some appurtenances intended for the more material requirements of its inmates. Of the garden we can say nothing, horticulture being then a latent science; neither need we linger upon the court-yard provided for tennis or ball. But the stable-range, built by Francesco di Giorgio in 1475, is thus curiously described by himself: "From the stable, constructed by me, for my most illustrious Duke of Urbino, may be seen how much a complete and perfect set ought to include. It is capable of containing three hundred horses, half on either side, being twenty-eight feet wide, thirty-six high, and three hundred and sixty long,[129] and over it there is a beautiful loft for hay and straw, with square holes for throwing down the forage, and above all a roof. There are several contiguous rooms, the first being a yard or shed, wherein to mount and dismount, or to shoe the horses; in it is a fountain with two troughs, and a pipe passing thence under the mangers, with various stop-cocks for the supply of water, by means whereof the stable can be cleansed, and to facilitate this operation the floor falls towards the centre, enabling such horses as wish it to stand higher before. Next the fountain is a corn-store, with the head-groom's rooms above it, overlooking the stable, and beyond these a servant's room, and one for medicines, saddlery, repairs, &c. Lastly, there is a great tower, with a winding-stair, accessible only to the owner, whence he can see the entire establishment; and this, being known to the overseer and servants, is a check upon their good conduct." [Footnote 129: There must be some mistake as to the length, which would scarcely half suffice for a hundred and fifty horses. See the original in Promis' Turin edition of Francesco di Giorgio's Works, I., p. 171.] In a letter by Gallo Galli to Duke Guidobaldo II. in 1566, he mentions having seen memoranda stating the cost of the Urbino palace at 200,000 ducats, the silver plate at 40,000, a set of tapestries representing the siege of Troy at 10,000, and the MSS. library at 40,000. Before leaving the subject we shall transcribe from the _Cortegiano_ an anecdote, not on account of its value, but as a specimen of the dull wit which Castiglione thought worth commemorating as the gossip of his model court. "Recollect also the silly trait, just related by our Lord Duke, of an abbé who, standing by while Duke Federigo was discussing what to do with the vast quantity of earth excavated from the foundations of this palace, exclaimed, 'My Lord, I have thought of a capital contrivance. Desire an immense ditch to be made, into which it may be put without more ado.' The Duke answered with a smile, 'And where shall we place the earth of the ditch itself?' To which the abbé replied, 'Make it big enough for both.' And though the Duke repeated that the larger it was the more earth would there be to remove, he never could see it, but went on saying, make it so much the greater!" Sanzi informs us that Federigo had intended to erect, in connection with this residence, a fane unequalled in regularity, beauty, and ornament, in order at once to manifest his piety and to provide a last home for his remains. The cathedral adjoining it, though founded by his father in 1439, was scarcely well begun until 1471, and when completed, in no way realised his project.[130] The church of S. Bernardino, also left unfinished at his death, was in some degree a substitute, being not only a special memorial of his piety, but supplying a mausoleum for himself and the few after members of his dynasty. [Footnote 130: Much confusion of dates has arisen regarding this church, owing to its slow advance,--unusually protracted even for Italy. Lazzarini tells that it was founded by Federigo in 1447, and consecrated to S. Crescentino in 1534, but that the façade was not completed till 1781. The cupola, planned by Muzio Oddi, was erected in 1604, but fell in 1789. The pulpit and organ were designed by Girolamo della Genga, and the latter was painted by Baroccio. The stuccoes were executed by Federigo Brandani, who died in 1575.] Of the other residences that shared the cares of Count Federigo, Gubbio was the most important. Sanzi describes it as facing the south-east, and flanked by mountains on the north, overlooking fertile valleys and smiling champaigns, and excelling the attractions of Urbino in charming prospects and pleasant pathways. Notwithstanding the general truth of this eulogy, nothing could be more consistent with beauty or convenience than its site, planted on a slope, with the cathedral right in front, crowded round with poor buildings, and accessible only by precipitous alleys. Its architecture is disputed between Francesco di Giorgio and Baccio Pontelli,[*131] nor would it add much credit to either, its sole merit being minute decorations in hewn work and inlaid panelling, both after the style we have described at Urbino. Although the initials of the two Montefeltrian dukes appear in these, it is believed to have been chiefly built by Guidobaldo, and the oak-tree cognisance of the Della Rovere indicates in some parts a still later date. The constant recurrence of the Garter among its ornamental devices is gratifying to the very rare English visitors of this Apennine town, but no traveller of taste and intelligence can be otherwise than shocked to find this once chosen sanctuary of Italian refinement and high breeding, the residence in which Castiglione recounted his reception at the Tudor court, and where Fregoso and Bembo were successively bishops, degraded to vile uses and menaced by speedy ruin. It is now in the hands of a person who there manufactures wax candles and silk, but on my second visit in 1843 was closed up entirely and inaccessible. I owe to the obliging attention of Signor Luigi Bonfatti, a local antiquary of taste and intelligence, who is preparing a work on the early painters of Gubbio, this notice of the building and its remaining decorations: "Differing much from the architecture at Urbino, its court-yard is very fine, of the mixed or composite style usual in that age. The windows, doors, and chimneys have stone lintels, exquisitely chiselled in low relief with masterly arabesque designs, those in the interior being touched with gold. The ceilings, now partially decayed, are all of wood, in half-relief compartments, with heavy cornices, and roses coloured and gilded. The palace was completed by Duke Guidobaldo, who commissioned the cabinet or closet of superb _intarsia_, thirteen by six and a half feet. This tiny room is nineteen feet high, but the inlaid work goes only half-way up. It is of the finest patterns and workmanship, including several emblematic representations of music, literature, physical science, geography, and war. On the cornice is an inscription now in part illegible.... It was, in my opinion, the work of Antonio Mastei of Gubbio, a famous artist in wood, who executed the beautiful choir of S. Fortunato at Todi, and who is known to have been much in favour with Dukes Guidobaldo and Francesco Maria I., the latter of whom gave him an exemption from imposts."[132] [Footnote *131: It is the work of Lorenzo Laurana.] [Footnote 132: The kindness of Mr. F.C. Brooke, of Ufford Place, Suffolk, enables me to supplement from his note-book this imperfect mention of the most interesting feature of the palace. "The small cabinet has shared a better fate than that of the remainder of the apartments, and requires little else than cleaning up to restore it to its original state. The ceiling is divided into several scanty compartments, of octangular form and relieved with gold, while the wainscoted walls are inlaid with _tarsia_, representing bookcases, or rather cupboards, with their contents, amongst which are a ship, a tambourine, military weapons, a cage with a parrot in it, and, as if for the sake of variety only, a few volumes of books, over one of which, containing music, with the word 'ROSABELLA' inscribed on its pages, is suspended a crucifix. On the central case opposite to the window, and occupying as it were the post of honour, is the Garter, with its motto, 'HONI SOIT Q MAL I PENSE'; a device which has been sculptured on the exterior of the stone architrave of the door of this apartment. It appears again in _tarsia_ in the recess of the window, where may also be seen, within circles, 'G. UBALDO DX.' and 'FE DUX.' On the frieze, and in a single line interrupted only by the spaces occupied by the door and window, is the following inscription in _tarsia_:-- "'Aspicis æternos venerandæ matris alumnos, Doctrina excelsos ingenioque viros. Vi nuda cervice cadant ante... ... genu. Justiciam pietas vincit reverenda, nec ullum Poenitet ultrici succubuisse suæ.' "I might also have mentioned as amongst the devices, the crane standing on one leg, and holding, with the foot of the other which is raised, the stone he is to drop as a signal of alarm for his companions. Among other feigned contents of a bookcase are an hour-glass, guitar, and pair of compasses; in another are seen a dagger, dried fruits in a small basket made of thin wood, and a tankard; while in a third is represented an open book surmounted with the name of Guidobaldo, who probably made the description inscribed on the two pages of the volume, comprising verses 457 to 491 of the tenth _Æneid_." It is unnecessary here to introduce this long quotation; for the last combat and death of Pallas by the spear of Turnus, however happily described by Virgil, bear no traceable analogy to incidents in the Montefeltrian family. Mr. Brooke conjectures that it was recommended by the passage,-- "Stat sua cuique dies; breve et irreparabile tempus Omnibus est vitæ; sed famam extendere factis, Hoc Virtutis opus:" a sentiment equally beautiful in itself, and appropriate to the fortunes of Guidobaldo; yet why not have given point to the epigram by isolating it from the inappropriate context?] Muzio and Baldi impute to Federigo's munificence many other palaces in his state, such as Fossombrone, Cagli, Casteldurante, La Carda, Mercatello, &c.; but most of these were probably forts, of which Francesco di Giorgio speaks as having one hundred and thirty-six under his charge at once, for this prince. At the two first-named places, there still remain residences dating from this reign, and the parks or game-preserves which formerly surrounded them, embracing circuits of seven and five miles respectively, were walled in by the Count, and stocked with fallow-deer.[133] These have long ago run to waste, and the palaces, with their ample halls, "Shadowy with remembrances Of the majestic past," are now desolate and rapidly falling to ruin.[*134] [Footnote 133: We have very few notices of his sporting tastes; but the Vatican collection of his letters includes one of the King of France, on sending, at his request, a brace of dogs.] [Footnote *134: The palace of Urbino was indeed the wonder of the age. Dennistoun, however, tells us little or nothing about Federigo's villas. The gardens of Lorenzo de' Medici at Poggio a Caiano were provided with every vegetable, both for ornament and use, which the most diligent search could supply. Indeed, his was one of the first collections of plants made in Europe. Alessandro Braccio, in a Latin poem addressed to Bernardo Bembo, gives a graphic account of it. Laurentian Library, Plut. LXXXVI., sup. cod. 41. Band. Cat., III., 787. The poem is given by Roscoe, _Lorenzo de' Medici_, App. XXV.] * * * * * It has been aptly observed that "of works which appeal to the eye, any description must be tedious and inconclusive," but less could not have been said of creations which constituted the chief praise of Count Federigo among his contemporaries, and his most enduring glory with posterity. Nor can it but excite our interest to inquire whence means were obtained for so lavish an outlay, and for his munificent patronage of letters and arts. When the eye wanders over the map of Urbino, as possessed by its dukes of the Della Rovere dynasty, it is difficult to restrict our conceptions to its true limits at this date. It would probably now be impossible to define these with perfect accuracy, much of its frontier being then debatable land.[135] Into this category had fallen part of the original fief of Montefeltro, lying north of the Foglia. The proper territory of Urbino occupied the central portion of the far-receding stripe situated between that river and the Metauro, its upper section being the Brancaleone country, its sea-board divided between Pesaro and Fano. Out-lying were the holdings of Gubbio and Cagli, the latter perhaps reaching to the recently acquired townships of Fossombrone. The state composed of these straggling parts may have included about one-fourth of the subsequent duchy; but cut off from the coast, and from the fertile districts which skirt the Adriatic, its rugged uplands and rude climate derived from nature few elements of wealth. The various wars which had swept it, and especially the forays and reprisals it had long endured from the tyrant of Rimini, might well have exhausted its resources, and utterly impoverished both sovereign and people. The fact was, however, quite otherwise, war being a source of wealth to both. Military service was their only trade, and so well did they ply it, that during thirty-four years, short intervals excepted, the Count drew continuous pay from some foreign power or adventurer. The value of these engagements may be estimated from some examples. In 1453 his war pay from Alfonso of Naples exceeded 8000 ducats a month, and for many years he had from him and his son an annual peace-pension of 6000 in name of past services. At the close of his life, when captain-general of the Italian league, he drew in war 165,000 ducats of annual stipend, 45,000 being his own share; in peace 65,000 in all. Of these vast sums a considerable portion went among his hardy mountaineers, besides their contingent of plunder and perquisites picked up in the field. Thus was war rendered so acceptable to their interests, as well as to their tastes and habits, that Sanzi compares them, when their arms are cast aside, to "unpinioned eagles." Nor did the ravages of invasion prove so destructive as might be supposed. The entire population were located in villages or townlets, each a fastness capable of resistance, which, even when unsuccessful, gave time to conceal their valuables: thus when the sack began, they had only to save their persons, and these generally were allowed to go unharmed.[136] [Footnote 135: "Nunc ager Umbreni sub nomine, nuper Ofelli Dictus; erat nulli proprius, sed cedit in usum Nunc mihi, nunc aliis." HORACE, _Sat._, ii. 2.] [Footnote 136: See, as to later statistics of the duchy, the Appendix to Vol. III.] CHAPTER IX Count Federigo's varied engagements--Battle of La Molinella--Death and character of his enemy Malatesta--Affairs of Rimini. It was to the Pontiff's anxiety for his favourite project against the Infidel, that the Malatesta owed the shadow of sovereignty still left them. He inherited from Nicholas V. the design of a holy war; but though the ten years passed since the peace of Lodi had united the Italian powers for that purpose, the cross had not yet been raised against the aggressive and triumphant crescent. He now sought to redeem delays by redoubled zeal, and his temporal diplomacy seconded his spiritual exhortations in collecting troops and treasure from Western Europe, to be mustered at Ancona and led by his Holiness in person. But, as was shrewdly remarked by Cosimo de' Medici, it was an old man undertaking an enterprise which needed a young one. He travelled to Ancona when scarcely recovered from a severe fit of gout, and on arriving, had the mortification to discover that his ardour had been ill seconded by most of the Christian powers; that the soldiery, already disgusted with a service whose rewards were indulgences for the next world instead of present pay and pillage, were retiring in great numbers; and that the volunteers who crowded the port, far beyond the means provided for feeding or transporting them, were a mere mob of unarmed and undisciplined idlers. Chagrin, anxiety, and fatigue occasioned a relapse, which carried him off on the 14th of August.[137] The consistory countermanded the ill-advised expedition, and the conclave hurriedly chose as his successor the Venetian Barbo, whose character and habits, in all respects a contrast to those of Pius, would have been best expressed by Barbaro, but whose absurd personal vanity is said to have prompted him to propose assuming as his title Formoso I. [Footnote 137: Sismondi says the 14th; Harris Nicolas the 15th or 16th; Baldi mentions the morrow of the Assumption, which would be the 16th; but Berni specifies the fourth hour, or midnight of Tuesday the 14th, which corresponds with the calendar of that year.] The papal throne has seldom been better filled than by Pius II. Gifted with much practical capacity and intelligence, he brought to it the experience of a life devoted to diplomacy, statesmanship, and literature, and he found time to record in historical commentaries, for the benefit of posterity, his impressions of the many important incidents wherein he had been an actor or a witness. It is very remarkable that the last measure of his pontificate, from which he anticipated its chief lustre, should have been not only opposed to the spirit of his age, but undertaken without consideration, pursued without judgment, and terminated in utter failure. To these inherent errors ought to be ascribed the frustration of hopes in themselves vain, rather than to the death of his Holiness, as thus set forth by Sanzi:-- "Ah cruel destiny! unjust and harsh To Italy's high name, even as her gates Were opened wide for glory. Doubtful, sure, And manifold the chances that impede Such plans as man conceives: the Pontiff died; And so these gladsome hopes were blotted out, Whilst all their pomp, and pains, and stores profuse Were turned to sullen, sluggish discontent." [Illustration: _Brogi_ PIO II. AT ANCONA _After the fresco by Pinturicchio in the Cathedral Library, Siena_] The late Pope, intending to leave Federigo as lieutenant-general, charged with the defence of the papal state during his absence in the east, had summoned him to Ancona, and there consulted him both on that subject and on the projected expedition. Thence the Count proceeded to Gubbio for the marriage of his relation Guidantonio Ubaldini, and on the 28th of September repaired to Rome, with a noble suite, to offer congratulations to the new Pontiff, by whom he was confirmed in his command, with the title of Gonfaloniere of the Church. After visiting the King of Naples, he returned home in the end of October, and in the following autumn had from his Majesty a renewed condotta as captain-general.[138] [Footnote 138: Gonfaloniere, originally signifying standard-bearer, was the title of supreme command in the papal armies, and is so used throughout these volumes when applied to the dukes of Urbino. In Florence, and other old republics, it meant the chief magistrate for the time, and it is still employed in the same sense throughout many towns, especially in the ecclesiastical states. The gonfalone, or banner of the Church, was and is now white, with the golden cross-keys, surmounted by the umbrella-shaped _baldachino_, or canopy, usually carried over the Pope in processions. This device was borne on the armorial shields of the Gonfalonieri, impaled between their proper quarterings, as seen on the stamp outside of these volumes. The golden keys surmounted by a triple tiara is another common pontifical device, used in place of a crest.] The crusade and all its preparations had passed away as completely and almost as rapidly as a stage-scene, and the quiet of Italy remaining undisturbed, the new Pontiff availed himself of it to chastise the Aversi of Anguillera, a band of robber barons whose predatory incursions extended to the gates of his capital. Although in more peaceful times this would have been a matter of police rather than a military movement, it fell to Federigo as gonfaloniere to repress their audacity. This he did in a few days during July, their strongholds about Ronciglione all surrendering without a blow. Paul, encouraged by this success, followed it up by similar proceedings against the Savelli, another great Campagna family, whose Angevine policy had led them into open rebellion five years before, and whose influence never recovered the loss of territory now wrested from them. The Count, having gone to visit his Holiness, received from him verbal instructions and a written commission to take effectual measures for securing the devolution to the Holy See of the Malatesta fiefs, as soon as these brothers should die, and there being some suspicion of intrigues on their part to defeat that arrangement under which Cesena and Rimini had been left them only for their respective lives, a solemn obligation to secrecy under pain of excommunication shrouded these deliberations. Thus were pursued those repressive steps adopted by Pius II., and which were matured into a fixed policy of successive pontiffs during the next seventy years, until, of all the sovereign vassals who divided and distracted the ecclesiastical territory, from Terraccini to the Po, there remained but those of Ferrara, Urbino, and Piombino. Malatesta Novello of Cesena, whose wife Violante had been sister of Federigo, died in November, when Cesena was at once seized by his nephew Roberto, eldest son of Sigismondo. The Count of Urbino, in obedience to the papal injunctions, marched into Romagna and blockaded that town, until matters were compromised by a concession of Meldola to Roberto, on his surrendering the rest of his uncle's fief, and entering the papal service, as a guarantee for his future obedience. Francesco Sforza died suddenly at Milan on the 8th of March. He was the most sagacious as well as the most fortunate of Italian adventurers, and as a sovereign conciliated general confidence and regard by his judicial administration, whilst a liberal and discriminating encouragement of learning gave to his court and capital attractions and brilliancy too quickly lost under his dissolute successor. The first to apply to his country the axiom that union is strength, it was his cherished aim to cultivate the hitherto neglected principle of nationality as the mainspring of her policy. The league of Italy, carried through by him, was the primary step towards that good end, which was effectually frustrated before the close of this century by the intemperate and selfish ambition of of his son Ludovico, and which continues to puzzle the theorists, to mislead the patriots, and to baffle the politicians of that fair land. His eldest son Galeazzo Maria being absent in France at his death, the Duchess sent to request the Count of Urbino's attendance as a tried friend and comrade of her lord, and as husband of his niece. Federigo, anticipating the messenger, had already set out on the first news of so important an event, and by his prudent counsel and conciliating manners greatly forwarded the harmonious recognition of the new Duke. During three months he devoted his entire attention to this object, and before taking his departure, his past efforts were acknowledged, and his future services retained, by a renewal of his engagement as captain-general on the following terms:-- "With the approval and benediction of the supreme Pontiff, his Most Serene Majesty Ferdinand, the noble republic of Florence, and Ourselves have reunited ourselves in a public confederation, and have renewed our former league for common protection of our states and repelling of external aggression, selecting as our chief in command that illustrious captain and magnanimous lord, the Count of Urbino, than whom none can be desired more skilful and prompt in the conduct of war or peace, seeing with what gallantry, authority, and success he has managed both, and has exhibited such proofs of unequalled faith, constancy, and integrity, that throughout Italy these are not less in repute than are his famous feats of generalship."[139] On the 6th of June, the courts and nobles assembled in the cathedral to witness his installation, with all the pomp and circumstance of a military religious ceremonial. After the baton and banner had been placed in his hand, the goodly cortège conducted him to his lodgings, where a gallant charger, a beautiful head-piece, and a stately mantle awaited his acceptance. Two days thereafter he set out on his homeward journey, which was a continued progress of honour, the sovereigns and people of each state through which he passed emulating the compliments they should render to so distinguished a guest. [Footnote 139: MUZIO, p. 389.] The treaty of Lodi, to which Sforza had been mainly instrumental, remained in force at his death; indeed, historians dwell with peculiar pleasure on the twenty-eight years of tranquillity which succeeded that settlement. Compared with the turmoil of preceding wars, or with the clang of battles, which, from 1492 till 1529 rang continually through the Peninsula, these were, indeed, years of repose and prosperity, and may be considered the halcyon age of modern Italy. It is true that those republican institutions had been widely infringed under which her communities rose to eminence, and that arbitrary sovereigns had with more or less success established over most of them a personal or hereditary sway. True also, that her newly awakened spirit of philosophy had then assumed, under the influence of the ancient classics, a somewhat unprofitable direction; that "the all-immortal three" of the preceding century already had raised her literature to perhaps its culminating point; and that it was not until the following age that her arts attained their highest perfection. But whilst individual freedom had been curtailed, individual security had been generally enlarged; even the despotism of one was welcomed, when it brought relief from the storms of faction and the tyranny of mobs. The reviving energies of mind felt the invigoration which succeeds to long repose, but still glowed with a healthy character, free from that infusion of meaner motives and more degrading tendencies which too quickly and permanently poisoned the fairest creations of the pen, the pencil, and the chisel. Above all, Italy in the fifteenth century was as yet independent. Her bright plains had not become battle-fields for European ambition; her treasures had not been plundered, her civilisation trampled upon, her nationality defaced by foreign and barbarous invaders. Yet the pæans of peace inspired by the interval of comparative quiet upon which we are now entering must be read with poetical allowance, for we shall have to trace during that period not unfrequent intrigues, and to mention many, ebullitions of "The mind of Italy to strife inflamed." Wherever war was intended, the Count of Urbino's services were naturally in request, for his name stood foremost on the roll of condottieri since the death of Giacopo Piccinino in July, 1465. It is unnecessary to contrast the qualities of these rival generals: the latter is known to history but as a military adventurer, whilst the reputation of Federigo rests not less on his conduct as a wise and generous prince. The Neapolitan war had at length given to Giacopo the great object of his life. He was sovereign of Sulmona, and his marriage with the Duke of Milan's natural daughter had strengthened him in his new rank, and finally closed the long strifes of the Braccian and Sforzan factions. But fortune, after this signal exaltation, destined for him a fearful reverse. The false-hearted Ferdinand forgot not that he had been the right arm of the Angevine party. Receiving him with hollow courtesy, he amused him at Naples until Ippolita Maria Sforza, the affianced bride of his eldest son Alfonso Duke of Calabria, left her father's duchy of Milan. When she had reached Siena, on her way to be married, Piccinino was treacherously seized and mysteriously done to death. The impression was long current that his father-in-law had countenanced this disgraceful murder, but Rosmini, in his recent history of Milan, has fully vindicated the memory of Francesco Sforza from a calumny utterly repugnant to his noble character.[140] [Footnote 140: RICOTTI (_Storia delle Compagnie di Ventura in Italia_, 1844, vol. III., pp. 191-201) ably reviews the evidence on both sides, and satisfactorily disposes of an error which had been received during three centuries and a half.[*D]] [Footnote *D: Cf. also C.M. ADY, _op. cit._, p. 78, for a well-argued defence of Sforza.] The death of Francesco Sforza had been preceded in 1464 by that of Cosimo de' Medici, whose virtual authority at Florence, earned by his personal qualities, was exercised tacitly, and cemented by no title, until FATHER OF HIS COUNTRY was inscribed by the grateful citizens upon his tomb. These two great men had been allied by common objects of policy as well as by the sympathy of lofty minds, neither of which descended to their sons. Pietro de' Medici quickly found that his father's influence passed not with his name and wealth, whilst his own pretensions only roused the factious spirit for which Florence enjoyed an unenviable reputation. It would lead us too far from the immediate object of these pages were we to analyse the state of parties there during this crisis, and examine the conduct of leaders, who, under the mask of patriotism, sought by treachery and assassination to gratify private ambition, envy, jealousy, and revenge. Even those reformers who, with purer motives and an unwavering faith in democratic utopianism, sought to establish public liberty apart from individual ends, had no better panacea to offer than that of submitting official appointments to ballot; a singular consequence of the intelligence and, if we accept the opinions of Sismondi, of the freedom for which Florence was already preeminent. Two years of caballing concluded with results common in the republics of classic Greece and mediæval Italy; the ostracised minority saved themselves by flight, and, in order to avenge personal wrongs, brought upon their native land the disasters of foreign invasion, as well as the calamity of native broils.[141] The Medicean faction remained in the ascendant, and were intimately allied with Naples and Milan; but the exiles rallied under the winged lion of St. Mark, and endeavoured by prayers and promises to interest the Venetians in their behalf, reminding them of the support perseveringly afforded to their enemy Francesco Sforza by the Medici. These representations were cordially received by the most jealous of republics; yet with habitually crooked policy, the Signory, instead of frankly seconding the Tuscan refugees, nominally discharged Bartolomeo Colleoni from its service, but secretly aided them to engage him in an expedition against their country.[142] Colleoni, the last of the old race of stipendiary commanders, had risen to wealth and reputation, and had grown grey in years, without ever gaining an important battle. Mustering once more his veteran followers, and reinforced by several captains of adventure from Romagna and Upper Italy, he marched at the head of 8000 horse and 6000 foot through the Ferrarese, intending to enter Tuscany by the Lamone valley. [Footnote 141: These intrigues are most succinctly explained by Pignotti, but Machiavelli and Sismondi may be consulted, as well as ROSCOE'S _Life of Lorenzo de' Medici_, ch. II.] [Footnote 142: Machiavelli speaks as if Bartolomeo continued in the Venetian service, and Roscoe appears to adopt this view; but the best authorities bear out Sismondi's statement, which I have followed.] These preparations were viewed at Florence with extreme anxiety. Pietro, wavering in character and broken in health, seemed unequal to the crisis; his son Lorenzo, though full of promise, was but eighteen; the exiles had friends ready to second them at home. The foreign influence of his house was still however great, and the Dukes of Milan and Calabria led in person their contingents into the field. The confederate army was commanded by the Count of Urbino, to whose merits the following flattering attestation by Ferdinand of Naples is preserved in the pages of Muzio:--"Amid these warlike movements, and perils for Italy, it is most satisfactory that we have found a captain-general whose military skill can rival that of the ancient times. For, with all deference, who in this age has more fairly taken arms? who has led armies under happier auspices? whose conduct in pitched battles or in sieges has been more exemplary? Such questions are answered by the many honourable trophies he has wrested from the enemy; by all the cities he has taken, the fortresses he has stormed, the armies he has routed; by the victories and the booty he has carried off. Besides, it is notorious that he is not less eminent at home than abroad, not less excellent in council than in arms. And, what is still more remarkable, all this superiority is the fruit of his genius, not less than his prowess, and especially of his good faith, which, although the basis of every virtue, is the rarest of them all, and which, almost banished from earth, has taken refuge in heaven." The sincerity thus lauded had been recently tested. Vespasiano informs us that the emissaries of Venice having offered Federigo an engagement, with 80,000 ducats in war and 60,000 in peace, he simply reported it to the allies; whereupon they lost no time in arranging with him a formal condotta, which probably embodied the compliment we have cited, and which obliged him to serve against all enemies of the league, the Pontiff not excepted.[143] The Venetian agents had succeeded better with Astorre Manfredi, Lord of Faenza, in consequence of whose defection the Count of Urbino early in April marched his own company into Romagna, in order to persuade or overawe the minor feudatories of that warlike country into adherence to the confederates. During three months the two armies were in presence, the tactics of both being, as was then usual, rather a display of strategy than a struggle for victory, and the blockade of Faenza by Federigo proving the only incident worth notice. But this inactivity, though pleasant and profitable to the stipendiaries, occasioned much grumbling from those who had to find the sinews of war, especially from the exiles, whose means were quickly expended. It is alleged, in justification of the Count's temporising, that the rashness of Galeazzo Sforza had several times almost compromised the confederates; that, in order to rid them of his counsels, he was induced to visit the Medici, on pretexts which are variously stated; and that the opportunity of his absence was seized by Federigo to fight a pitched battle on his own terms. Baldi, however, informs us that Colleoni, having virtually abandoned his designs against Florence, contemplated an attack upon the Milanese, and that the confederates came into collision with him whilst intercepting his movement in that direction, of which they were fully aware. [Footnote 143: Vat. Urb. MSS. No. 941, printed in the _Specilegium Romanum_ of Cardinal Mai, I., 94.--Archivio Diplomatico di Firenze, May 15, 1467.] Although we have descriptions of many of these mediæval combats from spectators or actors, their details seldom convey an intelligible idea of the actual conflicts. Thus, whilst Muzio and Baldi prolixly recount the inconclusive movements which preceded the engagement, and introduce tedious harangues as spoken by Federigo to his army, they throw but little light upon the field manoeuvres. The battle was commenced early in the afternoon of the 25th of July, by the light cavalry of Urbino charging the enemy when about to halt for the night; and although the Count had intended to delay the attack until they were in the bustle of encamping, he gallantly supported his skirmishers in two divisions, one led by himself, the other by Roberto di Sanseverino, general-in-chief of the Milanese forces, whilst a reserve of cavalry under Donato del Conte was instructed to hover about, and render aid where required. In the heat of the engagement, Federigo, with more knight-errantry than prudence, called upon his brilliant staff, composed of his kinsman the Cavaliere Pietro Ubaldini, his future son-in-law Giovanni della Rovere, and other youths of promise, to follow him to the rescue, and, lance in rest, bore headlong into the _mêlée_. But this ill-timed gallantry had nearly cost him his life, for a foot soldier, getting under his horse, inflicted a mortal wound on the animal, and he was not saved without immense efforts of his own and those around him. The day was intensely hot, the armies had both marched some miles before they met, and after fighting for six or eight hours (some say sixteen) without apparent advantage to either side, Colleoni sent a trumpet to Federigo, suggesting that, as it was now high time to seek repose, they had better be done for the day. The staff warmly seconded this proposal, being three miles from their intended quarters; so by common consent the troops were recalled, and whilst the soldiery lit torches and fires, as substitutes for the now deepened twilight, the leaders mutually advanced to shake hands and congratulate each other on their escapes. This singular conclusion of what is generally represented as a well-fought field was quite in accordance with the received rules of military procedure; but it tempted Machiavelli, the enemy of stipendiary armies, to sneer at this affair of La Molinella as a pitched battle, lasting half a day, wherein neither side wavered, and no one fell, a few prisoners and wounded horses being the only result of the fray. This is certainly an exaggeration, but though all characterise the conflict as sanguinary, our authorities differ widely as to the loss, which probably did not exceed a few hundred men killed, including, however, several captains of note.[144] [Footnote 144: RICOTTI, III., p. 208, quotes these authorities. Our account of the battle endeavours to reconcile the Urbino writers with the generally received facts. Muzio says above 40,000 men were engaged in it. Berni estimates the Count's force at eighty-three squadrons of horse and two thousand foot against ninety-six squadrons and thrice as many infantry; the killed he states at 500, and the wounded at the same number, chiefly on the side of Colleoni. The Ferrarese diarist, speaking of an engagement fought close to his capital, may be preferred to Machiavelli. He considers the loss on both sides at 500 killed, and 1000 mortally wounded, besides "above 1000 horses ripped up;" and mentions Saturday, the 23rd of July, as the date of the battle. Roscoe, in a succinct account of the campaign, cites three authorities for his facts, but two of these refer to points of unimportant detail (one of them quoting a recent writer, whose information is at second hand), while the third establishes a view entirely passed by in the text. I mention this in no spirit of cavilling, but to show the inutility of a system of copious and indiscriminate reference by foot-notes, which, without pretending to establish every momentous statement, constantly distracts attention from the continuous narrative. Corio, a contemporary at the court of Milan, has, by confusing his master's two visits to Florence, misrepresented this engagement as fought in 1471. He mentions some incidents of it, one of which, whether accurate or not, is characteristic of such battles. Federigo, towards the close of the conflict, meeting Alessandro Sforza, whose daughter he had married, but who then fought against him, exclaimed, "Oh, my lord and father! we have already done enough;" to which Sforza replied, "This I leave you to determine;" whereupon both commanders called off their troops. Another anecdote represents Galeazzo Maria as severely blaming the Count of Urbino for not securing a decided victory by a more vigorous onset; to which the latter replied he was nowise to blame, and would leave it to any one cognisant of the art of war to say if he had not proceeded after the rules of military tactics. But so little was the Duke satisfied with this plea, that, when the Count went afterwards to visit him at Milan, he threatened to decapitate him, and would have done so but for the intervention of his secretary Simonetta, a personal friend of Federigo. The latter, taking the hint, soon retired, and made the best of his way home. Notwithstanding Corio's authority, and Galeazzo Maria's impetuous temper, this story appears apocryphal: see our immediate context, p. 189.] The peculiar feature of the day was the employment of flying artillery, gunnery having, till now, been limited to clumsy battering-pieces, adapted only for sieges and fortifications. The new weapons called spingards and invented by Colleoni were long swivels, measuring three cubits,[145] mounted upon carriages, and discharging balls somewhat larger than a walnut or plum. Although the advantage has been claimed for the confederates, the battle was a drawn one; indeed, Colleoni remained upon the field, whilst Federigo led his exhausted troops to the encampment he had previously resolved on. Yet the results became equivalent to a victory as regarded the Medici, for their outlawed opponents, no longer possessing money or credit, were overlooked in the arrangements for peace which followed early next year. Galeazzo Sforza having withdrawn most of his troops for protection of his frontier on the side of Savoy, the autumn was passed by the armies beating over their former ground about Faenza and Imola, Federigo vainly anxious, as we are assured, to bring on another engagement. Finally, sickness and winter terminated a campaign quite unworthy of the space that has been allowed it by most annalists. [Footnote 145: So described by Ricotti, who apparently has declined reducing this measurement to an intelligible quantity. The cubit of Vitruvius was of six, sixteen, or thirty-six palms, a Roman palm being nine inches and a half. Dr. Johnson defines the cubit as eighteen or twenty-one Paris inches. Such want of precision in weights, measures, and money, occasions constant and often inextricable embarrassment in mediæval history.] In one respect, however, it was not unimportant to the Count of Urbino, for it gave him opportunities of improving an acquaintance with the youthful Duke of Milan, and of cementing his tried friendship for the house of Sforza. So long as Colleoni kept the field, he was watched by the Count, who rightly guessed that, under pretext of the descent upon Florence, he was ready enough to carry the banner of St. Mark into the Milanese, should a favourable opportunity offer. Even after peace was concluded, Federigo remained in Lombardy, and was employed by Galeazzo Maria on the honourable mission of receiving at Genoa his bride, Bona of Savoy, on her arrival from the French court, over which her sister presided. Having conducted her to Milan, the marriage was celebrated in July, 1468, after which he at length contrived to repair home. From thence, however, he was speedily summoned to return, and, as the Duke's captain-general, to take the field against the Savoyards, and afterwards to reduce Brisella on the Po, whose inhabitants had attempted to stir up new strife among the rival powers of Italy. The autumn was well advanced ere these matters were arranged. Galeazzo presented him with a palace at Milan, and relying upon his judgment and experience, detained him there during the winter to assist in organising his state. The arrival of Frederick III. at Venice early in the year appeared to impose on the Duke, as his principal feudatory, the duty of a special mission, and Federigo was selected for that distinction. His object was, however, misrepresented to the Emperor, who consequently altered his route and proceeded to Rome for his coronation. On the 1st of March, 1469, the Count returned to Urbino. Ricotti mentions, as a startling proof of the low estate to which the imperial authority had now been reduced in Italy, that the King of the Romans on this occasion asked of Colleoni a safe conduct for himself and suite, on their way to the nominal capital of his empire! During his absence, the detested Lord of Rimini closed his wayward career. No Italian prince of this century fills so picturesque a niche in mediæval history; none has more fully realised its worse vices, or so narrowly escaped its noblest qualities. Bred as a soldier of fortune, and numbering among his subjects the most martial population of the Peninsula, his bravery when tested became mere bravado, his duplicity rendered him a dangerous adherent to any cause. Unbounded ambition was in him so marked by selfishness, ready talent so clogged by overweening conceit, that all his efforts and aspirations resulted in failure, and with the means and opportunities of establishing an important sovereignty, he left behind him but a shadow of departed power. His domestic morals were scandalous in an age of notorious laxity. Not only were his three wives sacrificed to jealousy or vengeance, but their murders are boastfully alluded to on his monument in the miserable jest, that although the horns he wore were visible enough, he had found means to curtail them.[146] [Footnote 146: Such, at least, is the key afforded by Sansovino to the obscure couplet inscribed on his tomb in his great edifice of S. Francesco:-- "Porto le corna ch'ogn'uno le vede, E tal le porta che non se lo crede." Baldi asserts for all his wives an unblemished reputation, and charges him with the murder of but two of them. Mazzuchelli alleges that he jilted or repudiated the first, and made away with the next two.] His progeny were all illegitimate, and several of them came to violent ends. The sole redeeming trait of human kindness that seems to have softened his harsh and treacherous nature was his affection for Isotta, whom he raised from obscurity to participate in his affections, or as some say his rank. However that may have been, she shares such celebrity as has been conferred on him by the creations of art and literature which he sedulously patronised, and in which chiefly his name survives, although their humanising influences left no impress on his haughty and cruel nature. Mariotti remarks, that "an Italian prince in those days durst not be a barbarian. A murderer, perhaps, stained with the most flagitious crimes, he might be; but he must seek his absolution in works of munificence, he must atone for his outrages against public morality by his devotion to the cause of learning and homage to the public taste." So was it with Sigismondo.[*147] Valturio tells us that he read a great deal, and often took part in discussions and disputations upon philosophy, letters, and arts, with a patience of contradiction which honourably contrasted with his usual outbreaks of temper. At his court were entertained Porcellio, Basinio, Trebanio, and other Latinist poetasters, who repaid such hospitality by a meed of fulsome and long-forgotten doggerel, and celebrated the beauty and accomplishments of his mistress. Italy could boast of no architect superior to Leon Alberti, no military engineer more skilful than Valturio: he employed the former on the church of S. Francesco at Rimini, which marks an era in the revival of art; the latter, under his auspices, wrote on the science of war, and exemplified its practice in constructing the castle of that town: both of these buildings enshrine the name and munificence of Sigismondo Pandolfo. But the most pleasing memorials of a prince by name and by nature chief of the _wrong-heads_ (if we may be pardoned a pun upon Malatesta) are the medallions in bronze struck for him by Pisani, Di Pastis, and other celebrated medalists, one of which we here introduce. Zanetti's publication on the mint of Rimini gives twelve of these without exhausting their number; they preserve his manly bust and Isotta's matronly features, whilst the sculptures of S. Francesco familiarise us with the elephant and negro-heads borne as their respective cognisances. [Footnote *147: It is perhaps needless to assert the partiality of this verdict on the life and character of Sigismondo Malatesta. That, after a considerable study of all the available sources of his life and times, I have come to a very different conclusion regarding him, it is perhaps not altogether egotistical to point out. If I send the reader, then, to my own work on this extraordinary man (_Sigismondo Malatesta_, by EDWARD HUTTON, Dent, 1906), it is that there is no other work concerned with him in the English language. As for Dennistoun, most of what he says, even though it were just in its conclusions, is inaccurate in detail. To begin with, Sigismondo was only "detested" by his enemies; the people of Rimini appear to have loved him, supporting him in his troubles, and loyally standing by his wife Isotta after his death. His bravery is sufficiently proved by a thousand encounters, notably that (described at page 150 of my book) when he outwitted his captors and spent the whole night in a marsh up to his neck in water; or that in which he set out to kill the Pope in the Vatican, and would have done so but that he found him surrounded by cardinals, armed. That his domestic morals were bad, "even in that age of laxity," I am not eager to deny; but no single crime of this sort laid at his door, chiefly by his bitterest enemy Pio II., who in his relations with Sigismondo always seems least himself, can be proved--I have tried to prove them--and all can be very easily denied. As for his three wives, which, according to Dennistoun, he "sacrificed to jealousy or vengeance," it will be sufficient to say that the first Madonna Ginevra d'Este appears to have died of fever at Villa Scolca while Sigismondo was besieging Forlimpopoli, and in any case the d'Este remained his close friends after her death. Neither Clementini (_op. cit._) nor Battaglini (_op. cit._) nor Broglio, in his unpublished life, know anything of the supposed murder, which, so far as I know, was first laid at Sigismondo's door by Pio II., who hated him for his treachery to Siena. Sigismondo's second wife was Madonna Polissena, daughter of Francesco Sforza. Again, when she died of plague in Rimini, Sigismondo was absent in Lombardy. (Cf. CLEMENTINI, _op. cit._ II., 363, who accuses Pio II. of this second libel also.) As for his third wife Isotta, who had been his mistress, she outlived him, and was killed at last, as is supposed, by her stepson Roberto, in the service of Pope Paul II., who coveted Rimini, and would have had it but that Roberto outwitted him. What motive Sigismondo can have had in murdering his two wives, both daughters of powerful houses, does not appear. To Dennistoun "the sole redeeming trait" in his character was his love of Isotta; but we, less strict perhaps than in middle Victorian times, shall always love and honour him as one of the earliest and most sincere of Italian humanists and patrons of learning and art, a true lover of beauty and a protector of scholars and poets. As for the "deification of his paramour" (p. 194), I do not know what it means; but if it refers to the "Divine" Isotta, it was a common mode of address in that age: and for the decoration of the Tempio, they are not pagan gods (alas!), but the planets we see there; they illustrate a poem Sigismondo wrote in his youth. Dennistoun (note, p. 194) insists that Sigismondo had three wives before Isotta, though Sismondi would have put him right there. He has been misled probably by an early betrothal of Sigismondo to the daughter of Carmagnuola, who, on her father's execution by the Venetians, was repudiated.] It is remarkable how entirely his virtues and vices, his talents and tastes, were formed upon the standards of paganism, and one circumstance alone was wanting to place him on a level with the heroes of classic times,--that he had been born a heathen. Thus, his selfish daring, his reckless waste of human life and welfare, needed but the name of Mars to sanctify them; his unscrupulous and insatiable lust had been welcome incense at the shrine of Venus; the murder of his wives and the deification of his paramour found orthodox precedents in many demigods. So too was it with his encouragement of letters and art. The verses of his laureates were modelled after the most approved classical adulation. His architects were employed in the art of war, his sculptors upon heroic medals and devices commemorative of himself and his favourite mistress; the church which he built as a monument of his magnificence is covered with ornaments, emblems, and tombs so profane in character, that but for its dedication to St. Francis, it might scarcely have been taken for a Christian shrine. The latter scenes of his life have a touch of romantic interest altogether wanting to its more prosperous days. When deprived of substantial sovereignty, he left the scene of his humiliation, and turning against the Crescent those arms which had often been arrayed against the Keys, as a captain of adventure he led the Venetian troops to encounter the Infidel in the Morea. There he distinguished himself in 1464-5, and then returned to Italy, bringing, it is said, the dry bones of Themistios, a Byzantine philosopher, to a court no longer open for living celebrities of literature. His haughty spirit spurned all overtures from the Pontiff, who sought to anticipate the devolution of Rimini to the Holy See by bribing him into a quiet surrender of it during his life; but abject in misfortune as he had been arrogant in prosperity, and disgusted at the contrast of his fallen fortunes, he pined and died before completing his fifty-second year.[148] [Footnote 148: According to his epitaph, on the 7th ides, being the 9th of October, 1468. Sismondi, chap. lxxxi., says on the 13th; calls him father-in-law of Count Federigo; and speaks of his having but two wives besides Isotta. He certainly had three; while his connection with the house of Urbino arose from his brother Domenico having married the sister of Federigo, and his son Roberto espousing a daughter of that Count. Nothing can be more terse and graphic than the sketch of his character by Pius II. in his _Commentaries_, book II., p. 51.] [Illustration: PORTRAIT OF LEON BATTISTA ALBERTI _From the relief by Pisanello in the Dreyfus Collection_] The death of Sigismondo without legitimate male issue inferred the lapse of his fief to the Church, and this devolution was expressly stipulated by his convention with Pius II. in 1463. But Isotta, finding herself in possession of Rimini, and personally popular with the citizens, asserted an alleged bequest of its late lord in favour of his son Sallustio, and stood on the defensive. Nor was this unequal resistance hopeless. The neighbouring feudatories were necessarily opposed to ecclesiastical rights that greatly infringed the value of their own tenure. Venice regarded with jealousy any extension of papal influence in Romagna, and was ever ready, for her own ends, to support the petty princes there. Relying, therefore, on external support, Isotta closed the gates when summoned in name of the Pontiff, and the people, proud of their independence and abhorring provincial insignificance, seconded her resistance. Roberto, the eldest of Sigismondo's bastards, was in the papal service on the confines of Naples, and on him Paul fixed as the instrument for attaining his object without a contest. Summoning him to his presence, he assumed an air of patronising interest, and by large promises induced him to repair to Rimini, and so contrive that the ecclesiastical troops should be quietly admitted. Heir of his father's duplicity though not of his rights, Malatesta lent himself to this intrigue with a secret view to his personal ends, and after binding himself by hand and seal to the Pope's stipulations, he early in January entered the city in disguise. No guest could have been less welcome to Isotta, but at a juncture so delicate she was content to dissemble, and accept his amicable professions. Federigo's condotta in the papal service had just expired, leaving him free to consult the dictates of policy, his views as to which were stated in an appeal to Pietro de' Medici on behalf of Rimini, in words which may almost be deemed prophetic. "I am constrained to believe that the Pontiff and the Venetian Signory intend to occupy Rimini and all Romagna, and eventually Bologna too. Rimini once lost, the rest will readily follow, and your lordship and the league may easily suppose where Bologna and Imola would then be. Those who will not resist such projects at first may have afterwards to pay a hundredfold, and God grant that it be then to good purpose." He proceeded in person to Milan in order to urge these considerations upon Galeazzo Maria, to whom they came with greater cogency as he had purchased Imola from the Manfredi. Whilst there he favourably received overtures from Roberto, and arranged a new confederation of Milan, Florence, and Naples for the independence of Rimini, of which he was general-in-chief, with a command for Malatesta. The latter, now throwing off all disguise, wrote to the Pope his best excuses for resiling from his engagement, and, after persuading Isotta to retire out of harm's way, proclaimed himself seigneur of Rimini.[*149] [Footnote *149: Roberto murdered Isotta. With the assistance of the Pope and Federigo of Urbino he had set out to win Rimini--for himself, as it proved. Once within the walls he first befriended Isotta, finding her too strong in the affections of the people to oppose openly. On August 8, 1470, Sallustio was found dead in a well belonging to the Marcheselli in Rimini, and within the year Isotta died also, of poison, as was believed, for Valerio, her second son, was openly slain by Roberto not long after.] The contest which ensued was one of the many paltry "squabbles for towns and castles" which ever recur in restless Italy, to distract the historian without affording him materials for a stirring episode. The league were bound to bring up a considerable force of cavalry in their respective proportions, but their hearts were not in a cause where they had to support the weaker side, and ere they took the field, Alessandro Sforza, at the head of the ecclesiastical troops, had carried the suburbs of Rimini and reduced the city to great straits.[150] Federigo, after repeated efforts, persuaded the Neapolitan contingent to risk a march through the enemy's country, whereupon Sforza fell back from the leaguer to provide for his own defence. This movement was, however, but of partial benefit to Malatesta, for, as the allies were bound only to defensive operations, they withheld their assistance beyond maintaining him in the limited state of which his father died possessed. Such trifling, and the do-little tactics by which it was supported, scarcely consisted with the exigence, for though the cause was at first unimportant, the disgust and indignation felt by Paul at being outwitted by an almost beardless boy led him to entertain vast schemes of vengeance, extending to the partition of Romagna with his countrymen of Venice, and to a new war for the Neapolitan succession. [Footnote 150: The following dispatch by the Count to the priors of Siena, from Urbino, the 27th of July, before the confederates had appeared, proves how unimportant were the proceedings of the siege. "Since I last wrote your lordships, nothing new has occurred beyond some attempts by the besiegers of Rimini, to which those of the town offered such resistance that they proved fruitless, indeed, rather detrimental. It also happened, by a sudden and unexpected chance, that the barks and armed vessels which blockaded the town were dispersed and scattered; one if not two of them are known to have foundered, but nothing further has yet been heard of their fate."--Archiv. Diplom. at Siena.] The movement of Sforza to Vergiliano, a few miles west of Rimini, had virtually raised the siege, and the confederates lay round Cerasolo, about the same distance to the south. Matters were now at a dead-lock, for the actual territory in dispute being thus cleared of papal troops, the allies had no pretext for aggressive operations, although Roberto was obviously exposed to destruction should they withdraw, which they showed every disposition to do. In order to bring matters to a point, Federigo informed Malatesta that it was for him to attack; and as his tiny garrison could effect nothing beyond a predatory incursion on the papal territory, it was concerted that he should assail Mulazzano, whilst the Count sent some troops to protect Rimini. The scheme succeeded to their hearts' content, for Sforza, moved by complaints from the menaced villages, quitted his position in order to check the marauders and occupy new ground within reach of Mulazzano. Federigo, informed of this intention, foresaw that he would encamp, at all events pass, near his cantonments, and prepared to give him battle. It was not without opposition that he obtained the approval of his languid supporters, but having done so, he thus harangued his troops:[151] "Soldiers! I have good news for you. The enemy have a fancy to water their horses in that stream where we water ours, and for this purpose have resolved to encamp right opposite us. If you would know why I take this for so good news, I shall tell you. I know that you all ply the trade of arms in order to gain you honour and advantage; and if the enemy come, as I have said, I shall lead you where each of you will have equal opportunity of displaying his gallantry. Take no thought that they outnumber you, for victory is gained by valour and not by multitudes, and the more they are, the greater your glory and plunder. I already know well your bravery, and you should have no doubts when I promise you so sure a victory, since that I see how it is to be won. This much I can say, that I even now feel as ample satisfaction in the triumph which I anticipate from your valour as if it were already gained; yet for your satisfaction I have something to add. They are coming to make a lodgment without an idea of opposition, and therefore fool-hardily and incautiously; we shall thus probably find them in disorder, whilst we are fully prepared for action. At all events we shall come upon them encumbered by baggage and disheartened, which affects both mind and body; and being ourselves in light order and prepared for battle, the advantage must be all with us. Should they fancy returning whence they came, we shall let them see what it is to show their backs to an enemy. One way or other the victory will be ours, and besides having my word you may assure yourselves of it, for it is in your own hands." [Footnote 151: We have spared our readers the numerous orations with which Baldi, emulating the style of Livy, has interpolated his narrative. This one is taken from Muzio, and may be a fair specimen of the eloquence then in use on similar occasions.] The battle took place on the 29th or 30th of August, on ground selected by Federigo. During three hours the enemy vainly sought to make an impression on his position, at the end of which time Roberto came up with some fresh battalions, and the papal forces began to retire. Whereupon the Count, rushing forward, exclaimed to his men, "I promised you that, should the enemy give signs of retreat, you would make them feel what it is to show heels, and I must keep my word. At them now! and having maintained your ground against their attack, does not this encourage you to set upon them when flying? Come merrily on with me, who promise you a glorious and dashing victory!" Their flight soon became a rout; the confederates, pursuing in good order, carried the ecclesiastical camp by a _coup-de-main_, and were rewarded by immense booty. The enemy, who considerably outnumbered them, were scattered to the winds, the leaders seeking shelter in various towns of Romagna. Though the dead did not exceed a few hundreds, a vast number of horses, standards, artillery, and prisoners were taken, including many captains of note. Muzio thinks it necessary to defend Federigo for this victory, as scarcely within the stipulated object of the league, that of resisting aggressions upon Roberto's proper territory of Rimini; and it was perhaps from a consciousness of this objection that he adopted the very unusual course of dismissing all prisoners without ransom, after an oration on the chances of war, and his personal regret at being called upon to draw the sword against his ecclesiastical over-lord. Such a course was, however, consistent with his general feelings and practice; and there now occurred an opportunity for the special manifestation of his generosity. Count Gian Francesco of Pian di Meleto, who, though a subject of Montefeltro, had been ever a partisan of Sigismondo Pandolfo, and a personal foe of Federigo, was on this occasion in the pay of Alessandro Sforza, and, being captured on the fall of his horse, was with difficulty rescued by Federigo himself from the summary punishment intended by his exasperated adherents. When the battle was over, he and his son were summoned by the victorious general, and while awaiting the sentence befitting their treason, were thus addressed by their over-lord: "Count, this will be evil news for your wife, and it would be right to console her by tidings of your welfare and her son's. It is therefore my pleasure that you both be the bearers of them to her." He then dismissed them home with an escort. Federigo's commission being now effectually fulfilled, and having no warrant for pursuing the war into the papal territory, he retired to Urbino, leaving Roberto in the field to follow up the recent victory. Although blamed for wavering during the early part of the battle, in order to fall back upon Rimini had its fortune been adverse, the latter was not slow to profit by its results, and ere November he had re-established the Malatestan sovereignty over the whole fiefs of Rimini and Fano, as well as part of the vicariat of Sinigaglia. The first fruit of Federigo's triumph was a very flattering commission from the Duke of Milan as lieutenant-general of his state, accompanied with 10,000 golden ducats in payment of his claims upon Francesco Sforza. But ere long there broke out those jealousies which chronically afflicted all Italian confederacies. The contingents of Milan and Florence, arriving too late for the battle, shared neither its glory nor its spoils, which thus fell in a great measure to the Neapolitans, whose sovereign was already regarded with no friendly eye by the haughty Lombard Prince. The liberality of the latter to the Count of Urbino was but a covert bribe to alienate him from the league, and secure his undivided services, but it was unavailing against the prior and long-established claims of the house of Aragon. Thus thwarted, Galeazzo Maria withheld from Federigo his quota of the pay promised by the allies, namely 70,000 scudi in war, and half as much in peace, and refused to contribute with them to the expense of maintaining Roberto in Rimini. This ebullition of temper, dictated by no animosity against Federigo, occasioned a diet of the powers at Florence, which, however, failed to arrange their differences. Pietro de' Medici being dead, his influence had descended to his more talented son, who, finding that the wily Venetians were courting a separate treaty with Ferdinand, hastened to urge upon his allies the importance of sinking minor differences, and maintaining the league as the best guarantee for the repose of Italy. These representations had due weight. The confederacy was renewed, and a peace concluded in December with the Pope, provided to Roberto all the territory of which his father died possessed. The following letters of Federigo to the Signory of Siena testify his interest in these arrangements, the bearings of which on the policy of Italy and Europe have been ably stated by Sismondi in his eighty-first chapter. "I believe your lordships have learned the rupture of the most serene and illustrious league, and how this came about, whereat I feel the utmost dissatisfaction and regret. Not that I have on my own part to lament any want of such exertion and action for its continuance and union as my duty demanded, but that fortune so willed it. Yet I entertain a hope and assurance that the peace of Italy will not thereby be compromised; indeed matters may, as often happens, turn out eventually better than they were at first." [May 8, 1470.] "Mighty and potent Lords, dearest Fathers, "Your lordships' letters by this courier have afforded me much pleasure, as they must ever in all circumstances do, but especially when it is in my power to perform something acceptable to your lordships, or to comply with any request of yours. I am well assured, as your lordships observe, that you are fully informed up to this time of the transactions among the Italian powers, and of the difficulties that have arisen; of these, therefore, I need say nothing. I do not understand that as yet matters have assumed a definite shape, or been finally decided upon; although it is quite possible that something has been concluded at Naples, where the ambassadors of all these states are assembled, but there has not yet been time for me to hear of it. Thus much I may, however, say to your lordships, that I hope things will at all events issue in a satisfactory peace, towards which these views of the Turk ought to incline every one, for all tempers, however rough or obdurate, ought at this juncture to yield and bend for the general advantage of the Christian religion. I am also able to assure your lordships that your republic and its honour and character must derive quite as much satisfaction, utility, and benefit from peace and tranquillity as any other community, seeing the affection generally entertained for it, especially by the serene King. I commend myself to your lordships. From Urbino, the 7th of July, 1470. "FEDERIGO COUNT OF MONTEFELTRO, URBINO, AND DURANTE."[152] [Footnote 152: From the original in Italian in the Archivio Diplomatico at Siena.] The duplicity of Italian diplomacy has passed into a proverb, and by none was it more constantly practised than by the successors of St. Peter. The investiture of Roberto, although a specific stipulation of the new league, was constantly evaded by Paul, until, after months of procrastination, death released his Holiness from the engagement. His successor, Sixtus IV., was a friend of Federigo and of the Neapolitan Monarch, and through their mediation Malatesta obtained prompt performance of the obligation. Thus established in a seigneury, long the heritage of bastards, Roberto allied himself more intimately with the Count of Urbino, by espousing, on the 28th of March, 1472, his daughter Elisabetta (or Isabella, for the names were synonymous), then about nine years old; and thus were happily closed the long feuds of these rival races.[153] [Footnote 153: Her mother having been then married but eleven years, Berni is palpably wrong in calling the bride nineteen. Three years appear to have intervened between this betrothal and the nuptials, that the bride might attain the age of puberty. Roberto Malatesta had from his contemporaries the appellation of Magnifico, in common with others of like station. The authorities quoted by Roscoe (ch. ii., note 49), as proving this distinction to have been special to Lorenzo de' Medici, are comparatively modern, and do not countervail repeated instances of its adoption by personages of much less mark. Neither is Sismondi correct in considering it a generic title of such princes as possessed no other.] [Illustration: POPE SIXTUS IV. _From a miniature prefixed to the dedication copy of Platina's Lives of the Popes in the Vatican Library_] In writing to the Signory of Siena regarding the election of Sixtus, Federigo says "there could not have been a choice more worthy, better, or more consonant with the requirements of the Christian religion." We shall ere long have ample means of testing the accuracy of this opinion. Under its influence he attended the coronation, the splendour whereof is described by a spectator in these somewhat inflated terms: "The only news I have to tell you is about the triumphant and unexampled honours paid by all Italy to the new Pontiff, a detailed account of which would be more proper for history than suited to a letter. Your renowned Federigo surpassed all others in magnificence and pomp, the number of his mettlesome chargers, with their rich trappings and housings, astonishing every one. So perfect was the order, so effective the marshalling of the nobles, knights, pages, and select attendants who surrounded him, that on him were centred the eyes of all. In front of the procession the crash of clanging trumpets rang through the sky, nearer the centre the ear was soothed by the sweeter melody of flutes, whilst in the rear bells tinkled an accompaniment to the dulcet harmony of voluptuous lyres. Every one was dressed in gold, silver, silk, or some such precious stuff. On the necks and head-gear of many sparkled oriental gems, and the number of collars, necklaces, and bracelets exceeded what all Italy might have been expected to produce. But supereminent and conspicuous above the others was the Crown Prince of Naples, a very Absalom, borne on a proud and prancing charger, and wearing a scarf radiant with gold and pearls. When the cortège reached the Piazza di San Celso, and crowned the bridge, the heavens seemed to bellow and shake from explosions of artillery in the castle of St. Angelo, startling the fretted steeds, whose bounding movements were truly beautiful. The streets, squares, porticos, and windows were insufficient to contain the spectators."[154] [Footnote 154: Letter of Matteo Bosso, quoted by Riposati, I., 409.] It was about this time that the hospitalities of Urbino were called into exercise by the arrival of unusual guests. The sceptre of Persia had been usurped by an adventurer, whom Italian writers have generally named Usum-cassan,[155] and whom the far-seeing policy of Venice had some fifteen years before induced to attack the Asiatic Turks. So useful an ally was conciliated by Calixtus V., as well as by the Maritime Republic; and in 1471 the oriental despot sent an embassy to confirm his relations with these powers, and obtained from them some artillery to be employed against the common enemy. His envoys, after being laden at Venice with those rare and magnificent gifts which their ramified commerce enabled its merchant princes to command, visited several petty courts in their way to Rome and Naples. Their arrival at Urbino was commemorated by the singular compliment of introducing their portraits, along with that of the Count, into an altar-picture executed by Justus of Ghent for the fraternity of Corpus Christi. Of this work we shall have to speak in our thirtieth chapter: it still hangs in the church of Sta. Agata,[*156] and represents the celebration of the Last Supper in the manner of the Romish communion, the Count and the Persian envoys figuring as spectators. In departing, they carried with them a complimentary letter in Latin from Federigo to their master, which mentions that it was written at their request. [Footnote 155: So written by Pietro Bizarro, whose _Historia Rerum Persicarum_ is our chief authority for these circumstances. The letter of Federigo (Urb. Vat. MSS. No. 1198) has Asanbech Kan; it is also written Uzun Hassan Bey. The picture is mentioned in PUNGILEONE, _Elogio di Giovanni Santi_, pp. 11 and 64.] [Footnote *156: The picture is now in the Pinacoteca.] The princely manner of welcome already established at this mountain court, which in after generations became proverbial for magnificent hospitalities, may be learned from the visit of Borso, Marquis of Ferrara, who, in March, 1471, while passing to Rome, spent four days at Urbino and Gubbio, with an escort of 500 horsemen, 100 on foot, and 150 mules. He was immediately thereafter made Duke by Paul, who signalised his elevation by a hunting-field on the most exaggerated scale. Berni tells us that it brought together about 25,000 people, and that among the returns of slaughter were 100 oxen, and as many calves. Ere a few months had passed, the Pontiff and the Duke were numbered with the dead; the former died unregretted, but the mild sway of the latter passed into a proverb, "the time of Duke Borso" being long quoted in contrast with that of less popular sovereigns. During next year another remarkable guest arrived. Pietro Riario, the new Pontiff's favourite nephew, having been raised by him to the purple, and appointed legate of all Italy, made a pompous progress throughout the provinces thus placed under his nominal jurisdiction.[*157] He was met on the frontier by the Count, accompanied by the Lords of Faenza, Rimini, and Pesaro, with a noble following, and conducted to the palace of Gubbio, Federigo and his nephew Ottaviano della Carda leading the palfrey of this proud parvenu. The name of Pietro will recur in our thirty-first chapter; meanwhile we may cite the sketch of him preserved to us by Giovanni Sanzi in reference to this visit. [Footnote *157: I am in some doubt here. Guerriero says (see _op. cit. supra_, p. 21) that on 27 April, 1472, the Cardinal [Bessarione] Niceno, called the Cardinal Greco, came to Gubbio on his way into France as Legate. "Fo de lunedì. Foli facto grande honore. Stecto in Ugubio tucto el martedì et in quello dì cresimò el figliolo piccino del Signor Conte con grande festa, el mercoledì partì ... laso ... certe indulgentie al sepulcro novamente facto in la fraternità di Bianchi in Ugubio." As to Pietro Riario, I can find nothing; but it may well have been as Dennistoun says.] "He was a man, if well his mind I wot, Magnanimous but lavish; to his friends Most generous and liberal; to the learned A patron kind, though indiscriminate. The locust well might typify his life: In youth a friar, but no longer bent On things of such high import, now he deemed Himself all but supreme. Yet of his deeds No record lives in prose or lofty song, No fame but of a splendour all apart From churchman's calling, more offensive still To laymen. Thus elate and arrogant (For pride of place the youthful heart corrupts), His whim it was through Italy to speed In gorgeous array, till sudden death Snatched him from these delights.... Just as a locust by the sun struck down, So perished in their prime his fancies vain, Despite the projects hatched beneath the shade Of his red hat." CHAPTER X Birth of Prince Guidobaldo--Count Federigo captures Volterra--Is again widowed--Receives the Garter and the Ermine--Is made Duke of Urbino--His patronage of learned men. Eleven years had now gone by since the marriage of Federigo, and had given him eight daughters. Although the laws of succession were neither well defined nor rigorously adhered to among Italian feudatories, a general desire to see the sovereignty secured in the line of one so justly beloved was felt throughout his state. For an object beyond human aid recourse was had to the Disposer of all good, and to Him were the prayers both of sovereigns and subjects continuously addressed for the blessing of a boy. We are told by Odasio, that the anxious Battista hesitated not to offer her own life in return for the boon of a son worthy of his father; and he gravely attests this supernatural answer to her own and her people's intercession. She saw in a dream a lovely phoenix perched upon a lofty tree, which, after sitting there for thirty-six days, winged its flight heavenward until it touched the sun, and then disappeared in flames. Coincident with this vision was the fulfilment of her desire, and in due time she presented her delighted husband and subjects with a beautiful boy.[158] As her dream occurred while resident at Gubbio, and in supposed response to appeals addressed through S. Ubaldo, the patron of that city, she was careful that her confinement should likewise take place under his auspices. The child was born there on the 17th or 24th of January, 1472,[*159] and whilst the grateful piety of his parents ordered solemn public devotional acknowledgments for the boon, the universal joy was testified by popular festivities and illuminations, which were prolonged until Lent set in. A few days after his birth he was baptised in the cathedral with becoming solemnity by the Bishop, Antonio de' Severi. The names selected were GUIDO PAULO UBALDO, of which the second seems never to have been used: the first was, as we have seen, of historical illustration in the family of Montefeltro; the last acknowledged the presumed mediation of the Gubbian saint.[160] [Footnote 158: BEMBI, _Opera_, I., p. 588. The portentous tale is gravely repeated by BALDI in his _Life of Duke Guidobaldo_; and as an instance of the twaddle of Italian biographies, we may translate literally the reverend abbot's exposition of the exertions through which the Count and Countess at length obtained a male heir: "Meanwhile, being both of them resolved to leave nothing untried, they, under the direction of prudent physicians, unceasingly employed potent remedies, calculated to invigorate them, and, in as far as practicable, to supply by artificial means the defects of nature. Aware more especially of the efficacy of pious works, accompanied by righteous and fervent prayers to the Most High, they distributed vast alms, aiding them with vows and with public and private prayers." After this sample, we need not dwell upon the prodigies preceding, nor the astrological calculations occasioned by the appearance of the _dieu-donné_.] [Footnote *159: 24 January, 1472. Cf. UGOLINI, _op. cit._, vol. I., p. 497. Cf. _infra_, p. 282.] [Footnote 160: Berni, the annalist of Gubbio, says the names were Ubaldo Girolamo Vincenzio.] The next partial interruption to the peace which reigned through the Peninsula arose on the side of Tuscany, and called forth the energies of Federigo. There are varying accounts how the squabbles of a few miners brought on a sanguinary contest; but its origin may thus be explained. Volterra, though nominally independent, was tributary to Florence, and under her protection. That community possessed a wide extent of rocky and barren pastures, leased annually by auction for the public good. The poverty of their surface was amply compensated by minerals buried under an arid volcanic soil, which contained abundance of alum, vitriol, salt, and sulphur, besides a sprinkling of precious metals. Some enterprising speculators having obtained a five years' lease of a portion of these grazing lands, formed a mining company along with several Florentine capitalists. The success attending their adventure roused the jealousy of certain Volterran citizens, who grudging such gains at the public expense raised a riot, in which the company's works were injured. The merchants of Florence appealed to their own government, and the intervention thus commenced led to further outrages, until, at the instance of Lorenzo de' Medici, an expedition to humble this contumacy was resolved on. After explaining to the confederate powers the causes of quarrel, the Florentine executive thus announced to their troops Count Federigo's appointment as their leader:-- "On looking round for a captain worthy of your valour, there has been no difficulty in finding one, who from his earliest years has been signalised, under the eyes of you all, by so many and great feats of arms, that there cannot be a question whom you ought to ask for, and we to give. In former times it has frequently happened that a safe commander has been discovered after great exertions and amid grievous perils. But, in this menacing war, the skill, gallantry, influence, and good fortune of the Lord of Urbino save us all trouble in searching out a leader for our army." Federigo was accordingly placed at the head of a hastily mustered force, estimated by Machiavelli at above ten thousand men, though stated much more moderately by Ammirato. Loathing the horrors of an almost civil contest, the Count anxiously desired an amicable arrangement, or, failing that, a prompt issue of this petty quarrel. In a few days he overran the territory "Of lordly Volaterra, Where scowls the far-famed hold Piled by the hands of giants, For god-like kings of old;" and from his quarters at Mazzola, within four miles of their gates, dissuaded the authorities from an unavailing defence, urging, according to Baldi, among other motives for wishing to spare their city, that it was the birthplace of Persius the poet, and offering his mediation to procure for them favourable terms. The magistracy, turning a deaf ear alike to friendly remonstrances and classic associations, began to fortify the place, although without a single ally, and unable to engage more than a thousand stipendiaries. To the infinite disgust of the Florentine commissaries, who desired to humble and punish a rebellious vassal, Federigo allowed the defences to be completed, on pretext of awaiting reinforcements of his own, and the pontifical troops, but in the secret hope that emissaries whom he had sent among the citizens might have better success in conciliatory representations. His forbearance was, however, unavailing against obstinate infatuation, and on the arrival of these auxiliaries, a bombardment was begun from the eastern side of the town. Its site was naturally strong, and the tactics of a siege were then always dilatory, so three weeks passed ere a breach was effected in the wall, and even then several days were spent in bringing up to it covered approaches for the assaulting party. The stipendiaries, regarding the cause as hopeless, now deserted, and the citizens deemed it full time to sue for terms. After negotiations, which were remitted to Florence, it was agreed to surrender the place, on a pledge that life and property would be spared, and that the past would be buried in oblivion. But the authorities, apprehending from their own populace and garrison an outbreak of indignation against these conditions, stipulated that troops should be secretly introduced for preservation of order, preparatory to admitting the besiegers. By some mismanagement, this attempt led to renewed hostilities from the town, but the citadel falling into the hands of the companies who had been so admitted, consternation and confusion spread on all sides. At this juncture a cry was raised from within that the sack was begun, and that all who wished for a share of plunder should look to it. Other accounts tell us that the walls were carried by assault on the 18th of June, and that a capitulation was then agreed on, by which only certain municipal privileges were surrendered by the city; but that, as the troops entered, an alarm arose of some treacherous movement on the part of the populace, whereupon the Milanese contingent rushed headlong upon them, and commenced a general pillage. Federigo, who had remained outside with the artillery, was made aware of the bloody scenes passing within by cries from the outraged citizens. He instantly proclaimed by trumpet a cessation of hostilities and plunder, commanding all to their quarters, and enjoining the arrest of stragglers. Hurrying to the scene of horrors, he rode among the excited multitude, exerting himself to save the aged and infants, and to protect the women and convents. He compelled the soldiery to lay down their ill-gotten burdens, especially all sacred utensils, and hanged on the spot a Venetian and a Sienese commissary, the alleged authors of this insubordination. But diabolical passions thus roused brooked no control. Hours elapsed, indeed, according to some authorities nightfall arrived, ere the savages could be called off their quarry. Such appears the substance of numerous contradictory accounts of this unfortunate and mysterious affair.[161] There can be little doubt that it originated in the licentious habits and lax discipline then usual in Italian armies, who looked on plunder as the chief end of war, and regarded pillage as a right rather than a military offence. Almost every writer acquits the Count of blame, and the only imputation against him arose from the terms of a general order, proclaiming death to every soldier found within the walls at sundown, which have been misconstrued into an implied permission for outrage till that hour. It was reserved for flatterers of an after age to soil his fair fame by an invention which they meant as incense to his memory. In proof at once of his moderation and lettered taste, he is stated by these to have contented himself with a great Hebrew Bible as his share of the booty. No contemporary gives the slightest foundation for such a tale, nor have I at all traced to Volterra that curious MS. which will be described in VI. of the Appendices. If found there and abstracted at the siege, it was not improbably presented to Federigo by the grateful authorities of Florence, from whom he refused any pay, serving them for love, whilst, in the words of old Sanzi, "He nothing brought away but honour bright, Which every other treasure far outshines."[162] [Footnote 161: The tract by Ivano (? Hyvanus), printed in vol. XXXIII. of Muratori, is diffuse and unsatisfactory, although he was an official of Volterra. I prefer the contemporary narratives of Porcellio and Vespasiano, Vat. Urb. MSS. Nos. 373 and 941. I have also consulted the epics of Sanzi and Naldo, Rinuccini's _Ricordi_, and a number of unimportant narratives and documents in the public library of Volterra, as well as the standard Italian histories.] [Footnote 162: There is in the Albani library at Rome a MS. by Giunta, where I found it stated that the Count asked and obtained this Bible of the magistracy, in exchange for the standards taken at Volterra.] His return from this rapid campaign to the beautiful Queen of Arnoa was a triumphal pageant. Its enthusiastic population met him beyond the gates, and escorted him with acclamations through streets draped with tapestries and rich brocades. In the piazza he was welcomed by the magistrates with a complimentary oration, and at a public banquet received as appropriate gifts the colours of the republic, a handsome charger richly caparisoned, together with a silver helmet, studded with jewels, and chased in gold by the marvellous chisel of Pollaiuolo.[163] Besides a substantial guerdon of lands, houses, brocade stuffs, and vases brimming with bullion, conferred on Federigo, valuable commercial exemptions were decreed in favour of the subjects of Urbino, and three days of uninterrupted festivity scarcely abated the popular rejoicings. Not less valuable in his eyes was the compliment which his good service earned from a private citizen. Poggio Bracciolino being on the outlook for a patron for his _History of the Florentines_, deemed it could be most appropriately inscribed to one who had just crowned their arms with signal success. [Footnote 163: Sanzi tells us its crest was Hercules trampling on a griffin (the device of Volterra), which lay wounded, plucked of its pinions, and chained by the neck. How often has it happened that art, capable of ennobling the meanest materials, is lost to the world from being employed on those whose intrinsic value is a temptation to ignorant cupidity. This helmet might now bring tenfold the price for which it probably was broken up!] The star of Federigo's fortunes now reached its zenith. The scattered mountain fiefs held by his ancestors had been concentrated by his first marriage, and extended by his policy or prowess.[164] His second nuptials, long crowned by singular domestic felicity, had at length given him an heir. He had founded palaces and churches worthy the admiration of coming generations. He had wielded the batons, and he enjoyed the affectionate respect, of the five great Peninsular powers. He saw the wars, which had yielded him laurels and enriched his state, subside into a peace still more beneficial to his subjects and conducive to his tastes. But, as old Sanzi moralises, "The spider's most attenuated thread Is cord, is cable to man's tender tie Of earthly bliss: it breaks with every breeze." [Footnote 164: It may not be inappropriate here to glance at the territorial limits which, under him, were erected into the duchy of Urbino, and their gradual increment from the petty holding of Montefeltro, which was at first narrow in extent and poor in all but defence. Lying in the furthest highlands of Umbria, its soil and climate yielded nature's bounties but sparingly, though its fastnesses bred bold hearts and stout sinews. The township of Urbino, over which its counts extended their authority, added little to their limited territory. Those of Gubbio, Cagli, and Cantiano, which next came under their rule, lay many miles from their mountain home, separated by an Apennine rampart, and the valleys of the Foglia and Metauro, as well as by the Brancaleoni fiefs. These scattered domains were concentrated by Federigo's first marriage, which gave him all Massa Trabaria from the Foglia to the Cantiano. His purchase of Fossombrone and his conquests from the Malatesta extended his frontier to the Vicariat of Sinigaglia, which he lived to see conferred on his daughter's husband. His long struggles with Sigismondo Pandolfo were further compensated by Tavoleto, Sassocorbaro, S. Leo, Sta. Agata, and Castel d'Elce, establishing his sway over what had been hitherto at best debatable land, to the extreme northern boundary of the state. Although precise limits cannot now be defined, it would seem that Count Federigo nearly trebled the territory which had obeyed his brother, and the only important addition subsequently made consisted of the sea-board brought to it by his grandson Francesco Maria I.] Scarcely had he quitted the scene of his triumphs, in order to bear tidings of them to one whose sympathy would have enhanced their sweets, when an express met him with alarming news of her health. Riding day and night, he reached Gubbio on the 6th of July, just in time to close the eyes of his Countess. We are fortunately enabled to give in his own words all the particulars which have reached us of this melancholy event.[165] [Footnote 165: The first of the letters here introduced was addressed to his allies, the magistrates of Siena, in the archives of which city I found the Italian original. The next, without address, but probably for the King of Naples or the Duke of Milan, and the two following extracts, are copied from the volume of his Latin letters already quoted. Vat. Urb. MSS. No. 1198. Muzio and Baldi by mistake place Battista's death in 1474.] [Illustration: _Alinari_ BATTISTA SFORZA, DUCHESS OF URBINO, SECOND WIFE OF DUKE FEDERIGO _From the bust by Francesco Laurana in the Bargello, Florence_] "Mighty and potent Lords, dearest Fathers, "With such bitter and heartfelt grief as your magnificent lordships may suppose, I inform you that, my wife Battista having sickened on Tuesday the last ultimo with fever and headache, our Lord God has taken to himself her soul at four o'clock to-night of this 6th instant [_i.e._ 11 p.m.], after she had received all the sacraments with the utmost devotion, leaving me as afflicted, disconsolate, and unhappy as any one can be in this world. Medical men were in attendance, both those of the Lord Messer Alessandro [Sforza of Pesaro] and others from Perugia, and my own, but neither physicians nor physic had power to aid her. I arrived but this morning, and found her in a happy frame of mind. The funeral service will be celebrated at Urbino on the 17th of August. I commend myself to your lordships; from Gubbio this 6th of [July], 1472. "FEDERIGO COUNT OF MONTEFELTRO, URBINO, AND DURANTE, Captain-general of the Most Serene League." * * * * * "By the letters recently received from your Serene Highness, I readily conceived how much regret the death of my wife Battista has occasioned you, and although your remarkable courtesy had already assured me of this, yet to ascertain it from your own missives afforded me the best of all consolation: for who is there, though struck by deep grief (as indeed I am by the deepest of all), who would not feel it alleviated, when so illustrious a personage thus willingly lends his sympathy. I have indeed lost a wife, the ornament of my house and the devoted sharer of my fortunes, and hence have too much cause for affliction; but so opportune were your most judicious letters, filled with such sensible suggestions, that my grief is now greatly mitigated. I therefore give your Highness much thanks, to whose kindness I am thus greatly beholden; and it has been my best solace that so illustrious a Prince will never be wanting to me in prosperity or in misfortune. Under such obligations my service, should occasion ever offer of rendering it available, will be the more freely proffered, faithfully dedicated as it is to your Highness, to whom I most humbly commend myself." Another letter still more touchingly expresses his feelings on this bereavement. It may have been addressed to the secretary of the Duke of Milan, who had sent an ambassador to attend the obsequies of Battista. "No book lore, no personal experience, could state better than your very elegant letter the vanity of human hopes. Most consolatory has it proved to me, describing so appropriately and feelingly my varied fortune;--the affair of Volterra, the honours with which the distinguished government of Florence has complimented me, and my secret delight while returning homewards to rejoin my circle, my sweet children, my wife, precious above aught else--these all at once transmuted by a death blow, to me the most calamitous. Most impressively have you set forth my affliction, and the loss I have publicly and privately sustained: by such things may indeed be seen the uncertain issues of earthly events." Again, in thanking the Pope for his condolence, the bereaved Count adds, "For many reasons her death was a grievous vexation, for she was the beloved consort of my fortunes and domestic cares, the delight equally of my public and private hours, so that no greater misfortune could have befallen me." [Illustration: _Alinari_ FEDERIGO OF URBINO AND HIS FAMILY _Detail from the picture by Giusto di Gand, in the Palazzo Ducale, Urbino._ (_From the Ducal Collection_)] At a court already attractive to men of literary pretensions, many were ready to take up a theme recommended by sympathy and gratitude. The funeral oration by Antonio Campano, Bishop of Teramo, was printed at Cagli in 1476, and would now be a prize to collectors. The Vatican Library contains several others in manuscript, overflowing with adulation, which for once was well bestowed.[166] Battista was a remarkable instance of the transmission of talent by female descent. Her great-grandmother, Battista di Montefeltro, already celebrated in these pages,[167] though married to a man of miserable character, had a daughter Elisabetta Malatesta, who inherited her misfortunes as well as her genius. Elisabetta's daughter was Costanza Varana, the associate of scholars and philosophers, whose gifts she is said to have rivalled, notwithstanding an early death that deprived her infant Battista of a mother's care. The babe began her letters when three years old, and at four was removed to the court of her uncle, Francesco Sforza, where she was put forward to deliver publicly a Latin oration, during the festivities following upon his installation as Duke of Milan. This display of infantine self-possession and memory, indicating at all events a tractable disposition, has, with fulsome adulation, been magnified as evidence of extraordinary precocious talent, and has been retailed without inquiry, as if her discourse had been an extempore effusion.[168] On the strength of this reputation, when returned home she was made to welcome her father's more distinguished guests in public harangues, a discipline which, however injudicious, does not seem to have prevented her rapid acquisition of solid knowledge, nor to have interfered with her progress in those useful accomplishments of the needle which then formed the resource of high-born dames. The peculiarity of her character was a sedate temperament, that enabled her to take her place with singular judgment in the household of her widowed father, and gained for her several proposals of marriage even earlier than was usual in Italy. The circumstances of her union with Federigo have been noticed in 1459, and although our narrative has rarely named her, we are assured that during his frequent and prolonged absences, her judgment and tact were equally manifested in public affairs and in the management of her domestic concerns. It is startling to find her at fourteen a mother, and virtually regent of his state whilst he was employed in the war of the Neapolitan succession during 1461 and 1462. She spent the spring of both these years with him in winter quarters, the former at Magliano on the northern limit of the Campagna; the latter in the Eternal City, where she interchanged complimentary harangues in Latin with the diplomatic body, and where Pius II., himself no mean critic, praised her eloquence as equalled only by her discretion, and pronounced that fame had understated her merits. On this occasion, among other distinctions, his Holiness received her in full consistory, and conferred the spurs of knighthood on twelve of her suite. Yet these flattering demonstrations in no respect marred the freshness of her character, and devotional observances were the chief object of her visit to Rome. Though gifted with beauty of a high caste, simple dress and manners were her delight, and it was only on state occasions that, indulging her husband's taste rather than her own fancy, she displayed such magnificent attire as is represented in the characteristic portrait here introduced. It is very happily rendered from the original in the Uffizi Gallery at Florence, where profile likenesses of herself and her husband are enclosed in one frame. They were painted by Piero della Francesca, court limner of Urbino, whom we shall mention in our twenty-seventh chapter, and afford highly interesting specimens of early portraiture and mediæval costume. The Countess wears a robe of boldly flowered brocade, from beneath which emerges the richly bullioned sleeve of her vest. Her jewels are massive but elegant; her elaborate head-dress tastefully disposes a superabundance of luxurious hair--the distinctive beauty of Italian women. Yet a fashion of shaving above the forehead has somewhat marred the harmony of her features, by unduly exposing her "modest and majestic eye." This happily descriptive epithet we owe to Giovanni Sanzi, who knew her well, and scanned her features with an artist's glance; but his tribute merits an extract. [Footnote 166: Vat. Urb. MSS. No. 324, 373, 727, 1193, 1236, 1272.] [Footnote 167: See _ante_, p. 39, for Battista the elder.] [Footnote 168: A relic of like strange perversion of childhood still obtains at Rome, in the displays at the Aracoeli Church from Christmas to Epiphany, where girls of five years old are elevated on a table and spout to assembled crowds the events of the Nativity.] "Then closed that modest and majestic eye. Her pious soul, from mundane risks released, To God its rapid flight devoutly winged, Leaving a tearful household, and the state Grief-stricken, whilst Italia's noblest names Partook their sorrow." Muzio says, that by "her death was dissolved the most honoured, fitting, and congruous union of that or any other age." The obsequies, as announced by Federigo to the Priors of Siena, were celebrated with singular magnificence on the 17th of August, in the Church of S. Bernardino, at Urbino. They were attended by thirty-eight envoys from the princes, cities, and great feudatories of Italy, excluding those of Venice and Siena, retarded by bad weather. These deputations formed a retinue of three hundred and sixteen nobles, besides two hundred and ninety belonging to the court of Urbino, and three hundred and eight ecclesiastics. The procession was swelled by crowds of citizens from every town in the state, so that nearly 2000 appeared in mourning garb.[169] The Countess left six daughters and an infant son, the care of whom was a serious burden to her lord. But Sanzi tells us that, "Feeling at length how sad and profitless It were on this dark world his hopes to rest, His grief within his inmost heart he hid, And mastered it in grave and modest guise."[170] [Footnote 169: Campano's funeral oration, Vat. Ottob. MSS., No. 3135, f. 274.] [Footnote 170: Porcellio, in his Feltria, Vat. Urb. MSS. 710, describes his emotions in these rough lines:-- "Ipse domum rediens primum vacua atria lustrat, Mox semota petens, clausis de more fenestris, In luctu et lacrymis, nigraque in veste sedebat. Pullati incedunt comites, famulique minores, Ac nigra sunt mensi mantilia, nigra supellex, Et thalamum infaustum velamina nigra tegebant."] The next two years were chiefly passed at home, in bringing his mind to this pious resignation, in urging forward his palaces, and in administering his authority for the welfare of an attached people. Of an existence so tranquil and pleasing no glimpses are transmitted to us by his biographers, for it was barren of those martial feats which they considered the almost exclusive field of their labours. But from its not inglorious repose he was called to new honours. On the 20th of August, 1474, he entered Rome with an escort of two thousand horse. Next morning he was summoned to receive the dignity of Duke from Sixtus, who met him in the great doorway of St. Peter's. There was, however, the preliminary compliment of creating him Knight of St. Peter, in this form. The Pontiff being seated on his throne, the Count was placed on his left, just below the cardinals. High mass having proceeded as far as the _gloria_, he was led by the Pope's favourite nephews, Girolamo Riario and Giovanni della Rovere, in front of the throne, and knelt on its steps, while Sixtus, taking from one of them the sword of St. Peter, elaborately blessed it, and placed it in his hands, with an injunction to wield it for the Church, and against the enemies of Christ's cross. He was then girt with it by Cardinal Orsini, the nephews meanwhile buckling on his golden spurs, and at a signal from the master of ceremonies, he drew and twice brandished it, returning it to its scabbard. These accoutrements being removed, mass was continued, and, whilst the litanies were chanted, he took the usual oath of fidelity, returning thereafter to his place. Before reading of the Gospel he was conducted to the sacristy by Cardinals Gonzaga and Zeno, where his knightly mantle of gold brocade having been replaced by a ducal robe of similar material, he was again led to his place. The Gospel being concluded, he was taken by them during the offertory once more before his Holiness, who, as Federigo stooped to kiss the pax, suspended from his neck a golden chain, at which hung an exquisite leash (_dilascio_), and placed on his head a ducal cap,[171] giving into his hand the sceptre, accompanied with appropriate benedictions and exhortations. Having next been led apart, he read aloud the customary oath of fidelity to Pontiff and Church, after which followed the salutations in this form. Prostrated before the Pope, he kissed his feet and hands, whilst prayers were proffered by his Holiness, who then tenderly embraced him. Proceeding to the cardinals, he touched their hands and kissed each, paying the like compliment to the empty seats of those absent, after which he took his place by them. This ceremony ended, he again knelt before the Pontiff, who consigned to him two standards, one with the arms of the Church, the other with his own, and created him Gonfaloniere, declaring him general of the new league. [Footnote 171: Its form somewhat resembled an heraldic cap of maintenance; but on this occasion Baldi says the older shape was retained, with large ears hanging down at the sides. The sceptre was of silver gilt, nearly two feet in length.] The Duke of Urbino, thus laden with dignities, was conducted to the foot of the great stairs of St. Peter's; and, as he mounted a charger, the gift of his Holiness, the air reverberated with the clang of trumpets, the drone of bagpipes, and the crash of artillery from St. Angelo. Twenty cardinals and a crowd of nobles, prelates, and spectators escorted him to his lodging at the SS. Apostoli, but as the procession crossed the bridge they were dismayed by an evil omen. A sudden gust of wind striking the newly inaugurated standards, their staffs broke over, and they were dashed to the ground.[172] [Footnote 172: The details of these ceremonials by Baldi are partly taken from the narrative of Cardinal Arrivabene, in No. 568 of _Epistolæ Card. Papiensis_, p. 832. Some writers mention his also obtaining the Golden Rose, which usually accompanied the papal gift of the Sword to sovereigns whom the Church delighted to honour. Sismondi says the dukedom was conferred on the 21st of August, but we prefer the date given by Baldi. The latter assigns the Golden Rose and Giovanni della Rovere's marriage to the year 1475, after the affair of Città di Castello; we, however, in these follow an unedited history of Sinigaglia, Vat. Urb. MSS. No. 819, f. 208. Volterrano's Diary is confused as to dates, and would seem to place Giovanni's betrothal and his princely investiture in May, 1473. The latter, he says, "was considered a pernicious example of [partiality to] flesh and blood;" but a still more serious scandal arose in the sacred college from the special mark of favour conferred by Sixtus in placing the Lord of Urbino immediately beneath the cardinals in chapel, a seat privileged for heirs apparent of royalty, against which several of these dignitaries vainly remonstrated, reminding his Holiness of the few years that had elapsed since that Duke successfully defied the papal banner under the walls of Rimini.--MURAT., _Scriptor._, XXIII., 95. This annalist unfortunately passes over Federigo's investitures with his new honours. Not so Porcellio in his Feltria, Vat. Urb. MSS. No. 710; but a brief sample of his rude rhythm may suffice. Describing the Pope's appearance, he says:-- "Aurea vestis erat, lato circundato limbo, In medio effulget latus sub pectore clavus, Statque ingens diamas majoris sideris instar, Et nitidus media radiens de nocte pyropus, Purpureusque lapis, viridesque in margine gemmæ, Adde quod et triplices gemmarum ardore coronæ Fulgebant capiti fusis per serta lapillis."] Porcellio asserts that, besides these tokens of high favour bestowed by himself, Sixtus had employed his influence in forwarding Federigo's pretensions to the foreign decorations at this time conferred on him. Such an accumulation of good offices from a pope whom he had not as yet been able to serve, had been ascribed to the nepotism so conspicuous in his Holiness's arrangements. If this be true, the clue to it is afforded by a marriage solemnised next day, whereby their respective families were allied. The Duke's daughter Giovanna was then wedded to Giovanni della Rovere, nephew of Sixtus, who soon after obtained for him from the reluctant consistory an investiture of Sinigaglia and Mondavio, that hard-won territory which Federigo had conquered for the Church from its contumacious vassal Sigismondo Pandolfo Malatesta, and which came eventually to be united with Urbino under the second dynasty of its dukes. On the same day were celebrated the nuptials of another of his daughters, Agnesina, to Fabrizio Colonna. The hereditary talents of her mother, which we have recently traced through several descents,[173] were revived in a daughter of this marriage, Vittoria Colonna, the ill-mated wife of the Marquis of Pescara, whose piety, genius, and beauty divide the applause of her contemporaries, and whom we shall mention in our forty-ninth chapter. [Footnote 173: See p. 216.] Early in September Federigo repaired to Naples, and the King, having about this time resolved to institute an Order of knighthood, selected for its badge the Ermine, an animal emblematical of purity, whose fur has long been a royal ornament, and named his eldest son and the Duke of Urbino among its original members.[174] Their installation took place at Naples on the 11th of that month, in the chapel royal, where high mass was celebrated, the court attending in gala. After reading of the Epistle, the two acolytes were led by a deputation of nobles into the sacristy, and put on tunics of white damask in the Turkish fashion, after which they were reconducted to the chapel, and having kissed hands, were placed beside the monarch. When the Gospel had been chanted, they were arrayed by the Sovereign with the mantle of the order, which was of scarlet satin lined with ermine fur, open at the right side, and flowing to the feet. A sermon, appropriate to the occasion, having been delivered, they were led to the high altar, where, kneeling, they received their collars, being rich chains of gold, from which hung the insignia, an ermine studded with diamonds and other jewels. The King then calling the young Antonio, who had accompanied his father from Urbino, knighted him, girding a sword to his side, and placing a golden chain on his neck, with an admonition that he should walk in his parent's steps. The ceremonial was concluded by a splendid breakfast in the palace; and four days thereafter the Count set out for Rome, escorted some way by Ferdinand, from whom he parted with mingled embraces and tears. [Footnote 174: There was an idea that the ermine would submit to be taken rather than soil its coat, and hence the legends of this order were _Malo mori quam foedari_, or _Nunquam_.] The English Order of the Garter, instituted by Edward III in 1344, has always enjoyed a European reputation, from its ranks being recruited by foreign sovereigns and heroes. At the chapter of 26th February, 1474, four votes were given to Federigo, and on the 18th of the following August, he was unanimously elected, by the seven knights present, to the stall vacated by Lord Montjoy. He soon after paid, by the Chancellor's hands, 109 pence as fees, and had been installed before the following April. Thus far we have Anstis for our guide; but the unfortunate loss of all the early records of the Order renders us dependent for further particulars on Italian writers. Among these we have met with no contemporary authorities except the epics of Sanzi and Porcellio, whose details, however curious, are scarcely of historical value. These deficiencies are, however, in some measure supplied from a letter-book of Federigo preserved in the Vatican, upon which we have drawn largely for this incident in his career. But in order that the context of our narrative may not be interrupted by somewhat lengthened extracts, they are thrown together into VII. of the Appendices, and will, it is hoped, prove an interesting contribution to the scanty muniments of the Garter. His investiture took place at Grottoferrata during the autumn of 1474, and he commissioned his relative Pietro degli Ubaldini to proceed to England as proxy for his installation.[175] [Footnote 175: Baldi has unquestionably fallen into error in fixing 1476 as the date of this event.] * * * * * The great captains under or from whom Federigo had gathered his laurels were now all dead, and his military reputation far transcended that of any remaining condottiere. It was, therefore, not without jealousy that the powers of Upper Italy saw him establish relations of such close amity with the Pope and Ferdinand. Other matters tended to aggravate the feelings of alarm thus generated. Not satisfied with indulging his nepotism at the expense of the Holy See, Sixtus showed tendencies to an aggressive policy against his neighbours. A portion of the treasure supposed to have been accumulated by his avaricious predecessor, but of which he gave no account, was suspected to have been employed in purchasing for his favourite nephew, Girolamo, the seigneury of Imola from the Manfredi. A local squabble at Todi, dignified with the almost forgotten watchwords of Guelph and Ghibelline, afforded him a pretext for sending thither another nephew, the Cardinal della Rovere, at the head of an army, which, though marching under the papal banner, sided with the self-styled imperialist faction. The Pontiff, who had long seen with regret the feeble hold which his predecessors maintained over their vassals, and even over the nominal subjects of the Church, commissioned his legate to carry out the good work thus begun. Accordingly, after chastising Todi and Spoleto, Giuliano advanced into the upper valley of the Tiber, in order to reduce Città di Castello, where the Vitelli had for some time exercised absolute sovereignty with the title of Vicar. To this expedition the Duke of Urbino gave his aid, and on its successful issue carried several of that family to Rome, in order to intercede for their pardon. These events accelerated arrangements in the north for a combination calculated to balance the threatening attitude of the southern powers, and in November a defensive treaty was signed by Milan, Venice, and Florence, under reservation, however, to the Pope and King of Naples to accede to the new league. Of this they declined availing themselves, content with general professions of moderation and peace, which, fortunately acted upon, prolonged the general tranquillity of Italy, and enabled her energies to be directed with tolerable unanimity against the Turks. The three years of renewed repose which followed were spent by Federigo at home, in the indulgence of those humane tastes which signalised his court, and laid a foundation for that cultivation of mind by which Urbino became distinguished. This may accordingly be the best place to review his patronage of letters. The constant repetition of his name in that capacity by writers on literary history leads to an impression that his zeal was remarkable, and that its fruits are attested by ample remains. The former of these conclusions is more correct than the latter. Italian authors have been too prone to re-echo vague compliments; their encomiums are lavish rather than discriminating; rhetorical panegyrics, not portraits to the life; accordingly, most of the plaudits thus bestowed on him are mere phrases of rote, reiterated without varying form of added force. Fortunately there remains to us substantial evidence that they were well founded. Muzio, who wrote about half a century after his death, with full access to original documents, tells us that it was his daily habit to be read to during meals, and to discuss with his courtiers such questions in theology, history, or philosophy as thus arose. When at Urbino, he used to repair weekly to the convent of S. Francesco, for the purpose of maintaining similar disputations with the resident friars, and by these expedients "Held converse with Zabarell, Aquinas, Scotus, and the musty saw Of antick Donate." Of Grecian literature, which after the fall of the Eastern Empire came into sudden repute in the Peninsula, he was one of the earliest promoters. Lazzari cites records, proving that in 1467 he brought to his capital Angelo, one of the fugitive Greeks, and, two years later, his countryman, Demetrio, for the purpose of teaching their language. It was under him that the Feltrian court first became what Ruscelli has designated it in the motto prefixed to this work, "a fountain which, in the sober truth of history, rather than in poetic vein, may be called a real Hippocrene." No complete list has come to us of the poets and philosophers who found shelter there, nor would it much avail us to recover names few of which merit a better fate than the obscurity that has long overshadowed them. The fifteenth century was more remarkable for the diffusion of learning than for commanding genius. There were earnestness and laborious diligence in abundance, but they were content to follow or imitate foregone conclusions rather than to strike out new and striking turns of thought. Such was the character of many of those works which, composed for or dedicated to this Duke, remain in MS.,[*176] slumbering undisturbed, and deservedly forgotten, on the shelves of the Vatican. Several of them, being devoted to commemorate his actions or his contemporaries, held out to me a rich promise of racy material. But servile in style as in substance, and disfigured by the borrowed diction and engrafted mythology of classic models, they often proved in all respects unsatisfactory references, ill repaying the time bestowed on their examination. It will be necessary to allude more particularly, in our twenty-fourth and twenty-fifth chapters, to such of their authors as belonged to the court of Urbino; meanwhile we may mention a few works dedicated to Federigo by learned men in other parts of Italy, from which it would seem that the rival systems of Plato and Aristotle shared his attention and patronage. [Footnote *176: Dennistoun does not seem to be acquainted with the _Ode lirica a Federigo di Montefeltro_ (Per Nozze. Roma Tip. della Camera dei Dep., 1899), which Francesco Filarete wrote to him after the conquest of Volterra in 1472. It was possibly spoken at Florence in 1474, when Federigo became Duke. It speaks (strofe 14) of Federigo's early campaigns with Nicolò Piccinino, without hiding (strofe 16) the disaster of Monteluro and the rout of Montelocco (strofe 17), and goes on to tell of the Tuscan campaign of King Alfonso and the retaking of Fossombrone (strofe 26), and so forth.] Ptolemy's geography was translated into Latin verse by Berlinghieri, who inscribed to Federigo the result of his ill-bestowed toil, in a splendid MS., richly illuminated, which remains in the Brera library. The published work was also issued in 1480, under sanction of his name, as was the translation of another work of Ptolemy by Pontano. To these Baldi adds Marsilio Ficino's _Epistles on the Platonic Theology_ and translation of Plato's _Dialogue de Regno_, Alemanno Rinuccini's translations of Aristotle and Philostratus, Paolo Marso's Commentary upon the _Fasti_ of Ovid, Nicolò Perotto's _Cornucopia_, Poggio's _Historia Populi Florentini_, as specimens of a catalogue which might be greatly lengthened.[177] In the volume of his own MS. letters already often quoted, we find him thanking Naldo of Florence for his poem on the Volterran expedition, and acknowledging the _Disputationes Camaldulenses_ of Cristoforo Landino. Writing to Donato Acciaiuolo, he avows the pleasure and advantage derived from perusing his Commentaries on a book of ethics, and expresses satisfaction that he had succeeded in persuading him to undertake a similar work on politics, for which he thanks him in a subsequent letter, apologising for having detained his messenger until he had read a great portion of it with the utmost pleasure, and enjoining reliance on his friendship and services.[178] [Footnote 177: Vat. Urb. MSS. No. 1198.] [Footnote 178: Several of these MSS. I have found in the Laurentian library at Florence.] Before leaving the subject of dedications, we may quote the following singular illustration of literary history. "To the Lord and most excellent Captain-at-arms, the Lord Federigo of Montefeltro, Count of Urbino, Lord of Gubbio, and most illustrious Captain-general of the League, our especial Lord, &c.; the Priors of Arezzo. "Gambino, the poet, is ranked by us among our most regarded and well-beloved citizens, on account both of his distinguished talents and of his peaceful and unoffending life. As a curious inquirer into history and antiquities, he cannot be unaware of the great goodwill and affection which for many ages has subsisted between your illustrious progenitors and this our city. Indeed, these facts have been hitherto so trite and public that they are notorious to the rude and unlettered, as well as to the learned and accomplished. Gambino, therefore, like a good man, thinking to promote the benefit of his country by devoting his genius to the cultivation of that old-established and constant good understanding, has dedicated and inscribed to your Lordship a work lately composed by him in praise of the Virgin Mary. He, indeed, merits all commendation in seeking first the kingdom of heaven, according to the precept of our Saviour, but it would be well that he descend sometimes to worldly topics. And as in heaven no creature is more glorious than the blessed Virgin, so, if the praises of the heroes of our age be the subject, who on earth can be called, believed, or accounted more distinguished for bravery, more considered for military discipline or martial fame, than your Lordship? Should any one differ from this sentiment, we object not to his lending us a feigned assent, but he who appears to contest it must by all persons of sense be considered ridiculous and prejudiced. We, therefore, pray your Lordship to accept Gambino and his little offering with courtesy and favour, as it is your wont to receive others of eminent talents and learning; for we doubt not but that your favour will supply his genius with a new stimulus and inducement to enter upon and accomplish those pursuits which we desire to see him undertake. And should your Lordship's elevated and enlarged mind even light-lay the praises of men, so be it. And we further beseech your Lordship to adopt the sentiment of our Community, which justly desires that its citizens and scholars may attain, by their writings and poetry, as great celebrity as the glorious deeds which they celebrate will permit."[179] [Footnote 179: Bib. Laurent, plut. 90, Cod. sup. No. 36. The rubric mentions Abbot Jerome as author of this letter. Gambino appears to have offered the incense of a poem in praise of Federigo, and is mentioned by Quadri as author of some fugitive and forgotten verses of local interest.] Francesco di Giorgio, in his Treatise on Architecture, mentions Duke Federigo as holding out inducements for the learned men at his court to illustrate the works of classic authors on architecture and sculpture. But no testimony to his literary habits can be more satisfactory than that of his librarian Vespasiano, to the following purpose.[180] The Duke was a ready Latin scholar, and extremely fond of ancient history. As a logician he had attained considerable aptitude, having studied Aristotle's Ethics along with Maestro Lazzaro, a famous theologian, who became Bishop of Urbino, discussing with him the most intricate passages. By the like process he mastered the Stagirite's politics, physics, and other treatises; and having acquired more philosophy than any contemporary prince, his thirst for new sources of knowledge induced him to devote himself to theology with equal zeal. The principal works of St. Thomas Aquinas and Duns Scotus were habitually read to him; he preferred the former as more clear, but admitted that the latter displayed greater subtlety in argument. He was well acquainted with the Bible, as well as the commentaries of Saints Ambrose, Jerome, Augustine, and Gregory; also with the writings of the Greek fathers, such as Saints Basil, Chrysostom, Gregory Naziazen, Nicetas, Athanasius, and Cyril. Among the classic authors whom he was in the habit of reading or listening to were Livy, Sallust, Quintus Curtius, Justin, Cæsar, Plutarch, Ælius Spartianus, Æmylius Protus, Tacitus, Suetonius, Eusebius. All men of letters visiting Urbino were hospitably entertained, and several were always attached to his court. His largesses to such were at all times liberal. He spent above 1500 ducats in this way when at Florence, and remitted similar bounties to Rome and Naples. He gave 1000 ducats to the learned Campano, professor of belles-lettres at Perugia in 1455,[*181] who aided him in collecting ancient MSS., and became Bishop of Teramo. Nor were elegant accomplishments neglected. His acquaintance with the principles and practice of architecture excelled that of most contemporaries in any station, enabling him to superintend personally the plans and execution of his palaces and other buildings. He was equally at home in military engineering, and applied to his numerous fortified places such modifications as the introduction of artillery required, especially in reducing their altitude. The kindred sciences of geometry and arithmetic were his favourite studies, and not long before his death, he had a course of these read to him by Maestro Paolo, a learned German astrologer, retained at his court. In music, his taste and knowledge were excellent; there were in his chapel and palace bands of choristers and skilful performers, the organ being his favourite instrument. He was familiar with sculpture, and adopted it in the ornaments of his palace. He brought from Flanders a celebrated painter in oil, and employed him to execute many portraits; also from thence workers in gold and silver tapestry, the beauty of whose performances resulted in a great degree from his own connoisseurship and tastes, which pervaded all he had executed in the fine arts.[182] [Footnote 180: Vat. Urb. MSS. No. 941.] [Footnote *181: For Federigo's intercourse with Campano, cf. G. ZANNONI, _Federigo di Montefeltro e G.A. Campano_, in _Atti della R. Accademia delle Scienze di Torino_, vol. XXXVIII. (Torino).] [Footnote 182: This painter was Justus of Ghent, mentioned at p. 205. To the subject of art at Urbino we shall return in ch. xxvii.] This testimony of Vespasiano is confirmed by Sanzi, also a contemporary in attendance on his court, whose account, although inferring some repetition, may be given in his own words:-- "Since excellence in sooth gives no repose To men of merit, least to those of names Already known to glory, so the Count, Though laden with the laurels of the field, To mental discipline himself addressed. And anxious to employ his ardent thoughts On elevating themes, he Ethics chose Whereon to bend his mind, and took as guide One Messer Lazzaro, a preaching friar Of singular repute; a good divine, In whom each gentle, each endearing trait With honour and devotion blended well. On Aristotle's writings all intent, His learning to their wisdom glory gave; And gladly entered he upon the task Of clearly setting forth their lustrous thoughts In daily readings, oft at matin hours. With zealous mind and intellect matured, The Count a great and rapid progress made; And as no generous spirit willingly Leaves favours unrequited, by his means His able master filled Urbino's see,-- A guerdon gratefully received. Thus fond Of study, he his time could seldom spend To disadvantage. Even as he took His modest frugal meals at home, or when He sojourned elsewhere, it was his delight To listen whilst from ancient histories, Or recent chronicles, were read details Of martial deeds, discerning readily How sped the fortune of the fight ere yet Its changing turns were told. Of maxims shrewd And singular he master was beyond Most others; nor from table would he rise Whilst any staid to crave an audience. To Arithmetic daily he applied, And Algebra's high science, with success, By Paul Alamanno taught; to whom seemed plain Truths hid from many; who the heavens had scanned For years successive, and the stars had tracked, Until celestial influences grew To him familiar; an exponent famed Of physical philosophy, and hence Much favoured by the Count." The digression as to Federigo's literary habits and circle into which we have been led, would detain us too long from the more immediate object of our narrative, were we now to inquire into his patronage of art and artists. This will be discussed in our fourth book; meanwhile we resume the story of his life. CHAPTER XI The Duke of Milan assassinated--Count Girolamo Riario--The Pazzi conspiracy--Duke Federigo's campaigns in Tuscany--Progress of the Turks. The mediæval history of Italy is too frequently traced in characters of blood, and the period which we have now reached, although generally regarded as one of comparative tranquillity, was signalised by conspiracies systematically matured, and by murders perpetrated in high places with revolting barbarity. It matters little that they were instigated by political abuses or provoked by domestic tyranny; so repugnant is assassination to the better feelings of mankind, that public sympathy is ever with the sufferer, and the crime is perpetuated by history as a national stigma. The brutalising influence of such deeds descends like an hereditary taint to after generations, and to it may in a great measure be ascribed the recklessness of human life, and the consequent reputation for cruelty, which are still imputed to the Italian nature, and which recent events but too sadly confirm. The earnestness of character, the energy of mind and action, which had gained for Francesco Sforza the sovereignty of Milan, passed not to his son. Galeazzo Maria was magnificent in his tastes. His court was the most splendid of a brilliant age. In his duchy justice was prompt and impartial. But his foreign policy and personal courage were unstable, in his home administration cruelty and oppression were aggravated by caprice. Yet these faults and foibles might have been endured, had not the patience of his subjects been worn out by outrages against their domestic peace. Machiavelli informs us that hatred to their ruler, and the comparative benefits of a republic, were lessons habitually instilled into such of the young nobles as frequented the school of Cola Montano, then the most eminent teacher in Milan. But it was not until several of these youths found their wives or sisters sacrificed by the Duke's ruthless debauchery, that the seditious seeds thus implanted sprang to sudden and full growth. Seldom have the secrets of conspiracy and murder been so fully detected and exposed.[183] There is, however, a melodramatic effect of the narrative of old Sanzi which entitles it to notice as contemporary and unpublished, although apparently biassed in favour of Galeazzo. The three conspirators, mingling fanaticism with vengeance, sought by religious observances to sanctify the deed of horror. Their invocation to their city's patron saint for blessings on the attempt, with a solemnity ill becoming its sacrilege, has been preserved; but Sanzi adds that they bribed an apostate priest to consecrate at the altar a sacramental wafer, which he administered not until each had shed upon it a drop of his blood,--a blasphemous rite intended to seal their mutual vows of fidelity and secrecy; also that they used to rehearse their fury, and practise their swordsmanship, against a wooden puppet, decked out in gold brocade, and kept for the purpose in one of their houses. Among the solemn functions of Christmas week was that of St. Stephen, performed in the picturesque old fane dedicated to the protomartyr, where it was usual for the court to attend; the Duke on this occasion accidentally left behind a cuirass, that defence of despots, which he was wont to wear, and thus unconsciously facilitated the execution of a concerted project. It was customary, in allusion to the expiring year, to fire a light mass of carded flax suspended in the church, whilst a warning voice "Exclaimed, 'Thus human glory vanishes; Unhappy he who hazards there his hopes!'" [Footnote 183: We need not quote the many authorities, but in MURATORI, _Script._, XXIII., pp. 268 and 777, will be found the Duke's good and evil qualities fairly balanced, and frightful details of the brutal licentiousness which he made his pastime.] As the sovereign raised his eyes to this touching emblem of transient and fragile existence, he was done to instant death by the poignards of the three conspirators.[*184] The moral offences imputed to the wretched man thus miserably summoned to his account have been collected by Sismondi, the consistent impugner of princes.[185] Sanzi, who generally leans to them, has thus painted them in colours less loathsome:-- "A man he was remarkable for worth, Though charged with faults not few, which in his state Were freely challenged. Happy years of youth, Though pregnant with the germs of age mature, And preluding too oft its perils grave! Here must my tongue this prince exalt, as one Who even-handed justice dealt to all, Subject or stranger, noble or obscure; Nor willed that any, founding on his wealth Or station, should the meanest pauper vex. Yet is he censured as one pitiless, And prone to undue passion: trite reproach Of prosperous despots!" [Footnote *184: Murder in church was a crime peculiar to that time. It might seem that the "tyrants" were so well guarded that it was impossible to lay hands on them save at mass; for on no other occasion was the whole family gathered together. To say nothing of the clergy and the Pope who murdered Giuliano and tried to murder Lorenzo de' Medici in S. Maria del Fiore, it was in church the Fabrianesi murdered their Signori the Chiavistelli (1435), the Milanesi Duke Giovan Maria Visconti (1412), and Galeazzo Maria Sforza (1476). Ludovico Sforza only escaped the same end because by chance he entered S. Ambrogio by a door that was not watched. For the whole subject see REUMONT, _Lorenzo de' Medici_, pp. 387-97, especially 396, and BURCKHARDT, _The Civilisation of the Period of the Renaissance_ (trs. Middlemore, 1878), vol. I., p. 79.] [Footnote 185: It is painful to find an author of our age, and especially one of Sismondi's merited reputation and influence, so warped by anti-despotic feelings as to become the apologist of assassination. The phrase we use is startling, but surely not misapplied to those passages in vol. XI., pp. 44 to 47, and p. 114, where, by innuendo, if not by argument, motives which led to the murder of Galeazzo Maria, and two years later to that of Giuliano de' Medici, are shielded from infamy by ingenious special-pleading, worthy the pen of Machiavelli or the morality of Loyola. I refer to the comments of Roscoe in his volume of Additional Illustrations to his _Lorenzo de' Medici_, pp. 114 to 119.] The steady support long given by the Duke of Urbino to the Sforzan dynasty suggested him as his most valuable stay in this crisis of peril, and in obedience to a summons of the widowed Duchess he made ready to march northward. The policy of the Holy See and of Naples, whose batons he jointly held, clearly tended towards Lombardy; but, unlike most successful conspiracies, the murder of Galeazzo Maria led to no revolution, and Federigo returned to vindicate the papal authority against the turbulent Carlo Braccio, who, ambitious of his father's fame and fortunes, and instigated by Lorenzo de' Medici, threatened Perugia from his stronghold of Montone. The ruin of so petty an opponent added no laurel to the victor's already loaded chaplet. The Duke of Milan left a daughter, Caterina, the fruit of a boyish intrigue, who was born in 1462, and became one of the most remarkable women of her time. On the election of Sixtus, her father, willing to conciliate by family ties a pontiff whose energy of character promised no ordinary career, offered her in marriage to Girolamo Riario, one of his favourite nephews, whom he had in 1480 created Count of Forlì, the dispossessed fief of the Ordelaffi. In order that the bride's dowry might tempt the ambitious Vicar of Christ, her father, in 1473, made over to her such rights to the sovereignty of Imola as he had obtained by purchase from its lords the Manfredi; and after the parties had been betrothed, that seigneury was confirmed to Girolamo by his Holiness as its ecclesiastical over-lord.[186] Caterina being, however, but in her eleventh year, the nuptials were postponed, and she meanwhile remained at Milan, cultivating the abstruse and ornamental branches which were then included in female education. Endowed with a lively genius, a ready apprehension, and a singularly retentive memory, she quickly mastered these studies, and acquired a rare facility of expressing herself with elegance and propriety. Her marriage was solemnised soon after her father's murder, and having being carried by her husband to Rome, she was welcomed with magnificent festivities by the Pope, who found in her a brilliancy of beauty and a courtesy of manner excelling all that rumour had anticipated. Out of the growing favour of Sixtus for Count Girolamo, seconded by his own ambitious intrigues, which aimed at an extended sovereignty, sprang the seeds of a new conspiracy not less atrocious than that of which the Duke of Milan was victim, and far more widely influencing the politics of Italy. [Footnote 186: The convention of Galeazzo Maria with Taddeo Manfredi, and the bull investing Riario, explain this transaction more fully than the authorities quoted by Sismondi, ch. lxxxiii. They are printed in vol. III. of BURRIEL'S elaborate _Life of Caterina Riario Sforza_.] * * * * * Among the envoys who had repaired from all the parts of Italy to hail the advent of Sixtus to the tiara was Lorenzo de' Medici; and he has described the honourable reception and gifts accorded him by a pontiff whose favour was ere long turned to deadly hatred. Aware of the rising influence of this youthful guest, the Pope sought to attach him by substantial benefits, including his nomination as banker to the Camera Apostolica, with power to manage that important charge through his uncle Tornabuoni, then resident from Florence at the papal court. Fabroni, in his _Life of Lorenzo_, tells us that his Holiness, wishing to realise the costly jewels accumulated by Paul II., sold them to the Medici at a price yielding a large profit to the purchasers, who gained still more from a lease, now conferred upon them, of the alum mines at Cento Celle. Results more generally important of this visit were the valuable relics in literature and art, which the Florentine ambassador was enabled, by the liberality of the Pope, and many dignitaries, to accumulate; and the strong representations which he made, not vainly, against a reckless destruction of ancient buildings in the city. But this amicable intercourse quickly cooled, and the mutual jealousies of the parties, arising from complicated causes, became aggravated by various concurrent grudges. Sixtus, ambitious and warlike, desired to make himself arbiter, if not autocrat, of Italy. Lorenzo was a man of peace, content to preserve the _status quo_ with his neighbours, that he might leisurely establish at home, on a firm basis, such power as should enable him to promote the commercial prosperity and intellectual pre-eminence of his native city. From similar views, rather than as a means of territorial aggrandisement, he sought to extend his family influence, by securing for his brother Giuliano a seat in the sacred college. With unaccountable blindness, the Pope refused a favour which policy should have induced him to volunteer; and from that moment the Medici were entirely alienated. Their able diplomacy and ample means were especially directed to thwart the views of his Holiness upon the feudatories of Romagna. By their aid, Città di Castello had, in 1474, resisted the arms of his legate Giuliano della Rovere; at their suggestion, two years later, Carlo Braccio made an attempt upon Perugia; further, their credit was interposed to extricate Taddeo Manfredi from those pecuniary difficulties which induced him to surrender his fief of Imola to the Duke of Milan. The last of these intrigues, although unavailing, provoked the special indignation of Count Girolamo Riario, who, finding himself thwarted in his matrimonial scheme, hampered in the acquisition of a new state, and baffled in his aims at further sovereignty, by the ever-watchful policy of Lorenzo, employed his boundless influence to stimulate the Pontiff's growing dislike for the Medici. This was at first vented in petty slights. Lorenzo lost his agency for the Holy See; and his personal enemy, Salviati, received the richly endowed mitre of Pisa. The quarrel, thus exasperated by mutual affronts, boiled up until it exploded in bloody vengeance. [Illustration: _Alinari_ LORENZO DE' MEDICI _After the fresco by Ghirlandaio in S. Trinità, Florence_] It is worthy of remark, that in Florence, which by democratic writers is upheld as the model of Italian republics, almost every convulsion originated from some personal pique or family feud, rather than in any general outbreak against intolerable oppression. Without pausing to examine how far the same remark is applicable to many popular revolutions, we shall glance hurriedly at the events of the Pazzi conspiracy, one of the numerous and melancholy proofs of corruption and bad faith in high places, during these the palmy days of Italian prosperity. Those jealousies, with which the rising star of the Medici had to contend in their native city, were the natural fruit of their rapidly extending wealth and influence, rather than of direct aggressions upon its freedom. They were sown by rival families, "Whose aim was but themselves to magnify," and who were greedy of an ascendancy which, in other hands, would probably have been used with less moderation; but in most cases they were rendered abortive by the universal popularity of those against whom they were directed. Among these rivals were the Pazzi, an injury to one of whom, from the operation of a new law limiting female succession, fanned into flame the smouldering sparks of an old hatred. Francesco, another of this family, who resided at Rome, and who supplanted Lorenzo as papal banker, seems to have been the first to suggest violence, urged it is said by Count Girolamo, with whom he was intimate, and who is alleged to have interested his uncle, the Pope, in the foul scheme. At all events, there can be little doubt that the plot was matured at Rome, and that its execution was chiefly entrusted to Cardinal Raffaele Riario, the Count's nephew, aided by Francesco Salviati, Archbishop of Pisa, and by others who owed some private grudge to the Medici. The purpose of this conspiracy, apparently stimulated by a prelate, directed by a cardinal, and sanctioned by the Pontiff, was the murder of Lorenzo and his brother Giuliano. After repeated postponements, the blow was struck on the 26th of April, 1478, in the cathedral of Florence, during celebration of high mass, the elevation of the Host being the concerted signal for an assassination by priestly hands. The sacrilegious attempt was but partially successful. Giuliano, struck down by the dagger of Francesco de' Pazzi, fell pierced by many mortal wounds; but Lorenzo, after receiving a slight flesh-cut, was hurried by his attached friends into the sacristy, and its doors secured. Salviati and other conspirators meanwhile made a vain attempt to possess themselves of the Palazzo Pubblico, and raise a revolutionary cry; but they being resisted from within, and seconded by no response of the citizens, with whom the existing government was highly popular, the émeute was promptly put down, the Archbishop and its other leaders being instantly hanged from the windows, and their bodies tossed into the piazza. [Illustration: _Alinari_ GIULIANO DE' MEDICI] The melancholy catalogue of crime contains no blacker atrocity, none more fatal by example and social results, than such concerted murders as those of Galeazzo Maria Sforza and Giuliano de' Medici. Yet when history arraigns their assassins at the bar of human judgment, due consideration should be given to certain extenuating pleas. The age was one of violence, when life was little valued, and religion exercised no vital influence on morals; when their public and private excesses too often rendered those in high places a common nuisance; when justice and vengeance were convertible terms, the dagger or the poisoned draught their ready instruments. As we write these sentences similar outrages are revived. One looked upon as the most enlightened and most practical of Italian liberals is suddenly called to administer the temporal affairs of Rome at a crisis of singular difficulty. His private life is unchallenged, his public policy untried. As he enters the anticipated scene of his future labours,--the first constitutional assembly ever attempted in a city which had long ruled the world,--he falls pierced to the heart by the poignard of a dastardly miscreant. A crime for centuries disused becomes again national, consecrated by pæans of the Roman populace, who tramp the streets chanting-- "Blessings on the hand That laid the tyrant low."[187] When the dismal tidings reached Leghorn, the mob hurry to the piazza, prompt, like the old democracy of Florence, to overturn existing powers on the chance of new masters. The governor of the city, and guardian of its peace, accepts and celebrates the cowardly murder, by announcing to them from his balcony that "Pellegrino Rossi, a man hated by all Italy for his principles, has fallen by a son of the ancient Roman republic. May God save his soul, and the liberty of Italy!" [Footnote 187: On the 15th of November, 1848, Count Rossi was assassinated on entering the Chamber of Deputies at its first sitting. No effort was made by the bystanders or Assembly to seize the culprit. At night the streets rang with the chorus-- "Benedetta quella mano Che il tiranno pugnalò!" It has been our study to exclude from these pages all allusion to modern politics, or to events as yet untested by time. But when outrages such as this are perpetrated in broad day, and applauded by a people, it becomes all men to protest against lessons calculated to annihilate civilisation, and to reproduce the worst features of the dark ages.] But to return from the melodramatic horrors of modern Italian politics. Confessions by subordinate agents traced the origin of this disgraceful plot of the Pazzi to the Roman court, and Sixtus, so far from repelling the charge, adopted the attitude of a partisan, by excommunicating Lorenzo and all Florence. The manifesto by which he sought to justify this measure affords no sufficient defence, nor any satisfactory contradiction of his privacy to the designs of the Pazzi; indeed, when hard names are substituted for facts, and mixed up with transparent evasions or detected falsehoods, the cause which they defend naturally becomes suspected. The official documents by which the Pontiff must be judged are accessible to English readers in the Appendix to Roscoe's _Life of Lorenzo_.[188] Giovanni Sanzi, whose ample details were unknown to that accomplished biographer, confirms generally his account of the conspiracy, but mentions a report that when imparted to his Holiness he refused his consent, and dissuaded its leaders from their design. This, if proved, would still leave him under scandal as an accessory after the fact. We learn from the same chronicle that Duke Federigo, when asked to share the plot, scouted it as utterly revolting to his honour, and calculated to overwhelm its authors with eternal infamy, adding that, during his own long struggle with Sigismondo Malatesta, similar expedients had been repeatedly suggested to him, but that by God's grace he had been enabled to resist them all: at the same time he expressed his readiness to take the field against the Medici, and try the fortune of war in open campaign. Lorenzo having subsequently sent to demand why he concealed the conspiracy thus brought to his knowledge, he denied the necessity of offending a good friend by imparting to an enemy an attempt which he disapproved and abhorred, adding, that he would soon be in Tuscany to settle all differences in honourable warfare. [Footnote 188: See also in FABRONIO, _Laurentii Medicis Vita_, ch. ii., p. 130, a letter from Sixtus to Duke Federigo, explanatory of his policy, but curious rather from the eccentricity of its illiterate style, in which barbarous Latin forms a strange medley with uncultivated Italian. Likewise, at p. 136, a protest of the Florentine clergy to the Pope.] [Illustration: _Alinari_ THE BIRTH OF VENUS _Supposed portrait of Simonetta Cattaneo--mistress of Giuliano de' Medici._ _Detail from the picture by Sandro Botticelli in the Uffizi Gallery, Florence_] Sanzi has thus rendered Lorenzo's spirited address to his fellow citizens, when struck by excommunication and menaced with war:-- "Hear me! fair Florence' worthy denizens, Thus called to choose betwixt my house and peace. If 'tis your will our race to sacrifice, Behold me ready, manacled and bound; The fatal doom to suffer lead me forth! Oh! that my blood the Pontiff might appease, And sate the vengeance of yon bloody Count. Oh! that, as metal by the fire refined, You'd in the furnace cast me, from yourselves To parry discipline not less severe. But well I warn you that such woe to us For you were still more fatal, and our foes, My doom once sealed, your freedom straight would curb." The appeal was not vainly made. The Lateran thunders fell harmless on a people who, rallying round their favourite leader, appealed to a general council, and meanwhile compelled their clergy to disregard the censures hurled at them. Spiritual weapons being thus foiled, the Pontiff had recourse to temporal arms. The war which ensued, though limited in its field, included many parties. Sixtus was supported by the Dukes of Calabria and Urbino, the latter acting as generalissimo. The Medici, strengthened at home and abroad by the failure of a conspiracy equally atrocious and unprovoked, had for allies France and Venice, the Dukes of Milan and Ferrara, with the Marquis of Mantua. Sismondi justly observes that the Pope was prepared to take advantage of an explosion which he had premeditated, whilst the Florentines were surprised at a moment of confidence and repose. The ecclesiastical troops were accordingly first in the field, and having united with those of Naples, entered Tuscany by the Val di Chiana early in July. But on the do-little system which then constituted warfare, the Dukes of Calabria and Urbino, though met by no effectual opposition, lingered away the summer, countermarching in plains where malaria was ever rife, and signalising themselves by forays upon townships incapable of defence. Leaving on the left Siena, their faithful and effective ally, they reduced Radda on the 24th of August; but instead of then pushing forward to the Arno, they consumed the autumn, attacking in detail many surrounding places, of which Monte Sansovino alone offered a serious resistance. The exact sciences, which were encouraged at the court of Urbino, took there, as elsewhere, the tendency most easy in an age of prevailing superstition. Maestro Paolo, a noted German adept, was accordingly retained by the Duke, and taught him astrology along with the kindred branches of geometry and arithmetic. Yet Cortesio tells us that, although he always had about him a number of soothsayers, and, in deference to the notions current among his soldiery and subjects, pretended to rely upon their prognostics, he utterly despised all kinds of divination. The only notice of the subject I have discovered among his letters is contained in one addressed to Ant---- Nar----, which may have been written during the siege of Monte Sansovino, or possibly from the leaguer of Colle, eleven months later. The reader will judge how far it ought to be received with the gloss suggested by Cortesio. "I observe in your former longer letters that you wish to draw auguries of futurity, which you announce to be pregnant with events of the highest moment, saying that now is the time to gird ourselves for great things; indeed, such words seem to point at some loftier issue. It would, therefore, be agreeable to us that you should again acquaint us by letter, whether that augury really infers any imminent result. For, if perchance you allude only to this siege, we acknowledge to have undertaken a difficult business, and that the town is by nature or art amply provided; yet do we hope, through the grace of the eternal God, to effect that which we have taken in hand. But if you refer to something else, it will be not less gratifying to have from you some explanation, and to know if it rest on your own or another's opinion. Farewell."[189] [Footnote 189: Vat. Urb. MSS. No. 1198.] The leaguer was protracted by an incident mentioned by Sanzi, who dwells at considerable length on a portion of his hero's life scarcely touched by other biographers. The army suffering from scarcity and sickness, natural results of its prolonged stay in a narrow and unhealthy country, the dispirited troops sighed for winter quarters. It happened that, during a skirmish, two of the Orsini, relations, but banded under opposite banners, met and interchanged mutual wishes for a truce. These aspirations, reported to the Duke of Urbino, were promptly and publicly refused. The garrison, misled by this apparent anxiety to continue hostilities, proposed a suspension of arms, the very measure most fatal to their safety. This was accepted for ten days, during which the besiegers obtained rest and forage, and, when thus recruited from their languor, quickly reduced the place: it surrendered on the 8th of December, whereupon the army fell back on Bonconvento to pass the winter. In a letter to Matthew Corvinus, King of Hungary, Federigo thus briefly narrates this campaign:--"During last summer the illustrious Lord Duke of Calabria was in the field, leading a large body of fine troops of my Lords, the Pope and his Serene Majesty, against the League, and had numerous advantages, especially in the Florentine territory. Many of the enemy's castles and towns were taken, dismantled, and burned, notwithstanding a very powerful army arrayed against us, so that they were outmanoeuvred, as well in the estimation as by the efficiency of our troops, and their strongholds were attacked and carried by us. In consequence of these successes, besides taking many towns, we made forays, plundering and wasting the country even to the gates of Florence. Just then fortune turned quite against us, and one after another our munitions and supplies failed. There first occurred an immense explosion of artillery stores, which prevented our undertaking further operations, and, subsequently, on opening the siege of Monte Sansovino, a place of great importance to us, we found ourselves in absolute want of everything, from the terrible plague which raged throughout the friendly territory of Siena. This, with continual heavy rains, weakened our army exceedingly; and when the enemy discovered that we were thus harassed by contagion, dearth, and weather, they advanced their army within four miles, with the view of at once encouraging the besieged and awing us. But they were foiled in both objects, for we, having granted them a truce of eight days, obtained during that interval supplies, which enabled us to renew the assault; and at its termination the town was carried, under their eyes, to their great detriment and disgrace, and to the credit of the Pope, his Majesty, and my illustrious general the Duke, who, on the surrender of the place, went into quarters, winter being at hand, where we are now making all preparations for next year's campaign."[190] [Footnote 190: Vat. Urb. MSS. No. 1198. In this collection of Federigo's letters are other proofs of his intimacy with the accomplished Sovereign of Hungary. In 1476 he entertained at Urbino the ambassadors sent by that monarch to negotiate his marriage with Beatrice, daughter of Ferdinand of Naples; and having received, through the physician Fontana, an invitation to the nuptials, the Duke wrote to King Matthew that, though most willing to attend, this must depend on the pleasure of his Holiness and Ferdinand, adding that he had been the servant of his affianced bride from her tender years.] Federigo suffered greatly this summer from an accident which he had met with at San Marino some months before.[*191] While discoursing to those around him on past incidents of his adventurous life, and in particular of his prolonged struggle with Sigismondo Malatesta, to which the surrounding country had been often witness, the wooden balcony whence he surveyed these familiar scenes suddenly broke under his weight, and he was precipitated with its ruins to the ground, fracturing his left ankle and lacerating the leg. His first exclamation was one of gratitude for escaping with his life. Gangrene supervened, in consequence of tight bandaging, and a month elapsed ere he could be carried home; but the wound continued so troublesome, that for a considerable time his surgeons apprehended the limb could only be saved by amputation, and when the Tuscan war opened, he was still entirely dependent upon a litter, being unable to walk or ride. To this circumstance may perhaps be, in part, ascribed the sluggish tactics of that campaign; when it closed, he repaired to the mineral springs of Petriolo, near Radicofani, attended by Maestro Ludovico, a physician, and remained in that bleak sojourn for five months, quitting it to rejoin the army at the end of May. In acknowledgment of his services during the previous year, the King of Naples conferred on him a right to make and export annually five hundred loads of salt from the works of Manfredonia. [Footnote *191: For an account of the Duke's connection with San Marino, cf. G.G., _Tre Documenti inediti risguardanti la Rep. di S. Marino_ (Pesaro, 1888). The first document refers to Federigo in 1461, the others to 1502 and 1560.] Roberto Malatesta was serving under the Duke of Calabria at the surrender of Monte Sansovino, and, having quarrelled with him for sanctioning a sack of that place, he, with a condottiere's easy conscience, transferred his company to the Florentine camp. There, too, were assembled the Duke of Ferrara, the Marquis of Mantua, Costanzo Sforza of Pesaro, Nicolò Vitelli of Città di Castello, Carlo Braccio of Montone. The promise afforded by these names proved, however, illusory; and although a diversion was made by them in June towards Perugia, the spring and summer again passed without notable efforts on either side. This number of independent leaders, serving under no recognised head, embarrassed the allies; and although they obtained some inconsiderable successes near Thrasymene, the other division of their forces sustained a decided check at Poggio Imperiale, in Val d'Elsa, on the 7th of September. The ecclesiastical forces, following up their advantage, laid siege to Certaldo and Poggibonsi, both of which speedily fell. They next attacked Colle, which held out till the 12th of November; its surrender, and the approach of winter, led to a three months' truce, and the troops repaired to quarters. Comines, then resident at Florence as envoy from the French Court, criticises these operations as inert, and considers the Italians as inferior to his countrymen in the attack or defence of fortified places, but admits their superiority in the quartermaster's department, and in commissariat arrangements. The diary of an eye-witness, Allegretti of Siena, and the Duke of Urbino's despatches to the magistrates of that city, still remaining in its archives, enable us to state some curious facts relating to the then infant art of gunnery.[*192] In the ecclesiastical army, which had, on the whole, some advantage in this campaign, there were five field-pieces, called bombards, distinguished by such startling names as, the Cruel, the Desperate, the Victory, Ruin, None of your Jaw, &c. One of the largest of them is described by Allegretti as consisting of two portions; the tube, which was fully nine feet long, weighing 14,000 pounds, and the tail, half that length, weighing 11,000. It discharged balls of stone, varying from 370 to 380 pounds, and was made by one Pietro of Siena, surnamed Il Campano, from being a bell-founder. In the town of Colle there were three bombards, and during the siege, which lasted six weeks, 1024 shots were fired from both sides.[193] Three of these enormous guns used in the siege belonged to Siena, where the art of casting them was especially followed; and it required above a hundred pairs of buffaloes to drag them up to that city. The Pope and King of Naples had each but one with the army; there were, however, other pieces of artillery, called spingards, cerbottane, and passavolanti; one of the last class is mentioned by Allegretti as about thirteen feet long. The extreme inconvenience of such monstrous engines, in a hilly country, ill supplied with roads, requires no comment. [Footnote *192: ALLEGRETTI, _Diario Senese_, in MURATORI, _R.I.S._, vol. XXIV. TONINI, _Storia di Rimini_ (Rimini), vol. IV., p. 163, tells us that "Furono comprato nove palle di ferro del total peso libbre 33, pro 9 pallottis bombatarum pond. 33 libr...."] [Footnote 193: It was usual to bind the annual fiscal accounts of Siena in wooden boards, on which some historical or domestic incident was painted. Many of these _bicherne_ remain, curious memorials of manners and of art. I found at p. 210 of Pecci's Iscrizioni, MSS. in the public library there, a notice of one representing the siege of Colle, which would valuably illustrate these observations, could it be recovered.] The following extracts are from Duke Federigo's despatches. On the 14th of July, 1478, he writes to Siena from the camp: "Since the powder for the bombard which you sent me is not fit to be fired, and will not answer the purpose, I pray you to let me have as soon as possible some that will do the business, in order that time may not be lost; and also to send me fine powder, fit for spingards, by mixing which, what we have may be rendered serviceable. And I further pray you to see that the other bombard be forwarded with all speed; for it is impossible to say of what importance these things are, or what honour and advantage will result if this be done with diligence, and how much it will be otherwise if they are delayed." On the 8th of August he writes from the camp at Castellina: "There being hereabouts great scarcity of stones for the bombard, and the few available ones only to be had with much difficulty, I send your lordships the measure of its height, from which you can have them prepared, since you have its diameter; and I pray you to cause search be made in your stores, or outside the town, if any suitable ones can be had for the said bombard. And I pray your lordships to let me know immediately, that I may send for them without loss of time; and even should they be somewhat large, I shall not object, as I can have them reduced with much less trouble than it would take to have them quarried and prepared, seeing how few here are adapted for that bombard. Lastly, I beseech your lordships to let me have as many hewers as possible." On the 12th of August, he sends a messenger for two barrels of salt of nitre for refining the powder supplied to him, which "to say the truth, worked badly." Again, on the 18th of November, 1479, when in camp before Colle, he writes: "I inform your lordships that we cannot move from this, because the Marzochesca bombard has not been removed; and I have not had it broken up, because Messer Borghese tells me your lordships wish for it; and the muzzle of the last bombard which burst is still here, for its carriage broke down on the march, as also its _serandina_, and was left by the way; and thus we are unable to decamp, as I have said. I therefore earnestly beg your lordships, immediately on receipt hereof, to send hither all the Pope's and his Majesty's buffaloes you have, and as many of your own as possible, with such oxen as you can; also all the waggons you have, dismounting the bombards from those which are already laden with them, in order that we may be amply provided. Let other carts be made ready to replace those that may break down, with lots of buffaloes and oxen; and let them be brought hither safely and speedily, for your need and ours: and in God's name, if ever you used diligence do so now, that these carts, buffaloes, and oxen arrive quickly, seeing the Lord Duke [of Calabria] and Messer Lorenzo have already written for theirs in similar terms." These remonstrances had their effect. On the 20th the camp was raised, the troops dispersing into winter quarters, and so ended this dilatory and unimportant war, marked by devastation rather than by victory, barren of laurels, crowned by no enduring conquest. The two allied leaders repaired to Siena, where they were honourably welcomed, Federigo being lodged in the episcopal palace. In accordance with the custom of that age, a large donation was given to each of them, consisting of calves, wedders, capons, corn, bread, wine, almond-cakes, almonds, ray-fish, pheasants, chickens, pigeons, etc. Many influences favourable to peace were now brought to bear upon the Pontiff; and although his own wishes were for a further humiliation of the Medici, his ally of Naples being tired of a struggle in which no personal interest was at stake, and no trophies had been earned, he could not prevent the offer of a truce. It was eagerly accepted by the Florentines, whose position was one of imminent peril. Long unused to arms, and totally alien to the military spirit of the Peninsula, it was their habitual policy to trust for defence to hired troops. Their merchant families sent forth no martial geniuses, and Lorenzo avoided appearing in the field, for which he felt himself in no way qualified. But on this occasion they were singularly unfortunate in their defenders. Nominally backed by all Upper Italy, they had no effectual aid from Venice, occupied in protecting her mainland from the Turks. The Duke of Ferrara, though titular leader of their motley army, possessed neither talent nor influence to occupy such a position. The other free captains sought their separate interests, and the hereditary feuds of the Braccian and Sforzan companies broke out for the last time, as the remnants of these once famous bands found themselves encamped together. Even after this element of mutiny had been extinguished, by detaching Carlo Braccio and his following on the Perugian expedition, new quarrels arose between the Lords of Ferrara and Mantua, which so disorganised the army that Machiavelli declares it took to flight at Poggio Imperiale on seeing the dust raised by the enemy's approach, abandoning to them camp, baggage, and artillery. But this writer, prejudiced against the whole military system, may be read with some qualification, when he declares its poltroonery to have been such that the turn of a horse's head, or the whisking of his tail, was enough to put it in a panic. Yet, with every allowance, it seems clear that, had the confederates of Lower Italy then marched upon the capital, instead of loitering on the Val d'Elsa, the fondest wishes of Sixtus might have been gratified; and Baldi confers no honour on the Duke of Urbino in claiming for him the credit of successfully thwarting such a proposal, upon no better grounds than that the army was too ill-disciplined to withstand the temptations of success in so attractive an enterprise. Lorenzo was alive to the delicacy of his position; the finances of his country and his private resources wasted upon useless stipendiaries; the patience of even his partisans exhausted by a mismanaged and unfortunate war. His resolution was magnanimously formed and boldly executed. Early in December he suddenly embarked for Naples to plead for peace, if not for his family at least for his fellow citizens. The fate of Giacopo Piccinino, in 1465, rendered such an appeal to Ferdinand one of chivalrous daring, but it fully succeeded. The gratifying compliments bestowed on Lorenzo were only equalled by his own munificence; and although negotiations were protracted by Ferdinand's cold and unrelenting disposition, and by the intrigues of Sixtus, he was finally successful in removing all difficulties, and in concluding a defensive treaty with Naples, which was proclaimed on the 25th of March. The Pope, unable to maintain the war single-handed, had no option but to accede; it was not, however, until the end of the year that he would grant a formal remission, and the removal of ecclesiastical censures. To obtain this grace, there arrived in Rome in November an embassy of eleven eminent citizens of Florence, who, prostrated in the dust on Advent Sunday in the metropolitan church, confessed their derelictions of duty, and implored pardon. They, however, did not receive absolution until the irate Pontiff had read them a severe rebuke, and had gently applied to the shoulders of each a scourge of penance, whilst they recited the fifty-first penitentiary psalm.[194] [Footnote 194: Volterrano gives a curious account of this function, _R.I.S._, XXIII., 114.] Whilst the Duke of Calabria remained at Siena, nominally to overawe the Florentines, and maintain his recent advantages, but in reality ripening those schemes by which, ever since 1446, the house of Aragon had aimed at establishing their influence in that republic, Federigo, after being entertained at a ball in the Palazzo Pubblico, on the 18th of December, 1479, went to the baths of Viterbo, which had been recommended for his still suffering limb. We owe to Sanzi some notice of his residence in that town, where his numerous suite, and his own graceful and polished address, made a general sensation. It was his delight to receive as guests such personages of distinction as passed that way to Rome. Among these was the Duke of Saxony, who was repairing to the Holy City on a pious pilgrimage with a goodly cortège. To him and his attendants Federigo's courtly demeanour and splendid hospitality were an agreeable surprise: though "barbarians" by birth, they were fully qualified to appreciate such civilities, nor were they allowed to depart without a promise to renew their visit to him at Urbino on their return homewards. His son, Guidobaldo, and his nephew, Ottaviano della Carda, joined in doing the honours to their guest, who was distantly related to them through the Gonzaga family, and they parted with mutual compliments and good wishes. Soon after Christmas, Federigo received from the Pope, by the hands of Pier Felice, his resident at Rome, the Sword and Hat, honours among the highest at his Holiness's disposal, and reserved for sovereigns of tried fidelity and devotion to the papacy, but which seemed on this occasion to acquire new illustration in the person of the recipient. In May he addressed this letter to his allies of Siena:-- "Mighty and potent Lords, dearest Brothers, "It has pleased our lord his Holiness, and his Majesty the most serene King, that I may return home; where, and wherever I may be, your magnificences may dispose of me and mine as of your own, for this much my long and true friendship requires and exacts. And I ever shall remember the great love and kindness I met with in many parts of your land. Moreover I recommend to you my son Antonio, for whom I have taken the precaution to let him be conducted home by the goodness of Ottaviano, who accompanies him to Naples, not being at present otherways required. From Viterbo, the 19th May, 1480. "FEDERIGO DUCA D'URBINO, _manu propria_." Bidding adieu to Viterbo amid the regrets of its inhabitants, the Duke went to meet his daughter the Princess of Salerno; and having greatly suffered from fatigue and pain during the last two years, returned home almost a wreck. He was triumphantly welcomed by his people, and soon after received a visit from Cardinal Giuliano della Rovere, then on his way to France as papal legate. About this time the Ordelaffi of Forlì, making a final effort to maintain themselves against Count Girolamo, appealed to Federigo. But being unable to espouse their part while himself in the papal service, he counselled the last survivor of that race to compromise with Riario by a sale of his rights, and to hope for better days. This having been at length effected, Girolamo and his Countess visited their new principalities, where, notwithstanding the popular dissatisfaction with changes which had extinguished the former dynasties, they speedily so gained all hearts, that Sanzi gravely questions whether Jove himself, if descending upon earth, would have had an equally honourable reception. This may be in some degree attributed to the fickleness of popular opinion, especially in a nation of lively and impressionable character; but there was much to recommend the new-comers. Possessed of ample means, and prodigal in their use, the ambition and political influence of Girolamo promised a long career of advancement and of coming glories for his subjects. Of Caterina, then in her twentieth year, we have this florid description from her biographer Fabio Oliva: "As she issued from her litter, it seemed as if the sun had emerged, so gorgeously beautiful did she appear, laden with silver, and gold, and jewels, but still more striking from her natural charms. Her hair, wreathed in the manner of a coronet, was brighter than the gold with which it was twined. Her forehead of burnished ivory almost reflected the beholders. Her eyes sparkled behind the mantling crimson of her fair cheeks, as morning stars amid those many-tinted lilies which returning dawn scatters along the horizon." In somewhat less inflated language, Ratti, the Sforzan biographer, says: "It would be difficult to find in history any female who so far surpassed her sex, who was so much the amazement of her contemporaries and the marvel of posterity. Endowed with a lofty and masculine spirit, she was born to command; great in peace, valiant in war, beloved by her subjects, dreaded by her foes, admired by foreigners." The features of this siren of her times are supposed to have been commemorated by more than one of those church pictures into which it was then customary to introduce likenesses of the donors and their families, especially the altar-piece of the Torelli Chapel by Marco Palmeggiani, still in the church of S. Girolamo at Forlì, which represents Caterina, her husband, and her two eldest sons kneeling before the enthroned Madonna. Another likeness is given in the preceding page from a rare medallion of the lady of Imola in her more matronly years, whose descendants still subsist in various princely houses, and in the noble family of Riario Sforza at Naples. This much of a heroine who will reappear at intervals in our pages. The adhesion of Sixtus to the treaty which closed the Tuscan war was partly extorted by his terror of the Turks, whose progress in Europe, as yet, had met with no decided reverse. The energy and skill of Loredano had, indeed, kept them in check during the campaigns of 1474-5, but Venice found herself exhausted by efforts which, although of vital moment to Christianity, she was left to make single-handed. The following year was one of comparative repose, till in 1477, the Infidels, bursting those ramparts along the Isonzo by which the Republic considered her territories secured, scoured the rich plains of Friuli, and burned the mainland palaces of her citizens within sight of the capital. During 1478 Troia fell, and Scutari suffered a long and hopeless siege, whilst Sixtus was wasting in the Tuscan war those energies which, as head of the Church, he might have easily united against the victorious Crescent. After vainly protesting, and threatening the Pontiff with a general council, the Signory, in January, 1479, concluded with Mahomet II. a disastrous peace, at the sacrifice of all their recent conquests in the East. The Venetians were now justly incensed at the Pope and Ferdinand, who had not only refused them aid in defending Western Europe from Turkish inroads, but had effectually prevented Florence from contributing its contingent for that purpose. With the King there was a further cause of quarrel, as he had concluded a treaty with the Sultan in the spring of 1478, recognising conquests wrested by him from their Republic. Renouncing the tardy and uncertain remedy of a general council, they sought more summary vengeance by inviting Mahomet to invade Lower Italy, and when, after a siege of thirteen days, the Crescent waved over the walls of Otranto, they so successfully diverted suspicions of this anti-Italian policy from themselves to his Holiness, that Ferdinand threatened to throw open to the Infidel a passage to Rome. The panic which now spread throughout Italy, and this imminent peril of the Holy See, at length forced the Pontiff to merge selfish considerations, and to make an effort in the common cause. Bulls exhorting all Christian princes to unity, were followed by diplomatic arrangements with the powers of Italy; and Sismondi is probably correct in ascribing to the terror of this crisis the Pope's tardy absolution of the Medici and their adherents, which we have already mentioned, and which was accompanied with a condition that Florence should send a fleet to the rescue of Otranto. The dangers impending over his own kingdom occasioned Ferdinand to recall his son from Siena, and to invoke Federigo's services against the Turk. The latter, foreseeing danger from the ambitious energy of Mahomet, had already protested against the King's imprudence in leaving his coasts unprotected, while pursuing schemes of idle ambition in Tuscany; he hastened notwithstanding to obey the summons, but was stopped by an order from Sixtus to guard the ecclesiastical sea-board, menaced by an incursion from Scutari. To his counsels, however, was ascribed the ultimate recovery of Otranto, in order to effect which the Pontiff and Lorenzo de' Medici had hastily united with Ferdinand. Exactly a year after its capture that city was restored by its Moslem garrison, discouraged by the Sultan's death three weeks previously. Yet these events which, by ridding Italy of invasion, and closing the career of her most formidable foe, ought to have been hailed with unalloyed satisfaction, were soon found to infer new dangers, by promoting those internal distractions habitually fermented in the Peninsula during each interval of repose. CHAPTER XII The war of Ferrara, and death of Duke Federigo--His character and portraits. The sparks of discord, though smothered, were still smouldering in many quarters. Sixtus, whose restless ambition was stirred by schemes of nepotism for his unscrupulous nephew of Forlì, forgot not that Ferdinand had baulked him of full vengeance upon the Medici, and brooded over that monarch's threat of letting the Infidel march upon his capital. He also calculated that, in the scramble of a general war, some pickings might fall to the lot of Count Girolamo. Venice, moreover, had had good cause for apprehending retribution for Naples, for the scurvy trick she had played in bringing the Turks upon Lower Italy; and thus was the way prepared for new party combinations. It was against the Duke of Ferrara that these were chiefly directed; for besides the offence of being son-in-law to Ferdinand, his territory was a desirable acquisition both to the Republic and to Count Girolamo. To Venice the latter accordingly proceeded in September, on a mission from his uncle, and arranged for the partition of that duchy, of which Lugo and Bagnacavallo were to be his share, with full liberty to expel the Manfredi from Faenza and to appropriate their possessions. Among other preliminaries, he stipulated that Federigo should command the allied army, a proceeding not only unauthorised by the Duke, but in direct opposition to the moderate counsels and peaceful policy earnestly pressed by him upon the youthful envoy, during a recent visit at Urbino. The appointment was accordingly declined, nor was his determination shaken by an offer from the Signory of 80,000 ducats as retaining pay, on condition of his taking no part in the war: one of his family demurring to his rejection of so advantageous a proposal, he replied, that "good faith and its observance are still better, and worth more than all the gold in the world." In a long and earnest letter he warned the Pontiff of the impolicy and mischief of such projects, and the miserable results of fresh contests in Italy; urged upon his Holiness that the moment was favourable for turning the united arms of Christendom against the Turks, while distracted by disputes between the sons of Mahomet; and offered his shattered limbs for any post in that glorious cause. Views so repugnant to the schemes of Sixtus had no weight in the Camera, and gave great offence to Girolamo Riario. [Illustration: _Alinari_ ASTORGIO III. DE' MANFREDI _From the picture by Scaletti in the Pinacoteca of Faenza_] As it was in his father-in-law Ferdinand's quarrels that the Duke of Ferrara was likely to be victimised, the former was not slow to interpose for his protection. Personal feeling, as well as a sense of justice and a keen perception of the true interests of Italy, brought Lorenzo de' Medici to the same side, while the adherence of Milan, Mantua, and Bologna was secured by an apprehension of the ambitious advances of the Holy See and Venice upon Romagna and Lombardy. By these six powers a league was accordingly formed to defend Ferrara; and, on the 17th April, Federigo was engaged as its captain-general for three years. During war he was to provide 600 men-at-arms and 562 infantry, with 165,000 golden ducats of pay; in peace he was to have 65,000 ducats, finding 300 men-at-arms and 375 foot soldiers. In the event of death, his son and troops were to complete the stipulated period of service, with 15,000 ducats of personal pay.[195] Opposed to him was Roberto di Sanseverino, as leader of the Venetian army; and the papal contingent was nominally under Count Girolamo, who did not take the field, although the quarrel was in a great measure for his profit. The command of the ecclesiastical forces, thus vacated by the Duke of Urbino, had devolved upon his son-in-law Roberto Malatesta, who remained in Central Italy to occupy the Neapolitan troops at home, and protect Rome from the rebellious Colonna and Savelli. The Genoese and the Marquis of Montferrat adhered to the Venetian alliance. [Footnote 195: This condotta is preserved in the Oliveriana MSS. The diary of Duke Francesco Maria II. gives a slightly varied version of the engagement, and explains that, of the gross allowance, 45,000 ducats in war and 25,000 in peace were the general's personal pay. The war of Ferrara is minutely detailed by Sanuto; in the Scriptores, xxii. 1215; and in a volume of Commentaries privately printed at Venice, in 1829; also by Cyrneo, in Scriptores, xii., 1189. Sanzi's chronicle supplies very ample particulars, as does Vespasiano.] The offer of an engagement by the League had been carried to Federigo, by six envoys commissioned from its leading powers, and was readily accepted. His preparations being completed, he set forth from his capital on St. George's day, while tearful eyes and ominous sighs attested his subjects' anxiety at the departure of their paternal sovereign, bent by failing health and advancing years. Besides his wonted suite, there followed him for many miles a train of men distinguished in letters and arts, philosophers, theologians, jurists, astronomers, and architects. By his side rode his nephew and confidential friend Ottaviano della Carda, to whom, as if anticipating his approaching end, he warmly and affectionately recommended his son Guidobaldo and all his friends. At the foot of the Apennines this sorrowing convoy quitted him to return home, whilst he crossed the mountains to Borgo San Sepolchro, where he was received by Lorenzo de' Medici. In the Val d'Arno he met his old and sage friend Antonio Bellanti, with a troop of white-plumed lances, exiled from his native Siena by adverse factions, and offered him a safe retreat in his state until times should change; an invitation which he declined, and so incurred a bloody death. At Florence the people gladly welcomed the conqueror of Volterra, and the magistracy received him at the door of the Palazzo Vecchio. The war now impending was alike iniquitous in its motives, and disastrous in its attendant circumstances. Its seat was in the lower plains of Lombardy, where they merge into a wide delta, formed by the arterial channels of the rivers Po and Adige, and veined by the minor drainage of the Polesine and Ferrarese territories. Most of "That level region, where no echo dwells," was, and still continues, so embanked that its waters may easily be let loose upon the hapless cultivators, submerging their dwellings and swamping their crops. Numerous streams, navigable by boats, laid it open to privateering incursions, highly attractive to amphibious Venetian adventurers. Finally, the malaria, always generated by summer heats, was naturally more inveterate when invaders had opened the sluices and broken the banks, thereby flooding an unusual extent of marsh-land. Thus ravaged by fire and sword, and decimated by disease, the unhappy natives had good cause to curse the ambition of which they were victims. In no part of Italy had the people been so exempt from the calamities of war. The family of Este, ever addicted to habits of almost effeminate indulgence, had been long represented by Duke Borso, whose reign, as described in the Ferrarese _Diary_, was one continued revel at home and pageant abroad. Those who would understand the extent to which prodigal magnificence and immoderate festivity were carried in the Peninsula, will there find details of refined luxury and lavish expenditure, scarcely credible in an age but emerging from what we are accustomed to regard as barbarism, or in a state enjoying no extraordinary resources. The plan of the campaign was to reduce Ferrara by a combined attack, in which a flotilla of five hundred vessels of light draught, fitted out at Ancona and Venice, was to ascend the Po, and co-operate with the troops of Sanseverino. War was proclaimed on the 3rd of May, but the Venetian general had already opened his operations by invading the Polesine, a fenny dependency of the d'Este family extending between the Adige and the Po. Marching his army southward from Legnano, he crossed the Veronese marshes upon a hastily constructed roadway of beams, supported by flat boats and faggots, and attacked Mellara on the north bank of the Po. Having taken it in three days, he advanced eastward to Castelnuovo, which capitulated after a ten days' siege. Following the river's course, he reached Ficheruolo on the 11th of May, and immediately invested it. This place being scarcely more than twelve miles from Ferrara, already menaced by the armament on the lower reaches of the river, the Duke of Urbino advanced to meet the enemy, and posted himself at La Stellata, which lay opposite Ficheruolo and commanded the passes of the Po. His opinion of the state of matters may best be gathered from a despatch addressed by him about this time to Lorenzo de' Medici, and printed by Fabronio from the Florentine archives. "Magnificent and dearest Brother, "Your mightiness will see by the copy, herewith sent to the eight lords of the Balia, of a letter I have written to the most illustrious Duke of Ferrara, that I am advised of the loss of the fort of Mellara, and of the enemy's intention to unite the flotilla with their land forces, and to advance with the stream upon Ferrara: nor can there be a question that this design may to a certain extent succeed, unless prevented by speedy and effective measures on the part of the most serene League, that illustrious lord not being able to maintain himself single-handed, as your magnificence has already heard from himself. "The remedy that occurs to me in this urgent danger is that your excellent Signory should send him as many infantry as possible, preferring those of Romagna, and the Val di Lamone, both as nearest and as the best drilled, and thus more suitable than any others that can be thought of. And so soon as the most illustrious Lord Duke of Milan shall forward the infantry and cavalry, for whom I have applied to him, I shall move upon the duchy to make the enemy pull up. And when the most serene League shall provide what is requisite for honour and utility, enabling me to face him, I am prepared to prove to him that it is one thing to form a project, but quite another to carry it into effect. I care not to detain your magnificence, feeling assured that once aware of the importance of this, your prudence will not delay the needful provisions. "I urgently remind your magnificence to forward with all speed the infantry, as agreed on, into my state and that of the Lord Costanzo [of Pesaro]; for I have ordered my men-at-arms not to follow me till these come up, seeing it would be a risk to expose our territories without a force equal to defend them at all hazards.... From Rovere [opposite Mellara], the 4th May, 1482."[196] [Footnote 196: This letter by no means bears out the allegation in support of which it has been referred to by Roscoe,--that the preparation and direction of this war chiefly rested on Lorenzo de' Medici, and that on his activity and prudence the allies mainly relied. There is no evidence whether he fully carried out the suggestions here made, but it is quite clear that Federigo received from none of his confederates adequate support during the campaign.] The affairs of the League were far from promising. Ferdinand, caring little to send his troops through a hostile state in search of distant and unprofitable laurels, preferred carrying on a little war of his own against the Pope in the Pontine marshes to marching upon Lombardy. The Tuscans, ever averse to battle-fields, employed their stipendiaries, under Costanzo Sforza, in guarding the Umbrian principalities. The brunt of the war thus fell upon the Lords of Milan and Mantua; and the Duke of Urbino, ill satisfied with their exertions, took boat soon after the date of this despatch, and proceeded in person to urge further exertions upon them both. Sanzi, somewhat inconsistently, selects this visit of urgency to pause upon his raptures with the works of art he saw at Mantua, introducing an episodical criticism, and a catalogue of the best painters and sculptors of Italy, which will be afterwards noticed.[197] On the 20th of May he returned, bringing with him their contingents to La Stellata, where the League lay almost inactive during the siege of Ficheruolo on the opposite bank of the Po, their offensive operations being confined to a pretty constant and galling discharge of long swivels across the river into the Venetian camp, which they also submerged by cutting the banks of the Mincio. This irksome aggression was answered by a message from Sanseverino that he would presently return fire for their water, and by sending to Federigo a fox in a cage, as a hint that, with all his cunning, he too might be entrapped; a paltry taunt, which provoked only a smile from the veteran. No warfare could be more irksome and inglorious; but Federigo, regarding Ferrara as Italy's best bulwark against the ambitious maritime Republic, resolved to defend it at any sacrifice. Ficheruolo held out until the end of June, by which time the marsh fever had become more fatal than human weapons, and mowed down both armies. The Venetian proveditore or commissioner was among its earliest victims; but, as the summer heats increased, the epidemic spread with augmented virulence, until 20,000 men are said to have perished in this miserable contest. Passing over the sad details, we may borrow from Sanuto an absurd incident which varied these horrors. In order to divert the people from their misfortunes, and to inspire them with courage, their sovereign had devolved extensive powers upon a commission or council of sixteen "sages," and the Duchess sent for a wandering friar, whose eloquence and sanctity were in high repute, to preach in the cathedral. One of his orations was wound up by an offer to provide an armada of twelve galleons, which should disperse the Venetian force before Ficheruolo. On the appointed day he produced a dozen of pennons, each surmounted by a cross, along with figures of Christ, the Madonna, and forty saints; and with these he formed a procession, marching at its head, and followed by a concourse of fanatics to the river's brink, opposite the leaguer. There he commenced shouting a sermon across the stream to Sanseverino; but the Duke of Urbino, attracted by the hubbub, sent him away, covered with ridicule, saying, "Why, Father, the Venetians are not possessed! Tell the Duchess it is money, artillery, and troops that we want to expel them." Although Federigo's obstinate policy averted from the doomed capital the visitation of a siege, its miseries were scarcely the less from such exemption. Many dead bodies, thrown by both armies into the river, aggravated the pestilence, which, spreading to the city, so deterred the peasantry, that its supplies were interrupted, until famine augmented the mortality. In this crisis, Sanzi represents the commander of the League as addressing to the Pontiff the following remonstrance:-- "Most holy Father! turn thy face away From this so needless and destructive war, Which direst ills on Italy entails: Thy pastor's hand put forth that rose to pluck, Ere others reap its glory: be invoked With sov'reign and paternal care to free, From discipline so ruinous and harsh, Rome, and the dwellers in Ausonia's lands, Whose bootless passions, pitiably wrecked, In suicidal outrage spend themselves, With benefit to none. While time remains, Oh, Sire! this fatal error shun, nor choose A course which all your merit tarnishes!" [Footnote 197: See ch. xxviii. and Appendix to vol. II.] The game in which Sixtus had engaged was one of selfish ambition and nepotism, and he played it boldly, unmoved by this appeal, or by the straits to which he was reduced by his lawless barons. In the words of the same old chronicler,-- "Hapless was then the holy Father's case, Each house in Rome a garrison, each street Alive with armed escorts; e'en by day Rapine was rife as in the lonely wood, And unredressed, while cardinals Were seized in full consistory; for now Colonna's and Savelli's bands were up; The Pontiff's power at discount." Under a robust frame Federigo concealed the taint of a vitiated constitution, and though but entering upon the autumn of life, long exposure and fatigue, aggravated by repeated severe accidents, had anticipated the effects of age. Yet he rallied from the first attack of malaria, at all times dangerous to one of his years, and, had he yielded to the persuasions of friends and confederates by retiring to Bologna during the unhealthy season, his valuable life might have been spared. He owned the justice of their apprehensions, but, deeming his personal danger in remaining to be fully counterbalanced by the probable loss of Ferrara, which, at that juncture, he considered the key-stone of Italian policy, should he quit the army, he rejected the reiterated representations of his family and adherents, refusing on any consideration to relinquish the post of honour and duty. But, whilst he spared not himself, he ever and anon renewed to the allied powers his remonstrances against their folly in thus pitting a brave army against a noxious climate. As his saddest trial was to see fresh levies of his attached subjects prostrated by sickness on arriving from the healthful breezes of their native uplands, he sent away his son Antonio, with all whom he could spare, reserving in the camp at La Stellata but 400 of his immediate followers, whom the foggy atmosphere and putrid water soon thinned away to forty. [Illustration: _Anderson_ FEDERIGO DI MONTEFELTRO _After the picture by Justus van Ghent, once in the Ducal Collection at Urbino, now in the Palazzo Barberini in Rome_] A relapse of fever having supervened about the beginning of September, he felt that his end was approaching, and calling around him the commissioners of the League, showed them how all his repeated warnings had come true, protesting that his life was sacrificed to unflinching duty in an evil cause. After exposing to them his plan of escape from the jaws of destruction, by removing the seat of operations into a healthy part of Lombardy, he recommended to them the surrounding country and fortresses, and then formally resigned his command, thus briefly reviewing his military career:-- "To Heaven's almighty Lord my thanks are due For eight-and-forty years of manhood, spent In war's most worthy calling, though of these Three-fourths the cares of high command on me Imposed, beneath time-honoured banners, all Unstained by foreign insult, and upheld Proudly victorious. Mine the task has been To conquer further frontiers for their states, With gainful triumphs and distinctions high, Or vindicate a good and lasting peace."[198] [Footnote 198: Sanzi.] The commissioners at length, by affectionate persuasions, induced the invalid to leave his army in charge of the Lord Giulio Orsini, and withdraw to Ferrara, where a villa of the Duke was prepared for his reception.[199] But it was too late. The disease rapidly gaining ground, he set himself to prepare for death like a Christian hero, and, by the grace of God, was permitted to do so in full exercise of his mental powers. "Having arranged all matters pertaining to the succession of his son, he began to attend to his soul's salvation, and after confessing himself repeatedly, as a faithful and good Christian, he set in order all that seemed to him tending to his future welfare, and took, in their prescribed order, the sacraments of the Church. It was graciously vouchsafed him from on high to perform all this with a mind amply prepared by full examination, so that nothing was omitted that behoved a faithful Christian; and this favour was granted him by God for his perseverance through life in the habitual exercise of virtue, for on every occasion his clemency entitled him to the appellation of father of the miserable, and protector of the afflicted."[200] [Footnote 199: Machiavelli says he died at Bologna, but this is a mistake. Sanzi tells us he meant to do so, but was persuaded by the Duchess Leonora to prefer her capital.] [Footnote 200: Vespasiano da Bisticci.] Among the friends who tended his last hours was his secretary, Comandino Comandini, to whom he gave instructions for his funeral; but his son, Count Antonio, having come from the army to visit him, was, according to Sanzi, received with this reproof:-- "How! wouldst thou thus my gallant comrades quit, In time of need, to gaze upon a corpse? Far other course the urgent hour demands! The sacred church's all-consoling rites, Like staid and thoughtful Christian, then he sought: Nor did they fail his latest pangs to cheer. Few were the watchers round his lonely couch, To whom, in sadly soothing words, he spoke Of gentle kindness, and to God his soul In peace committed, spurning mundane moils.... With holy zeal his last behests were told In charity and love; and, having touched The hand of each in turn, with tears bedewed, That lofty and unvanquished spirit sped; Whilst on his lips, with pious fervour, late Lingered the names of God and of our Lady, Giving good hope, if man such signs may read, That to a glorious home its flight was winged." Veterani, another laureate of Urbino, composed a touching sonnet on his patron's death, which begins thus:-- "With ever-welling tears I weep for him, On him I call, of him I nightly dream, And to my lips his cherished image strain, Till by my stains of grief its smile grows dim. To it my verse I vow, it living deem For solace of my stricken soul, in vain!" The Duke died on the 10th of September, within a few days of the premature decease of Roberto Malatesta of Rimini, his son-in-law, and successor in command of the papal troops.[*201] Aided by the factious barons of the Campagna, the Duke of Calabria had gradually penetrated to the gates of Rome, when Roberto, on the 21st of August, dispersed his army in a pitched battle, and returned in triumph as saviour of the Eternal City. His death supervened in a few days, in consequence of a draught of cold water, or, as some thought, of poison administered by the jealous Count of Forlì; and Sixtus, to testify gratitude or remove suspicion, forthwith erected a monument to his general in St. Peter's, with an epitaph testifying that his life had been attended by valour, his death by victory.[202] [Footnote *201: He died on the same day (September 10) as the Duke. See BERN. ZAMBOTTO, _Silva Cronicarum_, Bib. Civica di Ferrara, MS. 470, f. 104 v. under Settem. 10, 1482: "The Duke of Urbino, Captain-General of all the army of the league, returning sick, in the ducal chambers of the garden towards our Duke's chapel of Our Lady in the palace with continual fever, died to-day at the sixteenth hour, and I saw him lying dead in his room under a covering of crimson velvet. He was conveyed by his own people to Urbino to be buried." Zambotto is writing in Ferrara, the palace--corte--is the present Palazzo del Municipio, and "our Duke" is the Duke of Ferrara. I am able to publish this note by the kindness of Mr. E.G. Gardner who sent it me. His book _Dukes and Poets at Ferrara_ (Constable, 1904) should be consulted concerning Ferrara.] [Footnote 202: The following pompous epitaph was written for Roberto:-- "Io son colui che venne, vidi, e vinsi L'invitto Duce, e Roma liberai, E lui da gloria, e me da vita spinsi." The chief was I who came, and saw, and beat The Duke, till then unconquered, freeing Rome. I spilt my life, but spent my foeman's fame.] Although character is usually best estimated by the evidence of contemporaries speaking from personal knowledge, some allowance must be made for the language of adulation applied to princes by their subjects or favourites. Yet in reference to one whose elevated qualities are so well established as those of Federigo, less caution than usual is requisite in adopting the words of his courtiers, and seldom has the meed of praise been more amply confirmed by the award of posterity. We shall, therefore, willingly give a place to the testimony left by one of the most eminent of his acquaintances. Poggio Bracciolino, who had studied the world in many courts and countries, thus writes of him:--"Besides his rare eloquence and acquirements, and the many excellent personal and mental endowments accorded him by nature, his military skill was especially conspicuous, wherein he was surpassed by no contemporary captain. For who does not know the prudence of his undertakings, the promptitude of his actions, the soundness of his decisions, rendering him as it were the model to our age of those great men of antiquity gifted with all the arts of command?" Francesco di Giorgio, the associate of his studies, and the comrade of his campaigns towards the close of his glorious career, ranks his generalship higher than any known to history from the days of old Rome, and acknowledges himself his debtor for many important suggestions as to fortification. The principle of his tactic was, according to this most competent authority, great caution at the commencement of an engagement, holding himself in readiness to support any point exposed by mistake or failure of a subordinate; and, when such opportunity occurred, an impetuous daring which, "with eyes to see and wings to fly," remedied the mischief and secured the victory. "Considerate of his soldiery, compassionate to the enemy, it was his pleasure to mitigate the horrors and miseries of war. He was liberal and merciful, but uncompromisingly just. An eloquent orator, a most subtle philosopher, an eminent moralist, an expert and ingenious mathematician, his intellectual habits were confirmed by long and constant practice. So intense was his admiration of worth, that he sought to attract to his court and reward every man conspicuous by virtue and attainments. A Mars in the field, a Minerva in his administration, he was equally feared and loved." Such is an abstract of the character which Francesco terms but an atom of the encomium due to his patron. Let us now hear Pirro Pirotti, who seasons his tribute with something more quaint and racy than most of the eulogists who followed in his wake. In dedicating to Federigo the Cornucopia of his uncle Nicolò (who had united the medley honours of apostolic secretary, governor of Umbria, archbishop of Siponto, and poet-laureate of Frederick III.), Pirro apostrophises its happiness, "in having you as the foremost to welcome and assign it a place in this your palace, so truly worthy of a victorious prince. At the first glance which it will enjoy on entering your magnificent library, all glittering in marble, silver, and gold, though without speech or life, it will seem to exult and rejoice. It will also be read by you, in whom flourish all the virtues desirable in a prince: it will experience your bounty, clemency, courtesy, and wisdom. With you will it visit the porticoes, palaces, fanes there raised, so costly and magnificent. It will admire your experience in the arts of peace and of war; it will hear of your deeds foreign and domestic, your successes far exceeding expectation, your stratagems and triumphs, your fame, bounded but by the sun's far circuit. It will survey with admiration your almost superhuman frame, your robust limbs, your dignified bearing, your mature years, a rare majesty, coupled with not less affability; qualities, in short, befitting a prince selected as generalissimo of the Roman states. It will further be the companion and sharer of your studies and your discussions; it will witness all the honours you pay to professors of belles-lettres, and the reception bestowed by you on men of learning, in consequence whereof the fine arts, long exiled wanderers, are through you alone restored to life and country." Were we to quote every contemporary compliment to the Duke's character, we should fatigue our readers with fulsome epithets. None is more condensed or complete than the notice of his death by Pietro Cyrneo, a resident in Venice, against which Federigo was then fighting. "He was gifted with all virtues beyond all other mortals; for he was a man of consummate prudence, truthful in his discourse, righteous in his judgments, provident in his counsels, conspicuous for his worth, distinguished for the uniform purity of his morals, liberal of his charities; most eloquent, of unprecedented equity, consummate justice, singular sincerity, superhuman wisdom; equally learned in every branch of study, patient under reverses, most moderate in prosperity; the bravest of generals." One more such tribute, and we have done. It was paid by Vespasiano, who concludes his biographical sketch with the attestation that, having long resided at the court of Urbino, he witnessed most of what he relates, and that whatever did not come under his own observation, he had from persons of credit attached to the Duke's service.[203] "In Messer Federigo were united many virtues, and his age produced no one superior in every laudable quality. In military science, which was his peculiar profession, he was excelled by no commander of his time; uniting energy with consummate judgment, he conquered by prudence as much as by force. The like wariness was observed in all his affairs; and in none of his many battles was he ever worsted. More numerous were the victories he gained and the places he captured, and all redounding to his honour.... His modesty equalled his merit. Duke Galeazzo Maria Sforza having one day observed, 'Whenever I have fighting on hand, I should wish to keep by me your Lordship, who, in my opinion, cannot be worsted'; he replied, 'I learned all that from his excellency the Duke your father.'... Nor may I omit, among his remarkable excellences, the strict observance of good faith, wherein he never failed. All to whom he once gave his word, might testify to his inviolate performance of it, but especially the two sovereigns of Naples, whom he served above thirty-two years." [Footnote 203: Vespasiano's Commentary, Vat. Urb. MSS. No. 941, fol. 50.] Of Federigo's personal habits and conduct, we borrow some interesting sketches from the same pen:--"He was singularly religious, and most observant of the Divine commands. No morning ever passed without his hearing mass on his knees. He fasted on all the vigils enjoined by the Church, and during every Lent. The year preceding his death, the Lord Ottaviano, being most affectionately attached to him, procured from the papal court a dispensation for his eating flesh, which was presented to him one morning at table; whereupon, turning to Ottaviano and smiling, he thanked him, but added, 'Since I am able enough to fast, why will you not let me do so? What an example should I give to my people in omitting it!' and so continued his meagre fare as before. Every morning he attended mass and sermon with his household, and such others as chose. During his forenoon meal he had a homily of St. Leo, or some other religious book, read to him, and when any striking passage occurred, he made the reader pause that he might understand it thoroughly. His clemency and compassion were remarkable, and he was prone to pardon all offences, excepting blasphemy and fraudulent murder. He daily distributed at his palace a considerable amount of bread and wine, besides administering to the necessities of many unfortunate persons of learning or of birth. He was, in short, a refuge for all men of worth. Large were his donations to charitable institutions, and his secret alms to modest paupers; indeed, none ever vainly appealed to his compassion. When an ecclesiastic came into his presence, he took his hand with much respect, and would not let him speak until seated by him; indeed, he honoured all holy men beyond any other personage of my day. He liberally endowed various monastic orders, and extended his special protection to the nunnery of Sta. Chiara, which he had built in Urbino, repairing weekly to the grating to inquire after the welfare of her inmates from the superior, an aged and honourable lady. Even his own establishment was conducted with the regularity of a religious fraternity, rather than like a military household. Gambling and swearing were unknown, and singular decorum of language was observed, whilst numerous noble youths, sent there to learn good manners and military discipline, were brought up under the most exemplary tuition. "His subjects he regarded as his children, and was at all times accessible to hear them personally state their petitions, being careful to give answers without unnecessary delay. He walked freely about the streets, entering their shops and work-rooms, and inquiring into their circumstances with paternal interest. On market-days he went among the peasants, conversing and jesting with them about their bargains. When riding through the country, he always accosted those whom he met; and by these various means, so gained the attachment of his subjects, that, as he passed by, they used to bend the knee and shower blessings upon him. The large sums he spent at home, on buildings and other improvements, enriched his people, among whom a pauper was nowhere seen. "In summer he was in the saddle at dawn, and rode three or four miles in the country with half-a-dozen of his court, attended by one servant and two footmen unarmed, reaching home again when others were just up. After mass, he went into an open garden and gave audience to all comers until breakfast-time. When at table, he listened to the Latin historians, chiefly Livy, except in Lent, when some religious book was read, any one being free to enter the hall and speak with him then. His fare was plain and substantial, denying himself sweet dishes and wines, except drinks of pomegranates, cherries, apples, or other fruits. After dinner and supper, an able judge of appeal stated in Latin the causes brought before him, on which the Duke gave judgment in that language; and I have been assured that these decisions were worthy of Bartolo and Baldi.[204] When his mid-day meal was finished, if no one appeared to demand audience, he retired to his closet and transacted private business, or listened to reading until evening approached, when he generally walked out, giving patient ear to all who accosted him in the streets. He then occasionally visited the convent of Sta. Chiara, or at other times repaired to a meadow of the Franciscans, where thirty or forty of the youths brought up in his court stripped their doublets, and played at throwing the bar, or at wrestling, or ball. This was a fine sight, which the Duke much enjoyed, encouraging the lads, and listening freely to all until supper-time. When that and the audiences were over, he repaired to a private apartment with his principal courtiers, whom, after some familiar discourse, he would dismiss to bed, taunting them on their sluggish indulgences of a morning. [Footnote 204: Two famous jurisconsults, whose portraits by Raffaele in the Doria Pamfili gallery have preserved their names after their decisions have been forgotten.[*E]] [Footnote *E: Bartolo and Baldi are by no means forgotten. They were Perugians, and are often alluded to as notable in the _Bollettino per l'Umbria_, e.g. "un opinione di Bartolo."] "Federigo inculcated courtesy as a most valuable quality in a sovereign, and he practised it to a remarkable degree in his intercourse with all ranks. He entertained a very modest estimate of his own merits, but was most particular in recollecting and acknowledging services of any sort, and in giving credit for assistance where it was due: he never indulged in detraction nor permitted it in his presence. Though of a naturally choleric temper, he by long attention brought it entirely under control, and was on all occasions the peace-maker among his people. In short, no state of Italy for a long period had been ruled by a sovereign in all respects so worthy of admiration." It would have been easy to condense the substance of these extracts in smoother language and more balanced periods, but we prefer laying them before the reader in their original form, and with the genuine impress of the grateful feelings which dictated them. Although already occupying so large a space, we venture to add a passage from Muzio, who, writing seventy-two years after Federigo's death, had gleaned from the traditions of Urbino several traits characteristic at once of his hero, and of what is not less germane to our purpose, the primitive manners of an age when European civilisation was starting into vigour. "In person, Federigo was of the common height, well made and proportioned, active and stout, enduring of cold and heat, apparently affected neither by hunger nor thirst, by sleeplessness nor fatigue. His expression was cheerful and frank; he never was carried away by passion, nor showed anger unless designedly. His language was equally remarkable for modesty and politeness; and such his sobriety that, having once had the gout, he immediately left off wine, and never again returned to it. His inclinations were naturally amorous and addicted to sensual indulgence, but so entirely were they under control, that even in earliest youth nothing was ever alleged against him inconsistent with decorum and the due influence of his rank. He was uniformly courteous and benignant to those of private station, as well as to his equals and to men of birth. With his soldiers he was ever familiar, calling them all friends and brethren, and often addressing them as gentlemen or honoured brothers, whilst he personally assisted the sick and wounded and supplied them with money. None such were excluded from his table; indeed he caressed and invited them by turns, so that all loved, honoured, served, and extolled him, and those who had once been under his command were unwilling to follow any other leader. "But if his kindness was notable in the camp, it was much more so among his people. While at Urbino, he daily repaired to the market-place, whither the citizens resorted for gossip and games, as well as for business, mixing freely with them, and joining in discourse, or looking on at their sports, like one of themselves, sitting among them, or leaning on some one by the hand or arm. If, in passing through the town, he noticed any one building a house, he would stop to inquire how the work went on, encouraging him to beautify it, and offering him aid if required, which he gave as well as promised. Should any answer him, that although desirous of making a handsome dwelling, he was frustrated by the refusal of some neighbour to part with an adjoining hovel at a fair price, Federigo sent for its obstructive owner, and urged him to promote the improvement of the city, kindly assisting to arrange a home for him elsewhere. On hearing that a merchant had suffered loss in his business, he would enter his shop to inquire familiarly into his affairs, and, after learning the extent of his difficulties, would advance him the means of restoring his credit and trade. Once, meeting a citizen who had daughters to marry, he said to him, 'How is your family?--have you got any of your girls disposed of?' And being answered that he was ill able to endow them, he helped him with money or an appointment, or set him in some way of bettering himself. Indeed, such instances were numberless of his charitable and sympathising acts, among which were the numerous poor children of talent or studious tastes whom he educated out of love for letters. On the death of those in his service, he took special interest in their families, providing for their maintenance or education, or appointing them to offices, and continually inquiring in person as to their welfare. When the people came forth to meet him as he went through his state, receiving him with festive demonstrations, he had for each a word. To one, 'How are you?' to another,'How is your old father?' or 'Where is your brother?' to a third, 'How does your trade thrive?' or 'Have you got a wife yet?' One he took by the hand; he put his hand on the shoulder of another; but spoke to all uncovered, so that Ottaviano Ubaldini used to say, when any person was much occupied, 'Why, you have more to do than Federigo's bonnet!' Indeed, he often told the Duke that his cap was overworked, hinting that he ought to maintain more dignity with his subjects. Talking of his courtesy: when returning one day from Fossombrone to Urbino, he met a bride being escorted to her husband by four citizens, as was then customary; he at once dismounted, and joined them in accompanying her, and sharing in their festivities. "Many similar anecdotes are preserved of him at Urbino and other places; and it is told that, during a year of great scarcity, several citizens secretly stored up grain, in order to make a large profit, which being known to the Duke, he summoned them to his presence, and thus addressed them:--'My people, you see how severe is the dearth; and that, unless some measures be adopted, it will increase daily. It is thus my duty to provide for the support of the population. If, therefore, any of you possess grain, say so, and let a note of it be made, in order that it may be gradually brought to market for supply of the needy; and I shall make up what is required, by importing from Apulia all that is necessary for my state.' Some there were who stated that they had a surplus beyond their own wants; others said they had not even enough. Of the latter he demanded how much more they required, and had a list taken of what each asked. He then regulated the sale of what had been surrendered; and sent meanwhile to Apulia for a large store of corn. When it arrived, he prohibited all further sales of grain, and called upon those who had stated themselves as short of supplies to purchase from him the quota they had applied for, accepting of no excuse, on the allegation that, having bought in a quantity for them, he could not let it be useless. Thus were those punished who, refusing to sell what they had over at a fair price, lost the advantage of their stock, and were forced to pay for more. In the distribution of this imported grain, he desired that the poor who could not pay in cash, should be supplied on such security as they could offer. The distribution took place in the court of the palace, under charge of Comandino, his secretary; and when any poor man came, representing that, with a starving family and nothing left to sell, he could find no cautioner, Federigo, after listening from a window to the argument, would call out, 'Give it him, Comandino, I shall become bound for him.' And subsequently when his ministers wished to enforce payment from the securities, he in many instances prevented them, saying, 'I am not a merchant: it is gain enough to have saved my people from hunger.' "There arose a notable matter which he had to settle, in reference to Urbino. The citizens, having come to a resolution that no one from the country ought to have houses in the town, petitioned Federigo to pass such a law, on the ground that, the city being theirs, no one else ought to intrude pretensions to it. He replied that there was much reason in this, and that he wished to gratify them in every such just proposal; but, before doing so, he wished their opinion what he ought to say, should the country-folks in turn ask a favour, alleging that, as the city was for the townsfolk, and the rural districts for themselves, the citizens should be prohibited from holding extra-mural property. Not knowing what to answer, they remained silent, and no longer asked for any law of the sort. He was most particular in the performance of justice, in acts as well as words. His master of the household having obtained large supplies for the palace from a certain tradesman, who had also many courtly creditors, and could not get paid, the latter was obliged to have recourse to the Duke, who said, 'Summon me at law.' The man was retiring with a shrug of his shoulders, when his lord told him not to be daunted, but to do what he had desired, and it would turn out for his advantage and that of the town. On his replying that no tipstaff could be found to hazard it, Federigo sent an order to one to do whatever this merchant might require for the ends of justice. Accordingly, as the Sovereign issued from the palace with his retinue, the tipstaff stood forward, and cited him to appear next day before the podestà, on the complaint of such-a-one. Whereupon he, looking round, called for the master of his household, and said, in presence of the court, 'Hear you what this man says? Now give such instructions as shall save me from having to appear from day to day before this or that tribunal.' And thus, not only was the man paid, but his will was made clear to all,--that those who owed should pay, without wronging their creditors. [Illustration: THE CONTESSA PALMA OF URBINO _After the portrait by Piero della Francesca in the National Gallery_] "It having been represented to him that the fashion of going armed gave daily occasion for brawls and tumults, he made the podestà put forth a proclamation that no one should carry any weapon, and took care to be passing with his court when the crier was publishing it. Stopping to listen, he turned:--'Our podestà must have some good reason for this order, and that being so, it is right he should be obeyed.' He then, unbuckling his sword, gave it to one of his suite to be taken home; whereupon all the others did the same. Thus by his example he maintained more prompt and perfect justice than others could effect by sentences, bail-bonds, imprisonments, tortures, or the halter; ... and it was just when he made least show of power that he was most a sovereign. One Nicolò da Cagli, an old and distinguished soldier in his service, having lost a suit, went to Fossombrone to lodge an appeal with Federigo, and, finding that he was hunting in the park, followed him, without ever considering that the time and place were ill adapted for such a purpose. At the moment when he put his petition into his sovereign's hand, a hart went by with the hounds in full cry. The Count spurred after them, and in the hurry of the moment dropped the petition, which Nicolò taking as a personal slight, he retired in great dudgeon, and went about abusing him roundly, as unjust, ungrateful, and haughty. Federigo hearing of this, ordered the commissary of Cagli to send the veteran to Urbino, who hesitated to obey the summons, dreading punishment of his rashness. In reliance, however, on his master's leniency, and his own merits, he set out, and found the Count at breakfast in the great audience chamber. It was customary while at his meals, for those who had the entrée to fall back on each side, leaving the entrance clear, so that he saw Nicolò come in: and when he had done eating, he called and thus addressed him:--'I hear that you go about speaking much ill of me, and as I am not aware of having ever offended you, I desire to know what you have been saying, and of what you complain.' At first he turned it off with some excuse, but on being pressed for an explanation, he recounted what had occurred in the park; and that, considering his long and zealous service, his sacrifices and wounds, it appeared to him a slight, and virtually a cut direct, to run after a wild beast when he came in search of justice; that having in consequence let slip the opportunity of appealing, and so, irretrievably lost a cause of much importance, he had in irritation given too great licence to his tongue. Whereupon, Federigo, turning to the bystanders, said, 'Now see what obligations I am under to my subjects, who not only peril their lives in my service, but also teach me how to govern my state!' and continued thus to the litigant, 'Friend Nicolò! you are quite right; and since you have suffered from my fault, I shall make it up to you.' He then ordered the commissary of Cagli to pay him down the value of the house, and all his travelling expenses, although the fault was clearly his for not bringing his appeal at a fitter time. Again, during one severe winter, the monks at S. Bernardino,[*205] being snowed up, and without any stores, rang their bells for assistance; the alarm reaching Urbino, Federigo called out the people, and went at their head to cut a way and carry provisions to the good friars." [Footnote *205: About a mile to the east of Urbino.] These extracts, illustrating the true spirit of a paternal government, amply account for the esteem in which the Duke of Urbino was held by contemporaries, and for his fame which still survives in Italy, although partially obscured north of the Alps by Sismondi's indifference to whatever merit emerged among the petty sovereigns of that fair land. Immensely superior to most of them in intellectual refinement and in personal worth, he may be regarded as, in military tactics, the type of his age, and was sought for and rewarded accordingly. He served as captain-general under three pontiffs, two kings of Naples, and two dukes of Milan. He repeatedly bore the baton of Florence, and refused that of Venice. He was engaged by several of the recurring Italian leagues as their leader in the field. From the popes he earned his dukedom, and the royal guerdons of the Rose, the Hat, and the Sword. Henry VII of England[*206] sent him the Garter; Ferdinand of Naples conferred on him the Ermine. In fine, Marcilio Ficino, a philosopher as well as a courtier, cited him as the ideal of a perfect man and a wise prince. [Footnote *206: It was Edward IV., not Henry VII., who only came to the throne in 1485, whereas Federigo was invested with the Order at Grottoferrata in 1474. Cf. _supra_, 214.] * * * * * Federigo's dying requests were, that his nephew and confidential friend Ottaviano Ubaldini should charge himself with the care of his youthful heir, and that his body should be interred by that of his father in the parish church of S. Donato, a short distance eastward from Urbino. The funeral, though celebrated with "Those rites which custom doth impose," was more remarkable for the heartfelt grief which attested the calamity fallen upon his people. His funeral oration, pronounced by Odasio, whom we shall afterwards find performing the like sad office to his son, is preserved in the Vatican, and has furnished us with some traits of his character. His body, duly embalmed, was enclosed in a marble sarcophagus in the new church of the Zoccolantines, which he left unfinished, close to that of S. Donato.[*207] Thirty years after his death, it was laid open by his grandson, Duke Francesco Maria, who reverently plucked a few hairs from his manly breast.[208] The tomb, thus strangely violated, remained open, and Baldi, who wrote in 1603, describes the corpse as still perfect, except a slight injury to the nose, and resembling a wooden figure, fleshless, and covered with white skin. It was attired after the fashion of Italy, in a gala dress of crimson satin and scarlet, with a sword by its side. Muzio tells us that he too had seen the body half a century before, when it was visited by Duke Guidobaldo II. and many of his people. [Footnote *207: He lies now in S. Bernardino, beside Duke Guidobaldo.] [Footnote 208: Vat. Urb. MSS., No. 489, f. 11. Odasio's oration is No. 1233. The Duke's epitaph will be found in the Appendix to Vol. III. His favour for this church has been already alluded to. It was rewarded, in 1470, by a rescript from the general of the order of Minims, granting all the spiritual privileges of that fraternity to him, his consort, and children, including a right to its peculiar funeral services,--fit guerdon for "A race that nobly, fearlessly, On their hearts' worship poured a wealth of love."] * * * * * We may here notice six likenesses still preserving to us the form and fashion of that body, with which his people's posterity thus strangely held converse, beginning with, I. the portraits of Federigo and his consort, painted in tempera by Piero della Francesca, now in the Uffizi gallery at Florence, which we reproduce. The individuality belonging alike to the features and the costumes could scarcely be doubted, even had we not historical authority for the Count's broken nose, and that of Giovanni Sanzi for Battista's "grave and modest eye," already more particularly mentioned at page 218.[*209] The clear tone and enamel finish are admirable, notwithstanding a thick varnish, with which old tempera pictures are invariably dabbled, under the recent management of the Florence gallery. The panels are painted on both sides, the subjects on the reverse being triumphs of the two sovereigns in a style of mythological allegory then in fashion. On a car drawn by two milk-white steeds with docked tails, driven by Cupid, Federigo sits on a curule chair, in full armour, pointing forward with his truncheon, and holding a helmet on his knee, whilst a winged Victory, standing behind, crowns him with a garland. On the front of the car ride four female figures, one of whom, representing Force, has in her arms a broken Corinthian column; another, emblematic of Prudence, is placed in the centre of the group, holding a mirror in her hand; her face, bright with youthful hope, looks in advance to the future, and the profile or mask of a bearded and wrinkled old man, affixed to the back of her Janus head, contemplates the past with matured experience; a metaphor closely followed by Raffaele for his Jurisprudence in the Stanza della Segnatura. Justice is introduced with her scales and two-edged sword; and the fourth figure is scarcely seen. The distant country, in this as in the others of these pictures, shows that their author was unable to apply to landscape the excellence in linear perspective displayed by his architectural designs. Countess Battista's triumph is similarly treated; but her car is drawn by bay unicorns, types of purity, and she sits on a chair of state, splendidly attired, with an open book on her knee. Behind her a bright maiden, meant probably for Truth, contrasts with an elderly female in semi-monastic dress who may be intended for "A pensive nun, devout and pure, Sober, steadfast, and demure, All in a robe of darkest grain, Flowing with majestic train, And ashy stole of Cyprus lawn Over her decent shoulders drawn." [Footnote *209: Cf. _L'Arte_, ann. IX., fasc. i. (Miscellanea).] On the front of the car, Faith, with cross and chalice, sits by Religion, on whose knee the pelican feeds her young, emblematic of the Saviour's love for mankind. Under each of these allegorical paintings is a strophe of Sapphic measure, which may be thus rendered:-- "In gorgeous triumph is borne the hero, whom enduring fame worthily celebrates as a sovereign, equalling in his virtues the greatest generals. "Thus conducted amid her prosperity, and illustrated by the laurels of her mighty husband's deeds, her name circles in the mouths of mankind."[210] [Footnote 210: Clarus insigni vehitur triumpho, Quem, parem summis ducibus, perhennis Fama virtutum celebrat decenter Sceptra tenentem. Quemodum rebus tenuit secundis, Conjugis magni decorata rerum Laude gestarum, volitat per ora Cuncta virorum.] II. Our next portrait of this Duke was probably obtained by the Barberini family at the devolution of Urbino to the Holy See, about 1630, and remains in their palace at Rome. It is on a three-quarters panel, life size, in full armour, wearing the ducal mantle of crimson flowered with gold, and an ermine cape. From his neck hangs the order of the Ermine, and below his left knee is the Garter. The ducal cap of yellow silk, thickly studded with pearls, hangs on a tall lectern in front of his armchair. He holds a crimson book, and reads from it to his son, standing by his knee, in a yellow frock richly jewelled, a sceptre in the boy's right hand. This head and figure have been copied by Clovio, in an illuminated volume which we shall describe in VI. of the Appendix; and although ascribed to Mantegna, they may rather be a work of Piero della Francesca (if I may form an opinion after the single visit and distant inspection allowed me in 1845 by its jealous owner), but always with the proviso that that able artist's blindness[*211] had not supervened in 1478, when, from the prince's age, this picture must have been done. We have no notice of Mantegna having been at Urbino, although this is probable, from Sanzi's admiration of him.[212] [Footnote *211: It is to Vasari we owe the statement that Piero was blind in 1458, being then sixty years old (cf. VASARI, _Vite_, vol. II., p. 500). This appears to be another of Vasari's mistakes. Fra Luca, who records so many facts concerning his master, is silent as to his blindness, while if dates are looked into they will easily disprove the statement. Cf. W.G. WATERS, _Piero della Francesca_ (London, 1901), p. 93.] [Footnote 212: See his catalogue of painters in the Appendix to our second volume.] III. In 1843, there was in the possession of the widow Comerio, at Milan, a very small head of Federigo on copper, which she wished to sell as a Raffaele for 200_l._ I have learned, by the kindness of an intelligent friend, that it is a good old copy of the seventeenth century, the composition slightly varied from the Barberini picture and Clovio miniature. It may have been the original of a poor engraving prefixed to Muzio's life of this Duke, and would scarcely have been noticed here had not the Abbé Pungileone, with his usual lack of discrimination, ventured a conjecture that it was done by Raffaele from a work of his father; a random guess, discountenanced by the Italian editor of Quartremere de Quincy, notwithstanding his readiness to adopt _all_ speculative Raffaeles in the hands of his Milanese townsmen. It is a duty to expose such blunders, especially when greedily adopted as a foundation for imposture. IV. The picture of which we have now to speak possesses strong claims upon our interest. Among the artists of Urbino who will figure in our twenty-seventh chapter was Fra Carnevale, a Dominican monk, who, at the Duke's desire, painted, for his new church of the Zoccolantines, an altar-piece, transferred by French rapine to the Brera gallery at Milan, where the imperfect restitution of 1815 has left it. Tradition, fortified by a questionable MS., points out the Madonna and child as portraits of Countess Battista and her son, while Federigo's figure kneeling before her throne, cannot be mistaken. But, as we shall afterwards have occasion to show, the genius of Christian art was at that time opposed to embodying in sacred personages the lineaments of real life, and, although the apocryphal legend has been received without challenge by two recent commentators on Fra Carnevale, a monkish limner seems unlikely to have infringed the rule.[213] Marchese, correctly describing the picture from Rosini's print, tells us that before the enthroned Madonna and four attendant saints "is the Duke of Urbino in armour, prostrate on his knees, and imploring her favour for himself and his children, who appear grouped behind the throne." After praising the life-like heads of these portraits, this critic from the cloisters questions the propriety of so stowing away the ducal progeny. But an artist friend, who at my request examined the original work since I have been able to do so, informs me that the latter are winged angels in long white robes and pearl necklaces, although with faces apparently taken from the life. Federigo's figure is unquestionably introduced, by a usual and very beautiful licence, as donor of this altar-piece, thus bearing witness to the devotional spirit which dictated his gift; and could we have it replaced in the church that was reared at his bidding, over against the sarcophagus which contains his remains, and believe that on its panel, painted in pious commemoration of the birth of an heir, are preserved the features of six of his family, no more interesting memorial of Urbino's golden days could be conceived. [Footnote 213: The Abbé Pungileone, in his _Elogio di Giovanni Sanzi_, and Padre Marchese, in his _Memorie dei Pittori Domenicani_, both adopt, without examination, the identity of the Madonna and Child with the Duke's wife and son. The picture is engraved in Rosini, Plate 93, and in the Brera gallery.] V. This Duke's portrait is delineated in another altar-piece at Urbino, in which, being from the hand of a Fleming, such mixture of sacred and historical art is less inconsistent. Having already alluded at page 205 to the occasion on which it was commissioned, and having to describe it in our thirtieth chapter, we need not further notice it now. VI. I saw at Florence in 1845, in the hands of Signor di Tivoli, master of languages, an interesting but ruined picture painted on panel, apparently by a Venetian master of the sixteenth century. In a chair of state, on the elevated platform of a vast hall, is seated Duke Federigo, with Guidobaldo at his knee, the Garter embroidered on his left sleeve, and its star on his ducal mantle. Three courtiers stand behind him, and another group on the floor below, listening to the prelections of a figure in black robes. On a cornice of the saloon is inscribed "FEDERIGO DUKE OF URBINO AND COUNT OF MONTEFELTRO." We conjecture this subject to be a sitting of the Academy degli Assorditi, though it may represent Odasio or some other lettered guest reading his compositions: in either case the painting is an interesting, though scarcely contemporary, memorial of this lettered court.[214] [Footnote 214: Several important medallions of Federigo are described in our thirtieth chapter, and, in our fifty-third, a statue erected to him in the palace at Urbino by his great-great-grandson, Francesco Maria II.] * * * * * By his first marriage Federigo had no family, but his wife Battista Sforza brought him eight children in twelve years. Their son was the youngest, but the daughters' seniority is disputed. 1. GUIDOBALDO, his heir. 2. A daughter, who died in infancy, 1461. 3. ELISABETTA, born in 1461-2, betrothed March 1471, and married in 1475 to Roberto Malatesta, Lord of Rimini, with 12,000 florins of dowry. This match was intended to solder up the long feuds of the Montefeltri and Malatesta. At the age of twenty she heard, at the same moment, of the deaths of her husband and her father, and soon after assumed the veil by the name of Sister Chiara, in a convent of Franciscan minor observantines which she founded at Urbino in honour of that saint, endowing it with all her possessions. 4. GIOVANNA, married in 1474, to Giovanni della Rovere, nephew of Sixtus IV., who became Lord of Sinigaglia and Prefect of Rome. From this marriage sprang the second dynasty of Urbino, as we shall see in chapter xxxi. 5. AGNESINA, married in 1474 to Fabrizio Colonna, Lord of Marino, Duke of Albi and Tagliacozza. She inherited the talents and literary tastes which, as we have already seen, had descended to her mother, and transmitted them to a still more gifted daughter, the illustrious Vittoria Colonna, Marchioness of Pescara. Of this marriage was also born Ascanio Colonna, Duke of Palliano, who, in 1526 and 1529, set up claims upon Urbino, on the ground that his mother was an elder sister of the Prefectess Giovanna. 6. COSTANZA, married to Antonello Sanseverino, Prince of Salerno, and had a son born in 1507. Their grandson was the patron of Bernardo Tasso, whom we shall mention in chapter l. 7. CHIARA, a nun. 8. VIOLANTE, married to Galeotto Malatesta. Federigo's natural children were:-- 1. BONCONTE, a youth of singular promise and accomplishments, on whom, in absence of legitimate issue, were centred his father's hopes. Having been sent at fourteen to the court of Naples, he died there of plague. 2. ANTONIO, who was legitimated, along with his eldest brother, in 1454, and became a student. But soon devoting himself to arms, he attended his father in many campaigns, and especially in the fatal one of Ferrara. A cloud, however, came over his military renown at the battle of the Taro in 1495, where he misconducted himself under the banner of St. Mark. He married Emilia, youngest daughter of Marco Pio of Carpi, and died childless soon after 1500. His wife was the chief ornament of Urbino when its court was the model of intellectual refinement, and she will often be noticed in after portions of this work. Her charming social qualities are celebrated in prose and verse by Castiglione, and she is called by Bembo a magnanimous and prudent lady, remarkable for wisdom as for warm affection. The Duchess Elisabetta, whose friend and companion she had been, alike during the bright days of wedlock and the blight of widowhood, bequeathed to her in 1527 the liferent of Poggio d'Inverno, and appointed her an executrix of her will. Her portrait from a medal will be found in our second volume. 3. BERNARDINO, who died at Castel Durante, 1458. 4. GENTILE, a celebrated beauty, who married Agostino Fregoso of Genoa, and had the Montefeltrian fief of Sta. Agatha. Their sons, Ottaviano and Federigo Fregoso, will figure in our twenty-first chapter, and attained the respective dignities of Doge of Genoa and Cardinal. Ottaviano's posterity were Marquises of Sta. Agatha in the seventeenth century. BOOK THIRD OF GUIDOBALDO DI MONTEFELTRO, THIRD DUKE OF URBINO CHAPTER XIII The early promise of Duke Guidobaldo I.--Count Girolamo Riario assassinated--The Duke's marriage--Comparative quiet of Italy. In the life of Duke Federigo we have seen personal merit accompanied by a remarkable continuance of good fortune. The mystery of his birth was no bar to his enjoying unquestioned a sovereignty to which he could not have established any clear right. The popular outbreak which had cut off his predecessor shook not the stability of his dynasty. To the fief he thus peaceably acquired he added important territories by marriage and purchase. He transmitted to a hopeful son an important and flourishing state, and with it the highest title compatible with his station, obtained by his personal merits. Among competitors and opponents of great military renown he was ever conspicuous, and almost uniformly victorious. In an age when letters and arts began their rivalry with arms he retained, as the Maecenas of a cultivated court, the fame he had gained as a successful general. The biographers of Guidobaldo[*215] have justly ascribed to him no inferior merit, while they have strongly contrasted the persecutions of fortune which he endured; and they have established the probability that, with equal years and equal advantages, his memory might have not been less glorious than that of his father. Those portents attending the Prince's birth, to which a miraculous character was assigned by the gratitude or superstition of the people, have been mentioned in a preceding chapter. It took place at Gubbio on the 17th or 24th of January, 1472, and on the 2nd of February he was baptized Guido Ubaldo Girolamo Vincenzo;[*216] the first pair of these names, given in memory of the old counts of Urbino, and of the patron saint of that city, was commonly used by him in its contracted form GUIDOBALDO. The court of his father, ever attractive to eminent men, was soon after visited by the venerable Cardinal Bessarion, who, after being twice within a vote or two of the triple tiara, was returning from his last diplomatic mission to England a few months before his death. Federigo availed himself of this opportunity to obtain for the infant the rite of confirmation, though but three months' old. In two months more, the condition with which Battista had accompanied her prayers for a male heir was fatally fulfilled,[217] and Guidobaldo was deprived of a mother's care long ere he could be sensible of the sad bereavement. [Footnote *215: For the life of Guidobaldo, see BALDI, _Vita e fatti di Guidobaldo I. di Montefeltro_ (Milano, 1821); ZACCAGNINI, _La Vita e le opere edite e inedite di B. Baldi_ (Modena, 1903); CASTIGLIONE, _Epistola ad Sacratissimum Britanniae Reg. Henricum de Guidobaldo Urb. Duce_; BEMBO, _De Guido Ubaldo Feretrio deque Elisabetta Gonzagia Urbini Ducibus liber_ (Cod. Vatic. Urbin., 1030), and Ugolini, _op. cit._, II., lib. VIII. and IX.; see also MADIAI _Commentari dello Stato di Urbino_, in _Arch. Stor. per le Marche e per l'Umbria_, vol. III., pp. 419-464.] [Footnote *216: See _supra_ note *1, p. 208. There, too, Guidobaldo's names are given as Guido Paolo Ubaldo. As stated here they seem to be right.] [Footnote 217: See above, p. 207.] [Illustration: _Gio. Sanzi, pinx. L. Ceroni, sculp._ GUIDOBALDO I. _From a picture in the Colonna Gallery in Rome_] Almost from his cradle the Prince was remarkable for a sweet and docile temper, as well as for uncommon promise. We are gravely assured by his preceptor that, while other infants had scarcely learned to satisfy their instinctive need of sustenance, he could express his wants; while they were trying to speak he was mastering his rudiments; and these, with similar proofs of precocity, which we shall presently cite, are asserted with the most solemn asseverations of their literal truth. Fully aware of the importance of early directing so prompt a genius, his father engaged, as the guide of his youthful studies, Ludovico Odasio of Padua, an accomplished gentleman, as well as a distinguished scholar, whom he ever treated with the attention due to his own merits, as well as to the importance of his charge. The after life of his pupil, and the language used by Odasio in his funeral eulogy,[*218] bear ample testimony to the careful and satisfactory tuition which the Prince imbibed, and the benefit he reaped from his instructions. Nor were these ungratefully received by the latter, who, on attaining majority, bestowed upon his preceptor the countship of Isola Forsara, near Gubbio, which his descendants continued to enjoy during many generations. [Footnote 218: Guidobaldo always honoured and enriched Odasio, to whom he gave, for instance, a fine _podere_ on 26 February, 1495 (cf. _Arch. Centr. Perg. d'Urbino_, p. 275). This eulogy was an ovation and nothing more; it was not the truth, or meant to be the truth. Cf. UGOLINI, _op. cit._, vol. II., p. 151.] The Paduan sage describes his charge as a fit model of those infantine Cupids whom painters delight to introduce in their pictures of the Queen of Love. Nor were his dispositions less engaging; gentle and just to all, generous but prudent beyond his years. Neglecting the childish toys suitable to his age, his whole mind was concentrated on his studies and on manly sports, occasioning in many those anxious fears that so generally attend the premature development of early talent. Such was the genius committed to the care of Odasio, who seems to have rendered it ample justice. Besides his native tongue, Guidobaldo rapidly acquired the Latin language, and although Greek was then a comparatively rare accomplishment, he so thoroughly mastered its difficulties as to write it with freedom and Attic grace. Possessing great powers of application, his reading included all the best classical authors. The poets were his delight in boyhood, but by degrees he attached himself more to the severer studies of philosophy and ethics. Nor was his attention limited to abstract literature. Geography engaged in turn his versatile talents, accompanied with practical information as to the inhabitants by whom various countries were peopled, their manners, their political relations, and the character of their respective governments. But what his preceptor considered as the great aim of a princely education was the development of his powers of eloquence, and an extensive acquaintance with history; to these, therefore, he drew Guidobaldo's attention with entire success. In detailing to us these interesting particulars, Odasio takes little credit for the progress of his pupil, whose quick apprehension rendered his duty that of a companion and observer rather than of a teacher. His powers of memory were especially remarkable, and by judicious and habitual exercise were extended with advancing manhood. He is said to have possessed that rarest gift, of never forgetting anything he wished to recollect, and to have repeated with perfect accuracy successive pages which he had read only once, some ten or fifteen years before. His insatiable thirst for knowledge did not prevent his perfecting himself in every healthful and manly exercise. Precocious in his amusements as in his talents, he devoted to these the play-time which other children pass with noisy toys, and whilst they listened to nursery tales, he hung upon the recital of heroic deeds, or the stirring narratives of glorious war. To the boyish sports of ball and dancing quickly succeeded gymnastic and military games, which were followed with an enthusiasm, and accompanied by exposure to fatigue and cold, that appear to have fatally affected his constitution. Thus he grew up, adorned by the accomplishments, endowed with the courage, and skilled in the martial exercises which formed a perfect knight when the standard of chivalry was high. Nor were the graces of person wanting to this phoenix of his age. Count Castiglione describes him as represented in our engraving, of fair complexion and hair; of singularly handsome features, in which a severe style was chastened by gentle expression; of a person and limbs the model of manly beauty. * * * * * The death of Duke Federigo in the disastrous campaign of Ferrara, on the 10th of September, 1482, left Guidobaldo an orphan ere he had completed his eleventh year. In times where so much of the success, and even security, of a petty sovereign depended on his personal qualifications, a minority was ever perilous; but, in the present instance, there were circumstances of peculiar danger to augment the delicacy of his position. The state of Urbino was surrounded by those of the Church, of Florence, of Rimini, and of Pesaro, whilst the more distant powers, whose influence habitually bore upon the lesser principalities of Italy, were Venice, Milan, and Naples. Of the former category, the Pope, though connected by marriage, could scarcely be deemed friendly, for Federigo had died in arms against the papal troops; Lorenzo de' Medici was indebted to him for important aid, but had never shown any peculiar attachment to his alliance; Rimini had once more passed into the hands of an illegitimate heir, in whose eyes the intermarriage of his father with the aunt of Guidobaldo[*219] might not counterbalance the inveterate feuds between his grandfather Sigismondo Pandolfo and Federigo. With Costanzo Sforza, Lord of Pesaro, the young Duke could, indeed, calculate upon amicable relations, but these, with so feeble a neighbour, were of negative rather than available advantage. The open hostility of Venice, then almost at the climax of her power, might well counterbalance the Neapolitan alliance, and Ludovico Sforza was too busy with his own ambitious projects upon the Milanese to interfere in support of a distant ally. But how vain the calculations of human policy in the sight of HIM in whose hands are the issues of life! The perils which hung over the youthful Guidobaldo passed away like the morning mists that precede a brilliant sunrise. [Footnote *219: His sister, not his aunt. It was Elisabetta, the third child of Federigo, who married Roberto Malatesta, illegitimate son of Sigismondo. Roberto and Federigo of Urbino died on the same day (cf. Allegretti, ap. Fabr. II., 245, and E.G. GARDNER, _Dukes and Poets at Ferrara_ (Constable, 1904), p. 184).] Having performed the last duties to his illustrious father, the new Duke, on the 17th of September, was solemnly invested with the ducal mantle, and rode through Urbino receiving homage amid the rejoicings of all ranks. Thence he proceeded to Gubbio and his other principal towns, meeting everywhere a unanimous welcome, and leaving, by his fine presence and engaging manners, a highly favourable impression on his subjects. In the arrangements necessary for the administration of his state, he was aided by his cousin-german Ottaviano Ubaldini, of whom we have already spoken.[220] [Footnote 220: See above, p. 50, note.] The messengers sent from Urbino to the combined powers of Naples, Florence, and Milan, in whose service Duke Federigo had met his death, returned with news which dissipated all present anxiety as to the position of his heir, whom it at once placed on an eminence that might have turned an older and more experienced head. The allies, in faithful implement of his father's condotta, continued to him the same command, entrusting to a child a charge which had baffled the best generals of Italy. It is difficult satisfactorily to explain this apparent absurdity. No doubt the services of condottieri were in certain cases retained, rather for the following which they could bring into active service than out of regard to their personal qualifications, and it must have been most important for the League to secure the brave and hardy militia of Montefeltro. Yet this affords no valid reason for ostensibly setting a mere schoolboy over many veteran officers. The appointment was probably but nominal, and at a moment when no onward movement seemed requisite--when, in fact, the war had been turned into a blockade--it was sanctioned as a mere temporary expedient until time should be gained to deliberate on ulterior steps, whether for a renewal of offensive demonstrations, or for a general pacification. In this view the measure was politic, as a flattering compliment to one whom it was well to conciliate, without tying up the parties from whom it emanated. But, whatever be the just explanation, the fact is positive that, in the language of Odasio, the Duke was treated as a man ere he had well completed his childhood; was ranked as a veteran ere he had served as a cadet; was made general before he had served as a soldier. The career thus happily opened was not, however, that which was destined most to illustrate his name. When compared with his father's achievements, or with the military science of his successor, the martial feats of Guidobaldo sink into insignificance. The promise of an active and athletic childhood, and the premature honours of boyish command, were blighted by the early development of constitutional infirmities, which in a few years disabled him from service in the field. Fortunately for himself and his reputation, nature had endowed him with other resources, the cultivation of which not only consoled his own privations, but greatly contributed to humanise the age. Nor did the result of their policy disappoint the confederates, or expose Guidobaldo's military fame to premature risks. The wayward and fickle character of Sixtus IV. solved all difficulties, by suddenly changing his side. Upon pretended compunction for the miseries produced by the war, but in reality from finding the Venetians likely to reap the exclusive advantage of successes to which he had in no way contributed, he reconciled himself with Ferdinand of Naples, and in a treaty to this effect, signed on the 6th of January, 1483, he left to the Signory an option of adherence to its terms. The publication of this new alliance was inaugurated at Siena by a triumphal procession, during which the Pontiff's sudden amity with the two Tuscan republics was celebrated in a chorus to this effect:-- "Whate'er on earth by thee is bound shall be Bound in the heavens, freed what thou settest free: So spake the Lord, when in St. Peter's hands He left the sovereignty of Christian lands; And such the League, now destined to unite Our state with God's own Vicar in the fight. Pray that the Virgin and her Son uphold The Oak, the Lily, and the Lion bold."[221] [Footnote 221: These being the insignia of the Pope, Florence, and Siena. See DELLA VALLE, _Lettere Sanese_, II., 47.] The abandonment by Sixtus of his design upon Ferrara, although no doubt promoted by the confederates' threat of a general council, was probably induced by a calculation that the condotta with 10,000 ducats of pay, and the vague promise of other fiefs in Romagna, which were offered by Naples and Spain to Girolamo Riario, would prove to him a more substantial boon than his stipulated share of the Ferrarese territories, exposed to the chances of an obstinate and expensive struggle, and coupled with the condition of handing over the larger portion of that dukedom to the already dangerously powerful republic of Venice. Thus was dissolved the League against the d'Este, and with it expired Guidobaldo's commission, his position being at the same time strengthened by a reconciliation with the Church. But though the parties had changed, the game of war was continued. The Venetians had good grounds for umbrage at the unceremonious desertion, by his Holiness, of the common cause, without due notice, and still better reason for discontent on finding themselves called upon to abandon their designs upon Ferrara, after a long, expensive, and, on the whole, successful campaign. They therefore, rejected the offer of joining the new alliance, and persisted in offensive operations against Duke Ercole, notwithstanding the displeasure of Sixtus, who, with his usual violence, thundered an interdict against his recent allies for pursuing the very policy to which he had persuaded them. Intent on forcing peace upon the parties between whom he had recently stirred up unprovoked hostilities, he directed the whole power of the new combination against the Republic. To meet the exigencies of the opening campaign, the combatants prepared their several forces, and Guidobaldo was taken into the pay of King Ferdinand, with a salary of 15,000 ducats for three years, more, of course, on account of his contingent of 180 men-at-arms and 30 lances than with any intention of putting his own military talents to the test. The Venetians, nothing daunted by the formidable combination they were called upon to oppose, engaged the services of Costanzo Sforza, of Pesaro, with 300 men-at-arms. Thus, by a coincidence not uncommon in the career of military adventurers, Guidobaldo was pitted against an uncle with whom, and with whose states, the most affectionate and cordial relations had always subsisted. But their impending rupture was averted by the hand of fate. A malignant fever cut off Costanzo on the 19th of July, and his subjects were left to mourn a prince who had conciliated their affection by wise policy, by attention to their welfare, and by zeal in the improvement of his capital. Death had, however, selected a partner in the game more important than the Lord of Pesaro. The dread hour of reckoning was arrived to the arch-spirit of turbulence, who from the chair of St. Peter had, during thirteen years, been the scourge of Italy. Nor was his end out of character with his career. By counter-plots, which we need not stay to develop, the crafty Venetians contrived to seduce Ludovico il Moro from the hostile band by whom they were beset, and turning the tables upon the Pope, effected a pacification without including or even consulting him. The treaty of Bagnolo aggrandised the maritime republic with no reference to the interests of Riario. It reached Sixtus on the 12th of August, 1484, and brought on a sudden attack of his constitutional malady, gout, which struck him speechless. In a few hours he expired of vexation, at finding himself outmanoeuvred in his favourite game of intrigue, and at seeing those broils which he had done so much to foment, thus brought to an unexpected close. The Venetians, on learning that their rancorous foe had ceased to live, redoubled the joy with which they heard of the general pacification; and the satirical wits of the day commemorated his death in this biting epigram:-- "No truce could Sixtus bind, though ratified: A peace at length proclaimed,--he heard and died."[222] [Footnote 222: "Sistere qui potuit nullo cum foedere Sixtus, Audito tantum nomine pacis, obiit." _MSS. Bib. Magliab._ Cl. vii. No. 345.] The successor of Sixtus was Cardinal Cibò, who took the title of Innocent VIII. Between him and Duke Federigo had existed an old friendship, which was cordially extended to Guidobaldo, and also to Ottaviano Ubaldini: to these, therefore, it was a pleasure as well as a duty to lay their congratulations at his feet, in return for which a new investiture, already prepared by order of the late Pontiff, was promptly forwarded to the young Duke. The aggressions of the Turk, that standing grievance of Christian Europe, had of late menaced Italy itself, and each pope, on ascending the chair of St. Peter, sought to signalise his zeal by uniting the Peninsular powers against the common foe. Yet, like his predecessors, Innocent was quickly diverted from a project vast, glorious, and attractive, but impracticable, to meaner objects; from the cause of Christianity to ebullitions of personal pique. The rigour with which he exacted from the King of Naples some arrears of _cense_, or ecclesiastical tribute, due to the Camera under old investitures, but which had been modified by Sixtus IV., occasioned an exchange of harsh words. There occurred at Aquila, about the same time, a most serious insurrection, headed by some Neapolitan nobles belonging to the Angevine party, who, exasperated by a long course of oppressive and injudicious government, appealed to Innocent for assistance. The occasion seemed tempting for gratifying his indignation against Ferdinand I., and for adding to the papal states that important fief. The grand crusade against the Crescent was once more forgotten, and the Pope, entering upon the career of Sixtus, became the perturbator in place of the pacificator of unhappy Italy. Among other small princes whom he retained for this struggle was Guidobaldo, nor did he omit to secure the Venetians. Ferdinand was not idle on his side, having made an alliance with the Florentines. Whilst the ecclesiastical troops, under Roberto da Sanseverino and the Prefect della Rovere, seconding the rebellious barons of Naples, carried an aggressive war into the Abruzzi, the King made a diversion in La Marca, by means of some military adventurers, who, at his instigation, stirred up the people of Città di Castello, Fano, and Osimo, to throw off the papal sway. To quell these movements, the troops of Urbino, led by commanders sent by Innocent, and still more the influence of the Duke, proved highly instrumental. The war, begun without just cause, and leading to no important result, ended, as usual, in a league which left the parties much as before. It included the Pope, the King, Giovanni Galeazzo Sforza, and the Venetian Republic, and was hailed with a joy that seemed wilfully oblivious of the hollowness of former pacifications. It was concluded on the 11th of August, 1485, and, unlike these, it secured the quiet of Italy during the remainder of that pontificate. The first actual service which it was the lot of Guidobaldo to witness was in a cause at once vile and unimportant; but it placed him under a rising soldier, who became one of the most distinguished commanders of the age. Among the adventurers to whom we just now referred as troubling the Marca, was Boccolino Guzzoni or Uguccione, who, having made himself master of Osimo, continued to hold out with obstinacy, embittered by a furious temper, and by the impolitic severity which Innocent had manifested towards him. To reduce this firebrand, Gian Jacopi di Trivulzio was sent from Milan in May, 1487;[*223] and, although the mediation of Lorenzo de' Medici saved Uguccione from impending destruction, an incident which made him acquainted with so remarkable a general must be considered important to the youthful Duke, who had only completed his fifteenth year. His advance towards manhood was marked by communications from the Court of Rome being henceforward addressed to himself, instead of to Ottaviano; but he dutifully continued to avail himself of his guardian's counsels in all matters of moment. [Footnote *223: Cf. AMBROGIO DA PAULLO, _Cronaca Milanese_, 1476-1515.] [Illustration: _Alinari_ CATERINA SFORZA _After the picture by Marco Palmezzani in the Pinacoteca of Forlì_] We have seen the peculiar circumstances in which, with the aid of Duke Federigo, the sovereignty of Count Girolamo Riario and his wife Caterina Sforza was established in Imola and Forlì.[224] They had reigned there during eight years, cited by their flatterers as models of paternal government; abused by those whom they had disappointed and especially by the Florentine writers, as monsters of tyranny. Truth may probably lie between. Girolamo has been accused of no flagrant crime, except a participation in the Pazzi conspiracy, which was instigated by his uncle Sixtus IV., while Caterina is favourably distinguished even above those brilliant spirits who abounded among the contemporary princesses of Italy. The Count is alleged to have, by an overbearing manner, offended several of his courtiers, but particularly Francesco Deddi de' Orsi. Another account accuses Lorenzo de' Medici of intriguing to avenge the old injury which he justly attributed to Riario, a charge which his eulogists have indignantly repelled, and which, resting on no proof, is certainly inconsistent with a character so noble. Francesco, at the head of a band of conspirators, broke in upon Count Girolamo, and murdered him in his palace at Forlì. They then threw his body into the piazza, and the populace, ever ready for change, rose simultaneously, some crying "Liberty," others "Church," and finished their work by plundering his residence.[*225] Meanwhile the leaders of the insurrection possessed themselves of the Countess, her mother, sister, and six children; and finding that Giacomo Fea, captain of the citadel, held it against them, they dragged her to the walls, and insisted upon her summoning him to surrender. Upon his refusing, they acceded to a proposal that she should be admitted, in order to induce him to yield. Once within the castle, Caterina thanked its defender, and stimulated the garrison to fresh resistance, directing that all the artillery should be brought to bear upon the town, ready to bombard it should the rebels attempt to execute their cowardly threat of offering violence to her children.[226] [Footnote 224: We have spoken of this above.] [Footnote *225: Cf. PASOLINI, _Caterina Sforza_. It was Ludovico and Cecco Orsi who slew Girolamo, with the aid of two soldiers.] [Footnote 226: The current edition of this anecdote, though somewhat too gross for literal translation, is curiously illustrative of the determined character of its heroine. It is thus recounted by Boccalini, in his _Ragguagli di Parnasso_:--"Onde i congiurati così vedendosi ingannati, apertamente le protestarono, che in pezzi avanti gli occhi le havrebbono tagliati i suoi Figliuoli, s'ella non consegnava loro la Rocca nelli mani, e ch'ella per quelle horrende minaccie, in tanto non si spaventò punto, che anzi alzatesi le vesti, e loro mostrando le parte vergognose, disse, che de' suoi Figliuoli facessero a voglia loro, che a lei rimaneva la stampa di rifarne degli altri." He represents Caterina as demanding, on the merits of this action, admission into Parnassus, whereupon Apollo decides, after ample discussion, that although "il sempre contenersi entro i termini della modestia, fosse obbligo delle donne private, disse, che le Principesse nate di alto sangue, negli accidenti gravi, che occurrevano loro, erano obbligate mostrar virilità." [Transcriber's Note: Errors in the Boccalini quotations have been corrected by comparison with the original edition of 'De'ragguagli di Parnaso' at the Internet Archive.] Bonolli, in his history of Forlì, tells the same story, and Vallery characterises the expedient of the Countess as "noblement impudique, et moins mère que femme de parti." Those who wish to compare the various authorities on this point will find them enumerated by Sismondi, chap. lxxxix. A letter of the conspirators to Lorenzo de' Medici, printed by Roscoe, Appendix, No. 24, tends to clear him of that participation in their crime of which he was suspected.] This bold bearing saved the cause of the young Riarii, without really endangering their persons. Giovanni Bentivoglio, Lord of Bologna, a faithful adherent of the Sforza, on the first news of this insurrection, put himself at the head of a thousand horse and eight hundred foot, and arrived in hot haste at the gates of Forlì. The conspirators, divided in their counsels, and distracted by the decisive course which the Countess had adopted, fled from the town without waiting to resist, and thus the revolution was at an end. Within two short weeks Caterina had been a happy wife, a bereaved widow, an outraged prisoner, a triumphant sovereign. She remembered her sorrows signally to avenge them; she threw aside her weeds to assume a robe of triumph; and issuing from the castle, proclaimed her son Ottaviano, Count of Forlì. But a deep stain attaches to the punishment which she must have sanctioned, if she did not direct it, and which was inflicted upon Count Orsi, father of the assassin, with an accumulation of horrors rarely exampled among even savage tribes. The old man, then in his eighty-sixth year, after being exposed on the great square to insults of the soldiery in presence of the whole populace, was bound to a board, and drawn twice round the piazza, his snow-white head projecting, and broken against the sharp stones; his quivering limbs were then hacked in pieces by armed ruffians, whose atrocious barbarities, as described by an eye-witness, are too revolting for detail. All this the sufferer endured with a heroism and resignation which produced on the spectators the usual effect of such brutal perversion of justice, and converted their abhorrence of the crime into sympathy with the criminal. The murder of Count Girolamo took place on the 14th of April, 1488, and the news of it excited great consternation at the court of Urbino, which had always maintained a friendly footing with that of Riario, he being cousin to the Prefect of Sinigaglia, husband of Guidobaldo's sister. In the excited state of public feeling, men's minds caught greedily at any trivial circumstance on which to found a surmise as to the authors of the outrage, seeking for remote influences to account for what seems to have been merely an outbreak of private passion. The cries of "Church," which had mingled in the shouts of the excited populace, were interpreted as an indication of the Pope's privacy to a conspiracy, and doubts were entertained as to the part which he might take in the revolution. But such ideas were quickly dissipated. Whatever may have been the feelings of Innocent towards the dynasty established by his predecessor at Forlì, the occupation of that city by the Bolognese troops awakened his jealousy of the Bentivoglii. He therefore despatched couriers, instructing the Duke of Urbino to maintain at all hazards the legitimate government of Forlì, as indispensable to the peace of Italy, and for this purpose to hold himself in readiness for a march into Romagna, as soon as commissioners should arrive from Rome with a subsidy. Guidobaldo hastily assembled his troops, but ere the Pope's paymaster made his appearance, the prompt aid of Bentivoglio, and an army sent from Milan, had anticipated the service which he was commissioned to effect. Although the youthful Duke of Urbino was but little concerned in these events of Italian history, they involved persons, and prepared the way for political combinations, which turned the scale of his after life, loading it with an undue portion of cares and sorrows. In absence of domestic incidents during his minority, we may vary the narrative by abstracting a few particulars from a volume of regulations for his court. Though trifling, they throw light on his personal habits, and supply an index to the civilisation of his age.[227] To all persons composing the ducal household, unexceptionable manners were indispensable. In those of higher rank there was further required competent talents and learning, a grave deportment and fluency of speech. The servants must be of steady habits and respectable character; regular in all private transactions; of good address, modest, and graceful; willing and neat-handed in their service. There is likewise inculcated the most scrupulous personal cleanliness, especially of hands, with particular injunctions as to frequent ablutions, and extraordinary precautions against the unpleasant effects of hot weather on their persons and clothing: in case of need medical treatment is enjoined to correct the breath. Those who wore livery had two suits a year, generally of fustian, though to some silk doublets were given for summer use. They had a mid-day meal and a supper: the former usually consisted of fruit, soup, and boiled meat; the latter of salads and boiled meat. This was varied on Fridays and vigil fasts by dinners of fish, eggs, and cheese; suppers of bread, wine, and salads. Saturdays were semi-fasts, when they dined on soup and eggs, and supped on soup and cheese. The upper table offered but few luxuries in addition to this plain fare, such as occasionally roasts, fowls, and pastry, with a more liberal allowance of eggs and cheese on meagre days. [Footnote 227: Urb. MSS. No. 1248. It was compiled after the death of Duke Federigo, and apparently for his son's court.] Of the diet at the ducal table we find sparing and unsatisfactory notices; but its chief difference from that of the attendants seems to have consisted in the more liberal use of sweet herbs and fruits. The latter were presented in singular order: cherries and figs before dinner; after it, pears, apples, peaches, nuts, almonds; before supper, melons and grapes. The splendour of the table service seems to have been more looked to than its supplies; and many rules are given as to the covered silver platters in which meats were brought up, the silver goblets and glass caraffes for wine, the fine napery and the ornamental flowers. The regulations for the Duke's chamber service indicate scrupulous cleanliness, both as to ablutions in perfumed water, and frequent change of clothing, in strict conformance to the directions of physicians and astrologers. Among the conveniences enumerated for his bedroom are a bell, a night-light, and in cold weather a fire. An attendant slept by him without undressing, also a clerk in the guard-room within call. The music provided to accompany the Duke on his rides seems to have been somewhat miscellaneous--a company of bagpipers, a sackbut, four trumpets, three drums, with a herald or pursuivant. The qualities insisted on for ladies of the Duchess's household are exemplary gravity and unsullied honour; they must further be handy, addicted neither to gossip nor wrangling, and never talking unnecessarily in her presence. * * * * * [Illustration: _Anderson_ ISABELLA OF ARAGON _After the drawing by Beltraffio in the Biblioteca Ambrogiana, Milan_] We here reach an eventful epoch in the life of Guidobaldo. Baldi informs us that, when Duke Federigo went to Naples in 1474 to receive from Ferdinand the order of the Ermine he formally betrothed his son, then but two years and a half old, to Princess Lucrezia of Aragon. He adds that she corresponded with the Duke within a few months of his death, but gives no account of the circumstances under which this engagement was broken off. When Duke Guidobaldo had completed his sixteenth year, another alliance was contracted for him, to the great joy of his people, with Elisabetta (sometimes called Isabella) Gonzaga, youngest sister of Francesco Marquis of Mantua. She was daughter of the Marquis Federigo, by Margaretta daughter of Albert III. Duke of Bavaria: her virtues, her manners, and her almost unearthly beauty are extolled by Castiglione, in language which the evidence of all writers has stamped with truth.[*228] Her age exceeded the bridegroom's by one year, and her sister Madalena was at the same time betrothed to Giovanni Sforza, Lord of Pesaro, the celebration of both the nuptials being deferred until the end of October, 1489. [Footnote *228: CASTIGLIONE, _Il Cortegiano_ (Firenze Sansoni, 1894), Lett. Dedic. I., lib. I., iv.; III., ii.; III., xlix. Cf. also BEMBO, _Lettere_, IV., i., 31.] The rivalry inherent in the relations between neighbouring towns of the Peninsula had on this occasion pleasing opportunity for display, for nowhere more than in Italy do the people delight in pompous festivities. The citizens of Urbino and of Pesaro strove which should exhibit most taste and splendour in celebrating the happy event, and in welcoming the bridal parties to their several homes. I have seen no account of these shows, which is little loss, as there was much sameness in all such exhibitions, and great dullness in their monotonous descriptions. But we are assured that, in both capitals, the display of triumphal processions, under arches studded with statues and elaborate devices, followed by fireworks and dramatic spectacles, were worthy of the auspicious occasion, and the emulous spirit of their citizens.[229] The remainder of the year was devoted by the Duke to similar amusements, or to sports of the chase, of which his bride was passionately fond, and which she enjoyed at her ease in the parks of Fossombrone and Castel Durante, where Federigo had established an ample stock of fallow deer. The following spring brought to his court new causes for joy, in the Marquis of Mantua's marriage to a Princess of Ferrara, and the birth of an heir to the Lord Prefect, in the person of Francesco Maria della Rovere, on whom the dukedom of Urbino eventually devolved. [Footnote 229: In the Laurentian Library (Plut. 91. No. 44, f. 57) there is a laboured Latin epithalamium in ninety-six lines, written on this marriage by Marcial de Gathe of Mantua, among his poems which are dedicated to Bernardo Bembo.] But alas, too soon was "bitter mixed with sweet." The hopes of maintaining the ducal line, which the marriage of Guidobaldo had nourished, were doomed to disappointment from infirmities of his constitution which, though long kept secret from their people, were quickly known to the young couple. These defects, having baffled medical skill, were eventually attributed to the malign influence of poison, or sorcery; an impression which the physicians probably countenanced, to excuse the failure of their prescriptions, and which seems to have been fully credited by the Duke and the public, when the fact was allowed to transpire.[*230] The secrecy and resignation of the Duchess under this dispensation, and her strict observance of her nuptial vows, in circumstances which the loose morality of the age might have regarded as a palliation for less faithful adherence to them, are celebrated by her eulogists as proofs of almost superhuman virtue, especially by Bembo, whose prurient language on this repulsive topic offers curious proof of the low standard of decency then prevailing among dignified churchmen, and persons of high pretensions to refinement. Giovanni Sforza's marriage was still more fated, for within ten months he was an afflicted widower. [Footnote *230: An interesting book has been announced on the medical practice of that day: TARULLI, _I medici ed i primordi della scuola medica Perugina._ Meanwhile cf. TARULLI, _Appunti Storici_, in _Boll. per l'Umbria_, vol. XII., p. 385 _et seq._ According to Petrarch, Astrology and Medicine were different branches of a common charlatanism. Cf. _Libri IV., Invectivarum contra medicum quemdam._ HEYWOOD, _The Ensamples of Fra Filippo, a Study of Mediæval Siena_ (Siena, 1901), p. 325. VOIGT, _Il Risorgimento dell'antichità classica_ (Fir., 1897), vol. I., p. 77 _et seq._ OWEN, _The Skeptics of the Italian Renaissance_ (London, 1893), p. 119, and cf. CHAUCER in the _Prologue_ to the _Canterbury Tales_. For medical practice in the fourteenth century, see _Fiori di Medicina di Maestro Gregorio Medicofisico Del Sec. XIV._ (Bologna, Gaetano Romagnuoli, 1865), and cf. IL LASCA, Nov. I., _et_ X., Cena Prima. Pico della Mirandola was one of the first who entered the lists against these charlatans in his treatise in twelve books, _Adversus Astrologos_ (Venice, 1498).] The Duke had now attained to manhood, and in the enjoyment of a tranquil reign he began to practise those lessons which he had imbibed under Odasio. Amid the attractions of the lists or the chase, which his own tastes and the joyous temperament of his Duchess strongly recommended to him, he was not forgetful of more solid accomplishments. It is unfortunate that few memorials are preserved of the formation of that select circle which he appears thus early to have drawn around him. It was not until fourteen years later, that Count Castiglione entered that court which he was destined to immortalise; nor had the group of fine spirits who are brought upon the stage in the _Cortegiano_ as yet assembled at Urbino. But many of Duke Federigo's old and honoured servants remained about the person of his son, and maintained that tone of lettered refinement which the veteran commander had cherished. The pontificate of Innocent did not realise the warlike foretaste which his early quarrel with King Ferdinand had given, and his mature policy resolved itself into a maintenance of the _status quo_. Yet from time to time there broke out, among the cities which acknowledged his sway, those feuds and party squabbles, which ever and anon deluged in blood most of the Italian communities, and of which Baldi well says, "that it was matter equally of astonishment and compassion to see persons born and bred within the same walls, brought up under one law and one rule, change their very nature, and forget every principle of humanity; mangling, destroying, and despoiling each other without remorse, like wild beasts." On more than one such occasion, the Pope called upon Guidobaldo to interpose his influence, or to advance his troops in order to restore quiet; but these incidents do not merit detailed notice. In services so barren of glory, the Duke showed sometimes but little zeal, and in consequence received more than one admonition from his ecclesiastical over-lord. The pacific views of Innocent had been efficiently supported by Lorenzo the Magnificent, with an influence belonging more to his personal character than his absolute rank; but the premature death of both these sovereigns, occurring almost simultaneously, deprived the Peninsula of its best guarantees of tranquillity. Lorenzo having expired on the 7th of April, 1492, the Pontiff breathed his last on the 25th of July; and on the 11th of August was succeeded by Alexander VI. CHAPTER XIV State of the papacy at the accession of Alexander VI.--His election, character, and children--The aspect of Italy at the close of her golden age--The disputed succession of Naples reopened--Character and views of Charles VIII.--Proposed league to oppose him frustrated--State of the Roman Campagna--The old and new military systems in Italy. The spiritual sway of the papacy at this time enjoyed great advantages over its temporal dominion. Although the former had necessarily been more permanent and influential under a Gregory or a Boniface, than when wielded by imbecility or divided by schism, it continued as yet undisputed. The power of the Keys was acknowledged to the utmost limits of Christendom, whatever might be thought of their possessor or policy. Monarchs and armaments, who defied or defeated the pontifical banner, quailed under an interdict, and humbled themselves to the dust for absolution. Another important vantage-ground of the Roman ecclesiastical polity, well set forth by Robertson, was its unity. Faithful to long traditionary maxims, as the magnetic needle to its pole, few cases could occur unprovided for by precedent; and so numerous were the checks and balance-wheels of the complicated machine, which was kept in motion and regulated by a large and well drilled staff, rather than by its apparent director, that his personal conduct or private aims seldom perceptibly affected its working. Although the same dignitaries who, by education and habit, were enabled to maintain and transmit this unvarying system, formed also the administrative government of the Papal State, they were, in the latter capacity, merely ministers of a temporal prince, bound by interest to flatter his foibles as well as to obey his behests. And the sovereignty of Rome being elective, under circumstances often inferring a very transient tenure of power, it was usually wielded with much waywardness, selfishness, and caprice, even to the detriment of that order by whom, through whom, and for whom the ecclesiastical authority was exercised. Apart from the general question of the fitness of priests for temporal sway, their circumstances were peculiarly unfavourable at a time when no special requisites of character were indispensable for holy orders, these being often regarded as a mere qualification for preferments closed against the laity. When legates were sent to lead armies, and cardinals took the field as condottieri; when papal diplomacy and intrigue were rarely veiled by a semblance of truth or honour; when poisoning by prelates passed into a proverb, and "son of a clergyman" ceased to be an imputation, it is not surprising that priest-ruled and priest-ridden Italy should have become thoroughly demoralised. It was of this age that Masse has pointedly remarked that "never were holy things mocked with greater impunity, or spiritual power more unblushingly profaned; never were the humane virtues held in such disrepute, nor blood so treacherously spilt; never did poison more perfidiously contaminate the veins of those whose presence was burdensome, or who clogged an ambitious career, or whose death could serve any end whatever." Under the new pontificate these evils were fully developed, and the fatal influence exercised by it on Duke Guidobaldo and his state will demand from us from time to time detailed notices of Alexander and his race. * * * * * Alfonso Borgia, on whom the triple tiara had been conferred in 1455, with the title of Calixtus III., was descended from the ancient Spanish family of Borja, at Xativa, in the kingdom of Murcia. His sister Giovanna, or Isabella, married Giuffredo or Alfonso Lenzuoli, and to them was born, in 1427, Roderigo, whose youth was spent in arms, but on obtaining a page's appointment at the court of Alfonso V., he laid aside the sword, and finally, in compliance with the wishes of his family, entered the Church. Being there destined for high preferment by the influence of his uncle, who had adopted him, he exchanged his paternal name for that of Borgia. By this step, and by his personal qualities, he so completely gained the favour of Calixtus that, during his short pontificate, he rose to the highest honours, and accumulated the best benefices at his disposal. To the dignities of cardinal, vice-chancellor of the Church, and archbishop of Valencia, were added the temporalities of three other archiepiscopal and two episcopal sees, besides a shower of minor but rich endowments, and various important legations. For the conspicuous part he was thus called to fill nature had fully qualified him. His unbounded ambition was supported by vigorous and varied talents; and, although his acquirements by study were limited, his address and pliant sagacity, seconded by great facility of speech, enabled him to bend people and events to his purposes.[*231] [Footnote *231: GASPAR VERONENSIS in MURATORI, _R.I.S._, III., pt. II., 1036, speaking of the young Cardinal, says: "Formosus est, laetissimo vultu, aspectuque jocundo, lingua ornata atque melliflua, qui mulieres egregias visas ad se amandum gratior allicit, et mirum in modum concitat, plusquam magnes ferrum; quas tamen intactas di mittere sane putatur."] The influence which Cardinal Borgia enjoyed from his abilities and preferments was but little impaired by his notorious personal vices; for the corruption of manners which disgraced the golden age of Italian refinement had deeply tinctured the court of Rome. His open immoralities brought upon him public censure from the worthy Pius II., but the laxer discipline of succeeding pontiffs left such scandals unchecked. In order more easily to carry on a disgraceful intercourse with his mistress Caterina Vanozza, he married her to a Roman, named Domenico Arignano, and subsequently had by her three sons and a daughter, whom he fully acknowledged as his children, allowing them his adopted name. His general conduct and language were in all respects consistent with such licentious courses. Guicciardini describes him as of most debauched habits, insatiable avarice, immoderate ambition, savage cruelty, and unscrupulous nepotism; without sincerity, truth, good faith, shame, or religion. It would be easy to adduce similar testimony from other contemporary authorities, which, although widely varying in their details of scandal, agree in the general estimate of his public and private character, even before his elevation to the tiara. On the death of Innocent VIII., Borgia was much the oldest cardinal. His talents were unquestioned; his dissolute conduct could scarcely be pleaded as disqualifying him from a dignity which Cibò and della Rovere had just held. His rivals were Ascanio, son of the great Francesco Sforza, and Giuliano della Rovere. The latter, at the head of a feeble minority of five, who refused to sell their votes, earned his uncompromising hatred. The former, finding success unattainable, preferred making profit of his adherence to the winning candidate. To him, to Orsini, Colonna, Savelli, and other influential members of the conclave, those high dignities and benefices which their choice of Borgia would render vacant, were lavishly promised, and, as an earnest of future favours, treasures long purposely hoarded by the wily Spaniard, were distributed amongst them in mule-loads. On the 11th of August, Roderigo Borgia ascended the chair of St. Peter, amid festive pageants more suited to a heathen triumph than a Christian coronation, hailed by such epigrams as this:-- "Great under Cæsar, greatest under thee, Rome hailed him _hero_, here a GOD we see!"[232] [Footnote 232: "Cæsare magna fuit, nunc Roma est maxima, Sextus Regnat Alexander; ille vir, iste Deus."] The sacred office to which Alexander VI. was thus elevated had no salutary effect upon his unholy passions.[*233] The power he had attained he administered by intrigue. Simony and poisoning were the instruments of his administration; nepotism was its end. His temporal policy was equally selfish, unstable, and dishonest. He was resolute in nothing but his breaches of good faith. In the broils which he fomented he sold his adherence to the best bidder, but ever kept himself open for a higher offer. His contemporary, Machiavelli, thus stamps his character, which he had carefully studied:--"His entire occupation, his only thought, was deception, and he always found victims. Never was there a man with more effrontery in assertion, more ready to add oaths to his promises, or to break them; yet did his deceit ever succeed to his heart's content."[*234] Sismondi terms him "the most odious, the most publicly scandalous, and the most wicked of all miscreants who ever misused sacred authority to outrage and degrade mankind." No ecclesiastical writer has undertaken to defend his reputation; most of them have treated him as a disgrace to the papacy. Tommasi has termed him a "perfidious, sanguinary, and most insatiable wolf, capable of insinuating himself like a fawning and attached spaniel." [Footnote *233: All that Dennistoun says of the Borgia must be accepted with care. He takes the Puritan point of view in a country where such a thing as Puritanism has happily seldom existed. Pastor, to whom it seems natural to refer the reader [_A History of the Popes_] is almost equally censorious though more discerning in his condemnation. He, apparently holding a brief for the Papacy, felt it incumbent upon him to restore the balance of some of his judgments by denouncing Alexander VI. It is strange that the only two sane historians of the Borgia should be Protestants. I gladly refer the reader with every confidence to the work of CREIGHTON [_A History of the Papacy from the Great Schism to the Sack of Rome_, vols. IV. and V.] and of GREGOROVIUS [_Lucrezia Borgia_].] [Footnote *234: As for Machiavelli's opinion of Alexander VI., it is the most valuable we could possibly have, but he says little of him, thinking him of small importance beside Cesare. Dennistoun, not content with abusing the Pope himself by taking words out of the context, tries to bring Machiavelli to his way of thinking. This is not easily excused. In chapter xi. of _Il Principe_, Machiavelli says: "Di tutti i Pontefici che sono stati mai, mostrò quanto un Papa e con il denaro e con le forze si poteva prevalere." As Creighton says: "The Borgia have become legendary as types of unrestrained wickedness, and it is difficult to judge them fairly without seeming to palliate iniquity.... The exceptional infamy which attaches to Alexander VI. is largely due to the fact that he did not add hypocrisy to his other vices.... Moreover, Alexander VI. was the only man in Italy who clearly knew what he wanted to do and who steadily pursued his purpose" (vol. V., pp. 51-52).] Out of the conflicting statements which have reached us of the Borgian pedigree and of Alexander's spurious offspring, we have prepared the accompanying table as on the whole probable.[235] Francesco (called by others Giovanni or Pietro), his eldest son by La Vanosia, was, at the Pope's request, created Duke of Gandia by Ferdinand the Catholic, and, as we shall see, came to a fearful end. The title descended to his progeny, and was borne by his great-grandson, the famous general of the Jesuits, who died in 1572, and was canonised as San Francesco Borgia.[236] Cesare was his father's favourite, and we shall have frequent occasion to trace him through the various phases of cardinal, count, condottiere, usurper, sovereign, and prisoner. Giuffredo, with the hand of a natural daughter of Alfonso II. of Naples, acquired high honours in that kingdom. Lucrezia, after being branded with triple incest and frequent poisonings, and after changing her husbands as often as suited her father's schemes, dedicated her maturer years to the patronage of letters and the cultivation of piety. Upon the details and crimes of such a character there is fortunately little occasion here to enter. Those who wish to learn them have only to turn to any historian of her age; such as would see nearly all that has been charged against her confronted with whatever redeeming traits exist, and ingeniously redargued by negative proofs and assumed improbabilities, may consult the dissertation appended to Roscoe's _Leo the Tenth_.[*237] [Footnote 235: Among numerous conflicting statements, the Duke of Gandia is named Giovanni by Sismondi, in _Biog. Universelle_, _voce_ Borgia, Cæsar; and Francesco by Despartes, _voce_ Alexander VI. in the same work.] [Footnote 236: See below, p. 368.] [Footnote *237: The Borgia entered as strangers into the cunning but childish game of deception and lying that made up Italian politics. Accepting the principles of the game, as all must who would play at all, they broke through its absurd conventions. It was this that caused them to be so universally hated. Savonarola, extraordinary though his success was, knew that the greatest statesman in Italy saw through his treason and his ambitions. The other politicians were beaten at their own game, and loudly proclaimed that they had been cheated. But, as Creighton reminds us, "Alexander dealt unscrupulously with unscrupulous men, and played for higher stakes than any of them dreamed of." Even his love for his children has been thrown in his face. Would it have been a virtue in him to hate them?] [Illustration: _Anderson_ POPE ALEXANDER VI. _Detail from a fresco by Pinturicchio in the Borgia apartments of the Vatican, Rome_] We have now reached a period when our narrative must be extended, and must include those great events which, besides revolutionising almost every state in Italy, ultimately affected the political relations of Western Europe. The fiery natures and turbulent spirits of the Italian republicans and condottieri had for many years expended their energies in petty broils and intestine struggles for mastery. Henceforward the bloody drama was to be varied by the introduction of a new class of actors; the battles of European ambition were to be fought on the sunny plains of the Peninsula; her flourishing cities were to be the spoil of victor and vanquished: the protracted struggle was destined to leave her strength prostrated, her wealth wasted, her nationality extinguished, her treasures of art defaced, the character of her people degraded, their political independence destroyed. Although, from 1466 to 1494, Italy had never remained very long free from intestine commotions, the seat of serious warfare was during that interval removed to Hungary, Turkey, and the Levant, and she enjoyed a comparative repose, under the balmy influence of which, letters and the liberal arts rose to high perfection. The invention of printing, the study of the classics, the revival of ancient literature and philosophy, the cultivation of vernacular poetry, and the adoption of these tastes at many of the minor courts, all tended to this happy result. Under this prosperous state of things the condition of the Peninsula is thus eloquently described by her Thucydides:--"Reduced to profound peace and tranquillity, cultivated on her sterile and rugged sites as in her more fertile districts, swayed by none but native masters, not only did her population, commerce, and wealth abound, but she was rendered gloriously eminent by the magnificence of her many princes, by the splendour of her numerous noble and fair cities, and by the seat and sovereignty of religion; whilst her celebrity was maintained among all nations by the men whom she produced of high capacity for public affairs, of elevated genius and acquirements in each branch of learning, and every liberal or useful art, as well as of military fame not unworthy of their age."[238] This was indeed her golden era, but the pure metal was henceforward to be tarnished. The middle ages, during which the civilisation of Europe had centred within her shores, were now passed away: modern history was about to open, and with it her subjugation. She had to learn, on a greater and more impressive scale, the lesson which her annals have too often afforded, and as her old republics had fallen one by one from want of union, so, at this juncture, her states, failing in mutual good faith, became an unresisting prey to the spoiler. She was in truth on the eve of that fearful struggle which, after trampling for half a century on her energies, left her to all intents at the mercy of those northern powers whom she deemed barbarians. Their armies had heretofore descended into her plains to fight under her banners and to receive her pay; henceforward they warred on their own account, though not less at her expense: formerly her mercenaries, they were in future her foes. [Footnote 238: Guicciardini, ch. i.] The immediate cause of these evils was the disputed succession to the crown of Naples, which we have formerly seen convulsing Italy, and which it will require a brief digression and the annexed table to explain. The Norman knights who in the eleventh century visited Lower Italy in a crusade against the Saracens, soon contrived to make that country their own. One of them, Robert Guiscard, by his valour and talents acquired a supremacy in which he was succeeded by his nephew Roger, who had by similar means made himself master of Sicily. In 1130, the latter procured from Innocent II. the investiture of a kingdom nearly equal in extent to that of the Two Sicilies in our day, which, during next century, passed by marriage into the line of the Hohenstaufen emperors of Germany. But the same incurable jealousies, which gave rise to the Guelphic and Ghibelline parties, made the popes look with little favour on their new neighbours, who however maintained their ground for three generations, notwithstanding repeated offers of a competing investiture, by successive pontiffs, to various English and French princes. The crown, thus sent a-begging, was at length accepted by Charles Count of Anjou and Provence, seventh son of Louis VIII. of France, who, in 1266, defeated and slew Manfred, the last monarch of the Hohenstaufen line, and assuming the title of Charles I., founded the first Angevine dynasty. But in consequence of the brutal behaviour of his soldiery, he lost Sicily in a revolt, during which there occurred, in 1282, the massacre of the French, known as the Sicilian vespers. On this opening, Alfonso III. of Aragon put in a claim through his mother, a daughter of Manfred, and having established himself as King of Sicily, that title continued in his successors, and was ultimately reunited to the crown of Naples. The first house of Anjou, however, maintained themselves upon the throne of Naples for about one hundred and seventy years, notwithstanding the testamentary disposition of the maligned and unfortunate Queen Joanna I., who, in 1382, bequeathed that kingdom and the county of Provence to Louis I., second son of John II. of Anjou. This will had been dictated by dislike of her second cousin and adopted heir Charles Count of Durazzo, but it did not prevent him, his son Ladislaus, and his daughter the beautiful and dissolute Joanna II., from establishing a _de facto_ right to their heritage. Meanwhile Louis I., Louis II., and Louis III., their rivals of the second Angevine line, as it was called, persisted in styling themselves kings of Naples as well as of Jerusalem, and having patched up their defective title, by obtaining a recognition of their claims and investitures from several popes, they each invaded their titular kingdom. The first Angevine dynasty being about to close by the childless death of Joanna II., she was persuaded to terminate the struggle by settling her crown upon the second Angevine race, which at her death in 1435, was represented by Rénier, usually called René le Bon. The fatality of a disputed succession, with its attendant miseries, was however still in store for unhappy Naples. Joanna II. had already in 1421 adopted as her heir Alfonso V., King of Aragon and Sicily, who was likewise representative of whatever claims might have been transmitted from the old Norman dynasty, being in fact similar to those upon which his family had acquired Sicily before 1300. Eugene IV., at the same time, still further complicated this confusion, by interposing his right as over-lord, alleging that the investiture had, by failure of the reigning dynasty, lapsed to the Holy See. After ineffectually attempting by an invasion to vindicate his title against his rival of Aragon, René retired to his little state of Provence, to dedicate his life to literature and the arts, but especially to those chivalrous lyrics which, casting the halo of poetic romance around the troubadours and their times, have wreathed his brows with laurels far more enduring than the crown of Naples could have conferred. Yet he and his nephew Charles continued titular kings, until the latter, dying without surviving male issue in 1481, left all his property, and therewith his claims upon Lower Italy, to Louis XI. of France, his third cousin and nearest male heir, upon whose death in 1483, these passed to Charles VIII. Alfonso V., having repulsed the good René, had no further serious disturbance in his possession of Naples and Sicily, now once more united; but he being succeeded in these by a natural son Ferdinand I., his Spanish crown going to his brother John II., the already defective title of the house of Aragon to their Italian dominions on _terra firma_ was thereby further weakened, at a moment when they exchanged the competition of a petty and unwarlike prince for that of the powerful and ambitious monarch of France. Such was the political position of Naples; that of Milan must now claim our attention. Giovanni Galeazzo had succeeded to the dukedom, upon the assassination of his debauched father Galeazzo Maria, in 1476. Being then but seven years old, his mother, a princess of Savoy, managed the government during four years, until the intrigues of his uncle Ludovico supplanted her, and possessed himself virtually of the sovereignty, though exercising it in the name of his nephew. He married him at the age of twenty to Isabella, daughter of Alfonso heir-apparent of Naples, but availing himself of his feeble character maintained his own position, even after the Duke had attained to manhood. He was generally known by the surname of _Il Moro_, from using as his device the mulberry, which, being the last tree to hazard its buds, and the first to mature its fruit, was the received emblem of discretion and cautious policy. Ludovico il Moro may thus be rendered Louis the Discreet, an epithet little in keeping with his character, at once rash and restless, wavering and weak. Accordingly, in pursuing his designs of unprincipled ambition, this unscrupulous usurper most signally overreached himself, and, as we shall in due time see, brought utter ruin upon his own person and house. Venice, now at the summit of her pride and power, is thus finely apostrophised by Politian;-- "Sole Queen of Italy! of regal Rome The beauteous rival, ruling earth and sea, Sovereigns would fain thy citizens become. Ausonia's honoured light! 'tis but in thee, Unquenched by barbarous hosts, our freedom glows; 'Tis to thy beams our sun a brighter radiance owes."[239] [Footnote 239: _Opera Latina_, III., Eleg. i., p. 95.] As yet she was the mart of the known world, for a commerce with the enterprise of Columbus and the daring of De Gama were on the eve of directing into new channels and rival ports. Her navy scarcely knew a competitor on the seas. Her eastern possessions not only gave security to her trade, but placed her foremost in defence of Christendom against the Infidel, a post of natural glory and influence which it is now difficult fully to appreciate. But these honourable and substantial advantages sufficed her not. It was her ever cherished but fatal ambition to swell her mainland possessions by every means of arms or diplomacy. Although her citizens had no turn for military exploits, although the gloomy genius of her government found no sympathy among her _terra firma_ subjects, she pursued the ruinous policy of intermingling in every combination, co-operating in every war, which could add to her territories. At the moment of Charles's invasion, she had gained her object of becoming one of the five great Italian powers. How she lost it at the hands of his successor, and how, in defending a pre-eminence she never should have desired, she impaired the true sources of her superiority, will, in course of events, come under our view. In Florence Lorenzo de' Medici, to whose bright name history has done justice, at the expense perhaps of some coeval stars in the Italian hemisphere, had died a few months before Innocent VIII. He was happy in living during a breathing time of comparative tranquillity, which he had been not uninstrumental in preserving, and which it was perhaps his good fortune not to survive. He had lived long enough to gain an imperishable fame, and passed from life just before the golden age, of which he was the signal ornament, began to be dimmed by influences which he and his family were instrumental in promoting. Our admiration of the assiduous and enlightened encouragement bestowed by him, and by his son Leo X., upon letters and art, ought not to blind us to the melancholy truths that the theoretical paganism of Lorenzo, the practical worldliness of Leo, and the disastrous blundering of Clement VII., have left upon the religion, the nationality, and the public spirit of Italy, effects which counterbalance that vast impulse to genius which the two first had the power to create, without the judgment and virtue to direct. Lorenzo the Magnificent was succeeded in his authority by his eldest son Pietro; but as that was founded exclusively upon personal claims, and unsupported either by official or hereditary dignities, it quickly passed from his feeble hands. It was the folly of this Pietro that supplied a train to the smouldering elements which we have endeavoured in this digression to analyse, and which, had his father been spared, might have been welded into a compact aggregate calculated to withstand barbarian aggression, instead of, as we shall now see, bursting into a simultaneous and destructive conflagration.[240] [Footnote 240: Du Peloux, in a despatch addressed to Charles V. in 1529, alluding to the distractions and miseries of Italy, in terms more appropriate to the period now under our review, observes "that there were two races who occasioned all its misfortunes, the Medici and the Sforza, and that it would be well for the world were both of them extirpated."--_Lanz Correspondenz._] Charles VIII. of France had attained his twenty-third year. It has been well remarked of him that few monarchs have played so active a part with fewer personal qualifications for success or distinction. The hideous deformity of his body seems to have been equalled by the defects of his character. Impetuous and fickle, ignorant and wilful, he was alike devoid of judgment and of perseverance. The wars of the Neapolitan succession, that had during much of the preceding century harassed Lower Italy, were not forgotten, and the latent claims of the Angevine dynasty became serious grounds for fresh anxiety, when vested in the youthful monarch of a powerful ultra-montane nation. Ludovico Sforza, situated nearest to the quarter whence the storm threatened, was the first to take alarm, and for once his selfish policy tended to a great and beneficial object. He proposed a general defensive alliance of the Italian states against all foreign invasion. But his counsels flowed from a tainted source. The King of Naples had already interposed to emancipate his grand-daughter's husband from the unduly prolonged regency of Ludovico, who soon perceived that his usurped authority must be relinquished ere his overtures would be listened to in that quarter. Yet the stake was worth an effort, and the new Pope's elevation suggested a fit opportunity for the attempt, since it attracted to Rome many embassies of congratulation which, when thus congregated, might conveniently arrange the terms of a league. As a preliminary, the Regent of Milan proposed that the various ambassadors should give moral weight to their union, by entering the capital of Christendom on the same day, in one imposing procession. This idea was approved by most of the parties, but Pietro de' Medici, conceiving that his personal vanity would be more effectively gratified by exhibiting the superior magnificence of his retinue in a separate display, resolved to thwart by indirect means a proposition to which he could offer no reasonable objection. He, therefore, induced Ferdinand to interpose some obstacles of etiquette, which marred by miserable jealousies the intended unanimity of the demonstration. Ludovico, having ascertained the origin of this intrigue, saw in it a separation from the common cause by the two powers whose interests were the most at variance with his own. The Medici were formidable neighbours, as wielding the preponderating power of Florence, while with the King of Naples the seeds of a domestic quarrel were already rife. Upon the coldness thus generated, other influences were brought coincidently to bear. The Colonna and the Orsini had long been most prominent and influential among the great barons of Rome. The authority which they exercised over their fiefs in the Campagna was to all intents sovereign. They alternately wasted that fair land with their mutual broils, or bearded their ecclesiastical over-lord in his capital. Those who have journeyed from Monterosi to Albano along the lonely plain which, curtained by the Sabine mountains and the Alban hills, stretches far around the Eternal City, or have cantered for miles and miles across its vast expanse of undulating sward in solitude and stillness; who have marked its rich vegetation running wild in the most genial of European climes, its melancholy lines of interrupted aqueducts witnessing to a long-degraded civilisation, its distant and dilapidated watch-towers telling only of former forays, its few isolated dwellings sheltering beneath crumbled walls and broken battlements the units of a scanty and squalid population; and who, to account for the spell of such a singular desolation, conclude that this dreary waste has been depopulated by the course of nature; such may wonder to hear that the mischief and misery are chiefly the act of man. The calm serenity of these forlorn downs becomes deeply touching from remembering that the soil was for centuries sodden with blood, and covered with smouldering ruins; that European civilisation there was nurtured, there waned, and there struggled into a second life, amid the din of battles, the devastation of armies, the rapine of banditti; that its long grass springs from the grave of ancient refinement, of classic memorials, of mediæval strife. In the middle ages much of the Campagna was fertile, and peopled by an industrious peasantry. Its undulating slopes waved with abundant crops, varied and sheltered by venerable woods, which the Goths and Vandals of former centuries had spared. But incessant civil feuds proved more fatal than barbarian hordes. The Ghibelline Colonna, from their fortresses of Marino and Palestrina, watched the fitting moment to pour their armed retainers on the plain, and, crossing the Tiber, carried fire and sword, through the estates of their rivals, to the very gates of Bracciano. The Guelphic Orsini waited for revenge only till the ripened harvest had prepared for them a golden spoil in their foemen's fields. Year after year did this miserable partizan-warfare ravage those devoted lands till the peasantry by degrees were exterminated, or driven to seek a livelihood in some more tranquil spot; till of their smiling homes no stone remained upon another, except where, at long intervals, the farm buildings were turned by these men of blood into fortresses, or the tombs of the dead were desecrated into defences for the living. A soil teeming with fertility under a burning sun, and abandoned by man, ran to rank vegetation, which, gradually choking the water-courses, generated miasma. The evil, thus commenced, was augmented by cutting down the trees which shadowed the burning earth, and, not unfrequently, covered a hostile ambush. But the crowning mischief was the rash destruction of a vast forest which, extending between the Campagna and the sea, excluded the malaria that brooded over the Mediterranean coast from Leghorn to Mola di Gaeta. Once admitted, that fearful scourge took possession of the depopulated territory, which has ever since remained a puzzle to the physiologist, a mystery to the moralist, a terror to all. At no period had the feuds of the Colonna and Orsini been more virulent than during the feeble reign of Innocent, when their armed bands had more than once scoured the streets of Rome, and overawed the papal government. The Savelli, the Frangipani, and the Gaetani, those great families who, a century or two before, had been their rivals, were no longer able to cope with them, and the lesser barons of the Comarca sought protection and employment by ranging themselves as their respective partizans. To humble these rampant houses was thus the natural policy of the successors of St. Peter, and especially of Alexander VI., who soon devoted his ambition and his authority to provide temporal sovereignties for his illegitimate progeny. His ruthless proceedings, and the changes which ensued over the whole country, at length effectually quelled the lawless turbulence of these chiefs; but it was too late to remedy the ruinous havoc which their insatiate strife had occasioned. [Illustration: "DIVA JULIA" _From a bronze medal by L'Antico in the British Museum_] [Illustration: CESARE BORGIA _From a medal ca. 1500 in the British Museum_] [Illustration: JULIUS II. AS CARDINAL _From a medal in the British Museum_] The late Pope, following the practice of the times, had endowed his natural son Francesco Cibò (ancestor of the princes of Massa) with Anguillara, Cervetri, and other holdings to the north-west of Rome, and had married him to Madalena, sister of Lorenzo the Magnificent. Desirous of exchanging this precarious sovereignty for some more peaceful home, Francesco, by the influence of his brother-in-law, Pietro de' Medici, induced the King of Naples to advance 40,000 ducats to Gentile Virginio Orsini, for the purchase of these castles, which adjoined his fief of Bracciano. This slight circumstance served to kindle that train which the long series of events now alluded to had gradually prepared for combustion, and to ripen those jealousies already sown among the Peninsular powers. The Pope saw in it an accession of territory to one of those great barons of the Campagna whom he had resolved to humble; Ludovico il Moro, with the coward suspicions of guilt, watched every motion of Ferdinand, whose just indignation at his treatment of the Duke of Milan he had too good reason to dread. As soon, therefore, as he had ascertained that Pietro de' Medici, abandoning the cautious neutrality which his father had ever maintained between the Milanese and Neapolitan interests, had united with Ferdinand in the affair of Orsini, as well as in the less serious intrigue which had prevented the cementing of a general confederation he plotted to provide for the King full occupation at home. Suddenly, however, the tangled policy of the Peninsular states assumed an aspect more favourable to Ludovico. The ambitious overtures of Alexander to obtain for his natural son Giuffredo the hand of Sancia of Aragon having been spurned by her father Alfonso, the impetuous Pontiff, in April, 1493, hastily concluded a defensive treaty with Milan and Venice, for the avowed purpose of expelling Orsini, the ally of Naples, from his recent acquisitions. These having been obtained by that feudatory, with the aid of his tried friend Ferdinand, and his relation Pietro de' Medici, he naturally looked to these two powers for support; and thus was Italy on the point of relapsing into her normal condition of feud. But the King of Naples, considering such a price extravagant for the mere gratification of family pride, had within a few weeks adjusted his differences with the Pope, by betrothing his granddaughter to Giuffredo Borgia. As if by repulsion of the magnetic poles, the accession of Ferdinand caused Il Moro to secede from the alliance he had just before joined, but from which he could no longer look for support in his lawless authority, and, judging his only security to consist in the depression of that monarch, he resolved to effect it at any price. Upon these most inadequate grounds of personal pique, or personal apprehension, did Ludovico madly run upon the very danger against which he had been the first to prepare "All the swords In Italy, and her confederate arms." In his eagerness to disable Ferdinand's anticipated vengeance upon his own crimes, he renewed the calamities of a succession-war in the south, and thereby laid open the Peninsula to a scourge whose chastisement fell most heavily upon himself. Instead of heading a league against foreign aggression, as he had just before proposed, he made overtures to Charles VIII., tempting him with the diadem of Naples as the reward of an invasion of Italy, and offering him free passage through the Milanese. His private quarrel with the usurper did not blind Ferdinand to the insanity of this step, and, forgetting his feelings as a parent, he united with the other powers in representing the peril of his policy. Gladly would Ludovico have withdrawn the false step he had hastily made; but it was too late. The demon of ambition was roused in the French king; the hour for retraction was passed; that of bitter repentance was at hand. Behind her Alpine barrier there was gathered an army, ready to burst upon fated Italy, and to pour upon her plains calamities unknown since the fall of the Western Empire. * * * * * With Federigo of Montefeltro and Roberto Malatesta, the old generation of Italian condottieri may be said to have passed away. Political changes and progressive civilisation, developed during forty years of comparative tranquillity, already tended to limit both the supply of veteran adventurers and the demand for their services. Under such genial influences, the great companies of adventure had melted down to petty followings, more proportioned to the exigencies of the age, and to the resources and experience of their new leaders. Peaceful times offered no rich prizes to call forth sustained daring, and to reward vast enterprises. Captains of minor reputation, heading small bands raised for some passing broil or petty foray, succeeded to the Hawkwoods, Montoni, and Malatesta, without rivalling their deeds, or maintaining their fame. The limited brigandage of the broken lances differed from the sweeping desolation of their marshalled thousands only in the narrower field on which it found scope; but the mercenary system became more manageable when deprived of its cumbrous machinery, and its leaders were henceforth the tools of their employers instead of their virtual masters. In bidding adieu to that system, we may quote the sweeping condemnation bestowed upon it by Machiavelli; yet it is right to remember that, as the advocate of infantry and national militia, he had no toleration for the military art which they superseded, and that he witnessed its practice only after its spirit was gone. "Whoever relies for power upon mercenaries will never be stable or secure; for they are disunited, ambitious, undisciplined, faithless: braggarts among friends, dastards before the foe; destitute of fear of God, or faith with man. To delay their assault is to postpone your own ruin; in peace, you are plundered by them, in war by the enemy. The reason of all this is, that they have no object, no inducement to keep the field beyond their pittance of pay, which is never such as to induce them to spend life and limb for you. They readily enough take service, so long as you don't go to war, but when that comes, they desert or fly. It were easy to establish all this, for the destruction of Italy has arisen from no other cause but that, for many years, she depended upon mercenary troops; who, indeed, occasionally did something, and wore a semblance of valour when pitted against each other, but, on the appearance of the stranger, showed in their true colours. Thus was Charles of France allowed to take possession of the Peninsula as easily as he would have chalked off his cantonments, and the result of all their prowess left the country overrun by him, ravaged by Louis, trampled on by Ferdinand, and insulted by the Swiss; in fine, by their means she was enslaved and disgraced." These changes led to considerable modifications in the art of war, to which other circumstances greatly contributed. The invasion of Italy by successive ultra-montane hosts brought into her battle-fields other races, armed, drilled, and disciplined upon new principles; and the descent of Charles VIII., which we are now about to describe, forms an era in military tactics. The heavy accoutrements, the staid evolutions, the blockade sieges, the bloodless encounters of the old system were admirably suited for troops whose grand object was to perform their term of service without unnecessary personal risk, and to spare themselves all exertion which did not promise a meed of booty. The invention of gunpowder at first tended to exaggerate the very inconveniences which it was destined eventually to supplant: for a time, defensive armour became more and more massive, and horse-trappings less manageable. In order to resist the additional weight, chargers of the most powerful shapes were sought for; but they were in proportion sluggish and unhandy, apt to fall on the slightest stumble, difficult to maintain in condition, and incapable of sustained exertion. These evils having become apparent, the men-at-arms ceased to be regarded as the sole sinews of war, and many of them were converted into lances. Unlike the cavalry which now bear that name, these lances were heavy troops, and, like the men-at-arms, they each consisted of three mounted soldiers--a head-lance on his charger, a soldier on his steed, and a lacquey on his pad. The pay of these troops, which in 1492 were already used in Romagna,[*241] was twelve florins for every lance, being four times that of a foot-soldier; and they were reckoned twice as effective as _balestrieri_ or light-horse, both new varieties of mounted force. The former were brought into repute by Camillo Vitelli, "In heart a lion, though a calf in name,"[242] and were armed with cross-bows, their tactics being to gall the enemy without coming to close quarters. Of the latter there were several varieties, the most efficient of which were the Stradiotes. Accustomed from childhood to constant skirmishes with their Turkish foes, in the mountains of Albania, where manoeuvres of regular cavalry were impracticable, they partook of the agility and address for which Cossacks and Circassians have lately become celebrated. Their arms were a spear ten feet long, a broad-sword and a mace, and they were defended by an iron skull-cap, a small shield, and a short quilted jerkin. They were introduced by the Venetians into Lombardy, where their dashing qualities, as well as their ferocity, soon established the reputation of these irregular horse as most formidable mercenaries. [Footnote *241: The _Lancia_ had been used in Romagna and the Marche for over half a century, certainly, in 1492. Cf. EDWARD HUTTON, _Sigismondo Malatesta_, p. 71. Cf. BATTAGLINI, _op. cit._, vol. II., p. 348.] [Footnote 242: Of sixteen Vitelli named in the genealogy following the appendix, all but the first were renowned condottieri.] Infantry occupied, under the new system, a place until then denied them. They had hitherto been of small account in the mustering of armies, and were rarely relied on except in situations which excluded cavalry evolutions. They carried small shields, and halberts or lances, but were scarcely at all drilled, and never attempted to stand against a charge of horse. More effective were their cross-bows, and the rude muskets which they began to use. As fire-arms were made more handy, the value of infantry rapidly increased, and its discipline became an important branch of the military art. But in this section of the service, Italians had to learn costly lessons from their alpine neighbours. In a land where nature had lavished her most sublime efforts, she reared a race as hardy in heart and sinew as their climate was severe, their scenery wild, their hardships extreme. Life was there a perpetual struggle with privations, an unceasing exercise of toil. To provide the necessaries of existence required limbs enduring of fatigue, an eye of unerring accuracy, perseverance inexhaustible, courage indomitable. And such were the qualities of the Swiss mountaineers, which they developed in the chase, exercised in rude sports, and perfected in their struggles with the house of Hapsburg, until their shouts of victory echoed through the valleys around Morgarten,--until Europe stood aghast at the issue of Granson, and of "Morat the proud, the patriot field." In their country of crags and ravines it was impossible either to rear powerful horses, or to manoeuvre with heavy cavalry; the accoutrements of _gens d'armerie_ were also too costly for a population of scanty and much divided means. They therefore adopted, what proved more effective even in the plain, an infantry so armed and drilled as to withstand the shock of men-at-arms. In lines four deep, or in cross-shaped columns, they received the charge upon their bristling pikes, and with two-handed swords dealt fell blows on the broken squadrons. Their defensive armour was of the least cumbrous description, consisting generally but of breastplates; and with the axe-headed halberts, which some of them carried, they unseated their enemies, or cut their reins in the _mêlée_. By these means they were enabled so well to apply the activity and endurance bestowed upon them by nature, as to meet on equal terms with armies apparently much their superiors. Louis XI. was the first sovereign to avail himself of a new element, whose qualities he had learned by bloody experience at the passage of the Birsa, in 1444.[243] But after the Swiss mercenaries had tasted the gratification of regular pay, and the plunder of lands more golden than their own, an appetite for adventure superseded the pristine simplicity of their habits. The cantons, finding it difficult to keep their youth at home, became parties to contracts which hired out their services to the best bidder; and we shall henceforth find them in the champagne lands of Lombardy, following with equal goodwill the lilies of France, the lion of St. Mark, or the Papal gonfalone. Thus in a few years, the military aspect of Southern Europe became changed, not only by the employment of Swiss infantry in all important enterprises, but from an adoption of their system by the troops of Italy, France, and Germany. [Footnote 243: RICOTTI, III., 257. The Swiss were first brought into Italy by Sixtus IV., and fought at Giornico in 1479.] The Emperor Maximilian was the first to organise in Germany a militia of foot, under the name of _lanznechts_, against whom the Swiss, recollecting their ancient struggles for liberty, nourished a rancour, which only their common stipendiary interests could for the moment suspend. Lightly armed with lance and dagger, but encumbered by a preposterous camp-following; reckless of danger, yet indifferent to glory; they were fractious, disobedient, debauched, impatient of suffering, greedy of pay, devoted to plunder. But our notice of the ultra-montane infantry would be incomplete without the Spaniards. They were brought into Italy to maintain Ferdinand's pretensions upon Naples, and to support the aspirations of his successor to extended dominion in the Peninsula. Levied by tuck of drum, with scanty promise of pay, but unlimited licence to pillage, they campaigned in the spirit of pirates; and though the energy of Gonsalvo di Cordova ultimately brought the Hispano-Neapolitan army into a very efficient state, this stain was never effaced. The character for ferocity which attached to their birth is stamped upon their military exploits, and has left its traces to this day upon the inhabitants of Lower Italy. The cavalry of Germany and Spain was decidedly inferior to the Italian light horse and men-at-arms, and played but an unimportant part in the wars which we are now to consider. Our review of the military art in the Peninsula must needs include the recent introduction of fire-arms. The researches of Gaye have discovered that projectiles were used in Italy considerably earlier than the date usually assigned to their invention, a due provision of "cannons and metal balls," both for field-service and fortification, being ordered by the Florentine government in February, 1326.[244] Whatever may have been its origin, the invention was slowly followed up; for, after nearly a century and three quarters, the Italian artillery was still so cumbrous and defective as to be of little practical utility, and it was rarely employed except in sieges. Indeed, according to Guicciardini, the very name of cannons had passed out of use, and the light and rapidly-served field-pieces of the French army were regarded with as much surprise as apprehension. [Footnote 244: _Carteggio d'Artisti_, preface to vol. II. Among the other sources to which we have been indebted for these military details, we may mention Machiavelli, Ricotti, and the Relazioni Venete, _passim_, but especially Promis' edition of Francesco di Giorgio on military institutions, a work of great learning and research, published at Turin in 1841. See below, ch. xxvii.] The development of the new power was extremely gradual; and although we have seen it in operation at the battle of Molinella, in 1467, no other instance occurred during that century of its being used with effect in the field.[245] Nor is this surprising, when we consider the unmanageable nature of the service, and the gradual steps whereby science superseded rude contrivance. Heavy cannon were then from ten to twelve feet long, requiring at times fifty yoke of oxen. They carried balls of stone or metal of ten or twelve hundred pounds; and after each discharge, some hours were needed to clean out, reload, and point the piece. Even the flying artillery (_passa volanti_) were in length sixty diameters, and the basilisks, reckoned as light guns, were two-hundred pounders. We cannot now pursue the subject, but any one who visits a complete armoury of 1480-1500, or examines the works upon military engineering of that age, will probably conclude that few modern discoveries in the destructive art had not even then been approximated. For attack and defence of fortified places these machines were certainly better adapted; yet, with all the talent and princely encouragement then expended upon fortification, it must be considered as in its infancy. But when the chivalry of the north poured upon fated Italy, under Charles VIII., no part of their array appeared so formidable as their field-train, powerful yet compact, heavy but easily moved; and the unimportant service required from it in that brief campaign, was performed in a manner which showed how much even the Italians had to learn in this department. At the Taro, the nature of the ground prevented it from contributing much to the success of that bloody day, and it was reserved for the sanguinary conflict of Ravenna to develop the capabilities of a service which gradually became the right arm of European warfare. [Footnote 245: Refer back to p. 189; also to p. 248, for a description of the bombards used at the siege of Colle in 1479. The same tendency to overweight artillery seems common to many half-civilised nations. The size of the guns mounted in the Dardanelles is an instance, as well as that of the Scottish Mons Meg; but the most gigantic projectiles yet known have been found among the Burmese, and I believe the Chinese. In modern warfare, field batteries are usually of six, or, at most, nine pounders.] CHAPTER XV Italy ill prepared for the French Invasion--Duke Guidobaldo sent against the Orsini--Lucrezia Borgia's second marriage--Descent of Charles VIII.--He reaches Naples and retreats--Battle of the Taro--The Duke engaged in the Pisan war--Is taken prisoner by the Orsini and ransomed. The preceding rapid sketch may show the materials of which the invading hosts were composed, and the nature of the approaching danger. Its imminence appalled even those powers who, like Sforza, thought more of their own ends than of the general weal; and Alfonso II., who had succeeded to the crown of Naples on the death of his father Ferdinand, in January, 1494, was indefatigable in uniting them on the defensive. With Pietro de' Medici, we have already seen that the latter was in close relations. Among the princes of Romagna, Gallic influence had obtained no footing. The Venetians, occupied in the defence of their eastern dependencies from the Turks, and trusting, perhaps, to see Charles redeem his promise of a crusade against the Crescent, were inclined to neutrality. Genoa was in the hands of a faction entirely under the influence of Ludovico il Moro,[*246] who, though bound by treaty to Charles, was already alienated at heart from the connection, and ready on the first opportunity to discard it. The Pontiffs position, like his usual policy, was somewhat complicated. We have formerly found his predecessors generally hostile to the dynasty of Aragon, as well as to that of Hohenstaufen, and tolerably consistent in support of the Angevine races, whose original title the Neapolitan crown was a papal grant. Further, claims of the popes as lords paramount of that kingdom, and the annual payments which in that capacity they demanded, were fertile grounds for rancour, which but a few years before had broken out into hostilities. We have also seen Ferdinand assisting Virginio Orsini in purchasing those estates from which Alexander was bent upon expelling him. But a deeper cause for mortification and personal enmity arose out of the resistance by that King and his son to the matrimonial alliance of a princess of their house with one of the Pope's spurious sons.[*247] For a time, therefore, his Holiness balanced between the parties, and appears even to have allowed his name to be used by Ludovico Sforza in proposing to Charles the conquest of Naples.[*248] But his object was merely to annoy and alarm Ferdinand; and when he found this idea seriously adopted by the young monarch of France, he hastily backed out, and employed his spiritual and temporal influence to dissuade him from the enterprise.[249] Alfonso warmly supported his Holiness in this new policy, and, in order to clench him in it, betrothed his natural daughter, Sancia, with a dowry of lands worth 10,000 ducats of rent, and jewels to the value of 200,000 ducats, to Giuffredo Borgia, the Pope's youngest child, whom he created Prince of Squillace. This son-in-law not being yet marriageable, the King had an excuse for taking him to be brought up near his bride, with the intention of securing a hostage for his unstable parent's good faith. As a further bait, the principality of Tricarico, with estates of 12,000 ducats a year, and one of the seven great offices under the crown of Naples, were given to the eldest Borgia, now Duke of Gandia; whilst on Cesare, already raised to the purple as Cardinal Valentino (or of Valencia), his best ecclesiastical benefices were showered by the hard-pressed Alfonso. [Footnote *246: Ludovico Sforza held dominion in Genoa till 1498, when he was defeated by Louis XII. of France, to whom Genoa was then made over.] [Footnote *247: See note below.] [Footnote *248: Ludovico was alarmed at the alliance of Florence and Naples, and tried to meet it with a league between the Pope, Milan, and Venice [cf. Codice, Aragonese, II., 254, etc.] On April 25, 1493, Alexander VI., guarded by an armed escort, celebrated Mass in S. Marco, and after published his league with Venice, Milan, Siena, Mantua, and Ferrara. The Pope's object was the recovery of the possessions of the Holy See. Ferrante saw this, and immediately wrote to Spain speaking of him as a profligate and accusing him of stirring up strife--the one weak point in the Pope's armour. The Spanish ambassador, Don Diego Lopez de Haro, came to Rome to offer the obedience of the Catholic kings, and at once began to plead for the peace of Italy, which was enforced by a hostile demonstration on the part of Naples. Alexander agreed to negotiate. The result was that peace was established. Orsini was allowed to keep the castles he had bought from Cibò on condition that he paid 40,000 ducats to the Pope. Peace with Naples was cemented by the marriage of the Pope's son Jofre and Sancia, a daughter of Alfonso.] [Footnote 249: Roscoe, in a note to chapter iii. of the recent editions of _Leo X._, discusses the conflicting assertions as to the Pope's encouragement of Charles's expedition.] But the transaction of Virginio Orsini gave rise to a preliminary episode in the great drama, which, as bringing the Duke of Urbino upon the stage, requires some notice in this place. Besides the uneasiness with which Alexander viewed the further aggrandisement of that already too formidable subject, it is more than probable that, in claiming the Cibò estates, as lapsed to the Camera Apostolica, his ultimate intention was, to bestow them upon one of his own children; for his selfish policy seldom embraced any aim more noble than nepotism or revenge. Being doubtful of his own ability to drive the Orsini from their new purchase, he, in April, 1493, leagued himself with Ludovico Sforza and the Venetian republic. Through the former, he carried into effect a scheme which at once tended to facilitate that object, and promoted his favourite aim of providing his offspring with eligible marriages. His daughter Lucrezia,--she whose name has, perhaps, done more to render her infamous than her guilt, but whose beauty, accomplishments, and eventual penitence, had been forgotten in the heinous crimes which history laid to her charge unquestioned, until Roscoe's ingenious defence,--Lucrezia Borgia was then betrothed wife of a Spanish, or, rather, a Neapolitan, gentleman, named Procida. To nullify a union so valueless cost no qualm to the Pontiff, and, probably, as little to the lady. To match her with the widowed Lord of Pesaro scarcely required the persuasions of his relation Ludovico il Moro, and his brother-in-law, Duke Guidobaldo, whose good offices the Pope put in requisition to arrange preliminaries with the bridegroom, paying at the same time 3000 ducats as a solace to her first husband. The betrothal, in May, was celebrated by a ball in the palace of Pesaro, from which the assembled guests issued forth in couples, dancing through the streets a sort of polonaise, which was led by the papal ambassador! The nuptial ceremony was postponed until Lucrezia's arrival from Spain in the following spring, and it was not until June that the bridal party reached their capital.[*250] [Footnote *250: For all concerning Lucrezia, see GREGOROVIUS, _Lucrezia Borgia_.] [Illustration: _Anderson_ ST. CATHERINE OF ALEXANDRIA _Supposed portrait of Lucrezia Borgia by Pinturicchio. Detail from a fresco in the Borgia apartments of the Vatican, Rome_] Having arranged this marriage, Alexander sent Duke Guidobaldo, along with his son Cesare, against the Orsini. The former, though only in his twenty-second year, was already suffering from gout, his fatal malady, which had first shown itself during the rejoicings at Giovanni Sforza's betrothal. But he resisted it with great courage, addicting himself more than ever to the hardy exercises of the camp. The partizan warfare on which the Pope thus employed him as gonfaloniere of the Church, was, however, productive of little glory, and the Orsini, driven by superior force from their new lands, awaited an opportunity for retaliation. The nuptials of Lucrezia took place in 1494, after she had made a triumphal entry into Rome, scandalous even in that pontificate of scandal. The ceremonial was witnessed by a select party of ecclesiastical dignitaries, and a hundred and fifty of the handsomest women of Rome, selected without regard to their character, whose husbands were excluded. To each of these dames the Pope presented a silver cup of confections, which, amid much outrageous merriment, were emptied into their bosoms, "and all to the honour and praise of Almighty God and the Romish Church," as the contemporary narrator caustically observes.[251] The same parties then paired off to supper, which was prolonged some hours beyond midnight, the company being entertained by dramatic representations of a most impure character. In all these revels Alexander and his then favourite, Giulia Bella took part, and they were fitly wound up by his conducting in person the bride to her husband's couch. For the introduction of such disgusting details an apology may be due, but without them, general declamation on the vices of the Borgian court would convey no just idea of the truth. That the loathsome picture is under-coloured, may be supposed from a concluding remark of the diarist, that he had suppressed many reports regarding this orgy, as they seemed either false or exceeding credibility. Bad as is this scene, it is pure compared with some described by Burchard, another journalist of the Vatican obscenities. In June, Lucrezia set out for her new home, and, resting a night at Urbino on the way, was received with the honours due to her rank. A furious tempest, in which she next day entered her capital, ruined the costly preparations intended to celebrate her welcome, and was remembered afterwards as ominous of the result of her marriage, and of the mischiefs occasioned there by the Borgia. But men's minds were quickly roused from idle festivities. The barbarians were already scaling the Alps; Italy and her spoils lay at their feet. [Footnote 251: Stephani Infessuri Diarium Romanæ, in MURATORI, _R.I.S._, III., p. ii., p. 1246. He dates the marriage ceremony the 12th of June, 1493.] In return for the favours bestowed upon his children, the Pope renewed to Alfonso his investiture of Naples, and sent thither his own nephew, the Cardinal of Monreale, to attend his coronation and the betrothal of his daughter to Giuffredo Borgia. But, with wonted cunning, Alexander kept open a retreat from this alliance, by instructing the Cardinal to obtain as a personal favour, the return to Rome of his hostage child and bride. He celebrated their arrival in May following, with pompous festivities exceeding in splendour the reception accorded to royal personages, and, in defiance of public decency, appeared in consistory, and in the papal chair of St. Peter, at the solemn function of Pentecost, between the bastard bride of his bastard son, and his dissolute daughter Lucrezia. * * * * * Such was the position of Italy at the moment of the French invasion, the calamities of which are thus prefigured by Guicciardini. "From it originated not only the revolution of states, the subversion of dynasties, the desolation of provinces, the destruction of cities, the most savage massacres; but likewise altered habits, changed morals, a new and more sanguinary mode of warfare, and therewith diseases previously unknown; it also so entirely disorganised the guarantees for concord and internal tranquillity, that these could never be replaced, and thus was the country left to be trodden down and wasted by other foreign nations and barbarian armies. By a yet greater misfortune, in order that our shame might derive no alleviation from the prowess of our enemy, he whose invasion brought us so many mischiefs, although most amply endowed with the bounties of fortune, was destitute of almost every natural or mental endowment. For Charles was from his childhood of languid complexion, deformed person, and diminutive stature, besides having a countenance singularly repulsive but for his penetrating and dignified glance, with limbs so disproportioned as to resemble a monster rather than a man. Nor was he only destitute of liberal acquirements; he scarcely knew his letters. Although greedy of empire, there was nothing for which he was less qualified; for he was encircled by a few, with whom he maintained neither dignity nor authority; he was averse to all occupation and business, and, when he did apply to his affairs, was alike wanting in prudence and judgment. Even such apparently laudable qualities as he seemed to possess proved, on examination, more akin to vices than to virtues. Thus his inclination for glory was from impulse rather than matured resolution; his liberality was ill directed and without discrimination or degree; wavering at times in his counsels, he was oftener guided by foolish obstinacy than by decision; and what many called good-nature would have been better named indifference or easiness of temper." The description given by a son of Andrea Mantegna is still less favourable to the King's appearance. "He is said to have a very ill-favoured face, with great goggle eyes, an aquiline nose offensively large, and a head disfigured by few and sparse hairs. When I think of such a little hunchy fellow my fancy is struck with wonder."[252] We shall add one other characteristic sketch of a monarch for whom fortune destined a part strangely at variance with his qualifications. It was given by Ludovico il Moro, in December of this year, to the Venetian resident at his court, and has been obligingly communicated to me by Mr. Rawdon Brown, than whom no one is more perfectly versed in the transactions of that republic. "The man is young, and his conduct meagre, nor has he any form or method of council. His assistants are divided into two factions, one headed by the Comte de Bresse, the other by St. Malo and Beaucaire with their adherents; they are violently opposed to each other on every topic, and provided the one thwart the other and carry his point, no regard soever is had for the King's interests. They attend to the accumulation of coin, and care for nothing else; nor would all of them put together make half a wise man. I remember when at Asti seeing him in a room with the members of his assembled council, and, whilst discussing any matter, one kept playing, another was eating breakfast, a third was attending to this, a fourth to that; and the King was in motion the whole time whilst listening to any one. He would order letters to be couched in a certain form, and subsequently countermand them on hearing another person's ideas."[253] [Footnote 252: GAYE, _Carteggio_, I., p. 326. See a contemporary estimate of the invading army in VIII. of the Appendix.] [Footnote 253: Our French authorities for this expedition are valuable, including Comines, and André de la Vigne, contemporaries who shared in its hazards. A curious essay by M. de Foncemagne, ascribing to Charles the ambition of a crusader, and pointing at Constantinople as its real destination, will be found in vol. XVII., p. 539 of _Mémoires de l'Academie des Inscriptions_.] It would lead us far beyond our limits to follow the blunders which on both sides signalised the campaign. Charles opened it by sending an army into Lombardy, under Sir Bernard Stuart of Aubigny, cousin-german of John first Earl of Lennox in Scotland, whose career in arms was rewarded with many dignities, and who, after uniting his troops with those of Ludovico il Moro, his now unwilling ally, advanced on Romagna. The King, leaving Vienne upon the 22nd of August, took the Cenis pass with the main body of his forces, and on the 9th of September was at Asti in Piedmont. From thence he visited Milan, before marching against Florence. To meet these formidable foes, Alfonso alone manifested any energy. He sent a fleet to the Ligurian coast to watch a naval armament which had been fitted out at Marseilles, and, if possible, to make a diversion upon Genoa. He at the same time dispatched his eldest son Ferdinand, Duke of Calabria, accompanied by two experienced generals, Nicolò Orsini Count of Petigliano and Gian Giacomo Trivulzio, to support the Bolognese against the onset of d'Aubigny. Being joined at Cesena by Guidobaldo of Urbino, who had been engaged by Alfonso with 200 men-at-arms, at an annual pay of 24,000 ducats, and by Giovanni Sforza, the Duke found himself at the head of 2500 men-at-arms and 8000 foot, of whom the portion belonging to Florence was commanded by Annibale Bentivoglio. But none of these leaders possessed a master influence suited to the crisis. The spirit of cordiality and mutual confidence, which alone could promise success, was on this as on all similar occasions wanting to Italy; and whilst Trivulzio and the other commanders, confident in the superiority of their army, urged on a decisive engagement, Petigliano exposed himself to the charge of sluggishness or the suspicion of bad faith, by frustrating all their endeavours. The forces of the league had orders to advance towards Parma, and meet the French and Milanese troops under d'Aubigny and Gian Francesco da Sanseverino, Count of Cajazzo, who had been retained by Ludovico il Moro. This, however, they were unable to effect, and, finding themselves much inferior in strength to the invaders, they retired upon Faenza. In that neighbourhood the two armies remained for some time, face to face, without further encounter than a few skirmishes, in which Guidobaldo distinguished his bravery. Whilst they lost time in disunited counsels, the progress of Charles in Central Italy occasioned the recall of the Florentine and papal contingents. The princes of Romagna, seeing the game virtually lost, found excuses for liberating themselves from a falling cause, and by withdrawing to their several states, sought safety in a neutral position. The Duke of Calabria thus abandoned, retired within the Neapolitan frontier to await fresh instructions from his father; and thus was the last chance of saving Italy shamefully lost. Meanwhile the French monarch took the road by Pontremoli and Sarzana, which fortress and Pietra Santa, Pietro de' Medici surrendered to him in a panic, as base as it was inexplicable. Disgusted with his cowardice, Florence and Pisa rose and expelled his whole race, but rashly crediting the assurances of Charles that he came as a deliverer and friend of liberty, received him with open arms. The description of an eye-witness to the overthrow of the Medici conveys a vivid picture of the revolutions so common in republican Florence. It has been printed by Gaye,[254] from the original diary of Giusto. "On Sunday the 9th of November, the people of Florence rose in arms against the _palle_, that is, against Pietro de' Medici, who had so used his sway, and who repaired to the palace. The populace, observing this, rushed thither, crying, 'Live the people and liberty!' the children being first in the piazza: and by God's will all Florence armed and hurried to the palace, calling out, 'People and liberty!' so that Pietro, the Cardinal, and Giuliano his brother fled. And there was a reward of 2000 florins proclaimed by the Signory, for whoever would bring the Cardinal alive or dead to the palace; and thus matters continued. Next day all the banners and pennons were set up, and such was the people's fury at the palace, throughout the town, and at the gates, day and night, that although I have four times found Florence in arms since 1458, this has been the most unanimous and extraordinary affair, from the efforts made by the lilies to erase the balls [_gigli_ and _palle_, the respective arms of the republic and of the Medici]: even children two or three years old, by a miracle, cried in the houses 'People and liberty!' and among them our little Catherine. Thus by God's grace did this community free itself from the hands of many tyrants, who, thanks to the blessed God! were expelled without bloodshed." [Footnote 254: _Carteggio_, I., p. 213.] But with these revolutions, which ended in giving to Florence and Pisa independent popular governments,[*255] and with the war of rivalry which consequently ensued between them, we have at present no concern. The struggle was maintained during several years, with an obstinacy and bitterness which more than once compromised the general tranquillity of the Peninsula; when it terminated Pisa had been ruined and Florence was bankrupt. It was at this crisis that there occurred an anecdote preserved in the _Corteggiano_, among the _facetiæ_ of the court of Urbino. One of the Florentine council, in a committee of ways and means, proposed to augment the customs revenue by doubling the number of city gates at which dues were collected! [Footnote *255: These words are infinitely misleading.] Alexander, ever too occupied with private objects to heed the general cause, had meanwhile, upon a petty quarrel with the Colonna, withdrawn his troops from Romagna, to waste them and much precious time in wretched partizan struggles with these fractious barons, and in this miserable trifling employed his son Cesare. Vainly confident while no immediate danger impended, he had flattered himself that the French invasion would come to nothing. But when he saw two powerful armies reach his frontier, without obstacle or check, terror succeeded to foolish security. Abandoning his ally of Naples, he humbly besought his personal enemy Cardinal Ascanio Sforza to mediate with the French monarch in his behalf. Yet to the latest moment did he waver, alternately insolent and abject, fawning and fickle. Through these fluctuations it is needless to follow him. On the last day of 1494 the invading army marched unopposed and triumphant into Rome, and, leaving the city on the 28th of January, advanced towards Naples. A panic had already seized upon Alfonso, his army, and his people. On the 23rd of January he abdicated the crown in favour of his son Ferdinand, and fled with his treasures to Sicily, where he died after ten months of abject austerities, as an offset to long years of aggravated debauchery. The new King, upon his bloodless rout at the Garigliano, found himself without money, and supported neither by his troops nor his subjects. The bold front which he assumed availed nothing in circumstances so desperate. He retired to Ischia, and on the 22nd of February Charles took possession of Naples, amid the acclamations of a populace, whom the iron sway of the false and gloomy Ferdinand, and of his sanguinary son, had alienated from the Aragonese dynasty. But though we pass thus rapidly over the campaign of the French and Spaniards in Lower Italy, its results were of lasting importance. The foretaste of the Peninsula then obtained by these nations as its invaders or defenders stimulated a fatal relish for its attractions; and the appetite thus engendered was not stayed until that fair land had been trodden down by successive hosts, scarcely less damaging to her prosperity and destructive to her liberties as her selfish allies, than as her open foes. Experience had by this time shown the folly of the Italian policy, and the various states were not unwilling to profit by its lesson. Forgetting for the moment their individual ends, they resolved to throw off an incubus which threatened to make the Peninsula a province of France. Ludovico Sforza had long sought to resile from his ill-judged engagements with Charles; the Venetians found that the Turkish crusade was but a false pretext; the Florentines saw their adhesion to the invader repaid by the loss of Pisa; the Pope, ever inclined to intrigue, was more especially ready to join in any plan which should open an escape from his blunders in bringing down such dangerous neighbours. Nor did the ultra-montane powers view with satisfaction so vast an accession to French influence. Ferdinand II. of Spain, whose envoy had formally broken with Charles ere he crossed the Neapolitan frontier, now put himself forward to wean the Venetians from their neutrality. Maximilian (who, not having been crowned, was only King of the Romans, but whom we shall generally call Emperor) burned for opportunity of avenging a double wrong which the French monarch had done him by jilting his daughter Margaret, and by espousing his betrothed bride, Anne of Bretagne. Having himself married in 1493 Bianca Sforza, her uncle Ludovico il Moro bribed him by a large dowry to take advantage of certain alleged flaws in the Milanese investitures, and to recognise him as Duke, passing over his sickly nephew Giovanni Galeazzo. The new charter in favour of Il Moro reached him immediately after the death of the latter, whose feeble and wretched existence was terminated, perhaps by poison, in October 1494. He left a son, and in defiance of the title of this child, whose injuries his uncle, Alfonso of Naples, was no longer in circumstances to redress, Ludovico seized the trappings of that sovereignty, which he virtually had usurped long before the imperial diploma reached him. Thus were these parties prepared for a united exertion in the common cause; and the minor feudatories of the Peninsula willingly joined them in a five years' league, for the purpose of restoring and maintaining the independence of Italy. It was concluded at Venice, on the 31st of March 1495, and by it Germany, Spain, Venice, Milan, and the Pope were bound to furnish 34,000 horse, and 20,000 foot, or monied contributions proportioned to their respective contingents of that force. [Illustration: _Anderson_ BIANCA, DAUGHTER OF LUDOVICO SFORZA _After the picture by Ambrogio de' Predis in the Biblioteca Ambrogiana, Milan_] Charles and his army had abandoned themselves to the intoxication of their easy conquest, and to excess in those pleasures which in the Ausonian climate seem to enervate natives and strangers. From this careless security, news of the alliance roused him to the danger of being entrapped in his new kingdom. Leaving half his army there to maintain his authority, he on the 20th of May set out with the remainder on his return homeward. Hastily retracing the same route, he saw difficulties increasing around him, but avoided hostilities, until in descending the Apennines into Lombardy he found himself intercepted among the defiles of the Taro by the allied army, so superior in force as to render his destruction next to inevitable, even without taking into account the immense advantages of the position which they had selected. But the singular good fortune which had enabled the French monarch to overrun the whole Peninsula, conquer a kingdom, and retire in the face of opposing Europe, without once calling into exercise whatever talent, judgment, or bravery he might have possessed, did not forsake him in this his first difficulty. The confederates, by unpardonable want of good understanding among their leaders, and of steadiness among their troops, let slip the precious opportunity of exterminating their invaders. On the 6th of July they suffered on the Taro an overthrow which they vainly claimed as a victory, and after a brief hour's conflict retired in disorder, leaving above three thousand men on the field. Of this battle Guicciardini remarks that it was the first for a long period that had been really sanguinary in its character, compared with those tactic engagements of the condottieri, in which bloodshed was little sought on either side. As the earliest struggle between Italy and her invaders, the only occasion when her disunited interests were rallied beneath one banner, it holds a place in history which in a military view it by no means merited.[256] It was lost by the delays, distracted counsels, and deficient discipline among the allies, and brought little glory to the retreating army, which, without further opposition, reached Asti, where a strong garrison had been left, and in October re-entered France. The Aragonese party was strong in Naples, and within six weeks after Charles had quitted that capital, Ferdinand II. was welcomed back to it by a versatile people, whom the never-failing insolence of the French had quickly disgusted with their change of masters. The kingdom was gradually recovered from its invaders and their supporters, the Angevine barons, by aid of Spanish succours under Gonsalvo di Cordova, whose gallantry and skill during a harassing guerilla campaign established his reputation, and procured him the name of the Great Captain. Montpensier, when left as viceroy in command of the army of occupation, made feeble head against him for above a year, until most of his troops having dropped under the effects of climate and debauchery, he surrendered the remainder as prisoners of war. Lower Italy, again under Ferdinand's sway, was no more disturbed by Charles, who wasted the brief remainder of his life in dissolute indulgences, better becoming his despicable character than foreign conquests. [Footnote 256: See some details of it in IX. of the Appendix.] Thus terminated the first of those systematic and successful invasions from which Italy has suffered in later ages. Various circumstances combined to modify its serious results upon her prosperity, and though almost unopposed, the victors perhaps paid more dearly than the vanquished. But the seeds of mischief were sown, too surely to ripen into fatal evils. The nations of the north had learned important lessons; her temptations, her disunion, and her consequent powerlessness had been disclosed to them. This epoch may indeed be regarded as the turning point of European history. From it the liberties and prosperity of Italy declined, and the new combinations, alliances, and intermarriages then formed by ultra-montane governments gradually matured that political system which has since come to be regarded as the bulwark of national independence. We have introduced this rapid sketch of the French expedition, because, although it but slightly influenced Guidobaldo's position, subsequent events, to which it in some degree gave occasion, brought forward himself and his successor as prominent actors. He had been engaged by the Venetian republic to join the confederate army with four hundred and seventy horse, but had no share in the disgraceful conflict at the Taro; his squadrons, however, seem to have been there under his natural brother Antonio, who, while commanding the reserve, might have turned the fortune of the day, but for an oversight in the transmission of orders to him. The Pisan war was the immediate fruit of the French invasion, as regarded the internal relations of the Peninsula. Charles, remembering the old proverb, "sow divisions and rule," or perhaps from a mere love of mischief-making, had instigated that city to throw off the yoke of Florence, and re-establish its ancient republican independence. But the support which he had pledged to it was forgotten, when personal considerations rendered a retreat advisable; and the Pisans were left to maintain themselves as best they could against their old rivals and recent masters, with the aid of a French brigade under Monsieur d'Entragues. The Florentines lost no time in engaging the Duke of Urbino to command their troops for three years, who, by active and well-judged movements, quickly possessed himself of Ponte Sacco, Palaia, and other small towns about the Era. Their resistance was punished with the usual barbarity of the time, by cold-blooded cruelties which Guidobaldo does not appear to have shared or approved. It seems questionable how far the blunders in an assault on Vicopisano were owing to him or to the Florentine commissaries, who, as was usual in the service of the great republics, were sent to control their general; but the consequence was a repulse, after which he retired into winter quarters. His subsequent operations in their service are of no interest; their jealousies paralysing both his spirit and their own. The last year's experience was but short-lived in the Italian states. Instead of profiting by the absence of their common foe to strengthen themselves against a recurrence of danger, they resumed their innate rivalries, and fomented fresh discord. The Florentines, far from joining the league to expel Charles, continued to favour his cause, attributing, with justice, to his advent their liberation from the Medici and the re-establishment of a democratic government. What they, above all things, dreaded was the return of that banished race, so they kept aloof from any new combination that might lead to it. This contumacy was looked upon with little favour by those powers who were averse to popular institutions, or friendly to Pietro de' Medici; besides which they apprehended that such a state of matters, if allowed to continue, would facilitate a repetition of the late invasion. In accordance with the crooked policy of the age, they succoured Pisa, without any open declaration of the war which they were in fact carrying on against Florence. This circumstance, and the wonted bad faith of Ludovico il Moro, complicated a struggle which was conducted in the drawling spirit of half-fighting, half-negotiating, usual in such petty strifes. Ludovico finally tempted the Emperor to a fresh invasion of Italy, in order to force Florence into the general league, but he conducted the enterprise with equal feebleness and faithlessness, and after having occupied Pisa, retreated without leaving any material impression on the campaign, which declined into a series of unimportant skirmishes. Meanwhile the Pope, the Venetians, and Sforza united in exciting various neighbours of the Florentines, such as the Bentivoglii, the Riarii, and Siena, to molest their frontiers, whilst Virginio Orsini prepared to restore the Medici by arms. This plan, however, fell to the ground, and Guidobaldo was soon after summoned, as a vassal of the Church, to leave his incomplete term of unsatisfactory service under the lilies of Florence, and join the new combination formed by the Pontiff to replace Ferdinand upon the Neapolitan throne. The fate of the French army at Naples, against the wreck of which this expedition was directed, has been already mentioned. The evolutions whereby Guidobaldo, as lieutenant-general of the ecclesiastical forces, in concert with the great Gonsalvo di Cordova, reduced some Angevine feudatories in the Abruzzi, who, supported by the Orsini, for a time resisted the restoration of the house of Aragon, need not occupy our attention. The particulars are involved in contradiction, and the results were unimportant to his fame. No sooner had Ferdinand triumphed over his difficulties than he was called to another sphere. He died in October, 1496, and was succeeded by his paternal uncle Federigo. Of the French, not above five hundred escaped from sword and pestilence to reach home. * * * * * Peace was once more restored to Italy, but not to the breast of that turbulent Pontiff who was her curse. The moment was propitious for resuming his favourite scheme of oppressing the Orsini, in whose extensive estates he saw ample endowments for his own disreputable progeny. The leaders of that family, Virginio, Gian-Giordano, Paolo, and its adopted scion Bartolomeo d'Alviano of Orvieto, had fought against Ferdinand's restoration, and all of them remained prisoners in his hands.[257] The Pope at once perceived the chance thus offered, and hastened to avail himself of it. After conciliating the Duke of Urbino by a pompous reception on the 14th of October, and by assigning him apartments in the Vatican, he held a secret consistory, which attainted the Orsini on general charges of lese-majesty and rebellion, and sanctioned the military occupation of their fiefs in name of the Church. He entrusted the command to his son the Duke of Gandia, associating with him the Duke of Urbino and Fabrizio Colonna (the latter but too willing to promote the downfall of a rival house), and, to inaugurate the expedition, he blessed the banners at St. Peter's, with an imposing military and religious spectacle. [Footnote 257: See their pedigree, so far as concerns our subject, in the table at the end of this volume.] The troops marched in October, and, having reduced Isola, a castle within ten miles of Rome, which stood a twelve days' siege, many other small strongholds speedily surrendered, their absent lords being unable to aid in their defence. The fortress of Bracciano was, however, strong by nature, and was held by Bartolomea, sister of Virginio Orsini, with energy, talent, and unquailing resolution, which saved her family in their urgent straits, and kept the assailants at bay until her husband, Bartolomeo d'Alviano, escaping from Naples, hastily raised a few old adherents of his adopted house, and hurried to her rescue. The impetuous Alexander, disgusted by this dilatory progress of affairs, had a lighter hastily built, and sent under a strong escort to the lake of Bracciano, in order to aid the besiegers' efforts, and to intercept the manoeuvres of the enemy, whose petty force, passing by the water from one castle to another as occasion required, was enabled to garrison the three separate strongholds of Bracciano, Anguillara, and Trevignano. A well-timed ambuscade, laid by d'Alviano, routed the escort, and the boat was burnt. In another sally Bartolomeo, falling upon Cesare Borgia while hunting, chased him almost to the gates of Rome, and, but for the fleetness of his horse, would have obtained in his person the means of dictating terms to his father. Of these incidents a partizan warfare was naturally more productive than a more serious campaign. Tired of such inglorious marauding, and aware how much delays might tell against eventual success, Guidobaldo, although suffering from a gunshot wound, pushed on operations to the utmost, but was met by a most obstinate resistance, until affairs suddenly assumed an entirely new aspect. Virginio, head of the Bracciano Orsini, his eldest son Gian-Giordano, and cousin Paolo, were still captives at Naples; but his natural son Carlo had repaired to the court of Charles VIII. to crave assistance. There he found Vitellozzo Vitelli, on a similar mission in behalf of his brother Paolo, who, having been suspected by the Florentines of perfidy while in their service against Pisa, had been arrested by them, and who was subsequently tortured and put to death upon this charge. They easily obtained from that King a subsidy to be employed for advantage of the French party in Italy, and, hastening back, devoted it to the relief of Bracciano. The two Vitelli were chiefs of a family whose pedigree is annexed, and who long held Città di Castello in seigneury, greatly distinguished among the military adventurers of the south. These brothers had paid especial attention to training their hardy mountaineers in the art of war, with all those improvements which the ultra-montane troops had recently introduced. Vitellozzo, hurrying to the upper valley of the Tiber, quickly recruited his old followers, whilst Carlo levied men about Perugia and Todi. Guidobaldo with difficulty persuaded his coadjutors to anticipate the attack thus preparing for them, by marching towards Viterbo in quest of the enemy. In the action which followed, on the 23rd of January, the ecclesiastical troops, though inferior in numbers, had at first some advantage, but the unskilful management of their artillery turned the day, and they were in the end totally routed, with loss of it and their baggage. Guidobaldo, having been surrounded, fought with the utmost bravery, until his horse fell under him, when he was taken prisoner by Battista Tosi, a Roman knight. In this reverse the Colonna and Savelli shared deeply, their ancient hatred of the Orsini having blinded them to the danger which they, in turn, equally incurred from the selfish designs of the Pope. The latter was filled with consternation, and would have brought the whole force of Naples into the field. But his impetuous energy, being neither based on principle nor maintained with perseverance, was quickly discouraged by the coldness of Federigo, who had no inclination to consume his already dilapidated resources in ministering to the Pontiff's schemes of nepotism. The higher range to which these projects were perhaps already aspiring may have conduced to the arrangement by which his quarrel with the Orsini was patched up, gilded as it was by the to him irresistible bait of 70,000 ducats towards the expenses of the war. The Duke of Urbino was committed to ward in Soriano, a castle of the Orsini, near which his defeat had occurred, and the whole influence of his family and numerous friends was exerted for his liberation under the truce which ensued. With this view Dr. Marino Giorgi, envoy from Venice to Naples, was instructed by the Signory to make a detour to Urbino, in order in their name to console the Duchess, and then to Soriano and Bracciano, for the purpose of negotiating her husband's release.[258] But their interposition was fruitless, as he was specially excluded from the free interchange of prisoners, and held to ransom for 40,000 ducats, without which timely aid the Orsini would have been unable to discharge the contribution imposed on them for the costs of the war. Alexander having, without scruple, left a faithful vassal and ally in his enemy's hands, had no delicacy in thus pocketing from his captors the sum which this cruel abandonment cost Guidobaldo. So large an amount was not, however, raised without difficulty from the sale of jewels, and other heavy sacrifices by the Duchess, and several of his subjects, which they did not hesitate to incur. It may perhaps have been modified to 30,000 ducats, that being the sum mentioned by Sanuto as paid for his liberation.[259] At Gubbio he was warmly welcomed by his consort and people, and during more than a year he enjoyed at home the blessings and leisure of peace, "after having suffered much and most unfairly." [Footnote 258: MARINO SANUTO'S Diary MS. i. 374. From another passage in his annals we learn that a then usual scale of ransom was twenty-five ducats for a man-at-arms, twelve for a light-horseman, and three for a foot-soldier. These Diaries extend to fifty-seven large volumes, from 1495 to 1533. Our various extracts from them were most kindly communicated to us by Mr. Rawdon Brown, who has printed at Venice a very curious digest of their contents, and whose successful diligence in illustrating the secret history of that Republic may well put her own citizens to the blush. They are preserved in Bib. Marciana, MSS. Ital. classe vii. No. 419.] [Footnote 259: Diary MS. i. 448.] CHAPTER XVI The crimes and ambition of the Borgia--Murder of the Duke of Gandia--Duke Guidobaldo's expeditions against Perugia and Tuscany--He adopts Francesco Maria della Rovere as his heir--Louis XII. succeeds to Charles VIII., and to his views upon Italy--Cesare Borgia created Duke Valentino--Duke Guidobaldo at Venice. Time was meanwhile maturing the crimes of the Borgia, whose sinister influence upon the destiny of Guidobaldo was about to be signally manifested. So far from regarding his spurious progeny with shame, Alexander was indefatigable in his endeavours to elevate them to the most conspicuous places. He had obtained for the eldest the dukedom of Gandia in Spain, and one of the highest offices at Naples. For the youngest he had secured, by political intrigue, a similar dignity there, with the principality of Squillace, and the hand of an illegitimate daughter of Alfonso II. He had loaded Cesare with ecclesiastical benefices, and had remarried Lucrezia to the sovereign of Pesaro. But his ambition became insatiable in proportion as it was pampered. Upon a vague pretext he annulled his daughter's marriage, that he might give her hand to the Duke of Bisceglia, natural son of Alfonso. His schemes for endowing his sons with the Orsini holdings having entirely miscarried, he resolved to provide for the Duke of Gandia a sovereign principality from the states of the Church, consisting of Benevento and Terracino. Having gained a complete co-operation in the consistory, by frightening into exile or removing by poison the more impracticable cardinals, and by overawing or corrupting the others, he, on the 7th of June, invested the Duke with these towns with due solemnity. Three days previously, Lucrezia had retired to the convent of S. Sisto, to prepare for the formal rupture of her marriage with Giovanni Sforza, whose murder would have anticipated the divorce, had not a hint from her enabled him to save his life by flight, _insalutato hospite_, as Machiavelli remarks.[260] On the 9th, Cardinal Valentino received his credentials as legate for the coronation of Frederick of Naples. On Thursday, the 15th, he set out on his mission, after spending the preceding afternoon at a casino of his mother, near S. Pietro in Vinculis, where all the family except the sister were assembled in apparent harmony. He quitted it in company with his eldest brother, who was never again seen in life, and having visited his father at a late hour to receive a benediction, he left Rome before dawn. When an alarm was raised on the Duke of Gandia's disappearance, a boatman deposed to having seen, about one o'clock on Thursday morning, a body thrown neck and heels into the Tiber, at the present port of the Ripetta, by four attendants of a mounted gentleman, who had brought it to the bank swung across his horse. The river was dragged, and the Duke's body was found pierced with wounds. He was said to have spent the preceding hours with a lady in whose favours the Cardinal was his avowed rival. Public opinion, though distracted by conflicting rumours, branded the latter with fratricide, and scandal gave to that charge a still more loathsome dye, by naming the lady Lucrezia Borgia. History has received the former accusation as established, the latter as uncontradicted, adducing against its truth no better argument than its revolting improbability. It is, however, but just to pause ere we lend our faith to charges so hideous. Burchard, though greedy of gossip, and seldom scrupulous in exposing the Vatican immoralities, mentions no fact, breathes no hint, tending to inculpate Cesare. Neither do contemporary accounts from residents in the Holy City, preserved by Sanuto, attach any such foul slur to his name, but chiefly mention Cardinal Ascanio Sforza as then suspected of the murder.[261] They even prove that, four days after it took place, the latter thought it necessary to rebut the allegation by the mouth of the Spanish ambassador, in a full consistory, from which he alone was absent. But this negation does not appear to have quashed a surmise which gathered strength by scenting out motives for the outrage. By some, Ascanio was regarded as an unscrupulous instrument of the Orsini in their vengeance against the Pontiff's family; others traced his evil purpose to a recent feud between the Duke of Gandia and some guests at an entertainment given by him, where mutual insults had led to bloody reprisals, imputed to the implacable Borgia. Again, we are told by Burchard that the victim was last seen in company with a masked figure, who had been observed to follow him during several days, and whom he that night took up on the crupper of his horse, probably to keep an assignation; a statement easily reconcileable with the bargeman's evidence, and pointing probably to some dark intrigue, whereto it does not appear that his brother was necessarily privy. [Footnote 260: The assertion of most historians, that the pretext was Giovanni's impotency, is contradicted by very curious documents in the suit of divorce. A commission having been issued by the Pontiff, empowering two cardinals to examine into the facts, Lucrezia stated to them that in her twelfth year she had been contracted in marriage, by the words "Will you? I will," to Gaspare, son of Giovanni Francesco da Procida, Count of Aversa, but that subsequently she had been induced [_quadam facilitate_] to marry Sforza, and live with him above three years; but she offered to prove by her own oath, and by the report of _obstetrices_, that this marriage had never been consummated. Giovanni averred himself ready to affirm on oath that no _copula_ had ever followed, and he adhibited his consent to the divorce. These steps took place towards the close of the year, and on the 18th of December a bull issued dissolving this ill-fated union. Archiv. Dipl. Urb. at Florence.] [Footnote 261: SANUTO'S MS. Diary, Bib. Marc., vol. II., 466-71, 489, 495, 587-98. Compare with BURCHARD, _Eccard._, II., 2060; TOMMASI, I., 223-43. Burchard has no trace of that partiality for Cesare at this period, usually imputed to the Pontiff, but establishes an excessive fondness for his elder brother up to his death. Roscoe rejects the charge against the Cardinal; his German translator credits it.] [Illustration: _Anderson_ CESARE BORGIA AS THE EMPEROR _Detail from the fresco of the Disputa of S. Catherine in the Appartamento Borgia in the Vatican_] Although the Duke of Gandia's morals will bear no examination, he was a general favourite in Rome. To a people fond of pageantry the taste of his family for splendour was naturally grateful, and he, alone, of the race, mingled neither tyranny nor cruelty with his magnificence. The bargeman of the Ripetta had manifested neither surprise nor curiosity regarding an incident which he stated to be of frequent occurrence at that spot; but when the victim was ascertained, the whole city was moved; the tradespeople closed their shops,[*262] and all retired panic-stricken to their homes. The few stragglers who crossed the bridge near to which the mutilated body had been found, started at the cry of many sorrowing voices which issued from St. Angelo, and one deep-toned note of woe, which rose above the wailing, was imputed to the Pontiff, "lamenting him who was his right eye, the hope and glory of his house." His grief and horror were indeed overwhelming: we are assured that he swallowed nothing from Wednesday till Saturday, and passed three successive nights without an hour of sleep. On the 19th he held a consistory, to receive the condolence of the cardinals and foreign ministers, whom he addressed to the following purpose[263]:-- "The Duke of Gandia is dead, and his death has been to us the greatest affliction: a more grievous trial we could not have met with, for we loved him mightily, and we no longer value our popedom nor anything; nay, had we seven popedoms, we should give them all to recover the Duke's life. It is rather a visitation from God, sent, perhaps, for some sin of ours, than that he should have merited a death so dreadful. It being unknown by whom he was murdered and thrown into the Tiber, rumour has ascribed the assassination to the Lord of Pesaro, which we are certain is untrue; no more can it have been done by the Prince of Squillace, brother of the Duke; and we are even satisfied as to the Duke of Urbino: may God forgive who ever it was! We have, however, determined no longer to apply to anything, nor take any charge of the papacy, nor of life itself, nor any thought for the Church; but in order to regulate it and our mode of life, and for the due correction of our own person, we mean to commit these to six of you, most reverend cardinals our brethren, along with two judges of the Rota; and in order that all benefices may be bestowed by merit, apart from any other consideration, they shall be decided by a majority of you cardinals." After naming this executive council, and hearing a justification of Cardinal Ascanio Sforza, volunteered in his absence by the Spanish ambassador, the Pope continued:--"God forbid that we should entertain such a fancy, for never could we credit that his Lordship would do us the smallest injury, least of all an outrage such as this; for we have regarded him as a brother, and have on every occasion placed ourselves at the disposal of himself and of the Duke his brother: assuredly we harbour not the trace of such an idea, and when he comes to us he will be welcome." [Footnote *262: They always did; it was a mediæval practice in the case of any trouble or riot: it might seem the merest common sense. But the truth is, that when a crime had been committed the government closed the shops till the culprit was forthcoming.] [Footnote 263: SANUTO. Yet there are scoffers who sneered at this worthy successor of St. Peter the fisher, netting the river for his bastard son! Burchard apud Raynaldum.] It was, indeed, high time that the scandals brought upon the Church by the enormities of her head should terminate. Alexander had for some time been openly living with a sister of Cardinal Farnese, wife of Monoculo Orsini, who was known as Giulia Bella; and who, after appearing prominently by his side on all public and solemn occasions, had lately borne him a son.[264] But even now he realised the scriptural proverb of "the dog turned to his own vomit again, and the sow that was washed to her wallowing in the mire." The remorse and repentance he had avowed, in full consistory, with sobs and tears, were quickly forgotten; the public reforms he had promised were repudiated; the administrative council he had formally nominated was never assembled nor installed. Nepotism and intrigue again became his policy, debauchery his pastime. Those who charge the Cardinal Valentino with his brother's murder, may point to the exclamation, "I know who did it," which was said to have escaped from their father in the first outbreak of his grief; and it has been by some connected with the alleged institution of Giovanni, their next brother, to the titles and inheritance of the Duke of Gandia, passing over the suspected fratricide. This, however, is an entirely erroneous assumption, as there not only appears no brother of the Duke of Gandia bearing his honours, but the invaluable diary of Sanuto expressly mentions an investiture of the Neapolitan fiefs obtained for his _son_ within a few weeks of his death.[265] The Pontiff's displeasure with Cesare, from whatever cause originating, was transient as his personal reformation. His schemes of aggrandisement could not be pursued without the co-operation of him who, alone of his children, was as ambitious and as unscrupulous as himself, and the close of the year brought Valentino an addition to his already enormous plurality of benefices, upon the death of the Cardinal of Parma. [Footnote 264: The papal legitimation of this Giovanni di Borgia, then in his third year, dated the kalends of September, 1501, proceeds upon this preamble: "Legittime genitos, ex quorum verisimilibus infantilis ætatis indiciis, spes concipi potest quod, succedentibus annis, se in viros debeant producere virtuosos, quousque progenitorum suorum præclara merita, et ortûs generosa propago decorant, naturæ vitium minime decolorat, quia decus virtutum genituræ maculam abstergit in filiis, et pudicitia morum pudor originis aboletur." He is called a son of Cesare, but in another, and probably secret, brief of the same date, the Pope recognises him, nevertheless, as his own offspring by an _unmarried_ woman, this description being also a legal fiction.] [Footnote 265: SANUTO, Diario MS. i. 539.] Valentino had endeavoured, by the imposing splendour of his legation to Naples, and by scattering immoderate largesses, to dazzle, and if possible blind, men to the Cain-brand that was upon him. But when he developed a new scheme of aggrandisement, by proffering to a daughter of Federigo a hand which his unscrupulous father was ready to liberate from priestly vows, the King and the Princess alike recoiled from an offer tainted by sacrilege and fratricide. We have seen that a similar refusal by Ferdinand I. was a principal cause for Charles VIII. being invited into Italy. Unwarned by that result of a wretched policy, the Pontiff prepared to repeat it in circumstances still more fatal to the Peninsula. Cesare Borgia returned from his legation on the 5th of September, and was received with every mark of honour and favour by his father, who appeared to have dismissed the Duke of Gandia's very existence from his mind. The pontifical court was once more a scene of alternate dissipation and crime, and the Cardinal of Valencia was the moving spirit of both. In December, Lucrezia's divorce was pronounced, and her dowry of 31,000 ducats returned; next August she became wife of Alfonso Duke of Bisceglia, with an augmented provision of 40,000 ducats, he being then seventeen years of age. In the following summer, the Duke of Urbino was induced to unite with the Prefect della Rovere in an expedition against Perugia, for the purpose of restoring the Oddi, who, as heads of the Ghibellines, had been expelled from thence by their rivals, the Guelphic Baglioni.[*266] But from this enterprise the Pope speedily recalled him by a remonstrance, which with wonted devotion he hastened to obey, stipulating, however, for indemnity of the expenses he had incurred, amounting to 5000 scudi. About the same time he lost his relation and counsellor Ottaviano Ubaldini, Count of Mercatello, who died at an advanced age. [Footnote *266: For this expedition, see MATARAZZO, _Chronicle of Perugia_ (Dent), p. 243 _et seq._] The services of Guidobaldo were speedily required in another quarter; and by one of those sudden changes, not unusual to soldiers of fortune, he found himself comrade of his late opponents, the Orsini and Baglioni.[*267] The occasion was the recommencement of the Pisan war, when the fickle usurper of Milan joined the Florentines in their attempts to reduce that city to its former obedience; a combination which, arousing the jealousy of Venice, induced her to adopt the cause of Pisa. Pietro de' Medici and his brother Giuliano availed themselves of this opportunity to make another effort for their re-establishment in that capital. They offered to support an invasion of Tuscany, with all the aid which their own credit and the Orsini influence could bring into the field; and the maritime republic, accepting the proposal, took into their pay, besides the Baglioni of Perugia, the Duke of Urbino with two hundred men-at-arms, and a hundred light horse, for which they allowed him 20,000 scudi a year.[268] Having gained over one of the Malatesta, owner of a small fief in the passes above Sarsina, the confederates sent forward Bartolomeo d'Alviano, who, penetrating the mountain paths about Camaldoli, entered Tuscany and seized Bibbiena, in the upper Val d'Arno, ere the Florentines were aware of the incursion. Guidobaldo followed with a strong body of men, and, finding the season vigorous, went into winter quarters in that and the adjoining towns. The enemy was led by Paulo Vitelli, whose judicious arrangements and great activity, having closed all the defiles around them, kept them in a state of siege during the winter, cutting off their supplies, surprising their posts, and tempting their men to desertion, until they were reduced to great straits. The Duke's health, already broken by frequent gouty attacks, suffered sadly from the severe climate of these mountain sites, and the privations of an ill-supplied commissariat. The critical position of his army aggravated his malady by preying upon his spirits, and his applications for a physician were coldly refused by his assailants. At length, in the middle of February, their general, Vitelli, on his own responsibility, granted him free passage home to Urbino, an act of charity afterwards severely visited upon his head by the authorities of Florence. Disgusted by the losses of a campaign fruitlessly protracted by disinclination of the respective commanders to risk their reputation in an engagement, the Venetians recalled the reinforcements which they had sent under Nicolò di Petigliano, and abandoned the cause of Pisan independence for that wider field of ambition which the schemes of Louis XII. were developing. [Footnote *267: For the peace, July 6, 1498, see V. ANSIDEI, _La Pace fra Guidobaldo Duca d'Urbino e il Comune di Perugia_, in _Boll. per l'Umbria_, vol. V., p. 741 _et seq._] [Footnote 268: Bembo says 170 pounds of gold. _Hist. Venet._, IV. Navigero puts the mounted cross-bow-men at 200. MURATORI, _R.I.S._, xxiii. 1214.] The Cardinal della Rovere, who, during nearly all the pontificate of Alexander, provided for his safety by absence from Rome, had shared the hardships of the Bibbiena campaign, and escaped from them with Guidobaldo. Whilst thus thrown together they seem to have planned an arrangement which opened a new era for Urbino. Feeling that in himself must terminate the male investiture of his states, and dreading that by his early decease they might lapse to a Pope who would joyfully endow with them one of his odious progeny, the Duke willingly listened to a suggestion of the Cardinal, that he should adopt their mutual nephew Francesco Maria della Rovere, son of the Prefect of Sinigaglia, then a promising boy of eight years old. At first they thought of concealing this design from Alexander, but Guidobaldo, aware that without his sanction it could not be matured, and trusting to the hold which his services and dutiful obedience ought to have given him in that quarter, soon proposed it for his approval. The successor of St. Peter, anticipating the modern discovery that words are given to conceal thoughts, professed great satisfaction with the plan, and hinted at bestowing the hand of his niece Angela Borgia upon the presumptive heir of Urbino. A brief interval removed the flimsy veil, and proved that the Pontiff was ready to anticipate the lapse of that dukedom, without awaiting his vassal's death. The great convulsions impending over Italy require another general glance at the new combinations which the politics of Southern Europe had assumed. Charles VIII. died of apoplexy on the 7th of April, 1498, and was succeeded by his second cousin, Louis XII., first of the Orleans branch of Valois. Though a prince of narrow views and somewhat feeble character, he became the instrument of unprecedented misfortunes to Italy. In him were centred the Angevine claims upon Naples which his predecessor had asserted; and likewise such pretensions upon the Milanese as vested in the heir of line of the Visconti, through his grandmother Valentina, sister of the last Duke. Upon these grounds he at once assumed the style of King of Naples and Jerusalem, and Duke of Milan, and avowed his intention of rendering the latter at least of these titles effectual. Federigo of Aragon and Ludovico Sforza trembled at the impending danger; but, with unaccountable blindness, the other powers strove who should be foremost to offer their alliance to the invader. The Venetians hailed the certain punishment of a tyrannical usurper, who had aided in thwarting them in their recent attempts to maintain the independence of Pisa. They and the princes of Romagna and La Marca remembered how little their several interests had suffered from the expedition of Charles. Florence conceived that the return of the French was the surest guarantee of their democratic independence against the re-establishment of the Medici. The Pope, as usual, had in view ulterior and private ends. His late indignation against his son, the Cardinal, had, with unaccountable revulsion, been succeeded by an increased fondness. The latter reminded him that the years passed since his elevation to the tiara had brought no fulfilment of those schemes of aggrandisement which their mutual ambition had nourished. His recent domestic catastrophe perhaps warned the father how much might be dared by a disappointed son. Every consideration urged upon both the necessity of a great effort to obtain for Cesare a sovereign principality; and conscious that this scheme would have the best chance of success at a moment of general confusion, they resolved to effect it through the instrumentality of a new French invasion, if no readier means offered for their purpose. Louis XII. had set his mind upon divorcing his queen, Jeanne, the daughter of Louis XI., in order to marry Anne of Bretagne, widow of his predecessor, for which purpose papal dispensations were required, and for these he was a suppliant. The Borgia seized the golden moment to pledge him to their views. Cesare had been created a Cardinal in 1494, by means of suborned oaths, that he was the lawful son of a Roman citizen, for illegitimacy was a bar to that dignity. On the pretext that ecclesiastical orders had been unwillingly conferred upon him, his father, on the 17th of September, annulled them in full consistory, and accepted a renunciation of his cardinal's hat. Next day he appeared in a rich military costume of the latest French fashion, and forthwith took shipping for Marseilles, on a special embassy to the French court, where he arrived about the 18th of October. The following letter of recommendation which he bore is preserved in the Bibliothèque du Roi, and being to all intents a private missive, written and addressed by the Pope's own hand, possesses a very different interest from ordinary papal brieves. "To our well-beloved son in Christ, the most Christian King of the French; "I.H.S. MARIA. "Pope Alexander VI., with his own hand. "Health and the apostolic benediction to our most dear son in Christ. Anxious in all respects to accomplish your and our own desires, we destine to your Majesty our heart, that is, our favourite son, Duke Valentino, who is prized by us beyond aught else, as a signal and most estimable token of our affection towards your Highness, to whom no further commendation of him is required; and we only ask that you will so treat him, who is thus commissioned to your royal person, as that all may, for our satisfaction, perceive that in his mission he has been in every respect most acceptable to your Majesty. Given at St. Peter's, Rome, the 28th of September." [1498.][269] [Footnote 269: _Molini Documenti di Storia Italiana_, i. 29.] This mission was ostensibly to present Louis with his divorce; but the Duke, in fact, carried also a dispensation for his union with Queen Anne, which had been secretly granted, and which he thus held, ready to deliver it as soon as he should gain the royal consent to certain conditions for his own aggrandisement, the prize then in distant perspective being nothing less than the sceptre of Naples.[270] [Footnote 270: See the curious disclosures of a Venetian ambassador, printed by Ranke, _History of the Popes_, Appendix, sect. i., No. 3. The exposition, by Machiavelli, of the French policy, and of the persevering pursuit of sovereignty by the Borgia, is interesting and instructive; _Il Principe_, ch. iii. and vii.] Relieved from a character and garb but ill-adapted to his temperament and habits, Cesare Borgia at once assumed the bearing and pomp of sovereignty to which his gradually extending ambition now aspired. All Rome had been busied in preparing his outfit, which is stated by Sanuto at 100,000 ducats; and the magnificence of his following may be estimated from the assertion that his chargers were shod with silver, or, as some say, with gold. An account of his presentation at the French court will be found in the Appendix X., with details of splendour befitting lavish tastes. His reception was suited to such pretensions, and Louis, well appreciating his disposition, prefaced all negotiation by presenting him with a dukedom, a pension of 20,000 francs, and a similar sum in name of yearly pay for himself and a hundred lances. As he had been styled Cardinal Valentino, from Valencia in Spain, he now became Duke Valentino, from Valence in Dauphiny. But the intrigues of the Borgia had not entirely abandoned the hope of an alliance for Cesare with a princess of Naples, notwithstanding the cold reception which such a proposal had met with on his recent legation at her father's court. Carlotta, daughter of Federigo, by his first wife, a princess of Savoy, was resident in France, and they hoped to sell the Pope's sanction to the French King's designs upon Milan, for the influence of Louis in favour of her marriage to the Duke Valentino, with the sovereignty of Tarento as her dowry. This project was, however, finally abandoned, on receiving from the lady a scornful refusal to soil her hand by uniting it with an apostate priest, the son of a priest, a blood-thirsty fratricide, as base in character as in birth. This result was not a little pleasing to Louis, who, with a view to his ulterior designs upon Naples, was much more content that the Duke should be the insulted suitor than the son-in-law of Federigo. Meanwhile the finesse of Cesare had nearly overreached itself. Keeping back the dispensation until he had effected his own objects, he endeavoured to attach conditions to its delivery; but Louis, informed by the Bishop of Cette, who was Nuncio at his court, that it had already issued on the 20th of October, and that its non-publication could not prevent its validity, prepared to celebrate his marriage without delay. The Duke hastened to remedy his mistake with a good grace, by delivering the dispensation, and presenting a cardinal's hat to George d'Amboise, the French King's favourite minister; but with a vengeance that knew no pity, he had poison administered to the tell-tale Bishop. Lying nearest the common danger, Ludovico il Moro was the most energetic, as well as the most interested, in preparing for defence. Again he proposed a general league for the exclusion of ultra-montane invasion, and attempted to gain the Pope's adherence to it by a secret engagement, that the great states should, at his dictation, make common cause against any or all of the princely feudatories of the Church, and by money or the sword should establish Cesare Borgia in some sovereignty. This offer being addressed to the Pontiff's leading passion, it was entertained with apparent favour, in order to keep his decision open to the last, as well as meanwhile to divert Sforza from maturing an effectual resistance to Louis, whose alliance, as the most powerful, seemed on the whole most eligible, and from whom it might be easy for his Holiness to obtain the very advantages which Ludovico's proposal offered. Whilst the policy of Italy remained thus in suspense, Duke Valentino became more and more united to the interests of France. Profiting by the pique which his recent disappointment occasioned, Louis persuaded him in the beginning of May to marry Charlotte d'Albret, sister of Jean, King of Navarre, adding 80,000 francs to her dowry of 30,000; and at the same time decorated him with the order of St. Michael, then the most distinguished in Christendom. The Pope presented him with 200,000 scudi, and celebrated the event by extravagant festivities. Having thus seemingly secured Alexander, the French King bribed the Venetians to aid him in conquering the Milanese, by promising them a slice of its territory, and in August sent his army across the Alps. It would lead us too far from our proper theme to trace the invasion of Italy which followed these complicated intrigues. The French incursion into Lombardy was crowned with entire success, and within three weeks Ludovico, driven from the capital which he had usurped, retired with his treasure to Inspruck. After recruiting the hardships of Bibbiena, from which however his constitution never recovered, the Duke of Urbino paid a visit to Venice, which is thus graphically told by Marino Sanuto in his amusing diary. "On the 2nd of June luncheon was prepared for the Duke of Urbino's coming; and when it was over, the Doge with the ambassadors and senators went in the Bucentaur to meet Duke Guido, as far as San Antonio, and there awaited him; and there were five gig-boats [_paraschelmi_] prepared as usual for us sages of the orders, ornamented with the armorial bearings of each. And presently the Duke arrived from Chioggia, with Giorgio Pisani, the Podestà, and some gentlemen who had been sent to meet him. He is twenty-eight years of age, a handsome man, dressed in black after the French fashion, as were all his attendants, on account of the death of his uncle [cousin] Ottavio de' Ubaldini, who long had governed both the state and the Duke. And being brought into the Bucentaur with great rejoicings, he came by the Cana l' Grande to the Marquis of Ferrara's house, which had been made ready for him, and the Doge accompanied him to his chamber. He remained [eleven] days in this city, with a numerous suite, and thirty-five ducats a day were assigned for his expenses." According to the estimate of this chronicler, a ducat was then worth four English shillings, so that, making allowance for the depreciated value of money, the sum set apart for the Duke's daily maintenance may have exceeded 70_l._ He received at the same time the compliment of citizenship, and his services were retained for the Republic with two hundred men-at-arms, and 27,000 ducats of pay. It does not, however, appear that he was called into action during the rapid campaign by which Louis possessed himself of Milan, being probably then disabled by gout: indeed, he seems to have suffered from it even on his visit to Venice, as his not having danced at a ball given in his honour is specially noted by Sanuto, and it was provided in his engagement of service that his contingent should be led by an approved commander. During this year he testified his good will for the Signory, by sending them from his wide forests forty head of bucks, does, kids, wild-boar, and other game, borne by forty men. CHAPTER XVII The condition of Romagna--Cesare Borgia overruns and seizes upon it--The spirit of his government--Naples invaded by Louis, and handed over to Spain--Lucrezia Borgia's fourth marriage. The French conquests in Lombardy having been achieved, Valentino now urged Louis to perform certain secret stipulations which had for their object his establishment in Romagna and La Marca as a sovereign prince. The scene of our narrative must, therefore, for a time be laid in that country; and it may be well, though thereby incurring some repetition, to lay before the reader a brief sketch of its then condition, as given by Sismondi. "Whilst even in the Campagna of Rome the Pope's authority was barely acknowledged, and whilst in the very streets of his capital he was forced to arm alternately against the Colonna and the Orsini, the more distant provinces had still more completely shaken off his sway. In some towns, republican forms of government were continued: Ancona, Assisi, Spoleto, Terni, and Narni had either avoided or broken the yoke of domestic tyranny, but their internal factions and petty wars kept them in feeble obscurity. Other towns had become subject to pontifical vicars, who asserted a complete independence, burdened with but the promise of an annual tribute which they never paid. Nearly the whole Marca was divided between the families of Varana and Fogliano. Giulio di Varana was then the seigneur of Camerino; Giovanni di Fogliano, who soon after was cruelly murdered by his nephew Oliverotto, ruled in Fermo. Sinigaglia had been given in fief by Sixtus IV. in 1471, to his nephew Giovanni della Rovere, the titular Prefect of Rome, who was likewise son-in-law and heir presumptive to the Duke of Urbino. That highland district which extended from La Marca to Tuscany, and included the duchy of Urbino, the county of Montefeltro, and the lordship of Gubbio, was under the sway of Guidobaldo, the last and distinguished representative of the Feltrian race: the warlike qualities of its people and the lettered elegance of its court were nowhere surpassed in Italy. On the western frontier of this duchy the vale of the Tiber was occupied by two petty principalities, those of Giovanni Paulo Baglioni of Perugia, and of Vitellozzo Vitelli of Città di Castello: both of these chiefs were soldiers by trade, and the latter had conferred importance on his state by great military talents shared with his four brothers, as well as by the high state of discipline to which he had brought his vassals. "Towards Romagna lay Pesaro, wrested in 1445 from the Malatesta by Francesco Sforza, and erected by him into a little sovereignty for a younger branch of his family.[271] It was then held by Giovanni Sforza, who in 1497 had been divorced from Lucrezia Borgia, daughter of the Pope. The next domain was Rimini, sadly fallen from the ascendency to which Pandolfo III. and his brother Carlo Malatesta had raised it in the preceding century. It had been, since 1482, in the hands of Pandolfo IV., natural son of Roberto Malatesta and son-in-law of Giovanni Bentivoglio of Bologna, whose debaucheries and cruelty had gained for him a bad notoriety. He had accepted the protection of Venice, which, anxious to secure an influence along the Adriatic coast, offered her pay to all the chiefs of this province, heeding little whether they led in person the levies which they thus became bound to maintain at her disposal, or only made these a pretext for receiving what was deemed an honourable pension. [Footnote 271: See a more correct statement of this transaction, above, pp. 72, 90.] "Westward of Rimini, Cesena formed part of the ecclesiastical state, having been seized from a branch of the Malatesta. Forlì, the ancient heritage of the Ordelaffi, had passed in 1480 to Girolamo Riario, nephew of Sixtus IV., who in 1473 had also been invested by his uncle with the lordship of Imola. These two seigneuries, separated by that of Faenza, had been held since 1488 by the youthful Ottaviano Riario, under tutelage of his mother, the undaunted Caterina Sforza, natural daughter of Duke Galeazzo of Milan. By her second [third] marriage with Giovanni, a cadet of the Medici, she had a son who became famous in the wars of Italy: and though her husband had died in 1498, she remained faithful to the interests of Florence, which took the young Ottaviano into her pay, as a guarantee of her protection. "Between the two last-mentioned principalities, Faenza extended up the valley of the Lamone, as far as the Tuscan frontier. To this, as a point of attacking the Florentine republic, the Venetians attached great importance. Constituting themselves guardians of Astorre Manfredi its chief, then in his seventeenth year, they had appeased the struggle between him and his illegitimate brother Ottaviano, and had made themselves all but masters of Faenza and the passes of the Lamone. They had also seized Ravenna and Cervia from the families of Polenta and Malatesta. The rich and powerful city of Bologna had, since 1462, been absolutely ruled by Giovanni Bentivoglio. But of all the church feudatories, Duke Ercole d'Este was the most distant and the most independent; his family had for several centuries held Ferrara of the apostolic chamber, and the possession of the imperial fiefs of Modena and Reggio elevated his pretensions above the level of other pontifical vicars. "The courts of so many petty sovereigns gave to Romagna a character of elegance and wealth. All their capitals had churches, tasteful palaces, and libraries; and each court strove to render itself not less distinguished for mental refinement. Among the pensioned attendants of each prince were numbered poets, philosophers, and men of letters; and the rivalry of these little states was most assuredly beneficial to the progress of literature, even whilst it generally tended to demean the character of the learned. But it is the nature of absolutism to promote costly vices: the flatterers who surround the most petty sovereign extol his munificence as a virtue, and he can seldom moderate his desires more than if he ruled a great empire. Hence it happened that the princes of Romagna found their revenues unequal to the sums they required for defence, for vanity, and for pleasures. They were ever seeking some pretext for extorting from their subjects a portion of their property, and they eked out the inadequate returns of taxation by fines and confiscations. "There are certain descriptions of crime which seem peculiar to those families who, occupying a position of social isolation, have never learned the common feelings of humanity, and do not consider themselves subject to the ordinary code of morals. The princely races of Romagna had in fact given to their subjects frequent examples of parricide, poisoning, and treachery of every sort. The higher noblesse, too, deemed vengeful cruelty a proof of independence; and even in the villages hereditary hatred was cherished by the leaders of contending factions, and gratified by savage atrocities. Numerous bands of cut-throats were ever ready to be employed in aggression or defence; and enmities were seldom satisfied so long as one of any age or sex survived of the detested house. We are assured that when Arcimboldo, Archbishop of Milan and Cardinal of Santa Prassede, went as legate to Perugia and Umbria, he found there a gentleman who, after smashing against a wall the heads of the children of his foe, and strangling their mother who was pregnant, nailed to the door a surviving infant in trophy of his revenge, just as a gamekeeper would hang up the birds and beasts of prey which he had killed; nor was this outrage regarded by the neighbours as anything remarkable!" Those who accompany our narrative of the Dukes of Urbino will, we trust, admit that this sweeping denunciation had its exceptions. The well known and never concealed prejudices of its able and eloquent author exempt us from the necessity of cautioning the reader against implicit credence in the view which here and in other passages he endeavours to establish, that Cesare Borgia's usurpations were hailed by the people of Romagna as a welcome relief from the perpetual oppressions of their domestic tyrants. Of extortion and confiscations I have discovered but few instances under these princes. Their personal vices were common to the age, and prevailed from the representatives of St. Peter, through all ranks and under all governments. It is unnecessary now to discuss how far the security and welfare of the masses were most promoted under such despotisms, or amid the ever restless anarchy of democracies like Florence, "whose whole history was one intermittent fever of insurrection; where each man's own arm was his best, often his sole, law and protection; where the magistrate of to-day might be the exile or martyr of to-morrow";[272] and whose convulsions are compared by her own Dante to those of "A sick wretch, Who finds no rest upon her down, but oft Shifting her side, short respite seeks from pain."--_Purg._ VI. [Footnote 272: _British and Foreign Review_, No. xxix.] Duke Valentino now assumed the life of a condottiere, in order to raise troops for his enterprise. His winning manners,--for none could better mask the nature of a hyæna under the manners of a dove,--his gallant bearing--for he was handsome, frank, and daring,--his prodigal pay and specious professions,--all contributed to gather around him many warrior chieftains with their respective followings, devoted to his person, and ready to promote whatever views his ambition might prompt. To such adherents Louis added a brigade, for which he had no longer immediate need, consisting of three hundred French lances, under Ives d'Allègre, and four thousand Swiss mercenaries, commanded by the Bailli of Dijon. At the head of this little army Borgia marched upon Imola, and there united it with the papal troops to the number, in all, of fifteen thousand men. The same force of character by which we have already seen Caterina Riario Sforza prevail over the faction which murdered her first husband,[273] had enabled her to maintain her son Ottaviano's authority in Imola and Forlì during his long minority. She had given her hand to the brave and handsome Giacomo Fea, who at that crisis saved her cause by his defence of the citadel of Forlì, and in 1496 had been again widowed by a base cabal of disaffected nobles, who suffered at her hand a retribution resembling that endured by the Orsi in 1488. In 1497 she celebrated her third nuptials with Giovanni de' Medici, envoy from Florence at the court of her son. He was second cousin of Lorenzo the Magnificent, and died in the following year, leaving by her an only child, well known in Italian history as Giovanni _delle bande nere_, whose brief but glorious career of arms we shall see cut short at the fight of Borgoforte, in 1527, and whose son was the Grand Duke Cosimo I. Ottaviano Riario was now in his twenty-first year, and seconded his mother's stout resistance by placing garrisons and supplies in Imola, Forlì, and his minor strongholds. But she vainly attempted to impart her own spirit to her dastardly or dissatisfied subjects. On the last day of 1499 the gates of Imola were opened to Duke Valentino, and the castle surrendered after a feeble defence. Sending her son and her treasure into Tuscany, Caterina once more entered the citadel of Forlì, which, after a bombardment of several days, was lost by treachery. The Countess was carried to Rome, but after a short imprisonment was permitted to retire to Florence, where she dedicated the eight remaining years of her chequered life to the education of her younger children, to charity and spiritual meditation, and to the austerities of an almost monastic discipline. [Footnote 273: See above, p. 308.] After this success, Cesare Borgia hastened to Rome to advise with his father as to their next step; but his progress was interrupted by the sudden recall of the French troops in his service. Ludovico Sforza so well employed the money he had carried into the Tyrol, and the support which he received from the Emperor Maximilian, that early in February he marched into Lombardy at the head of an army of Swiss, before whom the garrison of Milan retired, leaving him once more in possession of his capital and most of his original territory, where he was welcomed with general joy. But the reaction of his fortunes was momentary. Louis quickly repaired to Lombardy with reinforcements, and the combat which would have decided his fate was anticipated by the desertion of his Swiss mercenaries, who went over in a body to the French. Ludovico was carried to France, where he remained, during ten years, prisoner in a gloomy dungeon or cage at the Castle of Loches, and died on being released.[274] His talents and address aggravated his crimes; his treachery to his nephew and faithlessness to his allies lost him the goodwill of all; he was the earliest victim of those barbarian inroads which he first brought upon Italy, and which led to the annihilation of her independence. [Footnote 274: Some interesting particulars of his arrival in France will be found in XI. of the Appendices.] The interval of the Milanese rising had been spent by Cesare in Rome, where the solemnities of the jubilee year were disturbed by extravagant demonstrations of public joy, provided by his father and himself in honour of his recent successes. Among these was a triumph, after those of the Roman emperors, where he inscribed upon his banners, AUT CÆSAR AUT NULLUS, an insolent motto, which he frequently used, but which was thus pungently parodied on his death:-- "Cæsar in deeds as name would Borgia be, A CÆSAR or a CIPHER,--both was he!"[275] [Footnote 275: "'Borgia Cæsar eram, factis et nomine Cæsar; Aut nihil aut Cæsar,' dixit: utrumque fuit." The idea was thus repeated by Sannazaro:-- "Aut nihil aut Cæsar vult dici Borgia: quid ni? Cum simul et Cæsar possit, et esse nihil." Cæsar _or_ nothing, Borgia fain would be; Cæsar _and_ nothing, both in him we see.] On the 2nd of April he received from his father the royal distinction of the golden rose, along with the dignities of gonfaloniere and captain-general of the Church, each of which gave occasion for pompous ceremonials of surpassing magnificence, wherein the velvet and brocade liveries of his numberless followers dazzled even the Roman populace. Among his attendants Burchard mentions a thousand Gascon and Scotch infantry [Guascones et Scottenses?], whose unsteady straggling, "caring nought for our arrangements," sadly disconcerted this master of ceremonies. To supply the vast sums which were unceasingly absorbed in these and similar displays of vanity and selfish profusion by the Borgia, as well as in their ceaseless wars, every device was called into requisition. Besides seizing upon a large portion of the pious gifts brought by pilgrims of the jubilee year to the metropolis of Christianity, the Pope had recourse, for the first time, on a great scale, to the sale of dispensations. Notices were circulated over Europe, that payment of stated sums, by such as found personal performance of the pilgrimage inconvenient or disagreeable, would ensure to them all the benefits of a visit to the prescribed jubilee stations at Rome. Simony had become the rule, not the exception. Every office in church and state was bestowed on the highest bidder by the greedy Pontiff, who himself had purchased the tiara.[*276] "The keys, the altar, and his God he sold; 'Twas well! their price he first had paid in gold."[277] [Footnote *276: This again is overstated. The Pope wanted money to enable Cesare to subdue the Romagna. It is absurd of Dennistoun to ask below whether Cesare "directly participated" in these "unrighteous profits." Sanuto (III., 855) tells us that Duke Valentino visited the old cardinals and asked them to agree to the new nominations that he might be supplied with money for his work in Romagna.] [Footnote 277: "Vendidit Alexander claves, altaria, Christum; Emerat ille prius, vendere jure potest."] Having learned the value of this source of wealth, he hesitated not to turn it to new account by a series of crimes unequalled in the annals of iniquity. Finding that the course of nature did not afford vacancies as rapidly as his finances required new supplies, he refined upon the practice of an age "profuse in poisons," and had frequent recourse to the chalice. From time to time cardinals and other high dignitaries were thus disposed of, often from revenge, but oftener for lucre. Now, too, the tax of a tenth was imposed on the clergy, and a twentieth on the Jews, to continue for three years, on the delusive pretext of a Turkish war. How far these unrighteous profits were directly participated by Cesare Borgia may been seen from the diary of Sanuto:--"The twelve new cardinals, after their creation [Sept. 28], went to the Duke, offering their services, and dined there, and balanced their accounts, and swore fealty to him, so that for this creation he has touched about 120,000 ducats."[*278] The dinner was, however, but an empty form of hospitality, for we learn from the same authority, that his cautious guests declined partaking of the splendid banquet laid out to tempt them, observing that _omnia preciosa cara sunt_, and excusing their scruples by a desire of avoiding popular gossip. [Footnote *278: SANUTO, III., 878. BURCHARD, III., 77, who gives the sum obtained from each.] The readiness with which Valentino had suspended his own plans to repair the reverses of Louis in Lombardy, obtained him from the latter a more hearty support. The French troops were sent back to serve under his banner, and their monarch having declared his intention of treating the opponents of Borgia as his personal enemies, the latter hastened again to Romagna, and took possession of Pesaro. Its lord, Giovanni Sforza, had flattered himself that the storm would pass him by unharmed. He was under the avowed protection of Venice, and had been son-in-law of the Pope. But the Signory were not unwilling to close their eyes to an insult which it would have been impolitic to avenge, and Lucrezia's divorce had alienated her late husband from the sympathies as well as from the family circle of the Borgia. Warned by the fate of the Riarii, and perceiving that the friendly dispositions of his relation Guidobaldo were of no avail against such a combination of adverse circumstances, Giovanni had, in the beginning of the year, fled by sea to Venice, and offered his state to that republic, a proposal which was coldly declined by the prudent Signory, who regarded it as a fatal gift. He, however, found shelter in their sea-borne city, where he quickly consoled himself by marrying a daughter of Matteo Tiapolo. On the 27th of October, Borgia entered Pesaro, with an imposing display of luxurious military equipments. His men-at-arms wore his sumptuous livery of red and yellow over richly wrought cuirasses, and their belts were studded with seven serpents' heads. He then proceeded to Rimini, where Pandolfo and Carlo, natural sons of Roberto Malatesta, fled to avoid at once the perils of his invasion and the seditions of subjects wearied by their senseless tyranny. At Faenza, which he reached on the 20th of November, he met with a check, and winter forced him to postpone operations. Astorre Manfredi, its sovereign, though but a boy of eighteen, was endeared to his subjects, who rallied in his defence; and it was not until the 22nd of April that, overcome by numbers, he closed the hopeless struggle by an honourable capitulation. He was allowed to retain his private revenues, but being sent to Rome with his natural brother, they were both strangled by order of Alexander, and their bodies thrown into the Tiber. Romagna, thus wrested from its lawful feudatories, was erected into a dukedom for Cesare, consent of the consistory being gained by means of that new creation of cardinals to which we have just alluded; and it was at this time, Sanuto tells us, that ten ducats were given in the Roman betting circles to receive a hundred when the upstart should be king of that province. * * * * * Regarding the manner in which the Duke governed the state he had thus acquired, we find the following passage in Sismondi: "This man, distinguished for so many crimes, was not destitute of countervailing qualities. Brave, eloquent, dexterous; lavish of favours, but ever careful of his finances; zealous in maintaining justice throughout his states; he knew how, by good government, to promote their rapid prosperity, and to endear himself alike to his subjects and to his soldiery, whilst dreaded and detested by neighbouring princes and nations. His early conquests in Romagna, having had time to taste the advantages of his rule, remained faithful to him on the death of Alexander, while his more recent acquisitions returned to the obedience of their hereditary lords. Though cruel and perfidious in his policy, he was enlightened as to what best ensured the happiness of the people: his dealings with them were marked by scrupulous impartiality, and the public security was inviolably preserved. Under his administration factious violence had been restrained, authorised robberies had ceased, talent had met with enlightened encouragement, military merit had been promoted, men of letters had been enriched by ecclesiastical preferment. In a word, his state had prospered, and no inhabitant could anticipate without fear a restoration of the old dynasties." Such is the judgment of an historian who saw in these dynasties but the supplanters of democracies, in his eyes the only pure, virtuous, and popular forms of government. So blinded is he in this one-sided view that, imitating Machiavelli, he becomes an apologist of the Borgia, whose policy left no other results than the general breaking down of these princely families; a fact apparently atoning, in his estimation, as in that of his Florentine prototype, for crimes exceeding in a few years the accumulated enormities which during centuries had sprung from the unbridled passions of the petty sovereigns whom he decries. But, when removed from the influence of this prepossession, he admits, in the _Biographie Universelle_, that "Valentino systematised crime, carrying impudence and perfidy beyond all previous bounds. Many princes have shed more blood, have exacted more savage vengeance, have ordered punishments of greater atrocity, but no name is tainted by fouler infamy. Even his ferocity was an egotistic calculation, sacrificing everything for his own interests, recognising neither morals, religion, nor sentiment except as instruments for his purpose, to be crushed when they became inconvenient." Revolting as are the vices which these pages connect with Alexander and his family, only such are here introduced as belong to the thread of our narrative. Were it our object to bring the character of these monsters fully into view, the catalogue and its loathsome details must have been greatly extended: indeed, of the many gross outrages upon female honour and domestic peace with which history charges Cesare, a considerable proportion are attributed to his stay in his own capital of Cesena. To bring home these charges would be far more easy than to discover coeval authority for Sismondi's commendations.[*279] We are, however, told by a contemporary poet, Marcello Filosseno, that Romagna bore witness to the justice and clemency of the god-like Borgia, whom all nations far and near invited to rule over them, and willingly hailed as their master. The inflated terms of this compliment are surely sufficient contradiction of its truth; and its now forgotten author, aspiring to be the Petrarch of the modern Lucrezia, was naturally the slavering adulator of her kindred.[280] [Footnote *279: This is the most absurd attack on Sismondi, who was certainly prejudiced, if at all, against "tyrants." Dennistoun's whole view of Cesare is worthy only of his age. His conscience has blinded his intelligence. How are we to explain the fact that Leonardo and Machiavelli were eager to follow Cesare's fortunes and believed in him if we accept Dennistoun's estimate? Cesare was greatly in advance of his age, which he met with its own weapons.] [Footnote 280: Yet one of his sonnets, bewailing the abasement of Italy, is so touching and so true, as well as so little known, that we shall introduce it in XII. of our Appendices. It in some degree anticipates the more powerful and popular declamatory rhymes of Filicaja on the same theme, which Byron has embodied in _Childe Harold_.[*F]] [Footnote *F: Without doubt Cesare was welcome in Romagna. Cf. GREGOROVIUS, _Lucrezia Borgia_, and GUICCIARDINI, _Op. Ined._, III., 307, who says the inhabitants loved his rule.] On such a point the prosaic diary of Sanuto affords better evidence. Whilst passing the spring at Imola, the Duke of Romagna frequently occupied his mornings with bull-baiting, and generally spent the nights in dancing, masques, and varied dissipation. "No redress is obtained; force supersedes justice; the troops quarter at their own pleasure; whilst all cry out for vengeance on the Duke; for they plunder everything, to say nothing of the matrons and their daughters, of whom possession has been long since taken." As to the administration of his government, the facts stated by Machiavelli, and admitted by Sismondi, are these. The numerous and violent revolutions which had recently convulsed his new state left behind them their necessary consequences. Law and justice, public order and personal security, were alike prostrated; the country was in the hands of banditti, or military adventurers. To put an end to such misrule was the interest of the new sovereign, and he set about it in a characteristic manner. Selecting Ramirez d'Orco, the most savage and blood-thirsty of his captains,[281] he left him to govern the country with unlimited authority, and to clear it summarily of every suspected individual. As the benefits of order restored by such sanguinary means might be questioned even by those who had gained them, Borgia promptly disconnected himself from the instrument when the reformation was complete. At the close of 1502, there was one morning displayed in their piazza, to the appalled inhabitants of Cesena, the racked and dismembered corpse of their tyrannical viceroy, with a knife on one side, and a reeking block on the other; and this doom the Pope justified to the Venetian envoy on pretext of his treasonable intrigues with the confederates of La Magione.[282] [Footnote 281: Sanuto has preserved a story that his page having fitted him with a tight shoe, he with one kick threw him upon the fire, where he slew him with his hanger, and left his body to be calcined.[*G]] [Footnote 282: Burchard tells us that Cesare ordered a masked figure, who had lampooned him at Rome, to be seized, his hand and tongue to be amputated, and publicly exposed during two days. Verily his tastes lay towards melodramatic murder!] [Footnote *G: Dennistoun forgets to mention that Cesare descended on d'Orco suddenly and put him to death.] Of all the evil passions of men, the lust of power most grows by indulgence. His craving for sovereignty at length gratified, the Duke Valentino panted for new conquests. His advance upon Bologna was suddenly arrested by a notice from Louis of that city being under French protection. The opportunity had not yet arrived for attacking the Duke of Urbino, the cherished general of the Venetians, the scrupulously obedient vassal of the Church. The four Tuscan republics, exhausted by long intestine struggles and civil commotions, seemed an easy prey; and the exiled Medici, ever prompt to close with any offer against their native city, afforded the excuse for an inroad upon Florence by the Mugello, with the secret intention of appropriating it to himself. His schemes of selfish aggrandisement were, however, again reluctantly suspended, at the call of an ally with whose support he could not dispense. Louis was now marching upon Naples, and thither also Cesare directed his steps. But, ever prompt to plunder for his own gain, or the gratification of his troops, he on the route seized upon Piombino, the little fief of the Appiani, and, on the 3rd of September, sacked its capital. This he retained as a footing for further conquests, and consoled himself for foregoing his designs upon the Florentines, by accepting, in guerdon of his forbearance, a nominal rank in their service, with 36,000 zecchins of pay. After establishing his sway in the Milanese, the French King proceeded to the conquest of Naples. The league remained in force by which all the Peninsular powers were brought to afford a voluntary or constrained approbation of this enterprise; and, since the ruin of Ludovico Sforza, Federigo had no ally. Of all the smaller feudatories, the Colonna alone adhered to his falling cause, and the Pope availed himself of this pretext to break down their strength and appropriate their great estates, as he had already done those of their rivals the Orsini. Duke Guidobaldo adopted the only prudent policy left in his option, and obtained the nominal protection of Louis by sending fifty lances to co-operate with his Neapolitan expedition. On its results we cannot linger. The French King halted in Rome for a few days, whilst Alexander, on the 28th of June, declared Federigo deprived of his crown. The latter had turned towards Ferdinand of Spain, hoping that policy would combine with family ties to procure from him support in this exigency; but he was doomed to experience the hollowness of such hopes. A treaty, signed on the 11th of November, 1500, was produced, by which his kingdom had been secretly partitioned between Louis and Ferdinand; the northern portion, with the capital, was assigned to the former, and the southern, with the dukedom of Calabria, became an appanage of the Spanish monarchy, the maritime cities of Monopoli, Otranto, Brindisi, and Trani being reserved for the Venetians.[*283] At Capua alone were the French arms resisted, and after a short siege that city was delivered over to the worst horrors of a sack, Duke Valentino reserving for himself forty of the most beautiful maidens of the place. The King of the Two Sicilies, seeing his cause desperate, abdicated a short-lived sovereignty, which in happier circumstances he might have usefully and honourably wielded. He was permitted to retire to France, as titular Duke of Anjou, with a pension of 30,000 ducats, and died there in 1504. But he lived long enough to see his dominions pass from his conqueror, and the French driven from Lower Italy by the Spaniards. His last public act was to reconcile these powers, who, on plundering him of his dominions, had quarrelled over the spoil. After struggles protracted during two years, and brightened by the last blaze of expiring chivalry, Gonsalvo, the Great Captain, established over Naples the Spanish monarchy, which during the next two centuries swayed that fine country with an iron rod, the wounds whereof still rankle in its vitals. Thus was firmly planted in the Peninsula an influence which quickly overshadowed, and eventually crushed, her nationality, and which, even when finally withdrawn, left upon her intellectual powers and material prosperity a malignant blight that continues to spread its poison. [Footnote *283: For treaty, see DUMONT, _Corps Diplomatique_, III., 445.] The calculation of the Borgia was, that, in the general scramble consequent upon the French invasion, their selfish schemes might be readily promoted.[284] Besides investing Cesare with the best portion of Romagna, and erecting Nepi with many of the Colonna estates into a dukedom for Giovanni, another natural son born after his elevation to the tiara, Alexander had pursued his ambitious views for his too favourite daughter Lucrezia, and after marrying her to Don Alfonso, Duke of Bisceglia, in 1498, had endowed her with the sovereign duchy of Spoleto. But the French alliance subsequently superseded his original design of basing the grandeur of his house upon the Aragon dynasty of Naples; and, prompt to free himself from the trammels of a falling cause, he was suspected of sanctioning the assassination of his son-in-law the Duke, in July, 1500, by the paid cut-throats of Cesare, whose blows not proving fatal, the unhappy prince was strangled in bed a few weeks later. The Venetian report, lately quoted from Ranke,[285] tends, however, to acquit his Holiness of this enormity, which was consummated by the bow-string of his son's agent Michelotto; indeed it represents Lucrezia as affectionately tending the invalid, and, with his sister the Princess of Squillace, cooking his food as a security against the potions of her remorseless brother, whose remark that "what failed at dinner might be managed at supper," was a pregnant hint of his sinister designs. At all events, this outrage seems to have deeply disgusted Lucrezia, but, after a brief interval, she reappeared at the court of her father, who, on quitting his capital several times during 1501, left the executive in her hands, exhibiting the novel scandal of the papacy under petticoat government. In the following year she willingly lent herself to the fourth nuptials which he had arranged for her.[*286] Once more the states of the Church were enjoined to celebrate her marriage with festivities worthy of royalty, the bridegroom being Alfonso, heir to the dukedom of Ferrara, who, by this discreditable connection, earned the towns of Cento and Pieve, with a dowry of 100,000 ducats, and the protection of the Borgia. The ceremony was performed by the Pontiff in person, who presented his daughter with jewels to the value of 100,000 scudi. Comedies, bull-fights, and illuminations were exhibited over all Rome in her honour, this lavish expenditure being defrayed out of sums raised by the indiscriminate sale of benefices, and indulgences for the pretended Turkish crusade. Of these revels, as described by Burchard, it is quite impossible to stain our pages with any account; their disgusting impurities would have disgraced the orgies of a brothel.[*287] The dukedom of Sermoneta was about the same time erected out of the Gaetani estates for her infant son Roderigo, born in November, 1499, during her marriage with the Duke of Bisceglia, but of doubted paternity: she having soon after lost the favour of her brother Cesare, which had brought upon her much scandal, this fief was seized by him, on the paltry excuse that being a woman she could not maintain possession of it. [Footnote 284: We have spoken of this above.] [Footnote 285: See ALBERI, _Relazioni Venete_, series II., vol. III., Capello.] [Footnote *286: Cf. BURCHARD, III., 162. "Hurrah," cried the people, "for the Duchess of Ferrara! Hurrah for Pope Alexander VI.!" when the news was brought to Rome that the contract was signed. Lucrezia, in splendid attire, rode to offer thanks at S. Maria del Popolo. Four bishops and three hundred horse accompanied her.] [Footnote *287: Cf. GREGOROVIUS, _Lucrezia Borgia_, p. 189 _et seq._ The wedding was celebrated on 30th December in the Cappella Paolina before the Pope, who sat on his throne attended by thirteen cardinals and the foreign ambassadors. The Emperor was not represented.] In the following January, the bride set out for her new capital, and the Pope wrote desiring that the Duchess of Urbino should attend her to Ferrara. Considering how lately Lucrezia had been wife of her brother-in-law Giovanni Sforza, this was an honour she would gladly have dispensed with, but the habitual deference shown by Guidobaldo to the wishes of his Holiness prevented her declining what was expressed as a compliment, though subsequent events soon showed that it was but a cloak to ulterior projects of a very difficult character. The Duchess of Ferrara arrived at Urbino on the 18th of January, 1502, with the extravagant accompaniment of two thousand attendants and a hundred and fifty horses, who were all entertained by the Duke in Gubbio, Cagli, and Urbino, at an expense of about 8000 ducats.[288] Escorted by her hosts, she next day proceeded to Pesaro, visiting as a passing guest the city which had lately owned her as its mistress. For the second time she entered it a bride, greeted by bell-chimes and bonfires, and met by a hundred children bearing olive-branches. But their wands of peace mingled strangely with the gorgeous liveries of her brother, who in right of the sword, held the state of him who had on the former occasion been her husband. Even when at the height of her dissolute career, she was characterised by a contemporary as liberal and _savia_ (which may either mean learned or discreet); and to her taste and patronage, rather than to Duke Alfonso, is ascribed the literary tone which graced the court of Ferrara. As years wore on she is represented as having purified her thoughts, and, weaning them from earthly gauds and sensual joys, to have concentrated them on devotional contemplations. Her death took place in child-bed on the 24th of June, 1519, and the following letter of condolence from the Doge of Venice to her husband indicates the regard which she had gained in that capital:-- "We have this morning heard with great concern the death of your most illustrious consort, to whom, on account of the excellent qualities possessed by her Ladyship, we ever have extended our affection and entire goodwill, knowing them to be fully reciprocated by her. With the paternal love which we bear to you and her, we condole with your Excellency as if we had lost a daughter of our own. Yet our grief is somewhat mitigated, knowing it to be a dispensation of nature which none can escape, and remembering the past religious life of her Excellency. And so we implore your Lordship that, in this so distressing event, you will have recourse to your usual and natural prudence for the alleviation of your grief, submitting to the will of our Lord God, in which we ought all to acquiesce."[289] [Footnote 288: Sanuto says 753 mouths, 426 horses, with 234 mules. See details in Mr. RAWDON BROWN'S _Ragguagli_, II., p. 192.] [Footnote 289: Diarii di M. Sanuto, xxvii. f. 320. The reader is again referred to Roscoe's dissertation on the character of Lucrezia, for views which this letter tends to support. In Sanuto we find a very elaborate report of the marriage festivities which celebrated her arrival at Ferrara in 1502, and in which the Duchess of Urbino bore a distinguished part. It is perhaps the most graphic description of a cinque-cento pageant that has come down to us, and will be found in XIII. of the Appendices.] * NOTE.--The following account of the state of the Romagna before Cesare's conquest cannot be ignored, and must be accepted as accurate; cf. MACHIAVELLI, _Discorsi_, III., 29: "La Romagna, innanzi che in quella fussero spenti da Papa Alessandro VI. quelli signori che la comandavano, era uno esempio d'ogni scelleratissima vita, perchè quivi si vedeva per ogni leggiera cagione seguire uccisioni e rapine grandissime. Il che nasceva dalla tristizia di quei principi, non dalla natura trista degli uomini, come loro dicevano. Perchè sendo quelli principi poveri, e volendo vivere da ricchi, erano sforzati volgersi a molte rapine, e quelle per varj modi usare; e intra l'altre disoneste vie che e' tenevano, facevano leggi e proibivano alcuna azione; dipoi erano i primi che davano cagione della inosservanza di esse, nè mai punivano gl'inosservanti, etc." Cesare ruled well, introducing many reforms, and, avoiding excessive taxes, established some sort of security both for life and for property. CHAPTER XVIII Duke Guidobaldo's retired life--Cesare Borgia surprises and seizes Urbino--The Duke's flight--The diet of La Magione--Rising in the Duchy, and his return--He again retires. Our attention has been long distracted from our mountain duchy, whose lord sought, in the peaceful retreat of his elegant court and happy home, to isolate himself from intrigues alien to his tastes and perilous to his welfare. The notices we shall gather of his social circle towards the close of his life would doubtless apply, in part, to this period, so barren of incidents as to have baffled our research. All we know of him after his return from Venice is, that at Easter, in 1500, he visited Rome, with a suite of six horsemen and sixty attendants on foot, to observe with due honour the jubilee functions, and that, in the following February, one Camillo Caraccioli was hanged at Urbino, as an emissary of Valentino, suspected of a design to assassinate the Duke. In November, 1501, he met with a severe political as well as domestic loss in the death of his brother-in-law Giovanni della Rovere, Lord of Sinigaglia, and Prefect of Rome. In pursuance of the arrangement already referred to, of adopting his son Francesco Maria as heir of Urbino, the boy, then in his twelfth year, was removed to that court; and with a view to throw these parties more completely off their guard, Alexander continued to the youth his father's dignity of prefect, with which he was solemnly invested, on the 24th of April, in the cathedral of Urbino, a hint being still held out of betrothing him to Angela Borgia, niece of his Holiness. The installation was not attended by the Duchess, who, when the ceremonies and fetes of Lucrezia Borgia's marriage were concluded at Ferrara, had proceeded to Venice, accompanying her sister-in-law the Marchioness of Mantua, and attended by her faithful Emilia Pia. They remained there during several weeks, preserving a nominal incognito, and attending public sights muffled in their hoods, but received from the Signory a compliment of confectionary and wax to the amount of twenty-five ducats. On Easter Thursday they went to Verona and so to Mantua, where the Duchess remained until joined by her lord on his flight from Urbino. * * * * * The ambition of the Borgia must again claim our attention. For the nominal purpose of avenging upon the Colonna and Savelli their adherence to the King of Naples, Alexander had anew instituted an active persecution against these powerful barons of the Campagna and their inviting fiefs. But a larger field was wanting for Cesare's ever-expanding designs. Tuscany and Bologna were now under the protection of Louis XII.; the heir of Ferrara had become his brother-in-law; so was he compelled to turn towards La Marca in pursuit of his plans of usurpation. The Pope, having on some idle ground declared the fief of Camerino forfeited by Giulio Cesare Varana, its hereditary seigneur, sent Valentino to expel him by arms. At the same time, Vitellozzo Vitelli, lieutenant-general in Cesare's service, laid siege to Arezzo, on pretext of avenging his brother Paolo's judicial murder by the Florentines, but having, no doubt, a secret understanding with his master. The events, now crowding upon each other, which reduced Guidobaldo within a few hours from his flourishing sovereignty to proscription and exile, are clearly narrated in a letter written by himself a few days after his romantic escape, and addressed to Cardinal Giuliano della Rovere, the uncle of his adopted heir, whom we shall, ere long, have to notice as Pope Julius II. It has been printed by Leone in his life of Duke Francesco Maria I.; but our translation was made from a contemporary copy in the Vatican library.[290] That the costly visit of Lucrezia to Urbino,[*291] the journey of Duchess Elisabetta to Ferrara, the withdrawal of troops and money to Arezzo, and the demand for artillery, were all parts of a deep-laid design to embarrass Guidobaldo, and facilitate the treacherous seizure of his capital by Cesare Borgia, is established beyond question by that letter. The attachment of his subjects, the respectability of his character, the support of France and of Venice secured to him by solemn pactions, the personal influence with Louis of his relation the Cardinal della Rovere, and the strength of his country, all presented most serious political and military obstacles to the employment against the Duke of the same means by which Valentino had gained a footing in Romagna. A surprise might anticipate remonstrance and paralyse resistance. Recourse was therefore had to treachery, and its success was equal to the cunning which prepared and the dexterity which effected it. [Footnote 290: Urb. MSS. No. 1023, f. 188. In No. 904, f. 43, is the diary of a citizen of Urbino during the usurpation of Borgia, which has supplied us with many of the succeeding details.] [Footnote *291: In this year begins _Diario delle Cose di Urbino_, which FEDERICO MADIAI has published in _Arch. St. per le Marche e per l'Umbria_, vol. III., p. 423 _et seq._ It begins on January 18, the day on which Lucrezia came to Urbino, "_con 150 cavalli e circa 2000 bocche_." "_Andò moglie di D. Ferrante figlio del Duca di Ferrara. Fu stimato che tra Gubbio, Cagli e Urbino il nostro Duca spendesse circa ottomila ducati._" For Gubbio, see A. PELLEGRINI, _Gubbio sotto i Conti e Duchi d'Urbino_, in _Boll. per l'Umbria_, vol. XI., p. 211 _et seq._] "Most reverend Lord, "Your Lordship has doubtless ere now learned the excessive treachery used towards me by the Pope and Duke Valentino, and must feel surprise at not having received from me any confirmation of the fact. I pray your pardon for this delay; but the great difficulties I encountered in saving myself have occupied all my thoughts, although that I have reached this, may be ascribed rather to a miraculous interposition of Providence than to anything else. But to put you in possession of the whole case, you must know that the affair of Arezzo against the Florentines being disclosed to me after the return of Nicoloso Doria, I could not credit such a piece of villainy, for I never did or conceived anything in regard to the Pope or Duke Valentino except for their pleasure and profit. I therefore remained in secure reliance, considering the expeditions against Tuscany and Camerino to be great and justifiable enterprises: and I did so the more that my agent in Rome daily received pressing assurances of affection and safety from the Pope, the Cardinal of Modena, Trotti, Signor Adriano, Signor Paolo Orsini, and Duke Valentino. The Cardinal, in particular, volunteered to me, through an Observantine friar of influence who was much in my interest, the most solemn assurances on his own responsibility that I had nothing to fear, and that, having seen every despatch sent to France, Germany, and Venice, he was certain my name was never alluded to but in friendly terms. Whilst I thus remained inactive, and ready to follow your Lordship's advice, which I had already most anxiously sought through the Lord Prefect, I heard of the Duke leaving Rome with his troops, and at the same moment was applied to for a thousand infantry by Vitellozzo, who having taken Arezzo was doubtful of carrying the citadel. To whom I replied, that I had every wish to oblige his Holiness, the Duke, and himself, but that, as the Florentines were under French protection, and, as I had no personal quarrel with them to plead, I wished he would get the Pope to send a written application to me as his vicar, which I would at once obey. This answer he took much amiss, and refused me, saying that he would have the place without me. "There arrived soon after at Perugia the Bishop of Elna, as commissary-general of the Pope for the enterprise against Camerino, who sent me two Spanish gentlemen, with a letter from his Holiness, couched in the most affectionate terms, and stating that having ever found me in all respects devoted to the Church and to himself, he prayed me to concur in all the Duke's projects, and to execute the directions which I should receive from the Bishop. My reply placed myself at his Holiness's disposal. The Spaniards then informed me that my artillery must advance by Gubbio, Cagli, La Serra, and Sassoferrato, for which purpose I should have the roads repaired, and draught oxen provided; they likewise required me to give free passage and provisions for [an escort of] fifteen hundred foot. I immediately sent back with them Messer Dolce, to inform the Bishop that these instructions should all be willingly fulfilled, and I gave the necessary orders to the commissioner of Cagli and the lieutenant of Gubbio. I subsequently wrote to Messer Dolce at Perugia, desiring him to proceed as far as Spoleto to meet the Duke, and to wait upon his Excellency with every offer of service. He was received with all possible demonstrations of gratitude by the Duke, who assured him, with many thanks, that on no one in Italy could he look with the same fraternal attachment as myself; and who further earnestly entreated that I should send the thousand men to Vitellozzo. Messer Dolce having reported these matters to me, I instantly sent him back to represent my readiness to comply, on receiving from the Pope and his Excellency such letters as should discharge me of every responsibility with the King of France, and to propose that, since the exigence did not afford time to obtain these, Vitellozzo might raise five hundred men in my state, for which purpose I should contribute 1000 ducats, a force which would probably suffice, as I had just heard of his having reduced the citadel of Arezzo. I also prepared a beautiful charger with a surcoat of brocade, and sent them with Messer Dolce next day as a present, to the Duke. "But the latter, having suddenly taken horse at Spoleto hurried towards Costaccioro, sending forward two thousand men, whom he called the foot artillery; and these, having been admitted by my people, according to my instructions, advanced without further leave upon Cagli. The Duke, hurrying after them, was met between Cagli and Cantiano by Messer Dolce, who at the same moment received advices from Fossombrone, that of the two thousand infantry whom the former had in Romagna for the enterprise against Camerino, one half had moved upon Isola di Fano, Sorbolongo, and Reforzato, which places commanded the passes between my territory and that of the Lord Prefect, and that, besides these, a soldier was quartered in every house at Fano. It further appeared that the Counts of Montevecchio and S. Lorenzo, who were hovering on that frontier, had within the last few days been taken into the Duke's pay. "These several pieces of intelligence, so very different from my anticipations, reached me within the interval of an hour, about eight o'clock at night, whilst I was enjoying myself at supper in the country, supposing myself in perfect security. I hurried back to Urbino, and there found a message from the authorities of S. Marino, to inform me that the remaining thousand infantry of Romagna had advanced upon Verucchio and S. Arcangelo, well officered, occasioning them great alarm. Presently there reached me a letter from the commissioner of Cagli, intimating that the Duke had avowed hostile intentions, and would reach Urbino next morning. That place being in all respects unprovided for resistance, and its defences of no strength, I thought it well to make the best of my way on horseback, along with the Lord Prefect, three of my people, and a few archers, to S. Leo, my strongest fortress in Montefeltro, which is accessible by only two passes. I left instructions that matters should be so arranged that Urbino might suffer as little as possible, and at midnight I set out. By dawn I reached a castle [Monte Coppiolo] four miles distant from S. Leo, and there learned that the troops from Verucchio and S. Arcangelo, instead of marching upon S. Marino, had seized the passes of S. Leo, which was surrounded on all sides by the men of Rimini and Cesena, well organised. On hearing this, I despatched a person to ascertain how things were, and took the road to S. Agata, another of my Montefeltrian castles, on the confines of Tuscany and Romagna, which, though not of great strength, was a good quarter, and there I halted for a short rest to the horses, then nearly dead. "Dismissing there the archers, I, with three mounted followers, thought it best to separate from the Lord Prefect, who, with two of his people, took the most secure route towards the Val di Bagno, whilst I, disguised as a peasant, followed the mountain paths towards the Tuscan frontier, and the strongholds in the bishopric of Sarsina, then held for the Duke. About fourteen miles from S. Agata, and eight beyond the frontier, at a stream called the Borello in the territory of Cesena, I was attacked by some country people, who pursued us with cries of 'blood, blood, murder them!' Within a bow-shot of me they seized one of my people who carried my money, and a guide, but the rest of us with great difficulty reached Castelnuovo, a small place belonging to the illustrious Signory [of Venice], but surrounded by the Duke of Romagna's territories. I arrived about eight o'clock at night, half dead with fatigue, and after writing to the authorities of Ravenna to represent what had occurred, I betook myself to rest. Next mid-day there came an answer from the magistrates of that city, twenty-six miles distant, enjoining me on no account to remain there, which I believe was given with a good intention, as the place seemed weak and open to the enemy.[292] I therefore begged permission to stay still until evening, and, changing my disguise, prepared to face what then seemed inevitable death. Meanwhile another messenger, who had been despatched by the authorities of Ravenna to hurry my departure, was arrested at Meldola, a mile from Castelnuovo, and being examined as to his business, avowed the whole affair; whereupon Valentino's officers instantly ordered the passes to be guarded, especially that toward Galeato in Tuscany, and the high road to Ravenna. Having heard of this about six o'clock p.m., from a woman of Meldola, I decided not to wait for night, and took horse, accompanied by two of my people, the messenger from Ravenna, his three attendants, and two guides. To deceive the enemy, we avoided the direct roads to Ravenna and Galeato, and resolved to push right through the heart of the Duke's territory, at the risk of an encounter with his force. Passing between Bertinoro and Cesena, we crossed the highway from Cesena to Forlimpopoli, a mile from the former town, and thence by cross roads reached Ravenna without interruption; a most surprising escape, as at nightfall, whilst still in the enemy's country, we heard from Cesena, Forlimpopoli, and Bertinoro discharges of artillery and alarm bells, and saw signal fires, and a rush towards the very places which we had just passed. After riding the whole night, we got at sunrise to Ravenna, where we were well received by the magistracy; and thence, through the state of Ferrara, we arrived here [at Mantua], where we were welcomed in the most affectionate manner I could wish by the Lord Marquis. [Footnote 292: This rudeness was, however, visited by the Signory with a sharp rebuke.--SANUTO'S _Diaries_.] "Your Reverence has now heard all, and will excuse my lengthy details. I beg you will inform his most Christian Majesty of the treachery employed towards me, relying on the scrupulous truth of this, which may stand the test of all the world. And as to the assertion of my having been expelled by my people, which I hear the Duke begins to put abroad, be assured that all those who were aware of my departure did nothing but bewail it. I recommend myself to your Reverence, assuring you that my only earthly desire is to submit myself to the opinion of his Majesty in this affair, whose good servant, as your Lordship knows, I have ever been and will continue. "I hope in God that the Lord Prefect will escape, as the road he took was safer, and as I have heard no bad news of him. You should also know that as soon as the Duke reached Urbino, he wrote to Messer Giovanni Bentivoglio to seize and deliver me up to him, and that along all the coast of Sinigaglia, Fano, Pesaro, and Rimini measures were taken to intercept me. Further, that I have saved nothing but my life, a doublet and a shirt. Mantua, 28th June, 1502. "Your servant, "THE DUKE OF URBINO, _manu propria_." It was on the 20th of June that Valentino, after a forced march of thirty miles under a midsummer sun, halted his little army at Cagli, and the same evening the first alarm reached Guidobaldo, on the return of Dolce. The Duke had been supping in a shady grove by the Zoccolantine convent, about a mile out of Urbino, and sat enjoying the charm lavished by prodigal nature on that fair land at the hour of sunset, which "Fronde sub arborea ferventia temperat astra." It was long ere his breast again knew the tranquillity of that evening. On hearing the fatal news, he remained for a few moments absorbed in thought; then striking the table with his hand, he exclaimed, "I fear I shall find myself betrayed." Within four hours he had bid a touching but manly farewell to his court and people, cheering their despondency with the hope of better days, and had passed a secret postern of his palace, carrying with him a few papers, some money and jewels.[*293] Those who have experienced the difficulty, delay, and fatigue of penetrating the rugged country between his capital and S. Leo, may form some idea of the risks and sufferings of his midnight flight among these sierras, "As one That makes no pause, but presses on his road Whate'er betide him." [Footnote *293: The Duke left between the fourth and fifth hour of the night (i.e. between 11 p.m. and midnight) on June 20. Cf. _Diario delle Cose di Urbino_ in _Arch. St. per le Marche e per l'Umbria_, vol. III., p. 423.] But when the aggravations to a constitution broken by gout are considered, his surviving the exertion must seem almost miraculous. Two of his attendants were his favourite Giovanni Andrea, and Cathelan, his first chamberlain, the latter of whom, when hard pressed at the Borello, fell behind, and allowed himself to be taken and plundered, pretending to be the Duke, a device which slackened the pursuit, and enabled his master to escape. At the court of his brother-in-law, Francesco Marquis of Mantua, he found the hospitable shelter which his wearied frame so much needed after this tumult of exhausting incidents; and, in the society of his beloved wife, "Whose worthy words him seemed due recompense For all his passed pains," he cheerfully practised those lessons of contentment and philosophy with which, in brighter days, he had disciplined his mind. When a brief delay had given time for the Cardinal della Rovere to interpose with Louis in his behalf, Guidobaldo sought that monarch at Milan, and reminding him of his pledged protection, stated his grievances and besought redress. But state policy is ever selfish. Mutual interests rendered the close alliance of his Christian Majesty with the Borgia of primary importance to the unscrupulous ambition of both, and the outraged Duke of Urbino's appeals were responded to by cold generalities. Turning to his old allies, the Venetians, he repaired to their capital; and although they dared not resort to active measures in his behalf, situated as they were between two such formidable powers as Louis and Valentino, he received with them a cordial welcome, and enjoyed from their hospitality an honourable retirement, and an allowance of thirty pounds of gold a month, until time had given a favourable turn to the wheel of his fortune. An impression has arisen among the historians of these transactions, founded perhaps on a passage in Bembo's gossiping discourse,[294] that, either seriously, or as a temporary security from Borgia's murderous agents, the Duke, while at Milan, declared his impotency, and held out the hope that, should the Pope on this ground dissolve his marriage, and confer on him a cardinal's hat, his duchess might marry Cesare, now a widower. The whole story is apocryphal, and the character of the Duke and Duchess prevent our crediting that such an expedient could be seriously proposed or sanctioned by either of them. It is, however, casually mentioned by Machiavelli as a rumour, at the time of Guidobaldo's second withdrawal from his state in the following year. [Footnote 294: BEMBO, _Opera_, II., p. 637.] The night of the Duke's flight was one of lamentation and panic in Urbino. To the grief with which the inhabitants saw their beloved sovereign driven into unmerited exile quickly succeeded anxiety for themselves. The dismay attendant upon a dreaded invasion was augmented by the well-known blood-thirsty rapacity of Borgia and of his ferocious soldiery. Abandoned to their resources, each acted upon his own plan. Some hurried their women and valuables out of the city, in hopes of reaching, among the neighbouring villages, or even at Pesaro, a safe retreat from the horrors of conquest; others sought to conceal their treasures. Many fiercely ran to arms; more resigned themselves to wretched forebodings. At length, with returning light, order and confidence were in some degree restored by the energy of the magistrates, who forbade all tumult or attempts at defence on pain of instant punishment. Valentino, after a brief halt at Cagli, hurried his troops towards Urbino, and by sunrise was before its gates. Devoted to "the pomp and circumstance of glorious war," he entered the city in gorgeous armour on a beautiful charger, followed by his lances and men-at-arms, caparisoned as for a tournament, their parti-coloured plumes and glittering mail bearing no signs of a hurried march. He was met by the magistracy and principal inhabitants, who surrendered to him the town and citadel without any show of resistance; and his first act was to behead Pier-Antonio, a confidant of the Duke, who, at his instigation, had persuaded his master to grant the successive demands of the usurper, and so virtually to disable himself from defence, but who, by omitting to secure Guidobaldo's person, earned the vengeance of his seducer. After seizing several who were notoriously attached to the legitimate dynasty, he sought repose in the palace, where he found, and at once removed to Forlì, a vast amount of plate, tapestry, books, and other valuables, estimated by Sanuto at above 150,000 ducats, a sum now equal to perhaps a quarter of a million sterling. His orders against plundering were ill observed; and it was not till after much damage had been done by his troops, to property both of the Duke and of the citizens, that he marched them to Fermignano, a village at some distance, where their rapine was indulged without check.[*295] The various communities of the state, finding themselves in the enemy's hands, sent in their adherence; the only exceptions were S. Leo and Maiuolo: the latter speedily surrendered; the former was gained by treachery, as we shall hereafter see. Camerino was likewise reduced within a month, and Giulio Cesare Varana, its brave lord, was soon after strangled by Borgia's order, in daring breach of the terms and assurances he had received, his eldest son Venanzio, with two natural brothers, sharing his fate. Adding sacrilege to murder, the usurper carried off from the monastery of Sta. Chiara, at Urbino, Elisabetta Malatesta, the widowed sister of Guidobaldo, a lady whose mature years might have protected her from outrage, and who was released by an exchange of prisoners only on her brother's first return.[296] [Footnote *295: The _Diario delle Cose di Urbino_ makes no mention of any terror or looting on the 21st or after. There was an earthquake on the 23rd at mid-day, "_che non s'udì mai il maggiore_." On the 25th Cesare departed towards Casteldurante. He returned on August 3rd and left on the 6th.] [Footnote 296: See of her, p. 289.] We here once more draw upon Capello's Venetian relation for some notice of the monster, whose misdoings have thus gradually become bound up in our narrative. To that ambassador of the Republic, Duke Valentino appeared quite as much feared as he was loved by his father, who grumbled at his regal prodigality, more than at his own favourite Perotto being stabbed by him under his very mantle, while the life-blood spurted into his face. Tall and well made, surpassing in personal advantages even the handsome Ferdinand of Naples, he prided himself on having slain six wild boars with the lance while on horseback, striking the head off one at a blow, to the wonder of all Rome, "so that the whole town trembled lest it should be their turn next to test the temper of his steel." The strong representations made to Louis at Milan, by most of his Italian confederates, of Duke Valentino's tyranny, faithlessness, and cruelty, were neutralised by his sudden appearance in person. Meeting his Majesty in the street, the minion averted his rising indignation by proffering humble submission, and imploring protection from numberless foes. The impression thus made he followed up by abject and elaborate flattery, and so successfully did he justify himself, or rather, perhaps, so fully did he demonstrate how necessary to their several schemes was an unshrinking mutual support, that, instead of being disavowed by the French monarch, he obtained his sanction, and a squadron of three hundred lances, in aid of his scarcely disguised designs against Bologna, Perugia, and Città di Castello. The respective lords of these places were allies of France, and two of them were, or had been, actually in Borgia's pay; but such considerations availed not to save them from his avowed resolution of extirpating their races, and adding their territories to the kingdom at which his boundless ambition seems now to have aimed. Thus aroused to their common danger, these and other chiefs sought to organise a common defence, and, about the end of September, assembled at La Magione, near Perugia, to concert their measures. In this confederacy were included Giovanni Bentivoglio, of Bologna; Gian-Paolo Paglioni, of Perugia; Vitellozzo Vitelli, of Città di Castello; Pandolfo Petrucci, of Siena; along with the Orsini, including Cardinal Gian-Battista, Francesco Duke of Gravina, Paolo, a bastard of the Bracciano line, and his son the Chevalier Fabio. With these was likewise associated Oliverotto Eufreducci, generally called Liverotto da Fermo, whose atrocities deserve brief notice. Having treacherously murdered his guardian and maternal uncle, Giovanni Fogliano, seigneur of Fermo, whilst his guest at a banquet, in January, 1502, he seized that city. In the same cold-blooded slaughter were included the son and son-in-law of Giovanni, the latter by name Raffaele della Rovere (natural son of the Cardinal Giuliano), whose two infants were also murdered by orders of the monster, as he rode through the city to proclaim himself sovereign, one being thrown from the window at which it gazed on the spectacle, the other having its throat cut while in its mother's arms.[297] Such was the miscreant selected by Machiavelli as the paragon of a prince exalted by criminal means, and such Sismondi would seem to consider the type of Italian seigneurs in this age! [Footnote 297: Vat. Urb. MSS. No. 1023, art. 17.] The diet of La Magione had ample cause for alarm. They had seen half of the independent feudatories of the Church, the Riarii, Malatesta, Sforza, Manfredi, Colonna, Montefeltri, and Varana dispossessed, slaughtered, or exiled, and now their turn was at hand. At this juncture an event occurred which quickly matured their wavering counsels. Of the many fortresses of his highland state, S. Leo alone held out for Guidobaldo, till, after some weeks, it was treasonably surrendered by the commander, Ludovico Scarmiglione, of Foligno. This traitor, having the assurance to present himself to his master at Venice, and, attempting to make excuses for the "misfortune," added that he would, without doubt, take steps for its reconquest, the Duke causticly replied, "Give yourself no further trouble as to that; your having lost it was already one step towards its recovery." Among its citizens was Gian-Battista Brizio, who, as page and equerry of Duke Federigo, had learned the duties at once of a gallant soldier and a loyal subject. Having gained the engineer employed to repair its fortifications, he introduced singly into the town a number of the old militia on whom he could depend, disguised as peasants; and, at the preconcerted moment, on the 5th of October, the drawbridge was jammed, as if accidentally, by some large logs of timber. On a given signal the pretended peasants rushed upon the garrison, and supported by an ambuscade planted outside, who seized the embarrassed gate, they slaughtered Borgia's officers, and carried the place by a _coup-de-main_. Their cry of "Feltro, Feltro! the Duke, the Duke!" alternating with "Marco, Marco!" the watchword of Venice, rang through the mountain passes, and was echoed from the surrounding castles, spreading the insurrection as far as Gubbio and Cagli.[298] News of the fall of S. Leo reached Urbino on the 8th, being market day, and the country people, catching up the same war-cries, rushed upon part of their garrison, who were endeavouring to secure some pieces of artillery that had been carelessly left outside the walls since the Camerino affair.[*299] The soldiers being beaten back, the citizens and militia rushed to arms; but ere the counter-revolution was completed in the town, fifteen mules, laden with valuables from the palace, had been sent out towards Forlì. Next day, by a sudden and well-supported assault, the citadel was taken, and as its assailants congratulated themselves on their easy victory, an express brought tidings that Fossombrone too had declared for the Duke. A detachment of four hundred men, hastily despatched to aid in reducing the castle, arrived there too late to save that devoted town from a savage retribution. [Footnote 298: Sanuto has preserved the following letter of the 8th October, addressed by Cesare to the inhabitants of Bertinoro, near Cesena, in reference to this feat of Brizio:-- "The Duke of Romagna, Prince of Urbino and Adria, Lord of Piombino, to our well-beloved, greeting: The peasants of S. Leo, carrying wood into that place, induced by cupidity of new booty, captured the warder and took the castle; and it being the capital of Montefeltro, the neighbouring castles have rebelled; and as perhaps Guidobaldo, feigning to have assistance from some potentate, may attempt to go thither, we command you, as you value our favour, to exert yourselves, and guard the passes with armed men, arresting all who may come that way, giving them into the hands of our commissary, or slaying those who may make resistance. Guidobaldo is not aware of the good understanding which exists between the Pope's Holiness and the most Christian King of France, as also between other potentates and us."] [Footnote *299: On 8 October, according to the _Diario_ above cited (p. 401, note *1) [Transcriber's Note: Original erroneously cites p. 385], news came of the return of San Leo, San Marino, and Tavoleto, and all the Montefeltro. Gubbio and Cagli had returned to their allegiance to Guidobaldo, and all Urbino armed itself and cried, "_Feltro! Feltro! Feltro!_" There was, however, at first a large party who did not wish to see Guidobaldo again. The _rocca_, still presumably in the hands of Cesare, was taken next day, four _contadini_ being killed.] Notice of the rising having reached Michele Coreglia, Cesare's favourite minister in his worst atrocities, who, from his small figure, was surnamed Don Michelotto, he marched upon La Pergola, which was also in arms. At Fossombrone he obtained admission with his troops, by raising a cry of "Feltro" at the gates, and sacked both these towns with revolting excesses, the women seeking to save themselves and their infants in the river Metauro. He then turned his track of fire and sword towards Urbino, menacing the citizens with a similar fate. Their drooping courage was revived by news of the league of La Magione, and by Vitellozzo's arrival on the 11th, with a reinforcement of forty lances and four hundred infantry. Paolo Orsini advanced upon Cagli the same day, in order to keep the cut-throat Michelotto in check. The other leaders were equally active. They had sent urgent representations to Venice and Florence, praying support against the common enemy; but with these republics a cautious policy prevailed, and by their backwardness the opportunity of crushing him was lost. Indeed, the latter stood already committed to Valentino by sending Nicolò Machiavelli, on the 5th of October, to offer him, as an ally of France, their support against the confederation; whilst the Venetian Signory, on hearing the affair of S. Leo, assured the Pope's legate, in presence of Guidobaldo himself, that the movement had neither their sanction nor sympathy. Borgia, deserted by his best captains, was well aware of his danger, and is described as full of alarm by Machiavelli, who arrived at this juncture; but putting the best face upon matters, he ascribed the rising in the duchy to the unpopularity of his troops, to his ill-judged clemency in not having formerly made a sufficient example of the inhabitants, and to his remissness in leaving the principal offices in disaffected hands. But affecting indifference as to Urbino, which from the moment S. Leo was surprised he regarded as lost, and remarking that he had carried it in three days, and had not forgotten how to do so again, he concentrated his cares upon Romagna. Emboldened by the timely support of Florence, he sent to Louis, who had now returned home, the strongest representations of the peril impending over their mutual designs, and pressed him for prompt and efficient succours. Meanwhile, distrusting his strength, he had recourse to cunning, in order to avert the danger, or, at least, to gain time. Disguising his indignation, he opened communications with the individual confederates, and endeavoured to amuse them with hollow professions and seeming apologies, artfully appealing to their respective prejudices, sowing jealousies, explaining away former offences, and avowing for each a sincere friendship, based upon a community of interests. Whilst these intrigues were fomenting he remained at Imola, apparently at his ease, but, in reality, recruiting the means of vengeance, to be used as soon as his enemies had been divided. Meanwhile he rallied many mountain chieftains and straggling adventurers, each with his handful of broken lances, and thus, when the moment for action arrived, had secured a not despicable following of troops prepared for any enormity. On the 29th of October, Machiavelli's despatch contained returns of above five thousand foot, and nearly a thousand men-at-arms, light cavalry, and archers, even before the arrival of his French or Swiss auxiliaries. The first successes of his friends at S. Leo and Urbino had been communicated to Guidobaldo on the 7th, by letters urging his immediate presence, and he hastened to respond to the call.[300] [Footnote 300: Among the Oliveriana MSS. I found a statement that his return was reluctant, and against hope of success, and that it had been somewhat forced upon him, in consequence of the injudicious zeal of a priest, who, finding his seal in S. Leo, gave out that he was arrived, ordered rejoicings, and issued forged letters in his name. The apocryphal story is not supported by any authority that I have met with. From the instructions to Machiavelli, dated 5th of October, it appears that his return was anticipated before the surprise of S. Leo had taken place,--an event probably brought about in part by such rumours, tending "Spargere voces In vulgum ambiguas, et quærere conscius arma." Indeed, he had secretly applied to the Signory for pecuniary aid some days anterior to the rising in his duchy.] Having experienced the risks of the Romagna passes when in the hands of a watchful foe, he took sea from Venice to Sinigaglia, which his courageous sister still held in name of her son, the young Lord Prefect. After a brief fraternal greeting,--for night had fallen when he landed, and the hours of darkness were precious,--the Duke once more undertook a harassing ride through intricate mountain paths, and reached S. Leo, on the 17th of October, just twelve days after the banner of Montefeltro, streaming from its towers, had roused the country to arms. Thanking the gallant Brizio, and cheering his little garrison, he next morning set out for his capital, through villages and townships that vied with each other in zeal to welcome his appearance by tables placed for refreshment. When he approached Urbino, whose devotedness on this and similar occasions gained for that city the distinguishing epithet of _fidele_, or leal, the entire population turned out to receive him; and it was with much delay and difficulty his horse could penetrate their crowded ranks, and carry him to the cathedral.[*301] There he found the bishop at the head of his clergy, and after attending a solemn function to return thanks to the King of kings for his restoration, he sought repose in his palace. Worn out by severe exertion, and suffering from gout, he was confined to bed during the next three days, but none were refused access of the promiscuous multitudes who flocked to satisfy themselves as to his actual return.[*302] Of the affection entertained towards him, a touching instance occurs in the naive diary to which we have recently referred:--"I was plundered at Montecalvo by the soldiery of stuff to the value of twenty-five ducats, which prevented me from sowing this year; but my losses seemed as nothing when I saw my Prince, and especially when I touched his hand; such were the caresses bestowed upon me by my Lord, whom God preserve!" [Footnote 301: On 18 October, 1502, the Duke returned to Urbino; he had with him but ten horse. "Non saprei estimare la moltitudine degli uomini d'ogni parte grandi e piccoli che si trovarono per la strada. Da poi che si partì da San Leo per sino a Urbino, in ogni poggio erano le tavole apparecchiate dagli Urbinati. Ogni uomo se gli fe incontro dalla terra a un miglio, a due, a tre, a quattro" (_Diario_, cf. _supra_, p. 401, note *1)] [Transcriber's Note: Original erroneously cites p. 385.] [Footnote *302: "Our Signore," says the _Diario_, "did not leave his bed on the 19th because he had the gout ... but every man went to speak with him in bed, the _contadino_ as well as the citizen; and day and night he gave them audience, and spoke with every one willingly."] On the 15th, Ugo di Moncada and Michelotto, after being worsted near Fossombrone by Paolo Orsini and Vitellozzo, fell back upon Fano, and the whole country rushed to arms. Four months after his first surprise, Guidobaldo was again master of his states, almost without a blow, Sant'Agata being the only fortress still held for Borgia. Had one united effort been then made by the chiefs against their common enemy, his cause might have been rendered desperate. But precious moments were lost in undecided movements and petty skirmishes, till Louis had responded to his appeal by ordering him a reinforcement of five hundred lances, and promising what further aid he might require. The harmony which actuated the confederates against Valentino became distracted when they found themselves in hostile contact with that victorious monarch. On their mutual heart-breakings and wavering resolutions Cesare's wily representations told with tenfold effect. Within a week of the fall of S. Leo, he had opened secret communications with Paolo Orsini, a man of shallow capacity, and he complained bitterly to Machiavelli of having been deceived by that chief in the affair of Fossombrone. On the 25th of October Paolo arrived at Imola to treat with him, and in two days acceded to his terms. A treaty was signed on the 28th, by Cesare for himself, and by Paolo on the part of the Diet, whereby its combined chiefs, forgetting past jealousies, were to re-enter Valentino's service, and assist him to recover Urbino and Camerino. To this accommodation there was, however, some difficulty in obtaining the sanction of their associates. Vitellozzo is said to have torn it up when presented to him, and it was not until his brother, the Bishop of Città di Castello, had met some cardinals sent by the Pope to La Magione, and had visited Petrucci at Siena, that a reluctant unanimity was obtained. The conditions of this hollow reconciliation resembled, in some respects, the bonds of maintenance and manrent then usual among Scottish chieftains. The associated condottieri were taken bound to aid and support all the race of Borgia in their quarrels and causes, and to give their sons as hostages when required by Cesare, on whom one of them was to be in constant attendance. The contest had, from Borgia's dilatory policy, quickly declined to a guerilla war, most harassing to the Urbinites, whose alarm was aggravated by the rumours of an arrangement between him and the confederates, which prevailed in the beginning of November. When the treaty transpired, the Duke, upon the 17th, laid his case before the principal inhabitants of his state, offering to place himself in their hands, and either to retire or to live and die with them, as they might decide. Resistance to the death was their option, and so great was the enthusiasm, that a deputation of ladies waited upon him to applaud the resolution, and to lay at his feet their jewels and ornaments for the common cause. All was now busy preparation over the duchy. Men were hastily levied and drilled, free captains were enrolled, fortresses were repaired. But a new access of gout proved how little fit their sovereign was for the field, and in so desperate a crisis the maintenance of their independence seems scarcely to have been contemplated by the most sanguine. Still, by showing a good front, they calculated upon making better terms for themselves and the Duke; nor were their opponents' views such as to render hopeless such an issue. The chiefs having bound themselves to make common cause with Guidobaldo for the re-establishment of his rights, they were anxious that he should fall easily after their desertion, and willingly lent their mediation to obtain for him such conditions as might save them from being the instruments of his utter destruction. Cesare, too, had his own reasons for seeking a more prompt solution of the dilemma than was promised by a winter campaign in the most inaccessible country of Italy and against its bravest people, fighting for their hearths and in support of a beloved dynasty. The horrors of such a war possessed no charm for him, for he had already planned a sanguinary vengeance which risked nothing, and to his crooked mind treachery was more attractive than fair fighting. Besides, he was awaiting the arrival of three thousand Swiss mercenaries, and in the interval lent himself to negotiations, conducted on his part by Gian-Paolo Vitelli, and on that of the Duke of Urbino by Ottaviano Fregosa. At length, on the 4th of December, an arrangement was published, by which S. Leo and three other fortresses were to remain in the hands of Guidobaldo, with permission to transport thither whatever property he chose, the remainder of the Duchy passing again to Borgia. During the next two days much of the Duke's valuables were removed, and on the 7th the palace was thrown open to general plunder; indeed, all law and order being suspended, there was a scramble by the citizens for the safety of their families and effects. Paolo Orsini, to calm the excitement, offered to guarantee the full amnesty stipulated in the surrender; but, enraged at a reverse which they attributed mainly to his perfidy and cowardice, they spurned his assurances, and, being unable to tear him to pieces, wreaked their indignation by hooting him as "the Lady Paul." To the Duke there remained no alternative but once more to withdraw; yet, before setting out, he advised his people to dismantle the other castles, as these could only serve to strengthen the usurper's hold upon his country, in the event of any new effort for his restoration,--a suggestion which they carried enthusiastically into effect ere Cesare could take means to prevent them. But to have punished their precipitancy would have been all the more impolitic, when there were no longer fortresses from which to overawe their obedience; so he had no alternative but conciliation, and on taking possession of the duchy he proclaimed a general amnesty, as provided in the capitulation. The fatigues which Guidobaldo had undergone in reaching his capital had brought on a severe attack of his constitutional enemy, which disqualified him from active exertion during most of the anxious period of his stay there, and, indeed, generally confined him to his couch. A new exertion was, however, requisite, and he met it with his wonted firmness. On the 7th of December he made a parting address to his people, and explained to them that, after applying in vain for aid to all the powers of Italy, and unable singly to resist the Pope and his son, the interests of his state left him no choice but to retire. He recommended them resignation to an inevitable destiny, and advised them to remain quietly under their new sovereign until it should please God to send them better times. Next morning, at eight o'clock, he once more bade adieu to his dominions amid the lamentations of thousands, and retired to Città di Castello. There the Bishop entertained him hospitably until the 5th of January, when news of the tragedy at Sinigaglia suggested to them both the necessity of flight. The Duke soon found a kind welcome in the castle of Pittigliano, near Bolsena, from his old friend Count Nicolò Orsini, and obtained from the Venetians an injunction prohibiting Cesare from molesting him in that stronghold of their general. But he too well knew his daring enemy to trust much to such nominal protection, and on his approach took the road to Mantua. From Rovigo he addressed these hurried lines to "The most serene Prince and most illustrious Lord my special Lord, Leonardo Loredano, by God's grace Doge of the Venetians: "Most serene Prince and most illustrious Lord, my special Lord, "This is only to make known to your Serenity how, after enduring many and infinite pains and perils, I am by God's grace safely brought back into your Serenity's territory and dominions, and have been most affectionately received and welcomed by the magnificent Messer Gianpaolo [Gradenigo, governor of Rovigo]; and, please God, I mean to be presently in Venice, where I consider myself at home. All this I have deemed it right to notify to your Serenity, to whom I ever commend myself. From Rovigo, 27th of January, 1503. "Your servant, "GUIDO DUKE OF URBINO, _manu propria_." Sanuto, who has preserved this letter, continues the following detail of the wanderer's reception at Venice. "On this day [31st of January] there came into college the Duke Guido of Urbino, for whom the Signory sent the chiefs of the forty, and us sages for the orders, to be his escort. He was seen with favour by an immense concourse of persons, and there on the landing I addressed him, saying he was welcome, and that the Signory was anxious to embrace him, and rejoiced at his escape from so great perils. His Highness returned thanks, and then went up by the grand stone staircase. All were gladdened on seeing him; and, being seated near the Doge, he spoke some bland words, purporting how miraculously he had reached what he might term his own house, and added, that having neither state nor property, he could offer none such, but that his person was the Signory's until death. The Doge replied in congratulatory terms at his escape from so great dangers, the account of which he said gave him more satisfaction than if his own son had been rescued from shipwreck. He then inquired of the Duke how he got away, which his Lordship thus recounted. "Being at Pittigliano, and his surrender demanded by the Pope, who proposed going thither with the camp, he resolved on departing. His wish was to go by sea, but he could not get a brigantine, so he left by land with a single companion [Vitelli], Bishop of Città di Castello, who was also setting forth, he knew not whither. On reaching Montefiore, above Siena, the Count sent his secretary there to accompany him; and riding all night, he skirted the walls of Siena to Bonconvento, another dependency of that community, where he took post-horses, and entered the Florentine territory, the secretary leaving him, as he had not heart to act as guide. At Fucecchio he found the passes guarded, but the commissary, after examination of him, allowed him to proceed; and he also passed inspection at a second barrier guarded by a certain count. Having thus crossed the Arno, he came towards Monte-carlo, where he was brought before the commissary for examination. In reply he stated himself to be Gian-Battista of Ravenna, a messenger of the Cardinal of Lisbon's household; but the commissary said his orders were to arrest all comers and write to Florence, thirty-two miles distant. His baggage having then been seized, the Duke was searched, and locked up in a chamber without fire or bed. The answer from Florence was that counsel should be taken; and one Francesco Becchi of that city having been sent, with fifteen mounted bowmen, to examine him, he recognised the Duke, whose state he had frequented, but said 'I know him not.' He then returned to Florence, where the Duke supposes that further consultation was held, as the Ten wrote ordering him to be set at liberty, on his swearing to be the person he represented himself, and his baggage to be given up. After being thus detained for seven days he came on to a friend in Lucca, and thence passing by Grafegnana he embarked in a little barge, and with great risks reached Polesella, and so came to Rovigo, where he found himself at length in safety. Such was his marvellous voyage, during which he had suffered greatly from journeying on foot, as he walks with difficulty by reason of gout, and this very morning I was obliged to give him my arm. After taking leave of the Doge we again accompanied him to his gondola. His consort is here on the Canaregio, in the house of Malombra." This continued his residence during his exile, except for a short visit which he paid to the hot mud-baths at Abano, in the vain attempt of stewing out his gout; and he enjoyed from the Signory a monthly pension of a hundred golden scudi. APPENDICES APPENDIX I (Pages 37, 40) POETRY OF THE FAMILY OF MONTEFELTRO We shall here collect a few literary remains of personages connected with the family of Montefeltro, to whom we have alluded in early chapters of this work. They can scarcely now be considered of general interest, but they indicate and test that cultivation of letters among princely houses to which we have often pointed, and, coming from sources not generally accessible, will be welcome to literary antiquarians. The authors of whom we are to give specimens, may be thus arranged:-- I. Antonio Count of Urbino, mentioned above at pp. 36-8. To him is ascribed a sonnet on Christ crucified, in a MS. of the _Divina Commedia_, at the royal library of Naples, and published in vol. II., p. 361, of the _Giornale Arcadico_ of Rome, 1819. It is No. I. of our specimens, and but for its imputed authorship, might probably have remained unnoticed. II. Malatesta de' Malatesti, or, as he was more frequently designated, _de' Sonnetti_, was Seigneur of Pesaro, and second cousin of Sigismondo Pandolfo, Lord of Rimini. He was born in 1370, and died in 1429, leaving the reputation of an elegant poet. Several of his fugitive effusions are referred to by Crescimbeni, III., 225, who has printed one of his sonnets. Our selections are two others, Nos. II., III., moralising on the vanity and disappointments of life, from the Oliveriana MSS. No. 454, ff. 30, 31, and part of a canzone, No. IV., describing the charms of his love, from Vat. Urb. MSS. No. 3212, f. 128. His son married, III. Battista di Montefeltro, daughter of Count Antonio, and aunt of Duke Federigo of Urbino. We have spoken of her above at p. 39, and insert two sonnets from her pen, addressed to Malatesta, Nos. V., VI., the former an invocation of the Holy Ghost, the latter deprecating her own presumptuous spirit; also, No. VII., her letter to Pope Martin V., referred to at p. 40. A canzone, addressed by her to the princes of Italy in a fine tone of expostulation, will be found in Crescimbeni, III., 266. Her granddaughter, Costanza Varana, married, in 1445, IV. Alessandro Sforza, Lord of Pesaro, who has been often mentioned in our Second Book, and to whom is ascribed the sonnet No. VIII. below. He was father of Battista, second wife of Duke Federigo of Urbino, and of V. Costanzo, his successor in Pesaro, author of the last sonnet in this collection. Both of these lyrics have been given by Crescimbeni, V., 223-4. I. I sacri piedi, e l'una e l'altra palma Ti furo in croce, o Re del Ciel, confitti. Gl'invisibil nimici ivi sconfitti, E franto il giogo, e sposta la gran salma. D'esiglio librasti la prim' alma, E gli altri che con lei eran proscritti: Oggi purgasti i suoi primi delitti, Che me intendesser l'aula eterna ed alma. Quella pietà che in tal giorno ti mosse A salvar tutto 'l mondo, anco ti mova Verso un'altr' alma combattuta e vinta. Fragili e debil son le umane posse: A grandi assalti prostata si trova Se non è l'alma di tua grazia cinta. II. El tempo, el quale è nostro, i' ho smarrito In vanitade, ho speso ogni mia sorte; Seguito ho il mondo, traditor si forte, Che giusta cosa è, ch'i' ne sia punito. Di fumo e vento i' fui già ben formito, Et ora per ristor chieggio la morte, E la prosperità chiuso ha le porte; Ingrato trovo ogn'uom' ch'i' ho servito. Or sia che vuole, i' sono al fin pur giunto, Intricato, et perplexo in tanto errore, Ch'i' vorrei ogni giorno esser defunto. O tu che leggi, pensa qual dolore Esser de' il mio, veggendomi in un punto Povero, infermo, vecchio e peccatore. III. I son pur giunto carco, alla vecchiezza, Di peccati, dolor, pene, et affanni; Ch'il mondo traditor, con falsi inganni, M'ha privato di lume et d'allegrezza. O sciagurato me, ch'in tal lunghezza Ho consumato i giorni, i mesi, e gli anni: Ne mai ho posto a miei gravosi danni Fren di virtù, che dà somma richezza. Ohime, che tardi omai penso ritrarmi, La mal usanza m'ha si tratto al fondo Che gran fatica fia poter levarmi. Tu ben vedi, O Signor, che dal profondo Del core i' traggo i lagrimosi carmi, E sai il bisogno e 'l modo di salvarmi. IV. Coralli, rose, perle, ebano e stelle Adornan la tua faccia, in ciel creata Nel cerchio triumphal, dove se eterna La mane eburnee, e l'altre membra snelle, In ciascun loco sua parte affirmata, Debitamente la parte superna. Io benedico la virtù paterna La qual produsse un si bel fructo al mondo, Che simil ne secondo Vivè d'entro ne fuor da sette clima. Qual tesor, di che stima! Vale solo la terra o fermi il piede. La natura non diede Mai si grata influenza a creatura; Vergine bella, dolce, humile et pura. V. Clementissimo Spirto, ardente amore Dal Padre Eterno, e dal Verbo emanante; Somma Benignità, cooperante Quel mistero, ch'esalta il nostro cuore; Nella mia mente infondi il tuo timore, Pietà, consiglio: e poi, somma Creante, Dammi fortezza, e scienza fugante Dall'alma nazional ciascuno errore. Solleva l'intelletto al Ben superno, Illuminando l' tanto che difforme Non sia da quella fe ch'al ciel ne scorge. Donami sapienza, con eterno Gusto di tua dolcezza, O Settiforme Si, ch'io dispregi ciò ch'il mondo porge. VI. La tua superbia m'è di gran stupore, Alma presuntuosa et arrogante, Con tanto ardir la tua voce elevante, A quel sublime et immenso splendore. L'angelico consorzio, con fervore Il glorioso objetto contemplante, Benchè beato, pur vi sta tremante, E tu ardisci parlar senza rossore? Vuoi gustar qui l'aura del Ben eterno E non correggi la tua vita enorme? Ma del tuo vaneggiar Dio ben s'accorge. Il viver basso dunque prendi a scherno, Piangi, sospira amando, e segui l'orme Degli umil', a cui Dio la man sua porge. VII. ILLUSTRISSIMÆ PRÆCLARISSIMÆQUE DOMINÆ BAPTISTÆ DE MALATESTIS [LITERA], AD SANCTISSIMUM DOMINUM PAPAM MARTINUM V., PRO SERENISSIMA EJUS SORORE DOMINA CLEOPHE, BASILISSA, NUPTA FILIO IMPERATORIS CONSTANTINOPOLITANI, QUÆ A VIRO SUO COGEBATUR SEQUI OPINIONEM GRÆCORUM. Paveo equidem, Beatissime Pater, nec mediocriter vereor, cum inscia muliercula sim, tuæ Celsitudinis aures inquietare incomptis eloquiis meis. Sed diuturnæ ac incredibiles angustiæ, illius videlicet fidelis ancillæ tuæ serenissimæ sororis mei, necnon admirandæ tuæ clementiæ fama quam in parte sum experta, oris claustra propulsant, maxime cum non pro sæcularibus commodis tuam Sanctitatem decreverim exorare, immo pro animæ salute quæ pro integritate fidei Catholicæ tot et tanta perpessa est, quanta neminem his temporibus sustinuisse cognovi. Quamquam igitur tui mi terreat magnitudo, visio tamen causæ, quæ me medullitus angit et afficit, tuaque benignitas et humanitas ausum præbent. Quapropter muliebri timiditate deposita, coram venerandis tuæ Sanctitatis prostrata vestigiis, tandem humiliter et gemebunde deposco, ne animam, pro qua Dominus Jesus non recusavit crucis subire supplicium, suo derelinquat patrocinio destitutam. Nosti enim, beatissime Pater, quod ovicula illa tua non absque consensu tuo corporaliter a Græcis sejuncta est. Ne igitur sequestretur et mente, enquirere eam, optime Pastor, et illius imitare velis exemplum, cujus vicem geris in terris, qui errantem propriis humeris reduxit ad caulas. Timendum namque est, ne mens illa, quæ invisibili subsidio roborata, hucusque incredibili fortitudine immota permansit, deinceps pusillanimitate deficiat, præsertim si in mediis fluctibus se derelictam sanserit, nec saltem sibi manum porrigi sublevantem. Cum ergo fidei ortodoxæ defensor et gubernator existas, illa quæ pro fide servanda tot pericula patitur, et ærumnas, a quo nisi a Beatitudine tua potest aut debet auxilium postulare, cui et potissimum incumbit cura, et adest potentia? Eja ergo, sanctissime Pater, consurge in defensionem constantissimæ filiæ, quæ tibi sanguine et spiritu conjuncta est, eoque vigilantius, quo nunc acrius impugnatam agnoveris a bello utique domestico, et intestina pugna. Venerabilis namque Pater, præsentium lator, Sanctitati tuæ omnia serio ore expositurus adveniet, quem cum audiveris, nisi sis ex silice natus, aut hircanarum tigrium lacte nutritus, absque dubio movebuntur omnia viscera tua, solitaque pietate devictus, celerrime et benigne subvenies indigenti, minimeque hujuscemodi supplicatione opus erit in posterum, sed potius gratiarum actione apud Beatitudinem tuam, cujus pedibus me humiliter et instantissime recommitto. VIII. Io son si lasso, debilito, e stanco Sotto il gran fascio del terrestre peso, E tutto il ciel si mortalmente ho offeso, Che tra i sospiri lacrimoso or manco. Di dolor tremo, e di paura imbianco Come uom trafitto; il cor legato e preso In se raccoglie il tempo male speso, Ond esce il zel che gli percuote il fianco. Non mia pianeta o corso di mia stella, Non fato o mio destin, non mia fortuna, Ma solo incolpo la sfrenata voglia. Pero convien che, in solitaria cella, Le mie piaghe mortali ad una ad una Piangan mercede, con pentita doglia. IX. Oh tu, che con tuoi versi si mi sproni, E con soavi rime e dolci canti, Dolendoti pur meco de' miei pianti, Et a mie' affanni mi conforti e moni. Se ti rincrescon, si come tu poni Le infinite mie angosce e i martir tanti, Non mi ricordar più le doglie e pianti, E li sospir già vani e i miei gran toni. Aime che ricordando si rinfresca I colpi, e le gran piaghe che nel core Io porto, per colei qual sempre invoco. E pure il gran desio mi tira all'esca, E quanto più sgrupar mi sforza, allore M'intrico più: e sempre ardo nel foco. APPENDIX II (Page 48, note 1) INVENTORY OF ARTICLES TAKEN BY BRIGIDA SUEVA DI MONTEFELTRO, _ALIAS_ SISTER SERAFINA, INTO THE CONVENT OF CORPUS DOMINI 7 pair of sheets of spun silk striped with gold; 7 pair of napkins [_paniselli_], also of silk striped with gold; 1 fillet with stripes of silk and gold; 1 _trapisello_ of silk with a stripe of gold; 4 hoods of silk wrought with gold, one made up, the others not; 2 other caps, one of crimson velvet, the other green, both embroidered; 1 other napkin of silk striped with gold; 1 other _trapisello_ of silk wrought with satin; 1 other _trapisello_ of cambric damasked at the head; 4 crimson buttons mounted in gold for pillows; 1 reticule woven of gold and silk; 3 other bags wrought in silk and gold, and one with pearls; 1 cord of silver and silk with _mape_; 2 combs wrought in ivory; 2 pieces of brocade tissue, one white the other crimson, unmade up; 2 dog-collars, silver mounted; 2 silver salt-sellers; 4 trimmings of tissue; 1 pair of small crystal-handled knives; 3 pillow-slips of crimson silk; 1 pair white ditto, with silk buttons; 1 half pillow-slip, wrought in gold and untrimmed; 1 silk coverlet, with a stripe of gold in the middle; 1 half pillow-slip of silk untrimmed; 1 netted cap with several fringes of silk and gold; 1 _agnus Dei_ mounted in silver, with a little silver chain; 3 strings of coral beads, one plain, another alternating with gold; 1 pair of large linen table-cloths with stripes of silk and gold; 1 pair of thin sheets wrought with gold and silk; 1 bundle of napkins of German cambric [_renda le man_]; 2 comfit-boxes of silk striped with gold; 2 napkins with stripes of gold and silk; 1 other bundle [_golupo_] of small towels of cambric [_reno_]; 1 other bundle of _trapiselli de reno_; 1 black striped towel, used; 41 head-kerchiefs with black stripes, in a trunk; 1 table-cover in a trunk, and _oselati_ of black cotton; 8 head-kerchiefs in another trunk with black stripes; 8 hand-towels in _oselati_ with black stripes in one piece; 12 ditto in another piece; 2 towel-cases wrought with black stripes; 2 worked napkins; 6 trimmed tissues, one purple, one alessandrine, one green, one pied [_bertina_] besides two old ones, to be given to Antonella and Victoria; 1 purple brocaded dress; 1 small brocaded cloak, alessandrine coloured; 1 other crimson brocaded, which was unpicked and used as a lining for the black brocaded dress; 1 dress of white embroidered cloth; 1 dress of green embroidered velvet, which, if she likes it, is to be sent to my Lady; 1 dress of engrained black; 1 ditto of brown; 1 pied mantle, which, if it pleases my Lady, may be made an altar-cloth; 1 dress of purple damask, which, if she likes it, I shall give to Antonia, daughter of Signor Orlandin; 1 lining of martin fur for a pair of large sleeves; 1 _conetoro da cima_ of crimson brocade lined in the back, and another of crimson also lined in the back, and another old alessandrine of ermine. I give to Victoria de Monaldin a pair of used crimson brocade sleeves; to Francesco of Cagli, an old crimson damask petticoat; to Fra di Messer Benedicto, a little cloak of white damask, which I promised a good while since. Another brown mantle [_camura_] I have given to my nurse. Also two small towels striped with gold and silk, which our mother has asked of me for the altar. APPENDIX III (Page 50, note) POETRY OF OTTAVIANO DEGLI UBALDINI The two following sonnets, though rude, testify to Ottaviano Ubaldini's taste for the arts of design, and to the excellence of Pisano, who, though here and in his usual epigraph designed a painter, is best known to us by his medals, one of which accompanied this second sonnet as a gift to Filippo Maria Visconti, Duke of Milan. I found them in a MS. volume at the Vatican, and both are dated in 1442. Gretto is Allegretto Nuzio. I. Se Cimabo, cum Gretto et cum Gentile, Ch'a' pinger puser l'honorata mano, Et chi de l'arte fu mai più soprano, Tornassero hoggi, et crescesser lo stile; Farebbe el nome lor più basso et vile, El glorioso et dolce mio Pisano, Tanto è più grato el suo stil deretano Quanto è più de l'inverno un dolce Aprile. Arte, mesura, äere et desegno, Manera, prospectiva et naturale, Gli ha dato el celo per mirabil dono. Le sue figure son si proprie, et tale Che parer vive, sol li manca el sole: Pero de eterna fama e lui sol degno. II. Chi vol' del mondo mai non esser privo Venga, a farse retrar del naturale Al mio Pisano, qual' retra l'hom' tale Che tu dirai, "Non è anzi, è pur vivo!" Perchè la par' vivace e sensitivo. O mirabil pictor, che tanto vale Ch'a' la natura tu sei quasi eguale, Cum l'arte et cum l'ingegno si excessivo. Credo te manca solo, ad esser' lei. Ch'ella a suo' nati da la voce e 'l sono. Tu a depinti fai parlar tacendo. Ben potristi agli amanti tor gli omei, Far a ciascun de la sua amata un dono, Et starien' sempre, seco, hon dormendo. APPENDIX IV (Pages 85-6) INSTRUMENT CONTAINING THE CONCESSIONS DEMANDED BY THE CITIZENS AND ACCEDED TO BY COUNT FEDERIGO ON BEING CHOSEN AS THEIR SEIGNEUR; TRANSLATED FROM THE LATIN ORIGINAL IN THE COMMUNAL ARCHIVES OF URBINO In the name of God, amen; to the honour and worship of the indivisible Trinity, of our Lord Jesus Christ and his mother the glorious Virgin, of the blessed Crescentius, and of the whole triumphant heavenly host. These underwritten are certain articles, conditions, and concessions made, published, concluded, and consented to between the illustrious and potent lord our Lord Federigo di Montefeltro, Count of Urbino, Durante, and various other places, and the inhabitants and community of the city of Urbino, on the 23rd of July, in the year of our Lord 1444; the seventh indiction, and the reign of Pope Eugene IV. _First._ That your Lordship is not to bear in remembrance, against such as have committed them, the injuries and offences inflicted during this revolution on the person of Oddantonio late Duke of Urbino, and others, nor in any way, or on any pretext, to punish or avenge them publicly or secretly; further, that you are understood to forgive and take under your protection all who may be compromised in these crimes. _Answer._ We consent, and shall observe all that we promised at our entry. _Second._ Further, that the Lords Priors of the city of Urbino shall, in time to come, be appointed every two months, as heretofore, and shall enjoy the privileges, exemptions, and dignities conceded to them by law, except the custody of the registers; and shall be empowered to remit sentences and punishments for injuries done, and to administer the duties of the Lord Podestà of this city on extraordinary occasions as he may direct; each prior to have a salary of fifteen ducats (at forty bolognini to the ducat), payable monthly. _Answer._ We again consent and approve; but their authority and privileges shall be those possessed during the time of our father of happy memory; and their salary of fifteen ducats to each in monthly payments shall include the whole period of their service. _Third._ Further, as the house of the priors was in old times that now used as the great hall for the supreme court, your Lordship shall deign to concede to them, in compensation for it, that new building near the episcopal cemetery, or some other residence convenient for the despatch of public business; and this the more, as their present dwelling is going to ruin. _Answer._ So be it, until their old house be repaired. _Fourth._ Further, seeing that the ordinary assessment, which was of old three shillings in the pound, has been raised to five and a half, without the sanction and consent of the people,--a very grievous and insupportable exaction, reducing the soil to sterility, whereby many communities have been dispersed, and threatening further evils,--that your Lordship shall condescend to lower it to four shillings a pound, in order to relieve the poor and needy, as well in this city as throughout the state. _Answer._ Be it so. _Fifth._ Further, that your Lordship would deign to revoke all donations made since the death of the Lord Guidantonio, in order the better to provide for your outgoings and expenses. _Answer._ Be it so. _Sixth._ Further, that your Lordship would deign to revoke all immunities and exemptions granted to any individuals or communes, on the plea of nobility, or on any other pretext, so that no one now or henceforth may be exempt from assessments, warding, or other public burdens, real or personal. _Answer._ So be it; but reserving all exemptions granted by our father of happy memory. _Seventh._ Further, that your Lordship would condescend to approve the citizens deputed to watch and ward, with the customary pay; and that your Lordship may not intromit (as has been the case heretofore) with the warding moneys, nor receive any sums or contributions for that purpose. _Answer._ Be it so. _Eighth._ Further, that one-third of all fines for convictions and damages shall be paid over to the master of works, for repair of the city walls and other public edifices, according to law and usage; and that your Lordship will deign to renounce the power of bestowing gratuities out of that tierce, seeing that a decree of the Lord Guidantonio, of felicitous memory, is still in force, prohibiting such gratuities or misapplications. _Answer._ Be it according to that decree, and this although the payments be made before sentence, or by way of composition. _Ninth._ Further, that your Lordship would condescend, for the maintenance of this city and state and its inhabitants, to ask from them no further contribution, nor to impose on them any loan, restraint, or other burden, beyond the ordinary assessment as above. _Answer._ So be it, except in a case of necessity. _Tenth._ Further, that every three months a chamberlain should be elected, and his notary be boxed [_inbussolari_] for this community, as provided by the statutes, and with the usual salaries. _Answer._ We shall delegate a chamberlain for a competent period; as to the notary, let it be as asked. _Eleventh._ Further, that the notary of the military and the chancery notary of sentences be boxed, with the same salaries and emoluments as heretofore. _Answer._ Be it so. _Twelfth._ Further, that the quarter of salt be revised, and restored to its proper weight of thirty-five pounds, in order to remove numerous complaints as to this, and that it be sold for the customary price. _Answer._ Be it so. _Thirteenth._ Further, that the podestà reside constantly in the city, and that his office last six months, with the usual honours; also that your Lordship should agree never to re-appoint any podestà, and that, at the termination of their official services, he and the other officials should render account to the priors of this city, the statutory allowance being paid to the persons employed to pass their accounts, and to the notary. _Answer._ Such is our intention, reserving our freedom therein; but the accounts and notary shall have the usual salaries: as to the podestà's jurisdiction, we consent that it shall not be renewed beyond a year. _Fourteenth._ Further, that your Lordship deign to select two good, competent, and skilful physicians, to be paid a salary from the community, and to be bound to visit and prescribe for all persons within the city and countship paying imposts, and for all others, at some fee or emolument, including your Lordship's family. _Answer._ So be it; but let them be held to visit indiscriminately all citizens, our household included. _Fifteenth._ Further, that there always be in this city a schoolmaster, with an excellent and well-qualified rehearser, at the customary salary. _Answer._ Be it so; be it so. _Sixteenth._ Further, that the camp-captains of this community be citizens or inhabitants of the countship. _Answer._ Be it so. _Seventeenth._ Further, seeing that many merchants and others, passing with their effects, have and do refuse to take the road by Urbino, or through this state, in consequence of the great and enormous tolls, that your Lordship would agree to these tolls being paid as under the old laws in the time of Count Antonio of happy memory. _Answer._ Let the same regulations be observed as in the time of our sire of good memory; be it so. _Eighteenth._ Further, seeing that many citizens of Urbino are creditors of the Lord Guidantonio of most happy memory, and of his son and successor Oddantonio, some for merchandise and other goods supplied to them, or by their order; some for obligations and engagements incurred by their command; that your Lordship would condescend and will that these be paid out of their effects. _Answer._ It will be our endeavour to arrange that they be satisfied in so far as possible, but we do not hereby intend to commit ourselves further than we are legally bound. _Nineteenth._ Further, that two suitable and qualified citizens of Urbino be chosen to the office of _appassatus_ for this community, their appointment to last two years, and to be regulated thereafter as found convenient. _Answer._ We agree as regards ourselves, but, as other interests are involved, let justice be observed. _Twentieth._ Further, that your Lordship would condescend to depute for the priors a clerk for their business, not from those employed in chancery. _Answer._ The communal clerk may suffice[303] for this. FEDERICUS FELTRIUS, _manu propria_. [Footnote 303: The extract sent me has "supplicat," probably for "suppetat."] APPENDIX V (Page 161) DEVICES AND MOTTOES OF THE DUKES OF URBINO A great deal of ingenuity, and no small amount of learning, were expended in Italy on the invention of _impresi_, or allegorical emblems used by personages of high station or celebrity, somewhat as crests and mottoes are in modern heraldry. The same quaint fashion of _devises_ or badges prevailed to a less degree in France, and found some favour even in England during the days of euphuism, but, being better suited to the pedantic conceits and lively fancy which circulated freely in southern lands, than to the practical tendency of Anglo-Saxon temperaments, it took no enduring hold among us. Giovio, Ruscelli, and other Italian writers of note, thought their talents worthily employed in publishing collections of impresi,--a jargon of tropes, illustrated by a jingle of spurious jests,--as well as in imagining them for patrons or friends; and Bernardo Tasso was considered an adept in such perverted ingenuity. Yet, as these badges are constantly met with in architectural decorations, medals, and illuminated MSS., it is useful to possess an index to their ownership, though not always to their occult meaning. In this view we shall give a list of the devices of Urbino sovereigns, which we have chanced to meet with in books or works of art, arranging them to the best of our information. 1. The _ventosa_, or cupping-glass, which, when painted half full of blood, more resembles a bomb-shell exploding. 2. A unicorn. 3. A white ostrich, bearing in its mouth a horse-shoe, or sometimes an arrow-head; motto, _Ich an vordait ein grossers_, "I'd like a larger." This is sometimes varied as a crane or stork on one leg, holding a stone in his raised claw, to be dropped as a signal of alarm to his companions. 4. A lion. 5. A bear. 6. A panther. 7. A muzzled dog, the emblem of fidelity. 8. The black eagle of Montefeltro; sometimes it is mounted on a tortoise, alluding to Duke Federigo's cautious policy. 9. The Garter of England, with its motto. 10. The Ermine of Naples, with the motto _Non mai_, or _Nunquam_, "Never." (See above, p. 223, note.) 11. St. Michael of France, or it may be St. George of England. 12. A clothes-brush of the Italian form, being a bundle of twigs closely tied and cut across. It was a device borrowed from the Dukes of Milan, of unknown signification. 13. An olive-tree. 14. A noose amid defiles. 15. A pen or box for shoeing oxen. 16. The cypher F E D X in Gothic characters. 17. A shield quartered; first and fourth, on a field vert, blazing flames; second and third, on a field azure. 18. Three golden suns, } 19. A rainbow dividing four stars, } All on an azure ground. 20. Three winged thunderbolts, } 21. Two palm-branches passed through a gold finger-ring, on a red ground. 22. A burning lantern. 23. On a field gules, a lion rampant proper, holding a rapier; motto, _Non deest in generoso pectore virtus_. It was invented by Castiglione as an assertion of Francesco Maria's worth in the affair of the Cardinal of Pavia. 24. A palm-tree bent to one side, and half crushed by a block of marble; motto, _Inclinata resurgit_, "Though bent it springs again." This was adopted by Duke Francesco Maria I. in token of his successful struggle against evil fortune. 25. Three _metæ_, or antique goal pillars, or obelisks; motto, [Greek: Philairetotatô], "To the most devoted lover of virtue." A design for these goals was sent to Duke Guidobaldo II. by Bernardo Tasso, from the Circus Maximus at Rome. 26. Two circular temples, united by a balustrade; motto, _Hic terminus hæret_, "This goal adheres." 27. A face inflated with wind; motto, [Greek: Olbios sianolbios], "Happy and prosperous." 28. A budding oak-tree, the armorial bearing of the della Rovere, inscribed _Feretria_. 29. An oak-tree whence are suspended the arms of Montefeltro or Feretria; motto, _Tuta tueor_, "I watch over their safety." 30. The initials of his own two Christian names linked by a gordian knot to those of his two wives, G.G. and V.V. _i.e._ Guido with Giulia; Ubaldo with Vittoria; motto, _Gordio fortior_, "Stronger than the gordian tie." 31. An altar, on which are the sybil's leaves. Of these, Nos. 1 and 2, with perhaps others, were used by the early Counts; Nos. 3 to 21 by Montefeltrian Dukes; Nos. 22 and 23 by Duke Francesco Maria I.; the remainder by his son. APPENDIX VI (Pages 166, 212) THE ILLUMINATED MSS. IN THE URBINO LIBRARY It would far exceed our limits to describe these in detail, but we shall mention four MSS. of especial interest now at the Vatican. 1. The HEBREW BIBLE, alleged to have been taken at Volterra (see p. 212), is the most ponderous volume I have met with. The boards are 23 inches by 16, and the 979 leaves of stout parchment form a thickness of nearly a foot. It has been lately bound in crimson morocco--a wonderful triumph of mechanical art,--and two men are required to carry it. The prose books are in double columns, the poetical ones in triple, each having a sort of title and tail-piece of tracery, into which are introduced arabesques and grotesques entirely composed of small Hebrew characters. These, and other passages in similar caligraphy, contain the commentary called Mazorra,[304] in which parallel passages are cited. The text is written with points, the commentary without them; the character is of the description used by German Jews, but was probably executed in Italy; it appears to be all by the same hand, and bears date 5055 of the Jewish era, corresponding to A.D. 1295. In the opinion, however, of Monsignor Molza, librarian at the Vatican, and a most learned orientalist, the MS. may be somewhat later. It is said that a proposal was once made by some Jews to purchase this book for its weight in gold, or, as Giunta asserts,[305] for 30,000 scudi; Philip II. having, he adds, offered 20,000 for it. The reason assigned by him for such excessive estimation is, that this transcript was the chief authority for that reading of Isaiah vii. 14, "Behold a virgin shall conceive, and bear a son, and shall call his name Immanuel," on which is based the doctrine of the immaculate conception. [Footnote 304: This commentary, I believe, bears also the name of Raschid.] [Footnote 305: MS. works in the Albani library at Rome.] 2. The LATIN BIBLE, mentioned at p. 166, is now among the richest specimens of ornamented caligraphy in the Vatican library, and consists of two folio volumes, 22 by 18 inches, in modern Russia binding. It is St. Jerome's translation, with his preface. Each book is preceded by a picture of some remarkable fact in the history, crowded with figures, and surprisingly animated. The arabesque ornaments are also most perfect, and the whole may be considered, as regards beauty and preservation, one of the most important works of the golden days of manuscript illumination. It has been attributed to Perugino or Pinturicchio, and there are indications that the artists employed upon it were well acquainted with productions of the Umbrian school, but the execution, however brilliant, in no way warrants such pretensions.[306] Neither can the conjecture be well founded, lately put forward with much confidence by some Roman connoisseurs, that these splendid volumes were ornamented by the pencil of Piero della Francesca, as that artist, whose great talents will elsewhere occupy our attention, was old, and probably blind, before the date affixed to volume first, in a colophon identifying it with Florence, and preserving this curious record of the mixed motives of piety, war, and painting which influenced Duke Federigo in ordering such works. [Footnote 306: That many of the greatest Italian painters, up to about 1500, were in the habit of illuminating religious and historical MSS. is a fact which need not here be illustrated by examples. But as the name of Perugino occurs, I may mention that one of the most perfect miniatures known to exist is the martyrdom of St. Sebastian, signed by him, in a Book of Offices of the Romish Church, purchased by me at Rome, in 1838, from Prince Albani, which now ornaments the Earl of Ashburnham's rich collection. This volume, containing several other paintings of equal merit, was executed for Giovanni di Pierantonio Bandini Baroncelli, long ambassador from the Medici at the court of Charles V., the great antiquity of whose family is sarcastically maintained by Boccaccio, on the ground that their ugliness proves them to have issued from the hands of Nature ere she had become perfect at her business!] "Finit prima pars Bibliæ, a divo Hieronimo translata, quam illustrissimus princeps Federicus, Urbini Dux et Montisfeltri Comes, Generalisque Capitaneus et Ferdinandi Regis et sanctæ Romanæ ecclesiæ vexillifer, atque omnium suæ ætatis præstantissimus imperator, faciendum curavit, non minus Christianæ religioni tuendæ atque exornandæ intentus, quam disciplinæ militari amplificandæ. Absolutum autem Florentiæ opus est anno ab humanatione Christi Millesimo quadringentesimo septuagesimo sexto, Februarii mensis die quinto et vigesimo."--The two volumes contain 550 leaves: with all its beauty the first is of unequal merit, its miniatures being often poor in conception; those in the second are inferior to it in movement and expression. 3. The folio DANTE (No. 365) is remarkable on several accounts. On the frontispiece are the Montefeltrian arms, with the Garter of England embroidered in pearls; but though decorated throughout with the devices and initials of Duke Federigo--"belli fulgur, et pacis et patriæ pius pater,"--the after-portion of the volume must have been painted at least half a century later. The seventy-three earlier miniatures are characterised by more accurate perspective in architecture and landscape than Florence could then boast; while the elaborate action and varied movement of the nude groups, their muscular development, and correct foreshortening, are in advance of the age; yet the short figures and mean faces altogether want ideality and elevation of character. The Inferno is treated with a severity in colouring and accessories, alien to human associations, and befitting a grand mysterious theme, which offers nothing pleasing, gaudy, or mundane. The Purgatorio, though of less startling themes and harsh details, is still all supernatural. Towards its close commence the more modern paintings, forty-one in number, and the sudden transition of feeling and execution occurs exactly in harmony with the subject. All becomes at once bright and beautiful, sunny and smiling; flowery meadows are peopled by fair damsels. The Paradiso is treated in a like style of elegance, but with diminished intensity and variety of sentiment, qualities necessarily less called for by the subject. Agincourt erroneously ascribes the older decorations to the school of Perugino: they are, however, apparently Umbrian, and may have been done by followers of Piero della Francesca. The latter ones are generally attributed to Giulio Clovio, and seem to have been executed under his influence, although Blatner allots them to followers of the Zuccari or Baroccio, and traces a resemblance to the miniatures next to be described. 4. THE LIVES OF THE DUKES OF URBINO, in two volumes folio, richly bound in crimson velvet, and written in the cursive Italian hand, which is said to have been invented by Aldus Manutius. These are Duke Federigo, by Muzio, and Duke Francesco Maria I., by Leoni, and each contains, besides a portrait and highly decorative title, three miniatures of remarkable scenes. The likeness of Federigo is the same which has been engraved for the printed work of Muzio; that of his grandson is a copy of Titian's portrait at Florence. The incidents selected for the pencil are:--(1) The Count's welcome by the citizens as their seigneur in 1443; (2) The battle of San Fabbiano by moonlight; (3) The siege of Volterra.--(1) Duke Francesco Maria's investiture by Julius II., as captain-general of the Holy See; (2) An incident in the Urbino campaign of 1517; (3) His reception at Venice by the Doge in 1524. Notwithstanding some recent doubts as to their long imputed authorship, these volumes are probably by Giulio Clovio, and afford a favourable example of his exquisite though somewhat meretricious style. APPENDIX VII (Page 224) DUKE FEDERIGO OF URBINO A KNIGHT OF THE GARTER Paolo Cortesio tells us that, when some sycophants, after the Volterra expedition, assured the Duke that no name was more glorious or more widely famous, he exclaimed, "How so, since no one in Spain or France ever heard of me? Think you that it has ever crossed the Alps?" Notwithstanding this modest reproof, it is certain that fame was then carrying his renown even to the "Penitus toto divisos orbe Britannos," and that within about two years he was by them received into the noblest and most chivalrous company whom the world has ever seen. In supplement to the meagre notice of his election as a Knight of the Garter supplied by its records and historians, we shall here translate some unpublished letters addressed to Edward IV. and his courtiers, noticing others in the same collection,[307] and adding passages from Sanzi and Porcellio, contemporary poets, who severally mention this mead of honour in Italian and Latin verse. [Footnote 307: Vat. Urb. MSS. No. 1198, f. 12, &c., Literæ Ducis Federici, in Latin.] 1. "To the most Serene Monarch and lofty Prince, my singular Lord, the Lord Edward, King of England, France, and Ireland; "By the most Reverend Father and Lord, John, and the distinguished knight, Sir Bartholomew, your Majesty's all-gifted ambassadors, I have received the insignia of the Order of the Garter, wherewith you have, with singular politeness, deigned to honour me. My most Serene Prince, King Ferdinand [of Naples] having shortly before arrived at Rome to wait upon the Pope, I likewise repaired hither, and thus was already here on the arrival of Sir Bartholomew. He, wishing me to be invested with that eminent decoration at Grotta Ferrata, not far from this city, it took place in presence of that monarch in his robes of the Order, and of two reverend lords cardinals, one of them nephew of his Holiness and my connection by marriage, the other the vice-chancellor, several princes and the envoys of many states being also in attendance. Thus was this eminent dignity honoured before many distinguished personages, to my great and signal satisfaction; for, the more marked the compliments and distinctions paid to your Majesty, the fuller are my joy and gratitude. In this way have I received the distinguished gift of your Serene Highness, to whom I would ever hold myself bound in all respect and service. I have often looked into, and most willingly perused, the statutes sent me by your Highness, which I shall be careful with all diligence to obey; and I shall, to the utmost of my power, endeavour to acquit myself of my duty to your Majesty, and all others to whom I am indebted; so I trust you will never regret having conferred upon me this decoration. The matter has given pleasure to my serene Prince, King Ferdinand, and especially to his Holiness, who both are affectionately inclined towards your Majesty; and I thus impart to you their respective intentions of expressing thanks for this favour conferred upon me. The acknowledgments which I feel and owe for that distinction to your Majesty, and to the illustrious knights of the Order, I indeed never can adequately express; but your singular consideration, which has chosen to lay me under such an obligation, will not be insensible to my devotion and good will. As soon as it is in my power I shall send one of my subjects to lay all my duty before your Majesty, at whose feet I humbly commend myself." [From Rome.] Another brief to the same monarch reiterates these acknowledgments:-- 2. "Most serene Sovereign and distinguished Lord, my special Lord, "After humble commendation. I have received, as I already wrote, by the hands of a famed knight, the Lord Bartholomew, your Majesty's ambassador, that distinguished favour the Garter, which he brought to me some months ago in name of your Majesty. For such a gift I ought to feel many thanks, and I do so, although unable worthily to offer them to your Majesty. My joy, and my estimate of the honour, may best be understood from the excellence of that dignity, worthy as it truly is of royalty; and the remarkable munificence and inherent liberality of your Majesty may teach me how willingly I ought to receive it: but all this I shall cut short in writing to your Majesty, having already fully stated it to the Lord Bartholomew. Whom, indeed, I received with the utmost satisfaction, and most cordially welcomed, not only as the envoy and ambassador of your Serene Highness, whose every least behest is to be by me observed as an honour and a pleasure, but also on account of his own worth and excellent manners. From the King of Sicily, to whom he was accredited by your Majesty, he bears the most commendatory testimonials, and was very well received by the Pope, and altogether it would be difficult to express how favourably I am inclined towards him. For more I refer to him, and to that worthy soldier Sir Pietro degli Ubaldini, who, born of a noble house, has been brought up by me, and whom I send in my name, to lay before your Majesty my duty, since it is not granted me to offer it in person, as I should greatly have preferred; whom, indeed, I should have equally sent without any obligation in the statutes of the Garter.[308] These statutes I have often perused, and they are impressed upon my memory, nor shall I omit whatever seems needful to their due observance. And this I shall ever endeavour to perform to the utmost of my poor ability, even were it less equal to so high a favour and dignity. At all events, as regards my faithful duty and obedience to these statutes, your Majesty will have no cause for dissatisfaction. For your Majesty, as for his Holiness (whose natural servant and subject I am), and for my Lord your brother the King of Sicily, I am ready heartily to expose my state and person, so often as it may be desired or required; which, indeed, I should not consider as discharging a thousandth part of my debt to your Majesty, before whose feet I humbly commend myself. For yourself, for your serene consort the Queen, and for your illustrious children, especially the Prince your eldest son, I heartily desire all safety and happiness." [Footnote 308: The date of this mission is indicated by a letter of 22nd August, 1475. It and another are addressed to Don Antonio and Don Guglielmo, probably English courtiers, referring to that embassy to England, offering duty to Edward, and the writer's services in his behalf at Rome and Naples.] On the return of his envoy from England, Federigo again addressed Edward as follows:-- 3. "To the most serene and invincible Monarch, and distinguished Lord, my special Lord; "After humble commendation. As in duty bound, I gladly sent to your Majesty Sir Pietro degli Ubaldini, my ambassador, on occasion of the valued gift of the Garter with which you have condescended to decorate me; and, on his return, he has reported to me the great politeness and consideration wherewith your Majesty received him, and the love and favour you so kindly exhibit towards me. Many as are these obligations, especially from so lofty a monarch, and greatly as I am indebted for such remarkable goodwill, I often repeat to myself that I cannot but surpass them in my grateful joy. I offer your Serene Highness not the thanks which I owe, for they are too great, but those which I can pay; yet your Majesty will deign to accept such as my heart possesses, which, in faith and service to you will ever be most ardent. I now send in writing to the very Reverend Lord Bishop of Salisbury, the serene Chancellor of the Garter, a message which Sir Pietro omitted to deliver, whose tardy arrival your Majesty will condescend to pardon. I also write to the very Reverend Bishop of Lyconia, Chancellor of your kingdom, some matters which now occur to me, and which he will relate to your Majesty, lest I should weary you by prolonging this letter. To these, therefore, your Majesty will please to adhibit credence; at whose feet I anxiously and humbly recommend me and mine. Your Serene Highness, &c. From Urbino." On the same occasion he wrote in the following terms to the Bishop of Salisbury, Chancellor of the Garter:-- 4. "Most Reverend Father in Christ, and my much honoured Lord Father; "Sir Pietro degli Ubaldini was sent by me last year, that he might complete in my name all matters in regard to the distinguished order of the Garter. I know not in what way my clerks drew the mandate for him, but when charged with neglect or carelessness, they plead in their own justification that it has been always usual to send to sovereigns and princes letters accrediting the person of the bearer, without any more special mandate; however it happened, it annoyed me much. I send you these present letters, upon receiving which I shall be glad that you acknowledge them; and also that you do your utmost to get the King to write me that he has received and considered them. Which, indeed, I should have despatched earlier so as to reach you within the prescribed time, but I delayed a little lest any letter should arrive from your Lordship, instructing particulars as to the indulgence you wish granted to the church of St. George, at Windsor. I shall give all my influence to obtain your petition, and to maintain the reputation of that distinguished Order, on account of which I am under such obligations, nor is there anything that I would not undertake to the utmost of my power towards fulfilling my duty and desire in this respect; and I wish your Lordship to be assured how much it will be my endeavour, at all times and occasions, to demonstrate how highly I prize that honour. I offer to your Lordship many thanks for your kindness to my envoy, Sir Pietro, and for your courteous reception of him: he told me how difficult it would be to enumerate all the demonstrations of regard he received from your Lordship, for which I am highly indebted. I pray you to inform me of any favour that may be within my reach, as it would be to me a great pleasure to obtain it, from whatever quarter, for your Lordship, to whom I commend myself. Whenever you wish to send me letters you may safely do so by the hands of Stoldo degli Altoviti, a Florentine merchant resident in London, a person of the highest respectability, and bound to me by the most especial regard." This letter accompanied the preceding one. Another to the Chancellor of England is much more verbose, assuring him of the Duke's grateful regard for the King, and anxious readiness to be of use in forwarding his views, especially by employing at all times his influence with the Pope, to whose goodwill towards his Majesty he bears strong testimony. It also hints indistinctly at the King's taking some interest in the affairs of Spain, suffering as they then were from Turkish annoyance. A letter to the Chancellor, written some months later, goes over the same general assurances, and is expressed in the tone of one who regarded himself as specially entrusted with the English monarch's interests at the Holy See. Both abound with proffers of service to the Chancellor himself, who seems to have been a cardinal. We shall extract one more letter in which the affair of St. George's Chapel is renewed, and which is addressed to the Chancellor of the Garter. 5. "Most Reverend Father in Christ, and my much honoured Lord Father, "By the messenger whom I had sent some months ago I have received your Lordship's most courteous letters, and along with them the hounds adapted for all manner of hunting, and I cannot tell you how acceptable and agreeable they are to me. My son Guido also received the high-mettled ambling colt, which has delighted him beyond measure, and made him truly joyful, and he unites with me in thankfully acknowledging to your Lordship his obligation, not only for the value and beauty of the gift, but also for all your Lordship's good wishes for his future happiness, towards whom, as a father, he will ever during life look up with filial affection. I have besought from the Pope that indulgence which you desired for the chapel of the high and excellent Order of the Garter, and his Holiness has deigned to concede it in the way which your Lordship will find in the accompanying bull.[309] I understand that his Holiness has granted much more than the usual privileges, against the opinion of almost all Roman jurisconsults, so that, in case they should fall short of your Lordship's desires, I wish you to be assured that I have not omitted to do my utmost to obtain these for you; and in regard to the decoration of that chapel for the welfare of souls, more has been conceded in this case than in perhaps any preceding one, at once out of consideration for your Lordship, and from his Holiness' clemency. I should, indeed, have wished still more ample concessions, for the exaltation of that most serene Order, my interest in which it might seem an exaggeration in me to state, although most desirous to testify it by all ways and means. Along with these letters is transmitted the petitions your Lordship begged me to sign, and a copy of the letter which the Holy Father wrote to me. From these your Lordship will perceive how gladly I should conform myself to your views, which it would give me the highest gratification to see attained. It only remains for me to beg that your Lordship will remember with that courtesy and goodwill which you extend to me, to commend me frequently and humbly to his Highness my Lord the King. All prosperity attend your Lordship, to whom I commend myself, and to whom I recommend also Stoldo Altoviti, a citizen of Florence residing in London, who is my intimate and valued friend, and who will thank your Lordship in my name."[310] [Footnote 309: Anstis refers to this as of 1476-9.] [Footnote 310: Among the other letters in this collection relating to England, are one to the Reverend John [Morton, Master of the Rolls], counsellor to the King, with thanks for his attentions to Pietro Ubaldini; another, thanking the Lord Chancellor for a horse and hounds; another of civility to Archbishop Boutcher, Cardinal of England, presbyter of S. Ciriaco. There are three others to Edward IV. In the first he avails himself of a visit from Sir John de la Scrop, then on his return from the Holy Land, to offer the King his affectionate duty, and to express his high regard for that nobleman. In the next he alludes to Sir John, an English ambassador then at Urbino, who seems to have been accredited in order to co-operate with the Duke in obtaining a Jubilee [1475], and in recommending some one to an Irish see. In another he mentions hearing that his Majesty had crossed over to France [1475], and offers his good offices with the Pope and King of Naples.] A volume in the British Museum (Add. MSS. No. 6298, f. 277), formerly belonging to Anstis, contains a notice of our Duke, which probably expresses those qualities which secured his admission into the Order. "Frederick Duke of Urbin was Earle of Montferrat and Durant, standard-bearer of the Church of Rome, and confederate of the Emperor. Hee founded to the glory of himself and his posterite the stately palice of Urbin; hee foughte dyvers battayles; tooke six standerds in the field; eight tymes hee overthrewe his enemyes, and in all his warres wes ever victorious, which greatly increased his riches. His justice, clemency, liberality, made hym everywhere famous, and did equalize and adorn his victories with peace. The arming sword which hee wore had this inscription, '_Son quella che difende la ragione, non ti fidar di me s'il cor ti manca_'--I am one that defends the right; rely not on me should thy heart fail thee!" Giovanni Sanzi thus chronicles the English decoration:-- "Nor were the glories of his name confined To narrow limits, for its lustre reached The shelving shores of Britain's distant isle; Which of this peopled sphere another land We well may deem, by yon far-distant sea Disparted,--where the slowly sinking sun Seeks in the briny waves his evening bath. 'Twere waste of words to tell how Edward was King of that realm, by far-sprung pedigree, Great pomp, and grace of person eminent, And foremost by inheritance of those Linked in a holy brotherhood of arms, Each candidate for which was held to prove Rare worth and dauntless prowess, requisites Alone entitling to election In that exclusive Order, limited To six-and-twenty knights, all notable For varied martial deeds. Among whom were King Edward's eldest son, of high exploits; The sovereign, too, of Portugal was there; Matthias, Hungary's admirable King, Whose fame still loftier soars; and Ferdinand Of Naples, emulating his renown. He, too, of Burgundy, the petted child Of wayward fortune, till by Alpine bands Thrice was his banner flouted, and at last, Dying at Nancy, he the reckoning paid For all his God-outraging cruelties, Of blood a very glutton: but no more Of him. In this devout companionship Were many nobles of that land enrolled; Yet 'twas King Edward's fancy to include Our Duke Federigo, deeming him most meet, So wrote his friendly purpose in a letter, Which from the Latin I shall here translate; And, better to convey the courteous sanction Of the unanimous fraternity, Despatched with it a trusty embassy: Its tenor this, the wonted greetings said. 'Thy worth and high achievements reached our court By one who wandered long in distant lands Filled with thy fame: yet who has ever ta'en A loving heart from sites so far remote, To bind it in a fardel fast and firm With thy so glorious and signal deeds?[311] On these relying fully, and inflamed With warm affection, 'tis our only doubt Which to desire, thy presence, or this link Of friendly brotherhood, though both were best. But, choosing that which seems most feasible, And, next to death's inevitable doom, Unchanging, be it ours a knot to bind Indissoluble,--benefit unmatched, Which the our children's sons will test the force Of friendship, and a priceless jewel prove,-- Be ours the bond to clench by formal vote Of the grave college, with a full accord Their portals opening for thy free admission To a companionship of charity, Where each others' weal would willing die.' This letter read, the noble envoy next Set forth the object of his mission In solemn gracious phrase, the Duke addressing As the dear brother of his sovereign. A precious garter then produced, Remarking that, though fashioned with mean tools, 'Twas the exclusive guerdon of high birth, And pregnant with fine sentiment, In golden letters on its circle traced, 'Woe to the man whose thoughts are aught but right!' This decoration dates from Pepin's reign, An ancient king, whose far-descended line And dignities I leave to other pens. He next displayed a robe of ruddy hue Blazing with gold brocade, a mantle round Of regal cut that swept the ground, its tint A lovely Alexandrian blue. The Duke With grateful heart and kindly welcome took From him these ensigns, and these honoured robes, And so invested with that princely Order Of wide-extending fame a Knight was made, Of good St. George, upon whose festal day, In solemn concourse met, the cavaliers Observe with fitting rites his memory." [Footnote 311: This passage, written probably in Norman French, has become somewhat obscure in its transmission through barbarous Latin into Sanzi's rugged rhymes.] It only remains to quote the mention of this event made by Porcellio in his Feltria, which we extract as a specimen of its rugged style.[312] [Footnote 312: Vat. Urb. MSS. No. 373, f. 105, 106.] "Rex præstans animi, et claris celeberrimus armis, Anglicus, hunc ipsum Feltrensem foedere sanctæ Jungit amicitiæ, fraternaque munere mittit, Quæ deceant tantum reges in pignus amoris; Serica regales quæ nectant cingula sures Donat habere Ducem; nitet aurea fibula, et auri Litterule splendore micant, quibus usque notatur Argumentum ingens veteris reverentia facti, DISPEREANT QUI PRAVA PUTANT. Levaque purpureo Britonis de more tyranni Traditur hæc isdem signis, eodemque tenore, Crebro intexta patet tyrio de murice subter Purpura migdoneis nivibus mage candida fulget, Et paribus capitis donatur tegminæ signis. Misit item leges in religionis honorem, Servandas fratrum de more et tempore certo. Lætus erat Cæsar, non ipso munere tantum, Sed quod erat primo regum insignitus honore: Postquam Edwardi clarissima munera regis Accepit, gratesque egit sic ore profatus: Hæc me dona ligant sub religione teneri Auxilium præstare, et duris succurrere in armis; Sed si diva meum servet Proserpina crinem, Et mea fatales non rumpant stamina Parcæ, Quantum opis et quantum dederint mea fata rependam." APPENDIX VIII (Page 347) THE ARMY OF CHARLES VIII., IN 1493 The contemporary Chronicle of this expedition, reprinted at Lyons in 1842, gives a general muster-roll of the French army, which may be thus classed:-- I. THE ROYAL STAFF. Monseigneur le Visdasme, commanding gentlemen in full sleeves 100 " de Myolans, commanding gentlemen in full sleeves and crossbow-men 100 " de Cresol, commanding archers of the French guard 200 Captain Claude, commanding archers of the Scottish guard 100 Many lords of the blood-royal, the court and the council. II. THE LAND FORCES. Men-at-arms 3,600 Bowmen on foot 6,200 Crossbow-men on foot 8,000 Long-pike-men 8,000 The Lord Ludovic 2,040 Dastardeurs 6,200 Masters to dress the artillery 200 Master carpenters 600 Master sappers 300 Master stone-hewers 900 Master charcoal-burners 200 Master rope-makers 120 Artillery drivers 4,000 ------ 40,360 ------ Battering guns [_bombardes_] 1,200 Large stone balls 140 Artillery horses 8,000 ------ [Transcriber's Note: subtotal is missing in original] Monseigneur de Serve lances 40 " de Monfaucon " 40 " Robert de la Marche " 30 The Mareschal de Baudricourt " 60 Monseigneur de Guise " 40 " de Chaude " 30 " de Mauleon " 200 " Aymart de Poye " 25 " de Camicam " 35 Captain Odet " 25 ---- 525 ---- III. THE NAVAL ARMAMENT. Gentlemen of Agenes, for Monseigneur d'Orleans's guard 4,000 " of Normandy " " " 4,000 Commissaries 200 The Duc d'Orleans } The Conte d'Angoulême } The Duc de Nemours } The Prince d'Orange } Monseigneur de Vendôme } The Conte de Ligny } " de Nevers } with their companies, } } amounting to } 15,000 Monseigneur d'Albret } The Conte de Boulogne } The Great Bastard of Burgundy } " " of Bourbon } The Marechal of Burgundy } The Governor of Champaign } " of Burgundy } Monseigneur d'Orleans lances 100 " de Foix " 50 " Gracien " 50 The Bailli of Dijon " 30 " " Swiss 3,000 Monseigneur de Montaison lances 30 " d'Allègre " 40 " de Chaumont " 30 George de Silly " 30 Castillon " 30 Julien Burinel " 30 Monseigneur de Vergy " 30 " d'Armansy " 40 Don Jehan " 30 André de l'Ospital " 54 Monseigneur de la Place " 40 The Marechal of Burgundy " 40 Monseigneur d'Aubigny " 100 " de Ligny " 100 " de la Tremouille " 50 " de Silly " 40 " the Grand Equerry " 40 " de Beaumont " 40 " de Piennes " 50 " the Prince d'Orange " 40 The Seneschal d'Armagnac " 25 Monseigneur Pierre de Bellefrontiere " 25 Despert de Bonneville " 25 ------ 27,389 ------ Great ships 24 Great galleasses 8 Quarracques 11 Galleras 226 Sailing galleys 50 Brigantines 60 Fustes 80 Boats innumerable. ---- Total vessels 459 ---- Allowing to each man-at-arms and lance two followers, and to each gentleman one, the total force would amount to nearly 90,000 men, 1200 pieces of artillery, and 459 sail. To this there falls to be added, besides the usual attendance of servants and sutlers, an immense retinue attached to the luxurious court of Charles, of which no enumeration is attempted. APPENDIX IX (Page 354) THE BATTLE OF THE TARO, IN 1495 The battle of Fornovo bears so little upon the proper subject of our narrative, that we have but rapidly noted its issue. It may be well, however, now to examine in greater detail the circumstances leading to a result so opposite from that which the ordinary chances of war would have inferred, and to consider how far the fortune of that field tried the comparative superiority of French and Italian prowess. We are in possession of contemporary statements which fairly represent each side of the argument; and the narratives of Corio, Sanuto, and Guicciardini, the historians of Milan, Venice, and Florence, may be accepted as exhausting those pleas by which the frank and graphic commentaries of Philippe de Comines and the more confused details of the _Vergier d'Honneur_ ought to be tested. The French march through Italy had been rather a pageant than an invasion: as they advanced, difficulties disappeared,--enemies fawned, crouched, or fled without hazarding a blow. A career of such success, trying to any judgment, intoxicated the young and giddy monarch, and, though startled by the northern confederacy, he was not fully roused to the danger of being caught and enclosed in an enemy's country. We accordingly find the pages of Comines full of lamentations at the careless ease with which he loitered on his retreat, and the infatuation of weakening his army by leaving small garrisons at Siena, Pisa, Lucca, and Pietra Santa, as well as by detaching a useless expedition against Genoa, whose resistance closed the coast road against him. At the two first of these places above a fortnight of valuable time was lost, whilst the allies were mustering to intercept his passage of the Apennines. As he approached the danger, blunders consequent upon divided councils were aggravated by imperfect discipline; and the wanton destruction by the Swiss of Pontremoli with its magazines exposed the army to famine in the mountain passes. A new obstacle now presented itself in the enormous artillery train, consisting of fourteen culverins from twelve to fifteen feet long. The Sieur d'Argenton, whose mission at Venice taught him to appreciate the urgency of a retreat ere the allies could concentrate their forces, and others who knew the difficulties of such a march, would gladly have seen these cumbrous impediments abandoned, but the Swiss, tackling themselves by hundreds to each piece, dragged them up defiles and lowered them down precipices, where beasts of draught could have been of no avail. This feat is described in the _Vergier_ as "une execrable peine, merveilleux travail, et très penetrant ennuy, attendu la façon de proceder, le lieu estrange, et la chaleur grande et terrible que lors se faisoit." The army, after crossing the summit, slowly descended on Lombardy, by the left bank of the Taro, until its vanguard under Marechal de Gie, being thirty miles in advance, reached Fornovo on the 2nd of July, and halted for three days until the King should come up.[313] The allies were encamped at Ghiaruola, about three miles further in the open plain. Had they at once attacked the Marechal, his division might have been exterminated, whilst the army thus weakened, and unable from fatigue and exhaustion to fall back upon Tuscany, must have become an easy prey, or have surrendered at discretion. Opportunities so precious are rarely offered to men's exigencies, and once lost cannot be retrieved. [Footnote 313: The former march of the army by the same passes required but three days from Fornovo to Pontremoli; on this occasion the King was four days in crossing, besides a halt of three more to enable his artillery to get ahead of him. It is probable that in 1494 much of his ordnance, baggage, and stores had been sent in the fleet.] The estimate by Comines of the two armies is admitted to be a fair one. That to which he belonged was reduced to a tithe of the original armament, and numbered much under 9000 fighting men, who had to cut their way through at least four times that strength, with every disadvantage of ground. Both were now on the right of the Taro, a mountain torrent here subsiding into a shallow stream, which the French had to cross within half a mile of the enemy. So convinced was Comines of the risk, that on the 5th he availed himself of the anxious feeling which began to manifest itself among his countrymen, when in presence of so formidable a host, and opened negotiations. These appear to have been continued next day, even after the battle had commenced, but led to nothing. That they should have been entertained by the confederates might occasion surprise, but for Sanuto's ready admission that, even at such a moment, the hesitating and ruinous policy habitual to Venetian _proveditori_, sacrificed the advantages of the emergency. He tells us that they, "conducting themselves most wisely, wished to let the King pass, without perilling their cause, seeing that, as all know, a general action is essentially hazardous, and ought therefore to be avoided by a powerful state such as Venice."[314] The narrative of Guicciardini inculpates others in these craven counsels, which carried the day, and induced the scarcely credible resolution to wait for instructions from Milan and Venice: scarcely was it formed ere its fatuity became apparent. [Footnote 314: It is curious to find this cowardly policy openly laid down by such authority as a maxim, and it affords a clue not only to the lax military operations of the grasping Republic, but betrays the secret that their mainland advantages were oftener gained by tortuous diplomacy than in open field. The Venetian _proveditori_ were at first of the nature of quartermasters and commissaries-general, their duty being to distribute pay and quarters to the troops, as well as to levy and allot taxes whereby the military finances were maintained through the agency of local sub-commissaries. But they became tools of the ever-jealous Signory, empowered to control the commanders, as well as to watch and report their proceedings. We have frequent occasion to notice the bad consequences of this narrow policy.] At eight on the morning of Monday the 6th, the French army, once more united, resumed its march. The advance, still commanded by the Marechal de Gie, included the Swiss, and was followed by the artillery; the King was with the main body; and to De la Tremouille and Guise was committed the rear-guard. The baggage was detached on the left under Odet, and from the first was in some confusion. The confederates having opened their fire from a large gun, it was promptly dismounted by the French artillery, and the army, crossing the Taro, marched steadily on for above a mile. On the feint of exchanging a prisoner of rank, a Venetian trumpet was sent to Charles, for the purpose of ascertaining his position and appearance, that he might be singled out in the charge which the Marquis of Mantua immediately made at the head of the Stradiote irregular horse. This Cossack-like force, recruited in Dalmatia, and used by the Republic with infinite effect under the new mode of warfare, cut its way almost to the King, whose conduct during the day was bold and energetic beyond what might have been expected from his feeble constitution and effeminate habits. By this time the vanguard had likewise been attacked, and the mêlée was at its height, when the Stradiotes of the Marquis, having seized upon the baggage, gave themselves up to pillage. The example was contagious upon the other undisciplined Albanians; but although Italian writers impute to this casual and untoward incident the loss of the battle, they scarcely question the Sieur d'Argenson's allegation, that their men-at-arms had already yielded at all points. Making their way back with difficulty through the Taro, which a severe thunder-storm had swollen to a dangerous torrent, they fled towards Parma, although partially rallied by Nicolò di Petigliano, a captain of the Orsini, just then escaped from the French, with whom he had been prisoner. The fortune of the day might still have been retrieved by him and by the reserve, which, under Antonio di Montefeltro, stood vainly waiting orders to engage; or, on the other hand, had Charles followed up his success by a general assault, it seems admitted by Guicciardini that the confederates would have been routed. But his policy was security rather than success; and he encamped about a mile from the field, leaving the bulk of the allied forces to resume their former quarters. Even next day the latter might have struck a blow sufficient long to preserve the Peninsula from foreign aggression; but jealousies distracted their captains as well as their councils, for each thought more of preserving intact his own contingent of troops, as a defence against his neighbour's ambition, than of making common cause against the general enemy. The Italians claimed the victory; and the Venetians, with their usual arrogance and insincerity, ordered triumphant festivities on the strength of having captured the King's baggage, carrying off his rosaries and a portfolio of meretricious portraits--recollections of his harem! History has disowned the claim, and has justly awarded to the French the honours of the day, upon the better title of having continued an orderly retreat, with the loss of but a small proportion of those who fell at Fornovo. APPENDIX X (Page 375) THE ARRIVAL OF DUKE VALENTINO AT THE FRENCH COURT Brantome[315] has preserved, from an unedited rhyming chronicle, the following curious account of this upstart's entry, on the 18th of December, 1498, into Chinon, where Louis then held his court:-- [Footnote 315: _Vies des Hommes Illustres_, Discours 48.] "First came eighty most beautiful mules, laden with trunks, portmanteaus, and packages, with red cloths whereon were the Duke's armorial bearings. Then eighty more mules, whose cloths were party-coloured red and yellow, for they bore the royal liveries, such as I have seen our Queen Margaret's pages and footmen wear. These were followed by twelve mules, in cloths of yellow satin all _barré_ transversely. Then ten others in striped cloth of gold alternately waved and plain. "Next there came sixteen fine tall racers, led with Turkish bridles, and in cloths of gold, red, and yellow. Also eighteen pages, each on a beautiful racer, sixteen of them in crimson velvet, the other two in waved cloth of gold, while the people wondered why these minions were so much finer than the rest. Further, six footmen led, as was then the fashion, as many beautiful mules richly caparisoned with saddles, bridles, and housings, they and the footmen in crimson velvet. Then two mules laden with chests, over which was cloth of gold: 'Think how much richer their burdens,' said the bystanders,--'perhaps bright and splendid jewels for his bride, or bulls and indulgences from Rome, or, it may be, holy relics!' Thereafter came thirty gentlemen in gold and silver stuffs: 'Too small a troop,' said the court, 'considering all the preceding equipage, requiring at least some five or six score in French and Spanish costumes.' "There were also three musicians, two being tabors the other a rebec, then much in use, as still, among the high noblesse and commanders of Germany, who have kettle-drums in marching, as had the ostentatious Baron Dhona, till the gallant M. de Guise broke and silenced them, to his great disgrace. These drummers of Borgia were clad in their national costume of gold cloth, and their rebecs were decked out with gold cord, the instruments being of silver, with golden chains. And these musicians went between the gentlemen and the Duke of Valentinois, playing incessantly. There were likewise four trumpeters and clarioneers, richly dressed, ever sounding their silver instruments; and twenty-four laquais, in crimson velvet party-coloured with yellow silk, surrounded the Duke, with whom the Cardinal of Rouen was in conversation. "As to the Duke, he rode a tall and large courser, very richly accoutred, with a robe of red satin party-coloured with gold cloth, and trimmed with many costly stones and pearls. On his cap a double row of rubies, the size of large beans, glittered brilliantly. Its turn-up had also a great quantity of jewels; and even his boots were all stuck over with gold cords, and edged by pearls; "With collar which, to say the truth, Was thirty thousand ducats worth, "The charger he bestrode was quite covered with leaves of gold bedizened with jewellery, stones, and pearls. He had besides a pretty little mule for riding about the town, with saddle, bridle, breastplate, and other harness, studded in roses of fine gold an inch thick. Last of all, there were likewise four-and-twenty mules, with red cloths, bearing this lord's armorial ensigns, and a quantity of baggage-carts with camp-beds and other furniture. "Such was the entry, challenging renown, Of this grandee into Chinon. "The King, being at the window, saw him arrive, and there can be no doubt how he and his courtiers ridiculed all this state, as unbecoming the petty Duke of Valentinois." APPENDIX XI (Page 385) DESPATCH OF SER BENEDETTO TREVISANO, ENVOY OF VENICE AT THE COURT OF LOUIS XII., DETAILING THE ENTRY INTO LYONS OF LUDOVICO DUKE OF MILAN, THE 2ND OF MAY, 1500 Most serene Prince and excellent Lord [Doge], This day, at half-past four o'clock, the Lord Louis was brought into the city in the following manner. First, there came twelve town serjeants on foot, who prevented the very dense crowd from shouting; next the governor of the city with the provost-marshal on horseback, followed by a hundred archers of the King's guard; after them the Lord Louis, dressed in a vest of black camelot with black boots, and a cap of black cloth which he held almost constantly in his hand. He kept looking around him, and seemed anxious to appear unmoved by this great reverse of fortune. Although he had been shaved this morning his face did not evince health, and his arms, hands, and all his person trembled. Immediately near him was the captain of the King's archer guard, followed by another hundred archers, and thus was he led through the town to the castle, which stands on a mount, where he will remain well watched and guarded for the next eight days, until the completion of the iron cage, which will be his constant night chamber. The said cage is very strong; its irons are bound with wood, and the metal is so tempered that if forcibly touched by a file, or any other instrument, it would instantly fire the wood. I must not omit to tell you that I being with the Spanish minister at a window by which the Lord Louis had to pass, the said Lord, on having the Spanish envoy pointed out to him, raised his cap, and then being told that your Serenity's ambassador was likewise there, he stopped and made a sign that he wished to speak, but I did not move. And the captain of archers who was near him cried, "Let us get on! let us get on!" but afterwards reported to the King's majesty that the Lord Louis then said, "Go tell him that I made not my reverence to him; he is of an evil race, devoid of faith," &c. I replied that I should have considered myself disgraced, not honoured, by any demonstration of goodwill from such a one. I afterwards went to the King's majesty at his palace, and mentioned having seen the Lord Louis pass, and I found there many other lords and nobles, who said some one thing some another concerning Il Moro. The King told me he had determined on not sending him to Loches, as he at first said, because he was in the habit of going thither himself at certain seasons of the year to hunt, and was averse to seeing his captive, but should have him taken to Selys in Berri, about two leagues from Bourges, where there is a very strong castle with wider moats than those at the citadel of Milan, and full of water. This place is in the centre of France, and its warder will be a former captain of his Majesty's archers when Duke of Orleans, with a company of most faithful persons, all brought up under his Majesty. On dismounting from his mule, the Lord Louis was carried like a sack into the castle, for he cannot walk a step without assistance, and all think his days must be few. I humbly commend myself to your Serenity. From Lyons, the 2nd of May, 1500. BENTUS TRIVISANUS, _Eques, Orator_. APPENDIX XII (Page 391) Ahi bella Italia, già sublime e diva! Come ti pon' in man de' tuoi ribelli Che ti darann' ognor aspri flagelli, E di ciascun tuo ben resterai priva. Hor ogni alta virtute in te fioriva, Arme, dottrine, sculture, penelli, Architetture, fabriche e martelli: La prisca età tant' alto non saliva. Già tutti i stuoli barbareschi e rei Furono soggetti al tuo Felice scanno, Et or t'inclini a lor come a' tuoi Dei. Adunque piangi con perpetuo affanno, Pensando a quel che fosti e a quel che or sei, Che quanto è il ben ch'è perso, è tanto il danno. MARCELLO FILOSSENO. APPENDIX XIII (Page 398) The following narrative from Sanuto's Diaries of the Marriage Festivities of the Princess of Ferrara gives an ample idea of the pageants often alluded to in our volumes. ORDER OF THE POMPS AND SPECTACLES FOR THE MARRIAGE OF THE LADY LUCREZIA BORGIA, ON HER COMING TO HER HUSBAND AT FERRARA, THE LAST DAY OF JANUARY, 1502. First, the bridegroom Don Alfonso went to meet his bride at Malalbergo. Then, on the 1st of February, the most illustrious Lady Marchioness of Mantua went in the bucentaur, or state-barge, at the fourteenth hour, with her attendants, almost to Malalbergo, where she met the most illustrious bride, who was in a vessel with the most illustrious Duchess of Urbino and a few others. My Lady Marchioness then quitted her bucentaur for the bride's vessel, accompanied by the illustrious Lady Laura di Gonzaga and the Marchioness of Cotrone, when they embraced most courteously and proceeded towards Ferrara. On reaching the moat-tower, they all disembarked, and the bride made her reverence to the Lord Duke, who awaited her on the banks of the Po, with seventy-five mounted bowmen drawn up in file, in red and white uniform. The Duke having kissed her, and the foreign ambassadors with him having touched her hand, all of them embarked on board the bucentaurs, and so they arrived about the twenty-fourth hour at Casale, a possession of Lord Alberto d'Este on the opposite bank of the Po. The bride was received and led to her apartments by the Lady Lucrezia Bentivoglio, with many other noble dames, who all returned to Ferrara, after the steward of Don Alfonso had presented the Lady Teodora and twelve damsels as companions for the bride, all dressed in bodices [_camore_] of crimson satin and black velvet gowns with black lambskin. She was also complimented with five carriages, the first of which was covered with gold brocade and drawn by four horses, each worth fifty ducats. The next was in black velvet with bay horses, and the others in black satin drawn by horses of different colours. The bride wore a robe of cloth of gold, with _tirate_ and _galezoto_ of crimson satin, the sleeves of her chemise being in the Spanish fashion. Over these was a mantle [_albernia_] slashed on one side with black satin and trimmed with martens' fur. Her throat was bare, and her sleeves slashed in her own taste. On her neck was a string of large pearls with a garnet pendant pierced with a pearl; on her head a gold cap without any bandlet. The Lady Marchioness wore a robe of green velvet embroidered in gold, and a black velvet gown trimmed with lynx-skin, a cap of gold on her head, and a golden bandlet on her forehead, with a circlet of gold studded with diamonds round her neck. The Lady Duchess of Urbino wore a black velvet robe embroidered with golden ciphers. Next day, the 2nd of February, the entry was made into Ferrara. First, there came an advanced guard of seventy-five mounted archers of the Duke in long coats [_salioni_] of white and red cloth, their three officers all differently dressed. Then followed eighty trumpeters, their long coats being half of gold brocade, and half of black and white satin; next to whom twenty-four fifes and trombones; and then the courtiers and nobles of Ferrara indiscriminately, seventy of whom had gold collars, worth one with another 500 ducats, some of them being from 800 to 1200 ducats. Thereafter the Duchess of Urbino's company, in satin and velvet, this division being closed by the Lord Don Alfonso, along with Messer Annibale Bentivoglio; he bestrode a tall bay horse caparisoned in black velvet, with trappings of massive beaten gold, wrought in relief, and a long coat of grey velvet covered with gold scales, the whole equipment being estimated at 6000 ducats. His black velvet cap had a fringe of beaten gold and white plumes. The gaiters [_brusadrini_] on his legs were of grey _sumacho_. The attendants at his stirrups were four pages and four tall men in French doublets of gold brocade and black velvet with hose of black and red cloth. Next came the bride's company, in which were ten couple of Spaniards with gold brocade frocks [_saghi_], over which they wore velvet tabards lined with brocade or velvet; they had in all twelve gold chains of no great weight. These were followed by the Bishops of Adria, Comacchio, and Cervia with two others sent by the Pope, near whom were the envoys of Lucca, Genoa, Siena, Florence, with two from Venice in long robes of crimson velvet lined with fur, and four from Rome in mantles of gold brocade lined with crimson satin, behind whom were six tambourine players and a couple of running footmen. Then came the bride, under a canopy of crimson satin borne by the doctors of laws; and in advance of it was led a tall piebald horse given her by the Lord Duke, with crimson velvet housings embroidered with gold, upon which she made her entry as far as the bridge of Castle Tealto, where it started at the discharge of fire-arms, and nearly threw her, but she was supported by eight of her stirrup-men, who were arrayed in long coats of black and yellow satin with hose to match; after which accident she mounted a black mule, with furniture of velvet covered with gold and studded with nails of beaten gold, a most beautiful and rich sight. Her dress was a _camora_, with wide sleeves in the French mode, of gold tissue and black satin slashed in stripes; over that an _albernia_ of woven gold brocaded in relief, which was open at the side and lined with ermine, as were also the sleeves of her robe. On her throat was a collar of diamonds and rubies, once belonging to our Lady of Ferrara of happy memory, and on her head a jewelled cap (sent her to Rome with that necklace by the Lord Duke), but no coronet. Her mule was led by six chamberlains of Don Alfonso variously arrayed, and all with massive gold collars, and she was attended only by the French ambassador. The Lord Duke of Ferrara followed, with the Duchess of Urbino on his right. She rode on a black mule, caparisoned in black velvet, embroidered with woven gold. On her _camora_ of black velvet there were certain triangles of beaten gold, being astrological signs; a string of pearls surrounded her neck, and she wore a cap of gold. The Lord Duke bestrode a brown horse, with housings of black velvet, and wore a long cloak [_robbone_] of black velvet. Then came two noble dames, the Lady Girolama Borgia and one Ursina, in black velvet, behind whom the Lady Adriana, a widow related to the Pope: these were the only ladies on horseback. Next to them was the Lady Lucrezia Bentivoglio, in a carriage covered with gold brocade, followed by twelve others filled with the bride's ladies of Ferrara and Bologna; after whom there were led two of her sumpter mules with black velvet furniture, garnished with beaten silver in various designs; and behind these fifty-six other mules, covered with black and yellow cloth, and twelve more with satin of these liveries brought up the rear. Triumphal arches had been raised in some of the streets through which the bride passed, and certain representations enacted; and so, at sunset, the procession reached the piazza, where a spectacle had been prepared of two men descending by cords from the Rugobello tower, and from the turret of the Palazzo della Ragione, at which moment all the prisoners were set free. The Lady Marchioness of Mantua stood to receive the bride at the stairs of the castle court, arrayed in a _camora_ embroidered with musical notes, and accompanied by her mother-in-law, the Lady Laura di Gonzaga, whose _camora_ was of gold brocade striped with black velvet: many ladies of Ferrara were also in their company. When the bride dismounted, the Duke's archers seized the canopy as their perquisite, whilst his stirrup-men and those of Don Alfonso contended for the mule, which was finally obtained by those of the bridegroom. The bride was then escorted by the ambassadors and Don Alfonso, with the Marchioness of Mantua and the Duchess of Urbino, into the grand hall and the ducal chambers, which were prepared with household requisites; and after remaining there awhile, all at length retired, and she and the bridegroom kept each other company that night. On the 3rd, after dinner, two dances were performed in the hall, but with great difficulty, by reason of the crowd; and then the Duke reviewed all the actors in the five forthcoming comedies, one hundred and ten in number: they were in their stage dresses of taffety and camlet, in the Moorish fashion. First, there came one who represented Plautus, and recited the subjects of the proposed comedies, namely the _Epidicus_, the _Bacchides_, the _Miles Gloriosus_, the _Asinaria_, and the _Casina_. Then, about six o'clock, the first of them was commenced, with some good Moorish interludes, one of which was performed by some soldiers in antique dresses, with red and white plumes, having mock breastplates, helmets, and arms; one party wielding maces, the other axes, but each having swords and daggers. The former were victorious: they attacked with maces and axes, then with swords, finally with daggers, until half of them, having fallen down, were led away prisoners by the others, and removed from the stage. The second interlude was performed by some dressed as foot soldiers, with gorgets and breastplates, a feather on their heads, and hatchets in their hands; they fought like the others, after making a review to the sound of the trumpet, as if going to battle. The third interlude was musical, followed by certain Moors with two lighted candles in their mouths. The last one was also played by Moors bearing lighted torches, and making a fine show. Also, before the exit in the third interlude, there came to the sound of fife a fire-eater, who acquitted himself very well. The bride did not make her appearance on the 4th until about noon, when, having taken a slight collation, she came into the hall attended by the diplomatic body. She wore a dress of gold thread in the French mode, and an _albernia_ of dark satin, with narrow stripes of beaten gold studded with small gems, and trimmed with ermine; on her head a cap bossed with garnets and pearls, and on her neck a jewelled collar. At the moment of her entrance into the hall there appeared also the most illustrious Marchioness of Mantua: her dress was embroidered with gold, her neck had a string of large pearls, with a great diamond in the centre, and a richly jewelled bandlet on her brow. The most illustrious Duchess of Urbino was with her, in a _camora_ of brown velvet slashed, and bound with chains of massive gold. They spent the day dancing in the hall until near sunset, when all adjourned to the representation of the _Bacchides_ by Plautus, with two Moorish interludes. One of these was executed by ten men dressed as if naked, with aprons and long hair; in their hands were ten cornucopiæ, each of them holding four lighted torches filled with turpentine, which emitted flames when shaken. They were preceded by a damsel, who moved timorously about, without music, towards the back of the stage, whence a dragon issued to devour her; but a dismounted man-at-arms defended her, combated and vanquished the dragon, and carried him off captive, followed by the damsel in the arms of a youth, the ten men dancing round them and making their turpentine blaze up. The second Moorish interlude represented maniacs in their shirts, their hose over their heads, and in their hands fly-flaps and inflated bladders to beat themselves with. During next day, which was Saturday, the bride was occupied all the morning in washing [dying?] her head, and writing, nor did she appear during the day; so the other lords and ladies, nobles and dames, went for their pleasure through the city. And in the forenoon the Lady Lucrezia presented privately to the Lord Duke the patent of the fief of Ferrara from his Holiness. The Lady Marchioness of Mantua wore to-day a gown of white silver tabi, and her head and neck were decked with pearls; the Duchess of Urbino had a dress of velvet striped with woven gold. On Sunday, the 6th, solemn mass was chanted in the cathedral by the Bishop of Carniola; of the principal lords only Don Alfonso being present, accompanied by the French ambassador, but there were many courtiers and a crowd of people. When mass was over, one of the Pope's gentlemen of the bedchamber, named Messer Leandro, presented to Don Alfonso a sealed bull, which being opened was of the following tenor:--That it being usual for the Pontiff, every year, on Christmas eve, to bless a sword and hat, as a present for some Christian prince deserving well of the Church, his Holiness had made choice of his Highness, in consideration both of the dignity of his house and the excellency of his own person, the sword being in defence of the Christian faith, and the hat for that of himself individually. This brief having been publicly read, Don Alfonso went to the altar and knelt, and the aforesaid Bishop, having recited some prayers, placed on his head the hat of grey velvet, surmounted by a knot embroidered in pearls, and fringed with gold, which crossed and hung down in the form of a broad band, lined with ermine, with pendent tails. He then placed in his hand the sword, which was very richly ornamented with gold; and after he had remained thus for a short time, the Bishop ungirded him, when, rising on his legs, he called for Messer Giulio Tascone, who took the sword in his hand, having the hat on its point; and thus they went to dinner by sound of trumpet. After dinner the Lady Marchioness, arrayed in a black velvet robe, in the French fashion, lined with crimson satin, slashed and bound with lacets of massive gold, and buttoned down the front with garnet studs, her cap being formed of certain golden bars set with precious stones, and having round her throat a string of pearls and a golden necklace, went to escort the bride from her chamber, accompanied by her brothers and the Duchess of Urbino, whose gown was of black velvet closely embroidered in gold, her head and neck in gala attire. The bride wore a dress, in the French style, of dark satin, all striped with fish-scales of woven gold, each stripe being of two fingers' breadth: on her head were a cap and a richly jewelled coronet, and a pearl necklace of great price round her throat. And thus they led her down to the grand hall, where they danced for two hours, the bride with one of her maidens performing _busia_ very admirably in the French style. Then at sunset they went to the spectacle of the _Miles Gloriosus_, a comedy of Plautus, which lasted five hours and a half including three Moorish interludes. In the first of these, Cupid came upon the stage, shooting arrows and spouting verses; and he was followed by twelve men cased in tin, covered with lighted candlesticks, with looking-glasses on their heads, and pierced paper balloons in their hands, also filled with candles; so that it was a fine sight. The second interlude represented goats rushing and leaping about the stage, with the goatherd after them. The third was performed by foot soldiers in doublets of gold and silver brocade, with white and red hose, and on their heads black velvet caps with white plumes and false hair. In their hands were darts, and at their sides daggers; they first moved about the stage, thrusting at each other with the darts, and then with the daggers, but always keeping time; and when this was concluded all went to supper. Next day, the 7th, about two o'clock, all met to witness a combat between two men-at-arms, who had been allowed to fight in the piazza fronting the cathedral. One of them was named Vicino da Imola, in the Marquis of Mantua's service; the other was Aldobrandino Piatese, of Bologna. At the third sounding of the trumpet they made their onset, spurring their horses, and meeting near the extremity of the Palazzo della Ragione, when Aldobrandino received a thrust in the shoulder from his adversary, and was unhorsed. Throwing away their lances, they then took to their swords; but Aldobrandino having lost the naked sword of his bridle-hand at the first charge, employed the other, with which, at close quarters, he gave two wounds to his enemy's horse, one in the neck and the other in the shoulder. At length Vicino broke his sword's point, and unwittingly used it thus for some time; but on becoming aware of the fact, he seized his mace, and having soon lost this also, he instantly took his dagger, dodging about the lists with it, and courageously followed by his antagonist, who sought out his exposed and wounded points with his sword; until, finally, having cut him in the hand, Vicino's horse at the same instant beginning to stagger from his two wounds, Aldobrandino would doubtless have vanquished and slain his enemy, had not the Duke caused them to be parted, having reserved to himself this right of separating the combatants. Aldobrandino, after a very brief delay, was the first to mount a fresh horse and ride round the lists, amid infinite shouts of applause, and cries of "Turk, Turk!" [being a sort of slang for "Pluck, pluck;"] his adversary exhibiting his broken sword. And this duel of an hour's duration being so ended, the Duke, as umpire, reserving his award, all went from this spectacle to that of the comedy of Plautus, named the _Asinaria_, which was beautiful and delectable. Its notable interludes were, first, ten wild men, who ran about the stage jumping most fearfully, and then, terrified by the cry of dogs and hunters, retreated into a wood, whence, on seeing some coneys pass by, they pursued them with sticks and caught them. Then, on hearing the horns again blown, they hid themselves a second time, but came forth to chase some kids and chamois, which also they took. Finally, at the third blast of the horns, they once more fled into the wood, where they gave chase to a lion and a panther with their sticks; and these animals, defending themselves, were at length taken and bound by them, with great applause. Thereafter, all the ten met at one end of the stage, jumping, and four of them having formed a circle with their hands joined, other four sprang up and stood upon them with joined hands, they all bounding and dancing to pipe music, whilst the remaining two capered round them until they all separated. They all wore bells, which sometimes rang and were sometimes mute, but all in perfect time. Thereafter came some Mantuan music of the _tromboncino_, _paula_, _poccini_, &c., and last of all twelve peasants made their appearance with a tambourine, to represent the progress of agriculture. First, they dug the ground with spades; then they sowed from baskets filled with gilt copper chopped fine; then, with sickles, they reaped the corn, and so, going through each step, winnowing and housing it, until some peasant girls came forth with panniers and covered caldrons for a repast, preceded by fifes, with whom the husbandmen commenced dancing, and so went off the scene. The performance ended at nine o'clock, when all moved to supper. On this day the bride appeared in a dress of woven gold, and an _albernia_ of dark satin lined with ermine; on her neck was a great chain [_canata_, or fence of canes] of most valuable stones, and on her head a coronet of diamonds and emeralds. The most illustrious Marchioness wore a gown of crimson velvet striped with gold brocade in open work; on her neck was a very rich chain of stones, and a coronet of immense diamonds on her brow. The Lady Duchess had a black velvet dress, striped and crossed with gold and silver brocade, with pearls and jewels [_prede_] on her neck and head. The French envoy presented the bride to-day with a string of Venetian gilt beads. On the 8th, being Shrove-Tuesday of the carnival, the ambassadors entered the bride's chamber to offer their gifts, the Duke having already presented her with almost all his own jewels, which are most beautiful and of great value. The Venetian first, after a fitting exordium, presented robes and hoods of crimson velvet lined with paunch fur. Then the Florentine gave her a beautiful piece of cloth of gold flowered in relief, thirty-five yards long. The Sienese donated two silver vases of considerable size and well wrought. Lastly, the Lucchese gave a beautiful silver basin and ewer. Thereafter came the bride arrayed in a robe of gold brocade and dark satin, slashed and bound with white silk, with an _albernia_ of crimson satin lined with ermine, and a most beautiful long chain of pearls and _prede_ on her throat, with a jewelled cap on her head. She was accompanied by the Lady Marchioness, in a dress of dark velvet covered with acorns woven in gold, a collar of large pearls with a garnet centre, and a most beautiful tiara of diamonds, rubies, and emeralds, along with the Lady Duchess of Urbino in a gown of black velvet striped with gold, with a jewelled necklace and diadem. They went into the hall, where they danced till after sunset, and then proceeded to hear the last of the comedies, the _Casina_, which was performed with great applause of the spectators. The interludes were, first, one of music, in which a _buffo_ was sung in praise of the bridal pair: this preceded the comedy, after the first act whereof, a women in the French dress came forward to the sound of a tambourine followed by ten youths clad in taffety of Don Alfonso's colours of white and red, holding baskets on which were inscribed "Love wills not." Then they danced, and the woman, following them, snatched and threw away their baskets, on which feigning anger they left the stage, but returned with darts in their hands, wherewith they wounded her, leaving her half dead. Cupid then came, and with his arrows floored these youths and freed her, when all arose and left the stage. Thereafter music was performed by some Mantuan barbarians, who sang a ballad, the burden whereof was Hope. On the conclusion of the second act, six wild men appeared, and drew a large globe to the centre of the stage, wherein were enclosed four virtues, Justice, Fortitude, Temperance, and Prudence, who, on the globe being opened at the blast of a horn, sang a song. After the third act, some very good music was performed by six viols, one of them played by the Lord Don Alfonso. In the fourth place, twelve men in German arms came forward, with breastplates, halberds, and knives, having plumes on their heads, and they performed a very fine Moorish dance. Finally, there came other twelve with long torches lighted at each end, who paced about in the Moorish fashion, making a most beautiful display; and thus the spectacle ended at eleven o'clock, when all went to supper.[316] During these nuptials, the most illustrious Lady Marchioness of Mantua has made many presents, both in money and dresses, to the trumpeters, buffoons, tambourine and fife players, and other musicians: amongst them she gave dresses to three Spanish buffoons, two being of gold brocade, the other of dark satin, all beautifully figured. [Footnote 316: It is scarcely necessary to point out in these interludes the germ of the modern ballet spectacles (which in Italy are still introduced between the acts of the opera), as well as of various carnival pastimes. The details illustrate the history of the stage, as well as the social manners of the cinque-cento, which may excuse the length of this extract.] END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. GENEALOGICAL TABLES [Transcriber's Note: Missing legends for natural children in some of the genealogical tables have been added. In some tables, the original uses the same symbol to indicate both natural children and skipped generations. In order to distinguish between them, the skipped generations are indicated by the § symbol, as that symbol is used for that purpose in the other original tables.] DESCENT OF THE MONTEFELTRI, COUNTS AND DUKES OF URBINO. N.B.--_Natural children are connected thus_ ! ! ! I. ANTONIO, Lord of Monte Copiolo. | II. MONTEFELTRINO, made Count of Montefeltro in 1154. ___________|___________________________ | | III. BUONCONTE, Count of Montefeltro TADDEO. and of Urbino in 1216. | § | V. GUIDO IL VECCHIO, Count of Montefeltro = COSTANZA. and Urbino, d. 1298. | _________________________________|____________ | | VI. FEDERIGO, Count of Montefeltro BUONCONTE. and Urbino, d. 1322. | ___________|_______________________________________ | | | | GUIDONE. VII. NOLFO, VII. FEDERIGO SPERANZA. Count of or NOVELLO. Montefeltro VIII. | and Urbino. | ____________________________|______________________________ | | | | | | | 1378. | | | VIII. ANTONIO, = GIOVANNA NOLFO = ---- GUIDO. GALEAZZO. ANNA. C. of | GONZAGA. GABRIELLI. Montefeltro | and Urbino, | d. 1404. | _|_______________________________________ | | | 1. | 2. | | RENGARDA, = IX. GUIDANTONIO, = CATERINA, ANNA. BATTISTA, = GALEAZZO d. of | C. of | d. of d. 1447. § MALATESTA, Galeazzo | Montefeltro | Lorenzo Lord of Malatesta S.P. and Urbino, | Colonna, Pesaro. of Rimini, d. 1442. | d. 1438. d. 1423. ! | ________! ________|________________________________________ ! | | | | | ! X. ODDANTONIO, | VIOLANTE = DOMENICO | SUEVA = ALESSANDRO ! DUKE OF | | MALATESTA | SFORZA of ! URBINO, BIANCA = GUIDANTONIO | NOVELLO | Pesaro. ! d. 1444. MANFREDI, | of Cesena, | ! of Faenza. | d. 1465. AGNESINA = ALESSANDRO ! | GONZAGA of ! S.P. Castiglione. !___________________________________________________________ | | 1437. | 1460. | GENTILE, d. of = X. FEDERIGO, = BATTISTA, d. of AURA = BERNARDINO Bartolomeo | DUKE OF URBINO, | Alessandro | UBALDINI Brancaleone | b. 1429, | Sforza of | DELLA CARDA. of Mercatello | d. 1482. | Pesaro, | Durante, | ! | b. 1446, d. 1472. OTTAVIANO. d. 1457. S.P. ! |________________________________________ ! | _______________________!_________________________________________ | | | | | | BUONCONTE, ANTONIO = EMILIA PIA BERNARDINO, AGOSTINO FREGOSO, = GENTILE. | d. 1458. DA CARPI. d. 1458. of Sta. Agata. | | _________________________________________________________________________|________________________ | | | | | | | | 1489. | | 1474. | 1474. | | CHIARA, a Nun. XI. GUIDOBALDO I., = ELISABETTA, | GIOVANNA = GIOVANNI AGNESINA = FABRIZIO | | DUKE OF URBINO, | d. of | 1475. | DELLA | COLONNA, | VIOLANTE = GALEOTTO b. 1472, | Federigo, ELISABETTA, = ROBERTO | ROVERE | Lord of | MALATESTA. d. 1508 | Marq. of b. 1461. MALATESTA | of | Marino. | | Mantua, of Rimini, | Sinigaglia, ______|______ COSTANZA = ANTONELLO | d. 1526. d. 1482. | Prefect | | SANSEVERINO, | | of Rome. ASCANIO VITTORIA Prince of S.P. | COLONNA, COLONNA, Salerno. THE DELLA ROVERE Claimant of Marchioness DUKES OF URBINO. Urbino, in of Pescara. 1522-1530. DESCENT OF THE MALATESTA, as connected with URBINO. N.B.--_Natural children are connected thus_ ! ! ! MALATESTA, of Verucchio, = MARGHERITA PANDOLFINI. Lord of Rimini, in 1280. | | | PANDOLFO MALATESTA, Lord of Rimini, d. 1326. | _____________|_________________________________ | | MALATESTA GALEAZZO, MALATESTA, or GALEOTTO Lord of MALATESTA, Pesaro. Lord of ______|_______ Rimini, | | Faenza, and MALATESTA PANDOLFO = CONSTANZA Fossombrone, MALATESTA, MALATESTA, | D'ESTE, d. 1383. called Lord of | of | _l'Ungaro_, Pesaro, | Ferrara. | d. 1372. d. 1373. | | ______________| | | | | _____________________________________| | | | | | | CARLO PANDOLFO ANDREA RENGARDA, = GUIDANTONIO, | MALATESTA, MALATESTA, MALATESTA, d. 1423. Count of | Count of Lord of Lord of Urbino, | Rimini, Fano, &c., Cesena, d. 1442. | d. 1429. d. 1427. d. 1416. | ! ______|______ ! | | ! MALATESTA SIGISMONDO ____!______________________ MALATESTA, MALATESTA, | | | Lord of Lord of GALEAZZO SIGISMONDO DOMENICO = VIOLANTE DI Pesaro, Pesaro. ROBERTO, PANDOLFO, MALATESTA MONTEFELTRO, d. 1429. Lord of Lord of _Novello_, of Urbino. |______________ Rimini, Rimini, Lord of | d. 1432. married,-- Cesena, | 1. GIUNIPERA d. 1465. | D'ESTE, | 2. POLISSENA | SFORZA, | 3. ISOTTA | DEGLI ATTI, | d. 1468. | ! | ! 1 | 2 ! BATTISTA DI = GALEAZZO = MARIA DE' ! MONTEFELTRO, | MALATESTA, MEDICI, ! of Urbino, | sold Pesaro d. of ! d. 1447. | in 1444. Pierino. ! | ! ELISABETTA = PIER-GENTILE ! MALATESTA | VARANA, of ! | Camerino, ! | d. 1433. ! | ! COSTANZA = ALESSANDRO ! VARANA | SFORZA, ! | Lord of ! | Pesaro, ! | d. 1473. ! | ! BATTISTA = FEDERIGO, ! SFORZA, Count of ! d. 1472. Urbino, ! d. 1482. ! ! ! _____________________________________!_________________________ | | | | | | ROBERTO = ELISABETTA | | | MARGHERITA = CARLO DI GIOVANNA = GIULIO MALATESTA, DI | | | MONTONE, CESARE _the_ MONTEFELTRO, | | | of VARANA, _Magnificent_, of Urbino. | | | Perugia. Lord of Count of | GIOVANNI.| Camerino, Rimini, | | d. 1502. d. 1482. VALERIO. SALLUSTIO. ! ! PANDOLFO, = VIOLANTE died BENTIVOGLIO, in an of Bologna. hospital. DESCENT OF THE ORSINI, as connected with URBINO. _From Litta._ N.B.--_Natural children are connected thus_ ! ! ! 1 2 PERNA GAETANI = MATTEO ROSSO ORSINI, = GIOVANNA DELL'AQUILA. a great Campagna baron, 10th in descent from Orso, who lived A.D. 1000; d. 1246. ____________________|________________________________ | | | GENTILE ORSINI. RINALDO ORSINI, NAPOLEONE. | of Monterotondo, | § d. 1267. § | | | NICOLÒ ORSINI, | GIOVANNI ORSINI, = BARTOLOMEA Count of Petigliano, | 6th from | SPINELLI. a famous Condottiere, § Napoleone. | 9th from Gentile, | | d. 1510. | | | | ____________|__________ | | | | CLARICE = LORENZO ORSINI, GIACOMO ORSINI. | ORSINI, of | of Monterotondo, | | Bracciano. | 6th from Rinaldo. CLARICE, = LORENZO DE' | | d. 1488. § MEDICI, _the | | Magnificent_. | |_______________________ | _____________________________|______________ | | | | | GIULIO ORSINI, = MARGHERITA GIANBATTISTA, GIOVANNA = GIOVANNI | Condottiere, | CONTI. Cardinal, | DA CERI. | d. 1513. | poisoned 1503. | | | | | MARIO ORSINI, = VIRGINIA RENZO DA CERI, | Condottiere, DELLA ROVERE. Condottiere. | d. 1529. | | _________________________________________________________| | | FRANCESCO ORSINI, = MARGHERITA DELLA MARRA. CARLO ORSINI = PAOLA Duke of Gravina, | | ORSINI, of d. 1456. § | Tagliacozza. | | FERDINANDO ORSINI, = VIRGINIA DELLA ROVERE, | Duke of Gravina, da. of Guidobaldo II. | 6th from Francesco. Duke of Urbino. | | __________________________________________________________|__________ | | | NAPOLEONE ORSINI, = FRANCESCA ORSINI, ROBERTO ORSINI, = CATERINA LATINO ORSINI, of Bracciano | of Monterotondo. Condottiere, | SANSEVERINO. Cardinal, d. 1480. | d. 1476. | d. 1447. | | ! | ALFONSINA = PIETRO ! | ORSINI DE' MEDICI. ! | ! | PAOLO ORSINI, | Condottiere, | strangled 1503. __________|__________________________ | | | | GENTILE VIRGINIO ORSINI, = TRIFALDA BARTOLOMEA = BARTOLOMEO | of Bracciano, | ORSINI, of D'ALVIANO, | Condottiere, | Pacentro. Condottiere. | d. 1497. | | ! |_____________________ | ! 1 | 2 | CARLO ORSINI, MARIA CECILIA D'ARAGON, = GIANGIORDANO = FELICE DELLA | Count of bastard of Ferdinand, | ORSINI, of | ROVERE, bastard | Anguillara, King of Naples. | Bracciano. § of Julius II. | Condottiere, | | | d. 1505. NAPOLEONE The Dukes of | ORSINI. Bracciano. | | ______________________________| __________________________________________|____________ | | | FABIO ORSINI, = GIROLAMA CAMILLO ORSINI, = BRIGIDA PORZIA = VITELLOZZO VITELLI, Condottiere. BORGIA. Condottiere, | ORSINI, of of Città di Castello, d. 1559. | Bracciano. strangled 1503. | | 1541. PAOLO ORSINI, = LAVINIA FRANCIOTTI Condottiere. DELLA ROVERE. TABLES SHOWING THE DISPUTED SUCCESSION TO THE CROWN OF NAPLES. _From Le Sage, &c._ N.B.--_Natural children are connected thus_ ! ! ! I. LINES OF NORMANDY, HOHENSTAUFEN, AND ARAGON. TANCRED, Lord of Hauteville, in Normandy, before 1000. ____________________|_____________________ | | ROGER, ROBERT GUISCARD, Count of Sicily, his fourth son, d. 1101. Duke of Puglia, | d. 1085. | ROGER, 1st King of Naples and Sicily, d. 1154. | __________________|______________________ | | | WILLIAM THE BAD, ROGER, d. 1149. CONSTANTIA = HENRY VI. of Hohenstaufen, 2nd K. of N. & S., ! | Emperor of Germany, d. 1166. ! | d. 1197, | TANCRED, bastard, | 6th K. of N. and S. | 4th K. of N. & S., | | d. 1194. | WILLIAM THE GOOD, | FREDERICK II., Emp. of Germany, 3rd K. of N. & S., | 7th K. of N. & S., d. 1250. d. 1189. WILLIAM III., | ! 5th K. of N. & S., | ! deposed by CONRAD IV., MANFRED, bastard, Emp. Henry VI. Emp. of G., usurped N. & S., in 1194. 8th K. of N. & S., d. 1266. d. 1254. | | | CONRADIN, CONSTANTIA, = PETER III., K. _de jure_ of d. 1300. | K. of Aragon, N. & S., d. 1268. | became K. of Pope Clement IV. | Sicily after gave his kingdom | the Sicilian to Charles | vespers, of Anjou. | d. 1285. | __________________________________________________|___ | | | ALFONSO III., K. of JAMES, K. of Aragon, FREDERICK III., Aragon and Sicily, and K. of Sicily, 3rd K. of Sicily, d. 1291. abdic. 1295. d. 1337. | | | | ALFONSO IV., PETER II., of Aragon, 4th K. of Sicily, d. 1336. d. 1342. | | | | PETER IV., | of Aragon, _________________|_ d. 1388. | | | LOUIS, FREDERICK III., | 5th K. of S., 6th K. of Sicily, | d. 1355. d. 1377. | | | | _______________|_________ | | | | ELEANORA, = JOHN I., MARTIN I., | d. 1382. | K. of Castile. of Aragon, | | 8th K. of Sicily, | | d. 1410. | FERDINAND THE JUST, | | K. of Aragon, MARTIN, = MARY, 9th K. of Sicily, Prince of Aragon, heiress of Sicily, d. 1416. 7th K. of Sicily, d. 1402. | d. 1409. | _____|______________________________________ | | JOHN II., = JANE ENRIQUEZ. ALPHONSO V., K. of Aragon, | K. of Aragon Sicily, and | and Sicily, Navarre, | and I. as d. 1479. | K. of Naples, | by adoption of | Joanna II., | d. 1458. | ! | ! | FERDINAND I., | K. of Naples, | d. 1494. _______|______ | | | | ISABELLA, = FERDINAND JANE = FERDINAND I., ALFONSO II., heiress of | THE CATHOLIC, K. of Naples. K. of Naples, Castile, | K. of Aragon, d. 1495. d. 1504. | Castile, | | Naples, | | and Sicily, FERDINAND II., | d. 1516. K. of Naples, | d. 1496. | _________________|_______________________________________________________ | | | | ISABELLA, JANE THE INSANE, = PHILIP THE FAIR, MARY, CATHERINE, Q. of Portugal. heiress of Aragon, | son of Emperor Q. of Portugal. Q. of England. Castile, and | Maximilian, Sicily, d. 1555. | d. 1506. | | The Emperor CHARLES V., d. 1558. II. LINES OF ANJOU. LOUIS VIII., K. of France, d. 1226. ________________|___________ | | ST. LOUIS, CHARLES, Count of Anjou and Provence, K. of France, invested by Clement IV. d. 1270. with Naples and Sicily, 1265, | d. 1285. | | | | | CHARLES II., K. of N., d. 1309. | | | ________________|___________________ | | | | | | CHARLES MARTEL, ROBERT, PHILIP, JOHN, | K. of Hungary, K. of N., d. 1332. d. 1335. | d. 1290. d. 1343. | ____|_____ | | | | | | | | CHARLES, | LOUIS, CHARLES, = MARY of | CHARLES d. 1328. | d. 1362. d. 1348. | Naples, | ROBERT, | | | d. 1366. | K. of H., | | | | d. 1342. _|_____________ | __________ |____________ | | | | | | | ___|_____ | ____|___ | | | | | | | | 2 | 1 | | LOUIS, ANDREW, = JOANNA = LOUIS of PHILIP, = MARY, = CHARLES = MARGARET, | K. of d. I., Tarento, d. d. of | d. 1412. | Hungary, 1345. Q. of N., d. 1362. 1368. 1366. Durazzo, | | d. 1382. d. 1382. d. 1412. | | ___________________________| | | | | LADISLAUS, JOANNA II., Q. of Naples, | K. of Naples, who adopted 1st Alfonso V., | d. 1414. K. of Aragon and Sicily; | 2nd René of Anjou and | Provence, +1435. __|___________________________ | | PHILIP THE BOLD, CHARLES of K. of France, Valois of Anjou. d. 1285. | PHILIP VI., of Anjou, d. 1350. | JOHN II., of Anjou, d. 1364. ________________|__________________ | | | CHARLES V., LOUIS I., PHILIP, K. of of Anjou, D. of Burgundy, France, Titular K. d. 1404, d. 1377. of Naples, great-grandfather of | d. 1384. | _________|_________ | | | | | § CHARLES VI., LOUIS, | | K. of France, D. of LOUIS II., | d. 1422, Orleans, of Anjou, | grandfather of d. 1407. Titular K. CHARLES THE BOLD, | | of N., D. of Burgundy, § | d. 1417. d. 1477. | | | LOUIS XI., CHARLES, | K. of F., D. of O., | d. 1483. d. 1465. |____________________________________ | | | | | | | LOUIS III., RENÉ LE BON, CHARLES, CHARLES = ANNE of = LOUIS XII., of Anjou, C. of Provence, Count of Maine, VIII., K. Bretagne, K. of F., Titular Titular d. 1472. of France, d. 1514. d. 1515. K. of N., K. of N., | d. 1498. d. 1434. d. 1480. | | CHARLES, Tit. D. of Calabria, bequeathed his claims on Naples to Louis XI. of France, d. 1481. THE SFORZA DESCENT N.B.--_Natural children are connected thus_ ! ! ! GIACOMO MUZIO ATTENDOLO SFORZA, Count of Cotignola, 1369-1424. ! ______________________________!____________________ | | FRANCESCO = BIANCA ALESSANDRO = COSTANZA SFORZA, | MARIA SFORZA, | VARANA of Duke of | VISCONTI. Lord of | Camerino. Milan, | Pesaro, | 1450, | b. 1409, | b. 1401, | d. 1473. | d. 1466. | | | | __________|_________________________________ | | | | | | GALEAZZO = BONA CARDINAL IPPOLITA LUDOVICO = BEATRICE | MARIA, | of ASCANIO, MARIA, IL MORO, | D'ESTE | D. of | Savoy. d. 1505. 1446-1484, D. of | of | Milan, | m. Milan, | Ferrara. | 1444-1476.| ALFONSO, K. 1451-1508.| | ! | of Naples. | | ! | | | CATERINA | | | RIARIO | | | SFORZA. | | | | | | ____|________________ _______|____ | | | | | | GIOVANNI = ISABELLA BIANCA MAXIMILIANO, FRANCESCO, | GALEAZZO,| of Naples. MARIA, D. of Milan, D. of | D. of | 1472-1510, 1493-1530. Milan, | Milan, | m. the 1495-1535. | b. 1469, | Emperor | d. 1494. | Maximilian. | | | | __________________________________| | | | | FRANCESCO SFORZA, COSTANZO = CAMILLA GINEVRA, BATTISTA, b. 1490, d. 1522. SFORZA MARZANA m. m. of of Sessa. BENTIVOGLIO Federigo, Pesaro, of Bologna. D. of d. 1483. Urbino. ! ! 1 ! 2 LUCREZIA BORGIA = GIOVANNI SFORZA = GINEVRA TIEPOLO. of Pesaro, | d. 1510. | | COSTANZO SFORZA. DESCENT OF THE BORGIA, as connected with URBINO _From Moreri, &c._[H] [Transcriber's Note: This table is not historically accurate, but is presented here as it appears in the original.] _N.B.--Natural children are connected thus_ ! ! ! GIOVANNI BORGIA, or BORJA of Xativa. | _________________________|__________________________ | | | ALFONSO BORGIA, CATERINA = GIOVANNI DEL MILA. GIOVANNA = GIUFFREDO elected Pope as | or ISABELLA | or ALFONSO Calixtus III. | | LENZUOLI. 1455, d. 1458. LUIGI GIOVANNI, | ! Cardinal, d. 1507. | ! | FRANCESCO B. | Cardinal in 1500, | b. 1441, d. 1511. | ____________________________________________________| | | PIERLUIGI B. DOMENICO = VANOSIA by RODERIGO by GIULIA = MONOCULO Prefect D'ARIGNANO ! BORGIA, ! FARNESE, ORSINI. of Rome. or ARIMANO. ! elected ! called | ! Pope as ! BELLA, | ! Alexander ! sister |? ! VI. 1492, ! of | ! b. 1431, ! Pope | ! d. 1503. ! Paul III. _______|____________________ ! ! | | | ! ! GIOVANNI B. GIOVANNI B. PIERLUIGI B. ! GIOVANNI B. Cardinal Cardinal Cardinal ! Duke of Nepi. in 1492, in 1496, in 1500, ! d. 1503. d. 1500. d. 1511. ! ! ________________________________________!____________________________ | | | | FRANCESCO, = MARIA CESARE = CHARLOTTE GIUFFREDO = SANCIA, | or | ENRIQUEZ. BORGIA, | D'ALBRET, B. Prince bastard | GIOVANNI | Duke of | sister of of | B. Duke | Romagna, | of Jean, Squillace. Alfonso | of Gandia, | d. 1507. | King of II. of | d. 1497. | | Navarre. Naples. | | | | | | 1. GASPARE PROCIDA = Lucrezia | | Count of Aversa. | | | | 2. GIOVANNI SFORZA = | | of Pesaro, d. 1510. | | | | 3. ALFONSO = | | Duke of Bisceglia, | | d. 1500. | | | | | RODERIGO B. | | Duke of Sermoneta. | | | | 4. ALFONSO I. = | | Duke of Ferrara. | | | | | § | | Dukes of Ferrara. | | | LOUIS DE LA = LOUISA = PHILIPPE DE | TREMOUILLE. BOURBON-BUSSET. |_________________________________ | | GIOVANNA, = GIOVANNI B. = FRANCESCA ISABELLA, d. of | Duke of § DA CASTRO. a nun. ALFONSO, | Gandia. bastard of | Ferdinand | II. of | Spain. | ___|___________________________ | | SAINT FRANCESCO B. = ELEONORA RODERIGO, Duke of Gandia, DA CASTRO. Cardinal, General of the +1537. Jesuits, b. 1510, d. 1572. [Footnote H: Cf. with the Table in YRIARTE, _César Borgia_, vol. I.] DESCENT OF THE VITELLI of CITTÀ DI CASTELLO, as connected with URBINO _From Litta_ N.B.--_Natural children are connected thus_ ! ! ! GEROZZO, a Citizen = GUGLIELMA MIGLIORATI. of Città di Castello, | d. 1398. | ________________|_____ | | VITELLOZZO VITELLI, GIOVANNI VITELLI, = MADDALENA a successful partisan d. 1415. | GHERARDO. leader, d. 1462. | | NICOLÒ V., head of = PANTASILEA his party after 1462, | ABBOCATELLI. d. 1496. | ! | ! | GIULIO V., d. 1530. | | _____________________________________________________|____ | | | | VITELLOZZO V., = BORGIA, PAOLO V., = GIROLAMA GIOVANNI V., CAMILLO V., = LUCREZIA strangled at d. of beheaded | ORSINI, d. 1487. Count of BAGLIONE, Sinigaglia, Paolo at | sister | Montone, of 1503. Orsini. Florence | of the | Duke of Perugia. in 1499. | wife of | Gravina, ! | Pietro | d. 1496. ! | de' | ! ALESSANDRO V., | Medici. GIOVANNI VI., ! d. 1556. | d. 1513. ! | VITELLO, ____________________|_________ d. 1528. | | NICOLÒ V. = GENTILINA CHIAPPINO V., d. 1529. | STAFFA. d. 1511. | ___|____________ | | CHIAPPINO V., PAOLO V. d. 1575. * * * * * * Transcriber�s Errata List Page xxi, number 18: Price is missing in original. Page xxii, number 21: "Sazi" should be "Sanzi". Page xxii, number 22: "Luigo Allemanno" should be "Luigi Alamanni". Page 460, bottom: Subtotal is missing in original. Missing legends for natural children in some of the genealogical tables have been added. In some tables, the original uses the same symbol to indicate both natural children and skipped generations. In order to distinguish between them, the skipped generations are indicated by the § symbol, as that symbol is used for that purpose in the other original tables. In the first table relating to the succession to the Crown of Naples, Jane, wife of Ferdinand I., is actually his second wife, and not the mother of his issue listed here. The original table lists this marriage twice; both instances are combined here for clarity. The Borgia genealogical table is not historically accurate, but is presented here as it appears in the original. (See the author's comment on the Borgia pedigree on p. 320.) Footnote 226: Errors in the Boccalini quotations have been corrected by comparison with the 1612 edition of 'De' ragguagli di Parnaso' at the Internet Archive. Footnote 299: Original erroneously cites p. 385; corrected to p. 401. Footnote 301: Original erroneously cites p. 385; corrected to p. 401. 
50577	----	https://archive.org/details/memoirsofdukesof03dennuoft Project Gutenberg has the other two volumes of this work. Volume I: see http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/42560 Volume II: see http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/44235 Transcriber's note: This work was originally published in 1851. As noted below, footnotes marked by an asterisk were added by the editor of the 1909 edition, from which this e-book was prepared. Obvious printer errors have been corrected without note. Certain spelling inconsistencies have been made consistent; for example, variants of Michelangelo's last name have been changed to Buonarroti. Full-page illustrations have been moved so as not to break up the flow of the text. MEMOIRS OF THE DUKES OF URBINO Illustrating the Arms, Arts & Literature of Italy, 1440-1630 by JAMES DENNISTOUN OF DENNISTOUN A New Edition with Notes by Edward Hutton & Over a Hundred Illustrations In Three Volumes. VOLUME THREE [Illustration] London John Lane The Bodley Head New York John Lane Company MCMIX William Brendon and Son, Ltd., Printers, Plymouth [Illustration: _Anderson_ FRANCESCO MARIA II. DELLA ROVERE, DUKE OF URBINO _After the picture by Baroccio in the Uffizi Gallery, Florence_] CONTENTS BOOK SIXTH (_Continued_) OF FRANCESCO MARIA DELLA ROVERE, FOURTH DUKE OF URBINO PAGE CHAPTER XXXIX Causes which led to the sack of Rome--The assault--Death of Bourbon--Atrocities of his soldiery--The Duke of Urbino's fatal delays--The Pontiff's capitulation and escape--Policy of the Emperor 3 CHAPTER XL The Duke's mischievous Policy--New league against Charles V.--A French army reaches Naples--The Duke's campaign in Lombardy--Peace restored--Siege of Florence--Coronation of the Emperor at Bologna--The independence of Italy finally lost--Leonora Duchess of Urbino--The Duke's Military Discourses 34 CHAPTER XLI Italian Militia--The Camerino disputes--Death of Clement VII.--Marriage of Prince Guidobaldo--Proposed Turkish crusade under the Duke--His death and character 60 BOOK SEVENTH OF GUIDOBALDO DELLA ROVERE, FIFTH DUKE OF URBINO CHAPTER XLII Succession of Duke Guidobaldo II.--He loses Camerino and the Prefecture of Rome--The altered state of Italy--Death of Duchess Giulia--The Duke's remarriage--Affairs of the Farnesi 85 CHAPTER XLIII The Duke's domestic affairs--Policy of Paul IV.--The Duke enters the Spanish service--Rebellion at Urbino severely repressed--His death and character--His children 106 BOOK EIGHTH OF FRANCESCO MARIA II. DELLA ROVERE, SIXTH AND LAST DUKE OF URBINO CHAPTER XLIV Autobiography of Duke Francesco Maria II.--His visit to the Spanish Court--His studious habits--His marriage--Is engaged in the naval action of Lepanto--Succeeds to the dukedom 129 CHAPTER XLV The unsatisfactory results of his marriage--He separates from the Duchess--His court and habits--Death of the Duchess--He remarries 152 CHAPTER XLVI Birth of Prince Federigo--The Duke's retired habits and aversion to business--His constitution-making experiments--His instructions to his son--The Prince's unfortunate education and character 173 CHAPTER XLVII The Prince's marriage--The Duke entrusts to him the government, and retires to Castel Durante--His dissolute career and early death--Birth of his daughter Vittoria--The Duke rouses himself--He arranges the devolution of his state to the Holy See--Papal intrigues 196 CHAPTER XLVIII The Duke's monkish seclusion--His death and character--His portraits and letters--Notices of Princess Vittoria, and her inheritance--Fate of the ducal libraries--The duchy incorporated with the Papal States--Results of the Devolution 224 BOOK NINTH OF LITERATURE AND ART UNDER THE DUKES DELLA ROVERE AT URBINO CHAPTER XLIX Italian literature subject to new influences--The Academies--Federigo Comandino--Guidobaldo del Monte--The Paciotti--Leonardi--Muzio Oddi--Bernardino Baldi--Girolamo Muzio--Federigo Bonaventura 253 CHAPTER L Italian versification--Ariosto--Pietro Aretino--Vittoria Colonna--Laura Battiferri--Dionigi Atanagi--Antonio Galli--Marco Montano--Bernardo Tasso 278 CHAPTER LI Torquato Tasso--His insanity--Theories of Dr. Verga and Mr. Wilde--His connection with Urbino--His intercourse with the Princess of Este--His portraits--His letter to the Duke of Urbino--His confinement--His death--His poetry--Battista Guarini 308 CHAPTER LII The decline of Italian art: its causes and results--Artists of Urbino--Girolamo della Genga and his son Bartolomeo--Other architects and engineers 335 CHAPTER LIII Taddeo Zuccaro--Federigo Zuccaro--Their pupils--Federigo Baroccio and his pupils--Claudio Ridolfi--Painters of Gubbio 355 CHAPTER LIV Foreign artists patronised by the Dukes della Rovere--The tomb of Julius II. by Michael Angelo--Character and influence of his genius--Titian's works for Urbino--Palma Giovane--Il Semolei--Sculptors at Urbino 381 CHAPTER LV Of the manufacture of majolica in the Duchy of Urbino 403 APPENDICES I. Correspondence of Clement VII. with Duke Francesco Maria before the sack of Rome, 1527 427 II. The sack of Rome 429 III. The Duke of Urbino's justification, 1527 444 IV. Sketch of the negotiations of Castiglione at the court of Madrid, 1525-1529 448 V. Account of the armada of Don John of Austria at Messina, 1571 452 VI. Indulgence conceded to the corona of the Grand Duke of Tuscany by Pius V., 1666 456 VII. Monumental inscriptions of the ducal family of Urbino 458 VIII. Statistics of Urbino 463 IX. Two sonnets by Pietro Aretino on Titian's portraits of Duke Francesco Maria I. and his Duchess Leonora 470 X. Petition to Guidobaldo II. Duke of Urbino, by certain Majolica-makers in Pesaro 472 XI. Letter from the Archbishop of Urbino to Cardinal Giulio della Rovere, regarding a service of Majolica 474 XII. Collections of art made by the Dukes of Urbino 476 DENNISTOUN'S LIST OF AUTHORITIES FOR THE WORK 490 GENEALOGICAL TABLE 501 INDEX 505 ILLUSTRATIONS Francesco Maria II. della Rovere, Duke of Urbino. After the picture by Baroccio in the Uffizi Gallery, Florence. (Photo Anderson) _Frontispiece_ FACING PAGE The Emperor Charles V. From the picture by Titian in the Prado Gallery, Madrid. (Photo Anderson) 28 Guidobaldo II., Duke of Urbino. From a picture in the Albani Palace in Rome 88 ? Guidobaldo II. della Rovere. From the picture by Titian in the Pitti Gallery, Florence. (Probably once in the Ducal Collection.) (Photo Alinari) 90 Isabella d'Este. After the picture by Titian in the Imperial Museum, Vienna. (Photo Franz Hanfstaengl) 134 Duke Francesco Maria II. receiving the allegiance of his followers. After the fresco by Girolamo Genga in the Villa Imperiale, Pesaro. (Photo Alinari) 148 Duke Francesco Maria II. receiving the allegiance of his followers. After the fresco by Girolamo Genga in the Villa Imperiale, Pesaro. (Photo Alinari) 150 Francesco I. de' Medici. After the picture by Bronzino in the Pitti Gallery, Florence. (Photo Anderson) 154 Federigo, Prince of Urbino. From the picture once in the possession of Andrew Coventry of Edinburgh 196 Facsimiles of signatures and monograms 200 Francesco Maria II., Duke of Urbino. From a picture once in the possession of James Dennistoun 226 Vittoria della Rovere, Grand Duchess of Tuscany. From the picture by Sustermans in the Pitti Gallery, Florence. (Photo Anderson) 248 Supposed portrait of Ariosto. After the picture by Titian in the National Gallery 280 Pietro Aretino. From the picture by Titian in the Pitti Gallery, Florence. (Photo Alinari) 288 Bernardo Tasso. From a picture once in the possession of James Dennistoun 298 Torquato Tasso. From a picture once in the possession of James Dennistoun 308 Laura de' Dianti and Alfonso of Ferrara. After the picture by Titian in the Louvre. (Photo Neurdein Frères) 312 Martyrdom of S. Agata. After a picture by Seb. dal Piombo, once in the Ducal Collection at Urbino, now in the Pitti Gallery, Florence. (Photo Anderson) 336 Holy Family. After the picture by Sustermans, once in the Ducal Collection of Urbino, now in the Pitti Gallery, Florence. (Photo Alinari) 340 The Knight of Malta. From the picture by Giorgione, once in the Ducal Collection at Urbino, now in the Uffizi Gallery, Florence. (Photo Anderson) 344 Judith with the head of Holofernes. After the picture by Palma il Vecchio, once in the Ducal Collection at Urbino. (Photo Alinari) 346 Head of Christ. After the picture by Titian, once in the Ducal Collection, now in the Pitti Gallery, Florence. (Photo Alinari) 348 The Resurrection. After the banner painted by Titian for the Compagnia di Corpus Domini, now in the Pinacoteca, Urbino. (Photo Alinari) 352 The Last Supper. After the picture by Baroccio in the Duomo of Urbino. (Photo Alinari) 356 Noli me Tangere. After the picture by Baroccio, once in the Ducal Collection at Urbino, now in the Uffizi Gallery, Florence. (Photo Anderson) 372 The Communion of the Apostles. By Giusto di Gand, in the Palazzo Ducale Urbino. (From the Ducal Collection.) (Photo Alinari) 382 Giovanni and Federigo, Electors of Saxony. After the portraits by Cranach, once in the Ducal Collection at Urbino, now in the Uffizi Gallery, Florence. (Photo Anderson) 386 La Bella. After the picture by Titian in the Pitti Gallery, Florence. Supposed portrait of Duchess Leonora. (Photo Anderson) 390 The Venus of Urbino. Supposed portrait of the Duchess Leonora, after the picture by Titian in the Uffizi Gallery, Florence, once in the Ducal Collection. (Photo Anderson) 392 Sleeping Venus. After the picture by Giorgione in the Dresden Gallery, after which the Venus of Urbino was painted. (Photo Anderson) 394 Portrait of his wife, by Lucas Cranach. From the picture in the Roscoe Collection, Liverpool. Possibly modelled on the Venus of Urbino 396 Maiolica. A plate of Urbino ware of about 1540 in the British Museum 404 Maiolica. A plate of Castel Durante ware of about 1524 in the British Museum. "The divine and beautiful Lucia" 408 Maiolica. A plate of Urbino ware about 1535 in the British Museum. (The arms are Cardinal Pucci's) 412 Maiolica. Plate of Castel Durante ware about 1540, with a portrait medallion within a border of oak leaves. This pattern was called "Cerquata" or "al Urbinata," the oak being the badge of the Rovere house. In the British Museum 416 CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE A.D. PAGE CHAPTER XXXIX 1527. Causes leading to the sack of Rome 3 " The Pontiff's fatal confidence 4 " Defenceless state of his capital 5 " Apr. His tardy alarm, and inadequate exertions 5 " " Demoralisation of the city 6 " " Warnings of impending woe 6 " May. Foolhardiness of Renzo da Ceri 8 " " Authorities for the sack 8 " " Panic in the city 8 " " Estimate of the respective forces 9 " " 5. Arrival of Bourbon's army 10 " " 6. The assault 10 " " The localities examined and compared 11 " " Death of Bourbon 12 " " Rome lost by a panic 13 " " The Pope and Cardinals gain the castle of S. Angelo 13 " " The imperialists overrun the entire city 14 " " It is ferociously sacked during three days 14 " " The Prince of Orange succeeds Bourbon 15 " " Savage atrocities and sacrilege of the army 15 " " Several cardinals outraged 16 " " Pillage of shops and palaces 17 " " Ransom extorted by the soldiery 18 " " Dilatory proceedings of the confederates 18 " " 3. The Duke of Urbino leaves Florence 19 " " Unworthy motives imputed to him 19 " " 17. Abortive attempt to rescue the Pope 20 " " 20. He advances to Isola di Farnese 21 " " Distracted counsels in his camp 21 " " He resolves upon inaction 22 " " His memorial defending this 22 " " The Pontiff vainly appeals to Lannoy 23 " Jun. 5. He accepts a humbling capitulation 23 " " Sale of cardinals' hats 24 " " The capitulation rejected 24 " Aug. Pestilence and famine in Rome 25 " " Death of Lannoy 25 " Oct. New and more severe terms of capitulation 25 " Dec. 8. The Pope escapes in disguise to Orvieto 26 Castiglione's negotiations at Madrid from 1524 to 1528 26 " Jul. 25. Conduct of Charles V. on hearing of sack 29 " The Pope's dissatisfaction and Castiglione's defence 29 " Nov. 22. The Emperor's hollow professions 31 " " Fatal consequences of the sack 32 CHAPTER XL " Jun. 1. The confederates retire to Monterosi 34 " Aug. Mischievous policy of Francesco Maria 34 " Dec. His interview with the Pope 34 " Jul. Distrust of the Venetians 35 1528. Removed by a visit from the Duke 35 " His violent proceedings 36 " He is presented with a palace at Venice 37 1527. Jun. New League against Charles V. 37 " Jul. A French army enters Italy 37 " Close of this miserable year 37 1528. Feb. 16. The imperialists evacuate Rome 38 " " Overtaken by signal vengeance 39 " " 10. Lautrec enters the Abruzzi 39 " Apr. 29. And lays siege to Naples 39 " Aug. 15. His death, and the destruction of his army 39 " May. The Duke protects the Venetian mainland 40 " And saves Lodi from the Duke of Brunswick 40 " Sep. 20. He recovers Pavia 40 " Oct. 21. But loses Savona 41 " Demoralising effects of these wars 41 1529. Jun. 29. Peace restored between the great powers 42 " Dec. Venice not being included, the Duke keeps the field till December 42 " Nov. 5. Charles and Clement meet at Bologna 42 " Dec. 23. Treaty of the Italian powers 42 1530. Aug. 12. Siege of Florence 43 " " Death of the Prince of Orange there 43 1529. Nov. 1. The Duke arrives at Bologna with the Duchess 44 " His reception by some veterans 44 1530. He declines the imperial baton 45 " But is in high favour with Charles 45 " Who restores to him Sora and Arce 45 " Feb. 22. The coronation of Charles V. 46 " Mar. 22. He leaves Bologna 46 " Apr. 6. Clement VII. visits Urbino 46 " Altered position of Italy by the loss of her nationality and independence 46 " Opinions of Mariotti 48 " The Duchess of Urbino builds the palace of Imperiale 49 " Its attractions and site 49 " Her portrait and administration 52 " Prince Guidobaldo 53 " Marriage of Princess Ippolita 53 " The Duke's Military Discourses 53 " His opinions on fortification 54 " His critique on Venetian policy 55 " His views regarding sieges 55 " And Artillery 56 " His comparative estimate of various nations in the field 57 " His rules for the construction of an army 57 1532. His inspections of the Venetian troops 58 " Ancona annexed to the papal states 59 CHAPTER XLI 1533. Militia organised in Italy 60 " The Feltrian legion instituted at Urbino 61 " Jan. Charles V. attends a congress at Bologna 62 " " Where Titian meets him and probably paints the Duke and Duchess of Urbino 62 " Apr. Birth of Prince Giulio 63 " " Origin of the Camerino disputes 63 " Descent of the Varano family 63 " Giovanni Maria made Duke of Camerino 64 His daughter Giulia offered to Prince Guidobaldo 65 " The consent of Clement VII. withheld 65 " Attempted abduction of Giulia 66 1534. Sep. 27. Death of Clement, and his character 66 " Oct. 12. Election of Paul III. 68 " " " Marriage of Guidobaldo 68 " It is disapproved by the Pope 68 " Vain mediation of Francesco Maria 68 " Hostilities resorted to 69 1535. The Duke visits Charles V. at Naples, and makes him presents 69 " Singular tradition in the Abruzzi 69 " Death of the last Sforza 70 1538. Jan. 31. Confederacy against the Turks, with the Duke as captain-general 70 " Sep. 20. His sudden illness 71 " " He returns to Pesaro 71 " Oct. 22. His death from poison 71 " " His funeral obsequies and epitaph 72 " " His vicissitudes of fortune 74 " " His fame has suffered from prejudiced historians 74 " " His character and military reputation 76 " " Opinion of Urbano Urbani 77 " " And of Centenelli 79 " " His dutiful conduct to Duchess Elisabetta 79 " " His widow and testamentary dispositions 80 " " His children 80 " " Cardinal Giulio della Rovere 81 CHAPTER XLII " " Diminished interest of our subject 85 1514. Apr. 2. Birth of Prince Guidobaldo 87 " " Educated by Guido Posthumo Silvestro 87 1529. His boyish taste for horses 88 1534. Oct. 12. His marriage and its political results 88 1538. " 22. His succession to the Dukedom 88 " " 25. The ceremonial described by an eye-witness 89 1539. Jan. 8. He compromises the Camerino succession, and loses the Prefecture 92 " Camerino annexed to the papal states 93 " The Duke strengthens himself by taking service with the Emperor and Venice 93 1543. Compliments Charles V., with Pietro Aretino in his suite 94 1533. Final abolition of the condottiere system 94 " The Feltrian Legion embodied 94 1540. The altered condition of Italy 95 " " And new policy of the papacy 95 " " Reaction against the Reformation 96 Investiture of Guidobaldo as captain-general of Venice 97 1547. Feb. 17. Death of the Duchess Giulia 98 1541. Letter of commissions from her 99 1548. Jan. 30. The Duke's remarriage to Vittoria Farnese 100 1549. Nov. 10. Death of Paul III. 101 1550. Feb. 14. And of Duchess Leonora 101 1549. Feb. 20. Birth of Prince Francesco Maria II. 101 1550. San Marino under his protection 101 1551. Guidobaldo made governor of Fano 103 1552. He quits the Venetian service 103 1553. The affairs of the Farnesi 104 1555. The Prefecture restored to the Duke 105 CHAPTER XLIII 1552. Marriage of Princess Elisabetta 106 " The Duke's domestic affairs 107 " He builds the palace at Pesaro 108 1555. The bigotry and ambitious nepotism of Paul IV. 109 " He sends Guidobaldo against the Colonna 109 1557. Aug. 26. Rome nearly taken 111 1558. Apr. 9. He receives an engagement from Spain and the Golden Fleece 111 " The terms of his service 111 1565. He sends his son to Spain 112 " His Discourse against the Turk 113 1570. His great expenses 113 1572. Consequent increase of imposts 113 " Which occasions an insurrection at Urbino 114 " It is repressed by stringent measures 115 1573. Severities against the guilty 116 " The humiliation of the city 117 " The blot attaching to the Duke's memory from these events 120 " Letter of remonstrance to him 120 1574. Sep. 28. His death and character 122 " His children 125 CHAPTER XLIV The autobiography of Duke Francesco Maria II. 129 1549. Feb. 20. His birth and education 130 1565. He goes to Spain by Genoa 131 1568. His account of Don Carlos's imprisonment 133 " Jul. 11. His return home by Milan 134 " His studious habits 135 1571. Jan. His marriage to Lucrezia d'Este announced by himself 135 " " Early coldness 136 " " Congratulatory letters on the occasion 137 " Protestant doctrines at Ferrara 139 " He joins the Turkish expedition 139 " His account of the sea-fight at Lepanto 140 1574. Sep. 28. He succeeds to the dukedom 142 " Ceremonial of his investiture 142 " Letter of advice from Girolamo Muzio 144 " The difficulties of his position 149 " Overcome by prudence and moderation 149 " A conspiracy against him discovered 150 CHAPTER XLV 1577. Unsatisfactory results of his marriage 152 " His separation from the Duchess 153 " His autograph Diary 155 1582. He is taken into the Spanish service 156 " And receives the title of "Most Serene" 157 1583. Marriage of his Sister Princess Lavinia 157 " He builds the Videtta Villa 157 1586. And obtains the Golden Fleece 158 " List of officers at his court 159 1588. His fondness for the chase 160 1589. Other pastimes of his court 161 " His literary pursuits 162 " His hospitalities. Galileo 163 1597. Oct. Death of the last Duke of Ferrara 164 1598. Feb. 11. And of the Duchess of Urbino 165 " Clement VIII. visits Urbino 166 " His desire for the Duke's abdication 166 " The Duke's retired habits 167 " The anxiety of his people for his remarriage 167 " His singular appeal to them 168 1599. Apr. 26. He marries Livia della Rovere 169 1602. Dec. 13. Death of Duchess Vittoria 171 CHAPTER XLVI 1605. May 16. Birth of Prince Federigo 173 " " Universal joy of the people 174 " " The Duke's pilgrimage of thanks to Loreto 176 " " 19. Baptism of the Prince, amid festive pageants 176 1606. The Duke's breeding stud 180 " His aversion to business, and retired habits 180 " Castel Durante his favourite residence 181 " He appoints a council of state 183 " A glance at the constitution establishments of Urbino 185 1607. The unfortunate education of the Prince 189 " His father's code of instructions to him 189 1608. His unpromising youth 194 CHAPTER XLVII 1608. His betrothal to Princess Claudia de' Medici 196 1610. His dissolute habits 197 1616. He visits Florence 198 1617. Court pastimes at Urbino 199 1621. Apr. 29. The Prince's marriage concluded 199 " Reception of the bridal pair 201 " Francesco Maria resigns the administration of his state to the Prince 202 " And retires to Urbania 203 1622. The Prince's reckless career, and debauched life 204 1623. Jun. 29. His sudden death 207 " " The Duke's resignation 208 " Ominous warnings 209 " Monumental inscription to the Prince 210 1622. Jul. 27. Birth of his daughter Vittoria 210 1623. Princess Claudia returns to her family 211 " The Duke rouses himself 212 " The difficulties of his position 213 " Aug. 8. Election of Pope Urban VIII. 214 1624. The Duke's negotiations with the Holy See 214 " Intrigues and threats employed against him 216 " He arranges the Devolution of his state to the Holy See 219 " To which the people gave no consent 220 1628. The terms of surrender ill kept 222 CHAPTER XLVIII " The Duke's monkish seclusion at Urbania 224 1631. Apr. 28. His death there 225 " His funeral 226 " Notices of his character by Donato, Gozze, and Passeri 227 " His appearance and portrait 230 " Letters of his domestic circle 232 " Notices of Princess Vittoria 239 " And of Duchess Livia 239 " The Duke's will, and the amount of his succession 239 " His libraries 241 1658. The MSS. carried to the Vatican 242 " The printed books transported to the Sapienza at Rome 244 " Probable number of MSS. 244 1631. The duchy incorporated with the Ecclesiastical States 245 To the great misfortune of the people 246 Conclusion 248 CHAPTER XLIX 1400. The glory and progress of Italy while divided into many states 253 1492-1530. Her long struggle against foreign aggression is closed in servitude 253 1533-1600. Spanish domination fatal to manners, language, and literature 254 " " This evil augmented by the Academies 255 " " The Assorditi of Urbino 255 " " The influence of the Reformation, how excluded from Italian letters 257 " " The age of rhetoricians and fulsome compliment 257 " " Mathematics and engineering studied at Urbino 259 1509-1575. Federigo Comandino of Urbino 260 1544. Guidobaldo Marchese del Monte 262 1529-1591. Francesco Paciotti of Urbino 262 -1560. Gian Giacomo Leonardi of Pesaro 264 1569-1639. Muzio Oddi of Urbino 265 1553-1612. Bernardino Baldi of Urbino, his vast acquirements and numerous works 266 His Lives of Dukes of Urbino 273 1496-1576. Girolamo Muzio of Capo d'Istria, biographer of the Dukes 274 1555-1602. Federigo Bonaventura of Urbino 277 CHAPTER L Facilities of Italian versification 278 Absence of traditionary ballads 279 1508-1600. Poetry flourishes at Urbino 280 1474-1533. Ludovico Ariosto 280 1515. He visits Urbino; his room in the palace there 281 " " The qualities of his poetry 286 1492-1557. Pietro Aretino, "scourge of princes" 287 Mediocrity of his poetry, and baseness of his character 288 1490-1547. Vittoria Colonna, Marchioness of Pescara 291 " " Her devotional character and poetry 292 1522. Laura Battiferri of Urbino 294 Other bards of that court 294 Dionigi Atanagi; specimens of his verses 295 Antonio Galli and Marco Montani of Urbino 297 1493-1569. Bernardo Tasso 298 His early irregularities and services 298 1531. Enters that of the Prince of Salerno 299 1539. His marriage and happy residence at Sorrento 299 1544. Mar. Birth of his son Torquato 300 1552. Becomes a wanderer on his patron's disgrace 300 1556. Death of his wife 301 1556. His appeal to the Prince 301 " Reaches Pesaro, where he resides for two years 302 1557. Reads his _Amadigi_ at that court 303 1559. Sep. 28. Torquato intimates his death to the Duke of Urbino 305 His poetry and correspondence 305 His invention of the Ode 306 CHAPTER LI Torquato Tasso, a subject of mystery and contradiction 308 Count Alberti's recent impositions 311 Dr. Andrea Verga's theory of his insanity 312 Is sufficient justification of the Duke of Ferrara 313 1556. Torquato's arrival at Pesaro 313 His early devotion to the muses 314 1565. His first visit to Ferrara 314 His compliments to the family of Urbino in the Rinaldo 315 His devotion to Princess Lucrezia d'Este, afterwards Duchess of Urbino 316 1571. His sonnet to her, and canzone on her marriage 318 1573. His _Aminta_ performed at Pesaro 318 1574. His dangerous intercourse with her at Urbania 319 " She is separated from the Duke and returns to Ferrara 320 1575. Tasso at Florence,--his portrait 321 1576. Symptoms of mental disease 321 1577. Outbreak of insanity 321 1578. He seeks shelter at Pesaro from imaginary wrongs 321 " His canzone to the Duke 321 His long letter to him 323 1579. He is shut up in the hospital of Sta. Anna at Ferrara for seven years 326 1587-1594. His subsequent wanderings 326 Are closed at Rome 327 1595. Apr. 25. His farewell letter and death at S. Onofrio 327 Retrospect of his life 328 His rivalry with Ariosto 329 His the latest of Italy's great names 330 1537-1611. Battista Guarini of Ferrara 331 1602-1604. Invited to Urbino 332 CHAPTER LII 1470-1520. The fine arts especially felt the impulse given to mind before 1500 335 1520-1600. Tendency of the "new manner" to exaggeration and artifice 338 1520-1600. New classes of subjects leading to new errors 341 " " Art under the patronage of the della Rovere became prolific 345 1476-1551. Girolamo della Genga of Urbino, painter, architect, and engineer 347 " " The decorations of the imperial palace 349 1518-1558. Bartolomeo della Genga of Urbino, engineer 352 CHAPTER LIII 1529-1566. Taddeo Zuccaro of S. Angelo in Vado, painter 355 " " He paints at Urbino, Rome, and Caprarola 356 1543-1608. Federigo Zuccaro, painter 357 His precocity and rapid execution 358 Paints at Rome, Venice, and Florence 358 Is compromised by his satirical picture of Calumny 360 1574. Visits England and paints portraits 360 Also Spain, where he was less successful 361 1583. His ideas of religious art 364 1593. Chosen first president of St. Luke's Academy at Rome 366 His house there 366 His writings 367 The paintings of the brothers Zuccaro 367 Their pupils and followers in the duchy 368 The Barocci a family of artists 369 1528-16. Federigo Baroccio of Urbino 370 Is poisoned by jealous rivals 371 His best works 372 His manner 374 His pupils 377 1560-1644. Claudio Ridolfi 379 Painters of Gubbio 380 CHAPTER LIV 1474-1563. Michael Angelo's monument of Julius II. 381 " " His style and influence 386 " " His monuments of the Medici 388 1477-1576. Titian patronised by the Dukes of Urbino 390 His paintings for that court 391 His Venus 395 His letter to Duke Guidobaldo II. 397 1544-1628. Palma Giovane 398 1560. Gianbattista Franco il Semolei 399 Sculptures executed for Urbino 400 CHAPTER LV Cultivation of the mechanical arts in Italy 403 Watchmaking at Urbino 403 Origin of majolica or earthenware 405 Influence of Luca della Robbia 406 Majolica of Pesaro 407 Finer qualities introduced there 410 The drug-vases at Loreto 411 Subjects for majolica painting 412 Decline of the art 413 Manufactory of it at Urbino 414 And at Gubbio 414 The forms and applications of majolica-ware 415 Mottoes upon it 416 Artists chiefly employed 419 Was Raffaele among them? 422 Collections of majolica 424 APPENDICES 1572. Apr. 20. Brief from Clement VII. to Duke Francesco Maria I. 427 " May 7. Letter from the Bishop of Moldula to the confederate leaders at the sack of Rome 429 " " 20. Letter written from Urbino detailing the sack 429 " " 24. Despatch to Charles V. detailing it 433 " Jul. 9. Letter of Duke Francesco Maria I. justifying himself to the Signory of Venice 444 1525-1527. Castiglione's negotiations at the Court of Madrid 448 1571. Don John of Austria's armado at Lepanto 452 1666. Indulgences belonging to a Corona 456 1442. Monumental inscription to Count Guidantonio 458 1444. To Duke Oddantonio 459 1482. To Duke Federigo 459 1508. To Duke Guidobaldo I. 459 1538. To Duke Francesco Maria I. 460 1574. To Duke Guidobaldo II. 460 1602. To Duchess Vittoria 460 1578. To Cardinal Giulio della Rovere 461 1523. To Prince Federigo 461 1531. To Duke Francesco Maria II. 461 1632. To Princess Lavinia della Rovere 462 Statistics of Urbino 463 Revenues of the Duchy 464 Its population 466 Pietro Aretino's Sonnets on Titian's portraits of Duke Francesco Maria I. and the Duchess Leonora 470 Petition to Guidobaldo II. from the majolica makers of Pesaro 472 Letters from the Archbishop of Urbino to Cardinal Giulio della Rovere concerning a service of majolica 474 List of pieces 475 Collection of art made by the Dukes of Urbino 476 Pelli's list 478 Venturi's list 485 The Pesaro list 488 MEMOIRS OF THE DUKES OF URBINO--III NOTE.--The Editor's notes are marked with an asterisk. BOOK SIXTH (_continued_) OF FRANCESCO MARIA DELLA ROVERE, FOURTH DUKE OF URBINO MEMOIRS OF THE DUKES OF URBINO CHAPTER XXXIX Causes which led to the sack of Rome--The assault--Death of Bourbon--Atrocities of his soldiery--The Duke of Urbino's fatal delays--The Pontiff's capitulation and escape--Policy of the Emperor. Our narrative of little interesting campaigns has now brought us to an event unparalleled in the horrors of modern warfare, by which the laws of nature, the dictates of humanity, the principles of civilisation were alike outraged. The sack of Rome inflicted a dire retribution for the restless shuffling that had disgraced the temporal policy of recent pontiffs; it was the crowning mischief to a long agony of ultramontane aggression; and in it was spent one of the last mighty waves of barbarian aggression that broke upon the Italian Peninsula. Such are the difficulties in the way of a just and satisfactory judgment as to the causes which led to this outrage, that it may be well to review these, even at the risk of some recapitulation. The total demoralisation of Bourbon's army, the want of good understanding between him and other imperial leaders in Italy, the absence of zeal or common interests among the confederate powers and their officials, with the prevailing bad faith of all parties, form a combination of elements baffling to the historian as it must have been to the actors themselves. The petty motives and feeble measures of the Pontiff have already been amply exposed. Francis and the Venetians had originally entered the strife only from selfish views upon Lombardy, which they pursued without attempting any comprehensive or efficient operations, and, as soon as the storm had passed by them, their languor became indifference. Charles cared little for Italy, or the ill-defined claims of the Empire upon it, except as a fair field for aggrandising or securing, by intrigue or by arms, his already exorbitant dominions, and he left his officers there pretty much to their own discretion in the maintenance of his interests. His successive viceroys at Naples, perceiving the policy of Clement to be inherently adverse to their master's interests, were ever ready to annoy his frontier, or to cajole him away from the Lombard league. The Constable, finding that the cautious tactics of the Duke of Urbino kept his own movements in check, and impeded his appeasing with pillage a reckless host whom he could not pay, was ready to adopt any enterprise that might ensure occupation and plunder to his dangerous bands, not doubting that, whoever might suffer, success would justify him with the Emperor, to whose glory it must ultimately redound. As soon as the Pope had ratified the truce of the 15th March, he, with an infatuation which even an empty treasury can ill excuse, dismissed two thousand of the _bande nere_ who garrisoned Rome. A Swiss corps withdrew at the same time, on his refusal of their monthly pay in advance. When the imperialists drew southward, his chief care was for Florence, and, on hearing of the insurrection there, he sent one of his chamberlains to acknowledge Francesco Maria's good service, adding a vague hope that, in the event of Bourbon threatening Rome, he would contribute counsel and aid for its safety. In reply, the Duke recommended that Viterbo, and Montefiascone should be secured, and Rome suitably defended by Renzo da Ceri and Orazio Baglioni, suggesting that his Holiness might betake himself to the strongholds of Orvieto or Civita Castellana: with these precautions, he added that an early and innocuous conclusion of the inroad would ensue, as the enemy, when shut out from plunder of the towns, must quickly disperse. But these counsels came too late, and, with a foolhardiness and folly savouring of judicial blindness, the Pontiff remained in the comfortable conviction that Bourbon would take up his quarters at Siena, on the representations of Lannoy.[*1] It was only about the 25th that his impending danger first dawned upon him. Rome had then, of regular troops, but two hundred foot and a few light cavalry, besides the Swiss guard, and the only officer of rank was Renzo da Ceri, whose personal courage and military capacity were in equal disrepute, and of whom Clement had on various occasions spoken with contempt. Yet upon this broken reed did he place his sole reliance for the defence of his capital. He commanded the weak points of the walls to be repaired and strictly guarded, distributing the artillery where most required. He pressed above three thousand men into his service; but these hasty levies were of the most useless description, composed of artizans, servants, and the scum of the population, "more used to handle kitchen spits and stable forks than military weapons." Resorting to fanatical expedients, he proclaimed a plenary remission of their sins to such as should fall in the sacred struggle. But the greatest difficulty was to raise money for these purposes: the wealthy classes were so absorbed in egotism and luxury, so deluded by false security, that they would contribute nothing. Domenico de' Massini, one of the richest of them, would lend but a hundred ducats, a refusal for which he and his family paid bitterly in the sack. On the 11th of April, Girolamo Negri, a shrewd observer, wrote that the papal court had become a barn-yard of chickens, and that, though each day gave more manifest signs of evil times, every one relied on the Viceroy's mediation, failing which all would be lost. [Footnote *1: The army would not hear of a truce. Bourbon, really at their mercy, as he knew before he crossed the Apennines, asked them what they wished to do. "To march on," replied the Spaniards, "even without pay." The Germans after a time, though hungry for their wage, made common cause with them. "To march on," became almost a war-cry, and Bourbon was compelled to consent. He sent word to the Pope before he got into Val d'Arno that his men "were determined to push on, not only to Florence but to Rome, and dragged him with them as a prisoner." He asked for 150,000 ducats by April 15th to pay them with, that he might lead them back. The Pope, however, who had no faith in his power or honesty, sent nothing, trusting in Lannoy and that broken reed the Duke of Urbino.] At this juncture there appeared in Rome one of those strange fanatics whose mysterious aspect and unearthly character, taking strong hold of the popular imagination at particular crises, impart a supernatural character to their wild and dismal vaticinations. He was an aged anchorite, who, fancying himself another Jonah, had long attracted street audiences by vague declamations of coming convulsions, and, as the peril became imminent, warned the anxious people that a total revolution in church and state, and the ruin of the priesthood, were at hand. Rushing along the thoroughfares, he preached, with piercing voice and excited gesticulation, a general penitence and humble reliance on the offended Deity, as the only shelter from the impending storm. He even forced his way to the presence of his Holiness, and, in the midst of the court, repeated gloomy warnings and stern denunciations in harsh words seldom heard in such high places. "But," in the words of an old writer, "repentance is an irksome sound to the ears of hardened sinners," and "more is required to make a saint than sackcloth raiment, a crucifix, and philippics against vice"; so the prophet was committed to prison, to continue his preaching to a more limited audience. Yet it needed no stretch of superstition to regard the sack of Rome, with its accumulated horrors, as a Divine judgment. The gross vices which disgraced the papacy towards the close of the preceding century had, indeed, been considerably modified; but, as the reformation was rather in decency than in morals, it had not greatly influenced the people of Rome: the poison, though counteracted at the core, continued to circulate through the branches. In truth, the hearts of all were so indurated, and their judgment so blinded by pleasures, debaucheries, avarice, and ambition, that the forebodings of enthusiasts, and the many portentous omens of evil that occurred about the same time, were equally disregarded. Among these were, of course, blood-red suns and fiery meteors; but it was afterwards remembered that two aged men with long beards had been observed to stride solemnly along the chief thoroughfares of the city, bearing a large empty bag, and exclaiming at intervals with dolorous solemnity, "Behold the sack!"[2] [Footnote 2: The play of words applies equally in Italian and English, and the incident savours much of a carnival jest. A scarce little book of prophecies, dated 1532, has for _Envoye_ a sonnet, foreshadowing the woes of Italy in consequence of-- "L'infando error de Sogdoma e Gomora, Le profanate sacre binde e tempi, L'occider Dio mille volte al hora."] The measures of the government, superficial as they were, generated false security; and a general muster of the citizens which returned thirty thousand as capable of bearing arms, tended to confirm the fatal delusion. The Pope gave currency to it by setting forth on all occasions the reduced state of the imperialist army, the proximity of that of the league, and above all insisted that the invaders, being for the most part Lutherans, were no doubt conducted by Providence, to undergo a signal punishment for their heresies under the very walls of the Christian metropolis. To such a height was this foolhardiness carried, that the messenger, who arrived on the 3rd of May to demand free passage to Naples, was dismissed by Renzo with the threat of a cannon-ball at his head; and on the following day the Datary wrote to Count Guido Rangone, that a reinforcement of six or eight hundred men would suffice for defence of the city. But ere the messenger was well clear of the gate, the enemy were before it.[3] [Footnote 3: It is difficult to reconcile the varying accounts of the sack, for which, besides the many printed authorities, we have drawn largely upon a collection of unpublished and very minute details, Vat. Urb. MSS. No. 1677. It is doubtful whether Bourbon arrived on the evening of the 4th or of the 5th of May, but the assault was unquestionably made upon Monday the 6th. Many of the incidents given in that MS. are too horrible for admission into these pages. The narratives of Guicciardini and Giacomo Buonaparte, and those printed in the second volume of Eccardius, may be consulted for such; the two first, indeed, have done little beyond arranging some documents of that MS. collection. We have also consulted the Narrative of Leonardo Santori, Vat. Ottob. MSS. No. 2607, and Sanuto's MS. Diaries; checking the whole by minute examination of the localities. *On the 3rd May Bourbon had passed Viterbo, on the 4th he was at Isola Farnese. As to the number of men which Renzo da Ceri had at command, 3000 seems nearer the truth than 30,000. Bourbon had scaling ladders but no artillery. Cf. GUICCIARDINI, _Il Sacco di Roma_, Milanesi, p. 163, and CASANOVA, _Lettere di Carlo V. a Clement VII._ (per nozze Firenze, 1894).] The inhabitants, at length aroused to their danger by the presence of an army whom they supposed at Siena, were thrown into general panic, though some were so blinded as to suppose it the advanced guard of the confederates. Even now, bold and judicious expedients might have defended the walls until the arrival of the allies, whose first division actually reached the Porta Salara the same day on which the city was taken; and had the bridges been previously cut, as was urged upon Renzo in consideration of the weak defences of the Borgo S. Spirito, the principal portion of the city might have held out, even after these had been carried, whilst the Duke of Urbino would have had leisure to execute signal vengeance upon the ruffian invaders, demoralised by their leader's fall and by the pillage of its Transteverin quarters. It is by no means easy to form an idea of the actual force of the invading army from the varying estimates that have come down to us. Muratori, who bestowed much attention upon such military statistics, reckons the troops whom Bourbon carried from Milan at about five thousand Spaniards, four thousand Germans, and half as many Italians, besides five hundred men-at-arms, two thousand German cavalry, and an indefinite number of light horse, to whom were soon united the lansquenets of Fründesberg, originally fourteen thousand, but already somewhat reduced. This would give a total of twenty-six or twenty-seven thousand men, which exceeds by a few thousand infantry the calculation adopted by Giacomo Buonaparte, his multiplication of the men-at-arms by ten being obviously an accidental error. The same author supposes that the Imperialists who had marched from Montevarchi were about twenty thousand Germans, eight thousand Spaniards, three thousand Italians, with but six hundred horse. The impression current at Rome, and in the confederate camp, that Bourbon brought from forty to fifty thousand men before that city was therefore grossly exaggerated; indeed, some authorities diminish his effective force to half that number, while Buonaparte esteems it under thirty thousand. The allied army, according to Baldi, was twenty thousand strong, of whom one fifth were cavalry: but it, too, had melted away when mustered at Isola, as we shall in due time see. On the whole, it appears that the inequality of numbers was not such as to justify the Fabian tactics, or it may be the petted policy, of Francesco Maria. On Sunday, the 5th of May, the Constable bivouacked in the meadows north-west of the city, having approached it without crossing the Tiber. He repeated by trumpet his summons in name of the Emperor for free passage to Naples; an idle insult, considering that the way beneath the walls lay open for him. He then explained to a council of his officers the perilous state of affairs,--the troops fatigued, starving, mutinous, with a powerful enemy pressing upon their rear, and the richest metropolis of Europe ill-defended before them, urging that there was no alternative but that night to conquer its effeminate citizens, or next day be cut to pieces by the allied host. But, finding these representations received with cold indifference, he at dusk repeated them to the whole army in an energetic harangue, which he concluded by assuring them he had received, through Cardinal Colonna, assurances of support from the Ghibelline party within the city. Ere the morrow's dawn his army was in motion, and, under cover of a singularly dense fog, approached the city between the modern gates of Cavallegieri and S. Pancrazio. The wall was there pierced by a loop-hole, serving as the window of a small and slightly built house that formed part of the defences; below it was another aperture into the cellar. These vulnerable points, which had been unpardonably overlooked by the papal engineers, were quickly noticed by the enemy, who brought the few guns they possessed to bear upon them, and soon effected a small breach. The exact site is loosely and contradictorily described as between one of the gates and the tower of S. Spirito, near Cardinal Mellini's, or Ermellini's, garden. Meanwhile the besiegers, protected by the mist from the guns of S. Angelo, vigorously attacked various points; and on the heights above the Strada Giulia, two Spanish colours were wrested from them. The walls and substructions now visible on that side, and those which separate the Lungara from the Borgo S. Spirito, are all of later date; and in constructing them, sixteen years subsequently, the aspect of the localities has been so changed as to baffle accurate comparison with descriptions of the assault. If we can suppose the external wall to have run from near the Porta S. Spirito towards that of S. Pancrazio, instead of being carried, as at present, along the Janicular ridge from the Porta Cavallegieri, it might be comparatively easy to reconcile these statements. At all events, it is certain that considerable resistance was made by some citizens who occupied the _Campo Santo_ or burying ground, which then lay just outside of the gate from S. Spirito into the Lungara, and which, according to a mural inscription there, was removed in 1749 to its present site farther up the hill. This, being the brunt of the battle, was occupied by Bourbon, whose exertions throughout the morning had been unremitting. Whilst steadying a ladder with his left hand, and cheering on his men with his right, he was struck to the ground by a bullet which passed through his thigh. The credit of that lucky shot, which cut short a career commenced in treason, closed in sacrilege, is claimed by Benvenuto Cellini. He tells us that on hieing to the Campo Santo with two comrades, he beheld from the walls the enemy assaulting the spot where they stood; whereupon they discharged their pieces in terror, he aiming at a figure singled out in the mist from its commanding height. Having mustered courage to peep over the wall, he saw a great confusion occasioned by the Constable's fall, and, fleeing with his friends through the cemetery, escaped by St. Peter's to the castle of S. Angelo.[*4] This assertion, which has generally passed for gasconade, receives support from the Vatican MS., wherein the shot is ascribed to some silversmith lads who, from the Mount of the Holy Crucifix, aimed at the general's white mantle and plume; and a monumental tablet outside the Church of S. Spirito commemorates Bernardino Passeri, goldsmith and jeweller to Clement and his two predecessors, who was killed on the 6th of May, on the adjoining part of the Janicular, after slaying many of the enemy, and capturing a standard. About five hundred paces to the west of that reach of the modern city wall which commands the Cavallegieri gate, there stands on the road to the Fornaci a small oratory, called the Capella di Barbone, and pointed out by tradition as the spot where Bourbon was wounded. No account, however, which I have seen, countenances the idea of his having fallen so far away; nor is it possible, even when no mist intervenes, to see either that point, or the site of the present exterior city wall, from the old cemetery of S. Spirito, whence the fatal shot appears to have been aimed. But from whatever spot or hand it proceeded, the wound was mortal, and the Constable died in his thirty-ninth year, ere he could witness the desecration or share the booty to which he had stimulated his followers. Yet had God's just judgment on the traitor been withheld for a time, his influence might, perhaps, have stayed the fury of the soldiery, and Rome might have been spared some portion of the misery that ensued. His body was carried to Gaeta, and his armour is still shown at the Vatican, a plain coat of immense strength. It, however, bears an indentation on the inner side of the right thigh, where the fatal bullet entered after grazing its steel edge.[5] [Footnote *4: Cf. _The Life of Benvenuto Cellini_, trans. by J.A. Symonds (Nimmo, 1896), p. 656.] [Footnote 5: In a set of miniatures executed by Giulio Clovio for Charles V., and illustrative of his military achievement, which were bequeathed by the Right Hon. Thomas Granville to the British Museum in 1847, Bourbon is represented falling backwards from a ladder placed against a round tower on the walls of Rome; but being composed without accurate knowledge of the localities, it throws no light upon the manner of his death.] For a moment his troops wavered, dismayed by their leader's fall; but revenge and a consciousness of their perilous position rendered them desperate. The assertion of Mambrino Roseo, that the Swiss guard disputed every inch of the breach until only a drummer was left alive, wants confirmation from those narratives of eye-witnesses which I have examined. Be this as it may, it was about half-past eight that the first detachment, who had made their way into the Borgo, were observed by Renzo da Ceri. Instead of cutting them down with the body of horse who followed him, he in a loud voice gave the _sauve qui peut_, and, galloping round by the Ponte Sisto, reached that of S. Angelo, where he recklessly crushed and trod down the citizens, already rushing across it in masses to the castle.[*6] Had this craven caitiff rallied his men to the breach, it might have been repaired; and had he but held the Porta Settimiana, or even now cut the lower bridges, the invaders would have been confined within a small district of the city, until Guido Rangone arrived with succours. [Footnote *6: Creighton justly remarks that this was not in keeping with Renzo da Ceri's character. The tale is from Guicciardini. Renzo da Ceri was certainly no "craven caitiff."] The panic thus originated by the city's defender spread rapidly in all quarters. The Pontiff, who, from his chair in S. Peter's, had been thundering spiritual menaces against the foe, was hurried along the covered passage to S. Angelo, whither also flocked the cardinals, clergy, and citizens of all ranks, in such crowds that it was found impossible to close the gates. At length the portcullis was dropped, with great difficulty from its rusty condition, and several cardinals, who had been excluded, were afterwards drawn up in baskets. The terrified crowd who were thus shut out, rushed to escape by the city gates, but, finding these closed, they dispersed themselves among the palaces of the Ghibelline cardinals, upon which they vainly relied as sure asylums. About three thousand got into the castle, with fourteen cardinals. It was very ill supplied with provisions, and the neighbouring shops were hurriedly emptied of whatever stores they contained. The Pontiff, in his alarm, would have attempted flight, but Bourbon's death inspired him with some hope of making terms. In fact, the besiegers, who had at first rushed in with cries of "Hurrah for Spain! slay! slay!" soon paused, discouraged by the loss of their leader, and anticipating a desperate resistance. In this state of matters, the Portuguese ambassador was authorised by his Holiness to propose an accommodation to the imperialist chiefs, who, finding themselves in possession of but a fraction of the city, with walls and gates on either side excluding them from the S. Spirito and Trastevere quarters, temporised for some hours. But as the bulk of their army entered at S. Pancrazio, and they ascertained the panic in the town, their misgivings passed away, and about two hours before sunset they suddenly advanced through the Porta Settimiana, in Via Lungara. Encouraged by its defenceless state, they pushed across the Ponte Sisto, which they found equally unguarded, and spread like a deluge over the devoted city. Now began the horrors of the sack. The brutal soldiery, absolved from discipline, scoured the city at will, penetrating unchallenged into the most secret and most sacred places.[*7] Churches and convents, palaces and houses, were invaded and rifled; resistance was punished with fire and sword; rape and murder were the fate of the inhabitants. Passing over details too revolting for the imagination to supply, but too repulsive for a place in these pages, we may cite the feeling exclamations of one who seems to have witnessed them:--"Alas! how many courtiers, gentlemen, and prelates, how many devout nuns, matrons, and maidens became a prey to these savages! What chalices, images, crucifixes, vessels of silver and gold, were torn from the altars by these sacrilegious hands! What holy relics were dashed to the ground with derisive blasphemy by these brutal Lutherans! The heads of Saints Peter, Paul, Andrew, and of many others, the wood of the sacred Cross, the blessed oil, and the sacramental wafers, were ruthlessly trodden upon. The streets exhibited heaps of rich furniture, vestments, and plate, all the wealth and splendour of the Roman court, pillaged by the basest ruffians."[8] [Footnote *7: They were of many nationalities--Germans, Spaniards, Italians--"a horde of 40,000 ruffians free from all restraint." They gratified their elemental passions and lusts at the expense of the most cultivated population in the world. The Germans were the worst: "the Lutherans amongst them setting an example which was quickly followed of disregard of holy places." The Spaniards, however, excelled them in deliberate cruelty. For three days this barbarism went on unchecked. On the fourth the barbarians began to quarrel amongst themselves over the division of the booty. "The Germans ... turned to drunkenness and buffoonery. Clad in magnificent vestments and decked with jewels, accompanied by concubines who were bedizened with like ornaments, they rode on mules through the streets and imitated with drunken gravity the processions of the Papal Court." Cf. CREIGHTON, _op. cit._, vol. VI., pp. 342-3.] [Footnote 8: Vat. Urb. MSS. No. 1677, f. 19.] After these miserable scenes had endured for three days, rumours of the Duke of Urbino's approach recalled the imperialist leaders to the necessity of defence.[*9] The command having devolved upon the Prince of Orange, a yellow-haired barbarian, further plunder was prohibited, under severe penalties; and the army, reduced to comparative order, betook themselves to enjoy their booty. But now a new drama of atrocities opened. The Germans had especially distinguished themselves by a thirst for blood, but the wily Spaniards taught them a means more effectual than murder of enriching themselves and punishing their victims. The prisoners had, in most cases, concealed whatever of greatest value they possessed, and recourse was had to every variety of torment in order to extract from them supposed treasures, and a ransom for their lives; so that those who had been spared in seeming mercy found themselves but reserved for a worse fate. After stripes and blows had been exhausted, when hunger and thirst had failed to force compliance, tortures the most brutal succeeded. Some were suspended naked from their own windows by a sensitive limb, or swung head downwards, and momentarily threatened to be let drop into the street. Others had their teeth drawn slowly and singly, or were compelled to swallow their own mutilated and roasted members. Others were forced to perform the most odious and menial services; and the greatest extremities were always used towards those who were suspected of being the most wealthy and noble. Even after the desired amount of gold had been thus extorted from them, their sufferings were sometimes resumed at the instance of new tormentors. When such cruelties palled, their inflictors had recourse to a novel amusement, by forcing from the victims a confession of their sins; and we are assured by the narrator of these enormities, himself a Roman, that the iniquities thus brought to light, as habitual in that dissolute capital, were such as to confound even the licentious soldiery of Bourbon. Over the outrages committed upon the women we draw a veil: when lust was satiated, they were prolonged in diabolical punishment, the husbands and fathers being compulsory witnesses to such unspeakable atrocities. [Footnote *9: The Duke was very slow as usual. There was plenty of time for him to receive imploring letters. A career, which was a failure brought about by dilatoriness and treason, here seems to have reached its lowest point. As always, Dennistoun is too favourable in his judgment of anyone belonging to the Rovere house.] But the delight of these sacrilegious villains, especially of the German Lutherans, was to outrage everything holy. The churches and chapels, including the now bloodstained St. Peter's, were desecrated into stables, taverns, or brothels; and the choirs, whence no sounds had breathed but the elevating chant of prayer and praise, rang with base ribaldry and blasphemous imprecations. The grand creations of religious art were wantonly insulted or damaged; the reliquaries and miraculous images were pillaged or defaced. Nay, a poor priest was inhumanly murdered for his firm refusal to administer the blessed sacrament to an ass. Nor was any respect paid to persons or party feelings. The subjects of the Emperor who happened to be in Rome, the adherents of the Colonna and other Ghibelline leaders, were all involved in the general fate. Four cardinals attached to that faction had declined entering S. Angelo, calculating that they would not only "Guide the whirlwind and direct the storm," but peradventure, promote their own interests in the mêlée. They were, however, miserably mistaken, for they, too, were held to ransom; and one of them (Aracoeli), after being often led through the streets tied on a donkey, behind a common soldier, was carried to church with mock funereal rites, when the office of the dead was read over his living body, and an oration pronounced, wherein, for eulogy, were loathsomely related all the real or alleged immoralities of his past life. Another outrage in especial repute with the Germans, was a ribald procession, in which some low buffoon in sacred vestments was borne shoulder-high, scattering mock benedictions among the mob, amid shouts of "Long live Luther!" A great portion of the circulating wealth of the city was centred in the Strada de' Banchi, which, from being in a line with the castle and just across the river, was considered comparatively secure. But this fallacious hope quickly vanished, and during five hours that quarter of bankers, merchants, and jewellers was savagely sacked in sight of the papal court. In one of these shops a large money bag being discovered, a general scramble ensued for its contents, and forty-two of the soldiery lost their lives at their comrades' hands, fighting for what proved to be counterfeit coin. The Jews, who were not then enclosed in the Ghetto, suffered a full share of such miseries, to make them disgorge their secret treasures. Vast multitudes of citizens took refuge in the palaces of the cardinals and principal nobility, especially of those supposed to be friendly to the imperial interests; but these asylums were seldom respected. That of the Cancelleria, originally built by Cardinal Pietro Riario, and still one of the most spacious in the capital, was long spared; but on the 20th of May its turn came; and as it was the last to be pillaged, the outrages perpetrated upon its miserable inmates, including numerous ecclesiastical and diplomatic dignitaries, with a crowd of the high-born beauties of Rome, were perhaps the most signal and sanguinary of all. In other palaces the fugitives, though spared from violence, were held to ransom. The Dowager Marchioness of Mantua purchased immunity for her residence with 10,000 ducats, which the merchants whom it sheltered joined in paying, and which her son Ferdinando, one of the imperial leaders, was said to have basely shared. In the Vatican MS. is a backbond, signed by about five hundred persons, who had sought refuge in the palace of Cardinal Andrea della Valle, obliging themselves to repay, in sums varying from 10 to 4000 scudi each, the ransom of 40,000 ducats which he had advanced. Among the names is the King of Cyprus, and, what may have more interest for us, that of Peter Hustan from Scotland. The English Cardinal of St. Cecilia, Thomas Usher, Archbishop of York, was one of those who escaped into the castle. * * * * * But where, meanwhile, was the army of the League?[*10] The Duke of Urbino, after quelling the insurrection at Florence, had lingered there for some days at the instance of the Cardinal Legate, who represented to him that Rome was amply provided with means of defence. Yet, upon learning Bourbon's advance, the confederates despatched Guido Rangone from Incisa, where their army lay, to anticipate by forced marches his arrival at that capital. Taking five thousand light infantry of the _bande nere_, with a large force of cavalry, he pushed on, and at Otricoli met the Datary's foolish missive of the 4th of May, which, declining further relief, asked for but a few hundred troops as enough for the wants of the city. The Count, however, paid no attention to this news, and, hurrying across the Campagna, heard near the Ponte Salara that the enemy had that morning penetrated the walls. Had he but known the real state of the army, or by a headlong dash risked his all in the noble enterprise, his name would have been honoured as the saviour of Rome. But his genius was unequal to the opportunity, and he retired to Otricoli to await the arrival of his chiefs. [Footnote *10: Where indeed! The Duke of Urbino had left Florence on May 3rd, but it was the 22nd of that month before he reached Isola. Strangely enough, he marched much slower than the barbarians.] The Duke at length aroused himself, and moved rapidly forwards. On the 3rd he quitted Florence, and at Cortona separated the army into two divisions for facilitating the commissariat. One he led by Perugia, the other, under Saluzzo, took the Val di Chiana, with a common rendezvous at Orvieto.[*11] He was at the lake of Thrasimene on the day Rome fell, and arrested his march at Perugia to effect once more a revolution there, by substituting his friend Orazio Baglioni for Gentile, a partisan of the Medici. Santori justly observes, that "in the Duke of Urbino the desire of avenging old injuries was suspected to have prevailed over zeal for the honour of Italy and the safety of Rome": indeed, this ill-timed gratification of an old grudge cost several precious days. On the 9th, his advanced guard were met at Casalino on the Tiber by a fugitive from Rome with news of the fall of that city, and again halted. Thus it was the 16th ere he joined the other division of the army at Orvieto, where it had preceded him by five days, and whence, after cruelly sacking Città della Pieve, which refused supplies, he sent on a strong party of two thousand foot and five hundred horse to carry off the Pope. It was commanded by Federigo da Bozzolo, whose gallantry well qualified him for such an attempt; but his horse having unfortunately fallen upon him near Viterbo, disabling him entirely, the command of the expedition devolved upon a subaltern, who, finding it daylight ere he came in sight of S. Angelo, and his orders being for a night attack, retraced his steps without communicating with the castle. [Footnote *11: This amazing route is inexplicable. The way by the Val di Chiana was, of course, a highway to Rome. The way by Perugia, "with a rendezvous at Orvieto," is inexplicable. No more fatuous proceeding can be imagined. From Florence he would keep the Via Aretina so far as Arezzo, following it indeed thence to Rigutino to Camuscia to the Case del Piano in the Perugino close to Trasimeno. If he went thence to Perugia he was merely trying to delay his march. It was off the main route, and would lead him into the valley of Spoleto. From Perugia to Orvieto there was no good road. If he wished for a road to Rome via Perugia he should have joined the Via Flaminia at Foligno and followed it directly to the Eternal City.] Three days were now passed in consultations among the leaders, of which we have varying accounts. Guicciardini of course represents them in the most unfavourable light for Francesco Maria.[*12] He tells us that neither the letters of the Pontiff, nor the entreaties of the Proveditori and the French general, could rouse the Duke's stubborn nature to active measures; and he describes him as full of zeal in words and proposals, but ever interposing obstacles to the execution of any definite plan. On the other hand, Baldi asserts that an onward movement, suggested by the Duke at Isola,[*13] was, to his great regret, overruled by these authorities, and by Guicciardini himself; whilst the Bishop of Cagli[14] pleads as his excuse for inaction, that the Venetians, finding their duty very different from field-days and muster-rolls, refused to follow him, and even retired home in great numbers. But, assuming the truth of the last averment, should not the blame of such lax discipline attach to the general who had led these troops through several campaigns? and may not the moral paralysis which impeded effective tactics in the army be fairly adduced in mitigation of their unauthorised furloughs? [Footnote *12: It is impossible to represent the Duke in a worse light than he appears. He behaved throughout the campaign like a selfish fool; he seems never to have understood the gravity of the situation or the enormity of his crime. His biographer does not seem to understand it either.] [Footnote *13: As we know, he did not reach Isola till the 22nd. Rome was then sacked. If Guicciardini delayed, as Baldi says, we know that it was for some good reason, for his integrity and his patriotism cannot be questioned. We may well doubt Baldi's tittle-tattle.] [Footnote 14: Vat. Urb. MSS. No. 818, f. 5. Sanuto has preserved a letter which he says gave the first authentic information of the sack to the combined leaders, and which urges them to exertion in most pressing terms. It will be found in II. of the Appendix, with two other letters detailing the principal incidents of that direful event in terms which, though in a great measure anticipated by our narrative, show the impression made by them at the time, and probably conveyed the fullest information of the catastrophe to the Duchess of Urbino and to the Emperor. See the Pontiff's brieves illustrating his feeble policy, No. I.] At length an advance was agreed upon, and on the 20th the head-quarters were at Isola di Farnese, nine miles from Rome, the Duke having marched by Nepi, and Saluzzo by Bracciano. Here distracted counsels again prevailed, and, in answer to urgent representations of his confederates, that the Pope must at all hazards be relieved, Francesco Maria ordered a muster of the army, which showed twelve to fifteen thousand men. Letters to the same purpose arriving from the Signory, and a message declaring that Clement had broken off a negotiation with his oppressors on the strength of speedy assistance, he at length consented that Rangone should once more attempt to bring off his Holiness, by leading a division to Monte Mario, whilst he advanced to his support with the main body as far as Tre Capanne. But on pretext of making a previous examination of the ground, he wasted so much time, that night had fallen when they reached that place; and the expedition being thereby delayed until morning, a general feeling then prevailed that the force was inadequate, and the troops were thereupon withdrawn. An even less creditable version of this evolution is given by an eye-witness in the Duke's service, who attributes as its motive the seizure of a quantity of booty, which had been removed from Rome to Monte Rotondo; adding that, on seeing signal fires over the Campagna, and hearing a vague rumour that the enemy were approaching in force, the Duke suddenly faced about and regained his quarters, his men in sad plight, and the rear stripped to their shirts by some skirmishers.[15] [Footnote 15: Memoirs of Antenore Leonardi, dictated by him in 1581, Vat. Urb. MSS. No. 1023, f. 85. Among the works dedicated to Francesco Maria II. is a _Treatise on Tides_ by Annibale Raimondo of Verona [1589], who had served under his grandfather in Lombardy, and at this time. In the preface, a somewhat inflated testimony is borne to that Duke's military talents, arguing that his tactics were ever aggressive when unimpeded by other leaders, who in the present instance prevented him from marching upon Rome. But the author was eighty-four when he wrote a statement palpably intended for an adulatory purpose, and his feeble or partial reminiscences cannot be considered of material weight. We have thought it right, in a passage so nearly touching the Duke of Urbino's fair fame, to embrace the conflicting views of our best authorities: the narratives of Paruta and Morosini, Venetians, who had no interest in his reputation, go far to reconcile these and justify him. They tell us that the Signory, profoundly moved by the Pontiff's danger, sent pressing orders for their army to support him; and that, in compliance therewith, Francesco Maria and the Proveditore Pisani resolved to advance upon Rome and rescue Clement, even at the hazard of a general engagement, but that the other Proveditore, Vetturi, formally protested against exposing the army to so great a risk: that disgusted by the failures brought on by these misunderstandings, the Signory superseded Vetturi, and grumbled against their general: that the latter, annoyed by unmerited reflections, wished to throw up his command, and that it was only after cool consideration, and flattering advances from the senate, that he consented to remain in its service. See his formal defence, App. III. *Nothing can justify him, and it is impossible to defend him with honour. After all the only excuse for a soldier is his success, and Francesco Maria knew not what success meant. The testimony of courtiers should go for nothing. History has tried him, and the ruin of Rome bears witness to the treason of this ineffectual Signorotto. The Pope surrendered Castel S. Angelo on June 7th.] In order to cut short such discreditable scenes, the Duke, at a council of war, announced his resolution to attempt no offensive operations until his army should be recruited by fifteen thousand Swiss, some ten thousand other troops, and forty pieces of cannon, with ample funds for their pay; adding that, as S. Angelo was provisioned for three months, there would be sufficient time for raising these reinforcements. This opinion he embodied in a memorial, which he sent on the 30th from Isola, by the Bishop of Asti, to Francis I. It is preserved by Baldi, and in Sermonetta's Letters, and offers a verbose, laboured, and inconclusive defence of his drivelling tactics. The burden of it is the inferiority of the allied force to the enemy, the probable failure of aggressive movements, and an urgent appeal that the King should come in person, as the only means of giving unanimity to a council in which each desired to lead. Indeed, the whole proceedings of the army attest the mutual jealousies and disunion of its leaders, which form the best justification of the Duke's dilatory measures, amid difficulties which he had not energy or decision to overcome. The Pontiff, thus abandoned to his fate, learned by bitter experience, "With what a weight that robe of sovereignty Upon his shoulder rests, who from the mire Would guard it, that each other fardel seems But feathers in the balance." On the 18th he wrote to the Duke of Urbino, "amid these calamities and perils," begging a safe-conduct for a messenger as far as Siena, to induce Lannoy to repair to Rome, the envoy selected for this mission being Bernardo, father of Torquato Tasso. The Viceroy willingly responded to this summons, hoping to succeed Bourbon in command of the imperialists. But finding the Prince of Orange already chosen by the army to that post, he in disgust kept aloof from the capitulation, which was signed on the 5th of June, by the intervention of Gattinara. Its principal stipulations were these: 1. A safe-conduct to Naples for his Holiness, and such of the cardinals as chose to go, upon payment of 150,000 golden scudi, two thirds whereof within six days, the remainder on the expiry of twenty. 2. Security for the personal property within the castle, upon payment of as much more, for which hostages were to be given until it could be raised by a general impost or otherwise. 3. The removal of all censures from the Colonna, and their restoration to their estates and dignities. 4. The immediate surrender of S. Angelo, Civita Vecchia, Ostia, and Civita Castellana, with the further cession of Parma, Piacenza, and Modena to the Emperor, as an inducement for the army to evacuate Rome. This treaty was signed by nine cardinals, four bishops, and eighteen imperialist officers, and the castle was forthwith consigned to a guard of the invaders, in whose hands the Pontiff and his court remained virtually prisoners.[16] [Footnote 16: Vat. Urb. MSS. No. 1677, f. 38.] But many difficulties impeded completion of the remaining conditions. The amount of ransom seems under various pretexts to have been considerably advanced, and is set down by most writers at 400,000 scudi. In order to raise this sum, all the church-plate, which had been saved in the fortress, was hastily coined into specie, and three scarlet hats were set up to sale. Two of them were at once secured for 160,000 scudi by the Venetians, ambitious of influence in the conclave. The third was bought for a creature of Pompeo Colonna, whose personal hostility to Clement had become somewhat mitigated by grief for the sufferings he had brought upon the city, and who, in a pathetic audience with his master, obtained his forgiveness and benediction. Still, a large balance of the besiegers' demands remained undischarged, and the stipulation regarding the fortresses was nullified, Civita Castellana being in the hands of the allies, and Ostia occupied by Andrea Doria, neither of whom would acknowledge the capitulation. Parma and Piacenza were also held for the Church, in consequence, as was suspected, of instructions secretly transmitted by Clement. In the hope of obtaining better terms, his Holiness successively directed more than one member of the Sacred College to proceed as legate to Charles, among whom was Cardinal Farnese, his successor on the papal throne; but none of them would execute the commission. Meanwhile the miseries of the city were fearfully aggravated. The terrified peasantry having ceased to carry supplies where they were sure of misusage, scarcity was succeeded by famine; and the sewers, choked with bodies and abandoned to neglect, engendered a deadly epidemic, called by Muratori, the murrain, which spared neither friend nor foe. In August, the pestilence increased to a terrific degree; and the invading army being reduced by long licence to an undisciplined horde, portions of it rushed in masses from the city of the plague. Some of these bands, after attempting to hang the Pope's hostages, fled towards Terni and Spoleto, sacking the towns on their way, until cut to pieces by the confederates. Nor was the Pontiff exempt from scenes of suffering. Asses' flesh was served at his table; and a greengrocer's wife was hanged before S. Angelo, for dropping into the trenches a few salad leaves for his use. The contagion spread so rapidly in the castle, that the invaders, fearing their prey might slip from their grasp by death, removed his Holiness for some weeks to the Vatican Belvidere, until the scourge had abated. Lannoy, having fallen a victim to the disease, was succeeded as viceroy by Ugo da Moncada, from whose mercy Clement knew he had nothing to expect, and whom Santori characterises as "an experienced, clever, and sagacious man of the world, devoid of religion, full of fraud, and no observer of his word." He arrived on the 31st of October, in order to effect some new arrangement, when the Pope purchased by further large sums an exemption from several of the former stipulations, in particular from putting himself and his cardinals into his enemy's hands by going to Naples.[17] To raise this fresh imposition, four more hats were thrown upon the market, and were purchased by adherents of the Emperor. At length, after many delays, the 9th of December was fixed for his liberation from a seven months' virtual captivity; but, distrusting every one, he escaped in disguise the previous night. Concealing his face and beard under an old slouch hat and cloak, and laden with baskets and bags, he passed the sentinels of S. Angelo as a pedlar or menial servant. At a secret postern in the Vatican garden, he found a fleet horse, with a single attendant, supposed to have been provided by Cardinal Colonna, and, riding all night by Celano and Baccano, after a short repose at Capranica, he reached Orvieto, which he had some days before fixed upon as an interim residence. [Footnote 17: The new treaty of November 26 is printed by Molini in the _Documenti di Storia Italiana_, I., 273.] * * * * * The diplomatic relations of the Holy See at Madrid were at this juncture in the hands of Count Castiglione, with whom we have formerly become acquainted in the service of Dukes Guidobaldo and Francesco Maria, and whom we last noticed as agent for the Marquis of Mantua at the Roman court in 1522, where he was again sent in the same capacity on the election of Clement VII. The position of the new Pontiff soon became one of great delicacy, and already were those difficulties closing around him, which, during his reign, completed the first great breach in the Romish church, and consummated the mischiefs of foreign invasion in the Peninsula. The struggle for universal dominion of those youthful rivals who occupied the thrones of France and the Empire, was convulsing civilised Europe, and Italy was obviously fated to become the permanent prey of the victor. In these circumstances, a character so deficient in energy and decision was singularly inadequate to cope with the necessities of the times; and Clement's influence at Florence, far from affording a prop to the tottering papacy, tended yet more to distract his irresolute purpose. Falling back upon the usual expedient of small minds, he adopted a neutral attitude between the two contending potentates: but the days were past when Pontiffs could grasp the balance of power, or curb a dangerous ascendancy; and Clement's views aimed not beyond siding with a momentary victor. To carry out such policy fine diplomacy was requisite, and Castiglione was selected to watch the interests of Rome at the Spanish court. In the autumn of 1524, he accepted this Nunziatura, to which was joined the lucrative collectorship of Spain; and after visiting the shrine of Loreto, he reached Madrid in the following March. His negotiations for the next four years embraced the politics of Europe, to which those of Italy were but an episode. We cannot interrupt the thread of our narrative to notice them: a sketch of their progress, in No. IV. of the Appendix, may afford some idea of the difficulties of Castiglione's position, as the medium of communication between a master who, leaving him habitually without information, recalled his most momentous instructions after they had been acted upon, and a monarch whose public measures were in uniform contradiction to his private assurances. That diplomacy so conducted should have issued in disgrace to Clement, ruin to Rome, and a broken heart to Count Baldassare, can excite no astonishment; but the ambassador merits our pity rather than our blame. Indeed its complicated intrigues may well drive the historian and the critic to despair. Incidents, which, although attended by important consequences, seem sudden and unlooked for, might, upon more accurate scrutiny, be detected as results long aimed at, and patiently wrought out. Thus, some documents lately published by Lanz[18] prove that Charles, although disposed to yield much for a satisfactory accommodation with Clement, had authorised Moncada, early in the summer of 1526, to concert with Cardinal Pompeo Colonna a series of domestic insurrections, in order to embarrass his Holiness into a disposition for peace, the issue of which machinations we have seen in the first sack of Rome. [Footnote 18: Lanz, Correspondenz des Kaisers Carl V. See also the delightful and well-edited _Lettere di Castiglione_ by SERASSI. *Cf. also CASANOVA, _Lettere di Carlo V. a Clement VII._ (per nozze, Firenze, 1894).] Although the acts of Charles and his generals during 1526-7 were uniformly and aggravatingly hostile to Clement, and prejudicial to the papacy, they must be regarded as in some measure forced upon him by the shuffling of his Holiness. His own position and prospects were not then by any means so secure as to render redundant the support still carried by the influence of the Keys; and the cherished aim of his manhood, which would have united Western Europe in one faith and under one sway, had not yet been abandoned as a fitful dream. By keeping in view these peculiarities in his situation, we may in some measure reconcile the obvious contradictions between his professions and his policy--between his language to Castiglione and the conduct of Bourbon; and we may appreciate in their true sense such apparently fulsome and false expressions as he thus addressed to Clement, on the 18th of September, 1526:--"And since God has constituted us two as mighty luminaries, it behoves us to endeavour that the globe should be enlightened by us, and to see that no eclipse occur through our differences; let us, then, take counsel together for the general weal, for repressing barbarian inroads, and restraining sectarian error." At a moment when the eastern frontier of the empire had been broken down by the victorious Crescent; when the crowns of Hungary and Bohemia were tottering on his brother's brow; and when, as he writes in 1526, the wars of Italy had extracted every ducat from his treasury, we may well suppose how sincere was his wish for a settlement of those protracted struggles within the Alps, and for a union of interests with the Holy See. That his measures little accorded with that object, and nowise tended to bring it about, arose less from want of sincere intention than from an ill-judged mixture of good words and hard blows, partly dictated by his own deficient judgment, partly by the misapprehension of his officers. Though therefore the pillage of Rome by the Colonna was a natural consequence of his own intrigues, the regret he expressed to the Pontiff that his people had been driven to it ["_que l'on ait donné l'occasion à mes gens que tel désastre soit advenu_"] was, no doubt, his real feeling. [Illustration: _Anderson_ THE EMPEROR CHARLES V _From the picture by Titian in the Prado Gallery, Madrid_] Equally inconsistent in appearance, but natural in the circumstances, was his conduct in reference to Bourbon's outrageous proceedings. When news of the sack reached Madrid, he affected great indignation, and put his court into mourning. On the 25th of July, he addressed to the magistracy of Rome a letter defending his proceedings. After narrating his liberation of Francis, and the various other sacrifices made by him, preliminary to such a general pacification as might enable all Christian powers to unite their arms against the Infidel, he charged the Pope with defeating this scheme by suddenly, and without reason, instigating an attack upon him and the imperial dignity, whereby he was compelled from self-defence to march fresh forces upon Italy, in what he regarded as a worse than civil broil. Moreover, new alliances against him having been arranged by his Holiness, and the truce actually broken, his troops had no alternative but to adopt compulsory measures. That these should, by the blunders of his officers, have led to the siege of the city, without his knowledge, he deeply regretted, and gladly would shed his best blood to repair its disasters. But great as had been the sacrifice, he consoled himself with a hope of its paving the way for a general peace, which he would do his utmost to accelerate. In fine, he wound up with most sonorous professions of devotion to the grandeur of the Roman name.[19] [Footnote 19: Vat. Urb. MSS. No. 1677, f. 36.] The Pontiff's natural dissatisfaction with his ambassador at Madrid was very plainly expressed in a letter of the 20th of August, which taxed him with undue reliance upon the Emperor's vague protestations, imputing generally to him a want of foresight preceding the calamity of Rome, and a neglect of the proper remedies for that mischief. To this brief, Castiglione answered at considerable length, and with unnecessary diffuseness, as soon as it reached him in December.[20] The substance of his defence is that, on every occasion during the four years of his mission, he had laboured to establish a good understanding between his Holiness and Charles, and had been met with assurances, verbal and written, of his Majesty's anxious desire to meet these views; but that the great distance, and the delays of communication with Rome, not only rendered it impossible to provide for the successive exigencies as they arose, but left him entirely in the dark as to the most important movements until too late to avert impending mischief. Thus he had no intelligence of the truce arranged with Lannoy on the 15th of March, till he heard of its being rejected by Bourbon. These excuses ostensibly satisfied Clement; and, however inadequate they might be deemed in ordinary cases of diplomatic blundering, they may be allowed some weight in this instance; for, although the Emperor could scarcely fail to anticipate from the sack of Rome new facilities for domination in Italy, in consequence of the permanent humiliation of the papacy, history must acquit him of a preconcerted plan to bring about a catastrophe which incidentally resulted from Bourbon's disobedience and the disorganisation of his army. Indeed, had Charles been as much interested in the welfare of the Eternal City as Castiglione himself, he would have been powerless to arrest the destroyer, whose death had removed him from all reckoning on this side of the grave, and prevented his master from sacrificing him in token of good faith. It is, however, impossible to regard without contempt the hollow professions of an autograph letter addressed by the Emperor to Clement, on the 22nd of November, wherein he congratulated his Holiness on his supposed liberation, thanking God for it "with joy as sincere as was the grief with which I heard of your detention from no fault of mine." Avowing himself his most humble and loyal son, ready to use every effort for the restoration and increment of the apostolic dignity, he besought the Pontiff to credit nothing to the contrary that might be inserted by false and interested suggestions.[21] [Footnote 20: _Lettere de' Principi_, I., 83.] [Footnote 21: _Lettere de' Principi_, I., 71, 110.] Such are the considerations which seem calculated, and not altogether inadequate, to account for the eccentric policy and hollow professions of Charles, in so far as we can gather from the strange events thus briefly sketched. But, if we are to rely upon a different view brought forward by the Sieur de Brantôme in his anecdotes of Bourbon, the advance of the imperialist army was not dictated from Madrid. In his gossiping and often apocryphal pages is detailed a conversation held by him at Gaeta with a veteran, who in youth had been with the Constable, and who imputed to that renegade an intention of seizing upon the sovereignty of Rome. His overweening vanity and unbounded ambition countenance the idea, and the way in which he is there stated to have conciliated his soldiery, by pandering to their worst passions, gives colour to the charge. If it be credited, Clement's indignation was misplaced, and Charles might have defended his consistency at the expense of his pride, could he have demeaned himself to acknowledge having been baffled and betrayed by his own general. * * * * * Thus ended the Sack of Rome. No similar calamity had befallen the Holy City since the devastation of Robert Guiscard, who, four centuries and a half before, at the head of his Apulian Normans, laid in ruin and ashes the most monumental portion of the imperial capital. On this occasion, fewer remains of antiquity were exposed to destruction, but the people suffered far more severely. From four to six thousand of them fell in the first fury of the barbarians, besides many who perished by more mature cruelties. Thirty thousand are said to have sunk under the famine and pestilence which, during many subsequent months, ravaged the devoted city, leaving only about as many more for its entire population, which, according to Giovio, had, ten years before, amounted to eighty-five thousand. The value of property pillaged and destroyed was supposed to exceed two millions of golden ducats; the amount extorted in ransoms has been stated at a nearly equal sum. So general a pauperism ensued, that regular distributions were long continued from the papal treasury, drained as it had been. But a great revival of religious observances followed, being inculcated by the clergy and government, and practised very generally among the inhabitants, whose oblivion of such duties, and addiction to debauchery, usury, and every grovelling pursuit, had hitherto been scandalously apparent. Throughout all these scenes of misery, the Pontiff had bewailed the misfortunes of his subjects more than his own sufferings, and had penitently confessed himself their author. It was not till the 6th of October, in the following year, that he returned to his capital, pale and thin, languid and disheartened; and at the moment of his arrival, a preternatural storm burst over the city, succeeded by a most destructive flood. Nor were such omens out of season. In him had set the ancient glory of the papacy. From the moment that his predecessors, mingling in the arena of international strife, descended from arbiters to parties in the conflicts of Europe, their influence waned. When they had to canvass for the support of temporal sovereigns, they ceased to command them. But, after Clement was reduced to sue for personal protection to the successor of one who had knelt before a pontiff, the prestige of papal power was gone, its sceptre was shivered in the dust.[22] [Footnote 22: The name CLEMENT has been remarked as unlucky for the papacy. Under Clement V. the Holy See was translated to France; under Clement VI. the metropolitan church of the Lateran was burnt; Clement VII. saw Rome pillaged by an army of transalpine heretics, and capitulated to them.] CHAPTER XL The Duke's mischievous policy--New league against Charles V.--A French army reaches Naples--The Duke's campaign in Lombardy--Peace restored--Siege of Florence--Coronation of the Emperor at Bologna--The independence of Italy finally lost--Leonora Duchess of Urbino--The Duke's military discourses. We must now return to the confederate camp at Isola, which the Duke of Urbino broke up, after having eased his conscience by sending to Francis I. the explanation of his views to which we have referred. The general feeling regarding his conduct was testified by a speedy withdrawal of many forces under his command, some deserting to the enemy, others retiring to their homes. On the 1st of June, he was at Monterosi, and thence fell back upon Viterbo and Todi, where he obtained some inglorious successes over the imperialist bands, as they fled in disorder from plague-stricken Rome. During the autumn his troops, which gradually diminished to a few thousands, led a life of disreputable pillage about the valley of the Tiber; and, after again embroiling himself in the affairs of Perugia with little credit or success, he interfered in the succession of Camerino in a way which we shall find eventually pregnant with mischief to his son. On the Pontiff's arrival at Orvieto, he hastened to wait upon his Holiness, and put forward the Venetian commissioner to make a laboured justification of his recent miscarriages. Clement, affecting contentment with what was beyond redress, received him cordially, and hinted at a union of his son Guidobaldo with Caterina, daughter of his late competitor, Lorenzo de' Medici. But ere long he reaped the fruit of his feeble policy, by hearing that he was spoken of in the most disparaging terms by the gallant Francis I., and by the French general Lautrec. Still more mortifying to him was the distrust shown by his Venetian employers. We learn from Sanuto's Diaries that, early in May, his Duchess had repaired to Venice, with the young Guidobaldo and a suite of forty persons, while the visits passing between her and the imperial ambassador soon became matter of unfavourable comment. On the 29th of June, a guard of barges was placed near her residence, to intercept any attempt at escape; and on the envoy from Urbino questioning this proceeding, the Doge said, in explanation, "We have much reliance on our Captain from past experience, but what has been done was to satisfy the vulgar." Hearing that his wife and son were thus under surveillance, as hostages for his good faith, the Duke, on the 9th of July, penned a remonstrance and justification, somewhat similar to that which he had transmitted to the French king. It will be found in the Appendix, No. III., and, though a most inconclusive defence, it was well received by the Signory, and his family were so far released from constraint, that, early in August, the Duchess was allowed to go for health to the baths of Abano. News of her departure from such a cause were little consolation to her lord, who declared that, were she to die, he should be in despair. Remembering, however, the fate of Carmagnola, he would not venture in person to Venice, until he had twice sent his confidential friend Leonardi to reconnoitre the state of feeling there. Reassured at length, by pressing invitations from the Signory, he in the spring took ship at Pesaro with a small suite, and was met upon landing by an escort of twenty gentlemen in scarlet, who conducted him to his lodging. Next day he was admitted to the interview which he had demanded, and was received at the top of the great stairs by the Doge, followed by the principal senators. After mutual embraces, the Duke was led to a seat of honour, and had audience for an hour and a half. This being concluded, the public were admitted to see their Captain-general, who was richly decked in diamonds, with a massive bracelet of twisted gold on his left arm, and a jewelled device in his cap. On returning to his apartment, he had from the Signory the customary compliment of confections, malmsey, and wax lights. It would be hard to say how far he was indebted to his oratory for this happy extrication from his difficulties; but we are told by one of his suite that many of the nobility, who crowded to pay their respects, besought a sight of his speech to the senate, insisting that so eloquent an oration must needs have been written and committed to memory.[23] [Footnote 23: Leonardi's Memoirs, Vat. Urb. MSS. No. 1023, f. 85. Most of the preceding details have been gathered from Sanuto's Diaries.] Thinking it well to retire with flying colours, he next morning took his departure; and his party, being challenged by three of the patrol for riding armed, answered by beating them to death. The same intemperate behaviour brought him ere many days into a new dilemma with his employers. Gian Andrea da Prato, an officer of the Republic, having somewhat disrespectfully combated his opinion as to the defences of Peschiera, received from him a severe blow in the face, tearing it with a diamond ring he happened to wear, which was followed up by a severe beating with his baton of command; Leonardi adding that it was well for him the Duke was unarmed. The Venetian officers, protesting against this violence as an insult to the Signory, and as incompatible with due freedom of discussion in council, sent a complaint to the senate; but the Duke's resident minister succeeded in averting their indignation by explanations. Their satisfaction with his services under the banner of St. Mark was further testified by presenting him with a palace worth 10,000 scudi, which may fairly be taken into account as countervailing the strictures of Guicciardini and Sismondi. The capture of Rome being known, a new coalition was hastily patched up, wherein France, England, Venice, and Florence were parties, and to which the free cardinals, in name of the Sacred College, adhered. Its avowed object was to check the exorbitant power of Charles in Italy, and to establish Francesco Sforza in Milan, then held by Antonio della Leyva for the Emperor. A powerful French army under Lautrec marched on the 30th of June, and, on its arrival in Lombardy, the Venetians recalled most of their forces from Central Italy. On the 4th of October Pavia was taken and miserably sacked, and Milan might have become an easy prey had not Lautrec preferred advancing for the Pope's liberation. But, having lost time in extorting contributions from Piacenza and Parma, he had only reached Reggio when he heard of his escape from durance. Clement, though avowing gratitude for these exertions on his behalf, declined committing himself by any overt act against the Emperor, whose troops still occupied Rome. * * * * * The year which now closed is justly characterised by Muratori as the most fatal and lamentable for Italy that history has commemorated. The horrors of war, which, during its course, were poured in accumulated measure upon the Eternal City, fell largely upon many other parts of the Peninsula. Four foreign armies were let loose upon her plains, to steep them in misery, and the enormities attending the sack of Rome were repeated at Pavia, Spoleto, and a multitude of minor towns in Lombardy and Central Italy. The furies of civil broil were meanwhile scarcely less rampant. The Campagna of Rome, the sunny shores of Naples, the towns of the Abruzzi, were ravaged or revolutionised by the arms and intrigues of the Pontiff. Florence, Siena, Modena, Rimini, Ravenna, Perugia, and Camerino changed their governments, under pressure of foreign force or domestic violence. Nor were the elements more propitious. Incessant rains destroyed the harvest, and laid whole districts under water. With an unusual demand upon agricultural produce, the supply was greatly curtailed. Famine reigned throughout the land, and pestilence desolated the population. The inhabitants, reduced to general mendicity, beset the streets and highways with their squalid children. Their murmurs by day and their screams by night met with rare responses from passers-by as needy as themselves; and at length, worn out with suffering, they laid them down to die. It was during this year of general gloom that Machiavelli closed his life; and to it specially applies that passage in his _Principe_ (whether then interpolated or written long before) describing the prostration of his native land. "Conquered, enslaved, divided--without leader or law--beaten, spoiled, partitioned, overrun, and in every way ruined--she lay half lifeless, awaiting some one to heal her wounds, to arrest the robbery, pillage, and forced taxation of her states, to heal her long-cankering sores." To this hideous but faithful picture one finishing touch is wanting. Alarmed by Lautrec's advance upon Naples, the Prince of Orange at length, on the 16th of February, gave orders for the evacuation of Rome. But his army, now crumbled away to some thirteen thousand men, refused to march without an advance of pay, for which a final contribution of 20,000 ducats was wrested from the Camera. Not satisfied with this, the brutal soldiery redoubled their individual efforts, by every ingenuity of torture, to screw more treasure or ransom from the wretched inhabitants. But a summary vengeance awaited them. Such of the citizens as had arms secretly left the city, and, as their relentless foes straggled heedlessly across the Campagna, laden with spoil, they, by a succession of furious charges, recovered a vast quantity of the plunder, and, stripping the rapacious soldiery of their gala dresses and rich jewels, dismissed them naked. In this state the exasperated peasantry, headed by Napoleone Orsini, the warlike Abbot of Farfa, set upon and massacred them without mercy. So signal was these miscreants' fate that, in two years, scarcely one of them is supposed to have survived. * * * * * After delaying for some weeks at Bologna, to abide the issue of many intricate negotiations which followed upon the Pontiff's release, Lautrec advanced, by the eastern coast, to attack the kingdom of Naples. His army is estimated by Muratori at about fifty thousand, though stated by others at a much higher amount. On the 10th of February, he passed the frontier by the Tronto, and at Aquila, and elsewhere in the Abruzzi, was received with open arms by the remnant of the Angevine party. On the 12th of March, the two armies were in presence at Troia; but, neither of them being anxious for a decisive result, no engagement followed. After ravaging most of La Puglia and Calabria, the French troops sat down before Naples, on the 29th of April, and continued the siege during most of the summer. Once more did that delicious land, where the ancients placed their Elysian fields, and which is the terrestrial heaven of modern Italians, prove fatal to its spoilers. Its soil, fertile in nature's choicest products; its bright atmosphere, redolent of beauty; its climate, conducive to luxurious gratifications; its volcanic air, stimulating to sensual indulgences; its breezes, wafting perennial perfumes--all invited to an excess of enjoyment, enervating to the physical, as it was fatal to the moral energies of the invaders. Their cup of pleasure was drugged, and Naples was avenged on her destroyers by her own poisons, which they greedily quaffed. A contagious pestilence swept their ranks, and, on the 15th of August, carried off their leader. Weakened and discouraged, the remnant shut themselves into Aversa, but were soon forced to a capitulation, which being violated, most of them were cut to pieces. To counterbalance Lautrec's expedition, the Emperor had ordered more troops across the Alps, and, in the beginning of May, Henry Duke of Brunswick brought fourteen thousand Germans through the Tyrol to the Lago di Garda. On the first alarm of their approach, the Duke of Urbino made the most of a handful of troops under his command, to protect the Venetian mainland territory; and his biographers give him great credit for defensive measures which ensured their towns from attack, and obliged the invaders to move upon the Milanese. Pavia having been, about the same time, surprised by della Leyva, Lodi alone remained in Sforza's hands, and before it the Duke of Brunswick drew his lines. But the destruction of his magazines by Francesco Maria reduced his army to great straits; and a virulent epidemic having carried off two thousand of his men, the residue broke up and made their way homewards, after their first assault had been sharply repelled. In September, the Duke of Urbino's little army was reinforced by a strong body of Swiss infantry and French lances, led by St. Pol, and it was resolved to recover Pavia. Scarcely was the siege begun when news of the desperate state of the French before Naples induced St. Pol to propose withdrawing his contingent to the succour of Genoa, which, in consequence of Andrea Doria suddenly passing over from the side of Francis to that of his rival, was placed in great danger. A brief delay was obtained by the urgent representations of Francesco Maria, who, throwing aside his accustomed sluggishness, directed operations in person. On the sixth day he effected a breach by blowing up a bastion, which placed the city at its assailants' mercy, and it was again exposed to the horrors of a ruthless sack. This success was, however, counterbalanced by a revolution in Genoa, the city declaring itself independent of France, and was followed by the fall of Savona, on the 21st of October. It might have been saved by more prompt exertions on the Duke's part, who was unjustly blamed by his French allies for its loss, being, as Paruta assures us, interdicted by the Signory from leaving their frontier exposed. During the weary wars of Clement VII., the fluctuations inherent in human affairs were rarely counterbalanced by high principles or commanding genius. Confederacies formed upon narrow views and selfish calculations were neither sustained with persevering energy, nor directed by men of enlarged views and gallant bearing. Indeed, courage itself faltered and zeal grew languid, in contests which seemed to demoralise officers and soldiery. It cannot therefore occasion surprise that all parties were equally ready to play fast and loose; that the great powers kept themselves ever open for new combinations; and that independent captains, true to old condottiere usages, readily transferred their services to the quarter whence most substantial benefits were likely to accrue. Thus, after the great discouragement resulting to the cause of Francis, from the loss of Lautrec's army and the desertion of Doria, his allies began to waver. The Pontiff, though scarcely recovered from the alarm in which his recent misfortunes had left him, displayed an unaccountable leaning towards their author; and even Sforza, having to choose between two claimants of his duchy, began to think that the best terms might be had from the Emperor. The Venetians were as usual waiters upon providence; but they so overplayed the temporising game, that the arrangements for a double treaty between Clement, Charles, and Francis found them still in the field, and they were left to make head single-handed against the imperialists. As such a contest was necessarily a defensive one, the Duke's dilatory manoeuvres were at length well timed, and the Signory preferred thus prolonging the struggle to restoring the territory they had gained during the war, as a preliminary condition of peace. The Emperor had landed in August at Genoa, with a powerful fleet and army, and new levies arrived from Germany. St. Pol, after drawing off his troops towards Genoa, was surprised and shamefully beaten ere he could be supported by Francesco Maria,[24] who had encamped at Cassano on the Adda, in a position that menaced Milan, and commanded supplies from the Bergamese territory, whilst it effectually protected the Venetian mainland from imperialist aggression. The Duke there resisted every attempt to dislodge him, until the senate had arranged the terms of a treaty with the Emperor, which was signed on the 23rd of December. [Footnote 24: In his _Discorsi Militari_, pp. 7, 8, the Duke minutely criticises the French general's tactics, which exposed him to this shameful reverse; but the details have now little interest.] The ostensible motives of Charles in coming to Italy were twofold; to forward arrangements for a general league against the Turks, who, after overrunning Hungary, had laid siege to Vienna; and to have the imperial diadem and the iron crown of Lombardy imposed upon his brows by the Pope. Bologna was selected for the ceremony, whither his Holiness arrived in great state about the end of October, followed on the 5th of November by the Emperor. The two potentates were lodged in the public palace, and addressed themselves to the former of these objects with so much success, that on the 23rd of December a treaty was concluded, wherein were comprehended all the Italian states except Florence. The Lombard question was settled, Sforza being left in possession of his duchy, but hampered with ruinous payments to the Emperor in name of expenses; whilst the Venetians, besides paying heavy sums under the same pretext, had to resign their acquisitions about Ravenna and on the Neapolitan coast. Florence was not included, in consequence of its _de facto_ government being in the hands of the democratic party, who, in 1527, had availed themselves of Clement's difficulties to expel the Medici; it was now, however, replaced under their sway by the combined arms of the Pontiff and the Emperor. After ten months of obstinate defence,--the final effort of its old republican spirit, which commands our sympathy and respect far more than the struggles of faction that used in earlier times to deluge its piazza in blood,--the city was surrendered on the 12th of August, 1530, and its chains were riveted by a base bastard, who seems to have had nothing of the Medici but their name. In this siege died Philibert Prince of Orange, one of the last survivors of the invaders of Rome. Like his comrade Bourbon, he was a renegade from the service of Francis I., in disgust, as was alleged, at being turned out of his palace to make way for the imperious Wolsey, and at the ridicule to which this slight exposed him in the French court. The title passed to his nephew René Count of Nassau, who carried it from Provence to Holland, and was grandfather of William III. of England. Their leader fallen, their occupation gone, a serious alarm spread throughout Central Italy, lest the victorious soldiery should re-enact the horrors perpetrated by Bourbon's sanguinary host. These fears, however, soon subsided; indeed a century and a quarter elapsed ere that fair land was again exposed to the devastations of foreign spoilers. These diplomatic arrangements being thus satisfactorily concluded, preparations advanced rapidly for the coronation, and many princely feudatories of Italy flocked to witness that august function. Among these was Francesco Maria, who, though summoned as Prefect of Rome, had some cause to misdoubt his welcome from the Pontiff and the Emperor. The old family grudge still smouldered in the breast of the former, and he was alleged to have lately intrigued with Charles that the Prince of Orange, after re-establishing the Medici at Florence, should seize upon Urbino for Ascanio Colonna, whose vague claims upon that duchy have been already explained.[25] Indeed, a rumour of that general's march upon his states in March, 1529, had suddenly recalled the Duke from Lombardy, in order to provide for their defence. To the Emperor he had been uniformly opposed, rather from the chances of war than upon any personal quarrel; yet he did not hesitate to repair to the coronation, arriving at Bologna about the 1st of November, and there met with an interesting incident. [Footnote 25: Vol. II., pp. 420, 423.] As he approached the city with his suite he was met by about fifty German veterans, who addressed him in their rough transalpine tongue, and through an interpreter explained that they had come to pay to him their reverence, having served under his father in long past wars, inquiring where their old commander had died. They were told that it was himself that led them to victory; but, unaware how early he had commanded armies, they demurred to this, saying, that were their old leader alive his beard would be blanched. The Duke having assured them that their gallantry and attachment were well known and appreciated by him, they dismissed their doubts, crowding round to kiss his hands or mantle, and accompanied him to his lodging, a civility duly acknowledged by thanks and a suitable largess. Several days having passed in visits of compliment, the Emperor arrived, escorted into the town by the Dukes of Urbino and Savoy, with their brilliant staffs. Mindful only of the renown which the former had acquired in recent campaigns, the monarch summoned him to his side, and conversed with him in friendly familiarity. He called him the first general in Christendom, and complimented his officers as worthy soldiers of a famous school, whose complexions bore the honourable scars and weather-stains of good service. Duchess Leonora became on her arrival equally the object of imperial favour, and received flattering testimony to her polished and princely manners. The purpose of these marked attentions was soon developed, in a proposal to confer upon Francesco Maria the baton, as captain-general of the imperial troops in Italy. This gratifying offer he gracefully declined, pleading an engagement to the Venetians, which prevented his listening to such proposals without consent of the Signory. To them Charles forthwith addressed his request; but received for answer that the same considerations which induced him to make it rendered them resolute in retaining the services of a leader who for many years had brought renown to their arms; but that, though unable to spare himself, they were ready to place him with all their forces at the disposal of his Highness. The Emperor had employed the Duchess of Savoy's intervention in this affair, who at his suggestion cultivated a great intimacy with the Duke and Duchess of Urbino, and her pleading was on one occasion enforced by Charles in person in a well-timed visit. The establishment of this lady is described by Leonardi, who was particularly struck with the easy elegance and graceful conversation of her six girlish maids of honour, seated on cushions of tawny velvet, and gaily decked in rich jewels, plumes, and streaming ribbons, chatting merrily with her guests. The Emperor, far from taking umbrage at his disappointment, sought Francesco Maria's opinion as to the person best fitted for commander-in-chief, who recommended the appointment of Antonio della Leyva. Indeed, Giraldi declares that Charles "never could have enough of his fine discourses or sententious remarks," and pressed him to name any favour he would accept of. The Duke, thus encouraged, urged the restoration of Sora, Arce, Arpino, and Rocca Guglielmi, which had been taken from him at the instigation of Leo X., a request to which Charles acceded about three years later, paying 100,000 scudi of compensation to a Flemish nobleman who had been invested with these Neapolitan fiefs. On the 22nd of February, in the chapel attached to the Palazzo Pubblico, the brows of Charles were encircled with the iron crown of Lombardy, which, as Muratori observes, had not yet been rendered a sacred relic by the legend of its having been formed out of a nail of the true cross. Two days after, he received the imperial diadem in the church of S. Petronio, the Duke of Urbino, as Prefect of Rome, carrying the sword of state, with which the Pontiff had just conferred knighthood upon the Emperor. The populace were regaled in the Piazza with two bullocks roasted entire, whilst both the great fountains poured forth continued streams of wine, and silver largess was scattered at all hands. An accident from the fall of some scaffolding, which nearly proved fatal to the hero of the ceremonial, brought on a sharp altercation between the captain of the imperial guard and the chief magistrate of the city. To the threats of the officer, to treat the place as he had already done the larger town of Milan, the latter replied that in Milan they manufactured needles, but in Bologna they made swords. On the 22nd of March, Charles departed for Germany, in order to defend his Austrian dominions from the Turks; and, nine days later, Clement set out in a litter for his capital, where he arrived on the 9th of April, after spending the 6th at Urbino, on a visit to Francesco Maria. * * * * * From these transactions at Bologna there dated a new era for Italy. The long struggle of Guelph and Ghibelline was at length come to an end--the standard of her nationality was finally struck. Succeeding pontiffs were content to lean for support upon an authority which their predecessors had defied or resisted. It mattered little whether that paramount influence was held by an Austrian or Spanish imperial dynasty; so long as the two Sicilies, Sardinia, and Milan owned its dominion, the freedom of the other states was merely nominal. The Peninsula was, indeed, no longer ravaged by European wars, yet the protracted struggle did not close until the victor had riveted on her his chains. She was seldom desolated by invading armies, but she was not the less plundered by licensed spoilers. Peace was restored to her, but independence was gone. The Reformation, too, which Leo left a petty schism, had in ten years changed the faith of a large section of Europe, and Rome was no longer the capital of Christendom. The results of this change in the Church it is not the province of these pages to notice, but, in common with other Italian feudatories, the Dukes of Urbino felt the altered aspect of their political relations. War was not now a profession demanding their services, and recompensing them with glory and profit. The trade of arms had come to an end, as regarded the old condottiere system and its frightful abuses, and was modified into the more orderly machinery of standing armies on a limited scale. We shall accordingly find these princes for the future little mixed up with the general affairs of the Peninsula, and scarcely ever taking the field, but left with ample leisure for the administration of their little principality, or the cultivation of their individual tastes. Had such been the lot of Duke Federigo or his accomplished son, their fame would scarcely have been dimmed, for theirs were virtues equally calculated to elevate a court or illustrate a camp. But it was otherwise with the two remaining sovereigns della Rovere; and the glories of the dynasty would suffer no diminution did we now draw our narrative to a close. Yet these Dukes were not commonplace men; and, making allowance for the age in which they lived,--when the fine gold of literature and arts had been transmuted into baser metal, and when genius had fled from a desolation which peace without freedom was powerless to reanimate,--they were not unworthy to rule in the Athens of Italy. Those readers, however, who have thus far followed our narrative must content themselves through its remaining chapters with characters less striking, views less general, events of narrowed interest; and must bear in mind that the niche in the temple of Fame appropriated to Urbino, as well as that enshrining the Italian name, was earned ere the coronation of Charles V. had closed the struggles of Italy, and consummated her subjugation. After that time, according to one of the most rational as well as eloquent of the new dreamers after Italian nationality, "she underwent a rapid yet imperceptible decline; yet her sky smiled brightly as ever, her climate was as mild. A privileged land, removed from all cares of political existence, she went on with dances and music, happy in her ignorance, sleeping in the intoxication of incessant prosperity. Used to the scourge of invasion, the sons of the south took up again their guitars, wiped away their tears, and sang anew like a cloud of birds when the tempest is over."[26] This picture, drawn in bitterness, but not apparently in irony, paints the decline of Italy in colours more attractive than any we should have dared to employ; and we extract it chiefly for the sake of contrast with the same writer's ready admission that the liberty of the old republics was cradled amid convulsions of faction, which eventually exhausted their forces, or stifled their independence. [Footnote 26: MARIOTTI'S _Italy_, II.] If the object of government be the greatest happiness of the masses, it seems, according to Mariotti, to have been more fully attained in Italy during the ages of foreign sway than in those of republican strife. Admitting in some degree, this conclusion, we accord a more hearty approval to the character he has elsewhere given of a state of matters worse, probably, in that land than either of these alternatives,--"that slow and silent disease, that atrabilious frenzy--politics--which pervades all ranks, exhibiting a striking contrast with the radiant and harmonious gaiety of heaven and earth." * * * * * Our notices of the court of Urbino have been suspended during a long interval from lack of materials. Indeed, the military duties of its head too well accounts for this deficiency of incident, rendering his domestic life a blank. Even the brief intervals when he could steal from the camp to the society of his Duchess, were passed in some neighbouring town, where she met him, or at Venice, where she made a lengthened sojourn, partly as a safer residence during the alarm consequent upon Bourbon's invasion, but in some degree as a guarantee for her husband to the suspicious government he served. These circumstances occasioned him prolonged absences from his state, of which his consort availed herself to prepare for him an agreeable surprise. Immediately north-west from Pesaro rises the fertile slope of Monte Bartolo, near the summit of which, but sheltered from the keen sea-breeze, Alessandro Sforza fixed the site of a villa called Casartole. The Emperor Frederick III., when returning from his coronation at Rome, in January, 1469, was magnificently entertained by that Prince, and here laid the foundation of a casino, which in compliment to him was named the Imperiale. Its dimensions were, however, unequal to that imposing name, for, on the death of Giovanni Sforza, in 1510, it was valued at only 8000 ducats. Having devolved upon the Duke of Urbino, with the lordship of Pesaro, it was selected by the Duchess for a compliment to him, which may be best explained by the inscription she placed upon the building:--"For Francesco Maria, Duke of the Metaurian States, on his return from the wars, his consort Leonora has erected this villa, in token of affection, and in compensation for sun and dust, for watching and toil, so that, during an interval of repose, his military genius may here prepare for him still wider renown and richer rewards." To carry out this idea worthily, she summoned Girolamo Genga, of Urbino, one of the best architects of his time; and under his able superintendence the casino of the Sforza, distinguished from moderate country houses only by heraldic devices and a lofty bell-tower, was rapidly transformed into a handsome palace, which the pencil of Raffaele Colle was employed to decorate with its master's triumphs. The site of this villa was admirably adapted as a residence for the sovereign of those broad lands it overlooked. It commanded every dwelling in the little city of Pesaro, though perfectly secluded from contact with its busy streets. The vale of the Isauro or Foglia lay in verdure before it, beyond which were the gardenlike slopes of Novilara, terminating in a varied landscape of hill and dale, which carried the gazer to the blue mountains of Gubbio. To the left spread the coast of Fano and Sinigaglia; to the right the high lands of Urbino were bounded by the Apennines of Carpegna and the isolated heights of San Marino. In a word, the Imperiale scanned the whole duchy of Urbino, of which it might, not inaptly, be considered the eye. The attractions of this princely retreat have been described with enthusiasm by Ludovico Agostini, who enjoyed them in their prime, and whose eulogies remain unedited in the Oliveriana Library. But they owe to the pen of Bernardo Tasso a worthier and wider celebrity, in his letter to Vincenzo Laureo, which sums up the advantages of the Villa by declaring that no place in Italy united with a temperate and healthful climate so many conveniences and enjoyable spots. Of many laboured and costly productions of human ingenuity little remains there but saddening ruins. The lofty oaks celebrated by Agostini have yielded to the axe; the grove which served as a game preserve has shared the same fate; the once innumerable pines and cypresses may be counted in units; the orange and lemon trees, the cystuses and myrtles have disappeared. Though even yet of imposing appearance, the building has undergone pitiable dilapidations. Almost every morsel of the marble carving has been carried off, and fragments may be purchased from the pawnbrokers of Pesaro. The frescoes, except that representing Francesco Maria receiving the adherence of his army, which seems the poorest in execution, are almost totally defaced. But that the saloons, where Bembo talked and Tasso sang, have been found well adapted for the culture of silkworms, the desolation, begun a century ago by Portuguese Jesuits, continued by a rabble soldiery, and permitted by its present proprietors the Albani, might ere now have been complete. But while the works of man have thus by man been degraded, glorious nature remains unchanged. A few hundred paces lead to the summit ridge of Monte Bartolo, a spot rarely equalled even in this lovely land. To the vast prospect we have but now feebly described, there is here added a marine panorama, extending from the headland of Ancona to the Pineta of Ravenna, and including a boundless expanse of the sparkling Adriatic. A wanderer on that attractive coast, it has been my privilege to visit this unrivalled spot, and listlessly to survey the swan-like sails skimming the mighty mirror, wherein was reflected the deep indigo of an Italian sky, bounded along the horizon by that pearly haze gradually dissolving towards the blue zenith, which no painter but Perugino has been able to embody. Of Duchess Leonora we know little.[*27] Unlike her predecessor, she had no courtly pen to transmit us her praises, no Bembo or Castiglione to celebrate the beauties of her person or the graces of her mind. She enjoys, however, one advantage over her Aunt Elisabetta; for in a speaking portrait by Titian, we may read much of her character, exempt from the vague flattery of such diffuse eulogists. Painted at that trying age when female beauty has exchanged its maiden charms for mature womanhood, the grave matronly air, the stiff contours and set features, with more of comely dignity than sternness in their general expression, attest fidelity in the likeness, and tally well with what we know of her temperament, and with the trials under which it must have been formed. There we may observe a composure calculated to moderate the fiery temper of her lord, a self-possession fitted to sustain him through his varied adversities. Her dress handsome rather than rich, her pose indicative of quietude, the spaniel watching by her side, the small time-piece on her table, are accessories adapted for one accustomed to pass the long intervals of her husband's absence rather in reflective solitude than in courtly pastimes.[28] To such a disposition the cares of maternity and her children's education afforded an ever pleasing resource, which she shared with the Dowager Duchess, an unfailing companion and friend, whose once lively spirits had been chastened by affliction into harmony with her temperament; but of this solace she was deprived by her death at Venice in January, 1526. In the autumn of 1529, Leonora, who administered the duchy in her husband's absence, received Clement at Pesaro, on his way to the coronation at Bologna, with a princely welcome and magnificent presents. In a letter which his Holiness took that opportunity to address to the Duke, he expresses gratitude for these, and for the attendance of the prince, "a youth of the highest hopes from his excellent dispositions, his modesty, and his natural inclination to literature, as well as his many estimable qualities." Whilst promising much favour to Guidobaldo, he compliments his father on the mild and equitable sway whereby the Duchess maintained his state in peace and tranquillity, and concludes with an apostolic blessing on him, his consort, and his son. [Footnote *27: Cf. LUZIO E RENIER, _Mantova e Urbino_ (Torino, 1893) and JULIA CARTWRIGHT, _Isabella d'Este_ (Murray, 1904).] [Footnote 28: Cf. Appendix XII.] Returned to his state after so long a separation, Francesco Maria found, during the next two years, ample leisure to attend to its internal administration, and to watch the progress of his promising family. The eldest of these seems to have been Donna Ippolita, for whom he soon received, through the Marquis del Vasto, an offer of marriage from Don Antonio d'Aragona, son of the Duke of Montalto. At the nuptials, which were celebrated with suitable splendour, he had a very unlooked-for guest in Ascanio Colonna, whose intrigues to supplant him in the duchy we have lately noticed, but who, finding these hopelessly foiled by the Duke's establishment in the good graces of the Emperor, sought a reconciliation through the bridegroom, his cousin, whom he accompanied to Urbino. This frankness was met in a kindred spirit by his host, and their amity was cemented by a generous hospitality. * * * * * It was now, perhaps, that Francesco Maria took opportunity to dictate the results of his long experience of war, in a series of Military Discourses, which were published fifty years later, but which, being evidently printed from loose and unrevised notes, are not fairly amenable to literary criticism.[29] They are but desultory and disjointed observations, carelessly jotted down, with little attention to order or style, and edited without emendation, or even intelligible punctuation. The matter abounds in truisms and common-places, displaying neither enlarged views nor knowledge of mankind: the style is garrulous, diffuse, and redundant. Yet, as on matters of military skill the Duke was considered a high authority, it may not be improper here to record some of his opinions. [Footnote 29: Discorsi Militari dell'eccellentissimo Signor Francesco Maria I. della Rovere, Duca di Urbino, nei quali si discorrano molti avantaggi et disadvantaggi della guerra, utilissimi ad ogni soldato. Ferrara, 1583. It was edited by Domenico Mammarelli, and dedicated to Signor Ippolito Bentivoglio. There is a transcript in the library at Newbattle Abbey, a. 3, 2, and a fragment of it in the Vat. Ottobon. MSS. No. 2447, f. 135. *Cf. also _I discorsi di F.M.I. della Rovere sopra le fortificazioni di Venezia_ (Mantova, 1902). These were written 1537-38.] This was his idea of a fortified town: "It ought to stand in a plain, its citadel commanded by no eminence. The rampart-wall should be three paces wide at base, supporting an earthern rampart of fifteen or twenty paces wide, with barbicans. This retaining wall should be in height about twenty feet, and have above it a curtain of nearly as many. The upper part, being most exposed to be battered, had better have an earthen facing. There ought to be a platform, rising sixteen feet over the curtain, placed half-way between each baloard and bastion. The baloards should have guns mounted only at the sides, and be of massive strength, from fifty to sixty paces in diameter, that the guns may be freely wrought. Should a baloard be taken, it will still be flanked by the adjoining platforms, a ditch drawn between each of which would in a night's time recomplete the defences. The fosse should be about twenty paces wide, and is best without water, so as to allow artificial fire to be showered down upon the enemy. There ought to be no counterscarp, seeing it generally serves as a protection to the besiegers; but, if there be one, it had better be only of earth, at a low angle of elevation. Above all, there ought to be provided many secret ports for frequent sallies, and for the easy return of the men. It has been long noticed that no fortress was ever carried but by some oversight of its defenders, and everything depends upon a judicious selection of positions for defence. Unquestionably a single sin suffices to send a man to the devil, whatever be his other good works; and, in like manner, one oversight in fortification may lose the place, as happened when I took Pavia and Cremona. In short, it is all very well to play with plans and models, but one must see to everything on the spot." "He said, in reference to the fortresses of Legnano and Verona, that it was very ill-judged in the Republic never to carry things out as they had been planned, in consequence of frequent ministerial changes, and the system of governing from day to day, and bit by bit, without reference to any general design. By adopting an opposite method, he had completed the defences of Pesaro much more efficiently, and at a third of the outlay it would have cost any one else, simply because he was the sole head and executor, and kept in view the entire works, not the individual gates, baloards, and details; and by so completing them that it must be attacked on two or three sides, whilst provided with ten or twelve concealed sally-ports." He contended that a fortress on a hill was difficult to defend, one on a plain less so; but that the easiest and most secure was one whose defences partly extended along the level, and in part rose upon steep ground, such as Verona, which he maintained could be more easily held by five thousand men against eighty thousand, than most towns by eight thousand against half that besieging force. In conducting a siege, the Duke dwells upon the necessity of a choice infantry, in which German solidity should be happily combined with the active troops of Italy and Spain; yet he admits that men-at-arms, when dismounted, can be turned to excellent account in an assault, and that light cavalry are of obvious value. "Above all," he says, "you require a well-supplied commissariat, and regular pay, with sufficient artillery and military machines. After choosing the most eligible spot for encampment, just without range of the enemy's guns, the first thing is to provide your baggage and supplies against sudden surprise; next to open trenches for your artillery, securing your men by a ditch wide enough for their operations, but not so broad as to be commanded from the walls, and taking care not to let too many of them at once into the trenches, so as to embarrass each other. It is an immense protection to flank your trenches with lines drawn from your principal encampment close up to the city walls, which must be strongly defended against the enemy's guns, and must contain a force adequate to check their sallies, and, if necessary, to cover the trenches, or even succour your camp." "Should you resort to a blockade, it is best to establish your army in one or two towns ten to fifteen miles off, taking care to secure every intervening place. At that distance your own supplies are more easily procured, and your light cavalry can readily intercept the enemy's convoys, whilst the garrison cannot attack you, except at every disadvantage, and without artillery." As for artillery, we find a recommendation of battering guns carrying from thirty to one hundred pound balls, and of field-pieces and ship's cannon from fifteen to twenty pounds. The gunpowder in Italy being bad, fifty was the average of daily discharges; but the Turks, having very superior powder, could fire as many as seventy times, which was looked upon as a stupendous performance. Animadverting upon those tardy tactics which never anticipated a movement of the enemy, the Duke compared them to a child applying its hand to the parts successively chastised, without attempting to ward off the next blow; yet, Fabius-like, he considered that a general's talent was more shown in his selection of suitable posts than in the conduct of a pitched battle. Popular risings he held very cheap, believing them utterly contemptible when not supported by disciplined troops, and instancing his own experience at Florence in 1527, when, with eighty soldiers, he put down an insurrection, and maintained the ascendancy of the Medici. With reference to the respective merits of various nations whom he had seen in the field, he said that "a good Italian and a good Spanish soldier are equal. The Swiss at the outset are an excellent force; but, in a protracted campaign, they deteriorate, and become good for little. The Germans sustain an onset of men-at-arms most valiantly, and, during these Italian wars, have become in other respects expert, especially at skirmishes, either in cover or in the open country. The Turks, being unskilled in war, have hitherto owed their victories rather to the deficiencies of their opponents than to their own superiority. He ascribed the success of French armies against the Italians to an absurd practice of the latter, who always fought in squadrons of twenty-five men-at-arms, each squadron engaging another, so that the battle was made up of many separate skirmishes; and, in the end, the most numerous army generally carried the day. Charles VIII., on the contrary, formed in three battalions,--the van, centre, and rear,--and, with his force thus concentrated, bore down the detached tactics of his opponents. Yet the Duke did not consider this French disposition as invariably efficacious, preferring in many cases that an army should act in one body, even at the risk of leaving its baggage and artillery in the rear, and comparatively unprotected. But, on this and similar points, his maxim was not to adhere to any invariable rule." Regarding the construction of an army, we find this passage:--"In preparing an expedition, the commander ought to imitate the process by which nature creates a living body, forming first the heart; then the vital members, such as the liver, lungs, blood, and brains; next the skin; and, finally the hair and nails. In like manner, the foundation of an enterprise should be the general, who is its heart, and in whom should be united varied capacity, with perfect rectitude and justice. Then his officers should be strenuous, experienced, and implicitly obedient, for such captains are certain to recruit soldiers of the same stamp. Next, let him look to his commissariat and military chest, and see that his arms and accoutrements are adapted to his enemy and the country. Lastly, let him regard all extraneous and casual aid as mere skin, hair, and nails, relying mainly on his own well-disciplined troops." The Duke considered that "men-at-arms are by no means so useless as they are sometimes regarded, and that, although infantry is the basis of an army, nevertheless it would not do to have only that force in the field; just as, although in the human body it is the eye alone which sees, the hand which works, the head which guides, yet man would not be so perfect or beautiful a creature with but eyes, hands, or head, as he is with all these various members. Hence he would wish to have soldiers of all sorts in his camp,--men-at-arms, light cavalry, a German brigade, and a full complement of Italians." But whilst the theory of warfare thus occupied his thoughts, he was not neglectful of its munitions; and it was his special concern to provide for his veterans, horses, arms, and accoutrements of a quality which gained them general admiration. After nearly three years of peace the Venetians, fearing that their swords might become rusty, ordered a muster of their forces on the mainland, and an inspection of their frontier defences. The reviews were conducted by their Captain-general in person, who spent several months of 1532 in Lombardy with the Duchess, leaving the government of his state in the hands of his son Guidobaldo, now eighteen years of age. From thence he was called to Friuli, on the approach of a disorganised mass of Italian soldiery, who were returning home from the Turkish war, burning and plundering as they went. By firm and temperate measures he kept them in check, and constrained them to resume an orderly march. The only immediate result to the Peninsula from campaigns in Hungary was an alarm along the Adriatic coast of a Turkish descent, which was made a pretext by Clement for seizing upon Ancona, and annexing that republic to the papal states. CHAPTER XLI Italian militia--The Camerino disputes--Death of Clement VII.--Marriage of Prince Guidobaldo--Proposed Turkish crusade under the Duke--His death and character. Three nearly contemporary events had lately combined to extinguish the nationality of Italy, and those liberties which, shared in ample or more sparing measure by her many states, had till now crowned her military glories with intellectual renown. In the sack of Rome the power of the Keys had been shaken, the prestige of the papal city had passed away. The defence of Florence was the last effort of patriotism, and with it fell communal independence. The coronation of Charles V. laid upon the Peninsula an iron yoke of foreign despotism, which rendered her virtually a province of Spain. A necessary consequence of this sad change will be to limit the field of our investigation, and to restrict what remains of our work to the ducal family and their hereditary domains, which for the future were little more than an appanage of the Spanish monarchy. The Lords of Urbino had hitherto been prominent among the captains of adventure, and bore a part wherever engagements were offered, or hard blows to be had. But the condottiere system being now superseded, a new mode of warfare and machinery of defence became indispensable. Knight-service and the romance of war were swept away by artillery; the imposing _battaglia_ of men-at-arms proved powerless when confronted by battalions of steady infantry, or out-manoeuvred by the dashing cavalry of Dalmatia. This lesson, first taught by the Swiss in their fastnesses, had been practically demonstrated to the Italians in every great action from the Taro to the recent Lombard campaigns, and had been adopted by most of their leaders. It now, however, became necessary to apply it in another sense, and, seeing that captains were no longer to be hired with their respective followings of efficient soldiery, to organise a militia of its own for the defence of such state, upon principles which Machiavelli was among the first to recognise and explain. Before that system came into general use, the Italian infantry was notoriously incompetent to cope with transalpine levies, as Francesco Maria had bitterly experienced in the war of 1523-27. He therefore, in 1533, instituted a militia of his mountaineers, under the name of the Feltrian legion, which before his death numbered five thousand men, in four regiments, commanded by as many colonels. The object was to make them good soldiers without ceasing to be citizens; to maintain in readiness at small expense a military population, who were not men of war by profession. For this purpose lists were annually taken of all males from eighteen to twenty-five, learned professions and infamous persons being exempted, and to them arms were given. They were drilled and instructed in the necessary evolutions, and a proportion of them were called into active service when needed. On these occasions they were well paid; but, when kept on the reserve, their small stipend was rendered more attractive by a variety of political immunities and fiscal exemptions, including the exclusive privilege of bearing arms. The practical result was this,--the able-bodied population were, on the one hand, brought into a sort of direct dependence on the executive, and, on the other, were taught that the safety of the commonwealth was entrusted to their swords and sinews. It is scarcely necessary to add that this system has been generally adopted, and that on it are still based the military institutions of most continental nations. * * * * * In December, 1532, the Emperor returned to Italy, and was met near Vicenza by Francesco Maria, who welcomed him in his own name, and in that of the Signory. Dispensing with complimentary formalities, Charles received him at once to easy intercourse, and, requesting his continued attendance, spent much time in conversing with him on the art of war. At Bologna another congress was held by the Pontiff and the Emperor, in which were discussed the affairs of Italy, the proposed general council, and the matrimonial speculations of Clement for advancement of his house. The marriage of Alessandro de' Medici, now created Duke of Florence, was arranged with Margaret of Austria, natural daughter of Charles; but the hand of Caterina de' Medici, which the latter wished to be given to Francesco Sforza, was reserved by her ambitious uncle for a French prince. Charles left Bologna on the 28th of February, 1533, and embarked at Genoa for Spain, after giving some hope to Francesco Maria of a satisfactory settlement of his claims upon Sora. Clement in ten days after set out for Rome. The estrangement between these potentates, which at this meeting began to chill their intercourse, was greatly widened by the voyage of his Holiness in the following autumn to Marseilles, where he celebrated the nuptials of Caterina with Henry, second son and successor of Francis I. At this second congress of Bologna, Titian met the Emperor by special command; and it was perhaps on that occasion that he had commissions for portraits of the Duke and Duchess of Urbino, which now ornament the Uffizi gallery. The former is engraved as a frontispiece for this volume; of the latter we have lately spoken: both will demand further notice in our fifty-fourth chapter, and in the last No. of the Appendix. In April the Duchess Leonora gave birth to a son at Mantua, who was named after Julius II., and was destined to holy orders. His father had at the same time a severe fit of gout; and, on his return home, the painful duty devolved upon him of providing against the visitation of a scarcity which then lamentably affected Italy. The close of the year found him a suitor with the Pope in the affair of Camerino, which we shall now briefly explain. The small state of that name in the March of Ancona had been ruled for nearly three hundred years by the Varana family, some of whom we have occasionally mentioned in these Memoirs. Exaggerating the domestic atrocities, then too frequent among Italians of their rank, they became revoltingly notorious, in 1433-4, for a complicated fratricide. Bernardo, Lord of Camerino, jealous of his brothers Giovanni and Pier-Gentile, the offspring of his father's second marriage, had them put to death by the agency of his own sons. Ere many months passed, his subjects, loathing the foul deed, suddenly rose against its authors. With sweeping vengeance they slew him, his brother german Gentil Pandolfo, and his six sons, dashing the heads of the little ones against the wall. The succession was thus opened to Giulio Cesare, son of Giovanni, who, in 1451, married the only daughter of Sigismondo Pandolfo, despot of Rimini.[*30] He lived to see the usurpations of Cesare Borgia, and, falling into the hands of Michelotto on the capture of La Pergola, the old man perished by the bowstring of that monster in 1502, along with his eldest son Venanzio, and two natural children. Venanzio had, in 1497, married Maria, the only sister of Duke Francesco Maria, of whom we have already had to tell a tale of scandal, and left one son Sigismondo. He was born in 1499, and escaped the fate of his father and uncles, from having been sent in infancy to Urbino. There he was educated; and we have seen him defending S. Leo, when scarcely beyond boyhood. After years of imprisonment and exile, his uncle Francesco Maria made an ineffectual attempt, on the death of Leo X., to vindicate his hereditary fief, from the usurpation of his paternal uncle, Giovanni Maria, its _de facto_ lord. Sigismondo sought consolation for his hard fortunes in low debauchery, until he fell in 1522 by the hand of assassins, at the supposed instigation of his usurping uncle, who, in 1527, had absolution of the foul deed, and to whose career we must now turn.[31] [Footnote *30: Cf. EDWARD HUTTON, _Sigismondo Malatesta_ (1906), p. 61.] [Footnote 31: Many details regarding these transactions have been given, vol. I., p. 411; vol. II., pp. 36, 317, 371, 419.] Giovanni Maria, second son of Giulio Cesare Count of Camerino, was sent to Venice on Borgia's approach, and so avoided the fate of his family. On the death of Alexander VI., being then in his twenty-second year, he made a descent upon La Marca, and possessed himself of his father's seigneury, in defiance of his infant nephew's title to it. His authority was recognised by the Holy See, at a time when the hereditary principle was loose, and a strong hand constituted the best claim. He found a warm supporter in Leo X., through sympathy of their common hatred for the della Rovere race, and received from him the lordship of Sinigaglia and prefecture of Rome, on the deprivation of Francesco Maria, along with the additional dignity of Duke of Camerino. After the death of Leo, Sigismondo for a few months made good his authority at Camerino, until supplanted by the usurper, whose title was conveniently completed by his nephew's murder; whereupon he became _de jure_ its sovereign, and continued in undisturbed possession of his ill-gotten honours. On the death of Duke Giovanni Maria, in August 1527, the male heir of the fief was Ercole Varana, whose eldest son, Matteo, had been destined by the Duke's will to become husband of his infant daughter Giulia, then but four years old. This arrangement was, however, resolutely opposed by his widow, Caterina Cibò,[*32] niece of Leo X.; and ere any steps could be taken to carry it into effect, the town was sacked by Sciarra Colonna, who, with his son-in-law, Rodolfo Varana, a bastard of its last lord, drove Caterina and her child into the citadel. Forgetting the double feud of Francesco Maria with her husband and her Medicean relations, she in her extremity besought his aid, offering to plight her daughter's hand to his son, Prince Guidobaldo. The proposal found him ingloriously inactive in Umbria, during the negotiations for release of Clement from S. Angelo, and, readily accepting it, he sent troops to relieve the suppliant lady, who continued for several years to administer the state in name of Giulia, with the passive countenance of her cousin the Pontiff. But the jealousy which rankled in the breast of his Holiness against the della Rovere princes, fretted at an arrangement so conducive to their aggrandisement, and at the first congress of Bologna he sought to break it off. The Duke's answer, as reported by Leonardi, was, that he would risk life and state rather than withdraw from the engagement, and that, if driven to defensive measures, the Pope should in the end bear the expenses of the war. With the recent and costly failure of Leo against Urbino in their recollection, the consistory would lend no sanction to the inclinations of their head, and so the matter rested until the return of Clement from France. Francesco Maria then formally applied for the papal sanction to a union of his son with the heiress of Camerino, but was put off on account of her tender age. [Footnote *32: Cf. FELICIANGELI, _Notizie e documenti sulla vita di Caterina Cibò Varano_ (Camerino, 1891).] Meanwhile there occurred an incident characteristic of these lawless times. Like the other Italian commonwealths, Camerino had its exiles, expelled by faction or political convulsions, and Matteo, having rallied a body of these, surprised the city on the 13th of October, 1534, and seized the Duchess-Regent in her palace. His object being the abduction of Giulia, who had escaped into the fortress, he hurried her mother, in her dressing-gown, to its gates, and commanded her to summon the castellan to surrender. She, however, with extraordinary hardihood and self-possession, ordered him to fire upon the assailants; whereupon their leader drew his sword and threatened her with instant death. The heroic dame, after ejaculating a brief prayer, bared her neck and told him to strike; but Matteo, quailing before her daring spirit, and apprehensive of the infuriated populace, hastily withdrew, carrying her prisoner. He was speedily attacked by the citizens _en masse_, and the officer in charge of Caterina was glad to secure his own pardon by restoring her to liberty. A new inducement thus arose for placing the heiress in the hands of one competent to protect her; yet the redoubled instances made with the Pope for completion of her marriage were met by continued temporising, until the opportunity passed from his grasp. On or about the 25th of September, 1534, Clement closed his life. Guicciardini, his countryman and protégé, tells us that he died hated by his court and suspected by princes, leaving a reputation rather odious than pleasing, and accounted severe, greedy, faithless, and illiberal. Muratori reviews his character more at length:--"He was a pontiff not destitute of political capacity; circumspect and dignified; dexterous in business, including dissimulation of every sort, and regarded by all his contemporaries as a man of double-dealing. Nature and experience had amply endowed him with many qualities befitting a temporal sovereign; but it would be less easy to detect in him those virtues becoming the Vicar of Christ, or to discover, amid the religious tempests of his times, what benefits he conferred upon the Church, what abuses or disorders he checked, though from him took its origin and pretext that terrible schism which yet dissevers so many nations from the true Church. He misapplied the papacy, its powers and resources, to instigate and maintain wars, which, besides many other mischiefs, brought upon Rome a dreadful sack, and upon his own dignity a shocking degradation. Still more did he turn these to despoil his native Florence of her freedom, and to aggrandise his own family rather by princely marriages than by honourable and discreet advancement. He died detested by the court for his avarice and close-fistedness, and still more loathed by the Roman people, who imputed to his policy all the miseries that befell their far-famed city." His versatile conduct has been fully exposed in these pages: "With every wind that veered, With shifted sails a several course he steered." Finally, with him there originated national funded debt, that system which has so extensively affected the political, military, financial, commercial and monetary relations of the whole civilised world. Yet, though the results of his disastrous pontificate justified as they dictated these very sweeping charges, the testimony of the Venetian ambassadors, who describe the earlier portion of his reign, is much more favourable, at least to his motives. Whilst they represent him as timidly slow in adopting his measures, and as wavering and undecided in following them out, they commend his piety, his willingness to promote reforms, his conscientious observance of justice, the regularity of his habits, and the simplicity of his tastes. Possessing neither the liberality nor the epicurean propensities of his uncle, the contrast was unfavourable to his popularity; and those who had shared with Leo the pastimes of music and the chase sneered at discussions on engineering and hydraulics, which occupied the leisure of Clement. As soon as the Pontiff's death was known to Francesco Maria, he sent his son to complete his nuptials at Camerino; but, within two hours after his arrival there, a courier brought from the Sacred College a protest against the marriage of the heiress during the vacancy of the Holy See.[33] This impediment was suggested by Cardinal Farnese in anticipation of his election, which took place as Paul III. on the 12th of October, the very day on which the bridal ceremony was completed. To balance this act of questionable fidelity to the See, the Duke, by well-timed movements, repressed attempts to assert the independence of Perugia and Rimini, and re-establish their hereditary seigneurs. But such zeal served him little with the new Pontiff, who at once made the Camerino succession a personal question, with a view to confer that state upon his own natural son. One of his earliest acts was accordingly to visit the contumacy of Caterina, her daughter, and son-in-law, with a stern monitory and summons to Rome, their disobedience of which was followed by excommunication, and by a movement of the pontifical troops to blockade Camerino. [Footnote 33: Cuparini's account of the war of Camerino, Vat. Urb. MSS. 1023, art. 10. Leoni says the despatch arrived after the nuptials had been solemnised.] Francesco Maria now interposed all his influence, backed by the imperial and the Venetian ambassadors, to induce Paul to a recognition of Giulia as heiress under the investiture given to her father, with remainder apparently to heirs general. Having vainly exhausted the expedients of diplomacy in this cause, he protested that the blame should not rest upon him of hostilities rendered necessary in his son's defence, and, sending provisions to Camerino, he marched at the head of ten thousand men to his support. At Sassoferrata he was met by a deputation of the citizens, laden with presents, who declared that though their walls were the Pope's, their hearts and substance were at his disposal. At Matelica he found his son and the ladies, before whom he passed his army in review, and marched home again without once encountering the papal troops under Gian Battista Savello. In fact, it was a war of the pen rather than the sword, for at every step he renewed notarial protests of duty and obedience to the Church, and regularly paid the excise, as well as the price of all the stores which he took up for the use of the Varana party. Apprehending that, if too far provoked, he would be supported by the Venetian arms and by the Emperor, the Pontiff now suspended martial measures, and pressed the point of law on the Roman courts. Thus relieved from immediate anxiety in this matter, the Duke of Urbino resolved to pay a visit of compliment to Charles V. at Naples. After reaching the Adriatic frontier of that kingdom, he dismissed the strong escort which had guarded him through the ecclesiastical state, and proceeded with a small suite. The Emperor received him with much courtesy, and sought his counsel in the invasion of Provence, which he was preparing. Francesco Maria would gladly have referred the Camerino affair to his arbitration, but this being rejected by the Nuncio, he obtained simply the imperial mediation, which proved unavailing. He on this occasion presented Charles with two swords of tried temper, and a finger-ring containing a repeating watch, the latter made at Pesaro. In returning he took the route by Benevento to the Adriatic, and halting for the night at the convent of Sta. Maria degl'Eremiti, near Troia, he allowed some of his attendants to examine into a curious tradition which then obtained general credit. It was said that Diomed arriving here with a company of attendants, he and most of them died within a few days, and were duly interred; but that their souls were transmigrated into a species of bird elsewhere unknown, which ever since had haunted the marshy grounds. These were seen but rarely of an evening, and towards morning uttered sounds like human lamentations. They flew on the approach of any one not of Greek birth, but allowed persons of that nation to visit their haunts familiarly. Three of the Duke's suite having volunteered to watch, they all heard mournful voices about three hours before dawn, a phenomenon which the narrator makes no attempt to explain.[34] Having crossed to survey the Venetian possessions at Zara, the Duke returned home in 1536, on board two galleys of the Republic. The rest of that year was chiefly spent by him at his post in Lombardy, protecting the Venetian mainland during the passage of some imperial levies; but his charge was no longer an important one, as the long contests for Milan had been finally set at rest in the autumn of 1535, by the death of Duke Francesco Sforza, after naming Charles V. heir of his state. [Footnote 34: Vat. Urb. MSS., 1023, art. 1.] Apulia and the Venetian possessions in the Levant being menaced in the following year by Sultan Solyman, a general confederation was effected for the defence of Italy and its dependencies, at the head of which were the Pope and the Emperor. The Duke of Urbino as captain-general undertook to raise five thousand men for this armament, but, the danger suddenly passing away, distracted counsels prevailed among the allies. Finally, on the 31st of January, 1538, a new league was patched up, to carry into effect a suggestion of Francesco Maria, by diverting the war into the Infidel's territory. Considering, however, his impending difficulties with Paul III., the Duke obtained a joint guarantee of the contracting powers for maintenance in his state, in confirmation of papal brieves to the same effect dated in the preceding November. About the same time his services to the Republic were acknowledged by the present of a palace in the street of Sta. Fosca, valued at 16,000 ducats. The views of the allies and their captain-general for this enterprise were vast, comprehending the siege of Constantinople and an invasion of Egypt: and the latter was indefatigable in his endeavours to put the armament upon a footing equal to such extensive designs, both as to its numbers and material. The enterprise was invested with the sacred character of a religious war; but whilst Francesco Maria concentrated upon it the energies of a mind in its prime, and the exertions of a frame renovated by new specifics against his hereditary enemy the gout, the hand of death was upon him. Returned to Venice from a comprehensive survey of her defences in Dalmatia and Istria, he was attacked by sudden illness on the 20th of September. Foreseeing its fatal termination, he had himself taken by sea to Pesaro, which he reached on the 8th of October. Next day he showed himself on horseback to his people, but feeling unequal to the exertion he took to bed, and gradually lost strength. On Monday, the 21st, a fit deprived him of speech, yet he continued sensible until near daybreak of the 22nd, when he expired in religious penitence, after receiving the sacraments. All authorities agree in attributing his death to poison, but neither Leoni nor Baldi hint at the person whose "envy" dictated that base vengeance.[*35] Giovio speaks positively as to detection having followed upon a searching inquiry, and points at those interested in the Camerino question as authors of the crime. Sardi and Tondini charge it upon Luigi Gonzaga, Count of Sabionetta, surnamed Rodomonte, the nephew of Francesco da Bozzolo, a condottiere who commanded Bourbon's cavalry at the assault of Rome, and who facilitated Clement's flight some months thereafter. This assertion, which is adopted by various writers, receives some confirmation from a story in the gossiping MS. we have already quoted, that Gonzaga, having accused Gian Giacomo Leonardi, a doctor of laws at Pesaro, of instigating the murder, was challenged by the latter, who thereby gained the favour of Duke Guidobaldo II., and with it the countship of Monte l'Abbate, near Pesaro.[36] On the other hand, this Rodomonte is stated in _Les Genealogies des Maisons Souveraines_ to have died in 1528. [Footnote *35: Cf. VIANI, _L'avvelenamento di Francesco Maria I. della Rovere_ (Mantova, 1902), and _La Morte di F.M. della Rovere_, in _Fanfulla della Domenica_, 23 March, 1902.] [Footnote 36: Relazione della Legazione di Urbino, Bib. Marucc. c. 308.] Whoever may have been author of the foul deed, it is agreed that the perpetrator was the Duke's Mantuan barber, who is generally said to have dropped a poisoned lotion into his ear. Baldi only mentions that he did it "in a new way," and gives no account of the medical examination of the body which, he asserts, took place. In an old chronicle of Sinigaglia, Guidobaldo is stated to have had the barber torn to pieces with pincers, and quartered in the streets of Pesaro.[37] [Footnote 37: Vat. Urb. MSS. No. 992. Gozzi's Chronicle, Oliveriana MSS., No. 324. Also Teofiles's MS. narrative, _penes me_.] After a cast in plaster had been taken from his features, the body was dressed in a quilted doublet and hose of black satin, under his inlaid armour, over which was the ducal tunic, and, above all, the mantle of crimson satin embroidered in gold, which he had worn as Prefect at the coronation of Charles V. Next evening it was borne, with torches, by the principal courtiers, to the great hall, and there placed upon an elevated catafalque of black and gold, on which were arranged his ducal helmet, three magnificent head pieces, and as many silver batons of command; five standards which he had captured being set round with other trophies. It was watched all night, and lay in state till the following evening, when it was coffined in the dress just described. The same night it was taken on a litter to Urbino by torchlight, escorted by a vast following on horseback and on foot, under soaking rain. At the confines of the respective territories it was delivered over to the authorities and clergy of that city, preceded by mutes and mourners of various grades; among whom was led the Duke's favourite jennet, covered with black velvet, his ducal mail and morion being carried by a page in deep weeds. Reaching the city at sunrise, the procession was joined by the chief magistrates, nobility, clergy, and citizens, and so arrived, through tearful crowds, at the church of Sta. Chiara, again to lie in state until evening, when it was stripped of its armour, and there committed to the dust at the left horn of the altar. It was subsequently deposited, by his grandson Francesco Maria II., in a tomb raised over the spot by Bartolomeo Ammanati, from the design of Girolamo Genga, which was eventually removed as inconveniently cumbering the church. The following epitaph, written by desire of the widowed Duchess, and ascribed to the pen of Bembo, is panelled into the wall:-- "To Duke Francesco Maria, endowed with the most comprehensive capacity for war and peace. His hereditary states, thrice lost by violence, he thrice by valour regained, and ruled them, when reconquered, with moderation; he commanded the Ecclesiastical, the Florentine, and the Venetian forces; finally, he was chosen general-in-chief for the Turkish war, but was cut off ere it opened. Leonora, his most devoted wife, placed this to her most meritorious lord, and to herself." One more ceremonial was wanting to complete the measure of respectful duty to the deceased sovereign. On the 13th [or 22nd] of November, his obsequies were celebrated in the cathedral of Urbino. The church decorations, the catafalque, the vast concourse of clergy, of deputations, and of people of all classes, were such as the mournful solemnity required, and the sincere grief of his subjects dictated. The function was conducted by Federigo Fregoso, Archbishop of Salerno, whom we have formerly known at the court of Duke Guidobaldo I., and the funeral oration was spoken by Maestro Benedetto Milesio. Another, by Lorenzo Contarini, was pronounced at Venice, where the Signory ordered a celebration of his obsequies with unwonted splendour, besides voting him an equestrian statue in bronze. This was never executed, but another statue of him, made by Bandini for his grandson, the last Duke of Urbino, was presented to the Republic under touching circumstances, which we shall detail in the fifty-fourth chapter of this work. * * * * * The life of Francesco Maria affords a remarkable instance of the extremes of fortune. He was deprived of parental care at an early age, when it was peculiarly desirable as a restraint upon his naturally fiery temper. Soon after, he was hurried from his hereditary state, and compelled to seek safety in France. In the outset of manhood, his ungoverned passion involved him in the stigma of a sacrilegious murder. Twice was he deprived of the influential sovereignty to which he had attained, and recovered it only after years of exile, and at a ruinous pecuniary sacrifice. The lustre of a brilliant position, and of a distinguished military career, was veiled by his utter failure to save or rescue Rome. Finally, he was snatched from life just as a new and nobler field was opening for his martial glories. Reversing the picture, we find a youth of ardent temperament, born to princely sway, and becoming at eighteen the heir of one uncle in an important duchy, and the favourite of another, who, by virtue of his triple tiara, conferred upon him yet a third state. A military hero ere he escaped from his teens, his renown ever extended with his age. Thirty years after his star had set, a Venetian ambassador called him the light and splendour of Italy; and notwithstanding some palpable blunders, he is still ranked with the first commanders of his native land. He died when his fame was at its height, and transmitted unquestioned to his son, that sovereignty which thrice had been wrested from him. It is from posthumous influences that his reputation has suffered most severely; and the three standard historians of his times, in Italy, England, and France, have meted him sparing justice. Without questioning the value of Guicciardini's narrative as the fullest exposition of the age in which he lived, and the most graphic portraiture of many of its features and incidents, we must demur to the "fearless impartiality" too hastily allowed him in modern times. True, he was not, like Machiavelli, a practised intriguer, acute to detect perverted purpose, or prone to assume its existence; nor did he, like Giovio, employ the iron stylus of vengeance, or the golden pen of flattery, as passion might prompt or venality dictate. But, born a Florentine, and favoured by the Medici, he was the partisan of that house in the closet as in the field; and no one thus shackled could write impartially of Francesco Maria della Rovere. Roscoe, with similar predilections, though far less biased, had no inducement to become champion of a sovereign whom Leo X. had twice expelled; whilst Sismondi, enamoured of nominal republics, is ever ready to echo taunts or calumnies pointed at an Italian prince. The examination of many less popular historians, and of numerous unpublished contemporary authorities, has, we trust, enabled us to place this Duke's character and conduct in a more true light, without extenuating the manifest errors of either. Though small in person, Francesco Maria was active and well formed, with a manly air, a quick eye, and an engaging presence. His manner and address were mild and pleasing, and his conversation was seasoned with lively jests. He was strict in religious observances, an enemy to blasphemous language, and intolerant of those insults to female honour with which war was then lamentably fraught. In the regulation of his army, as in the government of his state, justice was his ruling principle. Of his unhappy violence of temper we have already had too much reason to speak; it was the bane of his life, the blot on his fame. Yet he was generous and forgiving, as he proved by putting his personal enemy Guicciardini on his guard against the designs of San Severino, Count of Caiazzo, who, having suffered from the Florentine's captious allegations, had resolved to assassinate him.[38] [Footnote 38: LEONI, p. 386.] A soldier by education, taste, and long habit, his character should be judged by a military standard; and perhaps the best tribute to his glory consisted in the public rejoicings ordered by Sultan Solyman on hearing of his untimely death. In following the narrative of his campaigns, we have unsparingly pointed out the faults which seemed to cramp his success. They were obviously systematic, arising from an excess of that caution, which his natural prudence and foresight prompted, and which the examples of Fabius Maximus and Prospero Colonna in some degree authorised. Yet we must not overlook an important element of consideration, in the quality of troops under his command from 1523 to 1528. His want of confidence in them was avowed, and in more than one instance it was justified, when their steadiness was put to the test. Nor was he less fettered by the faulty organisation of that army, made up of various contingents under their respective leaders, without a responsible commanding officer, and in which civilians were allowed a veto fatal to unity of action. The verdict of his contemporaries may, however, be admitted as conclusive upon his military reputation. Ruscelli tells us that he was, by common consent, called the father and founder of the art of war, as practised in the sixteenth century; and the opinion of the only dissentient, Guicciardini, a private enemy and no soldier, is amply balanced by that of Giovanni de' Medici, who ranked him in skilful tactics, and in the arts of command, as well as in foresight and activity, equal to the ablest generals. The testimony of Charles V. has been already given; and we are assured that after a public disputation in Padua, sustained by men of the greatest learning, he was voted a match to any hero of antiquity, in judgment, experience, ingenuity, and military talent. Promis, with assuredly no friendly leaning, admits his great skill in military architecture, stating that he was often consulted by the principal engineers of Italy, and especially by Sanmichele, upon the fortifications of Corfu, regarding which that author attributes to him a Report to the Signory of Rome, now in the Ambrosian Library of Milan.[39] His opinion as to the defences of their lagoons, and principal garrisons on terra-firma, was, on various occasions, requested by that Republic, and during his command in Lombardy the towns of Lodi, Crema, Bergamo, Martinengo, and Orcinovo were all strengthened after his designs. Tartagli and Contriotto acknowledged their obligations to his suggestions; but Promis denies him the invention of baloards, as we have already seen, when writing of Francesco di Giorgio. The school of military engineering formed under his eye, during almost continual campaigns, numbered many distinguished professors of that art, among whom were Pietro Luigi Escriva, Gianbattista Bellucci, Nicolò Tartaglia, Girolamo Genga, Gian Giacomo Leonardi, and Jacopo Fusto Castriotto, the last three of whom were natives of his state. [Footnote 39: _Trattato di Architettura di Francesco di Giorgio_, vol. II., p. 67. (Turin, 1841.)] But let us hear the evidence of contemporaries as to his character. Urbano Urbani, then his private secretary, thus describes him on succeeding to the dukedom:--"He was naturally low in stature, but well-proportioned, and of fine complexion. The short distance from his heart to his brain rendered his disposition choleric. Ever in movement, he was impatient of repose. Thoughtful, his ideas and discourse tended to lofty themes. Ready of hand, he dexterously managed, on horseback or afoot, the arms then in use. Of high courage, he invariably bent his mind to objects conducive to his honour and renown, especially in war. He was just, honest, averse to swearing, liberal, incorruptible, and no boaster. He loathed incontinence, and youthful excesses. In his household he was fond of splendour, and he generally entertained, in his almost regal court, a large attendance of distinguished gentlemen, such as Ottaviano Fregoso, Ludovico Pio, Gaspare Pallavicino, Giuliano de' Medici, Pietro Bembo, Baldassare Castiglione, Cesare Gonzaga (all of whom had been attached to his uncle Guidobaldo), Ambrogio Landriano, Febo da Cevi and his brother Gherardino, Filippino Doria, Benedetto Giraldi, and others conspicuous in arms, letters, or music; among whom Baldi names also Matteo della Branca, Carlo Gabrielli, Father Andreoni, Troiano and Gentile Carbonani, Count Gentile Ubaldini."[40] [Footnote 40: Vat. Urb. MSS. No. 489, f. 61. See for many of these, vol. II.] Had his lot been cast in less turbulent times, it would have been his pride to maintain about him this goodly company, although he pretended not to his predecessor's literary tastes, and, if we may credit Sanuto, was unable to follow an oration delivered in Latin, on his arrival at Venice, in 1524. Yet, he was not indifferent to letters when connected with the engrossing occupation of his mind; and it was his habit, when time permitted, to have passages of ancient history read to him during several hours a day. This relaxation was varied by discussions arising out of these prelections, which he generally directed to military points, drawing out the opinions of his officers in attendance. Hence probably were suggested the Military Discourses, published in his name, of which we have already spoken; and various memorials of his conversation are preserved in a manuscript, which has supplied us with the anecdotes formerly quoted.[41] These were selected as illustrative of manners, from notes apparently made by a bystander; the others are almost exclusively upon military tactics and fortification, in which he was quite an adept. [Footnote 41: See Vat. Urb. MSS. No. 1023, art. 21.] Leonardi[42] confirms what we have stated of his character, dwelling much on his tendency to practical views. The sketch of Cristofero Centenelli must close these remarks:--"Though considered somewhat overbearing and hasty, he was at all times just. Even in youth, he was singularly self-denying of personal indulgences: guarding himself from the temptations of luxury and indolence, he sought daily occupation in the practice of arms, athletic sports, and equestrian exercises. He was liberal and magnificent, but grave and magnanimous; kind and affable to his friends, equitable and compassionate to his subjects. His courage was fiery and indomitable; of cold and heat, fatigue, watching, and privation, he was most enduring. He combined, to a rare degree, boldness in the field with prudence in the council-room, avoiding equally their extremes of temerity and timidity. To great skill in military discipline, he united uncommon perspicacity in discovering the snares of seeming friends or of open foes: astute with enemies, he was guarded with all. His eloquence commanded general admiration by its studied brevity, expressing the clearest views in fewest words."[43] [Footnote 42: Vat. Urb. MSS. No. 1023, f. 85.] [Footnote 43: _Ibid._ No. 907.] The Duke's constant and dutiful affection to his predecessor's widow deserves special notice. While she lived she shared his home, in prosperity or adversity, in sovereignty or in exile; and he occasionally availed himself of her prudence and popularity in the administration of the state during his absences. An interesting memorial of this filial affection is afforded by the following letter, which seems to have been written by Duchess Elisabetta. "To the most illustrious Lord, my most esteemed Son, the Duke of Urbino, &c. "The chair is so beautiful that neither words nor pen suffice to express my thanks for this proof of regard; but most heartily, and with all the good will it merits, I accept so handsome and gallant a gift, and I shall use it for your sake as long as God pleases: it is not less beautiful than dear to me. I have seen the news sent by the Count: he would have done better to sacrifice something than to lose all by his imprisonment. We expect you in the morning. The Duchess kisses your hands and your mouth, and I commend myself to you with eternal thanks. "YOUR MOTHER. "The 8th of August."[44] [Footnote 44: Oliveriana MSS. No. 375. This may, however, have been addressed by Duchess Vittoria to Francesco Maria II.] The widowed Duchess Leonora remained at Pesaro, stricken with grief, from which she slowly recovered to find a solace in her children. By her husband's will she had 28,000 scudi, besides the life-rent of his Neapolitan fiefs at Sora, which were left in remainder to their younger son Giulio. To each of the daughters were provided 20,000 scudi. She died at Gubbio, in 1543. Her devoted affection to her husband was accompanied by much sterling worth of character; but she was especially distinguished for that equanimity of temper which marks the expression of her admirable portrait in the Florence Gallery. The children of Francesco Maria were these:-- 1. FEDERIGO, born in March, 1511, and died young. 2. GUIDOBALDO, his successor, born 2nd April, 1514. 3. IPPOLITA, married in 1531, to Don Antonio d'Aragona, son of the Duke of Montalto, in Naples. 4. GIULIA, married in 1548, to Alfonso d'Este, Marquis of Montechio, son of Duke Alfonso I. From her descend the sovereign Dukes of Modena and Reggio. 5. ELISABETTA, married in 1552, to Alberico Cibò, Marquis of Massa, and died in 1561. From her descended the sovereign Dukes of Massa Carrara. 6. GIULIO, who was born at Mantua on the 8th of April, and created by his father Duke of Sora. He was educated for the Church, where his talents and application to business merited the shower of preferments which his high birth insured him, and which began by his nomination as Cardinal of S. Pietro in Vinculis by Paul III., when fourteen years of age. In 1548 he was made Bishop of Urbino, a dignity which he resigned three years later, on being appointed Legate of Rieti and Terni. In 1560 he had the see of Vicenza, but soon exchanged it for Recanati. In 1565, he was promoted to be Archbishop of Ravenna, to which was added, in 1570, the see of Tusculum; and, in 1578, when within a few months of his death, he became Archbishop of Urbino, having for some years previously been Legate of Umbria, and governor of Loreto. In these high posts he united to excellent business habits, and great energy in the discharge of his duties, a taste for magnificence, which made him popular with all classes. By his own family he was regarded as a valuable counsellor in every difficulty, and he greatly promoted the government of his brother and nephew, to whom he served as a sort of prime minister. His career of honour and utility was closed by a premature death, on the 5th September, 1578, when but forty-three years of age. Under his superintendence was drawn up a code of Regulations [_Riformazioni_] of Justice, which was published with his name in 1549. It does not appear in what way the dukedom of Sora and Arci passed from him, but, before the end of the century, it had been granted by Philip II. to Giacomo Boncompagno, natural son of Pope Gregory XIII. From his descendants, the Princes of Piombino, that fief passed, about the end of last century, to the Neapolitan government; and its picturesque baronial towers at Isola, once the scene of their festive revels, are now degraded into a woollen factory. The Cardinal left two natural sons, who were both legitimated by Pius V.:-- 1. Ippolito della Rovere, who had from his father San Lorenzo and Castel Leone above Sinigaglia, and was made Marquis of San Lorenzo in 1584, on his marriage with Isabella, daughter of Giacomo Vitelli dell'Amatrice, with 30,000 scudi of dowry. He had issue, 1. Giulio, who was disinherited for bad conduct; 2. Livia, born 1585, who became Duchess of Urbino in 1599; 3. Lucrezia, who married the Marchese Marc Antonio Lanti, and had issue. 2. Giuliano, Prior of Corinaldo, and Abbot of San Lorenzo. BOOK SEVENTH OF GUIDOBALDO DELLA ROVERE FIFTH DUKE OF URBINO CHAPTER XLII Succession of Duke Guidobaldo II.--He loses Camerino and the Prefecture of Rome--The altered state of Italy--Death of Duchess Giulia--The Duke's remarriage--Affairs of the Farnesi. The course of our narrative seems to offer a not altogether fanciful analogy to that of the Tiber. Issuing from the rugged Apennines, this, with puny rill, is gradually recruited from their many valleys until it has gained the force and energy of a brawling torrent, and has absorbed a goodly portion of the Umbrian waters. So, too, the former has brought us past scenes of martial prowess and creations of mediæval policy. It has afforded us glimpses of townships where civil institutions revived, and letters were cherished, the petty capitals from whose courts civilisation was diffused. Carrying us across the blood-watered and time-defaced Campagna, it has conducted us to Rome at the moment of her lamentable sack by barbarian hordes. Henceforward our history, like the river, will decline in interest. The sluggish and turbid stream has little to enliven that dreary and degenerate land through which it must still conduct us. This contrast will be especially irksome in the life of Duke Guidobaldo II., who kept much aloof from the few events of stirring interest which then occurred in the Peninsula. We shall therefore hasten over it, in the hope that those who favour us with their company may find, in the incidents of his successor, a somewhat renovated interest, and may be gratified to learn by what means our mountain duchy came to be finally absorbed in the papal dominions, just as the tawny river is lost in the pathless sea. [Illustration: FACSIMILES OF SIGNATURES] * * * * * The birthday of Guidobaldo II. has been variously stated; most authorities fix it on the 2nd of April, 1514, although the customary donative appears from an old chronicle to have been voted by the municipality of Urbino on the 17th of March. The Prince saw the light at a moment inauspicious for his dynasty. Under the fostering care of Julius II. it had attained its culminating point; and although his successor still smiled upon the far-spreading oak of Umbria,[*45] the intrigues of Leo X. were already preparing its overthrow. The infant had scarcely passed his second year, when the ducal family were driven from their states, and sought a friendly shelter at the Mantuan capital. Before their five years of exile in Lombardy had gone by, Guidobaldo is said to have been sent to the university of Padua. His early education was committed to Guido Posthumo Silvestro, who describes him as displaying, even in childhood, the spirit of his father, and of his grand-uncle Julius II., whilst his mild temper and sweet expression were those of his mother.[46] The preceptor, a native of Pesaro, was tempted by attachment to his early patrons, the Sforza, to avenge them with his pen, on the invasion of the Duke Valentino, upon whom and whose race he charged, in some bitter lampoons mentioned by Roscoe, all those crimes which have become matter of history. But years rendered him more pliant; for when another revolution came round, the attentions he had met with at the court of Urbino did not prevent his resorting, on Duke Francesco Maria's exile, to the protection of Leo, or lavishing eulogy and flattery upon that Pontiff. At Rome, he enjoyed the consideration there freely bestowed upon poets and wits, among whom Giovio assigns him a conspicuous place; but the life of luxurious indulgence to which he was tempted having undermined his health, he died in 1521. [Footnote *45: The Rovere were anything but an Umbrian family, as we have seen.] [Footnote 46: "Guidus Juliades, qui, quamquam mitis et ore Blandus, ut ex vultu possis cognoscere matrem Patrem animis tamen et primis patruum exprimit annis." See as to Guido in ROSCOE'S _Leo X._, ch. xvii.] Our authorities, barren of interest for the domestic life of Duke Francesco Maria,[*47] are altogether a blank as regards his children, and we know nothing of the Prince beyond the fact of his sharing his mother's virtual arrest at Venice in 1527. His early tastes seemed to have turned upon horses: in 1529, he ordered from Rome a set of housings for his charger, with minute instructions accompanying the pattern; ten years later, the Grand Duke Cosimo I. regretted his inability to find for him such horses as he had desired; and he appears to have paid 70 golden scudi for one from Naples. In 1843, I was shown, at Pesaro, the wooden model of a beautiful little Arab, which had long been preserved in the Giordani family, covered with the skin of his favourite charger, a fragment of which remained. We have seen Guidobaldo complimented by Clement VII. in 1529, and in that year he had a condotta from Venice, for seventy-five men-at-arms, and a hundred and fifty light horse, with 1000 ducats of pay for himself, 100 for each man-at-arms, and 50 for each horseman. In 1532, his father, on departing from Lombardy, left him regent of the duchy. The circumstances of his marriage, on the 12th of October, 1534, to Giulia Varana, then but eleven years of age, and her questionable succession to her paternal state of Camerino, have been fully detailed in our preceding chapter.[48] From 1534 till his father's death, in 1538, he seems to have exercised the rights of sovereignty, with the title of Duke of Camerino, unchallenged by the Pontiff, who had recalled his censures. But no sooner was Paul III. relieved from the influential opposition of Francesco Maria, than his designs upon that principality were firmly carried out. [Footnote *47: For certain details of Court life, cf. VERNARECCI, _Di alcune rappresentazioni Drammatiche nella Corte di Urbino_ in _Arch. St. per le Marche e per l'Umbria_, vol. III., p. 181 _et seq._, and ROSSI, _Appunti per la Storia della Musica alla Corte di Francesco Maria I. e di Guidobaldo della Rovere_ in _Rassegna Emiliana_ (Modena, 1888), vol. I., fasc. 8; also VANZOLINI, _Musica e Danza alla Corte di Urbino_, in _Le Marche_ (1904), An. iv., fasc. vi., p. 325 _et seq._] [Footnote 48: In the Harleian MSS. No. 282, f. 63, is a letter from Henry VIII. of 28th November, in his 30th year [1538], to Sir Thomas Wyatt, his ambassador to the Emperor, proposing a marriage of the Princess Mary either to the young Duke of Cleves and Juliers, or to "the present Duke of Urbyne," and desiring him to sound "whether he wold be gladd to have us to wyve with any of them." Guidobaldo had been already wedded for four years!] [Illustration: GUIDOBALDO II., DUKE OF URBINO _From a picture in the Albani Palace in Rome_] We possess from an eye-witness these ample details as to the ceremonial of investing Guidobaldo with his hereditary succession:--"On the evening of Thursday [25th of October], the day of the Duke's interment, his son the Prince arrived at Urbino about nine o'clock, attended by all the nobility, gentry, and officials, including Stefano Vigerio, the governor, and many more, who had gone out to meet him. Dismounting in the palace-yard, he proceeded to the ducal chamber, which, as well as the great hall, was hung with black. There he dismissed the strangers to lodgings provided for them in the town, and passed next day in grief and absolute seclusion along with his consort, preparations being meanwhile made to traverse the city.[49] Accordingly, on Saturday morning, mass of the Holy Spirit having been said by the Bishop of Cagli, who thereafter breakfasted in the palace, the citizens and populace crowded to the piazza, where the doctors and nobles assembled to accompany the priors. Thither also came a hundred youths of good family, in doublets of sky-blue velvet, with gilt swords by their side, followed by a vast many children bearing olive-boughs. The new Duke having been meanwhile dressed in white velvet and satin, with cap and plume of the same colour, Captain-general Luc-Antonio Brancarini marshalled the procession. The gonfaloniere marched first, in a jerkin of black velvet under a long surcoat of black damask lined with crimson, begirt with a gold-mounted sword; his cap on his head and his mace lowered. He was followed by the nobility, the doctors, and citizens; and on entering the palace they halted in the basement suite towards the garden, which were all hung with tapestry, the windows of the great hall being occupied by the Duchess and her ladies in magnificent attire. When all was ready, the Prince issued forth into the Piazza, and advanced to the cathedral, followed by the officials and train. At the top of the steps he knelt on a rich carpet and brocade cushions, whilst the bishop, chapter, and clergy came out, and with the usual ceremonies brought him into the church, and to the high altar, before which other ceremonials were gone through, and he offered an oblation-coin of ten Mantuan ducats. Meanwhile his charger was brought to the foot of the steps, covered to the neck with a housing of silver tissue, and other trappings, including a white plume. It was led by seven lads of the chief Urbino families, Bonaventura, Peruli, Passionei, Cornei, Corboli, and Muccioli, all richly apparelled, and two of them holding goads. There was also a horse for the Gonfaloniere with velvet harness, led by two lads. The fore-mentioned hundred youths and numerous children having ranged themselves around, the Prince and Gonfaloniere descended the steps and mounted their steeds, and the latter, drawing his sword, proclaimed aloud 'THE DUKE, THE DUKE; FELTRO, FELTRO; GUIDOBALDO, GUIDOBALDO!' the cry being taken up and repeated by all. The cortège, making a circuit by Pian di Marcato, Valbona, Santa Lucia, and Santa Chiara, returned to the palace, where the Duke dismounted. His charger and mantle were then seized, as their perquisite, by the youths, who, mounting one of their number, Antonio dei Galli, again went through the city crying and making merry. The Duke, having taken his seat with his consort, received the gonfaloniere, priors, and citizens to kiss hands. [Footnote 49: _Correre la terra_ is the usual phrase for taking sovereign possession, like "riding the marches" of Scottish burghs.] [Illustration: _Alinari_ ? GUIDOBALDO II. DELLA ROVERE _From the picture by Titian in the Pitti Gallery, Florence_ (_Probably once in the Ducal Collection_)] "On the following morning, there came in envoys from various places to offer their condolence, wearing mourning robes that swept the ground. The first who had audience were the gonfaloniere and priors of Urbino, and then those from San Marino. After breakfast, the other communities were admitted without order, in consequence of a wrangle for precedence between Gubbio and Pesaro, Cagli and Fossombrone, and this continued till seven o'clock in the evening. Next Monday being the festival of San Simone, the oath of allegiance was administered on Tuesday. A stage covered with black was erected between the two windows of the great hall, on which stood a bench with a coverlet of black velvet, and thereon an open missal, with a miniature of the crucifixion. After breakfasting, the Duke seated himself on this stage, with Messer Stefano, one of the judges; and the deputies from communes being assembled, with their commissions in their hands, Messer Stefano called upon the magistrates of Urbino with about a hundred of the citizens, desiring them to swear fidelity, as was right and customary, which they did, formally placing their hands on the crucifixion. Thereafter, the envoys of other communities were brought up and sworn; but on account of the aforesaid wrangling, those of Pesaro, Sinigaglia, Fossombrone, and Cagli were sent back to take the oaths at home. Next day, however, on their humble petition, those of Cagli and Fossombrone were received, along with some other highland deputies who had come in late; but Pesaro, Sinigaglia, and the vicariat, took the oaths before the vice-dukes in their respective cities. On the following Tuesday, there arrived four envoys from Fano, and two from Città di Castello, to offer condolence, who were honourably received; and next day came those of Camerino and Rimini, men of high station. On Thursday, Messer Quaglino, ambassador from the Duke of Ferrara, dismounted at Pesaro, to condole with the dowager Duchess, and thence proceeded with a suite of five to Urbino, where he was lodged for three days in the Passionei Palace, and had audience. At the same time, the like formalities were discharged by Vicenzo Schippo, who came with an escort of ten, as representative of the Duke of Mantua. On Sunday, deputations from all parts of the duchy went to offer their duty at Pesaro to the widowed Duchess." The smouldering embers of the Camerino quarrel soon burst forth, when Paul III. found that the Emperor's influence and the arms of Venice were no longer arrayed against his grasping pretensions, and that the weight of the struggle had devolved from a renowned warrior to an untried youth. In order to supplement the legal deficiencies of his case, the Pontiff had in 1537 conferred certain estates upon Ercole Varana, on condition of his claims upon the succession of Camerino being assigned to his own grandson Ottavio Farnese; but the death of Francesco Maria having released him from the necessity of temporising, he at once sent a body of troops into that duchy, under Stefano Colonna or Alessandro Vitelli. The young Duke, relying on the support of Venice and the Medici, was at first disposed to resist, but finding himself deserted, soon abandoned the idea. He had in the history of his family too many examples of the perils of papal nepotism; and it was obvious that the times were past when church feudatories had anything to hope from single-handed contests with their over-lord. In the certainty that to provoke this would be to hazard all, he made up his mind to an unwilling compromise, surrendering his wife's rights to Camerino for a full investiture of his own dukedom, and the sum of 78,000 golden scudi as a poor compensation for her inheritance. This transaction was completed on the 8th of January, 1539; nor was it the only mortification he was destined to undergo from the ambition of the Farnesi. The Prefecture of Rome, although held by his father and grandfather, was a personal dignity at the disposal of the new Pope, who conferred it upon his own grandson Ottavio. In the end of 1538, he also married that youth, then but fifteen, to Margaret of Austria, natural daughter of Charles V. and widow of Duke Alessandro de' Medici, who had been slain by his cousin Lorenzino, within a year after his marriage. That imperious dame, who brought Ottavio a handsome dower in lands about Ortona on the Adriatic, wrought upon the weakness of Paul, until in 1545, she obtained for her husband's father, Pier-Luigi, natural son of his Holiness, the sovereign duchy of Parma and Piacenza. In order to put a gloss upon this dismemberment of the ecclesiastical states, and to accommodate the whole arrangement to the modified nepotism of his age, the Pontiff stipulated for a resurrender by Ottavio to the Holy See of Camerino and Nepi. These remained part of the papal temporalities, whilst their Lombard duchy gave to the Farnese family an important position among the sovereign houses of Europe. Although the altered circumstances of Italy which humbled her pride had also arrested her convulsions, these untoward events, at the outset of his reign, proved to Guidobaldo that her few remaining principalities were far from secure. To strengthen his position became therefore a natural policy; and although neither the Emperor nor the Venetian Signory had lent a willing ear to his representations on the subject of Camerino, he sent to remind the former of his promise to give him a company of men-at-arms, whilst, with the Pope's permission, he accepted from the latter a two years' engagement. The terms of this condotta, which was dated in 1539, and continued in force until 1552, were one hundred men-at-arms and as many light cavalry, with 4000 ducats of _piatto_ or yearly pay, and an obligation to have in readiness ten of his father's veteran captains, whose monthly pay was fixed at 15 scudi in peace, and 25 in war. Four years later he was requested by the Republic to serve them in another capacity, by complimenting Charles V. in their name on his passage into Germany, on which occasion he was accompanied by the vile sycophant Pietro Aretino. In our fourteenth chapter, we had occasion to consider the change which military affairs underwent in Italy about the time of the first French invasion, and we have seen in Duke Federigo of Urbino one of the last condottieri of the old sort. But it was not until the fall of Rome and Florence had extinguished Italian independence, that military adventure was entirely abolished; and it is curious to find in his grandson Duke Francesco Maria I., not only the latest captain who gathered laurels under that system, but to see him joining with the Pope and the Medici to exterminate those armed hordes which survived its mercenary armaments, and which, like the restless spirits of a departed generation, troubled the repose of their degenerate sons.[50] Their occupation was indeed gone. Tamed by invaders whom they were powerless to resist, domestic broils no longer demanded their services. Their forays were become intolerable in a land where peace was the price of freedom. How far the earlier adoption of Machiavelli's plans of defence might have availed against ultramontane hosts were now a vain speculation; they were only destined for trial after the sacrifice had been consummated. The national militia suggested by him was not enrolled until there was no longer a nationality to defend--until it was needed but as an armed police under foreign control. [Footnote 50: RICOTTI, IV., p. 129, quoting Adriani Storie, lib. II.] This new force had been embodied in our duchy under the name of the Feltrian Legion, by a proclamation dated 1st of March, 1533, and it so fully satisfied the late Duke's expectations that he gradually increased his militia to five thousand men in four regiments. Such was the description of troops which henceforward maintained order at Urbino, or were subsidised on foreign service. But their sinews, hardened by a rude climate and rugged homes, maintained for them the reputation gained by their ancestors; and although Duke Guidobaldo II. lived in quiet times, and pretended to no heroic aspirations, we find him accepting of commands offered chiefly for the sake of securing his hardy mountaineers. * * * * * The abject position in which Italy was left after the wars of Clement VII. has already been noticed. Her internal conflicts were at an end. Of those states whose struggles for independence or for mastery had during long ages convulsed her, the lesser had been absorbed by the more powerful, and these in their turn had bowed to foreign dominion or foreign influence. She was tranquillised but trodden down, pacified but prostrate. Her history became but a series of episodes in the annals of ultramontane nations, on whom her few remaining princes and commonwealths grew into dependent satellites. Even the popes, no longer arbiters of European policy, sought a reflected consequence by attaching themselves to the interests of France, Spain, or the Empire. Nor were they losers by the change to the same degree as other Peninsular powers. The papacy was indeed shorn in part of its temporal lustre. It no longer directed the diplomacy of Christendom, nor did it waste its resources upon bloody and bootless campaigns. But as its energies were gradually weaned from general politics, they became more concentrated upon ecclesiastical affairs. The small speck on the horizon towards which Leo X. had scarcely directed a look or an anxiety, was now rapidly overspreading the sky, and already excluded the rays of Catholicism from a large portion of Central Europe. His successors, threatened with the loss of spiritual as well as temporal ascendancy, had the wisdom to make a stand for maintenance of the former, leaving the latter to its fate. The spirit of popery from aggressive became conservative; its military tactics gave place to theological weapons. It was by Paul III. that a vigorous opposition was first made to the Reformation, the primary steps taken towards that Catholic reaction, which Paul IV. and Pius V. afterwards so successfully promoted, as not only to check the rapid progress of Protestantism, but to regain a portion of the lost ground. Seconding the zeal of the old monastic orders, which had been revived in the Theatines,[*51] he, in 1540, recruited to it the cold clear-sighted cunning of the Jesuits. Two years afterwards he re-established the Inquisition,[*52] and in 1545 opened the Council of Trent, whose sittings were not finally closed until eighteen years later, when it had completed that bulwark which still constitutes a stronghold of the Roman church. Extirpation of heresy henceforward became the pervading principle of the papacy, and the engrossing dogma of its zealots; the object for which councils deliberated, pontiffs admonished, legates intrigued. For an end so sanctified no means were accounted base. When argument failed threats were at hand. From reason an appeal lay to the rack. Thus was the wavering power of the Keys restored or confirmed over much of Europe, and an alliance was effected between political and spiritual despotism for their mutual maintenance and common defence. The success which crowned these new efforts far exceeded any that mere mundane aims had ever attained. The re-influx of Catholicism was in some instances more signal, as it was more inexplicable, than had been the recent spread of the Reformation.[*53] Although fatal to freedom of thought, its influence proved highly favourable to morals. The revival of religion was attended with a happy reformation of manners, after examples emanating from high places. The sins, or at least the scenes, that had disgraced the Borgian and Medicean courts no longer met the eye, but were replaced by a semblance of ascetic virtue. The new religious orders, being of more rigid rule, tended by precept and example to restore discipline, and to purify, at least externally, the cup and the platter. Prelatic luxury was curtailed, brazen vice retired from public view, and the free exercise of papal nepotism was finally restrained by Pius V., who, in 1567, prohibited the alienation by his successors of church property or jurisdictions. But in these themes our narrative has no part. The battles of orthodoxy were chiefly fought beyond the Alps; the reformed morality of the papal court was exampled in its own capital: in neither had Urbino any near interest. [Footnote *51: The Theatines were a congregation of Clerks Regular, founded by Gaetano Tiene, a Venetian nobleman, in 1524. They are under the rule of S. Augustin. S. Gaetano Tiene died in 1547. In 1526 Matteo di Basso of Urbino founded a reform of Franciscan Observants, giving his followers a long-pointed hood, which he believed to be of the same shape as that worn by S. Francis. These friars became known as Cappuccini or Capuchins. At first they were merely a company of hermits devoted to the contemplative life. They remained, in fact, under the Observants till 1617. They are now a separate order governed by a general. They live in absolute poverty.] [Footnote *52: The Inquisition was revived by a Bull of Sixtus IV. in 1478. Two years later it was reinstated in Spain by the Catholic kings. In 1526 it was established in Portugal; but it was only introduced into Italy in 1546, at Naples, and came into Central Italy only with many restrictions.] [Footnote *53: It might seem that those parts of Europe securely within the Roman Empire of antiquity eventually remained Catholic.] Guidobaldo's condotta from the Signory being renewed in 1546 upon more favourable terms (namely, 15,000 scudi of pay for his company, and 5000 of _piatto_ for himself), he was invested about midsummer, by an imposing ceremonial pompously described in the letter of an eye-witness among the archives of Urbino. His jewelled cap and diamond collar are mentioned as superb, and his sword is valued at 700 scudi. After high mass in St. Mark's, the great standard being unfurled and supported by three bearers, and the baton of wrought silver placed in his hands, the Doge thus addressed him: "Lord Duke, we presented to your Excellency this standard of our St. Mark the Evangelist, in the wonted form, and in token of supremacy; and we pray the Lord our God that it tend to the weal and service of all Christendom, but especially to the defence of this state. We give it to your Excellency, confiding in your loyalty and prudence, well assured that you will use it with courage and faith conformable to your deserts. And we hand to your Excellency the baton, therewith designing you head and governor of our forces, and transferring to you the obedience of all our military: it is our will that you be obeyed, honoured, and respected by our several condottieri and soldiery, as representing our Signory itself. May it please the Divine Majesty that all be well ordered, to the well-being and furtherance of the Christian community, and of this our serene Republic." The Duke replied, "I most willingly accept, most Serene Prince, the distinction granted me by your Serenity, and with the sure hope of maintaining the good opinion you repose in me, which shall be nowise disappointed. I shall ever pray our Lord God graciously to vouchsafe me an early occasion of honourably serving your serene government, that I may thereby prove my good will. And I feel sure that your Serenity will have cause to be well satisfied at giving me this rank, which, without reserve of life or fortune, like one aware of his obligation to your Serenity, it will be my care so to hold as to augment my claims upon your favour." The function being over, the Duke was escorted by an imposing military pageant to his palace, where a splendid banquet was set out, of which, however, the jealous regulations of the Republic did not permit her officials to partake. The court having gone to spend Christmas of 1547 in the mild climate of Fossombrone, the Duke, in January, 1548, again repaired to Venice, intending to return home for carnival. On the frontier he was met by news of his consort's serious illness, and immediately sent expresses to summon from Padua and Ferrara, Frigimiliza and Brasavolo, two famous physicians. Under them and her own doctors, the Duchess rallied for a time, but died on the 17th of February,--"a very religious, charitable, and lettered lady, and a great loss to the state." Her body was borne by torchlight to Urbino with the usual solemnities, and, after lying in state, was entombed in Santa Chiara on the 19th. The funeral service was performed at Urbino the 24th of March, with due pomp, and a ceremonial preserved by Tondini. The procession consisted of the Duchess's household, twenty-two in number, with thirty-nine of the Duke's; Guidobaldo and his brother; the ambassadors of five friendly states; twenty-two principal nobility of the duchy; forty captains; the municipality of Urbino, with seventy leading citizens; deputies from thirty-six other towns; in all, about three hundred and sixty persons. The obsequies were celebrated in the cathedral, which was illuminated by a hundred and eighty-six wax lights of four pounds each, and above two hundred torches. The funeral oration was pronounced by Sperone Speroni, and is published among his works. Although, in somewhat startling contrast to these details of death, we here introduce a letter written by the Duchess, which may interest our lady readers. It is addressed to Marchetti, her steward of the household, then at Venice, and is printed in his life by Tondini:-- "Master Steward, our well-beloved, "This is to inform you that, on your return with his Excellency, our Lord and Consort, you must by all means bring as much of the finest and most beautiful scarlet serge, such as is made on purpose for the cardinals, as may suffice to make us a petticoat, taking care that it be at once handsome, good, and _distingué_. You can ascertain the necessary quantity. Here they tell us that if the stuff be two _braccie_ [a yard and a quarter] wide, at least eight _braccie_ will be required, and more if narrower, say nine or ten. See that you get full measure, and let the quantity be ample rather than deficient, so that we may not have to mar it for want of cloth. And if you cannot find such serge, bring some beautiful, good, and thin Venice cloth, being careful that it be light in texture, and that the colour be of the most bright and lively scarlet that can be found. Use all diligence that we be well suited and satisfied, if you would do us a grateful service. Bring also some of those books and rosettes, as they are called, which are commonly made there of thin white wax tapers; and so good health to you. From Fossombrone, the 6th of October, 1541. "JULIA DUCHESS OF URBINO." The Duchess had given birth to a son in 1544, but was survived only by a daughter Virginia: her marriage had been interested, and her lord lost no time in contracting another from similar motives, on the excuse of requiring a male heir. In August he went to kiss the Pope's feet at Rome, on occasion of negotiating a new matrimonial alliance with his granddaughter, Vittoria Farnese. On the 30th he returned home, and next month again met his Holiness at Perugia. The nuptials were interrupted by the assassination of the bride's father, Duke Pier-Luigi, whose son had supplanted Guidobaldo at Camerino, and whose tyranny in his new state of Parma sharpened the daggers of his outraged nobles. The ceremony, however, took place on the 30th of January, 1548, when Vittoria, who had been previously affianced to Duke Cosimo I., was twenty-eight years of age. On the 2nd of February she visited Urbino, amid many demonstrations of respect, among which was a muster of forty lads in her livery of yellow velvet, to each of whom an allowance of seven scudi had been voted by the city; but it was the Duke's pleasure that they should pay for their own dress. Art, too, had contributed its honours, and Vasari narrates how Battista Franco aided in decorating the triumphal arches designed by Girolamo Genga for her reception. Similar welcome was given her at Gubbio, where the youths wore purple velvet with white sleeves and white lilies.[*54] Coincident with, and in consequence of, this marriage, the Duke received from Paul a new investiture of his states, and a cardinal's hat, with the title of S. Pietro in Vinculis, for his brother Giulio, who, though but in his fifteenth year, was soon after named Legate of Perugia. On the 20th of February, 1549, there was born a prince, who succeeded to the dukedom as Francesco Maria II., and the grateful people manifested their loyalty by customary congratulations and donatives.[55] These happy events were, ere long, interrupted by the death of Paul III. on the 10th of November, followed by that of the dowager Duchess of Urbino, on the 14th of February, thereafter. [Footnote *54: Cf. PELLEGRINI, _Gubbio sotto i Conti e Duchi d'Urbino_ in _Bolletino per l'Umbria_ (Perugia, 1905), vol. XI., p. 236 _et seq._] [Footnote 55: Vat. Urb. MSS. No. 934, is an elaborate exposition of the devices and mottoes displayed on this august occasion.] The little state of San Marino forms a solecism in the polity of Europe, having preserved its petty limits and its purely popular government during many centuries, whilst all the other republics of Italy successfully yielded to personal ambition or foreign conquest.[*56] For its independence during the ceaseless changes of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries it was debtor to the Dukes of Urbino, whose aid was ever at hand when their name proved an inadequate safeguard. The nature of the protection which they accorded to that republic is shown in the subjoined document, which seems worthy of insertion from its resemblance to those letters of maintenance usually granted about the same period by the greater barons of Scotland, in favour of less powerful neighbours and friends, among the minor nobility, and even the burgh communities. [Footnote *56: Cf. FATTORI, _Delle cause che hanno conservata la Repubblica di S. Marino_ (Bologna, 1887).] "Protection under which, at the instance of the Liberty of S. Marino, pressed by its envoys, the Lord Duke Guidobaldo II. assumes the aforesaid Liberty, its men and territory, following therein in this the course adopted by Duke Federico, Guido I., Francesco Maria his father, and others of his house: promising to the best of his ability, and at all times, to defend, protect, and guard it against all persons whatsoever who may seek or wish to injure it, whether in respect to its possessions, subjects, state, or pre-eminence, holding its enemies for his enemies, and its allies for his allies; and further, undertaking to accord to it all possible aid and favour in the maintenance of its independence and freedom: the said envoys, on the other part, obliging themselves to the Lord Duke, in name of the foresaid, with all their exertion and power to assist, uphold, and preserve the subjects, state, honours, and dignity of the said Lord Duke, against whatsoever person, state, or potentate who may make attempts against him; promising to hold the friends of his Excellency as their friends, and his foes as their foes, and to pay him at all times the respect due to a faithful and good protector. At the requisition of Ser Bartolo Nursino, 20th May, 1549." It was Guidobaldo's policy to maintain with the Holy See those amicable relations which his second marriage had established, and he had accordingly, on the death of Paul III., sent some troops to Perugia, in order to secure the quiet succession of Julius III. This being effected, he went to Rome on a visit of congratulation to the new Pontiff, accompanied by Aretino, whose venal appetites were ever on the watch for opportunities of bringing his sycophancy to a good market. The Pope disappointed him of the anticipated guerdon, but, aware of the ready transition from adulation to slander, disarmed his tongue of its venom by a gracious accolade, kissing the forehead of this "scourge of princes." The first token of favour bestowed on the Duke by his Holiness was his nomination as governor of Fano in 1551. In the following year he spent some time at Verona with the Venetian army, accompanied by his boy, who there had an illness which occasioned him much anxiety. This command was a somewhat anomalous one, with the title of Governor of the Republican forces, which he vainly negotiated to exchange for that of General. Disgusted by this refusal, he listened to an overture from his brothers-in-law for transferring his services to the French King. Ottavio Farnese, now Duke of Parma, apprehending some hostile intentions from the imperialists, had applied, in 1551, to the Pope for succours, in order to guarantee his possession of that state; but, unable to spare reinforcements or money, Julius had recommended him to take his own measures for defence. Acting on this advice, he had recourse to Henry II., from whom he accepted a condotta, on condition of Parma being supplied with a French garrison. Such a step could not fail to alarm the Emperor, who, representing that Ottavio had, in fact, made over his duchy to France, brought upon him the thunders of the Vatican. The inducement offered to Guidobaldo by the Farnesi for following them into Henry's service was that the King should renounce the supposed claims upon Urbino competent to his wife Caterina de' Medici, in right of her father Lorenzo, its usurping Duke. But the decided measures adopted by the Pontiff cut short this negotiation, and we hear no more of pretensions which were doubtless vamped up to serve a temporary purpose. Although the Pontiff was nominally a party to the petty war which ensued in Lombardy, it was, in fact, but a chapter in the prolonged struggle between the houses of Hapsburg and Bourbon, with which our narrative has no concern. Another episode in the same contest was more alarming to Central Italy, and, when Tuscany became involved in the strife, it seemed well for Julius to stand on the defensive. Accordingly, in January, 1553, he named Guidobaldo captain-general of the Church, who, in April, proceeded to Rome for his installation; and accompanied by a brilliant staff, reviewed the pontifical troops. Siena, originally Ghibelline, had, during the recurring convulsions of a nominally democratic government, remained in some measure devoted to the imperialist party. But, irritated by the licence of their Spanish garrison, and alarmed at a rumoured intention of Charles V. to seize their state, and exchange it with the Farnesi for that of Parma, the citizens, in 1552, foolishly listened to the intrigues of French emissaries, and, with the Count of Pitigliano's aid, ousted their oppressors. In the campaign which followed, Siena was under French protection, whilst Florence efficiently co-operated with the imperialists against her, the Pope maintaining an armed neutrality. The duties of Guidobaldo were thus limited to an occupation of Bologna, in order to protect the ecclesiastical territories and his own state, on the passage of French troops into Tuscany. That his wishes favoured the independence of Siena appears from his having, at the election of Marcellus II., in April, 1554, recommended an intervention in its favour; but it was too late, as the city had already capitulated, and was soon after finally annexed to Florence. The successor of Julius III., who died in March, 1555, was Marcello Cervini, Bishop of Gubbio; and the Duke of Urbino congratulated himself on seeing a personal friend mount the throne of St. Peter. But his satisfaction was transient. Popular superstition awarded an early death to any Pontiff who should take for title his Christian name: the fate of Adrian VI. had verified the omen; and, after a reign of but three weeks, Marcellus was carried to the tomb. Guidobaldo immediately took armed possession of the Roman gates for protection of the conclave; but the election of Cardinal Caraffa as Paul IV. passed off satisfactorily, and his energy was rewarded by a confirmation in his command, and the restoration of the Prefecture of Rome, with reversion to his son, an honour which, though long held by his father and grandfather, had been enjoyed for the last seventeen years by the Farnesi. CHAPTER XLIII The Duke's domestic affairs--Policy of Paul IV.--The Duke enters the Spanish service--Rebellion at Urbino severely repressed--His death and character--His children. This somewhat barren portion of our narrative may be appropriately enlivened by the marriage of Princess Elisabetta, sister of Guidobaldo, to Alberico Cibò, Prince of Massa. The bride left Urbino on the 26th of September, accompanied by the Duke and Duchess, and remained at Castel Durante for two days. She was convoyed for some miles farther by the court, and parted from her family with copious tears on both sides. That night she slept at S. Angelo, and next day reached Città di Castello, escorted by an immense train of the principal residents to the Vitelli Palace. There she was entertained at an almost regal banquet, with about fifty gentle dames, each more beautiful than the other, and all richly dressed; after which there followed dancing, to the music of many rare instruments and choruses, till near daybreak. Travelling in a litter by easy journeys, she reached Florence in four days, and was welcomed with magnificent public honours. She entered the city in a rich dress of green velvet, radiant with jewels, and passed two days there, the guest of Chiappino Vitelli, who spent 2000 scudi upon four entertainments in her honour, including a ball and masquerade. On going to court, she was received by the Grand Duke and Duchess as a sister, with much kindness, and a world of professions. Near Pisa she was met by her bridegroom, at the head of a cavalcade which resembled an army marching to the assault of the city; and his mother, though almost dying, had herself carried to the bed in which the bride had sought repose, to embrace her with maternal affection. More acceptable, perhaps, than this singular visit, was the present received from her in the morning, of two immense pearls, and a golden belt studded with costly jewels. The pair entered the capital next day, amid a crash of artillery, martial music, and bells, preceded by fifty youths in yellow velvet and white plumes. The festive arches delighted the narrator, but still more the palace furniture, "where nothing was seen but armchairs brocaded in silk and gold, and one everywhere stepped on the finest carpets." The community offered six immense vases, and a donative of bullocks, fowls, and wax. "But all this is nothing to the excessive affection which the Lord Marquis bears to his most illustrious consort: he does not merely love her, he adores her. May God continue it, and maintain them in happiness."[57] This kind wish had scanty fulfilment, for the Princess died nine years later, her husband surviving to the patriarchal age of ninety-six. [Footnote 57: TONDINI, _Memorie di Franceschino Marchetti_, App., p. 16.] In 1556, Guidobaldo finished the citadel and fortifications of Sinigaglia, which had occupied him during ten years, and which were considered an important bulwark against Turkish descents on the Adriatic coast. There also he instituted a college for the study of gunnery; and he commemorated the completion of these establishments by striking four medals, of which three are described by Riposati; none of them, however, merit special notice, the beauty of Italian dies being already on the wane. The court was now for the most part resident at Pesaro, a situation excelling in amenity and convenience the original capital of the duchy. Among its attractions may be numbered the palace-villa of Imperiale, which has been described; but it became necessary to provide a town residence, that in the citadel, which had sufficed for the Sforza, being far too restricted for the demands of growing luxury. Of the palace at Pesaro, Guidobaldo II. may be considered the entire author,[*58] and if it seem scarcely suited for the accommodation of so famed a court, we must recollect that the golden days of this principality were already passing away, that the military qualities of its sovereigns and people had become less gainful, and the devotion of its dukes to letters and arts was beginning to languish. Although extensive, the aspect of this residence is mean, its buildings rambling. It exhibits no appearance of a public edifice except the spacious _loggia_ or arcade. Over this, its single external feature, is the great hall, measuring 134 by 54 feet, and of well-proportioned height. Here we find some interesting traces of the della Rovere, in those quaint and significant family devices which it was their pride unceasingly to repeat. The manifold compartments of its richly stuccoed ceiling contain their heraldic badge, the oak-tree; the ermine of Naples; the half-inclined palm-tree; the _meta_, or goal of merit, and similar fancies.[59] These recur among delicately sculptured arabesques on the internal lintels, and ornament the imposing chimney-pieces, varied by figures of Fame strewing oak-leaves and acorns. This palace was later the winter residence of the cardinal legates of Urbino and Pesaro, of whom portraits, from the Devolution of the duchy to the Holy See, in 1626, surround the great hall. In 1845, Cardinal della Genga was the forty-eighth of this long succession. [Footnote *58: It was probably the work of Girolamo Genga (1476-1551) and his son Bartolomeo (1518-58). It is now the Prefettura. It has never struck me as "mean," but rather as being a somewhat imposing building.] [Footnote 59: See these devices explained in No. V. of the Appendix to Vol. I. The respective importance of the ducal residences is marked by their colloquial epithets,--the _corte_ at Urbino, the _palazzo_ at Pesaro, the _casa_ at Gubbio.] Paul IV. was seventy-nine years of age when he assumed the triple tiara. His life had been one long exercise of holy zeal and ascetic observance, and the Romans, again sunk in those habits of luxury and indulgence from which Bourbon's army had roused them, saw with little satisfaction the accession of one so intolerant. But they were ill-prepared for a turbulence unparalleled during many years. His policy leaned to the once favourite, but long dormant, idea of expelling the Spaniards from Lower Italy; while, to the astonishment of mankind, the almost abandoned pretensions of nepotism were revived with unflinching fierceness by this octogenarian founder of the strictly devotional order of Theatins. A trumpery outrage on the French flag by the Sforza of Santa-fiore,[*60] in which the Colonna were alleged to have participated or sympathised, supplied a pretext for putting the latter to the ban; and their vast possessions, which in the ecclesiastical states alone numbered above a hundred separate holdings, were conferred upon the Pope's nephew, Giovanni Caraffa, Count of Montorio. The Colonna flew to arms, and, being under the avowed protection of Spain, were supported by troops from Naples, against whom the Duke of Urbino was ordered to march; but fortunately the ashes of civil broils were nearly cold, and peace would have continued undisturbed, had not Paul, in the following year, issued his monitory against Philip II. Although the Spanish intervention in behalf of the Colonna formed an ostensible ground for this aggression, its true motives are traced by Panvinio to more remote and personal considerations, dating from the viceroyalty of Lautrec, by whom the Caraffa, always adherents of France, had been harshly treated. Reverting to the papal policy of half a century before, Paul sought to avenge this quarrel through French instrumentality, and although a pacification of unusual solemnity had been concluded in February of this year between Charles V. and Henry II., preparatory to the former retiring from the cares of sovereignty, he contrived, by successful intrigues, to bring the two great European powers once more into hostility, and to revive in the Bourbon King those ambitious projects which had formerly brought his predecessors across the Alps for the conquest of Naples. [Footnote *60: For all that concerns Santa Fiora and the Sforza-Cesarini, see a forthcoming work by EDWARD HUTTON, with notes by WILLIAM HEYWOOD, entitled _In Unknown Tuscany_ (Methuen). It deals with the whole history of Mont'Amiata and its castles and villages.] Anticipating this threatened danger, the Duke of Alva marched an army of fourteen thousand men into the Comarca, which he overran in September, occupying Tivoli on the one hand, and Ostia on the other, whilst Marc-Antonio Colonna scoured the Campagna, to the gates of Rome. Guidobaldo, who appears to have been about this time superseded, and his truncheon of command transferred to the Pontiff's favourite nephew, contented himself with sending a contingent of two thousand troops, under Aurelio Fregoso, for his Holiness's support. The efforts made on all sides to conclude a harassing and useless war, were rendered unavailing by the Pope's obstinacy and ambition; the only terms he would agree to including an investiture of his nephew as sovereign of Siena, in compensation for the Colonna estates. During the winter months, a horde of northern barbarians were once more mustered to invade unhappy Italy. Fourteen thousand Gascons, Grisons, and Germans, under command of the Duc de Guise, marched early in the spring upon Romagna, which, though a friendly country, they cruelly ravaged. Faenza having escaped their brutality by denying them entrance, its citizens testified their gratitude for the exemption, by instituting an annual triduan thanksgiving, and dotation of two of their daughters. The Duke of Urbino did his best to secure his people during the transit of this army, which crossed the Tronto in April. It would be tedious to follow the fortunes of a campaign in which he took no part, and which, whoever gained, was the scourge of Italy. On the 26th of August, the Duc de Guise placed his scaling ladders against the San Sebastiano gate, and Rome had nearly been carried by a coup-de-main. At length the representations of Venice and Florence, which had remained neutral, prevailed with his Holiness, and, on the 14th of September, peace was restored, leaving matters much on their former footing. Riposati assures us that during this war the French monarch would gladly have secured the services of Guidobaldo, now free from his engagements to the Pontiff, but that Duke Cosimo of Florence interested himself to procure for him an engagement from Spain. This was at length arranged, in the spring of 1558, previously to which Charles V. appears to have bestowed on him the Golden Fleece, the highest compliment at his disposal.[61] [Footnote 61: Some authorities represent him as receiving this Order eleven years later from Charles V., but that Emperor died in this very year. He is said to have had knighthood from the Pope in 1561.] The terms upon which the Duke took service under Philip II. are thus stated in a letter of Bernardo Tasso. The King guaranteed him protection for his territories against all hazards, and bound himself to supply and maintain for him a body-guard of at least two hundred infantry, besides a company of a hundred men-at-arms, and another of two hundred light horse. He further engaged to pay him monthly 1000 golden scudi for his appointments as captain-general, besides maintaining for him four colonels and twenty captains. In return, the Duke took an oath to serve his Majesty faithfully against all potentates, the pontiffs alone excepted. The political results of this arrangement were strongly and painfully felt by Bernardo, who regarded it as establishing the tranquillity of Naples, the security of Tuscany, and, in a word, the Spanish domination in Italy. Inclined to the French interests (for there was no longer an Italian party in existence), he would have gladly seen the sovereign of a highland population, whose warlike sinews were not yet quite relaxed, preserve his neutrality, or rather, like his father, attach himself to the republic of Venice, which still possessed much external power and internal independence. Indeed, he laments the short-sighted policy of the Signory, in omitting this opportunity of securing, as an available check upon Spanish influence, an able confederate, and corn-growing neighbour; a blunder which was the more unaccountable, as, in the opinion of Mocenigo, who was Venetian envoy at Urbino many years later, the prepossessions of Guidobaldo were even then in favour of a connection which had hereditary claims upon his preference. On the first days of May the convention was published at Pesaro, after solemn thanksgiving to the Almighty for a dispensation so acceptable to the Duke.[62] The importance to Spain of this condotta may be understood from a fact mentioned by Riposati, that Gubbio alone sent forth, between 1530 and 1570, three captains-general, two lieutenants-general, six colonels, and sixty-five captains of note. Mocenigo says, there were in 1570 twelve thousand soldiers in the duchy, ready at call. [Footnote 62: From an account of this engagement preserved among the Oliveriana MSS., and slightly differing from that by Bernardo Tasso (II., letter 166), we learn that the pay of officers was from 15 to 40 scudi a month, that of cavalry privates 5, and of infantry 3 scudi. It appears to have been worth to Guidobaldo in all about 35,000 scudi a year, but to have been irregularly received.] Our notices of Guidobaldo become ever more barren. In 1565 the armament of Sultan Solyman against Malta spread consternation throughout Western Europe, and, by desire of Philip II., the Duke of Urbino sent four or five thousand troops to aid in the defence of the knights. Prince Francesco Maria asked leave to accompany the expedition, but his father, considering his time better bestowed in visiting courts, sent him in this year to Madrid, with commission to recover a long arrear of his own military allowances. In this he was successful, but the sum scarcely sufficed to clear the expenses of his journey. Particulars of this visit, and of his marriage in 1571, will be told from his own pen in next chapter. But there was no lukewarmness on his father's part on the question of the Cross against the Crescent. After the Prince returned from the naval action off Lepanto, which will also be narrated from his Autobiography, Guidobaldo prepared a Discourse on the propriety of a general war against the Turks, the means of conducting the proposed campaign with due regard to the security of Italy, the preparation of adequate munitions, and the best plan for carrying the seat of war into the enemy's country. It is unnecessary to dwell upon a matter now so completely gone by: the paper emanates from a mind capable of enlarged views, and fully conversant with the belligerent resources and general policy of his age, as well as experienced in military operations.[63] [Footnote 63: Vat. Ottob. MSS. No. 2510, f. 201.] The _Relazioni_ of the Venetian envoys supply us with some notices of Urbino about this time, and prove that the Duke's expenses were very great, partly from frequent calls upon his hospitality by visitors of distinction, but still more from his maintaining separate and costly establishments for himself, the Duchess, the Prince, and the Princess.[64] Mocenigo estimates his income from imposts, monopolies, and allodial domains, at 100,000 scudi; adding that, "should he think proper to burden his people, this sum might unquestionably be greatly augmented, but, choosing to follow the custom of his predecessors, in making it his chief object to preserve the affection of his subjects, he is content to leave matters as they are, and live in straits for money."[65] He also tells us that, though poor in revenues, he was master of his people's affections, who on an exigency would place life and substance at his disposal. The accuracy of these impressions is in some degree impugned by what we are now about to relate. [Footnote 64: That of Mocenigo, 1570, is printed by Vieussieux, second series, vol. II., p. 97, and in the _Tesoro Politico_, II., 169; that of Zen or Zane, 1574, in the same volume of Vieussieux, p. 315.] [Footnote 65: Of several statements as to the ducal revenue and expenditure which I have seen, none is distinct or satisfactory. The most detailed is in a MS. in the public library at Siena, K. III., No. 58, p. 240, but the sums have been inextricably blundered by the transcriber. See Appendix VIII.] * * * * * The most remarkable incident in Guidobaldo's reign was an outbreak of the citizens of Urbino, dignified in its municipal history by the name of a rebellion, which acquires a factitious importance as the only symptom of discontent that troubled the peace of the duchy, from the death of Oddantonio in 1443, to the extinction of its independence in 1631. We shall condense its incidents from the contemporary narrative of Gian-Francesco Cartolari, who designated himself agent of the Duke, and who, notwithstanding his official position, writes with apparent frankness and impartiality.[66] [Footnote 66: Vat. Ottob. MSS. No. 3142, f. 165, and Oliveriana MSS. No. 390, p. 63.] In August, 1572, the Duke intimated to the council of Urbino that he had received authority from Gregory XIII. to impose a tax of one quatrino per lb. on butchers' meat, and of two bolognini upon every _staro_ of grain and _soma_ of wine;[67] and in October he made proclamation throughout the duchy of these new imposts. It being rumoured that the envoys of Gubbio had obtained for that community a suspension of the obnoxious duties, discontent began to prevail, and on the 26th December one Zibetto, a cobbler, in an inflammatory harangue, at a public assembly dignified with the name of general council, declared that these were exactions under which the poor could not exist.[*68] On his proposal, forty delegates were chosen from the nobility, and sworn to represent the matter to the Duke in person. They repaired to Pesaro, and, on the 29th, had an audience to present the memorial agreed to by the council, which Guidobaldo received, and desired them to go home, promising that an answer would be transmitted when he had considered their statement. They, however, stayed a week, vainly looking for his reply, during which the council met daily at Urbino, and at length they were recalled by an express from the Gonfaloniere. Meanwhile a vice-duke had been sent thither, who, on the 1st of January, 1573, published a suspension of the new imposts throughout the whole state. This concession, however, did not satisfy the discontented, who, in another general council, accredited two envoys to Prince Francesco Maria, begging his intervention to procure an answer to their memorial. Having failed in this object, and finding that troops were being secretly organised to garrison their city, the people of Urbino rushed to arms, closed the gates, and, having mustered above a thousand men, began to strengthen the defences and lay in stores. The Vice-Duke being thereupon recalled, the general council assembled daily in such numbers, that adjournments to one of the largest churches were found necessary, and the inhabitants, setting aside private rivalries, co-operated with one mind for the public safety, mounting guard, and making every exertion to render their city tenable. The impossibility of doing so against the Duke's military levies being however quickly apparent even to the insurgents, an embassy of six was despatched to Rome to beseech the Pope's mediation. Nor did the reaction stop there; a general cry rose for the Prince, or his brother the Cardinal, the opportune arrival of either of whom would have ended the _émeute_. On the 29th, however, the Duchess came with a small suite, and was received with cries of "Long life to the Duke, but death to the _gabelle_!" The efforts of the magistracy and popular leaders to make their peace were unavailing, in consequence of their having sent representations to the Pontiff, and, on the 3rd of February, the Duchess departed without effecting any arrangement, to the infinite annoyance of all parties. The envoys could get no other reply from his Holiness but that they must go home and make submission, and they were followed by a brief from him, enjoining them to lay down arms and seek his Excellency's unconditional pardon. As soon as this had been publicly read by the Gonfaloniere, the people piled their arms in the piazza, and the peasantry dispersed to their country homes. [Footnote 67: The _staro_ or _stajo_ corresponded to a bushel; the amount of a _soma_ is doubtful. A _quatrino_ is 1/5 of a _bajocco_, that is, of a halfpenny in present value. A _bolognino_ was about 7-1/3 farthings. See vol. II., p. 259.] [Footnote *68: In 1562 Guidobaldo had augmented the tax on grain by leave of Pius IV. Cf. UGOLINI, _op. cit._, vol. II., p. 28, and PELLEGRINI, _Gubbio sotto i Conti e Duchi d'Urbino_ in _Boll. per l'Umbria_, vol. XI., p. 239 _et seq._, and esp. CELLI, _Tasse e Rivoluzione_ (Torino, 1892), p. 39.] Notwithstanding this surrender, Guidobaldo advanced upon the city, quartering his troops in the surrounding villages, so as to blockade it, and all the public functionaries were superseded. Dreading a sack, the citizens rushed to the monasteries with their valuables, and, about the middle of February, sent fifty of the nobles to crave pardon of their sovereign. After waiting at Pesaro for three days, these were admitted to tender submission on their knees, and were then placed under arrest at their inn for twenty days, notwithstanding incessant petitions from their fellow citizens for their release. Six of them were then committed to the castle, and from time to time other leaders were brought from Urbino to share their imprisonment. So terrified were the insurgents by these measures, that those most compromised fled from the duchy, and but few remained in their houses; a proclamation was therefore issued that all exiles should return home within two months, under penalties of rebellion. The property of the prisoners and exiles was confiscated; the city was disarmed; public assemblies were prohibited; and the magistracy were discharged from their duties.[69] Such rigorous measures having inspired a general panic, the imposts were again proclaimed at Easter, to include retrospectively the previous year. These severities were perhaps scarcely beyond the exigencies of the case; at all events, they cannot be justly regarded as an extreme exercise of the despotic authority which the Duke undoubtedly possessed; but those which ensued must be viewed with abhorrence, alike from their own enormity, and from their prejudicial influence in confounding vengeance with justice. [Footnote 69: The magistrates of Urbino were four in number, a gonfaloniere chosen from the city nobles, a prior to represent the merchants, and two priors of the trades. The general council seems to have been open to all citizens.] A judge was brought from Ferrara to sit upon the prisoners, and on the 1st of July nine of them were beheaded in the castle at midnight; their bodies, after being flung out and exposed beyond the city, were huddled together into an unconsecrated pit, until some days later they were taken up by order of the Bishop of Pesaro, and received Christian burial. Nor was the indignation of their sovereign appeased by these revolting cruelties: others implicated were sent to the galleys or died of hard usage. A commission sat at Urbino for two months to realise the estates of those attainted, whose widows and children were deprived of their dowries, and in some instances their very houses were razed to the ground. The results were fatal to the whole community, for magisterial business was suspended, the schools were left without teachers, the town without medical practitioners, trade of every sort at a stand. At length, in December, permission was obtained to hold a general council, at which it was determined once more to send ambassadors to intercede for mercy. For this purpose about eighty of the principal nobility were selected to accompany the Gonfaloniere and priors to Pesaro, their cavalcade amounting to above a hundred persons on horseback. On the 27th of December, they were admitted to an audience in presence of the whole court, and the Gonfaloniere, after a very judicious speech, presented to his Excellency a petition couched in the following terms:-- "Most illustrious and most excellent Lord Duke, our especial lord and master! Inspired by a most ardent desire for your illustrious Excellency's favour and good will, and having ever felt the utmost grief and regret for the recent events, the city of Urbino, with entire devotion and alacrity, has resolved to send to your illustrious Excellency its magistrates, and the present numerous embassy, in order that with every possible humility, they in our name, and we likewise for ourselves, may supplicate you, with all reverence and submission, to accord us grace and pardon, entirely forgetting the provocations received, and, as our clement father and master, full of charity towards us, to deign willingly to comfort us, and receive us again, and restore us to your love and benign grace; assuring your most illustrious Excellency, that this your city will never, in fidelity, love, and obedience towards your most illustrious person and house, yield to any other in the world, and that it is, and ever will be, most prompt at all times and occasions to expose our lives, and those of our children, and our whole goods and possessions, in your service and honour; so that, in the event of our receiving, as we desire and hope, forgiveness from your infinite bounty and magnanimity, we, the humblest and most faithful of your servants, thanking God with sincerely joyful hearts, may return, singing in chorus--'Blessed be the Lord God of Israel, who hath visited and redeemed his people,' and may ever keep in remembrance this trusted day of grace, and render it a gladsome festival in all time to come." To this petition the Duke returned the following gracious answer:--"I hear with much good will and satisfaction the duty which you pay, the free pardon which you ask, and the penitence which you exhibit, all which induce me to confirm to you, as I now do most willingly, the forgiveness I already have accorded: and the promise which you make, of being ever faithful and loyal to me, proves you ready to second your words with good purposes, as I readily believe you will do. I also promise you from henceforward entirely to forget the past, and to receive you into my pristine affection; and had it pleased God that the warnings and persuasions which you received from my lips had been taken by you at first, you would have been spared many evils, annoyances, and losses, and I much displeasure. Nevertheless, take courage, and, as I have already said, so long as you do your duty, you will find me as loving in time to come as I have ever been, all which you will report to your city."[70] [Footnote 70: Vat. Ottob. MSS. No. 3141, ff. 160, 165, dated December 27, 1573.] This reply gave great satisfaction to the deputation, and after being suitably acknowledged by their head, all of them knelt to their Sovereign, the Duchess, and the Prince, kissing the hems of their garments in humble attitude. Next day they returned home, and summoned a general council, to which there was read a letter from Guidobaldo, reinstating the city in its former privileges, and removing the obnoxious imposts. Four deputies having been commissioned to thank his Highness for these demonstrations of returning favour, they were honourably received and entertained at Pesaro. The council next voted a peace-offering of 50,000 scudi towards paying the Duke's debts, which had been the primary root of the evil; but, in consideration of their recent sufferings, he accepted of but 20,000, payable in seven years. Although there remained some symptoms of smouldering sedition, the Duke on the 14th of June suddenly started for Urbino, and was welcomed by a deputation, and such other marks of respect as the short notice would permit. During a residence of twelve days, he renounced 8000 scudi of the donative, and conceded several privileges to the community, whom he did not again visit during the brief residue of his life. The Urbino rebellion holds a place in the history of that state which neither its incidents nor its issue deserve. It originated in a sore of old standing, the Duke having for years comparatively deserted the ancient capital of his duchy, and transferred his residence to Pesaro. Influenced by this grudge, its citizens, instead of, like the other communities, resting satisfied with his remission of dues in January, 1573, kept up an agitation, and finally piqued their sovereign by carrying their grievances to the papal throne. On the whole, these transactions were in all respects most unfortunate, and it was long ere the duchy recovered from the heart-burnings they left behind. The Duke then forfeited the popularity of a lifetime, and his fame continues blackened by the scurrilous traditionary nickname of Guidobaldaccio, a usual diminutive expressing contemptuous disparagement. Grossi says that, when too late, he regretted the harshness of his after measures; and some doubt as to his good faith in regard to an amnesty is hinted in the following letter from his cousin-german Ludovico Gonzaga, Duke of Nevers and Rethel, which I found among the Oliveriana MSS. at Pesaro. "Most illustrious and most excellent Lord, "Your Excellency's letters of the 15th of June and 9th of July reached me together, at the forest of Vincennes, only on the 10th instant, along with another addressed by you to the most serene King of Poland, which I have not failed to deliver in person to his Majesty, with such expressions as seemed suitably to convey your Excellency's good wishes. With these his Majesty was much satisfied and pleased, and he returns to your Excellency many thanks. I have not as yet been able to obtain his answer, as he went off suddenly to Fontainebleau, whither I now am on my way, and on my arrival shall get it sent you as soon as possible. "I have read the summary of the trials of these rebels, of whom your Excellency advises me you had nine beheaded, as to which matter I have been glad to be informed, in order satisfactorily to answer those who occasionally speak of it; and also being at all times glad to learn that your affairs go on well and to your contentment. It is my conviction that you have acted most justly, and done everything for clear reasons; yet, I do not omit telling you that some people are perplexed at these events, saying, that your Excellency having granted a general pardon to all the conspirators, they cannot see by what right you afterwards let justice take its course against them. This I mention purposely that you may be informed of everything. "It only remains to beseech that you will deign command my willing services, in whatever respect you consider me useful, as this is my ardent wish; and so I sincerely kiss your hands, praying God to grant you all happiness. From Paris, the last of September, 1573. Your Excellency's most devoted, and most obliged cousin, "LUDOVICO GONZAGA." The account of these disturbances, given by the Prince in his Autobiography, is as follows: "His father having by great liberality and magnificence deranged his finances, found it necessary to augment his revenue, and his subjects, unused to such burdens, began to offer resistance. The Duke, not to let himself be thwarted in that way, prepared to use force; but at last matters were restored to quiet, by their humbling themselves, and receiving his pardon, not without the punishment of some, as an example to the rest. At this juncture Francesco Maria contrived so to conduct himself, that his father had reason to be well satisfied with his services; and the people had no cause to be discontented with him, his uniform endeavour having been, to the utmost of his power, to mollify the one and moderate the other, which was in the end effected." Of this dull reign little remains to be told. In the words of the same Memoir,--"Guidobaldo went to Ferrara in the autumn of 1574, to visit Henry III. of France, who was on his way from Poland, on the death of his brother Charles IX. Returning to Pesaro during great heats, he fell ill, and passed to a better life on the 28th of September, aged sixty. On hearing of his illness, Francesco Maria hastened to Pesaro from Castel Durante, where he generally stayed for the hunting season, and finding his father in great suffering, he attended him assiduously through the fatal malady. The funeral ceremonies were performed with much pomp, in presence of many deputies and ambassadors; and Giacomo Mazzoni pronounced a long and elaborate oration, commending his clemency, liberality, bravery, prudence, and other princely virtues." We are told by a contemporary chronicler that his illness was a quartan, which became a putrid fever, but that he bore it with patient and pious resignation, supported by the aids of religion. His funeral took place in the church of Corpus Domini, at Pesaro, in conformity with his own wish, mindful perhaps, in his last moments, of his recent quarrel with Urbino, where the ashes of his ancestors were laid. The character of this Duke, drawn by the Venetian envoys, is quite as favourable as the few notices given us by Urbino writers. His habits were free and social, and his liberality to friends and favourites gave him a popularity at court which extended to his subjects and soldiery. In affairs of honour his judgment was often sought, and his decisions generally admitted. Though seldom in the field, he was considered an authority on military affairs, and, without rivalling the literary tastes of his son, he was a patron of letters, and especially of music.[*71] The device which he selected was a goal or winning-post, with a Greek inscription, "To the most devoted lover of worth"; and Ruscellai informs us that he acted up to the sentiment in encouraging merit. His hospitality is alluded to by Ariosto in Rinaldo's journey to Lapidusa, and Count Litta ascribes to him the institution of the Pacieri, an association of both sexes for the purpose of preventing litigation. It is true that his failings of character or temper were neither gilded by the military renown of his father, nor redeemed by the pious philosophy of his son; but so far as the meagre materials within our reach have enabled us to judge, no great faults have been brought home to him either as a sovereign or as a man. Indeed, we are enabled to adduce one satisfactory instance wherein, under circumstances peculiarly irritating to a person of impetuous disposition, his conduct was marked with great forbearance and gentleness. His favourite undertaking of fortifying Sinigaglia had been thwarted in 1556, from the obstinate refusal of money by a Jew, who, though sent to him for the purpose of effecting a loan, resisted his urgent persuasions to conclude it.[*72] After mentioning the circumstance in a letter to his confidential favourite Marchetti, he thus continues: "We avoided all expressions which might seem to approve of his discourse, and so left him. However, to you we shall just say that if they won't lend, may they meet with the like.[73] We shall seek some other course, and obtain by other means what is required for the operations. You may, therefore, after doing your best for this purpose in Sinigaglia, proceed first towards La Pergola, and then to Fossombrone, but there is no occasion to employ in this matter threats or severe language. On the contrary, you are only to seek out the people, to exhort and civilly urge them to what is wanted, but of their own free will, and by no other means; and if they will not agree, you need not break out upon them, but let it stand over, that we may see what can be effected in some other way." [Footnote *71: Cf. a letter from Angelo Colocci to the Duke, printed by MORICI, _Due Umanisti Marchigiani_ in _Boll. per l'Umbria_, vol. II., p. 152; and for Music, ROSSI, _Appunti per la Storia della Musica alla Corte di Francesco Maria I. e di Guidobaldo della Rovere_ in _Rassegna Emiliana_ (Modena, 1888), vol. I., fascicolo 8, and _supra_, p. 88, note *1.] [Footnote *72: Cf. CELLI, _Le fortificazioni militari di Urbino, Pesaro e Senigallia_ (Castelpiano, 1896).] [Footnote 73: "Tal sia di loro," a phrase which may perhaps only mean "be it so."] In absence of any contemporary estimate of this Duke's character, we may cite one from the pen of a modern writer, himself a citizen of Urbino, and an enthusiastic student of its history. "Although possessing not the marvellous sagacity, the untainted justice, the quick intelligence in public affairs, nor the other brilliant and rare virtues of his ancestors and of his son, which have rendered their names great, their authority respected, their memory dear and popular; he had good sense, military experience, and much fondness for all liberal acquirements. He protected and honoured the first geniuses of his time; and his beneficent actions were splendid even beyond his means. Could one page be blotted from his life, too fatally memorable from its unjust and slippery policy, too detestable and disgraceful to his name; and had his manners been more affable, his nature less impetuous and violent, his temper less overbearing, and his resolutions less inflexible; the people of Urbino would probably have attempted no revolutionary movement, and he would have acquired much of the reputation left by his great-grandfather, and by his estimable son."[74] [Footnote 74: Padre Checcucci, Professor of Rhetoric in the University of Urbino, 1845.] For the fine arts he seems to have cared little, and his memory has suffered in consequence of this neglect. Angelo Bronzino is said to have painted him during the life of his father, but the only original portrait I have ever found of him is a miniature in the Pitti Palace. Bernardo Tasso was the laureate of his court, and we shall mention, in chapter L., the friendly welcome extended to that fortune-stricken bard during part of his life-long struggle. Bernardo Capello and Pietro Aretino were among his guests; and Ludovico Domenichini of Piacenza, having dedicated to him an Italian translation of Plutarch's _Lives_, visited Urbino in 1555 to present the work to his patron. Guidobaldo left by his first wife one daughter,-- VIRGINIA, married in 1560 to Count Federigo Borromeo, whose premature death is said to have frustrated a project of his uncle, Pius IV., for investing him with Camerino. She afterwards married Ferdinando Orsini, Duke of Gravina, and, dying in childbed, left to her father about 180,000 scudi. The children of his second marriage were,-- 1. FRANCESCO MARIA, his heir. 2. ISABELLA, married in 1565 to Nicolò Bernardino di Sanseverino, Prince of Bisignano, a Neapolitan nobleman, with a fine fortune, but greatly encumbered. She was a princess of generous and attractive character, and died in 1619 without surviving issue. 3. LAVINIA, said in the Venetian Relazione of Zane to have been betrothed to Giacomo Buoncompagno natural son of Gregory XIII., but the nuptials never took place. She afterwards married Alfonso Felice d'Avalos d'Aquino, Marquis of Guasto, son[*75] of the famous Vittoria Colonna, and died in 1632, aged seventy-four. [Footnote *75: This is a mistake. Vittoria Colonna had no children. There was, however, a Marchese del Vasto, a cousin of her husband's, whom she adopted as her son, and to whom she frequently alluded in her poems; one of her sonnets bewails his death.] (From similarity of name, this princess has been confused with her second cousin Lavinia Franciotti della Rovere, wife of Paolo Orsini, whose intimacy with Olympia Morata is well known to those who trace the quickly smothered seeds of Protestantism in Italy.) Guidobaldo left also two natural daughters,-- 1. ----, married, first, to Count Antonio Landriano of Pesaro; secondly, to Signor Pier-Antonio da Lunà of Castella, in the Milanese. 2. ----, married to Signor Guidobaldo Renier. BOOK EIGHTH OF FRANCESCO MARIA II. DELLA ROVERE SIXTH AND LAST DUKE OF URBINO CHAPTER XLIV Autobiography of Duke Francesco Maria II.--His visit to the Spanish Court--His studious habits--His marriage--Is engaged in the naval action of Lepanto--Succeeds to the dukedom. In following the history of his father, we have details of the early life of Francesco Maria. Upon these we now turn back, and shall avail ourselves to the utmost of the Memoirs he has left behind him, which, though brief and incomplete, afford a valuable illustration of his character, and an interesting addition to our few autobiographies of sovereigns. From the introductory sentence, we learn the motives by which they were undertaken:--"As it is very usual for people to blame the actions of others, and especially the proceedings of those who have long directed the affairs of government, it has hence seemed to me right to narrate simply, truly, and briefly, the incidents that have occurred to Francesco Maria, second of that name and sixth Duke of Urbino, in order that those who read this abstract may be aware of the actual and candid truth." Upon a narrative thus modestly prefaced it is unnecessary to make any critical remarks. Ere we close this Book, their abrupt termination, before the marriage of Prince Federigo, will be sadly but sufficiently accounted for.[76] [Footnote 76: For the life of Francesco Maria II. our materials have been ample. His own Memoirs, extending from his birth to the marriage of his son, have been nearly all quoted verbatim. The autograph of this MS. I have examined in the Oliveriana Library (No. 384, folio 219 to 229), but have made my translations from the only printed edition, in the twenty-ninth volume of the _Nuova Raccolta d'Opuscoli_, known by the name Calogeriana, and published at Venice in 1776. There too will be found an account of the Devolution of Urbino to the Holy See, from the pen of Antonio Donata of Venice, by whom that negotiation was concluded on the Duke's part. In the Magliabechiana Library at Florence (class 25, No. 76) is the autograph Diary of Francesco Maria from 1583 to 1623, which I have closely searched. The rich MS. collections of the Oliveriana are stored with original correspondence and other documents illustrative of his reign, most of which have been looked into with scarcely remunerative labour, but among the matter there gleaned, his instructions to his son may be deemed of especial importance. From a vast mass of such correspondence in these two libraries, a general insight into his character and position, and those of his son, has been acquired, as well as many minute traits of both; but the Prince's brief and unhonoured span has been illustrated in a great measure from collections made by Francesco Saverio Passeri, of Pesaro, nephew of the naturalist Gianbattista Passeri, and printed in the twenty-sixth volume of the Calogeriana Collection. *Cf. also SCOTINI, _La Giovinezza. di F.M. II._ (Bologna, 1899).] "To them [Duke Guidobaldo II. and Duchess Vittoria] was born at Pesaro, on the 20th of February, 1549, a son, who was named Francesco Maria. Cardinal Duranti was sent by the Pope to perform the ceremony of his baptism, which was celebrated with great splendour on the 1st of May, Giacomo Soranzo acting as godfather in name of the republic of Venice. He was in infancy brought up with becoming care, and at three years of age was carried to Venice by his father and mother. Guidobaldo was then general in the service of that state, and their troops were chiefly stationed at Verona, whither Francesco Maria was taken, and where he had a dangerous illness, recovered from which he returned home. There, as he grew up, he was taught all fitting exercises of mind and body, under the successive superintendence of Muzio of Giustinopoli, Antonio Galli of Urbino, and Girolamo Simonetta of Cagli: his masters in grammar were Vincenzo Bartoli of Urbino, and afterwards Ludovico Corrado of Mantua, of literary note. After some years, the Duke and his brother the Cardinal, having resolved to amuse themselves with a visit to Venice, at the fête of the Ascension, they took with them Francesco Maria, who was received with great favour and much made of, being admitted into the company delle Calze." This was in 1564, and even thus early his taste for painting was noticed by Titian, and celebrated in a sonnet by Verdizzotti. An establishment was maintained for him at Venice apart from that of his father and uncle, and he gave many sumptuous entertainments. "Having returned to Pesaro, and completed his sixteenth year, he had a great wish to go forth and see the world and its usages, and made much interest that his father should send him to some court, preferring that of the Emperor, who was then at war with the Turk. To this his father was pleased to agree, but desired first to consult the Catholic King (Philip II.), in whose service he was, and who in reply commended the plan, but desired that it might be carried into effect at his own court, where the Prince would be welcomed and treated as a son. His intentions being thus necessarily altered, at the close of 1565, after the marriage of his sister Donna Isabella with the Prince of Bisignano, he took his way to Spain, accompanied by many knights, particularly by Count Francesco Landriani, and Pier-Antonio Lonato. Choosing the route by Genoa, he passed through Ferrara to Mantua, where he stayed fifteen days by his father's desire, who in youth long inhabited that city; and hearing of his uncle the Duke of Parma's return just then from Flanders, he went to see him. On his arrival at Genoa he was lodged by Count Filippino Doria, his vassal in the castle of Sassocorbaro, and, after being visited and much distinguished by the Signory, he embarked in a war-galley of the Duke of Savoy, which, with another fully armed, had been sent on purpose for him, under the command of Admiral di Leini. In it he went to Savona, the native place of his family, where he was received into the house of Vigeri, who were his subjects, and being storm-stayed during eight days of the carnival, was entertained with festivities and serenades, as is customary in that country. "When the weather cleared, he re-embarked, and after a pleasant voyage of a few days reached Palamos in Spain, whence he went by land to Barcelona. In that city he passed most of Lent, to give time for an apartment being prepared for him in the palace, but got to Madrid for Easter week. He was met by the whole court and by many grandees, especially by the Marquis of Pescara, who manifested singular courtesy, attending to him as his own son; whence a most intimate and enduring friendship arose between them. He got the same quarters which the Prince of Florence had occupied shortly before, and his treatment was precisely similar. Next day he waited upon the King, Queen, and Prince Royal, the Princess of Portugal, and the two sons of the Emperor [Maximilian II.], who were being educated there. By all he was received with distinguished favour, which continued during the two years and a half he spent at Madrid. He occupied himself in all those noble exercises which there, more than anywhere else, were attended to, practising military games on foot and horseback in public, and also privately under superintendence of the Marquis of Pescara, who was then considered unequalled in them. He frequently went out hunting with Don Carlos, by whom he was received into much intimacy; and enjoyed a close friendship with Don John of Austria, afterwards the famed commander by sea and land. He also paid court to the ladies, and learned the sports of the jennet as practised there, from Don Pedro Enciquel, afterwards Count of Fuentes and general in Flanders. "Some movements having occurred in Flanders, the King gave orders to proceed there, and the court, including Francesco Maria, made preparations to attend him. But the latter, wishing to see France, asked permission to take that route by land, and so to rejoin his Majesty, who was to go by sea. The King, desiring his attendance on his person, refused his request, and so the opportunity was lost, to his great mortification, and perhaps to the no small loss of his Majesty. Subsequently occurred the imprisonment of Don Carlos, which was thus effected by order of his own father. An hour after midnight, the King, in his dressing-gown, holding a candle in his hand, having gone down to the Prince's room with his council of state and but one gentleman of his chamber, found him in bed. The Prince on seeing them tried to reach the corner, where were his sword and a pair of arquebuses, which he kept there always ready; but this was prevented by the Duke of Feria, who had already secured these arms. Then, rushing to his father, he exclaimed, 'So you are come to kill me?' To this his Majesty replied, 'Not so, but because you must live as becomes you, so be calm;' and never addressed him again. The Prince then said, 'I see that I am taken for a madman, which I am not, though a desperate one.' The King, having seen the doors and windows nailed up, leaving only a shutter open for light, and having desired the arms and all such things to be taken away, returned to his apartment, leaving with Don Carlos his major-domo Ruggo Mez de Silva (?) with several chamberlains and other officers of his household, a guard of Germans being stationed outside of his door; and the court was greatly vexed thereat." These details are curious, in illustration of the mysterious fate of Don Carlos, eldest son of Philip II. It seems agreed that he was of a most unhappy temperament, perverse, wilful, and violent, possibly insane. The immediate cause of the unnatural scene here described has never been satisfactorily explained. It is generally stated that he was discovered in treasonable correspondence with the Dutch; though others have attributed the behaviour of his father to jealousy of an old attachment between his wife Elizabeth of Valois, and the Prince, to whom she was said to have been previously promised. The Prince's arrest occurred in January 1568: it was followed by no trial or public investigation, but in the following July he ceased to live. His death was understood to have taken place under some judicial sanction, but whether by poison or the sword was never known. The entombment of his head separate from his body renders the second supposition more probable. We may here mention that, before embarking for Spain, the Prince had, from his Cardinal uncle, the dukedom of Sora, yielding an income of about 4000 scudi, which, however, proved quite inadequate to his expenditure. Zane, the Venetian ambassador, asserts that the large arrears of pay due to his father, which he was commissioned to recover from the Spanish government, were more than absorbed by his extravagance, and that this was the reason of his recall. His own narrative, however, is entirely silent upon this subject. "Francesco Maria, having been at length recalled by his father, who was anxious for the marriage of his only son and heir, took leave of the King and Queen, and the royal family, and proceeded by Saragossa to Barcelona, where he embarked in a galley with the Marquis of Pescara, then going as viceroy to Sicily. After a prosperous voyage of eight days, he reached Genoa, where he lived with Giovanni Andrea Doria, with whom he had become intimate at the court of Spain. Thence he went to Milan for some days, and was welcomed with distinction; and then visited Madame of Austria at Piacenza; and at Parma stayed with the Duke and his son, towards both of whom he maintained the best intelligence and cousinship. He next passed through Bologna to Ravenna, where his uncle, the Cardinal of Urbino, was archbishop, and accompanied him to Pesaro. He arrived on the 11th of July, 1568, and was received with the greatest joy by all classes. "After a few months, seeing that his father made no movement in the affair of his marriage, he returned to his studies, interrupted during his absence from Italy. He read mathematics with Federigo Comandino, and afterwards philosophy with Cesare Benedetti (subsequently Bishop of Pesaro), Felice Pacciotti, Giacomo Mazzoni, and Cristofero Guarimone. At the same time he kept up active exercise in arms, riding, hunting, ball, and racket." About this time Mocenigo, the Venetian ambassador, praises his fine dispositions and pleasing manners, as well as his progress in various pursuits, especially mathematics and fortification; but says that his eager exposure to fatigue gave rise to apprehensions for his health, which were sadly realised. He adds that, since his return from Spain, something of the hauteur which characterised that nation was noticed in his manner. [Illustration: _Franz Hanfstaengl_ ISABELLA D'ESTE _After the picture by Titian in the Imperial Museum, Vienna_] "Finally the Duke decided upon his marriage with Donna Lucrezia d'Este, sister of Alfonso, the last Duke of Ferrara, which took place, though little to his taste; for she was old enough to have been his mother. He went for this purpose to Ferrara, where the nuptials were celebrated with great splendour, and with chivalrous games and other festivities." Such is all that we learn from the Memoirs of Francesco Maria regarding one of the most eventful moments of his life. Passeri, in his collections for the life of Prince Federigo, mentions a rumour of his attachment to a lady at the Spanish court as the immediate cause of his recall home, and of the match with Princess Lucrezia being concluded; indeed, I have seen, in the correspondence of the Oliveriana Library, that a certain Donna Madalena Girona was the supposed object of that early affection. That he made no secret to his father of his distaste at the connection laid out for him, is stated on the same authority, as well as the Duke's answer, that his people's welfare was to be considered rather than his son's fancies, whose youth made it the more requisite to mate him with a princess of tried prudence and staid manners. How far these epithets were borne out by Lucrezia's subsequent conduct will be presently seen; meanwhile, the following letter, to one who long after continued an especial friend and favourite, will show that the bridegroom gave no outward signs of his discontent. "To Camillo Giordani. "My most magnificent and well-beloved, "I am confident that you feel the pleasure which you express at the conclusion which it has pleased God to vouchsafe to my marriage with Madam Lucrezia d'Este, and at all other like occasions of joy which happen to me; and the duty you have in this instance paid me in your letter has been most truly acceptable, and has my best thanks. God ever bless you! From Pesaro, the last day of [15]69. "THE PRINCE OF URBINO." The ceremony took place at Ferrara on the 2nd of January, 1571, and on the 8th the bride was brought home to Pesaro. The people hailed her with enthusiasm, and spent largely in shows and rejoicings to welcome her arrival, besides giving to the Duke a donative exceeding 10,000 scudi. Yet Mocenigo, the Venetian ambassador accredited to the marriage, while lauding the handsome and gracious Princess, admits an early prepossession against her, on the part both of her new subjects and her lord. It was the hope of a heir to the dukedom that preponderated with the former; and, as she was many years older than her husband, a chill of disappointment naturally mingled even with their congratulations.[77] The same observer states it as the general impression that, the Prince having compromised himself with a lady in Spain, his father thought the best way of getting him out of all difficulty with that court was to match him suddenly with a princess of high rank, whose dowry of 150,000 scudi was by no means unacceptable. Zane, another envoy from the maritime Republic a few years later, describes the Duchess as below par in good looks, but well-dressed: adding that difference of age accounted for the absence of affection between her and her husband. [Footnote 77: Tesoro Politico, II., fol. 169. Relazioni Venete, serie II., vol. II., p. 105. Litta says she was born the 16th December, 1535, making her thirteen years and two months his senior. Her sister, Tasso's Leonora, was born the 19th of June, 1537.] The following letters from the Duke and Duchess of Urbino, Prince Francesco Maria and his bride, were written in answer to congratulations sent them on occasion of the marriage, by the Cardinal de' Medici, who afterwards became Grand Duke of Florence, by the title of Ferdinand I.[78] They have been introduced here as an index to the feelings of the respective writers regarding a union which turned out so unsatisfactory to all parties; but, still more, as a specimen of the epistolary style then prevalent between personages of exalted rank, and of the general formality and barrenness of interest which characterise such documents. [Footnote 78: Bibl. Riccardiana, MSS. No. 2340, art. 116-19.] "My most illustrious, most reverend, and most respected Lord, "The Marquis of Villa Franca has discharged towards me the duty with which your most illustrious Lordship was pleased to entrust him, and he has represented your gracious sympathy towards our wedding in a manner most acceptable to all. For the satisfaction we, and myself especially, have derived from this, I do most heartily thank your most illustrious Lordship, praying you to lend a willing ear to the assurances of my affection, and of my wish for frequent opportunities of correspondence, which I have given to the Marquis, and which I do not doubt he will, without fail, in compliance with my desire, fully repeat to you. I kiss your most illustrious Lordship's hands, praying for you all happiness. From Pesaro, the 15th of January, 1571. "Your most Illustrious Lordship's servant, "THE DUKE OF URBINO." "My most illustrious, most revered, and most respected Lord, "The proof which your most illustrious Lordship has deigned to give me, in your most kind letter, of the pleasure you take in the marriage of the Prince my son, I esteem a great favour; for not only do I desire your sympathy in all my happiness, but I am also anxious in every circumstance to find occasion of serving your most illustrious Lordship. Thus will all my present and future occasions of joy be valued by me in proportion as they may become subservient to that object, and to the affection I bear your most illustrious Lordship, whose hands I kiss, praying the Lord God of his grace to vouchsafe you a happy accomplishment of all your desires. From Pesaro, the 15th of January, 1571. "Your most illustrious and most reverend Lordship's most humble servant, "THE DUCHESS OF URBINO." "My most illustrious and most reverend Lord, "The Marquis of Villa Franca, who has handed me your most illustrious Lordship's letter, will likewise report to you my unceasing desire for your service, and the pleasure wherewith I have received the courteous duty you have been pleased on this occasion to send me, for which I certainly am under many obligations, as the Marquis will more fully show you. I, however, pray your illustrious Lordship to afford me frequent opportunities of effectually proving to you my good will; and I kiss your hands, beseeching for you from our Lord God all the happiness you may desire. From Pesaro, the 15th of January, 1571. "Your most illustrious and most reverend Lordship's most affectionate servant, "THE PRINCE OF URBINO." "Most illustrious and most reverend Lord, "Whatever pleasure my affairs may afford your most illustrious Lordship is only the consequence of your great kindness and courtesy; and as regards the expression of it, which you have thought fit to communicate to me by the Marquis of Villa Franca, and by your own letters, I can but say that I kiss your hand for all your affection, assuring you that every occasion of happiness you may enjoy will afford me cause for quite as much congratulation as I now have received from you: and referring you to whatever more that gentleman will say in my behalf, I remain, praying God to gratify you in all your desires, "Your most illustrious Lordship's very obedient, "LUCREZIA D'ESTE. "From Pesaro, the 16th of January, 1571." Renée of France, mother of Princess Lucrezia, had embraced the doctrines of Calvin, who visited Ferrara about the time of her daughter's birth, and Francesco Porta da Creta, preceptor of the young Princess, was discovered to be tinged with the same principles. Alarmed for the orthodoxy of his daughters, Duke Ercole dismissed their instructor, and secluded his escort, in a wing of the palace, from all intercourse with the children. A cloud of mystery hangs over these transactions. "Soon after his return to Pesaro from his marriage, the Pope, the King of Spain, and the Venetians having [on the 20th of May] leagued together against the Turk, Don John of Austria came into Italy as commander-in-chief, and Francesco Maria, with his father's permission, set out on the 8th of July, to join him at Genoa. There he embarked in the _Savoyard_ frigate[79] that had carried him to Spain, commanded by the same Monsignor de Leini, who had orders from the Duke of Savoy to receive him with that affectionate courtesy which both he and his sovereign ever displayed towards him. Having touched at Naples, he was there welcomed with the utmost favour and distinction, and passed his time most agreeably. From thence the fleet sailed to Messina, where he assisted at a general council of war, as indeed he often subsequently did.[80] Leaving Sicily, the expedition in a few days arrived at Corfu, and on the morning of the 7th of October fell in with the Turk. Don John drew up the Christian fleet in order of battle, the Proveditore Agostino Barbarigo, of Venice, having the landward squadron, and Giovanni Andrea Doria the opposite and heavier one, with Don Alvarez di Bassano as a reserve; the centre he kept for himself, where was also Francesco Maria, in the foresaid frigate. Here was the thick of the fight, as at this point the two admirals met. The Turkish at first selected the frigate in which was Francesco Maria, whom he well knew, and who warmly received his attack; but as soon as he distinguished the flag-ship, he turned to engage it: and, after fighting for two hours, the Turks struck, their admiral, Pacha Ali, having been killed by an arquebus; the others were all put to the sword; and so was this long very doubtful victory secured to the Christians. Meanwhile the _Savoyard_ frigate fought two galleys, one ahead and the other astern, and had enough to do, most of her company being killed or wounded. The squadron under Barbarigo drove on shore many galleys, sinking and taking others; but he was wounded by a splinter in the eye, of which he soon after died. Doria had at first run out to sea, fighting all the while; but seeing the wing exposed, he returned and made good use of the opportunity, cutting up several galleys, and getting off uninjured. Such is an abstract of this battle, wherein Francesco Maria acquitted himself becomingly, for which Don John distinguished him with many marks of regard, and assigned him, among other favours, twenty-four Turkish slaves. The Admiral bearing for Sicily, he sailed from Corfu in a Venetian galley to Otranto, and returned home by land in November, to await orders, and rejoin the fleet the following year." [Footnote 79: The word which I thus translate means literally a ship or galley commanded by a captain.] [Footnote 80: The muster-roll of the armament at this time will be found in V. of the Appendix.] The naval engagement of which Francesco Maria has given the preceding sketch was that of Lepanto or Curzolari, where Passeri states that he had with him a large body of his father's subjects, a fact which, although passed over in his own account of this his only military service, is confirmed by Armanni, who tells us that there were in the fleet above fifty from Gubbio alone, thirty of whom were officers, a circumstance on which the Prince was complimented by Don John. It is unnecessary here to add to the Prince's details. The general result of the engagement was most conclusive: the enemy's loss has been calculated at thirty thousand killed, ten thousand wounded, and fifteen thousand Christian slaves rescued from bondage, besides the destruction or capture of six hundred sail, and a vast booty. The Christian fleet consisted of above two hundred war-galleys, besides many other vessels of various sorts. "On bringing his wife from Ferrara to Pesaro [in January, 1572], they were magnificently received, and passed a gay carnival. In Lent he repaired to Rome, after visiting the holy house of Loreto, and was there entertained by his uncles, the Cardinals of Urbino and Farnese. Pius V. insisted upon very graciously admitting him to an audience, notwithstanding an illness of which he soon died....[81] Francesco Maria was also distinguished by his successor, Gregory XIII., but, on suddenly being recalled by his father, he at once, though reluctantly, obeyed. Soon afterwards, he was attacked by a severe illness, which lasted for three months, aggravated by a false rumour of another naval engagement." [Footnote 81: Particulars of those intrigues in the conclave, by which Cardinal Buoncompagni prevailed over his rivals Morone and Farnese, are omitted, having no reference to our immediate subject.] The part taken by the Prince in the unhappy disturbances of Urbino has been already shown from his own pen, and that of other narrators, as well as his attendance upon his father's death-bed.[*82] We have now, therefore, to enter upon his reign, and here again we have recourse to his memoirs:--"The new Duke departed from Urbino, where he showed himself at the archiepiscopal palace in his robes of sovereignty, and then, as was usual, rode through the streets, on a milk-white steed, dressed in white, and under canopy, thereafter receiving the oaths of allegiance in the great hall of the palace: all this he repeated at Sinigaglia." Among the Oliverian MSS. is this account of the ceremonial, curiously illustrative of the manners of the age:--"After mass of the Holy Spirit had been sung, the Archbishop, Felice of Cagli, advanced to the door of the cathedral, and thence, accompanied by the Gonfaloniere, the three priors, and the people, went to bring forth the Prince from the palace. He wore a riband and scarf of white damask; on his head a crown of pearls, from behind which there hung some bands; and on his shoulders a short cloak of white fur. When he reached the head of the stair in the archiepiscopal palace, on which was a carpet and a cushion, the Archbishop held the Cross for him to kiss. He then entered the church, and approached the high altar, on which was the Holy Sacrament, where, after the usual devotions, accompanied with beautiful sacred music, the Primate read certain prayers and pronounced the benediction, and his Highness made offertory of a piece of ten scudi. He then retired to an adjoining chapel, and, changing his dress, put on a mantle of white, with cap and feathers, in which he issued from the church, and mounted a handsome charger. The Gonfaloniere preceded him on horseback, his drawn sword in his hand, calling aloud, 'Long live the Duke of Urbino!' and the people followed, repeating the cry. Thus they went through the city and returned to the palace. The populace then took off his cloak; and M[aestr]o Antonio Fazino asked his cap, and received it. In like manner he was stripped of his spurs; and his Highness then presented his horse to the city youths, and Mo. Calber Galler mounted it. Mo. Antonio Corboli and the Cavaliere Guido Staccoli next put him on his spurs, Mo. Flaminio Bonaventura his mantle, and Mo. Antonio Fazino held his horse. Having been by this formality elected, he went into the great hall, where the Gonfaloniere and priors, with all the deputies of other cities, by a formal instrument gave their oaths of allegiance, whilst he, in a letter read in his presence by Mo. Giulio Veterani, his secretary, promised to be to them a loving sovereign; after which, all the people came one by one to kiss his hand. All this was done with much rejoicing on the part of the public, and of his Highness, to whom may God grant grace to rule his subjects to the contentment of all." [Footnote *82: Cf. CELLI, _Storia della Sollevazione di Urbino contro il Duca Guidobaldo, 1572-4_ (Torino, 1892).] The following letter, to the young Duke upon his succession, is printed in the correspondence of Girolamo Muzio, his preceptor, whose advices, though somewhat long, well merit attention, totally opposed as they are in spirit to then prevailing principles of government, and anticipating opinions even in our day charily developed in Italy. It is, above all, interesting to discover, on such satisfactory evidence, the political views which must have been inculcated on Francesco Maria from his early years, and which bore some seed in after life, notwithstanding the natural defects of his temper, and the crotchets imbibed from a false philosophy. Had such counsels been generally given and followed, constitutional government in Italy would now have been neither a mockery nor a bone of contention. "Men tried by difficulties and crosses nerve themselves to endure them; yet, knowing how your Excellency has long suffered from many troubles and annoyances, I shall undertake no vain task in wishing to offer consolation in this your new vexation and trial. I need not now say with what grief I have heard of the late sad event, knowing as you do how true a servant I was of his Excellency our Sovereign. On the contrary, I shall address myself to talk of certain considerations which appear to me beseeming the succession you have obtained, through a long and noble ancestry, meaning to speak to you with the freedom and loyalty which a servant should display when his master's interests are at stake; and upon this understanding I shall begin. "I remember more than once, while conversing with the illustrious Duchess your mother, to have lamented the manner in which I observed the government of the state conducted, praying the Almighty to protect you from the risk of being expelled from it, as there would have been no reasonable hope of the people recalling you again; a fact of which her good sense was fully aware. It would be long and irksome were I to repeat the various matters that I disapproved of, but from them I can deduce certain rules which it seems to me you ought to adopt for regulation of your authority, and the maintenance of justice, so as to reacquire and preserve the affection of your subjects. But, Sire, permit me to drop ceremonious designations, in order more readily to express my views. "Let it be your first care, then, to endow the magistrates and city authorities with the ample jurisdiction which their duties require, enjoining upon them to execute justice without respect to persons; command also your courtiers not to interfere in private suits, and do you in like manner yourself forbear meddling with such, leaving the judges to proceed therein by the usual course. Further, should the judge be suspected by either party, let the cause be remitted to another, or let an assessor be named; and, to such alleged suspicion, it is no sufficient answer that any one may be doubted by anybody. In short, it is enough that the judges proceed to pronounce sentence in the regular way; and for such as feel aggrieved, the common and appropriate remedies are open. In my time the custom was abolished--I know not at whose recommendation--of sending causes to be inquired into by a council of skilled persons [a jury?]; it was an excellent and much approved mode of judging, and on that account it would be more advisable to return to it than to leave it off. Statutory penalties have also been changed to arbitrary ones, which has effected great alterations; for where the statutes condemned ten, caprice has multiplied by hundreds, with what justice I know not. This was, indeed, by advice of certain doctors, who declared that the Prince's will ought to be held as law,--a diabolical sentiment, since it is not the absolute will, but the virtuous and upright opinion of the Prince that should be deemed law; nor do I see how any virtuous and honest opinion can contravene statutes confirmed by mutual agreement, and sanctioned by oaths. "Be specially attentive in hearing those who bring complaints of oppression or injury received from your ministers or courtiers, and refuse not to listen even to such as accuse those most dear to you; on the contrary, lend them all your ears, for in proportion as your favourites can reckon upon you, they are likely to consider themselves safe in committing outrages and insults. Think not you can have about you persons who will never make a slip, whether from love, or hatred, or dishonesty. Hear, therefore, by all means hear, and punish him who has either done amiss, or who has brought a false charge. And such audiences you may give at all seasons and places, even when going to mass, or in your moments of recreation, without engaging yourself for a future day; for quarrels may arise requiring prompt remedy, and which cannot wait a future day or hour. By these means you may easily secure the execution of justice, because there will eventually not be many such disputes, when once, by a few examples of severity, you have brought your magistrates, your court, and consequently the rest of your subjects, into such discipline that you will have few complaints to listen to, and will be able to govern your state with little trouble. But see in the commencement to give proof of your vigour, that matters may subsequently proceed favourably. "When others have suffered injury or offence, do them justice, punishing offenders for the general satisfaction; for you may be sure that to visit offences committed upon others protects yourself from the like, whilst impunity gives security to offenders. In the matter of third parties, clemency need not be thought of, forgiveness of a fault being a favour bestowed, which affects the interest of the party offended; thus, he who pardons injuries done to me, disposes of what I alone should dispose of, which is unjust. It may be well to remit injuries done to yourself, for that is your own affair, and it is worthy of a magnanimous prince to pardon when he might punish; but a sovereign ought never to forgive offences against others without their special consent, which cannot be freely given if he intimates such to be his desire. Should disputes arise among your people involving individual honour, you must be judge of this, as much as of charges touching their life and property. Indeed, you ought to decide judicially as to whose reputation is intact and whose compromised; and by chastising any unworthy action, you will at once promote justice and give satisfaction to the injured party. I am touching briefly upon matters which require ample consideration, but it is enough that I moot certain points, knowing well that you have good sense to weigh and decide them. And now to pass to another topic. "You ought to calculate the amount of your revenues, and so proportion your expenses that at the end of the year you have rather a surplus of ten than a deficiency of one; for a short-coming of one to-day, and another to-morrow, and another the day following, will bring you to ruin. Surround yourself with a court more distinguished by the qualities than the number of its members; let it not be larger than you can support, and see that you maintain the mastery, letting none there gain an ascendancy over you. Let each have his department, and be satisfied to do his own duty well, the chamberlain not interfering with the counsellor, nor the sewer with the secretary. See that all have their allowances punctually. Never aggrieve merchants, citizens, nor peasants, by laying hands upon their effects. True generosity will satisfy first those who have rightful claims, not squandering upon gamblers or buffoons; and when these are satisfied, will give to the needy, and to other works of charity. Do not, to gain an empty name for liberality, lavish your means on costly hospitalities towards great personages: those who have hundreds of millions do not so, while you who scarcely have tens would do it! Entertain the master at dinner or supper with yourself, but let the rest go to the hotel at their own expense, and so will you avoid vast trouble and great expense. "In towns all innovations are unpopular and annoying, but especially new imposts; you cannot do anything more generally offensive than to raise them, nor more acceptable than to replace on their original footing those which have been augmented. New taxes and extraordinary escheats seem at first sight useful, but by a providential dispensation they absorb ordinary revenues, making these incomprehensibly to disappear. Let all keep their own; resort to no compulsion of property nor of person; interfere not with marriages; seek not to reward friends or benefit servants out of other people's means: and be it ever graven on your memory, that princes are sent for the people's weal, not people for the benefit of princes. "These few observations have occurred to me, most excellent Sire, for your remembrance. And I have to observe generally and in fine, that you should render yourself amiable to your subjects, being kind, considerate, affable, and doing your utmost to recover their pristine affection, which appears to a great degree lost. You could not by force maintain this state against a powerful foe: let the attachment of your people then supplement your strength; and it can only be acquired by justice, equity, mildness, and clemency. In the present juncture, you might by a single act gain, confirm, and augment the good will and devotion of all your subjects. That act is a grand amnesty, and restoration of exiles and emigrants, embracing all as your children, forgetful of the past. Ah, do this, Sire! do it; it will be a welcome favour to your people, to your friends, to your servants. On the strength of such generosity, you will gain the name of a benign and a magnanimous prince; and, besides having to hope from the Almighty an eternal reward, I can ensure your receiving from the Pope thanks and approbation. "I pray God that this letter of mine may be received by your Excellency with the same feelings as those which dictated it, and that He would vouchsafe you a long life and happy reign; and I kiss your hands. From Rome, the 11th of October, 1574." [Illustration: _Alinari_ DUKE FRANCESCO MARIA II. RECEIVING THE ALLEGIANCE OF HIS FOLLOWERS _After the fresco by Girolamo Genga in the Villa Imperiale, Pesaro_] Let us now see from his own narrative what effect these blunt but precious counsels, and the prudent advices of his uncle Ottavio, Duke of Parma, had upon his early measures. "His first act on assuming the government was to raze those fortifications at Urbino which had been made during the insurrection, and to reduce the impost laid on by his father in his necessity; and this although the late Duke's liberality had imposed upon him many burdensome expenses to which his revenues were scarcely equal, besides heavy debts at interest. He was thus obliged to restrict himself to the unavoidable state expenses. "Further, he was disappointed of those aids he looked for from the kindness of his Catholic Majesty, in whose service his father had died, at whose court he had himself been brought up, for whom he had fought in the battle of Lepanto, and to whose service he had ever professed his intention steadily to adhere. But, during eight long years his hopes dragged on without any result from that quarter, and thus was he compelled to attend closely to his private affairs, and prevented from carrying into execution an intention he had always entertained of following the career of arms, which he was on the point of commencing in Flanders, where he was already looked for when he lost his father. He, however, succeeded in contenting his subjects, and in effacing from their minds whatever bitterness remained in consequence of the recent measures; and this chiefly from their being aware that these events had been displeasing to him, and that he had studied to assist their cause in so far as his parental duty permitted." The moderate and self-denying measures to which the Duke thus modestly alludes are the subject of more detailed commendation by Zane, who was commissioned by the Venetians to congratulate him upon his succession. At the moment of receiving the oaths of fidelity, he abolished those imposts which had occasioned the recent discontents. They were five in number, all upon exciseable commodities, yielding about 16,000 scudi to the revenue. This course he followed up by various grants and immunities to the respective cities, but especially to Urbino. Even before his father's death he had obtained a commutation there of the duties on casking wine and cheese, and of the quatrino per lb. upon butcher-meat, for an equivalent of 20,000 scudi payable in ten years; but he now remitted entirely this contribution. He restored to their property and privileges most of the outlaws and their families; he recalled the proclamations disarming the district; and, by destroying the fortifications erected after the rebellion, he at once relieved the people of a garrison, and demonstrated his renewed confidence in their fidelity. But what had still happier effect, was his repeatedly visiting that capital with but one or two attendants, in full and well-placed reliance upon the affection of his subjects, of whom he ever spoke in public and private with the most affectionate regard. Himself deeply imbued with sentiments of religion, it was his aim to encourage the same among his people. Nor was he indifferent to personal accomplishments, or to the reputation which his predecessors had established, and which Castiglione has immortalised. "There are ever at his court some persons distinguished in arms or in letters, and it is the taste for all to cultivate a refined urbanity of manner, and to be in every respect perfect courtiers, a fashion of old observance there, yet more than ever in repute since the Prince visited Spain." But it is time to resume the Autobiography. [Illustration: _Alinari_ DUKE FRANCESCO MARIA II. RECEIVING THE ALLEGIANCE OF HIS FOLLOWERS _After the fresco by Girolamo Genga in the Villa Imperiale, Pesaro_] "Notwithstanding this state of affairs, he discovered a conspiracy against his person, originating with men who had reason to apprehend the consequences of their former proceedings. These were Pietro Bonarelli of Ancona, on whom the late Duke had bestowed the countship of Orciano, with other estates and great wealth, and Antonio Stati, Count of Montebello. Orciano saved himself by flight, and was condemned in absence; the other was put upon trial, and at length, in due execution of justice, he was beheaded, and some of his accomplices hanged.[83] Francesco Maria, nevertheless, laboured for the good government of his people, with due economy of his time. In the morning he gave audience to his counsellors and secretaries, and in the evening to all who desired it, dismissing these with despatch; and thus business went on well and rightly." We are told by Gozze,[84] who seems to have been a contemporary, that at this period he occupied himself much with criminal police, and exerted himself to repress brigandage, and to reform the abuses arising from privileged sanctuaries. His rigorous perseverance in such measures, and his stern demeanour towards the nobility, acquired for him, with many, a reputation for severity, which the infirmities of his temper must have served to confirm. The only other reference to his system of administration which the Autobiography contains, is as follows:--"He attended assiduously to the government of his state, maintaining peace, and administering justice with integrity and impartiality. He passed the summer at Urbino, the winter between Pesaro and Castel Durante. At intervals he visited his other residences, and when he omitted doing this in person, he despatched one of the judges on a sort of circuit, who in one year went to Gubbio, Cagli, Fossombrone, and La Pergola; in another to Sinigaglia and Mondavio; and in a third to the province of Montefeltro." [Footnote 83: The object of this plot is stated to have been the Duke's assassination at a hunting party in the manors of Orciano, to which he was invited by the conspirators.] [Footnote 84: MSS. Oliveriana No. 324.] CHAPTER XLV The unsatisfactory results of his marriage--He separates from the Duchess--His court and habits--Death of the Duchess--He remarries. Having thus thrown together all that the Duke has thought fit to detail regarding the principles of his government and the early events of his reign, we now proceed to narrate in their order, from his Diary and from other sources, the few incidents afforded by those peaceful and monotonous pursuits wherein many subsequent years were passed. The first of these was of a painful domestic character, arising out of the unsatisfactory terms upon which he had during several years been with the Duchess. That love formed no ingredient in the match has been already shown, and perhaps his speedy and voluntary departure on a distant military expedition may be taken as a proof that his indifference did not diminish after wedlock had riveted his chains. In 1573, Lucrezia was laid up at Novilara with a feverish cold, and was attended by her husband, who with great reluctance consented to her return to Ferrara, on the excuse of change of air being requisite for re-establishment of her health. The truth seems to have been, that her marriage appearing unlikely to give an heir to the family, the Prince was confirmed in his original distaste, and this is said to have occasioned some disagreeable scenes with his father, whom he blamed for having forced upon him so unfortunate an alliance. The scandal to which these probably gave rise, and the example of coldness towards her which he most assuredly set, had, no doubt, rendered her position sufficiently unpleasant, and, after exchanging it for the freedom of her brother's elegant court, it is scarcely to be wondered that she hesitated to return, even after her husband had succeeded to the sovereignty of Urbino. That rumour was busy with gossip and conjectures is pretty obvious, and the countenance which Muratori gives to an allegation of Lucrezia's jealousy of his supposed infidelities may be taken as the version current at Ferrara of their mysterious non-adherence. Of this suspicion the life and character of Francesco afford an ample refutation, but its existence induced an endeavour on his part to bring about a better understanding with his wife. In 1577, accordingly, he employed the Bishop of Pesaro and Father-general del Carmine to persuade her to return to his home. In a paper of instructions for their guidance, preserved among the Oliveriana MSS., he declares that the excuses she pleaded were of no weight, and could not be the real motives of her absence. In reference to pecuniary arrangements, he urges the great economy and self-denial which his father's embarrassments imposed upon him, but offers her the same establishment as his mother enjoyed, besides Novilara and its dependencies, in all about 6000 scudi a-year. But, in consideration of the slanderous and groundless imputations against himself to which her absence had given rise, he intimates his intention to select for her a suitable suite of respectable persons, leaving her, however, to choose eight or ten from them to be more immediately about her person. This negotiation having failed, the affair was next year submitted for the decision of Cardinals Farnese, Sforza, and d'Este: it would appear that an amicable separation was then determined upon; at all events, the Duchess returned no more to her husband's state. The notice of this disagreeable topic in the diary of Francesco Maria is as follows:--"Meanwhile the Duchess wished to return to Ferrara, where she subsequently chose to remain, a resolution which gave no annoyance to her husband; for, as she was unlikely to bring him a family, her absence mattered little. Her provision was amicably arranged, and their intercourse continued uniformly on the most courteous terms." In support of this last statement the following letter from Lucrezia is conclusive. "To the most serene Lord my Consort the Duke of Urbino. "My most serene Lord and affectionate Consort, "I could not have heard any message with more satisfaction than that which Count Alessandro della Massa has brought me in your Highness's name, on presenting your affectionate letters, nor could any present have been more gratifying than the picture which you were pleased to send me: both on account of its subject, and as coming from your hands, it will be ever the most valued that I possess. On all accounts, therefore, do I kiss your Highness's hand, recommending myself to your goodness; and I pray the Lord to preserve you ever in all happiness. From Ferrara, 28th of May, 1586. "Your most loving and obedient consort and servant, "LUCREZIA D'ESTE." The Oliveriana MSS. contain many other letters from Lucrezia; but, as usual with such princely documents, they are more rich in mannered phrases of compliment than in those natural sentiments which form the charm of epistolary composition, and afford a correct index of individual character. Most of them are commendatory introductions of priests and friars, a class of acquaintances more congenial to her husband's disposition than her own, the chief foible in her character being an immoderate addiction to those festive and exciting pleasures, which, although the business of her brother's court, met with little encouragement at that of her consort. Her intercourse with Tasso will fall to be noticed in our fifty-first chapter, when describing the sorrows of that wayward genius. After her return to Ferrara, she interested herself in establishing at San Matteo an asylum for wives, who, like herself, were separated by incompatibility of character. Soon after his separation from the Duchess had been arranged, Francesco Maria paid a visit to the court of Tuscany, where he met with a distinguished reception, and spent fifteen days very agreeably amid the many attractions of Florence, varied by comedies and amusements of the chase. During the ensuing carnival he introduced unwonted gaiety at Pesaro, holding a tournament, at which he entered the lists in person. About this time, too, his finances were recruited by a donative of 10,000 scudi granted to him by that city. [Illustration: _Anderson_ FRANCESCO I. DE' MEDICI _After the picture by Bronzino in the Pitti Gallery, Florence_] The Duke's autograph Diary, from which we have recently quoted, and to which we shall frequently refer, having been carried to Florence with his other personal effects in 1631, remains in the Magliabechiana Library (Class xxv., No. 76). It is a narrow folio volume, like an index book, containing about two hundred pages entirely in his own hand. The entries are limited to a bare notice of facts without comment. The topics most frequently registered are the passage of remarkable strangers through Pesaro; the births, marriages, and deaths of persons of rank; his own periodical movements to his various residences, and visits to other parts of the duchy; his frequent hunting parties in autumn and winter, chiefly from Castel Durante; his taking medicine, including regular semestral purgations in spring and autumn. His taste for the physical sciences is illustrated by noting the occurrence of earthquakes, unusual storms, or other phenomena of nature, the recurrence of frost and snow, of the cigala and the nightingale, of mosquitoes, and similar signs of the seasons; also the appearance of any rare animal or monstrous production of nature. The Journal commences in April, 1583, and is continued without interruption until March, 1623, when it terminates abruptly. The disappointment felt by the Duke at the fruitlessness of his family friendship with the crown of Spain was removed by receiving, towards the close of 1582, a military commission from his Catholic Majesty. This was the only relic of the condottiere system that survived the changes of the sixteenth century upon the political and military aspect of Europe. It was the intervening link between mercenary bands of the middle ages and standing armies of modern times. No plan could have better suited all parties. The great powers were thus enabled to command on sudden exigencies an ample force, without waste of time or treasure. The petty sovereigns by it eked out their inadequate revenues, without further burden to their subjects than an occasional call upon the military services of those who regarded arms as a pastime, and whose restless spirits, if not thus employed, would have been dangerous at home. The people, without abandoning the arts of peace, reaped a portion of the fruits of war. These benefits were, indeed, purchased by a surrender of the last vestige of independence, for the salary paid to the princes in name of stipend was, in fact, the price of their political subserviency. Yet it was but a nominal compromise, to sell the shadow when the substance had long departed; and we find the example of Spain in retaining friends throughout La Marca, for pecuniary considerations, recommended for the imitation of Venice by one of her ambassadors about this very time. The conditions of the Duke's service were an annual pay of 12,000 scudi, which, in 1599, was augmented to 15,000, a company of men-at-arms in the kingdom of Naples, and ample protection in all his undertakings; in return for which he was bound to provide, when called upon by Philip II., three thousand militia, and to take the field with them when his Majesty appeared there in person. The amount of troops thus actually raised in the duchy for the Spanish service during the next thirty years has been calculated at seven thousand two hundred men, a sufficient proof that the benefits accruing from the arrangement were mutual. The Pope now granted Francesco Maria the honourable prefix of "Most Serene" to the title of Highness, which he had enjoyed in common with other minor sovereigns, a distinction said to have been accorded with difficulty, and after long entreaty. The establishment of a Swiss guard is another illustration of his partiality at this period to pomps which he subsequently little esteemed. In the following year, the court of Pesaro was enlivened by the Princess Lavinia's nuptials with Felice d'Avalos, Marquis del Vasto, when twelve poetesses were said to have tuned their lyres at the Imperiale, in honour of the joyous occasion. His marriage presents to his bride, mentioned in her brother's Diary, consisted of a necklace of jewels, a bag or muff of sable skin--the head and feet studded with precious stones, called a _zebellino_, and similar to that represented in Titian's beautiful portrait of her grandmother, Duchess Leonora,--a set of fan-sticks, a gem mounted as a sun, two pearls for ear-drops, a diamond cross and eagle, and an order for 3000 scudi: the whole was valued at 10,000 scudi. The happy pair spent some months at the court of Urbino, while the Marquis often joined the hunting parties from Castel Durante. But the sun that rose thus brightly was soon clouded by his wretched and tyrannical temper, which embittered his consort's life. Many years after, she married, in her widowhood, the gallant Marquis of Pescara, her brother's long-tried friend, and, finally, with her two daughters, sought repose and peace in the convent of Sta. Chiara at Urbino, where she died in 1633. In the end of 1583 the Duke began to build the Vedetta, on the most commanding eminence of Monte Bartolo, which he had obtained for this purpose from the Gerolimini convent. Of this casino only the foundation remains, but it would seem to have been an appendage of the Imperiale palace, whither the court ascended in the summer heats, to inhale gentle breezes from the blue Adriatic, which sparkled some hundred feet beneath. For such a purpose no spot could have been better chosen, and the magnificent prospect, which we have elsewhere noticed without attempting to describe, renders it probably the most attractive site in all the fair duchy. As a further mark of favour, Philip II. of Spain sent him, in 1586, the decoration of the Golden Fleece; and in order to confer it in manner at once honourable and complimentary to his personal feelings, his Majesty requested the investiture to be given him by his uncle the Duke of Parma. That Duke was then suffering from gout, and drawing towards his death, which occurred in the following autumn; so Francesco Maria showed respect at once for the King and for his relation, whom he revered as a parent, by proceeding to meet him at Bologna. The two princely guests were magnificently entertained by the authorities of that city, as well as by the Cardinal Legate Salviati and the Archbishop Palotta: they were lodged in the palace of the latter, who performed high mass in the cathedral at the investiture. The collar and girdle of the order were set with brilliants, and were accompanied by a rich present of jewels to the Duchess, consisting of four hundred and twenty-six pearls, and a handsome necklace, girdle, two pendants, and sixty buttons, all enamelled in red and white upon gold, and studded with diamonds. Although, on the whole, a more popular sovereign than his father, we have seen Francesco Maria subjected, in the early years of his reign, to seditious movements on the part of some discontented nobles. Of a similar attempt in 1586, few particulars have been preserved; but this notice of it in his Diary exhibits him as a stern dispenser of justice. "Count Giovanni de' Thomasi was beheaded in the fortress of Pesaro for homicide, sedition, and bad service towards his master; he died as a Christian and a brave man, and may God pardon his sins." But, though of hard, and even stern manners, the Duke retained the affection of his household, most of whom remained long in his service. From a catalogue of the chief officers at his court, compiled by Lazzari, we learn the emoluments belonging to the principal places. _Scudi._ The superintendent of the household had yearly 1000 The master of the chamber 400 The master of the household 200 The gentlemen cuirassiers 250 The chamberlains 224 The sewer or carver for visitors 250 The philosopher or dilettante of poetry 300 The physician 250 The chaplain 150 The auditors or judges 500 The eight counsellors 400 The chief secretary 400 The secretary of justice 350 The treasurer 250 The fiscal advocate 350 The captains of the guard 232 The commandants of garrisons 300 The castellans, besides perquisites 150 The ambassador to Spain 1000 The ambassador to Venice 400 The agent in Rome 100 Francesco Maria had now reached the flower of manhood, and this may be considered the most fortunate period of his reign. During the next twelve years no untoward incident interrupted the smooth current of his life, or the prosperity of his government. The healthful exercise of the chase constituted his favourite relaxation from the cares of state, and his Diary preserves more minute information on this than on any other topic. He had within reach of Pesaro eighteen preserves, stocked with roe-deer, goats, foxes, hares, pheasants, and partridges, all of which were, in those days, considered fair game. The more exciting sport of wild-boar was found in greatest perfection near Mondolfo, and the following entry occurs in January, 1588. "Hunted in the chase of S. Costanzo, and, in three hours, killed nine wild boars, weighing 2580 lbs., besides offal. The largest one weighed overhead 917 lbs. We cut off its head close behind the ears, and hung it in the castle window over the great street of Mondolfo; its weight was 59-1/2 lbs." But red deer were the Duke's noblest and favourite sport, which, being only found in the highlands of his duchy, was his original attraction to Castel Durante, whence the best forest coverts were easily accessible. It was on that account selected as his chief residence during his father's life, and continued his annual resort in autumn so long as he could follow the game. When increasing years precluded such pastimes, we shall find that he there provided other appliances more befitting his circumstances, and that these preserved for Castel Durante a partiality which increased to the latest hours of his life. He was in use there to spend the autumnal months, returning to Pesaro before the carnival, and moving to Urbino towards midsummer. In the interval from the 7th of September, 1588, till the end of the following January, twenty-eight hunting parties are mentioned in his Journal, at some of which wolves and smaller game were killed. Red deer must have been in great abundance: thus, November, 1587, "We killed a dozen, six of them males, the largest weighing 464 lbs., besides 380 lbs. of offal. We left Castel Durante about noon, and returned at dusk, after losing nearly an hour in watching a hind which took refuge in the broken ground of the Lady's Park, when fell dead the famous hound Box-cur, the only British one I had. The twelve deer weighed 2914 lbs., without offal." In the subsequent season, "hunted red deer in the valley of S. Martino with greyhounds, but without canvas or nets. Saw twelve, and chased five of them; but, though the dogs came up with them, they were not able to hold any." The park which he had inclosed in the beautiful vale of the Metauro, just out of Castel Durante, was stocked with fallow-deer: which, however, seem to have been kept chiefly for ornament, though occasionally resorted to for greyhound coursing, when age had relaxed his limbs for the rougher mountain sport. The last hunting party he mentions was in 1615. Though reserved in manner, and little apt to indulge his court in amusements uncongenial with his own unsocial temperament, he sometimes relaxed so far as to have dancing fêtes at the Imperiale, where he mentions three hundred ladies as having on one occasion been present. The representation of comedies was a frequent carnival pastime. The manner of conducting these theatricals, and the methodical punctuality of the Duke's character, are at once illustrated in the following extract. In February, 1589, "a comedy by the late Maestro Fabio Bagnano was recited in the great hall of Pesaro, beginning at 4 p.m. The first act lasted an hour and ten minutes; after which came an interlude for twenty minutes, from the fable of Ulysses hearing his wanderings foretold by Tiresias; then act second, in fifty minutes, with a musical interlude for ten minutes; then act third, in half-an-hour, with, for interlude, the marriage of Eolus and Deiopeia, in twelve minutes; then act fourth, in forty-eight minutes, and its musical interlude, in seven minutes; lastly, act fifth, in thirty-eight minutes, with its interlude of the gods allotting their various dominions; but this was not finished in consequence of a cloud which, by some mismanagement, did not descend properly." Among the performances noted about this period are the comedies of _I falsi Sospetti_ by Pino; another by the Cavaliere Ludovico Odasio, _I Suppositi_; and an eclogue entitled _La Myrtia_. The interludes between the acts were frequently moresque dances or ballets representing mythological subjects, such as the fable of Prometheus, that of Calisto, the birth of Venus; varied by more familiar themes, as hunting the owl. In 1597, we find noticed, among other gay doings during carnival, a tournament in the great hall of Pesaro, wherein ten or twelve knights ran each three courses, and which was followed by an exhibition of various pleasing conceits. Of Francesco Maria's literary pursuits we have various pleasing memorials. Not satisfied with the valuable library of MSS. that had descended to him from the Feltrian dukes, he formed another of standard printed works. Indeed, he became an assiduous book collector; and the letters of his librarian Benedetto Benedetti, in the Oliveriana Library, are full of lists which his agents in Venice, Florence, and even Frankfort are urged to supply. In his own voluminous correspondence, we find constant offers from authors of dedications or copies of their productions, the tone of which is highly complimentary to his taste for letters. In 1603, the Archbishop of Monreale, in Spain, transmits him the regulations he proposed to prescribe in bequeathing his library to a seminary he had founded in his diocese, expressing a hope that they might prove useful to the Duke's collection, "at this moment without parallel in the world."[85] Instead of quoting the vague testimony of courtly compliment, as to the use which this philosophic Prince made of these acquisitions, let us cite the brief records of his studies, preserved in his own Diary. In 1585, "terminated an inspection of the whole works of Aristotle, on which I have laboured no less than fifteen years, having had them generally read to me by Maestro Cesare Benedetti, of Pesaro." But his reading was not limited to such speculative topics, and we presently find him imbibing knowledge from a purer source. In 1587, "I finished my examination of the whole Bible, with various commentaries, on which I have spent three years and ten months." Again, on the "15th of December, 1598, completed my second perusal of the entire Bible, which I read this time with the commentary of Dionysio the Carthusian, occupying upon it eight years." A curious inference of the contemplative character of his mind may be drawn from the devices he successively assumed as emblematic of his feelings. In youth he used a flame vanishing into air, with the motto _Quies in sublime_, "There is rest on high:" after he succeeded to the dukedom, he took a terrestrial globe with the legend _Ponderibus librata suis_, "Self-poised." [Footnote 85: Bibl. Oliveriana, No. 375, vol. XI., p. 204.] The position of Pesaro, on the principal high road to Loreto and Rome, exposed it to the constant passage of travellers of all ranks. The former was the habitual resort of Roman Catholics, to whom holy impulses, the hope of any specific blessing, or gratitude for mercies vouchsafed, suggested an unusual devotional observance. The annual functions of Easter, St. Peter's day, and Christmas, besides the great occasional jubilees, attracted to the latter crowds of pious pilgrims from all Christendom. The dukes were thus laid open to frequent calls upon their hospitality, which the state maintained by passing visitors often rendered most onerous. Thus, in 1589, Duke Alfonso II. of Ferrara, on his way to and from Loreto, spent four days at Pesaro, with his suite, consisting of fifty carriages, and one hundred and fifty mounted attendants, at an expense to his host of 3000 scudi. All royal pilgrims did not, however, thus mingle worldly pomp with religious duties: ten years after, Ranuccio, Duke of Parma, arrived incognito, in company with three others, who wore red sack dresses, and travelled on foot. After passing the night at Pesaro, they proceeded to Sinigaglia, on their way to the opening of the holy door at Rome, in the jubilee of 1600. Eighteen years later, Francesco Maria's Diary thus notes a more interesting visit: "9th June, 1618, the Galileo arrived at Pesaro, on his return from Loreto to Florence." The philosopher was then resident at the Villa Segni, near his native capital, and suffered much from the effects of a chronic illness caught in Lombardy some years previously, while sleeping with an open window. Perhaps his pilgrimage to the holy house may have been influenced by this circumstance. "'Twas he who, risking life and fame to crush The idol-worship that enslaved mankind, Restored its native freedom to the mind." In October, 1597, the direct line of the dukes of Ferrara closed on the death of Alfonso II., whose object had been to secure to his cousin Cesare, Marquis of Montecchio, the succession of his states, as well as his private heritage. He had been able to obtain from the Emperor a new investiture in his favour of Modena, Reggio, and Carpi, but failed in procuring the like boon from Gregory XIV. as to the Ferrarese holding. Immediately upon the vacancy, Cesare assumed the dukedom, with full consent of his people, who dreaded the descent to provincial rank which must have followed upon their annexation to the papal state. Clement VIII., who then filled the chair of St. Peter, answered a conciliatory embassy sent him by the claimant, with a summons to appear at Rome, and, on his non-compliance, thundered excommunication against him and his abettors. These decided steps were followed up by a levy of nearly thirty thousand men, but ere they could be brought into the field, Cesare d'Este gained some partial successes near Bologna. Finding, however, that his position was hopeless, he availed himself of the mediation of Lucrezia Duchess of Urbino, who succeeded in reconciling him with the Legate. The devolution of Ferrara to the Holy See was harmoniously completed in February; but the lady has been accused of sacrificing the interests of her cousin to an old grudge against his father, and to a promise of the fief of Bertinoro. She did not, however, live to receive the bribe, and her death is thus dryly noted in her husband's Diary:-- "February 14th, I sent the Abbé Brunetti to Ferrara, to visit the Duchess, my wife, who was sick. "---- 15th, Heard that Madame Lucrezia d'Este, Duchess of Urbino, my wife, died at Ferrara during the night of the 11th. "---- 19, The Abbé Brunetti returned from Ferrara." In his Memoirs she is the subject of still more brief remark:--"Her death occurred after some years, leaving him [the Duke] executor by her will of many pious bequests." Considering that the largest bequest was in his own favour, a less chilling notice might have been bestowed! The sum she left him was 30,000 scudi: to her various attendants and servants she gave 12,000 in small legacies, and 20,000 among several convents, in masses for her soul. There was also a fund to be mortified for the endowment of poor girls, half at Ferrara and half at Urbino, and Cardinal Pietro Aldobrandini, the Pope's nephew, was named residuary legatee, a selection which has been ingeniously ascribed to the countenance bestowed by his family on Tasso, in the closing scenes of that minstrel's troubled life. The anxiety which had long been generally felt on the prospect of a failure of the ducal family began to show itself after the death of Lucrezia. The impediment of a childless marriage having thus been providentially removed, men's hopes were again awakened, and their wishes were not long in finding a unanimous expression. When Francesco Maria appeared in public, his ears were greeted with murmurs from the populace, which at length broke out in enthusiastic demands for his marriage, and _Serenissimo, moglie_, "A wife, your Highness," became the universal cry.[*86] The ferment thus created was greatly increased by a circumstance which at first sight does not appear much connected with the welfare of the duchy. In the spring of 1598, Clement VIII., on his passage to take possession of Ferrara, paid a visit to the court of Pesaro, where the magnificent reception accorded him, and the long confidential interviews he had with the Duke, were construed by popular jealousy into preparatives for political changes. The extinction of the reigning line would infer a lapse of their sovereignty to the Pope, similar to that which had just degraded Ferrara: Francesco Maria's disinclination for state-toils had already begun to show itself: the readiness of his Holiness to secure so valuable a reversion, or even to anticipate it by providing for the Duke an honourable retreat from duties which he considered onerous, scarcely admitted of a doubt, an appetite for annexation being naturally whetted by the recent acquisition of territory. These ideas became a theme of discussion among the multitudes who crowded from all quarters of the state to witness the courtly shows at Pesaro; and when the Duke returned to the city from escorting the Pope towards Ferrara, he was met at the gate by a host of his subjects, whose loyalty and patriotism burst forth afresh in tumultuous shouts of "_Serenissimo! moglie_." [Footnote *86: Cf. CALOGERÀ, _Memorie concernenti Franc. Maria II._ (Venice, 1776).] That the object of Clement's visit had been faithfully construed by the general voice seems more than probable from the document we are about to quote; but upon this point the Memoirs throw no light. They merely notice his reception of the Pontiff with all distinction, and the remarkably friendly bearing of his Holiness towards himself and the Duchess mother during a day spent at their court: mutual presents passed between them, and Clement dwelt on the good service which his father had afforded to Duke Guidobaldo. From the Duke's Diary we learn that after meeting his Holiness on his southern frontier, and again escorting him out of Sinigaglia, where he had slept with a suite of sixteen cardinals, he took boat and hastened to Pesaro. Next morning he proceeded to meet his visitor, who had spent the night at Fano, and welcomed him to his capital. Passing back to Rome in the end of the year, the Pope halted at Pesaro only to say mass in the cathedral; and on both occasions he was preceded one day by the Holy Sacrament. In the following year the Pontiff, in acknowledgment, perhaps, of these hospitalities, accorded to his host a dispensation, whereby the indulgences, to which the use of certain rosary prayers and ave maria's entitled him, were united and concentrated in a single _cavaliere_.[87] [Footnote 87: Rosaries, _corone_, and such were helpmates or promptuaries to prayer, differing in form and varying in supposed efficacy, according to the special privileges and indulgences bestowed on them by ecclesiastical gift. A specimen of the nature and powers of such indulgences will be found in the description of a corona belonging to the Grand Duke of Tuscany in 1666. See Appendix VI.] The predominant feeling of Francesco Maria, even at this period of his life, appears to have been a selfish attachment to solitary habits and pursuits, tempered by sincere anxiety to discharge his public duties for the benefit of his people. An argument addressing itself to both motives readily occurred to the wily Pontiff. An immediate abdication would secure to the Duke personal ease, and the consequent devolution of his government to the Camera Apostolica might be guarded by stipulations for the public weal, which such voluntary demission alone could entitle him to dictate. The art with which these considerations had been urged, and the impression they made upon the Duke, may be best gathered from a circular he addressed to the magistrates of each city in his state, curiously exemplifying him in that character of royal philosopher which it seems to have been his ambition to attain.[*88] [Footnote *88: Cf. REPOSATI, _Della Zecca di Gubbio_, vol. II., p. 220 (Bologna, 1772-3). The date of this letter was June 7th, 1598.] "Most magnificent and well-beloved, "Ever since we understood that you so affectionately long for the continuation and maintenance of our house, we have had no wish more urgent than to conform to your desires; and although for some time past we have been always anxious to facilitate this resolution, yet the more we consider it, the greater do the difficulties daily appear, not only by reason of our age and infirmities, but much more from the obligation laid upon us to take no step that might turn to your prejudice, as we know this would do: for, upon weighing the advantages that would accrue to you by being placed after our death immediately under the sway of the Church, there cannot, in our opinion, be a doubt that this would be most beneficial; since, besides being rid of the present inconvenient restrictions on trade in grain, salt, oil, and similar commodities, you might well hope, from a sovereign so powerful as his Holiness, many exemptions and facilities which we, however well-disposed, cannot, with due attention to the suitable maintenance of our rank, accord you. Wherefore, we exhort and pray you, to take all this into your most serious consideration; and, along with it, those suggestions which your affectionate devotion may prompt, in conjunction with our delicate and advanced age, as these might, at all events, render vain the hope of a succession, or at least might occasion you to be some day left under a minority (ever a judgment of God upon a nation), and us to die with such pain as you may conceive the predicament of leaving a minor would occasion us: whereas, on the other hand, were we to remain in our present condition, looking, so long as God may vouchsafe us life, for no other children than yourselves, we might the more diligently apply to the cares of our government. It is therefore our desire that you satisfy yourselves in this matter, and, after having prayed in all sincerity to our Lord and Saviour for His inspiration, that you convoke a full meeting of your usual council, excluding all officers of our government, and that, after reading to them this our letter, they should decide by ballot what they judge most fitting for the common weal, having sworn the consuls to conceal nothing of the resolution they come to; and you shall report their decision to the Bishop of this city, who, keeping it secret from us and all others, shall declare only the general result of this appeal to you and to the other principal places of our state, to whom we write in similar terms: and the opinion so expressed we shall, in accordance to our love towards you, endeavour to carry into effect even at the hazard of our life, thus appealing to the faithful attachment you have ever displayed towards our house and ourselves, as is well known to all, but chiefly to us.--May it, therefore, please the blessed God so to inspire you, that these our exhortations and commands may be executed so as to bring about the best results, and may He preserve you. From Pesaro, 7th June, 1598. "FRANCESCO MARIA." The consequence of this singular appeal was a unanimous and urgent resolution in favour of the Duke's immediate marriage; indeed nothing else could well be looked for, the alternative contemplated by the people being loss of their independence, and the substitution of a foreign legate, changed every few years, for a hereditary and popular sovereign. Passeri conjectures that this result was in fact less distasteful to Francesco Maria than the tone of his letter might infer; and that the whole expedient was adopted in order to obtain a satisfactory answer to the importunities of the Pontiff, whom the stern measures lately adopted towards Ferrara had rendered the Duke peculiarly averse to thwart, by opposition to his scheme. From the Memoirs so often quoted, we learn nothing beyond the obvious facts, that the marriage was undertaken in compliance with urgent entreaties of the Duchess mother and of the people of Urbino, and that the bride was his own choice. Of Cardinal Giulio della Rovere's two natural sons we have already spoken.[89] In the correspondence of Francesco Maria, there occur some proofs of a bad understanding between him and these cousins, the origin and circumstances of which it is unnecessary to examine. To Ippolito Marquis of S. Lorenzo, there was born in 1585, of his marriage with Isabella Vitelli, Princess dell'Amatrice in the Abruzzi, a daughter Livia, who was educated in the convent of Sta. Caterina at Pesaro; and on her fell the choice of Francesco Maria, as announced in the following extract of a letter to the Archduchess Maria of Austria. A selection so obviously ineligible may have been dictated in part by that shrinking from close contact with strangers which his reserved habits were calculated to generate, and partly too by the sad experience he had already reaped of a marriage of state policy. [Footnote 89: Above, p. 82.] "Moved by the unremitting entreaties of my subjects, I have been forced to establish myself by a new alliance: yet as my age and other considerations would have prevented me from taking this resolution but for their satisfaction, I have chosen to combine with their wishes a due consideration for my own, by selecting one of my proper blood, and brought up in this country, in whom are combined many of the qualities suited to my views." Of the domestic life of Francesco Maria after his second union no record has been preserved to us. The circumstances in which it was effected were not such as to promise a high degree of matrimonial felicity, to which his cold nature, advanced age, and reserved character were virtually impediments. Nor could the monotonous seclusion of his habits be attractive to a youthful bride, transported from a convent to the rank of sovereignty with few of its gauds. That she had the good sense simply to conform to her position may be inferred from the rare occurrence of her name in the documents which I have inspected. The brief notices of her in her husband's Diary merely prove that they were seldom apart, and in one instance she is mentioned as accompanying him to his favourite pastime of deer hunting. Regarding preliminaries for their marriage, that record is silent, and the only allusion to it is in this concise phrase: "26th April, 1599, I married the Lady Livia della Rovere." But letters of the Duchess, written long subsequently, to her granddaughter, of which a specimen will be introduced below, exhibit her character in a light so amiable as to warrant our regret that it has not been more prominently brought into view, in the few materials which we possess for this portion of our narrative. Francesco Maria's affection to his mother would have been beautiful in any rank. Besides anxiously providing for her comfort by a suitable establishment, he made her his friend and confidante through life; and during his first marriage she filled at his court the place which in happier circumstances would have been occupied by his wife. The ailments of her advancing years he tended with affectionate anxiety, and thus notices her decease on the 13th December, 1602, after a long indisposition. "Most deep was the public grief for the loss of this excellent and sainted Princess. She was beloved by all, but most by her son, who felt her death as no common sorrow, and testified both in public and in private the sincerity of his feelings. Her funeral oration, pronounced by Leoni, was very fine, though his praises necessarily fell far short of her real merits." The Venetian Relazioni from the della Rovere court bear witness to her sound judgment and business habits, to her generous disposition and beneficent charities, as well as to the piety of her character, and the exemplary conduct observed by her household. Her remains were interred by those of her husband, with an epitaph which will be found in No. VII. of the Appendix, and her son appears from his Diary to have worn mourning for her for upwards of a year. CHAPTER XLVI Birth of Prince Federigo--The Duke's retired habits and aversion to business--His constitution-making experiments--His instructions to his son--The Prince's unfortunate education and character. Although the patriotism and loyalty of his people had been gratified by the gracious manner in which he had assented to their eager desire for his marriage, yet was there wanting somewhat to the full fruition of their cherished hopes. The health of the Duchess was watched with anxiety, and when months had passed away without the promise of an heir, apprehensions more restless than before spread over the land. In a matter beyond the limits of human will, recourse was had to the Dispenser of all events. Prayers were offered up in public and private. Vows were solemnly registered by all the towns, by confraternities, even by village communities and private individuals, for the erection and dedication of churches and altars, especially to S. Ubaldo, once bishop of Gubbio, who had been assumed as special protector of that city and of the race of Montefeltro. About the beginning of 1605, it was announced that these devotional appeals had been crowned with success: the gloomy anticipations of the citizens were turned to joyous hope; and so formidable to the public tranquillity did the reaction of enthusiasm appear, that orders were issued for transporting into the fortress of Pesaro all the state archives, in case any tumult or conflagration might endanger their safety. As the Duchess's confinement drew near, the subject seemed exclusively to engross men's minds, and when her hour was reported to have arrived, the piazza in front of the palace was crowded with an impatient multitude, who remained a day and night in eager expectation. At length, on the morning of the 16th of May, the festival of the patron saint Ubaldo, to whom their prayers had been addressed, about nine o'clock, the Duke appeared at a window of the great hall, and announced with a loud and clear voice, "God has vouchsafed us a boy!" The cheer of joyous triumph which rang through the palace-yards was but an inadequate expression of the general exultation, and the precautions taken to preserve the peace proved but too limited; for the insensate popular excitement vented itself in an attack upon the Jews' quarter, and succeeded in sacking and burning their synagogue and shops, in spite of exertions by the military, who had been held in readiness to quell the outbreak. Meanwhile salvoes of artillery proclaimed the Prince's advent; and in grateful acknowledgment of his good fortune, his father proclaimed pardon to many prisoners, and favours to various classes of his subjects. At the same time, with due regard to good order, he checked the longer continuance of noisy and tumultuous festivity, and in particular prohibited discharges of fire-arms under the heavy penalty of 100 scudi. Any scepticism which might have been secretly entertained of the infant being truly a _dieu-donné_, in special answer to the thousand prayers that had been proffered to or through S. Ubaldo, was removed or silenced by his arrival on the fête of that saint whose hold on the devotional feelings of the people was thus marvellously riveted. Among the couriers speedily despatched over the duchy to bear boot and spur the happy news, one directed to Gubbio, the city and diocese of S. Ubaldo, was charged with a special letter from Francesco Maria.[*90] Arriving in hot haste, he found the whole population assembled in arms in the piazza, with the magistrates at their head, to whom he delivered the welcome missive; after publication of which the multitude formed a solemn procession to the cathedral, to render thanksgivings to S. Ubaldo, its and their protector. In that church the community of Gubbio lost no time in erecting a new chapel commemorative of the occasion, and placed on the altar a picture, in which the Madonna and Child smile benignantly on the suppliant saints, John Baptist and Ubaldo (the former their original patron), whilst in the lower part is seen the courier's arrival with the ducal despatch. Other places were scarcely less enthusiastic in redeeming their pious pledges, though enthusiasm seems to have been occasionally tempered by meaner considerations. Thus, in the communal records of S. Angelo in Vado, I found appeals from the Duke to quicken the tardy contribution of 500 scudi towards the erection of a votive church to S. Ubaldo; and months were spent in discussions among the magistracy how that sum was to be raised, by an assessment upon the artisans, and a duty upon butcher-meat. I know not whether we are to regard as an economical solution of the difficulty an altar picture in the church of S. Filippo there, in which S. Ubaldo is represented as introducing to the Madonna and Child the young Prince, led up by S. Crescenzio, the patron of Urbino, while St. John Baptist intercedes in his behalf. Federigo seems a child about five years old, in a very richly embroidered dress, and strongly resembles a portrait of him which came into my hands from the Vatican Library, and which is here introduced.[91] [Footnote *90: Cf. PELLEGRINI, _op. cit._, in _Boll. cit._, vol. _cit._, p. 506 _et seq._ There seems always to have been an antagonism between Gubbio and Urbino, and now Gubbio could certainly crow. She appears to have done so. See note 2, p. 506, of work quoted. The country was not quiet after the rejoicing till May 30th, the festa being kept in all the cities. CORRADI, _Feste per il nascimento di un Principe nel sec. XVII._ in _Il Giornale di Foligno_ (Foligno, 1887), No. 28 _et seq._ describes the rejoicing in Cagli.] [Footnote 91: In 1843-6, a variety of duplicates and objects of art belonging to the Vatican Library were exchanged away, with the sanction of Gregory XVI., whilst my lamented friend Monsignore Laureani, the librarian, was forming, by that Pontiff's order, from very limited resources, a most interesting series of early panel pictures illustrating the progress of Christian painting. The portrait of Prince Federigo now belongs to my friend Andrew Coventry, Esq., Edinburgh, and appears the production of a scholar of Baroccio.] According to the religious usages of the age, the measure of gratitude due by the sovereigns of Urbino for their long desired heir would have remained incomplete without a pilgrimage of thanksgiving to the Madonna of Loreto. Benedetto Benedetti, librarian to the Duke, writes, on the 20th June, 1605,[92] that the Duchess was to set out next day on this holy mission, "carrying with her a plate of solid gold, the size of a half sheet of writing paper, on which was portrayed in oil by a young pupil of Baroccio the infant Prince, who is one of the most lovely babes I should wish to look upon; fat, of good complexion, and comely features, his eyes large and black, unlike those of the Duke, and his mouth resembling his mother's." It appears, however, from the Diary of Francesco Maria, that he had already acquitted himself of this pious debt by attending the festival of the Corpus Domini at Loreto on the 9th of June. On the 29th the Duchess carried her son to Urbino. At the gate they were met by twelve youths in blue damask trimmed with gold, and twenty-four children in white and gold; and the Prince, with his nurse, was borne by these youths in a close chair to the palace, through streets embellished with fountains and other ornaments. [Footnote 92: Oliveriana MSS. No. 375.] Three days after the child's birth he had been privately baptised by the Bishop of Pesaro on Ascension Day, and named Federigo Ubaldo Giuseppe. His public baptism took place on the 29th November at Urbino, on which occasion his father, in deference to the loyal joy of his subjects, broke through his wonted habits of quiet and retirement, and celebrated the solemnity with a pomp more congenial to the pageant observances of Italian courts than to his own tastes. Every community of the duchy, by special invitation, sent their deputies, expensively arrayed, and bearing costly gifts. The states of Italy likewise were there, represented by ambassadors rivalling each other in magnificence. But chief among all was the Marquis of Pescara, envoy of Philip III. of Spain, who, before its birth, had promised to stand godfather to the infant. We pass over the ceremonial with which he was welcomed, but must pause for a little upon the spectacle of the baptism, as described in a contemporary narrative.[93] [Footnote 93: Vat. Urb. MSS. No. 818, f. 444.] From the houses in front of the Duomo were displayed those rich and many-tinted hangings which add so much to the effect of an Italian pageant. The short space from the palace was closed in by an awning of green, red, and white, the ducal liveries. The whole interior of the church was hung with magnificent decorations, in which were mingled tapestries and brocades, pictures and heraldic blazonry. The high altar was profusely furnished with statues, vases, candlesticks, all of solid silver. Into the cathedral thus prepared was seen advancing, about two hours before mid-day, under a bright and genial sun, a most imposing procession. The principal public functionaries, and the most distinguished of the nobility, were followed by twenty-five pages of high birth, dressed in Damascus blue. Then came representatives of the seven principal cities, bearing the massive silver vessels to be used in the ceremony. At their head walked Count Alessandro Tiane, Gonfaloniere of Urbino, conspicuous not less by his handsome person than by the rare splendour of his costume. He wore a close-fitting dress of white, brocaded with gold and silver; his flowing mantle of purple velvet was lined with violet and gold; and on his neck and cap was displayed a profusion of costly jewels. A scarf embroidered with pearls and precious stones suspended from his neck a white cushion, whereon lay the babe in "toys of quaint apparel," which the writer attempts not to describe. The nurse, attended by sixty noble matrons arrayed in gala, closed the cortège, amid the clang of artillery and martial music. The sacred rite was administered by the Bishop of Fossombrone, and the religious function having been auspiciously ended, the company proceeded to a ball, followed by a supper, where the grotesque taste and elaborate ingenuity of Italian confectioners were lavishly displayed in the table-ornaments. About seven in the evening, the guests were summoned by trumpet to the windows and balconies to witness a triumphal representation of the glories of Duke Federigo, whose name had that day been revived in the infant Prince. The space in front of the palace was fitted up as a vast stage laid out with woodland scenery, in the midst whereof rose a mountain, emblematic of the Apennines. Near its summit a cavern exhibited antique trophies and elephants, among which was a broken bust of Asdrubal, allusive to the defeat of the Carthaginian army near the Furlo pass. The whole was overshadowed by two vast oaks personifying the Duke and Duchess, under which were grouped shepherds playing on their national instruments. Across this mimic representation of the duchy of Urbino a gorgeous procession passed with military music, in the following order. The car of Fame advanced, glittering with the precious metals, and drawn by winged horses. On its front, amid garlands of flowers, was perched a black eagle crowned, the monarch of birds, and heraldic bearing of Montefeltro; and it contained figures of Fame, Time, and Truth. Fame stood winged upon a globe, to which were yoked two dolphins; her robe of gold and silver tissue was _semé_ with countless eyes, ears, and mouths, and in her hand she held a golden trumpet. Before her sat old Time, with his hour-glass; behind, Truth chanted stanzas in compliment to the hero of two mottoes which were displayed over the car:-- "TO THESE AND EARTH'S MOST DISTANT LANDS ARE SHOWN OUR FREDERICK'S GLORIOUS DEEDS, HIS HONOUR AND RENOWN." "BY MARTIAL VALOUR WERE HIS TITLES WON." In the procession which followed, were borne the armorial insignia of Duke Federigo, and of the sovereigns in close alliance with him; his various decorations of knighthood, the golden rose, the sword and baton of the Church, and similar badges of his dignities. Then came another car, drawn by four horses, and magnificently ornamented with cornucopias of public prosperity, intermingled with devices used by the various Dukes, amid which sat Justice, Bravery, and Prudence. Next marched by, an imposing military pageant, with the banners and ensigns of those states and cities over which Federigo had been victorious, and with the batons of command entrusted to him by the different powers whom he had served. To these succeeded a third car, still more magnificently decked out, which was dedicated to martial glory, and bore a figure of Pallas copied from the antique; it was laden with pictures and mottoes, allusive to his principal triumphs; and over a mass of books was the legend,-- "MINERVA'S LIBERAL ARTS HIS VICTORIES DID CROWN." This lengthened procession having all passed, the various figures who had performed in it assembled upon the stage and executed a melodramatic ballet, which lasted till about 10 p.m.; and the ceremonies of the day were wound up by a splendid display of fireworks.[94] It has been stated in most accounts of the baptism, that the Golden Fleece was conferred on the infant by the Marquis of Pescara in name of his master Philip III. But, from the Diary of Francesco Maria, we learn that this decoration had been transmitted to himself some weeks before, that he, as a knight of that order, might invest the Marquis with it, which was duly done on the 1st of December. [Footnote 94: A comparison of this stately entertainment with the ceremonial at the baptism of Prince Henry of Scotland in 1594, as given in the _Lives of the Lindsays_, vol. I., 382, from a rare contemporary pamphlet, shows how Italian revels influenced the courtly displays of our ancestors, due allowance being made for the difference of climate and the somewhat more material attractions of the northern festivity.] The Duke's advancing years had by this time considerably modified his personal habits. To the pleasures of the chase succeeded the less fatiguing interests of a large breeding stud. His partiality for animals and natural history had long induced him to give his attention to improve the race of horses, and he notes in his Diary frequent arrivals of stock of all sorts from various quarters, purchased or received in presents. Thus, in 1588, he had fifty-four young horses at one time from the Duke of Savoy, and he mentions paying 300 to 500 ducats for stallions. After his second marriage, entries of this sort became more frequent, and details of hunting less so. The great breeding establishment was maintained on Monte Corciano near Cagli, where the young stock ran at grass during the summer months; in winter they were brought down to Mirafiori, where those which were sufficiently advanced went into the hands of breakers. This was a casino just without the walls of Pesaro, so called from a flower-garden the Duke had made there, whither rare and beautiful plants were brought from all parts at great expense. In it too was preserved a very rich armoury collected by him, which is mentioned with admiration by Scotti in his published travels, and which afterwards passed to the grand-ducal family of Tuscany. But the most marked alteration of his character was his growing aversion to public business, and increasing proneness to gratify his secluded and selfish habits by devoting an undue portion of time to his private relaxations of study and books. The tendency to solitude which had been gradually stealing upon him was checked for a season after the birth of his son. This joyous occasion seems to have in some degree revived the elasticity of his youthful feelings: his visits to Pesaro were more frequent, and, in 1606, the Comedy of _L'Ingannata_ was repeatedly performed in the palace there. Ere long, however, his mind gradually relapsed into a sort of morbid abstraction which was constitutional to him, and the retirement of Castel Durante became more and more attractive. It would indeed have been difficult to find a spot more congenial. Known originally as Castel del Ripa, a title appropriate to its position on a peninsula, formed by the rugged ravine of the brawling Metauro, it had been destroyed about 1277, in a foray of the people of Urbino, whence it is distant about nine miles. Pope Martin IV. ordered it to be rebuilt by his Legate in Romagna, Guglielmo Durante, a noted canonist, who gave it his own name. Having subsequently passed in seigneury to the Brancaleoni of Mercatello, it was obtained, under the title partly of conquest, partly of inheritance, by the Counts of Montefeltro, in 1429. After that dynasty had been extinguished, it owed to papal munificence a second re-edification in 1636, when Urban VIII. raised it to the rank of a city, suffragan to the Bishop of S. Angelo in Vado; and the improvements he made upon it are commemorated by his statue erected in the town, and by another change to its present name of Urbania. Its situation is singularly beautiful. Surrounded by wooded hills, it occupies the nearest point of the upper valley of the Metauro, which extends to the Mercatello in a stretch of rich alluvial land that pleasingly contrasts with the rest of this highland province. Adapted equally for the sports of the chase, and for a peaceful retreat from the busy world, it was in all respects suited to the wants of Francesco Maria, in youth and in advancing years. His usual residence was a large palace which, entering from the street, overhangs to the back the romantic river; and which, like many more of the ducal possessions, has passed to the Albani, and is doomed to the neglect consequent upon absenteeism and protracted litigation. It was here probably that he built a library, to which in 1609 he transported from Pesaro the many books which he had collected, leaving at Urbino those which had been amassed by his predecessors. On the opposite bank he enclosed an extensive park, and stocked it with fallow-deer and smaller game. Within that enclosure, on the slopes of Monte Berticchio, he built, after his second marriage, another palace, and surrounded it with a delightful garden. The park walls also included the convent of Franciscan Observantines, which still stands about a mile to the west of Urbania; and to them perhaps may be attributed the beginning of that monkish influence which tinged his latter years. But they were eventually superseded in his regard by the Minims, for whom, in 1617, he purchased the church of the Madonna della Neve, just beyond the park gate, and changed its name to that of the Crucifix. He there built for them a small convent, and invited to it twelve monks, distinguished for learning and acquirements in those philosophic pursuits which chiefly occupied his mind. Thus, as years advanced, did he become more and more inordinately attached to Castel Durante, where, leaving in his capital the trappings of sovereignty, he surrounded himself with a small and select suite, and sought in books and philosophic discussions, those gratifications which, since the chase had lost its charms, were most conducive to his humour. Here accordingly we find him corresponding with Isaac Casaubon, as to a MS. of Polybius, which, by desire of Henry IV., he had forwarded for an edition then in preparation at Paris, and urging its restoration, on the plea that MSS. of such value were not removed from the library, even for his own use.[95] It was doubtless the same Polybius which Giunta tells us was returned by that monarch under a military escort.[96] [Footnote 95: Brit. Mus., Burney MSS. No. 367, f. 64.] [Footnote 96: MS. Albani Library at Rome.] It being the whim of Francesco Maria to unite in his person the opposite characters of monarch and philosopher, manifold inconsistencies were the natural consequence. In the address to his subjects, which we have quoted in reference to his second marriage, we have seen him dwell on the government of a minor as the greatest evil that could befall a people. Yet scarcely had he obtained the blessing of an heir than he began to devise steps for devolving prematurely upon his child the responsibility of sovereignty, and thereby releasing himself from those cares of state which reached him even at Castel Durante, and jarred upon his morbid love of seclusion and books. To this motive, at least, seem attributable the measures which we are now to detail, although he apparently excused them to himself as a wise precaution, in anticipation of his own death ere his son should have attained maturity. But, whatever may have been his real inducement, the scheme, so novel in that age, of imparting to his subjects a share in the government, was obviously calculated to gratify his love of philosophic speculation, while it threw upon others those duties and anxieties from which the prevailing desire of his advancing years was to escape. His first step towards this plan was taken in 1696, by ordaining that the episcopal cities of Urbino, Pesaro, Gubbio, Sinigaglia, Fossombrone, Cagli, and S. Leo, with the province of Massa Trabaria, should send him a leet of their inhabitants most qualified for the administration of affairs. Selecting one from each, he constituted them into a council of state, to sit permanently in Urbino: on this body he conferred the most ample powers to govern in his name, and, in the case of his death, to become the regency. In order fully to explain this project, we quote the state documents relating to it, which have been printed by Marini in his _Saggio di S. Leo_. These will be rendered more intelligible by premising that the inhabitants of towns were then divided into four classes,--the nobility, the merchants and wealthy citizens, the master artisans, and the operative artisans. Each of these chose their own prior, and the prior of the nobles was the gonfaloniere, to whom, among other duties, was confided the standard in battle. These political rights did not extend to peasants, menial servants, nor mechanics of the baser callings. "To the magnificent and our well-beloved, the Gonfaloniere and Priors of S. Leo, and to the Four, and the Parliament of the province of Montefeltro, THE DUKE OF URBINO. "Magnificent and well-beloved, "Ever since the birth of the son whom God has vouchsafed to us, it has been our fixed intention, in consideration of the age we have attained, to leave behind us such a form of government as may, during his minority, secure your welfare, and be in conformity to your wishes; and the desire increases with the affection which we bear to you, and to which you are so well entitled. For this end nothing seems more suitable than that you should govern the commonwealth and him also. To carry our design into execution, your council of S. Leo, uniting with the Four and the Parliament of the province of Montefeltro, will elect three or four well-qualified persons, without reference to their rank or station, or to their being members of council or parliament. From these we shall select one, who, together with those from the other seven communities, may represent our whole state, and give their undivided attention to such important matters for the general weal as shall be impartially proposed by us, with a view to your own benefit, and that of our house. The enclosed draft is sent to you as a foretaste of this plan of government. Be careful, therefore, to complete the election as soon as possible, as it is our intention to make trial during our life of this mode of government, and so to introduce it that, after us, it may proceed with the more facility, and in better order, in the name of the Almighty. From all this we feel assured that you must perceive the great confidence which we have in you, and which we firmly hope will much contribute to those good results of our plan so strenuously desired by us and by you. May the Lord God protect you. "From Urbino, the 24th of August, 1606. "FRANCESCO MARIA." [_Draft enclosed in the preceding letter._] "The form of government by the persons elected shall be as follows. All the Eight shall reside at Urbino, with the same absolute rules as I myself enjoy, attending with all diligence and loyal fidelity to the guidance of the state and of their pupil. And, further, each of them shall make oath before the auditors to exercise their functions in the manner prescribed, and, in due time, to execute to the letter my testament, and all such written memoranda as I may leave behind me. "They shall have two secretaries, one for foreign affairs and correspondence, the other for those of the interior, and shall assemble with them twice a day, or oftener if necessary. They shall take their seats at the same side of the table in their respective order; and those whose rank may have been matter of dispute shall decide by lot who is to take precedence at first, and shall thereafter enjoy it by turns, changing each succeeding month. They shall observe the same order in voting and on all occasions of meeting for public business, but at other times they are to have no sort of rank. And this rule shall be observed as to all questions of precedence that may arise, until it be modified by consent or legal authority, always without prejudice to the rights of individuals; and, if any one be discontented therewith, the others shall be entitled to administer the state with unimpaired authority. "They shall enjoin the secretaries to make minutes of all that occurs, writing them afterwards into a book for the purpose. The Eight, or whatever be their number, shall discuss verbally all motions, and ballot upon them, the resolutions supported by most balls being carried; and this shall be specially minuted, with the signature of both secretaries. In case of an equality of votes, the president of the bench of auditors shall be called upon to decide the point. "All their resolutions, letters, and documents shall run in name of the sovereign, with the ducal seal, and with signatures of the first in rank, and of the two secretaries. "In absence of one or more from illness, or the like lawful cause, the others shall continue vested with the same authority, provided there be a quorum of five; but, if fewer, the auditors must make up that number. And, should one die, or become permanently disabled, his place must be forthwith filled up by election of another leet as at first. "The courts of law [_udienza_] shall continue to enjoy the same authority as heretofore, but subject to the first of the eight deputies, to whom shall be submitted memorials of all cases for pardon, in the same way as has been hitherto observed. By these courts shall be named the officers of justice for the state, who, in absence of cause shown to the contrary, shall be confirmed by the deputies, on whom shall depend absolutely all the other officers of the household and state. "And, in order that these deputies may give undivided attention to their official duties, they shall each receive from the treasury 300 scudi a year."[97] [Footnote 97: Vat. Ottob. MSS. No. 3184, f. 154. The salary of 300 scudi was increased to 400.] Four days after date of the preceding letter, the provincial parliament of Montefeltro, and the council of S. Leo, met to deliberate thereon, by summons from the commissioner of the province and the podestà of the town. The parliament consisted of four delegates from the landward districts, and twenty-nine others from as many townships; the council was composed of the gonfaloniere, three priors, and twenty-nine citizens. They elected four deputies by ballot, excluding, by a majority of black beans, two of those proposed; and, from these four, one whose election had been unanimous was selected by the Duke as deputy to the council. Similar forms having been observed by the remaining cities, the council entered upon their duties on 22nd of January, 1607, and Francesco Maria resigned himself more than ever to the selfish ease of his solitary and abstracted life at Castel Durante, flattering himself (to use his own words) that "they would inform themselves fully of all matters of internal policy and foreign relations, and would direct these for the service of God, and to the benefit of his subjects, and of his heir." It would be tedious and unnecessary to notice all the minute instructions issued from time to time to the Eight on matters of police, of patronage, or of trade. The following memorandum, however, written out by Francesco Maria himself for their guidance, in 1611, affords some insight into his views of general policy:-- "In order to continue hourly more fully satisfied with you, I give you the following suggestions, which seem to me called for at this moment. Ever have before your eyes the three objects which I have often enforced upon you--plenty, peace, and justice. The first of these will be secured if the old plan for plenty be not re-established, which, indeed, might be more appropriately called perpetual scarcity, as it was adopted solely for enriching six or eight of the worst citizens who managed it; and should it become necessary to purchase grain, let an advance from my funds be made to the public, always endeavouring to clear off such loans as remain undischarged. And never permit the local councils to meddle with matters that concern them not, seeing that I, by adopting the contrary plan for their satisfaction, fell into errors which turned out ill. "As to maintaining peace among my subjects, this may easily be done by chastising the riotous and sowers of dissension and discord, whose punishment ought to be public and severe; above all things preventing persons of whatsoever rank to pretend to or maintain retinues of followers, or to domineer over others. "Justice will be observed by insuring the prompt issue of suits, and by punishing judges when they fall into error; but especially by enforcing an inviolate observance of all orders, decrees, and proclamations; by rarely, and only from necessity, suspending the prosecution of outlaws; and by receiving few fugitives from other states. Prevent so great an increase of lawyers and notaries, and offer obstacles to their admission. Show no undue favour to parties in suits. Vigilantly defend our authority, ever covertly assailed; but do this by fair means, avoiding if possible open ruptures. Eschew partiality and prejudice, rigorously maintaining justice and your duty. "In the despatch of business promptitude is requisite, avoiding arrears, which occasion oversights, and lead to a wholesale transaction of affairs, without the accuracy necessary to their being done well; and although full consideration and discussion be required, there are few matters which cannot be exhausted by employing on them one's entire energy during two hours; after which they should be carried into effect quickly, without further discourse, but with secrecy. Provided you do all these things with that affection upon which I rely, I doubt not of their happy issue; but I again, and for the last time, remind you that your chief care should be the punctual execution of all my injunctions and commands."[98] [Footnote 98: Vat. Ottob. MSS. No. 3134, f. 158.] Whatever may have been the immediate effect upon the management of public affairs of the Duke's wayward conduct, its mischievous influence on the character of the young Prince was not long dormant. His education was entrusted, in 1607, to the Countess Vittoria Tortora Ranuccio Santinelli, whose husband was major-domo to the Duke; but the anxiety felt for a life so precious was unduly exaggerated by certain symptoms of childish delicacy, and the system adopted was that of unbounded indulgence, balanced by no obligation to apply himself to anything. Before he had completed his second year, Philip III. settled upon him in reversion his father's retaining pension of 15,000 golden scudi, and company of men-at-arms in Naples, assuring him of ample protection. That the Duke was sensitively anxious to prepare his mind for the duties of manhood thus crowded prematurely upon him, is interestingly shown by a paper of instructions, written in the anticipation of his being left an early orphan. To find in it maxims directly opposed to the writer's own practice may afford scope for saddening speculation to a philosophic moralist, and must have greatly detracted from their influence upon the boy to whom they were addressed. The length of the document, and its interruption to our narrative, will be excused from its importance as illustrating the character of Francesco Maria. "Believing that at my advanced age I cannot be much longer with you, I have resolved to write down certain memoranda which I consider it most necessary that you should remember, preserving them not merely under your eye, but impressing them deep on your heart; for by none can they be offered you with more affection, or perhaps with greater experience, from the affairs which I have conducted. "I would, therefore, desire you chiefly to endeavour with all your might, to live in the favour of our Lord God, devoutly honouring His holy name, and being careful never to offend Him, firm in His most holy faith without superstition. As to priests and monks, after securing them in the position which is their due, do not establish with them much familiarity beyond what your devotional duties call for; but leave them to look to their proper business, whilst you attend to yours without their assistance, further than their prayers in your behalf. "Be not merely faithful to his Holiness the Pope, but also obedient, doing all that in you lies for his service, and with sincere attachment seeking to exalt the Holy See. "In the service of his Catholic Majesty show yourself at all times most zealous, performing it with constancy, and never quitting it until it becomes inconsistent with your honour, which I feel assured it never will be. And further, be ready to display your devotion in a befitting manner; and should his Majesty take the field in person, fail not to be there also, and to identify yourself with him, from which you cannot fail to derive great reputation: remember also, to treat all Spaniards with amiable courtesy. With other sovereigns and princes cultivate the most friendly terms, obliging them when opportunity offers, especially neighbouring powers. "Maintain towards all, sincerity and truth with mildness; but beware of being deluded, and for this purpose be slow to credit any one. "When called upon to form any important resolution, examine both sides of the question, and attach yourself to that which seems safest. "Remember that you leave not for the morrow what can be done on the instant; and so will your affairs generally succeed according to your wishes. When just, your undertakings will ever be forwarded and directed by the Almighty; and thus will the labour be less to yourself than if they are allowed to go on accumulating. "In the government of your subjects and dependants be most decided; to your associates and well-wishers be gracious and pleasing; towards others just and strict. "At the hour most convenient to yourself give daily audience to all who seek it, hearing them patiently and without interruption, and tolerating them even while trifling a little. Leave the judges free from interference in the lawful execution of their duties, dispensing mercy where it is justly merited, and reluctant to the punishment of death. In all but aggravated cases, commute it into a minor penalty, especially by sending culprits to the Venetian galleys, since this is an old usage in our family, and as these protect our seas from pirates. "Choose for your service faithful and prudent nobles, neither selfish, greedy, nor partial. "See that your ministers and counsellors be men who, as the proverb goes, take the cart road, and boast not themselves inventors of new theories, which, however specious and fine at first sight, are most difficult in practice, and in their issue full of mischief. Show no favour towards rash ventures or novel expedients, but give your attention rather to forward measures that have been determined on. Be not anxious to make many new laws, but, on the contrary, endeavour to condense the old ones. "Encourage not your relations to meddle in the affairs of your government, lest they should in consequence arrogate to themselves undue influence; but contrive to keep them in good humour by honouring them yourself, and by taking care that others respect them. "Visit in person, annually, your whole state; or, when prevented from doing so, send one of your judges. "Be courteous to ecclesiastical dignitaries, giving them such honours as are their due, and exacting the like in return. "See that your household be discreet and in nowise quarrelsome, and divide annually among the most deserving of them some donative from escheated property; but I recommend you to keep hold of all castles, and never alienate them, unless to those who have done you some signal and most important service. "Be liberal in your expenditure, but never exceed your revenues, managing so that every year you may have something in hand; for if you do not attend to this, you will probably find yourself tempted by necessity to seize upon what belongs to your subjects,--a thing you must ever guard yourself from, as well as from any attempts upon the honour of their wives, especially those of the nobility. "Be to all benignant and affable, entering freely into conversation with men of letters or military acquirements, and, above all, with those skilled in politics and affairs of state. "Do not be too anxious to devote yourself to scientific studies, which both preoccupy the mind from more important subjects, and sadden it. Be satisfied with a thorough knowledge of your native tongue, so as to read in it all old and modern histories, and at fit times some devotional book; but trust to acquiring knowledge of the sciences from the discourse of their respective professors. It is advisable to learn other languages; indeed, Spanish is necessary, as you are in the service of his Catholic Majesty. "Practise all healthful exercises, especially, ball, hunting, and the manège. In the first of these you may indulge almost daily; for the second, once a week is sufficient, as it loses the entire day, and when too frequently followed is apt to render one coarse. Make use of the third when you feel inclined, maintaining a small breeding stud, for which your country is admirably adapted, with about thirty fine horses always at your disposal. I warn you, however, not to over-exert yourself in this or similar exercise, for excessive fatigue brings on many infirmities, as has happened to myself. Fencing is likewise most needful, especially that called wide fighting, for close-quarters are dangerous, and of little real avail. Instrumental music and singing are excellent recreations, as well as dancing to give the body freedom. Swimming is also an excellent preservative, especially in travelling. "Do not indulge too much in sleeping. Eat and drink of everything indifferently, without reference to diet such as is recommended by physicians, of whom keep aloof while you can, never calling them in until you are ill; but when really so, obey them strictly, committing yourself first to God, and secondly to their skill. "Remember, as soon as convenient, to complete your marriage with the sister of the Grand Duke of Tuscany; for no alliance could be found better or more entirely suitable for this state, for our house, or for yourself. To her, as your wife, be ever most affectionate; yet see that she meddle not in the affairs of government, but more particularly that she does not interfere in matters regarding the administration of justice. Endeavour always to maintain a most friendly footing with her family, paying to the Grand Duke the deference due to a father, and consulting him on every incident of importance. "Should God grant you more than one son, purchase for one of them a fief, however small, in the kingdom of Naples, and other property, yielding in all 12,000 scudi of revenue, but give him no lands in your own state: by this means you will found a second house, and avert the danger in which our family was at the time of your birth. Your other sons you may provide for by making one a churchman with the Pope's assistance, and by giving to the rest such savings as will in that case be very requisite. Forget not to treat your eldest son like a brother, admitting him to share with you the government and administration, which, if God grant me life, I shall certainly do towards you. "Lastly, I assure you, that those who have been faithful and attached to me will, if you avail yourself of their services, be the same to you; others you may seek to attach to you, but abandon not these. "Such is the little I would impress upon you, not without difficulty and much consideration; but take courage, and the execution of it will become easy. I give you my paternal benediction, praying the blessed God to confirm it."[99] [Footnote 99: Bibl. Oliveriana.] But though it seems agreed that the seed thus kindly and carefully sown fell upon a soil not naturally ungenial, and though to much childish beauty the Prince is stated to have joined a fine temper, a remarkably quick apprehension, and an uncommon memory, he was destined sadly to verify a remark of Dante, that,-- "Rarely into the branches of the tree Doth human worth mount up." The good fruit of almost spontaneous growth was speedily and entirely choked by rank weeds, fostered under an erroneous system of early discipline. An only child, he was deprived of playmates of his own rank, and even of the companionship of the higher nobility, for whom were substituted those whose flattery and indulgence provoked and pandered to all the worst passions of a spoiled brat; and so early and fatally was this perversion effected, that he had scarcely passed the years of infancy ere the people, who had hailed him as a gift of Heaven, ominously deprecated his accession to power. On his eighth birthday, he was sent by the Duke, with a suitable attendance, to pay his vows at the shrine of his patron saint in the cathedral of Gubbio, and to offer there a small bust of himself chased in gold. On this occasion the aged courtiers, who assembled to do honour to his reception, were heard to draw the most melancholy forebodings, on observing the overbearing and fiery temper which he was at no pains to control or conceal.[*100] [Footnote *100: Cf. PELLEGRINI, _op. cit._, in _Boll. cit._ vol. _cit._, p. 509 _et seq._ who gives two contemporary accounts of the visit of Federigo in 1618.] CHAPTER XLVII The Prince's marriage--The Duke entrusts to him the government and retires to Castel Durante--His dissolute career and early death--Birth of his daughter Vittoria--The Duke rouses himself--He arranges the devolution of his state to the Holy See--Papal intrigues. The anxiety of Francesco Maria for continuance of his line, and for the maintenance of his state against the risk of a minority, led him to select a match of policy for his son while yet a mere infant. In October, 1608, he sent a confidential adviser, Count Francesco Maria Mammiani, to attend on his behalf the marriage of Cosimo Prince of Tuscany; and during its prolonged festivities, a negotiation was happily concluded for the betrothal of Princess Claudia, youngest daughter of the Grand Duke Ferdinand II. to Prince Federigo. The death of her father, soon after, did not delay the ratification of an engagement so advantageous to all parties, and on the 24th of April following, it was publicly announced,--the united ages of the childish couple amounting to eight years and a half, and the Princess being the elder by eight months. In November, she sent to "her husband" the appropriate presents of a nicely accoutred pony, a poodle taught to leap, a jackdaw, and an inkstand in the form of Mount Calvary containing various conveniences. In honour, probably, of the same auspicious occasion, was a gift of jewels from Philip III. of Spain to the Duke and Duchess in 1609, consisting of a girdle, necklace, and brooch of gold; the girdle containing twenty-eight, and the necklace eighteen links, studded with a hundred and twenty-six diamonds; sixty gold buttons enamelled in white and red, each with three diamonds; and a string of two hundred and twenty-six pearls of various sizes.[101] [Footnote 101: Oliveriana MSS. No. 375, vol. XXXI., p. 62.] [Illustration: FEDERIGO, PRINCE OF URBINO _From the picture once in the possession of Andrew Coventry of Edinburgh_] The long and friendly intercourse of the Dukes of Urbino with the crown of Spain had moulded their court to a tone of Spanish gravity, and a certain severity of manner, which the cold character, reserved habits, and strict morals of Francesco Maria had served to confirm. To this the conduct of the youthful Prince soon offered the strongest contrast. Wilful in all things, and impatient of control, he endured no constraint upon his gratifications. These were generally of the most trifling and childish description; and in one respect alone, and that an unfortunate one, did he exhibit any manly quality. His precocious gallantry was a scandal to the staid manners of the court, and proved ruinous to his own constitution. Too late was his father made aware of follies and vices which he had allowed to attain a dangerous height; and to the counsels of his advisers, that even yet a decided check should be applied, he weakly replied, in the subtleties of a false philosophy, that restraints now imposed would but irritate his son, and surely lead to greater excesses so soon as they could be removed or burst. In truth, the old man shrank from the exertions which his interference would require, and selfishly calculated on being removed from the scene ere the mischief was fully matured. But, whatever may have been the Duke's motives, his refusal to interfere was quickly reported to the Prince, who, thus secured against control, was emboldened to new excesses. Finding that years only confirmed those vicious symptoms which the Prince had manifested from childhood, and which a bad education had not even attempted to eradicate, his father thought fit to try the experiment of sending him forth to see the world, where, in the intercourse of courts, and in contact with men of distinction, he might observe those qualities which mankind deem worthy of honour, and might learn the reputation acquired by his ancestors. This plan, which had more good sense than most of those which Francesco Maria was in the habit of forming, unfortunately failed, and brought about results exactly the reverse of those which had been anticipated. On his journey through Romagna towards Florence, Federigo's evil genius brought him into the company of some strolling comedians returning from Venice. Delighted with their loose manners, he threw himself among them without reserve, and a taste for their pursuits was formed at first sight, which disgracefully occupied the few remaining years of his life. Such is the account given by Passeri; and two entries in the Duke's Diary mention that the Prince set out to visit Florence on the 1st and returned on the 22nd of October, 1616. During the following month the Grand Duke Cosimo II. arrived from Loreto on a visit to Pesaro, with his brother the Cardinal; they travelled with a large suite partly in coaches and six, partly in litters, or on horseback, escorted by a guard of cuirassiers, being in all not less than six hundred persons. The Prince met and welcomed them at the head of a hundred mounted gentlemen, and accompanied them on a hunting party. They stayed six days at Pesaro, and thence proceeded to Rimini, leaving many presents, among which the Grand Duke gave Federigo a beautiful little office-book in a case, worth 1000 golden scudi. Regarding his youthful irregularities the Journal maintains a uniform silence, and the few notices of amusements at court scarcely afford us any index of his tastes. It would seem that up to his marriage he rarely left his parents' residence. During that time we find but two theatrical representations mentioned. In the carnival of 1617 nine couples of knights fought within a barrier, where there were also two chariots, one of Pallas, the other of Venus. The following year a wild boar, caught near Mondolfo, where it had attacked various peasants, was baited in the palace-yard at Pesaro with large dogs and spears; and some days thereafter the Prince, with five others of his age, held a mimic tourney in the great hall. The melancholy turn which the Prince's folly had taken determined his unhappy parent at once to conclude his marriage, which, even should it unhappily fail in rescuing him from a disgraceful career, might at least secure the continuance of his family. The Princess had a character for high spirit, not free from hauteur, but accompanied with decided talent; qualities that seemed likely to influence her destined husband, or, at all events, to maintain his dignity against the debasing tendency of dissolute habits. An intimate alliance with so powerful and so close a neighbour was in every view politic, but especially at a time when the duchy of Urbino had become a more than ever desirable adjunct to the Papal States. If any further inducements were wanting to render this the most advisable marriage for the Prince, it was supplied by the dowry of 300,000 crowns of gold. But an arrangement so eligible seemed fated at every step to be thwarted by the unsparing hand of death. When all was ready for publishing the betrothal, the bride's father was, as we have seen, called away; just as the nuptials were on the eve of celebration, thirteen years later, her brother, the Grand Duke Cosimo II., died on the 28th of February, 1621. The urgent and advantageous circumstances of the connection again superseded the formality of court etiquette, and an early day was fixed for the marriage. On the 19th of April the Prince sent on a confidential envoy with the following letter to his bride[102]:-- "To the Princess Claudia, Consort of the Prince of Urbino. "Most serene Highness, my Lady, and most affectionate Consort, "Giordani precedes me, and will give your Highness certain assurance of my arrival next week, by the favour of God. I beseech your Highness to accompany me on this journey with the favour of your good wishes and prayers; and meanwhile I, with all my heart, kiss your hands. From Pesaro, the 16th of April, 1621. "Your Highness's most affectionate servant and husband, who loves you more than himself, "THE PRINCE OF URBINO." [Footnote 102: Bibl. Oliveriana MSS. No. 396, p. 131.] The same day Federigo went to visit his father, and on the 22nd left Castel Durante. At the Alpine frontier he was met by a guard of honour, under whose escort he arrived on the 25th in Florence, where, after a pompous entrance into the city, the Villa Baroncelli was assigned for his reception. The ceremony was performed on the 29th, the respective ages of the parties being sixteen and seventeen.[*103] The public joy felt in the duchy at a step which promised to secure the continued succession of the ducal house, and with it the nationality of the state, was proportioned rather to the importance of those objects than to the merits of Federigo. As yet, however, his faults had been shown to but a limited extent, and by most of those who were cognisant of them were generally believed the exuberant but passing growth of boyish folly, which time, and, above all, a respectable marriage, would surely eradicate. The Duke was willing to second the manifestation of these feelings, and the festivities wherewith the event was celebrated at Pesaro were consequently very elaborate. Among the most striking novelties was a device by which discharges of artillery were so regulated as to harmonise, or rather to beat time with the military bands, and the great hall of the palace was fitted up as a theatre for the performance of entertainments similar to what we have lately described.[104] [Footnote *103: The ceremony was performed on the 28th February without any pomp. Cf. UGOLINI, _op. cit._, vol. II., p. 437.] [Footnote 104: See p. 177.] [Illustration: FACSIMILES OF SIGNATURES AND MONOGRAMS] The Prince preceded his bride, and, after passing a day with his father at Castel Durante, reached Pesaro on the 15th of May. On the 21st, she set out on her ill-fated journey, and on the 26th was met at Lamole by her husband. Although it is only within the last few years that the Apennine range has been there opened up by a road equalling in convenience any of the celebrated Alpine passes, a hasty effort was made to render her route practicable for a carriage from the frontier to her new capital. In the communal records of S. Angelo in Vado, I noticed an instruction that the town should bear its portion of the repairs of the way from Borgo S. Sepolchro, preparatory to her passage, and should contribute towards the public rejoicings, triumphal arches, and other complimentary demonstrations. Among the ingenious devices adopted in honour of the occasion, was the construction in wood of a colossal equestrian figure of the Prince on horseback, part of which still remains in the public hall of S. Angelo. Tradition ascribes it to Frederico Zuccaro, but his death in 1609 places him beyond the suspicion of executing what seems to have been little creditable to the artistic skill of his townsmen. The bridal party, after sleeping at Mercatello, proceeded by easy journeys to Pesaro, spending only a forenoon at Castel Durante with the Duke, who, unequal to the journey, had deputed his principal courtiers, escorted by a hundred gentlemen on horseback, to receive the Princess on the Apennines, and conduct her home. Among the deputations which on this occasion attended to welcome her to her future dominions, was one from S. Leo, the ancient capital of the original fief of the Feltrian race, bringing a donative of twelve silver cups valued at 500 scudi, to whom she returned the following answer:-- "To the most magnificent and my much loved the Gonfaloniere and Priors of the city of S. Leo. "Most magnificent and well-beloved, "On entering this state, I brought with me a firm resolution impartially to favour all, but this I shall especially observe towards you; for I have particularly to acknowledge your affectionate devotion, and gratefully to accept the duty you have expressed towards me by the mouth of your deputation, and by the compliment of plate you have given me in token of your attachment. I shall ever cherish towards you the like good will, and a desire of usefully testifying it. May God preserve you. From Pesaro, 19th December, 1621. "Your most loving, "CLAUDIA, PRINCESS OF URBINO."[105] [Footnote 105: MARINI, _Saggio di S. Leo_.] With infatuation unequalled perhaps in the long catalogue of parental errors, Francesco Maria now gave the finishing stroke to a system which had trained up his only child to become the scourge of his people and the ruin of his house. We have seen him deprecate a minority as a national misfortune; we have now to witness him anticipating all its evils, by voluntarily entrusting the reins to one whom youth, education, inexperience, and follies combined to render utterly inefficient for their management. That this plan had long been cherished as a favourite speculation, may be gathered from those instructions to his son which have been already quoted; that its most attractive feature was the escape it secured to him from the business and duties of his station, admits not of a doubt. Flattering himself that, in providing the Prince with an honourable and eligible match, he had done his utmost to retrieve past errors and secure a prosperous future, he hurried the execution of his scheme, apprehensive perhaps that delay would render its absurdity more glaring, or bring to light some new disqualification in Federigo. In absence of any rational explanation of such a step, it has been supposed a secret stipulation with the Grand Duke at the time of the marriage, but of this there is not a shadow of evidence. The motive imputed by Gozzi, that it was a device of the Duke to prevent his son from longing for his death and for the delights of sovereignty, seems quite reconcileable with the false philosophy by which he so perversely regulated his general conduct. We turn with interest to the Diary at a moment thus important to his history and that of his state, but find it here more than usually meagre, alluding neither to the fact of his abdication, its manner, nor its motives.[106] Like King Lear, the old man already felt-- "How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is To have a thankless child," and his Memoirs abruptly conclude with the negotiation for the Prince's marriage. From Passeri's investigations, we only learn that he one day called round him his son and principal officers, and, after addressing to both a long exhortation on the new duties about to be devolved upon them, made over to the former the reins of government.[107] Reserving for his own use one-third of the private revenues of his family, which from various documents seem to have amounted to about 300,000 crowns, he shut himself up more closely than ever in his-- "Boasted seat Of studious peace and mild philosophy." Among the Oliveriana MSS. I found a list of his court taken to Castel Durante, which, though undated, probably refers to the arrangements made at this period. 1 counsellor, 1 secretary, 5 gentlemen of the household 7 4 captains, 5 chamberlains, 4 assistant chamberlains 13 1 dwarf or hunchback, 1 watchmaker, 1 barber 3 1 master of the wardrobe, 2 porters, 4 pages and their 2 servants 9 1 physician, 1 apothecary, 2 chaplains, 3 readers 7 18 household servants, 10 stable servants 28 __ Total 67 [Footnote 106: As a specimen of the style of this most disappointing MS., and in proof of its small historical importance, I extract all the notices for August 1621, the month in which, according to Passeri, this transaction took place. "6. News arrived of the death of the Archduke Albert, which happened at Brussels on the 13th ult. 15. Vespers began to be performed in the church of S. Rocca of Castel Durante. 21. A stag was killed, weighing fully 530 lbs. 26. Four large English dogs coursed in the park, which belong to the Prince; they killed two fallow deer."] [Footnote 107: It appears that on the 25th of July the Prince arrived from Urbino, and stayed two days, during which probably this scene took place.] Yet the theoretical tendencies of his mind had not prevented him from establishing, in the early portion of his reign, many practical regulations conducive to the acceleration of business, and to the due order of public affairs. His sway had been upon the whole a mild one; and on a retrospect of two centuries, the government of his predecessors must be pronounced to have promoted, in a degree rarely paralleled, general happiness and public decorum, and at the same time the true glory of their state. But all this was now to be changed, and the brilliant dynasty of Urbino was doomed to expire, exhaling a vile and loathsome odour. That court which the refined tastes of the Feltrian Dukes and the polished pen of Castiglione had rendered a model to the world, which the literature and conduct of its later sovereigns had maintained in like honourable distinction, was about to present a melancholy spectacle of unexampled degradation. To enumerate the debasing excesses successively introduced by Federigo is a sad and sickening task, which it were well briefly to go through. His fancy for music was indulged, to the exclusion of more serious avocations. His casual acquaintance with the company of Venetian comedians was ripened into an intimacy, which gradually monopolised his time and thoughts, and was followed out with frenzied enthusiasm. These persons, belonging then to the vilest classes, and treated accordingly, became the Prince's associates in public and in private. Conforming his morals to theirs, he admitted the actresses into his palace in daring defiance of decency, and openly established one, named Argentina, as his mistress, fêting her publicly in Pesaro, and lavishing upon her large sums. Advancing from one extravagance to another, this petty Nero of a petty court delighted to bear a part in their dramatic representations before his own subjects, generally choosing the character of a servant or a lover, as most congenial to his degraded capacity. His people, imbued with respect for the traditionary glories of their former Dukes, and accustomed to the gravity of Spanish manners, stood in consternation at such spectacles. But they scarcely dared express their feelings or hope for redress, for, whilst he thus "Moiling lay, Tangled in net of sensual delight," the Prince had adopted the most severe precautions to prevent his father becoming cognisant of what was passing. But, however he might succeed in blinding one who was probably too happy to shut his eyes and ears against all that occurred beyond the limits of his favourite park and convent at Castel Durante, those who owed the youthful tyrant no allegiance of apprehension carried rumours of his doings to Florence. The family of the Princess anxious to interrupt a career so disgraceful to her husband, so miserable for herself, invited Federigo to visit them; and we find from the Diary so often quoted, that he went to Florence on the 12th of September, and returned on the 3rd of December, 1622. The Princess still fondly hoped (for women's hopes when fed by their wishes die slowly) that the case was not desperate; she accordingly received her husband with the joy and affection of a faithful wife, and ordered a salute of a hundred cannon to welcome him back. But her trust was doomed to a grievous disappointment. The recent restraints of a foreign residence were speedily compensated by new indulgences, more scandalous, if possible, than before. The buffoonery he had learned on the stage was carried into the streets, through which he sallied in some low disguise, insulting all and sundry, and striking them with the flat of his sword, till frequently obliged to discover himself to the astonished spectators. The time which he could spare from such ribaldry, and from his comedians, was devoted to the stable. Besides driving his own horses, an occupation in those stately days exclusively menial, he performed about them the vilest offices of farrier and stable-boy. At length, in executing a feat, unattempted, perhaps, by subsequent Jehus, that of driving eighteen horses in hand, he galloped over a poor child. This outrage, having reached his father, provoked him, in a fit of passionate indignation, and in forgetfulness of his abdicated powers, to pronounce sentence of exile from Pesaro against the Prince,--an order which, of course, was not enforced. The reserved inanity of the Diary throws no light whatever on the Duke's knowledge or feelings in regard to such occurrences, though the following notices are scarcely reconcileable with his ignorance of one excess of his son's headstrong career. "1623, February 24. The Duchess went to Urbino for the comedy represented there the following day, and returned on the 26th. "----, ---- 27. The comedy was performed in Castel Durante."[108] [Footnote 108: The succeeding entry abruptly concludes the Journal:--"March 7. The Prince arrived about 10 A.M., having left Pesaro the preceding day, and returned there the 10th;" probably his last meeting with his father.] Resuming Passeri's Memoir, to which, although incorrect in many details, we are mainly indebted for this portion of our narrative, we find that the Prince moved to Urbino early in the summer, the company of actors forming the strength of his court, and there nightly performed with them, amid the acclamations of a rabble audience. With a view to conciliate his mother-in-law, the Grand Duchess of Tuscany, whose interference in behalf of her insulted daughter he had too good reason to anticipate, he prepared a magnificent coach and six costly horses as a present to her. On the 28th of June he acted as usual on the stage, the part which he sustained on this occasion being (according to Galuzzi) the degraded one of a pack-horse, carrying about the comedians on his back, and finally kicking off a load of crockery with which he was laden. About midnight he retired to rest, worn out by this buffoonery, after giving orders for a chasse next day at Piobbico near Castel Durante. At dawn, hearing the clatter of the horses which were setting out for Florence, he rose and gave some orders from the window in his night dress. In the morning his attendants, surprised at not being summoned, and fearing he would be too late to attend mass before noon, knocked in vain at his door. Three hours passed away in doubts and speculations, and at length two of the courtiers burst open the door, exclaiming "Up, your Highness, 'tis time for the comedy!" But for him that hour was past; the well-known and welcome words fell on an ear whose silver cord was broken. His body was under the icy grip of death; his spirit had fled to its awful account. The body was discovered on its back, bleeding at the nose and mouth, the left hand under the pillow, one leg drawn up, and the mattress much discomposed. The Prince always slept alone, and locked himself in, without retaining any attendants in the adjoining apartment. Six strangers, with the Tuscan accent, had been observed about the palace the day before. From these circumstances, and from his odious character, suspicions of foul play were entertained; but most of the accounts which I have seen attribute his death to apoplexy, resulting probably from premature and excessive dissipation. The body was opened, and no traces of poison were detected; but a small quantity of water was found upon the brain, which the medical report attributed to over indulgence in athletic sports, and to the bushy thickness of his hair, which he greatly neglected. The most probable explanation of this catastrophe was that of the astrologer Andrea Argoli, who, after an elaborate calculation of the Prince's horoscope, pronounced him to have died of an epileptic fit, induced by the chill of the morning air; a conclusion dictated, no doubt, by medical experience, rather than by the study of those malignant planetary influences which the quack thought fit to quote as decisive of the question. On the first alarm the Princess had rushed to the room, breaking through all opposition, and exclaiming, "What! my Lord is ill, and am I not to see him?" but finding him dead, she fainted. The chief anxiety of all was how to break the dire news to the "way-worn and way-wearied" Duke, who was suffering from a severe fit of gout, in his wonted retirement. At length, the Bishop of Pesaro, nominally head of the court, undertook the painful mission. Having arrived at Castel Durante, he sent in by a chamberlain a sealed note, containing the words "The Prince is dead." This the Duke at first desired to be laid aside till later, with his other letters; but on being told that the Bishop was in attendance, he read it without emotion, and exclaimed in Latin, "The Lord gave, the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord." This Christian stoicism might seem inexplicable, but from the context of the narrative, which states that to the lamentations of his attendants, he without a sigh or tear supplied consolation, assuring them that the event was irremediable, and one for which he had long been prepared; and adding, with Sancho Panza-like resignation, "He who lives badly comes to a bad end, and one born by a miracle dies by violence." He then with perfect self-command gave directions necessary for the funeral, and for the exigencies of the government; and at supper ordered the reading of Italian and Spanish books of edification to be continued as usual. In an age when omens were observed with a heathenish superstition, the people began to take note of these before they considered the recent event in its practical and political bearings. It was now recollected that the journey of the Prince and Princess, on their return from their marriage, had been interrupted, before they reached Pesaro, by an extraordinary tempest, which flooded their capital, and delayed their public entry. On the day month preceding Federigo's death, a flight of brown moths passed over Urbino towards the sea, darkening the air for hours. Again, during the fatal night, a strange and threatening cloud was seen by many to cast its gloomy shadow over that city, and, after successively assuming the forms of the eagle of Montefeltro, and the tree of Rovere, to disperse and vanish in the direction of Rome. Others saw serpents and similar monstrous apparitions wrestling in mid-air, and contributed their quota to the strange saws and marvellous instances which fed the popular craving for prodigies. It is scarcely necessary to observe that these facts, or at all events their application, had called for no remark until men's minds were filled with the catastrophe of which they were then interpreted as the precursors. But it may be thought singular that those who busied themselves in finding out ominous coincidences omitted to note a circumstance chronicled by the often-cited Diary, that, on the 21st of August, 1604, nine months before the Prince's birth, lightning struck the Duke's chamber at Castel Durante. Thunder on the left was hailed by the Roman augurs as lucky, but this visitation seems too violent for a good omen. * * * * * The honours of a royal sepulture were lavished on one whose life had been thus unworthy of his station; and such was the magnificence displayed in the trappings of death that, besides many overcharged narratives of the funeral, portraits were multiplied of the Prince laid out in his richly-silvered robes. He was deposited in a tomb which Francesco Maria had destined for himself in the grotto or crypt of the metropolitan cathedral, with an inscription to the following purport:-- In this tomb, Prepared for himself by Francesco Maria II., Last Duke of Urbino, Rest the ashes of His son Federigo, Who was cut off by a sudden death, On the 29th June, MDCXXIII., Aged XVIII. years. On a tablet in the church of Sta. Chiara, his fate is thus touchingly commemorated:--"The waning day saw Federigo Prince of Urbino, in whom sank the house della Rovere, sound in health, and pre-eminent in every gift of fortune; the succeeding dawn beheld him struck down by sudden death, on the 29th of June, 1623. Stranger! pass on, and learn that happiness, like the brittle glass, just when brightest is most fragile."[109] [Footnote 109: See these and other monumental inscriptions of Urbino sovereigns, Appendix, No. VII.] * * * * * The first year of the Prince's marriage had given him a daughter, born at Pesaro, on the 7th of February, 1622, whose advent, as we learn from her grandfather's Diary, was marked by the appearance of three suns in the heavens. She was baptized Vittoria, and was hailed by the Duke and his people with joyful anticipations of a fruitful union, which were destined never to be realised. Francesco Maria's age and infirmities cut off all hopes of a new alliance, and the male line of the Rovere race, to whom were limited the ducal dignity and state, was obviously doomed to extinction in his person. It was true that a similar failure of rightful heirs had, in the preceding century, been supplied by a substitution of the heir-general to this very fief; but that transaction was, in fact, a new investiture, dictated by papal nepotism, and scarcely veiled under the guise of a heritable title. The spirit of the papacy had, since then, been greatly changed in the ordeal of the Reformation; and the ambition of its successive heads, purified from selfish motives, had been long concentrated upon advancing the spiritual and temporal supremacy of the Holy See. But here the question rested not merely on such general principles of law and policy. The foresight of Paul V. had interposed a barrier clause in the marriage contract of Federigo, whereby the Grand Duke's solemn renunciation of all pretensions in behalf of the female issue of that union was distinctly recorded. As soon as the widowed princess had rallied a little from an advent which, however shocking to her nerves, could not be supposed very long to weigh upon her feelings, she despatched a courier to Florence with the news, and soon prepared to leave for ever a country which she had adopted with bright hopes, quickly turned to bitter experience. After paying a brief visit to the Duke, in whose hands she left her child at Castel Durante, she returned to her family, to forget the troubled dream of the last two years. That she succeeded in banishing it from her thoughts may be presumed from her remarriage, three years after, to the Archduke Leopold of Austria; and it is interesting to notice that the latest jotting in the Diary of her former father-in-law, long after its regular entries had ceased, runs thus:--"On 26th March, 1626, Count delle Gabiccie was sent to Florence to visit Donna Claudia, Archduchess of Austria." * * * * * The situation into which Francesco Maria found himself thrown by the Prince's death was one requiring the support of all that philosophy which it had been the chief pursuit of his life to attain. His house was desolate; his line suddenly extinguished; his sovereignty about to lapse. But these crushing blows were accompanied by aggravating circumstances, which called for immediate exertion. The brief reign of Federigo had proved equally detrimental to his state and ruinous to himself. The government was falling to pieces, the finances were in hopeless confusion. Thus was the literary retirement which the Duke had thought to secure from the residue of his life rudely interrupted, and the cares of sovereignty he had shaken off were thrown back upon him, more inextricable than ever. The good order at home and influence abroad, from thirty-seven years of prudent and popular sway, had, in two brief years, been scattered, and there remained to the old man but the choice of recommencing the labours of a lifetime, or abandoning the reins of government now thrust back into his unnerved hands. Judging from his dispositions and past history, it would not be difficult to conjecture which of these alternatives had the greater attraction; yet at this juncture, sense of duty for a time triumphed over the dictates of inclination, and Francesco Maria showed himself every inch a monarch. After consulting for a few days with the Bishop of Pesaro, Count Francesco Maria Mammiani, his favourite, and Count Giulio Giordani, a friend of forty years' tried service, he thus matured his measures. The papal chair being vacated by the death of Gregory XV., on the 8th of July, he sent to the College of Cardinals an official intimation of his son's death, and a full assurance of dutiful devotion. He accompanied the like notification to his subjects with an injunction for the election of a new council of eight, to whom he proposed to commit the administration of civil and criminal justice, for the burden of which his years were incompetent. To the widowed Princess he made every overture which affectionate sympathy could suggest. Finally, he resumed the ducal mantle, and the functions which he had so unfortunately devolved; and, dismissing the whole administration which his son had employed, he entered upon the government, with the assistance of a small but select cabinet. His first thoughts were bestowed upon the destiny of his orphan granddaughter, and, notwithstanding the suggestion of his counsellors, that he should keep her as an instrument whereby the policy of neighbouring powers, who would doubtless aspire to so eligible a match, might be made subservient to strengthen his relations abroad, he insisted upon some immediate arrangement, which would relieve him from the apprehension of leaving unprotected a prize so tempting to papal or princely ambition. The question was brought to a speedy solution by a well-timed offer from the Grand Duke Ferdinand II. of Tuscany, to receive and educate in his family his niece, and eventually to make her his consort, on condition of her being declared heiress of all the Duke's allodial and personal property. To secure the intimate alliance and support of the Medici had, as we have seen, long been the cherished policy of Francesco Maria, and the importance of a connection sufficiently powerful to maintain the rights of the Princess, in that revolution which must succeed immediately upon his death, was self-evident. But there was another consideration equally cogent, for, on the extinction of her father's family, nature and law pointed out her maternal cousin as the most suitable guardian of her childhood and education. Having decided in favour of a proposal at once advantageous to his granddaughter, and releasing him from one of the greatest anxieties of his position, the Duke lost no time in sending her to the court of Tuscany, under protection of Count and Countess Mammiani. Indeed, these arrangements were all concluded within four months of his son's death. On the 6th of August, the conclave elected Cardinal Maffeo Barberini, of a family originally Florentine, who had only attained his fifty-fifth year; a man respectable at once from his talents, his habits of business, and his moral character. It was observed that, during the sittings of the conclave, a hive of bees swarmed under one of their windows, an incident rendered notable from the Barberini carrying that insect in their arms. On ascending the chair of St. Peter, the first business which occupied Urban VIII. was the important accession to the ecclesiastical state promised by the Prince of Urbino's death. There was no legal doubt that the fief, limited to the male line of Guidobaldo II., must lapse on that of the old Duke; but the struggles whereby church vassals had formerly supplied, by steel or gold, similar defects of constitutional title, were not forgotten, and the College of Cardinals looked upon the infant Princess as a subject of keen interest.[*110] It was, therefore, not without jealousy that they learned her sudden betrothal to so powerful a sovereign; and the Pontiff's remonstrances, though avowedly grounded on the conclusion of that important transaction without enabling him to display his friendly respect for the parties, were probably intended to keep the arrangement open for after cavil. A brief interval supplied new grounds for anxiety, on the arrival of a messenger from Francesco Maria with tidings of an overture on the part of the Emperor Ferdinand II., directly at variance with the pretensions of the Holy See. Ferdinand had accompanied his condolence with a proposal that the Duke should recognise the imperial title to the countships of Montefeltro and Castel Durante on his death, as being original fiefs of the empire, and offered to renew the investiture of these in favour of the infant heiress. But, faithful to his ecclesiastical allegiance, the Duke courteously declined availing himself of a favour which seemed more likely to reawaken the slumbering controversies (though scarcely now the conflicts) between Guelph and Ghibelline, than to secure any available benefit to Princess Vittoria. Pleading a disinclination to open up questions that might disturb the peace of his declining years, he left it to the Emperor, when these should close, to transact any such arrangement directly with the Holy See; a reply which pleased neither him nor the Grand Duke. [Footnote *110: Cf. _Memorie istoriche concernenti la devoluzione dello stato d'Urbino alla Sede Apostolica_ (Amsterdam, 1723).] The Emperor being uncle of the Grand Duke, his proposition could not be viewed in any other light than as an attempt to establish a legal basis for whatever claims on the states of Urbino it might suit the husband of Vittoria hereafter to make. It was accordingly met by Urban with very decided measures. He delegated three prelates of tried fidelity to the circumjacent provinces of the Church, with instructions to watch closely the affairs of the duchy, and, in case of any movement adverse to the ecclesiastical interests, to march troops at once across the frontier. He then made a formal appeal to the Duke, as the faithful and devoted adherent of the Holy See, to resign into its safe custody S. Leo, which, besides being considered the most impregnable fortress in Italy, was capital of the countship of Montefeltro, and formed part of the mortgage assigned by Clement VII. to the Medici, in security for alleged debts, still unsettled since the usurpation of Lorenzo de' Medici. This unceremonious proposition was accompanied by a distinct avowal of the Pope's resolve to make sure of the devolution to the ecclesiastical state of every morsel of the dukedom; and an intimation that any refusal would necessitate military demonstrations at Rimini and Città di Castello. So decided, indeed, was his Holiness to abate nothing of the renown which he anticipated from effecting this important accession to the pontifical temporalities, that he is said to have avowed his resolution to fall under the walls of Urbino, or be hanged on its battlements, rather than yield one tittle of his demands.[*111] [Footnote *111: It is curious to note the shameless zeal, astuteness, and cunning of the papacy in this matter. I believe a work on the subject is promised by Professor C. SCOTONI. The Pope could not have proved his right to Urbino in any tribunal. His claim was really more absurd than the claim of the Emperor.] But this precipitation failed in its object. The Duke was startled by what seemed at best a harsh return for the leal and true faith towards his ecclesiastical over-lord which had actuated his conduct. His suspicions thus aroused placed him on the defensive in his interviews with the legate Pavoni, whose persuasions were coldly repelled, and whose tone of menace called up all the old man's pride. He briefly and indignantly replied that death alone should deprive him of a sovereignty which he was fully able to maintain; that the extinction of his family was a dispensation of God; but that the Pontiff's demand was an insinuation against his good faith, which was far beyond question; finally, that his Holiness would do well to await the close of his few remaining days, when he would obtain everything in the due course of nature. To show that he spoke in earnest, he the same night despatched a reinforcement to the garrison of S. Leo; and his jealousy being thoroughly awakened, he refused to perform the alternative which the Legate had, with modified tone, suggested as a satisfactory solution of the difficulty, by writing a formal acknowledgment that his entire state was held under the Church, and a promise to do no act that might compromise or prejudice her rights over it. Monsignor Pavoni, interpreting some hasty expression of the Duke into a dismissal, was about to set out for Rome the same night; but, having remained till morning to allow time for cooler consideration, he obtained, under the hand of his Highness, such a declaration as he had suggested. On his return, he met Cardinal Cennino, another ambassador whom the impatient anxiety of Urban had despatched to insist with still greater urgency on the original terms. It were useless and irksome to follow the thread of diplomatic intrigue now brought to bear on the poor bereaved Duke. He felt himself demeaned even by the document which he had consented to give; but when he found it was but a prelude to new demands,--when he ascertained that a war establishment was ready along the ecclesiastical frontier to pounce upon his territory on the slightest pretext,--and when he was actually called upon to administer to the governors of his principal fortresses, and to the officers in command of his militia, an oath ensuring their allegiance to the Pope from the day of his own death, accompanied with a promise on his part not to appoint any one to those situations who had not taken a similar oath, indignation brought on an attack of illness which had nearly put an end to all difficulties by carrying him to the grave. This new misfortune, far from obtaining for the old man relief from these persecutions, stimulated the papal emissaries who surrounded him to fresh importunities. Urban's apprehensions were augmented by measures which Francesco Maria had taken for garrisoning his principal fortresses with troops from Tuscany and Naples, and by rumours of a new intrigue for transferring the hand of Vittoria to Leopold, son of the Emperor, thus giving to the latter a direct interest in this already involved dispute, which Philip IV. of Spain, jealous of the prospective aggrandisement of the Church, showed every disposition still further to complicate. The Pope, in order to forward his views upon the duchy, had, without consulting the Duke, promoted Monsignor Paulo Emilio Santorio from the see of Cesena to be Archbishop of Urbino, a man of violent temper and coarse manners, whose nomination was regarded as an insult by Francesco Maria, and who injudiciously substituted threats for conciliation in his intercourse with the Duke. This example was followed by subordinate agents who surrounded his sick bed, and wore him out by alternately working on his irritable disposition, his avarice, and his superstitious belief in astrology. Every turn of his malady was watched, and reported to Rome as matter of hope or fresh anxiety, whilst his palace was beset by troublesome and meddling spies. Nor were his negotiations with the Pontiff the only sources of irritation which daily accumulated upon the unhappy Francesco Maria. The cares of state, from which he had of late escaped, returned more irksomely than before. The brief misgovernment of the Prince had thrown upon him a greatly aggravated burden of anxiety and labour in the direction of these affairs; and his old favourites and tried counsellors were dropping around him, just at the crisis when he most required their services. His constitution, impaired by years and broken by gout, gave way under his agony of mind, and a paralytic seizure made fresh breaches upon his system. With a frame thus enfeebled, a mind thus disgusted, he sent for Antonio Donato, a noble Venetian long resident at his court, who had been at various times employed in political affairs, and addressed him in words which his Narrative of these events has preserved to us:-- "Your Lordship sees to what a condition God has reduced me. My house he has left unto me desolate: he has taken from me my dominion, my health, and my honour. I have sold myself to one skilful in profiting by my misfortunes: I am reduced to the shadow of sovereignty, and continually exposed to new inroads. To await death in so miserable a plight is impossible, to anticipate it were a crime: unable to recover what is gone from me, all now left me is to die without disgrace, after living for seventy-six years with nothing to regret. To you I would impart my ideas, that we may consider whether, by surrendering what remains, I might mitigate my vexations. I think of entreating the Pope to send me any one he pleases, who may govern this country, dependent upon me and by virtue of my authority, which I shall delegate to him as fully as it is vested in my person. Thus may his Holiness more effectually secure the return of these states after my death under the sway of the Church, and thus will he be enabled to liberate me from the restraint of obligations and oaths, no longer necessary when his own deputy is invested with the government, leaving me, in these my last hours, time to think of death, and to prepare myself suitably to meet it, as I well know it cannot be distant.... And perhaps this plan, which I own is hard to digest, may be less irksome in practice than it now seems in discussion; for in truth, I am no longer what I once was, nor ought I at this juncture to think but of my people's peace and my own. After all that has occurred, this ecclesiastical governor may prove the least annoying expedient; at all events it will free me from the irritation and slavery which past events have brought upon me." After having at first argued against the measure thus suggested, Donato was at length induced to carry the proposal formally to the Pope, without previous consultation with any one else. Suspicious perhaps of so sudden a change in the sentiments of Francesco Maria, the Sacred College raised difficulties in order to gain time for deliberation; but when, with his wonted impatience, he proposed to recall Donato and reconsider the matter, with a view to some other measure, the proffered devolution was accepted without further delay. The papal brief to that effect was dated the 10th December, 1624, and on the 20th, the Duke executed a blank warrant, making over his whole sovereign authority to the governor who might be named, and reserving only the empty name of his subject's allegiance. The Devolution was effected on the following terms. Along with all sovereign rights, there were conveyed to the Holy See the various fortified places in the duchy, and the residences at Urbino, Pesaro, and S. Leo. The Camera was allowed a preference in purchasing such warlike instruments, ammunition, and stores, as these places might contain, and was to pay to the Duke 100,000 scudi in name of expenses and ameliorations. To him and his heirs were reserved the furniture and movables in these three residences, and the whole allodial possessions of the family, including the palaces of Castel Durante, Sinigaglia, Gubbio, Cagli, Fossombrone, Novilara, and Della Carda; the _palazzetti_ or villas of Imperiale, Montebello, Monte Berticchio, Mirafiori, Velletta, and Barchetto, the three last being at Pesaro; many parks, forests, vineyards, houses, and particularly thirty-two mills. The Grand Duke of Tuscany was a party to the deed of devolution, which was executed on the 30th April, 1624, and he therein specially renounced for himself and his family all claim to the dukedom and states.[112] The assertion of Muratori, that Francesco Maria often regretted this step is not borne out by any authorities I have consulted. [Footnote 112: Oliveriana MSS. No. 324. Many documents regarding these transactions are printed in Riposati, vol. II.] In these arrangements the party most immediately interested had no voice, for the consent of the governed was then little studied in such transactions. Though the eloquent historian of the Italian republics maintains, upon true Guelphic principles, the blessings of the ecclesiastical sway compared with that of the petty seigneurs,[*113] those who have read the preceding chapters may hesitate ere they apply this doctrine to the duchy of Urbino. Four times have we seen the people throw off the transient rule of the Church, and recall their native princes to maintain that microscopic nationality which, to an Italian, is far dearer than personal liberty. Guicciardini admits that those who, under the princes, were maintained in ease with little personal exertion, generally hated papal domination. But under the popular dynasty of those dukes whose lives we have endeavoured to sketch, the loyalty implanted by selfishness was watered by affection, until its mature growth overshadowed the land. The extinction of their race was therefore bewailed by a grateful people, whose degradation to provincialism was felt as a still greater, and, in the circumstances, an irremediable misfortune. [Footnote *113: Here I heartily agree with Dennistoun. If the people preferred the ecclesiastical sway to that of the Signori, why was the whole state of Urbino so eager to get Francesco Maria II. married? And if we want another example from more recent times, why, in 1860, did the people of Perugia turn out _en masse_ and tear down the papal fortress, leaving a desert, which they still gloat over, in its place? The temporal rule of the Church has been bad everywhere at all times and in every way. That is why we have beggared her.] It is but justice to Urban to contrast his conduct on this occasion with the eagerness displayed by many of his predecessors for the aggrandisement of their own houses, by investing them with the lapsed fiefs of the Church. The obstacles to such an arrangement were no doubt increased by the altered spirit of the age, by the curtailed influence of the papacy, by the watchful jealousy of the great powers, and by numerous bulls directed against such alienations. Yet other ambitious pontiffs had trampled upon parchments, had braved public opinion, and had deluged Italy in blood for less tempting baits, and Muratori hints that such an attempt might, in the present case, have been sanctioned by Spain. Whilst, therefore, we blame the discourteous manner in which his Holiness made the aged Duke feel, with unnecessary acuteness, his bereaved and enfeebled position, we give him credit for a self-denying policy becoming the head of a Christian church.[*114] [Footnote *114: This is amusing of Urban VIII., of whom Pasquino said-- "_Quod non fecerunt Barbari Fecerunt Barberini._"] The first governor delegated by the Pope was Monsignor Berlinghieri Gessi, Bishop of Rimini, who took possession on the 1st January, 1625. The Duke assigned to him his palaces, and a salary of 2000 scudi, paying also the other officials, and the only internal change in the government was the dismissal of the council of Eight. Indeed, the deference shown by the people for those forms under which they had long been governed, obtained a guarantee for their continuance during ten years; and we are told that the chief innovation upon them consisted in an extension of literary academies, which had been discouraged by Francesco Maria on an apprehension of their taking a political tendency.[115] In January, 1626, the Bishop received a scarlet hat, and was succeeded as governor three years subsequently by Monsignor Lorenzo Campeggi, Bishop of Cesena, afterwards of Sinigaglia who held that office until the death of Francesco Maria. [Footnote 115: Brit. Mus. Lib. Add. MSS. Ital. No. 8511, art. 3.] But, though happy to escape from the personal superintendence of the government, "The old man, broken with the storms of state," did not consider himself exempted from all concern in the welfare of his subjects. We accordingly find, in a collection of his letters made by his secretary Babucci,[116] a very long remonstrance addressed to Cardinal Gessi regarding certain malversations in the management of public affairs. His complaints were directed against abuses of patronage, by conferring places of trust upon young and inexperienced persons, especially in the army, where many officers were rather children than soldiers; against a laxity of manners and conversation among the women, extending even to the nunneries; against the indiscriminate bearing of arms, which had already led to numerous homicides, and to the extirpation of game in the preserves. To Campeggi, the next governor, he complains, in 1628, of an increasing expenditure with impaired revenues. [Footnote 116: Dr. Antonio Babucci transcribed for the press a number of letters written by the Duke after the Devolution, and dedicated them to the Grand Duchess Vittoria. The MS. is preserved in the Magliabechiana Library, class xxv. No. 77, and fully bears out the commendation we have given to his epistolary style at p. 213.] CHAPTER XLVIII The Duke's monkish seclusion--His Death and Character--His Portraits and Letters--Notices of Princess Vittoria and her Inheritance--Fate of the Ducal Libraries--The Duchy Incorporated with the Papal States--Results of the Devolution. After his release from the cares of state, and from all anxiety as to the fate of his subjects and of his granddaughter, Francesco Maria was left to employ his unimpaired powers of mind on more congenial topics. His few remaining years were passed in the society of those monks of the order of Minims,[*117] whom he had brought to the new convent, and who had been selected for their literary acquirements. He made them the companions and aids of his studies, and discussed with them such subjects as his reading suggested. Though ever respectful of the doctrines and observances of religion, fanaticism had no part in his character; and it is clear from his last will, and other evidence, that, in circumstances peculiarly favourable to an undue exercise of priestly influence, he kept himself free from its thraldom. Yet was he exemplary in pious preparation for the change which his sinking frame, as well as his philosophy, taught him to regard as at hand. To blighted hopes, parental anguish, and a desolate old age, were added great bodily sufferings. Gout, to which he had been subject from his thirty-fourth year, had by degrees so twisted his limbs that he was fed like a child, and a fresh paralytic seizure at length completed his decrepitude. Still, amid "The waste and injury of time and tide," his mind continued unclouded. To the end his letters maintained their clear and graceful style; and the frequent correspondence he kept up with his granddaughter, a child in years rather than in ideas, formed the latest link that connected his thoughts and hopes with mundane objects. Of this correspondence, so creditable to the hearts of the writers, a few specimens will be found at p. 220. [Footnote *117: An order not of monks but of friars, founded by S. Francis of Paola in Calabria in 1436. The rule is based on the Franciscan, and the religious are mendicants.] The registers of the Roman convent of Minims of S. Lorenzo[*118] enable us to trace the closing scenes of the old man's feeble existence. During the autumn of 1630 a change took place, and he was chiefly confined to bed during the subsequent winter. The rapid decay of his digestive organs was accelerated by rigid fastings during Lent, in which he persisted despite of his confessor's remonstrances. From the debilitating effects of this discipline, exhausted nature could not rally; but life ebbed so slowly, that four days elapsed after extreme unction had been administered, ere his flickering pulse was still. At length, on the 28th of April, 1631, he passed away, bewailed by his subjects, regretted by all Italy. To the citizens of Castel Durante his death was an especial bereavement. "They wept for a beloved father, the chastener of the bad, the rewarder of the good, the stay and advocate of the poor, the protector of the orphan, the support of the weak and oppressed, the consoler of the afflicted, the benefactor of all."[119] Thus deprived of the glorious and desired shade and shelter of their goodly OAK, which, transplanted from the Ligurian shores, had branched out so boldly in their mountain soil, his people saw their independence extinguished, and their position in provincial insignificance riveted for ever. [Footnote *118: This I know not. Their present _Casa generalizia_ is at S. Andrea delle Fratte. The basilica of S. Lorenzo is now in the care of the Franciscans.] [Footnote 119: CIMARELLI, _Istoria dello Stato d'Urbino_.] He lay in state during two days, arrayed in the ducal mantle of silver tissue lined with purple taffetas; on his head a coronet of gold surmounted the velvet cap of maintenance; the collar of the Fleece was on his neck, the ring on his finger, the sceptre in his hand. In these trappings of sovereignty, a last tribute to the station which he had quitted for ever, and which none remained to fill, he was by his own desire interred. Seven years before, he had prepared for himself an unornamented tomb under the holy-water vase in the church of the Crucifixion, at Castel Durante. There he chose his final resting-place, amid sites endeared as the scene of his youthful sports, the relaxation of his busy manhood, the retreat of his chastened age. Thither he was escorted by a procession of five hundred gentlemen, besides a numerous attendance of priests and monks. Each of the latter received a scudo and a pound of wax; and by one of them, Padre Ludovico Munaxho, the funeral oration was pronounced. At his own desire, this prayer, from the liturgy of his church, was inscribed under the front, in lieu of epitaph:--"O Lord, incline thine ear to our prayers, wherein we supplicate thy mercy, and that thou wouldst establish in peace, and in the realms of the elect, the soul of thy servant Francesco Maria II., Duke of Urbino, which thou hast summoned from this life, and that thou wouldst ordain it to be received into the company of thy saints, through Christ our Saviour. Amen. He died in the year of God MDCXXXI., and of his age LXXXIII." * * * * * [Illustration: FRANCESCO MARIA II., DUKE OF URBINO _From a picture once in the possession of James Dennistoun_] The character of Francesco Maria presented many strange contradictions. The manifold inconsistencies of his precepts and practice have already been pointed out; and the opinions of his contemporaries varied, not only from the estimate with a perusal of such memorials as I have discovered of his reign would lead one to form, but also from each other. It may be well to give the judgments of those who had best opportunities of forming just conclusions, leaving the reader to reconcile their discrepancies. Donato, his chief counsellor in the Devolution of his state, whose experience was chiefly of his latter years, writes of him as follows:-- "For sixty years did he enjoy his dukedom, ever loved but ever feared by his subjects, and highly esteemed by foreigners. Having had always about him the most famous literary characters of his time, having himself mastered many sciences, and read a multitude of books, it would be difficult in a few words to do justice to his finished knowledge, to his acute genius, to his profound memory, to his elegant and unaffected style in speaking and in writing, to his intimate acquaintance with natural history and geography, as well as with the political relations of states. Nor was he less skilled in the more important acquirements of theology and sacred subjects, upon which he was accustomed to dispute with those whose business it was to teach these doctrines. He was a prince of great piety, of exemplary manners, of austere address. He lived as a sovereign, but spoke like a simple gentleman. His modesty veiled the pride of his station; his strict justice obtained for him the respect due to a king; his conduct was on all occasions exemplary. Fond of despatch, he was impatient of dilatory measures and superfluous discussions. He would have been a paragon for princes, and worthy of undying fame, had not the irritability which unaccountably swayed his temper, and his violent fits of passion in matters regarding himself, hurried him unrestrained by his many virtues into numerous excesses and errors. Among such may be accounted his throwing up the reins to his son, his abandoning himself to the guidance of favourites, his credulous adherence to first impressions, his abhorrence of those who had once alienated his regard. Timid and suspicious from his solitary habits, he was averse to generosity, cautious in his expenditure, but, punctual to his promises, was fully to be relied upon for an exact performance of his word. In person he was well-proportioned, neither stout nor thin. He was a good knight, skilled in arms and equestrian exercises; he was devoted to the chase and all manly exercises; attached to persons of accomplishment and high birth." Thus speaks his courtier Donato; and he is in the main confirmed by a somewhat less favourably coloured testimony from Gozze, who seems to have been a contemporary, and whose narrative is contained in No. 324 of the Oliveriana MSS. According to it, he was singularly active, skilful in all manly exercises, and particularly fond of racket and of hunting. He was hasty in temper and in speech; impatient of contradiction, and obstinate; so cunning that one scarcely knew when he was in favour. He had much practical good sense, but was wayward, choleric, discontented, selfishly inconsiderate of those about him, and, having taken offence, was apt to brood over and resent it. He was most exact in business, and habitually regular in its duties; punctual in payments, but most strict in accounting with those who managed his affairs. He was fond of magnificence, and maintained a numerous court, though less brilliant than his father's. He had but one favourite at a time, keeping all others at a distance; indeed, his stern manner overawed even when his words were gracious. He was handsome, in person scrupulously nice, but neither effeminate nor extravagant in his habits. His disposition was retired and melancholy, and he indulged it much by reading, writing, or walking in solitude. He was ostensibly devout, and was regular in the observance of religious duties. He spoke and wrote very well and solidly, studying a terse and simple style. His tastes were decidedly literary, with a partiality for the graver sciences, and he ever maintained about him persons distinguished in letters and art. Writing at an interval of nearly a century and a half after his death, but with the advantage of access to many original documents, Passeri thus characterises Francesco Maria II. "In him military skill, intercourse with courts, and scientific studies, combined to form the rare instance of a sovereign philosopher. No prince of the day was more wise, more courtly, or more attached to his people; and his systematic government by means of excellent ministers might be adopted as a model. To men of letters he paid the greatest honour, and he willingly sought their converse; none such ever passed through Pesaro whom he did not receive with distinction. It was his desire to introduce all sorts of manufactures, that his subjects might have no occasion to send their money abroad for the purchase of necessaries; indeed, they exported silks, woollens, leather, and majolica, which produced a large balance over their imports. The improvement of agriculture shared his anxious care, and the means he adopted to effect this merit high encomium. He wrought to advantage the iron mines of Lamole, and those of copper at Gubbio. Thus did his state become populous and wealthy, while lightly taxed, for the expenses of his court were nearly limited to the income of his private estates, and to the profits derived from the importation of grain out of the dominions of the Church. He maintained a sort of standing militia of thirteen thousand men in the pay of Spain, who, in peace, pursued their occupations at home, but, in war, were placed under the command of that power. From this arrangement great benefit resulted; for thus had the military spirit, for which the country had always been remarkable, an ample and safe outlet, whilst the talents so developed often led to individual distinctions and promotion." From a narrative of Urbino, compiled in 1648,[120] we gather one or two anecdotes of this Duke. When irritated he used to apply contemptuous epithets to his various cities, founded upon the temperament he had discovered in their inhabitants. Thus he called the people of Urbino proud and foul-mouthed; those of Pesaro, cowards; of S. Leo, Mantuan sheep; of Cagli, bum-bailiffs; of Fossombrone, tax-gathers; for the citizens of Mondavio alone he reserved a compliment, saying that they were born courtiers. Though fond of letters, he ever set his face against the establishment of academies, alleging that they might degenerate into revolutionary conventicles. To the just views which guided his political arrangements the best testimony is supplied by the fact above mentioned, that his people interceded for a prolongation of all his government institutions during the ten years succeeding the Devolution, and that, Urban having consented, these were found so well adapted to the well-being of the province, that they remained undisturbed after that period of probation had expired. [Footnote 120: Maruccelli MSS. C. No. 308.] In person, Francesco Maria was handsome, and, from being puny and stunted in childhood, grew up active and graceful, but with a complexion of almost effeminate beauty. He was, therefore, fortunate in having for his court painter one whose men and women, as Sir Joshua Reynolds has happily remarked, seem nourished by roses. Although it is improbable that Baroccio executed the swaddled effigy of him in the Pitti Gallery, there can be little question that the four portraits we shall now mention are by that artist. One of these, in the Tribune of the Uffizi at Florence, with a repetition of equal merit in Baron Camuccini's choice collection at Rome, represents to perfection a strikingly elegant youth in the gorgeous uniform worn on his naval expedition in 1571.[*121] There is in my possession a half-length, with one of Ambrogio Baroccio's curious timepieces upon the table, which came from the Durazzo Gallery at Genoa; and the head introduced above, at p. 151, done in full manhood, when the cares of sovereignty had begun to furrow his features with "lines of anxious thought," was purchased by me at Pesaro, in 1843. In the Antaldi Palace there, I saw a head of this Duke ascribed to Baroccio, but evidently done some years after his death. It is a slight sketch, thrown off at a sitting, and painfully preserving features whereon age and sickness, sorrow and anxiety, have set their seal. Portraiture can show no contrast more startling than that time-worn figure, with glassy eye and ghastly visage, offers to the glowing cheek and gallant bearing of the richly accoutred hero of Lepanto. But still more melancholy the change that had come over the man, then gladsome in youthful beauty, rising fame, and chivalrous hope, burning to enjoy the advantages of high station, to maintain and transmit the respect and popularity of a long-honoured name. [Footnote *121: No longer in the Tribuna, but in the Sala di Baroccio. It is the painter's masterpiece [Cat. No. 1119].] We have referred to letters of the Duke written during his last years, as interesting expressions of his state of mind. Besides the collection of Babucci already quoted, a considerable number of these are preserved in two other MSS. in the same library; also many others, addressed by her relations to the Princess Vittoria, with her answers, dated between 1627 and 1632.[122] The whole exceed two hundred in number, and form a series of royal correspondence equally remarkable for Christian sentiment and domestic affections. In the following pages we give literal translations of a few of them, which pleasingly illustrate these virtues in the Duke and Duchess, in their daughter-in-law, now remarried to the Archduke Leopold, and in the young Princess herself. By the first letter, the Archduchess announces to her daughter the birth of a brother; by the second, Francesco Maria intimates his confidence in the husband he had chosen for his grandchild. In Nos. 3 and 6 the warmth of his attachment to her is gracefully tinged with the pious resignation of a dying Christian. Nos. 4 and 5 relate to his making over to her his family jewels, a precaution, perhaps, against any difficulties that might arise after his decease. No. 7 was his last letter, dictated about a month before his release from sufferings. The remaining four refer to that event, and to the affliction of his nearest relatives. [Footnote 122: Magliabechiana MSS., class viii., Nos. 60, 61.] 1. _The Archduchess Claudia to the Princess Vittoria._ "My most serene and beloved daughter, "Now that you have obtained from God your little brother, after, as you tell me, having prayed for him (who, when he is grown tall, will love you well), it remains for you to thank the same God, who is the giver of all good. You say that you wish to have this little brother for yourself; and I agree to humour you under these conditions: First, that your prayers obtain for me another next year; second, that you come hither yourself to take him, so that you may have the pleasure of seeing me, and I you; third, that, in the meantime, you in everything obey Madam [the Dowager Grand Duchess] and your other superiors, and that you often pray for the health of the Lord Duke, to whom you owe so much. And now I and my Lord your [step] father [the Archduke Leopold] give you our blessing, beseeching for you a divine one much more ample and perpetual. 3rd June, 1628. "Your most affectionate mother, "CLAUDIA." 2. _The Duke Francesco Maria to the Princess Vittoria._ "Your Highness having now attained the age of seven, his serene Highness the Grand Duke, your betrothed husband, has intimated to me that, the better to secure his intentions in your behalf from the speculations and gossip of the public, he will forthwith voluntarily contract with you the sacred rite of marriage. But, as I have adopted my measures, after taking every conjuncture into account, I cannot allow myself to suppose any purpose of drawing back in the mind of a prince of his station, endued with virtues which must ever render him estimable to posterity, and a worthy grandson of the great Ferdinand. I have, therefore, declined his request, and have offered my consent that the contracts already executed and concluded between us should be carried into effect when most agreeable to himself. And, though I should not be then a party to these arrangements, as, surely, I am little likely to be, considering the years and ails which, lame as I am, hurry me with long and great strides towards the tomb, yet is it my hope to behold from heaven the comfort of your Highness, which I pray God may be perpetual, and uninterrupted by any misfortune. I have informed you of this that you may be aware of what is going on, and I salute you," &c. 3. _The Duke Francesco Maria to the Princess Vittoria._ "Most serene Lady, my grandchild, "Your Highness has much reason to send me happiness, for, as I am so closely united to you, and love you so much, it will all return to you for your own benefit. But, feeling myself reduced to such a state that I can no longer find it in this world, I shall take it as a great favour that your Highness pray God Almighty to grant me, instead of such enjoyments as are prized in this life, patience amid the great sufferings wherewith he visits me, and to account these as meritorious for my glory in the next. Keep yourself well and joyous; love me as always; and command my paternal benediction: and I kiss your hands. From Castel Durante, 7th January, 1630. "Your Highness's servant, and grandfather, who loves you from his heart, "THE DUKE OF URBINO." 4. _The Duke Francesco Maria to the Princess Vittoria._ "I send to your Highness all the jewels remaining in this house after its many calamities, and I consign them to you during my life, since God knows what may happen after my death. Your Highness will accept them in token of my sincere affection towards you, and in good time will ornament with them your person, forgetting not first to adorn your mind with those virtues which become ladies of your station, and which may render you more and more dear to your most serene husband. And so I salute your Highness." [9th April, 1630.] 5. _The Princess Vittoria to the Duke Francesco Maria._ "Most serene Lord, my most respected grandfather, "I know that I ought always to pray God more for your Highness's health and long life, seeing how, for affection to me, you never cease to consider what may be for my benefit. On Saturday morning I received your Highness's letter of the 9th, by your master of the wardrobe, and had the greatest joy in hearing that your Highness has been pleased to send me the jewels. Yesterday too, after breakfasting at the palace with Madam my most serene grandmother, and the Lady Princess Anna, I had such delight in seeing them all in presence of the most serene Grand Duke my spouse. And as they are already brought to this convent, your Highness may rest assured that they will be kept in safe custody, and will serve to adorn me as I may choose, as well as the others of the most serene Archduchess my mother, which also I willingly believe she will reserve for me. The thanks I shall render to your Highness are my prayers for your behalf, which I shall continue devoutly to offer several times a day, having no other way of doing you a service; and I give you my most humble duty with all my heart. From Florence, 15th April, 1630." 6. _The Duke Francesco Maria to the Princess Vittoria._ "Most serene Lady, my granddaughter, "I am sorry to trouble your Highness with so many of my letters, but the love I bear you, and the news I have from your city so contrary to my wishes, compel me to this. Your Highness must therefore bear with it, and believe that in writing I fancy myself with you, and find in this a satisfaction even beyond what I derive from knowing that you are settled where no demonstration of courtesy and affection will ever be wanting to you. I pray God to send a change of weather, that so I may feel assured your Highnesses are exempt both from danger and from its consequent anxieties. I augur for your Highness a continuance of health and every good; and I endearingly kiss your hands. From Castel Durante, 29th November, 1630. "Your Highness's servant, and grandfather, who loves you from his heart, "THE DUKE OF URBINO." 7. _The Duke Francesco Maria to the Princess Vittoria._ "Most serene Lady, my granddaughter, "My usual ailments have for the last several days so harassed me, that the prayers which your Highness addresses to God for me have been most appropriate. For these I heartily thank you, and since His great goodness gives me a hope that the Almighty listens to them, I beg of you to continue them for that divine assistance of which we all have need, but I in particular, who in age bear so many additional ills. I hear from the letters of your most serene spouse, that he, your Highness, and all his most serene house are in health, and that the prevailing epidemic may be considered extinct. On this I heartily congratulate your Highness, of whom I would daily learn some new good fortune and happiness, and by such would esteem myself fully recompensed for the sufferings to which my few remaining days must be subject. And with all my heart I kiss your Highness's hands. From Castel Durante, 2nd April, 1631. "Your Highness's servant, and grandfather, who loves you heartily, "THE DUKE OF URBINO." 8. _The Duchess Livia to the Princess Vittoria._ "Most serene Lady, my beloved granddaughter, "As, by connection of blood and of affection, our consolations are in common, so also are our griefs and afflictions. We have lost, by the death of the most serene Lord Duke, more than I am able to express on paper, but I know that your Highness's ready comprehension will be sensible of this. It pains me to have to send you the sad and mournful tidings of his death, which took place last Monday, about half-past three o'clock; but since I could not give you such news without sorrow, I pray you to excuse me and console yourself, as I myself do in so far as possible. And I affectionately kiss your hands, only adding that to ensure your receiving it I have sent a duplicate of this. Castel Durante, 2nd May, 1631. "Your Highness's servant, and most affectionate mother, who loves you more than herself, "LIVIA DUCHESS OF URBINO." 9. _The Princess Vittoria to the Duchess Livia._ "My most serene Lady, and respected grandmother, "I feel deeply the bad news of my grandfather, and though they do not say he is dead, I much fear it, for they do not speak plainly. Should it have pleased God to call him to glory after such sufferings, I cannot but pray for his soul in my devotions. And in the extreme grief which I shall feel under so great a bereavement, and so heavy a loss, I shall beseech your Highness to consent to come and stay in this serene family, where I know you are much wished by all their Highnesses, for this will be the utmost consolation I could have. Meanwhile I await that of your Highness's letters and commands, and I make you my reverence, praying God to grant you every happiness. From Florence, 3rd May, 1631." 10. _The Princess Vittoria to the Archduchess Claudia._ "My most serene Lady, and respected mother, "The most serene Lord Duke my grandfather is at length dead, to my infinite sorrow, and I seem to stand abandoned by all; for I never knew other father but him; and your Highness, though my mother, is so far away, that I feel not the warmth of your affection, as I in some measure felt that of my Lord grandfather, by his proximity and the frequent comfort I had from his loving letters and other tokens. Your Highness will therefore sympathise with me, whilst I condole with you on so great a loss and severe a misfortune, and I beseech you to give me what consolation you can. And I make you my reverence, praying God ever to increase your happiness. From Florence, 10th May, 1631." 11. _The Archduchess Claudia to the Princess Vittoria._ "Princess, my beloved daughter, "The regret has been universal for the departure of your grandfather, the Lord Duke of Urbino, to a better life, and for the loss of a prince who maintained the superiority of his rank by that of his merits; no wonder, therefore, that it has been so great in you, for this is just by the laws of blood, and due as a debt of gratitude. I too have found it bitter, partly on your account, partly from my own obligations. But considering that the good Lord has gone from us at an age when life began to be a burden, and death desirable, I resign myself to the divine will, conforming to that which He had from eternity ordained. This surely you also have done, after the first bursts of feeling, to which, rather than to your reason, I ascribe your lamenting to me your bereavement of him as a loss of all support, and your entire abandonment. And, my daughter, I should be much distressed, did I not believe that by this time you have changed that view, so injurious to the affectionate solicitude your Lord grandfather took in so well providing for your future. Though distant from you, I bear you in my heart, and your little brothers grow up with a thousand inducements to love and serve you, prompted by nature and my suggestions. Their Highnesses, too, are always most disposed to caress and honour you, in particular Madam my Lady [Dowager Grand Duchess], who will fill my place in administering with watchful affection to all your sympathies and wants. You have likewise your lady grandmother, whom you should ever most affectionately respect, and from whom you may expect a lively interest in your welfare and success. You have, lastly, what is still more important, the protection of the Lord God, provided you fail not to deserve it, by acquiring those virtues, which, if displayed by you, will prove to the world that the glory of our race is not entirely extinguished. Be careful, then, to grow up cheerfully; and be it your aim to fulfil the expectations generally entertained of your good abilities, assured that the greater your attainments the more will be my comfort in you. Humbly kiss in my name the hem of your serene grandmother, and beseech the blessed Lord our Saviour that he would listen to my prayers and longings, the first of which are for your prosperity and happiness. From Inspruck, the 24th May, 1631. "Your most affectionate mother from the heart, "CLAUDIA." Princess Vittoria seems to have merited the affections of her relations, so warmly expressed in these and many similar letters. On arriving at her future capital, she had been placed for education in a convent, where her progress was so rapid that before she was eight years old, she composed as well as penned her letters, and within two other years could write them in Spanish. From the period of her betrothal, she was always addressed as Grand Duchess, and her marriage was privately celebrated in 1633, when she was under twelve, her husband being then double her age. Four years later, the public celebration of this union took place with suitable demonstrations of joy, and in due time it produced two sons, Cosimo, afterwards Grand Duke, and Francesco Maria, Cardinal de' Medici. In her grandson, the Grand Duke Giovanni Gaston, the male line of the Medici expired in 1737, when their state passed to the house of Lorraine. The portraits of Vittoria preserved in the Pitti Gallery represent her as an overgrown but comely matron, of good-humoured expression. Her matured character did not realise its early promise. Proud, vain, suspicious, and weak, she inherited her grandfather's predilection for the society of priests; and her bigotry, increasing with her years, so contrasted with the frank and lively temperament of her husband, that a separation became advisable. These faults she transmitted to her favourite son Cosimo, under whose reign they bred many public evils. She died in 1694, after twenty-four years of widowhood, disliked by her subjects as much as her husband had been esteemed. The Duchess Livia retired a few weeks after her bereavement to her paternal estate of Castel Leo, near Sassoferrato, where she lived in great retirement, and in religious exercises, varied by visits to Assisi and Loreto. She left her whole property to her granddaughter the Grand Duchess Vittoria. The Duke must have taken great pleasure in will-making, as his Diary frequently mentions his being employed in that way. At his death it would seem that more than one valid testament was found, the general provisions of which, as stated in a contemporary abstract,[123] were as follows:--He desired to be buried in the church of the Crucifixion at Castel Durante, and that two thousand masses should be said for his soul. He instituted his granddaughter Vittoria his universal heir and executrix, burdened with these legacies: To his Duchess Livia, 50,000 scudi, and an annuity of 4000 scudi; to his sister, the Marchioness del Vasto, the palace and garden at Montebello, in which she was living; to the Marquis of Pescara, a jewel, a gold watch, and 2000 scudi; to the Duke of Modena, the Marquis del Vasto, and the Cardinals Farnese and de' Medici, each a gold watch; to the Zoccolantine monastery in the park of Castel Durante, 50,000 scudi; among his servants 12,000 scudi; to the community of Urbino, the library of MSS. and printed books in his palace there, with the Campo dei Galli under the fortress for maintenance of a librarian; to the convent of Minims, at Castel Durante, the library he had at that residence. In case of the death of his granddaughter without issue, he substituted the Dukes of Parma, Modena, and Aiello, to his succession. [Footnote 123: Magliabechiana MSS., class viii., No. 74.] The inheritance thus conveyed was immense. The lowest estimate I have seen states its amount at 2,000,000 of golden scudi, though probably somewhat impaired by a litigation which arose with the Camera Apostolica, in consequence of involved questions, as to what were public and what allodial rights of the late Duke. It included lands in Naples worth 50,000 scudi, and estates in the duchy, which, in 1648, were computed to yield 15,000 scudi a year, besides the residences and their dependencies, worth 4000 more.[124] The personal property was valued at 340,000 ducats, exclusive of family jewels previously sent to the Princess, and of the libraries otherwise bequeathed.[125] [Footnote 124: Maruccelli MSS. C. No. 308. Mercurius Gallicus, 1624.] [Footnote 125: Such particulars of the wardrobe inventory as relate to objects of art are included in the last No. of the Appendix.] The fate of the two famous Urbino libraries deserves more special inquiry, and it is very disappointing to offer but a meagre result. Those who have glanced over our eighth chapter will be aware that the collection of MSS. made by Duke Federigo was the wonder of his age, and the admiration of all who have celebrated the glories of his lettered dynasty. The circumstances under which it was amassed, the accommodation provided for it in the palace of Urbino, and the most beautiful of its contents, have already been introduced to the reader. The losses it had sustained during the Borgian usurpation by plunder and accident were, we are assured by Paulo Maria, bishop of that metropolitan see, nearly supplied by the anxious care of succeeding Dukes; and, though none of these appear to have been bibliomanes, literary as they were in taste, and ever surrounded by men of high acquirement, it may be supposed that their library was from time to time recruited with works issuing from the press. But this casual supply was inadequate to the wants of the studious Francesco Maria II. Instead of disturbing the old library at Urbino, he drew from all quarters to his residence at Pesaro a numerous and choice store of printed books which he eventually transported to Castel Durante, for the amusement of his leisure hours. Such were the two libraries separately bequeathed by the Duke's will, to which we have just referred. He left "to the community of Urbino his library of MSS. in that city, as well as all MSS. and drawings in that of Castel Durante, as soon as they can be transported thither; and, in order that the said community may maintain a person to take charge thereof, he conveyed to them certain lands for his support; expressly enjoining that the said library shall never be removed from the place where it then was, nor be diminished by a single volume, under forfeiture of their right thereto, in favour of the company Confraternita della Grotta of Urbino." The library remained under charge of Vittorio Venturelli, a man of some literary note; but ere many years had elapsed, the destination by Francesco Maria was defeated. In 1657, the community had formal notice from Alexander VII. of his wish to transport the collection to the Vatican, "for the increase of its splendour, and the benefit of Christendom." After some delay and hesitation, this proposal was reluctantly acceded to by the magistracy, who took the opportunity of stipulating certain favours and immunities for the public. The chief of these were a diminution of the contingent of interest payable by Urbino on the state debt; exemption from certain imposts; the establishment there of educational institutions under charge of the Jesuits; the removal thither from Urbania of the Minims, with the other library left to them by the late Duke; an annual sum for repairs of the ducal palace; the preservation of their library in the Vatican under its proper name, and the perpetual appointment of a native of their city among the librarians there; lastly, a surrender to the community of the property bequeathed for the support of their librarian. The Pope's interference seems to have been suggested, or perhaps only excused, by a rumoured intention of the community to sell the collection to some foreign prince. The MSS., numbering 1793 volumes, were finally sent to Rome in sixty-three cases; and a tradition is still current in Urbino that they were removed secretly, and during night, to the bitter mortification of the inhabitants, who regarded this as the last relic of sovereignty and independence remaining to them, and who probably esteemed it more as a monument of better days than from a just appreciation of its real value. The MSS. were assuredly worth a far higher ransom than was obtained by the citizens, but there can be little doubt that their safety and utility were enhanced by the transfer. They were deposited in a section of the vast corridor at the Vatican, where an obscure lapidary inscription informs us that "in 1658, Alexander VII. added to the Vatican collection the ancient MSS., of all sorts and in all languages, which formed the library of Urbino, thereby insuring their preservation and proper treatment, after compensating those who assigned over the boon."[126] The printed books of this library, in number 233, were retained in Urbino.[127] [Footnote 126: Alexander VII. Pont. Max. Antiqua omnis generis omniumque linguarum Urbinatis bibliothecæ manuscripta volumina Repenso cedentibus beneficio D. tutiorem custodiam atque proprietatem Vaticanæ adjunxit an. sal. MDCLVIII.] [Footnote 127: Most of these particulars have been gleaned from the communal archives at Urbino, R. No. 30.] It remains to trace the library at Castel Durante. In the archives of the Convent of Minims at S. Lorenzo in Lucina, at Rome, I discovered a copy of a settlement by Francesco Maria, dated 1628, in which he leaves the Minims of the Crucifixion, at Castel Durante, "all the library of printed books which may be in Castel Durante," with the room in which they are, and the shelving, etc.; but under an obligation "that before taking possession thereof, they shall without delay send to the library of Urbino, at the expense of the heir, all such MSS. and books of designs as may be among them." There is also a special condition that, if these monks permit any part, however small, of the collection to be removed from thence or transported elsewhere, the bequest shall lapse to the Confraternita della Grotta, at Urbino; and a small provision is made for maintaining a librarian. The active interest taken by Urban VIII. in Castel Durante (now Urbania) did not overlook the benefit which such a public library was likely to afford to that town, and he provided for its perpetual security by proclaiming ecclesiastical censures against such as should dilapidate or carry it away. About twenty-seven years after the Duke's death, Alexander VII., being at a loss how to furnish with books the library of his newly-erected university, the Sapienza, at Rome, bethought himself of the collection at Castel Durante; and on the assumption of its very limited utility there, and of the excellent purpose to which it might be made subservient at the Sapienza, transported it thither. He had previously obtained a sort of forced consent on the part of the monks of the Crucifixion to this arrangement, by promising to the convent of their order at Rome the custody of the new library, and other favours: the opposition of the Confraternita della Grotta he had also neutralised, by purchasing their reversionary interest in the bequest. The transaction was enveloped in great secrecy, in anticipation of opposition from the grand-ducal family, or from the citizens of Castel Durante; indeed, when the removal of the books was begun, the latter manifested such indignation and discontent, that about five hundred volumes were allowed to remain for their use. Notwithstanding this concession, and their unwillingness to agree to the arrangement, the monks were for a long time greatly persecuted by the people; their Provost fled in terror of his life, and nothing but dread of papal censures would have induced their compliance. Upon the pretext that persons bound to reside in a cloister, at some distance, could not be efficient guardians of the new library at Rome, even the promised boon was withheld from their brethren of S. Lorenzo, who received in compensation the lectureship of moral philosophy at the Sapienza, along with certain exemptions affecting the internal discipline of their order. The consulting catalogue of the Vatican Urbino MSS., now used by the librarians, was compiled in 1797 by Mauro Coster, and being alphabetical, does not show the number of MSS.; but the numeration of articles exceeds 4000. In it, at No. 1388, will be found another catalogue by Stefano Gradio, wherein the numeration of volumes, many of them containing several articles, amounts to 1361; but in the general catalogue for reference, the volumes are only 1026. Under the regulations prohibiting indiscriminate access to the Vatican catalogues, I have not been able satisfactorily to reconcile these discrepancies, nor to pronounce upon the accuracy of any of these calculations; they, however, afford sufficient data to estimate the extent of the Urbino MSS. Their value is probably greater in reference to their number than that of any other component portion of the Vatican collection; indeed, than any existing library except the Laurentian; but this point, too, must remain unresolved, so long as the present restrictions are maintained.[*128] [Footnote *128: I am not able to state more accurately than Dennistoun the number of volumes from the Urbino collection now in the Vatican. Unhappily there is not a library in all Italy that possesses a catalogue fit to use. For the MSS. to-day existing in the library of the University at Urbino, see _Le Marche_, An. iv., p. 212.] * * * * * As soon as the Duke's demise seemed to be certainly approaching, Urban had directed his nephew, Prince Taddeo Barberini, general-in-chief of the ecclesiastical troops, to occupy the frontier, who, on that event, marched through the state to receive its allegiance, and thus secured its unopposed Devolution to the Holy See, to the infinite satisfaction of the Pontiff. Another nephew, Cardinal Antonio Barberini, was soon after named Legate, under whom the ancient Dukedom passed at once into its new position as a province of the papal state. But after a few months he resigned the appointment, and it was bestowed upon his brother, Cardinal Francesco, who, preferring Rome as a residence, governed the province for many years by a vice-legate. The Pontiff, in proof of his paternal affection for his new subjects, conferred a Cardinal's hat on the Bishop of Gubbio, and established in that town a branch of the Inquisition! The revenue drawn by the Camera from the state of Urbino, in the years immediately subsequent to the Devolution, fell considerably short of the expenses; but after the imposts had been augmented, the income, in 1648, exceeded 40,000 scudi, leaving a balance at the credit of the government. The population was then above two hundred thousand. The change from independent to provincial rank had already become painfully manifest. The vaunted fidelity of the natives was degenerated into servility of demeanour. Everywhere their eyes rested on some symptom of departed grandeur. The palaces of their dukes were falling into neglect, crumbling and grass-grown; the gardens, overrun by rank weeds, sadly recalled days of past festivity; the degraded castles testified to an impoverished and absentee nobility. The glories of Urbino were gone.[129] [Footnote 129: Maruccelli MSS. C. No. 308. See App. No. VIII. for statistical notices of this period.] But the cup was charged with a bitterness beyond these humiliations. Surrounded by ecclesiastical provinces, the inhabitants of the duchy had long a foretaste of their coming fate, which amply accounted for the exultation with which they had hailed the promised continuance of the ducal line, and their sullen despair on witnessing its inevitable extinction. The Venetian Relazioni, quoted by Ranke, supply us with the opinion of disinterested contemporaries as to the condition of the papal state during the seventeenth century. In 1600, its "nobles and people would gladly cast themselves upon any sovereign whatever, to escape from the hands into which they had fallen." Ten years later, the very blood of the inhabitants was wrung from them by excessive taxation, and their enterprise was crushed by commercial restrictions. "The foreign traders had quitted Ancona, the native merchants were bankrupt, the gentry impoverished, the artizans ruined, the populace dispersing." A year or two after the last Duke's death, his people are described as grumbling much at the change, calling the new government a tyranny, and sneering at the priests as interested solely in accumulating wealth, and aggrandising themselves. In 1666, we have this calamitous but probably overcoloured picture:--"It is palpably evident that the ecclesiastical realm is quite overburdened, so that many landholders, unable to extract enough from their possessions to meet the extraordinary public imposts, resort of necessity to the abandonment of their estates, in order to seek fortune and sustenance in less rapacious communities. I speak not of duties and customs, from which nothing eatable is excepted; because the taxes, donatives, subsidies, and other extraordinary extortions would excite pity and astonishment, even if the terrible commissioners sent from Rome into these cities, with absolute authority to inquire, sell, carry off, and confiscate, did not exceed all belief; no month ever passing without a flight of griffins and harpies, in the guise of commissioners, either of the fabric of St. Peter's, or of pious bequests, or of movable goods, or of archives, or of some five-and-twenty other Roman courts, by all which the already drained purses of the helpless subjects are tortured to the last degree. And thus,--setting aside Ferrara and Bologna, to which some consideration is extended, and which are favoured by nature and art with excellent soil, and with manufacturing industry,--all other cities of Romagna, La Marca, Umbria, the Patrimony, Sabina, and the Campagna are utterly wretched; and, to the disgrace of the Roman government, in none of them do woollen or silk factories exist, nor even of gold stuffs, except in a few such little towns as Fossombrone, Pergola, Matelica, Camerino, and Norcia, although the abundance of wool and silk might afford a most advantageous trade. The ecclesiastical territory is merely an estate leased out to tenants, who give no thought to its improvement, but only to extract the greatest possible amount of its produce from the unhappy land, whose scourged and arid soil will be unable to yield more than very barren crops to succeeding occupants.... The more hateful and abhorred they find themselves, the more merciless do they become; and dragging their hats over their brows, they look no one in the face. They glean all sorts of corn into their sheaves, intent wholly upon their own interests, without the smallest regard to the public." By the end of the century, matters had become worse, the country being "depopulated and uncultivated, ruined by extortions, and destitute of industry." The duchy of Urbino, which, according to the preceding extract, was the last refuge of the silk trade, had then fallen into deep decay, and the corn commerce of La Marca was clogged by export dues and injudicious restrictions.[130] [Footnote 130: The state of feeling in the duchy, even under the comparatively beneficent sway of its native pope, Clement XI., may be inferred from an incident of trifling moment. Having obtained trace of a petition or remonstrance addressed to that Pontiff among the MSS. of the Bibliotheca Borbonica at Naples, I was refused a sight of it by the Archbishop then at the head of that library, on the ground of its injurious allegations against the authorities. Verily such overcaution may defeat its own end, by leaving an exaggerated impression of the mischief it would veil. So Gergorovius was turned out of the Vatican Library.] [Illustration: _Anderson_ VITTORIA DELLA ROVERE, GRAND DUCHESS OF TUSCANY _From the picture by Sustermans in the Pitti Gallery, Florence_] These plaintive notes might still [1859] find not a few echoes along the papal coasts of the Adriatic--the focus of Italian discontent,--over-taxation to maintain a distant government being ever the burden of their song. But the question is not, in truth, one of financial administration. However open to stricture the fiscal details may be, when tested by sound principles, the amount of revenue raised is moderate in consideration of the wealth there lavished by beneficent nature, in a degree denied to other not less burdened districts of the Peninsula. Nor can the papal sway, however objectionable, be in fairness regarded as otherwise than mild. But centralisation is necessarily alien to the spirit of a people long broken up into miniature communities, as it was formerly uncongenial to their ancestors, whose personal pride, political influence, and hopes of promotion, equally turned upon the continuance of a sectional independence. Hence the popular dissatisfaction rests as much upon traditional evils as upon existing and obvious misgovernment. Four centuries ago there were above a dozen capitals, flourishing in the balmy atmosphere of as many gay courts, and basking in patronage and prosperity, all within the circuit of that province where now a few priestly legates perform the functions of sovereignty without either the taste or the means for indulging its trappings, and dwell in princely palaces without the habits or the popularity of their ancient lords. But these are not matters for casual discussion. From the accession of Count Guidantonio in 1404, till the Devolution by Duke Francesco Maria in 1624, this little state had enjoyed two hundred and twenty years of a prosperity unknown to the neighbouring communities. Her sovereigns were distinguished in arts and arms, respected abroad, esteemed at home; her frontiers were comparatively exempt from invasion, her tranquillity unruffled by domestic broils: within her narrow limits were reared or sheltered many of the brightest names in literature, science, and art; her court was the mirror of refinement, her capital the Athens of Italy. Since the Devolution, she has passed an equal number of lustres in provincial obscurity and neglect. It has been the object of this work to portray somewhat of the splendours of that former period, though the subject would require colours more brilliant, and a hand more skilled. Here our task must close, for to follow her destinies to their decline and fall were one of few attractions. "Kingdoms are shrunk to provinces, and chains Clank over sceptred cities, nations melt From power's high pinnacle, when they have felt The sunshine for a while, and downward go!" BOOK NINTH OF LITERATURE AND ART UNDER THE DUKES DELLA ROVERE AT URBINO CHAPTER XLIX Italian literature subject to new influences--The academies--Federigo Comandino--Guidobaldo del Monte--The Paciotti--Leonardi--Muzio Oddi--Bernardino Baldi--Girolamo Muzio--Federigo Bonaventura. "For a long lapse of years, Italy had been an organised body of highly civilised states, different in their origin, laws, and constitutions, divided by local jealousies and opposite interests, constantly engaged in their endeavours to establish a political equilibrium by the manoeuvres of a wary and even unprincipled diplomacy, baffled oftentimes in their ambitious schemes, and brought into sudden collision, but still deriving new energies from their very rivalry, and promoting, with their own, the interests of social progress."[131] [Footnote 131: MARIOTTI'S _Italy_, II., p. 177.] It was in a state of things thus happily described that letters and art attained their zenith of glory in the Peninsula. But the close of the fifteenth century had introduced elements of change, which a fatal policy permitted to spread. Those foreign aggressions and domestic convulsions which we have seen extirpating nationality and crushing independence were not less destructive to mind and its efforts. A struggle of thirty-five years against her ultramontane invaders,--a series of unavailing because ill-directed and discordant efforts,--closed with the coronation of Charles V., and left Italy for nearly two centuries at the mercy of Spain. The states which escaped the direct miseries of that iron domination, and retained a nominal independence under the papal sway or their native dynasties, sank unresisting before an influence affecting at once their politics, their manners, and their literature. The pride of the Spaniard had long been proverbial, and was little susceptible of modification even in a new country. The conquered race quickly conformed to fashions which they could neither shake off nor exclude. They aped a pompous bearing that sat with singularly bad grace upon a vanquished people, and the affectation which at first loaded their language with fulsome epithets, soon corrupted their writings by elaborate adulation. It is difficult for those whose taste has been formed upon the models of a less copious language to judge fairly of Italian ornamental literature, for its authors, in availing themselves of the resources at their command, are prone to lavish them too unsparingly. When tried by such a standard their prose may seem tedious or tumid verbiage, their epics may teem with overstrained hyperbole, and even their lighter poetry may appear to substitute subtle conceits and elaborate epithets for graceful ease and flexibility. But these idiomatic peculiarities are but echoes of the national genius, and ought not perhaps in fairness to be subjected to canons of criticism unknown to their authors. Yet it cannot be denied that facilities such as the language of Italy affords to flowery composition are virtually premiums on feebleness, and that decorations of style afford a tempting disguise for indolence of mind or poverty of matter. The influence of petty courts was peculiarly and fatally favourable to such qualities. Trifling incidents there assumed an importance that justified magniloquence befitting loftier themes, whilst the narrow views common to limited circles found ample scope in exaggerated phrases of metaphor and hyperbole. Thus came abundance without fertility, exuberance yielding only redundancy. Associations and clubs for political or social objects being then incompatible equally with the spirit of governments and the habits of the people, men readily formed themselves into religious confraternities or literary academies. But these academies acted as drags upon the progress of that literature which they were instituted to promote; they clogged its chariot wheels with devices originally dictated by pedantry, and soon degenerating into puerile verbiage. From the draughts of inflated poetry and corrupted rhetoric which they manufactured, every stimulating ingredient was gradually withdrawn, while opiates were freely introduced in their stead. They thus lulled to sleep what little public spirit had survived the subjugation of the Peninsula; and the governments of the new régime, quickly aware of their emasculating tendencies, lavished upon them patronage until they deluged the land, and stifled the energies of the national mind in all-prevailing mediocrity. The classic spirit of the fifteenth century had originated this mischief, by diverting letters from the sphere of popular sympathy, and nourishing that affectation to which an almost exclusive study of the dead languages must ever lead. But the evil was aggravated by Spanish influence. Ingrafting frigid forms and stately phrases upon the lively intercourse of a naturally light-hearted people, it did for the manners what pedantry had effected for the letters of Italy. Nature and originality were replaced by imitation and servility. Parodies suppressed inspiration, compliments chilled cordiality. In both cases genius languished, epithets multiplied, and terse and vigorous diction passed with independence to happier lands. In all histories of Italian literature the academies occupy a conspicuous place, and we have already noticed the Assorditi of Urbino, for whom municipal vanity has asserted an origin in the reign of Duke Federigo.[132] They appear to have occasionally met as early at least as that of his successor, although not formally constituted until about 1520. Their name, like that of most similar associations, being probably adopted from some foolish whim, the next step was to invent a badge suited to the humour of the times, so they assumed "the ship of Ulysses surrounded by sirens"; and for motto, playing at once on sound and sense _Canitur surdis_, "They sing to the deaf." The word _assorditi_ properly means "the deafened," but its signification might be stretched by punning to include absurdity, niggardness, or filth, none of them very flattering qualities to connect with the epithet. The rolls of this fantastic association included many authors who were harboured at Urbino, but it is in no way identified with their reputation. Having fallen into neglect, it was revived in 1623, and, after nearly a century of provincialism, was once more reconstituted in 1723. [Footnote 132: See vol. II., p. 112.] As these literary associations rose, their predecessors, the scholastic academies, declined. That which Lorenzo the Magnificent had founded at his villa of Carreggi, was closed in 1522, and Platonism having consequently waned, the Stagirite philosophy was once more master of the field. But another and more deadly struggle awaited it. When men began to study nature and base their reasonings upon her laws, the deficiencies of their old guide were detected, and its authority was impugned. Yet the peripatetic system was too deeply founded to be at once dismissed, and the ingenuity of its disciples was long directed to accommodate its dogmas to modern discoveries,--a vain effort which only divided their ranks and led them into inextricable dilemmas, until Galileo appeared "to furnish forth creation," and conduct them clear of the labyrinth by a silver thread of truth. But though a new light had dawned, new snares beset the way. From bold investigation and speculative inquiry, ecclesiastical authority and civil despotism had much to lose, nothing to gain. Their side was therefore soon chosen. War was declared against thought, backed by the whole armoury of oppression. Where prevention failed, persecution followed, and the censor's veto was enforced by rack and faggot. Thus was it that the Reformation had but an indirect influence on the Italian mind. The scanty seeds wafted across the Alps fell upon stony ground, and ere long withered away. But the great reaction of the papacy was not only directed against the new truths; it waged war upon every thing calculated to afford them a disguise under which they might become dangerous. The policy of pontiffs and the duty of the Inquisition tended to exclude all light, lest any rays of Protestantism should reach the faithful. During three centuries have these efforts been continued; and when we consider the talent by which they have been directed, the stern ministers by whom they have been carried out, we well may wonder that the Italian mind has not been utterly debased by foreign tyranny and priestly domination. They have sown the wind; it remains to reap the whirlwind. The fashion for classic imitation was succeeded in Italy by an age of rhetoricians, with Bembo at their head, and the academies as their strongholds. But they either encouraged or inadequately repressed a too fluent facility which has ever since been the blemish of their mellifluous language. In Boccalini's satirical _Ragguagli di Parnaso_, some prolix writer is condemned to a perusal of Guicciardini's narrative of the Pisan war; but, after a brief essay, he avows his preference for the galleys to pursuing, through dreary details, the siege and capture of a pigeon-house. This biting jest is applicable in a far greater degree to other writers of the sixteenth century, whose cumbrous grandiloquence is often diluted by trivialities, or tinselled with factitious pomp. Yet there were some authors of purer taste, who resisted such extravagance, and it is curious to find Caro, della Casa, and Bernardo Tasso concerting measures for curtailing the use of superabundant compliments. The two principal points of their attack were the recent substitution of the feminine pronoun in the third person singular for the second person plural in addressing any one, and the indiscriminate use of Lordship, Excellency, Gentility, as courteous phrases, to the entire exclusion of Master and Madam. Against the former of these abuses Caro and Tasso declare open war; but, although they unite in condemnation of the latter as still more fatal to vernacular purity, and avow themselves ready to support any onset, each shrinks from leading the charge. "This age of ours is altogether given up to adulation. Every one, in inditing a letter, bandies 'lordship'; all expect it when addressed. And not, forsooth, our grandees alone, but even the middle classes and the very plebeians aspire to such distinctions, taking affront if they receive them not, and noting as blunderers all who do not offer them the like. Most silly and revolting does it seem to me that we should have to speak to one person as if he were another, always talking to a sort of ideal abstraction, quite different from the individual himself. Yet this abuse is now established and general." Thus far Caro, to whom Tasso replies, "Oh the wonderful charm of Italy, which every one seeks to destroy! It sufficed not that the Goths, the Vandals, and other strange and barbarous nations have sought, and still seek, to possess thee, and that multitudes flock hither from earth's farthest corners; even Lordships, never previously seen or known here, quitting their native Spain, are come in swarms to sojourn among us, and have so mastered our vanity and ambition that we cannot shake them from our shoulders." In a subsequent letter to Claudio Tolomei, Bernardo congratulates him on having applied the lash to such empty titles, and promises to follow his example by retrenching them all when he revises his own letters for the press.[133] But these attempts met with little success; redundant superlatives still lead Italian literature, and an Italian letter is little more than a tissue of exaggerated epithets, from its address to its signature.[134] [Footnote 133: _Lettere di Bernardo Tasso_, edit. 1733; vol. I., pp. 14-22 and 427-30.] [Footnote 134: In proof of this I give in IX. of the Appendix a letter of introduction, of which I was bearer, from one of the most accomplished _professori_ of Rome.] * * * * * Few branches of human knowledge more flourished during the palmy days of Italian literature than the exact sciences, especially in connection with military affairs, and the elegant arts. Their application to both objects was received with marked favour by the successive Dukes of Urbino, who, for a century and a half, combined the pursuit of arms with the patronage of art. We have seen this done by Federigo and Guidobaldo I., for the defence of their duchy and the decoration of their capital; we now have to mention the progress of similar studies under the della Rovere princes. During the latter epoch, pure mathematics were brought into fashion by numerous translations of standard Greek works into Latin or Italian, a labour shared by various literati of Urbino, but especially by Comandino, Baldi, and Alessandro Giorgi. This, however, but served to facilitate their practical development in pursuits more congenial to those martial dispositions for which the inhabitants of Romagna have in all ages been noted. Whilst the revived literature of Greece and the philosophy of Plato flourished on the banks of the Arno, the exact sciences were cultivated in the highlands of Umbria, and took the practical turn of strengthening those fastnesses with which nature had provided that mountain-land. Francesco di Giorgio, of Siena, was less in request by Dukes Federigo and Guidobaldo as architect of their stately palaces, than as the most famous military engineer of his time. Events which made their duchy the seat of repeated invasions early in the sixteenth century, as well as the warlike character of Francesco Maria I., maintained a demand for fortifications, and, from the school which thus grew up in his capital, there issued a series of military architects whose fame and services extended beyond the Alps. * * * * * The first of these whom we shall mention was FEDERIGO COMANDINO, born at Urbino, in 1509, of a noble family. His grandfather was secretary of Duke Federigo, whose last confidential instructions he received, when death surprised that veteran general in the fens of Ferrara. Baldi has claimed the invention of those bulwarks in fortification called _baluardi_ for his father, Gian Battista,[135] who built the walls at Urbino in the beginning of the sixteenth century. After a liberal education, Federigo passed several years at the court of Clement VII., nominally as a privy chamberlain, but really to amuse with learned disquisitions the Pontiff's leisure hours, on whose death he repaired to Padua, where he devoted ten years to the study of philosophy and medicine. Having graduated, he settled for clinical practice at Ferrara, but seems soon to have abandoned the healing art for mathematical research. He accompanied his sovereign, Guidobaldo II., to the camp at Verona when in the Venetian service, and, having gained his confidence by successfully treating him in a severe illness, he was selected to instruct him in astronomy and cosmography, as well as in military tactics and engineering. Soon, however, resuming his more abstruse studies, under the patronage of Cardinal Ranuccio Farnese, brother of Duchess Vittoria, he was carried by him to Rome, and introduced into the society of Annibale Caro, Fulvio Orsini, Baldassare Turrio, and Cardinal Cervini, the last of whom was cut off too quickly after his election as Marcellus II. to be able to benefit his friends. But for Comandino ambition offered few temptations, and courts had no charm. In studious retirement he devoted to the exact sciences the matured powers of a comprehensive and most retentive mind. He explored all that classical authors were known to have left on these subjects, and rendered again accessible much that lay forgotten among the rubbish of by-gone learning. He translated, and copiously edited, Ptolemy's treatise on the planisphere, which was published at Venice, in 1558, and, four years afterwards, gave to the world a work on the analemma, founded upon the same author's previous and imperfect discoveries. His labours were then transferred to the writings of Archimedes, several of which he printed for the first time, as well as the dissertations of Serenus and Apollonius upon conic sections, all with elaborate commentaries. [Footnote 135: This has also been imputed to Francesco di Giorgio, to Sanmichele, and to Bartolomeo Centogatti of Urbino.] After spending the prime of life in these pursuits at Rome, he returned to his native duchy, where his instructions in mathematics were sought by Prince Francesco Maria, with whom he read and expounded Euclid's _Elements_; and afterwards, at the request of his pupil, published a Latin translation of them. It was about 1569 that he was visited there by a young Englishman named John Dea, whose love of the exact sciences induced him to seek so distinguished a professor, and who supplied him with some Arabic MSS., hitherto unknown.[136] Six years thereafter he was surprised by death, with many unfinished works on his hands, part whereof saw the light under the superintendence of the Marquis Guidobaldo del Monte. The life of a hard student is rarely one of varied incident; and even the voluble pen of his pupil Baldi has failed to illustrate that of Comandino with interest, beyond his scholiast labours.[137] Yet severity formed no part of his social character, and he was ready at all times to relax his toils by Epicurean indulgences, which are said eventually to have curtailed his life. To the last, however, his engrossing pleasure was in books; and, although his works number more translations than original compositions, he is ranked by Montucla among the most able and judicious of commentators. [Footnote 136: GROSSI, _Uomini Illustri di Urbino_.] [Footnote 137: It is printed in the Raccolta Calogeriana, XIX., 140.] * * * * * One of the pupils whom Comandino left in his native state was GUIDOBALDO, MARQUIS DEL MONTE, who was born of distinguished lineage, in 1544. Tiraboschi has cited, as a singular proof of the engrossing nature of his studies, the fact that his life offers a nearly total want of incident. So tranquilly did his days flow on at his castle of Monte Baroccio, amid abstruse occupations, that he seemed to have forgotten a world unconscious of his very existence, and the only memorials of his life are his works. His treatise upon Perspective successfully carried forward what had been indicated by Pietro della Francesca in the preceding century, and he was afterwards engaged upon the doctrine of Planispheres, the correction of the kalendar, and the solution of astronomical problems. But though thus devoted to abstruse science, he spared a portion of his thoughts for its practical branches, working upon mechanics, and translating from Archimedes. It is unnecessary here to go into an examination of results which modern discoveries have left far behind; the ground has been well sifted by Montucla, whose work indicates whatever is still of value in this class of now somewhat superseded labours. The Marquis was addressed by Torquato Tasso in a sonnet beginning _Miserator de' gran celesti campi_, and died early in the seventeenth century, survived by a younger brother, Francesco Maria, who had been made cardinal by Sixtus V. * * * * * Among the names distinguished in Urbino for mathematical talent, that of PACIOTTI was conspicuous. Jacopo Paciotti, who held several situations of trust under the two first Dukes of the Rovere dynasty, was father of three sons, all eminent proficients in the exact sciences. Felice was one of those commissioned to rectify the Gregorian Kalendar, and invented an instrument for constructing dial-plates. Orazio became a military engineer, and erected fortresses for the States of the Church, for Savoy, and for Lucca, with such reputation that his services were sought for Poland and for the Emperor Rudolph. But the most remarkable of the family was Francesco,[*138] who, after enjoying a liberal education, and thoroughly grounding himself in architecture under Girolamo Genga, went to Rome, where, in 1550,[*139] he was named engineer-in-chief by Julius III. Next year, he was employed to fortify Ancona against the dreaded descents of the Turk; but, leaving this undertaking to be completed by Fontana, he passed in 1551, to the service of the Farnesi, and thence to that of Emanuel Duke of Savoy, with 60 scudi of monthly pay. He soon afterwards published a plan of Rome; but his attention was chiefly devoted to military architecture, in which his reputation rapidly spread. In 1558, he was employed by Philip II. to survey, and report upon, the principal defences of the Low Countries, for which he was remunerated with 6000 scudi, and a massive gold chain. [Footnote *138: Cf. MADIAI, _Il Giornale di Francesco Paciotti da Urbino_ in _Arch. St. per le Marche e per l'Umbria_, vol. III., p. 48 _et seq._] [Footnote *139: This is the year in which the journal begins. In 1551 he tells us he left the service of the Pope to enter that of the Duke of Parma.] Paciotti was now on the ladder of royal favour, and, having accompanied Duke Emanuel to Paris, for his marriage, was decorated by Henry II. with another magnificent chain worth 1000 scudi. The gorgeous compliment, however, nearly cost him his life, for, while wearing it next day, he was set upon by two robbers, one of whom he slew, and wounded the other, a feat which procured him new marks of favour. The next ten years of his life were chiefly spent in the service of Savoy; but he was at various times summoned for engineering purposes to Spain and Flanders. The warm personal regard in which he was held by Philip II. was proved by his winning a bet, that he would make that proud monarch hold a light to examine his plans, and was more substantially shown by many rich presents which he carried from that court. In consequence of recommendations from his Catholic Majesty, he had from the King of Portugal the order of Jesus Christ; and in 1578, at the Duke of Savoy's request, the Castle of Montefabri was erected into a countship in his favour, by Francesco Maria II. of Urbino. After for several years superintending fortifications in the papal states, and those of the Grand Duke of Tuscany, he retired to his native place, and passed the remainder of his life in honourable ease, enjoying from various sovereigns pensions of above 3000 scudi a year. He died in 1591, aged seventy, leaving behind him a European reputation, and three sons, in whom the mathematical talents of the family were hereditarily developed, all being military engineers of some note; one of them, Federigo, became a Knight of Malta, and Guidobaldo was blown up by a mine, while in the service of Charles V. * * * * * GIAN GIACOMO LEONARDI is mentioned by a recent writer[140] as "one of those extraordinary men, so abundant in Italy during the fifteenth and following century, who have left little fame to posterity, and who, though universally known in their day, were after death forgotten, and overlooked by subsequent writers." Nor is this surprising in his case; for his distinction, gained in the camp, was spread still wider by his diplomacy. He was at one moment referred to on delicate points of honour between knights and sovereigns; at another consulted on questions of legal intricacy; whilst his writings have remained unedited and unknown. They are all upon fortification and engineering, and are enumerated by Promis in his elaborate compilation upon these subjects. His services, though eagerly sought by great monarchs, were affectionately devoted to his native princes, being long companion in arms of Francesco Maria I., and ambassador to Venice from Guidobaldo II. He was born at Pesaro, near which he had from the latter the countship of Monte l'Abbate in 1540, with permission to bear the name and arms of della Rovere, and died about 1560. [Footnote 140: _Trattato di Architettura da Francesco di Giorgio_, edited by C. Promis, Turin, 1841.] * * * * * Although we have been led to mention engineers in connection with mathematical science, they were in these days usually architects, and regarded as belonging to the class of artists. Ricotti informs us that no vocation was more varied or laborious. Uniting the practice of arms with an intimate knowledge of design, their services were sought for in every part of Europe, either to plan fortresses, build palaces, cast statues, paint frescoes, execute hydraulics, or command troops. Lazzari, in his _Uomini Illustri del Piceno_, enumerates sixteen such as conferring lustre upon Urbino, but of these we shall only name one more. MUZIO ODDI was nobly born there, in 1569. In 1595, he accompanied, as military engineer, a contingent sent by the Duke into Burgundy; and, three years after, employed his architectural skill for the festive decorations in honour of a visit by Clement VIII. to his native city. He had less success in placing a cupola upon the cathedral there, in 1604, which was said to contain 100,000 pounds of iron-work and 80,000 of lead, the weight of which brought it down in 1789. On some indistinctly recorded charge, he was thrown into the citadel of Pesaro, and there detained many years in a loathsome dungeon. Denied the use of books or writing materials, he made for himself ink of charcoal and candle-soot, mixed with water in a walnut-shell, and, by pasting together shreds of paper with bread-dough, contrived to jot down mathematical treatises on sundials and the square, using for compasses a couple of twigs tied together. On his liberation, in 1609, he passed into Lombardy, and spent above twenty years of exile in sighing for his country; nor was it till within two years of the close of life that he was appointed mathematical professor at Urbino. He died at seventy, leaving a Treatise on Mathematics, in two volumes 4to. * * * * * BERNARDINO BALDI[*141] has a double claim upon our attention, as the most prolific writer whom the duchy has produced, and as one who devoted a large share of his literary labours to the illustration of his native state. He was born at Urbino in 1553, of a family which, during several generations, had held with credit various important situations in the magistracy. By force of that extraordinary diligence, which continued to stimulate his entire life, his youthful studies advanced with precocious success; yet it is singular to find him confessing that his early inclinations were all towards painting, and that his preference of his pencil to his grammatical exercises often brought him into intimate acquaintance with the birch. We cannot echo the observation of his biographer Affò,[*142] that this discipline may have deprived Urbino of a second Raffaele; but though he assuredly was gifted neither with the lofty genius nor the pervading sense of beauty which characterised his countryman, a deep devotional feeling would doubtless have inspired his paintings. The peculiar connection which existed at Urbino between the exact sciences and the liberal arts frequently attracts our notice; and this it may have been which led the thwarted painter to turn with his accustomed energy to mathematical studies, under Federigo Comandino, for whose edition of Euclid, published in 1572, he is said to have drawn the diagrams. It was about this time, that, urged by his parents to choose between law and medicine for a profession, he preferred the latter, rather, as he tells us, from its analogy with philosophical inquiries than with any special liking for the healing art. With these views he was sent to the University of Padua, where he brought his vast application successively to bear upon logic, and ethical and physical philosophy, varied by his favourite mathematics, and by a comprehensive cycle of Greek literature. To that seat of learning there then resorted the youth of ultramontane lands, whose harsh language so piqued Baldi's curiosity, and developed his prodigious philological talents, that in an inconceivably short time he mastered French and German. But these multifarious pursuits did not suffice his versatile mind, so he enlivened them by draughts of the Castalian spring. There may seem something ludicrous in an epic, entitled "Artillery," and illustrative of gunnery practice; but a theme so ponderous for poetry was suited to the spirit of the age, as well as congenial to its author's thoughts. A visit to the mountain home of Petrarch, at Arqua, gave, however, a lighter turn to his muse, and taught his number to flow in madrigals, to the honour of some nameless Laura of his love or fancy, containing more borrowed classicism than inspired passion. [Footnote *141: Cf. ZACCAGNINI, _La vita e le opere edite e inedite di B.B._ (Modena, 1903); UGOLINI, _Versi e prose scelte di B.B._ (Firenze, 1859); see also MADIAI, _Pierantonio Paltroni e B.B. biografi di Federigo da Montefeltro in Le Marche_ (1902), vol. II., pp. 5-6.] [Footnote *142: Cf. AFFÒ, _La Vita di B.B._ (Parma, 1783).] In 1575 he returned home, to share the last labours, and watch the death-bed, of his friend Comandino, and to encounter from his parents many a remonstrance as to his neglected professional acquirements, of which, in the various food with which he had appeased his literary craving at the university, he seems entirely to have lost sight. But their efforts were vain. The Eugubinean tables, that philological enigma, having attracted his attention, he boldly encountered their solution, and studied Arabic as a stepping-stone to the lost dialects of Central Italy. His biographers insert Etruscan in the catalogue of his polyglot acquirements, but the tables of Gubbio remain a puzzle to antiquaries. Those who made literature a profession, before there existed a "public" to remunerate their exertions, looked for maintenance to princes or private patrons; and in 1580 Baldi gratefully accepted the offer of Don Ferrante Gonzaga, Lord of Guastalla, to instruct him in mathematics, on an allowance of ten scudi a month, besides board for himself and a servant,--an appointment which made him favourably known to Cardinal (afterwards St.) Carlo Borromeo, uncle of that prince, and to many persons of literary reputation who frequented his miniature court. There his time was divided between mathematical and poetic compositions, until, in 1586, a sudden change took place in his position by his adopting a clerical habit, at the request of Don Ferrante, in order that he might hold the Abbacy of Guastalla, the emoluments of which yielded him about 320 golden ducats. This promotion brought out a curious feature in the character of so hard a student, and we find him immediately repairing to Rome, to canvass for the higher honours of a titular bishopric, on being refused which, he struggled for permission to wear some trifling distinction in his canonical robes with pertinacity befitting a worldling rather than a philosopher. Neither was it from such a character that we should have looked for a zeal in the maintenance of ecclesiastical discipline, which led him beyond the bounds of prudence in wielding his inquisitorial powers.[*143] [Footnote *143: In Rome he pursued too his artistic studies; it was this sojourn which inspired the _Sonetti Romani_. He seems to have passed the years 1592-1609 between Rome, Urbino, and Guastalla.] Those theological studies which usually precede ordination were in his case followed out with his wonted energy, after obtaining the preferment to which they are generally intended to lead, and it was probably then that he added Hebrew and Chaldee to his accomplishments. But his first great undertaking, after thus gaining a position of leisure and independence, was a General Biography of famous mathematicians. This he never completed for the press; but a sort of vidimus of the three hundred and sixty lives, which it was intended to contain, was printed after his death, with the title _Cronica de' Mathematici_. Several minor works in science and literature at the same time occupied his pen, among which were his Description of the Urbino palace, his Eulogy of that state, and his History of Guastalla. Nor were his poetic inspirations neglected, and, besides a variety of occasional effusions, his _Nautica_, or the Art of Navigation, was printed at Venice in 1590. We may include among his lighter labours an Essay on History, dedicated in 1611 to the Duke of Urbino, and lately published by Cardinal Mai.[144] Although, like most similar essays, some of its observations are trite and even trivial, the various topics are well handled, and many useful suggestions are offered as to the best method and style for history, the qualities requisite in its author and desirable for its students. It would have been well had Baldi attended, in his historical biographies, to his own recommendation, that the prolix and copious diction of Livy should be chastened by that terse and sententious manner found in Tacitus and Sallust. Nor were it amiss that he had construed less literally the maxim by which Pliny the Younger pleads for mediocrity, Content yourself to do much indifferently, if it be beyond you to do a little well.[145] [Footnote 144: _Spicilegium Romanum_, I., xxviii., from Vat. Urb. MSS.] [Footnote 145: Satius est plurima mediocriter facere, si non possis aliquid insigniter. Lib. V., Epist. 5.] Although Baldi appears to have entered the Church rather from temporal considerations than any spiritual vocation, no priest was ever more tenacious of rights and privileges; and it was his misfortune to find, in the exercise of his ecclesiastical functions, ever-recurring misunderstandings with his clergy or the civil authorities, and even with the superior tribunals at Rome. Through these we shall not follow him. As early as 1590, the Duke of Urbino interfered as a friendly counsellor to recommend him moderate measures; but new jars from time to time recurred, and in 1609 he carried into effect a step which he had proposed seventeen years before, by resigning his benefice, under reservation of two-fifths of its income. But these wranglings penetrated not within the portal of his study, where his active mind and adamantine pen laboured assiduously, through good report and bad, upon the most incongruous matters. The Abbot renounced his preferment on the plea of family matters, requiring his presence in his native city, and, faithful to this domestic duty, declined an offer from Cardinal d'Este of a situation in his household. His own sovereign received him with that friendship he ever extended to men of piety and literary merit, and, in 1612, sent him on a mission to congratulate the New Doge of Venice.[*146] The remainder of his life passed in peace, amid the varied resources of an ever-busy mind, interrupted only by those occasional bereavements, whereby, as years wear on, death warns us that our turn will also come. Besides sad breaches in his domestic circle, Baldi had to mourn his long-attached friend Baroccio, the painter, who died in 1612. Prepared by such proofs of human frailty, he resigned his spirit on the 10th of October, after a lingering but lenient malady, and was carried to the tomb amid the sincere regrets of many friends and admirers.[*147] It was remarked that, in his long and minute will, he left no instructions regarding his multifarious unpublished works, most of which passed into the library of his relations, the Albani, where they remain at Rome. His epitaph reckons his compositions at forty-eight,[*148] and the languages he knew at twelve, which Crescimbeni increases to sixteen--substantial testimony to that avidity of application which is said to have been habitually appeased by perusing the Fathers whilst at table, and by conning over Euclid in Arabic, as an aid to digestion. To detail and criticise the results of labours as Protean as Herculean is a task which we cannot attempt. His diligent biographer Affò enumerates about thirty printed works, running to above two thousand 4to pages, and seventy left in manuscript, some of which have been since published. They may be thus classed:-- Printed. MSS. In Theology and biblical criticism 13 " Mathematics 7 14 " Philosophy 2 " Geography 2 " Law 2 " History 1 8 " Topography and antiquities 4 4 " Poetry 10 8 " General literature and philology 4 16 [Footnote *146: Cf. ZACCAGNINI, _Un'ambasceria di B.B._ in _Rassegna Crit. d. Lett. Ital._, vol. VII., p. 201.] [Footnote *147: He died in Urbino, October 10th, 1617.] [Footnote *148: I record the more important. In 1575 he wrote a poem on _Artiglieria_, and in 1579 another on the _Invenzione del bossolo da navigare_; this was published by CANEVAZZI (Livorno, Giusti, 1901). Cf. concerning it, PROVASI in _Le Marche_ (1902), and ZACCAGNINI in _Rass. Crit. d. Lett. Ital._, vol. VII., p. 166. His masterpiece, _Nautica_, written between 1580-85, is a didactic poem in four books imitating the Georgics. Concerning it see ZACCAGNINI, _Le fonti della Nautica_ in _Giornale St. d. Lett. Ital._, vol. XL., p. 366, and PROVASI, _Contributo allo studio della Nautica di B.B._ (Fano, 1903). The _Egloghe Miste_ were dedicated to Ranuccio Farnese in 1590, and consist of nineteen poems in various metres in a Theocritan vein. Cf. RUBERTO, _Le Egloghe edite e inedite di B.B._ in _Propugnatore_ (1882), and for _Epigrammi_, RUBERTO, _op. cit. An. cit._ His youthful erotic poems were published under the title _Lauro_ (Pavia, 1600), and, not to speak of other volumes, the _Sonetti Romani_ appeared in _Versi e Prose_ (Venice, Franceschi, 1590). His works in prose were very numerous. I note here _La Descrizione del Palazzo Ducale d'Urbino_ (_circa_ 1587), and the _Vite_ of Federigo and Guidobaldo I. of Urbino, the first published in Rome in 1820 and a bad edition of the second in Milan, 1821. He wrote also a _Cronaca_ (Urbino, 1707), a life of Federigo Comandino, the _Encomio della Patria_, cf. ZACCAGNINI, _Uno scritto inedito di B.B._ in _Le Marche_ (Fano), vol. I., p. 4; and the _Lettere Familiari_, cf. POLIDORI, _Lettere di Baldi_ (Firenze, 1854), RONCHINI, _Lettere di B._ (Parma, 1873) and SAVIOTTI, _Lettere di B._ (Pesaro, 1887).] Of these a number were translations, chiefly from Arabic and other Oriental tongues. It is evident that his own preference lay towards his compositions in verse, a judgment which wants confirmation if continued popularity be the test. Yet several of his fugitive poems, and especially some sonnets on the ruins of Rome, possess much lyric beauty; and, though his epic on the Deluge is but a wretched attempt at novelty in versification, that on the Art of Navigation is a work of merit for the age which produced it. Hallam, after classing it with Bernardo Tasso's _Amadigi_, as two of the most remarkable productions of that sort then written in Italy, pronounces the _Nautica_ "a didactic poem in blank verse, too minute sometimes, and prosaic in detail, like most of its class, but neither low, turgid, or obscure, as many others have been. The descriptions, though never very animated, are sometimes poetical and pleasing. Baldi is diffuse, and this conspires with the triteness of his matter to render the poem somewhat uninteresting. He by no means wants power to adorn his subject, but does not always trouble himself to exert it, and is tame where he might be spirited. Few poems bear more evident marks that their substance had been previously written down in prose." But what he wanted in genius--for therein lay his great deficiency--he in some degree supplied by wonderful versatility. Whichever of his many subjects he took up seemed that in which he was born to excel. Of his painstaking diligence we have said much, but we may add the pertinent remark of Grossi, "that so extensive was his reading as apparently to leave no time for writing, and yet that he wrote about as much as it seemed possible for any one to read." To this Tiraboschi adds the more flattering testimony that "his praises would be appropriate to almost each chapter of this history, for there was scarcely any department of literature and science in which he did not apply himself and attain excellence." By an author so prolific, redundancy and diffuseness, the blemishes of his age, were inevitable. But in his lives of the two Montefeltrian dukes, these are conjoined with a tendency to elaborate his details into microscopic minuteness, which weary and distract the reader, and which, though valuable adjuncts to the testimony of an eye-witness, engender more suspicion than credit in a narrative compiled, after a long interval, from less specific authorities. Being, however, a shrewd observer and diligent narrator, anxious to do full justice to his subject, these works, although deficient in personal interest, and relieved by no enlarged views or general application, fulfil the task prescribed by his patron, the last Duke della Rovere; and, were his life of Francesco Maria I. to be published,[149] Baldi would be our standard historiographer of the duchy. In him are, indeed, wanting the qualities of a philosophic historian,--elevation of sentiment, variety of matter, selection of incident; but they belonged not to his age, and were scarcely compatible with his position. The fate of Scarpi and Varchi gave timely warning to the literary world, that historic verity might have its martyrs, as well as metaphysical speculation of religious truth. His life of Duke Federigo, written in 1603, was printed in 1824; that of Guidobaldo I., completed in 1615, saw the light in 1821. The substance of these narratives had, however, been appropriated and published by Reposati, omitting imaginary conversations and supposititious harangues. Of the degree of impartiality with which they were compiled, an idea may be formed from the following extracts of letters addressed to their author by his sovereign, proving that his judgment was not by any means left unfettered:--"It has given me satisfaction to hear all that you have written me in regard to the life of Duke Federigo of happy memory, and I fail not to acknowledge with pleasure your devotion and diligence. In mentioning my house, I approve of your naming it of Montefeltro rather than Feltrian, but as to seeking out its source and foundation, I do not recollect telling you to pass these over in silence. On the contrary, I deem it necessary to discuss this, yet not in the way I saw it treated at Urbino, attributing to it a mere bourgeois and private origin, much humbler than its deserts. It will, therefore, be well to keep this in view, observing in your eulogies, and generally throughout the work, a becoming consideration and regard for it, such as, without further hint, I look for from your sound discretion."--"As to the Life of Duke Federigo, only a few days have passed since I have done looking through it; but we must talk it over together more than once, ere anything can be decided on."[150] [Footnote 149: Vat. Urb. MSS., No. 906.] [Footnote 150: Oliveriana MSS. In 1602 the Duke instructed his resident at Venice to procure for Gian Battista Leoni access to its archives for the life of Francesco Maria I. he had commissioned him to write, which was published three years later.] Had Baldi lived among our fathers, he would have dwelt in Grub Street, and become, by his powers of application and memory, a successful book-maker; among ourselves, he would have proved valuable as a penny-per-line scribe. In Italy, his renown was, for a time, more brilliant, but it has now passed into comparative, and not unmerited, neglect. Yet his is a name of which his native city may justly be proud, and may cherish with respectful approbation this epitaph, once proposed for his tomb:-- "Ah! happy he who spent a lengthened span, Not in the vulgar dreams of grovelling man, But passed his days in living truly well; Urbino's honour! Passenger, farewell." Among the literary labourers of this age GIROLAMO MUZIO[*151] is entitled to a prominent place, more from the variety and volume of his writings than from their actual worth. The epithet Giustinopolite, usually applied to him, is latinised from Capo d'Istria, the adopted home of his family, who were originally emigrants from Udine, and spelt their name Nuzio. He, however, was born at Padua, in 1496, and, after receiving a good education, finding himself dependent upon his own exertions, was fain to sell his services of sword or pen to the highest bidder. The same rule of self-interest that actuated Italian condottieri was too often followed by literary adventurers in that country, conscience and glory being generally made subservient by both to a livelihood. Girolamo had a double chance, in his twofold capacity of soldier and author, and tells us "that it was ever his fate to earn his bread by serving in the armies and courts of popes, emperors, kings, or petty princes; sometimes with one Italian commander, sometimes with another; now in France, then in Upper, again in Lower Germany." Through these vicissitudes it were needless to follow him. For a time he was rival or successor of Bernardo Tasso in the promiscuous affections of Tullia d'Aragona, a lettered courtezan, and, without her sanction, published, in 1547, her Dialogue on the Infinitude of Love. In the preface he avowed a connection which occasioned him neither compunction nor shame, and which, in days when love was a science as well as a passion, was openly shared by Varchi, Speroni, Strozzi, and Molza. Four years later a dangerous illness taught him reflection on his past ways, and brought him to a devotional frame of mind. It was about the same time that he became an inmate of the court of Urbino, receiving from Duke Guidobaldo the ample pension of 400 scudi, with permission to "attend to his studies, appearing only when he chose." The Duchess Vittoria countenanced him much, and he spent a good deal of time in her society, probably in consequence of his appointment as governor to her eldest son, and of his marrying a lady of her suite. From thence he went to reside at Rome, about 1567, and died in Tuscany, in 1576. [Footnote *151: On Muzio, see GIAXICH, _Vita di Girolamo Muzio_ (Trieste, 1847); MORPURGO, _Girolamo Muzio_ (Trieste, 1893), NOMI, in _Miscellanea Stor. della Valdelsa_, No. 24; NOTTOLA, _Appunti sul Muzio poeta_ (Aosta, 1895).] Tiraboschi declines the task of compiling the long catalogue of his various writings, in poetry, sacred and profane history, moral essays, and familiar letters,[*152] nor need we undertake it. A large portion of his works were directed against protestant doctrines, and, having reformed the habits of his somewhat stormy youth, he lent willing and efficient aid in strangling the progress of Calvinism in Italy, after a protracted struggle, upon which the investigations of Dr. M'Crie have thrown much valuable light. Muzio is alleged to have exhibited in this contest more of martial dexterity than theological acumen; but his controversial effusions, being published in Italian, and clothed in a homely slashing style, were probably supposed quite as efficacious against the progress of heretical opinions among his countrymen, as the disquisitions of more profound theologians. It was not, however, for the dogmas of faith alone that Muzio wielded his pen. The soldier of fortune was quite as happy, and more at home, on topics belonging to the chivalry of his profession. His treatises on Duels and the Point of Honour were suited to the spirit of the age, and had in consequence a considerable run of popularity, now of course long ago past. The like fate has befallen his didactic poem on the Art of Poetry, in the literature of his own country. What most concerns us are his Lives of Dukes of Urbino. That of Federigo is dedicated to Guidobaldo II., and the original is deposited in the Vatican Library. Having been compiled with considerable care, it continues our best narrative of his reign, and has been greatly drawn upon by Baldi and Riposati. The edition printed at Venice in 1605 is but an abridgment, containing less than half the original matter. His Life of Francesco Maria I. was left unfinished, and remains unedited in the Vatican.[153] [Footnote *152: The fullest collection of his letters seems to be that of GIOLITI, 1551. Cf. also ZENATTI, _Lettere inedite_ (Capodistria, 1896).] [Footnote 153: Vat. Urb. MSS. No. 1011, and No. 1023, f. 50.] We shall mention but one more prose writer of Urbino. FEDERIGO BONAVENTURA was born in 1555, and owed to Cardinal Giulio della Rovere a fashionable education at Rome. On his return home, the marked favour of Francesco Maria II. was attracted by his good sense and winning manners; but finding his courtly accomplishments unequal to the profound pursuits of that young prince, he laboured assiduously to supply his own deficiencies. By close application, his progress in Greek, mathematics, and natural philosophy was amazingly rapid; but these studies were happily blended with the business of life, and, directing his powerful judgment to political affairs, he established his reputation by a work on public polity, which, for the first time in Italy, methodised the principles of government. These talents his sovereign turned to account by sending him on various diplomatic missions. Conforming in many respects to the maxims inculcated by the Cortegiano, he filled in the Duke's court somewhat the same place which Castiglione had done in that of Guidobaldo I., and died in 1602. CHAPTER L Italian versification--Ariosto--Pietro Aretino--Vittoria Colonna--Laura Battiferri--Dionigi Atanagi--Antonio Galli--Marco Montano--Bernardo Tasso. The liquid vocables of the Italian language flow in melody with a facility perilous to genius, fatal to mediocrity: its stream is equally apt to dilute Castalian inspiration, or to quench poetic fire. Hence the poets of Italy are far outnumbered by its versifiers; and hence among the laureates of Urbino we find but few historic names. But, in absence of native bards, the dukes of the second dynasty attracted to their court several of those most conspicuous on the Ausonian Parnassus, under whose influence a great change came over the manner and spirit of national poetry. Hitherto their predecessors had before them two models, whose excellence is still universally admitted. Dante, in founding an epic literature, chose the grandest and most difficult theme ever dared by man, and his success, by immeasurably distancing his few competitors, has deterred competition. Petrarch addressed himself to passions and sympathies essentially earthly, and constructed a lyrical versification demanding no sustained exertion; whose trammels sufficed, in his melodious and pliant idiom, to stimulate ingenuity without imposing labour; whose perfection depended rather upon elaborate polish than upon originality or vigour. Thus, while Dante continued a model, Petrarch became a snare; and hence, a "multitude of imitators, satisfied with copying the latter in his defects; who could easily follow him in the choice of his subject, but not in the beauty of his style, the variety of his knowledge, and the elegance of his imagery." Sonnets are indeed the most peculiarly Italian form of poetry, but they are avowedly ill-suited to the naïve expression of pure and artless feelings. Their laboured strain and studied melody are adapted to an artificial cast of sentiment; they encourage exaggeration and tend to mannerism and commonplace. Singly they are charming, but "when taken collectively we become indifferent to their unity, felicity, and grace, and accuse them of what under other circumstances we might possibly commend, their recurring metaphors, their uniform structure, and the unfailing sweetness of their versification."[154] Yet in their complex form, a prolonged repetition of the same rhyme tends, like the return to a simple air amid difficult variations, touchingly to renew the feeling originally and pleasingly evoked; and thus is it that sonnets often possess a charm of which, in their ambitious attempts, their authors were probably quite unconscious.[155] [Footnote 154: British and Foreign Quarterly Review, xi. 376.] [Footnote 155: See above, Vol. II., cap. xxv.] It is not now our object to analyze the varied metrical arrangements to which the fertile language of Italy willingly lent itself, and which its minstrels, "A mob of gentlemen who wrote with ease," delighted to mingle and multiply. Enough, in addition to the polished sonnet, to name noble canzoni, sublime odes, and tender elegies. But the absence of ballad poetry, with its wide-circling echoes of long antecedent events and feelings, is remarkable, and has been imputed to an early addiction of the nation to prosaic habits of trade. This solution is, however, little satisfactory in itself, and is equally at variance with the genius and the language of the people. Perhaps it would be more just to assign a diametrically opposite cause, and to seek in their vivid imaginations, and in the exuberant facility of their melodious tongue, that universality of versification which tended to depreciate its quality, or, at all events, to diminish the estimation bestowed even on their most popular compositions. It is accordingly in nations among whom poetry is a rare gift, and whose idiom can embody it in terse and simple diction, that we find those lyrics which, possessing a traditional popularity, are at once the germ and index of national sentiment.[*156] We seek in vain for such among the recognised literature of Italy; and though the dulcet chants of the Venetian gondolier, and the monotonous lazzaroni ditties of Naples, may be deemed of that class, their infinite and ever-changing variety appears to divest them of the historic charm that attaches to the chivalric redondillas of Spain, and to the pensive minstrelsy of our fatherland. [Footnote *156: How could Italy have a ballad poetry full of national sentiment before she became a nation? Her living poetry then and for centuries before, as now, is the _Rispetto_. Cf., for the _Poesie Popolari_ generally, D'ANCONA, _La Poesia Popolare Italiana_ (Livorno, 1906); for the Marche especially GIANANDREA, _Canti Popolari Marchigiani_ (Torino, Loescher, 1875).] * * * * * In poetry alone did the age of the della Rovere excel that of the Montefeltri, and among the great names whom it was their pride to shelter were Ariosto and Tasso, the only ones worthy to rival those of the bards of Hell and of Love. [Illustration: SUPPOSED PORTRAIT OF ARIOSTO _After the picture by Titian in the National Gallery_] LUDOVICO ARIOSTO[*157] was born of noble parentage at Reggio, in 1474, and, after a precocious struggle against the uncongenial legal career for which he was intended, was left by his father to follow the bent of his genius in favour of general literature.[*158] From an early age he had composed dramas on Thisbe and similar themes, and had secretly drilled his brothers and sisters to perform them; but when about seventeen, his youthful inclination was gratified by accompanying Duke Ercole I. to Pavia and Milan, for diversion, and to enact certain comedies. These boyish efforts have not been preserved, but the Cassaria and Suppositi, composed in 1494, engraft upon classic models the licentious speech of his age. Though well-born, he had the double misfortune to require a patron, and to find an ungrateful one in Cardinal Ippolito d'Este, whose ferocious character and lax morals exceeded even the ordinary licence then permitted to members of the Sacred College, and whose taste for literature, or perhaps emulation of a prevailing fashion, led him to favour men of genius. The services of Ariosto were invoked, as a soldier and diplomatist, when Ferrara was exposed to imminent danger in the wars following the League of Cambray. As ambassador to Julius II. in 1512, he braved perils greater perhaps than those of the field; but his fine temper and knowledge of the world ensured his safety, and bespoke the regard even of that domineering Pontiff, whose threats mellowed into favours before his conciliatory bearing. [Footnote *157: I shall not attempt to give a bibliography, however scanty, of Ariosto. He has really nothing to do with Urbino, and the work done concerning him would fill a library. The best life after those of Baretti, Campori, and Baruffaldi is that of Cappelli prefacing the _Lettere_ (Hoepli, Milano, 1887). The best edition of his poems is that of PAPINI (Firenze, Sansoni, 1903). For _Bibliographia Ariostesca_, see FERRAZZI (Bassano, Pozzato, 1881). For the controversy, Ariosto-Tasso, see VIVALDI, _La Più Grande polemica del Cinquecento_ (Catanzaro, Caliò, 1895). Consult also EDMUND GARDNER, _Dukes and Poets at Ferrara_ (Constable, 1904), a charming and a learned book.] [Footnote *158: Ariosto has told us in great part his own life in his _Satire_; best edition that of Tambara (Livorno, 1903).] The time at which he first visited Urbino is uncertain; but in 1515, when the designs of Leo X. upon that duchy and Ferrara, the only Romagnese principalities which still withstood the grasping policy of the papacy, had given rise to anxieties in the families of d'Este and della Rovere, the Cardinal repaired to Francesco Maria I., in order to concert measures for their common safety. Ariosto accompanied him on this journey, and, having been detained at the Furlo pass by an attack of fever, which in his eighth Capitulo he mentions as dangerous, he repaired to recruit his health at Urbino, whilst Ippolito proceeded to Rome. The greeting which met our poet at that lettered court partook of the discriminating hospitality which genius could ever there command; and though his own poetical reputation was as yet but dawning, his intimacy with Guido Posthumo of Pesaro was probably a claim in his behalf to special distinction, which the publication of his _Orlando Furioso_, before the end of that year, firmly established. On proceeding to Rome, the favour bestowed upon him at the Vatican was not such as either to satisfy his just anticipations, or to do credit to the Pontiff's discernment. In his third and seventh Satires, Ariosto comments upon the long and intimate friendship of their former years, when the Cardinal de' Medici had proffered him a fraternal partiality, and vows that never again will he rely on other men's promises, postponed from ides to calends, and from calends to ides. The reception he at first met with might well give confidence to his hopes; for on his presentation Leo stooped forward to press his hand, saluting him on both cheeks. But, as the Venetian envoy caustically observed, his Holiness promised largely, but performed not. All that followed this flattering accolade was a privilege of copyright, not even gratuitously issued; and as those substantial benefits, which his merits deserved and his position required, were vainly expected, the poet quitted Rome "with humbled crest," a disappointed man. Yet he was of too kind a nature to harbour malice, as well as of a temper too easy for courtly struggles. He returned to the quiet of his native state, content to seek some respectable employment, and avowing his indifference to scenes of wider or more varied ambition. "Let him who golden spur or scarlet hat affects Serve king, or duke, or cardinal, or pope; This suits not me, who care for neither gaud."[159] [Footnote 159: Part of this third Satire will be found translated in ROSCOE'S _Leo X._, ch. xvi., where the demands of nepotism upon his Holiness are playfully exposed.] Whether his patron's proverbially slighting reception of a dedication of the first fruits of his epic muse proceeded from obtuseness, or, as Tiraboschi suggests, was a poor jest, it could not but be mortifying to a man of delicacy and conscious genius. Ere long a breach occurred between them, on Ludovico declining to attend the Cardinal in a distant and fatiguing embassy to Hungary.[*160] This occurred in 1517; but he was soon after admitted into the Duke of Ferrara's service with a monthly salary of seven crowns, and allowances for three servants and two horses. His first employment in this new sphere was a mission, in 1519, to condole with Lorenzo de' Medici, the usurping Duke of Urbino, on the loss of his consort Madeleine of France; but ere he reached Florence, Lorenzo's own death had supervened. It was on this occasion he composed his first Capitulo, where, and in his Stanze, he speaks of that prince in the usual fulsome style of courtly bards, alluding to his uncles Leo and Giuliano as "Twin suckers from that long descended laurel stem, Which in its verdure decked a golden age." [Footnote *160: Cf. Satire II., vv. 1-24, 85-93, 97-114, 217-231, 238-265, and III., 1-81.] How little the duty thus imposed upon him consisted with his own tastes may, however, be gathered from an incident characteristic of the age. The venal conduct of Duke Francesco Maria's Spanish followers having brought to a sudden close his attempt to regain his patrimonial states, in the manner detailed in our thirty-sixth chapter, one of their number resented an imputation to that effect, cast upon his comrades by some gentlemen of Ferrara. A challenge was the result, each party selecting a bravo to maintain their cause. This duel by deputy took place on the Neapolitan territory, and, of the combatants, who fought naked with swords, the Spaniard was left dead on the field. The victor returned to be fêted in the capital of the d'Este; and Ariosto composed his thirty-fifth sonnet upon "Ferrara's true paladin, of truth, genius, worth, and valour, who has cleared up the Spaniard's slippery trick upon the good Duke of Urbino, and testified to Italian bravery." We may well suppose the satisfaction with which the minstrel saw this "good Duke" restored to his station in 1521, and may conjecture that he paid him homage in his mountain capital. A room in the ducal palace there, decorated with his portrait, went by his name, and he was enrolled among the _Assorditi_ academicians.[161] In 1532, a few months previous to his death, Prince Guidobaldo wrote to ask of him an unacted comedy, for representation at Pesaro, to which he replied, regretting his inability to comply with the request, as he had long ceased to write such things. [Footnote 161: See above, pp. 255-6.] Ariosto's life presents few remarkable incidents, considering the space which his name justly occupies in the literary annals of Italy. Though honoured and complimented by the Dukes of Urbino and Ferrara, and by Leo X., he seems to have incurred few solid obligations from these Maecenases of his age. The only promotion awarded to him was the administration of Garfagna, a mountain-holding under the d'Este family, chiefly peopled by banditti, which he obtained in 1522, but resigned after three years' sad experience of the turbulent charge. His coronation by Charles V. is apocryphal, although he is understood to have received from that Emperor a diploma as his poet laureate. He died on the 6th of June, 1533, in his home at Ferrara, and was buried in the old church of S. Benedetto. In 1573 his body was transported to the new church, and in 1801 to the Public Library of Ferrara. It would be foreign to the object proposed in these pages to enter fully into the merits of works so universally known, and so little connected with our immediate subject, as the heroic poems of Ariosto. But we have ample evidence of the popularity enjoyed by his _Orlando Furioso_, during the first half-century after its publication, in the testimony of one not likely to be partial to a successful rival: "And if the aim which a good poet ought to keep in view be that of imparting pleasure and enjoyment, it is obvious that this was accomplished by Ariosto; for there is neither artisan, nor man of learning, nor boy, nor girl, nor old person, who is satisfied with a second perusal of him. Are not his stanzas a solace to the jaded pilgrim, who sings them to alleviate the irksomeness of his hot and weary way? Do you not hear them chanted all day long in the highways and the fields? I believe that there have not been printed as many copies of Homer or Virgil as of the _Furioso_, during the time that has elapsed since that most accomplished gentleman published his poem; and if so, as cannot be doubted, is not this a clear proof of its beauty and excellence?"[162] We set aside the minor faults which have been found in the execution, and most gladly escape from all critical discussion of the vexed question, as to its due observance of unity and sustained action. The absence of perfections so questionable is by many accounted a charm. Nowhere has imagination been more freely indulged, nowhere the poetic vein left to play such fantastic tricks; but in its sallies, effort and restraint are alike unknown. As the figures in a magic-lantern, or the endless changes of the kaleidoscope, its phantasmagoria appear and pass by, without our being aware of the machinery which called them up; yet, from time to time, there occur images of life so veracious, traits of nature so touching, that we are again summoned to the realities of existence and the sympathies of humanity, with a startling effect scarcely less marvellous than the wild creations which precede and follow these charming episodes. Even extravagance thus ceases to be a blemish, whilst facility and freshness are ever multiplying new beauties. Episodes and incidents, serious or grotesque, capriciously introduced into the poem, give it a motley and heterogeneous aspect; variety of matter and diversity of style are its familiar characteristics; and its unequal execution is, perhaps, less pardonable than the desultory character of its plan. Nor is it only by its novelty that this freedom of action sustains the interest of the work. The introduction of real personages and recent events relieves the tedium of long continued allegory, and stamps nature and individuality on adventures in themselves extravagant and apocryphal. [Footnote 162: Bernardo Tasso, Lettere, II., No. 165. In a privilege of copyright granted in very complimentary terms by Leo X., the _Orlando_ is pedantically described by Bembo as "a work in vernacular verse regarding the feats of those called knights-errant, composed in a ludicrous style, but with long study, and the laborious application of many years."--Bembo, _Epistolæ nomine Leonis X._, Lib. X., No. 40.] In estimating the rank of this poet, critical judgment has too often been diverted from the quality of his verses to the fittingness of his style; and in comparing him with Tasso, the argument resolves itself into a contrast between romantic and classic poetry. Upon such a discussion we purpose not to enter. Ariosto found his countrymen under the charm of old legendary histories, perpetuated by tradition from the days of Charlemagne and his paladins, and more recently popularised in Pulci's burlesque epic of the _Morgante Maggiore_, and by Boiardo's unfettered fancy in the _Orlando Innamorato_. He was content to sail with the stream, spreading his canvas to the prevailing breeze, rather than to strike out another course, and steer in search of newer attractions. This decision necessarily limited the scope of a highly original genius to varying the details and episodes of inventions already familiarised to his readers by other less inspired pens; and it were difficult to account for his thus contentedly following their track, except from the conviction that none else was so certain a guide to success. Domenichi and Berni, aware that Boiardo had unworthily handled his theme, were content to employ themselves in recasting it into more attractive shape, and Le Sage's French translation is a mere paraphrase. But Ariosto chose the higher aim of taking up the story where Boiardo had left it incomplete, and working it out in forms less exaggerated and fanciful, but far more nobly conceived, and executed with infinitely greater polish and poetic beauty. * * * * * PIETRO ARETINO[*163] has been designated by Ariosto[164] "the scourge of princes," a description somewhat more just than the epithet of "divine," which is added possibly in irony; for few men, it is hoped, have been so destitute of those high aspirations which form the link between human and divine nature. He has been aptly compared to an ill-conditioned cur, ever ready to yelp and snap at all who do not feed or fondle him, but to such as do, the most fawning of his species. He was born at Arezzo in 1492, and was natural son of one Luigi Bacci. After serving his apprenticeship to a bookbinder at Perugia, he went to push his fortunes in Rome, where his first remarkable productions were verses illustrating a set of engravings by Marcantonio, after designs by Giulio Romano,--a work so scandalously offensive to decency that scarcely any copies have escaped destruction.[*165] After the death of Giovanni de' Medici _delle bande nere_, his earliest patron, he went to Venice, and subsequently visited most of the Italian courts. His foul scurrilities and loathsome adulation were dealt out with equal readiness, as best served his insatiable avarice and undisguised selfishness. These base qualities, tempered by tact and great readiness, gained for him a success equally unaccountable and undeserved; he became rich, caressed, applauded, dreaded, and is said to have earned not less than 70,000 scudi during his career. The popularity which his writings enjoyed among all ranks seems an infatuation,[*166] considering their very moderate merit, and must be viewed as symptomatic of a generally depraved taste, though no doubt his own ineffable conceit and insolence contributed to the delusion. "There truly never was a man who combined such haughty presumption with equal ignorance of literature, meanness of spirit, and debauchery of morals. His style possesses no elegance or grace; indeed he seems to me one of the first to introduce those ludicrous hyperboles and extravagant metaphors that came so generally into use during the next century. Never assuredly have I met with books so empty and useless as those of this impostor, whose baseness equalled his profound ignorance, and the sole object of whose writings was self-interest and lucre. As to his manners, they are amply testified by his works, wherein, besides a prodigal sprinkling of obscenity, there are mentioned the women with whom he intrigued, and the children these bore him; they in fact prove him destitute of moral or religious principle; and if ever he makes a show of compunction or amendment, it is but to relapse speedily into his wonted profanity. Truly such a fellow, who ought hardly to have ventured to show himself in public, stands unequalled in presumptuous arrogance. But the most surprising thing is to see a majority of European princes, and not a few learned Italians, humbling themselves before him without a blush, and rendering him a degrading tribute of gifts and eulogies. Chains of gold, considerable sums of money, pensions, and handsome presents of every sort, came in so constantly from various quarters, that he confesses to receiving from different princes 25,000 scudi within eighteen years. The most amusing part of it is that these rich donations were made because he assumed the proud epithet of _scourge of princes_, on the plan, as it would seem, of threatening them with his indignation, and with attacks upon their actions in his writings; yet never was there a more sordid adulator of the great, and no work of his contains a single word against any sovereign." It would be difficult to select words more graphic or more just than this description by Tiraboschi, which we have preferred adopting, to the task of reviewing so filthy a character.[*167] We shall elsewhere allude to him in connection with Michael Angelo and Titian, and other notices might be selected of his intercourse with Duke Guidobaldo II. The self-assumed privilege of his position did not however always protect him from the merited consequences of his meanness and malevolence. Boccalini (an author scarcely less mordent than himself, who is said to have expiated his satiric vein by being beaten to death) calls him "a magnet of fisty-cuffs and cudgels, whose enemies' hands, rivalling the promptitude of his own pen, had scarred him all over with as many lines as a navigator's chart." Among those who met him with his own weapons was Antonio Francesco Doni, a literary adventurer of Florence, whose arrival about 1552 at the court of Guidobaldo II. inspired Aretino with jealousy which exploded in an impertinent letter. The intruder, however, maintained his ground till 1558, the year after his opponent's characteristic death, and retaliated in a volume published in 1556, entitled _Doni's Earthquake, overthrowing the great beastly colossal Antichrist of our Age; a Work composed in Honour of God and the Holy Church, and in Defence of good Christians_, and dedicated "to the infamous and rascally source and fountain of all malice, Pietro Aretino, the putrid limb of public imposture, and true Antichrist of our time." [Footnote *163: A good edition of the _Lettere_ of ARETINO was published under the care of Vanzolini and Bacci della Lega, in four volumes, in Bologna, 1873-75. The best edition, now very rare, of _I Ragionamenti_ is that of Florence, 1892. See also FABI, _Opere da P.A._, Milano, 1881. For his life, consult LUZIO, _P.A. nei primi suoi anni a Venezia e la corte dei Gonzago_ (Torino, 1888); GAUTHIEZ, _L'Aretin_, 1492-1556 (Paris, 1895); and SINIGAGLIA, _Saggio di uno studio su P.A. con scritti e documenti inediti_ (Roma, 1892). It was, I think, Mr. Claude Phillips who wittily called Aretino not the scourge but "the screw of princes." Nevertheless, those who knew Aretino best will appreciate him most. Titian was wise enough to have him for a friend, and, indeed, he was capable of many very human and even beautiful actions, as when he would daily throw wide his doors at nightfall and take the lost and the beggars into his house. After all, those he blackmailed were blackmailers themselves. He made even the Pope fear him.] [Footnote 164: _Orlando Furioso_, XLVI., st. 14.] [Footnote *165: These designs have lately been found and photographed and published in Paris. They are impossible, but extremely vigorous and lovely. The verses are even more terrible than the drawings, but splendid too, with a sort of fullness of joy.] [Footnote *166: His writings have much of the undoubted fascination of the daily paper, but are on the whole less vulgar and probably less harmful and enervating.] [Footnote *167: This is sheer hypocrisy. Aretino's intercourse with Urbino was so slight as to be easily ignored, and Dennistoun, as a fact, says next to nothing of it.] [Illustration: _Alinari_ PIETRO ARETINO _After the picture by Titian in the Pitti Gallery, Florence_] Still more pungent was the epigrammatic epitaph proposed for him by Francesconi: "Arezzo's hoary libeller here is laid, Whose bitter slanders all save CHRIST essayed: He for such slip this reason good can show,-- 'How could I mock one whom I do not know?'" Aretino, returning a Roland for his Oliver, rejoined: "Francescon, wretched rhymer, here is laid, Who of all things save asses evil said: His plea in favour of the long-eared race, A cousinship that none could fail to trace."[168] [Footnote 168: "Qui giace l'Aretino, poeta Tosco, Che d'ognun disse male fuorchè di Christo, Scusandosi col dir--'Non lo conosco.'" "Qui giace Francescon, poeta pessimo, Che disse mal d'ognun fuorchè del asino, Scusandosi col dir--che egli era prossimo."] But enough of such ribaldry. The writings of Aretino and his biography are in one respect useful to the historian of his time. The degrading views of human nature afforded by both form a contrast to the bright luminaries which yet lingered above the horizon, whilst by their shadows they complete the verity of the picture. Favoured by fortune far beyond his deserts during life, his memory is equally indebted to art. The encomium of Ariosto has already been quoted, and the pencil of his friend Titian has preserved his person in several portraits; one of them, which, though unfinished, is perhaps the noblest commemorated on Vecellio's canvass, adorns the Pitti Gallery, and almost persuades us that Aretino was a gentleman. * * * * * From an age too prolific in parasitical literature and in shameless morals, there has descended to us a name radiant with genius, and unsullied in reputation. The historian of Urbino may contribute a leaf to the garland which fame has hung upon the brows of VITTORIA COLONNA,[*169] for her mother was a princess of Montefeltro, and to her maternal ancestry she seems indebted for her heritage of talent. She was daughter of Fabrizio Colonna, by Agnesina daughter of Duke Federigo of Urbino, and was born in 1490. When but four years old she was betrothed, in conformity with the usage of her times, to a mere infant. Yet her marriage may be deemed fortunate, for her husband, Ferdinando Francesco Marquis of Pescara, was not only a cadet of the very ancient house of Avalos, which had accompanied Alfonzo of Aragon from Spain to Naples, and had married the heiress of Aquino and Pescara in the Abruzzi, but, among the warriors of an era still fertile in heroes, none was more early distinguished or promoted. He died prematurely at thirty-three, while in command of the imperial troops. His consort, imitating her grandmother Battista Sforza, had learned to console the childless solitude of his prolonged absences by habits of study, and in them found resource amid the bereavements of a widowhood which no offer of marriage could tempt her to infringe. But though she sought not the world or its incense, her high rank, wealth, and personal graces, gained many an admirer, whilst the elevated beauty of her poetry, the charms of her conversation and correspondence, attracted to her the respectful adoration of the learned. She cherished her husband's memory with rare constancy, modifying grief by spiritual solace. In her piety there was neither blind superstition nor cold formality. Devotional exercises and religious intercourse shared her hours with poetry and literature tinged by their influence, and among her most welcome visitors were some of those Italian divines who favoured the Reformation. On this account she has been claimed as a convert to protestantism, but upon insufficient grounds. She adhered apparently to the faith of her fathers, and was spared by a timely death, in 1547, from witnessing the persecutions undergone by her friends of the new creed.[*170] Among those to whom the sympathies of genius and piety united her was Michael Angelo, who testified his respect by a visit to her death-bed, and his regret by a touching sonnet to her memory.[*171] Not less gratifying was the tribute to her worth which Ariosto has embalmed in seven stanzas of the Furioso, canto xxxvii.:-- "One will choose, and such will choose, that she All envy shall so well have overthrown, No other woman can offended be, If, passing others, her I praise alone; No joys this one but immortality, Through her sweet style, and better know I none." [Footnote *169: For the life of Vittoria Colonna, see CAMPORI, _Vittoria Colonna_ in _Atti e Mem. della Dep. di St. Pat. dell'Emilia_, N.S., vol. III., (Modena, 1878). LUZIO, _V.C._, in _Rivista St. Mantovana_ (1885), vol. I., p. 1 _et seq._ On her mother, Agnese di Montefeltro, cf. CASINI-TORDI, in _Giornale Vittoria Colonna_, vol. I., No. 10. On her poems, cf. MAZZONE, _V.C. e il suo Canzoniere_ (1900). She was born at Marino in 1492. She was married 27th December, 1509, in Ischia, to Ferrante d'Avalos Marchese di Pescara. Miss MAUD JERROLD has published recently (Dent, 1907) a work in English on Vittoria Colonna which should be excellent.] [Footnote *170: See, on this subject, RODOCANACCHI, _V.C. et la Réforme en Italie_ (Versailles, 1892), and TACCHI-VENTURI, _V.C. fautrice della riforma cattolica_ (Roma, 1901).] [Footnote *171: For her relations with Michelangelo, see RACZYNSKI, _Les Arts en Portugal_ (Paris, 1846, pp. 1-78).] Of her writings few remain, and these but fugitive pieces.[*172] We are happy in being able to make our readers acquainted with them through the graceful translations of the late Mr. Glassford, selecting three sonnets in which she tenderly alludes to the blight of her widowhood, mildly inculcates the cloisters' quiet, and clothes in glowing language orisons of holiest fervour. [Footnote *172: For her writings, see FERRERO e MULLER, _Il Carteggio di Vittoria Colonna_ (Torino, 1859), with the supplement (1892) of TORDI, who has also published (Pistoia, 1900) _Il codice delle rime di V.C. app. a Margh. d'Angoulême_, and some unpublished _Sonetti_ (Roma, 1891).] I. "Methinks the sun his wonted beam denies, Nor lends such radiance to his sister's car; Methinks each planet mild, and lovely star, Has left its sweet course in the spangled skies. Fallen is the heart of noble enterprise, True glory perished and the pride of war; All grace and every virtue perished are, The leaf is withered and the floweret dies. Unmoved I am, though heaven and earth invite, Warmed by no ray nor fanned if zephyr blow; All offices of nature are deranged: Since the bright sun that cheered me vanished so, The courses of the world have quite been changed; Ah no! but sorrow veils them from my sight." II. "If those delights which from the living well Above are dropped into the heart contrite Were also visible, and others might Know what great peace with love divine can dwell, Perhaps it would be then less hard to tell Why fame and fortune have been counted light, And how the wisest men transported quite Would take their cross and seek the mountain cell, Finding that death-sweet life; and not alone In prospect, but now also while the blind And erring world from the shadows will not cease. When the awakened soul to God has flown With humble will to what He wills inclined, Then outward war to such is inward peace." III. "Thanks to thy sovereign grace, O God! if I Am graff'd in that true vine a living shoot, Whose arms embrace the world, and in whose root, Planted by faith, our life must hidden lie, But thou beholdest how I fade and dry, Choked with a waste of leaf, and void of fruit, Unless thy spring perennial shall recruit My sapless branch, still wanting fresh supply. O cleanse me then, and make me to abide Wholly in thee, to drink thy heavenly dew, And watered daily with my tears to grow. Thou art the truth, thy promise is my guide; Prepare me when thou comest, Lord, to show Fruits answering to the stock on which I grew." In Italy the Muses have ever had numerous priestesses, welcomed with an enthusiasm measured rather by the gallantry of their admirers than by their real deserts. Among these was LAURA BATTIFERRI, born at Urbino in 1522-3, whose genius has inspired the pens of Caro, Varchi, Mazzuchelli, and others; and whom by a questionable, and, as regarded her morals, a most unmerited compliment, Pietro Vettori compared to Sappho. Following a very different model, she, like Vittoria Colonna, composed many devotional pieces, often versifying the sadder portions of sacred writ, two volumes of which were published at Florence. Rarer perhaps, and more creditable than her poetic celebrity, was the reputation for moral worth transmitted to us in connection with her name, which she happily exchanged by her union with Bartolomeo Ammanati, notwithstanding frowns from a high quarter. The Duchess Vittoria, proud of her talents, laid upon her an injunction not to marry out of her native state. This restriction had the usual result; her husband was a Florentine sculptor, and it required all the influence of Cardinal Alessandro Farnese with his sister to obtain pardon for such flagrant disobedience. * * * * * "In 1558, there were at the court of Urbino--of old the resort of talented persons--many great and famous poets, such as Messer Bernardo Capello, Messer Bernardo Tasso, Messer Girolamo Muzio, and Messer Antonio Gallo, whose whole occupation it was, like white gentle swans, emulously to sing, and celebrate in verse, the eminent beauty, and far more eminent virtues, of the illustrious Duchess." With these names might be coupled Dionigi Atanagi, the writer of this euphuism, and also Annibale Caro, Antonio Allegretti, Marco Montano, and Cornelio Lanci. Of Tasso and Muzio we elsewhere speak. Caro and Capello were connected with the ducal family only by one or two complimentary effusions, in return for occasional hospitality. Allegretti indited an epithalamium on the marriage of Duchess Vittoria, in which, alluding to the heraldic bearings then united, he celebrated the prudent hand of the wise shepherd (Paul III.), who transplanted that virgin Lily into good soil under the shadow of the mighty Oak; in conclusion, he summoned the attendants to scatter acorns and _fleurs-de-lis_ before the bridal pair. Lanci's comedies no longer "fret and strut their hour upon the stage," but they are said to deserve the praise of comparative purity in an age when decency was no necessary ingredient of scenic merit. Three names remain for consideration, who, as natives of the duchy, may claim a brief notice. DIONIGI ATANAGI was born at Cagli, and, after twenty-five years spent at the Roman court, returned, in 1557, to recruit his constitution in his native air. He was invited to Pesaro by his sovereign, at the suggestion of Bernardo Tasso, who wished him to revise the _Amadigi_; but there he found his health still further impaired by mental fatigue. Several of his sonnets are addressed to members of the ducal family and court; one of them, inscribed to Guidobaldo II., lauds him as "a prince and captain of invincible valour, of wisdom superhuman, of bounty and benignity past belief, of ineffable eloquence, of incomparable liberality and magnificence, a paragon of religion, the lofty stay of Italian honour and renown. Being the natural sovereign as well as special patron and singular benefactor of the author, whose every hope rests in him next to God, it is his desire, in the full knowledge how much is due to his Excellency's infinite merits, to fill with heroic praises of him whatever work he may undertake; but overwhelmed by the grandeur of the theme, his silence is broken only by excuses for his deficiency." This fulsome trash is no unfair specimen of such compositions. The following invitation to Urbino, as an asylum of the Muses, is in a somewhat happier vein, which we have endeavoured to render:-- "Anime belle, e di virtute amiche, Cui fero sdegno di fortuna offende, Sì che ven gite povere e mendiche, Come e lei piace, che pietà contende; Se di por fine alle miserie antiche Caldo desio l'afflitto cor v'incende, Ratte correte alia gran QUERCIA d'oro, Ond'avrete alimento ombra e ristoro. "Qui regna un Signor placido e benigno, Ch'altro ch'altrui giovar unqua non pensa, Cortese, e d'ogni real laude degno; Che ciascun pasce a sua ricca mensa, E 'n buon revolge ogni destin maligno, Mentre le grazie sue largo dispensa GUIDOBALDO, di principi fenici, Che può col guardo sol far l'uom felice. "Qui le buone arti ed i nobili costumi, Senno, fede e valor, fido albergo hanno; Qui fioriscon gl'ingegni, e chiari lumi Via più ch'il sol spargendo intorno vanno: Qui mel le piante, qui dan latte i fiumi; Qui pace è queta senza alcuno affanno; Qui 'l vizio è morto, e virtù bella è viva Beato chi ci nasce e chi ci arriva." 1. Ah! beauteous souls, to virtue ever prone, Whom evil Fortune's cruel grudge offends, Bereft of every stay, and left to groan By her caprice, while heavy grief impends; If in your aching hearts that grief evoke A wish such lengthened miseries to close, Speed 'neath the umbrage of the golden OAK To share its genial shelter and repose. 2. A gentle and benignant Prince there reigns, On other's weal exclusively intent, Courteous, and worth all praise in royal strains, From whose well plenished table none are sent. Each evil destiny by him disarmed, His gracious boons are scattered widely round; E'en by his winning glance is each one charmed, Phoenix of princes, GUIDOBALDO crowned. 3. Ennobling arts and noble manners here, With wit, and faith, and courage have their home, While genius' meteor gleams more bright appear Than Phoebus flickering in the skiey dome. Here honey-laden meads and milky streams To painless peace attract, and gentle rest; Here vice is dead, while worth resplendent seems: Happy such duchy's native, or its guest! Among the men of letters whom it was the pride of Guidobaldo II. to attract round him, was ANTONIO GALLI, of Urbino. His uncle, the Cavalier Angelo, had preceded him, both in the cultivation of the muses, and in the good graces of the Dukes, having been employed on various political missions by Guidantonio, Oddantonio, and Federigo; during his leisure hours he had composed sonnets and canzonets in imitation of Petrarch, then the popular model for minor poets. For Antonio has been claimed the questionable honour of introducing pastoral dramas, which long exercised a debilitating influence on the literature of Italy, and spread from there the vitiating style to other lands. He, too, held diplomatic appointments at the courts of Rome and Spain, and to the republic of Venice; and having acquired the reputation of a man, not less of business than of letters, the Duke entrusted him with the superintendence of Prince Francesco Maria, until his death in 1551. His contemporary and friend MARCO MONTANO enjoyed his sovereign's favour without sharing any public employments. In youth he had been secretary of Cardinal Carlo Borromeo, and afterwards addicted himself to Latin and Italian verse, with a success sufficient to gain him applause from Baldi, and from Tasso the compliment of being ranked next to Guarini among the living bards of Italy. The suffrage of these partial friends has not been confirmed by posterity; for Montano's poetry lies forgotten, and his name is cherished only in connection with the literary history of his native state. * * * * * Among the names which shed a lustre upon Urbino, in return for hospitalities received at that court, was that of BERNARDO TASSO,[*173] whose splendour would have been more conspicuous in the galaxy of Italian poets, had he not given birth to a son of yet brighter genius. The house of Tasso was of ancient descent in the Bergamasque territory; but Bernardo drew his first breath at Venice, the home of his mother, a lady of the Cornari. Of his youth we know nothing, except that he enjoyed the advantage of a liberal education, and that his morals were no exception to the lax habits of the age. An avowed lover of the matronly Ginevra Malatesta, he sang her beauty in strains complaining of her continence; and at Rome he dangled in poverty after Tullia d'Aragona, one of those splendid examples of wasted powers and successful vice over which the philosopher puzzles while the historian sighs, whose talents were given to the Muses, whose graces were devoted to Venus. [Footnote *173: Cf. PASOLINI, _I Genitori di T. Tasso_ (Roma, 1895).] [Illustration: BERNARDO TASSO _From a picture once in the possession of James Dennistoun_] Finding himself past thirty without either an independence or a career, he commenced the life of a literary courtier, for which the social condition of Italy under her many principalities held out considerable inducements. His first essay was as private secretary to Count Guido Rangone, a warrior chief of some distinction; and during the Lombard campaign in 1526 Bernardo was sent by him on missions of importance to the Doge of Genoa and to the Pope.[*174] He remained with the latter on Bourbon's approach, and was commissioned by his Holiness to seek out Lannoy at Siena, and urge him to repair to Rome, take command of the imperial troops, and put an end to their outrages. In this journey the speed of his Turkish charger enabled him to escape from an assault which proved fatal to one of his attendants. Though unsuccessful in the negotiation, his dexterity recommended him as papal envoy to the court of France, in order to arrange the advance of Lautrec, whom he accompanied into Italy. After the destruction of the French army before Naples, we find him for a time secretary to Laura Duchess of Ferrara, and he accompanied the Marquis of Vasto on the Turkish campaign in Hungary. [Footnote *174: He went in 1528 to Paris on behalf of Conte Guido.] It was in 1531 that he entered the service of Ferdinando or Ferrante Sanseverino, Prince of Salerno, whom he attended to Africa in the expedition of Charles V. against Tunis. His patron was a prince of ample means, and of corresponding generosity to persons of literary merit; and Tasso, having distinguished himself by several published collections of verses, as well as by the able performance of his more immediate duties, was rewarded by offices and pensions yielding him about 1000 scudi a year. Finding himself thus independent at forty-six, he married Porzia de' Rossi, the beautiful, accomplished, and well-dowried daughter of a noble family in Pistoia, and settled himself at Sorrento, where he spent the best and happiest years of his life, and, with occasional interruptions of business and calls to the camp, pursued his poetical studies.[*175] [Footnote *175: Cf. CAPASSO, _Il Tasso e la sua famiglia a Sorrento_ (Napoli, 1866).] On that plain which matures a tropical luxuriance of vegetation, and where nature lavishes the brightest of her varying tints, his inspiration was developed, and the more brilliant genius of his son imbibed its earliest impressions. The casino in which Torquato first saw the light[176] commanded a view of unparalleled beauty;--the bright bay and its far-off islands of picturesque outline,--Naples, with its endless line of white suburbs glittering along the shore,--Vesuvius, the marvellous workshop of volcanic wonders,--golden sunsets of unclouded glow, and mellowed combinations of mountain and marine scenery awaiting the pencil of Salvator Rosa. Nor were these the only charms which the poet found in this spot. He has celebrated in his correspondence its balmy and healthful climate, and the courteous hospitality of its inhabitants. These qualities still attract strangers to the Piano di Sorrento, and the villa which sheltered Torquato on his escape from Ferrara is now a comfortable hotel, inviting them to gaze from its beetling cliff on the scenes of his youthful inspiration. [Footnote 176: On the 11th of March, 1544; Bernardo was born the 11th November, 1493.] The _Amadigi_ was commenced in that genial spot, and the Prince of Salerno complacently anticipated the extended reputation which it promised to his protégé. But the storm, meanwhile, gathered, which was to sweep patron and poet from their palmy state. The Prince, by entanglements which we need not trace, found himself compromised with the Viceroy, Don Pedro Toledo, and, from mingled alarm and pique, sacrificed his vast hereditary stake, by passing over to the French service. This happened in 1552,[*177] and Tasso followed his fortunes without being involved in his treason. After accompanying him to France, he came, in 1554, to Rome, where he took up his abode, in the hope of soon being joined by his wife and family, and of establishing himself there. But she was detained at Naples, for the purpose of recovering part of her husband's property, or at all events her own fortune, which had been escheated on his flight. Her difficulties were increased by the selfish conduct of her own relations, and at length, in the spring of 1556, she died suddenly, not without suspicion of poison. "I have lost," writes her husband, "a woman whose virtues and estimable qualities rendered her beloved and endeared to me as life itself, who was worthy of general admiration, and in whose bosom I had hoped peacefully to pass the closing years of my old age!" But other cares were falling thickly around him. Though joined by his son Torquato, he could never rescue his only other child Cornelia from her maternal relations, and suffered intense anxiety for her welfare. Still nominally in the Prince of Salerno's service, and actually employed as his confidential agent, he found himself estranged from his regard, his correspondence interrupted, and his salary irregularly paid. Bitterly experiencing the not unfrequent guerdon of fidelity to fallen dignitaries, he thus addressed his patron in February, 1556:-- "Your Excellency has now to learn the influence of unstable and malignant fortune upon this your unhappy servant. You know how often you have quoted me as an instance of happiness, saying that I had a beautiful and virtuous wife, by whom I was beloved, and on whom I doated; that I had the finest children, ample means, an excellent house well decorated, as well as comfortably furnished; and that I enjoyed the respect and good opinion of the world, as well as that most important advantage of all, your favour. Now you may see in how brief an interval I have fallen from that height of happiness into the depths of misery. I have lost my means, earned, as all know, most honourably, and with no small fatigue and peril. I have lost my independence; and, in a word, my every comfort. I have been deprived of my dearest wife, and with her have occasioned to my unhappy children the sacrifice of their mother's dowry, and of all my remaining prospect of maintaining them, and conducting them to that position which every respectable and affectionate parent would desire. But, worst of all, I perceive from obvious symptoms, that I have forfeited your favour without having given you the slightest cause. The reason of my sinking into these misfortunes, being obvious to the whole world, should not be concealed from you. I am so situated, that any one refusing to compassionate me must be devoid of pity and all good feeling; and if you still retain the smallest share of that magnanimity, generosity, or gratitude which you were wont so honourably to manifest to your servants, you will yet have pity on me, and will endeavour to raise me from that abyss of wretchedness into which I have fallen in your service." [Footnote *177: 1547.] This sad appeal meeting with no response, he retired from the Prince's service with a nominal pension of 300 scudi, which seems never to have been paid him. Writing to a friend, he says, "I have thrown out into this sea of troubles many anchors of reason, to save my tempest-tost mind from shipwreck. But I fear that, in the long run, if not conducted into port by a favouring breeze from some benignant prince, I may be swamped, from the cable of my constancy parting; for it is hard from prosperity and happiness to fall into misery, and struggle with famine." Scared away from Rome by the din of coming war, in the renewed strife between France and Spain for the domination of the Peninsula, and "Eating the bitter bread of banishment," he had reached Ravenna, when an invitation arrived from Guidobaldo II., Duke of Urbino, a cousin of his late patron, whose court offered to genius just such a haven as he had hoped for. In October, 1556, he reached Pesaro, where the Duke assigned as a residence for the poet his casino called the Barchetto, a house which still stands within the walls of Pesaro, surrounded by a smiling garden. Its very limited accommodation, now used by the gardener, cannot have afforded a commodious dwelling, but such as it was, it appears to have satisfied Bernardo, who after a few weeks was encouraged by the Duke's courtesy to send for his son, with a view to establishing himself in that capital. His residence there somewhat exceeded two years, during which we gather from his correspondence few incidents beyond his literary occupations. Though avowing himself in the service of Guidobaldo, he does not seem to have had from him either employment or a fixed maintenance, but was probably supported by his hospitality. He now put the finishing touches to his _Amadigi_, begun fourteen years before, and repaid the favours bestowed upon him with the usual homage of a courtly poet. Anxiously clinging to the hope of making his peace with Spain, in order to recover his own and his wife's property which had been confiscated at Naples, he obtained the mediation of several courts in his favour, and even had recourse to the good offices of Cardinal Pole with Philip II., then husband of the English Queen Mary. In this object Guidobaldo particularly interested himself, and it was at his suggestion that Bernardo dedicated his poem to that monarch, whose praises, with those of his consort, had been already sung in its eleventh canto. But his pearls were lavished unavailingly on one incapable of appreciating either the gift or the donor, and a long apologetic letter from Girolamo Ruscelli, which accompanied the peace-offering, remained unacknowledged. In these times literary advertisements were unknown, but the reputation of a forthcoming work was heralded by a scarcely less effectual expedient. Passages of it were handed about in manuscript among literary circles, and criticisms were requested from the author's more intimate friends. Thus was it with the _Amadigi_; and Bernardo has not shrunk from giving to the world the letters by which he sought for or replied to such suggestions. Dionigi Atanagi was summoned from Cagli by the Duke, for the purpose of making those verbal corrections which were rendered irksome to the poet by weak sight. Sperone Speroni writes to the author that, in two revisions, he had removed the vulgarisms, roughnesses, and redundancies, cancelling above two hundred stanzas, and that, in a third reading, he would probably delete as many more. The first conception was that of a regular epic; but the cold reception which it met with from his friends induced Bernardo to adopt a manner more conformable to the romantic and less fettered taste of the age. In the summer of 1557 he read a canto each night, at Urbino, to the Duchess Vittoria and a select audience. Having thus raised public anticipation, the poet was anxious to reap the fruits of his labours in honour and emolument; but he found a double difficulty in obtaining the 500 scudi required for the expense of an edition, and in procuring the papal licence without having the work submitted regularly to the censure. At length, in 1560, it issued, by the aid of Guidobaldo, from the press of Giolito, at Venice, in which town Tasso had chiefly resided for eighteen months, and where he, for a short time, acted as secretary to a literary academy, established in 1558, before which he read his Essay on Poetry. His remaining years produced few incidents. After an ineffectual overture to take service at the court of Savoy, he became chief secretary to the Duke of Mantua, who made him governor of Ostiglia. There he died on the 4th of September, 1569; and the epitaph penned by his son, but never placed over his ashes, runs thus:-- Erected by his son Torquato to BERNARDO TASSO, Distinguished for the fertility and eminence of his genius, in the relaxation of poetry and in the affairs of princes, in both of which he has left memorials of his industry, as well as for the fickleness and inconstancy of his fortunes. He lived LXXVI. years, and died IV Sept. MDLXIX. His bereavement was thus intimated by Torquato to the Duke of Urbino: "On the 4th of September it pleased the Lord God to call to himself the blessed soul of my father, whose death, although in all respects mature, is nevertheless felt by me as most untimely, and, I am persuaded, will be very unacceptable to your Excellency, who by so many proofs of regard considered him among your most esteemed servants, and towards whom I know his especial reverence. Of this respect, and of the infinite obligations under which he lay to your Excellency, I am most willingly the representative; and if that favour which your Excellency ever extended for his protection, and that of his interests, be devolved upon me, I shall deem it an ample patrimony that he has left me. And herewith praying a happy issue to all your honoured desires, I humbly kiss your hands. From Ferrara, the 28th September, 1569." An amiable disposition and agreeable manners procured for Bernardo Tasso, in all the fluctuations of his career, troops of friends, including the brightest names of his age. In the many situations of trust which he filled, his prudence and address, his fidelity and sincerity, acquired for him general estimation. Although his literary reputation now hangs, in a great degree, upon that of his son, his contemporaries, who knew not what the latter had in store for them, regarded him as the first epic poet of his age, comparing him even with Ariosto, whom he freely and avowedly imitated. To draw out some fifty-seven thousand verses on a borrowed and almost barren theme, in a style anticipated by several preceding minstrels, was an effort repugnant to fine genius, and susceptible of no marked success. Its necessary failing is diffuseness, varying from inflation to languor; its redeeming merit an acknowledged facility, sustained at times by fertile images, and by delicately beautiful descriptions. It is generally flowing, though, at times, feeble; yet is considered by Panizzi "unquestionably the best romantic narrative from amongst those not founded on the traditions respecting Charlemagne." Indeed, his poetry, while sharing with coeval productions the blemishes of exuberant ornament and quaint conceits, is seldom surpassed in pathos, and his dulcet numbers reconcile us to his faults of manner. What, to its author, was probably its most important quality, is now, perhaps, its greatest defect,--the profuse flattery of which it was made the medium. "To eat the bread of others" was the often hard, usually degrading, tenure self-imposed on court poets; and to such, a subject admitting of endless episodes, and the frequent introduction of existing personages, in their real characters or under transparent allegories, was a harvest of princely favour and of wealth. This, however, was an error of the age, which ought not to be charged on any single poet, least of all on one who had given his best and worthiest efforts to a barren soil. The fugitive poetry of Tasso partakes largely of this adulatory colouring. But, for him is claimed such praise as the invention of the Ode deserves; and this was deemed creditable service to a literature which has often invested trifles with undue importance. Bernardo was a secretary ere he became a poet, and his reputation rests more surely upon his correspondence than on his verses. That rhetoric which Bembo inculcated by precept and practice had become a fashion among men of literary pretension; their letters were composed as models of style, and manuscript or printed collections of them were in very general circulation. Such compositions, when thus written for the public, wanted the freshness and simplicity which constitute their best charm; but they gained attractions of another sort, and came to be read more for their manner than their matter. To this class belong the letters of the elder Tasso: nitid in style, but cold in feeling, they exhibit the niceties of Italian idiom, rather than the familiarities of Italian life. A very favourable specimen, but too long for insertion here, is that in which he proposes to his wife the principles which ought to guide her in bringing up their children, and in the formation of their manners and character. Though sometimes smoothed down to commonplace, it breathes a fine spirit of paternal affection, and combines religious observance with a becoming knowledge of the world. CHAPTER LI Torquato Tasso--His insanity--Theories of Dr. Verga and Mr. Wilde--His connection with Urbino--His intercourse with the Princess of Este--His portraits--His letter to the Duke of Urbino--His confinement--His death--His poetry--Battista Guarini. Our passing notice of Italian song would be incomplete without the name of Italy's favourite bard, even had TASSO[*178] found no hospitality at Urbino, no sympathy from its Duchess Lucrezia. Yet what shall we say of one whose loves and woes have filled many volumes,--whose life, character, and motives, after baffling biographers, and puzzling moralists, are still matter rather of controversy than of history, of speculation than of fact. That he was imbued with true genius, with its failings as well as its powers, is fixed by the unanimous verdict of posterity. That his misfortunes have tended greatly to enhance the sympathising veneration which hangs around his name, may be quoted in proof of the eternal justice of Providence. The rolls of Parnassus may exhibit names more gifted, the annals of human suffering are inscribed with greater calamities and deeper griefs, but in no other case, perhaps, have talents and trials been more mingled together on an equally prominent stage. His supposed persecutor was elevated enough to command the world's gaze, and upon him there accordingly has been heaped the blame of a wretchedness in a great measure self-imposed, and inseparable from a morbid and diseased temperament. The complaints of the poet have been embodied in notes alternately of wailing and of fire, by a poet of a nation whom he would have deemed barbarous.[179] The charge which history has recorded against Tasso is to this purpose. That, whilst a retainer of Alfonso II. of Ferrara, his heart was enslaved by that Duke's sister, Princess Leonora d'Este, and that his passion was ill-concealed in the verses it inspired. That Alfonso having suspected the audacious fault, harshly visited it with a series of persecutions, and finally shut him up for seven years in bedlam as a lunatic. [Footnote *178: For the life of Torquato Tasso, see SOLERTI, in three volumes (Torino, 1895). The first contains the _Vita_; the second, _Lettere inedite e disperse di T.T. e di diversi_; the third, _Documenti e appendici_. See D'ANCONA'S review in _Rass. Bibl. Lett. Ital._, vol. IV., p. 7 _et seq._ The most complete modern edition of his works is Rosini's, in 33 vols., 8vo. (Pisa), and of the _Rime_, that of SOLERTI, in 3 vols. (Bologna, 1898-99).] [Footnote 179: BYRON'S _Lament of Tasso_.] [Illustration: TORQUATO TASSO _From a picture once in the possession of James Dennistoun_] From infancy he manifested decided symptoms of "a genius to madness near allied." Indifferent to toys, he seemed exempt from the emotions and the tastes of childhood. Precocious in all mental powers, he spoke intelligibly at six months, knew Greek and wrote verses at seven years, and at eighteen published the _Rinaldo_, a sustained and applauded epic.[*180] The reverses of his early days on which we have already dwelt in our notice of his father, the premature loss of his mother, the injudicious liberty of thought and action allowed him by Bernardo, and the rough criticisms to which his writings were subjected ere his character and knowledge of mankind were developed--all these tinged deeper the gloom of his constitutional sadness, and formed a training the most fatal to one of innately morbid sensibilities. The results were obvious. Bald before his time, his digestion enervated, subject to faintings and fevers intermittent or delirious, his health at thirty was ruined, his nerves and brain shattered. The natural consequence of his precocity was an overweening pride in his accomplishments, which rendered him jealous, touchy, and quarrelsome; and though destined from youth to wander in search of given bread, nature had neither granted him the humble resignation required for such a lot, nor imbued him with a daring spirit to rise above it. Men who live in courts must be prepared to encounter intrigues; those who publish poetry should lay their account with unsparing strictures; and the smaller the court, or the more prominent their poetic merits, so much the greater need have they of forbearance and philosophy. But Tasso possessed neither; and the jealousies of Pigna and Guarini, the malice of the della Crusca critics, stung him to the quick.[*181] A slight or fancied affront, which he met with from one of the courtiers of Ferrara, though avenged by a duel, brought his symptoms to a head.[*182] From that moment, when in his thirty-third year, we find him a victim to the restlessness, suspicions, fears, sad forebodings, and hopeless misery, which afflict lipemaniacs. [Footnote *180: See on the _Rinaldo_, PROTO, _Sul Rinaldo di T.T._ (Napoli, 1895).] [Footnote *181: Cf. D'OVIDIO, _Di una antica testimonianza circa la controversia della Crusca con Tasso_ (Napoli, 1894) and VIVALDI, _La più grande polemica del Cinquecento_ (Catanzaro Caliò, 1895). SOLERTI reviewed this last in _Giornale Stor. d. Lett. Ital._, vol. XXVII., p. 426.] [Footnote *182: It was in September, 1576. Tasso had in July thought himself insulted by Ercole Fucci and his brother Maddalò; he boxed Ercole's ears. Then, in September, they met him and assaulted him. There was no duel. Only Solerti has found out the truth.] Under such sinister influences the crisis speedily arrived. Whilst seated in the Duchess of Urbino's apartment, in her mother's palace, he rushed with his dagger on an attendant who chanced to enter. This, whether a premeditated assault, or an idle hallucination, seems to have been the ground on which he was, by order of Alfonso, placed under restraint; but when the paroxysm was passed, he was reconducted to the Duke's presence with ample assurances of pardon. The iron had, however, entered into his soul, and the idea that he was in disgrace, owing to the malicious backbiting of foes real or imaginary, could not be driven from his mind. He retired from their supposed persecutions to a Franciscan convent,[*183] but, finding in its quiet no peace for his troubled spirit, he fled in disguise from these illusions, and, led perhaps by the bright memory of his early days, arrived on the sunny shores of Sorrento, where he sought a refuge with his married sister. But alas! the charms of that radiant land shed no gladsome influence on his soul. Ere a few months passed, he returned to Ferrara, in hopes of proving to the Duke that the crimes and the frenzy, of which he believed himself accused, were equally calumnies. In the festive and kindly reception with which he was greeted, the wayward poet found new grounds for jealousy, imagining a plot to be formed against his literary fame, by plunging him in a round of dissipation, whilst "others" (meaning his patron) should reap the glory and profits due to his creative genius. That conduct so provoking should have brought upon him real slights, in addition to his imagined wrongs, can scarcely be doubted; and, wounded at heart, he again had recourse to flight, wandering aimlessly by Mantua, Padua, and Venice, to Pesaro, the refuge of his happier youth. We shall elsewhere introduce the letter which he there addressed to the Duke of Urbino; though it obtained him a compassionate welcome, his new host naturally counselled his return to the home of his adoption, as the place where he was most certain to be cared for. But in a fresh access of disease, he escaped from such suggestions, and obeyed them not until after he had visited Turin, disguised by poverty and filth. [Footnote *183: He was placed under restraint in S. Francesco, in Ferrara, in fact.] If these views of Tasso's malady[*184] are as conformable to truth as they appear to be with the representations of his biographers, the time seems to have been now fully arrived for his seclusion, as a measure of justice to himself and of security to others. It is quite another question how far the treatment he met with at Sant'Anna was that best suited to his symptoms. Had he lived in times when the pathology of mind was more fully understood, and more ably managed, his genius might, by timely care, have been saved from a miserable wreck; but his brain surely then required such aid as medical science could afford. If this be granted, the defence of Duke Alfonso is complete, whatever might have been the discipline resorted to in the hospital. Yet it may be well to remember, from the testimony of the poor maniac, as well as of others, that the delusions which for years had haunted him, regarding wrongs supposed to have been received from that sovereign and his courtiers, had given bitterness to his words, and pungency to his pen, little in accordance with the fulsome language of his age, or the haughty temper of his patron; that if the poet was a victim of imaginary affronts, the Duke had met at his hands with real insults. But even were Alfonso's motives not those of unmixed kindness, the necessity of seclusion for Tasso cannot be affected by any such consideration, nor by the consequent aggravation of his malady from defective skill. [Footnote *184: On the whole subject of Tasso's madness, see CORRADI, _Le Infermità di T.T._ in _Memorie dell'Istit. Lombardo_ (1880), vol. XIV.; RONCORONI, _Genio e Pazzia in T.T._ (Torino, 1896); and GAUDENZI, _Studio Psicopatol. sopra T.T._ (Vercelli, 1898); and SOLERTI, _op. cit._, _supra_.] An admission of Tasso's mental alienation was made by his intimate friend Manso, and has been repeated by various writers; yet other biographers, anxious to relieve their hero from the reproach of madness, have essayed to screen him by charges of cruelty against the Duke of Ferrara. Whilst Verga's theory appears to place the poet's malady upon its proper footing, and, by implication, to absolve his patron, that author goes a step further, and maintains that the oldest and best informed authorities bear out a belief in the uniform and considerate kindness of Alfonso towards his wayward laureate, and prove that the allegations of Torquato's insanity having been but the pretext of a stern tyrant, bent on punishing the presumption of an unworthy aspirant to his sister's love, were piquant additions of after writers. We shall presently have a few words to add in regard to this entanglement; meanwhile, let us see the conclusion drawn by Dr. Verga, from his able argument. "We may, therefore, infer that the Duke shut up Tasso in Sant'Anna, neither as a punishment for ambitious love, or unguarded and offensive expressions, nor as an obstacle to his conferring the illustration of his genius on rival courts, but simply because he saw that the poet's melancholy rendered him beside himself, dependent upon skilful treatment, and perhaps dangerous to others. I repeat, in the name of common sense, that his madness was the sole cause of his seclusion, not the effect of it, as some would persuade us." [Illustration: _Neurdein Frères_ LAURA DE' DIANTI AND ALFONSO OF FERRARA _After the Picture by Titian in the Louvre_] * * * * * Although we have passed rapidly over those circumstances that impart to Tasso's life its romantic and mysterious interest, we must detail somewhat more fully the various links connecting the thread of his chequered existence with the ducal house of Urbino. The arrival of his father, Bernardo, at the court of Pesaro, in 1556, has been already mentioned[185]; and six months later he was joined by Torquato, then completing his thirteenth year, who was permitted to share the education of the hereditary Prince, and to mingle occasionally with the accomplished circle at the Imperiale, until Bernardo carried him to Venice, in 1559. On a mind of such premature powers these opportunities were not wasted, and the remembrance of them cheered many an after hour of despondency. The homeless position and unsettled habits of his father, whose wanderings he generally accompanied, interfered somewhat with his education, which was then directed to the law, as his future profession. But whilst supposed to be engrossed by canonists and civilians, the youth was secretly devoting his hours of study to the muses. Fearing to avow these derelictions to his father, he imparted his boyish efforts to Duke Guidobaldo, who showed them to Bernardo in 1562, when the latter came to offer him a printed copy of his _Amadigi_. It was not, however, for two years more that the paternal sanction was obtained for publishing the _Rinaldo_, a dedication of which is said to have been declined by the Duke, perhaps from a fastidiousness which ere long he had to regret. Encouraged by the unlooked-for success of this poem, written by him in ten months at the university of Padua, Torquato began his great epic, of which he had already selected the theme. Whilst pursuing his studies at Bologna, in 1563, he is believed to have transcribed the first sketch of it, under the title of "_Il Gierusalem_," which is now No. 413 of the Urbino Library at the Vatican. It is preceded by a short notice of the subject, and consists of a hundred and sixteen stanzas, eventually incorporated into the three opening cantos of the poem; but its variations from the printed version are so extensive, that it has been given entire in the collected works, published at Venice, in twelve vols. 4to, 1735. The dedication was this time accepted by Guidobaldo. [Footnote 185: At p. 303 above.] At twenty-one, he first saw the court of Ferrara,[*186] which, in honour of his marriage with the Archduchess Barbara, the magnificent Alfonso was then rendering "The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy." [Footnote *186: On the Court of Ferrara, cf. CAMPORI e SOLERTI, _Luigi, Lucrezia e Leonora d'Este_ (Torino, 1888), and SOLERTI, _Ferrara e la Corte estense nella secunda meta del sec. XVI._ (Città di Castello, 1899).] It was in these festive scenes that the bard made acquaintance with the Princess Lucrezia. Among the portraits in the Palace of Courtesy, whither _Rinaldo_ was conducted, and which, by an ingenious turn of flattery, are made to represent those personages whom Tasso was most disposed to conciliate, were those of Duke Guidobaldo and his son, with their respective consorts. The passage may be thus literally rendered:-- "He of expression stern and brow severe, His mien ennobled by a royal state, The great Francesco Maria's son, is here, In peace superior, in the field his mate; Beneath whose prudent sway, no peril ere Urbino's favoured duchy shall await, While o'er her happy vales, and golden plains, A joyous and enduring summer reigns. "Such is the sire to whom our planet owes Yon youthful gallant, with expression bright, Second to none, a terror to his foes, A wary leader though a dauntless knight: On him the weight of thousand wars repose, A thousand armies guiding to the fight. Whoe'er is doomed to immortality Shrined in men's hearts and mouths, HE may not die. "Turn your admiring gaze to yonder side On all that heaven of loveliness can yield, Elsewhere unmatched within Sol's circuit wide, From whose bright beams no beauty lies concealed; The ducal crown and robe can scarcely hide The regal bearing on that brow revealed: Vittoria she, from great Farnese traced, Courteous and gentle, generous and chaste. "Lucrezia d'Este is yon other fair, Whose dazzling tresses seem a treasure given For guileless love therewith to weave a snare And toils, purveyed by Him who rules in heaven. Say, do Minerva and the Muses share Praise and disparagement in portions even,-- Praise, since she them to imitate is fain; Blame, that their rivalry with her is vain? "These dames, in charms and chastity compeers, And proudly rich in every virtue rare"-- Such compliments from a poet of promising fame could not be indifferent to one taught to prize genius as almost the equal of rank; nor were they the less acceptable to a lady of thirty-one, that their author had barely attained manhood. She received him with her sweetest smile, and presented him to her father the Duke, and to her sister Leonora, in terms which secured him a most flattering reception. Love and chivalry were fashions of the day, cultivated in common by all who strove to shine in the brilliant atmosphere of Ferrara, and the genius of Torquato lent itself gracefully to both. In many phases of Italian literature, it has been difficult for posterity to decide whether the fervour of amorous poetry was kindled by successful passion, or fanned by affected sentiment. The like mystery overhangs the love-notes which Tasso warbled in these palace-bowers. That his aspirations were not free from pedantry is proved by their, on one occasion, selecting the form of a public disputation, after the most approved scholastic models, wherein, during three days, he maintained against all comers, a series of abstract propositions regarding love and its developments. And though such singular exhibitions may sometimes have been suggested by deeper feelings, or accepted as the incense of the heart, they were doubtless in other cases but tournaments of gallantry, in which the name of some fair lady was adopted, to inspire the combatants to a victory extending not beyond the lists. Equally platonic might have been such love-tissued lyrics as our minstrel ever and anon dedicated to the sister Princesses, without any scandal, and probably without compromise of their purity. One of these, in supposed allusion to the favoured sister, having been specially excepted from the sentence of posthumous destruction pronounced upon many of his fugitive pieces by the poet when about to take a journey, must have ranked high in his estimation, and is thus translated by Glassford:-- "Now that my charmer breathes another air In woods and fields, how barbarous to remain In this deserted place, where grief, and pain, And darkness dwell, a region of despair! Nothing is joyful here, and nothing fair: Love grows a boor, and with the rustic train Now feeds his flock, and now in sultry plain Handles the scythe, or guides the pondrous share. O, happy wood! O smiling banks and gay, Where every beast, and every plant and stone, Have learned the use of generous customs mild. What shall not yield to her whose eyes alone Can, as they lend or take their light away, Polish the groves, and make the town a wild." During the four years which glided by in this charmed existence, the youthful bard appears to have remained faithful to his first friend Lucrezia; and it was not until her marriage to the Prince of Urbino in 1571, that the superior charms of her younger and more sedate sister effected for her that alleged conquest of his heart, which long-continued assertions have almost established as a truth. It would be interesting could we fix the comparative encouragement which the bard enjoyed from the sisters, and ascertain the amount of favour severally vouchsafed him; on this much contested but conjectural ground we shall not, however, enter.[*187] Love-making, which is frequently a science rather than a passion, becomes almost invariably so where its flame is habitually fed by poetry or pedantry, and such were naturally the loves of Tasso in the atmosphere of a court whose polish was heightened by these accomplishments. The siren-notes of Italian song draw their melody from epithets calculated to soothe the ear even when they reach not the heart, and seldom afford evidence as to which of these organs they are meant to fascinate. This uncertainty gives life to a tribe of commentators, and has originated volumes of idle speculation as to the material existence of Laura and Beatrice, the platonic or passionate intercourse of Torquato with the Princesses of Este. The language of sonnets and _canzoni_ is equally suited to express or to feign, to indicate or to veil, heartfelt homage; and those of Tasso thus are capable of whatever interpretation best accords with the temperament or the theory of his critics. Such, for example, are the tributes of his muse on the marriage of Lucrezia, wherein, however, a suspicion of somewhat undue tenderness might attach to such lines as-- "Sad as a mourning convoy seems to me Your merry dances, and your Hymen's torch Will to my funeral pile a flame supply."[188] [Footnote *187: Cf. D'OVIDIO, _Il carattere, gli amori e le sventure di T.T._ in _Studi Critici_ (Napoli, 1879); see also CAMPORI e SOLERTI, _op. cit._, _supra_, p. 229, note *1.] [Footnote 188: "Liete danze vegg'io, che per me sono Funebri pompe ed un istessa face Nell'altrui nozze, e nel mio rogo è accesa."] In a _canzone_ of the same date, he makes that god descend from Parnassus to preside at her nuptials[189]; but the deity seems to have turned a deaf ear to this tuneful invocation, and we have elsewhere seen that no favour of his crowned the inauspicious union. [Footnote 189: "Lascia Imeneo Parnasso, e qui descende."] On his return from France in 1572, Tasso was, by intercession of the Princesses, received at Ferrara as a salaried courtier; and in the following spring, his pastoral drama, the _Aminta_,[*190] was performed at the palace. Anxious to witness a representation elsewhere so universally applauded, the Princess of Urbino invited him to Pesaro, where he recited his poem in presence of the old Duke, who hailed in him the honoured son of his former protégé. From thence he accompanied Francesco Maria and his consort to their _villeggiatura_ at Castel Durante, and it was then, perhaps, that their domestic peace was most endangered by the poet. The field-sports and manly exercises which attracted the Prince to that secluded spot had no charm for Lucrezia, long accustomed to a life of artificial splendour; and whilst he passed his days in the far-spreading forests, she was exposed to the temptations of ennui, added to the perils of opportunity. It is, therefore, not surprising that a warmer tone pervades the _componimenti_ addressed to the Princess in this retirement. Two sonnets, in particular, sing, in cadences of sweetest harmony, her hand imparting perfume to the scented glove, that enviously veiled, from her minstrel's greedy eyes, a whiteness before which the snow would blush, and her bosom, the garden of love, the paradise of the poet, its ripened charms surpassing the budding beauties of early spring.[191] [Footnote *190: Cf. MAZZONI, preface to his edition of _Rinaldo e l'Aminta_ (Firenze, Sansoni, 1884).] [Footnote 191: "La man ch'avolta in odorate spoglie:" and--"Non son sì vaghi i fiori onde la natura."] To write amatory verses on a lady of appearance as matronly as her years, required singular tact; but Tasso boldly met the difficulties of his theme. In another sonnet, excelled by nothing in the whole range of passionate song, after seeking for a parallel to her "unripe" youth in the opening rosebud, or in the unearthly beauty of the early dawn, that gilds the mountains and scatters pearls along the plain, he avows the flower to be most attractive when its leaves have unfolded their odours, just as the mid-day sun outshines its morning lustre. The same delicacy of allusion was needful in regard to both the princesses, of whom Leonora appears to have had the advantage in looks more than in age, for she was but a year younger than her married sister. We again avail ourselves of Mr. Glassford's paraphrase, in order to present it to such readers as are not acquainted with the charming original. "We saw thee in thy yet unripened green, Like folded rose, whose damask leaf unspread To the warm sun, still in its virgin bed Retires and blushes in the bud unseen. Or rather--for such earthly type is mean-- Like to Aurora, who with earthly red Pearls the plain and gilds the mountain head, Kindling with smiles the dewy sky serene. Nor is thy riper year in aught less fair; No youthful beauty in her choice attire Can so engage, or equal charms display. Thus sweetest is the flower when to the air Unbosomed; thus the sun's meridian fire Exceeds the lustre of its morning ray." But these seductions did not divert Torquato from the loftier theme which engaged his muse. Far from the gaieties and the squabbles of Ferrara, he drew a fresher inspiration from glorious nature, and among the delightful descriptions suggested by the scenery around Castel Durante are generally numbered those of the gardens of Armida. Whatever may have been the true footing on which the poet's devotion was received by the Princess, and whatever the secret cause of her domestic misunderstandings, her husband never showed, on this or any future occasion, jealousy of his early playmate; and in 1574 Tasso returned to Ferrara, laden with compliments and presents from the august circle at Pesaro, including a jewel of price from the Princess, which his necessities afterwards obliged him to dispose of. Lucrezia had become Duchess of Urbino in 1574, and her separation from the Duke took place three years later, in circumstances of which we have elsewhere spoken.[192] Released from ties in which affection had never any part, she sought in her brother's palace distractions more suited to her lively temperament, and renewed her intimacy with its silver-tongued laureate. Among the reasons which incline us to believe that this connection was chiefly sought upon her side, is the desire which Tasso about this time manifested of exchanging the protection of the d'Este for a residence at Rome. His intention was not realised, for his visit to the Eternal City did not extend beyond a month, and before the close of 1575 he was at Florence. [Footnote 192: At pp. 153, 154 above.] On returning to Ferrara in January, 1576, a new tie was created to the reigning family, by his appointment as its historiographer, on the death of Pigna. This was the turning point of his existence, whence the symptoms of mental disease gradually and fatally advanced until June, 1577, when, after that outbreak of insanity in presence of the Duchess of Urbino, to which we have already alluded, he was interdicted by Alfonso from corresponding with her. This command she observed, but Leonora occasionally consoled him by letters during his flight to Naples, of which we have spoken in tracing the progress of his lipemania. It was in the autumn of 1578 that he arrived at Pesaro, after his second flight; and, in this melodious but unfinished _canzone_, bespoke shelter under the mighty oak [della Rovere] watered by the Metauro:-- "TO THE RIVER METAURO. "O thou illustrious child Of mighty Apennine, humble though you lie, In story brighter than thy silver tide; O stranger fleet and wild, To this thy friendly and protecting side, Well pleased, for safety and repose I fly. The lofty OAK, with mantling branches wide, Bathed by thy stream, and from thy cisterns fed, Shadowing the mountains and the seas between,-- Embower me with its screen! Inviolate screen, and hospitably spread, Thy cool recesses undisturbed and sweet Shroud me in deepest covert, thick entwined, So hid from blind and cruel fortune; blind, But not for me, whom still she sees to meet, Though far by hill or valley I should stray, Or in the lonely way Have passed at midnight, and with noiseless feet; And by this bleeding side well understood, Her aim unerring, as her shaft is good. "Since first I breathed this air, Ah me! since first I met the glorious light, Which never to these eyes unclouded shone, I was her fatal care, Chosen to be her mark and her despite; Nor yet those early hurts by time outgrown. Well to that spirit pure my words are known, Beside whose sainted tomb my cradle stood. Might they have laid me in the peaceful ground When I received the wound! Me from my mother's bosom fortune rude Tore while a child: O yet I feel those last Kisses and burning tears upon my cheek, With sighs remembered; still I hear that weak And ardent prayer, caught by the rising blast, Then parted ever; no more face to face Folded in strict embrace And held by close and loving arms so fast, Ah! but like Ilus or Camilla hied, With steps unequal, by my father's side. "In banishment I grew And rigid want, instructed by our strange Disastrous flight to shed untimely tears, Nor childhood's pleasure knew; But bitterness to me of chance and change Brought immature the bitterness of years. Despoiled and bare, his feeble age appears Before me still. Alas! and is my store Of griefs become so scanty, that my own Are not enough to moan? That others than myself I must deplore? But seldom, though I bid, will come the sigh, Or from these wells the gushing water spring, In measure suited to my suffering. Dear father; now my witness from the sky, Whom sick thou knowest how I moaned, and dead Poured on thy grave and bed My ardent heart; thee, in thy mansions high All bliss beseems, and unalloyed with pain; Only for me the sighs and tears remain."[193] [Footnote 193: GLASSFORD, p. 203.] The morbid feeling and heart-stricken melancholy which, in the language of Gibbon, "disordered his reason without clouding his genius," and which thus exaggerated the trials of his early life, gave way to another train of thought in the following letter, addressed by him, about the same time, to Duke Francesco Maria, which we insert as the most satisfactory record left us of the friendship and protection bestowed on him by that Prince. "TASSO TO THE DUKE OF URBINO. "If any action of mine has tended to confirm the rumour of my insanity, it surely was my directing my steps after my flight otherwise than to the court of your Excellency. For certainly I could not have repaired elsewhere without some degree of danger, or at all events some indignity and inconvenience; nor could I hope to find in any other quarter more acquaintance with my real position, nor greater courtesy, knowing no prince more generous, more efficiently compassionate to my misfortunes, or more prompt in the protection of my innocence. Hence, to pass by an asylum near and secure, as well as suitable and honourable, in order to make my way, without comfort, or, at all events, with little credit, to a distant and less safe place, was, if not a sign of folly, at least a proof of impudence and stupidity. Notwithstanding all this, unlike other men who blush and repent when made aware of a blunder, I derive from my ill advised step pleasure and comfort rather than shame and regret, because, being conducted, not where I desired, but whither I ought to go, and having there found the haven which I had supposed far off, across the high seas, I clearly perceive that my steps have been guided by wisdom from on high. And it must be much more pleasing to me to have been brought hither by divine Providence than by human prudence, seeing how much the more infallible guide is the latter to the best appointed end. And although, had I come here in reliance on being received under your Excellency's protection, it would have afforded me much satisfaction to find my hopes realised, and your courtesy equal to my anticipations; yet my gratification is certainly, and beyond comparison, greater, seeing that you have not only anticipated, but overmatched, my desires, and that you have at once equalled and exceeded my expectations. I say exceeded them, because upon the obliging demonstrations of affection and pity which you have shown me, and on your promise to undertake my protection, I found rather an assurance than a hope of safety, peace, and honour. Enough, indeed more than enough, for me, is that which you have promised. Were I to doubt as to the rest, or look forward with such every-day hope as one is apt to entertain regarding uncertain prospects, I should discredit your Excellency's affection, judgment, authority, and power, and I should prove myself unworthy, not only of what you are about to perform, but of what you have already done in my favour. Thus, be assured that I live not only securely, but happily, under your protection. On this account my regrets are less at being so fiercely and iniquitously buffeted and beaten down by fortune, than is my satisfaction at being raised again by the arm of your Excellency; and were there no other way to lead me to you, and to place me in the shadow of your favour, but this most hard and rugged one, with its toils and persecutions, still I should delight to arrive by it; and I account as not only endurable, but as joyful and well-timed, those pangs which brought me to be yours, as it was ever my wish to be, even in my days of less adversity. It is for this reason I dare to appropriate these famous words of Themistocles, 'I were undone, did I not rush upon my ruin.' "I shall now pass by the long and melancholy tale of my wrongs as indeed superfluous, since the little that your Excellency has heard of my mishaps has sufficed to move your magnanimous heart to extend me aid. Nor shall I try to awaken in your soul any compassion beyond what it voluntarily fostered, without artifice of mine; for I rejoice that in this noble and courteous act my exertions have no part, all being your own, and springing from the greatness and compassion of your individual mind. Most gladly should I thank your Excellency for what you have done, and will do, in my behalf, could I invent words and terms fit for such thanks; but what can I, or what should I say to you? To you I neither can nor ought to use such phrases as servants employ to their masters, benefited to their benefactors, favoured to those who confer obligations, because, as my misery was incomparable and unprecedented, so it would become me to invent expressions signifying how much I owe to your Excellency who rescues me from it. I shall, therefore, say, that since, thanks to you, I emerge from a condition so low, so disgraced, so wretched, and so reduced in reputation and in the opinion of mankind, who looked upon me as virtually dead, I seem to have received a new health from you, by reason whereof I acknowledge your Excellency, not only as a prince and benefactor to whom I owe much, but it may almost be permitted me to add, as a creator, and I seem to say but little in avowing myself your most obliged and highly favoured servant, if I add not _creature_.[194] Such, accordingly, I shall formally avow myself, and in that light I pray you for the future to regard me, and to contrive that I am regarded by others, taking entire possession of me and of my free will, which I fully submit to your sway. And this I should do with all my affairs, were it in my power; but some of them are not at my own disposal, or they should be placed at that of him to whom I have surrendered myself. And herewith humbly I kiss your hands, assuring you that these words have been engraven by me on my heart, ere they were traced upon this sheet." [Footnote 194: The letter is taken from an old transcript, No. 430, of the Oliveriana MSS., p. 210, but it has been printed at vol. IX., p. 104, of the Venetian edition of Tasso's works.] The expectations which dictated this touching letter were amply realised. After a reception of singular kindness, the good Duke recommended medical advice for Tasso's now obvious malady; and an issue prescribed for his arm was dressed by the Princess Lavinia della Rovere, whose sedulous care was rewarded in a madrigal. By such solace his restlessness, however, prevented him from long profiting. After reaching Ferrara some months later, his mania broke out in more threatening symptoms, and, on the 21st February, 1579, he was consigned to the hospital of Sant'Anna. From the sadder scenes and secrets of his life it were useless to raise the veil. Even the year after he entered it, Montaigne, a shrewd and unbiased witness, whose testimony may countervail much hearsay and conjecture, found him in "most pitiable state, surviving himself, neglectful of his person and works." Seven years had worn away in pitiable isolation, when a violent fever nearly closed his darkened existence, after which, whether from an abatement of his phrenetic symptoms, or in the hope of contributing to his physical restoration, Alfonso sanctioned his liberation, at the request of Prince Vincenzo of Mantua, the supposed assassin of our Admirable Crichton, who undertook the watchful care which his case required. Princess Leonora died in 1581, and, on various subsequent occasions, Duchess Lucrezia interfered with little success in his behalf, but, from the time of his leaving the hospital, his intercourse with her family was at an end. He had written from thence several letters to the Duke of Urbino, and, after his convalescence, addressed to him a rambling discourse on his real and imaginary grievances, which shows a mind still shaken, if not unhinged. But, though the kind feelings of his early playmate underwent no change, Tasso returned not to Urbino during many after wanderings, fearing perhaps to revisit, in circumstances so altered, the scenes of his brighter days.[195] The nine remaining years of his life were, on the whole, less afflicted; for, though ever restless in body, and often haunted by imaginary evils and visions, he enjoyed intervals of comparative serenity, especially in his beloved Bay of Naples, and at the house of his kind friend and biographer Manso, of which, half a century later, John Milton was the honoured guest. [Footnote 195: With that constitutional coldness we have seen in his life, the Duke spares but one line of his Diary to notice Torquato's death.] His death partook of the melancholy shade that had overhung his career. Declining a new invitation from Duke Francesco Maria, in 1594, he brought to Rome all that mental and bodily sufferings had left him of broken health and blighted genius, to receive the honours of a laurel crown; and, in the monastery of S. Onofrio, he awaited the issue of arrangements which the warning voice of exhausted nature told him were made in vain. From thence he addressed to his friend Constantini[*196] the following touching farewell:--"What shall my Antonio say, when he hears the death of his Tasso? Nor, in my opinion, will the news be long delayed; for I feel my end to be at hand, having found no remedy for this troublesome malady, which, added to my many habitual ailments, is evidently sweeping me away like an impetuous and irresistible torrent. To say nothing of the world's ingratitude, which would prove its triumph by consigning me in penury to the tomb, the time is now past for speaking of my inveterate fortune; yet, when I think of the glory which this age will derive from my writings, in despite of all opposition, I cannot be left entirely unrequited. I have had myself brought to this convent of S. Onofrio, not only because the air is commended by the faculty more than that of any other part of Rome, but also, to begin as it were from this elevated spot, and in the conversation of these holy fathers, my celestial intercourse. Pray to God in my behalf, and rest assured that, as I have ever loved and respected you in this life, I shall do the like towards you in a better, as is the part of true and unfeigned affection; and to the Divine grace I commend you and myself. From Rome, at S. Onofrio." [Footnote *196: Cf. D'ANCONA, _T.T. ed Ant. Costantini_ in _Varietà Storiche e Letter._ (Milano, 1883), vol. I., p. 75 _et seq._] Tasso's mind was habitually under devotional influences, which grew upon him as he experienced the delusive results of his early ambition, the emptiness of success, and the bitterness of failure. Religion was in him a deeply rooted sentiment; it soothed long hours of suffering, cheered the decline of life, and brightened those hopes for which the laurel crown had lost its charm. Gazing from the convent garden over a scene of all others the most inspiring to the poet, the most solemn to the moralist, he caught the seeds of malaria fever. His springs of life were already dried up by twenty long years of suffering, and, after a few days of peaceful and resigned preparation for a change that to him had no terrors, his spirit was released from its shattered tenement. He died on the 25th April, 1595, wept by many warmly attached and pitying friends, and lamented by the citizens, who lost in his death the spectacle of his coronation, to which they had long looked forward with an anxiety unusual even among the fête-loving populace of Rome. Tasso's was a life of painful contrasts and of blighted hopes. The prospects of his childhood, bright as the sky which witnessed his birth, were quickly shadowed by a storm of tropical violence. The courtly favour that met his manhood proved baneful as a siren's smiles. The greenest garland that Italy could offer to her favourite minstrel was reserved until his brow was clammy with the dews of death. The honours lavished on his funeral have been grudged to his tomb. His resplendent genius was linked to the saddest and most humbling of human afflictions. The fame for which he felt more than a poet's thirst, and which he challenged as his due, was withheld by envy until no trumpet-note could reach his dull cold ear. But time, the avenger, has rendered him tardy justice, and Torquato is the popular bard of Italy, whilst the cumbrous pedantry of his della Crusca impugners is consigned to contemptuous oblivion. Of works so universally known as those of Tasso it would be presumptuous to offer new analyses, and superfluous to encumber our pages with trite criticism. The edition of them by Rosini extends to thirty quarto volumes, a startling testimony to the copiousness of his commentators, as well as to his own wonderful fertility. His pen ranged over a wide field both in prose and verse,--the former including essays--moral, literary, and political,--dialogues, and letters; the latter touching upon themes sacred, heroic, romantic, sylvan, pastoral, and lyric. It is, however, as an epic poet that he has gained a niche in Parnassus, and the admiration of posterity. No rivalry could arise with Dante, in whose Vision the things of time are strangely interwoven with revelations of eternity; and his muse is of a nobler caste, though less touching character, than that of the bard of Arqua. But it is otherwise with the fourth great name of Italian minstrelsy, and no one discusses the merits of Tasso without keeping those of Ariosto in view. This, however, arises from habit rather than necessity. The latter name was dragged forward by the della Crusca Academicians as a stalking-horse to mask the malice of their attacks upon the later of Ferrara's two laureates, whose successive appearance on that stage alone induced a contrast for which their respective works were by no means adapted. The comparison thus forced upon the world has been declined by Tiraboschi, who, in the exercise of a sounder criticism, has assigned to each his peculiar excellence. Bearing in mind that the Orlando is intrinsically a romantic poem, whilst the Jerusalem is composed upon the epic model, there can be but little technical analogy between them, and the beauties of the one would become blemishes in the other. The striking and unlooked-for episodes of the former, running ever into extravagance and burlesque, must have outraged the grave unities required in the latter, and have proved more serious faults than any which the jaundiced optics of the academicians were able to discover. But perhaps Tasso's greatest triumph over his jealous detractors has been the continued preference of his earlier and greater work to his continuation of the same theme, in which he studied to profit by their criticisms. Many Italians, among whom the romantic school took its origin and maintained its influence, have preferred Ariosto, whilst transalpine critics have more generally given their suffrages to the poem of Tasso, as more regular in its plan, and better preserving the elevation and the unities observed by the best classic models. It has been the boast of some minstrels to mould the temper of the age to the tone of their poetry. Tasso chose a less hazardous aim, and, seizing in his great epic upon a theme at once the most fertile and the most popular, gained the sympathies of all. The Crescent, once more in the ascendant, had swept the Mediterranean, overrun Greece, and threatened Vienna. The spirit of the crusades revived. The often-mooted movement of all Christendom in the holy cause was at length carried into effect, and victory crowned the Cross at the great naval conflict of Lepanto. But alas! his was the last great name in Italian poetry;[*197] and thenceforward genius fled from the land of song, or bowed unresisting before an all-prevailing mediocrity. Morbid repetition, redundant verbiage, far-fetched figures,--all those faults for which its liquid language afforded such fatal facilities, sprang up in rank deformity, and smothered generous inspiration. The academies sent out their many songsters, who poured forth notes artfully sweet, but rarely thrilling; and already "Their once-loved minstrels scarce may claim The transient mention of a dubious name." [Footnote *197: This, of course, is nonsense. Leopardi, at any rate, was yet to come, and in our own day we have heard the eager and noble voice of Carducci in verse that, it might seem, is not less great than Tasso's and far more in touch with life.] Nor did they merit a better fate; for their conceptions were extravagant, their imagery redundant, their execution alternately glaring and languid. Unnatural contrasts, startling conceits, ill compensated in them for vigorous diction and the stamp of genius. Yet the lyric muse was not utterly extinct, and from time to time its warblings may yet be heard in the orange groves and laurel bosquets of that bright land. * * * * * Guarini's is another name shared between Ferrara and Urbino.[*198] He was born at the former city in 1537, of a family already possessing claims upon literary distinction during three generations, his great-grandfather having been Guarini of Verona. In conformity with the custom of employing men of learning upon diplomatic missions, he served Duke Alfonso II. at various courts, until, in 1575, he undeservedly lost his favour by the failure of a quixotic negotiation, having for its object to place the crown of Poland upon his brows. During the seclusion which followed, he wrote the _Pastor Fido_, a pastoral drama of more complex incident than had been hitherto produced, and whose refined polish and seductive strains, though misapplied upon a factitious style, long retained their popularity. It was composed in avowed emulation of Tasso's _Aminta_, and he carried the rivalry into ducal saloons, and even ladies' boudoirs, with the results naturally to be looked for among the peppery tribe of poets. But when Torquato's hour of darkness arrived, Guarini proved himself a generous opponent, and, in the edition of 1581, he did his utmost to rescue the cantos of _Gerusalemme_ from the adulteration of unfriendly pens. When his country's subjugation had followed upon his patron's death, he was fain to seek other service with the Medici; and soon thereafter the Duke of Urbino wrote to Abbé Brunetti, his envoy at Venice, in the following terms: "We shall with much pleasure look over the pastoral which the Cavaliere Guarino has reprinted with notes and engravings, for we greatly esteem his meritorious works, and are aware how much we are indebted to his affection and courtesy. You will therefore thank him in our name for his remembrance of us."[199] This presentation copy procured the author a substantial reward in the following letter to Brunetti, dated some weeks later. [Footnote *198: For Guarini, consult ROSSI, _B. Guarini ed il Pastor Fido_ (Torino, 1886). See also CAMPORI, in _Giorn. St. d. Lett. Ital._, vol. VIII., p. 425, etc.] [Footnote 199: Oliveriana MSS. 375, vol. XV. 104. The poem was his _Pastor Fido_, of which the twentieth edition, with the author's note, appeared at Venice in 1602.] "Most magnificent and most reverend, "In consequence of deaths and other circumstances, we find ourselves so ill provided with persons of such quality as was Albergato, that we must find some one as soon as may be. And recollecting the Cavaliere Guarino, who was known and entertained by us many years ago, we should be well pleased could we have him, provided his health be equal to his duties, not indeed for long journeys, but for attending upon our person, and accompanying us both in the carriage and on horseback, advising and conversing with us in all times and occasions. And we believe, if due means be adopted, this affair might be arranged to our mutual satisfaction, as we remember that, when lately quitting Tuscany, he seemed, from what he wrote to us, not averse to the idea of betaking himself hither, and in our answer we in no way discouraged the plan. We have, however, chosen to impart the matter to you, that you may manage it in whatever way you consider most proper for appearances; and should you think it well, we have no objection to your even going in person to Padua, on some other pretext. As to terms, we believe that the Cavaliere's modesty, and our partiality towards him, would readily bring everything to an issue; but you will give it all due consideration, answering separately this our letter, with whatever occurs to you on the subject. And so health to you. From Castel Durante, the 10th of June, 1602. Yours, "FRAN'co. M'a. DUCA D'URB." The following letter, from Guarini to his sister, proves that the arrangement was completed to the satisfaction of both parties; and an entry in the Duke's Diary shows that, notwithstanding a desire to return home, his departure from that court did not take place until July, 1604. "My Sister, "I should like to get home, for I have great need and wish to be there, but am so well treated here, and have so many honours paid me, and so many caresses, that I cannot. I must tell you that all my expenses and those of my servants are paid, so that I have not a farthing in the world to spend for anything I want, and orders given to let me have all I ask; besides which, they give me 300 scudi of yearly pension, which, with the expense of furnished house and maintenance, amounts to above 600 scudi a year. See, then, if I can leave this. Our Lord God give you every happiness. From Pesaro, the 23rd of February, 1603. "Your most loving brother, "BATTISTA GUARINI." A letter from him condoling with the Duchess of Urbino on the death of her sister Leonora has been printed in Black's _Life of Tasso_, II., 451, but this brief notice may suffice to close the literary annals of our mountain principality. CHAPTER LII The decline of Italian art: its causes and results--Artists of Urbino--Girolamo della Genga, and his son Bartolomeo--Other architects and engineers. The zenith of Italian art, especially of Italian painting, was attained between 1490 and 1520. That brief span, scarcely a generation of human life, not only embraced the entire artistic life of Raffaele and witnessed the finest efforts of Leonardo, Luini, Bellini, Giorgione, Francia, Ghirlandaio, Fra Bartolomeo, Sodoma, Perugino, Pinturicchio, Spagna, and Salerno; it also ripened the earlier and better fruits of Buonarroti's genius, of del Sarto's too quickly degenerate palette, and of Titian's "Pencil pregnant with celestial hues." It saw the metropolitan St. Peter's commenced, the Stanze and Logge well advanced; it assembled in the Vatican halls the noblest band of painters ever united by one scholarship. That bright spot, the Pausilippo of our pictorial journey, has been passed. Our onward way lies through dreary days of progressive degeneracy, often fitfully illuminated by its reflected lights, but more rarely gladdened by gleams of original genius, or efforts of self-forgetting zeal. In reviewing the history of painting, its stages of progress will be readily distinguished. The Byzantine period may be regarded as its starting point of stationary conventionalism.[*200] This was followed by an age of sentiment, when earnest thought gradually ameliorated penury of invention, and supplied intensity to expression. To it succeeded an epoch of effort, the hand failing to realise the aims of mind,[*201] the eye awaking to truths of nature, but bewildered by their hidden meanings. Next came the age of mastery;[*202] one of difficulties surmounted and doubts made clear. But the summit when attained was speedily quitted; the period of facility was too soon one of decline. In the words of Fuseli, painters then "uniformly agreed to lose the subject in the medium." Mechanism became the great object, copiousness a prized merit, until mediocrity sought refuge in a multitude of figures, or fell back upon theatrical artifice. The close of the fifteenth century was indeed a cycle of rapid progression, opening many new channels for the efforts of mind, and it was in Italy that this expansion was primarily felt. The ultramontane invention of printing was then eagerly adopted; the cultivation of revived philosophy, and the convulsions consequent upon foreign inroads, introduced elements of change into the Peninsular mind as well as its politics. In nothing was this movement more felt than in the fine arts. During early times, the ideas of artists exceeded their means of expression.[*203] Yet their works, even when trammelled by fetters, partly of limited skill, but more of traditionary mannerism, are often fit exponents of simple thoughts, while the coincidence between the conception and style renders solecisms of execution less startling. The forms may be timid or stiff, but they are always careful and earnest. But now a further range has been given to individual fancy. The choice and conception of the theme, its character and composition, were alike freed from conventional trammels, and became subjective (in the German sense) rather than objective. Religion and its ritual remained the same, the hero-worship of saints continued among its prominent features, art still furnished aids to devotion. But, as books became abundant and readers multiplied, pictures were no longer the written language of holy things for the multitude. The high mission of Christian art had been fulfilled; its limners, less impressed with their themes, thought more of themselves; they appealed rather to the judgment than to the feelings. They aimed at imitating nature to the life more than at embodying transcendental abstractions.[*204] We have already seen how the devotional inspirations of early painting, which Beato Angelico's pencil had mellowed into loveliness, attained, under the guidance of Raffaele, to consummate beauty of form. But the impulse that had forced pictorial art to its culminating point allowed it no rest, and the descending path was too quickly entered. The speculative minds of its creators and its admirers craved for novelty, for fresh themes and further powers. Elevation of sentiment or purity of design no longer sufficed,[*205] and with the competition which ensued for the guidance of public taste, there sprang up many solecisms to degrade it. Much that was in itself valuable was exaggerated into deformity. The knowledge of anatomy which enabled Michael Angelo to embody the terrible, that element of invention which he was the first fully to develop, also tempted him to combinations outraging nature and harmony;[*206] and his style has transmitted to our own day an influence dangerous to genius,[*207] fatal to mediocrity. Less permanent, because less healthful,[*208] was the opposite quality, introduced by Correggio, whose grace, founded upon artifice, degenerated under Parmegianino and Baroccio into meretricious affectation. A third ingredient, not so perilous and more pleasing, was brought to perfection in Venice, where alone can be appreciated the golden tints of Titian[*209] and the silvery harmony of Veronese. It is indeed remarkable that all the schools most celebrated for colouring have arisen in maritime localities, and been deficient in accurate design. [Footnote *200: I do not understand what this means. The "Byzantine period" was not the starting point of anything, but rather a decadence; and how can anything be the starting point of something "stationary"? Christian art comes to us in the first centuries as absolutely dependent on Roman pagan work. It did not contrive a new force of expression, but very happily used the old. For the history of art is continuous, and in Byzantine work we see merely a decadence, not something new. The Renaissance in painting is based on Roman art of pagan times in the work of the Cosmati and the Cavallini, from whom in all probability Giotto learned all he could learn. It is the same with sculpture. Niccolò Pisano is a pupil of the ancients, a native of Apulia. The northern influence came later.] [Footnote *201: Yes? In Duccio's work, for instance. But the hand of man cannot achieve anything finer than the work of these early men--than the Annunciation of Simone Martini, for instance. That they preferred a decorative convention to a realistic does not accuse them of incompetence. Dennistoun would have said that the Japanese could not draw. It was not that "the hand failed to realise the aims of the mind," but that the mind saw things from a standpoint different from ours. It is easy to talk of the "truths of nature." What are the truths of nature? It is a question of appearance, of a manner of seeing, of an attitude of mind, of soul, toward nature and toward itself. Simone Martini was as great an artist, in the true sense of the word, as Raphael, in his own convention. Raphael's convention is still ours, but we are already passing out of it. Is it not so?] [Footnote *202: Yes; an age of realism. It is as though one preferred a Roman work of the best period to a Greek work of the fifth century B.C. What came was the tyranny of the body, without the old excuse, for we no longer believed in the body; we no longer believed in anything but unreality. It is not that the earlier men were "right" and the later "wrong," but that both are equally right and wrong where right and wrong do not count since only beauty may decide. Dennistoun speaks as he does because he could not possibly have spoken otherwise. He is wrong not so much in what he asserts as in what he denies.] [Footnote *203: Here, again, I do not understand. How can an artist's ideas exceed his means of expression?--I do not say his power of expression. What means of expression did Dante lack that Milton enjoyed, or Sophocles? In what was Donatello poorer than Michelangelo or Niccolò Pisano than either? Giotto had the same means of expression as Apelles or Leonardo, for the work he undertook, and before a new means of expression was invented, he could not have conceived the use of it.] [Footnote *204: Their aim was perhaps rather the realistic imitation of life than the expression of it.] [Footnote *205: They never sufficed.] [Footnote *206: Too strong. Michelangelo was always master of the weapons he used, however destructive they may have been to his disciples.] [Footnote *207: Nothing is dangerous to genius, not even mediocrity.] [Footnote *208: This term applies to the science of medicine, not to æsthetic.] [Footnote *209: Titian can be seen to advantage only in Madrid, Paris, Vienna, or London. In Venice he is almost absent.] [Illustration: _Anderson_ MARTYRDOM OF S. AGATA _After a picture by Seb. dal Piombo, once in the Ducal Collection at Urbino, now in the Pitti Gallery, Florence_] In a preceding portion of this work we have alluded to the innovations of naturalism in painting, by men who introduced perspective, created chiaroscuro, cultivated design, and mastered nude action. Through their example, it not only extended a predominating influence over pictorial treatment, but quickly obtained that place as a canon of artistic criticism which it has since continued commonly to hold. It may seem rash to impugn a principle so universally adopted; and if perfection in art really depends upon an accurate imitation of nature, it would be folly to gainsay it. But the principle may be carried too far; and if we are to allow to art a nobler mission,--if we recognise in painting and sculpture a language wherein gifted men can embody, develop, and elaborately adorn the conceptions of beauty and sublimity, or it may be the sallies of humour and the scintillations of wit that flit across the fancy--a key whereby they can impart to their fellows, and transmit to all ages and nations, their emanations of genius, their poetic flashes, their benevolent sympathies, their devotional aspirations,--then surely a higher standard should be applied to what are often ranked as merely imitative arts, and are tested by their supposed fidelity as transcripts of external objects.[*210] [Footnote *210: After all, Dennistoun is on the side of the angels--though a little unctuously.] Such views will to many seem visionary and strange heresies. Yet they are truths by which painting reached its golden era, and which, even in its decline, have been largely drawn upon. Under Louis XIV., a vile epoch of a faulty school,[*211] allegory triumphed over reality, and the best feelings of humanity were forced into masquerade. But what shall we think of the taste which admits such solecisms against nature, whilst objecting to the conventionalities practised by the early Christian masters, and adopted by the purists of our own day? What, indeed, is art but a tissue of conventionalities, even when the imitation of external objects is its aim? Upon what laws of nature are regulated the gradations of aerial perspective, or the receding or flattened surfaces of basso-relievo? Does not the landscape painter, in modifying the tones of his colouring, remember that his mimic scenes are to be enclosed in gilt frames, an appendage for which Providence has made no provision in the real ones? But to such imitations art neither is nor ought to be confined. As the language of genius, it expresses loftier themes, and none but kindred spirits can fitly judge of its style, or set bounds to its range. The rustic who spells through Burns or Bloomfield would pause upon Paradise Lost, and throw down Hamlet in despair; whilst, to the presbyterian who ornaments his walls with Knox's portrait, or the Battle of Bothwell-brig, the Last Judgment would seem unintelligible, the Transfiguration blasphemous, the Judgment of Paris a flagrant indecency. In like manner, those who have neither imbibed the spirit of the Roman ritual, nor studied the forms of Christian art, may fully appreciate the dishevelled goddesses of Rubens, or the golden sunsets of Claude,--the glowing tints of Titian, or the transparent finish of Teniers; but let them understand ere they sneer at those sacred paintings which for successive ages have confirmed the faith of the unlettered, elevated their hopes, and inspired their prayerful ejaculations. [Footnote *211: One of the sad days. Cf. vol. II., p. 95, note *1.] [Illustration: _Alinari_ HOLY FAMILY _After the picture by Sustermans, once in the Ducal Collection of Urbino, now in the Pitti Gallery, Florence_] When the Christian mythology, which had supplied art with subjects derived from inspired writ or venerated tradition, was supplanted by an idolatry of nature content to feed spiritual longings with common forms copied without due selection from daily life, men no longer painted what religion taught them to believe, but what their senses offered for imitation, modified by their own unrestrained fancies. Painting thus became an accessory of luxurious life, and its productions were regarded somewhat as furniture, indicating the taste rather than the devotion of patrons and artists. These accordingly followed a wider latitude of topics and treatment. In proportion as devotional subjects fell out of use, a demand arose for mythological fable and allegory. Profane history, individual adventure or portraiture, supplied matter pleasing to vanity, profitable to adulation. But while the objects of painting became less elevated, its mechanism gained importance; it became ostentatious in sentiment, ambitious in execution. The aim of professors, the standard of connoisseurs, declined from the ideal to the palpable. A fresh field for exertion was thus opened up. Schools attained celebrity from their successful treatment of technical difficulties. Michael Angelo attracted pupils by his power in design; Titian by his mastery in colour; Correggio by his management of light; while the eclectic masters of Bologna vainly aspired to perfection by nicely adjusting their borrowed plumes; and the _tenebristi_ of Naples sought, by impenetrable shadows, to startle rather than to please. A demand for domestic decoration led to further exercise of ingenuity. Landscapes, first improved by the Venetian masters as accessories, became a new province of art; and transcripts from nature in her scenes of beauty were succeeded by the clang of battles, the inanities of still life, the orgies or crimes of worthless men.[*212] In architecture and in sculpture, the departure was scarcely less remarkable from the pure style and simple forms of the fifteenth century: a free introduction of costly materials and elaborate decoration deteriorated taste, without compensating for the absence of ideal beauty. The masters of this, which we may distinguish as the "newest" manner, must accordingly be tried by a new standard. Those of the silver and golden ages, Angelico and Raffaele, sought a simple or vigorous development of deep feeling; the Giordani and Caravaggii, men of brass and iron, whose technical capacity outstripped their ideas, aspired not beyond effect. Effect is, therefore, the self-chosen test to which artists of the decline should be subjected, though it may detect in them false taste and vulgar deformity. Under their guidance, energy was substituted for grandeur, bustle for dramatic action; while flickering lights and fluttering draperies ill replaced the solidity and stateliness of earlier men. Art thus, like literature, became copious rather than captivating. Ambitious attempts were not wanting, but the effort to produce them was ever palpable. Ingenuity over-taxed gave birth to bewildering allegories, affected postures, startling contrasts, exaggerated colouring, meretricious graces. Nature was invoked to stand godmother to the progeny, but she disavowed them as spurious. [Footnote *212: An undue sense of right seems to have led Dennistoun to the brink of an absurd precipice. Why should not the orgy or crime of a worthless man, make as good a picture as the orgy or crime [or the good deeds either, for that matter] of the worthy man? Poetry surely would seem to confound him here.] The rapid decline of art when imitation of nature became more strictly its object, has led to scepticism in some quarters as to the expediency of adopting such a guide. Until human ingenuity shall attain the means of embodying and preserving perfect copies of external objects, it would be presumptuous to decide how far such copies realise that standard of beauty which high art demands. The daguerreotype and kalotype, which give the nearest known approach to such a result, are far from solving the question in accordance with naturalist views; for, on their metallic plates and porous paper, a beautiful woman is, in general, coarsely caricatured; whilst a bust of her, or a bas-relief, always retains the grace of the sculptured original, and a chalk drawing is exquisitely reproduced. Were it enough to depict with perfect precision the forms and incidents reflected on the retina, a painter would be little more than a mechanic, in whom original genius might be almost dispensed with. But, though he will treasure in his portfolios a judicious selection of such impressions as he can daily gather from actual life, these, however nearly they may approach to nature and truth, are only materials of future creations. For high art,--and of such alone would we speak whilst Italy is our theme,--something more than mere nature was undoubtedly required;[*213] yet her guidance became indispensable after the revolution in taste and feeling which dismissed mediæval traditions and types. So various, however, are the freaks of individual fancy, so fantastic the vagaries of reason uncontrolled by authority, that the new path was beset by new pitfalls. The mediocrity of early masters found a refuge in mean but inoffensive commonplace; that of their successors, mistaking freedom and novelty for original genius, revelled in extravagant creations. The acute agonies, physical and moral, which sadly consummated the Atonement for man, were figured by the former in limbs wasted as by prolonged disease, stiffened as by a lingering death: the deep affliction of the Madonna Addolorata over the Saviour's body assumed in their hands an expression of such grief as knew not the relief of tears. But the artists of the "new manner" gave to crucifixions anatomical accuracy developed in spasmodic writhings, and bespoke sympathy for the mother of Christ by convulsive weepings, with perchance the accessory of a pocket-handkerchief! In pictures of this class, corporeal sufferings were rendered with horrible truth, muscular energy was substituted for mental woe. Living in times which needed fresh subjects as well as added powers, these painters laid aside such themes as treated of the mysteries of faith, the legends of primitive times, but especially such as, demanding spiritualised feelings in the author and the spectators, were uncongenial to both. To a contemplative religion, untroubled by sectarian movements, had succeeded a church militant, armed by bigotry, and struggling for existence. The revived Catholicism of Caraffa and Ghislieri required art of a character as gloomy as itself, and commissioned works wherein the terrors of the Inquisition replaced the promises of the Gospel, earthly martyrdoms supplanted celestial hopes, and pure faith was clouded by priestcraft. Henceforward, religious representations were reserved chiefly for church decorations, and even there they assumed an historical character, as in the miracles of our Lord, or the acts of his apostles. Alexander VI. had decorated the pontifical palace with incidents from the Gospel; but those which Paul III. and his successors selected for the Sala Regia commemorate the triumphs of an aggressive church in the Massacre of St. Bartholomew, and the naval action of Lepanto. Michael Angelo, in depicting the Last Judgment, the chief glory of that pontificate, introduced Charon as a prominent personage; and, with inconsistency, if possible, more glaring, Poussin has painted Moses, the type of Christ, watched in infancy by a river-god, in classical allusion to his preservation from the perils of the Nile. [Footnote *213: Art does not desire more than nature, but more than an imitation of nature. The artist should create life, not imitate it.] Whilst we have thus had to consider the prevalent imitation of external objects as an element tending to the corruption of purist feeling, it unquestionably enlarged the scope and stimulated the mechanism of painting. Such was the naturalism by which Raffaele, Michael Angelo, and Titian developed the comparatively feeble and stunted efforts of their predecessors into forms ennobling nature, and redolent of intelligence. But, in studying these palpable qualities, the more subtle ingredients of spirit and feeling were often overlooked; indeed, most of the creators of the new style outlived it, and saw it supplanted by a yet newer and far more degrading naturalism, which, with few bright intervals, has continued to cramp and pervert the manner of their successors. Such were and are those painters who, on the strength of their sketches from the life, and their studies of landscape and architecture, or with the plea of occasionally introducing portraits into sacred or historical compositions, proclaim themselves followers of nature, whilst their works outrage or caricature her. There may be great anatomical accuracy, and much truth in the separate heads, combined with inventions the most unreal, movements the most constrained, mannered attitudes, draperies meagre or overloaded, and a general substitution of mean conceptions for pleasing realities. The elaborate finish invariably found in the early masters was either bestowed upon accessories in themselves trifling, but stamping an extraordinary verity upon their works, or, as in the Sienese or Venetian schools, it was lavished upon gorgeous costumes illustrative of national manners. But similar details in later pictures are justly considered to remove them in some degree from the category of artistic performances to that of mere decoration, and are despised by those who, aiming at breadth of effect, sometimes adopt the most hopeless of all affectations, that of slovenly superficiality. Whence then this difference? and why should jewels and embroidery, that seem beautiful in Crivelli's saints or Dello's pageants, be vulgar gewgaws on recent canvasses? Merely because, in the former, _all_ is minutely worked, but all is subsidiary to the general sentiment, whilst, in the latter, the absence of a simply pervading expression leaves each individual detail crudely prominent; because the ancient masters made everything subservient to that one overruling feeling of the picture, which, in most modern works, is totally wanting. [Illustration: _Anderson_ THE KNIGHT OF MALTA _From the picture by Giorgione, once in the Ducal Collection at Urbino, now in the Uffizi Gallery, Florence_] * * * * * The Dukes della Rovere of Urbino had hereditary duties as patrons of art. Popes Sixtus IV. and Julius II., the founders of their family, had munificently encouraged it; the antecedent princes of Montefeltro had been its generous and discriminating friends. If the later dynasty fell short of these examples, they were not without excuse. Though the divine Raffaele parted his mantle among many pupils, no shred of it fell to his native duchy. Francesco Maria I., on succeeding to that state, found in it no lack of churches, palaces, or pictures, and little native genius meriting support; so he was content to call Titian from Venice to portray himself and his Duchess.[*214] His two successors were less devoted to arms, and more liberal to arts. They numbered among their subjects Baroccio and the Zuccari, who once more gave a pictorial name to Urbino, and they judiciously divided their commissions between these natives and foreign painters. [Footnote *214: Francesco Maria may have called, but Titian did not come to Urbino. The first commission he had from the Duke was in 1532, when he was asked to paint as good a portrait of Hannibal as he could and a picture of the Nativity. They were delivered in 1534. The Duke wanted then a portrait of the Duchess, and asked Titian to paint it on his way to Naples. This journey, however, never took place. If Titian had any sittings, it was at Murano during the Duke and Duchess's sojourn there in the autumn of 1537.] In a former portion of this work it was our endeavour to interweave the artistic notices which we had to offer in connection with Urbino, into a rapid sketch of Christian painting in Umbria. Resuming the subject, it will no longer be possible thus to generalise our views, for the time had arrived when each aspirant selected his own course to the temple of Fame; and in glancing at the various paths which chance or fancy suggested to them, our readers must be prepared for occasional repetitions. The ground, in itself less interesting, is more beaten; and though none of the competitors approximated the elevation gained by Raffaele, their numbers may be considered as some compensation for their comparative mediocrity. Lazzari, in his _Dictionary of Artists_ belonging to his native duchy, has enumerated, under the Feltrian dukes, five painters, one sculptor, one architect, and one military engineer; while under the Princes della Rovere, these numbers are increased to twenty painters, eight architects, and sixteen military engineers. Of sculptors, during the latter period, there is no account; but along with eighteen followers of mechanical arts connected with the higher branches, we find workers in bronze, stucco, wood-carving, engravers, and makers of watches and mathematical instruments, besides two potters and three painters of majolica. It would be not less irksome than useless to follow all this catalogue, but we shall endeavour to throw together whatever is generally interesting of art in Urbino, during the sixteenth century, whether by native painters, or foreigners employed by the dukes; concluding with a chapter on minor arts, especially that of _majolica_, or earthenware, for which the duchy was long celebrated. [Illustration: _Alinari_ JUDITH WITH THE HEAD OF HOLOFERNES _After the picture by Palma il Vecchio, once in the Ducal Collection at Urbino_] * * * * * Our catalogue of artists under the della Rovere dynasty may be fittingly commenced with a name not unknown to their predecessors, the Feltrian dukes. GIROLAMO DELLA GENGA was born at Urbino, in 1476, of respectable parents, who destined him for the woollen trade, by which the wealth of Florence had, in a great measure, been gained. But the bent of his youthful mind was decidedly towards design, and his pencil so interfered with his proper business, that, after much vain opposition, his friends yielded, and sent him, at fifteen, to the studio of Luca Signorelli. It was the mission of this able painter to engraft upon the devotional traditions of Umbrian art, imbibed from Pietro della Francesca, a novel energy of thought and pencil; and Girolamo had the advantage of aiding him upon those wonderful compositions in the duomo of Orvieto, which Michael Angelo scrupled not to imitate in his Last Judgment, as well as warmly to commend. After attending his master during the execution of other commissions, he passed into the school of Perugino, where he found his precocious countryman, the young Raffaele. There he remained for three years, devoting himself chiefly to perspective, and thence repaired to Florence to complete his education. At Siena he was largely employed, along with Signorelli, by Pandolfo Petrucci; returning from whence to Urbino, he formed an enduring intimacy with Timoteo della Vite. They wrought together upon a chapel in the cathedral, which no longer exists; but the works there assigned to Genga were chiefly scenic and decorative, from his acknowledged superiority in architectural perspective; and for these, the various festive amusements then in fashion, such as pastoral dramas, triumphal processions, cavalry trappings, and temporary arches, occasioned in that gay capital a perpetual demand, during the latter days of Guidobaldo I., and the first years of his successor. His invention was especially called into play to welcome Duchess Leonora to her states, and to supply scenery for the representation of Bibbiena's _La Calandra_ in 1513. These apparently mechanical performances were not, however, irreconcileable with excellence and fame in the higher branches of art; and it was whilst thus engaged that, during a short visit to Rome, he painted, for the oratory of Sta. Caterina of Siena in the Via Giulia, an altar-piece of the Resurrection, justly considered his chef-d'oeuvre.[*215] The figure of Christ, soaring upwards amid sprawling angels, somewhat anticipates Raffaele's Transfiguration, but with a copious infusion of Michael Angelesque feeling. The latter influence predominates in the violent attitudes and excited action of the guards, four of whom, suddenly aroused by the supernatural event, are rushing about without aim or self-possession; yet, the movement of one who awakens a still slumbering comrade is extremely natural. The Marys, approaching from the other side of the picture, recall Timoteo's manner. The colour, concealed however under an accumulation of dirt, is of a solid quality, and the chiaroscuri are skilfully managed, while the inscription, _Girolamo Genga Urbinas facieb._, satisfactorily secures its authenticity. [Footnote *215: I know nothing of this oratory, and cannot find it.] [Illustration: _Alinari_ HEAD OF CHRIST _After the picture by Titian, once in the Ducal Collection, now in the Pitti Gallery, Florence_] In 1497, Guidobaldo had granted to the Counts della Genga an exemption from taxes, for which Girolamo showed his gratitude by sharing the exile of Francesco Maria, when deprived by the tyrannical usurpation of Leo X. He retired with his family to Cesena, where, as at Forlì and other places in Romagna, he executed various church pictures of merit; of these, the Baptism of Christ, the Conversion of St. Augustine, and one representing the Almighty, with the Madonna, and the Doctors of the Church, have found their way to the Brera, at Milan. On the Duke's restoration, he was appointed his architect and engineer, and thereafter discontinued painting, devoting himself almost entirely to his new duties. Among the churches which he built, were those of the Zoccolantines at Urbino and Sinigaglia, but it was chiefly on the ducal palaces that he was employed. Of these, the first committed to him was the Imperiale villa, already mentioned.[216] Vasari describes it as a "very beautiful and well-contrived fabric, full of chambers, colonnades, courts, balconies, fountains, and delightful gardens, which every prince passing that way goes to see; and which Paul III. visited, with his court, when on his way to Bologna, and was quite pleased with all he saw." It would seem from his account that the most important ameliorations made by Genga upon that long-neglected residence, were the tower and internal decorations. The former remains, of handsome proportions; but its chief merit is said, by the Tuscan biographer, to have consisted in the management of a concealed wooden stair, reaching the summit in thirteen flights of steps, one hundred and twenty feet in all. In 1543, Bembo wrote to Leonora,--"I have visited your Excellency's Imperiale with much pleasure, both because I greatly wished to see it, and because it seems to me constructed with more intelligence and true artistic science, as well as with more antique fashions and finely contrived conceits, than any modern building I have seen. I heartily congratulate your Ladyship upon it, for certainly my gossip Genga is a great and gifted architect, far surpassing all my anticipations." The frescoes, illustrating his employer's life, were distributed by him to several foreign artificers, the duchy not boasting any painter of talent since the recent death of his friend Timoteo Vite. Among these was his pupil Francesco Minzocchi of Forlì, who, living on the limits of the old manner and the new, succeeded in uniting many excellences of both; yet, his works at Padua, Venice, Forlì, and Loreto, though highly creditable, scarcely merit the exaggerated praise bestowed on some of them by Vasari. That biographer's oversight, and his own modesty, have, on the other hand, done scrimp justice to Raffaele del Colle, whose attractive pencil is scarcely appreciated, notwithstanding Lanzi's eulogy. A pupil of the incomparable Sanzio, and of Giulio Romano, he preserved a healthy style amid prevailing deterioration; and many of his pictures still adorn the churches of Central Italy.[217] Contemporary with these was Angelo Bronzino, who maintained at Florence, during an age of general feebleness, the reputation transmitted by Andrea del Sarto and Pontormo. The grace of a Cupid, which he painted upon a corbel at the Imperiale, gained for him the patronage of Prince Guidobaldo, who employed him in small productions more congenial to his genius, including his portrait, and a harpsichord cover, both of them greatly admired, but now lost. The landscape ornaments in the villa were entrusted to the brothers Dossi, of Ferrara, or rather perhaps to Giovanbattista, the younger, and less able of them; but so total was their failure, that they were immediately thrown down, and replaced by others from Genga's designs. More successful in that light style were the portions committed to Camillo of Mantua, whose rural decorations are praised by Vasari and Lanzi. [Footnote 216: See p. 49.] [Footnote 217: He left some valuable works in the upper valley of the Metauro, now almost destroyed. Such are his Prophets and Sybils in ten lunettes round the Corpus Domini at Urbania, with two Nativities in the same church, one in fresco, the other on canvas. An altar-piece, in the church of the Servites at S. Angelo in Vado, is very inferior to his Madonna and Saints in S. Francesco of Cagli. Some frescoes at Gubbio, lauded by Lanzi, and dated 1546, are among his best works.] We have thus far chiefly followed Vasari's authority, reconciling, as best we might, inconsistencies and errors, the result of his imperfect acquaintance with the locality. The paintings he describes at the Imperiale were probably part of Duchess Leonora's labour of love, to welcome her lord's return from his long campaigns. But the condition to which they are reduced, by time and unworthy degradation of the building, renders it impossible now to form an opinion of the various hands that have wrought upon them, or to discover their respective merits and subjects. The roofs of two saloons are occupied by small historical compositions, from the actions of Francesco Maria; but these are irrecoverably defaced. Two of them, ascribed to Bronzino, are said to have represented the Duke haranguing the band of adventurers whom he collected in Lombardy, for the invasion of his duchy in 1517; and his reception by the Venetian senate in 1523, as their captain-general. The ornaments of the remaining rooms are merely decorative. Additions were made by Francesco Maria to his other residences at Urbino, Pesaro, and Castel Durante; on all of which, and Gradara, Genga seems to have been employed. Him also he entrusted to build a casino, within the walls of Pesaro, called the Barchetto, in which a ruin was imitated, with a spiral stair commended by Vasari: this house was subsequently assigned by Duke Guidobaldo to Bernardo Tasso, as a home to himself and his son Torquato; and part of it is now occupied by a gardener. Another work of Girolamo was the reparation of the fortress at Pesaro, which, however, he undertook merely in obedience to his sovereign, military architecture being little to his taste. In acknowledgment of these services, he had, in 1528, a grant of Castel d'Elce, with its feudal immunities, afterwards confirmed by Guidobaldo II. Some years later, he remodelled the episcopal palace at Mantua, and began an imposing church to St. John the Baptist at Pesaro, which was completed by his son. Among his minor efforts in the immediate service of the ducal family may be mentioned funeral decorations for Francesco Maria, and a monument to him, erected by Bartolomeo Ammanati of Florence, in Sta. Chiara of Urbino, but long ago removed. Enriched and honoured, he spent his declining years in leisure, and died in 1551. Vasari thus testifies to his exemplary character:--"Girolamo was an excellent and honest man, of whom no evil was ever heard. He was not only a painter, sculptor, and architect, but also a good musician, an excellent and most amusing talker, and was full of courtesy and affection to his relations and friends." Among his numerous pupils, Baldassare Lancia, of Urbino, was distinguished as a military engineer, whilst Bartolomeo his second son, Bellucci of San Marino his son-in-law, and Federigo Baroccio his nephew, all ably maintained his artistic reputation. In the person of Leo XII., one of his family has recently attained the highest station offered to the ambition of the Roman Catholic world. * * * * * BARTOLOMEO DELLA GENGA was born at Cesena in 1518, during his father Girolamo's emigration, and was sent to Florence at eighteen to study design in its various branches, under Vasari and Ammanati. At twenty-one he returned to his father, who, seeing his talent lie towards architecture, advised him to acquaint himself at Rome with the best models. His first commission on returning home was to prepare festive arches for Duchess Vittoria's reception after her marriage. He then accompanied Guidobaldo to Lombardy, as his military engineer, and, by examining the celebrated fortresses in that country, added greatly to his professional experience. He at this time refused very eligible appointments from the King of Bohemia, and subsequently from Genoa, wishing to dedicate his services to his own sovereign. Accordingly, on his father's death, he became ducal architect, and built large additions to the palaces of Urbino and Pesaro, especially the wing of the former, facing S. Domenico. He also erected a number of churches in the duchy, and prepared plans for a harbour at Pesaro, which were not carried into effect. Having attended the Duke to Rome in 1553, he gave some hints to Julius III. for the new fortifications of Borgo S. Spirito. [Illustration: _Alinari_ THE RESURRECTION _After the banner painted by Titian for the Compagnia di Corpus Domini, now in the Pinacoteca, Urbino_] His reputation being thus established, the Order of Malta selected him to superintend the new defences proposed for their island, and in 1557 sent two knights on a mission to obtain the Duke of Urbino's sanction of Genga's engagement. During two months Guidobaldo resisted all importunities, and they at length succeeded only through a Capuchin friar, who, possessing his ear, represented the work as one in which all Christendom was interested. On Bartolomeo's arrival, he had but time to prepare a series of plans for civil and military architecture, when he was cut off by fever consequent upon exposure in the burning heat, having scarcely completed his fortieth year. Of this family also was SIMONE GENGA, who, after fortifying many Tuscan strongholds, carried his engineering talents to Gratz, in Austria. From Stephen, King of Poland, he had, in 1587, a monthly salary of 76 dollars, besides allowances for four servants and as many horses, whilst completing the defences of Varadino. Other architects of Urbino are mentioned by the Marchese Ricci as leaving structures in La Marca, such as LATTANZIO VENTURI, who, in 1581, built the communal palace at Macerata, with an allowance of 30 scudi for his plan, and 40 more for overseeing its execution. Six years later, he completed the façade of Loreto church, in the charge of which he was succeeded by his son Venturo. His countryman, LUDOVICO CARDUCCI, having accompanied him to Macerata, was employed on various ecclesiastical edifices there, his designs for which were submitted for approval to the Duke of Urbino. From Venturo Venturi the superintendence of Loreto devolved, about 1614, upon GIOVANNI BRANCA, of S. Angelo in Vado, who died there in 1645, aged seventy-four. His _Manual of Architecture_ had passed through six editions previous to the present century. CHAPTER LIII Taddeo Zuccaro--Federigo Zuccaro--Their pupils--Federigo Baroccio and his pupils--Claudio Ridolfi--Painters of Gubbio. It was just after the fatal sack of Rome had dispersed the goodly company of painters, who, reared by Raffaele, and linked together by the recollection of his genius and his winning qualities, gave promise of long maintaining in the Christian capital that manner which he had brought to perfection,--that there was born to Ottaviano Zuccaro, or Zucchero, an indifferent artist of S. Angelo in Vado, a son destined to revive the pictorial reputation of Urbino. TADDEO ZUCCARO saw the light in 1529, and, while yet a boy, perceiving little hope of excellence under such instruction as Umbria could then afford, or of remedying the poverty of his paternal fireside, he boldly sought a wider field of improvement and enterprise, and at fourteen found his way to Rome. The hardships which he there underwent are touchingly described by Vasari. Aided by no friendly hand, his education was neglected, and he was driven to menial labour for the support of a precarious existence. Wandering from one studio to another, he earned a crust of bread by colour-grinding; and, unable to afford light for his evening studies, he spent the moonlight nights in drawing, till sleep surprised him beneath some portico. Under this hard life his health gave way, whilst his spirit remained indomitable, and he sought rest and renewed vigour in his native mountain air. But his thirst for improvement was not stayed by these sufferings. On his return to Rome with recruited energies, he was received into the studio of Jacopone Bertucci of Faenza, a follower of Raffaele, whose few independent works entitle him to more honourable mention than has been afforded him by Vasari or Lanzi, and who united the tasteful design of that master with somewhat of Lombard feeling. Taddeo subsequently aided one Daniello di Por, who carried to Rome much of the Parmese manner, imitating Correggio and Parmegianino. At eighteen he executed on his own account, on the exterior of the Mattei Palace, a series of nine events in the life of Camillus, which attracted general admiration, and established his popularity as a historical painter. These, and several other works in fresco done soon after, have been destroyed. His rising reputation having reached Urbino, Guidobaldo II. summoned him there, when about fifteen, to undertake the exterior decorations of a chapel in the cathedral, which had been painted by Battista Franco, and soon after carried him on his tour of inspection of the Venetian terra-firma fortresses. On his return, he was established in the palace at Pesaro, where he painted the Duke's portrait and some other cabinet pictures. Two years thus passed away without his being able to commence the chapel, although the designs for it were well advanced; and being dissatisfied with this loss of time, he availed himself of his sovereign's absence at Rome to follow him thither. Orders now crowded upon him, for no contemporary painter was better qualified to supply those slight and rapidly executed works then in fashion for the external and internal decoration of Roman palaces and villas. Most of these have perished; but somewhat superior in character were the incidents in the Passion, painted in 1556, in the Church of Consolation under the Capitol. They are still in good preservation, but though cleverly conceived and carefully executed, these merits scarcely compensate for the exaggerated mannerism of their sprawling attitudes and solid draperies, whilst their violent emotions are anything but devotional. From this time his brother Federigo was associated in most of his labours, and the speed with which their commissions were finished brought them easy gains, and gave satisfaction in an age when taste had sadly degenerated. An arrangement, whereby Taddeo agreed to accompany the Duke of Guise to France, with a salary of 600 scudi, was interrupted by the Duke's death; but soon after our artist had a more important commission, from Cardinal Alessandro Farnese, to paint in his palace of Caprarola, near Viterbo, the heroic actions of his family. This was precisely the class of subject for which the manner and ideas of the Zuccari were most adapted, and the results were highly satisfactory. Accordingly, these paintings, engraved by Prenner in 1748, remain a standard of that style of palatial decoration. Taddeo's allowance was 200 scudi a year, for which he undertook to prepare all the cartoons, and to superintend their execution by his brother and other young artists. Among those whom he was thus enabled to bring forward, several, including Baroccio, were his seniors, a natural consequence of the good fortune which brought him early into repute as a clever head-master of the contract work then in vogue. His mural paintings in the Sala Regia of the Vatican, and his sacred subjects in the chapel of S. Marcello there, were also undertakings of considerable extent, sharing his attention with Caprarola during the latter years of his life. His last work was the Assumption of the Madonna in the Trinità del Monte, upon which death surprised him in 1566, and his dust reposes in the Pantheon, near that of his more illustrious countryman Raffaele, like whom, he died on the day his thirty-seventh year was completed. [Illustration: _Alinari_ THE LAST SUPPER _After the picture by Baroccio in the Duomo of Urbino_] His brother FEDERIGO, fourteen years his junior, was brought to Rome in 1550, and committed to his charge. The advantage of an associate on whom he could rely was immense to one whose works were, even from youth, in a great measure, executed by others; and fraternal affection, cemented by a similarity of tastes and pursuits, grew up into an identity of character and habits which extended to their respective works, and enabled the younger Zuccaro satisfactorily to terminate the commissions which Taddeo left unfinished. Precocity was a characteristic of both; and the only interruption to their harmony arose from the latter having retouched some frescoes done by Federigo, when but eighteen years old, outside of a house in Rome. The quarrel having become serious, a compromise was effected by mutual friends, on an understanding that the designs, but not the finished works of the youth, should be submitted to his brother's correction. During his residence in Rome, Federigo was, however, chiefly employed on those mural paintings which we have already mentioned as undertaken by Taddeo; and when about twenty-two, he spent a considerable time in Venice, painting, on his own account, in the Grimani Palace, whilst his contemporaries were still busy with their preliminary studies. There was even a proposal to assign to him the façade of the great council hall, but jealousy among the native artists prevented this taking effect. He was, however, consoled by the friendship of Palladio, who engaged him to decorate a large temporary theatre, and whom he subsequently accompanied on a tour through Friuli and Lombardy. Thence he visited Florence, in time to take part in the festive decorations which welcomed Joanna of Austria to her new capital, and, after a visit to his family, arrived at Rome early in 1566. It was about this time he painted for Duke Guidobaldo the Liberation of St. Peter from prison, now in the Pitti Gallery, a picture of no great intrinsic merit, though dexterous in effect; and now, too, Verdizotti of Venice complimented his early promise in this elegant sonnet, wherein the "tree of Jove" means the oak, the badge of Urbino and its dukes. "Ecco! del glorioso arbor di Giove Un giovinetto ramo uscir sì altero, Ch'a speme di bei frutti ogni pensiero Desta al fiorir de le sue frondi nove. In lui tai gratie il ciel benigno piove, Che simili in altrui poch'altre spero; Gratie, per cui virtù gli apre il sentiero Ad ogni honor, che meraviglia move. E già le cime dei più culti allori L'inchinan' grate, e lieto augurio danno D'eterno pregio ai suoi giorni migliori. Alhor l'amate ghiande illustri andranno Di sì fin or, ch'al par de' suoi splendori Gli alti raggi del sole ombre saranno." His brother's premature death made him heir of his fame and fortune: the latter he speedily increased, but the former he was scarcely adequate to sustain. Yet the dexterity by which he mastered, and the rapidity wherewith, by numerous assistants, he completed works of great extent, not only obtained him the commissions which Taddeo left imperfect, but secured him a preference for all undertakings of that description in Rome. It was upon this principle that he was called to Florence, to terminate the cupola of the cathedral; yet for the abortive effect of this vast composition, which has more than once narrowly escaped whitewash, Federigo is scarcely to be held responsible. The irretrievably hopeless attempt of filling suitably so immense an expanse with a figure composition, had been begun by a better artist than himself, and the blame of so gross a blunder must lie with Vasari. Don Vincenzo Borghini suggested the theme--Paradise allegorically treated in eight compartments, in seven of which are set forth the seven mysteries of our Lord's passion, while the eighth celebrates the triumph of the Romish church. The chief interest of this colossal performance lies in its monstrous compass; containing, it is said, three hundred figures, some of them thirty feet high. Returned to Rome, he was employed by Gregory XIII. on the roof of the Pauline chapel, whose walls had been decorated by Michael Angelo. The favours which fortune thus showered upon him soothed not the petulance of an irritable temper; and the bitter satire wherewith he caricatured some supposed enemies in a picture of Calumny, obliged him precipitately to quit the Holy City. This was a congenial subject, which he often treated. Once it was done for the Orsini of Bracciano; another of large size is noted in Pelli's catalogue of the Urbino pictures; and there is a small one in the gallery of the Uffizi. There are some curious particulars in Gaye's _Carteggio_ of the annoyance to which this sally subjected him.[218] In 1581, he was held to bail for 500 scudi, to answer a charge of slander which it was hoped might be founded upon the testimony of his three assistants, who were imprisoned until they should supply a key to the suspected personalities. On this emergency he sought protection from the influence of his sovereign, and of the Grand Duke Francesco I. of Florence, by whose mediation he made his peace, and returned to Rome at Easter 1583. The Duke of Urbino's application was not disinterested, being anxious to secure Federigo's services for a chapel he was then building at Loreto, dedicated to the Madonna dell'Annunziata, regarding his frescoes in which we shall presently have some observations to offer. It is unnecessary to follow his several journeys to foreign courts and distant countries, whence he returned honoured and enriched. In 1574, after his flight from Rome, he passed through Paris, Flanders, and Holland, to England, where he probably remained for some time, painting portraits; but his works there do not seem to have been ascertained, or examined with much criticism. Several are loosely mentioned by Walpole, and his annotator Dalloway, one of which, representing Queen Elizabeth's gigantic porter, is said by Stirling to bear date 1580. His chalk drawings of her and Leicester, engraved by Rogers, can scarcely be the same mentioned by Borghini as executed in 1575. [Footnote 218: Vol. III., p. 444.] On his return to Rome, Olivarez, ambassador from Philip II., whose overtures to Paul Veronese had been unsuccessful, proposed that he should proceed to Madrid. There he arrived in January, 1586, and, after being received with great splendour, was immediately named king's painter, with 2000 dollars of pension, and an apartment in the Escurial. From that palace he, on the 29th of May, wrote a letter descriptive of his first works, which merits notice as showing his opinion, and that of the age, on the fitting tone and treatment to be followed in high religious art. "My apartment contains excellent rooms, besides saloon and study, where his Majesty frequently deigns to come and see me work, loading me with favours. I observe you desire now to hear something as to what I have done or am about. There are four large pictures, for two altars of the relics, opening and closing like organ-doors, to be painted on both sides. They are dedicated to the Annunciation and to St. Jerome; and I have treated them thus:--On opening the former is seen our Lady, somewhat startled and confused by the angel's entrance, while on the outer side I have made her assenting to the salutation in the words, 'Behold the handmaid of the Lord.' The exterior of St. Jerome is penitent; not as he is usually made, simply repenting, but having that faith and hope in God without which neither abstinence nor remorse can avail, together with the love, charity, and filial awe, that ought ever to connect us with God and our neighbour. And these I fancy as grouped together in idea before the saint; so I have set in front of him a cross, with Christ in the last agony, in order to inspire him with increased contrition, and at the foot thereof the three theological virtues among clouds. On the interior of the two doors, I have depicted St. Jerome, as a doctor of the church, writing: and as companion to the idealised penitence without, I thought fit to introduce the means and aims of study, so that the saint, though writing, is in a contemplative ecstasy, attended by three angels. Two of them, typifying perseverance and love of study (without which no science can be learned, no fruit obtained), hold his book and ink-horn; the third stands at his ear, suggesting thoughts and sentences, and pointing out, on the other door, the entire subject he is writing about: I intended this one for the guardian angel, or for that intelligence and thought, whereby all is contrived and composed; and I endeavoured to represent him as incorporeal, transparent and spiritual, a style little used on account of its difficulty. On that other door, I embodied the whole theme which St. Jerome, the most holy divine and doctor, is inditing, as to the Saviour's passion and man's redemption, dwelling specially on the considerations that induced the Father Almighty to send his only begotten Son into the world, to redeem mankind by his great sufferings. I imagine Charity as appearing in his vision, and saying 'It was I who moved God, and made Christ descend on earth'; to express which symbolically, a saint-like matron presses one hand on her breast, and indicates with the other a dead Christ borne by angels through the air. But what most pleases his Majesty and all beholders, being of peculiar mystic meaning and charming effect, is the three little Cupids who, at the feet of Charity, disport themselves with St. Jerome's lion, which comes forward most opportunely, his ferocity so tamed by these children, that he lets them pat, handle, and ride upon him, licking and fondling them the while, a clear proof that our God is not a God of anger and vengeance, but of love, peace, charity, and grace. During this winter I made all the designs and cartoons for these subjects, and have already coloured and entirely completed the first Annunciation, and the St. Jerome writing; at present I have in hand the Charity; and all, thank God, is to his Majesty's taste. This done, his Majesty wishes me to commence the _retavola_ of the high altar [for the Escurial], where there will be eight great pictures in oil, those others being on panel."[219] [Footnote 219: Vat. Urb. MSS. No. 816, f. 64-72.] In this second commission our painter was less fortunate. The eight pieces represented St. Laurence's Martyrdom, five events in the life of Christ, the Descent of Tongues, and the Assumption. As they rapidly advanced, aided by several youths who had accompanied Federigo from Italy, he observed with anxiety the courtiers' cold or contemptuous silence; and, desiring to test his patron's feelings, he presented the Nativity to Philip with the arrogant exclamation, "Here, Sire, is all that painting can accomplish, a picture that may be viewed closely or from a distance." After long gazing on the canvas, his Majesty asked if those things in the basket were meant for eggs. So paltry a criticism says little for the monarch's connoisseurship, and the mortified artist was consoled by seeing his work placed on its destined altar. Mr. Stirling informs us that, upon this failure, he was set to paint six frescoes in the Escurial cloister, which gave as little satisfaction. In order to test his complaints of his assistants, he was then desired to execute the Conception without their aid, but with no better result. After his departure, several portions of his _retavola_ were dismissed from the high altar, and most of his frescoes were defaced; but notwithstanding these repeated disgusts, and the moderate success of two other altar-pieces mentioned by Conca, Zuccaro remained for nearly three years in Spain, and was finally dismissed with gifts and pensions exceeding the remuneration stipulated for his services. The solution of his disappointment is simple. The artistic genius of Italy was greatly exhausted: that of Spain was a virgin soil promising many golden harvests.[220] [Footnote 220: In referring to the _Annals of the Artists of Spain_, it is a sincere pleasure to bear my feeble testimony to the merits of that excellent work. It is replete with information new to the English reader, and is enriched by apt and copious illustrations selected from a wide range of literature and æsthetics.] Some letters of Federigo Zuccaro in the Oliveriana Library further illustrate the turn of thought which influenced religious art in the end of the sixteenth century. He had been employed in 1583 by Francesco Maria II. to decorate a chapel in the church of Loreto; it was dedicated to the Madonna, and the theme prescribed for his frescoes was her life. The altar-picture by Baroccio represented the Annunciation; and the scenes selected for mural paintings were her marriage, visitation, death, assumption, and coronation. Of these the first three belonged to a class of dramatic compositions adapted to the prevailing taste, while the others partook of the Umbrian influence which still lingered around that shrine. The subsidiary ornaments being of course under the direction of Zuccaro, he felt puzzled how to fill up certain spaces offered by the architectural arrangement, and wrote to the Duke. After consulting the chief theological authorities among the hierarchy of Loreto what would best develop the "humble and mystic" sentiment which it was his object to sustain, the artist suggested that figures emblematic of glory and perpetuity should support the Coronation of the Madonna, as expressing the inherent attributes of that subject. In like manner he proposed to accompany her Death with Faith, Hope, and the Fear of God, the best supports of a death-bed; whilst the Assumption was to have Charity on one hand, Perseverance on the other, and above Joy, the fruit of these virtues and the foretaste of glory. As accompaniments for the Annunciation, he submitted that there should be two prophets or sibyls, the instruments through whom the incarnation of the Word was predicted. Giotto or Fra Angelico would have chosen the prophets of the Old Testament; Michael Angelo would have preferred pagan sibyls; Perugino or Raffaele might have invoked them both; Zuccaro, painting at Loreto, thought either equally appropriate appendages to his allegorical creations.[221] Yet Federigo was not altogether blinded to the barbarous tendency of the taste around him. In writing of Milan, he says that the painters there had in his day "wofully diverged from the beautiful simplicity and arrangement of those living early in the century; and that the Proccaccini, especially Giulio Cesare, introduced a set of scoffing heads, and certain angels so debauched looking, and devoid of all reverence in the presence of God and the Madonna, that I know not how they are tolerated, unless it be that they are excused for the sake of many other commendable parts."[222] [Footnote 221: In reference to appropriate lights, Baroccio entirely condemns the use of stained glass, as darkening the interior, and injuring, by coloured rays, the effect of paintings. Zuccaro, however, recommends the introduction of a tinted armorial bearing, surrounded by a wreath of fruits and flowers, as likely to mellow without obscuring the chapel.] [Footnote 222: _Lettere Pittoriche_, vii., p. 513.] Of the large number of important works he executed in Venice, Milan, Pavia, Turin, and other towns of Upper Italy, we shall not attempt a catalogue, nor of his many frescoes in the Roman palaces and churches. We cannot, however, pass by an altar-picture still in the Church of Sta. Caterina in his native town, which was carried to Paris by the French plunderers. It represents Peter, Francis, and other saints, presenting to the Madonna the Zuccaro family, consisting of two men, a woman, and seven children--probably Taddeo, himself, his wife and offspring; and it is inscribed "Federigo Zuccaro dedicates this monument of his affection to the intercessors of his family and birthplace, 1603." Besides the interest attaching to the portraits, it is a satisfactory specimen of his usual manner. A work of his brother, connected with the history of the duchy, has been described in a previous volume.[223] [Footnote 223: Vol. II.] Academical instruction is considered as favourable only to mediocrity by many who maintain that genius must be cramped by the fetters of uncongenial routine, or by the prescribed duties of a conventional curriculum. The Academy of St. Luke was, however, founded under Gregory XIII., and Federigo Zuccaro was, in 1593, elected its first president, an honour appreciated far beyond the favour of princes or the decoration of knighthood. After inauguration, he was conducted by a crowd of artists to the palace he had built for himself on the Pincian Hill, at that corner otherwise consecrated by the residences of Claude, Salvator Rosa, and Nicolò Poussin. Here he afterwards held meetings of the Academy, where he read his discourses; and by will he left to it that house, failing of his natural heirs. His death occurred in 1608, at Ancona, at the age of sixty-six; but the clause of remainder in favour of the Academy has never become effectual, the palace in the Via Sistina being still possessed by his descendants. It is well known as the Casa Bertoldy, and may be regarded as the cradle of the modern German school of painting. The frescoes on which Overbeck, Cornelius, Schnorr, and Veit first essayed that elevated and pure style which has regenerated European taste, there attract many an admirer, little aware that the basement rooms, abandoned to menial uses, contain some of the latest efforts of cinque-cento decoration that have fair pretensions to merit. The richest of them has its vaulted roof studded with allegorical delineations of the arts, sciences, and virtues, painting being justly pre-eminent in a painter's house. The lunettes of another are crowded by portraits of the Zuccari, extending over four generations, and numbering twenty-one heads, true to nature. The third, which was Federigo's nuptial chamber, exhibits the ceremony of his marriage, around which are figures of Chastity, Continence, Concord, and Felicity, in the fashion of an age when genius had been replaced by ingenuity, grandeur by dexterous execution. The infirmity of Federigo's temper, to which we have already alluded, may account for his unworthy treatment of Vasari. In the marginal notes upon his copy of the Vite de' Pittori, now in the Royal Library at Paris, as well as in an original work which we are about to mention, he takes every opportunity of sneering ungenerously at one whose biography of his brother, and whose allusions to himself are conceived in kind and flattering terms. Although his _Idea de' Pittori, Scultori, ed Architetti_, printed in the year of his death, is supposed to be but a compend of his lectures at St. Luke's, he is believed to have intended it as a triumph over Vasari's justly popular writings. In this, however, he signally failed; it has the mysticism of philosophy without its spirit, while its pedantic subtleties are puerile rather than profound. This, and his _Lamento della Pittura_, are books of great rarity, but in no way merit a reprint. A mannerist with pen and pencil, the conceits of the former equal the allegories of the latter; nature and feeling are alien to both. Although the Zuccari were little identified by their works with their native state, and obtained less of the ducal patronage than their contemporary Baroccio, their names have reflected much lustre upon Urbino. Yet the space which they occupied in the public view was owing to the smiles of propitious fortune,--to a happy facility of executing without exertion whatever commissions were offered,--to a certain magnificence and liberality in their manner of life,--and, in the case of Federigo, to an overweening vanity, rather than to any positive artistic excellence. Their reputation has accordingly waned, as the remembrance of such incidental qualities waxed faint, and as a distant posterity applied to them that only sure test, the merit of their works. Nor were these the only advantages of their position. An analogy has been deduced between Taddeo and the immortal Raffaele, not from any supposed resemblance of their pencils or genius, but because both were natives of the same state, both painted extensively in fresco at Rome, both died when "exactly thirty-seven," and both were buried in the same corner of the Pantheon. Federigo, on the other hand, was, like Titian, invited to courts, decorated and enriched by monarchs; like Raffaele and Michael Angelo, he was an architect and a sculptor as well as a painter; like Vasari, he aimed at a literary reputation. The works of the brothers display a marked similarity, a natural result of their long painting together; yet deterioration became perceptible as their distance from the golden age increased, and the younger may be distinguished by a pervading inferiority of taste and design, but especially by a growing mannerism and laxity in his conceptions, and by the overcrowding of his subjects. To balance these deficiencies, his person was attractive, his general attainments were far more comprehensive, and a longer life was granted for the enjoyment of his fortune and the extension of his fame, than fell to the lot of Taddeo. The failing mainly attributable to both was absence of style. Their inventions were often flimsy, and their compositions, deficient in unity and dignity, are often little more than figure groups. * * * * * A necessary consequence of the low style of art which the Zuccari adopted was that, notwithstanding the number of assistants whom they constantly employed, their school neither attained to considerable repute among their contemporaries, nor put forth many pupils of note; offering in this respect a marked contrast to that of their countryman Baroccio, whose pleasing manner attracted a host of admirers and imitators. Two natives of Pesaro, however, possess a certain reputation in the semi-mechanical church decorations then largely produced. They were Nicolò Trometta, generally called NICOLÒ DA PESARO, and GIAN GIACOMO PANDOLFI, the latter of whom was the earliest instructor of Simon Cantarini da Pesaro. The various works which these and other Zuccaristi have left in the duchy are quite unworthy of special description, and we may dismiss them with the mention of CAVALIERE DOMENICO CRESTI DA PASSIGNANO, whose chief title to fame is reflected from that of his pupils TIARINI and LUDOVICO CARACCI. Among the painters less known to fame were BIAGIO and GIROLAMO D'URBINO, both of whom were employed in the Escurial; the former left Spain along with Federigo Zuccaro, in 1588; the latter wrought under Pelegrino Tibaldi. Ottovevenius, after spending seven years with Federigo, carried his influence beyond the Alps, and eventually numbered Rubens among his scholars. Among the artists who repaired to Urbino at the summons of Duke Federigo, for the construction of his palace, was Ambrogio Barocci, or Baroccio, a Milanese sculptor, who established himself there, and, after long labouring on its plastic decorations, founded a family singularly distinguished in the higher branches of mechanical and pictorial art. His two daughters were married to Girolamo and Nicolò della Genga, and his great-grandson Federigo, upon whose biography we must dwell at some length, had an elder brother Simone, who after studying the exact sciences under Federigo Comandino, became the best mathematical instrument maker that had hitherto been seen. His cousins, the Cavaliere Giovanni Battista and Giovanni Maria, were not less famous in watchmaking, an art successfully patronised by the Dukes delle Rovere, which we shall mention in our fifty-fifth chapter. FEDERIGO BAROCCIO was born in 1528, and initiated into the rudiments of design by his father, who practised engraving and modelling. His early efforts having been approved by his grand-uncle Girolamo Genga, he was placed under the tuition of Battista Franco of Venice, an indifferent painter, much employed in the majolica shops at Urbino, whose taste for designing from antique sculpture directed his pupil's attention to those effects of chiaroscuro which distinguished his matured style. After assiduous labours in this way, he repaired to Pesaro, then his sovereigns' residence, where were placed their accumulated treasures of art. There he observed the works of Raffaele and Titian, under the guidance of Genga, who carefully advanced his artistic education, especially in perspective. At twenty he went to Rome, anxious to see the triumphs of his great countryman, which he forthwith set himself to study. Several anecdotes are told of his modesty, which kept him in the background until chance obtained for his drawings a passing compliment from Michael Angelo, and the warm sympathy and encouragement of Giovanni da Udine, delighted to find in the youth a countryman as well as an admirer of his former master. After imbibing inspiration from these healthful fountains, he returned home, and executed some church paintings. But the casual arrival of one who brought some cartoons and crayon drawings from Parma gave a new turn to his ideas. Forgetting the grandeur of Buonarroti and the pure beauty of Raffaele, he aimed at those meretricious graces which have borrowed from the dexterity of Parmegianino, and the luscious pencil of Correggio, a fascination unsupported by their intrinsic merits, and pregnant with mischief to art. To him, however, belongs the credit of introducing into Lower Italy a harmonious application of light and shade, to which his early lamp studies from sculpture may have conduced. Returning to Rome in 1560, he found Federigo Zuccaro in the ascendant, and from him received a hint as to the tendency of this manner, which it would have been well that he had adopted. Having, at the request of Federigo, painted two children on a frieze, with a fusion of colour very rarely effected in fresco, the latter, considering this to be overdone, retraced the outlines with a brush, imparting to them that force which was wanting to the work. Baroccio took the reproof in good part, but profited not by it. During his first visit he had become known to Cardinal Giulio della Rovere, by whose influence, probably, he procured employment at the Vatican and Belvidere, in company with Zuccaro. With the decline of their art, the good feeling of the painters' fraternity waned, and the kindly sympathies of that glorious band, whom Raffaele had imbued with a portion of his amiable nature, no longer animated their successors. Those who saw in Baroccio one who would have raised the standard of taste from the abandonment which immediately succeeded the dispersion of that noble school, instead of seconding his efforts poisoned him at a banquet. He survived the potion, but four years of pain and feeble health elapsed ere he could return to his labours. When his system had in some degree resumed its vigour among his mountain breezes, he was called to Perugia to paint for its cathedral the Deposition from the Cross, a work which, far from exhibiting any prostration of power, greatly surpassed his previous efforts. No scriptural theme offers greater technical difficulties, or demands a larger share of those grand and energetic qualities in which Baroccio was usually deficient. It is, therefore, one of his most remarkable efforts, as regards its own qualities, and the circumstances under which it was produced. It occupied him during three years, and was followed by the Absolution of St. Francis, for the Franciscans of Urbino, on which he laboured in their convent for above twice that period. In consideration of their poverty, he charged but a hundred golden scudi for the work, to which they gratefully added as many florins. It is not our intention to give a catalogue of even his more important productions, although a large proportion of them were executed for the decoration of his native state, which his patriotism induced him to prefer to the splendid offers made him by foreign monarchs. Among those commissioned by his sovereign was the Calling of St. Andrew, finished in 1584, and presented to Philip II., that saint being patron of the Spanish order of the Golden Fleece. It was about the same time that Duke Francesco Maria dedicated to the Madonna del Annunziata, a chapel in the church of Loreto, which we have already mentioned as decorated in fresco by Federigo Zuccaro. Its altar-picture was committed to Baroccio, the subject naturally being the Annunciation. This was in all respects a labour of love, the theme being in perfect unison with his dulcet manner, and it was accordingly considered by himself his chef-d'oeuvre, a merit which, in the opinion of many, is shared by his Deposition, and, in that of Simon da Pesaro, by his Santa Michelina. Modern connoisseurs may decide between the first and last of those three great works, as they hang side by side in the Vatican Gallery, the former of them, and the Deposition, having been returned from Paris. The Annunciation is certainly a very favourable and pleasing specimen of the Baroccesque manner, but an eye versed in the criticism of sacred art must demur to the judgment of Bellori, who found maiden humility in the Virgin, a celestial air in the angel, and spiritual character in the tinting. The principal figure is the portrait of a young lady of the Compagnoni of Macerata, whose features are equally devoid of purity and of noble expression; the colouring, though delicately beautiful in itself, is meretricious in effect, transmuting flesh into roses; and the whole sentiment of the picture is anything but devotional. On the other hand, it is distinguished above a majority of his important works by unity of composition, although, like most productions of his age, the action is exaggerated and the details mannered. A copy in mosaic was sent to replace this favourite effort, which was often reproduced by the master and his pupils. A repetition of it was presented by Francesco Maria to the court of Spain, and another, left unfinished, remains at Gubbio. The Santa Michelina, protectress of Pesaro, was painted for the church of S. Francesco there, and exhibits a striking deviation from this artist's wonted style. A single figure kneeling on Mount Calvary in ecstatic contemplation, amid the war of convulsed elements, admitted of no paltry prettiness, and could scarcely fail to attain grandeur. There is, accordingly, in the breadth of composition, and in the prevalent low neutral tone, an approach to severe art, inducing us to overlook the fluttering draperies and girlish forms that belong to the master. [Illustration: _Anderson_ NOLI ME TANGERE _After the picture by Baroccio, once in the Ducal Collection at Urbino, now in the Uffizi Gallery, Florence_] Rome possesses by a better title three other pictures deserving the notice of those who desire to appreciate Baroccio. The Presentation of the Madonna (1594), and the Visitation, adorn the Chiesa Nuova, where the latter is said to have often inspired S. Filippo Neri's devotions; the Institution of the Sacrament according to the Romish rite, in the church of the Minerva, was a present from the Duke of Urbino to Clement VIII., who conferred upon the painter a gold chain. It is related that, in the original sketch, Satan was introduced, whispering treason into the ear of Judas, but was afterwards omitted, in deference to his Holiness's opinion, that the Devil ought not to be represented as "so much at ease in the Saviour's presence." On occasion of the same Pontiff's visit to Urbino, in 1598, he received from his host a golden vase for holy water, beautifully chased, with a painting by Baroccio at the bottom, wherein the infant Christ, seated on the clouds, gives the benediction with one hand, and supports the globe with the other. This charming miniature so delighted the Pope, that he had it removed from the benitier, and affixed to his daily office book. The Cathedral of Urbino contains the latest of his great church pictures, representing the Last Supper, as well as the St. Sebastian, one of his early works, and it is interesting to contrast their respective styles. The St. Sebastian was commissioned for 100 florins in 1557, whilst the inspirations of Rome still hovered over his palette, and imparted vigour to his already Correggesque manner. This hackneyed and generally harrowing subject is treated with pleasing novelty, the group consisting of the saint, a graceful figure bound to a fig-tree, an imperious judge who has condemned him, and a brawny archer who carries the sentence into effect, whilst the Madonna and Child appear on high to support the martyr's faith and hope. In the Cenacolo, the fair promise of that able production is sadly abandoned: all those great qualities of his predecessors, which he began by happily imitating, are there replaced by extravagance, and even harmony is absent from his multifarious tints. Of his innumerable minor works we cannot pause to take note, and he scarcely ever painted in fresco. It is remarkable that, although his manner was, even in its defects, well suited to the voluptuous character of mythological fable, and to many a scene of mundane grandeur, he limited himself to sacred representations, almost the only exception being portraits. Of the latter, his most successful is Duke Francesco Maria, in rich armour, as he returned from the fight of Lepanto; it has been deservedly honoured with a place in the Tribune at Florence, and an equally beautiful repetition adorns the Camuccini collection at Rome. The amount of his labours is inconceivable, considering the constant sufferings which he is represented to have undergone, from an almost total destruction of digestion, and habitual sleeplessness, consequent upon having been poisoned at thirty-two years of age. The large pictures we have mentioned are but few of those which he produced, yet no artist was more painstaking. Bellori assures us that he always prepared two cartoons and two coloured sketches, drawing exclusively from the life, and made many studies of drapery, separately perfecting his chiaroscuros from figures repeatedly modelled by his own hands, ere he transferred them to his paper. Such conscientious diligence could scarcely have been looked for in an artist whose works owe little to their outline, and may appear unnecessary to those who imitate his fusion only as a trick to mask defective design. This peculiar quality of his colouring was likewise matter of unwearied application, and he endeavoured to facilitate its results by an artificial scale, corresponding to notes in music, as a test for the gradation of his "tuneful" tints. The merits of Baroccio consist in much variety and novelty of conception, in skilful management of his lights, and in the dexterous blending of strongly contrasted tints into a harmonious whole. The Correggesque tone of his pictures admirably conformed to the soft and gentle turn of his character; but whilst his design is more exact, and his foreshortenings are more true, he wants the breadth of Correggio; though his lights are more silvery and superficially lucent, his chiaroscuro neither attains to the force nor the depth of his prototype. The peculiar beauty at which he constantly aimed degenerates into a deformity; the almost cloying sweetness of his faces produces in the spectator a surfeit, inducing a desire for simpler fare. His figures are often deficient in self-possession, his colouring in verity, his compositions in solidity and repose. In a word, Baroccio shared the usual fate of eclectic painters, who, distrusting their own resources, seek to make up a manner from the combined excellences of their predecessors. Striving to engraft the grace of the Parmese upon the design of the Roman school, he fell into a flimsy mannerism, which, in straining after meretricious charms, departs from dignity and devotional feeling. The days were nearly over when genius loved to master several branches of art; and it would have been better had our painter limited his labours to the palette, and to spirited etchings from his own compositions. At the command, however, of his sovereign, he, in 1603, undertook to supply designs for a long-contemplated statue of Duke Federigo; and Gaye gives us several of his letters regarding the difficulties of this commission, which baffled him for six months. His great aim was to retain the peculiar character of the head, without rendering prominent the unseemly defect in the eye and nose,--an object hitherto effected by portraying the old warrior only in profile. He worked chiefly from the bas-relief over the library door in the palace, and that at the church of S. Giovanni.[224] The execution of his design was committed to Girolamo Campagna at Venice, a sculptor of note, who cannot justly be held accountable for this poor and awkward performance. It was placed, in 1606, on the palace stairs at Urbino, where it remains. [Footnote 224: Carteggio, III., pp. 529-35. This medallion is now removed from the library door to the first landing-place of the great stair. It may have been by the medallist, Clemente of Urbino, mentioned in vol. II.] But for the misfortune of his broken health, Baroccio would have been as happy as his estimable character deserved. He was fortunate in his temper, in his extended reputation, in his easy circumstances, in his multiplied orders, and in his many scholars. His infirmities prevented him from accepting flattering invitations to the courts of Austria, Spain, and Tuscany, but the friendship of his own sovereign never failed him. Having fitted up in his house at Urbino a sort of exhibition room for his works, it was repeatedly visited by Francesco Maria, whose Diary not only mentions this, but notes his death and that of his brother Simone, "an excellent maker of compasses." On the 1st of October, 1612, is this entry: "Federigo Baroccio of Urbino died, aged seventy-seven, an excellent painter, whose eye and hand served him as well as in his youth." His real age seems to have been eighty-four, and there can be no doubt that he retained his faculties, painting without spectacles, until struck at the last by apoplexy, a remarkable triumph of mind over protracted bodily infirmities. Yet the deterioration of his later works, which may still be seen at Urbino and Pesaro, sadly belies the Duke's tribute to his green old age. A list of many of those which he executed for that kind patron will be found in the last number of our Appendix. At his funeral in S. Francesco, a church standard, painted by himself, with a Crucifixion, was placed at the foot of his bier: the tablet inscribed to his memory has been excluded in rebuilding the nave, but remains in the adjoining corridor. * * * * * The popularity of Baroccio, both personally and as a painter, recruited to his studio many young artists, eager to enter the path which he had successfully trodden. But the faults of his style were of a sort which imitation was sure to exaggerate, and the absence of solid qualities in the master prevented the felicitous development of such talent as nature had granted to his pupils. We accordingly search in vain among his many scholars for a single name of eminence; and we might pass over the _Baroccisti_ without further notice, but that a considerable proportion of them claim a passing word as natives of the duchy. ANTONIO VIVIANI, son of a baker at Urbino, was a favourite of his master, though probably not his nephew, as supposed by Lanzi. In early life, his productions imitated those of Baroccio with great success, as may be seen at Fano and in various parts of the duchy, but on proceeding to Rome his style rapidly deteriorated. Emulating the flimsy and faulty manner of the Cavaliere d'Arpino, by which high art was then fatally degraded, he painted against time in the Vatican and Lateran palaces, as well as on many altar commissions. These, when compared with other contemporary trash, obtained a degree of applause which sounder criticism is compelled to withhold from il Sordo, the nickname by which their author was generally known. But he sacrificed his art without improving his fortune; and an old age, passed in poverty, was closed in disappointment and want. His brother Ludovico, "wicked, graceless, and disobedient, unworthy the name of son," had from his father's will five farthings in lieu of his patrimony, and his career maintained the prestige of this sad outset, both in his character and works. ALESSANDRO VITALE, born at Urbino in 1580, so completely caught the amenity of his instructor's manner, as to be employed during his advanced years to copy many of his works, which, with a few finishing touches, passed as originals. ANTONIO CIMATORIO, _alias il Visacci_ or the Ugly, was chiefly employed on festive and scenic decorations, aided by GIULIO CESARE BEGNI of Pesaro: the latter went afterwards to Venice, and, devoting himself to better things, left not a few good pictures in the March of Treviso. GIORGIO PINCHI of Castel Durante, and ANDREA LILLIO of Ancona, both approached the Baroccesque manner with considerable success, and shared the labours of il Sordo on the pontifical frescoes in Rome. Among those who carried the same style to a distance, may be named ANTONIO ANTONIANO of Urbino, who, after aiding Baroccio with his great picture of the Crucifixion, was sent by him with it to Genoa, and there settled. GIOVANNI and FRANCESCO, two brothers of Urbino, and probably offsets of this school, emigrated to Spain, and painted in the Escurial, under the patronage of Philip II. FILIPPO BELLINI, a native of the same city, though a pupil of Baroccio, adopted a more vigorous manner, but his works are scarcely met with out of Umbria. To this catalogue it is enough to add the names of Francesco Baldelli, Lorenzo Vagnarelli, Ventura Marza, Cesare Maggieri, Bertuzzi, and Porino, all born in the duchy; and those of Bandiera and the Pellegrini of Perugia, the Malpiedi of La Marca, and the Cavaliere Francesco Vanni of Siena, the latter of whom, though not among his scholars, so thoroughly adopted the peculiarities of Baroccio, as to be perhaps the happiest of his imitators. TERENZIO TERENZI of Urbino, known by the soubriquet of Rondinello, earned a dishonourable reputation by his successful imitations of the older masters, which he passed off as originals; and having fallen into merited disgrace with his kind patron, the Cardinal of Montalto, in consequence of pawning upon him one of his forgeries as a Raffaele, he died of vexation in the first years of the seventeenth century, aged thirty-five. * * * * * CLAUDIO RIDOLFI, though born in Verona in 1560, may be considered a subject of Urbino. His family was noble, but not rich, so adopting painting as a profession, he studied its principles under Paul Veronese, at Venice. But the temptations to idleness which beset him at home so interfered with success that he resolved to escape from them. On his way to Rome he stayed some time at Urbino with Baroccio, in whose glittering style he lost somewhat of the better manner of his early master. But his journey to the "mother of arts and arms" was interrupted by more powerful fascinations; for he married a noble lady of Urbino, and settled at Corinaldo, some miles above Sinigaglia, attracted by the beauty of its site, and fain to enjoy, in provincial retirement, exemption from the jealousies and struggles which often beset artists in a city life, where tact or fortune are apt to confer a success denied to merit. Though he returned for a time to his native city, and painted many excellent works in it, and in the principal towns of the Venetian state, the charms of Corinaldo and his wife's influence induced him to spend there the greater part of a long life. He died in 1644, aged, according to his namesake Carlo Ridolfi, eighty-four, or to Ticozzi, seventy years. To the glowing tints of the Lombard school he eventually added the merit of more accurate design; but his principal excellences were a chastened composition, and a close attention to the proprieties of costume, as contributing to a proper intelligence of the subject. A vast number of his productions are scattered over Umbria and La Marca, and there issued from his studio not a few pupils of provincial eminence, most of whom tended considerably towards the Baroccesque manner. Of those belonging to Urbino the most conspicuous was BENEDETTO MARINI, who, though scarcely known at home, produced many important works in Lombardy, and excelled in the management of crowded compositions, such as his immense Miracle of the Loaves and Fishes, painted at Piacenza in 1625. Patanazzi and Urbinelli belong to a less distinguished category, and though Girolamo Cialderi is ranked with them by Lanzi, he seems referable to a subsequent period. * * * * * Gubbio continued in the sixteenth century to maintain a school which, though acquiring little more than a provincial reputation, was not without merit. BENEDETTO NUCCI was born there about 1520, and, imbibing from Raffaelino del Colle certain inspirations of the golden age, left in his native town many respectable church pictures. He died in 1587, having seen his son Virgilio escape from his studio to place himself under Daniel di Volterra at Rome. Among his pupils, but of ever progressive mediocrity, were FELICE DAMIANO and CESARE DI GIUSEPPE ANDREOLI, the latter an offset of a family whose eminence in the art of majolica will be mentioned in our fifty-fifth chapter. CHAPTER LIV Foreign artists patronised by the dukes Della Rovere--The tomb of Julius II. by Michael Angelo--Character and influence of his genius--Titian's works for Urbino--Palma Giovane--Il Semolei--Sculptors at Urbino. It would occupy a full chapter were we to trace the history of what Julius II. meant to have been his tomb, from the chisel of Michael Angelo Buonarroti; yet the subject is too illustrative of that Pontiff's grandiose spirit, and of the artist's unfulfilled aspirations, as well as too intimately connected with the ducal house of Urbino, to be overlooked. The work was commissioned by Julius himself, who, early in his pontificate, called Buonarroti from Florence to execute a resting-place for his ashes, which, in the words of Vasari, should "surpass in beauty and grandeur, in imposing ornament and elaborate sculpture, all antique and imperial sepulchres." The vast size and colossal proportions of the first design were worthy of artist and patron, and cannot be at all estimated from the curtailed and aimless substitute which now challenges our criticism. Yet there was exaggeration in the ideas as well as the forms; the allegories were far-fetched, the adulation fulsome, and the intention obscure. Such at least is the impression left by the descriptions of Vasari and Condivi. Without attempting to reconcile these with the sketch engraved in the Milanese edition of the former author [1811], it is enough to say that the original plan was an isolated parallelogram, with about ten statues and seven caryatides on each façade, and a sarcophagus aloft for the Pope's body, the estimate for all which seems to have been 10,000 ducats, augmented by his executors to 16,000. Its destined site was St. Peter's, and its utter disproportion in style and extent to that time-worn basilicon appears to have suggested to the indomitable Pontiff the vast idea of reconstructing the metropolitan church of Christendom. This more engrossing undertaking absorbed much of the enterprise and materials destined for the tomb, so the latter remained unfinished at the death of Julius, who barely survived the completion of those Sistine frescoes to which he had transferred the sculptor's reluctant labours. A new and reduced contract having been made by his executors for its completion, Buonarroti resumed it with the preference due to a favourite work; but he sought in vain for leisure to proceed with it on the accession of Leo X., who, by a strange misapplication of his powers, sent him to work the marble quarries of Pietra Santa. Indeed, the executors failed to obtain implement of his undertaking under either of the Medicean popes, alienated as these were from the della Rovere, and intent upon otherwise employing the genius of their gifted countryman. [Illustration: _Alinari_ THE COMMUNION OF THE APOSTLES _By Giusto di Gand, in the Palazzo Ducale Urbino._ (_From the Ducal Collection_)] At length Francesco Maria I. took up the forgotten memorial of his uncle, whose over-ambition of monumental honours had meanwhile led to a total oversight of his place of sepulture. As early as 1525, we find the Duke addressing complaints and threats to Buonarroti, whom he charged with idleness, after receiving prepayment of his stipulated price, unaware apparently that he had been overborne by higher authority, and thus compelled to employ himself on commissions less germane to his feelings and tastes. A misunderstanding in regard to the sums so advanced further complicated this unfortunate affair, which was throughout fraught with disappointment and annoyance to Michael Angelo. It slept on till 1532, when a further modification was made of the plan to a single façade whereon six statues were to be placed; but amid competing calls upon his "fearless and furious" chisel or pencil, little progress was made in the next ten years. Irritated by continual exercise of the papal control, such as his independent spirit could ill brook, fretting at the uncongenial labours often thrust upon him, and galled by repeated allegations against his gratitude and his integrity, Buonarroti turned his eyes to Urbino, as a home where his genius would be appreciated without sacrificing his freedom of action, and took steps to retire thither and redeem his pledge to the Duke. But in Paul III. he had a yet more exacting task-master, from whom there was no escape, and in November, 1541, Cardinal Ascanio Parisani wrote to Duke Guidobaldo that the Pope having commissioned the sculptor to paint the Last Judgment, which would occupy his undivided attention during several years, to the exclusion of the monument, he had to propose, at the instance of his Holiness, a new arrangement, whereby the statues for its reduced design, so far as not already finished by Michael Angelo, were committed to other artists, working upon his models and under his eye. Yielding gracefully to the necessity of the case, the Duke wrote the following letter.[225] [Footnote 225: There is a copy of it in the Magliabechiana Library, class viii., No. 1392, to which Gaye has from other sources supplied the date of 6th March, 1542. Carteggio, II., 289-309. From him, Ciampi, Vasari, and Condivi, we have condensed the very confused details respecting the monument of Julius which have come down to us.] "Most excellent Messer Michelangiolo, "His Holiness having deigned to [inform] me of his urgent desire to avail himself for some time of your labours, in painting and decorating the new chapel he is making in the Apostolic Palace, and I, esteeming and gratefully acknowledging all service and satisfaction given to his holiness as bestowed on myself, in order that you may more freely give your mind to that matter, am perfectly content that you place on the tomb of my uncle of blessed memory, Pope Julius, those three statues already terminated entirely by your hand, the Moses included. And in order, as nearly as possible, to perfect the whole in terms of our last stipulations, which, as I am informed, you are anxious and ready to do, [I consent] that you commit the execution of the other three statues to some good and esteemed master, but after your own designs and under your superintendence; relying confidently, from your good-will to his sacred memory and to my house, that you will bring the work to a satisfactory issue, and so contrive that it shall be deemed most laudable, and in all respects worthy of you. Such a result will fully satisfy me; and I again beseech you to see to this, as conferring on me a special obligation; offering myself at all times [ready] for all your commands and pleasure." Under this final alteration of his contract, Michael Angelo forthwith assigned to Raffaele da Montelupo the execution of his designs for a Madonna with a Child in her arms, and for a prophet and a sibyl seated, at the price of 400 scudi; employing at the same time two decorative stonecutters upon the ornamental details of the façade, at a cost of 800 more. The statues from his own hand were to be Moses, and two caryatides holding captives, who had been introduced into the first plan, as allegorical of the cities in Romagna subdued by Julius. But, finding these too large for the reduced design, he proposed to substitute for them two other figures from his chisel, already far advanced, and which he would entrust to be finished by others at a cost of 200 scudi, his Moses being destined to stand between them. All this is stated by him in a petition to the Pope of 20th July, 1542. The two substituted statues were finished by Buonarroti, and, in the documents printed by Gaye, are named by him Active and Contemplative Life. This, however, is a free interpretation of the allegory, the figures being, according to Vasari, Leah and Rachel. The recumbent Pope was the wretched work of one Maso di Bosco or Boscoli; and the prophet and sibyl by Montelupo are said to have greatly dissatisfied Michael Angelo. The two rejected caryatide prisoners found their way to Paris in the time of Francis I., and remain in the Louvre; another similar is in the great hall of the Palazzo Vecchio, at Florence; and some grandiose, half-blocked ideas, still to be seen here and there, whose rough power identifies them with Michael Angelo, may have belonged to his original plan. About the beginning of 1545, forty years after it had been undertaken, the work was placed in the Church of S. Pietro in Vincoli, of which Julius had been Cardinal-presbyter. Though meant as his tomb, it is but his monument; for the bones of that imperious high priest have found a fitter resting-place in the grandest of Christian fanes, his own creation, and best memorial. Few works of art have occasioned greater variety of opinion. In his Lectures, Fuseli has exposed several of his defects, and the impression it most frequently leaves upon the spectator is thus aptly expressed by him in an Italian letter to the translator of Webb on the Beautiful:-- "In the Moses, Michael Angelo has sacrificed beauty to anatomical science, and to his favourite passion for the terrible and the gigantic. If it be true that he looked at the arm of the famous Ludovisi satyr, he probably, also, studied the head, in order to transfer its character to the Moses, since both of them resemble that of an old he-goat. There is, notwithstanding, in the figure a quality of monstrous grandeur which cannot be denied to Buonarroti, and which, like a thunder-storm, presaged the bright days of Raffaele." This monument must ever be regarded as but the epitome of a grand design, curtailed without scale or measurement, deformed by colossal portions from the original in combination with dwarfish details of its pigmy substitute, marred by incomplete allegories, and eked out by supposititious figures. Yet few will leave the spot without another glance at the tremendous Moses, nor will any connoisseur avert his gaze until the awful majesty of that one statue has eclipsed the petty incongruities of its location. It is among those rare creations of man's mind which, rising above the standard of human forms and human sympathies, demand a loftier test. The pervading sentiment alone challenges our intellectual regard, and bespeaks our verdict; yet with playful prodigality, the artist has lavished an ivory finish upon its details, without detracting from the sublime character of the irate lawgiver.[226] [Footnote 226: A favourite workman of Buonarroti, often met with under the patronymic Urbino, was Francesco Amadori di Colonello, of Castel Durante, who lived with him from 1530 to 1536. See GUALANDI, _Nuovo Raccolta di Lettere sulla Pittura_, I., 48-52.] * * * * * Although this work is the only link directly connecting Michael Angelo with the ducal house of Urbino, we may be allowed a passing tribute to that genius which has hammered huge rocks into colossal compositions, and embodied themes the most difficult in forms the most daring. Of the simple element of beauty we, indeed, find in him few traces. Gentleness and pathos had no place either in his wayward spirit or in his works.[*227] Discarding the beau-ideal aimed at in antique sculpture, where movement was restrained by the observance of form, and passion modified to the measure of fair proportion, he either startled by impossible postures, gnarled limbs, and sturdy deformity, or, in the words of Fuseli, "perplexed the limbs of grandeur with the minute ramifications of anatomy." Hence, when tried by the rules of art, many of his creations are found wanting; when submitted to the standard of pure taste, their faults become glaring. In straining to shake off the trammels of manner, he often fell into mannerism the most infelicitous; and the impression too commonly left on the spectator is that of energy wasted and talent misapplied. But his mind was of that lofty cast which, soaring above common themes, and spurning conventional restrictions, substituted power for beauty, and challenged our wonder rather than our approbation. Awed by the sublimity of his ideas, we overlook their inadequate development, until, descending to details, we impugn the unfinished sketch, and half-chiselled marble, painfully reminded that superhuman gifts are often marred by very ordinary weaknesses. [Footnote *227: No? Consider then the Pietà of S. Pietro in Vaticano, the unfinished Pietà of S. Maria del Fiore. All that Dennistoun says of Michelangelo is full of misunderstanding. For instance, he never "startles" though he may terrify one. It would be ridiculous to defend him. His work is beautiful, with the beauty of the mountains in which he alone has found the spirit of man. His figures, half unveiled from the living rock, are like some terrible indictment of the world he lived in: an indictment of himself too, perhaps, of his contempt for things as they are; it is in a sort of rage at its uselessness that he leaves them unfinished. In him the spirit of man has stammered the syllables of eternity, and in its agony of longing or sorrow has failed to speak only the word love. All things particular to the individual, all that is small or of little account, that endures but for a moment, he has purged away, so that life itself may make, as it were, an immortal gesticulation almost monstrous in its passionate intensity--a shadow seen on the mountains, a mirage on the snow.] [Illustration: _Anderson_ GIOVANNI AND FEDERICO, ELECTORS OF SAXONY _After the Portraits by Cranach, once in the Ducal Collection at Urbino, now in the Uffizi Gallery, Florence_] No one, perhaps, fully aware of Michael Angelo's celebrity, ever looked for the first time upon one of his principal works without a shade of disappointment. Inventions appealing to the intellect without sympathy from the feelings,--attitudes struggling with difficulty rather than aiming at elegance,--muscular masses, rugged as the blocks from which they are rudely hewn; such things surpass the comprehension of superficial observers, and disenchant common minds. Yet there is a spell around all of them which arrests the most careless, and recalls the most disappointed, and the longer they are examined, especially by persons of cultivated understanding, the more certain will be the final tribute to their transcendent qualities, the more unreserved the avowal that their author stands out among the foremost geniuses whom the world has seen. Feebleness or insipidity had no place in his conceptions, and no individual ever left the impress of his vigorous mind upon so many various arts. He was a poet of no mean pretensions. His architecture is as successful as bold. It is difficult to say whether his frescoes or his sculptures are the more admirable. Even his oil paintings are worthy of more notice than they have met with; and, the few ascertained specimens display a mastery of finish little to be looked for from their wayward and impetuous author, and develop in their execution, as well as in their design, an extraordinary pictorial science. The trite assertion that he never painted but three easel pictures seems fully negatived by the mechanical perfection which, notwithstanding a certain languor of colouring and flatness of surface, these exhibit, and which must have been gained by extensive practice. In his house, even a miniature on parchment is shown as his work; and not a few tiny productions in bronze and ivory bear the stamp of his invention, if not of his hand. These were probably labours of those early days when, with equal verity and shrewdness the Gonfaloniere Soderini recommended him to the Roman court as "a fine young man, unequalled in his art throughout Italy, or perhaps the world. He will do anything for good words and caresses; indeed, he must be treated with affection and favour, in which case he will perform things to astonish all beholders."[228] In the sacristy of S. Lorenzo, at Florence, these anticipations were amply realised on the monuments of two of the Medici, with whom an earlier portion of these pages has made us acquainted. These works were, however, no labour of love to the sculptor, whose sympathies had been alien to that race from the days when Pietro ceased to walk in the ways of his fathers. Accordingly, their greatest fault is, that the artist absorbs our interest almost to the exclusion of the personages commemorated, to whom the allegorical compositions appear to have no reference. It is, indeed, only their portraits that recall the purpose of the monuments. That of the elegant and gentle Giuliano awakens no association that might not be suggested by the statue of some nameless warrior of the classic age. More appropriate is the bearing of Lorenzo, the usurper of Urbino. The stern gloom that broods over his casque, and shadows his repulsive features, scowling upon the world from whose sympathies he seems a voluntary alien, is an enduring index of his unamiable character. But it is in the Sistine chapel that Buonarroti sits pre-eminent. Who that stands beneath its grand frescoes can doubt the daring, the originality, and grasp of his genius, who triumphantly called into existence forms and movements before which ordinary minds shrink into pigmy dimensions? Yet, who that observes the rapid decline of the Michael-Angelesque school into mannered contortion and extravagant caricature, can question its mischievous influence, or the danger of opening up such fields to uninspired labourers? On both sides of the Alps, its followers or imitators, mistaking extravagance for energy, manner for power, and servilely substituting exceptional attitudes for the sublimity of nature and the dignity of repose, have copied his design without imbibing his spirit, and have embodied feeble conceptions in preposterous forms. [Footnote 228: See Gaye, _Carteggio_, II., 83-109, sub anno 1506.] Freely have we spoken of a name to whom all honour is due, whose failings may be noted as a warning, without diminishing our respect for his manifold attainments. Our readers may appreciate his success as a poet through Mr. Glassford's felicitous version of a sonnet worthy the noblest of art's disciples.[*229] [Footnote *229: Cf. J.A. SYMONDS, _The Sonnets of Michelangelo_.] "Now my fair bark through life's tempestuous flood Is steered, and full in view that port is seen, Where all must answer what their course has been, And every work be tried, if bad or good. Now do those lofty dreams, my fancy's brood, Which made of ART an idol and a queen, Melt into air; and now I feel, how keen! That what I needed most I most withstood. Ye fabled joys, ye tales of empty love, What are ye now, if twofold death be nigh? The first is certain, and the last I dread. Ah! what does Sculpture, what does Painting prove, When we have seen the Cross, and fixed our eye On Him whose arms of love were there outspread!" The home patronage of the della Rovere dukes was, however, by no means limited to their subjects, and TITIAN[*230] enjoyed high favour from the first two sovereigns of that dynasty. The coronation of Charles V., in 1532, having attracted to Bologna a concourse of distinguished persons, Titian, then in his fifty-fifth year, was honoured by an imperial invitation to join the throng. The monarch, himself reputed no mean craftsman, delighted to pass what time he could snatch from business, in conversing with the painter, and observing his progress, till one day, having picked up a fallen pencil, he returned it, saying, "Titian deserves to be waited on by an Emperor." The Duke of Urbino, who may have known the Venetian in his native city, was among the sovereigns and cardinals whose commissions on that occasion contended for preference, and but a short time, probably, elapsed ere his own and his consort's portraits were produced,[*231] although Vasari and Ridolfi have erroneously fixed their date in 1543, five years after Francesco Maria's death. [Footnote *230: For Titian, consult GRONAU, _Titian_ (Duckworth, 1904). By far the best handbook on the painter.] [Footnote *231: As before stated, the first works that Titian painted for Francesco Maria were a portrait of Hannibal, a Nativity, a figure of our Lord. The Duke writes him concerning them in 1533 as follows (cf. GRONAU, _op. cit._, p. 91):-- "Dearest Friend,-- "You know through our envoy how much we wish for pictures ... and the longer we have to wait the more eager we are to have them ... and so we beg you to satisfy us as soon as possible. Finish at least one of the pictures, that we may rejoice in something by your hand." The portraits were begun in 1536, in which year (October) Aretino wrote a sonnet on that of the Duke. They were finished early in 1538. Of the earlier pictures, the figure of Christ is probably that in the Pitti Gallery (228); the others apparently have perished. In 1536 the Duke wrote again asking for a _Resurrection_ for the Duchess, and begging Titian to finish the "picture of a woman in a blue dress as beautifully as possible." This latter is probably the _Bella_ of the Pitti Gallery (18), which some have thought to be Eleonora Gonzaga, Francesco Maria's wife. She was then forty-three years old, and her portrait was painted at this time by the same master (Uffizi, 599) as a companion for that of the Duke (Uffizi, 605). Duke Guidobaldo, while yet but Duke of Camerino, had sat to Titian, and had bought from him the picture of a "Nude Woman" (GRONAU, _op. cit._, p. 95). In March, 1538, he sent a messenger to Venice, who was instructed not to leave the city without them. He got one, but the other had not been delivered in May of that year. The Duke wrote to him to beware lest it passed elsewhere, "for I am resolved to mortgage a part of my property if I cannot obtain it in any other way." This picture was probably the _Venus_ of the Tribune (Uffizi, 1117) who is so like the _Bella_. Now if we are right in supposing the pictures alluded to in the letters--the lady in the blue dress and the nude woman--are the pictures we know (which came from Urbino), it seems obvious that they cannot have been portraits of the Duchess. And, again, we have the Duchess's portrait painted at this time, in which we see a woman of forty-three, which was in truth her age. In June, 1539, Guidobaldo, Duke of Urbino now, received three portraits, of the Emperor, the King of France, and the Turkish Sultan, from Titian. Vasari speaks of them, but they have been lost. In 1542-44 he painted a banner for the Brotherhood of Corpus Domini at Urbino--the Resurrection and the Last Supper. The pictures were shortly afterwards framed, and are now in the Urbino Gallery (10). Then in November, 1546, Duchess Giulia Varana of Urbino writes impatiently to Titian, sending at the same time some sleeves he had asked for, and hoping that he will not delay longer to finish "our portraits" (GRONAU, _op. cit._, p. 99). And letters of Aretino in 1545 confirm the fact that Titian was painting portraits of the Duke and Duchess. Then in February, 1547, one of the courtiers of Urbino sent Titian a dress of the Duchess, adding that "a handsomer one would have been sent if he had not wished for one of crimson or pink velvet"; a damask one was sent of the desired colour. The portrait by Titian in the State Apartments of the Pitti Palace, discovered only a few years ago, is said to be of Catherine de' Medici, by Tintoretto. It is, however, certainly Titian's (GRONAU, _op. cit._, p. 100), and is probably the missing portrait of the Duchess Giulia. It is unfinished, and the dress is of rose colour. It is one of his finest portraits. There were two portraits at least of Guidobaldo by Titian, one of 1538 and one of 1545; one of these is said to have been in Florence in the seventeenth century. Gronau suggests that the "Young Englishman" of the Pitti Gallery (92), the finest portrait even Titian ever painted, may be one of them. But I cannot persuade myself that that figure is other than English. Yet if it be, it might well companion the Bella. In 1545 Titian, on his way to Rome, travelled by Ferrara and Pesaro, where Guidobaldo, who had accompanied him, entertained him and made him many presents, sending a company of horse with him to Rome. There follows an interval of twenty years, in which their friendship seems not altogether to have been forgotten. Then between 1564 and 1567 Titian painted several pictures for Guidobaldo, among them a "Christ" and a "Madonna"; in 1573 he apparently had another commission. It is impossible to say what these pictures may have been.] [Illustration: _Anderson_ LA BELLA _After the picture by Titian in the Pitti Gallery. Florence. Supposed portrait of Duchess Leonora_] Few of Titian's likenesses have been more lauded than the Duke's, both as regards truth and execution; but we shall quote only the testimony of Aretino, who knew well the painter and his subject. "In gazing upon it, I called Nature to witness, making her confess that Art was positively metamorphosed into herself; and to this, each wrinkle, each hair, each spot bears testimony, whilst the colouring not only exhibits vigour of person, but displays manliness of mind. The vermilion hue of that velvet drapery behind him is reflected in the lustrous armour he wears. How fine the effect of his casquet-plumes, reproduced on the burnished cuirass of the mighty general! Even his batons of command are perfect nature, chiefly that of his own adventure, thus budding on the faith of his renown, which began to shed its glories in the war which humbled his private foe. Who would assert that the truncheons confided to him by the Church, Venice, and Florence, were not of silver?"[232] In Aretino's letter were enclosed two sonnets on the portrait and its companion; they will be found in the Appendix, No. XI., together with one in which Bernardo Tasso appeals to Titian for a likeness of his lady-love. Aretino's lines regarding the Duke may be thus literally rendered:-- "Fear on the crowd from either eyebrow falls; Fire in his glance, and pride upon his front, The spacious seat of honour and resolve. Beneath that bust of steel, with arm prepared, Burns valour, prompt all peril to repel, From sacred Italy, that on his worth relies." [Footnote 232: The style of Aretino was often rugged, wayward, and unintelligible, like his character. He seems to imagine that, of the three batons placed behind the Duke, one, bearing acorns and oak leaves, alludes to his successful campaigns on his own account, for recovery of his states. _Lettere Pittoriche_, I., App. No. 29. The force of colour peculiar to this, above all Titian's works, cannot be fully given by the burin, especially not by the _mezza macchia_ style in which it has been engraved for this volume. Our frontispiece, though accurate as a likeness, is accordingly among the least effective illustrations in our work. No other original portrait of the Duke has fallen under my observation; and if the slight youthful figure introduced by Raffaele into the Disputa and School of Athens really was meant for him, no resemblance can be traced in it.] [Illustration: _Anderson_ THE VENUS OF URBINO _Supposed portrait of the Duchess Leonora, after the picture by Titian in the Uffizi Gallery, Florence. Once in the Ducal Collection_] The other sonnet, descriptive of Leonora's likeness, alludes to the master's harmonious tints as figuring varied charms met in her character, such as humility of disposition, decorum in dress and manners, sustained by a dignified expression. In her features, beauty united with modesty, a rare combination; and grace was enthroned on her eyebrows. Prudence presided over her becoming silence, and other excellent qualities marvellously adorned her forehead. Nor are these praises exaggerated. Those who attentively observe this portrait in the Uffizi Gallery will readily acknowledge that, although, perhaps, more elaborated in its details than any other from the master's hand, his pencil never attained greater breadth, nor embodied high art in more severe character.[233] [Footnote 233: The _zebellino_ on the Duchess's knee was the fashionable bag or reticule of that day, made of an entire sable-skin, the animal's head, richly jewelled, forming its clasp. Giulia della Rovere d'Este commissioned such a one from a jeweller at Bologna in 1555, and paid him forty-six dollars to account.] The connection thus formed by Titian with the house of Urbino was maintained after the accession of Duke Guidobaldo, through whom Paul III. invited him to Bologna in 1543, where he painted that Pontiff with his wonted success. About the same time the Duke commissioned from him a likeness of himself, which was finished two years later. The misfortune sustained by its disappearance may be appreciated from the words of Aretino, who, writing to Guidobaldo, says, "For he has so embodied in his colours the very air you breathe, that in the same attitude as you at this instant appear to others at Vicenza, we now behold you in Venice, where we circle, bow, and pay court to you, just as do your suite who are in waiting upon you there." Vecellio lived among men whose talents, and fame, and forms, and dress deserved commemoration; and to such he did justice, for painter and sitters were worthy of each other, conferring a mutual and enduring illustration. His pencil, and those of his followers, were singularly happy in preserving individual character, although wanting in ideality and intense expression. But their great excellence displayed itself in the representation of voluptuous scenes, adapted alike to their glowing tints and the taste of their countrymen. In 1545, Titian repaired to Rome, at the request of Cardinal Alessandro Farnese, visiting Urbino[*234] on the way, and receiving several commissions which he could not stay to execute. Setting forward on his journey, he was conducted by Guidobaldo in person to Pesaro, and thence by an escort to Rome. The impression left upon the painter in this passage is thus described to the Duke, by his friend Aretino:--"Titian writes me, 'Worship the Lord Guidobaldo, gossip!--worship him, I say, gossip! for no princely bounty can compare with his.' And these exclamations are his grateful acknowledgment of the mounted escort of seven attendants which your Excellency provided for him, with good company, and all paid; over and above the ease wherewith, amid caresses, honours, and gifts, you made him feel quite at home. I was, indeed, melted by the account he gave me of your marvellous efforts to benefit, honour, and welcome him." We have, to the like purpose, the less exceptionable testimony of Bembo, who, on the 10th of October, wrote to Girolamo Querini: "I must add that your old friend Maestro Tiziano is here, who represents himself as much beholden to you.... The Lord Duke of Urbino has treated him with exceeding kindness, retaining him about his person, and bringing him as far as Pesaro, and thence forwarding him thither, well mounted and attended, for all which he acknowledges himself under great obligations." [Footnote *234: Apparently he only went to Pesaro. Cf. note *2, p. 390.] [Illustration: _Anderson_ SLEEPING VENUS _After the picture by Giorgione in the Dresden Gallery, after which the Venus of Urbino was painted_] Vasari mentions, as executed by Titian for the court of Urbino, portraits of Popes Sixtus IV., Julius II., and Paul III.; of Charles V., Francis I., Sultan Solyman, and the Cardinal of Lorraine. I have not succeeded in tracing any of these with certainty, but two half-lengths of beautiful women, added to the list by Ticozzi, may probably be the Flora[*235] now in the Uffizi Gallery, and the Bella in the Pitti Palace: their features exhibit considerable analogy with each other, and with the former of two pictures we are now to describe. In the last number of the Appendix we shall rectify various errors regarding Titian's two celebrated Venuses in the Tribune at Florence. One of them, painted for Guidobaldo II., has no proper right to that title, being correctly called in the old Urbino inventories, "a naked woman lying." She is stretched at full length along a bed, on which is a linen sheet, with a green curtain above. A tiny spaniel crouches at her feet, and two waiting-maids are searching in a chest near an open balcony, for garments wherewith to veil her all-exposed charms. The languor of her eye, the listless attitudes into which her limbs have dropped, personify voluptuousness, and express a mind quietly gloating over the past. A certain harmony and warmth of tone, fused throughout the vast surface of delicate flesh-tints and snowy linen, over which broad daylight streams without shadow, are worthy of our highest admiration; and the relief given to the figure, with little aid from the chiaroscuro, is probably unrivalled. The companion picture, which was not, however, executed for Urbino, represents an equally nude figure on a couch of purple damask, near a balcony opening upon a distant landscape. The boy of love, archly toying upon her bosom, decides the subject to be Venus; and her glowing eye-ball expresses the ardour that thrills through her veins. The full and solid flesh is true to those developed forms which, still characterising the women about Treviso, formed the standard of female perfection in Titian's studio; and although the skill with which they undulate, softened by chiaroscuro, demands all praise, there may yet be some who, dissenting from such an ideal of beauty, wish this mortal mould had been refined into the symmetry of that "perfect goddess-ship" which close by "loves in stone." Having thus noticed these nudities, it may be well to add, that the shameless Aretino, while boasting of his own unrestrained debaucheries, bears testimony to the purity of Titian's morals, and the habitual control under which his passions were maintained. [Footnote *235: It seems unlikely that the _Flora_ was ever in Urbino. At any rate, in the seventeenth century it was in the collection of the Spanish ambassador at Amsterdam (cf. GRONAU, _op. cit._, p. 289).] As an antidote, perhaps, to so sensual a production, Titian sent to Urbino, with his Venus, a picture offering the utmost contrast in sentiment and artistic treatment. It was the first of those Magdalens,[*236] frequently repeated by him with slight variations, of whom not a few school copies may be seen passing for originals. Ridolfi tells us that he caught the idea from an antique sculpture, transforming it into a penitent daughter of sin. Yet he has treated it according to those ideas of female beauty which it was the peculiar province of the Venetian school to develop, and which in Italy have passed into the proverbial phrase of _un bel pezzo di carne_, meaning a buxom dame. To borrow the words of Ticozzi, "he has represented a noble lady, who, while yet in her prime, had abandoned the delights and delicacies of her station. With due regard to her past position, he has lavished upon her the beauties of form and complexion; her repentance he has characterised with the most devoted expression of which art is capable." The ascetic sentiment prevailing in this work is well adapted to the sympathies of the Roman Church, among whose followers it has ever been more a favourite than with Protestant amateurs. [Footnote *236: Pitti Gallery, No. 67. We know nothing of this picture save that it must have been painted about 1530-35, and that Vasari saw it in the Guardaroba of the Palace of Urbino.] [Illustration: PORTRAIT OF HIS WIFE, BY LUCAS CRANACH _From the picture in the Roscoe Collection, Liverpool. Possibly modelled on the Venus of Urbino_] Our notice of Titian in connection with the court of Urbino, may be closed by a letter, which, in the servile phrase of this century, ventures thus to dun Guidobaldo for payment of a picture sent him five months before:-- "To the most illustrious and most excellent Lord, the Lord Duke of Urbino. "Most illustrious and most excellent Lord, "Very many days have now passed since your most illustrious Excellency desired that I should be advised how your [servant] Agatone ought to have remunerated me for the picture which I sent to your most illustrious Excellency. Which he not having done, although six months are nearly elapsed since the 10th of March, but having only put me off with words, I have chosen to take the step of informing your illustrious Excellency by these lines, that your boundless liberality may aid my necessity, though I admit that I may thereby appear wanting in modesty. I know that your illustrious Excellency, occupied by important affairs, cannot have your mind distracted by such trifles, yet I consider it my duty respectfully to let you know my difficulty; and beseeching you to retain me in your wonted favour, I humbly kiss your most distinguished hands. From Venice, the 27th of October, 1567. Your most illustrious Excellency's most humble servant, "TITIANO VECELLIO." In one of his visits to Venice, about 1559, Guidobaldo, chancing to enter a church of the Crociferi, where a youth was engaged in copying the St. Laurence of Titian, he entered into conversation with him, and subsequently returned more than once to observe his progress. On one of these occasions, while the Duke was hearing mass at a neighbouring altar, the young artist seized the opportunity to sketch his likeness, which was shown him by an attendant. Pleased with its success, and with the painter's manners, he invited him to enter his service. The object of this casual patronage proved not unworthy of it. He was JACOPO PALMA the younger, a name already known to art; for his grandfather, who bore it, had distinguished himself among the scholars of Giorgione and Titian; and his aunt, Violante, was mistress and favourite model of the latter. Palma Giovane, then in his sixteenth year, accompanied the Duke to Pesaro, where he employed his pencil in copying works of Raffaele and Titian. The only anecdote preserved of his residence in the court of Urbino proves that he continued to enjoy his patron's favour; for, in a dispute with the house-steward as to his luncheon, the latter was ordered to treat the youth with more consideration. In order to obtain for him every advantage, the Duke sent him to the charge of his brother, Cardinal della Rovere, at Rome. After there diligently studying antique marbles, with the works of Michael Angelo and those of Polidoro di Caravaggio, Palma, at twenty-four, returned to Venice. On his way, he paid a visit of thanks to Guidobaldo, and by his works removed certain unfavourable impressions made by unfriendly detractors in his absence. Of those which he may have executed for this court, no account has reached us, beyond a notice that Francesco Maria II. paid him, at Venice, 1591, 86 scudi for a Madonna and a St. Francis, which do not, however, appear in the wardrobe inventories. He painted for the metropolitan cathedral at Urbino the Discovery of the Holy Cross, a picture praised by Lanzi beyond its merits; and for Pesaro, a S. Ubaldo, and the Annunciation. Another Venetian, patronised by Guidobaldo, was GIANBATTISTA FRANCO, surnamed _il Semolei_, who was brought to Urbino on a recommendation of Girolamo Genga, in order to paint the choir of the cathedral. He there treated the favourite Umbrian theme of the Coronation of the Madonna in a manner utterly at variance with the old feeling, taking as his prototype the Judgment of Michael Angelo, of whom he was a devoted and assiduous imitator. This work having been destroyed by the fall of the roof in 1789, we shall content ourselves with the description of Vasari, who had seen it, and whose leaning must have been favourable to a work produced under such influence. "And so, in imitation of Buonarroti's Judgment, he represented in the sky the glorification of the saints, scattered on clouds over the roof, with a whole choir of angels around our Lady, in the act of ascending to heaven, where Christ waited to crown her, whilst a number of patriarchs, prophets, sibyls, apostles, martyrs, confessors, and maidens, in varied groups and attitudes, manifested their joy at the arrival of the glorious Virgin. This subject might have afforded to Battista an excellent opportunity of proving his ability, had he adopted a better plan, not only in the practical management of his fresco, but in conducting his entire theme with more judicious arrangement. But in this work he fell into his usual system, constantly repeating the same faces, figures, draperies, and extremities. The colouring was likewise utterly destitute of beauty, and everything was strained and puny. Hence the work, when finished, greatly disappointed the Duke, Genga, and every one, much having been expected from his known capacity for design." Several easel pictures of his, in the sacristy of the Duomo, are weak in composition and poor in colour; but one of St. Peter and St. Paul, before the Madonna and Child, is an exceedingly grandiose production, in the Buonarroti style. We shall have further occasion to speak of this artist in our next chapter. He was born about 1498, and lived to the age of sixty-three; but aware of his deficiencies as a painter, he betook himself in a great measure to engraving, for which his accuracy as a draftsman well qualified him. * * * * * In absence of native sculptors of eminence, the plastic art never was much cherished in our duchy, and few commissions were given, except for decorative or monumental purposes. The festive arches on Duchess Vittoria's marriage were probably designed by Tiziano Aspetti, a bronzist of Upper Italy. Her husband having acquired a Leda by Bartolomeo Ammanati of Florence, he was called to Urbino, to construct a memorial for Francesco Maria I. It does not, however, appear to have been successful, and being quite disproportioned to the little octangular church of Sta. Chiara, of which it occupied the centre, it was removed after the Devolution, and probably destroyed. SEBASTIANO BECIVENNI of Mercatello, was celebrated as a decorative sculptor, and his dexterity is attested by two pulpits in the duomo at Arezzo, dated 1563. In 1581, Francesco Maria II. commissioned two small statues from John of Bologna, and in the following year his minister at Rome wrote, proposing to send him a miniature painter from thence, at a monthly salary of ten golden scudi, besides board and travelling expenses. Late in life, he had his own and his father's portraits executed in mosaic by Luigi Gaetano at Venice. The statue of Duke Federigo, which we have already mentioned as modelled by Baroccio, was executed for this Duke by Girolamo Campagna of Venice, and one of his grandfather, attired as a Roman warrior, leaning on his baton of command, and resting upon a stump, was the work of Giovanni Bandini of Florence, an eminent scholar of Bandinelli. After his sovereignty had virtually passed from the bereaved Duke, he disposed of this memorial of its brighter days in a touching letter to the Doge of Venice, which finely illustrates the resignation beautifully exemplified in all the correspondence of his latter years:-- "Most serene Prince, "My grandfather, the Lord Duke Francesco Maria, was during life honoured by your serene state with such high authority and dignities, that, even after his decease, its esteem and favour have ever been specially exhibited towards his posterity and race; in these, now about to close in my person, your Highness will lose a line of supporters whose services are well known to you. Yet, being unwilling that these good offices should pass entirely from memory, I have resolved to present to the serene Republic and your Highness, the statue which I erected in testimony of dutiful respect to my said grandfather; for nowhere can it be more fittingly placed than in your renowned city. I therefore herewith send it to you, and with the more pleasure from knowing that your state will gladly receive the portrait of one who so faithfully served it, and who, though no longer able to do so directly, will, virtually and by example, demonstrate how your Republic ought to be served. It will, at all events, afford irrefragable evidence of his attachment to that cause for which he would have desired longer life, and will prove a sure token of my unbounded devotion to your Highness, which, indeed, I cannot more fittingly demonstrate: beseeching, however, that your Highness will regard this act as a solemn testimony of the old and continued love of my house for your distinguished state, which God preserve as long as my unbounded wishes; and so I kiss your Highness's hands with devoted affection. "Your Highness's most devoted son and servant, "FRANCESCO MARIA DELLA ROVERE, DUKE.[237] "From Castel Durante, this ..., 1625." [Footnote 237: _Carteggio d'Artisti_, vol. III., 540.] The statue now stands in the court of the Doge's ducal palace, thus inscribed: "To Francesco Maria I., Duke of Urbino, leader of the armies of this Republic; erected at Pesaro, and recommended to the affectionate care of Venice by Francesco Maria II., when bereaved of progeny." The original inscription ran thus: "To Francesco Maria, an eminent general, leader of the armies of the holy Romish Church, the Florentine republic, the Venetian state, and the princes of the League against the Turks, and of his own troops; the conqueror, subduer, and sustainer of potentates at home and abroad; his grandson, Duke Francesco Maria II. had this erected." CHAPTER LV Of the manufacture of majolica in the Duchy of Urbino. The influence of beauty upon arts usually considered as mechanical, and the exercise of creative talent upon substances of a common or trifling character, are equally proofs of a pervading refinement. It was accordingly a striking feature of Italy in her golden days, that nearly every sort of handiwork felt that influence, and in its turn served to maintain public taste at an elevated standard. To uncultivated or unobservant minds it may seem ridiculous to appreciate the state of high art in a country from the forms of culinary utensils, the colouring of plates, or the carving of a peach-stone; yet the elegance of Etruscan civilisation is nowhere more manifest than in household bronzes; the majolica of Urbino has preserved the designs and the feeling of Raffaele; the genius of Cellini did not spurn the most homely materials. The architects of the Revival were often sculptors; its engineers constructed clocks; while painters then exercised the crafts of jewellery and wood-gilding, or lent their pencils to beautify the potter's handiwork. Our undertaking would accordingly be incomplete without some notice of majolica, or decorative pottery, which under the patronage of her princes brought fame and wealth to the duchy of Urbino.[238] [Footnote 238: We have had frequent occasion to notice the encouragement given at Urbino to the exact sciences, and the consequent success of those arts most depending upon them. Thus the Baroccio family were celebrated for the accuracy of their mathematical instruments and timepieces, while watchmaking attracted great attention from all the della Rovere dukes. Their family portraits very generally exhibit a table-clock of some eccentric form, and their gifts to princes and royal personages were often chronometers made in their state. One of these, sent to Pius V., exhibited the planetary movements and other complex revolutions of the solar system; another, worn by his Holiness in a ring, marked the hours by gently pricking his finger. In 1535, Francesco Maria I. presented to Charles V., at Naples, a ring wherein a watch struck the hours; and many similar notices occur in the correspondence of his grandson, the last Duke. Guidobaldo II. was especially fond of such mechanical curiosities. Having received from one Giovan Giorgio Capobianco of Vicenza, the Praxiteles of tiny chiselling, a ring which held a watch, whereupon were engraved the signs of the zodiac, with a figure that pointed to and struck the hours--he interfered to save the artist's life, when condemned to death for an assassination at Venice. In gratitude for this favour, the latter made for the Duchess a silver chessboard contained in a cherry-stone; nor should we omit to add that he displayed the same ingenuity on a wider field as an architect and engineer. So, too, Filippo Santacroce, of Urbino, and his sons, are celebrated by Count Cicognara for their minute carvings on gems, ivory, and nuts.] The earliest work on the ceramic art is that of Giambattista Passeri of Pesaro, who was born about a hundred and fifty years since, and whose inquiries into geology and antiquities attracted him to a subject cognate to them both. While studying the fossils of Central Italy, the transition was not difficult to their fictile products; and after vainly endeavouring to methodise the pottery of Etruria and Magna Grecia, he tried the same good office with better success upon the majolica of his native province.[239] Nor is his theme of so narrow an interest as might on a superficial view be supposed. The existence of pottery has frequently proved a valuable aid to historical research; and even now our surest test of Etruscan refinement is supplied by the painted vases exhumed from the sepulchres of an almost forgotten race.[240] It is not, however, important merely as affording landmarks useful in tracing the civilisation of nations; for, by combining taste with ingenuity, it gives to materials the most ordinary and almost fabulous value, thereby constituting one of the notable triumphs of mind over matter, and largely promoting the advance of intellectual culture. Even in early stages of national improvement, the plastic art, after contributing to the necessities of life, has often been the first to inspire elegance or embody true principles of form and afterwards of colour. Dealing with a substance readily found and easily manipulated, wherein nature might be imitated or fancy developed, it was the precursor of sculpture, the patron of painting, and the handmaid of architecture. [Footnote 239: The subject has since met with more attention, but no other work has been expressly dedicated to it. We may refer to VASARI, LANZI, and GAYE, _passim_; RICCI, _Notizie delle Belle Arti in Gubbio_; _Kunstblatt_, No. 51; MONTANARI, _Lettera interno ad alcune Majoliche dipinte nella collezione Massa_ in _Giornale Arcadico di Roma_, XXXVII., 333; BRONGNIART, _Traité des Arts Ceramiques_; MARRYAT, _History of Pottery and Porcelain_. It is both an advantage and a pleasure to refer readers unacquainted with this interesting art, to the charming and accurate representations of azulejo, Robbian ware, and majolica, given in the last of these works. It is greatly to be desired that Mr. Marryat may, in continuation of his subject, and with access to English collections unknown to me, supply much information which this slight sketch cannot include.] [Footnote 240: We enter not upon the contested question of the origin of these productions; wherever made, they prove the taste of those who owned and appreciated them. Besides, the ruder varieties were certainly indigenous to Central Italy from an early period. Neither need we trace the analogy between majolica and enamel. The latter was not unknown to the ancients, though brought by them to no ornamental perfection. During the dark ages, it was used as an accessory of metal sculpture for many purposes of religious art, and was even introduced into large works, such as bronze doors. The splendid reliquary at Orvieto, enamelled on silver at Siena by Ugolino Vieri in 1338, as well as the _paliotti_ of Florence and Pistoja executed in that and the following centuries, show to what perfection this art had attained, ere the painting of porcelain was practised in Italy.] [Illustration: MAIOLICA _A plate of Urbino ware of about 1540 in the British Museum_] The earthenware made in Central Italy was usually called _majolica_, in our spelling maiolica. The derivation of its etymology, from the island of Majorca, seems no mere superficial inference from similarity of sounds. Its peculiarity was a glaze, which, besides giving a vehicle for colour, remedied the permeable quality of ancient pottery. Such a glazed surface had long been known to the Saracens, and was imported by the Moors into Spain and the Balearic Isles, in the shape of gaily-tinted tiles, arranged in bands or diaper on their buildings. To these succeeded _azulejos_, generally of blue in various shades, which were mosaicked into church walls in various historical compositions, from designs which Mr. Stirling ascribes to Murillo's pencil. The conquests or commerce of the Pisans imported this fashion, at first by incorporating concave coloured tiles among brickwork, afterwards, at Pesaro, by the use of encaustic flooring. Nor can we exclude from view that the earliest Italian ware has decorations either in geometrical patterns, or with shamrock-shaped foliations of a character rather Saracenic than indigenous, and more indicative of moresque extraction than were the apocryphal armorial bearings of Spain and Majorca, at a period when such insignia were often borrowed as mere ornaments, in ignorance of their origin and meaning. The fabric thus introduced spread over most of Central Italy, and between 1450 and 1700 was largely practised at the towns of Arezzo, Perugia, Spello, Nocera, Città di Castello, Florence, Bologna, Ferrara, Ravenna, Rimini, Forlì, and Faenza (whence its French name _fayence_), Pesaro, Urbino, Fermignano, Castel Durante, and Gubbio, as well as at various places in the Abruzzi. There is, however, another quarter to which vitrified or encaustic ware may be ascribed, in so far at least as regards improved methods and more important results. Luca della Robbia[*241] was born at Florence in 1399, and from being a jeweller, took to modelling statues and bas-reliefs in clay. Annoyed by the fragile nature of these, and perhaps by the doubtful success of _terra cotta_, he discovered a mode of glazing the surface of his beautiful works, with, it is said, a mixture of tin, _terra ghetta_ (from the lake of Thrasimene), antimony, and other mineral substances. The secret of this varnish was transmitted in the inventor's family until about 1550: it ended in a female, with whose husband, Andrea Benedetto Buglione, it died. Recent attempts to revive the art at Florence have proved but partially successful, and wholly unremunerative; indeed, the mechanical difficulties exceed those of sculpture, including the separation of the work into sections before drying and burning it, and its eventual reunion into one piece. Although neither mild nor equal, the climate at Florence does not seem to influence the Robbian fabrics in the open air, but they have suffered from the frosts and snows of our duchy, where several are broken or blistered, such as the lunette of S. Domenico at Urbino. By much the finest specimen I know there remains [1843] in the desecrated oratory of the Sforzan palace [of 1484] at Gradara; it may be by Andrea della Robbia, and represents an enthroned Madonna and Child, nearly life-size, with attendant saints, the predella complete, and the whole a fine monument of Christian art. Originally, the plastic surface of Robbian ware was of a uniform glistening white, which, though cold in effect, is very favourable to the pure religious sentiment at which it generally aimed. The eyes were then blackened, in order to aid expression. Next, the pallid figures were relieved against a deep cerulean ground. The followers of Luca added fruits and flowers, wreathed in their proper colours. Agincourt justly regrets that these men were led into such innovations by a desire for mastering difficulties, and the ambition of adding to sculpture the beauties of painting; for when colour is given to draperies, the eye is ill-reconciled to an addition which seems to transfer such productions from the category of high art to the level of waxwork. By a further modification, the flesh parts were left unglazed, bringing the warm tone of terra cotta to harmonize with the coloured costumes, architecture and backgrounds being still usually white or deep blue. Passeri, however, asserts for this coloured glaze an earlier discovery in his own province, where pottery was certainly made in the fourteenth century. But it is generally admitted that the art of combining with it lively colours was greatly improved after Pesaro had passed under the Sforza. In 1462, Ventura di Maestro Simone dei Piccolomini of Siena established himself there, along with Matteo di Raniere, of a noble family at Cagli, in order to manufacture earthenware, and may have directed attention to the productions of della Robbia, who had already been employed at Rimini by its tyrant, Sigismondo Pandolfo Malatesta. [Footnote *241: For all that concerns the Della Robbia, cf. MAUD CRUTTWELL, _Luca and Andrea della Robbia and their School_ (Dent, 1904).] * * * * * An account of majolica[*242] ought to contain the various places noted for its manufacture, the peculiar qualities distinguishing their respective productions, the methods by which these qualities were given, and the artists most successful in producing them. But on most of these points we are left in great ignorance, which my limited observation has not enabled me to dispel. All I can offer is a list of the manufactories and artists, classed to the best of my power, and preceded by a few very general notices of the process. [Footnote *242: The finest collection of Italian majolica in the world is probably that in Pesaro in the possession of the Municipality.] The Chevalier Cipriano Picolpasso, of Castel Durante, doctor in medicine and majolica-painter under Duke Guidobaldo II., left a MS. professing to record the secrets of his art; but Passeri, after examination, pronounces his revelations trite, and his historical notices barren. It is, however, agreed that Pesaro was the first site within the duchy of Urbino where the fabric attained celebrity, and that its earliest efforts were called _mezza_ or "half" majolica. This is distinguished by a coarse gritty fracture, of dirty grey colour, and a glaze which does not take much lustre or transparency. It is generally in the form of plates, many of them huge, all clumsily thick, and frequently of a dingy, ill-vitrified yellow on the back. The lustre on the front is rather pearly than metallic; but prismatic, or even golden, iridescence is met with. These productions are assigned, by Passeri and others, to the fifteenth century; but the arms of Leo X. appear on one in the mediæval exhibition of 1850 (No. 543, belonging to Mr. S. Isaacs), and on another in the Hotel Cluny, at Paris; while, in the museum of the Commendatore Kestner, Hanoverian minister at Rome, is a third, designed after Marc Antonio. The "fine" majolica attained its greatest perfection at Urbino between 1530 and 1560, and it was prized chiefly for the perfect vitrification and transparency of its varnish, the comparative thinness and whiteness of the texture, the brilliant colouring, and masterly design. Gubbian pottery combined in some degree the qualities of half and fine ware, but excelled all others in metallic and prismatic glaze. [Illustration: MAIOLICA _A plate of Castel Durante ware of about 1524_ "The divine and beautiful Lucia"] We shall not encumber our pages with conjectural or vague hints as to the processes of these interesting fabrics. Iridescent lustre obliquely reflected, and a white glaze of dazzling transparency, were the objects respectively aimed at. The former was attained by preparations of lead, copper, silver, and gold; the latter was imparted by dipping the half-baked pottery into a white varnish, over which, while moist, the subject was rapidly painted, correction or retouching being incompatible with the immediate absorption of its colours, which, apart from accidental fusion of tints, and flaws in the furnace, abundantly accounts for the frequent inaccuracy of design. The metallic lustre depended a good deal on lead, the whiteness on a free use of tin. Those early plates of Pesaro were very rarely signed by their artists; but one in the Hague Museum bears a cipher resembling C.H.O.N., whilst another, quoted by Pungileoni, has a mark composed of G.A.T. interlaced. In 1478, Sixtus IV. wrote his acknowledgments to Costanzo Sforza for a present of "_Vasa fictilia_, most elegantly wrought, which, for the donor's sake, are prized as if of gold or silver rather than of earthenware."[243] In a similar letter, Lorenzo the Magnificent thanked [Roberto] Malatesta, observing that "they please me entirely by their perfections and rarity, being quite novelties in these parts, and are valued more than if of silver," the donor's arms serving daily to recall their origin.[244] Passeri gives a curious proclamation by the Lord of Pesaro, in 1486, narrating that, for good favour to the citizens, and considering a fabric of earthen vases to have been of old practised in that city, superior, by general admission, to all others produced in Italy, and that there were now more workshops than ever,--importation of any species thereof from foreign parts was prohibited, on pain of confiscation and fine, half to the informer, oil and water jars only excepted; and further that, within eight days, all foreign vases should be sent out of the state. In 1510, majolica was numbered among the trades of Pesaro, and in 1532, Duke Francesco Maria confirmed the protection for it which we have just cited. I have not met with the patent for "application of gold to Italian faience," quoted by Mr. H. Rogers as granted, in 1509, to Giacomo Lanfranco of Pesaro, by Duke Guidobaldo, who, by the way, was then dead. [Footnote 243: Archiv. Dipl. Urbinate at Florence [1845].] [Footnote 244: GAYE, _Carteggio_, I., p. 304. He was probably Roberto Malatesta, who served the Florentines in 1479, and died 1482; so Gaye's date of 1490 seems erroneous.] It may have been soon after this date that "fine" superseded "half" ware in the potteries of Pesaro, where the art obtained a new stimulus on transference hither of the court by Duke Guidobaldo II. Thereafter it is impossible to distinguish earthenware issuing from these establishments from that of Urbino, their quality being similar, and the artists in many cases identical; but by that Prince's patronage it unquestionably attained its greatest perfection. A petition by certain makers of Pesaro for protection, is given in X. of the Appendix, as illustrating then received principles of trade, as well as of this fabric. It bears date in 1552; and in 1569, the Duke granted to Giacomo Lanfranco, of that city, a patent for twenty-five years, guarded by 500 scudi of penalty, for his inventions in applying gold to vases, and in constructing them of great size (exceeding the capacity of two _some_), of antique forms, and wrought in relievo. As a further encouragement, he and his father Girolamo were exempted from every impost or tax, and from mill-dues on grinding ten _some_ of grain annually. Proud of the reputation of his native pottery, Guidobaldo was in the habit of presenting services of majolica to foreign princes and personages, who again often sent commissions to be executed in the duchy, bearing their arms. A double service was, according to Vasari, given by him to Charles V.; and another to Philip II., painted by Orazio Fontana from Taddeo Zuccaro's designs; while Passeri mentions a set presented to Fra Andrea of Volterra, each piece inscribed _G.V.V.D. [Guid Vbaldonis Urbini Ducis] Munus, F. Andreæ Volaterano_. I found in the Oliveriana MSS. a letter addressed to his brother the Cardinal of Urbino, describing a _buffet_ for Monsignor Farnese, with its inventory, which will be found at XI. of the Appendix. The most important, however, of the ducal commissions was a very numerous set of jars, of many sizes and shapes, for the use of his laboratory [_spezeria_], a fashion imitated by other dilettanti. Blue, yellow, and green are their prevailing hues; they are always labelled with the name of some drug or mixture, and occasionally have a portrait or other subject. The original set was gifted by Francesco Maria II. to the treasury of Loreto, where about three hundred and eighty of them still serve their original purpose, many duplicates being met with in collections. Specimens will be found engraved by Bartoli, and in Mr. Marryat's beautiful volume; the offers of various crowned heads to replace them by others of gold and silver, are well-known travellers' tales, but in truth they are far from choice specimens. Like other branches of fine art, majolica-painting showed an early preference for sacred themes; but the primitive plates of Pesaro bear effigies of saints much more frequently than scripture histories, or doctrinal representations. Then came in a fashion for portraits of living or historical persons, including warriors, high-born dames, and classical heroes, inscribed with their names. These paintings are all flat and lifeless, with scarcely an attempt at relief, or graduated tints; the ornaments are rude, inclining to Moorish, and totally different from what is called arabesque. From the della Robbian influence were probably borrowed plates brimming with coloured fruits in relievo, a variety of little interest, but reminding us of similar French productions in a later period. In the sixteenth century, the mania of classicism, elsewhere discussed,[245] much affected majolica; and in its designs, although events of the Old Testament were not abandoned, saintly legends gave place to scenes from Ovid and Virgil. For behoof of the unlettered curious, the incident was shortly, often clumsily, described in blue letters on the back, with a reference to the text. In a few cases (perhaps of _amatorii_ or nuptial gifts), I have found the very finest productions degraded by grossly indecent designs; in more numerous ones groups of nude figures disport themselves in the manner of Giulio Romano. Those in which Raffaelesque arabesques prevail, belong chiefly to the latter portion of Guidobaldo's reign. From that time the fabric decayed rapidly, owing partly to a general decline of æsthetic taste, partly to the impaired state of that Duke's finances, and the indifference of his successor. Even after historical compositions were neglected, considerable dexterity was displayed in painting trophies, arms, musical instruments, utensils, marine monsters, children, grotesques, birds, trees, flowers, fruits, and landscapes, designs of that class being easily repeated and their inaccuracies passing for studied extravagance. But the drawing got worse, the colouring more feeble, as good artists dropped off, carrying with them their sketches, and superseded by engravings from Sadeler and other Flemings, whose vile taste contributed to lower the standard of better times.[246] Public favour, ever capricious, was successfully wooed by the oriental porcelain, which now found its way among the higher ranks, while the augmented supply of silver encouraged a more extended use of plate. Thus discredited, the manufacture progressively deteriorated, until, in 1722, the stoneware of Urbania was of the most ordinary description, the efforts of Cardinal Legate Stoppani to reinstate a better fabric having totally failed; and thus neglected, the most beautiful productions of its happier time were dispersed, or passed to the meanest uses, from which another whim of fashion, as much as the revival of a better taste, has suddenly rescued them. [Footnote 245: See vol. II.] [Footnote 246: In 1845, the Canon Staccoli at Urbino showed me a plate equally feeble in design and colour, signed _F.M. Doiz Fiamengo fecit_, a proof that it was no despised production of the time.] [Illustration: MAIOLICA _A plate of Urbino ware about 1535. (The arms are Cardinal Pucci's)_] Much of what has been said of the fine majolica of Pesaro is applicable to that ascribed to Urbino, most of which appears to have been made in the neighbouring towns of Fermignano, Gaifa, and Castel Durante (now Urbania), the alluvial washings of the Metauro being peculiarly adapted for the purest white glaze. Yet Pungileoni has wormed out of some old notarial protocols the names of Mo. Giovanni di Donnino in 1477, and of Mo. Francesco in 1501, both designed of Gardutia, potters (_figuli_) at Urbino. He also establishes that coloured figures were executed there in vases in 1521. Passeri denies that those ruby and gold colours for which we shall find Gubbio celebrated, and which certainly were known in the workshops of Pesaro, ever came into use at Urbino,--a conclusion which we shall have occasion to correct. Indeed, this secret of metallic iridescence is said to have been known at Florence, and I have seen a plate of golden lustre bearing the emblem of the woolstaplers' guild [_arte della lana_]; but if such manufactory existed, I have found no notice of it, and the still flourishing one of Ginori in the Val d'Arno pretends to no such antiquity. I was shown at Florence a tile, on which Annibale Caracci's Galatea was represented with great accuracy of design, but poor and hard in colour, signed "_Ferdinand Campani, Siena, 1736_." In the latter town there is said to have been a fabric known by the name of _Terchi_; the analogous one, near Fermo, in the Abruzzi, called _Grue_, sent forth, I believe, most of those tiles, small plates, or cups and saucers,--ornamented with landscapes of tolerable design, but tinted in sickly yellow or blue, and totally devoid of style,--which abound in Lower Italy. The prismatic glaze, especially of gold and ruby colour, was unequalled in those plates painted at Gubbio by Maestro Giorgio Andreoli, who appears to have come hither from Pavia with his brothers Salimbeni and Giovanni. His name was there enrolled among the nobility in 1498, but the dates affixed to his plates extend from 1518 to about 1537. He had previously executed several plastic works of the nature of della Robbia's figures, the principal of which was a Madonna del Rosario altar-piece for the Domenican church, which has been enthusiastically described in No. 928 of the London _Athenæum_. It was torn down by the French in their wonted course of rapine, and, to the disgrace of the local authorities of Gubbio, lay neglected for several years after the peace, until purchased for the Steidl Institut at Frankfort. The only other of his productions remaining at Gubbio is a life-sized statue of St. Anthony in the same church, quite inferior as regards design and religious feeling to those of the Tuscan sculptors, and which, though coloured, has no metallic lustre. He is said by Passeri to have lived until 1552; and of his family, who long occupied an honourable station in their native city, only a son, Cencio, followed his father's profession. I have seen a plate of this school at Mr. Forrest's, 54 Strand [1850], rudely signed with G; others have R, perhaps il Rovigese, whom I shall presently mention. Mo. Prestino da Gubbio wrought about 1557, but the latest date I have seen with metallic lustre and the Gubbian mark is 1549, on which the iridescence was extremely feeble. Passeri's assertion, that the Gubbian glaze was borrowed from the half-majolica of Pesaro, may be correct; but we might, perhaps, maintain for it a date as early as 1474, on the authority of a beautiful small plate possessing its peculiarities, and exhibiting Duke Federigo's name and profile in relief, within a coloured border of oak-leaves also in relief, made, possibly, on occasion of his alliance with the della Rovere, by marriage of the Lord Prefect with his daughter in that year. This interesting memorial is No. 2286 of the Mediæval Gallery at the Louvre. In Mr. Marryat's choice cabinet is a half-ware plate, bearing on the back a monogram, which that gentleman supposes of Maestro Giorgio's early period, before he had discovered the mode of obtaining iridescent varnishes. It displays a group of nude figures in pale greyish tints, without any approach to brilliant colouring. His usual signature was dashed off with a metalliferous brush on the back, _Mo. Go. da Vgubio_, with the date, as at No. 11 of the same facsimiles, from a plate in my possession. Such pieces are rare, and highly prized; their subjects are usually saints, classical groups, or grotesques, vases being very seldom met with. A branch of this fabric is said to have been seated at Nocera; and several, with bright red and blue tracery on a gold metallic ground, dated 1537-8, in the choice cabinet of Signor Serafino Tordelli at Spoleto [1845], are supposed by him of that fabric. Among other exquisite specimens, he has one by Maestro Giorgio, 1529, rivalling the finest miniature, and representing Archimedes measuring a globe, in front of the Communal Palace at Gubbio. * * * * * Thus much regarding the various manufactories of majolica connected with Urbino. The forms and purposes to which it was turned were very various. The first plates of Pesaro, chiefly of great size [_bacili_], were probably for table use, but a variety of them, called _amatorii_, were either tender souvenirs or marriage gifts. These usually had the lady's portrait, with the complimentary epithet of Bella, as in this example now in my possession; at other times united hands and a transfixed heart, with a motto of affection, moralising, or banter. Several such have been described by Passeri, Marryat, and others, but I shall add a few which have come under my observation. 1. At Florence: _Francesca bella a paragon di tutti_, "Frances, of beauty comparable to any one." 2. At Rome: _Nemo sua sorte contentus erat_, "Each has something to grumble about." 3. Sir Thomas B. Hepburn; a lady holding a gigantic pink: _Non è sì vago el fiore che non imbiacca o casca_, "There is no flower so lovely but fades or droops." 4. Rome; a dame of rueful countenance: _Sola miseria caret invidia_, "Only the miserable escape envy." 5. Pesaro, Massa collection: _Per dormire non si acquista_, "The indolent get nothing." 6. Florence: _Chi bien guida sua barcha sempre emporto_, "Who steers well his bark, always makes the harbour." 7. Pesaro:-- _S'il dono è picolo e di pocho valore, Basta la fedel povere se redore._ "If small the gift and scant of merit A poor slave's faith,--enough, you share it."[247] [Footnote 247: The rules of syntax are in these often overstepped, and conjecture left to eke out the sense. My reading is literal, of _basta la fe del povere sevedore_, which is intelligible, and rhymes, as is not the case with _basta la fede, e 'l povere se vedo_, the version of Passeri. This author tells us of a certain coy or mischievous Philomela who pierced her lover's present with holes and made of it a mouse-trap! Also of an exquisite Gubbian plate, portraying the _Daniella Diva_, who displays a wounded heart with the legend _Oimè!_ "Ah me." A drug-bottle in Mr. Marryat's collection, and engraved in his work, has the portrait of a lady whose squint is given to the life.] [Illustration: MAIOLICA _Plate of Castel Durante ware about 1540, with a portrait medallion within a border of oak leaves. This pattern was called "Cerquata" or "al Urbinata," the oak being the badge of the Rovere house_] 8, 9. Florence, and evidently nuptial presents: _Per fin che vivo, io sempre t'amerò_, "While I live, you I love"; the other, a bridegroom and bride exchanging a hearty kiss. Most of these portrait-plates were deep, and are said not to have been delivered empty. Brides received them brimming with jewels; for dancing partners they were filled with fruits and confections; to a lady in childbed was presented a salver containing the sort of chamber service called in French a _déjeûner de marié_, appropriately decorated with infant legends of gods and heroes; at children's balls, were given tiny plates of sugar-plums, whereon a dancing Cupid sounding his cymbal was often painted. 10. Massa collection,--this has a sadder import: _Un bel morire tutta la vita onora_, "A beautiful death confers illustration on a lifetime," was, no doubt, in memory of some venerated friend, and might have been used to serve her funeral meats.[248] [Footnote 248: In order to finish our notice of mottoes, a few others may be here added. 11. Massa collection; a female portrait, on whose breast are the arms of Montefeltro: _Viva, Viva il Duca di Urbino_. 12. Rome, Kestner Museum; another female portrait: _Ibit ad geminos lucida fama pollo_ (?). 13. Kestner Museum and that at the Hague; St. Thomas probing the Saviour's wound: _Beati qui non viderunt et crediderunt_, "Blessed are they that have not seen, and yet have believed." 14. Spoleto, Tordelli collection; a beautiful female resisting a crowd of armed soldiery: 1540. _Italia mesta sottosopra volta, como pei venti in mare le torbid'onde, ch'or da una parte et hor da l'altra volta._ "1540. Dejected Italy, tossed like the wind-lashed waves, turning now hither now thither." 15. Rome,--satire on the sack of Rome; a warrior in antique armour strikes with a two-handed sword at a naked woman stretched in a lascivious posture, behind whom five others tremblingly await their fate: it is inscribed behind, 1534. _Roma lasciva dal buon Carlo quinto partita a mezza. Fra Xanto a. da Rovigo, Urbino._ "Rome, the wanton, cut up by the good Charles V.; by Brother Xante of Rovigo, at Urbino." This plate, glowing with iridescence, contradicts Passeri's opinion (already quoted) that stanniferous glaze was never practised in the Urbino workshops, as does the tile introduced three pages below. 16. Rome; a grandly draped female, sitting in desolation over a dead child: _Fiorenzo mesta i morti figlii piange_, "Disconsolate Florence weeps for her lifeless offspring," in the plague visitation of 1538. Though with the most brilliant ruby and gold lustre I ever saw, it has in blue the cipher X, probably also of Xante in Urbino.] But to return to the uses of this pottery. Those who have observed the rich effect of the majolica sparingly displayed in the late Mediæval Exhibition at the Adelphi [1850] may readily admit that, on a buffet lit up by Italian suns, its glowing tints and attractive forms were no mean substitute for the as yet scarce precious metals. Ingenuity was taxed to invent designs and adaptations of an art in which fashion ran riot:--Tiles for floors or panelling; vases of mere ornament; beakers; epergnes; wine-coolers; perfume-sprinklers; fountains, whence there flowed alternately, as if by magic, water or wine of nine varieties at the bidding of the bewildered guests; wine-cups clustered with grapes, through an orifice in which the liquor was sucked, anticipating the American device for discussing sherry-cobbler. Of drug-bottles and pots we have spoken. Sauce-boats, salt-cellars, and inkstands gave rise to endless caprices, in the guise "of beasts, and of fowl and fishes"; and to these may be added figure-groups of saints, grotesque characters and animals, fruits, trees, and pilgrims' bottles. In the decorations there was generally a consistency, too often lost sight of by modern artificers. Thus, toilet-basins were painted with marine deities, water-nymphs, or aquatic allegories; fruit-stands with fruit and vintages; wine-cups with vine-festoons. Among the oddities may be mentioned tiny tea-cups, into the paste for which was mingled a portion of dust carefully gathered in sweeping out the holy house at Loreto, their sanctity being vouched by the inscription, _Con pol. di S.C._, "With dust from the Santa Casa." The effigy of the Madonna of Loreto is often affixed, in colour and design on a par with the superstition. A pair of these was shown at the Mediæval Exhibition of 1850, No. 562 of the catalogue, belonging to a Mrs. Palliser. * * * * * Having thus considered the various sites and sorts of Urbino majolica, its processes and purposes, we shall mention some of the artists employed upon it. Of these there were two classes, the potter who mixed and manipulated, modelled and moulded clay-clod into an article of convenience or luxury, and the painter whose pencil rendered it an object of the fine arts; latterly, however, these branches were combined, and were carried on by a class of artificers called _vasaii_ or _vasari_, and _boccalini_, according as vases or bottles prevailed in their workshops. The little that has come to our knowledge regarding those by whom the early Pesarese and Gubbian ware was fashioned and decorated will be found in a former page. The latter makers of Pesaro and Urbino have more frequently left us the means of identifying their performances in monograms or signatures, usually inscribed in blue characters on the back of plates. But before considering these, we may dispose of the vulgar error which has given Raffaele's name to Italian porcelain. Superficial or romancing writers have often seriously repeated, with purely fictitious additions, Malvasia's petulant sneer, which he was fain quickly to retract, that the great Sanzio was a painter of plates; others have, without better grounds, made him assistant to his father, a potter. There is however nothing connecting him with the ceramic art beyond a loose notice by Don V. Vittorio, in his _Osservazioni Sopra Felsina Pittrice_ (pp. 44, 112-14), of a letter from Raffaele referring to designs supplied by him to the Duchess for majolica. That he did supply such drawings is possible, though discredited by Pungileoni, and, if true, it in no way compromises his status, at a period when high art lent a willing hand to decorate and elevate the adjuncts and appliances of domestic life. This much is certain, that compositions emanating from Sanzio and his school were employed in ornamenting porcelain during the sixteenth century, but they were doubtless obtained from his pupils, or from the engravings of Marc Antonio. Such is the title here introduced from the original in my possession (8-1/2 inches by 7), which is one of the most Raffaelesque I have met with, and which, though not signed, displays the colouring practised by Fra Xanto, the blue and green being deep and well marked, the orange and yellow of the clouds and curtain in metallic iridescence. In this, as in most instances, the design is somewhat marred by the colours having run when laid on, or during vitrification. The mistake as to Sanzio has been partly occasioned by confusion with Raffaele del Colle, who painted at the Imperiale, and is said by tradition to have contributed sketches for the Pesarese workshops, and also with another Raffaele Ciarla, who seems to have been a potter, about 1530-60. Battles, sieges, and mythological figures resembling the vigorous inventions of Giulio Romano, are not unfrequent; and in the Kestner Museum, I have observed several plates of choice design and Raffaelesque character, especially the Fall and Expulsion of our first Parents, and the Gathering of Manna. But these are satisfactorily accounted for by Passeri's statement, that, with a view to improve a native manufacture which brought to his state both estimation and wealth, Duke Guidobaldo II. took infinite pains in collecting a better class of drawings and prints from celebrated masters, on the dispersion of which, in consequence of their being sought for by collectors, the pictorial excellence of majolica rapidly declined. The first symptom of decay was the substitution of monotonous arabesques, weak in colour and repeated from the type introduced by Raffaele, in place and figure groups and other subjects requiring composition and design. * * * * * Premising that we cannot now distinguish exactly between potters and the painters, where these cognate occupations chanced to be divided, and that the same persons occasionally wrought at various places in the duchy, we shall supply a notice of the names we have met with in connection with the workshops of Pesaro, Urbino, and Castel Durante, during the sixteenth century. Terenzio Terenzi painted vases and plates at Pesaro, one of which he signed "Terenzio fecit, 1550," but his usual mark was T. Another is inscribed, "Questo piatto fu fatto in la Bottega de Mastro Baldassare, Vasaro da Pesaro e fatto per mano de Ferenzio fiolo di Mastro Matteo Boccalaro." He was doubtless the person who, under the surname of Rondolino, became notorious at Rome for his clever pictorial forgeries of the great master's works, although said by Ticozzi to have been born at Pesaro in 1570. The signature "Mastro Gironimo, Vasaro in Pesaro, J.P." occurs from 1542 to 1560, and to him Mr. Marryat ascribes, on what authority I know not, the mark A.O. connected by a cross, which Passeri quotes as of another artist in 1582; the letters I.P. that gentleman reads _in Pesaro_. This Girolamo Lanfranco was a native of Gabicce, near Pesaro, and died in 1599, leaving sons Girolamo and Ludovico. In his favour, and that of his son, were granted the privileges already referred to, as dated 1552 and 1569. In connection with the workshops of Urbino, we have these names. Giovanni and Francesco di Donnino had a commission for a set of vases for Cardinal Capaccio. _Fra Xanto. a. da Rovigo in Urbino_ signed platters of great size and beautiful design, about 1532-4, some of which show a very fine metallic and prismatic lustre. The mark X, occurring on pieces of that quality, does not, however, always refer to him. A splendid plate in Mr. Marryat's rich collection, commemorative of the taking of Goletta, in Africa, by Charles V., is inscribed _In Urbino nella botteg di Francesco de Silvano, X. MDXXXXI._; and a Judith of great beauty, in the Tordelli cabinet, signed F.X. 1535, is, no doubt of that master. Contemporary and very analogous are plates with an iridescence rivalling that of Maestro Giorgio, signed _Mastro Rovigo di Urbino_, or _Da Rovigiese_: of this artist, probably the countryman of Xanto, we know nothing, but he may be the same who signs Gubbian plates with R. Equally little can we say as to Giulio of Urbino, who is mentioned as working for the Duke of Ferrara, about 1530; or of Cesare da Faenza, then employed in the shop of Guido Merlini, of Urbino. Much more noted are the Fontana family, originally of Castel Durante. From thence Guido, son of Nicolò, emigrated to the capital, where his son Orazio painted many of the finest productions of the reign of Guidobaldo II., including the best vases of his laboratory, his usual mark being this, meaning _Orazio Fontana Urbinate fece_. Among the treasures and trash of Strawberry Hill was a very large vase, with serpent handles, and designs ascribed to Giulio Romano, inscribed _Fate in botega di Orazio Fontana_.[249] A plate described by Passeri, has the story of Horatius Cocles, with the motto _Orazio solo contra Toscana tutta, fatto in Pesaro 1541_, which appears to be a _jeu de mots_ intended by Fontana as a challenge to the rival fabrics of Tuscany.[250] For him has been claimed the invention of Gubbian glaze; while others say his discovery was a mode of preventing the mixture of colours during vitrification. He died in 1571, his labours having been shared by a brother Camillo, who carried the art to Ferrara, and a nephew Flaminio, who settled in Florence. [Footnote 249: A magnificent pair of triangular fonts in the same collection brought at the sale 168_l._] [Footnote 250: The ancestors of Giorgio Vasari were surnamed from their occupation of vase-makers (_vasari_), at Arezzo. The Ginori establishment near Florence is comparatively modern.] [Illustration: O F V F] Among the pupils of Orazio was Raffaele Ciarla, whose name we have noticed as confused with that of Raffaele Sanzio, and who painted a buffet of porcelain, after designs by Taddeo Zuccaro, which his sovereign presented to Philip II. of Spain. He wrought between 1530 and 1560. Gianbattista Franco, a Venetian painter of whom we have lately spoken, was invited by Duke Guidobaldo II., about 1540, to supply designs for majolica, in consequence of his reputation for clever drawings in the dangerous style of Michael Angelo. The loss of his cupola for the cathedral at Urbino is not to be regretted; but in a humbler sphere he acquitted himself better, and some of the vases in the laboratory bear his signature, B.F.V.F., _Battista Franco Urbinas fecit_. Among the latest artists was Alfonso Patanazzi, who was born at Urbino of a noble family, and died in 1694; but his productions (signed in full, or with his initials) have no artistic merit whatever. It remains to mention those who wrought chiefly at Castel Durante, or, as it was named after the Devolution to the Holy See, Urbania. The Chevalier Cipriano Picolpasso, from being a professor of the healing art, took to pottery about 1550, and left a MS. account of some of the secrets of that fabric and of its glazes, which was used by Passeri for his work. Mr. Marryat considers that he was peculiarly successful in painting trophies. Guido di Savino is said to have carried the art from Castel Durante to Antwerp; and he or Guido Fontana may be author of a plate, in the Soane Museum, of the Fates, signed _In botega di Mo. Guido Durantino in Urbino_. To either of them I am disposed to assign the monogram, No. 12, of our 18th plate of facsimiles, which Mr. Marryat reads as Castel Durante, but which seems to me a G.D., for Guido Durantino. Alessandro Gatti, of that place, had three brothers, Giovanni, Tiseo, and Luzio, whom Picolpasso mentions as having emigrated to Corfu, and there established the same fabric. Cardinal Stoppani, Legate of Pesaro, in last century, made some ineffectual attempts to restore the manufacture at Urbania, and the only pottery now produced in the duchy is of the most ordinary white stoneware. It would be interesting to know the scale of remuneration for mere artistic varieties of majolica, but the prices given by Passeri, from Picolpasso's MS., refer only to the more ordinary and mechanical designs, such as grotesques with monsters, arabesques, trophies with armour, fruit, flowers, and foliage; of these the first was the most costly, the last the cheapest, varying from two Roman scudi to about two and a half pauls per hundred. Supposing money in 1560 to have been six times its present value in Italy, these sums may be considered equal to fifty shillings and six shillings respectively.[251] [Footnote 251: Pungileoni quotes a demand made in 1683 of 50 scudi (about 11_l._) for a plate reputed to have been painted by Raffaele; this, at thrice the present money value, would give 32_l._ as its price.] In Italy, the collection of majolica made by the Chevalier Massa, at Pesaro, is specially worthy of notice, and contains specimens of most varieties made in the duchy. It was chiefly got together between 1825 and 1835 when these were still abundant and little sought after; but the district was nearly cleared of them about twelve years since, by an agent of Parisian dealers. The Chevalier, who was in extreme old age in 1845, had bequeathed his majolica--consisting of about five hundred pieces, with a few indifferent pictures--to his native town, unless he could, during life, sell the whole for about 1000_l._, destined by him to charitable purposes. Another numerous collection is that of Signor Mavorelli, at La Fratta, near Perugia. The small but choice cabinet of Signor Serafino Tordelli, at Spoleto, has already been mentioned. Specimens may still be picked up in Rome, Florence, Paris, and London; but perhaps the most specimens are in the hands of English amateurs. APPENDICES APPENDIX I (Page 21) CORRESPONDENCE OF CLEMENT VII. WITH DUKE FRANCESCO MARIA BEFORE THE SACK OF ROME, 1527 There are several brieves preserved in the Archivio Diplomatico at Florence, affording evidence of the Pope's feeble and inconsistent policy. His missive, announcing to the Duke the truce with Lannoy, was dated the 16th of March, and was followed by one of the 20th of April, which we shall here translate:-- To our beloved Son, the noble Francesco Maria, Duke of Urbino, Captain-general of the Venetians. Beloved Son, health and apostolic benediction! We have written but once to your nobility since coming to this armistice with the enemy, for, matters not being yet fully settled, we had nothing certain to apprise you of. But we understood that, by the letters of our dear son and lieutenant, Francesco Guicciardini, you were already made aware of all we could have asked of you, and had by your own good conduct anticipated it, which is to us most pleasing and acceptable, and daily more realises our hopes of you. As to this suspension of arms, we stooped to it more readily from being destitute of means or assistance, and from measuring the inclinations of others by our own pacific dispositions. But now that our enemies' conduct seems rather to abuse our clemency and moderation than to approach any equitable course, we do not well see how we can safely come to any terms with them. Thus, induced by necessity, and by your worth and good will, as well as cheered by the entire justice of our cause, we desire to make your nobility aware that we have utterly dismissed from our mind all truce with adversaries so perfidious, and are willing and ready rather to hazard any peril of war than submit to such unworthy and iniquitous conditions; yet, believing victory much more imminent than danger, we trust that their obstinacy and insolence will be easily put down, provided your forces can timeously coalesce with our own, and you exercise all zeal and caution in effecting this. We therefore not only exhort your nobility to this, but we fully rely on your doing it, as matter at once of duty and propriety, and from your disposition in favour of the Italian liberties and the dignity of ourselves and this Holy See. We, on our part, shall maintain towards our beloved sons, the Venetian government, that firm attitude which shall satisfy all of our constancy, things being now come to such a pitch that we must either sink dishonoured on failure of your aid and support, or by your help shall emerge with credit. As regards our paternal and affectionate concern for your personal dignity and interests, we can add nothing to the promises already made you by letters and envoys, which we shall amply carry out. Let your nobility, therefore, go on as you have so well begun, nor relax until we and you and all Italy be rid of all these barbarian excesses. After perusing these brieves, your nobility will forward them to the Doge and Signory of Venice, for, news of the enemy's obstinacy and faithlessness reaching us by express at midnight, we had to write to your nobility before we could communicate anything to their ambassador. Given at St. Peter's, Rome, under the fisher's signet, the 20th April, 1527, in the fourth year of our pontificate. BLOSIUS. On the 22nd and 30th the Pope wrote again, but in general terms, and referring for details to the accredited bearer and to former despatches. He exhorted the Duke, in formal and measured phrase, to do his utmost towards fulfilling the expectations reposed on him and the Venetians, upon whom were based all the Pontiff's hopes; but neither in letter nor spirit do these brieves indicate any perception of the extreme hazards of his position. APPENDIX II (Page 21) THE SACK OF ROME I. _Letter from the Bishop of Modula to the Generals of the League._[252] [Footnote 252: Sanuto Diarii MSS. Bib. Marciana, xlv. f. 132.] Most illustrious Lords of the League, Let your most illustrious Lordships speed on quickly without loss of time, seeing by these presents that the enemy have carried the Borgo, though our Lord and all Rome were well fortified. Monsignor de Bourbon is dead of an arquebus-shot below the abdomen, and a man has just come in who happened to aid in carrying off his body. More than three thousand of the enemy have fallen. Let your Lordships, then, press on, for the enemy are in the utmost disorder; quickly, quickly, without loss of time. Your servant, GUIDO, BISHOP OF MODULA. From Viterbo, the 7th of May, 1527, 3 P.M. To the most illustrious Lords, the Duke of Urbino and the Marquis of Saluzzo, Captains of the League. II. _Letter from Scipione ... to Alessandro Moresino, alias Venezianello, Master of the Chamber of the Prince Guidobaldo, dated at Urbino, 20th of May, 1527, narrating the destruction of Rome._ Most dear as an honoured brother, I wish I were fitter than at present, and more easy in mind, to write you of the strange, horrible, and atrocious event befallen the wretched, miserable, and ill-fated city of Rome. Although I feel assured that, from different advices, you will have had partial, if not full accounts, nevertheless, that I may not fail in duty, I have thought it best to inform you of all I have yet heard, notwithstanding that I tell it with aching heart and tearful eye. I therefore inform you that eight days ago last Monday, being the 18th inst., about 22 o'clock [half-past 5 P.M.], the Spanish imperial army presented itself at the bastion of the gate. Their object was to make trial, and see how and by whom it was guarded, not having courage to attack; but after consulting together, and deciding to assault, and even to make their way into the city, they took some food, and then suddenly and all in a mass attempted with furious impetuosity to force the bastion, which is said to have been ill guarded, there being but four thousand regular infantry in Rome. In this attack, both sides behaved with great bravery, and were supposed to have lost about one thousand men, including the flower of the Spaniards. Bourbon, observing the slaughter and immense confusion, rushed on with all the lansquenets. The castle maintained a fire of artillery as they best could; but the air being obscured by a dense fog, they could not see the effect of it, and battered down a piece of wall.[253] Through it, and by storming the bastion, the Imperialists entered, and there Bourbon met his death from an arquebus-shot, which passed quite through his belly. The papal troops, unable to offer more resistance, fled towards the castle, into which most of them were admitted, especially those who arrived first. It is rumoured, but not confirmed, that the Lord Stefano Colonna, who commanded the guard at that bastion, capitulated. Next day, being Tuesday, the enemy, though within the town, made no aggressions, but proceeded cautiously, dreading some ambush. Having, however, assured themselves that there was no cause for mistrust, they began to spread over the city, and to plunder the monasteries, nunneries, and hospitals, with great slaughter of those found therein. The hospital of San Spirito was destroyed, and the patients were thrown into the Tiber, after which they commenced attacking the palaces of cardinals and gentlemen, with much bloodshed and cruelty; and I have been told this morning by Francesco, son of Battista Riceco, that one Maestro Jacomo, the first perfumer in Rome, is come to his house, having escaped with four other chance companions, whom, being a very old friend, he has thought it necessary to receive kindly in his house; and he learned from him as certain, having been witness to it, that the lansquenets, that inhuman and villainous race of Lutheran infidels, slew without mercy those of all ages, sexes, and conditions whom they found in the streets; also, that they attacked Cardinal Cesarini's palace, wherein were many Roman gentlemen, guarded by two hundred infantry; and having stormed it, put them all to the sword, it being uncertain if the Cardinal himself were there. Thence they proceeded to the Spanish Archbishop of Cosenza's palace, wherein were some five hundred of his countrymen, men of credit inhabiting Rome, who had retired thither as to a place of safety; but all, without exception, were cut to pieces. They next went to the house of Messer Domenico de' Massimi, a Roman gentleman, who had there his wife and two children, with many noble persons of the city of all ages, every individual of whom were slain--men, women, children, servants, maids; and it was the same in many others, whose names I do not remember, so that the dead bodies lie in heaps in the houses and palaces of the nobility, each day getting worse. Fancy the affliction of the poor ladies, seeing husbands, brothers, children massacred before their eyes, without the power of aiding them, and worse still, they were themselves killed next moment. It is not believed that had the Turk come on such an enterprise, his barbarity would have equalled that daily, continuously, and perseveringly practised by these ruffians. I cannot imagine a greater purgatory or hell than to hear the weeping and lamentation there must be in that afflicted city. [Footnote 253: This letter, though inaccurate in several details, the author writing at a distance from the events, affords curious evidence of the consternation generally occasioned by the sack of Rome.] But I forgot that he told me they were barricading the Marchioness of Mantua's palace, as he left Rome, in which were her Excellency, with many Roman ladies, who had fled there as to an asylum, but the result was not known. He also said that the _Bande nere_ of the late Lord Giovanni de' Medici were to have from the Pope double pay for their services, which his Holiness refusing, a part of them remained in Rome, and the rest went off in disgust and joined the Spaniards in plundering, being the foremost to assault that bastion which was defended by their comrades, and having, in fact, secured the Imperialists their victory, as without them neither the lansquenets nor Spaniards had ever got into the city. The Pope is in the castle, with many cardinals and other persons of station: they are said to have a year's provisions, with ample ammunition and artillery. This Maestro Giacomo says he heard that the Imperialists, dubious of succours, thought of fortifying the bridges, with the intention of holding their ground against any who might annoy them. As yet the lansquenets have made no prisoners, but the Spaniards have pillaged immensely, and taken vast numbers of men, women, priests, and people of all sorts, so that there is, from Rome to Naples, an uninterrupted stream of baggage and prisoners sent by them. He also mentions that the chief of Colonna most courageously charged the lansquenets, crying Colonna! Colonna! but after a great fray, he was beaten and his followers killed, whereupon Pompeo Colonna, thinking to elevate himself and put down his enemies, fled away, and neither he nor any of his house have been since heard of. It was reported that four soldiers were killed in entering the castle, but this is since contradicted. Cardinal del Monte and many more cardinals are missing, and it is not known if they got in there, or are dead, or taken, or escaped. It is suspected that these anti-Christian dogs will put all Rome to flames; and we may anticipate that after suffering all this rapine, pillage, slaughter, and captivity, it will soon have to endure a grievous pestilence, from the number of dead bodies left in the palaces and houses, which no one removes for burial, and which are putrefying in masses, so that no one can enter, on account of the stench, without inhaling infection. It is also said that, a day or two ago one of the Pope's chamberlains was secretly sent by his Holiness from the castle in the night to our Duke [of Urbino], to inform him of the state of matters, and to exhort him and the other captains of the League to push on with the army to his aid; and that all these other leaders having repaired to consult with his Lordship, they unanimously resolved to press forward. We hear that his Excellency is to-day at Orvieto, and will reach Viterbo to-morrow; also that he will make a general levy, and give bounty to all who will enlist. His Excellency has written the Governor a very affectionate letter, praying him to exhort all those here who have been soldiers to go in search of honourable service, with money and all they may require. The Governor has circulated copies of this letter throughout the state, and has made proclamation, so that they are embodying many men to join his Excellency. On Saturday, Vincenzo Ubaldino and Pier-Matteo di Thomasello will start from this with a fine and good detachment. I am sorry not to be able to send you a copy of this letter, which it would really have done your heart good to read. You could hardly believe how much vexation this misfortune to Rome has caused here; and when people of station discuss it, as they often do, I assure you I have seen them weep as freely as if it were their own. All that I have related I tell you just as I heard it from others. I would I were speaking untruths, and that it were all false; but I shall say no more. The Lady Madonna Emilia sends you hearty commendations, and reminds you not to give yourself such airs as to forget her. From Urbino, the 20th May, 1527. Entirely your brother, SCIPIONE ARRIS.... III. _Letter from Mercurino da Gattinara, Commissary of the Imperial Army during the sack of Rome, wherein he informs the Emperor of the entrance into that city, of the slaughter and havock inflicted, and of the arrangement made through him with Clement VII., and how during four successive days he repaired to the Castle of St. Angelo to negotiate with the Pope and thirteen cardinals there inclosed._[254] [Footnote 254: Vat. Ottob. MSS. No. 2607.] Most sacred Cæsar, I have this written in Italian by another hand, being unable to do so with my own in consequence of meeting with an accident, as I shall presently explain. I have to inform your Majesty that Monsieur di Borbone, being near Florence and Siena with his army, and understanding that the former of these cities was well fortified, and contained the forces of the League ready to defend it, rendering a siege impossible, or at all events so protracted as to endanger your Majesty's troops from want of provisions and other stores, whilst the lack of pay risked their disbanding and losing all;--aware, on the other hand, that Rome had been disarmed, and that to seize and bring it and the Pontiff to great straits was to gain everything, or at all events would prove a measure so useful and advantageous as to content your Majesty;--it appeared to him better to abandon his designs upon Florence, and, advancing by forced marches, to beleaguer Rome, thereby anticipating the army of the League, and preventing them from succouring it, for which purpose he determined to leave his artillery in Siena. Accordingly, when this was decided, the confederates being in Florence, and we thirty miles on this side of it, we advanced with the utmost diligence, doing twenty or four-and-twenty miles a day, which was something quite new for the army, so numerous, so distressed by past fatigues, and by recent and actual hunger.[255] Thus, on Saturday the 4th instant, it was quartered at Isola, seven miles from Rome. M. di Borbone and his officers were astonished that the Pope and cardinals should await the army and the threatened danger, whilst Rome was incapable of defence, without submitting some proposal by envoy or letter, or even answering a despatch sent to his Holiness by M. di Borbone and the Viceroy as to the terms of agreement. Some of your Majesty's good servants suggested that were the army under the walls it was doubtful if they could carry them, from want of artillery, in which event their own destruction would follow; on the other hand, that in case of taking the city it would be sacked, which could be no good service to your Majesty, as its plunder would occasion the army to disperse, the Spaniards and Italians straggling towards Naples, or, should they not break up, they might demand immense arrears of pay, which not being discharged from want of means, everything would fall into confusion. For these reasons they recommended Borbone so to dispose his forces as to keep matters open for arrangement with the Pope. Of this advice he openly approved, desirous of any plan which should provide pay for the army. He, however, declared that he would not abstain from annoying the enemy, nor allow them time to provide for their interests, alleging that the Admiral [Bonnivet] of France, from not having taken Rome when he could, in order to save it from a sack, was unable afterwards to do so, it being defended by the Lord Prospero Colonna: also that, on another occasion, when Monsieur di Chaumont beleaguered Bologna, Fabrizio Colonna threw in succours whilst the French general was treating with Julius II., who thereupon broke off the parley: finally, that it became a pontiff rather to seek a capitulation than to wait until it was demanded of him. [Footnote 255: As a specimen of the very loose diction even of public despatches in this age, and of the obstacles which a translator has to encounter, we shall render literally the next sentence, or rather half page, sentences not being divided in the original. "And so the fourth day of the present month of May, which was Saturday, the foresaid army made his lodgment at seven miles from Rome, in a place which is called the Isle; Monsieur di Borbone and all the principal persons were filled with much wonder that the Pope and so many cardinals and all Rome, being disarmed, should wait for such an army and great danger, without sending to the said Monsieur di Borbone an ambassador to make some parley, nor letters, or answer to his letters which the said M. di Borbone had formerly written, and the Viceroy, to his Holiness about the affair of the agreement."] Monsieur di Borbone accordingly decided on approaching the walls, and on Sunday morning the 5th we made a lodgment within [beyond?] St. Peter's palace, hard by the monastery of S. Pancrazio. Yet he did not neglect addressing a letter to the Pontiff on that morning, exhorting him to make a favourable capitulation rather than abide the unpleasant alternative. It was at the same time suggested whether it might not be well for him to repair to his Holiness; but considering that he could not go for want of a safe-conduct, it seemed better for him to remain; he, however, sent the letter by a trumpet, whom the enemy did not allow to pass, the missive remaining in their hands, and we know not whether it reached the Pope; at all events, no answer ever came, which was demanded before half-past seven P.M. of that day, after which it would be no longer possible to restrain the army. For these reasons, as evening approached, it was resolved to get the ladders all prepared for an assault the following morning on the Borgo towards the furnaces, where the wall was considered very weak. And so the assault was given on Monday morning the 6th of May in this year 1527, when by an unlucky chance the Lord di Borbone was hit in the abdomen towards the right thigh, of which wound he presently died. Yet notwithstanding this accident, which was not at once known to the army, the undertaking was carried through, and the Borgo was plundered that morning. The Pope, with most of the cardinals and court, were in the castle, but on hearing what had occurred they hastily retired to the castle of S. Angelo. Meanwhile our soldiery sacked the whole Borgo, and slew most of the people whom they found, taking a few prisoners. The enemy's forces then in the city are supposed not to have exceeded three thousand, unused to arms, so that it was scarcely defended; the dense fog which prevailed during that day was likewise inopportune, preventing them seeing each other; and the struggle did not last in all above two hours. We afterwards learned that the Pope and the citizens, relying upon the assurances of Renzo da Ceri, considered both Rome and the Borgo to be impregnable without artillery, and looked for support from the confederate army. The Pontiff being thus within the castle, and such of the citizens as were armed having joined their handful of troops for defence of the bridges and of the Transtevere quarter, the Borgo was occupied by a large portion of our army, and its leaders were assembled in council, when there arrived the Portuguese ambassador to say that some Romans, his neighbours, had, with the Pope's sanction, urged him to make terms. The answer given him was that the council would be ready to treat, so soon as the Pope had placed in their hands the Ponte Molle and Transtevere, to which proposal no reply was returned during that day. A brigade of our troops having carried the Transtevere, and possessed themselves of the Ponte Sisto and Sta. Maria, the whole army passed into the city early on that evening of the 6th. As the inhabitants in general relied on its being defended, none of them had fled or removed their property, so that no one of whatever nation, rank, condition, age, or sex escaped becoming prisoners--not even women in the convents. They were treated without distinction according to the caprice of the soldiery; and after being plundered of all their effects most of them were compelled by torture or otherwise to pay ransom. Cardinals Cesarini, della Valle, and di Siena, being imperialists, considered themselves safe, and remained in their houses, whither also there retired Cardinal ..., Fra Giacobatio, and many friends with their women and valuables; but finding no sanctuary there, they had to compound with certain captains and soldiers for security of their persons and property; notwithstanding which, these houses were completely pillaged three or four days afterwards, and they had enough to do to save their lives. Some women who had carried all their earthly possessions to Cardinal Colonna's residence were left with but a single cloak and shift. Cardinals S. Sisto and della Minerva, who stayed at home, are still in the soldiers' power, being too poor to pay their ransom. All the church ornaments are stolen, the sacred utensils thrown about, the relics gone to destruction--for the troops in abstracting their precious receptacles heeded these no more than as many bits of wood: even the shrine of the _sancta sanctorum_ was sacked, although regarded with peculiar reverence. St. Peter's church and the papal palace from top to bottom have been made into stables. I feel confident that your Majesty as a Catholic and most Christian emperor will feel displeasure at these gross outrages and insults to the Catholic religion, the Apostolic See, and the city of Rome. In truth, every one is convinced that all this has happened as a judgment from GOD on the great tyranny and disorders of the papal court; but however this may be, there has been vast destruction, for which no redress can be had but from your Majesty's arm and authority. This army has no head, no divisions, no discipline, no organisation, but every one behaves according to his own fancy. The Lord Prince of Orange and Giovanni di Urbino, with the other leaders, do what they can, but to little purpose; for in entering Rome the lansquenets have conducted themselves like true Lutherans, and the rest like actual.... Most of the troops are enriched by the enormous booty, amounting to many millions of gold. A majority of the Spaniards will, it is supposed, retire to Naples with their spoil. But to resume our narrative. On the morning after our entry, being Tuesday the 7th, the Pope wrote a letter to our leaders, praying them to send me to his Holiness to hear certain proposals. By their order I went into S. Angelo, where I found thirteen cardinals in great affliction, as was natural in the circumstances. His Holiness in their presence told me, that since fortune, on which he too much relied, had brought him to this pass, he would not think of any resistance, but was content to place his own person and that of the cardinals, and his state, in your Majesty's hands, and that he desired me to mediate with the captains for some favourable arrangement. I did my best to comfort his Holiness and the cardinals, showing them how satisfied they must be that your Majesty never intended to injure either his Holiness or the Apostolic See; but that great blame attached to them, seeing they might, on certain fair conditions and by a sum of money, have prevented our army from approaching so near, which would have averted the destruction of Rome; since, however, GOD had so willed it, that his plan seemed to me good, of placing himself in the hands of your Majesty, as there was no remedy or redress to be looked for but from that quarter. Taking upon me the charge imposed by my office as mediator, I passed several times between the council of war and the Pontiff, and succeeded in the course of four days in concluding a capitulation, which is generally considered reasonable and advantageous to your Majesty's service, as to which I shall only say that your Majesty will judge, after seeing its terms and learning its progress. There arose on our side an obstacle to prevent the execution of this agreement, which was the bad discipline of the Germans, who took a fancy not to quit Rome, nor confirm any truce, until they had received all arrears of pay, amounting, according to their calculation, to 300,000 scudi. But as the Pope could put down but 100,000 scudi, even after selling everything within the castle, of his own valuables and those of the cardinals and prelates, and the church ornaments, the affair could not be brought to a happy issue, so much so that I greatly feared the brutality of these Germans and the blunders of others would have lost all the fruits of our enterprise, especially as the army of the League is supposed not to be more than twenty or twenty-five miles distant, and as some of their detachments have already tried to carry off his Holiness by night. After several days had passed in disputing with the lansquenets, the expedient was adopted of handing them over all the cash produced by the Pontiff--the Prince of Orange and other captains undertaking that they should be paid [the balance] out of the first moneys raised, and Parma and Piacenza being consigned in security. I was obliged to concede to them these conditions, in order to carry through the capitulation, and so secure the benefit of our enterprise, as well as to elude their anxiety to get the Pope and cardinals into their clutches, upon which they were greatly set. And this arrangement is really of such importance that most of your Majesty's servants are willing to undertake any obligation towards these lansquenets, in order to ensure the Pope's and cardinals' safety. There is still some hitch about raising the 100,000 scudi, but we trust means will be found; meanwhile, it has been resolved to throw three hundred infantry into the castle to-morrow, under some leader, to secure it and all in it; and we shall see gradually to get the rest brought about. In return for my toils, anxieties, and services, I was wounded from an arquebus in S. Angelo on the fourth day, whilst approaching the castle to treat with the Pope. The ball passed through my right arm, which prevents me from writing, but I hope in time to get over it. And notwithstanding this accident befallen me, from no fault of his Holiness, whilst on your Majesty's service and in so righteous a work, I shall endure it all patiently, in the hope that your Majesty will consider my exertions, and the losses sustained by me in limb and estate, and out of your clemency and compassion will not omit some fitting recompence. After writing the above on the 19th inst., I returned to the castle to conclude the arrangements with the Pope and cardinals, and complete the convention; and in consequence of certain articles being added regarding the entry of our people into S. Angelo, I sought to remodel the treaty. The Lord Vespasiano Colonna, and the Abbot of Nigera accompanied me; and after protracted discussion with the Pontiff regarding the difficulty of raising the 100,000 scudi, we had recourse to certain merchants who, on a guarantee from his Holiness and the cardinals, promised to make up a balance of 20,000 wanted to complete that sum. This point being settled, I insisted on reforming the treaty, and that your Majesty's troops might on that very day take possession of the fortress, as had been agreed on. But his Holiness endeavoured all day to postpone this on various pretexts, and at length, when pressed by us to decide, as we would wait no longer, he replied, "I shall speak frankly; having advices that the confederate army is at hand to relieve me, I desire, meanwhile, that you give me a limited time to await their succours, on the expiry of which I shall perform all the stipulations of the capitulation. Nor is this any unreasonable request, as I shall be satisfied with six days, and as similar conditions are never refused to any fortress about to surrender." I replied to the Pontiff and the cardinals, that your Majesty's army had little apprehension of any such succours, being always victorious; but that his Holiness would do well to consider how your Majesty's captains, on receiving such an answer, would conclude him and the cardinals to have been merely trifling with them to gain time: indeed, I was satisfied that they would consider it a positive rupture, and would suddenly assault the castle, and storm it so furiously that these, or even better terms, would no longer be listened to, leaving no opportunity for repentance or remedy short of the final destruction of the Holy See. On hearing these views, the Pope and cardinals were greatly bewildered, apprehending that they would be realised should they wait for relief, and in this dilemma remained gazing on each other, but asked a quarter of an hour for consultation. Eventually there arose a wrangle among the cardinals, those of the French faction wishing to await succours at all hazards; so the Pontiff excused himself from settling the matter according to his own wish, ever urging a delay of six days. I believe the authors of this opposition to have been Alberto da Carpi, the Datary Orazio Baglione, Gregorio Casale the English ambassador, and such like. Having retired from the castle with Lord Vespasiano and the Abbot, we related everything to our leaders, whereupon it was decided to open that very night a trench round the fortress, the whole army turning out under arms. It was found no easy matter to muster them, all being idle and intent on pillage; nor would they quit the houses, especially the lansquenets, who at first thought it a mere trick to get them out. At length, after great exertions, the enemy being ascertained but seven miles off, all ran to arms, and your Majesty's army was well disposed for battle: indeed, I suspect the enemy found their calculation disappointed, that most of our soldiery having become rich, would no longer flock to their standards. Some Spanish and German troops are expected; but I know not if they will arrive in time, as the trench is already made, so that neither Pope nor any one else shall escape. Such is the present state of your Majesty's affairs, and I trust they will ever have successful issue. Yet it is true that, after the death of M. di Borbone, great confusion occurred in the army, as no one knew whom to acknowledge as its chief. I think that had he lived, Rome would, perhaps, not have been sacked, and matters might have taken a better course and result for your Majesty's interests. Yet GOD so willed it, and we need not talk of what cannot now be helped. But my affectionate duty to your Majesty requires me to report certain things requiring from your Majesty the oversight of a captain-general; of the individual I say nothing, not wishing presumptuously to name any one. On M. di Borbone's death, the day we entered Rome, the captains and counsellors in the army discussed giving its command to the Viceroy of Naples, then at Siena. The Prince of Orange remarked that he had acknowledged the authority of di Borbone, but would not submit to the Viceroy. It being suggested by some that the Duke of Ferrara was coming as your Majesty's captain-general, the Prince replied, that on his arrival, he would acknowledge him, but that meanwhile, no one being commissioned by your Majesty, he neither would set himself up as captain, nor at all permit others to be so without your Majesty's command. These words he addressed to Giovanni d'Urbino, who then, and on subsequent occasions, modestly remarked that he was content to acknowledge the Prince, with other complimentary phrases. Now the Prince has taken the notion of being himself captain-general, and thus affairs are conducted in his name, not, however, with that title, but as the first person in the army, being much liked by the Germans. Your Majesty will do as seems best. One thing requires your Majesty's careful consideration, namely, how this city of Rome is to be governed, and whether or not anything of the Apostolic See is to be retained. I shall not conceal the opinion of some that it should not be entirely abolished; for if that See were transported elsewhere, it seems certain that it will be utterly ruined, seeing that, in that case, the King of France will set up a patriarch in his realm, refusing obedience to the Apostolic See, the English and Spanish Sovereigns doing the like. But this should be seen to without delay, otherwise the professional men and notaries will all be gone, and Rome will be quite reduced, as they will lose both their appointments and their practice. The Pope and those cardinals with him, told me that your Majesty should make provision for this, otherwise all would be lost. Your Majesty will act in this for the best. There are three other points to which it is necessary that your Majesty should attend by anticipation. One is, what would your Majesty wish done, should his Holiness and those cardinals go to Naples as has been proposed; ought they to be taken to Spain or not? Another is, what if the Pope should escape from the castle by aid of the enemy? In the third place, should it come to an assault and the Pontiff unluckily fall? It is my belief, however, that, on expiry of the six days which he has demanded, and which are already running, he, on finding no efficient succour, will again come to parley and propose a capitulation. Yet I have my misgivings lest your Majesty's interests should be crossed by the fury of the lansquenets, who declare they must get hold of him. But your Majesty's faithful servants will not cease to consider how these interests can be promoted; and now that the Lord Marquis del Vasto, the Lord Don Ugo, with Marcone, are coming, perhaps their advice will put things into better train. I have resolved to discharge my duty by informing your Majesty of these occurrences, but would to God I could have despatched a courier to your Majesty daily as they proceeded. Four days ago the Cardinal and others of the Colonna were not in the neighbourhood, but he is since arrived, with Lords Vespasiano and Ascanio, who do their best in your Majesty's behalf. The above I have retained until the 24th of May, and as no courier is gone, I shall here note what has since happened. Your Majesty must know that on the Pope declining to accept the capitulation which I have mentioned above, your Majesty's captains and counsellors began diligently to surround the castle with trenches, &c., &c. APPENDIX III (Page 22) THE DUKE OF URBINO'S JUSTIFICATION, 1527.[256] [Footnote 256: Sanuto Diarii, xlv. 352.] We print this document with hesitation, and solely from its being the Duke's own and formal defence against very serious charges; which, however, it leaves untouched. It is a futile attempt to evade these by feeble and puling recrimination; to distract attention from their true merits by circumlocutions and reiterations, which our version has somewhat condensed. The original is one unbroken sentence, rudely constructed, apparently of purpose to mystify the reader. _Letter of the Lord Duke of Urbino, Captain-general to the Signory of Venice, dated under Monteleone, 9th July, 1527._ By your Sublimity's letters to the most illustrious lord Proveditore Pisani, and from my ambassador accredited to you, I have learnt, to my infinite dissatisfaction and surprise, the suspicions entertained by you lest the illustrious lady Duchess, my consort, and my son should secretly leave Venice, and the doubts of my good faith which you by implication exhibit in denying them permission to quit the city; regarding which it seems necessary first to recapitulate to your Signory what I had formerly charged my resident to explain to you, to this effect. Since, from the very outset of this war, it has generally happened to me not to accomplish my intentions for your service and my own honour, and to be blamed for failures resulting from the occurrence of impossibilities, or from the blunders of others, whilst with mind and body I was exclusively occupied on what might prove advantageous and creditable,--I determined, for these and other considerations which, out of modesty, I omit, seeing the bad success with which I had, on this occasion, borne arms, to yield to my evil fortune on the expiry of my engagement; which I considered to be clearly ended at the close of three years; nor again to expose my honour to question, from no fault of mine. And, on this account, I have all along and often said I would not continue, which may be attested by all the commissioners employed by your Serenity in this war, to whom, as to many others you are accustomed to credit, I repeatedly stated this. Passing over for the present the good reasons, already well known to your Sublimity, which induced me to forget all this, and treat of a re-engagement, with the disposition to remain on,--as well as those considerations which, renewing the first impressions, made me again deliberately fall back upon my project, yet with the full intention not to abandon the cause of your Sublimity, unless the expected succours should arrive, or until I had placed it in safety, even should this necessitate my staying long after the conclusion of my service; thinking also that, I having no opposite interest, the enemy ought to let me rest in my intention, and in a firm resolution neither to take up arms, nor otherwise act against your Sublimity and your interests; nevertheless, considering that, were I to quit you at the close of three years, from all these and numerous other reasons, which might probably occasion me annoyance, I might be exposed to the surmise of having acted, not from such motives, but that, on observing the success of the other side, I wished, by attaching myself to a prosperous cause, to evade adversity; and my chief object ever being to preserve my honour intact, not only from stain, but even from suspicion;--on these accounts, and from the difficulty that arose as to finding myself at freedom in regard to the two years of _beneplacito_,[257] I decided to serve, in order not to expose my honour to any reflection. Yet, in addition to all that passed in private between the Proveditore and myself, when I told him I would and should serve your Sublimity without further demands, and that he might freely dispose of me, I, even in the public council, stated my views as to maintaining these bands, and constituting them the mainspring of the war. For the whole of which considerations, I declared that I would serve your Sublimity, without regard to life or anything else, as I have uniformly done, in order more fully to satisfy all the Lords of Council that what I proposed I was, and more than ever am, anxious to do, in conjunction with them. And if the dates of letters be examined, it will be distinctly seen that each of these circumstances occurred much before I had heard, or could have heard, a word as to any doubt or distrust of me being exhibited, which, in my opinion, ought not to be, even were I to take my leave. Thus I had no apprehension; yet, as my intention of so acting was founded on what might fairly be done, I did not suppose that by your Sublimity it would have been not only opposed, but even gainsaid, in restoring to me my son when I should ask him of you, as I meant to do. In such case you might well consider that, even had I any intention to fail you,--a thing you could not and ought not to suppose from my former life,--you would have known how to adopt, and would have adopted, measures suitable to such intentions, and not so frequently have said and reiterated, chiefly to the agents of your Sublimity, that you wished me to be gone; and this after I had voluntarily given into your hands my lady consort and my son, when there was, and could be, no obligation to do so beyond the suggestions of my thorough sincerity. And, with a view to establish this, I lately offered you three proposals,--first, my person, which is here at your Sublimity's disposal in your service; second, my son, who is now in your hands; third, my state, with its fortresses, which I willingly would offer your Sublimity, to be kept, along with myself, in your service and disposal, as full guarantee and security; although I know not what better satisfaction you can require besides my free action, whereby I so long and often have manifested my disposition. And most clear, in my opinion, are the many reasons which freely induced me; all of which, and more too, were they not already so known, I am prepared to maintain in case of need. Hence my modesty, serene Prince, will not, in these circumstances, let me stop to say how great a wrong I suffer; yet to no one, not even to your Sublimity, have I given cause or occasion to depreciate my good faith, which was, is, and ever shall be, most sincere. And, although it be considered impossible that you can do anything without that wisdom which becomes your dignity, I nevertheless have grounds for complaint, and am exceedingly vexed that my ill luck has been so in the ascendant as,--after all the efforts and perils of my life, and the loss of so many followers in your service, for which I have heeded no calamities,--instead of the gratitude which I might reasonably have promised myself from you, to occasion such marked dishonour; so that, ever since my birth, I may say that my life has been passed in ceaseless travails and difficulties. And, if you have thought fit to believe any malicious and spiteful fellow, I ought not to be the victim, though he be an astute and wily foe, who, well aware that I maintained myself to be at liberty, and very often declared myself unwilling to remain, has spread some rumours against me, reckoning that, if in nothing else, he would, at all events, have the satisfaction of circulating that distrust of me which is already apparent, although I ought not on that account to be slandered. I do, therefore, with the greatest possible urgency, beseech you to investigate the truth; and, if I be blameable, to visit me with such punishment as I merit; or, if found innocent, to liberate me, by a suitable public acknowledgment, from the stigma under which I lie. And, commending myself to your favour, I remind you that all these past thoughts of mine arose from no private interest of my own, but from despair at being unable, by no fault of mine, to do what your service and my honour demanded, and at being prevented, by past circumstances, from effecting what I had previously hoped to accomplish, although no exertions of mind or body were wanting on my part. From beneath Monteleone, the 9th of July, 1527. [Footnote 257: A _condotto_, or military engagement, was usually for so many years certain, and one or two more at the option or _beneplacito_ of parties.] APPENDIX IV (Page 27) SKETCH OF THE NEGOTIATIONS OF CASTIGLIONE AT THE COURT OF MADRID, 1525 TO 1529, COMPILED FROM THE ABBÉ SERASSI'S PREFACE TO VOL. II. OF CASTIGLIONE'S LETTERS, AND CORRECTED FROM AUTHENTIC SOURCES. On his arrival at Madrid, in March, 1525, Castiglione found the Emperor and his ministers much disposed for peace; but matters soon assumed a totally different aspect, on news of the victory of Pavia, which, by annihilating the army of Francis, and leaving him a prisoner, established the supremacy of Charles, and placed him in a position to dictate terms. This event modified the policy of the Italian princes, and especially that of the Pope, who, naturally irresolute, knew not what part to take, unwilling to abandon his avowed neutrality, yet seeing no security in standing aloof from a power so dominant as that of the Emperor. On the whole, he thought it safest to come to a provisional arrangement with Don Carlos de Lannoy, Viceroy of Naples, giving him 100,000 ducats for payment of his troops, as the price of his aid in recovering for the Church Reggio and Rubbiera, which the Duke of Ferrara had seized on the death of Adrian VI. He at the same time named as his legate to the leading powers of Christendom, for the purpose of concluding a general peace, Cardinal Giovanni Salviati, who proceeded to Madrid to attend the conferences for the liberation of Francis and the security of Italy. In consort with Castiglione, the Legate urged that an envoy should be forthwith despatched to Rome and Venice, in order to remove those suspicions of the Emperor's design to make himself master of the entire Peninsula, which had arisen in consequence of the Marquis of Pescara taking possession of the chief fortresses of the Milanese, and besieging Francesco Sforza in his capital, on a pretext of his plotting with the other princes to drive the Spaniards out of Lombardy, and to deprive them of Naples; it being obvious that once established in these provinces, Charles would be paramount in Italy. As to the liberation of Francis, they could get nothing beyond professions of the utmost moderation, that matter being secretly negotiated by the Viceroy. The Pontiff, getting no satisfaction on these points, began to lend an ear to a proposed league of France, England, and Venice; but, when on the point of subscribing it, he, to the infinite disgust of his colleagues, postponed his signature on a rumour that the Commendatore Herrera was at Genoa, on his way to offer very acceptable proposals; at length, however, finding that these reports were but opiates to set him asleep, he was induced to join the confederation, notwithstanding entreaties and promises of the imperial ambassador. This league filled Charles with indignation, as he fully understood it to be directed against himself, though masked by a condition sanctioning his adherence to it. But his rage was immoderate on receiving, through Castiglione, a papal brief, which justified the confederacy as necessary for the safety of Italy and the Holy See, and complained generally of the measures of his ministers, specifying various instances wherein they had ill responded to the pacific and affectionate dispositions entertained by his Holiness towards their master. Stung to the quick by a despatch which laid bare the secret tricks of their paltry intrigues, they persuaded the Emperor to return a sharp answer, appealing to a general council whatever steps Clement might have recourse to against him, which they represented as likely to endanger his possession of Naples, and even his tenure of the imperial crown. Castiglione, who enjoyed high personal favour, was able by dexterous representations to extract from Charles himself the hope of a milder reply, and meanwhile had from him authority to assure the Pontiff of his friendly intentions, and of his resolution to comport himself as a humble and liege son; and these favourable dispositions were the more readily effected, as he had received from the wavering Pontiff a revocation of the offensive brief the very day after it had been delivered. It was, therefore, with dismay that, when shown the secretary's answer, he found it in the utmost degree bitter and spiteful; and hurrying to the Emperor, he complained of the disrespect thus shown to his Majesty's wishes in an affair of such moment, protesting that he neither could write to his master what his Majesty had already instructed him, without belying the whole negotiation, nor could he, after such treatment, rely upon or report those favourable dispositions which his Majesty had hitherto professed. Charles replied that his real intentions were conformable to his previous professions, although he had been advised by his ministers to write in such terms as might justify and secure himself, in the face of such groundless imputations as had been made in the objectionable brief; adding the most solemn abjurations, that, if his Holiness comported himself peaceably towards all, he should ever continue a good and obedient son. In an autograph letter to the Nuncio, he reiterated this explanation of his answer, with a hope that the Pope would not take offence at its contents, and an assurance that Castiglione would never be belied by him. The document which the diplomatist had the tact thus to obtain, is relied upon by his biographers as a satisfactory negative to the suspicions of Varchi, that he betrayed the Pontiff and the Church, during his vexatious relations with the Spanish court. Meanwhile, Francis having been released, on terms which he was unable as well as unwilling to execute, and his sons consequently remaining as hostages, the new League proceeded with hostilities against the Imperialists in Lombardy, and took Lodi, whilst their ambassadors still negotiated at Madrid for the Emperor's adherence to their confederation, and for release of the French princes. This farce of armed protocolising was further complicated by various by-plots, and by endless jealousies and misunderstandings among these diplomatists, so that the Spanish ministry found no difficulty in protracting it by a succession of petty cavils, in the hope of some favourable news from the seat of war. Such was the state of matters when the first sack of Rome by Don Ugo da Moncada and the Colonna, in September 1526, reached the imperial court, and along with it the hurried truce imposed upon Clement. Charles, affecting great indignation, immediately sent to the Pope Cesare Fieramosca, his master of horse, to disown the proceedings of Moncada, and to lavish professions for the peace and welfare of Italy, the only effect of which was to lull the facile and nerveless Pontiff into a fatal security, rudely dispelled by the assault of Bourbon on the heights of the Vatican. APPENDIX V (Page 140) ACCOUNT OF THE ARMADA OF THE MOST SERENE DON JOHN OF AUSTRIA, DRAWN UP AT MESSINA THE LAST OF JULY, 1571.[258] [Footnote 258: Vat. Urb. MSS. 816, fol. 144-5.] 1. SPANISH INFANTRY, INCLUDING THOSE AT CORFU. Don Gabriel Hig'r of the third of Naples 3000 Of Sicily 1900 Mechil Moncada 1560 Pietro Ciaida 300 Don Giovanni Figarola 280 D. Lopez Figarola 130 Alonzo Ruiz di Carion 144 Francesco Aldana 290 ____ Total 7604 2. ITALIAN INFANTRY. The Count of Soriano 1650 Tiberio Brancatio 2000 Paolo Sforza 1800 Pietro Villa and Giorgio Moncada 3000 Paolo Golfario 280 Fra Matteo Belhuomo 200 Vincenzo di Bologna 500 ____ Total 9430 3. PRIVATE INDIVIDUALS. The Lord Prince of Parma 350 The Lord Paolo Giordano 400 The Marquis of Trevico 100 The Marquis of Briense 750 Giulio Gesuoldo 40 Antonio Doria 30 D. Giovanni di Gueriaza 40 Count di Landriano 80 D. Giovanni di Avalos 20 Count di Vicari 40 Cecco da Lofredo 30 The Prior of Hungary 25 ____ Total 1905 Also of knights from Germany and Burgundy on their own costs 150 The captains of adventure, of very fine appearance and very well armed, may amount to above two thousand; say in all 2150 German infantry (no successor to the Count Lodron yet appointed) 4361 [ABSTRACT.] Italian infantry 9950 Spanish " 7604 Private men-at-arms 1905 Captains of adventure 2150 Germans 4361 Total 25,970 NAVAL FORCE. 33 ships, each carrying from 1500 to 4500, or from 6400 to 7000 souls. Those carrying 700 remain for the westward. 9 large barks, part of them left for the westward, and partly taken for his Highness' effects and for artificial fireworks. The division of the great galleys to be taken on or left behind is not yet made, not knowing the amount of duty required, nor the eighty paid by the court. ARTILLERY. 13 canons of 50 lb. fully supplied. 1 " of 60 " 5 " of 35 " 3 " of 25 " 2 " for stones. 2 colobrines of 16 lb. 14 sagri of 7 " 10 falconets for the great barks. 12 pieces of seven mouths sent by the Grand Duke of Tuscany. __ 62 in all. AMMUNITION. 7050 iron balls of 50 lb. 3450 " " of 35 " 3250 " " of 25 " 1200 " " for the colobrines. 3644 iron balls for the sagri. 767 stone balls. ______ 19,361 in all. ______ 1360 cantars of powder, Neapolitan weight, 100 to each cannon. 1980 cantars of rope for the arquebuses. 1800 cantars of lead. PROVISIONS. 7000 cantars of biscuit already carried on to Corfu, whereof 1000 lent to the Venetians, and 2000 to the Pope's galleys, leaving 4000 for those of the Marquis Sta. Croce. 26,000 cantars more are returned as in the kingdom of Naples (including the 3000 for the Venetians and his Holiness) under charge of the Marquis of Terranuova, who is to ship 19,000 for the supply of the armament during four months. 3500 pipes [_botte_] of wine in the ships at Corfu. 2500 " to be shipped for the Levant by the Marquis of Terranuova. 7400 cantars of salt-meat in the ships at Corfu will be divided at Messina. 1050 cantars for the westward squadron. 8000 " of Sardinian cheese at Corfu. 5000 barrels of pickled tunny and anchovies at Corfu for the armament. 1500 cantars of rice } 150 quarters of vetches } for both armaments. 1025 " " ditto remain in Messina. 600 casks of vinegar. 3570 baskets of oil, Neapolitan measure. His Highness has resolved that Doria shall accompany his galleys to the Levant, and assist in the transport of stores, under orders to return speedily with twelve galleys; and has made him Proveditore of the western squadron, consisting of forty galleys and other vessels. APPENDIX VI (Page 167) INDULGENCE CONCEDED TO THE CORONA OF THE GRAND DUKE OF TUSCANY BY POPE PIUS V., AND CONFIRMED BY THEIR HOLINESSES URBAN VIII. AND ALEXANDER VII. 1666. "This Corona is called the Corona of the bowels of our Lord Jesus Christ, and consists of ten Ave Marias and one Pater Noster. Every person possessing this Corona shall obtain the remission of all his sins and plenary indulgence. "Each time that he shall take it up in full faith, and look upon it, saying, 'Lord Jesus Christ, I pray thee by the merit of thy most holy Passion, have mercy on my soul and my weighty sins,' he shall obtain remission thereof; and whoever daily looks upon it and kisses it, for the merit of the most holy Passion, shall receive as above. "Further, each time that he shall say this, he shall liberate a soul from purgatory, and saying it a thousand times, a thousand souls shall be liberated through the privilege of this Corona; and whoever shall look upon it by the merits of our Lord's Passion, or shall touch it in full faith, shall obtain plenary indulgence and remission as above. "And further, any ecclesiastic wearing it whilst he says the holy mass shall have the like plenary indulgence and remission, and those hearing the mass shall gain forty days' indulgence. "Power is given to the Grand Duke to dispense seven Coronas to as many persons, from time to time for ever, warning them that they must ask them in the name of God and through the merits of His most sacred Passion; and these should be delivered gratis." [From a contemporary copy in Bibl. Cassinatensis, x. iv. 39, p. 369.] APPENDIX VII (Page 210) MONUMENTAL INSCRIPTIONS OF THE DUCAL FAMILY OF URBINO. We have here collected the various inscriptions in memory of the sovereigns of Urbino and their consorts, so far as these have come to our knowledge. Several are taken from Giunta, Abozzamento della Città di Urbino, a MS. in the Albani Library at Rome; or from Lazzari, _Dizionario dei Pittori di Urbino_, where not unfrequent errors occur: others from the originals. I. COUNT GUIDANTONIO. On a pavement tombstone in the old church of S. Donato, close to the Zoccolantine Monastery near Urbino, is a sculptured effigy in the Franciscan habit, with the following doggerel, in some parts illegible:-- "Ploret in Hesperia tellus! plorate Latini! Guido Comes, moriens hoc requiescit humo. Non fuit a coelo princeps clementior alter; Prævalidas urbes rexit et ipse potens. Non fuit in terris unquam qui sanctior heros Cappam Francisci posset habere sacri; Quem dabit eternis probitas venerabilis ævo Mors animam coelo reddidit alma suo. Vos igitur superi socio gaudete superno, Et Divum servet curia sacra Ducem: Mille quadringentis domini currentibus annis Quadraginta tribus, Februarii vigesima prima." II. DUKE ODDANTONIO. Quoted by Lazzari from a broken statue in the palace, which had been inscribed during his life:-- "Serenissimo Oddantonio, principi præclaro, Urbini Duci primo, qui vetusti generis splendore propriâque virtute insignis, ducali diademate a santissimo Eugenio IV. recto fuit judicio decoratus." III. DUKE FEDERIGO. On his statue in the palace by Girolamo Campagna of Verona. "Federigo Urbini Duci optimo, S.R. ecclesiæ Vexillifero, foederatorum principum ac aliorum exercitum imperatori, expugnatori, præliorum omnium victori, propagatæ ditionis ædificiis, et militaris virtutis literis exornatori, populis insigni prudentia, pietate, pace, justitiaque servatis, de Italia benemerenti, Franciscus Maria Dux, abnepos, faciendum curavit." IV. On his monument in the Zoccolantine Church of S. Bernardino, near Urbino:-- "D.O.M. Federigo Montefeltrio Urbini Duci II., Sanctæ Romanæ Ecclesiæ vexillifero, Italici foederis aliorumque exercituum imperatori, præliorum passim victori nunquam victo, ditionis et bonarum artium propugnatori, celebris bibliothecæ et insignium ædificiorum, tum ad magnificentiam tum ad pietatem structori, quem licet aliis preferas, nescias tamen belli an pacis gloria seipsum superavit. Obiit ann. dom. MCCCCLXXXII. suo. LXV." V. DUKE GUIDOBALDO I. On his monument in the same church:-- "Guidobaldo Federici filio, Urbini Duci III., qui adhuc impubes, paternam gloriam emulans, imperia viriliter foeliciterque gessit, juvenis de adversâ triumphans fortunâ, sed vi morbi corpore debilior animo vegetior, pro armis literas, pro militibus viros selectissimos, pro re bellica rem aulicam ita coluit, fovit, auxit, ut ejus aula ceteris præclarissimum extet exemplar. Obiit an. Dom. MDVIII., suo XXXVI. Et Elizabethæ Gonzagæ, miræ pudicitiæ feminæ, ipsi jugali amore et egregia virtute conjunctissima." VI. DUKE FRANCESCO MARIA I. From a mural slab in Sta. Chiara at Urbino; written by Bembo. "Francesco Mariæ Duci, amplissime belli pacisque muneribus perfuncto, dum paternas urbes, per vim ter ablatas, ter per virtutem recipit, et receptis æquissime moderatur; dum a pontificibus, a Florentinis, a Venetis exercitibus præficitur; deinceps et gerendi in Turcas belli, dum princeps et administrator assumitur, sed ante diem sublato, Leonora uxor fidissima et optima meritissimo posuit, et sibi." VII. DUKE GUIDOBALDO II. From the same church:-- "D.O.M. Guidus Ubaldus Monfeltrius de Ruvere, Urbini Dux quintus, sanctæ Romanæ ecclesiæ, Philippi Hispaniarum Regis, Venetæque reipublicæ exercituum præfectus et imperator summus, magnanimitate et liberalitate adeo excelluit ut eum regia cum majestate aliis potius profuisse quam præfuisse dixeris. Obit humanum diem sexagenarius, anno Dñi MDLXXIII." VIII. DUCHESS VITTORIA. From the same church:-- "Victoria Farnesia Guidi Ubaldi Urbini Ducis V. conjux, maximorum principum filia, soror, amita, parens: annis quidem plena, sed præter, mulierum captum virtutibus plenior, migravit e vita anno Dñi, MDCII." IX. On the centre slab of the pavement of S. Ubaldo, at Pesaro, where the two last-mentioned sovereigns were interred. "Guid. Ub. II. Urb. Ducis V. et Victoriæ uxoris ossa." X. CARDINAL GIULIO DELLA ROVERE. From a mural slab in Sta. Chiara, at Urbino. "Julio Montefeltrio e Ruvere, sanctæ Romanæ ecclesiæ cardinali; Umbriæ bis legatione magna cum laude perfuncto; Urbini, Ravennæ, aliarumque ecclesiarum antistiti; Lauretanæ domûs ac Sancti Francisci ordinum patrono; justitiâ, pietate, beneficentiâ, Principi celeberrimo; mortalitatem explevit nonas Septembris, anno Domini MDLXXVIII., ætatis vero XLIV." XI. PRINCE FEDERIGO. Over his tomb in the pavement of the crypt in the cathedral at Urbino. "D.O.M. In hoc quod Franciscus Maria II., postremus Urbini Dux, sibi paraverat sepulchro, quiescunt ossa Friderici ejus filii immatura morte prærepti, III. Kal. Julii, MDCXXIII., et suæ æt. ann. XVIII." XII. From a mural slab in Sta. Chiara, at Urbino. "Federicum Urbini Principem, in quem Roborea domûs recumbebat, dies fugiens incolumem, cunctisque fortunæ muneribus vidit præfulgentem, eundemque primam intra juventam inopinatâ morte extinctum, dies veniens aspexit, III. Kal. Julii, MDCXXIII. Abi hospes, ac disce felicitatem vere vitream tunc præcipue frangi, cum maxime splendet." XIII. DUKE FRANCESCO MARIA II. From the Church of the Crucifixion, near Urbania. "Inclina Domine aurem tuam ad preces nostras, quibus misericordiam tuam supplices deprecamur, ut animam famuli tui Francisci Mariæ, Urbini Ducis, quam de hoc seculo migrare jussisti in pacis et lucis regione, constituas, et sanctorum tuorum jubeas, esse consortem." XIV. PRINCESS LAVINIA DELLA ROVERE. "Laviniæ Feltriæ de Ruvere, Guidobaldi V. Ducis Urb. V. filiæ, Alfonsi de Avalos, Vasti March., Hispani Magnatis conjugi, regiis virtutibus et forma spectabili, Italorum principum Romani Pontificis et Catholici Regis conciliatrici; qui inclyto orbata viro, virginibus claustra, pauperibus bona, Christo seipsum dicavit; demum avitâ major gloriâ victrix, ad eternam evocata pacem, eam sanctimoniæ famam reliquit, ut divinitus datum noscas ultimum Roboris in materno solo arvisque ramum, qui primus gloriosiorque vigebat. Obiit A.D. MDCXXXII., suo LXXV." APPENDIX VIII (Page 246) STATISTICS OF URBINO It would be interesting could we, in concluding this work, offer some details as to the statistics of Urbino under its native princes. But although, under the genial sun and favouring circumstances of Italy, man has in various ages advanced beyond his fellows in mental culture and social development, the science of maturing the capabilities of his position, and of marking their progression, is of modern growth. The duties of rulers and subjects consisted until lately in defence of the common weal against obvious dangers: the promotion of its general prosperity, and the registration of its gradual ameliorations, were no part either of scientific government, or of individual study. Accordingly, the lights thrown upon statistics, by historians and general writers in the best days of Italian splendour, are too few and flickering to guide us to important facts; and, though we may familiarise ourselves with the Athenian court of Duke Guidobaldo I., its manners and its gossip,--though we may recall from the ample description of many authors the stately decorations of its palaces, the pageantry of its processions, the brilliancy of its revels,--we are left in total ignorance of the internal state of the country, of its resources and industry, of the numbers and the condition of its inhabitants, of the financial position of its government. It is not till late in the sixteenth century that we meet with some materials, which,--though meagre and inaccurate, and too often bearing the double impress of carelessness and contradiction,--enable us to form some tangible estimate as to these points.[259] Here, as in most cases, recording the impartial evidence of watchful observers, the Venetian Relazione are of considerable value. Those of Mocenigo and Zane, ambassadors at Urbino in 1570-74, have been already drawn upon in this work, but it is chiefly from the latter that we have gathered the following notices. [Footnote 259: From a league between Count Antonio, of Urbino, and Barnabo Visconti, of Milan, in 1376 (MSS. Oliveriana, No. 374, vol. I., p. 1), we gather an isolated notice. Free import from the territory of Urbino into Florence was stipulated for all sorts of grain, fruit, and vegetables, the customary duties being paid upon wheat, oats, and barley.] About the middle of the sixteenth century the revenues of the duchy did not exceed 40,000 scudi, and by the terms of its investiture the imposts could not be raised without papal sanction. This restriction having been removed upon the marriage of Duke Guidobaldo II.'s daughter to the nephew of Pius IV., that prince promptly availed himself of his new prerogative, augmenting them gradually to about double that amount. The reductions consequent upon the Urbino insurrection brought down the state revenues to about 60,000 scudi, and in 1570 Mocenigo estimates the whole income, including the allodial estates, at 100,000 scudi, adding an opinion that it was capable of being much increased. Of the 60,000 scudi, one-sixth part was derived from the salt, and two-sixths from licences granted for the export of corn [_tratte_], the remaining half being drawn from small taxes upon the townships, to which the rural population do not appear to have directly contributed. The corn-trade was carried on coastwise from Sinigaglia, amounting in ordinary years to about 150,000 _staji_ or bushels of wheat, partly smuggled from the papal territory, which chiefly went to supply Venice and its dependencies. The palpable inadequacy of these resources was eked out by pay and allowances drawn by the last dukes from the Venetian Republic, the Church, or the King of Spain. The _cense_ or annual payment to the Camera Apostolica under the investiture is variously stated at from 2190 to 2907 scudi, falling due on St. Peter's day. With these Venetian Relazioni, a document of much apparent interest has been printed in the _Archivio Storico_, under the title of "Balance of income and expenditure in the state of Urbino."[260] On nearer inspection, however, its value falls far short of its promise, for the entries are so confused, and the arithmetical summations so incorrect, as to destroy nearly all confidence either in the details or the general results. Still it seems to have established a few facts throwing light upon the resources of the duchy in the last years of the sixteenth century. [Footnote 260: Series II., vol. II., p. 337, from a MS. in the Siena Library, K. iii. 58: it is dated 1579, but contains posterior entries.] The revenues may be thus classified:--1. Those of twelve towns, five smaller places, and the province of Montefeltro, derived from various taxes,[261] duties on butcher-meat, salt, wine, straw, weighhouse duties on grain and other provisions, and on merchandise, passenger toll at Pesaro, rents of houses and inns, tax on the Jews (producing 953 scudi), and a variety of minor imposts varying in different places. The customs of Pesaro yielded 1226 sc.; those of Sinigaglia 160, besides 436 for pot dues, and 6000 for grain and vegetables shipped for exportation. 2. Income from manufactures[262] in various towns, stated at 5712 sc. 3. The salt duties, or perhaps monopoly, 5407 sc. 4. Revenue from mills, payable in wheat (_grano_) at 4 sc. a _soma_, 5832 sc. 5. Value of barley and oats (_spelta_) contributed by various communities, 1020 sc. 6. Mountain rents, 610 sc. 7. Donatives paid in wine, wood, and straw, to the value of 630 sc. 8. Produce of allodial lands, in wheat, oats, barley, beans, lupines, peas, vetches, buckwheat, flour, hay, straw, hemp, lint, wine, walnuts, wool, cheese, pigeons, and waterfowl, to the gross amount of 7321 sc. The return of expenditure is too vague and confused to be of any use, but it contains provisions to the Duchess, amounting to about 7000 sc. From these returns the Venetian estimates would appear to be understated, and a contemporary writer, whose anonymous Reports upon the Italian principalities issued from the Elzivir press, sets down its revenues in 1610 at above 200,000 scudi, of which 8000 were paid as cess to the Camera Apostolica. The imposts were considered light, for the soil was in many parts productive, and grain was exported largely from it and the adjoining Marca, at the port of Sinigaglia. The Duke's treasure in S. Leo is reckoned at 2,000,000 of scudi, a palpable error for 200,000. In 1024, the _Mercurius Gallicus_ estimates the revenues of the duchy at 300,000 scudi, besides allodial lands, and estates in Naples amounting to 50,000 more. [Footnote 261: The word used is _colte_, which might mean crops.] [Footnote 262: _Fabbriche_ might mean only shops.] In regard to population, the estimate of Zane is 150,000, the majority of whom devoted themselves to agriculture and arms, commercial industry being almost unknown. He calculates the military force at 10,000 men, half of them being trained, and about three-fourths ready for foreign service; and he dwells upon the benefit which his Republic might derive from conciliating a state whence such a force could on any exigency be quickly obtained, without the necessity of seeking free passage from any other power. The report of 1610, which evidently verges upon exaggeration, gives the fighting men at 20,000, nearly all infantry. In 1591, as we learn from an original MS.,[263] the military force of the duchy amounted to 13,313 men, of whom 8300 carried arquebuses, and 3783 wore morions. From the same authority is taken the following tabular view of the whole population, classed under townships, and amounting in 1598 to 115,121 souls. [Footnote 263: Vat. Urb. MSS., No. 935.] List of mouths in all the places of the state, drawn from the Rassegne de' Grani, &c., in 1598[264]:-- Urbino 18,335 Pesaro 16,409 Gubbio 18,510 Fossombrone 1,882 Cagli 6,811 Montefeltro 15,090 Sinigaglia 8,535 Massa 9,845 Mondavio 3,738 Pergola 3,254 Mondolfo 1,820 Sta. Costanza 1,504 Orciano 1,234 Barchio 1,479 La Fratta 1,449 Montesecco 1,711 Montebello 395 Castelvecchio 225 Poggio di Berni 507 Fenigli 434 La Tomba 1,953 _______ 115,121 [Footnote 264: _Ibid._] A report upon Urbino, drawn up for Urban VIII. during the last Duke's life, and preserved in the Albani Library, estimates the men trained to arms at from 8000 to 10,000, but badly officered, and ill-armed or accoutred. Since the Devolution, population had increased, and the last census of the legation, nearly corresponding with the duchy, gave 220,000 souls within an area of 180 square leagues, the city of Urbino containing 7500, besides 4500 in the adjacent district. In 1574, few or none of the nobility drew from their estates a rental exceeding 3000 scudi, but there were many burgesses owning from 300 to 400 a year. The few merchants were chiefly foreigners. Most of the small towns had been dismantled of their fortifications, only some fifty having them kept in repair, of which about twenty belonged to as many petty feudatories. A writer soon after the Devolution states the Duke's revenues at 100,000 to 120,000 scudi, including 20,000 of Spanish subsidy, as much of allodial income, and 30,000 from escheats, penalties, and the port duties of Sinigaglia, whence a great grain trade was carried on by the Venetians out of the Marca.[265] Some years after the duchy had lost its independence, although this export was then prohibited by Urban VIII., and notwithstanding the loss of the allodial estates, the Camera drew above 100,000 scudi from direct and fiscal taxation. The militia at that time numbered 8000 infantry and 500 cavalry, besides the garrison of Sinigaglia. The _fattorie_, or allodial farms, yielded to the Duke 14,000 scudi when leased, but afterwards, when administered on his account, they produced 18,000: the income from mills was about 6000; that of S. Leo 10,000, of which above 6000 were spent in maintaining the place. [Footnote 265: Vat. Ottob. MSS., No. 3135, f. 279.] Some idea may be formed of the provisions for administering justice from a narrative compiled after the Devolution, but which expressly states the arrangements for this purpose to be the same as adopted by the Dukes.[266] The judges were entitled vicars or captains, podestàs, commissaries, and lieutenants, and were removable at pleasure. The vicars or captains resided in certain small towns, and were notaries, who acted as judges and clerks within their assigned bounds. Their jurisdiction extended to all cases of injury or quarrel, which they were bound to decide according to the respective municipal statutes, or, in absence of such, according to those of Urbino. In civil causes they were limited to a certain amount; above which, recourse was had to the judge of the chief district town. They had no proper criminal jurisdiction, but were bound to report all accidents to the sovereign, who frequently remitted to them to examine into slight delicts; those inferring corporal punishment being sent to a doctor, under whom the vicar acted as clerk. The podestàs were judges-ordinary in all civil and criminal cases within their bounds: and where there was no resident commissary or lieutenant, the public administration and police were intrusted to them; to each of them there was assigned one clerk for criminal cases, called _maleficj_, and named by the Duke, and two for civil causes chosen by the community. The system of appeal from one of these courts to another, being founded upon local reasons, was complicated, and need not be detailed. The court of final resort in civil matters was the Collegiate Rota of Urbino, over which thirteen judges presided, five of whom were necessarily ecclesiastics. They held office for life, and vacancies were filled up by the sovereign from a leet of three voted by the remaining number. They sat twice a week, five being a quorum; and they had also the review of ecclesiastical causes, in which, however, the lay members had only a consultive voice. In certain suits their decision might be brought under review of the sovereign. [Footnote 266: _Ibid._, f. 277, 321.] There were likewise three auditors, who had no ordinary jurisdiction, but sat daily in presence of the sovereign as an executive council, to whom all criminal matters were reported by the magistracy. Their salaries after the Devolution were 400 scudi a year. They were also bound to take cognisance of all fiscal affairs, and of all complaints brought before them, and they were charged with the interests of widows and orphans, and generally with all matters voluntarily brought before them by consent of parties. After the Devolution, their salaries were 400 scudi a year; that of the fiscal advocate, 384; and of the secretary of justice, 320. The income of the judges, whom we have already mentioned as located in the towns and villages, varied from half a scudo yearly to 240 scudi, the latter being the pay of the Captain of Urbino. The lower class of these officers were all notaries, but, after allowing for professional gains and fees, such remuneration was disgracefully small, especially as it was paid in the ducal money, which had become depreciated to two-thirds of the currency value in the papal states. The pay of the legate was 1400 scudi, that of the vice-legate 600, besides about 1200 of fees. APPENDIX IX (Page 391 note *1) TWO SONNETS BY PIETRO ARETINO ON TITIAN'S PORTRAITS OF DUKE FRANCESCO MARIA I. AND HIS DUCHESS LEONORA I. ON DUKE FRANCESCO MARIA I. Se il chiaro Apelle con la man dell'arte Esemplò d'Alessandro il volto, e 'l petto, Non finse già di pellegrin subjetto L'alto vigor, che l'anima comparte. Mà Titian, che dal cielo hà maggior parte, Fuor mostra ogni invisible concetto; Però il gran Duca, nel dipinto aspetto, Scuopre le palme entro il suo cuor consparte. Egli hà il terror frà l'uno e l'altro ciglio, L'animo en gl'occhi, e l'alterezza in fronte, Nel crin spatia l'honor, siede il consiglio. Nel busto armato e nelle braccie pronte Arde il valor, che guarda dal periglio Italia sacra, e sua virtudi conte. II. ON DUCHESS LEONORA. L'union de' colori chi lo stile Di Titian distese, esprime fora La concordia che regge in Leonora, E le ministre del spirto gentile. Seco siede modestia in atto humile, Ed honestà che in vesta sua dimora, Vergogna il petto, e 'l crin le vela e honora, L'effigia Amor lo sguardo signorile. Pudicitia, e beltà nemiche eterne Le spatian nel sembiante, e frà le ciglia Il trono delle Gratie si discerne. Prudenza il suo valor guarda, e consiglia Nel bel tacer, l'alte virtudi interne Gli ornan la fronte d'ogni meraviglia. III. SONNET BY BERNARDO TASSO, PRAYING TITIAN TO PAINT HIS MISTRESS'S PORTRAIT. Ben potete con l'ombre, e coi colori, Dotto Pittor rassimigliar al vero Quella beltà, ch'ognor col mio pensiero Via più bella, ping'io fra l'herbe e i fiori: Ma quelle gratie, che i più freddi cori Riscaldano, onde Amor ricco et altero Stende le braccie del suo dolce impero, Opra non è da chiari alti pittori. Se potete ritrar quel viso adorno, Quel girar de' begli occhi honesti e santi, Che ogni rara beltà fà parer vile, Con pace sia d'ogni pittor gentile, E statue e tempii al vostro nome intorno Ergeran lieti i più cortesi amanti. APPENDIX X (Page 410) PETITION TO GUIDOBALDO II. DUKE OF URBINO, BY CERTAIN MAJOLICA-MAKERS IN PESARO Most illustrious and most excellent Lord Duke, To your most illustrious Lordship have recourse these devoted petitioners, Mo. Bernardin Gagliardino and Co., Mo. Girolamo Lanfranchi, Mo. Rinaldo and Co., all makers of vases and bottles, citizens and inhabitants of Pesaro; Mo. Piermateo, and Mo. Bartolomeo Pignattari, citizens and indwellers of Pesaro; and all the others who inhabit the county of Pesaro;--setting forth how they find themselves continually, from year's end to year's end, subject to all sorts of burdens and imposts, exacted on real and personal property, and paying it with the sweat of their labour. They greatly complain how it seems to them wrong that strangers of their craft come into this city and district with similar productions, to take bread out of their hand, at all seasons of the year, a thing not allowed to themselves in other countries. For which causes they propose to your most illustrious Lordship the following articles for your signature. First, that your Lordship would concede to them that no one, stranger or townsman, shall, on any pretext, sell, or export for sale from the city and district, earthen vases of whatever sort, excepting covered pans and oil-pitchers, or other vessels exceeding the size of a _medrio_; declaring always that, at the fair, all may sell any kind of vases, but at no intermediate time, on pain of forfeiture, and a penalty of ten lire of Bologna for each offence, one-half to your illustrious Lordship's chamberlain, one-fourth to the informer, and the rest to the party enforcing it; always excepting figured vases of Urbino, and white ones from Urbino and Faenza. It is farther desired that no inhabitant, not engaged in this art in the city or district, be permitted to purchase foreign productions for resale, except those imported during the fair; always under the like penalties on contravention hereof. And, in order to satisfy your Lordship that no inconvenience may arise to the city from this, they bind themselves henceforward to see that it be constantly supplied with such vases as are required, and usually made therein, and especially with figured vases of beautiful and stately character, and this for the customary prices, these being in nowise altered; and, in case of their departing from this, your Excellency shall be free to cancel these articles.... Confirmed and enjoined as asked, but during our pleasure. Pesaro, 27th April, 1552. _Passeri_, p. 34. APPENDIX XI (Page 411) LETTER FROM THE ARCHBISHOP OF URBINO TO CARDINAL GIULIO DELLA ROVERE, REGARDING A SERVICE OF MAJOLICA To the most illustrious and most reverend Lord, my singular Lord and patron, the Lord Cardinal of Urbino in Ravenna. Most illustrious and most reverend Lord, my singular Lord and patron, On arriving at Urbino, I ordered of Mo. Horatio [Fontana], _vasaro_, the service [_credenza_] commissioned by your most affectionate and most reverend Lordship, for the most illustrious Monsignore Farnese. And, as there will be so many vases done with grotesques, in addition to the white ones (as per inclosed list), I could not manage it for less than thirty-six scudi, which, if I am not mistaken as to what he gets from others, is very good treatment. All the white pieces will have on the reverse the arms of Farnese in small, and I feel certain that the service will give satisfaction. He promises to deliver it finished in little more than a month, and, as an inducement to serve you well, as I trust he will do, I have, at his request, advanced him some money. If your illustrious Lordship please, let M. Ludovico Perucchi be written to, that he may pay the above-mentioned sum on account of this. As soon as finished, I shall get Horatio to pack it well, in order to go safely, and shall despatch it to Rome in such way as you shall direct. And, having no more to say, I remain humbly kissing your hands, and commending you to our Lord God, that, in his favour, he ever give you all your desires. From Urbino, the 2nd of March, 1567. Your most illustrious and most reverend Lordship's most humble servant, YOUR ARCHBISHOP. _List of white pieces with arms on the reverse._ 1 large cistern. 1 large bason, and 1 bottle. 1 barber's bason, and small brush. 6 great, and 12 middling dishes. 6 large and 6 middling comfit dishes. 2 vases for vinegar and oil, 4 salts. 36 dishes, 50 smaller ditto. 50 plates, 24 ditto [_piadene_]. _With Grotesques._ 1 large cistern. 1 bason and bottle. 4 cups on raised stands. 1 barber's bason and brush. 2 salts. APPENDIX XII COLLECTIONS OF ART MADE BY THE DUKES OF URBINO The extent and value of the works of arts amassed by a series of sovereigns, who, during nearly two centuries, were continuously patrons of arts in its best days, cannot be uninteresting topics of inquiry, and fall within the scope of these volumes, as an important test of the knowledge and taste of the collectors. The beautiful objects which Castiglione and others include among the attractions of the palace at Urbino have thus acquired an almost classic importance, and to identify them with those now familiar to the travelled amateur were a pleasing result. Much more would it be so could we realise an ingenious theory put forward in the _Quarterly Review_,[267] that, by ascertaining what were the pictures first offered to the enthusiastic gaze of the youthful Raffaele, we might even now trace those early impressions of beauty which, reproduced by his fine genius and taste, have been unanimously adopted as standards of pictorial perfection. This gratifying hope is, however, delusive. To the ravages of two invasions, succeeded, in both instances, by military usurpation, may perhaps be imputed the disappearance of almost every picture which could have existed in the palace previously to 1521, for very few such were found there on the extinction of the ducal house in 1631. In order to throw every possible light upon this matter, I have spared no researches at Urbino, Pesaro, and Florence, and, from a variety of inventories, I have collected the facts which are now to be stated. [Footnote 267: Vol. LXVI., pp. 3-10.] The principal sources of this information have been, _First_, a list of "good pictures," brought to Florence, in 1631, from the wardrobe of Urbino. It is in the archives of the Gallery degli Uffizi, at Florence, in the autograph of Pelli, and is obviously the document frequently referred to by him in his Galleria di Firenze. _Second_, a note of the objects of art in the Urbino inheritance, as inventoried by Bastiano Venturi in 1654. This is in a folio volume of inventories, preserved in the wardrobe archives of the Pitti Palace, and includes the succession of Duchess Livia, as well as that of her husband, the last Duke of Urbino. _Third_, selections from a full inventory of the wardrobe of Urbino, dated in 1623, and now No. 386 of the MSS. in the Oliveriana Library at Pesaro. Of these documents, the first is, unquestionably, of most importance as to the identity and value of the objects enumerated; and the last, having been compiled by a person unacquainted with art, cannot be much depended upon. We may, however, estimate the extent of the collections in the different palaces of Francesco Maria II. from the Venturi inventory, and from another dated in 1623, which is No. 460 of the Oliveriana MSS. In the latter there are enumerated as at Pesaro (besides a series of sixty-two portraits in the gallery, sixty-nine maps, and a hundred and thirty-five plans of cities) eight hundred and forty-three pictures. This large amount includes apparently all the framed engravings, embroideries, and miniatures; and a great proportion were portraits of the ducal family and their connections. The small number which have the painters' names assigned to them renders this, the fullest list, of little interest. In the same palace are mentioned sixty-four pieces in marble, chiefly busts; and in various other palaces and chapels were some other pictures, seemingly of minor importance. The Venturi catalogue enumerates only ninety pictures, seventy miniatures in oil, eleven embroideries, twenty-nine tapestries, eighty bronzes, enamels, and carvings, and fifty-one works in marble and stone. These seem to have been the principal objects reserved out of the inheritance, the remainder having probably been given away or sold at Pesaro and Florence. This selection bears evidence of care and connoisseurship; but that of Pelli having the best pretensions to these qualities, the pictures it names are fully given in the first of the lists here subjoined, ending with No. 50. In the two subsequent ones, from Nos. 51 to 95, are included all other Urbino pictures of any moment which I have been able to glean from the inventories now described, and from other sources. To each picture is added such information regarding its identity as extended inquiry and observation have enabled me to hazard. Imperfect as it is, it will interest those who visit Florence, and may save them from very troublesome and often fruitless inquiries, which occupied me for many weeks. I. PELLI'S LIST OF THE URBINO PICTURES. RAFFAELE. 1. MADONNA, CHRIST, AND ST. JOHN BAPTIST, on panel. Pelli in a marginal note states this to be the _Madonna della Seggiola_, although he admits that a different extraction is by some assigned to that masterpiece. No picture thus described appears in the Pesaro inventories; that of Venturi mentions one such, but calls it a copy after Raffaele. The Madonna della Seggiola, now No. 151 of the Pitti Gallery, is said by Passavant to have been in an inventory of the Tribune, dated 1585, of course long antecedent to the Devolution of Urbino. 2. MADONNA, CHRIST, ST. JOHN BAPTIST, AND ANOTHER FIGURE, on panel, large. In the Pesaro inventory, the Christ is said to be in arms; in the Venturi, two pictures are noted of the Madonna, Christ, St. John Baptist, and St. Elizabeth, but both are called copies of Raffaele. No work now in the Florence galleries answers this description. 3. HIS OWN PORTRAIT on panel. It is described but not named by Venturi, and unquestionably is the small picture now among the portraits of painters in the Uffizi, No. 288. (See above, vol. II., p. 223.) 4, 5. JULIUS II., on panel, and THE SAME on paper. Of this famous portrait several repetitions contest the palm of originality. The two best probably are those in the Pitti, No. 79, and in the Tribune, both on panel; the former, perhaps, has the advantage in breadth and mellow colouring, and I have heard the latter ascribed by Italian connoisseurs to a Venetian pencil.[*268] Considering the relationship and intimacy of the Pope with the Dukes of both dynasties, there can be little doubt that they possessed an original likeness, as well as the original cartoon mentioned above. The latter has passed into the Corsini Gallery, at Florence, and is admirable in bold character as well as in preservation. The pricked outlines attest its having been used more than once; and the first painting from it is understood to have been presented by his Holiness to the Church of the Madonna del Popolo, at Rome, a fane greatly favoured by the della Rovere. The Pesaro list includes the cartoon, and Venturi the panel portrait, which, according to the annotator of the last edition of Vasari (Florence, 1838), was that in the Tribune, the head alone of the Pitti one being, in his opinion, by Raffaele, the rest by Giulio Romano. Passavant, however, adjudges the palm of merit and originality to its rival in the Pitti collection, and considers it the Urbino picture. [Footnote *268: The Pitti portrait is an inferior replica of that in the Tribune of the Uffizi.] TITIAN. 6, 7. DUKE FRANCESCO MARIA I., and his DUCHESS LEONORA, on canvas. These are justly considered among the choicest portraits of this master, but are painted in very different styles, the Duke being treated with extraordinary freedom, the Duchess in a severe and somewhat hard manner, suited to her stiff matronly air. They ornament the Venetian room at the Uffizi, Nos. 605 and 599, and the former supplies a frontispiece to this volume. Another portrait of him from the same hand is mentioned in Pelli's note. (See above, pp. 48, 58, 371-3.) 8. DUKE GUIDOBALDO [II.] Of this portrait I find no trace, though it is named in the Pesaro list, and may be that described by Venturi as in an antique dress.[*269] [Footnote *269: Gronau thinks this portrait may be the so-called "Young Englishman" of the Pitti Gallery (No. 92). Cf. GRONAU, _op. cit._] 9. HANNIBAL OF CARTHAGE, on canvas. Mentioned in the Pesaro inventory, but not now known. 10. MADONNA, CHILD, ST. JOHN BAPTIST, AND ST. ANNA, on panel, large. No trace of this picture appears in any inventory, or Florentine gallery. 11. THE NATIVITY, on panel. Not mentioned elsewhere; it or the following may be the picture painted with a moonlight effect, now No. 443, of the Pitti Gallery; or that described by Venturi as "a woman swaddling an infant."[*270] [Footnote *270: This picture is not by Titian, but by Marco Vecellio.] 12. QUEM GENUIT ADORAVIT, on panel; or the Madonna adoring her Child. This I have nowhere been able to identify. (See the preceding No., and also below, No. 20.) 13. MADONNA DELLA MISERICORDIA, on canvas. The Pesaro list tells us it came from the Imperiale villa, and contained the painter's portrait, with many figures. It is No. 484 of the Pitti collection, where it is assigned to Marco di Tiziano, the cousin and favourite pupil of Titian. Following the usual type, this "Madonna of Mercy" is represented as a gigantic female, whose outstretched arms infold under her ample mantle of compassion, six men, five women, and two children; the eldest of the group is evidently Titian, and the rest are, no doubt, members of the Vecelli family. The picture was probably votive, in commemoration of some signal mercy vouchsafed to his house. 14. THE SAVIOUR, on panel. A half-length figure in profile, perhaps the finished study for some large composition. It is noted in all the inventories, and was carried by the French to Paris, but is now in the Pitti Palace, No. 228. 15. ECCE HOMO, on panel. Also included in all the inventories, and probably the picture No. 330 of the Pitti Gallery, where it is called in the manner of Sebastian del Piombo.[*271] [Footnote *271: This picture no longer hangs in the Pitti Gallery.] 16. MAGDALEN, on panel. This is now No. 67 in the Pitti collection; a half-length, half-nude penitent, with variations from the frequent repetitions of the same subject by this master; her eye, no longer tearful, is upraised with an expression of joyful hope: the penitent is at peace. (See above, p. 375.) 17. JUDITH, on canvas. In the Pesaro inventory it is described as on panel, and both there and in Pelli's note it is ascribed to Titian _or_ Palma Vecchio, whilst Venturi assigns it to Pordenone. It is now in the Venetian room of the Uffizi, with the name of Pordenone, and is on panel.[*272] [Footnote *272: No. 619, Uffizi, I suppose. It is by Palma Vecchio.] 18. NAKED WOMAN LYING, large, life-size, on canvas. All who have visited the Tribune of the Uffizi Gallery are acquainted with two companion full-length pictures of nude females, which are conspicuous among its treasures of art. Both are called Venus; but though one has the unquestionable accompaniment of a Cupid, with a landscape behind, the other contains no attribute of the amorous goddess, but is the portrait of a lovely woman laid uncovered on her bed, whilst two attendants in the back part of the room prepare her dress. To the latter, therefore, the above description, which is alike in all the Urbino inventories, must unquestionably apply; and it thus affords us an easy solution of the doubts as to which of the two pictures came from Urbino, originating in the confused and incorrect descriptions of Ridolfi and Vasari. The popular idea is that Titian here portrayed a mistress or favourite of Duke Guidobaldo of Urbino; but Cigognara has adopted the conjecture that in her features may be traced an idealised likeness of his mother Leonora. We must reject an idea so outraging her well-known modesty of demeanour; and upon comparing the sweetly sensual countenance of the naked beauty with the almost stern dignity of that Duchess, as represented in her portrait, No. 7 of this catalogue, the resemblance seems limited to an oval face and auburn complexion. The spaniels which attend on both ladies, introduced in these pictures, though of the same breed, are certainly different animals. Greater probability attaches to a notion that the nude female's features agree with those of the Bella and the Flora of Titian, described in the next number of this list; and as both of these came from Urbino, we may conjecture that all three were painted from some noted beauty of that court. Another supposition, has, however, been adopted by Mrs. Jameson, that the original was Violante Palma, Titian's first love, and a favourite model in his school. The Tribune picture is generally admitted to be the finest of Titian's so-called Venuses, and has been even assigned the same place among paintings as the Medicean Venus holds in sculpture. (See above, p. 374). 19. ANOTHER PORTRAIT OF THE SAME NAKED WOMAN, BUT DRESSED, more than half-length. This is considered to be the attractive picture so universally admired under the name of Titian's BELLA, of the Pitti collection, in which gorgeous costume and rich beauty seem carried to the utmost point. It does not appear in the other Urbino inventories, but in that of Venturi we find a SEASON on canvas by Titian, which I apprehend to be the famed FLORA, now an ornament of the Venetian room at the Uffizi, and stated in the Reale Galleria di Firenze (edition 1817) to have come from Urbino, and to be a half-length, half-nude, portrait of the same model who sat for No. 18 of this catalogue. The title of Queen Cornara of Cyprus sometimes given to the Bella is palpably one of those misnomers so unpardonably common in picture galleries. 20. MADONNA, CHILD, AND TWO ANGELS, Baroccio after Titian. Of this picture an original by Titian on panel is in Venturi's list, as well as a copy of it on canvas. I have not been able to find either; but the original may be that entered at No. 12 of this catalogue. 21. MADONNA, ST. JOHN, AND ST. ELIZABETH, large, on panel, a fine copy. I have not succeeded in tracing the work. GIORGIONE. 22. PORTRAIT of an armed soldier, supposed to be UGUCCIONE DELLA FAGGIOLA. Not traced. SEBASTIAN DEL PIOMBO. 23. ST. AGATHA, large, on panel. It appears in all the inventories, and was one of the most important pictures in the Urbino succession. Representing the horrible dismemberment of the martyred saint, the subject is most revolting, but in energy of treatment and power of colouring, it ranks among the chef-d'oeuvres of the master, whose name it bears, with the date, Rome 1520. It now adorns the Pitti Palace, No. 179, after having visited Paris. PALMA VECCHIO. 24. THE SAVIOUR, on canvas. Not found. 25. THE MADONNA, large on canvas. Not found. 26. ST. FRANCIS, large, on canvas; not found. None of these three pictures appear in the other lists. THE BASSANI. 27. A SUPPER. This was, doubtless, the Cenacolo, No. 446 in the Pitti Gallery, assigned to Leandro Bassano. 28, 29. THE BUILDING AND ENTERING OF THE ARK. These are, probably, the companion pictures in the corridor of the Uffizi, which seem poor copies, though ascribed to Francesco. Of the latter, representing the Deluge, there is on the same wall a large and fine replica with his name, and a picture of animals entering the ark with the name of Jacopo. 30. COMPOSITION OF FIGURES AND ANIMALS. It is stated by the Pesaro list to have come from the chapel in the lower gardens of that city, and may have been the large picture of the Rich Man and Lazarus, now in the corridor of the Uffizi, where it bears the name of Francesco. 31-34. FOUR PICTURES. As there are fourteen pictures of the Bassani in the Uffizi, and five in the Pitti, besides those noticed above, and several portraits, it would be idle to attempt identifying these four. All these eight works of this family are noted in the Pesaro list, but omitted in Venturi's. BAROCCIO. 35. PORTRAIT OF S.A.S. This is probably to be read SUA ALTEZZA SERENISSIMA FRANCESCO MARIA II., the last Duke of Urbino, now an ornament of the Tribune. It is a half-length on canvas, in armour richly inlaid in steel and gold, his helmet by his side and a scarf across his shoulder, being, as we learn from the Pesaro list, the uniform in which he returned from his naval expedition; a circumstance which fixes the date in 1572, when the Duke was in his twenty-third, and the painter in his forty-fourth, year. Nothing can surpass the fluid harmony and pellucid colouring of this picture, equally remarkable for breadth and high finish, but the feeble design apparent in the arms renders it impossible to give by the burin a favourable impression of its merit. I have therefore preferred engraving for this work a much less brilliant portrait obtained by me at Pesaro. A repetition of the Tribune picture, less clear but still more charming, graces the select gallery of Baron Camuccini at Rome. 36. VISITATION OF THE MADONNA, on canvas, painted, according to the Pesaro inventory, for the chapel there, on the visit of Pope Clement VIII. in 1598. It has disappeared. 37. MAGDALEN, on canvas. There are two pictures of this subject, and another in the Venturi list, one on panel, one on canvas, the latter of which is described as "the Magdalen in the Wilderness." I have not found either of them; but a Magdalen in devotion with Christ, upon canvas, is noted in the Pesaro inventory, and may probably be the large and fine picture now in the Sala di Baroccio at the Uffizi, known as _Noli me tangere_, in which the Saviour appears to the Magdalen after His resurrection. 38. MADONNA, ST. FRANCIS, AND ST. UBALDO, on canvas, unfinished. No doubt one of the votive pictures commissioned on the birth of Prince Federigo. (See above.) It has disappeared. 39. PORTRAIT OF MAESTRO PROSPERO, a Franciscan monk, half-length, on canvas; called by Venturi a Minim Observantine friar. Not identified. THE ZUCCARI. 40. PORTRAIT OF DUKE GUIDOBALDI [II.] IN ARMOUR, HIS HAND UPON A DOG'S HEAD. In the Pesaro inventory it is said to be on panel; in that of Venturi it is ascribed to Baroccio. It has disappeared, but a bad copy is preserved in the Albani Palace at Urbino. 41. ST. PETER IN PRISON, large. This picture is engraved at No. 373 of the folio work on the Pitti Gallery, and is said by Vasari to have been painted for Duke Guidobaldo II., by Federigo Zuccaro when about twenty-three years of age. It ranks among his best works; for though the idea is borrowed from Raffaele's fresco, the treatment and the effect of chiaroscuro are original and good. The heavy grated window and the monotonous colouring are however injurious to the work. 42. HEAD OF ST. FRANCIS, on canvas. Lost, unless it be the Vision of the Saint in a wide landscape, on panel, No. 482 of the Pitti Gallery, where it is called anonymous. The Pesaro list describes him as in a landscape, by Federigo Zuccaro. 43. CALUMNY, large, by Federigo, unnoticed in the other inventories, and undiscovered. MASCHERINO. 44. CHRIST WITH NICODEMUS, NICOLAS, AND TWO ANGELS, on canvas. Of this I can ascertain nothing. ANONYMOUS. 45. POPE SIXTUS IV., on panel. The Venturi inventory notes a similar anonymous portrait, by Baroccio, and one on panel of a Pope by Titian. This and the following number may be the portraits quoted as Titian's by Vasari. 46. POPE PAUL III., on panel. Perhaps No. 297 in the Pitti Palace, where it is ascribed to Paris Bordone, and of which I have seen several good repetitions. The Venturi inventory contains another panel portrait of an anonymous pope by Titian. 47. DUKE FRANCESCO MARIA I. IN ARMOUR, on canvas. Perhaps a copy of No. 6, above. 48. DUKE GUIDOBALDO, on panel; unknown. Possibly the original of the likeness engraved for this work of Guidobaldo II. 49. A LADY IN A DARK ANTIQUE DRESS, WITH A SHELL IN HER HAND, on canvas. Of this nothing is known. 50. MAGDALEN NEARLY NAKED, on canvas, described in the Pesaro list as reading a book. Not found. Having now gone through Pelli's note of selected pictures, we shall complete our materials for estimating the Urbino collections, by adding such other works as are mentioned in the Venturi and Pesaro inventories. II. VENTURI INVENTORY. RAFFAELE. 51. THE DUKE OF URBINO, A PROFILE IN HALF-ARMOUR, on canvas. This was probably the portrait mentioned by Bembo in a letter, wherein he speaks of it as a much less successful likeness than that of the poet Tibaldeo. 52. MARRIAGE OF THE MADONNA, a copy on canvas, no doubt from the fine picture now in the Brera at Milan, which was painted for the church of S. Francesco, at Città di Castello. 53. LUCREZIA, copy on panel. Of this neither the original nor the copy are known. TITIAN. 54. MADONNA, CHRIST, ST. JOSEPH, AND ST. ELIZABETH, on panel. Not identified. 55. MADONNA, CHRIST, AND ST. JOHN BAPTIST, on panel. Not identified. 56. PORTRAIT OF A FOREIGN LADY, small, on panel. Not found. 57. PORTRAIT OF A MAN IN AN ANTIQUE DRESS, on panel. Not identified. 58. A MAN ARMED WITH A MORION AND SHIELD, on canvas, _after_ Titian. Not identified. BAROCCIO. 59. MADONNA WITH CHRIST IN HER ARMS, ST. AUGUSTIN, AND ST. FRANCIS, on canvas. Not found. 60. CHRIST IN A CRADLE, MADONNA, ST. JOHN, AND ST. ELIZABETH, on canvas. Not found. 61. ST. FRANCIS, on panel. Not found. 62. A MAN WITH A CHEMISETTE, on canvas; probably the half-length of Duke Francesco Maria II., with six gold buttons, mentioned in the Pesaro inventory, and of which No. 162 of the Pitti collection seems a finished head study on paper. 63. MARCHESE IPPOLITO DELLA ROVERE, on canvas. Not found. 64. MONSIGNORE GIULIANO DELLA ROVERE, on canvas. Not found. 65. THE SAVIOUR WITH THE GLOBE IN HIS HAND, _after_ Baroccio. Now No. 101 in the Pitti Palace, where it is called _by_ Baroccio. A poor picture. ANTONIO. 66. A WOMAN IN AN ANTIQUE DRESS, on panel. This may refer to ANTONELLO DI MESSINA. Not found. 67. PETRARCH AND LAURA painted bookwise. This is doubtless a blundering description of the heads of DUKE FEDERIGO and DUCHESS BATTISTA of Urbino, by PIETRO DELLA FRANCESCA, placed like a diptych or book in the same frame. They have been engraved at Volume I., p. 120, of this work, from the originals among the miscellaneous Italian pictures in the Uffizi. 68. A FRANCISCAN FRIAR TEACHING MATHEMATICS TO ANOTHER PERSON, on panel. This is ascribed to Ghirlandajo or Signorelli, but the subject makes it more probably a work of PIETRO DELLA FRANCESCA, court painter to Duke Federigo. I have found no such picture. GIORGIONE. 69. A DUKE OF URBINO, on canvas. Probably Guidobaldo I., but unfortunately lost. HOLBEIN. 70. TWO DUKES OF SAXONY, bookwise, small. They are Frederick III. and John I.; now in the German room of the Uffizi, where they are ascribed to Lucas Cranach. SCARSELLINO. 71. CHRIST RECEIVING ST. PETER, on panel; a small picture. Not found. 72. CHRIST WITH HIS FOOT UPON A SERPENT'S SKIN [_scoglione_], on panel; a small picture. Not found. THE ZUCCARI. 73. A WOMAN WITH A COCKLE-SHELL IN HER HAND, on canvas. Not found. 74. MADONNA, CHRIST, AND ST. JOHN BAPTIST, on panel, after Jacopo * * * *. Not found. L'ALEMANO. 75. THE NATIVITY, on panel. Not identified. V. DANDINI. 76. AURORA, on canvas. Not found. IL CERRETANI. 77. THE NATIVITY, on canvas. Not found. 78. PORTRAIT OF QUEEN MARY OF FRANCE. This may have been Mary de' Medici by Scipione Gaetani, No. 192 of the Pitti Gallery. 79. VIRTUE EXPELLING THE VICES. Not found. 80-88. Six DUKES OF URBINO and three POPES; all small pictures on canvas. III. PESARO INVENTORY RAFFAELE. 89. MADONNA, CHRIST, AND ST. JOSEPH, on panel. Not found in the other inventories, nor in the galleries at Florence. 90. MAGDALEN, on panel; behind it the arms of Duke Francesco Maria II. and his Duchess Lucrezia d'Este. Not elsewhere known. TITIAN. 91. THE DUCHESS OF CAMERINO IN AN ANTIQUE DRESS, on canvas. Not found. 92. A SOLDIER IN DARK ARMOUR, on canvas. Not found. BAROCCIO. 93. THE CRUCIFIXION, with the palace of Urbino introduced in the background, on canvas. Not found. THE ZUCCARI. 94. THE CRUCIFIXION, with a city below, on canvas. Not found. GIULIO CLOVIO. 95. A MINIATURE, was probably the PIETÀ on vellum, No. 241 of the Pitti collection. A group treated with great breadth, and coloured with much delicacy. The following pictures, in the Pitti palace, though not in the Urbino inventories, are closely connected with the family della Rovere, and the first of them must have come from thence. 96. PRINCE FEDERIGO, by BAROCCIO, on canvas, No. 55. The babe lies in his cradle swaddled, his dress and coverlet embroidered in flowers and gold; inscription above, FEDERIGO PRIÑ D'URB'O QUANDO NACQUE 1605. 97. VITTORIA DELLA ROVERE GRAND DUCHESS OF TUSCANY, by SUSTERMANS, on canvas, No. 116. She is in the character of the Vestal Tuccia, with a sieve under her arm, full of water; a half-length figure, stout and comely, with a pleasant expression. 98. THE GRAND DUCHESS VITTORIA, HER HUSBAND, AND HER SON COSMO III., by SUSTERMANS, on canvas, No. 231. This picture is called in the catalogue a Holy Family; but though the grouping of the figures appears borrowed from some such composition, there seems no real ground for this alleged impiety. They are half-lengths; the Grand Duchess has a darker complexion, and is somewhat older than in the preceding number. DENNISTOUN'S LIST OF AUTHORITIES FOR THE WORK. The following List, though by no means containing all the books which have been looked into or consulted (especially numerous periodicals), will afford a general idea of the authorities upon which this work has been founded. The MSS. specially noted are, however, but a small portion of what has been examined, in a variety of Archives, and in the Vatican, Minerva, Angelica, Gerusalemme, S. Lorenzo in Lucina, and Albani libraries at Rome; in those of the Borbonica and S. Angelo in Nilo at Naples; in the Laurentiana, Magliabechiana, Riccardiana, Maruccelli, and Pitti at Florence; in those of the University and S. Salvadore at Bologna; and in the public libraries of Pesaro, Perugia, Rimini, Cesena, Siena, Volterra, and Monte Cassini. In the Oliveriana at Pesaro alone, upwards of one hundred MS. volumes yielded notices of interest. The MSS. in the British Museum have also been freely consulted, and not without fruit. Affò, Vita di M. Bernardino Baldi 1 vol. 8vo. Agincourt, Histoire de l'Art 6 vols. folio. Alberi, Relazioni Veneti 7 vols. 8vo. Alberti, MSS. di Torquato Tasso 1 vol. folio. Andreozzi, Notizie di Città di Castello 1 vol. 12mo. Antiquitates Picene 10 vols. 4to. Archivio Storico d'Italia 10 vols. 8vo. Ariosto, Opere Complete 5 vols. 8vo. ----, Orlando Furioso, translated by Stewart Rose 3 vols. 8vo. Armanni, Famiglia de' Bentivoglii 1 vol. 8vo. Atanagi Rime Scelte 1 vol. 12mo. Audin, Histoire de Leon X. 1 vol. 12mo. Baldi, Vita e Fatti di Federigo Duca di Urbino 3 vols. 8vo. ----, ---- Guidobaldo I. Duca di Urbino 2 vols. 8vo. Baldinucci, Notizie de' Professori di Disegno 14 vols. 8vo. Baruffaldi, Vita di Ariosto 1 vol. 8vo. ----, ---- Bernardino Baldi 1 vol. 8vo. Bellori, Vita de' Pittori, Scultori, ed Architetti 1 vol. 4to. Bembo, Opere Diverse 6 vols. folio. Berni, Chronicon Eugubinum Bettinelli, Resorgimento delle Arti in Italia 1 vol. 8vo. Biographie Universelle 80 vols. 8vo. Biondi, Italia Illustrata 1 vol. 8vo. Black's Life of Tasso 2 vols. 4to. Blount, Censura Celebriorum Authorum 1 vol. folio. Boccaccio e Betussi, delle Donne illustri 1 vol. 12mo. Boccalini, Ragguagli di Parnaso 1 vol. 12mo. Bonaparte, Sac di Rome 1 vol. 8vo. Bonfatti, Memorie Istoriche di Ottaviano Nelli 1 vol. 18mo. Borghini, il Riposo 1 vol. 4to. Bossi, Istoria d'Italia 19 vols. 12mo. Bottari, Dialoghi sopra le Arti di Disegno 1 vol. 8vo. ----, Raccolta di Lettere Pittoriche 7 vols. 8vo. Bradford's Correspondence of Charles V. 1 vol. 8vo. Brantôme, Capitains illustres e Dames illustres 3 vols. 12mo. Brown, Rawdon, Ragguagli sulla Vita di Marino Sanuto 3 vols. 8vo. Bruschelli, la Città di Assisi 1 vol. 8vo. Buonaccorsi Diario 1 vol. 4to. Burriel, Vita di Caterina Riario Sforza 3 vols. 4to. Burtin, Traité des Connoissances necessaires aux Amateurs des Tableaux 2 vols. 8vo. Calogeriana, Opuscula e Nuova Raccolta 90 vols. 12mo. Cambray, Histoire de la Ligue de 1 vol. 8vo. Campanno, Vita di Braccio Fortebracci e di Nicolò Piccinino 1 vol. 4to. Cancellieri, Opere Varie 1 vol. 8vo. Casa, della, il Galateo 1 vol. 12mo. Carli, Zecca d'Italia 1 vol. 8vo. Carmina Illustrium Poetarum Italiæ 5 vols. 8vo. Castiglione, il Corteggiano 1 vol. 4to. ----, Lettere e Opere 2 vols. 4to. Cebrario, Economia Politica del Medio Evo 4 vols. 8vo. Cellini, Vita Scritta da lui Medesimo 1 vol. 8vo. Cicognara, Storia della Scultura 3 vols. folio. Cimarelli, del Ducato di Urbino 1 vol. folio. Collucci, Uomini Illustri del Piceno 6 vols. folio. Colonna, Vittoria, Opere e Vita di 1 vol. 8vo. Comines, Memoires de Philippe de 3 vols. 8vo. Commentaria Pii II. et Epistolæ 1 vol. folio. Comolli, Vita inedita di Raffaello da Urbino 1 vol. 4to. ----, Bibliographia Architettonica 1 vol. 8vo. Conca, Viaggio Odeporico in Ispagna 2 vols. 8vo. Condivi, Vita di Michelangelo Buonarroti 1 vol. 4to. Corio, l'Istoria di Milano 1 vol. 4to. Crescimbeni, Istoria della Volgar Poesia 6 vols. 4to Cunningham's Life of Wilkie 2 vols. 8vo. Dante, La Divina Commedia 3 vols. 8vo. ----, ---- ---- ---- translated by Carey 1 vol. 8vo. Daru, Histoire de Venise 8 vols. 8vo. Denina, Revoluzioni d'Italia 3 vols. 8vo. Descamps, Vie de Peintres Flamands et Hollandois 3 vols. 8vo. Didier, Campagne de Rome 1 vol. 8vo. Discorsi Militari di Francesco Maria I. Duca di Urbino 1 vol. 12mo. ---- Sopra gli Spettacoli Italiani nel Secolo xiv. 1 vol. 8vo. Dizionario Geografico Universale 12 vols. 8vo. Dolce, Dialogo della Pittura 1 vol. 8vo. Domenichi, la Nobilità delle Donne 1 vol. 12mo. Donato, Vita di Francesco Maria II. Duca di Urbino Duppa, Life of Michelangelo Buonarroti 1 vol. 8vo. Eccardius, Corpus Historicum Medii Ævi 2 vols. folio. Fabroni, Laurentii Medicis Vita 1 vol. 4to. Fea, Notizie intorno a Raffaele 1 vol. 8vo. Feretrense, de Episcopatu Filelfi, Epistolæ Familiares 1 vol. 4to. Fleetwood's Chronicum Preciosum 1 vol. 8vo. Fortebracci, Lettera della Famiglia Fortebracci 1 vol. 8vo. Fuseli's Life and Writings 3 vols. 8vo. Gaillard, Histoire de Francois I. 5 vols. 8vo. Galleria degli Uffizi di Firenze 5 vols. 8vo. Galluzzi, Storia della Toscana 5 vols. 4to. Gaye, Carteggio d'Artisti 3 vols. 8vo. Genealogies Historiques des Maisons Souveraines 5 vols. 4to. Gibbon, Recherches sur le Titre de Charles VIII. à la Couronne de Naples ----, Antiquities of the House of Brunswick Ginguené, Histoire Littéraire d'Italie 9 vols. 8vo. Giovio, Raggionamento sopra i motti ed impresi 1 vol. 12mo. ----, Vita de' Dodeci Visconti 1 vol. 12mo. ----, ---- di Francesco Sforza 1 vol. 12mo. ----, ---- ---- Illustrium Virorum Vitæ 1 vol. folio. Gordon's Life of Alexander VI. and Cesare Borgia 1 vol. folio. Gresswell's Memoirs of Italian Literature 1 vol. 8vo. Grossi, Uomini Illustri di Urbino 1 vol. 4to. Gualandi, Memorie delle Belle Arti 1 vol. 8vo. Guicciardini, Istoria d'Italia 8 vols. 8vo. ----, Sacco di Roma 1 vol. 8vo. Hallam's View of Europe in the Middle Ages 3 vols. 8vo. Hystoire de la Conqueste de Naples par Charles VIII. 1 vol. 8vo. Kugler's Handbook of the History of Painting 1 vol. 8vo. Lanz, Correspondenz der Kaiser Carl V. 2 vols. 8vo. Lanzi, Storia Pittorica dell'Italia 4 vols. 8vo. Lazzari, Opera Miscellanea 6 vols. folio. ----, Memorie di Pittori Celebri di Urbino 1 vol. 4to. ----, Chiese di Urbino 1 vol. 8vo. ----, Guida di Urbino 1 vol. 8vo. Lazzarini, Dissertazioni in Materia di Belle Arti 2 vols. 8vo. Leandro Alberti, Descrizione d'Italia 1 vol. 4to. Lectures on Painting, by Barry, Opie, and Fuseli 1 vol. 8vo. Leoni, Vita di Francesco Maria II. Duca d'Urbino 1 vol. 4to. Lettere de' Principi 3 vols. 8vo. ---- degli Uomini Illustri 1 vol. 8vo. ---- Pittoriche 7 vols. 8vo. Life of Joanna II. Queen of Naples 2 vols. 8vo. Lindsay's Sketches of the History of Christian Art 3 vols. 8vo. Litta, Famiglie Celebri d'Italia 16 vols. folio. Lomazzo, Idea del Tempio della Pittura 1 vol. 4to. ----, L'Arte della Pittura 1 vol. 4to. Machiavelli, Opere 8 vols. 8vo. Malvasia, La Felsina Pittrice 2 vols. 4to. Mambrino Roseo, Istoria di Napoli 1 vol. 4to. Mancini, Istoria di Città di Castello 2 vols. 8vo. Marchese, Galleria d'Onore 1 vol. 8vo. ----, Memorie dei Pittori Domenicani 2 vols. 8vo. Marini, Saggio della Città di S. Leo 1 vol. 8vo. Mariotti, Lettere Pittoriche Perugine 1 vol. 8vo. ----, Italy 2 vols. 8vo. Masse, Histoire d'Alexandre VI. et de César Borgia 1 vol. 8vo. Mazzuchelli, Vita di Pietro Aretino 2 vols. 8vo. ----, Notizie intorno Isotta da Rimini 1 vol. 8vo. M'Crie's History of the Reformation in Italy 1 vol. 8vo. Memorie concernenti la Città da Urbino 1 vol. folio. ---- ---- la Devoluzione di Urbino 1 vol. 12mo. Mezeray, Abregé de l'Histoire de France 3 vols. 4to. Mezzanotte, Vita e Opere di Pietro Perugino 1 vol. 8vo. Michiel, Origine delle Feste Veneziane 4 vols. 8vo. Michiels, La Peinture Flamande et Hollandais 4 vols. 8vo. Milizia, dell'Arte di Vedere nelle Belle Arti 1 vol. 8vo. ----, Dizionario delle Belle Arti 2 vols. 8vo. ----, dell'Architettura Civile 1 vol. 8vo. Milman's Life of Tasso 2 vols. 8vo. Misserini, Vita di Raffaele 1 vol. 18mo. Molini, Documenti per la Storia d'Italia 2 vols. 8vo. Montalembert, du Vandalisme et du Catholicisme dans l'Art 1 vol. 8vo. Montanari, L'Imperiale di Pesaro 1 vol. 8vo. Morbio, Municipia d'Italia 4 vols. 8vo. Morelli, Notizie delle Opere di Disegno 1 vol. 4to. Mortali Spoglie di Raffaele 1 vol. 8vo. Muzio, Historia de' Fatti di Federigo Duca di Urbino 1 vol. 4to. Muratori, Annali d'Italia 40 vols. 8vo. ----, Rerum Italicarum Scriptores 25 vols. folio. Nardii, Le Historie di Firenze 1 vol. 4to. Nicholas's Chronology of History 1 vol. 2mo. Odasio, Elogio di Guidobaldo II. Duca di Urbino 1 vol. 12mo. Olivieri, Opere Diverse 3 vols. 4to. Olympia Morata 1 vol. 8vo. Orsini, Guida di Perugia 1 vol. 8vo. ----, Lettere Pittoriche Perugine 1 vol. 8vo. ----, Vita di Pietro Perugino 1 vol. 8vo. Paciolo, Summa di Arithmetica e Geometria 1 vol. folio. Passavant, Leben v. Raphael 2 vols. 8vo. Passeri, Istoria delle Pitture in Majolica 1 vol. 8vo. Pelli, la Galleria di Firenze 2 vols. 8vo. Pignotti, Storia della Toscana 5 vols. 8vo. Platina, delle Vite de' Pontefici 1 vol. 4to. Poggio, de Varietate Fortunæ 1 vol. folio. ----, Vita di Nicolò Piccinino 1 vol. 4to. Pontano, de Bello Neapolitano 1 vol. 4to. Promis, Trattato di Architettura di Francesco di Giorgio 2 vols. 4to. Pungileone, Elogio Storico di Giovanni Santi 1 vol. 8vo. ----, ---- ---- ---- Raffaele Sanzio 1 vol. 8vo. ----, ---- ---- ---- Bramante 1 vol. 8vo. ----, ---- ---- ---- Timoteo della Vite 1 vol. 8vo. Quadrio, della Storia d'ogni Poesia 7 vols. 4to. Quatremere de Quincy, Vita e Opere di Raffaele Sanzio, voltato in Italiano da Longhena 1 vol. 8vo. Racheli, Discorso intorno a Vittorino da Feltro 1 vol. 8vo. Raimondo, de Fluxu Maris 1 vol. 8vo. Ranghiasci, Bibliographia Storica dello Stato Papale 1 vol. 8vo. Ranke, Die Römischen Päpste ihre Kirche und ihr Staat 3 vols. 8vo. Raoul Rochette, Catacombe di Roma 1 vol. 8vo. Ratti, Vita dei Sforza 1 vol. 8vo. Raynaldi, Annales Ecclesiastici 8 vols. folio. Reynolds's Discourses 1 vol. 8vo. Ricci, Memorie Istoriche delle Arti della Marca di Ancona 2 vols. 8vo. Richa, le Chiese di Firenze 2 vols. 8vo. Ricotti, Storia delle Compagnie di Ventura in Italia 4 vols. 8vo. Ridolfi, le Maraviglie dell'Arte 1 vol. 4to. Rinuccini, Ricordi Storici 1 vol. 4to. Rio, La Poesie Chretienne 1 vol. 8vo. Riposati, Zecca di Gubbio 2 vols. 4to. Robertson's Reign of Charles XII. 3 vols. 8vo. Roscoe, Life of Lorenzo de' Medici 3 vols. 8vo. ----, ---- and Pontificate of Leo X. 4 vols. 8vo. ----, ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- voltata in Italiano da Bossi 11 vols. 8vo. Rosini, Istoria della Pittura Italiana 8 vols. 8vo. Ruskin's Modern Painters 2 vols. 4to. Russell's History of Modern Europe 5 vols. 8vo. Sansovino, Famiglie Illustri d'Italia 1 vol. 4to. Sanuto, La Guerra di Ferrara 1 vol. 4to. Simonetta, Historia de Rebus Gestis Francisci Sfortie 1 vol. 12mo. Sismondi, Histoire des Français 31 vols. 8vo. ----, ---- des Republiques d'Italie 14 vols. 8vo. ----, ---- de la Renaissance de la Liberté en Italie 2 vols. 8vo. ----, de la Literature du Midi de l'Europe 4 vols. 8vo. Spalding's Italy 3 vols. 12mo. Specimen Translations of Sonnets from celebrated Italian Poets 1 vol. 12mo. Tarcagnotta, Istorie del Mondo, con aggiunte di Mambrino Roseo 4 vols. 4to. Tasso, Bernardo, Lettere e Vita da Seghezzi 1 vol. 8vo. ----, ----, Amadigi 1 vol. 4to. ----, Torquato, Opere di, Raccolte da Rosini 30 vols. 8vo. Tesoro Politico 12mo. Ticozzi, Dizionario dei Pittori, &c. 4 vols. 8vo. Tiraboschi, Storia della Letteratura Italiana 16 vols. 8vo. Tommasi, Vita di Cesare Borgia 2 vols. 12mo. Tondini, Vita di Franceschino Marchetti 1 vol. 8vo. Tresor Numismatique e Glyptique 1 vol. folio. Trestour, Quadro Generale dello Stato Ponteficio Tullia di Arragona, Poesie di 1 vol. 12mo. Valle, Lettere Sanesi 3 vols. 4to. Valturio, de Re Militari 3 vols. folio. Vasari, Opere Diverse 11 vols. 8vo. Vermiglioli, Vita di Pinturicchio 1 vol. 8vo. Vergilio, Polydoro da, Historia Anglicana 1 vol. folio. ----, ---- ----, De Rerum Inventoribus 1 vol. folio. Viardot, les Musées d'Italie ----, Notice des Peintres de l'Espagne 1 vol. 4to. Vigne, Andry de la, Vergier d'Honneur 1 vol. folio. Villani, Chroniche Fiorentine 8vo. Vinci, Leonardo, Trattato della Pittura 1 vol. 4to. Voltaire, Essai sur les Moeurs 3 vols. 8vo. Waagen, Art and Artists in England 3 vols. 8vo. Watt's Bibliotheca Britannica 4 vols. 4to. Watson's Philip II. 3 vols. 8vo. Wilde's Love and Madness of Tasso 2 vols. 12mo. Zanetti, Medaglie d'Italia 1 vol. 4to. ----, Memorie Istoriche di Rimini 1 vol. 4to. ----, Zecca di Rimini 1 vol. 4to. Zazzara, Nobilità d'Italia 1 vol. 4to. AUTHORITIES IN MS. FROM THE URBINO LIBRARY AT THE VATICAN. No. 1023, f. 23. Federici Urbini Ducis Vita, auct. Johanne Galli; written about 1565, at Città di Castello. No. 938. Sketch of him by Aloysio Guido da Cagli, in Latin. No. 1011. His life by Muzio Giustinopoli, more full than the printed edition. No. 941. Vespasiano, Commentario de' Gesti e Fatti e Detti de Federigo Duca di Urbino: printed in Spicelegium Romanum, i. 94. No. 980. Epitome Vitæ Rerumque Gestarum Federici Urbini Ducis, auct. Julio Cesare Capaccio Neapolitano, 1636. No. 303, 699, 1293. Various Latin poems by Federigo Veterani as to Urbino. No. 928, f. 16. Antichità di S. Leo, da Giulio Volpelli, 1576. No. 702. Mariæ Philelfi artium et utriusque juris doctoris, equitis aurati et poetæ laureati, ad ill. atque inclyt. Principem Federicum de Monteferetro, Comitem Urbinatem, Martiados, 1464. No. 804. His vulgar poetry, _passim_. No. 373, 710, and 709. Porcellii Feltria, and other poems laudatory of Duke Federigo and his house. No. 373, f. 145. Naldi de Naldi, Volterræ Expugnatio. No. 743. Panegericon Comitis Federici, per Antonium Rusticum de Florentia, 1472. No. 1198. Federici Urbini Ducis Epistolæ. There are ninety-three of these, all in Latin. No. 1233. Odasii, Oratio habita in Funere Ducis Federici. No. 1236. Oratio habita in Funere Battistæ Urbini Comitissæ; also in No. 1272. No. 829, f. 551. Ricordi del Duca Federigo. No. 1323, art. 5. Ricordi di Paolo Maria, Vescovo di Urbino. No. 904, f. 43. Memorie di quanto si fece nel tempo che il Duca di Valentino prese lo Stato. No. 1023, fol. 1, 297, &c. Various lives and notices of the della Rovere family by Fra Gratia di Francia. No. 1682. Sundries as to Julius II. No. 906. Baldi, Vita di Francesco Maria I. Duca di Urbino, colla Diffesa contra Guicciardini. No. 1023, f. 255. Baldi Diffesa di lui, and other sundries as to him. No. 1023, f. 50. Muzio, Vita di lui. No. 818, f. 444. Il Battesimo del Principe Federigo. No. 733, fol. 8. 11. Epigrammata in ejus Natalibus. No. 818, f. 5. Nobiltà della Casa di Montefeltro. No. 736, 351, 368, and 405. Urbani Urbinatis Familia Feltresca. No. 992. Cronico di Sinigaglia. No. 819, f. 335. Ritratto delle Actioni di Francesco Maria I. No. 489. De Rebus Gestis quæ contigerunt circa ann. 1509. No. 1037. Memorie Storiche di Francesco Maria I. No. 921. La Ricuperazione del suo Stato, nel anno 1521. No. 904. Various Diaries regarding Guidobaldo I. No. 928, f. 16. Volpelli, Storia di S. Leo. No. 907, f. 10. Centelli, de Bello Urbinate. No. 989. Leoni, Francisci Mariæ I. Vita. No. 924. Philippi Beroaldi, Defensio Francisci Mariæ I. No. 632. Petrus Burgensis Pictoris, de quinque Corporibus regularibus. No. 818, f. 560. Vita di Baldassare Castiglione. No. 1248. Ordine e Offizii della Corre di Urbino. No. 1677. Il Sacco di Roma. No. 935, 1232. Documents regarding the Statistics of Urbino. No. 497-8. P. Virgilii Historia Angliæ. No. 908. First Sketch of Tasso's Gerusalemme. No. 816, f. 62. Federigo Zuccari, Ragguaglio del Escuriale. FROM THE OTTOBONIANA MSS. IN THE VATICAN. No. 3141, f. 144-193. La Famiglia del Duca Federigo. No. 1305. Giovanni Sanzi's Rhyming Chronicle of Duke Federigo. No. 2447, f. 135, 3137, f. 81. Discorsi del Duca di Urbino. No. 3141. _passim_. La Famiglia del Duca Federigo. No. 3144, f. 51. Vita del Duca Francesco Maria II. No. 1941, f. 172. Luttere di lui. No. 3135, f. 321, 3184, and 3142. Miscellanies regarding Urbino. No. 2510, f. 201. The Urbino Rebellion in 1572. No. 3153, f. 90. Filippo Giraldi, Fatti del Duca Francesco Maria I. No. 3137. Sundries regarding the Camerino Dispute. No. 2607. Il Sacco di Roma. No. 2624, 3152. Burchardi Diarium. No. 2528, 2726, 2206, f. 17, 2441, f. 39. Sundries as to the Borgian Policy. GENEALOGICAL TABLE DESCENT OF THE VARANA, as connected with URBINO. ELISABETTA MALATESTA = RODOLFO VARANA = COSTANZA SMEDUCCI, | Lord of Camerino, | of Sanseverino. | d. 1424. | ____________|______ _|_______________________________________________________________________ | | | | | GENTIL PANDOLFO, slew BERNARDO, GIOVANNI, slain = BARTOLOMEA PIER GENTILE, = ELISABETTA MALATESTA, NICOLINA = BRACCIO DA his two half-brothers, Lord of 1433 by his half| SMEDUCCI, slain 1433, by| of Pesaro, daughter of MONTONE, 1433, and was massacred Camerino, brothers. | of his half | Battista di Montefeltro. of Perugia, by the people in d. 1434. | Sanseverino. brothers. | d. 1424. 1434, with his brother | | Bernardo and six | | nephews. | ________|___________________________________ | | | | RODOLFO, made Lord = CAMILLA D'ESTE. COSTANZA, celebrated 1451. | of Camerino in 1444.| for her beauty and GIOVANNA MALATESTA, = GIULIO CESARE, made Lord | writings, d. 1447. of Rimini, d. 1511. | of Camerino, 1447; strangled | | in 1502 with his nat. son Pirro, ERCOLE, claimed Camerino = FILIPPA DE' | by Michelotto Coreglia. in 1527, but sold his rights | GUARNIERI. ____________________________________|_________________ to the Farnesi, d. 1548. | | | ___________________|______________ | 1497. 1503. | | | VENANZIO, born = MARIA DELLA ROVERE, = GALEAZZO GIOVANNI MARIA, = CATERINA MATTIA, attempted = BATTISTA PIER GENTILE, 1476; strangled| sister of Fran. Maria I., RIARIO Usurper, Duke | CIBÒ of to seize Camerino FARNESE. § 1502, with his | Duke of Urbino. SFORZA, of Camerino, | Massa, in 1534, d. 1551. Existing issue. nat. brother | of Forlì. b. 1481, d. 1527.| d. 1547. Annibale. | ! | | ! | SIGISMONDO, b. 1499, = OTTAVIA COLONNA. ! | assassinated 1522, RIDOLFO, seized | by order of his Camerino in | uncle, Giovanni 1527, but soon | Maria. expelled. | | GIULIA, = GUIDOBALDO II., b. 1523, | Duke of Urbino. d. 1547. | § INDEX Abano, mud-baths of, i, 424; iii, 35 Abruzzi, war in the, i, 305, 358 Abstemio, Lorenzo, i, 168 Academy degli Assorditi, i, 228; ii, 112; iii, 255, 256, 284 Academy of St. Luke, iii, 366 Acciaiuolo, Donato, i, 228; ii, 113 Accolti, Bernardo, his success as an improvisatore, ii, 69, 70, 146 -- his devotion for the Duchess of Urbino, ii, 69 note, 70, 77, 367 Acquapendente, ii, 456 Acre, i, 31 Adorni, the, ii, 59 Adria, Bishop of, i, 475 Adrian VI., iii, 448 -- election of, ii, 416 -- death of, ii, 423 Adriano, Cardinal of Corneto, fate of, ii, 391, 392 Ady, C.M., _Milan under the Sforza_, i, 73 note, 80 note, 183 note Ady, Mrs., ii, 119 note, 323 note -- _Isabella d'Este_, ii, 23 note, 316 note; iii, 51 note Affò, on Baldi, iii, 266, 271 Agabito, Messer, i, 168 Agatone, iii, 397 Agincourt, iii, 407 Agnello da Rimini, Tomaso, i, 53, 54 Agostini, Ludovico degli, i, 112 note; ii, 211 note; iii, 50 Aiello, iii, 240 Alamanni, Luigi, quoted, i, 5 Albani, Cardinal Annibale, i, 154 Albani Library, Urbino, i, xliv; iii, 271, 452, 467 Albani Palace, Urbino, ii, 233 Albani, Prince, i, 447 note Albano, see of, ii, 301 Albergato, iii, 332 Alberi, _Relazioni Venete_, i, 395 note Albert III., i, 311 Alberti, Antonio, ii, 254 Alberti, Calliope, ii, 254 Alberti, Leandro, i, 164 Alberti, Leon Battista, ii, 73 note, 203 -- employed by Sigismondo, i, 193 Alberto da Carpi, iii, 440 Albi, Duke of, i, 289 Alcala, ii, 129 Aldobrandini, Cardinal Pietro, iii, 165 Alexander III., of Scotland, i, xiii Alexander VI., i, 65, 116; ii, 261, 263, 282, 293, 301 -- mistress of, i, xi -- succession of, i, 314, 318 -- children of, i, 318, 320, 367 -- personal vices of, i, 317 -- character of, i, 319; ii, 19-20 -- his enmity with Ferdinand II., i, 342 -- intrigues of, i, 343-5, 351 -- employs Guidobaldo against the Orsini, i, 344, 358-62 -- ambitious nepotism of, i, 363, 373 -- mourns the Duke of Gandia, i, 366 -- sends Cesare to France, i, 368 -- designs on Urbino, i, 372; ii, 313, 314 -- raises money, i, 386 -- crimes of, ii, 8 -- death of, ii, 15-19 -- and Polydoro Vergilio, ii, 115 -- patron of art, ii, 168, 459, 461 note; iii, 344 -- corresponds with the Sultan _re_ Gem, ii, 294-6 Alexander VII., iii, 242, 243 and note, 456 Alfonso III. of Aragon, i, 323 Alfonso V. of Aragon and I. of Naples, i, 68, 81, 97, 324; iii, 291 -- his designs on Tuscany, i, 97-9 -- accepts Federigo without sponsors, i, 103 -- ratifies Lodi, i, 109 -- death of, i, 113 -- his policy and bequests, i, 115 -- popularity of, i, 123 Alfonso II. of Naples, i, 320 -- succession of, i, 341, 345 -- his measures against Charles VIII., i, 348 -- abdication and death of, i, 351 -- children of, i, 363 Alfonso II., Duke of Ferrara, iii, 331 -- death of, iii, 164 -- imprisons Tasso, iii, 309, 310, 312, 321, 326 Ali, Pacha, Turkish admiral, iii, 140 Alidosii, the, Seigneurs of Imola, i, 18 Alidosio, Francesco, cardinal of Pavia, ii, 323, 326 -- favoured by Julius II., ii, 327 -- thwarts Francesco Maria, ii, 327-9, 331-9 -- further treachery of, ii, 330, 332 -- murder of, ii, 339 -- character of, ii, 341 Alidosio of Imola, Joanna, i, 64 Alippi, ii, 220 note Allagno, Lucrezia, i, 111 Allegretti, Antonio, iii, 295 Allegretto of Siena, i, 248; ii, 74 note Alunno, Nicolò, ii, 199 Alva, Duke of, iii, 110 Alvarez di Bassano, iii, 140 Alverado, ii, 393 Alvisi, _Cesare Borgia_, ii, 19 note, 23 note Amatrice, Vitelli dell', iii, 82 Ambrosian Library at Milan, ii, 63; iii, 77 Ammanati, Bartolomeo, iii, 73, 294, 352, 400 Ammirato, i, 209 Amsterdam, iii, 395 note Anagni, i, 34 Ancona, i, 17, 18, 177, 262, 379; ii, 395; iii, 246 -- fortified, iii, 263, 366 -- seized by Clement VII., iii, 59 Andrea, Giovanni, i, 408; ii, 317 Andrea da Prato, Gian, beaten by Francesco Maria I., iii, 36 Andrea of Volterra, Fra, iii, 411 Andreoli, Cencio, iii, 415 Andreoli, Cesare di Giuseppe, iii, 380 Andreoli, Giorgio, ii, 261; iii, 414-16 Andreoli, Giovanni, iii, 414 Andreoli, Salimbeni, iii, 414 Andreoni, Padre, iii, 78 Angelico, Fra, ii, 185 note; iii, 338 -- at Assisi, ii, 180 -- style of, ii, 186 -- his piety, ii, 161, 194 -- his frescoes in San Marco, ii, 194, 195 -- work ascribed to, ii, 196 -- his influence on Raffaele, ii, 229, 230 -- in Rome, ii, 288 Angelo, i, 226 Angevine dynasty founded, i, 323 Anghiari, ii, 401 -- battle of, i, 77 Angioletto, ii, 190 Anguillara, i, 179, 331, 359 Anne of Bretagne, i, 373 Anselmi, Professor, i, xii Anselmi e Mancini, ii, 292 note Anstis, quoted, i, 224; ii, 462, 468 Antaldi Palace, iii, 231 Antioch, patriarch of, ii, 281 _Antiquities of Rome_, i, xvii Antoniano, Antonio, iii, 378 Antonello di Messina, iii, 486 Antonetti, _Lucrezia Borgia_, ii, 19 note Antonio, iii, 486 Antonio, first Lord of Monte Copiolo, i, 25, 36 Antonio, Count of Montefeltro and Urbino, iii, 463 note -- recalled by citizens, i, 36 -- becomes a Guelph, i, 36 -- prosperous reign of, i, 37 -- welcomed in Gubbio and Perugia, i, 37 notes -- his poetry, i, 37, 427 -- his death, i, 37-9 -- his children, i, 39-41 -- tomb of, i, 56 Antonio da Ferrara, work of, ii, 200 Antonio della Leyva, iii, 45 Antonio, Pier, i, 410 Antwerp, iii, 423 Apennines, the, i, 3 Apollonius, iii, 261 Appia, Giovanni di, surprised at Forlì, i, 27 Apulia, i, 278 Aquarone, _Dante in Siena_, i, 6 note Aquaviva, i, 104 Aquila, i, 133; iii, 39 -- insurrection at, i, 305 Aquina, iii, 291 Aquinas, St. Thomas, i, 230; ii, 218 Aracoeli, Cardinal, iii, 17 Aracoeli, church of, ii, 288 Aragon, dynasty of, i, 68 Archangelo of Siena, ii, 83 Archimedes, iii, 261 Architects, duties of, iii, 265 Arci, fief of, ii, 313; iii, 45 Arcimboldo of Milan, i, 382 Aretino, L'Unico, ii, 146, _see_ Accolti Aretino, Pietro, ii, 73 note, 131, 244; iii, 94, 102, 124 -- on Accolti, ii, 146 -- "scourge of princes," iii, 287 -- authorities for, iii, 287 note -- career of, iii, 287-9 -- style of, iii, 288 -- epitaph on, iii, 290 -- on Titian, iii, 391-6 -- sonnets of, iii, 470, 471 Arezzo, ii, 69, 201; iii, 287, 400 -- Priors of, their letter to Federigo, i, 228 -- see of, ii, 113 -- siege of, i, 400 -- majolica made at, iii, 406 Argentina, iii, 205 Argoli, Andrea, iii, 208 Arignano, Domenico, i, 318 Ariosto, Ludovico, ii, 80 note; ii, 242; iii, 123 -- on Accolti, ii, 146 -- at Ferrara, ii, 147 -- as envoy, ii, 346 -- bibliography of, iii, 280 note -- patronized by d'Este, iii, 281-3 -- visits Urbino, iii, 281, 284 -- at Rome, iii, 282 -- his _Orlando Furioso_, iii, 282, 285 -- style of, iii, 286 -- on Aretino, iii, 287 -- on Vittoria Colonna, iii, 292 -- compared with Tasso, iii, 329 Aristotle, ii, 105 Armanni, _Stor. della famiglia de' conti Bentivoglio da Gubbio_, i, 22 note -- on Lepanto, iii, 141 Arpino, iii, 45 Arqua, ii, 127; iii, 267, 329 Arrigo, of Cologne, iii, 114 note Arrivabene, Cardinal, i, 221 note; ii, 463 note Artillery, introduction of, i, 339 Ascoli, i, 92; ii, 398 Ashburnham, Earl of, i, 447 note Ashmole, quoted, ii, 469 Asolo, castle of, ii, 127 Aspetti, Tiziano, iii, 400 Assisi, i, 17, 45, 379; iii, 239 -- Republic of, i, 18 -- Count Guido enters Franciscan monastery at, i, 28 -- Church of S. Francesco at, i, 35; ii, 185 -- cradle of art, ii, 179, 180, 184 Assorditi, Academy degli, i, 288; ii, 112; iii, 255, 256, 284 Asti, i, 348, 354 -- Bishop of, iii, 22 Atanagi, Dionigi, ii, 58; iii, 303 -- at Pesaro, iii, 295 -- his poetry, iii, 296 _Athenæum_, iii, 414 Attendoli, the, i, 80 note Attila, ii, 237 Authorities for this work, Dennistoun's, iii, 490-8 _Autobiography_ of Francesco Maria II., iii, 129 and note, 155, 156 Avalos, the house of, iii, 291 Aversa, iii, 40 Aversi of Anguillera, the, i, 179 Avignon, ii, 96, 297, 301 Avila, bishopric of, ii, 55 Azzolini, ii, 73 note Babucci, Antonio, iii, 222 and note; iii, 231 Baccano, iii, 26 Bacci, Luigi, iii, 287 Baglioni, the, i, 369; ii, 325 -- Seigneury of, i, 18 -- reinstated, ii, 413 Baglioni, Carlo, ii, 393 -- made lord of Perugia, ii, 395 Baglioni, Gentile, iii, 19 -- his claims on Perugia, ii, 413-16 Baglioni, Gian Paolo of Perugia, i, 380; ii, 393 -- murder of, ii, 5, 11, 406 -- plots of, ii, 25 note -- cedes Perugia, ii, 39 -- seizes Gubbio, ii, 368 Baglioni, Malatesta, ii, 5, 10, 435, 443 Baglioni, Orazio, ii, 412; iii, 5, 19, 440 Bagnacavallo, i, 258 Bagnano, Fabio, iii, 161 Bagnolo, treaty of, i, 304 Bailli of Dijon, i, 384 Bajazet, expels Gem, ii, 293, 294 -- writes to the pope, ii, 295-6 Bajus, see of, ii, 70 Baldelli, Francesco, iii, 378 Baldi, Bernardino, i, xxx, xxxii, 140 note; 177 note; 198, 207 note, 210, 275; ii, 29, 268, 319; iii, 20 and note, 22, 71, 260, 298 -- his _Encomio della Patria_, i, 32 note, 120 note, 155 note -- _Vita e fatti di Federigo_, i, 149 note -- _Vita e fatti di Guidobaldo I._, i, 295 note -- on Count Guido the Elder, i, 32 note -- on Oddantonio Montefeltro, i, 52 -- on the surprise of S. Leo, i, 79 -- on Duke Federigo, i, 127, 128, 148, 283 -- on battle of S. Fabbiano, i, 127 note, 128 -- on the palace at Urbino, i, 162, 174 -- on Sig. Malatesta, i, 191 note -- mistakes of, i, 214 note -- on ceremonial for ducal investiture i, 220 -- on Cesare Gonzaga, ii, 58 -- on Bibbiena, ii, 68 -- Italian patriotism of, ii, 108 -- on Francesco Maria I., ii, 341, 348 note, 399 note, 437, 452; iii, 71 -- on Bourbon's march to Rome, ii, 456 note -- translator of Greek, iii, 259 -- on Comandino, iii, 261 -- education of, iii, 266 -- his epics, iii, 267, 272 -- a linguist, iii, 267, 268, 271 -- enters the Church, iii, 268 -- works of, iii, 268, 271 -- style of, iii, 272 -- his biography of Duke Federigo, iii, 273 -- of Guidobaldo I., ii, 273 -- epitaph of, iii, 274 -- indebted to Muzio, iii, 276 Baldinucci, ii, 265 -- on Oderigi, ii, 188 Balia, i, 262 Ballads, absence of, iii, 279, 280 Ballerini, _Le feste di Gubbio_, i, 23 note Bandiera, iii, 39 Bandinello, ii, 391; iii, 400 Bandini, Giovanni, iii, 74, 400 Bannatyne Club, i, xvi Barbara, Archduchess, iii, 314 Barbarigo, Agostino, iii, 140 Barbaro, i, 159 Barberini Library, Rome, i, xxx Barberini, the, i, 285 Barberini, Cardinal, first legate of Urbino, i, 24 Barberini, Maffeo, _see_ Urban VIII. Barberini, Cardinal Antonio, iii, 245 Barberini, Cardinal Francesco, iii, 245 Barberini, Prince, ii, 209 Barberini, Prince Taddeo, iii, 245 Barbo, _see_ Paul II. Barbucci, Dr. Antonio, iii, 222 and note, 231 Barcelona, iii, 132 Barchi, pillage of, i, 139 Baretti, iii, 280 note Bari, Roberto da, ii, 71 Barletta, ii, 71 Barocci, the, iii, 270 -- clockmakers, iii, 403 note Baroccio, Ambrogio, i, 158, 171 note; ii, 234; iii, 230, 231, 338, 346, 369, 400, 483, 486, 488 -- portraits of Francesco Maria II. by, iii, 230, 231 Baroccio, Federigo, iii, 352, 357, 364, 365 note, 367, 369 -- early studies of, iii, 370 -- is poisoned, iii, 371 -- paintings of, iii, 371-4 -- style of, iii, 374-7, 379 -- death of, iii, 376 Baroccio, Giovanbattista, iii, 369 Baroccio, Giovanni Maria, iii, 369 Baroccio, Simone, iii, 369, 376 Baroncelli, Bandini, i, 447 note Barry, style of, ii, 172 Bartholomew, Lord, i, 450 Bartoli, Vincenzo, iii, 130, 411 Bartolo, Taddeo, i, 275; ii, 57 note, 118 note -- at Orvieto, ii, 188 Bartolommeo, Fra, ii, 229, 252; iii, 335 Baruffaldi, iii, 280 note Basinio, i, 193; ii, 136 note Basle, Council of, i, 73; ii, 143 Bassano, Alvarez di, iii, 140 Bassano, Francesco, iii, 483 Bassano, Leandro, iii, 483 Basso, Giovanni, ii, 280 Basso, Matteo di, iii, 96 note Bastardy no blot, i, 63 Bastia, i, 43 note Bath and Wells, see of, ii, 115 Battaglini, i, 71 note, 75 note, 192 note, 335 note Battiferri, Antonio Vergilio, ii, 118 Battiferri, Laura, iii, 294 Battista, Countess of Urbino, her wise government, i, 147, 217 -- her household, i, 151 -- prays for a son, i, 207 -- death of, i, 214-16, 219; ii, 136 -- her descent, i, 216 -- her accomplishments, i, 217 -- her marriage, i, 217 -- praised by Pius II., i, 217 -- her character, i, 218 -- portraits of, i, 218, 285, 287; ii, 210; iii, 487 Bayard, Chevalier de, ii, 427 Beaucaire, i, 347 Becchi, Francesco, i, 423 Becci, Gentile de', tutor of Lorenzo the Magnificent, ii, 113 -- characteristics of, ii, 113, 114 Becivenni, Sebastiano, iii, 400 Bede and Gildas, ii, 117 Bedi, Giacomo, ii, 191 Begni, Giulio Cesare, iii, 378 Belgrano, ii, 73 note Bellanti, Antonio, i, 260 Bellini, Filippo, iii, 378 Bellini, Gentile, ii, 191, 197; iii, 335 -- sonnet on, by Filelfo, ii, 135 -- piety of, ii, 161 Bellini, Giovanni, at Pesaro, ii, 266 Bellori, iii, 372 -- on Baroccio, iii, 374 Bellucci, Gian Giacomo, iii, 77, 352 Bembo, Bernardo, ii, 62 Bembo, Pietro, i, 207 note, 290; ii, 216, 404; iii, 78, 257, 460 -- _De Guido Ubaldo_, i, 295 note -- _Lettere_, i, 311 note -- on Guidobaldo I., i, 51 note; ii, 23, 124-7 -- bishop of Gubbio, i, 172 -- represents Venice in Rome, ii, 38 -- at Ferrara, ii, 62 -- his Asolani, ii, 63 -- at Urbino, ii, 49, 63, 77, 232, 360 -- made cardinal, ii, 64 -- on Federigo Fregoso, ii, 61 -- on Bibbiena, ii, 69 -- on the Duchess Elisabetta, ii, 89 -- his manner, ii, 123-5 -- his works, ii, 124-7 -- on Accolti, ii, 146 -- characteristics of, ii, 154 -- portrait of, ii, 234 -- on Francesco Maria I., ii, 324 -- ill-timed badinage of, ii, 339 note -- sent to Venice, ii, 359 -- fair-weather friend, ii, 367 -- satirised, ii, 368 -- his epitaph on Francesco Maria I., iii, 73 -- on Ariosto, iii, 285 note -- letters of, iii, 349 -- on Titian, iii, 394 Bembo, Torquato, ii, 65 Benedetti, Benedetto, iii, 162, 176 Benedetti, Cesare, iii, 135, 162 Benedict IX., i, 37 Benedict XIII., i, 42 Benedicto, Messer, i, 435 Benevento, i, 363; iii, 69 -- Archbishop of, ii, 282 Bentivogli, the, i, 309 -- the Seigneurs of Bologna, i, 18 -- fly from Bologna, ii, 41 Bentivoglio, Annibale, i, 349, 474 -- Francesca, ii, 53 -- Giovanni, of Bologna, i, 308, 380-1, 407, 412; ii, 10, 53, 315 -- Ippolito, iii, 53 note -- Lucrezia, i, 473-6 Berengarius, King, i, 78 Berenson, ii, 226 note -- _Central Italian Painting_, ii, 185 note -- on della Francesca, ii, 203 note Bergamo, ii, 460; iii, 77, 298 -- bishopric of, ii, 65 Berlinghieri, i, 227 Bernardino, Fra da Siena, _Prediche Volgari_, ii, 114 note, 153 note Bernardino, Giovanni, _see_ St. Francis of Assisi Berni da Gubbio, i, 47 note, 177 note; ii, 115; iii, 286 -- on Ottaviano Ubaldini, i, 50 note -- on Montefeltrian princes, i, 121 -- on battle of S. Fabbiano, i, 127 note, 128 -- on the battle of Cesano, i, 136 note -- mistakes of, i, 203 note -- on Court of Urbino, i, 205 -- on the battle of La Molinella, i, 188 note Bernini, ii, 223 Beroaldo, Filippo, pleads for Francesco Maria, ii, 126, 337 note, 341-2 Bertinoro, i, 406, 414 note; iii, 165 -- surrender of, ii, 35 Bertucci, Jacoponi, iii, 356, 378 Bessarion, Cardinal, ii, 105, 279 Betussi, i, 122 Biagio, iii, 369 Biagi, Prof., _La vita Italiana_, ii, 73 note, 74 note Bianchini, i, 155 note -- _Palazzo_, i, 158, 162 Bibbiena, i, 377 -- capture of, i, 370 Bibbiena, Cardinal, i, 174 note; ii, 360, 364 -- life of, ii, 65-9 -- ambition of, ii, 67 -- his _Calandra_ performed, ii, 67, 71, 147-53, 261; iii, 348 -- his _Tirsis_, ii, 121 -- at Urbino, ii, 232 -- and Raffaele, ii, 248 -- averts massacre at Mondolfo, ii, 387 -- meets Francesco Maria I., ii, 398 Bibbiena, Maria, ii, 249 Bibbiena Villa, ii, 240 Biblioteca Cassinatensis, iii, 457 Birsa, passage of the, i, 337 Bisceglia, Alfonso, Duke of, marriage of, i, 363-9 -- strangled, i, 395 Bisignano, iii, 125 -- Prince of, iii, 131 Bismarck, ii, 10 note Bisticci, Vespasiano da, i, 268 -- authorities for, ii, 118 note Bizarro, Pietro, i, 204 note Black, _Life of Tasso_, iii, 334 Blatner, i, 449 Blenheim, ii, 230 Bloomfield, iii, 340 Boccaccio, i, 447 note; ii, 74 note, 102 Boccalaro, Matteo, iii, 421 Boccalini, _Ragguagli di Parnaso_, i, 307 note; iii, 257 -- on Aretino, iii, 289 Boiardo, _Orlando Innamorato_, iii, 286 Bologna, Seigneury of, i, 18; iii, 349 -- reduced by Braccio di Montone, i, 45 -- University of, i, 107; ii, 115, 278; iii, 314 -- papal designs on, i, 196 -- defends Ferrara, i, 259 -- under Bentivogli, i, 381 -- surrenders to Julius II., ii, 41 -- Cesare Gonzaga at, ii, 58 -- Raffaele at, ii, 230 -- expedition against, ii, 304, 316 -- Julius II. at, ii, 331 -- Bentivogli seize, ii, 335-8 -- retaken by Francesco Maria I., ii, 345 -- Leo X. at, ii, 364 -- Titian at, iii, 390 -- majolica made at, iii, 406 Bolognese school of painting, ii, 161, 254; iii, 341 Bolsena, i, 421 -- miracle of, ii, 237 Bona of Savoy, i, 190 Bonarelli, Pietro, Count of Orciano, iii, 150, 151 Bonaventura, the, iii, 90 Bonaventura, Federigo, iii, 277 Bonaventura, Flaminio, iii, 143 Bonazzi, L., _Storia di Perugia_, i, 45 Boncompagno, Giacomo, iii, 81, 125 Bonconvento, i, 245, 423; ii, 114 Bondone, ii, 180 Bonfatti, Signor Luigi, i, xxiv, 172 -- on Nelli, ii, 192 note Bonfigli, Benedetto, ii, 199 Boni, ii, 179 Boniface VIII., rule of, i, 29 -- feuds with the Colonna, i, 29 -- advised by Count Guido, i, 30 -- his brief concerning Count Guido, i, 33 Boniface IX., invests Count Guidantonio, i, 42 Bonnard, ii, 209 note Bonnivet, Gouffier de, ii, 423, 427; iii, 435 Bonolli, i, 307 note Bordone, Paris, iii, 485 Borghese and Banchi, ii, 212 note Borghese Gallery, ii, 230 Borghese, Messer, i, 250 Borghini, Don Vincenzo, iii, 359, 361 Borghini, _Discorsi Toscani_, i, 49 note Borgia family, the, i, 316 -- policy of, i, 320 note -- authorities for, ii, 19 note Borgia, Alfonso Cardinal, _see_ Calixtus III. Borgia, Angela, i, 372, 400; ii, 314 Borgia, Cesare, i, 320, 351, 359; ii, 280, 283, 317 -- Cardinal Valentino, i, 343 -- murder of his brother, i, 364, 365 -- sent to Naples, i, 368, 369 -- his proposed marriages, i, 369, 375, 376, 409 -- renounces the Cardinalate, i, 373 -- goes to France, i, 373-5, 468-9 -- made Duke Valentino, i, 375 -- crimes of, i, 376, 389, 392, 394; ii, 10 -- his extending ambition, i, 379, 383, 392, 394, 400 -- becomes a condottiere, i, 383-5, 388 -- his insolence, i, 386 -- profusion of, i, 386, 387 -- epigrams upon, i, 386; ii, 31 -- made Duke of Romagna, i, 389 -- his rule, i, 389-92 -- enters Urbino, i, 401-10; ii, 303 -- meets Louis XII., i, 412 -- loses Urbino, i, 414-18 -- regains it by temporizing, i, 418-20 -- his letters, ii, 6 -- intrigues of, ii, 10 note, 33 -- and Machiavelli, ii, 10 and note -- massacres the confederate captains, ii, 3-10 -- invades the Sienese, ii, 11 -- is poisoned, ii, 16, 17, 20 -- wavers after his father's death, ii, 21, 25, 28 -- goes to Naples, ii, 30 -- a prisoner in Spain, ii, 30 -- his death, ii, 31 -- chief conquests of, ii, 22 note -- humbled before Guidobaldo, ii, 33 -- enters Sinigaglia, ii, 300 -- his persecution of Cardinal della Rovere, ii, 301 -- portraits of, i, xi, xii; ii, 459 Borgia, Francesco, Duke of Gandia, i, 320, 363, 364 -- murder of, i, 364, 365 -- character of, i, 366 Borgia, Giovanna, i, 317 Borgia, Giovanni di, legitimation of, i, 367 note Borgia, Girolama, i, 476 Borgia, Giuffredo, i, 320, 332 -- Prince of Squillace, i, 343 -- marriage of, i, 345 Borgia, Lucrezia, i, 320; ii, 18, 35, 348 -- portrait of, i, xii -- crimes charged against her, i, 320, 365 -- her first marriage, i, 343, 364 note -- her second marriage, i, 344, 345, 364 -- third marriage of, i, 363, 369, 395 -- fourth marriage of, i, 395, 396, 473-83 -- visits Urbino, i, 397, 401 -- her reformed life, i, 397; ii, 63 -- her death, i, 397 Borgia, Pierluigi, i, 116 Borgia, Roderigo, Cardinal, rapid preferment of, i, 317, _see_ Alexander VI. Borgia, Roderigo, i, 396 Borgia, tower of, ii, 235 Borgo, Pietro del, _see_ della Francesca Borgoforte, ii, 446 -- battle of, i, 384 Borgo San Sepolchro, i, 260; ii, 204, 399, 467 note; iii, 201 Borgo San Spirito, ii, 444; iii, 8, 10, 14, 353 Borromeo, Cardinal Carlo, iii, 268, 298 Borromeo, Federigo, iii, 125 Boscoli, Pietro Paolo, ii, 82 note Bosso, Matteo, letter of, i, 203 Bossi, ii, 204 -- _Leo X._, ii, 29 Bottari, ii, 44 note, 214 note, 228 note, 233 Botticelli, Sandro, his Glorification of the Madonna, ii, 158 note -- in Rome, ii, 288 Botticini, his Glorification of the Virgin, ii, 159 note Bourbon, Charles, Duke of, i, 131; ii, 426, 428 -- career of, ii, 449, 450 -- advances on Siena, ii, 453 -- advances on Rome, ii, 456; iii, 8 note, 9, 434 -- sacks Rome, iii, 3-18 -- at the mercy of his army, iii, 5 note -- atrocities of his army, iii, 8, 14-17 -- strength of his army, iii, 9 -- death of, iii, 11, 12 and note, 429, 436 Bourges, i, 471 Boutcher, Archbishop, i, 456 note Bozzolo, Marquis of, ii, 372 Bracciano, fief of, i, 331; iii, 21, 360 -- siege of, i, 359 -- lake of, ii, 12 Braccio, Alessandro, i, 174 note Braccio, Carlo, i, 236, 247 -- his attempt on Perugia, i, 238, 251 Braccio di Montone, i, 72 -- power of, i, 43 note, 44 -- a famous condottiere, i, 44, 51 -- conciliated by Martin V., i, 45 Bracciolini, Poggio, ii, 113 -- inscribes his history to Federigo, i, 213 -- on Duke Federigo, i, 270 -- _Facetiæ_, ii, 154 Bramante, Donato, ii, 243 -- confusion regarding, ii, 259 -- his paintings, ii, 260 -- his architecture, ii, 260 -- employed on St. Peter's, ii, 235, 262, 263, 307 -- his friends, ii, 264 Bramantino of Milan, ii, 259 Branca, Giovanni, ii, 220 note; iii, 354 Branca, Matteo della, iii, 78 Brancaleoni, the, seigneuries of, i, 18, 23; iii, 181 -- lose Castel Durante, i, 23 -- fiefs of, i, 45, 63 Brancaleoni, Alberigo di, i, 77 Brancaleoni, Bartolomeo, i, 46, 63, 64 Brancaleoni, Francesco, i, 39 note Brancaleoni, Gentile, i, 63, 111 Brancarini, Luc-Antonio, iii, 89 Brandani, Federigo, i, 171 note Brandani, Pacifica, ii, 57 Brandon, Sir Thomas, ii, 469 Brantôme, _Vies des Hommes Illustres_, i, 468 Brantôme, Sieur de, iii, 31 Brasavolo, physician, iii, 98 Brera Library, i, 227 Brera Gallery, Milan, i, 287; ii, 196, 211, 255; iii, 349 Brescia, ii, 364 -- siege of, i, 74 Bresis, Benedetto di, commended to Siena, ii, 109 Bresse, Comte de, i, 347 Brewer, _Calendar_, ii, 411 note Brindisi, i, 394 Brisella, reduction of, i, 190 Brisghella, attack on, ii, 325 _British and Foreign Quarterly Review_, i, 29 note, 383 note; ii, 221 note, 246 note, 251; iii, 279 note Brizio, Gian Battista, i, 413, 417 -- succours S. Leo, ii, 14 Broglio, Gaspare, i, 72 note Bronzino, Angelo, iii, 124; iii, 350, 351 Brooke, Mr. F.C., i, xliv -- on palace of Gubbio, i, 173 note Brown, Mr. Rawdon, i, xliv, 347, 361 note; ii, 392 -- _Ragguagli_, i, 397 note -- _Life of Leonardo da Vinci_, ii, 461 note Bruce, i, xiii Brunelleschi, ii, 203 Brunetti, Abbé, iii, 165, 332 Brunswick, Duke of, repulsed by Francesco Maria I., iii, 40 Brussels, ii, 233 Bucciardo, Giorgio, ii, 294 Bufardeci, ii, 51 note Buonaccorsi, ii, 5 note Buonaparte, Giacomo, iii, 8 note Buonarroti, Michael Angelo, ii, 23 note, 199, 222; iii, 335, 338, 341, 347, 370, 398 -- his statue of Julius II., ii, 41 note -- his tomb of Giuliano de' Medici, ii, 57 -- tutor of, ii, 114 -- _Pietà_ of, ii, 169 -- on Gentile, ii, 197 -- cartoons of, ii, 235 -- his influence on Raffaele, ii, 243-6 -- his _Judgment_ ii, 288; iii, 344, 383 -- employed by Julius II., ii, 307 -- and Aretino, iii, 289 -- and Vittoria Colonna, iii, 292 -- his tomb of Julius II., iii, 381-6 -- style of, iii, 386-9 -- sonnets of, iii, 389 Buonconte, count and vicar of Urbino, i, 25 Burchard, i, 387 note, i, 395 note; ii, 5 note, 293 note, 464 -- on Vatican obscenities, i, 345 -- on murder of the Duke of Gandia, i, 365 Burckhardt, ii, 74 note -- _The Civilization of the Period of the Renaissance_, i, 235 note; ii, 128 note -- on the continuity of art, ii, 95 note Burd, _Il Principe_, ii, 22 note Burgundy, Duke of, ii, 407; iii, 265 Burnet on Barry, ii, 172 Burney MSS., iii, 182 note Burns, Robert, iii, 340 Bylandt, Comte de, _Atlas de Volcans_, i, 79 note Byron, _Childe Harold_, i, 391 note -- _Lament of Tasso_, iii, 309 note Byzantine school of painting, ii, 158, 160, 180, 186; iii, 335 Caen, a Raphael at, ii, 226 Cagli, i, 4, 175, 281, 397, 403, 404; ii, 33; iii, 295, 303, 408 -- Montefeltri supplant Ceccardi in, i, 22, 37 -- palace of, i, 174 -- frescoes at, ii, 190, 223 -- plans of, ii, 213 -- Cappella Artieri, ii, 258 Cagli, Bishop of, ii, 314; iii, 20 and note Cajazzo, Count of, i, 349 Calabria, Duke of, i, 123, 124, 129, 135, 141, 183 -- in Tuscan campaign, i, 185 -- fights against the Medici, i, 243-51 -- intrigues of, i, 253 -- sent against the French, i, 348 -- abandoned, i, 349 Calais, ii, 355 Calisse, C., _St. d. Diretto Italiano_, i, 6 Calixtus III., i, 113 -- schemes of, i, 116 Calixtus V., i, 204 Calvinism in Italy, iii, 276 Calze, fraternity of the, i, 68; ii, 430; iii, 130 Camaldolese Convent, Urbino, ii, 232 Camaldoli, i, 370 Cambray, League of, ii, 222, 372, 424; iii, 281 -- origin of, ii, 321-3 -- its results, ii, 323 note Camera della Segnatura, ii, 236-9 Camerino, Pietro Gentile, Lord of, i, 41, 125; ii, 10 Camerino, Seigneury of, i, 18, 379, 400, 411; iii, 38 -- throws off Borgian rule, ii, 24 -- Varana reinstated in, ii, 413 -- disputes as to the succession, iii, 63-8, 89, 92 -- Guidobaldo II., Duke of, iii, 89 Camerlingo, Cardinal, ii, 280 Camilla of Aragon, ii, 356 Camillo, Count of Castel del Isola, ii, 357 Camillo, of Mantua, iii, 351 Campagna, defined, i, xx -- wasted by the Colonna, i, 329 Campagna, Girolamo, iii, 376, 400, 459 Campagnatico, baths of, i, 83 Campana, Cavaliere, ii, 460 Campani, Ferdinand, iii, 414 Campano, Antonio, Bishop of Teramo, i, 216, 230 Campano, G., i, 172 -- on Perugia, i, 43 Campbell, Mr., i, xvi Campeggi, Lorenzo, Bishop, Governor of Urbino, iii, 222-3 Campori, ii, 220 note; iii, 280 note, 331 note -- _Notizie_ ii, 138 note -- _Vittoria Colonna_, iii, 291 note Camuccini, Baron, picture gallery of, iii, 230, 374, 483 Camuscia, iii, 19 note Cancellaria, ii, 282, 286; iii, 17 Canepa, Church of the, Pavia, ii, 260 Canevazzi, iii, 271 note Canossa, Ludovico da, ii, 47 note, 67, 83, 363, 397 -- authorities for, ii, 70 note -- papal patronage of, ii, 70 -- at Urbino, ii, 78 Canova, i, xi Cantarini, Simon, iii, 369 Cantiano, i, 404; ii, 213 -- conquered by Count Antonio, i, 37 -- mutiny at, ii, 393-5 Cantù, C., _St. d. Italiani_, i, 6 Caoursin, Guglielmo, ii, 293 note Capaccio, Cardinal, iii, 421 Capasso, _Il Tasso a Sorrento_, iii, 299 note Capella di Barbone, iii, 11 Capello, Bernardo, ii, 365; iii, 124 -- on Borgia, i, 411; ii, 459 -- on Julius II., ii, 304 note, 305 -- at Urbino, iii, 294 Capilupi, ii, 84 note Capitulation of Rome, iii, 23 Capobianco, Giovan Giorgio, iii, 404 note Capo d'Istria, iii, 275 Caponi, Marchese, ii, 484 Cappelli, iii, 280 note Capranica, iii, 26 Caprarola, iii, 357 Capretti, Bartolomeo, i, 165 Capua, sack of, i, 394 Capuchins, origin of the, iii, 96 note Carraci, Annibale, iii, 414 Caracci, Ludovico, ii, 243; iii, 369 Caraccioli, Camillo, i, 399 Caraffa, Giovanni, iii, 109 Caraffa, Monsignor, ii, 16, _see_ Paul IV. Caravaggi, the, iii, 341 Carbonani, Gentile, iii, 78 Carbonani, Troiano, iii, 78 Carda, la, united to Urbino, i, 51 note, _see_ Ubaldini Cardona, Raimondo di, ii, 343, 344 Carducci, Giuseppe, iii, 330 note Carducci, Ludovico, iii, 354 Carew, Thomas, quoted, i, 169 Carey's translation, _see_ Dante Carlos, Don, son of King Philip II., intimacy with Francesco Maria II., iii, 132 -- imprisonment of, iii, 132, 133 -- death of, iii, 133, 134 Carlotta of Savoy, i, 375 Carmagnuolo, i, 72 note; iii, 35 Carnesecchi, ii, 74 note Carnevale, Fra, i, 150; ii, 210, 211, 260 -- his portrait of Federigo, i, 287 Carnioia, Bishop of, i, 478 Caro, Annibale, iii, 260, 294, 295 -- as purist, iii, 257 Carpegna, Counts of, i, 25 -- arms of, i, 25 note -- fief of, i, 112 Carpi, i, 290; iii, 165 Cartolari, Gian Francesco, iii, 114 and note _Cartularium Comitatus_ i, xvi Cartwright, Julia, _see_ Mrs. Ady Casa, della, iii, 257 Casa Bertoldy, iii, 366 Casal-Maggiore, ii, 453 Casale, Gregorio, i, 473; ii, 432; iii, 440 Casalecchio, ii, 335 Casalino, iii, 19 Casanova, ii, 73 note; iii, 8 note Casartole, iii, 49 Casatico, ii, 51 Casaubon, Isaac, iii, 182 Casini-Tordi, iii, 291 note Cassana, iii, 42 Castel Cavellino, ii, 210 Castel d'Elce, granted to Genga, iii, 352 Castel del Isola del Piano, ii, 357 Castel del Rio, ii, 326, 338 Castel Durante, i, 312, 411 note; ii, 85; iii, 122, 201, 220, 333, 406, 408, 413 -- countship of, i, 23 -- seized by Guidantonio, i, 46 -- palace of, i, 174 -- architect of, ii, 213 -- hunting at, iii, 160 -- description of, iii, 181 -- court at, iii, 204 -- library of, removed to the Sapienza, iii, 244 -- Tasso at, iii, 318 -- now Urbania, iii, 423 Castella, iii, 125 Castel Leo, iii, 239 Castel Leone, iii, 82 Castellesi, Adrian and Vergilio, ii, 115, 116 Castellina, i, 249 -- siege of, i, 104 Castelluccio, i, 133 Castelnuovo, i, 405 -- siege of, i, 262 Castel S. Pietro, ii, 317 Castiglione, Baldassare, i, 48, 290, 311; ii, 50, 81; iii, 78 -- _Il Cortegiano_ i, 161, 170; ii, 44, 55, 76, 77, 119-21; iii, 277 -- _Epistola_, i, 295 note -- on Guidobaldo I., i, 298; ii, 24, 84, 87 -- his device, i, 444 -- at Urbino, ii, 34, 52, 232 -- envoy to London, ii, 34, 52, 233, 355, 468-70 -- authorities for, ii, 51 note -- author of _Tirsis_, ii, 49, 58 -- family of, ii, 50 -- his life, ii, 50-6 -- granted Novillara, ii, 53, 356 -- marriage of, ii, 53 -- ambassador of the Holy See at Madrid, ii, 54; iii, 26-30, 448-51 -- on Gonzaga, ii, 58 note -- on Ottaviano Fregoso, ii, 59 -- on Bibbiena, ii, 68 -- his letter to Henry VIII., ii, 121 -- his letter to his children, ii, 122 -- on the _Calandra_, ii, 148-52 -- friend of Raffaele, ii, 250 -- on Leonora Gonzaga, ii, 316 -- acts for Francesco Maria I., ii, 341, 344, 355 -- diplomacy of, ii, 415, 419 Castiglione, Fra, ii, 210 Castreno, Demetrio, at Urbino, ii, 136 Castriotto, Jacopo Fusto, iii, 77 Catarina of Rossano, ii, 281 Catelani, Fra Bernardo, ii, 264 Caterina, Countess of Urbino, i, 47 -- canzonet to, ii, 143 -- letter to, by Nelli, ii, 192 Cathelan, i, 408 Catherine of Russia, ii, 233 Cattaneo, Federico, ii, 323 note Cavallino, ii, 379; iii, 336 note Cavattone, ii, 70 note Ceccardi, the, supplanted in Cagli by the Montefeltri, i, 22, 37 Cecchetti, ii, 73 note Cecchi, Domenico di, ii, 191 -- _La Donna Italiana_, ii, 73 note Cecco, ii, 189 Celano, lake of, i, 44; iii, 26 -- battle of, i, 73 Celestine V. absolves Count Guido, i, 28 -- abdicates, i, 28 Cellani, Padre, ii, 324 Celli, ii, 277; iii, 114 note, 123 note, 142 note Cellini, Benvenuto, iii, 403 -- shoots the Duke of Bourbon, iii, 11 and note Cennini, Cennino, ii, 73 note Cennino, Cardinal, iii, 217 Censorship of books, ii, 20 Centenelli, Cristofero, on Francesco Maria I., iii, 79 Cento, i, 396; ii, 403 Cento Celle, i, 237 Centogatti, Bartolomeo, ii, 215, 265; iii, 260 note Central Italy defined, i, xxxix -- losses of the Malatesta in, i, 146 Cerasolo, i, 197 Cerri, _Borgia ossia Alessandro VI._, ii, 19 note Certaldo, siege of, i, 248 Cervantes, _El Buscapié_, ii, 82 note Cervetri, i, 331 Cervia, ii, 322 -- seized by Venice, i, 381 -- Bishop of, i, 475 -- surrender of, ii, 329 Cervini, Marcello, Bishop of Gubbio, elected Pope, iii, 104, 260 Cesano, battle of, i, 137 Cesare da Faenza, iii, 422 Cesarini, Cardinal, iii, 431, 436 Cesena, i, 18, 48, 180, 348, 381, 392, 405; ii, 23, 337, 412; iii, 349, 352 -- surrender of, ii, 35 Cesenatico, ii, 28 Cette, Bishop of, i, 375 Charlemagne, coronation of, ii, 237 -- donations of, i, 5 Charles of Anjou, i, 26 -- and first of Naples, i, 323 Charles the Bold, ii, 407 Charles V., Emperor, i, 447 note; ii, 416, 428; iii, 24, 27 and note, 28-31, 37, 40-46, 62, 69, 70, 110, 264, 395, 411, 421 -- negotiates with Castiglione, ii, 54; iii, 448-51 -- elected Emperor, ii, 407, 408 -- leagues against Francis I., ii, 423 -- hostile to Pope Clement VII., iii, 28 -- and the sack of Rome, iii, 29-31 -- a league against, iii, 37 -- his motives in going to Italy, iii, 42 -- coronation of, iii, 42-6, 253 -- favours Francesco Maria I., iii, 43-5, 69 -- meets Clement VII. at Bologna, iii, 62 -- meets Francesco Maria I. in Italy, in 1532, iii, 62, 404 note -- his expedition against Tunis, iii, 299 -- and Ariosto, iii, 284 -- and Titian, iii, 390 -- _Lettere_, iii, 8 note Charles VII., i, 124 -- death of, i, 135 Charles VIII., i, 325; ii, 3, 449; iii, 57 Charles VIII., of France, characteristics of, i, 327, 346, 355 -- his invasion of Italy, i, 333, 340, 348-55 -- enters Naples, i, 352 -- defeated at Taro, i, 354 -- death of, i, 372 -- his army in 1493, i, 460-2 -- and Gem, ii, 296 Charles IX., ii, 406; iii, 122 Charlescon, ii, 381 Charon, iii, 344 Chaucer, i, 313 note Chaumont, M. de, ii, 331; iii, 435 Chiavistelli, the, i, 235 note Chigi, Agostino, ii, 247, 248, 258, 352 note Chigi Chapel, ii, 240 Chinese art, ii, 175 Chinon, i, 468 Chioggia, i, 377; ii, 360 Chiusi, ii, 11 Christian art, _see_ Italian art Christofero, Giovanni, ii, 71 Church Langton, ii, 115 Church-plate coined into specie, iii, 24 Church, Roman Catholic, identified with popular principles, i, 11 Cialderi, Girolamo, iii, 380 Ciampi, iii, 383 note Cian, ii, 44 note, 51 note, 63 note, 119 note Ciarla, Raffaele, iii, 420, 422, 423 Ciarpelion, i, 91 Cibò, Cardinal, _see_ Innocent VIII. Cibò, Alberico, iii, 80; iii, 106 Cibò, Caterina, iii, 65, 66 Cibò, Francesco, i, 331 Cibrario, on coinage, i, xlii, xliii note -- _Economia Politica del Medio Evo_, i, 88 note Cicognara, Count, ii, 269, 271; iii, 404 note Cigognara, iii, 481 Cimabue, i, 436; ii, 174, 188 -- at Assisi, ii, 180 -- style of, ii, 186 Cimarelli, i, 160; iii, 225 note -- on the Duchy of Urbino, i, 4 -- Italian patriotism of, ii, 108 Cimatorio, Antonio, iii, 378 Citadella, ii, 420 -- _Saggio di Albero Genealogico della Famiglia Borgia_, ii, 19 note Città della Pieve, ii, 11, 199 -- sack of, iii, 19 Città di Castello, i, 18, 238, 305, 360, 380; ii, 24; iii, 106 -- Guidobaldo I. at, i, 421 -- plunder of, ii, 11 -- Raffaele's work at, ii, 225 -- majolica made at, iii, 406 Civita Castellana, iii, 5, 23, 24 Civita Vecchia, i, 81; iii, 23 Claude, iii, 366 Claudia, Princess, of Urbino, marriage of, to Prince Federigo, iii, 196, 199-202 -- second marriage of, iii, 211 -- letters from her to her daughter, iii, 232, 237 Clement, name unlucky for the papacy, iii, 33 note Clement VII., i, 327; ii, 64, 351, 419 note; iii, 4-8, 13, 25, 32, 59, 62, 66, 260 -- sends Castiglione to Spain, ii, 54 -- election of, ii, 423 -- policy of, ii, 433, 434, 443, 447-56; iii, 26 -- reduces the garrison of Rome, iii, 4 -- foolish infatuation of, iii, 4-8 -- his difficulty to raise money, iii, 6 -- seeks safety in S. Angelo, iii, 13 -- amid calamities and perils, iii, 23 -- fed on asses' flesh, iii, 25 -- escapes from Rome, iii, 25 -- returns to Rome, iii, 32 -- entertained by the Duchess Leonora, iii, 52 -- seizes Ancona, iii, 59 -- and Charles V., hold a congress at Bologna, iii, 62 -- his matrimonial speculations, iii, 62 -- estrangement from Charles V., iii, 62 -- death of, iii, 66 -- character of, iii, 66 -- letters to Francesco I., iii, 427 -- negotiations with, iii, 433-42 Clement VIII., Pope, iii, 164, 166, 167, 215 -- visits Francesco Maria II. at Pesaro, iii, 166, 167 -- visits Urbino, iii, 265, 373 Clement XI., i, 163; iii, 248 note Clemente of Urbino, his medallions, ii, 270; iii, 376 note Clementini, i, 71 note, 75 note, 192 note Clovio, Giulio, i, 286, 449; iii, 12 note, 488 Coalition against Charles V., iii, 37 Colbordolo, i, 82; ii, 216 Colgrain Crone, i, xiii, xiv Colle, siege of, i, 248, 339 note Colle, Raffaele del, iii, 50, 380, 420 -- work of, iii, 350 Colleone, Bartolomeo, harasses Urbino, i, 54 -- invades Tuscany, i, 185 -- fights at La Molinella, i, 185, 186 -- employs flying artillery, i, 187 Colleoni, Carmagnuola, ii, 425 note Colocci, Angelo, iii, 122 note Cologne, ii, 198 Colonello, Francesco Amadori di, iii, 386 note Colonna, the, depredations of, i, 329 -- prefects of Rome, ii, 291 -- reconciled with Orsini, ii, 354 -- excommunicated by Clement VII., ii, 448 Colonna, Antonio, Prince of Salerna, ii, 291 Colonna, Ascanio, i, 289; iii, 53, 442 -- his claims on Urbino, ii, 418-20, 455 Colonna, Caterina, marriage of, i, 45 Colonna, Fabrizio, i, 289, 358; ii, 302, 419; iii, 291, 435 -- marriage of, i, 222 Colonna, Giovanni, i, 29 Colonna, Girolamo, i, 152 Colonna, Giulio, ii, 283 Colonna, Lorenzo, i, 45 Colonna, Marc Antonio, ii, 281, 282 Colonna, Marcello, ii, 444 Colonna, Ottavia, ii, 283 Colonna, Cardinal Ottone, _see_ Martin V. Colonna, Pier Antonio, i, 152; ii, 291 Colonna, Cardinal Pompeo, ii, 448; iii, 10, 26, 27, 432 -- treason of, ii, 443, 444 Colonna, Cardinal Prospero, ii, 419, 425 note, 444; iii, 435 -- death of, ii, 423 Colonna, Sciarra, iii, 65 Colonna, Stefano, iii, 92, 430 Colonna, Vespasiano, iii, 439, 442 Colonna, Vittoria, i, 222, 289; ii, 120; iii, 125 -- authorities for, iii, 291 note -- marriage of, iii, 291 -- her character, iii, 292 -- her poems, iii, 292 _Coltness Collections, The_, i, xvi Columbus, Christopher, i, 326 Comacchio, Bishop of, i, 475 Comandini, Comandino, i, 268, 279; ii, 215 Comandino, Federigo, iii, 134, 266, 267, 369 -- translator of Greek, iii, 259 -- his education, iii, 260 -- devoted to the exact sciences, iii, 261 -- at Urbino, iii, 261 Comandino, Gian Battista, ii, 265; iii, 260 Comarca, defined, i, xl Comerio, la vedova, i, 286 Comines, Philippe de, i, 248 -- on the French army, i, 463-7 Como, i, 156 Comolli, ii, 221 Compagnoni of Macerata, iii, 372 Conca, iii, 363 Condivi, iii, 381, 383 note Condolmiere, Gabriele, _see_ Eugene IV. Condottiere, rise of the, i, 13 -- system at work, i, 14, 112; ii, 424, 425 -- the passing of, i, 333; iii, 47, 94, 156 -- the Vitelli, famous, i, 335 note Conegliano, Cima di, ii, 191 Confraternita della Grotta, iii, 242, 243 Coninghame, Mr. William, ii, 232 Constantine, Hall of, ii, 238 Constantini, iii, 327 Constantinople, ii, 105, 296, 398 -- siege of, i, 106 -- patriarch of, ii, 280 Contarini, Altadonna, i, 51 note Contarini, Bartolomeo, i, 51 note Contarini, Lorenzo, his funeral oration on Francesco Maria I., iii, 73 Conte, Donato del, i, 187 Conti, Sigismondo, ii, 126 Coreglia, Michele, i, 415 Contriotto, iii, 77 Corfu, iii, 77, 140, 141, 423 Corboli, the, iii, 90 Corboli, Antonio, iii, 143 Corinaldo, ii, 8, 395, 396; iii, 379 -- prior of, iii, 82 Corio, ii, 285 -- mistakes of, i, 188 note Cornara, Queen, iii, 482 Cornari, the, iii, 298 Cornei, the, iii, 90 Cornelius, iii, 366 Corneto, Cardinal of, ii, 115, 116, 391 -- to be poisoned, ii, 15, 16, 17 Corona, indulgences belonging to a, iii, 456 Corradi, iii, 175 note, 311 note Corradi, Bartolomeo, _see_ (Fra) Carnevale Corradino, i, 26 Corrado, Ludovico, iii, 130 Correggio, ii, 242; iii, 338, 341, 356, 370 Cortesio, Paolo, quoted, i, 244, 450 -- letter to, from Guidobaldo, ii, 87 Cortona, i, 103; iii, 19 Corvinus, Matthew, King of Hungary, i, 245; ii, 37 Corvisieri, ii, 285 note Cosenza, Cardinal of, iii, 431 Cosimo I., i, 384 Cosimo II., Grand Duke of Tuscany, death of, iii, 199 Cosimo III., Grand Duke of Tuscany, iii, 239, 489 Cosmati, the, iii, 336 note Costa, Mauro, i, 169 Costaccioro, i, 404; ii, 213 Costanza, Countess, of Urbino, i, 34 Costanza of Pesaro, i, 41 Coster, Mauro, iii, 244 Cotrone, Marchioness of, i, 473 Council of Trent i, xi; ii, 20 note; iii, 96 Coventry, Andrew, iii, 176 note Cranach, Lucas, iii, 487 Crastini, Antonio, ii, 314 Creighton, Mandell, i, 321 note; ii, 10 note, 17 note, 285 note, 294 note, 417 note -- _History of the Papacy_, i, 319 note -- on Sixtus IV., ii, 278 note, 287 note -- on Julius II., ii, 301 note, 334 note, 339 note -- on Marignano, ii, 363 note -- on Renzo da Ceri, iii, 13 note -- on the sack of Rome, iii, 14 note Crema, iii, 77 Cremona, i, 93 -- siege of, ii, 424, 441 note, 433 -- surrender of, ii, 445 Crescimbeni, i, 40 note, 427, 428 -- on Galli, ii, 143 -- on Baldi, iii, 271 Crespi, Canonico, ii, 233 Cresti, Domenico, iii, 369 Crichton, the Admirable, iii, 326 Cristina, Queen, ii, 233 Cristofani, _Storia d'Assisi_, i, 35 note, 42 note, 43 note Crivelli, ii, 222; iii, 345 Crocchia of Urbino, ii, 265 _Croniche di Gubbio_, i, 22 note Crowe and Cavalcaselle, ii, 138 note, 185 note, 203 note, 220 note Croy, Adrian de, ii, 428 Crozat Collection, ii, 233 Crusca, della, academicians of, on Tasso, iii, 310, 329 Cruttwell, Maud, _Luca and Andrea della Robbia and their School_, iii, 406 Cunningham, _Life of Wilkie_, ii, 175 note Cuparini's account of the war of Camerino, iii, 68 note Curzolari, _see_ Lepanto Cyprus, King of, iii, 18 Cyrneo, Pietro, on Duke Federigo, i, 272 D'Albret, Charlotte, i, 376 D'Alençon, Charles, Duc, ii, 449 D'Allègre, Ives, i, 384 Dalloway, iii, 360 Dalmasio, Lippo, ii, 254 D'Alviano, Bartolomeo, i, 359, 370; ii, 321 D'Amboise, George, i, 376 D'Ambras, Monsieur, ii, 390 Damiano, Felice, iii, 380 D'Ancezun, Geraud, ii, 282 D'Ancona, ii, 69 note, 119 note; iii, 308 note; 327 note -- _La Poesia Popolare Italiana_, iii, 280 note Dandini, V., iii, 487 Daniele di Volterra, ii, 244; iii, 380 Dante Alighieri, quoted, i, 3, 19, 67, 73 note, 383; ii, 51, 74 note; iii, 278, 329 -- folio in Urbino library, i, 448 -- on Count Guido, i, 28, 30-32 -- on Boniface VIII., i, 33 -- leaves Florence, ii, 100 -- inspires Umbrian school of art, ii, 186 -- on Oderigi da Gubbio, ii, 188 D'Aquila, Serafino, at Urbino, ii, 147 D'Aquino, iii, 125 D'Aragona, Antonio, marries Princess Ippolita, iii, 53 D'Aragona, Tullia, iii, 275, 298 D'Arco, ii, 5 note D'Argenson, Sieur, i, 466 D'Arpino, Cavaliere, iii, 377 Daru, on coinage, i, xxii D'Assisi, Andrea, ii, 258, 291 Datario, ii, 32 D'Aubigny, invades Italy, i, 348 D'Avalos, Alfonso Felice, iii, 125 and note, 157 D'Avalos, Ferrante, iii, 291 note David II. of Scotland, i, xiii Da Vinci, Leonardo, ii, 199, 222, 229, 252; iii, 335 -- his _Cenacolo_, ii, 204 note -- cartoons of, ii, 235 Dazzi, _Alcune Lettere_, ii, 73 note Dea, John, at Urbino, iii, 261 De Gama, i, 326 De Grasses, ii, 281 Dello, iii, 345 Demetrio, i, 226 Dennistoun, Mr. J.W., of Dennistoun, i, xii _Dennistoun and Colgraine_, _Some Account of the Family of Dennistoun of_, i, xv note Dennistoun, James, of Dennistoun, scope of the _Memoirs_, i, viii -- ii, 153 note -- illustrations of the _Memoirs_, i, x-xii -- art criticism of, i, x, xv; ii, 157 note; iii, 336 note -- descent of, i, xiii -- arms of, i, xiv note -- his birth and education, i, xiv, xv -- works of, i, xvi, xvii -- his collection of early Italian pictures, i, xvii-xxviii -- his prejudice against the Malatesta, i, 75 note, i, 192 note -- on the Borgia, i, 319 note -- on the devolution of the Duchy, iii, 220 note -- on Michael Angelo, iii, 386 note -- his list of authorities, iii, 490-498 D'Entragues, Monsieur, i, 356 D'Epinois, ii, 19 note Despartes, i, 320 note D'Este, the, hold Ferrara as Marquisate, i, 18 -- patrons of art, ii, 43 -- patrons of letters, ii, 98, 99 D'Este, Alberto, i, 473 D'Este, Alfonso, Duke of Ferrara, i, 247; iii, 80 -- his marriage with Lucrezia Borgia, i, 396, 473-83 -- sues for peace, ii, 346 D'Este, Bianca, accomplishments of, ii, 128 D'Este, Borso, Duke of Modena and Ferrara, i, 110, 205, 261 D'Este, Cesare, iii, 164 D'Este, Duke Ercole, i, 125; ii, 147; iii, 139, 281 -- pretensions of, i, 381 D'Este, Ginevra, i, 192 note D'Este, Giulia della Rovere, iii, 393 note D'Este, Cardinal Ippolito, ii, 23 note; iii, 270 -- patron of Ariosto, iii, 281-83 D'Este, Isabella, ii, 5 note, 84 note -- letters of, ii, 23 note, 323 note D'Este, Isotta, betrothed to Duke Oddantonio, i, 55 D'Este, Laura, iii, 299 D'Este, Leonello, i, 55 D'Este, Leonora, iii, 136 note, 334, 349 -- Tasso and, iii, 309, 319, 321 D'Este, Lucrezia, ii, 357 -- _see_ Lucrezia, Duchess of Urbino D'Este, Nicolò Marquis of Ferrara, i, 55 Dhona, Baron, i, 469 _Dialogue de Regno_, i, 227 _Diario Ferrarese_, i, 55 note Diomed, iii, 69 Dionora of Naples, ii, 281 Di Pastis, i, 193 Dispensations, sale of, i, 386 Djem, _see_ Gem Dolce, Ludovico, i, 403 -- _Instituto delle Donne_, ii, 72, 77 note -- on position of women in the sixteenth century, ii, 72-5 Domenichi, iii, 286 Domenichino, ii, 243 Donato, Antonio, iii, 129 note, 218, 219, 227 Doni, Angelo, ii, 229 Doni, Antonio Francesco, iii, 289 "Donkey-day," ii, 337 Donnino, Francesco di, iii, 413, 421 Donnino, Giovanni di, iii, 413, 421 D'Orco, Ramirez, i, 392 Doria, Andrea, i, 152; ii, 36, 448; iii, 140 -- at Sinigaglia, ii, 3 -- at Genoa, ii, 59 -- defends Sinigaglia, ii, 300 -- occupies Ostia, iii, 24 -- changes sides, iii, 40 Doria, Filippino, iii, 78, 131 Doria, Giovanni Andrea, iii, 134, 140 Doria, Nicoloso, i, 402 Doria Pamfili gallery, i, 275 note D'Ortona, Morello, ii, 37 Dossi, Giovanbattista, iii, 350 Douglas, Langton, _History of Siena_, ii, 11 note, 187 note, 414 note D'Ovidio, iii, 310 note, 317 note Dovizi, Bernardo, _see_ Cardinal Bibbiena Dovizi, Pietro, ii, 65; _see_ Bembo Dryden, _Æneid_, i, 121 note; ii, 122 note Drymen, i, xiv _Dublin Review_, i, 29 note Duccio, ii, 185 note; iii, 336 note Dugdale, ii, 470 Dumont, i, 394 note Duns Scotus, i, 230 Du Peloux, quoted, i, 327 note Durante, Guglielmo, i, 35, 36; iii, 181 Duranti, Cardinal, iii, 130 Durantino, Guido, iii, 423 Durazzo, Charles, Count of, i, 323 Durazzo Gallery, Genoa, iii, 231 D'Urbino, Francesco, iii, 378 D'Urbino, Giovanni, iii, 378, 437, 441 D'Urbino, Girolamo, iii, 369 Durer, Albert, ii, 198 Eastern Empire, decay of, i, 106 Eastlake, Sir C.L., i, xxxix note _Edinburgh Review_, i, xxxix note -- Dennistoun's contributions to, i, xvi, xvii Edward III. of England, i, xiii, 223 Elisabetta, Duchess of Urbino, ii, 32, 35, 38, 58, 265, 316, 360, 367 -- accomplishments of, ii, 43, 46, 49 -- her letters to Urbino, ii, 82 -- her grief, ii, 82, 83, 85 -- remaining years of, ii, 88-90 -- portraits of, ii, 234, 272 -- acts as regent, ii, 320, 323 -- letter of, to Francesco Maria I., iii, 79, 80 note Elizabeth, Queen, iii, 360 Elizabeth of Valois, iii, 133 Ellesmere Collection, ii, 233 Elna, Bishop of, i, 403 Elzivir Press, iii, 465 Emanuel Filibert, Duke of Savoy, ii, 215; iii, 263 Emo, proveditore, ii, 425 Enciquel, Don Pedro, iii, 132 England in league against Charles V., iii, 37 English views on art, ii, 171 _Epistles on the Platonic Theology_, i, 227 Erasmus, quoted, ii, 123 note -- and Vergilio, ii, 116 Ercole I. Duke of Ferrara; _see_ D'Este Ermine, Order of the, i, 222 Erskine, Sir Robert, i, xiii Escriva, Pietro Luigi, iii, 77 Escu, M. de l', ii, 398, 401, 403, 423 Etruscan pottery, iii, 404 Euclid, _Elements_ of, iii, 261, 267 Eugenius IV., i, 438 -- policy against the Colonna, i, 46, 68, 95 -- confers dukedom on Oddantonio, i, 51 -- flies to Florence, i, 73 -- his grants to the Montefeltri, i, 76 -- excommunicates Duke Federigo, i, 93 -- death of, i, 95 -- his policy, i, 96 -- claims Naples, i, 324 -- biography of, ii, 119 -- patron of art, ii, 197 Eugubinean tables, the, iii, 267 Exact sciences flourish, iii, 259 Ezzelino, i, 67 Fabi, iii, 287 note Fabius, Maximus, iii, 76 Fabre, M., ii, 234 Fabretti, Raffaele, i, 159 Fabriano, ii, 89, 395, 413 -- sack of, ii, 402 Fabronio, i, 242 note, 262 Fabroni, _Life of Lorenzo_, i, 237 Facio, ii, 267 Faenza, i, 18, 47, 258, 349, 381; ii, 321, 322 -- betrayed by Tribaldello, i, 27 -- blockade of, i, 186 -- Lord of, i, 206 -- defence of, i, 389 -- surrender of, ii, 328 -- majolica or faience of, iii, 406 Faggiuola, Uguccione della, iii, 482 Fano, i, 18, 82, 137, 305, 404, 418; ii, 266, 387; iii, 377 -- papal sway in, i, 23 -- siege of, i, 142 -- Perugino at, ii, 225 -- assault of, ii, 380 -- Guidobaldo II. at, iii, 103 Fantaguzzo da S. Arcangelo, i, 126 Farfa, Abbot of, iii, 39 Farnesi, the, iii, 263 -- position of, iii, 93 Farnese, Angelo, i, 152 Farnese, Cardinal, _see_ Paul III., iii, 24, 68 Farnese, Cardinal Alessandro, iii, 294, 357, 411, 474 -- patron of art, iii, 394 Farnese, Giulia, ii, 168 note -- portrait of, i, xi Farnese, Ottavio, Duke of Parma, married to Margaret of Austria, iii, 93 -- assisted by King Henry II. of France, iii, 103 -- his advice to Francesco Maria II., iii, 143-8 Farnese, Ranuccio, i, 152; iii, 163 Farnese, Cardinal Ranuccio, iii, 260, 271 note Farnesina, Villa, ii, 240, 247 Fattori, iii, 101 note Fazino, Antonio, iii, 143 Fea, Giacomo, i, 307, 384 -- _Notizie_, ii, 239 note Febo da Cevi, iii, 78 Federigo of Aragon, i, 372 Federigo da Bozzolo, iii, 19, 20 Federigo of Naples, abdication of, i, 394 Federigo I., Marquis of Mantua, ii, 140 Federigo, Duke of Urbino, his reign a golden age, i, xxxi -- martial renown of, i, xxxiii -- mystery of his birth, i, 61-3 -- legitimation of, i, 62 -- obtains fiefs by marriage, i, 23 -- marriage with Elisabetta Brancaleone, i, 46, 72 -- military cares of, i, 47 -- takes possession of the state, i, 54 -- his early betrothal, i, 63, 64 -- goes to Venice, i, 68 -- made a companion of the _Calze_, i, 68 -- retires to Mantua, i, 69 -- educated by Vittorino da Feltre, i, 69 -- knighted by Sigismund, i, 72 -- becomes Count of Mercatello, i, 72, 83 -- and a condottiere, i, 72 -- his first service, i, 74 -- his moonlight adventure at Faenza, i, 74 -- his long contests with Sigismondo Malatesta, i, 75-80, 83, 93 -- surprises S. Leo, i, 77-80 -- visits Alfonso of Naples, i, 81, 82 -- ill of fever, i, 83 -- protects Pesaro, i, 83 -- challenged by Sigismondo Malatesta, i, 83 -- called by the citizens as their seigneur, i, 85 -- his concessions to them, i, 86, 438 -- his promising qualities, i, 88 -- serves under Francesco Sforza, i, 89, 91-3, 100 -- his proposal for Fossombrone, i, 89 -- excommunicated, i, 93 -- challenges Sigismondo Malatesta, i, 94 -- serves the Florentines, i, 98 -- fidelity of, i, 99, 100 -- loses an eye, i, 101 -- changes sides, i, 103 -- his campaign in Tuscany, i, 103-6 -- goes to Naples, i, 104, 108, 110 -- ill of fever, i, 104 -- re-engaged, i, 106 -- selfish policy of, i, 109 -- his interviews with Sigismondo Malatesta, i, 110, 119 -- loses his wife, i, 111 -- his rival humbled, i, 112 -- deserted by his allies, i, 114 -- retained by Ferdinand II., i, 115 -- his brief from Pius II., i, 117 -- domestic life of, i, 120 -- marries Battista Sforza, i, 122 -- visits Pius II., i, 123 -- his accident and bravery at the battle of S. Fabbiano, i, 126, 127 -- insulted by Piccinino, i, 129 -- his indictment of Sigismondo, i, 131 -- accompanies Pius II. to Tivoli, i, 133 -- complimented by Pius II., i, 134 -- sent against Malatesta, i, 136 -- and defeats him at Cesano, i, 137 -- takes Mondavio, Sinigaglia and Fano, i, 139 -- takes Mondaino and Montefiori, i, 140 -- his forgery and artifice, i, 140 -- takes Fano, i, 142 -- generosity of, i, 143, 199, 242 -- at peace with Sigismondo, i, 145 -- his territory extended, i, 146 -- builds a palace, i, 154-63 -- his patent to Luziano, i, 156 -- his library, i, 162-9, 271 -- his other residences, i, 171-3 -- his sporting tastes, i, 174 note -- extent of his domain, i, 175, 213 note -- war a source of wealth to, i, 175 -- Gonfaloniere of the Church, i, 179 -- retained by Ferdinand, i, 179 -- expeditions in service of Paul II., i, 179 -- visits Paul II., i, 179 -- engaged by Galeazzo Maria Sforza, i, 181, 183, 185, 190, 196 -- good faith of, i, 186 -- risks his life at La Molinella, i, 187-9 -- reduces Brisella, i, 190 -- defends Rimini, i, 196 -- his oration, i, 198 -- wins the battle of Rimini, i, 199 -- his opinion of Sixtus IV., i, 203 -- entertains Persian envoy, i, 204 -- and Pietro Riario, i, 205 -- son born to, i, 207 -- his expedition against Volterra, i, 208-12 -- his Hebrew Bible, i, 212 -- his glory, i, 212 -- loses his countess, i, 214-16 -- made Duke of Urbino, i, 24, 220 -- obtains the Golden Rose, i, 221 note, 283 -- marries his daughters, i, 222 -- made Knight of the Ermine, i, 223, 284 -- and of the Garter, i, 224, 283, 451 -- his expedition against Perugia, i, 236 -- rejects Pazzi conspiracy, i, 242 -- employed by Sixtus IV. against the Medici, i, 243-51 -- his astrology, i, 231, 244 -- breaks his leg, i, 246, 253 -- receives Sword and Hat, i, 253 -- hospitality of, i, 253, 254 -- engaged against the Turks, i, 257 -- his campaign at Ferrara, i, 252-67 -- visits Florence, i, 261 -- his letter to Lorenzo, i, 262 -- serves the Florentines, i, 282 -- death of, i, 35, 266-9, 299 -- his funeral, i, 283-4 -- anecdotes of, i, 277-83 -- children of, i, 289-91 -- natural children of, i, 290-1 -- his administration, i, 147-9, 153 -- his character, i, 148, 270-83 -- his court, i, 150-4 -- his letters to Edward IV., i, 450-3, 456 note -- his letters to Salisbury, i, 453-6 -- letters to Siena, i, 104, 111, 112, 196 note, 201, 209, 214, 249, 250, 254; ii, 214 -- literary tastes of, ii, 111, 113 -- biographers of, i, 147 -- his patronage of letters, i, 225-30; ii, 43, 99, 107, 112 -- his campaigns celebrated in verse, i, 227 note -- memoir of, ii, 118 -- books dedicated to, i, 213, 227; ii, 112, 132 -- patron of art, ii, 201; iii, 259 -- employs Giorgio, ii, 212, 213 -- portraits of, i, 101, 284-9; ii, 208, 209, 210, 213, 268; iii, 415, 487 -- medallions of, i, 289 note; ii, 270-2 -- statue of, iii, 376, 400, 459 -- monumental inscription of, iii, 459 Federigo, Prince of Urbino, authorities for, iii, 129 note -- birth of, iii, 173-6 -- portraits of, iii, 175 and note, 176, 489 -- baptism of, iii, 176-80 -- said to have been invested with the order of the Golden Fleece, iii, 180 -- education of, iii, 189-95 -- character of, iii, 194-9, 203-7 -- betrothed to Princess Claudia, iii, 196 -- dissolute habits of, iii, 197-9, 203-7 -- marriage of, iii, 199-202 -- death of, iii, 207-10 Felice of Cagli, iii, 142 Feliciangeli, iii, 65 note -- _Sulla monacazione di Sueva Montefeltro-Sforza_, i, 48 note Feltre, Vittorino da, i, 69-71 Feltrian Legion, _see_ Italian Militia Ferdinand and Isabella of Aragon and Castile, ii, 407 Ferdinand I., i, 325 Ferdinand II., Grand Duke of Tuscany, death of, iii, 196 -- betrothed to Princess Vittoria, iii, 213, 214 -- marriage of, iii, 239 Ferdinand II., of Naples, as Duke of Calabria enters Tuscany, i, 103 -- his succession, i, 115, 116 -- retains Count Federigo, i, 115 -- unpopularity of, i, 123 -- losses of, i, 129 -- campaigns against, i, 130, 135, 141 -- entertains Piccinino, i, 183 -- his opinion of Federigo, i, 185 -- makes treaty with Medici, i, 252 -- reconciled to the Pope, i, 332 -- succession of, i, 351 -- retires to Ischia, i, 352 -- returns to Naples, i, 354 -- death of, i, 358 Ferdinand II. of Spain, i, 352, 393 -- death of, ii, 358, 364 Ferdinand II., Emperor, iii, 214 Ferdinand Francesco, Marquis of Pescara, iii, 291 Feria, Duke of, iii, 133 Fermignano, ii, 260, iii, 406, 413 -- sack of, i, 411 Fermo, Seigneury of, i, 18, 90, 379; iii, 414 -- siege of, i, 93 -- rout at, ii, 398 Ferrante, i, 342 note Ferrara, Marquisate of, i, 18, 62, 110; iii, 53 note, 281, 300, 406 -- festivities at, i, 55 -- congress at, i, 97 -- siege of, i, 167; ii, 335 -- designs of Venice on, i, 258, 302 -- league for defence of, i, 259 -- described, i, 261 -- entry into, by Lucrezia Borgia, i, 473 -- drama at, ii, 147, 152 -- advance on, ii, 331 -- bishop of, ii, 281 -- devolution of, iii, 165 -- Public Library, iii, 284 -- Tasso at, iii, 314 Ferrazzi, iii, 280 note Ferrero e Muller, iii, 292 note Ferrofino, Count Alessandro, ii, 345 Fesch Gallery, ii, 225 Feudalism, absence of, favours establishment of towns, i, 6 Ficheruolo, i, 262 -- siege of, i, 264 Ficino, Marsilio, i, 164, 227, 283; ii, 105 -- his dedication to Federigo, ii, 112 Fieramosca, Cesare, iii, 451 Fiesole, Giovanni da, ii, 161 Filarete, Francesco, i, 227 note Filelfo, Francesco, i, 50 note -- notoriety of, ii, 131 -- his _Sfortiados_, ii, 132 Filelfo, Gian Maria, i, 150 -- his _Martiados_, ii, 132, 133 -- his other works, ii, 133-6 -- his intercourse with Federigo, ii, 132, 135, 136 -- his sonnet on Bellini, ii, 135 Filiberta of Savoy, ii, 57, 359 Filippi, Vespasiano, his memoir of Duke Federigo, ii, 118 Filippini, i, 35 note Filosseno, Marcello, i, 391 -- sonnet of, i, 472 Finale, campaign of, ii, 135 Firenzuola, ii, 73 note Flamini, ii, 132 note Fleetwood, on coinage, i, xlii Florence, i, 37; ii, 62; iii, 106, 283 -- Guelphs and Ghibellines in, i, 11 -- democratic institutions of, i, 16 -- communal freedom in, i, 67 -- breaks alliance with Venice, i, 102 -- Angevine partisan, i, 124 -- factions in, after death of Cosimo de' Medici, i, 184 -- employs Federigo against Volterra, i, 209 -- origin of feuds in, i, 239 -- unfortunate position of, i, 251 -- humiliated before Sixtus IV., i, 252 -- welcomes Federigo, i, 261 -- the Medici in, i, 326; iii, 62 -- expels the Medici, i, 349, 350; iii, 43 -- in the absence of the popes, ii, 97 -- supports the French, ii, 343 -- Medici re-established in, ii, 346, 347; iii, 43 -- obtains Montefeltro, S. Leo, and Maiuola, ii, 406 -- Belle Arti, ii, 198 -- in league against Charles V., iii, 37 -- independence of, iii, 42 -- Tasso in, iii, 321 -- woollen trade of, iii, 347 -- Duomo of, iii, 359 -- majolica made at, iii, 406 -- Robbian ware of, iii, 407 Florentine school, ii, 288 Florido, Orazio, ii, 381-3 Floriszoon, _see_ Adrian VI. Foglia, the, ii, 317 Fogliani, the, i, 379 -- Seigneury of, i, 18 Fogliano, Giovanni di, in Fermo, i, 379 -- murder of, i, 412; ii, 10 Fogliano, Nicolosa, ii, 281 Fogliano, Oliverotto, i, 379 Foiano, siege of, i, 104 Foix, Gaston de, ii, 315, 344 Foix, Odet de, ii, 423 note Foligno, Republic of, i, 18, 40; ii, 199; iii, 19 note Fontana, iii, 263 -- Camillo, iii, 422 -- Flaminio, iii, 422 -- Guido, iii, 422 -- Horatio, iii, 474 -- Nicolò, iii, 422 -- Orazio, iii, 411, 422 Foppa of Brescia, ii, 203 Forana, Madonna of, ii, 196 Forano, ii, 223 Forlì, Seigneury of, i, 18, 254, 306, 307, 381, 414; ii, 337; iii, 349, 350, 406 -- siege and surprise of, i, 26 -- chronicles of, i, 37 -- defence of, i, 384 -- surrender of, ii, 35 -- reduction of, ii, 52 Forlimpopoli, i, 192 note, 406 Formoso I., i, 178 Fornari, the, ii, 59 Fornovo, battle of, i, 463, 467 Forrest, Mr., iii, 415 Foscari, Francesco, i, 68 Fossatti, Falletti, ii, 74 note Fossombrone, i, 175, 281, 312, 404; ii, 343, 395; iii, 98, 123 -- bought by Federigo, i, 23, 89, 90 -- palace of, i, 154, 174 -- built by Giorgio, ii, 213 -- sack of, by Borgia, i, 415 -- Guidobaldo I. at, ii, 80 -- bishop of, iii, 178 Fox, Richard, ii, 117 Francesca, Pietro della, i, 56 note, 447; ii, 198, 260 note; iii, 262, 347, 487 -- work ascribed to, ii, 201, 206, 209, 290 -- two manners of, ii, 202 -- patronized by Federigo, i, 218, 284, 286; ii, 201, 206 -- mathematician, ii, 202, 203 -- his MSS., ii, 203-6 -- his paintings, ii, 206-10, 236 -- and Raffaele, ii, 231 Francesco da Bozzolo, iii, 71 Francesco di Cagli, i, 435 Francesco d'Urbino, iii, 378 Francesco, Gian, ii, 272 Francesco da Piacenza, i, 112 note Francesco Maria del Monte, iii, 262 Francesco I. of Florence, iii, 360 Francesco Maria I., Duke of Urbino, i, 24, 131, 173, 283; ii, 34, 145, 215; iii, 259, 265, 281, 404 note -- reign of, i, xxxi -- victim of Leo X., i, xxxii -- martial renown of, i, xxxiii -- adoption of, i, 371, 399; ii, 36, 37, 316 -- birth of, i, 312; ii, 313 -- taken to Urbino, ii, 313 -- made prefect of Rome, i, 399; ii, 313 -- inherits Sinigaglia, ii, 300, 316 -- marriage of, ii, 89, 314, 316, 323 -- education of, ii, 314 -- retires to France, ii, 315 -- returns from France, ii, 315 -- his first campaign, ii, 316 -- his uncontrollable temper, ii, 317, 339, 441; iii, 36 -- succeeds Guidobaldo, ii, 81, 84, 318 -- made captain-general of the papal troops, ii, 323 -- visits Mantua, ii, 323 note -- his campaign in Romagna, ii, 325-9, 331-8, 343, 345 -- his difficulties with the Cardinal of Pavia, ii, 327-9, 331-9 -- goes to Rome, ii, 329, 341, 353 -- proceedings against, for murder of the cardinal, ii, 341-3, 366, 481-3 -- his difficulties with the Medici, ii, 347 -- obtains Pesaro, ii, 348-50 -- received by Leo X., ii, 354 -- Leo X. intrigues against, ii, 360-7 -- deprived of his duchy, ii, 367, 369 -- his manifesto, ii, 373-5 -- his address to his soldiers, ii, 376 -- is restored, ii, 377-80 -- challenges Lorenzo, ii, 381-3 -- details the battle of Mondolfo, ii, 388 -- masters a mutiny, ii, 393-5 -- addresses his soldiers, ii, 394 -- his expedition against Perugia, ii, 393-5 -- and foray of La Marca, ii, 395 -- marches on Tuscany, ii, 399-401 -- again deprived of his duchy, ii, 401-6 -- again returns, ii, 412-21 -- writes to Siena, ii, 414 -- goes to Rome, ii, 422 -- serves the Venetians, ii, 423-8, 431, 435 -- visits Venice, ii, 429-31; iii, 36 -- his letter to Wolsey, ii, 434 -- his _Discorsi Militari_, ii, 438, 446; iii, 53-9, 78 -- illness of, ii, 432, 443, 451 -- counsels Clement VII., iii, 5 -- dilatory march of, iii, 8, 15 and note, 18-20 -- indefensible conduct of, iii, 22 note -- desertion of his forces, iii, 34 -- justifies himself to Clement VII., iii, 34, 444-7 -- eloquence of, iii, 36, 79 -- beats Gian Andrea da Prato, iii, 36 -- repels the Duke of Brunswick, iii, 40 -- recovers Pavia, iii, 40 -- at the coronation of Charles V., iii, 43-6 -- mistaken for his son, iii, 44 -- favoured by Charles V., iii, 43-5, 69 -- much absent from his state, iii, 49 -- returns to his state, iii, 53 -- in Lombardy, iii, 58, 70 -- leaves the government of the state to his son, iii, 58 -- institutes a militia, iii, 61 -- meets Charles V. in 1532, iii, 62, 69 -- death of, iii, 71 -- burial of, iii, 72-4 -- epitaph of, iii, 73 -- statue of, iii, 74 -- character of, iii, 74-80 -- children of, iii, 80 -- patron of letters, ii, 116 -- patron of Raffaele, ii, 234 -- patron of Ariosto, iii, 284 -- patron of art, iii, 346, 349, 351 -- portraits of, iii, 346, 351, 390, 470, 479, 485 -- patron of Michael Angelo, iii, 382-4 -- patron of Titian, iii, 390 -- monument to, iii, 400-2 -- letters to, from Clement VII., iii, 427 -- inscription on, iii, 460 Francesco Maria II., Duke of Urbino, i, xi, 24, 58 -- diary of, i, 259 note -- patron of letters, ii, 118; iii, 331-3 -- birth of, iii, 101, 130 -- visits Madrid, iii, 112, 131, 132 -- his conduct at the Urbino rebellion, iii, 121 -- autobiography of, iii, 129 and note, 203 and note, 205 and note -- education of, iii, 130-4 -- his taste for painting, iii, 130 -- marriage of, iii, 134-9 -- his early love affairs, iii, 135 -- in a naval expedition against the Turks, iii, 139-41 -- accession of, iii, 142-51 -- consideration for his people, iii, 149, 150 -- plot against, iii, 150, 151 and note -- his unhappy marriage with the Duchess Lucrezia d'Este, iii, 152-5 -- receives a military commission from King Philip II., iii, 156 -- granted the prefix of "Most Serene," iii, 157 -- receives the order of the Golden Fleece, iii, 158 -- home-life of, iii, 159-63, 180 -- devices of, iii, 163 -- proposed abdication, iii, 167-9 -- second marriage of, iii, 170, 171 -- alteration in his habits, iii, 180 -- a horse breeder, iii, 180 -- institutes a Council of State, iii, 183-9 -- his instructions to his son, iii, 189-94 -- abdicates in favour of his son, iii, 203 -- resumes the government, iii, 212 -- old age and illness of, iii, 218, 224, 225 -- arranges the devolution of his state, iii, 219-23 -- religious observances of, iii, 224 -- retirement of, iii, 224 -- death of, iii, 225, 226 -- funeral of, iii, 226 -- character of, iii, 226-30 -- personal appearance of, iii, 230 -- epithets applied by him, iii, 230 -- portraits of, iii, 230, 231, 400, 483, 486 -- letters from him to his granddaughter, iii, 232-5 -- wills of, iii, 240 -- disposal of his libraries, iii, 240-3 -- pupil of Comandino, iii, 261 -- patron of Paciotti, iii, 264 -- patron of Baldi, iii, 269, 270, 273 -- patron of letters, iii, 277 -- patron of Tasso, iii, 323, 326, 327 -- patron of Zuccaro, iii, 364 -- patron of Baroccio, iii, 372, 374, 376 -- patron of arts, iii, 398, 400-2, 410 -- inscription on, iii, 461 -- collections of art of, iii, 477 Francesconi, on Aretino, iii, 290 Francia, Francesco, ii, 254; iii, 335 Francia, Padre di, ii, 299 Franciotti, Galeotto, ii, 315 Francis I., of France, ii, 57, 305; iii, 22, 34, 41, 385, 395 -- duel of, ii, 54 -- and Federigo Fregoso, ii, 60 -- succession of, ii, 362 -- his designs on Italy, ii, 362 -- takes Milan, ii, 431 -- taken prisoner, ii, 431 -- allied against Charles V., ii, 435 Francis II., of France, ii, 406 Franco, Gian Battista, iii, 100, 356, 370 -- his paintings, iii, 399, 400 -- majolica work of, iii, 423 Frangipani, the, i, 55, 331 Frankfort, iii, 162, 414 Frati, ii, 73 note Frati, L., _Federigo Duca d'Urbino_, i, 166 note Frati, _La Donna Italiana_, ii, 73 note -- _Lettere_, ii, 118 note Fratini, P.G., _Storia della Basilica di S. Francesco in Assisi_, i, 35 note Frederick II. invests Buonconte, i, 25 Frederick III., i, 190 -- coronation of, i, 103 Frederick III., of Saxony, iii, 487 Frederick Barbarossa creates counts of Montefeltro, i, 24, 25 Freducci, Ludovico, ii, 398 Fregoso, Agostino, i, 291; ii, 58 Fregoso, Aurelio, iii, 110 Fregoso, Costanza, ii, 58, 72 Fregoso, Federigo, i, 291; ii, 83, 324 -- at Urbino, ii, 58, 60, 78 -- Archbishop of Salerno and Gubbio, ii, 60 -- on the death of Guidobaldo, ii, 126, 127 -- buries Francesco Maria I., iii, 73 Fregoso, Margherita, ii, 58, 72 Fregoso, Ottaviano, i, 172, 291, 420; ii, 81, 438; iii, 78 -- defends S. Leo, ii, 14, 24, 25, 59 -- at Urbino, ii, 37, 49, 58, 77 -- given Sta. Agata, ii, 59 -- Doge of Genoa, ii, 59 -- anecdotes of, ii, 48 French invasion of Italy, i, 341-55 Frisio, Niccolò, ii, 71 Friuli, i, 256; ii, 321; iii, 58, 358 Frizzi, ii, 118 note Frosinone, ii, 448 Fründesberg, Georg v., ii, 445-51; iii, 9 Fucci, Ercole, iii, 310 note Fucci, Maddolò, iii, 310 note Fucecchio, i, 423 Fuentes, iii, 132 Fumi, L., _Guidantonio e la Città di Castello_, i, 45 note Furlo, pass of, iii, 281 Furlo, Pietra Pertusa, ii, 185 note Fuseli, ii, 460 -- quoted, iii, 336 -- on Michael Angelo, iii, 385 Gabicce, iii, 421 Gabiccie, Count delle, iii, 212 Gabrielli, the, supplanted in Gubbio, i, 22, 37; ii, 232 Gabrielli, Count Carlo, ii, 377; iii, 78 Gaddi, Angelo, ii, 200 Gaeta, ii, 448; iii, 12 Gaetani, house of, i, 28, 331 Gaetani, Cardinal, i, 28 Gaetano, Luigi, iii, 400 Gaetani, Scipione, iii, 488 Gagliardino, Bernardo, iii, 472 Gaifa, iii, 413 Galeato, i, 406 Galileo, iii, 256 -- visits Pesaro, iii, 164 Galler, Calber, iii, 143 Galli, Angelo, iii, 297 -- verse of, ii, 143, 144 Galli, Antonio de, iii, 90, 130, 297 -- at Urbino, iii, 294 Galli, Gallo, i, 168 -- on Oddantonio Montefeltro, i, 52 -- on the cost of palace of Urbino, i, 170 Gallia Senonia, i, 4 Galuzzi, iii, 207 Gambara, Veronica, ii, 65 -- culture of, ii, 128 Gambino, commended to Federigo, i, 228 Gandia, Duke of, i, 320 Gara, Gabriele, ii, 281 Gardner, Mr. E.G., _Dukes and Poets at Ferrara_, i, 269 note, 299 note; iii, 280 note Gardutia, iii, 413 Garfagna, granted to Ariosto, iii, 284 Garigliano, the, ii, 365 -- rout of, i, 351 Garter, Order of the, i, 223 Gaspari, ii, 62 note -- on fortresses, ii, 213 note Gathe, Marcial de, i, 312 Gatta, della, ii, 288 Gatti, Alessandro, iii, 423 Gatti, Giovanni, iii, 423 Gatti, Luzio, iii, 423 Gatti, Tiseo, iii, 423 Gattinara and the capitulation of Rome, iii, 23 Gattinara, Mercurino da, letter of, iii, 433 Gaudenzi, iii, 311 note Gauthiez, _L'Aretin_, iii, 287 note Gaye, _Carteggio d'Artisti_, i, 156 note, 157 note, 338, 347 note, 350; ii, 23 note, 162 note, 163 note, 170 note, 192 note, 265; iii, 360, 376, 383 note, 385, 388 note, 401 note, 404 note, 410 note -- on Giorgio, ii, 212 Gazzuolo, ii, 451 Gem, expelled by his brother, ii, 293 -- his pension seized, ii, 294 -- at Rome, ii, 294, 297 -- his death, ii, 297 Genga, Bartolomeo della, military engineer, iii, 352, 353 Genga, Cardinal della, iii, 108 Genga, Girolamo della, i, 171 note; ii, 148, 261, 324, 463 note; iii, 77, 101, 108 note, 263, 369, 370, 399 -- builds the Villa Casartole, iii, 50 -- early friends of, iii, 347 -- his _Resurrection_, iii, 348 -- patronised by Dukes of Urbino, iii, 348-52 Genga, Nicolò della, iii, 369 Genga, Simone, iii, 353 Genoa, i, 123, 190, 348; ii, 315, 331 -- Angevine defeat at, i, 135 -- under Ludovico Sforza, i, 341 -- sack of, ii, 59 -- revolution of, iii, 41 -- Doge of, iii, 299 Gentile, Bartolomeo di, ii, 265 note Gentile, Francesco di, da Fabriano, i, 436; ii, 211 note, 217, 266 -- style of, ii, 191, 198 -- influenced by Fra Angelico, ii, 194, 197 -- his works, ii, 196, 198, 200 -- in Rome, ii, 288 Gerard, M. Auguste, ii, 95 note Gerbe, ii, 402 Gerini, ii, 44 note Gerolimini convent, iii, 158 Gessi, Berlinghieri, Bishop of Rimini, Governor of Urbino, iii, 222 Gherardino da Cevi, iii, 78 Gherlasco, ii, 426 Ghetto, the, iii, 17 Ghiaradadda, the, ii, 328 Ghibellines, origin of, i, 5 -- under Count Guido, i, 26 -- feudatories adhere to the, i, 11 Ghirlandaio, Domenico, ii, 229; iii, 335, 487 -- in Rome, ii, 288 Ghirlandaio, Ridolfo, ii, 229, 235 Ghislieri, iii, 343 Giacobatio, Fra, iii, 437 Giacomo, Maestro, i, 161 note, 163 Giacomo della Marca, Fra, ii, 299; iii, 135 Giacomo di San Severino, at Urbino, ii, 200 Gianandrea, A., _Della Signoria di F. Sforza_, i, 90 note -- _Canti Popolari_, iii, 280 note Giannona, ii, 281 Giberti, ii, 441 note Gigli, Sylvester, _see_ (Bishop of) Worcester Ginestreto, ii, 388, 390 Ginguené, ii, 152 Ginori, iii, 414 Gioliti, iii, 276 note Giolito, press of, iii, 304 Giordani, the, iii, 341 Giordani, Camillo, iii, 136 Giordani, Count Giulio, iii, 212 Giorgi, Alessandro, Greek translator, iii, 259 Giorgi, Dr. Marino, i, 361; ii, 384 note Giorgio, a lute-player, i, 152 Giorgio, Francesco di, i, 150, 171, 174, 229, 339 note; ii, 265, 272, 365; iii, 260 note -- not the architect of the ducal palace, i, 155, 158 -- describes the stable-range, i, 169 -- his paintings, ii, 211 -- his works as architect, ii, 212, 213 -- his MSS., ii, 215 -- on Duke Federigo, i, 270 -- military engineer, iii, 259 Giorgione, ii, 460; iii, 335, 482 Giornico, i, 337 note Giotto, ii, 174 -- at Assisi, ii, 180 -- style of, ii, 185, 186 -- his work in Urbino, ii, 200 -- in Rome, ii, 288 _Giovanni della Casa_, i, xxxvii Giovanni da Forlì, ii, 13 Giovanni, Gaston, Grand Duke of Tuscany, iii, 239 Giovanni da Ravenna, i, 69 Giovanni di Sassoferrato, i, 84 Giovanni da Udine, iii, 370 Giovanni d'Urbino, iii, 378, 437, 441 Giovio, opinions of, i, 96; ii, 29; iii, 71 -- details of, i, 443 -- on Vergilio, ii, 117 -- on the Calandra, ii, 148 -- satire of, ii, 342 -- invents device, ii, 422 -- on Borgia, ii, 459 Giraldi, Annibale, ii, 378 Giraldi, Benedetto, ii, 376, 378, 379, 447; iii, 78 Giraldi, Tranquillo, ii, 369 -- on Francesco Maria I., ii, 339, 348 note, 366, 409 -- describes the taking of Urbino, ii, 378 Girona, Donna Madalena, iii, 135 Giulia Bella, i, xi, 345, 367 Giulia, Duchess of Urbino, marriage of, iii, 65-8 -- death of, iii, 98 -- funeral of, iii, 99 -- a letter from her to her steward, iii, 99 Giulio da Cagli, ii, 468 Giulio of Urbino, iii, 422 Giunta, iii, 183 Giustiniani, _Dispacci_, ii, 316 note Giusto, diary of, i, 350 Glasgow College, i, xiv Glassford, James, i, xxxvii note -- translations of, iii, 293, 316, 319, 321, 389, 390 Goito, ii, 370, 409 Golden Fleece, Order of the, bestowed on Guidobaldo II., iii, 111 and note -- bestowed on Francesco Maria II., iii, 158 -- bestowed on the Marquis of Pescara, iii, 180 -- said to have been bestowed on Prince Federigo, iii, 180 Golden Rose, the, i, 221 note Goletta, iii, 421 Gonfaloniere, significance of the, i, 179 note Gonsalvo di Cordova, i, 338, 354, 394 -- receives Borgia, ii, 29, 30 -- receives the Golden Rose, ii, 303 Gonzaga, the, i, 253 Gonzaga, Alessandro, Lord of Castiglione, i, 48 Gonzaga, Cardinal, i, 220 -- at Pesaro, ii, 349 Gonzaga, Cecilia, i, 58 note -- accomplishments of, i, 70 Gonzaga, Cesare, ii, 49; iii, 78 -- at Urbino, ii, 58, 77 Gonzaga, Chiara, ii, 449 Gonzaga, Costanza, ii, 72 Gonzaga, Federigo, ii, 394, 401 -- aids Francesco Maria I., ii, 372, 377 Gonzaga, Don Ferrante, patron of Baldi, iii, 268 Gonzaga, Francesco, defends Lodi, ii, 428 Gonzaga, Marquis Gian Francesco, i, 69 Gonzaga, Giovanni, ii, 420 Gonzaga, Isabella, i, 311 Gonzaga, Lauri di, i, 473, 476 Gonzaga, Leonora, ii, 316; _see_ Leonora, Duchess of Urbino Gonzaga, Ludovico, ii, 265 -- challenged by Gian Giacomo Leonardi, iii, 71 -- letter from him to the Duke Guidobaldo II., iii, 120, 121 Gonzaga, Luigi, suspected of poisoning Francesco Maria I., iii, 71 Gonzaga, Madalena, i, 311 Gonzaga, Margherita, ii, 72 Gonzaga, Ugolino, i, 39 Gordon, _Life of Alexander VI._, ii, 460 Gozzi's Chronicle, iii, 72, 151, 228 Gozzoli, Benozzo, at Assisi, ii, 180 Gradara, i, 23, 144; iii, 351, 407 -- sack of, ii, 377 Gradenigo, Gianpaolo, i, 422 Gradio, Stefano, i, 169; iii, 245 Grafegnana, i, 424 Granarnolo, reduced, ii, 328 Granson, i, 337 Granville, the Right Hon. Thomas, iii, 12 note Grassis, Paris de, ii, 339 note, 340, 411 note Gratio, Padre, ii, 5 note Gratz, iii, 353 Gravina, Duke of, ii, 3, 11 Graziani, i, 54 note Graziano, Fra, on Giovanni della Rovere, ii, 291, 292 Grecian philosophies, ii, 105 Greek fathers, i, 230 Gregorian Kalendar, iii, 263 Gregorovius, _Lucrezia Borgia_, i, 319 note, 344 note, 396 note; ii, 19 note -- _Geschichte der Stadt Rom_, ii, 19 note -- turned out of the Vatican Library, iii, 248 note Gregory XII., i, 95 -- supported by Guidantonio, i, 42 Gregory XIII., iii, 81, 114, 141, 157, 360 -- patron of art, iii, 366 Gregory XIV., iii, 164 Gregory XV., death of, iii, 212 Gregory XVI., iii, 175 note Grifone, Matteo, i, 79 Grimani, Cardinal, ii, 367 -- palace, iii, 358 Grisons, the, ii, 396 Gritti, ii, 412 Gronau, iii, 479 note -- _Titian_, iii, 390 note, 392 note Grossi, ii, 264; iii, 120 -- Italian patriotism of, ii, 108 -- on Vergilio, ii, 116 -- _Uomini Illustri di Urbino_, iii, 261 note -- on Baldi, iii, 272 Grottoferrata, i, 224, 451; ii, 302 Gruner, Mr. Lewis, i, xliv; ii, 230 Gualandi, ii, 214 note; iii, 386 note Guarimone, Cristofero, iii, 135 Guarino of Verona, i, 69; ii, 113; iii, 298, 310, 331 Guarini, Battista, patronised by Francesco Maria II., iii, 331-4 Guastalla, Abbot of, i, 149 -- history of, iii, 269 -- Lord of, iii, 268 Guasti, _Lettere_, ii, 73 note Guasto, Marquis of, iii, 125 Guazzo, Steffano, ii, 54 Gubbio, i, 93, 175, 397, 403; ii, 361, 402, 422 -- coinage of, i, xlii -- Counts and Dukes in, authorities for, i, 22 note -- Montefeltri gain, i, 22, 37 -- palace of, i, 154 -- -- described, i, 171-3 -- court of, i, 206 -- birth of Guidobaldo I. at, i, 296 -- Guidobaldo I. at, i, 362 -- Castiglione at, ii, 52 -- bishops of, ii, 60, 65 -- school of, ii, 188, 189 -- seized by Baglioni, ii, 368 -- returns to Francesco Maria I., ii, 377 -- Vittoria Farnese at, iii, 101 -- Prince Federigo at, iii, 195 -- copper mines of, iii, 229 -- tables of, iii, 268 -- painters of, iii, 380 -- majolica of, iii, 406, 414, 422 Gueldres, Duke of, ii, 321 Guelphs, origin of, i, 5 -- republics adhere to the, i, 11 Guerriero, i, 21, 37, 71 note, 205 note Guerrini, _Elogio_, ii, 138 note Guicciardini, Francesco, i, 339; ii, 29, 331; iii, 8 note, 20 and note, 221 -- unreliability of, i, xxxii -- on Alexander VI., i, 318 -- on Italy, i, 321 -- on the French invasion, i, 346 -- on the battle of the Taro, i, 354, 466 -- on Becci, iii, 114 -- on Francesco Maria I., ii, 335, 337 note, 346, 348 note, 366 note -- on the battle of Ravenna, ii, 344 note -- on Francesco Maria I., ii, 400, 425 note, 435, 436, 452, 454; iii, 75, 76 -- career of, ii, 436, 442 -- commands against Charles V., ii, 436-9, 445 -- insulted by Francesco Maria I., ii, 441 -- _Il Sacco di Roma_, iii, 8 note, 20 and note -- on Clement VII., iii, 66 -- galleys preferable to, iii, 257 Guidantonio, Count of Urbino, conquers Castel Durante, i, 23 -- his letter to Siena, i, 38 -- made seigneur of Assisi, i, 42 -- wars against Braccio di Montone, i, 43, 44 -- is made grand constable of Naples, i, 43 -- and vice-general of Romagna, i, 43 -- and Duke of Spoleto, i, 44 -- receives the Golden Rose, i, 45 -- second marriage of, i, 45 -- seizes Castel Durante, i, 46 -- honoured by Florence, i, 45, 46 -- checks in prosperity, i, 46 -- knighted by Sigismund, i, 47, 71 -- piety of, i, 47 -- death of, i, 47 -- character of, i, 47 -- children of, i, 47-9 -- begins library at Urbino, i, 47 note -- patron of letters, ii, 109-11 -- epitaph of, iii, 458 Guido the elder, Count of Urbino, i, 26-35 -- Ghibelline policy of, i, 26 -- conquers Romagna, i, 26 -- senator of Rome, i, 26 -- stratagem at Forlì, i, 26 -- seigneur of Lucca, i, 27 -- excommunicated, i, 28 note -- becomes a Franciscan monk, i, 28, 33 -- his treacherous advice to Boniface VIII., i, 30 -- -- narrated by Dante, i, 30-2 -- -- doubts as to this story, i, 132 -- authorities for life of, i, 32 note -- death and character of, i, 34 Guidobaldo I., Duke of Urbino, i, 24, 253, 289 -- reign of, i, xxxi -- ward of Ottaviano, i, 51 note -- estates devolving on, i, 51 note -- his rules for the library, i, 167 -- completes the palace of Gubbio, i, 172 -- succession of, i, 295, 299, 300 -- authorities for life of, i, 295 note -- birth of, i, 296 -- confirmation of, i, 296 -- his early promise, i, 296-9 -- his first condotta, i, 300 -- in the service of Naples, i, 303 -- -- of the Pope, i, 305 -- his court, i, 309-11, 313 -- his marriage, i, 311 -- impotency of, i, 51 note, 312, 409 -- his gout, i, 344, 370, 377, 378, 417, 419, 421, 424; ii, 28, 32, 38, 42, 78, 79 -- sent against the Orsini, i, 344, 348, 355, 358 -- engaged by Florence, i, 356, 357 -- taken prisoner, i, 360-62 -- goes against Perugia, i, 369 -- engaged against Pisa, i, 370 -- at Bibbiena, i, 370 -- adopts his nephew, i, 371; ii, 36-38, 313, 316 -- visits Venice, i, 377 -- his dominion, i, 380 -- visits Rome, i, 399 -- his first flight from Urbino, i, 401-8 -- at Mantua, i, 408, 422 -- his return, i, 416 -- he again retires, i, 420-4; ii, 300 -- received at Venice, i, 422 -- at Mantua, ii, 14 -- is restored, ii, 23, 231 -- engaged by Venice, ii, 24 -- his difficulties when engaged by Venice, ii, 28, 32 -- his interview with Borgia, ii, 29, 33 -- goes to Rome, ii, 32, 38 -- engaged by Julius, ii, 34, 36 -- made Knight of the Garter, ii, 34, 233, 462-70 -- his domestic life, ii, 35, 43 -- anecdotes of, ii, 47 -- death of, ii, 80-2, 318 -- funeral of, ii, 84-6 -- character of, ii, 86-8 -- patron of Paolo Cortesio, ii, 87 -- patron of Raffaele, ii, 227, 232 -- patron of art, ii, 265; iii, 259, 348, 351 -- portraits of, i, 288; ii, 208, 209, 210, 233, 265; iii, 487 -- patron of letters, ii, 43, 87, 107, 116, 119, 138, 204, 205 -- monumental inscription on, iii, 459 Guidobaldo II., i, xxxi, 159, 161, 284; ii, 112, 357; iii, 265, 289, 352 -- his villa, ii, 33 -- birth of, ii, 360; iii, 87 -- proposed marriage of, ii, 415 -- goes to Venice with his mother, iii, 35 -- left in charge of the state of Urbino, iii, 58 -- marriage of, iii, 65-8 -- gives Monte l'Abbate to Leonardi, iii, 72 -- childhood of, iii, 87, 88 -- his love of horses, iii, 88 -- his claim to the sovereignty of Camerino, iii, 89 -- ceremonial of his succession, iii, 89-92 -- surrenders his rights in Camerino, iii, 92 -- strengthens his position, iii, 93 -- invested by the Doge of Venice as governor of the Republican forces, iii, 97, 98 -- goes to Rome to congratulate Pope Julius III., iii, 102 -- governor of Fano, iii, 102 -- named captain-general of the Church, iii, 104 -- enters the Spanish service, iii, 111 -- invested with the Order of the Golden Fleece, iii, 111 and note -- prepares a discourse on the war against the Turk, iii, 113 -- his great expenses, iii, 113 and note -- visits King Henry III. of France, iii, 122 -- death of, iii, 121 -- funeral of, iii, 121 -- character of, iii, 122-5 -- children of, iii, 125 -- patron of letters, ii, 215; iii, 295, 297 -- employed by Venice, iii, 260 -- patron of Federigo Comandino, iii, 260 -- patron of arts, iii, 356, 358, 398, 399, 404 note, 408, 410, 420, 422, 423, 472 -- portraits of, iii, 356, 479, 484, 485 -- patron of Muzio, iii, 275 -- patron of Tasso, iii, 302-5, 314 -- patron of Titian, iii, 391 note, 393-7 -- portraits of, iii, 392 note, 393, 398 -- inscription on, iii, 460 Guidobaldo del Monte, Marquis, iii, 261 -- devoted to abstruse studies, iii, 262 Guilds, Florentine, i, 16 Guilds, Sienese, i, 16 Guise, Duc de, ii, 401; iii, 110 Guiscard, Robert, i, 323; iii, 31 Guiscard, Roger, i, 323 Guizot, on Italian republics, i, 8 Gunnery, art of, i, 248 Gurk, Cardinal, ii, 296 Guzzoni, Boccalino, i, 306 Hague Museum, iii, 409 Hall, ii, 465, 468 Hallam, Henry, iii, 272 Hamilton Place, ii, 159 Harleian MSS., iii, 88 note Haro, Don Diego Lopez de, i, 342 note Hawkwoods, the, i, 333 Heidenheimer, ii, 294 note Henry II., of France, ii, 406; iii, 62, 103, 110, 263 -- assists the Duke of Parma, iii, 103 Henry III., of France, ii, 406; iii, 122 Henry IV., of France, iii, 182 Henry VII., of England, ii, 117, 233 -- invests Guidobaldo I. with the Garter, ii, 462-70 Henry VIII., ii, 116, 355, 372, 404, 423 -- letters to, ii, 55, 121, 392, 435 note -- allied against Charles V., ii, 435 -- proposes the marriage of Princess Mary with the Duke Guidobaldo II., iii, 89 note Henry, Prince, son of Francis I., marriage of, iii, 62 Henry of Cologne, ii, 114 Hepburn, Sir Thomas, iii, 416 Herrera, Commendatore, iii, 449 Heywood, William, i, 313 note; ii, 74 note, 153 note -- _Palio and Ponte_, i, 56 note -- _An Unknown Corner of Tuscany_, iii, 109 note Hill, Mr. G.F., i, xi, xii -- _Pisanello_, ii, 269 note Hindoo art, ii, 175 Hogarth, ideas of, ii, 171 Hohenstaufen, the, i, 323, 341 Holbein, iii, 487 Hollinshed, ii, 465 Holroyd, _Michael Angelo_, ii, 115 note Honig, Rodolfo, _Conte Guido di Montefeltro_, i, 32 note Honorius III., invests the Montefeltri, i, 24 -- invests Bonconte, i, 26 Horace, quoted, i, 175 note Hustan, Peter, iii, 18 Hussites, persecution of the, i, 96 Hutton, Edward, _Sigismondo Malatesta_, i, 10 note, 17 note, 43 note, 72 note, 75 note, 114 note, 128 note, 192 note, 335 note; ii, 203 note; iii, 63 note -- _Cities of Umbria_, ii, 205 note -- _An Unknown Corner of Tuscany_, iii, 109 note Il Cerretani, iii, 488 Il Lasca, i, 313 note Illegitimacy no disgrace, i, 63 Imola, Seigneury of, i, 18, 47, 306, 381; ii, 453 -- bought by Sforza, i, 196 -- purchased by Sixtus IV., i, 225 -- surrendered, i, 238 -- Borgia at, i, 391, 416 -- transferred to Riario, ii, 284 Imperial Casino, iii, 49-51, 107, 158 Imperiale Villa, built by Genga, iii, 349 Incisa, ii, 455 Indulgences belonging to a Corona, iii, 456 Infessura, on Sixtus IV., ii, 287, 290 -- on Julius II., ii, 301 Innocent II., i, 323 Innocent III., ii, 287 Innocent VIII., i, 115, 263; ii, 293, 301, 419 -- succession of, i, 304 -- policy of, i, 304, 314 -- death of, i, 314, 326 Inquisition re-established, iii, 96 and note -- established in Gubbio, iii, 245 Inspruck, i, 337 Ireland, _Hogarth Illustrated_, ii, 171 note Iron crown of Lombardy, iii, 42, 46 Irving, Mr., i, xiv Isaacs, Mr. S., iii, 409 Isabella of Mantua, ii, 148 Isabella of Naples, i, 130, 325 Ischia, i, 141; iii, 291 note -- Ferdinand III. at, i, 352 Isola di Fano, i, 404 Isola di Farnese, iii, 21 Isola Forsara, i, 297 Isola, iii, 434 -- siege of, i, 359 Isonzo, i, 256 Italian art, its golden age, i, xxxi; iii, 335-9 -- its continuity, ii, 95 note; iii, 336 note -- definition of, ii, 157 -- observations on, ii, 157-66 -- its modifications in the fifteenth century, ii, 166-83 -- rise of, ii, 157-66 -- classicism in, ii, 168-70; iii, 344 -- decline of, iii, 335, 339-45 -- schools of, _see_ Bolognese, Sienese, Umbrian Italian ballet, origin of, i, 483 note -- origin of, ii, 150, 152 Italian coinage, i, xli-xliii; iii, 114 note Italian drama, ii, 147 Italian language, copious, iii, 254, 258, 278; style in letter writing, i, 105 note Italian literature, its golden age, ii, 93-5 -- its revival, ii, 98-101 -- its tendencies, ii, 101-7 -- poetry, ii, 130-47 -- decline of golden age, iii, 253 -- Spanish influence on, iii, 253-55 -- indirect influence of Reformation on, iii, 257 -- absence of ballad poetry, iii, 279, 280 -- the _rispetto_, iii, 280 note -- pastoral dramas introduced, iii, 297 Italian manners, Spanish domination, fatal to, iii, 254 Italian militia, iii, 61, 94 Italian morals, corruption of, ii, 153-6 Italian nationality, i, 17, 19; iii, 60 Italian portrait medallions, ii, 268-73 Italian progress, 1825-46, i, xxxiv Italian republics, rise of, i, 6, 7 -- nature of freedom in, i, 8, 15-21 -- political power in, i, 10, 12 -- civilization indebted to, i, 11, 22 -- military power in, i, 13 -- social relations in, i, 13 -- more correctly communes, i, 15 -- list of, in Central Italy, i, 18 -- material advantages of, i, 18 Italian states in 1430, i, 66-8 -- in Central Italy, their condition in 15th century, i, 87, 88 -- after peace of Lodi, i, 182 -- in the absence of the popes, ii, 96, 97 Italian topographers, their absurdity, i, 4 Italian towns, their origin and independence, i, 6, 7; _see_ Italian republics Italian unity, i, xxxvi; ii, 304, 433 note -- how far practicable, i, 19 -- urged by Nicholas V., i, 107 Italian women, their social position in 16th century, ii, 72-5 -- authorities for, ii, 72 note -- their culture, ii, 128, 129 Italy, modern, horrors of, i, 241 -- the battleground of Europe, i, 321 -- ill prepared for French invasion, i, 341 Ivano, i, 211 note James III. of Scotland, ii, 115 James IV. of Scotland, ii, 118 Jameson, Mrs., i, xxxix note; iii, 481 Jean, King of Navarre, i, 123, 376 Jean, Count of Boulogne, ii, 405 Jeanne of Valois, i, 373 Jenkins, Mr. H.G., i, xii Jerome, Abbot, i, 229 note Jerrold, Miss Maud, iii, 291 note Jesi, i, 90 -- Braccio, vicar of, i, 45 -- sack of, ii, 395 -- siege of, i, 93 Jews attacked on the birth of Prince Federigo, iii, 174 Joanna of Austria, iii, 358 Joanna I. of Naples, i, 323 Joanna II., i, 68, 81, 324 _John Inglesant_, i, viii John of Austria, Don, iii, 132, 139-41 -- Armada of, iii, 452-5 John of Bologna, iii, 400 John I. of Saxony, iii, 487 John II. of Anjou, i, 323 John XXII., i, 43 John XXIII., deposed, i, 45 Johnson, Dr., defines a cubit, i, 189 note Joly, ii, 44 note Jovius, ii, 327 Julius II., i, 24, 449; ii, 20, 48, 60, 126, 227; iii, 353, 435 -- portrait of, ii, 51 note, 234; iii, 395, 478 -- statue of, ii, 41 note, 42, 244, 338 -- election of, ii, 26, 27, 303 -- policy of, ii, 28, 304-6, 308, 323, 330, 347, 433 note -- favours Guidobaldo I., ii, 32, 38, 39 -- his treatment of Borgia, ii, 27-9 -- charged with nepotism, ii, 36 -- his expedition against Perugia, ii, 39 -- visits Urbino, ii, 39, 40, 42, 77, 231 -- his expedition against Bologna, ii, 39-42 -- employs Bramante, ii, 235, 259, 262-4 -- employs Raffaele, ii, 236-9 -- death of, ii, 239, 350 -- tomb of, ii, 243; 381-6 -- natural children of, ii, 281 -- character of, ii, 301, 302, 304 -- favoured by Sixtus IV., ii, 301 -- persecuted by the Borgia, ii, 301-3 -- patron of art, ii, 306; iii, 345 -- his improvements in Rome, ii, 306 -- his designs on Romagna, ii, 321, 325-30 -- his partiality for the Cardinal of Pavia, ii, 327, 330, 332, 339, 340, 481-3 -- takes the field, ii, 331-5 -- reconciled to Francesco Maria, ii, 343, 347 -- suspects him of treason, ii, 344 -- invests Francesco Maria with Pesaro, ii, 348-50 -- employs Ariosto, iii, 281 Julius III., nominates Guidobaldo II. governor of Fano, iii, 102 -- names Guidobaldo II. captain-general of the Church, iii, 104 -- death of, iii, 104 -- employs Paciotti, iii, 263 Justus of Alemania, ii, 267 Justus of Ghent, i, 205, 231; ii, 209 note, 218 -- at Urbino, ii, 267 Kestner, Commendatore, i, xliv; ii, 409 Kestner Museum, iii, 417 note, 420 Kirkmichael, i, xiii Knight, Mr. Gaily, _Ecclesiastical Architecture of Italy_, i, 79 note La Carda, palace of, i, 174 La Cattolica, ii, 349 La Colonella, monastery of, ii, 398 Ladislaus of Naples, i, 43 La Fratta, iii, 424 Lagno, Lucrezia del, i, 111 Lago di Guarda, ii, 409 Lago di Vico, ii, 293 L'Alemano, iii, 487 La Magione, diet of, i, 412, 413; ii, 8 La Magliana, ii, 384, 407, 411 La Marca, i, 33 -- defined, i, xl -- Church rule in, i, 5 -- Sforzan interest in, i, 80, 83 -- insecure tenure of, i, 92 -- danger of, i, 136 -- adventurers in, i, 306 Lamartine, on political progress, i, 8 Lamole, ii, 389; iii, 201 -- iron mines of, iii, 229 La Molinella, battle of, i, 187, 189 Lanci, Cornelio, iii, 295 Lancia, the, i, 335 Lancia, Baldassare, iii, 352 Landino, Cristoforo, i, 228; ii, 145 Landriano, ii, 424 Landriano, Ambrogio, iii, 78 Landriani, Francesco, iii, 131 Lanfranco, Giacomo, iii, 410, 411 Lanfranco, Girolamo, iii, 411, 421, 472 Lanfranco, Ludovico, iii, 421 Lannoy, Don Carlos de, iii, 427, 448 -- commands the allies, ii, 426 -- advances on Rome, ii, 448 -- treats with Bourbon, ii, 453 -- death of, ii, 23-5 Lansius, ii, 24 Lansquenets, the introduction of, i, 338; ii, 445-8 -- in Rome, iii, 437 Lante, Villa, ii, 240 Lanti, Marc Antonio, iii, 82 Lanz, _Correspondenz des Kaisers Carl V._, iii, 27 note Lanzani's _St. d. Communi Italiani_, i, 6 note Lanzi, ii, 184, 189, 200; iii, 350, 404 note -- on Francesca, ii, 203 -- refuted, ii, 216; iii, 377 Laocoon, ii, 306 La Pergola, i, 23, 92, 415; ii, 213, 389, 395-413; iii, 63, 123 -- given to Count Federigo, i, 119 Lapidusa, iii, 123 La Puglia, iii, 39 Lascaris, Constantine, ii, 62, 128 La Serra, i, 403 La Stellata, i, 51 note, 262, 264, 267 La Storta, ii, 420 Lateran, iii, 377 Laurana, Lorenzo, i, 171 note Lauranna, Luziano, i, 150; ii, 260 note -- architect of palace at Urbino, i, 155 -- patent in favour of, i, 156 -- death at Pesaro, i, 157 Laureani, Monsignore, i, xliii; ii, 460; iii, 176 note Laureo, Vincenzo, iii, 50 Lautrec, ii, 364, 409, 410, 412, 423; iii, 299 -- General, advances on Naples, iii, 38, 39 -- death of, iii, 39 La Vanosia, i, 320; ii, 168 note Laverna, ii, 178 Lawrence collection, the, ii, 259 Lazzaro, Maestro, i, 230 Lazzari, i, 226 -- on the palace at Urbino, i, 154 -- Italian patriotism of, ii, 108 -- on Bramante, ii, 260 -- _Uomini Illustri del Piceno_, iii, 265 -- _Dictionary of Artists_ iii, 346, 458 Lazzarini, _Memorie Storiche dei Conti di Urbino_, i, 61 note -- on cathedral of Urbino, i, 171 note Lee, Vernon, _Euphorion_, ii, 153 note Lega, Bacci della, iii, 287 note Leghorn, i, 241, 330 Legnano, i, 262 -- fortress of, iii, 55 Leicester, Robert, Earl of, iii, 361 Leini, Admiral di, iii, 131, 139 Leland, ii, 117 Lennox, Earl of, i, xiii; i, 348 Lenzuoli, Giuffredo, i, 317 Lenzuoli, Roderigo, _see_ Borgia Leo III., ii, 237 Leo IV., ii, 237 _Leo X._, i, xxxix note Leo X., i, xxxii, 327; ii, 54, 64, 239, 281, 285, 287, 436; iii, 382, 408 -- Petrucci's conspiracy against, ii, 17, 115 note, 357-62, 391 -- Castiglione at court of, ii, 53 -- patron of the drama, ii, 148 -- policy of, ii, 307-9, 392, 397, 407 -- election of, ii, 351, 353 -- character of, ii, 352 -- nepotism of, ii, 358, 364 -- intrigues against Urbino, ii, 89, 341, 360-90, 392-410; iii, 281 -- his devices to raise money, ii, 392, 404 -- supports Charles V., ii, 408 -- death of, ii, 411 -- receives Ariosto, iii, 282, 284 Leo XII., iii, 352 Leonardi, Antenore, memoirs of, iii, 21 note, 36 note Leonardi, Gian Giacomo, iii, 35, 36 note, 71, 72, 77, 79, 264, 265 -- on Francesco Maria I., ii, 441, 447, 451; iii, 79 -- challenges Gonzaga, iii, 71 -- made Count of Monte l'Abbate, iii, 72 Leonetti, _Papa Alessandra VI._, ii, 19 note Leoni, i, xxx, xxxii, 401, 449; ii, 427; iii, 68 note, 71, 76 note -- on Guicciardini, ii, 436 Leoni, Gian Battista, iii, 274 note Leonora, Duchess of Ferrara, at Rome, ii, 285 note Leonora, Duchess of Urbino, i, 267 note; ii, 232; iii, 348 -- marriage of, ii, 89, 323-5 -- portrait of, ii, 325 -- letters to, ii, 388 -- returns to Pesaro, ii, 421 -- in Venice, iii, 35 -- at the coronation of Charles V., iii, 44-6 -- builds a palace, iii, 50 -- entertains Clement VII., iii, 52 -- portrait of, iii, 52, 62, 80, 391 note, 393, 470, 479 -- character of, iii, 51-3 -- death of, iii, 80 -- children of, iii, 80 Leonora, Queen of Hungary, ii, 301 Leopardi, iii, 330 note Lepanto, battle of, iii, 330, 344, 374 Leopold of Austria, iii, 211 Lérin, Count de, ii, 30 Le Sage, iii, 287 Leyva, Antonio della, surprises Pavia, iii, 40, 45 Liguria, i, 109 Lillio, Andrea, iii, 378 Lindsay, Lord, i, xviii, xxxix note; ii, 266 L'Ingegno, Andrea, ii, 244 Lione, Suares de, ii, 381-3 Lipsius, ii, 124, 437 Lira, Nicolò de, i, 166 Lisini, _Cesare Borgia_, ii, 11 note Litta, Count, i, 55; ii, 59; iii, 123 Liverotto da Fermo, i, 412, 413 -- murdered at Sinigaglia, ii, 3, 4 Livia, Duchess of Urbino, iii, 477 -- birth of iii, 82 -- marriage of, iii, 170, 171 -- letter from her to Princess Vittoria, iii, 236 -- retirement of, iii, 239 Lloyd, Humphrey, ii, 117 Loches, Castle of, i, 385, 471 Lodi, ii, 424; iii, 77, 450 -- peace of, i, 107, 123, 182 -- capitulation of, ii, 428 -- army of the League at, ii, 435 Lomazzo, ii, 203, 265 Lombardy, defined, i, xxxix -- in 1430, i, 67 -- Iron crown of, iii, 42, 46 Francesco Maria I., in, iii, 58, 70 Lonato, Pier-Antonio, iii, 131 London, treaty of, ii, 372 Lonno, ii, 409 Loredano, Leonardo, i, 256, letter to, i, 422 Lorenzo, Fiorenzo di, ii, 199 note Lorenzo da Ceri; _see_ Renzo Loreto, ii, 335, 379; iii, 350, 360, 411 -- cathedral of, ii, 286 -- church of, iii, 353 -- drug-vases of, iii, 411 -- Madonna of, iii, 176, 418 Loretto, i, 47 -- Lady of, i, 125 Lorraine, Cardinal of, iii, 395 Lo Spagna, ii, 226 note Louis I., i, 323 Louis II., i, 324 Louis III., i, 324 Louis VIII., i, 323 Louis XI., of France, i, 324, 373 -- employs the Swiss, i, 337 Louis XII., i, 400; ii, 11, 39, 303, 314, 449 -- schemes of, ii, 330 -- ambition of, i, 371 -- succession of, i, 372 -- designs on Naples, i, 372, 375, 393 -- divorce of, i, 373 -- meets Cesare Borgia, i, 412 -- court of, i, 470 -- suggests _Il Cortegiano_, ii, 119 -- receives Francesco Maria, ii, 315 -- supports Venice, ii, 321 -- his designs on Milan, ii, 358 -- death of, ii, 360 Louis XIV., iii, 339 Louvre, the, iii, 385, 415 -- Raffaeles in the, ii, 232 Lovranna, Martini of, i, 155 Lower Italy, defined, i, xxxix Loyola, doctrines of, ii, 10 Lucano Bridge, i, 133 Lucarelli, _Memorie e Guida di Gubbio_, i, 71 note Lucas, Mr. E.V., his preference for della Francesca, ii, 210 note Lucca, i, 424; iii, 263 -- sold to Florence, i, 67 -- Bishop of, ii, 280 -- Gian-Francesco, ii, 282 Lucrezia, Princess of Aragon, i, 311 Lucrezia, Duchess of Urbino, iii, 308, 334 -- marriage of, iii, 135-9 -- separated from her husband, iii, 153-5 -- character of, iii, 154 -- death of, iii, 165 -- and Tasso, iii, 314 Ludovico, Count of Mirandola, ii, 335 note Ludovico, Maestro, i, 247 Ludovisi satyr, iii, 385 Lugo, i, 258; ii, 349, 413 Luini, iii, 335 Lumisden, Andrew, i, xvii Lunà, iii, 125 Lungo, Del, ii, 67 note, 73 note Luzio, ii, 23 note, 70 note, 84 note, 119 note; iii, 287 note -- _Vittoria Colonna_, iii, 291 note Luzio e Renier, ii, 44 note, 318 note, 324, 355 note -- _Mantova e Urbino_, iii, 51 note Luzzatto, ii, 319 note Lyon, Lord, i, xiv Lyons, i, 470; ii, 152, 303, 315 Macaulay, ii, 424 -- on coinage, i, xliii Maccione of Fossombrone, ii, 379 Macerata, i, 142; iii, 353, 354 Machiavelli, Nicolò, i, 209, 251, 267 note, 374 note, 415; ii, 27 -- plans civic militia, i, 15 -- on the battle of Anghiara, i, 77 -- _Istorie_, i, 95 note, 96 note, 106 note, 184 note -- describes Italy under Eugene IV., i, 96 -- on Colleone, i, 185 note -- on battle of La Molinella, i, 188 -- on Galeazzo Maria Sforza i, 234 -- on Alexander VI., i, 319 note -- on the _condottieri_, i, 106, 334; ii, 424, 425 note -- on Borgia, i, 390, 321 -- on the Romagna, i, 398 note -- on the massacre of Sinigaglia, ii, 4, 8 -- _Legazione al Valentino_, ii, 10 note -- on Bibbiena, ii, 67 note -- his _Principe_, ii, 120 -- comedies of, ii, 147 -- death of, iii, 38 Maciola, votive picture of, ii, 403 Madama, Villa, ii, 240 Madiai, Federico, ii, 5 note, 24 note, 37 note, 39 note, 40 note, 80 note -- _Le Marche_, i, 58 note, 63 note -- _Commentari_, i, 295 note -- his _Diario_, i, 401 note -- _Il Giornale di Paciotto_, iii, 236 note -- on Baldi, iii, 266 note Madonna in art, ii, 180-3 Madrid, Francesco Maria II. at, iii, 132-4, 136 -- Zuccaro in, iii, 361 -- Castiglione at iii, 448-51 Maggieri, Cesare, iii, 378 Magione, i, 113 Magliabechiana Library, Florence, i, xxx; iii, 155, 240, 383 note Magliano, i, 131, 217; ii, 240 Magusano, ii, 412 Mahomet II., i, 106, 256; ii, 293 Mai, Cardinal, ii, 118; iii, 269 Maitani, ii, 187 note Maitland, Mr. Fuller, ii, 232 Maiuola, i, 78, 144 -- surrender of, i, 411 -- surprised, ii, 13 -- siege of, ii, 369 -- given to Florence, ii, 406, 420 -- restored, ii, 456 Majolica, authorities for, iii, 404 -- origin of, iii, 405 -- made at Urbino, iii, 406 -- made at Pesaro, iii, 406, 408-12, 416 -- made at Gubbio, ii, 406 -- mottoes on, iii, 416, 417 -- processes of, iii, 409 -- qualities of, iii, 410 -- drug-vases of Loreto, iii, 411 -- uses of, iii, 416, 418, 474 -- artists of, iii, 413, 419-24 -- decline of, iii, 412 -- collections of, iii, 408 note, 411, 415-7, 421 -- prices of, iii, 424 -- artists in, petition Guidobaldo II., iii, 472 Malalbergo, i, 473 Malatesta, the, i, 333 -- plural form, Florentine, i, 71 note -- arms of, i, 71 note, 76 note -- legitimation of the, i, 10 -- sway of, i, 17 -- seigneuries of, i, 18, 75 -- fief of, i, 75 -- their devolution to the Holy See, i, 179, 195 -- medallions of, ii, 99 Malatesta, Antonia, i, 75 note Malatesta, Carlo, i, 380, 388 -- legitimises his brother's children, i, 10 note -- prisoner of di Montone, i, 43 note -- ransom of, i, 43 Malatesta degli Sonetti, i, 40, 83, 427 Malatesta, Domenico Novello, Lord of Cesena, i, 48, 75 note, 145 -- death of, i, 180 -- patron of letters, i, 140 note; ii, 100 Malatesta, Elisabetta, Lady of Camerino, i, 41, 216, 299 note -- carried off from her convent, i, 411 Malatesta, Galeazzo, Lord of Pesaro, i, 39, 83, 84 -- expelled, i, 40 -- sells Fossombrone, i, 23, 90 -- sells Pesaro, i, 40, 89 Malatesta, Galeotto, Lord of Rimini, i, 45 -- legitimised, i, 10 note, 75 note, 290 -- captive of Braccio, i, 43 note -- patrimony of, i, 83 Malatesta, Ginevra, iii, 298 Malatesta, Giovanni, i, 140 Malatesta, Isotta, i, 71 note, 77, 191, 192 note -- resists Paul II., i, 195 -- death of, i, 192 note, i, 196 note Malatesta, Pandolfo, ii, 420 Malatesta, Rainiero, i, 71, note Malatesta, Rengarda, i, 45 Malatesta, Roberto, i, 137, 299 note; iii, 410 -- gains influence at Naples, i, 111 -- surrenders Fano, i, 143 -- seizes Cesena, i, 180 -- supposed murderer of Isotta, i, 192 note, 196 note -- marriage of, i, 194 note, 203 -- covets Rimini, i, 192 note, 195 -- re-establishes Malatestan sovereignty, i, 200 -- invested by Sixtus IV., i, 202 -- his title of Magnifico, i, 203 note -- deserts to the Florentines, i, 247 -- commands ecclesiastical forces, i, 260 -- death of, i, 269 -- marriage of, i, 289 -- his children, i, 380 Malatesta, Sallustio, i, 195 Malatesta, Sigismondo Pandolfo, ii, 420; iii, 408 -- legitimised, i, 10 note -- Lord of Rimini, i, 388; ii, 425 note -- arms of, i, 193 -- receives Golden Rose, i, 45 note -- corrupts Duke Oddantonio, i, 53, 89 -- knighted by Sigismund, i, 71 note -- his contest with Duke Federigo, i, 75-80, 83, 93-9 -- marriage of, i, 80 -- challenges Duke Federigo, i, 83 -- his perfidy, i, 98, 99, 100 -- his interviews with Duke Federigo, i, 99, 110, 119 -- bought over by Sforza, i, 103 -- treachery to Alfonso, i, 109 -- intrigues with Naples, i, 111 -- humbled by Federigo, i, 112 -- supported by Sforza, i, 114 -- reproved by Pius II., i, 117 -- seizes Mondavio, i, 131 -- burnt in effigy, i, 132 -- defeated at Cesano, i, 137 -- allied with Venice, i, 141, 142 -- loses many Rimini fiefs, i, 144 -- humiliation of, i, 145 -- his losses, i, 146 -- his campaign in the Morea, i, 194 -- death of, i, 191, 194, 195 -- character of, i, 191-4 -- patron of letters, i, 191-4; ii, 98, 99, 133 -- patron of arts, i, 17 note, 191-4; ii, 43 -- portrait of, i, 193; ii, 208 -- Dennistoun's mistakes concerning, i, 114 note, 192 note Malatesta, Violante, i, 180 Malavolti, _Historia_, i, 98 note Malcolm, Earl of Lennox, i, xiii Maldonato, ii, 380 -- treason of, ii, 393-5 Malines, treaty of, ii, 355 Malombra, the, house of, i, 424 Malpiedi, the, iii, 379 Malvasia, ii, 216; iii, 419 Mammarelli, Domenico, iii, 53 note Mammiani, Count Francesco Maria, iii, 196, 212, 214 Manara, Ricci, ii, 265 note Mancini, ii, 203 note Manerola, Teodora, ii, 281 Manfred, i, 323 Manfredi, the, i, 258 -- Faenza, Seigneury of, i, 18 Manfredi, Astorre, i, 109, 381; ii, 10 -- Lord of Faenza, deserts to Venetians, i, 186 -- strangled, i, 389 Manfredi, Guidantonio, i, 47, 53 -- marriage of, i, 74 Manfredi, Ottaviano, i, 381 Manfredi, Taddeo, i, 236 note; ii, 284 -- surrenders Imola, i, 238 Manfredonia, i, 247 Manso, iii, 312, 327 Mantegna, Andrea, i, 347; ii, 200, 217, 265 -- portrait ascribed to, i, 286 -- on Gem, ii, 297 Mantua, i, 44; ii, 409; iii, 311 -- Marquis of, i, 48, 247, 311; ii, 51; iii, 26, 304 -- congress at, i, 116, 124 -- defends Ferrara, i, 259 -- Federigo at, i, 264 -- Guidobaldo I. at, i, 406, 408 -- Marchioness of, iii, 18, 431 -- palace of, iii, 352 Manutius, Aldus, i, 449; ii, 87 Maramaldo, Cardinal, i, 42 note Marc Antonio, burin of, ii, 240; iii, 287, 409 Marcellus II., iii, 104, 260 Marchese, Padre, i, 287 Marchesini, ii, 74 note Marciana, Caterina, ii, 280 Marcolini, _St. d. Prov. di Pesaro e Urbino_, i, 54 note Marcone, iii, 442 Marcucci, ii, 292, note -- _Francesco Maria I._, ii, 313 note Maremma, the, i, 98, 103 -- campaign in, i, 103-6 Margaret of Austria, marriage of, iii, 93 -- her influence with Paul III., iii, 93 Margaretta of Bavaria, i, 311 Margaritone, style of, ii, 186 Maricourt, _Le Procès des Borgia_, ii, 19 note Mariello, ii, 44 note Marignano, ii, 439 -- battle of, ii, 363 Marino, i, 330; iii, 291 note Marini, ii, 14, 204 note -- Benedetto, iii, 380 -- _Saggio di ragioni della città di S. Leo_, i, 78 note; iii, 184 Mariotti, Signor, his _Italy_, i, xxxi, 21 note; ii, 277 note; iii, 25 note, 48 note, 253 note -- his mistakes, i, xxxi -- on republicanism, i, 20 -- on Malatesta, i, 191 Marliani, ii, 51 note, 470 Marryat, _History of Pottery and Porcelain_, iii, 404 note -- on majolica, iii, 411, 415, 416, 421, 423 Marsciano, Nardo da, i, 126 Marseilles, i, 124, 348, 373 Marso, Paola, i, 228 Martin IV., i, 26; iii, 181 Martin V., i, 40; ii, 291 -- creates countship of Castel Durante, i, 23 -- arrives in Italy, i, 44 -- his difficulties, i, 44, 45 -- death of, i, 46 -- legitimises Duke Federigo, i, 62 -- letter to, i, 428 Martinate, ii, 51 note Martinengo, ii, 425; iii, 77 Martini, Simone, ii, 185 note, 188 note; iii, 336 note Martino of Siena, i, 152; ii, 212 Maruccelli MSS., iii, 229 note, 240 note, 246 note Mary, Queen of England, iii, 303 Marza, Ventura, iii, 378 Marzio, at S. Leo, ii, 14 Masaccio, ii, 172, 187, 199, 208 -- in Rome, ii, 288 Mascherino, iii, 485 Maso di Bosco, iii, 385 Massa, i, 3; ii, 389 Massa collection, iii, 416, 417, 424 Massa Trabaria, ii, 368 -- obtained by the Montefeltri, i, 23 Massa Vaccareccia, i, 51 note Masse, ii, 27 note, 298 note -- on the papacy, i, 316 Massa Carrara, iii, 81 Massini, Domenico de', iii, 6, 431 Mastei, Antonio, i, 173 Matarazzo, _Chronicle of Perugia_, i, 369 note Matelica, iii, 68 Matilda, Countess, donations of, i, 5, 12 Mattei Palace, iii, 356 Mavorelli, Signor, iii, 424 Maximilian, Emperor, ii, 343, 407 -- organises the _lanzknechts_, i, 331 -- supports Il Moro, i, 353 -- enters Italy, ii, 321 Maximilian II., iii, 132 Mazio, _Relazione a Urbano VIII._, i, 78 note Mazzatinti, Prof. Giuseppe, i, 22 note, 35 note -- _Cronaca_, i, 23 note -- _Di alcune legge_, i, 23 note -- _Documenti_, ii, 190 note Mazzola, i, 209 Mazzoni, Giacomo, iii, 122, 135, 318 note -- his funeral oration on Guidobaldo II., iii, 122 -- _Vittoria Colonna_, iii, 291 note Mazzuchelli, i, 191 note; ii, 51 note; iii, 294 M'Crie, Dr., iii, 276 Medici, the, allies of, i, 243, 247 -- expelled from Florence, i, 349-50; iii, 43 -- scheme to re-enter Florence, i, 370, 393 -- patrons of art and letters, ii, 43, 99 -- return to Florence, ii, 347; iii, 43 -- visit Urbino, ii, 351 Medici, Alessandro de', Duke of Florence, marriage of, iii, 62 Medici, Caterina de', ii, 152, 406, 414 note, 415; iii, 34, 391 note -- marriage of, iii, 62 Medici, Clarice de', ii, 53, 365 Medici, Cosimo de', _Pater Patriæ_, i, 92 -- Ruler of Florence, i, 98 -- library of, i, 163 -- on crusade of Pius II., i, 177 -- death of, i, 184 -- adopts Platonic philosophy, ii, 105 Medici, Cosimo I. de', iii, 111, 198 Medici, Francesco Maria, Cardinal de', iii, 239 -- letters to, iii, 137-9 Medici, Giovanni de', i, 381, 384; ii, 384; iii, 76 Medici, Giovanni, _delle Bande nere_, i, 384; ii, 414, 416, 436, 438; iii, 288, 431 -- death of, ii, 446 Medici, Giovanni Gaston, iii, 239 Medici, Giuliano de', i, 238 -- murder of, i, 235 note, 240 Medici, Giuliano de', ii, 53, 127; iii, 78, 283 -- life of, ii, 56, 57 -- at Urbino, ii, 56, 57, 232, 351, 361 -- his influence with Leo X., ii, 56 -- as a poet, ii, 57 note -- portrait of, ii, 234 -- reconciled with Julius II., ii, 329 -- aspires to Naples, ii, 358-65 -- death of, ii, 365 -- monument of, iii, 389 Medici, Cardinal Giulio de', ii, 414, 416, _see_ Clement VII. Medici, Cardinal Ippolito, ii, 57 Medici, Cardinal Lorenzo de', ii, 233 Medici, Lorenzo de', the Magnificent, i, 51 note, 157, 185, 209, 262, 299; iii, 409 -- gardens of, i, 174 note -- attempted murder of, i, 235 note, 240-3 -- in favour with Sixtus IV., i, 237 -- policy of, i, 238, 251 -- excommunicated, i, 242 -- appeals to Ferdinand, i, 252 -- defends Ferrara, i, 259, 263 -- intrigues of, i, 307 -- death of, i, 326 -- tutor of, ii, 113 -- supports Platonism, iii, 34, 256 Medici, Lorenzo de', Duke of Urbino, character of, ii, 365 -- gains and loses Urbino, ii, 367-80 -- challenged by Francesco Maria I., ii, 381-3 -- shot at Mondolfo, ii, 385 -- marriage of, ii, 405 -- letter to, from Wolsey, ii, 484 -- at Urbino, iii, 283 -- monument of, iii, 389 Medici, Madalena de', i, 331 Medici, Mary de', iii, 488 Medici, Pasqualino de', ii, 57 Medici, Pietro de', i, 184, 185, 195, 201; iii, 389 -- succession of, i, 327 -- frustrates negotiations for Italian league, i, 328 -- surrenders Sarzana, i, 349 -- expelled, i, 350 Medicine, science of, in 15th century, i, 313 note Medina del Campo, ii, 30 Meldola, i, 27, 406; ii, 453 -- ceded to Roberto Malatesta, i, 180 Mellara, i, 262 Melozzo da Forlì, ii, 210, 218, 260 -- his work, ii, 290 Mende, bishop of, ii, 282 note Mercatello, Countship of, i, 18, 63; iii, 201, 400 -- obtained by the Montefeltri, i, 23 -- palace of, i, 174 -- built by Giorgio, ii, 213 -- S. Francesco, ii, 201, 208 Mercatello, Francesco di, ii, 265 note Merlini, Guido, iii, 422 Merula, Giorgio, ii, 51 note Messina, ii, 62; iii, 452 Metauro river, the, iii, 321, 413 Mez de Silva, Ruggo, iii, 133 Michelotto, Don, i, 395, 415, 418; ii, 21 -- at Sinigaglia, ii, 4, 11; iii, 63 Michiels, ii, 268 Milan, i, 37, 67 -- accepts Sforza as duke, i, 97 -- court of, i, 121 -- defends Ferrara, i, 259 -- Charles VIII. at, i, 348 -- siege of, ii, 282, 425 -- taken by Francis I., ii, 431 -- held by Sforza, ii, 435, 437-41 -- restored to the Sforza, ii, 346, 410 -- Ariosto at, iii, 281 Milesio, Maestro Benedetto, iii, 73 Militia instituted by the Duke Francesco Maria I., iii, 61, 94 Milton, John, iii, 327 Minims, order of Friars, iii, 182, 224, 225, 240, 243 Minio, despatches of, ii, 277, 384, 392, 399, 404 -- his conversation with Leo X., ii, 395-7, 400, 404 Minzocchi, Francesco, iii, 350 Mirafiori, iii, 180 Mirandola, Pico della, i, 313 note Mirandola, siege of, ii, 305, 334, 335 Modena, i, 381; ii, 362, 397; iii, 23, 37, 164 -- capture of, ii, 345 -- purchase of, ii, 359 Modula, Bishop of, on the sack of Rome, iii, 429 Mola di Gaeta, i, 330 Molinella, battle of, i, 339 Molini, ii, 408 note, 445 note -- _Documenti_, iii, 25 note Molino, Ludovico del, ii, 211 note Molmenti, ii, 73 note Molza, Monsignor, i, 446; iii, 275 Monaldin, Victoria de, i, 435 Moncada, Don Ugo de, i, 418; ii, 396, 401; iii, 27, 442, 451 -- succeeds Lannoy, iii, 25 -- intrigues with Colonna, ii, 426, 444, 453 Moncenigo, iii, 113, 464 -- on Guidobaldo I., ii, 88 -- on Francesco Maria II., iii, 135, 136 -- on Lucrezia d'Este, iii, 136 Mond, Mr. Ludwig, ii, 224 note Mondaino, i, 23, 140; ii, 292 Mondavio, i, 23, 119, 131; ii, 213, 291 -- passes to della Rovere, i, 222 Mondolfo, i, 137, 144; ii, 213, 291, 378; iii, 160, 199 -- siege of, ii, 384-7 Monopoli, i, 394 Monreale, Cardinal of, i, 345 -- Archbishop of, iii, 162 Montaigne on Tasso, iii, 326 Montalto, ii, 213 Mont'Amiata, iii, 109 note Montanari, iii, 404 note Montano, Cola, i, 234 Montano, Marco, iii, 295, 298 Monte Asdrualdo, ii, 260 Montebaroccio, ii, 211 note, 380, 388; iii, 262 -- sack of, ii, 383 Monte Bartolo, ii, 357, 388; iii, 49 Montebello, Count of, iii, 150 Monte Berticchio, iii, 182 Montecalvo, i, 418 Monte, Cardinal del, iii, 432 Monte Carlo, i, 423 Monte Carpegna, i, 160 Monte Catria, i, 160; ii, 78 Monte del Cavallo, i, 160 Montechio, iii, 80 Montecirignone, ii, 213 Monte Copiolo, i, 25, 405 Monte Corciano, iii, 180 Montefabri, Castle of, iii, 264 Montefalcone, Serafino da, i, 126 Montefeltrano, invested Count by Barbarossa, i, 25 Montefeltro, ii, 389 -- see of, ii, 314 -- given to Florence, ii, 406 -- plunder of, ii, 415 Montefeltro, Counts of, beneficent sway of the, i, 17 -- receive investiture of Urbino, i, 18, 22 -- supplant Ceccardi in Cagli, i, 22, 37 -- supplant Gabrielli in Gubbio, i, 22, 37 -- created by Barbarossa, i, 24, 25 -- arms of, i, 25 note, 76 note -- Ghibelline principles of, i, 24-6, 35 -- feuds of, i, 35 -- patrons of letters, ii, 98, 107, 109 -- patrons of art, ii, 192 Montefeltro, house of, antiquity of, i, 124 -- branches of, i, 25 Montefeltro, Agnesina di, i, 48, 289; ii, 419; iii, 291 -- marriage of, i, 222 Montefeltro, Anna, Aura, or Laura di, i, 39, 49 -- marriage of, i, 39 note Montefeltro, Antonio di, i, 61 note, 290, 355, 466; ii, 47 note, 75 -- legitimation of, i, 120 -- knighted by Ferdinand, i, 223 Montefeltro, Battista, _see_ Battista, Countess of Urbino -- _see_ Sforza Montefeltro, Battista di, her marriage, i, 39 -- marriage contract of, i, 40 note -- her accomplishments, i, 39, 122, 216; ii, 129 -- becomes a nun, i, 40 -- descent of, i, 41 -- death of, i, 90 -- sonnets of, i, 428 Montefeltro, Bernardino, i, 120, 291 Montefeltro, Bianca, Lady of Faenza, i, 47 Montefeltro, Brigida, Sueva di, unhappy marriage of, i, 48 note -- becomes a Franciscan abbess, i, 48 note -- articles taken by her into the convent, i, 433 Montefeltro, Buonconte, i, 120, 290 Montefeltro, Caterina, Princess of Salerno, i, 255 Montefeltro, Chiara, i, 290 Montefeltro, Costanza, i, 290 Montefeltro, Elisabetta, or Isabella, i, 289 -- marriage of, i, 203 Montefeltro, Gentile, i, 291; ii, 58 Montefeltro, Giovanna di, i, 222, 289; ii, 282, 291, 419 -- escapes from Sinigaglia, ii, 300 Montefeltro, Guido Ubaldo, _see_ Guidobaldo I., Duke of Urbino Montefeltro, Violante di, Lady of Cesena, i, 48, 58 note, 290 -- assumed rights of, i, 76 Montefiascone, iii, 5 Montefiore, i, 423 -- counts of, i, 51 note -- siege of, i, 140 Monte Giordano, ii, 21 Monte l'Abbate, iii, 265 Montelocco, i, 77 Monte Luce, nuns of, ii, 230 Monteluro, battle of, i, 82 Monte Mario, iii, 21 Monte Nerone, i, 160 Monterosi, iii, 34 Monte Rotondo, iii, 21 Monte Sansovino, siege of, i, 244, 246, 247 Montevarchi, iii, 9 Montevecchio, Count of, i, 404 Montferrat, Marquis of, i, 260 Monti, Pietro, ii, 71 Montjoy, Lord, i, 224 Montoni, the, i, 333 Montorio, Count of, iii, 109 Montpellier, ii, 234 Montpensier, i, 355 -- Gilbert, Count de, ii, 449 Montucla, on Comandino, iii, 262 Monzoni, ii, 123 Morat, i, 337 Morata, Olympia, iii, 125 Morea, the, i, 194 Moresca, the, ii, 49 Moresino, Alessandro, iii, 429 Morgarten, i, 337 Mori, Allegra di, i, 75 note Morici, iii, 122, note Morpurgo, ii, 73 note -- _Girolamo Muzio_, iii, 274 note Morsolin, ii, 63 note -- _Pietro Bembo_, ii, 119 note Mortara, ii, 47 Morton, Rev. John, i, 456 note Muccioli, the, iii, 90 Muglione, Luchina, children of, ii, 277-80 Mulazzano, attack on, i, 197 Munaxho, Padre Ludovico, iii, 226 Muntz, ii, 203 note, 220 note Murano, iii, 346 note Muratori, i, 211 note, 248 note, 317 note, 345 note; ii, 18, 203 note, 435; iii, 153 -- _Annali_, i, 21 note, 37 note, 54 note, 98 note -- _Life of Nicholas V._, i, 165 note -- Scriptores of, ii, 115, 133 -- on the battle of Cesano, i, 136 note -- and Filippi, ii, 119 -- on Sixtus IV., ii, 284, note -- on Francesco Maria I., ii, 413 -- computes Bourbon's army, iii, 8 -- on Clement VII., iii, 66 Murcia, kingdom of, i, 317 Murillo, iii, 406 -- piety of, ii, 163 Murray, Isabella Katherina, i, xiv, xvii Murray, James Wolfe, i, xiv, xvii Muzio, Girolamo, i, xxx, xxxii, 32 note, 134, 181 note, 185, 198, 449; iii, 139, 143-8 -- on Duke Federigo, i, 109, 140 note, 174, 226, 276; ii, 111 -- detailed history of, i, 149 -- on the Court of Urbino, i, 152 -- on battle of La Molinella, i, 188 note -- on battle of Rimini, i, 199 -- mistakes of, i, 214 note -- on the Countess Battista, i, 219 -- letter from him to Francesco Maria II., iii, 144-8 -- career of, iii, 275 -- works of, iii, 276 -- at Urbino, iii, 294 Muzio of Giustinopoli, iii, 130 Naldio, verse of, ii, 146 Naldo of Florence, i, 228 Nanni, Bernardino di, ii, 191 Naples, kingdom of, i, xl, 26; ii, 261, 302; iii, 299, 300, 321 -- in 1430, i, 68 -- Angevine claimants of, i, 102, 123, 129-41, 372 -- Charles VIII. enters, i, 352 -- conquered by Louis XII., i, 393 -- disputed succession to, i, 322-25 -- panic in, i, 351 -- recovered, i, 354 -- Lautrec's advance on, iii, 38, 39 -- siege of by the French, iii, 39 -- Francesco Maria I. visits Charles V. at, iii, 69 -- _tenebristi_ of, iii, 341 Narni, i, 131, 379; ii, 38 -- surrendered by Braccio di Montone, i, 45 Nasi, Lorenzo, ii, 299 Negri, Girolamo, ii, 445 note -- calls the papal court a barn-yard of chickens, iii, 6 Negrini, _Elogii Historici_, ii, 122 Nelli, Martino, ii, 190 Nelli, Ottaviano, ii, 190, 202 -- letter of, ii, 192 -- in Urbino, ii, 200, 202 Nelli, Tomaso, ii, 191 Nemec, _Papst Alexander VI._, ii, 19 note Nepi, dukedom of, i, 395; ii, 22, 69; iii, 21, 93 Nepotism, papal, i, 116, 222 -- restrained, iii, 97 Nevers, Duke of, iii, 120 Newbattle Abbey, ii, 47 note New College Hall, Oxford, i, xliv Nice, Council of, ii, 20 note Niceno, Cardinal, i, 205 note Nichol, _Anecdotes of Hogarth_, ii, 171 note Nicholas V., i, 62 note, 102, 177; ii, 263, 287 -- urges Italian unity, i, 107 -- career of, i, 107 -- founds Vatican library, i, 163; ii, 289 -- encourages Platonism, ii, 106 -- biography of, ii, 119 -- patron of art, ii, 202 Nicholas, friar, ii, 392 Nicolas, Harris, i, 177 note Nicolò da Cagli, i, 281 Nicolò of Fossombrone, ii, 314 Nicolò da Pesaro, iii, 369 Nigera, Abbot of, iii, 439 Nocera, iii, 406, 415 Nogarolo, Isotta, accomplishments of, ii, 128 Nottola, _Appunti sul Muzio_, iii, 274 note Novara, ii, 426 Novello, Domenico Malatesta, _see_ Malatesta Novillara, i, 23; iii, 152, 153, 220 -- given to Castiglione, ii, 53, 356, 357 Noyon, treaty of, ii, 372 Nucci, Benedetto, iii, 380 Nucci, Virgilio, iii, 380 Nuremburg, ii, 198 Nursino, Bartolo, iii, 102 Nuzio, Allegretto, i, 436; ii, 193, 195 note; iii, 275 Observantines, iii, 96 note, 182 Odasio, Ludovico, i, 152; ii, 114, 314 -- tutor of Guidobaldo I., i, 207, 297 -- funeral orations of, i, 283; ii, 86, 126 -- _I Suppositi_, iii, 162 Oddantonio, Count, i, 76 -- knighted by Sigismund, i, 47, 51, 71 -- his early promise, i, 50 -- made duke, i, 24 note, 51, 52 -- his cruelties, i, 53 -- his debaucheries, i, 53 -- murder of, i, 53, 85 -- betrothal of, i, 55, 58 note -- tomb of, i, 56; iii, 459 -- his letters to Siena, i, 56-8 -- his dislike of Federigo, i, 58 note -- portrait of, ii, 208 Oddi, the, ii, 226 -- expelled from Perugia, i, 369 Oddi, Muzio, i, 171 note -- military engineer, iii, 265 Oderigi da Gubbio, ii, 189, 191, 192 note, 254 -- Dante on, ii, 188 Odescalchi Gallery, ii, 233 Odet, i, 465 Oliva, Fabio, i, 255 Olivarez, Don, iii, 361 Oliveriana Library, i, x, xxiii, 54; ii, 462 Oliveriana MSS., i, 150 note, 427; iii, 72 note, 80 note, 112 note, 113 note, 114 note, 120, 129 note, 142, 151 note, 153, 154, 162, 176 note, 220 note, 228, 325 note, 411, 477 Olivieri, _Life of Alessandro Sforza_, i, 49 note -- Italian patriotism of, ii, 108 -- on Novillara, ii, 356 Omens of the downfall of Rome, iii, 7 Opdycke, ii, 44 note Orange, Philibert, Prince of, ii, 426; iii, 437, 439, 441 -- succeeds Bourbon in command, iii, 15, 23 -- leaves Rome, iii, 38 -- death of, iii, 43 Orange, René, Prince of, Count of Nassau, iii, 43 Orcagna, ii, 180, 230 Orciano, ii, 213; iii, 150 Orcinovo, iii, 77 Ordelaffi, the, of Forlì, i, 18, 236, 254, 381 Order of Jesus Christ, iii, 264 Orlandi, ii, 259 Orleans Gallery, ii, 233 Orleans, house of, i, 97 Orsi, Cecco, i, 307 note Orsi, Count, i, 308 Orsi, Francesco Deddi de', i, 306 Orsi, Ludovico, i, 307 note Orsini, on coinage, i, xlii Orsini, the, depredations of, i, 329-30; iii, 360 -- meet at La Magione, i, 412 -- fall of, ii, 12 -- reconciled with Colonna, ii, 354 Orsini, Alfonsina degli, ii, 366 Orsini, Angela, i, 51 note Orsini, Bartolomea, i, 359 Orsini, Camillo, ii, 408 Orsini, Cardinal, i, 220 -- is poisoned, ii, 8 Orsini, Carlo, i, 359 Orsini, Fabio, ii, 5 -- in the Campagna, ii, 11, 12 Orsini, Ferdinando, iii, 125 Orsini, Francesco, i, 152 Orsini, Fulvio, iii, 260 Orsini, Gentile Virginio, i, 331 Orsini, Gian-Giordano, i, 358; ii, 25, 281 Orsini, Gianpaolo, i, 74 Orsini, Giulio, i, 152, 267 Orsini, Monoculo, i, 367 Orsini, Napoleone, iii, 39 Orsini, Nicolò, i, 348, 421 Orsini, Paolo, i, 358, 402; iii, 125 -- at Cagli, i, 415 -- treats with Borgia, i, 418, 420 -- murder of, ii, 3, 4, 11 Orsini, Prince of Tarento, i, 130, 141 Orsini, Virginio, i, 342 -- claims the Cibò estates, i, 343 -- fights against Ferdinand, i, 357, 358 Orte, surrendered by Braccio di Montone, i, 45 Orti-Manara, ii, 70 note Ortona, iii, 93 Orvieto, ii, 395; iii, 5, 26, 433 -- surrendered by di Montone, i, 45 -- cathedral of, ii, 185, 187, 189, 190, 196, 212; iii, 347 Osimo, i, 305; ii, 196 Ostia, ii, 29, 238, 297; iii, 23, 110 -- harbour of, ii, 286 -- see of, ii, 301 -- reduction of, ii, 303 Ostiglia, iii, 304 Oswald, George, i, xiv Otho the Great, i, 78 Otranto, i, 394; iii, 141 -- taken by and from the Turks, i, 257 Otricoli, iii, 18, 19 Ottaviani, Cardinal, ii, 267 Ottley, Mr. Young, ii, 207 Ottoboniana MSS., iii, 53 note, 186 note, 189 note Overbeck, iii, 366 Ovid, quoted, ii, 15 note Owen, i, 313 note Pacieri, the, iii, 123 Pacioli, Fra Luca, ii, 203 Paciotti, Federigo, iii, 264 Paciotti, Felice, iii, 135, 263 Paciotti, Francesco, employed by Julius III., iii, 263 -- enjoys royal favour, iii, 263 Paciotti, Guidobaldo, iii, 264 Paciotti, Jacopo, iii, 262 Paciotto, Orazio, iii, 263 Padua, ii, 62, 429; iii, 275, 311, 350 -- University of, i, 69; iii, 87, 260, 267 Paganism mingled with Christianity, ii, 81 note, 105 -- in Italian art, ii, 168 Paglioni, Gian Paolo, i, 412 Palaia, i, 356 Palazzo Vecchio, Florence, iii, 385 Palestrina, i, 330 -- siege of, i, 30 Palladio, iii, 358 Pallavicini, Gaspare, ii, 71 -- at Urbino, ii, 77; iii, 78 Palliano, Duke of, i, 289 Palliotto, ii, 192 note Palliser, Mrs. iii, 418 Palma, Jacopo, the younger, iii, 398 Palma, Vecchio, iii, 480, 482 Palma, Violante, iii, 398, 481 Palmeggiani, Marco, i, 255 Palmerucci, Guido, ii, 189, 190 Palmieri, Matteo, _La Città della Vita_, ii, 158 note Palmos, iii, 131 Palotta, Archbishop, iii, 158 Paltroni, i, 129 Pampeluna, ii, 31 Pandolfi, Gian Giacomo, iii, 369 Pandolfo III., i, 380 Pandolfo IV., i, 380 Pandonio, Porcellio, his style, ii, 136 -- his _Feltria_, ii, 137 Panizzi, ii, 153 note; iii, 306 Pantheon, Rome, ii, 249; iii, 357 Panvinio, ii, 284 -- on Sixtus IV., ii, 285, 289, 297 note; iii, 109 -- on Julius II., ii, 301 Paolo, Maestro, i, 150, 231, 244 Paolo, Simon, _Diario detto di Marcello Cervino_, i, 23 note, 37 note Papacy, its condition in 1430, i, 64-6 -- state of, at the accession of Alexander VI., i, 315 -- the loss of temporal ascendancy, iii, 95 -- temporal rule of the, bad, iii, 220 note Papal court, "a barn-yard of chickens," iii, 6 Papini, iii, 280 note Parentucelli, Tommaso de', _see_ Nicholas V. Paris, ii, 405; iii, 263, 299 note -- Hotel Cluny, iii, 409 Parisani, Cardinal Ascanio, iii, 383 Parma, i, 349; ii, 362, 365; iii, 370 -- capture of, ii, 345 -- cession of, iii, 23, 24 Parma, Bernardino, ii, 4 Parmegianino, iii, 338, 355, 370 Paruta, ii, 125, 427 note, 440; iii, 41 Pascoli, on Francesca, ii, 203 Pasolini, iii, 298 note -- _Caterina Sforza_, i, 307 note Pasquino, ii, 287; iii, 222 note Passavant, i, xxxix note, 159; ii, 209 note -- on Palmerucci, ii, 190 -- on Giovanni Sanzi, ii, 216, 219 -- on Raffaele, ii, 231, 232, 249 note -- on Vite, ii, 259 Passeri, Bernardo, iii, 11 Passeri, Gianbattista, iii, 141, 169, 198, 203, 229, 473 -- on Francesco Maria II., iii, 203, 207, 229 -- on majolica, iii, 404, 407, 408, 410, 413, 415, 416, 421, 423, 424 Passignano, iii, 369 Passionei, the, iii, 90 Pastor, his History of the Popes, i, 319 note Patanazzi, Alfonso, iii, 380, 423 Patrimony of St. Peter, i, xl Paul II., ii, 106, 279, 283 -- succession of, i, 178 -- confirms Federigo in his command, i, 179 -- continues policy against the Malatesta, i, 179 -- his designs on Rimini, i, 192 note, 195 -- death of, i, 202, 205 Paul III., ii, 60, 64; iii, 295 -- election of, iii, 68 -- and the Camerino succession, iii, 68, 89, 92 -- strongly opposes the Reformation, iii, 96 -- re-establishes the Inquisition, iii, 96 and note -- opens the Council of Trent, iii, 96 -- death of, iii, 101 -- patron of art, iii, 344 -- at the Imperiale, iii, 349 -- patron of Michael Angelo, iii, 383 -- patron of Titian, iii, 393 -- portrait of, iii, 395, 485 Paul IV., iii, 343 -- election of, iii, 104 -- policy of, iii, 109 -- obstinacy of, iii, 110 Paul V., his foresight in the marriage contract of Prince Federigo, iii, 211 Paulo, Ambrogio da, i, 306 note Pavia, ii, 260, 279; iii, 414 -- battle of, ii, 431; iii, 448 -- cardinal of, _see_ Alidosio -- Certosa of, ii, 441 -- sack of, iii, 37 -- recovered by the Duke Francesco Maria I., iii, 40 -- Ariosto at, iii, 281 Pavoni, Monsignor, iii, 216, 217 Pazzi conspiracy, i, 239-43, 306; ii, 280 Pazzi, Francesco di, i, 239, 240 Pecorari, Counts of, i, 51 note Pedrada, Señor, anecdotes of, ii, 47, 48 Pelacane of Parma, i, 69 Pelissier, ii, 74 note Pellegrini, A., i, 401 note; ii, 368 note; iii, 101 note, 174 note, 195, 379 -- _Gubbio sotto i conti e Duchi d'Urbino_, i, 23 note Pelli, iii, 360 -- his list of Urbino pictures, iii, 478 Pembroke, Lord, ii, 233 Penna da Billi, i, 23, 78, 144 Penshanger Madonna, ii, 233 Pepin, donations of, i, 5 Pergolotti, Piero di, commended to Siena, ii, 110 Peroli, portraits of the, ii, 191 Perotto, Nicolò, i, 228 -- murder of, i, 411 Persia, envoys of, at Urbino, i, 204 Persius, birthplace of, i, 210 Perucchi, Ludovico, iii, 474 Perugia, i, 18, 360, 403; ii, 24; iii, 19, 38, 287, 371 -- democratic element in, i, 7 note -- feuds in, i, 43 -- Montone, Vicar of, i, 45 -- expeditions against, i, 369; ii, 304, 316 -- archives of, ii, 5 -- Borgia takes, ii, 11 -- Baglioni expelled from, ii, 39 -- Raffaele at, ii, 223, 224, 226, 230 -- siege of, ii, 395 -- Baglioni reinstated in, ii, 413 -- majolica made at, iii, 406 Perugino, Pietro, i, 447; ii, 185 note, 210, 229, 236, 258; iii, 335, 347 -- at Assisi, ii, 180 -- style of, ii, 199 -- not Raffaele's tutor, ii, 224 note, 225, 229 -- work of, ii, 236, 238 -- in Rome, ii, 288 Peruli, the, iii, 90 Peruzuolo, ii, 216 Peruzzi, Baldassare, ii, 148 Pesaro, i, 3, 18, 380; ii, 24, 388, 389, 436; iii, 265, 311, 370 -- given to della Rovere, i, 23 -- convent of Sta. Chiara at, i, 41 -- convent of Corpus Domini, i, 48 note -- siege of, i, 85; ii, 369 -- sale of, i, 89, 90 -- attacked by Sigismondo Malatesta, i, 100 -- ball at, i, 344 -- Borgia enters, i, 388 -- Monte l'Abbate, ii, 185 note -- under Galeazzo Sforza, ii, 348 -- reduction of, ii, 349 -- surrender to Francesco Maria I., ii, 413 -- court of, ii, 421; iii, 161, 163, 181 -- Venetian envoys at, ii, 421, 422 -- Palace of, iii, 108 and note, 351 -- -- art collection of, iii, 477 -- Clement VII. at, iii, 52 -- Bishop of, iii, 153 -- carnival at, iii, 162 -- Clement VIII. at, iii, 166 -- Oddi imprisoned at, iii, 265 -- Atanagi at, iii, 295 -- Tasso at, iii, 302, 313 -- fortress of, iii, 351 -- harbour of, iii, 353 -- Titian at, iii, 394 -- majolica of, iii, 406-12 Pescara, Marquis of, ii, 59; iii, 291 -- treason and death of, ii, 434 -- envoy of King Philip III., iii, 177, 180 Peschiera, iii, 36 Pestilence in Rome, iii, 24, 25 Peter's pence, ii, 115 Petrarch, ii, 102; iii, 267, 278 Petriolo, i, 247 Petrucci, Alfonso, ii, 5 -- exiled, ii, 11 -- conspires against Leo X., ii, 17, 391 Petrucci, Borghese, ii, 414 note Petrucci, Fabio, ii, 414 note Petrucci, Randolfo, i, 412, 419; ii, 414; iii, 347 Petrucci, Raffaello, ii, 414 note Philip II., King of Spain, ii, 233, 446; iii, 107, 131-3, 156, 158 -- patron of art, ii, 263, 303, 361, 372, 378, 411 Philip III., of Spain, his interest in Prince Federigo, iii, 177, 189, 196 Phillips, Mr. Claude, ii, 175 -- on Aretino, iii, 287 note Piacenza, ii, 362, 365; iii, 23, 24, 134, 380 -- capture of, ii, 345 Pian di Meleto, Count Gian of, i, 199 Pianello di Perugia, ii, 393 Piatese, Aldobrandino, i, 480 Piccinino, Giacopo, i, 110, 252 -- supports Count Federigo, i, 112 -- his ambitions, i, 114, 119 -- treachery of, i, 124 -- his extraordinary march, i, 125 -- fights at S. Fabbiano, i, 126-8 -- challenges Sforza, i, 128 note -- insults Federigo, i, 129 -- scours the Campagna, i, 130 -- ambitions of, 135 -- defeated at Troia, i, 141 -- death of, i, 183 Piccinino, Nicolò, i, 44, 72 -- defeats Guidantonio, i, 46 -- character of, i, 72 note -- succeeds Visconti, i, 73 -- his defeat at Anghiara, i, 77 -- his defeat at Monteluro, i, 82 -- death of, i, 89 Piccolomini, iii, 408 -- elected Pope, ii, 22 Picenardi, Sommi, _Trattato fra Bernarbò Visconti_, i, 37 note Picene, Legate of, ii, 301 Pichi, ii, 203 note Picolpasso, Cipriano, iii, 408, 423, 424 Pienza, ii, 11 Pierantonio, Bernardino di, ii, 265 note Pier-Luigi, Duke, assassination of, iii, 100 Pietragutola, ii, 213 Pietra Robbia, i, 25 -- given to Count Federigo, i, 119 Pietra Santa, ii, 307; iii, 382 -- surrender of, i, 349 Pietro da Napoli, ii, 71 Pietro da Pesaro, ii, 427 Pietro of Siena, i, 248 Pieve, i, 396 Pigna, iii, 310, 321 Pignattari, Bartolomeo, iii, 472 Pignotti, i, 184 note Pii, Niccolò de', ii, 47 Pinacoteca, Bologna, ii, 243 -- Urbino, i, 205 Pinchi, Giorgio, iii, 378 Pincian Hill, iii, 366 Pino, _I falsi Sospetti_, iii, 162 Pintelei, Baccio, ii, 291 Pinturicchio, i, xii, 48 note, 447; ii, 236, 258; iii, 335 -- frescoes of, ii, 168, 459 -- student of Raffaele, ii, 225 -- in Rome, ii, 288 Pio da Carpi, Emilia, i, 61 note, 290, 400; ii, 33, 46 note, 360, 367; iii, 433 -- at Urbino, ii, 75-8 -- her accomplishments, ii, 76, 129 -- portraits of, ii, 272, 273 Pio, Giberto, ii, 75 Pio, Ludovico, iii, 78 Pio, Manfredi, i, 53, 54 Pio, Marco, i, 290 Piobbico, iii, 207 Piombino, ii, 24 -- sack of, i, 393 -- Princes of, iii, 82 Piombo, Sebastian del, iii, 480, 482 Pipo the Florentine, i, 150 Pirotti, Nicolò, i, 271 Pirotti, Pirro, on Duke Federigo, i, 271 Pisa, i, 26 -- communal freedom in, i, 67 -- Ghibelline stronghold at, i, 27, 36 -- Council of, i, 42; ii, 332, 334, 340 -- mitre of, i, 239 Pisan war, the, i, 356 -- renewed, i, 370 Pisanello, i, 70; ii, 197 Pisani, Giorgio, i, 193, 377; ii, 454 Pisano, ii, 207; i, 436 Pisano, Niccolò, iii, 336 note Pistoia, iii, 299 Pitali, ii, 191 Pitti Palace, Florence, ii, 57, 231; iii, 291, 358, 391 note, 477 Pitigliano, i, 104, 421, 423 Pitigliano, Nicolò, Count of, i, 348, 371, 466; ii, 302, 321 Pius II., ii, 291 -- on Oddantonio, Duke of Urbino, i, 52, 53 -- on ceremonial for creation of dukes, i, 52 -- recognises Ferdinand II., i, 116 -- meets congress at Mantua, i, 116 -- reproves Sigismondo, i, 117 -- his brief to Count Federigo, i, 117 -- his dislike of Sigismondo, i, 117 note, 138, 180, 192 note -- his decision between Federigo and Sigismondo, i, 119, 145 -- his arrangement with Federigo, i, 125 note, 130, 139 -- _Commentaries of_, i, 131, 140 note, 141, 194 note -- excommunicates the Malatesta, i, 132 -- goes to Tivoli, i, 133 -- compliments Federigo, i, 134, 138 -- his projected crusade, i, 177 -- death of, i, 177 -- reign of, i, 178 -- his praise of the Countess Battista, i, 217 -- censures Cardinal Borgia, i, 317 Pius III., ii, 303 -- election of, ii, 22 -- and Borgia, ii, 25, 27 Pius V., iii, 82, 97, 404 note -- gives an audience to Prince Francesco Maria, iii, 141 -- indulgence of, iii, 456 Platina, _Lives of the Popes_, ii, 290 Platner, i, 169 Plato, taught in Florence, ii, 105, 106 -- study of, declines, iii, 256 Plautus, _Asinaria_, i, 480 -- _Menecmo_, ii, 152 Plethon, Gemistus, ii, 105 Plutarch's _Lives_, iii, 125 Poggibonsi, siege of, i, 248 Poggio d'Inverno, i, 290 Poggio, G.B., i, 72 note, 174 note -- _Historia Populi Florentini_, i, 228 Poggio Imperiale, i, 248, 251 Poland, iii, 263 Pole, Cardinal, iii, 303 Polenta, the, i, 381 -- Ravenna, Seigneury of, i, 18 Polesella, i, 424 Polesine, the, i, 262 -- defined, i, xx Polidori, iii, 271 note Polidoro di Caravaggio, iii, 398 Politian, on Venice, i, 325; ii, 113 Pollaiuolo, i, 212; ii, 243 Pontano, i, 227 Pontelli, Baccio, i, 171 -- architect of palace at Urbino, i, 157 -- furnishes plans for Lorenzo de' Medici, i, 157 Ponte Laino, ii, 336 Ponte Milvio, ii, 238 Ponte Molle, ii, 32; iii, 436 Ponte Reno, ii, 452 Ponte Sacco, i, 356 Ponte Salara, iii, 18 Ponte S. Angelo, ii, 286 Ponte Sisto, ii, 286; iii, 14, 436 Pontormo, iii, 350 Pontremoli, i, 349 -- destruction of, i, 464 Por, Danielle di, iii, 356 Porcellio, i, 50 note, 193, 211 note, 219 note, 222 note, 459 Pordenone, iii, 480 Porino, iii, 378 Porrino, Gandolfo, satirises Bembo, ii, 368 Porta Cavallegieri, iii, 10 Porta da Creta, Francesco, iii, 139 Porta Settiminiana, iii, 13 Portugal, King of, iii, 264 Poussin, Nicolò, iii, 344, 366 Pozzuoli, ii, 449 Prassede, Ottaviano della, ii, 265 note Prato, sack of, ii, 374 Prennier, iii, 357 Prescott, on coinage, i, xliii -- _Ferdinand and Isabella_, ii, 156 note Prestino da Gubbio, iii, 415 Proccaccini, Giulio Cesare, iii, 365 Procida, Señor, i, 343 Promis of Turin, i, 158 Promis, Carlo, iii, 264 note -- on Giorgio, ii, 212, 215 -- on Francesco Maria I., iii, 77 Proto, _Rinaldo di Tasso_, iii, 309 note Provasi, _Le Marche_, iii, 271 note Ptolemy, treatise of, iii, 261 Puccini, ii, 249 note Puccio, ii, 189 Pulci, _Morgante Maggiore_, iii, 286 Pungileone, i, 154, 161 note, 287; ii, 148, 200; iii, 409, 413, 419, 424 note -- _Elogio di Bramante_, i, 156 note -- _Elogio di Giovanni Santi_, i, 204 note -- on della Francesca, ii, 206, 209 -- on Fra Carnevale, ii, 211 -- on Giovanni Sanzi, ii, 216, 218 -- on Vite, ii, 258 note, 259 -- on Bramante, ii, 260 Quadri, i, 229 note Quaglino, Messer, iii, 91 _Quarterly Review_, i, xxxix, 155; ii, 204 note, 242 note; iii, 476 -- Dennistoun's contributions to, i, xvi Querini, Girolamo, iii, 394 Quincy, Quartremere de, i, 287 Quirinal Palace, ii, 290 Raczynski, iii, 292 note Radda, i, 244 Radicofani, i, 247 Raffaele da Montelupo, iii, 384 Raffaele, Don Pietro, i, xliii Ragusa, Archbishop of, at Urbino, ii, 36 -- Paulo di, ii, 271 Raimondo, Annibale, _Treatise on Tides_, iii, 21 note Ramocciotto, ii, 325 Ramsay, Mary, i, xiv Ranghiasci, F., i, 23 note Rangone, Guido, ii, 380, 436, 442 -- Count Guido, iii, 8, 21, 299 Ranieri, Guidangelo de', i, 100 Raniere, Matteo di, iii, 408 Ranke, i, 374 note; ii, 246, 305 note -- _History of the Popes_, ii, 19 note Ratti, i, 255 Ravenna, Seigneury of, i, 18, 33; ii, 33, 322, 335; iii, 37, 81, 406 Ravenna, battle of, i, 340; ii, 344 -- seized by Venice, i, 381 -- Guidobaldo I. flies to, i, 406 -- siege of, ii, 328 -- Tasso at, iii, 302 Raynaldus, ii, 18, 30 Recanati, ii, 280, 395 -- Cardinal of, ii, 307 -- see of, iii, 81 Reformation, influence of the, iii, 47, 97, 257 Reforzato, i, 404 Reggio, fief of, i, 381; ii, 397; iii, 37, 164, 280, 448 -- capture of, ii, 332, 345 _Relazioni_ of Venetian envoys, iii, 113 and note, 246 Religious revival in Italy, iii, 96, 97 Renan, on history, ii, 95 note Réné le Bon, i, 324 René, Count of Nassau, iii, 43 René of Provence, i, 68, 123, 135, 141; ii, 132 Renée, mother of Donna Lucrezia d'Este, iii, 139 Rengarda, Countess of Urbino, i, 56 Reni, Guido, i, x -- style of, ii, 186 Renier, ii, 44 note, 70 note, 84 note; iii, 125 -- _see_ Muzio Renzo da Ceri, ii, 200, 368, 380, 385, 386, 425; iii, 5, 8 and note, 12, 13 and note, 436 -- defender of Rome, iii, 5-9 Repetti, _Dizionario della Toscana_, i, 98 note Reposati, _Della Zecca di Gubbio_, i, 23 note, 34 note, 63 note, 71 note, 140 note; ii, 41 note, 269 note; iii, 111, 168 note -- his biographical sketches, i, xxxii -- on coinage, i, xlii -- indebted to Baldi, iii, 273 -- indebted to Muzio, iii, 276 Reumont, _Lorenzo de' Medici_, i, 235 note Reynolds, Sir Joshua, iii, 230 -- on Raffaele, ii, 172, 243 Rhodes, ii, 293 Riarii, the, Seigneur of Forlì, i, 18 Riario, Cesare, ii, 280 Riario, Galeazzo, ii, 282, 283 Riario, Girolamo, i, xi, 220, 225; ii, 280, 282, 290 -- marriage of, i, 236, 238 -- visits Forlì, i, 254 -- designs on Ferrara, i, 258 -- profits by nepotism, i, 302 -- sovereignty established, i, 306 -- murder of, i, 307, 308 -- invested with Imola, i, 381; ii, 284 -- portrait of, ii, 289 Riario, Orazio, ii, 280 Riario, Ottaviano, i, 308, 381, 384 -- Bishop of Viterbo, ii, 280 Riario, Cardinal Pietro, ii, 280, 351 note; iii, 17 -- entertained at Gubbio, i, 205 Riario, Cardinal Raffaele, i, 249 Riario, Raffaello, ii, 391 Riario Sforza, the, of Naples, ii, 280 Riccardi, Sigismondo, ii, 71 Riccardiana, Florence, ii, 118 Riccasoli, Antonio, ii, 371 Ricci, Marchese, ii, 200, 220 note; iii, 353, 404 note Ricotti, i, 188 note, 190; iii, 94 -- on coinage, i, xlii -- on battle of S. Fabbiano, i, 127 -- _St. d. Compagnie di Ventura in Italia_, i, 183 note -- on architects, iii, 265 Ridolfi, Carlo, iii, 379 -- on Titian, iii, 391, 396 Ridolfi, Claudio, career of, iii, 379, 380 Rieti, iii, 81 Rigutino, iii, 19 note Rimini, Seigneury of, i, 18, 180, 380; ii, 321, 322, 377, 398; iii, 37, 406, 408 -- held against the Pope, i, 195 -- reduction of, i, 196 -- battle of, i, 199 -- Borgia at, i, 388 -- cathedral of, ii, 208 -- surrender of, ii, 329 -- recovered, ii, 420 Rinaldo, i, 93; iii, 472 Rinuccini, Alemanno, i, 227 -- _Ricordi_, i, 211 note Rio on the Umbrian School, ii, 179 Ripatrasone, ii, 402 Ripetta, the, i, 364 Rispetto, the, iii, 280 note Rizzoli, _Sigilli nel Museo Bottacin di Padova_, i, 32 note Robbia, Andrea della, iii, 407 Robbia, Luca della, ware of, iii, 406, 407 Roberto da Fano, ii, 114 note Robertson, i, 315 Rocca Contrada, i, 93 Rodocanacchi, iii, 292 note Rocca Guglielmi, iii, 45 Rodomonte, Luigi Gonzaga, said to have poisoned the Duke Francesco Maria I., iii, 71 Rogers, Mr. H., ii, 57; iii, 410 Romagna, defined, i, xl -- Church rule in, i, 5 -- list of minor states in, i, 18, 23 -- its condition in 1430, i, 64-6 -- described by Sismondi, i, 379-83 -- rule of Borgia in, i, 389-92 -- described by Machiavelli, i, 398 note -- falling to the confederate chiefs, ii, 28 Romagnano, bridge of, ii, 426 Romano, Giulio, ii, 41 note, 242; iii, 287, 412, 420, 422 Rome, i, 3, 26 -- Chiesa della Minerva, i, 36 -- on the return of the Popes, i, 65 -- sacked by the Colonna, i, 131; ii, 308 -- invaded by French, i, 351 -- after death of Alexander VI., ii, 21 -- its debt to Sixtus IV., ii, 285-7 -- its debt to Julius II., ii, 306 -- invaded by the Colonna, ii, 444 -- ill-garrisoned, iii, 5 -- sacked by Bourbon, iii, 3-18, 31, 32 -- -- authorities for, iii, 8 note -- -- conflicting accounts, iii, 8 note, 9 -- -- contemporary descriptions of, iii, 429-43 -- pestilence of, iii, 24, 25 -- capitulation of, iii, 23 -- evacuation of, iii, 38 -- nearly taken by the Duc de Guise, iii, 111 -- Paciotti's plan of, iii, 263 -- Baldi at, iii, 268 -- Ariosto at, iii, 282 -- Aretino in, iii, 287 -- Tasso in, ii, 327; iii, 320 -- the Zuccari in, iii, 355-68 -- Titian at, iii, 394 Romita, iii, 196, 223 Ronchini, iii, 271 note Ronciglione, i, 179 Roncoroni, iii, 311 note Rondinello, iii, 379 Rondolino, iii, 421 Roscia, reduction of, ii, 328 Roscoe, i, xxxix note, 163, 236 note; iii, 75, 85 and note, 88 note -- misrepresentations of, i, xxxiii; ii, 168 note, 281, 387, 468 -- his _Life of Lorenzo de' Medici_, i, xxxiii note, 174 note; ii, 132 note, 184 note -- on Venice, i, 16 -- on the battle of La Molinella, i, 188 note -- his _Leo X._, i, 320, 342 note; ii, 154, 307, 294 note, 362, 411 note; iii, 87 note, 282 note -- defends the Borgia, ii, 19 note -- on Bembo, ii, 64 -- on Vergilio, ii, 117 -- on _Il Cortegiano_, ii, 120 -- on the sonnet, ii, 131 -- on Accolti, ii, 147 -- on Francesco Maria I., ii, 325, 342, 347, 399, 412 note Rose, Stewart, ii, 146 note Roseo, Mambrino, on the sack of Rome, iii, 12, 13 and note Rosini, i, 287; ii, 204, 228 note; iii, 308 note -- on Bramante, ii, 260 Rosmini, _V. da Feltre_, i, 69 note -- vindicates Sforza, i, 183 Rossano, Prince of, ii, 281 Rosselli, in Rome, ii, 288 Rossi, ii, 118 note, 220 note; iii, 88 note, 122 note Rossi, Count, murder of, i, 241 Rossi, _F. da Montefeltro_, i, 100 note -- _La Guerra in Toscana_, i, 101 note -- _Appunti per la storia della musica alla Corte d'Urbino_, ii, 47 note -- _Guarini_, iii, 331 note Rossi, Porzia de', iii, 299 Rotonda, ii, 248 Rouen, Cardinal of, i, 469; ii, 26 -- intrigues of, ii, 330 -- schemes to poison Julius II., ii, 335 Rovere, i, 263 Rovere, della, Seigneury of, i, 18 -- gains through nepotism, i, 23 -- arms of, i, 172 -- origin of, ii, 277 Rovere, Antonio della, ii, 280 Rovere, Bartolomeo della, i, 281; ii, 280 Rovere, Clemente della, ii, 282 note Rovere, Costanza della, ii, 283 Rovere, Cristoforo della, ii, 282 note Rovere, Deodata della, ii, 283 Rovere, Domenico della, ii, 282 note Rovere, Elisabetta, iii, 80 -- marriage of, iii, 106, 107 -- death of, iii, 107 Rovere, Federigo della, ii, 282: iii, 80 Rovere, Felice della, ii, 281 Rovere, Francesco della, ii, 280 Rovere, Francesco Maria della, _see_ Francesco Maria I. Rovere, Galiotto della, ii, 282 Rovere, Gian Francesco della, i, 282 note Rovere, Giovanni della, i, 152, 187, 220; ii, 3, 281 -- Mariotti's mistake _re_, i, xxxi -- marriage of, i, 221 note, 222, 289; ii, 291 -- obtains Sinigaglia, i, 144 -- death of, i, 399; ii, 299 -- portrait of, ii, 211, 289, 299 -- children of, ii, 282 -- prefect of Rome, ii, 291 -- lord of Sinigaglia, ii, 291-3 -- seizes Gem's pension, ii, 294, 298 -- epitaph of, ii, 480 Rovere, Girolamo della, ii, 280 Rovere, Cardinal Giuliano della, ii, 296 -- sent against Città di Castello, i, 225 -- visits Federigo, i, 254 -- portrait of, iii, 486 -- _see_ Julius II., i, 401 Rovere, Giuliano della, i, 238, 318, 371; ii, 284 -- portrait of, ii, 289 Rovere, Giulio della, ii, 282 Rovere, Cardinal Giulio della, iii, 63, 81, 82, 101, 130, 134, 141, 277, 371 -- birth of, iii, 63 -- character of, iii, 81, 82 -- nominated cardinal at the age of fourteen, iii, 81, 101 -- natural sons of, iii, 82 -- inscription on, iii, 461 -- letter to, iii, 474 Rovere, Guglielmo della, ii, 280 Rovere, Iolanda della, ii, 280 Rovere, Ippolita della, marriage of, iii, 53 Rovere, Ippolito della, Marquis of S. Lorenzo, iii, 82, 170 -- portrait of, iii, 486 Rovere, Isabella della, iii, 125 Rovere, Joanna della, ii, 228 Rovere, Lavinia della, iii, 326 -- married to Felice d'Avalos, iii, 125 and note, 157 -- second marriage of, iii, 157 -- inscription on, iii, 462 Rovere, Lavinia Franciotti, iii, 125 Rovere, Leonardo della, ii, 281, 291 -- children of, ii, 277-80 Rovere, Livia della, iii, 171 Rovere, Luchina della, ii, 281, 282 Rovere, Lucrezia della, ii, 282 Rovere, Maria della, ii, 283; iii, 63 -- paramour of, ii, 317. Rovere, Nicolò della, ii, 282 Rovere, Pietro della, Cardinal of San Sisto, ii, 284 -- portrait of, ii, 289 Rovere, Raffaele della, i, 413; ii, 280 -- children of, ii, 281 Rovere, Sisto della, ii, 281, 282 Rovere, Stefano della, ii, 282 note Rovere, Virginia della, iii, 100 Rovere, Vittoria della, portrait of, iii, 489 Rovigo di Urbino, i, 422, 424; iii, 422 Rubbiera, iii, 448 Rubens, iii, 369 Ruberto, iii, 271 note Rudolph, Emperor, iii, 263 Rumohr, Baron von, on Christian art, ii, 170 Ruscelli, Girolamo, i, 226; iii, 76, 123, 303 -- _Imprese Illustri_, i, 164 -- details of, i, 443 Ruskin, John, ii, 174, 224 Rustico, Antonio, of Florence, ii, 146 Rymer, ii, 392 SS. Apostoli, ii, 286, 290, 307 S. Agata, Urbino, i, 23, 144, 291, 405; ii, 59, 213, 267, 315; iii, 482 -- picture of Last Supper in, i, 205 -- held for Borgia, i, 418 Sta. Agnese, ii, 307 S. Albertino, convent of, i, 160 S. Andrea delle Fratte, iii, 225 note S. Angelo, iii, 106 S. Angelo, Castel, Rome, ii, 445; iii, 25, 433, 436, 438 -- conclave in, ii, 21 -- Pope and Cardinals gain, iii, 13 -- surrender of, iii, 22 note, 23 S. Angelo, Seigneury of, i, 18 S. Angelo, in Vado, i, 79; ii, 33, 201; iii, 175, 181, 201, 350 note, 354, 355 -- passes to the Montefeltri, i, 23 -- built by Giorgio, ii, 213 S. Anna, Ferrara, iii, 326 S. Antonio, ii, 189 S. Arcangelo, i, 404 S. Augustin, iii, 96 note S. Benedetto, Ferrara, iii, 284 S. Bernardino, Urbino, i, 157, 171, 219, 282; ii, 200, 210, 255; iii, 459 S. Biagio, ii, 263 S. Casa, Loreto, ii, 286 S. Casciano, ii, 468 S. Caterina of Siena, iii, 348 S. Catherine of Alexandria, i, xii S. Catherine, marriage of, ii, 201 S. Cecilia, ii, 240 -- Cardinal of, iii, 18 S. Chiara, Urbino, i, 34; ii, 261, 283; iii, 73, 90, 157, 210, 352, 400, 460, 461 S. Crescenzio, iii, 175 S. Chrisogono, Cardinal of, ii, 289 S. Costanza, ii, 213, 291 -- sack of, ii, 384 S. Croce, i, 77; ii, 288 S. Domenico, Cagli, ii, 218 -- Siena, ii, 211 note -- Urbino, iii, 407 S. Donato, Urbino, i, 47, 283; iii, 458 S. Egidio, battle of, i, 43 note S. Erasimo, ii, 192 S. Fabbiano, battle of, i, 449 -- battle of, i, 126-8 -- date of, i, 127 note S. Filippo, Gubbio, iii, 175 -- Neri, iii, 373 S. Fiora, iii, 109 and note S. Fortunato, Todi, i, 173 S. Fosca, iii, 70 S. Francesco, Assisi, ii, 200, 286 -- Borgia, i, 320 -- Cagli, iii, 350 note -- Città di Castello, iii, 486 -- Ferrara, iii, 311 note -- Pesaro, iii, 373 -- Urbino, iii, 377 -- di Paolo, order of, ii, 20 -- Rimini, i, 193 S. Francis of Assisi, ii, 170 note, 218 -- career of, ii, 177, 178 -- his influence on art, ii, 179-81 S. Francis of Paola, iii, 224 note S. Gaetano Tiene, iii, 96 note S. George, Chevalier de, i, 155 note S. Giorgio, Cardinal of, ii, 342 S. Giorgio Maggiore, Venice, ii, 429 S. Giovanni, ii, 455 note S. Giuliano, Rimini, ii, 399 S. Ippolito, ii, 213 S. John the Baptist, Pesaro, iii, 352 S. Leo, i, 23, 345, 405, 411, 420; iii, 202, 215, 465 -- description of, i, 78 -- surprised by Duke Federigo, i, 77-80 -- surrender of, i, 413 -- recapture of, i, 414 -- besieged by Borgia, ii, 13-15, 23 -- defended by Fregoso, ii, 59 -- siege of, ii, 369-71 -- given to Florence, ii, 406, 420 -- restored, ii, 456 S. Lorenzo, iii, 82 -- Court of, i, 404 -- in Damaso, ii, 286 -- Florence, iii, 388 -- in Lucino, iii, 243 S. Lucia, Urbino, iii, 90 S. Malo, i, 347 S. Maria di Castello, Genoa, ii, 267 S. Maria degli Eremiti, curious tradition of, iii, 69 S. Maria del Fiore, iii, 386 note S. Maria delle Grazie, ii, 480 S. Maria Nuova, Fano, ii, 266 S. Maria della Pace, ii, 240, 257 note S. Maria del Popolo, ii, 240, 247, 280 note, 286, 289 S. Maria in Portico, ii, 268 S. Marino, i, 17, 246, 404; iii, 352 -- independence of the state of, iii, 101 -- under the protection of the Dukes of Urbino, iii, 101, 102 S. Martin, ii, 257 note S. Matteo, iii, 155 S. Nicolò di Tolentino, ii, 225 S. Onofrio, ii, 229, 234, 289; iii, 327 S. Pancrazio, iii, 10, 14, 435 S. Peter's, Rome, iii, 16 -- building of, ii, 235, 240, 262, 263, 306; iii, 335, 382 S. Petersburg, ii, 233 S. Petronio, Bologna, ii, 323; iii, 46 S. Pietro in Bagno, ii, 453 -- in Montorio, ii, 261, 307 -- in Vaticano, iii, 386 note -- in Vinculis, ii, 281, 282, 286; iii, 81, 101, 385 S. Pol, iii, 40, 42 S. Prassede, i, 382 S. Procul, Bologna, ii, 254 S. Quirico, ii, 11, 414 note S. Rocca, Castel Durante, iii, 203 note S. Roch, ii, 357 note S. Salvadore, Bologna, ii, 89 S. Satiro, ii, 261 S. Savino, Antonio di, takes possession of Urbino, ii, 12 S. Sebastian, ii, 257 note; iii, 374 -- martyrdom of, ii, 201 S. Severo, Perugia, ii, 230 S. Silvester, ii, 238 S. Sisto, Cardinal of, ii, 284, 286; iii, 437 S. Spirito, ii, 286, 287; iii, 10 S. Thomas, ii, 257 note S. Ubaldo, Pesaro, i, 208; iii, 173-5, 460 S. Vitale, Rome, ii, 286 -- cardinals of, ii, 282 note Sabadino, _Gynevra de la clare donne_, i, 73 note Sabellico, ii, 124 Sabina defined, i, xl Sabina, see of, ii, 301 Sabionetta, iii, 71 Sacchetti, Franco, ii, 73 note Sacchi, Bartolomeo, ii, 289 Sadoleto, ii, 126, 404 -- at Ferrara, ii, 63 -- at Rome, ii, 64 -- letters by, ii, 116 Salamanca, ii, 129 Salerno, iii, 335 -- Archbishop of, ii, 60 -- Prince of, ii, 419 note -- -- patron of Tasso, iii, 299 Salerno, Princess of, i, 254 Saluzzi, Chevalier, ii, 212 Saluzzo, Marquis of, ii, 442, 445, 452 -- marches for Rome, iii, 19, 21 Salvadori, ii, 44 note Salvator Rosa, iii, 300, 366 Salviati, Francesco, Bishop of Pisa, i, 239, 240 Salviati, Cardinal Giovanni, iii, 448 Salviati, Lucrezia, ii, 53 Sancia of Aragon, i, 332, 342 Sanmichele, iii, 77, 260 note Sannazaro, quoted, i, 386 note -- on Borgia, ii, 31 -- his _Christeida_, ii, 74 Sanseverino, Antonello, i, 290 Sanseverino, Gian Francesco, retained by Ludovico Il Moro, i, 349 Sanseverino, Ferrante, iii, 299 Sanseverino, Nicolò Bernardino di, iii, 125 Sanseverino, Roberto di, i, 305 -- at the battle of La Molinella, i, 187 -- commands the Venetians against Ferrara, i, 260 Sansonio, Raffaele, ii, 280 Sansovino, i, 191; ii, 70, 74 note, 307 Santacroce, Filippo, iii, 404 note Santi, _see_ Sanzi Santinelli, Countess Vittoria Tortora Ranuccio, iii, 189 Santori, Leonardo, iii, 8 note, 25 and note Santorio, Paulo Emilio, Archbishop of Urbino, iii, 217 Sanuto, Marino, i, 260 note, 264, 365 note, 374, 387, 389, 391, 406 note; ii, 5 note -- on coinage, i, xxii -- _Diario_, i, 361 note; ii, 335 note, 339 note; iii, 35 -- on Guidobaldo I., i, 377; ii, 79 note -- describes fourth marriage of Lucrezia Borgia, i, 473-83 -- on the poisoning of Alexander VI., ii, 17-19, 21 Sanzi, Giovanni, quoted, i, 122, 139, 178, 212, 214, 219, 224, 231, 235, 243, 245, 254, 265, 267, 268; ii, 199 -- his Chronicle of Duke Federigo, i, x; ii, 138-43, 217, 471-79 -- on Ottaviano Ubaldini, i, 50 note -- on Duke Federigo, i, 62 note, 81, 85, 88, 110, 457 -- on Florence, i, 67 -- on Vittorino da Feltre, i, 71 -- on the strife between the Malatesta, i, 76 -- his description of S. Leo, i, 79 -- describes Monteluro, i, 82 -- on tournament at Urbino, i, 100 -- on the Palace of Urbino, i, 153, 155, 164, 171 -- his _Elogio_, i, 161 note -- on the Palace of Gubbio, i, 171 -- on war, i, 176 -- describes Pietro Riario, i, 206 -- on Countess Battista, i, 218 -- on the Pazzi Conspiracy, i, 242 -- authorities for, ii, 138 note -- his paintings, ii, 139, 218, 256, 257 note -- his ancestry, ii, 216 -- his catalogue of artists, ii, 217 -- on Da Vinci, ii, 229 -- on Melozzo, ii, 290 Sanzio, Raffaele, i, x, 62 note; ii, 468; iii, 335, 341, 347, 355, 370, 379, 485, 488 -- his _Jurisprudence_, i, 284 -- patronised by Bibbiena, ii, 66, 67 -- adopts "new manner," ii, 67, 241, 252 -- tutor of, ii, 114 -- style of, ii, 172, 185 note, 196 -- studies Francesca, ii, 207, 231 -- authorities for, ii, 220 note, 221 -- portraits of, ii, 218, 233 -- work ascribed to, ii, 219, 224, 233 note, 234, 460 -- his name, ii, 216, 220 note -- his opportune birth, ii, 221-3 -- early masters of, ii, 223, 229, 243 -- his _Vision of a Knight_, ii, 224 note -- he goes to Perugia, ii, 224, 226 -- his work at Città di Castello, ii, 225 -- devotional pictures of, ii, 226 -- at Florence, ii, 227, 228, 229, 234, 240 -- visits Urbino, ii, 227, 230, 231 -- his Madonna del Cardellino, ii, 228 -- his work at Urbino, ii, 232-4 -- called to Rome, ii, 235 -- employed in the Stanze, ii, 236-40, 244 -- overworked, ii, 240 -- unfounded charges against, ii, 242, 243 -- his imitative work, ii, 142, 468 -- influenced by Michael Angelo, ii, 243-6 -- his death, ii, 247-9 -- his will, ii, 248 -- his betrothal, ii, 249 -- his sonnets, ii, 250 -- his character, ii, 250 -- his sense of beauty, ii, 249, 251 -- and purity of taste, ii, 252 -- employed by Julius II., ii, 307 -- his work in majolica, iii, 403, 419 -- pictures of, at Florence, iii, 478 Sapienza, Rome, iii, 244 Sappho, iii, 294 Sardi, iii, 71 Sarno, battle of, i, 125 Sarsina, i, 370, 405 Sarti, _De Episcopis Eugubinis_, i, 22 note Sartirana, ii, 426 Sarto, Andrea del, iii, 335, 350 Sarzana, i, 107 -- surrender of, i, 349 -- Thomas of, _see_ Nicholas V. Sassetta, ii, 185 note Sassi di Simeone, i, 160 Sassocorbaro, i, 23; ii, 36, 213, 317; iii, 131 Sasso Feretro, plans of, ii, 213 Sassoferrata, i, 403; ii, 314, 389; iii, 63, 239 Sauli, bishop of, ii, 391 Savelli, the, i, 132, 179, 331 Savello, Gian Battista, iii, 69 Savello, Troilo, ii, 387, 389 Savile, Henry, ii, 117 Savino, Guido di, iii, 423 Saviotti, iii, 271 note Savona, ii, 277, 281, 303, 315; iii, 131 -- fall of, iii, 41 Savonarola, i, 321 note; ii, 171, 241 Savoy, Duchess of, iii, 45 Saxony, Duke of, i, 253 Scala, Can della, i, 67 Scaliger, on Bembo, ii, 124 Scaligers, tombs of the, ii, 99 Scalvanti, O., _Il mons Pietatis di Perugia_, i, 23 note, 54 note Scanderbeg, George, i, 135 Scarmiglione, Ludovico, surrenders S. Leo, i, 413 Scarpi, iii, 273 Scarsellino, iii, 487 Schippo, Vicenzo, iii, 92 Schlegel, on Italian morals, ii, 169 Schmarzow, ii, 138 note Schnorr, iii, 366 Schubert-Soldern, _Die Borgias und ihre Zeit_, ii, 19 note Scipio, Baldassare, ii, 30 Scipione, ii, 203 note -- letter of, iii, 429 Scotoni, Professor C., iii, 216 note Scotston, i, xiv Scotti, iii, 180 Scrop, Sir John de la, i, 456 note Scutari, i, 256 Seigneuries, tenure and investiture of, i, 11, 12 Selys, i, 471 Serafino, Fra, ii, 77 Serafius, i, 53 Serassi, ii, 51 note, 57 note, 58 note, 76 note -- _Lettere_, ii, 44 note Serenus, iii, 261 Sermene, ii, 375, 376 Sermini, Gentile, ii, 74 note Sermoneta, dukedom of, i, 396 Sermonetta's letters, iii, 22 Serra di S. Abondio, plans of, ii, 213 Sessa, Duke of, ii, 423 note Severi, Antonio de', i, 208 Seville, academy of, ii, 163 Seymour, Rev. M.H., _Pilgrimage to Rome_, quoted, ii, 181, 182 Sforza, the Seigneuries of, i, 18 -- origin of, i, 80 Sforza, Alessandro, Lord of Pesaro, i, 41, 90, 93; iii, 49 -- a dissolute husband, i, 48, note 1 -- allied with Sigismondo, i, 99 -- at S. Fabbiano, i, 126 -- in Angevine campaign, i, 126-32 -- reduces Rimini, i, 196 -- sonnet by, i, 428 -- invested with Pesaro, ii, 348 Sforza, Ascanio, i, 318, 351; ii, 307 -- suspected murderer of Duke of Gandia, i, 365 -- plots of, ii, 26 Sforza, Attendolo, i, 90 Sforza, Battista, i, 289; iii, 291 -- accomplishments of, i, 121-3; ii, 129 -- descent of, i, 121 -- marriage of, i, 121 -- death of, i, 296 Sforza, Bianca, i, 353 Sforza, Bozio, i, 125 Sforza, Caterina, i, 306, 381; ii, 280 -- marriage of, i, 236 -- resists the rebels, i, 307 -- defends Forlì, i, 384 Sforza, Costanza of Pesaro, i, 247, 263, 299; ii, 348, 356; iii, 409 -- engaged by Venice, i, 303 -- death of, i, 303 -- sonnet of, i, 428 Sforza, Federigo, i, 131 Sforza, Francesco, i, 72; iii, 41, 62, 70 -- holds La Marca, i, 80 -- loses Neapolitan estates, i, 81 -- gains by marriage, i, 81, 96 -- buys Pesaro, i, 90 -- finds a faithful ally in Duke Federigo, i, 89, 91, 93 -- visits Urbino, i, 92 -- his insecure tenure, i, 92 -- becomes Duke of Milan, i, 97, 100, 102, -- supports Sigismondo against Piccinino, i, 114 -- brings about meeting of Federigo and Sigismondo, i, 119 -- death of, i, 180, 183 -- character and policy of, i, 180 -- vindicated from charge of death of Piccinino, i, 183 -- patron of letters, ii, 98 -- returns to Milan, ii, 410 -- league to maintain, ii, 423, 433 Sforza, Galeazzo, seigneur of Pesaro, ii, 348 -- death of, ii, 349 Sforza, Galeazzo Maria, succeeds Francesco as Duke of Milan, i, 181, 263 -- engaged against Colleone, i, 185-9 -- marriage of, i, 190 -- his friendly relations with Count Federigo, i, 190, 200 -- character and policy of, i, 233 -- murder of, i, 235, 240, 325; ii, 141 -- his opinion of Federigo, i, 273 Sforza, Gian Galeazzo, portrait of, ii, 260 Sforza, Giovanni, i, 311; ii, 348; iii, 49 -- marries Lucrezia Borgia, i, 344, 364 -- -- Lord of Pesaro, i, 380 -- -- escapes to Venice, i, 388 Sforza, Giovanni Galeazzo, i, 305 -- succeeds to the dukedom, i, 325 -- death of, i, 353 Sforza, Ippolita Maria, i, 109, 121, 183 -- culture of, ii, 128 Sforza, Ludovico, Il Moro, i, 235 note, 299, 325 -- selfish ambition of, i, 180, 328-32, 357 -- invites Charles into Italy, i, 333, 341-55 -- becomes Duke of Milan, i, 353 -- supports Florence against Pisa, i, 370 -- policy of, i, 376 -- driven from Milan, i, 377 -- returns to Milan, i, 385 -- prisoner in France, i, 385, 470 -- at Mortara, ii, 47 -- patron of letters, ii, 98 -- employs Bramante, ii, 260 Sforza, Maximiliano, ii, 346, 363 Sforza, Polissena, i, 80 Sforza, Riario, i, 256 Sforza Cesarini, the, iii, 109 note Shepherd, _Life of Bracciolini_, ii, 132 note Shirbourn, Sir Robert, ii, 463 Sicilian vespers, the, i, 323 Sicily, kingdom of, i, 323 Siena, i, 37, 51, 104, 244, 250, 423; iii, 5, 37, 347, 379 -- democratic institutions of, i, 16 -- Archivio Diplomatico, i, 38 -- letters to, from Duke Oddantonio, i, 56-8 -- communal freedom in, i, 67 -- letters to, ii, 109-11 -- Bourbon advances on, ii, 453 -- cardinal of, ii, 391 -- annexed by Florence, iii, 104 Siena, L., _Storia di Sinigaglia_, ii, 292 note Sienese school of painting, ii, 158, 160, 161, 172; iii, 345 -- piety of, ii, 162, 187 Sienese, the, invaded by Borgia, ii, 11 Sigismondo of Foligno, ii, 126 Sigismund, Emperor, at Urbino, i, 40, 46, 51, 71 -- knights Sigismondo Malatesta, i, 71 note Signore, designation of, i, 10 Signorelli, Luca, ii, 199 note, 210, 212, 236; iii, 347, 487 -- influenced by Dante, ii, 187 -- in Rome, ii, 288 Silva, Don Michel de, ii, 44 note Silvano, Francesco de, iii, 421 Silvestro, Guido Posthumo, iii, 87, 282 Simon of Pesaro, iii, 372 Simonetta, Girolamo, i, 107; iii, 130 -- on battle of S. Fabbiano, i, 127, 128 -- on Orsini's policy, i, 130 -- intervenes to save Federigo's life, i, 189 note Sinigaglia, Seigneury of, i, 18, 23, 119, 131; ii, 3, 24; iii, 82, 220, 349 -- surrender of, i, 136 -- conferred by Sixtus IV., on della Rovere, i, 144, 222, 380 -- castle of, i, 157 -- massacre of, ii, 4-10, 13 -- under Giovanni della Rovere, ii, 291-3, 300 -- Francesco Maria succeeds to, ii, 316 -- held by Leo X., ii, 400 -- fortress of, iii, 107, 123 -- port of, iii, 465 Sinigaglia, _Su P. Aretino_, iii, 287 note Sirro of Castel Durante, i, 150 Sismondi, i, 107, 307 note, 320 note; iii, 63 note, 75 -- his prejudices, i, xxxiii; iii, 75 -- on coinage, i, xlii, xliii -- on the republics, i, 9, 16 -- on birth of Duke Federigo, i, 62 note -- inaccuracies of, i, 91 note, 121 note, 203 note, 221 note -- on the renewed hostilities, i, 102, 112 -- on battle of S. Fabbiano, i, 128 -- on the battle of Cesano, i, 136 note -- on Pius II., i, 177 note -- on Florence, i, 184 -- on Colleoni, i, 185 note -- on Sig. Malatesta, i, 194 note -- on Galeazzo Maria Sforza, i, 235 -- opinions of, i, 243 -- on Alexander VI., i, 319; ii, 19 -- on Julius II., ii, 347, 352 -- on Leo X., ii, 352 -- on the Romagna, i, 379-83 -- on Cesare Borgia, i, 389, 391 note -- on Francesco Maria I., ii, 424, 425 note, 431, 437, 438, 442, 446, 451 Sistine Chapel, ii, 245, 288 Sixtus IV., i, 51 note, 157, 380, 381; ii, 263, 272; iii, 409 -- confers Sinigaglia on della Rovere, i, 144 -- election of, i, 203; ii, 279, 283 -- invests Roberto Malatesta, i, 203 -- creates Federigo Duke and Gonfaloniere, i, 220 -- nepotism of, i, 222, 225, 236, 258; ii, 283-5, 293, 301 -- policy of, i, 224, 256; ii, 279 -- receives Lorenzo de' Medici, i, 237 -- his subsequent dislike of, i, 238 -- implicated in Pazzi conspiracy, i, 241, 306 -- his allies, i, 243 -- combines with Venice against Ferrara, i, 258, 266 -- reconciled to Naples, i, 301 -- death of, i, 304 -- first employs the Swiss, i, 337 note -- birth of, and omens concerning, ii, 277, 278 -- education of, ii, 278 -- hospitality of, ii, 285 -- his improvements in Rome, ii, 285-7 -- character of, ii, 287 -- patron of arts, ii, 287-91; iii, 345 -- adds to the library, ii, 289 -- portraits of, ii, 289; iii, 395, 485 Sixtus V., ii, 289; iii, 262 Soane Museum, iii, 423 Sodarini, Pietro, ii, 228 note Soderini, Cardinal, ii, 391 Soderini, Gonfaloniere, iii, 388 Sodoma, iii, 335 Solerti on Tasso, iii, 308 note, 310 note, 311 note, 314 note, 317 note Solieri, _Le origini degli Sforza_, i, 80 note Solyman, Sultan, iii, 395 -- menaces Apulia, iii, 170 -- orders public rejoicings at the death of Francesco Maria I., iii, 76 -- his armament against Malta, iii, 112 Sonnet, defects of the, ii, 131; iii, 279 Sora, Duke of, i, 133 Sora, duchy of, ii, 281, 313, 367; iii, 62, 134 -- restoration of, iii, 45 -- granted to Boncompagna, iii, 81 Soracte, Mount, i, 31 Soranzo, Giacomo, iii, 130 Sorbolongo, i, 404 Soriano, castle of, i, 361 Sorrento, iii, 311 -- Tasso at, iii, 299, 300 Spagna, iii, 335 Spaniards, the, in Italy, i, 338; ii, 381, 402; iii, 283 Spanish domination fatal, iii, 253 Spanish schools of painting, ii, 163 Spello, iii, 406 Sperandei, of Mantua, ii, 271 Speroni, Sperone, iii, 275, 304 Spoleto, iii, 25, 415, 424 -- sack of, iii, 37 Spoleto, dukedom of, i, 18, 51, 225, 379, 403; ii, 395 -- given to Lucrezia Borgia, i, 395 Squarcione, ii, 290 Squillace, i, 343, 363 Staccoli, Agostino, ii, 147 Staccoli, Canon, iii, 413 note Staccoli, Guido, iii, 143 Stagirite philosophy, iii, 256 Stansted, ii, 232 Stati, Antonio, Count of Montebello, iii, 150, 151 Stephen, King of Poland, iii, 353 Stigino of Mantua, ii, 379 Stirling, Mr., iii, 406 -- _Annals of the Artists of Spain_, ii, 163 note; iii, 364 note -- on Zuccaro, iii, 361, 363 Stirling, battle of, ii, 115 Stoppani, Cardinal, i, 158; iii, 413, 423 Stradiotes, the, i, 336, 466 Strange, Sir Robert, i, xvii Strozzi, Filippo, ii, 53, 365; iii, 275 Stuart, Sir Bernard, advances on Romagna, i, 348 Suardi, Bartolomeo, ii, 259 Sulmona, i, 132, 141, 183 Sustermans, iii, 489 Swiss soldiery, i, 336, 384 Symonds, John Addington, i, 71 note -- _The Renaissance in Italy_, ii, 128 note -- translation of _The Life of Benvenuto Cellini_, iii, 11 note -- -- of _Sonnets of Michelangelo_, iii, 389 note Tacchi-Venturi, iii, 292 note Taddei, Taddeo, ii, 228 Tagliacozzo, battle of, i, 26 Tagliacozza, Duke of, i, 289 Talbot, Lord, ii, 463 Tarducci, _Cecilia Gonzaga_, i, 58 note Tarento, i, 375; ii, 359 -- Prince of, i, 141 Taro, battle of, i, 290, 340, 353, 354, 463-7; ii, 51 note Taro, the, ii, 409 Tartaglia, Nicolò, iii, 77 Tarulli, i, 313 note Tascone, Giulio, i, 479 Tasso, Bernardo, i, 290; iii, 23, 50, 275, 298 -- Mariotti's sketch of, i, xxxi -- his _Amadigi_, i, 122; iii, 272, 295, 300, 303, 304 -- details of, i, 443 -- describes the Duchess of Urbino, ii, 89 -- quoted, ii, 442 -- letters of, iii, 111, 112 note -- at Urbino, iii, 124, 294 -- as purist, iii, 257-78 -- on Ariosto, iii, 285 -- irregularities of, iii, 298 -- early services of, iii, 299 -- appeals to the Prince of Salerno, iii, 301 -- at Pesaro, iii, 302, 313, 351 -- epitaph of, iii, 304 -- character of, iii, 305 -- style of, iii, 305-7 -- and Titian, iii, 392 -- sonnet to Titian, iii, 471 -- Cornelia, iii, 301 Tasso, Torquato, iii, 23, 155, 165 -- sonnet of, iii, 262 -- birth of, iii, 300 -- on his father, iii, 305 -- authorities for, iii, 308 note, 310 note, 311 note -- precocity of, iii, 309 -- his insanity, iii, 309-13, 321 -- his passion for Leonora D'Este, iii, 309, 313, 319 -- visits Pesaro, iii, 313, 318, 351 -- his _Gerusalemme_, iii, 314, 330 -- at Ferrara, iii, 314, 318, 319, 320, 321, 326 -- his poetry, iii, 315, 317, 319, 321, 329 -- his passion for Lucrezia D'Este, iii, 316 -- and canzone on her marriage, iii, 318 -- his _Aminta_ performed, iii, 318 -- his letter to Francesco Maria, iii, 323 -- confined for seven years, iii, 326 -- death of, iii, 327-8 Tavoleta, i, 23 -- plans of, ii, 213 Tealto, Castle, i, 475 Teodoro, i, 40 Teofile, iii, 72 note Teramo, Bishop of, i, 216 _Terchi_, iii, 414 Terenzi, Terenzio, iii, 379, 421 Terni, i, 379; iii, 25, 81 -- surrendered by Braccio di Montone, i, 45 Terouenne, siege of, ii, 355 note Terpandro, ii, 71 Terracina, i, 81, 363; ii, 296 Terrail, Pierre de, _see_ Bayard Theatines, iii, 96 and note, 109 Themistios, i, 194 Thomasello, Pier-Matteo di, iii, 433 Thou, De, opinions of, ii, 29 Thrasimene, i, 247; iii, 406 Thuasne, ii, 293, note Tiane, Alessandro, iii, 177 Tiapolo, Matteo, i, 388 Tiarini, iii, 369 Tibaldi, Pelegrino, iii, 369 Tibaldeo, iii, 485 -- at Ferrara, ii, 63 Ticozzi, iii, 380, 395, 396, 421 -- on Oderigi, ii, 188 Tiepolo, Nicolò, ii, 125 Tintoretto, iii, 391 note -- his _Origin of the Milky Way_, ii, 210 note Tiraboschi, i, 40, note; ii, 61 note -- on the _Assorditi_, ii, 112 -- on Bembo, ii, 121, 124-7 -- on Filelfo, ii, 132, 135 -- _Storia della Letteratura Italiana_, ii, 132 note -- on Machiavelli, ii, 147 -- on Guidobaldo del Monte, iii, 262 -- on Baldi, iii, 272 -- on Muzio, iii, 276 -- on Ariosto, iii, 283 -- on Aretino, iii, 288, 289 -- on Tasso, iii, 329 Tiranni Chapel, ii, 218 Titian, Vacellio, ii, 191, 222, 242; iii, 335, 338, 341, 486, 488 -- his Medicean portraits, ii, 57 -- his Flora, ii, 74 note; iii, 395 -- his portrait of Borgia, ii, 460 -- paints the Duchess Leonora, iii, 52, 62 -- paints Francesco Maria I., iii, 62, 346, 470 -- meets Charles V., iii, 62 -- friend of Aretino, iii, 287 note, 289, 290 -- his works for the Dukes of Urbino, iii, 390-7 -- his pictures in Florence, iii, 479 Tivoli, i, 132, 288; ii, 261, 400; iii, 110 Tiziano, Marco di, iii, 480 Tobias, ii, 257 note Tobler, ii, 44 note Todi, i, 225, 360; iii, 34 -- Montone, vicar of, i, 45 Toledo, ii, 55 Toledo, Don Pedro, iii, 300 Tolomei, Claudio, iii, 258 Tommasi, i, 365 note -- on Alexander VI., i, 320; ii, 17 Tondi, _I Fasti della Gloria_, i, 22 note Tondini, iii, 71, 99, 107 note Tordelli, Serafino, iii, 415, 421, 424 Tordi, iii, 292 note Torelli Chapel, i, 255 Torelli, Guido, ii, 53 Torelli, Ippolita, ii, 53 Torlonia Gallery, ii, 41 note Torlonia, Prince, ii, 467 note Tornabuoni, i, 237 Tortosa, see of, ii, 416 Tosi, Battista, i, 360 Tour, Madelaine de la, ii, 405; iii, 283 _Trabaria_, i, 3 Trani, i, 394 _Transfiguration_, Raffaele's, ii, 240, 249 Trapezuntios, Georgios, ii, 105 note Traversari, Ambrogio, reports of, ii, 155 Trebanio, i, 193 Trebbia, ii, 452 Tre Capanne, iii, 21 Tremouille, De la, i, 465; ii, 13, 14 _Tresor de Numismatique_, ii, 269, 270 Trevi, aqueduct of, ii, 286 Trevignano, i, 359 Trevisano, Benedetto, despatch of, i, 470 Treviso, iii, 396 Tribaldello, treachery of, i, 27 Tricarico, given to the Duke of Gandia, i, 343 -- see of, ii, 70 Trieste, i, 144 Trinità del Monte, iii, 357 Trivulzio, Alessandro, at Urbino, ii, 71 Trivulzio, Gian Giacomo, i, 152, 306, 348; ii, 71, 321 -- commands the French, ii, 335, 340 Trivulzio, Teodoro, ii, 423 Troia, i, 256; iii, 39, 69 Trometta, Nicolò, iii, 369 Trotti, i, 402 Trumello, ii, 426 Tunis, expedition against, iii, 299 Turin, iii, 311 -- Archbishop of, ii, 282 note Turkish Empire, domination of, i, 106 -- progress of in Europe, i, 256 -- crusade proposed against, iii, 70 -- league against, iii, 42 -- naval expedition against, iii, 139-41 Turrio, Baldassare, iii, 260 Tuscany, defined, i, xx -- condition of, in 1430, i, 66 -- campaign in, i, 103-6, 243 Tuscany, Duke of, indulgence granted to, iii, 456 Tusculum, see of, iii, 81 Ubaldini della Carda, arms and origin of, i, 49 note Ubaldini, Bernardino, i, 49, 50 note, 51 note, 74 -- supposed father of Duke Federigo, i, 61 Ubaldini, Francesco, i, 126 Ubaldini, Gentile, iii, 78 Ubaldini, Guidantonio, i, 51 note Ubaldini, Ottaviano, i, 74, 206, 253, 273, 278; ii, 114 -- character of, i, 50 note -- guardian of Guidobaldo I., i, 260, 283, 300 -- sonnets of, i, 436 -- death of, i, 51 note, 369, 377 Ubaldini, Pietro, i, 51 note, 187, 224 -- sent to England, i, 452-456 Ubaldini, Vicenzo, iii, 433 Uberti, Farinato degli, ii, 51 Uccelli, Paolo, ii, 200, 203 Udine, iii, 275, 370 Uffizi Gallery, Florence, i, 218, 284; ii, 211 note, 234; iii, 62, 360, 477, 391 note, 393, 395 -- Urbino pictures in, iii, 478 Ugolini, iii, 200 note -- _Storia de' Conti e Duchi d'Urbino_, i, vii, 25 note, 39 note, 63 note, 78 note, 295 note, 297 note; ii, 29; iii, 200 note -- on Baldi, iii, 266 note Ugolino, Count, murder of, i, 27 Uguccione, i, 306 Umbria defined, i, xl, 4 Umbrian schools of painting, ii, 158, 161, 169-72, 240 -- influence of St. Francis on, ii, 179 -- dramatic character of, ii, 185 Upper Italy, defined, i, xxxix Urban VI., i, 44 Urban VIII., ii, 209; iii, 181, 214-18, 221, 222 note, 243, 456 -- takes possession of Urbino, i, 24 -- election of, iii, 214 -- his designs on the duchy of Urbino, iii, 214-18 Urbani of Urbino, ii, 146, 326 note; iii, 77 Urbania, i, 36 -- stoneware of, iii, 413 -- _see_ Castel Durante Urbinelli, iii, 380 Urbino, Francesco, ii, 114 note Urbino, Archbishop of, letter from, iii, 474 -- bishops of, ii, 367, 369 -- cathedral of, i, 47, 154, 171, 399; ii, 39; iii, 73, 374, 398, 423 Urbino, city of, asylum of letters, i, xxix -- citizens of, i, 26 -- convent of Santa Chiara, i, 34 -- welcomes Sigismund, i, 40 -- library of, i, 47 note -- S. Francesco, i, 56 -- tournament at, i, 100 -- festivities at, i, 312 -- panic in, i, 410 -- Borgia enters, i, 410 -- Guidobaldo I. returns to, i, 417 -- its demands on the election of Federigo, i, 438-42 -- taken by Borgia, ii, 12 -- printing introduced, ii, 114 note -- oratory of St. John Baptist, ii, 200 -- concessions to, by Francesco Maria I., ii, 319 -- siege of, ii, 369 -- returns to Francesco Maria I., ii, 377-80 -- loyalty of, ii, 406 -- outbreak of, iii, 114-21 -- Clement VIII. at, iii, 265 -- mathematicians and engineers at, iii, 259-77 Urbino, Counts of, _see_ Antonio, Buonconte, Federigo, Guido, Guidantonio, Montefeltrano, Oddantonio Urbino, Counts and Dukes of, in Gubbio, authorities for, i, 22 note Urbino, Counts of, origin of, i, 24 -- territorial acquisitions of, i, 23 Urbino, countship of, devolution of, to the Holy See, i, 23 -- feuds with the Brancaleoni, i, 45 Urbino, court of, constitution of, i, 150 -- examples of manners at, i, 152; ii, 47-50; iii, 88 -- music at, i, 152; ii, 49, 147 -- under Guidobaldo I., i, 309 -- hospitalities of, i, 153, 204-6, 246 note; ii, 35, 56-71 -- entertains Persian envoys, i, 204 -- entertains Sigismund, i, 46, 71 -- Lucrezia Borgia at, i, 345, 397 -- Julius II. at, ii, 39-42, 231 -- entertainments at, ii, 76-8, 147-52 -- the Medici at, ii, 351 -- Raffaele at, ii, 227, 230, 231 -- poetry at, ii, 130, 138 -- requisites of a lady at, ii, 45, 46, 72 -- Vittoria Farnese at, iii, 100 -- list of chief officers at, iii, 152 -- Prince Federigo at, iii, 207 -- _Assorditi_ constituted at, iii, 255 -- poets at, iii, 280-98 -- Ariosto at, iii, 281, 284 -- B. Tasso at, iii, 304 -- engineers and architects of, iii, 347-54 -- artists at, iii, 355-400 -- Clement VIII. at, iii, 373 -- sculptors at, iii, 400 Urbino, duchy of, its devolution to the Holy See, i, xxx, xxxi, 169, 286; ii, 36; iii, 220-5 -- brightest era of, i, xxxi -- coinage of, i, xlii; ii, 269 note -- topography of, i, 3, 23 -- in the fifteenth century, i, 18 -- its fortunate condition, i, 88 -- suffers from the Malatesta, i, 109 -- its extent under Federigo, i, 175, 213 note -- war a benefit to, i, 175 -- condition at the succession of Guidobaldo I., i, 299 -- returns to Guidobaldo I., ii, 23 -- artists in, ii, 188-273 -- conferred on Lorenzo de' Medici, ii, 367 -- seized by Leo X., ii, 406 -- incorporated with the Papal States, iii, 225 -- after the devolution, iii, 246-9 -- watchmaking in, iii, 404 note -- majolica of, iii, 406, 413 -- statistics of, iii, 463-9 -- population of, iii, 466 Urbino, Dukes of. _See_ Federigo; Francesco Maria I.; Francesco Maria II.; Guidobaldo I.; Guidobaldo II.; Oddantonio -- their judicious sway, i, xxix -- their early biographers, i, xxx, xxxii -- _Lives of_, i, 449 -- devices and mottoes of, i, 443; ii, 422 -- patrons of art, iii, 345 Urbino, legation of, i, 3 Urbino MSS., i, xxx _et passim_ Urbino, palace of, ii, 99; iii, 351, 353 -- when begun, i, 154 -- descriptions of, i, 154, 159-62 -- architects of, i, 155-7; ii, 211, 212 -- frieze of, i, 158 -- library of, i, 162-9; ii, 33, 144 -- -- removed to the Vatican, iii, 242, 245 -- librarians of, i, 167-9 -- cost of library of, i, 168 -- illuminated MSS. in, i, 446-9 -- stable-range for, i, 169 -- -- cost of, i, 170 Usher, Thomas, Archbishop of York, Cardinal of St. Cecilia, iii, 18 Usum-cassan, i, 204; ii, 198 Vagnarelli, Lorenzo, iii, 378 Vaila, ii, 328 Vaissieux, _Archivio_, ii, 82 note Val di Chiana, i, 243; iii, 19 Valbona, iii, 90 Valenti, Abbé Francesco, i, xliv Valentino, ii, 315 -- Duke, _see_ Borgia (Cesare) Valetta, D. Giuseppe, ii, 460 Vallardi, Giuseppe, ii, 460 Valle, Padre della, i, 302 note; ii, 212 Valle, Cardinal Andrea della, iii, 18, 437 Vallery, i, 307 note Valmaggi, ii, 44 note Vanni, Francesco, iii, 379 Vanzolini, iii, 88 note, 287 note Valturio, Roberto, i, 158 -- on Sigismondo, i, 192, 193 Van Eyck, Jean, his bath scene, ii, 266, 267 Vanozza, Caterina, i, 318 Vanucci, ii, 199 Varadino, iii, 353 Varana, the, i, 379 -- the Seigneury of, i, 18 Varana, Bernardo, iii, 63 Varana, Costanza, i, 90, 216, 428 -- canzonet on, ii, 144 Varana, Ercole, iii, 64 Varana, Gentil Pandolfo, iii, 63 Varana, Giovanni, iii, 63 Varana, Giovanni Maria, ii, 36, 418, 419; iii, 64 Varana, Giulia, iii, 65-8, 88, 98, 391 note Varana, Giulio Cesare, i, 400 -- strangled, i, 411 Varana, Giulio di, of Camerino, i, 379 Varana, Maria, ii, 36 Varana, Matteo, iii, 64 Varana, Pier-Gentile, iii, 63 Varana, Rodolfo, iii, 65 Varana, Sigismondo, ii, 36, 283, 402, 408 -- defends S. Leo, ii, 371; iii, 63 -- death of, iii, 64 -- reinstated, ii, 413 -- death of, ii, 419 Varana, Venanzio, i, 411; ii, 283; iii, 63 Varchi, iii, 273, 275, 294 Varconi, _La Donna Italiana_, ii, 73 note Vasari, Giorgio, i, xii; ii, 114 note, 199, 265, 267; iii, 349, 359, 404 note, 411 -- mistakes of, i, 155, 158, 286 note; ii, 168 note -- on the palace at Urbino, i, 157, 158 -- piety of, ii, 163 -- on Oderigi, ii, 189 -- on della Francesca, ii, 200-3 -- on Giorgio, ii, 212 -- on Raffaele, ii, 220, 232, 242, 245, 250 -- on Perugino, ii, 224 -- on Timoteo Viti, ii, 258 -- on Julius II., ii, 306 -- on Genga, iii, 350, 351 -- on Zuccaro, iii, 355, 367 -- on Michael Angelo, iii, 381, 383 note, 399 -- on Titian, iii, 390, 391 note, 395 -- origin of surname of, iii, 422 note Vasto, Marquis of, iii, 299, 442 Vatican, the, iii, 335, 357, 377 -- Raffaele's work in, ii, 236-40, 244 -- Bramante's work in, ii, 263 -- Library, i, xxx, xliii, 108, 167; ii, 286 Vecellio, Marco, iii, 291, 480 note Vecchietta, ii, 211 note Vedetta, the, iii, 157 Vehon, _Les Borgia_, ii, 19 note Veit, iii, 366 Velletri, see of, ii, 301 Velluti, _Cronica Domestica_, ii, 73 note Venanzio, ii, 317 Venetian school of painting, iii, 345 Venezianello, Antonio, ii, 291; iii, 429 Veneziano, Domenico, ii, 202 note Venice, i, 262; ii, 62; iii, 298, 311; 350, 394 -- individual safety in, i, 16 -- in 1430, i, 67 -- Ferrara invaded by, i, 258 -- Guidobaldo I. at, i, 277, 422 -- in the absence of the popes, ii, 97 -- MSS. of, ii, 100 -- art in, ii, 191 -- Gentile da Fabriano at, ii, 197 -- Francesco Maria I. at, ii, 429, 431 -- Aretino at, iii, 288 -- Tasso at, iii, 313 Venice, Signory of, breaks alliance with Florence, i, 102 -- disputes with the Emperor, i, 144 -- abet Florentine exiles against the Medici, i, 185 -- designs on Ferrara, i, 202 -- engage Sforza of Pesaro, i, 303 -- zenith of power of, i, 326 -- negotiates for release of Guidobaldo I., i, 361 -- supports Pisa, i, 370 -- re-engage Guidobaldo I., ii, 24, 32 -- aggressions of, ii, 38 -- claims on Romagna, ii, 38 -- League of Cambray formed against, ii, 321, 322 -- sue for peace, ii, 328 -- employ Francesco Maria I., ii, 423-8, 431-5 -- leagues against the Emperor Charles V., iii, 37 Ventura di Simone, iii, 408 Venturelli, Vittorio, iii, 242 Venturi, Bastiano, iii, 477 -- _Storia dell'Arte Italiana_, ii, 188 note -- his list of Urbino pictures, iii, 485 Venturi, Lattanzio, iii, 353 Venturi, Venturo, iii, 354 Venturini, Francesco, his Latin grammar, ii, 114 -- his pupils, ii, 114 Vercelli, Battista da, ii, 391, 426 Verdi, ii, 365 Verdizzotti, sonnet by, iii, 131, 358 Verga, Dr. Andrea, on Tasso, iii, 312, 313 Vergilio, Polydoro di, obtains preferment in England, ii, 115 -- his works, ii, 116 -- his _History of England_, ii, 116-18 -- quoted, ii, 466-7 Vergiliano, i, 197 Vermiglioli, ii, 5, 10 note, 395 Vernarecci, ii, 67 note, 148 note; iii, 88 note Verona, ii, 317, 364, 410, 412, 435; iii, 379 -- fortress of, iii, 55 -- Guidobaldo II. at, iii, 260 Veronensis, Gaspar, on Alexander VI., i, 317 note Veronese, Paolo, iii, 338, 361, 379 Verrocchio, ii, 199 note, 291 Verucchio, i, 404; ii, 28, 32 -- tricked surrender of, i, 140 Vespasiano, i, 149, 186, 211 note -- _Vite_, i, 166 note -- on court of Urbino, i, 152 -- on library of Urbino, i, 164, 168 -- on Duke Federigo, i, 230, 272 Vesuvius, iii, 300 Veterani, Federigo, librarian at Urbino, i, 168 -- quoted, i, 269 -- transcriber of MSS., ii, 143, 144 -- his verse, ii, 145 Veterani, Giulio, iii, 143 Vettori, Pietro, iii, 294 Viane, Count, i, 123; ii, 31; iii, 71 note Vincenza, iii, 81, 394 Vicino da Imola, i, 480 Vicopisano, i, 356 Vienne, i, 348 Vieri, Ugolino, iii, 405 note Vieussieux, iii, 113 note Vigeri, the, iii, 131 Vigerio, Stefano, iii, 89 Villa Franca, iii, 137 Villani, ii, 74 note -- on coinage, i, xlii -- on Count Guido the elder, i, 26, 32 -- _Cronaca_, i, 32 note Vincennes, iii, 120 Vincenzo of Mantua, Prince, iii, 326 Vinova, ii, 277 Virgil, quoted, i, 121, ii, 81 Visconti, Barnabo, iii, 463 note Visconti, Bianca Maria, i, 73, 96 Visconti, Count Cesare di Castelbarco, ii, 460 Visconti, Duke Giovan Maria, i, 235 note Visconti, Filippo Maria, i, 73, 81, 91, 93, 436 -- death of, i, 95, 96 -- treachery of, i, 97 -- bequest of sovereignty, i, 97 Visconti, Valentina, i, 372 Viseo, Bishop of, ii, 44 note Vitale, Alessandro, ii, 161; iii, 378 Vite, Timoteo della, i, 162; ii, 148, 324; iii, 347, 350 -- Raffaele and, ii, 224 note, 231, 257-9 -- works of, ii, 24, 255-9 Vitelli, the, ii, 225, 325 -- Seigneury of, i, 18 -- at Città di Castello, i, 225 -- Condottieri, i, 360 Vitelli, Alessandro, iii, 92 Vitelli, Bishop of Urbino, ii, 377 Vitelli, Camillo, i, 335 Vitelli, Chiappino, entertains Princess Elisabetta, iii, 106 Vitelli, Gian Paolo, i, 420 Vitelli, Giulio, ii, 369 Vitelli, Isabella, iii, 82 Vitelli, Nicolò, i, 247 Vitelli, Paolo, i, 360, 370 Vitelli, Vitello, ii, 361, 381, 385, 413 -- commands the Florentines, ii, 436 Vitelli, Vitellozzo, i, 360, 310 -- at Arezzo, i, 412, 419, 400, 403 -- murdered at Sinigaglia, ii, 3, 4, 10 Vitellioni, ii, 205 Viterbo, i, 82, 253; ii, 456; iii, 5, 34, 357, 429, 433 -- battle of, i, 363 -- bishop of, ii, 280 Vitruvius, i, 159 Vittorio, Don V., iii, 419 Vittoria, Duchess of Urbino, iii, 260, 275, 294, 304 -- marriage of, iii, 100, 295, 352, 400 -- death of, iii, 171, 172 -- inscription on, iii, 460 -- portrait of, iii, 489 Vittoria, Princess, Grand Duchess of Tuscany, birth of, iii, 210 -- education of, iii, 213, 239 -- sent to Tuscany, iii, 214 -- betrothed to Ferdinand II., iii, 213, 114 -- letters of, iii, 231-8 -- character of, iii, 239 -- marriage of, iii, 239 -- death of, iii, 239 Vivaldi, iii, 280 note, 310 note Vivarini, the, ii, 191, 197 Viviani, Antonio, iii, 377 -- Ludovico, iii, 378 Voigt, i, 313 note Volpelli's history of S. Leo, i, 79 Voltaire, ii, 19 note Volterra, i, 227 note, i, 446; ii, 371 -- described, i, 208 -- siege and sack of, i, 210, 211, 212, 449 -- arms of, i, 212 note Volterrano, i, 221 note, 253 note -- on Julius II., ii, 301 Walpole, Horace, iii, 360, 422 Ward, Lord, ii, 225 Waters, W.G., _Piero della Francesca_, i, 286 note Wellesley, Dr., i, xliv Western Empire, decay of, i, 4 Whear, ii, 117 Wigtown, Earl of, i, xiii Wilkie, David, on Italian art, ii, 175, 176 William III. of England, iii, 43 Winchester, Bishop of, ii, 117 Winspeare's _St. d'Abusi Feudali_, i, 6 note Witting, ii, 203 note Wolsey, Cardinal, ii, 116 -- letter to, ii, 434, 440 -- his letter to Lorenzo de' Medici, ii, 484 Woodburn, Mr. Samuel, ii, 159 note Woodward, Professor, _V. da Feltre_, i, 69 note Worcester, Bishop of, ii, 440, 466 Wordsworth, _Excursion_, ii, 178 Wyatt, Sir Thomas, iii, 89 note Xante, Fra, iii, 417 note, 420, 421 Xativa, i, 317 Young Italy, provincial spirit of, i, 20 Yriarte, ii, 74 note -- _César Borgia_, ii, 19 note -- _Autour des Borgias_, ii, 19 note Zaccagnini, Guido, i, 63 note; ii, 369 note -- _Vita di B. Baldi_, i, 295 note -- on Baldi, iii, 266 note, 270 note, 271 note Zambotto, quoted, i, 269 note Zane, iii, 113 note, 134, 149 -- on Urbino, iii, 464, 466 Zanelli, ii, 73 note Zannetti, i, 193 -- on coinage, ii, 269 Zannoni, G., _Federico II._, i, 63 note, 230 note Zara, iii, 70 Zdekauer, Professor, i, xii; ii, 73 note Zenatti, iii, 276 note Zeni of Venice, the, ii, 198 Zeno, Cardinal, i, 220 Zibetto and the outbreak of the Urbino citizens, iii, 114 Zizim, _see_ Gem Zoccolantines, Church of the, i, 283, 287, 407; ii, 85, 211; iii, 240, 349, 459 -- founded by Giovanni della Rovere, ii, 299 Zoppo, Marco, ii, 265 Zuccari, the, iii, 346, 487, 488 -- portraits of, iii, 365, 366 Zuccaro, Federigo, ii, 233, 460; iii, 201, 484 -- paintings of, iii, 357-67, 372 -- his Calumny, iii, 360 -- in Madrid, iii, 361-3, 369 -- style of, iii, 364, 370 -- his palace on the Pincian, iii, 367 -- his writings, iii, 367 Zuccaro, Ottaviano, iii, 355 Zuccaro, Taddeo, iii, 411, 423 -- early hardships of, iii, 355 -- work of, ii, 33; iii, 356-8, 368 Zucha da Cagli, commended to Siena, ii, 111 * * * * * VINCENZO FOPPA OF BRESCIA, FOUNDER OF THE LOMBARD SCHOOL, HIS LIFE AND WORK. By CONSTANCE JOCELYN FFOULKES and MONSIGNOR RODOLFO MAIOCCHI, D.D., Rector of The Collegio Borromeo, Pavia. Based on research in the Archives of Milan, Pavia, Brescia, and Genoa, and on the study of his known works. With over 100 Illustrations, many in Photogravure, and 100 Documents. Demy 4to. The published price of this book will be reduced to Four Guineas net to subscribers whose orders, accompanied by remittance, are received on or before the day of publication. After that date the price will be raised to Five Guineas net. Limited to 300 copies for sale in England and America. 105/- net. DUMOURIEZ AND THE DEFENCE OF ENGLAND AGAINST NAPOLEON. By J. HOLLAND ROSE, Litt.D. (Cantab.), Author of "The Life of Napoleon," etc., and A.M. BROADLEY, Joint Author of "Napoleon and the Invasion of England." Illustrated with numerous Portraits, Maps, and Facsimiles. Demy 8vo. (9 × 5-3/4 inches). 21/- net. KASHMIR: The Land of Streams and Solitudes. By P. PIRIE. With 25 Full-page Plates in colour, and upwards of 100 other Illustrations by H.R. PIRIE. Crown 4to. (10 × 6-1/2 inches). 21/- net. THE DIARY OF A LADY-IN-WAITING. Being the Diary Illustrative of the Times of George the Fourth. Interspersed with original Letters from the late Queen Caroline and from various other distinguished persons. By LADY CHARLOTTE BURY. New edition. Edited, with an Introduction, by A. FRANCIS STEUART. With 2 photogravure and 16 other portraits of beautiful women. Two Vols. Demy 8vo. (9 × 5-3/4 inches). 21/- net. LONDON: JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD, VIGO ST., W. * * * * * THE LIFE OF JOAN OF ARC. By ANATOLE FRANCE, a Translation by WINIFRED STEPHENS. With 8 Illustrations. Demy 8vo. 9 × 5-3/4 inches, 2 vols. 25/- net. CORNISH CHARACTERS AND STRANGE EVENTS. By S. BARING GOULD, M.A., Author of "Devonshire Characters." With numerous Illustrations. Demy 8vo. (9 × 5-3/4 inches). 21/- net. LOUIS NAPOLEON AND THE GENESIS OF THE SECOND EMPIRE. Being a Life of Napoleon III. and other times of his Election to the Presidency of the French Republic. By F.H. CHEETHAM. With numerous Illustrations, reproduced from contemporary Portraits, Prints, and Lithographs. Demy 8vo. (9 × 5-3/4 inches). 16/- net. MEMOIRS OF A VANISHED GENERATION, 1813-1855. Edited by MRS. WARRENNE BLAKE. With an Introduction by LADY ST. HELIER, and numerous Illustrations. Demy 8vo. (9 × 5-3/4 inches). 16/ net. NAPOLEON AND THE ARCHDUKE CHARLES. A History of the Franco-Austrian Campaign in the valley of the Danube, in 1809. By F. LORAINE PETRE, author of "Napoleon's Campaign in Poland," "Napoleon's Conquest of Prussia," etc. With 8 Illustrations and 5 Sheets of Maps and Plans. Demy 8vo. (9 × 5-3/4 inches). 12/6 net. AUGUSTUS SAINT GAUDENS: An Appreciation by C. LEWIS HIND. Illustrated with 47 Full-page Reproductions from his most famous works. With a Portrait of KENYON COX. Large 4to, bound in Cloth. 12/6 net. TWO DIANAS IN ALASKA. By AGNES HERBERT, and a SHIKARI. With numerous Illustrations reproduced from Photographs. Demy 8vo. (9 × 5-3/4 inches). 12/6 net. LONDON: JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD, VIGO ST., W. * * * * * [Illustration] THE WORKS OF ANATOLE FRANCE It has long been a reproach to England that only one volume by ANATOLE FRANCE has been adequately rendered into English; yet outside this country he shares with TOLSTOI the distinction of being the greatest and most daring student of humanity now living. ¶ There have been many difficulties to encounter in completing arrangements for a uniform edition, though perhaps the chief barrier to publication here has been the fact that his writings are not for babes--but for men and the mothers of men. Indeed, some of his Eastern romances are written with biblical candour. "I have sought truth strenuously," he tells us, "I have met her boldly. I have never turned from her even when she wore an unexpected aspect." Still, it is believed that the day has come for giving English versions of all his imaginative works, and of his monumental study JOAN OF ARC, which is undoubtedly the most discussed book in the world of letters to-day. ¶ MR. JOHN LANE has pleasure in announcing that he will commence publication of the works of M. ANATOLE FRANCE in English, under the general editorship of MR. FREDERIC CHAPMAN, with the following volumes: THE RED LILY MOTHER OF PEARL THE GARDEN OF EPICURUS THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD THE WELL OF ST. CLARE THE OPINIONS OF JEROME COIGNARD JOCASTA AND THE FAMISHED CAT BALTHASAR THE ASPIRATIONS OF JEAN SERVIEN THE ELM TREE ON THE MALL MY FRIEND'S BOOK THE WICKER-WORK WOMAN THAÏS AT THE SIGN OF THE QUEEN PÉDAUQUE JOAN OF ARC (2 vols.) ¶ All the books will be published at 6/- each with the exception of JOAN OF ARC, which will be 25/- net the two volumes, with eight Illustrations. ¶ The format of the volumes leaves little to be desired. The size is Demy 8vo (9 × 5-3/4 in.), that of this Prospectus, and they will be printed from Caslon type upon a paper light in weight and strong in texture, with a cover design in crimson and gold, a gilt top, end-papers from designs by Aubrey Beardsley and initials by Henry Ospovat. In short, these are volumes for the bibliophile as well as the lover of fiction, and form perhaps the cheapest library edition of copyright novels ever published, for the price is only that of an ordinary novel. ¶ The translation of these books has been entrusted to such competent French scholars as MR. ALFRED ALLINSON, HON. MAURICE BARING, MR. FREDERIC CHAPMAN, MR. ROBERT B. DOUGLAS, MR. A.W. EVANS, MRS. FARLEY, MRS. JOHN LANE, MRS. NEWMARCH, MR. C.E. ROCHE, MISS WINIFRED STEPHENS, and MISS M.P. WILLCOCKS. ¶ As Anatole Thibault, _dit_ Anatole France, is to most English readers merely a name, it will be well to state that he was born in 1844 in the picturesque and inspiring surroundings of an old bookshop on the Quai Voltaire, Paris, kept by his father, Monsieur Thibault, an authority on eighteenth-century history, from whom the boy caught the passion for the principles of the Revolution, while from his mother he was learning to love the ascetic ideals chronicled in the Lives of the Saints. He was schooled with the lovers of old books, missals and manuscripts; he matriculated on the Quais with the old Jewish dealers of curios and _objets d'art_; he graduated in the great university of life and experience. It will be recognised that all his work is permeated by his youthful impressions; he is, in fact, a virtuoso at large. ¶ He has written about thirty volumes of fiction. His first novel was JOCASTA & THE FAMISHED CAT (1879). THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD appeared in 1881, and had the distinction of being crowned by the French Academy, into which he was received in 1896. ¶ His work is illuminated with style, scholarship, and psychology; but its outstanding features are the lambent wit, the gay mockery, the genial irony with which he touches every subject he treats. But the wit is never malicious, the mockery never derisive, the irony never barbed. To quote from his own GARDEN OF EPICURUS: "Irony and Pity are both of good counsel; the first with her smiles makes life agreeable, the other sanctifies it to us with her tears. The Irony I invoke is no cruel deity. She mocks neither love nor beauty. She is gentle and kindly disposed. Her mirth disarms anger and it is she teaches us to laugh at rogues and fools whom but for her we might be so weak as to hate." ¶ Often he shows how divine humanity triumphs over mere ascetism, and with entire reverence; indeed, he might be described as an ascetic overflowing with humanity, just as he has been termed a "pagan, but a pagan constantly haunted by the pre-occupation of Christ." He is in turn--like his own Choulette in THE RED LILY--saintly and Rabelaisian, yet without incongruity. At all times he is the unrelenting foe of superstition and hypocrisy. Of himself he once modestly said: "You will find in my writings perfect sincerity (lying demands a talent I do not possess), much indulgence, and some natural affection for the beautiful and good." ¶ The mere extent of an author's popularity is perhaps a poor argument, yet it is significant that two books by this author are in their HUNDRED AND TENTH THOUSAND, and numbers of them well into their SEVENTIETH THOUSAND, whilst the one which a Frenchman recently described as "Monsieur France's most arid book" is in its FIFTY-EIGHTH THOUSAND. ¶ Inasmuch as M. FRANCE'S ONLY contribution to an English periodical appeared in THE YELLOW BOOK, vol. v., April 1895, together with the first important English appreciation of his work from the pen of the Hon. Maurice Baring, it is peculiarly appropriate that the English edition of his works should be issued from the Bodley Head. * * * * * ORDER FORM _________________________________________________ 190 _To Mr._ _________________________________________ _Bookseller_ _Please send me the following works of Anatole France to be issued in June and July:_ THE RED LILY MOTHER OF PEARL THE GARDEN OF EPICURUS THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD _for which I enclose_ _______________________________________ _Name_ _____________________________________________________ _Address_ __________________________________________________ JOHN LANE, PUBLISHER, THE BODLEY HEAD, VIGO ST. LONDON, W. * * * * * _NOTICE_ _Those who possess old letters, documents, correspondence, MSS., scraps of autobiography, and also miniatures and portraits, relating to persons and matters historical, literary, political and social, should communicate with Mr. John Lane, The Bodley Head, Vigo Street, London, W., who will at all times be pleased to give his advice and assistance, either as to their preservation or publication._ * * * * * LIVING MASTERS OF MUSIC An Illustrated Series of Monographs dealing with Contemporary Musical Life, and including Representatives of all Branches of the Art. Edited by ROSA NEWMARCH. Crown 8vo. Cloth. 2_s._ 6_d._ net each volume. HENRY J. WOOD. By ROSA NEWMARCH. SIR EDWARD ELGAR. By R.J. BUCKLEY. JOSEPH JOACHIM. By J.A. FULLER MAITLAND. EDWARD MACDOWELL. By L. GILMAN. EDVARD GRIEG. By H.T. FINCK. THEODOR LESCHETIZKY. By A. HULLAH. GIACOMO PUCCINI. By WAKELING DRY. ALFRED BRUNEAU. By ARTHUR HERVEY. IGNAZ PADEREWSKI. By E.A. BAUGHAN. _The following Volumes are in preparation:_ RICHARD STRAUSS. By A. KALISCH. CLAUDE DEBUSSY. By Franz Liebich. STARS OF THE STAGE A Series of Illustrated Biographies of the Leading Actors, Actresses, and Dramatists. Edited by J.T. GREIN. Crown 8vo. 2_s._ 6_d._ each net. [Symbol: asterism] _It was Schiller who said: "Twine no wreath for the actor, since his work is oral and ephemeral." "Stars of the Stage" may in some degree remove this reproach. There are hundreds of thousands of playgoers, and both editor and publisher think it reasonable to assume that a considerable number of these would like to know something about actors, actresses, and dramatists, whose work they nightly applaud. Each volume will be carefully illustrated, and as far as text, printing, and paper are concerned will be a notable book. Great care has been taken in selecting the biographers, who in most cases have already accumulated much appropriate material._ _First Volumes._ ELLEN TERRY. By CHRISTOPHER ST. JOHN. HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE. By MRS. GEORGE CRAN. W.S. GILBERT. By EDITH A. BROWNE. CHAS. WYNDHAM. By FLORENCE TEIGNMOUTH SHORE. GEORGE BERNARD SHAW. By G.K. CHESTERTON. * * * * * _A CATALOGUE OF MEMOIRS, BIOGRAPHIES, ETC._ _WORKS UPON NAPOLEON_ NAPOLEON & THE INVASION OF ENGLAND: The Story of the Great Terror, 1797-1805. By H.F.B. WHEELER and A.M. BROADLEY. With upwards of 100 Full-page Illustrations reproduced from Contemporary Portraits, Prints, etc.; eight in Colour. Two Volumes. 32_s._ net. _Outlook._--"The book is not merely one to be ordered from the library; it should be purchased, kept on an accessible shelf, and constantly studied by all Englishmen who love England." _Westminster Gazette._--"Messrs. Wheeler and Broadley have succeeded in producing a work on the threatened invasion of England by Napoleon, which treats of the subject with a fulness of detail and a completeness of documentary evidence that are unexampled." DUMOURIEZ AND THE DEFENCE OF ENGLAND AGAINST NAPOLEON. By J. HOLLAND ROSE, Litt.D. (Cantab.), Author of "The Life of Napoleon," and A.M. BROADLEY, joint-author of "Napoleon and the Invasion of England." Illustrated with numerous Portraits, Maps, and Facsimiles. Demy 8vo. 21_s._ net. THE FALL OF NAPOLEON. By OSCAR BROWNING, M.A., Author of "The Boyhood and Youth of Napoleon." With numerous Full-page Illustrations. Demy 8vo (9 × 5-3/4 inches). 12_s._ 6_d._ net. _Spectator._--"Without doubt Mr. Oscar Browning has produced a book which should have its place in any library of Napoleonic literature." _Truth._--"Mr. Oscar Browning has made not the least, but the most of the romantic material at his command for the story of the fall of the greatest figure in history." THE BOYHOOD & YOUTH OF NAPOLEON, 1769-1793. Some Chapters on the early life of Bonaparte. By OSCAR BROWNING, M.A. With numerous Illustrations, Portraits, etc. Crown 8vo. 5_s._ net. _Daily News._--"Mr. Browning has with patience, labour, careful study, and excellent taste given us a very valuable work, which will add materially to the literature on this most fascinating of human personalities." _Literary World._--"... Mr. Browning has examined all the available sources of information and carefully weighed his historical evidence. His discriminating treatment has resulted in a book that is ... one that arrests attention by the conviction its reasoned conclusions carry." THE DUKE OF REICHSTADT (NAPOLEON II.) By EDWARD DE WERTHEIMER. Translated from the German. With numerous Illustrations. Demy 8vo. 21_s._ net. (Second Edition.) _Times._--"A most careful and interesting work which presents the first complete and authoritative account of the life of this unfortunate Prince." _Westminster Gazette._--"This book, admirably produced, reinforced by many additional portraits, is a solid contribution to history and a monument of patient, well-applied research." NAPOLEON'S CONQUEST OF PRUSSIA, 1806. By F. LORAINE PETRE. With an Introduction by FIELD-MARSHAL EARL ROBERTS, V.C., K.G., etc. With Maps, Battle Plans, Portraits, and 16 Full-page Illustrations. Demy 8vo (9 × 5-3/4 inches). 12_s._ 6_d._ net. _Scotsman._--"Neither too concise, nor too diffuse, the book is eminently readable. It is the best work in English on a somewhat circumscribed subject." _Outlook._--"Mr. Petre has visited the battlefields and read everything, and his monograph is a model of what military history, handled with enthusiasm and literary ability, can be." NAPOLEON'S CAMPAIGN IN POLAND, 1806-1807. A Military History of Napoleon's First War with Russia, verified from unpublished official documents. By F. LORAINE PETRE. With 16 Full-page Illustrations, Maps, and Plans. New Edition. Demy 8vo (9 × 5-3/4 inches). 12_s._ 6_d._ net. _Army and Navy Chronicle._--"We welcome a second edition of this valuable work.... Mr. Loraine Petre is an authority on the wars of the great Napoleon, and has brought the greatest care and energy into his studies of the subject." NAPOLEON AND THE ARCHDUKE CHARLES. A History of the Franco-Austrian Campaign in the Valley of the Danube in 1809. By F. LORAINE PETRE. With 8 Illustrations and 6 sheets of Maps and Plans. Demy 8vo (9 × 5-3/4 inches). 12_s._ 6_d._ net. RALPH HEATHCOTE. Letters of a Diplomatist During the Time of Napoleon, Giving an Account of the Dispute between the Emperor and the Elector of Hesse. By COUNTESS GÜNTHER GRÖBEN. With Numerous Illustrations. Demy 8vo (9 × 5-3/4 inches). 12_s._ 6_d._ net. [Symbol: asterism] _Ralph Heathcote, the son of an English father and an Alsatian mother, was for some time in the English diplomatic service as first secretary to Mr. Brook Taylor, minister at the Court of Hesse, and on one occasion found himself very near to making history. Napoleon became persuaded that Taylor was implicated in a plot to procure his assassination, and insisted on his dismissal from the Hessian Court. As Taylor refused to be dismissed, the incident at one time seemed likely to result to the Elector in the loss of his throne. Heathcote came into contact with a number of notable people, including the Miss Berrys, with whom he assures his mother he is not in love. On the whole, there is much interesting material for lovers of old letters and journals._ MEMOIRS OF THE COUNT DE CARTRIE. A record of the extraordinary events in the life of a French Royalist during the war in La Vendée, and of his flight to Southampton, where he followed the humble occupation of gardener. With an introduction by FRÉDÉRIC MASSON, Appendices and Notes by PIERRE AMÉDÉE PICHOT, and other hands, and numerous Illustrations, including a Photogravure Portrait of the Author. Demy 8vo. 12_s._ 6_d._ net. _Daily News._--"We have seldom met with a human document which has interested us so much." _Athenæum._--"As a record of personal suffering and indomitable perseverance against opposing circumstances the narrative of De Cartrie's escape to the Eastern frontier, in the disguise of a master-gunner, could not easily be surpassed." WOMEN OF THE SECOND EMPIRE. Chronicles of the Court of Napoleon III. By FRÉDÉRIC LOLIÉE. With an introduction by RICHARD WHITEING and 53 full-page Illustrations, 3 in Photogravure. Demy 8vo. 21_s._ net. _Standard._--"M. Frédéric Loliée has written a remarkable book, vivid and pitiless in its description of the intrigue and dare-devil spirit which flourished unchecked at the French Court.... Mr. Richard Whiteing's introduction is written with restraint and dignity." _Daily Telegraph._--"It is a really fascinating story, or series of stories, set forth in this volume.... Here are anecdotes innumerable of the brilliant women of the Second Empire, so that in reading the book we are not only dazzled by the beauty and gorgeousness of everything, but we are entertained by the record of things said and done, and through all we are conscious of the coming 'gloom and doom' so soon to overtake the Court. Few novels possess the fascination of this spirited work, and many readers will hope that the author will carry out his proposal of giving us a further series of memories of the 'Women of the Second Empire.'" LOUIS NAPOLEON AND THE GENESIS OF THE SECOND EMPIRE. By F.H. CHEETHAM. With Numerous Illustrations. Demy 8vo (9 × 5-3/4 inches). 16_s._ net. MEMOIRS OF MADEMOISELLE DES ÉCHEROLLES. Translated from the French by MARIE CLOTHILDE BALFOUR. With an Introduction by G.K. FORTESCUE, Portraits, etc. 5_s._ net. _Liverpool Mercury._--"... this absorbing book.... The work has a very decided historical value. The translation is excellent, and quite notable in the preservation of idiom." JANE AUSTEN'S SAILOR BROTHERS. Being the life and Adventures of Sir Francis Austen, G.C.B., Admiral of the Fleet, and Rear-Admiral Charles Austen. By J.H. and E.C. HUBBACK. With numerous Illustrations. Demy 8vo. 12_s._ 6_d._ net. _Morning Post._--"... May be welcomed as an important addition to Austeniana ...; it is besides valuable for its glimpses of life in the Navy, its illustrations of the feelings and sentiments of naval officers during the period that preceded and that which followed the great battle of just one century ago, the battle which won so much but which cost us--Nelson." SOME WOMEN LOVING AND LUCKLESS. By TEODOR DE WYZEWA. Translated from the French by C.H. JEFFRESON, M.A. With Numerous Illustrations. Demy 8vo (9 × 5-3/4 inches). 7_s._ 6_d._ net. POETRY AND PROGRESS IN RUSSIA. By ROSA NEWMARCH. With 6 full-page Portraits. Demy 8vo. 7_s._ 6_d._ net. _Standard._--"Distinctly a book that should be read ... pleasantly written and well informed." THE LIFE OF PETER ILICH TCHAIKOVSKY (1840-1893). By his Brother, MODESTE TCHAIKOVSKY. Edited and abridged from the Russian and German Editions by ROSA NEWMARCH. With Numerous Illustrations and Facsimiles and an Introduction by the Editor. Demy 8vo. 7_s._ 6_d._ net. Second edition. _The Times._--"A most illuminating commentary on Tchaikovsky's music." _World._--"One of the most fascinating self-revelations by an artist which has been given to the world. The translation is excellent, and worth reading for its own sake." _Contemporary Review._--"The book's appeal is, of course, primarily to the music-lover; but there is so much of human and literary interest in it, such intimate revelation of a singularly interesting personality, that many who have never come under the spell of the Pathetic Symphony will be strongly attracted by what is virtually the spiritual autobiography of its composer. High praise is due to the translator and editor for the literary skill with which she has prepared the English version of this fascinating work.... There have been few collections of letters published within recent years that give so vivid a portrait of the writer as that presented to us in these pages." COKE OF NORFOLK AND HIS FRIENDS: The Life of Thomas William Coke, First Earl of Leicester of the second creation, containing an account of his Ancestry, Surroundings, Public Services, and Private Friendships, and including many Unpublished Letters from Noted Men of his day, English and American. By A.M.W. STIRLING. With 20 Photogravure and upwards of 40 other Illustrations reproduced from Contemporary Portraits, Prints, etc. Demy 8vo. 2 vols. 32_s._ net. _The Times._--"We thank Mr. Stirling for one of the most interesting memoirs of recent years." _Daily Telegraph._--"A very remarkable literary performance. Mrs. Stirling has achieved a resurrection. She has fashioned a picture of a dead and forgotten past and brought before our eyes with the vividness of breathing existence the life of our English ancestors of the eighteenth century." _Pall Mall Gazette._--"A work of no common interest; in fact, a work which may almost be called unique." _Evening-Standard._--"One of the most interesting biographies we have read for years." THE LIFE OF SIR HALLIDAY MACARTNEY, K.C.M.G., Commander of Li Hung Chang's trained force in the Taeping Rebellion, founder of the first Chinese Arsenal, Secretary to the first Chinese Embassy to Europe. Secretary and Councillor to the Chinese Legation in London for thirty years. By DEMETRIUS C. BOULGER, Author of the "History of China," the "Life of Gordon," etc. With Illustrations. Demy 8vo. Price 24_s._ net. _Daily Graphic._--"It is safe to say that few readers will be able to put down the book without feeling the better for having read it ... not only full of personal interest, but tells us much that we never knew before on some not unimportant details." DEVONSHIRE CHARACTERS AND STRANGE EVENTS. By S. BARING-GOULD, M.A., Author of "Yorkshire Oddities," etc. With 58 Illustrations. Demy 8vo. 21_s._ net. _Daily News._--"A fascinating series ... the whole book is rich in human interest. It is by personal touches, drawn from traditions and memories, that the dead men surrounded by the curious panoply of their time, are made to live again in Mr. Baring-Gould's pages." CORNISH CHARACTERS AND STRANGE EVENTS. By S. BARING-GOULD. Demy 8vo. 16_s._ net. THE HEART OF GAMBETTA. Translated from the French of FRANCIS LAUR by VIOLETTE MONTAGU. With an Introduction by JOHN MACDONALD, Portraits and other Illustrations. Demy 8vo. 7_s._ 6_d._ net. _Daily Telegraph._--"It is Gambetta pouring out his soul to Léonie Leon, the strange, passionate, masterful demagogue, who wielded the most persuasive oratory of modern times, acknowledging his idol, his inspiration, his Egeria." THE MEMOIRS OF ANN, LADY FANSHAWE. Written by Lady Fanshawe. With Extracts from the Correspondence of Sir Richard Fanshawe. Edited by H.C. FANSHAWE. With 38 Full-page Illustrations, including four in Photogravure and one in Colour. Demy 8vo. 16_s._ net. [Symbol: asterism] _This Edition has been printed direct from the original manuscript in the possession of the Fanshawe Family, and Mr. H.C. Fanshawe contributes numerous notes which form a running commentary on the text. Many famous pictures are reproduced, including paintings by Velazquez and Van Dyck._ THE DIARY OF A LADY-IN-WAITING. By LADY CHARLOTTE BURY. Being the Diary Illustrative of the Times of George the Fourth. Interspersed with original Letters from the late Queen Caroline and from various other distinguished persons. New edition. Edited, with an Introduction, by A. FRANCIS STEUART. With numerous portraits. Two Vols. Demy 8vo. 21_s._ net. [Symbol: asterism] _This book, which appeared anonymously in 1838, created an enormous sensation, and was fiercely criticised by Thackeray and in the Reviews of the time. There is no doubt that it was founded on the diary of Lady Charlotte Bury, daughter of the 5th Duke of Argyll, and Lady-in-Waiting to the unfortunate Caroline of Brunswick, when Princess of Wales. It deals, therefore, with the curious Court of the latter and with the scandals that occurred there, as well as with the strange vagaries of the Princess abroad. In this edition names left blank in the original have been (where possible) filled up, and many notes are given by the Editor to render it useful to the ever-increasing number of readers interested in the later Georgian Period._ THE DAUGHTER OF LOUIS XVI.: Marie-Thérèse-Charlotte of France, Duchesse D'Angoulême. By G. LENOTRE. With 13 Full-page Illustrations. Demy 8vo. 10_s._ 6_d._ net. [Symbol: asterism] _M.G. Lenotre is perhaps the most widely read of a group of modern French writers who have succeeded in treating history from a point of view at once scientific, dramatic and popular. He has made the Revolution his particular field of research, and deals not only with the most prominent figures of that period, but with many minor characters whose life-stories are quite as thrilling as anything in fiction. The localities in which these dramas were enacted are vividly brought before us in his works, for no one has reconstructed 18th century Paris with more picturesque and accurate detail. "The Daughter of Louis XVI." is quite equal in interest and literary merit to any of the volumes which have preceded it, not excepting the famous Drama of Varennes. As usual, M. Lenotre draws his material largely from contemporary documents, and among the most remarkable memoirs reproduced in this book are "The Story of my Visit to the Temple" by Harmand de la Meuse, and the artless, but profoundly touching narrative of the unhappy orphaned Princess: "A manuscript written by Marie Thérèse Charlotte of France upon the captivity of the Princes and Princesses, her relatives, imprisoned in the Temple." The illustrations are a feature of the volume and include the so-called "telescope" portrait of the Princess, sketched from life by an anonymous artist, stationed at a window opposite her prison in the tower of the Temple._ THE TRUE STORY OF MY LIFE: an Autobiography by ALICE M. DIEHL, Novelist, Writer, and Musician. Demy 8vo. 10_s._ 6_d._ net. _Daily Chronicle._--"This work ... has the introspective touch, intimate and revealing, which autobiography, if it is to be worth anything, should have. Mrs. Diehl's pages have reality, a living throb, and so are indeed autobiography." HUBERT AND JOHN VAN EYCK: Their Life and Work. By W.H. JAMES WEALE. With 41 Photogravure and 95 Black and White Reproductions. Royal 4to. £5 5_s._ net. SIR MARTIN CONWAY'S NOTE. _Nearly half a century has passed since Mr. W.H. James Weale, then resident at Bruges, began that long series of patient investigations into the history of Netherlandish art which was destined to earn so rich a harvest. When he began work Memlinc was still called Hemling, and was fabled to have arrived at Bruges as a wounded soldier. The van Eycks were little more than legendary heroes. Roger Van der Weyden was little more than a name. Most of the other great Netherlandish artists were either wholly forgotten or named only in connection with paintings with which they had nothing to do. Mr. Weale discovered Gerard David, and disentangled his principal works from Memlinc's, with which they were then confused. During a series of years he published in the "Beffroi," a magazine issued by himself, the many important records from ancient archives which threw a flood of light upon the whole origin and development of the early Netherlandish school. By universal admission he is hailed all over Europe as the father of this study. It is due to him in great measure that the masterpieces of that school, which by neglect were in danger of perishing fifty years ago, are now recognised as among the most priceless treasures of the Museums of Europe and the United States. The publication by him, therefore, in the ripeness of his years and experience, of the result of his studies on the van Eycks is a matter of considerable importance to students of art history. Lately, since the revived interest in the works of the Early French painters has attracted the attention of untrained speculators to the superior schools of the Low Countries, a number of wild theories have been started which cannot stand upright in the face of recorded facts. A book is now needed which will set down all those facts in full and accurate form. Fullness and accuracy are the characteristics of all Mr. Weale's work._ VINCENZO FOPPA OF BRESCIA, FOUNDER OF THE LOMBARD SCHOOL, HIS LIFE AND WORK. By CONSTANCE JOCELYN FFOULKES and MONSIGNOR RODOLFO MAJOCCHI, D.D., Rector of the Collegio Borromeo, Pavia. Based on research in the Archives of Milan, Pavia, Brescia, and Genoa, and on the study of all his known works. With over 100 Illustrations, many in Photogravure, and 100 Documents. Royal 4to. £3. 11_s._ 6_d._ net. [Symbol: asterism] _No complete Life of Vincenzo Foppa, one of the greatest of the North Italian Masters, has ever been written: an omission which seems almost inexplicable in these days of over-production in the matter of biographies of painters, and of subjects relating to the art of Italy. In Milanese territory--the sphere of Foppa's activity during many years--he was regarded by his contemporaries as unrivalled in his art, and his right to be considered the head and founder of the Lombard school is undoubted. His influence was powerful and far-reaching, extending eastwards beyond the limits of Brescian territory, and south and westwards to Liguria and Piedmont. In the Milanese district it was practically dominant for over a quarter of a century, until the coming of Leonardo da Vinci thrust Foppa and his followers into the shade, and induced him to abandon Pavia, which had been his home for more than thirty years, and to return to Brescia. The object of the authors of this book has been to present a true picture of the master's life based upon the testimony of records in Italian archives; all facts hitherto known relating to him have been brought together; all statements have been verified; and a great deal of new and unpublished material has been added. The authors have unearthed a large amount of new material relating to Foppa, one of the most interesting facts brought to light being that he lived for twenty-three years longer than was formerly supposed. The illustrations will include several pictures by Foppa hitherto unknown in the history of art, and others which have never before been published, as well as reproductions of every existing work by the master at present known._ CÉSAR FRANCK: A Study. Translated from the French of Vincent d'Indy. And with an Introduction by ROSA NEWMARCH. Demy 8vo. 7_s._ 6_d._ net. [Symbol: asterism] _There is no purer influence in modern music than that of César Franck, for many years ignored in every capacity save that of organist of Sainte-Clotilde, in Paris, but now recognised as the legitimate successor of Bach and Beethoven. His inspiration "rooted in love and faith" has contributed in a remarkable degree to the regeneration of the musical art in France and elsewhere. The now famous "Schola Cantorum," founded in Paris in 1896, by A. Guilmant, Charles Bordes and Vincent d'Indy, is the direct outcome of his influence. Among the artists who were in some sort his disciples were Paul Dukas, Chabrier, Gabriel Fauré and the great violinist Ysäye. His pupils include such gifted composers as Benoît, Augusta Holmès, Chausson, Ropartz, and d'Indy. This book, written with the devotion of a disciple and the authority of a master, leaves us with a vivid and touching impression of the saint-like composer of "The Beatitudes."_ JUNIPER HALL: Rendezvous of certain illustrious Personages during the French Revolution, including Alexander D'Arblay and Fanny Burney. Compiled by CONSTANCE HILL. With numerous Illustrations by ELLEN G. HILL, and reproductions from various Contemporary Portraits. Crown 8vo. 5_s._ net. _Daily Telegraph._--"... one of the most charming volumes published within recent years.... Miss Hill has drawn a really idyllic and graphic picture of the daily life and gossip of the stately but unfortunate dames and noblemen who found in Juniper Hall a thoroughly English home." _The Times._--"This book makes another on the long and seductive list of books that take up history just where history proper leaves off.... We have given but a faint idea of the freshness, the innocent gaiety of its pages; we can give none at all of the beauty and interest of the pictures that adorn it." _Westminster Gazette._--"Skilfully and charmingly told." JANE AUSTEN: Her Homes and Her Friends. By CONSTANCE HILL. Numerous Illustrations by ELLEN G. HILL, together with Reproductions from Old Portraits, etc. Cr. 8vo. 5_s._ net. _World._--"Miss Constance Hill has given us a thoroughly delightful book...." _Spectator._--"This book is a valuable contribution to Austen lore." _Daily Telegraph._--"Miss Constance Hill, the authoress of this charming book, has laid all devout admirers of Jane Austen and her inimitable novels under a debt of gratitude." THE HOUSE IN ST. MARTIN'S STREET. Being Chronicles of the Burney Family. By CONSTANCE HILL, Author of "Jane Austen, Her Home, and Her Friends," "Juniper Hall," etc. With numerous Illustrations by ELLEN G. HILL, and reproductions of Contemporary Portraits, etc. Demy 8vo. 21_s._ net. _World._--"This valuable and very fascinating work.... Charmingly illustrated.... Those interested in this stirring period of history and the famous folk who were Fanny Burney's friends should not fail to add 'The House in St. Martin's Street' to their collection of books." Mr. C.K. SHORTER in _Sphere_.--"Miss Hill has written a charming, an indispensable book." STORY OF THE PRINCESS DES URSINS IN SPAIN (Camarera-Mayor). By CONSTANCE HILL. With 12 Illustrations and a Photogravure Frontispiece. New Edition. Crown 8vo. 5_s._ net. _Truth._--"It is a brilliant study of the brilliant Frenchwoman who in the early years of the eighteenth century played such a remarkable part in saving the Bourbon dynasty in Spain. Miss Hill's narrative is interesting from the first page to the last, and the value of the book is enhanced by the reproductions of contemporary portraits with which it is illustrated." NEW LETTERS OF THOMAS CARLYLE. Edited and Annotated by ALEXANDER CARLYLE, with Notes and an Introduction and numerous Illustrations. In Two Volumes. Demy 8vo. 25_s._ net. _Pall Mall Gazette._--"To the portrait of the man, Thomas, these letters do really add value; we can learn to respect and to like him the more for the genuine goodness of his personality." _Morning Leader._--"These volumes open the very heart of Carlyle." _Literary World._--"It is then Carlyle, the nobly filial son, we see in these letters; Carlyle, the generous and affectionate brother, the loyal and warm-hearted friend, ... and above all, Carlyle as the tender and faithful lover of his wife." _Daily Telegraph._--"The letters are characteristic enough of the Carlyle we know: very picturesque and entertaining, full of extravagant emphasis, written, as a rule, at fever beat, eloquently rabid and emotional." THE NEMESIS OF FROUDE: a Rejoinder to "My Relations with Carlyle." By SIR JAMES CRICHTON BROWNE and ALEXANDER CARLYLE. Demy 8vo. 3_s._ 6_d._ net. _Glasgow Herald._--"... The book practically accomplishes its task of reinstating Carlyle; as an attack on Froude it is overwhelming." _Public Opinion._--"The main object of the book is to prove that Froude believed a myth and betrayed his trust. That aim has been achieved." NEW LETTERS AND MEMORIALS OF JANE WELSH CARLYLE. A Collection of hitherto Unpublished Letters. Annotated by THOMAS CARLYLE, and Edited by ALEXANDER CARLYLE, with an Introduction by Sir JAMES CRICHTON BROWNE, M.D., LL.D., F.R.S., numerous Illustrations drawn in Lithography by T.R. WAY, and Photogravure Portraits from hitherto unreproduced Originals. In Two Volumes. Demy 8vo. 25_s._ net. _Westminster Gazette._--"Few letters in the language have in such perfection the qualities which good letters should possess. Frank, gay, brilliant, indiscreet, immensely clever, whimsical, and audacious, they reveal a character which, with whatever alloy of human infirmity, must endear itself to any reader of understanding." _World._--"Throws a deal of new light on the domestic relations of the Sage of Chelsea. They also contain the full text of Mrs. Carlyle's fascinating journal, and her own 'humorous and quaintly candid' narrative of her first love-affair." _Daily News._--"Every page ... scintillates with keen thoughts, biting criticisms, flashing phrases, and touches of bright comedy." ÉMILE ZOLA: NOVELIST AND REFORMER. An Account of his Life, Work, and Influence. By E.A. VIZETELLY. With numerous Illustrations, Portraits, etc. Demy 8vo. 21_s._ net. _Morning Post._--"Mr. Ernest Vizetelly has given ... a very true insight into the aims, character, and life of the novelist." _Athenæum._--"... Exhaustive and interesting." _M.A.P._--"... will stand as the classic biography of Zola." _Star._--"This 'Life' of Zola is a very fascinating book." _Academy._--"It was inevitable that the authoritative life of Emile Zola should be from the pen of E.A. Vizetelly. No one probably has the same qualifications, and this bulky volume of nearly six hundred pages is a worthy tribute to the genius of the master." Mr. T.P. O'CONNOR in _T.P.'s Weekly._--"It is a story of fascinating interest, and is told admirably by Mr. Vizetelly. I can promise any one who takes it up that he will find it very difficult to lay it down again." MEMOIRS OF THE MARTYR KING: being a detailed record of the last two years of the Reign of His Most Sacred Majesty King Charles the First, 1646-1648-9. Compiled by ALLAN FEA. With upwards of 100 Photogravure Portraits and other Illustrations, including relics. Royal 4to. 105_s._ net. Mr. M.H. SPIELMANN in _The Academy._--"The volume is a triumph for the printer and publisher, and a solid contribution to Carolinian literature." _Pall Mall Gazette._--"The present sumptuous volume, a storehouse of eloquent associations ... comes as near to outward perfection as anything we could desire." AFTER WORCESTER FIGHT: being the Contemporary Account of King Charles II.'s escape, not included in "The Flight of the King." By ALLAN FEA. With numerous Illustrations. Demy 8vo. 15_s._ net. _Morning Post._--"The work possesses all the interest of a thrilling historical romance, the scenes of which are described by the characters themselves, in the language of the time, and forms a valuable contribution to existing Stuart literature." _Western Morning News._--"Mr. Fea has shown great industry in investigating every possible fact that has any bearing on his subject, and has succeeded in thoroughly establishing the incidents of that romantic escape." _Standard._--"... throws fresh light on one of the most romantic episodes in the annals of English History." KING MONMOUTH: being a History of the Career of James Scott, the Protestant Duke, 1649-1685. By ALLAN FEA. With 14 Photogravure Portraits, a Folding-plan of the Battle of Sedgemoor, and upwards of 100 black and white Illustrations. Demy 8vo. 21_s._ net. _Morning Post._--"The story of Monmouth's career is one of the most remarkable in the annals of English History, and Mr. Fea's volume is singularly fascinating. Not only does it supplement and correct the prejudiced though picturesque pages of Macaulay, but it seems to make the reader personally acquainted with a large number of the characters who prominently figured in the conspiracies and in the intrigues, amorous and political, when society and politics were seething in strange cauldrons." FRENCH NOVELISTS OF TO-DAY: Maurice Barres, Réné Bazin, Paul Bourget, Pierre de Coulevain, Anatole France, Pierre Loti, Marcel Prévost, and Edouard Rod. Biographical, Descriptive, and Critical. By WINIFRED STEPHENS. With Portraits and Bibliographies. Crown 8vo. 5_s._ net. [Symbol: asterism] _The writer, who has lived much in France, is thoroughly acquainted with French life and with the principal currents of French thought. The book is intended to be a guide to English readers desirous to keep in touch with the best present-day French fiction. Special attention is given to the ecclesiastical, social, and intellectual problems of contemporary France and their influence upon the works of French novelists of to-day._ THE KING'S GENERAL IN THE WEST, being the Life of Sir Richard Granville, Baronet (1600-1659). By ROGER GRANVILLE, M.A., Sub-Dean of Exeter Cathedral. With Illustrations. Demy 8vo. 10_s._ 6_d._ net. _Westminster Gazette._--"A distinctly interesting work; it will be highly appreciated by historical students as well as by ordinary readers." THE LIFE AND LETTERS OF ROBERT STEPHEN HAWKER, sometime Vicar of Morwenstow in Cornwall. By C.E. BYLES. With numerous Illustrations by J. LEY PETHYBRIDGE and others. Demy 8vo. 7_s._ 6_d._ net. _Daily Telegraph._--"... As soon as the volume is opened one finds oneself in the presence of a real original, a man of ability, genius and eccentricity, of whom one cannot know too much.... No one will read this fascinating and charmingly produced book without thanks to Mr. Byles and a desire to visit--or revisit--Morwenstow." THE LIFE OF WILLIAM BLAKE. By ALEXANDER GILCHRIST. Edited with an Introduction by W. GRAHAM ROBERTSON. Numerous Reproductions from Blake's most characteristic and remarkable designs. Demy 8vo. 10_s._ 6_d._ net. New Edition. _Birmingham Post._--"Nothing seems at all likely ever to supplant the Gilchrist biography. Mr. Swinburne praised it magnificently in his own eloquent essay on Blake, and there should be no need now to point out its entire sanity, understanding keenness of critical insight, and masterly literary style. Dealing with one of the most difficult of subjects, it ranks among the finest things of its kind that we possess." MEMOIRS OF A ROYAL CHAPLAIN, 1729-63. The correspondence of Edmund Pyle, D.D., Domestic Chaplain to George II, with Samuel Kerrich, D.D., Vicar of Dersingham, and Rector of Wolferton and West Newton. Edited and Annotated by ALBERT HARTSHORNE. With Portrait. Demy 8vo. 16_s._ net. _Truth._--"It is undoubtedly the most important book of the kind that has been published in recent years, and is certain to disturb many readers whose minds have not travelled with the time." GEORGE MEREDITH: Some Characteristics. By RICHARD LE GALLIENNE. With a Bibliography (much enlarged) by JOHN LANE. Portrait, etc. Crown 8vo. 5_s._ net. Fifth Edition. Revised. _Punch._--"All Meredithians must possess 'George Meredith; Some Characteristics,' by Richard Le Gallienne. This book is a complete and excellent guide to the novelist and the novels, a sort of Meredithian Bradshaw, with pictures of the traffic superintendent and the head office at Boxhill. Even Philistines may be won over by the blandishments of Mr. Le Gallienne." LIFE OF LORD CHESTERFIELD. An account of the Ancestry, Personal Character, and Public Services of the Fourth Earl of Chesterfield. By W.H. CRAIG, M.A. Numerous Illustrations. Demy 8vo. 12_s._ 6_d._ net. _Daily Telegraph._--"Mr. Craig has set out to present him (Lord Chesterfield) as one of the striking figures of a formative period in our modern history ... and has succeeded in giving us a very attractive biography of a remarkable man." _Times._--"It is the chief point of Mr. Craig's book to show the sterling qualities which Chesterfield was at too much pains in concealing, to reject the perishable trivialities of his character, and to exhibit him as a philosophic statesman, not inferior to any of his contemporaries, except Walpole at one end of his life, and Chatham at the other." A QUEEN OF INDISCRETIONS. The Tragedy of Caroline of Brunswick, Queen of England. From the Italian of G.P. CLERICI. Translated by FREDERIC CHAPMAN. With numerous Illustrations reproduced from contemporary Portraits and Prints. Demy 8vo. 21_s._ net. _The Daily Telegraph._--"It could scarcely be done more thoroughly or, on the whole, in better taste than is here displayed by Professor Clerici. Mr. Frederic Chapman himself contributes an uncommonly interesting and well-informed introduction." _Westminster Gazette._--"The volume, scholarly and well-informed ... forms one long and absorbingly interesting chapter of the _chronique scandaleuse_ of Court life ... reads like a romance, except that no romancer would care or dare to pack his pages so closely with startling effects and fantastic scenes." LETTERS AND JOURNALS OF SAMUEL GRIDLEY HOWE. Edited by his Daughter LAURA E. RICHARDS. With Notes and a Preface by F.B. SANBORN, an Introduction by MRS. JOHN LANE, and a Portrait. Demy 8vo (9 × 5-3/4 inches). 16_s._ net. _Outlook._--"This deeply interesting record of experience. The volume is worthily produced and contains a striking portrait of Howe." _Daily News._--"Dr. Howe's book is full of shrewd touches; it seems to be very much a part of the lively, handsome man of the portrait. His writing is striking and vivid; it is the writing of a shrewd, keen observer, intensely interested in the event before him." THE LIFE OF ST. MARY MAGDALEN. Translated from the Italian of an Unknown Fourteenth-Century Writer by VALENTINA HAWTREY. With an Introductory Note by VERNON LEE, and 14 Full-page Reproductions from the Old Masters. Crown 8vo. 5_s._ net. _Daily News._--"Miss Valentina Hawtrey has given a most excellent English version of this pleasant work." _Academy._--"The fourteenth-century fancy plays delightfully around the meagre details of the Gospel narrative, and presents the heroine in quite an unconventional light.... In its directness and artistic simplicity and its wealth of homely detail the story reads like the work of some Boccaccio of the cloister; and fourteen illustrations taken from Italian painters happily illustrate the charming text." MEN AND LETTERS. By HERBERT PAUL, M.P. Fourth Edition. Crown 8vo. 5_s._ net. _Daily News._--"Mr. Herbert Paul has done scholars and the reading world in general a high service in publishing this collection of his essays." _Punch._--"His fund of good stories is inexhaustible, and his urbanity never fails. On the whole, this book is one of the very best examples of literature on literature and life." ROBERT BROWNING: Essays and Thoughts. By J.T. NETTLESHIP. With Portrait. Crown 8vo. 5_s._ 6_d._ net. (Third Edition.) A LATER PEPYS. The Correspondence of Sir William Weller Pepys, Bart., Master in Chancery, 1758-1825, with Mrs. Chapone, Mrs. Hartley, Mrs. Montague, Hannah More, William Franks, Sir James Macdonald, Major Rennell, Sir Nathaniel Wraxall, and others. Edited, with an Introduction and Notes, by ALICE C.C. GAUSSEN. With numerous Illustrations. Demy 8vo. In Two Volumes. 32_s._ net. DOUGLAS SLADEN in the _Queen_.--"This is indisputably a most valuable contribution to the literature of the eighteenth century. It is a veritable storehouse of society gossip, the art criticism, and the _mots_ of famous people." _Academy and Literature._--"The effect consists in no particular passages, but in the total impression, the sense of atmosphere, and the general feeling that we are being introduced into the very society in which the writer moved." _Daily News._--"To Miss Alice Gaussen is due the credit of sorting out the vast collection of correspondence which is here presented to the public.... Her industry is indefatigable, and her task has been carried out with completeness. The notes are full of interesting items; the introduction is exhaustive; and the collection of illustrations enhances the value of the book." _World._--"Sir William Pepys's correspondence is admirable." ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON, AN ELEGY; AND OTHER POEMS, MAINLY PERSONAL. By RICHARD LE GALLIENNE. Crown 8vo. 4_s._ 6_d._ _net_. _Daily Chronicle._--"Few, indeed, could be more fit to sing the dirge of that 'Virgil of Prose' than the poet whose _curiosa felicitas_ is so close akin to Stevenson's own charm." _Globe._--"The opening Elegy on R.L. Stevenson includes some tender and touching passages, and has throughout the merits of sincerity and clearness." RUDYARD KIPLING: a Criticism. By RICHARD LE GALLIENNE. With a Bibliography by JOHN LANE. Crown 8vo. 3_s._ 6_d._ net. _Guardian._--"One of the cleverest pieces of criticism we have come across for a long time." _Scotsman._--"It shows a keen insight into the essential qualities of literature, and analyses Mr. Kipling's product with the skill of a craftsman ... the positive and outstanding merits of Mr. Kipling's contribution to the literature of his time are marshalled by his critic with quite uncommon skill." POEMS. By EDWARD CRACROFT LEFROY. With a Memoir by W.A. GILL, and a Reprint of Mr. J.A. SYMONDS' Critical Essay on "Echoes from Theocritus." Photogravure Portrait. Crown 8vo. 5_s._ net. _The Times._--"... the leading features of the sonnets are the writer's intense sympathy with human life in general and with young life in particular; his humour, his music, and, in a word, the quality which 'leaves a melody afloat upon the brain, a savour on the mental palate.'" _Bookman._--"The Memoir, by Mr. W.A. Gill, is a sympathetic sketch of an earnest and lovable character; and the critical estimate, by J. Addington Symonds, is a charmingly-written and suggestive essay." APOLOGIA DIFFIDENTIS. By W. COMPTON LEITH. Demy 8vo. 7_s._ 6_d._ net. [Symbol: asterism] _The book, which is largely autobiographical, describes the effect of diffidence upon an individual life, and contains, with a consideration of the nature of shyness, a plea for a kindlier judgment of the inveterate case._ _Daily Mail._--"Mr. Leith has written a very beautiful book, and perhaps the publisher's claim that this will be a new classic is not too bold." BOOKS AND PERSONALITIES: Essays. By H.W. NEVINSON. Crown 8vo. 5_s._ net. _Daily Chronicle._--"It is a remarkable thing and probably unique, that a writer of such personality as the author of 'Between the Acts' should not only feel, but boldly put on paper, his homage and complete subjection to the genius of one after another of these men. He is entirely free from that one common virtue of critics, which is superiority to the author criticised." OTIA: Essays. By ARMINE THOMAS KENT. Crown 8vo. 5_s._ net. BOOKS AND PLAYS: A Volume of Essays on Meredith, Borrow, Ibsen, and others. By ALLAN MONKHOUSE. Crown 8vo. 5_s._ net. LIBER AMORIS; or, THE NEW PYGMALION. By WILLIAM HAZLITT. Edited, with an introduction, by RICHARD LE GALLIENNE. To which is added an exact transcript of the original MS., Mrs. Hazlitt's Diary in Scotland, and Letters never before published. Portrait after BEWICK, and facsimile Letters. 400 copies only. 4to. 364 pp. Buckram. 21_s._ net. TERRORS OF THE LAW: being the Portraits of Three Lawyers--the original Weir of Hermiston, "Bloody Jeffreys," and "Bluidy Advocate Mackenzie." By FRANCIS WATT. With 3 Photogravure Portraits. Fcap. 8vo. 4_s._ 6_d._ net. _The Literary World._--"The book is altogether entertaining; it is brisk, lively, and effective. Mr. Watt has already, in his two series of 'The Law's Lumber Room,' established his place as an essayist in legal lore, and the present book will increase his reputation." CHAMPIONS OF THE FLEET. Captains and Men-of-War in the Days that Helped to make the Empire. By EDWARD FRASER. With 16 Full-page Illustrations. Crown 8vo. [Symbol: asterism] _Mr. Fraser takes in the whole range of our Navy's story. First there is the story of the "Dreadnought," told for the first time: how the name was originally selected by Elizabeth, why she chose it, the launch, how under Drake she fought against the Armada, how her captain was knighted on the quarter-deck in the presence of the enemy. From this point the name is traced down to the present leviathan which bears it. This is but one of the "champions" dealt with in Mr. Fraser's volume, which is illustrated by some very interesting reproductions._ THE LONDONS OF THE BRITISH FLEET: The Story of Ships bearing the name of Old Renown in Naval Annals. By EDWARD FRASER. With 8 Illustrations in colours, and 20 in black and white. JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD, VIGO STREET, LONDON, W. 
16504	----	RENAISSANCE IN ITALY _THE CATHOLIC REACTION_ In Two Parts BY JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS 'Deh! per Dio, donna, Se romper si potria quelle grandi ale? * * * * * Tu piangi e taci; e questo meglio parmi' SAVONAROLA: _De Ruina Ecclesia_ PART I NEW YORK HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 1887 _AUTHOR'S EDITION_ PREFACE. At the end of the second volume of my 'Renaissance in Italy' I indulged the hope that I might live to describe the phase of culture which closed that brilliant epoch. It was in truth demanded that a work pretending to display the manifold activity of the Italian genius during the 15th century and the first quarter of the 16th, should also deal with the causes which interrupted its further development upon the same lines. This study, forming a logically-necessitated supplement to the five former volumes of 'Renaissance in Italy,' I have been permitted to complete. The results are now offered to the public in these two parts. So far as it was possible, I have conducted my treatment of the Catholic Revival on a method analogous to that adopted for the Renaissance. I found it, however, needful to enter more minutely into details regarding facts and institutions connected with the main theme of national culture. The Catholic Revival was by its nature reactionary. In order to explain its influences, I have been compelled to analyze the position of Spain in the Italian peninsula, the conduct of the Tridentine Council, the specific organization of the Holy Office and the Company of Jesus, and the state of society upon which those forces were brought to bear. In the list of books which follows these prefatory remarks, I have indicated the most important of the sources used by me. Special references will be made in their proper places to works of a subordinate value for the purposes of my inquiry. DAVOS PLATZ: _July_ 1886. _WORKS COMMONLY REFERRED TO IN THE TWO SUCCEEDING VOLUMES OF THIS BOOK_. SISMONDI.--Histoire des Republiques Italiennes du Moyen Age. RANKE.--History of the Popes. 3 vols. English edition: Bohn. CREIGHTON.--History of the Papacy during the Reformation. 2 vols. Macmillan. BOTTA.--Storia d'Italia. Continuata da quella del Guicciardini sino al 1789. FERRARI.--Rivoluzioni d'Italia. 3 vols. QUINET.--Les Revolutions d'Italie. GALLUZZI.--Storia del Granducato di Toscana. PALLAVICINI.--Storia del Concilio Tridentino. SARPI.--Storia del Concilio. Vols. 1 and 2 of Sarpi's Opere. DENNISTOUN'S Dukes of Urbino. 3 vols. ALBERI.--Relazioni degli Ambasciatori Veneti. MUTINELLI.--Storia Arcana ed Aneddotica d'Italia. Raccontata dai Veneti Ambasciatori. 4 vols. Venice. 1858. MUTINELLI.--Annali Urbani di Venezia. LITTA.--Famiglie Celebri Italiane. PHIUPPSON.--La Contre-Révolution Religieuse au XVIme Siècle Bruxelles. 1884. DEJOB.--De l'Influence du Concile de Trente. Paris. 1884. GIORDANI.--Delia Venuta e Dimora in Bologna del Sommo Pontefice Clemente VII. per la Coronazione di Carlo V., Imperatore. Bologna. 1832. BALBI.--Sommario della Storia d'Italia. CANTÙ.--Gli Eretici d'Italia. 3 vols. Torino. 1866. LLORENTE.--Histoire Critique de I'Inquisition d'Espagne. 4 vols. Paris. 1818. LAVALLÉE.--Histoire des Inquisitions Religieuses. 2 vols. Paris. 1808. MCCRIE.--History of the Reformation in Italy. Edinburgh. 1827. TIRABOSCHI.--Storia della Letteratura Italiana. DE SANCTIS.--Storia della Letteratura Italiana. 2 vols. SETTEMBRINI.--Storia della Letteratura Italiana. 3 vols. CANTÙ.--Storia della Letteratura Italiana. Decreta, etc., Societatis Jesu. Avignon. 1827. CANTÙ.--Storia della Diocesi di Como. 2 vols. DANDOLO.--La Signora di Monza e le Streghe del Tirolo. Milano. 1855. BONGHI.--Storia di Lucrezia Buonvisi. Lucca. 1864. Archivio Storico Italiano. BANDI LUCCHESI.--Bologna: Romagnoli. 1863. BERTOLOTTI.--Francesco Cenci e la sua Famiglia. Firenze. 1877. GNOLI.--Vittoria Accoramboni. Firenze: Le Monnier. 1870. DAELLI.--Lorenzino de'Medici. Milano. 1862. DE STENDHAL.--Chroniques et Nouvelles. Paris. 1855. GIORDANO BRUNO.--Opere Italiane (Wagner). 2 vols. Leipzig. 1830. JORDANUS BRUNUS.--Opera Latina. 2 vols. Neapoli. 1879. BRUNO.--Scripta Latina (Gförer). Stuttgart. 1836. BERTI.--Vita di Giordano Bruno. Firenze, Torino, Milano. 1868. BRUNNHOFER.--Giordano Bruno's Weltanschauung und Verhangniss. Leipzig. 1882. PAOLO SARPI.--Opere. 6 vols. Helmstat. 1765. FRA FULGENZIO MICANZI--Vita del Sarpi. BIANCHI GIOVINI.--Biografia di Fra Paolo Sarpi. 2 vols. Bruxelles. 1836. Lettere di Fra Paolo Sarpi. 2 vols. Firenze. 1863. CAMPBELL.--Life of Fra Paolo Sarpi. London: Molini and Green. 1869 DEJOB.--Marc-Antoine Muret. Paris: Thorin. 1881. CHRISTIE.--Etienne Dolet. London: Macmillan. 1880. RENOUARD.--Imprimerie des Aides. TORQUATO TASSO.--Opere. Ed. Rosini. 33 vols. Pisa. 1822 and on. _WORKS REFERRED TO IN THIS BOOK_. TASSO.--Le Lettere. Ed. Guasti. 5 vols. Firenze. 1855. CECCHI.--T. Tasso e la Vita Italiana. Firenze. 1877. CECCHI.--T. Tasso. Il Pensiero e le Belle Lettere, etc. Firenze. 1877. D'OVIDIO.--Saggi Critici. Napoli. 1878. MANSO.--Vita di T. Tasso, in Rosini's edition, vol. 33. ROSINI.--Saggio sugli Amori di T. Tasso, in edition cited above, vol. 33. GUARINI.--Il Pastor Fido. Ed. Casella. Firenze: Barbèra. 1866. MARINO.--Adone, etc. Napoli. 1861. CHIABRERA.--Ed. Polidori. Firenze: Barbèra. 1865. TASSONI.--La Secchia Rapita. Ed. Carducci. Firenze: Barbèra 1861. Il Parnaso Italiano. BAINI.--Vita di G. P. L. Palestrina. FELSINA PITTRICE.--2 vols. Bologna. 1841. LANZI.--History of Painting in Italy. English Edition. London. Bohn. Vol. 3. CONTENTS OF THE FIRST VOLUME. CHAPTER I. THE SPANISH HEGEMONY. Italy in the Renaissance--The Five Great Powers--The Kingdom of Naples--The Papacy--The Duchy of Milan--Venice--The Florentine Republic--Wars of Invasion closed by the Sack of Rome in 1527--Concordat between Clement VII. and Charles V.--Treaty of Barcelona and Paix des Dames--Charles lands at Genoa--His Journey to Bologna--Entrance into Bologna and Reception by Clement--Mustering of Italian Princes--Franceso Sforza replaced in the Duchy of Milan--Venetian Embassy--Italian League signed on Christmas Eve 1529--Florence alone excluded--The Siege of Florence pressed by the Prince of Orange--Charles's Coronation as King of Italy and Holy Roman Emperor--The Significance of this Ceremony at Bologna--Ceremony in S. Petronio--Settlement of the Duchy of Ferrara--Men of Letters and Arts at Bologna--The Emperor's Use of the Spanish Habit--Charles and Clement leave Bologna in March 1530--Review of the Settlement of Italy affected by Emperor and Pope--Extinction of Republics--Subsequent Absorption of Ferrara and Urbino into the Papal States--Savoy becomes an Italian Power--Period between Charles's Coronation and the Peace of Cateau Cambresis in 1559--Economical and Social Condition of the Italians under Spanish Hegemony--The Nation still exists in Separate Communities--Intellectual Conditions--Predominance of Spain and Rome--Both Cosmopolitan Powers--Leveling down of the Component Portions of the Nation in a Common Servitude--The Evils of Spanish Rule CHAPTER II. THE PAPACY AND THE TRIDENTINE COUNCIL. The Counter-Reformation--Its Intellectual and Moral Character--Causes of the Gradual Extinction of Renaissance Energy--Transition from the Renaissance to the Catholic Revival--New Religious Spirit in Italy--Attitude of Italians toward German Reformation--Oratory of Divine Love--Gasparo Contarini and the Moderate Reformers--New Religious Orders--Paul III.--His early History and Education--Political Attitude between France and Spain--Creation of the Duchy of Parma--Imminence of a General Council--Review of previous Councils--Paul's Uneasiness--Opens a Council at Trent in 1542--Protestants virtually excluded, and Catholic Dogmas confirmed in the first Sessions--Death of Paul in 1549--Julius III.--Paul IV.--Character and Ruling Passions of G. P. Caraffa--His Futile Opposition to Spain--Tyranny of His Nephews--Their Downfall--Paul devotes himself to Church Reform and the Inquisition--Pius IV.--His Minister Morone--Diplomatic Temper of this Pope--His Management of the Council--Assistance rendered by his Nephew Carlo Borromeo--Alarming State of Northern Europe--The Council reopened at Trent in 1562--Subsequent History of the Council--It closes with a complete Papal Triumph in 1563--Place of Pius IV. in History--Pius V.--The Inquisitor Pope--Population of Rome--Social Corruption--Sale of Offices and Justice--Tridentine Reforms depress Wealth--Ascetic Purity of Manners becomes fashionable--Catholic Reaction generates the Counter-Reformation--Battle of Lepanto--Gregory XIII.--His Relatives--Policy of enriching the Church at Expense of the Barons--Brigandage in States of the Church--Sixtus V.--His Stern Justice--Rigid Economy--Great Public Works--Taxation--The City of Rome assumes its present form--Nepotism in the Counter-Reformation Period--Various Estimates of the Wealth accumulated by Papal Nephews--Rise of Princely Roman Families CHAPTER III. THE INQUISITION AND THE INDEX. Different Spirit in the Holy Office and the Company of Jesus--Both needed by the Counter-Reformation--Heresy in the Early Church--First Origins of the Inquisition in 1203--S. Dominic--The Holy Office becomes a Dominican Institution--Recognized by the Empire--Its early Organization--The Spanish Inquisition--Founded in 1484--How it differed from the earlier Apostolical Inquisition--Jews, Moors, New Christians--Organization and History of the Holy Office in Spain--Torquemada and his Successors--The Spanish Inquisition never introduced into Italy--How the Roman Inquisition organized by Caraffa differed from it--_Autos da fé_ in Rome--Proscription of suspected Lutherans--The Calabrian Waldenses--Protestants at Locarno and Venice--Digression on the Venetian Holy Office--Persecution of Free Thought in Literature--Growth of the Index Librorum Prohibitorum--Sanction given to it by the Council of Trent--The Roman Congregation of the Index--Final Form of the Censorship of Books under Clement VIII.--Analysis of its Regulations--Proscription of Heretical Books--Correction of Texts--Purgation and Castration--Inquisitorial and Episcopal Licenses--Working of the System of this Censorship in Italy--Its long Delays--Hostility to Sound Learning--Ignorance of the Censors--Interference with Scholars in their Work--Terrorism of Booksellers--Vatican Scheme for the Restoration of Christian Erudition--Frustrated by the Tyranny of the Index--Dishonesty of the Vatican Scholars--Biblical Studies rendered nugatory by the Tridentine Decree on the Vulgate--Decline of Learning in Universities--Miserable Servitude of Professors--Greek dies out--Muretus and Manutius in Rome--The Index and its Treatment of Political Works--Machiavelli--_Ratio Status_--Encouragement of Literature on Papal Absolutism--Sarpi's Attitude--Comparative Indifference of Rome to Books of Obscene or Immoral Tendency--Bandello and Boccaccio--Papal Attempts to control Intercourse of Italians with Heretics CHAPTER IV. THE COMPANY OF JESUS. Vast Importance of the Jesuits in the Counter-Reformation--Ignatius Loyola--His Youth--Retreat at Manresa--Journey to Jerusalem--Studies in Spain and Paris--First Formation of his Order at Sainte Barbe--Sojourn at Venice--Settlement at Rome--Papal Recognition of the Order--Its Military Character--Absolutism of the General--Devotion to the Roman Church--Choice of Members--Practical and Positive Aims of the Founder--Exclusion of the Ascetic, Acceptance of the Worldly Spirit--Review of the Order's Rapid Extension over Europe--Loyola's Dealings with his Chief Lieutenants--Propaganda--The Virtue of Obedience--The _Exercitia Spiritualia_--Materialistic Imagination--Intensity and Superficiality of Religious Training--The Status of the Novice--Temporal Coadjutors--Scholastics--Professed of the Three Vows--Professed of the Four Vows--The General--Control exercised over him by his Assistants--His Relation to the General Congregation--Espionage a Part of the Jesuit System--Advantageous Position of a Contented Jesuit--The Vow of Poverty--Houses of the Professed and Colleges--The Constitutions and Declarations--Problem of the _Monita Secreta_--Reciprocal Relations of Rome and the Company--Characteristics of Jesuit Education--Direction of Consciences--Moral Laxity--Sarpi's Critique--Casuistry--Interference in Affairs of State--Instigation to Regicide and Political Conspiracy--Theories of Church Supremacy--Insurgence of the European Nations against the Company CHAPTER V. SOCIAL AND DOMESTIC MORALS I PART I. How did the Catholic Revival affect Italian Society?--Difficulty of Answering this Question--Frequency of Private Crimes of Violence--Homicides and Bandits--Savage Criminal Justice--Paid Assassins--Toleration of Outlaws--Honorable Murder--Example of the Lucchese Army--State of the Convents--The History of Virginia de Leyva--Lucrezia Buonvisi--The True Tale of the Cenci--The Brothers of the House of Massimo--Vittoria Accoramboni--The Duchess of Palliano--Wife-Murders--The Family of Medici CHAPTER VI. SOCIAL AND DOMESTIC MORALS: PART II. Tales illustrative of Bravi and Banditti--Cecco Bibboni--Ambrogio Tremazzi--Lodovico dall'Armi--Brigandage--Piracy--Plagues--The Plagues of Milan, Venice, Piedmont--Persecution of the Untori--Moral State of the Proletariate--Witchcraft--Its Italian Features--History of Giacomo Centini RENAISSANCE IN ITALY. CHAPTER I. THE SPANISH HEGEMONY. Italy in the Renaissance--The Five Great Powers--The Kingdom of Naples--The Papacy--The Duchy of Milan--Venice--The Florentine Republic--Wars of Invasion closed by the Sack of Rome in 1527--Concordat between Clement VII. and Charles V.--Treaty of Barcelona and Paix des Dames--Charles lands at Genoa--His Journey to Bologna--Entrance into Bologna and Reception by Clement--Mustering of Italian Princes--Francesco Sforza replaced in the Duchy of Milan--Venetian Embassy--Italian League signed on Christmas Eve, 1529--Florence alone excluded--The Siege of Florence pressed by the Prince of Orange--Charles's Coronation as King of Italy and Holy Roman Emperor--The Significance of this Ceremony at Bologna--Ceremony in S. Petronio--Settlement of the Duchy of Ferrara--Men of Letters and Arts at Bologna--The Emperor's Use of the Spanish Habit--Charles and Clement leave Bologna in March, 1530--Review of the Settlement of Italy effected by Emperor and Pope--Extinction of Republics--Subsequent Absorption of Ferrara and Urbino into the Papal States--Savoy becomes an Italian Power--Period between Charles's Coronation and the Peace of Cateau Cambresis in 1559--Economical and Social Condition of the Italians under Spanish Hegemony--The Nation still Exists in Separate Communities--Intellectual Conditions--Predominance of Spain and Rome--Both Cosmopolitan Powers--Leveling down of the Component Portions of the Nation in a Common Servitude--The Evils of Spanish Rule. In the first volume of my book on _Renaissance in Italy_ I attempted to set forth the political and social phases through which the Italians passed before their principal States fell into the hands of despots, and to explain the conditions of mutual jealousy and military feebleness which exposed those States to the assaults of foreign armies at the close of the fifteenth century. In the year 1494, when Charles VIII. of France, at Lodovico Sforza's invitation, crossed the Alps to make good his claim on Naples, the peninsula was Independent. Internal peace had prevailed for a period of nearly fifty years. An equilibrium had been established between the five great native Powers, which secured the advantages of confederation and diplomatic interaction. While using the word confederation, I do not, of course, imply that anything similar to the federal union of Switzerland or of North America existed in Italy. The contrary is proved by patent facts. On a miniature scale, Italy then displayed political conditions analogous to those which now prevail in Europe. The parcels of the nation adopted different forms of self-government, sought divers foreign alliances, and owed no allegiance to any central legislative or administrative body. I therefore speak of the Italian confederation only in the same sense as Europe may now be called a confederation of kindred races. In the year 1630, when Charles V. (of Austria and Spain) was crowned Emperor at Bologna, this national independence had been irretrievably lost by the Italians. This confederation of evenly-balanced Powers was now exchanged for servitude beneath a foreign monarchy, and for subjection to a cosmopolitan elective priesthood. The history of social, intellectual, and moral conditions in Italy during the seventy years of the sixteenth century which followed Charles's coronation at Bologna, forms the subject of this work; but before entering upon these topics it will be well to devote one chapter to considering with due brevity the partition of Italy into five States in 1494, the dislocation of this order by the wars between Spain and France for supremacy, the position in which the same States found themselves respectively at the termination of those wars in 1527, and the new settlement of the peninsula effected by Charles V. in 1529-30. The five members of the Italian federation in 1494 were the kingdom of Naples, the Papacy, the Duchy of Milan, and the Republics of Venice and Florence. Round them, in various relations of amity or hostility, were grouped these minor Powers: the Republics of Genoa, Lucca, Siena; the Duchy of Ferrara, including Modena and Reggio; the Marquisates of Mantua and Montferrat; and the Duchy of Urbino. For our immediate purpose it is not worth taking separate account of the Republic of Pisa, which was practically though not thoroughly enslaved by Florence; or of the despots in the cities of Romagna, the March. Umbria, and the Patrimony of S. Peter, who were being gradually absorbed into the Papal sovereignty. Nor need we at present notice Savoy, Piemonte, and Saluzzo. Although these north-western provinces were all-important through the period of Franco-Spanish wars, inasmuch as they opened the gate of Italy to French armies, and supplied those armies with a base for military operations, the Duchy of Savoy had not yet become an exclusively Italian Power. The kingdom of Naples, on the death of Alfonso the Magnanimous in 1458, had been separated from Sicily, and passed by testamentary appointment to his natural son Ferdinand. The bastard Aragonese dynasty was Italian in its tastes and interests, though unpopular both with the barons of the realm and with the people, who in their restlessness were ready to welcome any foreign deliverer from its oppressive yoke. This state of general discontent rendered the revival of the old Angevine party, and their resort to French aid, a source of peril to the monarchy. It also served as a convenient fulcrum for the ambitious schemes of conquest which the princes of the House of Aragon in Spain began to entertain. In territorial extent the kingdom of Naples was the most considerable parcel of the Italian community. It embraced the whole of Calabria, Apulia, the Abruzzi, and the Terra di Lavoro; marching on its northern boundary with the Papal States, and having no other neighbors. But though so large and so compact a State, the semifeudal system of government which had obtained in Naples since the first conquest of the country by the Normans, the nature of its population, and the savage dynastic wars to which it had been constantly exposed, rendered it more backward in civilization than the northern and central provinces. The Papacy, after the ending of the schism and the settlement of Nicholas V. at Rome in 1447, gradually tended to become an Italian sovereignty. During the residence of the Popes at Avignon, and the weakness of the Papal See which followed in the period of the Councils (Pisa, Constance, and Basel), it had lost its hold not only on the immediate neighborhood of Rome, but also on its outlying possessions in Umbria, the Marches of Ancona, and the Exarchate of Ravenna. The great Houses of Colonna and Orsini asserted independence in their principalities. Bologna and Perugia pretended to republican government under the shadow of noble families; Bentivogli, Bracci, Baglioni. Imola, Faenza, Forlì, Rimíni, Pesaro, Urbino, Camerino, Città di Castello, obeyed the rule of tyrants, who were practically lords of these cities though they bore the titles of Papal vicars, and who maintained themselves in wealth and power by exercising the profession of _condottieri_. It was the chief object of the Popes, after they were freed from the pressing perils of General Councils, and were once more settled in their capital and recognized as sovereigns by the European Powers, to subdue their vassals and consolidate their provinces into a homogeneous kingdom. This plan was conceived and carried out by a succession of vigorous and unscrupulous Pontiffs--Sixtus IV., Alexander VI., Julius II., and Leo X.--throughout the period of distracting foreign wars which agitated Italy. They followed for the most part one line of policy, which was to place the wealth and authority of the Holy See at the disposal of their relatives, Riarios, Delia Roveres, Borgias, and Medici. Their military delegates, among whom the most efficient captain was the terrible Cesare Borgia, had full power to crush the liberties of cities, exterminate the dynasties of despots, and reduce refractory districts to the Papal sway. For these services they were rewarded with ducal and princely titles, with the administration of their conquests, and with the investiture of fiefs as vassals of the Church. The system had its obvious disadvantages. It tended to indecent nepotism; and as Pope succeeded Pope at intervals of a few years, each bent on aggrandizing his own family at the expense of those of his predecessors and the Church, the ecclesiastical States were kept in a continual ferment of expropriation and internal revolution. Yet it is difficult to conceive how a spiritual Power like the Papacy could have solved the problem set before it of becoming a substantial secular sovereignty, without recourse to this ruinous method. The Pope, a lonely man upon an ill-established throne, surrounded by rivals whom his elevation had disappointed, was compelled to rely on the strong arm of adventurers with whose interests his own were indissolubly connected. The profits of all these schemes of egotistical rapacity eventually accrued, not to the relatives of the Pontiffs; none of whom, except the Delia Roveres in Urbino, founded a permanent dynasty at this period; but to the Holy See. Julius II., for example, on his election in 1503, entered into possession of all that Cesare Borgia had attempted to grasp for his own use. He found the Orsini and Colonna humbled, Romagna reduced to submission; and he carried on the policy of conquest by trampling out the liberties of Bologna and Perugia, recovering the cities held by Venice on the coast of Ravenna, and extending his sway over Emilia. The martial energy of Julius added Parma and Piacenza to the States of the Church, and detached Modena and Reggio from the Duchy of Ferrara. These new cities were gained by force; but Julius pretended that they formed part of the Exarchate of Ravenna, which had been granted to his predecessors by Pepin and Charles the Great. He pursued the Papal line of conquest in a nobler spirit than his predecessors, not seeking to advance his relatives so much as to reinstate the Church in her dominions. But he was reckless in the means employed to secure this object. Italy was devastated by wars stirred up, and by foreign armies introduced, in order that the Pope might win a point in the great game of ecclesiastical aggrandizement. That his successor, Leo X., reverted to the former plan of carving principalities for his relatives out of the possessions of their neighbors and the Church, may be counted among the most important causes of the final ruin of Italian independence. Of the Duchy of Milan it is not necessary to speak at any great length, although the wars between France and Spain were chiefly carried on for its possession. It had been formed into a compact domain, of comparatively small extent, but of vast commercial and agricultural resources, by the two dynasties of Visconti and Sforza. In 1494 Lodovico Sforza, surnamed Il Moro, ruled Milan for his nephew, the titular Duke, whom he kept in gilded captivity, and whom he eventually murdered. In order to secure his usurped authority, this would-be Machiavelli thought it prudent to invite Charles VIII. into Italy. Charles was to assert his right to the throne of Naples. Lodovico was to be established in the Duchy of Milan. All his subsequent troubles arose from this transaction. Charles came, conquered, and returned to France, disturbing the political equilibrium of the Italian States, and founding a disastrous precedent for future foreign interference. His successor in the French kingdom, Louis XII., believed he had a title to the Duchy of Milan through his grandmother Valentina, daughter of Gian Galeazzo Visconti. The claim was not a legal one; for in the investiture of the Duchy females were excluded. It sufficed, however, to inflame the cupidity of Louis; and while he was still but Duke of Orleans, with no sure prospect of inheriting the crown of France, he seems to have indulged the fancy of annexing Milan. No sooner had he ascended the French throne than he began to act upon this ambition. He descended into Lombardy, overran the Milanese, sent Lodovico Sforza to die in a French prison, and initiated the duel between Spain and France for mastery, which ended with the capture of Francis I. at Pavia, and his final cession of all rights over Italy to Charles V. by the Treaty of Cambray. Of all the republics which had conferred luster upon Italy in its mediaeval period of prosperity Venice alone remained independent. She never submitted to a tyrant; and her government, though growing yearly more closely oligarchical, was acknowledged to be just and liberal. During the centuries of her greatest power Venice hardly ranked among Italian States. It had been her policy to confine herself to the lagoons and to the extension of her dominion over the Levant. In the fifteenth century, however, this policy was abandoned. Venice first possessed herself of Padua, by exterminating the despotic House of Carrara; next of Verona, by destroying the Scala dynasty. Subsequently, during the long dogeship of Francesco Foscari (1423-1457), she devoted herself in good earnest to the acquisition of territory upon the mainland. Then she entered as a Power of the first magnitude into the system of purely Italian politics. The Republic of S. Mark owned the sea coast of the Adriatic from Aquileia to the mouths of the Po; and her Lombard dependencies stretched as far as Bergamo westward. Her Italian neighbors were, therefore, the Duchy of Milan, the little Marquisate of Mantua, and the Duchy of Ferrara. When Constantinople fell in 1453, Venice was still more tempted to pursue this new policy of Italian aggrandizement. Meanwhile her growing empire seemed to menace the independence of less wealthy neighbors. The jealousy thus created and the cupidity which brought her into collision with Julius II. in 1508, exposed Venice to the crushing blow inflicted on her power by the combined forces of Europe in the war of the League of Cambray. From this blow, as well as from the simultaneous decline of their Oriental and Levantine commerce, the Venetians never recovered. When we turn to the Florentines, we find that at the same epoch, 1494, their ancient republican constitution had been fatally undermined by the advances of the family of Medici towards despotism. Lorenzo de'Medici, who enjoyed the credit of maintaining the equilibrium of Italy by wise diplomacy, had lately died. He left his son Piero, a hot-headed and rash young man, to control the affairs of the commonwealth, as he had previously controlled them, with a show of burgherlike equality, but with the reality of princely power. Another of his sons, Giovanni, received the honor of the Cardinalship. The one was destined to compromise the ascendency of his family in Florence for a period of eighteen years, the other was destined to re-establish that ascendency on a new and more despotic basis. Piero had not his father's prudence, and could not maintain himself in the delicate position of a commercial and civil tyrant. During the disturbances caused by the invasion of Charles VIII. he was driven with all his relatives into exile. The Medici were restored in 1512, after the battle of Ravenna, by Spanish troops, at the petition of the Cardinal Giovanni. The elevation of this man to the Papacy in 1513 enabled him to plant two of his nephews, as rulers, in Florence, and to pave the way whereby a third eventually rose to the dignity of the tiara. Clement VII. finally succeeded in rendering Florence subject to the Medici, by extinguishing the last sparks of republican opposition, and by so modifying the dynastic protectorate of his family that it was easily converted into a titular Grand Duchy. The federation of these five Powers had been artificially maintained during the half century of Italy's highest intellectual activity. That was the epoch when the Italians nearly attained to coherence as a nation, through common interests in art and humanism, and by the complicated machinery of diplomatic relations. The federation perished when foreign Powers chose Lombardy and Naples for their fields of battle. The disasters of the next thirty-three years (1494-1527) began in earnest on the day when Louis XII. claimed Milan and the Regno. He committed his first mistake by inviting Ferdinand the Catholic to share in the partition of Naples. That province was easily conquered; but Ferdinand retained the whole spoils for himself, securing a large Italian dependency and a magnificent basis of operations for the Spanish Crown. Then Louis made a second mistake by proposing to the visionary Emperor Maximilian that he should aid France in subjugating Venice. We have few instances on record of short-sighted diplomacy to match the Treaties of Granada and Blois (1501 and 1504), through which this monarch, acting rather as a Duke of Milan than a King of France, complicated his Italian schemes by the introduction of two such dangerous allies as the Austrian Emperor and the Spanish sovereign, while the heir of both was in his cradle--that fatal child of fortune Charles. The stage of Italy was now prepared for a conflict which in no wise interested her prosperous cities and industrious population. Spain, France, Germany, with their Swiss auxiliaries, had been summoned upon various pretexts to partake of the rich prey she offered. Patriots like Machiavelli perceived too late the suicidal self-indulgence which, by substituting mercenary troops for national militia, and by accustoming selfish tyrants to rely on foreign aid, had exposed the Italians defenceless to the inroads of their warlike neighbors. Whatever parts the Powers of Italy might play, the game was really in the hands of French, Spanish, and German invaders. Meanwhile the mutual jealousies and hatreds of those Powers, kept in check by no tie stronger than diplomacy, prevented them from forming any scheme of common action. One great province (Naples) had fallen into Spanish hands; another (Milan) lay open through the passes of the Alps to France. The Papacy, in the center, manipulated these two hostile foreign forces with some advantage to itself, but with ever-deepening disaster for the race. As in the days of Guelf and Ghibelline, so now again the nation was bisected. The contest between French and Spanish factions became cruel. Personal interests were substituted for principles; cross-combinations perplexed the real issues of dispute; while one sole fact emerged into distinctness--that, whatever happened, Italy must be the spoil of the victorious duelist. The practical termination of this state of things arrived in the battle of Pavia, when Francis was removed as a prisoner to Madrid, and in the sack of Rome, when the Pope was imprisoned in the Castle of S. Angelo. It was then found that the laurels and the profit of the bloody contest remained with the King of Spain. What the people suffered from the marching and countermarching of armies, from the military occupations of towns, from the desolation of rural districts, from ruinous campaigns and sanguinary battles, from the pillage of cities and the massacres of their inhabitants, can best be read in Burigozzo's _Chronicle of Milan_, in the details of the siege of Brescia and the destruction of Pavia, in the _Chronicle of Prato_, and in the several annals of the sack of Rome. The exhaustion of the country seemed complete; the spirit of the people was broken. But what soon afterwards became apparent, and what in 1527 might have been thought incredible, was that the single member of the Italian union which profited by these apocalyptic sufferings of the nation, was the Papacy. Clement VII., imprisoned in the Castle of S. Angelo, forced day and night to gaze upon his capital in flames and hear the groans of tortured Romans, emerged the only vigorous survivor of the five great Powers on whose concert Italian independence had been founded. Instead of being impaired, the position of the Papacy had been immeasurably improved. Owing to the prostration of Italy, there was now no resistance to the Pope's secular supremacy within the limits of his authorized dominion. The defeat of France and the accession of a Spanish monarch to the Empire guaranteed peace. No foreign force could levy armies or foment uprisings in the name of independence. Venice had been stunned and mutilated by the League of Cambray. Florence had been enslaved after the battle of Ravenna. Milan had been relinquished, out-worn, and depopulated, to the nominal ascendency of an impotent Sforza. Naples was a province of the Spanish monarchy. The feudal vassals and the subject cities of the Holy See had been ground and churned together by a series of revolutions unexampled even in the mediaeval history of the Italian communes. If, therefore, the Pope could come to terms with the King of Spain for the partition of supreme authority in the peninsula, they might henceforward share the mangled remains of the Italian prey at peace together. This is precisely what they resolved on doing. The basis of their agreement was laid in the Treaty of Barcelona in 1529. It was ratified and secured by the Treaty of Cambray in the same year. By the former of these compacts Charles and Clement swore friendship. Clement promised the Imperial crown and the investiture of Naples to the King of Spain. Charles agreed to reinstate the Pope in Emilia, which had been seized from Ferrara by Julius II.; to procure the restoration of Ravenna and Cervia by the Venetians; to subdue Florence to the House of Medici; and to bestow the hand of his natural daughter Margaret of Austria on Clement's bastard nephew Alessandro, who was already designated ruler of the city. By the Treaty of Cambray Francis I. relinquished his claims on Italy and abandoned his Italian supporters without conditions, receiving in exchange the possession of Burgundy. The French allies who were sacrificed on this occasion by the Most Christian to the Most Catholic Monarch consisted of the Republics of Venice and Florence, the Dukes of Milan and Ferrara, the princely Houses of Orsini and Fregosi in Rome and Genoa, together with the Angevine nobles in the realm of Naples. The Paix des Dames, as this act of capitulation was called (since it had been drawn up in private conclave by Louise of Savoy and Margaret of Austria, the mother and the aunt of the two signatories), was a virtual acknowledgment of the fact that French influence in Italy was at an end.[1] The surrender of Italy by Francis made it necessary that Charles V. should put in order the vast estates to which he now succeeded as sole master. He was, moreover, Emperor Elect; and he judged this occasion good for assuming the two crowns according to antique custom. Accordingly in July, 1529, he caused Andrea Doria to meet him at Barcelona, crossed the Mediterranean in a rough passage of fourteen days, landed at Genoa on August 12, and proceeded by Piacenza, Parma and Modena to Bologna, where Clement VII. was already awaiting him. The meeting of Charles and Clement at Bologna was so solemn an event in Italian history, and its results were so important for the several provinces of the peninsula, that I may be excused for enlarging at some length upon this episode. [Footnote 1: It is significant for the future of Italy that both the ladies who drew up this agreement were connected with Savoy. Louise, Duchess of Angoulême, was a daughter of the house. Margaret, daughter of Maximilian, was Duchess Dowager of Savoy.] With pomp and pageantry it closed an age of unrivaled intellectual splendor and of unexampled sufferings through war. By diplomacy and debate it prescribed laws for a new age of unexpected ecclesiastical energy and of national peace procured at the price of slavery. Illustrious survivors from the period of the pagan Renaissance met here with young men destined to inaugurate the Catholic Revival. The compact struck between Emperor and Pope in private conferences, laid a basis for that firm alliance between Spain and Rome which seriously influenced the destinies of Europe. Finally, this was the last occasion upon which a modern Caesar received the iron and golden crowns in Italy from the hands of a Roman Pontiff. The fortunate inheritor of Spain, the Two Sicilies, Austria and the Low Countries, who then assumed them both at the age of twenty-nine, was not only the last who wielded the Imperial insignia with imperial authority, but was also a far more formidable potentate in Italy than any of his predecessors since Charles the Great had been.[2] [Footnote 2: In what follows regarding Charles V. at Bologna I am greatly indebted to Giordani's laboriously compiled volume: _Della Venuta e Dimora in Bologna del Sommo Pont. Clemente VII. etc._ (Bologna, 1832).] That Charles should have employed the galleys of Doria for the transhipment of his person, suite, and military escort from Barcelona, deserves a word of comment. Andrea Doria had been bred in the service of the French crown, upon which Genoa was in his youth dependent. He formed a navy of decisive preponderance in the western Mediterranean, and in return for services rendered to Francis in the Neapolitan campaign of 1528, he demanded the liberation of his native city. When this was refused, Doria transferred his allegiance to the Spaniard, surprised Genoa and reinstated the republic, magnanimously refusing to secure its tyranny for himself or even to set the ducal cap upon his head. Charles invested him with the principality of Melfi and made him a Grandee of Spain. By this series of events Genoa was prepared to accept the yoke of Spanish influence and customs, which pressed so heavily in the succeeding century on Italy. Charles had a body of 2000 Spaniards already quartered at Genoa, as well as strong garrisons in the Milanese, and a force of about 7000 troops collected by the Prince of Orange from the _débris_ of the army which had plundered Rome. While he was on his road from Genoa to Bologna, this force was already moving upon Florence. He brought with him as escort some 10,000 men, counting horse and infantry. The total of the troops which obeyed his word in Italy might be computed at about 27,000, including Spanish cavalry and foot-soldiers, German lansknechts and Italian mercenaries. This large army, partly stationed in important posts of defence, partly in movement, was sufficient to make every word of his a law. The French were in no position to interfere with his arrangements. His brother Ferdinand, King of Bohemia and Hungary, was engaged in a doubtful contest with Soliman before the gates of Vienna. He was himself the most considerable potentate in Germany, then distracted by the struggles of the Reformation. Italy lay crushed and prostrate, trampled down by armies, exhausted by impost and exactions, terrorized by brutal violence. That Charles had come to speak his will and be obeyed was obvious. To greet the king on his arrival at Genoa, Clement deputed two ambassadors, the Cardinals Ercole Gonzaga and Monsignor Gianmatteo Giberti, Bishop of Verona. Gonzaga was destined to play a part of critical importance in the Tridentine Council. Giberti had made himself illustrious in the Church by the administration of his diocese on a system which anticipated the coming ecclesiastical reforms, and was already famous in the world of letters by his generous familiarity with students.[3] Three other men of high distinction and of fateful future waited on their imperial master. Of these the first was Cardinal Alessandro Farnese, who succeeded Clement in the Papacy, opened the Tridentine Council, and added a new reigning family to the Italian princes. The others were the Pope's nephews, Alessandro de'Medici, Duke of Florence designate, and his cousin the Cardinal Ippolito de'Media. Six years later, Ippolito died at Itri, poisoned by his cousin Alessandro, who was himself murdered at Florence in 1537 by another cousin, Lorenzino de'Medici. [Footnote 3: See _Ren. in It._, vol. v. p. 357.] It had been intended that Charles should travel to Bologna from Parma through Mantua, where the Marquis Federigo Gonzaga had made great preparations for his reception. But the route by Reggio and Modena was more direct; and, yielding to the solicitations of Alfonso, Duke of Ferrara, he selected this instead. One of the stipulations of the Treaty of Barcelona, it will be remembered, had been that the Emperor should restore Emilia--that is to say, the cities and territories of Modena, Reggio, and Rubbiera--to the Papacy. Clement regarded Alfonso as a contumacious vassal, although his own right to that province only rested on the force of arms by which Julius II. had detached it from the Duchy of Ferrara. It was therefore somewhat difficult for Charles to accept the duke's hospitality. But when he had once done so, Alfonso knew how to ingratiate himself so well with the arbiter of Italy, that on taking leave of his guest upon the confines of Bologna, he had already secured the success of his own cause. Great preparations, meanwhile, were being made in Bologna. The misery and destitution of the country rendered money scarce, and cast a gloom over the people. It was noticed that when Clement entered the city on October 24, none of the common folk responded to the shouts of his attendants, _Viva Papa Clemente_! The Pope and his Court, too, were in mourning. They had but recently escaped from the horrors of the Sack of Rome, and were under a vow to wear their beards unshorn in memory of their past sufferings. Yet the municipality and nobles of Bologna exerted their utmost in these bad times to render the reception of the Emperor worthy of the luster which his residence and coronation would confer upon them. Gallant guests began to flock into the city. Among these may be mentioned the brilliant Isabella d'Este, sister of Duke Alfonso, and mother of the reigning Marquis of Mantua. She arrived on November 1 with a glittering train of beautiful women, and took up her residence in the Palazzo Manzoli. Her quarters obtained no good fame in the following months; for the ladies of her suite were liberal of favors. Jousts, masquerades, street-brawls, and duels were of frequent occurrence beneath her windows--Spaniards and Italians disputing the honor of those light amours. On November 3 came Andrea Doria with his relative, the Cardinal Girolamo of that name. About the same time, Cardinal Lorenzo Campeggi, Bishop of Bologna, returned from his legation to England, where (as students of our history are well aware) he had been engaged upon the question of Henry VIII.'s divorce from Katharine of Aragon. Next day Charles arrived outside the gate, and took up his quarters in the rich convent of Certosa, which now forms the Campo Santo. He was surrounded by a multitude of ambassadors and delegates from the Bolognese magistracy, by Cardinals and ecclesiastics of all ranks, some of whom had attended him from the frontier, while others were drawn up to receive him. November 5 was a Friday, and this day was reckoned lucky by Charles. He therefore passed the night of the 4th at the Certosa, and on the following morning made his solemn entry into the city. A bodyguard of Germans, Burgundians, Spaniards, halberdiers, lansknechts, men at arms, and cannoneers, preceded him. High above these was borne the captain-general of the imperial force in Italy, the fierce and cruel Antonio de Leyva, under whose oppression Milan had been groaning. This ruthless tyrant was a martyr to gout and rheumatism. He could not ride or walk; and though he retained the whole vigor of his intellect and will, it was with difficulty that he moved his hands or head. He advanced in a litter of purple velvet, supported on the shoulders of his slaves. Among the splendid crowd of Spanish grandees who followed the troops, it is enough to mention the Grand Marshal, Don Alvaro Osorio, Marquis of Astorga, who carried a naked sword aloft. He was armed, on horseback; and his mantle of cloth of gold blazed with dolphins worked in pearls and precious stones. Next came Charles, mounted on a bay jennet, armed at all points, and holding in his hand the scepter. Twenty-four pages, chosen from the nobles of Bologna, waited on his bridle and stirrups. The train was brought up by a multitude of secular and ecclesiastical princes too numerous to record in detail. Conspicuous among them for the historian were the Count of Nassau, Albert of Brandenburg, and the Marquis Bonifazio of Montferrat, the scion of the Eastern Paleologi. As this procession defiled through the streets of Bologna, it was remarked that Charles, with true Spanish haughtiness, made no response to the acclamations of the people, except once when, passing beneath a balcony of noble ladies, he acknowledged their salute by lifting the cap from his head. Clement, surrounded by a troop of prelates, was seated to receive him on a platform raised before the church of San Petronio in the great piazza. The king dismounted opposite the Papal throne, ascended the steps beneath his canopy of gold and crimson, and knelt to kiss the Pontiff's feet. When their eyes first met, it was observed that both turned pale; for the memory of outraged Rome was in the minds of both; and Caesar, while he paid this homage to Christ's Vicar, had the load of those long months of suffering and insult on his conscience. Clement bent down, and with streaming eyes saluted him upon the cheek. Then, when Charles was still upon his knees, they exchanged a few set words referring to the purpose of their meeting and their common desire for the pacification of Christendom. After this the Emperor elect rose, seated himself for a while beside the Pope, and next, at his invitation, escorted him to the great portal of the church. On the way, he inquired after Clement's health; to which the Pope replied somewhat significantly that, after leaving Rome, it had steadily improved. He tempered this allusion to his captivity, however, by adding that his eagerness to greet his Majesty had inspired him with more than wonted strength and courage. At the doorway they parted; and the Emperor, having paid his devotions to the Sacrament and kissed the altar, was conducted to the apartments prepared for him in the Palazzo Pubblico. These were adjacent to the Pope's lodgings in the same palace, and were so arranged that the two potentates could confer in private at all times. It is worthy of remark that the negotiations for the settlement of Italy which took place during the next six months in those rooms, were conducted personally by the high contracting parties, and that none of their deliberations transpired until the result of each was made public. The whole of November 5 had been occupied in these ceremonies. It was late evening when the Emperor gained his lodgings. The few next days were ostensibly occupied in receiving visitors. Among the first of these was the unfortunate ex-queen of Naples, Isabella, widow of Frederick of Aragon, the last king of the bastard dynasty founded by Alfonso. She was living in poverty at Ferrara, under the protection of her relatives, the Este family, On the 13th came the Prince of Orange and Don Ferrante Gonzaga, from the camp before Florence. The siege had begun, but had not yet been prosecuted with the strictest vigor. During the whole time of Charles's residence at Bologna, it must be borne in mind that the siege of Florence was being pressed. Superfluous troops detached from garrison duty in the Lombard towns were drafted across the hills to Tuscany. Whatever else the Emperor might decide for his Italian subjects, this at least was certain: Florence should be restored to the Medicean tyrants, as compensation to the Pope for Roman sufferings. The Prince of Orange came to explain the state of things at Florence, where government and people seemed prepared to resist to the death. Gonzaga had private business of his own to conduct, touching his engagement to the Pope's ward, Isabella, daughter and heiress of the wealthy Vespasiano Colonna. Meanwhile, ambassadors from all the States and lordships of Italy flocked to Bologna. Great nobles from the South--Ascanio Colonna, Grand Constable of Naples; Alfonso d'Avalos, Marquis of Vasto; Giovanni Luigi Caraffa, Prince of Stigliano--took up their quarters in adjacent houses, or in the upper story of the Public Palace. The Marquis of Vasto arrests our graze for a moment. He was nephew to the Marquis of Pescara (husband of Vittoria Colonna), who had the glory of taking Francis prisoner at Pavia, and afterwards the infamy of betraying the unfortunate Girolamo Morone and his master the Duke of Milan to the resentment of the Spanish monarch. What part Pescara actually played in that dark passage of plot and counterplot remains obscure. But there is no doubt that he employed treachery, single if not double, for his own advantage. His arrogance and avowed hostility to the Italians caused his very name to be execrated; nor did his nephew, the Marquis of Vasto, differ in these respects from the more famous chief of his house. This man was also destined to obtain an evil reputation when he succeeded in 1532 to the government of Milan. Here too may be noticed the presence at Bologna of Girolamo Morone's son, who had been created Bishop of Modena in 1529. For him a remarkable fate was waiting. Condemned to the dungeons of the Inquisition as a heretic by Paul IV., rescued by Pius IV., and taken into highest favor at that Pontiff's Court, he successfully manipulated the closing of the Tridentine Council to the profit of the Papal See. Negotiations for the settlement of Italian affairs were proceeding without noise, but with continual progress, through this month. The lodgings of ambassadors and lords were so arranged in the Palazzo Pubblico that they, like their Imperial and Papal masters, could confer at all times and seasons. Every day brought some new illustrious visitor. On the 22nd arrived Federigo Gonzaga, Marquis of Mantua, who took up his quarters in immediate proximity to Charles and Clement. His business required but little management. The house of Gonzaga was already well affected to the Spanish cause, and counted several captains in the imperial army. Charles showed his favor by raising Mantua to the rank of a Duchy. It was different with the Republic of Venice and the Duke of Milan. The Emperor elect had reasons to be strongly prejudiced against them both--against Venice as the most formidable of the French allies in the last war; against Francesco Maria Sforza, as having been implicated, though obscurely, in Morone's conspiracy to drive the Spaniards from Italy and place the crown of Naples on Pescara's head. Clement took both under his protection. He had sufficient reasons to believe that the Venetians would purchase peace by the cession of their recent acquisitions on the Adriatic coast, and he knew that the pacification of Italy could not be accomplished without their aid. In effect, the Republic agreed to relinquish Cervia and Ravenna to the Pope, and their Apulian ports to Charles, engaging at the same time to pay a sum of 300,000 ducats and stipulating for an amnesty to all their agents and dependents. It is not so clear why Clement warmly espoused the cause of Sforza. That he did so is certain. He obtained a safe-conduct for the duke, and made it a point of personal favor that he should be received into the Emperor's grace. This stipulation appears to have been taken into account when the affairs of Ferrara were decided at a later date against the Papal interests. Francesco Maria Sforza appeared in Bologna on the 22nd. This unfortunate bearer of one of the most coveted titles in Europe had lately lived a prisoner in his own Castello, while the city at his doors and the fertile country round it were being subjected to cruelest outrage and oppression from Spanish, French, Swiss, and German mercenaries. He was a man ruined in health as well as fortune. Six years before this date, one of his chamberlains, Bonifazio Visconti, had given him a slight wound in the shoulder with a poisoned dagger. From this wound he never recovered; and it was pitiable to behold the broken man, unable to move or stand without support, dragging himself upon his knees to Caesar's footstool. Charles appears to have discerned that he had nothing to fear and much to gain, if he showed clemency to so powerless a suitor. Franceso was the last of his line. His health rendered it impossible that he should expect heirs; and although he subsequently married a princess of the House of Denmark, he died childless in the autumn of 1535. It was therefore determined, in compliance with the Pope's request, that Sforza should be confirmed in the Duchy of Milan. Pavia, however, was detached and given to the terrible Antonio de Leyva for his lifetime. The garrisons of Milan and Como were left in Spanish hands; and the duke promised to wring 400,000 ducats as the price of his investiture, with an additional sum of 500,000 ducats to be paid in ten yearly instalments, from his already blood-sucked people. It will be observed that money figured largely in all these high political transactions. Charles, though lord of many lands, was, even at this early stage of his career, distressed for want of cash. He rarely paid his troops, but commissioned the captains in his service to levy contributions on the provinces they occupied. The funds thus raised did not always reach the pockets of the soldiers, who subsisted as best they could by marauding. Having made these terms, Francesco Maria Sforza was received into the Imperial favor. He returned to Milan, in no sense less a prisoner than he had previously been, and with the heart-rending necessity of extorting money from his subjects at the point of Spanish swords. In exchange for the ducal title, he thus had made himself a tax-collector for his natural enemies. Secluded in the dreary chambers of his castle, assailed by the execrations of the Milanese, he may well have groaned, like Marlowe's Edward-- But what are Kings, when regiment is gone, But perfect shadows in a sunshine day? My foemen rule; I bear the name of King; I wear the crown; but am controlled by them. When he died he bequeathed his duchy to the crown of Spain. It was detached from the Empire, and became the private property of Charles and of his son, Philip II. During the month of December negotiations for the terms of peace in Italy went briskly forward. On the part of Venice, two men of the highest distinction arrived as orators. These were Pietro Bembo and Gasparo Contarini, both of whom received the honors of the Cardinalate from Paul III. on his accession. Of Bembo's place in Italian society, as the dictator of literature at this epoch, I have already sufficiently spoken in another part of my work on the Renaissance. Contarini will more than once arrest our notice in the course of this volume. Of all the Italians of the time, he was perhaps the greatest, wisest, and most sympathetic. Had it been possible to avert the breach between Catholicism and Protestantism, to curb the intolerance of Inquisitors and the ambition of Jesuits, and to guide the reform of the Church by principles of moderation and liberal piety, Contarini was the man who might have restored unity to the Church in Europe. Once, indeed, at Regensburg in 1541, he seemed upon the very point of effecting a reconciliation between the parties that were tearing Christendom asunder. But his failure was even more conspicuous than his momentary semblance of success. It was not in the temper of the times to accept a Concordat founded on however philosophical, however politic, considerations. Contarini will be remembered as a 'beautiful soul,' born out of the due moment, and by no means adequate to cope with the fierce passions that raged round him. Among Protestants he was a Catholic, and they regarded his half measures with contempt. Among Catholics he passed for a suspected Lutheran, and his writings were only tolerated after they had been subjected to rigorous castration at the hands of Papal Inquisitors.[4] On Christmas eve the ambassadors and representatives of the Italian powers met together in the chambers of Cardinal Gattinara, Grand Chancellor of the Empire, to subscribe the terms of a confederation and perpetual league for the maintenance of peace. From this important document the Florentines were excluded, as open rebels to the will of Charles and Clement. There was no justice in the rigor with which Florence was now treated. Her republican independence had hitherto been recognized, although her own internal discords exposed her to a virtual despotism. But Clement stipulated and Charles conceded, as a _sine qua non_ in the project of pacification, that Florence should be converted into a Medicean duchy. For the Duke of Ferrara, whom the Pope regarded as a contumacious vassal, and whose affairs were still the subject of debate, a place was specially reserved in the treaty. He, as I have already observed, had been taken under the Imperial protection; and a satisfactory settlement of his claims was now a mere question of time. On the evening of the same day, the Pope bestowed on Charles the Sword of the Spirit, which it was the wont of Rome to confer on the best-beloved of her secular sons at this festival. The peace was publicly proclaimed, amid universal plaudits, on the last day of the year 1529. [Footnote 4: See Ranke, vol. i. p. 153, note.] The chief affairs to be decided in the new year were the reduction of Florence to submission and the coronation of the Emperor. The month of January was passed in jousts and pastimes; ceremonial privileges were conferred on the University of Bologna; magnificent embassies from the Republic of S. Mark, glowing in senatorial robes of crimson silk, were entertained; and a singular deputation from the African court of Prester John obtained audience of the Roman Pontiff. Amid these festivities there arrived, on January 16, three delegates from Florence, who spent some weeks in fruitless efforts to obtain a hearing from the arbiters of Italy. Clement refused to deal with them, because their commonwealth was still refractory. Charles repelled them, because he wished to gratify the Pope, and knew that Florence remained staunch in her devotion to the French crown. The old proverb, 'Lilies with lilies,' the white lily of Florence united with the golden fleur-de-lys of France, had still political significance in this day of Italian degradation. Meanwhile Francis I. treated his faithful allies with lukewarm tolerance. The smaller fry of Italian potentates, worshipers of the rising sun of Spain, curried favor with their masters by insulting the republic's representatives. On their return to Florence, the ambassadors had to report a total diplomatic failure. But this, far from breaking the untamable spirit of the Signory and people, prompted them in February to new efforts of resistance and to edicts of outlawry against citizens whom they regarded as traitors to the State. Among the proscribed were Francesco Guicciardini, Roberto Acciaiuoli, Francesco Vettori, and Baccio Valori. Of these men Francesco Guicciardini, Francesco Vettori, and Baccio Valori were attendant at Bologna upon the Pope. They all adhered with fidelity to the Medicean party at this crisis of their country's fate, and all paid dearly for their loyalty. When Cosimo I., by their efforts, was established in the duchy, he made it one of his first cares to rid himself of these too faithful servants. Baccio Valori was beheaded after the battle of Montemurlo in 1537 for practice with the exiles of Filippo Strozzi's party. Francesco Guicciardini, Francesco Vettori, and Roberto Acciaiuoli died in disgrace before the year 1543--their only crime being that they had made themselves the ladder whereby a Medici had climbed into his throne, and which it was his business to upset when firmly seated. For the heroism of Florence at this moment it would be difficult to find fit words of panegyric. The republic stood alone, abandoned by France to the hot rage of Clement and the cold contempt of Charles, deserted by the powers of Italy, betrayed by lying captains, deluged on all sides with the scum of armies pouring into Tuscany from the Lombard pandemonium of war. The situation was one of impracticable difficulty. Florence could not but fall. Yet every generous heart will throb with sympathy while reading the story of that final stand for independence, in which a handful of burghers persisted, though congregated princes licked the dust from feet of Emperor and Pontiff. Charles had come to assume the iron and the golden crowns in Italy. He ought to have journeyed to Monza or to S. Ambrogio at Milan for the first, and to the Lateran in Rome for the second of these investitures. An Emperor of the Swabian House would have been compelled by precedent and superstition to observe this form. It is true that the coronation of a German prince as the successor of Lombard kings and Roman Augusti, had always been a symbolic ceremony rather than a rite which ratified genuine Imperial authority. Still the ceremony connoted many mediaeval aspirations. It was the outward sign of theories that had once exerted an ideal influence. To dissociate the two-fold sacrament from Milan and from Rome was the same as robbing it of its main virtue, the virtue of a mystical conception. It was tantamount to a demonstration that the belief in Universal Monarchy had passed away. By breaking the old rules of his investiture, Charles notified the disappearance of the mediaeval order, and proclaimed new political ideals to the world. When asked whether he would not follow custom and seek the Lombard crown in Monza, he brutally replied that he was not wont to run after crowns, but to have crowns running after him. He trampled no less on that still more venerable _religio loci_ which attached imperial rights to Rome. Together with this ancient piety, he swept the Holy Roman Empire into the dust-heap of archaic curiosities. By declaring his will to be crowned where he chose, he emphasized the modern state motto of _L'état, c'est moi_, and prepared the way for a Pope's closing of a General Council by the word _L'Eglise, c'est moi_. Charles had sufficient reasons for acting as he did. The Holy Roman Empire ever since the first event of Charles the Great's coronation, when it justified itself as a diplomatical expedient for unifying Western Christendom, had existed more or less as a shadow. Charles violated the duties which alone gave the semblance of a substance to that shadow. As King of Italy, he had desolated the Lombard realm of which he sought the title. As Emperor elect, he had ravished his bride, the Eternal City. As suitor to the Pope for both of his expected crowns, he stood responsible for the multiplied insults to which Clement had been so recently exposed. No Emperor had been more powerful since Charles the Great than this Charles V., the last who took his crowns in Italy. It was significant that he man in whose name Rome had suffered outrage, and who was about to detach Lombardy from the Empire, was by his own will invested at Bologna. The citizens of Monza were accordingly bidden to send the iron crown to Bologna. It arrived on February 20, and on the 22nd Charles received it from the hands of Clement in the chapel of the palace. The Cardinal who performed the ceremony of unction was a Fleming, William Hencheneor, who in the Sack of Rome had bought his freedom for the large sum of 40,000 crowns. On this auspicious occasion he cut off half the beard which he still wore in sign of mourning! The Duke and Duchess of Urbino made their entrance into Bologna on the same day. Francesco Maria della Rovere, Duke of Urbino, Prefect of Rome, and Captain General of the armies of the Church, was one of the most noted warriors of that time. Yet victory had rarely crowned his brows with laurels. Imitating the cautious tactics of Braccio, and emulating the fame of Fabius Cunctator, he reduced the art of war to a system of manoeuvres, and rarely risked his fortune in the field. It was chiefly due to his dilatory movements that the disaster of the Sack of Rome was not averted. He had been expelled by Leo X. from his duchy to make room for Lorenzo de'Medici, and report ran that a secret desire to witness the humiliation of a Medicean Pontiff caused him to withhold his forces from attacking the tumultuary troops of Bourbon. Francesco Maria was a man of violent temper; nineteen years before, he had murdered the Pope's Legate, Cardinal Francesco Alidosi, with his dagger, in the open streets of Bologna. His wife, Eleanora Ippolita Gonzaga, presided with grace over that brilliant and cultivated Court which Castiglione made famous by his _Cortegiano_. The Duke and Duchess survive to posterity in two masterpieces of portraiture by the hand of Titian which now adorn the Gallery of the Uffizzi. February 24, which was the anniversary of Charles's birthday, had been fixed for his coronation as Emperor in San Petronio. This church is one of the largest Gothic buildings in Italy. Its façade occupies the southern side of the piazza. The western side, on the left of the church, is taken up by the Palazzo Pubblico. In order to facilitate the passage of the Pope and Emperor with their Courts and train of princes from the palace to the cathedral, a wooden bridge wide enough to take six men abreast was constructed from an opening in the Hall of the Ancients. The bridge descended by a gradual line to the piazza, broadened out into a platform before the front of San Petronio, and then again ascended through the nave to the high altar. It was covered with blue draperies, and so arranged that the vast multitudes assembled in the square and church to see the ceremony had free access to it on all sides. On the morning of the 24th, the solemn procession issued from the palace, and defiled in order down the gangway. Clement was borne aloft by Pontifical grooms in their red liveries. He wore the tiara and a cope of state fastened by Cellini's famous stud, in which blazed the Burgundian diamond of Charles the Bold. Charles walked in royal robes attended by the Count of Nassau and Don Pietro di Toledo, the Viceroy of Naples, who afterwards gave his name to the chief street in that city. Before him went the Marquis of Montferrat, bearing the scepter; Philip, Duke of Bavaria, carrying the golden orb; the Duke of Urbino, with the sword; and the Duke of Savoy, holding the imperial diadem. This Duke of Savoy was uncle to Francis I. and brother-in-law to Charles--- his wife, Beatrice, being a sister of the Empress, and his sister, Louise, mother of the French king. This double relationship made his position during the late wars a difficult one. Yet his territory had been regarded as neutral, and in the pacification of Italy he judged it wise to adhere without reserve to the victorious King of Spain. It was noticed that Ferrante di Sanseverino, Prince of Salerno, though known to be in Bologna, occupied no post of distinction in the imperial train. He was closely related to the Emperor by his mother, Maria of Aragon, and had done good service in the recent campaigns against Lautrec. The reason for this neglect does not appear. But it may be mentioned that some years later he espoused the French cause, and was deprived of his vast hereditary fiefs. In his ruin the poet Bernardo, father of Torquato Tasso, was involved. To enumerate all the nobles of Spain, Italy and Germany, with the ambassadors from England, France, Scotland, Hungary, Bohemia and Portugal; who swelled the Imperial _cortège_; to describe the series of ceremonies by which Charles was first consecrated as a deacon, anointed, dressed and undressed, and finally conducted to the Pope for coronation; to narrate the breaking of the bridge at one point, and the squabbles between the Genoese and Sienese delegates for precedence, would be superfluously tedious. The day was well-nigh over when at length Charles received the Imperial insignia from the Pope's hands. _Accipe gladium sanctum, Accipe virgam, Accipe pomum, Accipe signum gloriae_! As Clement pronounced these sentences, he gave the sword, the scepter, the globe, and the diadem in succession to the Emperor, who knelt before him. Charles bent and kissed the Papal feet. He then rose and took his throne beside the Pope. It was placed two steps lower than that of Clement. The ceremony of coronation and enthronization being now complete, Charles was proclaimed: _Romanorum Imperator semper augustus, mundi totius Dominus, universis Dominis, universis Principibus et Populis semper venerandus_. When Mass was over, Pope and Emperor shook hands. At the church-door, Charles held Clement's stirrup, and when the Pope had mounted, he led his palfrey for some paces, in sign of filial submission. The month of March was distinguished by the arrival of illustrious visitors. The Duchess of Savoy, with an escort of eighteen lovely maids of honor, made her pompous entry on the 4th, and took up her quarters in the Palazzo Pepoli. On the 6th came the Duke of Ferrara, for whom Charles had procured a safe-conduct from the Pope. During the Emperor's stay at Bologna, Alfonso d'Este had been assiduous in paying him and his Court small attentions, sending excellent provisions for the household and furnishing the royal table with game and every kind of delicacy. The settlement of his dispute with the Holy See was the only important business that remained to be transacted. Charles prevailed upon both Clement and Alfonso to state their cases in writing and to place them in the hands of jurisconsults, to report upon. There is little doubt that his own mind was already made up in favor of the duke; but he did not pass sentence until the following December, nor was the decision published before April in the year 1531. The substance of the final agreement was as follows. Modena, Reggio and Rubbiera were declared fiefs of the Empire, seeing that they had not been included in Pepin's gift of the Exarchate. Charles confirmed their investiture to Alfonso, in return for a considerable payment to the Imperial Chancery. He had previously conferred the town of Carpi, forfeited by Alberto Pio as a French adherent, on the Duke. Ferrara remained a fief of the Church, and Clement consented to acknowledge Alfonso's tenure, upon his disbursement of 100,000 ducats. This decision saved Modena to the bastard line of Este, when Pope Clement VIII. seized Ferrara as a lapsed fief in 1598. In the sixty-seven years which passed between the date of Charles's coronation and the extinction of the duchy, Ferrara enjoyed the fame of the most brilliant Court in Italy, and shone with the luster conferred on it by men like Tasso and Guarini. The few weeks which now remained before Charles left Bologna were spent for the most part in jousts and tournaments, visits to churches, and social entertainments. Veronica Gambara threw her apartments open to the numerous men of letters who crowded from all parts of Italy to witness the ceremony, of Charles's coronation. This lady was widow to the late lord of Correggio, and one of the two most illustrious women of her time.[5] She dwelt with princely state in a palace of the Marsili; and here might be seen the poets Bembo, Mauro, and Molza in conversation with witty Berni, learned Vida, stately Trissino, and noble-hearted Marcantonio Flaminio. Paolo Giovio and Francesco Guicciardini, the chief historians of their time, were also to be found there, together with a host of literary and diplomatic worthies attached to the Courts of Urbino and Ferrara or attendant on the train of cardinals, who, like Ippolito de'Medici, made a display of culture. Meanwhile the Dowager-Marchioness of Mantua and the Duchess of Savoy entertained Italian and Spanish nobles with masqued balls and carnival processions in the Manzoli and Pepoli palaces. Frequent quarrels between hot-blooded youths of the rival nations added a spice of chivalrous romance to love-adventures in which the ladies of these Courts played a too conspicuous part. What still remained to Italy of Renaissance splendor, wit, and fashion, after the Sack of Rome and the prostration of her wealthiest cities, was concentrated in this sunset blaze of sumptuous festivity at Bologna. Nor were the arts without illustrious representatives. Francesco Mazzola, surnamed Il Parmigianino, before whose altar-piece in his Roman studio the rough soldiers of Bourbon's army were said to have lately knelt in adoration, commemorated the hero of the day by painting Charles attended by Fame who crowned his forehead, and an infant Hercules who handed him the globe. Titian, too, was there, and received the honor of several sittings from the Emperor. His life-sized portrait of Charles in full armor, seated on a white war-horse, has perished. But it gave such satisfaction at the moment that the fortunate master was created knight and count palatine, and appointed painter to the Emperor with a fixed pension. Titian also painted portraits of Antonio de Leyva and Alfonso d'Avalos, but whether upon this occasion or in 1532, when he was again summoned to the Imperial Court at Bologna, is not certain. From this assemblage of eminent personages we notice the absence of Pietro Aretino. He was at the moment out of favor with Clement VII. But independently of this obstacle, he may well have thought it imprudent to quit his Venetian retreat and expose himself to the resentment of so many princes whom he had alternately loaded with false praises and bemired with loathsome libels. [Footnote 5: See _Ren. in It._ vol. v. p. 289.] People observed that the Emperor in his excursions through the streets of Bologna usually wore the Spanish habit. He was dressed in black velvet, with black silk stockings, black shoes, and a black velvet cap adorned with black feathers. This somber costume received some relief from jewels used for buttons; and the collar of the Golden Fleece shone upon the monarch's breast. So slight a circumstance would scarcely deserve attention, were it not that in a short space of time it became the fashion throughout Italy to adopt the subdued tone of Spanish clothing. The upper classes consented to exchange the varied and brilliant dresses which gave gayety to the earlier Renaissance for the dismal severity conspicuous in Morone's masterpieces, in the magnificent gloom of the Genoese Brignoli, and in the portraits of Roman inquisitors. It is as though the whole race had put on mourning for its loss of liberty, its servitude to foreign tyrants and ecclesiastical hypocrites. Nor is it fanciful to detect a note of moral sadness and mental depression corresponding to these black garments in the faces of that later generation. How different is Tasso's melancholy grace from Ariosto's gentle joyousness; the dried-up precision of Baroccio's Francesco Maria della Rovere from the sanguine joviality of Titian's first duke of that name! One of the most acutely critical of contemporary poets felt the change which I have indicated, and ascribed it to the same cause. Campanella wrote as follows: Black robes befit our age. Once they were white; Next many-hued; now dark as Afric's Moor, Night-black, infernal, traitorous, obscure, Horrid with ignorance and sick with fright. For very shame we shun all colors bright, Who mourn our end--the tyrants we endure, The chains, the noose, the lead, the snares, the lure-- Our dismal heroes, our souls sunk in night. In the midst of this mirth-making there arrived on March 20 an embassy from England, announcing Henry VIII.'s resolve to divorce himself at any cost from Katharine of Aragon. This may well have recalled both Pope and Emperor to a sense of the gravity of European affairs. The schism of England was now imminent. Germany was distracted by Protestant revolution. The armies of Caesar were largely composed of mutinous Lutherans. Some of these soldiers had even dared to overthrow a colossal statue of Clement VII. and grind it into powder at Bologna; and this outrage, as it appears, went unpunished. The very troops employed in reducing rebellious Florence were commanded by a Lutheran general; and Clement began to fear that, after Charles's departure, the Prince of Orange might cross the Apennines and expose the Papal person to the insults of another captivity in Bologna. Nor were the gathering forces of revolutionary Protestants alone ominous. Though Soliman had been repulsed before Vienna, the Turks were still advancing on the eastern borders of the Empire. Their fleets swept the Levantine waters, while the pirate dynasties of Tunis and Algiers threatened the whole Mediterranean coast with ruin. Charles, still uncertain what part he should take in the disputes of Germany, left Bologna for the Tyrol on March 23. Clement, on the last day of the month, took his journey by Loreto to Rome. It will be useful, at this point, to recapitulate the net results of Charles's administration of Italian affairs in 1530. The kingdom of the Two Sicilies, with the Island of Sardinia and the Duchy of Milan, became Spanish provinces, and were ruled henceforth by viceroys. The House of Este was confirmed in the Duchy of Ferrara, including Modena and Reggio. The Duchies of Savoy and Mantua and the Marquisate of Montferrat, which had espoused the Spanish cause, were undisturbed. Genoa and Siena, both of them avowed allies of Spain, the former under Spanish protection, the latter subject to Spanish coercion, remained with the name and empty privileges of republics. Venice had made her peace with Spain, and though she was still strong enough to pursue an independent policy, she showed as yet no inclination, and had, indeed, no power, to stir up enemies against the Spanish autocrat. The Duchy of Urbino, recognized by Rome and subservient to Spanish influence, was permitted to exist. The Papacy once more assumed a haughty tone, relying on the firm alliance struck with Spain. This league, as years went by, was destined to grow still closer, still more fruitful of results. Florence alone had been excepted from the articles of peace. It was still enduring the horrors of the memorable siege when Clement left Bologna at the end of May. The last hero of the republic, Francesco Ferrucci, fell fighting at Gavignana on August 2. Their general, Malatesta Baglioni, broke his faith with the citizens. Finally, on August 12, the town capitulated. Alessandro de'Medici, who had received the title of Duke of Florence from Charles at Bologna, took up his residence there in July, 1531, and held the State by help of Spanish mercenaries under the command of Alessandro Vitelli. When he was murdered by his cousin in 1537, Cosimo de'Medici, the scion of another branch of the ruling family, was appointed Duke. Charles V. recognized his title, and Cosimo soon showed that he was determined to be master in his own duchy. He crushed the exiled party of Filippo Strozzi, who attempted a revolution of the State, exterminated its leaders, and contrived to rid himself of the powerful adherents who had placed him on the throne. But he remained a subservient though not very willing ally of Spain; and when he expelled Alessandro Vitelli from the fortress that commanded Florence, he admitted a Spaniard, Don Juan de Luna, in his stead. During the petty wars of 1552-56 which Henri II. carried on with Charles V. in Italy, Siena attempted to shake off the yoke of a Spanish garrison established there in 1547 under the command of Don Hurtado de Mendoza. The citizens appealed to France, who sent them the great Marshal, Piero Strozzi, brother of Cosimo's vanquished enemy Filippo. Cosimo through these years supported the Spanish cause with troops and money, hoping to guide events in his own interest. At length, by the aid of Gian Giacomo Medici, sprung from an obscure Milanese family, who had been trained in the Spanish methods of warfare, he succeeded in subduing Siena. He now reaped the fruits of his Spanish policy. In 1557 Philip II. conceded the Sienese territory, reserving only its forts, to the Duke of Florence, who in 1569 obtained the title of Grand Duke of Tuscany from Pope Pius V. This title was confirmed by the Empire in 1575 to his son Francesco. Thus the republics of Florence and Siena were extinguished. The Grand Duchy of Tuscany was created. It became an Italian power of the first magnitude, devoted to the absolutist principles of Spanish and Papal sovereignty. The further changes which took place in Italy after the year 1530, turned equally to the profit of Spain and Rome. These were principally the creation of the Duchy of Parma for the Farnesi (1545-1559), of which I shall have to speak in the next chapter; the resumption of Ferrara by the Papacy in 1597, which reduced the House of Este to the smaller fiefs of Modena and Reggio; the acquisition of Montferrat by Mantua in 1536; the cession of Saluzzo to Savoy in 1598, and the absorption of Urbino into the Papal domains in 1631. It was hoped when Charles and Clement proclaimed the pacification of Italy at Bologna on the last day of 1529, that the peninsula would no longer be the theater of wars for supremacy between the French and Spaniards. This expectation proved delusive; for the struggle soon broke out again. The people, however, suffered less extensively than in former years; because the Spanish party, supported by Papal authority, was decidedly predominant. The Italian princes, whether they liked it or not, were compelled to follow in the main a Spanish policy. At length, in 1559, by the Peace of Cateau Cambresis signed between Henri II. and Philip II., the French claims were finally abandoned, and the Spanish hegemony was formally acknowledged. The later treaty of Vervins, in 1598, ceded Saluzzo to the Duchy of Savoy, and shut the gates of Italy to French interference. Though the people endured far less misery from foreign armies in the period between 1630 and 1600 than they had done in the period from 1494 to 1527, yet the state of the country grew ever more and more deplorable. This was due in the first instance to the insane methods of taxation adopted by the Spanish viceroys, who held monopolies of corn and other necessary commodities in their hands and who invented imposts for the meanest articles of consumption. Their example was followed by the Pope and petty princes. Alfonso II. of Ferrara, for instance, levied a tenth on all produce which passed his city gates, and on the capital engaged in every contract. He monopolized the sale of salt, flour, bread; and imposed a heavy tax on oil. Sixtus V. by exactions of a like description and by the sale of numberless offices, accumulated a vast sum of money, much of which bore heavy interest. He was so ignorant of the first principle of political economy as to lock up the accruing treasure in the Castle of S. Angelo. The rising of Masaniello in Naples was simply due to the exasperation of the common folk at having even fruit and vegetables taxed. In addition to such financial blunders, we must take into account the policy pursued by all princes at this epoch, of discouraging commerce and manufactures. Thus Cosimo I. of Tuscany induced the old Florentine families to withdraw their capital from trade, sink it in land, create entails in perpetuity on eldest sons, and array themselves with gimcrack titles which he liberally supplied. Even Venice showed at this epoch a contempt for the commerce which had brought her into a position of unrivaled splendor. This wilful depression of industry was partly the result of Spanish aristocratic habits, which now invaded Italian society. But it was also deliberately chosen as a means of extinguishing freedom. Finally, if war proved now less burdensome, the exhaustion of Italy and the decay of military spirit rendered the people liable to the scourge of piracy. The whole sea-coast was systematically plundered by the navies of Barbarossa and Dragut. The inhabitants of the ports and inland villages were carried off into slavery, and many of the Italians themselves drove a brisk trade in the sale of their compatriots. Brigandage, following in the wake of agricultural depression and excessive taxation, depopulated the central provinces. All these miseries were exacerbated by frequent recurrences of plagues and famines. It is characteristic of the whole tenor of Italian history that, in spite of the virtual hegemony which the Spaniards now exercised in the peninsula, the nation continued to exist in separate parcels, each of which retained a certain individuality. That Italy could not have been treated as a single province by the Spanish autocrat will be manifest, when we consider the European jealousy to which so summary an exhibition of force would have given rise. It is also certain that the Papacy, which had to be respected, would have resisted an openly declared Spanish despotism. But more powerful, I think, than all these considerations together, was the past prestige of the Italian States. Europe was not prepared to regard that brilliant and hitherto respected constellation of commonwealths, from which all intellectual culture, arts of life, methods of commerce, and theories of political existence had been diffused, as a single province of the Spanish monarchy. The Spaniards themselves were scarcely in a position to entertain the thought of reducing the peninsula to bondage _vi et armis_. And if they had attempted any measure tending to this result, they would undoubtedly have been resisted by an alliance of the European powers. What they sought, and what they gained, was preponderating influence in each of the parcels which they recognized as nominally independent. The intellectual and social life of the Italians, though much reduced in vigor, was therefore still, as formerly, concentrated in cities marked by distinct local qualities, and boastful of their ancient glories. The Courts of Ferrara and Urbino continued to form centers for literary and artistic coteries. Venice remained the stronghold of mental unrestraint and moral license, where thinkers uttered their thoughts with tolerable freedom, and libertines indulged their tastes unhindered. Rome early assumed novel airs of piety, and external conformity to austere patterns became the fashion here. Yet the Papal capital did not wholly cease to be the resort of students and of artists. The universities maintained themselves in a respectable position--- far different, indeed, from that which they had held in the last century, yet not ignoble. Much was being learned on many lines of study divergent from those prescribed by earlier humanists. Padua, in particular, distinguished itself for medical researches. This was the flourishing time, moreover, of Academies, in which, notwithstanding nonsense talked and foolish tastes indulged, some solid work was done for literature and science. The names of the Cimento, Delia Crusca, and Palazzo Vernio at Florence, remind us of not unimportant labors in physics, in the analysis of language, and in the formation of a new dramatic style of music. At the same time the resurgence of popular literature and the creation of popular theatrical types deserve to be particularly noticed. It is as though the Italian nation at this epoch, suffocated by Spanish etiquette, and poisoned by Jesuitical hypocrisy, sought to expand healthy lungs in free spaces of open air, indulging in dialectical niceties and immortalizing street-jokes by the genius of masqued comedy. This most ancient and intensely vital race had given Europe the Roman Republic, the Roman Empire, the system of Roman law, the Romance languages, Latin Christianity, the Papacy, and, lastly, all that is included in the art and culture of the Renaissance. It was time, perhaps, that it should go to rest a century or so, and watch uprising nations--the Spanish, English, French, and so forth--stir their stalwart limbs in common strife and novel paths of pioneering industry. After such fashion let us, then, if we can contrive to do so, regard the Italians during their subjection to the Church and Austria. Were it not for these consolatory reflections, and for the present reappearance of the nation in a new and previously unapprehended form of unity, the history of the Counter-Reformation period would be almost too painful for investigation. What the Italians actually accomplished during this period in art, learning, science, and literature, was indeed more than enough to have conferred undying luster on such races as the Dutch or Germans at the same epoch. But it would be ridiculous to compare Italians with either Dutchmen or Germans at a time when Italy was still so incalculably superior. Compared with their own standard, compared with what they might have achieved under more favorable conditions of national independence, the products of this age are saddening. The tragic elements of my present theme are summed up in the fact that Italy during the Counter-Reformation was inferior to Italy during the Renaissance, and that this inferiority was due to the interruption of vital and organic processes by reactionary forces. It would not be just to condemn Spain and the Papacy because, being reactionary powers, they quenched for three centuries the genial light of Italy. We must rather bear in mind that both Spain and the Papacy were at that time cosmopolitan factors of the first magnitude, with perplexing world-problems confronting them. Charles bore upon his shoulders the concerns of the Empire, the burden of the German revolution, and the distracting anxiety of a duel with Islam. When his son bowed to the yoke of government, he had to meet the same perplexities, complicated with Netherlands in revolt, England in antagonism, and France in dubious ferment. A succession of Popes were hampered by painful European questions, which the instinct of self-preservation taught them to regard as paramount. They were fighting for existence; for the Catholic creed; for their own theocratic sovereignty. They held strong cards. But against them were drawn up the battalions of heresy, free thought, political insurgence in the modern world. The _Zeitgeist_ that has made us what we are, had begun to organize stern opposition to the Church. It was natural enough that both the Spanish autocrat and the successor of S. Peter should at this crisis have regarded Italian affairs as subordinate in importance to wider matters which demanded their attention. Yet if we shift our point of view from this high vantage-ground of Imperial and Papal anxieties, and place ourselves in the center of Italy as our post of observation, it will be apparent that nothing more ruinous for the prosperity of the Italian people could have been devised than the joint autocracy accorded at Bologna to two cosmopolitan but non-national forces in their midst. An alien monarchy greedy for gold, a panic-stricken hierarchy in terror for its life, warped the tendencies and throttled the energies of the most artistically sensitive, the most heroically innovating of the existing races. However we may judge the merits of the Spaniards, they were assuredly not those which had brought Italy into the first rank of European nations. The events of a single century proved that, far from being able to govern other peoples, Spain was incapable of self-government on any rational principle. Whatever may have been the policy thrust upon the chief of Latin Christianity in the desperate struggle with militant rationalism, the repressive measures which it felt bound to adopt were eminently pernicious to a race like the Italians, who showed no disposition for religious regeneration, and who were yet submitted to the tyranny of ecclesiastical discipline and intellectual intolerance at every point. The settlement made by Charles V. in 1530, and the various changes which took place in the duchies between that date and the end of the century, had then the effect of rendering the Papacy and Spain omnipotent in Italy. These kindred autocrats were joined in firm alliance, except during the brief period of Paul IV.'s French policy, which ended in the Pope's complete discomfiture by Alva in 1557. They used their aggregated forces for the riveting of spiritual, political, and social chains upon the modern world. What they only partially effected in Europe at large, by means of S. Bartholomew massacres, exterminations of Jews in Toledo and of Mussulmans in Granada, holocausts of victims in the Low Countries, wars against French Huguenots and German Lutherans, naval expeditions and plots against the state of England, assassinations of heretic princes, and occasional burning of free thinkers, they achieved with plenary success in Italy. The center of the peninsula, from Ferrara to Terracina, lay at the discretion of the Pope. The Two Sicilies, Sardinia and the Duchy of Milan, were absolute dependencies of the Spanish crown. Tuscany was linked by ties of interest, and by the stronger bonds of terrorism, to Spain. The insignificant principalities of Mantua, Modena, Parma could not do otherwise than submit to the same predominant authority. It is not worth while to take into account the tiny republics of Genoa and Lucca. Their history through this period, though not so uneventful, is scarcely less insignificant than that of San Marino. Venice alone stood independent, still powerful enough to extinguish Bedmar's Spanish conspiracy in silence, still proud enough to resist the encroachments of Paul V. with spirit, yet sensible of her decline and spending her last energies on warfare with the Turk. At the close of the century, by the Peace of Vervins in 1598 and two subsequent treaties, Spain and France settled their long dispute. France was finally excluded from Italy by the cession of Saluzzo to Savoy, while Savoy at the same moment, through the loss of its Burgundian provinces, became an Italian power. The old antagonism which, dating from the Guelf and Ghibelline contentions of the thirteenth century, had taken a new form after the Papal investiture of Charles of Anjou with the kingdoms of Sicily and Naples, now ceased. That antique antagonism of parties, alien to the home interests of Italy, had been exasperated by the rivalry of Angevine and Aragonese princes; had assumed formidable intensity after the invasion of Charles VIII. in 1494; and had expanded under the reigns of Louis XII. and Francis I. into an open struggle between France and Spain for the supremacy of Italy. It now was finally terminated by the exclusion of the French and the acknowledged overlordship of the Spaniard. But though peace seemed to be secured to a nation tortured by so many desolating wars of foreign armies, the Italians regarded the cession of Saluzzo with despondency. The partisans of national independence and political freedom had become, however illogically, accustomed to consider France as their ally.[6] They now beheld the gates of Italy closed against the French; they saw the extinction of their ancient Guelf policy of calling French arms into Italy. They felt that rest from strife was dearly bought at the price of prostrate servitude beneath Spanish and Austrian Hapsburgs, Spanish Bourbons, and mongrel princelings bred by crossing these stocks with decaying scions of Italian nobility. As a matter of fact, this was the destiny which lay before them for nearly two centuries after the signing of the Peace of Vervins. [Footnote 6: See, for instance, temp. Henri IV., _Sarpi's Letters_, vol. i. p. 233.] Yet the cession of Saluzzo was really the first dawn of hope for Italy. It determined the House of Savoy as an Italian dynasty, and brought for the first time into the sphere of purely Italian interests that province from which the future salvation of the nation was to come. From 1598 until 1870 the destinies of Italy were bound up with the advance of Savoy from a duchy to a kingdom, with its growth in wealth, military resources and political self-consciousness, and with its ultimate acceptance of the task, accomplished in our days, of freeing Italy from foreign tyranny and forming a single nation out of many component elements. Those component elements by their diversity had conferred luster on the race in the Middle Ages, by their jealousies had wrecked its independence in the Renaissance, and by their weakness had left it at the period of the Counter-Reformation a helpless prey to Papal and Spanish despotism. The leveling down of the component elements of the Italian race beneath a common despotism, which began in the period I have chosen for this work, was necessary perhaps before Italy could take her place as a united nation gifted with constitutional self-government and independence. Except, therefore, for the sufferings and the humiliations inflicted on her people; except for their servitude beneath the most degrading forms of ecclesiastical and temporal tyranny; except for the annihilation of their beautiful Renaissance culture; except for the depression of arts, learning, science, and literature, together with the enfeeblement of political energy and domestic morality; except for the loathsome domination of hypocrites and persecutors and informers; except for the Jesuitical encouragement of every secret vice and every servile superstition which might emasculate the race and render it subservient to authority;--except for these appalling evils, we have no right perhaps to deplore the settlement of Italy by Charles V. in 1530, or the course of subsequent events. For it is tolerably certain that some such leveling down as then commenced was needed to bring the constituent States of Italy into accord; and it is indubitable, as I have had occasion to point out, that the political force which eventually introduced Italy into the European system of federated nations, was determined in its character, if not created, then. None the less, the history of this period (1530-1600) in Italy is a prolonged, a solemn, an inexpressibly heart-rending tragedy. It is the tragic history of the eldest and most beautiful, the noblest and most venerable, the freest and most gifted of Europe's daughters, delivered over to the devilry that issued from the most incompetent and arrogantly stupid of the European sisterhood, and to the cruelty, inspired by panic, of an impious theocracy. When we use these terms to designate the Papacy of the Counter-Reformation, it is not that we forget how many of those Popes were men of blameless private life and serious views for Catholic Christendom. When we use these terms to designate the Spanish race in the sixteenth century, it is not that we are ignorant of Spanish chivalry and colonizing enterprise, of Spanish romance, or of the fact that Spain produced great painters, great dramatists, and one great novelist in the brief period of her glory. We use them deliberately, however, in both cases; because the Papacy at this period committed itself to a policy of immoral, retrograde, and cowardly repression of the most generous of human impulses under the pressure of selfish terror; because the Spaniards abandoned themselves to a dark fiend of religious fanaticism; because they were merciless in their conquests and unintelligent in their administration of subjugated provinces; because they glutted their lusts of avarice and hatred on industrious folk of other creeds within their borders; because they cultivated barren pride and self-conceit in social life; because at the great epoch of Europe's reawakening they chose the wrong side and adhered to it with fatal obstinacy. This obstinacy was disastrous to their neighbors and ruinous to themselves. During the short period of three reigns (between 1598 and 1700) they sank from the first to the third grade in Europe, and saw the scepter passing in the New World from their hands to those of more normally constituted races. That the self-abandonment to sterilizing passions and ignoble persecutions which marked Spain out for decay in the second half of the sixteenth century, and rendered her the curse of her dependencies, can in part be ascribed to the enthusiasm aroused in previous generations by the heroic conflict with advancing Islam, is a thesis capable of demonstration. Yet none the less is it true that her action at that period was calamitous to herself and little short of destructive to Italy. After the year 1530 seven Spanish devils entered Italy. These were the devil of the Inquisition, with stake and torture-room, and war declared against the will and soul and heart and intellect of man; the devil of Jesuitry, with its sham learning, shameless lying, and casuistical economy of sins; the devil of vice-royal rule, with its life-draining monopolies and gross incapacity for government; the devil of an insolent soldiery, quartered on the people, clamorous for pay, outrageous in their lusts and violences; the devil of fantastical taxation, levying tolls upon the bare necessities of life, and drying up the founts of national well-being at their sources; the devil of petty-princedom, wallowing in sloth and cruelty upon a pinchbeck throne; the devil of effeminate hidalgoism, ruinous in expenditure, mean and grasping, corrupt in private life, in public ostentatious, vain of titles, cringing to its masters, arrogant to its inferiors. In their train these brought with them seven other devils, their pernicious offspring: idleness, disease, brigandage, destitution, ignorance, superstition, hypocritically sanctioned vice. These fourteen devils were welcomed, entertained, and voluptuously lodged in all the fairest provinces of Italy. The Popes opened wide for them the gates of outraged and depopulated Rome. Dukes and marquises fell down and worshiped the golden image of the Spanish Belial-Moloch--that hideous idol whose face was blackened with soot from burning human flesh, and whose skirts were dabbled with the blood of thousands slain in wars of persecution. After a tranquil sojourn of some years in Italy, these devils had everywhere spread desolation and corruption. Broad regions, like the Patrimony of S. Peter and Calabria, were given over to marauding bandits; wide tracks of fertile country, like the Sienese Maremma, were abandoned to malaria; wolves prowled through empty villages round Milan; in every city the pestilence swept off its hundreds daily; manufactures, commerce, agriculture, the industries of town and rural district, ceased; the Courts swarmed with petty nobles, who vaunted paltry titles; and resigned their wives to cicisbei and their sons to sloth: art and learning languished; there was not a man who ventured to speak out his thought or write the truth; and over the Dead Sea of social putrefaction floated the sickening oil of Jesuitical hypocrisy. CHAPTER II. THE PAPACY AND THE TRIDENTINE COUNCIL. The Counter-Reformation--Its Intellectual and Moral Character--Causes of the Gradual Extinction of Renaissance Energy--Transition from the Renaissance to the Catholic Revival--New Religious Spirit in Italy--Attitude of Italians toward German Reformation--Oratory of Divine Love--Gasparo Contarini and the Moderate Reformers--New Religious Orders--Paul III.--His early History and Education--Political Attitude between France and Spain--Creation of the Duchy of Parma--Imminence of a General Council--Review of previous Councils--Paul's Uneasiness--Opens a Council at Trent in 1542--Protestants virtually excluded, and Catholic Dogmas confirmed in the first Sessions--Death of Paul in 1549--Julius III.--Paul IV.--Character and Ruling Passions of G.P. Caraffa--His Futile Opposition to Spain--Tyranny of his Nephews--Their Downfall--Paul Devotes himself to Church Reform and the Inquisition--Pius IV.--His Minister Morone--Diplomatic Temper of this Pope--His Management of the Council--Assistance rendered by his nephew Carlo Borromeo--Alarming State of Northern Europe--The Council reopened at Trent in 1562--Subsequent History of the Council--It closes with a complete Papal Triumph in 1563--Place of Pius IV. in History--Pius V.--The Inquisitor Pope--Population of Rome--Social Corruption--Sale of Offices and Justice--Tridentine Reforms depress Wealth--Ascetic Purity of Manners becomes fashionable--- Piety--The Catholic Reaction generates the Counter-Reformation--Battle of Lepanto--Gregory XIII.--His Relatives--Policy of Enriching the Church at Expense of the Barons--Brigandage in States of the Church--Sixtus V.--His Stern Justice--Rigid Economy--Great Public Works--Taxation--The City of Rome assumes its present form--Nepotism in the Counter-Reformation Period--Various Estimates of the Wealth accumulated by Papal Nephews--Rise of Princely Roman Families. It is not easy to define the intellectual and moral changes which passed over Italy in the period of the Counter-Reformation[7]; it is still less easy to refer those changes to distinct causes. Yet some analysis tending toward such definition is demanded from a writer who has undertaken to treat of Italian culture and manners between the years 1530 and 1600. In the last chapter I attempted to describe the depth of servitude to which the States of Italy were severally reduced at the end of the wars between France and Spain. The desolation of the country, the loss of national independence, and the dominance of an alien race, can be counted among the most important of those influences which produced the changes in question. Whatever opinions we may hold regarding the connection between political autonomy and mental vigor in a people, it can hardly be disputed that a sudden and universal extinction of liberty must be injurious to arts and studies that have grown up under free institutions. But there were other causes at work. Among these a prominent place should be given to an alteration in the intellectual interests of the Italians themselves. The original impulses of the Renaissance, in scholarship, painting, sculpture, architecture, and vernacular poetry, had been exhausted. [Footnote 7: I may here state that I intend to use this term Counter-Reformation to denote the reform of the Catholic Church, which was stimulated by the German Reformation, and which, when the Council of Trent had fixed the dogmas and discipline of Latin Christianity, enabled the Papacy to assume a militant policy in Europe, whereby it regained a large portion of the provinces, that had previously lapsed to Lutheran and Calvinistic dissent.] Humanism, after recovering the classics and forming a new ideal of culture, was sinking into pedantry and academic erudition. Painting and sculpture, having culminated in the great work of Michelangelo, tended toward a kind of empty mannerism. Architecture settled down into the types fixed by Palladio and Barozzi. Poetry seemed to have reached its highest point of development in Ariosto. The main motives supplied to art by mediaeval traditions and humanistic enthusiasm were worked out. Nor was this all. The Renaissance had created a critical spirit which penetrated every branch of art and letters. It was not possible to advance further on the old lines; yet painters, sculptors, architects, and poets of the rising generation had before their eyes the masterpieces of their predecessors, in their minds the precepts of the learned. All alike were rendered awkward and self-conscious by the sense of laboring at a disadvantage, and by the dread of academical censorship. In truth, this critical spirit, which was the final product of the Renaissance in Italy, favored the development of new powers in the nation: it hampered workers in the elder spheres of art, literature, and scholarship; but it set thinkers upon the track of those investigations which we call scientific. I shall endeavor, in a future chapter, to show how the Italians were now upon the point of carrying the ardor of the Renaissance into fresh fields of physical discovery and speculation, when their evolution was suspended by the Catholic Reaction. But here it must suffice to observe that formalism had succeeded by the operation of natural influences to the vigor and inventiveness of the national genius in the main departments of literature and fine art. If we study the development of other European races, we shall find that each of them in turn, at its due season, passed through similar phases. The mediaeval period ends in the efflorescence of a new delightful energy, which gives a Rabelais, a Shakspere, a Cervantes to the world. The Renaissance riots itself away in Marinism, Gongorism, Euphuism, and the affectations of the Hôtel Rambouillet. This age is succeeded by a colder, more critical, more formal age of obedience to fixed canons, during which scholarly efforts are made to purify style and impose laws on taste. The ensuing period of sense is also marked by profounder inquiries into nature and more exact analysis of mental operations. The correct school of poets, culminating in Dryden and Pope, holds sway in England; while Newton, Locke, and Bentley extend the sphere of science. In France the age of Rabelais and Montaigne yields place to the age of Racine and Descartes. Germany was so distracted by religious wars, Spain was so down-trodden by the Inquisition, that they do not offer equally luminous examples.[8] It may be added that in all these nations the end of the eighteenth and the beginning of the nineteenth centuries are marked by a similar revolt against formality and common sense, to which we give the name of the Romantic movement. [Footnote 8: With regard to Germany, see Mr. T. S. Perry's acute and philosophical study, entitled _From Opitz to Lessing_ (Boston).] Quitting this sphere of speculation, we may next point out that the European system had undergone an incalculable process of transformation. Powerful nationalities were in existence, who, having received their education from Italy, were now beginning to think and express thought with marked originality. The Italians stood no longer in a relation of uncontested intellectual superiority to these peoples, while they met them under decided disadvantages at all points of political efficiency. The Mediterranean had ceased to be the high road of commercial enterprise and naval energy. Charles V.'s famous device of the two columns, with its motto _Plus Ultra_, indicated that illimitable horizons had been opened, that an age had begun in which Spain, England and Holland should dispute the sovereignty of the Atlantic and Pacific oceans. Italy was left, with diminished forces of resistance, to bear the brunt of Turk and Arab depredations. The point of gravity in the civilized world had shifted. The Occidental nations looked no longer toward the South of Europe. While these various causes were in operation, Catholic Christianity showed signs of re-wakening. The Reformation called forth a new and sincere spirit in the Latin Church; new antagonisms were evoked, and new efforts after self-preservation had to be made by the Papal hierarchy. The center of the world-wide movement which is termed the Counter-Reformation was naturally Rome. Events had brought the Holy See once more into a position of prominence. It was more powerful as an Italian State now, through the support of Spain and the extinction of national independence, than at any previous period of history. In Catholic Christendom its prestige was immensely augmented by the Council of Trent. At the same epoch, the foreigners who dominated Italy, threw themselves with the enthusiasm of fanaticism into this Revival. Spain furnished Rome with the militia of the Jesuits and with the engines of the Inquisition. The Papacy was thus able to secure successes in Italy which were elsewhere only partially achieved. It followed that the moral, social, political and intellectual activities of the Italians at this period were controlled and colored by influences hostile to the earlier Renaissance. Italy underwent a metamorphosis, prescribed by the Papacy and enforced by Spanish rule. In the process of this transformation the people submitted to rigid ecclesiastical discipline, and adopted, without assimilating, the customs of a foreign troop of despots. At first sight we may wonder that the race which had shone with such incomparable luster from Dante to Ariosto, and which had done so much to create modern culture for Europe, should so quietly have accepted a retrogressive revolution. Yet, when we look closer, this is not surprising. The Italians were fatigued with creation, bewildered by the complexity of their discoveries, uncertain as to the immediate course before them. The Renaissance had been mainly the work of a select few. It had transformed society without permeating the masses of the people. Was it strange that the majority should reflect that, after all, the old ways are the best? This led them to approve the Catholic Revival. Was it strange that, after long distracting aimless wars, they should hail peace at any price? This lent popular sanction to the Spanish hegemony, in spite of its obvious drawbacks. These may be reckoned the main conditions which gave a peculiar but not easily definable complexion of languor, melancholy, and dwindling vitality to nearly every manifestation of Italian genius in the second half of the sixteenth century, and which well nigh sterilized that genius during the two succeeding centuries. In common with the rest of Europe, and in consequence of an inevitable alteration of their mental bias, they had lost the blithe spontaneity of the Renaissance. But they were at the same time suffering from grievous exhaustion, humiliated by the tyranny of foreign despotism, and terrorized by ecclesiastical intolerance. In their case, therefore, a sort of moral and intellectual atrophy becomes gradually more and more perceptible. The clear artistic sense of rightness and of beauty yields to doubtful taste. The frank audacity of the Renaissance is superseded by cringing timidity, lumbering dulness, somnolent and stagnant acquiescence in accepted formulae. At first the best minds of the nation fret and rebel, and meet with the dungeon or the stake as the reward of contumacy. In the end everybody seems to be indifferent, satisfied with vacuity, enamored of insipidity. The brightest episode in this dreary period is the emergence of modern music with incomparable sweetness and lucidity. It must not be supposed that the change which I have adumbrated, passed rapidly over the Italian spirit. When Paul III. succeeded Clement on the Papal throne in 1534, some of the giants of the Renaissance still survived, and much of their great work was yet to be accomplished. Michelangelo had neither painted the Last Judgment nor planned the cupola which crowns S. Peter's. Cellini had not cast his Perseus for the Loggia de'Lanzi, nor had Palladio raised San Giorgio from the sea at Venice. Pietro Aretino still swaggered in lordly insolence; and though Machiavelli was dead, the 'silver histories' of Guicciardini remained to be written. Bandello, Giraldi and Il Lasca had not published their Novelle, nor had Cecchi given the last touch to Florentine comedy. It was chiefly at Venice, which preserved the ancient forms of her oligarchical independence, that the grand style of the Renaissance continued to flourish. Titian was in his prime; the stars of Tintoretto and Veronese had scarcely risen above the horizon. Sansovino was still producing masterpieces of picturesque beauty in architecture. In order to understand the transition of Italy from the Renaissance to the Counter-Reformation manner, it will be well to concentrate attention on the history of the Papacy during the eight reigns of Paul III., Julius III., Paul IV., Pius IV., Pius V., Gregory XIII., Sixtus V., and Clement VIII.[9] In the first of these reigns we hardly notice that the Renaissance has passed away. In the last we are aware of a completely altered Italy. And we perceive that this alteration has been chiefly due to the ecclesiastical policy which brought the Council of Trent to a successful issue in the reign of Pius IV. [Footnote 9: These eight reigns cover a space of time from 1534 to 1605.] Before engaging in this review of Papal history, I must give some brief account of the more serious religious spirit which had been developed within the Italian Church; since the determination of this spirit toward rigid Catholicism in the second half of the sixteenth century decided the character of Italian manners and culture. Protestantism in the strict sense of the term took but little hold upon Italian society. It is true that the minds of some philosophical students were deeply stirred by the audacious discussion of theological principles in Germany. Such men had been rendered receptive of new impressions by the Platonizing speculations of Ficino and Pico della Mirandola, as well as by the criticism of the Bible in its original languages which formed a subordinate branch of humanistic education. They had, furthermore, been powerfully affected by the tribulations of Rome at the time of Bourbon's occupation, and had grown to regard these as a divine chastisement inflicted on the Church for its corruption and ungodliness. Lutheranism so far influenced their opinions that they became convinced of the necessity of a return to the simpler elements of Christianity in creed and conduct. They considered a thorough-going reform of the hierarchy and of all Catholic institutions to be indispensable. They leant, moreover, with partiality to some of the essential tenets of the Reformation, notably to the doctrines of justification by faith and salvation by the merits of Christ, and also to the principle that Scripture is the sole authority in matters of belief and discipline. Thus both the Cardinals Morone and Contarini, the poet Flaminio, and the nobles of the Colonna family in Naples who imbibed the teaching of Valdes, fell under the suspicion of heterodoxy on these points. But it was characteristic of the members of this school that they had no will to withhold allegiance from the Pope as chief of Christendom. They shrank with horror from the thought of encouraging a schism or of severing themselves from the communion of Catholics. The essential difference between Italian and Teutonic thinkers on such subjects at this epoch seems to have been this: Italians could not cease to be Catholics without at the same time ceasing to be Christians. They could not accommodate their faith to any of the compromises suggested by the Reformation. Even when they left their country in a spirit of rebellion, they felt ill at ease both with Lutherans and Calvinists. Like Bernardino Ochino and the Anti-Trinitarians of the Socinian sect, they wandered restlessly through Europe, incapable of settling down in communion with any one of the established forms of Protestantism. Calvin at Geneva instituted a real crusade against Italian thinkers, who differed from his views. He drove Valentino Gentile to death on the scaffold; and expelled Gribaldi, Simone, Biandrata, Alciati, Negro. Most of these men found refuge in Poland, Transylvania, even Turkey.[10] There were bold speculators in Italy enough, who had practically abandoned the Catholic faith. But the majority of these did not think it worth their while to make an open rupture with the Church. Theological hair-splitting reminded them only of the mediaeval scholasticism from which they had been emancipated by classical culture. They were less interested in questions touching the salvation of the individual or the exact nature of the sacraments, than in metaphysical problems suggested by the study of antique philosophers, or new theories of the material universe. [Footnote 10: See Berti's _Vita di G. Bruno_, pp. 105-108.] The indifference of these men in religion rendered it easy for them to conform in all external points to custom. Their fundamental axiom was that a scientific thinker could hold one set of opinions as a philosopher, and another set as a Christian. Their motto was the celebrated _Foris ut moris, intus ut libet_.[11] Nor were ecclesiastical authorities dissatisfied with this attitude during the ascendancy of humanistic culture. It was, indeed, the attitude of Popes like Leo, Cardinals like Bembo. And it only revealed its essential weakness when the tide of general opinion, under the blast of Teutonic revolutionary ideas, turned violently in favor of formal orthodoxy. Then indeed it became dangerous to adopt the position of a Pomponazzo. [Footnote 11: This maxim is ascribed to the materialistic philosopher Cremonini.] The mental attitude of such men is so well illustrated by a letter written by Celio Calcagnini to Peregrino Morato, that I shall not hesitate to transcribe it here. It seems that Morato had sent his correspondent some treatise on the theological questions then in dispute; and Calcagnini replies: 'I have read the book relating to the controversies so much agitated at present. I have thought on its contents, and weighed them in the balance of reason. I find in it nothing which may not be approved and defended, but some things which, as mysteries, it is safer to suppress and conceal than to bring before the common people, inasmuch as they pertained to the primitive and infant state of the Church. Now, when the decrees of the fathers and long usage have introduced other modes, what necessity is there for reviving antiquated practices which have long fallen into desuetude, especially as neither piety nor the salvation of the soul is concerned with them? Let us, then, I pray you, allow these things to rest. Not that I disapprove of their being embraced by scholars and lovers of antiquity; but I would not have them communicated to the common people and those who are fond of innovations, lest they give occasion to strife and sedition. There are unlearned and unqualified persons who having, after long ignorance, read or heard certain new opinions respecting baptism, the marriage of the clergy, ordination, the distinction of days and food, and public penitence, instantly conceive that these things are to be stiffly maintained and observed. Wherefore, in my opinion, the discussion of these points ought to be confined to the initiated, that so the seamless coat of our Lord may not be rent and torn.... Seeing it is dangerous to treat such things before the multitude and in public discourses, I must deem it safest to "speak with the many and think with the few," and to keep in mind the advice of Paul, "Hast thou faith? Have it to thyself before God."'[12] [Footnote 12: _C. Calcagnini Opera_, p. 195. I am indebted for the above version to McCrie's _Reformation in Italy_, p. 183.] The new religious spirit which I have attempted to characterize as tinctured by Protestant opinions but disinclined for severance from Rome, manifested itself about the same time in several groups. One of them was at Rome, where a society named the Oratory of Divine Love, including from fifty to sixty members, began to meet as early as the reign of Leo X. in the Trastevere. This pious association included men of very various kinds. Sadoleto, Giberto, and Contarini were here in close intimacy with Gaetano di Thiene, the sainted founder of the Theatines, and with his friend Caraffa, the founder of the Roman Inquisition. Venice was the center of another group, among whom may be mentioned Reginald Pole, Gasparo Contarini, Luigi Priuli, and Antonio Bruccioli, the translator of the Bible from the original tongues into Italian. The poet Marcantonio Flaminio became a member of both societies; and was furthermore the personal friend of the Genoese Cardinals Sauli and Fregoso, whom we have a right to count among thinkers of the same class. Flaminio, though he died in the Catholic communion, was so far suspected of heresy that his works were placed upon the Index of 1559. In Naples Juan Valdes made himself the leader of a similar set of men. His views, embodied in the work of a disciple, and revised by Marcantonio Flaminio, _On the Benefits of Christ's Death_, revealed strong Lutheran tendencies, which at a later period would certainly have condemned him to perpetual imprisonment or exile. This book had a wide circulation in Italy, and was influential in directing the minds of thoughtful Christians to the problems of Justification. It was ascribed to Aonio Paleario, who suffered martyrdom at Rome for maintaining doctrines similar to those of Valdes.[13] Round him gathered several members of the great Colonna family, notably Vespasiano, Duke of Palliano, and his wife, the star of Italian beauty, Giulia Gonzaga. Vittoria Colonna, Marchioness of Pescara, imbibed the new doctrines in the same circle; and so did Bernardino Ochino. Modena could boast another association, which met in the house of Grillenzone; while Ferrara became the headquarters of a still more pronounced reforming party under the patronage of the Duchess, Renée of France, daughter of Louis XII. These various societies and coteries were bound together by ties of friendship and literary correspondence, and were indirectly connected with less fortunate reforming theologians; with Aonio Paleario, Bernardino Ochino, Antonio dei Pagliaricci, Carnesecchi, and others, whose tragic history will form a part of my chapter on the Inquisition. [Footnote 13: Though as many as 40,000 copies were published, this book was so successfully stamped out that it seemed to be irrecoverably lost. The library of St. John's College at Cambridge, however, contains two Italian copies and one French copy. That of Laibach possesses an Italian and a Croat version. Cantù, _Gli Eretici_, vol. i. p. 360.] It does not fall within the province of this chapter to write an account of what has, not very appropriately, been called the Reformation in Italy. My purpose in the present book is, not to follow the fortunes of Protestantism, but to trace the sequel of the Renaissance, the merging of its impulse in new phases of European development. I shall therefore content myself with pointing out that at the opening of Paul III.'s reign, there was widely diffused throughout the chief Italian cities a novel spirit of religious earnestness and enthusiasm, which as yet had taken no determinate direction. This spirit burned most highly in Gasparo Contarini, who in 1541 was commissioned by the Pope to attend a conference at Rechensburg for the discussion of terms of reconciliation with the Lutherans. He succeeded in drawing up satisfactory articles on the main theological points regarding human nature, original sin, redemption and justification. These were accepted by the Protestant theologians at Rechensburg and might possibly have been ratified in Rome, had not the Congress been broken up by Contarini's total failure to accommodate differences touching the Pope's supremacy and the conciliar principle.[14] He made concessions to the Reformers, which roused the fury of the Roman Curia. At the same time political intrigues were set on foot in France and Germany to avert a reconciliation which would have immeasurably strengthened the Emperor's position. The moderate sections of both parties, Lutheran and Catholic, failed at Rechensburg. Indeed, it was inevitable that they should fail; for the breach between the Roman Church and the Reformation was not of a nature to be healed over at this date. Principles were involved which could not now be harmonized, and both parties in the dispute were on the point of developing their own forces with fresh internal vigor. [Footnote 14: It should be observed, however, that Luther rejected the article on justification, and that Caraffa in Rome used his influence to prevent its acceptance by Paul III.] The Italians who desired reform of the Church were now thrown back upon the attempt to secure this object within the bosom of Catholicism. At the request of Paul III. they presented a memorial on ecclesiastical abuses, which was signed by Contarini, Caraffa, Sadoleto, Pole, Fregoso, Giberto, Cortese and Aleander. These Cardinals did not spare plain speech upon the burning problem of Papal misgovernment. Meanwhile, the new spirit began to manifest itself in the foundation of orders and institutions tending to purification of Church discipline. The most notable of these was the order of Theatines established by Thiene and Caraffa. Its object was to improve the secular priesthood, with a view to which end seminaries were opened for the education of priests, who took monastic vows and devoted themselves to special observance of their clerical duties, as preachers, administrators of the sacraments, visitors of the poor and sick. A Venetian, Girolamo Miani, at the same period founded a congregation, called the Somascan, for the education of the destitute and orphaned, and for the reception of the sick and infirm into hospitals. The terrible state in which Lombardy had been left by war rendered this institution highly valuable. Of a similar type was the order of the Barnabites, who were first incorporated at Milan, charged with the performance of acts of mercy, education, preaching, and other forms of Christian ministration. It may be finally added that the Camaldolese and Franciscan orders had been in part reformed by a spontaneous movement within their bodies. If we compare the spirit indicated by these efforts in the first half of the sixteenth century with that of the earlier Renaissance, it will be evident that the Italians were ready for religious change. They sink, however, into insignificance beside two Spanish institutions which about the same period added their weight and influence to the Catholic revival. I mean, of course, the Inquisition and the Jesuit order. Paul III. empowered Caraffa in 1542 to re-establish the Inquisition in Rome upon a new basis resembling that of the Spanish Holy Office. The same Pope sanctioned and confirmed the Company of Jesus between the years 1540 and 1543. The establishment of the Inquisition gave vast disciplinary powers to the Church at the moment when the Council of Trent fixed her dogmas and proclaimed the absolute authority of the Popes. At the same time the Jesuits, devoted by their founder in blind obedience--_perinde ac cadaver_--to the service of the Papacy, penetrated Italy, Spain, France, Germany, and the transatlantic colonies. The Pope who succeeded Clement VII. in 1534 was in all ways fitted to represent the transition which I have indicated. Alessandro Farnese sprang from an ancient but decayed family in the neighborhood of Bolsena, several of whose members had played a foremost part in the mediaeval revolutions of Orvieto. While still a young man of twenty-five, he was raised to the Cardinalate by Alexander VI. This advancement he owed to the influence of his sister Giulia, surnamed La Bella, who was then the Borgia's mistress. It is characteristic of an epoch during which the bold traditions of the fifteenth century still lingered, that the undraped statue of this Giulia (representing Vanity) was carved for the basement of Paul III.'s monument in the choir of S. Peter's. The old stock of the Farnesi, once planted in the soil of Papal corruption at its most licentious period, struck firm roots and flourished. Alessandro was born in 1468, and received a humanistic education according to the methods of the earlier Renaissance. He studied literature with Pomponius Laetus in the Roman Academy, and frequented the gardens of Lorenzo de'Medici at Florence. His character and intellect were thus formed under the influences of the classical revival and of the Pontifical Curia, at a time when pagan morality and secular policy had obliterated the ideal of Catholic Christianity. His sister was the Du Barry of the Borgian Court. He was himself the father of several illegitimate children, whom he acknowledged, and on whose advancement by the old system of Papal nepotism he spent the best years of his reign. Both as a patron of the arts and as an elegant scholar in the Latin and Italian languages, Alessandro showed throughout his life the effects of this early training. He piqued himself on choice expression, whenever he was called upon to use the pen in studied documents, or to answer ambassadors in public audiences. To his taste and love of splendor Rome owes the Farnese palace. He employed Cellini, and forced Michelangelo to paint the Last Judgment. On ascending the Papal throne he complained that this mighty genius had been too long occupied for Delia Roveres and Medici. When the fresco was finished, he set the old artist upon his last great task of completing S. Peter's. So far there was nothing to distinguish Alessandro Farnese from other ecclesiastics of the Renaissance. As Cardinal he seemed destined, should he ever attain the Papal dignity, to combine the qualities of the Borgian and Medicean Pontiffs. But before his elevation to that supreme height, he lived through the reigns of Julius II., Leo X., Adrian VI., and Clement VII. Herein lies the peculiarity of his position as Paul III. The pupil of Pomponius Laetus, the creature of Roderigo Borgia, the representative of Italian manners and culture before the age of foreign invasion had changed the face of Italy, Paul III. was called at the age of sixty-six to steer the ship of the Church through troubled waters and in very altered circumstances. He had witnessed the rise and progress of Protestant revolt in Germany. He had observed the stirrings of a new and sincere spirit of religious gravity, an earnest desire for ecclesiastical reform in his own country. He had watched the duel between France and Spain, during the course of which his predecessors Alexander V. and Julius II. restored the secular authority of Rome. He had seen that authority humbled to the dust in 1527, and miraculously rehabilitated at Bologna in 1530. He had learned by the example of the Borgias how difficult it was for any Papal family to found a substantial principality; and the vicissitudes of Florence and Urbino had confirmed this lesson. Finally, he had assisted at the coronation of Charles V.; and when he took the reins of power into his hands, he was well aware with what a formidable force he had to cope in the great Emperor. Paul III. knew that the old Papal game of pitting France against Spain in the peninsula could not be played on the same grand scale as formerly. This policy had been pursued with results ruinous to Italy but favorable to the Church, by Julius. It had enabled Leo and Clement to advance their families at the hazard of more important interests. But in the reign of the latter Pope it had all but involved the Papacy itself in the general confusion and desolation of the country. Moreover, France was no longer an effective match for Spain; and though their struggle was renewed, the issue was hardly doubtful. Spain had got too firm a grip upon the land to be cast off. Yet Paul was a man of the elder generation. It could not be expected that a Pope of the Renaissance should suddenly abandon the mediaeval policy of Papal hostility to the Empire, especially when the Empire was in the hands of so omnipotent a master as Charles. It could not be expected that he should recognize the wisdom of confining Papal ambition to ecclesiastical interests, and of forming a defensive and offensive alliance with Catholic sovereigns for the maintenance of absolutism. It could not be expected that he should forego the pleasures and apparent profits of creating duchies for his bastards, whereby to dignify his family and strengthen his personal authority as a temporal sovereign. It is true that the experience of the last half century had pointed in the direction of all these changes; and it is certain that the series of events connected with the Council of Trent, which began in Paul III.'s reign, rendered them both natural and necessary. Yet Paul, as a man of the elder generation filling the Papal throne for fifteen years during a period of transition, adhered in the main to the policy of his predecessors. It was fortunate for him and for the Holy See that the basis of his character was caution combined with tough tenacity of purpose, capacity for dilatory action, diplomatic shiftiness and a political versatility that can best be described by the word trimming. These qualities enabled him to pass with safety through perils that might have ruined a bolder, a hastier, or a franker Pope, and to achieve the object of his heart's desire, where stronger men had failed, in the foundation of a solid duchy for his heirs. Paul's jealousy of the Spanish ascendancy in Italian affairs caused him to waver between the Papal and Imperial, Guelf and Ghibelline, parties. These names had lost much of their significance; but the habit of distinction into two camps was so rooted in Italian manners, that each city counted its antagonistic factions, maintained by various forms of local organization and headed by the leading families.[15] Burigozzo, under the year 1517, tells how the whole population of Milan was divided between Guelfs and Ghibellines, wearing different costumes; and it is not uncommon to read of petty nobles in the country at this period, who were styled Captains of one or the other party. [Footnote 15: See Bruno's _Cena delle Ceneri_, ed. Wagner, vol. i. p. 133, for a humorous story illustrative of the state of things ensuing among the lower Italian classes.] The wars between France and Spain revived the almost obsolete dispute, which the despots of the fifteenth century and the diplomatic confederation of the five great powers had tended in large measure to erase. The Guelfs and Ghibellines were now partisans of France and Spain respectively. Thus a true political importance was regained for the time-honored factions; and in the distracted state of Italy they were further intensified by the antagonism between exiles and the ruling families in cities. If Cosimo de'Medici, for example, was a Ghibelline or Spanish partisan, it followed as a matter of course that Filippo Strozzi was a Guelf and stood for France. Paul III. managed to maintain himself by manipulating these factions and holding the balance between them for the advantage of his family and of the Church. He thus succeeded in creating the Duchy of Parma and Piacenza for his son, Pier Luigi Farnese, that outrageous representative of the worst vices and worst violences of the Renaissance. It will be remembered that Julius had detached these two cities from the Duchy of Milan, and annexed them to the Papal States, on the plea that they formed part of the old Exarchate of Ravenna. When Charles decided against this plea in the matter of Modena and Reggio, he left the Church in occupation of Parma and Piacenza. Paul created his son Duke of Nepi and Castro in 1537, and afterwards conferred the Duchy of Camerino on his grandson, Ottavio, who was then married to Margaret of Austria, daughter of Charles V., and widow of the murdered Alessandro de'Medici. The usual system of massacre, exile, and confiscation had reduced the signorial family of the Varani at Camerino to extremities. The fief reverted to the Church, and Paul induced the Cardinals to sanction his investiture of Ottavio Farnese with its rights and honors. He subsequently explained to them that it would be more profitable for the Holy See to retain Camerino and to relinquish Parma and Piacenza to the Farnesi in exchange. There was sense in this arrangement; for Camerino formed an integral part of the Papal States, while Parma and Piacenza were held under a more than doubtful title. Pier Luigi did not long survive his elevation to the dukedom of Parma. He was murdered by his exasperated subjects in 1547. His son, Ottavio, with some difficulty, maintained his hold upon this principality, until in 1559 he established himself and his heirs, with the approval of Philip II., in its perpetual enjoyment. The Farnesi repaid Spanish patronage by constant service, Alessandro, Prince of Parma, and son of Ottavio, being illustrious in the annals of the Netherlands. It would not have been worth while to enlarge on this foundation of the Duchy of Parma, had it not furnished an excellent example of my theme. By this act Paul III. proved himself a true and able inheritor of those political traditions by which all Pontiffs from Sixtus IV. to Clement VII. had sought to establish their relatives in secular princedoms. It was the last eminent exhibition of that policy, the last and the most brilliant display of nepotistical ambition in a Pope. A new age had opened, in which such schemes became impossible--when Popes could no longer dare to acknowledge and legitimize their bastards, and when they had to administer their dominions exclusively for the temporal and ecclesiastical aggrandizement of the tiara. Nevertheless, Paul was living under the conditions which brought this modern attitude of the Papacy into potent actuality. He was surrounded by intellectual and moral forces of recent growth but of incalculable potency. One of the first acts of his reign was to advance six members of the moderate reforming party--Sadoleto, Pole, Giberto, Federigo, Fregoso, Gasparo Contarini, and G.M. Caraffa--to the Cardinalate. By this exercise of power he showed his willingness to recognize new elements of very various qualities in the Catholic hierarchy. Five of these men represented opinions which at the moment of their elevation to the purple had a fair prospect of ultimate success. Imbued with a profound sense of the need for ecclesiastical reform, and tinctured more or less deeply with so-called Protestant opinions, they desired nothing more intensely than a reconstitution of the Catholic Church upon a basis which might render reconciliation with the Lutherans practicable. They had their opportunity during the pontificate of Paul III. It was a splendid one; and, as I have already shown, the Conference of Rechensburg only just failed in securing the end they so profoundly desired. But the Papacy was not prepared to concede so much as they were anxious to grant: the German Reformers proved intractable; they were themselves impeded by their loyalty to antique Catholic traditions, and by their dread of a schism; finally, the militant expansive force of Spanish orthodoxy, expressing itself already in the concentrated energy of the Jesuit order, rendered attempts at fusion impossible. The victory in Rome remained with the faction of _intransigeant_ Catholics; and this was represented, in Paul III.'s first creation of Cardinals, by Caraffa. Caraffa was destined to play a singular part in the transition period of Papal history which I am reviewing. He belonged as essentially to the future as Alessandro Farnese belonged to the past. He embodied the spirit of the Inquisition, and upheld the principles of ecclesiastical reform upon the narrow basis of Papal absolutism. He openly signalized his disapproval of Paul's nepotism; and when his time for ruling came, he displayed a remorseless spirit of justice without mercy in dealing with his own family. Yet he hated the Spanish ascendancy with a hatred far more fierce and bitter than that of Paul III. His ineffectual efforts to shake off the yoke of Philip II. was the last spasm of the older Papal policy of resistance to temporal sovereigns, the last appeal made in pursuance of that policy to France by an Italian Pontiff.[16] [Footnote 16: Paul IV. as Pope was feeble compared with his predecessors, Julius II. and Leo X.; the Guises, on whom he relied for resuscitating the old French party in the South, were but half-successful adventurers, mere shadows of the Angevine invaders whom they professed to represent.] The object of this excursion into the coming period is to show in how deep a sense Paul III. may be regarded as the beginner of a new era, while he was at the same time the last continuator of the old. The Cardinals whom he promoted on his accession included the chief of those men who strove in vain for a concordat between Rome and Reformation; it also included the man who stamped Rome with the impress of the Counter-Reformation. Yet Caraffa would not have had the fulcrum needed for this decisive exertion of power, had it not been for another act of Paul's reign. This was the convening of a Council at Trent. Paul's attitude toward the Council, which he summoned with reluctance, which he frustrated as far as in him lay, and the final outcome of which he was far from anticipating, illustrates in a most decisive manner his destiny as Pope of the transition. The very name of a Council was an abomination to the Papacy. This will be apparent if we consider the previous history of the Church during the first half of the fifteenth century, when the conciliar authority was again invoked to regulate the Papal See and to check Papal encroachments on the realms and Churches of the Western nations. The removal of the Papal Court to Avignon, the great schism which resulted from this measure, and the dissent which spread from England to Bohemia at the close of the fourteenth century, rendered it necessary that the representative powers of Christendom should combine for the purpose of restoring order in the Church. Four main points lay before the powers of Europe, thus brought for the first time into deliberative and confederated congress to settle questions that vitally concerned them. The most immediately urgent was the termination of the schism, and the appointment of one Pope, who should represent the mediaeval idea of ecclesiastical face to face with imperial unity. The second was the definition of the indeterminate and ever-widening authority which the Popes asserted over the kingdoms and the Churches of the West. The third was the eradication of heresies which were rending Christendom asunder and threatening to destroy that ideal of unity in creed to which the Middle Ages clung with not unreasonable passion. The fourth was a reform of the Church, considered as a vital element of Western Christendom, in its head and in its members. The programme, very indistinctly formulated by the most advanced thinkers of the age, and only gradually developed by practice into actuality, was a vast one. It involved the embitterment of national jealousies, the accentuation of national characteristics, and the complication of antagonistic principles regarding secular and ecclesiastical government, which rendered a complete and satisfactory solution well-nigh impracticable. The effort to solve these problems had, however, important influence in creating conditions under which the politico-religious struggles of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries were conducted.[17] The first Council, opened at Pisa in 1409, was a congress of prelates summoned by Cardinals for the conclusion of the schism. It deposed two Popes, who still continued to assert their titles; it elected a third, Alexander V., who had no real authority. For the rest, it effected no reform, and cannot be said to have done much more than to give effect to those aspirations after Church-government by means of Councils which had been slowly forming during the continuance of the schism. The second Council, opened at Constance in 1414, was a Council not convened by Cardinals, but by the universal demand of Europe that the advances of the Papacy toward tyranny should be checked, and that the innumerable abuses of the Church and Papal Curia should be reformed. It received a different complexion from that of Pisa, through the presidency of the Emperor and the attendance of representatives from the chief nations. At Constance the Papacy and the Roman Curia stood together, exposed to the hostile criticism of Europe. The authority of a General Council was, after a sharp conflict, decreed superior to that of the Bishop of Rome. Three Popes were forced to abdicate; and a fourth, Martin V., was elected. [Footnote 17: The best account of the Councils will be found in Professor Creighton's admirable _History of the Papacy during the Reformation_, 2 vols. Longmans.] The Council further undertook to deal with heresy and with the reform of the Church. It discharged the first of these offices by condemning Hus and Jerome of Prague to the stake. It left the second practically untouched. Yet the question of reform had been gravely raised, largely discussed, and fundamentally examined. Two methods were posed at Constance for the future consideration of earnest thinkers throughout Europe. One was the way suggested by John Hus; that the Church should be reconstituted, after a searching analysis of the real bases of Christian conduct, an appeal to Scripture as the final authority, and a loyal endeavor to satisfy the spiritual requirements of individual souls and consciences. The second plan was that of inquiry into the existing order of the Church and detailed amendment of its flagrant faults, with preservation of the main system. The Council adopted satisfactory measures of reform on neither of these methods. It contented itself with stipulations and concordats, guaranteeing special privileges to the Churches of the several nations. But in the following century it became manifest that the Teutonic races had declared for the method suggested by Hus; while the Latin races, in the Council of Trent, undertook a purgation of the Church upon the second of the two plans. The Reformation was the visible outcome of the one, the Counter-Reformation of the other method. The Council of Constance was thus important in causing the recognition of a single Pope, and in ventilating the divergent theories upon which the question of reform was afterwards to be disputed. But perhaps the most significant fact it brought into relief was the new phase of political existence into which the European races had entered. Nationality, as the main principle of modern history, was now established; and the diplomatic relations of sovereigns as the representatives of peoples were shown to be of overwhelming weight. The visionary mediaeval polity of Emperor and Pope faded away before the vivid actuality of full-formed individual nations, federally connected, controlled by common but reciprocally hostile interests.[18] The Council of Basel, opened in 1431, was in appearance a continuation of the Council of Constance. But its method of procedure ran counter to the new direction which had been communicated to European federacy by the action of the Constance congress. There the votes had been taken by nations. At Basel they were taken by men, after the questions to be decided had been previously discussed by special congregations and committees deputed for preliminary deliberations. It soon appeared that the fathers of the Basel Council aimed at opposing a lawfully-elected Pope, and sought to assume the, administration of the Church into their own hands. [Footnote 18: See above, p. 2, for the special sense in which I apply the word federation to Italy before 1530, and to Europe at large in the modern period.] Their struggle with Eugenius IV., their election of an antipope, Felix V., and their manifest tendency to substitute oligarchical for Papal tyranny in the Church, had the effect of bringing the conciliar principle itself into disfavor with the European powers. The first symptom of this repudiation of the Council by Europe was shown in the neutrality proclaimed by Germany. The attitude of other Courts and nations proved that the Western races were for the moment prepared to leave the Papal question open on the basis supplied by the Council of Constance. The result of this failure of the conciliar principle at Basel was that Nicholas V. inaugurated a new age for the Papacy in Rome. I have already described the chief features of the Papal government from his election to the death of Clement VII. It was a period of unexampled splendor for the Holy See, and of substantial temporal conquests. The second Council of Pisa, which began its sittings, in 1511 under French sanction and support, exercised no disastrous influence over the restored powers and prestige of the Papacy. On the contrary, it gave occasion for a counter-council, held at the Lateran under the auspices of Julius II. and Leo X., in which the Popes established several points of ecclesiastical discipline that were not without value to their successors. But the leaven which had been scattered by Wyclif and Hus, of which the Council of Constance had taken cognizance, but which had not been extirpated, was spreading in Germany throughout this period. The Popes themselves were doing all in their power to propagate dissent and discontent. Well aware of the fierce light cast by the new learning they had helped to disseminate, upon the dark places of their own ecclesiastical administration, they still continued to raise money by the sale of pardons and indulgences, to bleed their Christian flocks by monstrous engines of taxation, and to offend the conscience of an intelligent generation by their example of ungodly living. The Reformation ran like wild-fire through the North. It grew daily more obvious that a new Council must be summoned for carrying out measures of internal reform, and for coping with the forces of belligerent Protestantism. When things had reached this point, Charles V. declared his earnest desire that the Pope should summon a General Council. Paul III. now showed in how true a sense he was the man of a transitional epoch. So long as possible he resisted, remembering to what straits his predecessors had been reduced by previous Councils, and being deeply conscious of scandals in his own domestic affairs which might expose him to the fate of a John XXIII. Reviewing the whole series of events which have next to be recorded, we are aware that Paul had no great cause for agitation. The Council he so much dreaded was destined to exalt his office, and to recombine the forces of Catholic Christendom under the absolute supremacy of his successors. The Inquisition and the Company of Jesus, both of which he sanctioned at this juncture, were to guard, extend, and corroborate that supreme authority. But this was by no means apparent in 1540. It is a character of all transitional periods that in them the cautious men regard past precedents of peril rather than sanguine expectations based on present chances. A hero, in such passes, goes to meet the danger armed with his own cause and courage. A genius divines the future, and interprets it, and through interpretation tries to govern it. Paul was neither a hero nor a man of genius. Yet he did as much as either could have done; and he did it in a temper which perhaps the hero and the genius could not have commanded. He sent Legates to publish the opening of a Council at Trent in the spring of 1545; and he resolved to work this Council on the principles of diplomatical conservatism, reserving for himself the power of watching events and of enlarging or restricting its efficiency as might seem best to him.[19] [Footnote 19: The first official opening of the Council at Trent was in November 1542, by Cardinals Pole and Morone as Legates. It was adjourned in July, 1543, on account of insufficient attendance. When it again opened in 1545, Pole reappeared as Legate. With him were associated two future Popes, Giov. Maria del Monte (Julius III.), and Marcello Cervini (Marcellus II.) The first session of the Council took place in December, 1545, four Cardinals, four Archbishops, twenty-one Bishops, and five Generals of Orders attending. Among these were only five Spanish and two French prelates; no German, unless we count Cristoforo Madrazzo, the Cardinal Bishop of Trent, as one. No Protestants appeared; for Paul III. had successfully opposed their ultimatum, which demanded that final appeal on all debated points should be made to the sole authority of Holy Scripture.] It is singular that the Council thus reluctantly conceded by Paul III. should, during its first sessions and while he yet reigned, have confirmed the dogmatic foundations of modern Catholicism, made reconciliation with the Teutonic Reformers impossible, and committed the secular powers which held with Rome to a policy that rendered the Papal supremacy incontestable.[20] Face to face with the burning question of the Protestant rebellion, the Tridentine fathers hastened to confirm the following articles. First, they declared that divine revelation was continuous in the Church of which the Pope was head; and that the chief written depository of this revelation--namely, the Scriptures--had no authority except in the version of the Vulgate. [Footnote 20: Throughout the sessions of the Council, Spanish, French, and German representatives, whether fathers or ambassadors, maintained the theory of Papal subjection to conciliar authority. The Spanish and French were unanimous in zeal for episcopal independence. The French and German were united in a wish to favor Protestants by reasonable concessions. Thus the Papal supremacy had to face serious antagonism, which it eventually conquered by the numerical preponderance of the Italian prelates, by the energy of the Jesuits, by diplomatic intrigues, and by manipulation of discords in the opposition. Though the Spanish fathers held with the French and German on the points of episcopal independence and conciliar authority, they disagreed whenever it became a question of compromise with Protestants upon details of dogma or ritual. The Papal Court persuaded the Catholic sovereigns of Spain and France, and the Emperor, that episcopal independence would be dangerous to their own prerogatives; and at every inconvenient turn in affairs, it was made clear that Catholic sovereigns, threatened by the Protestant revolution, could not afford to separate their cause from that of the Pope.] Secondly, they condemned the doctrine of Justification by Faith, adding such theological qualifications and reservations as need not, at this distance of time, and on a point devoid of present actuality, be scrupulously entertained. Thirdly, they confirmed the efficacy and the binding authority of the Seven Sacraments. It is thus clear that, on points of dogma, the Council convened by Pope and Emperor committed Latin Christianity to a definite repudiation of the main articles for which Luther had contended. Each of these points they successively traversed, foreclosing every loophole for escape into accommodation. It was in large measure due to Caraffa's energy and ability that these results were attained. The method of procedure adopted by the Council, and the temper in which its business was conducted, were no less favorable to the Papacy than the authoritative sanction which it gave to dogmas. From the first, the presidency and right of initiative in its sessions were conceded to the Papal Legates; and it soon became customary to refer decrees, before they were promulgated, to his Holiness in Rome for approval. The decrees themselves were elaborated in three congregations, one appointed for theological questions, the second for reforms, the third for supervision and ratification. They were then proposed for discussion and acceptance in general sessions of the Council. Here each vote told; and as there was a standing majority of Italian prelates, it required but little dexterity to secure the passing of any measure upon which the Court of Rome insisted. The most formidable opposition to the Papal prerogatives during these manoeuvres proceeded from the Spanish bishops, who urged the introduction of reforms securing the independence of the episcopacy. We find a remarkable demonstration of Paul III.'s difficulties as Pope of the transition, in the fact that while the Council of Trent was waging this uncompromising war against Reformers, his dread of Charles V. compelled him to suspend its sessions, transfer it to Bologna, and declare himself the political ally of German Protestants. This transference took place in 1547. His Legates received orders to invent some decent excuse for a step which would certainly be resisted, since Bologna was a city altogether subject to the Holy See. The Legates, by the connivance of the physicians in Trent, managed to create a panic of contagious epidemic.[21] Charles had won victories which seemed to place Germany at his discretion. His preponderance in Italy was thereby dangerously augmented. Paul, following the precedents of policy in which he had been bred, thought it at this crisis necessary to subordinate ecclesiastical to temporal interests. He interrupted the proceedings of the Council in order to hamper the Emperor in Germany. He encouraged the Northern Protestants in order that he might maintain an open issue in the loins of his Spanish rival. Nothing could more delicately illustrate the complications of European politics than the inverted attitude assumed by the Roman Pontiff in his dealings with a Catholic Emperor at this moment of time.[22] [Footnote 21: See Sarpi, p. 249.] [Footnote 22: Charles, at this juncture, was checkmated by Paul through his own inability to dispense with the Pope's co-operation as chief of the Catholic Church. So long as he opposed the Reformation, it was impossible for him to assume an attitude of violent hostility to Rome.] The opposition of the Farnesi to Paul's scheme for restoring Parma to the Holy See in 1549, broke Paul III.'s health and spirits. He died on November 10, and was succeeded by the Cardinal Giovanni Maria del Monte, of whose reign little need be said. Julius III. removed the Council from Bologna to Trent in 1551, where it made some progress in questions touching the Eucharist and the administration of episcopal sees; but in the next year its sessions were suspended, owing to the disturbed state of Southern Germany and the presence of a Protestant army under Maurice of Saxony in the Tyrol.[23] This Pope passed his time agreeably and innocently enough in the villa which he built near the Porta del Popolo. His relatives were invested with several petty fiefs--that of their birthplace, Monte Sansovino, by Cosimo de'Medici; that of Novara by the Emperor, and that of Camerino by the Church. The old methods of Papal nepotism were not as yet abandoned. His successor, Marcello II., survived his elevation only three weeks; and in May 1555, Giovanni Pietro Caraffa was elected, with the title of Paul IV. We have already made the acquaintance of this Pope as a member of the Oratory of Divine Love, as a co-founder of the Theatines, as the organizer of the Roman Inquisition, and as a leader in the first sessions of the Tridentine Council. Paul IV. sprang from a high and puissant family of Naples. He was a man of fierce, impulsive and uncompromising temper, animated by two ruling passions--burning hatred for the Spaniards who were trampling on his native land, and ecclesiastical ambition intensified by rigid Catholic orthodoxy. The first act of his reign was a vain effort to expel the Spaniards from Italy by resorting to the old device of French assistance. The abdication of Charles V. had placed Philip II. on the throne of Spain, and the settlement whereby the Imperial crown passed to his brother Ferdinand had substituted a feeble for a powerful Emperor. But Philip's disengagement from the cares of Germany left him more at liberty to maintain his preponderance in Southern Europe. It was fortunate for Paul IV. that Philip was a bigoted Catholic and a superstitiously obedient son of the Church. These two potentates, who began to reign in the same year, were destined, after the settlement of their early quarrel, to lead and organize the Catholic Counter-Reformation. The Duke of Guise at the Pope's request marched a French army into Italy. Paul raised a body of mercenaries, who were chiefly German Protestants[24]; and opened negotiations with Soliman, entreating the Turk to make a descent on Sicily by sea. Into such a fantastically false position was the Chief of the Church, the most Catholic of all her Pontiffs, driven by his jealous patriotism. We seem to be transported back into the times of a Sixtus IV. or an Alexander VI. And in truth, Paul's reversion to the antiquated Guelf policy of his predecessors was an anachronism. That policy ceased to be efficient when Francis I. signed the Treaty of Cambray; the Church, too, had gradually assumed such a position that armed interference in the affairs of secular sovereigns was suicidal. This became so manifest that Paul's futile attack on Philip in 1556 may be reckoned the last war raised by a Pope. From it we date the commencement of a new system of Papal co-operation with Catholic powers. [Footnote 23: During the brief and unimportant sessions at Bologna, Jesuit influences began to make themselves decidedly felt in the Council, where Lainez and Salmeron attended as Theologians of the Papal See. Up to this time the Dominicans had shaped decrees. Dogmatic orthodoxy was secured by their means. Now the Jesuits were to fight and win the battle of Papal Supremacy.] [Footnote 24: Sarpi, quoted in his Life by Fra Fulgenzio, p. 83, says Paul called his Grisons mercenaries 'Angels sent from Heaven.'] The Duke of Alva put the forces at his disposal in the Two Sicilies into motion, and advanced to meet the Duke of Guise. But while the campaign dragged on, Philip won the decisive battle of S. Quentin. The Guise hurried back to France, and Alva marched unresisted upon Rome. There was no reason why the Eternal City should not have been subjected to another siege and sack. The will was certainly not wanting in Alva to humiliate the Pope, who never spoke of Spaniards but as renegade Jews, Marrani, heretics, and personifications of pride. Philip, however, wrote reminding his general that the date of his birth (1527) was that of Rome's calamity, and vowing that he would not signalize the first year of his reign by inflicting fresh miseries upon the capital of Christendom. Alva was ordered to make peace on terms both honorable and advantageous to his Holiness; since the King of Spain preferred to lose the rights of his own crown rather than to impair those of the Holy See in the least particular. Consequently, when Alva entered Rome in peaceful pomp, he did homage for his master to the Pope, who was generously willing to absolve him for his past offences. Paul IV. publicly exulted in the abasement of his conquerors, declaring that it would teach kings in future the obedience they owed to the Chief of the Church. But Alva did not conceal his discontent. It would have been better, he said, to have sent the Pope to sue for peace and pardon at Brussels, than to allow him to obtain the one and grant the other on these terms. Paul's ambition to expel the Spaniards from Italy exposed him to the worst abuses of that Papal nepotism which he had denounced in others. He judged it necessary to surround himself with trusty and powerful agents of his own kindred.[25] [Footnote 25: New men--and Popes were always _novi homines_--are compelled to take this course, and suffer when they take it. We might compare their difficulties with those which hampered Napoleon when he aspired to the Imperial tyranny over French conquests in Europe.] With that view he raised one of his nephews, Carlo, to the Cardinalate, and bestowed on two others the principal fiefs of the Colonna family. The Colonnas were by tradition Ghibelline. This sufficed for depriving them of Palliano and Montebello. Carlo Caraffa, who obtained the scarlet, had lived a disreputable life which notoriously unfitted him for any ecclesiastical dignity. In the days of Sixtus and Alexander this would have been no bar to his promotion. But the Church was rapidly undergoing a change; and Carlo, complying with the hypocritical spirit of his age, found it convenient to affect a thorough reformation, and to make open show of penitence. Rome now presented the singular spectacle of an inquisitorial Pope, unimpeachable in moral conduct and zealous for Church reform, surrounded by nephews who were little better than Borgias. The Caraffas began to dream of principalities and scepters. It was their ambition to lay hold on Florence, where Cosimo de'Medici, as a pronounced ally of Spain, had gained the bitter hatred of their uncle. But their various misdoings, acts of violence and oppression, avarice and sensuality, gradually reached the ears of the Pope. In an assembly of the Inquisition, held in January 1559, he cried aloud, 'Reform! reform! reform!' Cardinal Pacheco, a determined foe of the Caraffeschi, raised his voice, and said, 'Holy Father! reform must first begin with us.' Pallavicini adds the remark that Paul understood well who was meant by _us_. He immediately retired to his apartments, instituted a searching inquiry into the conduct of his nephews, and, before the month was out, deprived them of all their offices and honors, and banished them from Rome. He would not hear a word in their defence; and when Cardinal Farnese endeavored to procure a mitigation of their sentence, he brutally replied, 'If Paul III. had shown the same justice, your father would not have been murdered and mutilated in the streets of Piacenza.' In open consistory, before the Cardinals and high officials of his realm, with tears streaming from his eyes, he exposed the evil life of his relatives, declared his abhorrence of them, and protested that he had dwelt in perfect ignorance of their crimes until that time. This scene recalls a similar occasion, when Alexander VI. bewailed himself aloud before his Cardinals after the murder of the Duke of Gandia by Cesare. But Alexander's repentance was momentary; his grief was that of a father for Absalom; his indignation gave way to paternal weakness for the fratricide. Paul, though his love for his relatives seems to have been fervent, never relaxed his first severity against them. They were buried in oblivion; no one uttered their names in the Pope's presence. The whole secular administration of the Papal States was changed; not an official kept his place. For the first time Rome was governed by ministers in no way related to the Holy Father. Paul now turned his attention, with the fiery passion that distinguished him, to the reformation of ecclesiastical abuses. On his accession he had published a Bull declaring that this would be a principal object of his reign. Nor had he in the midst of other occupations forgotten his engagement. A Congregation specially appointed for examining, classifying, and remedying such abuses had been established. It was divided into three committees, consisting of eight Cardinals, fifteen prelates, and fifty men of learning. At the same time the Inquisition was rigorously maintained. Paul extended its jurisdiction, empowered it to use torture, and was constant in his attendance on its meetings and _autos da fé_.[26] But now that his plans for the expulsion of the Spaniards had failed, and his nephews had been hurled from their high station into the dust, there remained no other interest to distract his mind. Every day witnessed the promulgation of some new edict touching monastic discipline, simony, sale of offices, collation to benefices, church ritual, performance of clerical duties, and appointment to ecclesiastical dignities. It was his favorite boast that there would be no need of a Council to restore the Church to purity, since he was doing it.[27] [Footnote 26: Pallavicini, in his history of the Council of Trent (Lib. xiv. ix. 5), specially commends Paul's zeal for the Holy Office:--'Fra esse d'eterna lode lo fa degno il tribunal dell'inquisizione, che dal zelo di lui e prima in autorità di consigliero e poscia in podestà di principe riconosce il presente suo vigor nell'Italia, e dal quale riconosce l'Italia la sua conservata integrità della fede: e per quest' opera salutare egli rimane ora tanto più benemerito ed onorabile quantao più allora ne fu mal rimerilato e disonorato.'] [Footnote 27: See Luigi Mocenigo in _Rel. degli Amb. Veneti_, vol. x. p. 25.] And indeed his measures formed the nucleus of the Tridentine decrees upon this topic in the final sessions of the Council. Under this government Rome assumed an air of exemplary behavior which struck foreigners with mute astonishment. Cardinals were compelled to preach in their basilicas. The Pope himself, who was vain of his eloquence, preached. Gravity of manners, external signs of piety, a composed and contrite face, ostentation of orthodoxy by frequent confession and attendance at the Mass, became fashionable; and the Court adopted for its motto the _Si non caste tamen caute_ of the Counter-Reformation.[28] Aretino, with his usual blackguardly pointedness of expression, has given a hint of what the new _régime_ implied in the following satiric lines:-- Carafla, ipocrita infingardo, Che tien per coscienza spirituale Quando si mette del pepe in sul cardo. Paul IV. brought the first period of the transition to an end. There were no attempts at dislodging the Spaniard, no Papal wars, no tyranny of Papal nephews converted into feudal princes, after his days. He stamped Roman society with his own austere and bigoted religion. That he was in any sense a hypocrite is wholly out of the question. But he made Rome hypocritical, and by establishing the Inquisition on a firm basis, he introduced a reign of spiritual terror into Italy. [Footnote 28: 'Roma a paragone delli tempi degli altri pontefici si poteva riputar come un onesto monasterio di religiosi' (_op. cit._ p. 41).] At his death the people rose in revolt, broke into the dungeons of the Inquisition, released the prisoners, and destroyed the archives. The Holy Office was restored, however; and its higher posts of trust soon came to be regarded as stepping-stones to the Pontifical dignity. The successor of Paul IV. was a man of very different quality and antecedents. Giovanni Angelo Medici sprang, not from the Florentine house of Medici, but from an obscure Lombard stem. His father acquired some wealth by farming the customs in Milan; and his eldest brother, Gian Giacomo, pushed his way to fame, fortune, and a title by piracy upon the lake of Como.[29] Gian Giacomo established himself so securely in his robber fortress of Musso that he soon became a power to reckon with. He then entered the imperial service, was created Marquis of Marignano by the Duke of Milan, and married a lady of the Orsini house, the sister of the Duchess of Parma. At a subsequent period he succeeded in subduing Siena to the rule of Cosimo de'Medici, who then acknowledged a pretended consanguinity between the two families.[30] The younger brother, Giovanni Angelo, had meanwhile been studying law, practising as a jurist, and following the Court at Rome in the place of prothonotary which, as the custom then was, he purchased in 1527. Paul III. observed him, took him early into favor, and on the marriage of Gian Giacomo, advanced him to the Cardinalate. This was the man who assumed the title of Pius IV. on his election to the Papacy in 1559. [Footnote 29: In my _Sketches and Studies in Italy_ I have narrated the romantic history of this filibuster.] [Footnote 30: Soranzo: Alberi, vol. x. p. 67. Pius IV. adopted the arms of the Florentine Medici, and spent 30,000 scudi on carving them about through Rome. See P. Tiepolo, _Ib._ p. 174.] Paul IV. hated Cardinal Medici, and drove him away from Rome. It is probable that this antipathy contributed something to Giovanni Angelo's elevation. Of humble Lombard blood, a jurist and a worldling, pacific in his policy, devoted to Spanish interests, cautious and conciliatory in the conduct of affairs, ignorant of theology and indifferent to niceties of discipline, Pius IV. was at all points the exact opposite of the fiery Neapolitan noble, the Inquisitor and fanatic, the haughty trampler upon kings, the armed antagonist of Alva, the brusque, impulsive autocrat, the purist of orthodoxy, who preceded him upon the Papal throne.[31] His trusted counselor was Cardinal Morone, whom Paul had thrown into the dungeons of the Inquisition on a charge of favoring Lutheran opinions, and who was liberated by the rabble in their fury.[32] [Footnote 31: 'Veramente quasi in ogni parte si può chiamare il rovescio dell' altro' (_op. cit._ p. 50).] [Footnote 32: Luigi Mocenigo says of him that Pius 'averlo per un angelo di paradiso, e adoperandolo per consiglio in tutte le sue cose importanti.' Alberi, vol. x. p. 40. The case made out against Morone during the pontificate of Paul IV. may be studied in Cantù, _op. cit._ vol. ii. pp. 171-192, together with his defence in full. It turned mainly on these articles:--unsound opinions regarding justification by faith, salvation by Christ's blood, good works, invocation of saints, reliques; dissemination of the famous book on the _Benefits of Christ's Death_; practice with heretics. He was imprisoned in the Castle of S. Angelo from June, 1557 till August, 1559. Suspicions no doubt fell on him through his friendship with several of the moderate reformers, and from the fact that his diocese of Modena was a nest of liberal thinkers--the Grillenzoni, Castelvetro, Filippo Valentini, Faloppio, Camillo Molza, Francesco da Porto, Egidio Foscarari, and others, all of whom are described by Cantù, _op. cit._ Disc, xxviii. The charges brought against these persons prove at once the mainly speculative and innocuous character of Italian heresy, and the implacable enmity which a Pope of Caraffa's stamp exercised against the slightest shadow of heterodoxy.] This in itself was significant of the new _régime_ which now began in Rome. Morone, like his master, understood that the Church could best be guided by diplomacy and arts of peace. The two together brought the Council of Trent to that conclusion which left an undisputed sovereignty in theological and ecclesiastical affairs to the Papacy. It would have been impossible for a man of Caraffa's stamp to achieve what these sagacious temporizers and adroit managers effected. Without advancing the same arrogant claims to spiritual supremacy as Paul had made, Pius was by no means a feeble Pontiff. He knew that the temper of the times demanded wise concessions; but he also knew how to win through these concessions the reality of power. It was he who initiated and firmly followed the policy of alliance between the Papacy and the Catholic sovereigns.[33] Instead of asserting the interests of the Church in antagonism to secular potentates, he undertook to prove that their interests were identical. Militant Protestantism threatened the civil no less than the ecclesiastical order. The episcopacy attempted to liberate itself from monarchical and pontifical authority alike. Pius proposed to the autocrats of Europe a compact for mutual defence, divesting the Holy See of some of its privileges, but requiring in return the recognition of its ecclesiastical absolutism. In all difficult negotiations he was wont to depend upon himself; treating his counselors as agents rather than as peers, and holding the threads of diplomacy in his own hands. Thus he was able to transact business as a sovereign with sovereigns, and came to terms with them by means of personal correspondence. The reconstruction of Catholic Christendom, which took visible shape in the decrees of the Tridentine Council, was actually settled in the Courts of Spain, Austria, France and Rome. The Fathers of the Council were the mouthpieces of royal and Papal cabinets. The Holy Ghost, to quote a profane satire of the time, reached Trent in the despatch-bags of couriers, in the sealed instructions issued to ambassadors and legates. [Footnote 33: Soranzo, _op. cit._ p. 75, says: 'Con li principi tiene modo affatto contrario al suo predecessore; perchè mentre quello usava dire, il grado dei pontefici esser per mettersi sotto i piedi gl'imperatori e i re, questo dice che senza l'autorità dei principi non si può conservare quella dei pontefici.'] We observe throughout the negotiations which crowned the policy of this Pope with success, the operation not only of a pacific and far-seeing character, but also of the temper of a lawyer. Pius drew up the Tridentine decrees as an able conveyancer draws up a complicated deed, involving many trusts, recognizing conflicting rights, providing for distant contingencies. It was in fact the marriage contract of ecclesiastical and secular absolutism, by which the estates of Catholic Christendom were put in trust and settlement for posterity. In formulating its terms the Pope granted points to which an obstinate or warlike predecessor, a Julius II. or a Paul IV., would never have subscribed his signature. In purely theological matters, such as the concession of the chalice to the laity and the marriage of the clergy, he was even willing to yield more for the sake of peace than his Court and clergy would agree to. But for each point he gave, he demanded a substantial equivalent, and showed such address in bargaining, that Rome gained far more than it relinquished. When the contract had been drafted, he ratified it by a full and ready recognition, and lawyer-like was punctual in executing all the terms to which he pledged himself. We must credit Pius IV. with keen insight into the new conditions of Catholic Europe, and recognize him as the real founder of the modern as distinguished from the mediaeval Papacy. That transition which I have been describing in the present chapter remained uncertain in its issue up to his pontificate. Before his death the salvation of Catholicism, the integrity of the Catholic Church, the solidity of the Roman hierarchy, and the possibility of a vigorous Counter-Reformation were placed beyond all doubt. It is noticeable that these substantial successes were achieved, not by a religious fanatic, but by a jurist; not by a saint, but by a genial man of the world; not by force of intellect and will, but by adroitness; not by masterful authority, but by pliant diplomacy; not by forcing but by following the current of events. Since Gregory VII., no Pope had done so much as Pius IV. for bracing the ancient fabric of the Church and confirming the Papal prerogative. But what a difference there is between a Hildebrand and a Giovanni Angelo Medici! How Europe had changed, when a man of the latter's stamp was the right instrument of destiny for starting the weather-beaten ship of the Church upon a new and prosperous voyage. Pius IV. was greatly assisted in his work by circumstances, of which he knew how to avail himself. Had it not been for the renewed spiritual activity of Catholicism to which I have alluded in this chapter, he might not have been able to carry that work through. He took no interest in theology, and felt no sympathy for the Inquisition.[34] But he prudently left that institution alone to pursue its function of policing the ecclesiastical realm. The Jesuits rendered him important assistance by propagating their doctrine of passive obedience to Rome. Spain supported him with the massive strength of a nation Catholic to the core; and when the Spanish prelates gave him trouble, he could rely for aid upon the Spanish crown. His own independence, as a prudent man of business, uninfluenced by bigoted prejudices or partialities for any sect, enabled him to manipulate all resources at his disposal for the main object of uniting Catholicism and securing Papal supremacy. He was also fortunate in his family relations, having no occasion to complicate his policy by nepotism. One of the first acts of his reign had been to condemn four of the Caraffeschi--Cardinal Caraffa, the Duke of Palliano, Count Aliffe and Leonardo di Cardine--to death; and this act of justice ended forever the old forms of domestic ambition which had hampered the Popes of the Renaissance in their ecclesiastical designs. His brother, the Marquis of Marignano, died in 1555; and this event opened for him the path to the Papacy, which he would never have attained in the lifetime of so grasping and ambitious a man.[35] With his next brother, Augusto, who succeeded to the marquisate, he felt no sympathy.[36] His nephew Federigo Borromeo died in youth. His other nephew, Carlo Borromeo, the sainted Archbishop of Milan, remained close to his person in Rome.[37] But Carlo Borromeo was a man who personified the new spirit of Catholicism. Sincerely pious, zealous for the faith, immaculate in conduct, unwearied in the discharge of diocesan duties, charitable to the poor, devoted to the sick, he summed up all the virtues of the Counter-Reformation. Nor had he any of the virtues of the Renaissance. A Venetian Ambassador described him as cold of political temperament, little versed in worldly affairs, and perplexed when he attempted to handle matters of grave moment.[38] His presence at the Papal Court, so far from being perilous, as that of an ambitious Cardinal Nipote would have been, or scandalous as that of former Riarios, Borgias, and Caraffas had undoubtedly been, was a source of strength to Pius. It imported into his immediate surroundings just what he himself lacked, and saved him from imputations of worldliness which in the altered temper of the Church might have proved inconvenient.[39] Truly, among all Pontiffs who have occupied St. Peter's Chair, Pius IV. deserved in the close of his life to be called fortunate. He had risen from obscurity, had entered Rome in humble office at the moment of Rome's deepest degradation. He had lived through troubled times, and for some years had felt the whole weight of Catholic concerns upon his shoulders. At the last, he was conscious of having opened a new era for the Church, and of being able to transmit a scepter of undisputed authority to his successors. His death-bed was troubled with no remorse, with no ingratitude of relatives, with no political complications produced by family ambition or by the sacrifice of his official duties to personal aggrandizement. [Footnote 34: Soranzo, _op. cit._ p. 74.] [Footnote 35: Soranzo, _op. cit._ p. 71, says: 'II marchese suo fratello con la moglie gli diede il cappello, e con la morte il papato.'] [Footnote 36: Mocenigo, _op. cit._ p. 52. Soranzo, _op. cit._ p. 93.] [Footnote 37: Margherita Medici, sister of the Pope, had married Gilberto Borromeo.] [Footnote 38: See Mocenigo, _op. cit._ p. 53. Soranzo, _op. cit._ p. 91.] [Footnote 39: Gia. Soranzo (_op. cit._ p. 133) says of Carlo Borromeo, 'ch'egli solo faccia più profitto nella Corte di Roma che tutti i decreti del Concilio insieme.'] Soon after the election of Pope Pius IV. the state of Europe made the calling of a General Council indispensable. Paul's impolitic pretensions had finally alienated England from the Roman Church. Scotland was upon the point of declaring herself Protestant. The Huguenots were growing stronger every year in France, the Queen Mother, Catherine de'Medici, being at that time inclined to favor them. The Confession of Augsburg had long been recognized in Germany. The whole of Scandinavia, with Denmark, was lost to Catholicism. The Low Countries, in spite of Philip, Alva, and the Inquisition, remained intractable. Bohemia, Hungary, and Poland were alienated, ripe for open schism. The tenets of Zwingli had taken root in German Switzerland. Calvin was gaining ground in the French cantons. Geneva had become a stationary fortress, the stronghold of belligerent reformers, whence heresy sent forth its missionaries and promulgated subversive doctrines through the medium of an ever-active press. Transformed by Calvin from its earlier condition of a pleasure-loving and commercial city, it was now what Deceleia under Spartan discipline had been to Athens in the Peloponnesian war--a permanent _epiteichismos_, perpetually garrisoned and on guard to harry the flanks of Catholics. Faithful to the Roman See in a strict sense of the term, there remained only Spain, Portugal, and Italy. As the events of the next century proved, the disaffected nations still offered rallying-points for the Catholic cause, from which the tide of conquest was rolled back upon the Reformation. But in 1559 the outlook for the Church was very gloomy; no one could predict whether a General Council might not increase her difficulties by weakening the Papal power and sowing further seeds of discord among her few faithful adherents. Yet Pius, after an attempt to combine the Catholic nations in a crusade against Geneva, which was frustrated by the jealousy of Spain, the internal weakness of France and the respect inspired by Switzerland,[40] determined to cast his fortunes on the Council. He had several strong points in his favor. The reigning Emperor, Ferdinand, wielded a power insignificant when compared with that of Charles V. The Protestants, though formally invited, were certain not to attend a Council which had already condemned the articles of their Confession. The cardinal dogmas of Catholicism had been confirmed in the sessions of 1545-1552. It was to be hoped that, with skillful management, existing differences of opinion with regard to doctrine, church-management, and reformation of abuses, might be settled to the satisfaction of the Catholic powers. [Footnote 40: See Sarpi, vol. ii. pp. 43, 44.] The Pope accordingly sent four Legates, the Cardinals Gonzaga, Seripando, Simoneta, Hosius, and Puteo, to Trent, who opened the Council on January 15, 1562.[41] As had been anticipated, the Protestants showed strong disinclination to attend. The French prelates were unable to appear, pending negotiations with the Huguenots at Poissy and Pontoise. The German prelates intimated their reluctance to take part in the proceedings. The Court of France demanded that the chalice for the laity and the use of the vulgar tongue in religious services should be conceded. The Emperor also insisted on these points, making a further demand for the marriage of the clergy. Circumstances both in France and Germany seemed to render these conditions imperative, if the rapid spread of Protestant dissent were to be checked and the remnant of the Catholic population to be kept in obedience. Of ecclesiastics, only Spaniards and Italians, the latter in a large majority, appeared at Trent. The Courts of other nations were represented by ambassadors, who took no part in the deliberations of the Council.[42] [Footnote 41: Cardinal Puteo was soon replaced by a Papal nephew, the Cardinal d'Altemps (Mark of Hohen Embs).] [Footnote 42: At the first session there were five Cardinals, one hundred and four prelates, including Patriarchs, Archbishops and Bishops, four Abbots, and four Generals of Orders. These were all Italians, Spaniards and Portuguese. And yet this Conciliabulum called itself a General Council, inspired by the Holy Ghost to legislate for the whole of Latin and Teutonic Christianity.] In spite of this inauspicious commencement, Pius declared the Council a General Council, and further decreed that it should be recognized as a continuation of that Council which had begun at Trent in 1545. This rendered co-operation of the Protestants impossible, since they would have been compelled to accept the earlier dogmatic resolutions of the Fathers. It was decided that no proxies should be allowed to absentees; that the questions of doctrine and reform should be prepared for discussion in two separate congregations, and should be taken into consideration in full sessions simultaneously; finally that the Papal Legates should alone have the privilege of proposing resolutions to the fathers. This last point, by which the Court of Rome reserved to itself the control of all proceedings in the Council, was carried by a clever ruse. Until too late the Spanish prelates do not seem to have been aware of the immense power they had conferred on Rome by passing the words _Legatis proponentibus_.[43] The principle involved in this phrase continued to be hotly disputed all through the sessions of the Council. But Pius knew that so long as he stuck fast to it he always held the ace of trumps, and nothing would induce him to relinquish it. [Footnote 43: See Sarpi, vol. ii. p. 87.] Fortified in this position of superiority, Pius now proceeded to organize his forces and display his tactics. All through the sessions of the Council they remained the same; and as the method resulted in his final victory, it deserves to be briefly described. At any cost he determined to secure a numerical majority in the Synod. This was effected by drafting Italian prelates, as occasion required, to Trent. Many of the poorer sort were subsidized, and placed under the supervision of Cardinal Simoneta, who gave them orders how to vote. A small squadron of witty bishops was told off to throw ridicule on inconvenient speakers by satirical interpolations, or to hamper them by sophistical arguments. Spies were introduced into the opposite camps, who kept the Legates informed of what the French or Spaniards deliberated in their private meetings. The Legates meanwhile established a daily post of couriers, who carried the minutest details of the Council to the Vatican. When the resolutions of the congregations on which decrees were to be framed had been drawn up, they referred them to his Holiness. Without his sanction they did not propose them in a general session. In this fashion, by means of his standing majority, the exclusive right of his Legates to propose resolutions, and the previous reference of these resolutions to himself, Pius was enabled to direct the affairs of the Council. It soon became manifest that while the fathers were talking at Trent their final decisions were arranged in Rome. This not unnaturally caused much discontent. It began to be murmured that the Holy Ghost was sent from Rome to Trent in carpet-bags. A man of more imperious nature than Pius might, by straining his prerogatives, have produced an irreconcilable rupture. But he was aware that the very existence of the Papacy depended on circumspection. He therefore used all his advantages with caution, and resolved to win the day by diplomacy. With this object in view he introduced the further system of negotiating with the Catholic Courts through special agents. Instead of framing the decrees upon the information furnished by his Legates, he in his turn submitted them to Philip, Catherine de'Medici, and Ferdinand, agreed on terms of mutual concession, persuaded the princes that their interests were identical with his own, and then returned such measures to the Council as could be safely passed. In course of time the Holy Ghost was not packed up at Rome for Trent in carpet-bags before he had gone round of Europe and made his bow in all cabinets. It must not, however, be thought that matters went smoothly for the Pope at first, or that so novel a method as that which I have described, whereby the faith and discipline of Christendom were settled by negotiations between sovereigns, came suddenly into existence. In its first sessions the Council, to quote the Pope's own words, resembled the Tower of Babel rather than a Synod of Fathers. The Spanish prelates contended fiercely for two principles touching the episcopacy: one was that the residence of bishops in their dioceses had been divinely commanded; the other, that their authority is derived from Christ immediately. The first struck at the Pope's power to dispense from the duty of residence; and if it had been established, it would have ruined his capital. The second would have rendered the episcopacy independent of Rome, and have made the Holy Father one of a numerous oligarchy instead of the absolute chief of a hierarchy. Pius was able to show Philip that the independence of the bishops must inflict deep injuries on the crown of Spain. Philip therefore wrote to forbid insistance on this point. But the Spanish prelates, though coerced, were not silenced, and the storm which they had raised went grumbling on. Difficulties of a no less serious nature arose when the French and Imperial ambassadors arrived at Trent in the spring. They demanded, as I have already stated, that the chalice should be conceded to the laity; nor is it easy to understand why this point might not have been granted. Pius himself was ready to make the concession; and the only valid argument against it was that it imperiled the uniformity of ritual throughout all Catholic countries. The Germans further stipulated for the marriage of the clergy, which the Pope was also disposed to entertain, until he reflected that celibacy alone retained the clergy faithful to his interests and regardless of those of their own nations. At this juncture of affairs, the Roman Court, which was strongly opposed to both concessions, received material aid from the dissensions of the Council. The Spaniards would hear nothing of the Eucharist under both forms. The marriage of the clergy was opposed by French and Spaniards alike. On the point of episcopal independence, the French supported the Spaniards; but Pius used the same arguments in France which he had used in Spain, with similar success. Thus there was no agreement on any of the disputed questions between Spaniards, Frenchmen and Germans; and since the ambassadors could neither propose nor vote, and the Italian prelates were in a permanent majority, Pius was able to defer and temporize at leisure. Nevertheless, he began to feel the gravity of the situation. He saw that the embassies constituted dangerous centers of intrigue and national organization at Trent. He was not entirely satisfied with his own Legate, the Cardinal Gonzaga, who supported the divine right of the episcopacy, and quarreled with his colleagues. The Spaniards, infuriated at having sacrificed the right of proposing measures, began to talk openly about the reform of the Papacy. Disagreeable messages reached Rome from France, and Spain, and Germany, complaining of the Pope's absolutism in Council, and demanding that the reform of the Church should be taken into serious and instant consideration. His devoted adherent, Lainez, General of the Jesuits, embittered opposition by passionately preaching the doctrine of passive obedience. Two dangers lay before him. One was that the Council should break up in confusion, with discredit to Rome, and anarchy for the Catholic Church. The other was that it should be prolonged in its dissensions by the princes, with a view of depressing and enfeebling the Papal authority. Other perils of an incalculable kind threatened him in the announced approach of the mighty Cardinal of Lorraine, brother to the Duke of Guise, with a retinue of French bishops released from the Conference at Poissy. Though he kept on packing the Council with fresh relays of Italians, it was much to be apprehended that they might be unable to oppose a coalition between French and Spanish prelates, should that be now effected. Pius, at this crisis, resolved on two important lines of policy, the energetic pursuit of which speedily brought the Council of Trent to a peaceful termination. The first was to meet the demand for a searching reformation of the Church with cheerful acquiescence; but to oppose a counter-demand that the secular States in all their ecclesiastical relations should at the same time be reformed. This implied a threat of alienating patronage and revenue from the princes; it also indicated plainly that the tiara and the crowns had interests in common. The second was to develop the diplomatic system upon which he had already tentatively entered. The events of the spring, 1563, hastened the adoption of these measures by the Pope. Cardinal Lorraine had arrived with his French bishops[44]; and the Papal Legates found themselves involved at once in intricate disputes on questions touching the Huguenots and the interests of the Gallican Church. The Italians were driven in despair to epigrams: _Dalla scabie Spagnuola siamo caduti nel mal Francese_. Somewhat later, the Emperor dispatched a bulky and verbose letter, announcing his intention to play the part which Sigismund had assumed at the Council of Constance. He complained roundly of the evils caused by the reference of all resolutions to Rome, by the exclusive rights of the Legates to propose decrees, and by the intrigues of the Italian majority in the Synod. He wound up by declaring that the reformation of the Church must be accomplished in Trent, not left to the judgment of the Papal Curia; and threatened to arrive from Innsbruck by the Brenner. Though Ferdinand was in a position of ecclesiastical and political weakness, such an Imperial rescript could not be altogether contemned; especially as Cardinal Lorraine, soon after his arrival, had made the journey to Innsbruck on purpose to confer with the Emperor. It therefore behoved the Pope to act with decision; and an important event happened in the first days of March, which materially assisted him in doing so. This was the death of Cardinal Gonzaga, whom Pius determined to replace by the moderate and circumspect Morone.[45] [Footnote 44: He reached Trent, November 13, 1562, with eighteen Bishops, and three Abbots of France, charged by Charles IX. to demand purified ritual, reformed discipline of clergy, use of vernacular in church services, and finally, if possible, the marriage of the clergy.] [Footnote 45: The confusion at Trent in the spring of 1563 is thus described by the Bishop of Alife: 'Methinks Antichrist has come, so greatly confounded are the perturbations of the holy Fathers here.' Phillipson, p. 525.] Through Ippolito d'Este, Cardinal of Ferrara, he opened negotiations with the French Court, showing that the wishes of the prelates in the Council on the question of episcopacy were no less opposed to the crown than to his own interests. Cardinal Simoneta urged the same point on the Marquis of Pescara, who governed Milan for Philip, and was well inclined to the Papal party. Cardinal Morone was sent on a special embassy to the Emperor.[46] By wise concessions, in which the prerogatives of the Imperial ambassadors at Trent were considerably enlarged, and a searching reformation of the Church was promised, Morone succeeded in establishing a good working basis for the future. It came to be understood that while the Pope would allow no further freedom to the bishops, he was well disposed to let his Legates admit the envoys of the Catholic powers into their counsels. From this time forward the Synod may be said to have existed only as a mouthpiece for uttering the terms agreed on by the Pope and potentates. Morone returned to Trent, and the Emperor withdrew from Innsbruck toward the north. [Footnote 46: When Morone set out, he told the Venetian envoy in Rome that he was going on a forlorn hope. 'L'illmo Morone, quando partì per il Concilio, mi disse che andava a cura disperata e che _nulla speserat_ della religione Cattolica.' Soranzo, _op. cit._ p. 82. The Jesuit Canisius, by his influence with Ferdinand, secured the success of Morone's diplomacy.] The difficulty with regard to France and Germany consisted in this, that politics forced both King and Emperor to consider the attitude of their Protestant subjects. Yet both alike were unable to maintain their position as Catholic sovereigns, if they came to open rupture with the Papacy. Ferdinand, as we have just seen, had expressed himself contented with the situation of affairs at Trent. But the French prelates still remained in opposition, and the French Court was undecided. Cardinal Morone, upon his arrival at Trent, began to flatter the Cardinal of Lorraine, affecting to take no measures of importance without consulting him. This conduct, together with timely compliments to several Frenchmen of importance, smoothed the way for future agreement; while the couriers who arrived from France, brought the assurance that Ippolito d'Este's representations had not been fruitless. Pius, meanwhile, was playing the same conciliatory game in Rome, where Don Luigi d'Avila arrived as a special envoy from Philip. The ambassador obtained a lodging in the Vatican, and was seen in daily social intercourse with his Holiness.[47] But the climax of this policy was reached when Lorraine accepted the Pope's invitation, and undertook a journey to Rome. This happened in September. The French Cardinal was pompously received, entertained in the palace, and honored with personal visits in his lodgings by the Pope. Weary of Trent and the tiresome intrigues of the Council, this unscrupulous prelate was still further inclined to negotiation after the murder of his brother, Duke of Guise. It must be remembered that the Guises in France were after all but a potent faction of semi-royal adventurers, who had risen to eminence by an alliance with Diane de Poitiers. The murder of the duke shook the foundations of their power; and the Cardinal was naturally anxious to be back again in France. For the moment he basked in the indolent atmosphere of Rome, surrounded by those treasures of antique and Renaissance luxury which still remained after the Sack of 1527. Pius held out flattering visions of succession to the Papacy, and proved convincingly that nothing could sustain the House of Guise or base the Catholic faith in France except alliance with the Papal See. Lorraine, who had probably seen enough of episcopal _canaillerie_ in the Council, and felt his inner self expand in the rich climate of pontifical Rome, allowed his ambition to be caressed, confessed himself convinced, and returned to Trent intoxicated with his visit, the devoted friend of Rome. [Footnote 47: Sarpi says that Don Luigi resided in the lodgings of Count Federigo Borromeo, a deceased nephew of the Pope.] Menaces, meanwhile, had been astutely mingled with cajoleries. The French and the Imperial Courts were growing anxious on the subject of reform in secular establishments. Pius had threatened to raise the whole question of national Churches and the monarch's right of interfering in their administration. This was tantamount to flinging a burning torch into the powder-magazine of Huguenot and Lutheran grievances. In order to save themselves from the disaster of explosion, they urged harmonious action with the Papacy upon their envoys. The Spanish Court, through Pescara, De Luna, and D'Avalos, wrote dispatches of like tenor. It was now debated whether a congress of Crowned heads should not be held to terminate the Council in accordance with the Papal programme. This would have suited Pius. It was the point to which his policy had led. Yet no such measure could be lightly hazarded. A congress while the Council was yet sitting, would have been too palpable and cynical a declaration of the Papal game. As events showed, it was not even necessary. When Lorraine returned to Trent, the French opposition came to an end. The Spanish had been already neutralized by the firm persistent exhibition of Philip's will to work for Roman absolutism.[48] There was nothing left but to settle details, to formulate the terms of ecclesiastical reform, and to close the Council of Trent with a unanimous vote of confidence in his Holiness. The main outlines of dogma and discipline were quickly drawn. Numerous details were referred to the Pope for definition. The Council terminated in December with an act of submission, which placed all its decrees at the pleasure of the Papal sanction. Pius was wise enough to pass and ratify the decrees of the Tridentine fathers by a Bull dated on December 26, 1563, reserving to the Papal sovereign the sole right of interpreting them in doubtful or disputed cases. This he could well afford to do; for not an article had been penned without his concurrence, and not a stipulation had been made without a previous understanding with the Catholic powers. The very terms, moreover, by which his ratification was conveyed, secured his supremacy, and conferred upon his successors and himself the privileges of a court of ultimate appeal. At no previous period in the history of the Church had so wide, so undefined, and so unlimited an authority been accorded to the See of Rome. Thus Pius IV. was triumphant in obtaining conciliar sanction for Pontifical absolutism, and in maintaining the fabric of the Roman hierarchy unimpaired, the cardinal dogmas of Latin Christianity unimpeached and after formal inquisition reasserted in precise definitions. A formidable armory had been placed at the disposal of the Popes, who were fully empowered to use it, and who had two mighty engines for its application ready in the Holy Office and the Company of Jesus.[49] [Footnote 48: Yet the Spanish bishops fought to the end, under the leadership of their chief Guerrero, for the principle of conciliar independence and the episcopal prerogatives. 'We had better not have come here, than be forced to stand by as witnesses,' says the Bishop of Orense. Phillipson, p. 577.] [Footnote 49: The vague reference of all decrees passed by the Tridentine Council to the Pope for interpretation enabled him and his successors to manipulate them as they chose. It therefore happened, as Sarpi says ('Tratt. delle Mat. Ben.' _Opere_, vol. iv. p. 161), that no reform, with regard to the tenure of benefices, residence, pluralism, etc., which the Council had decided, was adopted without qualifying expedients which neutralized its spirit. If the continuance of benefices _in commendam_ ceased, the device of _pensions_ upon benefices was substituted; and a thousand pretexts put colossal fortunes extracted from Church property, now as before, into the hands of Papal nephews. Witness the contrivances whereby Cardinal Scipione Borghese enriched himself in the Papacy of Paul V. The Council had decreed the residence of bishops in their sees; but it had reserved to the Pope a power of dispensation; so that those whom he chose to exile from Rome were bound to reside, and those whom he desired to have about him were released from this obligation. On each and all delicate points the Papacy was more autocratic after than before the Council. One of Sarpi's letters (vol. i. p. 371) to Jacques Leschassier, dated December 22, 1609, should be studied by those who wish to penetrate the '_reserve ed altre arcane arti_,' the '_renunzie_', '_pensioni_' and '_altri stratagemmi_,' by means of which the Papal Curia, during the half-century after the Tridentine Council, managed to evade its decrees, and to get such control over Church property in Italy that 'out of 500 benefices not one is conferred legally.' Compare the passage in the 'Trattato delle Materie Beneficiarie,' p. 163. There Sarpi says that five-sixths of Italian benefices are at the Pope's disposal, and that there is good reason to suppose that he will acquire the remaining sixth.] After the termination of the Council there was nothing left for Pius but to die. He stood upon a pinnacle which might well have made him nervous--lest haply the Solonian maxim, 'Call no man fortunate until his death,' should be verified in his person. During the two years of peace and retirement which he had still to pass, the unsuccessful conspiracy of Benedetto Accolti and Antonio Canossa against his life gave point to this warning. But otherwise, withdrawn from cares of state, which he committed to his nephew, Carlo Borromeo, he enjoyed the tranquillity that follows successful labor, and sank with undiminished prestige into his grave at the end of 1565. Those who believe in masterful and potent leaders of humanity may be puzzled to account for the triumph achieved by this common-place arbiter of destiny. Not by strength but by pliancy of character he accomplished the transition from the mediaeval to the modern epoch of Catholicism. He was no Cromwell, Frederick the Great, or Bismarck; only a politic old man, contriving by adroit avoidance to steer the ship of the Church clear through innumerable perils. This scion of the Italian middle class, this moral mediocrity, placed his successors in S. Peter's chair upon a throne of such supremacy that they began immediately to claim jurisdiction over kings and nations. Thirty-eight years before his death, when Clement VII. was shut up in S. Angelo, it seemed as though the Papal power might be abolished. Forty-five years after his death, Sarpi, writing to a friend in 1610, expressed his firm opinion that the one, the burning question for Europe was the Papal power.[50] Through him, poor product as he was of ordinary Italian circumstances, elected to be Pope because of his easy-going mildness by prelates worn to death in fiery Caraffa's reign, it happened that the flood of Catholic reaction was rolled over Europe. In a certain sense we may therefore regard him as a veritable _Flagellum Dei_, wielded by inscrutable fate. It seems that at momentous epochs of world-history no hero is needed to effect the purpose of the Time-Spirit. A Gian Angelo Medici, agreeable, diplomatic, benevolent, and pleasure-loving, sufficed to initiate a series of events which kept the Occidental races in perturbation through two centuries. [Footnote 50: _Lettere_, vol. ii. p. 167.] A great step had been taken in the pontificate of Pius IV. That reform of the Church, which the success of Protestantism rendered necessary, and which the Catholic powers demanded, had been decreed by the Council of Trent. Pius showed no unwillingness to give effect to the Council's regulations; and the task was facilitated for him by his nephew, Carlo Borromeo, and the Jesuits. It still remained, however, to be seen whether a new Pope might not reverse the policy on which the Counter-Reformation had been founded, and impede the beneficial inner movement which was leading the Roman hierarchy into paths of sobriety. Should this have happened, it would have been impossible for Romanism to assume a warlike attitude of resistance toward the Protestants in Europe, or to have rallied its own spiritual forces. The next election was therefore a matter of grave import. Nothing is more remarkable in the history of the Papacy at this epoch than the singular contrast offered by each Pontiff in succession to his predecessor. The conclave was practically uncontrolled in its choice by any external force of the first magnitude. Though a Duke of Florence might now, by intrigue, determine the nomination of a Pius IV., no commanding Emperor or King of France, as in the times of Otto the Great or Philip le Bel, could designate his own candidate. There was no strife, so open as in the Renaissance period, between Cardinals subsidized by Spain or Austria or France.[51] The result was that the deliberations of the conclave were determined by motives of petty interests, personal jealousies, and local considerations, to such an extent that the election seemed finally to be the result of chance or inspiration. We find the most unlikely candidates, Caraffa and Peretti, attributing their elevation to the direct influence of the Holy Ghost, in the consciousness that they had slipped into S. Peter's Chair by the maladroitness of conflicting factions. The upshot, however, of these uninfluenced elections generally was to promote a man antagonistic to his predecessor. The clash of parties and the numerical majority of independent Cardinals excluded the creatures of the last reign, and selected for advancement one who owed his position to the favor of an antecedent Pontiff. This result was further secured by the natural desire of all concerned in the election to nominate an old man, since it was for the general advantage that a pontificate should, if possible, not exceed five years. [Footnote 51: This does not mean that the Spanish crown had not a powerful voice in the elections. See the history of the conclaves which elected Urban VII., Gregory XIV., Innocent IX., Clement VIII., in Ranke, vol. ii. pp. 31-39. Yet it was noticed by those close observers, the Venetian envoys, that France and Spain had abandoned their former policy of subsidizing the Cardinals who adhered to their respective factions.] The personal qualities of Carlo Borromeo were of grave importance in the election of a successor to his uncle. He had ruled the Church during the last years of Pius IV.; and the newly-appointed Cardinals were his dependents. Had he attempted to exert his power for his own election, he might have met with opposition. He chose to use it for what he considered the deepest Catholic interests. This unselfishness led to the selection of a man, Michele Ghislieri, whose antecedents rendered him formidable to the still corrupt members of the Roman hierarchy, but whose character was precisely of the stamp required for giving solidity to the new phase on which the Church had entered. As Pius IV. had been the exact opposite to Paul IV., so Pius V. was a complete contrast to Pius IV. He had passed the best years of his life as chief of the Inquisition. Devoted to theology and to religious exercises, he lacked the legal and mundane faculties of his predecessor. But these were no longer necessary. They had done their duty in bringing the Council to a favorable close, and in establishing the Catholic concordat. What was now required was a Pope who should, by personal example and rigid discipline, impress Rome with the principles of orthodoxy and reform. Carlo Borromeo, self-conscious, perhaps, of the political incapacity which others noticed in him, and fervently zealous for the Catholic Revival, devolved this duty on Michele Ghislieri, who completed the work of his two predecessors. Paul IV. had laid a basis for the modern Roman Church by strengthening the Inquisition and setting internal reforms on foot. Pius IV., externally, by his settlement of the Tridentine Council, and by the establishment of the Catholic concordat, built upon this basis an edifice which was not as yet massive. Carlo Borromeo and the Jesuits during the last pontificate prepared the way for a Pope who should cement and gird that building, so that it should be capable of resisting the inroads of time and should serve as a fortress of attack on heresy. That Pope was Michele Ghislieri, who assumed the title of Pius V. in 1566. Before entering on the matter of his reign, it will be necessary to review the state of Rome at this moment in the epoch of transition, when the mediaeval and Renaissance phases were fast merging into the phase of the Counter-Reformation. Old abuses which have once struck a deep root in any institution, die slowly. It is therefore desirable to survey the position in which the Papal Sovereign of the Holy City, as constituted by the Council of Trent, held sway there. The population of Rome was singularly fluctuating. Being principally composed of ecclesiastics with their households and dependents; foreigners resident in the city as suitors or ambassadors; merchants, tradespeople and artists attracted by the hope of gain; it rose or fell according to the qualities of the reigning Pope, and the greater or less train of life which happened to be fashionable. Noble families were rather conspicuous by their absence than by their presence; for those of the first rank, Colonna and Orsini, dwelt upon their fiefs, and visited the capital only as occasion served. The minor aristocracy which gave solidity to social relations in towns like Florence and Bologna, never attained the rank of a substantial oligarchy in Rome. Nor was there an established dynasty round which a circle of peers might gather in permanent alliance with the Court. On the other hand, the frequent succession of Pontiffs chosen from various districts encouraged the growth of an ephemeral nobility, who battened for a while upon the favor of their Papal kinsmen, flooded the city with retainers from their province, and disappeared upon the election of a new Pope, to make room for another flying squadron. Instead of a group of ancient Houses, intermarrying and transmitting hereditary rights and honors to their posterity, Rome presented the spectacle of numerous celibate establishments, displaying great pomp, it is true, but dispersing and disappearing upon the decease of the patrons who assembled them. The households of wealthy Cardinals were formed upon the scale of princely Courts. Yet no one, whether he depended on the mightiest or the feeblest prelate, could reckon on the tenure of his place beyond the lifetime of his master. Many reasons, again--among which may be reckoned the hostility of reigning Pontiffs to the creatures of their predecessors or to their old rivals in the conclave--caused the residence of the chief ecclesiastics in Rome to be precarious. Thus the upper stratum of society was always in a state of flux, its elements shifting according to laws of chronic uncertainty. Beneath it spread a rabble of inferior and dubious gentlefolk, living in idleness upon the favor of the Court, serving the Cardinals and Bishops in immoral and dishonest offices, selling their wives, their daughters and themselves, all eager to rise by indirect means to places of emolument.[52] Lower down, existed the _bourgeoisie_ of artists, bankers, builders, shopkeepers, and artisans; and at the bottom of the scale came hordes of beggars. Rome, like all Holy Cities, entertained multitudes of eleemosynary paupers. Gregory XIII. is praised for having spent more than 200,000 crowns a year on works of charity, and for having assigned the district of San Sisto (in the neighborhood of Trinità del Monte, one of the best quarters of the present city) to the beggars.[53] [Footnote 52: See Mocenigo, _op. cit._ p. 35; Aretino's _Dialogo della Corte di Roma_; and the private history of the Farnesi.] [Footnote 53: Giov. Carraro and Lor. Priuli, _op. cit._ pp. 275, 306.] Such being the social conditions of Rome, it is not surprising to learn that during the reign of so harsh a Pontiff as Paul IV., the population sank to a number estimated at between 40,000 and 50,000. It rose rapidly to 70,000, and touched 80,000 in the reign of Pius IV. Afterwards it gradually ascended to 90,000, and during the popular pontificate of Gregory XIII. it is said to have reached the high figure of 140,000. These calculations are based upon the reports of the Venetian ambassadors, and can be considered as impartial, although they may not be statistically exact.[54] What rendered Roman society rotten to the core was universal pecuniary corruption. In Rome nothing could be had without payment; but men with money in their purse obtained whatever they desired. The office of the Datatario alone brought from ten to fourteen thousand crowns a month into the Papal treasury in 1560.[55] This large sum accrued from the composition of benefices and the sale of vacant offices. The Camera Apostolica, or Chamber of Justice, was no less venal. A price was set on every crime, for which its punishment could be commuted into cash-payment. Even so severe a Pope as Paul IV. committed to his nephew, by published and printed edict, the privilege of compounding with criminals by fines.[56] One consequence of this vile system, rightly called by the Venetian envoy 'the very strangest that could be witnessed or heard of in such matters,' was that wealthy sinners indulged their appetites at the expense of their families, and that innocent people became the prey of sharpers and informers.[57] Rome had organized a vast system of _chantage_. [Footnote 54: Alberi, vol. x. pp. 35, 83, 277.] [Footnote 55: Mocenigo's computation, _op. cit._ p. 29.] [Footnote 56: _Ibid._ p. 31.] [Footnote 57: The true history of the Cenci, as written by Bertolotti, throws light upon these points.] Another consequence was that acts of violence were frightfully common. Men could be hired to commit murders at sums varying from ten to four scudi; and on the death of Paul IV., when anarchy prevailed for a short while in Rome, an eye-witness asserts that several hundred assassinations were committed within the walls in a few days.[58] [Footnote 58: Mocenigo, _op. cit._ p. 38.] It was not to be expected that a population so corrupt, accustomed for generations to fatten upon the venality and vices of the hierarchy, should welcome those radical reforms which were the best fruits of the Tridentine Council. They specially disliked the decrees which enforced the residence of prelates and the limitation of benefices held by a single ecclesiastic. These regulations implied the withdrawal of wealthy patrons from Rome, together with an incalculable reduction in the amount of foreign money spent there. Nor were the measures for abolishing a simoniacal sale of offices, and the growing demand for decency in the administration of justice, less unpopular. The one struck at the root of private speculation in lucrative posts, and deprived the Court of revenues which had to be replaced by taxes. The other destroyed the arts of informers, checked lawlessness and license in the rich, and had the same lamentable effect of impoverishing the Papal treasury. In proportion as the Curia ceased to subsist upon the profits of simony, superstition, and sin, it was forced to maintain itself by imposts on the people, and by resuming, as Gregory XIII. attempted to do, its obsolete rights over fiefs and lands accorded on easy terms or held by doubtful titles. Meanwhile the retrenchment rendered necessary in all households of the hierarchy, and the introduction of severer manners, threatened many minor branches of industry with extinction. These changes began to manifest themselves during the pontificate of Pius IV. The Pope himself was inclined to a liberal and joyous scale of living. But he was not remarkable for generosity; and the new severity of manners made itself felt by the example of his nephew Carlo Borromeo--a man who, while living in the purple, practiced austerities that were apparent in his emaciated countenance. The Jesuits ruled him; and, through him, their influence was felt in every quarter of the city.[59] 'The Court of Rome,' says the Venetian envoy in the year 1565, 'is no longer what it used to be either in the quality or the numbers of the courtiers. This is principally due to the poverty of the Cardinals and the parsimony of the Popes. In the old days, when they gave away more liberally, men of ability flocked from all quarters. This reduction of the Court dates from the Council; for the bishops and beneficed clergy being now obliged to retire to their residences, the larger portion of the Court has left Rome. To the same cause may be ascribed a diminution in the numbers of those who serve the Pontiff, seeing that since only one benefice can now be given, and that involves residence, there are few who care to follow the Court at their own expense and inconvenience without hope of greater reward. The poverty of the Cardinals springs from two causes. The first is that they cannot now obtain benefices of the first class, as was the case when England, Germany, and other provinces were subject to the Holy See, and when moreover they could hold three or four bishoprics apiece together with other places of emolument, whereas they now can only have one apiece. The second cause is that the number of the Cardinals has been increased to seventy-five, and that the foreign powers have ceased to compliment them with large presents and Benefices, as was the wont of Charles V. and the French crown.' In the last of these clauses we find clearly indicated one of the main results of the concordat established between the Papacy and the Catholic sovereigns by the policy of Pius IV. It secured Papal absolutism at the expense of the college. Soranzo proceeds to describe the changes visible in Roman society. 'The train of life at Court is therefore mean, partly through poverty, but also owing to the good example of Cardinal Borromeo, seeing that people are wont to follow the manners of their princes. The Cardinal holds in his hands all the threads of the administration; and living religiously in the retirement I have noticed, indulging in liberalities to none but persons of his own stamp, there is neither Cardinal nor courtier who can expect any favor from him unless he conform in fact or in appearance to his mode of life. Consequently one observes that they have altogether withdrawn, in public at any rate, from every sort of pleasures. One sees no longer Cardinals in masquerade or on horseback, nor driving with women about Rome for pastime, as the custom was of late; but the utmost they do is to go alone in close coaches. Banquets, diversions, hunting parties, splendid liveries and all the other signs of outward luxury have been abolished; the more so that now there is at Court no layman of high quality, as formerly when the Pope had many of his relatives or dependents around him. The clergy always wear their robes, so that the reform of the Church is manifested in their appearance. This state of things, on the other hand, has been the ruin of the artisans and merchants, since no money circulates. And while all offices and magistracies are in the hands of Milanese, grasping and illiberal persons, very few indeed can be still called satisfied with the present reign.'[60] [Footnote 59: Giac. Soranzo, _op. cit._ pp. 131-136] [Footnote 60: Soranzo, _op. cit._ pp. 136-138.] One chief defect of Pius IV., judged by the standard of the new party in the Church, had been his coldness in religious exercises. Paolo Tiepolo remarks that during the last seven months of his life he never once attended service in his chapel.[61] [Footnote 61: _Op. cit._ p. 171.] This indifference was combined with lukewarmness in the prosecution of reforms. The Datatario still enriched itself by the composition of benefices, and the Camera by the composition of crimes. Pius V., on the contrary, embodied in himself those ascetic virtues which Carlo Borromeo and the Jesuits were determined to propagate throughout the Catholic world. He never missed a day's attendance on the prescribed services of the Church, said frequent Masses, fasted at regular intervals, and continued to wear the coarse woolen shirt which formed a part of his friar's costume. In his piety there was no hypocrisy. The people saw streams of tears pouring from the eyes of the Pontiff bowed in ecstacy before the Host. A rigid reformation of the churches, monasteries, and clergy was immediately set on foot throughout the Papal States. Monks and nuns complained, not without cause, that austerities were expected from them which were not included in the rules to which they vowed obedience. The severity of the Inquisition was augmented, and the Index Expurgatorius began to exercise a stricter jurisdiction over books. The Pope spent half his time at the Holy Office, inquiring into cases of heresy of ten or twenty years' standing. From Florence he caused Carnesecchi to be dragged to Rome and burned; from Venice the refugee Guido Zanetti of Fano was delivered over to his tender mercies; and the excellent Carranza, Archbishop of Toledo, was sent from Spain to be condemned to death before the Roman tribunal. Criminal justice, meanwhile, was administered with greater purity, and the composition of crimes for money, if not wholly abolished, was moderated. In the collation to bishoprics and other benefices the same spirit of equity appeared; for Pius inquired scrupulously into the character and fitness of aspirants after office. The zeal manifested by Pius V. for a thorough-going reform of manners may be illustrated by a curious circumstance related by the Venetian ambassador in the first year of the pontificate.[62] On July 26, 1566, an edict was issued, compelling all prostitutes to leave Rome within six days, and to evacuate the States of the Church within twelve days. The exodus began. But it was estimated that about 25,000 persons, counting the women themselves with their hangers-on and dependents, would have to quit the city if the edict were enforced.[63] The farmers of the customs calculated that they would lose some 20,000 ducats a year in consequence, and prayed the Pope for compensation. Meanwhile the roads across the Campagna began to be thronged by caravans, which were exposed to the attacks of robbers. The confusion became so great, and the public discontent was so openly expressed, that on August 17 Pius repealed his edict and permitted the prostitutes to reside in certain quarters of the city. [Footnote 62: Mutinelli, _Storia Arcana_, etc., vol. i. pp. 51-54.] [Footnote 63: Assuming the population of Rome to have been about 90,000 at that date, this number appears incredible. Yet we have it on the best of all evidences, that of a resident Venetian envoy.] Pius IV. had wasted the greater part of his later life in bed, neglecting business, entertaining his leisure with buffoons and good companions, eating much and drinking more. Pius V., on the contrary, carried the habits of the convent with him into the Vatican, and bestowed the time he spared from devotion upon the transaction of affairs. He was of choleric complexion, adust, lean, wasted, with sunken eyes and snow-white hair, looking ten years older than he really was. Such a Pope changed the face of Rome, or rather stereotyped the change which had been instituted by Cardinal Borromeo. 'People, even if they are not really better, seem at least to be so,' says the Venetian envoy, who has supplied me with the details I have condensed.[64] Retrenchments in the Papal establishment were introduced; money was scarce; the Court grew meaner in appearance; and nepotism may be said to have been extinct in the days of Pius V. He did indeed advance one nephew, Michele Bonelli, to the Cardinalate; but he showed no inclination to enrich or favor him beyond due measure. A worn man, without ears, marked by the bastinado, frequented the palace, and stood near the person of the Pope, as Captain of the Guard. This was Paolo Ghislieri, a somewhat distant relative of Pius, who had passed his life in servitude to Barbary corsairs and had been ransomed by a merchant upon the election of his kinsman. No other members of the Papal family were invited to Rome. [Footnote 64: Tiepolo, _op. cit._ p. 172.] Pius V., while living this exemplary monastic life upon the Papal throne, ruled Catholic Christendom more absolutely than any of his predecessors. As the Papacy recognized its dependence on the sovereigns, so the sovereigns in their turn perceived that religious conformity was the best safeguard of their secular authority. Therefore the Catholic States subscribed, one after the other, to the Tridentive Profession of Faith, and adopted one system in matters of Church discipline. A new Breviary and a new Missal were published with the Papal sanction. Seminaries were established for the education of ecclesiastics, and the Jesuits labored in their propaganda. The Inquisition and the Congregation of the Index redoubled their efforts to stamp out heresy by fire and iron, and by the suppression or mutilation of books. A rigid uniformity was impressed on Catholicism. The Pope, to whom such power had been committed by the Council, stood at the head of each section and department of the new organization. To his approval every measure in the Church was referred, and the Jesuits executed his instructions with punctual exactness. It is not, therefore, to be wondered that Pius V. should have opened the era of active hostilities against Protestantism. Firmly allied with Philip II., he advocated attacks upon the Huguenots in France, the Protestants in Flanders, and the English crown. There is no evidence that he was active in promoting the Massacre of S. Bartholomew, which took place three months after his death; and the expedition of the Invincible Armada against England was not equipped until another period of fifteen years had elapsed. Yet the negotiations in which he was engaged with Spain, involving enterprises to the detriment of the English realm and the French Reformation, leave no doubt that both S. Bartholomew and the Armada would have met with his hearty approval. One glorious victory gave luster to the reign of Pius V. In 1571 the navies of Spain, Venice and Rome inflicted a paralyzing blow upon the Turkish power at Lepanto; and this success was potent in fanning the flame of Catholic enthusiasm. The pontificates of Paul IV., Pius IV., and Pius V., differing as they did in very important details, had achieved a solid triumph for reformed Catholicism, of which both the diplomatical and the ascetic parties in the Church, Jesuits and Theatines, were eager to take advantage. A new spirit in the Roman polity prevailed, upon the reality of which its future force depended; and the men who embodied this spirit had no mind to relax their hold on its administration. After the death of Pius V. they had to deal with a Pope who resembled his penultimate predecessor, Pius IV., more than the last Pontiff. Ugo Buoncompagno, the scion of a _bourgeois_ family settled in Bologna, began his career as a jurist. He took orders in middle life, was promoted to the Cardinalate, and attained the supreme honor of the Holy See in 1572. The man responded to his name. He was a good companion, easy of access, genial in manners, remarkable for the facility with which he cast off care and gave himself to sanguine expectations.[65] In an earlier period of Church history he might have reproduced the Papacy of Paul II. or Innocent VIII. As it was, Gregory XIII. fell at once under the potent influence of Jesuit directors. His confessor, the Spanish Francesco da Toledo, impressed upon him the necessity of following the footsteps of Paul IV. and Pius V. It was made plain that he must conform to the new tendencies of the Catholic Church; and in his neophyte's zeal he determined to outdo his predecessors. The example of Pius V. was not only imitated, but surpassed. Gregory XIII. celebrated three Masses a week, built churches, and enforced parochial obedience throughout his capital. The Jesuits in his reign attained to the maximum of their wealth and influence. Rome, 'abandoning her ancient license, displayed a moderate and Christian mode of living: and in so far as the external observance of religion was concerned, she showed herself not far removed from such perfection as human frailties allow.'[66] [Footnote 65: Paolo Tiepolo, _op. cit._ p. 312.] [Footnote 66: _Ibid._ p. 214.] While he was yet a layman, Gregory became the father of one son, Giacomo. Born out of wedlock, he was yet acknowledged as a member of the Buoncompagno family, and admitted under this name into the Venetian nobility.[67] The Pope manifested paternal weakness in favor of his offspring. He brought the young man to Rome, and made him Governatore di Santa Chiesa with a salary of 10,000 ducats. The Jesuits and other spiritual persons scented danger. They persuaded the Holy Father that conscience and honor required the alienation of his bastard from the sacred city. Giacomo was relegated to honorable exile in Ancona. But he suffered so severely from this rebuff, that terms of accommodation were agreed on. Giacomo received a lady of the Sforza family in marriage, and was established at the Papal Court with a revenue amounting to about 25,000 crowns.[68] The ecclesiastical party now predominant in Rome, took care that he should not acquire more than honorary importance in the government. Two of the Pope's nephews were promoted to the Cardinalate with provisions of about 10,000 crowns apiece. His old brother abode in retirement at Bologna under strict orders not to seek fortune or to perplex the Papal purity of rule in Rome.[69] [Footnote 67: The Venetians, when they inscribed his name upon the Libro d'Oro, called him 'a near relative of his Holiness.'] [Footnote 68: This lady was a sister of the Count of Santa Fiora. For a detailed account of the wedding, see Mutinelli, _Stor. arc._ vol. i. p. 112.] [Footnote 69: Tiepolo, _op. cit._ pp. 213, 219--221, 263, 266.] I have introduced this sketch of Gregory's relations in order to show how a Pope of his previous habits and personal proclivities was now obliged to follow the new order of the Church. It was noticed that the mode of life in Rome during his reign struck a just balance between license and austerity, and that general satisfaction pervaded society.[70] Outside the city this contentment did not prevail. Gregory threw his States into disorder by reviving obsolete rights of the Church over lands mortgaged or granted with obscure titles. The petty barons rose in revolt, armed their peasants, fomented factions in the country towns, and filled the land with brigands. Under the leadership of men like Alfonso Piccolomini and Roberto Malatesta, these marauding bands assumed the proportion of armies. The neighboring Italian States--Tuscany, Venice, Naples, Parma, all of whom had found the Pope arbitrary and aggressive in his dealings with them--encouraged the bandits by offering them an asylum and refusing to co-operate with Gregory for their reduction. [Footnote 70: Giov. Corraro, op. cit. p. 277.] His successor, Sixtus V., found the whole Papal dominion in confusion. It was impossible to collect the taxes. Life and property were nowhere safe. By a series of savage enactments and stern acts of justice, Sixtus swept the brigands from his States. He then applied his powerful will to the collection of money and the improvement of his provinces. In the four years which followed his election he succeeded in accumulating a round sum of four million crowns, which he stored up in the Castle of S. Angelo. The total revenues of the Papacy at this epoch were roughly estimated at 750,000 crowns, which in former reigns had been absorbed in current costs and the pontifical establishment. By rigorous economy and retrenchments of all kinds Sixtus reduced these annual expenses to a sum of 250,000, thus making a clear profit of 500,000 crowns.[71] At the same time he had already spent about a million and a half on works of public utility, including the famous Acqua Felice, which brought excellent water into Rome. Roads and bridges throughout the States of the Church were repaired, The Chiana of Orvieto and the Pontine Marsh were drained. Encouragement was extended, not only to agriculture, but also to industries and manufactures. The country towns obtained wise financial concessions, and the unpopular resumption of lapsed lands and fiefs was discontinued. Rome meanwhile began to assume her present aspect as a city, by the extensive architectural undertakings which Sixtus set on foot. He loved building; but he was no lover of antiquity. For pagan monuments of art he showed a monastic animosity, dispersing or mutilating the statues of the Vatican and Capitol; turning a Minerva into an image of the Faith by putting a cross in her hand; surmounting the columns of Trajan and Antonine with figures of Peter and Paul; destroying the Septizonium of Severus, and wishing to lay sacrilegious hands on Caecilia Metella's tomb. To mediaeval relics he was hardly less indifferent. The old buildings of the Lateran were thrown down to make room for the heavy modern palace. But, to atone in some measure for these acts of vandalism, Sixtus placed the cupola upon S. Peter's and raised the obelisk in the great piazza which was destined to be circled with Bernini's colonnades. This obelisk he tapped with a cross. Christian inscriptions, signalizing the triumph of the Pontiff over infidel emperors, the victory of Calvary over Olympus, the superiority of Rome's saints and martyrs to Rome's old deities and heroes, left no doubt that what remained of the imperial city had been subdued to Christ and purged of paganism. Wandering through Rome at the present time, we feel in every part the spirit of the Catholic Revival, and murmur to ourselves those lines of Clough: O ye mighty and strange, ye ancient divine ones of Hellas! Are ye Christian too? To convert and redeem and renew you, Will the brief form have sufficed, that a Pope has sat up on the apex Of the Egyptian stone that o'ertops you, the Christian symbol? And ye, silent, supreme in serene and victorious marble, Ye that encircle the walls of the stately Vatican chambers, Are ye also baptized; are ye of the Kingdom of Heaven? Utter, O some one, the word that shall reconcile Ancient and Modern. [Footnote 71: See Giov. Gritti, _op. cit._ p. 333.] Nothing was more absent from the mind of Sixtus than any attempt to reconcile Ancient and Modern. He was bent on proclaiming the ultimate triumph of Catholicism, not only over antiquity, but also over the Renaissance. His inscriptions, crosses, and images of saints are the enduring badges of serfdom set upon the monuments of ancient and renascent Italy, bearing which they were permitted by the now absolute Pontiff to remain as testimonies to his power. Retrenchment alone could not have sufficed for the accumulation of so much idle capital, and for so extensive an expenditure on works of public utility. Sixtus therefore had recourse to new taxation, new loans, and the creation of new offices for sale. The Venetian envoy mentions eighteen imposts levied in his reign; a sum of 600,000 crowns accruing to the Camera by the sale of places; and extensive loans, or Monti, which were principally financed by the Genoese.[72] It was necessary for the Papacy, now that it had relinquished the larger part of its revenues derived from Europe, to live upon the proceeds of the Papal States. The complicated financial expedients on which successive Popes relied for developing their exchequer, have been elaborately explained by Ranke.[73] They were materially assisted in their efforts to support the Papal dignity upon the resources of their realm, by the new system of nepotism which now began to prevail. Since the Council of Trent, it was impossible for a Pope to acknowledge his sons, and few, if any, of the Popes after Pius IV. had sons to acknowledge.[74] [Footnote 72: Giov. Gritti, _op. cit._ p. 337.] [Footnote 73: _History of the Popes_, Book iv. section I.] [Footnote 74: Giacomo Buoncompagno was born while Gregory XIII. was still a layman and a lawyer.] The tendencies of the Church rendered it also incompatible with the Papal position that near relatives of the Pontiff should be advanced, as formerly, to the dignity of independent princes. The custom was to create one nephew Cardinal, with such wealth derived from office as should enable him to benefit the Papal family at large. Another nephew was usually ennobled, endowed with capital in the public funds for the purchase of lands, and provided with lucrative places in the secular administration. He then married into a Roman family of wealth and founded one of the aristocratic houses of the Roman State. We possess some details respecting the incomes of the Papal nephews at this period, which may be of interest.[75] Carlo Borromeo was reasonably believed to enjoy revenues amounting to 50,000 scudi. Giacomo Buoncompagno's whole estate was estimated at 120,000 scudi; while the two Cardinal nephews of Gregory XIII. had each about 10,000 a year. At the same epoch Paolo Giordano Orsini, Duke of Bracciano, enjoyed an income of some 25,000, his estate being worth 60,000, but being heavily encumbered. These figures are taken from the Reports of the Venetian envoys. If we may trust them as accurate, it will appear by a comparison of them with the details furnished by Ranke, that Gregory's successors treated their relatives with greater generosity.[76] Sixtus V. enriched the Cardinal Montalto with an ecclesiastical income of 100,000 scudi. Clement VIII. bestowed on two nephews--one Cardinal, the other layman--revenues of about 60,000 apiece in 1599. He is computed to have hoarded altogether for his family a round sum of 1,000,000 scudi. Paul V. was believed to have given to his Borghese relatives nearly 700,000 scudi in cash, 24,600 scudi in funds, and 268,000 in the worth of offices.[77] The Cardinal Ludovico Ludovisi, nephew of Gregory XV., had a reputed income of 200,000 scudi; and the Ludovisi family obtained 800,000 in _luoghi di monte_ or funds. Three nephews of Urban VIII., the brothers Barberini, were said to have enjoyed joint revenues amounting to half a million scudi, and their total gains from the pontificate touched the enormous sum of 105,000,000. These are the families, sprung from obscurity or mediocre station, whose palaces and villas adorn Rome, and who now rank, though of such recent origin, with the aristocracy of Europe. Sixtus V. died in 1590. To follow the history of his successors would be superfluous for the purpose of this book. The change in the Church which began in the reign of Paul III. was completed in his pontificate. About half a century, embracing seven tenures of the Holy Chair, had sufficed to develop the new phase of the Papacy as an absolute sovereignty, representing the modern European principle of absolutism, both as the acknowledged Head of Catholic Christendom and also as a petty Italian power. [Footnote 75: Sarpi writes: 'In my times Pius V., during five years, accumulated 25,000 ducats for the Cardinal nephew; Gregory XIII., in thirteen years, 30,000 for one nephew, and 20,000 for another; Sixtus V., for his only nephew, 9,000; Clement VIII., in thirteen years, for one nephew, 8,000, and for the other, 3,000; and this Pope, Paul V., in four years, for one nephew alone, 40,000. To what depths are we destined to fall in the future?' (_Lettere_, vol. i. p. 281). This final question was justified by the event; for, after the Borghesi, came the Ludovisi and Barberini, whose accumulations equalled, if they did not surpass, those of any antecedent Papal families.] [Footnote 76: The details may be examined in Ranke, vol. ii. pp. 303-311.] [Footnote 77: Sarpi's Letters supply some details relating to Paul V.'s nepotism. He describes the pleasure which this Pope took on one day of each week in washing his hands in the gold of the Datatario and the Camera (vol. i. p. 281), and says of him, 'attende solo a far danari' (vol. ii. p. 237). When Paul gave his nephew Scipione the Abbey of Vangadizza, with 12,000 ducats a year, Sarpi computed that the Cardinal held about 100,000 ducats of ecclesiastical benefices (vol. i. p. 219). When the Archbishopric of Bologna, worth over 16,000 ducats a year, fell vacant in 1610, Paul gave this to Scipione, who held it a short time without residence, and then abandoned it to Alessandro Ludovisi retaining all its revenues, with the exception of 2,000 ducats, for himself as a _pension_ (vol. ii. pp. 158, 300). In the year 1610 Sarpi notices the purchase of Sulmona and other fiefs by Paul for his family, at the expenditure of 160,000 ducats (vol. ii. p. 70). In another place he speaks of another sum of 100,000 spent upon the same object (vol. i. p. 249, note). Well might he exclaim, 'Il pontefice e attesa ad arrichir la sua casa' (vol. i. p. 294).] CHAPTER III. THE INQUISITION AND THE INDEX. Different Spirit in the Holy Office and the Company of Jesus--Both needed by the Counter-Reformation--Heresy in the Early Church--First Origins of the Inquisition in 1203--S. Dominic--The Holy Office becomes a Dominican Institution--Recognized by the Empire--Its early Organization--The Spanish Inquisition--Founded in 1484--How it differed from the earlier Apostolical Inquisition--Jews, Moors, New Christians--Organization and History of the Holy Office in Spain--Torquemada and his Successors--The Spanish Inquisition never introduced into Italy--How the Roman Inquisition organized by Caraffa differed from it--_Autos da fé_ in Rome--Proscription of suspected Lutherans--The Calabrian Waldenses--Protestants at Locarno and Venice--Digression on the Venetian Holy Office--Persecution of Free Thought in Literature--Growth of the Index Librorum Prohibitorum--Sanction given to it by the Council of Trent--The Roman Congregation of the Index--Final Form of the Censorship of Books under Clement VIII.--Analysis of its Regulations--Proscription of Heretical Books--Correction of Texts--Purgation and Castration--Inquisitorial and Episcopal Licenses--Working of the System of this Censorship in Italy--Its long Delays--Hostility to Sound Learning--Ignorance of the Censors--Interference with Scholars in their Work--Terrorism of Booksellers--Vatican Scheme for the Restoration of Christian Erudition--Frustrated by the Tyranny of the Index--Dishonesty of the Vatican Scholars--Biblical Studies rendered nugatory by the Tridentine Decree on the Vulgate--Decline of Learning in Universities--Miserable Servitude of Professors--Greek dies out--Muretus and Manutius in Rome--The Index and its Treatment of Political Works--Machiavelli--_Ratio Status_--Encouragement of Literature on Papal Absolutism--Sarpi's Attitude--Comparative Indifference of Rome to Books of Obscene or Immoral Tendency--Bandello and Boccaccio--Papal attempts to Control Intercourse of Italians with Heretics. In pursuing the plan of this book, which aims at showing how the spirit of the Catholic revival penetrated every sphere of intellectual activity in Italy, it will now be needful to consider the two agents, both of Spanish origin, on whose assistance the Church relied in her crusade against liberties of thought, speech, and action. These were the Inquisition and the Company of Jesus. The one worked by extirpation and forcible repression; the other by mental enfeeblement and moral corruption. The one used fire, torture, imprisonment, confiscation of goods, the proscription of learning, the destruction or emasculation of books. The other employed subtle means to fill the vacuum thus created with spurious erudition, sophistries, casuistical abominations and false doctrines profitable to the Papal absolutism. Opposed in temper and in method, the one fierce and rigid, the other saccharine and pliant, these two bad angels of Rome contributed in almost equal measure to the triumph of Catholicism. In the earlier ages of the Church, the definition of heresy had been committed to episcopal authority. But the cognizance of heretics and the determination of their punishment remained in the hands of secular magistrates. At the end of the twelfth century the wide diffusion of the Albigensian heterodoxy through Languedoc and Northern Italy alarmed the chiefs of Christendom, and furnished the Papacy with a good pretext for extending its prerogatives. Innocent III. in 1203 empowered two French Cistercians, Pierre de Castelnau and Raoul, to preach against the heretics of Provence. In the following year he ratified this commission by a Bull, which censured the negligence and coldness of the bishops, appointed the Abbot of Citeaux Papal delegate in matters of heresy, and gave him authority to judge and punish misbelievers. This was the first germ of the Holy Office as a separate Tribunal. In order to comprehend the facility with which the Pope established so anomalous an institution, we must bear in mind the intense horror which heresy inspired in the Middle Ages. Being a distinct encroachment of the Papacy upon the episcopal jurisdiction and prerogatives, the Inquisition met at first with some opposition from the bishops. The people for whose persecution it was designed, and at whose expense it carried on its work, broke into rebellion; the first years of its annals were rendered illustrious by the murder of one of its founders, Pierre de Castelnau. He was canonized, and became the first Saint of the Inquisition. Two other Peters obtained the like honor through their zeal for the Catholic faith: Peter of Verona, commonly called Peter Martyr, the Italian saint of the Dominican order; and Peter Arbues, the Spanish saint, who sealed with his blood the charter of the Holy Office in Aragon. In spite of opposition, the Papal institution took root and flourished. Philip Augustus responded to the appeals of Innocent; and a crusade began against the Albigenses, in which Simon de Montfort won his sinister celebrity. During those bloody wars the Inquisition developed itself as a force of formidable expansive energy. Material assistance to the cause was rendered by a Spanish monk of the Augustine order, who settled in Provence on his way back from Rome in 1206. Domenigo de Guzman, known to universal history as S. Dominic, organized a new militia for the service of the orthodox Church between the years 1215 and 1219. His order, called the Order of the Preachers, was originally designed to repress heresy and confirm the faith by diffusing Catholic doctrine and maintaining the creed in its purity. It consisted of three sections: the Preaching Friars; nuns living in conventual retreat; and laymen, entitled the Third Order of Penitence or the Militia of Christ, who in after years were merged with the congregation of S. Peter Martyr, and corresponded to the familiars of the Inquisition. Since the Dominicans were established in the heat and passion of a crusade against heresy, by a rigid Spaniard who employed his energies in persecuting misbelievers, they assumed at the outset a belligerent and inquisitorial attitude. Yet it is not strictly accurate to represent S. Dominic himself as the first Grand Inquisitor. The Papacy proceeded with caution in its design of forming a tribunal dependent on the Holy See and independent of the bishops. Papal Legates with plenipotentiary authority were sent to Languedoc, and decrees were issued against the heretics, in which the Inquisition was rather implied than directly named; nor can I find that S. Dominic, though he continued to be the soul of the new institution until his death in 1221, obtained the title of Inquisitor. Notwithstanding this vagueness, the Holy Office may be said to have been founded by S. Dominic; and it soon became apparent that the order he had formed, was destined to monopolize its functions. The Emperor Frederick II. on his coronation, in 1221, declared his willingness to support a separate Apostolical tribunal for the suppression of heresy. He sanctioned the penalty of death by fire for obstinate heretics, and perpetual imprisonment for penitents--forms of punishment which became stereotyped in the proceedings of the Holy Office.[78] The tribunal, now recognized as a Dominican institution, derived its authority from the Pope. The bishops were suffered to sit with the Inquisitors, but only in such subordinate capacity as left to them a bare title of authority.[79] The secular magistracy was represented by an assessor, who, being nominated by the Inquisitor, became his servile instrument. The expenses of the Court in prosecuting, punishing and imprisoning heretics, together with the maintenance of the Inquisitors and their guards, were thrown upon the communes which they visited. Such was the organization which the Popes, aided by S. Dominic, and availing themselves of the fanatical passions aroused in the Provençal wars, succeeded in creating for their own aggrandizement. It is strange to think that its ratification by the supreme secular power was obtained from an Emperor who died in contumacy, excommunicated and persecuted as an arch-heretic by the priests he had supported. [Footnote 78: See Cantù, _Gli Eretici d'Italia_, vol. i. Discorso 5, and the notes appended to it, for Frederick's edicts and letters to Gregory IX. upon this matter of heresy. The Emperor treats of _Heretica Pravitas_ as a crime against society, and such, indeed, it then appeared according to the mediaeval ideal of Christendom united under Church and Empire. Yet Frederick himself, it will be remembered, died under the ban of the Church, and was placed by Dante among the heresiarchs in the tenth circle of Hell. We now regard him justly as one of the precursors of the Renaissance. But at the beginning of his reign, in his peculiar attitude of Holy Roman Emperor, he had to proceed with rigor against free-thinkers in religion. They were foes to the mediseval order, of which he was the secular head.] [Footnote 79: Sarpi, 'Discorso dell'Origine,' etc. _Opere_, vol. iv. p. 6.] This Apostolical Inquisition was at once introduced into Lombardy, Romagna and the Marches of Treviso. The extreme rigor of its proceedings, the extortions of monks, and the violent resistance offered by the communes, led to some relaxation of its original constitution. More authority had to be conceded to the bishops; and the right of the Inquisitors to levy taxes on the people was modified. Yet it retained its true form of a Papal organ, superseding the episcopal prerogatives, and overriding the secular magistrates, who were bound to execute its biddings. As such it was admitted into Tuscany, and established in Aragon. Venice received it in 1289, with certain reservations that placed its proceedings under the control of Doge and Council. In Languedoc, the country of its birth, it remained rooted at Toulouse and Carcassonne; but the Inquisition did not extend its authority over central and northern France.[80] In Paris its functions were performed by the Sorbonne. Nor did it obtain a footing in England, although the statute 'De Haeretico Comburendo,' passed in 1401 at the instance of the higher clergy, sanctioned the principles on which it existed. The wide and ready acceptance of so terrible an engine of oppression enables us to estimate the profound horror which heresy inspired in the Middle Ages.[81] On the whole, the Inquisition performed the work for which it had been instituted. Those spreading sects, known as Waldenses, Albigenses, Cathari and Paterines, whom it was commissioned to extirpate, died away into obscurity during the fourteenth century; and through the period of the Renaissance the Inquisition had little scope for the display of energy in Italy. Though dormant, it was by no means extinct, however; and the spirit which created it, needed only external cause and circumstance to bring it once more into powerful operation. Meanwhile the Popes throughout the Renaissance used the imputation of heresy, which never lost its blighting stigma, in the prosecution of their secular ambition. As Sarpi has pointed out, there were few of the Italian princes with whom they came into political collision, who were not made the subject of such accusation. [Footnote 80: See Christie's _Etienne Dolet_, chapter 21.] [Footnote 81: Visitors to Milan must have been struck with the equestrian statue to the Podestà Oldrado da Trezzeno in the Piazza de'Mercanti. Underneath it runs an epitaph containing among the praises of this man: _Catharos ut debuit uxit_. An Archbishop of Milan of the same period (middle of the thirteenth century), Enrico di Settala, is also praised upon his epitaph because _jugulavit haereses_. See Cantù, _Gli Eretici d Italia_, vol. i. p. 108.] The revival of the Holy Office on a new and far more murderous basis, took place in 1484. We have seen that hitherto there had been two types of inquisition into heresy. The first, which remained in force up to the year 1203, may be called the episcopal. The second was the Apostolical or Dominican: it transferred this jurisdiction from the bishops to the Papacy, who employed the order of S. Dominic for the special service of the tribunal instituted by the Imperial decrees of Frederick II. The third deserves no other name than Spanish, though, after it had taken shape in Spain, it was transferred to Portugal, applied in all the Spanish and Portuguese colonies, and communicated with some modifications to Italy and the Netherlands.[82] Both the second and third types of Inquisition into heresy were Spanish inventions, patented by the Roman Pontiffs and monopolized by the Dominican order. But the third and final form of the Holy Office in Spain distinguished itself by emancipation from Papal and Royal control, and by a specific organization which rendered it the most formidable of irresponsible engines in the annals of religious institutions. [Footnote 82: Sarpi estimates the number of victims in the Netherlands during the reign of Charles V. at 50,000; Grotius at 100,000. In the reign of Philip II. perhaps another 25,000 were sacrificed. Motley (_Rise of the Dutch Republic_, vol. ii. p. 155) tells how in February 1568 a sentence of the Holy Office, confirmed by royal proclamation, condemned all the inhabitants of the Netherlands, some three millions of souls, with a few specially excepted persons, to death. It was customary to burn the men and bury the women alive. In considering this institution as a whole, we must bear in mind that it was extended to Mexico, Lima, Carthagena, the Indies, Sicily, Sardinia, Oran, Malta. Of the working of the Holy Office in the Spanish and Portuguese colonies we possess but few authentic records. The _Histoire des Inquisitions_ of Joseph Lavallée (Paris, 1809) may, however, be consulted. In vol. ii. pp. 5-9 of this work there is a brief account of the Inquisition at Goa written by one Pyrard; and pp. 45-157 extend the singularly detailed narrative of a Frenchman, Dellon, imprisoned in its dungeons. Some curious circumstances respecting delation, prison life, and _autos da fé_ are here minutely recorded.] The crimes of which the second or Dominican Inquisition had taken cognizance were designated under the generic name of heresy. Heretics were either patent by profession of some heterodox cult or doctrine; or they were suspected. The suspected included witches, sorcerers, and blasphemers who invoked the devil's aid; Catholics abstaining from confession and absolution; harborers of avowed heretics; legal defenders of the cause of heretics; priests who gave Christian burial to heretics; magistrates who showed lukewarmness in pursuit of heretics; the corpses of dead heretics, and books that might be taxed with heretical opinions. All ranks in the social hierarchy, except the Pope, his Legates and Nuncios, and the bishops, were amenable to this Inquisition. The Inquisitors could only be arraigned and judged by their peers. In order to bring the machinery of imprisonment, torture and final sentence into effect, it was needful that the credentials of the Inquisitor should be approved by the sovereign, and that his procedure should be recognized by the bishop. These limitations of the Inquisitorial authority safeguarded the crown and the episcopacy in a legal sense. But since both crown and episcopacy concurred in the object for which the Papacy had established the tribunal, the Inquisitor was practically unimpeded in his functions. Furnished with royal or princely letters patent, he traveled from town to town, attended by his guards and notaries, defraying current expenses at the cost of provinces and towns through which he passed. Where he pitched his camp, he summoned the local magistrates, swore them to obedience, and obtained assurance of their willingness to execute such sentences as he might pronounce. Spies and informers gathered round him, pledged to secrecy and guaranteed by promises of State-protection. The Court opened; witnesses were examined; the accused were acquitted or condemned. Then sentence was pronounced, to which the bishop or his delegate, often an Inquisitor, gave a formal sanction. Finally, the heretic was handed over to the secular arm for the execution of justice. The extraordinary expenses of the tribunal were defrayed by confiscation of goods, a certain portion being paid to the district in which the crime had occurred, the rest being reserved for the maintenance of the Holy Office. Such, roughly speaking, was the method of the Inquisition before 1484; and it did not materially differ in Italy and Spain. Castile had hitherto been free from the pest. But the conditions of that kingdom offered a good occasion for its introduction at the date which I have named. During the Middle Ages the Jews of Castile acquired vast wealth and influence. Few families but felt the burden of their bonds and mortgages. Religious fanaticism, social jealousy, and pecuniary distress exasperated the Christian population; and as early as the year 1391, more than 5000 Jews were massacred in one popular uprising. The Jews, in fear, adopted Christianity. It is said that in the fifteenth century the population counted some million of converts--called New Christians, or, in contempt, Marranos: a word which may probably be derived from the Hebrew Maranatha. These converted Jews, by their ability and wealth, crept into high offices of state, obtained titles of aristocracy, and founded noble houses. Their daughters were married with large dowers into the best Spanish families; and their younger sons aspired to the honors of the Church. Castilian society was being penetrated with Jews, many of whom had undoubtedly conformed to Christianity in externals only. Meanwhile a large section of the Hebrew race remained faithful to their old traditions; and a mixed posterity grew up, which hardly knew whether it was Christian or Jewish, and had opportunity for joining either party. A fertile field was now opened for Inquisitorial energy. The orthodox Dominican saw Christ's flock contaminated. Not without reason did earnest Catholics dread that the Church in Castile would suffer from this blending of the Jewish with the Spanish breed. But they had a fiery Catholic enthusiasm to rely upon in the main body of the nation. And in the crown they knew that there were passions of fear and cupidity, which might be used with overmastering effect. It sufficed to point out to Ferdinand that a persecution of the New Christians would flood his coffers with gold extorted from suspected misbelievers. No merely fabled El Dorado lay in the broad lands and costly merchandise of these imperfect converts to the faith. It sufficed to insist upon the peril to the State if an element so ill-assimilated to the nation were allowed to increase unchecked. At the same time, the Papacy was nothing loth to help them in their undertaking. Sixtus V., one of the worst of Pontiffs, sat then on S. Peter's chair. He readily discerned that a considerable portion of the booty might be indirectly drawn into his exchequer; and he knew that any establishment of the Inquisition on an energetic basis would strengthen the Papacy in its combat with national and episcopal prerogatives. The Dominicans on their side can scarcely be credited with a pure zeal for the faith. They had personal interests to serve by spiritual aggrandizement, by the elevation of their order, and by the exercise of an illimitable domination. It was a Sicilian Inquisitor, Philip Barberis, who suggested to Ferdinand the Catholic the advantage he might secure by extending the Holy Office to Castile. Ferdinand avowed his willingness; and Sixtus IV. gave the project his approval in 1478. But it met with opposition from the gentler-natured Isabella. She refused at first to sanction the introduction of so sinister an engine into her hereditary dominions. The clergy now contrived to raise a popular agitation against the Jews, reviving old calumnies of impossible crimes, and accusing them of being treasonable subjects. Then Isabella yielded; and in 1481 the Holy Office was founded at Seville. It began its work by publishing a comprehensive edict against all New Christians suspected of Judaizing, which offense was so constructed as to cover the most innocent observance of national customs. Resting from labor on Saturday; performing ablutions at stated times; refusing to eat pork or puddings made of blood; and abstaining from wine, sufficed to color accusations of heresy. Men who had joined the Catholic communion after the habits of a lifetime had been formed, thus found themselves exposed to peril of death by the retention of mere sanitary rules.[83] [Footnote 83: See Lavallée, _Histoire des Inquisitions_, vol. ii. pp. 341-361, for the translation of a process instituted in 1570 against a Mauresque female slave. Suspected of being a disguised infidel, she was exposed to the temptations of a Moorish spy, and convicted mainly on the evidence furnished by certain Mussulman habits to which she adhered. Llorente reports a similar specimen case, vol. i. p. 442. The culprit was a tinker aged 71, accused in 1528 of abstaining from pork and wine, and using certain ablutions. He defended himself by pleading that, having been converted at the age of 45, it did not suit his taste to eat pork or drink wine, and that his trade obliged him to maintain cleanliness by frequent washing. He was finally condemned to carry a candle at an _auto da fé_ in sign of penitence, and to pay four ducats, the costs of his trial. His detention lasted from September, 1529, till December 18, 1530.] Upon the publication of this edict, there was an exodus of Jews by thousands into the fiefs of independent vassals of the crown--the Duke of Medina Sidonia, the Marquis of Cadiz, and the Count of Arcos. All emigrants were _ipso facto_ declared heretics by the Holy Office. During the first year after its foundation, Seville beheld 298 persons burned alive, and 79 condemned to perpetual imprisonment. A large square stage of stone, called the Quemadero, was erected for the execution of those multitudes who were destined to suffer death by hanging or by flame. In the same year, 2000 were burned and 17,000 condemned to public penitence, while even a larger number were burned in effigy, in other parts of the kingdom. While estimating the importance of these punishments we must remember that they implied confiscation of property. Thus whole families were orphaned and consigned to penury. Penitence in public carried with it social infamy, loss of civil rights and honors, intolerable conditions of ecclesiastical surveillance, and heavy pecuniary fines. Penitents who had been reconciled, returned to society in a far more degraded condition than convicts released on ticket of leave. The stigma attached in perpetuity to the posterity of the condemned, whose names were conspicuously emblazoned upon church-walls as foemen to Christ and to the State. It is not strange that the New Christians, wealthy as they were and allied with some of the best blood in Spain, should have sought to avert the storm descending on them by appeals to Rome. In person or by procurators, they carried their complaints to the Papal Curia, imploring the relief of private reconciliation with the Church, special exemption from the jurisdiction of the Holy Office, rehabilitation after the loss of civil rights and honors, dispensation from humiliating penances, and avvocation of causes tried by the Inquisition, to less prejudiced tribunals. The object of these petitions was to avoid perpetual infamy, to recover social status, and to obtain an impartial hearing in doubtful cases. The Papal Curia had anticipated the profits to be derived from such appeals. Sixtus IV. was liberal in briefs of indulgence, absolution and exemption, to all comers who paid largely. But when his suitors returned to Spain, they found their dearly-purchased parchments of no more value than waste paper. The Holy Office laughed Papal Bulls of Privilege to scorn, and the Pope was too indifferent to exert such authority as he might have possessed. Meanwhile, the Inquisition rapidly took shape. In 1483 Thomas of Torquemada was nominated Inquisitor General for Castile and Aragon. Under his rule a Supreme Council was established, over which he presided for life. The crown sent three assessors to this board; and the Inquisitors were strengthened in their functions by a council of jurists. Seville, Cordova, Jaen, Toledo, became the four subordinate centers of the Holy Office, each with its own tribunal and its own right of performing _autos da fé_. Commission was sent out to all Dominicans, enjoining on them the prosecution of their task in every diocese. In 1484 a General Council was held, and the constitution of the inquisition was established by articles. In these articles four main points seem to have been held in view. The first related to the system of confiscation, fines, civil disabilities, losses of office, property, honors, rights, inheritances, which formed a part of the penitentiary procedure, and by which the crown and Holy Office made pecuniary gains. The second secured secrecy in the action of the tribunal, whereby a door was opened to delation, and accused persons were rendered incapable of rational defense. The third elaborated the judicial method, so as to leave no loophole of escape even for those who showed a wish to be converted, empowering the use of torture, precluding the accused from choosing their own counsel, and excluding the bishops from active participation in the sentence. The fourth multiplied the charges under which suspected heretics, even after their death might be treated as impenitent or relapsed, so as to increase the number of victims and augment the booty. The two most formidable features of the Inquisition as thus constituted, were the exclusion of the bishops from its tribunal and the secrecy of its procedure. The accused was delivered over to a court that had no mercy, no common human sympathies, no administrative interest in the population. He knew nothing of his accusers; and when he died or disappeared from view no record of his case survived him. The Inquisition rested on the double basis of ecclesiastical fanaticism and protected delation. The court was _primâ facie_ hostile to the accused; and the accused could never hope to confront the detectives upon whose testimony he was arraigned before it. Lives and reputations lay thus at the mercy of professional informers, private enemies, malicious calumniators. The denunciation was sometimes anonymous, sometimes signed, with names of two corroborative witnesses. These witnesses were examined, under a strict seal of secrecy, by the Inquisitors, who drew up a form of accusation, which they submitted to theologians called Qualificators. The qualificators were not informed of the names of the accused, the delator, or the witnesses. It was their business to qualify the case of heresy as light, grave, or violent. Having placed it in one of these categories, they returned it to the Inquisitors, who now arrested the accused and flung him into the secret prisons of the Holy Office. After some lapse of time he was summoned for a preliminary examination. Having first been cautioned to tell the truth, he had to recite the Paternoster, Credo, Ten Commandments, and a kind of catechism. His pedigree was also investigated, in the expectation that some traces of Jewish or Moorish descent might serve to incriminate him. If he failed in repeating the Christian shibboleths, or if he was discovered to have infidel ancestry, there existed already a good case to proceed upon. Finally, he was questioned upon the several heads of accusation condensed from the first delation and the deposition of the witnesses. If needful at this point, he was put to the torture, again and yet again.[84] He never heard the names of his accusers, nor was he furnished with a full bill of the charges against him in writing. At this stage he was usually remanded, and the judicial proceedings were deliberately lengthened out with a view of crushing his spirit and bringing him to abject submission. For his defence he might select one advocate, but only from a list furnished by his judges; and this advocate in no case saw the original documents of the impeachment. It rarely happened, upon this one-sided method of trial, that an accused person was acquitted altogether. If he escaped burning or perpetual incarceration, he was almost certainly exposed to the public ceremony of penitence, with its attendant infamy, fines, civil disabilities, and future discipline. Sentence was not passed upon condemned persons until they appeared, dressed up in a San Benito, at the place of punishment. This costume was a sort of sack, travestying a monk's frock, made of coarse yellow stuff, and worked over with crosses, flames, and devils, in glaring red. It differed in details according to the destination of the victim: for some ornaments symbolized eternal hell, and others the milder fires of purgatory. If sufficiently versed in the infernal heraldry of the Holy Office, a condemned man might read his doom before he reached the platform of the _auto_. There he heard whether he was sentenced to relaxation--in other words, to burning at the hands of the hangman--or to reconciliation by means of penitence. At the last moment, he might by confession _in extremis_ obtain the commutation of a death sentence into life-imprisonment, or receive the favor of being strangled before he was burned. A relapsed heretic, however--that is, one who after being reconciled had once again apostatized, was never exempted from the penalty of burning. To make these holocausts of human beings more ghastly, the pageant was enhanced by processions of exhumed corpses and heretics in effigy. Artificial dolls and decomposed bodies, with grinning lips and mouldy foreheads, were hauled to the huge bonfire, side by side with living men, women, and children. All of them alike--_fantoccini_, skeletons, and quick folk--were enveloped in the same grotesquely ghastly San Benito, with the same hideous yellow miters on their pasteboard, worm-eaten, or palpitating foreheads. The procession presented an ingeniously picturesque discord of ugly shapes, an artistically loathsome dissonance of red and yellow hues, as it defiled, to the infernal music of growled psalms and screams and moanings, beneath the torrid blaze of Spanish sunlight. [Footnote 84: The Supreme Council forbade the repetition of torture; but this hypocritical law was evaded in practice by declaring that the torture had been suspended. Llorente, vol. i. p. 307.] Spaniards--such is the barbarism of the Latinized Iberian nature--delighted in these shows, as they did and do in bull-fights. Butcheries of heretics formed the choicest spectacles at royal christenings and bridals. At Seville the Quemadero was adorned with four colossal statues of prophets, to which some of the condemned were bound, so that they might burn to death in the flames arising from the human sacrifice between them. In the autumn of 1484 the Inquisition was introduced into Aragon; and Saragossa became its headquarters in that State. Though the Aragonese were accustomed to the institution in its earlier and milder form, they regarded the new Holy Office with just horror. The Marranos counted at that epoch the Home Secretary, the Grand Treasurer, a Proto-notary, and a Vice-Chancellor of the realm among their members; and they were allied by marriage with the purest aristocracy. It is not, therefore, marvelous that a conspiracy was formed to assassinate the Chief Inquisitor, Peter Arbues. In spite of a coat-of-mail and an iron skullcap worn beneath his monk's dress, Arbues was murdered one evening while at prayer in church. But the revolt, notwithstanding this murder, flashed, like an ill-loaded pistol, in the pan. Jealousies between the old and new Christians prevented any common action; and the Inquisition took a bloody vengeance upon all concerned. It even laid its hand on Don James of Navarre, the Infant of Tudela. The Spanish Inquisition was now firmly grounded. Directed by Torquemada, it began to encroach upon the crown, to insult the episcopacy, to defy the Papacy, to grind the Commons, and to outrage by its insolence the aristocracy. Ferdinand's avarice had overreached itself by creating an ecclesiastical power dangerous to the best interests of the realm, but which fascinated a fanatically-pious people, and the yoke of which could not be thrown off. The Holy Office grew every year in pride, pretensions, and exactions. It arrogated to its tribunal crimes of usury, bigamy, blasphemous swearing, and unnatural vice, which appertained by right to the secular courts. It depopulated Spain by the extermination and banishment of at least three million industrious subjects during the first 139 years of its existence. It attacked princes of the blood,[85] archbishops, fathers of the Tridentine Council. It filled every city in the kingdom, the convents of the religious, and the palaces of the nobility, with spies. The Familiars, or lay brethren devoted to its service, lived at charges of the communes, and debauched society by crimes of rapine, lust, and violence.[86] Ignorant and bloodthirsty monks composed its provincial tribunals, who, like the horrible Lucero el Tenebroso at Cordova, paralyzed whole provinces with a veritable reign of terror.[87] Hated and worshiped, its officers swept through the realm in the guise of powerful _condottieri_. The Grand Inquisitor maintained a bodyguard of fifty mounted Familiars and two hundred infantry; his subordinates were allowed ten horsemen and fifty archers apiece. Where these black guards appeared, city gates were opened; magistrates swore fealty to masters of more puissance than the king; the resources of flourishing districts were placed at their disposal. Their arbitrary acts remained unquestioned, their mysterious sentences irreversible. Shrouded in secrecy, amenable to no jurisdiction but their own, they reveled in the license of irresponsible dominion. Spain gradually fell beneath the charm of their dark fascination. A brave though cruel nation drank delirium from the poison-cup of these vile medicine-men, whose Moloch-worship would have disgusted cannibals. [Footnote 85: Llorente, in his introduction to the _History of the Inquisition_, gives a long list of illustrious Spanish victims.] [Footnote 86: See Llorente, vol. i. p. 349, for their outrages on women.] [Footnote 87: For the history of Lucero's tyranny, read Llorente, vol. i. pp. 345-353. When at last he had to be deposed, it was not to a dungeon or the scaffold, but to his bishopric of Almeria that this miscreant was relegated.] Torquemada was the genius of evil who created and presided over this foul instrument of human crime and folly. During his eighteen years of administration, reckoning from 1480 to 1498, he sacrificed, according to Llorente's calculation, above 114,000 victims, of whom 10,220 were burned alive, 6,860 burned in effigy, and 97,000 condemned to perpetual imprisonment or public penitence.[88] He, too, it was who in 1492 compelled Ferdinand to drive the Jews from his dominions. They offered 30,000 ducats for the war against Granada, and promised to abide in Spain under heavy social disabilities, if only they might be spared this act of national extermination. Then Torquemada appeared before the king, and, raising his crucifix on high, cried: 'Judas sold Christ for thirty pieces of silver. Look ye to it, if ye do the like!' The edict of expulsion was issued on the last of March. Before the last of July all Jews were sentenced to depart, carrying no gold or silver with them. They disposed of their lands, houses, and goods for next to nothing, and went forth to die by thousands on the shores of Africa and Italy. Twelve who were found concealed at Malaga in August were condemned to be pricked to death by pointed reeds.[89] The exodus of the Jews was followed in 1502 by a similar exodus of Moors from Castile, and in 1524 by an exodus of Mauresques from Aragon. To compute the loss of wealth and population inflicted upon Spain by these mad edicts, would be impossible. We may wonder whether the followers of Cortez, when they trod the teocallis of Mexico and gazed with loathing on the gory elf-locks of the Aztec priests, were not reminded of the Torquemada they had left at home. His cruelty became so intolerable that even Alexander VI. was moved to horror. In 1494 the Borgia appointed four assessors, with equal powers, to restrain the blood-thirst of the fanatic. [Footnote 88: Llorente, vol. i. p. 229. The basis for these and following calculations is explained _ib._ pp. 272-281.] [Footnote 89: _Ibid._ vol. i. p. 263.] After Torquemada, Diego Deza reigned as second Inquisitor General from 1498 to 1507. In these years, according to the same calculation, 2,592 were burned alive, 896 burned in effigy, 34,952 condemned to prison or public penitence.[90] Cardinal Ximenez de Cisneros followed between 1507 and 1517. The victims of this decade were 3,564 burned alive, 1,232 burned in effigy, 48,059 condemned to prison or public penitence.[91] Adrian, Bishop of Tortosa, tutor to Charles V., and afterwards Pope, was Inquisitor General between 1516 and 1525. Castile, Aragon, and Catalonia, at this epoch, simultaneously demanded a reform of the Holy Office from their youthful sovereign. But Charles refused, and the tale of Adrian's administration was 1,620 burned alive, 560 burned in effigy, 21,845 condemned to prison or public penitence.[92] The total, during forty-three years, between 1481 and 1525, amounted to 234,526, including all descriptions of condemned heretics.[93] These figures are of necessity vague, for the Holy Office left but meager records of its proceedings. The vast numbers of cases brought before the Inquisitors rendered their method of procedure almost as summary as that of Fouquier Thinville, while policy induced them to bury the memory of their victims in oblivion.[94] [Footnote 90: Llorente, p. 341.] [Footnote 91: _Ibid._ p. 360.] [Footnote 92: Llorente, p. 406.] [Footnote 93: _Ib._ p. 407.] [Footnote 94: I know that Llorente's calculations have been disputed: as, for instance, in some minor details by Prescott (_Ferd. and Isab._ vol. iii. p. 492). The truth is that no data now exist for forming a correct census of the victims of the Spanish Moloch; and Llorente, though he writes with the moderation of evident sincerity, and though he had access to the archives of the Inquisition, does not profess to do more than give an estimate based upon certain fixed data. However, it signifies but little whether we reckon by thousands or by fifteen hundreds. That foul monster spawned in the unholy embracements of perverted religion with purblind despotism cannot be defended by discounting five or even ten per cent. Let its apologists write for every 1000 of Llorente 100, and for every 100 of Llorente 10, and our position will remain unaltered. The Jesuit historian of Spain, Mariana, records the burning-of 2000 persons in Andalusia alone in 1482. Bernaldez mentions 700 burned in the one town of Seville between 1482 and 1489. An inscription carved above the portals of the Holy Office in Seville stated that about 1000 had been burned between 1492 and 1524.] Sometimes, while reading the history of the Holy Office in Spain, we are tempted to imagine that the whole is but a grim unwholesome nightmare, or the fable of malignant calumny. That such is not the case, however, is proved by a jubilant inscription on the palace of the Holy Office at Seville, which records the triumphs of Torquemada. Of late years, too, the earth herself has disgorged some secrets of the Inquisition. 'A most curious discovery,' writes Lord Malmesbury in his Memoirs,[95] 'has been made at Madrid. Just at the time when the question of religious liberty was being discussed in the Cortes, Serrano had ordered a piece of ground to be leveled, in order to build on it; and the workmen came upon large quantities of human bones, skulls, lumps of blackening flesh, pieces of chains, and braids of hair. It was then recollected that the _autos da fé_ used to take place at that spot in former days. Crowds of people rushed to the place, and the investigation was continued. They found layer upon layer of human remains, showing that hundreds had been inhumanly sacrificed. The excitement and indignation this produced among the people was tremendous, and the party for religious freedom taking advantage of it, a Bill on the subject was passed by an enormous majority.' Let modern Spain remember that a similar Aceldama lies hidden in the precincts of each of her chief towns! [Footnote 95: Vol. ii. p. 399.] I have enlarged upon the details of the Spanish Inquisition for two reasons. In the first place it strikingly illustrates the character of the people who now had the upper hand in Italy. In the second place, its success induced Paul III., acting upon the advice of Giov. Paolo Caraffa, to remodel the Roman office on a similar type in 1542. It may at once be said that the real Spanish Inquisition was never introduced into Italy.[96] Such an institution, claiming independent jurisdiction and flaunting its cruelties in the light of day, would not have suited the Papal policy. As temporal and spiritual autocrats, the Popes could not permit a tribunal of which they were not the supreme authority. It was their interest to consult their pecuniary advantage rather than to indulge insane fanaticism; to repress liberty of thought by cautious surveillance rather than by public terrorism and open acts of cruelty. The Italian temperament was, moreover, more humane than the Spanish; nor had the refining culture of the Renaissance left no traces in the nation. Furthermore, the necessity for so Draconian an institution was not felt. Catholicism in Italy had not to contend with Jews and Moors, Marranos and Moriscoes. It was, indeed, alarmed by the spread of Lutheran opinions. Caraffa complained to Paul III. that 'the whole of Italy is infected with the Lutheran heresy, which has been embraced not only by statesmen, but also by many ecclesiastics.'[97] Pius V. was so panic-stricken by the prevalence of heresy in Faenza that he seriously meditated destroying the town and dispersing its inhabitants.[98] Yet, after a few years of active persecution, this peril proved to be unreal. The Reformation had not taken root so deep and wide in Italy that it could not be eradicated. When, therefore, the Spanish viceroys sought to establish their national Inquisition in Naples and Milan, the rebellious people received protection and support from the Papacy; and the Holy Office, as remodeled in Rome, became a far less awful engine of oppression than that of Seville. [Footnote 96: Naples and Milan passionately and successfully opposed its introduction by the Spanish viceroys. But it ruled in Sicily and Sardinia.] [Footnote 97: McCrie, p. 186.] [Footnote 98: Mutinelli, _Storia Arcana_, vol. i. p. 79.] It was sufficiently severe, however. 'At Rome,' writes a resident in 1568, 'some are daily burned, hanged, or beheaded; the prisons and places of confinement are filled, and they are obliged to build new ones.'[99] This general statement may be checked by extracts from the despatches of Venetian ambassadors in Rome, which, though they are not continuous, and cannot be supposed to give an exhaustive list of the victims of the Inquisition, enable us to judge with some degree of accuracy what the frequency of executions may have been.[100] [Footnote 99: McCrie, p. 272.] [Footnote 100: Mutinelli's _Storia Arcana_, etc. vol. i., is the source from which I have drawn the details given above.] On September 27, 1567, a session of the Holy Office was held at S. Maria sopra Minerva. Seventeen heretics were condemned. Fifteen of these were sentenced to perpetual imprisonment, the galleys for life, fines, or temporary imprisonment, according to the nature of their offenses. Two were reserved for capital punishment--namely, Carnesecchi and a friar from Cividale di Belluno. They were beheaded and burned upon the bridge of S. Angelo on October 4. On May 28, 1569, there was an Act of the Inquisition at the Minerva, twenty Cardinals attending. Four impenitent heretics were condemned to the stake. Ten penitents were sentenced to various punishments of less severity. On August 2, 1578, occurred a singular scandal touching some Spaniards and Portuguese of evil manners, all of whom were burned with the exception of those who contrived to escape in time. On August 5, 1581, an English Protestant was burned for grossly insulting the Host. On February 20, 1582, after an Act of the Inquisition in due form, seventeen heretics were sentenced, three to death, and the rest to imprisonment, etc. We must bear in mind that Mutinelli, who published the extracts from the Venetian dispatches which contain these details, does not profess to aim at completeness. Gaps of several years occur between the documents of one envoy and those of his successor. Nor does it appear that the writers themselves took notice of more than solemn and ceremonial proceedings, in which the Acts of the Inquisition were published with Pontifical and Curial pomp.[101] Still, when these considerations have been weighed, it will appear that the victims of the Inquisition, in Rome, could be counted, not by hundreds, but by units. After illustrious examples, like those of Aonio Paleario, Pietro Carnesecchi, Giordano Bruno, who were burned for Protestant or Atheistical opinions, the names of distinguished sufferers are few. Wary heretics, a Celio Secundo Curio, a Galeazzo Caracciolo, a Bernardino Ochino, a Pietro Martire Vermigli, a Pietro Paolo Vergerio, a Lelio Socino, escaped betimes to Switzerland, and carried on their warfare with the Church by means of writings.[102] Others, tainted with heresy, like Marco Antonio Flaminio, managed to satisfy the Inquisition by timely concessions. The Protestant Churches, which had sprung up in Venice, Lucca, Modena, Ferrara, Faenza, Vicenza, Bologna, Naples, and Siena, were easily dispersed.[103] Their pastors fled or submitted. The flocks conformed to Catholic orthodoxy. Only in a few cases was extreme rigor displayed. A memorable massacre took place in the year 1561 in Calabria within the province of Cosenza.[104] Here at the end of the fourteenth century a colony of Waldensians had settled in some villages upon the coast. They preserved their peculiar beliefs and ritual, and after three centuries numbered about 4000 souls. Nearly the whole of these, it seems, were exterminated by sword, fire, famine, torture, noisome imprisonment, and hurling from the summits of high cliffs. A few of the survivors were sent to work upon the Spanish galleys. Some women and children were sold into slavery. At Locarno, on the Lago Maggiore, a Protestant community of nearly 300 persons was driven into exile in 1555; and at Venice, in 1560-7, a small sect, holding reformed opinions, suffered punishment of a peculiar kind. We read of five persons by name, who, after being condemned by the Holy Office, were taken at night from their dungeons to the Porto del Lido beyond the Due Castelli, and there set upon a plank between two gondolas. The gondolas rowed asunder; and one by one the martyrs fell and perished in the waters.[105] [Footnote 101: It is singular that only one contemporary writes from Rome about Bruno's execution in 1600; whence, I think, we may infer that such events were too common to excite much attention.] [Footnote 102: The main facts about these men may be found in Cantù's _Gli Eretici d'Italia_, vol. ii. This work is written in no spirit of sympathy with Reformers. But it is superior in learning and impartiality to McCrie's.] [Footnote 103: For the repressive measures used at Lucca, see _Archivio Storico_, vol. x. pp. 162-185. They include the prohibition of books, regulation of the religious observances of Lucchese citizens abroad in France or Flanders, and proscription of certain heretics, with whom all intercourse was forbidden.] [Footnote 104: An eye-witness gives a heart-rending account of these persecutions: sixty thrown from the tower of Guardia, eighty-eight butchered like beasts in one day at Montalto, seven burned alive, one hundred old women tortured and then slaughtered. _Arch. Stor._, vol. ix. pp. 193-195.] [Footnote 105: McCrie, _op. cit._ p. 232-236. The five men were Giulio Gherlandi of Spresian, near Treviso (executed in 1562), Antonio Rizzetta of Vicenza (in 1566), Francesco Sega of Rovigo (sentenced in 1566), Francesco Spinola of Milan (in 1567), and Fra Baldo Lupatino (1556). McCrie bases his report upon the _Histoire des Martyrs_ (Genève, 1597) and De Porta's _Historia Reformationis Rhaeticarum Ecclesiarum_. Thinking these sources somewhat suspicious, I applied to my friend Mr. H.F. Brown, whose researches in the Venetian archives are becoming known to students of Italian history. He tells me that all the above cases, except that of Spinola, exist in the Frari. Lupatino was condemned as a Lutheran; the others as Anabaptists. In passing sentence on Lupatino, the Chief Inquisitor remarked that he could not condemn him to death by fire in Venice, but must consign him to a watery grave. This is characteristic of Venetian state policy. It appears that, of the above-named persons, Sega, though sentenced to death by drowning, recanted at the last moment, saying, 'Non voglio esser negato, ma voglio redirmi et morir buon Christiano.' Mr. Brown adds that there is nothing in the archives to prove that he was executed; but there is also nothing to show that his sentence was commuted. Two other persons involved in this trial, viz. Nic. Bucello of Padua and Alessio of Bellinzona, upon recantation, were subjected to public penances and confessions for different terms of years. Sega's fate must, therefore, be considered doubtful; since the fact that no commutation of sentence is on record lends some weight to the hypothesis that he withdrew his recantation, and submitted to martyrdom. I will close this note by expressing my hope that Mr. Brown, who is already engaged upon the papers of the Venetian Holy Office, will make them shortly the subject of a special publication. Considering how rare are the full and authentic records of any Inquisition, this would be of incalculable value for students of history. The series of trials in the Frari extends from 1541 to 1794, embracing 1562 _processi_ for the sixteenth century, 1469 for the seventeenth, 541 for the eighteenth, and 25 of no date. Nearly all the towns and districts of the Venetian State are involved.] The position of the Holy Office in Venice was so far peculiar as to justify a digression upon its special constitution. Always jealous of ecclesiastical interference, the Republic insisted on the Inquisition being made dependent on the State. Three nobles of senatorial rank were chosen to act as Assessors of the Holy Office in the capital; and in the subject cities this function was assigned to the Rectors, or lieutenants of S. Mark. It was the duty of these lay members to see that justice was impartially dealt by the ecclesiastical tribunal, to defend the State against clerical encroachments, and to refer dubious cases to the Doge in Council. They were forbidden to swear oaths of allegiance or of secrecy to the Holy Office, and were bound to be present at all trials, even in the case of ecclesiastical offenders. No causes could be avvocated to Rome, and no crimes except heresy were held to lie within the jurisdiction of the court. The State reserved to itself witchcraft, profane swearing, bigamy and usury; allowed no interference with Jews, infidels and Greeks; forbade the confiscation of goods in which the heirs of condemned persons had interest; and made separate stipulations with regard to the Index of Prohibited Books. It precluded the Inquisition from extending its authority in any way, direct or indirect, over trades, arts, guilds, magistrates, and communal officials.[106] The tenor of this system was to repress ecclesiastical encroachments on the State prerogatives, and to secure equity in the proceedings of the Holy Office. Had practice answered to theory in the Venetian Inquisition, by far the worst abuses of the institution would have been avoided. But as a matter of fact, causes were not unfrequently transferred to Rome; confiscations were permitted; and the lists of the condemned include Mussulmans, witches, conjurors, men of scandalous life, etc., showing that the jurisdiction of the Holy Office extended beyond heresy in Venice.[107] [Footnote 106: See Sarpi's 'Discourse on the Inquisition,' _Opere_, vol. iv.] [Footnote 107: I owe to Mr. H.F. Brown details about the register of criminals condemned by the Holy Office, which substantiate my statement regarding the various types of cases in its jurisdiction.] The truth is that the Venetians, though they were willing to risk an open rupture with Rome, remained at heart sound Churchmen devoted to the principles of the Catholic Reaction. The Republic conceded the fact of Inquisitorial authority, while it reserved the letter of State-supervision. Venetian decadence was marked by this hypocrisy of pride; and so long as appearances were saved, the Holy Office exercised its functions freely. The nobles who acted as assessors had no sympathy with religious toleration, being themselves under the influence of confessors and directors. How little the subjects of S. Mark at this epoch trusted the good faith of laws securing liberty of thought in Venice, may be gathered from what happened immediately after the publication of the Index Expurgatorius in 1596. From an official report upon the decline of the printing trade in Venice, it appears that within the space of a few months the number of presses fell from 125 to 40.[108] Printers were afraid to undertake either old or new works, and the trade languished for lack of books to publish. Yet an edict had been issued announcing that by the terms of the Concordat with Clement VIII., the Venetian press would only be subject to State control and not to the Roman tribunals.[109] The truth is that, in regard both to the Holy Office and to the Index, Venice was never strong enough to maintain the independence which she boasted. By cunning use of the confessional, and by unscrupulous control of opinion, the Church succeeded in doing there much the same as in any other Italian city. Successive Popes made, indeed, a show of respecting the liberties of the Republic. On material points, touching revenue and State-administration, they felt it wise to concede even more than complimentary privileges; and when Paul V. encroached upon these privileges, the Venetians were ready to resist him. Yet the quarrels between the Vatican and San Marco were, after all, but family disputes. The Venetians at the close of the sixteenth century proved themselves no better friends to spiritual freedom than were the Grand Dukes of Tuscany. Their political jealousies, commercial anxieties, and feints of maintaining a power that was rapidly decaying, denoted no partiality for the opponents of Rome--unless, like Sarpi, these wore the livery of the State, and defended with the pen its secular prerogatives. Therefore, when the Signory published Clement VIII.'s Index, when copies of that Index were sown broadcast, while only an edition of sixty was granted to the Concordat, authors and publishers felt, and felt rightly, that their day had passed. The art of printing sank at once to less than a third of its productivity. The city where it had flourished so long, and where it had effected so much of enduring value for European culture, was gagged in scarcely a less degree than Rome. We have full right to insist upon these facts, and to draw from them a stringent corollary. If Venice allowed the trade in books, which had brought her so much profit and such honor in the past, to be paralyzed by Clement's Index, what must have happened in other Italian towns? The blow which maimed Venetian literature, was mortal elsewhere; and the finest works of genius in the first half of the seventeenth century had to find their publishers in Paris.[110] But these reflections have led me to anticipate the proper development of the subject of this chapter. [Footnote 108: The document in question, prepared for the use of the Signoria, exists in MS. in the Marcian Library, Misc. Eccl. et Civ. Class. VII. Cod. MDCCLXI.] [Footnote 109: This edict is dated August 24, 1596.] [Footnote 110: This will be apparent when I come to treat of Marino and Tassoni.] In Italy at large, the forces of the Inquisition were directed, not as in Spain against heretics in masses, but against the leaders of heretical opinion; and less against personalities than against ideas. Italy during the Renaissance had been the workshop of ideas for Europe. It was the business of the Counter-Reformation to check the industry of that _officina scientiarum_, to numb the nervous centers which had previously emitted thought of pregnant import for the modern world, and to prevent the reflux of ideas, elaborated by the northern races in fresh forms, upon the intelligence which had evolved them. To do so now was comparatively easy. It only needed to put the engine of the Index Librorum Prohibitorum into working order in concert with the Inquisition. Throughout the Middle Ages it had been customary to burn heretical writings. The bishops, the universities, and the Dominican Inquisitors exercised this privilege; and by their means, in the age of manuscripts, the life of a book was soon extinguished. Whole libraries were sometimes sacrificed at one fell swoop, as in the case of the 6000 volumes destroyed at Salamanca in 1490 by Torquemada, on a charge of sorcery.[111] After the invention of printing it became more difficult to carry on this warfare against literature, while the rapid diffusion of Protestant opinions through the press rendered the need for their extermination urgent. Sixtus IV. laid a basis for the Index by prohibiting the publication of any books which had not previously been licensed by ecclesiastical authority. Alexander VI. by a brief of 15O1 confirmed this measure, and placed books under the censorship of the episcopacy and the Inquisition. Finally, the Lateran Council, in its tenth session, held under the auspices of Leo X., gave solemn ecumenical sanction to these regulations. The censorship having been thus established, the next step was to form a list of books prohibited by the Inquisitors appointed for that purpose. The Sorbonne in Paris drew one up for their own use, and even presented a petition to Francis I. that publication through the press should be forbidden altogether.[112] A royal edict to this effect was actually promulgated in 1535. Charles V. commissioned the University of Louvain in 1539 to furnish a similar catalogue, proclaiming at the same time the penalty of death for all who read or owned the works of Luther in his realms.[113] The University printed their catalogue with Papal approval in 1549. [Footnote 111: Llorente, vol. i. p. 281.] [Footnote 112: Christie's _Etienne Dolet_, pp. 220-24.] [Footnote 113: Llorente, vol. i. p. 463.] These lists of the Sorbonne and Louvain formed the nucleus of the Apostolic Index, which, after the close of the Council of Trent, became binding upon Catholics. When the Inquisition had been established in Rome, Caraffa, who was then at its head, obtained the sanction of Paul III. for submitting all books, old or new, printed or in manuscript, to the supervision of the Holy Office. He also contrived to place booksellers, public and private libraries, colporteurs and officers of customs, under the same authority; so that from 1543 forward it was a penal offence to print, sell, own, convey or import any literature, of which the Inquisition had not first been informed, and for the diffusion or possession of which it had not given its permission. Giovanni della Casa, who was sent in 1546 to Venice with commission to prosecute P. Paolo Vergerio for heresy, drew up a list of about seventy prohibited volumes, which was printed in that city.[114] Other lists appeared, at Florence in 1552, and at Milan in 1554. Philip II. at last, in 1558, issued a royal edict commanding the publication of one catalogue which should form the standard for such Indices throughout his States.[115] These lists, revised, collated, and confirmed by Papal authority, were reprinted, in the form which ever afterwards obtained, at Rome, by command of Paul IV. in 1559. [Footnote 114: In the year 1548. The MS. cited above (p. 192) mentions another Index of the Venetian Holy Office published in 1554.] [Footnote 115: Sarpi, _Ist. del Conc. Tial_, vol. ii..p. 90.] The Tridentine Council ratified the regulations of the Inquisition and the Index concerning prohibited books, and referred the execution of them in detail to the Papacy. A congregation was appointed at Rome, which, though technically independent of the Holy Office, worked in concert with it. This Congregation of the Index brought the Tridentine decrees into harmony with the practice that had been developed by Caraffa as Inquisitor and Pope. Their list was published in 1564 with the authority of Pius IV. Finally, in 1595 the decrees embodying the statutes of the Church upon this topic were issued in print, together with a largely augmented catalogue of interdicted books. This document will form the basis of what I have to say with regard to the Catholic crusade against literature. Not without reason did Aonio Paleario call this engine of the Index 'a dagger drawn from the scabbard to assassinate letters'--_sica districta in omnes scriptores_.[116] Not without reason did Sarpi describe it as 'the finest secret which has ever been discovered for applying religion to the purpose of making men idiotic.'[117] [Footnote 116: In his _Oratio pro se ipso ad Senenses_. Printed by Gryphius at Lyons in 1552.] [Footnote 117: _1st. del Conc. Trid_. vol. ii. p. 91. The passage deserves to be Paul IV. designated in his transcribed. 'Sotto colore di fede e religione sono vietati con la medesima severità e dannati gli autori de'libri da'quali l'autorità del principe e magistrati temporali è difesa dalle usurpazioni ecclesiastiche; dove l'autorità de' Concilj è de'Vescovi è difesa dalle usurpazioni della Corte Romana; dove le ipocrisie o tirannidi con le quali sotto pretesto di religione il popolo è ingannato o violentato sono manifestate. In somma non fu mai trovato più bell'arcano per adoperare la religione a far gli uomini insensati.'] Index Expurgatorius sixty-one printing firms by name, all of whose publications were without exception prohibited, adding a similar prohibition for the books edited by any printer who had published the writings of any heretic; so that in fine, as Sarpi says, 'there was not a book left to read.' Truly he might well exclaim in another passage that the Church was doing its best to extinguish sound learning altogether.[118] In order to gain a clear conception of the warfare carried on by Rome against free literature, it will be well to consider first the rules for the Index of Prohibited Books, sketched out by the fathers delegated by the Tridentine Council, published by Pius IV., augmented by Sixtus V., and reduced to their final form by Clement VIII. in 1595.[119] Afterwards I shall proceed to explain the operation of the system, and to illustrate by details the injury inflicted upon learning and enlightenment. [Footnote 118: _Discorso Sopra l'Inq._ vol. iv. p. 54.] [Footnote 119: These rules form the Preface to modern editions of the Index. The one I use is dated Naples, 1862. They are also printed in vol. iv. of Sarpi's works.] The preambles to this document recite the circumstances under which the necessity for digesting an Index or Catalogue of Prohibited Books arose. These were the diffusion of heretical opinions at the epoch of the Lutheran schism, and their propagation through the press. The Council of Trent decreed that a list of writings 'heretical, or suspected of heretical pravity, or injurious to manners and piety,' should be drawn up. This charge they committed to prelates chosen from all nations, who, when the catalogue had been completed, referred it for sanction and approval to the Pope. He nominated a congregation of eminent ecclesiastics, by whose care the catalogue was perfected, and rules were framed, defining the use that should be made of it in future. It issued officially, as I have already stated, in 1564, the fifth year of the pontificate of Pius IV., with warning to all universities and civil and ecclesiastical authorities that any person of what grade or condition soever, whether clerk or layman, who should read or possess one or more of the proscribed volumes, would be accounted _ipso jure_ excommunicate, and liable to prosecution by the Inquisition on a charge of heresy.[120] Booksellers, printers, merchants, and custom-house officials received admonition that the threat of excommunication and prosecution concerned them specially. [Footnote 120: Paulus Manutius Aldus printed this Index at Venice in 1564.] The first rules deal with the acknowledged writings of Protestant heresiarchs. Those of Luther, Zwingli, and Calvin, whether in their original languages or translated, are condemned absolutely and without exception. Next follow regulations for securing the monopoly of the Vulgate, considered as the sole authorized version of the Holy Scriptures. Translations of portions of the Bible made by learned men in Latin may be used by scholars with permission of a bishop, provided it be understood that they are never appealed to as the inspired text. Translations into any vernacular idiom are strictly excluded from public use and circulation, but may, under exceptional circumstances, be allowed to students who have received license from a bishop or Inquisitor at the recommendation of their parish priest or confessor. Compilations made by heretics, in the form of dictionaries, concordances, etc., are to be prohibited until they have been purged and revised by censors of the press. The same regulation extends to polemical and controversial works touching on matters of doctrine in dispute between Catholics and Protestants. Next follow regulations concerning books containing lascivious or obscene matter, which are to be rigidly suppressed. Exception is made in favor of the classics, on account of their style; with the proviso that they are on no account to be given to boys to read. Treatises dealing professedly with occult arts, magic, sorcery, predictions of future events, incantation of spirits, and so forth, are to be proscribed; due reservation being made in favor of scientific observations touching navigation, agriculture, and the healing art, in which prognostics may be useful to mankind. Having thus broadly defined the literature which has to be suppressed or subjected to supervision, rules are laid down for the exercise of censure. Books, whereof the general tendency is good, but which contain passages savoring of heresy, superstition or divination, shall be reserved for the consideration of Catholic theologians appointed by the Inquisition; and this shall hold good also of prefaces, summaries, or annotations. All writings printed in Rome must be submitted to the judgment of the Vicar of the Pope, the Master of the Sacred Palace, or a person nominated by the Pontiff. In other cities the bishop, or his delegate, and the Inquisitor of the district, shall be responsible for examining printed or manuscript works previous to publication; and without their license it shall be illegal to circulate them. Inquisitorial visits shall from time to time be made, under the authority of the bishop and the Holy Office, in bookshops or printing houses, for the removal and destruction of prohibited works. Colporteurs of books across the frontiers, heirs and executors who have become depositaries of books, collectors of private libraries, as well as editors and booksellers, shall be liable to the same jurisdiction, bound to declare their property by catalogue, and to show license for the use, transmission, sale, or possession of the same. With regard to the correction of books, it is provided that this duty shall fall conjointly on bishops and Inquisitors, who must appoint three men distinguished for learning and piety to examine the text and make the necessary changes in it. Upon the report of these censors, the bishops and Inquisitors shall give license of publication, provided they are satisfied that the work of emendation has been duly performed. The censor must submit not only the body of a book, to scrupulous analysis; but he must also investigate the notes, summaries, marginal remarks, indexes, prefaces, and dedicatory epistles, lest haply pestilent opinions lurk there in ambush. He must keep a sharp lookout for heretical propositions, and arguments savoring of heresy; insinuations against the established order of the sacraments, ceremonies, usages and ritual of the Roman Church; new turns of phrase insidiously employed by heretics, with dubious and ambiguous expressions that may mislead the unwary; plausible citations of Scripture, or passages of holy writ extracted from heretical translations; quotations from the authorized text, which have been adduced in an unorthodox sense; epithets in honor of heretics, and anything that may redound to the praise of such persons; opinions savoring of sorcery and superstition; theories that involve the subjection of the human will to fate, fortune, and fallacious portents, or that imply paganism; aspersions upon ecclesiastics and princes; impugnments of the liberties, immunities, and jurisdiction of the Church; political doctrines in favor of antique virtues, despotic government, and the so-called Reason of State, which are in opposition to the evangelical and Christian law; satires on ecclesiastical rites, religious orders, and the state, dignity, and persons of the clergy; ribaldries or stories offensive and prejudicial to the fame and estimation of one's neighbors, together with lubricities, lascivious remarks, lewd pictures, and capital letters adorned with obscene images. All such peccant passages are to be expunged, obliterated, removed or radically altered, before the license for publication be accorded by the ordinary. No book shall be printed without the author's name in full, together with his nationality, upon the title-page. If there be sufficient reason for giving an anonymous work to the world, the censor's name shall stand for that of the author. Compilations of words, sentences, excerpts, etc., shall pass under the name of the compiler. Publishers and booksellers are to take care that the printed work agrees with the MS. copy as licensed, and to see that all rules with regard to the author's name and his authority to publish have been observed. They are, moreover, to take an oath before the Master of the Sacred Palace in Rome, or before the bishop and Inquisitor in other places, that they will scrupulously follow the regulations of the Index. The bishops and Inquisitors are held responsible for selecting as censors, men of approved piety and learning, whose good faith and integrity they shall guarantee, and who shall be such as will obey no promptings of private hatred or of favor, but will do all for the glory of God and the advantage of the faithful. The approbation of such censors, together with the license of the bishop and Inquisitor, shall be printed at the opening of every published book. Finally, if any work composed by a condemned author shall be licensed after due purgation and castration, it shall bear his name upon the title-page, together with the note of condemnation, to the end that, though the book itself be accepted, the author be understood to be rejected. Thus, for example, the title shall run as follows: 'The Library, by Conrad Gesner, a writer condemned for his opinions, which work was formerly published and proscribed, but is now expurgated and licensed by superior authority.' The Holy Office was made virtually responsible for the censorship of books. But, as I have already stated, there existed a Congregation of prelates in Rome to whom the final verdict upon this matter Was reserved. If an author in some provincial town composed a volume, he was bound in the first instance to submit the MS. to the censor appointed by the bishop and Inquisitor of his district. This man took time to weigh the general matter of the work before him, to scrutinize its propositions, verify quotations, and deliberate upon its tendency. When the license of the ordinary had been obtained, it was referred to the Roman Congregation of the Index, who might withhold or grant their sanction. So complicated was the machinery, and so vast the pressure upon the officials who were held responsible for the expurgation of every book imprinted or reprinted in all the Catholic presses, that even writers of conspicuous orthodoxy had to suffer grievous delays. An archbishop writes to Cardinal Sirleto about a book which had been examined thrice, at Rome, at Venice and again at Rome, and had obtained the Pope's approval, and yet the license for reprinting it is never issued.[121] The censors were not paid; and in addition to being overworked and over-burdened with responsibility, they were rarely men of adequate learning. In a letter from Bartolommeo de Valverde, chaplain to Philip II., under date 1584, we read plain-spoken complaints against these subordinates.[122] 'Unacquainted with literature, they discharge the function of condemning books they cannot understand. Without knowledge of Greek or Hebrew, and animated by a prejudiced hostility against authors, they take the easy course of proscribing what they feel incapable of judging. In this way the works of many sainted writers and the useful commentaries made by Jews have been suppressed.' A memorial to Sirleto, presented by Cardinal Gabriele Paleotti, points out the negligence of the Index-makers and their superficial discharge of onerous duties, praying that in future men of learning and honesty should be employed, and that they should receive payment for their labors.[123] These are the expostulations addressed by faithful Catholics, engaged in literary work demanded by the Vatican, to a Cardinal who was the soul and mover of the Congregation. They do not question the salutary nature of the Index, but only call attention to the incapacity and ignorance of its unpaid officials. [Footnote 121: Dejob, _De l'Influence_, etc. p. 60.] [Footnote 122: Id. _op. cit._ p. 76.] [Footnote 123: Id. _op. cit._ p. 78.] Meanwhile, it was no easy matter to appoint responsible and learned scholars to the post. The inefficient censors proceeded with their work of destruction and suppression. A commentator on a Greek Father, or the Psalms, was corrected by an ignoramus who knew neither Greek nor Hebrew, anxious to discover petty collisions with the Vulgate, and eager to create annoyances for the author. Latino Latini, one of the students employed by the Vatican, refused his name to an edition of Cyprian which he had carefully prepared with far more than the average erudition, because it had been changed throughout by the substitution of bad readings for good, in defiance of MS. authority, with a view of preserving a literal agreement with the Vulgate.[124] Sigonius, another of the Vatican students, was instructed to prepare certain text-books by Cardinal Paleotti. These were an Ecclesiastical History, a treatise on the Hebrew Commonwealth, and an edition of Sulpicius Severus. The MSS. were returned to him, accused of unsound doctrine, and scrawled over with such remarks as 'false,' 'absurd.'[125] [Footnote 124: Dejob, _op. cit._ p. 74.] [Footnote 125: Id. _op. cit._ p. 54.] In addition to the intolerable delays of the Censure, and the arrogant inadequacy of its officials, learned men suffered from the pettiest persecution at the hands of informers. The Inquisitors themselves were often spies and persons of base origin. 'The Roman Court,' says Sarpi, 'being anxious that the office of the Inquisition should not suffer through negligence in its ministers, has confided these affairs to individuals without occupation, and whose mean estate renders them proud of their official position.'[126] It was not to be expected that such people should discharge their duties with intelligence and scrupulous equity. Pius V., himself an incorruptible Inquisitor, had to condemn one of his lieutenants for corruption or extortion of money by menaces.[127] There was still another source of peril and annoyance to which scholars were exposed. Their comrades, engaged in similar pursuits, not unfrequently wreaked private spite by denouncing them to the Congregation.[128] Van Linden indicated heresies in Osorius, Giovius, Albertus Pighius. The Jesuit Francesco Torres accused Maës, and threatened Latini. Sigonius obtained a license for his _History of Bologna_, but could not print it, owing to the delation of secret enemies. Baronius, when he had finished his Martyrology, found that a cabal had raised insuperable obstacles in the way of its publication. I have been careful to select only examples of notoriously Catholic authors, men who were in the pay and under the special protection of the Vatican. How it fared with less favored scholars, may be left to the imagination. We are not astonished to find a man like Latini writing thus from Rome to Maës during the pontificate of Paul IV.[129] [Footnote 126: Discorso dell'Origine, etc. dell'Inquisizione,' _Opp._ vol. iv. p. 34.] [Footnote 127: Mutinelli, _Storia Arcana_, vol. i. p. 277.] [Footnote 128: Dejob, _op. cit._ pp. 53-57.] [Footnote 129: Id. _op. cit._ p. 75.] 'Have you not heard of the peril which threatens the very existence of books? What are you dreaming of, when now that almost every published book is interdicted, you still think of making new ones? Here, as I imagine, there is no one who for many years to come will dare to write except on business or to distant friends. An Index has been issued of the works which none may possess under pain of excommunication; and the number of them is so great that very few indeed are left to us, especially of those which have been published in Germany. This shipwreck, this holocaust of books will stop the production of them in your country also, if I do not err, and will teach editors to be upon their guard. As you love me and yourself, sit and look at your bookcases without opening their doors, and beware lest the very cracks let emanations come to you from those forbidden fruits of learning.' This letter was written in 1559, when Paul proscribed sixty-one presses, and prohibited the perusal of any work that issued from them. He afterwards withdrew this interdict. But the Index did not stop its work of extirpation. Another embarrassment which afflicted men of learning, was the danger of possessing books by heretics and the difficulty of procuring them.[130] Yet they could not carry on their Biblical studies without reference to such authors as, for example, Erasmus or Reuchlin. The universities loudly demanded that books of sound erudition by heretics should at least be expurgated and republished. Yet the process of disfiguring their arguments, effacing the names of authors, expunging the praises of heretics, altering quotations and retouching them all over, involved so much labor that the demand was never satisfied. The strict search instituted at the frontiers stopped the importation of books,[131] and carriers refused to transmit them. In their dread of the Inquisition, these folk found it safer to abstain from book traffic altogether. Public libraries were exposed to intermittent raids, nor were private collections safe from such inspection. The not uncommon occurrence of old books in which precious and interesting passages have been erased with printer's ink, or pasted over with slips of opaque paper, testifies to the frequency of these inquisitorial visitations.[132] Any casual acquaintance, on leaving a man's house, might denounce him as the possessor of a proscribed volume; and everybody who owned a book-case was bound to furnish the Inquisitors with a copy of his catalogue. Book-stalls lay open to the malevolence of informers. We possess an insolent letter of Antonio Possevino to Cardinal Sirleto, telling him that he had noticed a forbidden book by Filiarchi on a binder's counter, and bidding him to do his duty by suppressing it.[133] When this Cardinal's library was exposed for sale after his death, the curious observed that it contained 1872 MSS. in Greek and Latin, 530 volumes of printed Greek books, and 3939 volumes of Latin, among which 39 were on the Index. But charity suggested that the Cardinal had retained these last for censure. [Footnote 130: Sarpi's Letters abound in useful information on this topic. Writing to French correspondents, he complains weekly of the impossibility even in Venice of obtaining books. See, for instance, _Lettere_, vol. i. pp. 286, 287, 360, vol. ii. p. 13. In one passage he says that the importation of books into Italy is impeded at Innsbruck, Trento, and throughout the Tyrolese frontiers (vol. i. p. 74). In another he warns his friends not to send them concealed in merchandise, since they will fall under so many eyes in the custom-houses and lazzaretti (vol. i. p. 303).] [Footnote 131: It was usual at this epoch to send Protestant publications from beyond the Alps in bales of cotton or other goods. This appears from the Lucchese proclamations against heresy published in _Arch. Stor._ vol. x.] [Footnote 132: I may mention that having occasion to consult Savonarola's works in the Public Library of Perugia, which has a fairly good collection of them, I found them useless for purposes of study by reason of these erasures and Burke-plasters.] [Footnote 133: Dejob, _op. cit._ p. 43.] During the period of the Counter-Reformation it was the cherished object of the Popes to restore ecclesiastical and theological learning. They gathered men of erudition round them in the Vatican, and established a press for the purpose of printing the Fathers and diffusing Catholic literature. But they were met in the pursuance of this project by very serious difficulties. Their own policy tended to stifle knowledge and suppress criticism. The scholars whom they chose as champions of the faith worked with tied hands. Baronio knew no Greek; Latini knew hardly any; Bellarmino is thought to have known but little. And yet these were the apostles of Catholic enlightenment, the defenders of the infallible Church against students of the caliber of Erasmus, Casaubon, Sarpi! An insuperable obstacle to sacred studies of a permanently useful kind was the Tridentine decree which had declared the Vulgate inviolable. No codex of age or authority which displayed a reading at variance with the inspired Latin version might be cited. Sirleto, custodian of the Vatican Library, refused lections from its MSS. to learned men, on the ground that they might seem to impugn the Vulgate.[134] For the same reason, the critical labors of all previous students, from Valla to Erasmus, on the text of the Bible were suppressed, and the best MSS. of the Fathers were ruthlessly garbled, in order to bring their quotations into accordance with Jerome's translation. Galesini takes credit to himself in a letter to Sirleto for having withheld a clearly right reading in his edition of the Psalms, because it explained a mistake in the Vulgate.[135] We have seen how Latini's Cyprian suffered from the censure; and there is a lamentable history of the Vatican edition of Ambrose, which was so mutilated that the Index had to protect it from confrontation with the original codices.[136] This dishonest dealing not only discouraged students and paralyzed the energy of critical investigation; but it also involved the closing of public libraries to scholars. The Vatican could not afford to let the light of science in upon its workshop of forgeries and sophistications. [Footnote 134: Dejob, _op. cit._ p. 50. Also his _Muret_, pp. 223-227.] [Footnote 135: Dejob, _De l'Influence_, p. 49.] [Footnote 136: Id. _op. cit._ pp. 96-98.] A voice of reasonable remonstrance was sometimes raised by even the most incorruptible children of the Church. Thus Bellarmino writes to Cardinal Sirleto, suggesting a doubt whether it is obligatory to adhere to the letter of the Tridentine decree upon the Vulgate.[137] Is it rational, he asks, to maintain that every sentence in the Latin text is impeccable? Must we reject those readings in the Hebrew and the Greek, which elucidate the meaning of the Scriptures, in cases where Jerome has followed a different and possibly a corrupt authority? Would it not be more sensible to regard the Vulgate as the sole authorized version for use in universities, pulpits, and divine service, while admitting that it is not an infallible rendering of the inspired original? He also touches, in a similar strain of scholar-like liberality, upon the Septuagint, pointing out that this version cannot have been the work of seventy men in unity, since the translator of Job seems to have been better acquainted with Greek than Hebrew, while the reverse is true of the translator of Solomon. Such remonstrances were not, however, destined to make themselves effectively heard. Instead of relaxing its severity after the pontificate of Pius IV., the Congregation of the Index grew, as we have seen, more rigid, until, in the rules digested by Clement VIII., it enforced the strictest letter of the law regarding the Vulgate, and ratified all the hypocrisies and subterfuges which that implied. [Footnote 137: This very interesting and valuable letter is printed by Dejob in the work I have so often cited, p. 391.] Under the conditions which I have attempted to describe, it was impossible that Italy should hold her place among the nations which encouraged liberal studies. Rome had one object in view--to gag the revolutionary free voice of the Renaissance, to protect conservative principles, to establish her own supremacy, and to secure the triumph of the Counter-Reformation. In pursuance of this policy, she had to react against the learning and the culture of the classical revival; and her views were seconded not only by the overwhelming political force of Spain in the Peninsula, but also by the petty princes who felt that their existence was imperiled. Independence of judgment was rigorously proscribed in all academies and seats of erudition. New methods of education and new text-books were forbidden. Professors found themselves hampered in their choice of antique authors. Only those classics which were sanctioned by the Congregation of the Index could be used in lecture-rooms. On the one hand, the great republican advocates of independence had incurred suspicion. On the other hand, the poets were prohibited as redolent of paganism. To mingle philosophy with rhetoric was counted a crime. Thomas Aquinas had set up Pillars of Hercules beyond which the reason might not seek to travel. Roman law had to be treated from the orthodox scholastic standpoint. Woe to the audacious jurist who made the Pandects serve for disquisitions on the rights of men and nations! Scholars like Sigonius found themselves tied down in their class-rooms to a weariful routine of Cicero and Aristotle. Aonio Paleario complained that a professor was no better than a donkey working in a mill; nothing remained for him but to dole out commonplaces, avoiding every point of contact between the authors he interpreted and the burning questions of modern life. Muretus, who brought with him to Italy from France a ruined moral reputation with a fervid zeal for literature, who sold his soul to praise the Massacre of S. Bartholomew and purge by fulsome panegyrics of great public crimes the taint of heresy that clung around him, found his efforts to extend the course of studies in Rome thwarted.[138] He was forbidden to lecture on Plato, forbidden to touch jurisprudence, forbidden to consult a copy of Eunapius in the Vatican Library. It cost him days and weeks of pleading to obtain permission to read Tacitus to his classes. Greek, the literature of high thoughts, noble enthusiasms, and virile sciences, was viewed with suspicion. As the monks of the middle ages had written on the margins of their MSS.: _Graeca sunt, ergo non legenda_, so these new obscurantists exclaimed: _Graeca sunt, periculosa sunt, ergo non legenda_. 'I am forced,' he cries in this extremity, 'to occupy myself with Latin and to abstain entirely from Greek.' And yet he knew that 'if the men of our age advance one step further in their neglect of Greek, doom and destruction are impending over all sound arts and sciences.' 'It is my misery,' he groans, 'to behold the gradual extinction and total decay of Greek letters, in whose train I see the whole body of refined learning on the point of vanishing away.[139] A vigorous passage from one of Sarpi's letters directly bearing on these points may here be cited (vol. i. p. 170): 'The revival of polite learning undermined the foundations of Papal monarchy. Nor was this to be wondered at. This monarchy began and grew in barbarism; the cessation of barbarism naturally curtailed and threatened it with extinction. This we already see in Germany and France; but Spain and Italy are still subject to barbarism. Legal studies sink daily from bad to worse. The Roman Curia opposes every branch of learning which savors of polite literature, while it defends its barbarism with tooth and nail. How can it do otherwise? Abolish those books on Papal Supremacy, and where shall they find that the Pope is another God, that he is almighty, that all rights and laws are closed within the cabinet of his breast, that he can shut up folk in hell, in a word that he has power to square the circle? Destroy that false jurisprudence, and this tyranny will vanish; but the two are reciprocally supporting, and we shall not do away with the former until the latter falls, which will only happen at God's good pleasure.' [Footnote 138: See Dejob's _Life of Muret_, pp. 231, 238, 274, 320.] [Footnote 139: _Op. cit_. pp. 262, 481.] The jealousy with which liberal studies were regarded by the Church bred a contempt for them in the minds of students. Benci, a professor of humane letters at Rome, says that his pupils walked about the class-room during his lectures. With grim humor he adds that he does not object to their sleeping, so long as they abstain from snoring.[140] But it is impossible, he goes on to complain, that I should any longer look upon the place in which I do my daily work as an academy of learning; I go to it rather as to a mill in which I must grind out my tale of worthless grain. Muretus, when he had labored twenty years in the chair of rhetoric at Rome, begged for dismissal. His memorial to the authorities presents a lamentable picture of the insubordination and indifference from which he had suffered.[141] 'I have borne immeasurable indignities from the continued insolence of these students, who interrupt me with cries, whistlings, hisses, insults, and such opprobrious remarks that I sometimes scarcely know whether I am standing on my head or heels.' 'They come to the lecture-room armed with poignards, and when I reprove them for their indecencies, they threaten over and over again to cut my face open if I do not hold my tongue.' The walls, he adds, are scrawled over with obscene emblems and disgusting epigrams, so that this haunt of learning presents the aspect of the lowest brothel; and the professor's chair has become a more intolerable seat than the pillory, owing to the missiles flung at him and the ribaldry with which he is assailed. The manners and conversation of the students must have been disgusting beyond measure, to judge by a letter of complaint from a father detailing the contamination to which his son was exposed in the Roman class-rooms, and the immunity with which the lewdest songs were publicly recited there.[142] But the total degradation of learning at this epoch in Rome is best described in one paragraph of Vittorio de'Rossi, setting forth the neglect endured by Aldo Manuzio, the younger. This scion of an illustrious family succeeded to the professorship of Muretus in 1588. 'Then,' says Rossi, 'might one marvel at or rather mourn over, the abject and down-trodden state of the liberal arts. Then might one perceive with tears how those treasures of humane letters, which our fathers exalted to the heavens, were degraded in the estimation of youth. In the good old days men crossed the seas, undertook long journeys, traversed the cities of Greece and Asia, in order to obtain the palm of eloquence and salute the masters of languages and learning, at whose feet they sat entranced by noble words. But now these fellows poured scorn upon an unrivaled teacher of both Greek and Latin eloquence, whose services were theirs for the asking, theirs without the fatigue of travel, without expense, without exertion. Though he freely offered them his abundance of erudition in both learned literatures, they shut their ears against him. At the hours when his lecture-room should have been thronged with multitudes of eager pupils you might see him, abandoned by the crowd, pacing the pavement before the door of the academy with one, or may be two, for his companions.'[143] [Footnote 140: Dejob, _Marc Antoine Muret_, p. 349.] [Footnote 141: The original is printed by Dejob, _Marc Antoine Muret_, pp. 487-489.] [Footnote 142: The original letter, printed by Dejob, _op. cit._ p. 491, is signed by Giustiniano Finetti, who seems to have been a professor of medicine in the Roman University. His son, a youth of sixteen, complained that the students had demanded and obtained leave to recite a certain 'lettione che era carnavalesca d'ano et de priapo,' adding that they were in the habit of holding debates upon the thesis that (LATIN: 'res sodcae erant praeferendae veneri naturali, et reprobabant rem veneream cum feminis ac audabant masturbationem.') The dialogue which the students obtained leave publicly to recite was probably similar to one that might still be heard some years ago in spring upon the quays of Naples, and which appeared to have descended from immemorial antiquity.] [Footnote 143: The Latin text is printed in Renouard's _Imprimerie des Aldes_, p. 473.] To accuse the Church solely and wholly for this decay of humanistic learning in Italy would be uncritical and unjust. We must remember that after a period of feverish energy there comes a time of languor in all epochs of great intellectual excitement. Nor was it to be expected that the enthusiasm of the fifteenth century for classical studies should have been prolonged into the second half of the sixteenth century. But we are justified in blaming the ecclesiastical and civil authorities of the Counter-Reformation for their determined opposition to the new direction which that old enthusiasm for the classics was now manifesting. They strove to force the stream of learning backward into scholastic and linguistic channels, when it was already plowing for itself a fresh course in the fields of philosophical and scientific discovery. They made study odious, because they attempted to restrain it to the out-worn husks of pedantry and rhetoric. These, they thought, were innocuous. But what the intellectual appetite then craved, the pabulum that it required to satisfy its yearning, was rigidly denied it. Speculations concerning the nature of man and of the world, metaphysical explorations into the regions of dimly apprehended mysteries, physics, political problems, religious questions touching the great matters in dispute through Europe, all the storm and stress of modern life, the ferment of the modern mind and will and conscience, were excluded from the schools, because they were antagonistic to the Counter-Reformation. Italy was starved and demoralized in order to avert a revolution; and learning was asphyxiated by confinement to a narrow chamber filled with vitiated and exhausted air.[144] [Footnote 144: As Sarpi says: 'Of a truth the extraordinary rigor with which books are hunted out for extirpation, shows how vigorous is the light of that lantern which they have resolved to extinguish.' _Lettere_, vol. i. p. 328.] Similar deductions may be drawn from the life of Paolo Manuzio in Rome. He left Venice in 1561 at the invitation of Pius IV., who proposed to establish a press 'for the publication of books printed with the finest type and the utmost accuracy, and more especially of works bearing upon sacred and ecclesiastical literature.'[145] Paolo's engagement was for twelve years; his appointments were fixed at 300 ducats for traveling expenses, 500 ducats of yearly salary, a press maintained at the Pontifical expense, and a pension secured upon his son's life. The scheme was a noble one. Paolo was to print all the Greek and Latin Fathers, and to furnish the Catholic world with an arsenal of orthodox learning. Yet, during his residence in Rome, no Greek book issued from his press.[146] Of the Latin Fathers he gave the Epistles of Jerome, Salvian, and Cyprian to the world. For the rest, he published the Decrees of the Tridentine Council ten times, the Tridentine Catechism eight times, the _Breviarium Romanum_ four times, and spent the greater part of his leisure in editing minor translations, commentaries, and polemical or educational treatises. The result was miserable, and the man was ruined. [Footnote 145: See Renouard, _op. cit._ pp. 442-459, for Paulus Manutius's life at Rome.] [Footnote 146: _op. cit._ pp. 184-216.] It remains to notice the action of the Index with regard to secular books in the modern languages. I will first repeat a significant passage in its statutes touching upon political philosophy and the so-called _Ratio Status_: 'Item, let all propositions, drawn from the digests, manners, and examples of the Gentiles, which foster a tyrannical polity and encourage what they falsely call the reason of state, in opposition to the law of Christ and of the Gospel, be expunged.' This, says Sarpi in his Discourse on Printing, is aimed in general against any doctrine which impugns ecclesiastical jurisdiction over the civil sphere of princes and magistrates, and the economy of the family.[147] Theories drawn from whatever source to combat Papal and ecclesiastical encroachments, and to defend the rights of the sovereign in his monarchy or of the father in his, household, are denominated and denounced as _Ratio Status_. The impugner of Papal absolutism in civil, as well as ecclesiastical affairs, is accounted _ipso facto_ a heretic.[148] It would appear at first sight as though the clause in question had been specially framed to condemn Machiavelli and his school. The works of Machiavelli were placed upon the Index in 1559, and a certain Cesare of Pisa who had them in his library was put to the torture on this account in 1610. It was afterwards proposed to correct and edit them without his name; but his heirs very properly refused to sanction this proceeding, knowing that he would be made to utter the very reverse of what he meant in all that touched upon the Roman Church. [Footnote 147: Sarpi's Works, vol. iv. p. 4.] [Footnote 148: Sarpi, _Discorso_, vol. iv. p. 25, on Bellarmino's doctrine. Sarpi's _Letters_, vol. i. pp. 138, 243. Sarpi says that he and Gillot had both had their portraits painted in a picture of Hell and shown to the common folk as foredoomed to eternal fire, because they opposed doctrines of Papal omnipotence. _Ibid._ p. 151.] This paragraph in the statutes of the Index had, however, a further and far more ambitious purpose than the suppression of Machiavelli, Guicciardini, and Sarpi. By assuming to condemn all political writings of which she disapproved, and by forbidding the secular authorities to proscribe any works which had received her sanction, the Church obtained a monopoly of popular instruction in theories of government. She interdicted every treatise that exposed her own ambitious interference in civil affairs or which maintained the rights of temporal rulers.[149] She protected and propagated the works of her servile ministers, who proclaimed that the ecclesiastical was superior in all points to the civil power; that nations owed their first allegiance to the Pope, who was divinely appointed to rule over them, and their second only to the Prince, who was a delegate from their own body; and that tyrannicide itself was justifiable when employed against a contumacious or heretical sovereign. Such were the theories of the Jesuits--of Allen and Parsons in England, Bellarmino in Italy, Suarez and Mariana in Spain, Boucher in France. [Footnote 149: On this point, again, Sarpi's _Letters_ furnish valuable details. He frequently remarks that a general order had been issued by the Congregation of the Index to suppress all books against the writings of Baronius, who was treated as a saint, vol. i. pp. 3, 147, ii. p. 35. He relates how the Jesuits had procured the destruction of a book written to uphold aristocracy in states, without touching upon ecclesiastical questions, as being unfavorable to their theories of absolutism (vol. i. p. 122). He tells the story of a confessor who refused the sacraments to a nobleman, because he owned a treatise written by Quirino in defense of the Venetian prerogatives (vol. i. p. 113). He refers to the suppression of James I.'s _Apologia_ and De Thou's _Histories_ (vol. i. pp. 286, 287, 383).] In his critique of this monstrous unfairness Sarpi says: 'There are not wanting men in Italy, pious and of sound learning, who hold the truth upon such topics; but these can neither write nor send their writings to the press.'[150] The best years and the best energies of Sarpi's life were spent, as is well known, in combating the arrogance of Rome, and in founding the relations of State to Church upon a basis of sound common sense and equity. More than once he narrowly escaped martyrdom as the reward of his temerity; and when the poignard of an assassin struck him, his legend relates that he uttered the celebrated epigram: _Agnosco stilum Curiae Romanae_. [Footnote 150: In the Treatise on the Inquisition, _Opere_, vol. iv. p. 53. Sarpi, in a passage of his _Letters_ (vol. ii. p. 163), points out why the secular authorities were ill fitted to retaliate in kind, upon these Papal proscriptions.] Sarpi protested, not without good reason, that Rome was doing her best to extinguish sound learning in Italy. But how did she deal with that rank growth of licentious literature which had sprung up during the Renaissance period? This is the question which should next engage us. We have seen that the Council of Trent provided amply for the extirpation of lewd and obscene publications. Accordingly, as though to satisfy the sense of decency, some of the most flagrantly immoral books, including the _Decameron_, the _Priapeia_, the collected works of Aretino, and certain mediaeval romances, were placed upon the Index. Berni was proscribed in 1559; but the interdict lasted only a short time, probably because it was discovered that his poems, though licentious, were free from the heresies which Pier Paolo Vergerio had sought to fix upon him. Meanwhile no notice was taken of the _Orlando Furioso_, and a multitude of novelists, of Beccadelli's and Pontano's verses, of Molza and Firenzuola, of the whole mass of mundane writers in short, who had done so much to reveal the corruption of Italian manners. It seemed as though the Church cared less to ban obscenity than to burke those authors who had spoken freely of her vices. When we come to examine the expurgated editions of notorious authors, we shall see that this was literally the case. A castrated version of Bandello, revised by Ascanio Centorio degli Ortensi, was published in 1560.[151] It omitted the dedications and preambles, suppressed some disquisitions which palliated vicious conduct, expunged the novels that brought monks or priests into ridicule, but left the impurities of the rest untouched. A reformed version of Folengo's _Baldus_ appeared in 1561. The satires on religious orders had been erased. Zambellus was cuckolded by a layman instead of a priest. Otherwise the filth of the original received no cleansing treatment. When Cosimo de'Medici requested that a revised edition of the _Decameron_ might be licensed, Pius V. entrusted the affair to Thomas Manrique, Master of the Sacred Palace. It was published by the Giunti in 1573 under the auspices of Gregory XIII., with the approval of the Holy Office and the Florentine Inquisition, fortified by privileges from Spanish and French kings, dukes of Tuscany, Ferrara, and so forth. The changes which Boccaccio's masterpiece had undergone were these: passages savoring of doubtful dogma, sarcasms on monks and clergy, the names of saints, allusions to the devil and hell, had disappeared. Ecclesiastical sinners were transformed into students and professors, nuns and abbesses into citizens' wives. Immorality in short was secularized. But the book still offered the same allurements to a prurient mind. Sixtus V. expressed his disapproval of this recension, and new editions were licensed in 1582 and 1588 under the revision of Lionardo Salviati and Luigi Groto. Both preserved the obscenities of the _Decameron_, while they displayed more rigor with regard to satires on ecclesiastical corruption. It may be added, in justice to the Roman Church, that the _Decameron_ stands still upon the Index with the annotation _donec expurgetur_.[152] Therefore we must presume that the work of purification is not yet accomplished, though the Jesuits have used parts of it as a text-book in their schools, while Panigarola quoted it in his lectures on sacred eloquence. [Footnote 151: See Dejob, _De l'Influence, etc._ Chapter III.] [Footnote 152: _Index_, Naples, Pelella, 1862, p. 87.] It would weary the reader to enlarge upon this process of stupid or hypocritical purgation, whereby the writings of men like Doni and Straparola were stripped of their reflections on the clergy, while their indecencies remained untouched; or to show how Ariosto's Comedies were sanctioned, when his Satires, owing to their free speech upon the Papal Court, received the stigma.[153] But I may refer to the grotesque attempts which were made in this age to cast the mantle of spirituality over profane literature. Thus Hieronimo Malipieri rewrote the _Canzoniere_ of Petrarch, giving it a pious turn throughout; and the _Orlando Furioso_ was converted by several hands into a religious allegory.[154] [Footnote 153: This treatment of Ariosto is typical. Men of not over scrupulous nicety may question whether his Comedies are altogether wholesome reading. But not even a Puritan could find fault with his Satires on the score of their morality. Yet Rome sanctioned the Comedies and forbade the Satires.] [Footnote 154: Curious details on this topic are supplied by Dejob, _op. cit._ pp. 179-181, and p. 184.] The action of Rome under the influence of the Counter-Reformation was clearly guided by two objects: to preserve Catholic dogma in its integrity, and to maintain the supremacy of the Church. She was eager to extinguish learning and to paralyze intellectual energy. But she showed no unwillingness to tolerate those pleasant vices which enervate a nation. Compared with unsound doctrine and audacious speculation, immorality appeared in her eyes a venial weakness. It was true that she made serious efforts to reform the manners of her ministers, and was fully alive to the necessity of enforcing decency and decorum. Yet a radical purification of society seemed of less importance to her than the conservation of Catholic orthodoxy and the inculcation of obedience to ecclesiastical authority. When we analyze the Jesuits' system of education, and their method of conducting the care of souls, we shall see to what extent the deeply seated hypocrisy of the Counter-Reformation had penetrated the most vital parts of the Catholic system. It will suffice, at the close of this chapter, to touch upon one other repressive measure adopted by the Church in its panic. Magistrates received strict injunctions to impede the journeys of Italian subjects into foreign countries where heresies were known to be rife, or where the rites of the Roman Church were not regularly administered.[155] In 1595 Clement VIII. reduced these admonitions to Pontifical law in a Bull, whereby he forbade Italians to travel without permission from the Holy Office, or to reside abroad without annually remitting a certificate of confession and communion to the Inquisitors. To ensure obedience to this statute would have been impossible without the co-operation of the Jesuits. They were, however, diffused throughout the nations of North, East, South, and West. When an Italian arrived, the Jesuit Fathers paid him a visit, and unless they received satisfactory answers with regard to his license of travel and his willingness to accept their spiritual direction, these serfs of Rome sent a delation to the central Holy Office, upon the ground of which the Inquisitors of his province instituted an action against him in his absence. Merchants, who neglected these rules, found themselves exposed to serious impediments in their trading operations, and to the peril of prosecution involving confiscation of property at home. Sarpi, who composed a vigorous critique of this abuse, points out what injury was done to commerce by the system.[156] We may still further censure it as an intolerable interference with the liberty of the individual; as an odious exercise of spiritual tyranny on the part of an ambitious ecclesiastical power which aimed at nothing less than universal domination. [Footnote 155: Any correspondence with heretics was accounted sufficient to implicate an Italian in the charge of heresy. Sarpi's Letters are full of matter on this point. He always used Cipher, which he frequently changed, addressed his letters under feigned names, and finally resolved on writing in his own hand to no heretic. See _Lettere_, vol. ii. pp. 2, 151, 242, 248, 437. See also what Dejob relates about the timidity of Muretus, _Muret_, pp. 229-231.] [Footnote 156: 'Treatise on the Inquisition,' _Opere_, vol. iv. p. 45.] CHAPTER IV. THE COMPANY OF JESUS. Vast Importance of the Jesuits in the Counter-Reformation--Ignatius Loyola--His Youth--Retreat at Manresa--Journey to Jerusalem--Studies in Spain and Paris--First Formation of his Order at Sainte Barbe--Sojourn at Venice--Settlement at Rome--Papal Recognition of the Order--Its Military Character--Absolutism of the General--Devotion to the Roman Church--Choice of Members--Practical and Positive Aims of the Founder--Exclusion of the Ascetic, Acceptance of the Worldly Spirit--Review of the Order's Rapid Extension over Europe--Loyola's Dealings with his Chief Lieutenants--Propaganda--The Virtue of Obedience--The _Exercitia Spiritualia_--Materialistic Imagination--Intensity and Superficiality of Religious Training--The Status of the Novice--Temporal Coadjutors--Scholastics--Professed of the Three Vows--Professed of the Four Vows--The General--Control exercised over him by his Assistants--His relation to the General Congregation--Espionage a part of the Jesuit System--Advantageous Position of a Contented Jesuit--The Vow of Poverty--Houses of the Professed and Colleges--The Constitutions and Declarations--Problem of the _Monita Secreta_--Reciprocal Relations of Rome and the Company--Characteristics of Jesuit Education--Direction of Consciences--Moral Laxity--Sarpi's Critique--Casuistry--Interference in affairs of State--Instigation to Regicide and Political Conspiracy--Theories of Church Supremacy--Insurgence of the European Nations against the Company. We have seen in the preceding chapters how Spain became dominant in Italy, superseding the rivalry of confederate states by the monotony of servitude, and lending its weight to Papal Rome. The internal changes effected in the Church by the Tridentine Council, and the external power conferred on it, were due in no small measure to Spanish influence or sanction. A Spanish institution, the Inquisition, modified to suit Italian requirements, lent revived Catholicism weapons of repression and attack. We have now to learn by what means a partial vigor was communicated to the failing body of Catholic beliefs, how the Tridentine creed was propagated, the spiritual realm of the Roman Pontiff policed, and his secular authority augmented. A Spanish Order rose at the right moment to supply that intellectual and moral element of vitality without which the Catholic Revival might have remained as inert as a stillborn child. The devotion of the Jesuits to the Papacy, was in reality the masterful Spanish spirit of that epoch, masking its world-grasping ambition under the guise of obedience to Rome. This does not mean that the founders and first organizers of the Company of Jesus consciously pursued one object while they pretended to have another in view. The impulse which moved Loyola was spontaneous and romantic. The world has seen few examples of disinterested self-devotion equal to that of Xavier. Yet the fact remains that Jesuitry, taking its germ and root in the Spanish character, persisting as an organism within the Church, but separate from the ecclesiastical hierarchy, devised the doctrine of Papal absolutism, and became the prime agent of that Catholic policy in Europe which passed for Papal during the Counter-Reformation. The indissoluble connection between Rome, Spain, and the Jesuits, was apparent to all unprejudiced observers. For this triad of reactionary and belligerent forces Sarpi invented the name of the Diacatholicon, alluding, under the metaphor of a drug, to the virus which was being instilled in his days into all the States of Europe.[157] The founder of the Jesuit order was the thirteenth child of a Spanish noble, born in 1491 at his father's castle of Loyola in the Basque province of Guipuzcoa.[158] His full name was Iñigo Lopez de Recalde; but he is better known to history as Saint Ignatius Loyola. Ignatius spent his boyhood as page in the service of King Ferdinand the Catholic, whence he passed into that of the Duke of Najara, who was the hereditary friend and patron of his family. At this time he thought of nothing but feats of arms, military glory, and romantic adventures. [Footnote 157: For Sarpi's use of this phrase see his _Lettere_, vol. ii. pp. 72, 80, 92. He clearly recognized the solidarity between the Jesuits and Spain. 'The Jesuit is no more separable from the Spaniard than the accident from the substance.' 'The Spaniard without the Jesuit is not worth more than lettuce without oil.' 'For the Jesuits to deceive Spain, would be tantamount to deceiving themselves.' _Ibid._ vol. i. pp. 203, 384, vol. ii. p. 48. Compare passages in vol. i. pp. 184, 189. He only perceived a difference in the degrees of their noxiousness to Europe. Thus, 'the worst Spaniard is better than the least bad of the Jesuits' (vol. i. p. 212).] [Footnote 158: Study of the Jesuits must be founded on _Institutum Societatis Jesu_, 7 vols. Avenione; Orlandino, _Hist. Soc. Jesu_; Crétineau-Joly, _Histoire de la Compagnie de Jésus_; Ribadaneira, _Vita Ignatii_; Genelli's Life of Ignatius in German, or the French translation; the Jesuit work, _Imago Primi Saeculi_; Ranke's account in his _History of the Popes_, and the three chapters assigned to this subject in Philippson's _La Contre-Révolution Religieuse_. The latter will be found a most valuable summary.] He could boast but little education; and his favorite reading was in _Amadis of Gaul_. That romance appeared during the boy's earliest childhood, and Spain was now devouring its high-flown rhapsodies with rapture. The peculiar admixture of mystical piety, Catholic enthusiasm, and chivalrous passion, which distinguishes _Amadis_, exactly corresponded to the spirit of the Spaniards at an epoch when they had terminated their age-long struggle with the Moors, and were combining propagandist zeal with martial fervor in the conquest of the New World. Its pages inflamed the imagination of Ignatius. He began to compose a romance in honor of S. Peter, and chose a princess of blood royal for his Oriana. Thus, in the first days of youth, while his heart was still set on love and warfare, he revealed the three leading features of his character--soaring ambition, the piety of a devotee, and the tendency to view religion from the point of fiction. Ignatius was barely twenty when the events happened which determined the future of his life and so powerfully affected the destinies of Catholic Christendom. The French were invading Navarre; and he was engaged in the defense of its capital, Pampeluna. On May 20, 1521, a bullet shattered his right leg, while his left foot was injured by a fragment of stone detached from a breach in the bastion. Transported to his father's castle, he suffered protracted anguish under the hands of unskilled medical attendants. The badly set bone in his right leg had twice to be broken; and when at last it joined, the young knight found himself a cripple. This limb was shorter than the other; the surgeons endeavored to elongate it by machines of iron, which put him to exquisite pain. After months of torture, he remained lame for life. During his illness Ignatius read such books as the castle of Loyola contained. These were a 'Life of Christ' and the 'Flowers of the Saints' in Spanish. His mind, prepared by chivalrous romance, and strongly inclined to devotion, felt a special fascination in the tales of Dominic and Francis. Their heroism suggested new paths which the aspirant after fame might tread with honor. Military glory and the love of women had to be renounced; for so ambitious a man could not content himself with the successes of a cripple in these spheres of action. But the legends of saints and martyrs pointed out careers no less noble, no less useful, and even more enticing to the fancy. He would become the spiritual Knight of Christ and Our Lady. To S. Peter, his chosen protector, he prayed fervently; and when at length he rose from the bed of sickness, he firmly believed that his life had been saved by the intercession of this patron, and that it must be henceforth consecrated to the service of the faith. The world should be abandoned. Instead of warring with the enemies of Christ on earth, he would carry on a crusade against the powers of darkness. They were first to be met and fought in his own heart. Afterwards, he would form and lead a militia of like-hearted champions against the strongholds of evil in human nature. It must not be thought that the scheme of founding a Society had so early entered into the mind of Ignatius. What we have at the present stage to notice is that he owed his adoption of the religious life to romantic fancy and fervid ambition, combined with a devotion to Peter, the saint of orthodoxy and the Church. Animated by this new enthusiasm, he managed to escape from home in the spring of 1522. His friends opposed themselves to his vocation; but he gave them the slip, took vows of chastity and abstinence, and began a pilgrimage to our Lady of Montserrat near Barcelona. On the road he scourged himself daily. When he reached the shrine he hung his arms up as a votive offering, and performed the vigil which chivalrous custom exacted from a squire before the morning of his being dubbed a knight. This ceremony was observed point by point, according to the ritual he had read in _Amadis of Gaul_. Next day he gave his raiment to a beggar, and assumed the garb of a mendicant pilgrim. By self-dedication he had now made himself the Knight of Holy Church. His first intention was to set sail for Palestine, with the object of preaching to the infidels. But the plague prevented him from leaving port; and he retired to a Dominican convent at Manresa, a little town of Catalonia, north-west of Barcelona. Here he abandoned himself to the crudest self-discipline. Feeding upon bread and water, kneeling for seven hours together rapt in prayer, scourging his flesh thrice daily, and reducing sleep to the barest minimum, Ignatius sought by austerity to snatch that crown of sainthood which he felt to be his due. Outraged nature soon warned him that he was upon a path which led to failure. Despair took possession of his soul, sometimes prompting him to end his life by suicide, sometimes plaguing him with hideous visions. At last he fell dangerously ill. Enlightened by the expectation of early death, he then became convinced that his fanatical asceticism was a folly. The despair, the dreadful phantoms which had haunted him, were ascribed immediately to the devil. In those rarer visitings of brighter visions, which sometimes brought consolation, bidding him repose upon God's mercy, he recognized angels sent to lead him on the pathway of salvation. God's hand appeared in these dealings; and he resolved to dedicate his body as well as his soul to God's service, respecting both as instruments of the divine will, and entertaining both in efficiency for the work required of them. The experiences of Manresa proved eminently fruitful for the future method of Ignatius. It was here that he began to regard self-discipline and self-examination as the needful prelude to a consecrated life. It was here that he learned to condemn the ascetism of anchorites as pernicious or unprofitable to a militant Christian. It was here that, while studying the manual of devotion written by Garcia de Cisneros, he laid foundations for those famous _Exercitia_, which became his instrument for rapidly passing neophytes through spiritual training similar to his own. It was here that he first distinguished two kinds of visions, infernal and celestial. Here also he grew familiar with the uses of concrete imagination;, and understood how the faculty of sensuous realization might be made a powerful engine for presenting the past of sacred history or the dogmas of orthodox theology under shapes of fancy to the mind. Finally, in all the experiences of Manresa, he tried the temper of his own character, which was really not that of a poet or a mystic, but of a sagacious man of action, preparing a system calculated to subjugate the intelligence and will of millions. Tested by self-imposed sufferings and by diseased hallucinations, his sound sense, the sense of one destined to control men, gathered energy, and grew in, solid strength: yet enough remained of his fanaticism to operate as a motive force in the scheme which he afterwards developed; enough survived from the ascetic phase he had surmounted, to make him comprehend that some such agony as he had suffered should form the vestibule to a devoted life. We may compare the throes of Ignatius at Manresa with the contemporary struggles of Luther at Wittenberg and in the Wartzburg. Our imagination will dwell upon the different issues to which two heroes distinguished by practical ability were led through their contention with the powers of spiritual evil. Protagonists respectively of Reformation and Counter-Reformation, they arrived at opposite conclusions; the one championing the cause of spiritual freedom in the modern world, the other consecrating his genius to the maintenance of Catholic orthodoxy by spiritual despotism. Yet each alike fulfilled his mission by having conquered mysticism at the outset of his world-historical career. Ignatius remained for the space of ten months at Manresa. He then found means to realize his cherished journey to the Holy Land. In Palestine he was treated with coldness as an ignorant enthusiast, capable of subverting the existing order of things, but too feeble to be counted on for permanent support. His motive ideas were still visionary; he could not cope with conservatism and frigidity established in comfortable places of emolument. It was necessary that he should learn the wisdom of compromise. Accordingly he returned to Spain, and put himself to school. Two years spent in preparatory studies at Barcelona, another period at Alcala, and another at Salamanca, introduced him to languages, grammar, philosophy, and theology. This man of noble blood and vast ambition, past the age of thirty, sat with boys upon the common benches. This self-consecrated saint imbibed the commonplaces of scholastic logic. It was a further stage in the evolution of his iron character from romance and mysticism, into political and practical sagacity. It was a further education of his stubborn will to pliant temper. But he could not divest himself of his mission as a founder and apostle. He taught disciples, preached, and formed a sect of devotees. Then the Holy Office attacked him. He was imprisoned, once at Alcala for forty-two days, once at Salamanca for three weeks, upon charges of heresy. Ignatius proved his innocence. The Inquisitors released him with certificates of acquittal; but they sentenced him to four years' study of theology before he should presume to preach. These years he resolved to spend at Paris. Accordingly he performed the journey on foot, and arrived in the capital of France upon February 2, 1528. He was then thirty-seven years old, and sixteen years had elapsed since he received his wounds at Pampeluna. At Paris he had to go to school again from the beginning. The alms of well-wishers, chiefly devout women at Barcelona, amply provided him with funds. These he employed not only in advancing his own studies, but also in securing the attachment of adherents to his cause. At this epoch he visited the towns of Belgium and London during his vacations. But the main outcome of his residence at Paris was the formation of the Company of Jesus. Those long years of his novitiate and wandering were not without their uses now. They had taught him, while clinging stubbornly to the main projects of his life, prudence in the choice of means, temperance in expectation, sagacity in the manipulation of fellow-workers selected for the still romantic ends he had in view. His first two disciples were a Savoyard, Peter Faber or Le Fèvre, and Francis Xavier of Pampeluna. Faber was a poor student, whom Ignatius helped with money. Xavier sprang from a noble stock, famous in arms through generations, for which he was eager to win the additional honors of science and the Church. Ignatius assisted him by bringing students to his lectures. Under the personal influence of their friend and benefactor, both of these men determined to leave all and follow the new light. Visionary as the object yet was, the firm will, fervent confidence, and saintly life of Loyola inspired them with absolute trust. That the Christian faith, as they understood it, remained exposed to grievous dangers from without and form within, that millions of souls were perishing through ignorance, that tens of thousands were falling away through incredulity and heresy, was certain. The realm of Christ on earth needed champions, soldiers devoted to a crusade against Satan and his hosts. And here was a leader, a man among men, a man whose words were as a fire, and whose method of spiritual discipline was salutary and illuminative; and this man bade them join him in the Holy War. He gained them in a hundred ways, by kindness, by precept, by patience, by persuasion, by attention to their physical and spiritual needs, by words of warmth and wisdom, by the direction of their conscience, by profound and intense sympathy with souls struggling after the higher life. The means he had employed to gain Faber and Xavier were used with equal success in the case of seven other disciples. The names of these men deserve to be recorded; for some of them played a part of importance in European history, while all of them contributed to the foundation of the Jesuits. They were James Lainez, Alfonzo Salmeron, and Nicholas Bobadilla, three Spaniards; Simon Rodriguez d'Azevedo, a Portuguese; two Frenchmen, Jean Codure and Brouet; and Claude le Jay, a Savoyard. All these neophytes were subjected by Ignatius to rigid discipline, based upon his _Exercitia_. They met together for prayer, meditation, and discussion, in his chamber at the College of S. Barbe. Here he unfolded to them his own plans, and poured out on them his spirit. At length, upon August 15, 1534, the ten together took the vows of chastity and poverty in the church of S. Mary at Montmartre, and bound themselves to conduct a missionary crusade in Palestine, or, if this should prove impracticable, to place themselves as devoted instruments, without conditions and without remuneration, in the hands of the Sovereign Pontiff. The society was thus established, although its purpose remained indecisive. The founder's romantic dream of a crusade in Holy Land, though never realized, gave an object of immediate interest to the associated friends. Meanwhile two main features of its historical manifestation, the propaganda of the Catholic faith and unqualified devotion to the cause of the Roman See, had been clearly indicated. Nothing proves the mastery which Ignatius had now acquired over his own enthusiasm, or the insight he had gained into the right method of dealing with men, more than the use he made of his authority in this first instance. The society was bound to grow and to expand; and it was fated to receive the lasting impress of his genius. But, as though inspired by some prophetic vision of its future greatness, he refrained from circumscribing the still tender embryo within definite limits which might have been pernicious to its development. The associates completed their studies at Paris, and in 1535 they separated, after agreeing to meet at Venice in the first months of 1537. Ignatius meanwhile traveled to Spain, where he settled his affairs by bestowing such property as he possessed on charitable institutions. He also resumed preaching, with a zeal that aroused enthusiasm and extended his personal influence. At the appointed time the ten came together at Venice, ostensibly bent on carrying out their project of visiting Palestine. But war was now declared between the Turks and the Republic of S. Mark. Ignatius found himself once more accused of heresy, and had some trouble in clearing himself before the Inquisition. It was resolved in these circumstances to abandon the mission to Holy Land as impracticable for the moment, and to remain in Venice waiting for more favorable opportunities. We may believe that the romance of a crusade among the infidels of Syria had already begun to fade from the imagination of the founder, in whose career nothing is more striking than his gradual abandonment of visionary for tangible ends, and his progressive substitution of real for shadowy objects of ambition. Loyola's first contact with Italian society during this residence in Venice exercised decisive influence over his plans. He seems to have perceived with the acute scent of an eagle that here lay the quarry he had sought so long. Italy, the fountain-head of intellectual enlightenment for Europe, was the realm which he must win. Italy alone offered the fulcrum needed by his firm and limitless desire of domination over souls. It was with Caraffa and the Theatines that Ignatius obtained a home. They were now established in the States of S. Mark through the beneficence of a rich Venetian noble, Girolamo Miani, who had opened religious houses and placed these at their disposition. Under the direction of their founder, they carried on their designed function of training a higher class of clergy for the duties of preaching and the priesthood, and for the repression of heresy by educational means. Caraffa's scheme was too limited to suit Ignatius: and the characters of both men were ill adapted for co-operation. One zeal for the faith inspired both. Here they agreed. But Ignatius was a Spaniard; and the second passion in Caraffa's breast was a Neapolitan's hatred for that nation. Ignatius, moreover, contemplated a vastly more expansive and elastic machinery for his workers in the vineyard of the faith, than the future Pope's coercive temper could have tolerated. These two leaders of the Counter-Reformation, equally ambitious, equally intolerant of opposition, equally bent upon a vast dominion, had to separate. The one was destined to organize the Inquisition and the Index. The other evolved what is historically known as Jesuitry. Nevertheless we know that Ignatius learned much from Caraffa. The subsequent organization of his Order showed that the Theatines suggested many practical points in the method he eventually adopted for effecting his designs. Some of his companions, meanwhile, journeyed to Rome. There they obtained from Paul III. permission to visit Palestine upon a missionary enterprise, together with special privileges for their entrance into sacerdotal orders. Those of the ten friends who were not yet priests, were ordained at Venice in June 1537. They then began to preach in public, roaming the streets with faces emaciated by abstinence, clad in ragged clothes, and using a language strangely compounded of Italian and Spanish. Their obvious enthusiasm, and the holy lives they were known to lead, brought them rapidly into high reputation of sanctity. Both the secular and the religious clergy of Italy could show but few men at that epoch equal to these brethren. It was settled in the autumn that they should all revisit Rome, traveling by different routes, and meditating on the form which the Order should assume. Palestine had now been definitely, if tacitly, abandoned. As might have been expected, it was Loyola who baptized his Order, and impressed a character upon the infant institution. He determined to call it the Company of Jesus, with direct reference to those Companies of Adventure which had given irregular organization to restless military spirits in the past. The new Company was to be a 'cohort, or century, combined for combat against spiritual foes; men-at-arms, devoted, body and soul, to our Lord Jesus Christ and to his true and lawful Vicar upon earth.'[159] An Englishman of the present day may pause to meditate upon the grotesque parallel between the nascent Order of the Jesuits and the Salvation Army, and can draw such conclusions from it as may seem profitable. [Footnote 159: These phrases occur in the _Deliberatio primorum patrum_.] Loyola's withdrawal from all participation in the nominal honor of his institution, his enrollment of the militia he had levied under the name of Jesus, and the combative functions which he ascribed to it, were very decided marks of originality. It stamped the body with impersonality from the outset, and indicated the belligerent attitude it was destined to assume. There was nothing exactly similar to its dominant conception in any of the previous religious orders. These had usually received their title from the founder, had aimed at a life retired from the world, had studied the sanctification of their individual members, and had only contemplated an indirect operation upon society. Ignatius, on the contrary, placed his community under the protection of Christ, and defined it at the outset as a militant and movable legion of auxiliaries, dedicated, not to retirement or to the pursuit of salvation, but to freely avowed and active combat in defense of their Master's vicegerent upon earth. It was as though he had divined the deficiencies of Catholicism at that epoch, and had determined to supplement them by the creation of a novel and a special weapon of attack. Some institutions of mediaeval chivalry, the Knights of the Temple, and S. John, for instance, furnished the closest analogy to his foundation. Their spirit he transferred from the sphere of physical combat with visible forces, infidel and Mussulman, to the sphere of intellectual warfare against heresy, unbelief, insubordination in the Church. He had refined upon the crude enthusiasm of romance which inspired him at Montserrat. Without losing its intensity, this had become a motive force of actual and political gravity. The Company of Jesus was far from obtaining the immediate approval of the Church. Paul III. indeed, perceived its utility, and showed marked favor to the associates when they arrived in Rome about the end of 1537. The people, too, welcomed their ministration gladly, and recognized the zeal which they displayed in acts of charity and their exemplary behavior. But the Curia and higher clergy organized an opposition against them. They were accused of heresy, and attempts to seduce the common folk. Ignatius demanded full and public inquiry, which was at first refused him. He then addressed the Pope in person, who ordered a trial, out of which the brethren came with full acquittal. After this success, they obtained a hold upon religious instruction in many schools of Rome. Adherents flocked around them; and they saw that it was time to give the society a defined organization, and to demand its official recognition as an Order. It was resolved to add the vow of obedience to their former vows of chastity and poverty. Obedience had always been a prime virtue in monastic institutions; but Ignatius conceived of it in a new and military spirit. The obedience of the Jesuits was to be absolute, extending even to the duty of committing sins at a superior's orders. The General, instead of holding office for a term of years, was to be elected for life, with unlimited command over the whole Order in its several degrees. He was to be regarded as Christ present and personified. This autocracy of the General might have seemed to menace the overlordship of the Holy See, but for a fourth vow which the Company determined to adopt. It ran as follows: 'That the members will consecrate their lives to the continual service of Christ and of the Popes, will fight under the banner of the Cross, and will serve the Lord and the Roman Pontiff as God's vicar upon earth, in such wise that they shall be bound to execute immediately and without hesitation or excuse all that the reigning Pope or his successors may enjoin upon them for the profit of souls or for the propagation of the faith, and shall do so in all provinces whithersoever he may send them, among Turks or any other infidels, to furthest Ind, as well as in the region of heretics, schismatics, or believers of any kind.' Loyola himself drew up these constitutions in five chapters, and had them introduced to Paul III., with the petition that they might be confirmed. This was in September 1539, and it is singular that the man selected to bring them under the Pope's notice should have been Cardinal Contarini. Paul had no difficulty in recognizing the support which this new Order would bring to the Papacy in its conflict with Reformers, and its diplomatic embarrassments with Charles V. He is even reported to have said, 'The finger of God is there!' Yet he could not confirm the constitutions without the previous approval of three Cardinals appointed to report on them. This committee condemned Loyola's scheme; and nearly a year passed in negotiations with foreign princes and powerful prelates, before a reluctant consent was yielded to the Pope's avowed inclination. At length the Bull of Sept. 27, 1540, _Regimini militantis Ecclesiae_, launched the Society of Jesus on the world. Ignatius became the first General of the Order; and the rest of his life, a period of sixteen years, was spent in perfecting the machinery and extending the growth of this institution, which in all essentials was the emanation of his own mind. It may be well at this point to sketch the organization of the Jesuits, and to describe the progress of the Society during its founder's lifetime, in order that a correct conception may be gained of Loyola's share in its creation. Many historians of eminence, and among them so acute an observer as Paolo Sarpi, have been of the opinion that Jesuitry in its later developments was a deflection from the spirit and intention of Ignatius. It is affirmed that Lainez and Salmeron, rather than Loyola, gave that complexion to the Order which has rendered it a mark for the hatred and disgust of Europe. Aquaviva, the fifth General, has been credited with its policy of interference in affairs of states and nations. Yet I think it can be shown that the Society, as it appeared in the seventeenth century, was a logical and necessary development of the Society as Ignatius framed it in the sixteenth.[160] [Footnote 160: Sarpi, though he expressed an opinion that the Jesuits of his day had departed from the spirit of their founders, spoke thus of Loyola's worldly aims (_Lettere_, vol. i. p 224): 'Even Father Ignatius, Founder of the Company, as his biography attests, based himself in such wise upon human interest as though there were none divine to think about.'] Lainez, who succeeded the founder as General, digested the constitutions and supplied them with a commentary or Directorium. He defined, formulated, and stereotyped the system; but the essential qualities of Jesuitry, its concentration upon political objects, its unscrupulousness in choice of means to ends, the worldliness which lurked beneath the famous motto _Ad Majorem Dei Gloriam_, were implicit in Loyola's express words, and in his actual administration. The framework of the Order, as he fixed it, was so firmly traced, and so cunningly devised for practical efficiency, that it admitted of no alteration except in the direction of more rigid definition. Lainez may, indeed, have emphasized its tendency to become a political machine, and may have weakened its religious tone, by his rules for the interpretation of the constitutions; but we have seen that the development of Loyola's own ideas ran in this direction. The real strength, as well as the worst vices of Jesuitry, were inherent in the system from the first; and in it we have perhaps the most remarkable instance on record, of the evolution of a cosmopolitan and world-important organism from the embryo of one man's conception. The Bull _Regimini militantis Ecclesiae_ restricted the number of the Jesuits to sixty. If Ignatius did not himself propose this limit, the restriction may perhaps have suggested his policy of reserving the full privileges of the Society for a small band of selected members--the very essence of the body, extracted by processes which will be afterwards described. Anyhow, it is certain that though the Papal limitation was removed in 1543, and though candidates flowed on the tide of fashion toward the Order, yet the representative and responsible Fathers remained few in numbers. These were distributed as the General thought fit. He stayed in Rome; for Rome was the chosen headquarters of the Society, the nucleus of their growth, and the fulcrum of their energy. From Rome, as from a center, Ignatius moved his men about the field of Europe. We might compare him under one metaphor to a chess-player directing his pieces upon the squares of the political and ecclesiastical chessboard; under another, to a spider spinning his web so as to net the greatest number of profitable partisans. The fathers were kept in perpetual motion. To shift them from place to place, to exclude them from their native soil, to render them cosmopolitan and pliant was the first care of the founder. He forbade the follies of ascetic piety, inculcated the study of languages and exact knowledge, and above all things recommended the acquisition of those social arts which find favor with princes and folk of high condition. 'Prudence of an exquisite quality,' he said, 'combined with average sanctity, is more valuable than eminent sanctity and less of prudence.' Also he bade them keep their eyes open for neophytes 'less marked by pure goodness than by firmness of character and ability in conduct of affairs, since men who are not apt for public business do not suit the requirements of the Company.' Orlandino tells us that though Ignatius felt drawn to men who showed eminent gifts for erudition, he preferred, in the difficulties of the Church, to choose such as knew the world well and were distinguished by their social station. The fathers were to seek out youths 'of good natural parts, adapted to the acquisition of knowledge and to practical works of utility.' Their pupils were, if possible, to have physical advantages and manners that should render them agreeable. These points had more of practical value than a bare vocation for piety. In their dealings with tender consciences, they were to act like 'good fishers of souls, passing over many things in silence as though these had not been observed, until the time came when the will was gained, and the character could be directed as they thought best.'[161] Loyola's dislike for the common forms of monasticism appears in his choice of the ordinary secular priest's cassock for their dress, and in his emancipation of the members from devotional exercises and attendance in the choir. The aversion he felt for ascetic discipline is evinced in a letter he addressed to Francis Borgia in 1548. It is better, he writes, to strengthen your stomach and other faculties, than to impair the body and enfeeble the intellect by fasting. God needs both our physical and mental powers for his service; and every drop of blood you shed in flagellation is a loss. [Footnote 161: See Philippson, _op. cit._ pp. 61, 62.] The end in view was to serve the Church by penetrating European society, taking possession of its leaders in rank and hereditary influence, directing education, assuming the control of the confessional, and preaching the faith in forms adapted to the foibles and the fancies of the age. The interests of the Church were paramount: 'If she teaches that what seems to us white is black, we must declare it to be black upon the spot.' There were other precepts added. These, for instance, seem worth commemoration: 'The workers in the Lord's vineyard should have but one foot on earth, the other should be raised to travel forward.' 'The abnegation of our own will is of more value than if one should bring the dead to life again.' 'No storm is so pernicious as a calm, and no enemy is so dangerous as having none.' It will be seen that what is known as Jesuitry, in its mundane force and in its personal devotion to a cause, emerges from the precepts of Ignatius. We may wonder how the romances of the mountain-keep of Loyola, the mysticism of Montserrat, and the struggles of Manresa should have brought the founder of the Jesuits to these results. Yet, if we analyze the problem, it will yield a probable solution. What survived from that first period was the spirit of enthusiastic service to the Church, the vast ambition of a man who felt himself a destined instrument for shoring up the crumbling walls of Catholicity, the martial instinct of a warrior fighting at fearful odds with nations running toward infidelity. He had no doubt where the right lay. He was a Spaniard, a servant of S. Peter; and for him the creed enounced by Rome was all in all. But his commerce with the world, his astute Basque nature, and his judgment of the European situation, taught him that he must use other means than those which Francis and Dominic had employed. He had to make his Company, that forlorn hope of Catholicism, the exponent of a decadent and rotten faith. He had to adapt it to the necessities of Christendom in dissolution, to constitute it by a guileful and sagacious method. He had to render it wise in the wisdom of the world, in order that he might catch the powers of this world by their interests and vices for the Church. He was like Machiavelli, endeavoring to save a corrupt state by utilizing corruption for ends acknowledged sound. And, like Machiavelli, he was mistaken, because it will not profit man to trust in craft or the manipulation of evil. Luther was stronger in his weakness than the creator of the Jesuit machinery, wiser in his simplicity than the deviser of that subtle engine. But Luther had the onward forces of humanity upon his side. Ignatius could but retard them by his ingenuity. We may be therefore excused if we admire Ignatius for the virile effort which he made in a failing cause, and for the splendid gifts of organizing prudence which he devoted to a misplaced object. Under his direction, the members of the Society spread themselves over Europe, and always with similar results. Wherever they went, hundreds of adherents joined the Order. Paul III. and Julius III. heaped privileges upon it, seeing what a power it had become in warfare with heresy. Ignatius spared no pains to secure his position in Rome, paying court to Cardinals and prelates, visiting ambassadors and princes, soliciting their favors and offering the service of his brethren in return. Profitable negotiations were opened with the King of Spain and the Duke of Bavaria, which, under cover of reforming convents, led to a partition of ecclesiastical property between the Jesuits and the State. Good reasons seemed to justify such acts of spoliation; for the old orders were sunk in sloth and immorality beyond redemption, while the Company kept alive all that was sound in Catholic discipline, preaching, and instruction. In Italy the Jesuits made rapid progress from the first. Lainez occupied the Venetian territory, opposing Protestant opinions in Venice itself, at Brescia, and among the mountains of the Valtelline. Le Jay combated the forces of Calvin and Renée of France at Ferrara. Salmeron took possession of Naples and Sicily. Piacenza, Modena, Faenza, Bologna, and Montepulciano received the fathers with open arms. The Farnesi welcomed them in Parma. Wherever they went, they secured the good will of noble women, and gained some hold on universities. Colleges were founded in the chief cities of the peninsula, where they not only taught gratis, but used methods superior to those previously in vogue. Rome, however, remained the stronghold of the Company. Here Ignatius founded its first house in 1550. This was the Collegium Romanum; and in 1555, some hundred pupils, who had followed a course of studies in Greek, Latin, Hebrew, and theology, issued from its walls. In 1557 he purchased the palace Salviati, on the site of which now stands the vast establishment of the Gesù. In 1552 he started a separate institution, Collegium Germanicum, for the special training of young Germans. There was also a subordinate institution for the education of the sons of nobles. These colleges afforded models for similar schools throughout Europe; some of them intended to supply the society with members, and some to impress the laity with Catholic principles. Uniformity was an object which the Jesuits always held in view. They did not meet at first with like success in all Catholic countries. In Spain, Charles V. treated them with suspicion as the sworn men of the Papacy; and the Dominican order, so powerful through its hold upon the Inquisition, regarded them justly as rivals. Though working for the same end, the means employed by Jesuits and Dominicans were too diverse for these champions of orthodoxy to work harmoniously together. The Jesuits belonged to the future, to the party of accommodation and control by subterfuge. The Dominicans were rooted in the past; their dogmatism admitted of no compromise; they strove to rule by force. There was therefore, at the outset, war between the kennels of the elder and the younger dogs of God in Spain. Yet Jesuitism gained ground. It had the advantage of being a native, and a recent product. It was powerful by its appeals to the sensuous imagination and carnal superstitions of that Iberian-Latin people. It was seductive by its mitigation of oppressive orthodoxy and inflexible prescriptive law. Where the Dominican was steel, the Jesuit was reed; where the Dominican breathed fire and fagots, the Jesuit suggested casuistical distinctions; where the Dominican raised difficulties, the Jesuit solved scruples; where the Dominican presented theological abstractions, the Jesuit offered stimulative or agreeable images; where the Dominican preached dogma, the Jesuit retailed romance. It only needed one illustrious convert to plant the Jesuits in Spain. Him they found in Francis Borgia, Duke of Gandia, Viceroy of Catalonia, and subsequently the third General of the Order and a saint. This man placed the university, which he had founded, in their hands; and about the same time they gained a footing in the university of Salamanca. Still they continued to retain their strongest hold upon the people, who regarded them as saviours from the tyranny and ennui of the established Dominican hierarchy. Portugal was won at a blow. Xavier and Rodriguez planted the Company there under the affectionate protection of King John III. When Xavier started on his mission to the Indies in 1541, Rodriguez took the affairs of the realm into his hands, controlled the cabinet, and formed the heir-apparent to their will. With France they had more trouble. Both the University and the Parliament of Paris opposed their settlement. The Sorbonne even declared them 'dangerous in matters of the faith, fit to disturb the peace of the Church, and to reverse the order of monastic life; more adapted to destroy than to build.' The Gallican Church scented danger in these bondsmen of the Papacy; and it was only when they helped to organize the League that the influence of the Guises gave them a foothold in the kingdom. Even then their seminaries at Reims, Douai, and S. Omer must be rather regarded as outposts _epiteichismoi_ against England and Flanders, than, as nationally French establishments. In France they long remained a seditious and belligerent faction.[162] [Footnote 162: It was not till the epoch of Maria de'Medici's Regency that the Jesuits obtained firm hold on France.] They had the same partial and clandestine success in the Low Countries, where their position was at first equivocal, though they early gained some practical hold upon the University of Louvain. We are perhaps justified in attributing the evil fame of Reims, Douai, S. Omer, and Louvain to the incomplete sympathy which existed between the Jesuits and the countries where they made these settlements. Not perfectly at home, surrounded by discontent and jealousy, upon the borderlands of the heresies they were bound to combat, their system assumed its darkest colors in those hotbeds of intrigue and feverish fanaticism. In time, however, the Jesuits fixed their talons firmly upon the Netherlands, through the favor of Anne of Austria; and the year 1562 saw them comfortably ensconced at Antwerp, Louvain, Brussels, and Lille, in spite of the previous antipathy of the population. Here, as elsewhere, they pushed their way by gaining women and people of birth to their cause, and by showily meritorious services to education. Faber achieved ephemeral success as lecturer at Louvain. To take firm hold on Germany had been the cherished wish of Ignatius; 'for there,' to use his own words, 'the pest of heresy exposed men to graver dangers than elsewhere.' The Society had scarcely been founded when Faber, Le Jay, and Bobadilla were sent north. Faber made small progress, and was removed to Spain. But Bobadilla secured the confidence of William, Duke of Bavaria; while Le Jay won that of Ferdinand of Austria. In both provinces they avowed their intention of working at the reformation of the clergy and the improvement of popular education--ends, which in the disorganized condition of Germany, seemed of highest importance to those princes. Through the influence of Bavaria, Bobadilla succeeded in rendering the Interim proclaimed by Charles V. nugatory; while Le Jay founded the college of the Order at Vienna. In this important post he was soon succeeded by Canisius, Ferdinand's confessor, through whose co-operation Cardinal Morone afterwards brought this Emperor into harmony with the Papal plan for winding up the Council of Trent. It should be added that Ingolstadt, in Bavaria, became the second headquarters of the Jesuit propaganda in Germany. The methods adopted by Ignatius in dealing with his three lieutenants, Bobadilla, Le Jay, and Canisius, are so characteristic of Jesuit policy that they demand particular attention. Checkmated by Bobadilla in the matter of the Interim, Charles V. manifested his resentment. He was already ill-affected toward the Society, and its founder felt the need of humoring him. The highest grade of the Order was therefore ostentatiously refused to Bobadilla, until such time as the Emperor's attention was distracted from the cause of his disappointment. With Le Jay and Canisius the case stood differently. Ferdinand wished to make the former Bishop of Triest and the latter Archbishop of Vienna. Ignatius opposed both projects, alleging that the Company of Jesus could not afford to part with its best servants, and that their vows of obedience and poverty were inconsistent with high office in the Church. He discerned the necessity of reducing each member of the Society to absolute dependence on the General, which would have been impracticable if any one of them attained to the position of a prelate. A law was therefore passed declaring it mortal sin for Jesuits to accept bishoprics or other posts of honor in the Church. Instead of assuming the miter, Canisius was permitted to administer the See of Vienna without usufruct of its revenues. To the world this manifested the disinterested zeal of the Jesuits in a seductive light; while the integrity of the Society, as an independent self-sufficing body, exacting the servitude of absolute devotion from its members, was secured. Another instance of the same adroitness may be mentioned. The Emperor in 1552 offered a Cardinal's hat to Francis Borgia, who was by birth the most illustrious of living Jesuits. Ignatius refrained from rebuffing the Emperor and insulting the Duke of Gandia by an open prohibition; but he told the former to expect the Duke's refusal, while he wrote to the latter expressing his own earnest hope that he would renounce an honor injurious to the Society. This diplomacy elicited a grateful but firm answer of _Nolo Episcopari_ from the Duke, who thus took the responsibility of offending Charles V. upon himself. Meanwhile the missionary objects of the Company were not neglected. Xavier left Portugal in 1541 for that famous journey through India and China, the facts of which may be compared for their romantic interest with Cortes' or Pizarro's exploits. Brazil, the transatlantic Portugal, was abandoned to the Jesuits, and they began to feel their way in Mexico. In the year of Loyola's death, 1561, thirty-two members of the Society were resident in South America; one hundred in India, China, and Japan; and a mission was established in Ethiopia. Even Ireland had been explored by a couple of fathers, who returned without success, after undergoing terrible hardships. At this epoch the Society counted in round numbers one thousand men. It was divided in Europe into thirteen provinces: seven of these were Portuguese and Spanish; three were Italian, namely, Rome, Upper Italy, and Sicily; one was French; two were German. Castile contained ten colleges of the Order; Aragon, five; Andalusia, five. Portugal was penetrated through and through with Jesuits. Rome displayed the central Roman and Teutonic colleges. Upper Italy had ten colleges. France could show only one college. In Upper Germany the Company held firm hold on Vienna, Prag, Munich, and Ingolstadt. The province of Lower Germany, including the Netherlands, was still undetermined. This expansion of the Order during the first sixteen years of its existence, enables us to form some conception of the intellectual vigor and commanding will of Ignatius. He lived, as no founder of an order, as few founders of religions, ever lived, to see his work accomplished, and the impress of his genius stereotyped exactly in the forms he had designed, upon the most formidable social and political organization of modern Europe. In his administration of the Order, Ignatius was absolute and autocratic. We have seen how he dealt with aspirants after ecclesiastical honors, and how he shifted his subordinates, as he thought best, from point to point upon the surface of the globe. The least attempt at independence on the part of his most trusted lieutenants was summarily checked by him. Simon Rodriguez, one of the earliest disciples of the College of S. Barbe at Paris, ruled the kingdom of Portugal through the ascendency which he had gained over John III. Elated by the vastness of his victory, Rodriguez arrogated to himself the right of private judgment, and introduced that ascetic discipline into the houses of his province which Ignatius had forbidden as inexpedient. Without loss of time, the General superseded him in his command; and, after a sharp struggle, Rodriguez was compelled to spend the rest of his days under strict surveillance at Rome. Lainez, in like manner, while acting as Provincial of Upper Italy, thought fit to complain that his best coadjutors were drawn from the colleges under his control, to Rome. Ignatius wrote to this old friend, the man who best understood the spirit of its institution, and who was destined to succeed him in his headship, a cold and terrible epistle. 'Reflect upon your conduct. Let me know whether you acknowledge your sin, and tell me at the same time what punishment you are ready to undergo for this dereliction of duty.' Lainez expressed immediate submission in the most abject terms; he was ready to resign his post, abstain from preaching, confine his studies to the Breviary, walk as a beggar to Rome, and there teach grammar to children, or perform menial offices. This was all Ignatius wanted. If he were the Christ of the Society, he well knew that Lainez was its S. Paul. He could not prevent him from being his successor, and he probably was well aware that Lainez would complete and supplement what he must leave unfinished in his life-work. The groveling apology of such an eminent apostle, dictated as it was by hypocrisy and cunning, sufficed to procure his pardon, and remained among the archives of the Jesuits as a model for the spirit in which obedience should be manifested by them. Obedience was, in fact, the cardinal and dominant quality of the Jesuit Order. To call it a virtue, in the sense in which Ignatius understood it, is impossible. The _Exercitia_, the Constitutions, and the Letter to the Portuguese Jesuits, all of which undoubtedly explain Loyola's views, reveal to us the essence of historical Jesuitry, the _fons et origo_ of that long-continued evil which impested modern society. Let us examine some of his precepts on this topic. 'I ought to desire to be ruled by a superior who endeavors to subjugate my judgment and subdue my understanding.'--'When it seems to me that I am commanded by my superior to do a thing against which my conscience revolts as sinful, and my superior judges otherwise, it is my duty to yield my doubts to him, unless I am constrained by evident reasons.'--'I ought not to be my own, but His who created me, and his too through whom God governs me.'--'I ought to be like a corpse, which has neither will nor understanding; like a crucifix, that is turned about by him that holds it; like a staff in the hands of an old man, who uses it at will for his assistance or pleasure.'--'In our Company the person who commands must never be regarded in his own capacity, but as Jesus Christ in him.'--'I desire that you strive and exercise yourselves to recognize Christ our Lord in every Superior.'--'He who wishes to offer himself wholly up to God, must make the sacrifice not only of his will but of his intelligence.'--'In order to secure the faithful and successful execution of a Superior's orders, all private judgment must be yielded up.'--'A sin, whether venial or mortal, must be committed, if it is commanded by the Superior in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, or in virtue of obedience.' Of such nature was the virtue of obedience within the Order.[163] It rendered every member a tool in the hands of his immediate Superior, and the whole body one instrument in the hand of the General. The General's responsibility for the oblique acts and evasions of moral law, committed in the name of this virtue, was covered by the sounding phrase, 'Unto the greater glory of God.' [Footnote 163: The letter addressed by Ignatius to the Portuguese Jesuits, March 22, 1553, on the virtue of obedience, the Constitutions and the glosses on them called Declarations, and the last chapter of the _Exercitia_, furnish the above sentences. _See_, too, Philippson, _op. cit._ pp. 60, 120-124.] He had also his own duty of obedience, which was to Holy Church. 'In making the sacrifice of our own judgment, the mind must keep itself ever whole and ready for obedience to the spouse of Christ, our Holy Mother, the Church orthodox, apostolical and hierarchical.'[164] Not a portion of the Catholic creed, of Catholic habits, of Catholic institutions, of Catholic superstitions, but must be valiantly defended.--'It is our duty loudly to uphold reliques, the cult of saints, stations, pilgrimages indulgences, jubilees, the candles which are lighted before altars.' To criticise the clergy, even though notoriously corrupt, is a sin. The philosophy of the Church, as expressed by S. Thomas Aquinas, S. Bonaventura, and others, must be recognized as equal in authority with Holy Writ. It follows that just as a subordinate was enjoined to sin, if sin were ordered by his Superior, so the whole Company were bound to lie, and do the things they disapproved, and preach the mummeries in which they disbelieved, in virtue of obedience to the Church. They may not even trust their senses; for 'If the Church pronounces a thing which seems to us white to be black, we must immediately say that it is black.'[165] [Footnote 164: Read in the _Exercitia_ (_Inst. Jesu_, vol. iv. p. 167-173) the Rules for right accord with the Orthodox Church. What follows above is taken from that chapter.] [Footnote 165: _Exercitia_, ibid. p. 171. In this spirit a Jesuit of the present century writing on astronomy develops the heliocentric theory while he professes his submission to the geocentric theory as maintained by the Church.] The Jesuits were enrolled as an army, in an hour of grave peril for the Church, to undertake her defense. They pledged themselves, by this vow of obedience, to perform that duty with their eyes shut. It was not their mission to reform or purify or revivify Catholicism, but to maintain it intact with all its intellectual anachronisms. How well they succeeded may be judged from the issue of the Council of Trent, in which Lainez and Salmeron played so prominent a part. That rigid enforcement of every jot and tittle in the Catholic hierarchical organization, in Catholic ritual, in the Catholic cult of saints and images, in the Catholic interpretation of Sacraments, in Catholic tradition as of equal value with the Bible, and lastly in the theory of Papal Supremacy, which was the astounding result of a Council convened to alter and reform the Church, can be attributed in no small measure to Jesuit persistency. Ignatius attained his object. Obedience, blind, servile, unquestioning, unscrupulous, became the distinguishing feature of the Jesuits. But he condemned his Order to mediocrity. No really great man in any department of human knowledge or activity has arisen in the Company of Jesus. In course of time it became obvious to any one of independent character and original intellect that their ranks were not the place for him. And if youths of real eminence entered it before they perceived this truth, their spirit was crushed. The machine was powerful enough for good and evil; but it remained an aggregate of individual inferiorities. Its merit and its perfection lay in this, that so complex an instrument could be moved by a single finger of the General in Rome. He consistently employed its delicate system of wheels and pulleys for the aggrandizement of the Order in the first place, in the second place for the control of the Catholic Church, and always for the subjugation and cretinization of the mind of Europe. The training of a Jesuit began with study of the _Exercitia Spiritualia_.[166] This manual had been composed by Loyola himself at intervals between 1522 and 1548, when it received the imprimatur of Pope Paul III. He based it on his own experiences at Manresa, and meant it to serve as a perpetual introduction to the mysteries of the religious life. It was used under the direction of a father, who prescribed a portion of its text for each day's meditation, employing various means to concentrate attention and enforce effect. The whole course of this spiritual drill extended over four weeks, during which the pupil remained in solitude. Light and sound and all distractions of the outer world were carefully excluded from his chamber. He was bidden to direct his soul inward upon itself and God, and was led by graduated stages to realize in the most vivid way the torments of the damned and the scheme of man's, salvation. The first week was occupied in an examination of the conscience; the second in contemplation of Christ's Kingdom upon earth; the third in meditation on the Passion; the fourth in an ascent to the glory of the risen Lord. Materialism of the crudest type mingled with the indulgence of a reverie in this long spiritual journey. At every step the neophyte employed his five senses in the effort of intellectual realization. Prostrate upon the ground, gazing with closed eyelids in the twilight of his cell upon the mirror of imagination, he had to _see_ the boundless flames of hell and souls encased in burning bodies, to _hear_ the shrieks and blasphemies, to _smell_ their sulphur and intolerable stench, to _taste_ the bitterness of tears and _feel_ the stings of ineffectual remorse. [Footnote 166: _Inst. Soc. Jesu_, vol. iv. The same volume contains the Directorium, or rules for the use of the _Exercitia_.] He had to localize each object in the camera obscura of the brain. If the Garden of Gethsemane, for instance, were the subject of his meditation, he was bound to place Christ here and the sleeping apostles there, and to form an accurate image of the angel and the cup. He gazed and gazed, until he was able to handle the raiment of the Saviour, to watch the drops of bloody sweat beading his forehead and trickling down his cheeks, to grasp the chalice with the fingers of the soul. As each carefully chosen and sagaciously suggested scene was presented, he had to identify his very being, soul, will, intellect, and senses, with the mental vision. He lived again, so far as this was possible through fancy, the facts of sacred history. If the director judged it advisable, symbolic objects were placed before him in the cell; at one time skulls and bones, at another fresh sweetsmelling flowers. Fasting and flagellation, peculiar postures of the body, groanings and weepings, were prescribed as mechanical aids in cases where the soul seemed sluggish. The sphere traversed in these exercises was a narrow one. The drill aimed at intensity of discipline, at a concentrated and concrete impression, not at width of education or at intellectual enlightenment. Speculation upon the fundamental principles of religion was excluded. God's dealings with mankind revealed in the Old Testament found no place in this theory of salvation. Attention was riveted upon a very few points in the life of Christ and Mary, such as every Catholic child might be supposed to be familiar with. But it was fixed in such a way as to bring the terrors and raptures of the mystics, of a S. Catharine or a S. Teresa, within the reach of all; to place spiritual experience _à la portée de tout le monde_. The vulgarity is only equaled by the ingenuity and psychological adroitness of the method. The soul inspired with carnal dread of the doom impending over it, passed into almost physical contact with the incarnate Saviour. The designed effect was to induce a vivid and varied hypnotic dream of thirty days, from the influence of which a man should never wholly free himself. The end at which he arrived upon this path of self-scrutiny and materialistic realization, was the conclusion that his highest hope, his most imperative duty, lay in the resignation of his intellect and will to spiritual guidance, and in blind obedience to the Church. Thousands and thousands of souls in the modern world have passed through this discipline; and those who responded to it best, have ever been selected, when this was possible, as novices of the Order. The director had ample opportunity of observing at each turn in the process whether his neophyte displayed a likely disposition. When the _Exercitia_ had been performed, there was an end of asceticism. Ignatius, as we have seen, dreaded nothing more than the intrusion of that dark spirit into his Company; he aimed at nothing more earnestly than at securing agreeable manners, a cheerful temper, and ability for worldly business in its members. The novice, when first received into one of the Jesuit houses, was separated, so far as possible, for two years from his family, and placed under the control of a master, who inspected his correspondence and undertook the full surveillance of his life. He received cautiously restricted information on the constitutions of the Society, and was recommended, instead of renouncing his worldly possessions, to reserve his legal rights and make oblation of them when he took the vows. It was not then made clear to him that what he gave would never under any circumstances be restored, although the Society might send him forth at will a penniless wanderer into the world. Yet this was the hard condition of a Jesuit's existence. After entering the order, he owned nothing, and he had no power to depart if he repented. But the General could cashier him by a stroke of the pen, condemning him to destitution in every land where Jesuits held sway, and to suspicion in every land where Jesuits were loathed. Before the end of two years, the novice generally signed an obligation to assume the vows. He was then drafted into the secular or spiritual service. Some novices became what is called Temporal Coadjutors; their duty was to administer the property of the Society, to superintend its houses, to distribute alms, to work in hospitals, to cook, garden, wash, and act as porters. They took the three vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience. Those, on the other hand, who showed some aptitude for learning, were classified as Scholastics, and were distributed among the colleges of the order. They studied languages, sciences, and theology, for a period of five years; after which they taught in schools for another period of five or six years; and when they reached the age of about thirty, they might be ordained priests with the title of Spiritual Coadjutors. From this body the Society drew the rectors and professors of its colleges, its preachers, confessors, and teachers in schools for the laity. They were not yet full members, though they had taken the three vows, and were irrevocably devoted to the service of the order. The final stage of initiation was reached toward the age of forty-five, after long and various trials. Then the Jesuit received the title of Professed. He was either a professed of the three vows, or a professed of the four vows; having in the latter case dedicated his life to the special service of the Papacy, in missions or in any other cause. The professed of four vows constituted the veritable Company of Jesus, the kernel of the organization. They were never numerous. At Loyola's death they numbered thirty-five out of a thousand; and it has been calculated that their average proportion to the whole body is as two to a hundred.[167] Even these had no indefeasible tenure of their place in the Society. They might be dismissed by the General without indemnification. [Footnote 167: Philippson, _op. cit._ p. 142.] The General was chosen for life from the professed of four vows by the General Congregation, which consisted of the provincials and two members of each province. He held the whole Society at his discretion; for he could deal at pleasure with each part of its machinery. The constitutions, strict as they appeared, imposed no barriers upon his will; for almost unlimited power was surrendered to him of dispensing with formalities, freeing from obligations, shortening or lengthening the periods of initiation, retarding or advancing a member in his career. Ideal fixity of type, qualified by the utmost elasticity in practice, formed the essence of the system. And we shall see that this principle pervaded the Jesuit treatment of morality. The General resided at Rome, consecrated solely to the government of the Society, holding the threads of all its complicated affairs in his hands, studying the personal history of each of its members in the minute reports which he constantly received from every province, and acting precisely as he chose with the highest as well as the lowest of his subordinates. Contrary to all precedents of previous religious orders, Ignatius framed the Company of Jesus upon the lines of a close aristocracy with autocratic authority confided to an elected chief. Yet the General of the Jesuits, like the Doge of Venice, had his hands tied by subtly powerful though almost invisible fetters. He was subjected at every hour of the day and night to the surveillance of five sworn spies, especially appointed to prevent him from altering the type or neglecting the concerns of the Order. The first of these functionaries, named the Administrator, who was frequently also the confessor of the General, exhorted him to obedience, and reminded him that he must do all things for the glory of God. Obedience and the glory of God, in Jesuit phraseology, meant the maintenance of the Company. The other four were styled Assistants. They had under their charge the affairs of the chief provinces; one overseeing the Indies, another Portugal and Spain, a third France and Germany, a fourth Italy and Sicily. Together with the Administrator, the Assistants were nominated by the General Congregation and could not be removed or replaced without its sanction. It was their duty to regulate the daily life of the General, to control his private expenditure on the scale which they determined, to prescribe what he should eat and drink, and to appoint his hours for sleep, and religious exercises, and the transaction of public business. If they saw grave reasons for his deposition, they were bound to convene the General Congregation for that purpose. And since the Founder knew that guardians need to be guarded, he provided that the Provincials might convene this assembly to call in question the acts of the Assistants. The General himself had no power to oppose its convocation. The Company of Jesus was thus based upon a system of mutual and pervasive espionage. The novice on first entering had all his acts, habits, and personal qualities registered. As he advanced in his career, he was surrounded by jealous brethren, who felt it their duty to report his slightest weakness to a superior. The superiors were watched by one another and by their inferiors. Masses of secret intelligence poured into the central cabinet of the General; and the General himself ate, slept, prayed, worked, and moved about the world beneath the fixed gaze of ten vigilant eyes. Men accustomed to domesticity and freedom may wonder that life should have been tolerable upon these terms. Yet we must remember that from the moment when a youth had undergone the _Exercitia_ and taken the vows, he became no less in fact than in spirit _perinde ac cadaver_ in the hands of his superior. The Company replaced for him both family and state; and in spite of the fourth vow, it is very evident that the Black Pope, as the General came to be nicknamed, owned more of his allegiance than the White Pope, who filled the chair of S. Peter. He could, indeed, at any moment be expelled and ruined. But if he served the Order well, he belonged to a vast incalculably-potent organism, of which he might naturally, after such training as he had received, be proud. The sacrifice of his personal volition and intelligence made him part of an indestructible corporation, which seemed capable of breaking all resistance by its continuity of will and effecting all purposes by its condensed sagacity. Nor was he in the hands of rigid disciplinarians. His peccadilloes were condoned, unless the credit of the order came in question. His natural abilities obtained free scope for their employment; for it suited the interest of the Company to make the most of each member's special gifts. He had no tedious duties of the regular monastic routine to follow. He was encouraged to become a man of the world, and to mix freely with society. And thus, while he resigned himself, he lived the large life of a complex microcosm. Nor were men of resolute ambition without the prospect of eventually swaying an authority beyond that possessed by princes; for any one of the professed might rise to the supreme power in the order. Something must be said about Loyola's interpretation of the vow of poverty. During his lifetime the Company acquired considerable wealth; and after his death it became a large owner of estates in Europe. How was this consistent with the observance of that vow, so strictly inculcated by the founder on his first disciples, and so pompously proclaimed in their constitutions? The professed and all their houses, as well as their churches, were bound to subsist on alms; they preached, administered the sacraments of the Church, and educated gratis. They could inherit nothing, and were not allowed to receive money for their journeys. But here appeared the wisdom of restricting the numbers of the professed to a small percentage of the whole Society. The same rigid prohibition with regard to property was not imposed upon the houses of novices, colleges, and other educational establishments of the Jesuits; while the secular coadjutors were specially appointed for the administration of wealth which the professed might use but could not own.[168] In like manner, as they lived on alms, there was no objection to a priest of the order receiving valuable gifts in cash or kind from grateful recipients of his spiritual bounty. A separate article of the constitutions furthermore reserved for the General the right of accepting any donation whatsoever, made in favor of the whole Company, and of assigning capital or revenue as he judged wisest. [Footnote 168: Quinet calculates that at the close of the sixteenth century there were twenty-one houses of the professed (incapable of owning property) to 293 colleges (free from this inability).] Scholastics, even after they had taken the vow of poverty, were not obliged to relinquish their private possessions. Sooner or later, it was hoped that these would become the property of the order. In a word, the principle of this solemn obligation was so manipulated as to facilitate the acquisition and accumulation of wealth by the Jesuit like any other corporation. Only no individual Jesuit owned anything. He was rich or poor, he wore the clothes of princes or the rags of a mendicant, he lived sumptuously or begged in the street, he traveled with a following of servants or he walked on foot, according as it seemed good to his superiors. The vow of poverty, thus interpreted in practice, meant a total disengagement from temporalities on the part of every member, an absolute dependence of each subordinate upon his superior in the hierarchy. Having thus far treated the organization of the Jesuits as implicit in Loyola's own conception and administration, I ought to add that it received definite form from his successor, Lainez. The founder pronounced the Constitutions in 1553. But they were thoroughly revised after his death in 1558, at which date they first issued from the press. Lainez, again, supplemented these laws with a perpetual commentary, which is styled the Declarations. These contain the bulk of those easements and indulgent interpretations, whereby the strictness of the original rules was explained away, and an almost unbounded elasticity was communicated to the system. It would be rash to pronounce a decided opinion upon the much disputed question, whether, in addition to their Constitutions and Declarations, the Jesuits were provided with an esoteric code of rules known as _Monita Secreta_.[169] The existence of such a manual, which was supposed to contain the very pith of Jesuitical policy, has been confidently asserted and no less confidently denied. In the absence of direct evidence, it may be worth quoting two passages from Sarpi's Letters, which prove that this keen-sighted observer believed the Society to be governed in its practice by statutes inaccessible to all but its most trusted members. 'I have always admired the policy of the Jesuits,' he writes in 1608, 'and their method of maintaining secrecy. Their Constitutions are in print, and yet one cannot set eyes upon a copy. I do not mean their Rules, which are published at Lyons, for those are mere puerilities; but the digest of laws which guide their conduct of the order, and which they keep concealed. Every day many members leave, or are expelled from the Company; and yet their artifices are not exposed to view.'[170] In another letter, of the date 1610, Sarpi returns to the same point. 'The Jesuits before this Aquaviva was elected General were saints in comparison with what they afterwards became. Formerly they had not mixed in affairs of state or thought of governing cities. Since then, they have indulged a hope of controlling the whole world. [Footnote 169: A book with this title was published in 1612 at Cracow. It was declared a forgery at Rome by a congregation of Cardinals.] [Footnote 170: _Lettere_, vol. i. p. 100.] And I am sure that the least part of their Cabala is in the Ordinances and Constitutions of 1570. All the same, I am very glad to possess even these. Their true Cabala they never communicate to any but men who have been well tested, and proved by every species of trial; nor is it possible for those who have been initiated into it, to think of retiring from the order, since the congregation, through their excellent management of its machinery, know how to procure the immediate death of any such initiated member who may wish to leave their ranks.'[171] Probably the mistake which Sarpi and the world made, was in supposing that the Jesuits needed a written code for their most vital action. Being a potent and life-penetrated organism, the secret of their policy was not such as could be reduced to rule. It was not such as, if reduced to rule, could have been plastic in the affairs of public importance which the Company sought to control. Better than rule or statute, it was biological function. The supreme deliberative bodies of the order created, transmitted, and continuously modified its tradition of policy. This tradition some member, partially initiated into their counsels, may have reduced to precepts in the published _Monita Secreta_ of 1612. But the quintessential flame which breathed a breath of life into the fabric of the Jesuits through two centuries of organic activity, was far too vivid and too spiritual to be condensed in any charter. A friar and a jurist, like Sarpi, expected to discover some controlling code. The public, grossly ignorant of evolutionary laws in the formation of social organisms, could not comprehend the non-existence of this code. Adventurers supplied the demand from their knowledge of the ruling policy. But like the _Liber Trium Impostorum_ we may regard the _Monita Secreta_ of the Jesuits as an _ex post facto_ fabrication. [Footnote 171: _Lettere_, vol. ii. p. 174.] There is no need to trace the further history of the Jesuits. Their part in the Counter-Reformation has rather been exaggerated than insufficiently recognized. Though it was incontestably considerable, we cannot now concede, as Macaulay in his random way conceded to this Company, the _spolia opima_ of down-beaten Protestantism. Without the ecclesiastical reform which originated in the Tridentine Council; without the gold and sword of Spain; without the stakes and prisons of the Inquisition; without the warfare against thought conducted by the Congregation of the Index; the Jesuits alone could not have masterfully governed the Catholic revival. That revival was a movement of world-historical importance, in which they participated. It was their fortune to find forces in the world which they partially understood; it was their merit to know how to manipulate those forces; it was their misfortune and their demerit that they proved themselves incapable of diverting those forces to any wholesome end. In Italy a succession of worldly Popes, Paul III., Julius III., Pius IV., and Gregory XIII., heaped favors and showered wealth upon the order. The Jesuits incarnated the political spirit of the Papacy at this epoch; they lent it a potency for good and evil which the decrepit but still vigorous institution arrogated to itself. They adapted its anachronisms with singular adroitness to the needs of modern society. They transfused their throbbing blood into its flaccid veins, until it became doubtful whether the Papacy had been absorbed into the Jesuits, or whether the Jesuits had remodeled the Papacy for contemporary uses. But this tendency in the aspiring order to identify itself with Rome, this ambition to command the prestige of Rome as leverage for carrying out its own designs, stirred the resentment of haughty and _intransigeant_ Pontiffs. The Jesuits were not beloved by Paul IV., Pius V., and Sixtus V. It remains, however, to inquire in what the originality, the effective operation, and the modifying influence of the Jesuit Society consisted during the period with which we are concerned. It was their object to gain control over Europe by preaching, education, the direction of souls, and the management of public affairs. In each of these departments their immediate success was startling; for they labored with zeal, and they adapted their methods to the requirements of the age. Yet, in the long run, art, science, literature, religion, morality and politics, all suffered from their interference. By preferring artifice to reality, affectation to sincerity, shams and subterfuges to plain principle and candor, they confused the conscience and enfeebled the intellect of Catholic Europe. When we speak of the Jesuit style in architecture, rhetoric and poetry, of Jesuit learning and scholarship, of Jesuit casuistry and of Jesuit diplomacy, it is either with languid contempt for bad taste and insipidity, or with the burning indignation which systematic falsehood and corruption inspire in honorable minds. In education, the Jesuits, if they did not precisely innovate, improved upon the methods of the grammarians which had persisted from the Middle Ages through the Renaissance. They spared no pains in training a large and competent body of professors, men of extensive culture, formed upon one uniform pattern, and exercised in the art of popularizing knowledge. These teachers were distributed over the Jesuit colleges; and in every country their system was the same. New catechisms, grammars, primers, manuals of history, enabled their pupils to learn with facility in a few months what it had cost years of painful labor to acquire under pompous pedants of the old _régime_. The mental and physical aptitudes of youths committed to their charge were carefully observed; and classes were adapted to various ages and degrees of capacity. Hours of recreation alternated with hours of study, so that the effort of learning should be neither irksome nor injurious to health. Nor was religious education neglected. Attendance upon daily Mass, monthly confession, and instruction in the articles of the faith, formed an indispensable part of the system. When we remember that these advantages were offered gratuitously to the public, it is not surprising that people of all ranks and conditions should have sent their boys to the Jesuit colleges. Even Protestants availed themselves of what appeared so excellent a method; and the Jesuits obtained the reputation of being the best instructors of youth.[172] It soon became the mark of a good Catholic to have frequented Jesuit schools; and in after life a pupil who had studied creditably in their colleges, found himself everywhere at home. Yet the Society took but little interest in elementary or popular education. Their object was to gain possession of the nobility, gentry, and upper middle class. The proletariat might remain ignorant; it was the destiny of such folk to be passive instruments in the hands of spiritual and temporal rulers. Nor were they always scrupulous in the means employed for taking hold on young men of distinction. One instance of the animosity they aroused, even in Italy, at an early period of their activity, will suffice. Tuscany was thrown into commotion by the discovery of their designs upon the boys they undertook to teach. [Footnote 172: See Sarpi's _Letters_, vol. i. p. 352, for Protestant pupils of Jesuits. Sarpi's _Memorial to the Signory of Venice on the Collegio de'Greci in Rome_ exposes the fallacy of their being reputed the best teachers of youth, by pointing out how their aim is to withdraw their pupils' allegiance from the nation, the government, and the family, to themselves.] 'They were so madly bent,' says Galluzzi, 'upon filling the ranks of their Company with individuals of wealth and birth, that in 1584, in the single city of Siena, under the pretense of devotion, they seduced thirty youths of the noblest and richest houses, not without great injury to their families and grief to their parents. The most notorious of these cases Was that of two sons of Pandolfo Petrucci, whose name indicates his high position in the aristocracy of Siena. These young men they got into their power by inducing them to commit a theft, and then compelled them to pledge fealty to the Society. Escaping by night in the direction of Rome, the lads were arrested by the city guards, and confessed that they had agreed to meet two Jesuits, who were waiting to conduct them on their journey.'[173] [Footnote 173: _Storia del Granducato di Toscana_, vol. iv. p. 275.] It was, indeed, not the propagation of sound principles or liberal learning, but the aggrandizement of the order and the enforcement of Catholic usages, at which the Jesuits aimed in their scheme of education. This was noticeable in their attitude toward literature and science. Michelet has described their method in a brilliant and exact metaphor, as the attempt to counteract the poison of free thought and stimulative studies by means of vaccination. They taught the classics in expurgated editions, history in drugged epitomes, science in popular lectures. Instead of banning what M. Renan is wont to style _études fortes_, they undertook to emasculate these and render them innocuous. While Bruno was burned by the Inquisition for proclaiming what the Copernican discovery involved for faith and metaphysics, Father Koster at Cologne vulgarized it into something pretty and agreeable. While Scaliger and Casaubon used the humanities as a propaedeutic of the virile reason, the Jesuits contrived to sterilize and mechanize their influences by insipid rhetoric. Everywhere through Europe, by the side of stalwart thinkers, crept plausible Jesuit professors, following the light of learning like its shadow, mimicking the accent of the gods like parrots, and mocking their gestures like apes. Their adroit admixture of falsehood with truth in all departments of knowledge, their substitution of veneer for solid timber, and of pinchbeck for sterling metal, was more profitable to the end they had in view than the torture-chamber of the Inquisition or the quarantine of the Index. Mediocrities and respectabilities of every description--that is to say, the majority of the influential classes--were delighted with their method. What could be better than to see sons growing up, good Catholics in all external observances, devoted to the order of society and Mother Church, and at the same time showy Latinists, furnished with a cyclopaedia of current knowledge, glib at speechifying, ingenious in the construction of an epigram or compliment? If some of the more sensible sort grumbled that Jesuit learning was shallow, and Jesuit morality of base alloy, the reply, like that of an Italian draper selling palpable shoddy for broadcloth, came easily and cynically to the surface: _Imita bene_! The stuff is a good match enough! What more do you want? To produce plausible imitations, to save appearances, to amuse the mind with tricks, was the last resort of Catholicism in its warfare against rationalism. And such is the banality of human nature as a whole, that the Jesuits, those monopolists of Brummagem manufactures, achieved eminent success. Their hideous churches, daubed with plaster painted to resemble costly marbles, encrusted with stucco polished to deceive the eye, loaded with gewgaws and tinsel and superfluous ornament and frescoes, turning flat surfaces into cupolas and arcades, passed for masterpieces of architectonic beauty. The conceits of their pulpit oratory, its artificial cadences and flowery verbiage, its theatrical appeals to gross sensations, wrought miracles and converted thousands. Their sickly Ciceronian style, their sentimental books of piety, 'the worse for being warm,' the execrable taste of their poetry, their flimsy philosophy and disingenuous history, infected the taste of Catholic Europe like a slow seductive poison, flattering and accelerating the diseases of mental decadence. Sound learning died down beneath the tyranny of the Inquisition, the Index, the Council of Trent, Spain and the Papacy. A rank growth of unwholesome culture arose and flourished on its tomb under the forcing-frames of Jesuitry. But if we peruse the records of literature and science during the last three centuries, few indeed are the eminences even of a second order which can be claimed by the Company of Jesus. The same critique applies to Jesuit morality. It was the Company's aim to control the conscience by direction and confession, and especially the conscience of princes, women, youths in high position. To do so by plain speaking and honest dealing was clearly dangerous. The world had had enough of Dominican austerity and dogmatism. To do so by open toleration and avowed cynicism did not suit the temper of the time. A reform of the monastic orders and the regular clergy had been undertaken by the Church. Pardoners, palmers, indulgence-mongers, jolly Franciscan confessors, and such-like folk were out of date. But the Jesuits were equal to the exigencies of the moment. We have seen how Ignatius recommended fishers of souls to humor queasy consciences. His successors expanded and applied the hint.--You must not begin by talking about spiritual things to people immersed in worldly interests. That is as simple as trying to fish without bait. On the contrary, you must insinuate yourself into their confidence by studying their habits, and spying out their propensities. You must appear to notice little at the first, and show yourself a good companion. When you become acquainted with the bosom sins and pleasant vices of folk in high position, you can lead them on the path of virtue at your pleasure. You must certainly tell them then that indulgence in sensuality, falsehood, fraud, violence, covetousness, and tyrannical oppression, is unconditionally wrong. Make no show of compromise with evil in the gross; but refine away the evil by distinctions, reservations, hypothetical conditions, until it disappears. Explain how hard it is to know whether a sin be venial or mortal, and how many chances there are against its being in any strict sense a sin at all. Do not leave folk to their own blunt sense of right and wrong, but let them admire the finer edge of your scalpel, while you shred up evil into morsels they can hardly see. A ready way may thus be opened for the satisfaction of every human desire without falling into theological faults. The advantages are manifest. You will be able to absolve with a clear conscience. Your penitent will abound in gratitude and open out his heart to you. You will fulfill your function as confessor and counselor. He will be secured for the sacred ends of our Society, and will contribute to the greater glory of God.--It was thus that the Jesuit labyrinth of casuistry, with its windings, turnings, secret chambers, whispering galleries, blind alleys, issues of evasion, came into existence; the whole vicious and monstrous edifice being crowned with the saving virtue of obedience, and the theory of ends justifying means. After the irony of Pascal, the condensed rage of La Chalotais, and the grave verdict of the Parlement of Paris (1762), it is not necessary now to refute the errors or to expose the abominations of this casuistry in detail.[174] Yet it cannot be wholly passed in silence here; for its application materially favored the influence of Jesuits in modern Europe. [Footnote 174: Having mentioned the names of these illustrious Frenchmen, I feel bound to point out how accurately their criticism of the Jesuits was anticipated by Paolo Sarpi. His correspondence between the years 1608 and 1622 demonstrates that this body of social corrupters had been early recognized by him in their true light. Sarpi calls them 'sottilissimi maestri in mal fare,' 'donde esce ogni falsità et bestemmia,' 'il vero morbo Gallico,' 'peste pubblica,' 'peste del mondo' (_Letters_, vol. i. pp. 142, 183, 245, ii. 82, 109). He says that they 'hanno messo l'ultima mano a stabilire una corruzione universale' (_ib._ vol. i. p. 304). By their equivocations and mental reservations 'fanno essi prova di gabbare Iddio' (_ib._ vol. ii. p. 82). 'La menzogna non iscusano soltanto ma lodano' (_ib._ vol. ii. p. 106). So far, the utterances which I have quoted might pass for the rhetoric of mere spite. But the portrait gradually becomes more definite in details limned from life. 'The Jesuits have so many loopholes for escape, pretexts, colors of insinuation, that they are more changeful than the Sophist of Plato; and when one thinks to have caught them between thumb and finger, they wriggle out and vanish' (_ib._ vol. i. p. 230). 'The Jesuit fathers have methods of acquiring in this world, and making their neophytes acquire, heaven without diminution, or rather with augmentation, of this life's indulgences' (_ib._ vol. i. p. 313). 'The Jesuit fathers used to confer Paradise; they now have become dispensers of fame in this world' (_ibid._ p. 363). 'When they seek entrance into any place, they do not hesitate to make what promises may be demanded of them, possessing as they do the art of escape by lying with equivocations and mental reservations' (_ib._ vol. ii. p. 147). 'The Jesuit is a man of every color; he repeats the marvel of the chameleon' (_ibid._ p. 105). 'When they play a losing game, they yet rise winners from the table. For it is their habit to insinuate themselves upon any condition demanded, having arts enough whereby to make themselves masters of those who bind them by prescribed rules. They are glad to enter in the guise of galley-slaves with irons on their ankles; since, when they have got in, they will find no difficulty in loosing their own bonds and binding others' (_ibid._ p. 134). 'They command two arts: the one of escaping from the bonds and obligations of any vow or promise they shall have made, by means of equivocation, tacit reservation, and mental restriction; the other of insinuating, like the hedgehog, into the narrowest recesses, being well aware that when they unfold their piercing bristles, they will obtain the full possession of the dwelling and exclude its master' _(ibid_. p. 144). 'Everybody in Italy is well aware how they have wrought confession into an art. They never receive confidences under that seal without disclosing all particulars in the conferences of their Society; and that with the view of using confession to the advantage of their order and the Church. At the same time they preach the doctrine that the seal of the confessional precludes a penitent from disclosing what the confessor may have said to him, albeit his utterances have had no reference to sins or to the safety of the soul' (_ib._ vol. ii. p. 108). 'Should the Jesuits in France get hold of education, they will dominate the university, and eradicate sound letters. Yet why do I speak of healthy literature? I ought to have said good and wholesome doctrine, the which is verily mortal to that Company' (_ibid._ p. 162). 'Every species of vice finds its patronage in them. The avaricious trust their maxims, for trafficking in spiritual commodities; the superstitious, for substituting kisses upon images for the exercise of Christian virtues; the base fry of ambitious upstarts, for cloaking every act of scoundreldom with a veil of holiness. The indifferent find in them a palliative for their spiritual deadness; and whoso fears no God, has a visible God ready made for him, whom he may worship with merit to his soul. In fine, there is nor perjury, nor sacrilege, nor parricide, nor incest, nor rapine, nor fraud, nor treason, which cannot be masked as meritorious beneath the mantle of their dispensation' (_ibid._ p. 330). 'I apprehend the difficulty of attacking their teachings; seeing that they merge their own interests with those of the Papacy; and that not only in the article of Pontifical authority, but in all points. At present they stand for themselves upon the ground of equivocations. But believe me, they will adjust this also, and that speedily; forasmuch as they are omnipotent in the Roman Court, and the Pope himself fears them' (_ibid._ p. 333). 'Had S. Peter known the creed of the Jesuits, he could have found a way to deny our Lord without sinning' (_ibid._ p. 353). 'The Roman Court will never condemn Jesuit doctrine; for this is the secret of its empire--a secret of the highest and most capital importance, whereby those who openly refuse to worship it are excommunicated, and those who would do so if they dared, are held in check' (_ibid._ p. 105). The object of this lengthy note is to vindicate for Sarpi a prominent and early place among those candid analysts of Jesuitry who now are lost in the great light of Pascal's genius. Sarpi's _Familiar Letters_ have for my mind even more weight than the famous _Lettres Provinciales_ of Pascal. They were written with no polemical or literary bias, at a period when Jesuitry was in its prime; and their force as evidence is strengthened by their obvious spontaneity. A book of some utility was published in 1703 at Salzburg (?), under the title of _Artes Jesuiticae_ Christianus Aletophilus. This contains a compendium of those passages in casuistical writings on which Pascal based his brilliant satires. Paul Bert's modern work, _La Morale des Jésuites_ (Paris: Charpentier, 1881), is intended to prove that recent casuistical treatises of the school repeat those ancient perversions of sound morals.] The working of the Company, as we have seen, depended upon a skillful manipulation of apparently hard-and-fast principles. The Declarations explained away the Constitutions; and an infinite number of minute exceptions and distinctions volatilized vows and obligations into ether. Transferring the same method to the sphere of ethics, they so wrought upon the precepts of the moral law, whether expressed in holy writ, in the ecclesiastical decrees, or in civil jurisprudence, as to deprive them of their binding force. The subtlest elasticity had been gained for the machinery of the order by casuistical interpretation. A like elasticity was secured for the control and government of souls by an identical process. It was no wonder that the Jesuits became rapidly fashionable as confessors. The plainest prohibitions were as wax in their hands. The Decalogue laid down as rules for conduct: 'Thou shalt not steal;' 'Thou shalt not kill;' 'Thou shalt not commit adultery.' Christ spiritualized these rules into their essence: 'Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself;' 'Whosoever looketh on a woman to lust after her, hath committed adultery already with her in his heart.' It is manifest that both the old and the new covenant upon which modern Christianity is supposed to rest, suffered no transactions in matters so clear to the human conscience. Jesus himself refined upon the legality of the Mosaic code by defining sin as egotism or concupiscence. But the Company of Jesus took pains in their casuistry to provide attenuating circumstances for every sin in detail. By their doctrines of the invincible erroneous conscience, of occult compensation, of equivocation, of mental reservation, of probabilism, and of philosophical sin, they afforded loopholes for the gratification of every passion, and for the commission of every crime. Instead of maintaining that any injury done to a neighbor is wrong, they multiplied instances in which a neighbor may be injured. Instead of holding firm to Christ's verdict that sexual vice is implicit in licentious desire, they analyzed the sensual modes of crude voluptuousness, taxed each in turn at arbitrary values, and provided plausible excuses for indulgence. Instead of laying it down as a broad principle that men must keep their word, they taught them how to lie with spiritual impunity and with credit to their reputation as sons of the Church. Thus the inventive genius of the casuist, bent on dissecting immorality and reducing it to classes; the interrogative ingenuity of the confessor, pruriently inquisitive into private experience; the apologetic subtlety of the director, eager to supply his penitent with salves and anodynes; were all alike and all together applied to anti-social contamination in matters of lubricity, and to anti-social corruption in matters of dishonesty, fraud, falsehood, illegality and violence. The single doctrine of probabilism, as Pascal abundantly proved, facilitates the commission of crime; for there is no perverse act which some casuist of note has not plausibly excused. It may be urged that confession and direction, as adopted by the Catholic Church, bring the abominations of casuistry logically in their train. Priests who have to absolve sinners must be familiar with sin in all its branches. In the confessional they will be forced to listen to recitals, the exact bearings of which they cannot understand unless they are previously instructed. Therefore the writings of Sanchez, Diana, Liguori, Burchard, Billuard, Rousselot, Gordon, Gaisson, are put into their hands at an early age--works which reveal more secrets of impudicity than Aretino has described, or Commodus can have practiced--works which recommend more craft and treachery and fraud and falsehood than Machiavelli accorded to his misbegotten Saviour of Society. In these writings men vowed to celibacy probe the foulest labyrinths of sexual impurity; men claiming to stand outside the civil order and the state, imbibe false theories upon property and probity and public duty. The root of the matter is wrong indubitably. It is contrary to good government that a sacerdotal class, by means of confession and direction, should be placed in a position of deciding upon conduct. It is revolting to human dignity that this same class, without national allegiance, and without domestic ties, should have the opportunity of infecting young minds by unhealthy questionings and dishonorable suggestions. But this wrong, which is inherent in the modern Catholic system, becomes an atrocity when it is employed, as the Jesuits employed it, as an instrument for moulding and controlling society in their own interest. While the Jesuits rendered themselves obnoxious to criticism by their treatment of the individual in his private and social capacity, they speedily became what Hallam cautiously styles 'rather dangerous supporters of the See of Rome' in public and political affairs. The ultimate failure of their diplomacy and intrigue over the whole field of modern statecraft inclines historians of the present epoch to underrate their mechanics of obstruction, and to underestimate the many occasions on which they did successfully retard the progress of civil government and intellectual freedom. It were wiser to regard them in the same light as fanatics laying stones upon a railway, or of dynamiters blowing up an emperor or a corner of Westminster Hall. The final end of the nefarious traffic may not be attained. But credit can be claimed by those who took their part in it, for the wreck of express trains, the perturbation of cities, and the mourning of peaceable families. And thus it was with the Jesuits. Though the results of their political intrigues had not corresponded to their hopes, they yet worked appreciable mischief by the organization of the League in France, and the Thirty Years' War in Germany, and by their revolutionary theories which infected Europe with conspiracy and murder. Their method was not original. Machiavelli had expounded the doctrines they put in practice. He taught that in a desperate state of the nation, men may have recourse to treachery and violence. The nation of the Jesuits was a hybrid between their order and Catholicism. The peril to the Church was imminent; its decadence demanded desperate remedies. They invoked regicide, revolt, and treason, to effect an impossible cure. The political theory of the Jesuits was deduced from their fundamental principle of obedience to the Church. They maintained that the ecclesiastical is _jure divino_ superior to the secular power. The Pope through God's commission and appointment sways the Church; the Church takes rank above the State, as the soul above the body. Consequently, the first allegiance of a Christian nation, together with its secular rulers, belongs of right to the Supreme Pontiff. The people is the real sovereign; and kings are delegates from the people, with authority which they can only justly exercise so long as they remain in obedience to Rome. It follows from these positions that every nation must refuse fealty to an irreligious or contumacious ruler. In the last resort they may lawfully remove him by murder; and they are _ipso facto_ in a state of mortal sin if they elect or recognize a heretic as sovereign. This theory sprang from the writings of the English Jesuits, Allen and Parsons. It was elaborated in Rome by Cardinal Bellarmino, applied in Spain by Suarez and Mariana, and openly preached in France by Jean Boucher. The best energies of Paolo Sarpi were devoted to combating the main position of ecclesiastical supremacy. His works had a salutary effect by delimiting the relations of the Church to the State, and by demonstrating even to Catholics the pernicious results of acknowledging a Papal overlordship in temporal affairs. At the same time the boldly democratic principle of the sovereignty of the people, which the Jesuits advanced in order to establish their doctrine of ecclesiastical superiority, provoked opposition. It led to the contrary hypothesis of the Divine Right of sovereigns, which found favor in Protestant kingdoms, and especially in England under the Stuart dynasty. When the French Catholics resolved to terminate the discords of their country by the recognition of Henri IV., they had recourse to this argument for justifying their obedience to a heretic. It was felt by all sound thinkers and by every patriot in Europe, that the Papal prerogatives claimed by the Jesuits were too inconsistent with national liberties to be tolerated. The zeal of the Society had clearly outrun its discretion; and the free discussion of the theory of government which their insolent assumptions stimulated, weakened the cause they sought to strengthen. Their ingenuity overreached itself. This, however, was as nothing compared with the hostility evoked by their unscrupulous application of these principles in practice. There was hardly a plot against established rule in Protestant countries with which they were not known or believed to be connected. The invasion of Ireland in 1579, the murder of the Regent Morton in Scotland, and Babington's conspiracy against Elizabeth, emanated from their councils. They were held responsible for the attempted murder of the Prince of Orange in 1580, and for his actual murder in 1584. They loudly applauded Jacques Clément, the assassin of Henri III. in 1589, as 'the eternal glory of France.'[175] Numerous unsuccessful attacks upon the life of Henri IV., culminating in that of Jean Chastel in 1594, caused their expulsion from France. When they returned in 1603, they set to work again;[176] and the assassin Ravaillac, who succeeded in removing the obnoxious champion of European independence in 1610, was probably inspired by their doctrine.[177] They had a hand in the Gunpowder Plot of 1605, and were thought by some to have instigated the Massaere of S. Bartholomew. They fomented the League of the Guises, which had for its object a change in the French dynasty. They organized the Thirty Years' War, and they procured the revocation of the Edict of Nantes. If it is not possible to connect them immediately with all and each of the criminal acts laid to their charge, the fact that a Jesuit in every case was lurking in the background, counts by the force of cumulative evidence heavily against them, and explains the universal suspicion with which they came to be regarded as factious intermeddlers in the concerns of nations. Moreover, their written words accused them; for the tyrannicide of heretics was plainly advocated in their treatises on government. So profound was the conviction of their guilt, that the death of Sixtus V. in 1590, predicted by Bellarmino, the sudden death of Urban VII. in the same year, and the death of Clement VIII. in 1805, also predicted by Bellarmino--these three Popes being ill-affected toward the order--were popularly ascribed to their agency. But of their practical intervention there is no proof. Old age and fever must be credited, in these as in other cases, with the decease of Roman Pontiffs supposed to have been poisoned. [Footnote 175: See Mariana, _De Rege_, lib. i. cap. 6. This book, be it remembered, was written for the instruction of the heir apparent, afterwards Philip III.] [Footnote 176: Henri IV. let them return to France, in mere dread of their machinations against him. See Sully, vol. v. p. 113.] [Footnote 177: Sarpi, who was living at the time of Henri's murder, and who saw his best hopes for Italy and the Church of God extinguished by that crime, at first credited the Jesuits with the deliberate instigation Ravaillac. He gradually came to the conclusion that, though they were not directly responsible, their doctrine of regicide had inflamed the fanatic's imagination. See, in succession, _Letters_, vol. ii. pp. 78, 79, 81, 83, 86, 91, 105, 121, 170, 181, 192.] It is not, however, to be wondered that sooner, or later the Jesuits made themselves insupportable by their intrigues in all the countries where they were established.[178] Even to the Papacy itself they proved too irksome to be borne. The Company showed plainly that what they meant by obedience to Rome was obedience to a Rome controlled and fashioned by themselves. It was their ambition to stand in the same relation to the Pope as the Shogûn to the Mikado of Japan. Nor does the analysis of their opinions fail to justify the condemnation passed upon them by the Parlement of Paris in 1762. 'These doctrines tend to destroy the natural law, that rule of manners which God Himself has imprinted on the hearts of men, and in consequence to sever all the bonds of civil society, by the authorization of theft, falsehood, perjury, the most culpable impurity, and in a word each passion and each crime of human weakness; to obliterate all sentiments of humanity by favoring homicide and parricide; and to annihilate the authority of sovereigns in the State.' [Footnote 178: Expelled from Venice in 1606, from Bohemia in 1618, from Naples and the Netherlands in 1622, from Russia in 1676, from Portugal in 1759, from Spain in 1767, from France in 1764. Suppressed by the Bull of Clement XIV. in 1773. Restored in 1814, as an instrument against the Revolution.] Great psychological and pathological interest, attaches to the study of the Jesuit order. To withhold our admiration from the zeal, energy, self-devotion and constructive ability of its founders, would be impossible. Equally futile would it be to affect indifference before the sinister spectacle of so world-embracing an organism, persistently maintained in action for an anti-social end. There is something Roman in the colossal proportions of Loyola's idea, something Roman in the durability of the structure which perpetuates it. Yet the philosopher cannot but agree with the vulgar in his final judgment on the odiousness of these sacerdotal despots, these unflinching foes not merely to the heroes of the human intellect, and to the champions of right conduct, but also to the very angels of Christianity. That the Jesuits should claim to have been founded by Him who preached the Sermon on the Mount, that they should flaunt their motto, A.M.D.G., in the sight of Him who spake from Sinai, is one of those practical paradoxes in which the history of decrepit religions abounds. CHAPTER V. SOCIAL AND DOMESTIC MORALS: PART I. How did the Catholic Revival affect Italian Society?--Difficulty of Answering this Question--Frequency of Private Crimes of Violence--Homicides and Bandits--Savage Criminal Justice--Paid Assassins--Toleration of Outlaws--Honorable Murder--Example of the Lucchese Army--State of the Convents--The History of Virginia de Leyva--Lucrezia Buonvisi--The True Tale of the Cenci--The Brothers of the House of Massimo--Vittoria Accoramboni--The Duchess of Palliano--Wife-Murders--The Family of Medici. We are naturally led to inquire what discernible effect the Catholic Revival and the Counter-Reformation had upon the manners and morals of the Italians as a nation. Much has been said about the contrast between intellectual refinement and almost savage license which marked the Renaissance. Yet it can with justice be maintained that, while ferocity and brutal sensuality survived from the Middle Ages, humanism, by means of the new ideal it introduced, tended to civilize and educate the race. Now, however, the Church was stifling culture and attempting to restore that ecclesiastical conception of human life which the Renaissance had superseded. Did then her resuscitated Catholicism succeed in permeating the Italians with the spirit of Christ and of the Gospel? Were the nobles more quiet in their demeanor, less quarrelsome and haughty, more law-abiding and less given to acts of violence, than they had been in the previous period? Were the people more contented and less torn by factions, happier in their homes, less abandoned to the insanities of baleful superstitions? It is obviously difficult to answer these questions with either completeness or accuracy. In the first place, we have no right to expect that the religious revival, signalized by the Tridentine Council, should have made itself immediately felt in the sphere of national conduct. In the second place, it was not, like the German Reformation, a renewal of Christianity at its sources, but a resuscitation of mediaeval Catholicity, in direct antagonism to the intellectual tendencies of the age. The new learning among northern races disintegrated that system of ideas upon which mediaeval society rested; but it also introduced religious and moral conceptions more vital than those ideas in their decadence. In Italy the disintegrating process had been no less thorough, nay far more subtle and pervasive. Yet the new learning had not led the nation to attempt a reconstruction of primitive Christianity. The Catholic Revival gave nothing vital or enthusiastic to the conscience of the race. It brought the old creeds, old cult, old superstitions, old abuses back, with stricter discipline and under a _régime_ of terror. Meanwhile, it resolutely ranged its forces in opposition to what had been salutary and life-giving in the mental movement of the Renaissance. It compelled people who had watched the dawning of a new light, to shut their eyes upon that dayspring. It extinguished the studies of the Classical Revival; bade philosophers return to Thomas of Aquino; threatened thinkers with the dungeon or the stake who should presume to pass the Pillars of Hercules, when a whole Atlantic of knowledge had been opened to their curiosity. Under these circumstances it was impossible that a revolution, so retrograde in its nature, checking the tide of national energy in full flow, should have exercised a healthy influence over the Italian temperament at large. We have a right to expect, what in fact we find, the advent of hypocrisy and ceremonial observances, but little actual amendment in manners. In the third place, the question is still further complicated by the Catholic Revival having been effected concurrently with the establishment of the Spanish Hegemony. At the end of the first chapter of this volume I pointed out the evils brought on Italy by her servitude to a foreign and unsympathetic despot: the decline of commercial activity, the multiplication of slothful lordlings, the depression of industry, the diminution of wealth, and the suffering of the lower classes from pirates, bandits and tax-gatherers. These conditions were sufficient to demoralize a people. And mediaeval Catholicism, restored by edict, enforced by the Inquisition, propagated by Jesuits, was not of the fine enthusiastic quality to counteract them. Servile in its conception, it sufficed to bridle and benumb a race of serfs, but not to soften or to purify their brutal instincts.[179] In this chapter I shall not attempt a general survey of Italian society.[180] I shall content myself with supplying materials for the formation of a judgment by narrating some of the most remarkable domestic tragedies of the second half of the sixteenth century, choosing those only which rest upon well-sifted documentary evidence, and which bring the social conditions of the country into strong relief. Before engaging in these historical romances, it will be well to preface them with a few general remarks upon the state of manners they will illustrate. The first thing which strikes a student of Italy between 1530 and 1600 is that crimes of violence, committed by private individuals for personal ends, continued steadily upon the increase.[181] [Footnote 179: The last section of Loyola's _Exercitia_ is an epitome of post-Tridentine Catholicism, though penned before the opening of the Council. In its last paragraph it inculcates the fear of God: 'neque porro is timor solum, quem filialem appellamus, qui pius est ac sanctus maxime; verum etiam alter, servilis dictus' (_Inst. Soc. Jesu_, vol. iv. p. 173).] [Footnote 180: An interesting survey of this wider kind has been attempted by U.A. Canello for the whole sixteenth century in his _Storia della Lett. It. nel Secolo XVI_. (Milano: Vallardi, 1880). He tries to demonstrate that, in the sphere of private life, Italian society gradually refined the brutal lusts of the Middle Ages, and passed through fornication to a true conception of woman as man's companion in the family. The theme is bold; and the author seems to have based it upon too slight acquaintance with the real conditions of the Middle Ages.] [Footnote 181: Galluzzi, in his _Storia del Granducato di Toscana_, vol. iv. p. 34, estimates the murders committed in Florence alone during the eighteen months which followed the death of Cosimo I., at 186.] Compared with the later Middle Ages, compared with the Renaissance, this period is distinguished by extraordinary ferocity of temper and by an almost unparalleled facility of bloodshed.[182] [Footnote 182: In drawing up these paragraphs I am greatly indebted to a vigorous passage by Signor Salvatore Bonghi in his _Storia di Lucrezia Buonvisi_, pp. 7-9, of which I have made free use, translating his words when they served my purpose, and interpolating such further details as might render the picture more complete.] The broad political and religious contests which had torn the country in the first years of the sixteenth century, were pacified. Foreign armies had ceased to dispute the provinces of Italy. The victorious powers of Spain, the Church, and the protected principalities, seemed secure in the possession of their gains. But those international quarrels which kept the nation in unrest through a long period of municipal wars, ending in the horrors of successive invasions, were now succeeded by an almost universal discord between families and persons. Each province, each city, each village became the theater of private feuds and assassinations. Each household was the scene of homicide and empoisonment. Italy presented the spectacle of a nation armed against itself, not to decide the issue of antagonistic political principles by civil strife, but to gratify lawless passions--cupidity, revenge, resentment--by deeds of personal high-handedness. Among the common people of the country and the towns, crimes of brutality and bloodshed were of daily occurrence; every man bore weapons for self-defence, and for attack upon his neighbor. The aristocracy and the upper classes of the _bourgeoisie_ lived in a perpetual state of mutual mistrust, ready upon the slightest occasion of fancied affront to blaze forth into murder. Much of this savagery was due to the false ideas of honor and punctilio which the Spaniards introduced. Quarrels arose concerning a salute, a title, a question of precedence, a seat in church, a place in the prince's ante-chamber, a meeting in the public streets. Noblemen were ushered on their way by servants, who measured distances, and took the height of daïs or of bench, before their master committed his dignity by advancing a step beyond the minimum that was due. Love-affairs and the code of honor with regard to women opened endless sources of implacable jealousies, irreconcilable hatreds, and offenses that could only be wiped out with blood. On each and all of these occasions, the sword was ready to the right hand; and where this generous weapon would not reach, the harquebuss and knife of paid assassins were employed without compunction.[183] We must not, however, ascribe this condition of society wholly or chiefly to Spanish influences. [Footnote 183: The lax indulgence accorded by the Jesuit casuists to every kind of homicide appears in the extracts from those writers collected in _Artes Jesuiticae_ (Salisburgi, 1703, pp. 75-83). Tamburinus went so far as to hold that if a man mixed poison for his enemy, and a friend came in and drank it up before his eyes, he was not bound to warn his friend, nor was he guilty of his friend's death (_Ib._ p. 135, Art. 651).] It was in fact a survival of mediaeval habits under altered circumstances. During the municipal wars of the thirteenth century, and afterwards during the struggle of the despots for ascendency, the nation had become accustomed to internecine contests which set party against party, household against household, man against man. These humors in the cities, as Italian historians were wont to call them, had been partially suppressed by the confederation of the five great Powers at the close of the fifteenth century, and also by a prevalent urbanity of manners. At that epoch, moreover, they were systematized and controlled by the methods of _condottiere_ warfare, which offered a legitimate outlet to the passions of turbulent young men. But when Italy sank into the sloth of pacification after the settlement of Charles V. at Bologna in 1530, when there were no longer _condottieri_ to levy troops in rival armies, when political parties ceased in the cities, the old humors broke out again under the aspect of private and personal feuds. Though the names of Guelf and Ghibelline had lost their meaning, these factions reappeared, and divided Milan, the towns of Romagna, the villages of the Campagna. In the place of _condottieri_ arose brigand chiefs, who, like Piccolomini and Sciarra, placed themselves at the head of regiments, and swept the country on marauding expeditions. Instead of exiles, driven by victorious parties in the state to seek precarious living on a foreign soil, bandits, proscribed for acts of violence, abounded. Thus the habits which had been created through centuries of political ferment, subsisted when the nation was at rest in servitude, assuming baser and more selfish forms of ferocity. The end of the sixteenth century witnessed the final degeneration and corruption of a mediaeval state of warfare, which the Renaissance had checked, but which the miseries of foreign invasions had resuscitated by brutalizing the population, and which now threatened to disintegrate society in aimless anarchy and private lawlessness. It must not be imagined that governments and magistracies were slack in their pursuit of criminals. Repressive statutes, proclamations of outlawry, and elaborate prosecutions succeeded one another with unwearied conscientiousness. The revenues of states were taxed to furnish blood-money and to support spies. Large sums were invariably offered for the capture or assassination of escaped delinquents; and woe to the wretches who became involved in criminal proceedings! Witnesses were tortured with infernal cruelty. Convicted culprits suffered horrible agonies before their death, or were condemned to languish out a miserable life in pestilential dungeons. But the very inhumanity of this judicial method, without mercy for the innocent, from whom evidence could be extorted, and frequently inequitable in the punishments assigned to criminals of varying degrees of guilt, taught the people to defy justice, and encouraged them in brutality. They found it more tolerable to join the bands of brigands who preyed upon their fields and villages, than to assist rulers who governed so unequally and cruelly. We know, for instance, that a robber chief, Marianazzo, refused the Pope's pardon, alleging that the profession of brigandage was more lucrative and offered greater security of life than any trade within the walls of Rome. Thus the bandits of that generation occupied the specious attitude of opposition to oppressive governments. There were, moreover, many favorable chances for a homicide. The Church was jealous of her rights of sanctuary. Whatever may have been her zeal for orthodoxy, she showed herself an indulgent mother to culprits who demanded an asylum. Feudal nobles prided themselves on protecting refugees within their fiefs and castles. There were innumerable petty domains left, which carried privileges of signorial courts and local justice. Cardinals, ambassadors, and powerful princes claimed immunity from common jurisdiction in their palaces, the courts and basements of which soon became the resort of escaped criminals. No extradition treaties subsisted between the several and numerous states into which Italy was then divided, so that it was only necessary to cross a frontier in order to gain safety from the law. The position of an outlaw in that case was tolerably secure, except against private vengeance or the cupidity of professional cut-throats, who gained an honest livelihood by murdering bandits with a good price on their heads. Condemned for the most part in their absence, these homicides entered a recognized and not dishonorable class. They were tolerated, received, and even favored by neighboring princes, who generally had some grudge against the state from which the outlaws fled. After obtaining letters of safe-conduct and protection, they enrolled themselves in the militia of their adopted country, while the worst of them became spies or secret agents of police. No government seems to have regarded crimes of violence with severity, provided these had been committed on a foreign soil. Murders for the sake of robbery or rape were indeed esteemed ignoble. But a man who had killed an avowed enemy, or had shed blood in the heat of a quarrel, or had avenged his honor by the assassination of a sister convicted of light love, only established a reputation for bravery, which stood him in good stead. He was likely to make a stout soldier, and he had done nothing socially discreditable. On the contrary, if he had been useful in ridding the world of an outlaw some prince wished to kill, this murder made him a hero. In addition to the blood-money, he not unfrequently received lucrative office, or a pension for life. A very curious state of things resulted from these customs. States depended, in large measure, for the execution of their judicial sentences in cases of manslaughter and treason, upon foreign murderers and traitors. Towns were full of outlaws, each with a price upon his head, mutually suspicious, individually desirous of killing some fellow-criminal and thereby enriching his own treasury. If he were successful, he received a fair sum of money, with privileges and immunities from the state which had advertised the outlaw; and not unfrequently he obtained the further right of releasing one or more bandits from penalties of death or prison. It may be imagined at what cross-purposes the outlaws dwelt together, with crimes in many states accumulated on their shoulders; and what peril might ensue to society should they combine together, as indeed they tried to do in Bedmar's conspiracy against Venice. Meanwhile, the states kept this floating population of criminals in check by various political and social contrivances, which grew up from the exigencies and the habits of the moment. Instead of recruiting soldiers from the stationary population, it became usual, when a war was imminent, to enroll outlaws. Thus, when Lucca had to make an inroad into Garfagnana in 1613, the Republic issued a proclamation promising pardon and pay to those of its own bandits who should join its standard. Men to the number of 591 answered this call, and the little war which followed was conducted with more than customary fierceness.[184] [Footnote 184: See Salvatore Bonghi, _op. cit._ p. 159.] Even the ordinary police and guards of cities were composed of fugitives from other states, care being taken to select by preference those who came stained only with honorable bloodshed. In 1593 the guard of the palace of Lucca was reinforced by the addition of forty-three men, among whom four were bandits for wounds inflicted upon enemies in open fight; twelve for homicide in duel, sword to sword; five for the murder of more than one person in similar encounters; one for the murder of a sister, and the wounding of her seducer; two for mutilating an enemy in the face; one for unlawful recruiting; one for wounding; one for countenancing bandits; and sixteen simple refugees.[185] The phrases employed to describe these men in the official report are sufficiently illustrative of contemporary moral standards. Thus we read 'Banditi per omicidi semplici _da buono a buono_, a sangue caldo, da spada a spada, _o di nemici_.' 'Per omicidio d'una sorella _per causa d'onore_.' To murder an enemy, or a sister who had misbehaved herself, was accounted excusable. The prevalence of lawlessness encouraged a domestic custom which soon grew into a system. This was the maintenance of so-called _bravi_ by nobles and folk rich enough to afford so expensive a luxury. The outlaws found their advantage in the bargain which they drew with their employers; for besides being lodged, fed, clothed and armed, they obtained a certain protection from the spies and professional murderers who were always on the watch to kill them. Their masters used them to defend their persons when a feud was being carried on, or directed them against private enemies whom they wished to injure. [Footnote 185: Bonghi, _op. cit._ p. 159, note.] It is not uncommon in the annals of these times to read: 'Messer So-and-so, having received an affront from the Count of V., employed the services of three _bravi_, valiant fellows up to any mischief, with whom he retired to his country house.' Or again: 'The Marquis, perceiving that his neighbor had a grudge against him on account of the Signora Lucrezia, thought it prudent to increase his bodyguard, and therefore added Pepi and Lo Scarabone, bandits from Tuscany for murders of a priest and a citizen, to his household.' Or again: 'During the vacation of the Holy See the Baron X had, as usual, engaged men-at-arms for the protection of his palace.' In course of time it became the mark of birth and wealth to lodge a rabble of such rascals. They lived on terms of familiarity with their employer, shared his secrets, served him in his amours, and executed any devil's job he chose to command. Apartments in the basement of the palace were assigned to them, so that a nobleman's house continued to resemble the castle of a mediaeval baron. But the _bravi_, unlike soldiery, were rarely employed in honorable business. They formed a permanent element of treachery and violence within the social organism. Not a little singular were the relations thus established. The community of crime, involving common interests and common perils, established a peculiar bond between the noble and his _bravo_. This was complexioned by a certain sense of 'honor rooted in dishonor,' and by a faint reflection from elder retainership. The compact struck between landowner and bandit parodied that which drew feudal lord and wandering squire together. There was something ignobly noble in it, corresponding to the confused conscience and perilous conditions of the epoch. While studying this organized and half-tolerated system of social violence, we are surprised to observe how largely it was countenanced and how frequently it was set in motion by the Church. In a previous chapter on the Jesuits, I have adverted to their encouragement of assassination for ends which they considered sacred. In a coming chapter upon Sarpi, I shall show to what extent the Roman prelacy was implicated in more than one attempt to take away his life. The chiefs of the Church, then, instead of protesting against this vice of corrupt civilization in Italy, lent the weight of their encouragement to what strikes us now, not only as eminently unchristian, but also as pernicious to healthy national conditions of existence. We may draw two conclusions from these observations: first, that religions, except in the first fervor of their growth and forward progress, recognize the moral conventions of the society which they pretend to regulate: secondly, that it is well-nigh impossible for men of one century to sympathize with the ethics of a past and different epoch. We cannot comprehend the regicidal theories of the Jesuits, or the murderous intrigues of a Borghese Pontiff's Court, without admitting that priests, specially dedicated to the service of Christ and to the propagation of his gospel, felt themselves justified in employing the immoral and unchristian means which social custom placed at their disposal for ridding themselves of inconvenient enemies. This is at the same time their defense as human beings in the sixteenth century, and their indictment as self-styled and professed successors of the Founder who rebuked Peter in the Garden of Gethsemane. To make general remarks upon the state of sexual morality at this epoch, is hardly needful. Yet there are some peculiar circumstances which deserve to be noticed, in order to render the typical stories which I mean to relate intelligible. We have already seen that society condoned the murder of a sister by a brother, if she brought dishonor on her family; and the same privilege was extended to a husband in the case of a notoriously faithless wife. Such homicides did not escape judicial sentence, but they shared in the conventional toleration which was extended to murders in hot blood or in the prosecution of a feud. The state of the Italian convents at this period gave occasion to crimes in which women played a prominent part. After the Council of Trent reforms were instituted in religious houses. But they could not be immediately carried out; and, meanwhile, the economical changes which were taking place in the commercial aristocracy, filled nunneries with girls who had no vocation for a secluded life. Less money was yearly made in trade; merchants became nobles, investing their capital in land, and securing their estates on their eldest sons by entails. It followed that they could not afford to marry all their daughters with dowries befitting the station they aspired to assume. A large percentage of well-born women, accustomed to luxury, and vitiated by bad examples in their homes, were thus thrown on a monastic life. Signor Bonghi reckons that at the end of the sixteenth century, more than five hundred girls, who had become superfluous in noble families, crowded the convents in the single little town of Lucca. At a later epoch there would have been no special peril in this circumstance. But at the time with which we are now occupied, an objectionable license still survived from earlier ages. The nunneries obtained evil notoriety as houses of licentious pleasure, to which soldiers and youths of dissolute habits resorted by preference.[186] There appears to have been a specific profligate fanaticism, a well-marked morbid partiality for these amours with cloistered virgins. The young men who prosecuted them, obtained a nickname indicative of their absorbing passion.[187] The attraction of mystery and danger had something, no doubt, to do with this infatuation; and the fascination that sacrilege has for depraved natures, may also be reckoned into the account. To enjoy a lawless amour was not enough; but to possess a woman who alternated between transports of passion and torments of remorse, added zest to guilty pleasure. For men who habitually tampered with magic arts and believed firmly in the devil, this raised romance to rapture. It was a common thing for debauchees to seek what they called _peripetezie di nuova idea_, or novel and exciting adventures stimulative of a jaded appetite, in consecrated places. At any rate, as will appear in the sequel of this chapter, convent intrigues occupied a large space in the criminal annals of the day. _The Lady of Monza_. Virginia Maria de Leyva was a descendant of Charles V.'s general, Antonio de Leyva, who through many years administered the Duchy of Milan, and died loaded with wealth and honors.[188] [Footnote 186: In support of this assertion I translate a letter addressed (Milan, September 15, 1622) by Cardinal Federigo Borromeo to the Prioress of the Convent of S. Margherita at Monza (Dandolo, _Signora di Monza_, p. 132). 'Experience of similar cases has shown how dangerous to your holy state is the vicinity of soldiers, owing to the correspondence which young and idle soldiers continually try to entertain with monasteries, sometimes even under fair and honorable pretexts.... Wherefore we have heard with much displeasure that in those places of our diocese where there are convents of nuns and congregations of virgins, ordinary lodgings for the soldiery have been established, called lonely houses (_case erme_), where they are suffered or obliged to dwell through long periods.' The Bishop commands the Prioress to admit no soldier, on any plea of piety, devotion or family relationship, into her convent; to receive no servant or emissary of a soldier; to forbid special services being performed in the chapel at the instance of a soldier; and, finally, to institute a more rigorous system of watch and ward than had been formerly practiced.] [Footnote 187: In Venice, for example, they were called _Monachini_. But the name varied in various provinces.] [Footnote 188: The following abstract of the history of Virginia Maria de Leyva is based on Dandolo's _Signora di Monza_ (Milano, 1855). Readers of Manzoni's _I Promessi Sposi_, and of Rosini's tiresome novel, _La Signora di Monza_, will be already familiar with her in romance under the name of Gertrude.] For his military service he was rewarded with the principality of Ascoli, the federal lordship of the town of Monza, and the life-tenure of the city of Pavia. Virginia's father was named Martino, and upon his death her cousin succeeded to the titles of the house. She, for family reasons, entered the convent of S. Margherita at Monza, about the year 1595. Here she occupied a place of considerable importance, being the daughter of the Lord of Monza, of princely blood, wealthy, and allied to the great houses of the Milanese. S. Margherita was a convent of the Umiliate, dedicated to the education of noble girls, in which, therefore, considerable laxity of discipline prevailed.[189] [Footnote 189: Carlo Borromeo found it necessary to suppress the Umiliati. But he left the female establishment of S. Margherita untouched.] Sister Virginia dwelt at ease within its walls, holding a kind of little court, and exercising an undefined authority in petty affairs which was conceded to her rank. Among her favorite companions at the time of the events I am about to narrate, were numbered the Sisters Ottavia Ricci, Benedetta Homata, Candida Brancolina, and Silvia Casata; she was waited on by a converse sister, Caterina da Meda. Adjoining the convent stood the house and garden of a certain Gianpaolo Osio, who plays the principal part in Virginia's tragedy. He must have been a young man of distinguished appearance; for when Virginia first set eyes upon him from a window overlooking his grounds, she exclaimed: 'Is it possible that one could ever gaze on anything more beautiful?' He attracted her notice as early as the year 1599 or 1600, under circumstances not very favorable to the plan he had in view. His hands were red with the blood of Virginia's bailiff, Giuseppe Molteno, whom he had murdered for some cause unknown to us. During their first interview (Virginia leaning from the window of her friend Candida's cell, and Osio standing on his garden-plot beneath), the young man courteously excused himself for this act of violence, adding that he would serve her even more devotedly than the dead Molteno, and begging to be allowed to write her a letter. When the letter came, it was couched in terms expressive of a lawless passion. Virginia's noble blood rebelled against the insult, and she sent an answer back, rebuffing her audacious suitor. The go-betweens in the correspondence which ensued were the two nuns, Ottavia and Benedetta, and a certain Giuseppe Pesen, who served as letter-carrier. Osio did not allow himself to be discouraged by a first refusal, but took the hazardous step of opening his mind to the confessor of the convent, Paolo Arrigone, a priest of San Maurizio in Milan. Arrigone at once lent himself to the intrigue, and taught Osio what kind of letters he should write Virginia. They were to be courteous, respectful, blending pious rhetoric with mystical suggestions of romantic passion. It seems that the confessor composed these documents himself, and advised his fair penitent that there was no sin in perusing them. From correspondence, Osio next passed to interviews. By the aid of Arrigone he gained access to the parlor of the convent, where he conversed with Virginia through the bars. In their earlier meetings the lover did not venture beyond compliments and modest protestations of devotion. But as time went on, he advanced to kisses and caresses, and once he made Virginia take a little jewel into her mouth. This was a white loadstone, blessed by Arrigone, and intended to operate like a love-charm. The girl, in fact, began to feel the influence of her seducer. In the final confession which she made, she relates how she fought against temptation. 'Some diabolical force compelled me to go to the window overlooking his garden; and one day when Sister Ottavia told me that Osio was standing there, I fainted from the effort to restrain myself. This happened several times. At one moment I flew into a rage, and prayed to God to help me; at another I felt lifted from the ground, and forced to go and gaze on him. Sometimes when the fit was on me, I tore my hair; I even thought of killing myself.' Virginia was surrounded by persons who had an interest in helping Osio. Not only the confessor, who was a man of infamous character, but her friends among the nuns, themselves accustomed to intrigue of a like nature, led her down the path to ruin. False keys were made, and one or other of the faithless sisters introduced the young man into the convent at night. When Virginia resisted, and enlarged upon the sacrilege of breaking cloister, Arrigone supplied her with a printed book of casuistry, in which it was written that though it might be sinful for a nun to leave her convent, there was no sin in a man entering it. At last she fell; and for seven years she lived in close intimacy with her lover, passing the nights with him, either in his own house or in one of the cells of S. Margherita. On one occasion, when he had to fly from justice, the girls concealed him in their rooms for fifteen days. The first fruit of this amour was a stillborn child; after giving birth to which, Virginia sold all the silver she possessed, and sent a votive tablet to Our Lady of Loreto, on which she had portrayed a nun and baby, kneeling and weeping. 'Twice again I sent the same memorial to our Lady, imploring the grace of liberation from this passion. But the sorceries with which I was surrounded, prevailed. In my bed were found the bones of the dead, hooks of iron, and many other things, of which the nuns were well informed. Nay, I would fain have given up my life to save my soul; and so great were my afflictions, that in despair I went to throw myself into the well, but was restrained by the image of the Virgin at the bottom of the garden, for which I had a special devotion.' In course of time she gave birth to a little girl, named Francesca, who frequented the convent, and whom Osio legitimated as his child. It was impossible that a connection of long standing, known to several accomplices, and corroborated by the presence of the child Francesca, should remain hidden from the world. People began to speak about the fact in Monza. A druggist, named Reinaro Soncini, gossiped somewhat too openly. Osio had him shot one night by a servant in his pay. And now the lovers were engaged in a career of crime, which brought them finally to justice. Virginia's waiting-woman Caterina fell into disgrace with her mistress, and was shut up in a kind of prison by her orders. The girl declared that she would bring the whole bad affair before the superior authorities, and would do so immediately, seeing that Monsignor Barca, the Visitor of S. Margherita, was about to make one of his official tours of inspection. This threat cost Caterina her life. About midnight, while a thunder-storm was raging, Virginia, accompanied by her usual associates, Ottavia, Benedetta, Silvia, and Candida, entered the room where the girl was confined. They were followed by Osio, holding in his hand a heavy instrument of wood and iron, called _piede di bicocca_, which he had snatched up in the convent outhouse. He found Caterina lying face downward on the bed, and smashed her skull with a single blow. The body was conveyed by him and the nuns into the fowl-house of the sisters, whence he removed it on the following night by the aid of Benedetta into his own dwelling. From evidence which afterwards transpired, Osio decapitated the corpse, concealed the body in a sort of cellar, and flung the head into an empty well at Velate. The disappearance of Caterina just before the visitation of Monsignor Barca, roused suspicion; and, though a murder was not immediately apprehended, the guilty associates felt that the cord of fate was being drawn around them. In the autumn of 1607 the tempest broke upon their heads. Virginia was removed from Monza to the convent called Del Bocchetto at Milan; and on November 27 the depositions of the abbess, prioress, and other members of S. Margherita were taken regarding Osio's intrigues, the assassination of Soncini, and the disappearance of Caterina. Among the nuns who had abetted Osio, the two most criminally implicated were Ottavia and Benedetta. Their evidence, if closely scrutinized, must reveal each secret of the past. It was much to Osio's interest, therefore, that they should not fall into the hands of justice; nor had he any difficulty in persuading them to rely on his assistance for contriving their escape to some convent in the Bergamasque territory. We may wonder, by the way, what sort of discipline was then maintained in nunneries, if two so guilty sisters counted upon safe entrance into an asylum, provided only they could leave the diocese of Milan for another.[190] On the night of Thursday, November 30, 1607, Osio came to the wall of the convent garden, and began to break a hole in it, through which Ottavia and Benedetta crept. The three then prowled along the city wall of Monza, till they found a breach wide enough for exit. Afterwards they took a path beside the river Lambro, and stopped for awhile at the church of the Madonna delle Grazie. Here the sisters prayed for assistance from our Lady in their journey, and recited the _Salve Regina_ seven times. Then they resumed their walk along the Lambro, and at a certain point Ottavia fell into the river. In her dying depositions she accused Osio of having pushed her in; and there seems little doubt that he did so; for while she was struggling in the water, he disengaged his harquebuss from his mantle and struck her several blows upon the head and hands. [Footnote 190: In ecclesiastical affairs the diocese of Milan exercised jurisdiction over that of Bergamo, although Bergamo was subject in civil affairs to Venice. This makes the matter more puzzling.] She pretended to be dead, and was carried down the stream to a place where she contrived to crawl to land. Some peasants came by, whose assistance she implored. But they, observing that she was a nun of S. Margherita by her dress, refused to house her for the rest of the night. They gave her a staff to lean on, and after a painful journey she regained the church of the Grazie at early dawn. Ottavia's wounds upon the head, face, and right hand, inflicted by the stock of Osio's gun, were so serious that after making a clean breast to her judges, she died of them upon December 26, 1607. When Osio had pushed Ottavia into the Lambro, and had tried to smash her brains out with his harquebuss, he resumed his midnight journey with Sister Benedetta. They reached an uninhabited house in the country about five or six miles distant from Monza. Here Osio shut Benedetta up in an empty room with a stone bench running along the wall. She remained there all Friday, visited once by her dreaded companion, who brought her bread, cheese, and wine. She abstained from touching any of this food, in fear of poison. About nine in the evening he returned, and bade her prepare to march. They set out again, together, in the dark; and after walking about three miles they came to a well, down which Osio threw her. The well was deep, and had no water in it. Benedetta injured her left side in the fall; and when she had reached the bottom, her would-be murderer flung a big stone on her which broke her right leg. She contrived to protect her head by gathering stones around it, and lay without moaning or moving, in the fear that Osio would attempt fresh violence unless he thought her dead. From the middle of Friday night, until Sunday morning, she remained thus, exploring with her eyes the surface of her dungeon. It was dry and strewn with bones. In one corner lay a round black object which bore the aspect of a human skull. As it eventually turned out, this was the head of Caterina, whom Benedetta herself had helped to murder, and which Osio had thrown there. On Sunday, during Mass, the men of the village of Velate were in church, when they heard a voice from outside calling out, 'Help, help! I am at the bottom of this well!' The well, as it happened, was distant some dozen paces from the church door, and Benedetta had timed her call for assistance at a lucky moment. The villagers ran to the spot, and drew her out by means of a man who went down with a rope. She was then taken to the house of a gentleman, Signor Alberico degli Alberici, who, when no one else was charitable enough to receive her, opened his doors to the exhausted victim of that murderous outrage. It may be remarked that the same surgeon who had been employed to report on Ottavia's wounds, now appeared to examine Benedetta. His name was Ambrogio Vimercati. Benedetta was taken to the convent of S. Orsola, where her friend Ottavia lay dying; and after making a full confession, she eventually recovered her health, and suffered life-long incarceration in her old convent. Osio was still at large. On December 20, he addressed a long letter to the Cardinal Federigo Borromeo, in which he vainly attempted to defend himself, and throw the blame on his associates. It is a loathsome document, blending fulsome protestations and fawning phrases, with brutal denouncements of his victims, and treacherous insinuations. One passage deserves notice. 'Who was it,' he says, 'who suggested my correspondence with Virginia? The priest Paolo Arrigone, that ruin of the monastery! The Canon Pisnato, who is now confessor to the nuns of Meda; in his house you will find what will never be discovered in mine, presents from nuns, incitements to amours, and other such things. The priest Giacomo Bertola, confessor of the nuns of S. Margherita; who was his devotee? Sacha!--and he stayed there all the day through. These men, being priests, are not prosecuted; they are protected by their cloth, forsooth! It is only of poor Osio that folk talk. Only he is persecuted, only he is a malefactor, only he is the traitor!' Arrigone, as a matter of fact, was tried, and condemned to two years' labor at the galleys, after the expiration of which term he was not to return to Monza or its territory. This seems a slight sentence; for the judges found him guilty, not only of promoting Osio's intrigue with Virginia, by conducting the correspondence, and watching the door during their interviews in the parlor, but also of pursuing the Signora himself with infamous proposals. In his absence Osio was condemned to death on the gibbet. His goods were confiscated to the State. His house in Monza was destroyed, and a pillar of infamy recording his crimes, was erected on its site. A proclamation of outlawry was issued on April 5, 1608, under the seal of Don Pietro de Acevedo, Count of Fuentes, and governor of the State of Milan, which offered 'to any person not himself an outlaw, or to any commune, that shall consign Gianpaolo Osio to the hands of justice, the reward of a thousand scudi from the royal ducal treasury, together with the right to free four bandits condemned for similar or less offenses; and in case of his being delivered dead, even though he shall be slain in foreign parts, then the half of the aforesaid sum of money, and the freedom of two bandits as above. And if the person who shall consign him alive be himself an outlaw for similar or less offenses, he shall receive, beside the freedom of himself and two other bandits, the half of the aforesaid sum of money; and in the case of his consignment after death, the freedom of himself and of two other bandits as aforesaid.' I have recited this _Bando_, because it is a good instance of the procedure in use under like conditions. Justice preferred to obtain the culprit alive, and desired to receive him at honest hands. But there was an expectation of getting hold of him through less reputable agents. Therefore they offered free pardon to a bandit and a couple of accomplices, who might undertake the capture or the murder of the proscribed outlaw in concert, and in the event of his being produced alive, a sum of money down. Osio, apparently, spent some years in exile, changing place, and name, and dress, living as he could from hand to mouth, until the rumor spread abroad that he was dead. He then returned to his country, and begged for sanctuary from an old friend. That friend betrayed him, had his throat cut in a cellar, and exposed his head upon the public market place. Virginia was sentenced to perpetual incarceration in the convent of S. Valeria at Milan. She was to be 'inclosed within a little dungeon, the door of which shall be walled up with stones and mortar, so that the said Virginia Maria shall abide there for the term of her natural life, immured both day and night, never to issue thence, but shall receive food and other necessaries through a small hole in the wall of the said chamber, and light and air through an aperture or other opening.' This sentence was carried into effect. But at the expiration of many years, her behavior justified some mitigation of the penalty. She was set at large, and allowed to occupy a more wholesome apartment, where the charity of Cardinal Borromeo supplied her with comforts befitting her station, and the reputation she acquired for sanctity. Her own family cherished implacable sentiments of resentment against the woman who had brought disgrace upon them. Ripamonte, the historian of Milan, says that in his own time she was still alive: 'a bent old woman, tall of stature, dried and fleshless, but venerable in her aspect, whom no one could believe to have been once a charming and immodest beauty.' Her associates in guilt, the nuns of S. Margherita, were consigned to punishments resembling hers. Sisters Benedetta, Silvia and Candida suffered the same close incarceration. _Lucrezia Buonvisi_. The tale of Lucrezia Buonvisi presents some points of similarity to that of the Signora di Monza.[191] [Footnote 191: _Storia di Lucrezia Buonvisi_, by Salvatore Bonghi, Lucca, 1864. This is an admirably written historical monograph, based on accurate studies and wide researches, containing a mine of valuable information for a student of those times.] Her father was a Lucchese gentleman, named Vincenzo Malpigli, who passed the better portion of his life at Ferrara, as treasurer to Duke Afonsono II. He had four children; one son, Giovan Lorenzo, and three daughters, of whom Lucrezia, born at Lucca in 1572, was probably the youngest. Vincenzo's wife sprang from the noble Lucchese family of Buonvisi, at that time by their wealth and alliances the most powerful house of the Republic. Lucrezia spent some years of her girlhood at Ferrara, where she formed a romantic friendship for a nobleman of Lucca named Massimiliano Arnolfini. This early attachment was not countenanced by her parents. They destined her to be the wife of one of Paolo Buonvisi's numerous sons, her relatives upon the mother's side. In consequence of this determination, she was first affianced to an heir of that house, who died; again to another, who also died; and in the third place to their brother, called Lelio, whom she eventually married in the year 1591. Lelio was then twenty-five years of age, and Lucrezia nineteen. Her beauty was so distinguished, that in poems written on the ladies of Lucca it received this celebration in a madrigal:-- Like the young maiden rose Which at the opening of the dawn, Still sprinkled with heaven's gracious dew, Her beauty and her bosom on the lawn Doth charmingly disclose, For nymphs and amorous swains with love to view; So delicate, so fair, Lucrezia yields New pearls, new purple to our homely fields, While Cupid plays and Flora laughs in her fresh hue. Less than a year after her marriage with Lelia Buonvisi, Lucrezia resumed her former intimacy with Massimiliano Arnolfini. He was scarcely two yeara her elder, and they had already exchanged vows of fidelity in Ferrara. Massimiliano's temper inclined him to extreme courses; he was quick and fervent in all the disputes of his age, ready to back his quarrels with the sword, and impatient of delay in any matter he had undertaken. Owing to a feud which then subsisted between the families of Arnolfini and Boccella, he kept certain _bravi_ in his service, upon whose devotion he relied. This young man soon found means to open a correspondence with Lucrezia, and arranged meetings with her in the house of some poor weavers who lived opposite the palace of the Buonvisi. Nothing passed between them that exceeded the limits of respectful courtship. But the situation became irksome to a lover so hot of blood as Massimiliano was. On the evening of June 5, in 1593, his men attacked Lelio Buonvisi, while returning with Lucrezia from prayers in an adjacent church. Lelio fell, stabbed with nineteen thrusts of the poignard, and was carried lifeless to his house. Lucrezia made her way back alone; and when her husband's corpse was brought into the palace, she requested that it should be laid out in the basement. A solitary witness of this act of violence, Vincenzo di Coreglia, deposed to having raised the dying man from the ground, put earth into his mouth by way of Sacrament, and urged him to forgive his enemies before he breathed his last. The weather had been very bad that day, and at nightfall it was thundering incessantly. Inquisition was made immediately into the causes of Lelio's death. According to Lucrezia's account, her husband had reproved some men upon the road for singing obscene songs, whereupon they turned and murdered him. The corpse was exposed in the Church of the Servi, where multitudes of people gathered round it; and there an ancient dame of the Buonvisi house, flinging herself upon her nephew's body, vowed vengeance, after the old custom of the _Vocero_, against his murderers. Other members of the family indicated Massimiliano as the probable assassin; but he meantime had escaped, with three of his retainers, to a villa of his mother's at S. Pancrazio, whence he managed to take the open country and place himself in temporary safety. During this while, the judicial authorities of Lucca were not idle. The Podestà issued a proclamation inviting evidence, under the menace of decapitation and confiscation of goods for whomsoever should be found to have withheld information. To this call a certain Orazio Carli, most imprudently, responded. He confessed to having been aware that Massimiliano was plotting the assassination of somebody--not Lelio; and said that he had himself facilitated the flight of the assassins by preparing a ladder, which he placed in the hands of a _bravo_ called Ottavio da Trapani. This revelation delivered him over, bound hand and foot, to the judicial authorities, who at the same time imprisoned Vincenzo da Coreglia, the soldier present at the murder. Massimiliano and his men meanwhile had made their way across the frontier to Garfagnana. Their flight, and the suspicions which attached to them, rendered it tolerably certain that they were the authors of the crime. But justice demanded more circumstantial information, and the Podestà decided to work upon the two men already in his clutches. On June 4, Carli was submitted to the torture. The rack elicited nothing new from him, but had the result of dislocating his arms. He was then placed upon an instrument called the 'she-goat,' a sharp wooden trestle, to which the man was bound with weights attached to his feet, and where he sat for nearly four hours. In the course of this painful exercise, he deposed that Massimiliano and Lucrezia had been in the habit of meeting in the house of Vincenzo del Zoppo and Pollonia his wife, where the _bravi_ also congregated and kept their arms. Grave suspicion was thus cast on Lucrezia. Had she perchance connived at her husband's murder? Was she an accomplice in the tragedy? Lucrezia's peril now became imminent. Her brother, Giovan Lorenzo Malpigli, who remained her friend throughout, thought it best for her to retire as secretly as possible into a convent. The house chosen was that of S. Chiara in the town of Lucca. On June 5, she assumed the habit of S. Francis, cut her hair, changed her name from Lucrezia to Umilia, and offered two thousand crowns of dower to this monastery. Only four days had elapsed since her husband's assassination. But she, at all events, was safe from immediate peril; for the Church must now be dealt with; and the Church neither relinquished its suppliants, nor disgorged the wealth they poured into its coffers. The Podestà, when news of this occurrence reached him, sent at once to make inquiries. His messenger, Ser Vincenzo Petrucci, was informed by the Abbess that Lucrezia had just arrived and was having her hair shorn. At his request, the novice herself appeared--'a young woman, tall and pale, dressed in a nun's habit, with a crown upon her head.' She declared herself to be 'Madonna Lucretiina Malpigli, widow of Lelio Buonvisi.' The priest who had conducted her reception, affirmed that 'the gentle lady, immediately upon her husband's death, conceived this good prompting of the spirit, and obeyed it on the spot.' For the moment, Lucrezia, whom in future we must call Sister Umilia, had to be left unmolested. The judges returned to the interrogation of their prisoners. Vincenzo del Zoppo and his wife Pollonia, in whose house the lovers used to meet, were tortured; but nothing that implied a criminal correspondence transpired from their evidence. Then the unlucky Carli was once more put to the strappado. He fell into a deep swoon, and was with difficulty brought to life again. Next his son, a youth of sixteen years, was racked with similar results. On June 7, they resolved to have another try at Vincenzo da Coreglia. This soldier had been kept on low diet in his prison during the last week, and was therefore ripe, according to the judicial theories of those times, for salutary torments. Having been strung up by his hands, he was jerked and shaken in the customary fashion, until he declared his willingness to make a full confession. He had been informed, he said, that Massimiliano intended to assassinate Lelio by means of his three bravi, Pietro da Castelnuovo, Ottavio da Trapani, and Niccolo da Pariana. He engaged to stand by and cover the retreat of these men. It was Carli, and not Massimiliano, who had made overtures to him. On being once more tortured, he only confirmed this confession. Carli was again summoned, and set upon the 'she-goat,' with heavy weights attached to his feet. The poor wretch sat for two hours on this infernal machine, the sharp edges and spikes of which were so contrived as to press slowly and deeply upon the tenderest portions of his body.[192] But he endured this agony without uttering a word, until the judges perceived that he was at the point of death. Next day, the 8th of June, Coreglia was again summoned to the justice-chamber. Terrified by the prospect of future torments, and wearied out with importunities, he at last made a clean breast of all he knew. It was not Carli, but Massimiliano himself, who had engaged him; and he had assisted at the murder of Lelio, which was accomplished by two of the bravi, Ottavio and Pietro. Coreglia said nothing to implicate Sister Umilia. On the contrary he asserted that she seemed to lose her senses when she saw her husband fall. [Footnote 192: Campanelia, who was tortured in this way at Naples, says that on one occasion a pound and a half of his flesh was macerated, and ten pounds of his blood shed. 'Perduravi horis quadraginta, funiculis arctissimis ossa usque secantibus ligatus, pendens manibus retro contortis de fune super acutissimum lignum qui (?) carnis sextertium (?) in posterioribus mihi devoravit et decem sanguinis libras tellus ebibit.' Preface to _Atheismus Triumphatus_.] The General Council, to whom the results of these proceedings were communicated, published an edict of outlawry against Massimiliano and his three _bravi_. A price of 500 crowns was put upon the head of each, wherever he should be killed; and 1,000 crowns were offered to any one who should kill Massimiliano within the city or state of Lucca. At the same time they sent an envoy to Rome requesting the Pope's permission to arrest Umilia, on the ground that she was gravely suspected of being privy to the murder, and of entering the convent to escape justice. A few days afterwards, the miserable witnesses, Carli and Coreglia, were beheaded in their prison. The Chancellor, Vincenzo Petrucci, left Lucca on June 12, and reached Rome on the 14th. He obtained an audience from Clement VIII. upon the 15th. When the Pope had read the letter of the Republic, he struck his palm down on his chair, and cried: 'Jesus! This is a grave case! It seems hardly possible that a woman of her birth should have been induced to take share in the murder of her husband.' After some conversation with the envoy, he added: 'It is certainly an ugly business. But what can we do now that she has taken the veil?' Then he promised to deliberate upon the matter, and return an answer later. Petrucci soon perceived that the Church did not mean to relinquish its privileges, and that Umilia was supported by powerful friends at court. Cardinal Castrucci remarked in casual conversation: 'She is surely punished enough for her sins by the life of the cloister.' A second interview with Clement on June 21 confirmed him in the opinion that the Republic would not obtain the dispensation they requested. Meanwhile the Signory of Lucca prepared a schedule of the suspicions against Umilia, grounded upon her confused evidence, her correspondence with Massimiliano, the fact that she had done nothing to rescue Lelio by calling out, and her sudden resort to the convent. This paper reached the Pope, who, on July 8, expressed his view that the Republic ought to be content with leaving Umilia immured in her monastery; and again, upon the 23rd, he pronounced his final decision that 'the lady, being a nun, and tonsured and prepared for the perfect life, is not within the jurisdiction of your Signory. It is further clear that, finding herself exposed to the calumnies of those two witnesses, and injured in her reputation, she took the veil to screen her honor.' On August 13, Petrucci returned to Lucca. Clement conceded one point. He gave commission to the Bishop of Lucca to inquire into Umilia's conduct within the precincts of the monastery. But the council refused this intervention, for they were on bad terms with the Bishop, and resented ecclesiastical interference in secular causes. Moreover, they judged that such an inquisition without torture used, and in a place of safety, would prove worse than useless. Thus the affair dropped. Meanwhile we may relate what happened to Massimiliano and his _bravi_. They escaped, through Garfagnana and Massa, into the territory of Alfonso Malaspina, Marquis of Villafranca and Tresana. This nobleman, who delighted in protecting outlaws, placed the four men in security in his stronghold of Tresana. Pietro da Castelnuovo was an outlaw from Tuscany for the murder of a Carmelite friar, which he had committed at Pietrasanta a few days before the assassination of Lelio. Seventeen years after these events he was still alive, and wanted for grave crimes committed in the Duchy of Modena. History knows no more about him, except that he had a wife and family. Of Niccolo da Pariana nothing has to be related. Ottavio da Trapani was caught at Milan, brought back to Lucca, and hanged there on June 13, 1604, after being torn with pincers. Massimiliano is said to have made his way to Flanders, where the Lucchese enjoyed many privileges, and where his family had probably hereditary connections.[193] Like all outlaws he lived in perpetual peril of assassination. Remorse and shame invaded him, especially when news arrived that the mistress, for whom he had risked all, was turning to a dissolute life (as we shall shortly read) in her monastery. His reason gave way; and, after twenty-two years of wandering, he returned to Lucca and was caught. Instead of executing the capital sentence which had been pronounced upon him, the Signory consigned him to perpetual prison in the tower of Viareggio, which was then an insalubrious and fever-stricken village on the coast. Here, walled up in a little room, alone, deprived of light and air and physical decency, he remained forgotten for ten years from 1615 to 1625. At the latter date report was made that he had refused food for three days and was suffering from a dangerous hemorrhage. When the authorities proposed to break the wall of his dungeon and send a priest and surgeon to relieve him, he declared that he would kill himself if they intruded on his misery. Nothing more was heard of him until 1629, when he was again reported to be at the point of death. This time he requested the assistance of a priest; and it is probable that he then died at the age of sixty-nine, having survived the other actors in this tragedy, and expiated the passion of his youth by life-long sufferings. [Footnote 193: I may here allude to a portrait in our National Gallery of a Lucchese Arnolfini and his wife, painted by Van Eyck.] When we return to Sister Umilia, and inquire how the years had worn with her, a new chapter in the story opens. In 1606 she was still cloistered in S. Chiara, which indeed remained her home until her death. She had now reached the age of thirty-four. Suspicion meanwhile fell upon the conduct of the nuns of S. Chiara; and on January 9, in that year, a rope-ladder was discovered hanging from the garden wall of the convent. Upon inquiry, it appeared that certain men were in the habit of entering the house and holding secret correspondence with the sisters. Among these the most notorious were Piero Passari, a painter, infamous for vulgar profligacy, and a young nobleman of Lucca, Tommaso Samminiati. Both of them contrived to evade justice, and were proclaimed, as usual, outlaws. In the further course of investigation the strongest proofs were brought to light, from which it appeared that the chief promoter of these scandals was a man of high position in the state, advanced in years, married to a second wife, and holding office of trust as Protector of the Nunnery of S. Chiara. He was named Giovanbattista Dati, and represented an ancient Lucchese family mentioned by Dante. While Dati carried on his own intrigue with Sister Cherubina Mei, he did his best to encourage the painter in promiscuous debauchery, and to foster the passion which Samminiati entertained for Sister Umilia Malpigli. Dati was taken prisoner and banished for life to the island of Sardinia; but his papers fell into the hands of the Signory, who extracted from them the evidence which follows, touching Umilia and Samminiati. This young man was ten years her junior; yet the quiet life of the cloister had preserved Umilia's beauty, and she was still capable of inspiring enthusiastic adoration. This transpires in the letters which Samminiati addressed to her through Dati from his asylum in Venice. They reveal, says Signor Bonghi, a strange confusion of madness, crime, and love.[194] [Footnote 194: Here again I have very closely followed the text of Signor Bonghi's monograph, pp. 112-115.] Their style is that of a delirious rhetorician. One might fancy they had been composed as exercises, except for certain traits which mark the frenzy of genuine exaltation. Threats, imprecations, and blasphemies alternate with prayers, vows of fidelity and reminiscences of past delights in love. Samminiati bends before 'his lady' in an attitude of respectful homage, offering upon his knees the service of awe-struck devotion. At one time he calls her 'his most beauteous angel,' at another 'his most lovely and adored enchantress.' He does not conceal his firm belief that she has laid him under some spell of sorcery; but entreats her to have mercy and to liberate him, reminding her how a certain Florentine lady restored Giovan Lorenzo Malpigli to health after keeping him in magic bondage till his life was in danger.[195] Then he swears unalterable fealty; heaven and fortune shall not change his love. It is untrue that at Florence, or at Venice, he has cast one glance on any other woman. Let lightning strike him, if he deserts Umilia. But she has caused him jealousy by stooping to a base amour. To this point he returns with some persistence. Then he entreats her to send him her portrait, painted in the character of S. Ursula. At another time he gossips about the nuns, forwarding messages, alluding to their several love-affairs, and condoling with them on the loss of a compliant confessor. This was a priest, who, when the indescribable corruptions of S. Chiara had been clearly proved, calmly remarked that there was no reason to make such a fuss--they were only affairs of gentlefolk, _cose di gentilhuomini_. The rival of whom Samminiati was jealous seems to have been the painter Pietro, who held the key to all the scandals of the convent in his hand. Umilia, Dati, and Samminiati at last agreed 'to rid their neighborhood of that pest.' The man had escaped to Rovigo, whither Samminiati repaired from Venice, 'attended by two good fellows thoroughly acquainted with the district.' [Footnote 195: It appears that violent passion for a person was commonly attributed at that epoch to enchantment. See above, the confession of the Lady of Monza, p. 320.] But Pietro got away to Ferrara, his enemy following and again missing him. Samminiati writes that he is resolved to hunt 'that rascal' out, and make an end of him. Meanwhile Umilia is commissioned to do for Calidonia Burlamacchi, a nun who had withdrawn from the company of her guilty sisters, and knew too many of their secrets. Samminiati sends a white powder, and a little phial containing a liquid, both of which, he informs Umilia, are potent poisons, with instructions how to use them and how to get Calidonia to swallow the ingredients. Then 'if the devil does not help her, she will pass from this life in half a night's time, and without the slightest sign of violence.' It may be imagined what disturbance was caused in the General Council by the reading of this correspondence. Nearly all the noble families of Lucca were connected by ties of blood or marriage with one or other of the culprits; and when the relatives of the accused had been excluded from the session, only sixty members were left to debate on further measures. I will briefly relate what happened to the three outlaws. Venice refused to give up Samminiati at the request of the Lucchese, saying that 'the Republic of S. Mark would not initiate a course of action prejudicial to the hospitality which every sort of person was wont to enjoy there.' But the young man was banished to Candia, whither he obediently retired. Pietro, the painter, was eventually permitted to return to the territory but not the town of Lucca. Dati surrounded himself with armed men, as was the custom of rich criminals on whose head a price was set. After wandering some time, he submitted, and took up his abode in Sardinia, whence he afterwards removed, by permission of the Signory, to France. There he died. With regard to the nuns, it seemed at first that the ends of justice would be defeated through the jealousies which divided the civil and ecclesiastical authorities in Lucca. The Bishop was absent, and his Vicar refused to institute a criminal process. Umilia remained at large in the convent, and even began a new intrigue with one Simo Menocchi. At last, in 1609, the Vicar prepared his indictment against the guilty nuns, and forwarded it to Rome. Their sentence was as follows: Sister Orizia condemned to incarceration for life, and loss of all her privileges; Sister Umilia, to the same penalties for a term of seven years; Sisters Paola, Cherubina, and Dionea, received a lighter punishment. Orizia, it may be mentioned, had written a letter with her own blood to some lover; but nothing leads us to suppose that she was equally guilty with Umilia, who had entered into the plot to poison Sister Calidonia. Umilia was duly immured, and bore her punishment until the year 1616, at which time the sentence expired. But she was not released for another two years; for she persistently refused to humble herself, or to request that liberation as a grace which was her due in justice. Nor would she submit to the shame of being seen about the convent without her monastic habit. Finally, in 1618, she obtained freedom and restoration to her privileges as a nun of S. Chiara. It may be added, as a last remark, that, when the convent was being set to rights, Umilia's portrait in the character of S. Ursula was ordered to be destroyed, or rendered fit for devout uses by alterations. Any nun who kept it in her cell incurred the penalty of excommunication. In what year Umilia died remains unknown. * * * * * _The Cenci_. Shifting the scene to Rome, we light upon a group of notable misdeeds enacted in the last half of the sixteenth century, each of which is well calculated to illustrate the conditions of society and manners at that epoch. It may be well to begin with the Cenci tragedy. In Shelley's powerful drama, in Guerrazzi's tedious novel, and Scolari's digest, the legend of Beatrice Cenci has long appealed to modern sympathy. The real facts, extracted from legal documents and public registers, reduce its poetry of horror to comparatively squalid prose.[196] Yet, shorn of romantic glamour, the bare history speaks significantly to a student of Italian customs. Monsignore Cristoforo Cenci, who died about the year 1562, was in holy orders, yet not a priest. One of the clerks of the Apostolic Camera, a Canon of S. Peter's, the titular incumbent of a Roman parish, and an occupant of minor offices about the Papal Court and Curia, he represented an epicene species, neither churchman nor layman, which the circumstances of ecclesiastical sovereignty rendered indispensable. Cristoforo belonged to a good family among that secondary Roman aristocracy which ranked beneath the princely feudatories and the Papal bastards. He accumulated large sums of money by maladministration of his official trusts, inherited the estates of two uncles, and bequeathed a colossal fortune to his son Francesco. This youth was the offspring of an illicit connection carried on between Monsignore Cenci and Beatrice Amias during the lifetime of that lady's husband. Upon the death of the husband the Monsignore obtained dispensation from his orders, married Beatrice, and legitimated his son, the inheritor of so much wealth. Francesco was born in 1549, and had therefore reached the age of thirteen when his father died. His mother, Beatrice, soon contracted a third matrimonial union; but during her guardianship of the boy she appeared before the courts, accused of having stolen clothing from his tutor's wardrobe. [Footnote 196: _Francesco Cenci e la sua Famiglia_. Per A. Bertolotti, Firenze, 1877.] Francesco Cenci disbursed a sum of 33,000 crowns to various public offices, in order to be allowed to enter unmolested into the enjoyment of his father's gains: 3,800 crowns of this sum went to the Chapter of S. Peter's.[197] He showed a certain precocity; for at the age of fourteen he owned an illegitimate child, and was accused of violence to domestics. In 1563 his family married him to Ersilia, a daughter of the noble Santa Croce house, who brought him a fair dowry. Francesco lived for twenty-one years with this lady, by whom he had twelve children. Upon her death he remained a widower for nine years, and in 1593 he married Lucrezia Petroni, widow of a Roman called Velli. Francesco's conduct during his first marriage was not without blame. Twice, at least, he had to pay fines for acts of brutality to servants; and once he was prosecuted for an attempt to murder a cousin, also named Francesco Cenci. On another occasion we find him outlawed from the States of the Church. Yet these offences were but peccadilloes in a wealthy Roman baron; and Francesco used to boast that, with money in his purse, he had no dread of justice. After the death of his wife Ersilia, his behavior grew more irregular. Three times between 1591 and 1594 he was sued for violent attacks on servants; and in February of the latter year he remained six months in prison on multiplied charges of unnatural vice. There was nothing even here to single Francesco Cenci out from other nobles of his age.[198] Scarcely a week passed in Rome without some affair of the sort involving outrage, being brought before the judges. Cardinals, prelates, princes, professional men and people of the lowest rank were alike implicated. The only difference between the culprits was that the rich bought themselves off, while the destitute were burned. Eleven poor Spaniards and Portuguese were sent to the stake in 1578 for an offence which Francesco Cenci compounded in 1594 by the payment of 100,000 crowns. After this warning and the loss of so much money, he grew more circumspect, married his second wife Lucrezia, and settled down to rule his family. His sons caused him considerable anxiety. Giacomo, the eldest, married against his father's will, and supported himself by forging obligations and raising money. Francesco's displeasure showed itself in several lawsuits, one of which accused Giacomo of having plotted against his life. The second son, Cristoforo, was assassinated by Paolo Bruno, a Corsican, in the prosecution of a love affair with the wife of a Trasteverine fisherman. The third son, Rocco, spent his time in street adventures, and on one occasion laid his hands on all the plate and portable property that he could carry off from his father's house. This young ruffian, less than twenty years of age, found a devoted friend in Monsignore Querro, a cousin of the family well placed at court, who assisted him in the burglary of the Cenci palace. Rocco was killed by Amilcare Orsini, a bastard of the Count of Pitigliano, in a brawl at night. The young men met, Cenci attended by three armed servants, Orsini by two. A single pass of rapiers, in which Rocco was pierced through the right eye, ended the affair. [Footnote 197: He was afterwards forced, in 1590, to disgorge a second sum of 25,000 crowns.] [Footnote 198: Prospero Farinaccio, the advocate of Cenci's murderers, was himself tried for this crime (Bertolotti, _op. cit._ p. 104). The curious story of the Spanish soldiers alluded to above will be found in Mutinelli, _Stor. Arc_. vol. i. p. 121. See the same work of Mutinelli, vol. i. p. 48, for a similar prosecution in Rome 1566; and vol. iv. p. 152 for another involving some hundred people of condition at Milan in 1679. Compare what Sarpi says about the Florentine merchants and Roman _cinedi_ in his _Letters_, date 1609, vol. i. p. 288. For the manners of the Neapolitans, _Vita di D. Pietro di Toledo (Arch. Stor. It_., vol. ix. p. 23). The most scandalous example of such vice in high quarters was given by Pietro de'Medici, one of Duke Cosimo's sons. _Galluzzi_, vol. v. p. 174, and Litta's pedigree of the Medici. The _Bandi Lucchesi_, ed. S. Bonghi, Bologna, 1863, pp. 377 381, treats the subject in full; and it has been discussed by Canello, _op. cit._ pp. 20-23. The _Artes Jesuiticae_, op. cit. Articles 62, 120, illustrate casuistry on the topic.] In addition to his vindictive persecution of his worthless eldest son, Francesco Cenci behaved with undue strictness to the younger, allowing them less money than befitted their station and treating them with a severity which contrasted comically with his own loose habits. The legend which represents him as an exceptionally wicked man, cruel for cruelty's sake and devoid of natural affection, receives some color from the facts. Yet these alone are not sufficient to justify its darker hues, while they amply prove that Francesco's children gave him grievous provocation. The discontents of this ill-governed family matured into rebellion; and in 1598 it was decided on removing the old Cenci by murder. His second wife Lucrezia, his eldest son Giacomo, his daughter Beatrice, and the youngest son Bernardo, were implicated in the crime. It was successfully carried out at the Rocca di Petrella in the Abruzzi on the night of September 9. Two hired _bravi_, Olimpio Calvetti and Marzio Catalani, entered the old man's bedroom, drove a nail into his head, and flung the corpse out from a gallery, whence it was alleged that he had fallen by accident. Six days after this assassination Giacomo and his brothers took out letters both at Rome and in the realm of Naples for the administration of their father's property; nor does suspicion seem for some time to have fallen upon them. It awoke at Petrella in November, the feudatory of which fief, Marzio Colonna, informed the government of Naples that proceedings ought to be taken against the Cenci and their cut-throats. Accordingly, on December 10, a ban was published against Olimpio and Marzio. Olimpio met his death at an inn door in a little village called Cantalice. Three desperate fellows, at the instigation of Giacomo de'Cenci and Monsignore Querro, surprised him there. But Marzio fell into the hands of justice, and his evidence caused the immediate arrest of the Cenci. It appears that they were tortured and that none of them denied the accusation; so that their advocates could only plead extenuating circumstances. To this fact may possibly be due the legend of Beatrice. In order to mitigate the guilt of parricide, Prospero Farinacci, who conducted her defense, established a theory of enormous cruelty and unspeakable outrages committed on her person by her father. With the same object in view, he tried to make out that Bernardo was half-witted. There is quite sufficient extant evidence to show that Bernardo was a young man of average intelligence; and with regard to Beatrice, nothing now remains to corroborate Farinaccio's hypothesis of incest. She was not a girl of sixteen, as the legend runs, but a woman of twenty-two;[199] and the codicils to her will render it nearly certain that she had given birth to an illegitimate son, for whose maintenance she made elaborate and secret provisions. That the picture ascribed to Guido Reni in the Barberini palace is not a portrait of Beatrice in prison, appears sufficiently proved. Guido did not come to Rome until 1608, nine years after her death; and catalogues of the Barberini gallery, compiled in 1604 and 1623, contain no mention either of a painting by Guido or of Beatrice's portrait. The Cenci were lodged successively in the prisons of Torre di Nona, Savelli, and S. Angelo. They occupied wholesome apartments and were allowed the attendance of their own domestics. That their food was no scanty dungeon fare appears from the _menus_ of dinners and suppers supplied to them, which include fish, flesh, fruit salad, and snow to cool the water. In spite of powerful influence at court, Clement VIII. at last resolved to exercise strict justice on the Cenci. He was brought to this decision by a matricide perpetrated in cold blood at Subiaco, on September 5, 1599. Paolo di S. Croce, a relative of the Cenci, murdered his mother Costanza in her bed, with the view of obtaining property over which she had control. The sentence issued a few days after this event. Giacomo was condemned to be torn to pieces by red hot pincers, and finished with a _coup de grâce_ from the hangman's hammer. Lucrezia and Beatrice received the slighter sentence of decapitation; while Bernardo, in consideration of his youth, was let off with the penalty of being present at the execution of his kinsfolk, after which he was to be imprisoned for a year and then sent to the galleys for life. Their property was confiscated to the Camera Apostolica. These punishments were carried out.[200] But Bernardo, after working at Cività Vecchia until 1606, obtained release and lived in banishment till his death in 1627. Monsignor Querro, for his connivance in the whole affair, was banished to the island of Malta, whence he returned at some date before the year 1633 to Rome, having expiated his guilt by long and painful exile. In this abstract of the Cenci tragedy, I have followed the documents published by Signor Bertolotti. They are at many points in startling contradiction to the legend, which is founded on MS. accounts compiled at no distant period after the events. One of these was translated by Shelley; another, differing in some particulars, was translated by De Stendhal. Both agree in painting that lurid portrait of Francesco Cenci which Shelley has animated with the force of a great dramatist.[201] Unluckily, no copy of the legal instructions upon which the trial was conducted is now extant. In the absence of this all-important source of information, it would be unsafe to adopt Bertolotti's argument, that the legend calumniates Francesco in order to exculpate Beatrice, without some reservation. There is room for the belief that facts adduced in evidence may have partly justified the prevalent opinion of Beatrice's infamous persecution by her father. [Footnote 199: De Stendhal's MS. authority says she was sixteen, Shelley's that she was twenty.] [Footnote 200: De Stendhal's MS. describes how Giacomo was torn by pincers; Shelley's says that this part of the sentence was remitted.] _The Massimi_. The tragedy of the Cenci, about which so much has been written in consequence of the supposed part taken in it by Beatrice, seems to me common-place compared with that of the Massimi.[202] [Footnote 201: The author of De Stendhal's MS. professes to have known the old Cenci, and gives a definite description of his personal appearance.] [Footnote 202: Litta supplies the facts related above.] Whether this family really descended from the Roman Fabii matters but little. In the sixteenth century they ranked, as they still rank, among the proudest nobles of the Eternal City. Lelio, the head of the house, had six stalwart sons by his first wife, Girolama Savelli. They were conspicuous for their gigantic stature and herculean strength. After their mother's death in 1571, their father became enamoured of a woman inferior at all points, in birth, breeding, and antecedents, to a person of his quality. She was a certain Eufrosina, who had been married to a man called Corberio. The great Marc Antonio Colonna murdered this husband, and brought the wife to Rome as his own mistress. Lelio Massimo committed the grand error of so loving her, after she had served Colonna's purpose, that he married her. This was an insult to the honor of the house, which his sons could not or would not bear. On the night of her wedding, in 1585, they refused to pay her their respects; and on the next morning, five of them entered her apartments and shot her dead. Only one of the six sons, Pompeo Massimo, bore no share in this assassination. Him, the father, Lelio, blessed; but he solemnly cursed the other five. After the lapse of a few weeks, he followed his wife to the grave with a broken heart, leaving this imprecation unrecalled. Pompeo grew up to continue the great line of Massimo. But disaster fell on each of his five brothers, the flower of Roman youth, exulting in their blood, and insolence, and vigor.--The first of them, Ottavio, was killed by a cannon-ball at sea in honorable combat with the Turk. Another, Girolamo, who sought refuge in France, was shot down in an ambuscade while pursuing his amours with a gentle lady. A third, Alessandro, died under arms before Paris in the troops of General Farnese. A fourth, Luca, was imprisoned at Rome for his share of the step-mother's murder, but was released on the plea that he had avenged the wounded honor of his race. He died, however, poisoned by his own brother, Marcantonio, in 1599.[203] Marcantonio was arrested on suspicion and imprisoned in Torre di Nona, where he confessed his guilt. He was shortly afterwards beheaded on the little square before the bridge of S. Angelo. _Vittoria Accoramboni_. Next in order, I shall take the story of Vittoria Accoramboni. It has been often told already,[204] yet it combines so many points of interest bearing upon the social life of the Italians in my period, that to omit it would be to sacrifice the most important document bearing on the matter of this chapter. As the Signora di Monza and Lucrezia Buonvisi help us to understand the secret history of families and convents, so Vittoria Accoramboni introduces us to that of courts. [Footnote 203: This fratricide, concurring with the matricide of S. Croce, contributed to the rigor with which the Cenci parricide was punished in that year of Roman crimes.] [Footnote 204: _The White Devil_, a tragedy by John Webster, London, 1612; De Stendhal's _Chroniques et Nouvelles_, Vittoria Accoramboni, Paris 1855; _Vittoria Accoramboni_, D. Gnoli, Firenze, 1870; _Italian Byways_, by J.A. Symonds, London, 1883. The greater part of follows above is extracted from my _Italian Byways_.] It will be noticed how the same machinery of lawless nobles and profligate _bravi_, acting in concert with bold women, is brought into play throughout the tragedies which form the substance of our present inquiry. Vittoria was born in 1557, of a noble but impoverished family, at Gubbio among the hills of Umbria. Her biographers are rapturous in their praises of her beauty, grace, and exceeding charm of manner. Not only was her person most lovely, but her mind shone at first with all the amiable luster of a modest, innocent, and winning youth. Her father, Claudio Accoramboni, removed to Rome, where his numerous children were brought up under the care of their mother, Tarquinia, an ambitious woman, bent on rehabilitating the decayed honors of her house. Here Vittoria in early girlhood soon became the fashion. She exercised an irresistible influence over all who saw her, and many were the offers of marriage she refused. At length a suitor appeared whose condition and connection with the Roman ecclesiastical nobility rendered him acceptable in the eyes of the Accoramboni. Francesco Peretti was welcomed as the successful candidate for Vittoria's hand. His mother, Camilla, was sister to Felice, Cardinal of Montalto; and her son, Francesco Mignucci, had changed both of his names to Felice Peretti in compliment to this illustrious relative.[205] It was the nephew, then, of the future Sixtus V., that Vittoria Accoramboni married on June 28, 1573. For a short while the young couple lived happily together. According to some accounts of their married life, the bride secured the favor of her powerful uncle-in-law, who indulged her costly fancies to the full. It is, however, more probable that the Cardinal Montalto treated her follies with a grudging parsimony; for we soon find the Peretti household hopelessly involved in debt. Discord, too, arose between Vittoria and her husband on the score of levity in her behavior; and it was rumored that even during the brief space of their union she had proved a faithless wife. Yet she contrived to keep Francesco's confidence, and it is certain that her family profited by their connection with the Peretti. Of her six brothers, Mario, the eldest, was a favorite courtier of the great Cardinal d'Este. Ottavio was in orders, and through Montalto's influence obtained the See of Fossombrone. The same eminent protector placed Scipione in the service of the Cardinal Sforza. Camillo, famous for his beauty and his courage, followed the fortunes of Filibert of Savoy, and died in France. Flaminio was still a boy, dependent, as the sequel of this story shows, upon his sister's destiny. [Footnote 205: I find a Felice Peretti mentioned in the will of Giacomo Cenci condemned in 1597. But this was after the death of this Peretti, whom I shall continue to call Francesco.] Of Marcello, the second in age and most important in the action of this tragedy, it is needful to speak with more particularity. He was young, and, like the rest of his breed, singularly handsome--so handsome, indeed, that he is said to have gained an infamous ascendency over the great Duke of Bracciano, whose privy chamberlain he had become. Marcello was an outlaw for the murder of Matteo Pallavicino, the brother of the Cardinal of that name. This did not, however, prevent the chief of the Orsini house from making him his favorite and confidential friend. Marcello, who seems to have realized in actual life the worst vices of those Roman courtiers described for us by Aretino, very soon conceived the plan of exalting his own fortunes by trading on his sister's beauty. He worked upon the Duke of Bracciano's mind so cleverly that he brought this haughty prince to the point of an insane passion for Peretti's young wife; and meanwhile he so contrived to inflame the ambition of Vittoria and her mother, Tarquinia, that both were prepared to dare the worst of crimes in expectation of a dukedom. The game was a difficult one to play. Not only had Francesco Peretti first to be murdered, but the inequality of birth and wealth and station between Vittoria and the Duke of Bracciano rendered a marriage almost impossible. It was also an affair of delicacy to stimulate without satisfying the Duke s passion. Yet Marcello did not despair. The stakes were high enough to justify great risks; and all he put in peril was his sister's honor, the fame of the Accoramboni, and the favor of Montalto. Vittoria, for her part, trusted in her power to ensnare and secure the noble prey both had in view. Paolo Giordano Orsini, born about the year 1637, was reigning Duke of Bracciano. Among Italian princes he ranked almost upon a par with the Dukes of Urbino; and his family, by its alliances, was more illustrious than any of that time in Italy. He was a man of gigantic stature, prodigious corpulence, and marked personal daring; agreeable in manners, but subject to uncontrollable fits of passion, and incapable of self-restraint when crossed in any whim or fancy. Upon the habit of his body it is needful to insist, in order that the part he played in this tragedy of intrigue, crime, and passion may be well defined. He found it difficult to procure a charger equal to his weight, and he was so fat that a special dispensation relieved him from the duty of genuflexion in the Papal presence. Though lord of a large territory, yielding princely revenues, he labored under heavy debts; for no great noble of the period lived more splendidly, with less regard for his finances. In the politics of that age and country, Paolo Giordano leaned towards France. Yet he was a grandee of Spain, and had played a distinguished part in the battle of Lepanto. Now, the Duke of Bracciano was a widower. He had been married in 1553 to Isabella de'Medici, daughter of the Grand, Duke Cosimo, sister of Francesco, Bianca Capello's lover, and of the Cardinal Ferdinando. Suspicion of adultery with Troilo Orsini had fallen on Isabella; and her husband, with the full concurrence of her brothers, removed her in 1576 from this world by poison.[206] No one thought the worse of Bracciano for this murder of his wife. In those days of abandoned vice and intricate villany, certain points of honor were maintained with scrupulous fidelity. A wife's adultery was enough to justify the most savage and licentious husband in an act of semi-judicial vengeance; and the shame she brought upon his head was shared by the members of her own house, so that they stood by, consenting to her death. Isabella, it may be said, left one son, Virginio, who became, in due time, Duke of Bracciano. It appears that in the year 1581, four years after Vittoria's marriage, the Duke of Bracciano satisfied Marcello of his intention to make her his wife, and of his willingness to countenance Francesco Peretti's murder. Marcello, feeling sure of his game, now introduced the Duke in private to his sister, and induced her to overcome any natural repugnance she may have felt for the unwieldy and gross lover. Having reached this point, it was imperative to push matters quickly on toward matrimony. [Footnote 206: The balance of probability leans against Isabella in this affair. At the licentious court of the Medici she lived with unpardonable freedom. Troilo Orsini was himself assassinated in Paris by Bracciano's orders a few years afterwards.] But how should the unfortunate Francesco be entrapped? They caught him in a snare of peculiar atrocity, by working on the kindly feelings which his love for Vittoria had caused him to extend to all the Accoramboni. Marcello, the outlaw, was her favorite brother, and Marcello at that time lay in hiding, under the suspicion of more than ordinary crime, beyond the walls of Rome. Late in the evening of April 18, while the Peretti family were retiring to bed, a messenger from Marcello arrived, entreating Francesco to repair at once to Monte Cavallo. Marcello had affairs of the utmost importance to communicate, and begged his brother-in-law not to fail him at a grievous pinch. The letter containing this request was borne by one Dominico d'Aquaviva, _alias_ Il Mancino, a confederate of Vittoria's waiting-maid. This fellow, like Marcello, was an outlaw; but when he ventured into Rome he frequented Peretti's house, and he had made himself familiar with its master as a trusty bravo. Neither in the message, therefore, nor in the messenger was there much to rouse suspicion. The time, indeed, was oddly chosen, and Marcello had never made a similar appeal on any previous occasion. Yet his necessities might surely have obliged him to demand some more than ordinary favor from a brother. Francesco immediately made himself ready to start out, armed only with his sword and attended by a single servant. It was in vain that his wife and his mother reminded him of the dangers of the night, the loneliness of Monte Cavallo, its ruinous palaces and robber-haunted caves. He was resolved to undertake the adventure, and went forth, never to return. As he ascended the hill, he fell to earth, shot with three harquebusses. His body was afterwards found on Monte Cavallo, stabbed through and through, without a trace that could identify the murderers. Only, in the course of subsequent investigations, Il Mancino (February 24, 1582) made the following statements:--That Vittoria's mother, assisted by the waiting woman, had planned the trap; that Marchionne of Gubbio and Paolo Barca of Bracciano, two of the Duke's men, had despatched the victim. Marcello himself, it seems, had come from Bracciano to conduct the whole affair. Suspicion fell immediately upon Vittoria and her kindred, together with the Duke of Bracciano; nor was this diminished when the Accoramboni, fearing the pursuit of justice, took refuge in a villa of the Duke's at Magnanapoli a few days after the murder. A cardinal's nephew, even in those troublous times, was not killed without some noise being made about the matter. Accordingly, Pope Gregory XIII. began to take measures for discovering the authors of the crime. Strange to say, however, the Cardinal Montalto, notwithstanding the great love he was known to bear his nephew, begged that the investigation might be dropped. The coolness with which he first received the news of Francesco Peretti's death, the dissimulation with which he met the Pope's expression of sympathy in a full consistory, his reserve while greeting friends on ceremonial visits of condolence, and, more than all, the self-restraint he showed in the presence of the Duke of Bracciano, impressed the society of Rome with the belief that he was of a singularly moderate and patient temper. It was thought that the man who could so tamely submit to his nephew's murder, and suspend the arm of justice when already raised for vengeance, must prove a mild and indulgent ruler. When, therefore, in the fifth year after this event, Montalto was elected Pope, men ascribed his elevation in no small measure to his conduct at the present crisis. Some, indeed, attributed his extraordinary moderation and self-control to the right cause. '_Veramente costui è un gran frate_!' was Gregory's remark at the close of the consistory when Montalto begged him to let the matter of Peretti's murder rest. '_Of a truth, that fellow is a consummate hypocrite_!' How accurate this judgment was, appeared when Sixtus V. assumed the reins of power. The priest who, as monk and cardinal, had smiled on Bracciano, though he knew him to be his nephew's assassin, now, as Pontiff and sovereign, bade the chief of the Orsini purge his palace and dominions of the scoundrels he was wont to harbor, adding significantly, that if the Cardinal Felice Peretti forgave what had been done against him in a private station, the same man would exact uttermost vengeance for disobedience to the will of Sixtus. The Duke of Bracciano judged it best, after that warning, to withdraw from Rome. Francesco Peretti had been murdered on April 16, 1581. Sixtus V. was proclaimed on April 24, 1585. In this interval Vittoria underwent a series of extraordinary perils and adventures. First of all, she had been secretly married to the Duke in his gardens of Magnanapoli at the end of April 1581. That is to say, Marcello and she secured their prize, as well as they were able, the moment after Francesco had been removed by murder. But no sooner had the marriage become known, than the Pope, moved by the scandal it created, no less than by the urgent instance of the Orsini and Medici, declared it void. After some while spent in vain resistance, Bracciano submitted, and sent Vittoria back to her father's house. By an order issued under Gregory's own hand, she was next removed to the prison of Corte Savella, thence to the monastery of S. Cecilia in Trastevere, and finally to the Castle of S. Angelo. Here at the end of December 1581, she was put on her trial for the murder of her first husband. In prison she seems to have borne herself bravely, arraying her beautiful person in delicate attire, entertaining visitors, exacting from her friends the honors due to a duchess, and sustaining the frequent examinations to which she was submitted with a bold, proud front. In the middle of the month of July her constancy was sorely tried by the receipt of a letter in the Duke's own handwriting, formally renouncing his marriage. It was only by a lucky accident that she was prevented on this occasion from committing suicide. The Papal court meanwhile kept urging her either to retire to a monastery or to accept another husband. She firmly refused to embrace the religious life, and declared that she was already lawfully united to a living husband, the Duke of Bracciano. It seemed impossible to deal with her; and at last, on November 8, she was released from prison under the condition of retirement to Gubbio. The Duke had lulled his enemies to rest by the pretense of yielding to their wishes. But Marcello was continually beside him at Bracciano, where we read of a mysterious Greek enchantress whom he hired to brew love-philters for the furtherance of his ambitious plots. Whether Bracciano was stimulated by the brother's arguments or by the witch's potions need not be too curiously questioned. But it seems in any case certain that absence inflamed his passion instead of cooling it. Accordingly, in September 1583, under the excuse of a pilgrimage to Loreto, he contrived to meet Vittoria at Trevi, whence he carried her in triumph to Bracciano. Here he openly acknowledged her as his wife, installing her with all the splendor due to a sovereign duchess. On October 10 following, he once more performed the marriage ceremony in the principal church of his fief; and in the January of 1584 he brought her openly to Rome. This act of contumacy to the Pope, both as feudal superior and as Supreme Pontiff, roused all the former opposition to his marriage. Once more it was declared invalid. Once more the Duke pretended to give way. But at this juncture Gregory died; and while the conclave was sitting for the election of the new Pope, he resolved to take the law into his own hands, and to ratify his union with Vittoria by a third and public marriage in Rome. On the morning of April 24, 1585, their nuptials were accordingly once more solemnized in the Orsini palace. Just one hour after the ceremony, as appears from the marriage-register, the news arrived of Cardinal Montalto's election to the Papacy. Vittoria lost no time in paying her respects to Camilla, sister of the new Pope, her former mother-in-law. The Duke visited Sixtus V. in state to compliment him on his elevation. But the reception which both received proved that Rome was no safe place for them to live in. They consequently made up their minds for flight. A chronic illness from which Bracciano had lately suffered furnished a sufficient pretext. This seems to have been something of the nature of a cancerous ulcer, which had to be treated by the application of raw meat to open sores. Such details are only excusable in the present narrative on the ground that Bracciano's disease considerably affects our moral judgment of the woman who could marry a man thus physically tainted, and with her husband's blood upon his hands. At any rate, the Duke's _lupa_ justified his trying what change of air, together with the sulphur waters of Abano, would do for him. The Duke and Duchess arrived in safety at Venice, where they had engaged the Dandolo palace on the Zueca. There they only stayed a few days, removing to Padua, where they had hired palaces of the Foscari in the Arena and a house called De'Cavalli. At Salò, also, on the Lake of Garda, they provided themselves with fit dwellings for their princely state and their large retinues, intending to divide their time between the pleasures which the capital of luxury afforded and the simpler enjoyments of the most beautiful of the Italian lakes. But _la gioia dei profani è un fumo passaggier_. Paolo Giordano Orsini, Duke of Bracciano, died suddenly at Salò on November 10, 1585, leaving the young and beautiful Vittoria helpless among enemies. What was the cause of his death? It is not possible to give a clear and certain answer. We have seen that he suffered from a horrible and voracious disease, which after his removal from Rome seems to have made progress. Yet though this malady may well have cut his life short, suspicion of poison was not, in the circumstances, quite unreasonable. The Grand Duke of Tuscany, the Pope, and the Orsini family were all interested in his death. Anyhow, he had time to make a will in Vittoria's favor, leaving her large sums of money, jewels, goods, and houses--enough, in fact, to support her ducal dignity with splendor. His hereditary fiefs and honors passed by right to his only son, Virginio. Vittoria, accompanied by her brother, Marcello, and the whole court of Bracciano, repaired at once to Padua, where she was soon after joined by Flaminio, and by the Prince Lodovico Orsini. Lodovico Orsini assumed the duty of settling Vittoria's affairs under her dead husband's will. In life he had been the duke's ally as well as relative. His family pride was deeply wounded by what seemed to him an ignoble, as it was certainly an unequal, marriage. He now showed himself the relentless enemy of the Duchess. Disputes arose between them as to certain details, which seem to have been legally decided in the widow's favor. On the night of December 22, however, forty men, disguised in black and fantastically tricked out to elude detection, surrounded her palace. Through the long galleries and chambers hung with arras, eight of them went, bearing torches, in search of Vittoria and her brothers. Marcello escaped, having fled the house under suspicion of the murder of one of his own followers. Flaminio, the innocent and young, was playing on his lute and singing _Miserere_ in the great hall of the palace. The murderers surprised him with a shot from one of their harquebusses. He ran, wounded in the shoulder, to his sister's room. She, it is said, was telling her beads before retiring for the night. When three of the assassins entered, she knelt before the crucifix, and there they stabbed her in the left breast, turning the poignard in the wound, and asking her with savage insults if her heart was pierced. Her last words were, 'Jesus, I pardon you.' Then they turned to Flaminio, and left him pierced with seventy-four stiletto wounds. The authorities of Padua identified the bodies of Vittoria and Flaminio, and sent at once for further instructions to Venice. Meanwhile it appears that both corpses were laid out in one open coffin for the people to contemplate. The palace and the church of the Eremitani, to which they had been removed, were crowded all through the following day with a vast concourse of the Paduans. Vittoria's dead body, pale yet sweet to look upon, the golden hair flowing around her marble shoulders, the red wound in her breast uncovered, the stately limbs arrayed in satin as she died, maddened the populace with its surpassing loveliness. '_Dentibus fremebant_.' says the chronicler, when they beheld that gracious lady stiff in death. And of a truth, if her corpse was actually exposed in the chapel of the Eremitani, as we have some right to assume, the spectacle must have been impressive. Those grim gaunt frescoes of Mantegna looked down on her as she lay stretched upon her bier, solemn and calm, and, but for pallor, beautiful as though in life. No wonder that the folk forgot her first husband's murder, her less than comely marriage to the second. It was enough for them that this flower of surpassing loveliness had been cropped by villains in its bloom. Gathering in knots around the torches placed beside the corpse, they vowed vengeance against the Orsini; for suspicion, not unnaturally, fell on Prince Lodovico. The Prince was arrested and interrogated before the court of Padua. He entered their hall attended by forty armed men, responded haughtily to their questions and demanded free passage for his courier to Virginio Orsini, then at Florence. To this demand the court acceded; but the precaution of waylaying the courier and searching his person was very wisely taken. Besides some formal despatches which announced Vittoria's assassination, they found in this man's boot a compromising letter, declaring Virginio a party to the crime, and asserting that Lodovico had with his own poignard killed their victim. Padua placed itself in a state of defense, and prepared to besiege the palace of Prince Lodovico, who also got himself in readiness for battle. Engines, culverins, and fire-brands were directed against the barricades which he had raised. The militia was called out and the Brenta was strongly guarded. Meanwhile the Senate of S. Mark had despatched the Avogadore, Aloisio Bragadin, with full power, to the scene of action. Lodovico Orsini, it may be mentioned, was in their service: and had not this affair intervened, he would in a few weeks have entered on his duties as Governor for Venice of Corfu. The bombardment of Orsini's palace began on Christmas Day. Three of the Prince's men were killed in the first assault; and since the artillery brought to bear upon him threatened speedy ruin to the house and its inhabitants, he made up his mind to surrender. 'The Prince Luigi,' writes one chronicler of these events, 'walked attired in brown, his poignard at his side, and his cloak slung elegantly under his arm. The weapon being taken from him he leaned upon a balustrade, and began to trim his nails with a little pair of scissors he happened to find there.' On the 27th he was strangled in prison by order of the Venetian Republic. His body was carried to be buried, according to his own will, in the church of S. Maria dell'Orto at Venice. Two of his followers were hanged next day. Fifteen were executed on the following Monday; two of these were quartered alive; one of them the Conte Paganello, who confessed to having slain Vittoria, had his left side probed with his own cruel dagger. Eight were condemned to the galleys, six to prison, and eleven were acquitted. Thus ended this terrible affair, which brought, it is said, good credit, and renown to the lords of Venice through all nations of the civilized world. It only remains to be added that Marcello Accoramboni was surrendered to the Pope's vengeance and beheaded at Ancona, where also his mysterious accomplice, the Greek sorceress, perished. _The Duchess of Palliano_. It was the custom of Italians in the 16th and 17th centuries to compose and circulate narratives of tragic or pathetic incidents in real life. They were intended to satisfy curiosity in an age when newspapers and law reports did not exist, and also to suit the taste of ladies and gentlemen versed in Boccaccio and Bandello. Resembling the London letters of our ancestors, they passed from hand to hand, rarely found their way into the printing office, and when they had performed their task were left to moulder in the dust of bookcases. The private archives of noble families abound in volumes of such tales, and some may still be found upon the shelves of public libraries. These MS. collections furnish a mine of inexhaustible riches to the student of manners. When checked by legal documents, they frequently reveal carelessness, inaccuracy, or even willful distortion of facts. The genius of the Novella, so paramount in popular Italian literature of that epoch, presided over their composition, adding _intreccio_ to disconnected facts, heightening sympathy by the suggestion of romantic motives, turning the heroes or the heroines of their adventures into saints, and blackening the faces of the villains. Yet these stories, pretending to be veracious and aiming at information no less than entertainment, present us with even a more vivid picture of customs than the Novelle. By their truthful touches of landscape and incident painting, by their unconscious revelation of contemporary sentiment in dialogue and ethical analysis of motives, they enable us to give form and substance to the drier details of the law-courts. One of these narratives I propose to condense from the transcript made by Henri Beyle, for the sake of the light it throws upon the tragedy of the Caraffa family.[207] It opens with an account of Paul IV.'s ascent to power and a description of his nephews. Don Giovanni, the eldest son of the Count of Montorio, was married to Violante de Cardona, sister of the Count Aliffe. Paul invested him with the Duchy of Palliano, which he wrested from Marc Antonio Colonna. Don Carlo, the second son, who had passed his life as a soldier, entered the Sacred College; and Don Antonio, the third, was created Marquis of Montebello. The cardinal, as prime minister, assumed the reins of government in Rome. The Duke of Palliano disposed of the Papal soldiery. The Marquis of Montebello, commanding the guard of the palace, excluded or admitted persons at his pleasure. Surrounded by these nephews, Paul saw only with their eyes, heard only what they whispered to him, and unwittingly lent his authority to their lawlessness. They exercised an unlimited tyranny in Rome, laying hands on property and abusing their position to gratify their lusts. No woman who had the misfortune to please them was safe; and the cells of convents were as little respected as the palaces of gentlefolk. To arrive at justice was impossible; for the three brothers commanded all avenues, civil, ecclesiastical, and military, by which the Pope could be approached. Violante, Duchess of Palliano, was a young woman distinguished for her beauty no less than for her Spanish pride. She had received a thoroughly Italian education; could recite the sonnets of Petrarch and the stanzas of Ariosto by heart, and repeated the tales of Ser Giovanni and other novelists with an originality that lent new charm to their style.[208] Her court was a splendid one, frequented by noble youths and gentlewomen of the best blood in Naples. Two of these require particular notice: Diana Brancaccio, a relative of the Marchioness of Montebello; and Marcello Capecce, a young man of exceptional beauty. Diana was a woman of thirty years, hot-tempered, tawny-haired, devotedly in love with Domiziano Fornari, a squire of the Marchese di Montebello's household. Marcello had conceived one of those bizarre passions for the Duchess, in which an almost religious adoration was mingled with audacity, persistence, and aptitude for any crime. The character of his mistress gave him but little hope. Though profoundly wounded by her husband's infidelities, insulted in her pride by the presence of his wanton favorites under her own roof, and assailed by the importunities of the most brilliant profligates in Rome, she held a haughty course, above suspicion, free from taint or stain, Marcello could do nothing but sigh at a distance and watch his opportunity. [Footnote 207: 'La Duchesse de Palliano,' in _Chroniques et Nouvelles_, De Stendhal (Henri Beyle).] [Footnote 208: This touch shows what were then considered the accomplishments of a noble woman.] At this point, the narrator seems to sacrifice historical accuracy for the sake of combining his chief characters in one intrigue.[209] [Footnote 209: It was a street-brawl, in which the Cardinal Monte played an indecent part, that finally aroused the anger of Paul IV. De Stendhal's MS. shifts the chief blame on to the shoulders of Cardinal Caraffa, who indeed appears to have been in the habit of keeping bad company.] Though he assumes the tone of a novelist rather than a chronicler, there has hitherto been nothing but what corresponds to fact in his description of the Caraffa Cabal. He now explains their downfall; and opens the subject after this fashion. At the beginning of the year 1559, the Pope's confessor ventured to bring before his notice the scandalous behavior of the Papal nephews. Paul at first refused to credit this report. But an incident happened which convinced him of its truth. On the feast of the Circumcision--a circumstance which aggravated matters in the eyes of a strictly pious Pontiff--Andrea Lanfranchi, secretary to the Duke of Palliano, invited the Cardinal Caraffa to a banquet. One of the loveliest and most notorious courtesans of Rome, Martuccia, was also present; and it so happened that Marcello Capecce at this epoch believed he had more right to her favors than any other man in the capital. That night he sought her in her lodgings, pursued her up and down, and learned at last that she was supping with Lanfranchi and the Cardinal. Attended by armed men, he made his way to Lanfranchi's house, entered the banquet room, and ordered Martuccia to come away with him at once. The Cardinal, who was dressed in secular habit, rose, and, drawing his sword, protested against this high-handed proceeding. Martuccia, by favor of their host, was his partner that evening. Upon this, Marcello called his men; but when they recognized the Cardinal nephew, they refused to employ violence. In the course of the quarrel, Martuccia made her escape, followed by Marcello, Caraffa, and the company. There ensued a street-brawl between the young man and the Cardinal; but no blood was spilt, and the incident need have had but slight importance, if the Duke of Palliano had not thought it necessary to place Lanfranchi and Marcello under arrest. They were soon released, because it became evident that the chief scandal would fall upon the Cardinal, who had clearly been scuffling and crossing swords in a dispute about a common prostitute. The three Caraffa brothers resolved on hushing the affair up. But it was too late. The Pope heard something, which sufficed to confirm his confessor's warnings; and on January 27, he pronounced the famous sentence on his nephews. The Cardinal was banished to Cività Lavinia, the Duke to Soriano, the Marquis to Montebello. The Duchess took up her abode with her court in the little village of Gallese. It was here that the episode of her love and tragic end ensued. Violante found herself almost alone in a simple village among mountains, half-way between Rome and Orvieto, surrounded indeed by lovely forest scenery, but deprived of all the luxuries and entertainments to which she was accustomed. Marcello and Diana were at her side, the one eager to pursue his hitherto hopeless suit, and the other to further it for her own profit. One day Marcello committed the apparent imprudence of avowing his passion. The Duchess rejected him with scorn, but disclosed the fact to Diana, who calculated that if she could contrive to compromise her mistress, she might herself be able to secure the end she had in view of marrying Domiziano. In the solitude of those long days of exile the waiting-woman returned again and again to the subject of Marcello's devotion, his beauty, his noble blood and his manifold good qualities. She arranged meetings in the woods between the Duchess and her lover, and played her cards so well that during the course of the fine summer weeks Violante yielded to Marcello. Diana now judged it wise to press her own suit forward with Domiziano. But this cold-blooded fellow knew that he was no fit match for a relative of the Marchioness of Montebello. He felt, besides, but little sentiment for his fiery _innamorata_. Dreading the poignard of the Caraffas, if he should presume to marry her, he took the prudent course of slipping away in disguise from the port of Nettuno. Diana maddened by disappointment, flew to the conclusion that the Duchess had planned her lover's removal, and resolved to take a cruel revenge. The Duke of Palliano was residing at Soriano, only a few miles from Gallese. To bring him secret information of his wife's intrigue was a matter of no difficulty. At first he refused to believe her report. Had not Violante resisted the seductions of all Rome, and repelled the advances even of the Duke of Guise? At last she contrived to introduce him into the bedroom of the Duchess at a moment when Marcello was also there. The circumstances were not precisely indicative of guilt. The sun had only just gone down behind the hills; a maid was in attendance; and the Duchess lay in bed, penciling some memoranda. Yet they were sufficient to arouse the Duke's anger. He disarmed Marcello and removed him to the prisons of Soriano, leaving Violante under strict guard at Gallese. The Duke of Palliano had no intention of proclaiming his jealousy or of suggesting his dishonor, until he had extracted complete proof. He therefore pretended to have arrested Marcello on the suspicion of an attempt to poison him. Some large toads, bought by the young man at a high price two or three months earlier, lent color to this accusation. Meanwhile the investigation was conducted as secretly as possible by the Duke in person, his brother-in-law Count Aliffe, and a certain Antonio Torando, with the sanction of the Podestà of Soriano. After examining several witnesses, they became convinced of Violante's guilt. Marcello was put to the torture, and eventually confessed. The Duke stabbed him to death with his own hands, and afterwards cut Diana's throat for her share in the business. Both bodies were thrown into the prison-sewer. Meanwhile Paul IV. had retained the young Cardinal, Alfonso Caraffa, son of the Marquis of Montebello, near his person. This prelate thought it right to inform his grand-uncle of the occurrences at Soriano. The Pope only answered: 'And the Duchess? What have they done with her?' Paul IV. died in August, and the Conclave, which ended in the election of Pius IV., was opened. During the important intrigues of that moment, Cardinal Alfonso found time to write to the Duke, imploring him not to leave so dark a stain upon his honor, but to exercise justice on a guilty wife. On August 28, 1559, the Duke sent the Count Aliffe, and Don Leonardo del Cardine, with a company of soldiers to Gallese. They told Violante that they had arrived to kill her, and offered her the offices of two Franciscan monks. Before her death, the Duchess repeatedly insisted on her innocence, and received the Sacrament from the hands of Friar Antonio of Pavia. The Count, her brother, then proceeded to her execution. She covered her eyes with a handkerchief, which she, with perfect _sang froid_, drew somewhat lower in order to shut his sight out. Then he adjusted the cord to her neck; but, finding that it would not exactly fit, he removed it and walked away. The Duchess raised the bandage from her face, and said: "Well! what are we about then?" He answered: "The cord was not quite right, and I am going to get another, in order that you may not suffer." When he returned to the room, he arranged the handkerchief again, fixed the cord, turned the wand in the knot behind her neck, and strangled her. The whole incident, on the part of the Duchess, passed in the tone of ordinary conversation. She died like a good Christian, frequently repeating the words _Credo, Credo_. Contrary to the usual custom and opinion of the age, this murder of an erring wife and sister formed part of the accusations brought against the Duke of Palliano and Count Aliffe. It will be remembered that they were executed in Rome, together with the elder Cardinal Caraffa, during the pontificate of Pius IV. _Wife-Murders._ It would be difficult to give any adequate notion of the frequency of wife-murders at this epoch in the higher ranks of society. I will, however, mention a few, noticed by me in the course of study. Donna Pellegrina, daughter of Bianca Capello before her marriage with the Grand Duke of Tuscany, was killed at Bologna in 1598 by four masked assassins at the order of her husband, Count Ulisse Bentivoglio. She had been suspected or convicted of adultery; and the Court of Florence sent word to the Count, 'che essendo vero quanto scriveva, facesse quello che conveniva a cavaliere di honore.' In the light of open day, together with two of her gentlewomen and her coachman, she was cut to pieces and left on the road.[210] In 1690 at Naples Don Carlo Gesualdo, son of the Prince of Venosta, assassinated his wife and cousin Donna Maria d'Avalos, together with her lover, Fabricio Caraffa, Duke of Andri. This crime was committed in his palace by the husband, attended by a band of cut-throats.[211] In 1577, at Milan, Count Giovanni Borromeo, cousin of the Cardinal Federigo, stabbed his wife, the Countess Giulia Sanseverina, sister of the Contessa di Sala, at table, with three mortal wounds. A mere domestic squabble gave rise to this tragedy.[212] In 1598, in his villa of Zenzalino at Ferrara, the Count Ercole Trotti, with the assistance of a bravo called Jacopo Lazzarini, killed his wife Anna, daughter of the poet Guarini. Her own brother Girolamo connived at the act and helped to facilitate its execution. She was accused--falsely, as it afterwards appeared from Girolamo's confession--of an improper intimacy with the Count Ercole Bevilacqua. I may add that Count Ercole Trotti's father, Alfonso, had murdered his own wife, Michela Granzena, in the same villa.[213] [Footnote 210: Mutinelli, _Storia Arcana_, vol. ii. p. 64.] [Footnote 211: _Ib._ vol. ii. p. 162.] [Footnote 212: _Ib._ vol. i. p. 343.] _The Medici_. The history of the Medicean family during the sixteenth century epitomizes the chief features of social morality upon which I have been dwelling in this chapter. It will be remembered that Alessandro de' Medici, the first Duke of Florence, poisoned his cousin Ippolito, and was himself assassinated by his cousin Lorenzino. To the second of these crimes Cosimo, afterwards Grand Duke of Tuscany, owed the throne of Florence, on which, however, he was not secure until he had removed Lorenzino from this world by the poignard of a bravo. Cosimo maintained his authority by a system of espionage, remorseless persecution, and assassination, which gave color even to the most improbable of legends.[214] [Footnote 213: _I Guarini, Famiglia Nobile Ferrarese_ (Bologna, Romagnoli, 1870), pp. 83-87.] [Footnote 214: In addition to the victims of his vengeance who perished by the poignard, he publicly executed in Florence forty-two political offenders.] But it is not of him so much as of his children that I have to speak. Francesco, who reigned from 1564 till 1587, brought disgrace upon his line by marrying the infamous Bianca Capello, after authorizing the murder of her previous husband. Bianca, though incapable of bearing children, flattered her besotted paramour before this marriage by pretending to have borne a son. In reality, she had secured the co-operation of three women on the point of child-birth; and when one of these was delivered of a boy, she presented this infant to Francesco, who christened him Antonio de'Medici. Of the three mothers who served in this nefarious transaction, Bianca contrived to assassinate two, but not before one of the victims to her dread of exposure made full confession at the point of death. The third escaped. Another woman who had superintended the affair was shot between Florence and Bologna in the valleys of the Apennines. Yet after the manifestation of Bianca's imposture, the Duke continued to recognize Antonio as belonging to the Medicean family; and his successor was obliged to compel this young man to assume the Cross of Malta, in order to exclude his posterity from the line of princes.[215] [Footnote 215: See Mutinelli, _Storia Arcana_, vol. ii. pp.54-56, for Antonio's reception into the Order.] The legend of Francesco's and Bianca's mysterious death is well known. The Duchess had engaged in fresh intrigues for palming off a spurious child upon her husband. These roused the suspicions of his brother Cardinal Ferdinando de'Medici, heir presumptive to the crown. An angry correspondence followed, ending in a reconciliation between the three princes. They met in the autumn of 1587 at the villa of Poggio a Cajano. Then the world was startled by the announcement that the Grand Duke had died of fever after a few days' illness, and that Bianca had almost immediately afterwards followed him to the grave. Ferdinand, on succeeding to the throne, refused her the interment suited to her rank, defaced her arms on public edifices, and for her name and titles in official documents substituted the words, 'la pessima Bianca.' What passed at Poggio a Cajano is not known. It was commonly believed in Italy that Bianca, meaning to poison the Cardinal at supper, had been frustrated in her designs by a blunder which made her husband the victim of this plot, and that she ended her own life in despair or fell a victim to the Cardinal's vengeance. This story is rejected both by Botta and Galluzzi; but Litta has given it a partial credence.[216] Two of Cosimo's sons died previously, in the year 1562, under circumstances which gave rise to similar malignant rumors. Don Garzia and the Cardinal Giovanni were hunting together in the Pisan marshes, when the latter expired after a short illness, and the former in a few days met with a like fate. Report ran that Don Garzia had stabbed his brother, and that Cosimo, in a fit of rage, ran him through the body with his own sword. In this case, although Litta attaches weight to the legend, the balance of evidence is strongly in favor of both brothers having been carried off by a pernicious fever contracted simultaneously during their hunting expedition.[217] Each instance serves however, to show in what an atmosphere of guilt the Medicean princes were enveloped. No one believed that they could die except by fraternal or paternal hands. And the authentic crimes of the family certainly justified this popular belief. I have already alluded to the murders of Ippolito, Alessandro, and Lorenzino. I have told how the Court of Florence sanctioned the assassination of Bianca's daughter by her husband at Bologna.[218] I must now proceed to relate the tragic tales of the princesses of the house. Pietro de'Medici, a fifth of Cosimo's sons, had rendered himself notorious in Spain and Italy by forming a secret society for the most revolting debaucheries.[219] Yet he married the noble lady Eleonora di Toledo, related by blood to Cosimo's first wife. Neglected and outraged by her husband, she proved unfaithful, and Pietro hewed her in pieces with his own hands at Caffaggiolo. Isabella de'Medici, daughter of Cosimo, was married to the Duke of Bracciano. Educated in the empoisoned atmosphere of Florence, she, like Eleonora di Toledo, yielded herself to fashionable profligacy, and was strangled by her husband at Cerretto.[220] [Footnote 216: I refer, of course, to Galluzzi's _Storia del Gran Ducato_, vol. iv. pp. 241-244. Botta's _Storia d'Italia_, Book xiv., and Litta's _Famiglie Celebri_ under the pedigree of Medici.] [Footnote 217: See Galluzzi, _op. cit._ vol. iii. p, 25, and Botta, _op. cit._ Book xii.] [Footnote 218: See above, p. 381.] [Footnote 219: Litta may be consulted for details; also Galluzzi, _op. cit._ vol. v. p. 174.] [Footnote 220: It maybe worth mentioning that Virginio Orsini, Bracciano's son and heir, married Donna Flavia, grand niece of Sixtus V., and consequently related to the man his father murdered in order to possess Vittoria Accoramboni. See Mutinelli, _Storia Arcana_, vol. ii. p. 72.] Both of these murders took place in 1576. Isabella's death, as I have elsewhere related, opened the way for the Duke of Bracciano's marriage with Vittoria Accoramboni, which had been prepared by the assassination of her first husband, and which led to her own murder at Padua.[221] Another of Cosimo's daughters, Lucrezia de'Medici, became Duchess of Ferrara, fell under a suspicion of infidelity, and was possibly removed by poison in 1561.[222] The last of his sons whom I have to mention, Don Giovanni, married a dissolute woman of low birth called Livia, and disgraced the name of Medici by the unprincely follies of his life. Eleonora de'Medici, third of his daughters, introduces a comic element into these funereal records. She was affianced to Vincenzo Gonzaga, heir of the Duchy of Mantua. But suspicions, arising out of the circumstances of his divorce from a former wife, obliged him to prove his marital capacity before the completion of the contract. This he did at Venice, before a witness, upon the person of a virgin selected for the experiment.[223] Maria de'Medici, the only child of Duke Francesco, became Queen of France. [Footnote 221: See above, pp. 361-369.] [Footnote 222: Galluzzi, vol. iii. p. 5, says that she died of a putrid fever. Litta again inclines to the probability of poison. But this must counted among the doubtful cases.] [Footnote 223: See Galluzzi, _op. cit._ vol. iv. pp. 195-197, for the account of a transaction which throws curious light upon the customs of the age. It was only stipulated that the trial should not take place upon a Friday. Otherwise, the highest ecclesiastics gave it their full approval.] The history of her amours with Concini forms an episode in French annals. If now we eliminate the deaths of Don Garcia, Cardinal Giovanni, Duke Francesco, Bianca Capello, and Lucrezia de'Medici, as doubtful, there will still remain the murders of Cardinal Ippolito, Duke Alessandro, Lorenzino de'Medici, Pietro Bonaventuri (Bianca's husband), Pellegrina Bentivoglio (Bianca's daughter), Eleonora di Toledo, Francesco Casi (Eleonora's lover), the Duchess of Bracciano, Troilo Orsini (lover of this Duchess), Felice Peretti (husband of Vittoria Accoramboni), and Vittoria Accoramboni--eleven murders, all occurring between 1535 and 1585, an exact half century, in a single princely family and its immediate connections. The majority of these crimes, that is to say seven, had their origin in lawless passion.[224] [Footnote 224: I have told the stories in this chapter as dryly as I could. Yet it would be interesting to analyze the fascination they exercised over our Elizabethan playwrights, some of whose Italian tragedies handle the material with penetrative imagination. For the English mode of interpreting southern passions see my _Italian Byways_, pp. 142 _et seq._, and a brilliant essay in Vernon Lee's _Euphorion_.] CHAPTER VI. SOCIAL AND DOMESTIC MORALS: PART II. Tales illustrative of Bravi and Banditti--Cecco Bibboni--Ambrogio Tremazzi--Lodovico dall'Armi--Brigandage--Piracy--Plagues--The Plagues of Milan, Venice, Piedmont--Persecution of the Untori--Moral State of the Proletariate--Witchcraft--Its Italian Features--History of Giacomo Centini. The stories related in the foregoing chapter abundantly demonstrate the close connection between the aristocracy and their accomplices--bravos and bandits. But it still remains to consider this connection from the professional murderer's own point of view. And for this purpose, I will now make use of two documents vividly illustrative of the habits, sentiments, and social status of men who undertook to speculate in bloodshed for reward. They are both autobiographical; and both relate tragedies which occupied the attention of all Italy. _Cecco Bibboni_. The first of these documents is the report made by Cecco Bibboni concerning his method adopted for the murder of Lorenzino de'Medici at Venice in 1546. Lorenzino, by the help of a bravo called Scoroncolo, had assassinated his cousin Alessandro, Duke of Florence, in 1537. After accomplishing this deed, which gained for him the name of Brutus, he escaped from the city; and a distant relative of the murdered and the murderer, Cosimo de'Medici, was chosen Duke in Alessandro's stead. One of the first acts of his reign was to publish a ban of outlawry against Lorenzino. His portrait was painted according to old Tuscan usage head downwards, and suspended by one foot, upon the wall of Alessandro's fortress. His house was cut in twain from roof to pavement, and a narrow passage was driven through it, which received the name of Traitor's Alley, _Chiasso del Traditore_. The price put upon his head was enormous--four thousand golden florins, with a pension of one hundred florins to the murderer and his heirs in perpetuity. The man who should kill Lorenzino was, further, to enjoy amnesty from all offenses and to exercise full civic rights; he was promised exemption from taxes, the privilege of carrying arms with two attendants in the whole domain of Florence, and the prerogative of restoring ten outlaws at his choice. If he captured Lorenzino and brought him alive to Florence, the reward would be double in each item. There was enough here to raise cupidity and stir the speculative spirit. Cecco Bibboni shall tell us how the business was brought to a successful termination.[225] [Footnote 225: For the Italian text see _Lorenzino de'Medici_, Daelli, Milano, 1862. The above is borrowed from my _Italian Byways_.] 'When I returned from Germany,' begins Bibboni, 'where I had been in the pay of the Emperor, I found at Vicenza Bebo da Volterra, who was staying in the house of M. Antonio da Roma, a nobleman of that city. This gentleman employed him because of a great feud he had; and he was mighty pleased, moreover, at my coming, and desired that I too should take up my quarters in his palace.' Bibboni proceeds to say how another gentleman of Vicenza, M. Francesco Manente, had at this time a feud with certain of the Guazzi and the Laschi, which had lasted several years, and cost the lives of many members of both parties and their following. M. Francesco, being a friend of M. Antonio, besought that gentleman to lend him Bibboni and Bebo for a season; and the two _bravi_ went together with their new master to Celsano, a village in the neighborhood. 'There both parties had estates, and all of them kept armed men in their houses, so that not a day passed without feats of arms, and always there was some one killed or wounded. One day, soon afterwards, the leaders of our party resolved to attack the foe in their house, where we killed two, and the rest, numbering five men, entrenched themselves in a ground-floor apartment; whereupon we took possession of their harquebusses and other arms, which forced them to abandon the villa and retire to Vicenza; and within a short space of time this great feud was terminated by an ample peace.' After this Bebo took service with the Rector of the University in Padua, and was transferred by his new patron to Milan. Bibboni remained at Vicenza with M. Galeazzo della Seta, who stood in great fear of his life, notwithstanding the peace which had been concluded between the two factions. At the end of ten months he returned to M. Antonio da Roma and his six brothers, 'all of whom being very much attached to me, they proposed that I should live my life with them, for good or ill, and be treated as one of the family; upon the understanding that if war broke out and I wanted to take part in it, I should always have twenty-five crowns and arms and horse, with welcome home, so long as I lived; and in case I did not care to join the troops, the same provision for my maintenance.' From these details we comprehend the sort of calling which a bravo of Bibboni's species followed. Meanwhile Bebo was at Milan. 'There it happened that M. Francesco Vinta, of Volterra, was on embassy from the Duke of Florence. He saw Bebo, and asked him what he was doing in Milan, and Bebo answered that he was a knight errant.' This phrase--derived, no doubt, from the romantic epics then in vogue--was a pretty euphemism for a rogue of Bebo's quality. The ambassador now began cautiously to sound his man, who seems to have been outlawed from the Tuscan duchy, telling him he knew a way by which he might return with favor to his home, and at last disclosing the affair of Lorenzino. Bebo was puzzled at first, but when he understood the matter, he professed his willingness, took letters from the envoy to the Duke of Florence, and, in a private audience with Cosimo, informed him that he was ready to attempt Lorenzino's assassination. He added that 'he had a comrade fit for such a job, whose fellow for the business could not easily be found.' Bebo now traveled to Vicenza, and opened the whole matter to Bibboni, who weighed it well, and at last, being convinced that the Duke's commission to his comrade was _bonâ fide_, determined to take his share in the undertaking. The two agreed to have no accomplices. They went to Venice, and 'I,' says Bibboni, 'being most intimately acquainted with all that city, and provided there with many friends, soon quietly contrived to know where Lorenzino lodged, and took a room in the neighborhood, and spent some days in seeing how we best might rule our conduct.' Bibboni soon discovered that Lorenzino never left his palace; and he therefore remained in much perplexity, until, by good luck, Ruberto Strozzi arrived from France in Venice, bringing in his train a Navarrese servant, who had the nickname of Spagnoletto. This fellow was a great friend of the bravo. They met, and Bibboni told him that he should like to go and kiss the hands of Messer Ruberto, whom he had known in Rome. Strozzi inhabited the same palace as Lorenzino. 'When we arrived there, both Messer Ruberto and Lorenzino were leaving the house, and there were around them so many gentlemen and other persons, that I could not present myself, and both straightway stepped into the gondola. Then I, not having seen Lorenzino for a long while past, and because he was very quietly attired, could not recognize the man exactly, but only as it were between certainty and doubt. Wherefore I said to Spagnoletto, "I think I know that gentleman, but don't remember where I saw him." And Messer Ruberto was giving him his right hand. Then Spagnoletto answered, "You know him well enough; he is Messer Lorenzino. But see you tell this to nobody. He goes by the name of Messer Dario, because he lives in great fear for his safety, and people don't know that he is now in Venice." I answered that I marveled much, and if I could have helped him, would have done so willingly. Then I asked where they were going, and he said, to dine with Messer Giovanni della Casa, who was the Pope's Legate. I did not leave the man till I had drawn from him all I required.' Thus spoke the Italian Judas. The appearance of La Casa on the scene is interesting. He was the celebrated author of the _Capitolo del Forno_, the author of many sublime and melancholy sonnets, who was now at Venice prosecuting a charge of heresy against Pier Paolo Vergerio, and paying his addresses to a noble lady of the Quirini family. It seems that on the territory of San Marco he made common cause with the exiles from Florence, for he was himself by birth a Florentine, and he had no objection to take Brutus-Lorenzino by the hand. After the noblemen had rowed off in their gondola to dine with the Legate, Bibboni and his friend entered their palace, where he found another old acquaintance, the house-steward, or _spenditore_ of Lorenzino. From him he gathered much useful information. Pietro Strozzi, it seems, had allowed the tyrannicide one thousand five hundred crowns a year, with the keep of three brave and daring companions (_tre compagni bravi e facinorosi_), and a palace worth fifty crowns on lease. But Lorenzino had just taken another on the Campo di San Polo at three hundred crowns a year, for which swagger (_altura_) Pietro Strozzi had struck a thousand crowns off his allowance. Bibboni also learned that he was keeping house with his uncle, Alessandro Soderini, another Florentine outlaw, and that he was ardently in love with a certain beautiful Barozza. This woman was apparently one of the grand courtesans of Venice. He further ascertained the date when he was going to move into the palace at San Polo, and, 'to put it briefly, knew everything he did, and, as it were, how many times a day he spit.' Such were the intelligences of the servants' hall, and of such value were they to men of Bibboni's calling. In the Carnival of 1546 Lorenzino meant to go masqued in the habit of a gypsy woman to the square of San Spirito, where there was to be a joust. Great crowds of people would assemble, and Bibboni hoped to do his business there. The assassination, however, failed on this occasion, and Lorenzino took up his abode in the palace he had hired upon the Campo di San Polo. This Campo is one of the largest open places in Venice, shaped irregularly, with a finely curving line upon the western side, where two of the noblest private houses in the city are still standing. Nearly opposite these, in the south-western angle, stands, detached, the little old church of San Polo. One of its side entrances opens upon the square; the other on a lane which leads eventually to the Frari. There is nothing in Bibboni's narrative to make it clear where Lorenzino hired his dwelling. But it would seem from certain things which he says later on, that in order to enter the church his victim had to cross the square. Meanwhile Bibboni took the precaution of making friends with a shoemaker, whose shop commanded the whole Campo, including Lorenzino's palace. In this shop he began to spend much of his time; 'and oftentimes I feigned to be asleep; but God knows whether I was sleeping, for my mind, at any rate, was wide awake.' A second convenient occasion for murdering Lorenzino soon seemed to offer. He was bidden to dine with Monsignor della Casa; and Bibboni, putting a bold face on, entered the Legate's palace, having left Bebo below in the loggia, fully resolved to do the business. 'But we found,' he says, 'that they had gone to dine at Murano, so that we remained with our tabors in their bag.' The island of Murano at that period was a favorite resort of the Venetian nobles, especially of the more literary and artistic, who kept country-houses there, where they enjoyed the fresh air of the lagoons and the quiet of their gardens. The third occasion, after all these weeks of watching, brought success to Bibboni's schemes. He had observed how Lorenzino occasionally so far broke his rules of caution as to go on foot, past the church of San Polo, to visit the beautiful Barozza; and he resolved, if possible, to catch him on one of these journeys. 'It so chanced on February 28, which was the second Sunday of Lent, that having gone, as was my wont, to pry out whether Lorenzino would give orders for going abroad that day, I entered the shoemaker's shop, and stayed awhile, until Lorenzino came to the window with a napkin round his neck--for he was combing his hair --and at the same moment I saw a certain Giovan Battista Martelli, who kept his sword for the defense of Lorenzino's person, enter and come forth again. Concluding that they would probably go abroad, I went home to get ready and procure the necessary weapons, and there I found Bebo asleep in bed, and made him get up at once, and we came to our accustomed post of observation, by the church of San Polo, where our men would have to pass.' Bibboni now retired to his friend the shoemaker's, and Bebo took up his station at one of the side doors of San Polo: 'and, as good luck would have it, Giovan Battista Martelli came forth, and walked a piece in front, and then Lorenzino came, and then Alessandro Soderini, going the one behind the other, like storks, and Lorenzino, on entering the church, and lifting up the curtain of the door, was seen from the opposite door by Bebo, who at the same time noticed how I had left the shop, and so we met upon the street as we had agreed, and he told me that Lorenzino was inside the church.' To any one who knows the Campo di San Polo, it will be apparent that Lorenzino had crossed from the western side of the piazza and entered the church by what is technically called its northern door. Bebo, stationed at the southern door, could see him when he pushed the heavy _stoia_ or leather curtain aside, and at the same time could observe Bibboni's movements in the cobbler's shop. Meanwhile Lorenzino walked across the church and came to the same door where Bebo had been standing. 'I saw him issue from the church and take the main street; then came Alessandro Soderini, and I walked last of all; and when we reached the point we had determined on, I jumped in front of Alessandro with the poignard in my hand, crying, "Hold hard, Alessandro, and get along with you, in God's name, for we are not here for you!" He then threw himself around my waist, and grasped my arms, and kept on calling out. Seeing how wrong I had been to try to spare his life, I wrenched myself as well as I could from his grip, and with my lifted poignard struck him, as God willed, above the eyebrow, and a little blood trickled from the wound. He, in high fury, gave me such a thrust that I fell backward, and the ground besides was slippery from having rained a little. Then Alessandro drew his sword, which he carried in its scabbard, and thrust at me in front, and struck me on the corselet, which for my good fortune was of double mail. Before I could get ready I received three passes, which, had I worn a doublet instead of that mailed corselet, would certainly have run me through. At the fourth pass I had regained my strength and spirit, and closed with him, and stabbed him four times in the head, and being so close he could not use his sword, but tried to parry with his hand and hilt, and I, as God willed, struck him at the wrist below the sleeve of mail, and cut his hand off clean, and gave him then one last stroke on his head. Thereupon he begged for God's sake spare his life, and I, in trouble about Bebo, left him in the arms of a Venetian nobleman, who held him back from jumping into the canal.' Who this Venetian nobleman, found unexpectedly upon the scene, was, does not appear. Nor, what is still more curious, do we hear anything of that Martelli, the bravo, 'who kept his sword for the defense of Lorenzino's person.' The one had arrived accidentally, it seems. The other must have been a coward and escaped from the scuffle. 'When I turned,' proceeds Bibboni, 'I found Lorenzino on his knees. He raised himself, and I in anger, gave him a great cut across the head, which split it in two pieces, and laid him at my feet, and he never rose again.' Bebo, meanwhile, had made off from the scene of action. And Bibboni, taking to his heels, came up with him in the little square of San Marcello. They now ran for their lives till they reached the traghetto di San Spirito, where they threw their poignards into the water, remembering that no man might carry these in Venice under penalty of the galleys. Bibboni's white hose were drenched with blood. He therefore agreed to separate from Bebo, having named a rendezvous. Left alone, his ill luck brought him face to face with twenty constables (_sbirri_). 'In a moment I conceived that they knew everything, and were come to capture me, and of a truth I saw that it was over with me. As swiftly as I could I quickened pace and got into a church, near to which was the house of a Compagnia, and the one opened into the other, and knelt down and prayed commending myself with fervor to God for my deliverance and safety. Yet while I prayed, I kept my eyes well opened and saw the whole band pass the church, except one man who entered, and I strained my sight so that I seemed to see behind as well as in front, and then it was I longed for my poignard, for I should not have heeded being in a church.' But the constable, it soon appeared, was not looking for Bibboni. So he gathered up his courage, and ran for the Church of San Spirito, where the Padre Andrea Volterrano was preaching to a great congregation. He hoped to go in by one door and out by the other, but the crowd prevented him, and he had to turn back and face the _sbirri_. One of them followed him, having probably caught sight of the blood upon his hose. Then Bibboni resolved to have done with the fellow, and rushed at him, and flung him down with his head upon the pavement, and ran like mad, and came at last, all out of breath to San Marco. It seems clear that before Bibboni separated from Bebo they had crossed the water, for the Sestiere di San Polo is separated from the Sestiere di San Marco by the Grand Canal. And this they must have done at the traghetto di San Spirito. Neither the church nor the traghetto are now in existence, and this part of the story is therefore obscure.[226] [Footnote 226: So far as I can discover, the only church of San Spirito in Venice was a building on the island of San Spirito, erected by Sansavino, which belonged to the Sestiere di S. Croce, and which was suppressed in 1656. Its plate and the fine pictures which Titian painted there were transferred at that date to S. M. della Salute. I cannot help inferring that either Bibboni's memory failed him, or that his words were wrongly understood by printer or amanuensis. If for S. Spirito, we substitute S. Stefano, the account would be intelligible.] Having reached San Marco, he took a gondola at the Ponte della Paglia, where tourists are now wont to stand and contemplate the Ducal Palace and the Bridge of Sighs. First, he sought the house of a woman of the town who was his friend; then changed purpose, and rowed to the palace of the Count Salici da Collalto. 'He was a great friend and intimate of ours, because Bebo and I had done him many and great services in times past. There I knocked; and Bebo opened the door, and when he saw me dabbled with blood, he marveled that I had not come to grief and fallen into the hands of justice; and, indeed, had feared as much because I had remained so long away.' It appears, therefore, that the Palazzo Collalto was their rendezvous. 'The Count was from home; but being known to all his people, I played the master and went into the kitchen to the fire, and with soap and water turned my hose, which had been white, to a grey color.' This is a very delicate way of saying that he washed out the blood of Alessandro and Lorenzino! Soon after the Count returned, and 'lavished caresses' upon Bebo and his precious comrade. They did not tell him what they had achieved that morning, but put him off with a story of having settled a _sbirro_ in a quarrel about a girl. Then the Count invited them to dinner; and being himself bound to entertain the first physician of Venice, requested them to take it in an upper chamber. He and his secretary served them with their own hands at table. When the physician arrived, the Count went downstairs; and at this moment a messenger came from Lorenzino's mother, begging the doctor to go at once to San Polo, for that her son had been murdered and Soderini wounded to the death. It was now no longer possible to conceal their doings from the Count, who told them to pluck up courage and abide in patience. He had himself to dine and take his siesta, and then to attend a meeting of the Council. About the hour of vespers, Bibboni determined to seek better refuge. Followed at a discreet distance by Bebo, he first called at their lodgings and ordered supper. Two priests came in and fell into conversation with them. But something in the behavior of one of these good men roused his suspicions. So they left the house, took a gondola, and told the man to row hard to S. Maria Zobenigo. On the way he bade him put them on shore, paid him well, and ordered him to wait for them. They landed near the palace of the Spanish embassy; and here Bibboni meant to seek sanctuary. For it must be remembered that the houses of ambassadors, no less than those of princes of the Church, were inviolable. They offered the most convenient harboring-places to rascals. Charles V., moreover, was deeply interested in the vengeance taken on Alessandro de'Medici's murderer, for his own natural daughter was Alessandro's widow and Duchess of Florence. In the palace they were received with much courtesy by about forty Spaniards, who showed considerable curiosity, and told them that Lorenzino and Alessandro Soderini had been murdered that morning by two men whose description answered to their appearance. Bibboni put their questions by and asked to see the ambassador. He was not at home. 'In that case,' said Bibboni, 'take us to the secretary. Attended by some thirty Spaniards, 'with great joy and gladness,' they were shown into the secretary's chamber. He sent the rest of the folk away, 'and locked the door well, and then embraced and kissed us before we had said a word, and afterwards bade us talk freely without any fear.' When Bibboni had told the whole story, he was again embraced and kissed by the secretary, who thereupon left them and went to the private apartment of the ambassador. Shortly after he returned and led them by a winding staircase into the presence of his master. The ambassador greeted them with great honor, told them he would strain all the power of the empire to hand them in safety over to Duke Cosimo, and that he had already sent a courier to the Emperor with the good news. So they remained in hiding in the Spanish embassy; and in ten days' time commands were received from Charles himself that everything should be done to convey them safely to Florence. The difficulty was how to smuggle them out of Venice, where the police of the Republic were on watch, and Florentine outlaws were mounting guard on sea and shore to catch them. The ambassador began by spreading reports on the Rialto every morning of their having been seen at Padua, at Verona, in Friuli. He then hired a palace at Malghera, near Mestre, and went out daily with fifty Spaniards, and took carriage or amused himself with horse exercise and shooting. The Florentines, who were on watch, could only discover from his people that he did this for amusement. When he thought that he had put them sufficiently off their guard, the ambassador one day took Bibboni and Bebo out by Canaregio to Malghera, concealed in his own gondola, with the whole train of Spaniards in attendance. And though on landing, the Florentines challenged them, they durst not interfere with an ambassador or come to battle with his men. So Bebo and Bibboni were hustled into a coach, and afterwards provided with two comrades and four horses. They rode for ninety miles without stopping to sleep, and on the day following this long journey reached Trento, having probably threaded the mountain valleys above Bassano, for Bibboni speaks of a certain village where the people talked half German. The Imperial Ambassador at Trento forwarded them next day to Mantua; from Mantua they came to Piacenza; thence passing through the valley of the Taro, crossing the Apennines at Cisa, descending on Pontremoli, and reaching Pisa at night, the fourteenth day after their escape from Venice. When they arrived at Pisa, Duke Cosimo was supping. So they went to an inn, and next morning presented themselves to his Grace. Cosimo welcomed them kindly, assured them of his gratitude, confirmed them in the enjoyment of their rewards and privileges, and swore that they might rest secure of his protection in all parts of his dominion. We may imagine how the men caroused together after this reception. As Bibboni adds, 'We were now able for the whole time of life left us to live splendidly, without a thought or care.' The last words of his narrative are these: 'Bebo, from Pisa, at what date I know not, went home to Volterra, his native town, and there finished his days; while I abode in Florence, where I have had no further wish to hear of wars, but to live my life in holy peace.' So ends the story of the two _bravi_. We have reason to believe, from some contemporary documents which Cantù has brought to light, that Bibboni exaggerated his own part in the affair. Luca Martelli, writing to Varchi, says that it was Bebo who clove Lorenzino's skull with a cutlass. He adds this curious detail, that the weapons of both men were poisoned, and that the wound inflicted by Bibboni on Soderini's hand was a slight one. Yet, the poignard being poisoned, Soderini died of it. In other respects Martelli's brief account agrees with that given by Bibboni, who probably did no more, his comrade being dead, than claim for himself, at some expense of truth, the lion's share of their heroic action. _Ambrogio Tremazzi_.[227] [Footnote 227: The text is published, from Florentine Archives, in Gnoli's _Vittoria Accoramboni_, pp. 404-414.] In illustration of this narrative, and in evidence that it stands by no means solitary on the records of that century, I shall extract some passages from the report made by Ambrogio Tremazzi of Modigliana concerning the assassination of Troilo Orsini. Troilo it will be remembered, was the lover of the Medicean Duchess of Bracciano. After the discovery of their amours, and while the lady was being strangled by her husband, with the sanction of her brother Troilo escaped to France. Ambrogio Tremazzi knowing that his murder would be acceptable to the Medici, undertook the adventure; moved, as he says, 'solely by the desire of bringing myself into favorable notice with the Grand Duke; for my mind revolted at the thought of money payments, and I had in view the acquisition of honor and praise rather, being willing to risk my life for the credit of my Prince, and not my life only, but also to incur deadly and perpetual feud with a powerful branch of the Orsini family.' On his return from France, having successfully accomplished the mission, Ambrogio Tremazzi found that the friends who had previously encouraged his hopes, especially the Count Ridolfo Isolami, wished to compromise his reward by the settlement of a pension on himself and his associate. Whether he really aimed at a more honorable recognition of his services, or whether he sought to obtain better pecuniary terms, does not appear. But he represents himself as gravely insulted; 'seeing that my tenor of life from boyhood upwards has been always honorable, and thus it ever shall be.' After this exordium in the form of a letter addressed to one Signor Antonio [Serguidi], he proceeds to render account of his proceedings. It seems that Don Piero de'Medici gave him three hundred crowns for his traveling expenses; after which, leaving his son, a boy of twelve years, as hostage in the service of Piero, he set off and reached Paris on August 12, 1577. There he took lodgings at the sign of the Red Horse, near the Cordeilliers, and began at once to make inquiries for Troilo. He had brought with him from Italy a man called Hieronimo Savorano. Their joint investigations elicited the fact that Troilo had been lately wounded in the service of the King of France, and was expected to arrive in Paris with the Court. It was not until the eve of All Saints' day that the Court returned. Soon afterwards, Ambrogio was talking at the door of a house with some Italian comedians, when a young man, covered with a tawny-colored mantle, passed by upon a brown horse, bearing a servant behind him on the crupper. This was Troilo Orsini; and Ambrogio marked him well. Troilo, after some minutes' conversation with the players, rode forward to the Louvre. The _bravo_ followed him and discovered from his servant where he lodged. Accordingly, he engaged rooms in the Rue S. Honoré, in order to be nearer to his victim. Some time, however, elapsed before he was able to ascertain Troilo's daily habits. Chance at last threw them together. He was playing _primiero_ one evening in the house of an actress called Vittoria, when Troilo entered, with two gentlemen of Florence. He said he had been absent ten days from Paris. Ambrogio, who had left his harquebuss at home, not expecting to meet him, 'was consequently on that occasion unable to do anything.' Days passed without a better opportunity, till, on November 30, 'the feast of S. Andrew, which is a lucky day for me, I rose and went at once to the palace, and, immediately on my arrival, saw him at the hour when the king goes forth to mass.' Ambrogio had to return as he went; for Troilo was surrounded by too many gentlemen of the French Court; but he made his mind up then and there 'to see the end of him or me.' He called his comrade Hieronimo, posted him on a bridge across the Seine, and proceeded to the Court, where Troilo was now playing racquets with princes of the royal family. Ambrogio hung about the gates until Troilo issued from the lodgings of Monseigneur de Montmorenci, still tracked by his unknown enemy, and thence returned to his own house on horseback attended by several servants. After waiting till the night fell, Troilo again left home on horseback preceded by his servants with torches. Ambrogio followed at full speed, watched a favorable opportunity, and stopped the horse. When I came up with him, I seized the reins with my left hand and with my right I set my harquebuss against his side, pushing it with such violence that if it had failed to go off it would at any rate have dislodged him from his seat. The gun took effect and he fell crying out "Eh! Eh!" In the tumult which ensued, I walked away, and do not know what happened afterwards.' Ambrogio then made his way back to his lodgings, recharged his harquebuss, ate some supper and went to bed. He told Hieronimo that nothing had occurred that night. Next day he rose as usual, and returned to the Court, hoping to hear news of Troilo. In the afternoon, at the Italian theatre, he was informed that an Italian had been murdered, at the instance, it was thought, of the Grand Duke of Florence. Hieronimo touched his arm, and whispered that he must have done the deed; but Ambrogio denied the fact. It seems to have been his object to reserve the credit of the murder for himself, and also to avoid the possibility of Hieronimo's treachery in case suspicion fell upon him. Afterwards he learned that Troilo lay dangerously wounded by a harquebuss. Further details made him aware that he was himself suspected of the murder, and that Troilo could not recover. He therefore conferred upon the matter with Hieronimo in Notre Dame, and both of them resolved to leave Paris secretly. This they did at once, relinquishing clothes, arms, and baggage in their lodgings, and reached Italy in safety. _Lodovico dall'Armi_. The relations of trust which _bravi_ occasionally maintained with foreign Courts, supply some curious illustrations of their position in Italian society. One characteristic instance may be selected from documents in the Venetian Archives referring to Lodovico dall'Armi.[228] This man belonged to a noble family of Bologna; and there are reasons for supposing that his mother was sister to Cardinal Campeggi, famous in the annals of the English Reformation. Outlawed from his native city for a homicide, Lodovico adopted the profession of arms and the management of secret diplomacy. He first took refuge at the Court of France, where in 1541 he obtained such credit, especially with the Dauphin, that he was entrusted with a mission for raising revolt in Siena against the Spaniards.[229] His transactions in that city with Giulio Salvi, then aspiring to its lordship, and in Rome with the French ambassador, led to a conspiracy which only awaited the appearance of French troops upon the Tuscan frontier to break out into open rebellion. The plot, however, transpired before it had been matured; and Lodovico took flight through the Florentine territory. He was arrested at Montevarchi and confined in the fortress of Florence, where he made such revelations as rendered the extinction of the Sienese revolt an easy matter. After this we do not hear of him until he reappears at Venice in the year 1545. He was now accredited to the English ambassador with the title of Henry VIII.'s 'Colonel,' and enjoyed the consideration accorded to a powerful monarch's privy agent. [Footnote 228: See Rawdon Brown's _Calendar of State Papers_, vol. iv.] [Footnote 229: See Botta, Book IV., for the story of Lodovico's intrigues at Siena.] His pension amounted to fifty crowns a month, while he kept eight captains at his orders, each of whom received half that sum as pay. These subordinates were people of some social standing. We find among them a Trissino of Vicenza and a Bonifacio of Verona, the one entitled Marquis and the other Count. What the object of Lodovico's residence in Italy might be, did not appear. Though he carried letters of recommendation from the English Court, he laid no claim to the rank of diplomatic envoy. But it was tolerably well known that he employed himself in levying troops. Whether these were meant to be used against France or in favor of Savoy, or whether, as the Court of Rome suggested, Henry had given orders for the murder of his cousin, Cardinal Pole, at Trento, remained an open question. Lodovico might have dwelt in peace under the tolerant rule of the Venetians, had he not exposed himself to a collision with their police. In the month of August he assaulted the captain of the night guard in a street brawl; and it was also proved against him that he had despatched two of his men to inflict a wound of infamy upon a gentleman at Treviso. These offenses, coinciding with urgent remonstrances from the Papal Curia, gave the Venetian Government fair pretext for expelling him from their dominions. A ban was therefore published against him and fourteen of his followers. The English ambassador declined to interfere in his behalf, and the man left Italy. At the end of August he appeared at Brussels, where he attempted to excuse himself in an interview with the Venetian ambassador. Now began a diplomatic correspondence between the English Court and the Venetian Council, which clearly demonstrates what kind of importance attached to this private agent. The Chancellor Lord Wriothesley, and the Secretary Sir William Paget, used considerable urgency to obtain a suspension of the ban against Dall'Armi. After four months' negotiation, during which the Papal Court endeavored to neutralize Henry's influence, the Doge signed a safe-conduct for five years in favor of the bravo. Early in 1546 Lodovico reappeared in Lombardy. At Mantua he delivered a letter signed by Henry himself to the Duke Francesco Gonzaga, introducing 'our noble and beloved familiar Lodovico Dall'Armi,' and begging the Duke to assist him in such matters as he should transact at Mantua in the king's service.[230] Lodovico presented this letter in April; but the Duchess, who then acted as regent for her son Francesco, refused to receive him. She alleged that the Duke forbade the levying of troops for foreign service, and declined to complicate his relations with foreign powers. It seems, from a sufficiently extensive correspondence on the affairs of Lodovico, that he was understood by the Italian princess to be charged with some special commission for recruiting soldiers against the French. [Footnote 230: This letter is dated February 16, 1546.] The peace between England and France, signed at Guines in June, rendered Lodovico's mission nugatory; and the death of Henry VIII. in January 1547 deprived him of his only powerful support. Meanwhile he had contrived to incur the serious displeasure of the Venetian Republic. In the autumn of 1546 they outlawed one of their own nobles, Ser Mafio Bernardo, on the charge of his having revealed state secrets to France. About the middle of November, Bernardo, then living in concealment at Ravenna, was lured into the pine forest by two men furnished with tokens which secured his confidence. He was there murdered, and the assassins turned out to be paid instruments of Lodovico. It now came to light that Lodovico and Ser Mafio Bernardo had for some time past colluded in political intrigue. If, therefore, the murder had a motive, this was found in Lodovico's dread of revelations under the event of Ser Mario's capture. Submitted to torture in the prisons of the Ten, Ser Mafio might have incriminated his accomplice both with England and Venice. It was obvious why he had been murdered by Lodovico's men. Dall'Armi was consequently arrested and confined in Venice. After examination, followed by a temporary release, he prudently took flight into the Duchy of Milan. Though they held proof of his guilt in the matter of Ser Mafio's murder, the Venetians were apparently unwilling to proceed to extremities against the King of England's man. Early in February, however, Sir William Paget surrendered him in the name of Lord Protector Somerset to the discretion of S. Mark. Furnished with this assurance that Dall'Armi had lost the favor of England, the Signory wrote to demand his arrest and extradition from the Spanish governor in Milan. He was in fact arrested on February 10. The letter announcing his capture describes him as a man of remarkably handsome figure, accustomed to wear a crimson velvet cloak and a red cap trimmed with gold. It is exactly in this costume that Lodovico has been represented by Bonifazio in a picture of the Massacre of the Innocents. The bravo there stands with his back partly turned, gazing stolidly upon a complex scene of bloodshed. He wears a crimson velvet mantle, scarlet cap and white feather, scarlet stockings, crimson velvet shoes, and rose-colored silk underjacket. His person is that of a gallant past the age of thirty, high-complexioned, with short brown beard, spare whiskers and moustache. He is good to look at, except that the sharp set mouth suggests cynical vulgarity and shallow rashness. On being arrested in Milan, Lodovico proclaimed himself a privileged person _(persona pubblica)_, bearing credentials from the King of England; and, during the first weeks of his confinement, he wrote to the Emperor for help. This was an idle step. Henry's death had left him without protectors, and Charles V. felt no hesitation in abandoning his suppliant to the Venetians. When the usual formalities regarding extradition had been completed, the Milanese Government delivered Lodovico at the end of April into the hands of the Rector of Brescia, who forwarded him under a guard of two hundred men to Padua. He was hand-cuffed; and special directions were given regarding his safety, it being even prescribed that if he refused food it should be thrust down his throat. What passed in the prisons of the State, after his arrival at Venice, is not known. But on May 14, he was beheaded between the columns on the Molo. Venice, at this epoch, incurred the reproaches of her neighbors for harboring adventurers of Lodovico's stamp. One of the Fregosi of Genoa a certain Valerio, and Pietro Strozzi, the notorious French agent, all of whom habitually haunted the lagoons, roused sufficient public anxiety to necessitate diplomatic communications between Courts, and to disquiet fretful Italian princelings. Banished from their own provinces, and plying a petty Condottiere trade, such men, when they came together on a neutral ground, engaged in cross-intrigues which made them politically dangerous. They served no interest but that of their own egotism, and they were notoriously unscrupulous in the means employed to effect immediate objects. At the same time, the protection which they claimed from foreign potentates withdrew them from the customary justice of the State. Bedmar's conspiracy in 1617-18 revealed to Venice the full extent of the peril which this harborage of ruffians involved; for though grandees of the distinction of the Duke of Ossuna were involved in it, the main agents, on whose ambition and audacity all depended, sprang from those French, English, Spanish, and Italian mercenaries, who crowded the low quarters of the city, alert for any mischief, and inflamed with the wildest projects of self-aggrandizement by policy and bloodshed. Nothing testifies to the social and political decrepitude of Italy in this period more plainly than the importance which folk like Lodovico Dall'Armi acquired, and the revolutionary force which a man like Jaffier commanded. _Brigands, Pirates, Plague_. After collecting these stories, which illustrate the manners of the upper classes in society and prove their dependence upon henchmen paid to subserve lawless passions, it would be interesting to lay bare the life of the common people with equal lucidity. This, however, is a more difficult matter. Statistics of dubious value can indeed be gathered regarding the desolation of villages by brigands, the multitudes destroyed by pestilence and famine, and the inroads of Mediterranean pirates. I propose, therefore, to touch lightly upon these points, and especially to use our records of plague in different Italian districts as tests for contrasting the condition of the people at this epoch with that of the same people in the Middle Ages. Brigandage, though this was certainly a curse of the first magnitude to Central and Southern Italy, cannot be paralleled, either for the miseries it inflicted, or for the ferocity it stimulated, with the municipal warfare of the twelfth, thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. In those internecine struggles whole cities disappeared, and fertile districts were periodically abandoned to wolves. The bands of an Alfonso Piccolomini or a Sciarra Colonna plundered villages, exacted black mail, and held prisoners for ransom.[231] But their barbarities were insignificant, when compared with those commonly perpetrated by wandering companies of adventure before the days of Alberigo da Barbiano; nor did brigands cost Italy so much as the mercenary troops, which, after the Condottiere system had been developed, became a permanent drain upon the resources of the country. The raids of Tunisian and Algerian Corsairs were more seriously mischievous; since the whole sea-board from Nice to Reggio lay open to the ravages of such incarnate fiends as Barbarossa and Dragut, while the Adriatic was infested by Uscocchi, and the natives of the Regno not unfrequently turned pirates in emulation of their persecutors.[232] [Footnote 231: See Mutinelli, _Storia Arcana_, vol. ii. p. 167, for the pillage of Lucera by Pacchiarotto.] [Footnote 232: Sarpi's _History of the Uscocchi_ may be consulted for this singular episode in the Iliad of human savagery. See Mutinelli, _op. cit._ vol. ii. p. 182, on the case of the son and heir of the Duke of Termoli joining them; and _ibid._ p. 180 on the existence of pirates at Capri.] Yet even these injuries may be reckoned light, when we consider what Italy had suffered between 1494 and 1527 from French, Spanish, German and Swiss troops in combat on her soil. The pestilences of the Middle Ages notably the Black Death of 1348, of which Boccaccio has left an immortal description, exceeded in virulence those which depopulated Italian cities during the period of my history. But plagues continued to be frequent; and some of these are so memorable that they require to be particularly noticed. At Venice in 1575-77, a total of about 50,000 persons perished; and in 1630-31, 46,490 were carried off within a space of sixteen months in the city, while the number of those who died at large in the lagoons amounted to 94,235.[233] On these two occasions the Venetians commemorated their deliverance by the erection of the Redentore and S. Maria della Salute, churches which now form principal ornaments of the Giudecca and the Grand Canal. Milan was devastated at the same periods by plagues, of which we have detailed accounts in the dispatches of resident Venetian envoys.[234] The mortality in the second of these visitations was terrible. Before September 1629, fourteen thousand had succumbed; between May and August 1630, forty-five thousand victims had been added to the tale.[235] [Footnote 233: Mutinelli, _Annali Urbani di Venezia_, pp. 470-483,549-550.] [Footnote 234: Mutinelli, _Storia Arcana_, vol. i. p. 310-340, and vol. xiv. pp. 30-65.] [Footnote 235: It is worth mentioning that Ripamonte calculates the mortality from plague in Milan in 1524 at 140,000.] At Naples in the year 1656, more than fifty thousand perished between May and July; the dead were cast naked into the sea, and the Venetian envoy describes the city as _'non più città ma spelonca di morti_.'[236] In July his diary is suddenly interrupted, whether by departure from the stricken town, or more probably by death, we know not. Savoy was scourged by a fearful pestilence in the years 1598-1600. Of this plague we possess a frightfully graphic picture in the same accurate series of the State documents.[237] Simeone Contarini, then resident at Savigliano, relates that more than two-thirds of the population in that province had been swept away before the autumn of 1598, and that the evil was spreading far and wide through Piedmont. In Alpignano, a village of some four hundred inhabitants, only two remained. In Val Moriana, forty thousand expired out of a total of seventy thousand. The village of San Giovanni counted but twelve survivors from a population of more than four thousand souls. In May 1599, the inhabitants of Turin were reduced by flight and death to four thousand; and of these there died daily numbers gradually rising through the summer from 50 to 180. The streets were encumbered with unburied corpses, the houses infested by robbers and marauders. Some incidents reported of this plague are ghastly in their horror. The infected were treated with inhuman barbarity, and retorted with savage fury, battering their assailants with the pestiferous bodies of unburied victims. [Footnote 236: Mutinelli, _op. cit._ vol. in. pp. 229-233. Botta has given an account of this plague in the twenty-sixth book of his _History_.] [Footnote 237: Mutinelli, _op. cit._ vol. ii. pp. 287-307.] To the miseries of pestilence and its attendant famine were added lawlessness and license, raging fires, and what was worst of all, the dark suspicion that the sickness had been introduced by malefactors. This belief appears to have taken hold upon the popular mind during the plague of 1598 in Savoy and in Milan.[238] Simeone Contarini reports that two men from Geneva confessed to having come with the express purpose of disseminating infection. He also gives curious particulars of two who were burned, and four who were quartered at Turin in 1600 for this offense.[239] 'These spirits of hell,' as he calls them, indicated a wood in which they declared that they had buried a pestilential liquid intended to be used for smearing houses. The wood was searched, and some jars were discovered. A surgeon at the same epoch confessed to having meant to spread the plague at Mondovi. Other persons, declaring themselves guilty of a similar intention, described a horn filled with poisonous stuff collected from the sores of plague-stricken corpses, which they had concealed outside the walls of Turin. This too was discovered; and these apparent proofs of guilt so infuriated the people that every day some criminals were sacrificed to judicial vengeance. [Footnote 238: See Mutinelli, _op. cit._ p. 241 and p. 289. We hear of the same belief at Milan in 1576, _op. cit._ vol. i. pp. 311-315.] [Footnote 239: _Ibid._ p. 309. See also vol. iii. p. 254 for a similar narration.] The name given to the unfortunate creatures accused of this diabolical conspiracy was _Untori_ or the Smearers. The plague of Milan in 1629-30 obtained the name of 'La Peste degli Untori' (as that of 1576 had been called 'La Peste di S. Carlo'), because of the prominent part played in it by the smearers.[240] They were popularly supposed to go about the city daubing walls, doors, furniture, choir-stalls, flowers, and articles of food with plague stuff. They scattered powders in the air, or spread them in circles on the pavement. To set a foot upon one of these circles involved certain destruction. Hundreds of such _untori_ were condemned to the most cruel deaths by justice firmly persuaded of their criminality. Exposed to prolonged tortures, the majority confessed palpable absurdities. One woman at Milan said she had killed four thousand people. But, says Pier Antonio Marioni, the Venetian envoy, although tormented to the utmost, none of them were capable of revealing the prime instigators of the plot. So thoroughly convinced was he, together with the whole world, of their guilt, that he never paused to reflect upon the fallacy contained in this remark. The rack-stretched wretches could not reveal their instigators, because there were none; and the acts of which they accused themselves were the delirious figments of their own torture-fretted brains. We possess documents relating to the trial of the Milanese _untori_, which make it clear that crimes of this sort must have been imaginary. As in cases of witchcraft, the first accusation was founded upon gossip and delation. The judicial proceedings were ruled by prejudice and cruelty. Fear and physical pain extorted confessions and complicated accusations of their neighbors from multitudes of innocent people.[241] Indeed the parallel between these unfortunate smearers and no less wretched witches is a close one. I am inclined to think that, as some crazy women fancied they were witches, so some morbid persons of this period in Italy believed in their power of spreading plague, and yielded to the fascination of malignity. Whether such moral mad folk really extended the sphere of the pestilence to any appreciable extent remains a matter for conjecture; and it is quite certain that all but a small percentage of the accused were victims of calumny. After taking brigandage, piracy, and pestilence into account, the decline of Italy must be attributed to other causes. These I believe to have been the extinction of commercial republics, the decay of free commonwealths, iniquitous systems of taxation, the insane display of wealth by unproductive princes, and the diversion of trade into foreign channels. Florence ceased to be the center of wool manufacture, Venice lost her hold upon the traffic between East and West.[242] Stagnation fell like night upon the land, and the population suffered from a general atrophy. [Footnote 240: Mutinelli, _op. cit._ vol. ii. pp. 51-65.] [Footnote 241: Cantù's _Ragionamenti sulla Storia Lombarda del Secolo XVII._ Milano, 1832. The trial may also be read in Mutinelli, _Storm Arcana_, vol. iv. pp. 175-201. Mutinelli inclines to believe in the _Untori_. So do many grave historians, including Nani and Botta. See Cantù, _Storia degli Italiani_, Milano, 1876, vol. ii. p. 215.] [Footnote 242: Mr. Ruskin has somewhere maintained that the decline of Venice was not due to this cause, but to fornication. He should read the record given by Mutinelli (_Diari Urbani_, p. 157), of Venetian fornication in 1340, at the time when the Ducal Palace was being covered with its sculpture. The public prostitutes were reckoned then at 11,654. Adulteries, rapes, infanticides were matters of daily occurrence. Yet the Renaissance had not begun, and the expansion of Venice, which roused the envious hostility of Europe, had yet to happen.] _The Proletariate_. In what concerns social morality it would be almost impossible to define the position of the proletariate, tillers of the soil, and artisans, at this epoch. These classes vary in their goodness and their badness, in their drawbacks and advantages, from age to age far less than those who mold the character of marked historical periods by culture. They enjoy indeed a greater or a smaller immunity from pressing miseries. They are innocent or criminal in different degrees. But the ground-work of humanity in them remains comparatively unaltered; and their moral qualities, so far as these may be exceptional, reflect the influences of an upper social stratum. It is clear from the histories related in this chapter that members of the lowest classes were continually mixing with the nobles and the gentry in the wild adventures of that troubled century. They, like their betters, were undergoing a tardy metamorphosis from mediaeval to modern conditions, retaining vices of ferocity and grossness, virtues of loyalty and self-reliance, which belonged to earlier periods. They, too, were now infected by the sensuous romance of pietism, the superstitious respect for sacraments and ceremonial observances which had been wrought by the Catholic Revival into ecstatic frenzy. They shared those correlative yearnings after sacrilegious debauchery, felt those allurements of magic arts, indulged that perverted sense of personal honor which constituted psychological disease in the century which we are studying. It can, moreover, be maintained that Italian society at no epoch has been so sharply divided into sections as that of the feudalized races. In this period of one hundred years, from 1530 to 1630, when education was a privilege of the few, and when Church and princes combined to retard intellectual progress, the distinction between noble and plebeian, burgher and plowman, though outwardly defined, was spiritually and morally insignificant. As in the Renaissance, so now, vice trickled downwards from above, infiltrating the masses of the people with its virus. But now, even more decidedly than then, the upper classes displayed obliquities of meanness, baseness, intemperance, cowardice, and brutal violence, which are commonly supposed to characterize villeins. I had thought to throw some light upon the manners of the Italian proletariate by exploring the archives of trials for witchcraft. But I found that these were less common than in Germany, France, Spain, and England at a corresponding period. In Italy witchcraft, pure and simple, was confined, for the most part, to mountain regions, the Apennines of the Abruzzi, and the Alps of Bergamo and Tyrol.[243] In other provinces it was confounded with crimes of poisoning, the procuring of abortion, and the fomentation of conspiracies in private families. These facts speak much for the superior civilization of the Italian people considered as a whole. We discover a common fund of intelligence, vice, superstition, prejudice, enthusiasm, craft, devotion, self-assertion, possessed by the race at large. Only in districts remote from civil life did witchcraft assume those anti-social and repulsive features which are familiar to Northern nations. Elsewhere it penetrated, as a subtle poison, through society, lending its supposed assistance to passions already powerful enough to work their own accomplishment. It existed, not as an endemic disease, a permanent delirium of maddened peasants, but as a weapon in the arsenal of malice on a par with poisons and provocatives to lust. I might illustrate this position by the relation of a fantastic attempt made against the life of Pope Urban VIII.[244] [Footnote 243: Dandolo's _Streghe Tirolesi_, and Cantù's work on the Diocese of Como show how much Subalpine Italy had in common in Northern Europe in this matter.] [Footnote 244: See _Rassegna Settimanale_, September 18, 1881.] Giacomo Centini, the nephew of Cardinal d'Ascoli, fostered a fixed idea, the motive of his madness being the promotion of his uncle to S. Peter's Chair. In 1633 he applied to a hermit, who professed profound science in the occult arts and close familiarity with demons. The man, in answer to Giacomo's inquiries, said that Urban had still many years to live, that the Cardinal d'Ascoli would certainly succeed him, and that he held it in his power to shorten the Pope's days. He added that a certain Fra Cherubino would be useful, if any matter of grave moment were resolved on; nor did he reject the assistance of other discreet persons. Giacomo, on his side, produced a Fra Domenico; and the four accomplices set at work to destroy the reigning Pope by means of sorcery. They caused a knife to be forged, after the model of the Key of Solomon, and had it inscribed with Cabalistic symbols. A clean virgin was employed to spin hemp into a thread. Then they resorted to a distant room in Giacomo's palace, where a circle was drawn with the mystic thread, a fire was lighted in the center, and upon it was placed an image of Pope Urban formed of purest wax. The devil was invoked to appear and answer whether Urban had deceased this life after the melting of the image. No infernal visitor responded to the call; and the hermit accounted for this failure by suggesting that some murder had been committed in the palace. As things went at that period, this excuse was by no means feeble, if only the audience, bent on unholy invocation of the power of evil, would accept it as sufficient. Probably more than one murder had taken place there, of which the owner was dimly conscious. The psychological curiosity to note is that avowed malefactors reckoned purity an essential element in their nefarious practice. They tried once more in a vineyard, under the open heavens at night. But no demon issued from the darkness, and the hermit laid this second mischance to the score of bad weather. Giacomo was incapable of holding his tongue. He talked about his undertaking to the neighbors, and promised to make them all Cardinals when he should become the Papal nephew. Meanwhile he pressed the hermit forward on the path of folly; and this man, driven to his wits' end for a device, said that they must find seven priests together, one of whom should be assassinated to enforce the spell. It was natural, while the countryside was being raked for seven convenient priests by such a tattler as Giacomo, that suspicions should be generated in the people. Information reached Rome, in consequence of which the persons implicated in this idiotic plot were conveyed thither and given over to the mercies of the Holy Office. The upshot of their trial was that Giacomo lost his head, while the hermit and Fra Cherubino were burned alive, and Fra Domenico went to the galleys for life. Several other men involved in the process received punishments of considerable severity. It must be added in conclusion that the whole story rests upon the testimony of Inquisitorial archives, and that the real method of Giacomo Centini's apparent madness yet remains to be investigated. The few facts that we know about him, from his behavior on the scaffold and a letter he wrote his wife, prejudice me in his favor. Enough, and more than enough, perhaps, has been collected in this chapter, to throw light upon the manners of Italians during the Counter-Reformation. It would have been easy to repeat the story of the Countess of Cellant and her murdered lovers, or of the Duchess of Amalfi strangled by her brothers for a marriage below her station. The massacres committed by the Raspanti in Ravenna would furnish a whole series of illustrative crimes. From the deeds of Alfonso Piccolomini, Sciarra and Fabrizio Colonna details sufficient to fill a volume with records of atrocious savagery could be drawn. The single episode of Elena Campireali, who plighted her troth to a bandit, became Abbess of the Convent at Castro, intrigued with a bishop, and killed herself for shame on the return of her first lover, would epitomize in one drama all the principal features of this social discord. The dreadful tale of the Baron of Montebello might be told again, who assaulted the castle of the Marquis of Pratidattolo, and, by the connivance of a sister whom he subsequently married, murdered the Marquis with his mother, children, and relatives. The hunted life of Alessandro Antelminelli, pursued through all the States of Europe by assassins, could be used to exemplify the miseries of proscribed exiles. But what is the use of multiplying instances, when every pedigree in Litta, every chronicle of the time, every history of the most insignificant township, swarms with evidence to the same purpose? We need not adopt the opinion that society had greatly altered for the worse. We must rather decide that mediaeval ferocity survived throughout the whole of that period which witnessed the Catholic Revival, and that the piety which distinguished it was not influential in curbing vehement passions. The conclusions to be drawn from the facts before us seem to be in general these. The link between government and governed in Italy had snapped. The social bond was broken, and the constituents that form a nation were pursuing divers aims. On the one hand stood Popes and princes, founding their claims to absolute authority upon titles that had slight rational or national validity. These potentates were ill-combined among themselves, and mutually jealous. On the other side were ranged disruptive forces of the most heterogeneous kinds--remnants from antique party-warfare, fragments of obsolete domestic feuds, new strivings after freer life in mentally down-trodden populations, blending with crime and misery and want and profligacy to compose an opposition which exasperated despotism. These anarchical conditions were due in large measure to the troubles caused by foreign campaigns of invasion. They were also due to the Spanish type of manners imposed upon the ruling classes, which the native genius accepted with fraudulent intelligence, and to which it adapted itself by artifice. We must further reckon the division between cultured and uncultured people, which humanism had effected, and which subsisted after the benefits conferred by humanism had been withdrawn from the race. The retirement of the commercial aristocracy from trade, and their assumption of princely indolence in this period of political stagnation, was another factor of importance. But the truest cause of Italian retrogression towards barbarism must finally be discerned in the sharp check given to intellectual evolution by the repressive forces of the Counter-Reformation. END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. INDEX. A ACADEMIES, Italian, the flourishing time of, i. 52. ACCIAIUOLI, Roberto, i. 33. ACCOLTI, Benedetto, conspirator against Pius IV., i. 132. ACCORAMBONI, Claudio (father of Vittoria), i. 356. ---Marcello (brother of Vittoria): intrigues for the marriage of his sister with the Duke of Bracciano, i. 358 _sqq._; procures the murder of her husband, 362; employs a Greek enchantress to brew love-philters, 365; his death, 372. ---Tarquinia (mother of Vittoria), i. 356. ---Vittoria, the story of, i. 355 _sqq._; her birth and parentage, 356; marriage with Felice Peretti, 357; intrigue with the Duke of Bracciano, 360; the murder of her husband, 362; her marriage with Bracciano, 364; annulled by the Pope, 364, 366; the union renounced by the Duke, 365; put on trial for the murder of Peretti, _ib._; their union publicly ratified by the Duke, 366; flight from Rome, _ib._; death of Bracciano, 367; her murder procured by Lodovico Orsini, 369. 'ACTS of Faith,' i. 107, 176, 187. ADMINISTRATOR, the (Jesuit functionary), i. 273. 'ADONE,' Marino's: its publication, ii. 264; critique of the poem, 266 _sqq._ ALBANI, Francesco, Bolognese painter, ii. 355, 358. ALEXANDER VI., Pope, parallel between, and Pope Paul IV., i. 106. ALFONSO II., Duke of Ferrara: sketch of his Court, ii. 28 _sqq._; his second marriage, 30; treatment of Tasso, 38, 51, 53, 58, 60 _sqq._; his third marriage, 66; estimate of the reasons why he imprisoned Tasso, 66 _sqq._ ALFONSO the Magnanimous: arrangements under his will, i. 4. ALIDOSI, Cardinal Francesco, murder of, i. 36. ALLEGORY, hypocrisy of the, exemplified in Tasso, ii. 44; in Marino, 272; in Ortensi's moral interpretations of Bandello's _Novelle_, 272 _n._ ALTEMPS, Cardinal d' (Mark of Hohen Ems), legate at Trent, i. 119 _n._ ALVA, Duke of, defeat of the Duke of Guise by, i. 103. 'AMADIS of Gaul,' the favorite book of Loyola in his youth, i. 232. AMIAS, Beatrice, mother of Francesco Cenci, i. 346. 'AMINTA,' Tasso's pastoral drama, first production of, ii. 39; its style, 114. ANGELUZZO, Giovanni, Tasso's first teacher, ii. 12. ANIMA Mundi, Bruno's doctrine of, ii. 177. ANTONIANO, a censor of the _Gerusalemme Liberata_, ii. 43. ---Silvio, a boy _improvvisatore_, anecdote of, ii. 328. AQUAVIVA, the fifth General of the Jesuits, i. 248. AQUITAINE, Duke of, Guercino's painting of in Bologna, ii. 367. ARAGONESE Dynasty, the, in Italy, i. 4. ARBUES, Peter, Saint of the Inquisition in Aragon, i. 161, 178. ARETINO, Pietro, i. 42, 70; satire of on Paul IV., 108. 'ARIE Divote,' Palestrina's, ii. 335. ARISTOTLE'S Axiom on Taste, ii. 371, 374. ARMADA, Spanish, i. 149. ARMI, Lodovico dall', a _bravo_ of noble family, i. 409; accredited at Venice as Henry VIII.'s 'Colonel,' 410; his career of secret diplomacy, 411; negotiations between Lord Wriothesley and Venice regarding the ban issued against him, 412; his downfall, 413; personal appearance, 414; execution, 415. ARNOLFINI, Massimiliano, paramour of Lucrezia Buonvisi, i. 331; procures the assassination of her husband, 332; flight from justice, 332; outlawed, 336; his wanderings and wretched end, 339. ART of Memory, Bruno's, ii. 139. ART of Poetry, Tasso's Dialogues on the, ii. 22, 24; influence of its theory on Tasso's own work, 25. ASSISTANTS, the (Jesuit functionaries), i. 273. ASTORGA, Marquis of, i. 22. AURORA, the Ludovisi fresco of, ii. 368. AVILA, Don Luigi d', i. 128. B BAGLIONI, Malatesta, i. 46. BAINI'S _Life of Palestrina_, ii. 316 _sqq._ BALBI, Cesare, on Italian decadence, ii. 3. BANDITTI, tales illustrative of, i. 388 _sqq._ 'BANDO' (of outlawry), recitation of the terms of a, i. 328. BARBIERI, Giovanni Francesco, _see_ IL GUERCINO. BARCELONA, the Treaty of, i. 15. BARNABITES, Order of the: their foundation, i. 80. BAROCCIO, Federigo, ii. 349. BAROZZA, a Venetian courtezan, i. 394, 396. BASEL, Council of, i. 94. BEARD, unshorn, worn in sign of mourning, i. 36. BEDELL, William (Bishop of Kilmore), on Fra Paolo and Fra Fulgenzio, ii. 231. BEDMAR'S conspiracy, ii. 186. BELLARMINO, Cardinal, on the inviolability of the Vulgate, i. 212; relations of, with Fra Paolo Sarpi, ii. 213, 222; his censure of the _Pastor Fido_, 251. BELRIGUARDO, the villa of, Tasso at, ii. 53. BEMBO, Pietro, i. 30, 41. BENDEDEI, Taddea, wife of Guarini, ii. 245. BENTIVOGLI, the semi-royal offspring of King Enzo of Sardinia, ii. 304. BIBBONI, Cecco: his account of how he murdered Lorenzino de'Medici, i. 488 _sqq._; his associate, Bebo, details of the life of a _bravo_, 389; tracking an outlaw, 392; the wages of a tyrannicide, 394; the _bravo's_ patient watching, 395; the murder, 397; flight of the assassins, 399; their reception by Count Collalto, 401; they seek refuge at the Spanish embassy, 402; protected by Charles V.'s orders, 403; conveyed to Pisa, 404; well provided for their future life, _ib._ BITONTO. Pasquale di, one of the assassins of Sarpi, ii. 212. BLACK garments of Charles V., the, i. 43. BLACK Pope, the, i. 275. BLOIS, Treaty of, i. 12. BOBADILLA, Nicholas, associate of Ignatius Loyola, i. 240; his work as a Jesuit in Bavaria, 258. BOLOGNA and Modena, humors of the conflict between, ii. 304. BOLOGNESE school of painters, the, ii. 343 _sqq._; why their paintings are now neglected, 375 _sqq._; mental condition of Bolognese art, 376. BONELLI, Michele, nephew of Pius V., i. 147. BONIFAZIO of Montferrat, Marquis, one of the Paleologi, i. 23. BORGIA, Francis (Duke of Gandia), third General of the Jesuits, i. 256; prevented by Loyola from accepting a Cardinal's hat, 260. BORROMEO, Carlo: his character, i. 115; a possible successor to Pius IV., 135; ruled in Rome by the Jesuits, 142; his intimacy with Sarpi, ii. 194. ---Federigo, i. 115; letter of, forbidding soldiers' visits to convents, 316 _n._ BRANCACCIO, Diana, treachery of, towards the Duchess of Palliano, i. 378; her murder, 379. 'BRAVI,' maintenance of by Italian nobles, i. 313; tales illustrative of, 388 _sqq._; relations of trust between _bravi_ and foreign Courts, 409. BRIGANDAGE in Italy, i. 416. BROWN, Mr. H.F., his researches in the Venetian archives, i. 189 _n._ BRUCCIOLI, Antonio, translator of the Bible into Italian, i. 76. BRUNO, Giordano: his birth, and training as a Dominican, ii. 129; early speculative doubts, 130; _Il Candelajo_, 131, 183; early studies, 133; prosecution for heresy, 134; a wandering student, 135; at Geneva, 136; Toulouse, 137; at the Sorbonne, 138; the Art of Memory, 139, 154; _De Umbris Idearum_, _ib._; relations with Henri III., 140; Bruno's person and conversation, 141; in England, _ib._; works printed in London, 142; descriptions of London life, _ib._; opinion of Queen Elizabeth, 143; lecturer at Oxford, 144; address to the Vice-Chancellor, 146; academical opposition, 147; the Ash-Wednesday Supper, _ib._; in the family of Castelnau, 148; in Germany, 149; Bruno's opinion of the Reformers, _ib._; the _De Monade_ and _De Triplici Minimo_, 150; Bruno in a monastery at Frankfort, 151; invited to Venice, 153; a guest of Mocenigo there, 154; his occupations, 156; denounced by Mocenigo and imprisoned by the Inquisition, 157; the heads of the accusation, 157 _sqq._; trial, 159; recantation, 160; estimate of Bruno's apology, 161; his removal to and long imprisonment at Rome, 163; his execution, 164; evidence of his martyrdom, 164 _sqq._; Schoppe's account, 165; details of Bruno's treatment in Rome, 167; the burning at the stake, 167 _sq._; Bruno a martyr, 168; contrast with Tasso, 169; Bruno's mental attitude, 170 _sq._; his championship of the Copernican system, 172; his relation to modern science and philosophy, 173; conception of the universe, 173 _sqq._; his theology, 175; the _Anima Mundi_, 177; anticipations of modern thought, 178, 182; his want of method, 180; the treatise on the Seven Arts, 182; Bruno's literary style, 182 _sqq._; his death contrasted with that of Sarpi, 239 _n._ BRUSANTINI, Count Alessandro (Tassoni's 'Conte Culagna'), ii. 301, 306. BUCKET, the Bolognese, ii. 305. BUONCOMPAGNO, Giacomo, bastard, son of Gregory XIII., i. 150. ---Ugo, _see_ GREGORY XIII. BUONVISI, Lucrezia, story of, i. 330; intrigue with Arnolfini, 331; murder of her husband, 332; Lucrezia suspected of complicity, 334; becomes a nun (Sister Umilia), _ib._; the case against her, 338; amours of inmates of her convent, 340; Umilia's intrigue with Samminiati, _ib._; discovery of their correspondence, 341; trial and sentences of the nuns, 344; Umilia's last days, 345. ---Lelio, assassination of, i. 332. BURGUNDIAN diamond of Charles the Bold, the, i. 38. C CALCAGNINI, Celio, letter of, on religious controversies, i. 74. CALVAERT, Dionysius, a Flemish painter in Bologna, ii. 355. CALVETTI, Olimpio (one of the assassins of Francesco Cenci), i. 350. CALVIN, i. 73; his relation to modern civilization, ii. 402. CAMBRAY, Treaty of (the Paix des Dames), i. 9, 15. CAMERA Apostolica, the, venality of, i. 140. CAMERINO, Duchy of, i. 86. CAMPANELLA, on the black robes of the Spaniards in Italy, i. 44. CAMPEGGI, Cardinal Lorenzo, i. 21. CAMPIREALI, Elena, the tale of, i. 428. CANELLO, U.A., on Italian society in the sixteenth century, i. 304 _n._ CANISIUS, lieutenant of Loyola in Austria, i. 259; appointed to the administration of the see of Vienna, 260. CANOSSA, Antonio, conspirator against Pius IV., i. 132. CAPELLO, Bianca, the story of, i. 382. CAPPELLA, Giulia (Rome), school for training choristers, ii. 316. CARACCI, the, Bolognese painters, ii. 345, 349 _sqq._ CARAFFA, Cardinal, condemned to death by Pius IV., i. 115. ---Giovanni Pietro (afterwards Pope Paul IV.), causes the rejection of Contarini's arrangement with the Lutherans, i. 78; helps to found the Theatines, 79; made Cardinal by Paul III., 88; hatred of Spanish ascendency, 89; becomes Pope Paul IV., 102; quarrel with Philip II., 102 _sqq._; opens negotiations with Soliman, 103; reconciliation with Spain, 104; nepotism, _ib._; indignation against the misdoings of his relatives, 106; ecclesiastical reforms, 107 _sq._; zeal for the Holy Office, 107 _n._; personal character, 108; his death, _ib._; his earlier relations with Ignatius Loyola, 242. CARAFFESCHI, evil character of the, i. 105; four condemned to death by Pius IV., 115, 318. CARAVAGGIO, Michelangelo Amerighi da, Italian Realist painter, ii. 363 _n._ CARDINE, Aliffe and Leonardo di (Caraffeschi), condemned to death by Pius IV., i. 115. CARDONA, Violante de (Duchess of Palliano), story of, i. 373 _sqq._; her accomplishments, 374; character, _ib._; passion of Marcello Capecce for her, _ib._; her character compromised through Diana Brancaccio, 378; murder of Marcello and Diana by the Duke, _ib._; death of Violante at the hands of her brother, 380. CARLI, Orazio: description of his being put to the torture, i. 333 _sq._ CARLO Emmanuele of Savoy, Italian hopes founded on, ii. 246, 286; friend of Marino, 262; kindness to Chiabrera, 290; treatment of Tassoni, 298. CARNESECCHI, condemned by the Roman Inquisition to be burned, i. 145. CARPI, attached to Ferrara, i. 40. CARRANZA, Archbishop of Toledo, condemned by the Roman Inquisition to be burned, i. 145. CASA, Giovanni della (author of the _Capitolo del Forno_), i. 393, 395. CASTELNAU, Michel de, kindness of towards Giordano Bruno, ii. 141, 148. ---Marie de, Bruno's admiration for, ii. 148. ---Pierre de, the first Saint of the Inquisition, i. 161. CATALANI, Marzio (one of the assassins of Francesco Cenci), i. 350. CATEAU Cambrésis, the Peace of, i. 48. CATHOLIC Revival, the inaugurators of, at Bologna, i. 16; transition from the Renaissance to, 65; new religious spirit in Italy, 67; the Popes and the Council of Trent, 96 _sqq._; a Papal triumph, 130; the Catholic Reaction generated the Counter-Reformation, 133; its effect on social and domestic morals, 301 _sqq._ CELEBRITY, vicissitudes of, ii. 368. CELIBACY, clerical, the question of, at Trent, i. 123. CELLANT, Contessa di, the model of Luini's S. Catherine, ii. 360 _n._ 'CENA delle Ceneri, La,' Bruno's, i. 85 _n._; ii. 140, 142, 183. CENCI, Beatrice, examination of the legend of, i. 351 _sqq._ ---Francesco: bastard son of Cristoforo Cenci, i. 346; his early life, _ib._; disgraceful charges against him, 348; compounds by heavy money payment for his crimes, _ib._; violent deaths of his sons, _ib._; severity towards his children, 349; his assassination procured by his wife and three children, 350; the murderers denounced, _ib._; their trial and punishments, 351. ---Msgr. Christoforo, father of Francesco Cenci, i. 346. CENTINI, Giacomo: story of his attempts by sorcery on the life of Urban VIII., i. 425. CESI, Msgr., invites Tasso to Bologna, ii. 22. CHARLES V., his compact with Clement VII., i. 15; Emperor Elect, 16; relations with Andrea Doria, 17; at Genoa, 18; his journey to Bologna, 20; his reception there, 22; the meeting with Clement, 23; mustering of Italian princes, 25; negotiations on Italian affairs, 26 _sqq._; a treaty of peace signed, 31; the difficulty with Florence, 32; the question of the two crowns, 34 _sqq._; description of the coronation, 37 _sqq._; the events that followed, 39 _sqq._; the net results of Charles's administration of Italian affairs, 45 _sqq._; his relations with Paul III., 100; his abdication, 102; he protects the assassins of Lorenzino de'Medici, 403. CHARLES VIII., of France: his invasion of Italy, i. 8. CHIABRERA, Gabriello: his birth, ii. 287; educated by the Jesuits, _ib._; his youth, 288; the occupations of a long life, 289; courtliness, 290; ode to Cesare d'Este, 291; Chiabrera's aim to remodel Italian poetry on a Greek pattern. 292 _sqq._; would-be Pindaric flights, 296; comparison with Marino and Tassoni, _ib._ CIOTTO, Giambattista, relations of, with Giordano Bruno, ii. 152 _sqq._ CISNEROS, Garcia de, author of a work which suggested S. Ignatius's _Exercitia_, i. 236. CLEMENT VII.: a prisoner in S. Angelo, i. 14; compact with Charles V., 15; their meeting at Bologna, 16 _sqq._; negotiations with the Emperor Elect, 26 _sqq._; peace signed, 31. CLEMENT VIII.: his Concordat with Venice, i. 193; Index of Prohibited Books issued by him, _ib._; his rules for the censorship of books, 198 _sqq._; he confers a pension on Tasso, ii. 76. CLOUGH, Mr., lines of, on 'Christianized' monuments in Papal Rome, i. 154. COADJUTORS, Temporal and Spiritual (Jesuit grades), i. 271. COLLALTO, Count Salici da, patron of the _bravo_ Bibboni, i. 400. COLONNA, the, reduced to submission to the Popes, i. 7. ---Vespasiano, Duke of Palliano, i. 77. ---Vittoria, i. 77; letter to, from Tasso in his childhood, ii. 15. COMANDINO, Federigo, Tasso's teacher, ii. 19. COMPANY OF JESUS, _see_ JESUITS. CONCLAVES, external influences on, in the election of Popes, i. 134. CONFEDERATION between Clement VII. and Charles V., i. 31. 'CONFIRMATIONS,' Fra Fulgenzio's, ii. 201. CONSERVATISM and Liberalism, necessary contest between, ii. 386. 'CONSIDERATIONS on the Censures,' Sarpi's, ii. 201. CONSTANCE, Council of, i. 92. CONTARINI, Gasparo: his negotiations between Catholics and Protestants, i. 30; treatment of his writings by Inquisitors, 31; suspected of heterodoxy, 72; intimacy with Gaetano di Thiene, 76; his concessions to the Reformers repudiated by the Curia, 78; memorial on ecclesiastical abuses, 79. ---Simeone: his account of a plague at Savigliano, i. 419 _sq._ 'CONTRIBUTIONS of the Clergy, Discourse upon the,' Sarpi's, ii. 221. COPERNICAN system, the, Bruno's championship of, ii. 172. COREGLIA, one of the assassins of Lelio Buonvisi, i. 333 _sqq._ CORONATION of Charles V., description of, i. 34 _sqq._; notable people present at, 39 _sqq._ CORSAIRS, Tunisian and Algerian, raids of, on Italian coasts, i. 417. COSCIA, Giangiacopo, guardian of Tasso's sister, ii. 16. COSIMO I. of Tuscany, the rule of, i. 46, 47. COSTANTINI, Antonio, Tasso's last letter written to, ii. 77; sonnet on the poet, 78. COTERIES, religious, in Rome, Venice, Naples, i. 75 _sqq._ COUNTER-REFORMATION: its intellectual and moral character, i. 63; the term defined, 64 _n._; decline of Renaissance impulse, 65; criticism and formalism in Italy, _ib._; contrast with the development of other European races, 66; transition to the Catholic Revival, 67; attitudes of Italians towards the German Reformation, 71; free-thinkers, 73; the Oratory of Divine Love, 76; the Moderate Reformers, _ib._; Gasparo Contarini, 78; new Religious Orders, 79; the Council of Trent, 97, 119; Tridentine Reforms, 107, 134; asceticism fashionable in Rome, 108, 142; active hostilities against Protestantism, 148; the new spirit of Roman polity, 149 _sqq._; work of the Inquisition, 159 _sqq._; the Index, 195 _sqq._; twofold aim of Papal policy, 226; the Jesuits, 229 _sqq._; an estimate of the results of the Reformation and of the Counter-Reformation, ii. 385 _sqq._ COURIERS, daily post of, between the Council of Trent and the Vatican, i. 121. COURT life in Italy, i. 20, 37, 41, 51; ii. 17, 29, 65, 201, 251. CRIMES of violence, in Italy in the sixteenth century, i. 304 _sqq._ CRIMINAL procedure, of Italian governments in the sixteenth century, i. 308 _sqq._ CRITICISM, fundamental principles of, ii. 370; the future of, 374. CROWNS, the iron and the golden, of the Emperor, i. 34. CULAGNA, Conte di, _see_ BRUSANTINI. CURIA, the, complicity of, with the attempts on Sarpi's life, ii. 213. D 'DATATARIO:' amount and sources of its income, i. 140. DATI, Giovanbattista, amount of, with nuns, i. 341 _sq._ 'DECAMERONE,' Boccaccio's expurgated editions of, issued in Rome, i. 224 _sq._ DELLA CRUSCANS, the, attack of, on Tasso's poetry, ii. 35, 72, 117 _n._ 'DE Monade,' Bruno's, ii. 150, 152 _n._, 167. DEPRES, Josquin, the leader of the contrapuntal style in music, ii. 316. 'DE Triplici Minimo,' Bruno's, ii. 150, 152 _n._, 167. 'DE Umbris Idearum,' Bruno's, ii. 139. DEZA, Diego, Spanish Inquisitor, i. 182. DIACATHOLICON, the, meaning of the term as used by Sarpi, i. 231; ii. 202. DIALOGUES, Tasso's, ii. 22, 112. DIRECTORIUM, the (Lainez' commentary on the constitution of the Jesuits), i. 249. DIVINE Right of sovereigns, the: why it found favor among Protestants, i. 296. DOMENICHINO, Bolognese painter, ii. 355; critique of Mr. Ruskin's invectives against his work, 359 _sqq._ DOMINICANS, the, ousted as theologians by the Jesuits at Trent, i. 101; their reputation for learning, ii. 130. DOMINIS, Marcantonio de, publishes in England Sarpi's _History of the Council of Trent_, ii. 223. DONATO, Leonardo, Doge of Venice, ii. 198. DORIA, Andrea: his relations with Charles V., i. 18. ---Cardinal Girolamo, i. 21. E ECLECTICISM in painting, ii. 345 _sqq._, 375 _sqq._ ECONOMICAL stagnation in Italy, i. 423. ELIZABETH, Queen (of England), Bruno's admiration of, ii. 143. EMANCIPATION of the reason, retarded by both the Reformation and the Counter-Reformation, ii. 385 _sqq._ EMIGRANTS from Italy, regulations of the Inquisition regarding, i. 227. ENZO, King (of Sardinia), a prisoner at Bologna, ii. 304. EPIC poetry, Italian speculations on, ii. 24; Tasso's Dialogues on, 26. 'EROICI Furori, Gli,' Bruno's, ii. 142, 183. ESPIONAGE, system of among the Jesuits, i. 273. ESTE, Alfonso d' (Duke of Ferrara), relations of, with Charles V., i. 40. ---Cardinal Ippolito d', i. 127 _sq._ ---Cardinal Luigi d', Tasso in the service of, ii. 12, 27. ---Don Cesare d', Chiabrera's Ode to, ii. 291. ---House of, their possessions in Italy, i. 45. 48. ---Isabella d', at the coronation of Charles V.. i. 21. ---Leonora d', the nature of Tasso's attachment to, ii. 31 _sqq._, 36, 40, 51, 54 _n._, 56, 68; her death, 71. ---Lucrezia d', Tasso's attachment to, ii. 32, 39; her marriage, 35; her death, 40 _n._ EVOLUTION in relation to Art, ii. 371 _sqq._ 'EXERCITIA Spiritualia' (Loyola's), i. 236; manner of their use, 267 _sqq._ EXTINCTION of republics in Italy, i. 45 _sqq._ F FABER, Peter, associate of Loyola, i. 239; his work as a Jesuit in Spain, 258. FARNESE, Alessandro, _see_ PAUL III. ---Giulia, mistress of Alexander VI., i. 81. ---Ottavio (grandson of Paul III.), Duke of Camerino, i. 86. ---Pier Luigi (son of Paul III.), Duke of Parma, i. 86. FEDERATION, Italian, the five members of the, i. 3 _sqq._; how it was broken up, 11. FERDINAND, Emperor, successor of Charles V., i. 102, 118; his relations with Canisius and the Jesuits, 259. FERRARA, i. 7; settlement of the Duchy of, by Charles V., i. 40; life at the Court of, ii. 29, 65, 247, 251. FERRUCCI, Francesco, i. 46. FESTA, Costanzo, the _Te Deum_ of, ii. 329. FINANCES of the Papacy under Sixtus V., i. 152. FIORENZA, Giovanni di, one of the assassins of Sarpi, ii. 212. FLAMINIO, Marcantonio, i. 76. FLEMISH musicians in Rome, ii. 316 _sqq._ FLORENCE: condition of the Republic in 1494, i. 10; Siege of the town (1530), 30 _sq._; capitulation, 46; under the rule of Spain, _ib._; extinction of the Republic, 47; the rule of Cosimo I., 49. FORMALISM, the development of, i. 66. FOSCARI, Francesco, the dogeship of, i. 9. FRANCIS I.: his capture at Pavia, i. 9, 13. FRECCI, Maddalò de', the betrayer of Tasso's love-affairs, ii. 51. FREDERICK II., Emperor: his edicts against heresy, i. 163. FREETHINKERS, Italian, i. 73 _sq._ FULGENZIO, Fra, the preaching of at Venice, ii. 207; his biography of Sarpi, _ib._ FULKE GREVILLE, a supper at the house of, described by Giordano Bruno, ii. 142, 147. G GALLICAN CHURCH, the: its interests in the Council of Trent, i. 126. GALLUZZI'S record of Jesuit attempts to seduce youth, i. 284. GATTINARA, Cardinal, Grand Chancellor of the Empire, i. 31. GAMBARA, Veronica, i. 41. GENERAL Congregation of the Jesuits, functions of the, i. 273. GENERAL of the Jesuits, position of, in regard to the Order, i. 272. GENOA, becomes subject to Spain, i. 18. GENTILE, Valentino, i. 73. GERSON'S _Considerations upon Papal Excommunications_, translated by Sarpi, ii. 200. 'GERUSALEMME Conquistata,' Tasso's, ii. 75, 114 _sq._, 124. 'GERUSALEMME Liberata:' at first called _Gottifredo_, ii. 35; its dedication, 38, 47 _sq._; submitted by Tasso to censors, 43; their criticisms, 43 _sq._, 50; successful publication of the poem, 71; its subject-matter, 92; the romance of the epic, 93; Tancredi, the hero, 94; imitations of Dante and Virgil, 95 _sqq._; artificiality, 100; pompous cadences, 101; oratorical dexterity, 102; the similes and metaphors, _ib._; Armida, the heroine, 106. GHISLIERI, Michele, _see_ PIUS V. ---Paolo, a relative of Pius V., i. 147. GIBERTI, Gianmatteo, Bishop of Verona, i. 19. GILLOT, Jacques, letter from Sarpi to, on the relations of Church and State, ii. 203. GIOVANNI FRANCESCO, Fra, an accomplice in the attacks on Sarpi, ii. 214. 'GLI ETEREI,' Academy of, at Padua, ii. 26. GOLDEN crown, the, significance of, i. 34. GONGORISM, i. 66. GONZAGA, Cardinal Ercole, ambassador from Clement VII. to Charles V., i. 19. ---Cardinal Scipione, a friend of Tasso, ii. 26, 42, 46, 67, 73. ---Don Ferrante, i. 25. ---Eleanora Ippolita, Duchess of Urbino, i. 37. ---Federigo, Marquis of Mantua, i. 26. ---Vincenzo, obtains Tasso's release, ii. 73; the circumstances of his marriage, i. 386. 'GOTTIFREDO.' Tasso's first title for the _Gerusalemme Liberata_, ii. 35. GOUDIMEL, Claude: his school of music at Rome, ii. 323. GRANADA, Treaty of, i. 12. GRAND style (in art), the so-called, ii. 379. GREGORY XIII., Pope (Ugo Buoncompagno): his early career and election, i. 149; manner of life, 150; treatment of his relatives, 151; revival of obsolete rights of the Church, 152; consequent confusion in the Papal States, _ib._ GRISON mercenaries in Italy, i. 103 _n._ GUARINI, on the death of Tasso, ii. 69 _n._; publishes a revised edition of Tasso's lyrics, 72; Guarini's parentage, 244; at the Court of Alfonso II. of Ferrara, 245; a rival of Tasso, _ib._; engaged on foreign embassies, 246; appointed Court poet, 247; domestic troubles, 249; his last years, 251; his death, _ib._; argument of the _Pastor Fido_, _ib._; satire upon the Court of Ferrara, 254; critique of the poem, 255; its style, 256; comparison with Tasso's _Aminta_, 275. GUELF and Ghibelline contentions: how they ended in Italy, i. 57. GUICCIARDINI, Francesco, i. 33. GUISE, Duke of: his defeat by Alva, i. 103; his murder, 129. GUZMAN, Domenigo de (S. Dominic), founder of the Dominican Order, i. 162. H HEGEMONY, Spanish, economical and social condition of the Italians under, i. 50; the evils of, 61. HENCHENEOR, Cardinal William, i. 36. HENRI III., favor shown to Giordano Bruno by, ii. 139. HENRI IV., the murder of, i. 297. HENRY VIII.: his divorce from Katharine of Aragon, i. 44. HEROICO-comic poetry, Tassoni's _Secchia Rapita_, the first example of, ii. 303. 'HISTORY of the Council of Trent,' Sarpi's, ii. 222 _sqq._ HOLY Office, _see_ INQUISITION. HOLY Roman Empire, the, ii. 393. HOMATA, Benedetta, attempted murder of by Gianpaolo Osio, i. 323 _sqq._ HOMICIDE, lax morality of the Jesuits in regard to, i. 306 _n._ HOSIUS, Cardinal, legate at Trent, i. 118. HUMANISM, the work of, ii. 385, 391; what it involved, 392; Rationalism, its offspring, 404. HUMANITY, the past and future of, ii. 408 _sqq._ I IL BORGA, a censor of the _Gerusalemme Liberata_, ii. 43. 'IL Candelajo,' Giordano Bruno's comedy, ii. 131, 183. IL GUERCINO (G.F. Barbieri), Bolognese painter, ii. 365; his masterpieces, 367. 'IL PADRE di Famiglio,' Tasso's Dialogue, ii. 63. 'IL Pentito,' Tasso's name as one of Gli Eterei, ii. 26. INGEGNERI, Antonio, a friend of Tasso, ii. 64; publishes the _Gerusalemme_, 71. INDEX Expurgatorius: its first publication at Venice, i. 192; effects on the printing trade there, 193; the Index in concert with the Inquisition, 194; origin of the Index, 195; local lists of prohibited books, _ib._; establishment of the Congregation of the Index, 197; Index of Clement VIII., 198; its preambles, _ib._; regulations, 199 _sq._; details of the censorship and correction of books, 201; rules as to printers, publishers, and booksellers, 203; responsibility of the Holy Office, 204; annoyances arising from delays and ignorance on the part of censors, 205; spiteful delators of charges of heresy, 207; extirpation of books, 208; proscribed literature, 209; garbled works by Vatican students, 210; effect of the Tridentine decree about the Vulgate, 212; influence of the Index on schools and lecture-rooms, 213; decline of humanism, 218; the statutes on the _Ratio Status_, 220; their object and effect, 221; the treatment of lewd and obscene publications, 223; expurgation of secular books, 224. INQUISITION, the, i. 159 _sqq._; the first germ of the Holy Office, 161; developed during the crusade against the Albigenses, _ib._; S. Dominic its founder, 162; introduced into Lombardy, etc., 164; the stigma of heresy, 165; three types of Inquisition, 166; the number of victims, 166 _n._; the crimes of which it took cognizance, 167; the methods of the Apostolical Holy Office, 168; treatment of the New Christians in Castile, 169, 171; origin of the Spanish Holy Office, 170; opposition of Queen Isabella, 171; exodus of New Christians, 172; the punishments inflicted, _ib._; futile appeals to Rome, 173; constitution of the Inquisition, 174; its two most formidable features, 175; method of its judicial proceedings, 176; the sentence and its execution, 177; the holocausts and their pageant, _ib._; Torquemada's insolence, 179; the body-guard of the Grand Inquisitor, 180; number of Torquemada's victims, 181; exodus of Moors from Castile, 182; victims under Torquemada's successors, _ib._; an Aceldama at Madrid, 184; the Roman Holy Office, _ib._; remodelled by Giov. Paolo Caraffa, 185; 'Acts of Faith' in Rome, 186; numbers of the victims, 187; in other parts of Italy, 188; the Venetian Holy Office, 190; dependent on the State, _ib._; Tasso's dread of the Inquisition, ii. 42, 45, 49, 51; the case of Giordano Bruno, 134, 157 _sqq._; Sarpi denounced to the Holy Office, 195. INTELLECTUAL and social activity in Italian cities, i. 51. INTERDICT of Venice (1606), ii. 198 _sqq._; the compromise, 205. INVASION, wars of, in Italy, i. 11 _sqq._ IRON crown, the, sent from Monza to Bologna, i. 36. 'ITALIA Liberata,' Trissino's, ii. 24, 303. ITALIA Unita, ii. 407. ITALY: its political conditions in 1494, i. 2 _sqq._; the five members of its federation, 3; how the federation was broken up, 11; the League between Clement VII. and Charles V., 31; review of the settlement of Italy effected by Emperor and Pope, 45 _sqq._; extinction of republics, 47; economical and social condition of the Italians under Spanish hegemony, 48; intellectual life, 51; predominance of Spain and Rome, 53 _sqq._; Italian servitude, 58; the evils of Spanish rule, 59 _sqq._; seven Spanish devils in Italy, 61; changes wrought by the Counter-Reformation, 64 _sqq._; criticism and formalism, 65; transition from the Renaissance to the Catholic Revival, _ib._; attitude of Italians towards the German Reformation, 71. J JESUITS, Order of: its importance in the Counter-Reformation, i. 229; the Diacatholicon, 231; works on the history of the Order, 231 _n._; sketch of the life of Ignatius Loyola, 231 _sqq._; the first foundation of the _Exercitia_, 236; Peter Faber and Francis Xavier, 239; the vows taken by Ignatius and his neophytes at Paris, 240; their proposed mission to the Holy Land, 241; their visits to Venice and Rome, 242 _sq._; the name of the Order, 244; negotiations in Rome, 245; the fourth vow, 246; the constitutions approved by Paul III., 247; the Directorium of Lainez, 249; the original limit of the number of members, _ib._; Loyola's administration, 250; asceticism deprecated, 251; worldly wisdom of the founder, 253; rapid spread of the Order, 254; the Collegium Romanum, 255; Collegium Germanicum, _ib._; the Order deemed rivals by the Dominicans in Spain, _ib._; successes in Portugal, 256; difficulties in France, 257; in the Low Countries, _ib._; in Bavaria and Austria, 258; Loyola's dictatorship, 259; his adroitness in managing distinguished members of his Order, 260; statistics of the Jesuits at Loyola's death, _ib._; the autocracy of the General, 261; Jesuit precepts on obedience, 263 _sq._; addiction to Catholicism, 266; the spiritual drill of the _Exercitia Spiritualia_, 267; materialistic imagination, 268; psychological adroitness of the method, 269; position and treatment of the novice, 270; the Jesuit Hierarchy, 271; the General, 272; five sworn spies to watch him, 273; a system of espionage through the Order, 274; position of a Jesuit, _ib._; the Black Pope, 275; the working of the Jesuit vow of poverty, 275 _sq._; revision of the Constitutions by Lainez, 277; the question about the _Monita Secreta_, 277 _sqq._; estimate of the historical importance of the Jesuits, 280 _sq._; their methods of mental tyranny, 281; Jesuitical education, 282; desire to gain the control of youth, 283; their general aim the aggrandizement of the Order, 284; treatment of _études fortes_, _ib._; admixture of falsehood and truth, 285; sham learning and sham art, 286; Jesuit morality, 287; manipulation of the conscience, 288; casuistical ethics, 290; system of confession and direction, 293; political intrigues and doctrines, 294 _sqq._; the theory of the sovereignty of the people, 296; Jesuit connection with political plots, 297; suspected in regard to the deaths of Popes, 298; the Order expelled from various countries, 299 _n._; relations of Jesuits to Rome, 299; their lax morality in regard to homicide, 306 _n._, 314; their support of the Interdict of Venice, ii. 198 _sqq._ JEWS, Spanish, wealth and influence of, i. 169; adoption of Christianity, _ib._; attacked by the Inquisition, 170; the edict for their expulsion, 171; its results, 172. JULIUS II.: results of his martial energy, i. 7. ---III., Pope (Giov. Maria del Monte), i. 101. K KEPLER, high opinion of Bruno's speculations held by, ii. 164. KINGDOMS and States of Italy in 1494, enumeration of, i. 3. L 'LA Cuccagna,' a satire by Marino, ii. 263. LAINEZ, James, associate of Ignatius Loyola, i. 240; his influence on the development of the Jesuits, 248; his commentary on the Constitutions (the Directorium), 249; his work in Venice, etc., 254; abject submission to Loyola, 262. LATERAN, Council of the, i. 95. LATIN and Teutonic factors in European civilization, ii. 393 _sqq._ LATINI, Latino, on the extirpation of books by the Index, i. 208. LEGATES, Papal, at Trent, i. 97 _n._, 119. LE JAY, Claude, associate of Ignatius Loyola, i. 240; his work as a Jesuit at Ferrara, 254; in Austria. 258. LEONI, Giambattista, employed by Sarpi to write against the Jesuits, ii. 200. LEPANTO, battle of, i. 149. LESCHASSIER, Sarpi's letters to, ii. 229, 235. 'LE Sette Giornate,' Tasso's, ii. 75, 115, 124. LEYVA, Antonio de, at Bologna, i. 22. ---Virginia Maria de (the Lady of Monza): birth and parentage, i. 317; a nun in a convent of the Umiliate, 318; her seduction by Gianpaolo Osio, 318 _sqq._; birth of her child, 321; murder of her waiting-woman by Osio, 322; the intrigue discovered, 323; attempted murder by Osio of two of her associates, 324; Virginia's punishment and after-life, 329. LONDON, Bruno's account of the life of the people of, ii. 142; social life in, 143. LORENTE'S History of the Inquisition, cited, 171 _sqq._; his account of the number of victims of the Holy Office, i. 181, 183 _n._ LORRAINE, Cardinal: his influence in the Council of Trent, i. 125 _sq._ LO SPAGNOLETTO (Giuseppe Ribera), Italian Realist painter, ii. 363. LOUISA of Savoy, one of the arrangers of the Paix des Dames, i. 16. LOUIS XII.: his descent into Lombardy, and its results, i. 9; allied with the Austrian Emperor and the King of Spain, i. 12. LOYOLA, Ignatius, founder of the Jesuits: his birth and childhood, i. 231; his youth and early training, _ib._; illness at Pampeluna, 232; pilgrimage to Montserrat, 234; retreat at Manresa, _ib._; his romance and discipline, 235; journey to the Holy Land, 237; his apprenticeship to his future calling, _ib._; imprisoned by the Inquisition, 238; studies theology in Paris, _ib._; gains disciples there, 239; his methods with them, _ib._; with ten companions takes the vows of chastity and poverty, 240; Ignatius at Venice, 241; his relations with Caraffa and the Theatines, 242; in Rome, 243; the name of the new Order, 244; its military organization, 245; the project favored by Paul III., _ib._; the Constitution approved by the Pope, 247; his worldly wisdom, 248 _n._; Loyola's creative force, 249; his administration, 250 _sq._; dislike of the common forms of monasticism, 251; his aims and principles, 252; comparison with Luther, 253; rapid spread of the Order, 254; special desire of Ignatius to get a firm hold on Germany, 258; his dictatorship, 259; adroitness in managing his subordinates, 260; autocratic administration, 261; insistence on the virtue of obedience, 263; devotion to the Roman Church, 265; the _Exercitia Spiritualia_, 267 _sqq._; Loyola's dislike of asceticism, 270; his interpretation of the vow of poverty, 275; his instructions as to the management of consciences, 287 _sq._; his doctrine on the fear of God, 304 _n._ LUCERO EL TENEBROSO, the Spanish Inquisitor, i. 180. LUINI'S picture of S. Catherine, ii. 360. LULLY, Raymond: his Art of Memory and Classification of the Sciences, adapted by Giordano Bruno, ii. 139. LUNA, Don Juan de, i. 47. LUTHER, Bruno's high estimate of, ii. 149; his relation to modern civilization, 402. LUTHERAN soldiers in Italy, i. 44. LUTHERANISM in Italy, i. 185. M MACAULAY, Lord, on Sarpi's religious opinions, ii. 227 _n._; critique of his survey of the Catholic Revival, 400 _sqq._ MAIN events in modern history, the, ii. 383 _sqq._ MALATESTA, Roberto, leader of bandits in the Papal States, i. 152. MALIPIERO, Alessandro, a friend of Sarpi, ii. 210. MALVASIA, Count C.C., writings of, on the Bolognese painters, ii. 350 _n._ MANRESA, Ignatius Loyola at, i. 234. MANRIQUE, Thomas, Master of the Sacred Palace, an expurgated edition of the _Decamerone_ issued by, i. 224. MANSO, Marquis: his _Life of Tasso_, ii. 54, 56, 58, 64, 70, 115; friend of Marino in his youth, 261. MANTUA, raised to the rank of a duchy, i. 27. MANUZIO, Aldo (the younger), ill-treatment of, in Rome, i. 217 _sq._ ---Paolo: works produced at his press in Rome, i. 220; a friend of Chiabrera, ii. 287. MARCELLUS II., Pope (Marcello Cervini), i. 97, 101. MARGARET of Austria, one of the arrangers of the Paix des Dames, i. 16. MARIANAZZO, a robber chief, refusal of pardon by, i. 309. MARIGNANO, Marquis of (Gian Giacomo Medici), i. 109, 115. MARINISM, i. 66; ii. 299, 302. MARINO, Giovanni Battista: his birth and parentage, ii. 260; escapades of his youth in Naples, 261; at the Court of Carlo Emanuele, 262; his life in Turin, _ib._; at the Court of Maria de'Medici, 263; successful publication of the _Adone_, 264; return to Naples, 265; critique of the _Adone_, 266 _sq._; the Epic of Voluptuousness, 268; its effeminate sensuality, 268 _sq._; cynical hypocrisy, 270; the character of Adonis, 272; ugliness and discord, 273; Marino's poetic gifts, 274; great variety of episodes, 276; unity of theme, 277; purity of poetic style rarely attained, 279; false rhetoric, 280; Marinism, 281; verbal fireworks, 282; Marino's real inadequacy, 285; the _Pianto d'Italia_, 286; comparison of Marino with Chiabrera, 296. MARTELLI, Giovan Battista, a _bravo_ attendant on Lorenzino de'Medici, i. 396. MARTUCCIA, a notorious Roman courtesan, i. 375. MASANIELLO, cause of the rising of, in Naples, i. 49. MASSACRE of S. Bartholomew, i. 55, 149. MASSIMI, Eufrosina (second wife of Lelio Massimi), the murder of, i. 354 _sq._ ---Lelio: violent deaths of the five sons whom he cursed, i. 355 _sq._ 'MATERIE Beneficiarie, Delle,' Sarpi's, ii. 219. MAXIMILIAN, Emperor, allied against Venice with Louis XII., i. 12. MAZZOLA, Francesco (Il Parmigianino), i. 42. MEDA, Caterina da (waiting-woman of Virginia de Leyva), murder of, i. 322. MEDIAEVAL habits, survival of, in Italy in the sixteenth century, i. 306. MEDICI, de', family of: their advances towards Despotism, i. 10; violent deaths of members, 382 _sqq._; eleven murdered in a half-century, 387. ---Alessandro, Duke of Florence, i. 19, 46, 388. ---Cosimo, i. 46; made Grand Duke of Tuscany, 47. ---Giovanni, i. 11. ---Ippolito, i. 19. ---Lorenzino, assassination of his cousin Alessandro (Duke of Florence) by, i. 388; details of his own murder, 389 _sqq._ ---Lorenzo, i. 10. ---Maria, the Court of, as Regent of France, ii. 263. ---Piero, i. 10. MEDICI, Gian Giacomo (brother of Pius IV.), i. 50, 109. ---Giovanni Angelo, _see_ PIUS IV. ---Margherita (sister of Pius IV.), mother of Carlo Borromeo, i. 115 _n._ MENDOZA, Don Hurtado de, i. 47. MERSENNE, evidence of, as to the burning of Giordano Bruno, ii. 164 _n._ METAPHYSICAL speculators in Italy, i. 73. METAURUS, the, Tasso's ode to, ii. 63. METEMPSYCHOSIS, Bruno's doctrine of, ii. 160. MEXICO, the early Jesuits in, i. 260. MIANI, Girolamo, founder of the congregation of the Somascans, i. 79; his relations with Loyola, 242. MICANZI, Fulgenzio, _see_ FULGENZIO, FRA. MILAN, Duchy of: its state in 1494, i. 8. MOCENIGO, Giovanni: his character, ii. 152; invites Giordano Bruno to Venice, 153; the object of the invitation, 154; their intercourse, 155; Bruno denounced to the Inquisition by Mocenigo, 157. ---Luigi, on the relations between Pius IV. and Cardinal Morone, i. 110 _n._ MODENA and Bologna, humors of the conflict between, ii. 304. MONOPOLIES, system of, in Italy, i. 49. MONTALTO, Cardinal, nephew of Sixtus V., i. 157. MONTEBELLO, Baron, the tale of, i. 428. MONTECATINO, Antonio, an enemy of Tasso at Ferrara, ii. 48, 50, 60, 62; his downfall, 66. MONTE OLIVETO, the monastery of, Tasso at, ii, 74. MONZA, the Lady of, _see_ LEYVA, VIRGINIA MARIA DE. MORALS, social and domestic, in Italy, effect of the Catholic Revival on, i. 301 _sqq._; outcome of the Tridentine decrees, 302; hypocrisy and ceremonial observances, 303; sufferings of the lower classes, _ib._; increase of crimes of violence, 304; mistrust between the aristocracy and the _bourgeoisie_, 306; survival of mediaeval habits, _ib._; brigandage, 307; criminal procedure, 308; mutual jealousy of States afforded security to refugee homicides, 309; toleration of outlaws, 310; the Lucchese army of bandits, 311; honorable murder, 312; maintenance of _bravi_, _ib._; social violence countenanced by the Church, 314; sexual morality, 315; state of convents, 316; profligate fanaticism, _ib._; convent intrigues, 318 _sqq._ MORATO, Peregrino, letter from Celio Calcagnini to, i. 74. MORNAY, Duplessis, Sarpi's letters to, ii. 229. MORONE, Cardinal, i. 26; Papal legate at Trent, 97 _n._; imprisoned by Paul IV., 110; relations with Pius IV., _ib._; liberal thinkers among his associates, 111 _n._; his work in connection with the Council of Trent, 127. ---Girolamo, i. 26, 72. MUNICIPAL wars, Italian, ii. 304. MURDERS in Italy in the sixteenth century, i. 305 _sqq._ MURETUS: his difficulties as a professor in Rome, i. 214, 216. MURTOLA, Gasparo, attempted assassination of the poet Marino by, ii. 263. MUSIC, Italian, decadence of, in the sixteenth century, ii. 315; foreign musicians in Rome, 316; the contrapuntal style, 317; licenses allowed to performers, _ib._; the medleys prepared by composers, _ib._; disgraceful condition of Church music, 318; orchestral _ricercari_, 320 _n._; Savonarola's opinion of the Church music of his time, _ib._; musical aptitude of the people, 322; lack of a controlling element of correct taste, _ib._; advent of Palestrina, _ib._; the Congregation for the Reform of Music, 325; rise of the Oratorio, 334; music in England in the sixteenth century, 338; rise of the Opera, 340. MUSICIANS, Italian, of the seventeenth cenutry, ii. 243. N NAPLES, kingdom of, separated from Sicily, i. 4; its extent, _ib._; in the hands of Spain, 12. NASSAU, Count of, i. 38. NATURE, the study of, among Italian philosophers, ii. 128. NEPOTISM, Papal: the Caraffas, i. 104 _sq._; the Borromeos, 115; the Ghislieri, 147; Gregory XIII.'s relatives, 151; estimate of the incomes of Papal nephews, 156 _sqq._ NEW Christians, the, in Spain, _see_ JEWS. NOBILI, Flaminio de', a censor of the _Gerusalemme Liberata_, ii. 43. NOLA, survival of Greek customs in, ii. 132. NOVICES, Jesuit, position of, i. 271. NUNNERIES, state of, in the sixteenth century, i. 315 _sqq._ O OMERO, Fuggiguerra, sobriquet chosen by Tasso in his wanderings, ii. 64. OPERA, rise of the, in Florence, ii. 341. ORANGE, Prince of, leader of the Spanish army in the siege of Florence, i. 18. ORATORIO (Musical), the: its origins in Rome, ii. 334. ORATORY of Divine Love, the, i. 76. ORSINI, the, reduced to submission to the Popes, i. 7. ---Paolo Giordano (Duke of Bracciano): his passion for Vittoria Accoramboni, i. 358; his gigantic stature and corpulence, 359; poisons his first wife, 360; treatment by Sixtus V., 363; secret marriage with Vittoria, 364; renounces the marriage, 365; ratifies the union by public marriage, 366; flight from Rome, _ib._: death of the Duke, 367. ---Prince Lodovico: procures the murder of Vittoria Accoramboni and her brother, i. 368; siege of his palace, 370; his violent death, 371. ---Troilo, lover of the Duchess of Bracciano, i. 360; details of his murder by Ambrogio Tremazzi, 405 _sqq._ OSIO, Gianpaolo: his intrigue with Virginia de Leyva, i. 318 _sqq._; murders her waiting-woman, 322; attempts to murder two other nuns, 324; his letter of defence to Cardinal Federigo Borromeo, 326; condemned to death and outlawed, 327; terms of the _Bando_, 328; his end, 329. OSORIO, Don Alvaro, Grand Marshal of Spain, i. 22. OUTLAWRY in Italy in the sixteenth century, i. 307 _sqq._ OXFORD, Giordano Bruno's reception at, ii. 144. P PACHECO, Cardinal, the foe of the Caraffeschi, i. 105. PADUAN school of scepictism, the, influence of, on Tasso, ii. 20. PAGANELLO, Conte, assassin of Vittoria Accoramboni, i. 371. PAINTING in the late years of the sixteenth century, ii. 344; Eclecticism, 345; influence of the Tridentine Council, 347; the Mannerists, 348; Baroccio, 349; the Caracci, 350 _sqq._; studies of the Bolognese painters, 352; academical ideality, 354; Guido, Albani, Domenichino, 355 _sqq._; criticism of Domenichino's work, 359; the Italian Realists, 363 _sqq._; Lo Spada, 364; Il Guercino, 365; critical reaction against the Eclectics, 368; fundamental principles of criticism, 370 _sqq._ PAIX des Dames, i. 9, 16. PALAZZO Vernio, Academy (musical) of the, ii. 340; distinguished composers of its school, 341. PALEARIO, Aonio: his opinion of the Index, i. 197, 214. PALESTRINA, Giovanni Pier Luigi: his birth and early musical training, ii. 323; uneventful life of the _Princeps Musicae_, 324; relations with the Congregation for Musical Reform, 325; the legend and the facts about _Missa Papae Marcelli_, 326 _sqq._, 331 _n._; Palestrina's commission, 331; the three Masses in competition, 332; the award by the Congregation and the Pope, 334; Palestrina's connection with S. Filippo Neri, 334; _Arie Divote_ composed for the Oratory, 335 _sq._; character of the new music, 335; influence of Palestrina on Italian music, 336; estimate of the general benefit derived by music from him, 337 _sq._ PALLAVICINI, on Paul IV.'s seal for the Holy Office, i. 107 _n._ PALLAVICINO, Matteo, murder of, by Marcello Accoramboni, i. 358. PALLIANO, Duchess of, _see_ CARDONA, VIOLANTE DE. ---Duke of (nephew of Paul IV.), murders committed by, i. 379; his execution, 380. PANCIROLI, Guido, Tasso's master in the study of law, ii. 20. PAPACY, the, its position after the sack of Rome, i. 13; tyranny of, arising from the instinct of self-preservation, 54; dislike of, for General Councils, 90; manipulation of the Council of Trent, 97 _sqq._, 119 _sqq._; its supremacy founded by that Council, 131; later policy of the Popes, 149 _sqq._, 226. PAPAL States, the: their condition in 1447, i. 5; attempts to consolidate them into a kingdom, 6. PARMA and Piacenza, creation of the Duchy of, by Paul III., i. 86. PARMA, Duchy of, added to the States of the Church, i. 7. PARMIGIANINO, Il, painting of Charles V. by, i. 42. PARRASIO, Alessandro, one of the assassins of Sarpi, ii. 212. PART-SONGS, French Protestant, influence of, on Palestrina, ii. 324. PASSARI, Pietro, amours of, with the nuns of S. Chiara, Lucca, i. 340 _sq._ 'PASTOR Fido,' Guarini's, critique of, ii. 252 _sqq._ PAUL III., Pope, sends Contarini to the conference at Rechensburg, i. 78; receives a memorial on ecclesiastical abuses, 79; establishes the Roman Holy Office, 80; sanctions the Company of Jesus, _ib._; his early life and education, 81; love of splendor, 82; peculiarity of his position, _ib._; the Pope of the transition, 84; jealous of Spanish ascendency in Italy, 85; creates the Duchy of Parma for his son, 86 _sqq._; members of the moderate reforming party made Cardinals, 88; his repugnance to a General Council, 90; indiction of a Council to be held at Trent, 97; difficulties of his position, 100; his death, 101; his connection with the founding of the Jesuit Order, 245. PAUL IV., Pope, _see_ CARAFFA, GIOV. PIETRO. PAUL V., Pope: details of his nepotism, i. 157 _n._; places Venice under an interdict, ii. 198. PAVIA, the battle of, 13. PELLEGRINI, Cammillo, panegyrist of Tasso, ii. 72. PEPERARA, Laura, Tasso's relations with, ii. 31. PERETTI, Felice (nephew of Sixtus V.), husband of Vittoria Accoramboni, i. 357; his murder, 358. PESCARA, Marquis of, husband of Vittoria Colonna, i. 25. 'PESTE di S. Carlo, La,' i. 421. 'PETRARCA, Considerazioni sopra le Rime, del,' Tassoni's, ii. 298, 300. PETRONI, Lucrezia, second wife of Francesco Cenci, i. 348 _sq._ PETRONIO, S., Bologna, reception of Charles V. by Clement VII. at, i. 23; the Emperor's coronation at, 37 _sqq._ PETRUCCI, Pandolfo, seduction of two sons of, by the Jesuits, i. 284. PHILIP II. of Spain: his quarrel with Paul IV., i. 102; the reconciliation, 104. PHILOSOPHERS of Southern Italy in the sixteenth century, ii. 126 _sqq._ PIACENZA, added to the States of the Church, i. 7. PICCOLOMINI, Alfonso, leader of bandits in the Papal States, i. 152. 'PIETRO Soave Polano,' anagram of 'Paolo Sarpi Veneto,' ii. 223. PIGNA (secretary to the Duke of Ferrara), a rival of Tasso, ii. 34, 45, 48. PINDAR, the professed model of Chiabrera's poetry, ii. 291, 294. PIRATES, raids of, on Italy, i. 417. PISA, first Council of, i. 92; the second, 95. PIUS IV., Pope (Giov. Angelo Medici): his parentage, i. 109; Caraffa's antipathy to him, 110; makes Cardinal Morone his counsellor, _ib._; negotiations with the autocrats of Europe, 111; his diplomatic character, 112; the Tridentine decrees, _ib._; keen insight into the political conditions of his time, 113; independent spirit, 115; treatment of his relatives, _ib._; his brother's death helped him to the Papacy, _ib._; the felicity of his life, 116; the religious condition of Northern Europe in his reign, 117; re-opening of the Council of Trent, 119; his management of the difficulties connected with the Council, 127 _sqq._; use of cajoleries and menaces, 129; success of the Pope's plans, 130; his Bull of ratification of the Tridentine decrees, 131; his last days, 132; estimate of the work of his reign, 133 _sqq._; his lack of generosity, 142; coldness in religious exercises, 144; love of ease and good companions, 147. PIUS V., Pope (Michele Ghislieri): his election, i. 137; influence of Carlo Borromeo on him, 137, 145, 147; ascetic virtues, 145; zeal for the Holy Office, 145; edict for the expulsion of prostitutes from Rome, 146; his exercise of the Papal Supremacy, 148; his Tridentine Profession of Faith, _ib._; advocates rigid uniformity, 148; promotes attacks on Protestants, _ib._ PLAGUES: in Venice, i. 418; at Naples and in Savoy, _ib._; statistics of the mortality, 418 _n._; disease supposed to be wilfully spread by malefactors, 420. POETRY, Heroic, the problem of creating, in Italy, ii. 80. POLAND, the crown of, sought by Italian princes, ii. 246. POLE, Cardinal Reginald, i. 76; Papal legate at Trent, 97 _n._ POMA, Ridolfo, one of the assassins of Sarpi, ii. 212. POMPONIUS LAETUS, the teacher of Paul III., i. 81, 82. POPULAR melodies employed in Church music in the sixteenth century, ii. 318. PORTRAIT of Charles V. by Titian, i. 42. 'PRESS, Discourse upon the,' Sarpi's, ii. 220. 'PRINCEPS Musicae,' the title inscribed on Palestrina's tomb, ii. 325. PRINTING: effects of the Index Expurgatorius on the trade in Venice, i. 192; firms denounced by name by Paul IV., 198, 208. PROFESSED of three and of four vows (Jesuit grades), i. 271 _sq._ PROLETARIATE, the Italian, social morality of in the sixteenth century, i. 224 _sqq._ PROSTITUTES, Roman, expulsion of by Pius V., i. 146. PROTESTANT Churches in Italy, persecution of, i. 186. PROTESTANTISM in Italy, i. 71. PROVINCES, Jesuit, enumeration of the, i. 161. PUNCTILIO in the Sei Cento, ii. 288. PURISTS, Tuscan, Tassoni's ridicule of, ii. 308. PUTEO, Cardinal, legate at Trent, i. 119. Q QUEMADERO, the Inquisition's place of punishment at Seville, i. 178. QUENTIN, S., battle of, i. 103. QUERRO, Msgr., an associate of the Cenci family, i. 349, 350, 352. R 'RAGGUAGLI di Parnaso,' Boccalini's, ii. 313. RANGONI, the, friends of Tasso and of his father, ii. 6, 23. 'RATIO Status,' statutes of the Index on the, i. 220. RATIONALISM, the real offspring of Humanism, ii. 404. RAVENNA, exarchate of, i. 7. REALISTS, Italian school of painters, ii. 363 _sqq._ RECHENSBURG, the conference at, i. 78, 88 'RECITATIVO,' Claudio Monteverde the pioneer of, ii. 341. REFORMATION, the: position of Italians towards its doctrines, i. 72. REFORMING theologians in Italy, i. 76 _sq._ RELIGIOUS Orders, new, foundation of, in Italy, i. 79 _sq._ RELIGIOUS spirit of the Italian Church in the sixteenth century, i. 71. RENAISSANCE and Reformation: the impulses of both simultaneously received by England, ii. 388. RENÉE of France, Duchess of Ferrara, i. 77. RENI, Guido, Bolognese painter, ii. 355; his masterpieces, 358. REPUBLICAN governments in Italy, i. 5. RETROSPECT over the Renaissance, ii. 389 _sqq._ REYNOLDS, Sir Joshua, admiration of, for the Bolognese painters, ii. 359, 375. RIBERA, Giuseppe, _see_ LO SPAGNOLETTO. RICEI, Ottavia, attempted murder of, by Gianpaolo Osio, i. 323 _sqq._ 'RICERCARI,' employment of, in Italian music, ii. 343. RINALDO, Tasso's, first appearance of, ii. 22; its preface, 82; its subject-matter, 84; its religious motive, 86; its style, 86 _sqq._ RODRIGUEZ d'Azevedo, Simon, associate of Ignatius Loyola, i. 240; his work as a Jesuit in Portugal, 256, 262. ROMAN University, the, degraded condition of, in the sixteenth century, i. 216. ROME, fluctuating population of, i. 137; eleemosynary paupers, 139; reform of Roman manners after the Council of Trent, 141; expulsion of prostitutes, 146; Roman society in Gregory XIII.'s reign, 152; the headquarters of Catholicism, ii. 397; relations with the Counter-Reformation, 398; the complicated correlation of Italians with Papal Rome, 399; the capital of a regenerated people, 408. RONDINELLI, Ercole, Tasso's instructions to, in regard to his MSS., ii. 35. ROSSI, Bastiano de', a critic of the _Gerusalemme Liberata_, ii. 72. ---Porzia de' (mother of Torquato Tasso): her parentage, ii. 5, 7; her marriage, 7; her death, probably by poison, 9; her character, 12; Torquato's love for her, 15. ---Vittorio de': his description of the ill-treatment of Aldo Manuzio in Rome, i. 217 _sq._ ROVERE, Francesco della (Duke of Urbino), account of, i. 36. RUBBIERA, a fief of the Empire, i. 40. RUSKIN, Mr., on the cause of the decline of Venice, i. 423 _n._; invectives of, against Domenichino's work, ii. 359. S SACRED Palace, the Master of the: censor of books in Rome, i. 201. SALMERON, Alfonzo, associate of Ignatius Loyola, i. 240; in Naples and Sicily, 254. SALUZZO ceded to Savoy, i. 56. SALVIATI, Leonardo, a critic of the _Gerusalemme Liberata_, ii. 72. SAMMINIATI, Tommaso, intrigue and correspondence of, with Sister Umilia (Lucrezia Buonvisi), i. 341 _sqq._; banished from Lucca, 344. S. ANNA, the hospital of, Tasso's confinement at, ii. 66 _sqq._ SAN BENITO, the costume of persons condemned by the Inquisition, i. 177. SANSEVERINO, Amerigo, a friend of Bernardo Tasso, ii. 14. ---Ferrante di, Prince of Salerno, i. 38; ii. 6 _sqq._ SANTA CROCE, Ersilia di, first wife of Francesco Cenci, i. 347. SANVITALE, Eleonora, Tasso's love-affair with, ii. 48. SARDINIA, the island of, a Spanish province, i. 45. SARPI, Fra Paolo: his birth and parentage, ii. 185; his position in the history of Venice, 186; his physical constitution, 189; moral temperament, 190; mental perspicacity, 191; discoveries in magnetism and optics, 192; studies and conversation, 193; early entry into the Order of the Servites, _ib._; his English type of character, 194; denounced to the Inquisition, 195; his independent attitude, 196; his great love for Venice, 197; the interdict of 1606, 198; Sarpi's defence of Venice against the Jesuits, 199 _sqq._; pamphlet warfare, 201; importance of this episode, 202; Sarpi's theory of Church and State, 203; boldness of his views, 205; compromise of the quarrel of the interdict, _ib._; Sarpi's relations with Fra Fulgenzio, 207; Sarpi warned by Schoppe of danger to his life, 208; attacked by assassins, 209; the _Stilus Romanae Curiae_, 211; history of the assassins, 212; complicity of the Papal Court, 213; other attempts on Sarpi's life, 214 _sq._; his opinion of the instigators, 216; his so called heresy, 218; his work as Theologian to the Republic, 219; his minor writings, 221; his opposition to Papal Supremacy, _ib._; the _History of the Council of Trent_, 222; its sources, 223; its argument, 224; deformation, not reformation, wrought by the Council, 225; Sarpi's impartiality, 226; was Sarpi a Protestant? 228; his religious opinions, 229; views on the possibility of uniting Christendom, 230; hostility to ultra-papal Catholicism, 231; critique of Jesuitry, 233; of ultramontane education, 235; the Tridentine Seminaries, 235; Sarpi's dread lest Europe should succumb to Rome, 237; his last days, 238; his death contrasted with that of Giordano Bruno, 239 _n._; his creed, 239; Sarpi a Christian Stoic, 240. SARPI, citations from his writings, on the Papal interpretation of the Tridentine decrees, i. 131 _n._; details of the nepotism of the Popes, 156 _n._, 157 _n._; denunciation of the Index, 197 _n._, 206, 208 _n._; on the revival of polite learning, 215; on the political philosophy of the statutes of the Index, 221; on the Inquisition rules regarding emigrants from Italy, 227 _sq._; his invention of the name 'Diacatholicon,' 231; on the deflection of Jesuitry from Loyola's spirit and intention, 248; on the secret statutes of the Jesuits, 278; denunciations of Jesuit morality, 289 _n._; on the murder of Henri IV., 297 _n._; on the instigators of the attempts on his own life, ii. 215 _n._; on the attitude of the Roman Court towards murder, 216; on the literary polemics of James I., 229; on Jesuit education and the Tridentine Seminaries, 237. SAVONAROLA'S opinion of the Church music of his time, ii. 320 _n._ SAVOY, the house of: its connection with important events in Italy, i. 16 _n._, 38, 56; becomes an Italian dynasty, 58. 'SCHERNO DEGLI DEI,' Bracciolini's, ii. 313. SCHOLASTICS (Jesuit grade), i. 271. SCHOPPE (Scioppius), Gaspar: sketch of his career, ii. 165, 208; his account of Bruno's heterodox opinions, 166; description of the last hours of Bruno, 167. 'SECCHIA RAPITA, LA,' Tassoni's, ii. 301 _sqq._ SECONDARY writers of the Sei Cento, ii. 313. SEI CENTO, the, decline of culture in Italy in, ii. 242; its musicians, 243. SEMINARIES, Tridentine, ii. 235. SERIPANDO, Cardinal, legate at Trent, i. 118. SERSALE, Alessandro and Antonio, Tasso's nephews, ii. 72. ---Cornelia (sister of Tasso), ii. 7, 9, 15 _sq._, 55, 64; her children, 72. SERVITES, General of the, complicity of, in the attempts on Sarpi's life, ii. 214. SETTLEMENT of Italy effected by Charles V. and Clement VII., net results of, i. 45 _sqq._ 'SEVEN Liberal Arts, On the,' a lost treatise by Giordano Bruno, ii. 156, 182. SFORZA, Francesco Maria, his relations with Charles V., i. 28. ---Lodovico (Il Moro, ruler of Milan), invites Charles VIII. into Italy, i. 8. SICILY, separated from Naples, i. 4. SIENA, republic of, subdued by Florence, i. 47. 'SIGNS of the Times, The,' a lost work by Giordano Bruno, ii. 136. SIGONIUS: his _History of Bologna_ blocked by the Index, i. 207. SIMONETA, Cardinal, legate at Trent, i. 118, 121. SIXTUS V., Pope: short-sighted hoarding of treasure by, i. 153; his enactments against brigandage, 152; accumulation of Papal revenues, _ib._; public works, 153; animosity against pagan art, _ib._; works on and about S. Peter's, 154; methods of increasing revenue, 155; nepotism, 157; development of the Papacy in his reign, 158; his death predicted by Bellarmino, 298; his behavior after the murder of his nephew (Felice Peretti), 362. SODERINI, Alessandro, assassinated together with his nephew Lorenzino de'Medici, i. 398. SOLIMAN, Paul IV.'s negotiations with, i. 103. SOMASCAN Fathers, Congregation of the, i. 79. S. ONOFRIO, Tasso's death at, ii. 78; the mask of his face at, 116. SORANZO, on the character of Pius IV., i. 111 _n._; on Carlo Borromeo, 116 _n._; on the changes in Roman society in 1565, 143. 'SPACCIO della Bestia Trionfante, Lo,' Giordano Bruno's, ii. 132 _n._, 140, 165, 183 _sq._ SPADA, Lionello, Bolognese painter, ii. 364. SPAIN: its position in Italy after the battle of Pavia, i. 14. SPANIARDS of the sixteenth century, character of, i. 59. SPERONI, Sperone: his criticism of Tasso's _Gerusalemme_, ii. 44; a friend of Chiabrera, 287. SPHERE, the, Giordano Bruno's doctrine of, ii. 135, 144 _sq._ STENDHAL, De (Henri Beyle): his _Chroniques et Nouvelles_ cited: on the Cenci, i. 351 _sq._; the Duchess of Palliano, 373. STERILITY of Protestantism, ii. 401. STROZZI, Filippo, i. 46. ---Piero, i. 47. T TASSO, Bernardo (father of Torquato), i. 38; his birth and parentage, ii. 5; the _Amadigi_, 7, 11, 18, 35; his youth and marriage, 7; misfortunes, _ib._; exile and poverty, 8; death of his wife, 9; his death, 10, 35; his character, _ib._; his _Floridante_, 35. ---Christoforo (cousin of Torquato), ii. 14. ---Torquato: his relation to his epoch, ii. 2; to the influences of Italian decadence, 4; his father's position, 6; Torquato's birth, 7; the death of his mother, 9, 15; what Tasso inherited from his father, 11; Bernardo's treatment of his son, _ib._; Tasso's precocity as a child, 12; his early teachers, _ib._; pious ecstasy in his ninth year, 13; with his father in Rome, 14; his first extant letter, 15; his education, 16; with his father at the Court of Urbino, 17; mode of life here, 18; acquires familiarity with Virgil, 19; studies and annotates the _Divina Commedia_, _ib._; metaphysical studies and religious doubts, 20; reaction, _ib._; the appearance of the _Rinaldo_, 21; leaves Padua for Bologna, _ib._; Dialogues on the Art of Poetry, 22, 24, 26; flight to Modena, 22; speculations upon Poetry, 23; Tasso's theory of the Epic, 24; he joins the Academy 'Gli Eterei' at Padua, as 'Il Pentito,' 26; enters the service of Luigi d'Este, 27; life at the Court of Ferrara, 28; Tasso's love-affairs, 31; the problem of his relations with Leonora and Lucrezia d'Este, 32 _sqq._, 48, 51; quarrel with Pigna, 34; his want of tact, _ib._; edits his _Floridante_, 35; visit to Paris, _ib._; the _Gottifredo_ (_Gerusalemme Liberata_), 35, 38, 42, 48, 50; his instructions to Rondinelli, _ib._; life at the Court of Charles IX., 36; rupture with Luigi d'Este, 38; enters the service of Alfonso, Duke of Ferrara, _ib._; renewed relations with Leonora, _ib._; production and success of _Aminta_, 39; relations with Lucrezia d'Este (Duchess of Urbino), _ib._; his letters to Leonora, 41; his triumphant career, _ib._; submits the _Gerusalemme_ to seven censors, 43; their criticisms, _ib._; literary annoyances, 44; discontent with Ferrara, 45; Tasso's sense of his importance, _ib._; the beginning of his ruin, 46; he courts the Medici, 47; action of his enemies at Ferrara, 48; doubts as to his sanity, 49; his dread of the Inquisition, _ib._; persecution by the courtiers, 50; revelation of his love affairs by Maddalò de'Frecci, 51; Tasso's fear of being poisoned, _ib._; outbreak of mental malady, 52; temporary imprisonment, _ib._; estimate of the hypothesis that Tasso feigned madness, 53; his escape from the Convent of S. Francis, 54; with his sister at Sorrento, 55; hankering after Ferrara, 56; his attachment to the House of Este, 57; terms on which he is received back, 58; second flight from Ferrara, 61; at Venice, Urbino, Turin, 63; 'Omero Fuggiguerra,' 64; recall to Ferrara, 65; imprisoned at S. Anna, 66; reasons for his arrest, 67; nature of his malady, 69; life in the hospital, 71; release and wanderings, 73; the _Torrismondo_, _ib._; work on the _Gerusalemme Conquistata_ and the _Sette Giornate_, 75; last years at Naples and Rome, 76; at S. Onofrio, 76; death, 78; imaginary Tassos, 79; condition of romantic and heroic poetry in Tasso's youth, 80; his first essay in poetry, 81; the preface to _Rinaldo_, 82; subject-matter of the poem, 84; its religious motive, 86; Latinity of diction, _ib._; weak points of style, 88; lyrism and idyll, 89; subject of the _Gerusalemme Liberata_, 92; its romance, 94; imitation of Virgil, 97; of Dante, 97, 99; rhetorical artificiality, 100; sonorous verses, 101; oratorical dexterity, 102; similes and metaphors, _ib._; majestic simplicity, 104; the heroine, 106; Tasso, the poet of Sentiment, 108; the _Non so che_, 109 _sq._; Sofronia, Erminia, Clorinda, 109 _sqq._; the Dialogues and the tragedy _Torrismondo_, 113; the _Gerusalemme Conquistata_ and _Le Sette Giornate_, 115, 124; personal appearance of Tasso, 115; general survey of his character, 116 _sqq._; his relation to his age, 120; his mental attitude, 122; his native genius, 124. TASSONI, Alessandro: his birth, ii. 297; treatment by Carlo Emmanuele, 298; his independent spirit, _ib._; aim at originality of thought, 299; his criticism of Dante and Petrarch, 300; the _Secchia Rapita_: its origin and motive, 301; its circulation in manuscript copies, 302; Tassoni the inventor of heroico-comic poetry, 303; humor and sarcasm in Italian municipal wars, 304; the episode of the Bolognese bucket, _ib._; irony of the _Secchia Rapita_, 306; method of Tassoni's art, _ib._; ridicule of contemporary poets, 307; satire and parody, 308; French imitators of Tasso, 310; episodes of pure poetry, 311; sustained antithesis between poetry and melodiously-worded slang, 312; Tassoni's rank as a literary artist, _ib._ TAXATION, the methods of, adopted by Spanish Viceroys in Italy, i. 49. TENEBROSI, the (school of painters), ii. 365. TESTI, Fulvio, Modenese poet, ii. 314. TEUTONIC tribes, relations of with the Italians, ii. 393; unreconciled antagonisms, 394; divergence, 395; the Church, the battle-field of Renaissance and Reformation, 395. THEATINES, foundation of the Order of, i. 79. THEORY, Italian love of, in Tasso's time, ii. 25; critique of Tasso's theory of poetry, 26, 42. THIENE, Gaetano di, founder of the Theatines, i. 76. THIRTY Divine Attributes, Bruno's doctrine of, ii. 139. TINTORETTO'S picture of S. Agnes, ii. 361. TITIAN, portrait of Charles V. by, i. 42. TOLEDO, Don Pietro di, Viceroy of Naples, i. 38; ii. 7. ---Francesco da, confessor of Gregory XIII., i. 150. TORQUEMADA, the Spanish Inquisitor, i. 173, 179, 181. TORRE, Delia, the family of, ancestors, of the Tassi, ii. 5. 'TORRISMONDO,' Tasso's tragedy of, ii. 73, 113 _sq._ TORTURE, cases of witnesses put to, i. 333 _sqq._ TOUCH, the sense of, Marino's praises of, ii. 270. TOULOUSE, power of the Inquisition in, ii. 137. TRAGIC narratives circulated in manuscript in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, i. 372. 'TREATISE on the Inquisition,' Sarpi's, ii. 220. ---'on the Interdict,' Sarpi's, ii. 201. TREMAZZI, Ambrogio: his own report of how he wrought the murder of Troilo Orsini, i. 405 _sqq._; his notions about his due reward, 406. TRENT, Council of: Indiction of, by Paul III., i. 97; numbers of its members, 97 _n._, 119 _n._; diverse objects of the Spanish, French, and German representatives, 98, 122; the articles which it confirmed, 98; method of procedure, 99, 120; the Council transferred to Bologna, 100; Paul IV.'s measures of ecclesiastical reform, 107; the Council's decrees actually settled in the four Courts, 112, 119; its organization by Pius IV., 118 _sqq._; inauspicious commencement, 119; the privileges of the Papal legates, 120; daily post of couriers to the Vatican, 121; arts of the Roman Curia, 122; Spanish, French, Imperial Opposition, 123; clerical celibacy and Communion under both forms, _ib._; packing the Council with Italian bishops, 125; the interests of the Gallican Church, 126; interference of the Emperor Ferdinand, _ib._; confusion in the Council, 126 _n._; envoys to France and the Emperor, 127; cajoleries and menaces, 129; action of the Court of Spain, 130; firmness of the Spanish bishops, 130 _n._; Papal Supremacy decreed, 131; reservation in the Papal Bull of ratification, 131 _and note_; Tridentine Profession of Faith (Creed of Pius V.), 148. TUSCANY, creation of the Grand Duchy of, i. 47. TWO SICILIES, the kingdom of the, i. 45. 'TYRANNY of the kiss,' the, exemplified in the _Rinaldo_, ii. 90; in the _Pastor Fido_, 255; in the _Adone_, 272. U UNIVERSAL Monarchy, end of the belief in, i. 34. UNIVERSE, Bruno's conception of the, ii. 173 _sqq._ UNIVERSITIES, Italian, i. 51. 'UNTORI, La Peste degli,' i. 421; trial of the _Untoti_, 421. URBAN VIII., fantastic attempt made against the life of, i. 425 _sq._ URBINO, the Court of, life at, ii. 17 _sq._ V VALDES, Juan: his work _On the Benefits of Christ's Death_, i. 76. VALORI, Baccio, i. 33. VASTO, Marquis of, i. 25. VENETIAN ambassadors' despatches cited: on the manners of the Roman Court in 1565, i. 142, 147; the expulsion of prostitutes from Rome, 146. VENICE, the Republic of, its possessions in the fifteenth century, i. 9; relations with Spain in 1530, 45; rise of a contempt for commerce in, 49; the constitution of its Holy Office, 190; Concordat with Clement VIII., 193; Tasso at, ii. 19 _sq._; its condition in Sarpi's youth, 185; political indifference of its aristocracy, 186; put under interdict by Paul V., 198. VENIERO, Maffeo, on Tasso's mental malady, ii. 52, 63. VERONA, Peter of (Peter Martyr), Italian Dominican Saint of the Inquisition, i. 161. VERVINS, the Treaty of, i. 48, 56. VETTORI, Francesco, i. 33. VIRGIL, Tasso's admiration of, ii. 25; translations and adaptations from, 98. VISCONTI, the dynasty of, i. 8. ---Valentina, grandmother of Louis XII. of France, i. 8. VITELLI, Alessandro, i. 46. VITELLOZZI, Vitellozzo, influence of, in the reform of Church music, ii. 325. VITI, Michele, one of the assassins of Sarpi, ii. 212. 'VOCERO,' the, i. 332. VOLTERRA, Bebo da, associate of Bibboni in the murder of Lorenzino de'Medici, i. 390 _sqq._ VULGATE, the: results of its being declared inviolable, i. 210. W WALDENSIANS in Calabria, the, i. 188. WITCHCRAFT, chiefly confined to the mountain regions of Italy, i. 425; mainly used as a weapon of malice, _ib._; details of the sorcery practised by Giacomo Centini, 425 _sqq._ WIFE-MURDERS in Italy in the sixteenth century, i. 380 _sq._, 385. X XAVIER, Francis, associate of Ignatius Loyola, i. 239; his work as a Jesuit in Portugal, 256; his mission to the Indies, 260. XIMENES, Cardinal, as Inquisitor General, i. 182. Z ZANETTI, Guido, delivered over to the Roman Inquisition, i. 145. RENAISSANCE IN ITALY _THE CATHOLIC REACTION_ In Two Parts BY JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS _'Il mondo invecchia, E invecchiando intristisce_' TASSO, _Aminta_, Act 2, sc. 2 PART II NEW YORK HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 1887 _AUTHOR'S EDITION_ CONTENTS OF THE SECOND VOLUME. * * * * * CHAPTER VII. TORQUATO TASSO. Tasso's Relation to his Age--Balbi on that Period--The Life of Bernardo Tasso--Torquato's Boyhood--Sorrento, Naples, Rome, Urbino--His first Glimpse of the Court--Student Life at Padua and Bologna--The _Rinaldo_--Dialogues on Epic Poetry--Enters the Service of Cardinal d'Este--The Court of Ferrara--Alfonso II. and the Princesses--Problem of Tasso's Love--Goes to France with Cardinal d'Este--Enters the Service of Duke Alfonso--The _Aminta_--Tasso at Urbino--Return to Ferrara--Revision of the _Gerusalemme_--Jealousies at Court--Tasso's Sense of His own Importance--Plans a Change from Ferrara to Florence--First Symptoms of Mental Disorder--Persecutions of the Ferrarese Courtiers--Tasso confined as a Semi-madman--Goes with Duke Alfonso to Belriguardo--Flies in Disguise from Ferrara to Sorrento--Returns to Court Life at Ferrara--Problem of his Madness--Flies again--Mantua, Venice, Urbino, Turin--Returns once more to Ferrara--Alfonso's Third Marriage--Tasso's Discontent--Imprisoned for Seven Years in the Madhouse of S. Anna--Character of Tasso--Character of Duke Alfonso--Nature of the Poet's Malady--His Course of Life in Prison--Released at the Intercession of Vincenzo Gonzaga--Goes to Mantua--The _Torrismondo_--An Odyssey of Nine Years--Death at Sant Onofrio in Rome--Constantini's Sonnet CHAPTER VIII. THE "GERUSALEMME LIBERATA." Problem of Creating Heroic Poetry--The Preface to Tasso's _Rinaldo_--Subject of _Rinaldo_--Blending of Romantic Motives with Heroic Style--Imitation of Virgil--Melody and Sentiment--Choice of Theme for the _Gerusalemme_--It becomes a Romantic Poem after all--Tancredi the real Hero--Nobility of Tone--Virgilian Imitation--Borrowings from Dante--Involved Diction--Employment of Sonorous Polysyllabic Words--Quality of Religious Emotion in this Poem--Rhetoric--Similes--The Grand Style of Pathos--Verbal Music--The Chant d'Amour--Armida--Tasso's Favorite Phrase, _Un non so che_--His Power over Melody and Tender Feeling--Critique of Tasso's Later Poems--General Survey of his Character CHAPTER IX. GIORDANO BRUNO. Scientific Bias of the Italians checked by Catholic Revival--Boyhood of Bruno--Enters Order of S. Dominic at Naples--Early Accusations of Heresy--Escapes to Rome--Teaches the Sphere at Noli--Visits Venice--At Geneva--At Toulouse--At Paris--His Intercourse with Henri III.--Visits England--The French Ambassador in London--Oxford--Bruno's Literary Work in England--Returns to Paris--Journeys into Germany--Wittenberg, Helmstädt, Frankfort--Invitation to Venice from Giovanni Mocenigo--His Life in Venice--Mocenigo denounces him to the Inquisition--His Trial at Venice--Removal to Rome--Death by Burning in 1600--Bruno's Relation to the Thought of his Age and to the Thought of Modern Europe--Outlines of his Philosophy CHAPTER X. FRA PAOLO SARPI. Sarpi's Position in the History of Venice--Parents and Boyhood--Entrance into the Order of the Servites--His Personal Qualities--Achievements as a Scholar and a Man of Science--His Life among the Servites--In Bad Odor at Rome--Paul V. places Venice under Interdict--Sarpi elected Theologian and Counselor of the Republic--His Polemical Writings--Views on Church and State--The Interdict Removed--Roman Vengeance--Sarpi attacked by Bravi--His Wounds, Illness, Recovery--Subsequent History of the Assassins--Further Attempts on Sarpi's Life--Sarpi's Political and Historical Works--History of the Council of Trent--Sarpi's Attitude towards Protestantism His Judgment of the Jesuits--Sarpi's Death--The Christian Stoic CHAPTER XI. GUARINI, MARINO, CHIABRERA, TASSONI. Dearth of Great Men--Guarini a Link between Tasso and the Seventeenth Century--His Biography--The _Pastor Fido_--Qualities of Guarini as Poet--Marino the Dictator of Letters--His Riotous Youth at Naples--Life at Rome, Turin, Paris--Publishes the _Adone_--The Epic of Voluptuousness--Character and Action of Adonis--Marino's Hypocrisy--Sentimental Sweetness--Brutal Violence--Violation of Artistic Taste--Great Powers of the Poet--Structure of the _Adone_--Musical Fluency--Marinism--Marino's Patriotic Verses--Contrast between Chiabrera and Marino--An Aspirant after Pindar--Chiabrera's Biography--His Court Life--Efforts of Poets in the Seventeenth Century to attain to Novelty--Chiabrera's Failure--Tassoni's Life--His Thirst to Innovate--Origin of the _Secchia Rapita_--Mock-Heroic Poetiy--The Plot of this Poem--Its Peculiar Humor--Irony and Satire--Novelty of the Species--Lyrical Interbreathings--Sustained Contrast of Parody and Pathos--The Poet Testi CHAPTER XII. PALESTRINA AND THE ORIGINS OF MODERN MUSIC. Italy in Renaissance produces no National School of Music--Flemish Composers in Rome--Singers and Orchestra--The Chaotic, Indecency of this Contrapuntal Style--Palestrina's Birth and Early History--Decrees of the Tridentine Council upon Church Music--The Mass of Pope Marcello--Palestrina Satisfies the Cardinals with his New Style of Sacred Music--Pius IV. and his Partiality for Music--Palestrina and Filippo Neri--His Motetts--The Song of Solomon set to Melody--Palestrina, the Saviour of Music--The Founder of the Modern Style--Florentine Essays in the Oratorio CHAPTER XIII. THE BOLOGNESE SCHOOL OF PAINTERS. Decline of Plastic Art--Dates of the Eclectic Masters--The Mannerists--Baroccio--Reaction started by Lodovico Caracci--His Cousins Annibale and Agostino--Their Studies--Their Academy at Bologna--Their Artistic Aims--Dionysius Calvaert--Guido Reni--The Man and his Art--Domenichino--Ruskin's Criticism--Relation of Domenichino to the Piety of his Age--Caravaggio and the Realists--Ribera--Lo Spagna--Guercino--His Qualities as Colorist--His Terribleness--Private Life--Digression upon Criticism--Reasons why the Bolognese Painters, are justly now Neglected CHAPTER XIV. CONCLUSION. The Main Events of European History--Italy in the Renaissance--Germany and Reformation--Catholic Reaction--Its Antagonism to Renaissance and Reformation--Profound Identity of Renaissance and Reformation--Place of Italy in European Civilization--Want of Sympathy between Latin and Teutonic Races--Relation of Rome to Italy--Macaulay on the Roman Church--On Protestantism--Early Decline of Renaissance Enthusiasms--Italy's Present and Future RENAISSANCE IN ITALY. CHAPTER VII. TORQUATO TASSO. Tasso's Relation to his Age--Balbi on that Period--The Life of Bernardo Tasso--Torquato's Boyhood--Sorrento, Naples, Rome, Urbino--His first Glimpse of the Court--Student Life at Padua and Bologna--The _Rinaldo_--Dialogues on Epic Poetry--Enters the Service of Cardinal d'Este--The Court of Ferrara--Alfonso II. and the Princesses--Problem of Tasso's Love--Goes to France with Cardinal d'Este--Enters the Service of Duke Alfonso--The _Aminta_--Tasso at Urbino--Return to Ferrara--Revision of the _Gerusalemme_--Jealousies at Court--Tasso's Sense of His own Importance--Plans a Change from Ferrara to Florence--First Symptoms of Mental Disorder--Persecutions of the Ferrarese Courtiers--Tasso confined as a Semi-madman--Goes with Duke Alfonso to Belriguardo--Flies in Disguise from Ferrara to Sorrento--Returns to Court Life at Ferrara--Problem of his madness--Flies again--Mantua, Venice, Urbino, Turin--Returns once more to Ferrara--Alfonso's Third Marriage--Tasso's Discontent--Imprisoned for Seven years in the madhouse of S. Anna--Character of Tasso--Character of Duke Alfonso--Nature of the Poet's Malady--His Course of Life in Prison--Released at the Intercession of Vincenzo Gonzaga--Goes to Mantua--The _Torrismondo_--An Odyssey of nine Years--Death at Sant Onofrio in Rome--Constantini's Sonnet. It was under the conditions which have been set forth in the foregoing chapters that the greatest literary genius of his years in Europe, the poet who ranks among the four first of Italy, was educated, rose to eminence, and suffered. The political changes introduced in 1530, the tendencies of the Catholic Revival, the terrorism of the Inquisition, and the educational energy of the Jesuits had, each and all, their manifest effect in molding Tasso's character. He represents that period when the culture of the Renaissance was being superseded, when the caries of court-service was eating into the bone and marrow of Italian life, when earlier forms of art were tending to decay, or were passing into the new form of music. Tasso was at once the representative poet of his age and the representative martyr of his age. He was the latter, though this may seem paradoxical, in even a stricter sense than Bruno. Bruno, coming into violent collision with the prejudices of the century, expiated his antagonism by a cruel death. Tasso, yielding to those influences, lingered out a life of irresolute misery. His nature was such, that the very conditions which shaped it sufficed to enfeeble, envenom, and finally reduce it to a pitiable ruin. Some memorable words of Cesare Balbi may serve as introduction to a sketch of Tasso's life. 'If that can be called felicity which gives to the people peace without activity; to nobles rank without power; to princes undisturbed authority within their States without true independence or full sovereignty; to literary men and artists numerous occasions for writing, painting, making statues, and erecting edifices with the applause of contemporaries but the ridicule of posterity; to the whole nation ease without dignity and facilities for sinking tranquilly into corruption; then no period of her history was so felicitous for Italy as the 140 years which followed the peace of Cateau-Cambrèsis. Invasions ceased: her foreign lord saved Italy from intermeddling rivals. Internal struggles ceased: her foreign lord removed their causes and curbed national ambitions. Popular revolutions ceased: her foreign lord bitted and bridled the population of her provinces. Of bravi, highwaymen, vulgar acts of vengeance, tragedies among nobles and princes, we find indeed abundance; but these affected the mass of the people to no serious extent. The Italians enjoyed life, indulged in the sweets of leisure, the sweets of vice, the sweets of making love and dangling after women. From the camp and the council-chamber, where they had formerly been bred, the nobles passed into petty courts and moldered in a multitude of little capitals. Men bearing historic names, insensible of their own degradation, bowed the neck gladly, groveled in beatitude. Deprived of power, they consoled themselves with privileges, patented favors, impertinences vented on the common people. The princes amused themselves by debasing the old aristocracy to the mire, depreciating their honors by the creations of new titles, multiplying frivolous concessions, adding class to class of idle and servile dependents on their personal bounty. In one word, the paradise of mediocrities came into being.' Tasso was born before the beginning of this epoch. But he lived into the last decade of the sixteenth century. In every fiber of his character he felt the influences of Italian decadence, even while he reacted against them. His misfortunes resulted in great measure from his not having wholly discarded the traditions of the Renaissance, though his temperament and acquired habits made him in many points sympathetic to the Counter-Reformation. At the same time, he was not a mediocrity, but the last of an illustrious race of nobly gifted men of genius. Therefore he never patiently submitted to the humiliating conditions which his own conception of the Court, the Prince, the Church, and the Italian gentleman logically involved at that period. He could not be contented with the paradise of mediocrities described by Balbi. Yet he had not strength to live outside its pale. It was the pathos of his situation that he persisted in idealizing this paradise, and expected to find in it a paradise of exceptional natures. This it could not be. No one turns Circe's pigsty into a Parnassus. If Tasso had possessed force of character enough to rend the trammels of convention and to live his own life in a self-constructed sphere, he might still have been unfortunate. Nature condemned him to suffering. But from the study of his history we then had risen invigorated by the contemplation of heroism, instead of quitting it, as now we do, with pity, but with pity tempered by a slight contempt. Bernardo, the father of Torquato Tasso, drew noble blood from both his parents. The Tassi claimed to be a branch of that ancient Guelf house of Delia Torre, lords of Milan, who were all but extirpated by the Visconti in the fourteenth century. A remnant established themselves in mountain strongholds between Bergamo and Como, and afterwards took rank among the more distinguished families of the former city. Manso affirms that Bernardo's mother was a daughter of those Venetian Cornari who gave a queen to Cyprus.[1] He was born at Venice in the year 1493; and, since he died in 1568, his life covered the whole period of national glory, humiliation, and attempted reconstruction which began with the invasion of Charles VIII. and ended with the closing of the Council of Trent. Born in the pontificate of Alexander VI., he witnessed the reigns of Julius II., Leo X., Clement VII., Paul IV., Pius IV., and died in that of Pius V. All the illustrious works of Italian art and letters were produced while he was moving in the society of princes and scholars. He saw the Renaissance in its splendor and decline. He watched the growth, progress, and final triumph of the Catholic Revival. Having stated that the curve of his existence led upward from a Borgia and down to a Ghislieri Vicar of Christ, the merest tyro in Italian history knows what vicissitudes it spanned. [Footnote 1: This is doubtful. Serrassi believed that Bernardo's mother was also a Tasso.] Though the Tassi were so noble, Bernardo owned no wealth. He was left an orphan at an early age under the care of his uncle, Bishop of Recanati. But in 1520 the poignard of an assassin cut short this guardian's life; and, at the age of seventeen, he was thrown upon the world. After studying at Padua, where he enjoyed the patronage of Bembo, and laid foundations for his future fame as poet, Bernardo entered the service of the Modenese Rangoni in the capacity of secretary. Thus began the long career of servitude to princes, of which he frequently complained, but which only ended with his death.[2] The affairs of his first patrons took him to Paris at the time when a marriage was arranged between Renée of France and Ercole d'Este. He obtained the post of secretary to this princess, and having taken leave of the Rangoni, he next established himself at Ferrara. Only for three years, however; for in 1532 reasons of which we are ignorant, but which may have been connected with the heretical sympathies of Renée, induced him to resign his post. Shortly after this date, we find him attached to the person of Ferrante Sanseverino, Prince of Salerno, one of the chief feudatories and quasi-independent vassals of the Crown of Naples. In the quality of secretary he attended this patron through the campaign of Tunis in 1535, and accompanied him on all his diplomatic expeditions. [Footnote 2: He speaks in his letters of the difficulty 'di sottrarre il collo all difficile noioso arduo giogo della servitù dei Principi.' _Lettere Ined._ Bologna, Romagnoli, p. 34.] The Prince of Salerno treated him more as an honored friend and confidential adviser than as a paid official. His income was good, and leisure was allowed him for the prosecution of his literary studies. In this flourishing state of his affairs, Bernardo contracted an alliance with Porzia de'Rossi, a lady of a noble house, which came originally from Pistoja, but had been established for some generations in Naples. She was connected by descent or marriage with the houses of Gambacorti, Caracciolo, and Caraffa. Their first child, Cornelia, was born about the year 1537. Their second, Torquato, saw the light in March 1544 at Sorrento, where his father had been living some months previously and working at his poem, the _Amadigi_. At the time of Torquato's birth Bernardo was away from home, in Lombardy, France, and Flanders, traveling on missions from his Prince. However, he returned to Sorrento for a short while in 1545, and then again was forced to leave his family. Married at the mature age of forty-three, Bernardo was affectionately attached to his young wife, and proud of his children. But the exigencies of a courtier's life debarred him from enjoying the domestic happiness for which his sober and gentle nature would have fitted him. In 1547 the events happened which ruined him for life, separated him for ever from Porzia, drove him into indigent exile, and marred the prospects of his children. In that year, the Spanish Viceroy, Don Pietro Toledo, attempted to introduce the Inquisition, on its Spanish basis, into Naples. The population resented this exercise of authority with the fury of despair, rightly judging that the last remnants of their liberty would be devoured by the foul monster of the Holy Office. They besought the Prince of Salerno to intercede for them with his master, Charles V., whom he had served loyally up to this time, and who might therefore be inclined to yield to his expostulations. The Prince doubted much whether it would be prudent to accept the mission of intercessor. He had two counsellors, Bernardo Tasso and Vincenzo Martelli. The latter, who was an astute Florentine, advised him to undertake nothing so perilous as interposition between the Viceroy and the people. Tasso, on the contrary, exhorted him to sacrifice personal interest, honors, and glory, for the duty which he owed his country. The Prince chose the course which Tasso recommended. Charles V. disgraced him, and he fled from Naples to France, adopting openly the cause of his imperial sovereign's enemies. He was immediately declared a rebel, with confiscation of his fiefs and property. Bernardo and his infant son were included in the sentence. After twenty-two years of service, Bernardo now found himself obliged to choose between disloyalty to his Prince or a disastrous exile. He took the latter course, and followed Ferrante Sanseverino to Paris. But Bernardo Tasso, though proving himself a man of honor in this severe trial, was not of the stuff of Shakespeare's Kent; and when the Prince of Salerno suspended payment of his salary he took leave of that master. Some differences arising from the discomforts and irritations of both exiles had early intervened between them. Tasso was miserably poor. 'I have to stay in bed,' he writes, 'to mend my hose; and if it were not for the old arras I brought with me from home, I should not know how to cover my nakedness.'[3] Besides this he suffered grievously in the separation from his wife, who was detained at Naples by her relatives--'brothers who, instead of being brothers, are deadly foes, cruel wild beasts rather than men; a mother who is no mother but a fell enemy, a fury from hell rather than a woman.'[4] His wretchedness attained its climax when Porzia died suddenly on February 3, 1556. Bernardo suspected that her family had poisoned her; and this may well have been. His son Torquato, meanwhile had joined him in Rome; but Porzia's brothers refused to surrender his daughter Cornelia, whom they married to a Sorrentine gentleman, Marzio Sersale, much to Bernardo's disgust, for Sersale was apparently of inferior blood. They also withheld Porzia's dowry and the jointure settled on her by Bernardo--property of considerable value which neither he nor Torquato were subsequently able to recover. [Footnote 3: _Lett. Ined_. p. 100] [Footnote 4: _Letter di Torquato Tasso_, February 15, 1556, vol. II. p. 157.] In this desperate condition of affairs, without friends or credit, but conscious of his noble birth and true to honor, the unhappy poet bethought him of the Church. If he could obtain a benefice, he would take orders. But the King of France and Margaret of Valois, on whose patronage he relied, turned him a deaf ear; and when war broke out between Paul IV. and Spain, he felt it prudent to leave Rome. It was at this epoch that Bernardo entered the service of Guidubaldo della Rovere, Duke of Urbino, with whom he remained until 1563, when he accepted the post of secretary from Guglielmo, Duke of Mantua. He died in 1569 at Ostiglia, so poor that his son could scarcely collect money enough to bury him after selling his effects. Manso says that a couple of door-curtains, embroidered with the arms of Tasso and De'Rossi, passed on this occasion into the wardrobe of the Gonzaghi. Thus it seems that the needy nobleman had preserved a scrap of his heraldic trophies till the last, although he had to patch his one pain of breeches in bed at Rome. It may be added, as characteristic of Bernardo's misfortunes, that even the plain marble sarcophagus, inscribed with the words _Ossa Bernardi Tassi_ which Duke Guglielmo erected to his memory in S. Egidio at Mantua, was removed in compliance with a papal edict ordering that monuments at a certain height above the ground should be destroyed to save the dignity of neighboring altars! Such were the events of Bernardo Tasso's life. I have dwelt upon them in detail, since they foreshadow and illustrate the miseries of his more famous son. In character and physical qualities Torquato inherited no little from his father. Bernardo was handsome, well-grown, conscious of his double dignity as a nobleman and poet. From the rules of honor, as he understood them, he deviated in no important point of conduct. Yet the life of courts made him an incorrigible dangler after princely favors. The _Amadigi_, upon which he set such store, was first planned and dedicated to Charles V., then altered to suit Henri II. of France, and finally adapted to the flattery of Philip II., according as its author's interests with the Prince of Salerno and the Duke of Urbino varied. No substantial reward accrued to him, however, from its publication. His compliments wasted their sweetness on the dull ears of the despot of Madrid. In misfortune Bernardo sank to neither crime nor baseness, even when he had no clothes to put upon his back. Yet he took the world to witness of his woes, as though his person ought to have been sacred from calamities of common manhood. A similar dependent spirit was manifested in his action as a man of letters. Before publishing the _Amadigi_ he submitted it to private criticism, with the inevitable result of obtaining feigned praises and malevolent strictures. Irresolution lay at the root of his treatment of Torquato. While groaning under the collar of courtly servitude, he determined that the youth should study law. While reckoning how little his own literary fame had helped him, he resolved that his son should adopt a lucrative profession. Yet no sooner had Torquato composed his _Rinaldo_, than the fond parent had it printed, and immediately procured a place for him in the train of the Cardinal Luigi d'Este. It is singular that the young man, witnessing the wretchedness of his father's life, should not have shunned a like career of gilded misery and famous indigence. But Torquato was born to reproduce Bernardo's qualities in their feebleness and respectability, to outshine him in genius, and to outstrip him in the celebrity of his misfortunes. In the absence of his father little Torquato grew up with his mother and sister at Sorrento under the care of a good man, Giovanni Angeluzzo who gave him the first rudiments of education. He was a precocious infant, grave in manners, quick at learning, free from the ordinary naughtinesses of childhood. Manso reports that he began to speak at six months, and that from the first he formed syllables with precision. His mother Porzia appears to have been a woman of much grace and sweetness, but timid and incapable of fighting the hard battle of the world. A certain shade of melancholy fell across the boy's path even in these earliest years, for Porzia, as we have seen, met with cruel treatment from her relatives, and her only support, Bernardo, was far away in exile. In 1552 she removed with her children to Naples, where Torquato was sent at once to the school which the Jesuits had opened there in the preceding year. These astute instructors soon perceived that they had no ordinary boy to deal with. They did their best to stimulate his mental faculties and to exalt his religious sentiments; so that he learned Greek and Latin before the age of ten, and was in the habit of communicating at the altar with transports of pious ecstasy in his ninth year.[5] The child recited speeches and poems in public, and received an elementary training in the arts of composition. He was in fact the infant prodigy of those plausible Fathers, the prize specimen of their educational method. As might have been expected, this forcing system overtaxed his nerves. He rose daily before daybreak to attack his books, and when the nights were long he went to morning school attended by a servant carrying torches. [Footnote 5: 'Sentendo in me non so qual nuova insolita contentezza,' 'non so qual segreta divozione.' _Lettere_, vol. ii. p. 90.] Without seeking to press unduly on these circumstances, we may fairly assume that Torquato's character received a permanent impression from the fever of study and the premature pietism excited in him by the Jesuits in Naples. His servile attitude toward speculative thought, that anxious dependence upon ecclesiastical authority, that scrupulous mistrust of his own mental faculties, that pretense of solving problems by accumulated citations instead of going to the root of the matter, whereby his philosophical writings are rendered nugatory, may with probability be traced to the mechanical and interested system of the Jesuits. He was their pupil for three years, after which he joined his father in Rome. There he seems to have passed at once into a healthier atmosphere. Bernardo, though a sound Catholic, was no bigot; and he had the good sense to choose an able master for his son--'a man of profound learning, possessed of both the ancient languages, whose method of teaching is the finest and most time-saving that has yet been tried; a gentleman withal, with nothing of the pedant in him.'[6] The boy was lucky also in the companion of his studies, a cousin, Cristoforo Tasso, who had come from Bergamo to profit by the tutor's care. [Footnote 6: Bernardo's _Letter to Cav. Giangiacopo Tasso_, December 6, 1554.] The young Tasso's home cannot, however, have been a cheerful one. The elderly hidalgo sitting up in bed to darn a single pair of hose, the absent mother pining for her husband and tormented by her savage brother's avarice, environed the precocious child of ten with sad presentiments. That melancholy temperament which he inherited from Bernardo was nourished by the half-concealed mysteriously-haunting troubles of his parents. And when Porzia died suddenly, in 1556, we can hardly doubt that the father broke out before his son into some such expressions of ungovernable grief as he openly expressed in the letter to Amerigo Sanseverino.[7] Is it possible, then, thought Torquato, that the mother from whose tender kisses and streaming tears I was severed but one year ago,[8] has died of poison--poisoned by my uncles? Sinking into the consciousness of a child so sensitive by nature and so early toned to sadness, this terrible suspicion of a secret death by poison incorporated itself with the very essence of his melancholy humor, and lurked within him to flash forth in madness at a future period of life. That he was well acquainted with the doleful situation of his family is proved by his first extant letter. Addressed to the noble lady Vittoria Colonna on behalf of Bernardo and his sister, this is a remarkable composition for a boy of twelve.[9] His poor father, he says, is on the point of dying of despair, oppressed by the malignity of fortune and the rapacity of impious men. His uncle is bent on marrying Cornelia to some needy gentleman, in order to secure her mother's estate for himself. 'The grief, illustrious lady, of the loss of property is great, but that of blood is crushing. This poor old man has naught but my sister and myself; and now that fortune has deprived him of wealth and of the wife he loved like his own soul, he cannot bear that that man's avarice should rob him of his beloved daughter, with whom he hoped to end in rest these last years of his failing age. In Naples we have no friends; for my father's disaster makes every one shy of us: our relatives are our enemies. Cornelia is kept in the house of my uncle's kinsman Giangiacopo Coscia, where no one is allowed to speak to her or give her letters.' [Footnote 7: Dated February 13, 1556.] [Footnote 8: See _Opere_, vol. iv. p. 100, for Tasso's description of the farewell to his mother, which he remembered deeply, even in later life.] [Footnote 9: _Lettere_, vol. i. p. 6.] In the midst of these afflictions, which already tuned the future poet's utterance to a note of plaintive pathos and ingenuous appeal for aid, Torquato's studies were continued on a sounder plan and in a healthier spirit than at Naples. The perennial consolation of his troubled life, that delight in literature which made him able to anticipate the lines of Goethe-- That naught belongs to me I know, Save thoughts that never cease to flow From founts that cannot perish, And every fleeting shape of bliss Which kindly fortune lets me kiss, Or in my bosom cherish-- now became the source of an inner brightness which not even the 'malignity of fortune,' the 'impiety of men,' the tragedy of his mother's death, the imprisonment of his sister, and the ever-present sorrow of his father, 'the poor gentleman fallen into misery and misfortune through no fault of his own,' could wholly overcloud. The boy had been accustomed in Naples to the applause of his teachers and friends. In Rome he began to cherish a presentiment of his own genius. A 'vision splendid' dawned upon his mind; and every step he made in knowledge and in mastery of language enforced the delightful conviction that 'I too am a poet.' Nothing in Tasso's character was more tenacious than the consciousness of his vocation and the kind of self-support he gained from it. Like the melancholy humor which degenerated into madness, this sense of his own intellectual dignity assumed extravagant proportions, passed over into vanity, and encouraged him to indulge fantastic dreams of greatness. Yet it must be reckoned as a mitigation of his suffering; and what was solid in it at the period of which I now am writing, was the certainty of his rare gifts for art. The Roman residence was broken by Bernardo's journey to Urbino in quest of the appointment he expected from Duke Guidubaldo. He sent Torquato with his cousin Cristoforo meanwhile to Bergamo, where the boy enjoyed a few months of sympathy and freedom. This appears to have been the only period of his life in which Tasso experienced the wholesome influences of domesticity. In 1557 his father sent for him to Pesaro, and Tasso made his first entrance into a Court at the age of thirteen. This event decided the future of his existence. Urbino was not what it had been in the time of Duke Federigo, or when Castiglione composed his Mirror of the Courtier on its model. Yet it retained the old traditions of gentle living, splendor tempered by polite culture, aristocratic urbanity refined by arts and letters. The evil days of Spanish manners and Spanish bigotry, of exhausted revenues and insane taxation, were but dawning; and the young prince, Francesco Maria, who was destined to survive his heir and transfer a ruined duchy to the mortmain of the Church, was now a boy of eight years old. In fact, though the Court of Urbino labored already under that manifold disease of waste which drained the marrow of Italian principalities, its atrophy was not apparent to the eye. It could still boast of magnificent pageants, trains of noble youths and ladies moving through its stately palaces and shady villa-gardens, academies of learned men discussing the merits of Homer and Ariosto and discoursing on the principles of poetry and drama. Bernardo Tasso read his _Amadigi_ in the evenings to the Duchess. The days were spent in hunting and athletic exercises; the nights in masquerades or dances. Love and ambition wore an external garb of ceremonious beauty; the former draped itself in sonnets, the latter in rhetorical orations. Torquato, who was assigned as the companion in sport and study to the heir-apparent, shared in all these pleasures of the Court. After the melancholy of Rome, his visionary nature expanded under influences which he idealized with fatal facility. Too young to penetrate below that glittering surface, flattered by the attention paid to his personal charm or premature genius, stimulated by the conversation of politely educated pedants, encouraged in studies for which he felt a natural aptitude, gratified by the comradeship of the young prince whose temperament corresponded to his own in gravity, he conceived that radiant and romantic conception of Courts, as the only fit places of abode for men of noble birth and eminent abilities, which no disillusionment in after life was able to obscure. We cannot blame him for this error, though error it indubitably was. It was one which he shared with all men of his station at that period, which the poverty of his estate, the habits of his father, and his own ignorance of home-life almost forced upon his poet's temperament. At Urbino Tasso read mathematics under a real master, Federigo Comandino, and carried on his literary studies with enthusiasm. It was probably at this time that he acquired the familiar knowledge of Virgil which so powerfully influenced his style, and that he began to form his theory of epic as distinguished from romantic poetry. After a residence of two years he removed to Venice, where his father was engaged in polishing the _Amadigi_ for publication. Here a new scene of interest opened out for him; and here he first enjoyed the sweets of literary fame. Bernardo had been chosen secretary by an Academy, in which men like Veniero, Molino, Gradenigo, Mocenigo, and Manuzio, the most learned and the noblest Venetians, met together for discussion. The slim lad of fifteen was admitted to their sessions, and surprised these elders by his eloquence and erudition. It is noticeable that at this time he carefully studied and annotated Dante's _Divine Comedy_, a poem almost neglected by Italians in the Cinque Cento. It seemed good to his father now that he should prosecute his studies in earnest, with the view of choosing a more lucrative profession than that of letters or Court-service. Bernardo, while finishing the _Amadigi_, which he dedicated to Philip II., sent his son in 1560 to Padua. He was to become a lawyer under the guidance of Guido Panciroli. But Tasso, like Ovid, like Petrarch, like a hundred other poets, felt no inclination for juristic learning. He freely and frankly abandoned himself to the metaphysical conclusions which were being then tried between Piccolomini and Pendasio, the one an Aristotelian dualist, the other a materialist for whom the soul was not immortal. Without force of mind enough to penetrate the deepest problems of philosophy, Tasso was quick to apprehend their bearings. The Paduan school of scepticism, the logomachy in vogue there, unsettled his religious opinions. He began by criticising the doubts of others in his light of Jesuit-instilled belief; next he found a satisfaction for self-esteem in doubting too; finally he called the mysteries of the Creed in question, and debated the articles of creation, incarnation, and immortality. Yet he had not the mental vigor either to cut this Gordian knot, or to untie it by sound thinking. His erudition confused him; and he mistook the lumber of miscellaneous reading for philosophy. Then a reaction set in. He remembered those childish ecstasies before the Eucharist: he recalled the pictures of a burning hell his Jesuit teachers had painted; he heard the trumpets of the Day of Judgment, and the sentence 'Go ye wicked!' On the brink of heresy he trembled and recoiled. The spirit of the coming age, the spirit of Bruno, was not in him. To all appearances he had not heard of the Copernican discovery. He wished to remain a true son of the Church, and was in fact of such stuff as the Catholic Revival wanted. Yet the memory of these early doubts clung to him, principally, we may believe, because he had not force to purge them either by severe science or by vivid faith. Later, when his mind was yielding to disorder, they returned in the form of torturing scruples and vain terrors, which his fervent but superficial pietism, his imaginative but sensuous religion, were unable to efface. Meanwhile, with one part of his mind devoted to these problems, the larger and the livelier was occupied with poetry. To law, the _Brod-Studium_ indicated by his position in the world, he only paid perfunctory attention. The consequence was that before he had completed two years of residence in Padua, his first long poem, the _Rinaldo_, saw the light. In another chapter I mean to discuss the development of Tasso's literary theories and achievements. It is enough here to say that the applause which greeted the _Rinaldo_, conquered his father's opposition. Proud of its success, Bernardo had it printed, and Torquato in the beginning of his nineteenth year counted among the notable romantic poets of his country. At the end of 1563, Tasso received an invitation to transfer himself from Padua to Bologna. This proposal came from Monsignor Cesi, who had recently been appointed by Pope Pius IV. to superintend public studies in that city. The university was being placed on a new footing, and to secure the presence of a young man already famous seemed desirable. An exhibition was therefore offered as an inducement; and this Tasso readily accepted. He spent about two years at Bologna, studying philosophy and literature, planning his Dialogues on the Art of Poetry, and making projects for an epic on the history of Godfred. Yet in spite of public admiration and official favor, things did not go smoothly with Tasso at Bologna. One main defect of his character, which was a want of tact, began to manifest itself. He showed Monsignor Cesi that he had a poor opinion of his literary judgment, came into collision with the pedants who despised Italian, and finally uttered satiric epigrams in writing on various members of the university. Other students indulged their humor in like pasquinades. But those of Tasso were biting, and he had not contrived to render himself generally popular. His rooms were ransacked, his papers searched; and finding himself threatened with a prosecution for libel, he took flight to Modena. No importance can be attached to this insignificant affair, except in so far as it illustrates the unlucky aptitude for making enemies by want of _savoir vivre_ which pursued Tasso through life. His real superiority aroused jealousy; his frankness wounded the self-love of rivals whom he treated with a shadow of contempt. As these were unable to compete with him in eloquence, or to beat him in debate, they soothed their injured feelings by conspiracy and calumny against him. In an age of artifice and circumspection, while paying theoretical homage to its pedantries, and following the fashion of its compliments, Tasso was nothing if not spontaneous and heedless. This appears in the style of his letters and prose compositions, which have the air of being uttered from the heart. The excellences and defects of his poetry, soaring to the height of song and sinking into frigidity or baldness when the lyric impulse flags, reveal a similar quality. In conduct this spontaneity assumed a form of inconsiderate rashness, which brought him into collision with persons of importance, and rendered universities and Courts, the sphere of his adoption, perilous to the peace of so naturally out-spoken and self-engrossed a man. His irritable sensibilities caused him to suffer intensely from the petty vengeance of the people he annoyed; while a kind of amiable egotism blinded his eyes to his own faults, and made him blame fortune for sufferings of which his indiscretion was the cause. After leaving Bologna, Tasso became for some months house-guest of his father's earliest patrons, the Modenese Rangoni. With them he seems to have composed his Dialogues upon the Art of Poetry. For many years the learned men of Italy had been contesting the true nature of the Epic. One party affirmed that the ancients ought to be followed; and that the rules of Aristotle regarding unity of plot, dignity of style, and subordination of episodes, should be observed. The other party upheld the romantic manner of Ariosto, pleading for liberty of fancy, richness of execution, variety of incident, intricacy of design. Torquato from his earliest boyhood had heard these points discussed, and had watched his father's epic, the _Amadigi_, which was in effect a romantic poem petrified by classical convention, in process of production. Meanwhile he carefully studied the text of Homer and the Latin epics, examined Horace and Aristotle, and perused the numerous romances of the Italian school. Two conclusions were drawn from this preliminary course of reading: first, that Italy as yet possessed no proper epic; Trissino's _Italia Liberata_ was too tiresome, the _Orlando Furioso_ too capricious; secondly, that the _spolia opima_ in this field of art would be achieved by him who should combine the classic and romantic manners in a single work, enriching the unity of the antique epic with the graces of modern romance, choosing a noble and serious subject, sustaining style at a sublime altitude, but gratifying the prevalent desire for beauty in variety by the introduction of attractive episodes and the ornaments of picturesque description. Tasso, in fact, declared himself an eclectic; and the deep affinity he felt for Virgil, indicated the lines upon which the Latin language in its romantic or Italian stage of evolution might be made to yield a second Aeneid adapted to the requirements of modern taste. He had, indeed, already set before himself the high ambition of supplying this desideratum. The note of prelude had been struck in _Rinaldo_; the subject of the _Gerusalemme_ had been chosen. But the age in which he lived was nothing if not critical and argumentative. The time had long gone by when Dante's massive cathedral, Boccaccio's pleasure domes, Boiardo's and Ariosto's palaces of enchantment, arose as though unbidden and unreasoned from the maker's brain. It was now impossible to take a step in poetry or art without a theory; and, what was worse, that theory had to be exposed for dissertation and discussion. Therefore Tasso, though by genius the most spontaneous of men, commenced the great work of his life with criticism. Already acclimatized to courts, coteries, academies, formed in the school of disputants and pedants, he propounded his _Ars Poetica_ before establishing it by an example. This was undoubtedly beginning at the wrong end; he committed himself to principles which he was bound to illustrate by practice. In the state of thought at that time prevalent in Italy, burdened as he was with an irresolute and diffident self-consciousness, Tasso could not deviate from the theory he had promulgated. How this hampered him, will appear in the sequel, when we come to notice the discrepancy between his critical and creative faculties. For the moment, however, the Dialogues on Epic Poetry only augmented his fame. Scipione Gonzaga, one of Tasso's firmest and most illustrious friends, had recently established an Academy at Padua under the name of Gli Eterei. At his invitation the young poet joined this club in the autumn of 1564, assumed the title of Il Pentito in allusion to his desertion of legal studies, and soon became the soul of its society. His dialogues excited deep and wide-spread interest. After so much wrangling between classical and romantic champions, he had transferred the contest to new ground and introduced a fresh principle into the discussion. This principle was, in effect, that of common sense, good taste and instinct. Tasso meant to say: there is no vital discord between classical and romantic art; both have excellences, and it is possible to find defects in both; pedantic adherence to antique precedent must end in frigid failure under the present conditions of intellectual culture; yet it cannot be denied that the cycle of Renaissance poetry was closed by Ariosto; let us therefore attempt creation in a liberal spirit, trained by both these influences. He could not, however, when he put this theory forward in elaborate prose, abstain from propositions, distinctions, deductions, and conclusions, all of which were discutable, and each of which his critics and his honor held him bound to follow. In short, while planning and producing the _Gerusalemme_, he was involved in controversies on the very essence of his art. These controversies had been started by himself and he could not do otherwise than maintain the position he had chosen. His poet's inspiration, his singer's spontaneity, came thus constantly into collision with his own deliberate utterances. A perplexed self-scrutiny was the inevitable result, which pedagogues who were not inspired and could not sing, but who delighted in minute discussion, took good care to stimulate. The worst, however, was that he had erected in his own mind a critical standard with which his genius was not in harmony. The scholar and the poet disagreed in Tasso; and it must be reckoned one of the drawbacks of his age and education that the former preceded the latter in development. Something of the same discord can be traced in contemporary painting, as will be shown when I come to consider the founders of the Bolognese Academy. At the end of 1565 Tasso was withdrawn from literary studies and society in Padua. The Cardinal Luigi d'Este offered him a place in his household; and since this opened the way to Ferrara and Court-service, it was readily accepted. It would have been well for Tasso, at this crisis of his fate, if the line of his beloved Aeneid-- Heu, fuge crudeles terras, fuge littus avarum-- that line which warned young Savonarola away from Ferrara, had sounded in his ears, or met his eyes in some Virgilian _Sortes_. It would have been well if his father, disillusioned by the _Amadigi's_ ill-success, and groaning under the galling yoke of servitude to Princes, had forbidden instead of encouraging this fatal step. He might himself have listened to the words of old Speroni, painting the Court as he had learned to know it, a Siren fair to behold and ravishing of song, but hiding in her secret caves the bones of men devoured, and 'mighty poets in their misery dead.' He might even have turned the pages of Aretino's _Dialogo delle Corti_, and have observed how the ruffian who best could profit by the vices of a Court, refused to bow his neck to servitude in their corruption. But no man avoids his destiny, because few draw wisdom from the past and none foresee the future. To Ferrara Tasso went with a blithe heart. Inclination, the custom of his country, the necessities of that poet's vocation for which he had abandoned a profession, poverty and ambition, vanity and the delights of life, combined to lure him to his ruin. He found Ferrara far more magnificent than Urbino. Pageants, hunting parties, theatrical entertainments, assumed fantastic forms of splendor in this capital, which no other city of Italy, except Florence and Venice upon rare occasions, rivaled. For a long while past Ferrara had been the center of a semi-feudal, semi-humanistic culture, out of which the Masque and Drama, music and painting, scholarship and poetry, emerged with brilliant originality, blending mediaeval and antique elements in a specific type of modern romance. This culminated in the permanent and monumental work began by Boiardo in the morning, and completed by Ariosto in the meridian of the Renaissance. Within the circuit of the Court the whole life of the Duchy seemed to concentrate itself. From the frontier of Venice to the Apennines a tract of fertile country, yielding all necessaries of life, corn, wine, cattle, game, fish, in abundance, poured its produce into the palaces and castles of the Duke. He, like other Princes of his epoch, sucked each province dry in order to maintain a dazzling show of artificial wealth. The people were ground down by taxes, monopolies of corn and salt, and sanguinary game-laws. Brutalized by being forced to serve the pleasures of their masters, they lived the lives of swine. But why repaint the picture of Italian decadence, or dwell again upon the fever of that phthisical consumption? Men like Tasso saw nothing to attract attention in the rotten state of Ferrara. They were only fascinated by the hectic bloom and rouged refinement of its Court. And even the least sympathetic student must confess that the Court at any rate was seductive. A more cunningly combined medley of polite culture, political astuteness, urbane learning, sumptuous display, diplomatic love-intrigue and genial artistic productiveness, never before or since has been exhibited upon a scale so grandiose within limits so precisely circumscribed, or been raised to eminence so high from such inadequate foundations of substantial wealth. Compare Ferrara in the sixteenth with Weimar in the eighteenth century, and reflect how wonderfully the Italians even at their last gasp understood the art of exquisite existence! Alfonso II., who was always vainly trying to bless Ferrara with an heir, had arranged his second sterile nuptials when Tasso joined the Court in 1565. It was therefore at a moment of more than usual parade of splendor that the poet entered on the scene of his renown and his misfortune. He was twenty-one years of age; and twenty-one years had to elapse before he should quit Ferrara, ruined in physical and mental health,--_quantum mutatus ab illo_ Torquato! The diffident and handsome stripling, famous as the author of _Rinaldo_, was welcomed in person with special honors by the Cardinal, his patron. Of such favors as Court-lacqueys prize, Tasso from the first had plenty. He did not sit at the common table of the serving gentlemen, but ate his food apart; and after a short residence, the Princesses, sisters of the Duke, invited him to share their meals. The next five years formed the happiest and most tranquil period of his existence. He continued working at the poem which had then no name, but which we know as the _Gerusalemme Liberata_. Envies and jealousies had not arisen to mar the serenity in which he basked. Women contended for his smiles and sonnets. He repaid their kindness with somewhat indiscriminate homage and with the verses of occasion which flowed so easily from his pen. It is difficult to trace the history of Tasso's loves through the labyrinth of madrigals, odes and sonnets which belong to this epoch of his life. These compositions bear, indeed, the mark of a distinguished genius; no one but Tasso could have written them at that period of Italian literature. Yet they lack individuality of emotion, specific passion, insight into the profundities of human feeling. Such shades of difference as we perceive in them, indicate the rhetorician seeking to set forth his motive, rather than the lover pouring out his soul. Contrary to the commonly received legend, I am bound to record my opinion that love played a secondary part in Tasso's destinies. It is true that we can discern the silhouettes of some Court-ladies whom he fancied more than others. The first of these was Laura Peperara, for whom he is supposed to have produced some sixty compositions. The second was the Princess Leonora d'Este. Tasso's attachment to her has been so shrouded in mystery, conjecture and hair-splitting criticism, that none but a very rash man will pronounce confident judgment as to its real nature. Nearly the same may be said about his relations to her sister, Lucrezia. He has posed in literary history as the Rizzio of the one lady and the Chastelard of the other. Yet he was probably in no position at any moment of his Ferrarese existence to be more than the familiar friend and most devoted slave of either. When he joined the Court, Lucrezia was ten and Leonora nine years his senior. Each of the sisters was highly accomplished, graceful and of royal carriage. Neither could boast of eminent beauty. Of the two, Lucrezia possessed the more commanding character. It was she who left her husband, Francesco Maria della Rovere, because his society wearied her, and who helped Clement VIII. to ruin her family, when the Papacy resolved upon the conquest of Ferrara. Leonora's health was sickly. For this reason she refused marriage, living retired in studies, acts of charity, religion, and the company of intellectual men. Something in her won respect and touched the heart at the same moment; so that the verses in her honor, from whatever pen they flowed, ring with more than merely ceremonial compliment. The people revered her like a saint; and in times of difficulty she displayed high courage and the gifts of one born to govern. From the first entrance of Tasso into Ferrara, the sisters took him under their protection. He lived with them on terms of more than courtly intimacy; and for Leonora there is no doubt that he cherished something like a romantic attachment. This is proved by the episode of Sofronia and Olindo in the _Gerusalemme_, which points in carefully constructed innuendoes to his affection. It can even be conceded that Tasso, who was wont to indulge fantastic visions of unattainable greatness, may have raised his hopes so high as sometimes to entertain the possibility of winning her hand. But if he did dally with such dreams, the realities of his position must in sober moments have convinced him of their folly. Had not a Duchess of Amalfi been murdered for contracting a marriage with a gentleman of her household? And Leonora was a grand-daughter of France; and the cordon of royalty was being drawn tighter and tighter yearly in the Italy of his day. That a sympathy of no commonplace kind subsisted between this delicate and polished princess and her sensitively gifted poet, is apparent. But it may be doubted whether Tasso had in him the stuff of a grand passion. Mobile and impressible, he wandered from object to object without seeking or attaining permanence. He was neither a Dante nor a Petrarch; and nothing in his _Rime_ reveals solidity of emotion. It may finally be said that had Leonora returned real love, or had Tasso felt for her real love, his earnest wish to quit Ferrara when the Court grew irksome, would be inexplicable. Had their _liaison_ been scandalous, as some have fancied, his life would not have been worth two hours' Purchase either in the palace or the prison of Alfonso. Whatever may be thought of Tasso's love-relations to these sisters--and the problem is open to all conjectures in the absence of clear testimony--it is certain that he owed a great deal to their kindness. The marked favor they extended to him, was worth much at Court: and their maturer age and wider experience enabled them to give him many useful hints of conduct. Thus, when he blundered into seeming rivalry with Pigna (the Duke's secretary, the Cecil of that little state), by praising Pigna's mistress, Lucrezia Bendidio, in terms of imprudent warmth, it was Leonora who warned him to appease the great man's anger. This he did by writing a commentary upon three of Pigna's leaden Canzoni, which he had the impudence to rank beside the famous three sisters of Petrarch's Canzoniere. The flattery was swallowed, and the peril was averted. Yet in this first affair with Pigna we already hear the grumbling of that tempest which eventually ruined Tasso. So eminent a poet and so handsome a young man was insupportable among a crowd of literary mediocrities and middle-aged gallants. Furthermore the brilliant being, who aroused the jealousies of rhymesters and of lovers, had one fatal failing--want of tact. In 1568, for example, he set himself up as a target to all malice by sustaining fifty conclusions in the Science of Love before the Academy of Ferrara. As he afterwards confessed, he ran the greatest risks in this adventure; but who, he said, could take up arms against a lover? Doubtless there were many lovers present; but none of Tasso's eloquence and skill in argument. In 1569, Tasso was called to his father's sickbed at Ostiglia on the Po. He found the old man destitute and dying. There was not money to bury him decently; and when the funeral rites had been performed by the help of money-lenders, nothing remained to pay for a monument above his graven What the Romans called _pietas_ was a strong feature in Torquato's character. At crises of his life he invariably appealed to the memory of his parents for counsel and support. When the Delia Cruscans attacked his own poetry, he answered them with a defense of the _Amadigi_; and he spent much time and pains in editing the _Floridante_, which naught but filial feeling could possibly have made him value at the worth of publication. In the spring of the next year, Lucrezia d'Este made her inauspicious match with the Duke of Urbino, Tasso's former playmate. She was a woman of thirty-four, he a young man of twenty-one. They did not love each other, had no children, and soon parted with a sense of mutual relief. In the auturmn Tasso accompanied the Cardinal Luigi d'Este into France, leaving his MSS. in the charge of Ercole Rondinelli. The document drawn up for this friend's instructions in case of his death abroad is interesting. It proves that the _Gerusalemme_, here called _Gottifredo_, was nearly finished; for Tasso wished the last six cantos and portions of the first two to be published. He also gave directions for collection and publication of his lovesonnets and madrigals, but requested Rondinelli to bury 'the others, whether of love or other matters which were written in the service of some friend,' in his grave. This last commission demands comment. That Tasso should have written verses to oblige a friend, was not only natural but consistent with custom. Light wares like sonnets could be easily produced by a practiced man of letters, and the friend might find them valuable in bringing a fair foe to terms. But why should any one desire to have such verses buried in his grave? The hypothesis which has been strongly urged by those who believe in the gravity of Tasso's _liaison_ with Leonora, is that he used this phrase to indicate love-poems which might compromise his mistress. We cannot, however, do more than speculate upon the point. There is nothing to confirm or to refute conjecture in the evidence before us. Tasso met with his usual fortunes at the Court of Charles IX. That is to say, he was petted and caressed, wrote verses, and paid compliments. It was just two years before the Massacre of S. Bartholomew, and France presented to the eyes of earnest Catholics the spectacle of truly horrifying anarchy. Catherine de'Medici inclined to compromise matters with the Huguenots. The social atmosphere reeked with heresy and cynicism. In that Italianated Court, public affairs and religious questions were treated from a purely diplomatic point of view. Not principle, but practical convenience ruled conduct and opinion. The large scale on which Machiavellism manifested itself in the discordant realm of France, the apparent breakdown of Catholicism as a national institution, struck Tasso with horror. He openly proclaimed his views, and roundly taxed the government with dereliction of their duty to the Church. An incurable idealist by temperament, he could not comprehend the stubborn actualities of politics. A pupil of the Jesuits, he would not admit that men like Coligny deserved a hearing. An Italian of the decadence, he found it hard to tolerate the humors of a puissant nation in a state of civil warfare. But his master, Luigi d'Este, well understood the practical difficulties which forced the Valois into compromise, and felt no personal aversion for lucrative transaction with the heretic. Though a prince of the Church, he had not taken priest's orders. He kept two objects in view. One was succession to the Duchy of Ferrara, in case Alfonso should die without heirs.[10] [Footnote 10: Cardinal Ferdinando de'Medici succeeded in a like position to the Grand Duchy of Tuscany. But Luigi d'Este did not survive his brother.] The other was election to the Papacy. In the latter event France, the natural ally of the Estensi, would be of service to him, and the Valois monarchs, his cousins, must therefore be supported in their policy. Tasso had been brought to Paris to look graceful and to write madrigals. It was inconvenient, it was unseemly, that a man of letters in the Cardinal's train should utter censures on the Crown, and should profess more Catholic opinions than his patron. Without the scandal of a public dismissal, it was therefore contrived that Tasso should return to Italy; and after this rupture, the suspicious poet regarded Luigi d'Este as his enemy. During his confinement in S. Anna he even threw the chief blame of his detention upon the Cardinal.[11] After spending a short time at Rome in the company of the Cardinals Ippolito d'Este and Albano, Tasso returned to Ferrara in 1572. Alfonso offered him a place in his own household with an annual stipend worth about 88 _l_. of our money. No duties were attached to this post, except the delivery of a weekly lecture in the university. For the rest, Tasso was to prosecute his studies, polish his great poem, and augment the luster of the court by his accomplishments.[12] It was of course understood that the _Gerusalemme_, when completed, should be dedicated to the Duke and shed its splendor on the House of Este. Who was happier than Torquato now? Having recently experienced the discomforts of uncongenial service, he took his place again upon a firmer footing in the city of his dreams. The courtiers welcomed him with smiles. He was once more close to Leonora, basking like Rinaldo in Armida's garden, with golden prospects of the fame his epic would achieve to lift him higher in the coming years. [Footnote 11: See _Lettere_, vol. ii. p. 80: to Giacomo Buoncompagno.] [Footnote 12: 'Egli mi disse, allor che suo mi fece: Tu canta, or che se' 'n ozio.'] No wonder that the felicity of this moment expanded in a flower of lyric beauty which surpassed all that Tasso had yet published. He produced _Aminta_ in the winter of 1572-3. It was acted with unparalleled applause; for this pastoral drama offered something ravishingly new, something which interpreted and gave a vocal utterance to tastes and sentiments that ruled the age. While professing to exalt the virtues of rusticity, the _Aminta_ was in truth a panegyric of Court life, and Silvia reflected Leonora in the magic mirror of languidly luxurious verse. Poetry melted into music. Emotion exhaled itself in sensuous harmony. The art of the next two centuries, the supreme art of song, of words subservient to musical expression, had been indicated. This explains the sudden and extraordinary success of the _Aminta_. It was nothing less than the discovery of a new realm, the revelation of a specific faculty which made its author master of the heart of Italy. The very lack of concentrated passion lent it power. Its suffusion of emotion in a shimmering atmosphere toned with voluptuous melancholy, seemed to invite the lutes and viols, the mellow tenors, and the trained soprano voices of the dawning age of melody. We may here remember that Palestrina, seven years earlier in Rome, had already given his Mass of Pope Marcello to the world. Lucrezia d'Este, now Duchess of Urbino, who was anxious to share the raptures of _Aminta_, invited Tasso to Pesaro in the summer of 1573, and took him with her to the mountain villa of Casteldurante. She was an unhappy wife, just on the point of breaking her irksome bonds of matrimony. Tasso, if we may credit the deductions which have been drawn from passages in his letters, had the privilege of consoling the disappointed woman and of distracting her tedious hours. They roamed together through the villa gardens, and spent days of quiet in the recesses of her apartments. He read aloud passages from his unpublished poem, and composed sonnets in her honor, praising the full-blown beauty of the rose as lovelier than its budding charm. The duke her husband, far from resenting this intimacy, heaped favors and substantial gifts upon his former comrade. He had not, indeed, enough affection for his wife to be jealous of her. Yet it is indubitable that if he had suspected her of infidelity the Italian code of honor would have compelled him to make short work with Tasso.[13] [Footnote 13: This is how he wrote in his Diary about Lucrezia. 'Finally the Duke decided upon his marriage with Donna Lucrezia d'Este, which took place, though little to his taste, for she was old enough to have been his mother.' 'The Duchess wished to return to Ferrara, where she subsequently chose to remain, a resolution which gave no annoyance to her husband; for, as she was unlikely to bring him a family, her absence mattered little.' 'February 15, 1598. Heard that Madame Lucrezia d'Este, Duchess of Urbino, my wife, died at Ferrara during the night of the 11th.' (Dennistoun's _Dukes of Urbino_, vol. iii. pp. 127, 146, 156.) Francesco Maria had been attached in Spain to a lady of unsuitable condition, and his marriage with Lucrezia was arranged to keep him out of a _mésalliance_.] Meanwhile it seemed as though Leonora had been forgotten by her servant. We possess one letter written to her from Casteldurante on September 3, 1573, in which he encloses a sonnet, disparaging it by comparison with those which he believes she has been receiving from another poet (Guarino probably), and saying that, though the verses were written, not for himself, but 'at the requisition of a poor lover, who, having been for some while angry with his lady, now is forced to yield and crave for pardon,' yet he hopes that they 'will effect the purpose he desires.'[14] Few of Tasso's letters to Leonora have survived. This, therefore, is a document of much importance; and it is difficult to resist the conclusion that he was indirectly begging Leonora to forgive him for some piece of petulance or irritation. At any rate, his position between the two princesses at this moment was one of delicacy, in which a less vain and more cautious man than Tasso might have found it hard to keep his head cool. [Footnote 14: _Lettere_, vol. i, p. 47. The sonnet begins, 'Sdegno, debil guerrier.'] Up to the present time his life had been, in spite of poverty and domestic misfortunes, one almost uninterrupted career of triumph. But his fiber had been relaxed in the irresponsible luxurious atmosphere of Courts, and his self-esteem had been inflated by the honors paid to him as the first poet of his age in Europe. Moreover, he had been continuously over-worked and over-wrought from childhood onwards. Now, when he returned to Ferrara with the Duchess of Urbino at the age of twenty-nine, it remained to be seen whether he could support himself with stability upon the slippery foundation of princely favor, whether his health would hold out, and whether he would be able to bring the publication of his long expected poem to a successful issue. In 1574 he accompanied Duke Alfonso to Venice, and witnessed the magnificent reception of Henri III, on his return from Poland. A fever, contracted during those weeks of pleasure, prevented him from working at the epic for many months. This is the first sign of any serious failure in Tasso's health. At the end of August 1574, however, the _Gerusalemme_ was finished, and in the following February he began sending the MS. to Scipione Gonzaga at Rome. So much depended on its success, that doubts immediately rose within its author's mind. Will it fulfill the expectation raised in every Court and literary coterie of Italy? Will it bear investigation in the light of the Dialogues on Epic Poetry? Will the Church be satisfied with its morality; the Holy Office with its doctrine? None of these diffidences assailed Tasso when he flung _Aminta_ negligently forth and found he had produced a masterpiece. It would have been well for him if he had turned a deaf ear to the doubting voice on this occasion also. But he was not of an independent character to start with; and his life had made him sensitively deferent to literary opinion. Therefore, in an evil hour, yielding to Gonzaga's advice, he resolved to submit the _Gerusalemme_ in MS. to four censors--Il Borga, Flaminio de'Nobili, vulpine Speroni with his poisoned fang of pedantry, precise Antoniano with his inquisitorial prudery. They were to pass their several criticisms on the plot, characters, diction, and ethics of the _Gerusalemme_; Tasso was to entertain and weigh their arguments, reserving the right of following or rejecting their advice, but promising to defend his own views. To the number of this committee he shortly after added three more scholars, Francesco Piccolomini, Domenico Veniero, and Celio Magno.[15] Not to have been half maddened by these critics would have proved Tasso more or less than human. They picked holes in the structure of the epic, in its episodes, in its theology, in its incidents, in its language, in its title. One censor required one alteration, and another demanded the contrary. This man seemed animated by an acrid spite; that veiled his malice in the flatteries of candid friendship. Antoniano was for cutting out the love passages: Armida, Sofronia, Erminia, Clorinda, were to vanish or to be adapted to conventual proprieties. It seemed to him more than doubtful whether the enchanted forest did not come within the prohibitions of the Tridentine decrees. As the revision advanced, matters grew more serious. Antoniano threw out some decided hints of ecclesiastical displeasure; Tasso, reading between the lines, scented the style of the Collegium Germanicum. [Footnote 15: Tasso consulted almost every scholar he could press into his service. But the official tribunal of correction was limited to the above named four acting in concert with Scipione Gonzaga.] Speroni spoke openly of plagiarism--plagiarism from himself forsooth!--and murmured the terrible words between his teeth, 'Tasso is mad!' He was in fact driven wild, and told his tormentors that he would delay the publication of the epic, perhaps for a year, perhaps for his whole life, so little hope had he of its success.[16] At last he resolved to compose an allegory to explain and moralize the poem. When he wrote the _Gerusalemme_ he had no thought of hidden meanings; but this seemed the only way of preventing it from being dismembered by hypocrites and pedants.[17] The expedient proved partially successful. When Antoniano and his friends were bidden to perceive a symbol in the enchanted wood and other marvels, a symbol in the loves of heroines and heroes, a symbol even in Armida, they relaxed their wrath. The _Gerusalemme_ might possibly pass muster now before the Congregation of the Index. Tasso's correspondence between March 1575 and July 1576 shows what he suffered at the hands of his revisers, and helps to explain the series of events which rendered the autumn of that latter year calamitous for him.[18] There are, indeed, already indications in the letters of those months that his nerves, enfeebled by the quartan fever under which he labored, and exasperated by carping or envious criticism, were overstrung. [Footnote 16: _Lettere_, vol. i. p. 114.] [Footnote 17: _Ib_. vol. i. p. 192.] [Footnote 18: Vol. i. pp. 55-215.] Suspicions began to invade his mind. He complained of headache. His spirits alternated between depression and hysterical gayety. A dread lest the Inquisition should refuse the imprimatur to his poem haunted him. He grew restless, and yearned for change of scene. The events of 1575, 1576, and 1577 require to be minutely studied: for upon our interpretation of them must depend the theory which we hold of Tasso's subsequent misfortunes. It appears that early in the year 1575 he was becoming discontented with Ferrara. A party in the Court, led by Pigna, did their best to make his life there disagreeable. They were jealous of the poet's fame, which shone with trebled splendor after the production of _Aminta_. Tasso's own behavior provoked, if it did not exactly justify their animosity. He treated men at least his equals in position with haughtiness, which his irritable temper rendered insupportable. We have it from his own pen that 'he could not bear to live in a city where the nobles did not yield him the first place, or at least admit him to absolute equality'; that 'he expected to be adored by friends, served by serving-men, caressed by domestics, honored by masters, celebrated by poets, and pointed out by all.'[19] [Footnote 19: _Lettere_, vol. iii. p. 41, iv. p. 332.] He admitted that it was his habit 'to build castles in the air of honors, favors, gifts and graces, showered on him by emperors and kings and mighty princes'; that 'the slightest coldness from a patron seemed to him a tacit act of dismissal, or rather an open act of violence.'[20] His blood, he argued, placed him on a level with the aristocracy of Italy; but his poetry lifted him far above the vulgar herd of noblemen. At the same time, while claiming so much, he constantly declared himself unfit for any work or office but literary study, and expressed his opinion that princes ought to be his tributaries.[21] Though such pretensions may not have been openly expressed at this period of his life, it cannot be doubted that Tasso's temper made him an unpleasant comrade in Court-service. His sensitiveness, as well as the actual slenderness of his fortunes, exposed him only too obviously to the malevolent tricks and petty bullyings of rivals. One knows what a boy of that stamp has to suffer at public schools, and a Court is after all not very different from an academy. Such being the temper of his mind, Tasso at this epoch turned his thoughts to bettering himself, as servants say. His friend Scipione Gonzaga pointed out that both the Cardinal de'Medici and the Grand Duke of Tuscany would be glad to welcome him as an ornament of their households. Tasso nibbled at the bait all through the summer; and in November, under the pretext of profiting by the Jubilee, he traveled to Rome. This journey, as he afterwards declared, was the beginning of his ruin.[22] It was certainly one of the principal steps which led to the prison of S. Anna. [Footnote 20: _Lettere_, vol. iii. p. 164, v. p. 6.] [Footnote 21: _Ib._ vol. iii. pp. 85, 86, 88, 163, iv. pp. 8, 166, v. p. 87.] [Footnote 22: Letter to Fabio Gonzaga in 1590 (vol. iv. p. 296).] There were many reasons why Alfonso should resent Tasso's entrance into other service at this moment. The House of Este had treated him with uniform kindness. The Cardinal, the duke and the princesses had severally marked him out by special tokens of esteem. In return they expected from him the honors of his now immortal epic. That he should desert them and transfer the dedication of the _Gerusalemme_ to the Medici, would have been nothing short of an insult; for it was notorious that the Estensi and the Medici were bitter foes, not only on account of domestic disagreements and political jealousies, but also because of the dispute about precedence in their titles which had agitated Italian society for some time past. In his impatience to leave Ferrara, Tasso cast prudence to the winds, and entered into negotiations with the Cardinal de'Medici in Rome. When he traveled northwards at the beginning of 1576, he betook himself to Florence. What passed between him and the Grand Duke is not apparent. Yet he seems to have still further complicated his position by making political disclosures which were injurious to the Duke of Ferrara. Nor did he gain anything by the offer of his services and his poem to Francesco de'Medici. In a letter of February 4, 1576, the Grand Duke wrote that the Florentine visit of that fellow, 'whether to call him a mad or an amusing and astute spirit, I hardly know,'[23] had been throughout a ridiculous affair; and that nothing could be less convenient than his putting the _Gerusalemme_ up to auction among princes. One year later, he said bluntly that 'he did not want to have a madman at his Court.'[24] Thus Tasso, like his father, discovered that a noble poem, the product of his best pains, had but small substantial value. It might, indeed, be worth something to the patron who paid a yearly exhibition to its author; but it was not a gem of such high price as to be wrangled for by dukes who had the cares of state upon their shoulders. He compromised himself with the Estensi, and failed to secure a retreat in Florence. [Footnote 23: _Lettere_, vol. iii. p. viii.] Meanwhile his enemies at Ferrara were not idle. Pigna had died in the preceding November. But Antonio Montecatino, who succeeded him as ducal secretary, proved even a more malicious foe, and poisoned Alfonso's mind against the unfortunate poet. The two princesses still remained his faithful friends, until Tasso's own want of tact alienated the sympathies of Leonora. When he returned in 1576, he found the beautiful Eleonora Sanvitale, Countess of Scandiano, at Court. Whether he really fell in love with her at first sight, or pretended to do so in order to revive Leonora d'Este's affection by jealousy, is uncertain.[25] At any rate he paid the countess such marked attentions, and wrote for her and a lady of her suite such splendid poetry, that all Ferrara rang with this amour. A sonnet in Tasso's handwriting, addressed to Leonora d'Este and commented by her own pen, which even Guasti, no credulous believer in the legend of the poet's love, accepts as genuine, may be taken as affording proof that the princess was deeply wounded by her servant's conduct.[26] [Footnote 24: _Lettere_, vol. iii. p. xxx. note 34.] [Footnote 25: Guarino, in a sonnet, hinted at the second supposition. See Rosini's _Saggio sugli Amori_, &c. vol. xxxiii. of his edition of Tasso, p. 51.] [Footnote 26: _Lettere_, vol. iii. p. xxxi.] It is obvious that, though Tasso's letters at this period show no signs of a diseased mind, his conduct began to strike outsiders as insane. Francesco de'Medici used the plain words _matto_ and _pazzo_. The courtiers of Ferrara, some in pity, some in derision, muttered 'Madman,' when he passed. And he spared no pains to prove that he was losing self-control. In the month of January 1577, he was seized with scruples of faith, and conceived the notion that he ought to open his mind to the Holy Office. Accordingly, he appeared before the Inquisitor of Bologna, who after hearing his confession, bade him be of good cheer, for his self-accusations were the outcome of a melancholy humor. Tasso was, in fact, a Catholic molded by Jesuit instruction in his earliest childhood; and though, like most young students, he had speculated on the groundwork of theology and metaphysic, there was no taint of heresy or disobedience to the Church in his nature. The terror of the Inquisition was a morbid nightmare, first implanted in his mind by the experience of his father's collision with the Holy Office, enforced by Antoniano's strictures on his poem, and justified to some extent by the sinister activity of the institution which had burned a Carnesecchi and a Paleario. However it grew up, this fancy that he was suspected as a heretic took firm possession of his brain, and subsequently formed a main feature of his mental disease. It combined with the suspiciousness which now became habitual. He thought that secret enemies were in the habit of forwarding delations against him to Rome. All through these years (1575-1577) his enemies drew tighter cords around him. They were led and directed by Montecatino, the omnipotent persecutor, and hypocritical betrayer. In his heedlessness Tasso left books and papers loose about his rooms. These, he had good reason to suppose, were ransacked in his absence. There follows a melancholy tale of treacherous friends, dishonest servants, false keys, forged correspondence, scraps and fragments of imprudent compositions pieced together and brought forth to incriminate him behind his back. These arts were employed all through the year which followed his return to Ferrara in 1576. But they reached their climax in the spring of 1577. He had lost his prestige, and every servant might insult him, and every cur snap at his heels. Even the _Gerusalemme_, became an object of derision. It transpired that the revisers, to whom he had confided it, were picking the poem to pieces; ignoramuses who could not scan a line, went about parroting their pedantries and strictures. At the beginning of 1576 Tasso had begged Alfonso to give him the post of historiographer left vacant by Pigna. It was his secret hope that this would be refused, and that so he would obtain a good excuse for leaving Ferrara.[27] But the duke granted his request. In the autumn of that year, one of the band of his tormentors, Maddalò de'Frecci, betrayed some details of his love-affairs. What these were we do not know. Tasso resented the insult, and gave the traitor a box on the ears in the courtyard of the castle. Maddalò and his brothers, after this, attacked Tasso on the piazza, but ran away before they reached him with their swords. They were outlawed for the outrage, and the duke of Ferrara, still benignant to his poet, sent him a kind message by one of his servants. This incident weighed on Tasso's memory. The terror of the Inquisition blended now with two new terrors. He conceived that his exiled foes were plotting to poison him. He wondered whether Maddalò's revelations had reached the duke's ears, and if so, whether Alfonso would not inflict sudden vengeance. There is no sufficient reason, however, to surmise that Tasso's conscience was really burdened with a guilty secret touching Leonora d'Este. On the contrary, everything points to a different conclusion. His mind was simply giving way. Just as he conjured up the ghastly specter of the Inquisition, so he fancied that the duke would murder him. Both the Inquisition and the duke were formidable; but the Holy Office mildly told him to set his morbid doubts at rest, and the duke on a subsequent occasion coldly wrote: 'I know he thinks I want to kill him. But if indeed I did so, it would be easy enough.' The duke, in fact, had no sufficient reason and no inclination to tread upon this insect. [Footnote 27: _Lettere_, vol. i. p. 139.] In June 1577, the crisis came. On the seventeenth evening of the month Tasso was in the apartments of the Duchess of Urbino. He had just been declaiming on the subject of his imaginary difficulties with the Inquisition, when something in the manner of a servant who passed by aroused his suspicion. He drew a knife upon the man--like Hamlet in his mother's bedchamber. He was immediately put under arrest, and confined in a room of the castle. Next day Maffeo Veniero wrote thus to the Grand Duke of Tuscany about the incident. 'Yesterday Tasso was imprisoned for having drawn a knife upon a servant in the apartment of the Duchess of Urbino. The intention has been to stay disorder and to cure him, rather than to inflict punishment. He suffers under peculiar delusions, believing himself guilty of heresy and dreading poison; which state of mind arises, I incline to think, from melancholic blood forced in upon the heart and vaporing to the brain. A wretched case, in truth, considering his great parts and his goodness!'[28] Tasso was soon released, and taken by the duke his villa of Belriguardo. Probably this excursion was designed to soothe the perturbed spirits of the poet. But it may also have had a different object. Alfonso may have judged it prudent to sift the information laid before him by Tasso's enemies. We do not know what passed between them. Whether moral pressure was applied, resulting in the disclosure of secrets compromising Leonora d'Este, cannot now be ascertained; nor is it worth while to discuss the hypothesis that the Duke, in order to secure his family's honor, imposed on Tasso the obligation of feigning madness.[29] There is a something not entirely elucidated, a sediment of mystery in Tasso's fate, after this visit to Belriguardo, which criticism will not neglect to notice, but which no testing, no clarifying process of study, has hitherto explained. All we can rely upon for certain is that Alfonso sent him back to Ferrara to be treated physically and spiritually for derangement; and that Tasso thought his life was in danger. He took up his abode in the Convent of S. Francis, submitted to be purged, and began writing eloquent letters to his friends and patrons. [Footnote 28: _Lettere_, vol. i. p. 228.] [Footnote 29: This is Rosini's hypothesis in the Essay cited above. The whole of his elaborate and ingenious theory rests upon the supposition that Alfonso at Belriguardo extorted from Tasso an acknowledgment of his _liaison_ Leonora, and spared his life on the condition of his playing a fool's part before the world. But we have no evidence whatever adequate to support the supposition.] Those which he addressed to the Duke of Ferrara at this crisis, weigh naturally heaviest in the scale of criticism.[30] They turn upon his dread of the Inquisition, his fear of poison, and his diplomatic practice with Florence. While admitting 'faults of grave importance' and 'vacillation in the service of his prince,' he maintains that his secret foes have exaggerated these offenses, and have succeeded in prejudicing the magnanimous and clement spirit of Alfonso. He is particularly anxious about the charge of heresy. Nothing indicates that any guilt of greater moment weighed upon his conscience.[31] After scrutinizing all accessible sources of information, we are thus driven to accept the prosaic hypothesis that Tasso was deranged, and that his Court-rivals had availed themselves of a favorable opportunity for making the duke sensible of his insanity. After the middle of July, the Convent of S. Francis became intolerable to Tasso. His malady had assumed the form of a multiplex fear, which never afterwards relaxed its hold on his imagination. The Inquisition, the duke, the multitude of secret enemies plotting murder, haunted him day and night like furies. He escaped, and made his way, disguised in a peasant's costume, avoiding cities, harboring in mountain hamlets, to Sorrento. [Footnote 30: _Lettere_, vol. i. 257-262.] [Footnote 31: Those who adhere to the belief that all Tasso's troubles came upon him through his _liaison_ with Leonora, are here of course justified in arguing that on _this_ point he could not write openly to the Duke. Or they may question the integrity of the document.] Manos, who wrote the history of Tasso's life in the spirit of a novelist, has painted for us a romantic picture of the poet in a shepherd's hut.[32] It recalls Erminia among the pastoral people. Indeed, the interest of that episode in the _Gerusalemme_ is heightened by the fact that its ill-starred author tested the reality of his creation ofttimes in the course of this pathetic pilgrimage. Artists of the Bolognese Academy have placed Erminia on their canvases. But, up to the present time, I know of no great painter who has chosen the more striking incident of Tasso exchanging his Court-dress for sheepskin and a fustian jacket in the smoky cottage at Velletri. He reached Sorrento safely--'that most enchanting region, which at all times offers a delightful sojourn to men and to the Muses; but at the warm season of the year, when other places are intolerable, affords peculiar solace in the verdure of its foliage, the shadow of its woods, the lightness of the fanning airs, the freshness of the limpid waters flowing from impendent hills, the fertile expanse of tilth, the serene air, the tranquil sea, the fishes and the birds and savory fruits in marvelous variety; all which delights compose a garden for the intellect and senses, planned by Nature in her rarest mood, and perfected by art with most consummate curiosity.'[33] Into this earthly paradise the wayworn pilgrim entered. [Footnote 32: Rosini's edition of Tasso, vol. xxx. p. 144.] [Footnote 33: Manso, _ib._ p. 46.] It was his birthplace; and here his sister still dwelt with her children. Tasso sought Cornelia's home. After a dramatic scene of suspense, he threw aside his disguise, declared himself to be the poet of Italy and her brother; and for a short while he seemed to forget Courts and schools, pedants and princes, in that genial atmosphere. Why did he ever leave Sorrento? That is the question which leaps to the lips of a modern free man. The question itself implies imperfect comprehension of Tasso's century and training. Outside the Court, there was no place for him. He had been molded for Court-life from childhood. It was not merely that he had no money; assiduous labor might have supplied him with means of subsistence. But his friends, his fame, his habits, his ingrained sense of service, called him back to Ferrara. He was not simply a man, but that specific sort of man which Italians called _gentiluomo_--a man definitely modified and wound about with intricacies of association. Therefore, he soon began a correspondence with the House of Este. If we may trust Manso, Leonora herself wrote urgently insisting upon his return.[34] Yet in his own letters Tasso says that he addressed apologies to the duke and both princesses. Alfonso and Lucrezia vouchsafed no answer. Leonora replied coldly that she could not help him.[35] [Footnote 34: Manso, _ib._ p. 147.] [Footnote 35: _Lettere_, vol. i. p. 275.] Anyhow, Ferrara drew him back. It is of some importance here to understand Tasso's own feeling for the duke, his master. A few months later, after he had once more experienced the miseries of Court-life, he wrote: 'I trusted in him, not as one hopes in men but as one trusts in God.... I was inflamed with the affection for my lord more than ever was man with the love of woman, and became unawares half an idolater.... He it was who from the obscurity of my low fortunes raised me to the light and reputation of the Court; who relieved me from discomforts, and placed me in a position of honorable ease; he conferred value on my compositions by listening to them when I read them, and by every mark of favor; he deigned to honor me with a seat at his table and with his familiar conversation; he never refused a favor which I begged for; lastly, at the commencement of my troubles, he showed me the affection, not of a master, but of a father and a brother.'[36] These words, though meant for publication, have the ring of truth in them. Tasso was actually attached to the House of Este, and cherished a vassal's loyalty for the duke, in spite of the many efforts which he made to break the fetters of Ferrara. At a distance, in the isolation and the ennui of a village, the irksomeness of those chains was forgotten. The poet only remembered how sweet his happier years at Court had been. The sentiment of fidelity revived. His sanguine and visionary temperament made him hope that all might yet be well. Without receiving direct encouragement from the duke, Tasso accordingly decided on returning. [Footnote 36: _Lettere_, vol. i. p. 278, ii. p. 26.] His sister is said to have dissuaded him; and he is reported to have replied that he was going to place himself in a voluntary prison.[37] He first went to Rome, and opened negotiations with Alfonso's agents. In reply to their communications, the duke wrote upon March 22, 1578, as follows: 'We are content to take Tasso back; but first he must recognize the fact that he is full of melancholic humors, and that his old notions of enmities and persecutions are solely caused by the said humors. Among other signs of his disorder, he has conceived the idea that we want to compass his death, whereas we have always received him gladly and shown favor to him. It can easily be understood that if we had entertained such a fancy, the execution of it would have presented no difficulty. Therefore let him make his mind up well, before he comes, to submit quietly and unconditionally to medical treatment. Otherwise, if he means to scatter hints and words again as he did formerly, we shall not only give ourselves no further trouble about him, but if he should stay here without being willing to undergo a course of cure, we shall at once expel him from our state with the order not to return.'[38] Words could not be plainer than these. Yet, in spite of them, such was the allurement of the cage for this clipped singing-bird, that Tasso went obediently back to Ferrara. Possibly he had not read the letter written by a greater poet on a similar occasion: 'This is not the way of coming home, my father! Yet if you or others find one not beneath the fame of Dante and his honor, that will I pursue with no slack step. But if none such give entrance to Florence, I will never enter Florence. How! Shall I not behold the sun and stars from every spot of earth? Shall I not be free to meditate the sweetest truths in every place beneath the sky unless I make myself ignoble, nay, ignominious to the people and the state of Florence? Nor truly will bread fail.' These words, if Tasso had remembered them, might have made his cheek blush for his own servility and for the servile age in which he lived. But the truth is that the fleshpots of Egyptian bondage enticed him; and moreover he knew, as half-insane people always know, that he required treatment for his mental infirmities. In his heart of hearts he acknowledged the justice of the duke's conditions. [Footnote 37: Manso, p. 147. Here again the believers in the Leonora _liaison_ may argue that by prison he meant love-bondage, hopeless servitude to the lady from whom he could expect nothing now that her brother was acquainted with the truth.] [Footnote 38: _Lettere_, vol. i. p. 233.] An Epistle or Oration addressed by Tasso to the Duke of Urbino, sets forth what happened after his return to Ferrara in 1578.[39] [Footnote 39: _Lettere_, i. pp. 271-290.] He was aware that Alfonso thought him both malicious and mad. The first of these opinions, which he knew to be false, he resolved to pass in silence. But he openly admitted the latter, 'esteeming it no disgrace to make a third to Solon and Brutus.' Therefore he began to act the madman even in Rome, neglecting his health, exposing himself to hardships, and indulging intemperately in food and wine. By these means, strange as it may seem, he hoped to win back confidence and prove himself a discreet servant of Alfonso. Soon after reaching Ferrara, Tasso thought that he was gaining ground. He hints that the duke showed signs of raising him to such greatness and showering favors upon him so abundant that the sleeping viper of Court envy stirred. Montecatino now persuaded his master that prudence and his own dignity indicated a very different line of treatment. If Tasso was to be great and honored, he must feel that his reputation flowed wholly from the princely favor, not from his studies and illustrious works. Alfonso accordingly affected to despise the poems which Tasso presented, and showed his will that: 'I should aspire to no eminence of intellect, to no glory of literature, but should lead a soft delicate and idle life immersed in sloth and pleasure, escaping like a runaway from the honor of Parnassus, the Lyceum and the Academy, into the lodgings of Epicurus, and should harbor in those lodgings in a quarter where neither Virgil nor Catullus nor Horace nor Lucretius himself had ever stayed.' This excited such indignation in the poet's breast that: 'I said oftentimes with open face and free speech that I would rather be a servant of any prince his enemy than submit to this indignity, and in short _odia verbis aspera movi_.' Whereupon, the duke caused his papers to be seized, in order that the still imperfect epic might be prepared for publication by the hated hypocritical Montecatino. When Tasso complained, he only received indirect answers; and when he tried to gain access to the princesses, he was repulsed by their doorkeepers. At last: 'My infinite patience was exhausted. Leaving my books and writings, after the service of thirteen years, persisted in with luckless constancy, I wandered forth like a new Bias, and betook myself to Mantua, where I met with the same treatment as at Ferrara.' This account sufficiently betrays the diseased state of Tasso's mind. Being really deranged, yet still possessed of all his literary faculties, he affected that his eccentricity was feigned. The duke had formed a firm opinion of his madness; and he chose to flatter this whim. Yet when he arrived at Ferrara he forgot the strict conditions upon which Alfonso sanctioned his return, began to indulge in dreams of greatness, and refused the life of careless ease which formed part of the programme for his restoration to health. In these circumstances he became the laughing-stock of his detractors; and it is not impossible that Alfonso, convinced of his insanity, treated him like a Court-fool. Then he burst out into menaces and mutterings of anger. Having made himself wholly intolerable, his papers were sequestrated, very likely under the impression that he might destroy them or escape with them into some quarter where they would be used against the interests of his patron. Finally he so fatigued everybody by his suspicions and recriminations that the duke forebore to speak with him, and the princesses closed their doors against him. From this moment Tasso was a ruined man; he had become that worst of social scourges, a courtier with a grievance, a semi-lunatic all the more dangerous and tiresome because his mental powers were not so much impaired as warped. Studying his elaborate apology, we do not know whether to despise the obstinacy of his devotion to the House of Este, or to respect the sentiment of loyalty which survived all real or fancied insults. Against the duke he utters no word of blame. Alfonso is always magnanimous and clement, excellent in mind and body, good and courteous by nature, deserving the faithful service and warm love of his dependents. Montecatino is the real villain. 'The princes are not tyrants--they are not, no, no: he is the tyrant.'[40] After quitting Ferrara, Tasso wandered through Mantua, Padua, Venice, coldly received in all these cities; for 'the hearts of men were hardened by their interests against him.' Writing from Venice to the Grand Duke in July, Maffeo Veniero says: 'Tasso is here, disturbed in mind; and though his intellect is certainly not sound, he shows more signs of affliction than of insanity.'[41] [Footnote 40: _Lettere_, ibid. p. 289.] [Footnote 41: _Lettere_, ibid. p. 233.] The sequestration of his only copy of the _Gerusalemme_ not unnaturally caused him much distress; and Veniero adds that the chief difficulty under which he labored was want of money. Veniero hardly understood the case. Even with a competence it is incredible that Tasso would have been contented to work quietly at literature in a private position.[42] From Venice he found his way southward to Urbino, writing one of his sublimest odes upon the road from Pesaro.[43] [Footnote 42: Tasso declares his inability to live outside the Court. 'Se fra i mali de l'animo, uno de'più gravi è l'ambizione, egli ammalò di questo male già molti anni sono, nè mai è risanato in modo ch'io abbia potuto sprezzare affatto i favori e gli onori del mondo, e chi può dargli' (_Lettere_, vol. iii. p. 56). 'Io non posso acquetarmi in altra fortuna di quella ne la quale già nacqui' (_Ibid._ p. 243).] [Footnote 43: It is addressed to the Metaurus, and begins: 'O del grand, Apennino.'] Francesco Maria della Rovere received him with accustomed kindness; but the spirit of unrest drove him forth again, and after two months we find him once more, an indigent and homeless pedestrian, upon the banks of the Sesia. He wanted to reach Vercelli, but the river was in flood, and he owed a night's lodging to the chance courtesy of a young nobleman. Among the many picturesque episodes in Tasso's wanderings none is more idyllically beautiful than the tale of his meeting with this handsome youth. He has told it himself in the exordium to his Dialogue _Il Padre di Famiglia_. When asked who he was and whither he was going, he answered: 'I was born in the realm of Naples, and my mother was a Neapolitan; but I draw my paternal blood from Bergamo, a Lombard city. My name and surname I pass in silence: they are so obscure that if I uttered them, you would know neither more nor less of my condition. I am flying from the anger of a prince and fortune. My destination is the state of Savoy.' Upon this pilgrimage Tasso chose the sobriquet of _Omero Fuggiguerra_. Arriving at Turin, he was refused entrance by the guardians of the gate. The rags upon his back made them suspect he was a vagabond infected with the plague. A friend who knew him, Angelo Ingegneri, happened to pass by, and guaranteed his respectability. Manso compares the journey of this penniless and haggard fugitive through the cities of Italy to the meteoric passage of a comet.[44] Wherever he appeared, he blazed with momentary splendor. Nor was Turin slow to hail the lustrous apparition. The Marchese Filippo da Este entertained him in his palace. The Archbishop, Girolamo della Rovere, begged the honor of his company. The Duke of Savoy, Carlo Emanuele, offered him the same appointments as he had enjoyed at Ferrara. Nothing, however, would content his morbid spirit. Flattered and caressed through the months of October and November he began once more in December to hanker after his old home. Inconceivable as it may seem, he opened fresh negotiations with the duke; and Alfonso, on his side, already showed a will to take him back. Writing to his sister from Pesaro at the end of September, Tasso stay that a gentleman had been sent from Ferrara expressly to recall him.[45] The fact seems to be that Tasso was too illustrious to be neglected by the House of Este. Away from their protection, he was capable of bringing on their name the slur of bad treatment and ingratitude. Nor would it have looked well to publish the _Gerusalemme_ with its praises of Alfonso, while the poet was lamenting his hard fate in every town of Italy. The upshot of these negotiations was that Tasso resolved on retracing his steps. He reached Ferrara again upon February 21, 1579, two days before Margherita Gonzaga, the duke's new bride, made her pompous entrance into the city. But his reception was far from being what he had expected. The duke's heart seemed hardened. Apartments inferior to his quality were assigned him, and to these he was conducted by a courtier with ill-disguised insolence. The princesses refused him access to their lodgings, and his old enemies openly manifested their derision for the kill-joy and the skeleton who had returned to spoil their festival. Tasso, querulous as he was about his own share in the disagreeables of existence, remained wholly unsympathetic to the trials of his fellow-creatures. Self-engrossment closed him in a magic prison-house of discontent. [Footnote 44: _Op. cit._ p. 143.] [Footnote 45: _Lettere_, vol. i. p. 268.] Therefore when he saw Ferrara full of merry-making guests, and heard the marriage music ringing through the courtyards of the castle, he failed to reflect with what a heavy heart the duke might now be entering upon his third sterile nuptials. Alfonso was childless, brotherless, with no legitimate heir to defend his duchy from the Church in case of his decease. The irritable poet forgot how distasteful at such a moment of forced gayety and hollow parade his reappearance, with the old complaining murmurs, the old suspicions, the old restless eyes, might be to the master who had certainly borne much and long with him. He only felt himself neglected, insulted, outraged: Questa è la data fede? Son questi i miei bramati alti ritorni?[46] Then he burst out into angry words, which he afterwards acknowledged to have been 'false, mad and rash.'[47] The duke's patience had reached its utmost limit. Tasso was arrested, and confined in the hospital for mad folk at S. Anna. This happened in March 1579. He was detained there until July 19, 1586, a period of seven years and four months. [Footnote 46: From the sonnet, _Sposa regal_ (_Opere_ vol. iii. p. 218).] [Footnote 47: _Lettere_, vol. ii. p. 67.] No one who has read the foregoing pages will wonder why Tasso was imprisoned. The marvel is rather that the fact should have roused so many speculations. Alfonso was an autocratic princeling. His favorite minister Montecatino fell in one moment from a height of power to irrecoverable ruin. The famous preacher Panigarola, for whom he negotiated a Cardinal's hat, lost his esteem by seeking promotion at another Court, and had to fly Ferrara. His friend, Ercole Contrario, was strangled in the castle on suspicion of having concealed a murder. Tasso had been warned repeatedly, repeatedly forgiven; and now when he turned up again with the same complaints and the same menaces, Alfonso determined to have done with the nuisance. He would not kill him, but he would put him out of sight and hearing. If he was guilty, S. Anna would be punishment enough. If he was mad, it might be hoped that S. Anna would cure him. To blame the duke for this exercise of authority, is difficult. Noble as is the poet's calling, and faithful as are the wounds of a devoted friend and servant, there are limits to princely patience. It is easier to blame Tasso for the incurable idealism which, when he was in comfort at Turin, made him pine 'to kiss the hand of his Highness, and recover some part of his favor on the occasion of his marriage.'[48] Three long letters, written by Tasso during the early months of his imprisonment, discuss the reasons for his arrest.[49] Two of these are directed to his staunch friend Scipione Gonzaga, the third to Giacomo Buoncompagno, nephew of Pope Gregory XIII. Partly owing to omissions made by the editors before publication, and partly perhaps to the writer's reticence, they throw no very certain light even on his own opinion.[50] But this much appears tolerably clear. Tasso was half-mad and altogether irritable. He had used language which could not be overlooked. The Duke continued to resent his former practice with the Medici, and disapproved of his perpetual wanderings. The courtiers had done their utmost to prejudice his mind by calumnies and gossip, raking up all that seemed injurious to Tasso's reputation in the past acts of his life and in the looser verses found among his papers. It may also be conceded that they contrived to cast an unfavorable light upon his affectionate correspondence with the two princesses. Tasso himself laid great stress upon his want of absolute loyalty, upon some lascivious compositions, and lastly upon his supposed heresies. It is not probable that the duke attached importance to such poetry as Tasso may have written in the heat of youth; and it is certain that he regarded the heresies as part of the poet's hallucinations. It is also far more likely that the Leonora episode passed in his mind for another proof of mental infirmity than that he judged it seriously. It was quite enough that Tasso had put himself in the wrong by petulant abuse of his benefactor and by persistent fretfulness. Moreover, he was plainly brain-sick. That alone justified Alfonso in his own eyes. [Footnote 48: _Lettere_, vol. ii. 34.] [Footnote 49: _Ibid._ pp. 7-62, 80-93.] [Footnote 50: We are met here as elsewhere in the perplexing problem of Tasso's misfortunes with the difficulty of having to deal with mutilated documents. Still the mere fact that Tasso was allowed to correspond freely with friends and patrons, shows that Alfonso dreaded no disclosures, and confirms the theory that he only kept Tasso locked up out of harm's way.] And brain-sick Tasso was, without a shadow of doubt.[51] It is hardly needful to recapitulate his terror of the Inquisition, dread of being poisoned, incapacity for self-control in word and act, and other signs of incipient disease. During the residence in S. Anna this malady made progress. He was tormented by spectral voices and apparitions. He believed himself to be under the influence of magic charms. He was haunted by a sprite, who stole his books and flung his MSS. about the room. A good genius, in the form of a handsome youth, appeared and conversed with him. He lost himself for hours together in abstraction, talking aloud, staring into vacancy, and expressing surprise that other people could not see the phantoms which surrounded him. He complained that his melancholy passed at moments into delirium (which he called _frenesia_), after which he suffered from loss of memory and prostration. His own mind became a constant cause of self-torture. Suspicious of others, he grew to be suspicious of himself. And when he left S. Anna, these disorders, instead of abating, continued to afflict him, so that his most enthusiastic admirers were forced to admit that 'he was subject to constitutional melancholy with crises of delirium, but not to actual insanity.'[52] At first, his infirmity did not interfere with intellectual production of a high order, though none of his poetry, after the _Gerusalemme_ was completed in 1574, rose to the level of his earlier work. But in course of time the artist's faculty itself was injured, and the creations of his later life are unworthy of his genius. [Footnote 51: A letter written by Guarini, the old friend, rival and constant Court-companion of Tasso at Ferrara, upon the news of his death in 1595, shows how a man of cold intellect judged his case. 'The death by which Tasso has now paid his debt to nature, seems to me like the termination of that death of his in this world which only bore the outer semblance of life.' See Casella's _Pastor Fido_, p. xxxii. Guarini means that when Tasso's mind gave way, he had really died in his own higher self, and that his actual death was a release.] [Footnote 52: Tasso's own letters after the beginning of 1579, and Manso's Life (_op. cit._ pp. 156-176), are the authorities for the symptoms detailed above. Tasso so often alludes to his infirmities that it is not needful to accumulate citations. I will, however, quote two striking examples. 'Sono infermo come soleva, e stanco della infermita, la quale è _non sol malattia del corpo ma de la mente_' (_Lettere_, vol. iii. p. 160). 'Io sono poco sano e tanto maninconico che _sono riputato matto da gli altri e da me stesso_' (_Ib._ p. 262).] The seven years and four months of Tasso's imprisonment may be passed over briefly. With regard to his so-called dungeon, it is certain that, after some months spent in a narrow chamber, he obtained an apartment of several rooms. He was allowed to write and receive as many letters as he chose. Friends paid him visits, and he went abroad under surveillance in the city of Ferrara. To extenuate the suffering which a man of his temper endured in this enforced seclusion would be unjust to Tasso. There is no doubt that he was most unhappy. But to exaggerate his discomforts would be unjust to the duke. Even Manso describes 'the excellent and most convenient lodgings' assigned him in S. Anna, alludes to the provision for his cure by medicine, and remarks upon the opposition which he offered to medical treatment. According to this biographer, his own endeavors to escape necessitated a strict watch upon his movements.[53] Unless, therefore, we flatly deny the fact of his derangement, which is supported by a mass of testimony, it may be doubted whether Tasso was more miserable in S. Anna than he would have been at large. The subsequent events of his life prove that his release brought no mitigation of his malady. [Footnote 53: _Op. cit._ p. 155.] It was, however, a dreary time. He spent his days in writing letters to all the princes of Italy, to Naples, to Bergamo, to the Roman Curia, declaiming on his wretchedness and begging for emancipation. Occasional poems flowed from his pen. But during this period he devoted his serious hours mainly to prose composition. The bulk of his Dialogues issued from S. Anna. On August 7, 1580, Celio Malaspina published a portion of the _Gerusalemme_ at Venice, under the title of _Il Gottifredo di M. Torquato Tasso_. In February of the following year, his friend Angelo Ingegneri gave the whole epic to the world. Within six months from that date the poem was seven times reissued. This happened without the sanction or the supervision of the luckless author; and from the sale of the book he obtained no profit. Leonora d'Este died upon February 10, 1581. A volume of elegies appeared on this occasion; but Tasso's Muse uttered no sound.[54] He wrote to Panigarola that 'a certain tacit repugnance of his genius' forced him to be mute.[55] His rival Guarini undertook a revised edition of his lyrics in 1582. Tasso had to bear this dubious compliment in silence. All Europe was devouring his poems; scribes and versifiers were building up their reputation on his fame. Yet he could do nothing. Embittered by the piracies of publishers, infuriated by the impertinence of editors, he lay like one forgotten in that hospital. His celebrity grew daily; but he languished, penniless and wretched, in confinement which he loathed. The strangest light is cast upon his state of mind by the efforts which he now made to place two of his sister's children in Court-service. He even tried to introduce one of them as a page into the household of Alfonso. Eventually, Alessandro Sersale was consigned to Odoardo Farnese, and Antonio to the Duke of Mantua. In 1585 new sources of annoyance rose. Two members of the Delia Crusca Academy in Florence, Leonardo Salviati and Bastiano de'Rossi, attacked the _Gerusalemme_. Their malevolence was aroused by the panegyric written on it by Cammillo Pellegrini, a Neapolitan, and they exposed it to pedantically quibbling criticism. Tasso replied in a dignified apology. But he does not seem to have troubled himself overmuch with this literary warfare, which served meanwhile to extend the fame of his immortal poem. At this time new friends gathered round him. Among these the excellent Benedictine, Angelo Grillo, and the faithful Antonio Costantini demand commemoration from all who appreciate disinterested devotion to genius in distress. At length, in July 1586, Vincenzo Gonzaga, heir apparent to the Duchy of Mantua, obtained Tasso's release. He rode off with this new patron to Mantua, leaving his effects at S. Anna, and only regretting that he had not waited on the Duke of Ferrara to kiss his hand as in duty bound.[56] Thus to the end he remained an incorrigible courtier; or rather shall we say that, after all his tribulations, he preserved a doglike feeling of attachment for his master? [Footnote 54: _Lacrime di diversi poeti volgari_, &c. (Vicenza, 1585).] [Footnote 55: _Lettere_, vol. ii. p. 103. The significance of this message to Panigarola is doubtful. Did Tasso mean that the contrast between past and present was too bitter? 'Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly.'] [Footnote 56: All the letters written from Mantua abound in references to this neglect of duty.] The rest of Tasso's life was an Odyssey of nine years. He seemed at first contented with Mantua, wrote dialogues, completed the tragedy of _Torrismondo_ and edited his father's _Floridante_. But when Vincenzo Gonzaga succeeded to the dukedom, the restless poet felt himself neglected. His young friend had not leisure to pay him due attention. He therefore started on a journey to Loreto, which had long been the object of his pious aspiration. Loreto led to Rome, where Scipione Gonzaga resided as Patriarch of Jerusalem and Cardinal. Rome suggested Southern Italy, and Tasso hankered after the recovery of his mother's fortune. Accordingly he set off in March 1588 for Naples, where he stayed, partly with the monks of Monte Oliveto, and partly with the Marchese Manso. Rome saw him again in November; and not long afterwards an agent of the Duke of Urbino wrote this pitiful report of his condition. 'Every one is ready to welcome him to hearth and heart; but his humors render him mistrustful of mankind at large. In the palace of the Cardinal Gonzaga there are rooms and beds always ready for his use, and men reserved for his especial service. Yet he runs away and mistrusts even that friendly lord. In short, it is a sad misfortune that the present age should be deprived of the greatest genius which has appeared for centuries. What wise man ever spoke in prose or verse better than this madman?[57] In the following August, Scipione Gonzaga's servants, unable to endure Tasso's eccentricities, turned him from their master's house, and he took refuge in a monastery of the Olivetan monks. Soon afterwards he was carried to the hospital of the Bergamasques. His misery now was great, and his health so bad that friends expected a speedy end.[58] Yet the Cardinal Gonzaga again opened his doors to him in the spring of 1590. Then the morbid poet turned suspicious, and began to indulge fresh hopes of fortune in another place. He would again offer himself to the Medici. In April he set off for Tuscany, and alighted at the convent of Monte Oliveto, near Florence. Nobody wanted him; he wandered about the Pitti like a spectre, and the Florentines wrote: _actum est de eo_.[59] Some parting compliments and presents from the Grand Duke sweetened his dismissal. He returned to Rome; but each new journey told upon his broken health, and another illness made him desire a change of scene. This time Antonio Costantini offered to attend upon him. They visited Siena, Bologna and Mantua. At Mantua, Tasso made some halt, and took a new long poem, the _Gerusalemme Conquistata_, seriously in hand. But the demon of unrest pursued him, and in November 1591 he was off again with the Duke of Mantua to Rome. From Rome he went to Naples at the beginning of the following year, worked at the _Conquistata_, and began his poem of the _Sette Giornate_.[60] He was always occupied with the vain hope of recovering a portion of his mother's estate. April saw him once more upon his way to Rome. Clement VIII. had been elected, and Tasso expected patronage from the Papal nephews.[61] [Footnote 57: _Lettere_, vol. iv. p. 147.] [Footnote 58: _Ibid._ p. 229.] [Footnote 59: _Lettere_, vol. iv. p. 315.] [Footnote 60: Yet he now felt that his genius had expired. 'Non posso più fare un verso: la vena è secca, e l'ingegno è stanco' (_Lettere_, vol. v. p. 90).] [Footnote 61: During the whole period of his Roman residence, Tasso, like his father in similar circumstances, hankered after ecclesiastical honors. His letters refer frequently to this ambition. He felt the parallel between himself and Bernardo Tasso: 'La mia depressa condizione, e la mia infelicità, quasi ereditaria' (vol. iv. p. 288).] He was not disappointed. They received him into their houses, and for a while he sojourned in the Vatican. The year 1593 seems, through their means, to have been one of comparative peace and prosperity. Early in the summer of 1594 his health obliged him to seek change of air. He went for the last time to Naples. The Cardinal of S. Giorgio, one of the Pope's nephews, recalled him in November to be crowned poet in Rome. His entrance into the Eternal City was honorable, and Clement granted him a special audience; but the ceremony of coronation had to be deferred because of the Cardinal's ill health. Meanwhile his prospects seemed likely to improve. Clement conferred on him a pension of one hundred ducats, and the Prince of Avellino, who had detained his mother's estate, compounded with him for a life-income of two hundred ducats. This good fortune came in the spring of 1595. But it came too late; for his death-illness was upon him. On the first of April he had himself transported to the convent of S. Onofrio, which overlooks Rome from the Janiculan hill. 'Torrents of rain were falling with a furious wind, when the carriage of Cardinal Cinzio was seen climbing the steep ascent. The badness of the weather made the fathers think there must be some grave cause for this arrival. So the prior and others hurried to the gate, where Tasso descended with considerable difficulty, greeting the monks with these words: 'I am come to die among you.''[62] The last of Tasso's letters, written to Antonio Costantini from S. Onofrio, has the quiet dignity of one who struggles for the last time with the frailty of his mortal nature.[63] 'What will my good lord Antonio say when he shall hear of his Tasso's death? The news, as I incline to think, will not be long in coming; for I feel that I have reached the end of life, being unable to discover any remedy for this tedious indisposition which has supervened on the many others I am used to--like a rapid torrent resistlessly sweeping me away. The time is past when I should speak of my stubborn fate, to mention not the world's ingratitude, which, however, has willed to gain the victory of bearing me to the grave a pauper; the while I kept on thinking that the glory which, despite of those that like it not, this age will inherit from my writings, would not have left me wholly without guerdon. I have had myself carried to this monastery of S. Onofrio; not only because the air is commended by physicians above that of any other part of Rome, but also as it were upon this elevated spot and by the conversation of these devout fathers to commence my conversation in heaven. Pray God for me; and rest assured that as I have loved and honored you always in the present life, so will I perform for you in that other and more real life what appertains not to feigned but to veritable charity. And to the Divine grace I recommend you and myself.' [Footnote 62: Manso _op. cit._ p. 215.] [Footnote 63: This letter proves conclusively that, whatever was the nature of Tasso's malady, and however it had enfeebled his faculties as poet, he was in no vulgar sense a lunatic.] On April 25, Tasso expired at midnight, with the words _In manus tuas, Domine_, upon his lips. Had Costantini, his sincerest friend, been there, he might have said like Kent: O, let him pass! he hates him much That would upon the rack of this tough world Stretch him out longer. But Costantini was in Mantua; and this sonnet, which he had written for his master, remains Tasso's truest epitaph, the pithiest summary of a life pathetically tragic in its adverse fate-- Friends, this is Tasso, not the sire but son; For he of human offspring had no heed, Begetting for himself immortal seed Of art, style, genius and instruction. In exile long he lived and utmost need; In palace, temple, school, he dwelt alone; He fled, and wandered through wild woods unknown; On earth, on sea, suffered in thought and deed. He knocked at death's door; yet he vanquished him With lofty prose and with undying rhyme; But fortune not, who laid him where he lies. Guerdon for singing loves and arms sublime, And showing truth whose light makes vices dim, Is one green wreath; yet this the world denies. The wreath of laurel which the world grudged was placed upon his bier; and a simple stone, engraved with the words _Hic jacet Torquatus Tassus_, marked the spot where he was buried. The foregoing sketch of Tasso's life and character differs in some points from the prevalent conceptions of the poet. There is a legendary Tasso, the victim of malevolent persecution by pedants, the mysterious lover condemned to misery in prison by a tyrannous duke. There is also a Tasso formed by men of learning upon ingeniously constructed systems; Rosini's Tasso, condemned to feign madness in punishment for courting Leonora d'Este with lascivious verses; Capponi's Tasso, punished for seeking to exchange the service of the House of Este for that of the House of Medici; a Tasso who was wholly mad; a Tasso who remained through life the victim of Jesuitical influences. In short, there are as many Tassos as there are Hamlets. Yet these Tassos of the legend and of erudition do not reproduce his self-revealed lineaments. Tasso's letters furnish documents of sufficient extent to make the real man visible, though something yet remains perhaps not wholly explicable in his tragedy. CHAPTER VIII. THE GERUSALEMME LIBERATA. Problem of Creating Heroic Poetry--The Preface to Tasso's _Rinaldo_--Subject of _Rinaldo_--Blending of Romantic Motives with Heroic Style--Imitation of Virgil--Melody and Sentiment--Choice of Theme for the _Gerusalemme_--It becomes a Romantic Poem after all--Tancredi the real Hero--Nobility of Tone--Virgilian Imitation--Borrowings from Dante--Involved Diction--Employment of Sonorous Polysyllabic Words--Quality of Religious Emotion in this Poem--Rhetoric--Similes--The Grand Style of Pathos--Verbal Music--The Chant d'Amour--Armida--Tasso's Favorite Phrase, _Un non so che_--His Power over Melody and Tender Feeling--Critique of Tasso's Later Poems--General Survey of his Character. In a previous portion of this work, I attempted to define the Italian Romantic Epic, and traced the tale of Orlando from Pulci through Boiardo and Ariosto to the burlesque of Folengo. There is an element of humor more or less predominant in the _Morgante Maggiore_, the _Orlando Innamorato_, and the _Orlando Furioso_. This element might almost be regarded as inseparable from the species. Yet two circumstances contributed to alter the character of Italian Romance after the publication of the _Furioso_. One of these was the unapproachable perfection of that poem. No one could hope to surpass Ariosto in his own style, or to give a fresh turn to his humor without passing into broad burlesque. The romantic poet had therefore to choose between sinking into parody with Folengo and Aretino, or soaring into the sublimities of solemn art. Another circumstance was the keen interest aroused in academic circles by Trissino's unsuccessful epic, and by the discussion of heroic poetry which it stimulated. The Italian nation was becoming critical, and this critical spirit lent itself readily to experiments in hybrid styles of composition which aimed at combining the graces of the Romantic with the dignity of the Heroic poem. The most meritorious of these hybrids was Bernardo Tasso's _Amadigi_, a long romance in octave stanzas, sustained upon a grave tone throughout, and distinguished from the earlier romantic epics by a more obvious unity of subject. Bernardo Tasso possessed qualities of genius and temper which suited his proposed task. Deficient in humor, he had no difficulty in eliminating that element from the _Amadigi_. Chivalrous sentiment took the place of irony; scholarly method supplied the want of wayward fancy. It was just at this point that the young Torquato Tasso made his first essay in poetry. He had inherited his father's temperament, its want of humor, its melancholy, its aristocratic sensitiveness. At the age of seventeen he was already a ripe scholar, versed in the critical questions which then agitated learned coteries in Italy. The wilding graces and the freshness of the Romantic Epic, as conceived by Boiardo and perfected by Ariosto, had forever disappeared. To 'recapture that first fine careless rapture' was impossible. Contemporary conditions of society and thought rendered any attempt to do so futile. Italy had passed into a different stage of culture; and the representative poem of Tasso's epoch was imperatively forced to assume a different character. Its type already existed in the _Amadigi_, though Bernardo Tasso had not the genius to disengage it clearly, or to render it attractive. How Torquato, while still a student in his teens at Padua, attacked the problem of narrative poetry, appears distinctly in his preface to _Rinaldo_. 'I believe,' he says, 'that you, my gentle readers, will not take it amiss if I have diverged from the path of modern poets, and have sought to approach the best among the ancients. You shall not, however, find that I am bound by the precise rules of Aristotle, which often render those poems irksome which might otherwise have yielded you much pleasure. I have only followed such of his precepts as do not limit your delight: for instance, in the frequent use of episodes, making the characters talk in their own persons, introducing recognitions and peripeties by necessary or plausible motives, and withdrawing the poet as far as possible from the narration. I have also endeavored to construct my poem with unity of interest and action, not, indeed, in any strict sense, but so that the subordinate portions should be seen to have their due relation to the whole.' He then proceeds to explain why he has abandoned the discourses on moral and general topics with which Ariosto opened his Cantos, and hints that he has taken Virgil, the 'Prince of Poets,' for his model. Thus the Romantic Epic, as conceived by Tasso, was to break with the tradition of the Cantastorie, who told the tale in his own person and introduced reflections on its incidents. It was to aim at unity of subject and to observe classical rules of art, without, however, sacrificing the charm of variety and those delights which episodes and marvelous adventures yielded to a modern audience. The youthful poet begs that his _Rinaldo_ should not be censured on the one hand by severely Aristotelian critics who exclude pleasure from their ideal, or on the other by amateurs who regard the _Orlando Furioso_ as the perfection of poetic art. In a word, he hopes to produce something midway between the strict heroic epic, which had failed in Trissino's _Italia Liberata_ through dullness, and the genuine romantic epic, which in Ariosto's masterpiece diverged too widely from the rules of classical pure taste. This new species, combining the attractions of romance with the simplicity of epic poetry, was the gift which Tasso at the age of eighteen sought to present in his _Rinaldo_ to Italy. The _Rinaldo_ fulfilled fairly well the conditions propounded by its author. It had a single hero and a single subject-- Canto i felici affanni, e i primi ardori, Che giovinetto ancor soffrì Rinaldo, E come il trasse in perigliosi errori Desir di gloria ed amoroso caldo. The perilous achievements and the passion of Rinaldo in his youth form the theme of a poem which is systematically evolved from the first meeting of the son of Amon with Clarice to their marriage under the auspices of Malagigi. There are interesting episodes like those of young Florindo and Olinda, unhappy Clizia and abandoned Floriana. Rinaldo's combat with Orlando in the Christian camp furnishes an anagnorisis; while the plot is brought to its conclusion by the peripeteia of Clarice's jealousy and the accidents which restore her to her lover's arms. Yet though observant of his own classical rules, Tasso remained in all essential points beneath the spell of the Romantic Epic. The changes which he introduced were obvious to none but professional critics. In warp and woof the _Rinaldo_ is similar to Boiardo's and Ariosto's tale of chivalry; only the loom is narrower, and the pattern of the web less intricate. The air of artlessness which lent its charm to Romance in Italy has disappeared, yielding place to sustained elaboration of Latinizing style. Otherwise the fabric remains substantially unaltered--like a Gothic dwelling furnished with Palladian window-frames. We move in the old familiar sphere of Paladins and Paynims, knights errant and Oriental damsels, magicians and distressed maidens. The action is impelled by the same series of marvelous adventures and felicitous mishaps. There are the same encounters in war and rivalries in love between Christian and Pagan champions; journeys through undiscovered lands and over untracked oceans; fantastic hyperboles of desire, ambition, jealousy, and rage, employed as motive passions. Enchanted forests; fairy ships that skim the waves without helm or pilot; lances endowed with supernatural virtues; charmed gardens of perpetual spring; dismal dungeons and glittering palaces, supply the furniture of this romance no less than of its predecessors. Rinaldo, like any other hero of the Renaissance, is agitated by burning thirst for fame and blind devotion to a woman's beauty. We first behold him pining in inglorious leisure[64]:-- Poi, ch'oprar non poss'io che di me s'oda Con mia gloria ed onor novella alcuna, O cosa, ond' io pregio n'acquisti e loda, E mia fama rischiari oscura e bruna. The vision of Clarice, appearing like Virgil's Camilla, stirs him from this lethargy. He falls in love at first sight, as Tasso's heroes always do, and vows to prove himself her worthy knight by deeds of unexampled daring. Thus the plot is put in motion; and we read in well-appointed order how the hero acquired his horse, Baiardo, Tristram's magic lance, his sword Fusberta from Atlante, his armor from Orlando, the trappings of his charger from the House of Courtesy, the ensign of the lion rampant on his shield from Chiarello, and the hand of his lady after some delays from Malagigi. [Footnote 64: Canto i. 17.] No new principle is introduced into the romance. As in earlier poems of this species, the religious motive of Christendom at war with Islam becomes a mere machine; the chivalrous environment affords a vehicle for fanciful adventures. Humor, indeed, is conspicuous by its absence. Charles the Great assumes the sobriety of empire; and his camp, in its well-ordered gravity, prefigures that of Goffredo in the _Gerusalemme_.[65] Thus Tasso's originality must not be sought in the material of his work, which is precisely that of the Italian romantic school in general, nor yet in its form, which departs from the romantic tradition in details so insignificant as to be inessential. We find it rather in his touch upon the old material, in his handling of the familiar form. The qualities of style, sympathy, sentiment, selection in the use of phrase and image, which determined his individuality as a poet, rendered the _Rinaldo_ a novelty in literature. It will be therefore well to concentrate attention for a while upon those subjective peculiarities by right of which the _Rinaldo_ ranks as a precursor of the _Gerusalemme_. The first and the most salient of these is a pronounced effort to heighten style by imitation of Latin poets. The presiding genius of the work is Virgil. Pulci's racy Florentine idiom; Boiardo's frank and natural Lombard manner; Ariosto's transparent and unfettered modern phrase, have been supplanted by a pompous intricacy of construction. [Footnote 65: Canto vi. 64-9.] The effort to impose Latin rules of syntax on Italian is obvious in such lines as the following:[66] Torre ei l'immagin volle, che sospesa Era presso l'altar gemmato e sacro, Ove in chiaro cristal lampade accesa Fea lume di Ciprigna al simulacro: or in these: Umida i gigli e le vermiglie rose Del volto, e gli occhi bei conversa al piano, Gli occhi, onde in perle accolto il pianto uscia, La giovinetta il cavalier seguia. Virgil is directly imitated, where he is least worthy of imitation, in the details of his battle-pieces. Thus:[67] Si riversa Isolier tremando al piano, Privo di senso e di vigore ignudo, Ed a lui gli occhi oscura notte involve, Ed ogni membro ancor se gli dissolve. * * * * * Quel col braccio sospeso in aria stando, Nè lo movendo a questa o a quella parte, Chè dalla spada ciò gli era conteso, Voto sembrava in sacro tempio appeso. * * * * * Mentre ignaro di ciò che 'l ciel destine, Così diceva ancor, la lancia ultrice Rinaldo per la bocca entro gli mise, E la lingua e 'l parlar per mezzo incise. This Virgilian imitation yields some glowing flowers of poetry in longer passages of description. Among these may be cited the conquest of Baiardo in the second canto, the shipwreck in the tenth, the chariot of Pluto in the fourth, and the supper with queen Floriana in the ninth. [Footnote 66: Canto iii. 40, 45.] [Footnote 67: Canto ii. 22, iv. 28, 33.] The episode of Floriana, while closely studied upon the Aeneid, is also a first sketch for that of Armida. Indeed, it should be said in passing that Tasso anticipates the _Gerusalemme_ throughout the _Rinaldo_. The murder of Anselmo by Rinaldo (Canto XI.) forecasts the murder of Gernando by his namesake, and leads to the same result of the hero's banishment. The shipwreck, the garden of courtesy, the enchanted boat, and the charmed forest, are motives which reappear improved and elaborated in Tasso's masterpiece.[68] While Tasso thus sought to heighten diction by Latinisms, he revealed another specific quality of his manner in _Rinaldo_. This is the inability to sustain heroic style at its ambitious level. He frequently drops at the close of the octave stanza into a prosaic couplet, which has all the effect of bathos. Instances are not far to seek:[69] Già tal insegna acquistò l'avo, e poi La portàr molti de'nipoti suoi. * * * * * E a questi segni ed al crin raro e bianco Monstrava esser dagli anni oppresses e stanco. * * * * * Fu qui vicin dal saggio Alchiso il Mago, Di far qualch'opra memorabil vago. * * * * * Io son Rinaldo, Solo di servir voi bramoso e caldo. [Footnote 68: _Rinaldo_, cantos x. vii.] [Footnote 69: Canto i. 25, 31, 41, 64.] The reduplication of epithets, and the occasional use of long sonorous Latin words, which characterize Tasso's later manner, are also noticeable in these couplets. Side by side with such weak endings should be placed some specimens, no less characteristic, of vigorous and noble lines:[70] Nel cor consiston l'armi, Onde il forte non e chi mai disarmi. * * * * * Si sta placido e cheto, Ma serba dell'altiero nel mansueto. If the _Rinaldo_ prefigures Tasso's maturer qualities of style, it is no less conspicuous for the light it throws upon his eminent poetic faculty. Nothing distinguished him more decidedly from the earlier romantic poets than power over pathetic sentiment conveyed in melodious cadences of oratory. This emerges in Clarice's monologue on love and honor, that combat of the soul which forms a main feature of the lyrics in _Aminta_ and of Erminia's episode in the _Gerusalemme_.[71] This steeps the whole story of Clizia in a delicious melancholy, foreshadowing the death-scene of Clorinda.[72] This rises in the father's lamentation over his slain Ugone, into the music of a threnody that now recalls Euripides and now reminds us of mediaeval litanies.[73] Censure might be passed upon rhetorical conceits and frigid affectations in these characteristic outpourings of pathetic feeling. Yet no one can ignore their liquid melody, their transference of emotion through sound into modulated verse. [Footnote 70: _Rinaldo_, Canto ii. 28, 44.] [Footnote 71: Canto ii. 3-11.] [Footnote 72: Canto vii. 16-51.] [Footnote 73: Canto vii. 3-11.] That lyrical outcry, finding rhythmic utterance for tender sentiment, which may be recognized as Tasso's chief addition to romantic poetry, pierces like a song through many passages of mere narration. Rinaldo, while carrying Clarice away upon Baiardo, with no chaste intention in his heart, bids her thus dry her tears:[74] Egli dice: Signora, onde vi viene Sì spietato martir, sì grave affanno? Perchè le luci angeliche e serene Ricopre della doglia oscuro panno? Forse fia l'util vostro e 'l vostro bene Quel ch'or vi sembra insupportabil danno, Deh! per Dio, rasciugate il caldo pianto. E l'atroce dolor temprate alquanto. It is not that we do not find similar lyrical interbreathings in the narrative of Ariosto. But Tasso developed the lyrism of the octave stanza into something special, lulling the soul upon gentle waves of rising and falling rhythm, foreshadowing the coming age of music in cadences that are untranslateable except by vocal melody. In like manner, the idyl, which had played a prominent part in Boiardo's and in Ariosto's romance, detaches itself with a peculiar sweetness from the course of Tasso's narrative. This appears in the story of Florindo, which contains within itself the germ of the _Aminta_, the _Pastor Fido_ and the _Adone_.[75] Together with the bad taste of the artificial pastoral, its preposterous costume (stanza 13), its luxury of tears (stanza 23), we find the tyranny of kisses (stanzas 28, 52), the yearning after the Golden Age (stanza 29), and all the other apparatus of that operatic species. Tasso was the first poet to bathe Arcady in a golden afternoon light of sensuously sentimental pathos. In his idyllic as in his lyrical interbreathings, melody seems absolutely demanded to interpret and complete the plangent rhythm of his dulcet numbers. Emotion so far predominates over intelligence, so yearns to exhale itself in sound and shun the laws of language, that we find already in _Rinaldo_ Tasso's familiar _Non so che_ continually used to adumbrate sentiments for which plain words are not indefinite enough. [Footnote 74: Canto iv. 47.] [Footnote 75: Canto v. 12-57.] The _Rinaldo_ was a very remarkable production for a young man of eighteen. It showed the poet in possession of his style and displayed the specific faculties of his imagination. Nothing remained for Tasso now but to perfect and develop the type of art which he had there created. Soon after his first settlement in Ferrara, he began to meditate a more ambitious undertaking. His object was to produce the heroic poem for which Italy had long been waiting, and in this way to rival or surpass the fame of Ariosto. Trissino had chosen a national subject for his epic; but the _Italia Liberata_ was an acknowledged failure, and neither the past nor the present conditions of the Italian people offered good material for a serious poem. The heroic enthusiasms of the age were religious. Revived Catholicism had assumed an attitude of defiance. The Company of Jesus was declaring its crusade against heresy and infidelity throughout the world. Not a quarter of a century had elapsed since Charles V. attacked the Mussulman in Tunis; and before a few more years had passed, the victory of Lepanto was to be won by Italian and Spanish navies. Tasso, therefore, obeyed a wise instinct when he made choice of the first crusade for his theme, and of Godfrey of Boulogne for his hero. Having to deal with historical facts, he studied the best authorities in chronicles, ransacked such books of geography and travel as were then accessible, paid attention to topography, and sought to acquire what we now call local coloring for the details of his poem. Without the sacrifice of truth in any important point, he contrived to give unity to the conduct of his narrative, while interweaving a number of fictitious characters and marvelous circumstances with the historical personages and actual events of the crusade. The vital interest of the _Gerusalemme Liberata_ flows from this interpolated material, from the loves of Rinaldo and Tancredi, from the adventures of the Pagan damsels Erminia, Armida and Clorinda. The _Gerusalemme_ is in truth a Virgilian epic, upon which a romantic poem has been engrafted. Goffredo, idealized into statuesque frigidity, repeats the virtues of Aeneas; but the episode of Dido, which enlivens Virgil's hero, is transferred to Rinaldo's part in Tasso's story. The battles of Crusaders and Saracens are tedious copies of the battle in the tenth Aeneid; but the duels of Tancredi with Clorinda and Argante breathe the spirit and the fire of chivalry. The celestial and infernal councils, adopted as machinery, recall the rival factions in Olympus; but the force by which the plot moves is love. Pluto and the angel Gabriel are inactive by comparison with Armida, Erminia and Clorinda. Tasso in truth thought that he was writing a religious and heroic poem. What he did write, was a poem of sentiment and passion--a romance. Like Anacreon he might have cried: thelô legein Atreidas thelô de Kadmon adein, ha barbitos de chordais Erôta mounon êchei. He displayed, indeed, marvelous ingenuity and art in so connecting the two strains of his subject, the stately Virgilian history and the glowing modern romance, that they should contribute to the working of a single plot. Yet he could not succeed in vitalizing the former, whereas the latter will live as long as human interest in poetry endures. No one who has studied the _Gerusalemme_ returns with pleasure to Goffredo, or feels that the piety of the Christian heroes is inspired. He skips canto after canto dealing with the crusade, to dwell upon those lyrical outpourings of love, grief, anguish, vain remorse and injured affection which the supreme poet of sentiment has invented for his heroines; he recognizes the genuine inspiration of Erminia's pastoral idyl, of Armida's sensuous charms, of Clorinda's dying words, of the Siren's song and the music of the magic bird: of all, in fact, which is not pious in the poem. Tancredi, between Erminia and Clorinda, the one woman adoring him, the other beloved by him--the melancholy graceful modern Tancredi, Tasso's own soul's image--is the veritable hero of the _Gerusalemme_; and by a curious unintended propriety he disappears from the action before the close, without a word. The force of the poem is spiritualized and concentrated in Clorinda's death, which may be cited as an instance of sublimity in pathos. It is idyllized in the episode of Erminia among the shepherds, and sensualized in the supreme beauty of Armida's garden. Rinaldo is second in importance to Tancredi; and Goffredo, on whom Tasso bestows the blare of his Virgilian trumpet from the first line to the last, is poetically of no importance whatsoever. Argante, Solimano, Tisaferno, excite our interest, and win the sympathy we cannot spare the saintly hero; and in the death of Solimano Tasso's style, for once, verges upon tragic sublimity. What Tasso aimed at in the _Gerusalemme_ was nobility. This quality had not been prominent in Ariosto's art. If he could attain it, his ambition to rival the _Orlando Furioso_ would be satisfied. One main condition of success Tasso brought to the achievement. His mind itself was eminently noble, incapable of baseness, fixed on fair and worthy objects of contemplation. Yet the personal nobility which distinguished him as a thinker and a man, was not of the heroic type. He had nothing Homeric in his inspiration, nothing of the warrior or the patriot in his nature. His genius, when it pursued its bias, found instinctive utterance in elegy and idyl, in meditative rhetoric and pastoral melody. In order to assume the heroic strain, Tasso had recourse to scholarship, and gave himself up blindly to the guidance of Latin poets. This was consistent with the tendency of the Classical Revival; but since the subject to be dignified by epic style was Christian and mediaeval, a discord between matter and manner amounting almost to insincerity resulted. Some examples will make the meaning of this criticism more apparent. When Goffredo rejects the embassy of Atlete and Argante, he declares his firm intention of delivering Jerusalem in spite of overwhelming perils. The crusaders can but perish: Noi morirem, ma non morremo inulti. (i. 86.) This of course is a reminiscence of Dido's last words, and the difference between the two situations creates a disagreeable incongruity. The nod of Jove upon Olympus is translated to express the fiat of the Almighty (xiii. 74); Gabriel is tricked out in the plumes and colors of Mercury (i. 13-15); the very angels sinning round the throne become 'dive sirene' (xiv. 9); the armory of heaven is described in terms which reduce Michael's spear and the arrows of pestilence to ordinary weapons (vii. 81); Hell is filled with harpies, centaurs, hydras, pythons, the common lumber of classical Tartarus (iv. 5); the angel sent to cure Goffredo's wound culls dittany on Ida (xi. 72); the heralds, interposing between Tancredi and Argante, hold pacific scepters and have naught of chivalry (vi. 51). It may be said that both Dante before Tasso, and Milton after him, employed similar classical language in dealing with Christian and mediaeval motives. But this will hardly serve as an excuse; for Dante and Milton communicate so intense a conviction of religious earnestness that their Latinisms, even though incongruous, are recognized as the mere clothing of profoundly felt ideas. The sublimity, the seriousness, the spiritual dignity is in their thought, not in its expression; whereas Tasso too frequently leaves us with the certainty that he has sought by ceremonious language to realize more than he could grasp with the imagination. In his council of the powers of hell, for instance, he creates monsters of huge dimensions and statuesque distinctness; but these are neither grotesquely horrible like Dante's, nor are they spirits with incalculable capacity for evil like Milton's. Stampano alcuni il suol di ferine orme, E in fronte umana ban chiome d'angui attorte; E lor s'aggira dietro immensa coda, Che quasi sferza si ripiega e snoda. Against this we have to place the dreadful scene of Satan with his angels transformed to snakes (_Par. Lost_, x. 508-584), and the Dantesque horror of the 'vermo reo che 'l mondo fora' (_Inf._ xxxiv. 108). Again when Dante cries-- O Sommo Giove, Che fosti in terra per noi crocifisso! we feel that the Latin phrase is accidental. The spirit of the poet remains profoundly Christian. Tasso's Jehovah-Jupiter is always 'il Re del Ciel'; and the court of blessed spirits which surrounds his 'gran seggio,' though described with solemn pomp of phrase, cannot be compared with the Mystic Rose of Paradise (ix. 55-60). What Tasso lacks is authenticity of vision; and his heightened style only renders this imaginative poverty, this want of spiritual conviction, more apparent. His frequent borrowings from Virgil are less unsuccessful when the matter to be illustrated is not of this exalted order. Many similes (vii. 55, vii. 76, viii. 74) have been transplanted with nice propriety. Many descriptions, like that of the approach of night (ii-96), of the nightingale mourning for her young (xii. 90), of the flying dream (xiv. 6), have been translated with exquisite taste. Dido's impassioned apostrophe to Aeneas reappears appropriately upon Armida's lips (xvi. 56). We welcome such culled phrases as the following: l'orticel dispensa Cibi non compri alia mia parca mensa (vii. 10). Premer gli alteri, e sollevar gl'imbelli (x. 76). E Tisaferno, il folgore di Marte (xvii. 31). Va, vedi, e vinci (xvii. 38). Ma mentre dolce parla e dolce ride (iv. 92). Chè vinta la materia è dal lavoro (xvi. 2). Non temo io te, nè tuoi gran vanti, o fero: Ma il Cielo e il mio nemico amor pavento (xix. 73). It may, however, be observed that in the last of these passages Tasso does not show a just discriminative faculty. Turnus said: Non me tua fervida terrent Dicta, ferox: Di me terrent et Jupiter hostis. From Jupiter to Amor is a descent from sublimity to pathos. In like manner when Hector's ghost reappears in the ghost of Armida's mother, Quanto diversa, oimè, da quel che pria Visto altrove (iv. 49), the reminiscence suggests ideas that are unfavorable to the modern version. In his description of battles, the mustering of armies, and military operations, Tasso neither draws from mediaeval sources nor from experience, but imitates the battle-pieces of Virgil and Lucan, sometimes with fine rhetorical effect and sometimes with wearisome frigidity. The death of Latino and his five sons is both touching in itself, and a good example of this Virgilian mannerism (ix. 35). The death of Dudone is justly celebrated as a sample of successful imitation (iii. 45): Cade; e gli occhi, ch'appena aprir si ponno, Dura quiete preme e ferreo sonno. The wound of Gerniero, on the contrary, illustrates the peril of seeking after conceits in the inferior manner of the master (ix. 69): La destra di Gerniero, onde ferita Ella fu pria, manda recisa al piano; Tratto anco il ferro, e con tremanti dita Semiviva nel suol guizza la mano. The same may be said about the wound of Algazèl (ix. 78) and the death of Ardonio (xx. 39). In the description of the felling of the forest (iii. 75, 76) and of the mustering of the Egyptian army (xvii. 1-36) Tasso's Virgilian style attains real grandeur and poetic beauty. Tasso was nothing if not a learned poet. It would be easy to illustrate what he has borrowed from Lucretius, or to point out that the pathos of Clorinda's apparition to Tancredi after death is a debt to Petrarch. It may, however, suffice here to indicate six phrases taken straight from Dante; since the _Divine Comedy_ was little studied in Tasso's age, and his selection of these lines reflects credit on his taste. These are: Onorate l'altissimo campione! (iii. 73: _Inf._ iv.) Goffredo intorno gli occhi gravi e tardi (vii. 58: _Inf._. iv.). a riveder le stelle (iv. 18: _Inf._ xxxiv.). Ond' è ch'or tanto ardire in voi s'alletti? (ix. 76: _Inf._ ix.) A guisa di leon quando si posa (x. 56: _Purg._ vi.) e guardi e passi (xx. 43: _Inf._ in.) As in the _Rinaldo_, so also in the _Gerusalemme_, Tasso's classical proclivities betrayed him into violation of the clear Italian language. Afraid of what is natural and common, he produced what is artificial and conceited. Hence came involved octaves like the following (vi. 109): Siccome cerva, ch'assetata il passo Mova a cercar d'acque lucenti e vive, Ove un bel fonte distillar da un sasso O vide un fiume tra frondose rive, Se incontra i cani allor che il corpo lasso Ristorar crede all'onde, all'ombre estive, Volge indietro fuggendo, e la paura La stanchezza obbliar face e l'arsura. The image is beautiful; but the diction is elaborately intricate, rhetorically indistinct. We find the same stylistic involution in these lines (xii. 6): Ma s'egli avverrà pur che mia ventura Nel mio ritorno mi rinchiuda il passo, D'uom che in amor m'è padre a te la cura E delle fide mie donzelle io lasso. The limpid well of native utterance is troubled at its source by scholastic artifices in these as in so many other passages of Tasso's masterpiece. Nor was he yet emancipated from the weakness of _Rinaldo_. Trying to soar upon the borrowed plumes of pseudo-classical sublimity, he often fell back wearied by this uncongenial effort into prose. Lame endings to stanzas, sudden descents from highly-wrought to pedestrian diction, are not uncommon in the _Gerusalemme_. The poet, diffident of his own inspiration, sought inspiration from books. In the magnificence of single lines again, the _Gerusalemme_ reminds us of _Rinaldo_. Tasso gained dignity of rhythm by choosing Latin adjectives and adverbs with pompous cadences. No versifier before his date had consciously employed the sonorous music of such lines as the following:-- Foro, tentando inaccessibil via (ii. 29). Ond' Amor l'arco inevitabil tende (iii. 24). Questa muraglia impenetrabil fosse (iii. 51). Furon vedute fiammeggiare insieme (v. 28). Qual capitan ch'inespugnabil terra (v. 64). Sotto l'inevitabile tua spada (xvi. 33). Immense solitudini d'arena (xvii. I). The last of these lines presents an impressive landscape in three melodious words. These verbal and stylistic criticisms are not meant to cast reproach on Tasso as a poet. If they have any value, it is the light they throw upon conditions under which the poet was constrained to work. Humanism and the Catholic Revival reduced this greatest genius of his age to the necessity of clothing religious sentiments in scholastic phraseology, with the view of attaining to epic grandeur. But the Catholic Revival was no regeneration of Christianity from living sources; and humanism had run its course in Italy, and was ending in the sands of critical self-consciousness. Thus piety in Tasso appears superficial and conventional rather than profoundly felt or originally vigorous; while the scholarship which supplied his epic style is scrupulous and timid. The enduring qualities of Tasso as a modern poet have still to be indicated; and to this more grateful portion of my argument I now address myself. Much might be said in the first place about his rhetorical dexterity--the flexibility of language in his hands, and the copiousness of thought, whereby he was able to adorn varied situations and depict diversity of passions with appropriate diction. Whether Alete is subtly pleading a seductive cause, or Goffredo is answering his sophistries with well-weighed arguments; whether Pluto addresses the potentates of hell, or Erminia wavers between love and honor; whether Tancredi pours forth the extremity of his despair, or Armida heaps reproaches on Rinaldo in his flight; the musical and luminously polished stanzas lend themselves without change of style to every gradation of the speaker's mood. In this art of rhetoric, Tasso seems to have taken Livy for his model; and many of his speeches which adorn the graver portions of his poem are noticeable for compact sententious wisdom. In fancy Tasso was not so naturally rich and inventive as the author of _Orlando Furioso_. Yet a gallery of highly-finished pictures might be collected from his similes and metaphors. What pride and swiftness mark this vision of a thunderbolt: Grande ma breve fulmine il diresti, Che inaspettato sopraggiunga e passi; Ma del suo corso momentaneo resti Vestigio eterno in dirupati sassi (xx. 93). How delicately touched is this uprising of the morning star from ocean: Qual mattutina Stella esce dell'onde Rugiadosa e stillante; o come fuore Spuntò nascendo già dalle feconde Spume dell'ocean la Dea d'amore (xv. 60). Here is an image executed in the style of Ariosto. Clorinda has received a wound on her uncovered head: Fu levissima piaga, e i biondi crini Rosseggiaron così d'alquante stille, Come rosseggia l'or che di rubini Per man d'illustre artefice sfaville (iii. 30). Flowers furnish the poet with exquisite suggestions of color: D'un bel pallor ha il bianco volto asperso, Come a gigli sarian miste viole (xii. 69). Quale a pioggia d'argento e mattutina Si rabbellisce scolorita rosa (xx. 129). Sometimes the painting is minutely finished like a miniature: Così piuma talor, che di gentile Amorosa colomba il collo cinge, Mai non sì scorge a sè stessa simile, Ma in diversi colori al sol si tinge: Or d'accesi rubin sembra un monile, Or di verdi smeraldi il lume finge, Or insieme li mesce, e varia e vaga In cento modi i riguardanti appaga (xv. 5). Sometimes the style is broad, the touch vigorous: Qual feroce destrier, ch'al faticoso Onor dell'arme vincitor sia tolto, E lascivo marito in vil riposo Fra gli armenti e ne'paschi erri dìsciolto, Se il desta o suon di tromba, o luminoso Acciar, cola tosto annitrendo è volto; Già già brama l'arringo, el'uom sul dorso Portando, urtato riurtar nel corso (xvi. 28). I will content myself with referring to the admirably conceived simile of a bulky galleon at sea attacked by a swifter and more agile vessel (xix. 13), which may perhaps have suggested to Fuller his famous comparison of Shakespeare and Ben Jonson in their wit encounters. But Tasso was really himself, incomparable and unapproachable, when he wrote in what musicians would call the _largo e maestoso_ mood. Giace l'alta Cartago; appena i segni Dell'alte sue ruine il lido serba. Muoino le città, muoino i regni; Copre i fasti e le pompe arena ed erba; E l'uomo d'esser mortal par che si sdegni! Oh nostra mente cupida e superba! (xv. 20). This is perfect in its measured melancholy, the liquid flow of its majestic simplicity. The same musical breadth, the same noble sweetness, pervade a passage on the eternal beauty of the heavens compared with the brief brightness of a woman's eyes: oh quante belle Luci il tempio celeste in sè raguna! Ha il suo gran carro il di; le aurate stelle Spiega la notte e l'argentata luna; Ma non è chi vagheggi o questa o quelle; E miriam noi torbida luce e bruna, Che un girar d'occhi, un balenar di riso Scopre in breve confin di fragil viso (xviii. 15). This verbal music culminates in the two songs of earthly joy, the _chants d'amour_, or hymns to pleasure, sung by Armida's ministers (xiv. 60-65, xvi. 12, 13). Boiardo and Ariosto had painted the seductions of enchanted gardens, where valor was enthralled by beauty, and virtue dulled by voluptuous delights. It remained for Tasso to give that magic of the senses vocal utterance. From the myrtle groves of Orontes, from the spell-bound summer amid snows upon the mountains of the Fortunate Isle, these lyrics with their penetrative sweetness, their lingering regret, pass into the silence of the soul. It is eminently characteristic of Tasso's mood and age that the melody of both these honeyed songs should thrill with sadness. Nature is at war with honor; youth passes like a flower away; therefore let us love and yield our hearts to pleasure while we can. _Sehnsucht_, the soul of modern sentiment, the inner core of modern music, makes its entrance into the sphere of art with these two hymns. The division of the mind, wavering between natural impulse and acquired morality, gives the tone of melancholy to the one chant. In the other, the invitation to self-abandonment is mingled with a forecast of old age and death. Only Catullus, in his song to Lesbia, among the ancients touched this note; only Villon, perhaps, in his Ballade of Dead Ladies, touched it among the moderns before Tasso. But it has gone on sounding ever since through centuries which have enjoyed the luxury of grief in music. If Tancredi be the real hero of the _Gerusalemme_, Armida is the heroine. The action of the epic follows her movements. She combines the parts of Angelica and Alcina in one that is original and novel. A sorceress, deputed by the powers of hell to defeat the arms of the crusaders, Armida falls herself in love with a Christian champion. Love changes her from a beautiful white witch into a woman.[76] When she meets Rinaldo in the battle, she discharges all her arrows vainly at the man who has deserted her. One by one, they fly and fall; and as they wing their flight, Love wounds her own heart with his shafts: Scocca I' arco più volte, e non fa piaga E, mentre ella saetta, amor lei piaga (xx. 65). Then she turns to die in solitude. Rinaldo follows, and stays her in the suicidal act. Despised and rejected as she is, she cannot hate him. The man she had entangled in her wiles has conquered and subdued her nature. To the now repentant minister of hell he proposes baptism; and Armida consents: Sì parla, e prega; e i preghi bagna e scalda Or di lagrime rare, or di sospiri: Onde, siccome suol nevosa falda Dov'arde il sole, o tepid' aura spiri, Così l'ira che in lei parea sì salda, Solvesi, e restan sol gli altri desiri. _Ecco l'ancilla tua_; d'essa a tuo senno Dispon, gli disse, e le fia legge il cenno (xx. 136). [Footnote 76: I may incidentally point out how often this motive has supplied the plot to modern ballets.] This metamorphosis of the enchantress into the woman in Armida, is the climax of the _Gerusalemme_. It is also the climax and conclusion of Italian romantic poetry, the resolution of its magic and marvels into the truths of human affection. Notice, too, with what audacity Tasso has placed the words of Mary on the lips of his converted sorceress! Deliberately planning a religious and heroic poem, he assigns the spoils of conquered hell to love triumphant in a woman's breast. Beauty, which in itself is diabolical, the servant of the lords of Hades, attains to apotheosis through affection. In Armida we already surmise _das ewig Weibliche_ of Goethe's Faust, Gretchen saving her lover's soul before Madonna's throne in glory. What was it, then, that Tasso, this 'child of a later and a colder age,' as Shelley called him, gave of permanent value to European literature? We have seen that the _Gerusalemme_ did not fulfill the promise of heroic poetry for that eminently unheroic period. We know that neither the Virgilian hero nor the laboriously developed theme commands the interest of posterity. We feel that religious emotion is feeble here, and that the classical enthusiasm of the Renaissance is on the point of expiring in those Latinistic artifices. Yet the interwoven romance contains a something difficult to analyze, intangible and evanescent--_un non so che_, to use the poet's favorite phrase--which riveted attention in the sixteenth century, and which harmonizes with our own sensibility to beauty. Tasso, in one word, was the poet, not of passion, not of humor, not of piety, not of elevated action, but of that new and undefined emotion which we call Sentiment. Unknown to the ancients, implicit in later mediaeval art, but not evolved with clearness from romance, alien to the sympathies of the Renaissance as determined by the Classical Revival, sentiment, that _non so che_ of modern feeling, waited for its first apocalypse in Tasso's work. The phrase which I have quoted, and which occurs so frequently in this poet's verse, indicates the intrusion of a new element into the sphere of European feeling. Vague, indistinct, avoiding outline, the phrase _un non so che_ leaves definition to the instinct of those who feel, but will not risk the limitation of their feeling by submitting it to words. Nothing in antique psychology demanded a term of this kind. Classical literature, in close affinity to sculpture, dealt with concrete images and conscious thoughts. The mediaeval art of Dante, precisely, mathematically measured, had not felt the need of it. Boccaccio's clear-cut intaglios from life and nature, Petrarch's compassed melodies, Poliziano's polished arabesques, Ariosto's bright and many colored pencilings, were all of them, in all their varied phases of Renaissance expression, distinguished by decision and firmness of drawing. Vagueness, therefore, had hitherto found no place in European poetry or plastic art. But music, the supreme symbol of spiritual infinity in art, was now about to be developed; and the specific touch of Tasso, the musician-poet, upon portraiture and feeling, called forth this quality of vagueness, a vagueness that demanded melody to give what it refused from language to accept. Mendelssohn when some one asked him what is meant by music, replied that it had meanings for his mind more unmistakable than those which words convey; but what these meanings were, he did not or he could not make clear. This certainty of sentiment, seeming vague only because it floats beyond the scope of language in regions of tone and color and emotion, is what Tasso's _non so che_ suggests to those who comprehend. And Tasso, by his frequent appeal to it, by his migration from the plastic into the melodic realm of the poetic art, proved himself the first genuinely sentimental artist of the modern age. It is just this which gave him a wider and more lasting empire over the heart through the next two centuries than that claimed by Ariosto. It may not be unprofitable to examine in detail Tasso's use of the phrase to which so much importance has been assigned in the foregoing paragraph. We meet it first in the episode of Olindo and Sofronia. Sofronia, of all the heroines of the _Gerusalemme_, is the least interesting, notwithstanding her magnanimous mendacity and Jesuitical acceptance of martyrdom. Olindo touches the weaker fibers of our sympathy by his feminine devotion to a woman placed above him in the moral scale, whose love he wins by splendid falsehood equal to her own. The episode, entirely idle in the action of the poem, has little to recommend it, if we exclude the traditionally accepted reference to Tasso's love for Leonora d'Este. But when Olindo and Sofronia are standing, back to back, against the stake, Aladino, who has decreed their death by burning, feels his rude bosom touched with sudden pity: Un non so che d'inusitato e molle Par che nel duro petto al re trapasse: Ei presentillo, e si sdegnò; nè voile Piegarsi, e gli occhi torse, e si ritrasse (ii. 37). The intrusion of a lyrical emotion, unknown before in the tyrant's breast, against which he contends with anger, and before the force of which he bends, prepares us for the happy _dénouement_ brought about by Clorinda. This vague stirring of the soul, this _non so che_, this sentiment, is the real agent in Sofronia's release and Olindo's beatification. Clorinda is about to march upon her doom. She is inflamed with the ambition to destroy the engines of the Christian host by fire at night; and she calls Argante to her counsels: Buona pezza è, signor, che in sè raggira Un non so che d'insolito e d'audace La mia mente inquieta; o Dio l'inspira, O l'uom del suo voler suo Dio si face (xii. 5). Thus at this solemn point of time, when death is certainly in front, when she knows not whether God has inspired her or whether she has made of her own wish a deity, Clorinda utters the mystic word of vague compulsive feeling. Erminia, taken captive by Tancredi after the siege of Antioch, is brought into her master's tent. He treats her with chivalrous courtesy, and offers her a knight's protection: Allora un non so che soave e piano Sentii, ch'al cor mi scese, e vi s'affisse, Che, serpendomi poi per l'alma vaga, Non so come, divenne incendio e piaga (xix. 94). At that moment, by the distillation of that vague emotion into vein and marrow, Erminia becomes Tancredi's slave, and her future is determined. These examples are, perhaps, sufficient to show how Tasso, at the turning-points of destiny for his most cherished personages, invoked indefinite emotion to adumbrate the forces with which will contends in vain. But the master phrase rings even yet more tyrannously in the passage of Clorinda's death, which sums up all of sentiment included in romance. Long had Tancredi loved Clorinda. Meeting her in battle, he stood her blows defenseless; for Clorinda was an Amazon, reduced by Tasso's gentle genius to womanhood from the proportions of Marfisa. Finally, with heart surcharged with love for her, he has to cross his sword in deadly duel with this lady. Malign stars rule the hour: he knows not who she is: misadventure makes her, instead of him, the victim of their encounter. With her last breath she demands baptism--the good Tasso, so it seems, could not send so fair a creature of his fancy as Clorinda to the shades without viaticum; and his poetry rises to the sublime of pathos in this stanza: Amico, hai vinto: io ti perdon: perdona Tu ancora: al corpo no, che nulla pave; All'alma sì: deh! per lei prega; e dona Battesmo a me ch'ogni mia colpa lave. In queste voci languide risuona Un non so che di flebile e soave Ch'al cor gli serpe, ed ogni sdegno ammorza, E gli occhi a lagrimar gl'invoglia e sforza (xii. 66). Here the vague emotion, the _non so che_, distils itself through Clorinda's voice into Tancredi's being. Afterwards it thrills there like moaning winds in an Aeolian lyre, reducing him to despair upon his bed of sickness, and reasserting its lyrical charm in the vision which he has of Clorinda among the trees of the enchanted forest. He stands before the cypress where the soul of his dead lady seems to his misguided fancy prisoned; and the branches murmur in his ears: Fremere intanto udia continuo il vento Tra le frondi del bosco e tra i virgulti, E trarne un suon che flebile concento Par d'umani sospiri e di singulti; E un non so che confuso instilla al core Di pietà, di spavento e di dolore (xiii. 40). The master word, the magic word of Tasso's sentiment, is uttered at this moment of illusion. The poet has no key to mysteries locked up within the human breast more powerful than this indefinite _un non so che_. Enough has been said to show how Tasso used the potent spell of vagueness, when he found himself in front of supreme situations. This is in truth the secret of his mastery over sentiment, the spell whereby he brings nature and night, the immense solitudes of deserts, the darkness of forests, the wailings of the winds and the plangent litanies of sea-waves into accord with overstrained humanity. It was a great discovery; by right of it Tasso proved himself the poet of the coming age. When the _Gerusalemme_ was completed, Tasso had done his best work as a poet. The misfortunes which began to gather round him in his thirty-first year, made him well-nigh indifferent to the fate of the poem which had drained his life-force, and from which he had expected so much glory. It was published without his permission or supervision. He, meanwhile, in the prison of S. Anna, turned his attention to prose composition. The long series of dialogues, with which he occupied the irksome leisure of seven years, interesting as they are in matter and genial in style, indicate that the poet was now in abeyance. It remained to be seen whether inspiration would revive with freedom. No sooner were the bolts withdrawn than his genius essayed a fresh flight. He had long meditated the composition of a tragedy, and had already written some scenes. At Mantua in 1586-7 this work took the form of _Torrismondo_. It cannot be called a great drama, for it belongs to the rigid declamatory species of Italian tragedy; and Tasso's genius was romantic, idyllic, elegiac, anything but genuinely tragic. Yet the style is eminent for nobility and purity. Just as the _Aminta_ showed how unaffected Tasso could be when writing without preconceived theories of heightened diction, so the _Torrismondo_ displays an unstrained dignity of simple dialogue. It testifies to the plasticity of language in the hands of a master, who deliberately chose and sustained different styles in different species of poetry, and makes us regret that he should have formed his epic manner upon so artificial a type. The last chorus of _Torrismondo_ deserves to be mentioned as a perfect example of Tasso's melancholy elegiac pathos. Meanwhile he began to be dissatisfied with the _Gerusalemme_, and in 1588 he resolved upon remodeling his masterpiece. The real vitality of that poem was, as we have seen, in its romance. But Tasso thought otherwise. During the fourteen years which elapsed since its completion, the poet's youthful fervor had been gradually fading out. Inspiration yielded to criticism; piety succeeded to sentiment and enthusiasm for art. Therefore, in this later phase of his maturity, with powers impaired by prolonged sufferings and wretched health, tormented by religious scruples and vague persistent fear, he determined to eliminate the romance from the epic, to render its unity of theme more rigorous, and to concentrate attention upon the serious aspects of the subject. The result of this plan, pursued through five years of wandering, was the _Gerusalemme Conquistata_, a poem which the world has willingly let die, in which the style of the _Gerusalemme Liberata_ is worsened, and which now serves mainly to establish by comparison the fact that what was immortal in Tasso's art was the romance he ruthlessly rooted out. A further step in this transition from art to piety is marked by the poem upon the Creation of the World, called _Le Sette Giornate_. Written in blank verse, it religiously but tamely narrates the operation of the Divine Artificer, following the first chapter of Genesis and expanding the motive of each of the seven days with facile rhetoric. Of action and of human interest the poem has none; of artistic beauty little. The sustained descriptive style wearies; and were not this the last work of Tasso, it would not be mentioned by posterity. Tasso has already occupied us through two chapters. Before passing onward I must, however, invite the reader to pause awhile and reconsider, even at the risk of retrospect and repetition, some of the salient features of his character. And now I remember that of his personal appearance nothing has hitherto been said. 'Tasso was tall, well-proportioned, and of very fair complexion. His thick hair and beard were of a light-brown color. His head was large, forehead broad and square, eyebrows dark, eyes large, lively and blue, nose large and curved toward the mouth, lips thin and pale.' So writes Manso, the poet's friend and biographer, adding: 'His voice was clear and sonorous; but he read his poems badly, because of a slight impediment in his speech, and because he was short-sighted.' I know not whether I am justified in drawing from this description the conclusion that Tasso was, physically, a man of mixed lymphatic and melancholic temperament, of more than ordinary sensitiveness. Imperfection, at any rate, is indicated by the thin pale lips, the incoherent utterance and the uncertain vision to which his friend in faithfulness bears witness. Of painted portraits representing Tasso in later life there are many; but most of these seem to be based upon the mask taken from his face after death, which still exists at S. Onofrio. Twenty-one years ago I gazed upon this mask, before I knew then more than every schoolboy knows of Tasso's life and writings. This is what I wrote about it in my Roman diary: 'The face is mild and weak, especially in the thin short chin and feeble mouth.[77] The forehead round, and ample in proportion to the other features. The eyes are small, but this may be due to the contraction of death. The mouth is almost vulgar, very flat in the upper lip; but this also ought perhaps to be attributed to the relaxation of tissue by death. Tasso was constitutionally inclined to pensive moods. His outlook over life was melancholy.[78] [Footnote 77: Giov. Imperiale in the _Museum Historicum_ describes him thus: 'Perpetuo moerentis et altius cogitantis gessit aspectum, _gracili mento_, facie decolori, conniventibus cavisque oculis.'] [Footnote 78: 'La mia fiera malinconia' is a phrase which often recurs in his letters.] The tone of his literary work, whether in prose or poetry, is elegiac--musically, often querulously plaintive. There rests a shadow of dejection over all he wrote and thought and acted. Yet he was finely sensitive to pleasure, thrillingly alive to sentimental beauty.[79] Though the man lived purely, untainted by the license of the age, his genius soared highest when he sang some soft luxurious strain of love. He was wholly deficient in humor. Taking himself and the world of men and things too much in earnest, he weighed heavily alike on art and life. The smallest trifles, if they touched him, seemed to him important.[80] Before imaginary terrors he shook like an aspen. The slightest provocation roused his momentary resentment. The most insignificant sign of neglect or coldness wounded his self-esteem. Plaintive, sensitive to beauty, sentimental, tender, touchy, self-engrossed, devoid of humor--what a sentient instrument was this for uttering Aeolian melodies, and straining discords through storm-jangled strings! [Footnote 79: 'Questo segno mi ho proposto: piacere ed onore' (_Lettere_, vol. v. p. 87).] [Footnote 80: It should be said that as a man of letters he bore with fools gladly, and showed a noble patience. Of this there is a fine example in his controversy with Della Cruscans. He was not so patient with the publishers and pirates of his works. No wonder, when they robbed him so!] From the Jesuits, in childhood, he received religious impressions which might almost be described as mesmeric or hypnotic in their influence upon his nerves. These abode with him through manhood; and in later life morbid scruples and superstitious anxieties about his soul laid hold on his imagination. Yet religion did not penetrate Tasso's nature. As he conceived it, there was nothing solid and supporting in its substance. Piety was neither deeply rooted nor indigenous, neither impassioned nor logically reasoned, in the adult man.[81] What it might have been, but for those gimcrack ecstasies before the Host in boyhood, cannot now be fancied. If he contained the stuff of saint or simple Christian, this was sterilized and stunted by the clever fathers in their school at Naples. During the years of his feverishly active adolescence Tasso played for a while with philosophical doubts. But though he read widely and speculated diffusely on the problems of the universe, he failed to pierce below the surface of the questions which he handled. His own beliefs had been tested in no red-hot crucible, before he recoiled with terror from their analysis. The man, to put it plainly, was incapable of honest revolt against the pietistic fashions of his age, incapable of exploratory efforts, and yet too intelligent to rest satisfied with gross dogmatism or smug hypocrisy. Neither as a thinker, nor as a Christian, nor yet again as that epicene religious being, a Catholic of the Counter-Reformation, did this noble and ingenuous, but weakly nature attain to thoroughness. [Footnote 81: Tasso's diffuse paraphrase of the _Stabat Mater_ might be selected to illustrate the sentimental tenderness rather than strength of his religious feeling.] Tasso's mind was lively and sympathetic; not penetrative, not fitted for forming original or comprehensive views. He lived for no great object, whether political, moral, religious, or scientific. He committed himself to no vice. He obeyed no absorbing passion of love or hatred. In his misfortunes he displayed the helplessness which stirs mere pity for a prostrate human being. The poet who complained so querulously, who wept so copiously, who forgot offense so nonchalantly, cannot command admiration. There is nothing sublimely tragic in Tasso's suffering. The sentiment inspired by it is that at best of pathos. An almost childish self-engrossment restricted his thoughts, his aims and aspirations, to a narrow sphere, within which he wandered incurably idealistic, pursuing prosaic or utilitarian objects--the favor of princes, place at Courts, the recovery of his inheritance--in a romantic and unpractical spirit.[82] Vacillating, irresolute, peevish, he roamed through all the towns of Italy, demanding more than sympathy could give, exhausting friendship, changing from place to place, from lord to lord. Yet how touching was the destiny of this laureled exile, this brilliant wayfarer on the highroads of a world he never understood! Shelley's phrase, 'the world's rejected guest' exactly seems to suit him. [Footnote 82: The numerous plaintive requests for a silver cup, a ring, a silk cloak and such trifles in his later letters indicate something quite childish in his pre-occupations.] And yet he allowed himself to become the spoiled child of his misfortunes. Without them, largely self-created as they were, Tasso could not now appeal to our hearts. Nor does he appeal to us as Dante, eating the salt bread of patrons' tables, does; as Milton, blind and fallen on evil days; as Chatterton, perishing in pride and silence; as Johnson, turning from the stairs of Chesterfield; as Bruno, averting stern eyes from the crucifix; as Leopardi, infusing the virus of his suffering into the veins of humanity; as Heine, motionless upon his mattress grave. These more potent personalities, bequeathing to the world examples of endurance, have won the wreath of never-blasted bays which shall not be set on Tasso's forehead. We crown him with frailer leaves, bedewed with tears tender as his own sentiment, and aureoled with the light that emanates from pure and delicate creations of his fancy. Though Tasso does not command admiration by heroism, he wins compassion as a beautiful and finely-gifted nature inadequate to cope with the conditions of his century. For a poet to be independent in that age of intellectual servitude was well-nigh impossible. To be light-hearted and ironically indifferent lay not in Tasso's temperament. It was no less difficult for a man of his mental education to maintain the balance between orthodoxy and speculation, faith and reason, classical culture and Catholicism, the Renaissance and the Counter-Reformation. He belonged in one sense too much, and in another sense too little, to his epoch. One eminent critic calls him the only Christian of the Italian Renaissance, another with equal justice treats him as the humanistic poet of the Catholic Revival.[83] Properly speaking, he was the genius of that transition from the Renaissance to the Counter-Reformation, on which I dwelt in the second chapter of this work. By natural inclination he belonged to the line of artists which began with Boccaccio and culminated in Ariosto. But his training and the bias of the times in which he lived, made him break with Boccaccio's tradition. He tried to be the poet of the Council of Trent, without having assimilated hypocrisy or acquired false taste, without comprehending the essentially prosaic and worldly nature of that religious revolution. He therefore lived and worked in a continual discord. This may not suffice to account for the unhingement of his reason. I prefer to explain that by the fatigue of intellectual labor and worry acting on a brain predisposed for melancholia and overtasked from infancy. But it does account for the moral martyrdom he suffered, and the internal perplexity to which he was habitually subject. [Footnote 83: Carducci, in his essay _Dello Svolgimento della Letteratura Nazionale_, and Quinet, in his _Révolutions d'ltalie_.] When Tasso first saw the light, the Italians had rejected the Reformation and consented to stifle free thought. The culture of the Renaissance had been condemned; the Spanish hegemony had been accepted. Of this new attitude the concordat between Charles and Clement, the Tridentine Council, the Inquisition and the Company of Jesus were external signs. But these potent agencies had not accomplished their work in Tasso's lifetime. He was rent in twain because he could not react against them as Bruno did, and could not identify himself with them as Loyola was doing. As an artist he belonged to the old order which was passing, as a Christian to the new order which was emerging. His position as a courtier, when the Augustan civility of the earlier Medici was being superseded by dynastic absolutism, complicated his difficulties. While accepting service in the modern spirit of subjection, he dreamed of masters who should be Maecenases, and fondly imagined that poets might still live, like Petrarch, on terms of equality with princes. We therefore see in Tasso one who obeyed influences to which his real self never wholly or consciously submitted. He was not so much out of harmony with his age as the incarnation of its still unharmonized contradictions. The pietism instilled into his mind at Naples; the theories of art imbibed at Padua and Venice; the classical lumber absorbed during his precocious course of academical studies; the hypocritical employment of allegory to render sensuous poetry decorous; the deference to critical opinion and the dictates of literary lawgivers; the reverence for priests and princes interposed between the soul and God: these were principles which Tasso accepted without having properly assimilated and incorporated their substance into his spiritual being. What the poet in him really was, we perceive when he wrote, to use Dante's words, as Love dictates; or as Plato said, when he submitted to the mania of the Muse; or as Horace counseled, when he indulged his genius. It is in the _Aminta_, in the episodes of the _Gerusalemme_, in a small percentage of the _Rime_, that we find the true Tasso. For the rest, he had not the advantages enjoyed by Boiardo and Ariosto in a less self-conscious age, of yielding to natural impulse after a full and sympathetic study of classical and mediaeval sources. The analytical labors of the previous century hampered his creativeness. He brought to his task preoccupations of divers and self-contradictory pedantries--pedantries of Catholicism, pedantries of scholasticism, pedantries of humanism in its exhausted phase, pedantries of criticism refined and subtilized within a narrow range of problems. He had, moreover, weighing on his native genius the fears which brooded like feverish exhalations over the evil days in which he lived--fears of Church-censure, fears of despotic princes, fears of the Inquisition, fears of hell, fears of the judgment of academies, fears of social custom and courtly conventionalities. Neither as poet nor as man had he the courage of originality. What he lacked was character. He obeyed the spirit of his age, in so far as he did not, like young David, decline Saul's armor and enter into combat with Philistinism, wielding his sling and stone of native force alone. Yet that native force was so vigorous that, in spite of the panoply of prejudice he wore, in spite of the cumbrous armor lent him by authority, he moved at times with superb freedom. In those rare intervals of personal inspiration he dictated the love-tales of Erminia and Armida, the death-scene of Clorinda, the pastoral of Aminta and Silvia--episodes which created the music and the painting of two centuries, and which still live upon the lips of the people. But inasmuch as his genius labored beneath the superincumbent weight of precedents and deferences, the poet's nature was strained to the uttermost and his nervous elasticity was overtaxed. No sooner had he poured forth freely what flowed freely from his soul, than he returned on it with scrupulous analysis. The product of his spirit stood before him as a thing to be submitted to opinion, as a substance subject to the test of all those pedantries and fears. We cannot wonder that the subsequent conflict perplexed his reason and sterilized his creative faculty to such an extent that he spent the second half of his life in attempting to undo the great work of his prime. The _Gerusalemme Conquistata_ and the _Sette Giornate_ are thus the splendid triumph achieved by the feebler over the stronger portions of his nature, the golden tribute paid by his genius to the evil genius of the age controlling him. He was a poet who, had he lived in the days of Ariosto, would have created in all senses spontaneously, producing works of Virgilian beauty and divine melancholy to match the Homeric beauty and the divine irony of his great peer. But this was not to be. The spirit of the times which governed his education, with which he was not revolutionary enough to break, which he strove as a critic to assimilate and as a social being to obey, destroyed his independence, perplexed his judgment, and impaired his nervous energy. His best work was consequently of unequal value; pure and base metal mingled in its composition. His worst was a barren and lifeless failure. CHAPTER IX. GIORDANO BRUNO. Scientific Bias of the Italians checked by Catholic Revival--Boyhood of Bruno--Enters Order of S. Dominic at Naples--Early Accusations of Heresy--Escapes to Rome--Teaches the Sphere at Noli--Visits Venice--At Geneva--At Toulouse--At Paris--His Intercourse with Henri III.--Visits England--The French Ambassador in London--Oxford--Bruno's Literary Work in England--Returns to Paris--Journeys into Germany--Wittenberg, Helmstädt, Frankfort--Invitation to Venice from Giovanni Mocenigo--His Life in Venice--Mocenigo denounces him to the Inquisition--His Trial at Venice--Removal to Rome--Death by Burning in 1600--Bruno's Relation to the Thought of his Age and to the Thought of Modern Europe--Outlines of his Philosophy. The humanistic and artistic impulses of the Renaissance were at the point of exhaustion in Italy. Scholarship declined; the passion for antiquity expired. All those forms of literature which Boccaccio initiated--comedy, romance, the idyl, the lyric and the novel--had been worked out by a succession of great writers. It became clear that the nation was not destined to create tragic or heroic types of poetry. Architecture, sculpture and painting had performed their task of developing mediaeval motives by the light of classic models, and were now entering on the stage of academical inanity. Yet the mental vigor of the Italians was by no means exhausted. Early in the sixteenth century Machiavelli had inaugurated a new method for political philosophy; Pompanazzo at Padua and Telesio at Cosenza disclosed new horizons for psychology and the science of nature. It seemed as though the Renaissance in Italy were about to assume a fresh and more serious character without losing its essential inspiration. That evolution of intellectual energy which had begun with the assimilation of the classics, with the first attempts at criticism, with the elaboration of style and the perfection of artistic form, now promised to invade the fields of metaphysical and scientific speculation. It is true, as we have seen, that the theological problems of the German Reformation took but slight hold on Italians. Their thinkers were already too far advanced upon the paths of modern rationalism to feel the actuality of questions which divided Luther from Zwingli, Calvin from Servetus, Knox from Cranmer. But they promised to accomplish master-works of incalculable magnitude in wider provinces of exploration and investigation. And had this progress not been checked, Italy would have crowned and completed the process commenced by humanism. In addition to the intellectual culture already given to Europe, she might have revealed right methods of mental analysis and physical research. For this further step in the discovery of man and of the world, the nation was prepared to bring an army of new pioneers into the field--the philosophers of the south, and the physicists of the Lombard universities. Humanism effected the emancipation of intellect by culture. It called attention to the beauty and delightfulness of nature, restored man to a sense of his dignity, and freed him from theological authority. But in Italy, at any rate, it left his conscience, his religion, his sociological ideas, the deeper problems which concern his relation to the universe, the subtler secrets of the world in which he lives, untouched. These _novi homines_ of the later Renaissance, as Bacon called them, these _novatori_, as they were contemptuously styled in Italy, prepared the further emancipation of the intellect by science. They asserted the liberty of thought and speech, proclaimed the paramount authority of that inner light or indwelling deity which man owns in his brain and breast, and rehabilitated nature from the stigma cast on it by Christianity. What the Bible was for Luther, that was the great Book of Nature for Telesio, Bruno, Campanella. The German reformer appealed to the reason of the individual as conscience; the school of southern Italy made a similar appeal to intelligence. In different ways Luther and these speculative thinkers maintained the direct illumination of the human soul by God, man's immediate dependence on his Maker, repudiating ecclesiastical intervention, and refusing to rely on any principle but earnest love of truth. Had this new phase of the Italian Renaissance been permitted to evolve itself unhindered, there is no saying how much earlier Europe might have entered into the possession of that kingdom of unprejudiced research which is now secured for us. But it was just at the moment when Italy became aware of the arduous task before her, that the Catholic reaction set in with all its rigor. The still creative spirit of her children succumbed to the Inquisition, the Congregation of the Index, the decrees of Trent, the intellectual submission of the Jesuits, the physical force of Spanish tyranny, and Roman absolutism. Carnesecchi was burned alive; Paleario was burned alive; Bruno was burned alive: these three at Rome. Vanini was burned at Toulouse. Valentino Gentile was executed by Calvinists at Berne. Campanella was cruelly tortured and imprisoned for twenty-seven years at Naples. Galileo was forced to humble himself before ignorant and arrogant monks, and to hide his head in a country villa. Sarpi felt the knife of an assassin, and would certainly have perished at the instigation of his Roman enemies but for the protection guaranteed him by the Signory of Venice. In this way did Italy--or rather, let us say, the Church which dominated Italy--devour her sons of light. It is my purpose in the present chapter to narrate the life of Bruno and to give some account of his philosophy, taking him as the most illustrious example of the school exterminated by reactionary Rome. Giordano Bruno was born in 1548 at Nola, an ancient Greek city close to Naples. He received the baptismal name of Filippo, which he exchanged for Giordano on assuming the Dominican habit. His parents, though people of some condition, were poor; and this circumstance may perhaps be reckoned the chief reason why Bruno entered the convent of S. Dominic at Naples before he had completed his fifteenth year. It will be remembered that Sarpi joined the Servites at the age of thirteen, and Campanella the Dominicans at that of fourteen. In each of these memorable cases it is probable that poverty had something to do with deciding a vocation so premature. But there were other inducements, which rendered the monastic life not unattractive, to a young man seeking knowledge at a period and in a district where instruction was both costly and difficult to obtain. Campanella himself informs us that he was drawn to the order of S. Dominic by its reputation for learning and by the great names of S. Thomas Aquinas and Albertus Magnus. Bruno possibly felt a similar attraction; for there is nothing in the temper of his mind to make us believe that he inclined seriously to the religious life of the cloister. During his novitiate he came into conflict with the superiors of his convent for the first time. It was proved against him that he had given away certain images of saints, keeping only the crucifix; also that he had told a comrade to lay aside a rhymed version of the Seven Joys of Mary, and to read the lives of the Fathers of the Church instead. On these two evidences of insufficient piety, an accusation was prepared against him which might have led to serious results. But the master of the novices preferred to destroy the document, retaining only a memorandum of the fact for future use in case of need.[84] Bruno, after this event, obeyed the cloistral discipline in quiet, and received priest's orders in 1572. At this epoch of his life, when he had attained his twenty-fourth year, he visited several Dominican convents of the Neapolitan province, and entered with the want of prudence which was habitual to him into disputations on theology. Some remarks he let fall on transubstantiation and the Divinity of Christ, exposed him to a suspicion of Arianism, a heresy at that time rife in southern Italy. Bruno afterwards confessed that from an early age he had entertained speculative doubts upon the metaphysics of the Trinity, though he was always prepared to accept that dogma in faith as a good Catholic. The Inquisition took the matter up in earnest, and began to institute proceedings of so grave a nature that the young priest felt himself in danger. He escaped in his monk's dress, and traveled to Rome, where he obtained admittance for a short while to the convent of the Minerva. [Footnote 84: The final case drawn up against Bruno as heresiarch makes it appear that his record included even these boyish errors. See the letter of Gaspar Schopp in Berti.] We know very little what had been his occupations up to this date. It is only certain that he had already composed a comedy, _Il Candelajo_: which furnishes sufficient proof of his familiarity with mundane manners. It is, in fact, one of the freest and most frankly satirical compositions for the stage produced at that epoch, and reveals a previous study of Aretino. Nola, Bruno's birthplace, was famous for the license of its country folk. Since the day of its foundation by Chalkidian colonists, its inhabitants had preserved their Hellenic traditions intact. The vintage, for example, was celebrated with an extravagance of obscene banter, which scandalized Philip II.'s viceroy in the sixteenth century.[85] During the period of Bruno's novitiate, the ordinances of the Council of Trent for discipline in monasteries were not yet in operation; and it is probable that throughout the thirteen years of his conventual experience, he mixed freely with the people and shared the pleasures of youth in that voluptuous climate. He was never delicate in his choice of phrase, and made no secret of the admiration which the beauty of women excited in his nature. The accusations brought against him at Venice contained one article of indictment implying that he professed distinctly profligate opinions; and though there is nothing to prove that his private life was vicious, the tenor of his philosophy favors more liberty of manners than the Church allowed in theory to her ministers.[86] [Footnote 85: See 'Vita di Don Pietro di Toledo'_ (Arch. Stov._ vol. ix. p. 23)] [Footnote 86: See the passage on polygamy in the _Spaccio della Bestia_. I may here remark that Campanella, though more orthodox than Bruno, published opinions upon the relations of the sexes analogous to those of Plato's Republic in his _Citta del Sole_. He even recommended the institution of brothels as annexes to schools for boys, in order to avoid the worse evil of unnatural vice in youth.] It is of some importance to dwell on this topic; for Bruno's character and temper, so markedly different from that of Sarpi, for example, affected in no small measure the form and quality of his philosophy. He was a poet, gifted with keen and lively sensibilities, open at all pores to the delightfulness of nature, recoiling from nothing that is human. At no period of his life was he merely a solitary thinker or a student of books. When he came to philosophize, when the spiritual mistress, Sophia, absorbed all other passions in his breast, his method of exposition retained a tincture of that earlier phase of his experience. It must not be thought, however, that Bruno prosecuted no serious studies during this period. On the contrary, he seems to have amassed considerable erudition in various departments of learning: a fact which should make us cautious against condemning conventual education as of necessity narrow and pedantic. When he left Naples, he had acquired sufficient knowledge of Aristotle and the Schoolmen, among whom he paid particular attention to S. Thomas and to Raymond Lully. Plato, as expounded by Plotinus, had taken firm hold on his imagination. He was versed in the dialectics of the previous age, had mastered mediaeval cosmography and mathematics, and was probably already acquainted with Copernicus. The fragments of the Greek philosophers, especially of Pythagoras and Parmenides, whose metaphysics powerfully influenced his mind, had been assimilated. Perhaps the writings of Cardinal Cusa, the theologian who applied mathematics to philosophy, were also in his hands at the same period. Beside Italian, he possessed the Spanish language, could write and speak Latin with fluency, and knew something of Greek. It is clear that he had practiced poetry in the vernacular under the immediate influence of Tansillo. Theological studies had not been wholly neglected; for he left behind him at Naples editions of Jerome and Chrysostom with commentaries of Erasmus. These were books which exposed their possessors to the interdiction of the Index. It seems strange that a Dominican, escaping from his convent to avoid a trial for heresy, should have sought refuge at S. Maria Sopra Minerva, then the headquarters of the Roman Inquisition. We must, however, remember that much freedom of movement was allowed to monks, who found a temporary home in any monastery of their order. Without money, Bruno had no roof but that of a religious house to shelter him; and he probably reckoned on evading pursuit till the fatigues of his journey from Naples had been forgotten. At any rate, he made no lengthy stay in Rome. News soon reached him that the prosecution begun at Naples was being transferred to the metropolis. This implied so serious a danger that he determined to quit Rome in secret. Having flung his frock to the nettles, he journeyed--how, we do not know--to Genoa, and thence to Noli on the Riviera. The next time Bruno entered the Dominican convent of S. Maria sopra Minerva, it was as a culprit condemned to death by the Inquisition. At Noli Bruno gained a living for about five months by teaching grammar to boys and lecturing in private to some gentlefolk upon the Sphere. The doctrine of the Sphere formed a somewhat miscellaneous branch of mediaeval science. It embraced the exposition of Ptolemaic astronomy, together with speculations on the locality of heaven, the motive principle of the world, and the operation of angelical intelligences. Bruno, who professed this subject at various times throughout his wanderings, began now to use it as a vehicle for disseminating Copernican opinions. It is certain that cosmography formed the basis of his philosophy, and this may be ascribed to his early occupation with the sphere. But his restless spirit would not suffer him to linger in those regions where olive and orange and palm flourish almost more luxuriantly than in his native Nola. The gust of travel was upon him. A new philosophy occupied his brain, vertiginously big with incoherent births of modern thought. What Carlyle called 'the fire in the belly' burned and irritated his young blood. Unsettled, cast adrift from convent moorings, attainted for heresy, out of sympathy with resurgent Catholicism, he became a Vagus Quidam--a wandering student, like the Goliardi of the Middle Ages. From Noli he passed to Savona; from Savona to Turin; from Turin to Venice. There his feet might perhaps have found rest; for Venice was the harbor of all vagrant spirits in that age. But the city was laid waste with plague. Bruno wrote a little book, now lost, on 'The Signs of the Times,' and lived upon the sale of it for some two months. Then he removed to Padua. Here friends persuaded him to reassume the cowl. There were more than 40,000 monks abroad in Italy, beyond the limits of their convent. Why should not he avail himself of house-roof in his travels, a privilege which was always open to friars? From Padua he journeyed rapidly again through Brescia, Bergamo and Milan to Turin, crossed Mont Cenis, tarried at Chambéry, and finally betook himself to Geneva. Geneva was no fit resting-place for Bruno. He felt an even fiercer antipathy for dissenting than for orthodox bigotry. The despotism of a belligerent and persecuting sectarian seemed to him more intolerable, because less excusable, than the Catholic despotism from which he was escaping. Galeazzo Caracciolo, Marquis of Vico, who then presided over the Italian refugees in Geneva, came to visit him. At the suggestion of this man Bruno once more laid aside his Dominican attire, and began to earn his bread by working as a reader for the press--a common resort of needy men of learning in those times. But he soon perceived that the Calvinistic stronghold offered no freedom, no security of life even, to one whose mind was bent on new developments of thought. After two months' residence on the shores of Lake Leman he departed for Toulouse, which he entered early in 1577. We cannot help wondering why Bruno chose that city for his refuge. Toulouse, the only town in France where the Inquisition took firm root and flourished, Toulouse so perilous to Muret, so mortal to Dolet and Vanini, ought, one might have fancied, to have been avoided by an innovator flying from a charge of heresy.[87] Still it must be remembered that Toulouse was French. Italian influence did not reach so far. Nor had Bruno committed himself even in thought to open rupture with Catholicism. He held the opinion, so common at that epoch, so inexplicable to us now, that the same man could countermine dogmatic theology as a philosopher, while he maintained it as a Christian. This was the paradox on which Pomponazzo based his apology, which kept Campanella within the pale of the Church, and to which Bruno appealed for his justification when afterwards arraigned before the Inquisitors at Venice. [Footnote 87: On the city, university and Inquisition of Toulouse in the sixteenth century see Christie's _Etiennne Dolet_--a work of sterling merit and sound scholarship.] It appears from his own autobiographical confessions that Bruno spent some six months at Toulouse, lecturing in private on the peripatetic psychology; after which time he obtained the degree of Doctor in Philosophy, and was admitted to a Readership in the university. This post he occupied two years. It was a matter of some moment to him that professors at Toulouse were not obliged to attend Mass. In his dubious position, as an escaped friar and disguised priest, to partake of the Sacrament would have been dangerous. Yet he now appears to have contemplated the possibility of reconciling himself to the Church, and resuming his vows in the Dominican order. He went so far as to open his mind upon this subject to a Jesuit; and afterwards at Paris he again resorted to Jesuit advice. But these conferences led to nothing. It may be presumed that the trial begun at Naples and removed to Rome, combined with the circumstances of his flight and recusant behavior, rendered the case too grave for compromise. No one but the Pope in Rome could decide it. There is no apparent reason why Bruno left Toulouse, except the restlessness which had become a marked feature in his character. We find him at Paris in 1579, where he at once began to lecture at the Sorbonne. It seems to have been his practice now in every town he visited, to combine private instruction with public disputation. His manners were agreeable; his conversation was eloquent and witty. He found no difficulty in gaining access to good society, especially in a city like Paris, which was then thronged with Italian exiles and courtiers. Meanwhile his public lectures met with less success than his private teaching. In conversation with men of birth and liberal culture he was able to expound views fascinating by their novelty and boldness. Before an academical audience it behoved him to be circumspect; nor could he transgress the formal methods of scholastic argumentation. Two principal subjects seem to have formed the groundwork of his teaching at this period. The first was the doctrine of the Thirty Divine Attributes, based on S. Thomas of Aquino. The second was Lully's Art of Memory and Classification of the Sciences. This twofold material he worked up into a single treatise, called _De Umbris Idearum_, which he published in 1582 at Paris, and which contains the germ of all his leading speculations. Bruno's metaphysics attracted less attention than his professed Art of Memory. In an age credulous of occult science, when men believed that power over nature was being won by alchemy and magic, there was no difficulty in persuading people that knowledge might be communicated in its essence, and that the faculties of the mind could be indefinitely extended, without a toilsome course of study. Whether Bruno lent himself wittingly to any imposture in his exposition of mnemonics, cannot be asserted. But it is certain that the public were led to expect from his method more than it could give. The fame of his Art of Memory reached the king's ears; and Henri III. sent for him. 'The king, says Bruno, 'had me called one day, being desirous to know whether the memory I possessed and professed, was natural or the result of magic art. I gave him satisfaction; by my explanations and by demonstrations to his own experience, convincing him that it was not an affair of magic but of science.' Henri, who might have been disappointed by this result, was taken with his teacher, and appointed him Reader Extraordinary--a post that did not oblige Bruno to hear Mass. The Ordinary Readers at Paris had to conform to the usages of the Catholic Church. On his side, Bruno appears to have conceived high admiration for the king's ability. In the _Cena della Ceneri_ and the _Spaccio della Bestia Trionfante,_ composed and published after he had left France, he paid him compliments in terms of hyperbolical laudation. It would be vain to comment on these facts. No one conversant with French society at that epoch could have been ignorant of Henri's character and vicious life. No one could have pretended that his employment of the kingdom's wealth to enrich unworthy favorites was anything but dishonorable, or have maintained that his flagrant effeminacy was beneficial to society. The fantastic superstition which the king indulged alternately with sensual extravagances, must have been odious to one whose spiritual mistress was divine Sophia, and whose religion was an adoration of the intellect for the One Cause. But Henri had one quality which seemed of supreme excellence to Bruno. He appreciated speculation and encouraged men of learning. A man so enthusiastic as our philosopher may have thought that his own teaching could expel that Beast Triumphant of the vices from a royal heart tainted by bad education in a corrupt Court. Bruno, moreover, it must be remembered, remained curiously inappreciative of the revolution effected in humanity by Christian morals. Much that is repulsive to us in the manners of the Valois, may have been indifferent to him. Bruno had just passed his thirtieth year. He was a man of middling height, spare figure, and olive complexion, wearing a short chestnut-colored beard. He spoke with vivacity and copious rhetoric, aiming rather at force than at purity of diction, indulging in trenchant metaphors to adumbrate recondite thoughts, passing from grotesque images to impassioned flights of declamation, blending acute arguments and pungent satires with grave mystical discourses. The impression of originality produced by his familiar conversation rendered him agreeable to princes. There was nothing of the pedant in his nature, nothing about him of the doctor but his title. After a residence of rather less than four years in Paris, he resolved upon a journey to England. Henri supplied him with letters of introduction to the French ambassador in London, Michel de Castelnau de la Mauvissière. This excellent man, who was then attempting to negotiate the marriage of Elizabeth with the Duke of Anjou, received Bruno into his own family as one of the gentlemen of his suite. Under his roof the wandering scholar enjoyed a quiet home during the two years which he passed in England--years that were undoubtedly the happiest, as they were the most industrious, of his checkered life. It is somewhat strange that Bruno left no trace of his English visit in contemporary literature. Seven of his most important works were printed in London, though they bore the impress of Paris and Venice--for the very characteristic reason that English people only cared for foreign publications. Four of these, on purely metaphysical topics, were dedicated to Michel de Castelnau; two, treating of moral and psychological questions, the famous _Spaccio della Bestia_ and _Gli eroici Furori_, were inscribed to Sidney. The _Cena delle Ceneri_ describes a supper party at the house of Fulke Greville; and it is clear from numerous allusions scattered up and down these writings, that their author was admitted on terms of familiarity to the best English society. Yet no one mentions him. Fulke Greville in his Life of Sidney passes him by in silence; nor am I aware that any one of Sidney's panegyrists, the name of whom is legion, alludes to the homage paid him by the Italian philosopher. On his side, Bruno has bequeathed to us animated pictures of his life in London, portraying the English of that period as they impressed a sensitive Italian.[88] His descriptions are valuable, since they dwell on slight particulars unnoticed by ambassadors in their dispatches. He was much struck with the filth and unkempt desolation of the streets adjacent to the Thames, the rudeness of the watermen who plied their craft upon the river, and the stalwart beef-eating brutality of prentices and porters. The population of London displayed its antipathy to foreigners by loud remarks, hustled them in narrow lanes, and played at rough-and-tumble with them after the manners of a bear-garden. But there is no hint that these big fellows shouldering through the crowd were treacherous or ready with their knives. The servants of great houses seemed to Bruno discourteous and savage; yet he says nothing about such subtlety and vice as rendered the retainers of Italian nobles perilous to order. He paints the broad portrait of a muscular and insolently insular people, untainted by the evils of corrupt civilization. Mounting higher in the social scale, Bruno renders deserved homage to the graceful and unaffected manners of young English noblemen, from whom he singles Sidney out as the star of cultivated chivalry.[89] [Footnote 88: The 'Cena delle Ceneri,' _Op. It._ vol. i. pp. 137-151]. [Footnote 89: Signor Berti conjectures that Bruno may have met Sidney first at Milan. But Bruno informs us that he did not become acquainted with him till he came to London: 'Tra' quali è tanto conosciuto, per fama prima quanbo eravamo in Milano et in Francia, e poi per experienza or che siamo ne la sua patria' (_Op. It._ vol. i. p. 145).] What he says about the well-born youth of England, shows that the flower of our gentlefolk delighted Southern observers by their mixture of simplicity and sweetness with good breeding and sound sense. For the ladies of England he cannot find words fair enough to extol the beauties of their persons and the purity of their affections. Elizabeth herself he calls a goddess, _diva_, using phrases which were afterwards recited in the terms of his indictment before the Inquisition. What pleased him most in England, was the liberty of speech and thought he there enjoyed.[90] Society was so urbane, government was so unsuspicious, that a man could venture to call things by their proper names and speak his heart out without reserve. That Bruno's panegyric was not prompted by any wish to flatter national vanity, is proved by the hard truths he spoke about the grossness of the people, and by his sarcasms on Oxford pedants. He also ventured to condemn in no unmeasured terms some customs which surprised him in domestic intercourse. He drew, for instance, a really gruesome picture of the loving-cup, as it passed round the table, tasted by a mixed assemblage.[91] A visit paid by Bruno to Oxford forms a curious episode in his English experiences. He found that university possessed by pedants and ignorant professors of the old learning. 'Men of choice,' he calls them, 'trailing their long velvet gowns, this one arrayed with two bright chains of gold around his neck, that one, good heavens! with such a valuable hand--twelve rings upon two fingers, giving him the look of some rich jeweler.'[92] These excellent dons, blest in the possession of fat fellowships, felt no sympathy for an eccentric interloper of Bruno's stamp. They allowed him to lecture on the Soul and the Sphere. [Footnote 90: Preface to 'Lo Spaccio della Bestia' (_Op. It._ vol. ii. p. 108).] [Footnote 91: _Op. It._ vol. i. p. 150.] [Footnote 92: _Op. It._ vol. i. p. 123.] They even condescended to dispute with him. Yet they made Oxford so unpleasant a place of residence that after three months he returned to London. The treatment he experienced rankled in his memory. 'Look where you like at the present moment, you will find but doctors in grammar here; for in this happy realm there reigns a constellation of pedantic stubborn ignorance and presumption mixed with a rustic incivility that would disturb Job's patience. If you do not believe it, go to Oxford, and ask to hear what happened to the Nolan, when he disputed publicly with those doctors of theology in the presence of the Polish Prince Alasco.[93] Make them tell you how they answered to his syllogisms; how the pitiful professor, whom they put before them on that grave occasion as the Corypheus of their university, bungled fifteen times with fifteen syllogisms, like a chicken in the stubble. Make them tell you with what rudeness and discourtesy that pig behaved; what patience and humanity he met from his opponent, who, in truth, proclaimed himself a Neapolitan, born and brought up beneath more genial heavens. Then learn after what fashion they brought his public lectures to an end, those on the Immortality of the Soul and those on the Quintuple Sphere.'[94] The Soul and the Sphere were Bruno's favorite themes. He handled both at this period of life with startling audacity. [Footnote 93: See Wood, _Ath. Oxon._ p. 300.] [Footnote 94: _Op. It._ vol. i. p. 179.] They had become for him the means of ventilating speculations on terrestrial movement, on the multiplicity of habitable worlds, on the principle of the universe, and on the infinite modes of psychical metamorphosis. Such topics were not calculated to endear him to people of importance on the banks of Isis. That he did not humor their prejudices, appears from a Latin epistle which he sent before him by way of introduction to the Vice Chancellor.[95] It contains these pompous phrases: 'Philotheus Jordanus Brunus Nolanus magis laboratae theologiae doctor, purioris et innocuae sapientiae professor. In praecipuis Europae academiis notus, probatus et honorifice exceptus philosophus. Nullibi praeterquam apud barbaros et ignobiles peregrinus. Dormitantium animarum excubitor. Praesuntuosae et recalcitrantis ignorantiae domitor. Qui in actibus universis generalem philantropiam protestatur. Qui non magis Italum quam Britannum, marem quam foeminam, mitratum quam coronatum, togatum quam armatum, cucullatum hominem quam sine cucullo virum: sed ilium cujus pacatior, civilior, fidelior et utilior est conversatio diligit.' Which may thus be Englished: 'Giordano Bruno of Nola, the God-loving, of the more highly-wrought theology doctor, of the purer and harmless wisdom professor. In the chief universities of Europe known, approved, and honorably received as philosopher. Nowhere save among barbarians and the ignoble a stranger. The awakener of sleeping souls. The trampler upon presuming and recalcitrant ignorance. Who in all his acts proclaims a universal benevolence toward man. Who loveth not Italian more than Briton, male than female, mitred than crowned head, gowned than armed, frocked than frockless; but seeketh after him whose conversation is the more peaceful, more civil, more loyal, and more profitable.' This manifesto, in the style of a mountebank, must have sounded like a trumpet-blast to set the humdrum English doctors with sleepy brains and moldy science on their guard against a man whom they naturally regarded as an Italian charlatan. What, indeed, was this more highly-wrought theology, this purer wisdom? What call had this self-panegyrist to stir souls from comfortable slumbers? What right had he to style the knowledge of his brethren ignorance? Probably he was but some pestilent fellow, preaching unsound doctrine on the Trinity, like Peter Martyr Vermigli, who had been properly hissed out of Oxford a quarter of a century earlier. When Bruno arrived and lectured, their worst prognostications were fulfilled. Did he not maintain a theory of the universe which even that perilous speculator and political schemer, Francis Bacon, sneered at as nugatory? [Footnote 95: Printed in the _Explicatio triginta Sigillarum_.] In spite of academical opposition, Bruno enjoyed fair weather, halcyon months, in England. His description of the Ash Wednesday Supper at Fulke Greville's, shows that a niche had been carved out for him in London, where he occupied a pedestal of some importance. Those gentlemen of Elizabeth's Court did not certainly exaggerate the value of their Italian guest. In Italy, most of them had met with spirits of Bruno's stamp, whom they had not time or opportunity to prove. He was one among a hundred interesting foreigners; and his martyrdom had not as yet set the crown of glory or of shame upon his forehead. They probably accepted him as London society of the present day accepts a theosophist from Simla or Thibet. But his real home at this epoch, the only home, so far as I can see, that Bruno ever had, after he left his mother at the age of thirteen for a convent, was the house of Castelnau. The truest chords in the Italian's voice vibrate when he speaks of that sound Frenchman. To Mme. de Castelnau he alludes with respectful sincerity, paying her the moderate and well-weighed homage which, for a noble woman, is the finest praise. There is no rhetoric in the words he uses to express his sense of obligation to her kindness. They are delicate, inspired with a tact which makes us trust the writer's sense of fitness.[96] But Bruno indulges in softer phrases, drawn from the heart, and eminently characteristic of his predominant enthusiastic mood, when he comes to talk of the little girl, Marie, who brightened the home of the Castelnaus. 'What shall I say of their noble-natured daughter? She has gazed upon the sun barely one luster and one year; but so far as language goes, I know not how to judge whether she springs from Italy or France or England! From her hand, touching the instruments of music, no man could reckon if she be of corporate or incorporeal substance. Her perfected goodness makes one marvel whether she be flown from heaven, or be a creature of this common earth. It is at least evident to every man that for the shaping of so fair a body the blood of both her parents has contributed, while for the tissue of her rare spirit the virtues of their heroic souls have been combined.'[97] [Footnote 96: _Op. It._ vol. i. p. 267.] [Footnote 97: _Loc. cit._ p. 267.] It was time to leave these excellent and hospitable friends. 'Forth from the tranquil to the trembling air' Bruno's unquiet impulse drove him. He returned to Paris at the end of 1585, disputed before the Sorbonne with some success of scandal, and then, disquieted by the disorders of the realm, set out for Germany. We find him at Marburg in the following year, ill-received by the University, but welcomed by the Prince. Thence we follow him to Mainz, and afterwards to Wittenberg, where he spent two years. Here he conceived a high opinion of the Germans. He foresaw that when they turned their attention from theology to science and pure speculation, great results might be expected from their solid intellectual capacity. He seems in fact to have taken a pretty accurate measure of the race as it has subsequently shown itself. Wittenberg he called the German Athens. Luther, he recognized as a hero of humanity, who, like himself, defied authority in the defense of truth. Yet he felt no sympathy for the German reformers. When asked by the Inquisitors at Venice what he thought about these men, he replied: 'I regard them as more ignorant than I am. I despise them and their doctrines. They do not deserve the name of theologians, but of pedants.' That this reply was sincere, is abundantly proved by passages in the least orthodox of Bruno's writings. It was the weakness of a philosopher's position at that moment that he derived no support from either of the camps into which Christendom was then divided. Catholics and Protestants of every shade regarded him with mistrust. A change in the religious policy of Saxony, introduced after the death of the Elector Augustus, caused Bruno to leave Wittenberg for Prague in 1588. From Prague he passed to Helmstädt, where the Duke Heinrich Julius of Brunswick-Wolfenbüttel received him with distinction, and bestowed on him a purse of eighty dollars.[98] Here he conceived two of his most important works, the _De Monade_ and _De Triplici Minimo_, both written in Latin hexameters.[99] Why he adopted this new form of exposition is not manifest. Possibly he was tired of dialogues, through which he had expressed his thought so freely in England. Possibly a German public would have been indifferent to Italian. Possibly he was emulous of his old masters, Parmenides and Lucretius. [Footnote 98: It is a curious fact that the single copy of Campanella's poems on which Orelli based his edition of 1834, came from Wolfenbüttel.] [Footnote 99: They were published at Frankfort, and dedicated to the friendly Prince of Wolfenbüttel.] At Helmstädt he came into collision with Boetius, the rector of the Evangelical church, who issued a sentence of excommunication against him. Like a new Odysseus, he set forth once again upon his voyage, and in the spring of 1590 anchored in Frankfort on the Main. A convent (that of the Carmelites) sheltered him in this city, where he lived on terms of intimacy with the printers Wechel and Fischer, and other men of learning. It would appear from evidence laid before the Venetian Inquisitors that the prior of the monastery judged him to be a man of genius and doctrine, devoid of definite religion, addicted to fantastic studies, and bent on the elaboration of a philosophy that should supersede existing creeds.[100] This was a not inaccurate portrait of Bruno as he then appeared to conservatives of commonplace capacity. Yet nothing occurred to irritate him in the shape of persecution or disturbance. Bruno worked in quiet at Frankfort, pouring forth thousands of metaphysical verses, some at least of which were committed to the press in three volumes published by the Wechels. [Footnote 100: Britanno's Deposition, Berti's _Vita di G.B._ p. 337.] Between Frankfort and Italy literary communications were kept open through the medium of the great fair, which took place every year at Michaelmas.[101] Books formed one of the principal commodities, and the Italian bibliopoles traveled across the Alps to transact business on these important occasions. It happened by such means that a work of Bruno's, perhaps the _De Monude_, found its way to Venice.[102] Exposed on the counter of Giambattista Ciotto, then plying the trade of bookseller in that city, this treatise met the eyes of a Venetian gentleman called Giovanni Mocenigo. He belonged to one of the most illustrious of the still surviving noble families in Venice. The long line of their palaces upon the Grand Canal has impressed the mind of every tourist. One of these houses, it may be remarked, was occupied by Lord Byron, who, had he known of Bruno's connection with the Mocenighi, would undoubtedly have given to the world a poem or a drama on the fate of our philosopher. Giovanni Mocenigo was a man verging on middle life, superstitious, acknowledging the dominion of his priest, but alive in a furtive way to perilous ideas. Morally, he stands before us as a twofold traitor: a traitor to his Church, so long as he hoped to gain illicit power by magic arts; a traitor to his guest, so soon as he discovered that his soul's risk brought himself no profit.[103] He seems to have imagined that Bruno might teach him occult science or direct him on a royal way to knowledge without strenuous study. Subsequent events proved that, though he had no solid culture, he was fascinated by the expectation of discovering some great secret. It was the vice of the age to confound science with sorcery, and Bruno had lent himself to this delusion by his whimsical style. Perhaps the booksellers, who then played a part scarcely less prominent than that of the barbers in diffusing gossip, inflamed Mocenigo's curiosity by painting the author of the puzzling volume in seductive colors. Any how this man sent two letters, one through Ciotto, and one direct to Bruno, praying him to visit Venice, professing his desire for instruction, and offering him an honorable place of residence. [Footnote 101: Sarpi mentions the return of Ciotto from the fair (_Lettere_, vol. i. p. 527).] [Footnote 102: Ciotto, before the Inquisition, called the book _De Minimo Magno et Mensura_. It may therefore have been the _De Triplici Minimo et Mensura_, and not the _De Monade_ (_Vita di G.B._ p. 334).] [Footnote 103: Mocenigo told Ciotto: I wish first to see what I can get from him of those things which he promised me, so as not wholly to lose what I have given him, and afterwards I mean to surrender him to the censure of the Holy Office' (Berti, p. 335).] In an evil hour Bruno accepted this invitation. No doubt he longed to see Italy again after so many years of exile. Certainly he had the right to believe that he would find hospitality and a safe refuge in Venice. Had not a Venetian noble pledged his word for the former? Was not the latter a privilege which S. Mark extended to all suppliants? The Republic professed to shield even the outlaws of the Inquisition, if they claimed her jurisdiction. There was therefore no palpable imprudence in the step which Bruno now took. Yet he took it under circumstances which would have made a cautious man mistrustful. Of Mocenigo he knew merely nothing. But he did know that writs from the Holy Office had been out against himself in Italy for many years, during which he had spent his time in conversing with heretics and printing works of more than questionable orthodoxy.[104] Nothing proves the force of the vagrant's impulse which possessed Bruno, more than his light and ready consent to Giovanni Mocenigo's proposal. He set off at once from Frankfort, leaving the MS. of one of his metaphysical poems in Wechel's hands to print, and found himself at the end of 1591 a guest of his unknown patron. I have already described what Mocenigo hoped to gain from Bruno--the arts of memory and invention, together with glimpses into occult science.[105] We know how little Bruno was able to satisfy an in satiable curiosity in such matters. One of his main weaknesses was a habit of boasting and exaggerating his own powers, which at first imposed upon a vulgar audience and then left them under the impression that he was a charlatan. The bookseller Ciotto learned from students who had conversed with him at Frankfort, that 'he professed an art of memory and other secrets in the sciences, but that all the persons who had dealt with him in such matters, had left him discontinued.'[106] [Footnote 104: Mere correspondence with heretics exposed an Italian to the Inquisition. Residence in heretical lands, except with episcopal license, was forbidden. The rules of the Index proscribed books in which the name of a heretic was cited with approval.] [Footnote 105: Bruno speaks himself of 'arte della memoria et inventiva' (_op. cit._ p. 339). Ciotto mentions 'la memoria et altre scientie' (_ib._ p. 334).] [Footnote 106: _Op. cit._ p. 335.] Another weakness in his character was extraordinary want of caution. Having lived about the world so long, and changed from town to town, supporting himself as he best could, he had acquired the custom of attracting notice by startling paradoxes. Nor does he seem to have cared to whom he made the dangerous confidence of his esoteric beliefs. His public writings, presumably composed with a certain circumspection--since everybody knows the proverb _litera scripta manet_--contain such perilous stuff that--when we consider what their author may have let fall in unguarded conversation--we are prepared to credit the charges brought against him by Mocenigo. For it must now be said that this man, 'induced by the obligation of his conscience and by order of his confessor,' denounced Bruno to the Inquisition on May 23, 1592. When the two men, so entirely opposite in their natures, first came together, Bruno began to instruct his patron in the famous art of memory and mathematics. At the same time he discoursed freely and copiously, according to his wont, upon his own philosophy. Mocenigo took no interest in metaphysics, and was terrified by the audacity of Bruno's speculations. It enraged him to find how meager was Bruno's vaunted method for acquiring and retaining knowledge without pains. In his secret heart he believed that the teacher whom he had maintained at a considerable cost, was withholding the occult knowledge he so much coveted. Bruno, meanwhile, attended Andrea Morosini's receptions in the palace at S. Luca, and frequented those of Bernardo Secchini at the sign of the Golden Ship in the Merceria. He made friends with scholars and men of fashion; absented himself for weeks together at Padua; showed that he was tired of Mocenigo; and ended by rousing that man's suspicious jealousy. Mocenigo felt that he had been deceived by an impostor, who, instead of furnishing the wares for which he bargained, put him off with declamations on the nature of the universe. What was even more terrible, he became convinced that this charlatan was an obstinate heretic. Whether Bruno perceived the gathering of the storm above his head, whether he was only wearied with the importunities of his host, or whether, as he told the Inquisitors, he wished to superintend the publication of some books at Frankfort, does not greatly signify. At any rate, he begged Mocenigo to excuse him from further attendance, since he meant to leave Venice. This happened on Thursday, May 21. Next day, Mocenigo sent his bodyservant together with five or six gondoliers into Bruno's apartment, seized him, and had him locked up in a ground-floor room of the palace. At the same time he laid hands on all Bruno's effects, including the MS. of one important treatise _On the Seven Liberal Arts_, which was about to be dedicated to Pope Clement VIII. This, together with other unpublished works, exists probably in the Vatican Archives, having been sent with the papers referring to Bruno's trial from Venice when he was transported to Rome. The following day, which was a Saturday, Mocenigo caused Bruno to be carried to one of those cellars (_magazzeni terreni_) which are used in Venice for storing wood, merchandise or implements belonging to gondolas. In the evening, a Captain of the Council of Ten removed him to the dungeons of the Inquisition. On the same day, May 23, Mocenigo lodged his denunciation with the Holy Office. The heads of this accusation, extracted from the first report and from two subsequent additions made by the delator, amount to these. Though Bruno was adverse to religions altogether, he preferred the Catholic to any other; but he believed it to stand in need of thorough reform. The doctrines of the Trinity, the miraculous birth of Christ, and transubstantiation, were insults to the Divine Being. Christ had seduced the people by working apparent miracles. So also had the Apostles. To develop a new philosophy which should supersede religions, and to prove his superiority in knowledge over S. Thomas and all the theologians, was Bruno's cherished scheme. He did not believe in the punishment of sins; but held a doctrine of the transmigration of souls, and of the generation of the human soul from refuse. The world he thought to be eternal. He maintained that there were infinite worlds, all made by God, who wills to do what he can do, and therefore produces infinity. The religious orders of Catholicism defile the earth by evil life, hypocrisy, and avarice. All friars are only asses. Indulgence in carnal pleasures ought not to be reckoned sinful. The man confessed to having freely satisfied his passions to the utmost of his opportunities. On being questioned before the Inquisitors, Mocenigo supported these charges. He added that when he had threatened Bruno with delation, Bruno replied, first, that he did not believe he would betray his confidence by making private conversation the groundwork of criminal charges; secondly, that the utmost the Inquisition could do, would be to inflict some penance and force him to resume the cowl. These, which are important assertions, bearing the mark of truth, throw light on his want of caution in dealing with Mocenigo, and explain the attitude he afterwards assumed before the Holy Office. Mocenigo's accusations in the main yield evidences of sincerity. They are exactly what we should expect from the distortion of Bruno's doctrines by a mind incapable of comprehending them. In short, they are as veracious as the image of a face reflected on a spoon. Certain gross details (the charges, for example, of having called Christ a _tristo_ who was deservedly hung, and of having sneered at the virginity of Mary) may possibly have emanated from the delator's own imagination.[107] [Footnote 107: They remind us of the blasphemies imputed to Christopher Marlowe.] Bruno emphatically repudiated these; though some passages in his philosophical poems, published at Frankfort, contain the substance of their blasphemies. A man of Mocenigo's stamp probably thought that he was faithfully representing the heretic's views, while in reality he was drawing his own gross conclusions from skeptical utterances about the origin of Christianity which he obscurely understood. It does not seem incredible, however, that Bruno, who was never nice in his choice of language, and who certainly despised historical Christianity, let fall crude witticisms upon such and other points in Mocenigo's presence. Bruno appeared before the Venetian Inquisition on May 29. His examination was continued at intervals from this date till July 30. His depositions consist for the most part of an autobiographical statement which he volunteered, and of a frank elucidation of his philosophical doctrines in their relation to orthodox belief. While reading the lengthy pages of his trial, we seem to overhear a man conversing confidentially with judges from whom he expected liberal sympathy. Over and over again, he relies for his defense upon the old distinction between philosophy and faith, claiming to have advocated views as a thinker which he does not hold as a Christian. 'In all my books I have used philosophical methods of definition according to the principles and light of nature, not taking chief regard of that which ought to be held in faith; and I believe they do not contain anything which can support the accusation that I have professedly impugned religion rather than that I have sought to exalt philosophy; though I may have expounded many impieties based upon my natural light.'[108] In another place he uses the antithesis, 'speaking like a Christian and according to theology'--'speaking after the manner of philosophy.'[109] The same antithesis is employed to justify his doctrine of metempsychosis: 'Speaking as a Catholic, souls do not pass from one body into another, but go to paradise or purgatory or hell; yet, following philosophical reasonings, I have argued that, the soul being inexistent without the body and inexistent in the body, it can be indifferently in one or in another body, and can pass from one into another, which, if it be not true, seems at any rate probable according to the opinion of Pythagoras.'[110] [Footnote 108: _Op. cit._ p. 352.] [Footnote 109: _Ibid._ p. 355.] [Footnote 110: _Ibid._ p. 362.] That he expected no severe punishment appears from the terms of his so-called recantation. 'I said that I wished to present myself before the feet of his Holiness with certain books which I approve, though I have published others which I do not now approve; whereby I meant to say that some works composed and published by me do not meet with my approbation, inasmuch as in these I have spoken and discussed too philosophically, in unseemly wise, not altogether as a good Christian ought; in particular I know that in some of these works I have taught and philosophically held things which ought to be attributed to the power, wisdom and goodness of God according to the Christian faith, founding doctrine in such matters on sense and reason, not upon faith.'[111] At the very end of his examination, he placed himself in the hands of his judges, 'confessing his errors with a willing mind,' acknowledging that he had 'erred and strayed from the Church,' begging for such castigation as shall not 'bring public dishonor on the sacred robe which he had worn,' and promising to 'show a noteworthy reform, and to recompense the scandal he had caused by edification at least equal in magnitude.'[112] These professions he made upon his knees, evincing clearly, as it seems to me, that at this epoch he was ready to rejoin the Dominican order, and that, as he affirmed to Mocenigo, he expected no worse punishment than this. In attempting to estimate Bruno's recantation, we must remember that he felt no sympathy at all for heretics. When questioned about them, he was able to quote passages from his own works in which he called the Reformation a Deformation of religion.[113] Lutheran and Calvinist theologians were alike pedants in his eyes.[114] There is no doubt that Bruno meant what he said; and had he been compelled to choose one of the existing religions, he would have preferred Catholicism. He was, in fact, at a period of life when he wished to dedicate his time in quiet to metaphysical studies. He had matured his philosophy and brought it to a point at which he thought it could be presented as a peace-offering to the Supreme Pontiff. Conformity to ecclesiastical observances seemed no longer irksome to the world-experienced, wide-reaching mind of the man. Nor does he appear to have anticipated that his formal submission would not be readily accepted. He reckoned strangely, in this matter, without the murderous host into whose clutches he had fallen. [Footnote 111: _Op. cit._ p. 349] [Footnote 112: _Ibid._ p. 384] [Footnote 113: _Ibid._ p. 364] [Footnote 114: _Ibid._ p. 363] Searching interrogations touching other heads in the evidence against him, as blasphemous remarks on sacred persons, intercourse with heretics, abuse of the religious orders, dealings in magic arts, licentious principles of conduct, were answered by Bruno with a frank assurance, which proves his good conscience in essentials and his firm expectation of a favorable issue to the affair. Mocenigo had described him as _indemoniato_; and considering the manifest peril in which he now stood, there is something scarcely sane in the confidence he showed. For Mocenigo himself he reserved words of bitterest scorn and indignation. When questioned in the usual terms whether he had enemies at Venice, he replied: 'I know of none but Ser Giovanni Mocenigo and his train of servants. By him I have been grievously injured, more so than by living man, seeing he has murdered me in my life, my honor and my property, having imprisoned me in his own house and stolen all my writings, books, and other effects. And this he did because he not only wished that I should teach him everything I know, but also wished to prevent my teaching it to any one but him. He has continued to threaten me upon the points of life and honor, unless I should teach him everything I knew.'[115] The scene closes over Bruno in the Venetian Inquisition on July 30, 1592. We do not behold him again till he enters the Minerva at Rome to receive his death-sentence on February 9, 1600. What happened in the interval is almost a blank. An exchange of letters took place between Rome and Venice concerning his extradition, and the Republic made some show of reluctance to part with a refugee within its jurisdiction. But this diplomatic affair was settled to the satisfaction of both parties, and Bruno disappeared into the dungeons of the Roman Inquisition in the month of January 1593. Seven years of imprisonment was a long period.[116] [Footnote 115: _Op. cit._ p. 378.] [Footnote 116: These years were not all spent at Rome. From the Records of the Inquisition, it appears that he arrived in Rome on February 27, 1598, and that his trial in form began in February 1599. The Pope ratified his sentence of death on January 20, 1600; this was publicly promulgated on February 8, and carried into effect on the subsequent 17th. Where Bruno was imprisoned between January 1593, and February 1598 is not known.] We find it hard to understand why Bruno's prosecution occupied the Holy Office through this space of time. But conjectures on the subject are now useless. Equally futile is it to speculate whether Bruno offered to conform in life and doctrine to the Church at Rome as he had done at Venice. The temptation to do so must have been great. Most probably he begged for grace, but grace was not accorded on his own terms; and he chose death rather than dishonor and a lie in the last resort, or rather than life-long incarceration. It is also singular that but few contemporaries mention the fact of his condemnation and execution. Rome was crowded in the jubilee year of 1600. Bruno was burned in open daylight on the Campo di Fiora. Yet the only eye-witness who records the event, is Gaspar Schoppe, or Scioppius, who wrote a letter on the subject to his friend Rittershausen. Kepler, eight years afterwards, informed his correspondent Breugger that Bruno had been really burned: 'he bore his agonizing death with fortitude, abiding by the asseveration that all religions are vain, and that God identifies himself with the world, circumference and center.' Kepler, it may be observed, conceived a high opinion of Bruno's speculations, and pointed him out to Galileo as the man who had divined the infinity of solar systems in their correlation to one infinite order of the universe.[117] [Footnote 117: Doubts have recently been raised as to whether Bruno was really burned. But these are finally disposed of by a succinct and convincing exposition of the evidence by Mr. R.C. Christie, in _Macmillan's Magazine_, October 1885. In addition to Schoppe and Kepler, we have the reference to Bruno's burning published by Mersenne in 1624; but what is far more important, the _Avviso di Roma_ for February 19,1600, records this event as having occurred upon the preceding Thursday. To Signor Berti's two works, _Documenti intorno a G. Bruno_ (Roma, 1880), and _Copernico e le vicende_, etc. (Roma, 1876), we owe most of the material which has been lucidly sifted by Mr. R.C. Christie.] Scioppius was a German humanist of the elder Italianated type, an elegant Latin stylist, who commented indifferently on the _Priapeia_ and the Stoic philosophy. He abjured Protestantism, and like Muretus, sold his pen to Rome. The Jesuits, in his pompous panegyric, were first saluted as 'the praetorian cohort of the camp of God.' Afterwards, when he quarreled with their Order, he showered invectives on them in the manner of a Poggio or Filelfo. The literary infamies of the fifteenth century reappeared in his polemical attacks on Protestants, and in his satires upon Scaliger. Yet he was a man of versatile talents and considerable erudition. It must be mentioned in his honor that he visited Campanella in his prison, and exerted himself for his liberation. Campanella dedicated his _Atheismus Triumphatus_ to Scioppius, calling him 'the dawn-star of our age.' Schoppe was also the first credible authority to warn Sarpi of the imminent peril he ran from Roman hired assassins, as I hope to relate in my chapter upon Sarpi's life. This man's letter to his friend is the single trustworthy document which we possess regarding the last hours of Bruno. Its inaccuracies on minor points may be held to corroborate his testimony. Scioppius refers to Bruno's early heresies on Transubstantiation and the Virginity of Mary. He alludes to the _Spaccio della Bestia Trionfante_, as though it had been a libel on the Pope.[118] [Footnote 118: 'Londinam perfectus, libellum istic edit de Bestia triumphante, h.e. de Papa. quem vestri honoris causa bestiam appellare solent.'] He then enumerates Bruno's heterodox opinions, which had been recited in the public condemnation pronounced on the heresiarch. 'Horrible and most utterly absurd are the views he entertained, as, for example, that there are innumerable worlds; that the soul migrates from body to body, yea into another world, and that one soul can inform two bodies; that magic is good and lawful; that the Holy Spirit is nothing but the Soul of the World, which Moses meant when he wrote that it brooded on the waters; that the world has existed from eternity; that Moses wrought his miracles by magic, being more versed therein than the Egyptians, and that he composed his own laws; that the Holy Scriptures are a dream, and that the devils will be saved; that only the Jews descend from Adam and Eve, the rest of men from that pair whom God created earlier; that Christ is not God, but that he was an eminent magician who deluded mankind, and was therefore rightly hanged, not crucified; that the prophets and Apostles were men of naught, magicians, and for the most part hanged: in short, without detailing all the monstrosities in which his books abound, and which he maintained in conversation, it may be summed up in one word that he defended every error that has been advanced by pagan philosophers or by heretics of earlier and present times.' Accepting this list as tolerably faithful to the terms of Bruno's sentence, heard by Scioppius in the hall of Minerva, we can see how Mocenigo's accusation had been verified by reference to his published works. The _De Monade_ and _De Triplici_ contain enough heterodoxy to substantiate each point. On February 9, Bruno was brought before the Holy Office at S. Maria sopra Minerva. In the presence of assembled Cardinals, theologians, and civil magistrates, his heresies were first recited. Then he was excommunicated, and degraded from his priestly and monastic offices. Lastly, he was handed over to the secular arm, 'to be punished with all clemency and without effusion of blood.' This meant in plain language to be burned alive. Thereupon Bruno uttered the memorable and monumental words: 'Peradventure ye pronounce this sentence on me with a greater fear than I receive it.' They were the last words he spoke in public. He was removed to the prisons of the State, where he remained eight days, in order that he might have time to repent. But he continued obdurate. Being an apostate priest and a relapsed heretic, he could hope for no remission of his sentence. Therefore, on February 17, he marched to a certain and horrible death. The stake was built up on the Campo di Fiora. Just before the wood was set on fire, they offered him the crucifix.[119] He turned his face away from it in stern disdain. It was not Christ but his own soul, wherein he believed the Diety resided, that sustained Bruno at the supreme moment. [Footnote 119: We may remember that while a novice at Naples, he first got into trouble by keeping the crucifix as the only religious symbol which he respected, when he parted with images of saints.] No cry, no groan, escaped his lips. Thus, as Scioppius affectedly remarked, 'he perished miserably in flames, and went to report in those other worlds of his imagination, how blasphemous and impious men are handled by the Romans.' Whatever we may think of the good taste of Bruno's sarcasms upon the faith in which he had been bred--and it is certain that he never rightly apprehended Christianity in its essence--there is no doubt he died a valiant martyr to the truth as he conceived it. 'His death like that of Paleario, Carnesecchi, and so many more, no less than countless exiles suffered for religious causes, are a proof that in Italy men had begun to recognize their obligation to a faith, the duty of obedience to a thought: an immense progress, not sufficiently appreciated even by modern historians.'[120] Bruno was a hero in the battle for the freedom of the conscience, for the right of man to think and speak in liberty.[121] [Footnote 120: These pregnant words are in Berti's _Vita di G.B._ p. 299.] [Footnote 121: He well deserves this name, in spite of his recantation at Venice; for it seems incredible that he could not by concessions have purchased his life. As Breugger wrote with brutal crudity to Kepler: 'What profit did he gain by enduring such torments? If there were no God to punish crimes, as he believed, could he not have pretended any thing to save his life?' We may add that the alternative to death for a relapsed apostate was perpetual incarceration; and seven years of prison may well have made Bruno prefer death with honor.] Just five years before this memorable 17th of February, Tasso had passed quietly away in S. Onofrio. 'How dissimilar in genius and fortune,' exclaims Berti, 'were these men, though born under the same skies, though in childhood they breathed the same air! Tasso a Christian and poet of the cross; Bruno hostile to all religious symbols. The one, tired and disillusioned of the world, ends his days in the repose of the convent; the other sets out from the convent to expire upon the scaffold, turning his eyes away from the crucifix.'[122] And yet how much alike in some important circumstances of their lives were these two men! Both wanderers, possessed by that spirit of vagrancy which is the outward expression of an inner restlessness. The unfrocked friar, the courtier out of service, had no home in Italy. Both were pursued by an oestrum corresponding to the intellectual perturbations which closed the sixteenth century, so different from the idyllic calm that rested upon Ariosto and the artists of its opening years. Sufficient justice has not yet been done in history to the Italian wanderers and exiles of this period, men who carried the spirit of the Renaissance abroad, after the Renaissance had ended in Italy, to the extremest verges of the civilized world. An enumeration of their names, an examination of their services to modern thought, would show how puissant was the intellectual influence of Italy in that period of her political decadence.[123] [Footnote 122: _op. cit._ p. 70.] [Footnote 123: Both Berti and Quinet have made similar remarks, which, indeed, force themselves upon a student of the sixteenth century.] Bruno has to be treated from two distinct but interdependent points of view--in his relation to contemporary thought and the Renaissance; and in his relation to the evolution of modern philosophy--as the critic of mediaeval speculation and the champion of sixteenth-century enthusiasm; and also as the precursor of Descartes, Spinoza, Leibnitz, Schelling, Hegel, Darwin. From the former of these two points of view Bruno appears before us as the man who most vitally and comprehensively grasped the leading tendencies of his age in their intellectual essence. He left behind him the mediaeval conception of an extra-mundane God, creating a finite world, of which this globe is the center, and the principal episode in the history of which is the series of events from the Fall, through the Incarnation and Crucifixion, to the Last Judgment.[124] He substituted the conception of an ever-living, ever-acting, ever-self-effectuating God, immanent in an infinite universe, to the contemplation of whose attributes the mind of man ascends by study of Nature and interrogation of his conscience. The rehabilitation of the physical world and of humanity as part of its order, which the Renaissance had already indirectly effected through the medium of arts and literature and modes of life, found in Bruno an impassioned metaphysical supporter. He divinized Nature, not by degrading the Deity to matter, but by lifting matter to participation in the divine existence. The Renaissance had proclaimed the dignity of man considered as a mundane creature, and not in his relation to a hypothetical other-world. It abundantly manifested the beauty and the joy afforded by existence on this planet, and laughingly discarded past theological determinations to the contrary of its new Gospel. Bruno undertook the systematization of Renaissance intuitions; declared the divine reality of Nature and of man; demonstrated that we cannot speculate God, cannot think ourselves, cannot envisage the universe, except under the form of one living, infinite, eternal, divinely-sustained and soul-penetrated complex. He repudiated authority of every sort, refusing to acknowledge the decrees of the Church, freely criticising past philosophers, availing himself of all that seemed to him substantial in their speculations, but appealing in the last resort to that inner witness, that light of reason, which corresponds in the mental order to conscience in the moral. As he deified Nature, so he emancipated man as forming with Nature an integral part of the supreme Being. He was led upon this path to combat Aristotle and to satirize Christian beliefs, with a subtlety of scholastic argumentation and an acerbity of rhetoric that now pass for antiquated. Much that is obsolete in his writings must be referred to the polemical necessities of an age enthralled by peripatetic conceptions, and saturated with the ecclesiastical divinity of the schoolmen. [Footnote 124: This theological conception of history inspired the sacred drama of the Middle Ages, known to us as Cyclical Miracle Plays.] These forces of the philosophy he sought to supersede, had to be attacked with their own weapons and by methods adapted to the spirit of his age. Similar judgment may be passed upon his championship of the Copernican system. That system was the pivot of his metaphysic, the revelation to which he owed his own conception of the universe. His strenuous and ingenious endeavors to prove its veracity, his elaborate and often-repeated refutations of the Ptolemaic theory, appear to modern minds superfluous. But we must remember what a deeply-penetrating, widely-working revolution Copernicus effected in cosmology, how he dislocated the whole fabric upon which Catholic theology rested, how new and unintelligible his doctrine then seemed, and what vast horizons he opened for speculation on the destinies of man. Bruno was the first fully to grasp the importance of the Copernican hypothesis, to perceive its issues and to adapt it to the formation of a new ontology. Copernicus, though he proclaimed the central position of the sun in our system, had not ventured to maintain the infinity of the universe. For him, as for the elder physicists, there remained a sphere of fixed stars inclosing the world perceived by our senses within walls of crystal. Bruno broke those walls, and boldly asserted the now recognized existence of numberless worlds in space illimitable. His originality lies in the clear and comprehensive notion he formed of the Copernican discovery, and in his application of its corollaries to the Renaissance apocalypse of deified nature and emancipated man. The deductions he drew were so manifold and so acute that they enabled him to forecast the course which human thought has followed in all provinces of speculation. This leads us to consider how Bruno is related to modern science and philosophy. The main point seems to be that he obtained a vivid mental picture (_Vorstellung_) of the physical universe, differing but little in essentials from that which has now come to be generally accepted. In reasoning from this concept as a starting-point, he formed opinions upon problems of theology, ontology, biology and psychology, which placed him out of harmony with medaeival thought, and in agreement with the thought of our own time. Why this was so, can easily be explained. Bruno, first of all philosophers, adapted science, in the modern sense of that term, to metaphysic. He was the first to perceive that a revolution in our conception of the material universe, so momentous as that effected by Copernicus, necessitated a new theology and a new philosophical method. Man had ceased to be the center of all things; this globe was no longer 'the hub of the universe,' but a small speck floating on infinity. The Christian scheme of the Fall and the Redemption, if not absolutely incompatible with the new cosmology was rendered by it less conceivable in any literal sense. Some of the main points on which the early Christians based their faith, and which had hardened into dogmas through the course of centuries--such, for instance, as the Ascension and the Second Advent--ceased to have their old significance. In a world where there was neither up nor down, the translation of a corporeal Deity to some place above the clouds, whence he would descend to judge men at the last day, had only a grotesque or a symbolic meaning; whereas to the first disciples, imbued with theories of a fixed celestial sphere, it presented a solemn and apparently well-founded expectation. The fundamental doctrine of the Incarnation, in like manner, lost intelligibility and value, when God had to be thought no longer as the Creator of a finite cosmos, but as a Being commensurate with infinity. It was clear to a mind so acute as Bruno's that the dogmas of the Church were correlated to a view of the world which had been superseded; and he drew the logical inference that they were at bottom but poetical and popular adumbrations of the Deity in terms concordant with erroneous physical notions. Aristotle and Ptolemy, the masters of philosophy and cosmography based upon a theory of the universe as finite and circumscribed within fixed limits, lent admirable aid to the theological constructions of the Middle Ages. The Church, adopting their science, gave metaphysical and logical consistency to those earlier poetical and popular conceptions of the religious sense. The _naïf_ hopes and romantic mythologies of the first Christians stiffened into syllogisms and ossified in the huge fabric of the _Summa_. But Aristotle and Ptolemy were now dethroned. Bruno, in a far truer sense than Democritus before him, extra Processit longe flammantia moenia mundi. Bolder even than Copernicus, and nearer in his intuition to the truth, he denied that the universe had 'flaming walls' or any walls at all. That 'immaginata circonferenza,' 'quella margine immaginata del cielo,' on which antique science and Christian theology alike reposed, was the object of his ceaseless satire, his oft-repeated polemic. What, then, rendered Bruno the precursor of modern thought in its various manifestations, was that he grasped the fundamental truth upon which modern science rests, and foresaw the conclusions which must be drawn from it. He speculated boldly, incoherently, vehemently; but he speculated with a clear conception of the universe, as we still apprehend it. Through the course of three centuries we have been engaged in verifying the guesses, deepening, broadening and solidifying the hypotheses, which Bruno's extension of the Copernican theory, and his application of it to pure thought, suggested to his penetrating and audacious intellect, Bruno was convinced that religion in its higher essence would not suffer from the new philosophy. Larger horizons extended before the human intellect. The soul expanded in more exhilarating regions than the old theologies had offered. The sense of the Divine in Nature, instead of dwindling down to atheism, received fresh stimulus from the immeasurable prospect of an infinite and living universe. Bruno, even more than Spinoza, was a God-intoxicated man. The inebriation of the Renaissance, inspired by golden visions of truth and knowledge close within man's grasp, inflamed with joy at escaping from out-worn wearying formula into what appeared to be the simple intuition of an everlasting verity, pulses through all his utterances. He has the same cherubic confidence in the renascent age, that charms us in the work of Rabelais. The slow, painful, often thwarted, ever more dubious elaboration of modern metaphysic in _rapport_ with modern science--that process which, after completing the cycle of all knowledge and sounding the fathomless depth of all ignorance, has left us in grave disillusionment and sturdy patience--swam before Bruno in a rapturous vision. The Inquisition and the stake put an end abruptly to his dream. But the dream was so golden, so divine, that it was worth the pangs of martyrdom. Can we say the same for Hegel's system, or for Schopenhauers or for the encyclopaedic ingenuity of Herbert Spencer? Bruno imagined the universe as infinite space, filled with ether, in which an infinite number of worlds, or solar systems resembling our own, composed of similar materials and inhabited by countless living creatures, move with freedom. The whole of this infinite and complex cosmos he conceived to be animated by a single principle of thought and life. This indwelling force, or God, he described in Platonic phraseology sometimes as the Anima Mundi, sometimes as the Artificer, who by working from within molds infinite substance into an infinity of finite modes. Though we are compelled to think of the world under the two categories of spirit and matter, these apparently contradictory constituents are forever reconciled and harmonized in the divine existence, whereof illimitable activity, illimitable volition, and illimitable potentiality are correlated and reciprocally necessary terms. In Aristotelian language, Bruno assumed infinite form and infinite matter as movements of an eternal process, by which the infinite unity manifests itself in concrete reality. This being the case, it follows that nothing exists which has not life, and is not part of God. The universe itself is one immeasurable animal, or animated Being. The solar systems are huge animals; the globes are lesser animals; and so forth down to the monad of molecular cohesion. As the universe is infinite and eternal, motion, place and time do not qualify it; these are terms applicable only to the finite parts of which it is composed. For the same reason nothing in the universe can perish. What we call birth and death, generation and dissolution, is only the passage of the infinite, and homogeneous entity through successive phases of finite and differentiated existence; this continuous process of exchange and transformation being stimulated and sustained by attraction and repulsion, properties of the indwelling divine soul aiming at self-realization. Having formed this conception, Bruno supported it by metaphysical demonstration, and deduced conclusions bearing on psychology, religion, ethics. Much of his polemic was directed against the deeply-rooted notion of a finite world derived from Aristotle. Much was devoted to the proof of the Copernican discovery. Orthodox theology was indirectly combated or plausibly caressed. There are consequently many pages in his dialogues which do not interest a modern reader, seeing that we have outlived the conditions of thought that rendered them important. In the process of his argument, he established the theory of a philosophical belief, a religion of religions, or 'religione della mente,' as he phrased it, prior to and comprehensive of all historical creeds. He speculated, as probabilities, the transmigration of souls, and the interchangeability of types in living creatures. He further postulated a concordance between the order of thought and the order of existence in the universe, and inclined to the doctrine of necessity in morals. Bruno thus obtained _per saltum_ a prospect over the whole domain of knowledge subsequently traversed by rationalism in metaphysics, theology and ethics. In the course of these demonstrations and deductions he anticipated Descartes' position of the identity of mind and being. He supplied Spinoza with the substance of his reasoned pantheism; Leibnitz with his theory of monadism and pre-established harmony. He laid down Hegel's doctrine of contraries, and perceived that thought was a dialectic process. The modern theory of evolution was enunciated by him in pretty plain terms. He had grasped the physical law of the conservation of energy. He solved the problem of evil by defining it to be a relative condition of imperfect development. He denied that Paradise or a Golden Age is possible for man, or that, if possible, it can be considered higher in the moral scale than organic struggle toward completion by reconciliation of opposites through pain and labor. He sketched in outline the comparative study of religions, which is now beginning to be recognized as the proper basis for theology. Finally, he had a firm and vital hold upon that supreme speculation of the universe, considered no longer as the battle-ground of dual principles, or as the finite fabric of an almighty designer, but as the self-effectuation of an infinite unity, appearing to our intelligence as spirit and matter--that speculation which in one shape or another controls the course of modern thought.[125] [Footnote 125: It was my intention to support the statements in this paragraph by translating the passages which seem to me to justify them; and I had gone so far as to make English versions of some twenty pages in length, when I found that this material would overweight my book. A study of Bruno as the great precursor of modern thought in its more poetical and widely synthetic speculation must be left for a separate essay. Here I may remark that the most faithful and pithily condensed abstract of Bruno's philosophy is contained in Goethe's poem _Proemium zu Gott und Welt_. Yet this poem expresses Goethe's thought, and it is doubtful whether Goethe had studied Bruno except in the work of his disciple Spinoza.] It must not be supposed that Bruno apprehended these points with distinctness, or that he expressed them precisely in the forms with which we are familiar. The hackneyed metaphor of a Pisgah view across the promised land applies to him with singular propriety. Moreover, as an acute critic has remarked, things old and new are so curiously blended in his writings that what at first sight appears modern, is often found upon reflection to be antique, and what is couched in obsolete scholastic terminology, turns out upon analysis to contain the germs of advanced theories.[126] The peculiar forms adapted for the exposition of his thoughts contribute to the difficulty of obtaining a methodical view of Bruno's philosophy. It has, therefore, been disputed whether he was a pantheist or an atheist, a materialist or a spiritualist, a mystic or an agnostic. No one would have contended more earnestly than Bruno himself, that the sage can hold each and all of these apparent contradictions together, with the exception of atheism; which last is a simple impossibility. The fragmentary and impassioned exposition which Bruno gave to his opinions in a series of Italian dialogues and Latin poems will not discourage those of his admirers who estimate the conspicuous failure made by all elaborate system-builders from Aristotle to Hegel. To fathom the mystery of the world, and to express that mystery in terms of logic, is clearly beyond the faculty of man. Philosophies that aim at universe-embracing, God-explaining, nature-elucidating, man-illuminating, comprehensiveness, have justly, therefore, become objects of suspicion. The utmost that man can do, placed as he is at obvious disadvantages for obtaining a complete survey of the whole, is to whet his intelligence upon confessedly insoluble problems, to extend the sphere of his practical experience, to improve his dominion over matter, to study the elevation of his moral nature, and to encourage himself for positive achievements by the indulgence in those glorious dreams from which regenerative creeds and inspiring philosophies have sprung-- Still climbing after knowledge infinite, And ever moving as the restless spheres. [Footnote 126: Spaventa in his _Saggi di Critica_.] Faith and poetry are the highest regions in which his spirit can profitably move. The study of government, law, and social ethics, the analysis of physical conditions to which he is subject, and over which he has an undefined, though limited, control, form the practical sphere of his intelligence. Bruno traversed these regions; and, forasmuch as the outcome of his exploration was no system, but a congeries of poetic visions, shrewd guesses, profound intuitions, and passionate enthusiasms, bound together and sustained by a burning sense of the Divine unity in nature and in man, we may be permitted to regard him as more fortunate than those cloud-castle-builders whose classifications of absolute existences are successively proved by the advance of relative knowledge to be but catalogues of some few objects apprehended by the vision of each partially-instructed age. We have, indeed, reason to marvel how many of Bruno's intuitions have formed the stuff of later, more elaborated systems, and still remain the best which these contain. We have reason to wonder how many of his divinations have worked themselves into the common fund of modern beliefs, and have become philosophical truisms. It is probable that if Bruno's career had not been cut short by the dungeon and the stake at the early age of thirty-four, he might have produced some final work in which his theories would have assumed a formal shape. It is possible that the Vatican even now contains the first sketch for such a studied exposition in the treatise on the Seven Arts, which Giovanni Mocenigo handed over to the Inquisition, and which the philosopher intended to dedicate to Clement VIII. But the loss of this elaborated system is hardly to be regretted, except for the clearer light it must have thrown upon the workings of the most illuminated intellect in the sixteenth century. We know that it could not have revealed to us the secret of things. Bruno cast his thoughts in two molds: the dialogue, and Latin hexameters. He was attracted to the latter by his early study of Parmenides and Lucretius. The former seems to have been natural to the man. We must not forget that he was a Neapolitan, accustomed from childhood to the farces of his native land, vividly alive to the comic aspects of existence, and joyously appreciative of reality. His first known composition was a comedy, _Il Candelajo_; and something of the drama can be traced in all those Italian compositions which distinguish the period of his activity as an author in London. Lucian rather than Plato or Cicero determined the form of his dialogue. An element of the burlesque distinguishes his method of approaching religious and moral problems in the _Spaccio della Bestia_, and the _Cavallo Pegaseo_. And though he exchanged the manner of his model for more serious exposition in the trio of metaphysical dialogues, named _La Cena delle Ceneri, Della Causa_, and _Dell' Infinito Universo_, yet the irresistible tendency to dramatic satire emerges even there in the description of England and in the characters of the indispensable pedant buffoon. His dialogue on the _Eroici Furori_ is sustained at a high pitch of aspiring fervor. Mystical in its attempt to adumbrate the soul's thirst for truth and beauty, it adopts the method of a running commentary upon poems, in the manner of a discursive and fantastic _Vita Nuova_. In his Italian style, Bruno owed much to the fashion set by Aretino. The study of Aretino's comedies is apparent in _Il Candelajo_. The stringing together of words and ideas in triplets, balanced by a second set of words and ideas in antithetical triplets--this trick of rhetoric, which wearies a modern reader of his prose, seems to have been copied straight from Aretino. The coinage of fantastic titles, of which _Lo Spaccio della Bestia Trionfante_ contributed in some appreciable degree to Bruno's martyrdom, should be ascribed to the same influence. The source of these literary affectations was a bad one. Aretino, Doni, and such folk were no fit masters for Giordano Bruno even in so slight a matter as artistic form. Yet, in this respect, he shared a corrupt taste which was common to his generation, and proved how fully he represented the age in which he lived. It is not improbable that the few contemporary readers of his works, especially in euphuistic England, admired the gewgaws he so plentifully scattered and rendered so brilliant by the coruscations of his wit. When, however, the real divine oestrum descends upon him, he discards those follies. Then his language, like his thought, is all his own: sublime, impassioned, burning, turbid; instinct with a deep volcanic fire of genuine enthusiasm. The thought is simple; the diction direct; the attitude of mind and the turn of expression are singularly living, surprisingly modern. We hear the man speak, as he spoke at Fulke Greville's supper-party, as he spoke at Oxford, as he spoke before the Sorbonne, as he might be speaking now. There is no air of literary effort, no tincture of antiquated style, in these masculine utterances. CHAPTER X. FRA PAOLO SARPI. Sarpi's Position in the History of Venice--Parents and Boyhood--Entrance into the Order of the Servites--His Personal Qualities--Achievements as a Scholar and Man of Science--His Life among the Servites--In Bad Odor at Rome--Paul V. places Venice under Interdict--Sarpi elected Theologian and Counselor of the Republic--His Polemical Writings--Views on Church and State--The Interdict Removed--Roman Vengeance--Sarpi attacked by Bravi--His Wounds, Illness, Recovery--Subsequent History of the Assassins--Further Attempts on Sarpi's Life--Sarpi's Political and Historical Works--History of the Council of Trent--Sarpi's Attitude toward Protestantism--His Judgment of the Jesuits--Sarpi's Death--The Christian Stoic. Fra Paolo was the son of Francesco Sarpi and Isabella Morelli, Venetians of the humbler middle class. He was born in 1552, christened Pietro, and nicknamed Pierino because of his diminutive stature. On entering the Order of the Servites he adopted the religious name of Paolo, which he subsequently rendered famous throughout Europe. Since he died in 1623, Sarpi's life coincided with a period of supreme interest and manifold vicissitudes in the decline of Venice. After the battle of Lepanto in 1571, he saw the nobles of S. Mark welcome their victorious admiral Sebastiano Veniero and confer on him the honors of the Dogeship. In 1606, he aided the Republic to withstand the thunders of the Vatican and defy the excommunication of a Pope. Eight years later he attended at those councils of state which unmasked the conspiracy, known as Bedmar's, to destroy Venice. In his early manhood Cyprus had been wrested from the hands of S. Mark; and inasmuch as the Venetians alone sustained the cause of Christian civilization against Turk and pirate in the Eastern seas, he was able before his death to anticipate the ruin which the war of Candia subsequently brought upon his country. During the last eighteen years of his existence Sarpi was the intellect of the Republic; the man of will and mind who gave voice and vigor to her policy of independence; the statesman who most clearly penetrated the conditions of her strength and weakness. This friar incarnated the Venetian spirit at a moment when, upon the verge of decadence, it had attained self-consciousness; and so instinctively devoted are Venetians to their State that in his lifetime he was recognized by them as hero, and after his death venerated as saint. No sooner had the dispute with Paul V. been compromised, than Sarpi noticed how the aristocracy of Venice yielded themselves to sloth and political indifference. The religious obsequiousness to Rome and the 'peace or rather cowardice of slaves,' which were gradually immersing Italy in mental torpor and luxurious idleness, invaded this last stronghold of freedom. Though Sarpi's Christian Stoicism and practical sagacity saved him from playing the then futile part of public agitator, his private correspondence shows how low his hope had sunk for Italy. Nothing but a general war could free her from the yoke of arrogant Rome and foreign despotism. Meanwhile the Papal Court, Spain and the House of Austria, having everything to lose by contest, preserved the peace of Italy at any cost. Princes whose petty thrones depended on Spanish and Papal good-will, dreaded to disturb the equilibrium of servitude; the population, dulled by superstition, emasculated by Jesuitical corruption and intimidated by Church tyranny, slumbered in the gross mud-honey of slavish pleasures. From his cell in the convent of the Servites Sarpi swept the whole political horizon, eagerly anticipating some dawn-star of deliverance. At one time his eyes rested on the Duke of Savoy, but that unquiet spirit failed to steer his course clear between Spanish and French interests, Roman jealousies, and the ill-concealed hostilities of Italian potentates. At another time, like all lovers of freedom throughout Europe, he looked with confidence to Henri IV. But a fanatic's dagger, sharpened by the Jesuits, cut short the monarch's life and gave up France to the government of astute Florentine adventurers. Germany was too distracted by internal dissensions, Holland too distant and preoccupied with her own struggle for existence, to offer immediate aid. It was in vain that Sarpi told his foreign correspondents that the war of liberty in Europe must be carried into the stronghold of absolutism. To secure a victory over the triple forces of Spain, the Papal Court and Jesuitry, Rome had to be attacked in Italy. His reasoning was correct. But peoples fighting for freedom on their native soil could not risk an adventure which only some central power of the first magnitude like France might have conducted with fair prospect of success. In the meantime what Sarpi called the Diacatholicon, that absolutist alliance of Rome, Spain and Austria, supported by the Inquisition and the Jesuits, accepted by the states of Italy and firmly rooted in some parts of Germany, invaded even those provinces where the traditions of independence still survived. After 1610 the Jesuits obtained possession of France; and though they did not effect their re-entrance into Venice, the ruling classes of the Republic allowed themselves to be drugged by the prevalent narcotic. Venice, too, was fighting for her life in the Adriatic and the Levant, while her nobles became daily more supine in aristocratic leisure, more papalizing in their private sympathies. Thus the last years of Sarpi's life were overclouded by a deep discouragement, which did not, indeed, extinguish his trust in the divine Providence or his certain belief that the right would ultimately prevail, but which adds a tragic interest to the old age of this champion of political and moral liberty fallen on evil days. I have thought it well to preface what I have to say about Sarpi with this forecast of his final attitude. As the Italian who most clearly comprehended the full consequences of the Catholic Revival, and who practically resisted what was evil for his nation in that reactionary movement, he demands a prominent place in this book. On his claims to scientific discoveries and his special service rendered to the Venetian Republic it will suffice to touch but lightly. Sarpi's father was short of stature, brown-complexioned, choleric and restless. His mother was tall, pale, lymphatic, devoted to religious exercises and austerities. The son of their ill-assorted wedlock inherited something of both temperaments. In his face and eyes he resembled his mother; and he derived from her the piety which marked his course through life. His short, spare person, his vivid, ever-active intellect testified to the paternal impress. This blending of two diverse strains produced in him a singular tenacity of fiber. Man's tenement of clay has rarely lodged a spirit so passionless, so fine, so nearly disembodied. Of extreme physical tenuity, but gifted with inexhaustible mental energy, indefatigable in study, limitless in capacity for acquiring and retaining knowledge, he accentuated the type which nature gave him by the sustained habits of a lifetime. In diet he abstained from flesh and abhorred wine. His habitual weaknesses were those of one who subdues the body to mental government. As costive as Scaliger,[127] Sarpi suffered from hepatic hemorrhage, retention of urine, prolapsus recti, and hemorrhoids. Intermittent fevers reduced his strength, but rarely interfered with his activity. He refused to treat himself as an invalid, never altered his course of life for any illness, and went about his daily avocations when men of laxer tissue would have taken to their bed. His indifference to danger was that of the Stoic or the Mussulman. During a period of fifteen years he knew that restless foes were continually lying in wait to compass his death by poison or the dagger. Yet he could hardly be persuaded to use the most ordinary precautions. 'I am resolved,' he wrote, in 1609, 'to give no thought whatever to these wretchednesses. He who thinks too much of living knows not how to live well. One is bound to die once; to be curious about the day or place or manner of dying is unprofitable. Whatsoever is God's will is good.'[128] As fear had no hold upon his nature, so was he wholly free from the dominion of the senses. A woman's name, if we except that of the Queen of France, is, I think, not once mentioned in his correspondence. Even natural affections seem to have been obliterated; for he records nothing of his mother or his father or a sister who survived their deaths. One suit of clothes sufficed him; and his cell was furnished with three hour-glasses, a picture of Christ in the Garden, and a crucifix raised above a human skull. [Footnote 127: We may remind our readers of Henri IV.'s parting words to Joseph Scaliger: 'Est-il vrai que vous avez été de Paris à Dijon sans aller à la selle?'] [Footnote 128: _Lettere_, vol. i. p. 239.] His physical sensitiveness, developed by austerity of life, was of the highest acuteness. Sight, touch, and taste in him acquired the most exquisite delicacy. He was wont to say that he feared no poison in his food, since he could discriminate the least adulteration of natural flavors. His mental perspicacity was equally subtle. As a boy he could recite thirty lines of Virgil after hearing them read over once. Books were not so much perused by him as penetrated at a glance; and what he had but casually noticed, never afterwards escaped his memory. In the vast Venetian archives he could lay his hand on any document without referring to registers or catalogues. The minutest details of houses visited or places passed through, remained indelibly engraved upon his memory. The characters of men lay open to his insight through their physiognomy and gestures. When new scientific instruments were submitted to his curiosity, he divined their uses and comprehended their mechanism without effort. Thus endowed with a rare combination of physical and intellectual faculties, it is no wonder that Sarpi became one of the most learned men of his age or of any age. He was an excellent Greek, Latin, and Hebrew scholar; an adequate master of the French and Spanish languages; profoundly versed in canon and civil law; accomplished in the erudition of classical and scholastic philosophy; thoroughly acquainted with secular and ecclesiastical history. Every branch of mathematics and natural science had been explored by him with the enthusiasm of a pioneer. He made experiments in chemistry, mechanics, mineralogy, metallurgy, vegetable and animal physiology. His practical studies in anatomy were carried on by the aid of vivisection. Following independent paths, he worked out some of Gilbert's discoveries in magnetism, and of Da Porta's in optics, demonstrated the valves of the veins, and the function of the uvea in vision, divined the uses of the telescope and thermometer. When he turned his attention to astronomy, he at once declared the futility of judicial astrology; and while recognizing the validity of Galileo's system, predicted that this truth would involve its promulgator in serious difficulties with the Roman Inquisition. In his treatises on psychology and metaphysics, he originated a theory of sensationalism akin to that of Locke. There was, in fact, no field of knowledge which he had not traversed with the energy of a discoverer. Only to poetry and _belles lettres_ he paid but little heed, disdaining the puerilities of rhetoric then in vogue, and using language as the simplest vehicle of thought. In conversation he was reticent, speaking little, but always to the purpose, and rather choosing to stimulate his collocutors than to make display of eloquence or erudition. Yet his company was eagerly sought, and he delighted in the society, not only of learned men and students, but of travelers, politicians, merchants, and citizens of the world. His favorite places of resort were the saloons of Andrea Morosini, and the shop of the Secchini at the sign of the Nave d'Oro. Here, after days spent in religious exercises, sacerdotal duties, and prolonged studies, he relaxed his mind in converse with the miscellaneous crowd of eminent persons who visited Venice for business or pleasure. A certain subacid humor, combining irony without bitterness, and proverbial pungency without sententiousness, added piquancy to his discourse. We have, unfortunately, no record of the wit-encounters which may have taken place under Morosini's or Secchini's roof between this friar, so punctual in his religious observances, so scrupulously pure in conduct, so cold in temperament, so acute in intellect, so modest in self-esteem, so cautious, so impermeable, and his contemporary, Bruno, the unfrocked friar of genius more daring but less sure, who was mentally in all points, saving their common love of truth and freedom, the opposite to Sarpi. Sarpi entered the Order of the Servi, or Servants of the Blessed Virgin, at the age of fourteen, renewed his vows at twenty, and was ordained priest at twenty-two.[129] His great worth brought him early into notice, and he filled posts of considerable importance in his Order. Several years of his manhood were spent in Rome, transacting the business and conducting the legal causes of the Fathers. At Mantua he gained the esteem of Guglielmo Gonzaga. At Milan he was admitted to familiar intimacy with the sainted Carlo Borromeo, who consulted him upon matters of reform in the diocese, and insisted on his hearing confessions. This duty was not agreeable to Sarpi; and though he habitually in after life said Mass and preached, he abstained from those functions of the priesthood which would have brought him into close relation with individuals. The bent of his mind rendered him averse to all forms of superstition and sacerdotal encroachments upon the freedom of the conscience. As he fought the battle of political independence against ecclesiastical aggression, so he maintained the prerogatives of personal liberty. The arts whereby Jesuits gained hold on families and individuals, inspired in him no less disgust than the illegal despotism of the Papacy. This blending of sincere piety and moral rectitude with a passion for secular freedom and a hatred of priestly craft, has something in it closely akin to the English temperament. Sarpi was a sound Catholic Christian in religion, and in politics what we should call a staunch Whig. So far as it is now possible to penetrate his somewhat baffling personality, we might compare him to a Macaulay of finer edge, to a Dean Stanley of more vigorous build. He was less commonplace than the one, more substantial than the other. But we must be cautious in offering any interpretation of his real opinions. It was not for nothing that he dedicated himself to the monastic life in boyhood, and persevered in it to the end of his long career. The discipline of the convent renders every friar inscrutable; and Sarpi himself assured his friends that he, like all Italians of his day, was bound to wear a mask.[130] [Footnote 129: It was under the supervision of the Servites that Sarpi gained the first rudiments of education. Thirst for knowledge may explain his early entrance into their brotherhood. Like Virgil and like Milton, he received among the companions of his youthful studies the honorable nickname of 'The Maiden.' Gross conversation, such as lads use, even in convents, ceased at his approach. And yet he does not seem to have lost influence among his comrades by the purity which marked him out as exceptional.] [Footnote 130: _Lettere_, vol. i. p. 237.] Be this as it may, Sarpi was not the man to work his way by monkish intrigue or courtly service into high place either in his Order or the Church. Long before he unsheathed the sword in defense of Venetian liberties, he had become an object of suspicion to Rome and his superiors. Some frank words which escaped him in correspondence, regarding the corruption of the Papal Curia, closed every avenue to office. Men of less mark obtained the purple. The meanest and poorest bishoprics were refused to Sarpi. He was thrice denounced, on frivolous charges, to the Inquisition; but on each occasion the indictment was dismissed without a hearing. The General of the Servites accused him of wearing cap and slippers uncanonical in cut, and of not reciting the _Salve Regina_. After a solemn trial, Sarpi was acquitted; and it came to be proverbially whispered that 'even the slippers of the incorruptible Fra Paolo had been canonized.' Being a sincere Catholic at heart, as well as a man of profound learning and prudent speech, his papalistic enemies could get no grip upon him. Yet they instinctively hated and dreaded one whom they felt to be opposed, in his strength, fearlessness and freedom of soul, to their exorbitant pretensions and underhand aggressions upon public liberties. His commerce with heretics both in correspondence with learned Frenchmen and in conversation with distinguished foreigners at Venice, was made a ground of accusation, and Clement VIII. declared that this alone sufficed to exclude him from any dignity in the Church. It does not appear that Sarpi troubled his head about these things. Had he cared for power, there was no distinction to which he might not have aspired by stooping to common arts and by compromising his liberty of conscience. But he was indifferent to rank and wealth. Public business he discharged upon occasion from a sense of duty to his Order. For the rest, so long as he was left to pursue his studies in tranquillity, Sarpi had happiness enough; and his modesty was so great that he did not even seek to publish the results of his discoveries in science. For this reason they have now been lost to the world; only the memory of them surviving in the notes of Foscarini and Grisellini, who inspected his MSS. before they were accidentally destroyed by fire in 1769. Though renowned through Europe as the _orbis terrae ocellus_, the man sought out by every visitor to Venice as the rarest citizen of the Republic, Sarpi might have quitted this earthly scene with only the faint fame of a thinker whose eminent gifts blossomed in obscurity, had it not been for a public opportunity which forced him to forsake his studies and his cell for a place at the Council-board and for the functions of a polemical writer. That robust manliness of mind, which makes an Englishman hail English virtues in Sarpi, led him to affirm that 'every man of excellence is bound to pay attention to politics.'[131] Yet politics were not his special sphere. Up to the age of fifty-four he ripened in the assiduous studies of which I have made mention, in the discharge of his official duties as a friar, and his religious duties as a priest. He had distinguished himself amid the practical affairs of life by judicial acuteness, unswerving justice, infallible perspicacity, and inexhaustible stores of erudition brought to bear with facility on every detail of any matter in dispute. But nature and inclination seemed to mark him out through early manhood for experimental and speculative science rather than for action. Now a demand was made on his deep fount of energy, which evolved the latent forces of a character unique in many-sided strength. He had dedicated himself to religion and to the pursuit of knowledge. But he was a Venetian of the Venetians, the very soul of Venice. After God, his Prince and the Republic claimed obedience; and when S. Mark called, Sarpi abandoned science for the service of his country. 'Singularly composed of active and contemplative energies was the life of our Father; yielding to God that which he was able, to his Prince that which duty dictated, and to the domain of Venice more than any law but that of love demanded.'[132] [Footnote 131: _Lettere_, vol. ii, p. 80.] [Footnote 132: Sarpi's _Life_ by Fra Fulgenzio, p. 64.] Paul V. assumed the tiara with the fixed resolve of making good the Papal claims to supremacy. Between Venice and the Holy See numerous disputed points of jurisdiction, relating to the semi-ecclesiastical fief of Ceneda, the investiture of the Patriarch, the navigation of the Po, and the right of the Republic to exercise judgment in criminal cases affecting priests, offered this Pope opportunities of interference. The Venetians maintained their customary prerogatives; and in April 1606 Paul laid them under interdict and excommunication. The Republic denied the legitimacy of this proceeding. The Doge, Leonardo Donato, issued a proclamation to the clergy of all degrees within the domain, appealing to their loyalty and enjoining on them the discharge of their sacerdotal duties in spite of the Papal interdict. Only Jesuits at first disobeyed the ducal mandate. When they refused to say Mass in the excommunicated city, they were formally expelled as contumacious subjects; and the fathers took ship amid the maledictions of the populace: '_Andate in malora_.' Their example was subsequently followed by the reformed Capuchins and the Theatines. Otherwise the Venetian clergy, like the people, remained firm in their allegiance to the state. 'We are Venetians first, Christians afterwards,' was a proverb dating from this incident. Venice, conscious of the justice of her cause, prepared to resist the Pope's arrogant demands if need were with arms, and to exercise religious rites within her towns in spite of Camillo Borghese's excommunication. The Senate, some time before these events happened, had perceived the advantage which would accrue to the Republic from the service of a practised Canonist and jurisprudent in ecclesiastical affairs. Sarpi attracted their attention at an early stage of the dispute by a memorial which he drew up and presented to the Doge upon the best means of repelling Papal aggression. After perusing his report, in the month of January 1606, they appointed him Theologian and Canonist to the Republic, with a yearly salary of 200 ducats. This post he occupied until his death, having at a later period been raised to the still more important office of Counselor of State, which eventually he filled alone without a single coadjutor. From the month of January 1606, for the remaining seventeen years of his life, Sarpi was intellectually the most prominent personage of Venice, the man who for the world at large represented her policy of moderate but firm resistance to ecclesiastical tyranny. Greatness had been thrust upon the modest and retiring student; and Father Paul's name became the watchword of political independence throughout Europe. The Jesuists acting in concert with Spain, as well-informed historians held certain, first inspired Camillo Borghese with his ill-considered attempt upon the liberties of Venice.[133] It was now the Jesuits, after their expulsion from the Republic, who opened the batteries of literary warfare against the Venetian government. They wrote and published manifestoes through the Bergamasque territory, which province acknowledged the episcopal jurisdiction of Milan, though it belonged to the Venetian domain. In these writings it was argued that, so long as the Papal interdict remained in force, all sacraments would be invalid, marriages null, and offspring illegitimate. The population, trained already in doctrines of Papal supremacy, were warned that should they remain loyal to a contumacious State, their own souls would perish through the lack of sacerdotal ministrations, and their posterity would roam the world as bastards and accursed. To traverse this argument of sarcerdotal tyranny, exorbitant in any age of the Latin Church, but preposterous after the illumination of the sixteenth century in Europe, was a citizen's plain duty. Sarpi therefore supplied an elegant Italian stylist, Giambattista Leoni, with material for setting forth a statement of the controversy between Venice and Rome. It would have been well if he had taken up the pen with his own hand. But at this early period of his career as publicist, he seems to have been diffident about his literary powers. The result was that Leoni's main defense of the Republic fell flat; and the war was waged for a while upon side issues. Sarpi drew a treatise by Gerson, the learned French champion of Catholic independence, forth from the dust of libraries, translated it into Italian, and gave it to the press accompanied by an introductory letter which he signed.[134] Cardinal Bellarmino responded from Rome with an attack on Sarpi's orthodoxy and Gerson's authority. Sarpi replied in an Apology for Gerson. Then, finding that Leoni's narrative had missed its mark, he poured forth pamphlet upon pamphlet, penning his own _Considerations on the Censures_, inspiring Fra Fulgenzio Micanzi with a work styled _Confirmations_, and finally reducing the whole matter of the controversy into a book entitled a _Treatise on the Interdict_, which he signed together with six brother theologians of the Venetian party. It is not needful in this place to institute a minute investigation into the merits of this pamphlet warfare. In its details, whether we regard the haughty claims of delegated omnipotence advanced by Rome, or the carefully studied historical and canonistic arguments built up by Sarpi, the quarrel has lost actuality. Common sense and freedom have so far conquered in Europe that Sarpi's opinions, then denounced as heresies, sound now like truisms; and his candid boast that he was the first to break the neck of Papal encroachments upon secular prerogative, may pass for insignificant in an age which has little to fear from ecclesiastical violence. [Footnote 133: Fra Fulgenzio's _Vita di F. Paolo_, p. 42. Venetian Dispatches in Mutinelli's _Storia Arcana_, vol. iii. p. 67.] [Footnote 134: The treatise which Sarpi translated was Gerson's _Considerations upon Papal Excommunications_. Gerson's part in the Council of Constance will be remembered. See Creighton's _History of the Papacy_, vol. i. p. 211.] Yet we must not forget that, during the first years of the seventeenth century, the Venetian conflict with Papal absolutism, considered merely as a test-case in international jurisprudence, was one of vitally important interest. When we reflect how the Catholic Alliance was then engaged in rolling back the tide of Reformation, how the forces of Rome had been rallied by the Tridentine Council, and how the organism of the Jesuits had been created to promulgate new dogmas of Papal almightiness in Church and State, this resistance of Venice, stoutly Catholic in creed, valiant in her defense of Christendom against the Moslem, supported by her faithful churchman and accomplished canonist, was no inconsiderable factor in the European strife for light and liberty. The occasion was one of crucial gravity. Reconstituted Rome had not as yet been brought into abrupt collision with any commonwealth which abode in her communion. Had Venice yielded in that issue, the Papacy might have augured for itself a general victory. That Venice finally submitted to Roman influence, while preserving the semblance of independence, detracts, indeed, from the importance of this Interdict-affair considered as an episode in the struggle for spiritual freedom. Moreover, we know now that the presumptuous pretensions of the Papacy at large were destined, before many years had passed, to be pared down, diminished and obliterated by the mere advance of intellectual enlightenment. Yet none of these considerations diminish Sarpi's claim to rank as hero in the forefront of a battle which in his time was being waged with still uncertain prospects.[135] In their comparatively narrow spheres Venice and Sarpi, not less than Holland, England, Sweden and the Protestants of Germany, on their wider platform at a later date, were fighting for a principle upon which the liberty of States depended. And they were the first to fight for it upon the ground most perilous to the common adversary. In all his writings Sarpi sought to prove that men might remain sound Catholics and yet resist Roman aggression; that the Roman Court and its modern champions had introduced new doctrine, deviating from the pristine polity of Christendom; that the post-Tridentine theory of Papal absolutism was a deformation of that order which Christ founded, which the Apostles edified, and which the Councils of a purer age had built into the living temple of God's Church on earth. [Footnote 135: Sarpi's correspondence abundantly proves how very grave was the peril of Papal Absolutism in his days. The tide had not begun to turn with force against the Jesuit doctrines of Papal Supremacy. See Ranke, vol. ii. pp. 4-12, on these doctrines and the counter-theories to which they gave rise. We must remember that the Papal power was now at the height of its ascension; and Sarpi can be excused for not having reckoned on the inevitable decline it suffered during the next century.] A passage from Sarpi's correspondence may be cited, as sounding the keynote to all his writings in this famous controversy. 'I imagine,' he writes to Jacques Gillot in 1609, 'that the State and the Church are two realms, composed, however, of the same human beings. The one is wholly heavenly, the other earthly. Each has its own sovereignty, defended by its own arms and fortifications. Nothing is held by them in common, and there should be no occasion for the one to declare war upon the other. Christ said that he and his disciples were not of this world. S. Paul affirms that our city is in the heavens. I take the word Church to signify an assembly of the faithful, not of priests only; for when we regard it as confined to those, it ceases to be Christ's kingdom, and becomes a portion of the commonwealth in this world, subject to the highest authority of State, as also are the laity.[136] This emphatic distinction between Church and State, both fulfilling the needs of humanity but in diverse relations, lay at the root of Sarpi's doctrine. He regarded the claim of the Church to interfere in State management, not only as an infringement of the prince's prerogative, but also as patent rebellion against the law of God which had committed the temporal government of nations in sacred trust to secular rulers. As the State has no call to meddle in the creation and promulgation of dogmas, or to impose its ordinances on the religious conscience of its subjects, so the Church has no right to tamper with affairs of government, to accumulate wealth and arrogate secular power, or to withdraw its ministers from the jurisdiction of the prince in matters which concern the operation of criminal and civil legislature. The ultramontanism of the Jesuits appeared to him destructive of social order; but, more than this, he considered it as impious, as a deflection from the form of Christian economy, as a mischievous seduction of the Church into a slough of self-annihilating cupidity and concupiscence. Sarpi's views seemed audacious in his own age. But they have become the commonplaces of posterity. We can therefore hardly do justice to the originality and audacity which they displayed at an epoch when only Protestants at war with Rome advanced the like in deadly hatred--when the Catholic pulpits of Europe were ringing with newly-promulgated doctrines of Papal supremacy over princes and peoples, of national rights to depose or assassinate excommunicated sovereigns, and of blind unreasoning obedience to Rome as the sole sure method of salvation. Upon the path of that Papal triumph toward the Capitol of world-dominion, Sarpi, the puny friar from his cell at Venice, rose like a specter announcing certain doom with the irrefragable arguments of reason. The minatory words he uttered were all the more significant because neither he nor the State he represented sought to break with Catholic traditions. His voice was terrible and mighty, inasmuch as he denounced Rome by an indictment which proclaimed her to be the perturbing power in Christendom, the troubler of Israel, the whore who poured her cup of fornications forth to sup with princes. [Footnote 136: _Lettere_, vol. i. p. 312.] After sixteen months, the quarrel of the interdict was compromised. Venice, in duel with Islam, could ill afford to break with Rome, even if her national traditions of eight centuries, intertwined with rites of Latin piety, had not forbidden open rupture. The Papal Court, cowed into resentful silence by antagonism which threatened intellectual revolt through Europe, waived a portion of its claims. Three French converts from Huguenot opinions to Catholicism, Henri IV., the Cardinal du Perron, and M. de Canaye, adjusted matters. The interdict was dismissed from Venice rather than removed--in haughty silence, without the clashing of bells from S. Pietro di Castello and S. Marco, without manifestation of joy in the city which regarded Papal interdicts as illegitimate, without the parade of public absolution by the Pope. Thus the Republic maintained its dignity of self-respect. But Camillo Borghese, while proclaiming a general amnesty, reserved _in petto_ implacable animosity against the theologians of the Venetian party. Two of these, Marsilio. and Rubetti, died suddenly under suspicion of poison.[137] A third, Fulgenzio Manfredi, was lured to Rome, treated with fair show of favor, and finally hung in the Campo di Fiora by order of the Holy Office.[138] A fourth, Capello, abjured his so-called heresies, and was assigned a pittance for the last days of his failing life in Rome.[139] It remained, if possible, to lay hands on Fra Paolo and his devoted secretary, Fra Fulgenzio Micanzi, of the Servites. [Footnote 137: Sarpi's _Letters_, vol. ii. pp. 179, 284.] [Footnote 138: _Ibid._ pp. 100-102.] [Footnote 139: Bianchi Giovini, _Vita di Fra P. Sarpi_, vol. ii. p. 49.] Neither threats nor promises availed to make these friends quit Venice. During the interdict and afterwards, Fulgenzio Micanzi preached the gospel there. He told the people that in the New Testament he had found truth; but he bade them take notice that for the laity this book was even a dead letter through the will of Rome.[140] Paul V. complained in words like these: Fra Fulgenzio's doctrine contains, indeed, no patent heresy, but it rests so clearly on the Bible as to prejudice the Catholic faith.[141] Sarpi informed his French correspondents that Christ and the truth had been openly preached in Venice by this man.[142] Fulgenzio survived the troubles of those times, steadily devoted to his master, of whom he has bequeathed to posterity, a faithful portrait in that biography which combines the dove-like simplicity of the fourteenth century with something of Roger North's sagacity and humor.[143] Of Fulgenzio we take no further notice here, having paid him our debt of gratitude for genial service rendered in the sympathetic delineation of so eminent a character as Sarpi's. A side-regret may be expressed that some such simple and affectionate record of Bruno as a man still fails us, and alas, must ever fail. Fulgenzio, by his love, makes us love Sarpi, who otherwise might coldly win our admiration. But for Bruno, that scapegoat of the spirit in the world's wilderness, there is none to speak words of worship and affection. [Footnote 140: A.G. Campbell's _Life of Sarpi_, p. 174.] [Footnote 141: Sarpi's _Letters_, vol. i. pp. 231, 239.] [Footnote 142: _Ibid._ pp. 220, 222, 225.] [Footnote 143: _Vita del Padre F. Paolo Sarpi_, Helmstat, per Jacopo Mulleri, MDCCXXXXX.] The first definite warning that his life was in danger came to Sarpi from Caspar Schoppe, the publicist. Scioppius (so his contemporaries called him) was a man of doubtful character and unsteady principles, who, according as his interests varied, used a fluent pen and limpid Latin style for or against the Jesuit faction. History would hardly condescend to notice him but for the singular luck he had of coming at critical moments into contact with the three chief Italian thinkers of his time. We know already that a letter of this man is the one contemporary testimony of an eye-witness to Bruno's condemnation which we possess. He also deserves mention for having visited Campanella in prison and helped to procure his liberation. Now in the year 1607, while passing through Venice, Schoppe sought a private interview with Sarpi, pointed out the odium which Fra Paolo had gained in Rome by his writings, and concluded by asserting that the Pope meant to have him alive or to compass his assassination. If Sarpi wished to make his peace with Paul V., Schoppe was ready to conduct the reconciliation upon honorable terms, having already several affairs of like import in his charge. To this proposal Sarpi replied that the cause he had defended was a just one, that he had done nothing to offend his Holiness, and that all plots against his liberty or life he left within the hands of God. To these words he significantly added that, even in the Pope's grasp, a man was always 'master over his own life'--a sentence which seems to indicate suicide as the last resort of self-defense. In September of the same year the Venetian ambassador at Rome received private information regarding some mysterious design against a person or persons unknown, at Venice, in which the Papal Court was implicated, and which was speedily to take effect.[144] On October 5 Sarpi was returning about 5 o'clock in the afternoon to his convent at S. Fosca, when he was attacked upon a bridge by five ruffians. It so happened that on this occasion he had no attendance but his servant Fra Marino; Fra Fulgenzio and a man of courage who usually accompanied him, having taken another route home. The assassins were armed with harquebusses, pistols and poniards. One of them went straight at Sarpi, while the others stood on guard and held down Fra Marino. Fifteen blows in all were aimed at Sarpi, three of which struck him in the neck and face. The stiletto remained firmly embedded in his cheekbone between the right ear and nose. He fell to the ground senseless; and a cry being raised by some women who had witnessed the outrage from a window, the assassins made off, leaving their victim for dead. It was noticed that they took refuge in the palace of the Papal Nuncio, whence they escaped that same evening to the Lido _en route_ for the States of the Church. An old Venetian nobleman of the highest birth, Alessandro Malipiero, who bore a singular affection for the champion of his country's liberty, was walking a short way in front of Sarpi beyond the bridge upon which the assault was perpetrated. He rushed to his friend's aid, dragged out the dagger from his face, and bore him to the convent. There Sarpi lay for many weeks in danger, suffering as much, it seems, from his physicians as from the wounds. Not satisfied with the attendance of his own surgeon, Alvise Ragoza, the Venetians insisted on sending all the eminent doctors of the city and of Padua to his bedside. The illustrious Acquapendente formed one of this miscellaneous _cortège_; and when the cure was completed, he received a rich gold chain and knighthood for his service. Every medical man suggested some fresh application. Some of them, suspecting poison, treated the wounds with theriac and antidotes. Others cut into the flesh and probed. Meanwhile the loss of blood had so exhausted Sarpi's meager frame that for more than twenty days he had no strength to move or lift his hands. Not a word of impatience escaped his lips; and when Acquapendente began to medicate the worst wound in his face, he moved the dozen doctors to laughter by wittily observing, 'And yet the world maintains that it was given _Stilo Romanae Curiae_.'[145] His old friend Malipiero would fain have kept the dagger as a relic. But Sarpi suspended it at the foot of a crucifix in the church of the Servi, with this appropriate inscription, _Dei Filio Liberatori_. When he had recovered from his long suffering, the Republic assigned their Counselor an increase of pension in order that he might maintain a body of armed guards, and voted him a house in S. Marco for the greater security of his person. But Sarpi begged to be allowed to remain among the friars, with whom he had spent his life, and where his vocation bound him. In the future he took a few obvious precautions, passing in a gondola to the Rialto and thence on foot through the crowded Merceria to the Ducal Palace, and furthermore securing the good offices of his attendants in the convent by liberal gifts of money. Otherwise, he refused to alter the customary tenor of his way. [Footnote 144: Dispatch to Fr. Contarini under date September 25, 1607, quoted in Campbell's _Life of Sarpi_, p. 145.] [Footnote 145: Fulgenzio's _Life_, p. 61. A.G. Campbell asserts that this celebrated _mot_ of Sarpi's is not to be found in Fulgenzio's MS. It occurs, however, quite naturally in the published work. The first edition of the _Life_ appeared in 1646, eight years before Fulgenzio's death. The discrepancies between it and the MS. may therefore have been intended by the author.] The State of Venice resented this attack upon their servant as though it had been directed against the majesty of the Republic. A proclamation was immediately issued, offering enormous rewards for the capture or murder of the criminals, especially so worded as to insinuate the belief that men of high position in Rome were implicated. The names of the chief conspirators were as follows: Ridolfo Poma, a broken Venetian merchant; Alessandro Parrasio of Ancona, outlawed for the murder of his uncle; a priest, Michele Viti of Bergamo; and two soldiers of adventure, Giovanni di Fiorenza and Pasquale di Bitonto. Having escaped to the Lido, they took ship for Ravenna and arrived in due course at Ancona, where they drew 1000 crowns from the Papal Camera, and proceeded to make triumphal progress through Romagna. Their joy was dashed by hearing that Fra Paolo had not been killed. The Venetian _bando_ filled them with fears and mutual suspicions, each man's hand being now set against his comrade, and every ruffian on the road having an interest in their capture. Yet after some time they continued their journey to Rome, and sought sanctuary in the palace of Cardinal Colonna. Here their reception was not what they had anticipated. Having failed in the main object and brought scandal on the Church, they were maintained for some months in obscurity, and then coldly bidden to depart with scanty recompense. All this while their lives remained exposed to the Venetian ban. Under these circumstances it is not strange that the men were half-maddened. Poma raged like a wild beast, worshiping the devil in his private chamber, planning schemes of piracy and fresh attacks on Sarpi, even contemplating a last conspiracy against the person of the Pope. He was seized in Rome by the _sbirri_ of the government, and one of his sons perished in the scuffle. Another returned to Venice, and ended his days there as a vagrant lunatic. Poma himself died mad in the prison of Cività Vecchia. Viti also died mad in the same prison. Parrasio died in prison at Rome. One of the soldiers was beheaded at Perugia, and the other fell a victim to cut-throats on the high road. Such was the end of the five conspirators against Fra Paolo Sarpi's life.[146] A priest, Franceschi, who had aided and abetted their plot, disappeared soon after the explosion; and we may rest tolerably assured that his was no natural removal to another world. It is just to add that the instigation of this murderous plot was never brought home by direct testimony to any members of the Papal Court. But the recourse which the assassins first had to the asylum of the Nuncio in Venice, their triumphal progress through cities of the Church, the moneys they drew on several occasions, the interest taken in them by Cardinal Borghese when they finally reached Rome, and their deaths in Papal dungeons, are circumstances of overwhelming cumulative evidence against the Curia. Sarpi's life was frequently attempted in the following years. On one occasion, Cardinal Bellarmino, more mindful of private friendship than of public feud, sent him warning that he must live prepared for fresh attacks from Rome. [Footnote 146: A full account of them is given by Bianchi Giovini in his _Biografia_, chap. xvii.] Indeed, it may be said that he now passed his days in continual expectation of poison or the dagger. This appears plainly in Fulgenzio's biography and in the pages of his private correspondence. The most considerable of these later conspiracies, of which Fra Fulgenzio gives a full account, implicated Cardinal Borghese and the General of the Servite Order.[147] The history seems in brief to be as follows. One Fra Bernardo of Perugia, who had served the Cardinal during their student days, took up his residence in Rome so soon as Scipione Borghese became a profitable patron. In the course of the year 1609, this Fra Bernardo dispatched a fellow-citizen of his, named Fra Giovanni Francesco, to Padua, whence he frequently came across to Venice and tampered with Sarpi's secretary, Fra Antonio of Viterbo. These three friars were all of them Servites; and it appears that the General looked with approval on their undertaking. The upshot of the traffic was that Fra Antonio, having ready access to Sarpi's apartments and person, agreed either to murder him with a razor or to put poison in his food, or, what was finally determined on, to introduce a couple of assassins into his bedchamber at night. An accident revealed the plot, and placed a voluminous cyphered correspondence in the hands of the Venetian Inquisitor of State. Fra Fulgenzio significantly adds that of all the persons incriminated by these letters, none, with the exception of the General of the Servites, was under the rank of Cardinal. The wording of his sentence is intentionally obscure, but one expression seems even to point at the Pope.[148] [Footnote 147: _Vita di F. Paolo_, pp. 67-70.] At the close of this affair, so disgraceful to the Church and to his Order, Fra Paolo besought the Signory of Venice on his bended knees, as a return for services rendered by him to the State, that no public punishment should be inflicted on the culprits. He could not bear, he said, to be the cause of bringing a blot of infamy upon his religion, or of ruining the career of any man. Fra Giovanni Francesco afterwards redeemed his life by offering weighty evidence against his powerful accomplices. But what he revealed is buried in the oblivion with which the Council of Ten in Venice chose to cover judicial acts of State-importance. It is worth considering that in all the attempts upon Sarpi's life, priests, friars, and prelates of high place were the prime agents.[149] Poor devils like Poma and Parrasio lay ready to their hands as sanguinary instruments, which, after work performed, could be broken if occasion served. What, then, was the religious reformation of which the Roman Court made ostentatious display when it secured its unexpected triumph in the Council of Trent? [Footnote 148: _Vita di F. Paolo_, p. 68: 'Le cose che vennero a pubblica notizia e certe sono: che molte persone nominate in quella cifra, di _Padre_, fratelli, e cugini, per le contracifre constò, dal Generale de' Servi in fuori, niuna esser di dignità inferiore alia Cardinalizia.'] [Footnote 149: Sarpi says that no crime happened in Venice without a friar or priest being mixed in it (_Lettere_, vol. i. 351).] We must reply that in essential points of moral conduct this reformation amounted to almost nothing, and in some points to considerably less than nothing. The Church of God, as Sarpi held, suffered deformation rather than reformation. That is to say, this Church, instead of being brought back to primitive simplicity and purged of temporal abuses, now lay at the mercy of ambitious hypocrites who with the Supreme Pontiff's sanction, pursued their ends by treachery and violence. Its hostility to heretics and its new-fangled doctrine of Papal almightiness encouraged the spread of a pernicious casuistry which favored assassination. Kings at strife with the Catholic Alliance, honest Christians defending the prerogatives of their commonwealth, erudite historians and jurists who disapproved of substituting Popes in Rome for God in heaven, might be massacred or kidnapped by ruffians red with the blood of their nearest relatives and carrying the condemnation of their native States upon their forehead. According to the post-Tridentine morality of Rome, that morality which the Jesuits openly preached and published, which was disseminated in every prelate's ante-chamber, and whispered in every parish-priest's confessional, enormous sins could be atoned and eternal grace be gained by the merciless and traitorous murder of any notable man who savored of heresy. If the Holy Office had instituted a prosecution against the victim and had condemned him in his absence, the path was plain. Sentence of excommunication and death publicly pronounced on such a man reduced him to the condition of a wild beast, whose head was worth solid coin and plenary absolution to the cut-throat. A private minute recorded on the books of the Inquisitors had almost equal value; and Sarpi was under the impression that some such underhand proceeding against himself had loosed a score of knives. But short of these official or semi-judicial preliminaries, it was maintained upon the best casuistical authority that to take the life of any suspected heretic, of any one reputed heterodox in Roman circles, should be esteemed a work of merit creditable to the miscreant who perpetrated the deed, and certain, even should he die for it, to yield him in the other world the joys of Paradise. These joys the Jesuits described in language worthy of the Koran. Dabbled in Sarpi's or Duplessis Mornay's blood, quartered and tortured like Ravaillac, the desperado of so pious a crime would swim forever in oceans of ecstatic pleasure. The priest, ambitious for his hierarchy, fanatical in his devotion to the Church, relying upon privilege if he should chance to be detected, had a plain interest in promoting and directing such conspiracies. Men of blood, and bandits up to the hilts in crimes of violence, rendered reckless by the indiscriminate cruelty of justice in those days, allured by the double hope of pay and spiritual benefit, rushed without a back-thought into like adventures. Ready to risk their lives in an unholy cause, such ruffians were doubly glad to do so when the bait of heaven's felicity was offered to their grosser understanding. These considerations explain, but are far indeed from exculpating, the complicity of clergy and cut-throats in every crime of violence attempted against foes of Papal Rome. Sarpi's worst enemies could scarcely fix on him the crime of heresy. He was a staunch Catholic; so profoundly versed both in dogmatic theology and in ecclesiastical procedure, that to remain within the straitest limits of orthodoxy, while opposing the presumption of the Papal Court, gave him no trouble. Yet at the time in which he lived, the bare act of resistance to any will or whim of Rome, passed with those doctors who were forging new systems of Pontifical supremacy, for heretical. In this arbitrary and uncanonical sense of the phrase Sarpi was undoubtedly a heretic. He had deserved the hatred of the Curia, the Inquisition, the Jesuits, and their myrmidons. Steadily, with caution and a sober spirit, he had employed his energies and vast accumulated stores of knowledge in piling up breakwaters against their pernicious innovations. In all his controversial writings during the interdict Sarpi used none but solid arguments, drawn from Scripture, canon law, and the Councils of the early Church, in order to deduce one single principle: namely that both secular and ecclesiastical organisms, the State and the Church, are divinely appointed, but with several jurisdictions and for diverse ends. He pressed this principle home with hammer-strokes of most convincing proof on common sense and reason. He did so even superfluously to our modern intellect, which is fatigued by following so elaborate a chain of precedents up to a foregone conclusion. But he let no word fall, except by way of passing irony, which could bring contempt upon existing ecclesiastical potentates; and he maintained a dispassionate temper, while dealing with topics which at that epoch inflamed the fiercest party strife. His antagonists, not having sound learning, reason, and the Scripture on their side, were driven to employ the rhetoric of personal abuse and the stiletto. In the end the badness of their cause was proved by the recourse they had to conspiracies of pimps, friars, murderers, and fanatics, in order to stifle that voice of truth which told them of their aberration from the laws of God. It was not merely by his polemical writings during the interdict, that Sarpi won the fame of heretic in ultra-papal circles. In his office as Theologian to the Republic he had to report upon all matters touching the relations of State to Church; and the treatises which he prepared on such occasions assumed the proportions, in many instances, of important literary works. Among these the most considerable is entitled _Delle Materie Beneficiarie_. Professing to be a discourse upon ecclesiastical benefices, it combines a brief but sufficient history of the temporal power of the Papacy, an inquiry into the arts whereby the Church's property had been accumulated, and a critique of various devices employed by the Roman Curia to divert that wealth from its original objects. In 'this golden volume,' to use Gibbon's words, 'the Papal system is deeply studied and freely described.' Speaking of its purport, Hallam observes: 'That object was neither more nor less than to represent the wealth and power of the Church as ill-gotten and excessive.' Next in importance is a _Treatise on the Inquisition_, which gives a condensed sketch of the origin and development of the Holy Office, enlarging upon the special modifications of that institution as it existed in Venice. Here likewise Sarpi set himself to resist ecclesiastical encroachments upon the domain of secular jurisdiction. He pointed out how the right of inquiring into cases of heretical opinion had been gradually wrested from the hands of the bishop and the State, and committed to a specially-elected body which held itself only responsible to Rome. He showed how this powerful tribunal was being used to the detriment of States, by extending its operation into the sphere of politics, excluding the secular magistracy from participation in its judgments, and arrogating to itself the cognizance of civil crimes. A third _Discourse upon the Press_ brought the same system of attack to bear upon the Index of prohibited books. Sarpi was here able to demonstrate that a power originally delegated to the bishops of proscribing works pernicious to morality and religion, was now employed for the suppression of sound learning and enlightenment by a Congregation sworn to support the Papacy. Passing from their proper sphere of theology and ethics, these ecclesiastics condemned as heretical all writings which denied the supremacy of Rome over nations and commonwealths, prevented the publication and sale of books which defended the rights of princes and republics, and flooded Europe with doctrines of regicide, Pontifical omnipotence, and hierarchical predominance in secular affairs. These are the most important of Sarpi's minor works. But the same spirit of liberal resistance against Church aggression, supported by the same erudition and critical sagacity, is noticeable in a short tract explaining how the Right of Asylum had been abused to the prejudice of public justice; in a _Discourse upon the Contributions of the Clergy_, distinguishing their real from their assumed immunities; and in a brief memorandum upon the Greek College in Rome, exposing the mischief wrought in commonwealths and families by the Jesuit system of education. In all these writings Sarpi held firmly by his main principle, that the State, no less than the Church, exists _jure divino_. The papal usurpation of secular prerogatives was in his eyes not merely a violation of the divinely appointed order of government, but also a deformation of the ecclesiastical ideal. Those, he argued, are the real heretics who deprave the antique organism of the Church by making the Pope absolute, who preach the deity of the Roman Pontiff as though he were a second God equal in almightiness to God in heaven. 'Nay,' he exclaims in a passage marked by more than usual heat, 'should one drag God from heaven they would not stir a finger, provided the Pope preserved his vice-divinity or rather super-divinity. Bellarmino clearly states that to restrict the Papal authority to spiritual affairs is the same as to annihilate it; showing that they value the spiritual at just zero.'[150] Sarpi saw that the ultra-papalists of his day, by subordinating the State, the family and the individual to the worldly interests of Rome, by repressing knowledge and liberty of conscience, preaching immoral and anti-social doctrines, encouraging superstition and emasculating education, for the maintenance of those same worldly interests, were advancing steadily upon the path of self-destruction. The essence of Christianity was neglected in this brutal struggle for supremacy; while truth, virtue and religion, those sacred safe-guards of humanity, which the Church was instituted to preserve, ran no uncertain risk of perishing through the unnatural perversion of its aims. [Footnote 150: _Lettere_, vol. ii. p. 169.] The work which won for Sarpi a permanent place in the history of literature, and which in his lifetime did more than any other of his writings to expose the Papal system, is the history of the Tridentine Council. It was not published with his name or with his sanction. A manuscript copy lent by him to Marcantonio de Dominis, Archbishop of Spalatro, was taken by that waverer between Catholicism and Protestantism to England, and published in London under the pseudonym of Pietro Soave Polano--an anagram of Paolo Sarpi Veneto--in the year 1619. That Sarpi was the real author admits of no doubt. The book bears every stamp of genuineness. It is written in the lucid, nervous, straightforward style of the man, who always sought for mathematical precision rather than rhetorical elegance in his use of language. Sarpi had taken special pains to collect materials for a History of the Council; and in doing so he had enjoyed exceptional advantages. Early in his manhood he formed at Mantua a close friendship with Camillo Olivo, who had been secretary to the Papal Legate, Cardinal Gonzaga of Mantua, at Trent. During his residence in Rome between 1585 and 1587 he became intimately acquainted with Cardinal Castagna, president of the committee appointed for drawing up the decrees of the Council. In addition to the information afforded by these persons, officially connected with the transactions of the Council, Sarpi had at his command the Archives of Venice, including the dispatches of ambassadors, and a vast store of published documents, not to mention numerous details which in the course of his long commerce with society he had obtained from the lips of credible witnesses. All these sources, grasped in their diversity by his powerful memory and animated with his vivid intellect, are worked into an even, plain, dispassionate narration, which, in spite of the dryness of the subject, forms a truly fascinating whole. That Sarpi was strictly fair in his conception of the Council, can scarcely be maintained; for he wrote in a spirit of distinct antagonism to the ends which it achieved. Yet the more we examine the series of events described by him, the more are we convinced that in its main features the work is just. When Sir Roger Twysden pronounced it 'to be written with so great moderation, learning and wisdom, as might deserve a place among the exactest pieces of ecclesiastic story any age had produced,' he did not overshoot the mark. Nor has the avowedly hostile investigation to which Cardinal Pallavicini submitted it, done more than to confirm its credit by showing that a deadly enemy, with all the arsenal of Roman documents at his command, could only detect inaccuracies in minor details and express rage at the controlling animus of the work. It was Sarpi's object to demonstrate that the Council of Trent, instead of being a free and open Synod of Christians assembled to discuss points at issue between the Catholic and Protestant Churches, was in reality a closely-packed conciliabulum, from which Protestants were excluded, and where Catholics were dominated by the Italian agents of the Roman Court. He made it clear, and in this he is confirmed by masses of collateral proofs, that the presiding spirit of the Council was human diplomacy rather than divine inspiration, and that Roman intrigue conducted its transactions to an issue favorable for Papal supremacy by carefully manipulating the interests of princes and the passions of individuals. 'I shall narrate the causes,' he remarks, in his exordium, 'and the negotiations of an ecclesiastical convocation during the course of twenty-two years, for divers ends and with varied means; by whom promoted and solicited, by whom impeded and delayed; for another eighteen years, now brought together, now dissolved; always held with various ends; and which received a form and accomplishment quite contrary to the design of those who set it going, as also to the fear of those who took all pains to interrupt it. A clear monition that man ought to yield his thoughts resignedly to God and not to trust in human prudence. Forasmuch as this Council, desired and put in motion by pious men for the reunion of the Church which had begun to break asunder, hath so established schism and embittered factions that it has rendered those discords irreconcilable; handled by princes for the reform of the ecclesiastical system, has caused the greatest deformation that hath ever been since the name of Christian came into existence; by bishops with hope expected as that which would restore the episcopal authority, now in large part absorbed by the sole Roman Pontiff, hath been the reason of their losing the last vestige of it and of their reduction to still greater servitude. On the other hand, dreaded and evaded by the Court of Rome, as an efficient instrument for curbing that exorbitant power, which from small beginnings hath arrived by various advances to limitless excess, it has so established and confirmed it over the portion still left subject to it, as that it never was so vast nor so well-rooted.' In treating of what he pithily calls 'the Iliad of our age,' Sarpi promises to observe the truth, and protests that he is governed by no passion. This promise the historian kept faithfully. His animus is never allowed to transpire in any direct tirades; his irony emerges rather in reporting epigrams of others than in personal sarcasms or innuendoes; his own prepossessions and opinions are carefully veiled. After reading the whole voluminous history we feel that it would be as inaccurate to claim Sarpi for Protestantism as to maintain that he was a friend of ultra-papal Catholicism. What he really had at heart was the restoration of the Church of God to unity, to purer discipline and to sincere spirituality. This reconstruction of Christendom upon a sound basis was, as he perceived, rendered impossible by the Tridentine decrees. Yet, though the dearest hope of his heart had been thus frustrated, he set nothing down in malice, nor vented his own disappointment in laments which might have seemed rebellious against the Divine will. Sarpi's personality shows itself most clearly in the luminous discourses with which from time to time he elucidates obscure matters of ecclesiastical history. Those on episcopal residence, pluralism, episcopal jurisdiction, the censure of books, and the malappropriation of endowments, are specially valuable.[151] If no other proof existed, these digressions would render Sarpi's authorship of the History unmistakable. They are identical in style and in intention with his acknowledged treatises, firmly but calmly expressing a sound scholar's disapproval of abuses which had grown up like morbid excrescences upon the Church. Taken in connection with the interpolated summaries of public opinion regarding the Council's method of procedure and its successive decrees, these discourses betray a spirit of hostility to Rome which is nowhere openly expressed. Sarpi illustrated Aretino's cynical sentence: 'How can you speak evil of your neighbor? By speaking the truth, by speaking the truth!'--without rancor and without passion. Nothing, in fact, could have been more damaging to Rome than his precise analysis of her arts in the Council. I have said that the History of the Tridentine Council, though it confirmed Sarpi's heretical reputation, would not justify us in believing him at heart a Protestant.[152] [Footnote 151: _Opere di Paolo Sarpi_, Helmstädt, 1761, vol. i. pp. 200, 233, 311; vol. ii. pp. 89, 187.] [Footnote 152: This contradicts the opinion of Hallam and Macaulay, both of whom were convinced that Sarpi was a Protestant at heart. Macaulay wishes that he had thrown off the friar's frock. In a certain sense Sarpi can be classified with the larger minds among the Reformed Churches of his age. But to call him a Protestant who concealed his real faith, argues coarseness of perception, incapacity for comprehending any attitude above and beyond belligerent Catholicism and Protestantism, or of sympathizing with the deeply-religious feelings of one who, after calculating all chances and surveying all dogmatic differences, thought that he could serve God as well and his country better in that communion which was his by birthright. To an illuminated intellect there was not in the seventeenth century much reason to prefer one of the Reformed Churches to Catholicism, except for the sake of political freedom. It being impossible to change the State-religion in Venice, Sarpi had no inducement to leave his country and to pass his life in exile among prejudiced sectarians.] Very much depends on how we define the word Protestant. If Sarpi's known opinions regarding the worldliness of Rome, ecclesiastical abuses, and Papal supremacy, constitute a Protestant, then he certainly was one. But if antagonism to Catholic dogma, repudiation of the Catholic Sacraments and abhorrence of monastic institutions are also necessary to the definition, then Sarpi was as certainly no Protestant. He seems to have anticipated the position of those Christians who now are known as Old Catholics. This appears from his vivid sympathy with the Gallican Church, and from his zealous defense of those prerogatives and privileges in which the Venetian Church resembled that of France. We must go to his collected letters in order to penetrate his real way of thinking on the subject of reform. The most important of these are addressed to Frenchmen--Ph. Duplessis Mornay, De l'Isle Groslot, Leschassier, a certain Roux, Gillot, and Casaubon. If we could be quite sure that the text of these familiar letters had not been tampered with before publication, their testimony would be doubly valuable. As it is, no one at all acquainted with Sarpi's style will doubt that in the main they are trustworthy. Here and there it may be that a phrase has been inserted or modified to give a stronger Protestant coloring. The frequent allusion to the Court of Rome under the title of _La Meretrice_, especially in letters to Duplessis Mornay, looks suspicious.[153] Yet Dante, Petrarch and Savonarola used similar metaphors, when describing the secular ambition of the Papacy. Having pointed out a weakness in this important series of documents, I will translate some obviously genuine passages which illustrate Sarpi's attitude toward reform. Writing to Leschassier upon the literary warfare of James I., he says it is a pity that the king did not abstain from theology and confine himself to the defense of his princely prerogatives against the claims of Rome. He has exposed himself to the imputation of wishing to upset the foundations of the faith. 'With regard to our own affairs [_i.e._ in Venice], we do not seek to mix up heaven and earth, things human and things divine. Our desire is to leave the sacraments and all that pertains to religion as they are, believing that we can uphold the secular government in those rights which Scripture and the teaching of the Fathers confirm.'[154] In another place he says: 'I have well considered the reasons which drew Germany and England into changing the observances of religion; but upon us neither these nor others of greater weight will exercise any influence. [Footnote 153: _Lettere_, vol. ii. pp. 3, 18, 96, 109, and elsewhere.] [Footnote 154: _Ib._ vol. ii. p. 6.] It is better to suffer certain rules and customs that are not in all points commendable, than to acquire a taste for revolution and to yield to the temptation of confounding all things in chaos.'[155] His own grievance against the Popes, he adds, is that they are innovating and destroying the primitive constitution of the Church. With regard to the possibility of uniting Christendom, he writes that many of the differences between Catholics and Protestants seem to him verbal; many, such as could be tolerated in one communion; and many capable of adjustment. But a good occasion must be waited for.[156] Nothing can be done in Italy without a general war, that shall shake the powers of Spain and Rome.[157] Both Spain and Rome are so well aware of their peril that they use every means to keep Italy in peace.[158] If the Protestants of Europe are bent on victory, they must imitate the policy of Scipio and attack the Jesuits and Rome in their headquarters.[159] 'There is no enterprise of greater moment than to destroy the credit of the Jesuits. When they are conquered, Rome is taken; and without Rome, religion reforms itself spontaneously.'[160] 'Changes in State are inextricably involved in changes of religion;'[161] and Italy will never be free so long as the Diacatholicon lasts. [Footnote 155: _Lettere_, vol. i. p. 237.] [Footnote 156: _Ib._ p. 268.] [Footnote 157: _Ib._ vol. ii. pp. 29, 48, 59, 60, 125.] [Footnote 158: _Ib._ p. 120, 124.] [Footnote 159: _Ib._ p. 226.] [Footnote 160: _Ib._ p. 217.] [Footnote 161: _Ib._ p. 427.] Meanwhile, 'were it not for State policy there would be found hundreds ready to leap from this ditch of Rome to the summit of Reform.'[162] The hope of some improvement at Venice depends mainly upon the presence there of embassies from Protestant powers--England, Holland and the Grisons.[163] These give an opportunity to free religious discussion, and to the dissemination of Gospel truth. Sarpi is strong in his praise of Fra Fulgenzio for fearlessly preaching Christ and the truth, and repeats the Pope's complaint that the Bible is injurious to the Catholic faith.[164] He led William Bedell, chaplain to Sir H. Wotton and afterwards Bishop of Kilmore, to believe that Fra Fulgenzio and himself were ripe for Reform. 'These two I know,' writes Bedell to Prince Henry, 'as having practiced with them, to desire nothing so much as the Reformation of the Church, and, in a word, for the substance of religion they are wholly ours.'[165] During the interdict Diodati came from Geneva to Venice, and Sarpi informed him that some 12,000 persons in the city wished for rupture with Rome; but the government and the aristocracy being against it, nothing could be done.[166] [Footnote 162: _Lettere_, vol. ii. p. 283.] [Footnote 163: _Ib._ p. 110, 311.] [Footnote 164: _Ib._ vol. i. pp. 220, 222, 225, 231, 239.] [Footnote 165: Campbell's _Life_, p. 132.] [Footnote 166: _Ib._ p. 133, 135.] Enough has now been quoted to throw some light upon Sarpi's attitude toward Protestantism. That he most earnestly desired the overthrow of ultra-papal Catholicism, is apparent. So also are his sympathies with those reformed nations which enjoyed liberty of conscience and independence of ecclesiastical control. Yet his first duty was to Venice; and since the State remained Catholic, he personally had no intention of quitting the communion into which he had been born and in which he was an ordained priest. All Churches, he wrote in one memorable letter to Casaubon, have their imperfections. The Church of Corinth, in the days of the Apostles, was corrupt.[167] 'The fabric of the Church of God,' being on earth, cannot expect immunity from earthly frailties.[168] Such imperfections and such frailties as the Catholic Church shared with all things of this world, Sarpi was willing to tolerate. The deformation of that Church by Rome and Jesuitry he manfully withstood; but he saw no valid reason why he should abandon her for Protestantism. In his own conscience he remained free to serve God in spirit and in truth. The mind of the man in fact was too far-seeing and too philosophical to exchange old lamps for new without a better prospect of attaining to absolute truth than the dissenters from Catholicism afforded. His interest in Protestant, as separate from Catholic Reform, was rather civil and political than religious or theological. Could those soaring wings of Rome be broken, then and not till then might the Italians enjoy freedom of conscience, liberty of discussion and research, purer piety, and a healthier activity as citizens. [Footnote 167: _Lettere_, vol. ii. p. 86.] [Footnote 168: _Ib._ vol. i. p. 283.] Side light may be thrown upon Sarpi's judgment of the European situation by considering in detail what he said about the Jesuits. This company, as we have seen, lent its support to Papal absolutism; and during the later years of Sarpi's life it seemed destined to carry the world before it, by control of education, by devotion to Rome, by adroit manipulation of the religious consciousness for anti-social ends and ecclesiastical aggrandizement. The sure sign of being in the right, said Sarpi, is when one finds himself in contradiction to the Jesuits. They are most subtle masters in ill-doing, men who, if their needs demand, are ready to commit crimes worse than those of which they now are guilty. All falsehood and all blasphemy proceed from them. They have set the last hand at establishing universal corruption. They are a public plague, the plague of the world, chameleons who take their color from the soil they squat on, flatterers of princes, perverters of youth. They not only excuse but laud lying; their dissimulation is bare and unqualified mendacity; their malice is inestimable. They have the art so to blend their interests and that of Rome, seeking for themselves and the Papacy the empire of the world, that the Curia must needs support them, while it cowers before their inscrutable authority. They are the ruin of good literature and wholesome doctrine by their pitiful pretense of learning and their machinery of false teaching. On ignorance rests their power, and truth is mortal to them. Every vice of which humanity is capable, every frailty to which it is subject, finds from them support and consolation. If S. Peter had been directed by a Jesuit confessor he might have arrived at denying Christ without sin. The use the confessional as an instrument of political and domestic influence, reciprocating its confidences one with the other in their own debates, but menacing their penitents with penalties if a word of their counsel be bruited to the world. Expelled from Venice, they work more mischief there by their intrigues than they did when they were tolerated.[169] They scheme to get a hold on Constantinople and Palestine, in order to establish seminaries of fanatics and assassins. They are responsible for the murder of Henri IV., for if they did not instigate Ravaillac, their doctrine of regicide inspired him. They can creep into any kingdom, any institution, any household, because they readily accept any terms and subscribe to any conditions in the certainty that by the adroit use of flattery, humbug, falsehood, and corruption, they will soon become masters of the situation. In France they are the real Morbus Gallicus. In Italy they are the soul of the Diacatholicon. [Footnote 169: It is worthy of notice, as a stern Venetian joke, that when the Jesuits eventually returned to Rialto, they were bade walk in processions upon ceremonial occasions between the Fraternities of S. Marco and S. Teodoro--saints amid whose columns on the Molo criminals were executed.] The torrent of Sarpi's indignation against the Jesuits, as perverters of sound doctrine in the Church, disturbers of kingdoms, sappers of morality and disseminators of vile customs through society, runs so violently forward that we are fain to check it, while acknowledging its justice. One passage only, from the many passages bearing on this topic in his correspondence, demands special citation, since it deals directly with the whole material of the present work. Writing to his friend Leschassier, he speaks as follows: 'Nothing can be of more mischief to you in France than the dishonesty of bad confessors and their determination to aggrandize Rome by any means, together with the mistaken zeal of the good sort. We have arrived at a point where cure of the disease must even be despaired of. Fifty years ago things went well in Italy. There was no public system of education for training young men to the profit of the clergy. They were brought up by their parents in private, more for the advantage of their families than for that of the hierarchy. In religious houses, where studies flourished, attention was paid to scholastic logic. The jurisdiction and the authority of the Pope were hardly touched on; and while theology was pursued at leisure, the majority passed their years in contemplation of the Deity and angels. Recently, through the decrees of the Tridentine Council, schools have been opened in every State, which are called Seminaries, where education is concentrated on the sole end of augmenting ecclesiastical supremacy. Furthermore, the prelates of each district, partly with a view of saving their own pockets, and partly that they may display a fashionable show of zeal, have committed the charge of those institutions to Jesuits. This has caused a most important alteration in the aspect of affairs.'[170] It would be difficult to state the changes effected by the Tridentine Council and the commission of education to the Jesuits more precisely and more fairly than in this paragraph. How deeply Sarpi had penetrated the Jesuitical arts in education, can be further demonstrated from another passage in his minor works.[171] In a memoir prepared for the Venetian Signory, he says that the Jesuits are vulgarly supposed to be unrivaled as trainers of youth. But a patent equivocation lurks under this phrase 'unrivaled.' Education must be considered with regard to the utility of the State. 'Now the education of the Jesuits consists in stripping the pupil of every obligation to his father, to his country, and to his natural prince; in diverting all his love and fear toward a spiritual superior, on whose nod, beck and word he is dependent. This system of training is useful for the supremacy of ecclesiastics and for such secular governments as they are ready to submit to; and none can deny that the Jesuits are without equals in their employment of it. Yet in so far as it is advantageous in such cases, so also is it prejudicial to States, the end whereof is liberty and real virtue, and with whom the ecclesiastical faction remains in bad accord. From the Jesuit colleges there never issued a son obedient to his father, devoted to his country, loyal to his prince. The cause of this is that the Jesuits employ their best energies in destroying natural affection, respect for parents, reverence for princes. Therefore they only deserve to be admired by those whose interest it is to subject family, country and government to ecclesiastical interests.' [Footnote 170: _Lettere_, vol. i. p. 126; _Opere_, vol. vi. p. 40.] [Footnote 171: _Opere_, vol. vi. p. 145.] The Provincial Letters of Pascal, which Sarpi anticipated in so many points, suffice to prove that he was justified in this hostility to ultramontanism backed up by Jesuit artifices. He was writing, be it remembered, at the very high tide of Papal domination, when Henri IV. had been assassinated, and when the overwhelming forces of secular interests combined with intellectual progress had not as yet set limits on ecclesiastical encroachment. The dread lest Europe should succumb to Rome, now proved by subsequent events an unsubstantial nightmare, was real enough for this Venetian friar, who ran daily risk of assassination in down-trodden servile Italy, with Spanish plots threatening the arsenal, with France delivered into the hands of Florentines and casuists, with England in the grip of Stuarts, and with Germany distracted by intrigues. He could not foresee that in the course of a century the Jesuits would be discredited by their own arts, and that the Papacy would subside into a pacific sovereignty bent on securing its own temporal existence by accommodation. The end of Sarpi's life consecrated the principles of duty to God and allegiance to his country which had animated its whole course. He fell into a bad state of health; yet nothing would divert him from the due discharge of public business. 'All the signs of the soul's speedy departure from that age-enfeebled body, were visible; but his indefatigable spirit sustained him in such wise that he bore exactly all his usual burdens. When his friends and masters bade him relax his energies, he used to answer: My duty is to serve and not to live; there is some one daily dying in his office.[172] When at length the very sources of existence failed, and the firm brain wandered for a moment, he was once heard to say: 'Let us go to S. Mark, for it is late.'[173] The very last words he uttered, frequently repeated, but scarcely intelligible, were: 'Esto Perpetua.'[174] _May Venice last forever_! This was the dying prayer of the man who had consecrated his best faculties to the service of his country. But before he passed away into that half slumber which precedes death, he made confession to his accustomed spiritual father, received the Eucharist and Extreme Unction, and bade farewell to the superior of the Servites, in the following sentence: 'Go ye to rest, and I will return to God, from whom I came.' With these words he closed his lips in silence, crossing his hands upon his breast and fixing his eyes upon a crucifix that stood before him.[175] [Footnote 172: Fulgenzio's _Life_, p. 98.] [Footnote 173: _Ibid._ p. 105.] [Footnote 174: _Ibid._] [Footnote 175: Letter of the Superior to the Venetian Senate, printed in the _Lettere_, vol. ii. pp. 450-453. It is worth meditating on the contrast between Sarpi's and Bruno's deaths. Sarpi died with the consolations of religion on his bed in the convent which had been his life-long home. Bruno was burned alive, with eyes averted from the crucifix in bitter scorn, after seven and a half years spent in the prisons of the Inquisition. Sarpi exhaled his last breath amid sympathizing friends, in the service of a grateful country. Bruno panted his death-pangs of suffocation and combustion out, surrounded by menacing Dominicans, in the midst of hostile Rome celebrating her triumphant jubilee. Sarpi's last thoughts were given to the God of Christendom and the Republic. Bruno had no country; the God in whom he trusted at that grim hour, was the God within his soul, unrealized, detached by his own reason from every Church and every creed.] I will return to God from whom I came. These words--not the last, for the last were _Esto perpetua_; but the last spoken in the presence of his fraternity--have a deep significance for those who would fain understand the soul of Sarpi. When in his lifetime he spoke of the Church, it was always as 'the Church of God.' When he relegated his own anxieties for the welfare of society to a superior power, it was not to Mary, as Jesuits advised, nor even to Christ, but invariably to the Providence of God. Sarpi, we have the right to assume, lived and died a sincere believer in the God who orders and disposes of the universe; and this God, identical in fact though not in form with Bruno's, he worshiped through such symbols of ceremony and religion as had been adopted by him in his youth. An intellect so clear of insight as this, knew that 'God is a spirit, and they that worship him must worship him in spirit and in truth.' He knew that 'neither on this mountain nor yet in Jerusalem,' neither in Protestant communities nor yet in Rome was the authentic God made tangible; but that a loyal human being, created in God's image, could serve him and adore him with life-worship under any of the spiritual shapes which mortal frailty has fashioned for its needs. To penetrate the abyss of any human personality is impossible. No man truly sees into his living neighbor's, brother's, wife's, nay even his own soul. How futile, therefore, is the effort which we make to seize and sketch the vital lineaments of men long dead, divided from us not merely by the grave which has absorbed their fleshly form and deprived us of their tone of voice, but also by those differences in thought and feeling which separate the centuries of culture! Yet this impossible task lies ever before the historian. Few characters are more patently difficult to comprehend than that of Sarpi. Ultimately, so far as it is possible to formulate a view, I think he may be defined as a Christian Stoic, possessed with two main governing ideas, duty to God and duty to Venice. His last words were for Venice; the penultimate consigned his soul to God. For a mind like his, so philosophically tempered, so versed in all the history of the world to us-wards, the materials of dispute between Catholic and Protestant must have seemed but trifles. He stayed where he had early taken root, in his Servite convent at S. Fosca, because he there could dedicate his life to God and Venice better than in any Protestant conventicle. Had Venice inclined toward rupture with Rome, had the Republic possessed the power to make that rupture with success, Sarpi would have hailed the event gladly, as introducing for Italy the prospect of spiritual freedom, purer piety, and the overthrow of Papal-Spanish despotism. But Venice chose to abide in the old ways, and her Counselor of State knew better than any one that she had not the strength to cope with Spain, Rome, Jesuitry and Islam single-handed. Therefore he possessed his soul in patience, worshiping God under forms and symbols to which he had from youth been used, trusting the while that sooner or later God would break those mighty wings of Papal domination. CHAPTER XI. GUARINO, MARINO, CHIABRERA, TASSONI. Dearth of Great Men--Guarini a Link between Tasso and the Seventeenth Century--His Biography--The _Pastor Fido_--Qualities of Guarini as Poet--Marino the Dictator of Letters--His Riotous Youth at Naples--Life at Rome, Turin, Paris--Publishes the _Adone_--The Epic of Voluptuousness--Character and Action of Adonis--Marino's Hypocrisy--Sentimental Sweetness--Brutal Violence--Violation of Artistic Taste--Great Powers of the Poet--Structure of the _Adone_--Musical Fluency--Marinism--Marino's Patriotic Verses--Contrast between Chiabrera and Marino--An Aspirant after Pindar--Chiabrera's Biography--His Court Life--Efforts of Poets in the Seventeenth Century to attain to Novelty--Chiabrera's Failure--Tassoni's Life--His Thirst to Innovate--Origin of the _Secchia Rapita_--Mock-Heroic Poetry--The Plot of this Poem--Its Peculiar Humor--Irony and Satire--Novelty of the Species--Lyrical Interbreathings--Sustained Contrast of Parody and Pathos--The Poet Testi. Soon after 1600 it became manifest that lapse of years and ecclesiastical intolerance had rendered Italy nearly destitute of great men. Her famous sons were all either dead, murdered or exiled; reduced to silence by the scythe of time or by the Roman 'arguments of sword and halter.' Bruno burned, Vanini burned, Carnesecchi burned, Paleario burned, Bonfadio burned; Campanella banished, after a quarter of a century's imprisonment with torture; the leaders of free religious thought in exile, scattered over northern Europe. Tasso, worn out with misery and madness, rested at length in his tomb on the Janiculan; Sarpi survived the stylus of the Roman Curia with calm inscrutability at S. Fosca; Galileo meditated with closed lips in his watch-tower behind Bello Sguardo. With Michelangelo in 1564, Palladio in 1580, Tintoretto in 1594, the godlike lineage of the Renaissance artists ended; and what children of the sixteenth century still survived to sustain the nation's prestige, to carry on its glorious traditions? The list is but a poor one. Marino, Tassoni, the younger Buonarroti, Boccalini and Chiabrera in literature. The Bolognese Academy in painting. After these men expand arid wildernesses of the Sei Cento--barocco architecture, false taste, frivolity, grimace, affectation--Jesuitry translated into culture. On one bright point, indeed, the eye rests with hope and comfort. Palestrina, when he died in 1594, did not close but opened an age for music. His posterity, those composers, lutists, violists and singers, from whom the modern art of arts has drawn her being, down to the sweet fellowship of Pergolese, Marcello and Jomelli, of Guarneri, Amati and Stradivari, of Farinelli, Caffarielli and La Romanina, were as yet but rising dimly heralded with light of dawn upon their foreheads. In making the transition from the _Gerusalemme_ to the _Adone_, from the last great poem of the Cinque Cento to the epic of the Sei Cento, it is indispensable that notice should be taken of the _Pastor Fido_ and its author. Giambattista Guarini forms a link between Vasso and the poets of the seventeenth century. He belonged less to the Renaissance, more to the culture of the age created by the Council of Trent, than did Tasso. His life, in many of its details similar, in others most dissimilar, to that of Tasso, illustrates and helps us in some measure to explain the latter. It must therefore form the subject of a somewhat detailed study. Guarini drew his blood on the paternal side from the illustrious humanist Guarino of Verona, who settled at Ferrara in the fifteenth century as tutor to Leonello d'Este.[176] By his mother he claimed descent from the Florentine house of Machiavelli. Born in 1537, he was seven years older than Torquato Tasso, whom he survived eighteen years, not closing his long life until 1612. He received a solid education both at Pisa and Padua, and was called at the early age of eighteen to profess moral philosophy in the University of Ferrara. Being of noble birth and inheriting a considerable patrimony, Guarini might have enjoyed a life of uninterrupted literary leisure, if he had chosen to forego empty honors and shun the idle distractions of Courts. But it was the fate of distinguished men in that age to plunge into those quicksands. Guarini had a character and intellect suited to the conduct of state affairs; and he shared the delusion prevalent among his contemporaries, that the petty Italian principalities could offer a field for the exercise of these talents. 'If our country is reduced to the sole government of a prince,' he writes, 'the man who serves his prince will serve his country, a duty both natural and binding upon all.'[177] Accordingly, soon after his marriage to Taddea of the noble Bendedei family, he entered the service of Alfonso II. This was in 1567. Tasso, in his quality of gentleman to Cardinal d'Este, had already shed lustre on Ferrara through the past two years. Guarini first made Tasso's friendship at Padua, where both were Eterei and house-guests of Scipione Gonzaga. The two poets now came together in a rivalry which was not altogether amicable. The genius of Tasso, in the prime of youth and heyday of Court-favor, roused Guarini's jealousy. And yet their positions were so different that Guarini might have been well satisfied to pursue his own course without envy. A married and elder man, he had no right to compete in gallantry with the brilliant young bachelor. Destined for diplomacy and affairs of state, he had no cause to grudge the Court poet his laurels. Writing in 1595, Guarini avers that 'poetry has been my pastime, never my profession'; and yet he made it his business at Ferrara to rival Tasso both as a lyrist and as a servant of dames. Like Tasso, he suffered from the spite of Alfonso's secretaries, Pigna and Montecatino, who seem to have incarnated the malevolence of courtiers in its basest form. So far, there was a close parallel between the careers of the two men at Ferrara. [Footnote 176: See _Renaissance in Italy_, vol. ii. pp. 299, 300.] [Footnote 177: _Lettere del Guarini_, Venezia, 1596, p. 2.] But Guarini's wealth and avowed objects in life caused the duke from the first to employ him in a different kind of service. Alfonso sent him as ambassador to Venice, Rome, and Turin, giving him the rank of Cavaliere in order that he might perform his missions with more dignity. At Turin, where he resided for some time, Guarini conceived a just opinion of the growing importance of the House of Savoy. Like all the finest spirits of his age, Tassoni, Sarpi, Chiabrera, Marino, Testi, he became convinced that if Italy were to recover her independence, it could only be by the opposition of the Dukes of Savoy to Spain. How nearly the hopes of these men were being realized by Carlo Emmanuele, and how those hopes were frustrated by Roman intrigues and the jealousy of Italian despots, is matter of history. Yet the student may observe with interest that the most penetrating minds of the sixteenth century already discerned the power by means of which, after the lapse of nearly three hundred years, the emancipation of Italy has been achieved. In 1574 Guarini was sent to Poland, to congratulate Henri III. upon his election to that monarchy. He went a second time in the following year to conduct more delicate negotiations. The crown of Poland was now thrown open to candidature; and more than one of the Italian Princes thought seriously of competing for this honor. The Grand Duke of Tuscany entertained the notion and abandoned it. But Alfonso II. of Ferrara, who had fought with honor in his youth in Hungary, made it a serious object of ambition. Manolesso, the Venetian envoy in 1575 at Ferrara, relates how the duke spent laborious hours in acquiring the German language, 'which no one learns for pleasure, since it is most barbarous, nor quickly, but with industry and large expenditure of time.' He also writes: 'The duke aspires to greatness, nor is satisfied with his present State; and therefore he has entered into the Polish affair, encouraged thereto by his brother the Cardinal and by his ambassador in Poland.'[178] These embassies were a serious drain upon Guarini's resources; for it appears certain that if he received any appointments, they were inadequate to the expenses of long journeys and the maintenance of a becoming state. He therefore returned to Ferrara, considerably burdened with debts; and this was just the time at which Tasso's mental derangement began to manifest itself. Between 1575 and 1579, the date of Tasso's imprisonment at Sant' Anna, the two men lived together at the Court. Guarini's rivalry induced him at this period to cultivate poetry with such success that, when the author of the _Gerusalemme_ failed, Alfonso commanded him to take the vacant place of Court poet. There is an interesting letter extant from Guarini to his friend Cornelio Bentivoglio, describing the efforts he made to comply with the Duke's pleasure. 'I strove to transform myself into another man, and, like a playactor, to reassume the character, manners and emotions of a past period. Mature in age, I forced myself to appear young; exchanged my melancholy for gayety: affected loves I did not feel; turned my wisdom into folly, and, in a word, passed from philosopher to poet.'[179] How ill-adapted he was to this masquerade existence may be gathered from another sentence in the same letter. 'I am already in my forty-fourth year, burdened with debts, the father of eight children, two of my sons old enough to be my judges, and with my daughters to marry.' [Footnote 178: Alberi, _Relazioni_, series 2, vol. ii. pp. 423-425.] At last, abandoning this uncongenial strain upon his faculties, Guarini retired in 1582 to the villa which he had built upon his ancestral estate in the Polesine, that delightful rustic region between Adige and Po. Here he gave himself up to the cares of his family, the nursing of his dilapidated fortune, and the composition of the _Pastor Fido_. It is not yet the time to speak of that work, upon which Guarini's fame as poet rests; for the drama, though suggested by Tasso's _Aminta_, was not finally perfected until 1602.[180] Yet we may pause to remark upon the circumstances under which he wrote it. A disappointed courtier, past the prime of manhood, feeling his true vocation to be for severe studies and practical affairs, he yet devoted years of leisure to the slow elaboration of a dramatic masterpiece which is worthy to rank with the classics of Italian literature. During this period his domestic lot was not a happy one. He lost his wife, quarreled with his elder sons, and involved himself in a series of lawsuits.[181] Litigation seems to have been an inveterate vice of his maturity, and he bequeathed to his descendants a coil of legal troubles. Having married one of his daughters, Anna, to Count Ercole Trotti, he had the misery of hearing in 1596 that she had fallen an innocent victim to her husband's jealousy, and that his third son, Girolamo connived at her assassination. In the midst of these annoyances and sorrows, he maintained a grave and robust attitude, uttering none of those querulous lamentations which flowed so readily from Tasso's pen. [Footnote 179: _Lettere_, p. 195.] [Footnote 180: In this year it was published with the author's revision by Ciotto at Venice. It had been represented at Turin in 1585, and first printed at Venice in 1590.] Tasso had used the Pastoral Drama to idealize Courts. Guarini vented all the bitterness of his soul against them in his _Pastor Fido_. He also wrote from his retirement: 'I am at ease in the enjoyment of liberty, studies, the management of my household.'[182] Yet in 1585, while on a visit to Turin, he again accepted proposals from Alfonso. He had gone there in order to superintend the first representation of his Pastoral, which was dedicated to the Duke of Savoy. Extremely averse to his old servants taking office under other princes, the Duke of Ferrara seems to have feared lest Guarini should pass into the Court of Carlo Emmanuele. He therefore appointed him Secretary of State; and Guarini entered upon the post in the same year that Tasso issued from his prison. This reconciliation did not last long. Alfonso took the side of Alessandro Guarini in a lawsuit with his father; and the irritable poet retired in indignation to Florence. The Duke of Ferrara, however, was determined that he should not serve another master. At Florence, Turin, Mantua and Rome, his attempts to obtain firm foothold in offices of trust were invariably frustrated; and Coccapani, the Duke's envoy, hinted that if Guarini were not circumspect, 'he might suffer the same fate as Tasso.' To shut Guarini up in a madhouse would have been difficult. Still he might easily have been dispatched by the poniard; and these words throw not insignificant light upon Tasso's terror of assassination. [Footnote 181: Guarini may be compared with Trissino in these points of his private life. See _Renaissance in Italy_, vol. v. 303-305.] [Footnote 182: _Lettere_, p. 196.] The Duke Alfonso died in 1597, and Ferrara reverted to the Holy See. Upon this occasion, Guarini was free to follow his own inclinations. He therefore established himself at the Court of the Grand Duke, into whose confidence he entered upon terms of flattering familiarity. Ferdinando de'Medici 'fell in love with him as a man may with a fine woman,' says his son Alessandro in one of his apologetic writings. This, however, meant but little; for compliments passed freely between princes and their courtiers; which, when affairs of purse or honor were at stake, soon turned to discontent and hatred. So it fared with Guarini at Florence. His son, Guarino, made a marriage of which he disapproved, but which the Grand Duke countenanced. So slight a disagreement snapped the ties of friendship, and the restless poet removed to the Court of Urbino. There the last duke of the House of Rovere, Francesco Maria II., Tasso's schoolfellow and patron, was spending his widowed years in gloomy Spanish pride. The mortmain of the Church was soon to fall upon Urbino, as it had already fallen on Ferrara. Guarini wrote: 'The former Court in Italy is a dead thing. One may see the shadow, but not the substance of it nowadays. Ours is an age of appearances, and one goes a-masquerading all the year.' A sad but sincere epitaph, inscribed by one who had gone the round of all the Courts of Italy, and had survived the grand free life of the Renaissance. These words close Guarini's career as courtier. He returned to Ferrara in 1604, and in 1605 carried the compliments of that now Pontifical city to Paul V. in Rome on his election to the Papacy. Upon this occasion Cardinal Bellarmino told him that he had inflicted as much harm on Christendom by his _Pastor Fido_ as Luther and Calvin by their heresies. He retorted with a sarcasm which has not been transmitted to us, but which may probably have reflected on the pollution of Christian morals by the Jesuits. In 1612 Guarini died at Venice, whither he was summoned by one of his innumerable and interminable lawsuits. Bellarmino's censure of the _Pastor Fido_ strikes a modern reader as inexplicably severe. Yet it is certain that the dissolute seventeenth century recognized this drama as one of the most potent agents of corruption. Not infrequent references in the literature of that age to the ruin of families and reputations by its means, warn us to remember how difficult it is to estimate the ethical sensibilities of society in periods remote from our own.[183] In the course of the analysis which I now propose to make of this play, I shall attempt to show how, coming midway between Tasso's _Aminta_ and Marino's _Adone_, and appealing to the dominant musical enthusiasms of the epoch, Guarini's _Pastor Fido_ may have merited the condemnation of far-sighted moralists. Not censurable in itself, it was so related to the sentimental sensuality of its period as to form a link in the chain of enervation which weighed on Italy. [Footnote 183: _Il Pastor Fido_, per cura di G. Casella (Firenze, Barbéra, 1866), p. liv.] The _Pastor Fido_ is a tragi-comedy, as its author points out with some elaboration in the critical essay he composed upon that species of the drama. The scene is laid in Arcadia, where according to Guarini it was customary to sacrifice a maiden each year to Diana, in expiation of an ancient curse brought upon the country by a woman's infidelity. An oracle has declared that when two scions of divine lineage are united in marriage, and a faithful shepherd atones for woman's faithlessness, this inhuman rite shall cease. The only youth and girl who fulfill these conditions of divine descent are the daughter of Titiro named Amarilli, and Silvio, the son of the high priest Montano. They have accordingly been betrothed. But Silvio is indifferent to womankind in general, and Amarilli loves a handsome stranger, Mirtillo, supposed to be the son of Carino. The plot turns upon the unexpected fulfillment of the prophecy, in spite of the human means which have been blindly taken to secure its accomplishment. Amarilli is condemned to death for suspected misconduct with a lover; and Mirtillo, who has substituted himself as victim in her place, is found to be the lost son of Montano. This solution of the intrigue, effected by an anagnorisis like that of the _Oedipus Tyrannus_, supplies a series of dramatic scenes and thrilling situations in the last act. Meanwhile the passion of Dorinda for Silvio, and the accident whereby he is brought to return her affection at the moment when his dart has wounded her, form a picturesque underplot of considerable interest. Both plot and underplot are so connected in the main action and so interwoven by links of mutual dependency that they form one richly varied fabric. Regarded as a piece of cunning mechanism, the complicated structure of the _Pastor Fido_ leaves nothing to be desired. In its kind, this pastoral drama is a monumental work of art, glittering and faultless like a polished bas-relief of hard Corinthian bronze. Each motive has been carefully prepared, each situation amply and logically developed. The characters are firmly traced, and sustained with consistency. The cold and eager hunter Silvio contrasts with tender and romantic Mirtillo. Corisca's meretricious arts and systematized profligacy enhance the pure affection of Amarilli. Dorinda presents another type of love, so impulsive that it conquers maidenly modesty. The Satyr is a creature of rude lust, foiled in its brutal appetite by the courtesan Corisca's wiliness. Carino brings the corruption of towns into comparison with the innocence of the country. In Carino the poet painted his own experience; and here his satire upon the Court of Ferrara is none the less biting because it takes the form of well-weighed and gravely-measured censure, instead of vehement invective. The following lines may serve as a specimen of Guarini's style in this species:-- I' mi pensai che ne' reali alberghi Fossero tanto più le genti umane, Quant'esse ban più di tutto quel dovizia, Ond' è l'umanità sì nobil fregio. Ma mi trovai tutto 'l contrario, Uranio. Gente di nome e di parlar cortese, Ma d'opre scarsa, e di pietà nemica: Gente placida in vista e mansueta, Ma più del cupo mar tumida e fera: Gente sol d'apparenza, in cui se miri Viso di carità, mente d'invidia Poi trovi, e 'n dritto sguardo animo bieco, E minor fede allor che pin lusinga. Quel ch'altrove è virtù, quivi e difetto: Dir vero, oprar non torto, amar non finto, Pietà sincera, invïolabil fede, E di core e di man vita innocente, Stiman d'animo vil, di basso ingegno, Sciochezza e vanità degna di riso. L'ingannare, il mentir, la frode, il furto, E la rapina di pietà vestita, Crescer col danno e precipizio altrui, E far a sè dell'altrui biasimo onore, Son le virtù di quella gente infida. Non merto, non valor, non riverenza Nè d'età nè di grado nè di legge; Non freno di vergogna, non rispetto Nè d'amor nè di sangue, non memoria Di ricevuto ben; nè, finalmente, Cosa sì venerabile o sì santa O sì giusta esser può, ch'a quella vasta Cupidigia d'onori, a quella ingorda Fama d'avere, invïolabil sia. The _Pastor Fido_ was written in open emulation of Tasso's _Aminta_, and many of its most brilliant passages are borrowed from that play. Such, for example, is the Chorus on the Golden Age which closes the fourth act. Such, too, is the long description by Mirtillo of the kiss he stole from Amarilli (act ii. sc. 1). The motive here is taken from _Rinaldo_ (canto v.), and the spirit from _Aminta_ (act i. sc. 2). Guarini's Satyr is a studied picture from the sketch in Tasso's pastoral. The dialogue between Silvio and Linco (act i. sc. 1) with its lyrical refrain: Lascia, lascia le selve, Folle garzon, lascia le fere, ed ama: reproduces the dialogue between Silvia and Dafne (act i. sc. 1) with its similar refrain: Cangia, cangia consiglio, Pazzarella che sei. In all these instances Guarini works up Tasso's motives into more elaborate forms. He expands the simple suggestions of his model; and employs the artifices of rhetoric where Tasso yielded to inspiration. One example will suffice to contrast the methods of the spontaneous and the reflective poet. Tasso with divine impulse had exclaimed: Odi quell'usignuolo, Che va di ramo in ramo Cantando: Io amo, io amo! This, in Guarini's hands, becomes: Quell'augellin, che canta Si dolcemente, e lascivetto vola Or dall'abete al faggio, Ed or dal faggio al mirto, S'avesse umano spirto, Direbbe: Ardo d'amore, ardo d'amore. Here a laborious effort of the constructive fancy has been substituted for a single flash of sympathetic imagination. Tasso does not doubt that the nightingale is pouring out her love in song. Guarini says that if the bird had human soul, it would exclaim, _Ardo d'amore_. Tasso sees it flying from branch to branch. Guarini teases our sense of mental vision by particularizing pine and beech and myrtle. The same is true of Linco's speech in general when compared with Dafne's on the ruling power of love in earth and heaven. Of imagination in the true sense of the term Guarini had none. Of fancy, dwelling gracefully, ingeniously, suggestively, upon externals he had plenty. The minute care with which he worked out each vein of thought and spun each thread of sentiment, was that of the rhetorician rather than the poet. Tasso had made Aminta say: La semplicetta Silvia Pietosa del mio male, S'offri di dar aita Alla finta ferita, ahi lassole fece Più cupa, e più mortale La mia piaga verace, Quando le labbra sue Giunse alle labbra mie. Nè l'api d'alcun fiore Colgan si dolce il sugo, Come fa dolce il mel, ch'allora io colsi Da quelle fresche rose. Now listen to Guarini's Mirtillo: Amor si stava, Ergasto, Com'ape suol, nelle due fresche rose Di quelle labbra ascoso; E mentre ella si stette Con la baciata bocca Al baciar della mia Immobile e ristretta, La dolcezza del mel sola gustai; Ma poichè mi s'offerse anch'ella, e porse L'una e l'altra dolcissima sua rosa.... This is enough to illustrate Guarini's laborious method of adding touch to touch without augmenting th force of the picture.[184] We find already here the transition from Tasso's measured art to the fantastic prolixity of Marino. And though Guarini was upon the whole chaste in use of language, his rhetorical love of amplification and fanciful refinement not unfrequently betrayed him into Marinistic conceits. Dorinda, for instance, thus addresses Silvio (act iv. sc. 9): O bellissimo scoglio Già dall'onda e dal vento Delle lagrime mie, de'miei sospiri Si spesso invan percosso! Sighs are said to be (act i. sc. 2): impetuosi venti Che spiran nell'incendio, e 'l fan maggiore Con turbini d'Amore, Ch' apportan sempre ai miserelli amanti Foschi nembi di duol, piogge di pianti. From this to the style of the _Adone_ there was only one step to be taken. [Footnote 184: I might have further illustrated this point by quoting the thirty-five lines in which Titiro compares a maiden to the rose which fades upon the spray after the fervors of the noon have robbed its freshness (act i. sc. 4). To contest the beauty of the comparison would be impossible. Yet when we turn to the two passages in Ariosto (_Orl. Fur._ i. 42, 43, and xxiv. 80) on which it has been modeled, we shall perceive how much Guarini lost in force by not writing with his eye upon the object or with the authenticity of inward vision, but with a self-conscious effort to improve by artifices and refinements upon something he has read. See my essay on 'The Pathos of the Rose in Time,' April, 1886.] Though the scene of the _Pastor Fido_ was laid in Arcadia, the play really represented polite Italian society. In the softness of its sentiment, its voluptuous verbal melody, and its reiterated descant upon effeminate love-pleasure, it corresponded exactly to the spirit of its age.[185] This was the secret of its success; and this explains its seduction. Not Corisca's wanton blandishments and professed cynicism, but Mirtillo's rapturous dithyrambs on kissing, Dorinda's melting moods of tenderness, and Amarilli's delicate regrets that love must be postponed to honor, justified Bellarmino's censure. Without anywhere transgressing the limits of decorum, the _Pastor Fido_ is steeped in sensuousness. The sentiment of love idealized in Mirtillo and Amarilli is pure and self-sacrificing. _Ama l'onesta mia, s'amante sei_, says this maiden to her lover; and he obeys her. Yet, though the drama is dedicated to virtue, no one can read it without perceiving the blandishments of its luxurious rhetoric. The sensual refinement proper to an age of social decadence found in it exact expression, and it became the code of gallantry for the next two centuries. [Footnote 185: Even Silvio, the most masculine of the young men, whose heart is closed to love, appears before us thus: Oh Silvio, Silvio! a che ti die Natura Ne' più begli anni tuoi Fior di beltà si delicato e vago, Se tu se' tanto a calpestarlo intento? Che s'avess'io cotesta tua sì bella E sì fiorita guancia, Addio selve, direi: E seguendo altre fere, E la vita passando in festa e'n gioco, Farei la state all'ombra, e 'l verno al foco. ] Meanwhile the literary dictator of the seventeenth century was undoubtedly Marino. On him devolved the scepter which Petrarch bequeathed to Politian, Politian to Bembo, and Bembo to Torquato Tasso. In natural gifts he was no unworthy successor of these poets, though the gifts he shared with them were conspicuously employed by him for purposes below the scope of any of his predecessors. In artistic achievement he concentrated the less admirable qualities of all, and brought the Italian poetry of the Renaissance to a close by exaggerating its previous defects. Yet, as a man, Marino is interesting, more interesting in many respects than the melancholy discontented Tasso. He accepted the conditions of his age with genial and careless sympathy, making himself at once its idol, its interpreter, and its buffoon. Finally, he illustrates the law of change which transferred to Neapolitans in this age the scepter which had formerly been swayed by Tuscans and Lombards.[186] Giovanni Battista Marino was born at Naples in 1569. His father, a jurist of eminence, bred him for the law. But the attractions of poetry and pleasure were irresistible by this mobile son of the warm South-- La lusinga del Genio in me prevalse, E la toga deposta, altrui lascisi Parolette smaltir mendaci e false. Nè dubbi testi interpretar curai, Nè discordi accordar chiose mi calse, Quella stimando sol perfetta legge Che de'sensi sfrenati il fren corregge. Legge omai più non v' ha la qual per dritto Punisca il fallo o ricompensi il merto. Sembra quando è fin quì deciso e scritto D'opinion confuse abisso incerto. Dalle calumnie il litigante afflitto Somiglia in vasto mar legno inesperto, Reggono il tutto con affetto ingordo, Passion cieca ed interesse sordo. [Footnote 186: Telesio, Bruno, Campanella, Salvator Rosa, Vico, were, like Marino, natives of the Regno.] Such, in the poet's maturity, was his judgment upon law; and probably he expressed the same opinion with frankness in his youth. Seeing these dispositions in his son, the severe parent cast him out of doors, and young Marino was free to indulge vagabond instincts with lazzaroni and loose companions on the quays and strands of Naples. In that luxurious climate a healthy native, full of youth and vigor, needs but little to support existence. Marino set his wits to work, and reaped too facile laurels in the fields of Venus and the Muses. His verses speedily attracted the notice of noble patrons, among whom the Duke of Bovino, the Prince of Conca, and Tasso's friend the Marquis Manso have to be commemorated. They took care that so genuine and genial a poet should not starve. It was in one of Manso's palaces that Marino had an opportunity of worshiping the singer of Armida and Erminia at a distance. He had already acquired dubious celebrity as a juvenile Don Juan and a writer of audaciously licentious lyrics, when disaster overtook him. He assisted one of his profligate friends in the abduction of a girl. For this breach of the law both were thrown together into prison, and Marino only escaped justice by the sudden death of his accomplice. His patrons now thought it desirable that he should leave Naples for a time. Accordingly they sent him with letters of recommendation to Rome, where he was well received by members of the Crescenzio and Aldobrandino families. The Cardinal Pietro Aldobrandino made him private secretary, and took him on a journey to Ravenna and Turin. From the commencement to the end of his literary career Marino's march through life was one triumphal progress. At Turin, as formerly in Naples and Rome, he achieved a notable success. The Duke of Savoy, Carlo Emmanuele, offered him a place at Court, appointed him secretary, and dubbed him Knight of S. Maurice. Vidi la corte, e nella corte io vidi Promesse lunghe e guiderdoni avari, Favori ingiusti e patrocini infidi, Speranze dolci e pentimenti amari, Sorrisi traditor, vezzi omicidi, Ed acquisti dubbiosi e danni chiari, E voti vani ed idoli bugiardi, Onde il male è sicuro e il ben vien tardi. It was the custom of all poets in that age to live in Courts and to abuse them, to adulate princes and to vilify these patrons. Marino, however, had real cause to complain of the treachery of courtiers. He appears to have been a man of easy-going temper, popular among acquaintances, and serviceable to the society he frequented. This comradely disposition did not save him, however, from jealousies and hatreds; for he had, besides, a Neapolitan's inclination for satire. There was a Genoese poetaster named Gasparo Murtola established in Court-service at Turin, who had recently composed a lumbering poem, _Il Mondo Creato_. Marino made fun of it in a sonnet; Murtola retorted; and a warfare of invectives began which equaled for scurrility and filth the duels of Poggio and Valla. Murtola, seeing that he was likely to be worsted by his livelier antagonist, waited for him one day round a corner, gun in hand. The gun was discharged, and wounded, not Marino, but a favorite servant of the duke. For this offense the assassin was condemned to death; and would apparently have been executed, but for Marino's generosity. He procured his enemy's pardon, and was repaid with the blackest ingratitude. On his release from prison Murtola laid hands upon a satire, _La Cuccagna_, written some time previously by his rival. This he laid before the duke, as a seditious attack upon the government of Savoy. Marino now in his turn was imprisoned; but he proved, through the intervention of Manso, that the _Cuccagna_ had been published long before his arrival at Turin. Disgusted by these incidents, he next accepted an invitation from the French Court, and journeyed to Paris in 1615, where the Italianated society of that city received him like a living Phoebus. Maria de Medici, as Regent, with Concini for her counselor and lover, was then in all her vulgar glory. Richelieu's star had not arisen to eclipse Italian intrigue and to form French taste by the Academy. D'Urfè and Du Bartas, more marinistic than Marino, more euphuistic than Euphues, gave laws to literature; and the pageant pictures by Rubens, which still adorn the Gallery of the Louvre, marked the full-blown and sensuous splendor of Maria's equipage. Marino's genius corresponded nicely to the environment in which he now found himself; the Italians of the French Court discerned in him the poet who could best express their ideal of existence. He was idolized, glutted with gold, indulged and flattered to the top of his bent. Yearly appointments estimated at 10,000 crowns were augmented by presents in return for complimentary verses or for copies of the poem he was then composing. This poem was the _Adone_, the theme of which had been suggested by Carlo Emmanuele, and which he now adroitly used as a means of flattering the French throne. First printed at Paris in 1623, its reception both there and in Italy secured apotheosis in his lifetime for the poet.[187] One minor point in this magnificent first folio edition of _Adone_ deserves notice, as not uncharacteristic of the age. Only two Cantos out of the twenty are distinguished by anything peculiar in their engraved decorations. Of these two, the eleventh displays the shield of France; the thirteenth, which describes Falsirena's incantations and enchantments, is ornamented with the symbol of the Jesuits, IHS. For this the publishers alone were probably responsible. Yet it may stand as a parable of all-pervasive Jesuitry. Even among the roses and raptures of the most voluptuous poem of the century their presence makes itself felt, as though to hint that the _Adone_ is capable of being used according to Jesuitical rules of casuistry A.M.D.G. One warning voice was raised before the publication of this epic. Cardinal Bentivoglio wrote from Italy beseeching Marino to 'purge it of lasciviousness in such wise that it may not have to dread the lash of our Italian censure.' Whether he followed this advice, in other words whether the original MS. of the _Adone_ was more openly licentious than the published poem, I do not know. Anyhow, it was put upon the Index in 1627. This does not, however, appear to have impaired its popularity, or to have injured its author's reputation. Soon after the appearance of _Adone_, Marino, then past fifty, returned to Naples. He was desirous of reposing on his laurels, wealthy, honored, and adored, among the scenes from which he fled in danger and disgrace thirty years before. His entrance into Naples was an ovation. The Iazzaroni came to meet his coach, dancing and scattering roses; noblemen attended him on horse-back; ladies gazed on him from balconies. A banner waving to the wind announced the advent of 'that ocean of incomparable learning, soul of lyres, subject for pens, material for ink, most eloquent, most fertile, phoenix of felicity, ornament of the laurel, of swans in their divine leisure chief and uncontested leader.' At Naples he died in 1625--felicitous in not having survived the fame which attended him through life and reached its climax just before his death. [Footnote 187: It is worth noting that Shakespeare's _Venus and Adonis_ was first printed in 1593, thirty years previously.] The _Adone_ strikes us at first sight as the supreme poem of epicene voluptuousness. Its smooth-chinned hero, beautiful as a girl, soft as a girl, sentimental as a girl, with nothing of the man about him--except that 'Nature, as she wrought him, fell adoting,'--threads a labyrinth of suggestive adventures, in each of which he is more the patient than the agent of desire. Mercury introduces him to our attention in a series of those fables (tales of Narcissus, Ganymede, Cyparissus, Hylas, Atys) by which antiquity figured the seductiveness of adolescence. Venus woos him, and Falserina tries to force him. Captured in feminine attire by brigands, he is detained in a cave as the mistress of their chief, and doted on by the effeminate companion of his prison. Finally, he contends for the throne of Cyprus with a band of luxurious youths-- Bardassonacci, paggi da taverna. The crown is destined for the physically fairest. The rival charms of the competitors are minutely noted, their personal blemishes sagaciously detected, by a council of pleasure-sated worldlings. In his death Adonis succumbs to the assault of a boar, fatally inflamed with lust, who wounds the young man in his groin, dealing destruction where the beast meant only amorous caresses. Gods and godesses console Venus in her sorrow for his loss, each of whom relates the tale of similar disasters. Among these legends Apollo's love for Hyacinth and Phoebus' love for Pampinus figure conspicuously. Thus Marino's Adonis excites unhealthy interest by the spectacle of boyhood exposed to the caprices and allurements of both sexes doting on unfledged virility. What contributes to this effect, in the central motive of the poem, is that Venus herself is no artless virgin, no innocent Chloe, corresponding to a rustic Daphnis. She is already wife, mother, adulteress, _femme entretenue_, before she meets the lad. Her method of treating him is that of a licentious queen, who, after seducing page or groom, keeps the instrument of her pleasures in seclusion for occasional indulgence during intervals of public business. Vulcan and Mars, her husband and her _cicisbeo_, contest the woman's right to this caprice; and when the god of war compels, she yields him the crapulous fruition of her charms before the eye of her disconsolate boy-paramour. Her pre-occupation with Court affairs in Cythera--balls, pageants, sacrifices, and a people's homage--brings about the catastrophe. Through her temporary neglect, Adonis falls victim to a conspiracy of the gods. Thus the part which the female plays in this amorous epic is that of an accomplished courtesan, highly placed in society. All the pathos, all the attraction of beauty and of sentiment, is reserved for the adolescent male. This fact, though disagreeable, has to be noted. It is too characteristic of the wave of feeling at that time passing over Europe, to be ignored. The morbid strain which touched the Courts alike of Valois, Medici and Stuarts; which infected the poetry of Marlowe and of Shakespeare; which cast a sickly pallor even over sainthood and over painting in the school of Bologna, cannot be neglected. In Marino's _Adone_ it reaches its artistic climax.[188] This, however, is not the main point about the poem. The _Adone_ should rather be classed as the epic of voluptuousness in all its forms and species. If the love-poetry of the Italian Renaissance began with the sensuality of Boccaccio's _Amoroso Visione_, it ended, after traversing the idyl, the novel, the pastoral, the elegy and the romance, in the more complex sensuality of Marino's _Adone_; for this, like the _Amoroso Visione_, but far more emphatically, proclaims the beatification of man by sexual pleasure:-- Tramortiscon di gioia ebbre e languenti L'anime stanche, al ciel d'Amor rapite. Gl'iterati sospiri, i rotti accenti, Le dolcissime guerre e le ferite, Narrar non so--fresche aure, onde correnti, Voi che il miraste, e ben l'udiste, il dite! Voi secretari de'felici amori, Verdi mirti, alti pini, ombrosi allori! (Canto viii.) [Footnote 188: Ferrari, in his _Rivolnzioni d'Italia_, vol. iii. p. 563, observes: 'Una Venere sospetta versa lagrime forse maschili sul bellissimo Adonide,' etc. Shakespeare's _Venus and Adonis_, in like manner, is so written as to force the reader to feel with Venus the seduction of Adonis.] Thus voluptuousness has its transcendentalism; and Marino finds even his prolific vocabulary inadequate to express the mysteries of this heaven of sensuous delights.[189] It must not be thought that the _Adone_ is an obscene poem. Marino was too skillful a master in the craft of pleasure to revolt or to regale his readers with grossness. He had too much of the Neapolitan's frank self-abandonment to nature for broad indecency in art to afford him special satisfaction; and the taste of his age demanded innuendo. The laureate of Courts and cities saturated with licentiousness knew well that Coan vestments are more provocative than nudity. It was his object to flatter the senses and seduce the understanding rather than to stimulate coarse appetite. Refinement was the aphrodisiac of a sated society, and millinery formed a main ingredient in its love-philters.[190] Marino, therefore, took the carnal instincts for granted, and played upon them as a lutist plays the strings of some lax thrilling instrument. Of moral judgment, of antipathy to this or that form of lust, of prejudice or preference in the material of pleasure, there is no trace. He shows himself equally indulgent to the passion of Mirra for her father, of Jove for Ganymede, of Bacchus for Pampinus, of Venus for Adonis, of Apollo for Hyacinth. He tells the disgusting story of Cinisca with the same fluent ease as the lovely tale of Psyche; passes with the same light touch over Falserina at the bedside of Adonis and Feronia in his dungeon; uses the same palette for the picture of Venus caressing Mars and the struggles of the nymph and satyr. All he demanded was a basis of soft sensuality, from which, as from putrescent soil, might spring the pale and scented flower of artful luxury. [Footnote 189: With the stanza quoted above Marino closes the cycle which Boccaccio in the _Amoroso Visione_ (canto xlix.) had opened.] [Footnote 190: On this point I may call attention to the elaborate portraits drawn by Marino (canto xvi.) of the seven young men who contend with Adonis for the prize of beauty and the crown of Cyprus. Quite as many words are bestowed upon their costumes, jewelry and hair-dressing as upon their personal charms.] In harmony with the spirit of an age reformed or deformed by the Catholic Revival, Marino parades cynical hypocrisy. The eighth canto of _Adone_ is an elaborately-wrought initiation into the mysteries of carnal pleasure. It is a hymn to the sense of touch:[191] Ogni altro senso può ben di leggiero Deluso esser talor da falsi oggetti: Questo sol no, lo qual sempre è del vero Fido ministro e padre dei diletti. Gli altri non possedendo il corpo intero, Ma qualche parte sol, non son perfetti. Questo con atto universal distende Lesue forze per tutto, e tutto il prende. [Footnote 191: I have pleasure in inviting my readers to study the true doctrine regarding the place of touch among the senses as laid down by Ruskin in _Modern Painters_, part iii. sec. 1, chap. ii.] We are led by subtle gradations, by labyrinthine delays, to the final beatification of Adonis. Picture is interwoven with picture, each in turn contributing to the panorama of sensual Paradise. Yet while straining all the resources of his art, with intense sympathy, to seduce his reader, the poet drops of set purpose phrases like the following: Flora non so, non so se Frine o Taide Trovar mai seppe oscenita si laide. Here the ape masked in the man turns around and grins, gibbering vulgar words to point his meaning, and casting dirt on his pretended decency. While racking the resources of allusive diction to veil and to suggest an immodest movement of his hero (Adonis being goaded beyond the bounds of boyish delicacy by lascivious sights), he suddenly subsides with a knavish titter into prose: Così il fanciullo all'inonesto gioco. But the end of all this practice is that innocent Adonis has been conducted by slow and artfully contrived approaches to a wanton's embrace, and that the spectators of his seduction have become, as it were, parties to his fall. To make Marino's cynicism of hypocrisy more glaring, he prefaces each canto with an allegory, declaring that Adonis and Venus symbolize the human soul abandoned to vice, and the allurements of sensuality which work its ruin. In the poem itself, meanwhile, the hero and heroine are consistently treated as a pair of enviable, devoted, and at last unfortunate lovers.[192] It is characteristic of the mood expressed in the _Adone_ that voluptuousness should not be passionate, but sentimental. Instead of fire, the poet gives us honeyed tears to drink, and rocks the soul upon an ever-rippling tide of Lydian melody. The acme of pleasure, as conceived by him, is kissing. Twenty-three of the most inspired stanzas of the eighth canto are allotted to a panegyric of the kiss, in which delight all other amorous delights are drowned.[193] Tasso's melancholy yearning after forbidden fruit is now replaced by satiety contemplating the image of past joys with purring satisfaction. This quality of self-contented sentiment partly explains why the type of beauty adored is neither womanly nor manly, but adolescent. It has to be tender, fragile, solicitous, unripe; appealing to sensibility, not to passion, by feminine charms in nerveless and soulless boyhood. The most distinctive mark of Adonis is that he has no character, no will, no intellect. He is all sentiment, sighs, tears, pliability, and sweetness. [Footnote 192: The hypocrisy of the allegory is highly significant for this phase of Italian culture. We have seen how even Tasso condescended to apply it to his noble epic, which needed no such miserable pretense. Exquisitely grotesque was the attempt made by Centorio degli Ortensi to sanctify Bandello's _Novelle_ by supplying each one of them with a moral interpretation (ed. Milano: Gio. Antonio degli Antoni, 1560, See Passano's _Novellieri in Prosa_, p. 28).] [Footnote 193: What I have elsewhere, called 'the tyranny of the kiss' in Italian poetry, begins in Tasso's _Rinaldo_, acquires vast proportions in Guarino's _Pastor Fido_, and becomes intolerable in Marino's _Adone_.] This emasculate nature displays itself with consummate effect in the sobbing farewell, followed by the pretty pettishnesses, of the seventeenth canto. As a contrast to his over-sweet and cloying ideal of lascivious grace, Marino counterposes extravagant forms of ugliness. He loves to describe the loathsome incantations of witches. He shows Falserina prowling among corpses on a battle-field, and injecting the congealed veins of her resuscitated victim with abominable juices. He crowds the Cave of Jealousy with monsters horrible to sight and sense; depicts the brutality of brigands; paints hideous portraits of eunuchs, deformed hags, unnameable abortions. He gloats over cruelty, and revels in violence.[194] When Mars appears upon the scene, the orchestra of lutes and cymbals with which we had been lulled to sleep, is exchanged for a Corybantic din of dissonances. Orgonte, the emblem of pride, outdoes the hyperboles of Rodomonte and the lunes of Tamburlaine. Nowhere, either in his voluptuousness or in its counterpart of disgust, is there moderation. The Hellenic precept, 'Nothing overmuch,' the gracious Greek virtue of temperate restraint, which is for art what training is for athletes, discipline for soldiers, and pruning for orchard trees, has been violated in every canto, each phrase, the slightest motive of this poem. Sensuality can bear such violation better than sublimity; therefore the perfume of voluptuousness in the _Adone_, though excessive, is both penetrating and profound; while those passages which aim at inspiring terror or dilating the imagination, fail totally of their effect. The ghastly, grotesque, repulsive images are so overcharged that they cease even to offend. We find ourselves in a region where tact, sense of proportion, moral judgment, and right adjustment of means to ends, have been wantonly abandoned. Marino avowed that he only aimed at surprising his readers: È del poeta il fin la meraviglia. [Footnote 194: See the climax to the episode of Filauro and Filora.] But 45,000 lines of sustained astonishment, of industrious and indefatigable appeals to wonder by devices of language, devices of incident, devices of rhodomontade, devices of innuendo, devices of _capricci_ and _concetti_, induce the stolidity of callousness. We leave off marveling, and yield what is left of our sensibility to the fascination of inexhaustible picturesqueness. For, with all his faults, Marino was a master of the picturesque, and did possess an art of fascination. The picturesque, so difficult to define, so different from the pictorial and the poetical, was a quality of the seventeenth century corresponding to its defects of bad taste. And this gift no poet shared in larger measure than Marino. Granted his own conditions, granted the emptiness of moral and intellectual substance in the man and in his age, we are compelled to acknowledge that his literary powers were rich and various. Few writers, at the same time, illustrate the vices of decadence more luminously than this Protean poet of vacuity. Few display more clearly the 'expense of spirit in a waste of shame.' None teach the dependence of art upon moralized and humane motives more significantly than this drunken Helot of genius. His indifference to truth, his defiance of sobriety, his conviction that the sole end of art is astonishment, have doomed him to oblivion not wholly merited. The critic, whose duty forces him to read through the _Adone_, will be left bewildered by the spectacle of such profuse wealth so wantonly squandered.[195] In spite of fatigue, in spite of disgust, he will probably be constrained to record his opinion that, while Tasso represented the last effort of noble poetry struggling after modern expression under out-worn forms of the Classical Revival, it was left for Marino in his levity and license to evoke a real and novel though _rococo_ form, which nicely corresponded to the temper of his times, and determined the immediate future of art. For this reason he requires the attention which has here been paid him. [Footnote 195: In support of this opinion upon Marino's merit as a poet, I will cite the episode of Clizio (canto i. p. 17); the tale of Psyche (iv. 65); the tale of the nightingale and the boy--which occurs both in Ford and Crashaw, by the way (vii. 112); the hymn to pleasure (vii. 116); the passage of Venus and Adonis to the bath (viii. 133); the picture of the nymph and satyr (viii. 135); the personification of the Court (x. 167); the Cave of Jealousy (xii. 204-206); the jewel-garden of Falserina (xii. 218); Falserina watching Adonis asleep (xii. 225); Falserina's incantations (xiii. 233); Mars in the lap of Venus surrounded by the loves (xiii. 245); Venus disguised as a gypsy (xv. 290); the game of chess (xv. 297); the leave-taking of Venus and Adonis (xvii. 332); the phantom of dead Adonis (xviii. 357); the grief of Venus (xviii. 358-362); the tales of Hyacinth and Pampinus (xix. 372-378). The references are to ed. Napoli, Boutteaux, 1861.] But how, it may be asked, was it possible to expand the story of Venus and Adonis into an epic of 45,000 lines? The answer to this question could best be given by an analysis of the twenty cantos: and since few living students have perused them, such a display of erudition would be pardonable. Marini does not, however, deserve so many pages in a work devoted to the close of the Italian Renaissance. It will suffice to say that the slender narrative of the amour of Venus and her boyish idol, his coronation as king of Cyprus, and his death by the boar's tusk, is ingeniously interwoven with a great variety of episodes. The poet finds occasion to relate the principal myths of Hellenic passion treating these in a style which frequently reminds us of Ovid's Metamorphoses; he borrows tales from Apuleius, Lucian, and the pastoral novelists; he develops the theme of jealousy in Mars and Vulcan, introduces his own autobiography, digresses into romantic adventures by sea and land, creates a rival to Venus in the sorceress Falserina, sketches the progress of poetry in one canto and devotes another to a panegyric of Italian princes, extols the House of France and adulates Marie de Medicis, surveys the science of the century, describes fantastic palaces and magic gardens, enters with curious minuteness into the several delights of the five senses, discourses upon Courts, ambition, avarice and honor, journeys over the Mediterranean, conducts a game of chess through fifty brilliant stanzas; in brief, while keeping his main theme in view, is careful to excite and sustain the attention of his readers by a succession of varied and ingeniously suggested novelties. Prolixity, indefatigable straining after sensational effect, interminable description, are the defects of the _Adone_; but they are defects related to great qualities possessed by the author, to inexhaustible resources, curious knowledge, the improvisatore's facility, the trained rhetorician's dexterity in the use of language, the artist's fervid delight in the exercise of his craft. Allowing for Marino's peculiar method, his _Adone_ has the excellence of unity which was so highly prized by the poets of his age and nation. Critics have maintained that the whole epic is but a development of the episode of Rinaldo in Armida's garden. But it is more than this. It contains all the main ingredients of the Italian Romance, with the exception of chivalry and war. There is a pastoral episode corresponding to that of Erminia among the shepherds, a magnificent enchantress in the manner of Alcina, an imprisonment of the hero which reminds us of Ruggiero in Atlante's magic castle, a journey like Astolfo's to the moon, a conflict between good and evil supernatural powers, a thread of allegory more or less apparent, a side glance at contemporary history; and these elements are so combined as to render the _Adone_ one of the many poems in the long romantic tradition. It differs mainly from its predecessors in the strict unity of subject, which subordinates each episode and each digression to the personal adventures of the heroine and hero; while the death and obsequies of Adonis afford a tragic close that is lacking to previous poems detached from the Carolingian cycle. Contemporary writers praised it as a poem of peace. But it is the poem of ignoble peace, of such peace as Italy enjoyed in servitude, when a nation of _cicisbei_ had naught to occupy their energies but sensual pleasure. Ingenious as Marino truly was in conducting his romance upon so vast a scheme through all its windings to one issue, we feel that the slender tale of a boy's passion for the queen of courtesans and his metamorphosis into the scarlet windflower of the forest supplied no worthy motive for this intricate machinery. The metaphor of an alum basket crystallized upon a petty frame of wire occurs to us when we contemplate its glittering ornaments, and reflect upon the poverty of the sustaining theme. It might in fact stand for a symbol of the intellectual vacancy of the age which welcomed it with rapture, and of the society which formed a century of taste upon its pattern. In another and higher literary quality the _Adone_ represents that moment of Italian development. A foreigner may hardly pass magisterial judgment on its diction. Yet I venture to remark that Marino only at rare intervals attains to purity of poetic style; even his best passages are deformed, not merely by conceits to which the name of _Marinism_ has been given, but also by gross vulgarities and lapses into trivial prose. Notwithstanding this want of distinction, however, he has a melody that never fails. The undulating, evenly on-flowing _cantilena_ of his verbal music sustains the reader on a tide of song. That element of poetry, which, as I have observed, was developed with remarkable success by Tasso in some parts of the _Gerusalemme_ is the main strength of the _Adone_. With Marino the _Chant d'Amour_ never rises so high, thrills so subtly, touches the soul so sweetly and so sadly, as it does in Tasso's verse. But in all those five thousand octave stanzas it is rarely altogether absent. The singing faculty of the Neapolitan was given to this poet of voluptuousness; and if the song is neither deep nor stirring, neither stately nor sublime, it is because his soul held nothing in its vast vacuity but sensuous joy.[196] A musical Casanova, an unmalignant Aretino, he sang as vulgar nature prompted; but he always kept on singing. His partiality for detonating dissonances, squibs and crackers of pyrotechnical rhetoric, braying trumpets and exploding popguns, which deafen and distract our ears attuned to the suave cadence of the _cantilena_, is no less characteristic of the Neapolitan. Marino had the improvisatory exuberance, the impudence, the superficial passion, the luxurious delight in life, and the noisiness of his birthplace. He also shared its love of the grotesque as complement and contrast to pervading beauty. [Footnote 196: There are passages of pure _cantilena_ in this poem, where sense is absolutely swallowed up in sound, and words become the mere vehicle for rhythmic melody. Of this verbal music the dirge of the nymphs for Adonis and the threnos of Venus afford excellent examples (xix. pp. 358-361). Note especially the stanza beginning: Adone, Adone, o bell'Adon, tu giaci, Nè senti i miei sospir, nè miri il pianto! O bell'Adone, o caro Adon, tu taci, Nè rispondi a colei che amasti tanto! There is nothing more similar to this in literature than Fra Jacopone's delirium of mystic love: Amor amor Jesu, son giunto a porto; Amor amor Jesu, tu m'hai menato; Amor amor Jesu, dammi conforto; Amor amor Jesu, si m'hai enfiamato. Only the one is written in a Mixo-Lydian, the other in a Hyper-Phrygian mood. ] A serious fault to be found with Marino's style is its involved exaggeration in description. Who, for instance, can tolerate this picture of a young man's foot shod with a blue buskin? L'animato del piè molle alabastro Che oscura il latte del sentier celeste Stretto alla gamba con purpureo nastro Di cuoio azzurro un borsacchin gli veste. Again he carries to the point of lunacy that casuistical rhetoric, introduced by Ariosto and refined upon by Tasso, with which luckless heroines or heroes announce their doubts and difficulties to the world in long soliloquies. The ten stanzas which set forth Falserina's feelings after she has felt the pangs of love for Adonis, might pass for a parody: Ardo, lassa, o non ardo! ahì qual io sento Stranio nel cor non conosciuto affetto! E forse ardore? ardor non è, chè spento L'avrei col pianto; è ben d'ardor sospetto! Sospetto no, piuttosto egli è tormento. Come tormento fia, se da diletto? And so forth through eighty lines in which every conceivable change is rung upon _Amo o non amo?... Io vivo e moro pur.... Io non ho core e lo mio cor n'ha dui.... With all this effort no one is convinced of Falserina's emotion, and her long-winded oration reads like a schoolboy's exercise upon some line of the fourth Aeneid. Yet if we allow the sense of rhythmical melody to intervene between our intellectual perception and Marino's language, we shall still be able to translate these outpourings into something which upon the operatic stage would keep its value. False rhetoric and the inability to stop when enough and more than enough has been said upon any theme to be developed, are the incurable defects of Marino. His profuse _fioriture_ compared with the simpler descant of Ariosto or Tasso remind us of Rossini's florid roulades beside the grace of Pergolese's or the majesty of Marcello's song. The peculiar quality of bad taste which is known in Italy as _Marinismo_, consisted in a perpetual straining after effect by antitheses, conceits, plans on words degenerating into equivocation, and such-like rhetorical grimaces. Marino's _ars poetica_ was summed up in this sentence: 'Chi non sa far stupir, vada alia striglia.' Therefore, he finds periphrases for the simplest expressions. He calls the nightingale _sirena de'boschi_, gunpowder _l'irreparabil fulmine terreno_, Columbus _il ligure Argonauta_, Galileo _il novello Endimione_. In these instances, what might have been expanded into a simile, is substituted for the proper word in order to surprise the reader. When he alludes to Dante, he poses a conundrum on that poet's surname: _Ben sull'ali liggier tre mondi canta_. The younger Palma is complimented on wresting the _palm_ from Titian and Veronese. Guido Reni is apostrophized as: _Reni onde il maggior Reno all'altro cede_[197] We are never safe in reading his pages from the whirr and whistle of such verbal fireworks. And yet it must be allowed that Marino's style is on the whole freer from literary affectations than that of our own Euphuists. It is only at intervals that the temptation to make a point by clever trickery seems irresistible. When he is seriously engaged upon a topic that stirs his nature to the depth, as in the eighth canto, description flows on for stanza after stanza with limpid swiftness. Another kind of artifice to which he has resort, is the repetition of a dominant word: [Footnote 197: There is a streamlet called Reno near Bologna.] Con tai lusinghe il lusinghiero amante La lusinghiera Dea lusinga e prega. * * * * * Godiamci, amiamei. Amor d'amor mercede, Degno cambio d'amore è solo amore. This play on a word sometimes passes over into a palpable pun, as in the following pretty phrase: O mia dorata ed adorata Dea. Still we feel that Shakespeare was guilty of precisely the same verbal impertinences. It is only intensity of feeling which prevents such lines as: Take all my loves, my love, yea take them all; What hast thou then more than thou hadst before? No love, my love, that thou may'st true love call: All mine was thine, before thou hadst this more: from being Marinistic. But it must be added that this intensity of feeling renders the artifice employed sublimely natural. Here we lay our finger on the crucial point at issue in any estimate of literary mannerism. What is the force of thought, the fervor of emotion, the acute perception of truth in nature and in man, which lies behind that manneristic screen? If, as in the case of Shakespeare, sufficiency or superabundance of these essential elements is palpable, we pardon, we ignore, the euphuism. But should the quality of substance fail, then we repudiate it and despise it. Therefore Marino, who is certainly not more euphuistic than Shakespeare, but who has immeasurably less of potent stuff in him, wears the motley of his barocco style in limbo bordering upon oblivion, while the Swan of Avon parades the same literary livery upon both summits of Parnassus. So true it is that poetry cannot be estimated apart from intellectual and moral contents. Had Marino written: Prick love for pricking, and you beat love down: or: 'twould anger him To raise a spirit in his mistress' circle Of some strange nature, letting it there stand Till she had laid it and conjured it down: or: The bawdy hand of the dial is now upon The prick of noon: he would have furnished his accusers with far stronger diatribes against words of double meaning and licentious conceits than his own pages offer. But since it was out of the fullness of world-wisdom that Shakespeare penned those phrases for Mercutio, and set them as pendants to the impassioned descants upon love and death which he poured from the lips of Romeo, they pass condoned and unperceived. Only poverty of matter and insincerity of fancy damn in Marino those literary affectations which he held in common with a host of writers--with Gorgias, Aeschylus, Chaeremon, Philostratus, among Greeks; with Petrarch, Boccaccio, Bembo, Aretino, Tasso, Guarini, among Italians; with Calderon and Cervantes, not to mention Gongora, among Spaniards; with the foremost French and English writers of the Renaissance; with all verbal artists in any age, who have sought unduly to refine upon their material of language. In a word, Marino is not condemned by his so-called Marinism. His true stigma is the inadequacy to conceive of human nature except under a twofold mask of sensuous voluptuousness and sensuous ferocity. It is this narrow and ignoble range of imagination which constitutes his real inferiority, far more than any poetical extravagance in diction. The same mean conception of humanity brands with ignominy the four generations over which he dominated--that brood of eunuchs and courtiers, churchmen and _Cavalieri serventi_, barocco architects and brigands, casuists and bravi, grimacers, hypocrites, confessors, impostors, bastards of the spirit, who controlled Italian culture for a hundred years. At a first glance we shall be astonished to find that this poet, who may justly be regarded as the corypheus of Circean orgies in the seventeenth century, left in MS. a grave lament upon the woes of Italy. Marino's _Pianto d'Italia_ has no trace of Marinism. It is composed with sobriety in a pedestrian style of plainness, and it tells the truth without reserve. Italy traces her wretchedness to one sole cause, subjection under Spanish rule. Lascio ch'un re che di real non tiene Altro che il nome effemminato e vile A sua voglia mi reggi, e di catene Barbare mi circondi il piè servile. This tyrant foments jealousy and sows seeds of discord between the Italian states. His viceroys are elected from the cruelest, the most unjust, the most rapacious, and the most luxurious of the courtiers crawling round his throne. The College of Cardinals is bought and sold. No prince dares move a finger in his family or state without consulting the Iberian senate; still less can he levy troops for self-defense. Yet throughout Europe Spanish victories have been obtained by Italian generals; the bravest soldiers in foreign armies are Italian exiles. Perhaps it may be argued that the empty titles which abound in every petty city, the fulsome promises on which those miserable vassals found their hopes, are makeweights for such miseries. Call them rather chains to bind the nation, lures and birdlime such as snarers use. There is but one quarter to which the widowed and discrowned Queen of Nations can appeal for succor. She turns to Carlo Emmanuele, Duke of Savoy, to the hills whence cometh help. It was not, however, until two centuries after Marino penned these patriotic stanzas, that her prayer was answered. And the reflection forced upon us when we read the _Pianto d'Italia_, is that Marino composed it to flatter a patron who at that moment entertained visionary schemes of attacking the Spanish hegemony. To make any but an abrupt transition from Marino to Chiabrera would be impossible. It is like passing from some luxurious grove of oranges and roses to a barren hill-top without prospect over sea or champaign. We are fortunate in possessing a few pages of autobiography, from which all that is needful to remember of Gabriello Chiabrera's personal history may be extracted. He was born in 1552 at Savona, fifteen days after his father's death. His mother made a second marriage, and left him to the care of an uncle, with whom at the age of nine he went to reside in Rome. In the house of this bachelor uncle the poor little orphan pined away. Fever succeeded fever, until his guardian felt that companionship with boys in play and study was the only chance of saving so frail a life as Gabriello's. Accordingly he placed the invalid under the care of the Jesuits in their Collegio Romano. Here the child's health revived, and his education till the age of twenty throve apace. The Jesuits seem to have been liberal in their course of training; for young Chiabrera benefited by private conversation with Paolo Manuzio and Sperone Speroni, while he attended the lectures of Muretus in the university. How different was this adolescence from that of Marino! Both youths grew to manhood without domestic influences; and both were conspicuous in after life for the want of that affection which abounds in Tasso. But here the parallel between them ends. Marino, running wild upon the streets of Naples, taking his fill of pleasure and adventure, picking up ill-digested information at hap-hazard, and forming his poetic style as nature prompted; Chiabrera, disciplined in piety and morals by Jesuit directors, imbued with erudition by an arid scholar, a formal pedant and an accomplished rhetorician, the three chief representatives of decadent Italian humanism: no contrast can be imagined greater than that which marked these two lads out for diverse paths in literature. The one was formed to be the poet of caprice and license, openly ranking with those Che la ragion sommettono al talento, and making _s'ei piace ei lice_ his rule of conduct and of art. The other received a rigid bent toward decorum, in religious observances, in ethical severity, and in literature of a strictly scholastic type. Yet Chiabrera was not without the hot blood of Italian youth. His uncle died, and he found himself alone in the world. After spending a few years in the service of Cardinal Cornaro, he quarreled with a Roman gentleman, vindicated his honor by some act of violence, and was outlawed from the city. Upon this he retired to Savona; and here again he met with similar adventures. Wounded in a brawl, he took the law into his own hands, and revenged himself upon his assailant. This punctilio proved him to be a true child of his age; and if we may credit his own account of both incidents, he behaved himself as became a gentleman of the period. It involved him, however, in serious annoyances both at Rome and Savona, from which he only extricated himself with difficulty and which impaired his fortune. Up to the age of fifty he remained unmarried, and then took a wife by whom he had no children. He lived to the ripe age of eighty-four, always at Savona, excepting occasional visits to friends in Italian cities, and he died unmolested by serious illness after his first entrance into the Collegio Romano. How he occupied the leisure of that lengthy solitude may be gathered from his published works--two or three thick volumes of lyrics; four bulky poems of heroic narrative; twelve dramas, including two tragedies; thirty satires or epistles; and about forty miscellaneous poems in divers meters. In a word, he devoted his whole life to the art of poetry, for which he was not naturally gifted, and which he pursued in a gravely methodical spirit. It may be said at once that the body of his work, with the exception of some simple pieces of occasion, and a few chastely written epistles, is such as nobody can read without weariness. Before investigating Chiabrera's claim to rank among Italian poets, it may be well to examine his autobiography in those points which touch upon the temper of society. Short as it is, this document is precious for the light it casts upon contemporary custom. As a writer, Chiabrera was distinguished by sobriety of judgment, rectitude, piety, purity of feeling, justice toward his fellow-workers in literature, and an earnest desire to revive the antique virtues among his countrymen. There is no reason to suppose that these estimable qualities did not distinguish him in private life. Yet eight out of the eighteen pages of his biography are devoted to comically solemn details regarding the honors paid him by Italian princes. The Grand Duke of Florence, Ferdinand I., noticed him standing with uncovered head at a theatrical representation in the Pitti Palace. He bade the poet put his cap on and sit down. Cosimo, the heir apparent, showed the same condescending courtesy. When he was at Turin, Carlo Emmanuele, Duke of Savoy, placed a coach and pair at his disposal, and allowed him 300 lire for traveling expenses to and from Savona. But this prince omitted to appoint him lodgings in the palace, nor did he invite him to cover in the presence. This perhaps is one reason why Chiabrera refused the duke's offer of a secretaryship at Court. Vincenzo Gonzaga, Duke of Mantua, on the contrary, allotted him rooms and always suffered him to keep his hat on. The Pope, who was an old college friend of Chiabrera, made him handsome presents, and on one delightful occasion allowed him to hear a sermon in the Papal pew. The Doge of Genoa, officially particular in points of etiquette, always took care to bid him cover, although he was a subject born of the Republic. Basely insignificant as are these details, they serve to show what value was then ascribed even by men of real respectability to trifling princely favors. The unction with which Chiabrera relates them, warming his cold style into a glow of satisfaction, is a practical satire upon his endeavor to resuscitate the virtues of antique republics in that Italy. To do this was his principal aim as a moralist; to revive the grand style of Pindar was his object as an artist. Each attempt involved impossibility, and argued a visionary ambition dimly conscious of its scope. Without freedom, without the living mythology of Hellas, without a triumphant national cause, in the very death of independence, at the end of a long age of glorious but artificial culture, how could Chiabrera dare to pose as Pindar? Instead of the youth of Greece ascending with free flight and all the future of the world before it, decrepit Italy, the Italy so rightly drawn by Marino in his _Pianto_, lay groveling in the dust of decaying thrones. Her lyrist had to sing of pallone-matches instead of Panhellenic games; to celebrate the heroic conquest of two Turkish galleys by a Tuscan fleet, instead of Marathon and Salamis; to praise S. Lucy and S. Paul with tepid fervor, instead of telling how Rhodes swam at her god's bidding upward from the waves. One example will serve as well as many to illustrate the false attitude assumed by Chiabrera when he posed as a new Pindar in the midst of seventeenth-century Italians. I will select the Ode to Don Cesare d'Este. There is something pathetically ridiculous, in this would-be swan of the Dircean fount, this apostle of pagan virtues, admonishing the heir of Alfonso II to prove himself an obedient son of the Church by relinquishing his Duchy of Ferrara to the Holy See. The poet asks him, in fine classic phrases, whether he could bear to look on desecrated altars, confessionals without absolving priests, chapels without choristers, a people barred with bolt and lock from Paradise. How trivial are earthly compared with heavenly crowns! How vulgar is the love of power and gold! The exhortation, exquisite enough in chastened style, closes with this hypocritical appeal to Cesare's aristocratic prejudices: Parli la plebe a suo volere, e pensi-- Non con la plebe hanno da gir gli Estensi. That is to say, nobility demands that the House of Este should desert its subjects, sacrifice its throne, crawl at a Pontiff's feet, and starve among a crowd of disthroned princes, wrapping the ragged purple of its misery around it till it, too, mixes with the people it contemns. Hopeless as the venture was, Chiabrera made it the one preoccupation of his life, in these untoward circumstances, to remodel Italian poetry upon the Greek pattern. It was a merit of the Sei Cento, a sign of grace, that the Italians now at last threw orthodox aesthetic precepts to the winds, and avowed their inability to carry the Petrarchistic tradition further. The best of them, Campanella and Bruno, molded vulgar language like metal in the furnace of a vehement imagination, making it the vehicle of fantastic passion and enthusiastic philosophy. From their crucible the Sonnet and the Ode emerged with no resemblance to academical standards. Grotesque, angular, gnarled, contorted, Gothic even, these antiquated forms beneath their wayward touch were scarcely recognizable. They had become the receptacles of burning, scalding, trenchant realities. Salvator Rosa, next below the best, forced indignation to lend him wings, and scaled Parnassus with brass-bound feet and fury. Marino, bent on riveting attention by surprises, fervid with his own reality of lust, employed the octave stanza as a Turkish Bey might use an odalisque. 'The only rule worth thinking of,' he said, 'is to know how and when and where to break all rules, adapting ourselves to current taste and the fashions of the age.' His epic represents a successful, because a vivid, reaction against conventionality. The life that throbs in it is incontestable, even though that life may be nothing better than ephemeral. With like brutality of instinct, healthy because natural, the barocco architects embraced ugliness, discord, deformity, spasm, as an escape from harmony and regularity with which the times were satiated. Prose-writers burst the bonds of Bembo, trampled on Boccaccio, reveled in the stylistic debaucheries of Bartolo. Painters, rendered academic in vain by those Fabii of Bologna who had striven to restore the commonwealth of art by temporizing, launched themselves upon a sea of massacre and murder, blood and entrails, horrors of dark woods and Bacchanalia of chubby Cupids. The popular Muse of Italy meanwhile emerged with furtive grace and inexhaustible vivacity in dialectic poems, dances, Pulcinello, Bergamasque Pantaloon, and what of parody and satire, Harlequinades, and carnival diversions, any local soil might cherish.[198] All this revolt against precedent, this resurrection of primeval instinct, crude and grinning, took place, let us remember, under the eyes of the Jesuits, within the shadow of the Inquisition, in an age reformed and ordered by the Council of Trent. Art was following Aretino, the reprobate and rebel. He first amid the languors of the golden age--and this is Aretino's merit--discerned that the only escape from its inevitable exhaustion was by passing over into crudest naturalism. [Footnote 198: See Scherillo's two books on the _Commedia dell'Arte_ and the _Opera Buffa_.] But for Chiabrera, the excellent gentleman, the patronized of princes, scrupulous upon the point of honor, pupil of Jesuits, pious, twisted back on humanism by his Roman tutors, what escape was left for him? Obey the genius of his times he must. Innovate he must. He chose the least indecorous sphere at hand for innovation; and felt therewith most innocently happy. Without being precisely conscious of it, he had discovered a way of adhering to time-honored precedent while following the general impulse to discard precedent. He threw Petrarch overboard, but he took on Pindar for his pilot. 'When I see anything eminently beautiful, or hear something, or taste something that is excellent, I say: It is Greek Poetry.' In this self-revealing sentence lies the ruling instinct of the man as scholar. The highest praise he can confer upon Italian matters, is to call them Greek Poetry. 'When I have to express my aims in verse, I compare myself to Columbus, who said that he would discover a new world or drown.' Again, in this self-revealing sentence, Chiabrera betrays the instinct which in common with his period he obeyed. He was bound to startle society by a discovery or to drown. For this, be it remembered, was the time in which Pallavicino, like Marino, declared that poetry must make men raise their eyebrows in astonishment. For Chiabrera, educated as he had been, that new world toward which he navigated was a new Hellenic style of Italian poetry; and the Theban was to guide him toward its shores. But on the voyage Chiabrera drowned: drowned for eternity in hyper-atlantic whirlpools of oblivion. Some critics, pitying so lofty, so respectable an ambition, have whispered that he found a little Island of the Blest and there planted modest myrtles of mediocre immortality. Yet this is not the truth. On such a quest there was only failure or success. He did not succeed. His cold mincemeat from Diocean tables, tepid historic parallels, artificially concocted legends, could not create Greek poetry again beneath the ribs of death. The age was destined to be saved by music. License was its only liberty, as the _Adone_ taught. Unmusical Chiabrera, buckram'd up by old mythologies and sterling precepts, left its life untouched. His antique virtues stood, like stucco gods and goddesses, on pedestals in garden groves, and moldered. His Pindaric flights were such as a sparrow, gazing upward at a hawk, might venture on. Those abrupt transitions, whereby he sought to simulate the lordly _sprezzatura_ of the Theban eagle, 'soaring with supreme dominion in the azure depths of air,' remind us mainly of the hoppings of a frog. Chiabrera failed: failed all the more lamentably because he was so scholarly, so estimable. He is chiefly interesting now as the example of a man devoted to the Church, a pupil of Jesuits, a moralist, and a humanist, in some sense also a patriot, who felt the temper of his time, and strove to innovate in literature. Devoid of sincere sympathy with his academically chosen models, thinking he had discovered a safe path for innovation, he fell flat in the slime and perished. Marino had human life and vulgar nature, the sensualities and frivolities of the century, to help him. Chiabrera claimed none of these advantages. What had Tassoni for his outfit? Sound common sense, critical acumen, the irony of humor, hatred of tyrants and humbug, an acrid temper mollified by genial love of letters, a manly spirit of independence. Last, but not least, he inherited something of the old Elysian smile which played upon the lips of Ariosto, from which Tasso's melancholy shrank discomfited, which Marino smothered in the kisses of his courtesans, and Chiabrera banned as too ignoble for Dircean bards. This smile it was that cheered Tassoni's leisure when, fallen on evil days, he penned the _Socchia Rapita_. Alessandro Tassoni was born in 1565 of a noble Modenese family. Before completing his nineteenth year he won the degree of Doctor of Laws, and afterwards spent twelve years in studying at the chief universities of Lombardy. Between 1599 and 1603 he served the Cardinal Ascanio Colonna both in Spain and Rome, as secretary. The insight he then gained into the working of Spanish despotism made him a relentless enemy of that already decadent monarchy. When Carlo Emmanuele, Duke of Savoy, sent back his Collar of the Golden Fleece in 1613 and drew the sword of resistance against Philip III., Tassoni penned two philippics against Spaniards, which are the firmest, most embittered expression of patriotism as it then existed. He had the acuteness to perceive that the Spanish state was no longer in its prime of vigor, and the noble ingenuousness to dream that Italian princes might be roused to sink their rancors in a common effort after independence. As a matter of fact, Estensi, Medici, Farnesi, Gonzaghi, all the reigning houses as yet unabsorbed by Church or Spain, preferred the predominance of a power which sanctioned their local tyrannies, irksome and degrading as that overlordship was, to the hegemony of Piedmontese Macedon. And like all Italian patriots, strong in mind, feeble in muscle, he failed to reckon with the actual soldierly superiority of Spaniards. Italy could give generals at this epoch to her masters; but she could not count on levying privates for her own defense. Carlo Emmanuele rewarded the generous ardor of Tassoni by grants of pensions which were never paid, and by offices at Court which involved the poet-student in perilous intrigue. 'My service with the princes of the House of Savoy,' so he wrote at a later period, 'did not take its origin in benefits or favors received or expected. It sprang from a pure spontaneous motion of the soul, which inspired me with love for the noble character of Duke Charles.' When he finally withdrew from that service, he had his portrait painted. In his hands he held a fig, and beneath the picture ran a couplet ending with the words, 'this the Court gave me.' Throughout his life Tassoni showed an independence rare in that century. His principal works were published without dedications to patrons. In the preface to his _Remarks on Petrarch_ he expressed his opinion thus: 'I leave to those who like them the fruitless dedications, not to say flatteries, which are customary nowadays. I seek no protection; for a lie does not deserve it, and truth is indifferent to it. Let such as opine that the shadow of great personages can conceal the ineptitude of authors, make the most of this advantage.' Believing firmly in astrology, he judged that his own horoscope condemned him to ill-success. It appears that he was born under the influence of Saturn, when the sun and moon were in conjunction; and he held that this combination of the heavenly bodies boded 'things noteworthy, yet not felicitous.' It was, however, difficult for a man of Tassoni's condition in that state of society to draw breath outside the circle of a Court. Accordingly, in 1626, he entered the service of the Pope's nephew, Cardinal Lodovisio. He did not find this much to his liking: 'I may compare myself to P. Emilius Metellus, when he was shod with those elegant boots which pinched his feet. Everybody said, Oh what fine boots, how well they fit! But the wretch was unable to walk in them.' On the Cardinal's death in 1632 Tassoni removed to the Court of Francesco I. of Modena, and died there in 1635. As a writer, Tassoni, in common with the best spirits of his time, aimed at innovation. It had become palpable to the Italians that the Renaissance was over, and that they must break with the traditions of the past. This, as I have already pointed out, was the saving virtue of the early seventeenth century; but what good fruits it might have fostered, had not the political and ecclesiastical conditions of the age been adverse, remains a matter for conjecture. 'It is my will and object to utter new opinions,' he wrote to a friend; and acting upon this principle, he attacked the chief prejudices of his age in philosophy and literature. One of his earliest publications was a miscellaneous collection of _Divers Thoughts_, in which he derided Aristotle's Physics and propounded speculations similar to those developed by Gassendi. He dared to cast scorn on Homer, as rude and barbarous, poor in the faculty of invention, taxable with at least five hundred flagrant defects. How little Tassoni really comprehended Homer may be judged from his complacent assertion that the episode of Luna and Endymion (_Secchia Rapita_, canto viii.) was composed in the Homeric manner. In truth he could estimate the Iliad and Odyssey no better than Chiabrera could the Pythians and Olympians of Pindar. A just sense of criticism failed the scholars of that age, which was too remote in its customs, too imperfect in its science of history, to understand the essence of Greek art. With equally amusing candor Tassoni passed judgments upon Dante, and thought that he had rivaled the Purgatory in his description of the Dawn (_Secchia Rapita_, viii. 15, the author's note). We must, however, be circumspect and take these criticisms with a grain of salt; for one never knows how far Tassoni may be laughing in his sleeve. There is no doubt, however, regarding the sincerity of his strictures upon the Della Cruscan Vocabulary of 1612, or the more famous inquiry into Petrarch's style. The _Considerazioni sopra le Rime del Petrarca_ were composed in 1602-3 during a sea voyage from Genoa to Spain. They told what now must be considered the plain truth of common sense about the affectations into which a servile study of the _Canzoniere_ had betrayed generations of Italian rhymesters. Tassoni had in view Petrarch's pedantic imitators rather than their master; and when the storm of literary fury, stirred up by his work, was raging round him, he thus established his position: 'Surely it is allowable to censure Petrarch's poems, if a man does this, not from malignant envy, but from a wish to remove the superstitions and abuses which beget such evil effects, and to confound the sects of the Rabbins hardened in their perfidy of obsolete opinion, and in particular of such as think they cannot write straight without the _falsariga_ of their model.' I may observe in passing that the points in this paragraph are borrowed from a sympathizing letter which Marino addressed to the author on his essay. In another place Tassoni stated, 'It was never my intention to speak evil of this poet [Petrarch], whom I have always admired above any lyrist of ancient or modern times.' So independent in his conduct and so bold in his opinions was the author of the _Secchia Rapita_. The composition of this poem grew out of the disputes which followed Tassoni's _Remarks on Petrarch_. He found himself assailed by two scurrilous libels, which were traced to the Count Alessandro Brusantini, feudal lord of Culagna and Bismozza. Justice could not be obtained upon the person of so eminent a noble. Tassoni, with true Italian refinement, resolved to give himself the unique pleasure of ingenious vengeance. The name of the Count's fief supplied him with a standing dish of sarcasm. He would write a satiric poem, of which the Conte Culagna should be the burlesque hero. After ten months' labor, probably in the year 1615, the _Secchia Rapita_ already went abroad in MS.[199] Tassoni sought to pass it off as a product of his youth; but both the style and the personalities which it contained rendered this impossible. Privately issued, the poem had a great success. 'In less than a year,' writes the author, 'more MS. copies were in circulation than are usually sent forth from the press in ten years of the most famous works.' One professional scribe made 200 ducats in the course of a few months by reproducing it; and the price paid for each copy was eight crowns. It became necessary to publish the _Secchia Rapita_. But now arose innumerable difficulties. The printers of Modena and Padua refused; Giuliano Cassiani had been sent to prison in 1617 for publishing some verses of Testi against Spain. The Inquisition withheld its _imprimatur_. Attempts were made to have it printed on the sly at Padua; but the craftsman who engaged to execute this job was imprisoned. At last, in 1622, Tassoni contrived to have the poem published in Paris. The edition soon reached Italy. In Rome it was prohibited, but freely sold; and at last Gregory XV. allowed it to be reprinted with some canceled passages. There is, in truth, nothing prejudicial either to the Catholic creed or to general morality in the _Secchia Rapita_. We note, meanwhile, with interest, that it first saw the light at Paris, sharing thus the fortunes of the _Adone_, which it preceded by one year. If the greatest living Italians at this time were exiles, it appears that the two most eminent poems of their literature first saw the light on foreign shores. [Footnote 199: For the date 1615 see Carducci's learned essay prefixed to his edition of the _Secchia Rapita_ (Barbera, 1861).] The _Secchia Rapita_ is the first example of heroico-comic poetry. Tassoni claims in print the honor of inventing this new species, and tells his friends that 'though he will not pique himself on being a poet, still he sets some store on having discovered a new kind of poem and occupied a vacant seat.' The seat--and it was no Siege Perilous--stood indeed empty and ready to be won by any free-lance of letters. Folengo had burlesqued romance. But no one as yet had made a parody of that which still existed mainly as the unaccomplished hope of literature. Trissino with his _Italia Liberata_, Tasso with his _Gerusalemme Liberata_, tried to persuade themselves and the world that they had succeeded in delivering Italy in labor of an epic. But their maieutic ingenuity was vain. The nation carried no epic in her womb. Trissino's _Italia_ was a weazened changeling of erudition, and Tasso's _Gerusalemme_ a florid bastard of romance. Tassoni, noticing the imposition of these two eminent and worthy writers, determined to give his century an epic or heroic poem in the only form which then was possible. Briefly, he produced a caricature, modeled upon no existing work of modern art, but corresponding to the lineaments of that Desired of the Nation which pedants had prophesied. Unity of action celestial machinery, races in conflict, contrasted heroes, the wavering chance of war, episodes, bards, heroines, and love subordinated to the martial motive--all these features of the epic he viewed through the distorting medium of his comic art. In the days of the second Lombard League, when Frederick II. was fighting a losing battle with the Church, Guelf Bologna came into grim conflict with her Ghibelline neighbor Modena. The territory of these two cities formed the _champ clos_ of a duel in which the forces of Germany and nearly all Italy took part; and in one engagement, at Fossalta, the Emperor's heir, King Enzo of Sardinia, was taken captive. How he passed the rest of his days, a prisoner of the Bolognese, and how he begat the semi-royal brood of Bentivogli, is matter of history and legend. During this conflict memorable among the many municipal wars of Italy in the middle ages, it happened that some Modenese soldiers, who had pushed their way into the suburbs of Bologna, carried off a bucket and suspended it as a trophy in the bell-tower of the cathedral, where it may still be seen. One of the peculiarities of those mediaeval struggles which roused the rivalry of towns separated from each other by a few miles of fertile country, and which raged through generations till the real interests at issue were confounded in blind animosity of neighbor against neighbor--was the sense of humor and of sarcasm they encouraged. To hurl dead donkey against your enemy's town-wall passed for a good joke, and discredited his honor more than the loss of a hundred fighting men in a pitched battle. Frontier fortresses received insulting names, like the Perugian _Becca di questo_, or like the Bolognese _Grevalcore_. There was much, in fact, in these Italian wars which reminds one of the hostilities between rival houses in a public school. Such being the element of humor ready to hand in the annals of his country, Tassoni chose the episode of the Bolognese bucket for the theme of a mock-heroic epic. He made what had been an insignificant incident the real occasion of the war, and grouped the facts of history around it by ingenious distortions of the truth. The bucket is the Helen of his Iliad:[200] Vedrai s'al cantar mio porgi l'orecchia, Elena trasformarsi in una secchia. [Footnote 200: Canto i. 2.] A mere trifle thus becomes a point of dispute capable of bringing gods, popes, emperors, kings, princes, cities, and whole nations into conflict. At the same time the satirist betrays his malice by departing as little as possible from the main current of actual events. History lends verisimilitude to the preposterous assumption that heaven and earth were drawn into a squabble about a bucket: and if there is any moral to be derived from the _Secchia Rapita_ we have it here. At the end of the contention, when both parties are exhausted, it is found that the person of a king weighs in the scale of nations no more than an empty bucket:[201] Riserbando ne' patti a i Modanesi La secchia, e 'l re de'Sardi ai Bolognesi. Such is the main subject of the _Secchia Rapita_; and such is Tassoni's irony, an irony worthy of Aristophanes in its far-reaching indulgent contempt for human circumstance. But the poem has another object. It was written to punish Count Alessandro Brusantini. The leading episode, which occupies about three cantos of the twelve, is an elaborate vilification of this personal enemy travestied as the contemptible Conte di Culagna. Tassoni's method of art corresponds to the irony of his inspiration. We find his originality in a peculiar blending of serious and burlesque styles, in abrupt but always well-contrived transitions from heroical magniloquence to plebeian farce and from scurrility to poetic elevation, finally in a frequent employment of the figure which the Greeks called [Greek: para prosdokian]. His poem is a parody of the Aristophanic type. 'Like a fantastically ironical magic tree, the world-subversive idea which lies at the root of it springs up with blooming ornament of thoughts, with singing nightingales and climbing chattering apes.'[202] To seek a central motive or a sober meaning in this caprice of the satirical imagination would be idle. Tassoni had no intention, as some critics have pretended, to exhibit the folly of those party wars which tore the heart of Italy three centuries before his epoch, to teach the people of his day the miseries of foreign interference, or to strike a death-blow at classical mythology. The lesson which can be drawn from his cantos, that man in warfare disquiets himself in vain for naught, that a bucket is as good a _casus belli_ as Helen, the moral which Southey pointed in his ballad of the Battle of Blenheim, emerges, not from the poet's design, but from the inevitable logic of his humor. Pique inspired the _Secchia Rapita_, and in the despicable character of Count Culagna he fully revenged the slight which had been put upon him. The revenge is savage, certainly; for the Count remains 'immortally immerded' in the long-drawn episode which brought to view the shame of his domestic life. Yet while Tassoni drew blood, he never ceased to smile; and Count Culagna remains for us a personage of comedy rather than of satire. [Footnote 201: Canto xii. 77.] [Footnote 202: So Heine wrote of Aristophanes. See my essay in _Studies of the Greek Poets_.] In the next place, Tassoni meant to ridicule the poets of his time. He calls the _Secchia Rapita_ 'an absurd caprice, written to burlesque the modern poets.' His genius was nothing if not critical, and literature afforded him plenty of material for fun. Romance-writers with their jousts and duels and armed heroines, would-be epic poets with their extra-mundane machinery and pomp of phrase, Marino and his hyperbolical conceits, Tuscan purists bent on using only words of the Tre Cento, Petrarchisti spinning cobwebs of old metaphors and obsolete periphrases, all felt in turn the touch of his light lash. The homage paid to Petrarch's stuffed cat at Arquà supplied him with a truly Aristophanic gibe.[203] Society comes next beneath his ferule. There is not a city of Italy which Tassoni did not wring in the withers of its self-conceit. The dialects of Ferrara, Bologna, Bergamo, Florence, Rome, lend the satirist vulgar phrases when he quits the grand style and, taking Virgil's golden trumpet from his lips, slides off into a _canaille_ drawl or sluice of Billingsgate. Modena is burlesqued in her presiding Potta, gibbeted for her filthy streets. The Sienese discover that the world accounts them lunatics. The Florentines and Perugians are branded for notorious vice. Roman foppery, fantastical in feminine pretentiousness, serves as a foil to drag Culagna down into the ditch of ignominy. Here and there, Tassoni's satire is both venomous and pungent, as when he paints the dotage of the Empire, stabs Spanish pride of sovereignty, and menaces the Papacy with insurrection. But for the most part, like Horace in the phrase of Persius, he plays about the vitals of the victims who admit him to their confidence--_admissus circum praecordia ludit_. [Footnote 203: Canto viii. 33, 34.] We can but regret that so clear-sighted, so urbane and so truly Aristophanic a satirist had not a wider field to work in. Seventeenth-century Italy was all too narrow for his genius; and if the _Secchia Rapita_ has lost its savor, this is less the poet's fault than the defect of his material. He was strong enough to have brought the Athens of Cleon, the France of Henri III., or the England of James I. within the range of his distorting truth-revealing mirror. Yet, even as it was, Tassoni opened several paths for modern humorists. Rabelais might have owned that caricature of Mars and Bacchus rioting in a tavern bed with Venus travestied as a boy, and in the morning, after breakfasting divinely on two hundred restorative eggs, escaping with the fear of a scandalized host and the police-court before their eyes. Yet Rabelais would hardly have brought this cynical picture of crude debauchery into so fine a contrast with the celestial environment of gods and goddesses. True to his principle of effect by alternation, Tassoni sometimes sketches the deities whom he derides, in the style of Volpato engravings after Guido. They move across his canvas with ethereal grace. What can be more charming than Diana visiting Endymion, and confessing to the Loves that all her past career as huntress and as chaste had been an error? Venus, too, when she takes that sensuously dreamy all-poetic journey across the blue Mediterranean to visit golden-haired King Enzo in his sleep, makes us forget her entrance into Modena disguised as a lad trained to play female parts upon the stage. This blending of true elegance with broad farce is a novelty in modern literature. We are reminded of the songs of the Mystae on the meadows of Elysium in the _Frogs_. Scarron and Voltaire, through the French imitators of Tassoni, took lessons from his caricature of Saturn, the old diseased senator traveling in a sedan chair to the celestial parliament, with a clyster-pipe in front of him and his seat upon a close stool. Molière and Swift, votaries of Cloacina, were anticipated in the climax of Count Culagna's attempt to poison his wife, and in the invention of the enchanted ass so formidable by Parthian discharges on its adversary. Over these births of Tassoni's genius the Maccaronic Muse of Folengo and his Bolognese predecessors presided. There is something Lombard, a smack of sausage in the humor. But it remained for the Modenese poet to bring this Mafelina into the comity of nations. We are not, indeed, bound to pay her homage. Yet when we find her inspiring such writers as Swift, Voltaire, Sterne and Heine, it is well to remember that Tassoni first evoked her from Mantuan gutters and the tripe-shops of Bologna. 'The fantastically ironical magic tree' of the _Secchia Rapita_ spread its green boughs not merely for chattering baboons. Nightingales sang there. The monkey-like Culagna, with his tricks and antics, disappears. Virtuous Renoppia, that wholesome country lass, the _bourgeois_ counterpart of Bradamante, withholds her slipper from the poet's head when he is singing sad or lovely things of human fortune. Our eyes, rendered sensitive by vulgar sights, dwell with unwonted pleasure on the chivalrous beauty of King Enzo. Ernesto's death touches our sympathy with pathos, in spite of the innuendo cast upon his comrade Jaconìa. Paolo Malatesta rides with the shades of doom, the Dantesque cloud of love and destiny, around his forehead, through that motley mock-heroic band of burghers. Manfredi, consumed by an unholy passion for his sister, burns for one moment, like a face revealed by lightning, on our vision and is gone. Finally, when the mood seizes him (for Tassoni persuades us into thinking he is but the creature of caprice), he tunes the soft idyllic harp and sings Endymion's love-tale in strains soft as Marino's, sweet as Tasso's, outdoing Marino in delicacy, Tasso in reserve. This episode moved rigid Alfieri to admiration. It remains embedded in a burlesque poem, one of the most perfectly outlined triumphs of refined Italian romantic art. Yet such was the strength of the master's hand, so loyal was he to his principle of contrast, that he cuts the melodious idyl short with a twang of the guitar-strings, and strikes up a tavern ballad on Lucrezia. The irony which ruled his art demanded this inversion of proprieties. Cynthia wooing Endymion shows us woman in her frailty; Lucrece violated by Tarquin is woman in her dignity. The ironical poet had to adorn the first story with his choicest flowers of style and feeling, to burlesque the second with his grossest realism. This antithesis between sustained poetry and melodiously-worded slang, between radiant forms of beauty and grotesque ugliness, penetrates the _Secchia Rapita_ in every canto and in every detail. We pass from battle-scenes worthy of Ariosto and Tasso at their best into ditches of liquid dung. Ambassadors are introduced with touches that degrade them to the rank of _commis voyageurs_. Before the senate the same men utter orations in the style of Livy. The pomp of war is paraded, its machinery of catapults is put in motion, to discharge a dead ass into a besieged town; and when the beleagured garrison behold it flying through the air, they do not take the donkey for a taunt, but for a heavenly portent. A tournament is held and very brave in their attire are all the combatants. But according to its rules the greatest sluggard wins the crown of honor. Even in the similes, which formed so important an element of epic decoration, the same principle of contrast is maintained. Fine vignettes from nature in the style consecrated by Ariosto and Tasso introduce ludicrous incidents. Vulgar details picked up from the streets prepare us for touches of pathos or poetry. Tassoni takes high rank as a literary artist for the firmness with which he adhered to his principle of irony, and for the facility of vigor which conceals all traces of effort in so difficult a task. I may be thought to have pitched his praise too high. But those will forgive me who enjoy the play of pure sharp-witted fancy, or who reflect upon the sadness of the theme which occupies my pen in these two volumes. Of the four poets to whom this chapter is devoted, Guarini, Marino, and Tassoni were successful, Chiabrera was a respectable failure. The reason of this difference is apparent. In the then conditions of Italian society, at the close of a great and glorious period of varied culture, beneath the shadow of a score of Spaniardizing princelings, with the spies of the Inquisition at every corner, and the drill of the Tridentine Council to be gone through under Jesuitical direction, there was no place for a second Pindar. But there was scope for decorative art, for sensuous indulgence, and for genial irony. Happy the man who paced his vineyards, dreaming musically of Arcadia! Happy the man who rolled in Circe's pigsty! Happy the man who sat in his study and laughed! Therefore the most meritorious productions of the time, Boccalini's _Ragguagli di Parnaso_, Bracciolini's _Scherno degli Dei_, have a touch of Tassoni's humor in them; while Achillini and Preti limp somewhat feebly after Marino's Alcibidean swagger, and endless pastorals pullulate from Guarini's tragi-comedy. We need not occupy our minds with these secondary writers, nor do more than indicate the scholarly niceness with which Filicaja in the second half of the seventeenth century continued Chiabrera's tradition. But one word must be said in honor of Fulvio Testi, the Modenese poet and statesman, who paid for the fame of a Canzone with his head. He has a double interest for us: first, because Leopardi esteemed him the noblest of Italian lyrists after Petrarch; secondly, because his fate proved that Tasso's dread of assassination was not wholly an illusion. Reading the ode addressed to Count Raimondo Montecuccoli, _Ruscelletto orgoglioso_, the ode which brought Testi to the block in a dungeon of the Estensi, we comprehend what Leopardi meant by his high panegyric. It is a piece of poetry, lofty in style, grave in movement, pregnant with weighty thought, stern and rugged, steeped in a sublimity of gloom and Stoicism which remind us of the author of _La Ginestra_. The century produced little that bore a stamp so evident of dignity and greatness. CHAPTER XII. PALESTRINA AND THE ORIGINS OF MODERN MUSIC. Italy in Renaissance produces no National School of Music--Flemish Composers in Rome--Singers and Orchestra--The Chaotic Indecency of this Contrapuntal Style--Palestrina's Birth and Early History--Decrees of the Tridentine Council upon Church Music--The Mass of Pope Marcello--Palestrina Satisfies the Cardinals with his New Style of Sacred Music--Pius IV. and his Partiality for Music--Palestrina and Filippo Neri--His Motetts--The Song of Solomon set to Melody--Palestrina, the Saviour of Music--The Founder of the Modern Style--Florentine Essays in the Oratorio. It is a singular fact that while Italy led all the European races in scholarship and literature, in the arts of sculpture and painting, in commerce and the sciences of life, she had developed no national school of music in the middle of the sixteenth century. Native melody might indeed be heard in abundance along her shores and hillsides, in city streets and on the squares where men and girls danced together at evening. But such melody was popular; it could not be called artistic or scientific. The music which resounded through the Sistine Chapel, beneath the Prophets of Michel Angelo, on high days and festivals, was not Italian. The composers of it came for the most part from Flemish or French provinces, bearing the names of Josquin Deprès, of Andrew Willaert, of Eleazar Genet, of James Arkadelt, of Claude Gondimel; and the performers were in like manner chiefly ultramontanes. Julius II. in 1513 founded a chapel in the Vatican Basilica called the Cappella Giulia for the maintenance of twelve male singers, twelve boys, and two masters of the choristers. In doing so it was his object to encourage a Roman school of music and to free the Chapter of S. Peter's from the inconvenience of being forced to engage foreign choir-men. His scheme, however, had been only partially successful. As late as 1540, we find that the principal composers and musicians in Rome were still foreigners. To three Italians of repute, there were five Flemings, three Frenchmen, three Spaniards, one German, and one Portuguese.[204] [Footnote 204: See Baini, _Life of Palestrina_, vol. ii. p. 20.] The Flemish style of contrapuntal or figured harmony, which had enchanted Europe by its novelty and grace when Josquin Deprès, in the last quarter of the fifteenth century, brought it into universal vogue, was still dominant in Italy. But this style already showed unmistakable signs of decadence and dissolution. It had become unfit for ecclesiastical uses, and by the exaggeration of its qualities it was tending to anarchy. The grand defect of Flemish music, considered as an art of expression, was that it ignored propriety and neglected the libretto. Instead of exercising original invention, instead of suiting melodies to words by appropriate combinations of sound and sense, the composers chose any musical themes that came to hand, and wrought them up into elaborate contrapuntal structures without regard for their book. The first words of a passage from the Creed, for instance, were briefly indicated at the outset of the number: what followed was but a reiteration of the same syllables, and divided in the most arbitrary manner to suit the complicated descant which they had to serve. The singers could not adapt their melodic phrases to the liturgical text, since sometimes passages of considerable length fell upon a couple of syllables, while on the contrary a long sentence might have no more than a bar or even less assigned to it. They were consequently in the habit of drawling out or gabbling over the words, regardless of both sense and sentiment. Nor was this all. The composers of the Flemish school prided themselves on overloading their work with every kind of intricate and difficult ornament, exhibiting their dexterity by canons of many types, inversions, imitations, contrapuntal devices of divers ingenious and distracting species. The verbal theme became a mere basis for the utterance of scientific artifices and the display of vocal gymnastics. The singers, for their part, were allowed innumerable licenses. While the bass sustained the melody, the other voices indulged in extempore descant (_composizione alla mente_) and in extravagances of technical execution (_rifiorimenti_), regardless of the style of the main composition, violating time, and setting even the fundamental tone at defiance. The composers, to advance another step in the analysis of this strange medley, took particular delight in combining different sets of words, melodies of widely diverse character, antagonistic rhythms and divergent systems of accentuation in a single piece. They assigned these several ingredients to several parts; and for the further exhibition of their perverse skill, went even to the length of coupling themes in the major and the minor. The most obvious result of such practice was that it became impossible to understand what words were being sung, and that instead of concord and order in the choir, a confused discord and anarchy of dinning sounds prevailed. What made the matter from an ecclesiastical point of view still worse, was that these scholastically artificial compositions were frequently based on trivial and vulgar tunes, suggesting the tavern, the dancing-room, or even worse places, to worshipers assembled for the celebration of a Sacrament. Masses bore titles adopted from the popular melodies on which they were founded: such, for example, as 'Adieu mes amours,' 'A l'ombre d'un buissonnet,' 'Baise-moi,' 'L'ami baudichon madame,' 'Le vilain jaloux.' Even the words of love-ditties and obscene ballads in French, Flemish, and Italian, were being squalled out by the tenor while the bass gave utterance to an _Agnus_ or a _Benedictus_, and the soprano was engaged upon the verses of a Latin hymn. Baini, who examined hundreds of these Masses and motetts in MS., says that the words imported into them from vulgar sources 'make one's flesh creep and one's hair stand on end.' He does not venture to do more than indicate a few of the more decent of these interloping verses; but mentions one _Kyrie_, in which the tenor sang _Je ne vis oncques la pareille_; a _Sanctus_, in which he had to utter _gracieuse gente mounyere_; and a _Benedictus_, where the same offender was employed on _Madame, faites moy sçavoir_. As an augmentation of this indecency, numbers from a Mass or motett which started with the grave rhythm of a Gregorian tone, were brought to their conclusion on the dance measure of a popular _ballata_, so that _Incarnatus est_ or _Kyrie eleison_ went jigging off into suggestions of Masetto and Zerlina at a village ball. To describe all the impertinences to which the customs of vocal execution then in vogue gave rise, by means of flourishes, improvisations, accelerations of time and multitudinous artifices derived from the _ad libitum_ abuses of the fugal machinery, would serve no purpose. But it may be profitably mentioned that the mischief was not confined to the vocal parts. Organ and orchestra of divers instruments were allowed the same liberty of improvising on the given theme, embroidering these with fanciful _capricci_, and indulging their own taste in symphonies connected with the main structure by slight and artificial links. Instrumental music had not yet taken an independent place in art. The lute, the trumpet, or the stops of the organ, followed and imitated the voice; and thus in this confusion a choir of stringed and wind instruments was placed in competition with the singing choir.[205] It would appear that the composer frequently gave but a ground-sketch of his plan, without troubling himself to distribute written parts to the executants. The efflorescences, excursuses and episodes to which I have alluded, were supplied by artists whom long training in this kind of music enabled to perform their separate sallies and to execute their several antics within certain limits of recognized license. But since each vied with the other to produce striking effects, the choir rivaling the orchestra, the tenor competing with the bass, the organ with the viol, it followed that the din of their accumulated efforts was not unjustly compared to that made by a 'sty of grunting pigs,' the builders of the Tower of Babel, or the 'squalling of cats in January.'[206] 'All their happiness,' writes a contemporary critic, 'consisted in keeping the bass singer to the fugue, while at the same time one voice was shouting out _Sanctus_, another _Sabaoth_, a third _gloria tua_, with howlings, bellowings and squealings that cannot be described.' [Footnote 205: While the choir was singing, the orchestra was playing concerted pieces called _ricercari_, in which the vocal parts were reproduced.] [Footnote 206: See the original passages from contemporary writers quoted by Baini, vol. i. pp. 102-104. Savonarola went so far as to affirm: 'Che questo canto figurato l'ha trovato Satanasso,' a phrase quite in the style of a Puritan abusing choirs and organs.] It must not be thought that this almost unimaginable state of things indicated a defect either of intellectual capacity or of artistic skill. It was due rather to the abuse of science and of virtuosity, both of which had attained to a high degree of development. It manifested the decadence of music in its immaturity, through over-confident employment of exuberant resources on an end inadequate for the fulfillment of the art. Music, it must be remembered, unlike literature and plastic art, had no antique tradition to assimilate, no masterpieces of accomplished form to study. In the modern world it was an art without connecting links to bind it to the past. And this circumstance rendered it liable to negligent treatment by a society that prided itself upon the recovery of the classics. The cultivated classes abandoned it in practice to popular creators of melody upon the one hand, and to grotesque scholastic pedants on the other. And from the blending of those ill-accorded elements arose the chaos which I have attempted to describe. Learned composers in the style developed by the Flemish masters had grown tired of writing simple music for four voices and a single choir. They reveled in the opportunity of combining eight vocal parts and bringing three choirs with accompanying orchestras into play at the same time. They were proud of proving how by counterpoint the most dissimilar and mutually-jarring factors could be wrought into a whole, intelligible to the scientific musician, though unedifying to the public. In the neglect of their art, considered as an art of interpretation and expression, they abandoned themselves to intricate problems and to the presentation of incongruous complexities. The singers were expert in rendering difficult passages, in developing unpromising motives, and in embroidering the arras-work of the composer with fanciful extravagances of vocal execution. The instrumentalists were trained in the art of copying effects of fugue or madrigal by lutes and viols in concerted pieces. The people were used to dance and sing and touch the mandoline together; in every house were found amateurs who could with voice and string produce the studied compositions of the masters. What was really lacking, amid this exuberance of musical resources, in this thick jungle of technical facilities, was a controlling element of correct taste, a right sense of the proper function of music as an interpretative art. On the very threshold of its modern development, music had fallen into early decay owing to the misapplication of the means so copiously provided by nature and by exercise. A man of genius and of substantial intuition into the real ends of vocal music was demanded at this moment, who should guide the art into its destined channel. And in order to elicit such a creator of new impulses, such a Nomothetes of the disordered state, it was requisite that external pressure should be brought to bear upon the art. An initiator of the right caliber was found in Palestrina. The pressure from without was supplied by the Council of Trent. It may here be parenthetically remarked that music, all through modern history, has needed such legislators and initiators of new methods. Considered as an art of expression, she has always tended to elude control, to create for herself a domain extraneous to her proper function, and to erect her resources of mere sound into self-sufficingness. What Palestrina effected in the sixteenth century, was afterwards accomplished on a wider platform by Gluck in the eighteenth, and in our own days the same deliverance has been attempted by Wagner. The efforts of all these epoch-making musicians have been directed toward restraining the tendencies of music to assert an independence, which for herself becomes the source of weakness by reducing her to co-operation with insignificant words, and which renders her subservient to merely technical dexterities. Giovanni Pier Luigi, called Palestrina from his birthplace in one of the Colonna fiefs near Rome, the ancient Praeneste, was born of poor parents, in the year 1524, He went to Rome about 1540, and began his musical career probably as a choir-boy in one of the Basilicas. Claude Goudimel, the Besançon composer, who subsequently met a tragic death at Lyons in a massacre of Huguenots, had opened a school of harmony in Rome, where Palestrina learned the first rudiments of that science. What Palestrina owed to Goudimel, is not clear. But we have the right to assume that the Protestant part-songs of the French people which Goudimel transferred to the hymn-books of the Huguenots, had a potent influence upon the formation of his style. They may have been for him what the Chorales of Germany were for the school of Bach.[207] Externally, Palestrina's life was a very uneventful one, and the records collected with indefatigable diligence by his biographer have only brought to light changes from one post to another in several Basilicas, and unceasing industry in composition. The vast number of works published by Palestrina in his lifetime, or left in MS. at his death, or known to have been written and now lost, would be truly astonishing were it not a fact that very eminent creative genius is always copious, and in no province of the arts more fertile than in that of music. Palestrina lived and died a poor man. In his dedications he occasionally remarks with sober pathos on the difficulty of pursuing scientific studies in the midst of domestic anxiety. His pay was very small, and the expense of publishing his works, which does not seem to have been defrayed by patrons, was at that time very great. Yet he enjoyed an uncontested reputation as the first of living composers, the saviour of Church music, the creator of a new style; and on his tomb, in 1594, was inscribed this title: _Princeps Musicae_. [Footnote 207: See Michelet, _Histoire de France_, vol. xi. pp. 76, 101, vol. xii. p. 383 (Paris: Lacroix, 1877).] The state of confusion into which ecclesiastical music had fallen, rendered it inevitable that some notice of so grave a scandal should be taken by the Fathers of the Tridentine Council in their deliberations on reform of ritual. It appears, therefore, that in their twenty-second session (September 17, 1562) they enjoined upon the Ordinaries to 'exclude from churches all such music as, whether through the organ or the singing, introduces anything of impure or lascivious, in order that the house of God may truly be seen to be and may be called the house of prayer.'[208] In order to give effect to this decree of the Tridentine Council, Pius IV. appointed a congregation of eight Cardinals upon August 2, 1564, among whom three deserve especial mention--Michele Ghislieri, the Inquisitor, who was afterwards Pope Pius V.; Carlo Borromeo, the sainted Archbishop of Milan; and Vitellozzo Vitellozzi. It was their business, among other matters of reform, to see that the Church music of Rome was instantly reduced to proper order in accordance with the decree of the Council. Carlo Borromeo was nephew and chief minister of the reigning Pope. Vitellozzo Vitellozzi was a young man of thirty-three years, who possessed a singular passion for music. [Footnote 208: Baini, i. p. 196.] To these two members of the congregation, as a sub-committee, was deputed the special task of settling the question of ecclesiastical music, it being stipulated that they should by all means see that sufficient clearness was introduced into the enunciation of the liturgical words by the singers. I will here interrupt the thread of the narration, in order to touch upon the legendary story which connects Palestrina incorrectly with what subsequently happened. It was well known that on the decisions of the sub-committee of the congregation hung the fate of Church music. For some while it seemed as though music might be altogether expelled from the rites of the Catholic Ecclesia. And it soon became matter of history that Palestrina had won the cause of his art, had maintained it in its eminent position in the ritual of Rome, and at the same time had opened a new period in the development of modern music by the production of his Mass called the _Mass of Pope Marcellus_ at this critical moment. These things were true; and when the peril had been overpassed, and the actual circumstances of the salvation and revolution of Church music had been forgotten, the memory of the crisis and the title of the victorious Mass remained to form a mythus. The story ran that the good Pope Marcellus, who occupied the Holy See for only twenty-two days, in the year 1555, determined on the abolition of all music but Plain Song in the Church; hearing of which resolve, Palestrina besought him to suspend his decree until he had himself produced and presented a Mass conformable to ecclesiastical propriety. Marcello granted the chapel-master this request; and on Easter Day, the Mass, which saved Church music from destruction, was performed with the papal approval and the applause of Rome. It is not necessary to point out the many impossibilities and contradictions involved in this legend, since the real history of the Mass which wrought salvation for Church music, lies before us plainly written in the prolix pages of Baini. Yet it would have vexed me to pass by in silence so interesting and instructive an example of the mode by which the truth of history is veiled in legend. Truth is always more interesting than fiction, and the facts of this important episode in musical history are not without their element of romance. There is no doubt that there was a powerful party in the Catholic Church imbued with a stern ascetic or puritanical spirit, who would gladly have excluded all but Plain Song from her services. Had Michele Ghislieri instead of the somewhat worldly Angelo de'Medici been on the Papal throne, or had the decision of the musical difficulty been delegated to him by the congregation of eight Cardinals in 1564, Palestrina might not have obtained that opportunity of which he so triumphantly availed himself. But it happened that the reigning Pope was a lover of the art, and had a special reason for being almost superstitiously indulgent to its professors. While he was yet a Cardinal, in the easy-going days of Julius III., Angelo de'Medici had been invited with other princes of the Church to hear the marvelous performances upon the lute and the incomparable improvisations of a boy called Silvio Antoniano. The meeting took place at a banquet in the palace of the Venetian Cardinal Pisani. When the guests were assembled, the Cardinal Rannuccio Farnese put together a bouquet of flowers, and presenting these to the musician, bade him give them to that one of the Cardinals who should one day be chosen Pope. Silvio without hesitation handed the flowers to Angelo de'Medici, and taking up his lute began to sing his praises in impassioned extempore verse. After his election to the Papacy, with the title of Pius IV., Angelo de'Medici took Silvio into his service, and employed him in such honorable offices that the fortunate youth was finally advanced to the dignity of Cardinal under the reign of Clement VIII., in 1598.[209] [Footnote 209: It will be remembered that this Silvio Antoniano was one of the revisers of Tasso's poem, and the one who gave him most trouble.] It was therefore necessary for the congregation of musical reform to take the Pope's partiality for this art into consideration; and they showed their good will by choosing his own nephew, together with a notorious amateur of music, for their sub-committee. The two Cardinals applied to the College of Pontifical Singers for advice; and these deputed eight of their number--three Spaniards, one Fleming, and four Italians--to act as assistants in the coming deliberations. It was soon agreed that Masses and motetts in which different verbal themes were jumbled, should be prohibited; that musical motives taken from profane songs should be abandoned; and that no countenance should be given to compositions or words invented by contemporary poets. These three conditions were probably laid down as indispensable by the Cardinals in office before proceeding to the more difficult question of securing a plain and intelligible enunciation of the sacred text. When the Cardinals demanded this as the essential point in the proposed reform, the singers replied that it would be impossible in practice. They were so used to the complicated structure of figured music, with its canons, fugal intricacies, imitations and inversions, that they could not even imagine a music that should be simple and straightforward, retaining the essential features of vocal harmony, and yet allowing the words on which it was composed to be distinctly heard. The Cardinals rebutted these objections by pointing to the Te Deum of Costanzo Festa (a piece which has been always sung on the election of a new Pope from that day to our own times) and to the Improperia of Palestrina, which also holds its own in the service of the Sistine. But the singers answered that these were exceptional pieces, which, though they might fulfill the requirements of the Congregation of Reform, could not be taken as the sole models for compositions involving such variety and length of execution as the Mass. Their answer proved conclusively to what extent the contrapuntal style had dissociated itself from the right object of all vocal music, that of interpreting, enforcing, and transfiguring the words with which it deals, and how it had become a mere art for the scientific development of irrelevant and often impertinent melodic themes. In order to avoid an absolute deadlock, which might have resulted in the sacrifice of ecclesiastical harmony, and have inflicted a death-blow on modern music, the committee agreed to refer their difficulties to Palestrina. On the principle of _solvitur ambulando_, he was invited to study the problem, and to produce a trial piece which should satisfy the conditions exacted by the Congregation as well as the requirements of the artists. Literally, he received commission to write a Mass in sober ecclesiastical style, free from all impure and light suggestions in the themes, the melodies and the rhythms, which should allow the sacred words in their full sense to be distinctly heard, without sacrificing vocal harmony and the customary interlacing of fugued passages. If he succeeded, the Cardinals promised to make no further innovation; but if he failed, Carlo Borromeo warned him that the Congregation of Reform would disband the choral establishments of the Pontifical Chapel and the Roman churches, and prohibit the figured style in vogue, in pursuance of the clear decision of the Tridentine Council. This was a task of Hercules imposed on Palestrina. The art to which he had devoted his lifetime, the fame which he had acquired as a composer, the profession by which he and all his colleagues gained their daily bread, depended on his working out the problem. He was practically commanded to discover a new species of Church music, or to behold the ruin of himself and his companions, the extinction of the art and science he so passionately loved. Truly may his biographer remark: 'I am deliberately of opinion that no artist either before or since has ever found himself in a parallel strait.' We have no exact record of the spirit in which he approached this labor.[210] But he was a man of sincere piety, a great and enthusiastic servant of art. The command he had received came from a quarter which at that period and in Rome had almost divine authority. He knew that music hung trembling in the balance upon his failure or success. [Footnote 210: In the Dedication of the _Mass of Pope Marcello_ to Philip II. in 1567 Palestrina only says that he had been constrained by the order of men of the highest gravity and most approved piety to apply himself _ad sanctissimum Missae sacrificium novo modorum genere decorandum_, and that he had performed his task with indefatigable pains and industry (Baini, _op. cit._ vol. i. p. 280). But it is noteworthy that of the three Masses furnished for the approval of the congregation, the first was entitled _Illumina oculos meos_, and that an anecdote referring to this title relates Palestrina's earnest prayers for grace and inspiration during the execution of the work (_ibid._ p. 223, note.)] And these two motives, the motive of religious zeal and the motive of devotion to art, inspired him for the creation of a new musical world. Analysis of his work and comparison of it with the style which he was called on to supersede, show pretty clearly what were the principles that governed him. With a view to securing the main object of rendering the text intelligible to the faithful, he had to dispense with the complicated Flemish system of combined melodies in counterpoint, and to employ his scientific resources of fugue and canon with parsimony, so that in future they should subserve and not tyrannize over expression. He determined to write for six voices, two of which should be bass, in order that the fundamental themes should be sustained with dignity and continuity. But what he had principally in view, what in fact he had been called on to initiate, was that novel adaptation of melody and science to verbal phrase and sense, whereby music should be made an art interpretative of religious sentiment, powerful to clothe each shade of meaning in the text with appropriate and beautiful sound, instead of remaining a merely artificial and mechanical structure of sounds disconnected from the words employed in giving them vocal utterance. Palestrina set to work, and composed three Masses, which were performed upon April 28, 1565, before the eight Cardinals of the congregation in the palace of Cardinal Vitellozzi. All three were approved of; but the first two still left something to be desired. Baini reports that they preserved somewhat too much of the cumbrous Flemish manner; and that though the words were more intelligible, the fugal artifices overlaid their clear enunciation. In the third, however, it was unanimously agreed that Palestrina had solved the problem satisfactorily. 'Its style is always equal, always noble, always alive, always full of thought and sincere feeling, rising and ascending to the climax; not to understand the words would be impossible; the melodies combine to stimulate devotion; the harmonies touch the heart; it delights without distracting; satisfies desire without tickling the senses; it is beautiful in all the beauties of the sanctuary.' So writes Palestrina's enthusiastic biographer; so apparently thought the Cardinals of the congregation; and when this Mass (called the _Mass of Pope Marcellus_, out of grateful tribute to the Pontiff, whose untimely death had extinguished many sanguine expectations) was given to the world, the whole of Italy welcomed it with a burst of passionate applause. Church music had been saved. Modern music had been created. A new and lovely-form of art had arisen like a star. It was not enough that the _Mass of Pope Marcellus_ should have satisfied the congregation. It had next to receive the approval of the Pope, who heard it on June 19. On this occasion, if the Court Chronicle be correct, Pius made a pretty speech, declaring that 'of such nature must have been the harmonies of the new song heard by John the Apostle in the heavenly Jerusalem, and that another John had given us a taste of them in the Jerusalem of the Church Militant.' He seems, indeed, to have been convinced that the main problem of preserving clearness of enunciation in the uttered words had been solved, and that there was now no reason to deprive the faithful of the artistic and devotional value of melodious music. He consequently appointed Palestrina to the post of composer for the Papal Chapel, and created a monopoly for the performance of his works. This measure, which roused considerable jealousy among musicians at the moment, had the salutary effect of rendering the new style permanent in usage. Of Palestrina's voluminous compositions this is not the place to speak. It is enough to have indicated the decisive part which he took in the reformation of Church music at a moment when its very existence was imperiled, and to have described the principles upon which he laid down new laws for the art. I must not, however, omit to dwell upon his subsequent connection with S. Filippo Neri, since the music he composed for the Oratory of that saint contributed much toward the creation of a semi-lyrical and semi-dramatic style to which we may refer the origins of the modern Oratorio. Filippo Neri was the spiritual director of Palestrina, and appointed him composer to his devout confraternity. For the use of that society the master wrote a series of _Arie Divote_ on Italian words. They were meant to be sung by the members, and to supersede the old usages of Laud-music, which had chiefly consisted in adapting popular street-tunes to sacred words.[211] [Footnote 211: See _Renaissance in Italy_, vol. iv. pp. 263, 305.] To the same connection with the Oratory we owe one of the most remarkable series of Palestrina's compositions. These were written upon the words of an Italian Canzone in thirty octave stanzas, addressed as a prayer to the Virgin. Palestrina set each stanza, after the fashion of a Madrigal, to different melodies; and the whole work proved a manual of devotional music, in the purest artistic taste, and the most delicately sentimental key of feeling. Together with this collection of spiritual songs should be mentioned Palestrina's setting of passages from the Song of Solomon in a series of motetts; which were dedicated to Gregory XIII., in 1584. They had an enormous success. Ten editions between that date and 1650 were poured out from the presses of Rome and Venice, to satisfy the impatience of thousands who desired to feed upon 'the nectar of their sweetness.' Palestrina chose for the motives of his compositions such voluptuous phrases of the Vulgate as the following: _Fasciculus myrrhae dilectus meus mihi._ _Fulcite me floribus, stipate me malis, quia amore langueo._ _Vulnerasti cor meum, soror, sponsa mea._ This was the period when Italy was ringing with the secular sweetnesses of Tasso's _Aminta_ and of Guarini's _Pastor fido_; when the devotion of the cloister was becoming languorous and soft; when the cult of the Virgin was assuming the extravagant proportions satirized by Pascal; finally, when manners were affecting a tone of swooning piety blent with sensuous luxuriousness. Palestrina's setting of the Canticle and of the Hymn to Mary provided the public with music which, according to the taste of that epoch, transferred terrestrial emotions into the regions of paradisal bliss, and justified the definition of music as the _Lamento dell'amore o la preghiera agli dei_. The great creator of a new ecclesiastical style, the 'imitator of nature,' as Vincenzo Galilei styled him, the 'prince of music,' as his epitaph proclaimed him, lent his genius to an art, vacillating between mundane sensuality and celestial rapture, which, however innocently developed by him in the sphere of music, was symptomatic of the most unhealthy tendencies of his race and age. While singing these madrigals and these motetts the youth of either sex were no longer reminded, it is true, of tavern ditties or dance measures. But the emotions of luxurious delight or passionate ecstasy deep in their own natures were drawn forth, and sanctified by application to the language of effeminate devotion. I have dwelt upon these two sets of compositions, rather than upon the masses of strictly and severely ecclesiastical music which Palestrina produced with inexhaustible industry, partly because they appear to have been extraordinarily popular, and partly because they illustrate those tendencies in art and manners which the sentimental school of Bolognese painters attempted to embody. They belong to that religious sphere which the Jesuit Order occupied, governed, and administered upon the lines of their prescribed discipline. These considerations are not merely irrelevant. The specific qualities of Italian music for the next two centuries were undoubtedly determined by the atmosphere of sensuous pietism in which it flourished, at the very time when German music was striking far other roots in the Chorales of the Reformation epoch. What Palestrina effected was to substitute in Church music the clear and melodious manner of the secular madrigal for the heavy and scholastic science of the Flemish school, and to produce masterpieces of religious art in his motetts on the Canticles which confounded the lines of demarcation between pious and profane expression. He taught music to utter the emotions of the heart; but those emotions in his land and race were already tending in religion toward the sentimental and voluptuous. There is no doubt that the peril to which music was exposed at the time of the Tridentine Council was a serious and real one. When we remember how intimate was the connection between the higher kinds of music and the ritual of the Church, this will be apparent. Nor is it too much to affirm that the art at that crisis, but for the favor shown to it by Pius IV. and for Palestrina's intervention, might have been well-nigh extinguished in Italy. How fatal the results would then have been for the development of modern music, can be estimated by considering the decisive part played by the Italians in the formation of musical style from the end of the sixteenth century onwards to the age of Gluck, Handel, Haydn and Mozart. Had the music of the Church in Italy been confined at that epoch to Plain Song, as the Congregation of Reform threatened, the great Italian school of vocalization would not have been founded, the Conservatories of Naples and the Scuole of Venice would have been silent, and the style upon which, dating from Palestrina's inventions, the evolution of all species of the art proceeded, would have passed into oblivion. That this proposition is not extravagant, the history of music in England will suffice to prove. Before the victory of Puritan principles in Church and State, the English were well abreast of other races in this art. During the sixteenth century, Tallis, Byrd, Morland, Wilbye, Dowland and Orlando Gibbons could hold their own against Italian masters. The musical establishments of cathedrals, royal and collegiate chapels, and noble houses were nurseries for artists. Every English home, in that age, like every German home in the eighteenth century, abounded in amateurs who were capable of performing part-songs and concerted pieces on the lute and viol with correctness. Under the _régime_ of the Commonwealth this national growth of music received a check from which it never afterwards recovered. Though the seventeenth century witnessed the rising of one eminent composer, Purcell; though the eighteenth was adorned with meritorious writers of the stamp of Blow and Boyce; yet it is obvious that the art remained among us unprogressive, at a time when it was making gigantic strides in Italy and Germany. It is always dangerous to attribute the decline of art in a nation to any one cause. Yet I think it can scarcely be contested that the change of manners and of temperament wrought in England by the prevalence of Puritan opinion, had much to answer for in this premature decay of music. We may therefore fairly argue that if the gloomy passion of intolerant fanaticism which burned in men like Caraffa and Ghislieri had prevailed in Italy--a passion analogous in its exclusiveness to Puritanism--or if no composer, in the place of Palestrina, had satisfied the requirements of the Council and the congregation, the history of music in Italy and Europe to us-wards would have been far different. These considerations are adduced to justify the importance attached by me to the episode of which Palestrina was the hero. Yet it should not be forgotten that other influences were at work at the same time in Italy, which greatly stimulated the advance of music. If space permitted, it would be interesting to enlarge upon the work of Luca Marenzio, the prince of madrigal-writers, and on the services rendered by Vincenzo Galileo, father of the greatest man of science in his age, in placing the practice of stringed instruments on a sound basis. It should also be remembered that in the society of Filippo Neri at Rome, the Oratorio was taking shape, and emerging from the simple elements of the Spiritual Laud and _Aria Divota_. This form, however, would certainly have perished if the austere party in the Church had prevailed against the lenient for the exclusion of figured music, from religious exercises. There was, moreover, an interesting contemporary movement at Florence, which deserves some detailed mention. A private academy of amateurs and artists formed itself for the avowed purpose of reviving the musical declamation of the Greeks. As the new ecclesiastical style created by Palestrina grew out of the Counter-Reformation embodied in the decrees of the Tridentine Council, so this movement, which eventually resulted in the Opera, attached itself to the earlier enthusiasms of the Classical Revival. The humanists had restored Latin poetry; the architects had perfected a neo-Latin manner; sculptors and painters had profited by the study of antique fragments, and had reproduced the bas-reliefs and arabesques of Roman palaces. It was now, much later in the day, the turn of the musicians to make a similar attempt. Their quest was vague and visionary. Nothing remained of Greek or Roman music. To guide these explorers, there was only a dim instinct that the ancients had declaimed dramatic verse with musical intonation. But, as the alchemists sought the philosopher's stone, and founded modern chemistry; as, according to an ancient proverb, they who search for silver find gold; so it happened that, from the pedantic and ill-directed attempts of this academy proceeded the system on which the modern Oratorio and Opera were based. What is noticeable in these experiments is, that a new form of musical expression, declamatory and continuous, therefore dramatic, as opposed to the lyrical and fugal methods of the contrapuntists, was in process of elaboration. Claudio Monteverde, who may be termed the pioneer of _recitativo_, in his opera of _Orfeo_; Giacomo Carissimi, in whose _Jephtha_ the form of the Oratorio it already outlined, were the most eminent masters of the school which took its origin in the Florentine Academy of the Palazzo Vernio. To pursue the subject further, would be to transgress the chronological limits of my subject. It is enough to have attempted in this chapter to show how the destinies of Italian music were secured and its species determined in the last quarter of the sixteenth century. How that art at its climax in the eighteenth century affected the manners, penetrated the whole life, and influenced the literature of the Italians, may be read in an English work of singular ability and originality.[212] [Footnote 212: _Studies of the Eighteenth Century in Italy_, by Vernon Lee.] CHAPTER XIII. THE BOLOGNESE SCHOOL OF PAINTERS. Decline of Plastic Art--Dates of the Eclectic Masters--The Mannerists--Baroccio--Reaction started by Lodovico Caracci--His Cousins Annibale and Agostino--Their Studies--Their Academy at Bologna--Their Artistic Aims--Dionysius Calvaert--Guido Reni--The Man and His Art--Domenichino--Ruskin's Criticism--Relation of Domenichino to the Piety of His Age--Caravaggio and the Realists--Ribera--Lo Spagna--Guercino--His qualities as Colorist--His Terribleness--Private Life--Digression upon Criticism--Reasons why the Bolognese Painters are justly now neglected. After tracing the origin of modern music at its fountain head in Palestrina, it requires some courage to approach the plastic arts at this same epoch. Music was the last real manifestation of the creative genius in Italy. Rarefied to evanescent currents of emotional and sensuous out-breathings, the spirit of the race exhaled itself in song from human throats, in melody on lute and viol, until the whole of Europe thrilled with the marvel and the mystery of this new language of the soul. Music was the fittest utterance for the Italians of the Counter-Reformation period. Debarred from political activity, denied the liberty of thought and speech, that gifted people found an inarticulate vehicle of expression in tone; tone which conveys all meanings to the nerves that feel, advances nothing to the mind that reasons, says everything without formulating a proposition. Only a sense of duty to my subject, which demands completion, makes me treat of painting in the last years of the sixteenth century. The great Italian cycle, rounded by Lionardo, Raffaello, Michelangelo, Correggio and Tiziano, was being closed at Venice by Tintoretto. After him invention ceased. But there arose at Bologna a school, bent on resuscitating the traditions of an art which had already done its utmost to interpret mind to mind through mediums of lovely form and color. The founders of the Bolognese Academy, like Medea operating on decrepit Aeson, chopped up the limbs of painting which had ceased to throb with organic life, recombined them by an act of intellect and will, and having pieced them together, set the composite machine in motion on the path of studied method. Their aim was analogous to that of the Church in its reconstitution of Catholicism; and they succeeded, in so far as they achieved a partial success, through the inspiration which the Catholic Revival gave them. These painters are known as the Eclectics and this title sufficiently indicates their effort to revive art by recomposing what lay before them in disintegrated fragments. They did not explore new territory or invent fresh vehicles of expression. They sought to select the best points of Graeco-Roman and Italian style, unconscious that the physical type of the Niobids, the voluptuous charm of Correggio, the luminous color of Titian, the terribleness of Michelangelo, and the serenity of Raphael, being the ultimate expressions of distinct artistic qualities, were incompatible. A still deeper truth escaped their notice--namely, that art is valueless unless the artist has something intensely felt to say, and that where this intensity of feeling exists, it finds for itself its own specific and inevitable form. 'Poems distilled from other poems pass away, The swarms of reflectors and the polite pass, and leave ashes; Admirers, importers, obedient persons, make but the soil of literature.' These profound sentences are the epitaph, not only of imitative poetry, but also of such eclectic art as the Caracci instituted. Very little of it bears examination now. We regard it with listlessness or loathing. We turn from it without regret. We cannot, or do not, wish to keep it in our memory. Yet no student of Italian painting will refuse the Caracci that tribute of respect which is due to virile effort. They were in vital sympathy with the critical and analytical spirit of their age--an age mournfully conscious that its scepter had departed--that 'Nothing can bring back the hour Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower;' an age incapable as yet of acquiescing in this gloom, strenuously eager by study and by labor to regain the kingdom which belongs alone to inspiration. Science and industry enabled them to galvanize the corpse of art; into this they breathed the breath of the religion _à la mode_, of fashionable sensuousness and prevalent sentimentality. Michelangelo died in 1564, Paolo Veronese in 1588, Tintoretto in 1594. These were the three latest survivors of the great generation, and each of them had enjoyed a life of activity prolonged into extreme old age. Their intellectual peers had long ago departed; Lionardo in 1520, Raphael in 1522, Correggio in 1534. 'Theirs was the giant race, before the flood.' These dates have to be kept in mind; for the painters of the Bolognese School were all born after 1550, born for the most part at that decisive epoch of the Tridentine Council which might be compared to a watershed of time between the Renaissance and the Counter-Reformation--Lodovico Caracci in 1555, Agostino in 1558, Annibale in 1560, Guido Reni in 1574, Lionello Spada in 1576, Francesco Albani in 1578, Domenichino in 1581, Guercino in 1590.[213] With the last of these men the eclectic impulse was exhausted; and a second generation, derived in part from them, linked the painters of the Renaissance to those of modern times. It is sufficient to mention Nicholas and Gaspar Poussin, Claude Lorraine, Salvator Rosa, Luca Giordano, and Canaletto as chief representatives of this secondary group.[214] On examining the dates which I have given, it will be noticed that the Bolognese Eclectics, intervening between the age of Michelangelo and the age of Nicholas Poussin, worked during the first fervor of the Catholic Revival. Their art may therefore be taken as fairly representative of the religious temper and the profane culture of the Italians in the period influenced by the Council of Trent. It represents that temper and that culture before the decline of the same influence, when the Counter Reformation was in active progress and the Papal pretensions to absolute dominion had received no check. [Footnote 213: The three founders of the school were thus born precisely during the most critical years of the Council. They felt the Catholic reaction least. That expressed itself most markedly in Domenichino, born seventeen years after its close.] [Footnote 214: Nich. Poussin, b. 1594; Claude, 1600; Gaspar Poussin, 1613; Salvator Rosa, 1615; Luca Giordano, 1632; Canaletto, 1697.] We should be wrong, however, to treat the Eclectics as though they succeeded without interruption to that 'giant race, before the flood.' Their movement was emphatically one of revival; and revival implies decadence. After 1541, when Michelangelo finished the Last Judgment, and before 1584, when the Caracci were working on their frescoes in the Palazzo Fava at Bologna--that is to say, between the last of the genuine Renaissance paintings and the first of the Revival--nearly half a century elapsed, during which art sank into a slough of slovenly and soulless putrescence.[215] Every city of Italy swarmed with artists, adequately educated in technical methods, and apt at aping the grand style of their masters. But in all their work there is nothing felt, nothing thought out, nothing expressed, nothing imagined. It is a vast vacuity of meaningless and worthless brush-play, a wilderness of hollow trickery and futile fumbling with conventional forms. The Mannerists, as they were called, covered acres of palace and church walls with allegories, histories, and legends, carelessly designed, rapidly executed, but pleasing the eye with crowds of figures and with gaudy colors. Their colors are now faded. Their figures are now seen to be reminiscences of Raphael's, Correggio's, Buonarroti's draughtsmanship. Yet they satisfied the patrons of that time, who required hasty work, and had not much money wherewith to reward the mature labors of a conscientious student. In relation, moreover, to the spiritless and insincere architecture then coming into vogue, this art of the Mannerists can scarcely be judged out of place. When I divulge the names of Giorgio Vasari, Giuseppe Cesari (Cav. d'Arpino), Tempesta, Fontana, Tibaldi, the Zuccari, the Procaccini, the Campi of Cremona, the scholars of Perino del Vaga, I shall probably call up before the reluctant eyes of many of my readers visions of dreary wanderings through weariful saloons and of disconsolate starings up at stuccoed cupolas in Rome and Genoa, in Florence and Naples, and in all the towns of Lombardy.[216] In an earlier volume I briefly sketched the development of this pernicious mannerism, which now deluged the arts of Italy. Only one painter, outside Venice, seems to have carried on a fairly good tradition. This was Federigo Baroccio (1528-1612), who feebly continued the style of Correggio, with a certain hectic originality, infusing sentimental pietism into that great master's pagan sensuousness. The mixture is disagreeable; and when one is obliged to mention Baroccio as the best in a bad period, this accentuates the badness of his contemporaries. He has however, historical value from another point of view, inasmuch as nothing more strongly characterizes the eclecticism of the Caracci than their partiality for Correggio.[217] Though I have no reason to suppose that Baroccio, living chiefly as he did at Urbino, directly influenced their style, the similarity between his ideal and theirs is certainly striking. It seems to point at something inevitable in the direction taken by the Eclectics. [Footnote 215: I of course except Venice, for reasons which I have sufficiently set forth in _Renaissance in Italy_, vol. iii. p. 347. Long after other schools of Italy the Venetian was still only adolescent.] [Footnote 216: I have not thought it worth while to write down more than a very few names of the Mannerists. Notice how often they worked in whole families and indistinguishable coteries.] [Footnote 217: Everyone familiar with European picture-galleries will remember cabinet pieces by the Caracci, especially Ecce Homos, Pietàs, Agonies in the Garden, which look like copies from Correggio with a dash of added sentimentalism.] Such was the state of art in Italy when Lodovico Caracci, the son of a Bolognese butcher, conceived his plan of replacing it upon a sounder system.[218] Instinct led him to Venice, where painting was still alive. The veteran Tintoretto warned him that he had no vocation. But Lodovico obstinately resolved to win by industry what nature seemed to have denied him. He studied diligently at Florence, Parma, Mantua, and Venice, founding his style upon those of Andrea del Sarto, Correggio, Titian, Parmigiano, Giulio Romano, and Primaticcio. When he again settled at Bologna, he induced his two cousins, Agostino and Annibale, the sons of a tailor, to join him in the serious pursuit of art. Agostino was a goldsmith by trade, already expert in the use of the burin, which he afterwards employed more frequently than the brush.[219] Of the three Caracci he was the most versatile, and perhaps the most gifted. There is a note of distinction and attainment in his work. Annibale, the youngest, was a rough, wild, hasty, and hot-tempered lad, of robust build and vigorous intellect, but boorish in his manners, fond of low society, and eaten up with jealousy. They called him the _ragazzaccio_, or 'lout of a boy,' when he began to make his mark at Bologna. Agostino presented a strong contrast to his brother, being an accomplished musician, an excellent dancer, a fair poet, fit to converse with noblemen, and possessed of very considerable culture. Lodovico, the eldest of the cousins, acted as mentor and instructor to the others. He pacified their quarrels, when Annibale's jealousy burst out; set them upon the right methods of study, and passed judgment on their paintings. [Footnote 218: I have mainly used the encyclopedic work entitled _Felsina Pittrice_ (Bologna, 1841, 2 vols.) for my study of the Eclectics. This is based upon the voluminous writings of the Count C.C. Malvasia, who, having been born in 1616, and having enjoyed personal intercourse with the later survivors of the Bolognese Academy, was able to bequeath a vast mass of anecdotical and other material to posterity. The collection contains critical annotations and additions by the hand of Zanotti and later art students, together with many illustrative documents of the highest value. Reading this miscellaneous repertory, we are forced to regret that the same amount of characteristic and authentic information has not been preserved about one of the greater schools of Italy--the Venetian, for example.] [Footnote 219: He acquired a somewhat infamous celebrity by his obscene engravings in the style of Giulio Romano.] Like Lodovico, the brothers served their first apprenticeship in art at Parma and Venice. Annibale's letters from the former place show how Correggio subdued him, and the large copies he there made still preserve for us some shadows of Correggio's time-ruined frescoes. At Venice he executed a copy of Titian's Peter Martyr. This picture, the most dramatic of Titian's works, and the most elaborate in its landscape, was destined to exercise a decisive influence over the Eclectic school. From the Caracci to Domenichino we are able to trace the dominant tone and composition of that masterpiece. No less decisive, as I have already observed, was the influence of Correggio's peculiar style in the choice of type, the light and shade, and the foreshortenings of the Bolognese painters. In some degree, the manner of Paolo Veronese may also be discerned. The Caracci avoided Tintoretto, and at the beginning of their career they derived but little from Raphael or Michelangelo. Theirs was at first a mainly Veneto-Lombardic eclecticism, dashed with something absorbed from Giulio Romano and something from the later Florentines. It must not however, be supposed that they confined their attention to Italian painters. They contrived to collect casts from antique marbles, coins, engravings of the best German and Italian workmanship, books on architecture and perspective, original drawings, and similar academical appliances. Nor were they neglectful of drawing from the nude, or of anatomy. Indeed, their days and nights were spent in one continuous round of study, which had for its main object the comparison of dead and living nature with the best specimens of art in all ages. It may seem strange that this assiduity and thoroughness of method did not produce work of higher quality. Yet we must remember that even enthusiastic devotion to art will not give inspiration, and that the most thorough science cannot communicate charm. Though the Caracci invented fresh attitudes and showed complete mastery of the human form, their types remained commonplace. Though their chiaroscuro was accurately based on that of Correggio, it lacked his aërial play of semitones. Though they went straight to Titian for color, they never approached Venetian lucidity and glow. There was something vulgar in their imagination, prosaic in their feeling, leaden in their frigid touch on legend. Who wants those countless gods and goddesses of the Farnese Gallery, those beblubbered saints and colossal Sibyls of the Bolognese Pinacoteca, those chubby cherubs and buxom nymphs, those Satyrs and S. Sebastians, to come down from the walls and live with us? The grace of Raphael's Galatea, the inspiration of Michelangelo's Genii of the Sistine, the mystery of Lionardo's Faun-S. John, the wilding grace of Correggio's Diana, the voluptuous fascination of Titian's Venus, the mundane seductiveness of Veronese's Europa, the golden glory of Tintoretto's Bacchus,--all have evanesced, and in their place are hard mechanic figures, excellently drawn, correctly posed, but with no touch of poetry. Where, indeed, shall we find 'the light that never was on sea or land' throughout Bologna?[220] [Footnote 220: Malvasia has preserved, in his _Life of Primaticcio_, a sonnet written by Agostino Caracci, in which the aims of the Eclectics are clearly indicated. The good painter must have at his command Roman or classic design, Venetian movement and shadow, Lombard coloring, the sublimity of Michelangelo, the truth to nature of Titian, the pure and sovereign style of Correggio, Raphael's symmetry, Tibaldi's fitness and solidity, Primaticcio's erudite invention, with something of Parmigianino's grace (_Fels. Pittr._ vol. i. p. 129). Zanotti adds: 'This sonnet is assuredly one which every painter ought to learn by heart and observe in practice.'] Part of this failure must be ascribed to a radically false conception of the way to combine studies of nature with studies of art. The Eclectics in general started with the theory that a painter ought to form mental ideals of beauty, strength, dignity, ferocity, and so forth, from the observation of characteristic individuals and acknowledged masterpieces. These ideal types he has to preserve in his memory, and to use living persons only as external means for bringing them into play. Thus, it was indifferent who sat to him as model. He believed that he could invest the ugliest lump of living flesh with the loveliest fancy. Lodovico supplied Annibale Caracci with the fleshy back of a naked Venus. Guido Reni painted his Madonna's heads from any beardless pupil who came handy, and turned his deformed color-grinder--a man 'with a muzzle like a renegado'--into the penitent Magdalen.[221] It was inevitable that forms and faces thus evolved should bear the stamp of mediocrity, monotony, and dullness on them. Few, very few, painters--perhaps only Michelangelo--have been able to give to purely imagined forms the value and the individuality of persons; and he succeeded best in this perilous attempt when he designed the passionate Genii of the Sistine frescoes. Such flights were far beyond the grasp of the Eclectics. Seeking after the 'grand style,' they fell, as I shall show in the sequel of this chapter, into commonplace vacuity, which makes them now insipid.[222] [Footnote 221: See Malvasia, _op. cit._ vol. i. p. 277; vol. ii. p. 57. The odd thing is that Malvasia tells these stories of the Lodovico-Aphrodite and the color-grinder-Magdalen with applause, as though they proved the mastery of Annibale Caracci and Guido.] [Footnote 222: The later Eclectics--Spada, Domenichino, Guercino--were to some extent saved by the influences they derived from Caravaggio and the Naturalisti. But they had not the tact to see where the finer point of naturalistic art lies for a delicately minded painter. They added its brutality, as employed by Caravaggio, to the insipidities of the Caracci, and produced such horrors as Domenichino's Martyrdom of S. Agnes.] There was at this time a native of Antwerp named Dionysius Calvaert, a coarse fellow of violent manners, who kept open school in Bologna. The best of the Caracci's pupils--Guido Reni, Domenichino and Albani--emigrated to their academy from this man's workshop. Something, as it seems to me, peculiar in the method of handling oil paint, which all three have in common, may perhaps be ascribed to early training under their Flemish master. His brutality drove them out of doors; and, having sought the protection of Lodovico Caracci, they successively made such progress in the methods of painting as rendered them the most distinguished representatives of the Bolognese Revival. All three were men of immaculate manners. Guido Reni, beautiful as a Sibyl in youth, with blonde hair, blue eyes, and fair complexion, was, to the end of his illustrious career, reputed a virgin. Albani, who translated into delicate oil-painting the sensuousness of the _Adone_, studied the forms of Nymphs and Venuses from his lovely wife, and the limbs of Amorini from the children whom she bore him regularly every year. Domenichino, a man of shy, retiring habits, preoccupied with the psychological problems which he strove to translate into dramatic pictures, doted on one woman, whom he married, and who lived to deplore his death (as she believed) by poison. Guido was specially characterized by devotion to Madonna. He was a singular child. On every Christmas eve, for seven successive years, ghostly knockings were heard upon his chamber door; and, every night, when he awoke from sleep, the darkness above his bed was illuminated by a mysterious egg-shaped globe of light.[223] His eccentricity in later life amounted to insanity, and at last he gave himself up wholly to the demon of the gaming-table. Domenichino obeyed only one passion, if we except his passion for the wife he loved so dearly, and this was music. He displayed some strangeness of temperament in a morbid dislike of noise and interruptions. Otherwise, nothing disturbed the even current of an existence dedicated to solving questions of art. Albani mixed more freely in the world than Domenichino, enjoyed the pleasures of the table and of sumptuous living, but with Italian sobriety, and expatiated in those spheres of literature which supplied him with motives for his coldly sensual pictures. Yet he maintained the credit of a thoroughly domestic, soundly natured, and vigorously wholesome man. [Footnote 223: This tradition of Guido's childhood I give for what it is worth, from Malvasia, _op. cit._ vol. ii. p. 53. In after life, beside being piously addicted to Madonna-worship, he had a great dread of women in general and witches in particular. What some will call spiritual, others effeminate, in his mature work, may be due to the temperament thus indicated.] I have thought it well thus to preface what I have to say about these masters, partly because critics of the modern stamp, trusting more to their subjective impressions than to authoritative records, have painted the moral characters of Guido and Domenichino in lurid colors, and also because there is certainly something in their work which leaves a painful memory of unhealthy sentiment, impassiveness to pain, and polished carnalism on the mind. It may incidentally be recorded that Lodovico Caracci, Guido Reni, and Francesco Albani are all of them, on very good authority, reported to have been even prudishly modest in their use of female models. They never permitted a woman to strip entirely, and Guido carried his reserve to such a pitch that he preferred to leave his studio door open while drawing from a woman.[224] Malevolence might suggest that this was only part and parcel of post-Tridentine hypocrisy; and probably there is truth in the suggestion. I certainly do not reckon such solicitous respect for garments entirely to their credit. But it helps us to understand the eccentric compound of sentiment, sensuality, piety, and uneasy morality which distinguished the age, and which is continually perplexing the student of its art. [Footnote 224: Malvasia, _op. cit._ p. 53, p. 178. The latter passage is preceded by a discussion of the nude in art which shows how Malvasia had imbibed Tridentine morality in the middle of Italy glowing with Renaissance masterpieces.] Of these three men, Guido was the most genially endowed. He alone derived a true spark from the previous age of inspiration. He wearies us indeed with his effeminacy, and with the reiteration of a physical type sentimentalized from the head and bust of Niobe. But thoughts of real originality and grace not seldom visited his meditations; and he alone deserved the name of colorist among the painters I have as yet ascribed to the Bolognese School.[225] Guido affected a cool harmony of blue, white, and deadened gold, which in the best pictures of his second manner--the Fortune, the Bacchus and Ariadne of S. Luke's in Rome, the Crucifixion at Modena--has a charm akin to that of Metastasio's silvery lyrics. The samson at Bologna rises above these works both in force of conception and glow of color. The Aurora of the Rospigliosi Casino attempts a wider scheme of hues, and is certainly, except for some lack of refinement in the attendant Hours, a very noble composition. The S. Michael of the Cappuccini is seductive by its rich bravura style; and the large Pietà in the Bolognese Gallery impresses our mind by a monumental sadness and sobriety of tone. The Massacre of the Innocents, though one of Guido's most ambitious efforts, and though it displays an ingenious adaptation of the Niobe to Raphael's mannerism, fails by falling between two aims--the aim to secure dramatic effect, and the aim to treat a terrible subject with harmonious repose. [Footnote 225: Lo Spada and Guercino, afterwards to be mentioned, were certainly colorists.] Of Albani nothing need be said in detail. Most people knew his pictures of the Four Elements, so neatly executed in a style adapting Flemish smoothness of surface to Italian suavity of line. This sort of art delighted the cardinals and Monsignori of the seventeenth century. But it has nothing whatsoever to say to and human soul. On Domenichino's two most famous pictures at Bologna Mr. Ruskin has written one of his over-poweringly virulent invectives.[226] It is worth inserting here at length. More passionate words could hardly be chosen to express the disgust inspired in minds attuned to earlier Italian art by these once worshiped paintings. Mr. Ruskin's obvious injustice, intemperance, and ostentatious emphasis will serve to point the change of opinion which has passed over England since Sir Joshua Reynolds wrote. His denunciation of the badness of Domenichino's art, though expressed with such a clangor of exaggeration, fairly represents the feeling of modern students. 'The man,' he says, 'who painted the Madonna del Rosario and Martyrdom of S. Agnes in the gallery of Bologna, is palpably incapable of doing anything good, great, or right in any field, way, or kind whatsoever.... This is no rash method of judgment, sweeping and hasty as it may appear. From the weaknesses of an artist, or failures, however numerous, we have no right to conjecture his total inability; a time may come when he shall rise into sudden strength, or an instance occur when his efforts shall be successful. But there are some pictures which rank not under the head of failures, but of perpetrations or commissions; some things which a man cannot do or say without sealing forever his character and capacity. The angel holding the cross with his finger in his eye, the roaring, red-faced children about the crown of thorns, the blasphemous (I speak deliberately and determinedly) head of Christ upon the handkerchief, and the mode in which the martyrdom of the saint is exhibited (I do not choose to use the expressions which alone could characterize it), are perfect, sufficient, incontrovertible proofs that whatever appears good in any of the doings of such a painter must be deceptive, and that we may be assured that our taste is corrupted and false whenever we feel disposed to admire him. I am prepared to support this position, however uncharitable it may seem; a man may be tempted into a gross sin by passion, and forgiven; and yet there are some kinds of sins into which only men of a certain kind can be tempted, and which cannot be forgiven. It should be added, however, that the artistical qualities of these pictures are in every way worthy of the conceptions they realize. I do not recollect any instance of color or execution so coarse and feelingless.' [Footnote 226: _Modern Painters_, vol. i. p. 87.] We have only to think of the S. Agnes by Tintoretto, or of Luini's St. Catherine, in order to be well aware how far Domenichino, as a painter, deviated from the right path of art.[227] [Footnote 227: I allude to the Tintoretto in S. Maria dell'Orto at Venice, and to the Luini in the Monastero Maggiore at Milan. Yet the model of Luini's S. Catherine was the infamous Contessa di Cellant, who murdered her husband and some lovers, and was beheaded for her crimes in Milan. This fact demonstrates the value of the model in the hands of an artist capable of using it.] Yet we are bound to acquit him, as a man, of that moral obliquity which Mr. Ruskin seems to impute. Indeed, we know Domenichino to have been an unaffectedly good fellow. He was misled by his dramatic bias, and also by the prevalent religious temper of his age. Jesuitry had saturated the Italian mind; and in a former chapter I have dwelt upon the concrete materialism which formed the basis of the Jesuitical imagination. In portraying the martyrdom of S. Agnes as he has done, Domenichino was only obeying the rules of Loyola's _Exercitia_. That he belonged to a school which was essentially vulgar in its choice of type, to a city never distinguished for delicacy of taste, and to a generation which was rapidly losing the sense of artistic reserve, suffices to explain the crude brutality of the conceptions which he formed of tragic episodes.[228] The same may be said about all those horrible pictures of tortures, martyrdoms, and acts of violence which were produced by the dozen in Italy at this epoch. We turn from them with loathing. They inspire neither terror nor pity, only the sickness of the shambles. And yet it would be unjust to ascribe their unimaginative ghastliness to any special love of cruelty. This evil element may be rationally deduced from false dramatic instinct and perverted habits of brooding sensuously on our Lord's Passion, in minds deprived of the right feeling for artistic beauty. [Footnote 228: When I assert that the age was losing the sense of artistic reserve, I wish to refer back to what I have written about Marino, the dictator of the age in matters of taste. See above, pp. 273, 274.] Probably Domenichino thought that he was surpassing Titian's Peter Martyr when he painted his hard and hideous parody of that great picture. Yet Titian had already touched the extreme verge of allowable realization, and his work belonged to the sphere of higher pictorial art mainly by right of noble treatment. Of this noble treatment, and of the harmonious coloring which shed a sanctifying splendor over the painful scene, Domenichino stripped his master's design. What he added was grimace, spasm, and the expression of degrading physical terror. That Domenichino could be, in his own way, stately, is proved by the Communion of S. Jerome, in which he rehandled Agostino Caracci's fine conception. Though devoid of charm, this justly celebrated painting remains a monument of the success which may be achieved by the vigorous application of robust intellectual powers to the working out of a well-conceived and fully developed composition. Domenichino's gigantic saints and Sibyls, with their fleshy limbs, red cheeks, and upturned eyes, though famous enough in the last century, do not demand a word of comment now.[229] So strangely has taste altered, that to our eyes they seem scarcely decorative. [Footnote 229: Go to S. Andrea nella Valle in Rome, to study the best of them.] While the Caracci were reviving art at Bologna in the way that I have described, Caravaggio in Rome opposed the Mannerists after his own and a very different fashion.[230] The insipidities of men like Cesari drove him into a crude realism. He resolved to describe sacred and historical events just as though they were being enacted in the Ghetto by butchers and fishwives. This reaction against flimsy emptiness was wholesome; and many interesting studies from the taverns of Italy, portraits of gamesters, sharpers, _bravi_ and the like, remain to prove Caravaggio's mastery over scenes of common life.[231] But when he applied his principles to higher subjects, their vulgarity became apparent. Only in one picture, the Entombment in the Vatican, did he succeed in affecting imagination forcibly by the evident realization of a tragic scene. His martyrdoms are inexpressibly revolting, without appeal to any sense but savage blood-lust. It seems difficult for realism, either in literature or art, not to fasten upon ugliness, vice, pain, and disease, as though these imperfections of our nature were more real than beauty, goodness, pleasure, and health. Therefore Caravaggio, the leader of a school which the Italians christened Naturalists, may be compared to Zola. [Footnote 230: Michelangelo Amerighi da Caravaggio (1569-1609).] [Footnote 231: For the historian of manners in seventeenth-century Italy those pictures have a truly precious value, as they are executed with such passion as to raise them above the more careful but more lymphatic transcripts from beer-cellars in Dutch painting.] A Spaniard, settled at Naples--Giuseppe Ribera, nicknamed Lo Spagnoletto--carried on Caravaggio's tradition. Spagnoletto surpassed his master in the brutally realistic expression of physical anguish. His Prometheus writhing under the beak of the vulture, his disembowelled martyrs and skinless S. Bartholomews, are among the most nauseous products of a masculine nature blessed with robust health. Were they delirious or hysterical, they would be less disgusting. But no; they are merely vigorous and faithful representations of what anybody might have witnessed, when a traitor like Ravaillac or a Lombard _untore_ was being put to death in agony. His firm mental grip on cruelty, and the somber gloom with which he invested these ghastly transcripts from the torture-chamber, prove Ribera true to his Spanish origin. Caravaggio delighted in color, and was indeed a colorist of high rank, considering the times in which he lived. Spagnoletto rejoiced in somber shadows, as though to illustrate the striking sonnet I have quoted in another place from Campanella.[232] [Footnote 232: See above, part I. p. 47.] This digression upon the Naturalists was needed partly to illustrate the nature of the attempted revival of the art of painting at this epoch, and partly to introduce two notable masters of the Bolognese school. Lionello Spada, a street-arab of Bologna, found his way into the studio of the Caracci, where he made himself a favorite by roguish ways and ready wit. He afterwards joined Caravaggio, and, when he reappeared in Lombardy, he had formed a manner of his own, more resplendent in color and more naturalistic than that of the Caracci, but with less of realism than his Roman teacher's. If I could afford space for anecdotical details, the romance of Spada's life would furnish much entertaining material. But I must press on toward Guercino, who represents in a more famous personality this blending of the Bolognese and Naturalistic styles. Giovanni Francesco Barbieri got his nickname of Il Guercino, or the 'Squintling,' from an accident which distorted his right eye in babyhood. Born of poor parents, he was apprenticed to indifferent painters in Bologna at an early age, his father agreeing to pay for the boy's education by a load of grain and a vat of grapes delivered yearly. Thus Guercino owed far less to academical studies than to his own genius. Being Lodovico Caracci's junior by thirty-five years, and Annibale's by thirty, he had ample opportunities for studying the products of their school in Bologna, without joining the Academy. A generation lay between him and the first Eclectics. Nearly the same space of time separated Guercino from the founder of the Naturalists, and it was universally admitted in his lifetime that he owed to Caravaggio in coloring no less than he derived from the Caracci in sobriety and dignity of conception. These qualities of divergent schools Guercino combined in a manner marked by salient individuality. As a colorist, he approached the Tenebrosi--those lovers of surcharged shadows and darkened hues, whose gloom culminated in Ribera. But we note a fat and buttery _impasto_ in Guercino, which distinguishes his work from the drier and more meager manner of the Roman-Neapolitan painters. It is something characteristic of Bologna, a richness which we might flippantly compare to sausage, or a Flemish smoothness, indicating Calvaert's influence. More than this, Guercino possessed a harmony of tones peculiar to himself, and strongly contrasted with Guido's silver-gray gradations. Guido's coloring, at its best, often reminds one of olive branches set against a blue sea and pale horizon in faintly amber morning light. The empurpled indigoes, relieved by smouldering Venetian red, which Guercino loved, suggest thunder-clouds, dispersed, rolling away through dun subdued glare of sunset reflected upward from the west. And this scheme of color, vivid but heavy, luminous but sullen, corresponded to what contemporaries called the Terribilità of Guercino's conception. Terribleness was a word which came into vogue to describe Michelangelo's grand manner. It implied audacity of imagination, dashing draughtsmanship, colossal scale, something demonic and decisive in execution.[233] The terrible takes in Guercino's work far lower flights than in the Sistine Chapel. With Michelangelo it soared like an eagle; with Guercino it flitted like a bat. His brawny saints are ponderous, not awe-inspiring. [Footnote 233: But the men who used the word failed to perceive that what justified these qualities in Michelangelo's work was piercing, poignant, spiritual passion, of which their age had nothing.] Yet we feel that the man loved largeness, massiveness, and volume; that he was preoccupied with intellectual problems; planning deeply, and constructing strongly, under conditions unfavorable to spiritual freedom. Guercino lived the life of an anchorite, absorbed in studies, unwived, sober, pious, truthful, sincere in his commerce with the world, unaffectedly virtuous, devoted to his art and God. Some of his pictures bring forcibly before our minds the religious _milieu_ created by the Catholic Revival. I will take the single instance of a large oil-painting in the Bolognese Gallery. It represents the reception of a Duke of Aquitaine into monastic orders by S. Bernard. The knightly quality of the hero is adequately portrayed; his piety is masculine. But an accessory to the main subject of the composition arrests attention. A monk, earnestly pleading, emphatically gesticulating, addresses himself to the task of converting a young squire. Perugino, or even Raphael, would have brought the scene quite otherwise before us. The Duke's consecration would of course have occupied a commanding place in the picture. But the episodes would have been composed of comely groups or animated portraits. Guercino, obedient to the religious spirit of the Counter-Reformation, compels sympathy with ecclesiastical propaganda. Guido exercised a powerful influence over his immediate successors. Guercino felt it when he painted that soulless picture of Abraham and Hagar, in the Brera--the picture which excited Byron's admiration, which has been praised for its accurate delineation of a teardrop, and which, when all is reckoned, has just nothing of emotion in it but a frigid inhumanity. He competed with Guido in the fresco of the Lodovisi Aurora, a substantial work certainly, yet one that lacks the saving qualities of the Rospigliosi ceiling--grace and geniality of fancy. In the history of criticism there are few things more perplexing than the vicissitudes of taste and celebrity, whereby the idols of past generations crumble suddenly to dust, while the despised and rejected are lifted to pinnacles of glory. Successive waves of aesthetical preference, following one upon the other with curious rapidity, sweep ancient fortresses of fame from their venerable basements, and raise upon the crests of wordy foam some delicate seashell that erewhile lay embedded in oblivious sand. During the last half-century, taste has been more capricious, revolutionary, and apparently anarchical than at any previous epoch. The unity of orthodox opinion has broken up. Critics have sought to display originality by depreciating names famous in former ages, and by exalting minor stars to the rank of luminaries of the first magnitude. A man, yet in middle life, can remember with what reverence engravings after Raphael, the Caracci, and Poussin were treated in his boyhood; how Fra Angelico and Perugino ruled at a somewhat later period; how one set of eloquent writers discovered Blake, another Botticelli, and a third Carpaccio; how Signorelli and Bellini and Mantegna received tardy recognition; and now, of late years, how Tiepolo has bidden fair to obtain the European _grido_. He will also bear in mind that the conditions of his own development--studies in the Elgin marbles, the application of photography to works of art, the publications of the Arundel Society, and that genius of new culture in the air which is more potent than all teaching, rendered for himself each oracular utterance interesting but comparatively unimportant--as it were but talk about truths evident to sight. Meanwhile, amid this gabble of 'sects and schisms,' this disputation which makes a simple mind take refuge in the epigram attributed to Swift on Handel and Bononcini,[234] criticism and popular intelligence have been unanimous upon two points, first, in manifesting a general dislike for Italian art after the date of Raphael's third manner, and a particular dislike for the Bolognese painters; secondly, in an earnest effort to discriminate and exhibit what is sincere and beautiful in works to which our forefathers were unintelligibly irresponsive. A wholesome reaction, in one word, has taken place against academical dogmatism; and the study of art has been based upon appreciably better historical and aesthetical principles. [Footnote 234: 'Strange that such difference should be 'Twixt tweedle-dum and tweedle-dee.'] The seeming confusion of the last half-century ought not, therefore, to shake our confidence in the possibility of arriving at stable laws of taste. Radical revolutions, however salutary, cannot be effected without some injustice to ideals of the past and without some ill-grounded enthusiasm for the ideals of the moment. Nor can so wide a region as that of modern European art be explored except by divers pioneers, each biassed by personal predilections and peculiar sensibilities, each liable to changes of opinion under the excitement of discovery, each followed by a coterie sworn to support their master's _ipse dixit_. The chief thing is to obtain a clear conception of the mental atmosphere in which sound criticism has to live and move and have its being. 'The form of this world passes; and I would fain occupy myself only with that which constitutes abiding relations.' So said Goethe; and these words have much the same effect as that admonition of his 'to live with steady purpose in the Whole, the Good, the Beautiful.' The true critic must divert his mind from what is transient and ephemeral, must fasten upon abiding relations, _bleibende Verhältnisse_. He notes that one age is classical, another romantic; that _this_ swears by Giotto, _that_ by the Caracci. Meanwhile, he resolves to maintain that classics and romantics, the Caracci and Giotto, are alike only worthy of regard in so far as they exemplify the qualities which bring art into the sphere of abiding relations. One writer is eloquent for Fra Angelico, another for Rubens; the one has personal sympathy for the Fiesolan monk, the other for the Flemish courtier. Our true critic renounces idiosyncratic whims and partialities, striving to enter with firm purpose into the understanding of universal goodness and beauty. In so far as he finds truth in Angelico and Rubens, will he be appreciative of both. Aristotle laid it down as an axiom that the ultimate verdict in matters of taste is 'what the man of enlightened intelligence would decide.' The critic becomes a man of enlightened intelligence, a [Greek: phronimos], by following the line of Goethe's precepts. In working out self-culture, he will derive assistance by the way from the commanding philosophical conception of our century. All things with which we are acquainted are in evolutionary process. Everything belonging to human nature is in a state of organic transition--passing through necessary phases of birth, growth, decline, and death. Art, in any one of its specific manifestations--Italian painting for example--avoids this law of organic evolution, arrests development at the fairest season of growth, averts the decadence which ends in death, no more than does an oak. The oak, starting from an acorn, nourished by earth, air, light, and water, offers indeed a simpler problem than so complex an organism as Italian painting, developed under conditions of manifold diversity. Yet the dominant law controls both equally. It is not, however, in evolutions that we must seek the abiding relations spoken of by Goethe. The evolutionary conception does not supply those to students of art, though it unfolds a law which is permanent and of universal application in the world at large. It forces us to dwell on necessary conditions of mutability and transformation. It leads the critic to comprehend the whole, and encourages the habit of scientific tolerance. We are saved by it from uselessly fretting ourselves because of the ungodly and the inevitable; from mourning over the decline of Gothic architecture into Perpendicular aridity and flamboyant feebleness, over the passage of the scepter from Sophocles to Euripides or from Tasso to Marino, over the chaos of Mannerism, Eclecticism and Naturalism into which Italian painting plunged from the height of its maturity. This toleration and acceptance of unavoidable change need not imply want of discriminative perception. We can apply the evolutionary canon in all strictness without ignoring that adult manhood is preferable to senile decrepitude, that Pheidias surpasses the sculptors of Antinous, that one Madonna of Gian Bellini is worth all the pictures of the younger Palma, and that Dossi's portrait of the Ferrarese jester is better worth having than the whole of Annibale Caracci's Galleria Farnesina.[235] It will even lead us to select for models those works which bear the mark of adolescence or vigorous maturity, as supplying more fruitful sources for our own artistic education. [Footnote 235: The great picture by Dosso Dossi, to which I have alluded, is in the Modenese gallery.] Nevertheless, not in evolution, but in man's soul, his intellectual and moral nature, must be sought those abiding relations which constitute sound art, and are the test of right aesthetic judgment. These are such as truth, simplicity, sobriety, love, grace, patience, modesty, thoughtfulness, repose, health, vigor, brain-stuff, dignity of imagination, lucidity of vision, purity, and depth of feeling. Wherever the critic finds these--whether it be in Giotto at the dawn or in Guido at the evensong of Italian painting, in Homer or Theocritus at the two extremes of Greek poetry--he will recognize the work as ranking with those things from which the soul draws nourishment. At the same time, he may not neglect the claims of craftsmanship. Each art has its own vehicle of expression, and exacts some innate capacity for the use of that vehicle from the artist. Therefore the critic must be also sufficiently versed in technicalities to give them their due value. It can, however, be laid down, as a general truth, that while immature or awkward workmanship is compatible with aesthetic excellence, technical dexterity, however skillfully applied, has never done anything for a soulless painter. Criticism, furthermore, implies judgment; and that judgment must be adjusted to the special nature of the thing criticised. Art is different from ethics, from the physical world, from sensuality, however refined. It will not, therefore, in the long run do for the critic of an art to apply the same rules as the moralist, the naturalist, or the hedonist. It will not do for him to be contented with edification, or differentiation of species, or demonstrable delightfulness as the test-stone of artistic excellence. All art is a presentation of the inner human being, his thought and feeling, through the medium of beautiful symbols in form, color, and sound. Our verdict must therefore be determined by the amount of thought, the amount of feeling, proper to noble humanity, which we find adequately expressed in beautiful aesthetic symbols. And the man who shall pronounce this verdict is, now as in the days of Aristotle, the man of enlightened intelligence, sound in his own nature and open to ideas. Even his verdict will not be final; for no one is wholly free from partialities due to the age in which he lives, and to his special temperament. Still, a consensus of such verdicts eventually forms that voice of the people which, according to an old proverb, is the voice of God. Slowly, and after many successive siftings, the cumulative votes of the _phronimoi_ decide. Insurgents against their judgment, in the case of acknowledged masters like Pheidias, Michelangelo, Shakespeare, are doomed to final defeat, because this judgment is really based upon abiding relations between art and human nature. Our hope with regard to the unity of taste in the future then is, that, all sentimental or academical seekings after the ideal having been abandoned, momentary theories founded upon idiosyncratic or temporary partialities exploded, and nothing accepted but what is solid and positive, the scientific spirit shall make men progressively more and more conscious of those _bleibende Verhältnisse_, more and more capable of living in the whole; also that, in proportion as we gain a firmer hold upon our own place in the world, we shall come to comprehend with more instinctive certitude what is simple, natural, and honest, welcoming with gladness all artistic products that exhibit these qualities. The perception of the enlightened man will then be the taste of a healthy person who has made himself acquainted with the laws of evolution in art and in society, and is able to test the excellence of work in any stage, from immaturity to decadence, by discerning what there is of truth, sincerity, and natural vigor in it. This digression was forced upon me by the difficulty of properly appreciating the Bolognese Eclectics now. What would be the amused astonishment of Sir Joshua Reynolds, if he returned to London at the present moment, and beheld the Dagon of his esteemed Caracci dashed to pieces by the ark of Botticelli--Carpaccio enthroned--Raffaello stigmatized as the stone of stumbling and the origin of evil? Yet Reynolds had as good a right to his opinion as any living master of the brush, or any living masters of language. There is no doubt that the Bolognese painters sufficed for the eighteenth century, whose taste indeed they had created.[236] There is equally no doubt that for the nineteenth they are insufficient.[237] The main business of a critic is to try to answer two questions: first why did the epoch produce such art, and why did it rejoice in it?--secondly, has this art any real worth beyond a documentary value for the students of one defined historical period; has it enduring qualities of originality, strength, beauty, and inspiration? To the first of these questions I have already given some answer by showing under what conditions the Caracci reacted against mannerism. In the due consideration of the second we are hampered by the culture of our period, which has strongly prejudiced all minds against the results of that reaction. [Footnote 236: The passage from Lodovico Caracci through Poussin to Reynolds is direct and unbroken. 'Poussin,' says Lanzi, 'ranked Domenichino directly next to Raffaello.' _History of Painting in Italy_, Engl. Tr. vol. iii. p. 84.] [Footnote 237: Perhaps a generation will yet arise which shall take the Caracci and their scholars into favor, even as people of refinement in our own days find a charm in patches, powder, perukes, sedan-chairs, patchouli, and other lumber from the age despised by Keats. I remember visiting a noble English lady at her country seat. We drank tea in her room, decorated by a fashionable 'Queen Anne' artist. She told us that the quaintly pretty furniture of the last century which adorned it had recently been brought down from the attic, whither her fore bears had consigned it as tasteless--Gillow in their minds superseding Chippendale.] The painting of the Eclectics was not spontaneous art. It was art mechanically revived during a period of critical hesitancy and declining enthusiasms. It was produced at Bologna, 'la dotta' or 'la grassa,' by Bolognese craftsmen. This is worth remembering; for except Guido Guinicelli and Francesco Raibolini, no natives of Bologna were eminently gifted for the arts. And Bologna was the city famous for her ponderous learning, famous also for the good cheer of her table, neither erudition nor savory meats being essential to the artist's temperament. The painting which emerged there at the close of the sixteenth century embodied religion and culture, both of a base alloy. The Christianity of the age was not naïve, simple, sincere, and popular, like that of the thirteenth century; but hysterical, dogmatic, hypocritical, and sacerdotal. It was not Christianity indeed, but Catholicism galvanized by terror into reactionary movement. The culture of the age was on the wane. Men had long lost their first clean perception of classical literature, and the motives of the mediaeval past were exhausted. Therefore, though the Eclectics went on painting the old subjects, they painted all alike with frigid superficiality. If we examine the lists of pictures turned out by the Caracci and Guercino, we shall find a pretty equal quantity of saints and Susannas, Judiths and Cleopatras, Davids and Bacchuses, Jehovahs and Jupiters, anchorites and Bassarids, Faiths and Fortunes, cherubs and Cupids. Artistically, all are on the same dead level of inspiration. Nothing new or vital, fanciful or imaginative, has been breathed into antique mythology. What has been added to religious expression is repellent. Extravagantly ideal in ecstatic Magdalens and Maries, extravagantly realistic in martyrdoms and torments, extravagantly harsh in dogmatic mysteries and the ecclesiastical parade of power, extravagantly soft in sentimental tenderness and tearful piety, this new religious element, the element of the Inquisition, the Tridentine Council, and the Jesuits, contradicts the true gospel of Christ. The painting which embodies it belongs to a spirit at strife with what was vital and progressive in the modern world. It is therefore naturally abhorrent to us now; nor can it be appreciated except by those who yearn for the triumph of ultramontane principles. If we turn from the intellectual content of this art to its external manifestation, we shall find similar reasons for its failure to delight or satisfy. The ambition of the Caracci was to combine in one the salient qualities of earlier masters. This ambition doomed their style to the sterility of hybrids. Moreover, in selecting, they omitted just those features which had given grace and character to their models. The substitution of generic types for portraiture, the avoidance of individuality, the contempt for what is simple and natural in details, deprived their work of attractiveness and suggestion. It is noticeable that they never painted flowers. While studying Titian's landscapes, they omitted the iris and the caper-blossom and the columbine which star the grass beneath Ariadne's feet. The lessons of the rocks and chestnut-trees of his S. Jeromes Solitude were lost on them. They began the false system of depicting ideal foliage and ideal precipices--that is to say, trees which are not trees, and cliffs which cannot be distinguished from cork or stucco. In like manner, the clothes wherewith they clad their personages were not of brocade or satin or broadcloth, but of that empty lie called drapery. The purpled silks of Titian's Lilac Lady, in the Pitti, the embroidered hems of Boccaccini da Cremona, the crimson velvet of Raphael's Joanna of Aragon, Veronese's cloth of silver and shot taffety, are replaced by one monotonous nondescript stuff, differently dyed in dull or glaring colors, but always shoddy. Characteristic costumes have disappeared. We shall not find in any of their Massacres of the Innocents a soldier like Bonifazio's Dall'Armi. In lieu of gems with flashing facets, or of quaint jewels from the Oreficeria, they adorn their kings and princesses with nothing less elevated than polished gold and ropes of pearls. After the same fashion, furniture, utensils, houses, animals, birds, weapons, are idealized--stripped, that is to say, of what in these things is specific and vital. It would be incorrect to say that there are no exceptions in Eclectic painting to this evil system. Yet the sweeping truth remains that the Caracci returned, not to what was best in their predecessors, but to what was dangerous and misleading. The 'grand style,' in Sir Joshua's sense of that phrase, denoting style which eliminates specific and characteristic qualities from objects, replacing them by so-called 'ideal' generalities, had already made its appearance in Raphael, Correggio, and Buonarroti We even find it in Da Vinci's Last Supper. Yet in Raphael it comes attended with divine grace; in Correggio with faun-like radiancy of gladness; in Buonarroti with Sinaitic sublimity; in Da Vinci with penetrative force of psychological characterization. The Caracci and their followers, with a few exceptions--Guido at his best being the notablest--brought nothing of these saving virtues to the pseudo-grand style. It was this delusion regarding nobility and elevation in style which betrayed so genial a painter as Reynolds into his appreciation of the Bolognese masters. He admired them; but he admired Titian, Raphael, Correggio, and Buonarroti more. And he admired the Eclectics because they developed the perilous part of the great Italian tradition. Just as Coleridge recommended young students of dramatic verse to found their style at first on Massinger rather than on Shakespeare, so Reynolds thought that the Caracci were sound models for beginners in the science of idealization. Shakespeare and Michelangelo are inimitable; Massinger and the Caracci exhibit the one thing needful to be learned, upon a scale not wholly unattainable by industry and talent. That was the line of argument; and, granted that the pseudo-grand style is a _sine quâ non_ of painting, Reynolds's position was logical.[238] [Footnote 238: It is only because I am an Englishman, writing a popular book for English folk, that I thus spend time in noticing the opinions of Joshua Reynolds. Addressing a European audience in this year grace, I should not have thought of eddying about his obsolete doctrine.] The criticism and the art-practice of this century have combined to shake our faith in the grand style. The spirit of the Romantic movement, penetrating poetry first, then manifesting itself in the reflective writings of Rio and Lord Lindsay, Ruskin and Gautier, producing the English landscape-painters and pre-Raphaelites, the French Realists and Impressionists, has shifted the center of gravity in taste. Science, too, contributes its quota. Histories of painting, like Kugler's, and Crowe and Cavalcaselle's, composed in an impartial and searching spirit of investigation, place students at a point of view removed from prejudice and academical canons of perfection. Only here and there, under special reactionary influences, as in the Dusseldorf and Munich schools of religious purists, has anything approaching to the eighteenth-century 'grand style' delusion reappeared. Why, therefore, the Eclectics are at present pining in the shade of neglect is now sufficiently apparent. We dislike their religious sentiments. We repudiate their false and unimaginative ideality. We recognize their touch on antique mythology to be cold and lifeless. Superficial imitations of Niobe and the Belvedere Apollo have no attraction for a generation educated by the marbles of the Parthenon. Dull reproductions of Raphael's manner at his worst cannot delight men satiated with Raphael's manner at his best. Whether the whirligig of time will bring about a revenge for the Eclectics yet remains to be seen. Taste is so capricious, or rather the conditions which create taste are so complex and inscrutable, that even this, which now seems impossible, may happen in the future. But a modest prediction can be hazarded that nothing short of the substitution of Catholicism for science and of Jesuitry for truth in the European mind will work a general revolution in their favor. CHAPTER XIV. CONCLUSION. The main Events of European History--Italy in the Renaissance--Germany and Reformation--Catholic Reaction--Its Antagonism to Renaissance and Reformation--Profound Identity of Renaissance and Reformation--Place of Italy in European Civilization--Want of Sympathy between Latin and Teutonic Races--Relation of Rome to Italy--Macaulay on the Roman Church--On Protestantism--Early Decline of Renaissance Enthusiasms--Italy's Present and Future. I. The four main events of European history since the death of Christ are the decline of Graeco-Roman civilization, the triumph of Christianity as a new humanizing agency, the intrusion of Teutonic and Slavonic tribes into the comity of nations, and the construction of the modern world of thought by Renaissance and Reformation. As seems to be inevitable in the progress of our species, each of these changes involved losses, compensated by final gains; for humanity moves like a glacier, plastically, but with alternating phases of advance and retreat, obeying laws of fracture and regelation. It would thus be easy to deplore the collapse of that mighty and beneficent organism which we call the Roman Empire. Yet without this collapse how could the Catholic Church have supplied inspiration to peoples gifted with fresh faculties, endowed with insight differing from that of Greeks and Romans? It is tempting to lament the extinction of arts letters, and elaborated habits of civility, which followed the barbarian invasions. Yet without such extinction, how can we imagine to ourselves the growth of those new arts, original literatures, and varied modes of social culture, to which we give the names of mediaeval, chivalrous, or feudal? It is obvious that we can quarrel with the Renaissance for having put an end to purely Christian arts and letters by imposing a kind of pagan mannerism on the spontaneous products of the later mediaeval genius. But without this reversion to the remaining models of antique culture, how could the European races have become conscious of historical continuity; how could the corrupt system of Papal domination have been broken by Reform; how, finally, could Science, the vital principle of our present civilization, have been evolved? In all these instances it appears that the old order must yield place to the new, not only because the new is destined to incorporate and supersede it, but also because the old has become unfruitful. Thus, the Roman Empire, having discharged its organizing function, was decrepit, and classical civilization, after exhibiting its strength in season, was decaying when the Latin priesthood and the barbarians entered that closed garden of antiquity, and trampled it beneath their feet. Mediaeval religion and modes of thought, in like manner, were at the point of ossifying, when Humanism intervened to twine the threads of past and present into strands that should be strong as cables for the furtherance of future energy. It is incontestable that the Reformation and the Counter-Reformation, each of them on different grounds antagonistic to the Renaissance, appear to have retarded that emancipation of the reason, begun by Humanism, which is still in progress. Nevertheless, the strife of Protestantism and Catholicism was needed for preserving moral and religious elements which might have been too lightly dropped, and for working these into the staple of the modern consciousness. The process of the last three centuries, attended as it has been by serious drawbacks to the Spanish and Italian peoples, and by a lamentable waste of vigor to the Teutonic nations, has yet resulted in a permeation of the modern compost with the leaven of Christianity. Unchecked, it is probable that the Renaissance would have swept away much that was valuable and deserved to be permanent. Nor, without the flux and reflux of contending principles by which Europe was agitated in the Counter-Reformation period, could the equipoise of reciprocally attracting and repelling States, which constitutes the modern as different from the ancient or the mediaeval groundwork of political existence, have been so efficiently established. II. Permanence and homogeneity are not to be predicated of 'anything that's merely ours and mortal.' We have missed the whole teaching of history if we wail aloud because Greek and Roman culture succumbed to barbarism, out of which mediaeval Christianity emerged; because the revival of learning diverted arts and letters in each Occidental nation from their home-plowed channels; because Protestant theologians and Spanish Jesuits impeded that self-evolution of the reason which Italian humanists inaugurated. No less futile were it to waste declamatory tears upon the strife of absolutism with new-fledged democracy, or to vaticinate a reign of socialistic terror for the immediate future. We have to recognize that man cannot be other than what he makes himself; and he makes himself in obedience to immutable although unwritten laws, whereof he only of late years became dimly conscious. It is well, then, while reflecting on the lessons of some deeply studied epoch in world-history, to regard the developments with which we have been specially occupied, no less than the ephemeral activity of each particular individual, as factors in a universal process, whereof none sees the issue, but which, willing or unwilling, each man helps to further. We shall then acknowledge that a contest between Conservatism and Liberalism, between established order and the order that is destined to replace it, between custom and innovation, constitutes the essence of vitality in human affairs. The nations by turns are protagonists in the drama of progress; by turns are doomed to play the part of obstructive agents. Intermingled in conflict which is active life, they contribute by their phases of declension and resistance, no less than by their forward movements, to the growth of an organism which shall probably in the far future be coextensive with the whole human race. III. These considerations are suggested to us by the subject I have handled in this work. The first five volumes were devoted to showing how Italy, in the Renaissance, elaborated a new way of regarding man and the world, a new system of education, new social manners, and a new type of culture for herself and Europe. This was her pioneer's work in the period of transition from the middle ages; and while she was engaged in it, all classes, from popes and princes down to poetlings and pedants, seemed for a while to have lost sight of Catholic Christianity. They were equally indifferent to that corresponding and contemporary movement across the Alps, which is known as Reformation. They could not discern the close link of connection which binds Renaissance to Reformation. Though at root identical in tendency towards freedom, these stirrings of the modern spirit assumed externally such diverse forms as made them reciprocally repellent. Only one European nation received both impulses simultaneously. That was England, which adopted Protestantism and produced the literature of Spenser, Bacon, and Shakespeare at the same epoch. France, earlier than England, felt Renaissance influences, and for some while seemed upon the point of joining the Reformation. But while the French were hesitating, Spain proclaimed herself the uncompromising enemy of Protestantism, and Rome, supported by this powerful ally, dragged Italy into the Catholic reaction. That effort aimed at galvanizing a decrepit Church into the semblance of vital energy, and, while professing the reformation of its corrupt system, stereotyped all that was antagonistic in its creed and customs to the spirit of the modern world. The Catholic Revival necessitated vigorous reaction, not only against Protestantism, but also against the Liberalism of the Renaissance and the political liberties of peoples. It triumphed throughout Southern Europe chiefly because France chose at length the Catholic side. But the triumph was only partial, condemning Spain and Italy indeed to intellectual barrenness for a season, but not sufficing to dominate and suppress the development of rationalism. The pioneer's work of Italy was over. She joined the ranks of obscurantists and obstructives. Germany, having failed to accomplish the Reformation in time, was distracted by the Catholic reaction, which plunged her into a series of disastrous wars. It remained for England and Holland, not, however, without similar perturbations in both countries, to lead the van of progress through two centuries; after which this foremost post was assigned to France and the United States. IV. The views which I have maintained throughout my work upon the Renaissance will be found, I think, to be coherent. They have received such varied illustrations that it is difficult to recapitulate the principles on which they rest, without repetition. The main outline of the argument, however, is as follows. During the middle ages, Western Christendom recognized, in theory at least, the ideal of European unity under the dual headship of the Papacy and Empire. There was one civil order and one Church. Emperor and Pope, though frequently at strife, were supposed to support each other for the common welfare of Christendom. That mediaeval conception has now, in the centuries which we call modern, passed into oblivion; and the period in which it ceased to have effective value we denote as the period of the Renaissance and the Reformation. So long as the ideal held good, it was possible for the Papacy to stamp out heresies and to stifle the earlier stirrings of antagonistic culture. Thus the precursory movements to which I alluded in the first chapter of my 'Age of the Despots,' seemed to be abortive; and no less apparently abortive were the reformatory efforts of Wyclif and Huss. Yet Europe was slowly undergoing mental and moral changes, which announced the advent of a new era. These changes were more apparent in Italy than elsewhere, through the revival of arts and letters early in the fourteenth century. Cimabue, Giotto, and the Pisani, Dante, Petrarch, and Boccaccio, set culture forward on fresh paths divergent from previous mediaeval tradition. The gradual enfeeblement of the Empire and the distraction of the Church during the Great Schism prepared the means whereby both Renaissance and Reformation were eventually realized. The Council of Constance brought the Western nations into active diplomatical relations, and sowed seeds of thought which afterwards sprang up in Luther. Meanwhile a special nidus had been created in the South. The Italian communes freed themselves from all but titular subjection to the Empire, and were practically independent of the Papacy during its exile in Avignon. They succumbed to despots, and from Italian despotism emerged the Machiavellian conception of the State. This conception, modified in various ways, by Sarpi's theory of Church and State, by the Jesuit theory of Papal Supremacy, by the counter-theory of the Divine Right of Kings, by theories of Social Contract and the Divine Right of Nations, superseded the elder ideal of Universal Monarchy. It grew originally out of the specific conditions of Italy in the fifteenth century, and acquired force from that habit of mind, fostered by the Classical Revival, which we call humanism. Humanism had flourished in Italy since the days of Petrarch, and had been communicated by Italian teachers to the rest of Europe. As in the South it generated the new learning and the new culture which I have described in the first five volumes of my work, and acted as a solvent on the mediaeval idea of the Empire, so in the North it generated a new religious enthusiasm and acted as a solvent on the mediaeval idea of the Church. All through the middle ages, nothing seemed more formidable to the European mind than heresy. Any sacrifices were willingly made in order to secure the unity of the Catholic Communion. But now, by the Protestant rebellion, that spell was broken, and the right of peoples to choose their faith, in dissent from a Church declared corrupt, was loudly proclaimed. So long as we keep this line of reasoning in view, we shall recognize why it is not only uncritical, but also impossible, to separate the two movements severally called Renaissance and Reformation. Both had a common root in humanism, and humanism owed its existence on the one hand to the recovery of antique literature, on the other to the fact that the Papacy, instead of striving to stamp it out as it had stamped out Provençal civilization, viewed it at first with approval. The new learning, as our ancestors were wont to call it, involved, in Michelet's pregnant formula, the discovery of the world and man, and developed a spirit of revolt against mediaevalism in all its manifestations. Its fruits were speedily discerned in bold exploratory studies, sound methods of criticism, audacious speculation, and the free play of the intellect over every field of knowledge. This new learning had time and opportunity for full development in Italy, and for adequate extension to the Northern races, before its real tendencies were suspected. When that happened, the transition from the mediaeval to the modern age had been secured. The Empire was obsolete. The Church was forced into reaction. Europe became the battle-field of progressive and retrogressive forces, the scene of a struggle between two parties which can best be termed Liberalism and Conservatism. Stripping the subject of those artistic and literary associations which we are accustomed to connect with the word Renaissance, these seem to me the most essential points to bear in mind about this movement. Then, when we have studied the diverse antecedent circumstances of the German and Italian races, when we take into account their national qualities, and estimate the different aims and divergent enthusiasms evoked in each by humanistic ardor, we shall perceive how it came to pass that Renaissance and Reformation clashed together in discordant opposition to the Catholic Revival. V. Italy, through the Roman Republic, the Roman Empire, and the Roman Church, gave discipline, culture, and religion to the Western world. But, during the course of this civilizing process, a force arose in Northern Europe which was destined to transfer the center of gravity from the Mediterranean basin northwards. The Teutonic tribes effaced the Western Empire, adopted Christianity, and profoundly modified what still survived of Latin civility among the Occidental races. A new factor was thus introduced into the European community, which had to be assimilated to the old; and the genius of the Italian people never displayed itself more luminously than in the ability with which the Bishops of Rome availed themselves of this occasion. They separated the Latin from the Greek Church, and, by the figment of the Holy Roman Empire, cemented Southern and Northern Europe into an apparently cohesive whole. After the year A.D. 800, Europe, from the Baltic to the Mediterranean, acknowledged a dual headship; Papacy and Empire ranking as ideals under which the unity of Christendom subsisted in a multiplicity of separate and self-evolving nations. The concordat between Latin Church and German Empire, the one representing traditions of antique intelligence and southern habits of State organization, the other introducing the young energies of half-cultivated peoples and the chivalry of the North, was never perfect. Yet, incomplete as the fusion between Roman and Teuton actually was, it had a common basis in religion, and it enabled the federated peoples to maintain recognized international relations. What we now call Renaissance and Reformation revealed still unreconciled antagonisms between Southern and Northern, Latin and German, factors in this mediaeval Europe. Italy, freed for a while from both Papacy and Empire, expressed her intellectual energy in the Revival of Learning, developing that bold investigating spirit to which the names of Humanism or of Rationalism may be given. The new learning, the new enthusiasm for inquiry, the new study of the world and man, as subjects of vital interest irrespective of our dreamed-of life beyond the grave, stimulated in Italy what we know as Renaissance; while in Germany it led to what we know as Reformation. The Reformation must be regarded as the Teutonic counterpart to the Italian Renaissance. It was what emerged from the core of that huge barbarian factor, which had sapped the Roman Empire, and accepted Catholicism; which lent its vigor to the mediaeval Empire, and which now participated in the culture of the classical Revival. As Italy restored freedom to human intelligence and the senses by arts and letters and amenities of refined existence, so Germany restored freedom to the soul and conscience by strenuous efforts after religious sincerity and political independence. The one people aiming at a restoration of pagan civility beneath the shadow of Catholicism, the other seeking after a purer Christianity in antagonism to the Papal hierarchy, initiated from opposite points of view that complete emancipation of the modern mind which has not yet been fully realized. If we inquire why the final end to which both Renaissance and Reformation tended--namely, the liberation of the spirit from mediaeval prepossessions and impediments--has not been more perfectly attained, we find the cause of this partial failure in the contradictory conceptions formed by South and North of a problem which was at root one. Both Renaissance and Reformation had their origin in the revival of learning, or rather in that humanistic enthusiasm which was its vital essence. But the race-differences involved in these two movements were so irreconcilable, the objects pursued were so divergent, that Renaissance and Reformation came into the conflict of chemical combination, producing a ferment out of which the intellectual unity of Europe has not as yet clearly emerged. The Latin race, having created a new learning and a new culture, found itself at strife with the Teutonic race, which at the same period developed new religious conceptions and new political energies. The Church supplied a battle-field for these hostilities. The Renaissance was by no means favorable to the principles of Catholic orthodoxy; and the Italians showed themselves to be Christians by convention and tradition rather than by conviction in the fifteenth century. Yet Italy was well content to let the corrupt hierarchy of Papal Rome subsist, provided Rome maintained the attitude which Leo X. had adopted toward the liberal spirit of the Classical Revival. The Reformation, on the other hand, was openly antagonistic to the Catholic Church. Protestantism repudiated the toleration professed by skeptical philosophers and indulgent free-thinkers in the South, while it repelled those refined persons by theological fervor and moral indignation which they could not comprehend. Thus the Italian and the German children of humanism failed to make common cause against Catholicism, with which the former felt no sympathy and which the latter vehemently attacked. Meanwhile the Church awoke to a sense of her peril. The Papacy was still a force of the first magnitude; and it only required a vigorous effort to place it once more in an attitude of domination and resistance. This effort it made by reforming the ecclesiastical hierarchy, defining Catholic dogma, and carrying on a war of extermination against the twofold Liberalism of Renaissance and Reformation. That reactionary movement against the progress of free thought which extinguished the Italian Renaissance and repelled the Reformation, has formed the subject of the two preceding volumes of my work. It could not have been conducted by the Court of Rome without the help of Spain. The Spanish nation, at this epoch paramount in Europe, declared itself fanatically and unanimously for the Catholic Revival. In Italy it lent the weight of arms and overlordship to the Church for the suppression of popular liberties. It provided the Papacy with a spiritual militia specially disciplined to meet the exigencies of the moment. Yet the center of the reaction was still Rome; and the Spanish hegemony enabled the Roman hierarchy to consolidate an organism which has long survived its own influence in European affairs. VI. After the close of the Great Schism Rome began to obey the national impulses of the Italians, entered into their confederation as one of the five leading powers, and assumed externally the humanistic culture then in vogue. But the Church was a cosmopolitan institution. Its interests extended beyond the Alps, beyond the Pyrenees, beyond the oceans traversed by Portuguese and Spanish navigators. The Renaissance so far modified its structure that the Papacy continued politically to rank as an Italian power. Its headquarters could not be removed from the Tiber, and by the tacit consent of Latin Catholicism the Supreme Pontiff was selected from Italian prelates. Yet now, in 1530, it began to play a new part more consonant with its mediaeval functions and pretensions. Rome indeed had ceased to be the imperial capital of Europe, where the secular head of Christendom assumed the crown of Empire from his peer the spiritual chieftain. The Eternal City in this new phase of modern history, which lasted until Vittorio Emmanuele's entrance into the Quirinal in 1870, gave the Pope a place among Catholic sovereigns. From his throne upon the seven hills he conducted with their approval and assistance the campaign of the Counter-Reformation. Instead of encouraging and developing what yet remained of Renaissance in Italy, instead of directing that movement of the self-emancipating mind beyond the stage of art and humanism into the stage of rationalism and science, the Church used its authority to bring back the middle ages and to repress national impulses. It made common cause with Spain for a common object--the maintenance of Italy in a state of political and intellectual bondage, and the subjugation of such provinces in Europe as had not been irretrievably lost to the Catholic cause. The Italians, as a nation, remained passive, but not altogether unwilling or unapproving spectators of the drama which was being enacted under Papal leadership beyond their boundaries. Once again their activity was merged in that of Rome--in the action of that State which had first secured for them the Empire of the habitable globe, and next the spiritual hegemony of the Western races, and from the predominance of which they had partially disengaged themselves during the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. It was the Papacy's sense of its own danger as a cosmopolitan institution, combined with the crushing superiority of Spain in the peninsula, which determined this phase of Italian history. The Catholic Revival, like the Renaissance, may in a certain sense be viewed as a product of Italian genius. This is sufficiently proved by the diplomatic history of the Tridentine Council, and by the dedication of the Jesuits to Papal service. It must, however, be remembered that while the Renaissance emanated from the race at large, from its confederation of independent republics and tyrannies, the Catholic Revival emanated from that portion of the race which is called Rome, from the ecclesiastical hierarchy imbued with world-wide ambitions in which national interests were drowned. There is nothing more interesting to the biographer of the Italians than the complicated correlation in which they have always stood to the cosmopolitan organism of Rome, itself Italian. In their antique days of greatness Rome subdued them, and by their native legions won the overlordship of the world. After the downfall of the Empire the Church continued Roman traditions in an altered form, but it found itself unable to dispense with the foreign assistance of Franks and Germans. The price now paid by Italy for spiritual headship in Europe was subjection to Teutonic suzerains and perpetual intriguing interference in her affairs. During the Avignonian captivity and the Great Schism, Italy developed intellectual and confederative unity, imposing her laws of culture and of state-craft even on the Papacy when it returned to Rome. But again at the close of the Renaissance, when Italian independence had collapsed, the Church aspired to spiritual supremacy; and at this epoch she recompensed her Spanish ally by aiding and abetting in the enslavement of the peninsula. Still the Roman Pontiff, who acted as generalissimo of the Catholic armies throughout Europe, was now more than ever recognized as an Italian power. VII. In his review of Ranke's _History of the Popes_ Lord Macaulay insists with brilliant eloquence upon the marvelous vitality and longevity of the Roman Catholic Church. He describes the insurrection of the intellect against her rule in Provence, and her triumph in the Crusade which sacrificed a nation to the conception of mediaeval religious unity. He dwells on her humiliation in exile at Avignon, her enfeeblement during the Great Schism, and her restoration to splendor and power at the close of the Councils. Then he devotes his vast accumulated stores of learning and his force of rhetoric to explain the Reformation, the Catholic Revival, and the Counter-Reformation. He proves abundantly what there was in the organism of the Catholic Church and in the temper of Papal Rome, which made these now reactionary powers more than a match for Protestantism. 'In fifty years from the day on which Luther publicly renounced communion with the Papacy, and burned the bull of Leo before the gates of Wittenberg, Protestantism attained its highest ascendency, an ascendency which it soon lost, and which it never regained.' This sentence forms the theme for Lord Macaulay's survey of the Catholic Revival. Dazzling and fascinating as that survey is, it fails through misconception of one all-important point. Lord Macaulay takes for granted that conflict in Europe, since the publication of Luther's manifesto against Rome, has been between Catholicism and Protestantism. Even after describing the cataclysm of the French Revolution, he winds up his argument with these words: 'We think it a most remarkable fact that no Christian nation, which did not adopt the principles of the Reformation before the end of the sixteenth century, should ever have adopted them. Catholic communities have, since that time, become infidel and Catholic again; but none has become Protestant.' This is tantamount to regarding Protestantism as something fixed and final in itself, as a permanent and necessary form of Christianity. Here lies the fallacy which makes his reasoning, in spite of all its eloquence, but superficial. Protestantism, in truth, has never been more than a half-way house or halting-place between Catholicism and what may variously be described as free thought or science or rationalism. Being in its origin critical--being, as its name implies, a protest and an opposition--Protestantism was doomed to sterility, whenever it hardened into one or other of its dogmatic forms. As critics and insurgents, Luther and Calvin rank among the liberators of the modern intellect. As founders of intolerant and mutually hostile Christian sects, Luther and Calvin rank among the retarders of modern civilization. In subsequent thinkers of whom both sects have disapproved, we may recognize the veritable continuators of their work in its best aspect. The Lutheran and Calvinist Churches are but backwaters and stagnant pools, left behind by the subsidence of rivers in flood, separated from the tidal stress of cosmic forces. Macaulay's misconception of the true character of Protestantism, which is to Catholicism what the several dissenting bodies are to the English Establishment, has diverted his attention from the deeper issues involved in the Counter-Reformation. He hardly touches upon Rome's persecution of free thought, upon her obstinate opposition to science. Consequently, he is not sufficiently aware that Copernicus and Bruno were, even in the sixteenth century, far more dangerous foes to Catholicism than were the leaders of the Reformed Churches. Copernicus and Bruno, the lineal ancestors of Helmholtz and Darwin, headed that opposition to Catholicism which has been continuous and potent to the present day, which has never retreated into backwaters or stagnated in slumbrous pools. From this opposition the essence of Christianity, the spirit which Christ bequeathed to his disciples, has nothing to fear. But Catholicism and Protestantism alike, in so far as both are dogmatic and reactionary, clinging to creeds which will not bear the test of scientific investigation, to myths which have lost their significance in the light of advancing knowledge, and to methods of interpreting the Scriptures at variance with the canons of historical criticism, have very much to fear from this opposition. Lord Macaulay thinks it a most remarkable fact that no Christian nation has adopted the principles of the Reformation since the end of the sixteenth century. He does not perceive that, in every race of Europe, all enlightened thinkers, whether we name Bacon or Descartes, Spinoza or Leibnitz, Goethe or Mazzini, have adopted and carried forward those principles in their essence. That they have not proclaimed themselves Protestants unless they happened to be born Protestants, ought not to arouse his wonder, any more than that Washington and Heine did not proclaim themselves Whigs. For Protestantism, when it became dogmatic and stereotyped itself in sects, ceased to hold any vital relation to the forward movement of modern thought. The Reformation, in its origin, was, as I have tried to show, the Northern and Teutonic manifestation of that struggle after intellectual freedom, which in Italy and France had taken shape as Renaissance. But Calvinism, Lutheranism, Zwinglianism, and Anglicanism renounced that struggle only less decidedly than Catholicism; and in some of their specific phases, in Puritanism for example, they showed themselves even more antagonistic to liberal culture and progressive thought than did the Roman Church. Whatever may be thought about the future of Catholicism (and no prudent man will utter prophecies upon such matters), there can be no doubt that the universal mind of the Christian races, whether Catholic or Protestant, has been profoundly penetrated and permeated with rationalism, which, springing simultaneously in Reformation and Renaissance out of humanism, has supplied the spiritual life of the last four centuries. This has created science in all its branches. This has stimulated critical and historical curiosity. This has substituted sound for false methods of inquiry, the love of truth for attachment to venerable delusion. This has sustained the unconquerable soul of man in its persistent effort after liberty and its revolt against the tyranny of priests and princes. At present, civilization seems threatened by more potent foes than the Roman Church, nor is it likely that these foes will seek a coalition with Catholicism. As a final remark upon this topic, it should be pointed out that Protestantism, in spite of the shortcomings I have indicated, has, on the whole, been more favorable to intellectual progress than Catholicism. For Protestantism was never altogether oblivious of its origin in revolt against unjust spiritual domination, while Catholicism has steadily maintained its conservative attitude of self-defense by repression. This suffices to explain another point insisted on by Lord Macaulay--namely, that those nations in which Protestantism took root have steadily advanced, while the decay of Southern Europe can be mainly ascribed to the Catholic Revival. The one group of nations have made progress, not indeed because they were Protestants, but because they were more obedient to the Divine Mind, more in sympathy with the vital principle of movement, more open to rationalism. The other group of nations have declined, because Catholicism after the year 1530, wilfully separated itself from truth and liberty and living force, and obstinately persisted in serving the false deities of an antiquated religion. VIII. Few periods in history illustrate the law of reaction and retrogression, to which all processes of civil progress are subject, more plainly and more sadly than the one with which I have been dealing in these volumes. The Renaissance in Italy started with the fascination of a golden dream; and like the music of a dream, it floated over Europe. But the force which had stimulated humanity to this delightful reawakening of senses and intelligence, stirred also the slumbering religious conscience, and a yearning after personal emancipation. Protestantism arose like a stern reality, plunging the nations into confused and deadly conflict, arousing antagonisms in established orders, unleashing cupidities and passions which had lurked within the breasts of manifold adventurers. The fifteenth century closed to a solemn symphony. After the middle of the sixteenth, discord sounded from every quarter of the Occidental world. Italy lay trampled on and dying. Spain reared her dragon's crest of menacing ambition and remorseless fanaticism. France was torn by factions and devoured by vicious favorites of corrupt kings. Germany heaved like a huge ocean in the grip of a tumultuous gyrating cyclone. England passed through a complex revolution, the issue of which, under the sway of three Tudor monarchs, appeared undecided, until the fourth by happy fate secured the future of her people. It is not to be wondered that, in these circumstances, a mournful discouragement should have descended on the age; that men should have become more dubitative; that arts and letters should have seemed to pine upon unfertile ground. The nutriment they needed was absorbed by plants of fiercer and ranker growth, religious hatreds, political greeds, relentless passions burning in the hearts of princes and of populations. IX. Italy had already given so much of mental and social civilization to Europe, that her quiescence at this epoch can scarcely supply a substantial theme for rhetorical lamentations. Marino and Guido Reni prove that the richer veins of Renaissance art and poetry had been worked out. The lives of Aldus the younger and Muretus show that humanism was well-nigh exhausted on its native soil. This will not, however, prevent us from deploring the untimely frost cast by persecution on Italy's budding boughs of knowledge. While we rejoice in Galileo, we must needs shed tears of fiery wrath over the passion of Campanella and the stake of Bruno. Meanwhile the tree of genius was ever green and vital in that Saturnian land of culture. Poetry, painting, sculpture, and architecture, having borne their flowers and fruits, retired to rest. Scholarship faded; science was nipped in its unfolding season by unkindly influences. But music put forth lusty shoots and flourished, yielding a new paradise of harmless joy, which even priests could grudge not to the world, and which lulled tyranny to sleep with silvery numbers. Thanks be to God that I who pen these pages, and that you who read them, have before us in this year of grace the spectacle of a resuscitated Italy! In this last quarter of the nineteenth century, the work of her heroes, Vittorio Emmanuele, Mazzini, Garibaldi, and Cavour, stands firmly founded. The creation of united Italy, that latest birth of the Italian genius, that most impossible of dreamed-of triumphs through long ages of her glory and greatness, compensates for all that she has borne in these three hundred years. Now that Rome is no longer the seat of a cosmopolitan theocracy, but the capital of a regenerated people; now that Venice joins hands with Genoa, forgetful of Curzola and Chioggia; now that Florence and Pisa and Siena stand like sisters on the sacred Tuscan soil, while Milan has no strife with Naples, and the Alps and sea-waves gird one harmony of cities who have drowned their ancient spites in amity,--the student of the splendid and the bitter past may pause and bow his head in gratitude to Heaven and swear that, after all, all things are well. X. There is no finality in human history. It is folly to believe that any religions, any social orders, any scientific hypotheses, are more than provisional, and partially possessed of truth. Let us assume that the whole curve of human existence on this planet describes a parabola of some twenty millions of years in duration.[239] Of this we have already exhausted unreckoned centuries in the evolution of pre-historic man, and perhaps five thousand years in the ages of historic records. How much of time remains in front? Through that past period of five thousand years preserved for purblind retrospect in records, what changes of opinion, what peripeties of empire, may we not observe and ponder! How many theologies, cosmological conceptions, polities, moralities, dominions, ways of living and of looking upon life, have followed one upon another! The space itself is brief; compared with the incalculable longevity of the globe, it is but a bare 'scape in oblivion.' And, however ephemeral the persistence of humanity may be in this its earthly dwelling-place, the conscious past sinks into insignificance before those aeons of the conscious future, those on-coming and out-rolling waves of further evolution which bear posterity forward. Has any solid gain of man been lost on the stream of time to us-ward? We doubt that. Has anything final and conclusive been arrived at? We doubt that also. The river broadens, as it bears us on. But the rills from which it gathered, and the ocean whereto it tends, are now, as ever in the past, inscrutable. It is therefore futile to suppose, at this short stage upon our journey, while the infant founts of knowledge are still murmuring to our ears, that any form of faith or science has been attained as permanent; that any Pillars of Hercules have been set up against the Atlantic Ocean of experience and exploration. Think of that curve of possibly twenty million years, and of the five thousand years remembered by humanity! How much, how incalculably much longer is the space to be traversed than that which we have left behind! It seems, therefore, our truest, as it is our humblest, wisdom to live by faith and love. 'And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity.' Love is the greatest; and against love man has sinned most in the short but blood-bedabbled annals of his past. Hope is the virtue from which a faithful human being can best afford to abstain, unless hope wait as patient handmaid upon faith. Faith is the steadying and sustaining force, holding fast by which each one of us dares defy change, and gaze with eyes of curious contemplation on the tide which brought us, and is carrying, and will bear us where we see not. 'I know not how I came of you and I know not where I go with you; but I know I came well and I shall go well.' Man can do no better than live in Eternity's Sunrise, as Blake put it. To live in the eternal sunrise of God's presence, ever rising, not yet risen, which will never reach its meridian on this globe, seems to be the destiny, as it should also be the blessing, of mankind. [Footnote 239: Twenty millions of years is of course a mere symbol, _x_ or _y_.] INDEX. A ACADEMIES, Italian, the flourishing time of, i. 52. ACCIAIUOLI, Roberto, i. 33. ACCOLTI, Benedetto, conspirator against Pius IV., i. 132. ACCORAMBONI, Claudio (father of Vittoria), i. 356. ---Marcello (brother of Vittoria): intrigues for the marriage of his sister with the Duke of Bracciano, i. 358 _sqq._; procures the murder of her husband, 362; employs a Greek enchantress to brew love-philters, 365; his death, 372. ---Tarquinia (mother of Vittoria), i. 356. ---Vittoria, the story of, i. 355 _sqq._; her birth and parentage, 356; marriage with Felice Peretti, 357; intrigue with the Duke of Bracciano, 360; the murder of her husband, 362; her marriage with Bracciano, 364; annulled by the Pope, 364, 366; the union renounced by the Duke, 365; put on trial for the murder of Peretti, _ib._; their union publicly ratified by the Duke, 366; flight from Rome, _ib._; death of Bracciano, 367; her murder procured by Lodovico Orsini, 369. 'ACTS of Faith,' i. 107, 176, 187. ADMINISTRATOR, the (Jesuit functionary), i. 273. 'ADONE,' Marino's: its publication, ii. 264; critique of the poem, 266 _sqq._ ALBANI, Francesco, Bolognese painter, ii. 355, 358. ALEXANDER VI., Pope, parallel between, and Pope Paul IV., i. 106. ALFONSO II., Duke of Ferrara: sketch of his Court, ii. 28 _sqq._; his second marriage, 30; treatment of Tasso, 38, 51, 53, 58, 60 _sqq._; his third marriage, 66; estimate of the reasons why he imprisoned Tasso, 66 _sqq._ ALFONSO the Magnanimous: arrangements under his will, i. 4. ALIDOSI, Cardinal Francesco, murder of, i. 36. ALLEGORY, hypocrisy of the, exemplified in Tasso, ii. 44; in Marino, 272; in Ortensi's moral interpretations of Bandello's _Novelle_, 272 _n._ ALTEMPS, Cardinal d' (Mark of Hohen Ems), legate at Trent, i. 119 _n._ ALVA, Duke of, defeat of the Duke of Guise by, i. 103. 'AMADIS of Gaul,' the favorite book of Loyola in his youth, i. 232. AMIAS, Beatrice, mother of Francesco Cenci, i. 346. 'AMINTA,' Tasso's pastoral drama, first production of, ii. 39; its style, 114. ANGELUZZO, Giovanni, Tasso's first teacher, ii. 12. ANIMA Mundi, Bruno's doctrine of, ii. 177. ANTONIANO, a censor of the _Gerusalemme Liberata_, ii. 43. ---Silvio, a boy _improvvisatore_, anecdote of, ii. 328. AQUAVIVA, the fifth General of the Jesuits, i. 248. AQUITAINE, Duke of, Guercino's painting of in Bologna, ii. 367. ARAGONESE Dynasty, the, in Italy, i. 4. ARBUES, Peter, Saint of the Inquisition in Aragon, i. 161, 178. ARETINO, Pietro, i. 42, 70; satire of on Paul IV., 108. 'ARIE Divote,' Palestrina's, ii. 335. ARISTOTLE'S Axiom on Taste, ii. 371, 374. ARMADA, Spanish, i. 149. ARMI, Lodovico dall', a _bravo_ of noble family, i. 409; accredited at Venice as Henry VIII.'s 'Colonel,' 410; his career of secret diplomacy, 411; negotiations between Lord Wriothesley and Venice regarding the ban issued against him, 412; his downfall, 413; personal appearance, 414; execution, 415. ARNOLFINI, Massimiliano, paramour of Lucrezia Buonvisi, i. 331; procures the assassination of her husband, 332; flight from justice, 332; outlawed, 336; his wanderings and wretched end, 339. ART of Memory, Bruno's, ii. 139. ART of Poetry, Tasso's Dialogues on the, ii. 22, 24; influence of its theory on Tasso's own work, 25. ASSISTANTS, the (Jesuit functionaries), i. 273. ASTORGA, Marquis of, i. 22. AURORA, the Ludovisi fresco of, ii. 368. AVILA, Don Luigi d', i. 128. B BAGLIONI, Malatesta, i. 46. BAINI'S _Life of Palestrina_, ii. 316 _sqq._ BALBI, Cesare, on Italian decadence, ii. 3. BANDITTI, tales illustrative of, i. 388 _sqq._ 'BANDO' (of outlawry), recitation of the terms of a, i. 328. BARBIERI, Giovanni Francesco, _see_ IL GUERCINO. BARCELONA, the Treaty of, i. 15. BARNABITES, Order of the: their foundation, i. 80. BAROCCIO, Federigo, ii. 349. BAROZZA, a Venetian courtezan, i. 394, 396. BASEL, Council of, i. 94. BEARD, unshorn, worn in sign of mourning, i. 36. BEDELL, William (Bishop of Kilmore), on Fra Paolo and Fra Fulgenzio, ii. 231. BEDMAR'S conspiracy, ii. 186. BELLARMINO, Cardinal, on the inviolability of the Vulgate, i. 212; relations of, with Fra Paolo Sarpi, ii. 213, 222; his censure of the _Pastor Fido_, 251. BELRIGUARDO, the villa of, Tasso at, ii. 53. BEMBO, Pietro, i. 30, 41. BENDEDEI, Taddea, wife of Guarini, ii. 245. BENTIVOGLI, the semi-royal offspring of King Enzo of Sardinia, ii. 304. BIBBONI, Cecco: his account of how he murdered Lorenzino de'Medici, i. 488 _sqq._; his associate, Bebo, details of the life of a _bravo_, 389; tracking an outlaw, 392; the wages of a tyrannicide, 394; the _bravo's_ patient watching, 395; the murder, 397; flight of the assassins, 399; their reception by Count Collalto, 401; they seek refuge at the Spanish embassy, 402; protected by Charles V.'s orders, 403; conveyed to Pisa, 404; well provided for their future life, _ib._ BITONTO. Pasquale di, one of the assassins of Sarpi, ii. 212. BLACK garments of Charles V., the, i. 43. BLACK Pope, the, i. 275. BLOIS, Treaty of, i. 12. BOBADILLA, Nicholas, associate of Ignatius Loyola, i. 240; his work as a Jesuit in Bavaria, 258. BOLOGNA and Modena, humors of the conflict between, ii. 304. BOLOGNESE school of painters, the, ii. 343 _sqq._; why their paintings are now neglected, 375 _sqq._; mental condition of Bolognese art, 376. BONELLI, Michele, nephew of Pius V., i. 147. BONIFAZIO of Montferrat, Marquis, one of the Paleologi, i. 23. BORGIA, Francis (Duke of Gandia), third General of the Jesuits, i. 256; prevented by Loyola from accepting a Cardinal's hat, 260. BORROMEO, Carlo: his character, i. 115; a possible successor to Pius IV., 135; ruled in Rome by the Jesuits, 142; his intimacy with Sarpi, ii. 194. ---Federigo, i. 115; letter of, forbidding soldiers' visits to convents, 316 _n._ BRANCACCIO, Diana, treachery of, towards the Duchess of Palliano, i. 378; her murder, 379. 'BRAVI,' maintenance of by Italian nobles, i. 313; tales illustrative of, 388 _sqq._; relations of trust between _bravi_ and foreign Courts, 409. BRIGANDAGE in Italy, i. 416. BROWN, Mr. H.F., his researches in the Venetian archives, i. 189 _n._ BRUCCIOLI, Antonio, translator of the Bible into Italian, i. 76. BRUNO, Giordano: his birth, and training as a Dominican, ii. 129; early speculative doubts, 130; _Il Candelajo_, 131, 183; early studies, 133; prosecution for heresy, 134; a wandering student, 135; at Geneva, 136; Toulouse, 137; at the Sorbonne, 138; the Art of Memory, 139, 154; _De Umbris Idearum_, _ib._; relations with Henri III., 140; Bruno's person and conversation, 141; in England, _ib._; works printed in London, 142; descriptions of London life, _ib._; opinion of Queen Elizabeth, 143; lecturer at Oxford, 144; address to the Vice-Chancellor, 146; academical opposition, 147; the Ash-Wednesday Supper, _ib._; in the family of Castelnau, 148; in Germany, 149; Bruno's opinion of the Reformers, _ib._; the _De Monade_ and _De Triplici Minimo_, 150; Bruno in a monastery at Frankfort, 151; invited to Venice, 153; a guest of Mocenigo there, 154; his occupations, 156; denounced by Mocenigo and imprisoned by the Inquisition, 157; the heads of the accusation, 157 _sqq._; trial, 159; recantation, 160; estimate of Bruno's apology, 161; his removal to and long imprisonment at Rome, 163; his execution, 164; evidence of his martyrdom, 164 _sqq._; Schoppe's account, 165; details of Bruno's treatment in Rome, 167; the burning at the stake, 167 _sq._; Bruno a martyr, 168; contrast with Tasso, 169; Bruno's mental attitude, 170 _sq._; his championship of the Copernican system, 172; his relation to modern science and philosophy, 173; conception of the universe, 173 _sqq._; his theology, 175; the _Anima Mundi_, 177; anticipations of modern thought, 178, 182; his want of method, 180; the treatise on the Seven Arts, 182; Bruno's literary style, 182 _sqq._; his death contrasted with that of Sarpi, 239 _n._ BRUSANTINI, Count Alessandro (Tassoni's 'Conte Culagna'), ii. 301, 306. BUCKET, the Bolognese, ii. 305. BUONCOMPAGNO, Giacomo, bastard, son of Gregory XIII., i. 150. ---Ugo, _see_ GREGORY XIII. BUONVISI, Lucrezia, story of, i. 330; intrigue with Arnolfini, 331; murder of her husband, 332; Lucrezia suspected of complicity, 334; becomes a nun (Sister Umilia), _ib._; the case against her, 338; amours of inmates of her convent, 340; Umilia's intrigue with Samminiati, _ib._; discovery of their correspondence, 341; trial and sentences of the nuns, 344; Umilia's last days, 345. ---Lelio, assassination of, i. 332. BURGUNDIAN diamond of Charles the Bold, the, i. 38. C CALCAGNINI, Celio, letter of, on religious controversies, i. 74. CALVAERT, Dionysius, a Flemish painter in Bologna, ii. 355. CALVETTI, Olimpio (one of the assassins of Francesco Cenci), i. 350. CALVIN, i. 73; his relation to modern civilization, ii. 402. CAMBRAY, Treaty of (the Paix des Dames), i. 9, 15. CAMERA Apostolica, the, venality of, i. 140. CAMERINO, Duchy of, i. 86. CAMPANELLA, on the black robes of the Spaniards in Italy, i. 44. CAMPEGGI, Cardinal Lorenzo, i. 21. CAMPIREALI, Elena, the tale of, i. 428. CANELLO, U.A., on Italian society in the sixteenth century, i. 304 _n._ CANISIUS, lieutenant of Loyola in Austria, i. 259; appointed to the administration of the see of Vienna, 260. CANOSSA, Antonio, conspirator against Pius IV., i. 132. CAPELLO, Bianca, the story of, i. 382. CAPPELLA, Giulia (Rome), school for training choristers, ii. 316. CARACCI, the, Bolognese painters, ii. 345, 349 _sqq._ CARAFFA, Cardinal, condemned to death by Pius IV., i. 115. ---Giovanni Pietro (afterwards Pope Paul IV.), causes the rejection of Contarini's arrangement with the Lutherans, i. 78; helps to found the Theatines, 79; made Cardinal by Paul III., 88; hatred of Spanish ascendency, 89; becomes Pope Paul IV., 102; quarrel with Philip II., 102 _sqq._; opens negotiations with Soliman, 103; reconciliation with Spain, 104; nepotism, _ib._; indignation against the misdoings of his relatives, 106; ecclesiastical reforms, 107 _sq._; zeal for the Holy Office, 107 _n._; personal character, 108; his death, _ib._; his earlier relations with Ignatius Loyola, 242. CARAFFESCHI, evil character of the, i. 105; four condemned to death by Pius IV., 115, 318. CARAVAGGIO, Michelangelo Amerighi da, Italian Realist painter, ii. 363 _n._ CARDINE, Aliffe and Leonardo di (Caraffeschi), condemned to death by Pius IV., i. 115. CARDONA, Violante de (Duchess of Palliano), story of, i. 373 _sqq._; her accomplishments, 374; character, _ib._; passion of Marcello Capecce for her, _ib._; her character compromised through Diana Brancaccio, 378; murder of Marcello and Diana by the Duke, _ib._; death of Violante at the hands of her brother, 380. CARLI, Orazio: description of his being put to the torture, i. 333 _sq._ CARLO Emmanuele of Savoy, Italian hopes founded on, ii. 246, 286; friend of Marino, 262; kindness to Chiabrera, 290; treatment of Tassoni, 298. CARNESECCHI, condemned by the Roman Inquisition to be burned, i. 145. CARPI, attached to Ferrara, i. 40. CARRANZA, Archbishop of Toledo, condemned by the Roman Inquisition to be burned, i. 145. CASA, Giovanni della (author of the _Capitolo del Forno_), i. 393, 395. CASTELNAU, Michel de, kindness of towards Giordano Bruno, ii. 141, 148. ---Marie de, Bruno's admiration for, ii. 148. ---Pierre de, the first Saint of the Inquisition, i. 161. CATALANI, Marzio (one of the assassins of Francesco Cenci), i. 350. CATEAU Cambrésis, the Peace of, i. 48. CATHOLIC Revival, the inaugurators of, at Bologna, i. 16; transition from the Renaissance to, 65; new religious spirit in Italy, 67; the Popes and the Council of Trent, 96 _sqq._; a Papal triumph, 130; the Catholic Reaction generated the Counter-Reformation, 133; its effect on social and domestic morals, 301 _sqq._ CELEBRITY, vicissitudes of, ii. 368. CELIBACY, clerical, the question of, at Trent, i. 123. CELLANT, Contessa di, the model of Luini's S. Catherine, ii. 360 _n._ 'CENA delle Ceneri, La,' Bruno's, i. 85 _n._; ii. 140, 142, 183. CENCI, Beatrice, examination of the legend of, i. 351 _sqq._ ---Francesco: bastard son of Cristoforo Cenci, i. 346; his early life, _ib._; disgraceful charges against him, 348; compounds by heavy money payment for his crimes, _ib._; violent deaths of his sons, _ib._; severity towards his children, 349; his assassination procured by his wife and three children, 350; the murderers denounced, _ib._; their trial and punishments, 351. ---Msgr. Christoforo, father of Francesco Cenci, i. 346. CENTINI, Giacomo: story of his attempts by sorcery on the life of Urban VIII., i. 425. CESI, Msgr., invites Tasso to Bologna, ii. 22. CHARLES V., his compact with Clement VII., i. 15; Emperor Elect, 16; relations with Andrea Doria, 17; at Genoa, 18; his journey to Bologna, 20; his reception there, 22; the meeting with Clement, 23; mustering of Italian princes, 25; negotiations on Italian affairs, 26 _sqq._; a treaty of peace signed, 31; the difficulty with Florence, 32; the question of the two crowns, 34 _sqq._; description of the coronation, 37 _sqq._; the events that followed, 39 _sqq._; the net results of Charles's administration of Italian affairs, 45 _sqq._; his relations with Paul III., 100; his abdication, 102; he protects the assassins of Lorenzino de'Medici, 403. CHARLES VIII., of France: his invasion of Italy, i. 8. CHIABRERA, Gabriello: his birth, ii. 287; educated by the Jesuits, _ib._; his youth, 288; the occupations of a long life, 289; courtliness, 290; ode to Cesare d'Este, 291; Chiabrera's aim to remodel Italian poetry on a Greek pattern. 292 _sqq._; would-be Pindaric flights, 296; comparison with Marino and Tassoni, _ib._ CIOTTO, Giambattista, relations of, with Giordano Bruno, ii. 152 _sqq._ CISNEROS, Garcia de, author of a work which suggested S. Ignatius's _Exercitia_, i. 236. CLEMENT VII.: a prisoner in S. Angelo, i. 14; compact with Charles V., 15; their meeting at Bologna, 16 _sqq._; negotiations with the Emperor Elect, 26 _sqq._; peace signed, 31. CLEMENT VIII.: his Concordat with Venice, i. 193; Index of Prohibited Books issued by him, _ib._; his rules for the censorship of books, 198 _sqq._; he confers a pension on Tasso, ii. 76. CLOUGH, Mr., lines of, on 'Christianized' monuments in Papal Rome, i. 154. COADJUTORS, Temporal and Spiritual (Jesuit grades), i. 271. COLLALTO, Count Salici da, patron of the _bravo_ Bibboni, i. 400. COLONNA, the, reduced to submission to the Popes, i. 7. ---Vespasiano, Duke of Palliano, i. 77. ---Vittoria, i. 77; letter to, from Tasso in his childhood, ii. 15. COMANDINO, Federigo, Tasso's teacher, ii. 19. COMPANY OF JESUS, _see_ JESUITS. CONCLAVES, external influences on, in the election of Popes, i. 134. CONFEDERATION between Clement VII. and Charles V., i. 31. 'CONFIRMATIONS,' Fra Fulgenzio's, ii. 201. CONSERVATISM and Liberalism, necessary contest between, ii. 386. 'CONSIDERATIONS on the Censures,' Sarpi's, ii. 201. CONSTANCE, Council of, i. 92. CONTARINI, Gasparo: his negotiations between Catholics and Protestants, i. 30; treatment of his writings by Inquisitors, 31; suspected of heterodoxy, 72; intimacy with Gaetano di Thiene, 76; his concessions to the Reformers repudiated by the Curia, 78; memorial on ecclesiastical abuses, 79. ---Simeone: his account of a plague at Savigliano, i. 419 _sq._ 'CONTRIBUTIONS of the Clergy, Discourse upon the,' Sarpi's, ii. 221. COPERNICAN system, the, Bruno's championship of, ii. 172. COREGLIA, one of the assassins of Lelio Buonvisi, i. 333 _sqq._ CORONATION of Charles V., description of, i. 34 _sqq._; notable people present at, 39 _sqq._ CORSAIRS, Tunisian and Algerian, raids of, on Italian coasts, i. 417. COSCIA, Giangiacopo, guardian of Tasso's sister, ii. 16. COSIMO I. of Tuscany, the rule of, i. 46, 47. COSTANTINI, Antonio, Tasso's last letter written to, ii. 77; sonnet on the poet, 78. COTERIES, religious, in Rome, Venice, Naples, i. 75 _sqq._ COUNTER-REFORMATION: its intellectual and moral character, i. 63; the term defined, 64 _n._; decline of Renaissance impulse, 65; criticism and formalism in Italy, _ib._; contrast with the development of other European races, 66; transition to the Catholic Revival, 67; attitudes of Italians towards the German Reformation, 71; free-thinkers, 73; the Oratory of Divine Love, 76; the Moderate Reformers, _ib._; Gasparo Contarini, 78; new Religious Orders, 79; the Council of Trent, 97, 119; Tridentine Reforms, 107, 134; asceticism fashionable in Rome, 108, 142; active hostilities against Protestantism, 148; the new spirit of Roman polity, 149 _sqq._; work of the Inquisition, 159 _sqq._; the Index, 195 _sqq._; twofold aim of Papal policy, 226; the Jesuits, 229 _sqq._; an estimate of the results of the Reformation and of the Counter-Reformation, ii. 385 _sqq._ COURIERS, daily post of, between the Council of Trent and the Vatican, i. 121. COURT life in Italy, i. 20, 37, 41, 51; ii. 17, 29, 65, 201, 251. CRIMES of violence, in Italy in the sixteenth century, i. 304 _sqq._ CRIMINAL procedure, of Italian governments in the sixteenth century, i. 308 _sqq._ CRITICISM, fundamental principles of, ii. 370; the future of, 374. CROWNS, the iron and the golden, of the Emperor, i. 34. CULAGNA, Conte di, _see_ BRUSANTINI. CURIA, the, complicity of, with the attempts on Sarpi's life, ii. 213. D 'DATATARIO:' amount and sources of its income, i. 140. DATI, Giovanbattista, amount of, with nuns, i. 341 _sq._ 'DECAMERONE,' Boccaccio's expurgated editions of, issued in Rome, i. 224 _sq._ DELLA CRUSCANS, the, attack of, on Tasso's poetry, ii. 35, 72, 117 _n._ 'DE Monade,' Bruno's, ii. 150, 152 _n._, 167. DEPRES, Josquin, the leader of the contrapuntal style in music, ii. 316. 'DE Triplici Minimo,' Bruno's, ii. 150, 152 _n._, 167. 'DE Umbris Idearum,' Bruno's, ii. 139. DEZA, Diego, Spanish Inquisitor, i. 182. DIACATHOLICON, the, meaning of the term as used by Sarpi, i. 231; ii. 202. DIALOGUES, Tasso's, ii. 22, 112. DIRECTORIUM, the (Lainez' commentary on the constitution of the Jesuits), i. 249. DIVINE Right of sovereigns, the: why it found favor among Protestants, i. 296. DOMENICHINO, Bolognese painter, ii. 355; critique of Mr. Ruskin's invectives against his work, 359 _sqq._ DOMINICANS, the, ousted as theologians by the Jesuits at Trent, i. 101; their reputation for learning, ii. 130. DOMINIS, Marcantonio de, publishes in England Sarpi's _History of the Council of Trent_, ii. 223. DONATO, Leonardo, Doge of Venice, ii. 198. DORIA, Andrea: his relations with Charles V., i. 18. ---Cardinal Girolamo, i. 21. E ECLECTICISM in painting, ii. 345 _sqq._, 375 _sqq._ ECONOMICAL stagnation in Italy, i. 423. ELIZABETH, Queen (of England), Bruno's admiration of, ii. 143. EMANCIPATION of the reason, retarded by both the Reformation and the Counter-Reformation, ii. 385 _sqq._ EMIGRANTS from Italy, regulations of the Inquisition regarding, i. 227. ENZO, King (of Sardinia), a prisoner at Bologna, ii. 304. EPIC poetry, Italian speculations on, ii. 24; Tasso's Dialogues on, 26. 'EROICI Furori, Gli,' Bruno's, ii. 142, 183. ESPIONAGE, system of among the Jesuits, i. 273. ESTE, Alfonso d' (Duke of Ferrara), relations of, with Charles V., i. 40. ---Cardinal Ippolito d', i. 127 _sq._ ---Cardinal Luigi d', Tasso in the service of, ii. 12, 27. ---Don Cesare d', Chiabrera's Ode to, ii. 291. ---House of, their possessions in Italy, i. 45. 48. ---Isabella d', at the coronation of Charles V.. i. 21. ---Leonora d', the nature of Tasso's attachment to, ii. 31 _sqq._, 36, 40, 51, 54 _n._, 56, 68; her death, 71. ---Lucrezia d', Tasso's attachment to, ii. 32, 39; her marriage, 35; her death, 40 _n._ EVOLUTION in relation to Art, ii. 371 _sqq._ 'EXERCITIA Spiritualia' (Loyola's), i. 236; manner of their use, 267 _sqq._ EXTINCTION of republics in Italy, i. 45 _sqq._ F FABER, Peter, associate of Loyola, i. 239; his work as a Jesuit in Spain, 258. FARNESE, Alessandro, _see_ PAUL III. ---Giulia, mistress of Alexander VI., i. 81. ---Ottavio (grandson of Paul III.), Duke of Camerino, i. 86. ---Pier Luigi (son of Paul III.), Duke of Parma, i. 86. FEDERATION, Italian, the five members of the, i. 3 _sqq._; how it was broken up, 11. FERDINAND, Emperor, successor of Charles V., i. 102, 118; his relations with Canisius and the Jesuits, 259. FERRARA, i. 7; settlement of the Duchy of, by Charles V., i. 40; life at the Court of, ii. 29, 65, 247, 251. FERRUCCI, Francesco, i. 46. FESTA, Costanzo, the _Te Deum_ of, ii. 329. FINANCES of the Papacy under Sixtus V., i. 152. FIORENZA, Giovanni di, one of the assassins of Sarpi, ii. 212. FLAMINIO, Marcantonio, i. 76. FLEMISH musicians in Rome, ii. 316 _sqq._ FLORENCE: condition of the Republic in 1494, i. 10; Siege of the town (1530), 30 _sq._; capitulation, 46; under the rule of Spain, _ib._; extinction of the Republic, 47; the rule of Cosimo I., 49. FORMALISM, the development of, i. 66. FOSCARI, Francesco, the dogeship of, i. 9. FRANCIS I.: his capture at Pavia, i. 9, 13. FRECCI, Maddalò de', the betrayer of Tasso's love-affairs, ii. 51. FREDERICK II., Emperor: his edicts against heresy, i. 163. FREETHINKERS, Italian, i. 73 _sq._ FULGENZIO, Fra, the preaching of at Venice, ii. 207; his biography of Sarpi, _ib._ FULKE GREVILLE, a supper at the house of, described by Giordano Bruno, ii. 142, 147. G GALLICAN CHURCH, the: its interests in the Council of Trent, i. 126. GALLUZZI'S record of Jesuit attempts to seduce youth, i. 284. GATTINARA, Cardinal, Grand Chancellor of the Empire, i. 31. GAMBARA, Veronica, i. 41. GENERAL Congregation of the Jesuits, functions of the, i. 273. GENERAL of the Jesuits, position of, in regard to the Order, i. 272. GENOA, becomes subject to Spain, i. 18. GENTILE, Valentino, i. 73. GERSON'S _Considerations upon Papal Excommunications_, translated by Sarpi, ii. 200. 'GERUSALEMME Conquistata,' Tasso's, ii. 75, 114 _sq._, 124. 'GERUSALEMME Liberata:' at first called _Gottifredo_, ii. 35; its dedication, 38, 47 _sq._; submitted by Tasso to censors, 43; their criticisms, 43 _sq._, 50; successful publication of the poem, 71; its subject-matter, 92; the romance of the epic, 93; Tancredi, the hero, 94; imitations of Dante and Virgil, 95 _sqq._; artificiality, 100; pompous cadences, 101; oratorical dexterity, 102; the similes and metaphors, _ib._; Armida, the heroine, 106. GHISLIERI, Michele, _see_ PIUS V. ---Paolo, a relative of Pius V., i. 147. GIBERTI, Gianmatteo, Bishop of Verona, i. 19. GILLOT, Jacques, letter from Sarpi to, on the relations of Church and State, ii. 203. GIOVANNI FRANCESCO, Fra, an accomplice in the attacks on Sarpi, ii. 214. 'GLI ETEREI,' Academy of, at Padua, ii. 26. GOLDEN crown, the, significance of, i. 34. GONGORISM, i. 66. GONZAGA, Cardinal Ercole, ambassador from Clement VII. to Charles V., i. 19. ---Cardinal Scipione, a friend of Tasso, ii. 26, 42, 46, 67, 73. ---Don Ferrante, i. 25. ---Eleanora Ippolita, Duchess of Urbino, i. 37. ---Federigo, Marquis of Mantua, i. 26. ---Vincenzo, obtains Tasso's release, ii. 73; the circumstances of his marriage, i. 386. 'GOTTIFREDO.' Tasso's first title for the _Gerusalemme Liberata_, ii. 35. GOUDIMEL, Claude: his school of music at Rome, ii. 323. GRANADA, Treaty of, i. 12. GRAND style (in art), the so-called, ii. 379. GREGORY XIII., Pope (Ugo Buoncompagno): his early career and election, i. 149; manner of life, 150; treatment of his relatives, 151; revival of obsolete rights of the Church, 152; consequent confusion in the Papal States, _ib._ GRISON mercenaries in Italy, i. 103 _n._ GUARINI, on the death of Tasso, ii. 69 _n._; publishes a revised edition of Tasso's lyrics, 72; Guarini's parentage, 244; at the Court of Alfonso II. of Ferrara, 245; a rival of Tasso, _ib._; engaged on foreign embassies, 246; appointed Court poet, 247; domestic troubles, 249; his last years, 251; his death, _ib._; argument of the _Pastor Fido_, _ib._; satire upon the Court of Ferrara, 254; critique of the poem, 255; its style, 256; comparison with Tasso's _Aminta_, 275. GUELF and Ghibelline contentions: how they ended in Italy, i. 57. GUICCIARDINI, Francesco, i. 33. GUISE, Duke of: his defeat by Alva, i. 103; his murder, 129. GUZMAN, Domenigo de (S. Dominic), founder of the Dominican Order, i. 162. H HEGEMONY, Spanish, economical and social condition of the Italians under, i. 50; the evils of, 61. HENCHENEOR, Cardinal William, i. 36. HENRI III., favor shown to Giordano Bruno by, ii. 139. HENRI IV., the murder of, i. 297. HENRY VIII.: his divorce from Katharine of Aragon, i. 44. HEROICO-comic poetry, Tassoni's _Secchia Rapita_, the first example of, ii. 303. 'HISTORY of the Council of Trent,' Sarpi's, ii. 222 _sqq._ HOLY Office, _see_ INQUISITION. HOLY Roman Empire, the, ii. 393. HOMATA, Benedetta, attempted murder of by Gianpaolo Osio, i. 323 _sqq._ HOMICIDE, lax morality of the Jesuits in regard to, i. 306 _n._ HOSIUS, Cardinal, legate at Trent, i. 118. HUMANISM, the work of, ii. 385, 391; what it involved, 392; Rationalism, its offspring, 404. HUMANITY, the past and future of, ii. 408 _sqq._ I IL BORGA, a censor of the _Gerusalemme Liberata_, ii. 43. 'IL Candelajo,' Giordano Bruno's comedy, ii. 131, 183. IL GUERCINO (G.F. Barbieri), Bolognese painter, ii. 365; his masterpieces, 367. 'IL PADRE di Famiglio,' Tasso's Dialogue, ii. 63. 'IL Pentito,' Tasso's name as one of Gli Eterei, ii. 26. INGEGNERI, Antonio, a friend of Tasso, ii. 64; publishes the _Gerusalemme_, 71. INDEX Expurgatorius: its first publication at Venice, i. 192; effects on the printing trade there, 193; the Index in concert with the Inquisition, 194; origin of the Index, 195; local lists of prohibited books, _ib._; establishment of the Congregation of the Index, 197; Index of Clement VIII., 198; its preambles, _ib._; regulations, 199 _sq._; details of the censorship and correction of books, 201; rules as to printers, publishers, and booksellers, 203; responsibility of the Holy Office, 204; annoyances arising from delays and ignorance on the part of censors, 205; spiteful delators of charges of heresy, 207; extirpation of books, 208; proscribed literature, 209; garbled works by Vatican students, 210; effect of the Tridentine decree about the Vulgate, 212; influence of the Index on schools and lecture-rooms, 213; decline of humanism, 218; the statutes on the _Ratio Status_, 220; their object and effect, 221; the treatment of lewd and obscene publications, 223; expurgation of secular books, 224. INQUISITION, the, i. 159 _sqq._; the first germ of the Holy Office, 161; developed during the crusade against the Albigenses, _ib._; S. Dominic its founder, 162; introduced into Lombardy, etc., 164; the stigma of heresy, 165; three types of Inquisition, 166; the number of victims, 166 _n._; the crimes of which it took cognizance, 167; the methods of the Apostolical Holy Office, 168; treatment of the New Christians in Castile, 169, 171; origin of the Spanish Holy Office, 170; opposition of Queen Isabella, 171; exodus of New Christians, 172; the punishments inflicted, _ib._; futile appeals to Rome, 173; constitution of the Inquisition, 174; its two most formidable features, 175; method of its judicial proceedings, 176; the sentence and its execution, 177; the holocausts and their pageant, _ib._; Torquemada's insolence, 179; the body-guard of the Grand Inquisitor, 180; number of Torquemada's victims, 181; exodus of Moors from Castile, 182; victims under Torquemada's successors, _ib._; an Aceldama at Madrid, 184; the Roman Holy Office, _ib._; remodelled by Giov. Paolo Caraffa, 185; 'Acts of Faith' in Rome, 186; numbers of the victims, 187; in other parts of Italy, 188; the Venetian Holy Office, 190; dependent on the State, _ib._; Tasso's dread of the Inquisition, ii. 42, 45, 49, 51; the case of Giordano Bruno, 134, 157 _sqq._; Sarpi denounced to the Holy Office, 195. INTELLECTUAL and social activity in Italian cities, i. 51. INTERDICT of Venice (1606), ii. 198 _sqq._; the compromise, 205. INVASION, wars of, in Italy, i. 11 _sqq._ IRON crown, the, sent from Monza to Bologna, i. 36. 'ITALIA Liberata,' Trissino's, ii. 24, 303. ITALIA Unita, ii. 407. ITALY: its political conditions in 1494, i. 2 _sqq._; the five members of its federation, 3; how the federation was broken up, 11; the League between Clement VII. and Charles V., 31; review of the settlement of Italy effected by Emperor and Pope, 45 _sqq._; extinction of republics, 47; economical and social condition of the Italians under Spanish hegemony, 48; intellectual life, 51; predominance of Spain and Rome, 53 _sqq._; Italian servitude, 58; the evils of Spanish rule, 59 _sqq._; seven Spanish devils in Italy, 61; changes wrought by the Counter-Reformation, 64 _sqq._; criticism and formalism, 65; transition from the Renaissance to the Catholic Revival, _ib._; attitude of Italians towards the German Reformation, 71. J JESUITS, Order of: its importance in the Counter-Reformation, i. 229; the Diacatholicon, 231; works on the history of the Order, 231 _n._; sketch of the life of Ignatius Loyola, 231 _sqq._; the first foundation of the _Exercitia_, 236; Peter Faber and Francis Xavier, 239; the vows taken by Ignatius and his neophytes at Paris, 240; their proposed mission to the Holy Land, 241; their visits to Venice and Rome, 242 _sq._; the name of the Order, 244; negotiations in Rome, 245; the fourth vow, 246; the constitutions approved by Paul III., 247; the Directorium of Lainez, 249; the original limit of the number of members, _ib._; Loyola's administration, 250; asceticism deprecated, 251; worldly wisdom of the founder, 253; rapid spread of the Order, 254; the Collegium Romanum, 255; Collegium Germanicum, _ib._; the Order deemed rivals by the Dominicans in Spain, _ib._; successes in Portugal, 256; difficulties in France, 257; in the Low Countries, _ib._; in Bavaria and Austria, 258; Loyola's dictatorship, 259; his adroitness in managing distinguished members of his Order, 260; statistics of the Jesuits at Loyola's death, _ib._; the autocracy of the General, 261; Jesuit precepts on obedience, 263 _sq._; addiction to Catholicism, 266; the spiritual drill of the _Exercitia Spiritualia_, 267; materialistic imagination, 268; psychological adroitness of the method, 269; position and treatment of the novice, 270; the Jesuit Hierarchy, 271; the General, 272; five sworn spies to watch him, 273; a system of espionage through the Order, 274; position of a Jesuit, _ib._; the Black Pope, 275; the working of the Jesuit vow of poverty, 275 _sq._; revision of the Constitutions by Lainez, 277; the question about the _Monita Secreta_, 277 _sqq._; estimate of the historical importance of the Jesuits, 280 _sq._; their methods of mental tyranny, 281; Jesuitical education, 282; desire to gain the control of youth, 283; their general aim the aggrandizement of the Order, 284; treatment of _études fortes_, _ib._; admixture of falsehood and truth, 285; sham learning and sham art, 286; Jesuit morality, 287; manipulation of the conscience, 288; casuistical ethics, 290; system of confession and direction, 293; political intrigues and doctrines, 294 _sqq._; the theory of the sovereignty of the people, 296; Jesuit connection with political plots, 297; suspected in regard to the deaths of Popes, 298; the Order expelled from various countries, 299 _n._; relations of Jesuits to Rome, 299; their lax morality in regard to homicide, 306 _n._, 314; their support of the Interdict of Venice, ii. 198 _sqq._ JEWS, Spanish, wealth and influence of, i. 169; adoption of Christianity, _ib._; attacked by the Inquisition, 170; the edict for their expulsion, 171; its results, 172. JULIUS II.: results of his martial energy, i. 7. ---III., Pope (Giov. Maria del Monte), i. 101. K KEPLER, high opinion of Bruno's speculations held by, ii. 164. KINGDOMS and States of Italy in 1494, enumeration of, i. 3. L 'LA Cuccagna,' a satire by Marino, ii. 263. LAINEZ, James, associate of Ignatius Loyola, i. 240; his influence on the development of the Jesuits, 248; his commentary on the Constitutions (the Directorium), 249; his work in Venice, etc., 254; abject submission to Loyola, 262. LATERAN, Council of the, i. 95. LATIN and Teutonic factors in European civilization, ii. 393 _sqq._ LATINI, Latino, on the extirpation of books by the Index, i. 208. LEGATES, Papal, at Trent, i. 97 _n._, 119. LE JAY, Claude, associate of Ignatius Loyola, i. 240; his work as a Jesuit at Ferrara, 254; in Austria. 258. LEONI, Giambattista, employed by Sarpi to write against the Jesuits, ii. 200. LEPANTO, battle of, i. 149. LESCHASSIER, Sarpi's letters to, ii. 229, 235. 'LE Sette Giornate,' Tasso's, ii. 75, 115, 124. LEYVA, Antonio de, at Bologna, i. 22. ---Virginia Maria de (the Lady of Monza): birth and parentage, i. 317; a nun in a convent of the Umiliate, 318; her seduction by Gianpaolo Osio, 318 _sqq._; birth of her child, 321; murder of her waiting-woman by Osio, 322; the intrigue discovered, 323; attempted murder by Osio of two of her associates, 324; Virginia's punishment and after-life, 329. LONDON, Bruno's account of the life of the people of, ii. 142; social life in, 143. LORENTE'S History of the Inquisition, cited, 171 _sqq._; his account of the number of victims of the Holy Office, i. 181, 183 _n._ LORRAINE, Cardinal: his influence in the Council of Trent, i. 125 _sq._ LO SPAGNOLETTO (Giuseppe Ribera), Italian Realist painter, ii. 363. LOUISA of Savoy, one of the arrangers of the Paix des Dames, i. 16. LOUIS XII.: his descent into Lombardy, and its results, i. 9; allied with the Austrian Emperor and the King of Spain, i. 12. LOYOLA, Ignatius, founder of the Jesuits: his birth and childhood, i. 231; his youth and early training, _ib._; illness at Pampeluna, 232; pilgrimage to Montserrat, 234; retreat at Manresa, _ib._; his romance and discipline, 235; journey to the Holy Land, 237; his apprenticeship to his future calling, _ib._; imprisoned by the Inquisition, 238; studies theology in Paris, _ib._; gains disciples there, 239; his methods with them, _ib._; with ten companions takes the vows of chastity and poverty, 240; Ignatius at Venice, 241; his relations with Caraffa and the Theatines, 242; in Rome, 243; the name of the new Order, 244; its military organization, 245; the project favored by Paul III., _ib._; the Constitution approved by the Pope, 247; his worldly wisdom, 248 _n._; Loyola's creative force, 249; his administration, 250 _sq._; dislike of the common forms of monasticism, 251; his aims and principles, 252; comparison with Luther, 253; rapid spread of the Order, 254; special desire of Ignatius to get a firm hold on Germany, 258; his dictatorship, 259; adroitness in managing his subordinates, 260; autocratic administration, 261; insistence on the virtue of obedience, 263; devotion to the Roman Church, 265; the _Exercitia Spiritualia_, 267 _sqq._; Loyola's dislike of asceticism, 270; his interpretation of the vow of poverty, 275; his instructions as to the management of consciences, 287 _sq._; his doctrine on the fear of God, 304 _n._ LUCERO EL TENEBROSO, the Spanish Inquisitor, i. 180. LUINI'S picture of S. Catherine, ii. 360. LULLY, Raymond: his Art of Memory and Classification of the Sciences, adapted by Giordano Bruno, ii. 139. LUNA, Don Juan de, i. 47. LUTHER, Bruno's high estimate of, ii. 149; his relation to modern civilization, 402. LUTHERAN soldiers in Italy, i. 44. LUTHERANISM in Italy, i. 185. M MACAULAY, Lord, on Sarpi's religious opinions, ii. 227 _n._; critique of his survey of the Catholic Revival, 400 _sqq._ MAIN events in modern history, the, ii. 383 _sqq._ MALATESTA, Roberto, leader of bandits in the Papal States, i. 152. MALIPIERO, Alessandro, a friend of Sarpi, ii. 210. MALVASIA, Count C.C., writings of, on the Bolognese painters, ii. 350 _n._ MANRESA, Ignatius Loyola at, i. 234. MANRIQUE, Thomas, Master of the Sacred Palace, an expurgated edition of the _Decamerone_ issued by, i. 224. MANSO, Marquis: his _Life of Tasso_, ii. 54, 56, 58, 64, 70, 115; friend of Marino in his youth, 261. MANTUA, raised to the rank of a duchy, i. 27. MANUZIO, Aldo (the younger), ill-treatment of, in Rome, i. 217 _sq._ ---Paolo: works produced at his press in Rome, i. 220; a friend of Chiabrera, ii. 287. MARCELLUS II., Pope (Marcello Cervini), i. 97, 101. MARGARET of Austria, one of the arrangers of the Paix des Dames, i. 16. MARIANAZZO, a robber chief, refusal of pardon by, i. 309. MARIGNANO, Marquis of (Gian Giacomo Medici), i. 109, 115. MARINISM, i. 66; ii. 299, 302. MARINO, Giovanni Battista: his birth and parentage, ii. 260; escapades of his youth in Naples, 261; at the Court of Carlo Emanuele, 262; his life in Turin, _ib._; at the Court of Maria de'Medici, 263; successful publication of the _Adone_, 264; return to Naples, 265; critique of the _Adone_, 266 _sq._; the Epic of Voluptuousness, 268; its effeminate sensuality, 268 _sq._; cynical hypocrisy, 270; the character of Adonis, 272; ugliness and discord, 273; Marino's poetic gifts, 274; great variety of episodes, 276; unity of theme, 277; purity of poetic style rarely attained, 279; false rhetoric, 280; Marinism, 281; verbal fireworks, 282; Marino's real inadequacy, 285; the _Pianto d'Italia_, 286; comparison of Marino with Chiabrera, 296. MARTELLI, Giovan Battista, a _bravo_ attendant on Lorenzino de'Medici, i. 396. MARTUCCIA, a notorious Roman courtesan, i. 375. MASANIELLO, cause of the rising of, in Naples, i. 49. MASSACRE of S. Bartholomew, i. 55, 149. MASSIMI, Eufrosina (second wife of Lelio Massimi), the murder of, i. 354 _sq._ ---Lelio: violent deaths of the five sons whom he cursed, i. 355 _sq._ 'MATERIE Beneficiarie, Delle,' Sarpi's, ii. 219. MAXIMILIAN, Emperor, allied against Venice with Louis XII., i. 12. MAZZOLA, Francesco (Il Parmigianino), i. 42. MEDA, Caterina da (waiting-woman of Virginia de Leyva), murder of, i. 322. MEDIAEVAL habits, survival of, in Italy in the sixteenth century, i. 306. MEDICI, de', family of: their advances towards Despotism, i. 10; violent deaths of members, 382 _sqq._; eleven murdered in a half-century, 387. ---Alessandro, Duke of Florence, i. 19, 46, 388. ---Cosimo, i. 46; made Grand Duke of Tuscany, 47. ---Giovanni, i. 11. ---Ippolito, i. 19. ---Lorenzino, assassination of his cousin Alessandro (Duke of Florence) by, i. 388; details of his own murder, 389 _sqq._ ---Lorenzo, i. 10. ---Maria, the Court of, as Regent of France, ii. 263. ---Piero, i. 10. MEDICI, Gian Giacomo (brother of Pius IV.), i. 50, 109. ---Giovanni Angelo, _see_ PIUS IV. ---Margherita (sister of Pius IV.), mother of Carlo Borromeo, i. 115 _n._ MENDOZA, Don Hurtado de, i. 47. MERSENNE, evidence of, as to the burning of Giordano Bruno, ii. 164 _n._ METAPHYSICAL speculators in Italy, i. 73. METAURUS, the, Tasso's ode to, ii. 63. METEMPSYCHOSIS, Bruno's doctrine of, ii. 160. MEXICO, the early Jesuits in, i. 260. MIANI, Girolamo, founder of the congregation of the Somascans, i. 79; his relations with Loyola, 242. MICANZI, Fulgenzio, _see_ FULGENZIO, FRA. MILAN, Duchy of: its state in 1494, i. 8. MOCENIGO, Giovanni: his character, ii. 152; invites Giordano Bruno to Venice, 153; the object of the invitation, 154; their intercourse, 155; Bruno denounced to the Inquisition by Mocenigo, 157. ---Luigi, on the relations between Pius IV. and Cardinal Morone, i. 110 _n._ MODENA and Bologna, humors of the conflict between, ii. 304. MONOPOLIES, system of, in Italy, i. 49. MONTALTO, Cardinal, nephew of Sixtus V., i. 157. MONTEBELLO, Baron, the tale of, i. 428. MONTECATINO, Antonio, an enemy of Tasso at Ferrara, ii. 48, 50, 60, 62; his downfall, 66. MONTE OLIVETO, the monastery of, Tasso at, ii, 74. MONZA, the Lady of, _see_ LEYVA, VIRGINIA MARIA DE. MORALS, social and domestic, in Italy, effect of the Catholic Revival on, i. 301 _sqq._; outcome of the Tridentine decrees, 302; hypocrisy and ceremonial observances, 303; sufferings of the lower classes, _ib._; increase of crimes of violence, 304; mistrust between the aristocracy and the _bourgeoisie_, 306; survival of mediaeval habits, _ib._; brigandage, 307; criminal procedure, 308; mutual jealousy of States afforded security to refugee homicides, 309; toleration of outlaws, 310; the Lucchese army of bandits, 311; honorable murder, 312; maintenance of _bravi_, _ib._; social violence countenanced by the Church, 314; sexual morality, 315; state of convents, 316; profligate fanaticism, _ib._; convent intrigues, 318 _sqq._ MORATO, Peregrino, letter from Celio Calcagnini to, i. 74. MORNAY, Duplessis, Sarpi's letters to, ii. 229. MORONE, Cardinal, i. 26; Papal legate at Trent, 97 _n._; imprisoned by Paul IV., 110; relations with Pius IV., _ib._; liberal thinkers among his associates, 111 _n._; his work in connection with the Council of Trent, 127. ---Girolamo, i. 26, 72. MUNICIPAL wars, Italian, ii. 304. MURDERS in Italy in the sixteenth century, i. 305 _sqq._ MURETUS: his difficulties as a professor in Rome, i. 214, 216. MURTOLA, Gasparo, attempted assassination of the poet Marino by, ii. 263. MUSIC, Italian, decadence of, in the sixteenth century, ii. 315; foreign musicians in Rome, 316; the contrapuntal style, 317; licenses allowed to performers, _ib._; the medleys prepared by composers, _ib._; disgraceful condition of Church music, 318; orchestral _ricercari_, 320 _n._; Savonarola's opinion of the Church music of his time, _ib._; musical aptitude of the people, 322; lack of a controlling element of correct taste, _ib._; advent of Palestrina, _ib._; the Congregation for the Reform of Music, 325; rise of the Oratorio, 334; music in England in the sixteenth century, 338; rise of the Opera, 340. MUSICIANS, Italian, of the seventeenth cenutry, ii. 243. N NAPLES, kingdom of, separated from Sicily, i. 4; its extent, _ib._; in the hands of Spain, 12. NASSAU, Count of, i. 38. NATURE, the study of, among Italian philosophers, ii. 128. NEPOTISM, Papal: the Caraffas, i. 104 _sq._; the Borromeos, 115; the Ghislieri, 147; Gregory XIII.'s relatives, 151; estimate of the incomes of Papal nephews, 156 _sqq._ NEW Christians, the, in Spain, _see_ JEWS. NOBILI, Flaminio de', a censor of the _Gerusalemme Liberata_, ii. 43. NOLA, survival of Greek customs in, ii. 132. NOVICES, Jesuit, position of, i. 271. NUNNERIES, state of, in the sixteenth century, i. 315 _sqq._ O OMERO, Fuggiguerra, sobriquet chosen by Tasso in his wanderings, ii. 64. OPERA, rise of the, in Florence, ii. 341. ORANGE, Prince of, leader of the Spanish army in the siege of Florence, i. 18. ORATORIO (Musical), the: its origins in Rome, ii. 334. ORATORY of Divine Love, the, i. 76. ORSINI, the, reduced to submission to the Popes, i. 7. ---Paolo Giordano (Duke of Bracciano): his passion for Vittoria Accoramboni, i. 358; his gigantic stature and corpulence, 359; poisons his first wife, 360; treatment by Sixtus V., 363; secret marriage with Vittoria, 364; renounces the marriage, 365; ratifies the union by public marriage, 366; flight from Rome, _ib._: death of the Duke, 367. ---Prince Lodovico: procures the murder of Vittoria Accoramboni and her brother, i. 368; siege of his palace, 370; his violent death, 371. ---Troilo, lover of the Duchess of Bracciano, i. 360; details of his murder by Ambrogio Tremazzi, 405 _sqq._ OSIO, Gianpaolo: his intrigue with Virginia de Leyva, i. 318 _sqq._; murders her waiting-woman, 322; attempts to murder two other nuns, 324; his letter of defence to Cardinal Federigo Borromeo, 326; condemned to death and outlawed, 327; terms of the _Bando_, 328; his end, 329. OSORIO, Don Alvaro, Grand Marshal of Spain, i. 22. OUTLAWRY in Italy in the sixteenth century, i. 307 _sqq._ OXFORD, Giordano Bruno's reception at, ii. 144. P PACHECO, Cardinal, the foe of the Caraffeschi, i. 105. PADUAN school of scepictism, the, influence of, on Tasso, ii. 20. PAGANELLO, Conte, assassin of Vittoria Accoramboni, i. 371. PAINTING in the late years of the sixteenth century, ii. 344; Eclecticism, 345; influence of the Tridentine Council, 347; the Mannerists, 348; Baroccio, 349; the Caracci, 350 _sqq._; studies of the Bolognese painters, 352; academical ideality, 354; Guido, Albani, Domenichino, 355 _sqq._; criticism of Domenichino's work, 359; the Italian Realists, 363 _sqq._; Lo Spada, 364; Il Guercino, 365; critical reaction against the Eclectics, 368; fundamental principles of criticism, 370 _sqq._ PAIX des Dames, i. 9, 16. PALAZZO Vernio, Academy (musical) of the, ii. 340; distinguished composers of its school, 341. PALEARIO, Aonio: his opinion of the Index, i. 197, 214. PALESTRINA, Giovanni Pier Luigi: his birth and early musical training, ii. 323; uneventful life of the _Princeps Musicae_, 324; relations with the Congregation for Musical Reform, 325; the legend and the facts about _Missa Papae Marcelli_, 326 _sqq._, 331 _n._; Palestrina's commission, 331; the three Masses in competition, 332; the award by the Congregation and the Pope, 334; Palestrina's connection with S. Filippo Neri, 334; _Arie Divote_ composed for the Oratory, 335 _sq._; character of the new music, 335; influence of Palestrina on Italian music, 336; estimate of the general benefit derived by music from him, 337 _sq._ PALLAVICINI, on Paul IV.'s seal for the Holy Office, i. 107 _n._ PALLAVICINO, Matteo, murder of, by Marcello Accoramboni, i. 358. PALLIANO, Duchess of, _see_ CARDONA, VIOLANTE DE. ---Duke of (nephew of Paul IV.), murders committed by, i. 379; his execution, 380. PANCIROLI, Guido, Tasso's master in the study of law, ii. 20. PAPACY, the, its position after the sack of Rome, i. 13; tyranny of, arising from the instinct of self-preservation, 54; dislike of, for General Councils, 90; manipulation of the Council of Trent, 97 _sqq._, 119 _sqq._; its supremacy founded by that Council, 131; later policy of the Popes, 149 _sqq._, 226. PAPAL States, the: their condition in 1447, i. 5; attempts to consolidate them into a kingdom, 6. PARMA and Piacenza, creation of the Duchy of, by Paul III., i. 86. PARMA, Duchy of, added to the States of the Church, i. 7. PARMIGIANINO, Il, painting of Charles V. by, i. 42. PARRASIO, Alessandro, one of the assassins of Sarpi, ii. 212. PART-SONGS, French Protestant, influence of, on Palestrina, ii. 324. PASSARI, Pietro, amours of, with the nuns of S. Chiara, Lucca, i. 340 _sq._ 'PASTOR Fido,' Guarini's, critique of, ii. 252 _sqq._ PAUL III., Pope, sends Contarini to the conference at Rechensburg, i. 78; receives a memorial on ecclesiastical abuses, 79; establishes the Roman Holy Office, 80; sanctions the Company of Jesus, _ib._; his early life and education, 81; love of splendor, 82; peculiarity of his position, _ib._; the Pope of the transition, 84; jealous of Spanish ascendency in Italy, 85; creates the Duchy of Parma for his son, 86 _sqq._; members of the moderate reforming party made Cardinals, 88; his repugnance to a General Council, 90; indiction of a Council to be held at Trent, 97; difficulties of his position, 100; his death, 101; his connection with the founding of the Jesuit Order, 245. PAUL IV., Pope, _see_ CARAFFA, GIOV. PIETRO. PAUL V., Pope: details of his nepotism, i. 157 _n._; places Venice under an interdict, ii. 198. PAVIA, the battle of, 13. PELLEGRINI, Cammillo, panegyrist of Tasso, ii. 72. PEPERARA, Laura, Tasso's relations with, ii. 31. PERETTI, Felice (nephew of Sixtus V.), husband of Vittoria Accoramboni, i. 357; his murder, 358. PESCARA, Marquis of, husband of Vittoria Colonna, i. 25. 'PESTE di S. Carlo, La,' i. 421. 'PETRARCA, Considerazioni sopra le Rime, del,' Tassoni's, ii. 298, 300. PETRONI, Lucrezia, second wife of Francesco Cenci, i. 348 _sq._ PETRONIO, S., Bologna, reception of Charles V. by Clement VII. at, i. 23; the Emperor's coronation at, 37 _sqq._ PETRUCCI, Pandolfo, seduction of two sons of, by the Jesuits, i. 284. PHILIP II. of Spain: his quarrel with Paul IV., i. 102; the reconciliation, 104. PHILOSOPHERS of Southern Italy in the sixteenth century, ii. 126 _sqq._ PIACENZA, added to the States of the Church, i. 7. PICCOLOMINI, Alfonso, leader of bandits in the Papal States, i. 152. 'PIETRO Soave Polano,' anagram of 'Paolo Sarpi Veneto,' ii. 223. PIGNA (secretary to the Duke of Ferrara), a rival of Tasso, ii. 34, 45, 48. PINDAR, the professed model of Chiabrera's poetry, ii. 291, 294. PIRATES, raids of, on Italy, i. 417. PISA, first Council of, i. 92; the second, 95. PIUS IV., Pope (Giov. Angelo Medici): his parentage, i. 109; Caraffa's antipathy to him, 110; makes Cardinal Morone his counsellor, _ib._; negotiations with the autocrats of Europe, 111; his diplomatic character, 112; the Tridentine decrees, _ib._; keen insight into the political conditions of his time, 113; independent spirit, 115; treatment of his relatives, _ib._; his brother's death helped him to the Papacy, _ib._; the felicity of his life, 116; the religious condition of Northern Europe in his reign, 117; re-opening of the Council of Trent, 119; his management of the difficulties connected with the Council, 127 _sqq._; use of cajoleries and menaces, 129; success of the Pope's plans, 130; his Bull of ratification of the Tridentine decrees, 131; his last days, 132; estimate of the work of his reign, 133 _sqq._; his lack of generosity, 142; coldness in religious exercises, 144; love of ease and good companions, 147. PIUS V., Pope (Michele Ghislieri): his election, i. 137; influence of Carlo Borromeo on him, 137, 145, 147; ascetic virtues, 145; zeal for the Holy Office, 145; edict for the expulsion of prostitutes from Rome, 146; his exercise of the Papal Supremacy, 148; his Tridentine Profession of Faith, _ib._; advocates rigid uniformity, 148; promotes attacks on Protestants, _ib._ PLAGUES: in Venice, i. 418; at Naples and in Savoy, _ib._; statistics of the mortality, 418 _n._; disease supposed to be wilfully spread by malefactors, 420. POETRY, Heroic, the problem of creating, in Italy, ii. 80. POLAND, the crown of, sought by Italian princes, ii. 246. POLE, Cardinal Reginald, i. 76; Papal legate at Trent, 97 _n._ POMA, Ridolfo, one of the assassins of Sarpi, ii. 212. POMPONIUS LAETUS, the teacher of Paul III., i. 81, 82. POPULAR melodies employed in Church music in the sixteenth century, ii. 318. PORTRAIT of Charles V. by Titian, i. 42. 'PRESS, Discourse upon the,' Sarpi's, ii. 220. 'PRINCEPS Musicae,' the title inscribed on Palestrina's tomb, ii. 325. PRINTING: effects of the Index Expurgatorius on the trade in Venice, i. 192; firms denounced by name by Paul IV., 198, 208. PROFESSED of three and of four vows (Jesuit grades), i. 271 _sq._ PROLETARIATE, the Italian, social morality of in the sixteenth century, i. 224 _sqq._ PROSTITUTES, Roman, expulsion of by Pius V., i. 146. PROTESTANT Churches in Italy, persecution of, i. 186. PROTESTANTISM in Italy, i. 71. PROVINCES, Jesuit, enumeration of the, i. 161. PUNCTILIO in the Sei Cento, ii. 288. PURISTS, Tuscan, Tassoni's ridicule of, ii. 308. PUTEO, Cardinal, legate at Trent, i. 119. Q QUEMADERO, the Inquisition's place of punishment at Seville, i. 178. QUENTIN, S., battle of, i. 103. QUERRO, Msgr., an associate of the Cenci family, i. 349, 350, 352. R 'RAGGUAGLI di Parnaso,' Boccalini's, ii. 313. RANGONI, the, friends of Tasso and of his father, ii. 6, 23. 'RATIO Status,' statutes of the Index on the, i. 220. RATIONALISM, the real offspring of Humanism, ii. 404. RAVENNA, exarchate of, i. 7. REALISTS, Italian school of painters, ii. 363 _sqq._ RECHENSBURG, the conference at, i. 78, 88 'RECITATIVO,' Claudio Monteverde the pioneer of, ii. 341. REFORMATION, the: position of Italians towards its doctrines, i. 72. REFORMING theologians in Italy, i. 76 _sq._ RELIGIOUS Orders, new, foundation of, in Italy, i. 79 _sq._ RELIGIOUS spirit of the Italian Church in the sixteenth century, i. 71. RENAISSANCE and Reformation: the impulses of both simultaneously received by England, ii. 388. RENÉE of France, Duchess of Ferrara, i. 77. RENI, Guido, Bolognese painter, ii. 355; his masterpieces, 358. REPUBLICAN governments in Italy, i. 5. RETROSPECT over the Renaissance, ii. 389 _sqq._ REYNOLDS, Sir Joshua, admiration of, for the Bolognese painters, ii. 359, 375. RIBERA, Giuseppe, _see_ LO SPAGNOLETTO. RICEI, Ottavia, attempted murder of, by Gianpaolo Osio, i. 323 _sqq._ 'RICERCARI,' employment of, in Italian music, ii. 343. RINALDO, Tasso's, first appearance of, ii. 22; its preface, 82; its subject-matter, 84; its religious motive, 86; its style, 86 _sqq._ RODRIGUEZ d'Azevedo, Simon, associate of Ignatius Loyola, i. 240; his work as a Jesuit in Portugal, 256, 262. ROMAN University, the, degraded condition of, in the sixteenth century, i. 216. ROME, fluctuating population of, i. 137; eleemosynary paupers, 139; reform of Roman manners after the Council of Trent, 141; expulsion of prostitutes, 146; Roman society in Gregory XIII.'s reign, 152; the headquarters of Catholicism, ii. 397; relations with the Counter-Reformation, 398; the complicated correlation of Italians with Papal Rome, 399; the capital of a regenerated people, 408. RONDINELLI, Ercole, Tasso's instructions to, in regard to his MSS., ii. 35. ROSSI, Bastiano de', a critic of the _Gerusalemme Liberata_, ii. 72. ---Porzia de' (mother of Torquato Tasso): her parentage, ii. 5, 7; her marriage, 7; her death, probably by poison, 9; her character, 12; Torquato's love for her, 15. ---Vittorio de': his description of the ill-treatment of Aldo Manuzio in Rome, i. 217 _sq._ ROVERE, Francesco della (Duke of Urbino), account of, i. 36. RUBBIERA, a fief of the Empire, i. 40. RUSKIN, Mr., on the cause of the decline of Venice, i. 423 _n._; invectives of, against Domenichino's work, ii. 359. S SACRED Palace, the Master of the: censor of books in Rome, i. 201. SALMERON, Alfonzo, associate of Ignatius Loyola, i. 240; in Naples and Sicily, 254. SALUZZO ceded to Savoy, i. 56. SALVIATI, Leonardo, a critic of the _Gerusalemme Liberata_, ii. 72. SAMMINIATI, Tommaso, intrigue and correspondence of, with Sister Umilia (Lucrezia Buonvisi), i. 341 _sqq._; banished from Lucca, 344. S. ANNA, the hospital of, Tasso's confinement at, ii. 66 _sqq._ SAN BENITO, the costume of persons condemned by the Inquisition, i. 177. SANSEVERINO, Amerigo, a friend of Bernardo Tasso, ii. 14. ---Ferrante di, Prince of Salerno, i. 38; ii. 6 _sqq._ SANTA CROCE, Ersilia di, first wife of Francesco Cenci, i. 347. SANVITALE, Eleonora, Tasso's love-affair with, ii. 48. SARDINIA, the island of, a Spanish province, i. 45. SARPI, Fra Paolo: his birth and parentage, ii. 185; his position in the history of Venice, 186; his physical constitution, 189; moral temperament, 190; mental perspicacity, 191; discoveries in magnetism and optics, 192; studies and conversation, 193; early entry into the Order of the Servites, _ib._; his English type of character, 194; denounced to the Inquisition, 195; his independent attitude, 196; his great love for Venice, 197; the interdict of 1606, 198; Sarpi's defence of Venice against the Jesuits, 199 _sqq._; pamphlet warfare, 201; importance of this episode, 202; Sarpi's theory of Church and State, 203; boldness of his views, 205; compromise of the quarrel of the interdict, _ib._; Sarpi's relations with Fra Fulgenzio, 207; Sarpi warned by Schoppe of danger to his life, 208; attacked by assassins, 209; the _Stilus Romanae Curiae_, 211; history of the assassins, 212; complicity of the Papal Court, 213; other attempts on Sarpi's life, 214 _sq._; his opinion of the instigators, 216; his so called heresy, 218; his work as Theologian to the Republic, 219; his minor writings, 221; his opposition to Papal Supremacy, _ib._; the _History of the Council of Trent_, 222; its sources, 223; its argument, 224; deformation, not reformation, wrought by the Council, 225; Sarpi's impartiality, 226; was Sarpi a Protestant? 228; his religious opinions, 229; views on the possibility of uniting Christendom, 230; hostility to ultra-papal Catholicism, 231; critique of Jesuitry, 233; of ultramontane education, 235; the Tridentine Seminaries, 235; Sarpi's dread lest Europe should succumb to Rome, 237; his last days, 238; his death contrasted with that of Giordano Bruno, 239 _n._; his creed, 239; Sarpi a Christian Stoic, 240. SARPI, citations from his writings, on the Papal interpretation of the Tridentine decrees, i. 131 _n._; details of the nepotism of the Popes, 156 _n._, 157 _n._; denunciation of the Index, 197 _n._, 206, 208 _n._; on the revival of polite learning, 215; on the political philosophy of the statutes of the Index, 221; on the Inquisition rules regarding emigrants from Italy, 227 _sq._; his invention of the name 'Diacatholicon,' 231; on the deflection of Jesuitry from Loyola's spirit and intention, 248; on the secret statutes of the Jesuits, 278; denunciations of Jesuit morality, 289 _n._; on the murder of Henri IV., 297 _n._; on the instigators of the attempts on his own life, ii. 215 _n._; on the attitude of the Roman Court towards murder, 216; on the literary polemics of James I., 229; on Jesuit education and the Tridentine Seminaries, 237. SAVONAROLA'S opinion of the Church music of his time, ii. 320 _n._ SAVOY, the house of: its connection with important events in Italy, i. 16 _n._, 38, 56; becomes an Italian dynasty, 58. 'SCHERNO DEGLI DEI,' Bracciolini's, ii. 313. SCHOLASTICS (Jesuit grade), i. 271. SCHOPPE (Scioppius), Gaspar: sketch of his career, ii. 165, 208; his account of Bruno's heterodox opinions, 166; description of the last hours of Bruno, 167. 'SECCHIA RAPITA, LA,' Tassoni's, ii. 301 _sqq._ SECONDARY writers of the Sei Cento, ii. 313. SEI CENTO, the, decline of culture in Italy in, ii. 242; its musicians, 243. SEMINARIES, Tridentine, ii. 235. SERIPANDO, Cardinal, legate at Trent, i. 118. SERSALE, Alessandro and Antonio, Tasso's nephews, ii. 72. ---Cornelia (sister of Tasso), ii. 7, 9, 15 _sq._, 55, 64; her children, 72. SERVITES, General of the, complicity of, in the attempts on Sarpi's life, ii. 214. SETTLEMENT of Italy effected by Charles V. and Clement VII., net results of, i. 45 _sqq._ 'SEVEN Liberal Arts, On the,' a lost treatise by Giordano Bruno, ii. 156, 182. SFORZA, Francesco Maria, his relations with Charles V., i. 28. ---Lodovico (Il Moro, ruler of Milan), invites Charles VIII. into Italy, i. 8. SICILY, separated from Naples, i. 4. SIENA, republic of, subdued by Florence, i. 47. 'SIGNS of the Times, The,' a lost work by Giordano Bruno, ii. 136. SIGONIUS: his _History of Bologna_ blocked by the Index, i. 207. SIMONETA, Cardinal, legate at Trent, i. 118, 121. SIXTUS V., Pope: short-sighted hoarding of treasure by, i. 153; his enactments against brigandage, 152; accumulation of Papal revenues, _ib._; public works, 153; animosity against pagan art, _ib._; works on and about S. Peter's, 154; methods of increasing revenue, 155; nepotism, 157; development of the Papacy in his reign, 158; his death predicted by Bellarmino, 298; his behavior after the murder of his nephew (Felice Peretti), 362. SODERINI, Alessandro, assassinated together with his nephew Lorenzino de'Medici, i. 398. SOLIMAN, Paul IV.'s negotiations with, i. 103. SOMASCAN Fathers, Congregation of the, i. 79. S. ONOFRIO, Tasso's death at, ii. 78; the mask of his face at, 116. SORANZO, on the character of Pius IV., i. 111 _n._; on Carlo Borromeo, 116 _n._; on the changes in Roman society in 1565, 143. 'SPACCIO della Bestia Trionfante, Lo,' Giordano Bruno's, ii. 132 _n._, 140, 165, 183 _sq._ SPADA, Lionello, Bolognese painter, ii. 364. SPAIN: its position in Italy after the battle of Pavia, i. 14. SPANIARDS of the sixteenth century, character of, i. 59. SPERONI, Sperone: his criticism of Tasso's _Gerusalemme_, ii. 44; a friend of Chiabrera, 287. SPHERE, the, Giordano Bruno's doctrine of, ii. 135, 144 _sq._ STENDHAL, De (Henri Beyle): his _Chroniques et Nouvelles_ cited: on the Cenci, i. 351 _sq._; the Duchess of Palliano, 373. STERILITY of Protestantism, ii. 401. STROZZI, Filippo, i. 46. ---Piero, i. 47. T TASSO, Bernardo (father of Torquato), i. 38; his birth and parentage, ii. 5; the _Amadigi_, 7, 11, 18, 35; his youth and marriage, 7; misfortunes, _ib._; exile and poverty, 8; death of his wife, 9; his death, 10, 35; his character, _ib._; his _Floridante_, 35. ---Christoforo (cousin of Torquato), ii. 14. ---Torquato: his relation to his epoch, ii. 2; to the influences of Italian decadence, 4; his father's position, 6; Torquato's birth, 7; the death of his mother, 9, 15; what Tasso inherited from his father, 11; Bernardo's treatment of his son, _ib._; Tasso's precocity as a child, 12; his early teachers, _ib._; pious ecstasy in his ninth year, 13; with his father in Rome, 14; his first extant letter, 15; his education, 16; with his father at the Court of Urbino, 17; mode of life here, 18; acquires familiarity with Virgil, 19; studies and annotates the _Divina Commedia_, _ib._; metaphysical studies and religious doubts, 20; reaction, _ib._; the appearance of the _Rinaldo_, 21; leaves Padua for Bologna, _ib._; Dialogues on the Art of Poetry, 22, 24, 26; flight to Modena, 22; speculations upon Poetry, 23; Tasso's theory of the Epic, 24; he joins the Academy 'Gli Eterei' at Padua, as 'Il Pentito,' 26; enters the service of Luigi d'Este, 27; life at the Court of Ferrara, 28; Tasso's love-affairs, 31; the problem of his relations with Leonora and Lucrezia d'Este, 32 _sqq._, 48, 51; quarrel with Pigna, 34; his want of tact, _ib._; edits his _Floridante_, 35; visit to Paris, _ib._; the _Gottifredo_ (_Gerusalemme Liberata_), 35, 38, 42, 48, 50; his instructions to Rondinelli, _ib._; life at the Court of Charles IX., 36; rupture with Luigi d'Este, 38; enters the service of Alfonso, Duke of Ferrara, _ib._; renewed relations with Leonora, _ib._; production and success of _Aminta_, 39; relations with Lucrezia d'Este (Duchess of Urbino), _ib._; his letters to Leonora, 41; his triumphant career, _ib._; submits the _Gerusalemme_ to seven censors, 43; their criticisms, _ib._; literary annoyances, 44; discontent with Ferrara, 45; Tasso's sense of his importance, _ib._; the beginning of his ruin, 46; he courts the Medici, 47; action of his enemies at Ferrara, 48; doubts as to his sanity, 49; his dread of the Inquisition, _ib._; persecution by the courtiers, 50; revelation of his love affairs by Maddalò de'Frecci, 51; Tasso's fear of being poisoned, _ib._; outbreak of mental malady, 52; temporary imprisonment, _ib._; estimate of the hypothesis that Tasso feigned madness, 53; his escape from the Convent of S. Francis, 54; with his sister at Sorrento, 55; hankering after Ferrara, 56; his attachment to the House of Este, 57; terms on which he is received back, 58; second flight from Ferrara, 61; at Venice, Urbino, Turin, 63; 'Omero Fuggiguerra,' 64; recall to Ferrara, 65; imprisoned at S. Anna, 66; reasons for his arrest, 67; nature of his malady, 69; life in the hospital, 71; release and wanderings, 73; the _Torrismondo_, _ib._; work on the _Gerusalemme Conquistata_ and the _Sette Giornate_, 75; last years at Naples and Rome, 76; at S. Onofrio, 76; death, 78; imaginary Tassos, 79; condition of romantic and heroic poetry in Tasso's youth, 80; his first essay in poetry, 81; the preface to _Rinaldo_, 82; subject-matter of the poem, 84; its religious motive, 86; Latinity of diction, _ib._; weak points of style, 88; lyrism and idyll, 89; subject of the _Gerusalemme Liberata_, 92; its romance, 94; imitation of Virgil, 97; of Dante, 97, 99; rhetorical artificiality, 100; sonorous verses, 101; oratorical dexterity, 102; similes and metaphors, _ib._; majestic simplicity, 104; the heroine, 106; Tasso, the poet of Sentiment, 108; the _Non so che_, 109 _sq._; Sofronia, Erminia, Clorinda, 109 _sqq._; the Dialogues and the tragedy _Torrismondo_, 113; the _Gerusalemme Conquistata_ and _Le Sette Giornate_, 115, 124; personal appearance of Tasso, 115; general survey of his character, 116 _sqq._; his relation to his age, 120; his mental attitude, 122; his native genius, 124. TASSONI, Alessandro: his birth, ii. 297; treatment by Carlo Emmanuele, 298; his independent spirit, _ib._; aim at originality of thought, 299; his criticism of Dante and Petrarch, 300; the _Secchia Rapita_: its origin and motive, 301; its circulation in manuscript copies, 302; Tassoni the inventor of heroico-comic poetry, 303; humor and sarcasm in Italian municipal wars, 304; the episode of the Bolognese bucket, _ib._; irony of the _Secchia Rapita_, 306; method of Tassoni's art, _ib._; ridicule of contemporary poets, 307; satire and parody, 308; French imitators of Tasso, 310; episodes of pure poetry, 311; sustained antithesis between poetry and melodiously-worded slang, 312; Tassoni's rank as a literary artist, _ib._ TAXATION, the methods of, adopted by Spanish Viceroys in Italy, i. 49. TENEBROSI, the (school of painters), ii. 365. TESTI, Fulvio, Modenese poet, ii. 314. TEUTONIC tribes, relations of with the Italians, ii. 393; unreconciled antagonisms, 394; divergence, 395; the Church, the battle-field of Renaissance and Reformation, 395. THEATINES, foundation of the Order of, i. 79. THEORY, Italian love of, in Tasso's time, ii. 25; critique of Tasso's theory of poetry, 26, 42. THIENE, Gaetano di, founder of the Theatines, i. 76. THIRTY Divine Attributes, Bruno's doctrine of, ii. 139. TINTORETTO'S picture of S. Agnes, ii. 361. TITIAN, portrait of Charles V. by, i. 42. TOLEDO, Don Pietro di, Viceroy of Naples, i. 38; ii. 7. ---Francesco da, confessor of Gregory XIII., i. 150. TORQUEMADA, the Spanish Inquisitor, i. 173, 179, 181. TORRE, Delia, the family of, ancestors, of the Tassi, ii. 5. 'TORRISMONDO,' Tasso's tragedy of, ii. 73, 113 _sq._ TORTURE, cases of witnesses put to, i. 333 _sqq._ TOUCH, the sense of, Marino's praises of, ii. 270. TOULOUSE, power of the Inquisition in, ii. 137. TRAGIC narratives circulated in manuscript in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, i. 372. 'TREATISE on the Inquisition,' Sarpi's, ii. 220. ---'on the Interdict,' Sarpi's, ii. 201. TREMAZZI, Ambrogio: his own report of how he wrought the murder of Troilo Orsini, i. 405 _sqq._; his notions about his due reward, 406. TRENT, Council of: Indiction of, by Paul III., i. 97; numbers of its members, 97 _n._, 119 _n._; diverse objects of the Spanish, French, and German representatives, 98, 122; the articles which it confirmed, 98; method of procedure, 99, 120; the Council transferred to Bologna, 100; Paul IV.'s measures of ecclesiastical reform, 107; the Council's decrees actually settled in the four Courts, 112, 119; its organization by Pius IV., 118 _sqq._; inauspicious commencement, 119; the privileges of the Papal legates, 120; daily post of couriers to the Vatican, 121; arts of the Roman Curia, 122; Spanish, French, Imperial Opposition, 123; clerical celibacy and Communion under both forms, _ib._; packing the Council with Italian bishops, 125; the interests of the Gallican Church, 126; interference of the Emperor Ferdinand, _ib._; confusion in the Council, 126 _n._; envoys to France and the Emperor, 127; cajoleries and menaces, 129; action of the Court of Spain, 130; firmness of the Spanish bishops, 130 _n._; Papal Supremacy decreed, 131; reservation in the Papal Bull of ratification, 131 _and note_; Tridentine Profession of Faith (Creed of Pius V.), 148. TUSCANY, creation of the Grand Duchy of, i. 47. TWO SICILIES, the kingdom of the, i. 45. 'TYRANNY of the kiss,' the, exemplified in the _Rinaldo_, ii. 90; in the _Pastor Fido_, 255; in the _Adone_, 272. U UNIVERSAL Monarchy, end of the belief in, i. 34. UNIVERSE, Bruno's conception of the, ii. 173 _sqq._ UNIVERSITIES, Italian, i. 51. 'UNTORI, La Peste degli,' i. 421; trial of the _Untoti_, 421. URBAN VIII., fantastic attempt made against the life of, i. 425 _sq._ URBINO, the Court of, life at, ii. 17 _sq._ V VALDES, Juan: his work _On the Benefits of Christ's Death_, i. 76. VALORI, Baccio, i. 33. VASTO, Marquis of, i. 25. VENETIAN ambassadors' despatches cited: on the manners of the Roman Court in 1565, i. 142, 147; the expulsion of prostitutes from Rome, 146. VENICE, the Republic of, its possessions in the fifteenth century, i. 9; relations with Spain in 1530, 45; rise of a contempt for commerce in, 49; the constitution of its Holy Office, 190; Concordat with Clement VIII., 193; Tasso at, ii. 19 _sq._; its condition in Sarpi's youth, 185; political indifference of its aristocracy, 186; put under interdict by Paul V., 198. VENIERO, Maffeo, on Tasso's mental malady, ii. 52, 63. VERONA, Peter of (Peter Martyr), Italian Dominican Saint of the Inquisition, i. 161. VERVINS, the Treaty of, i. 48, 56. VETTORI, Francesco, i. 33. VIRGIL, Tasso's admiration of, ii. 25; translations and adaptations from, 98. VISCONTI, the dynasty of, i. 8. ---Valentina, grandmother of Louis XII. of France, i. 8. VITELLI, Alessandro, i. 46. VITELLOZZI, Vitellozzo, influence of, in the reform of Church music, ii. 325. VITI, Michele, one of the assassins of Sarpi, ii. 212. 'VOCERO,' the, i. 332. VOLTERRA, Bebo da, associate of Bibboni in the murder of Lorenzino de'Medici, i. 390 _sqq._ VULGATE, the: results of its being declared inviolable, i. 210. W WALDENSIANS in Calabria, the, i. 188. WITCHCRAFT, chiefly confined to the mountain regions of Italy, i. 425; mainly used as a weapon of malice, _ib._; details of the sorcery practised by Giacomo Centini, 425 _sqq._ WIFE-MURDERS in Italy in the sixteenth century, i. 380 _sq._, 385. X XAVIER, Francis, associate of Ignatius Loyola, i. 239; his work as a Jesuit in Portugal, 256; his mission to the Indies, 260. XIMENES, Cardinal, as Inquisitor General, i. 182. Z ZANETTI, Guido, delivered over to the Roman Inquisition, i. 145.